Chapter Text
*September 4th, 2008 4:17 p.m.*
The very first time Leonard Snart heard Barry Allen’s voice was over the phone on his third day as a homicide detective.
He was sitting at his desk with the evidence his new partner, Joe West, had gathered on their suspect. Tim Randall was a 46-year-old sociopath with a lengthy criminal background whom the seasoned detective had dragged in to have a little chat with in the interrogation room. Len was technically meant to be observing the interrogation, but after about ten minutes of watching West try to strong-arm answers out of the alleged murderer, knowing it wasn’t going to go anywhere, he had gotten bored and decided to see if Joe had missed anything in his recklessness to catch their killer.
It had only been three days on the job and he was already wondering if asking Captain Darryl Frye for a new partner would work or not. Joe West wasn’t necessarily a bad man, but he could still be a bastard and Len had always had a problem playing nice with narcissistic bastards. The man wasn't even necessarily a bad detective, he was just sloppy in Len’s opinion. Too rough edges with a tendency to cut corners to get the job done.
Len wasn't a saint by any measure of the word, and he wouldn’t say (out loud) he could do the job better than the rest of the detectives in the CCPD, but he liked to think he held himself to a higher standard. The badge wasn't something to flash around to strong-arm your way through a situation. It was a responsibility. A huge responsibility. A responsibility that he had seen tossed aside by most in the course of his thirty-six years of living up close and personal with law enforcement.
His father had been dirty long before Len was born, taking bribes from the mob and running his own little gang of young, corrupt officers. A parade of thieves with badges pinned to their chests frequented the Snart household for “football” in the basement before Len was even a thought in either of his parents’ heads. When his mother was too busy with cooking he would sit at the top of the basement steps and listen in on his father and his friends plan their next job. After his mother’s death, Lewis started including him in the plans, saying his big brain and tiny hands could finally do them all some good. So Len knew the importance of having good cops protecting the city and he promised himself the day he decided to become one that he would be the best of all of them.
He found out quickly it wasn't a hard thing to achieve.
The only real exception he had seen was David Singh. He had a better head on his shoulders than most of the city and had a few years on West as a detective. Out of all the detectives in Len's unit, Singh was the first and only one to introduce himself and strike up an actual conversation with Len on his first day. He had even shown the new detective around the building when Len’s so-called partner had scoffed at the Captain’s suggestion of doing so himself, deciding instead to go back to talking to Singh's partner, Detective Chyre—an older conservative man who liked to talk down to Singh whenever he thought he could get away with it—while throwing dirty looks Len's way every other second. While most of his new coworkers had the decency to play nice and pretend his time undercover as a criminal didn't set them on edge, others like West seemed to have very strong opinions about Len's new position in society.
It'd been a hell of a fight to even get Central City's Chief of Police to agree to take Len on, what with the almost daily assassination attempts he was dealing with since he resurfaced into society as Leonard Snart, undercover cop, instead of Leonard Snart, the ice-themed supervillain.
The only reason he was able to was because Bruce agreed to anonymously take control of the contract out on him; he upped the bounty on Len’s head and included a clause that said no one would get paid if there were any other casualties. It wasn't an ideal situation by any means, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. It didn’t matter if there wasn’t a contract out, people would still come after him with or without money as an incentive. This way at least they were able to play it by their own rules. The Chief wasn't exactly happy with the arrangement, but he couldn't fight it either, not when Len was a decorated hero in the eyes of the law and the public.
Len leafed through the file they had on their suspect, the gears in his mind turning over a rough plan to nudge the Captain into reassigning partners. That way West and Chyre could be their own little duo while Len got a chance at having a partner who didn't seem to mind his checkered past or the danger it presented. It was a win-win for everyone.
Both his and the phone on West's desk began to ring simultaneously just as he was reading over Randall's last arrest report.
It was ridiculous how often their desk phones rang. This was 2008. If there was a crime scene or a lead to follow, wouldn't it be more productive to call their cell phones? One thing he really didn’t want to do: play secretary and answer West's astonishing amount of daily phone calls. Didn't the man know he could give out his cell phone number? The obnoxious ringing, a permanent tune around the bullpen if the past three days had taught him anything, was resulting in a headache pressing to the front of his focus.
Picking up his receiver in exasperation, Len opened his mouth to greet the caller with the standard 'Homicide, Snart,' but was drowned out by a pitiful, whining voice rushing to speak.
“Oh my God, Joe, I can’t believe I let you and Iris talk me into it! I’m never listening to anything you say ever again for as long as I live, which—God—hopefully isn't much longer! I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed in my entire life! I’m talking worse than that time in eleventh grade when you caught me in the backyard with Carter Cassidy! I'm never going to be able to go to that coffee shop again! God, Joe, I asked him out and he looked horrified! He thought I was only fifteen. Fifteen! I don’t look that young, do I? You know what, don’t answer that. Guys at the precinct call me ‘baby-faced Barry Allen’ behind my back and I’m not totally convinced you didn’t start it…”
Ah. Barry, the remarkable foster son West was always going on about.
This should be fun.
“I assure you, Barry, I most certainly did not start that nickname,” Len spoke over the boy's hysterical rambling, smirking when his voice was enough to plunge the conversation into silence.
“Uhh...you’re not Joe,” Barry finally coughed in embarrassment, earning himself a hum of agreement from the amused detective.
“Correct. I’m his new partner.”
“Of course you are, of course.” Barry sighed dejectedly, any chance of his dignity being salvaged today going right out the window. “As if I couldn’t get any more embarrassed.”
“If it's any consolation, you don't sound fifteen. I'd say just shy of the big one-eight," Len teased, figuring a little banter might help the kid get over his embarrassment. Even though he wasn’t a saint, he knew better than to kick someone when they were down and the kid sounded like he was having a bit of a rough day.
"Wow, that makes me feel so much better Detective Cold, really, thanks for that," Barry snorted sarcastically in reply.
"Ah, I didn't realize I was already the main topic of gossip in the West family," Len commented, not surprised West had divulged his opinion about his new partner's criminal reputation to his kids. After all, he didn't need West to voice the distaste he had for Len when it was written all over the man's disrespectful face.
"Actually, you were more of a side topic I desperately tried to cling to while they were ganging up on me to 'be brave and face my fear of rejection head-on,'" Barry confessed with a soft, self-deprecating laugh.
"Terrible advice, clearly." Len let out a single exhale of amusement, switching the phone to his other ear as he leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. Barry didn’t seem extremely wary of him or completely starstruck, the two extremes Len dealt with the most when meeting new people lately, and Len would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t curious to know why. West’s foster son had caught his attention. It wasn’t every day he found someone who talked to him like he was just an average man. Just the new detective in town. He could count on two fingers now the number of people who talked to him like he was just another guy.
"Clearly, yeah," Barry easily agreed. "You would think after seven years I would have learned not to listen to them."
"Care for some better advice?" Len casually offered, reaching for the family photo West kept on his desk and zeroing his attention in on the attractive, nerdy brunet.
