WARNING:

The start of this chapter might be triggering for people, as Len is pushed to a panic attack because of Barry's behavior, not listening to him, and bordering on non-con. IT DOES NOT actually get that far, but be prepared for that emotional turmoil from Len's perspective before Barry realizes what he is doing.

Thank you!

Len stared at his Netflix screen. Nothing sounded appealing. He tapped the remote against the cushion beside him like a metronome. He was bored, plain and simple, and not the kind of bored that an old show or favorite movie could squelch.

There was nothing more to be done in preparation for the heist until the day of. He could fiddle with his cold gun, but he already understood the inner workings of the cold field and didn't want to risk throwing something off. Besides, taking out his gun to tinker with it in his home could get risky if Barry suddenly showed up.

Not that Len was holding out for Barry to show up. Kid had 'family dinner night' to attend to, and had only mentioned offhandedly that he might be able to come over if things ended early. Len did not wait by the phone for some pretty young thing to give him the time of day. If he didn't see Barry tonight, he'd see him tomorrow night. After that the heist might even prove to be a kind of foreplay between them. Barry might enjoy the chance for something more normal after all this mess with Scudder. Len didn't mind providing a challenge that neither of them could really win or lose.

Well, as long as Len got away with the score, while The Flash could still look like a hero saving the security guard from unknown tortures—even if he'd just be passed out on the floor. There could be a win-win in there somewhere. Barry could prevent them from getting away with the rest of the loot, as long as Len still made off with the diamond and didn't see any jail time. That was their deal, right?

But that was Monday. Today was Friday, and right now, Len had no new messages from Barry and nothing else to occupy his time.

Maybe Big Trouble in Little China. It never failed to amuse Len when Kurt Russell got knocked out by falling ceiling debris at the start of the final battle, and only really contributed at the very end.

A gust of wind made Len shiver.

Wait. Gust of wind?

Len bolted off the couch and whirled around to take in his apartment. No one. Everything in its place. The door was still closed, but—there. The rug. It was folded up as if someone had just walked—or run—across it.

"Barry?" Len called, relaxing marginally, but a little on edge since he couldn't see the kid, and wondered where he could be hiding. Maybe he was feeling coy, and had whisked upstairs to undress and wait for Len on the bed. Len didn't care for surprises, but he wouldn't turn his nose up at a gift like that.

Nothing save the familiar creaks of his apartment replied, though the tingling sense that something was wrong, that someone was there, he just couldn't see them, made him slowly circle the sofa while keeping an ever-watchful eye directed outward.

Another gust of wind. Len whirled again—still nothing. He gritted his teeth, hands twitching, eager to have something in their grasp. "Barry," he called with more warning, "if you're angling to get me to reveal the cold gun, it's not gonna happen. Not unless you're looking for a fight."

A faint, eerie giggle responded. "Spoil sport," Barry's voice came from behind him, but again, when Len turned toward it, there was nothing. Was Barry just moving that fast? "I don't want to fight," Barry said, yet the tone of his voice seemed to say the opposite, coming from—right in front of Len, damn it, why couldn't he see him? "I want to play."

Len was already backing off, scanning every inch he could see—maybe Barry was vibrating too fast to be visible, like when he phased through matter, but then why did his voice sound steady?—when that gust of wind came right at Len, and he found himself pinned to the wall beside the stairs.

He was fine, he was fine, he was fine. But his first instinct was to throw a punch, rush forward, attack—or face the consequences.

No. This was Barry. Barry wasn't holding him too tightly, he hadn't slammed Len back too hard; he didn't know this bent the rules in ways that made Len's stomach twist. How could he?

Their initial encounters were made up of Len grinning at him as they traded blows. But that was different. That was theatrics. That was planned and prepared for and expected. When Len was safe in his home with someone he should have been able to trust, he couldn't…he had to keep it separate. Otherwise, he'd turn this into a real fight or panic, and he couldn't allow either.

But where was Barry? Len could feel him, the kid's gloved hands on his shoulders, his breath against Len's face, but he couldn't see anything.

"Like the new suit?" Barry said, and all at once the image before Len rippled, revealing a body in black that Len might not have recognized as Barry if not for the voice, and then his mouth as he pulled up the mask just enough to free his lips.

