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Saints and Sinners on a Friday. It works almost backwards than the typical bar, most of the clientele enjoying their work in the late night and graveyard shifts, so around six o’clock it’s rowdy. Filled with patrons who are trying to blow off steam before a big score, or other means of crime. As the night churns on, however, it’s people who are left to debrief, go over negotiations, want to chat. The bar gets less crowded, they serve food and drinks get a little cheaper just to keep people coming back.
Len prefers the 9 o’clock crowd. Still rowdy, and if Mick is there then it’s still charged with a bit of that dangerous thrill, but it dies down quick enough.
He sits down on a well-worn stool toward the edge of the bar so he can narrow down the amount of people who can take up residence next to him. Toward the front entrance so that he can make a quick escape — break the window that faces out if it needs to be really quick, he’d pay Sully back later for the damage — and also where the air from the door opening and closing over and over can give him a small burst of fresh air. Sometimes what drifts in is sweeter or sicker than he wants with the taste of cigarettes, but mostly it’s a chill that Len welcomes.
Sometimes he’s there with Lisa, other times Mick, or the other Rogues. He brings the green Rogues to debrief after missions, check in and make sure they’re not getting too wild a look in their eye. It’s what Len knows Sully assumes is going to happen when a lanky boy looking like a goldfish in a shark tank sits down next to him.
But Len knows exactly who has sat on the barstool next to him, and it’s no Rogue.
Barry Allen in Saints and Sinners. Trying to dress the part, too, with his darker shade of nerdy tee and his near black jean-jacket and scuffed up sneakers. Bless him. Only time will tell if this night will amuse him or annoy the living shit out of him.
When Len glances over, Barry’s staring at the bartop like he’s trying to burn a hole through it. He almost seems dazed, and Len wonders, briefly, if Barry’s even aware that he set down next to his nemesis. Len’s not wearing his parka, and Barry never was one to gather all the information before doing something reckless. But when Len opens his mouth to speak, he goes —
“Don’t say a word.”
Of course, Len is going to ignore this request. Never liked taking orders.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” Len asks, all full of teasing, voice slick and dark and obnoxiously flirty to get a rise.
Barry gives him a flat stare in response. Then a scoff comes out the side of his mouth, hot like steam coupled with a withering smile.
“That the best you got?”
“You want a real come-on from me, Scarlet?”
Barry shirks the notion, face scrunching up in disgust. “Ugh, no.”
Len chuckles. “So, to what do I owe the displeasure?” Len leans on his elbows against the bartop, inclining his head toward Barry. “Wanting to extend one of your little ill-thought out deals? If you do, a tip — this time actually have to have something to barter, ‘cause I’m not one for doing charity.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Barry asks, reaching for the menu and snapping it against the bar. Gives Len a look that Len’s not sure means he’s wildly irritated or mildly charmed. “Seriously, like shut up for a minute.”
“You sat down next to me, Barry."
“My mistake,” Barry says, but he does laugh. “Can’t even think about what to order.”
“If you didn’t want to chat, then why’re you here?” Len straightens his shoulders. Looks him over. Len should have noticed that Barry’s demeanor was all wrong for one of his little desperate Hail Marys he likes to pull Len into. This is something else. He’s withdrawn, his gaze keeps skittering back to the floor or the countertop. Like he’s having a hard time of it just meeting anyone else’s gaze.
After a few moments of Len looking him over, Barry seems to snap back together. He leans back, feigning a confidence that comes off more boyish than it does strong. “Just looking to get out of my head for a while.”
“Well, you picked the right place.”
“Know I did.”
“But you didn’t answer,” Len asks, leaning close. “Why sit next to me?”
Barry rolls his eyes, gives a heavy sigh, but when he glances up at Len it’s too fond for Len to believe he’s too bothered. “Just looking for something familiar, I guess.”
“And I’m familiar?”
Barry spares him a quick glance, a small but sharp smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. “Do you want to be?”
Len’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans back toward the wall. “Are you coming onto me now, Barry?”
Barry laughs, at first harsh and grating, but something loosens the action, and Len realizes just how wound up Barry was when he walked into the bar. Just how much he seems to melt with a little conversation.
Before Len can carry it on to see where it leads, Sully is standing before them.
“What can I get ya?” she asks.
It’s then that Len remembers something that Barry told him: alcohol doesn’t affect him. At all. It gets burned so quick by the speedster metabolism there’s no point in drinking, except whatever his little scientist friends create for him.
When Barry notices the look of confusion on his face, he snorts. Then he orders a vodka lemonade, and Len is even more confused.
“The usual, Sul,” Len tacks on after.
She winks and goes to the end of the bar, preparing the drinks. Len waits until she steps out of earshot before asking the million dollar question:
“Why bother wasting money on the alcohol if you can’t even feel it?”
Barry’s pulling out his wallet, thumbing at his I.D., which makes Len laugh. Cursed with such a youthful face, it must be hard — Len hasn’t been carded since he was 17, and Mick took care of that problem with a menacing look in his eye.
“I’m trying something tonight,” Barry says.
“That’s awful cryptic. Are you spying on someone?” Are you trying to use me for something? Len wonders, but he discards the idea. Barry is not devious enough, nor dumb enough, to involve Len in a scheme unwittingly. At least, not one of actual import.
“Nothing like that,” Barry says. “I’m here for me.”
Len takes Barry’s menu that he keeps fiddling with, rapping it against the counter before letting it drop behind the bar. “Whatcha trying then? Walk me through it.”
There’s this light to Barry’s eyes at the very idea. He shifts forward, and his mouth twitches into an almost smile, but then he leans back into his resigned post.
“There are studies on how social situations affect one’s response to the consumption of alcohol. Being around other people who are drunk can make people become more affected in order to belong. A sort of groupthink. At least, according to the studies. It even worked when the patrons were served mocktails without their knowledge. They felt drunk, even though their blood-alcohol content stayed at zero. Though, admittedly, it worked better when the drinks had at least something in them.”
“Someone’s been brushing up on social normativity studies,” Len says. When Barry gives him a raised eyebrow, Len chuckles. “I’m a thief, Barry. A good one. It’s helpful to know how to tap into what people will do to conform to their environment. Pays to know how to conform to that environment too.”
“And know you’re conforming, instead of merely following the crowd” Barry adds. He’s got this small smile on his face, the most real one of the night so far, impressed. Len isn’t sure whether to preen or be pissed off, but with the fond look Barry gives he’s unable to stop himself from feeling the former. “Makes sense.”
“So,” Len begins as Sully comes back with their drinks. “You came to the league of kings for debauchery in hopes to be surrounded by a bunch of drunkards, trying to trick your mind into thinking that this alcohol is stronger than your metabolism?”
Barry frowns at the words, but once he parses out what Len said, he nods. “Pretty much.”
“If you know what you’re trying to do, doesn’t that trip up your study?”
“Might, but, placebos work on people who know the concept of them, so, I’m going to take my chances.”
This seems to Len to be a hell of a lot of effort for a shot in the dark at getting drunk. The Flash is usually too busy for such camaraderie, from Len’s understanding. “And why, pray tell, does a hero like you want to get drunk so bad?”
Barry looks up at him and immediately looks away. For a moment — a moment so fast that if Len had blinked he’d have missed it — there was this mournful, panicked expression on his face. Barry schools it quick with a cocky smirk. “Mm, buy me a drink and maybe I’ll consider telling you.”
