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Ava is halfway through negotiating one of the biggest sales she’s had in months when she gets the text. She’s trying to pretend she’s fluent rather than barely competent in French, mentally calculating what minimum price she needs to ask for in order to pay off all those she’s roped into this con and still get a decent cut for herself and attempting not to be intimidated by the German thugs standing on either end of the room with impressive machine guns clutched in their hands. Ava’s phone buzzes on the table beside her and she spares a glance at the screen to make sure it’s nothing urgent. But when her eyes catch sight of who it’s from, her chest tightens and she suddenly forgets how to breathe.
Your little bird:
I think my car was impounded 5 years ago
any chance you can give me a ride? XX
i’m at the cemetery, meet me there asap!
Ava carefully uncurls her hand from its fist, quickly glancing up to make sure her associates are still occupied examining the painting before letting her eyes snap shut and trying to calm her thundering heart. Your little bird. Ava clenches her jaw tightly, trying to fight the burning behind her eyes.
She remembers the day Sara changed her name in Ava’s phone, remembers the way the late morning sunlight had streamed in through the windows and fallen on Sara’s bare back so that her skin was warm to the touch, remembered the way the sheets had bunched at Sara’s hips as she lay on her stomach, Ava’s phone in her hand and scrolling through contacts until she reached her own name. Ava had been dozing, barely awake in the still hum of the room. Through half open eyelids, Ava had tried to commit every detail to memory - the way the specks of dust floated in the rays of sun, the way the light highlighted the freckles on Sara’s skin, the sparkling blue of her eyes as they darted across to Ava’s face.
“What are you doing?” Ava murmured, reaching out to trail her fingers lightly over Sara’s spine.
“Changing my name on your phone,” said Sara, locking the phone and tossing it back onto the pillow between them. “I’m now your little bird. ”
Ava chuckled, leaning forward to press a kiss to Sara’s shoulder. “Why?”
“So if either of us ever get caught, you won’t get implicated as being associated with Sara Lance .”
“Miss Sharpe?”
Ava’s gaze shoots back up to her buyer, instinctively schoolding her features into a calm, neutral expression. “Apologies,” she says, offering the Frechman a cool smile. “Are we able to wrap this up? I have somewhere else I need to be.”
On another day, Ava wouldn’t have settled for the price they decided, would have been able to argue for at least another 3 grand, but right now she can’t think of anything except Sara.
Sara’s out.
Sara’s waiting for her.
It’s been five years, and Sara’s finally back.
Sara’s just finishing giving Oliver her same, easy smile, her classic casual reassurance that the job she’s planning will go well, that she knows exactly what she’s doing, when Ava’s dark red Volvo pulls up into the cemetery car park and her heart drops into her stomach.
“Sara, I’m just worried about you, okay?” says Oliver quietly. “I don’t want what happened to Laurel -”
“It won’t,” says Sara firmly, reaching out to squeeze Oliver’s arm. “I promise.” Her eyes flicker to the white marble she was gazing at before, to Laurel’s name etched into it and her chest aches a little. “It won’t,” she repeats, this time in barely a whisper, more for herself than Oliver. “I gotta go Ollie. Say hi to Felicity and Dig for me, yeah?”
Oliver looks at her with a torn expression, shaking his head with a quiet, resigned laugh before murmuring “You got it Sara. Be careful.”
Sara just grins, says “Where’s the fun in that?” and waves as she turns to head out towards the car park, stomach fluttering nervously over finally getting to talk to the person she’d thought of every single day for the past five years. For all Sara’s cocky smiles, suave persona and nonchalant facade, Ava is the one person she’s ever felt safe crumbling in front of, showing any flash of vulnerability, both of which are things she hasn’t done since the minute she was arrested.
The car pulls to a stop and Sara tugs the door open, clambering in. She wants to let her walls fall, wants to collapse into Ava’s arms and hug her so, so tightly and murmur “I missed you” over and over again. But it’s been five years and Sara knows anything could’ve happened in that time. They’d never clarified what they were before Sara had gone away, never actually had a conversation about the feelings they clearly both had and there was no way Sara could expect Ava to have waited this long. So she shoots Ava her trademark Sara Lance smirk, all teeth and twinkling eyes as she says “Miss me?”
But Ava is tugging her forward instead of replying and Sara is immediately overwhelmed by everything that is Ava Sharpe, by her soft perfume, the coarseness of her fingers on Sara’s arm and neck, on her quiet, shaky breath of relief as she pulls Sara closer and presses a series of butterfly kisses to the side of Sara’s head.
All the tension and unease in Sara’s body disappears and she sags into Ava’s arms. She curls one hand around Ava’s elbow, burying her face in the crook of Ava’s neck. “Hi,” she breathes. “Thanks for coming.”
Ava wants to murmur back always , wants to grab Sara’s shirt and and pull their lips together, wants to drag Sara back to her place and remind them both of just how much they’d been missing for these past five years. But she doesn’t know where they stand, doesn’t know if Sara still has feelings for her after all this time (or if she ever did, they never even fucking discussed it). So she leans back, trails her hand down Sara’s arm, giving Sara’s hand a gentle squeeze before retracting it to start up the engine again.
“You’re just lucky my old contacts transferred when I got a new phone.” (Like she ever would have deleted Sara’s number).
Ava knows she should probably either ask Sara about what is going on between them, or stop this before it messes with her head. But she’d forgotten how comforting the warmth of Sara cuddling up beside her is, is now intoxicated by whatever perfume she’d swiped before Ava had picked her up, can’t stop herself from letting Sara lean in closer and rest her head on Ava’s shoulder, sighing tiredly.
“You should sleep,” murmurs Ava, unable to stop herself from reaching out to stroke Sara’s hair. “I doubt you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep in 5 years.”
