...
One of Len's earliest memories is of the inside of a closet. The scratchy pull of stale cotton against his skin, contrasting the cloying tickle of the carpet through his socks and soft pants. His fingers twitched in a clockwork tick he learned to hide as he got older, counting -the seconds- the bottles- the intervals between shouts and slams.
His mother screamed.
That was the last time he heard her voice.
Lisa's earliest memory was of cuddling into her grandfather's musty couch with her brother. The faded blue blanket was pulled up past her chin, but couldn't entirely cover the estatic grin spread across her face at the promise of Christmas, that mythical event which she had yet to experience properly, despite her accumulated years.
Her grandfather had smiled in what she might later recall as a sorrowful fondness, smoothed back her hair, and told her about the forgotten kingdom of Arandell, where winters were kind and magic hung on the window frames like frost.
"Our family is descended from the royal ice cutters, you know," the old man had confided to his grandchildren.
"That's a silly name!" Lisa had chuckled.
"It sounds more regal in Norwegian, I'm sure."
She had gotten her first pair of ice skates that Christmas. Everyone said she was queen of the ice, whenever she glided around the rink. Lisa, of course, took it as her due, some forgotten part of her ancestry reveling in the praise.
...
When Len left home, he waited just long enough for his presence to fade from his father's mind, before he discreetly called in a noise violation the night of a big heist.
His father's crimes were splashed across the morning paper, 'Dirty Cop Caught Planning Heist.' Well, the ones he was accused of anyway. Snart Senior was sent to a prison near Starling, due to Iron Heights being at capacity.
The thief made a point to speak with a thoroughly researched social worker, once his father was put in jail. His sister wasn't eighteen, and Len couldn't take her in himself yet, being neck deep in navigating his way through the mobs of Central.
The woman, old and grizzled in a way reminiscent of a bear who's taking none of your shit, raised an eyebrow. What she had guessed to be a mugger hashed out his concerns about his father trying to wrangle visitation rights to influence his sister, all while holding her at gunpoint in the alley by her office.
She promised she would take over the case from the last social worker who had ben handling Len and Lisa's home life. Said former social worker was taking time off for personal reasons.
Len thanked her politely, and informed her that he would be calling her office to check up on everything soon.
Lisa never exactly found out about what her brother did, but she had her suspicions. Never the less, she was much happier than she could remember being in a long while. The foster home was in a quaint utterly suburban part of the city, run by a middle aged couple with a desperate want of children. She shared the house with three other boys, but got her own room as the only girl, so it didn't bother her much.
She only wished that her brother visited more, but, as Len explained, at least one of them should finish high school before getting on the wrong side of the law.
...
Later, Lisa's new social worker would be given another troubled child to place.
In another world, she might have given into the pleas of the officer trying to get custody of the boy. However, here, she recalled cold blue eyes silently crying out for protect his sister, and the litany of reports of broken bones and bruises she uncovered while investigating the Snart patriarch.
Her faith in the system had been jarred enough that granting custody of a traumatized child to a police officer with a history of child endangerment and an addict wife who vanished into the ether gave her pause.
When she learned that Joe West was also the officer who arrested the boy's father, she denied him custody. Who knows how traumatic it might have been for a boy to live with the man who arrested his father for killing his mother. Barry Allen did not need a constant reminder of that day, the social worker decided, before sending him to the nicest foster home she could.
...
"Lisa, you should be in school," Len said, voice slightly muffled as he spoke through his pillow into the receiver.
"Well hello to you too," his sister snarked back. "And might I add that you sound like you've been run over by a truck. You weren't, were you?"
The young man sighed, curling further under his covers. "Not this week. I was just working late. How's class? You still flunking chemistry?"
"No." Lisa drew out the word in an implicating manner, causing her brother to muffle a smile.
"Really."
She huffed. "You don't believe me Lenny? I'm hurt!" Her voice turned more natural. "No, but I really am doing better. This adorable little nerd moved into the house. He's my new study buddy!"
