2. “Shut up, okay? I’m getting you out of here. We’re going home.”
759.
Clint fought his way out of the golden corn field, disoriented and confused when it came to an end and the colour did with it, the house in front of him white with accents of black, and the sky the kind of odd white of those snowy days where you’d almost think you could walk right into it. The only relief to the relentless monochrome were the jaunty bowls on the paving that were surrounded by a multitude of cats, and he threaded his way carefully through them to the open back door.
The kitchen was functional, and lost outta time - there was nothing electric in there, it looked like a page out of a history book, but there was still something fundamentally human about it, something that was noticeably missing just as soon as he walked through the door into the hallway.
Even for Clint, the doorways were tall, with the same black on white colour scheme as the whole house. The hallway was somehow far too long for the small house to contain, and there was a second storey that he was sure he hadn’t seen from the outside. He felt a moment of that dragging helplessness, that hopeless exhaustion that had been dogging him - there were so many rooms, where the hell was he going to start? - but he square his shoulders and forged forward to the first doorway.
If he didn’t find him, if he wasn’t here, then it wouldn’t matter if he just gave up. If he just laid down and… waited. So far as he could tell, it was the right place for it.
The first room was filled with hourglasses and the gentle rushing of sand, a hiss of white noise that somehow seemed just on the edge of becoming words, voices, lives being lived. Even from the limited view the doorway gave him the room seemed impossible, endless, and he ducked back out quickly; his track record with fragility made him scared to even breathe.
The next door was locked, and the door after that. Clint rested his head against the mortuary-cool wood and reminded himself why he needed to breathe.
“Hey,” a voice said, muffled by a closed door but not too distant, “keep your hair on, I’ll be back in a -”
The door started opening and the voice - the fuckin’ familiar, essential voice - stopped as Clint grabbed the handle and yanked it open, Bucky startled and smiling and so much more intact now beyond it.
“Clint?” he said, startled, unsettled, which was maybe due a little to the crumbling of Clint’s expression, the way his composure shattered like concrete hit by a metal arm at too high speed.
“Shut up, okay?” he said, his voice blurring as much as his vision was, “I’m getting you out of here. We’re going home.”
“HE WAS ALWAYS COMING HOME,” said a voice, deep like the thud of earth on a coffin’s lid. Clint looked up, looked into eyes that were the blue of the end of the universe, and of all the space beyond. “HE DOESN’T EVEN STAY LONG ENOUGH FOR CHESS, THESE DAYS.”
“Hey,” Bucky said, and he was talking to the walking skeleton but he was looking into Clint’s eyes, “you were enjoyin’ Cards Against Humanity, don’t even pretend you weren’t.”
“You’re comin’ home?” Clint asked, because he hadn’t managed to quite believe it, not even with how hard he’d fought to come after him.
“My life’s been fucked around enough that it looks like a novelty sex toy at this point,” Bucky said with a crooked grin. “No one’s got any clue when the sand’s gonna run out, but I swear to whatever the hell is in charge of this mess that I will always come back to you.”
This was written years ago, shortly after I first learned of Sir Terry’s passing. I’m reposting it because it only ever was seen by myself and the tags were wrong and there was a word I needed to change that I couldn’t figure out how to change.
— An old man lay in his bed, dreaming of what he would write for his beloved fans the next day.
The door didn’t open, but a large white horse with a black robed rider came in.
IT’S A SHAME WE HAVE TO DO THIS. The rider said, in a voice that went straight to any listener’s mind, not bothering to stop by their ears.
SQUEAK. Agreed a similarly dressed figure. It was maybe six inches tall, and rode a white Scottish Terrier.
A clear spirit sat up, out of the man. “Hmm?” He asked, drowsily. “Is anyone there?”
YES. The horse rider said. I’M AFRAID YOUR TIME HAS COME.
“What do you mean?” The old man asked, his white hair and beard shone bright in the moonlight. “Wait, I know you….” The man stared in intrigued surprise at the blue novas in the hollow eyes of the rider. “Death.”
QUITE SO, SIR TERRY. Death nodded. I AM HONORED TO MEET YOU, HOWEVER, I’M SURE WE BOTH WISH IT WERE AT A BETTER TIME.
“Yes. Indeed.” The man, now know by any silent watchers as ‘Sir Terry,’ agreed, looking rather shocked. “I must say, when I wrote about you, I didn’t think that I’d actually get to meet you.”