He descended on Len, and Len tensed. His brain was still playing catch-up. He wanted to fight back, or at least take a moment to breathe, to really see Barry so he could shrug off the tightness in his limbs that wasn't going away. He tried to turn his head out of the kiss, but Barry was too strong, pressed him into the wall, and delved into his mouth with a possessive tongue. Len trembled—and not in the way he enjoyed trembling at Barry's touch.

His breath caught and his hands were shaking, dangling useless at his sides as Barry held him in place. Len felt helpless, and he…he couldn't be helpless like this, not like this.

Barry pulled back just as the panic started to ratchet up higher. "Got called to the labs to try this baby out. Figured I'd share the spoils with you and have a little fun. Race you to the bedroom," he whispered, and in a blink, he was gone again—black mask back in place, invisible.

An invisible Flash. The thought was sobering—terrifying—for many reasons. This wasn't the type of action Len had been looking forward to tonight.

He didn't feel another gust of air or hear any sounds of movement, so he moved away from the stairs, hugging the wall to ground him as he escaped where Barry had been and kept his eyes peeled for another telling ripple of movement.

"Barry?" he called, demanding of himself that his voice be firm, not shaking, not enough to give away the bile and fear in his throat. Leonard Snart was not afraid—he was never afraid, not anymore. He needed to shed this feeling of being powerless. It was just Barry. It was just Barry. "Not my kinda game, kid! Take off that mask and I can show you a much better—"

"Oh, no. It's my turn again," Barry's voice startled Len from behind, and then he felt hands loop around his waist that were rougher than the trypolimer. Len shivered again. He needed to relax. He'd enjoyed this kind of power play with Barry before; he just wished he could see him. "My rules. I'll make it good for you, Snart. You know I will."

Len, Len wanted to correct Barry, but the kid always fell to old habits when he wasn't thinking. Len had noticed; he always noticed. And if Barry wasn't thinking then he wasn't listening. That darkness in him; Len had never been afraid of it, but seeing Barry in a sleek black suit seemed to personify those shadows behind his eyes like armor Barry had accepted as his skin.

Still shaking, trying to calm his nerves, Len brought his hands up to cover Barry's, reminding himself that he liked the way this body felt pressed up against him, he did. "Whatever you want, Scarlet. Just let me—"

Free-falling, rollercoaster ride, gut-wrenching propulsion, and Len was upstairs on the bed, an invisible body crawling over him, holding him down. It wasn't like his nightmares. It wasn't like his nightmares.

"Barry—"

"Maybe I'll keep the suit on for a while. Take you apart just. Like. This." All Len could see above him was the ceiling and the skyline of Central City, but he could feel the weight straddling him, the hands holding him to the bed. "Better than a blindfold, right?"

No, no, no.

The rough hands were almost like skin, but Len knew it was the suit. They pushed up beneath his long-sleeved T-shirt, running slowly along his stomach and chest, making his gut clench, while the other hand pawed at the button of his jeans.

Barry's touch was good. Barry's touch made him feel alive. Barry's touch was not like the touches Len had been running from his entire life…

"Barry, listen to—"

Barry flipped him over so fast, Len's head spun. His jeans were unbuttoned now and his shirt hiked up, as those rough hands started to pull the jeans down. Len's face pressed into the pillow, hands grasping for purchase, and he just…he couldn't, he couldn't.

"Stop," he croaked out, not even recognizing it as a word at first. He started to struggle, but Barry held him firm, thinking it was all part of the game. Len pulled his knees up beneath him, trying to shift away from Barry, as the kid yanked the jeans down his hips. "Barry, stop," he managed louder, struggling harder, elbowing Barry back, because he wasn't listening, and Len couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe. "Barry, stop!"

Len fought tooth and nail as if he'd been jumped in the prison yard, not seeing, or thinking, or fully aware of anything until the unwanted presence of the body above and behind him was gone. He scrambled to the edge of the bed to sit, legs dangling, breathing, gasping bent over into his knees.

