Chapter Text
Ava stood stiffly in the Waverider’s command center, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes flickered across the glowing lines of the timeline map, searching—pleading—for anything. A blip. A flicker. A miracle.
Beside her, Nate leaned forward, palms braced on the console, jaw clenched. The silence between them had long grown familiar—full of dread and fatigue, a year’s worth of failure pressing down like gravity.
“She’s been gone too long,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “No movement, no anomalies, not even a ripple. Maybe…”
“Don’t,” Ava cut in, sharply. She didn’t look at him. “Don’t say it.”
“I just meant—” He faltered. “You think she’d have found her way back by now.”
“She will,” Ava said, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. “She’s Sara. She always does.”
Then, a sudden flare of light cut through the dim room. The air cracked open as the portal roared to life. Both of them turned, eyes wide, as a figure stumbled through it—large, heavy, and breathing hard.
Mick.
And in his arms—was Sara.
Ava’s heart stopped.
Mick was covered in dust and blood, face grim and streaked with sweat, but he didn’t hesitate as he crossed the room with Sara’s limp body cradled against him.
“Ava!” Nate’s voice broke with disbelief. “Oh my god—Sara?”
Ava rushed forward, her legs moving before her brain could catch up. “What happened? Mick—what happened to her?”
Mick didn’t pause. “We broke out. Alien base was going down. She got us to the ship… then just collapsed.”
“Collapsed?” Ava echoed, dread pooling in her stomach.
“She hasn’t said a damn word since,” he growled, voice tight.
“Med bay. Now.”
The doors to the med bay slid open and Gideon’s interface came alive with a soft hum. Mick laid Sara carefully on the bed, and Ava was at her side in an instant, brushing the hair from her pale face.
“Gideon,” she said, her voice trembling, “run a full scan. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Gideon’s voice filled the room, calm and clinical. “Captain Lance is dehydrated and physically exhausted. Her body shows signs of prolonged stress and extreme environmental exposure. She requires immediate intravenous hydration and rest.”
Ava exhaled, the weight of relief and worry battling for dominance. “Is that all?”
“There is more,” Gideon added after a pause. “Her DNA profile… has changed. It no longer matches the original file.”
Nate blinked. “What does that mean?”
“Alien genetic material is now present in her system,” Gideon replied. “Approximately seventeen percent of her DNA has been rewritten. The modifications appear stable… but extensive.”
Ava froze. “You’re saying she’s… not fully human anymore?”
“That is correct.”
Silence crashed down like thunder.
Mick shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, but his eyes never left Sara’s still body on the med bay bed.
Ava glanced up, her voice strained and sharp with adrenaline. “You said you broke out. But how? Where was she? What the hell happened, Mick?”
He exhaled slowly, like the words burned coming out.
“I got a lead. Some back-channel resistance freak told me there was a containment site deep in Sector 9. Black zone. Off-map. Thought it was bull, but… I checked it out.” He paused, gaze flickering down.
Nate stepped closer, brows furrowed. “And Sara?”
Mick’s jaw tightened. “They had her underground. Deep. Some lab. She was strapped to a slab like a science project—wires, IVs, glowing junk I didn’t understand. She didn’t even flinch when I found her. Just looked at me like she was trying to remember how to be human again.”
Ava blinked fast, fighting the images that conjured.
“She said one word when I cut her loose,” Mick muttered. “She looked right at me and said Ava Then passed out.”
Ava’s knees nearly buckled. Her hand clenched tighter around Sara’s.
“They’d been experimenting on her,” Mick continued, voice quieter now. “Slicing into her cells. Injecting things. I saw the tanks. The other test subjects—they weren’t alive anymore. Not really. But Sara? She was the only one still fighting.”
“What did you do?” Nate asked softly.
Mick finally looked at them—eyes darker, older somehow. “I burned it. Set every console, every tank, every hallway on fire. Took out their guards. Threw her over my shoulder and ran like hell. We hit the launch pad, she rerouted power to the jump drive herself— half-conscious —and then… she collapsed.”
He looked down at his boots. “If I’d gotten there a day later…”
“You didn’t,” Ava said, cutting in. “You got her back.”
Mick nodded stiffly. “Yeah. But she’s different now.”
Ava looked back at Sara, brushing her fingers gently across her bruised knuckles. “She’s still ours.”
Gideon’s voice returned, softer now. “Vitals stabilizing. Captain Lance is responding to hydration treatment.”
++++
The hum of Gideon’s monitors was the only sound in the room. Soft, rhythmic, persistent. Like a mechanical heartbeat reminding the world that Sara Lance was still alive, even if she hadn’t moved in hours.
Ava sat beside her, slumped in a chair she hadn’t left since they brought Sara back.
The med lights threw cool shadows across the sharp edges of Ava’s face, hollowed from too many sleepless nights. Her hand rested over Sara’s — fingers lightly tracing the back of her palm, over a faded scar Ava remembered bandaging years ago.
“You missed a lot,” Ava whispered. “Or maybe I just... lived a lot without you. I’m not sure which hurts more.”
Her voice cracked and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing. She leaned in, brushed a stray lock of hair back from Sara’s forehead.
“You would’ve hated how quiet it’s been. And how loud, too. Everything was too much and not enough, and none of it was right without you.”
The door slid open behind her. Ava didn’t turn.
Nate and Zari stood just inside, watching with the caution of people who’d seen grief implode before.
Zari hesitated. “Do you want us to sit with you for a bit?”
Ava still didn’t look away from Sara. “No.”
Zari opened her mouth, but Ava cut her off gently. “I don’t want anyone else to see her like this.”
Zari exchanged a glance with Nate, then gave a small nod. “I’ll be close.”
She stepped out.
Nate didn’t move.
Ava turned toward him finally, her expression a strained blend of exhaustion and apology. “I mean it, Nate.”
“I know,” he said softly, walking over anyway. “But I’m not anyone else.”
He didn’t try to take Sara’s other hand. Didn’t push his presence into the space Ava had claimed for her and Sara alone. He just pulled a chair beside Ava and sat.
They were quiet.
Ava watched Sara’s chest rise and fall.
“She was never supposed to come back like this,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“She’s not the same.”
“Neither are you.”
Ava blinked. “Is that supposed to help?”
“No,” Nate said simply. “It’s just the truth.”
Ava let that sit for a long while. Then, without really meaning to, she slumped sideways, laying her head gently against Sara’s shoulder. Her hand never left hers.
“She used to fall asleep like this,” she whispered. “Always warm. Like holding fire you didn’t want to put out.”
Her eyes slid shut.
Within minutes, Ava was asleep, her body curled protectively toward the woman she couldn’t stop loving.
Nate watched them in the blue light, his hands clasped between his knees.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. He simply watched over them with the kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken — the kind that held steady when everything else collapsed.
Then — the soft sound of the door.
Behrad stepped in quietly, slow, careful. He didn’t say a word.
He walked up beside Nate, gazed down at Sara, the lines in his face a mix of grief and memory.
He reached out, gently pressed two fingers against Sara’s shoulder in silent greeting, then looked at Ava curled beside her.
He gave Nate a small nod, one that said everything without saying anything.
Then Behrad turned and left them to the silence.
Sara didn’t wake.
But her fingers twitched faintly beneath Ava’s hand.