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moonshine-nightlight · 1 year

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Snapped - Part 1

Mech’s not sure why the aftermath of this mission is hitting him so hard, but he’s doing his best to calm down when Gwen’s presence shatters his control. Now it’s a count down to see if he can figure out how to put a stop to the instincts and hormones that are running wild inside him—before he does something they’ll both regret.

Science fiction, alien romance, male alien x female human

Story Status: COMPLETE

AO3: Snapped Chapter 1

Part 1 [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4 - NSFW]

Mech’s working on one of the control panels in the main cavity of the ship where he can hear the sounds that reassure him he’s back home—that they all are.

The distant voices of the others getting ready to go out, the whoosh of air through the vents, the clang of distant machinery are usually comforting, but tonight even they can’t fully sooth him, not after such a close call.

He keeps having to take deep breaths, keeps having to stop the black spines which line his back from flaring sharply in agitation. He’s even having trouble stopping the venom from gathering in his mouth and at the glans at the base of his claws, which keep wanting to extend. His body is too convinced there’s still a threat he needs to be ready to fight off to relax.

Graviels’ have a contradictory reputation of being both emotionless and berserkers, fueled by their planet’s history of controlling its citizens chemically. Having only dismantled that system of tight control a generation and a half ago, the teachings and beliefs are still prominent, just without the chemical suppressants and with a slightly laxer rule set. However, all have found their emotions and instincts too difficult to control at times after so long with something else doing that for them. Some graviels, especially those who went off world on their own, simply gave themselves over to such impulses.

Mech is usually pretty good at keeping himself under control, having found a good balance for himself of letting him feel those emotions without surrendering to them—or letting others see how they affect him. Still, usually a round of meditation and deliberately calmer tasks—necessary, low stress, rather boring ones—are enough to get him feeling back to normal.

This time though…

This time, nearly a full day later, he continues to be actively trying to push from the forefront of his mind how Gwen felt in his arms, limp and still. He’d been captured first and the way they had thrown her in however much longer later, unresponsive and unmoving, plagues his every other thought. She already worries him with that strange human mix of fragility and resilience. Able to withstand so much, but just as liable to be broken by something inconsequential like the rest of her vexing, paradoxical species.

Mech had scooped her up as soon as he’d been sure the guards were gone and dragged her to the corner of the room where the speaker couldn’t pick up sound. Tried to do what he could to make her comfortable and bandaged anything he could, as best he could. Hoping his warmth and knowing a friend was there would stop any panic when she awoke.

The sight of her light brown eyes blinking up at him had sent the strongest jolt of relief and dread down his spine. It’d been so long since he cared about someone enough for such a simple gesture to mean so much. His reaction, his relief, terrified him because he could no longer pretend or ignore what she was to him. And yet he hadn’t been able to resist the smile he’d given her in return when he saw something similar, some relief close to his own reflected back in her eyes.

She’d smiled despite her injuries and it had taken all he had to calmly relate what had happened to him since he’d been separated from the group. Limiting himself to light strokes of her hair, her arms, needing that physical reassurance even after checking her for injuries. She had reciprocated, passing the time listening to him by playing connect the dots with his black speckles, until she filled him in on what had happened with her and the others.

They’d formulated the next part of their plan quietly, practically talking into each other’s ears as they lay curled up in the corner together. They’d had to make escapes before or plans on the fly or fight their way back to the others—but it had been rare they were in such a tight spot and injured as they were.

But they made it fine, in the end. He tries to replace the sense memory of her limp body with the feeling of her hand in his, of her body braced behind her smuggled shield protecting them both from that missile after they escaped the cell. Of their reunion with the rest of the crew, of the ship still whole.

It's difficult though, when the ghost of her injured form still haunts him so persistently.

He blinks and the image is gone, replaced with the wires he’s working on instead. His right hand is clenched around the edge of the panel, nearly denting it—his red skin made paler from his tight grip, the black splotch on the back of his hand standing out darker than usual in contrast. He lets go immediately, running his fingers more gently over the metal to check for damage.

After assessing it’s unbent, he drops his hand and runs the other through his black hair. He attempts to distract himself by wondering if it's time to cut his hair from just above his shoulders to closer to his eyeline, but settles for just tying part of it back so it’s out of his face.

Maybe he should go down, further into the bowels of the ship. Usually the main deck is more soothing because of the others around, but he thinks that some isolation might do him so good—especially if he’s going to be getting lost in his thoughts so obviously.

