The Prodigal Piper
A/N: Just an excuse to write a series of oneshots about the Rogues and what they get up to between heists. Feel free to give me ideas on scenes you'd like to see.
Hartley let himself into the Hideout at the ungodly hour of 3:13am, flopped onto the ratty sofa and put his feet on the small coffee table because To Hell with his parents wherever they were. Eating snacks pilfered from the 'kitchen', he attempted to surf whatever channels they had on the crappy TV that Mick had no doubt lifted on a whim during some job. Judging from the black singe marks, most likely from a fire sale. Although, the damage could've equally been a new addition.
He hadn't been to the Safehouse in months, generally preferring his own company these days. He'd met up with the Rogues on a few occasions, pulled a few jobs here in there but it never really stuck, and he found himself alone more often than not. Hartley honestly didn't really know the reason he'd come back tonight, other than he needed a place to stay out of sight after a small job he'd pulled a few hours ago. Nothing huge, just helping himself to embargoed research data for some much needed tech improvements. But if he was being honest with himself, he could've chosen anywhere to crash.
He wasn't long into his internal musings before a cool voice piped up behind him. "Here I was thinking this was a secret safehouse where we lie low, keep things quiet and, otherwise, only use for jobs. This ain't The Ritz-Carlton."
Hartley didn't even take his eyes away from the screen, a telenovella, because why bother. "You're right, the Ritz has cable, room service and," he looked half way behind him, "much nicer staff."
Snart managed to give him a toothy grin despite the fact that his lips were still sealed. Seriously, how did he do that?
Cold pushed himself off the doorframe where he was leaning and sauntered towards the well lit table he used for poring over blueprints. "Well, perhaps you should use some of that vast family fortune to get yourself a room; don't lower yourself for our sake, Rathaway." He flipped over a sheet and adjusted the lamp, glancing up out of the corner of his eye. "Just try not to take the heat of us by getting yourself recognised at the desk and arrested, God forbid you do something useful."
Hartley stuffed more potato chips into his mouth. What an asshole. "A tempting offer but my love of high powered weapons and bad boys running around in funny costumes outshines my appreciation of the finer things," he quipped back, rubbing the soles of his shoes more forcefully into the table in some personal silent rebellion of formal etiquette.
He could feel Cold's eyebrow raise somewhere behind him. In for a penny. "Not to mention I missed the haze of sarcasm that hangs over you like a cloud, always reminds me that the most feared of people still need a security blanket. Makes me feel good about myself, y'know." He crunched louder, smiling at the sudden change in air pressure.
A few more blueprints shuffled behind him. "And here I was thinking that you came back time and time again for that much needed authority figure and structure. Freud, PFL, Volume 7."
Of course the smug bastard would know the exact issue. He was suddenly getting Wells vibes.
"If it's about needing authority figures in our lives," he turned around on the sofa properly and cast an arm over the back, "I guess that would make two of us then, Leo."
He got a sharp smirk and direct eye contact for that one. "Some requiring it more than others, Hartley."
If the younger man was being honest with himself, despite the dysfunctional relationship he had with Cold, he enjoyed these games they played; who could get the deepest dirt on the other without being straightforward about it. A chess game of sarcasm, wit and psychoanalysis. The back and forth between two intelligent individuals was something that had been lacking in his life ever since he'd left STAR Labs.
Appearing to find what he came down for, Snart tapped a number on the top sheet with his index finger, whispered it under his breath and switched off the lamp that always gave the room a blue glow. Honestly, the man was a walking aesthetic of himself.
"Lock up when you're done," Cold said absent-mindedly, walking back towards the door that led to the bedrooms. He stopped in the doorway and added, "But if I find crumbs on those documents, no high powered weapons on Earth will save you from me," before continuing on.
Hartley fiddled with the chips packet. "I always keep a clean space so if someone soils your precious papers it won't be my doing." Deciding on one last zinger before the day's end, he went on, "And for the record you're not 'Team Dad' if that's what you were getting at; the other Rogues and I agreed you fit a different title far better. "
The blue parka turned black as it became enveloped in the darkness of the hallway and Hartley heard the barely audible metallic sounds of Snart tapping his gun in warning as he walked.
"It's nothing bad," he continued on with a raised voice, opening a second snack with a rustle and popping the food into his mouth. He began crunching away, leaving a pause for dramatic effect. "…Night, Mom."
The team thing may not have fully been his scene, but even he could admit that the sound of Snart's footsteps coming to a stop before starting up again was at least one good reason to check in with them every once in a while.
A/N: More Team Mom!Len on the way...against his will.