For Barry, playing with a guy who knows what he's doing is a treat. He doesn't get to use his powers with other people for fun; leisure is almost exclusively limited to solo pursuits. He can run away from the rest of the world for a while, but he can take nothing and no one with him. They can't keep up; they aren't fast enough.

It's different with Oliver. Even accounting for the barrier of Barry's speed, Oliver can be a lot more engaging, more hands-on – literally. At a distance, he has arrows, but up close, the fight is personal, unpredictable. Oliver isn't intimidated by his speed – it renders him virtually inert in Barry's eyes – but he's still vulnerable to it.

Unscathed, Barry pauses long enough to ask, "Had enough?"

Oliver grunts – he's gotta be bruised underneath all that leather, even if Barry's fists are feeling it, too – but he doesn't yield. "Suit yourself," Barry replies, unanswered, before rushing him again.

This time, even with Oliver slowed to a standstill, Barry senses a change. He doesn't alter his own rhythm, confident that if it could bring down a man of steel he can take down the Arrow, but Oliver doesn't fold. He lands another thirty or forty punches before his next blow meets an open palm. Startled, Barry fails to change course as the hand closes tight and twists hard, an audible pop snapping his wrist out of joint.

Barry howls, pain ricocheting up his arm as he stutters to a stop. "The hell, Oliver?" he hisses, hugging his wrist to his chest.

Nonplussed, Oliver says, "You said bring my A-game." Stepping forward, he adds with typical brusqueness, "This'll hurt." Before Barry can sensibly Flash out of sight, Oliver takes his wrist in both hands and relocates it.

He almost blacks out, Oliver's hands holding his wrist steady even as the rest of his body shakes. Gritting his teeth, he doesn't jerk out of his hold or sock him in the jaw, appealing as it sounds. Oliver switches a two-handed grip to one, fishing in a pocket and producing a portable ice pack. "For real?" Barry can't help but ask.

Oliver ignores him, cracking the ice pack in half to activate it before pressing it against Barry's still-captive wrist. Barry grunts, tugging on his arm half-heartedly, but Oliver's grip holds. The pain is fading fast, but a different need for space sets in as Oliver's closeness asserts itself. The exertion on him is obvious, even if the suit masks any outward changes. He smells like sweat, like lightning marks, like a man coming home from a war. Tired and heavy and somehow stronger for it.

At last – too soon – he lets Barry's wrist go. The lightning is so attuned to the subtle current of Oliver's presence next to him that the loss of contact is like being blindfolded. Barry blinks and Oliver asks, "Ready?"

Flexing his wrist gingerly – not going to be punching with it yet – Barry nods. He doesn't Flash back to the opposite end of the warehouse, though. Close range is good. Close range brings out the sharpness in Oliver's eyes, iron, ready to hold his ground. Be wary, his posture says.

Experimentally – because he can, because he wants to see what Oliver will do – Barry walks up to him at normal speed. Oliver doesn't respond immediately, evidently equally curious – what are you doing? is pronounced in his arched eyebrows – but when Barry throws a slow punch, he catches it. Barry repeats the gesture with the same result. Over and over and over, Oliver unfailingly stops him from reaching his target. He maintains the speed but increases the force, gaining confidence that Oliver won't break his hand if Barry lets him catch it, even if it lands with a louder thump into that leather palm.

It's a trust test, he realizes, as Oliver doesn't let his hand go, like a jaguar with its teeth around a kill. You know what I can do, it says, releasing him. Letting him try, try again.

At human speeds, Oliver could – should – destroy him. But he doesn't. Because he knows the second he tries, Barry will speed up and wipe the floor with him.

It's like boxing, except Oliver doesn't offer guidance or distraction, just letting him figure out his own rhythm. Every so often – unexpectedly, unpredictably – Oliver's hand closes on his fist, holding it in place, throwing Barry's balance off. He'll give a little push to drive Barry back, the unspoken message becoming clearer and clearer even as the pattern fails to emerge.

You're complacent.

He maintains his speed, his rhythm exactly, aware of the almost painfully obvious vulnerability, before abruptly breaking rank. He lands two solid punches with his left hand instead of one, Oliver's response quick and on his feet, landing a punch of his own. The adrenaline is like a drug, it burns so low, crowding Barry closer as he tries to undermine Oliver's wall of strength.

It would be easy to run, to hurt him, to kill him, even – lightning can be lethal to humans – but he keeps himself in check. Pushing as far as he can against Oliver, not the Arrow, he feels the game shift as Oliver catches his fist and delivers a jab of his own to Barry's ribs. Barry skirts the next attempt with Speed, torn between a quick KO and the resistance of all that contained strength pushing back against him.

