A/N* Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic for DC's Legends of Tomorrow, and my second fanfic posted to the site. (My other writing is a Game of Thrones (TV) piece titled "War", feel free to check it up!)

There are a few things I feel you, as a reader, should know about me and this story:
1) I'm a slow writer. I will NEVER abandon a piece. But it may be a month or two between chapters.

2) I am a true-blue comic book/superhero fan. And may be using some comic book elements with these characters (mainly Captain Cold)

3) If you came here looking for any Heatwave x Vixen or Golden Glider x Vibe shipping, turn away. This is not the fanfic for you.

4) My fanfics will always be for mature audiences. I use foul language, sex, sexual situations, and graphic/descriptive violence in my writing.

And finally:

I do not own DC's Legends of Tomorrow. I am not making money in any way from this writing.



9:36 PM - Central City

January 17, 2017

The second the Waverider touches ground, he calls Lisa.

It rings. Don't be anxious. No one answers on the first one.

He waits. A frown set on his hardened and scarred face. He leans against the doorway of the ship's library, one hand shoved in his pocket. He was alone - his team currently on the bridge while he delayed their meeting. They can wait. He has an obligation right now.

It rings. Twice - that's alright. Might be lookin' for her phone.

He lets out a shaky breath. His foot taps nervously. When he'd last seen Lisa Snart, he came with horrible, horrible news. Her beloved brother, her protector, her provider, had died and was never coming home.

Once he'd told her of the Time Masters and the Oculus, Lisa had weeped while curled in a ball on her couch; wailing and cursing up a storm. She'd blamed Rip Hunter and the others for tricking Leonard into stepping onto the Waverider.

But Mick had shook his head to that. Snart's fate had always been to join the Legends of Tomorrow. And his death was honorable and selfless.

"And he wouldn't want you to cry, kid." He'd offered. Though it had only made her sob more.

It rings. She's fine. It's early, she's probably out.

Lisa'd always been wild and rambunctious. She partied often. She got into fights. Her knack for thievery was similar to her brother's, but she was reckless. You can't afford to be reckless in the line of work the Snart's did - Leonard had always known that. Lisa could get too cocky and daring, raising her chances of getting caught.

If she's pullin' a job...he shakes his head. She don't need a babysitter. She's Snart's sister, he tries to calm himself. She's got brains.

He'd told her to lay low for a while and gave her some cash Gideon, the ship's AI, had fabricated for him beforehand. He shouldn't worry, she's capable of taking care of herself.

She has her gold gun, he remembers. Snart taught her how to fight. And she has such an attitude that he doubts anyone would bother her.

It rings again. And then pauses.

"Lisa? It's Mi-"

"The number you are trying to reach is currently unavail-"

"Damn it." He mutters before leaving a message. "Lisa." His voice is raspy. "I'm back for a while. Lemme come see yah." He hesitates before adding, "Please". He hangs up and stares at the Android's main screen.

He'd hoped to speak with her, ask her how she's doing. Check up on her, really. It's the least he could do for her. For Snart.

He can't help the worry hitting him. The guilt he'd felt for the loss of his friend had coupled itself with an intense weight of responsibility. And immediately, Mick had taken it upon himself to ensure Lisa's safety.

Boss wouldn't want her completely alone.

However, finding Lisa had become difficult. She was constantly on the move and undetectable. Her brother had taught her to change her location frequently and avoid calls or texts from unknown phone numbers.

Quickly, he punches the buttons of his phone to send her a simple text.

It's me. I'm back.

Minutes pass by slowly as he waits. Nothing comes. And he begins to wonder if he had the correct number - maybe she'd had it changed?

Eventually he pushes himself from the wall and pockets his phone again. Unintentionally, he paces and tries to reason away his overbearing need to track her down. Lisa is a grown woman after all. She doesn't need him treating her like a child. And she definitely doesn't need to return his call or let him visit her home.

She's fine, he tells himself again. Relax.

