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bluewonderer · 7 years

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"And so, like the beginnings of a tasteless lightbulb joke, Len finds himself in the midst of stolen Christmas decorations, eating an early Christmas Eve dinner on paper plates with his baby sister, a pyromaniac, and a prostitute. "

(Or, a few years before The Lightning, a thief hires a prostitute for a job. Not that kind of job.)

“Are you Bill?”

Len certainly does not startle at the sudden voice. He  nonchalantly  lowers the binoculars he was using to study his next target—McTier Global Science and Technologies, an ostentatious building imperiously overshadowing its neighbors and conveniently situated across the street from his nondescript car. Len turns a glare to the cracked driver’s side window and the ill-timed intrusion on his reconnaissance. 

There’s a kid bending down next to his window. It’s dark and the street light glares down behind the offender, haloing fluffy hair and casting a lanky silhouette. 

“Get lost, kid.” 

“Damn it,” the kid sighs, seemingly unperturbed by Len’s menacing snarl. “You’re not my John.” 

Len blinks and, despite the urgent need to shoo the kid away before he draws unwanted attention to his budding operation, says, “I thought you were looking for Bill?”

What was this kid even doing wandering up to nondescript cars with tinted windows in dark alleys at half-past midnight, anyway? 

The kid quirks a brow. Eyes finally adjusting to the play of shadow and light, Len lets his gaze travel down. The kid’s in tight jeans, artfully torn and frayed at the thighs. His shirt is similarly meant to draw attention to the lithe cut of his stomach and tease glimpses of smooth, creamy skin. The ensemble is a seriously inadvisable fashion choice this late in December, but not as inadvisable if the kid is more concerned with advertising certain assets so his clients will know what they are paying for. Len thinks he can even see a hint of mascara and dusky lipstick meant to accentuate pretty features. 

Ah. That explains it. 

“Not Bill,” Len decides to affirm. And, because it annoys him when people do moronic things, he scornfully points out, “You just walked up to a car in a dark alley, not even knowing  who  was in the car.” His eyes flick over the thin, tight clothes. “You don’t even have a weapon on you.” 

The guy—because he’s young and cute as a button, but he’s not quite the kid Len first thought he was—just nods like he doesn’t see anything asinine about this series of decisions. Instead he squints a little and angles his head so he can peer better in the car, eyeing the binoculars on Len’s lap. “Hey,” he says cheerfully. “What were you looking at?” 

“The stars,” Len says dryly. “Beat it.” 

But the guy is already following the line of sight Len had on the building across the street. “The McTier place, huh?” 

Len tightens his jaw, suspicious, and eases his hand beside the seat where his gun is concealed. “Last warning, kid.” 

The prostitute doesn’t seem to have the sense that God gave a goose because he just squints at the building, ignoring Len and his tone. He gives a low whistle which cuts off quickly because his lips tremble with a sudden shiver. It’s beginning to snow. “That’ll be tough to get in,” the guy muses out loud, still studying the building. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“So... you’re not planning on robbing Jameson McTier?” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Len repeats, more aggressively and through clenched teeth. He’s honestly a little thrown. His scathing scowls and acerbic tones are usually enough to make lawmen pause and send other lowlifes scurrying for weaker prey. Just what was wrong with this kid? 

The guy crooks a half-smile. “Hey, man, don’t get all twisted and, like, shoot-y or something. You’ve been staking the place out for three nights now, that’s all.” 

Len’s mind scrambles, trying to remember seeing the guy before tonight, but can’t recall. Irritated, he wonders what other things he failed to observe. 

He carefully keeps his face blank and shrugs blithely when he says, “I could be McTier’s security.” 

“Nah--McTier’s security are of the classic thug variety—the freaking huge and stoic kind in cheap suits. Well, there’s also the military, but they mostly stay in certain areas of the building.” 

Begrudgingly, Len looks sharply up at the guy. “You telling me that McTier contracts military personnel for security?” 

The guy shrugs. “McTier has a lot of contracts with the government—zero-fuel aircraft and jetpacks and probably loads of other stuff that’s super classified. So I’m not sure if it’s McTier contracting the muscle so much as the government just protecting their investments.”  

Interesting, Len muses, both excited and frustrated at this new information and the added challenge to an already difficult job. Still, wary of some kind of elaborate entrapment, he just barely swallows the urge to ask more questions and says instead, “You got a point here, guy?” 

The young man throws up his hands in a pacifying gesture and leans back a little. More light spills across his cheek and shoulders, showing more of his face to Len. He’s pretty alright, except for the hint of a bruise around his left cheek and eye. “Hey, man. Just making conversation. Also, McTier is a Grade-A douche nozzle. I just think if you’re going to do him some hurt, you should know what you’re up against.” 

“You… know him? McTier?” 

The guy points vaguely at the healing black eye. The bruise, a few days old by the coloration, stretches across his cheekbone and toward his temple. Len finds himself grimacing. 

“He do that to you, kid?” 

The smile he gives is bemused, a jaded look much more familiar to Len. “McTier seemed to suffer under the notion that the word  'no’  and also the phrase ‘hell no, eat shit and die’  was me being coy. I quickly... disabused him before it could get any further than I wanted, but got this in the scuffle.” 

“Ah. Douche nozzle,” Len nods understandingly. "And he just let you go?” Len doesn’t need a character reference to know that McTier didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d let what he viewed as a common whore turn him down and just walk away. He actually seemed more like the guy who’d make someone else disappear and not lose a wink of sleep over it. 

“Douche nozzle,” the guy reiterates. “And hell no. McTier… no. He’s a scumbagging scumbag and all, but I’m a pretty fast runner. Was out of the building before he could even alert security.” The guy grins cockily and Len wonders if the gaze behind the grin is one of trepidation because he knows he probably outran death that day. 

“Good for you,” Len says and is surprised to find that he means it.

The silence between them stretches too long, making this whole circumstance seem even more weird and awkward. 

“And... this is awkward now,” the guy voices out loud. 

“Oh, it’s not just now,” Len assures. 

The guy blinks and then smiles and not even the dark of night can really hide how beautiful it is. 

(Len notices pretty things.)

A car drives up, headlights flashing over dark brown hair, doe eyes,  goddamned dimples, and a whole lot more that Len finds  very intriguing. 

“That’s probably…” the guy—and Len suddenly wishes he'd bothered to ask his name—sways toward the new car but continues to linger. 

The snow falls faster, illuminated by headlights. The kid’s warm breath condenses in the cold air, eyes seeming to glimmer behind darkened eyelashes. Len spends an inordinate amount of time pondering and cataloging their exact shade of hazel. 

“Bill?” Len prompts after a few beats. 

The guys blinks, rolls his eyes, and turns away, muttering something underneath his breath. 