It wasn’t the first time he had seen the picture, but it was the first time he allowed himself to really take in what he was seeing. Barry was pale and lengthy, the tallest amongst his little family, with a charming, boyish smile and kind, hazel eyes. The picture had to be only a few years old, Barry most likely still in high school if the familiar bleachers in the background were anything to go by, but Len guessed ‘baby-faced Barry Allen’ didn’t look much different now than he did back then.
"I'm all ears," Barry murmured, the obvious self-hatred in his reply almost enough for Len to hold back on his observations. Almost.
"Stop hunching your shoulders. Makes you look meek and easy to prey upon. In other words, young. You need to stand up to your full height and keep your head up. Have people look up at you, not you down at them. That will also help with confidence,” Len began in a matter-of-fact tone, making sure to keep his words light to avoid causing offense. “Confidence is key, so don't avoid eyes. When you're interested in someone, you make as much eye contact as possible. You want their eyes on you, so you also want to dress to impress."
"What's wrong with how I dress?" Barry questioned defensively, giving Len the perfect opportunity to test just how comfortable the college student was with flirtatious lines directed his way.
Purely to help the kid in the long run, of course.
"Depends, what are you wearing?"
"Oh my God, you can't just ask me…I can't…" Barry scandalously whispered, trailing off in uncertainty. Len smirked to himself, pressing his luck and the boy's courage as he whispered his name in a smooth, coaxing tone.
"Barry."
"Fuck. Okay, uh...my good khakis…my favorite black and white Converse”—Barry’s words were hesitant and barely over an audible whisper, leaving Len to wonder if he was the first person ever to ask that particular question or maybe just the first to get an answer—“a white and blue, plaid, long-sleeved shirt, and a navy sweater vest over it."
"Do you dress like that often?" Len hummed in question, taking one last lingering look at the picture in his hand before replacing it right where he found it.
"What do you mean often?” Barry questioned hotly, the shy, trembling voice gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Barry seemed to have a hair trigger on his emotions. “What's wrong with my outfit?"
"It makes you look like you're fifteen, Barry. If you're trying to get a date with a college guy you need to not only act your age but look it," Len informed him patiently, smiling to himself when the offended boy began ranting loudly in retaliation.
"What? Should I start wearing basketball shorts and crew neck shirts? Sweatpants and hoodies? Band t-shirts and ripped jeans? That's not me, Detective Cold—"
"It's Detective Leonard Snart, actually," Len cut in before Barry could continue, silencing the boy with the correction, "but since you're having a bad day, Kid, I'll let you call me Len."
"Oh right...sorry...okay...sorry… Len. Sorry." Barry muttered apologetically, earning a sympathetic sigh from the detective.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to being referred to by his alias. Most of the other detectives addressed him as Cold, thanks to West’s determination to remind everyone who Len was and what he was capable of, but that didn’t mean Barry needed to follow his foster father’s example.
There was something about Barry that felt known, like when he had first laid eyes on his newborn baby sister or a fourteen-year-old Mick. Hearing Barry’s voice wrap around his moniker felt almost too familiar like he had heard it before. Hearing ‘Len’ come out of his mouth felt similar, but without the simmering wrongness the frustrated ‘Cold’ had brought on. A part of him wanted to ask Barry to say his name again just to see if the same uplifting feeling would be invoked.
"Look, I'm not saying you have to completely change your wardrobe. I'm saying if you're not going to hold your head up and own the fact that you like sweater vests and talking about the periodic table, then you're going to have to make changes to find that confidence," Len informed the boy kindly. The silence that stretched behind his statement was the first Len hadn’t tried to provoke.
"How do you know so much about me?" Barry finally spoke up, his tone slightly suspicious and almost…flattered, if Len wasn’t mistaken.
"Have you met your dad? He never shuts up about you and your sister," Len snorted in response, thankful for the deflection in the form of Barry’s family.
West hadn’t said anything explicitly to him, but he overheard him talking to the other detectives constantly, helping him formulate a clearer picture. Casual, leading questions to David filled in the gaps when he came by to try to persuade Len to go to lunch (Len had politely declined each time; he didn’t want David accidentally getting shot by one of his would-be assassins just for being seen with him in public, but he was curious to see if the other detective would keep trying).
That said, he wouldn’t mind hearing more from Barry himself.
"She's not my sister and he's my foster dad, not my dad.” Barry sounded both extremely offended and outraged at the assumption that he was at all related to the West family. “I have a dad. A really, really good dad. The best."
Ah, maybe not so clear of a picture. It sounded like Len had hit a bit of a nerve.
Maybe West's picture-perfect family wasn't as perfect as the man tried to paint it.
"Lucky you."
He meant it, too.
He had never heard someone talk so highly of a parent and with so much certainty in their conviction. Maybe he had heard wrong about the kid’s past. He didn’t think anyone could love a father who had killed his wife. His only son’s mother. Len knew he had never and would never forgive his father for it. Barry clearly loved his father deeply, no matter the crime he was convicted of or the life sentence he was serving. West had told Chyre just yesterday that the best thing about Barry going so far away for college was that he wouldn’t be visiting his father every week at Iron Heights anymore.
"Yeah, I am," Barry confidently replied.
Len generously allowed the confidence to linger for another few seconds before he threw his next curve ball. There had been more than one interesting discovery in the kid’s denial and he couldn’t find it in himself to leave it untouched.
"So, how long have you been in love with your not sister?"
"Wh-why would you think…I'm not…that's crazy…I mean, what…"
This kid was a terrible liar, which was unbelievably refreshing to bear witness to after the last year.
The last fifteen years.
Hell, when was the last time he got to indulge in something this mundane and entertaining?
"That long, wow, tough break, Kid." Len whistled in sympathy. "Let me guess, she has no idea you're in love with her and has no trouble calling you her brother?"
"I'm not a kid, and it's not…I'm not in love…"
"Lie," Len sang with a sharp smirk.
"How could you possibly know that?" Barry whined in defeat. The kid folded like a house of cards taken down by the tiniest flick. Barry wouldn’t last a second in the interrogation room, that was for sure.
"You protested quite vehemently when I called her your sister. After seven years of living together you're either in love or you consider her family," Len revealed easily, leaning back in his chair with one hand fiddling with his pen, tapping it gently against the edge of his desk.
"I knew you were good, but I gotta say that's impressive considering we haven't even met."
"Yet," Len tacked on. After all, it was inevitable that they would meet in the future. From the many inquiries he had eavesdropped on from other officers about the two college students, Barry and his sister were well-known faces around the precinct.
"Yet, yeah, uh…ha...so,” Barry coughed to cover up his scramble for a topic change, most likely not wanting to disclose whatever warning speech West no doubt gave both his children when he was assigned his controversial new partner. West had not been shy about letting Len know the only reason they were partners was that he had been the only one in the department without a partner after his last one transferred to Miami two months ago, and West couldn't convince their Captain to change his mind.
“Uh...how do you like being a homicide detective so far? Joe told us a little about you being undercover before; bet it's a weird transition."
Yes, he was sure West had a lot to say about his time undercover in Gotham.
"I find some of the company here lacking or, should I say, they seem to, but that’s to be expected considering my reputation," Len informed him honestly.
