Chapter Text
If someone walked into the Waverider lab—de facto Ray’s lab, at this point—they’d see what looked like a disembodied robot arm on one table, a large test tube with what might be silver and blue glitter inside on another table, and next to each an assortment of objects with no obvious purpose to anyone who wasn’t someone like Cisco Ramon, Caitlin Snow, Lily Stein, or Ray himself.
Ray Palmer always had multiple projects going on.
Typically, his lab was cluttered with them, though some would be stored away, literally shelved, until he was ready to return to them, with a new approach, with knowledge or a technique gained from working with another project.
(He hadn’t been kidding, exactly, when he’d told various folks about improving dry erase markers—only, that turned out to be a particularly tough task, and he had not truly returned to it since arriving on the Waverider.)
His suit was typically several projects at once, an unending source of distractions, ways to avoid—
No. He wouldn’t think about that. Or that. Or…
Yeah, he was lucky he had so much he could do.
Even in the Cretaceous, deprived of advanced technology and everything that truly mattered to him in the way of people he cared about, or could care about, Ray had always had projects underway—a new strategy for keeping makeshift shoes on his feet, ways to transport water, reinforcements for his shelter and the alternate shelter in a nearby cave, and of course, the dolls.
He’d needed those projects not only for literal survival, but to distract himself from the wrenching, endless loneliness. (It had felt far too much like working on the suit after Anna’s death, moving methodically and numbly through a gray, chilled world, no matter how sunnily cheerful the weather was—or, after some effort, he himself appeared to be.)
*
What most people didn’t realize was that Ray constantly, quietly, had multiple projects going on involving other people. Sometimes this was combined with technology and design, like the protective outfit he’d made for Nate, and sometimes it wasn’t—the team building activities for his company that he’d taken a personal hand in developing, or unobtrusively noticing someone else on the ship needing something, and trying to provide it.
Not that he was good at noticing, all the time, absorbed in his work as he was—he’d completely missed Jax wanting Martin to be free of their link until Jax asked.
But some of the wants, the needs, the hurts, of the other folks on the Waverider were gaping, aching, and obvious enough for him to notice, even if he didn’t always know where they came from.
In John, for instance, he recognized the sharp, occasionally insulting humor and flirting as a cover for heavy and horrific burdens—guilt, if things he’d overheard were true. Ray understood using (a different kind of) humor and a not-entirely-true smile as a mask. He might understand some part of that in John, but he did not know how to offer help to him—yet.
In Sara, though, he didn’t have to recognize her avoidance strategies to know she hid deeper sorrows—he knew about those sorrows, those griefs, at least the recent ones. He’d known her sister Laurel, had experienced personally how formidable she was, how strong. And her father, who had recently died. He’d wanted to help Sara even before Laurel’s death and then Sara becoming Captain. He had offered, but Sara was one of the most stubborn people he knew. So many times she’d changed the subject, brushed him off, become bluntly practical or silly. Left the room.
And Ray knew there was no “fixing” that kind of deep grief—he’d found that out through personal experience—and he also knew that new friends helped, that it helped not to be alone, to talk about some of it, to share experiences.
Besides being a staunch friend and supporting her as Captain, Ray didn’t know how to offer the support he wanted to. Yet.
*
Ray was one of the most stubborn people Sara knew. He didn’t look it, and for a long time she’d overlooked him, thought of him as just this overly cheerful person with a suit that helped them get or stay out of trouble sometimes. But over the past few years, and especially after becoming Captain, she’d found she could rely on him, realized that she trusted him, both out in the field and otherwise.
He was also obvious as fuck, most of the time. She knew how earnestly he’d wanted to support her in her grief, after Laurel died, how he connected that to his own grief for Anna, and she’d—wanted none of it. At the time, she’d thought it was because she was pushing everyone away emotionally, as she usually did, especially this dork who she just didn’t like sometimes.
Now, she knew it was more because he was right, they did have similar pain, and she just didn’t want to feel it.
And she’d figured out that what she didn’t like about Ray Palmer (the pompous, privileged rich guy who always got what he wanted, who couldn’t begin to understand what she’d been through) was not even who he was.
She still rolled her eyes at his antics, his utter earnestness which sometimes hid a quiet mischievous streak, his unabashed enthusiasm. He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked, though she cringed sometimes inside for him—when she wasn’t completely fed up with it, like that time he nearly got himself killed at Camelot.
But he was doggedly determined. She thought he’d forget about his offer to listen to her, to help her deal with Laurel’s death, after she brushed him off.
