NOTE: I own none of these characters. I just like to mess with them. :)

xxxxxxx

"All through the night

I'll be awake, and I'll be with you..."

xxxxxx

The boy wonders if he's dying.

It hurts to breathe, deep down inside. He stifles a sob as he lays in a fetal curl on the threadbare carpet, his cheek pressed against fabric sodden with snot and involuntary tears. He knows better than to cry—had known better for a long, long time—but they'd been startled out of him this time.

The house is dark and cold and silent. Even at her age, his sister knew to take her chance and run if their father's attention was pulled away from her, even if it took her brother's invention to do so. Hopefully, she is safe in her bed, the old man passed out somewhere and unable to administer the punishment she's escaped. He can't hear her crying, so ... hopefully.

His mother ... well, at the lofty and cynical age of 12, he knows better than to expect anything from someone as cowed and defeated as she is.

A tremor shakes his thin form and he whimpers involuntarily as his gut throbs more than it already was. It hadn't been a good idea to step in without a plan. He knew that, but ... if that beer bottle had come down on Lisa's tiny head, it would have done a lot more damage than the goose-egg it'd left on his admittedly thick skull.

That throbs, too. He twitches again and bites back a moan of pain. After the bottle had dropped him—and he still seethed at being so weak—his father had driven the tip of one steel-toed boot into his stomach, hard. A punishment, for interfering.

This could be ... bad. On some level, he knows that, curling tighter and more protectively around his middle. Something inside is broken. He knows, muzzily and at a great distance, that he needs to drag himself somewhere safer than the dining room floor, but the pain is too intense.

He wonders again, starting to fade, if he's going to die.

xxxxxx

The man knows he is dying.

He can taste blood. Lying on his side in the alley, he can feel the spreading, sticky, warm feel of it as it oozes from the gash in his side. Not good.

He knows he should be moving. Should drag himself back to the ship, back to the others—wherever they've gone. Call for help. But everything seems to be happening at such a distance ... it all seems so far away ...

The pain has faded, actually. This is... also not good. On some level, he knows that. It's difficult to care. Story of a misspent life.

Knifed in an alley. Seems like some people are meant to come to a bad end no matter what, he thinks distantly, with a touch of gallows humor. It would almost be funny, if he hadn't almost thought ...

She was right.

It was lonely.

XXXXX

Well, whatever the report or tip or random pipe dream led Hunter to urgently send them out into the streets of 1982 New York City, it had been for nothing. No sign, no fight, nothing more remarkable at the site than an utterly empty condemned building and a few startled pigeons. Sara Lance shakes her head as she trails the rest of the team back to the rendezvous point. A waste of time and energy.

And where the hell is Snart ...?

Her footsteps slow as she approaches the others, wondering. He hadn't been at the building. This "mission" by any other name had been so disorganized and chaotic that she'd just assumed he was there somewhere, but ...

She never knows what makes her turn her head and glance down the alley to her right.

Is that ... a flicker of flame?

She waves a hand to the others and turns down the alleyway, walking lightly and ready for attack.

Stupid to do this alone. He's fine, he's probably beat them all back to the ship, ready with a smirk and sardonic comment. Right?

But she smells the sharp tang of blood first. Memory grabs her, and she gasps.

She takes a few steps closer and she sees the shadow sprawled on the ground.

And she knows.

He's left the goddamn parka behind, too hot in a New York August. Dark clothing, but that doesn't stop her seeing.

There's blood. There's a lot of blood, and she knows from grim experience just how much a human body holds. For the fraction of a moment, she thinks that's it. She lets out a tiny sound, a faint "uff" as if punched in the stomach, and she can't breathe ...

And then she sees something. A breath, maybe.

Still alive.

She shouts for Kendra and Ray, screams for them to get back to the WaveRider and send help, and drops to her knees in the filthy alley, searching for a pulse in a man who can't have that much more blood to lose. It's there, faint and shocky, and she draws a breath of faint relief.

The jeans of her jeans are sodden. So is his shirt. He's contracted into sort of a fetal curl, there on the ground, and she hesitates to hurt him worse just to find out the nature of the injury. It's not like she has first aid supplies on her. And this needs so much more than that.

The ice-blue eyes are open, she notices now, just a crack. She knows he probably can't see her, not right now, a man who's lost this much blood is too far gone to ...

She's kept up a sort of low murmur, just to let him know someone's there, that help's on the way, that it will be OK ... trying to do something, she supposes. But she's surprised when the lashes flicker, just a little, and a whisper emerges from his throat.

"Sara..."

It's so faint, she can hardly hear it. "Yes! Yes, it's me. I'm here. Help is on the way. Hang in there. Just ..."

The next sound that emerges is nearly a snort, if you can count a mere exhalation as such.

His eyes are closed again.

"Not alone ..."

In a heartbeat, she's back in the ship, freezing.

"What's it like, dying?"

"No. Not alone. I'm here. I won't ... I won't leave." One arm has fallen out of its protective curl, one hand is slack in the pool of blood, and on impulsive, she slips her own hand into it, curling her own fingers around his cold ones.

For a fraction of a second, the grip that answers is far more strong than it should be. It's the grasp of a man hanging on for dear life. Then it's slack again ... but the fingers are still curled around hers.

And then they're there, the rest of them, Hunter himself looking panicked and yet somewhat irritable that everything has gone so damned wrong again. There's a stretcher, and she steps back as Jax and Ray fuss over the best way to get a badly injured man onto it without hurting him worse. She's more adept at causing injuries than getting them fixed, and she knows it.

But she doesn't let go of his hand, even though Hunter gives her a funny look.

"Stay," she thinks she hears as they lift him.

"I will," she says, thinking of the airlock. "I promise."