"But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart."

"Answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?''

- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

…..

It's different, this time.

It's much the same as the period he remembers, distantly, being trapped in the Oculus. Blue light, many images revolving around him. But this time, there's more than just a disembodied presence with him; there's a figure standing opposite him, its eyes all blue light.

It's otherwise the mirror image of himself.

"Can't do the 'This is Your Life' thing when it comes to the future, huh?" It just stares at him, which is even more unnerving with it wearing his body. He sighs.

"OK. Soooo," the drawl is familiar, giving him the time to compose his thoughts, "maybe I did make a difference. Maybe I still am. OK. That's good. So want do you want to show me?"

He gets the impression of a mental shrug.

What do youwant?

Good question.

Last time, it had asked him where he belonged. The answer is partly the same.

Sara.

But he also wants a purpose. He wants a challenge. Maybe his days when both of those things just came down to "the next big score" are gone, but the desire remains. He also wants, he'll admit now, to protect his city.

Will it be enough? He thinks, with what he's seen now, that maybe it will.

But the images are spinning faster now and he's starting to catch more than a glimpse of many of them.

Sara. In a white dress on a rooftop. Fighting at his side. Kissing him at the stroke of midnight. Older, silver in her hair, smiling at him.

Holding a toddler with her golden hair and an awfully familiar pair of pale eyes … wait, what …?

But there's Lisa, grinning evilly, her arms around the neck of a chagrined-looking Cisco Ramon. Mick, a beer in his hand, clapping him on the back. Ray and Stein (and Clarissa) and Jax and Kendra and even an uncomfortable- but pleased-looking Rip, talking around the table at the Steins' house.

Someone he'd swear is the Arrow and a slighter figure in similar red garb, guarding his back in a fight. A bespectacled blonde woman who looks vaguely familiar. Barry Allen, older himself, speaking to him with the same annoying earnestness he's always shown.

His crew? His … family.

There's always been an underlying uneasiness in him, since things started changing, that this is all going to go away. He'll screw it up. He'll revert. He'll turn into Lewis.

The Oculus is dismissive. Of course he won't, it tells him. He knowsbetter.

There's an added weight to the thought, and he understands, he thinks. Go out there. Do his best.

And in return … this.

Crooks don't get to be happy, not long-term. Not really. They die young. Or they try to kill their own daughters; they get frozen to death by their own sons.

For the first time, he faces the fact he's never believed he'd get a future like this, no matter what he did. A bad penny is a bad penny. But the Oculus is telling him that's not so. There are no promises, but if he stays on the road he's on …

No one else suffers because of it? he asks, tentatively. He feels its satisfaction at the question, but also negation at the sentiment. No strings? You'll make sure.

Can, it insists nonchalantly. Will.

Somewhere, he thinks, Rip Hunter would be appalled. It's an added bonus.

Leonard Snart smiles. A real smile, not just a smirk.

And everything goes white, one more time.

"Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset."

"He did it all, and infinitely more."

…

He gives Mick a measured look when his old friend informs him that he can't possibly take him back to Central City on Dec. 23, 2017, sooner than a handful of hours after he left. But he also doesn't call him out on the trip he knows the other man took there to talk to Sara.

"You all right, boss?"

He hasn't been "boss" for a long time. Coming from Mick, that's almost a term of affection ... or as close as they get. He answers the question only with a "yeah" and a small smile … but it's a real smile, and that's enough for their purposes. Mick rolls his eyes and socks him in the shoulder.

They set him down in the Central City evening and, with a wave, he starts the walk back to the apartment, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, head bowed against the December wind, which is still whipping snowflakes around in its wake. His feet know the route; he's not really paying much attention to his surroundings, until …

"Len?"

Startled, he looks up. She's standing there, on the bridge he needs to cross to get to city center, bundled against the cold and watching him.

"Mick called. Said you were on your way back. I thought I'd meet you."

Her gaze is tentative, which hurts his heart. There's always been so little about her that's tentative; that's one of the things he likes. But he's not still not entirely used to factoring other people into his life, and his abrupt departure didn't help matters.

He takes two, three swift steps to her and kisses her, dipping her like they're a couple in an old movie, trying to convey without words that he loves her, and that he's not going anywhere.