Len huffs a breath. He can afford a vodka lemonade. “Sully, his drink’s on my tab.” Then he gestures for Barry to continue on with his explanation.
But Barry shakes his head. “You did just remind me you’re a thief, Snart. I’ll believe you paid for it when I see the receipt.”
“You know, there is some honor among thieves. I wouldn’t rob my favorite bar of a few drinks.”
Barry picks up his vodka lemonade. “Still. You’re gonna have to wait,” he says, taking a sip.
The long game, then. Len can play. Taking Barry’s drink and switching it with his own scotch floating an ice-ball, he gestures for Barry to sip. Barry gives him a confused look, but raises the glass to his lips.
“Vodka lemonade is a good starter, but I’d recommend something a little stronger if we’re really going to pull you along.”
“We?”
Len shrugs. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
Barry sputters out some form of a scoff. “Oh yeah, and drinking with my enemy is a brilliant idea.”
Len hums. “I’ve never known you to be one for having those anyway, Scarlet.”
“No kidding,” Barry says. It’s a darker tone than Len’s used to hearing come out of Barry's mouth, but he can’t say he minds too much. Especially since Barry seems eager and willing to play along, straightening himself out on the stool. “Fine. Okay.” He takes a sip of the scotch and scrunches up his face. “This will make me feel something, I suppose.”
Len hums. Takes a drink of the lemonade. He hasn’t had a vodka lemonade since he was fourteen. It’s sweet for his taste, but it’s a nice enough change of pace. Makes him chuckle, knowing that this is what Barry’s go to is. Cute.
“Since you’re not telling me the root of your master plan this evening,” Len starts, swirling his drink. “What were you hoping to chat about?”
A blank expression comes across Barry’s face, and he grimaces. “I don’t know. Wasn’t great in bars even when I could get drunk in them. I was more of the…”
“Kickback with a crappy movie and a bottle of cheap vodka that was probably flavored? If you went out at all?” Len rattles off.
Lo-and-behold Barry grows bright red. He stares at Len for a moment, a dry sound coming out of his mouth as he draws back. When Len hums with satisfaction, Barry’s jaw quivers as he finally finds the words to speak. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so called out before in my life," he says with a dry laugh.
“It’s my specialty,” Len says with a wink.
“And you?” Barry asks. “Where did you go out when you were young?”
“If this becomes a conversation about my age, I’m quitting your experiment.”
Barry waves off the comment. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, sarcastic. Takes another sip of the scotch with a wince.
“Quit flinching whenever you take a sip. You look like you’re in less pain when I ice you.” Barry chuckles and shrugs, rolling the ice ball around in the glass. “And there weren’t a whole lot of opportunities to go out when I was a kid. Being in juvie and all that.”
It’s clear that Barry thinks that this conversation will take a nasty turn. His gaze shutters, and Len knows the expression of a man who thinks he walked into a mine-field of a conversation. But Len’s not all that ashamed of his time in juvie, nor does he look back at it that terribly. It was, in fact, where he met Mick. Not that it was sunshine and daisies in there, ‘course not, but it was better than a broken beer bottle to the back that he might get at home.
“Mick made it work, though. He’d already known which guards to steal from and turns out quite a few liked to drink on the job.”
Barry grimaces, giving Len a disapproving look. “Gonna have to talk to Joe about that.”
“It was the 80s.”
“One, that’s no excuse, especially ‘cause I bet some guards still do drink on the job. Two, this time it’s you bringing up your age, and I just want to note that.”
Len smiles. “Sure, sure, kid.”
Barry frowns and glares at him briefly, before asking, "And what? Mick would steal the liquor and you’d just drink in your room?”
“Our cell? No. I’d sneak us up onto the roof. Mick brought the alcohol and cards."
First few months of juvie, Len and Mick would sneak up after lights out, when they had an hour and a half before the guards made rounds. Len thought the best he could do was sneak them up on the roof for some fresh air, for a small taste of freedom. Then he realized he could do much more than sneak them up. He could sneak them out.
“Swear to God, Mick brought rubbing alcohol the first time. Think he was trying to haze me," Len laughs, taking a sip of his lemonade.
Len’s surprised at how delighted Barry looks hearing this story. Thought he’d get more admonishments — shouldn’t climb up on the roof, shouldn’t be sneaking off in juvie, shouldn’t be drinking underage, and it was rather unsettling that there were towers to take down children where they were at — but Barry laughs and drinks more of the scotch, raising it up like that was the same as the shit that Mick brought up that first time.
“Was supposed to be tequila, at least that’s what Mick said, but I’ve never had a tequila like it ever since. It still burns in my nose sometimes.”
“Bet it didn’t faze Mick.”
“Damn straight. Mick could drink kerosene and walk it off.” That makes Barry and Len laugh, and Len laughs even harder thinking about how Mick would respond to all this. He would laugh his ass off right now just watching Len drink a vodka lemonade, but Len’s pretty sure he could get him ordering one of his own in good time. Man liked fruity margaritas more than he’d admit, a special drink to remind them they certainly weren’t in juvie anymore. “Could even as a kid, or maybe that’s just how I remember it.”
When Len looks back at Barry, he’s reaching behind the bar for something, neck craned Len’s way to show he’s still listening, but long arms definitely digging behind the bar.
Len leans back and watches the pathetic display at trying to lift something without notice. Didn’t anyone ever tell Barry that he should have his eyes on the target before reaching for it? “In Saints and Sinners for one night and you’re already trying to steal. Who knew you’d be so easy?”
Barry sputters and pulls his arm back. “I am not trying to steal. I am trying to borrow, thank you very much.”
“That excuse always goes well with the cops.”
That’s when he gets a deadpan look from Barry, so heavy in its annoyance that Len’s proud. “I am not going to get arrested for borrowing a deck of cards,” Barry says, now stretching his long body over the bartop to grab them.
“You would know, wouldn’t you? If only a red-clad hero would come and stop you.”
The look Len receives at that makes him wonder if he’s looking at the same man as the Flash at all. Barry looks so disrespected that Len laughs. Furthermore, though Barry's clearly trying for menacing like he can get in the red suit, he can't shake off his amusement enough to pull it off.
Then his gaze gets this far off look, and his hands still as he recedes. The same faraway look he had when he first walked in. That air to him like he just got back from a wake.
So, Len picks up the reins. “Cards?”
Barry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah. You mentioned that you played them with Mick, and I know I saw them when I walked in, so I thought I’d grab ‘em. It’s been forever since I’ve played.”
“You mean these?” Len asks. He’d suddenly had them in hand when talking about Mick bringing cards to the roof. Len might have a bit of kleptomania in him, but in his line of work, it’s a positive rather than a negative. Plus, it’s even more amusing to see how Barry’s mouth gapes.
“When did you grab those?”
“Not sure,” Len admits, setting the deck on the bar between them. “Wouldn’t have guessed you played, Scarlet.”
“Oh, I love cards. Used to carry a deck with me all the time. Played a lot of solitaire.”
“Solitaire’s a lonely game,” Len remarks.
“Maybe I was a lonely kid,” Barry says. The frankness of such a line throws Len a little, and he almost wonders if the alcohol is working on Barry. Yet, it’s too matter of fact. Len has a feeling that Barry would be a far more emotional drunk, as every time Len’s encountered him he’s barely keeping his emotions contained, but Barry blazes onward like that was a fact. Entirely neutral.