Len watches the other man lean in the window of the other car, takes in the elegant play of long fingers as the guy talks to the shadowy figure inside the vehicle. He watches as the pretty boy gets in the car and rides away. 

McTier Global Science and Technologies turned out to be a  fortress. The prostitute’s story checks out, too, as Len does discover the existence of military guards at key points in the building. He wonders just how many times McTier took the kid in and around the building (he wonders what made the last time different, what made the kid run). On top of that, there is a truly excessive number of private security personnel, cameras, motion detectors, and a state-of-the-art vault and safe that aren’t even on the market yet. The level of security goes beyond corporations similar to that of McTier Global, and gives Len insight into the mind of a paranoid CEO who may be hiding something even more interesting and lucrative than the norm. Still, the obstacles for the job were accumulating and seemed, for the first time, slightly insurmountable.   

“Let’s just rob a bank,” Mick grunts over layers of blueprints and surveillance logs the night following Len's encounter with the mouthy prostitute. “Roast some pigs while we’re at it.” 

“That one financial advisor con has a good turnover and is way less risky,” Lisa agrees as she touches up the gold paint on her nails. 

“It’s not as fun,” Len drawls. 

“Banks are fun,” Mick grumbles. 

“They’re not as  challenging.” 

(And if his persistence over the McTier Global Job happens to coincide with a memory of a down-on-his-luck prostitute with a sunshine grin and a black eye, well. No one has to know that but Len.)

But the problem remained on how to get in. Len eventually decides to try another angle. McTier has a good friend, Slade Wilson, a man with a lot of money, even though it’s kind of unclear exactly what he does. He keeps to the figurative shadows, navigating away from media limelight with suspicious fluidity. But Len has seen him with McTier several times, his own eyes confirming what his sources told him. Wilson seems too… discrete, he supposes, to really be friends with McTier. Len suspects that Wilson is using McTier for some other end. 

Still, Wilson’s security is not as heavy as McTier’s and Len thinks that getting closer to Wilson may give him an insight on how to get at McTier. So he finds out that Wilson is throwing a Christmas party, large enough that Len shouldn’t have trouble blending in, but small enough that he may have a chance to get close to Wilson. After that it’s a matter of dusting off his tux, fabricating an invite, and sketching out a backstory with Lisa in the wee hours of the morning over hot chocolate and graham crackers.

The plan goes off the rails fairly early, as is per usual. Wilson appears only briefly for a “Happy Holidays” speech in his gruff, Australian accent that Len admires along with his general air of mystery and his dramatic eye patch. After that the elusive CEO seemingly disappears into thin air, leaving his guests to enjoy the champagne and festivities. 

Len stalks the room, places a few casual inquiries, but it seems that Wilson is already out of reach. He is just about to leave empty-handed when he sees a familiar face. 

The prostitute from the alley fits almost seamlessly into the finery and glow of the Wilson Holiday party, dressed as he is in an expensive tux that makes the sleek lines of his body all the more attractive and elegant. His hair is swept in a wild style that puts Len in the mind of rucked sheets and sex. In the full light of the ballroom Len can make out his features with more clarity—the pale skin, the wry mouth, full lips, long lashes, stormy eyes. 

He’s standing in the corner of the room, a full glass of champagne in his hand, and obviously trying not to look bored (and failing). 

Len finds himself making his way over, feeling a predatory smirk stretch across his face when the guy spots him approaching. His gaze darts around, maybe looking for an escape route, maybe to see if anyone is watching, before he decides to break out into a grin. 

And, yeah. That smile is just as beautiful as it was two nights ago. More so now, in the light. 

“Fancy meeting  you  here,” Len greets, suspicious. 

“I’m working,” the guy grins, though he runs a hand self-consciously through his hair before seeming to realize what he’s doing and deciding to worry at the hem of his tux instead. He’s a creature of motion, Len observes. Shifting weight, nervous fingers, quick eyes, and broad smiles. 

“Same here,” Len shrugs and the guy chuckles and tilts his chin back in a way that draws Len’s attention to the long column of his throat. Hazel eyes catch Len watching and he dips his face away, a hint of a blush on his cheeks. 

Interesting. 

“What do I call you?” Len asks. 

“Barry.” 

“Cute.” 

“Better than Bartholomew.” 

Len blinks. “Kid. Are you using your real name?” Usually people in Barry’s line of work use aliases as an additional layer of protection, no matter how thin. 

Barry runs his hand through his hair again, and yeah, that’s definitely a bit of a blush. 

A rush of music sweeps the room and at least half of the guests dutifully step onto the main floor.

“Name’s Len,” he says at the same time he offers his hand, surprising himself by giving Barry his own real name. He’s far away from Central City, but he’s in the middle of a job and so it's still a little risky. 

Barry’s eyes light up, though, and Len thinks,  worth it. Barry sets down his champagne and looks around again before placing his hand in Len’s and letting the older man pull him into the crowd of dancers. Eyes follow them onto the floor—some cursory, some scandalized, and a few lingering heatedly on their forms. He’s not sure how aware Barry is of the gazes that follow them but Len smiles charmingly at each, preening at the attention. After a few seconds where Barry struggles to give the lead to Len, the young man melts naturally with him and the music. 

“Working, you said?” Len prods. “Seems a bit drastic from your setting two nights ago.” 

“Could say the same for you,” Barry points out. “But the gig the other night is actually kind of a new… development. I was perfectly legitimate, or as close as you can get I guess, working for an escort agency here uptown. School isn’t cheap, you know, and this place was a nice, er… work study. There were health benefits and everything.” 

“Sounds posh.” 

“Good dental,” Barry agrees with a forlorn sigh. “Was there almost two years,” he admits. “Wasn’t a bad deal. The clients were usually nice enough. Most tended to at least respect their contracts and reputations, if not the escorts. Some people didn’t even really want sex, you know? Just some company, usually to events like this. I learned to dance from some really nice, rich older ladies.” 

Barry’s movements are indeed fluid and graceful. The music and the dance move them closer together and Len feels the heat of Barry seep through his clothes.  

“Since you’re speaking in the past tense, I’m assuming McTier happened?” 

“McTier happened,” Barry sighs, gesturing again to his black eye, though the fading bruise looks to have disappeared beneath cleverly applied concealer. “He threatened to shut down Executive Experiences over our little… disagreement. They had no choice but to kick me to the curb.” 

“Literally, it seems.” 

“Yep,” Barry pops out. “Tuition is going up next semester and my landlord is a scumbagging price-gouger and anyway… it’s what I know.” Barry’s face travels through a voyage of expressions, most of which Len isn’t sure how to name but resonates with all the same. Wears his heart on his sleeve, this kid. 

“So what are you doing  here, Barry?” Len asks as he drops his hand lower on Barry’s back, brings him in even closer so he can lower his voice.  

