Budapest, Hungary. October, 2011

The cold October wind creeped its way through his jacket, but Rip Hunter couldn't bring himself to move. The outdoor patio of the bar that looked out onto the street was quiet and peaceful. The late night hour left Rip alone for most of the evening as he watched lonely strangers walk by, watched them move about their daily lives. While he is a man out of place, out of time.

The glass in his hand was surprisingly full. Rip stared at it in disinterest for a moment before taking another sip. Pálinka was not exactly up his alley where alcohol was concerned. He was a scotch person, with a side interest in bourbon, whiskey, brandy, and the occasional drink of rum. Pálinka was altogether something foreign to him. He never thought fruit and hard alcohol really belonged together, but here it was, and he needed it to blend in.

He wasn't particularly sure why he had chosen this year. It had just happened.

No, he knew why it happened.

He had to keep his distance from his crew, hence why he couldn't very well return to 2017, but he couldn't make himself stay too far away. This was a time when all his friends were alive and well, albeit far from becoming the people he knew today.

2011

It was several years before the particle accelerator blew up, creating the meta-human crisis. Thus, before he would ever meet Professor Stein or Mr. Jackson, before they would ever meet each other. Undoubtedly in this time Professor Stein would be teaching his students and young Mr. Jackson would be in junior high, probably dreaming of becoming a big American football player and crushing on a girl. Normal lives.

Dr. Heywood would be somewhere in his college studies of history, long before getting his PhD.

Ray Palmer would have just met his future fiancé, living a blissful, happy life as he worked to create a tech empire that could give him and Anna the kind of life he wanted for them. In two and half years that would all be over. He'd eventually dedicate himself to becoming the Atom. But right now he was happy, and that was a good thought to leave it on.

Kendra Sanders was a high school girl trying to decide what she wanted to do with her life, and doubting college was what she saw for herself. Five years before she would one day awaken her powers.

If memory served correctly, Carter Hall was a few months from awakening his powers, which would lead him in the search for Kendra.

Leonard Snart was very much alive and, at the moment, a common criminal. He wasn't quite at the peak of his skill. Brilliant and cunning, yes, never could that be doubted, but right now he lacked the necessary weaponry he'd eventually grow accustomed too. Mr. Rory was in a similar boat. He followed Leonard Snart around, calling each other partners but constantly looking to him for the plan. Wait, wasn't he currently in prison this time of year?

That didn't matter much.

There was one person he was trying not to think about right now. Sara Lance.

This was the period of her life he knew the least about. He'd heard tales of her high school years, and her first two years at college, and then tales of becoming a vigilante with the Green Arrow.

Who was just under a year away from making his grand entrance in the then Starling City…

Rip Hunter shook his mind from that. He'd heard many stories of her life since meeting her and yet he knew very little about this period of her life. Those six years that began on the Queen's Gambit and ended after the Undertaking were a mystery to him.

In October, 2008 she had begun her training in the League of Assassins, but she wouldn't leave them for another two years. Five years in the League. Travelling the world on missions for them. Assassinations, he corrected himself. There was no use dancing around the word. Her blunt nature wouldn't tolerate such a careless glossing over of the important details.

In reality she could pop up anywhere during these five years and the thought…

That thought was a stupid fantasy in his head. The idea that he could see her again, a different version of her, was absolutely impossible. Even if screwing with the timeline was taken off the table, it was highly unlikely he'd ever run into her in this year. The world was very large indeed, and running into one girl among seven billion on the planet was a near impossibility. Much as he wanted to see her again.

Rip rubbed his hand across his face, trying to clear his head.

He left the Waverider for a reason.

He needed to leave because… because…

Because he still remembered killing her. Remembered the blood seeping through her fingers as she pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to slow down the bleeding from the bullet wound he had inflicted on her. Remembered brushing his hand across her face in something that could almost be comforting, and yet was deliberately cruel in intention. Remembered standing over her in the med bay as she laid there unconscious. Remembered her gasping for air as he crushed her throat and broke her neck.

All of which brought a new onslaught of nightmares that haunted him every night, joining in a new blend of torture, new wounds festering with old wounds.