AS YOU TOLD MANY, ALL THE IMPORTANT PEOPLE OF THE DISC GET TO MEET ME. YOU, Death said, ARE THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT. SHALL WE, THEN?
“Yes, yes, I suppose we must.” Sir Terry sighed, and stood up.
WOULD YOU PREFER THE SWORD, SCYTHE, OR BOTH? Death asked. MASKLIN OF THE NOMES IS OUTSIDE WITH HIS SHIP, WAITING FOR YOU. HE PLANS TO FLY YOUR SPIRIT TO THE DISC, SO THAT YOU MIGHT BE REBORN THERE.
Sir Terry chose both.
Days later he was reborn as a quiet, collected infant. He remembered everything.
AU where Alex the Rat is actually Len, somehow stuck in the shape of a rat
Fic: Down the Rat Hole (ao3 link)Fandom: DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, DiscworldPairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart
Summary: Len was surprised to wake up after the Oculus. He was even more surprised to wake up a rat.
SQUEAK, the skeletal rat in the black cowl with the little scythe says apologetically, like that explains anything.
A/N: for @oneiriad, who wanted some fluff to fix the season 2 finale
—————————————————————————-
Len knew what he was doing when he went to the Oculus and took Mick’s place: he was signing his own death warrant.
Which, he supposes, makes waking up a surprise.
Not quite as big a surprise as waking up…small.
And noticeably inhuman.
There’s also a rat in front of him.
Sort of.
The rat’s kind of…skeletal. And wearing some sort of dark cloak and clutching at what appears to be a match-sized scythe as it stands on its hind legs.
But those eyes – the bright, bright blue of the Oculus, glinting distantly inside the rat’s skull – are rather unmistakable.
SQUEAK, the rat says apologetically.
Len blinks. “What do you mean, ‘oops’?” he demands.
EEK, the rat says. SQUEAK. SQUEAK.
“Yes, I am damn well going to take it personally! You kept me from dying in a rat body?!”
The rat shrugs helplessly. SQUEAK.
“What do you mean, he was busy?”
The rat gestures effusively.
Len snorts. “Well, in that case. But seriously, what do I do now?”
SQUEAK.
“Yeah, good point. Not really your area of expertise, is it?”
The rat reaches out and solemnly nuzzles Len’s shoulders.
Len can’t help but smile. “Aw,” he says. “Thanks.”
SQUEAK. The rat thought about it for a second. EEK.
“Yeah, see you soon but not too soon. Got it.”
He blinks, and the rat is gone.
Leaving Len alive.
But also a rat.
Damnit.
Well, some life is better than no life. Only question is, what to do now?
He finds his answer quick enough when the smell of something incredibly familiar – dark, smoky, the scent of detergent mixed with a faint smell of something fresh, like hay – sweeps by. He’s not sure what it is, but he follows it right up until he finds himself staring at a boot.
Len might not have recognized Mick’s now-incredibly-enhanced scent, but he definitely knows his boots.
It’s Mick!
Which means, of course, that the Waverider is close by.
Time to get some help.
Sadly, this is easier said than done. He makes his way onto the Waverider – success! He’s not trapped in whatever-the-hell era, getting fleas! – but after that…
Len’s first attempt at communicating with Gideon does not work, because apparently he only speaks in squeaks now.
She does offer him peace terms after he disables the first three cleaning-bots she sends after him.
Len squeaks in acceptance, then goes to raid the food cabinet. He’s really hyper as a rat, he’s noticed; far more bouncing and inclined to be excitable about things.
Being a rat is an adventure, but all things considered, he really needs to figure out a way to communicate with the humans on the Waverider.
Well, at first.
Then he wants to punch the people on the Waverider, because seriously, is he the only one who can tell that Mick’s depressed? And that everyone’s ‘teasing’ isn’t doing his mental state any favors?
Apparently so.
Of course, just as Len is starting to think about what he can do other than leaving droppings in Sara’s weaponry and Ray’s tech – crass and immature, yes, but Len’s like that – Ray ends up being shrunk down and stuck that size.
Len can’t resist barreling after him with his best imitation of the rock in Indiana Jones, just with larger teeth.
Ray flees in extremely gratifying terror.
Of course, it doesn’t last. Ray gets his growing mojo back – and promptly tracks Len down.
Luckily, the boy scout – sorry, eagle scout – is too soft to actually exterminate him. He puts him in a cage instead.
And gives him to Mick as a present.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Len says to his partner, who makes a kissy-face at him.