“Not following  you, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Barry scoffs. “There was a client I had with Executive Experiences—Isabel Rochev. She’s Slade Wilson’s… something. You know,” he says, contemplative. “I’m not really sure  what  she does. She’s powerful, though. Kind of scarily driven. She hired me for a few things while I was with the agency and didn’t care much that I wasn’t with them anymore. In fact, I think she took some weird pleasure in the passive aggressiveness towards McTier. Did I mention that she can be a bit scary?” 

“She doesn’t hurt you? Like McTier did?” Was that actual concern? Len berates himself. He’s supposed to be using the kid for information, not—whatever that was. The kid made his own choices, made his own bed, just like Len. 

“What? No. Ms. Rochev… I think she used to be kind, once. I see it sometimes.” 

“And you said she’s close to Wilson?” 

“Should I be charging by the minute for this interrogation?” Barry challenges. 

“Quid pro quo,” Len smirks. “You interrogated  me  two nights ago. I thought I’d return the favor.” 

A spark plays behind Barry’s eyes again, an intelligently fierce playfulness that lights into Len and sends a thrill down his spine.   “Alright, I’m game,” he finally says. The music slows down and Len doesn’t hesitate to let his other hand drop to Barry’s hip, relishing in the feel of the body beneath the expensive fabric, savoring the heat. Barry’s hand moves up over his shoulder, fingers briefly curling into the back of Len’s neck before dropping down again.  

“She’s close to Wilson,” Barry finally acquiesces. “They’re partners in whatever they’re doing. Or at least that’s what she sees them as. But I don’t think that’s supposed to be common knowledge.” Indescribable hazel eyes search his. “You’re still after McTier?” 

“I’m  asking the questions.” 

Barry grins with more teeth than before. “Quid pro quo,” he drawls in what he probably thinks is a good imitation of Len.  

“Maybe,” Len hedges and Barry nods with a hum. 

“You’re trying to get to McTier through Wilson.” 

“Maybe,” Len insists more emphatically. “You’re pretty sharp.” 

“For a whore, you mean?” 

It seems Barry runs a decent act right up until he doesn’t. His tone remains casual but Len can almost taste the bitterness and the tension. It’s a test of some sort. Len is surprised to find himself intrigued enough to want to pass. At least for now, until he can get a little more information about the job (and maybe also so he can hold on to Barry’s body just a little longer). 

“Not at all,” Len answers, because it’s the truth. “Just an observation.” 

This seems to mollify Barry well enough because he blinks and leans his face closer to Len. Their breaths intermingle and the faint blush returns to Barry’s cheeks. “I’ve met Wilson a few of times. Once when I was with McTier. A couple of times when I was with Ms. Rochev. I realize I’m not an experienced thief or grifter or whatever the hell you are—you’re not some ninja assassin, are you?” 

“Not my particular skill set,” Len admits, wry. 

“Ah, that’s good. Killing is  no bueno,” he declares with a terrible accent.

“Even douche nozzles like McTier?”

“Yeah, probably even him. Anyway, I’m no expert, but I don’t think Wilson’s your best angle.” 

“You don't?” 

Len’s hands are so low it’s bordering on impropriety more suitable for a club than a classy, high-falutin ballroom dripping with golden decorations that cost more than some people’s entire year’s income. “I think Slade Wilson is a tough man to get close to, and probably even tougher to manipulate. He’s not made of the same stuff as McTier, if that makes sense. And he  hates McTier—I think he hates just about everything and everyone, to be honest. He’s… aloof. And Ms. Rochev doesn’t have enough dealings with McTier, and she’s… incredibly sharp. And scary.” 

“You may have mentioned that.” 

“I’m just saying that of the three of them, the weakest link to McTier  is  McTier.” 

There’s a moment where a new plan takes root in Len’s mind. Before he can form any words, however, the music stops and they’re interrupted by another presence. 

The woman is a few years older than Barry and very beautiful with rounded, delicate features and wide eyes. Her brown hair hangs in soft, shining curls down her back and over her shoulders.

“Isabel,” Barry says in a congenial tone Len has not yet heard and he’s startled to realize that the warmth Barry directs at the woman is very different from the soft smiles and teasing blushes he’d witnessed so far. 

“Sam,” Isabel Rochev says, measuredly, and Len is momentarily confused until he realizes that she’s talking to Barry. The kid had known to use an alias after all—but he’d apparently given his real name to Len, a thief whom he’d found skulking out his next score in a dingy alley a couple of days ago. 

“Michael,” he introduces himself smoothly, holding out his hand, which Isabel shakes firmly after a moment’s study. 

“I’m glad you were able to entertain yourself while I was gone,” Isabel says, looking up to Barry and wrapping an arm around his elbow when he cordially holds it out for her. 

“My world was gray without you in it,” Barry laments. Isabel rolls her eyes, seemingly unmoved, but Len sees the corner of her mouth quirk in amusement. Barry smiles too, a little less fake, and places a gentle kiss on Isabel’s temple. He looks up to Len. “Thank you for the dance, Michael.” 

“You were a good partner,” Len responds. Barry smiles at him, small and shy like they’re sharing a secret. Len supposes they are. 

Barry’s gaze idles on him for a second before he’s turning away with Isabel.  

“How was your meeting?” Len hears Barry ask. 

“Productive.” 

“That sounds... incredibly boring. You know what’s not boring? Champagne and dancing.” 

And then the crowd swallows them up and Len is left watching the after image in his mind’s eye, feeling the ghost of Barry’s hand on the back of his neck, the heat of Barry’s body, the aching temptation of Barry’s lips so close to his own. 

Len finds himself  wanting  in a way he hasn’t in a while. 

Len spends the next few hours doing his homework. Len calls Executive Experiences and asks a few local contacts he somewhat trusts and finds out that the prostitute’s full name is Bartholomew Allen, a native of Central City just like Len himself. From there he finds out that Barry Allen is a senior at the university, double majoring in chemistry and forensic science with a 4.0 and a whole slew of honors and accolades. Digging back further, Len finds a sordid tale of a murder, a father in prison, and year after year of foster homes before the state finally agreed to grant custody of a fifteen-year-old Barry to one Joe West, who also happened to be the arresting officer of Barry’s father. 

Barry, already doing well in school despite his past and being tossed from home to home, starts excelling once he’s in a stable environment. He had scholarship offers from several schools, including Central, but went to New York for the most prestigious program in his chosen field. So, despite the scholarships, he was still paying for an out-of-state education at one of the most expensive universities in the Northeast. Of course Barry would need to take on an extra… what had he called it? “Work study?” 

And then Len returns to planning the McTier Global Job because now he has the one break he needed, the ticket that can get him and his crew in to McTier Global Science and Technologies. Even more satisfying, he knows how to get in and out while McTier is in the building.

It’s all so simple, really, as the best plans are. 