But he doesn't. And anxiety keeps pricking at the back of his mind.

When Mick rounds the corner and comes to the bridge of the Waverider, Sara Lance is eyeing him. Her arms are crossed as she waits for the last of her crew to enter and settle himself among the others. One by one they stood around the center console in the middle of the room.

"So," Sara begins. "We're home and back in our original timeline. I'm sorry we couldn't get closer to our intended date."

"That fault is mine, Captain Lance." Gideon's voice rang overhead. "I seem to have mistargeted your directions."

"We missed Christmas," Jax points out glumly. "My mom is going to be so -"

"She'll be happy to see you alive." Mick interrupts. It's not a lie. And he doesn't care that it came out rough.

"Look," Sara starts again. "I'm giving us all an extended vacation. Okay? We not only missed Christmas; we were gone for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, and New Years. We all owe our loved ones time together and some sort of explanation."

"What about Rex's killer?" Amaya frowns. She has always been direct with her mission and focused on nothing but completing it. Mick knows this and so does the rest of the team.

He glares at her. "We got shit of our own too, Tiger."

"Don't call me that." She snaps back. Her dark brown eyes shooting daggers at him. "And I don't have anything to do or anyone to visit in 2017. Everyone important to me are still in 1942. There is no point in my being stuck here when Rex's killer is still out there. I cannot conduct a proper search here, I can't -"

"I am able to help you with that Miss Jiwe," Gideon pipes up. "My database and research features are more than sufficient and capable than technology from the current year we have landed in."

"There," Sara says. "You cannot fly off with our ship. Understand that? Gideon, Amaya is unauthorized to pilot the Waverider and strand us here. "

"Affirmatively, Captain Lance."

Before Amaya can counter, Sara continues. "We'll play it by ear and see if we can make it to the end of January before we absolutely need to leave again. Unless Gideon detects an emergency that we can't ignore or avoid, I'll let you guys have a break. Sound fair?"

"What about Rip?" Ray had his eyebrows furrowed with concern. "We can't just give up on him."

Sara tries to smile reassuringly, but Mick can see the tension in her jaw. "We're not. Gideon will continue to analyze the timeline and anything that could lead us to Rip. We can't do anything for him without some kind of a lead."

To the rest of the team, she says "Keep your comms with you, just in case." And then they're dismissed and free to go about their vacation.

Mick lags behind, eyes on Sara as she leans on the console. "You gonna go see your mom?"

She looks up from the digital panel she'd been studying. "Oh, uh, probably not. She moved into her boyfriend's place and there's only one bedroom. And," she shrugs. "I don't feel like couching it for the night."

Mick grunts. "So, you're stayin' in again?"

She'd become such a hermit as of late. During any pit stops they'd made, to catch their breath after a completed mission, Sara would stay aboard the Waverider and throw herself into more work. She'd closed herself off in her private quarters and studied maps and files, looking for anything to point them towards the lost Rip Hunter or Rex Tyler's murderer.

"Yeah," Sara nods. "I think so. I've got a lot of work to -"

"Come out just for a drink, Blondie. Just one."

Her face falls, though she attempts a small smile for him. "I can't Mick. I should -"

"You shouldn't hole yourself up here. It ain't good for yah." He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at her pointedly. He knows she hasn't forgiven herself for her sister's death - even though it was never her fault to begin with. Facing her mother probably seems close to torture for her, and Mick doesn't blame her for opting out.

He knows being appointed the Captain of the team in Rip's absence has left her with newfound responsibility and dedication. She takes her new role seriously and with a duty she can't evade. Every mistake the team makes weighs on her conscious and character. Every plot and point and strategy has to be perfectly made, and Sara spends hours trying to decide the best courses of action.

And he knows she misses Snart. She won't admit it outloud - everyone was mourning him in their own, silent ways. But he knows that sometimes, the tears brimming her eyes aren't meant just for the departed Laurel Lance or lost Rip hunter.