Len changes the subject. “I liked to practice tricks. Told people it was to train my sleight of hand, but —“
“But in reality you were a huge nerd,” Barry interjects, teasing, eyeing him like he knows Len, and isn’t that dangerous? “Secret’s safe with me, because,” Barry takes the deck and performs a silly little trick, easy, using a block push where he knocks out a card further beyond the deck and then switches it with another card he had palmed in into his hand. Then he flicks them both out so that they’re fanned in Len’s direction. “I was too.”
The fondness blooming in Len’s chest at the action is one he should trample, but he can’t bring himself to outright shatter it. Instead he snorts and says, “Deal ‘em.”
“Huh?” Barry asks, but he’s already splitting the deck to shuffle. “What game?”
“Surprise me.”
Barry scrunches up his face in distaste, but Len laughs. If Scarlet can come up with a game that Len hasn’t played, he’ll be stunned. In fact, Len would go as far to say that such a game wouldn’t exist unless it was one that the kid created. Cards were Snart’s game, even in prison. Chess is fun and all, but there are only so many moves one can make, especially when you can read your opponent easy. Cards make random the game, no two exactly alike. So many possibilities, so many different rules to introduce.
Not unlike his little arrangement with the Flash, but Len refuses to dwell on that for long.
Barry starts out doing an elaborate flipping of several piles of the deck to rearrange the contents, never letting the cards touch the table, another fun trick Len remembers learning years ago. He does this a few times before he starts to shuffle in earnest, lacing the cards together and forming a clean bridge.
“Not bad.”
“Like I said…” Barry laces the cards again, forming a bridge, collapsing it all together and doing it again. “Used to carry ‘em on me.” Then he holds the deck to Len. “Cut.”
“Even know the chivalry of ‘em,” Len says, a bit more flirty than he means, not nearly joking enough to justify it, “what a gentleman.”
Barry rolls his eyes. “Didn’t know this game came with commentary.”
He splits the deck, hands it back to Barry, who shuffles them again.
“Most games I play do.”
That makes Barry grin a wry smile. Then he deals. Two cards at a time — casual bar rules, Barry probably knows that would never fly in a casino but they aren’t in one so who cares — until the entire deck is dealt.
“So, what are we playing?” Len asks, pulling the half-deck close to him.
“War.”
Len gives him an incredulous look. “War?” He scoffs. “What are we, twelve?”
“Shut up. It’s the first game that came to mind.”
“There’s no skill to this game,” Len complains, but he sets up for the first flip.
“But you’re familiar with it.”
“Yeah. Played it with Lisa when she was four. Taught her the art of Slamwich, too.”
Barry quirks up an eyebrow. “Should be nostalgic then.”
“Nostalgic?” Len snorts. “I’m not the sentimental type. If we’re gonna play this down your drink, kid. We’re getting another.” Len raps his knuckles on the edge of the bar to get Sully’s attention, then raises up two fingers, pointing to Barry’s drink.
“Fine. Though I can’t say I’m a scotch fan.”
“Feeling anything?”
Barry laughs, but this isn’t like the laughter from before. It’s not real, and Len can tell, but he won’t push. Not yet. “I’ll feel something when I beat you.”
“It’s a game that requires no skill. It’s like saying you’re going to beat me at pull tabs.”
“Ha — well, I didn’t want to pick too tricky a game, what with your for-sure intoxication and all.”
“Scarlet, I could kick your ass at a real card game if I was black out drunk and hanging upside down.”
Sully drops their drinks off, and Barry shocks him by taking the scotch out of her hand and downing half of it right away. Then he gets that wicked look in his eye, almost like the one he gets as the Flash, but it lacks the righteousness and is more playful in its stead. It gives Len a little thrill watching him.
“Let’s see if you can even win at War first, hm? Flip.”
It proceeds to be the longest game of War that Len has ever played. The cards are well matched so they’re in war every two seconds, each of them winning often. They begin to “strategize” — a term Barry coins and Len remarks does not exist in this game — by putting cards at the bottom of their decks in particular orders, but it hardly matters. Halfway through, Barry orders another vodka lemonade to get the taste of scotch out of his mouth. Though Sully is laughing at their expense, Len gets a bottle of Heineken and doesn’t indulge her.
Then War proceeds. It’s never going to end. He tells Barry this, who attributes the long game to his “crazy skills”, which Len doesn’t find surprising in the slightest because who is the Flash except a speedy man who wins because of a hell of a lot of luck?
Barry’s gaze gets a little dark at that, but the competitive smirk doesn’t leave his face, so Len takes it with a sip of beer and flips another card.
“I have more cards than you,” Barry taunts.
“We’re going to go to another War in about two flips.”
“You sound sure.”
“It’s my job to be sure of these things, Barry.”
He’s drinking too much. It’s at a slow enough pace that he’s never going to get hammered at this rate, but he is more drunk around an adversary than he’d usually allow for himself. Saints and Sinners has wound down to where those who are debriefing after missions give Len a strange glance when they catch what he’s doing with the kid who still has his I.D. on the table. Thankfully, he’s Captain Cold, so no one questions him and what he’s doing. However, one patron of the bar — a woman known for stealing too, not skilled enough to become a rogue but good enough that Len keeps an eye on her — does try to lift Barry’s I.D.
Len catches her gaze and stares her down. Flips a card. He and Barry go into fucking war again, because this game will never die, but the point he’s trying to get across to her is clear: don’t you dare. She retracts her hand with a sheepish wave and makes way for her table, all at what Len thought was out of Barry’s notice.
Except, when Barry looks at Len after that, it is very clear that he did.
Before Barry can thank him, Len quips, “put your card away, Barry. You’ve had three drinks, no one’s going to question you now.”
“Thought it might be safer where I can see it.”
“Unlike your wallet?” Len asks, pulling it out of his own coat pocket and raising it to eye level. It produces enough of a shock that Barry sets down his deck.
“When did you —?” he asks, snatching it from Len’s hand. There’s a slight thrill to the air at the action, a charge that raises the hair on the back of Len's neck, and it makes him smile. Barry used his little speedster tricks just to get his wallet back from him.
“Around the time you ordered the lemonade.” Len leans back, flicking his finger through the pile of cards to his left. He is winning now, but he’s not sure how long that’s going to last. “You’re aware enough of your surroundings, I suppose, but you’re not wary enough of me.”
“Oh, I’m plenty aware of you,” he says.
“Are you now?”
Barry gives him a startled look at that, as if he’s said too much. Len positively beams at the awkwardness, as the noise from Barry’s mouth runs dry and his cheeks burn with a very scarlet blush. Barry doesn’t respond, Len doesn’t expect him to, instead opting to put all of his shaky-handed efforts into putting his I.D. back into his wallet. Then he gives Len a funny look.
“Keep it on the table, Barry. I’ll look after it,” Len says, teasing.
“Not sure I want you to.”
“The enemy you know versus the one you don’t.”
At that, Barry purses his lips together and puts the wallet on the table. “I don’t view you as an enemy,” Barry says. “Or at least, not mine.”
This is a far more serious exchange than Len had expected or intended. This kid always had too much faith in him. Len knows how he received his reputation, well earned, but he does not understand where he gained Barry’s fondness for him. He kidnapped his friends and has shot him with the Cold Gun more than once.
“Maybe those drinks really are working on you, Scarlet," Len remarks.