“Len?” Barry asks the next night, leaning over as Len draws down the car window. “Is this really a different car than what you were driving the other night? Being a thief must pay so much better than this hooker thing.” 

“The operative word being ‘thief’, Barry,” Len smirks up at him. “Who says I paid for it?”  

The corners of Barry’s eyes crinkle with quiet laughter. “What are you doing here, Len?” 

“Want to grab a coffee?” 

There’s a beat while Barry cocks his head and Len gets a little distracted by how the deep “v” of Barry’s shirt shows off his collarbone. 

“…Is that a euphemism?” Barry asks. 

“Just coffee.” 

“Maybe later,” Barry sighs, looking like he actually regrets it. “The night’s young and rent’s due next week and all that.” 

“OK,” Len concedes. “Maybe coffee  and  a job offer.” 

Barry’s eyes sharpen, somehow, and his expression thins cagily. 

“…so it  is  a euphemism? Didn’t peg you for the coy type.”

“Not that kind of job. How do you feel about a little eye for an eye, Barry?” 

Realization seems to dawn and the next thing Len knows Barry is throwing open the passenger door and plopping in the seat. He smells of coffee, aftershave, and snow. Len breathes in a little deeper. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

“I think it’s time you met the rest of my crew.” 

Len drives them to their safe house—a relatively small warehouse that used to manufacture window blinds and is now up for sale. Lisa and Mick are in the cafeteria/kitchen, Lisa hovering over Mick and being a general menace while the other man tries to maneuver around the kitchen. Len makes a quick introduction.

“Is that a turkey?” Barry asks in lieu of an actual greeting when he follows Len’s saunter into the room. 

“Chicken,” Mick gruffly answers as he puts the chicken in to the industrial-sized refrigerator. “It’s for Christmas Eve,” he adds, as if that explains anything. 

“And the ham?” Len asks, poking dubiously at the delicious smell wafting from the heap of golden foil on the counter. Mick slaps his hand and squirrels the ham away, too. 

“It’s for  Christmas Eve,” he explains again. 

Barry laughs then, a brittle and choked-off sound. “Christmas Eve,” he marvels more to himself than anyone else. “That’s tomorrow.” 

“Got plans?” Lisa asks, sidling up to Barry, assessing him with her tip-tilted eyes as she wraps an arm around his and leads him deeper in the kitchen. 

“Depends on Len’s… proposition,” he says, tossing a grin over his shoulder at Len. 

Lisa snorts at the entendre and deposits him next to Mick, who slides a mug Barry’s way and rumbles, “Coffee or hot chocolate?” 

Barry’s face lights up. “Hot chocolate? Do you have marshmallows?” 

Inexplicably, Mick throws an accusing glare at Len before rummaging around in a plastic sack and producing marshmallows. 

Barry bounces on his toes, smiles, and says, “Thank you so much!” 

“Do you need help?” Barry asks Mick at the stove and isn’t phased when Mick just sort of glares back at him. “I haven’t burned anything since I was eleven,” Barry swears. “And I’m really good at soup!” 

Mick takes another assessing moment before he roughly shoves a few plastic bags into Barry’s chest. “You can start cutting.” 

“Hey, cool!” Barry responds, beaming  at Mick, and Len is stunned to see his partner almost blush and turn away, muttering a “be careful with the knife, kid”. 

Lisa, also inexplicably, turns a glare at Len. 

“What?” He whispers, feeling ganged-up on. 

“I can’t believe you’re dragging an actual literal cinnamon roll into this,” Lisa hisses up at him. 

“What?” He repeats dumbly. “You were fine with it last night!” 

“That’s before I saw him,” Lisa gestures at Barry, who’s now wearing a frothy chocolate mustache and is cheerfully humming as he dices the carrots and celery. “And you’re going to throw him at that McTier bastard.” 

“Barry Allen is made of tougher stuff,” Len assures, watching as Barry throws his head back, laughing at something between him and the arsonist, and Mick runs his hand over his face to hide a smile. 

“How do you know?” Lisa asks. “You’ve only talked to him twice.” 

Len shrugs, electing not to say anything about kindred spirits, because there’s a chance that Lisa will either roll her eyes and dismiss him with a disgusted, “fucking shitballs, Lenny, your sentimentality makes me want to hurl” or give him a sort of misty-eyed pitying look, depending on her mood. 

“He’ll be fine with it. He’s getting paid. I’ll personally guarantee his safety.” 

“No one can guarantee that for anyone,” Lisa says, reaching down to briefly grasp his hand in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring but Len interprets as,  “you said that to me once and look what happened”. 

They both watch a minute while Mick outlines the process of frying a whole chicken to Barry, who listens raptly and… seems to be taking notes.

“He’s going to hate your plan.” 

“I hate this plan,” Barry declares. 

“You won't be with the rat bastard long, kid,” Mick offers, crossing his arms and looking very broad-shouldered and dependable. 

“It’s not just that. I was thinking more that this would be Ocean’s Eleven, not—whatever this is.” 

“Dipshitive asshattery?�� Lisa supplies. 

Barry blinks in momentary awe before nodding slowly in agreement. “Yes.” 

“It’s a perfectly good plan,” Len says, defensive. “There’s even plans for contingencies. Fail safes. This is good.” 

“Except the part where you’re hiring me as bait to dangle in front of Jameson McTier.” 

“We’re just dangling,” Len assures, ignoring Barry’s affronted look. “One of us will be nearby the entire time.” 

Barry runs his hand through his hair, leaving behind tufts that stick up in every direction. “It just seems like a lot of risk,” he sighs. “The guy can’t have all that much in his safe to even make it worth it—what?” He asks when Len just smirks at him. 

“We’re not just stealing a few thousand from his safe,” Lisa purrs. 

“Might’ve just robbed a bank if we only wanted that,” Mick agrees. 

“You see, Old Man McTier hasn’t been on the up-and-up for years,” Len adds. 

“He’s run a few fraudulent schemes,” Lisa continues. “One or two contrary to the interests of his contracts with the U.S. Government, even. Not to mention illegally seizing and re-selling intellectual properties.” 

“He’s paid off officials to hide results from certain quality inspections. Brought products to market that should’ve been recalled. There’s some evidence that suggests he’s even got a few ill-advised projects in several foreign sites, including money-laundering enterprises that probably link to his shady off-shore bank accounts.” Len finishes, leaning back and basking in Barry’s widening eyes. 

“Can’t keep up with all of that in your head," Mick pitches in, tapping a finger to his temple. "No matter how smart you are.”

“And McTier really shouldn’t leave stuff like that just lying around,” Lisa says with an exaggerated pout. “It could fall in the wrong hands.” 

“So you’re not only getting McTier’s money…” Barry starts. 

