Chapter Text
It was strange. The threads that curled out away from the center like some massive spider web. The cords of time, spreading infinitely toward forever. Past. Future. Present. None of it mattered at the center. Pulling on a thread would bring it into clear focus, though they were only mist the rest of the time. Like clouds on a sunny day: barely there wisps. He didn't know how he knew what that looked like. He didn't know how he knew that was before when there was no before. There was no after. There was only now.
Sometimes he would tug on a string, see what was happening along it. It wasn't always the same string, but it was always one nearby. He could feel as lives drifted by, past present and future. Always moving, always living, always dying. All of time held in a single moment. "There are no strings on me." Constant echoes. "Don’t you think we have the power to change our own fate?" It was hard to think. "Team? You and I were a team!" Hard to remember. "My old friend. Please forgive me." But why would he remember? There wasn't anything to remember.
There was no before. "Hero ain't on my resume."
There was no after. "Shut it down!"
There was no before. "If I’m gonna keep working in Central City I’m gonna need a new kind of crew."
There was no after. "You should have figured it out by now. After all, I am supposed to be the dumb one."
There was no before. "Never let anyone hurt you. Ever. Not here. And especially not here."
There was no after. "He broke my sister's heart. Only fair I break his."
There was only now. "Stealing's not screwing up."
There was only now. "I wasn’t cool. I was an arrogant little snot."
There was only-- "I must say, it's been an honor to serve as your captain."
There was--"Make sure Picard here doesn’t get us all killed."
There-- "This is the history that needs to be fixed."
Now. "Stick together. And remember: history is yours now, my dear Legends. Good luck! End recording, Gideon. How much time do I have?"
The strings drew tight, reverberating under him. Over him? Around him? He curled his hands around the strings as they doubled back and back and back. Things changed and he could taste it. The back of his throat felt like it was coated in ice, in metal, in snow, in fire, in....
And then one twanged. It was supposed to die. It expected to die. And then....it didn't. Something was rippling through time, falling through it, shredding through it. He reached out and caught hold. Rough. Brown. Long. Coat.
And then he was pulling away, the strings yanking at him, fighting against the tearing. He tightened his hold on the string. No, not the string. The coat. The tail end of....something, he couldn't remember what it was. There was no need to remember there was only--
And then it was green and yellow and falling down the side, ricocheting and....time flowed. Suddenly there was a before and an after and a now. And it hurt.
His hand twitched and he lost the...coat. (Rip's coat). He hit the wall of the, the, temporal zone (“It’s essentially a-a time limbo. We can hide out there for a bit”). He was against it and then, then he was through it. Falling, falling, still falling. This was not good. This was not the plan. There was always a plan. There was no plan. ("Stick to the plan, Mick.")
He twisted and turned, trying to right himself and caught a glimpse of where he was falling. Fuck this was going to hurt. Nothing had hurt for so long. So short? He couldn't keep it straight. But maybe he could slow…he reached out and his right hand (new, new, newer than the rest of him--"Why am I only hearing about this now?") snagged on the rail of a fire escape, but his weight pulled too hard on his shoulder and he let go before he dislocated his shoulder (bad, bad, can't work with that. Makes you useless).
It slowed him down enough that when he hit the trash piled up on the ground of the alley he wasn't killed, at least. He lay there, swearing to himself as he tried to figure out what had happened. Who he was. Where he was. No, no that wasn't right. When he was.
He sat up gingerly and almost swore out loud (bad, bad, don't let them know where you are). His left arm hurt like fucking hell (cracked, snapped, broken) and he was fairly sure his hip was at least bruised, he could use the leg so probably not broken too. Cracked ribs though, those would be a bitch to heal (wrap them tight, take deep breaths, don't get pneumonia it's too loud). He probably looked like hell, smelled worse.
Taking deep breaths, he tried to remember. Tried to figure out the before. "Lisa."
No, that wasn't right. Yes, before, but not him before. Ties, cords, blood, strings. There was a string. He reached out into the thin air and tugged lightly on nothing, but he could feel it. He spoke quietly, "My name is Leonard Snart. I was born in 1972. My name is Leonard Snart (Len, Lenny, Leo, Cold). I was born in 1972 (Pierre Hotel Robbery, Apollo 16, Watergate)."
Well, it was a start. Now for where and when he was. He hefted himself to his feet, keeping his left arm close to his body and trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to get money if his right shoulder was wrenched and his left arm was broken. Well, better hope this was before street cameras ("What about the years before? Before fingerprints, and surveillance cameras, and DNA analysis.") He limped carefully out of the alley onto a nearly empty street. Also better hope he was near a crowd.
Strings, still strings ("If I’m going to be somebody’s puppet I’m going to be one that cuts his own bloody strings”). He followed where the most came from and found himself on a busy street. Something about it was familiar, but not enough to tell him where. He stumbled, earning dark looks as he ran into a few people—well enough off but not enough that they'd immediately check their wallets (Too obvious, a bad lift, a bum able to be remembered). He pulled out any cash he could find in them and dropped the wallets themselves as he passed a trashcan. No credit cards—probably for the best, what he needed would need to be back alley and even if not, he couldn't risk that getting pinged.
He tried moving his left arm again and bit back a sound, gingerly feeling it over with his right hand. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought, bruised, maybe sprained and dislo—no, that was a break there.
Another wallet and he had enough for cleaner clothes and a newspaper, no matter when he was—definitely somewhere in the States, and in the 20th century. He spotted a charity shop ahead and ducked in, wincing at the sound of the bell at the door. The girl behind the counter looked up and then leaned away, keeping an eye on him. Well, that wasn't helpful. He found some things that looked like they were in the right size and limped over, "Just these."
She considered him, offering him a quiet price and looking progressively more freaked out. "You...You need help, Mister?"
"No, I'm--" He cut himself off from his immediate response, "You know a doctor? Does cheap work? I ain't got much."
"Doctor Jefferson on 37th will take what you can pay and accept IOUs," she said, taking the money he gave her.
"Thanks." He stepped out of the shop and ducked into an alley, changing his shirt and coat. It was slow going, even with the button-down shirt he’d bought (Too much like Lewis). He looked at what he had been wearing and hesitated before stuffing it in the bag from the store. He glanced around, found an adequate landmark and stashed the clothes. He wasn't quite ready to give them up yet. Better to have than have not.
Now, a newspaper and find a way to 37th.