Work Header

fist fights with mirrors

Work Text:

It started innocent. A joke between them, something Sara would laugh about after calling him a Time Cop . t was just a joke. Really. Mostly.

Because she liked the way his cheeks went red when she asked, “What are you going to do, handcuff me?”

That’s what it was.

Just a joke.

Until it wasn’t and she was being read her rights as a Time Pirate and sitting across from Rip in an interrogation room.

Her hands handcuffed behind her back.

Technically she could get out of them, the League had taught her how, how to put pressure on her wrist just right to -

“This is serious, Sara.”

“I’m being serious, Hunter ,” she says, twisting her lips up to make his name a bitter word. She’s not sure when they got here, how they got here but they are, and he’s sitting across from her and there’s no going back from this.

No backing out.

“Were you aware of what you were doing?”

“That’s vague,” she points out. “I broke time. There’s no need to be delicate about it.”

He sighs.

And that’s so Rip.

There’s the man she knows.

Worn down and tired and hers .

“Where’s the rest of your team?”

Our team,” Sara corrects instinctively.

There she sees it, the flicker that he’s not this unfeeling thing.

She knows that.

She knew that.

But he was keeping secrets from her, so she started to keep some of their own and now they were here.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Sara points out.

Which earns her an eyeroll in return.

That’s a break of character.

She wants to point that out.

Almost does, but he straightens up a second later. Pushing his chair back and stepping out from the seat across from her. Moving so that there is not a table between them, so that he is right behind her. If she pushes backwards now she could dig the metal chair she’s sitting on into his rib cage and knock the air out of him.

She considers it just for a moment.

That moment's hesitation is all she gets, because he moves then, hand on her jaw, tilting her head away from the mirrors across from her and instead to look up into his eyes.

“I know all your weaknesses, Sara,” he points out.

She scoffs at that, “You don’t know all of them.”

He relents with a slight tilt of his head, though his hand is still on her chin, his thumb rubs along the curve of her face, soft almost tender. “I know perhaps the most important one.”

Her voice doesn’t sound nearly as confident as usual when she asks, “Oh yeah?”

Any other comment she might have is silenced a moment later when his lips are against hers. Kissing her. This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed, not by a long shot, just two days ago they’d had sex in his office back on the Waverider, a throwback for old times sake - but this is softer than she’d been expecting almost like it could have been the first time.

Certainly not the sort of thing one would expect here of all places.

She wants to reach towards him, to pull him closer to her, to tell him to speed up, but she can’t - her hands still trapped behind her back. Tight in the cuffs.

Sara pulls back from him. “Uncuff me so I can kiss you properly.”

“You don’t need hands to kiss,” Rip points out, though his hand flutters to the pocket of his jacket instinctively.

She files that way in the back of her mind and instead asks:

“You make a habit of kissing all your prisoners or just the cute ones?”

“Just you,” he assures her, “Only you.”

A sentiment Sara would feel more attached to if she wasn’t still in handcuffs, still a prisoner.

Still likely to be carted off to Time Prison in the morning.

Though she’s sure the team would break her out within a few hours, if she didn’t find a way out before then.

Not that Rip needed to know about that.

“I’ve disabled the cameras,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “In case you wanted to… One last time?”

As though that would actually stop her.

“They don’t give conjugal visits in Time Prison?”

He actually has enough shame left in him to blush at that. Just a hint there along the edge of his cheeks. It’s one of the things she likes about Rip, usually.

“Fuck me,” she says, because unlike Rip she’s blunt and to the point and this isn’t going to be the last time, she refuses to let it be, but they might as well make every moment count. “Don’t make me say please.”

He doesn’t.

Thankfully he doesn’t.

He kisses her, pulls her up towards him, hands holding steady onto her like he might never have the chance to again. He’s sentimental. He always has been. Looks out for them all in his terribly wrong way. This is him doing that again.

Loving her slow and sweet like it might be the last time.

When she needs to much more than that.

She opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, thrusts her hips against his to remind him what the purpose of all of this is, right as she pops her wrist out of socket.

The sound of her cuffs hitting the floor echo in a room where the only other noises are them.

