There Are No Strings On Me

by define-serenity

[Barry/Caitlin] Bartholomew 'the Chemist' Allen begs help from the metahuman underground to help him pull off a challenging heist. Little does he know this will put him in the path of the underground's beguiling leader, Killer Frost.

author's notes: GEEEESH this took me ages! I think I started writing this February 2019? I struggled a lot with Barry's motivations as the Chemist so special thanks are owed to anisstaranise for some truly challenging and lengthy brainstorming sessions, and her lending me her alpha & beta-skills! I'd also like to thank everyone in the Discord server for their love and encouragement! Quote taken from Roots by In This Moment.

warnings/tags: alternate universe - canon divergent, criminals, strangers to lovers, partners to lovers, uneasy allies, metahumans, sexual content, sexual tension, chemistry, no strings attached, POV alternating, POV multiple, referenced character death, thief Barry Allen, Caitlin Snow is Killer Frost, slow build, slow burn

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There Are No Strings On Me

a chemfrost au

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So I ask you once, and I ask you again
Where do your roots start,
and where do your roots end?
.

Even from inside the gas mask Barry can see the exact moment the lorazepam starts affecting the guards; the slow slackening in their posture, a yawn or two, before their eyes get droopy and all three of them slump down against the wall.

It was an elegant process, guiding the rate of molecular diffusion, playing around with viscosity, temperature, size of the particles, a meticulous balance between skill and intuition. Atomized lorazepam was quickly becoming one of his greatest hits.

Next to him Snart removes his mask and surveys the short hallway, walking over to kick at one of the guards passed out on the floor.

"Would've been easier just to shoot 'em."

Barry stands, packing away the atomizer, gas mask, and air particle meter in a small black bag. "I said-"

"No killing!" Snart provides in his usual theatrical manner, "I know"—he rolls his eyes—"but where does that get fun?"

"Let's go"—Barry sighs, and pushes past Snart, headed straight for the vault that hardly seemed to necessitate the presence of any guards. He understood paranoid, but Rachel and Osgood Rathaway had taken that to a whole new level.

His and Snart's presence notwithstanding.

The Leviathan vault came equipped with all the latest in personal security technology and an exuberant price tag. With motion sensors embedded in the ceiling, a light sensor on the wall, and body heat monitors, the vault door itself was its biggest selling point. The lock couldn't be picked because the tumblers were all weighted, and the keypad required a 10-digit security code that changed every two minutes, spit out randomly by a key fob.

That key fob never escaped the Rathaways's attention.

That's where Snart came in.

The vault defied all of his usual tampering. There wasn't a concoction within his power to make that would burn through the 12 inch thick steel doors, and his hacking skills weren't up to par with the state-of-the-art keypad. The Leviathan required a different kind of thief, and it so happened Snart was available.

"You're up," he calls, before Snart passes him, dropping his bag of tools right outside the vault door.

Snart studies the keypad for a solid ten count, tapping his index finger to his lips, while impatience scoops under his ribs— they don't have an inexhaustible amount of time here.

"Snart."

"Can't be done," Snart returns.

"Excuse me?"

"Leviathan." Snart points at the vault door. "Can't be cracked."

He advances a step, Snart mindfully leaning back.

"You assured me you could get us inside this room."

"Relax," Snart says, but the mellow tone fails to calm him down. Snart made assurances; he'd talked at length about an algorithm that would attack the random number generator inside the keypad fast enough to get them inside— had all that been for show?

"I said it can't be cracked"—Snart stands back—"Doesn't mean it can't be defeated," before pulling a conspicuously weapon-shaped object from inside his thick winter coat.

Barry rears back.

"What the hell is that?"

No guns was his nr°1 rule, there was no negotiating that. As soon as guns got involved people got hurt. What gave Snart the idea he could blatantly disregard that rule, or any other rule for that matter?

Snart grins, "Present from Team Flash," and without further ado points the weapon at the vault door— a blinding light fills the hallway, forcing him to face away. Stars dance behind his eyelids.

What the—?

Hand raised to eye level he turns back toward the vault, and he can hardly believe what he sees; the directed blast was slowly but surely freezing the stainless steel.

We haven't been formally introduced, a voice rings through his mind, while his right hand burns with the phantom pain of cryo-stitches.

A smile curls involuntarily around his mouth.

They call me Killer Frost.

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four months earlier

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He didn't imagine walking into Saints and Sinners with little else to show but a fancy suit and a decent sales pitch would be a particularly bright idea. Nothing suggested the bar's clientele would be receptive to his kind of criminal, on account of him looking down on places like these. Stranded on the edge of town, the bar attracted lowlives and petty crooks, pickpockets and swindlers, people out to make a quick buck from the misfortune of others. None of them made note of the watered down scotch and didn't mind the cheap beer served from a run-down tap.

Still, it wouldn't be the first time he lowered his standards to gather information.

Desperate times, and whatnot.

After a few drinks and some targeted inquiries a slender man slipped him a piece of paper with coordinates on it, along with a phrase from some old poem that would grant him access to the meta underground.

He'd been looking for it for weeks.

Rumors about the meta underground's existence started close to six years ago, since the black hole that opened over the city center and The Flash ran head-first into it. Metas had been around since the particle accelerator explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs, but the singularity a year later was widely considered their grand coming out party; The Flash and her team worked hard at stopping the worst of them, and Iron Heights built their infamous metahuman wing.

On his part, he tried to stay as far away from them as possible. He had a rule about cheating.

His next heist, however, required him to broaden his horizons.

The coordinates take him a brisk walk from his penthouse apartment annex lab; a short flight of stairs leads down to a more secluded plaza, away from anyone too curious.