He hadn't been met with a warm welcome from most of his new coworkers who thought his time as the nefarious Captain Cold meant he was no better than the criminals and supervillains he had helped lock up. They kept their distance or pretended he didn’t exist, but Len couldn’t find it in himself to care. He wasn’t here to make friends, he was here to do his job.
"For what it's worth, I think what you did was amazing—legendary, honestly—no matter the lengths you had to go to before the real goal was achieved."
"I appreciate that Barry; not many people share the sentiment."
A short list it was indeed.
Len was still getting used to being outside after a full year in hiding, a year in which everyone assumed he was dead. When his cover was blown and everything had gone to shit, he was forced to go underground to give himself the time and resources he needed to build his cases against the mob families with the Bat Brats acting as his own personal bodyguards, roommates, and coworkers.
Waking up after his emergency surgery to find Nightwing and Robin evacuating him and Mick from the hospital while under attack by half of Gotham’s criminals still felt like a fever dream most of the time.
Having spent a year in the Batcave recovering from his injuries and working with the Bat-Family and the newly appointed Commissioner to bring all his evidence and his testimonies to the court without being killed had been trying, both on his physical health and his sanity. On the bright side, he had picked up enough useful skills from his unlikely new friends to keep himself alive on his own now that he was back home.
"Most people, sadly, don't care about real justice," Barry muttered, with so much emotion wrapped up in so few words that Len knew there had to be a story there.
What he had gathered from David's helpful insight: after the kid's mother was killed and his father was sent to Iron Heights for the murder, Barry was in the foster system for a couple of years before Joe West was granted custody.
There was definitely a story there, one Len found himself curious to know more about.
"Very true," Len agreed.
"I'm glad Central City has you protecting it; from what I've heard you seem like a good man," Barry praised him, the conviction ringing so strongly in his statement making it more difficult than usual for Len to brush off, as he had in the past with others.
He wasn’t a hero, no matter what the people of Gotham thought or how certain Barry sounded.
"Well, now, I don't know if I'd go that far."
"I would, I do. The city is lucky to have you on its side, you’re a hero," Barry insisted passionately.
"Now, if I didn't know any better, Kid, I'd say you were trying to butter me up," Len attempted to deflect, but Barry didn't seem to be finished.
"Just speaking the truth, I know what the other detectives say—"
"Like your foster father."
"—but I've always thought you were the hero in the story, not the villain they try to make you out to be."
This kid wasn’t trying to butter him up or blow smoke up his ass, he meant it. Every word. He thought Len was a hero through and through, despite his past.
"Sure you've been told the real story, Kid?" Len asked, knowingly. His history was filled with nothing but lies, desperation, pain, theft, violence, and murder.
He had been a villain. One of the best, even.
But that was then; he had retired Cold when he left Gotham. Now he was just another detective on the force. Just another Central City police officer. Not a hero or a villain. Just Leonard Snart.
"Maybe I should hear it from you, check both sides of the story before forming my opinion."
"Smart thinking, maybe one day I'll tell you about it," Len replied vaguely, spinning his chair from side to side slightly as he rested the plastic phone more comfortably against his ear. One day, maybe he’d be able to talk about it all out loud, but today on the phone with a complete stranger was not that day.
"But not today?"
"Not today, Kid," Len confirmed with a sigh.
"I'm not a kid, I'm nineteen."
Len had to stop himself from laughing out loud. God, to be that young again. He had been halfway through the academy at that age. It was no easy feat, getting out of juvie with only a burning determination to create real change in the world and a suicidal mission he had cooked up to create such change. Len had wanted a challenge, something that would take time and skill, and work, so he had set his sights on the most corrupt city he could think of. Gotham was hell on earth for normal citizens and an overrun criminal playground for anyone with a sense of drama and obsession with elaborate costumes.
He had headed out to New York only two days after being released from juvie, using the first day to clue his sister in on his plan and the second saying goodbye. He spent the next three months convincing Commander Wright of the New York City Police Academy that his idea to be placed undercover in Gotham wasn't completely crazy and that his age was what was going to make the plan that much more believable. No one would suspect him of being undercover since he wasn't technically old enough to join the Academy yet.
After numerous statistical meetings with Wright and an FBI lawyer, Jonathan Han, who owed Wright a few favors, they were able to waive the age restriction and get Len into the Academy. Len hadn't even been over twenty when he arrived in Gotham for his mission. In those fifteen years of living as a criminal, not a soul ever suspected a thing.
"As long as there's a ‘teen’ in your age, you're a kid. Sorry, I don't make the rules, Barry."
"So when I'm twenty you'll tell me all about your heroic undercover takedown of the century?" Barry countered hopefully. If Len didn’t know any better he’d think Barry was already planning on them speaking again in the near future.
"Maybe if you're lucky, Kid,” Len offhandedly replied, a small part of him almost disappointed that their conversation was coming to its natural end. “Would you like me to pass on your emergency call to West?"
"Uh, right, Joe...no it's okay, I'll just call him when he gets home. Uh...it was nice to meet you, Len, well…sorta."
It had been nice, hadn't it?
Len wasn't quite sure what to do with just how nice it had been.
"You too, Kid. Think about what I said," Len advised.
"I will. Thanks…for the advice."
"Anytime," Len responded easily, only a little surprised by how much he meant it.
Maybe a little nice in his life would do him some good.
"I'll keep that in mind. Have a good day, Len. Bye."
"Hope the rest of your day goes better than the first half has. Goodbye, Barry."
Len set the handset back down slowly, replaying the conversation from the beginning as he reached back across the desk to the framed photo he had been inspecting before.
“Barry Allen,” Len whispered to himself, letting the name settle over his tongue as he tapped his thumb against the edge of the frame. “The first compelling thing Central has provided me.”
Maybe he would hold off trying to switch partners, for now at least.
*September 10th, 2008 12:19 p.m.*
"Homicide, Snart," Len absentmindedly answered, tucking the phone into the crook of his neck so his hands were free to finish typing up the arrest report he was working on.
"Uh, hi, Len. It's me, uh, Barry, that is."
"Hello again, Barry. If you're hoping to speak with West you're about twenty minutes too early. He's still on his lunch break."
"No, I know, I just got off the phone with him,” Barry informed him hesitantly, hope creeping into his tone as he continued on. “Uh…I was hoping to talk to you."
Huh, it only took six days for Barry to call back. He’d been wondering when he would hear from the kid again. He thought it would have taken the boy a few more days to get the courage to reach out.
"Is that so?" Len hummed, pausing his work to focus on the interesting turn of events, lounging back in his chair as he took hold of the handset, releasing his shoulder of the burden.
"Uh, yeah. Um...I wanted to see how you were doing after your first week on the job."
Barry was checking up on him. How sweet.
"Nothing to complain about. A slower pace than I would have assumed, but not horribly so." Len didn't bother the kid with tales of his disgruntled, petty foster father and the pissing contests he kept demanding. "I've heard rumors of Singh taking over for Captain Frye at the end of the month, so with the only decent candidate out of the running, my cunning plan to get assigned to a different partner has become obsolete."