Barry shakes his head. “You’re a thorn in my side sometimes, but you aren’t my enemy.”
For the first time tonight, when Len looks at Barry, he can see the Flash true. It’s for the wrong cause, but the raw power of Barry and his headstrong attitude has Len pressing pause any retort that comes to mind. His eyes are almost electric green, Len can pick out the flashes of yellow in them as he stares Barry down.
Len quirks up an eyebrow. It's nice to be back to their charged banter rather than the speedster’s piss-poor attempt at drowning himself in misery, or distraction, or whatever keeps stealing Barry’s attention into a bleak place throughout the night.
“Shall we call me winner?”
“I’ve still got cards,” Barry argues.
“We’re about to go to War. And I’m going to win.” Len pulls his six cards out, showing them to Barry. “Then you’ll have a four, a three, and a seven. And I…” Len pulls his next three cards, a jack, a five, and a king. “My win.”
Barry furrows his eyebrows and checks his remaining cards, laying them out. “You can count cards.”
“Or I cheated.” Len didn't, but some of that faith that Barry has needs to be chipped away at, even if it must be done slowly.
“I would have noticed that.”
Len scoffs. “Didn’t notice me plucking your wallet.”
“No, but I am very serious about War,” Barry says. “And I don’t think you’re a cheat.”
“‘M still a criminal, Barry. A thief and a crook, don’t you forget it,” Len reminds. He drinks his beer until it’s about a third left, then he grabs the neck of the bottle and holds it like a bat to the end of the bar. “So if we’re done with our game, do you wanna dance?” Len taps the edge of the bottle against the bar as though he’s going to shatter it into a weapon.
Barry eyes him warily, but only smiles and leans back as if to say: go ahead, try it.
Would he speed through and pick up the glass before anyone even knew? Would he just let it shatter? This is Saints and Sinners on a Friday night: The night is slowing but still quite young, and Len could be the thing to get the party started if he and Flash took a turn onto their wild sides.
So he raises his hand and nearly slams the glass down, when the next thing he knows Barry’s leaning back in his chair — like he didn’t even move — tracing his finger across the lip of the bottle.
He raises the bottle to his own lips and takes a sip. Now their lips are sure to taste the same. Flirt.
“Didn’t want to dance?” Len asks, leaning forward into Barry’s space.
“Don’t know how.” Barry’s smile grows wide, a big and wicked grin if Len’s ever seen one.
“Oh please, Scarlet,” Len plucks the bottle from Barry’s hand, but doesn’t retreat. Not yet. Gets up to his ear. “Don’t know how? I’ve got a few scars that tell me that ain’t true. And though that skin’s too hot to bruise,” Len says, pressing the bottle into the exposed skin of Barry’s arm, rolling the cold rigid lines of the bottom of the bottle against Barry’s skin. Barry sucks in his breath, and Len swears he can feel the kid’s rapid pulse ramping up, reverberating against the glass. “You can dance just fine.”
Barry seems to consider this. Smiling, for the first time, in a way that doesn’t look like it’s about two steps away from remembering why there isn’t a reason to smile. When Barry blinks, his eyelashes flutter, and they’re long, and Len should not be noticing these things. Should not be noticing these things at all.
“Maybe I don’t like the song that’s playing,” he says.
“Want something to sing your heart out to, huh?”
Barry wrinkles his nose. “Need something that isn’t from the golden oldies, Cold,” Barry teases. It’s true, Saints and Sinners hasn’t updated its tunes since the 90s, but Len doesn’t mind. Prefers the Rock-and-roll to what’s on the radio these days.
“They’re classics. And Len.”
That makes Barry’s eyebrows shoot up. Despite the charge of their conversation, it’s Len’s simple ask — to call him by his damn name — that makes Barry blush like Len told him he wanted to drag him out of the bar by his teeth on his neck and his fingers in his belt-loops.
“Len?”
Len leans even closer to whisper in Barry’s ears. “We’re in Saints and Sinners. You and me are having a drink. I’m not calling you Flash, this ain’t a business deal, and you’ve made it clear you don’t wanna dance. So. Len.”
"You call me Scarlet.” Barry’s arguing for the sake of arguing, Len can tell. He can hear it in his voice. It’s the same voice he gets when the Flash's grinning with blood on his teeth — fighting for the thrill.
Len draws back only enough to look over the red hot flush that has creeped all the way down Barry’s neck. Eyes it obviously, which has Barry reaching up to pull the collar of his own shirt. “You fit that moniker in more ways than one.”
“Usually I’d say ‘Cold’ fits you in more ways than one, too, but…”
When Len catches his eye at that. The green is so much darker this close. There’s a lot more energy to that gaze now, yellow flecks brightening those dark spheres. Despite him clearly growing a bit alarmed by Len’s stare, he doesn’t back down.
Barry takes a sharp breath. Holds it. Doesn’t let it go until Len asks, “but?”
Next, Barry swallows, heavy and thick, his Adam’s apple bobbing so much it’s like the kick of a gun in that long neck of his.
“Len it is,” Barry agrees, voice throaty.
It’s almost a crime to hear Barry say his name, the way he says it, the way his mouth moves as he shapes out the word. It’s one syllable, and yet there’s something in the way Barry does it that makes Len tense up. Hearing it has to be a sin.
Thankfully, he’s got himself a saint to pull him through.
When Len turns to fully face Barry, their noses are almost brushing. Barry sucks in a breath again, the sound whistles, makes the air between their mouths a vacuum. Barry thinks Len is about to kiss him, Len can tell.
That would be too easy. And Len won't fall for such a ploy yet.
Len leans back. Drinks his beer on the way down, as if the gravity will pull it in faster. If he’s going to make a bad decision, he needs to justify it somehow. “Why did you come here tonight?”
“Needed some company,” Barry says. His answer clear as a bell and rosy-cheeked, and Len is far too hooked and aware of all the ways he’s hooking Barry.
“Did you now? And I’m the company you decide to keep?” Len tsked him. “Fascinating choices you’re making, Scarlet.”
“Fascinating choices, indeed.” He grins. Then, there’s a bit of that bashfulness to his smile. Then it completely flickers gone, and he’s drifting again.
This has been the give and take this entire night. Barry seems almost free of whatever’s holding him down, whatever’s got him wanting to drown himself in alcohol that he can’t even truly feel, then there’s this shuttering to his gaze and he’s thrown back.
Len realizes he doesn’t exactly have to ask why Barry’s so bent on getting drunk. Not that much different from everyone else at a bar.
“Not like you to run away from your problems, Barry.”
At that, Barry laughs. Low and dark and mirthless. With a shrug and a whole unfamiliar edge to him, he side-eyes Len. “How would you know? I run so fast I could run away and run back at them before you would know.”
Len repackages the cards up, calling their game done for now. They’re onto a new game, one that requires a lot more tactical thinking. One that’s going to require Len to tread carefully.
Not that he cares what’s going on in the dear Scarlet Speedster’s mind. But usually if something’s dogging down the Flash so bad, it’s probably about to wreak havoc on all of Central City, and then what will Len rob?
At least, that’s what Len is telling himself.
“Simple,” he says. “I pride myself on being one of your problems. We’ve faced off how many times? We’ve made how many little deals of yours?”
Barry shrugs. “Not the same. This one’s… this problem’s inevitable.”
“Inevitable?”