“You’ve got that right,” huffs Sara, burrowing further into Ava. She hums, letting her eyes flutter shut. “But you’re so comfy and I really don’t wanna move. I just want to be near you.”
Ava tries not to stiffen, prays to a God she stopped believing in years ago that Sara doesn’t hear the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The unlike you remains unsaid.
Ava never does cons like this. It’s one of her principle rules now, to not put herself in a situation that could jeopardise everything she’s so carefully built for herself over the years. She has a solid way of getting by - the right jobs, the quiet ones under the radar that the cops almost definitely don’t notice, the ones that earn a comparatively unsuspicious cheque of perhaps 10 grand, that then ties her over for long enough that she doesn’t always have to have another con on her mind.
Then there’s Sara, who wants to rob the fucking Met.
Sara, who’s the only reason Ava is even considering this. Not because Ava wants the money. She doesn’t need the money and she doesn’t give a shit about swiping some brilliant beautiful necklace off Nora Darhk’s neck. No, the only reason Ava is even mentally planning out this stupid job in her head is because she’ll be damned if she sees Sara go back to jail.
(For all her charm and wit and skills, Sara’s never been able to pull of jobs like this without Ava. That’s why she ended up behind bars in the first place.)
Ava sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sara, even if this was possible -”
“It is possible.”
“- we’d need like, twenty people and half a million dollars -”
“Thirteen.”
“ Thirteen million ?”
“Thirteen people and ten grand.”
Ava purses her lips, pushing her food around her plate with a little too much force. “Why do you need to do this Sara?”
“Because it’s what I’m good at,” Sara counters, not missing a beat. Her eyelashes flutter, thick with mascara that make her blue eyes seem infinitely brighter in the harsh light of the diner.
“Right,” says Ava and she doesn’t bother to hide the disapproval in her voice.
“Look, Aves,” says Sara, her voice softening to the quiet, honey-like smoothness that five years ago, always had Ava bending to her will without fail. It’s the same voice that Sara had used when it was just the two of them, tangled in Ava’s bedsheets as Sara dragged slow, frustratingly teasing kisses along Ava’s neck. Now, Ava glares, an unspoken don’t play dirty in her eyes. Sara smirks with perhaps a flash of smugness at the knowledge that that voice can still do things to Ava, but thankfully when she speaks again, it’s in her normal tone (with perhaps a touch of added gentle reassurance). “I’ve run this thing a thousand times. Every time I got caught, I fixed it. In three years, I wasn’t getting caught anymore and by the time I was paroled, it was running like clockwork. Perfectly.” She smiles, reaching across the table to trace a delicate touch over Ava’s wrist bone. It’s the kind of smile that draws all the attention to the beautiful curve of her lips and Ava can’t help but drop her eyes to Sara’s mouth for just a second, hastily glancing back up when she realises what she’s doing. Though Sara looks slightly amused, she doesn’t say anything about it, just squeezes Ava’s wrist and softly says, “Every time I ran it, you were there with me. Every step of the way.”
“Oh honey, is that a proposal?” says Ava dryly. (She ignores the sudden image that flashes into her mind of a ring she bought years and years ago after a job in Monaco, a ring that was (and still is) for Sara if the right time had ever come up.)
“Baby, I don’t have a diamond yet,” Sara quips back with a wink that does funny things to Ava’s stomach. Sara’s eyes have a sparkling, irresistible challenge in them. Ava wants to kiss her just to get rid of that infuriating expression. Instead, she looks away and says through grit teeth, “I assume you have a team in mind.”
To that, Sara just grins and leans over to smack a kiss to Ava’s cheek.
“Zari Tomaz. World class hacker, currently couchsurfing and waiting for her next big break. She’s got the skills to patch us into the Met security system for sure. Plus, she was the one who made all my accounts vanish after I was arrested so I’d still have some money when I got out, so I owe her.
Amaya Jiwe. Usually known for making sure animals are well treated in various smuggling trades, but because of it, she has contacts all over the world. She’d be perfect for helping us figure out what we need and secure our resources without raising any red flags.
Charlie Jiwe, Amaya’s twin sister. She’s the best fence I’ve ever met and she’s usually hard to get ahold of but through Amaya, we should be able to reel her in.
Nate Heywood, research guru who’s known to lend out this expertise to criminals planning out jobs. He knows like, everything about everything. If we’re gonna pull this off, we’re gonna need his knowledge.
Wally West. Street hustler and pick pocket. Fastest hands I’ve ever seen and we’re gonna need those to lift the necklace.”
Gary Green. He’s gonna be our man inside in the Met. He’s a personal assistant for one of the high ups, but they pretty much told him they’re laying him off after the gala is over, they just desperately need the numbers for the day itself. He’s a bit dweeby but we won’t let him in on any of the important technicalities, or anything that could sell us out.”
“I thought you said thirteen? Not counting us, that’s only six.”
“Well I thought I’d call in some old favours from some of our old friends.”
“ … Who?”
“Gideon, Ray, Martin, Jax and Rory. Lucky thirteen.”
It’s been a very long time since Ava’s had this many people in her apartment.
She doesn’t actually hate it.
The noise is alarming. The stuff everywhere is jarring. The bathroom never being free is infuriating. The sudden influx of food in her kitchen - both terrifyingly sugar loaded junk food, and box upon box of fresh fruit and vegetables and far too expensive freshly made pasta and a collection of divine meats and cheese - is staggering.
But it’s also more life and excitement and socialising than Ava has been privy to in years. (In five years to be exact.)
