Honestly, Leonard shouldn't have been so surprised that Barry had his own alcohol. After all, the man seemed to burn though the normal stuff quicker than a match on sandpaper, so naturally, he just thought that the kid was intolerant to everything flammable and with words like 'proof' and 'danger' labeled on them.
Whoever, he had to admit that Snow did a really good job with whatever she had handed to his boyfriend to consume, since it had turned him from normal mode at a sloppy, messy sexualized mode Leonard had never seen Barry be, ever. EVER.
He had continued (due to Snow asking) to watch over (perv) on his partner as he made a fool of himself, dancing on tables, the bar and eventually pulling him outside when he was about to get into a fight with some rough looking guys he'd stumbled upon and just watched, trying not to laugh as he spun around in the carpark so fast that he fell into a snowbank.
Pulling him up as a breeze of course, since he could bench at least 300 easily and let's face it, Barry as light as fuck anyways (honestly, he didn't know where the younger man put all the food he was eating, or how Joe even fed him as a kid), so it didn't take much to get him up and push him into his motorcycle.
When they pulled into the garage of their apartment block, he sighed. Home was a word that was never in his vocabulary as a child, but now it was much more settled in than before. Honestly, if he were truthful, he was looking forward to taking Barry upstairs before crashing, having had a few drinks himself, when he received a text from Cisco.
La Cucaracha: Hey, are you at your place yet?
Frosty Boi: Yes. Why? What did you do? Did you touch something?
La Cucaracha: Chill, dude. Literally.
La Cucaracha: You remember what Barry did to me, right? At Christmas?
Oh, how could Leonard forget, a snort finding its way from his throat at the memory of poor, pathetic Francisco running around the West household looking for milk as Barry managed to spike his hot chocolate with hot sauce. Seemed the pranks were endless between the two.
Speaking of pranks:
Frosty Boi: What did you do and how much do I have to clean up?
La Cucaracha: Nothing major. Just went through your office a bit
Frosty Boi: How much is 'a bit', Ramon?
La Cucaracha: Okay, a lot, but it's not bad, I promise.
La Cucaracha: I just needed to get him back and I thought this would be the best way.
Frosty Boi: And what, pray I even dare ask, is this 'best way'?
He was honestly shuddering at the thought as he waited for a reply.
La Cucaracha: It's all set up. The room looks like it's from the 1920's.
La Cucaracha: Me and Cait just went ahead and took all the electronics out.
La Cucaracha: (Don't worry, we only put them in your bedroom)
La Cucaracha: Set it up with some old books and a typewriter and boom!
La Cucaracha: He'll think he's drunk himself back in time.
La Cucaracha: All you have to do is lock him in there in a pair of handcuffs and we're good
Frosty Boi: ...
Frosty Boi: That is honestly the most stupid idea I've ever heard.
Frosty Boi: How long do I have to leave him in there?
La Cucaracha: However long it takes him to escape.
Frosty Boi: Fine, but I'm telling him when he gets mad, it was all your doing.
Leonard frowned and shook his head as him and his drunken and barely awake arm candy fell into the elevator and wen up to their floor, Leonard practically dragging the younger male behind him as he unlocked their door and pushed him inside.
Taking barely conscious Barry with him (ha, Barely Conscious Barry, sounded like a tongue twister almost), he quietly opened the door to their shared office and had to blink in surprise.
They had gone all out.
As promised, they had an ancient, but workable looking typewriter, the desk had been replaced with a much more worn looking wooden one, the bookshelves instead of holding Barry's medical texts were lined with the yellowing pages of books in various sizes, some with hand sewn spines or peeling and others with felt or something covering them.
There was writing paper directly next to the typewriter and also, a quill with an ink pot holding them in place, a rug on the ground covering most of the wood flooring that made up their apartment. A old newspaper, marking the date as 1925, sat in top of the typewriter keys.
It was a rather large effort for one little prank, but Leonard really didn't care much.
So, as Cisco had asked, he put the tall and rather lanky CSI into the old wooden and green velvet chair and handcuffed one of his wrists to it, kissing him on the head and leaving him alone and locking the door behind him as he moved downstairs.
Taking his place on the couch, he settled in to wait.
Looking up at the ceiling, he didn't have to wait long before he heard shuffling and banging and all sorts of noise that would be consistent in Barry waking up and positively freaking the fuck out. This notion, coupled with the fact he could hear his plight, made him laugh.
Hard.
For twenty agonizing (on Barry's part), but hilarious (Leonard's and Cisco's part no less) minutes, Leonard just kept laughing himself to death as the noises continued, muffled curse words following them that made him laugh more.
He knew, just KNEW that Ramon was most likely taping all of this from where he'd hidden a camera (or five as it turned out) and couldn't wait to see the footage. Even if the guy rubbed him the wrong way (it literally took his sister to convince him he wasn't so bad, though he still had his doubts).
Not too soon after that train of thought left his head, a red blur suddenly shotgunned itself from the stairs and with a sudden loud bang, hit the wall beside the TV and slid down with a loud, obnoxious squeaking noise, revealing the aforementioned man of the hour, still dressed and eyes ablaze in anger, the broken half his pair of handcuffs hanging limply on his arm.
Rising up as Leonard just howled with laughter on the couch, he glared at him, fire burning in his veins as he suddenly spoke, words still slurred a bit. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
'Hey, this wasn't my idea." Leonard protested, shaking his head though the bouts of laughter. "Blame Ramon, he broke in and insisted to do it. For Christmas he said."
"Are you kidding me!? I thought I was in 1925!" Barry looked like he had weathered a small storm now Leonard could really see him. "I thought that I'd spun around so fast in the parking lot of the bar we left that I was in the speed force and got spat out in the wrong era."
Leonard, who meanwhile, had been laughing the whole way through Barry's rant, shook his head and offered an underarm spot on the couch, which Barry took with a huff, head lying itself on his chest. "I hate you. So much." He grumbled and mumbled.
"Love you too, Scarlet." Leonard chuckled as he ran his fingers though his hair.
"Love you too."