“We’re taking down everything and reaping the same rewards he’s been fattening himself on for the past two decades. The rate of returns on this job is much higher than your run-of-the-mill bank heist.” 

“This could… potentially take down McTier entirely,” Barry muses, running a hand down his face. “Do you think we’ll have any material we could sell to the press?” 

“Blackmail?” Lisa raises an eyebrow. “Barry, I didn’t know you had that in you.” 

Barry’s expression is hard and determined. “Not blackmail necessarily. I just—I just don’t want McTier to be able to hurt anyone else.”  

Mick chuckles a little darkly. “Lenny, how the hell did you pick up a do-gooding—" he breaks off when Lisa nails him in the ribs before he can finish with “hooker” or something else unintentionally but entirely offensive. 

Len’s smile is all teeth when he says, “Trust me, Barry, we’ll  ruin  him.” 

Barry crosses his arms, eyes sparking fiercely as he zeroes in on Len. “This is definitely more  Leverage  than  Ocean’s Eleven.” He declares with satisfaction. “I think we have ourselves an arrangement.” 

They plan well into the night and Len is pleased with how well Barry molds himself into their dynamic. He’s sharp-witted and even more sharp-eyed, coming up with counter-plans and contingencies and risks almost faster than Len can account for them. 

Which, fair. Barry’s the one who’s going to be the dangling bait, after all. 

Barry dozes off first, sitting upright at the table, head tilted to the side and breathing heavy into his own shoulder. Len notices a small tremble now and again come from the younger man and grabs one of his coats and tosses it over Barry without thinking much of it. 

(Lisa sees, though. Of course she does.) 

And when the hot chocolate and coffee are cold and Mick is irritable and Lisa is unmanageable, they all call it quits. 

It’s Len who decides to wake Barry, which he does gently, a stranger to his own kindness. “Barry,” he whispers when the younger man starts to stir. Eyes, glazed with fatigue, peek between heavy lids. “There’s a sleeping bag with your name on it.” 

Dry lips quirk as Barry struggles to move. “…That a euphemism?” 

Len laughs through his nose and herds Barry toward the cots and sleeping bags they set up. 

There’s really only Len’s sleeping bag, but he figures Barry’s too tired to care, and Len is fine with finding a place to lounge in one of the chairs. Barry bends over to take off his shoes and Len has a second to admire the lovely view before he’s catching Barry by the elbow when he teeters sleepily. He doesn’t let go, ends up guiding a half-asleep Barry into his sleeping bag. Len hesitates a second, acutely aware of the chill in the warehouse and aching for the warmth of Barry’s skin, before he finds the strength to turn away. 

A hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him. 

Barry looks up at him, a whole world in his eyes when he whispers, “Stay.” 

Len regards the small cot and sleeping bag skeptically, cataloging reasons to trust and distrust lying so close to another person—to an  asset  on a  job, calculating possibilities and permutations and in the end just wondering how anyone could possibly say no to Barry Allen. He crawls in, knocking knees and elbows, and the awkwardness is only abated when Barry takes an audibly fortifying breath before turning so his back faces Len. He reaches over and pulls Len's arm over his waist. The action conserves the tiny space but it also makes it so Len's hips are aligned just so behind Barry's.  Len hesitates before finally gathering Barry against him and curling around him. 

Barry is warm, the sleeping bag is warm, and Len finds himself matching the pace of his breathing to Barry’s, or maybe Barry’s the one pacing his breathing with Len's. 

Len wakes briefly only once when Barry shifts in his sleep and doesn’t wake again until the smell of something sweet wafts through the air. He starts, blinking dumbly, unsure how he slept so well the night before a heist as big as this one. 

Barry’s gone, but voices drift from the kitchen area. He gets up and follows them, tripping on Barry’s shoes. 

The scene is reminiscent of the night before with Barry, his sister, and Mick scattered around the kitchen. Mick’s mouth is full with something that smells incredible while Lisa and Barry have their heads bent together over coffee, their plates already empty. 

“No, no, you have to—look, watch me,” she says and proceeds to showcase a demure, coquettish look. “It’s with the  eyes, you know. Gets them every time. And it’s important to always compliment your mark, get them talking about  themselves. Alcohol doesn’t hurt, either.” 

And apparently Lisa is giving Barry lessons in grifting. Or honey-potting. Or… whatever. 

And Barry’s taking  notes  on it. 

“The kid cooked breakfast,” Mick says, eyebrows raised in a ‘yay!’ face and looking tremendously pleased. “’S good, too.” 

Which is pretty much Mick-speak for, “I found this puppy, can we keep him?”

Len gravitates closer to Barry before he realizes it, body seeking the warmth that had surrounded him in sleep. He blinks it away like a cloud of smoke only to find Barry looking up at him, too. 

Deciding he needs coffee and food and to go without looking at Barry Allen for more than five seconds, Len wanders to a side counter where the sweet, cinnamon smell is emanating from some breakfast casserole. Len pokes at it doubtfully. 

“It’s sweet,” Mick says. 

“Do you not like sweet?” Barry asks. 

“He fucking loves sugar,” Mick says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Especially  cinnamon rolls,” Lisa says so pointedly she practically takes Len’s eye out. 

“Oh, well, it’s not exactly cinnamon rolls,” Barry corrects, oblivious. “Mom called it a French toast bake. We made it a lot for Christmas or Christmas Eve brunch.” 

He says this off-handedly, casually, but Len suspects that it’s anything but. 

Barry Allen is a bit of an old soul like himself, Len muses not for the first time. He saw it in those hazel eyes the first night, and it was why he knew Barry would pull his weight as the fourth member of their crew for this job. Like Len, Barry'd been through a lot, probably made a few compromises he wasn't exactly proud of to get what he wanted or needed. And yet, they're still so different. Len would never dare to be so open, to reveal such a vulnerable memory to others. 

They re-hash the plan again, to be sure. Len drills them on blueprints, on their roles, and on the contingencies. Lisa and Barry discuss how Barry should handle McTier, even do a little role-playing that neither can take seriously enough before they end up giggling and snickering.

Lisa and Len leave late in the morning to gather a few more things, leaving Barry and Mick to their own devices. Barry shows no indication of needing to leave until the job is done, and Len realizes that it must be winter break for him. He’s fairly confident that Barry’s presence will likely curb any of the… tendencies Mick has around fire. 

Lisa and Len return a couple of hours later, hungry and irritable with each other, to an old warehouse brimming with new sounds and tantalizing aromas. They edge to the cafeteria like cautious deer only to find it decorated with garland, tinsel, a couple of strings of lights, and a small four-foot tree dotted with green and red plastic ornaments. Barry and Mick are busy in the kitchen, Barry bending over the stove to check a dish while Mick supervises a fryer Len hadn’t realized was even there. They’re both wearing Santa hats and Christmas music is crooning softly from Mick’s phone.