David was excited and would make an excellent Captain in Len’s opinion, but it did leave him stuck with an unfavorable partner for the foreseeable future.
"Oh...I mean, Joe said you two don't get along that well but is it that bad between you that you want a different partner?"
"I'm a bit picky about my partners." Len kept his answer vague; he might not like West, but he knew better than to discuss the situation with the other man’s family.
This was between him and West.
"I get that. I know Joe can be a difficult person to get used to. He likes to be in control and call all the shots. His way or the highway, you know?" Barry sighed all too knowingly. "You should have seen him during Iris' rebellious phase. She and her boyfriend at the time got arrested for drag racing and I swear he about exploded. That was not a fun time to be living with either of them."
"Whose side did you take?"
"At first neither…but I kinda got arrested too and it put me and Iris in the same boat for Joe," Barry sheepishly confessed, unlocking another new fascinating layer to this interesting young man.
Len would be lying if he said he wasn't hopelessly intrigued by that statement.
"What did you do?" He was incredibly curious about Barry's list of charges. Up until this moment Len suspected the worst thing Barry Allen could have done in his life was jaywalk.
"I may or may not have attempted to get my hands on some chemicals that weren't exactly for sale," Barry explained ominously, or what passed as ominous coming from him. "They couldn't prove anything and were forced to drop the charges, but Joe grounded me for, like, ever...I think I'm still technically grounded, but we just don't bring it up. Iris might be too, come to think of it."
"Didn't take you for the criminal mastermind type. What could you possibly need illegal chemicals for?"
"It's uh, kinda a long story."
"Well, lucky for you, I have some time; maybe I'll even indulge you with a story or two of my own heists from years ago," Len offered in a blatant attempt to persuade the supposed thief. He hadn’t taken his lunch break yet and he had a feeling Barry Allen had quite the story to tell.
"Yeah? Really?" Barry asked hopefully, with no hint of subtlety, just obvious excitement about any insight regarding Len’s alter ego.
"We'll have to see how good your story is first."
"Well, I'm no Captain Cold but, uh...I may or may not have had a brief criminal alter ego phase. Nothing anyone could prove, and I'm not admitting to anything mind you, Officer—"
"It's Detective, you little brat," Len corrected with an amused scoff. The kid was getting cheeky with him now.
"Right, I’m so sorry Detective; like I was saying I'm not admitting to anything, but I was held for questioning when I was sixteen because they thought I was The Chemist."
"The Chemist,” Len repeated in disbelief. “The one who broke into the Federal Reserve with an acid bomb?"
He vividly remembered reading about the elusive criminal making headlines three years ago, a suspected scientist who had gotten away with three million dollars without a trace.
He had been impressed back then, but knowing it was Barry—a sixteen-year-old Barry at that—who had pulled off one of the best heists he'd seen outside of his own work? That left him with a familiar avidity that had been lacking for him in Central City so far. A feeling he only got from meeting particularly tantalizing individuals, the few who could sneak up on him in the best ways and surprise him. Leave an unfinished puzzle laying out for him to piece together with each too-short conversation they engage in.
It was a feeling he thought he'd have to leave behind in Gotham.
"Yep," Barry confirmed with an audible pop.
"What'd you do with the loot?" Len didn’t think he would get the answer, but he had to at least try and press, see if Barry was stretching the truth just to impress him or if his story was legit.
As a detective, he should probably care more about the fact that he was most likely talking to a wanted criminal, but as a retired thief who agonized over the details of the Federal Reserve case for months after the fact, there was only one way this conversation was ending. Len needed to know what a too-smart-for-his-own-good teenager could have possibly done with three million dollars.
"I never said I did it," Barry pointedly clarified.
"Mm-hmm, so why would they suspect you?"
"Bad intel, lazy police work. Wrong place, wrong time. Who can say?" Barry replied breezily, giving Len the impression getting caught might have just been part of the plan.
What plan that might be exactly, Len couldn't deny he wanted to find out.
"Why, Barry Allen, do I get the feeling there's a lot more to you than just colored sweater vests and awkward conversations?"
"Because there is,” Barry confirmed smugly, seeming to know he had Len hooked now. “Wanna know why they had to drop the charges?"
"Dazzle me, Kid," Len drawled in an attempt to hide his interest in muted sarcasm, indulging in the tale of Barry’s airtight alibi in the form of Iris having snapped several photos of Barry and her at their home during the bank robbery. The illegal chemicals Barry may or may not have tried to get his hands on were supposedly for an ambitious school science fair project.
It was almost believable. He could see himself spinning a similar story at that age, using Lisa as an alibi and changing the settings on a camera to say the right date and time over a picture. Playing clueless when brought in for questioning, pretending it’s all just a big misunderstanding. Didn’t know the guy or that he was a criminal, didn’t know his merchandise was stolen. Don’t know anything about a bank robbery where similar chemicals were used or the three million dollars missing.
Almost, almost believable.
“So, what could a sixteen-year-old evil genius need three million dollars for?”
“What would you have done with it?” Barry asked curiously. It was a good question. At that age, Len probably would have used it to make himself and Mick disappear. Get them new names, new histories, a new life. The only other thing to do with that much money was invest.
“Investing is always a good idea…you wouldn’t happen to have stock in anything interesting, would you, Barry?”
“Barry doesn’t, no.”
Barry doesn’t, which could only mean the kid more than likely has an alias he used to hide the money. He wondered if he did some digging if he could uncover the fake name and bank accounts or if the kid had been smart enough to cover his tracks well enough to get away with it.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, “but that’s not all you used it for.”
“Never said I did it,” Barry reminded him lightly. Len couldn't help the amused snort that left him.
“No, you’ve made it abundantly clear this is all just in my imagination. So I’ll ask again, just in a hypothetical scenario: what could a sixteen-year-old evil genius need with three million dollars?”
“Maybe it wasn’t for them,” Barry finally replied after a drawn-out pause.
“Obnoxiously charitable does seem right up your alley, but I have a feeling it’s a bit more than that,” Len commented, drumming his fingers against his thigh as he let his mind work over the new information. The intense desire to know the whole story felt uncomfortable yet welcoming. Every time he thought he had a read on the kid's next move he unlocked a new intriguing discovery with not enough information attached to ease his curiosity. Like Barry had brought Candyland cards to play LIFE and Len was only moving ahead in small steps, with no real knowledge of where they would end up. Sixteen years old and robbing banks –successful at that– wasn’t something just any teenager could do. Barry Allen may be young, but he was proving himself to be a worthy player.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I usually am,” he said as he watched West stand from his table in the breakroom to throw away his trash. “It’s too bad I’m going to have to let you go before I can figure it out, break’s over.”
“I guess we’ll just have to pick this up another time.” Barry was confident in his delivery, but a bit of his hopefulness was shining through his voice. Len was glad the kid couldn’t tell how effortlessly he had caught Len’s attention.
“I guess so.” No way in hell he wasn’t going to wheedle the answer out of Barry. Even if it did take some time.
“Well…I’ll call you later then,” Barry said with satisfaction, “have a good day, Len.”
“You, too.”
