"You don't seem to have much of a social life," Len remarked, brows going up a little as Barry lowered himself down on the sofa chair. His movements were careful, as if he was hurt.

Knowing the healing capabilities of the meta Sentinel, seeing he was on his feet, had walked in without a limp, all limbs were firmly attached, and yet he was showing signs of an injury… yeah, that had been bad. The little niggle of worry was pushed into a dark corner and told to sit and stay there.

"Uhm, I do?"

"Doing what?"

Barry shrugged and this time the wince was really there. Okay, it had been really bad, depending on how much time had passed. Not open-wound-dripping-blood bad, but still serious.

"Let me get another pad. I'm running out of pages to write on," Len drawled, ignoring the next niggle.

Barry grimaced. "I don't have enough time for a social life outside work and, well, the other work."

"Aside from eating me out of house and home?"

He looked momentarily like he wanted to argue, then sighed. "I don't have much time to go grocery shopping either," he sighed, rubbing a hand against his neck.

"You're The Flash, the fastest man alive," Snart reminded with a dark smile. "You have all the time in the world."

"The day only has twenty-four hours, even for me," Barry shot back, sounding a little annoyed. "And I need at least four to sleep."

"You need to work on your stamina."

"My stamina's fine!"

He smirked. "Really."

He would have thought the kid would flush with embarrassment, but Barry just glared at him. The glare was impressive.

"Cute, Scarlet. Almost a pout."

"Screw you," came the defiant grumble. "And my social life is just fine. Between Barry Allen The Flash and Barry Allen forensic scientist there's just enough time for Netflix and you."

Len knew he should have a comeback for that, but the words hit somewhere he hadn't known still existed. That and the so very open, honest half-smile, the truth in those words, had him almost choke.

"I see you have very low standards, Scarlet," he said after very long three seconds that had felt like hours even to his impeccable timing. "And even weirder hobbies. So tell me, what happened this time to get you beaten up?"

Barry froze, then scrubbed a hand over his face. "Acid."

"Would you like to elaborate on that?" Snart asked evenly, though he had sat up and his sharp eyes were running over the other man's form.

"I saved a bunch of guys at a chemical plant."

Ah yes, he had heard about it on the news this morning. There had been quite a catastrophic failure happening. The Flash had saved the day.

"Things got very hot very fast. I was caught by some stuff. It was really corrosive and the suit didn't last very long." There was a semi abandoned move gesturing to his left side. "That's the worst. Not so bad anymore. Everything else has disappeared."

Len wanted to ask, wanted to see, wanted to check for himself. All emotions and actions he wasn't used to feeling. Another part of him sneered, in a very evil, dark voice, that The Flash had just pointed out a weak spot to him. Hell, he had had the speedster laying half dead on a cot in his back room not too long ago. He could have done a lot of things. He hadn't. And he never would.

Still, it was close to a huge admission on Barry's part that he was hurting, probably still showing quite pronounced wounds, and he had come to Len's place.

"Let me guess," he said as he squashed the protective instinct that had him want to act in a very unlike manner, "now you feel hungry?"

Barry's expression was a mix of hopeful and embarrassment. Len smirked and tossed him a muesli bar.

"Think that tides you over until pizza arrives?"

Barry caught the bar and laughed. "One can only hope."

It turned into something close to regular. Something almost normal. The Flash would come by his workshop after battling crime or a meta. It was The Flash when the suit was still on, with the cowl off. It was Barry when he was in his civvies, on his way from or to work.

So normal.

So very not Leonard Snart's life up until a few months ago. There had been those he worked with, a crew, people he had hired. They only stayed together long enough to finish a job, then he would start planning on his next enterprise. Six months intervals between jobs meant six months of keeping to himself, laying low, casing out his next job. He would run into familiar faces in a pub or bar, but he never intentionally mingled longer than necessary.

With the Waverider there had been a constant crew, people he had had to deal with, people he hadn't chosen. He and Mick had stuck together, forming their little supervillain team, the outsiders. Dynamics had changed, tentative relationships had been formed.

And now there was Barry Allen.

The constant in his new life, after the Legends, after so much. Barry was simply there. The fist tentative visits had become more and Len was always looking forward to it. And he kept track of The Flash on the news, had alerts up.

He absolutely wouldn't confess to the momentary spike of fear he had felt when a hulking monster of a meta backhanded the Flash so hard, the speedster had been down for a whole minute while the bastard had lumbered off with his loot.

There had been blood. There had been a horrible sound of metal and rock colliding with flesh and skin. And Len had just about had a flashback to Scattershot. He had been shooting at their opponent without regard for possible damage to the meta, fury briefly overriding logical thinking.

