Chapter Text
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coercing
or
leaving
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Her fists leave blood on the punching bag.
Sara doesn't notice. Doesn't care. She deserves this, deserves to hurt, to bleed for what she'd nearly done.
She'd nearly-
Her fist hits the wall this time, knuckles threatening to break, scream erupting from her throat before she can stop it. She thinks there's someone yelling her name, slams her fist into the wall again with a choked cry. Rests her forehead against the cold metal, tastes blood and bile and leans over retching, coughing as her stomach tries to empty and her lungs gasp for air.
"Jesus, Sara," she hears that voice say, footsteps getting too close. She straights dizzily, falls back against the wall as she turns and-
Snart. Of course it's Snart. But he doesn't look like he's going to lecture her, doesn't even have his normal leer. He looks… concerned, and Sara starts to laugh, or tries to laugh, but it turns into a heaving sob and suddenly he's beside her, one hand carefully placed on her shoulder, grip firm but hesitant.
"Hey." His drawl is all but gone, and it sobers her up. "You're a mess, Canary."
"Don't call me that." She hardly even recognizes her voice, choked and dripping with contempt.
Snart frowns, amends, "Alright, Sara. You're a mess."
She feels her face twist, squeezes her eyes shut and wipes angrily at her cheeks. It's also… cold. Heartless. There's bile in her throat as she tries to push past him, but he doesn't let her go, and she's afraid if she opens her mouth she'll throw up again.
"Sara." Soft. His voice is too soft, and she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve the concern in his eyes, doesn't deserve to take even a moment of comfort from him. She'd nearly-
Her stomach twists violently and she turns away to vomit up the little she'd managed to force down earlier today. Coughs and chokes and gasps for air, world spinning dizzily, afraid she'll fall-
Hands on her shoulders keep her upright, and she's too far gone to twist away. If this is how she dies, so be it; it's nothing more than she deserves.
But when her retching has died down the hand rubs along her back a few times, gently, too gently. She forces herself upright, closing her eyes against the wave of vertigo, and feels hands on both her shoulders again as she leans back into the wall.
"Sara, I need you to take a deep breath," she hears Snart say. Wants to scoff at how ridiculous that statement is, until she realizes there's no air in her lungs and panics. Eyes shoot open to meet blue and there's no anger there, no judgment. No disgust. Only concern, and she doesn't know what to make of it.
"I c-" she chokes. "C-c-an't." Later she will hate herself for that admission, but right now she can't breathe and there's no air and the empathy written on his face is too much to turn away from, too necessary.
"You can," he says gently. He releases one shoulder, taking one of her hands and pressing it against his chest. "Try to match my breathing, alright? Close your eyes." She can't match, not even close, can hardly even gasp. But he doesn't give up, just stands there with her through what feels like hours of desperate attempts, choked off and sobbing.
And then, when she finally, finally takes a deep breath, he doesn't let her go. Just says softly, "Good. That's good." Sara takes another slow breath, feels tears on her cheeks and is too tired to care. "Hey…"
Sara starts to think about what she'd done, what she'd nearly done, how much she doesn't deserve this. Feels her breathing escalate again and suddenly finds his arms around her, her face buried, a hand gently cupping her head to his shoulder.
"Breathe," he murmurs, sound vibrating through him and into Sara. "Forget everything else, just for a minute. All you need to do right now is breathe." He rubs gentle circles against her back, rocking her a little as she crumbles, comes apart in his arms. "I've got you," he says, so soft. "Let me take care of everything, for just a few minutes. Let everything go."
She's sobbing now, harder than she has since dying, and she doesn't deserve this comfort. But Snart doesn't loosen his hold, not even a little, not even when Sara half-heartedly tries to pull away. She doesn't deserve this, but he's offering it anyway, and she's far too tired and in pain to refuse.
She's shivering in a cold sweat when she finally comes back to herself, to his arms still protective around her. She drags in a shuddering breath, sniffing softly, and this time he lets her slowly pull away.
He looks down at her, the concern still on his face, murmurs, "Hey there, birdie." She feels a smile tug at her lips, lets him reach up to brush at her cheeks with this thumbs. She shivers violently again with cold, sees him frown.
"You really need to get cleaned up, huh?" She makes a face, hitting him lightly with one hand. "Go on," he says. "I'll clean this up, go get warm."
She… doesn’t know what to do with his unexpected kindness. Bites her lip and looks away, at the mess she'd made - "Hey." His voice draws her back, still lacking its familiar drawl. "What Rip asked you to do was inexcusable," he tells her, voice hardening. "If I can't kill him for it, at least let me help you."
Sara nods hesitantly, and he drops his hand from where it was resting on her shoulder. When she's a few steps away, he says quietly, "I'll be in my room, when you're done. If you want some company." She looks back, still not quite sure what to make of him. And nods.
+++
shutting down
and
punishing
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It's an hour later that she finally knocks on his door, a little surprised at herself. It slides open immediately, before she's had a chance to talk herself out of it. She wonders if she has Snart or Gideon to blame for that.
He's sitting at his desk, fiddling with the cold gun. Glances up at her with his telltale smirk, a little softened. "Decided to drop by?" If the drawl were there, she doesn't think she'd stay. But it's not.