And there's absolutely nothing there.

Two beige walls flank the small square, a row of oak leaf hydrangeas add a touch of color, but it's nothing more than a passageway, a shortcut for pedestrians.

Had he been sent on a snipe hunt?

Sighing, Barry pulls the piece of paper from his pocket and studies the coordinates again.

This can't be where it ends.

His eyes fall to the key phrase.

"Deep roots are not reached by the frost," he reads aloud, recollecting the words from a Tolkien novel; his mother must've read it to him at one point or another, because the only books that interested him involved chemistry and physics— it would have been one of her many attempts at cultivating some sense of culture in him.

As soon as the words hit the ether he looks around, waiting for a hidden door to open or a meta to appear. Hell, he'll take The Flash at this point if it meant not looking like a complete buffoon.

Nothing happens.

The piece of paper crumbles together in his fist. It's all been for nothing; the people he talked to, the rumors he tracked, the palms he greased to get as far as the bar and—

A breach opens beneath his feet.

One second he's standing on solid ground and the next he's treading air, and he yelps, gravity sending him tumbling down the rabbit hole.

He hits concrete no three seconds later, right shoulder first, then his hip.

Barry groans and turns on his back, head pounding.

"Hi there!" a voice calls giddily, before a figure comes into view above him. Big twinkly eyes. Sharp almost cartoonish features.

The slender man from the bar.

"Stretch." He chuckles. "Was wondering when I'd be seeing you again."

"Search him."

Unable to get his proper bearings, he's lifted off the ground by two pairs of strong arms, hands rifling through the pockets of his coat and pants. Which he expected given the secrecy surrounding this place. Where was he?

A single light source in the ceiling cast down a perfect circle on the gray concrete, but beyond that he can't make out anything; the room couldn't be much bigger than the circle, though— the echoes suggested nothing more than a few feet.

"He's clean."

"Smart move."

Another man steps into the circle, the others retreating a step or two as he does.

The face, of course -olive skin tone, raven black hair-, he recognizes instantly.

"Cisco Ramon."

Ramon smiles. "My reputation precedes me."

If by reputation he meant his ability to breach himself in and out of impossible places, like the vault at Central City Trust, or CC Mutual, then yes, he knew of Ramon, or Vibe, as he liked to be called. Vibe was a new type of criminal, a meta who was a nobody before the particle accelerator explosion, and now didn't break a sweat walking into the most secure places in the city. There was nothing elegant about it, no plan, no finesse, no calculated risks. Ramon came and went as he pleased. Easy-peasy.

He must've been the one who brought him here. He's probably not even downtown anymore.

He could be anywhere.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," Ramon says, adjusting his cufflinks.

His eyes narrow. Was this meant to intimidate him?

"I'm here with a business proposal," he says, foregoing his name; he has no intention of giving any of these people the satisfaction of watching him grovel. No one here is his better. If even his equal.

"You hear that, fellas? Man has a business proposal."

Ramon laughs, and looks at each of his henchmen, all part of an elaborate stage play meant to throw him off his game.

Laughter ignites inside the circle and beyond it, charring his veins— how many others were watching?

Ramon's gaze darkens. "What could you possibly have that I can't buy or steal myself?"

Jaw clenching, Barry speaks through gritted teeth. "Trust me, it'll be worth your while."

"I'm all ears."

His shoulders straighten, eyes taking in the four faces in the circle with him. No. This isn't right. The meta underground had a reputation for being cloak-and-dagger, for hiding in the shadows of a world that would rather see them all locked up or wiped out. Would they bring him straight to the man in charge? It's clear that Ramon has everyone's respect and loyalty, but he's one of the guys. They're all at ease around him.

"No," he says slowly.

Ramon blinks, smile filling with guile. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not here to talk to any foot soldier. So how about you stop wasting my time?"

A vibrational blast hits his legs not half a second later; he keels over, coming down hard on both his knees.

"I'm gonna ask you one last time, Pinocchio."

Barry winces, right before he hears the subtle click of a gun cocking, barrel soon pressed to the back of his head.

His heartbeat nearly flatlines.

What moron brought a gun to a meta show?

"Who the hell are you?"

Time to change tactics.

These guys seemed to respond to little else but Ramon and given what he's read about the man, he might be able to use that to his advantage. He's not nearly stupid enough to think flattery will get him anywhere, but there are other ways to impress a fellow thief.

He has a reputation too, after all.

"I'm nobody. A ghost," he says, looking Ramon dead in the eye, his heart beating fast but steady. "No arrests. No convictions. Not for the Star City Museum heist where atomized lorazepam knocked the guards out, or the acid bomb that blew open the Federal Reserve vault last month."

Ramon has the decency to look impressed. "That was you?"

"Not according to police reports, because the only evidence I leave behind are red herrings for idiot cops to chase down."

Silence falls throughout the room, his audience held in rapt interest.

"You want to know who I am?"

"You're the Chemist," a woman's voice sounds out of nowhere, cutting through the dark infused with the power of thin metal shards. Plucking his name right off his lips as if it were hers to take.

The hairs at the back of his neck rise.

His eyes narrow, trying to distinguish a figure, an outline, but all that stares back at him is the deep merciless black.

Nothing here is what it appears to be; the breach, the empty room, the voices in the dark, all meant to throw him off. An elaborate shell game, a sleight-of-hand magic trick to make him look one way and not the other.

"He's got a mouth on him, doesn't he, boys?" comes the monotone again, followed by the subtle click of heels along the circumference of the circle.

Click.

Click.

Who is this new player? the invisible hand behind the underground? or another puppet about to cut him off at the knees? Click.