He doesn't know how to comfort a crumbling heart - let alone one that's been attacked by two tragedies. But he knows how to push back at the pain until it's nearly numb and almost forgettable. Even if just for one night.

"Come on," he says again. "There's a joint nearby."

"Mick, really," She tries. "I don't -"

"Come on, Blondie. I'm not takin' that shit today."

"It's not shit."

"It is shit." He growls. "You just told the team we all need time off. That includes you."

She sighs and refuses to meet his eyes. She's quiet for a moment, as if weighing whether she can get out of this or not. She doesn't want to go, he knows. She could avert his proposal and leave for her room.

Finally, she nods. "Fine."

"Good," he cocks a grin. "You're buyin'."

It's a dingy place; not the kind easily found and simply named "Foster's Bar"- according to the flashing green sign in the single square window. The door is old and stained with piss from the drunks or homeless who pass by. It stands between a laundromat and a convenience store that both operate 'round the clock. It isn't fancy or special; just a hole in the wall, really.

Inside it's all dim lighting and mediocrity. There isn't a stage for entertainment here. There's a few tables with chairs, booths along the wall, and a counter at the bar with stools facing a shelf of bottled alcohol and beer taps. A few posters of classic movies or rock 'n roll bands from the 80s and 90s hang on the walls. The only bathroom is placed towards the back kitchen with a handwritten sign that reads OUT OF ORDER.

It's small, plain, and practically empty. An old man sits on a stool, hunched over a glass of whiskey and staring blankly. Another man occupies a table near the center of the room, a newspaper opened to the daily crossword. His knee bounces while he munches on a sandwich with one hand as the other writes his answers to the puzzle. A few others sit sporadically among the establishment, yet the place is by no means "packed". The bartender leans idly behind the register, reading sales reports and making notes on a pad resting to his right. His bar back restocks the pint glasses. A waitress hurries through a pair of swinging doors and into the kitchen, her red ringlets bouncing from the speed of her pace.

At a booth near the back, Mick sits across from Sara. He holds a longneck bottle in his hands and his eyes are full of fire as he stares at the drink. He says nothing to Sara, but watches carefully as she slugs back a handful of tequila shots before ten minutes go by. She hasn't spoken much to him either. Instead, they leave each other to their own thoughts.

He sneaks a glance at her, bringing his own drink to his lips and finishing in two long chugs. She looks sad, as she stares down at her folded hands. She takes in a deep breath, lets out a sigh, and meets his gaze.

"I miss him, Mick." Her words are barely above a whisper, but it's enough for him to hear.

A wince, and then, "...me too, Blondie."

It's all they'll allow themselves to openly say. And only in the company of each other, at most.

Sara's eyes look glazed and red-rimmed as she stares down again. She's not a weak woman, he knows. And emotions are hard for her, just as for him. And so he does the only thing he thinks may help.

"Another?" He nods at her four empty shot glasses.

She shrugs in response and Mick takes that as 'yes'.

When he returns with their drinks he has two shots of tequila for Sara, instead of one. "Just in case," he hands her the pair and reclaims his seat.

They sit in silence again. Sara doesn't touch her booze. Mick slowly sips at his own. She avoids looking at him, lost in her thoughts. It suits him fine, his own attention flitting back to his prior worry over Lisa Snart's whereabouts.

He glances at his watch, reading 11:19PM. They'd been at the bar for a little under an hour, and it'd been almost two hours since he first called Lisa and left a message. He pulls his Android out - for practically the millionth time - and checks for missed messages.

Nothing, still.

He sighs and returns the device to his pocket. Sara watches him, an eyebrow raised in question.

"It's nothin'," Mick mutters.

She eyes him curiously, before something behind him catches her attention. She frowns, rolls her eyes and grumbles below her breath. "Damn it."

Raising an eyebrow, he casually looks over his shoulder to see what has Blondie's mood twisting.