Sure enough, only a moment later, he hears the others begin to gather behind him in the main area by the door.

He knows they’ve stopped at this port for a reason. Finest taverns and dancehalls for miles around. They each deal with their leftover adrenaline from such a narrow escape differently. He’s channeling his into patch jobs for the ship. He knows Lara’s off training with some sparring program, Jace is running laps, and Tee is in deep meditation somewhere precarious. The rest of the crew, excluding himself of course, is going out—for drinks and dancing and companionship.

Everyone trying to remind themselves that they’re alive in their own way.

It's practically a routine at this point, he reminds himself. They’ve been on dozens of missions just as close. Closer even.

So why is something about this time so different? So unshakeable?

He can always sense when Gwen’s near—can’t even begin to remember when that started—but it’s so strong this time. He knows with complete certainty when she steps over the threshold into the room. It’s like they’re reaching out to each other despite the distance, despite the spanner in his hand and the favorite silver clutch that must be in hers.

Slowly, like a condemned man, he braces himself on his hands before pulling back from the wall and the panel he’d been futilely trying to work on. With unerring accuracy, he turns his head smoothly.

His eyes met hers in an instant and he feels it.

Snap.

Her eyes widen slightly, like there was a physical sound to accompany the sensation. He’s almost sure there wasn’t—certainly no one else is saying anything. The rushing he hears is surely the blood pumping through his veins and not auditory to any one but him. Same for how his heart pounds, tension tightening its way through his every nerve. None of them seem to notice the way the atmosphere is heavier, thicker. Sounds seem louder. They grate on him. Everything around him suddenly chafes against his very being—everything except her.

“Gwen,” he says without even realizing he was going to speak as he straightens up. His clear voice rings across the space, cuts through the other’s chatter. His eyes drag down her form. Instead of her usual baggy uniform of cargo pants and a long-sleeved top—as suited to their traveling, casual lifestyle as his own black tank top and dark gray pants are—she’s in a dress.

It’s light blue, with a pattern of swirls of dark blue and silver all over it. The flowy skirt looks like it’ll flare as she spins in a dance. The top part of the dress looks like thick sashes tied around her chest and behind her neck. He doubts she’s got much on under it—the lines would show. There’s a strip of her midriff bared, showing off the delicate ring she has there. The whole dress looks like one tug would leave her bare.

The idea of someone else’s hands on her, even in a friendly dance, makes bloodlust fog his vision, makes the spines on his back flare. He ruthlessly smoothes them back down.

His voice manages surprisingly well to not betray any of his sudden turmoil when he continues, “You can’t go out tonight.”

Her brow furrows, the others stop talking immediately—they must finally sense something’s wrong too. They normally never shut up that easily. “Why not?” she asks, but there’s no outrage to it, not the way there had been when he used to order her about. He’s long broken himself of the habit—she never listened anyway and most of the time was right not to, no matter the experience he’s got on her. She can tell when he’s messing about or too far up his own ass–and when he’s dead serious long before the others can.

“Need you to stay here,” is all he says. His fingers clench around the metal tool in his hand and it bends. It’s taking everything in him not to pull her in his arms this second, not to finally taste her.

He drops the wrench with a muted clang.

“There a problem?” Gwen asks, frowning in concern. And does her voice sound a little breathier than usual? Must be his fevered thinking.

“Yeah,” he admits because he can’t deny it, not to her. He’ll say whatever he needs to in order to get her to stay. “Need your help.” His tail is holding the panel shut, while he re-secures the panel he’d been working on with one hand without looking. Wild veruden raiders couldn’t pull his focus away from Gwen.

“What’s wrong?” Captain Staci looks between them, alarm growing on her face and he remembers the others once again.

“None of your business,” he replies sharply before he presses his lips together. Shouldn’t have said that.

“Want to try that again?” He can’t look away from Gwen, but he knows Staci’s got her frills up if her voice is any indication, reminding him that talking to her like that is a very thin line to tread.

“Sorry, Captain,” he says, trying hard to think through the pounding of his blood, the hormones dumping into his system. He needs Staci to head out, but he also needs her to let Gwen stay back, so she can’t be too angry or worried. “Personal problem,” he manages, sticking to short sentences as he tries to find the right combination of words. “Ships fine. We’re fine. Need Gwen though.”