They spend most days intricately planning and preparing for the Met Gala. Sara hadn’t been kidding about having thought out every single thing for this job, and nobody is spared any kind of work to do, the days filled with early starts, endless canvassing and supervising and checking and overlooking and reexamining and being on the brink of everything falling apart before it all settles back into place a moment later and everyone can exhale. But Sara has the same philosophy as their old ringleader Rip Hunter, and gives everybody the night off almost every evening. Ava becomes accustomed to Zari and Wally cross legged on her couch playing Mario Kart, to Amaya and Nate cooking for everyone like the parents they pretty much are, to Charlie in her allocated room listening to music or playing guitar, to Ray and Martin getting up to ridiculous experiments in what has been demarcated the designated lab space, to Jax out back fixing the car Ava never got around to getting repaired, to Gideon making dry, mocking critiques on Ava’s sparsely decorated place.
And Sara. Sara who unsurprisingly invades every inch of Ava’s space, which Ava also finds she doesn’t hate as much as she thought she would. Sara has a habit of making herself at home - particularly wherever Ava’s set herself up - but always in the best kind of way. There’s something about Ava finding Sara in the kitchen after a shower, smelling like Ava’s body wash and using Ava’s old scrunchie that she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anymore and drinking coffee out of Ava’s favourite mug (which funnily enough, Sara decorated one time they tried to go on a real date to a ceramic decorating shop). About the evenings where everyone else is either hanging out in the living room on the first floor, or has retired to their rooms and Ava wanders into her bedroom to find Sara sprawled on her bed, pencil behind her ear and chewing her thumb, intricately reviewing the details of the job now that they have the input of their other twelve team members.
Sara never stays the night. Ava’s relieved, because she doesn’t think she could do that to herself. But there are moments when it’s gotten late, when the rest of the apartment is silent and Sara’s starting to doze off against Ava’s shoulder while Ava looks through the blueprints of the Met that Gary had sent over, and for a second, Ava just wants to let Sara stay. Wants to press a kiss to the constellation of freckles on her nose, wants to trail her fingers down Sara’s body and be reminded of the feeling of Sara curling in close and them waking up together in the morning.
She never gives in. Instead, she’ll gently shake Sara awake and smile when Sara swears as she realises she’d fallen asleep. She always apologises, as though she thinks it’s an imposition on Ava or something, and Ava always promises it’s fine, gives herself the small mercy of carefully, tenderly fixing Sara’s hair and softly wishing her a goodnight.
Sara doesn’t hear Ava follow her out, which probably says loads about how rusty her instincts have gotten in prison (she should really work on that), but hears the anger and incredulity in Ava’s voice when she says “You’re going to frame Damien Darhk for stealing his daughter’s necklace.”
Sara can’t help the wry smile that crosses her face, ducking her head down as a particularly sharp gust of wind blasts around them. She glances over her shoulder, sending Ava a firm, determined look. “He deserves it.”
Ava shook her head, laughing humourlessly. “Of course he deserves it Sara, but you getting away with it is completely different. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this, that you’re not telling the others - you’re putting everyone’s lives in danger -”
“I’ve got it under control Aves.”
“No,” said Ava and her words are shockingly cold and biting. “No, you don’t get to call me that right now. Sara, you could get killed. You know what he’s capable of.”
“He killed my sister, of course I know what he’s capable of!” snaps Sara before she can stop herself, and she sees the flash of sympathy in Ava’s eyes. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been planning this for five years, I’ve accounted for everything.”
“You never run a job in a job,” says Ava, her voice low and desperate. “This isn’t going to go well.”
Sara turns to properly face Ava, places her hand on Ava’s shoulder and squeezes. “Aves,” she says softly, resisting the urge to smile at the way Ava relaxes at the nickname. “Do you trust me?”
Ava scoffs, shakes her head. Sara waits, ignores the small spike of anxiety when Ava doesn’t respond right away. But after a few moments, Ava lets out a quiet huff and her eyes flicker up to meet Sara’s with a tired, resigned expression on her face.
“Unfortunately,” she says dryly and Sara smirks.
“Good. Trust me. ”
Sara can’t stop hearing the gunshot. Can’t stop seeing Martin crumble, hearing Jax scream. She still feels the way Ava’s arm wrapped around her waist, her voice low in Sara’s ear as she murmured “You can’t Sara, you won’t get to him in time”, her arm strong enough to stop Sara from running out and trying to take Damien Darhk apart with her bare hands.
Sara knows she should be out there trying to reassure her team, should be restructuring their plan because with Martin gone, everything needs to be adjusted, she should be trying to figure out how she’s going to go tell Clarissa and Lily what just happened, should be making some, actual attempt to be the leader of their team.
But she can’t bring herself to get off this bed, can’t find the energy to move, can’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks or the cold, numb feeling that’s taken hold of her whole body. Everytime she closes her eyes, all she sees before her eyelids is Martin falling to the cold, stone floor of the warehouse and she thinks she’s going to throw up.
The door creaks open and Sara knows who it is without needing to look, hears Ava’s soft “Oh Sara” before the door clicks shut behind her and Sara feels the weight of someone crawling onto the bed beside her. She wants to flinch away, wants to curl in on herself because it’s her fault, Martin is dead because she was selfish and irresponsible and she doesn’t deserve to be comforted like this, deserves to feel this hurt. But she’s wanted to be this close to Ava since she first stepped out of prison, has craved the way Ava’s hand is resting on her hip, warm and safe and screaming home and she caves, rolls over and practically falls into Ava’s open arms with a sob of relief.
“It’s okay,” Ava murmurs into Sara’s hair, arms tight around Sara’s shoulders and fingers tracing soft patterns onto the skin of Sara’s back. “Let it out, it’s okay.”
The noise Sara makes is a pathetic mix between a strangled cry and a gasp for air and she burrows further into the crook of Ava’s neck, her hands moving to desperately grasp at Ava’s t-shirt as something to hold on to. And it’s like she can’t stop, like now that the floodgates are open, the tears are unrelenting and Sara can barely breathe at how much everything hurts because Martin is dead and Jax is leaving and they’ve been in the same crew for as long as Sara can remember, since back when Rip picked them all away from their menial, unimportant jobs and promised them a life of excitement and prosperity. And now, Sara had been the one to take it all away because she just had to get revenge.
