Author's Note: First and foremost, this is a fix-it. This first part is sad for obvious reasons, but if you stick with me for the next ~5 chapters, I can promise a happy ending. Huge thanks to ClaudiaRain for the first read and feedback! Disclaimer: I do not own LoT or any associated characters.

Part 1

"That's going to need stitches."

Sara Lance, Ta-er al-Safar, trained assassin, White Canary – formerly Black Canary – was laid out flat on her back, sweaty skin stuck to the sparring mat, head spinning and blood dripping into her eye.

"Thanks, Mick," she groaned. Mick's giant form loomed over her, his gruff face swimming in and out of her vision. She covered her eye with a hand, struggling to fuse his duplicating forms into one. Only his crossed arms and grim frown were clear through the haze. She frowned, too. That was one hell of a punch – but it never should have landed.

"Come on," he was saying. "I'll take you to see Gideon in the med bay."

"No thanks," she rejected, lurching to a sitting position. Not better, she grimaced. So, so much worse. She swayed back, catching herself just as a wave of nausea hit and rose hot bile to the back of her throat. She suppressed a shudder.

Mick was not impressed. He crouched down, leveling himself with her hunched form. His brow furrowed as he peeled back her eyelids to check her pupils. No doubt, they were dilated.

"I'll take care of it myself," she insisted, swatting his hand away.

He grunted, standing. "Suit yourself."

He gave her forehead another long look. She was so disoriented, she almost thought she saw a twinge of regret flash across his hard face. Not that she hadn't given him his fair share of stitches. That's what friends were for, after all.

"I'm good," she repeated. He just rolled his eyes, not bothering with a response and not looking back as he stalked out of the room. That was Mick – he never babied her. He respected her. And that's what she liked about him.

After he was gone, Sara realized she needed a few moments to just breathe. She wrapped her arms around her knees, dipping her nose into the crook of an elbow and resting her head. In and out, she intoned, the smell of sweat and skin somehow both cutting and adding to the nausea. Breathe, Lance, she shuddered, air sticking in her throat.

She'd been dangerously off during that match with Mick. She pressed her eyes shut as flashes of the fight bubbled into her vision, taunting her. Her fist connecting with the mat. The top of her foot, arched up and kicking thin air. Mick's red face, just before he punched her. And another Mick, one who wasn't at the fight at all, but was lying face down and unconscious, cold gun propped against his side.

No.

Her eyes shot open. Well, that was enough breathing. Her head felt too heavy for her neck as she lifted herself up, pushing off from the mat with both hands.

She stumbled to her tiny room, steadying on the doorframe as she tripped over the threshold. It took fewer steps to cross the space than she remembered; the bed rushed up to meet her as she reached under it for her first aid kit.

Like hell would she go to the med bay over a little scratch. Anyway, the only nights she slept anymore were the ones where she fell into bed too bruised and exhausted to think. Those nights were too few as it was – she wasn't going to let Gideon take one of them away.

She staggered over to the bathroom, getting her first look at her bloodied face in the mirror. She paused, watching her mouth form a small, silent "oh." She supposed she could see why Mick had suggested the med bay. Half her face was swollen, covered in dried blood from the sizable gash above her eyebrow. Under the blood, she could just see a lovely purple bruise starting to form around her temple, curling down to her cheek bone. She hadn't even realized she'd split her lip – it was swollen and bleeding, too. That would explain the metallic taste in her mouth. I'm a wreck, she thought distantly, unfazed. With clinical calmness, she nudged on the tap and started the slow process of washing it all away. At least this I can fix.

An hour later saw her patched up and dozing in her bunk, disoriented and musing that she probably shouldn't sleep with a concussion.

In that weak space between waking and sleep, she suddenly remembered something that had been nagging at the back of her mind: It's three months today. Three months since the Oculus, since the days when she could count the hours between losing Leonard and Laurel like a one-two gut punch from the universe. Three months, but it had only taken Sara a week to realize there was no bottom to the pit in her heart and no relief from the pain there – no escape from what was lying in wait, ready to consume her if she let it. So, largely, she didn't. Today was an exception, and she couldn't let it happen again.

A knock on the door pulled her from the twilight.

"Sara?" Ray's voice drifted from the other side.

She sighed, shifting out of her half-sleep. "What is it?" she called, irritated.