"I'm sorry, we haven't been formally introduced," the voice says, before a woman steps out of the shadows. Pale. Dark. Beautiful.

Barry swallows hard.

"They call me Killer Frost," she says, and if there was any doubt about her makings a moment ago, the sudden white glow in her eyes tells him all he needs to know.

She's a meta. One of them.

All the muscle in the room, even Ramon, might fool those not looking too closely, but not her— her stark white hair falling down in long curls complements her light skin tone perfectly, which shines almost translucent despite the harsh lighting. A blue mirthful smile curls around her mouth.

"Heard you wanted to talk."

"You're the one in charge?" he asks, eyes tracing down her blue jacket, small waist, dark trousers.

"I sure am," Killer Frost answers, sounding almost chipper. "So you might want to keep your eyes up here."

He chuckles, but averts his eyes nonetheless, lest he insult her in some other way. Truth is her electric blue eyes, beautiful as they are, were enough to throw anyone off their game— he'd finally found some footing speaking to Ramon and now, the way Killer Frost carries her otherness, leaves him treading air again.

Killer Frost crouches down and meets his eye. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

Barry licks over his teeth. Between Zoom, Savitar, and the Thinker no one would blame him any unease, but the question is meant to catch him unaware— she means to make him uncomfortable.

"I make it a rule to steer clear of metas," he confesses against his better judgement. He has no clue where he is, let alone how to get out of here— and now he's surrounded by half a dozen metas with God knows what kind of abilities.

"And yet you stumble into my humble abode with nothing to offer but words."

"Like I said, I have a business proposal."

This makes her smile, too.

Why did the idea of him coming here with a lucrative offer strike all of them as so amusing? Was it because he was human, and therefore ordinary, not worth the time of day?

Then why bring him here at all?

Killer Frost stands. "The Chemist works alone."

"Not always," he says with a quick shake of his head, and clambers up from the ground, tugging briefly at the lapels of his coat to smooth it back into place.

A disquiet travels through the room as he dares take a step closer to Killer Frost, but no one advances.

She really is in charge.

"My current target is of a more high profile nature."

Up close, it's startling to find Killer Frost's eyes filled with fire rather than ice, and he can't for the time being decide if it's anger or pride, or something a whole lot more dangerous, like conviction.

Her expression steeled, not cold, Killer Frost prompts, "Go on."

"Amunet Black."

The name travels through the room like static electricity, affecting everyone differently. Ramon and Frost exchange a quick glance, as do Stretch and Frost, while the rest start in a low murmur.

Gossip abounded about the underground's relationship to Amunet, but not even the police had any definitive answers. He was betting they didn't get along, given Black's propensity to sell metas with interesting powers to the highest bidder.

"Amunet Black." Killer Frost cocks an eyebrow, arms crossing over her chest. "Queen of the black market. What does she have that you want desperate enough to come to us?"

"20 million dollars in uncut diamonds."

"It was her, I told you!" Stretch exclaims, much to Killer Frost's rancor; she shoots Stretch a lightning glare over her shoulder, which shuts him up instantly.

Did that mean Ramon planned on going after the diamonds too? Had these metas been after the same treasure he'd coveted for weeks, the raw gemstones waiting to be sculpted into the purest form of diamond, free of their impurities.

"It's funny." Killer Frost turns to him again. "Cisco had Ralph bring you here because he figured you were the one behind it."

It's like another breach opens beneath his feet at the sound of those words, shells moving too fast for his eyes to track, the concrete under his shoes a little less steady all of a sudden.

Did they—?

Was he brought here for questioning? Led into the lion's den like a lamb to slaughter?

Was he walking out of here alive?

Barry's throat closes. "Sorry to disappoint."

"That's bullshit," Ramon spits. "That place had meta-dampeners and back-up generators. No way Black walked in there."

"Hate to break it to you," he says, managing far more confidence than the past ten minutes afforded him, "Vibe, was it?"

Ramon glares at him.

"I'm not the only thief in town," he says, though he's none too sure why he's mouthing off when he has little to no ground left to stand on. Nothing's stopping these metas from kicking him back out on the street, or worse, killing him. "Why would I come looking for you if I already had the diamonds?"

"Why did you come looking for us?" Stretch -Ralph- asks, joining Killer Frost on her left.

Us. Them. Metas.

"I can't take on Amunet by myself."

Ramon flanks Killer Frost on her right, cracking his knuckles. "We don't need you."

In hindsight, he's not sure what he was thinking, walking into a place filled with metas some of whom could probably kill him with their brains— maybe it was professional pride, an inability to accept some other thief had beaten him to those diamonds, outsmarted him, and the realization that the only people who stood some modicum of a chance against Amunet were the same people he purposely avoided.

Nevertheless here he was, and he needed to gain some equal ground if he wanted to survive.

"Having powers is one thing, chamaco," he says, with as much bravado as he can muster.

Ramon shoots forward but Killer Frost holds him back.

"Being a good thief on the other hand"—he cocks an eyebrow, hands sliding into his pockets as his gaze shifts to behold Killer Frost once more—"well, sometimes it takes a little more than powers."

Silence falls again as the implications of his little speech sink in, and it's clear his arrogance doesn't tickle everyone the same way; Ramon remains in place only because Killer Frost hasn't lowered her arm, and Ralph follows suit befitting the third man in charge.

Killer Frost's reaction, however, starts an uptick in his heart rate almost unbefitting a consummate professional such as him.

She smiles. "What's the split?"

.

Cisco slams his fist down on the table.

"I can't believe you're actually considering this," he hisses, ears still ringing from that insult the Chemist slapped him around with.

Chamaco.