“You were right,” she whispers against Ava’s collarbone. “God Aves, you were right. I shouldn’t have gone after Darhk. This is my fault.”
“No,” says Ava with surprising firmness. “Martin’s death is on Darhk and no-one else, same as Laurel’s. And … you were right Sara, Darhk deserves to pay. Especially now. And we’re going to get him, he’s going to go down … we’re just gonna do it right this time. With the team.”
Sara nods because she knows somewhere in her head that Ava is making sense (Ava always makes sense), but there’s still this overwhelming ache in her chest, the type she hasn’t felt since Laurel and she’d forgotten how crippling it was, how much she wanted the earth to open up beneath her and swallow her whole because anything had to be better than feeling like this. But there’s a pang of selfishness because beneath all that, there’s this low hum of comfort, this familiarity of being held by Ava, and Sara hates herself even more for liking this. It only makes her cry harder, makes Ava’s arms tighten around her and hold her closer.
“I can’t lose anyone else,” Sara mumbles eventually, clutching Ava’s shirt tightly in her fist. “I … I can’t lose you. ”
She feels the way Ava’s breath hitches, the way her hands still before smoothing over Sara’s hair and pressing the softest of kisses to Sara’s forehead.
“You won’t,” Ava murmurs. “Ever.”
She feel like she’s going to throw up every time she thinks about it, but Sara knows as well as any thief that sometimes, things don’t go according to plan. Granted, this is the absolute worst case scenario, but nevertheless, in a line of work like this, it’s always the faintest possibility no matter how small the job might be.
Martin’s death shakes all of them. Jax leaving shocks them even more.
Sara and Ava give everybody a couple of days off, time to leave the apartment for a while, clear their heads, figure out whether they’re still in this thing for the long haul, reevaluate and mourn and process and then come back with a confirmation of whether they still wanted to be a part of the Met job.
(Sara’s never been more relieved than the moment that the remaining eleven promise that they’re still committed, because while she’d given them two days off, she’d spent the entire time locked in her room of Ava’s apartment, readjusting the plan without Martin and Jax.
If even one other person had stepped away, the whole thing would’ve fallen apart, and Sara needs this more than she did for any of the reasons she’d given herself before. She needs this to avenge Laurel, same as before. She needs this to have enough money that she can spend as long as she can figuring out how to win Ava back without worrying about her lack of income post prison. But now, she also needs this to give Martin’s share to Clarissa and Lily. To give Jax his cut and apologise endlessly again and beg for his forgiveness.
She needs this more than any job she’s ever run in her life.)
Sara’s the one who plans everything out, but Ava’s the one who makes sure everything runs the way it’s supposed to. It’s how they work. It’s how they’ve always worked. Sara’s crazy, spectacular ideas, full of excitement and danger with Ava’s calm, logical, meticulous plans of action, grounded and backed up and always with contingency plans that had contingency plans. And at the end of all of it, a score that dreams are made of.
It’s why Sara’s in the thick of it all - dressed to the nines in drop dead red - while Ava finds a quiet, unnoticeable place to watch over everything, carefully buttoning up her waiter’s shirt and giving herself a quick once over in the mirror before slipping out of the room to take a sweep around the house, make sure everything (and everyone) is sorted. Unsurprisingly, there are a few hilariously minor crises - Mick and Zari arguing over the last pack of donuts, Ray having forgotten how to tie his own bowtie, both Amaya and Charlie having the same hair, makeup and dresses (purposefully of course, they need to switch places during the job) and Nate accidentally kissing the wrong one.
Minor dilemmas. Stuff that Ava just rolls her eyes over, leaves to sort itself out on its own.
She goes to check on Sara instead.
She doesn’t even make it into the room before freezing, her jaw going slack as she catches sight of a flash of vibrant red before her gaze settles on the reflection of Sara in the mirror in a gorgeous, draping ball gown. Ava doesn’t even realise she’s breathless until her lungs burn and she hastily sucks in a sharp breath, attracting Sara’s attention. Sara smiles, glances over her shoulder.
“Zip me up?” she requests quietly, voice silky smooth in a way that makes something low in Ava’s stomach jolt. Ava doesn’t reply but crosses the room, reaching for the zip and carefully, slowly, click by click, agonisingly dragging the zip up, smiling when Sara shivers at Ava’s fingers brushing against the skin of her back as she closes the zip. Sara waist patiently, and when Ava is done, she reaches for the dresser beside her, reapplying a coat of lipstick and turning to face Ava. “How do I look?” she asks with her trademark, cocky, Sara Lance smile.
Ava shakes her head, carefully adjusting one of the folds of Sara’s dress before saying so very softly, “Beautiful.”
Sara’s expression mellows, and she reaches out to smooth the collar of Ava’s shirt, smiling as her eyes flicker up to meet Ava’s. “You too,” she murmurs.
Ava laughs. She’s literally dressed like the Met’s kitchen staff for the night, and it’s not like she cares (other than perhaps the most minutely jealous of how gorgeous everyone else looks in dresses and tuxedos). But then Ava sees the look in Sara’s eyes - the soft, awestruck reverence, the wide eyed, truthful earnestness that so many others would mistake for a naivety that Ava knows Sara lost a long time ago. Sara curls her fingers around Ava’s wrists, steps closer into Ava’s space and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Ava’s eyes shut of their own accord, and she smiles a little. She’s going to have to wipe lipstick off her face.
“You always look beautiful to me,” Sara whispers, and Ava silently wonders for the briefest of seconds, if maybe after all of this, this job was always supposed to be a love confession.