"Rip has a new mission for us," he explained. "We're meeting in the main in five." She sighed. Just her luck.

"I'll be there," she answered, grudgingly.

"Okay," he agreed, but hesitated. "Are you okay, Sara?"

"I'm fine Ray," she assured him, annoyed. If she found out Mick had said something to him though, Mick wouldn't be.

"Okay," Ray repeated. It might have been her imagination, but it felt like he lingered at the door a few moments longer than necessary before the sound of his footsteps carried him away. If he'd been thinking about saying something else to her, it was smart that he didn't.

Reluctantly, she peeled herself off the bed. She frowned at the mess of clothes strewn about her space, picking through a pile on the floor she thought was mostly clean and pulling out a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Unfortunately, getting dressed was harder than she'd hoped – she barely got one leg into the jeans before teetering back to lean against the bed. Pull it together, Lance.

Out in the hall, the low hum of the Waverider's engine and the glare off the white fluorescent lights sent her head pounding. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, flinching when she accidentally brushed her cut. Rounding the corner, she felt herself slowing to a stop as she approached Leonard's room.

For a moment, she caught herself waiting for him. For a moment, she expected him to swagger out with that smug grin on his face and smart quip on his lips, ready to ask what disaster Rip had planned for them this time.

Of course, he didn't. She stared at the metal door for a few seconds, cringing as if she'd been slapped. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, face red and pulse quickening. How could it still startle her that he wasn't here? He wasn't anywhere. Another wave of nausea hit, and briefly she thought she would puke right then and there, in front of his stupid door. That would've been fitting.

By sheer force of will, she started her feet moving again. At least Laurel had never been on the Waverider. She could forget her here, push those memories down to a place they couldn't touch her. But every goddamned little thing reminded her of Leonard. She hated him for it.

By the time Sara finally reached the bridge, the entire team (or what was left of it) was circled around the control table, waiting for her.

"Thank you for joining us, Miss Lance," Rip greeted her, but started – even jumped a little – as he noticed the state of her face. His eyes widened, and she had to repress a smirk. The concussion was almost worth it just for that. Not enough bothered Rip these days.

She appraised the others' reactions. Stein and Jax exchanged a look that seemed to say, "That's horrifying," – "But are you surprised?" Ray only took one glance before his eyes darted away, eyebrows just slightly raised. She was right – he must have known. She was going to end Mick. Had he really sent Palmer to check on her?

She tried to catch Mick's eye, but he refused to acknowledge her. She hoped that meant he was just angry with her for being so stubborn about getting healed, because he couldn't possibly be feeling guilty, right? She and Mick had an arrangement: beat each other bloody until no one could feel anything anymore. That was the point. But he kept on frowning and averting her gaze, even as she stood right across from him.

"Oh. Well. Okay then…" Rip shook off his surprise, deciding not to comment on her injuries and turning back to the team. "We have a new mission." Rip tapped a button on the control panel, causing a holo-image of a newspaper to appear before them in flickering light.

"Gideon has picked up on a time paradox originating at Central City National Bank in April of 1996." Sara shifted so she could get a better look at the headline, which read: "ATTEMPTED ROBBERY AT CENTRAL CITY'S LARGEST BANK." The story's black and white photo showed police officers swarming around the marble steps of the bank as a suspect, back turned, was being pushed into a police car.

"In the original timeline," Rip continued, "a small group of petty criminals was apprehended attempting to break into the bank's vaults. However, recently, things seem to have changed." Rip pressed another button, and a different version of the same newspaper appeared. The photo was the same, but this headline read: "ROBBERS AT LARGE FOLLOWING HEIST AT CENTRAL CITY NATIONAL BANK."

"In Gideon's most recent scans, somehow, two of the robbers managed to escape – with a hefty chunk of loot." Rip paused, looking around the room and making eye contact with each team member. "While it's difficult to understand how the paradox happened –" Rip started, and Sara had to resist rolling her eyes. She had a strong suspicion that their band of "legends" could be at fault. "– Or how it will affect the timeline after this moment, Gideon has started identifying more and more anomalies in time following this point." Rip pressed his hand to the screen, wiping the image of the newspaper away to ensure he had everyone's undivided attention. "All we know is that there could be catastrophic long-term effects. We must preserve the timeline."