But no. Oh, he stopped offering after a while, but when Laurel’s name came up, she caught his eyes on her, watching, quietly concerned, assessing. He was still trying to find a way to help.
Even when they were stuck back in 2017, he’d kept in touch, like she was still his Captain and needed reports, or like—they were friends. He’d not brought it up again, had just left messages and suggested meeting up for coffee when they could be in the same city. She’d taken him up on it a few times and whined about retail work, listened to him talk about new projects (he didn’t talk about his actual new job, which she knew was as crummy as hers). Most of the time, though, she’d ignored his messages and isolated. His messages continued, persistent, and even after they had the Waverider back, she felt the same energy from him—he was there, and would help how he could.
It was sweet, in a way, but she didn’t have time for his kind of grief (wait, what did she really know?—she’d only heard the vaguest outlines of what had happened with Anna). She didn’t have time for feelings. And he wanted to do some kind of corny support group thing.
She later realized that, as usual with just about everyone on this crew, she’d underestimated him, just how bloody-minded he could be. (John Constantine was such a great resource, not the least of which was how she was picking up his Britishisms. Cute ass, too, and so entertainingly grumpy.)
But neither she nor Ray could have predicted the circumstances in which she’d finally give in and accept his support.
*
Ray had always felt a particular trust in Curtis Holt, ever since the man had helped rescue him from Damien Darhk—the first time Darhk had imprisoned him—in Starling City. Given that Felicity, in Star City, and the folks at Star Labs, in Central City, were usually rather busy, Curtis was often Ray’s choice when he wanted to talk with someone off the ship about his work, and it was probably past time for him to be having certain conversations with someone from his own time. Fortunately, they’d been able to rig up the technology to enable such conversations without too much difficulty.
Ray had just heard Curtis’ latest idea for one of his own projects. “That’s amazing! It’d be a privilege if you’d allow me to help.”
Ray saw Curtis’ grin in response on the screen. “Of course—if you think you have the time.”
“Time ship,” Ray reminded him wryly. “I have all the time—until I don’t.”
“OK, but only if you tell me some of what you’ve been up to.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t run out of projects to share with you.” Ray glanced ruefully around his reconstructed lab. “Not for some time.” His eyes settled on a white box that uncannily resembled a microwave oven. “There’s one in particular, in fact, that I should tell you about right away—“
Ray glanced back at the screen just in time to see Curtis’ eyes go wide and see Curtis duck sharply out of sight.
“Curtis?” Ray called, voice rising with alarm.
The outraged, “Hey!” that he heard then from Curtis, off screen, did not help.
“Curtis, what’s going on?” Ray was about to go run for the jumpship. He could arrive where Curtis was at the precise moment he left the Waverider lab—
“Who are you?” he heard--Curtis’ voice--from the screen, loud and curious.
“No one you need be concerned with,” a cool woman’s voice spoke, and Ray thought—
“Nyssa?” he asked, feeling a bit frantic.
Curtis’ face suddenly appeared again, asking disbelievingly. “You know this ninja?”
Definitely Nyssa, then, and it wasn’t exactly a reassuring thought.
“Let me speak,” she intoned—demanded.
Curtis’ hands went up in an “absolutely” gesture as he stared off screen, and then he looked right at Ray, with a question in his eyes.
“Of course, Curtis—let her on. It’s fine.”
Nothing she can do to me, Ray thought, and hoped Nyssa had no reason to wish to harm Curtis, or any interest in one of the projects they’d been discussing—he had no idea of her goals or motivations these days. Several of the projects, especially the one he’d been about to share with Curtis, would be quite valuable, and that wealth could be used for many purposes, including nefarious ones.
“You are speaking with Ray Palmer, correct?” she asked Curtis. Again Curtis looked at him with a question, and Ray spoke up.
“Yes, I’m Ray. Please, don’t hurt my friend.”
A dark haired woman appeared, and while she was no longer in garb directly reminiscent of what Ray remembered from Nanda Parbat, she still had the bearing of an assassin: alert, poised, formidable. Her mouth was a stern line, and her black eyes assessed him through the screen. “I have no intention of harming him. I must speak with you.”
“Uh, OK. Um, Curtis?—I’m sorry about this, I mean, I could call you back—“
“Of course, just—Ray, this is OK, right?”
“Sure. Nyssa is—someone I know from helping out there.”
“OK if I stick around for this?” Curtis seemed to be asking both of them. “It is my lab.”
“I do not care.”
“Fine. I’ll—just be over here.” Curtis stepped back so he was visible in the background and, apparently, still able to see the screen. Ray was grateful that he was still there.
“Nyssa.” He kept it at that, not knowing her full name or title, or if she still had one.