Sara always finds that the jobs themselves disappear into a haze. A collection of broken memories, the whirlwind of the plan in her head and the exact, careful footsteps she knows she needs to take, the clink of glasses and the whiff of champagne and the whoosh of long, elegant dresses, the sharp, crispness of tuxedos at every turn, and in every inch of the entire museum, the overwhelming odour of wealth. She doesn’t hate it though. She’s gotten used to this atmosphere, to the satisfactory feeling of knowing something’s going to happen while everybody else sits there clueless, of having the power to create absolute chaos upon these people who are so sure there precious, perfect lives can’t be touched.
It all goes smoothly. Not without a hitch - never without a hitch, there’s always a problem, always something that doesn’t quite go according to plan - but they’re built to roll with hitches.
Sara’s worked with a lot of teams before, but none who, despite their insanity and seeming absurd incompetence, were as swift and flawless in their execution of a job as her eleven were now. And hell, if they don’t all look damn good dressed up.
Charlie’s the waiter who ends up in the bathroom with Nora, sliding the Toussaint from Nora’s neck and discreetly passing it on to Wally the moment she steps out of the bathroom. The necklace travels through its carriers unobstructed, sans a couple of young waiters who get held up in conversation in the kitchen hallway (which Gideon deals with within moments of them realising it’s an issue).
Sara waits, listens, tries to channel her nerves into enjoying her cover - being at the Met Gala for crying out loud. She smooths her dress, takes a long, slow sip of champagne. Her only wish is that the plan hadn’t been structured so that Ava had to be down in the kitchen rather than up here. It’s okay though, because if all goes according to plan, Sara knows once they all get escorted out of the gala, there’s that one intersection two blocks down, - the one with her favourite pizza place from before she went away, the one where she and Ava once stopped to take refreshingly normal selfies back when Sara had taken having Ava like that for granted - where she’ll meet Ava and can finally, finally go home and breathe for a second.
She just hadn’t been expecting Ava to have a gala outfit too.
She shouldn’t have been surprised really - it’s good planning. Contingency plans in contingency plans and all that. There’s no way Ava wouldn’t have been prepared for the chance happening that something would go wrong and she’d need to step into someone else on the team’s place.
But contingency plans are one thing.
Ava Sharpe in a well fitted, midnight black jumpsuit with gold, sparkly heels, a plunging neckline that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and hair carefully pinned to fall over one shoulder, curled and beautifully styled while Sara stands there, mouth dry and for the first time all night, not knowing what to do - that’s something else entirely.
“Hi,” she says stupidly, after crossing the street to reach Ava. Ava doesn’t tease though, just smiles warmly.
“Hi,” she echoes, and it takes a lot for Sara not to let her eyes snap shut when Ava gently tucks some of Sara’s hair behind her ears, trailing her fingers along Sara’s neck before they drop back down to Ava’s side. “So. We did it.”
Sara exhales with a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Yeah.” She shrugs, grimacing at her sudden realisation of just how restricted her regular movements are in this beautiful, but uncomfortably tight fitting dress. “It’s not over yet though.”
“Not quite,” Ava agreed. “But at least for tonight, we can celebrate.”
Something flutters in Sara’s stomach. “I think the others are going out,” she says, and the fondness in Ava’s eyes makes those ridiculous butterflies in her stomach just intensify. “Charlie said something about wanting to get wasted while poor for the last time.”
Ava snorts with laughter, shaking her head. “Of course she did.”
Sara bites her lip. “We could join them.”
Ava’s eyes meet hers, that same, rich, swirling blue that Sara has spent years of her life wanting to dive into, get lost in, stay submerged and entranced because everything about Ava is so wonderful, so beautiful and clever and everything Sara has spent far too long pretending she doesn’t want. Ava’s lips curve upwards, and all of Sara’s breath leaves her lungs in a rush.
“We could.”
Ava’s loft has never felt more like home.
Sara laughs, kicks off her heels, pouts when Ava momentarily refuses to do the same and towers over her so ridiculously that it takes a full minute for Ava to stop snickering about it and resume tugging Sara to her bedroom.
It must be nearing 3am. 2am at least. But it’s New York, so nothing is quiet, nothing is asleep. Sara can hear the hum of traffic, the subway a block away, the criminal underground that she knows so well peeking awake from the shadows and taking the darkness as opportunity to roam the streets unafraid.
Ava is perfect.
Ava’s always been perfect.
And she still is. She kisses Sara, and if Sara didn’t know just how in love she was, she would think that her sudden urge to cry at the feeling of Ava’s lips on hers is unbelievably pathetic. But it’s not, because Ava is soft and familiar, warm and smells like the stupidly expensive perfume that Charlie intercepted a shipment of last week, her lips artful and intoxicating and Sara gasps into her mouth, eyes flickering shut as she loops an arm around Ava’s neck.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
Ava pauses, moves, drags her lips over Sara’s jaw before ducking down to kiss her shoulder so lightly that it makes Sara shiver. “I missed you too,” she murmurs. “You have no idea, Sara.”
I love you.
Sara doesn’t say it then, doesn’t dare, but it’s at the forefront of her mind with each and every second that passes. As Ava’s fingers run over the tiny little indents all over Sara’s skin that her dress left behind. When Ava lets Sara flip them, smiling up at her with this softness in her eyes that makes Sara’s chest tighten. As Sara feels, remembers, relearns everything about Ava that she’d foolishly let herself forget over the last five years - her hazy smile, the way her bottom lip catches in her teeth, the softness of her skin, the warm, breathy whisper of Sara’s name that’s always been Sara’s favourite sound in the world.
I love you , she thinks over and over again. I’ll never stop loving you.
“You guys are fucked.”
Ava kind of wishes she had a camera to capture they absolutely stunned expressions on everybody’s faces as Nora Darhk walked into the room, her heeled boots clicking loudly on the hardwood floors, sauntering in and dropping her coat gracefully onto the back of the couch.