“Alright,” Gwen says, a little slowly, but she knows he wouldn’t ask for her help without reason. Knows he would never admit to a ‘personal problem’ without it being a big one. She’s aware of exactly how private he is. Respects it.

Part of why she’s his favorite.

“Gw—” Harry speaks up that time, but Gwen cuts him off before Mech has to. He’s never liked Harry, too flirtatious and cavalier by far, with a liking for Gwen that makes Mech jealous even on a good day, no matter how illogical.

“It’s fine,” she looks away from Mech to give Harry a reassuring smile. He knows she’s doing it because she’s agreeing to stay back with him, but he hates that she’s even looking at someone else.

This is worse than I realized, he thinks as he drops his remaining tools back into their box a little too roughly.

He methodically packs everything up, trying to pull himself under control, while she reassures and jokes with the others. By the time he’s walking over to her, she’s waving them out.

She looks up at him with a wry smirk. “Gonna tell me what’s wrong now that the peanut gallery is gone?”

Under her posturing, he can tell she’s worried for him. Makes everything inside burn brighter for her. He appreciates the attempt at levity for all it’s not actually doing much good. He opens his mouth and all the things he keeps locked up tight the rest of the time, all the things that he wants to say to her, about her and what she means to him and how she makes him feel, threaten to pour out. He closes his mouth again before grunting, “Medbay.”

She blinks up at him and he sees true concern blossom on her face. “Mech…”

Gwen reaches out and he can’t let her touch him right now. He’d never let go. Mech stalks out of her reach, wondering if she’ll follow. Praying she won’t. Praying she will.

She’s always had too much faith in him.

She follows.

[Part 2]

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harringtonstilinski · 1 year

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Holidays With You - Mitch Rapp

Author: @stilinskiparker Characters: Mitch Rapp x Reader Word Count: 1,873 Warnings: fluff Tropes/AU’s: Best Friends to Lovers | Friends to Lovers | Fake Dating | Soulmate AU | Established Relationship | Break Up ; Back Together | Enemies to Lovers | Secret Dating | Assassin AU | if you can think of any more, let me know! Smut: no | yes; Requested: Yes,! I hope it meets your expectations, anon friend! A/N: Hi, friends! First Holiday fic of 2022! I’m in the Christmas/Holiday spirit! If you like this fic, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊

“Okay. Never have I ever,” he said. “Been ice skating.”

I looked off to the side, lips in a thin line before I took a sip of my drink. The group went silent, as I was the only one to take a drink.

“You’ve never been ice skating?”

“How have you never been ice skating? You live in New York!”

Turning to my best friend, I narrowed my eyes at her. “I grew up in Florida. Where it’s hot about 99.9% of the time.”

“What about that other 0.1%?” Mitch asked.

“It’s actually cold,” I chuckle. “Floridians don’t really like the cold because we’re so used to the heat, but don’t quote me on that.” I looked at Mitch, our eyes locking. His was telling me that he was forming a plan.

I've had a thing for Mitch for the last few months. I mean, who wouldn’t?! His eyes are the perfect shade of brown; a whiskey, caramel color. His hair is black and little long, perfect for, eventually, wrapping my fingers around. The arms, the abs, the everything. This man is pure perfection. Do we work together? Yes. Same department? NO.

While he goes out into the field, I stay in the office and make sure they have all the intel they need, as well as all the supplies they may need. I’ve gone out with them about 3 times by request of Irene Kennedy, but other than that, I’ve been at a desk.

My phone ringing brings me out of my thoughts. As I get up to retrieve it, I see from the corner of my eye that Mitch stands as well. Once I reach my phone, I answer it with, “Yeah?”

“It’s that any way to speak to your grandmother?”

“Oh, sorry, Mamaw. Habit,” I said.

“Well, that’s quite alright. Listen, sweetheart, I was calling to remind you about the Christmas party. You’re still going to come, right?”

Shit. “I forgot about the party,” I said, apologetically. “But, I will try to make it. I just need to talk to my boss and see if she’ll let me have it off, which she might because I hardly ask for time off.”

My Mamaw chuckles. “Well, that’s okay. Just let me or your dad know if you’re going to be able to make it. I need to go make some cookies for the girls at church.”

I chuckle. “Alright, Mamaw. I’ll talk to you in a couple days.”

“Alright, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I disconnect the call, and hang my head, sighing.

“Everything okay?”