The thief hummed. "Just don't traumatize the kid too much."
"You know I don't break the toys I like."
Len hummed tiredly.
His sister chuckled. "You still coming to visit me next week?"
"Of course."
"Good! Could you pick me up at the house?"
"Lisa, you know I can't do that."
"I know, you don't want work following you, bla bla bla. But, please? Just this once?"
A quiet smile pulled the corners of the thief's face. "Hm, no. Take the bus."
"Come on, public transport in this city sucks! Please? I want to show you that my friend does exist, despite all you say to the contrary."
"Good night Lisa."
...
The first time Len went to Iron Heights, his cell mate was a life timer in for murder. Initially that put the young man on edge, knowing first hand how desperation can turn a body to desperate acts. However, his cellmate kept to himself for the most part.
Then Len got stabbed in the hall by one of Santini's goons. He felt his lung puncture, and blood start to leak into his mouth as his body struggled for air. Vision swimming, he vaguely felt someone pull the goon off of him. There was a dull thud of fist hitting flesh, then compressing pressure against his side, before he passed out.
When the thief was let out of intensive care, the first thing he did was make sure his attacker wouldn't be going in for another hit. The second thing he did was confront his cellmate.
"I read your file. You were a doctor."
"Yes," the older man said, calmly reading a paperback on his bunk.
"A guy with your skills could easily be living comfortably in here." The question hung heavily in his tone.
The old man sighed, and shut his book. "I have no desire to join a gang."
"Well, Doc, with the stunt you did, pulling that Santini guy off me, you really might want to consider getting yourself some protection."
Doc smiled, wearily. "I think I'll be ok. Thank you though."
Later, when Len saw a goon tailing the Doc with ill intent in the yard, he discreetly signaled Mick to follow, and made his way there first.
"Hey there Doc." Len smirked, sitting beside the older man on the bench. "Read anything interesting lately?"
Mick remained standing, arms crossed, glaring at anything which dared to come close. The goon looked properly terrified, and casually changed his course to the opposite end of the yard.
Doc blinked, roused from his reverie of words. "Hello. Yes, my son sent me a book he liked for Christmas. He's going to try and visit next week, so I want to finish it and let him know what I thought."
A complicated twisting emotion brought Len's brows closer together. "You close?"
"We try to be, given the circumstances. Barry's a good kid."
Blue eyes turned calculating. "Would you want to get out and see him more often?"
The doctor's attention turned fully on his cellmate. "Yes, and I have hope that one day they'll realize I'm innocent, and I'll be able to."
"It's been years, Doc. If the system cared, you would be out by now."
Surgeon's hands ran down the book's spine. "That's why they call it hope, Leonard."
"Len." The thief gestured over his shoulder. "And that's Mick."
"A pleasure to meet you both. I'm Henry."
...
Mick and Henry got along like a house on fire, which from the arsonist's perspective was fabulous.
The doctor regarded his sudden companions with politely careful confusion, but after a few weeks of sharing lunch tables and yard time, allowed himself more than casual responses.
As Len listened to the Doc regale them with his son's latest antics at the science fair, he wondered if this was how every parent was meant to feel about their children. His thoughts took a sharp downward spiral from that point, and he cut them off before his distaste became noticeable.
Much later, when Len's carefully sculpted plans came into fruition, he held out his hand, and gave his tentative ally an offer.
"You coming Doc?" Len said, foot halfway out of the cell door.
Henry shook his head. "You better knock me out so they don't think we were conspiring together. I don't want to have to turn you in, kid."
The thief did not frown, though a ponderously confused expression curled the edges of his features for a flash, before vanishing under cool apathy. "If you're sure," he said, before slamming his fist against the back of the doctor's skull.
As he and Mick hustled into the back of the getaway car, Len briefly hoped Henry got to be with his son again, but he knew the world wasn't that kind.
...