Boy.

Child.

Who did this joker imagine he was talking to? A foot soldier. A lackey. Some puppet on a string who did its master's bidding. He should consider himself lucky; if it'd been up to him he would've strung this Chemist upside down by his bootstraps until he copped to stealing those diamonds and coughed up their location. Or his lungs. Whichever came first.

As his bad luck would have it, he wasn't calling the shots on this one; since he would be delivered right at their doorstep Caitlin took a personal interest— which he feared was a mistake now. He'd be the last man to accuse her of being too trusting, but he saw no reason to trust their new guest.

Especially given who he's planning to steal from.

Leaning both hands down on the table, Killer Frost's steel-blue eyes meet his— they're not Caitlin's, not really, though they still echo with traces of her often enough.

"45% of 20 million is still more than we can hope for," she says. "Imagine what we could do with that kind of money."

He had imagined. He'd been imagining for months how far a well rounded 20 million dollars might get them, how many fake IDs, how many officials it could bribe, how many metas they could safely relocate. Forty-five percent of that would get them significantly less of all those.

His teeth grit together. "That's if we can fence them."

Caitlin looks at Ralph, who perks up at being included in the conversation.

Ralph nods. "I know a guy."

Traitor, he thinks. Is that the thanks he gets for bringing him into the fold?

"Talk to him," Caitlin commands, in that icy tone she first adopted when she took on the position of their fearless leader. Between the two of them, she's always been the strongest, even if he feared that strength might've become too unyielding.

Still, this sudden liking she showed a complete stranger—

"Ralph," he says, stopping his second-in-command in his tracks, "Talk to Larvan, while you're at it."

Caitlin's eyes are on him before he's finished speaking.

"Will do, boss," Ralph says and exits the room, leaving it barren with all the things they were hesitant to discuss in front of Ralph. Between the two of them, they decided she would be the fixed unshakable center, the puppeteer, and he would be the faithful second who made people feel at ease— she no longer had the luxury of doing that.

But they were still partners. She was still his best friend.

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow. "Talk to Larvan?"

"Caitlin." Cisco sighs. "We don't know anything about this guy."

"Then let's take him for a test drive."

There's little use in arguing this. Damage has been done. Amunet has the diamonds, and now they have a self-proclaimed master thief in their midst intent on getting to them— as much as he would've liked to be the one to bring in the diamonds, perhaps it's not a terrible idea to distance himself from this particular job. After all, Amunet never took kindly to people taking what's hers.

At least Brie might give them some answers.

"We've been meaning to pay Shawna a visit, haven't we?" Caitlin asks, making for the door.

"She's in the meta wing," he calls after her, "You know what that means," but the implication doesn't hit her like it used to, when the dichotomy between Caitlin Snow and Killer Frost was still up for debate.

He fears, before long, he'll look into her eyes and not find Caitlin there at all.

.

A test.

A test?

The first and only time he auditioned for a heist was at nineteen years old and he swore he'd never do it again. His inexperience notwithstanding his IQ exceeded most of those in Central City's criminal underworld and he didn't need metas of all people questioning his abilities. He'd made his mistakes and he'd learned from them, and he'd made a name for himself along the way.

The Chemist didn't leave traces. No fingerprints. No fibers.

The Chemist worked alone.

And now these metas were going to put him to the test?

If anything it should be the other way around. At least his reputation preceded him. What of Killer Frost and the underground she so faithfully protected? They were a complete mystery to him. Maybe they were the ones who didn't have what it takes. Maybe he should be the one testing them instead.

Only, then Killer Frost had crossed her arms over her chest and cocked an eyebrow, looking mildly amused when she asked, "What's the matter, handsome? Not up for the task?" and stared at him long enough to slip stitch herself beneath his skin with such precision he couldn't help but admire it— he couldn't back away from a challenge like that. Certainly not from the one person he'd met so far willing to take a chance on him.

That's how he'd found himself being breached to his lab and back for supplies, before being dropped right outside of Iron Heights Prison with Killer Frost. He may have avoided this place his entire criminal career, but the idea of breaking into prison willingly was an enticing one.

Descended into the sewers half a klick from the prison's main gate, they bypass the tall chain link fence and barbed wire that surrounded the complex, and quickly accessed the service tunnels located beneath each of the building's wings— one of these tunnels got converted into Iron Heights' reputable meta wing.

Why Killer Frost was down here with him alone was anyone's guess, including Ramon's, who'd reluctantly let him out of his sight— not much was known about the meta underground but for the few scraps of information they wanted out there, but he never imagined its leader would take such a personal interest in him.

It isn't long before they hit a stretch of tunnel protected by motion sensors, two on the ceiling, another two close to the ground to cover any blind spots in the grid. Unfortunately for Iron Heights it's nothing a little patience and spray paint couldn't fix.

Killer Frost steps forward and he calls, "Wait!" but nothing happens as she does.

No alarms go off.

He stares up at the sensors, their red LED lights still blinking, then back at Killer Frost, in the dead center of the tunnel, in full view of the sensors.

They aren't detecting her.

How—?

Most motion sensors were sensitive to body heat, which must mean Killer Frost's body temperature matched that of the tunnel. Was that even possible? It can't be more than 65 degrees down here. Could a human body drop to such devastatingly low temperatures without being affected?

He sighs.

Was that at all a question he should ask around any meta whose powers he didn't fully understand? Who knew what she was capable of, what any of them were capable of?

But if she had the means to simply walk in here undetected—

What kind of test was this?

Killer Frost raises one of her hands, a fine white mist spreading from it that lowers the tunnel's temperature.