“Inevitable,” Barry confirms. “Can’t run around, can’t try to prevent…”
“Can’t go around it, can’t go under it and can’t go over it, so you gotta go through it?” Len says, teasing with that old children’s tale. That makes the next chuckle out of Barry’s mouth a little more pleasant, but it’s hardly a success.
“Yeah.” Barry grabs for his lemonade, but before he can bring the cup to his lips, he sets it back on the bartop with a heavy hand. Giving up. “I don’t think I can win.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and his sights are cast somewhere else entirely. He’s growing paler by the moment they sit there, his fingers still resting around his glass like it's his last tether to reality.
"What does that mean, Barry?"
Barry takes a shaky breath, his grip on his glass growing tighter. "If things progress like, like I think they're going to." Barry cringes at just the thought, and he hardly musters out, "I'm probably going to die."
That causes Len's heart to stop and start over. Stop and start over again when he feels he still doesn't have a grip on what he's saying. An adversary like that? Len's seen the meta population get out of control, seen the new enemies that Flash has to put up with. None of them are walks in the park, but this...
“Maybe I could help. Another one of our arrangements.”
That seems to startle Barry enough that his gaze flickers to Len, catches his eye, his gaze piercing. The corner of his mouth picks up. “You’re drunk.”
“Perhaps,” Len admits. “But I always have my faculties.”
“Sure.”
“And we’ve paired up before. This would hardly be new.”
That little smirk is gone as quick as it came, and Barry’s turning away from Len, pushing his glass out from him. “You can’t help me, Len.”
“Try me.”
“No, I mean it. You can’t help me. I can’t — I can’t even take you with me.”
At that, Len makes the confusion of Barry’s words plain on his face. The words make little sense — Barry’s carried Len before, as unpleasant as that was — but Len’s got a whole other theory on what Barry’s trying to say. Something Len’s been wondering about for some time now, piecing together with each little shift when he feels something more severe than deja vu, when he has dreams that are too close to memories but have no reflection of reality.
“Inevitable, huh?” Len asks. “Sounds daunting.”
“Yeah," Barry chokes.
“And you sound rather sure of that fact. Do you have it penned into a calendar?”
Barry huffs a laugh, but he’s looking at Len, wary. Len’s probably sporting the same look back. When Len first wondered about the possibility of Barry’s speed taking him beyond location, he thought he was being foolish. Drunk and too invested in the Scarlet Speedster and picturing him too much like a sci-fi novelty. Yet, this wasn’t the first time that Barry has said something strange to Len, something that makes the future far more set in stone than Len would like to believe.
“Or have you walked those streets yourself?”
Barry makes a sharp inhale at that, and at the sound of the startled noise he covers his mouth with the heel of his palm. There’s a guilty look over his face, and he glances at the glass of vodka lemonade.
“This isn’t working,” Barry murmurs into the palm of his hand.
“Valiant effort,” Len says, suddenly wound up himself. He’s feeding too much into Barry’s energy, too inebriated to keep himself in check, not drunk enough to not notice how many problems are cropping up each second Len carries out this conversation. “Why can’t I help you, Barry?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Haven’t I proved I can keep a secret?” Len asks.
But Barry is adamant. Shakes his head, covering his mouth even more as though the words will spill out without his permission. “No,” he says, muffled. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you, Len, I can’t —“
“Okay, okay, cool it. Just cool your jets, Scarlet. Maybe I can’t help you where you’re going, but let’s see what we can do here.”
He looks terrified. Barry’s pale as a sheet, and his fingers are quivering over his mouth. His eyes are wide, wide, and Len’s not sure what he’s looking at. Can’t tell if he’s looking at him or if he’s gone again.
This is a whole new hellish uneasiness that Len’s never had the displeasure of encountering before. What the hell is he supposed to be saying? Doing? He was already stupid in allowing Barry under his skin again, in letting him sit down next to him, in playing stupid card games and getting involved in silly experiments. Len saw writing on the wall at the very beginning of this, how Barry came in all wound up and out of his mind, and he let it slide because it was Barry. Such a fucking fool.
“Can we have this conversation elsewhere?" Barry asks.
And now he was too damn curious to back away. "C'mon," Len says.
Barry lets out a breath of relief and reaches for his wallet off the bartop. Meanwhile, Len hails Sully to their end of the bar.
“Close out our tab, Sully. Thanks.”
“Of course. Have a good night,” she says, flirty, clearly not reading the new tone. Barry’s stuffing his hands into his pockets and glancing at the door over and over, suddenly very wary of the company he’s been keeping throughout the night. Listening in to check if anyone's heard their conversation. Len doesn't feel the charge in the air, but he wonders if Barry's been using his speedster powers to check, too. Either way, he’s acting like someone’s going to stab him where he stands.
And it’s really a testament to how loose Len is being with him, because he reaches out to Barry and grabs his shoulder. “Barry. Keep it together for another minute.”
Barry gives a glance to Len’s hand, but doesn’t comment, simply nodding.
Len gets his card back, and now that he’s touched Barry he can’t bring himself to stop, grabbing him by the arm and guiding him out of the bar. He justifies it to himself as trying to keep Barry grounded, because the kid looks like he’s going to bolt the moment they step outside, and he needs him to stick to Len’s pace if they’re going to finish this conversation.
They make it outside and brush past the crowds of patrons smoking cigarettes or a joint or blowing colored smoke with lit-up vape pens. The first few minutes of their walk is silent while they get away from the crowd of the bar and making their way to the river. Far away from the discerning crowds and prying eyes, and after a while the silence is kept so the two can try to re-stabilize.
Outside the bar Len’s brain is far less foggy, and he’s not sure if that has to do with hyper-vigilance or Barry’s own tensities, but Len tries not to trick himself. He’s still been drinking. If he were in his right mind, he would cut Barry loose and telling him good luck, go home and sleep like a baby, none the wiser. Maybe.
Except he doesn’t. Instead, he nudges Barry who walks like he’s got cinderblocks on his feet. “Take a breather, Barry. Get a taste of fresh air.”
As if he needed Len’s command, Barry takes heaving breaths, the type one takes when they’ve had all the air knocked out of their lungs, with that low groan and wheeze to them. Len squints at Barry, worried that he’s going to hyperventilate next to him, but Barry finds his stride with it until his breathing is just a soft whir. It doesn’t exactly instill Len confidence that Barry’s calm, however, as underneath Len’s grip he’s shivering like they’re in a blizzard.
It’s chilly, there’s a breeze to their backs and the night basks the world in an icy blue, but Len’s not dumb enough to think that’s the reason for Barry’s shaking.
“What’s gonna happen if I let go of you, Barry?”
“Not sure,” he admits. “Might run.” Then he looks up from his feet and meets Len’s gaze. “Might drop.”
Well Len will just keep holding onto him for the meantime. Steels his grip for his next question, ‘cause Len has a feeling Barry’s answer is going to send them both reeling. “... And what happens if you lose to your inevitable problem?”
Barry stops dead so hard that Len stumbles a little bit, has to turn back to face him.
He’s gaunt in the moonlight. Looks exhausted, and Len realizes that he’s got bruises blooming from underneath his shirt like he’s been roughed up recently. His neck is at an aching arch as he looks at Len, his shoulders heaved forward, held down by a weight that Len can’t see.
“It’s not good.”
A beat goes by. Len watches Barry's face, his shaking, his skin grow paler in the moonlight. “You look terrified."