She tucks her arms across herself defensively, trying to keep herself calm. She doesn't know why she's here, exactly. Looks down and closes her eyes, shaking her head. This was a stupid idea, she's-
"Hey." She blinks. Forces her gaze up. He looks concerned again, and no amount of showering will let her deserve that.
"I don't want to talk." She hardly recognizes her voice, so harsh.
He nods. "Movie?" he asks, as though this were normal, as though they'd always been friends on a time travelling space ship, as though she hadn't almost killed a teammate today. "Gideon makes great popcorn."
Some tiny part of her relaxes at that, just a little.
She nods.
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running from rooms
defending
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Only an hour into the movie she can hardly keep her eyes open. It's… disconcerting. Not only because she's had trouble sleeping since coming back from the dead (well before, but worse since). Not only because she doesn't really know this man, and there are very few people she trusts enough to sleep around.
No, it's because it happens so easily. So quickly. All he has to do is smile and she feels a little better, a little calmer, a little safer.
It's irrational, and yet.
And yet.
She jerks herself from a doze a few minutes later, gasp tearing itself from her lungs before she can help it. She swallows, takes several deep breaths to slow her heartrate. Notices his eyes on her, and feels strangely guilty.
"I don't… I don't sleep much." She doesn't know where the words come from. Why she feels the need to explain herself. As though she'd somehow assigned him to guard her sleep.
"Can't imagine why," he murmurs.
Sara feels her chest cave in, curls in on herself just a little. It was an animal. Monster. Killer. "I'm sorry," she whispers, pulling herself upright. Pretends the world doesn't spin, that her vision isn't blurry with tears.
Fingers catch her wrist as she moves to climb from the bed, and it takes everything in her not to break that hold. Break that hand. "Not how I meant it," he says quietly. She wants, suddenly, desperately, just to stay. To bury herself in this warmth and safety, to forget all the things that haunt her all day, follow her into her dreams.
But she doesn't deserve to, and she'll never forget that.
She gently breaks his grip, unable to meet his eyes. Wonders what it's like to not be covered in blood, to be able to accept comfort and care freely given.
"Sara." His voice catches her as the door slides open, and she slowly turns back. Stares at a point just over his shoulder. "Door's always open for you," he says, as though it were nothing, as though it didn't knot her stomach. It's all she can do to nod.
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withholding
justifying
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Something about the way Sara thanks Rip for sending in the team sticks heavy in Len's stomach. Not just because it was actually the professor who'd done that. No, it's the way Rip acts like some sort of omnipotent leader dragging himself down to their level on occasion in displays of parental indulgence. The way he manipulates all of them, the fact that he'd called Sara selfish when this entire mission is one born of selfish needs.
But Sara… Sara, for whatever reason, takes it. Internalizes it. It's honestly the last thing Len would've expected from her, and yet, she keeps doing it, again and again. Keeps letting Rip use her, then turn whatever he's had her do right back around on herself.
And maybe he wouldn't care, if he didn't know how badly it was eating away at her.
She's not in the gym or the cargo bay when he looks for her, the two most likely places. He hadn't intended to seek her out, but everything about the last few days has left him vaguely nauseous, a low hum of anxiety he can't shake off.
He finally finds her on one of the upper levels, sitting on the floor by a narrow window running floor to ceiling. Staring out at the remains of her home, what will hopefully soon be only a bad memory.
She glances at him when he sits beside her, but says nothing, just looks back out at the hazy half-lit city. Even in the near-noon light, everything looks washed out and gray. She'd matched quite perfectly in her White Canary suit, he realizes with a shiver.
"He was wrong, you know," he states, when the silence starts to feel oppressive.
Sara glances at him with a small, mirthless smile. "Who, Rip? You're going to have to be more specific."
An easy out, if he wants it. Len keeps his voice serious, answers, "You're not selfish, Sara."
She flinches visibly, eyes pressed tightly closed for a moment, breath hitching. Len slowly, hesitantly reaches over, puts a hand on hers where they're balled in her lap. "You're not selfish," he says again, quiet, no hint of his usual drawl. She has enough people screwing with her head right now to need Captain Cold as well.
He's getting tired of picking up the pieces of her that Rip leaves behind.
They sit in silence for a while, Len listening to her breath shake, feeling her hands tremble. He gently rubs his thumb along the back of one hand, slow and steady, trying to give her something to ground on. He can only imagine how lost she feels right now.
"I hate that I care," she whispers at some point, voice choked.
"I do to," Len murmurs. She sniffles, pulling her hands from his to rub at her eyes. "And that I'm still not allowed to hurt him." She laughs wetly, face still pressed into the palms of her hands.
"I wish he could make up his mind whether I'm supposed to kill teammates to save the future or let my friends and family die to save the future." Her voice only cracks a little on that, and when she leans into his side he lets her. Slips his arm around her waist as she turns to press her forehead to his shoulder, shuddering, breathing forced even.
"When's the last time you slept?" he asks quietly. She makes a small noise of derision, shrugging. "You may be undead, Canary, but I'm pretty sure you still need sleep."
"Is… is your offer still open?" she asks, small and worn. Len blinks, tilting his head to look down at her.
"For you, always."
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these versions of violence
(sometimes subtle, sometimes clear)
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