“You travel on a ship with Sara Lance.” It wasn’t a question.
“I do.” No point in denying—Nyssa clearly had ways of finding things out if she had shown up right when he and Curtis were talking.
“I wish to ask—“ for the first time the assured voice faltered. “How she is.”
Ray knew Sara was elsewhere on the ship—officially it was her turn to make dinner, and if she was actually doing that she was probably in the galley with Ava. But this question raised alarm bells for him. “Is there a reason that you ask?”
Nyssa shook her head faintly and something sparked in her eyes—maybe amusement, maybe compassion.
“I do not speak of any danger to her that I know of,” she reassured. “And, besides, she is there with you on your ship, is she not?”
Ray breathed a sigh of relief. “She is. She’s—fine, safe, healthy.” Probably with her girlfriend now, Ray thought, but figured it wouldn’t be quite polite or kind to say to Sara’s ex.
“I am glad to hear that. But I am--concerned. I saw her—but she did not see me—when she visited Star City recently, and did not arrive in time before her father died.”
Ray closed his eyes and nodded, then opened them again. Yes, he was definitely seeing worry in Nyssa’s eyes.
“Sara has never dealt well with her feelings. What I saw told me she has not improved much in that regard.”
“Yeah. I mean, you’re right. I think she’s doing as well as possible, given that.”
“Has she spoken of her father’s death to you or the others?” This was less a question than a winning debate move, proving a point.
Ray admitted, “No. She hasn’t. I mean, I offered—but she’s kind of all business. Though I do think she’s probably talked with Ava—“
“Ava?”
Ray opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. Well, so much for that. He sighed again and spoke. “Her girlfriend. They’re—close, and Ava’s a good person.”
If he’d been afraid of Nyssa’s response, he now found no reason to be. She was smiling, for the first time in their conversation, if a bit sadly. “Good. I am glad for that.”
Ray believed her, and it unlocked more words from him. “I mean, of course Sara’s not OK, her father dying—though, I think maybe it’s been longer for us here than it has been for you there, since the funeral—but, overall—she laughs, with Ava. And we all look out for Sara. She knows that if she needs to she can talk with any of us.”
“But she hasn’t. Even with this Ava?”
“Um—no.” Ava and Ray had talked about it recently, Ava worried and perplexed. “None of us are pushing it—I mean, this is Sara—“
Nyssa nodded like she got that, all too well, and Ray was slightly astonished to be having such an emotionally intimate conversation with someone who was essentially a stranger to him. But they both cared a great deal, in different ways, for Sara, and that made it easy.
They were silent for a while. Ray felt his old wish to find a way to reach out to Sara in a way she might accept, but he had little hope that he’d manage it. At this point, he figured that nearly anyone else on the ship had a better chance than him.
“Tell me, did she ever speak of her sister Laurel to you?”
“No.”
“It has been two years for her, has it not?”
“Yeah.”
Nyssa’s eyes narrowed.
“She has not confided in to anyone there?”
“She might have—but I don’t know.”
“She probably did not.” Nyssa’s tone was decisive and grim. “I wish to speak of Laurel to you myself.”
Then he heard stories about French fries and ice cream and intensive training and anger and laughter. “It was not enough that I fell in love with Sara. I think I was close to falling in love with Laurel, as well,” Nyssa admitted, and then asked, “Tell me, did you know Laurel?”
“Not well. We—were in similar circles, for a brief time. She and I disagreed once and she—was formidable.”
“Tell me,” she ordered, but it was the hunger in her eyes that Ray responded to when he spoke.
*
Later, after they had returned to talking about Sara, Ray asked with equal parts doubtfulness, curiosity, and encouragement, “Do you want to see her?”
“No!” The reply was forceful and immediate.
“Why?”
“What we were—it is past. It would only be pain, for us to meet again, and it would lead to a foolish desire to revive what cannot be revived.”
Then she outright smiled, with some humor. “Oh, and there is this Ava. I would not wish to give distress to someone you say is kind to her, and makes her laugh.”
“Nyssa—why are you talking to me about all of this? I kind of think our last acquaintance was when you were threatening to kill all of us, back at my old company.”
“That is true. You were also the one who found the cure for the plague my father unleashed on the city. That saved hundreds of lives—probably far more.” She shrugged. “That is one reason.” She paused and then said, “Besides, I don’t know anyone else on the ship you are on.”
She spoke with great dignity, and now an odd deference. “It is not fitting that I speak with her directly, that I interfere in her life. Nevertheless, I wish to know she is well. May I reach you again to ask you about her?”