Reliving the pain of not being able to save his family every night, reliving the pain of killing her and knowing it was him that had killed her. As much as the team tried to convince him that it wasn't really him, that it was just some twisted, brainwashed version of him, Rip still remembered every moment of that time. Every image, every sound, every detail. Every feeling… Or rather the lack there of. The cold pitted absence of emotion that allowed him to be their puppet and feel no remorse in the moment.

You say her name as if it's supposed to matter to me...

She doesn't…

Rip found himself shaking his head to force the blindingly clear memory out of his head. Those words continued to haunt him with every passing day because he was so damn wrong then. So damn wrong to believe she meant nothing to him because… because…

He found himself damn near hysterical, close to letting the panic set in. In a rush he stood up, chugging down the last of his drink. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the money for his drink along with a sizable tip for the waitress. With a bit of clumsiness, he climbed over the short wrought iron fence, not caring how ridiculous he looked doing it. He just needed to get out of there in the quickest way possible.

Rip walked quickly down the street, buttoning his long coat against the cold wind. The bar isn't far from the tiny, outdated hotel he's decided to stay while in Budapest. He was halfway up the street until he felt something strange, prickle in the back of his neck. That familiar feeling of being watched. He stopped, giving a wary look over his shoulder, searching for any sign of a shadow.

The street is empty though, not a soul in sight.

Rip let out a nervous breath and turned the corner.

Suddenly he found himself frozen in place.

Straight ahead he saw the familiar swish of golden blond hair. There she was. Sara.

Rip watched as she walked out from an alleyway, her gaze directed at the other side of the street, staring up at one of the townhouse buildings. Sara, his Sara, was standing a mere thirty feet away from him and yet it was as if he was invisible to her. She hadn't even looked his way for a second.

He stepped forward, her name placed carefully on his lips as he tried to find the courage to call out to her. That moment of uncertain invisibility was shattered as Sara turned to look at him. Rip swore he had to have the dumbest, most shocked expression on his face. Her eyes looked at him blankly for a moment, almost as if she was seeing through him. Something in his chest twisted and his heart raced.

That's not his Sara. It's obvious from the way she's dressed, in all black armor, metal studs imbedded into the leather armor. The hood that would normally cover her face has been pulled down. That's not the Sara he knows.

Of course that's not her. This is 2011 Sara. His Sara would have no business travelling here.

Yet she looks just like his Sara.

Something his chest burned faintly at seeing her. Something he still wasn't used to experiencing when it came to Sara Lance.

She gave him an almost knowing look, giving him one last thoughtful glance before she turned and walked down the street.

Suddenly Rip felt like slapping himself. Bloody hell. What was he doing messing with timelines like this? He very nearly had a run in with a woman he wasn't supposed to meet for another five years. Imagine if he had said anything to her, who knows what could have changed in her timeline. Perhaps she never would have left the League of Assassins. Or she would have left sooner and gone in a completely different path and been more crucial to the timeline, and thus impossible to remove from it. Anything that could have resulted in them never meeting, never travelling.

"I need another drink," Rip muttered, turning around.

There was a liquor store four blocks down from where he was standing, and a long walk in the cold sounded like something he desperately needed.

He made it to the tiny hut of a liquor store all too quickly. His attention immediately went to the scotch. Of course there was a pitiful selection but he would take what he got. Anything to help distance himself from the feeling of being invisible to the eyes of Sara Lance. He paid the cashier and quickly got out of there, his scotch in a brown paper bag. It was six blocks from his dark little hotel room, six blocks before he can get another drink.

This time the walk to his hotel room felt agonizingly slow. Although perhaps he really shouldn't try drowning his sorrows in alcohol, again, he wasn't quite at the level of drinking scotch out of a brown paper bag.

The tiny hotel stood over him, narrow and with chipping brickwork. The door creaked as he pushed through and into the warm lobby. He deviated left towards the stairs. The elevator here was temperamental at best, and never a fun ride. So the stairs it was.