“Uh,” says Zari, blinking. “What the fuck is this?”
“You’re trespassing,” Ray squeaks, swallowing as Nora doesn’t even bat an eyelid, just sits on the couch beside him and takes a sidelong glance at the box of pizza on the coffee table.
“She’s not trespassing,” Ava says, slipping her hands into her pockets and strolling towards them, exchanging a grin with Sara. “We asked her to come.”
“You asked her to come?” echoed Charlie, waving her pizza slice around incredulously. “The fuck does that mean?”
“Uh hey, Mom and Mom, wanna stop with the sneaky looks and tell us what we’re missing here?” says Nate, arching an eyebrow. “Seriously. Wasn’t Nora the freakin mark ?”
“Yes,” says Sara, squeezing Nate’s shoulders reassuringly. “But a couple of days ago, Aves and I realised that -”
“I wasn’t a total fucking idiot?” says Nora wryly, and Ava and Sara both smirk. Amaya grins a little sheepishly too, GIdeon rolls her eyes and chuckles, Charlie and Zari both exchange still wary looks while the boys all look a little affronted. “Look, I’ve been in Hollywood my whole life, and my asshole father is a major crime boss who I have to pretend doesn’t exist at any given time so I know how acting goes. You guys? Not good actors. Plus, I never throw up - not even when I’m really wasted - and I never forget a face. So when Rip Hunter is out here waving a photo of Sara Lance in front of me and telling me that she’s the only person with an alibi in this whole damn thing, it’s hard not to know that something shady as hell is going on.”
“Wait, Rip Hunter?” says Ray, eyes going wide.
“Why were you talking to Rip?” says Gideon sharply, and Mick sits up, suspicious.
“I was gonna get to that,” says Sara, grimacing. “Rip is uh … Rip’s an insurance investigator now. So he’s about to be looking up all our asses with a flashlight, ‘cause if he knows I’m involved, he’s gonna suspect you guys too. He’ll be looking through that footage with a fine tooth comb.”
“Fuck,” swears Nate, running his fingers through his hair. “What are we gonna do?”
“It’s okay,” promises Sara. “We planned for this, and we’ve prepared for this. We are not going to be the prime suspects.”
Mick grunts, giving Sara a wary stare. “Who is then?”
Ava can feel Sara’s eyes on her before the words even leave her mouth. “Damien Darhk.”
It’s late evening by the time Sara gets back from tailing Rip all day. Her feet hurt, she’s starving, she feels disgusting from the number of subways and cabs she took as Rip made his way through the city, and all she wants is to take a hot shower and fall into bed with Ava and a bowl of Ray’s famous mac’n’cheese. But when she gets back to the loft, Mick is hogging the shower and Amaya’s occupied the kitchen to make everyone something healthy for a change (Sara catches sight of kale and immediately lies and tells Amaya she already ate). Thankfully, Ava is at least reliable in providing what Sara needs, having retired to her room an hour or so ago according to Zari after a long day of monitoring the surveillance feeds on Damien Darhk.
Sara pushes open Ava’s bedroom door, smiling when she sees her girlfriend curled up on top of her covers, dozing, apparently having forgotten to remove her reading glasses before she fell asleep. Sara leans over the bed, carefully pulls off the glasses before ducking down to press a series of feather light kisses to Ava’s face. Ava stirs immediately, eyelids fluttering, then opening and expression morphing from hazy confusion to recognition and relief.
“You’re home,” she says, voice thick with sleep.
Sara hums, giving Ava a proper yet chaste hello kiss before crossing to the other side of the room, shrugging off her dark grey coat and easing her hair from its tight ponytail.
“Did you manage to tail Rip all day?” Ava asks, shuffling upwards to sit properly against the cushions.
“Yeah,” says Sara, sighing with exhaustion. “Why the fuck does he feel the need to go to like, 30 different coffee shops over the course of the day in like, 3 different boroughs? Seriously, just go to a Starbucks in Manhattan and sit there if you’re gonna drink that much coffee.”
“Says the woman who can’t be productive until she’s had at least two cups,” smirks Ava and Sara glares, throwing her scarf at Ava’s face.
“That’s not the point,” she says huffily. “God, I’m so tired. I can’t wait until this is all over.” She pulls her rings off her fingers one by one, scattering them atop of Ava’s dresser, reaching up to unhook her earrings, unclasp her bracelets, take off her necklace, suddenly feeling like they were all too heavy, were weighing her down and she just needs them gone before she falls into bed with Ava. Ava notices what she’s doing, her lips turning upwards just slightly.
“We staying in here tonight?” she asks.
Sara meets Ava’s gaze in the mirror above her. “Is that okay? Z’s moving all the surveillance equipment and planning boards into my room and I just … I need to not think about it for one night.”
“Of course it’s okay,” says Ava softly and there’s an overwhelming affection in her eyes that has Sara looking back down to where her jewellery is strewn because she still can’t really believe that this - her and Ava - is happening, that it’s real after so many years of convincing herself they would never be able to have it quite the way she wanted. She’s too tired to have that conversation, can feel the heaviness in her eyes and the exhaustion in her bones so she just rolls her shoulders and tugs open a drawer blindly, looking for makeup wipes. She doesn’t find them in the big drawer in the middle, so instead pulls open a smaller one on the top left of the dresser. She hears Ava’s small gasp, hears the covers ruffle as she moves on the bed, hears the sudden desperation in her voice when she says “Wait Sara, no, not that one -” but the drawer is already open and Sara’s eyes have already instinctively flickered down.