“What is this?” Lisa breathes, looking around like it’s a Christmas set on a Hallmark movie instead of a few paltry lights and garish tinsel lost and sad in a dim and dusty warehouse. 

Barry stands up and grins at her. “Mick was really insistent on a Christmas Eve meal.” 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Mick defends for the umpteenth time. 

“And I said that it’d be nice to have some decorations, you know, for the meal. And Mick went out and got some!” 

“There was a fire sale,” Mick grumbles over the loud snapping of the fryer. 

“He stole them,” Barry stage-whispers. “From the nice people at the dollar store.” 

“It’s a dollar store,” Mick retorts. “They expect to be robbed at least twice a month.” 

Barry shrugs affably, offering his hand to Lisa before spinning her out to a few jaunty notes of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree”.

Len would like to say he disapproves. He’d wanted to set up more equipment. Re-hash the plan again. Maybe stake out McTier’s building for a few hours before they make their move. 

But then Barry licks brownie batter off his thumb before dipping a spoon in the bowl and offering a heap of batter for Lisa to try and Len mentally shrugs and reminds himself,  “Expect the plan to go off the rails.” 

And so, like the beginnings of a tasteless lightbulb joke, Len finds himself in the midst of stolen Christmas decorations, eating an early Christmas Eve dinner on paper plates with his baby sister, a pyromaniac, and a prostitute. 

Mick and Lisa are in position and Len is waiting with Barry, counting down the minutes and seconds. They’re at the mouth of an empty alley, not far from where Len and Barry first met, and it’s snowing again. Barry’s face is aglow with the green and red neon of the Chinese restaurant sign swinging high above them. He’s dressed deliciously in those artfully-ripped jeans and fairly decent boots, looking as rugged as his baby face can manage in Len’s leather bomber jacket. 

Barry’s shivering, but Len’s pretty sure it isn’t from the cold. 

“Are you afraid?” Len finally asks, wondering if he read Barry wrong, wondering if this wasn’t the right plan, wondering if he’s making Barry do something that he doesn’t want to just for the promise of money. 

Barry lets out a long sigh, his breath condensing in the cold. “Of McTier?” Barry scoffs. “No, not really. I mean. Yeah, he hit me and made my life hell at my…” 

“Work study?” Len offers and is pleased to see Barry’s mouth twitch in a ghostly smile. 

“Yeah. He did those things but… I’m not afraid of him. I haven’t really been afraid of much since I was eleven,” he admits. “It kind of gets me in trouble sometimes.”

Len fights his own smile at that. Another silence stretches between them. Barry blows out another warm breath. “Did you think you’d be here?” 

Len turns to Barry and raises an eyebrow. “Here?” He asks, pointing to the spot he’s standing on. 

“I mean, just… here. Stealing from some rich asshole with a team of misfits… and Lisa,” he tacks on, because the kid is polite.  

Len thinks about it. “I guess it depends. When I was a kid? Yeah, I always thought I'd be some thieving scoundrel." Barry's smile twitches a little wider at that. "I just always thought dad would be with me.” He pauses, thinks of the easy way Barry opened himself up to Len and the others earlier this morning. “I’m glad he’s not,” he adds past a tight throat. Even though he'd dreamt about it for years as a kid, he'd never honestly thought he and Lisa would ever be free from Lewis.  

“So you always wanted to be a thief?” 

Len shrugs. He’s not sure his chosen occupation was about want, or at least it wasn’t at first, but he can’t remember a time when it wasn’t his reality. “I like it,” he says honestly. “The obstacles. The challenge. I’m good at it.” 

He glances over to see Barry looking at him, his expression too big. Len wonders what Barry sees when he looks at Len, which of Len’s features make Barry’s eyes go distant and yearning. “What about you?” He asks Barry. 

Barry points to the spot they’re standing on, much like Len. “Here? No. I’m supposed to be on a train to Central to spend Christmas with Joe and Iris.” 

Len cocks his head, waits. Barry sighs, watching his own breath dissipate into the air. 

“I thought I was going to die when I was eleven years old,” Barry admits. “It puts things in perspective. I want two things: to save my Dad, and, if I can, somehow make it to where less people have to be afraid like I was when I was a kid. I’ll do whatever I need to do to accomplish those things. If that means going to an expensive-ass school and letting people pay me for some company or sex, then fine. But did I imagine I’d be here? About to play Sophie Deveraux on a  Leverage-type heist with a mind-boggling pay off?” He meets Len’s eyes and adds with a little more gravity, “Did I think I'd be here, with you?” He shoves his hands in the pockets of the jacket and looks away, suddenly shy. “No. But it feels right somehow, doesn’t it?” 

There are snowflakes on Barry’s eyelashes, melting on his cheeks. The wind picks up and the flurry twists and swirls about them like snow in a snow globe. 

Len’s lips just barely touch Barry’s when the alarm on his watch goes off. 

Barry’s hooded eyes widen and Len grins, their breaths meeting in the space between them. “Time to get started.” 

The heist goes about as well as can be expected, which is to say that it starts out well and quickly goes to hell in a handbasket. 

Barry does beautifully, though. He pulls some strings at Executive Experiences and those strings reluctantly call McTier, making it seem like they’d hand over Barry, free of contract and free of charge, if it meant McTier retracted his pending lawsuit against them. McTier is either eager for Barry or for revenge—or for both—because Barry gets in to the building with no resistance. He quickly employs all that Len and Lisa taught him, leaving a trail of unlocked doors and disrupted guard rounds wherever he goes. Ten minutes in and he even manages to plant the virus Len got from his contact in Central as planned. It’s not enough to completely turn off the cameras and motion sensors, but it puts them on the fritz, makes them unreliable to the security personnel, and evens the playing field for Len, Lisa, and Mick. 

Fifteen minutes in and Barry is just now facing off with McTier in his office when Len, Lisa, and Mick arrive on scene at their different entry points. 

Barry’s only alone with McTier for all of five minutes but, apparently, it’s enough. When Len eases in the room with Mick, prepared to coerce McTier for the biometric information they need to get in the vault, they find McTier out cold and Barry shaking out and cradling his hand. 

“What’d he do?” Len asks, wary, but Barry just grins at him, relieved and giddy. 

“Not much yet,” Barry admits. “I think I was just more pissed off at him than I thought.” 

Mick looks from McTier to Barry and back again, eyebrows shooting up in grudging admiration. “Not bad, kid. This’ll work,” he decides before easily tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder and making his way to his rendezvous with Lisa at the vault in the basement. 

Len and Barry stay behind for McTier’s safe and the information on his laptop.  Barry’s supposed to keep a look out but Len catches him more than once eyeing his hands as he works out the combination. 

