#|| assassin ||

[ofxfirexandxice]

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It had caught him a little off-guard that he’d spoken the words at all. For once, his thoughts had gotten entirely away from him as he’d been watching her and he’d actually given them utterance. He had been even more surprised when she’d answered them with a definitive ‘Shut up.’

One eyebrow had raised and he’d sat up straighter in his chair, attention focused on her––as though it hadn’t been already.

When she’d reached for his hand, he’d practically willed himself not to flinch at the touch and had been (at least slightly) rewarded when the muscles merely tensed for no more than the initial contact before relaxing again. He’d given her hand a slight squeeze after, part of their nonverbal Minesweeper game of what’s fine and what isn’t, all the while hoping that neither of them uncovers a mine again. 

(Because, really, him nearly kicking over the coffee table, with her dad there no less, when she’d just barely touched his leg by accident and startled him––not to mention his sonuvabitching nerves telling him that the feather-light touch had hurt––had been more than enough reaction for all of them. It was something that neither of them particularly wanted to repeat, with or without her dad present…)

At her next words, however, what trace of a smile that had appeared at the slight victory falters.

He decides to test his own luck this time, reaching out, nimble fingers barely ghosting across her cheek as he tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear, something serious and almost wistful in his gaze.

“You would’ve managed, with or without me… You’d have found a way.”

And he believes that. He really does. As much as he loves her that she wants him around her, he also knows that she could have done this on her own. She could have gotten here on her own. Maybe it would’ve taken longer. Maybe not. But she would have.

"You’re stronger than you seem to think,  S a r a .”

[ofxfirexandxice]

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He hadn’t meant to do it. He’d swear in court and to the God he stopped believing in at the same time he learned to believe in bottles and belts: he hadn’t meant to do it.

He’d just been passing through the training room––simply out of habit quieter than a mouse ever thought about being––when he’d noticed Sara training. He’d stopped to watch, as he often does. Perhaps she didn’t know that he was there that time, but she’d known other times and not seemed to mind, so he hadn’t considered it an intrusion.

At least not until she’d stopped and sat down on a crate, only moments later removing her shirt.

He’d frozen. 

There have been very few times in his life that Leonard Snart can say that he just froze, that he didn’t know what to do, didn’t have some clever remark.

This just happens to be one of them.

He hadn’t meant to do it.

But he had.

Before he had even registered the action, he’d taken the few steps necessary and his cold fingers had made contact with the warm skin of her back, tracing a particularly nasty looking scar. 

That sensation, the warmth seeping into his perpetual cold hands is enough that he almost pulls away, almost reacts as though burned… but then she begins to speak and he simply listens, fingertips still tracing the scar.

Her last words cut him. Deeper than she knows and this time his hand does withdraw, his own knuckles turning whiter than usual with the clench of his fist, something old and dark flashing in his eyes.

‘Those lessons he taught us, Lenny… Was I just… Was I just stupid? Because the lessons never stopped. Was… Was it my fault?’ 

God, even through the filter of memories it sounded so clearly like Lisa.

“ Sara ,” he says––for once using her given name rather than one of his various nicknames for her––and he steps around the crate to stand in front of her so that he can see her, so that she can see him. His expression is serious, not a hint of the usual humor.

“You listen to me, and listen  c l o s e l y ,” he begins, his voice cold and clipped, though his eyes have a very different tone. 

“There is never a skill important enough that needs to be taught through this method. There’s never a lesson that needs to be taught by inflicting pain. There is  n e v e r  an excuse for this, and don’t you dare give them one. I don’t care what they told you or themselves.”

[ofxfirexandxice]

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At her almost stumble, he’s less than amused. He doesn’t like seeing her like this, with the dark circles under her eyes, barely able to stand. Exactly how little he likes it is probably written on his face well before she asks her question.

The simple answer to it, is that he had been asleep, but he’d heard noise. He’d always been a light sleeper after all, his hearing sharp and honed, trained from his youth to wake up at the sound of heavy, drunken feet making their way up the stairs…

But he won’t tell her that and make her feel guilty.

“Oh no you don’t. I asked you first, but now that I’ve gotten a good look at you I’ve decided that I don’t really care.”

And then, bracing himself for what he is about to do, he suddenly sweeps the petite blonde off of her feet and into his arms, bridal-style, and looks down at her, one eyebrow raised and expression serious.

“ B e d .”

Though a single word, in it there is no room for argument. Especially not when he starts carrying her down the hall toward the aforementioned bed.

[ofxfirexandxice]

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There’s something that might be a huff of an amused sound as she asks if he got lonely. All he’d known is that she’d fallen asleep in his room last night, and he’d––very carefully––situated her so that she wasn’t going to end up with stiff muscles or a crick in her neck. Which had just happened to be stretched out beside him. 

So maybe at some point in the night he’d woken up with her head on his chest, and found that he hadn’t minded. And then maybe he’d woken that morning to find her gone without a word and found that he did mind that, not that he would acknowledge it to himself or to her.

Of course, he doesn’t have to either as she continues on, though not before hugging him once more and apologizing for last night. He glances around them once to make sure no one else had woken up yet then turns his attention to her again, fingers ghosting along her spine from the base of her neck to the small of her back before his hand flattens there, bringing her just a little closer.