On the third floor, Rip Hunter approached his hotel door. His hands shook as he forced the key into the lock. After several tries it gave way and Rip stumbled in, shutting the door behind him. The room was tiny and dark. The wallpaper was a pattern of reds and maroons, and the carpet not much different, a room lit by two dim lamps. Before he could shrug off his coat an arm latched around his neck, holding him in a dangerous grip as cold, smooth metal ghosted across the skin. Rip held his hands up, the brown paper bag still held firmly in his grip.

"Are you here to kill me Miss Lance?" Rip asked, a joking tone on his lips.

"What makes you think I'm here to kill you?" Sara inquired, her voice dangerously serious, yet bordering on curious.

"You're a member of the League of Assassins. I know one when I see one." Rip murmured, not sure whether he should be amused or concerned. "Your outfit isn't particularly subtle."

She pressed her metal boe staff more tightly across his neck. "How do you know my name?" She asked. Rip could swear he heard a teasing amusement in her tone.

"I know many things about you Miss Lance," Rip replied. He holds up the bottle of scotch. "Care for a drink?"

She didn't respond to the comment.

"Oh come on, if you're going to kill me, the least you can do is let me have a drink," Rip pointed out, forcing his tone to be teasing. And yet his heart was racing nervously.

"You're very nonchalant for someone facing death," Sara commented, her voice low.

In one fluid motion Sara released her grip from around his neck and pushed him forward. He stumbled for a moment, turning back to look at her. She's still in her League of Assassins outfit, decked out in black and most certainly armed to the teeth as always. For a moment Rip couldn't help but stare at her, still so confused and bewildered. How could this possibly be happening?

He'd thought that perhaps his Sara might have warned him about an encounter with her past self. That perhaps there was some indication that this was at all possible.

The woman in front of him raised an eyebrow, looking impatient.

"You offered me a drink," She reminded him.

"Right…" Rip murmured, trailing off.

It was very hard to turn his back on her, and yet he did it anyway. Retrieving the two glasses by his bedside table, Rip poured a generous double for both of them. She stepped forward, smirking in amusement, and took the glass from him. Together they took a sip.

"Right, why are you here exactly?" Rip inquired, staring into her eyes.

She gave him a coy smirk, raising an eyebrow and altogether ignoring the question.

"Seriously, why?" Rip asked. "Was it because I so clearly picked you for an assassin and blew your cover? Or because I somehow got in the way of a mark of yours?"

She scoffs, sipping her drink. "Perhaps you are my mark," She suggested.

He honestly can't tell if he's supposed to take her seriously or not.

Rip let out a sigh and looked around his dismal hotel room. "So you're here to kill me."

Part of him is burning to know. Why?

She just took another sip of her scotch. "You want to know why," She surmised.

His stillness seemed to answer her question.

"Do you really need to guess why?" Sara asked. She placed her drink on the dresser behind her, never taking her eyes off him.

"I don't really know how this is possible," Rip muttered, more to himself than her. He took another sip of his drink. How? How was it possible her younger self was standing before him, so casually standing there, as if she hadn't just told him he was her target? Why? Why hadn't his Sara warned him?

He recalled the very first night he met her, finding her in that tiny tavern in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a brawl fight. Nothing hinted she could possibly have known him before. Nothing she'd said over the last two years hinted towards something like this.

Was this some sort of time aberration? Had something he'd done in 1960 somehow led to this?

"1960," Rip whispered.

Something in her seemed to snap and in one swift movement, she had him pinned against the wall, a knife barely touching the skin of his neck. Rip let out rush of air in surprise, his drink slipping from his fingers. Her light blue eyes stared into his moss green eyes, her expression unreadable. Rip swallowed nervously.

"Sara," He breathed. "Please, don't."

The knife was pulled away from his throat in a second. Sara stepped back, giving him a strange look. He felt the adrenaline running through his veins now, amplified by the growing confusion and alarm, not knowing where he stood with this Sara.

"Wait, do you actually think I'm here to kill you?" She asked, something of a smile slipping onto her lips, drowning out the concern rippling through her voice.

