Last chapter! With thanks, yet again, to LarielRomeniel for the beta.

I hope you enjoy it!

...

Rip listens in appalled silence as the three men argue among themselves. This wasn't...this isn't...

"Oh, peachy," Snart mutters, as if to himself. "Amateurs."

"Gideon said the records showed nothing unusual in this location tonight," the Time Master says. "And she said all the records were accessible again. The police, the papers...why would this not be mentioned, whether they were caught or were successful?"

Snart shrugs. "It was hushed up? Or they decided to leave without taking anything?" His noise of disapproval shows what he thinks of that. "Circle around, try to get in the back?"

"That seems our best bet," Rip agrees reluctantly. "Makes it a little harder to get out, but...it'll do."

The other man nods, then starts slinking back the way they'd come. Rip allows himself a moment of gratitude that Snart bothered to study the museum layout himself, then moves to follow.

"Here now, what's this?"

A hand snatches at his coat, and he whirls, striking out, only to find a beefy hand clamped each of his arms as he's lifted right into the air by a large fellow who looks remarkably like an annoyed walrus, complete with immense mustache. He kicks...and connects...but the man just grunts, and gives him a shake for good measure.

He left his guns back at the ship for timeline-protection purposes, and while he's not too shabby at hand-to-hand, he's out-numbered and out-weighed here.

He's caught.

And Snart...is gone.

Dragged back to the Roman Gallery, his hands tied, Rip endures the scrutiny of the three men, whom he's already internally dubbed Red Ascot, Bowler Hat, and the Walrus. They're not truly rough-looking men… more the state called "shabby genteel" in some circles...but there's a coldness in their eyes that makes him feel uneasy.

It reminds him a bit of Snart when the other man is wearing his now-rarely used "Captain Cold" persona, truth be told.

"Well, this's the bearded ginger," Red Ascot says finally. "Where's the other one?"

"Herself said they'd be here, said both of 'em would be, and it had to be both of 'em," Bowler Hat mutters. The Walrus just grumbles unintelligibly. "Tall man, mostly tidy-shaven, she said. Salt n' pepper. Dangerous."

Despite the precariousness of his position, Rip can't help but feel a trifle annoyed at that his own description had not, apparently, included the word "dangerous."

"Oi!" he says sharply, laying the accent on thick, hoping the incongruity of that with his gentleman's appearance will confuse them. "Woss this? I'm by meself 'ere!"

They ignore him.

"Eh, if there's someone else 'ere, he can't have gone far," Red Ascot says finally. "Keep lookin'. And have an eye out for that what's nice and portable."

Bowler Hat mutters and the Walrus grumbles, but they both leave. The man in the red ascot tilts his head back to regard Rip, cold green eyes studying him intently.

"Should just cosh you, guv'nor, and leave you in the Round Room like she said," he says absently. "But I'm thinking might be better if we just dump you in the Thames. Fewer questions."

Well, this could get worse, fast.

And just who is "she?"

"Look, mate, four can carry more than three, right then?" Rip says, trying hard to keep his tone earnest. "What you have goin', let me in. Whoever this bird is, she don't need ter know, right, am I right?"

But the other man's eyes narrow.

"Oh, that'd have herself on us, wouldn't it?" he says. "That's the kinda talk that gets men killed. No, I think it's best you have a bit of a kip now. Maybe you wake up in a bit...maybe you don't."

As the man talks, he's been idly passing a truncheon of sorts from hand to hand, perhaps as an attempt at intimidation. Now he raises it, stepping forward

Rip's been working steadily at the knots in the length of rope they've tied him with, hands and feet both, but he doesn't quite have them loose, not yet. "Look, mate, what's she payin' you? I kin do better, I just hafta..."

"Sorry, guv'nor. Don't know what you did to get on herself's bad side. But my, that's a bird you don' want ter cross." The man grabs him by the collar, raises the truncheon into the air.

Rip closes his eyes. He doesn't really want to see the blow, last vision or not.

THWACK.

He opens his eyes just in time to see Red Ascot drop like a stone, as a rather smug-looking Leonard Snart brandishes the cane behind him.

"Idiot," the crook tells the unconscious man. "You knew I was still loose, but you got caught up in monologing. Rookie mistake."

He reaches down and slices the ropes...where did he get a knife? It's possible Sara is a bad influence...then offers Rip a hand up.

And after a moment, Rip takes it.

"I thought maybe you left," he says wryly as Snart hauls him to his feet.

"I don't usually leave people behind," the other man tells him sharply. "I thought Gideon wanted me to stay out of 'combat situations,' given the whole 'passing out' thing? So I...strategically withdrew." He snorts. "The one with the ridiculous hat is in one of the Greco-Roman galleries, taking a 'nap.' Which just leaves one."

"Ah. The Walrus. Mind if I take him?"

"Be my guest."

After that, it doesn't take too long to get into the Reading Room and retrieve the ledger. (Snart eyes the walls full of books with an edge of longing, but merely sighs when Rip gives him the evil eye.)