I turn around, looking into those whiskey eyes that have my heart without their owner knowing it. “Yeah. I just forgot about my family Christmas party. The very party I look forward to every single year. I’m sure if I ask Kennedy for it off, she’d give it to me. Though, it’d have to be a few days.” I look off beside him, my brows drawn in.

Mitch chuckles. “Well, you can ask her tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. Sigh. “So, what was that look earlier?”

“What look?”

“That look you had on your face that said ‘I’m forming a plan.’”

“Well, you said you never went–”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna take me ice skating,” I interrupt.

He raised a brow, shaking his head quickly. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You do know how clumsy I am, right?”

“She missed her chair the other day when she went to sit down,” Victor said.

“Fuck you,” I said, looking over Mitch’s shoulder. I looked back at the man in front of me, sighing. “Are you asking to come with me?”

He shrugged. “How else am I going to teach you?”

“You do realize there’s skating rinks in Central Park, right?”

He again shrugged, then sighed like this conversation was boring him, which in turn made me sigh.

“Fine,” I said. “You can come. There’s a skating rink about an hour from my dad’s, where I’ll be staying.”

~~~

Irene let me have two weeks off, which is surprising. I never ask for days off, so that’s probably why. Mitch came with me to Florida, and we had a nice time at my family’s Christmas party. The next day, which happened to be a Sunday, Mitch and I decided to go to the ice skating rink, which I must say, I wasn’t all that bad at… once I got the hang of it.

“Mitch!” I yelped, grabbing onto his arm while laughing. For the very first time since I’ve known him, I actually saw a smile spread across his face.

“You got it!” he chuckled.

I was laughing so hard at that point, I almost fell over. Mitch led us over to the edge of the rink, where I bent over the side, laughing. When I stood back up, I looked at Mitch, who still had that smile on his face. “I almost fell like five times!”

He chuckled, grabbing my hand and lacing our fingers together. “Come on. I’ve got something else in mind.”

“You’re not gonna take me to a back alley and fu–”

“No!” he interrupted. “I gotta take you to dinner first.” He winked as we made it back to the carpet. He led us to the benches, where we took off our skates and put our regular shoes back on; his being his normal boots and mine being my favorite boots I wear every fall and winter that were starting to come apart.

After we both made it back to the car, Mitch started it up, looking at me almost expectantly.

“What?” I asked.

“Where’s the nearest grocery store?” he asked back.

“Uhm,” I said, thinking. “It’s like three minutes away, why?”

“You’ll see. Bring it up on GPS.”

I took my phone out of my jacket pocket, bringing up the nearest grocery store, which happened to be an Aldi. Mitch drove us to the grocery store, where we both got out of the car. He took my hand as we both walked into the store, grabbing a basket on our way in.

Mitch walked us around the store, grabbing everything he wanted to put into the cart. Milk, eggs, flour, white sugar, brown sugar, butter, chocolate chips.

I smiled as he put a few more things in our cart. “Are we making chocolate chip cookies?”

“How’d you guess?” he asked.

“Well, considering I like to bake, and you put the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies in the basket, I just assumed.”

He chuckled, as we walked to the front of the store to check out. Once all of our items were rung up and we bagged them, we walked out of the store and back to the car. I brought up my dad’s house on the GPS, and off we went!

When we made it back to my dad’s, we got started on mixing the ingredients for the cookies before putting them in the oven.

“I’ll see you in about 10 minutes, my loves,” I said, blowing a kiss to the raw cookie dough.

Mitch chuckled as I stood back up straight. I gasped before walking around Mitch to the living room, where my dad and stepmom were sitting on the couch, watching a Christmas movie. I asked where the stuff for hot chocolate was. Once he told me, I booked it straight for the pantry to grab those ingredients, which was just cocoa powder and marshmallows.

“You making hot chocolate?” Mitch asked.

“You bet your ass I am!” I exclaimed.

“Make us some!” my stepmom said.

I chuckled, grabbing two kinds of milk from the fridge; regular whole milk and almond milk.

“Almond milk?” Mitch wondered.

I nodded my head. “Mhmm. For me. I’m lactose intolerant.”

He nodded once in understanding as I grabbed six mugs from the cabinet in case my stepsister and her boyfriend wanted some as well. Once the milk was all heated up enough, I put the necessary amount of cocoa powder into the mugs and mixed before adding the marshmallows.

Two of the mugs went to my dad and stepmom, and just as I predicted, my stepsister and her boyfriend came and took two of the other mugs, marshmallows and all!

I made Mitch’s the way he asked before I took the Reddi Whip from the fridge, putting some on mine before adding a couple of marshmallows and taking a sip. I smiled and sighed in contentment, happy with how I made the hot cocoa.

The timer on the oven started beeping, letting us know that the cookies were done. I went to grab the oven mit before I saw Mitch bending over, grabbing them out of the oven, hand covered with the oven mit I was looking for.

Seeing him being so domestic made my stomach flutter with butterflies. I sucked in a breath as he put the cookie sheet on the stove to start the cooling process. Seeing him being this way made the crush I had for him grow tenfold. Deciding I couldn’t wait to eat a cookie anymore, I grabbed a plate and put about six cookies on it before grabbing my mug and heading outside to sit by the pool.

Mitch followed me, sitting in the chair next to me. “So,” he started. “We’re sitting by a pool when it’s cold outside. Why?”

I shrugged. “Best way to see the stars, I guess.” I heard him hum, like he was agreeing with what I was saying. “Listen. I’m glad you came with me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun or smiled as much as I have.”

“That’s not because of me,” he said.

I looked at him as he was looking down at his lap. “Yes, it is. Mitch, it’s because of you I’m having a good time, not because of my family. Well, they’re part of the reason, but you’re the main reason.”

He looked at me, seriousness in his eyes, then smiled a little. “Thanks. You’re the reason I’ve had so much fun, too.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I heard my stepsister’s voice. “Just kiss already!”

I looked back at Mitch after having looked around for my sister. Shrugging, I said, “Why not?”

He stood up before walking over to my chair, holding his hand out for me to take. “Better do as the lady says.”

“Wait!” she said. She disappeared for a moment before reappearing with her boyfriend, who stuck something on the top of the door frame. “Now you can kiss.”

Mitch and I walked to the screen door and looked up. “Mistletoe.” We looked at each other while chuckling before our smiles died down.

I reached up and placed my hand on his cheek at the same moment he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear before bringing my lips to meet his. It wasn’t a long kiss nor a short kiss, but long enough for me to feel those electric sparks.

We pulled apart for a moment before our foreheads met.

“This is something I’ve been missing and will look forward to,” I whispered.

“What’s that?” Mitch whispered.

I looked him in the eyes, hand still on his cheek as I smiled, “Holidays with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N 2: let me know what you thought!

Additional Note:

~~~

Forever / Everything Taglist: @stiles-o-dylan24 @stixnstripesworld @fandom-princess-forevermore @quanticobae @mischiefandi @kellyashcroft @lauren-novak @good-vibes-and-glitter

Posted on November 27, 2022

#mitch rapp x reader #mitch x reader #mitch x reader insert #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan x reader #dylan x reader insert

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smilinstar · 7 years

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Fic: this space between us (it’s nothing but stardust and the absence of you) - 1/6 (Legends of Tomorrow; Rip/Sara)

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Rip Hunter/Sara Lance (Time Canary)

Summary: Or Close Encounters. Five times Rip and Sara find themselves stuck together and somehow manage not to make out, and the one time they (finally) do . . .

Author’s Note: Lol this is just an excuse for me to write the tropiest fic full of tropes. I’ve separated it out into six parts, cos the first part ended up being more than the 500 words I was planning. Oops. Please read. Please enjoy. And maybe let me know? :-)

Can also be read on AO3

] I [

1534, Hampton Court Palace

London, England

-----

Rip’s found himself in tight spots many times before.

One could argue it comes with the territory. A renegade Time Master barrelling his way through history in pursuit of an immortal tyrant was never going to be a risk-free endeavour. Close calls and near misses were woven into the tightrope he navigated for years. Years before he recruited this mismatched, aimless, wandering crew of his.

But this? This, he believes, is the first time he’s found himself in a tight spot quite so literally.

It’s an awful place. Dank, dark and dirty.

To be fair, given the fact they were hiding out in the labyrinth of underground tunnels of Hampton Court Palace in the year 1534, he couldn’t have expected any differently.

And the reason for their current predicament?

Well.

“You just had to draw attention to yourself,” he gripes under his breath.

“It’s not my fault he’s a lecherous bastard and isn’t used to ‘no’ for an answer.”

“He’s the King, Sara!” he whispers back furiously.

Rip can hear her rolling her eyes behind him, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well you certainly noticed his wife!”

There’s a huff of laughter and he can picture the smirk, “Yeah old Henry was punching above his weight there . . .”