“See, now when you say things like that,” he begins, smirk evident even in his voice, “––it makes me wonder if you somehow think that I mind a gorgeous woman sleeping in my bed.”

[ofxfirexandxice]

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“Ha ha. Very funny, Assassin,” he says, and he’s trying to sound irritated, but then, despite everything––including the sharp pain that follows the action––he can’t quite stop the smirk that appears. Of course, she can’t see but he’s pretty sure she can hear it in the sound of his voice.

“So, to begin with, I didn’t do anything wrong.” A beat. “This time.”

Out of habit, he glances over his shoulder at the police officer keeping an eye on him and then he looks back to the phone.

“Look, you’re right. I don’t have a lot of time to talk, but not for the reason you think. Let’s just say, I went to a place where someone thought they recognized me and apparently they used to work the night shift somewhere that I allegedly robbed once and they got fired when I allegedly got away with whatever I allegedly stole.” 

Yes. It was completely necessary to say ‘allegedly’ at each point. Because this is a police telephone and he doesn’t trust them to not record it and try to use this against him in court. 

After Barry had somehow managed to convince the right people that he had reformed and had gotten him pardoned for his last warrants, he’d sworn he wasn’t going back to jail. That included for crimes new and old.

“Apparently, the guy can hold a  g r u d g e ,” he answers, a rueful note entering his voice before he mutters. “He also has a right hook that would make Mick jealous.”

He winces slightly at that, remembering that it was, in fact, Mick who had been the last one to beat him up this badly.

He doesn’t want to dwell on that thought.

“ A n y w a y .  The only reason that I’m here is because the police who showed up also knew me, and figured that it must have been my fault somehow so they arrested me… Long story short, the Keystone Kops got straightened out what actually happened. I’m not pressing charges, the guy has nothing to press charges about, and the only reason you’re getting a call……” he hesitates, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t like having to ask for help… but it’s Sara. So at least there’s that.

He sighs in defeat.

“…… is because I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to drive home with a concussion. I’d walk it, but that doesn’t really seem like the best idea either……”

[ofxfirexandxice]

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“What was that?” Eyebrows raise as he looks at her, even as he shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s not cold. Well, not too cold anyway. And definitely a lot warmer than her, if the shivering and discoloration are any indications––which they are. 

After all, who knows the effects of the cold better than Captain Cold.

“Did I  a c t u a l l y  just hear a ‘thanks’ from the Assassin?” he questions, eyes practically dancing in amusement as the smirk reserved almost solely for her threatens to appear. “I suppose that at least now if I do catch the flu, it will’ve been worth it.” 

[ofxfirexandxice]

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He’d (roughly) expected what she would say. Could have guessed it with some degree of certainty. He knows her too well to have thought that she would have just given in to the suggestion. 

Of course, where he had been wrong is that he’d thought the reply would have been more in line with their usual banter and less serious, but even still there’s something about what she’d said that causes his brow to furrow. Because she isn’t joking. Because she seems to think that she’s the problem, and he would almost rather her put him down like everyone else had at various times, than for her to slam herself like that.

But then, she’d stepped close, too close––isn’t that usually his thing?––and reached out, tracing her thumb over his cheek and damn if he doesn’t just stare at her, transfixed, almost holding his breath…

And then she kisses him and he mentally swears that if it didn’t sound so much like something Palmer would think, he’d say that time had stopped. 

The gentleness of the kiss. God, when had anyone ever been concerned about being gentle with him, yet here she is, this damn gorgeous angel of a woman who thinks she’s a demon, kissing him like he means something. 

She pulls away and, at the loss of contact, he feels as though something inside of him just broke if the almost painful thudding of his heart in his chest is any indication. 

As his eyes open to stare at her, he doesn’t even try to hide the expression in them, the vulnerability, the bereft feeling when she’d pulled away, the flash of something else at her words. 

Dammit.

If she had just kissed him the way he’d always thought she would kiss––sudden and filled with every bit as much passion and fire as the woman herself––he could have smirked. He could have brushed it off and smarted off to her right back. He could have. He would have. After all, he loves the chase, the game, their little dance.

But she hadn’t.

And he can’t.

“ S a r a ,” Not Assassin or Canary or even Lance, but  S a r a , and there’s something in his voice that even he can’t place, that the other side of his mind, the cold and rational, disinterested side that would never have allowed for this would hate. One step and he catches her wrist, careful, gentle, loose enough that she can easily pull away unhindered if she really wants to do so. 

He doesn’t even wait for her reaction to speak.

“Don’t do that,” he says, repeating a fraction of her own words back to her, the words that had been stuck in his own mind since she’d spoken them. The words she’d used when she called him on his BS and told him that he’s not the same person he was. When next he speaks, his voice is quiet and rough but through sheer force of will he keeps it steady. 

“Don’t do that and then act like it was just part of our little game.  Sara, look at me.” 

The words aren’t a plea, aren’t a demand, they simply are. If she ignores him, if she pulls away, he’ll let her go. Let her leave the room. He’ll even let her pretend that it never happened.

But he can’t. Not after that.