“We got a lead?” West questioned as he approached their shared desk space, nodding towards the phone Len was just setting down.
“Nope.”
“Crime scene?” West guessed with a furrowed brow.
“Nope.”
“Who the hell was that, then?”
Len didn’t think it was wise to let West in on the fact that his foster son was calling to check in on him, nor did he care to share any personal information with the man, but he also knew West wouldn’t take ‘nobody’ for an answer.
“A friend,” Len simplified.
"You have friends?" West asked in clear disbelief, going as far as to let out an obnoxious snort at the suggestion while pulling out his cell phone to check it when it dinged.
"A few." Not many, but there were a select few people in the world he considered worthy of the privilege. Barry wasn’t quite a friend yet, but he had the potential to be.
“Right. Sure you do,” West muttered under his breath, pocketing his phone again and reaching for the case files he had been working on before his break.
“Don’t believe me?” Len questioned with a challenging eyebrow raise.
“I just find it hard to believe a guy like you has friends, Cold, but then again, they’re probably all scumbags too, right?”
“I think you’d be very surprised at the company I choose to keep, West,” Len said with a biting smirk. West rolled his eyes and huffed as he abruptly stood up from his chair, grabbing his files and leveling a glare at Len.
“Whatever, Cold, I’m going to talk to Mendez about the tire marks we found at the scene.”
Len wasn't surprised by the development, as West rarely liked to use his desk when Len was around, choosing to run around the building or after leads by himself instead.
“By all means," Len drawled out dryly, waving an already retreating West off with a flourish of his hand, "take your time.”
*September 16th, 2008 12:34 p.m.*
“Homicide, Snart.”
“I took your advice.” Barry didn’t bother with pleasantries, getting right into what he wanted to say, just like in their first conversation. “I let Iris take me shopping yesterday and she picked me out a bunch of new clothes. She was crazy about the whole thing, acted like we were on Say Yes To The Dress with the way she was having me try on jeans.”
“Did you find the perfect ones?” Len stifled a laugh, not wanting to give away that he was familiar with the show. Lisa was an avid viewer of most fashion shows and bullied him into binging every new season of her favorite series so they could discuss it during their weekly video chats.
“We did! I've even had three people compliment them today,” Barry happily informed him.
“Hmm. Any cute boys?”
“Does my friend Oli count?” Barry questioned hesitantly, the new name slotting easily into Len’s memory.
Oli.
It was the first friend Barry had brought up beside his foster sister.
“Depends, is he cute?” Len questioned as he glanced across the room at David standing from his desk; he politely waved off David’s raised eyebrow and gesture towards the elevator. The friendly man still hadn’t given up his pursuit of making Len feel welcome at the station and had continued to ask him to lunch almost every day, even knowing the answer wouldn’t change. Len had at least explained to David why he wouldn’t be joining him after the second week of rejected invitations, but the stubborn man had taken the warning to stay as far away from Len as he could to be more of a challenge to see how close he could get than anything else.
“I’m pretty sure everyone on the planet would say ‘hell, yes,’” Barry snorted. “If it wasn’t for Felicity, he and I so could have at least had a drunken makeout session by now, but his heart is taken, sadly.”
“Poor baby,” Len drawled in mock sympathy, wondering what kind of man this Oli was to have Barry sounding so wistful. Maybe Iris wasn’t the boy’s only hopeless crush.
“It’s tragic Len,” Barry pouted, a light whine of injustice taking over his tone. “I could have been his trophy husband. Don’t laugh at my misery.”
“My deepest apologies,” Len snorted with a shake of his head, nodding shortly in farewell when David passed his desk to head out.
“You’re forgiven, but on one condition,” Barry said readily, his obvious excitement easily heard through the phone.
“And what would that be?”
“Ask me what I’m wearing.”
Well, now there was a positive development in their level of comfort with one another.
“Now, Mr. Allen, what kind of man do you take me for?" Len drawled, hopelessly entertained by the unsuspected turn of events.
This kid was something else.
"Oh, c'mon Len,” Barry needled playfully, “not like it would be the first time."
No, no it would not be, but Len hadn’t exactly expected a repeat performance either.
"Fair,” Len hummed in agreement, deciding there wasn’t any harm in playing along. “Alright, what are you wearing?"
"A black shirt that says 'I like to make chemistry puns—periodically.'"
Len wasn't sure if it was the joke or the anticipatory glee in the younger man's voice, but the next second he was letting out a surprised burst of laughter in the middle of the precinct and several shocked heads turned his way at the uncharacteristic display.
"I made you laugh," Barry whispered in awe, the underlying smugness in his words causing Len to fight a rapturous smile.
"You're very proud of yourself right now, aren't you?" Len laughed again, ignoring his gobsmacked coworkers still staring at him. They were unimportant right now.
"I made you laugh," Barry repeated, his self-congratulatory modulation uncalled for in Len’s opinion. It wasn’t as if Len didn’t find funny things to be humorous, after all.
"You've made me laugh before," Len told the gloating boy.
"You've chuckled, mostly at me; you've never laughed."
"We've only spoken three times," Len replied pointedly, not wanting to admit even to himself that Barry was right.
When was the last time he laughed?
Tim and Dick were both jokesters, but they had rarely gotten more than an entertained smile or one-breath chuckle for their antics. Barbara was sharp-witted and comically sassy, but even she hadn’t managed to earn a true laugh from him. Lisa got mostly fond chuckles and sarcastic ‘ha-has’ for her attempts at jokes, most of which were at Len’s expense. An actual honest-to-God, unfiltered laugh hadn’t left his mouth since before his identity had been leaked. He hadn’t let himself laugh since Mick…
"Joe says that you always look the same,” Barry confessed, pulling Len’s mind back to the present and away from his unreachable best friend, “an icy expression like you don't care about anything. Like you're too cool for anything to phase you. He's never seen you laugh."
If Len had anything to say about it he never would, not unless it was at West's expense.
"Well, there is a very simple explanation for that. I don't find him very funny."
"But you think I am?" Barry knowingly fished with a pleased smile clearly shining through each word.
"Mm-hmm. You did manage to make me laugh," Len acknowledged placidly, letting Barry have his well-earned victory.
"I did."
"So,” Len checked the time on his watch, figuring he had enough left of their break before Joe got back to try and fluster the hell out of the man's son, as a reward of course, “do I get to hear the rest, or are you going to leave me hanging here?"
“I already told you about the jeans,” Barry replied in confusion and Len didn’t waste a second setting him straight.
“No, you told me you found jeans. You never said what they looked like.”
“They’re maroon; in the dark, they almost look black. Tight. Iris says they hugged my, uh, assets really well…”
“Is that really what she said?” Len asked with an amused huff. He hadn’t met Iris, but if she was anything like the other women Len knew he figured she said something more along the lines of “Your ass looks fantastic in those jeans, you’re definitely buying them if you want to get laid.”
“No,” Barry murmured shyly, “but I think you get the idea.”