Sara's eyes started wandering around the room. Blah, blah, blah, preserve the timeline. We get it. Stein, Ray and Jax were all listening intently, good little boys. But then her eyes fell on Mick. He had a, well, curious look on his face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his eyes rolled up to the ceiling as if lost in thought. His mouth was moving slightly, almost as if he were counting.

"That's why we're going back to this moment, Wednesday, April 24, 1996, to ensure the entire gang is arrested for the crime and…"

"Rip," Mick barked out their captain's name, interrupting. "We have a problem."

All eyes turned to him.

"In April of 1996, Snart and I were casing the Central City National Bank."

Well, that shut Rip up. The captain just stared at Mick for a moment, and Sara could feel the wheels turning in his mind as he thought through how that detail could affect the mission.

The calculation felt a little cold to her. Maybe because her heart rose into her throat and then plummeted to her stomach at just the mention of Leonard's name.

"Do you remember when you were there?" Rip asked.

"We were there that day," Mick confirmed. His look was distant. "We were planning on pulling the job that day ourselves – but Snart said something about it felt…off. So we didn't go through with it. Smart move, too, since the place was robbed by another group right after we left, and they were all arrested, like you said."

Traitor that it was, Sara's brain pushed forward a memory of a story Leonard had once told her. A story about a ring. It made her wish she could take another punch to the face.

"I see." Rip looked down pensively. "Well, we'd best not risk sending you in then, Mr. Rory. It could be perilous to the timeline if somehow you were seen and recognized by your younger self."

"But we're still going through with it?" Mick asked, eyebrows raised.

Rip shrugged. "If you weren't there at the moment the bank was attacked, it shouldn't change anything." By the troubled look on Mick's face, that justification didn't sit well with him.

Rip moved around the table, coming face-to-face with Sara.

"Ms. Lance," he started, twinge of apprehension in his voice. "I was going to assign this mission to you, but we will all understand if you – " Sara felt a flare of annoyance as heat rushed up her neck and ears.

"Please," she cut him off. "I'm a professional. It won't be a problem." How weak did they think she was?

"Alright," Rip agreed, reluctantly. "This mission is taking place in broad daylight, in a public space, with security cameras. So we must handle it with stealth, which means no Firestorm and no Atom. I had wanted to send Mr. Rory with you but given the risk..."

"It's fine," Sara reiterated. "I think I can handle a few street thugs alone." She had to resist rolling her eyes. The way Rip was looking at her, concern etched in every line of his face, and the way Ray was frowning, and Mick was staring at the floor – it was unbearable.

"I can go with you," Rip suggested. Sara had to resist laughing.

"I'll be less conspicuous on my own. Besides, bringing a gun to a bank would be suspicious if we're caught, and you're not much for hand-to-hand combat, Rip."

He gave her a hard look, and she could tell he was debating whether to argue the point. She returned the look with her own test me and this time I won't hesitate stare, and in the end, she won the standoff. He nodded.

"If you insist. But let Gideon take care of your face first, for God's sake. You'll frighten children looking like that. And take a break from sparring with Mr. Rory for the time being."

Sara smirked. "Alright then, Rip. You can be my new partner." Mick didn't even bother hiding his laugh. They all knew she could kick Rip's ass in her sleep. Although, it might make for a good recovery day.

"I'm going to go prepare," she said, and to her that settled it. She turned her back on the rest of the group, setting a determined pace as she left the bridge.

"Sara, wait." Mick had followed her into the hall, footsteps echoing behind her on the grated metal floor. She barely spared him a glance as she kept walking.

"What is it, Mick?" I'm annoyed enough with you as it is.

He walked behind her for a few steps, until he was sure they were out of earshot of the others. "Sara, stop." When she didn't, he reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. Big mistake. She whirled on him, seething.

"What?" She snapped. "Think I can't handle even the thought of seeing him again?"

"Odds are, you are going to see us," he warned. "We were leaving right before that other group came in. But we're not going to be the same."

Something in her broke at the reminder. "I know that," she spat, ripping her arm from his grasp.

"We won't remember you," he added.

"I know!" She glared at him. "I can do this. You don't have to worry about me messing up the mission."

"That's not what I'm worried about," he countered.