He didn't remember the last time it had been this bad. He didn't get like this anymore. He was always ready for it, always expected the worst, with an edge to him that would cut anyone who tried to bring him low. But he trusted Barry. Felt safe in his home like he did in few other places. And occasionally, too often with both Barry and the comfort of his home, Len let his guard down, and that…that had its perils. It opened him up to too many old feelings of being trapped in a place that should have been a sanctuary, by a man who should have been the person he turned to when he was scared.

A fight was one thing, but nobody hurt Len like that anymore. Nobody had power over him. Nobody—

"Len…?" The kid's voice was close. Beside him on the bed, touching distance. Len glanced aside and saw the black of Barry's thigh, the suit made visible again. "I thought you'd like it, like before. Are…are you shaking?"

A black-gloved hand came into view and Len flinched. "Don't. I'm fine."

"Len, you're not—"

"You were holding me down," Len spat, still hunched over, staring at his legs that had his jeans trapped around his thighs. He wanted to pull them up, but he couldn't move. His voice shook when he spoke. "You c-can't…do that." Fuck.

Barry's voice came softer. "Okay."

"I couldn't see you," Len tried to be angry more than anguished.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I wasn't trying to—"

"I know, Barry." Len did. Of course he did. That wasn't like Barry. He wasn't harsh and brutal. Dark and angry sometimes, maybe, alluringly rough in all the right ways, but he hadn't meant to scare Len.

Damn it. Now Barry knew Len could be scared. Knew that Len was broken too, when no one outside of Lisa and Mick were ever supposed to know that the right combination of events, or words, or touch could spiral Len right back to being ten years old again. Even with his father dead.

Len focused on slowing his breathing. Kept his eyes open but focused on the pattern of his jeans. The varying shades of blue stripes in his underwear. The hairs on his legs. Just breathe. Stop shaking. Relaxed hands splayed over his thighs—don't clench them. Shoulders sagging, easing out of their tension. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine.

Several minutes passed before Barry's tentative voice called out, "Should I go?"

If it had been anyone else, Len would have thrown him out by now, turned his panic into rage and directed it at Barry. But when he felt the bed dip and bounce back with the motion of Barry standing, he knew that the last thing he wanted was to see the kid go.

Len sat up straight, looked at Barry standing there uncertain and small. The black mask was in his hands, and he was clenching it probably too tightly for Cisco's liking, cowl hair sticking up every which direction, mouth turned into a frown as he stared at his hands and then started to head for the stairs.

"No." Len reached out and grasped his wrist. "Come here. Let me get that suit off you. Then you can make this up to me."

Barry turned back to him slowly, skeptical. The mask was in the hand Len had caught. As their eyes met, Len was thankful that his own were dry, but Barry's looked watery and racked with guilt for more than what had happened tonight.

The mask fell from Barry's fingers to the floor. This was Barry. Len had nothing to be afraid of, but he still feared something at the edge of whatever this was between them. He didn't fear Barry the way he sometimes feared his past; he feared wanting something he didn't deserve. Why did Barry insist on showing him something so beautiful that could never be his, something that for once, he couldn't steal?

But maybe he could borrow it. Maybe he could hold this—hold Barry—for just a little longer, and pretend.

"Come here," Len said again, and tugged Barry closer. He sat back and opened his legs, encouraging Barry to climb on. Seeing Barry fully, even in the black suit, didn't rekindle any of that panic. Len needed control to feel safe and sane again, but he had it. He had it even beneath Barry's weight straddling his hips and settling into his lap.

Len unzipped the suit from neck to navel, pushed the edge of fabric from Barry's left shoulder, and felt that warm, smooth skin. Barry shivered in his grasp—a good shiver.

They reached for each other and the kiss was desperate—for different reasons for both of them. Len didn't know Barry's reasons, but he could feel the gnawing hunger in the way Barry clung to him with strong fingers curled in his shirt.

They hungered for each other when they were most damaged. That was new to Len, something he'd never experienced with anyone else. When he was damaged, he wanted no one around to see it. But now, he wanted Barry to remain right where he was, and knew that against all odds, Barry sought out him instead of his friends.

Something must have happened again. Something always happened to send Barry running here. Without a catalyst, would Barry still want Len? Len doubted it. He doubted anyone could want him without getting something in return. But quid pro quo—that's how the world worked. That's how Len's world always worked. And that was okay if he got to have Barry.