There’s a false bottom, and Sara assumes Ava has important documents under it - her birth certificate, maybe, a passport under her real name perhaps - but that’s not what she sees. There are only two proper objects in the drawer. One is a polaroid picture of Ava and Sara from years ago, long before Sara went to prison, back when they were still in Rip’s crew and had successfully co-run their first operation together. They’d all gone out to celebrate at a vintage bar in Brooklyn, and Jax had taken the photo with a polaroid camera he’d stolen, fixed up and then modified. In it, the two of them are sitting in a booth, side by side, each holding a beer. Sara’s arm is around Ava’s shoulders, her head resting against Ava’s, smiling wide and openly while Ava grins, a little more reserved, but eyes resting on Sara, her expression so clearly fond and a little lovestruck.
It’s not the photo that makes Sara’s heart thud to a momentary halt (although a warmth does blossom in her chest at the sight of it).
It’s the small, square, red velvet box that sits beside the photograph that has Sara’s entire world shifting into slow motion around her, has her head spinning and her throat going dry because there is only one thing that could be inside that box, only one reason why Ava would be so alarmed when Sara tugged the drawer open, only one reason that a polaroid of the two of them is the only other thing sitting there.
The creaky leg of the bed squeaks as Ava stands, moves to brush past Sara and slams the drawer shut. Sara swallows, glances over at the woman she’s known since she was 21, who she’s bickered with, argued with, fought with, laughed with, stolen with, slept with, and fallen in love with. Her heart has restarted, now thundering almost painfully in her chest.
“Was that…?”
Ava’s breath hitches audibly and Sara sees her considering whether to lie before relenting, exhaling shakily as her eyes flicker to the ground.
“I know … I know we never talked about it,” she murmurs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “About us. But … before you went away, things were so great for so long and it almost felt like there was no way I could be reading this wrong. I wasn’t planning to … to ask anytime soon but God, Sara, I was so in love with you back then, I just bought it on a whim after we pulled off that massive job in Monaco and I had the money and I walked past this jewellery shop and the ring was so perfect, it was so you , and I figured that I could just have it and maybe in a few years, when we actually got our heads out of our asses and talked about what we were and how we felt -”
“You were so in love with me?” Sara’s voice is small as she interrupts, eyes wide. “… Past tense?”
The look Ava gives her is so surprised that it’s almost comical, before it shifts into slight amusement. She chuckles softly, leans against the dresser beside them and there’s a nervous shyness in her eyes as she says “You really think all it’d take for me to fall out of love with Sara Lance is 5 years in prison?”
Sara looks at her beseechingly, her stomach tangled in knots because this whole time she hasn’t known where they stand with each other, whether the feelings she was sure Ava had before she went away were still there or if things were completely different. Ava rolls her eyes affectionately at the look on her face and Sara almost wants to shove her because it’s been a long day and she just needs to hear it, plain and simple, with no riddles like they usually do, no schemes or teasing or games.
“Aves, please,” she whispers, her breath stuttering when Ava reaches out to trail her fingers down Sara’s arms before tangling their fingers together. Ava’s voice is soft when she finally speaks, as though she’s testing out saying the words out loud.
“I am so in love with you,” she amends, squeezing Sara’s hands tightly.
Sara stares for a moment, maybe several, because her brain is suddenly trying to process it all. Ava loves her. Ava’s in love with her. Ava always has been. To the point that there’s a fucking engagement ring for Sara sitting in Ava’s dresser and it’s been there since Monaco and Monaco was almost a year before she went away to prison which means Ava has been willing to spend the rest of their lives together since then and as much as Sara was too tired to have this conversation before, having it in this context changes everything. But her silence seems to go on for too long because there’s a flash of vulnerability in Ava’s eyes when Sara doesn’t reply and Sara recognises it, can read Ava’s fear that she might have screwed up somehow. And as much as Sara’s trying to process, she refuses to let there even be a moment where Ava thinks she doesn’t feel the same way, so she lurches forward and kisses Ava hard, with enough force that Ava stumbles back in order to keep them upright and her back slams against the wall. Sara curls her fingers into Ava’s shirt, slinking onto her tiptoes and sighing a little when Ava wraps an arm around Sara’s middle, tangles her free hand in Sara’s hair and kisses her back with so much unwavering emotion that Sara goes lightheaded for a second. Ava’s lips have never been more familiar than they are right now, warm and soft and curved upwards in a smile beneath Sara’s and everything - the heist, Damien Darhk, Rip’s investigation, their lost five years, everything just falls away as Ava pulls her closer, as she lets her fingers drift to the buttons of Ava’s shirt -
“Fuck a little quieter you two, we’re trying to watch The Princess Diaries over here!” shouts Zari from the living room.
Sara snorts, drops her head to Ava’s shoulder as Ava’s falls back against the wall, both of them shaking with laughter and uncharacteristic giggles because despite Zari’s interruption, the bubble hasn’t broken, Sara can still feel her heart swell when her eyes flicker up to see the wide beam on Ava’s face, her lips are still tingling, mind in the haze she only ever gets from Ava. It takes a few seconds before she remembers the ring and she stills, fingers still playing with the hem of Ava’s shirt.
“So,” she says quietly. “You uh … you bought an engagement ring. For me.” She feels Ava’s sharp intake of breath and her eyes flicker up to meet Ava’s.
“Yeah,” breathes Ava, biting her bottom lip nervously. “Can’t imagine my life without you Lance.”
All the breath leaves Sara’s lungs in a rush and she clutches Ava’s shirt tighter, desperately searching Ava’s face for any sign that she’s not being truthful, that she’s trying to cover up for Sara accidentally finding the ring. But Ava’s expression is earnest, soft and open and Sara takes a deep breath before stepping away from Ava’s arms and backing towards the dresser. Her shaking fingers find the top left drawer of the dresser, pull it open and curl around the velvet box inside, holding it in front of her and finally tearing her eyes away from Ava as she flicks it open.
“Sara,” says Ava, voice hoarse, “what’re you doing?”