"Cold's going to make my body heat stand out more," he cautions, though the dead-pan look in Killer Frost's eyes tells him she's all too aware of that.

"They won't detect you if they're not working."

Barry frowns. It would take extremely low temperatures to freeze any of the wiring in the walls, let alone the copper threading inside the rubber insulation, and he'll be dead from hypothermia before that happens. Unless—

He blinks. The people who built this place can't be that stupid.

"They run on batteries?" he asks, and has no sooner spoken or the red indicator lights on the motion sensors die out, one by one.

Unbelievable.

"State-funded." Killer Frost shrugs. "And they wonder why their escape rate is so high."

Barry smiles, and follows her further down the tunnel.

They both tread carefully, checking for any other security measures that might tip the guards to their presence— but there aren't any other motion sensors, no cameras, no barred doors blocking their path, much to his dismay. Iron Heights may as well have rolled out the red carpet for them. If this was meant to be a test of his abilities Killer Frost decidedly chose the wrong place.

At least, that's what he thinks until they hit a barred stainless steel door, held shut by a heavy duty magnetic lock.

He doubted this one ran on batteries.

Still, given low enough temperatures even steel became brittle enough to break. Was there a limit to Killer Frost's cryokinesis?

"You think you're up for this, master thief?" Killer Frost asks, the metallic accent gone from her voice—

It's instinct that draws his eyes to the ceiling first, where he quickly locates the source of his suspicion.

Meta-dampeners on the other side of the door.

Nothing in his research led him to think they had an effect on anything other than metahuman powers. This is what set him apart from Cisco Ramon or Amunet Black— he still had his intellect, his years of training and experience, and they? Who were they without their powers? Nothing. Not an us, or a them. Just nobodies.

With that thought in mind, he looks at Killer Frost.

His lips part.

Before him no longer stood the Queen of Winter he'd met two hours ago; in her place stood a regular flesh-and-blood woman, no more remarkable than any other. A weak shadow of the woman whose eyes had lit up with a threat latent in their irises. Brown eyes, brown hair, nothing to—

"Don't stand there gawking, pretty boy," the woman says, Killer Frost's bite unmistakable in her tone. "We've got work to do."

Eyes darting back to the work at hand, Barry dives into his bag, hands shaking.

She had to have known this would happen, and still she came here alone. Was she that confident she had him under her thumb? Or was this tenuous trust, extended from one criminal to another?

One thing rang clear throughout his mind— she was showing him a part of her, vulnerable, stripped, but wasn't left weaker because of it. She's found strength in dropping her mask in front of strangers, and that unsettles him in ways he can't describe. There's great power in a name like Killer Frost or the Chemist, but there's something far more powerful in letting down all those pretenses.

Was she asking the same from him? Had he left her to wonder if he was capable of that?

Was that the true test?

"Why do you do this?" Killer Frost asks, the question steadying his hands.

"This?"

"Rob museums," Killer Frost supplies, "Banks," and with a twinkle in her eye adds, "You seem like a reasonably clever guy."

He can't help another smile —"Only reasonably, huh?"—, pulling two small containers from his bag, along with a bottle of water.

Then, standing, he looks at Killer Frost.

"I like the challenge."

Killer Frost eyes him warily.

"Were you expecting a dark gritty past filled with absent parents? I'm good at robbing museums and banks."

"I guess education still pays for something."

"Actually, I'm self taught," he says, scattering aluminum shavings on top of the lock.

"Not entirely without tragedy, then."

A steeled chill creeps up the back of his neck, the kind that came when conjuring ghosts. He never thought of it as tragedy, it wasn't a sob story to sell people to endear him to them— it was a story, one in thousands like it, one in millions, no different than anyone else's. Or so he liked to think.

"Alright," he concedes, focusing on the task at hand. "Mom got sick. Dad worked himself to death paying her medical bills."

It's not a story he told people, because at the end of the day it had bearing on his determination, not his skill, even if it defined a great deal of how he lived his life. At the tender age of fourteen he disappeared into foster care, orphanages, soon striking out on his own. He never blamed his father or mother, he blamed a broken system unable to provide in the most basic needs of others— and if the system wouldn't provide he'd take care of himself, and himself alone. Live off the grid like a ghost, a nobody. Untouchable.

No one would ever accuse him of being too sentimental.

"I pitched in where I could. Sold my genius, if you will. Did what I did best."

Killer Frost's eyes narrow. "Stealing?"

"Oh no, Miss Frost"—a smile sneaks to a corner of his mouth, and he leans in close as he pours the water over the compound.

Despite the distance shrinking between them, Killer Frost doesn't move a muscle; her steeled gaze doesn't leave his face, and he does wonder whether that's nerve or foolishness— he may not be the most menacing man, but she was currently without her powers.

Surely that made them more evenly matched.

The things he could do to her...

"Chemistry," he provides before his mind strays too far off target, followed by the unmistakable ignition of an exothermic reaction. "Like this mixture of iodine and-"

"-aluminum," Killer Frost adds, watching the purple clouds of iodine vapors rise off the magnetic lock, "with water as a catalyst."

She looks at him, while his jaw goes a little slack, eyes skipping to her alluring pink mouth as the mixture ignites in a bright blinding orange at the flashpoint.

"You're not the only one who paid attention in science class."

A woman after his own heart.

Barry blinks.

Here he thought he'd be able to maintain some level of professionalism.

Killer Frost pushes at the steel door, the lock giving way easily.

"You want me to-"

He points up at the meta-dampeners, now well within their reach.

"And pass up the chance to see more of your work?" Killer Frost smirks, motioning a hand past the door. "After you."

Another long dark tunnel stretches before them.