Len pushed the suit from Barry's other shoulder, trapping his arms until Barry fought to pull them free from the sleeves and returned to wrap strong bare limbs around Len's neck. His chest and back were burning hot from the suit. It felt invigorating against Len's skin. He needed a sense of control back, and he had it here with the raw power beneath his palms that was his to command.

Len spun them, dropped Barry back on the bed, and shifted until they were laid out properly with Barry spread beneath him, bare-chested with the black suit only on from the waist down. Len wedged a knee between Barry's legs to wriggle in closer, but for all the want and wildness in Barry's eyes, there was a deep sorrow Len found there that stung him.

Len paused. He didn't want to command Barry. Not anymore than he wanted to be commanded. This power was too precious to rule over; he wanted to feel it around him, through him, and in him, and know that he was part of something greater. Len wanted to share that power with Barry, and it wasn't even his to share. But then he always was a thief deep down.

Barry could overpower Len at any time, whenever he wanted. He wasn't harsh and brutal, no, but he could be. He could be a nightmare so easily. But there he lay, beneath Len, just wanting to be touched, and adored, and lo…

Len was getting lost in Barry, dangerously lost; caught in the labyrinth, no way out. And that should have bothered him. Should have terrified him. But this, for once, didn't scare him at all.

"Something happened again," Len whispered, one hand reaching for Barry's face.

Barry brought a hand up to grasp Len's wrist as if he might pull him away, but he just held his fingers there, gently, unsure. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Barry—"

"Not this time. Okay? I just want you to touch me." Barry pulled Len's hand down after all, but slowly, trailing it along his neck and down the center of his chest. "I just want to forget. Please. Help me forget for a little while."

Len stared at his hand being dragged lower and lower down Barry's stomach. "Forget what?"

"Everything," Barry breathed. "Just for a while. Please. You always take care of me." He grinned, and it was half forced, half honestly fond with amusement. "They might even revoke your villain card if you're not careful."

Len smiled back at him, but he held his hand stationary when Barry brought it to the edge of the suit. "Never. I've racked up quite a few points over the years to hold my position indefinitely." He splayed his hand out low on Barry's belly, and turned it so that his fingers grazed inside the suit.

Barry bucked up as if to will Len to reach in deeper, take him in hand, and Len was tempted, so very tempted. He let his hand sink inside the strange black fabric…

"No fair…taking care of me again," Barry said, neck arching back when Len's fingertips grazed his growing erection. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Len whispered.

Barry grasped Len around the shoulders and rolled them, reversing their positions and dislodging Len's hand almost at Flash speed, but not quite enough to disorient him. He still took a moment to blink up at Barry, get his bearings, and his pause caused the grin on Barry's face to falter. He pulled up. "I'm not trying to hold you down."

Len's own smile grew strained. He was fine now. He didn't mind Barry being rough and manhandling him when he was ready for it. "It's okay. Just need to know what I'm in for," he assured the kid, relaxing beneath Barry now that he could see him. "What do you want, Scarlet? What do you want to do for me?"

Barry planted his knees on either side of Len's hips then scooted down so he could tug the tangled jeans the rest of the way off. He returned for the T-shirt, and old anxiety coiled in Len's gut, but he pushed it aside. Barry knew, he'd seen, it was okay. So even though Len was tense, he let Barry remove him of the shirt, leaving him in just his underwear. The worst of the scars were on his chest and back, where it was easiest to hide them from curious teachers or neighbors. Of course a few were from things other than Lewis, but most… Most were his handiwork.

Barry dipped down and Len thought he was going for his shorts, maybe to suck him into his mouth through the fabric, which he wouldn't have complained about, but instead Barry tugged just lightly at the underwear to reveal Len's hips a little further. There was a particular jagged scar on the left side in the dip inside the bone. Barry kissed it. Licked it. Sucked…

Len moaned and bucked up. The scar tissue itself had almost no feeling, but the edge of skin around it, right around all of them, was hypersensitive. Usually, Len hated that about them, because he didn't want to feel them, didn't want to remember they were there, and so he kept them covered, hidden, untouched. But Barry…he went right for them like he treasured every inch of puckered skin.