The Flash was on his feet, going after his opponent to try another approach, while Cold had done his own calculations how to stop someone who was made of metal and rock, close to ten feet tall, and very much immune to everything the police and The Flash had been throwing at him.

He got onto his bike and iced the road as best as he could, slowing Rocky down while Team Flash came up with their plan. Cold actually froze the guy to the road, even though Rocky broke free of the confining ice shackles without much of an effort. After a while he started to stumble and his movements became more sluggish.

The absolute zero temperatures were affecting him.

So Cold continued to ice him. Full strength blasts.

When Barry hit him with what seemed like lightning generated by his speed and flung at the meta, Rocky finally stayed down, steaming, showing scorch marks that had melted part of his skin.

Hands on his knees, back bowed, The Flash was trying to catch his breath. Len cautiously joined him, cold gun still ready.

"Impressive," Len drawled, eyebrows rising over the goggles.

It was the first time he had seen The Flash pull that particular stunt and it had been more than impressive. If he was anyone but Leonard Snart, he would be gaping in awe. But since he was the master criminal who never let his masks crack, the sneer was his only reaction.

Even though Scarlet looked like someone's favorite chew toy.

"Still need to work on that," Barry answered, straightening slowly. He rolled his shoulders, wincing. "Ouch. I think I pulled something."

Len pushed the goggles down to hang around his neck, running a close eye over the only slightly swaying Flash. The left side of his face was covered in blood and part of the cowl had torn, though not deeply enough to reveal his face. His nose looked broken, his lip was split, one eye looked bad.

"You should go," Barry said, looking none too steady on his feet. "I guess this place will be crawling with A.R.G.U.S. and the police in a minute."

"I'm not the person of interest here," Len remarked with a nod toward the unconscious meta. "Rocky here is."

"Rocky. Really. And you say Cisco is bad at naming metas."

He scoffed. "Bad influence." He checked the bike and started the engine. "As always, it was fun," Len added with a slow drawl. "See you around, Flash."

With that he drove off.

Barry dropped by two hours later, face still bruised, which told Len just how bad he must have looked when he had finally been back at S.T.A.R. Labs and had been treated.

"You still look like roadkill, Scarlet," he commented wryly. "You need to learn to duck faster."

"Very funny."

"You look like that all over?"

"You want me to strip?" the younger man asked, sounding tired and exhausted.

"By all means." The wolfish twist to his lips grew and his voice had dropped, almost a purr.

It turned into a full-blown, evil grin when Barry flipped him off and just claimed the couch, full length.

"That's really damaging your boy-scout image, Scarlet."

Barry's reply was more along the lines of being censored and he closed his eyes. Within minutes, his muscles relaxed. The easy trust, the way it was all so normal, had something inside Len twist. His speedster had left the lab, had come to his place, had crashed on the couch, and he trusted him enough to sleep as his body regenerated.

The Speed Force hummed about him, sometimes whispering and twisting toward where Len was doing mindless work, and he felt its touch. Never physically, never even remotely like an empath might.

Like the Time Stream.

It was over time that Snart talked a little more about his time on the Waverider, jumping through timelines, righting the wrong, kicking ass and sometimes getting their asses kicked. Barry always listened with a lot of interest, asking questions, laughing about some of the more fun adventures. Len didn't get all too deep into their missions, just touched the surface, and Barry never demanded more than he was ready to reveal.

"Don't mess with time. It's a bitch," he told Barry with a sardonic smile. "But then again, you know."

Scarlet grimaced. "I'm not time travelling as a hobby."

"Good. Because it really knots up or frays the Time Stream. It creates dips and dents. The results can be ugly. Like dinosaurs in New York ugly."

The younger man gave him one of those looks that said he had picked up on something but wouldn't pursue it just yet. Len called himself an idiot for saying what he had.

His understanding of time had always been unique, the way he planned down to the second, was aware of the passing of seconds as he ran a job, even if things got dicey. Spending so much time in an energy field outside dimensions hadn't been a nerve-wracking, mind-altering or painful time. He hadn't felt disoriented or had been afraid to lose his mind.

"How long were you aboard the Waverider?" Barry asked, pulling him out of his musings.

"There are no clocks or calendars." He raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Really hard to keep track of time when you go through the years, decades and centuries."

Len had always been aware of how many days had passed. He knew he had been on board for 374 days, though just a few weeks had passed between his departure and getting plonked back in his dimension, his reality, by Time. It was mind-boggling and yet, he had never felt off-kilter. None of them had bothered to keep a calendar, just doing the jobs they had been hired to do. There had been no birthday celebrations, no anniversaries, nothing.