She laughs against his mouth and he dips her deeper, then sweeps her back up to grin at her and kiss her again.

Someday, he'll tell her all of it. The past, the present, the possibilities in their future.

For now, though, he kisses her in the falling snow.

It is enough.

Christmas Day is lazy. Neither of them has a problem with that.

By mid-afternoon, they're both lounging on the sofa, Len deep in one of the out-of-print history books Sara'd found for him. She's lying sideways next to him, head on his shoulder, stretched out across the cushions with her feet on the arm.

Sara is wearing a new white gold snowflake pendant, glittering with tiny blue diamonds, around her neck … but she's also paging avidly through her birthday present, the plans that he'd wrapped up in an envelope and left under the tree. Plans for turning the old warehouse/safehouse (the one where he'd been shot nearly a year ago, oddly enough) into a martial arts studio; a place for her to train, herself and, maybe, others. An 'Arrow Cave' of her own, really. Canary Cave?

Can he gift, or can he gift? he thinks, a touch smugly.

There are steaks and lobster tails thawing in the fridge and a new bottle of wine on the counter. It may be just them, but it's pretty damned domestic, really.

And then there's a noise at the door.

Sara's on her feet instantly, pausing to snatch one of her batons and give him a wary glance. He stands, slowly, hand drifting to where the Cold Gun is propped against the wall, out of sight.

She looks through the peephole … then, darting another glance back at him, throws back the deadbolt and lock and opens the door.

"Dad?"

"Hey. Hey, honey. I was just about to knock, really." Quentin Lance shuffles uneasily just outside. "I know I should have called, but … well, you said I was welcome. Still? I hope?"

She opens the door wider, but also turns a little to raise an eyebrow at Len. He nods.

Lance notes the byplay and his eyes flicker, but he sidles into the apartment, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he looks around.

What'd he expect, a dark and gloomy den of thieves? Probably.

"What changed your mind?" He knows Sara well enough to detect the faint hint of hope in her voice, even as she layers a bit of skepticism onto the words.

"Well. Can't not see my baby girl on her birthday, can I? And … well, Mr. Snart, you have some awfully staunch defenders, you know that? Besides my daughter." He huffs out a sigh and looks at said daughter. "Which should have counted for more to begin with. Sorry, honey."

"Hmm. Yes, it should have." Her tone is still cool, but the fondness is sneaking in.

Lance sighs again, then looks over at the taller man still standing over by the sofa. Then he shakes his head and crosses the room to extend a hand.

"Let's start over, all right? Quentin Lance. Pleased to meet you."

Slowly, he takes it. "Leonard Snart. Likewise."

"This … OK?" He looks between the two of them. "I mean, I don't have to stay..."

"It's good. I'll get another steak out of the freezer." Leonard tries for casual, and thinks maybe he succeeds.

"Dad, is that...?" Sara, her eyes sparkling, reaches out to take the bag in her father's hand. He lifts it high and smirks at her.

"Yep. Birthday cake from Condrell's. Just like every one you've … been here for … since you were 1. Chocolate with strawberry filling."

"You're the best!" She kisses him on the cheek, deftly snatches the bag from his grasp, and carries it into the kitchen.

Quentin Lance eyes his daughter's lover. Then, with the air of a career – but now ex- - cop who finally has something in common to talk about with a career – but now ex- - criminal, he throws out a conversation gambit like a lifeline.

"So. I hear you helped the CCPD take down something that coulda gotten pretty bad a few weeks back …"

So they're actually "talking shop" when Sara returns and laughs at them.

"You know," she teases, taking a seat, "the Wests … and Barry Allen … invited us over for Christmas dinner. We could actually head over there after we eat here. You and Joe would probably hit it off, Dad, if you really want to talk about this stuff."

"Funny, that." Her father brightens even more. "I've actually already met Joe West …"

Leonard, for his part, gives her a sidelong glance that's so long-suffering that she laughs right out loud, the sound rippling with …

Joy.

Maybe he can get used to this Christmas thing, after all.

And all the other things that come with this "hero" life, as well.

…...

"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

Clarence, "It's a Wonderful Life"