The Atom stands at the door, looking lost.

"Oh dear God," Mick mutters, taking in the sight of his teammate. Ray's wearing a fake, scraggly-looking beard concealing the entire lower half of his face. Big, dark aviator-style sunglasses cover the rest. Tufts of dark brown hair stick out from under a bright red baseball hat that caps his head, the bill pulled down low over his brow. To everyone else in the bar he is a nobody, the same as them. And no one bothers to pay him any mind.

To Mick, there is no mistaking the tall, broad shouldered technologist. He stands upright, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his denim jeans; his shoulders square. When Ray sees them, he smiles and waves.

Mick rolls his eyes and drinks. Within minutes Ray is sitting across from him and next Sara with a brew of his own.

"You look dumb," Mick deadpans. Sara snickers.

Ray looks shocked at the insult. "I'm in disguise," he clarifies.

"Why? Ain't you supposed to be dead?"

"Well, yes. And my life was in Star City - not here, six-hundred miles away. But, you know," Ray shrugs. "This is just in case."

Mick stares at him, brow furrowed. "Why is the beard so long?"

"What?" Ray touches his phony whiskers. "Does it not look authentic?"

"You look disgusting. Like a hippy."

"But I don't look like Ray Palmer, right?" His eyes are giddy.

Sara own eyes roll upward in annoyance. "What are you doing here, Ray?"

His smile fades a little, and it's easy to sense his nervousness. "Well, uh" he clears his throat . "Just checking on you guys. How-how is everything?"

Mick takes a drink of his beer, giving Ray a long look. Sara glares at him before slamming back one of her tequila shots. Neither speak and the space is suddenly filled with tension.

"I just - you know," Ray stumbles over his words. "We're back in our original timeline, in Central City. And-and I'm sure there's just a lot of feelings in there - in you. And I just thought that, maybe, you know, you guys might-"

"- need to talk?' Mick finishes for him, eyeing the Atom with an intense flare.

"Uh, well," Ray fidgets. "Yeah."

"Don't do feelin's, Ray." His voice rumbles lowly. Sara snaps "We're fine" at the same time.

"I"m not suggesting that you do, or that you aren't," Ray shakes his head. "I'm just - we, the team - we're worried."

"Don't be," Mick instructs. "Doin' just fine."

"Yeah," Ray scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Because drinking away your problems is so helpful."

"That," Sara slams down another finished shot, "is not for you to judge." She frowns at Ray.

"Fault me for caring," he shrugs. "But at least someone does. Self destructive behavior is common when someone you love has -"

"Oh my God," Sara rubs a hand over her face. "We're just - we're fine, Ray. Okay? Please?"

The look in her eyes is obvious, though Ray refuses to acknowledge it.

"I'm just -"

"Don't, Haircut." Mick growls, angry at the accusations Ray is laying on them. "Leave it be. Blondie an' I came here for a few drinks and limited conversation."

Ray purses his lips together, an act suggesting he'd like to say more, but doesn't. They continue to sit together, dodging all conversation regarding absent teammates and buried loved ones. From time to time Ray looks like he might speak up about feelings again - but each time he stops himself. Sara avoids eye contact with either men, and instead keeps her sights down.

It's awkward. Every moment of it. And it's too much even for him. The team is something different now. Something...broken without Snart or Hunter. And each of the Legends can feel it. They dance around each other, keeping interactions limited - save for briefings for missions and training. Almost as if afraid to grow close to one another; afraid of losing someone else. Even Nate and Amaya quickly caught onto the unspeakable feeling of loss, guilt, and tragedy that filled the Waverider.

Unexpectedly, Mick's phone vibrates. He jolts slightly, remembering he's been waiting for word from Lisa. He reaches inside his pocket for the gadget. A single text shows on the main screen.

22 B Avenue, Apartment #34. Hurry.

When he looks up again, Ray and Sara are giving him the same questioning look. Without explanation, he simply answers, "I gotta go." And leaves.