"Well, don't worry at all." She squeezed her right hand with her left – the better to keep from hitting him. "I could eat these chumps for breakfast," she assured him. "I won't let seeing you and Snart distract me. Besides, like you said, you'll be gone by the time the action hits."

Mick threw a hand up in frustration. "Rip's a bastard. I can't believe he's asking you to do this."

"He knows I can handle it," she bluffed, feigning indifference. Mick shook his head, face growing red and splotchy.

"No," he growled. "He doesn't. I saw Snart in 2013. I'll tell you right now this is asking for pain."

She folded her arms across her chest, staring him down. "I said, I can handle it."

He exhaled long and hard, rubbing his hand over his face. He was quiet for a few moments, thinking. She watched his eyes drift down, and his body seemed to slump a little. When he finally spoke, there was something hollow in his voice. "If you're going to go," he relented, "I want you to have this."

Suddenly, he was holding out a familiar, silver ring.

Everything went very, very still. Sara's heart stopped and then started again at double pace, pounding in her ears.

Her voice became very quiet. "And why would I need that?" she demanded, staring at the ring like it might burn her, like it might brand her forever if she so much as touched it.

Mick leaned in, lowering his voice as well. "If this goes sideways," he started, glancing between the ring and Sara for emphasis. "And you know it will." He shook his head. "I don't want to think about you winding up on the bad side of young me. If you crossed him, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd put you down."

"Mick," Sara sighed, exasperated. "That's not going to happen. I'm not going to the bank to stop you – we won't even interact."

"Rip said something about the timeline changed," Mick argued. "We don't know what. We don't know. If something goes wrong, and you end up on the wrong end of my gun, this," he shook the ring, "could distract me enough to give you an opening."

Sara shook her head. "Mick, even if that did happen, I think I could take you."

But Mick seemed to feel differently. His eyes wandered slowly over her face, over her lip, and the bruise, coming to rest on the gash above her forehead. Her stomach dropped.

She groaned. "What am I going to say? 'I know you in the future'?"

Mick grunted. "Just take it."

It was too much. But he wasn't backing down, and however she felt she couldn't reject it, not when he was looking at her like she was someone else he might lose.

"Alright." She gave in. She held open her hand, and he dropped it into her palm. She curled her fingers tightly around the cold metal, and he nodded, satisfied.

"Thank you," he mumbled, stepping back from her.

Sara turned away. She wasn't used to Mick showing any kind of feeling, let alone for her. It left an uncomfortable lump in her throat. Finally, she spoke again. "I have to get ready."

He let her pass without another word.

She let her feet carry her to the med bay without much conscious thought. She hated to admit Rip was right, but she would attract far less attention if she didn't look like she'd just been in some horrible accident. And, she supposed it was better for her coordination to let Gideon speed-heal her concussion.

To the AI's credit, she didn't say anything as Sara climbed onto the patient's chair. A light scan of her body began immediately, and Sara let herself relax as the gentle tingling from Gideon's laser started on her forehead.

She laid there for a long time before she found the courage to peek at the ring still clutched between her fingers. It was plain but heavy, and the pattern in the metal felt interesting against her skin. She played with it for a while, trying it on different fingers. It was too big for her pinkies, even though that's where Leonard had worn it. In the end she decided it really looked best on the ring finger of her left hand. Then she snorted, flopping her hand down to her stomach and out of sight. But. Something told her Snart would find that amusing, so she left it.

A moment later, her fingers clenched at a sudden, piercing pain in her chest. When Gideon didn't react, she knew it had nothing to do with her injuries – it was a familiar ache, the same one she felt anytime she let herself think too long about what…about who…she'd lost. She sucked in a sharp breath, closing her eyes against the reflex to cry out. The blood rushed to her face so fast she could feel her heartbeat in her temples, angry and relentless. She released the air, forcing her fingertips apart. Deep breaths, she told herself. In and out. I am Ta-er al-Safar. I am not helpless. I am strong. I am stronger than this.

Gideon's soothing voice announced that she was fully healed. Slowly, Sara sat up. She let her legs dangle over the side of the chair and leaned back into her palms, head hanging so low her chin almost touched her chest. Come on, Lance. You are stronger than this.