It is kind of nice to have Mick caring for him again. Mick always did care more about eating at regular times and making sure they had somewhere decent to sleep, and this is kind of like that, with Mick getting him a nice soft pillow and making his own wood shavings for Len to play in and feeding him on the regular.
Okay, the trick training sessions are new, but what the hell. It’s not the dumbest thing Len’s done for Mick’s treats.
Besides, Mick’s delight when Len actually plays dead is worth every last bit of humiliation. Even when he goes around the ship showing everybody how smart his rat is.
He makes a point to crawl into the pockets of Mick’s time-appropriate outfits.
That’s how he ends up in a war zone, squeaking – quite indignantly – “That’s not me! What the hell! What did they do to me?! I’d never say that!”
Evil Leonard stalks off, leaving Mick behind, sore and confused by the punch to the face.
“He’s not a hallucination!” Len squeaks angrily. “He’s an asshole!”
It doesn’t help, of course. Mick notices him and pulls him out, petting him a bit. Len’s noticed that that relaxes Mick, the act of stroking; he’s definitely getting Mick a real therapy animal when he’s back to himself. Feels really good on Len’s part, too.
“That was weird, right?” Mick whispers to him. “That he hit me? How could I have hallucinated that?”
“Brainwashing,” Len suggests. “Cognitive intrusion. That thing you did with Rip. Hologram. Possibly Earth-whatever version. Because that is definitely not me.”
And then Stein is a jerk and the Legends are jerks and Mick is having a very bad time and suddenly he’s making very bad decisions.
“No!” Len squeaks. “Don’t do the thing! Ignore evil me! He’s…okay, he’s right about the Legends being dicks to you. 100% right on that front. But seriously! Not me!”
Mick changes sides.
A blind man could’ve seen it coming, but apparently the Legends didn’t.
Len’s just happy he’s safely in Mick’s pocket, angrily gnawing on the little wood matchstick Mick has shoved in there.
Stupid evil Len. Mick probably misses Len so much, trapped as he is among the Legends, that he’s letting his heart make decisions instead of his brains.
If Len finds his alternate self, he’s gonna bite him.
Unfortunately, they get straight to the point.
The spearpoint.
Len sniggers.
“Is that a mouse?” Damien says, scowling at Len.
Len tries to flip him off with his little ratty paws.
“His name’s Axl,” Mick tells him. “He’s mine.”
Damien snorts. “You brought a pet?”
“He has the plague,” Mick says. “Want to hold him?”
Damien backs off.
Gooooo, Mick!
And then Merlyn comes back with the spear and everyone’s practically jerking each other off with all the compliments and everything – ew, mental image, scrub scrub scrub…okay, it’s kinda weird that when Len thinks that, he automatically raises his paws and scrubs at his head.
But then they all circle up on the spear and Merlyn starts chanting and wow, this is such a bad idea but Len slips out of Mick’s pocket and goes over to wrap his body around the base of the spear and thinks, as hard as he can, Let me come back to Mick. Let me still be with him.
He ends up in a cage with Ray Palmer, but he’s in the same building as Mick.
That’s…something?
Maybe he should’ve been more specific.
Of course, it all goes terribly wrong soon enough – Mick coming in looking wretched, like he’s seen a ghost and possibly betrayed that ghost, along with what’s-his-name, the annoying one – and Mick explains that he’s made a terrible mistake by choosing the Legion –
Yes! Good! Evil Len zero, real Len…also zero, but at least evil Len doesn’t have Mick anymore!
- and then they all punch him, which is less good.
Mick does put Len back into his pocket, though. Len’s staying close this time.
Close enough to see the entire clusterfuck of them going back in time to meet themselves.
Close enough to see evil Len kill Mick.
Len scampers out of Mick’s pocket, intent on revenge of some sort, but the past version of Mick manages it first, blasting him with the heat gun. The look in his eyes –
It’s like he’s given up. Given up everything.
“Mick, it’s not me,” Len says. He might be begging a little. “Don’t let him taint your memory of me. I was never like this. I swear.”
Mick doesn’t reply.
Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand Len’s squeaking.
They capture the Legion and put them in the brig.
“What’re you going to do?” Amaya asks Mick.
He shakes his head. His shoulders are slumped. “I’m going to put him back,” he says. He sounds so tired. So lost. So defeated. And it’s all Len’s fault. Evil Len, anyway. “I’m gonna tell him – I’m gonna tell him that I’ll put him on the right path. The path to being a better person. The path to saving all of you. And then I’m going to wipe his memory and let him go.”