"They're not ugly, you know," Barry said, licking around the edges of one on his stomach, before moving to a smaller scar on Len's ribs. "You don't have to hide them. Not from me. I want to touch them…and tease them…until they're you're favorite thing for me to play with."

Len snorted but then gasped when Barry moved from sucking on one scar, to his nipple, then to another scar that he grazed with his teeth. "I doubt…they would ever be my favorite thing…for you to play with," he said as he ground his hips up into Barry's to show off just how hard he was.

Barry's giggle was devious, but still somehow sweet, not menacing. "I'll show you. I want you to soak through your shorts before I take them off of you."

Len moaned as Barry licked lightly around the scar along his clavicle, similar to Lisa's but closer to his shoulder. Soaking his underwear wouldn't be a problem; his tip was so wet already. Only this kid could have him chasing pleasure after running from a panic attack. He wondered briefly why he'd never let someone else adore his scars like this, but he knew the answer. No one else had ever wanted to. They avoided them. Sneered at them. But Barry took the time to worship them.

Eventually, Barry worked his way up Len's neck, where he'd no doubt leave another hickey with how firmly he sucked at that spot Len loved, right beneath his ear. Hartley, Mick, Lisa—they could all say whatever they wanted; Len could care less when it felt that good.

When Barry sucked his way back down Len's chest, he found every scar he'd missed, every one he could reach. He gave each of them the same languid attention as the first until Len was shaking for all the right reasons, and wishing Barry would fuck him already, or suck his cock, or both.

Occasionally, Len would get lost, distracted by the scar Barry focused on. He'd remember how he got it, how much it had hurt, how much he hated it even now for what it represented. But Barry never faltered, and the memories seemed to banish in the haze of pleasure caused by his lips, and teeth, and tongue.

Jagged glass, hard edges, and cigarette burns were all erased by the wet trails left in Barry's wake. Len wanted to tell the kid how he'd gotten each one, when he'd never told anyone about all of them. He opened his mouth several times, but it always closed again as he stared at the ceiling, or focused on the brilliant lights of his city.

"I don't need to know their stories," Barry said, as if reading his mind. "I know. I know enough. We're both battered and broken, Len. You just wear your scars on the outside where they're easier to find. But I know these aren't the worst of them."

They weren't. They weren't even close. The worst of them were buried deep, etched into Len's blood and bones. They couldn't be kissed away. They couldn't be hidden or forgotten, because only Len saw them, and he saw them every day, crystal clear.

The first tear startled Len, warm and slow moving down his cheek. He sucked in a breath and realized how choked his throat was from holding the tears back. He breathed—in, out—tried to relax, but it only allowed more tears to slip free.

Gasping as it all caught up with him, Len almost pulled up, almost pulled away, but then he looked down his body at Barry and the expression on the kid's face froze him where he lay.

Barry didn't look smug or disgusted or even as startled as Len felt; he looked conflicted, like no, he hadn't expected for Len to cry, maybe didn't believe the thief was capable of such a thing, but Barry was torn up inside too. He stared, in awe of the slow streaks marring Len's face.

Barry crawled up until he hovered over Len, staring at the tears like they mesmerized him. When Barry surged down to kiss Len, he wasn't prepared for it, but the attack didn't scare him, didn't throw him back into the clutches of panic. Barry was everything Len needed and wanted to cling to in that moment, and so he did. He coiled his arms around Barry's back and held him skin to skin. Tongues dancing. Hips rocking even with both of them still covered below the waist.

Len rolled them again, back the other direction, but not entirely, not so he could get on top of Barry, but so they could lie side by side, centered on the bed. He broke from the kiss to gasp for breath. Barry kissed down his neck with sharp nips of his teeth, and Len whimpered. He pulled and kicked at his underwear to get them down his legs and off. Barry did the same with his suit, and Len helped, until nothing remained but skin between them, and it was barely enough to hang on and grind forward.

Lips sought each other's mouths and necks. Hands grazed each other's chests, and hips, and cocks. They writhed, sharing the wetness between them, caught up in the moment and gasping together without thought of anything but friction—more friction.