Sara doesn’t answer at first, momentarily breathless because holy shit that’s a gorgeous ring (and Sara’s seen a lot of diamonds in her lifetime). But her brain catches up to her and she remembers what she was doing, reverently runs her thumb over the small but beautiful stone, gently tugging it out of the box and sliding it on her finger with a smile.
“Sara,” says Ava again, quieter, a little strangled as though she doesn’t know exactly what’s happening.
Sara turns, offers Ava a grin as she shrugs a little shyly. “Well, I’m not planning on living my life without you now, am I? I’m not exactly going anywhere anytime soon.” Ava’s look of pure astonishment is almost comical, and Sara can’t help but dryly say “Don’t look so surprised Aves.”
Ava shakes her head, her hands coming up to her face to wipe her eyes and Sara’s heart clenches when she realises Ava is brushing away tears.
“I didn’t think you’d actually say yes,” says Ava in barely a whisper, taking a hesitant, disbelieving step towards Sara.
Sara can’t help her speechlessness because suddenly, despite her unbelievable happiness, despite the lightheadedness and the blood pumping through her veins and the way that she finally, finally feels like something is okay for the first time since Martin’s death, she feels regret because she knows things between her and Ava have always been complicated, especially since she came out of prison, but she can’t imagine a world where Ava isn’t by her side. And the fact that Ava doubts that - has ever doubted that - makes her heart ache.
“I love you,” she says quietly, keeping her gaze fixed on Ava. “You’re … you’ve been my whole life since Laurel died and our old crew went our separate ways. After this whole thing is over, - once we’ve got our proper cut from the job and Rip’s dropped his investigation - all I want is a life with you. Whether we’re running cons or just travelling the world or buying a fancy place wherever the hell we want and getting married in some stupidly extravagant beach somewhere. I don’t care. I just want to be with you.”
The smile Ava gives her then is a million times more beautiful than any diamond Sara has ever stolen.
Rip isn’t hard to win over. He has a soft spot for Sara, and the same quiet need to avenge Laurel, and when he hears about Martin, there's no doubt about it. All it takes is one lunch at a diner over in Queens that Rip used to take the old crew to, for Sara to convince him to help them frame Damien Darhk.
All it takes is Nora going round to see her father, an easy, flawless excuse on her lips that makes him let his guard down, not suspect for a moment that his daughter has any intention to set him up for the one crime that’s definitely going to send him to prison. Nora’s text, with the perfectly arranged piece of the Toussaint propped up against one of Damien’s ties, bings through to Sara’s phone and she lets out a triumphant whistle, immediately forwarding it on to Rip. It turns out, Rip's already spent the last few days calling in every favour possible to link Darhk to multiple crimes - murders, thefts, drug smuggling, the lot. (Sara's sure that at least half of them are ones he was actually involved in.)
Damien Darhk is good at being a criminal.
Rip Hunter is a million times better.
(Darhk gets convicted, and Sara spends a whole afternoon at the cemetery, sitting in front of Laurel’s headstone. Ava sits there with her.)
Ava wakes up to a soft kiss being pressed to her forehead. She opens one eye, and chuckles quietly at the sight of Sara, lying there, smiling at her. Then, it occurs to Ava why she’s probably been woken up and she groans, rolling over to tuck her head into Sara’s shoulder.
“What have they done now?” she demands, words muffled against Sara’s skin. “I swear to God, if I have to buy another toaster because Ray blew it up -”
Sara laughs, shushes her with a gentle, good morning kiss that Ava melts into, before murmuring, “They didn’t do anything. Yet.”
Ava huffs with exasperated relief, blindly reaching out to drape an arm over Sara’s bare waist. “What’s up?” she mumbles, relishing in the feeling of Sara’s warm skin underneath her fingertips. Sara doesn’t reply, just curls her fingers around something on her bedside table and places it on the sheets between them. Ava cracks her eyes open a little wider to figure out what it is, but as soon as she does, she’s instantly awake. “Sara?”
Sara shrugs, shuffles upwards a little to smile down at Ava. “Kinda goes two ways here.”
“You didn’t have to -”
“I know,” Sara interrupts, catching Ava’s slightly shaking hands in her own and squeezing. “I know baby, but … I wanted to. I wanted this to be real now.”
“It’s always been real Sara,” says Ava quietly, even as her heart thuds uncontrollably in her chest. “You’re the realest thing in the world to me.”
Sara’s eyes flicker with something, and her lips are on Ava’s before Ava can blink, hard and fierce and her fingers curling tight into Ava’s sides and making Ava arch up to meet her, sighing into her mouth and feeling the rest of the world fall away outside of them - Ava and Sara, tucked away in this Manhattan loft, a family of misfit thieves and criminals just a few doors away, with millions of dollars and an entire lifetime of adventure at their fingertips.
“Ava Sharpe,” Sara whispers, barely even pulling away an inch so that Ava can feel every word, every breath against her own lips. “Will you marry me?” She carefully opens the small, squad, leather box and the thief in Ava has never been more in love with Sara than she has in that moment, when she sees Sara’s share of the Toussaint carefully cut, carved and nestled into the most beautiful, delicate, elegant diamond ring that Ava’s ever seen in her life.
“You know, there would’ve been easier jobs if all you wanted was a diamond for a pretty engagement ring,” Ava jokes, but she knows Sara can hear the quiet breathlessness and awe in her voice.
Sara chuckles, kisses Ava again and hums a little in agreement. “There would’ve been,” she says, “but I wanted the best to win you over.”
Ava laughs incredulously, plucks the ring from its box with trembling fingers. “You didn’t need to win me over. You always had me.”
Sara’s eyes are sparkling as she eases the box away from between them, takes Ava’s hands in hers again and carefully, gently eases the ring onto Ava’s left ring finger. Unsurprisingly, it’s a perfect fit. “And now, I always will.”