He did, but he wanted to push. He wanted to see how far Barry would let him take this conversation before he pulled the emergency rip cord. Len always enjoyed new players joining in his game of life, learning their different mannerisms and the extent of their boundaries, and discovering secrets and desires hidden just beneath leading phrases and coy words. Time to see what kind of player Barry Allen really was.
“Can you bend over in them?” Len used his hand to cover his question from the still-prying ears surrounding him, causing it to come out a tad bit more suggestive than he was going for, but really only by a step.
“Len!” Barry gasped in surprise, his flustered delight at the leading question enough to keep Len going. Barry seemed fine with a little suggestive wording, a little benign flirting—nothing serious because Len didn’t do serious. And it wasn’t like the kid was magically over his long-term crush on his not-sister just because he had spoken to Len on the phone a few times. It was just a bit of fun for both of them.
“What? I’m just curious about how tight we’re talking: a little hard to breathe? Too constricting? Can you barely sit down?’” Len didn’t raise his voice any higher than he had to for Barry to be able to hear him, ignoring his audience as he swirled around in his chair so they could only see the back of his head. He didn’t like having his back to any of them, but he didn’t like them seeing him smile, not when Barry wasn’t getting the opportunity while doing all the work for it.
Didn’t seem quite fair.
After all, the kid had made him laugh.
He hadn’t done that in longer than he’d care to admit and it wasn’t like the last person to have made him laugh would be doing so anytime soon.
“Len,” Barry whispered helplessly, clearly enjoying himself even if he seemed to be at a loss for words.
“Barry.” Tempting suggestion laced the brunet’s name as it fell from Len’s smirking lips, prompting an excited, shaky curse.
“Fuck…okay uh—they’re fine, I can bend over just fine, thanks so much for…oh my God, I cannot believe you just asked me that…I can’t believe I just answered that…fucking hell…”
“Hmm, quite the mouth you got on you, Barry.” Len’s low drawl had Barry letting out a bitten-off groan, his pitch two octaves higher than usual as he choked out his name.
“Len.”
Len was glad he had turned to face his Captain’s empty office window. This was going better than if Len had written the script himself. His smile felt foreign on his face, almost too tight from how large it was stretching at the sides. He’d been hit with The Joker’s special brand of crazy gas once. It had felt like his face was going to split in half, that his smile would permanently carve his cheeks; this felt similar. Minus the painful, uncontrollable laughter. He couldn’t say it wasn’t a nice feeling in this circumstance.
“Barry.”
“Jesus…fuck…I have to go,” Barry cursed breathlessly, “shit.”
“Mm-hmm, are the pants a little uncomfortable after all?” Len teased shamelessly, Barry letting out another bitten-off groan of embarrassment at the probing question.
“They weren’t before—I mean—fuck! Bye, Len.”
“Lovely talking to you again,” Len let another laugh overtake him if only for the strangled whine of pleasure he was lucky enough to hear just before Barry cut the call off.
“What’s so funny, Snart?” A passing uniform asked bravely. Calum Wiere, a bright-eyed newbie right out of the academy insistent on being called ‘Cal.’
Len didn’t get the chance to answer (not that he was going to) before West was walking through the elevator doors with the medical examiner’s report they had been waiting on in hand.
Hmm, the timing was impeccable. Most likely not a coincidence. Either Barry hacked into the station’s cameras or he was keeping very careful tabs on his foster father.
“Well?” Len called out to his approaching partner.
“You were right.” It looked painful for West to admit that, which only added to Len’s already good mood; his dedicated audience was much more welcome now too. “She’s clean, no drugs or poison in her system.”
“And?” Len knew if he had been right about there being nothing in her system that he’d be right about the rest of his prediction too.
“And the heart was hers, but he doesn’t know how because there are no visible surgical wounds,” West responded bitterly, tossing the report at Len sharply. Len smirked coldly as he caught the file, delighting in the angry growl of frustration West let out at the clean catch.
“How does that even work?” Wiere questioned in confusion, still loitering near their desks.
“It doesn’t,” Len said swiftly as he started looking over the report.
“How’d you know?” West asked gruffly, his pride still obviously wounded from Len’s public success.
“I’ve seen something similar, years ago.”
Back in Gotham.
He had been investigating a tip on a huge shipment of stolen cryo-tech from Wayne Tech, thinking it would give him a lead on where to find Victor Fries and upgrade his own cold gun at the same time. Instead of Fries, he found a blurring demon with red eyes and watched it pull a terrified scientist’s heart out of his chest without leaving a single mark. The footage had been silent and grainy, picked up on one of the thousands of cameras he tapped into all around Gotham to help him keep track of all the players on the board, but it had made an impression.
“I’ll pull the file.” He’d have to call Barbara to get access, maybe ask her advice on covering up supernatural elements of crimes without incriminating himself in the process. He couldn’t tell West what he saw, not without concrete proof. The video could be dismissed on speculation alone, but that didn’t mean he could just let the killer go free. If it turned out to be a supernatural case, maybe she could bring it to some of her magical friends she had told him about. Demons seemed a little above his pay grade, but also like a challenge he wasn’t sure he could pass up.
The crazy was supposed to stay in Gotham, not follow him home, not dangle complications in front of him and expect him to just pass them off to the big names. Len was used to having several projects brewing at once, the constant work soothing to his obsessive mind. Even when he was trapped in the Batcave he still had more distractions than not as he built up his cases and prepared testimonies and evidence to present at the trials. Since becoming a detective the workload had been minuscule in comparison to what he was used to and it was his case, after all, unfinished business and all that. The demon hadn’t left a trace in Gotham, but Len knew an opportunity when he saw one. This killer couldn’t cover his tracks forever, not with Len on his heels.
“Do you think it’s more than just the two?” Wiere questioned grimly, a frown of discomfort taking over his boyish face.
“More than likely,” Len said, his good mood rapidly evaporating as his own words sunk in. It had been four years since Len first saw the video. There was no telling how many bodies had been dropped by the red-eyed monster between then and now, but his gut was telling him it was more than two.
“I’ll put the word out to contact me if similar cases have crossed anyone’s desk,” West said with uncharacteristic cooperation.
Hmm. The man was being much more agreeable than usual, perhaps Len should start discussing their cases in front of a third party more often. West being forced to play nice was much better than the animosity Len was used to dealing with.
“They’re targeting scientists, that’s the connection. Ask about any dead ones—even if they weren’t killed the same way.” Len instructed, setting the case file down on his desk.
“Hey, Leonard,” David called out as he approached, tossing a white and red-wrapped sub from the deli around the corner into the air when Len turned at the sound of his name, “catch.”
“What’s this?” Len asked as he caught the sub, stuck between appreciation and suspicion at the new move David had made on the board.
David had bought him lunch.
No one in Len’s entire life had ever done that without an ulterior motive. Not even his sister—Lisa’s favorite method of bribery had always been food.
“Food, you’re meant to eat it,” David snarked, setting a cold can of Sprite down on the empty coaster on the corner of Len’s desk. “It’s what normal people use their lunch break for, hence the name. Wasn’t sure if you were familiar with the concept or not, since you only use yours for work and personal phone calls.”