“I am.” Then Barry sports a nasty grimace, and an even harder glare. “I am sure this all seems hysterical to you, but —“
“You severely underestimate my esteem of you, Scarlet,” Len says, stepping into his space. “You are reckless. Impulsive. Dangerously quick on your feet and ready to catapult yourself straight into disaster.”
“Thanks, that’s real —“
Len holds up his finger, then lays his hand on Barry’s shoulder, forcing Barry to look him straight in the face. “If you’re able to ruin my carefully laid plans for my heists with scraps of meager information and grit, you’ve got some salt to you. And if you’re this worried, if you’ve been training this hard, trying to come up with a thousand different strategies, and are still this afraid?" Len sighs. "Doesn’t sound like a laughing matter to me.”
Barry swallows, and his eyes well up with tears. He jerks away, stepping out from Len’s grip on his shoulder, but doesn’t let himself get too far. Sways in at the reminder of Len’s hand on his arm. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and with leaden feet, continues to walk.
When Barry makes no sound or indication that he’s going to elaborate on his fear, Len nudges him.
“Spent my entire childhood afraid, Barry. I can tell you, it's exhausting.”
It’s a bit more honest than is usually Len’s style, but while Len is good at lying, he is not good at offering platitudes and comforts. ‘It’s all going to be alright’ is necessarily a lie when he doesn’t truly know the situation, and ‘you’ll figure it out’ would be more dismissive than Len wants to be. On top of those problems, Barry caught him at the bar after the first round. So, honesty is the way he’s going.
“Yeah, it really is,” he croaks. Opens his eyes, inches closer to Len by pulling at his arm. His voice is terribly small when he asks, “How did you stop? Being afraid?”
Len shrugs. Clenches his teeth. He may give too honest answers, but he can keep them short. “Became the thing to fear.”
It’d taken some time, but Len had worked on it. Worked up the nerve to go from being dragged by his nape by Lewis into jobs to taking the gun himself, holding someone down at gunpoint. The first kill was the hardest, but the after… “Spent enough of my life around monsters. Picked up a lot on how to be one.”
“You’re not a monster.” When Len scoffs, Barry juts his chin out, defiant. “You aren’t.”
Of course it takes defending Len’s honor or reputation or whatever he wants to call it to pull Barry out of his deadlock stare into nothing.
“You used to scare me, but, not anymore,” Barry says. He says the words evenly, careful. Making clear the used to in his statement.
“I should.”
“Nah.” As if Barry can sense the fact that Len is not exactly thrilled at his lack of status, he elaborates as they turn the corner. “I know you’re dangerous. I don’t view you as any less vicious or anything. Hell, you radiate violence and sex the moment you pull the trigger of your Cold Gun.” At the mention of sex Barry stammers, and Len almost has it in him to interrupt Barry’s little ramble with a quip to make him completely lose his words, but Len thinks it might be more important for Barry to get a full thought out without getting derailed. “You got to where you are by being brutal. But… I understand a bit better now.”
Len’s not sure how he feels that his little speedster is coming to understand him. At first he wants to dismiss the notion; Barry’s far too much the glittering vigilante with too big a grin for his dirty work. In Barry’s green eyes though, there’s that spark, yes, but there’s also a little bit of frost. The frost in one’s gaze that you can only get if you’ve had to make the tough decision. If you’ve had to play hard and fast with people’s lives.
Barry’s a hero. And to be a hero, Len’s come to learn, does not always mean being good.
Barry’s got that same charged up intensity Len had just been shaking him loose of all over again, his face gaunt and his eyes wide, wide, wide; that frost in them spreading.
“I sense a but.”
“What?”
“To your point. I sense a but. I’m vicious and sexy and all that,” Len quips with a sharp smile. “But you were making a point. So what?”
At that, Len gets the first actual laugh from Barry since they left Saints and Sinners. A harsh grin, aggressive, but still a smile. But he also can’t look at Len when he says, “You’re rational, Len. You’re smart. And you’re willing to work with me on the things that — on the things that really matter. That’s a lot more than I can say about most people I cross with.”
“That why you think there’s good in me?” Len asks. “‘Cause I can recognize not every loss for you is a win for me?”
“You’d be surprised. Most people would rather lose to make sure that I don’t win. To make sure I can’t win.”
His tone is appropriately bitter, but it still sends a strange thrill down Len’s spine to hear him speak like that. Every time Len’s talked to Barry before, it’s all glittering hope and that ‘all people are worth saving’, the hero bullshit that romanticizes and glosses over too much shit in the world — not that he ever thought Barry unaccustomed to the harms — trying to ignore all the shit to justify wanting to save those who don’t deserve to be saved. So hearing this kind of prattle, this dark, caustic hero, it’s as refreshing as it is tragic.
“You should really stop associating with them,” Len says. “Be more like me. Don’t suffer fools. Except for one clad in red leather,” Len teases.
Barry rolls his eyes. “It’s not leather and you know it.”
“What it’s actually made of is far too long and tongue-twisted for me to repeat. Much more fun to see you choke whenever I say the word leather.” True to form, Barry does sputter again.
“Whatever, Len.”
Len raises an eyebrow. “Ever wish it could go back to the days where I was the worst part of your day?”
Barry snorts, ruffling up a little. “Yes, and no.”
“Really? Would have thought life would be much easier for you, if that were the case."
“I mean, it was great when you were my biggest problem,” Barry says. “But I got to say, I don’t miss the animosity. I like this. I like Len.”
“Don’t get used to it," Len quips.
“I’ll try,” Barry says, in a way that tells Len that he’s not really trying at all.
It’s too fond to leave the conversation there, but Len doesn’t know what to say to that. Because the truth is, Len's known that he's liked Barry for a long time. Longer than he can ever dare to admit.
They continue to walk over dead leaves in the late Central City autumn, and it takes Len a moment to realize that he’s not entirely sure where they’re going. He’s following Barry’s lead, though if one looked at them Len’s got a feeling it wouldn’t appear that way, with the way Len’s still got his grip on Barry’s arm.
Actually, if Len had to venture a guess of what passer-bys thought, they probably thought he and Barry were lovers. If it weren’t for the forlorn look that is etched on Barry’s face.
“I know we talked about runnin’, Barr, but maybe this is a fight that you don’t take on.”
Barry shakes his head. “Not an option. Trust me, I wish it was.”
“Okay. Well... Maybe this time, you don’t need to be stronger. Or even faster.”
"Work smarter, not harder?" Barry asks, disdain dripping off every word. Len elbows him.
"Don't assume, makes an ass out of you. Listen." Though Barry’s not looking at him, Len can tell he’s got his full attention. The way he sets his shoulders, the way he inclines his head ever so slightly. Len continues, “You need to become the thing your enemy fears. Expose their vulnerabilities and act on them. Act against them.”
Barry frowns, his gaze snapping to Len, his mouth stuttering open but he can’t catch his words at first. “I — I’m supposed to be the good guy.” He flinches like he knows it’s an answer that Len doesn’t exactly love, but he continues anyway. “How can I do that in good conscience?”
“It’s not always about being good or bad. You do it more often than you think, Scarlet.” Then, because Len has absolutely no filter, he says, “You’re doing it now.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Jesus Christ, Len must be out of his mind. This isn’t the time to delve into a conversation like this, that Len is all too willing to be swayed to Barry’s whims. That Barry exposes vulnerabilities in Len by having all that unearned faith in him, every time Barry reaches out for him when Len wants to recoil. That Barry’s very existence is exposing Len’s vulnerability and using it against him, and God, Barry doesn’t even know. Hasn’t got a clue.