Somehow, she found herself in the fabrication room. Out of habit, she swiped through the options on the control panel, cringing at the sight of Gideon's suggested outfits. Really, Gideon? Overalls? That was worse than when the AI had suggested Sara wear a dress to the Wild West. She scrolled past bright colors, tacky plaid and baggy jeans – really, it was a blessing she'd just been a kid in this decade. She finally settled for tight-fitting, high-wasted jeans (those weren't so bad), with a light blue wash and rips down the front. She selected a black crop top to go with, and skimpy as it was, the jeans were so high it barely showed an inch of skin at her waist. At least combat boots were trendy in the nineties, so she could wear her own.

"The temperature on April 24, 1996 was a cool 51 degrees Fahrenheit," Gideon informed her. "You may want to consider a jacket, Ms. Lance."

Sara shrugged, returning to the screen. She'd need somewhere to hide her weapons, anyway. Gideon suggested all manner of jean jackets, which Sara quickly rejected in favor of leather. She opened the customization settings, choosing a silver-white leather that reminded her of the White Canary suit.

"In the nineteen-nineties, black leather was much more common – " Gideon started, but Sara cut her off. "Don't care. Just make it."

Sara was carefully inspecting the straps on the inside of the jacket when she heard footsteps approaching.

"Hey Sara," Ray said lightly. He came up behind her, looking at her jacket quizzically. "Are those for…"

"My knives?" she finished for him. "Yeah. Never leave home without 'em."

"Ahh…right…" Ray backed up slowly, cautiously turning to the screen. It was satisfying that after all this time, she could still make Pretty Boy nervous.

"What're you doing here, Ray?" she asked suspiciously.

"Jax and I are going to be your getaway drivers," he explained, looking through clothing options. "Overalls! Man, that takes me back." He was actually smiling. "You know, I think I still have a pair of these."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Ray, you used to get beat up for lunch money, didn't you?"

"Used to?" he asked, tilting his head. "I was bullied into buying Mick lunch last week."

That almost made Sara smile, until she realized that's what he'd been going for. She shrugged on her jacket, just turning to leave when a little ding from the fabricator distracted her.

"Wait!" Ray ordered. He grabbed something she couldn't see.

"What?" she groaned, a little more bite in her voice than he probably deserved.

"I had Gideon make this for you," he explained, innocently holding out a rainbow tie-dye hair scrunchie. "Just what your outfit was missing, right?"

She gaped, momentarily speechless. Then she glared at him, snatching the scrunchie from his hand. "You'll be lucky if I don't use this to kill you in your sleep," she threatened.

He grinned at her. "To go down in history as the man responsible for Sara Lance owning a scrunchie?" he teased. "I'll take that risk."

Oh, he was testing her. She thought about flinging the scrunchie at his face, just to prove she'd meant it – but pocketed it instead, deciding to keep the threat alive for another time. The stupid grin on his face just broadened at that.

She pointed a finger at him. "Watch your back, Palmer," she warned, brushing by him and out into the hall.

In her room, she organized her knives and staff into the jacket. She stopped in front the mirror, sighing. Her face was healed, but she still looked disheveled, her hair a wild mess. Times like these she really missed Kendra. She worked the front pieces of her hair back, tying them into a little ponytail. That's kind of nineties-ish, right? The mirror wasn't encouraging. Groaning a little under her breath, she pulled it out again. Whatever. Maybe she could pass for grunge.

She stared at her reflection. And finally admitted it to herself: It was unreal, actually impossible, that Leonard Snart might see her today. That she might see him. And it was absolutely sick that a tiny piece of her hoped she would see him – hoped he would even just glance in her direction. Even though she knew it would be the last time… She would gladly replace anything with the memory of his face when she pulled away from their first, from their last, kiss.

"Ms. Lance, we're ready to make the time jump." Rip's voice echoed out of the ship's comms.

She pressed the intercom button on the wall. "On my way."

Back on the bridge, Sara watched her teammates settling into their seats. She took the place next to Jax, averting her eyes from the three empty chairs and trying not to think about who should have been sitting there. She slid her left hand under her thigh.

"Everyone ready?" Rip asked, taking his own place at the pilot's seat. Sara felt a twinge of jealousy. She liked that seat herself. But then Rip was spinning around, commanding Gideon to take them away. He pushed the lever into gear, and with a jerk at her navel, they were hurtling through time.