“Normal people are behind on paperwork,” Len pointed out, shifting the wrapped sub from one hand to the other as he watched David roll his eyes at the pointed comment. “How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it, Leonard, just eat it,” David said with a small shake of his head, nodding a silent hello to West and Wiere who were both watching the exchange intently. Well, West looked like he had just slotted something into place in his head, but Wiere looked a bit like a confused puppy.
“Thank you, David, you didn’t have to.”
“I know,” David shrugged easily, smiling kindly as he made his way over to his own desk. Len stared after him, wondering what he had done to have David go out of his way to make sure he knew he had a friend in the station. It was puzzling, a free lunch gifted to him without any sort of ulterior motive. David had just been doing something nice for him–or maybe he thought if he bought Len lunch he might try to return the favor, succeeding in his original plan to get Len to spend their break together.
“You know that isn’t just a sandwich, right?” West only waited long enough for David to be just out of earshot before speaking, giving said sandwich a critical glare.
“It’s a number eight from Sal’s, West, it really is just a sandwich,” Len cogently argued, waving the sandwich from side to side to show off the large black eight drawn on the side of the paper.
“No, it’s a sandwich from Singh, which means it’s more than just a sandwich,” West corrected him, staring Len down with a look that suggested Len should already know what he wasn’t saying. Len had a feeling he knew where West was going with this, but what he couldn’t figure out was why West seemed to care enough to say something to him about it. The man was being uncharacteristically chatty today.
“How is it more than just a sandwich?” Wiere questioned, clearly confused by what West was insinuating.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Wiere?” West asked the uniformed officer in irritation.
“No, he makes an excellent point West,” Len held up his finger to signal the retreating officer to stop as he was turning around with his tail between his legs, enjoying having a witness present for this, “please enlighten us, when is a sandwich more than just a sandwich?”
“When it comes from a gay guy who’s been hitting on you since you got here, Cold. Why the hell do you think he’s been so nice to you all the time?” West explained through a slightly urgent, hissed whisper, clearly trying to keep his accusations among the three of them.
“Wait, Detective Singh is gay?” Wiere gasped, his head whipping around to stare at David’s back with wide eyes.
“Do either of you have a problem with that?” Len asked icily, his penetrating stare flickering between the two men. David had warned him his first day that most of the precinct hadn’t been too welcoming to him, but that lately most tried to hide their distaste for his sexuality since he was soon going to be their boss.
“My son is into men, Cold, I don’t give a shit about it anymore,”—Anymore? Len did not like the implication of that one word—“What I’m getting at is if you eat that sandwich you’re sending him a message.”
“A message,” Len repeated dryly, shaking his head in disbelief at West’s quick response.
“Yes, you’re basically saying you’re interested in him. So don’t eat the sandwich.”
“West, if David were interested in me romantically he would have asked me out already, he’s not the type to beat around the bush. He’s just a friendly person, just because we’re both queer doesn’t mean he’s automatically into me. Not exactly how it works.”
“Wait, you’re gay too? Who else is?” Wiere asked urgently, looking around the room with wide, curious eyes.
“Kid, seriously, do you have anywhere else to be?” West snapped.
Wiere finally departed with a muttered excuse and apology, leaving West and Len alone at their adjacent desks, the sandwich still resting in Len’s hand.
“So…you think if I eat this sandwich I’ll be telling David I’m interested in him?”
“You will be, Cold,” West flatly stated.
“Do you regret it?” Len questioned, a tick of a smile creeping onto his face at West’s bewildered stare.
“Regret what?”
“How you treated your foster son when you found out he was into men, do you regret it? Is that where this attempt at”—Len pointed the sandwich at his frowning partner and waved it around—“ ‘friendly’ advice is coming from?”
“You’ve got a lot of—”
“Nerve? Yes, I do, because you said ‘I don’t give a shit about it anymore;’ that ‘anymore’ says a lot more than you think West, a lot.” Len tilted his head to the side in thought as West’s nostrils flared in rage. “So, do you regret it?”
“It’s none of your business, Cold.”
“Just like it isn’t any of your business if I eat this sandwich a friend graciously provided me,” With that said, Len uncovered the sub and pointedly took a bite out of the top, chewing slowly as he reveled in the taste and the irritation West was quickly spilling over with.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” West growled as he reached for the phone to start making calls.
“I won’t,” Len promised.
*September 22nd, 2008 12:57 a.m.*
Len was on his fifth cup of coffee, both his and West’s empty desk overrun by case files they had received over the past few days in connection to their impossible killer, completely lost in his pursuit of the red-eyed demon, when the phones began to ring.
“Homicide, Snart,” Len greeted the caller, already having an idea of who it might be. It had been six days since their last call, but he hadn’t predicted the kid would call at such a late hour.
"Oh, hey, Len. It’s Barry.”
“Barry,” he drew the syllables out in a mildly chiding drawl, “little late to be calling on a school night, don’t you think?”
“It’s only...oh, it’s after midnight.”
The kid was either pretending he lost track of time or just making an excuse to call him.
“That it is. Hoping to speak with West?”
“Uh, kinda, yeah,” Barry admitted, a hint of apology peppering his words. “I just have a question for him. Didn’t realize how late it was.”
“Well, I’d suggest you try his cell phone, but given it’s almost one in the morning, I don’t think it wise to interrupt his beauty sleep,” Len advised, using the interruption to set down the newest case file he had received today and rub at his tired, overworked eyes.
“What about your beauty sleep? What are you still doing there?”
“Working,” Len replied unhelpfully. The number of cases possibly connected to the demon was piling up faster than Len could blink, with unexplained deaths or disappearances spanning across the country, all involving prominent members of the scientific community dating back to 2000.
“Well, yeah, but this late?” Barry pushed, the blatant concern for Len’s free time adding another tally to his nice column. “I didn’t think you guys had any big cases right now.”
“Every case is a big case to me. They’re all important, which is why I like to stay late, so I can go over reports that usually get brushed to the side,” Len explained, leaving out the parts about the demon killer, the recurring nightmares that kept him from his bed, and the bounty on his head that meant his apartment was used more for storage than anything else right now. Easier to beat nightmares if he just didn't sleep longer than an hour at a time in the breakroom. It also had the added benefit of keeping the number of assassins attacking him in his sleep to a minimum, but those weren’t things Barry needed to know about.
“Won’t anyone miss you when you don’t come home?” Barry inquired curiously. Len smirked into the handset. Was the kid trying to be subtle about asking about his home life?
“I can confidently say no, they won’t.”
“What about your sister?” Barry questioned casually, curious in a way that wasn’t eager enough for the boy’s usual character. Barry wasn’t curious about Len’s home life because he somehow already knew what Len wasn’t saying. No, Barry was curious about what Len would be willing to share with him.
“Have you been checking up on me, Barry Allen?”
If the younger man had, it wasn’t like he could be mad about it. It wasn’t surprising that the kid Len seriously suspected had the skill to fly under the radar as The Chemist might have spent some time looking into his background. And it was only fair, really; after their second conversation, Len had not been able to stop himself from looking up Barry's record.