“If the stakes are as high as you’re saying Barry, you’ve got to shutter that bleeding heart of yours for a little while. Can’t allow for hesitation. Take every advantage you can scour up, because you have to win.”
Barry flinches. “I know I have to win, I just —“
“No. If you really think you’re on your own. If you really think you can’t do this based on how you are right now, then something’s gotta give. And I think all of Central would be with me when I say that it shouldn’t be your life.”
Len stares at Barry as he takes in the words, but Barry won't look at him. Keeps his gaze trained at his shoes, all the confidence of the speedster gone, and Len wants to yell at him. Wants to shake him.
Then Barry covers Len’s hand on his arm with his own, folding their fingers together.
He should brush him off, should rip out his arm and run, he should —
“If I do that, how can I come back and be… me?”
And at that, Len squeezes his fingers together. Because he won’t buck him off. Not by a long shot. “I don’t know. But if anyone can, it’s going to be you.”
They turn another corner and are walking down the sidewalk of a row of apartment buildings and complexes. Len’s brain is churning, trying to think of something to shake out the newfound nerves, the iron ball that’s in the pit of Len’s stomach. Barry cannot go and get himself killed, can't think that he's about to get himself killed or he surely will. There has to be a plan, there has to be something more.
Then, Barry stops. Gives Len a sad smile.
“This is me." Then he flinches, and he can't seem to decide whether or not he can meet Len's eye, his glances dancing around. "Sorry, I didn’t really mean to have you walk me home, it just kind of happened, if you need me to — ”
“It’s no problem, Scarlet.”
Barry nods, more to himself than to Len. Then, with another cursory glance, he makes eye contact with Len.
"Thank you. For the drinks. And, well. Um. Everything else." And with that, Barry's turning to the steps to his apartment. Despondence takes the reins once again as Barry fishes for his keys, walking up the steps to his apartment.
And Len knows he’s asking too many questions, but he has to ask: “will we get any warning?”
Barry stops. Clears his throat. “You mean if I fail?”
All Len can do is look at him. Look at him under the lamplight as his back bends more over himself, as Barry tries to shrink before his eyes. He gives up the search for his keys, his hands falling limp at his sides.
“There won’t be much warning, no. But you’ll find out pretty fast.” Barry sighs. “Keep your head down best you can, ‘kay? Stay safe.”
At that, Len nods, though he can't be sure what exactly he's promising. That alone is enough to propel him up the stairs after Barry. “My money’s still on you, you know.”
A light huff for acknowledgment is all Len gets for that as Barry continues digging for his keys. And that's when Len fishes them out of his own pocket.
“This your card?” Len asks, a small smile on his face.
Barry blinks at the set of keys in Len’s palm. He gives Len a disbelieving look as he plucks them from him, a smile on his lips, barely touching his eyes.
Len smiles back. And Len raises his hand to pat Barry on the arm and take his leave, when Barry laughs, bringing him to a halt.
It’s not a happy sound. Frantic and sharp, almost cackling. It’s like it’s being punched out of Barry’s stomach. He laughs and laughs and laughs, while his eyes well up with tears and this time he can’t control them before they spill, and Len knows. He knows that kind of laugh. It’s the kind of laugh when it’s all too much, and the only thing you want to do is break down and shrivel up and die.
“Why did you come out tonight?” Len asks. It’s overemotional by a mile, and that’s even with Len’s curbing of the real question he wanted to ask. Why did you come to me tonight, why did you come to me at all. He thinks Barry gets it because his laughs become more like sobs and he has to clench his teeth to get his wits about him.
“I’m scared,” Barry admits. He makes this stuttering sound in the back of his throat, and Len realizes that this isn’t the full confession. Barry keeps looking up at him and then looking back down at his hands, red and trembling, and every time he looks up again his eyes are a little bit wetter. “And — and I need — I need.” He shuts his mouth on the word and flinches as he tries to swallow it back down, and each shaky second that he and Barry stand out here, that Len listens to Barry fumble around, is making his blood reach a boiling point that he can hear steaming in his ears.
“What, Barry?”
“I needed someone to help me not be.”
Len grabs the keys from Barry, his hands too shaky to handle his own door, and unlocks it for him. Then he grabs Barry again, manhandling as he has this past hour, and pushes him inside his own apartment.
With his free hand, he cups Barry’s jaw. He looks up at Len, bleary and wild.
“We can’t get you drunk, Scarlet,” Len says, breath ghosting over Barry’s lips. “But I can sure as hell distract you.”
With that, Len kisses him. Kisses him hard. Invites himself into Barry’s apartment as he backs him inside, kicking the door shut behind him so he can spin Barry around and pin him to the door. Barry lets out this whimpering sound, cut off in his throat and soft in Len’s ear, and Len pulls back.
“This okay?”
Barry’s grip is already fisting in Len’s jacket. “Please,” he mumbles, pulling Len back and initiating a whole new kiss.
It was a good thing that Len had been holding him. The moment Len steps in a little closer, pins him a little harder to that door, Barry falls apart. The kiss goes from harsh to languid, intense and feeling far too much. Len puts one hand on Barry’s waist, the other still at his jaw, grazing Barry’s cheekbone with his thumb.
It’s too fond. It’s too nice. Len has all of his faculties but he must be black out drunk, he must be, because he opens his mouth first and lets Barry explore him. Lets Barry lead the way, and they’re kissing like they’re lovers. And Len knew it would be this way. Barry’s always been a little damaged and all too fragile, and Len’s got a feeling he always kisses this way when it’s up to him.
They break apart and Barry’s gasping for breath, dazed in his expression. “You don’t have to do this,” he stammers out. Ever the hero. “I — I want to, but if you don’t want to, you’ve helped enough tonight.”
Len gives what is meant to be a chastising kiss, but it is far more intimate against Barry’s temple. “Happy to be of service.” Then Len goes for Barry’s exposed neck.
Barry whines and begins walking Len away from the door, feet tripping over themselves. Len lets his hand trail from Barry’s jaw to the nape of his neck. Breaking the kiss, Len’s heart flutters at the sound of Barry’s kiss-drunk breathing. He presses his lips once again to the side of Barry’s throat, then grazes his teeth lightly on the back of his neck.
Barry startles at that, letting his head fall on Len’s shoulder. He scrabbles at Len’s back, his nails digging into his shoulders as Len walks backwards into the unfamiliar apartment at Barry’s bidding. They don’t even turn on the lights, there’s a light glow from the light of the microwave that casts Barry in golden hues and accents of shadow and he’s beautiful like this. He’s so beautiful Len almost pulls back just to admire, just to see him for a little longer while he’s still pliant in his arms.
His heart feels as though it is on fire, Barry hot against him and making him warm. He can’t stop the soft smile from coming on his face every time the two break away before searching back and kissing again. Pulling Barry’s hair back with his nails, Len adjusts the kiss with a touch of his fingertips to Barry’s jaw.
He can’t stop touching him. And, so it seems, vice versa.
Barry presses a kiss to the underside of Len’s jaw, and that’s when Len bumps the backs of his knees against Barry’s couch. Wrapping his arm around Barry’s waist, he spins the two of them around, depositing Barry on the arm of the couch, who lets out an oof at the movement, but when Len checks in on him he sees Barry’s bright, though slightly dopey, smile.