The absence of newspaper clippings or police reports about an attempted burglary at the BM in mind, they carefully haul the three stooges outside, miraculously managing not to be seen and leaving them propped against a wall. It's a nice area, Rip reasons out loud. They should be safe enough.

The condition of their purses is another story. He's pretty sure Snart's already robbed them blind, though.

The two men look at each other.

They're never going to be bosom friends. Rip Hunter has tried too hard to rise above his thieving beginnings, while Leonard Snart, despite recent heroic actions, takes pride in those abilities. And Rip has spent too long steeped in the notion of action for the greater good, while Snart...well, maybe he's not out just for himself these days, but the lion's share of his concern is meant for the people who are his.

No, they'll never really be friends.

But, just maybe, respect is possible.

Rip finally sighs, moves the ledger to underneath his other arm, then gives Snart a nod as he starts off down the street, on the way back to the ship.

The other man doesn't move.

"I don't think they were here to steal," His words are pitched just loud enough to be heard in the London evening.

Rip turns. "You don't think they were here to steal?" he says with a hint of irony.

"That might have been a fringe benefit." He shrugs. "But you heard them. They were here for you. And I think the ledger was bait."

Rip's been trying not to think about this. Of "herself" and what that might entail. "You too," he adds reluctantly. "They said, 'the other one.' There was even a description; I don't know if you heard that."

Snart frowns, but doesn't look overly surprised. "What would change," he says slowly, "if we were taken out of the game until tomorrow morning? Because that was their original plan."

"It wasn't the ledger. Presumably they wanted us to be caught."

But the crook's voice is intense, suddenly, and his eyes are gleaming. "Hunter. What's tonight?"

Impossible not to take the meaning. "But what in bloody hell would that have to do with...if she knows my history, knows who I am, and wants to erase Rip Hunter, Time Master, from the timeline, why not just kill me?"

"I don't think she wants to erase you..." Snart's voice is low, musing, and Rip can see the wheels turning, the pieces falling together, in his mind. It suddenly occurs to him this man would have been a hell of a Time Master in his own right.

That's a fact he'll never share with Snart, who would almost certainly take it the wrong way.

When the crook speaks again, it's with a jump in logic that is both utterly ludicrous and makes far too much sense.

"It's me."

"What?"

"With a cane you said. A 'toff.' Tall," Snart reminds him, tapping his own cane against the ground. "Carrying an amount that would lead young Michael Hunter to think it was someone's 'life savings.' "

"Carter."

"What?"

"It's Michael Carter, to be honest. Usually, our entire name is changed, not just our surname." But his tone is distracted, his head spinning...

"Gideon," he whispers, "is this possible?"

The AI's voice is low, though there's no one else to hear.

"It is...possible, Captain Hunter. It is, in fact, plausible. There was a temporal...blip, for lack of a better word...noted not long before the Monitor landed here and Captain McPartland found you.

"It is not," she hastens to add, "why he took you. I am not privy to that information."

Hunter looks shell-shocked. And Snart, for once, can't blame him. He gives the other man a few minutes to work through the apparent upending of his personal origin story.

Finally, the Time Master shakes his head and looks at his companion, a certain wry smile twisting his mouth. "I didn't bring that sort of money, Mr. Snart."

Snart feels a return smirk on his own face. This could be fun.

"Thought you said you were a 'cut-purse,' " he drawls. "Can you still do it?"

The snort that emits from Hunter eludes more to a childhood as that cut-purse and less to later years and then adulthood as a Time Master. "It's like riding a bicycle, Mr. Snart."

"Well then. Fancy a wager?"

Hunter hesitates.

And then, there's a spark of Michael Hunter, the urchin who stabbed the Pilgrim, in the man who cocks a finger and points at the crook he'd recruited back in 2016.

"You're on."

The newspapers of that week will note an uptick in pockets picked and purses cut around the area of Piccadilly and St. James on the evening of Sept. 1—exclusively, though unsurprisingly for that area, those of very wealthy men.

Young Michael Carter, more concerned with survival and only partially literate at that point, never sees those headlines. And the Time Masters take no note of what seems to be a perfectly ordinary crime spree.

Most of the Time Masters, anyway.

He shouldn't be here, Rip Hunter thinks.

Shouldn't be standing in the shadows, watching as Snart does a passable imitation of a soused nobleman, leaning heavily on his cane as he weaves down Wentworth Street in Whitechapel, their ill-gotten gains tucked into the purse hanging from his waistcoat.

Shouldn't see the small shadow that falls into step behind the other man, a shadow that moves slowly and deliberately in a way that isn't just criminal stealth, but born of pain and hunger.

There's no way the older crook doesn't feel the small hand tugging at the moneybag, but he gives no sign. In fact, the older version of Michael Carter thinks as he watches, Snart actually slows just a tad to let the younger version maneuver his tiny knife despite shaky hands.

He really shouldn't be here.

But apparently, he should be here. Because otherwise, this wouldn't have happened. And he knows, in the depths of his soul, that he wouldn't have survived a few more weeks without this windfall.

