Note: This story will probably be something of a monster. It's been in the works for a little while, and it's an Oliver/Barry Suicide Squad AU that will probably kill me a little inside. Also being updated (and farther along) on AO3 (pseud Ayotofu) and tumblr (ayo-tofu). Feel free to come chat with me on tumblr as well! Updates will likely be sporadic and depend on a variety of factors.

Without further ado, here we go!

On what would be the day his entire world began tipping sideways, Barry Allen was running late.

That, in and of itself, was far from unusual. Joe called him habitually tardy. Captain Singh called him this close to getting fired Allen so help me God. Whatever the case may have been, Barry's feet pounded the cement sidewalk as he pushed through crowds of people on his way to Central City's latest crime scene, steaming hot coffee in hand. Captain Singh wanted him there in five minutes and he was at least ten minutes out.

So it was, perhaps, only to be expected that he would slam into a man (who felt like a brick wall Jesus Christ) and dump all that steaming hot coffee on his absolutely fucking ridiculous chest.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Barry said, rubbing at the man's thin gray t-shirt awkwardly with a napkin that had once held a bagel. "Do you want me to—I can buy you another shirt real quick."

"It's fine," the man said, his lips pressed into a thin line. Barry finally glanced up and got a good look at his stony face and good god it was even more ridiculous than his chest.

"No, it has to hurt like hell, let me at least get some ice—"

"It's fine," the man repeated, brown eyes flashing. "Don't worry about it." Then he pushed past Barry and vanished into the crowd.

Barry wound up being a full fifteen minutes late to the crime scene. Captain Singh gave him an earful and he quickly forgot about the man as he went to work.

As Oliver Queen slipped away from the overly-flustered boy, Waller's voice crackled in his ear. "You aren't there to socialize, Arrow. Hurry up and get to the rendezvous."

Oliver knew that, of course, but he hadn't really had much choice in the matter when some kid had run into him and spilled coffee all over his shirt (luckily, he hadn't gotten any on the file tucked into the seat of his pants). But there wasn't much point in telling Amanda Waller that; she was well aware. She just liked to remind him of her power over him. Just like there wasn't any point in telling her that he had to change shirts first. There was very little about him at any point in time that she didn't know.

"Copy."

His current mission wasn't exactly typical Suicide Squad fare. Most of the time, they were out of the country, get-in-kill-everyone-get-out kind of missions, not this domestic, extended undercover stint he was currently pulling. But he was the only one on Waller's payroll (if he could call it that, since he was fairly certain he didn't get paid) with such high-level contacts in the Bratva, and she needed intel on one of their members in Central City.

So here he was, living some twisted facsimile of a normal life while working for the Bratva, with colored contacts and dyed hair and an apartment with more mold than food.

He grabbed a shirt from the nearest vendor, throwing a few crumpled bills at the man in the booth before ducking in to the nearest public bathroom to change. The plain gray was swapped for a white shirt with "I LUV CC" written on it in bold black font. Fucking fantastic.

In the end, he was a full twenty minutes late for his rendezvous with Waller.

She raised her eyebrow at his shirt. "Interesting fashion choice there, Oliver." He hated the way she said his name. Oliver. Like she was rolling it around in her mouth, chewing it a little, and then spitting it out, marking her ownership of him.

"Well, I've really come to appreciate this city in my time here," he said, deadpan. He reached into the back of his shirt and pulled out the file. "This is everything I've learned about Vasily Antipov in the past two weeks."

Waller took the file and began to look through it. "Did you find out his plans yet?"

Oliver snorted. "The man doesn't trust me with his dog, much less his secrets."

"Then you have two more months to gain his confidence," Waller said, "or millions of people will die."

He could always count on Waller's sunny disposition to brighten up his day.

By mid-afternoon Barry was seriously flagging. He'd lost all his coffee that morning, after all, and he'd been up late the night before doing more of his investigating (Joe liked to call it obsessing). By the time he got off work, he was about ready to pass out, but he still had several hours' worth of files to go over back at home, so he stopped off at Jitters on the way.

And there, waiting in line, was the guy he'd spilled on, in all his ridiculously chiseled everything dear lord glory. He was now wearing an I LUV CC t-shirt stretched tight across his chest and Barry couldn't help but stare.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time (which he would later deny) debating over whether to go up and talk to the guy, try and apologize again, or to just pretend it had never happened. The choice wound up being made for him, however, when Mr. Chiseled (and there was something distinctly familiar about him, like he'd seen him before, but never spoken, like someone he'd gone to school with but who ran in totally different circles) grabbed his coffee, he turned to leave so swiftly that he wound up colliding with Barry, who was still just standing in the doorway like an idiot.

And that was how, twice in one day, Barry Allen collided with the same stranger and coffee was spilled.

Except this was fresh coffee, boiling hot, that was on Barry this time, and Barry did not have much in the way of stoicism.

"Jesus Christ!" he screeched, desperately pulling rubbing at his chest—not that it did him any good. If anything, the burning only got worse. "Ow ow ow."

"Oh shit I'm sorry," the man said. Around them, people were tittering at the scene and Barry found himself grateful that Jitters was mostly empty at this time of day. The cashier came up to them hesitantly to offer assistance but the man waved her off. "C'mon, let's go into the bathroom and get you cleaned up."

Once they were in the relative privacy of the bathroom, Barry slowly peeled off his shirt, wincing as shiny pink skin was revealed. He took a moment to be embarrassed at his muscle-mass (especially next to a man who looked to have more muscle than Barry had flesh and bones combined) before Mr. Chiseled was gently wiping at the burn with a wet paper towel.

"You know, in a movie, this would mean we were fated to be epic lovers," Barry said before he was totally conscious of the words coming out of his mouth. Oh God did he really just say that?

The man's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "Well, since we're both men, it would also probably mean that one of us dies tragically in the end."

"I thought that was more for women in love than men."

They both chuckled a little at that and Barry held out his hand for the other man to shake. "I'm Barry. Allen."

Mr. Chiseled hesitated for moment before taking his hand in a firm grip. "Robert. Wilson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen."

"Call me Barry," he said. "And back at you."

"Well then, Barry, you can call me Robert. And here," he said, pulling out a couple of crumpled bills. "So you can get a shirt on the way home."

Barry shook his head. "Keep it. Quid pro quo—I ruin your shirt, you ruin mine. We're square."

Robert grabbed the cash and, giving a little wave, headed toward the door.

"Maybe I'll see you around sometime," Barry called after him.

Robert said nothing, but he gave a little smirk in acknowledgement before he left, the door swinging shut behind him.