Water drips down the walls, rats gnaw at wet cardboard discarded by the prison administration, and their footsteps echoed into a cold hollow.

"So this meta we're breaking out..."

For all his skepticism about metas he's acting all too eager to add another one to the mix, one locked up in a maximum security prison, no less. Iron Heights locked up criminals of every walk of life, from thieves to murderers, and metahumans had proved themselves no less versatile.

"A teleporter," Killer Frost says, showing some of her cards— he can understand she's reluctant to tell an outsider all her secrets, meta or otherwise, but he'd like to know exactly what he's aiding and abetting.

He may use his God given abilities to steal and plunder, cause a little mischief here and there, but no one got harmed in the process. Banks and museums were insured against his kind of crime, and the odd private owner he stole from usually committed some crime of their own that tipped any moral scales in his favor.

Every thief upheld a set of rules, a moral code, and he never strayed from his.

He wondered about her moral code, how far her care for metas stretched beyond them being a means to her own end— a teleporter did seem like a handy tool to have in one's bag of tricks.

"We're no killers, if that's what you mean," Killer Frost provides, catching his meaning just fine.

He'd do well not to underestimate her.

At long last, they come to his pièce de resistance; stainless steel double doors, anti-theft, fireproof, anti-magnetic. Password protected electronic lock.

Chinese, if he had to guess.

Perfect.

Bag lowering to the floor, Barry's eyes trace the precise straight lines of the doors, the meticulous craftsmanship that went into building them, hours spent wiring the electronics. Marvels of the modern world.

It's almost a shame he's about to destroy all that work.

He grabs a small spray can of liquid nitrogen, applying it amply to the electronic lock so he can pry open the keypad, exposing the wires controlling the doors' locking mechanism.

"You won't short-circuit it."

"I don't intend to."

From his bag he retrieves a small cylindrical canister and unscrews the top, revealing a small glistening bead embedded in black foam. Undoubtedly one of his greatest inventions, the explosive was no bigger than a marble, barely a centimeter in diameter, which made it the perfect size to insert into those hard-to-get-to spaces.

He lays it down behind the wires, pushing the keypad back into place.

A small explosion follows, frying all the circuits in the motherboard, burning through the wiring.

"Micro-explosive." He winks. "Designed it myself."

Killer Frost cocks an eyebrow, "You're full of surprises," she says, while little else changes in her composure.

No more room for idle chit-chat.

Doors opened, Killer Frost steps forward into the meta ward, searching for her teleporter.

"Caity?" a voice bellows from the depths of the room.

Killer Frost's head turns toward the sound, but it gets no further rise out of her.

Caity? Was that Killer Frost's real name?

Curiosity getting the best of him, he tracks the few steps toward the cell door, eager to see who dared to take on such familiar tones with Killer Frost. A man soon comes into view, short hair, scruff, smile etched on his face.

Mark Mardon.

Second of the Weather Wizards.

Word on the street was both Mardon brothers went up against The Flash, but Mark's the one who survived. Three years and a failed prison break later here he sat, in his cushy cell buried deep beneath the bowels of civilization.

Mardon smirks. "Thought that was you."

"Leave him." Killer Frost sneers. "He works for Amunet."

.

"So you're trusting him."

Cisco's voice holds exhaustion and malcontent in equal measure, a combination not uncommon for him; she does so often test his patience, and, for obvious reasons, she's reaching the limits of how far that extends.

They don't usually tolerate outsiders, and whenever they had they'd been metas too. Not humans. Not one of them.

The Flash would get a kick out of this, having accused her of sticking to her own kind on more than one occasion.

But desperate times all too often called for desperate measures, so here she was, trusting a career criminal with their most precious commodity. Secrecy.

She can't explain why. Maybe it was the part of her that was still Caitlin. If anything, she trusted his greed or pride to be up for the challenge. It's not every day one planned on robbing Amunet Black.

"I don't need to remind you he has a lot less to lose than we do."

Caitlin casts her friend a sideways glance, peeved that he's disagreeing with her in front of Ralph— they agreed a long time ago no one would ever see discord between them. It sowed doubt and fear among those they were trying to protect. At least Ralph proved his worth to them; his contacts in the police department were invaluable, and the criminals he kept in touch with got them everything from food to fake IDs.

"We're on our last legs, Cisco."

It's clear this hits a nerve in both men, as the truth was wont to do. Their little operation hasn't been doing well for a long time— between Amunet's black market meta trafficking and the mistrust of the general public they had startlingly few bridges left behind them. This money would go a long way toward building new ones.

"We need him."

Who better to help them than a master thief who'd never been caught?

Then again, there was the trusty old saying No honor among thieves. Would the Chemist be a liability? There must be a reason why he worked alone, why no one they contacted knew his real name or where he came from.

She looks at Ralph. "What did you find?"

"This took some doing." Ralph holds out a thin blue file folder. "All Larvan found was a juvie file and his name in some old orphanage records."

"You got his name?" Cisco asks, curiosity piqued.

She grabs the file from Ralph before Cisco can get his hands on it. This Chemist in their midst pushed the wrong buttons and Cisco's sure to make him pay; and he knows as well as she does, there is power in a name.

Bartholomew Henry Allen. Born March 14th, 1989.

Mom died. Dad died.

At least he hadn't lied about that.

Arrested at 17 for petty theft. Charges dropped.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Sometimes she wished she lacked the self-control that stopped her from slapping Cisco.

Caitlin sighs.

This cold came ill-suited. Cisco didn't deserve it, not her best friend, her last tether to who she was before she was remade. Unlike most of her fellow metas she couldn't entirely blame the particle accelerator for who she became, but she could thank Cisco for helping her become someone she could stomach.