Rip slumped against the wall, staring at her in disbelief. He heaved deep breaths, heart plummeting in shock. He didn't fully understand what just happened.

"Sara," He forced out, pushing himself back onto his feet.

"I can't believe it," She whispered, looking away as mirth filled her voice. "You actually fell for it."

Rip's eyes widened in shock, understanding sinking in. "What the hell was that?" Rip shouted, anger flooding his veins.

She stared at him for a moment before laughter erupted in her voice. "'Are you here to kill me Miss Lance?'" She repeated, mimicking his accent with surprising ease. "I couldn't resist."

"Sara!" Rip shouted, furious.

"You actually believed I was here to kill you?" Sara questioned, grinning so widely her cheeks could split open. "Rip, how much have you had to drink?"

Clearly not enough.

"How the hell was I supposed to know? It's 2011, the height of your League days Sara!" Rip defended himself. "I honestly believed this was your 2011 self, sent here on some League of Assassin's mission to kill me! For God's sake, you're wearing their armor! What the hell was I supposed to think?"

She tilted her head for a moment before humming in acknowledgement.

"I need a drink." Rip muttered.

He picked up his surprisingly not broken glass off the floor and filled it with another double of scotch. He downed the cheap scotch quickly, needing the burn it left in his throat. He immediately poured himself another.

He turned to her, scowling. "Why are you in 2011 anyway?" Rip questioned.

"Looking for you," She answered, as if it should be obvious.

Rip waved his arms out in exasperation. "Well, you found me." He commented sarcastically. "Why? I thought I made it very clear I was leaving for a while."

Sara gave him a hard glare. "Because the team misses you!" She exclaimed, thinking he ought to have it figured out by now. Her voice only got louder. "And because, despite what you think, we still need you and your stubborn, idiotic ass."

Rip stopped, jaw open for a moment, before giving her an annoyed glare. "My 'stubborn, idiotic ass?'" He repeated irritably.

Sara crossed her arms. "You heard me," She stated, not backing down.

Rip let out a bitter, frustrated laugh. "Well, I'm not coming back Sara, and there is nothing you can do to make me do otherwise." He told her stubbornly, insistently. He waved out an arm in frustration, nearly spilling a little of his drink. "And why go through it like this? Dressing up like a League assassin and cornering me in my hotel room?"

Sara laughed at his irritated words, irritated words which were bordering on pissed off. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smirk. "That was just a bit of fun," She answered, sounding annoyingly amused. "I didn't think you'd actually fall for it."

"Well, I hope you've had a good laugh," Rip muttered sarcastically. "Now get out."

She tilted her head, caught off guard. "Rip," Sara spoke, trailing off. The humor brought on by his outburst drained out of her.

"I mean it, get out," Rip repeated, but he felt the anger draining out of him as well. His voice broke as he murmured: "What on Earth makes you think I could possibly want to go back after a stunt like that?"

"Rip, I'm sorry," Sara whispered. The sincerity in her voice was echoed in her blue eyes. She stepped closer. Something in her eyes made him immediately want to forgive her.

"Sara," Rip drawled out, looking up at the ceiling, looking anywhere but her.

Her fingers slipped over his arm, her touch gentle, allowing him room to shake her off if he wanted. He held still despite his better instincts. Something about this was strangely comforting. "I'm sorry," She repeated softly. "I didn't think it would scare you like that."

"It's not the first time you've pulled a knife on me," Rip reminded her quietly, finally looking down at her.

Regret and pain flickered behind her eyes. Rip stepped backwards, pinning himself against the red wallpapered wall, his head slumping back against it.

"I just can't go back, not after everything that's happen," He admitted.

Sara sighed. "Rip, we forgive you. We forgave you a long time ago. Now you need to learn to forgive yourself," She whispered.

"I've never been good at that," Rip whispered.

"I know," Sara murmured. "But this isn't helping you."

Rip nodded. "I know."

"But it's the only thing I know how to do," He whispered hollowly.

"I know," Sara murmured.

Her fingers loosely wrapped around his hand, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin. "Come home to me," She whispered. "We need you. And you need us."