The address Lisa had sent him is on the other side of the city. And by the time Mick finds the lower-end apartment complex, it's well passed midnight.

Hurry, the text had said. Adrenaline fed his earlier apprehension over Lisa's status, and his pace quickens as he climbs the stairs to her door. His knock is rushed and loud, but he pays no mind. Hurry. She needs him. Hurry.

"Oh, thank God," The door whips open and Lisa grabs his wrist, practically yanking his arm out of socket as she pulls him into her apartment.

"Shit," he grunts, nearly stumbling. He catches himself before slamming into her.

The curtains are pulled down and the lights are low in her small living room. Yet, when Mick straightens himself and gets a decent look at Lisa, he can make out the sizable swollen, purple bruise covering her right eye and cheekbone. Her lip has been split; it's bloody and fat. Red marks dot the skin of her neck - like fingers had been wrapped around her.

"What the fuck?!" Mick growls and steps towards her. He reaches out to cup her cheek with his rough, calloused hand. Lisa winces at the pain of his touch, but doesn't shy away. "Who did this to you?"

He feels heat rising and boiling from deep within his chest. Rage. Not at Lisa, no. At whoever had dared to touch her like this. At himself, for being gone for too long. He'd let her down - he'd let Snart down. He could have stopped this from happened. He'd burn the world to keep her safe.

When she answers, his maddening fire worsens. "Sam Scudder found me…" She shrugs like it's no big deal. Mick hates it. "Said he was settling a score."

"Motherfucker's dead." His eyes are blazing and his voice is low and dangerous. He drops his hand from Lisa's face. "When I get a hold of him -"

"Lenny's alive, Mick."

He stops, Sam Scudder instantly forgotten. "What…?" He studies her. Her eyes wide and wild; body shaking as she stands. She looks crazed and unstable, especially with her battered face. "Lisa," he tries to sound calm. "No, kid. Remember? I told yah -"

Lisa shakes her head no. "I've seen him." She insists.

Mick snaps his mouth shut and narrows his gaze. "What do you mean?"

She turns and walks farther into her apartment, going straight to the coffee table in the living room and picks up a remote control. The TV snaps on and Mick turns to his attention to it, brow knitted together in confusion.

The news report on Channel 52 is of a chain of heists spreading from National City, St. Roch, Star City, and most recently Central City. The woman holding the microphone stands in front of the cities largest and oldest standing bank, police cars blaring in the background.

"They're here. In our very own Central City, the Legion of Doom, as the blogs are calling them, have struck again. While an astonishing 2.5 billion dollars mysteriously vanished from heavily guarded and locked vaults deep within the banks tunnels…"

"It's on every channel," Lisa comments, staring at the screen. Her voice is monotone and sad at the same time. "They've stolen from every city they've hit. And no one has any idea how to stop them." She looks over her shoulder at him. "Not even the Flash."

"...fifteen officers were injured during the fight…" The reporter continues relaying information of the robbery as footage from the bank's security cameras flashed over the TV screen. At first there's nothing unusual; just people standing in line for a teller, filling out deposit slips, sitting at desks while conducting loans and deals. Mick watches profoundly, searching for anything out of place.

Lisa then points to the screen. "There," she says softly.

The screen shows a tall, lanky looking man entering with greying hair and a familiar snarl. He strides confidently into the bank, a gun pointed steadily out. Goggles cover his eyes, black combat boots on his feet... a blue, fur-trimmed parka on his back.

He was shouting something. His personal lackeys filing in behind him and swarming the room with guns pointed at innocent people. It's not long before gunshots are firing and people are dropping to the ground.

It's more than that, though. It's how the man stood: upright, proud, and powerful. How he somehow scowls and smiles at the larceny he commands. The crease between his brow as he glares in anger. The hard set of his jawline. The sway of being overly confident and calculating.

Mick drops his mouth open and utters the only word that can come to mind.