Barry's moans were sweet and filthy all at once, his muscles taut and powerful as he wrapped around Len like coiling vines and wouldn't let go. For once, Len didn't want to be let go. He wanted to get lost, wanted to be enveloped. He could feel Barry quivering, and slowly, slowly start to vibrate as their climaxes built on each other. They kissed, and kissed, and even Barry's tongue tingled with his power. Foreheads pressed together, eyes open but blinking blearily, Len saw something he'd only caught glimpses of before in battle.

Barry's eyes—sparking yellow with lightning. They were so beautiful like that.

Legs tangled, bodies practically fused together, they rocked and thrust into each other until Barry thrummed and Len cried out as he came. Barry's voice was a magnified echo as he said again and again, "Len…Len…Len…" before he came as well, and the tremors in Barry's body stilled.

Their panting breaths sounded loudly throughout the room. They'd never done anything quite like that before. No real technique, no one taking charge, just both of them letting go until they found the end they sought together with only skin against skin.

The tears in Len's eyes hadn't fully dried, but before he could reach up to brush them away, Barry reached up for him. His touch was gentle for such a powerful being.

Rare and precious indeed. Because lesser men with power like Barry's abused it and used it against others. But Barry held back even when he had the right to punch the other guy as hard as he could. The one thing that scared the kid more than anything else was crossing that line and not being able to come back from it.

He wouldn't, Len thought. He won't. He'll never be like me… And that was a good thing. That was the way things should be. Just like Len would never be like Barry.

For a few moments, with Barry's thumbs stroking away Len's tears, and Len staring into Barry's eyes that still sparked with traces of yellow, they didn't speak. But they kissed, and stayed tangled up until the mess between them demanded attention.

"I got it," Barry whispered, and only seconds passed, the briefest feeling of being cold and alone on the bed, before the kid was back, wrapping Len up in his arms again and holding him close like a body pillow. At least now they were clean.

Len almost laughed, but the sound got lost somewhere as he realized that if it had been anyone else, he'd have pushed them away by now and demanded space. Too many minutes like this, and he still would do that, but Barry could get away with things no one else ever had.

"Sorry," Barry said, as if right that moment he remembered that Len wasn't one for touch, especially tight clinging that made him feel trapped. Barry pulled back, but remained lying facing Len, propped up on their sides, parallel.

Len reached for Barry, because the last thing he wanted was for the kid to turn timid on him. He wasn't made of glass. Neither of them was. Harder stuff than glass cracked and broke sometimes too. Len grasped the back of Barry's neck and kissed him. Slower. Softer. Dangerous.

"I'm sorry about the suit," Barry said when they pulled apart, eyes downcast.

Len waited for Barry to look up again, then he nodded, because 'it's okay' wasn't the right answer this time. "Do you want—"

"I don't want to talk about it. Not right now."

"Okay. Suit looks good on you. When I can see it. Meant more for Scudder, I take it."

"Yeah."

"Driving you that crazy, huh?"

"Him," Barry huffed. "And other things." They were quiet for a few moments before Barry's eyes brightened and he refocused on Len. "Hey, what were you going to watch before I came in? You had Netflix up."

Len raised an eyebrow at him, but decided to be honest. "Big Trouble in Little China."

"Really?" Barry laughed. "I love that movie. Especially the end, when Kurt Russell gets knocked out at the start of the battle, and everyone else kicks butt without him. Classic."

Damn. Len was in so much trouble with this kid. He couldn't stop the offer from tumbling past his lips, "You got somewhere better to be right now?" but that was the most dangerous offer of all, because it was so much more than fucking.

Barry blinked at him, blank for a moment, before he smiled. "Not tonight."

They extricated themselves from the bed slowly and dressed in sleep clothes—Barry borrowing some of Len's like he had the other day. Len's shirt and jeans went into the hamper; Barry's new suit was folded and set on the end table in the living room, while the boots he'd never taken off were placed on the rug by the door where they belonged.

Len enjoyed the silly and private joke they shared, the way he glared at Barry the entire time he walked the boots to the door; the way Barry rolled his eyes but apologized as if the boots were far worse than how Barry had acted when he first showed up.

Len made popcorn and grabbed some sodas from the fridge while Barry pulled up the movie, because, "It's a movie, Barry. Some things are mandatory," though Barry mentioned that some Milk Duds would be nice too. Len pressed the soda he'd been about to offer him to the side of Barry's neck, making him hiss and jump up from the sofa.