Rip pulled in a deep breath, his lungs aching. The panic that had set in when he left the bar had come back in full force, those memories flashing through his mind again.

They didn't need him. He was no good for the team. Why didn't they understand that?

"Sara, I'm a mess. I can't sleep through the night without waking up screaming from nightmares. I can barely make myself eat because I get so nauseous. Every time I think back to then I lose it. I can barely function on my own. I'm a liability to the team." His voice was almost too low to hear, but the tremor in his words was unmistakable.

Sara's blue eyes softened in sadness. She could hear the trembling in his voice he'd hidden so well tonight. Her heart was breaking for him. Guilt crawling through her veins for letting him go through this.

"Rip," She whispered.

He found himself shaking, every painful emotion resurfacing. Sara pulled him into a tight hug. Rip crumpled in her arms, leaning against her as he tried to calm down. Sara whispered promises. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not leaving. You don't have to go through this alone. It's okay. You're going to be alright.

He nodded, calming down slowly. He pulled away, looking down at the floor. He felt dizzy. Sara seemed to sense that, gently pulling him towards the bed. He collapsed into it heavily. Sara sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers smoothing his hair away. Rip closed his eyes at the kind affection, relaxing slightly.

"Do you want me to stay?" Sara whispered.

He opened his eyes again, looking up her. For a moment he hesitated, then: "Stay," He whispered.

She nodded, but rather than curl up with him, she pulled away, much to his disappointment. She slowly removed the layers of leather armor, one after the other, dropping them onto the floor carelessly. She stood there in a black tank top and black underwear. Rip blushed, looking away. Sara sighed at his ever consistent modesty and sense of propriety.

"You should at least take off the coat," Sara suggested, her voice low.

He looked back at her. He sat up, reluctantly, and shrugged off his coat, followed by the leather jacket he was wearing underneath, then his shoes. He didn't dare take off his shirt or his jeans. That would be too far. Sara let out a sigh and approached the bed. She pushed him back so he was laying down and pulled the covers of the unmade bed over him. Then she crawled onto the bed, joining him.

Rip felt his heart race as she settled down beside him, but not for the reason he expected it to. His heart wasn't racing from the panic of painful memories, but rather from the nervousness of having Sara so intimately close to him. He had his back to her, laying on his side as he was. He wasn't sure he could face her, not with the way his cheeks were heating up.

"I'm really sorry about tonight," Sara whispered. "I didn't mean to take it so far. I thought you would see right through me, that you thought I was joking and you were playing it along. I'm so sorry."

Rip stayed silent, not sure how to reply. Her fingers brushed along the small of his back, and for a moment he thought they would stay there, but they were pulled away in an instant as she got comfortable. Taking in a calming breath, Rip rolled over to look at her.

She looked so peaceful, and yet so worried. Worried for him. Rip breathed out, sinking in closer to her. She smiled faintly. Taking that as a good sign, Rip wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to his chest. Her arm slipped under his, wrapping around his back so that her palm was gently resting between his shoulder blades. For a moment he tensed, before relaxing into it.

"In all honesty, I'm strangely glad you found me tonight," Rip whispered. "Even if it wasn't under particularly enjoyable circumstances."

Sara let out a rush of air through her nose, an almost laugh. "That's one way to put it," She whispered.

Rip enjoyed the warmth of having her pressed so close to him. He found his fingers briefly brushing through her long blonde hair before he stilled his hand. Sara smiled faintly.

Her hand strayed from his back and floated to his cheek. "Get some rest, I'll be here in the morning when you wake up," She whispered.

Rip nodded tiredly. Leaning forward he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. He closed his eyes, letting himself fall asleep under the dim glow of the lamps, Sara in his arms.

That night he didn't wake up from nightmares, a miracle he never thought he'd be blessed with. But he couldn't rejoin the team, not yet. Sara accepted that, but only under the promise that he would return one day. One day.

Thank you for reading. Please leave a review if you'd like, reviews make my day. Keep a watch out for my upcoming RipSara/TimeCanary drabble fic. I will be accepting prompts for new chapters, though I have a bunch planned out so far.