"Isn't that why I have you?" she asks, cracking an innocent smile.

Cisco's eyes narrow. "You know, sometimes?" He wags a finger at her. "You make it so hard to disagree with you."

.

With Killer Frost's pet teleporter safe and sound among their own again, Ramon drops him exactly where he started hours ago: in the same theateresque room he'd made everyone's acquaintance. At least they did him the courtesy of 86ing the bodyguards.

Arms crossed Barry leans back against the wall, while behind the rusted metal door played muffled voices, -Killer Frost's, Ramon's, Ralph's-, discussing his future with the underground.

It started in him a striking unease.

He hasn't had to dance to anyone's tune for many years— he's used to being his own man, making his own hours, and losing some of that agency made him feel decidedly helpless.

Surely concessions needed to be made on both sides, but so far he's the one who's had to prove himself, he's the one who needed to gain their trust, he's the one whose skills were questioned. Like he's some outsider looking in, barred from entry.

He can't say he's surprised. Metas struck him as skittish and skeptical— as if they had to fear him, the powerless, the defenseless, human.

One job, Barry sighs.

All he needed to do was get through this one job.

He had his virtues when they were called for. He could practice a little patience.

"I take it I passed your test," he says the moment Killer Frost and Ralph join him again, leaving little room for any further quips at his expense.

Killer Frost's deep blue eyes take in his face, lips pursing as she says, "For now," and his shoulders release some tension.

One step closer.

Now what?

"Cisco," Killer Frost calls into the room she exited, and he's no sooner caught sight of their conspiratorial smirks or the ground disappears from under him again, a breach opening beneath his feet that funnels him, Killer Frost and Ralph to yet another location.

He lands on his feet this time, though his knees still catch the brunt of the fall— his legs buckle, and he falls to the ground, wincing as he hits tile.

Ramon was certainly having fun.

"I'm impressed, science guy," Stretch's voice sounds above him. "Most people only land on their feet after their fourth try."

"Yeah?"

"Not me," Ralph says, before his legs turn to -for want of a better word- jelly. "I come with airbags."

Barry rears back despite the non-threat; it's more comical than menacing but does nothing to ease his mounting discomfort. Teleportation, cryokinesis, dimensional energy manipulation— what other kinds of freaks did the underground hide? What has he put himself in the middle of?

"You—"

Ralph holds out a hand and pulls him up from the ground.

"—stretch?"

"I prefer the term elongate."

"Ralph," Killer Frost calls.

Stretch falls silent.

Given a few moments to get his bearings, Barry looks around; they're on an empty subway platform, the air stale like a room that's been locked for too long, dust gathered in thick patches along the pillars and walls. Chain link gates closed off the exit, welded together at the center so no one could wander in uninvited.

A ghost platform.

Named so when it fell into disuse after certain train lines were abandoned in the 1940s. Central City had plenty of them. Most of them remained unused.

He could think of few better places to hide.

How far underground were they?

"Follow me," Killer Frosts says, her voice a little sing-song, and makes her way to the other side of the platform, where a service elevator promptly opens with a telltale ding.

It takes them two floors up, where the doors open onto a view of pale subway tiles, faded mustard yellow with two rows of emerald green running through them. Black arrows painted on top of the tiles gave quick directions: left for the northbound trains and the exit, right for southbound trains.

But where most subway stations in Central City were hubs of activity, filled to the brim with commuters, this tunnel was as abandoned as the train platform beneath them— many of the lights in the ceiling were on the fritz, flickering eerily in the near dark.

They turn left down a long winding tunnel, toward a flight of stairs where the rounded tunnel twists like a spiral up to the left, into a side hall of a much larger concourse separated by a two rows of columns. To his left and right stretched a long hallway of abandoned stores.

"What is this place?" he finds himself asking, voice bouncing hollow off the walls. Where was there a deserted subway station in Central City? Was he even within city limits?

Neither Killer Frost or Ralph answer his question, while a low murmur raises the hairs at the back of his neck.

Cold creeps between his skin and the inner lining of his clothes as he steps into the main concourse. For a hall so big, the dark vaulted ceiling gave it a claustrophobic quality, while the large row of columns covered in washed out yellow added an almost sickly note.

Someone had clearly gone to great lengths to make this part of the compound look halfway decent; the windows of the storefronts were spotless, the floors were clean, and somehow they'd found a way to circulate some air. Still, it was decidedly colder here than it was outside.

Lighting was sparse. He can't imagine how they got any electricity down here.

The clang of pots and pans draws his attention to the other side hall, where a restaurant seems to have been converted to a large canteen— a long line of people stood waiting for food.

Metas.

Young. Old.

Was this the nerve center of the meta underground?

Barry's hands formed into fists.

Across the way, a group of children sat huddled together on a pair of old ratty couches, listening intently as an older woman read to them.

His chest weightened, an acid taste filling up his mouth.

Back at the orphanage, some of the older kids read to the little ones before bedtime; it helped pass the time and it fended off nightmares, created a sense of togetherness, even though all of them, each and every single one, were alone in the world. Somehow, the stories made them an 'us', up against the stifling confines of the system.

He'd often stand and watch from a distance, listen as the kids' voices transformed into his mother's, reading to him every night before bed.

The stories never chased away any of his nightmares.

Would they help these meta children?

How long have they been down here, fending for themselves?

"I can't tell you where we are," Killer Frost says, "but you can go where you please within the compound. If you want to leave, you'll take Ralph with you."

It's that exact moment he realizes Killer Frost has chosen to trust him— not only did she bring him to the beating heart of the underground, she's letting him stay, albeit on her own terms.