After that it goes a little sideways. Len and Barry make it past several labs unnoticed and unscathed on their way to meet with Lisa and Mick until they get delayed just outside the basement in a scuffle where Len ends up with a bloody lip and a throbbing cheekbone. There’s another snafu when they finally get to the basement that ends with Mick disappearing on them and Lisa locked  inside  the vault. Unfortunately, McTier and his biometrics are gone at this point—rescued by his well-meaning cronies—but at least they’re clear of more security guards for another six and a half minutes. The seconds are ticking away, however, and their window of escape is closing in while Len frantically tries to bypass the system to free his baby sister. 

“Oh,” Barry breathes. “I have an idea,” he says before he manages to scramble away, returning a subjective eternity later with an armful of bottles and other implements. “Hold on.”

Len wonders just what he’s supposed to be holding on to as Barry works at the vault door. Len’s ready to take a bomb to the vault lock, except he doesn’t have one because he hadn’t accounted for the possibility of Lisa getting  locked in a vault. 

And then Barry shouts, “get back!” and pulls Len away. 

“Barry—" Len warns. 

“It's working!” Barry exclaims. 

An awful, wrenching sound cracks through the room and Len looks up to see the vault door quickly frosting over. There’s another nerve-churning sound and then the door falls outward into the room with a tremendous crash, revealing Lisa looking at the door and at them with wide eyes. 

“What?” Len asks. 

“Science!” Barry whispers. 

“Fucking shitballs,” Lisa breathes. 

Len is the first to shake off the spectacle (though he won’t forget it anytime soon… using cold to open things is full of  interesting  possibilities and has promise for a few jobs he’s been looking at). “Went shopping, did we?” He asks Lisa, pointing to the gold necklaces that are peeking out of her jean pockets. She grins and shoves them further out of sight as they race toward the stairs. 

“McTier doesn’t need them. They’d look all wrong on him.” 

“Yeah, well, what now?" Barry asks. "How do we get out of here? Plans A through M are completely trashed—I thought you were kidding when you said we needed that many plans.” 

“Expect the plan to go off the rails,” Len says through gritted teeth because just fucking once he would prefer for a plan to stay neatly  on  the rails, thanks. “Throw away the plan.” 

Which is when Mick Rory makes his miraculous reappearance by driving a van through the building. 

The series of events that led up to Len standing in Barry’s tiny apartment are disjointed by a blur of adrenaline and exhilaration. He remembers diving into the white van Mick had ridden in on like a white knight riding to their rescue. He remembers the night and snow careening around them, the roar of the van and the voices of the others pounding confusedly against his senses as he calls his hacker contact in Central City to make sure their tracks were covered. They change cars twice and end up in another small safehouse on the other side of the city. There is a lot of celebratory alcohol—some even stolen from McTier’s office by none other than Barry Allen, Len’s so proud. 

There’s food, too. Turns out Mick had made a pit stop by the cafeteria before he grabbed the van. Len couldn’t even bring himself to be mad about it, not when Lisa and Barry laughed and laughed themselves sick over it, wound together drunkenly in a vain effort to keep themselves upright, faces red and bright as Mick watches over them with a self-satisfied smirk.

He distinctly remembers stumbling outside into the night with Barry, the cool air clearing his head just in time to see snow sticking to Barry’s hair and scarf. All the self-control in the world couldn’t hold Len back from reaching up and cupping Barry’s face, running a thumb across his cheek and thinking that his blush was such a pretty shade of scarlet. 

Then Barry had kissed him, insistent and sweet, and Len was gone.  

And now Len’s in Barry’s apartment, still kissing him until Barry huffs and shoves Len against the apartment door with a  whump  of breath and hollowed wood. Barry presses into him, licking into his mouth, chilled fingers diving under Len’s coat and shirt to roam over whatever skin they may find. Len insinuates his leg between Barry’s and reaches around him, grasping his denim-clad ass and pulling him closer so he grinds over Len’s thigh. Barry gasps, moving to bury his forehead in Len’s neck, hiding his face from him as he shivers in Len’s grasp. Barry’s breath skips across his skin as he rolls his hips against Len again, desperately searching out the friction, long fingers winding into his shirt, holding on like the tide is going out and Len’s the last lifeline. 

Len reaches up, cradles Barry’s face and brings it up again. He’s flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen and red from kissing Len. His pulse is jumping in his pale throat, luring in Len’s tongue and teeth, where he devotedly bites and sucks until Barry’s knees give out. 

“Christ, Barry,” Len breathes. 

Barry chokes on a laugh. “Are all of your heists like this?” 

“Are you asking if they all  end  like this?” Len drawls, running his finger suggestively up the seam of Barry’s jeans and grinning wildly when the younger man pushes back against his hand. “Just when it’s you.” 

“Sweet talker,” Barry says breathily. “You’re just trying to get your money’s worth.” 

“Come here,” Len says, because all the talking made him remember Barry’s mouth and how sweet and pliant it becomes when Len kisses him filthily. He buries his fingers in Barry’s hair, pulling his head back for better access. 

This time Barry doesn’t muffle his moan which is so full of ecstasy  for Len  that is has him surging forward, walking Barry backwards through his apartment. He heads in a vague direction towards his right when Barry finally breaks for air. “No, that’s the bathroom. Other way.” Len heaves a fortifying breath. They knock into Barry’s four-foot Christmas tree, sending ornaments skitter-spinning across the floor. “Oh, wait,” Barry says dazedly, stumbling in the other direction. “You were right the first time.” 

Len actually growls and almost takes Barry off his feet as they finally make it to the bedroom. Barry ends up on his unmade bed, wrapping his legs around Len to bring him in. 

Len spends a truly unconscionable amount of time just kissing the younger man. Barry seems to love it when Len consumes his mouth, trails lips down his jaw and throat, lavishes attention on his collarbone. When Len pinches a dusky nipple Barry appears totally surprised at the moan and shudder that rip from him, eyes dark and wide as he stares up at Len with timid wonder. Len finds that he likes that look, so he pinches again, and then soothes the area with his tongue. 

Barry is eager for all of Len, for his mouth and skin. Cut-off curses spill from his lips when Len continues to take things slow, meticulously excavating for that look of surprised wonder, like Len’s the first to coax this type of pleasure from him. Maybe he is. He finds it again when he lightly runs his teeth over Barry’s belly, and again when he teasingly mouths the inside of his thigh, and when he quietly hums with Barry inside of his mouth. 

Everything finally, finally crests when Len is inside Barry and Barry is wrapped around him, heels pressing into his back, hands and fingernails clutching and grasping his shoulders, voice hoarse and wrecked as he offers up a hushed litany of Len’s name. Barry tenses around him and Len has a perfect moment where he captures Barry’s face as reddened lips drop open and his eyelids flutter, long lashes dark and damp, cheeks flushing that pleasing shade of scarlet. And then Len follows Barry’s climax, letting out a gasp that sounds like Barry’s name, and they are left boneless and panting in each other’s arms. 