This was puzzling, given that she’d barged into this conversation—probably broken in or snuck in to Curtis’ lab—he’d have to ask later. He decided to say so.
“Your politeness is a little strange, given that you didn’t exactly ask for permission ahead of time to—take over our conversation.” He spoke lightly but pointedly.
Stiffly, she said, “I do what is necessary.”
“I see. I’m not against the idea, but I think we might have a problem. You’re going to ask me to not tell Sara, aren’t you?”
The sharp expression in Nyssa’s eyes said he’d hit the mark.
“I’ve been in that position a few times recently—once with Sara herself—and I’ve relearned what I already know about myself: I’m just not any good at it—at lying, and keeping things a secret. Everybody can read it on me. And it’s even worse when I really don’t want to, when it feels wrong to. Besides, Gideon already knows.”
“Gideon?” Nyssa’s head tilted slightly in suspicion.
“Our AI on this ship. Think surveillance system, but with a much better personality.”
“Why thank you, Dr. Palmer.”
There was a look of slight alarm on Nyssa’s face now. Then she spoke, resigned. “So Sara will know shortly.”
“Not necessarily, Nyssa,” Gideon said smoothly. Ray was gratified that Gideon was as unknowing as he was as to what to call Nyssa more formally. Gideon continued, “I will inform her if I deem it necessary. She is Captain, but she has left no standing orders on this matter. However, if my assessment of the situation changes at any time—“ The AI paused ominously.
Ray shrugged at Nyssa’s image. “I’m the bigger problem here, really, I think.” He added, “You know, I think she’d think it was sweet, that you were checking up on her. Wishing her well.”
“Our time together was—tumultuous.”
He gave a wry and rueful look. “It’s not like her life since has been much different, if we are talking about here on the Waverider.”
Nyssa looked concerned at this.
“No!—wait, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, sometimes things have been hard. And I don’t know everything, and I wouldn’t tell you everything anyway—not mine to tell.”
“I thought you couldn’t keep things from people.”
“It depends. But, the point is—I think right now she might be happier than I’ve ever seen her, even with Quentin’s death, though I wonder if that’s even really hit her.” Or the other deaths—Rip, Marty, Laurel, Len—Ray mentally filled in somberly.
“Very well. Tell her. I still do not wish to interrupt her life or talk with her, and I still wish to speak with you further about her.”
*
Ray later learned that Curtis, who had shamelessly listened in to the conversation, had invited Nyssa out for fries and they had had a good conversation, perhaps even the beginnings of a friendship.
Meanwhile, the conversation with Nyssa stayed with Ray, and he began looking for an opportunity to talk with Sara.
*
The overcast sky, the chill wind, and the heavy wetness in the air were spooky, and the fact that they walked through a rocky terrain with only a few hardy plants only added to the ominousness.
Sara half-listened as Ray explained why the Waverider--or the jump ship--could not come for them--a zone of temporal dissolution caused by the anachronism they’d successful dealt with. Even a time courier was useless here. Bottom line, it meant a long trek through this gloomy land until they could get to a place--the ocean--where the Waverider could detect them and pick them up.
“Fortunately, we have enough rations to last us the walk,” Ray was saying cheerfully. He’d already promised to use his boy scout and dinosaur era skills to find additional food as well as a place to shelter that night. Sara had her own survival skills, though they mostly involved how to cope with any mean beasties they might encounter--and there didn’t seem to be any creatures like that here.
Sara was resigned and somewhat amused to be stuck with Ray this way for the next few days. His undimmable enthusiasm, she knew, was partly for her benefit, and instead of being irritated by it as she once might have been, she appreciated it.
She should have realized that, with this much time spent with Ray, they’d finally get around to a certain conversation.
*
They’d settled in to a surprisingly cozy cave, with a warm fire and with hearty soup that was a combination of powder they carried and the spring they’d found nearby.
Ray had finally gotten quiet, and then was giving Sara those concerned looks again. Sara decided to just confront it head on.
“You’ve been trying to do this for two years now, at least,” Sara said, setting aside her empty bowl of soup. “Get me to talk about Laurel. And now--you want me to talk about my dad.”
Ray nodded, his face serious.
Sara continued, “You said, ‘I know something about grief.’”
Ray sighed. “Yeah. I hope you didn’t think I had actual answers or solutions or—“
Sara interrupted, her voice full of fond amusement. “Trust me, Ray, I didn’t think that. You just wanted to get all touchy-feely—“
“Really? People still say that, to make fun of people talking about feelings in a healthy way?” Ray complained mildly.