There were two sealed files that he was trying to talk himself out of accessing with the tech he had nicked from the Batcave. He assumed one of them had to do with The Chemist, and the other one was a mystery that he was itching to unravel, but he hadn’t and wouldn’t open them. He wanted to see if Barry would bring it up first.
“My friend is kinda a fan of yours; he told me about her. And you.”
“Does this friend have a name?” Len questioned, trying to hide how perplexed he felt while attempting to think of someone who could have been a mutual acquaintance, only to come up short.
“Uh, my TA. Cisco Ramon.”
“Ramon."
Jesus, of course; Ramon was a TA at Vandermeer University, where he and Lisa had met. Lisa had been in her second year of studying engineering and had been hired to help run the summer program for high school students interested in attending VU in the future. Cisco Ramon had been her star pupil during the program. He'd have to ask Lisa next time they spoke if Cisco was still pissed about Len stealing his guns. He had been visiting his sister for a few weeks during the summer and while snooping around her classroom he came across some interesting projects the teenager had secretly created. He swiped the almost-finished schematics and presented them to Lisa who was able to use them to build the real deal for him and Mick.
"Small world,” Len muttered. "Even smaller wonder that kid hasn’t been arrested yet.”
“What?” Barry scoffed at the idea of Ramon being arrested, confirming Len’s suspicion Ramon hadn’t told his friend the whole story. “Cisco is like the—”
“The type of person who secretly builds prototype weapons because the nerd in him wants to bring his superhero fantasies to life.”
It was for the best that Len had confiscated the weapons from the too-smart-for-his-own-good fourteen-year-old boy genius. Someone much worse could have gotten their hands on the impressive tech and then God only knows where the world would be.
“Wait, are you saying Cisco built your cold gun?”
“Legally, no, I’m not saying that.”
Technically Cisco hadn’t built his gun, he had built prototypes of both the heat and cold gun that Len had appropriated from their hiding spot and then he persuaded his sister to improve them for his specific needs. She hadn’t been happy about stealing from her favorite student but hadn’t turned him away either.
“But you’re implying it. Holy shit I can’t believe—”
“Was there something I could help you with Barry?” Len asked in an attempt to distract the overly curious boy from asking more questions about his past.
“Uh, no…I just had a question for Joe, I can just call him in the morning, but, um, if you're not too busy we could...” Barry trailed off with uncertainty, prompting Len to decide on where this call was going. He could hang up the phone, tell Barry to try and get some sleep like a hypocrite or he could keep the conversation going. Get his little slice of nice for the night.
“Trying to say you want to keep me on the line?"
"If that's okay," Barry hesitantly muttered.
It wasn’t a hard choice to make.
"Alright,” Len nodded to himself, planning to keep the conversation centered around the college student and not Len’s time as an ice-themed criminal mastermind, “tell me about your day. Starting from when you woke up."
"You want me to go through my whole day?" Barry asked in clarification, clearly skeptical of the idea.
"I wanna hear about a day in the life of Barry Allen."
"Barry Allen really isn't anything special."
"I think I'll be the judge of that. C'mon, from the top,” Len ordered, getting comfortable in his chair with the handset curled against his cheek and his legs kicked out over the corner of his desk. “Start with what you wore to bed."
“You want me to tell you what I wear to sleep?”
Barry was blushing. He was certain of it. Len found himself suddenly desperately wishing he could bear witness to the fruit of his labors.
Did Barry duck his head? Bite his lip to suppress his smile? Scuff his feet into the ground? How far down would the flush go?
All important questions he didn’t have the answers to.
It wouldn't do.
“All about the visuals. Come on Barry, paint me a picture.”
“I don’t sleep in clothes, I overheat too easily. My roommate hates it,” Barry confessed after a short pause, during which Len assumed he was probably considering if lying would be appropriate or even appreciated on Len’s part.
Len was happy Barry decided on the truth—much more fun that way.
“Maybe you just need someone to cool you down,” Len suggested coyly with a thoughtful hum.
“I don’t think my roommate would like that very much either."
“Maybe a more appreciative roommate is in order, then.”
“I wish," Barry snorted wistfully, "Julian drives me crazy. I’d kill for a new roommate. Before eight in the morning, he had lectured me on my eating habits, insomnia, and my shower schedule, all while insulting my intelligence and sanity.”
"Sounds like a charming guy."
"Definitely.” Len could practically hear the eye roll. “Anyway, he made me late for my lecture so Cisco had to sneak me in again because Professor Stein is an asshole when you're late, so he practically hates me…"
Lisa had taken a few physics classes under Stein during her time at VU; he remembered many tales of her classmates being locked out of Stein’s lecture hall.
"Have you ever been on time for his class?"
"Of course, I'm not always late."
"I'm sure." Len laughed in blatant disbelief.
"I'm not," Barry protested.
"Whatever you say, Barry."
"I can be on time, just, you know…not always."
"What is it you’re studying?" Len questioned, trying to get them back on track.
"Chemistry and forensics,” Barry replied. “I want to be a CSI."
The Chemist was becoming a crime scene investigator. He should have known.
It was almost as bad as Captain Cold turned homicide detective.
At least it worked out in Len’s favor.
"I'm hoping that means you're going to be applying to the CCPD, maybe with someone capable in the labs I'll be able to get some work done here." Len actively chose not to look at the stack of open cases collecting dust in his ‘ongoing’ basket. It was a wonder they could close any of their cases with how long it seemed to take to get evidence processed and results finalized.
"You'll be happy to know, then, that's always been the plan.” Barry's long-established career choice must have something to do with his father’s case. He knew Barry believed in his father’s innocence, he just didn’t know exactly why. “The precinct is Iris’ and my second home already."
"Unusual, then, that I've yet to see either of you." Len decided to poke at the topic, curious if he had been right or not.
"Uh…yeah…well, you know…us being back at school…can’t visit much…and we’ll probably be really busy over Thanksgiving break…" Barry didn’t bother to finish his sentence, seeming not to want to say anything else.
Len had a feeling West had warned his children away from him, and Barry had solidified the assumption with that uncoordinated response.
“Let me guess, West banned you from visiting him at work since I transferred here?"
"...maybe…I think he's just afraid we'll get along too well," Barry admitted, not sounding particularly put out at the assumption. Len laughed softly at the boy’s words.
"Heaven forbid."
“That’s what Iris said, but she said it with a lot more frustration,” Barry said, clearly amused by the difference. "He thinks you're going to be a bad influence on us."
"Can't say I wouldn't be," Len admitted. He didn’t disagree with West’s reasoning for attempting to keep his children away from a retired supervillain. West had seen one too many assassination attempts this month to even willingly spend more than five seconds with Len outside of the precinct, let alone allow his children in the same building as Len.
"I can't speak for Iris, but I know I don't mind," Barry coyly confessed.
"You like trouble,” Len corrected, cursing himself silently for being beguiled by the fact. Harmless flirting had been one thing, but Len knew his track record with trouble magnets and this budding relationship was getting more complicated and bewitching. “Or it likes you."
"Both, probably."
Both sounded about right.
"So this Professor Stein,” Len backtracked again to his original plan of hearing about a day in the life of Barry Allen, “what did he teach you today?"