Barry watched him, way too perceptive, and Snart shot him an easy smile.

"Doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Maybe."

"Time passed differently. I wasn't gone for more than a few weeks."

He was sure Barry wanted to ask why he was back, why Mick wasn't. He didn't know Leonard Snart had supposedly sacrificed himself, had died for his team. In a way Len was glad that he didn't ask, that he was curious, sure, would probably bring up the topic again, but right now, that was it. Nothing more was spoken about it.

Sometimes Barry looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, but by the time he left Snart's place, almost all of that tension and stiffness had disappeared. Len had witnessed the lines creasing the too young face smooth out, how he seemed to breathe again.

If he was anyone else, anyone looking for a weakness, this would be it. But he wasn't looking, was he? He quietly enjoyed the company, eyes tracking each twitch, and Len secretly relaxed as gradually as his visitor did.

Barry, not The Flash, would seek him out for coffee, lunch or dinner, unerringly finding him in whatever bar, pub or other establishment Snart had chosen for food. Sometimes for something stronger.

"Are you even of drinking age?" Len teased as Barry opened a beer. Today they were back at Len's place.

It got him a narrow-eyed look. The kid looked adorable when he tried to be intimidating.

"Want to check my ID?"

He chuckled and took a swig of his own bottle. "Nah. I guess getting into trouble with Detective West over his underage son drinking a beer is the least of my problems. Would be something interesting to start my new record with."

Because he still had a completely white vest. His old records were gone, his fingerprints erased. No law enforcement agency had anything on him anywhere. Wouldn't providing a minor with alcohol be a hoot and a half to start his criminal career with?

"I'm not underage," Barry grumbled.

"You just look it? Good genes?"

"Maybe." There were twenty-three seconds of silence, then, "You know my file, which means you know my birthdate."

He smirked. Of course he did.

That he couldn't get drunk was just another little piece of information Snart gleaned from another one of those evenings or late nights.

"Sped-up metabolism sucks sometimes," Barry said glumly, staring at his shot of very potent spirit.

Len snorted. "I can see the downside. Sometimes you need a good burn."

"Same about drugs."

He raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know you were that experimental, Scarlet. College phase?"

It got him a grimace. "Legal stuff. Medical drugs. Can't put me under. It's a bitch when something has to be taken out that has no right to be in me. First time Caitlin stabbed a biopsy needle in my lung wasn't fun. Not to mention getting your crushed hand set. Can't recommend."

Len stared, unable to hide the shock racing through him. For just a second he was completely unguarded, caught blind by the confession. He had never really thought what sped-up healing really meant. Or metabolizing food the way Barry did. Everything was fast, went through his system at a rate no one could really understand. That meant anesthetics, too.

"Well, sucks to be you," he replied, automatically falling for snide remarks.

Inside him something churned, felt sick and twisted. That's why Barry had pulled out the spike. Not to jump-start his healing but because if he healed around the foreign object, removing it would be even more agonizing.

Every single injury, Len thought, feeling a little sick. No painkillers, no anesthetics, just pain. Snart had never had any qualms shooting at his opponent, very much aware that The Flash had very speedy healing. Right now he felt the unaccustomed need to apologize for every single time he had iced the younger man after they had come to their arrangement.

He wasn't a sadist. He didn't hurt for the fun of it. And Barry sure as hell wasn't a masochist. Well, that would end now, he decided. Right now.

Barry just raised his glass and emptied it. "Here I am. Twenty-fucking-seven and my drinking days have been over since I was twenty-five."

"There are worse things," Len drawled, leaning back and smirking. "Can't think of one off the top of my head right now, but there are."

Barry took a deep swallow from the bottle and Len guffawed.

"Nice. You'd win every drinking game."

"Wanna make that a bet?"

Len loved the way the green eyes sparkled, the humor in there, the teasing. "Not when the cards are stacked against me. That would be a senseless waste of my time. Even if what you are drinking is some really good stuff."

The speedster grinned and took one last, big gulp, then screwed the bottle shut again.

"Spoilsport."

Snart upped the ante as he broke into Barry Allen's loft and made himself at home. He had brought a six-pack of some really good and rather expensive brew as a gift and deposited it on the kitchen counter, then looked around the rather nice digs. There were the obligatory family picture, both his birth parents and his foster family. He picked up a picture album – who still did those anyway – that looked suspiciously like a wedding book.

It was. Of his foster sister's marriage to a cop named Eddie Thawne. Five months ago.