“I still say it. I’ve access to all time periods, I can use any language I want to.” Sara felt like a teenager saying that--it felt good, to display a bit of rebelliousness as they circled this difficult issue.
Ray sounded tired. “Well, I don’t have any answers. I just know what I did was wrong. I kept away from people, buried myself in my obsessions—“
“What about Felicity?”
He shook his head. “She’s a wonderful person, but that was never going to work, and even as—as kind as she was, I didn’t let her see very much. And then she got kind of preoccupied.”
He paused, seemed to gather his thoughts. This was not at all like what she’d expected when he’d first wanted to talk--she’d thought maybe it would be an irritating pep talk, or a condescending lecture on the importance of feelings. Instead, Ray sounded resigned.
“I did grief all wrong. That’s what I wanted to tell you, after 1942, not to follow my example, not to—be alone.” OK, this was just raw, and it was starting to make Sara feel uncomfortable. And now Ray was looking at her with earnest eyes, almost pleading. “You don’t have to be, Sara—all of us, on this ship, we love you, and I know it doesn’t fix anything, but it’s better than isolation.”
Sara’s mind flashed back then to Ray speaking in the exact same tone through blood in his mouth, trying to reach to her, past the death demon who was murdering him. His voice had been desperate, heartfelt, as she’d been beating the life out of him. He’d tried, with what breath he’d had left then, to tell her he trusted this was not Sara herself who did this, that he trusted her, and she’d believed completely that he’d meant it. She had also believed completely that she had not deserved to hear such things.
A worried voice and a gentle hand on her arm pulled her out of the horrific memory of Ray dying at her hands. “Sara? Are you OK?”
Sara shook herself. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. I just—remembered something.” He still looked a bit alarmed. She turned to him and spoke frankly. “I believe you, what you say about you and the crew. I know I’m not alone.” She paused, the memory still chilling her. “It’s just-- It hurts like hell, to get closer to anybody else.”
“Yeah, it does,” he said softly.
“I’m a coward,” she declared.
Ray smiled to himself. “No, you aren’t, Sara.”
“Yeah I am.”
He stared back and was clearly trying not to smile—Sara was doing the same and failing. They shouldn’t let this devolve into silly contradictions. Not yet. Sara was determined to see this through--she owed Ray that much, and maybe it really would help.
Ray said ruefully, “I’m the coward. I know how to avoid everyone without anyone ever noticing.”
“Yeah. You do that.”
“You at least—you avoid in obvious ways. You come out and say it’s what you are doing. It’s more honest.”
“End result is the same. I don’t want to talk about it, cause that’d hurt too much.”
“But it hurts not to talk, too,” he said, quietly, sadly knowing.
“Yeah,” she could only agree, recognizing the loneliness in his words.
*
The next day, Sara woke feeling strangely light. It had been hard, even harder than she’d feared, to talk in those moments, even though the memories she’d shared had been happy ones, mostly. She’d also shared the guilt that weighed on her, that never felt like it would leave her. The utter lack of judgment in Ray’s brown eyes as he’d listened, as he’d quietly not agreed with her harsh self-assessment, had been a balm.
Talking about her love for Laurel and for her dad had made her voice rough, had been like getting close to a hopeless abyss she’d never escape from. It had hurt, just like she’d feared. She didn’t give a fuck how she appeared to anyone, and so the wracking sobs that had come didn’t matter on that score. But they’d still pulled her under, and she’d been afraid then that she’d never make it out.
Ray’d been right: having someone there, who in some ways understood, made it almost bearable. He’d sat with her as she poured her story out, staring at the fire, and when she’d finally lost it he’d offered an arm around her shoulders--she’d had a safe and warm anchor to hold onto. Later he’d given her water for her aching throat and soft cloth to dry her face.
She thought of how Z, prickly as she sometimes was, had been willing to confide her own enormous grief to Ray--neither talked about that, but Sara was Captain and just knew things about her crew, her people. It had made sense when she’d learned that, and now it made even more sense.
She’d slept deeply, and then she’d had dreams of Laurel and of her dad; she could feel still the hug he’d given her in her dream, the warmth of his smile at his “little girl.”
That feeling stayed with her throughout that day’s walk, warming her in ways that the bleak landscape could do nothing to counter.
*
As Sara and Ray waited for the Waverider to arrive for them--another hour until the temporal dissolution faded--they settled into their camp overlooking the vast expanse of water.
Sara was thinking of her crew on the Waverider and speaking thoughtfully. “You know, even when I don’t talk about my stuff, I know that all of you are there. I mean, I’ve never been around a group of people who are more there than all of you are. You’re inescapable.”
Ray laughed. “True.”