"Jerk. Sheesh. No wonder you're Captain Cold."

"My diabolical plans with frigid props knows no bounds, Scarlet."

Barry erupted into a full-on belly laugh at that, and it was the most soothing sound Len had heard in ages.

Len pressed 'play', and with the popcorn in Barry's lap, and a drink for each of them, Len claimed the end of the sofa, only to find himself cornered as the speedster snuggled up against him.

Barry stiffened almost immediately and pulled away. "Is this okay?"

Normally no. Normally never. "You're fine, kid," Len said, and opened his arm in offering.

You're wonderful. More than I'll ever deserve.

Barry was being stupid again. He should have left after the sex. Should have left before the sex. Should have never gone to Snart's apartment in the first place, not when he was in such a bad place, the same sort of bad place he'd been in when he almost hurt people. And he'd done the same to Snart. Hurt him. Scared him. Barry knew it wasn't an act, wasn't anything planned, not this time. Not with the way Snart had been shaking.

But as bad as Barry had felt about what he'd done, the rest of the night had turned out so…nice. Barry had just wanted to make things up to Snart a little; he hadn't meant to make the man cry. Never even dawned on him that such a thing was possible. Just showing affection to Snart's scars had made the usually buttoned-up, collected, always-in-control man come apart at the seams and reveal the soft, red-blooded heart beneath—not ice; not empty space. So when it was all over, Barry hadn't wanted to leave.

In some ways he'd still gotten his family night TV marathon, only it was with Snart, and instead of TV, they'd watched Kurt Russell movies until Barry almost fell asleep halfway through Escape from L.A.

"First one's better anyway," Snart had said, before nudging Barry awake and trudging them both up the stairs.

Barry knew he shouldn't stay with Snart again, but he didn't want to go home. It had been so nice for a while. Pretending. Like they were dating. Like they were normal. Snart wasn't so bad when he wasn't robbing people. Maybe it wasn't all an act. Maybe he was just broken like Barry.

But that didn't matter. It wouldn't last. A heist here or there, that wouldn't bother Barry. He didn't care about thefts. He cared about people, not property damage. But something…something would mess it all up someday. Snart. Barry himself. Reality. This wasn't real. It was just a good time. Just about getting Snart to want him, and need him, and…love him. And maybe Barry was winning that battle. Maybe Snart would be devastated when Barry left. Maybe Barry would enjoy that devastation like he wanted to destroy something with his fists so much of the time.

Maybe he wouldn't. He didn't know anymore. He didn't know what he wanted. But he didn't want any of it to end yet. Not yet. He wanted Snart for just a little longer. Just a little longer…

"Hey, Cisco," Barry said when he entered the Labs the next morning, wearing the stealth suit, but walking in with the mask off and the rest visible. He zipped into the clothes he'd left there last night and held out the folded up suit to Cisco.

Cisco was showered and dressed in new clothes since yesterday, so he clearly hadn't slept at the labs, but he looked like he hadn't slept well. He also wore a frown as he sat in his customary roller chair, and kept his arms crossed until Barry set the suit down on the desk instead.

Barry had left his phone behind. Maybe Cisco had answered it. Maybe Joe or Iris had gotten a hold of him some other way. At least Caitlin didn't appear to be around.

"What?" Barry asked, not in the mood to antagonize, but not feeling up to defending himself either, though he knew he had a barrage coming at him, and he couldn't exactly stay over at Snart's indefinitely.

"I forgot to tell you something before you left last night," Cisco said, completely straight-faced, arms still crossed, staring Barry down. "Just thought you should know. I already built comms into the suit." He tilted his head at The Invisible Man.

"Okay." Barry shrugged, not really sure where Cisco was going with this, but still fairly certain an unseen axe was about to drop. "Great?"

Cisco sighed. As his arms finally relaxed, he looked simultaneously pissed off and disappointed. "And," he said, emphasizing the worst was yet to come, "they were on last night. Scarlet."

TBC...

A tad shorter, considering how long the last one was, but this one had to end here, lol. More soon, I swear! And thank you all so much for everything. Your comments truly fuel me into each new chapter. This story means so very much to me, and I have ALOT more in store for you.