Len tucks Barry possessively into him during the afterglow and Barry hesitates only briefly before curling an arm around his waist. His eyelashes are still damp when he smiles slow and lazy up at Len. They murmur to each other low and easy before quickly drifting off to sleep. 

Len wakes to Barry’s mouth a short time later, and Barry’s lips on his thighs, recounting a pattern similar to what Len had done earlier. They move together like before, skin to skin, leaving behind a cartography of fingerprint bruises and teeth marks on each other, which they trace and re-trace. Barry comes silently again, shaking apart with Len. Afterward they kiss softly until they fall asleep. 

Len slips into awareness again with the first morning light. Barry’s sleeping on his stomach and Len wakes him slowly by kissing down his spine, chuckling delightedly into sweet skin when Barry salaciously parts his legs and raises his ass for Len. They start easy and languid, like before, and then it turns into something else. Barry is a live wire, insatiable and wild. Len is a starving thing, spreading Barry’s knees with his hands until his work is on full display, licking in to Barry until his mouth is sore. Barry winds his fists in the sheets, begging for more, pleasepleaseplease  until his face and shoulders are pressed into the bed and Len’s on his knees, rocking into him hard and deep. 

This time Barry shouts his name.  

The full light of Christmas Day is spilling through the cracked blinds when Len wakes again with his arm around Barry’s waist. Len blinks, taking in the room for the first time. It’s cluttered with clothes on the floor—admittedly, most of the clothes are theirs from the night before. He catalogs an open suitcase near the closet, shaggy carpets, textbooks strewn about like malicious landmines, framed photographs on a battered chest of drawers. Len brings his gaze back to where wrecked sheets expose Barry’s naked hip and thigh. He kisses a bare shoulder idly, thinking about leaving. He’d have left by now, if it’d been anyone else. 

He decides to stay, just a little longer. 

It’s one o’clock when he wakes again to find, a little to his surprise, that it is Barry who left. 

There’s a note that simply reads,  “Gone to Central for Christmas.” 

There’s no number. 

Len hesitates but decides to leave a wad of bills next to the note—the pay Len had promised Barry for the two days he needed him for the heist, not to mention a cut from the actual heist, which would come later. 

He breaks in a few days later, but the apartment is still empty, the note and bills still on the counter. He leaves instructions for Barry on how to access the rest of his cut, which is substantial. Enough to finish school without having to work again, certainly, if that’s what Barry wanted. Maybe even enough to upgrade the apartment on top of that. 

A week later he’s in Coast City when he watches national news cover the arrest of Jameson McTier. And then he’s in Starling. And then Central a month after that, where he pays a rich kid hacker to check in on Barry. Len’s satisfied to see that Barry took advantage of his cut and applied it to his school. 

Three months later he’s back in New York. He’d like to say that Barry was the last thing on his mind, an afterthought, a fond but fading memory. But these things are untrue. Still, he waits until the day he’s supposed to leave to drop by the apartment, which is up for rent. He drives by the alley where they first met.

It’s empty. 

“Time for a test run,” Len says, smiling as people scramble around him in the theater and, fuck yeah, he’s an actual comic book villain and life is good. He aims the cold gun, hears the whir of it as it powers up, feels the cold seep down his knuckles. “Let’s see how fast you really are.” 

The Flash shows him, but Len doesn't actually get to see it. A brief smell of ozone and the feeling of someone’s arms around him is the only warning before the world drops away from him. And then he’s let down and swaying for balance, fighting down vertigo and nausea. 

In the time it’s taken him to blink, The Flash has taken him several miles away from the theater to a hill that overlooks Central City.  

The Flash stands opposite him, cutting a tall and slim figure in the ridiculous red gear. His eyes seem so young and lost as he cradles the side where he’d been hit with the cold gun. Already he seems to be recovering from the cold's bite, though it must hurt like a bitch.

It’s like the guy doesn’t know what he can  do, Len marvels. The Flash had removed Len from the theater before Len could even think, and yet the guy is standing before him and the cold gun like he still doesn’t realize that he could just  end  Len and this whole game before Len even has a chance to defend himself. 

That lack of realization, that  weakness, is what allows Len to play this game. 

(And if a memory stirs at those wide eyes, well, it’s something that he can analyze later. The Flash demands all of his attention in a way that few challenges have in the past.)

And then the Flash says, “Len.” And reaches for his cowl. 

Len holds his breath, both intrigued and disappointed (he does so hate it when a game ends too soon). 

But Barry Allen is there, wearing the Flash uniform. His smile is a little pained, but it’s that small, wry smile that Len remembers. Len blinks, like he’s blinking away a dream, but Barry Allen remains standing before him, idly waiting for Len to either lower the gun or to pull the trigger. Len tries to reconcile one of the last times he saw Barry—naked and ruined, eyes dark behind damp eyelashes,  begging Len for more, pleaseplease—with the hero in The Flash uniform before him.  

“Is this supposed to make me stop?” He asks with an encompassing twitch of the cold gun. 

Barry shrugs. “Does it?” 

Len narrows his eyes. “You left and didn’t leave a number.” 

Barry pales, presses his lips together. “You  paid  me.” The accusation is not-so smoothly couched in a casual tone. 

“For the heist. That  was  the agreement, Barry,” Len says. 

Barry shrugs again and it pisses Len off, this front of carelessness when he remembers the way Barry had clutched him close and called out his name. Hell, he’d even take the thunderous, determined glare The Flash had for him just a few minutes ago. Len keeps the cold gun pointed at the lightning emblem on Barry’s chest. 

And then Barry asks, sort of wistfully, “Did you ever think you’d be here? Like this?” 

A memory rises to the surface and coalesces into something like nostalgia and longing. He remembers Barry asking him the same thing a few years ago as they stood in the snow. “The villain thing? It might’ve been on a bucket list,” Len admits with a smirk, and Barry doesn’t have to know that it’s true. “Love a good gimmick.” He pauses when Barry  finally  smiles wider at him. “You?” 

“If you mean struck by lightning and waking up with freaky powers and deciding to dress in an itchy reinforced tripolymer onesie and using morally gray means to stop bad guys who also have freaky powers?” Barry asks, and he does little to hide the exhaustion and bewilderment that creeps into his voice. “Then no, not really. But if you’re asking did I ever think I’d be here, as in with you, again, then… I’d hoped.” 

Len lowers the gun. 

“I didn’t mean to make you think you were another job,” Barry says, voice small. 

Len breathes out, lets his goggles hang around his neck and meets Barry’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to let you to think that, either.” 

He takes a step forward, followed by another, and Barry meets him half way. 

end. 

#coldlfash #barry allen/leonard snart #coldflash fic #fic

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