He put back the wedding book and browsed the shelf. Science books, some novels, science magazines, papers, and he found Barry's degrees. The kid was a smart cookie. A really smart one.

Barry didn't look either scandalized or shocked to find him in his place.

"The lock doesn't feel broken," he commented as he walked in, bag slung over one shoulder, looking very much like he had just come home from a job interview. He was wearing a gray suit jacket, light blue shirt and gray pants. Only the tie was missing.

"I'm a professional," he purred.

Barry closed the door, looking absolutely relaxed, like it was normal to come home to a supervillain sitting on his couch and eating his chips.

"I can see that. Do I need to check my valuables?"

"Nothing of interest to me here."

Aside from you, he thought, briefly running an appreciative eye over the lanky form.

"You wound me. I've got an antique forensic set that easily goes for two grand."

"Peanuts," he chuckled. "But since you're a government employee on a rather mediocre paycheck, I can understand the confusion."

Barry dumped the bag and hung up his jacket. "How about you order dinner for the poor CSI then?"

He chuckled, but he did just that while Barry changed into sweats.

It was domestic. It should sound all kinds of alarms. But everything was quiet on that front.

"So, how much do you use your senses as The Flash?" Len asked conversationally while he browsed shelf again, index finger trailing over the book backs. Not that he really paid attention. That was solely on Barry.

The question was answered with a half-shrug. "Sometimes. Sight is helpful. Sound, too. The rest, well, the speed makes up for a lot."

"And you use those senses while speeding."

It was still hard to wrap his mind around the fact that this was a full five senses Sentinel who didn't break down into a gibbering wreck the moment he started to go fast.

Another shrug. "If I have to. Like I said, most is physics and using my meta side."

He smirked. "And a lot of dumb luck. You like to run head-first into trouble and think about everything else later. Or rely on your team to get you the info on the run. Bad planning, Barry. It's a miracle no one has really killed you yet."

Barry grimaced. "Sometimes I need to act fast."

"As I told you before, you are the fastest man alive, Scarlet. You have the time. You can take the time."

Len knew it. He knew time. He knew so much about the speedster now, too. The Speed Force that was always attached to the other man was eerily familiar, too. So much like the Time Stream, but something different nevertheless.

Barry muttered something under his breath and refused to meet his mocking gaze.

"Does the brilliant forensic scientist put his senses to good use?"

"Not unless I can back my findings up with lab results."

He raised his eyebrows as he watched the younger man, TV forgotten. "Why not tell your captain what you are? It would give the CCPD quite an edge."

"And get drafted into something I don't want to do? No thanks! You know Sentinels get pulled into law enforcement."

"It's their instinct. Protect the territory and all that stuff. At least those who don't fall off the wagon and use their talents for less honest work." He chuckled.

"My loop would make me the perfect weapon," Barry stated evenly, eyes flaring with anger. "No spikes, no zones, no need of a Guide. I won't be a weapon!"

Len stopped his explorative prowl of the loft and turned to look at the other man. Barry wasn't meeting his eyes, so he closed the distance. The words replayed in his head. It wasn't something he had really thought about from that perspective. A mastermind criminal, yes. A hell of a cop, sure. But a special operative for some government organization? No. He couldn't picture that. Not Scarlet.

"They exist," Barry said, voice almost grinding as he stared at the floor. "Someone… someone told me. They get drafted for the really bad stuff, for infiltration, black ops, assassinations… They're called Troubleshooters. Wherever there's some form of clean-up, they go."

"Someone told you," Len echoed, refusing to think about those career options in vivid color. His face was devoid of emotions, all shields up, so to speak, as he listened to the words.

Barry didn't elaborate. Snart was no two feet away from, aware of the whisper of energy around him, but there were no spikes. This wasn't the Speed Force, it was simply… all too human. Silence lingered between them, but the longer Len watched, the less tension he saw in the lean form. Despite his emotional outburst and the dark topic, Barry wasn't about to lose himself in that darkness, in a possible future should someone know who he was.

Should someone sell him out.

Len's hands clenched into fists at the thought. He was quite aware of the likes of General Eiling. He had run into him and men and women like him throughout time.

"They won't get you," he said tonelessly, a promise in those words.

Barry's smile was tentative. And filled with hope and trust.

Nothing more was spoken about Troubleshooters or how Barry used his senses.

Len wouldn't forget about it, though. There was a protective instinct searing through him that he had never felt like this before. No shadowy government organization would get their greedy claws on Barry Allen on his watch.

A myriad of emotions crashed down on him and he fought through the wave, never showing a single twitch.

He would make sure that the information concerning Barry's Sentinel status remained very much under wraps.