He lets out a long, low sigh of relief as his younger self vanishes back into the night, off to take the purse back to his corner and then stare in awe at the banknotes and coins that spill out of it.

Two weeks later, he'll be safely on the Monitor as it lifts off for the Refuge.

But for the first time in years, he's wondering...why?

Sara Lance won't say that that New York City in the 1920s wasn't fun. It was...especially when she and Mick got loose in a speakeasy and kicked some ass. And given that conventional flapper dresses aren't really made for hand-to-hand combat, she's even more appreciative of what she affectionately calls Fashion by Gideon™.

But it was otherwise unproductive. No Savage. The supposed lieutenant was a low-level goon with a lot of money, a lousy toupee and a big mouth. Definitely not very satisfying.

The Waverider is locked down as the team arrives back at the meeting point, requiring them to manually de-cloak it and bypass the security protocols. That's a little unusual, but sometimes Rip gets distracted.

As a group, they head for the bridge, which is empty...arriving just in time to hear voices coming from the corridor that leads to the jump ship.

"...I definitely won."

"Ah, you, Mr. Snart, may have made more marks, but I, I made more money from them! I would say that I definitely won this wager."

"Unfair advantage," comes the drawl. "You're a little more familiar with financial tells in that era. On a more level playing field, I won."

"No such thing as an unfair advantage, guv'nor. You've played the game. You know that."

Sara just has time to blink in surprise when Rip and Leonard turn the corner and walk onto the bridge...both wearing what seem to be old-fashioned vests and suits and, amusingly enough, top hats.

But even more surprising, they actually seem to having a spirited-but for once, not hostile-argument.

"Ah. Ladies and gentlemen." Rip actually smiles. (Leonard smirks.) "I thought perhaps we'd beat you back. Any luck?"

The whole escapade may have been worth it to see the expression on the team's faces.

Sara is, predictably, the first one to lose the vaguely "hit in the head by a board" expression and saunters over to them, smiling and quite visibly checking them out. (Rip shifts uncomfortably, for all the lion's share of her attention is clearly on her lover. There are times Sara reminds him all too much of Miranda, and that's just odd on so many levels.)

"Nice outfits. What's with the cane?" she asks, eyes twinkling at both of them, but the question directed at Snart with just the faintest tone of concern. At this point, he is leaning on it just a little heavily. (Despite their timely use of a hansom, the evening had involved quite a lot of walking.)

He ignores the concern, which is rather par for the course. "My grandfather had one just like it. Of course, this one's weighted." A sideways smirk at Rip. "Comes in handy."

"Hmmm. I like that hat. And the tight pants aren't bad either."

Snart gives her a half-grin, then plucks the top hat from his own head and drops it onto her blond one. She grins back, a distinctly evil grin, then adjusts the hat to a jaunty tilt, leans forward and whispers something in his ear that makes his eyebrows rise abruptly.

Rip decides, with amusement, that he doesn't want to know. He watches as Sara gives the crook's ascot a yank, wrapping her fingers around the silk in a way that somehow manages to be suggestive and giving him a rather sultry smile. She gives Rip a wink, then turns on her heel, heading for the crew quarters and pulling a rather agreeable Snart behind her.

For the first time, he compares their actions to the hijinks he and Miranda used to get up to on this ship... and it doesn't hurt. Odd, what the simple word "love" can do for perception.

"Mr. Snart!"

The other man pauses, throwing a glance back over his shoulder

"You should tell her."

He doesn't bother to say what. Snart looks back at him silently, then nods, gives him a half-smile, and follows Sara off down the hall.

"Captain?" Mr. Palmer and Mr. Jefferson are looking rather bemused. Ms. Saunders is grinning at him. Mr. Rory, with a bark of laughter, has already vanished, what appeared to be a Prohibition-era bottle of alcohol in hand. Martin actually looks rather jealous. Ah, is their professor a fan of such sartorial excess? Who knew?

"Oh, carry on, people. I need to get out of this monkey suit." He plucks at the lapels of his waistcoat. "I'll explain later. Mr. Snart and I just...defused...a certain situation in Victorian London, that's all."

They're not entirely satisfied, but he's unforthcoming, and eventually they all wander off. (He wishes much luck to anyone who chooses to interrupt Mr. Snart and Ms. Lance for more information, though he doubts any of them are so foolish.)

And he's alone again.

He'd like to stall. He's like to take another look at the time stream, see if there's any new information. Hell, he'd like to pour himself a glass of scotch and rewatch series five of Doctor Who.

He does none of those things.

"Gideon..." He takes a deep breath. "I need you to try to figure out who among the Time Masters might not have been at the Vanishing Point when it blew up. Especially any female Time Masters.

"I think we may have a new enemy."

-END-

Author's note: So I may have had this entire idea just so I could make Hunter and Snart have a pickpocket contest. Oh, and stuff them into Victorian clothes.

There really is a Wentworth Street in Whitechapel. I couldn't resist.