He shakes his head at the double entendre that Sara is quite obviously amused by as she snorts a little too loudly after her own words register.

His retort to hush her is cut off by the sound of footsteps nearing closer and he comes to a sudden halt, Sara colliding into his back.

Royal guards. On the hunt for them and quite literally their heads.

He spins around, his hand brushing against her as his eyes dart wildly in the dark. It’s difficult to see anything, but the flicker of a nearing torch at the far end of the passageway is enough to let him know they need to move, and fast.

It seems Sara’s thoughts aren’t too far from his own as she grabs hold of his arm at about the same time, and urgently tugs. “Come on!”

The question of where is there on his tongue. There’s nowhere to hide as far as he can see, but he finds himself being pulled with intent and so he lets it go and trusts that she sees something he doesn’t.

“Here,” she whispers, somehow manoeuvring around him until she’s no longer pulling but shoving him against the damp, stone walls. They jut horridly into his back, and he grimaces in discomfort. His “Sara, what are y-mmph” ends up being muffled against the press of her hand at his mouth, and his lips clamp shut.

The footsteps are nearing, and the torches they carry seep enough light through the cracks to realise Sara has somehow stumbled them into an alcove, hidden away in this maze of underground tunnels. She presses herself closer, hand still at his mouth, the other clutching at the skirts of her gown and it only takes him a second to realise she has a knife hidden away under all those layers.

Which, no, doesn’t surprise him in the least.

The surprise comes instead from the panic that builds, hurtling through his arteries and veins with a force he’s not used to. Because, honestly? He’s been in worse predicaments than this. And yet, his heart speeds up, a rapid thump-thump-thump against his ribcage that rushes in his ears, and he thinks surely it must be loud enough to give their position away. If he blames it on anything, he blames it on the nearing footsteps, on the terrifying thought of being caught, the thought of being thrown on top of the Tower of London chopping blocks, and the thought of them swinging the axe down on her first and him being forced to watch, because ladies first, of course. Wouldn’t do for King Henry VIII to be seen as anything less than chivalrous.

It has nothing, he tells himself, nothing to do with her pressed up against him so intimately; her chest brushing up against his with every silent breath she takes in and out, or the leg she has wedged between his, and even through the layers he can feel her thigh, strong and firm pressing against him. His one hand is caught trapped between their bodies, awkwardly pushing into her stomach, his other grips her waist and pulls her in even tighter because . . . because.

No.

No, it has nothing to do with that at all.

The guards march past them then, their flaming torches casting enough light as they go that it casts shadows across her face and he can quite clearly see the slight parting of her lips, and the eyes that are blown wide, staring up at him.

Fear. It has to be fear.

But he knows Sara Lance, and that isn’t fear that stares back at him.

The footsteps recede and with it the darkness returns and if he’d tried to ignore the press of her fingers against his lips before, he’s failing abysmally now. They slide off just a fraction, instead pressing against the stubble of his cheek, but her thumb stays right there on his lower lip. He thinks he must be imagining the gentle caress and the slow breath that leaves her lips, like a ghost blowing across his skin.

The guards are gone, and yet, she hasn’t moved.

And for whatever cursed reason, he finds himself unable to either; his fingers clenching instead around the fabric of her dress and the thump-thump-thumping of his heart shows no signs of slowing down.

His tongue nearly betrays him, her name there on his lips - a question, a prayer - luckily he doesn’t have to endure the embarrassment of finding out which, as there’s a sudden crackle of static in his ear.

“Guys? Guys? We’ve got comms back up, where are you guys?”

The sudden sound of Dr Palmer’s voice in their ears have them springing apart, except moving backwards for him means banging his head against the wall and the sharp hiss of pain and “ow!” that follow has Ray panicking in his ear.

“Guys? Rip? What’s happening? You okay? Guys?!”

He groans, a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his head, “We’re here Dr Palmer. We’re fine. A little lost in the underground passageways, but thankfully our heads are still attached to our bodies, albeit no thanks to Captain Lance.”

He doesn’t have to see her clearly to know she’s scowling, an indignant “hey!” falling from her lips as she swats at him. But there’s no weight behind it, and he somehow knows that scowl will soften easily into a smile with his obvious teasing.

She’s starting to get a handle on his sense of humour, not that it comes out to play all that often but it has been making a showing a little more in recent months. The whole team have their ways of coaxing it out of him now.