“Sara, what-”

She uses her now free hands to tug him back close to her instead of answering the question.

He goes willingly.

As he always does.

Letting her take control.

One of her hands holds tight to his shirt, holding him close so that she can kiss him, so that he doesn’t second guess this. While her other hand goes down, to undo his belt with practiced ease, to unbutton his pants like she has many times before.

He moans against her lips the second her hand is on him.

Predictable, easy.

And his hands are moving next, pushing up her top. An orange sweater which was period appropriate for the time period in which she had been captured in, but was a hinderance now since it forced them to pull apart for a moment in order for her to wrestle it off.

She does though.

Watching as he removes his own jacket, the one with the keys.

And gun holster, carefully setting them on the table.

“I did always like a man in uniform,” she says, as she tugs her pants down, stepping out of them with ease while, Rip seems to fumble a bit with his own clothing.

As he always does.

As though he isn’t sure they should be doing this.

As though shedding his layers leaves him smaller underneath it all.

She kisses him when she can see the smallest furrow of doubt between his brows. They weren’t going to talk about this. Not now. Not when Rip was looking at her like that, with wonder and amazement like he always did, but with an undercurrent of something like regret.

“Rip,” she says, his name, endlessly like an echo.

And he answers her, “Sara,” repeated until it becomes nothing but sounds.

Nothing but noises and sensations and the feeling of him pushing inside of her.

They’ve long since established a rhythm, usually hot and fast the way Sara like it, the way she’s liked it with of her male partners. And yet, here, in this place, with her back against an interrogation table while Rip bends her over it, he slows down.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Like he’s trying to savor the moment.

Something burns in her chest terrible and awful.

This won’t be the last time.

Not forever.

She won’t let that happen.

But she can see when she looks into his eyes that he’s thinking that. The way his hands trace over her curves delicately. The way he moves slowly, drawing each thrust out. The way when she kisses, he responds open mouthed and desperate.

She loves this man.

She knows this.

Has said it before.

And he loves her.

And isn’t that the tragedy of it all, because they’re on opposite sides now, sides that he built to protect her, sides that are tearing the two of them apart.

She breaks the kiss when a particularly hard thrust hits her just right, a moan slipping from her lips, broken and needy, she needs him.

“More, Rip, please,” she urges him on.

Tilting her head back to rest against the table.

When she looks backwards it’s by accident really, an afterthought, but she catches the image of them there in the mirror. Her spread out over the table, and Rip above her, two bodies moving in sync. There was something beautiful about it. Poetic. Uniquely them.

No other couple would be caught in a moment like this.

In a place like this.

In a situation like this.

“God, Rip,” she says, forcing out the words between desperate noises, “How did we get here? Look at us- Fuck-” Another moan, unexpected, before she asks again, “How did we get here?”

He doesn’t answer her, just says, “Sara,” again and again, like it’s the only word he knows how to say.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Just for a moment.

But it’s more charged than anything else that has happened in this room.

His hand is on her a second later.

Touching her, and her eyes slip closed, lost to the pleasure. Lost to the feeling of him.

She can feel his hips stutter, an uneven rhythm.

This is it, the end.

She lets it wash over her.

The feeling of sparks, and fire and hitting her peak, he always makes sure to get her there first, but it’s not the fire that it usually is. Because while her nerves light up, her heart still burns with something colder, with something that makes her push upwards to kiss him.

A last kiss.


He comes apart there against her lips.

Her name no longer a sound he can make, but she feels the way he shakes, the way his hips slow, the way he pulls back to rest their foreheads against each other.

There’s water in his eyes and she worries that her own reflects that.

That this is all too much.

“I love you,” he says, there in the afterglow. “I’ll always love you, Sara.”

She wants to return the sentiment like she has before, but she can’t. Her throat seems dry suddenly, all words forgotten, all except.

“You know I’ll be gone in the morning,” Sara says, “That the team will-”

“I know. I figured you already had an extraction plan in place.”

She nods her head.

An acknowledgment.

They sort of do.

“Would your extraction plan mind if I hold on to you just a moment or so longer?”

There it is again.

That painful feeling in her chest.

The one that means something.

“I think that can be arranged.”