Barry’s hands come up, grabbing Len’s face and tracing his cheekbones, his eyebrows, before kissing him again. Soft. The kiss of someone who’s already sworn their fealty to the other, and Len isn't sure what to make of it and isn't sure he really cares all the same. They both sigh into the kiss, and then Barry’s hands pass over Len’s hairline, cupping the back of Len’s neck as he explores his mouth further, eliciting a moan from Len that he tries to swallow.
Barry spreads his legs and Len walks in between them, not letting them get too far apart. Puts one hand on Barry’s thigh and kisses against Barry’s exposed collar, before reaching up and kissing him on the lips again. Barry’s shiver is plenty incentive to do it again and again and again, and Barry sways into the touch so easily that Len's drunk on that more than any drink he had at Saints and Sinners.
Barry’s arms wrap around Len’s neck into an embrace, one hand going underneath Len’s jacket but not underneath his shirt. He strokes along Len’s shoulders with his warm hands and long fingers. Len keeps Barry stable on the arm of the couch until he feels Barry’s heels digging into the small of his back as Barry locks Len against him with his long legs.
“Do you want me to take you to the bedroom?” Len asks as Barry kisses the line of his neck, his arms tightening around Len.
Len wants to. Len wants this more than he'll admit now mostly sobered up, but thankfully Barry's reaction tells Len he probably won't have to.
He breaks for a moment, his eyes fluttering open, his pupils blown. Len traces around his ear in wait of a response.
“I do — but only if you do,” he murmurs.
It’s all Len needs to reach underneath Barry’s thighs and hoist him up, making Barry squeak in surprise. His legs shift position, wrapping around Len’s ribs. When Len walks a few steps, Barry leans back and raises an eyebrow.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Barry asks.
“Not at all.”
That makes Barry grin, and he presses a kiss to Len’s forehead, before leaning unhelpfully away from Len and pointing down the hall. “End of the hall,” he says, laughing, as though on the starboard of a ship. Len shifts one arm from underneath Barry’s thigh to grab at Barry’s back, forcing him to stay close.
“Since I’m carrying you, least you can do is make it easy.”
“Since when do I make things easy for you?” Barry asks, pressing a teasing nip to the corner of Len's mouth. Len glares.
All it takes is a small reminder of Barry’s job as the Flash to bring them back to kissing long and languid and desperate, to the point where Len has to stop their trek down the hall to pin Barry against the wall to keep him upright.
Len knows he could make it easier if he just put Barry down, let him walk on his own two legs, but he doesn’t want him out of his hold. Doesn’t want him out of his arms, and Barry doesn’t seem inclined to get out of them. Even when they do finally make it to the bedroom; Len lays him on his back, and Barry immediately begins pulling Len to climb on top of him, wraps his legs around his waist once again. Laces his fingers with Len and can’t seem to go a minute without occupying his mouth somewhere, preferably against Len’s own, but Barry seems to be pleased with any part of Len he can reach with that mouth of his.
It’s intimate. It may be the most intimate sex Len’s ever had. Pulling off Barry’s stupid sneakers; letting Barry remove his jacket from him with those slow, long, fingers grazing down his arms the whole way; the amount of hickeys the two place on each other is ridiculous, Len covering up all of Barry’s bruises — which he learns Barry got training for this impending mission — with marks from his mouth or a grip of his hands. Barry's hands roam, tracing down Len's arms, causing goosebumps to rise in the wake of his fingertips. Their conversations are brief and breathless, but Len keeps talking because it's clear Barry wants him to. Makes sure nothing reminds Barry of the Flash, but keeps chattering away. Says stupid things to make Barry laugh. Gives Barry too honest compliments, murmuring that he's breathtaking while Len pins his hands to the pillows above his head; praises Barry's sensitivity and teases him for his neediness. Goads Barry on when he starts pleading, murmuring in his ear sweet nothings that have never come to Len naturally, not ever, but Barry needs them, and Len's not even entirely sure what he’s saying when Barry’s gone heavy and sated in his hands, Len following shortly after.
Barry cleans them up. Because it’s quick for him to, and he insists, and Len doesn’t have his full mind to think anything of it anyway.
Then they’re laying in bed. Len staring up at Barry’s ceiling, Barry curled up against him. Barry’s head’s on Len’s chest, and Len’s got his arm across Barry’s ribs. Barry’s breathing deep, but Len knows he’s not asleep yet, because he keeps digging his nose into Len’s sternum every time he turns his face to look at his clock.
Finally, Len blocks Barry’s view of the time, pulls up the covers till it’ll be hard for him to look out the window.
“Plenty of time, Scarlet. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Barry shifts up higher, at first Len thinks that he’s annoyingly trying to get a view of the clock, but instead he tucks his head against Len’s throat. Reaches for Len’s hand and laces it with his own again. Len strums his thumb across Barry’s knuckles, another soft gesture that Len really didn’t know he had in him, but Barry seems relaxed. He even thinks that Barry’s finally fallen asleep, when he mumbles into Len’s neck:
“What did you mean earlier?”
Len knows exactly what he’s talking about. His intoxicated lack of filter coupled with the comfortability of Saints and Sinners, Len had said too many open things. So, Barry’s going to have to work harder than that. “Gonna have to be more specific.”
Barry thumps him with their enjoined hands, but then indulges Len's question despite them both knowing exactly what Barry means. “What did you mean when you told me that I was exposing vulnerabilities right then — at the bar?”
Len sighs deep, presses his nose into the top of Barry’s hair. “You want to bring this up now?”
“Well, that’s exactly it,” Barry murmurs. “Now might be the only time.”
Len shifts, pulling Barry away enough so that he can at least look at him a little bit. So he’s not having a conversation with his spiky hair, though he does run his hand through it for good measure.
“What did I say about that earlier, Barry?”
Barry lets out a hmph, and sinks against Len. “That your money is on me.”
“Exactly. So we’ll have more time. So don’t worry about it for now.”
Barry doesn’t consider this for very long. Lets go of Len’s hand so he can push himself up to look Len in the eye. “Tell me anyway.”
Barry’s eyes are dark. All that manic charge has been settled down, instead they’re deep and kind in the moonlight and Len hates him a little for looking like this and asking him these things. He’s still pale, now Len’s pretty sure from lack of sleep and spending the last hour blushing too much. His freckles are dark against his skin, and his moles are even darker, and Len traces a pattern with his finger instead of responding at first. Tries to will his heart to slow down before he’s made to respond.
Finally, Len asks, “You really saying you don’t know?” Brushes a stray eyelash from Barry’s cheek with a few harsh strums against Barry’s skin, which makes his face scrunch up, but Barry chuckles. Then Len drops his hand. “This hasn’t made it clear enough for you?”
And because Barry’s still a merciful hero, a dopey smile spreads across his lips, and he shrugs. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it has.” Then he reaches up and passes a hand over the top of Len’s head, brushing through the buzz of Len’s hair, before pressing a kiss to Len’s temple, which makes Len huff a laugh. Then Barry tugs at the comforter, pulling it up so it covers more of himself and Len, then resettles on top of him.
“Good?”
“Just fine.” Len drops more underneath the covers, cups the back of Barry’s head. “Get some sleep. You’ve got a fight to win tomorrow.”
Barry nods against his chest, and Len falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.