He goes for the former and receives the latter, almost knocking himself out when Oliver's forearm smashes into his face. It doesn't make sense – he shouldn't be able to see me – but Oliver knows where he'll be before Barry even starts to move. Dazed and off guard, he fails to step back before Oliver empties a syringe into his shoulder.

Flashing back, he wobbles, tipping out of Speed Force to stare at the capsizing ground. Turning around, he watches two Olivers sway, darkness crowding the edges of his vision. Oliver draws another arrow on him and he Flashes out of range just in time. Refusing to give Oliver a second opportunity, Barry Flashes forward and sweeps his legs out from under him.

Oliver hits the ground hard, breath driven out of him in an explosive grunt. Barry doesn't give him a chance to get up, straddling him and holding his shoulders down. Gasping with the effort of staying conscious, he hunches, feeling – stabilizing? – hands at his elbows. "Don't throw up on me," Oliver entreats, startling a breathless laugh from Barry.

"No promises," he grunts, nausea twisting in his gut. "Your fault."

Oliver rolls his eyes and tightens his grip before the world tips and Barry's back hits the concrete.

"H'oh god," he mumbles, reaching up to press both hands against his eyes. Oliver's weight disappears as Barry rolls onto his side and dry-heaves, trying to purge a drug he can't reach. Curling up, he flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder, half-expecting an accompanying syringe.

"You okay?" Oliver asks, crouching next to him. The concern in his voice is unmistakable.

It's a whisper in the back of his mind: You're complacent.

It's over in less time than it takes Oliver to blink – Barry has him pinned to the wall, weapons discarded, arm pressed against his throat. He can see the lightning in his own eyes reflected in Oliver's, aware that he could break Oliver's neck in a second. Speed compensates strength.

Oliver doesn't say I surrender, doesn't fight at all, waiting until Barry's grip slackens, his posture hunching inward. Speed may compensate strength, but it only counteracts sedation so far. Barry stands his ground, straightening his shoulders when Oliver steps towards him.

Without a word, Oliver slides an arm under his shoulders, keeping him upright. "That was a half-dose," Oliver explains. Barry leans against him without actively intending to, dragging his feet a little when Oliver walks forward. "One thousand milligrams of horse tranquilizer."

Barry blows out a breath. "I don't remember the first dose," he admits. "Or," he corrects, frowning and pressing his fist against his forehead – burgeoning headache, ow – "I repressed it really, really well."

"Try to repress this one," Oliver suggests. Barry groans. "C'mon. I'll buy you a burger."

"You better buy me a lot of burgers," Barry grunts. Eating is the last thing on his mind, but Oliver has the right idea: dilution. "I had you," he adds.

"Uh huh." It's not an admission.

"I had you," Barry repeats. "I won."

Oliver lets him go. He hits the floor.

Putting a foot on his chest, Oliver says, "Nice job, champ." He walks before Barry can paw his ankle for a proper grip to yank him down, leaving Barry to heave himself to his feet.

"It was a tie," he grunts, stumbling on his feet. "I could've – I had you."

"We have a very different definition of had you," Oliver calls without turning to him, recovering his bow and quiver. "Vary your rhythm. Strike first, strike fast, strike hard. Play dirty. Incapacitation is surrender, nothing less. Pressure points, tendons, joints – your opponent won't show you a soft belly. Watch body language – if you can't see something, it's a threat."

Barry blinks, foggy concentration refusing to yield perfect recall. "Anything else?"

Oliver turns to him. "Improvisation. For someone as fast as you are, you're not very quick on your feet."

Barry huffs, closing the distance between them. When Oliver hooks an arm under his shoulders again, he should mistrust it. Instead, he relaxes into it, letting Oliver lead the way.

"It was a tie," Oliver allows under a sky full of stars. Barry looks at him, eyebrows up. "Next time," he adds seriously. "It won't be."

"Next time?" Barry echoes hopefully.

"Next time," Oliver confirms.

"We going to invite the others?" Barry asks.

He feels Oliver's laugh against his chest. "No."

"They'd love it," Barry reminds him.

Oliver lets him go, climbing on his motorcycle and pulling the helmet on. "Race you," he deflects, engine revving.

Where? Barry wonders but does not ask, watching him drive off.

Central City is where he should be – and in a night's time he will be there, sleeping in his own bed, surrounded by his own city – but Oliver's city calls to him. Because it's Oliver's. Because it's Oliver.

Decided, he follows Oliver home.