“O-kay?” Ray says slowly, unsure, clearly confused, though he pushes past it fine. “I’ll get Gideon to get a lock on your positions, and we’ll get you two out of there in no time. Hang tight guys.”

“Copy that,” Sara acknowledges, before the static crackles once more and then all that’s left is silence. Awkward, tension-filled silence.

It’s not entirely unfamiliar.

There have been moments; moments where he’d feel something crackling in the air between them. A disagreement that flares into full blown yelling across the floor of the bridge, until they’re both breathing heavily and staring the other down, with a gaze so heated, he’s surprised he doesn’t wilt. Or moments of hilarity, usually courtesy of one of the team, and he finds himself smiling, even chuckling, despite himself and he looks up to find her gaze already on him, a soft smile playing on her lips, twinkling from her eyes and his own breath catches in his chest with it.

They’ve had moments.

Just never quite like this.

And he’s not sure if he should say something? Or ignore it? As he has been with everything else, because there’s no conceivable way that he feels anything beyond respect or admiration for his Captain. Anything more would be ridiculous.

The silence stretches on, until of course, Sara, Brave Sara, breaks it.

“You okay there, Rip?”

He swallows, “Mmhm, yes, quite. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right,” she says, and he wonders if she doesn’t sound just a mite irritated.

She lets out a long breath then, and he wishes he could see her better.

She clearly doesn’t believe him, but lets it slide and changes the topic. “What do you think they saw in him? His wives, I mean?”

He’s thankful for the distraction, as he grabs hold of the subject and answers her; “Ah yes, that. One of history’s greatest mysteries.”

She snorts.

“Maybe,” he continues on, “it was his mountains of gold, the title and status . . .”

She makes a dismissive noise, clearly disagreeing.

“Or maybe,” he says, “his dashing good looks, heroism, his charm and dry wit . . .”

She laughs, because it’s clear he’s making fun. The Henry VIII they’ve met is far from any of those. Still, it surprises him when she opens her mouth, and teases, “Are we still talking about the King of England, or you?”

His mouth snaps shut at the unexpected, and if he didn’t know any better, almost flirtatious undertones of her words. She’s only making light, she must be. He convinces himself of this before he opens his mouth again and tries to sound as nonchalant as he knows how to be; “Except I have no mountains of gold . . .”

“And the dashing good looks?” she asks, and he feels her brush against his shoulder and wonders how she’s managed to move towards him with him having no clue. That, and how she can even see in this darkness?

Trained assassin, that’s how.

He feels her stop beside him, her shoulder pressing into his as she leans back against the wall, and just like that, they’re back on dangerous terrain.

He swallows. “No don’t have those either.”

“Oh I don’t know,” she retorts, voice low, and his stomach turns in a way he hasn’t felt for a very long time, “I think you could easily get yourself six wives.”

He huffs out a breath, “I’ve only ever needed one.”

It takes a moment.

A tiny, pin drop of a moment, and the weight of those words adds up to so much more.

And whatever was building is gone once again.

He feels her move away first, the apology in the air between them, on his lips, on hers.

But he doesn’t even know why he feels the need to. He just does.

“I mean-I-”

“No,” she interrupts, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine, I’m-”

He never finishes his sentence. And neither does she.

The cavalry arrives just in time.

The bright, blue tinged lights of Ray in the miniaturised version of his A.T.O.M. suit shines in their faces as he hovers in front of them like a firefly, to literally light their way.

It’s ridiculous, is what it is.

But Rip’s not complaining.

“How did you guys even end up here?”

He clears his throat, tests the waters to see if they’re back on land, “Captain Lance,” he says evenly, “Did you want to answer that one?”

Sara sighs, likely rolling her eyes again as she grumbles, “For the last time, this is not my fault!”

And just like that, the tension dissipates.

They fall into step behind the Atom, slipping into their familiar back and forth – Rip arguing the point about sticking to the plan and trying, for the love of God, not to seduce every royal she comes across through time, while Sara remains steadfastly unrepentant for her actions – all the way back to the Waverider.

He doesn’t bring it up again.

She doesn’t either.

And he is absolutely fine with that.

He is.

Because, he reminds himself once more, there’s nothing but respect and admiration between them.

Nothing more.

And anything else would be ridiculous.

Right?

Yes, he decides.

Yes, it would be.

Well, that, and impossible.

Part II

#time canary #rip x sara #ripsara #teruel-a-witch #supercanaries #fanfiction #legends of tomorrow #lot

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