Terrible plan, since that is not Len and he will mess up the goddamn timeline.
They drop off the others first, Darkh and Merlyn and all.
Personally, Len thinks that dropping Merlyn off at all is stupid. He’s from the same era as them; they could totally kill him without consequence to the timeline.
Mick swallows and goes to the brig.
“Come to take care of me?” evil Len drawls.
“Oh, shut up,” Len squeaks, and crawls out of Mick’s pocket.
“I’m here to – hey, buddy, where do you think you’re going?” Mick asks, noticing Len’s steady path down his trousers.
“Now you notice,” Len grumbles, and evades Mick’s reaching hands to dart into the brig where evil Len sits, body tense and eyes narrow.
“I owe you a bite,” Len tells him. “You asshole. I can’t believe any version of me would kill Mick. Any version of Mick.”
“Nice pet,” evil Len says, and reaches forward lazily as if to pet him.
“Shut up,” Mick says.
“Bite me. Literally,” Len says, and darts forward to sink his teeth into evil Len’s skin.
There is a sudden glowing bright blue light all around.
Len is, in fact, floating in a circle of blue light.
“Why am I floating?” he asks.
I’M TRYING TO FIX A MISTAKE. Some great big hollow voice, like piled up coffins falling over each other, but it sounds rather sheepish. The tall figure with its skeletal face and its robes and its scythe looks pretty sheepish, too. It’s all in the Oculus-blue squint of his eyes. THE GRIM SQUEAKER HAS BEEN LECTURING ME ABOUT IT. THIS SEEMED LIKE AN APPROPRIATE MOMENT.
SQUEAK, Death of Rat says encouragingly.
“Fair enough,” Len says and floats his way into evil Len’s chest, Beauty and the Beast style.
There’s a great big flash of light and suddenly, Len’s blinking at a gaping Mick.
Blinking with human eyes.
“Oh thank fucking god,” Len says with relief. “Can you understand me?”
“Uh,” Mick says. “Yeah. What’d you do to my rat?”
“Nothing,” Len says. “I think we…merged?”
YOUR ORIGINAL SELF HAS RETURNED TO THE TIME STREAM.
Mick suddenly stands very, very straight. He must have heard him this time, too.
“Thanks,” Len tells them, with a special nod to Death of Rats.
DON’T MENTION IT. EVER. REALLY. A pause. THANKS FOR DESTROYING THE OCULUS. IT WAS EXTREMELY ANNOYING.
Len waves a hand.
“What just happened?” Mick says.
“I’m back,” Len says happily. “Also, I can’t believe you ever thought that asshole was me. Same pretty face, sure, but he was a dick.”
“He was.” Mick sounds a bit dazed. “And you’re…”
“Leonard Snart, post-Oculus, thank you very much.”
“And…Axl?”
“…also me,” Len says. “Never tell anyone.”
“I’m hallucinating,” Mick says weakly.
“No, but I am going to go give the Legends a piece of my mind,” Len says, trying to get up.
He frowns.
Something is wrong.
“Uh, Len? You want to stand up on two legs?”
Oh, right.
“Sorry,” Len says. “The rat thing. You get used to it.”
“Is that why you did the playing dead trick?” Mick asks. “Wait. You did the playing dead trick!”
“Never mention it to anybody,” Len says.
He’s having some trouble getting himself up right, so Mick reaches down and pulls him up.
It’s nice.
Len smiles at him. “Missed you, partner,” he says. “Also, never tell anyone I said that, either. I got a reputation to maintain.”
“Len,” Mick croaks, suddenly believing, and he pulls him into a great big hug. Len permits himself to return it. No one’s looking. “Lenny.”
“Sorry it took me so long,” Len says. “Gideon wouldn’t believe I wasn’t a rat.”
Mick shakes his head. “I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t.”
“Gideon, confirm that the timeline is back to normal?” Len says.
“Confirmed, Mr. Snart. Your past self is back in the warehouse where you had originally been picked up, lacking any memory of what happened here.”
“You’re back,” Mick says.
“Yeah.”
“Your hair is fluffy.”
“I…don’t know why that is,” Len says. He thinks about it for a second. “But you can still pet it.”
“What?”
“Pet it,” Len says encouragingly. “It’s fluffy. You like petting fluffy things. You were very good at it when I was a rat.”
Mick starts laughing, his eyes wet, and pulls Len in again for another hug.
Len resigns himself to yelling at the Legends later.