Which is fair.

He had suppliers who wouldn't be keen on seeing him with strangers, but he's not about to push his luck. Their underground network was extensive. It stood to reason they'd go to great lengths to protect it. Would that include killing, even though Killer Frost claimed otherwise? Her name definitely implied the contrary.

Killer Frost draws a step closer. "Is that clear?"

Barry swallows hard, hoping to hide his continued unease. "Crystal."

With a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of smile, Killer Frost continues, "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping," and pushes past him down one of the side halls.

He's quick to follow.

A few glances tell him more about the underground's living conditions than any words could; many of the store front windows were covered with cardboard and newspapers to obstruct any view inside, but the open doors showed mostly large sleeping halls, the floor covered in blankets, sleeping bags, or whatever else they could find.

One old grooming store served as a field hospital, the display window painted over white up to eye level.

Killer Frost weaves swiftly in between two magazine stores, past a door topped with the words Restricted area. Staff only, an area of the station reserved for subway personnel— a long round tunnel.

How many of them were there if they needed this much space?

"Your room."

To his left an old utility room has been cleared for him— drab and dreary, the small room held four bunk beds. He wondered who gave up their room.

"Accommodations might not be up to your standards, but-"

"It'll do," he sneers, disconcerted by how well she continued to read him, or he's allowing himself to be read— it's a clear toss-up between the two; despite his misgivings he likes her, how she holds herself, how she commands a room, and even, oddly, the thought that she still doesn't trust him completely. How could she, when that would shatter the illusion that she's untouchable, unshakable, incorruptible?

He'll prove her wrong.

"Sweet dreams,"—Killer Frost smiles triumphantly—"partner."

The word should offer him a modicum of satisfaction, but fails in its intent. A partnership implied some degree of equality, not this leash she's got him on.

If she thinks he'll be so easily puppeteered—

"Mardon called you Caity," he calls after her, eyes caught on how she halts in her tracks, shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers on both hands rubbing together.

Not entirely unshakable, then, after all.

When she turns to him, the fire in her eyes has returned tenfold, as if the name itself ignited spite and a level of discomfort he didn't think her cool exterior was capable of showing— but they all came from somewhere, they all had a past. If he had to guess, Killer Frost's haunted her, or else the name wouldn't invoke such a strong reaction.

"Caitlin Snow"—she rolls her shoulders—"my real name. What of it?"

Her mask drops again, seamlessly, shamelessly. Fearlessly.

"It's nice to meet you."

Her eyes flash white.

"Make no mistake, Bartholomew," she gives him his own name in return, and he can't deny the pinch of disquiet in his chest. He's far less adept at dropping his pretenses. "Caitlin Snow no longer exists."

He huffs, "You looked into me," forgotten all about the reason he started this conversation to begin with; he'd meant to get under her skin the same way she'd managed to slink beneath his, but it seems he's not as skilled at it as he liked to believe. Where did she find his name? Were there records he missed, some hard copies hidden in a lost filing cabinet, or were there electronic traces left, after all?

Killer Frost draws a step closer, her eyes travelling all too precisely up his limbs, over his chest, and finds his eyes. It's the first time she fails at disarming him, if that was her intention. He doesn't mind being looked at this way— like she might eat him alive, and he'd enjoy every minute of it.

"I like to know who I'm getting into bed with," Killer Frost says, before turning on her heel.

He smiles.

Interesting choice of words.

.

Norvock's one good eye tracks the human down the length of the tunnel, the other crawling with a sharp pain that's been his constant companion for the past six years— it was a clear sign of his own distrust, an unrest started beneath his skin at the mere sight of an outsider among them. He may not like this snake rooting around in his head, but they agreed on this.

An outsider didn't belong here.

He's heard of this clown, the Chemist, a ghost claiming to have pulled some of the greatest heists Ohio had seen the past decade. No one knew who he really was, no one knew his real name, so no one knew if he was the real deal or not. Dibny claims it's him. Shawna's been singing his praises since he helped break her out of prison. Even Frost seemed taken with him.

Not him. He'll be keeping his eye on him.

"Don't even think about it, Norvock."

Ramon appears at his side, but there's nothing that can convince him he wasn't there for the same reason he was. Further down the tunnel Frost showed the Chemist to his room, Dibny following close behind.

Look on him wasn't right; the sleek black coat, pristine black shirt underneath, the clean shaven boyish face— too perfect, too tailored. Too fake.

Norvock grumbles, teetering to the tips of his toes. "You don't trust him any more than I do."

"Not up to me."

Ramon grits his teeth together.

It's not at all the reaction he expected; he and Frost never publicly disagreed, even though raised voices behind closed doors often suggested otherwise. But Ramon's like him when it came to outsiders— they weren't to be trusted, no matter how pure their intentions.

Frost, he trusts; she fought hard to find them a place in the world and he knew where she came from, but any human who had to get himself some pansy ass nickname to feel important— if he didn't know Ramon got away from Amunet same as Frost, he wouldn't trust their second-in-command either.

"Keep an ear to the ground, will ya?" Ramon asks.

"Sure thing, boss."

Ear to the ground and an eye on the Chemist.

.

Barry startles up in bed no three hours later, slamming hard into the top bunk— pain cuts across his forehead and scalp, his heart beats at his ribcage, and the black shirt he put on for bed is soaked in sweat. Vagrant traces of an old dream play near the back of his skull as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He buries his face in both hands, hoping the cold concrete against his bare feet might chase it all away.

No such luck.

The ghost of his mother's hand brushes his forehead, soothing his pain.

Sweet dreams, my beautiful boy.

His father's smile greets him like a long lost friend.

Good night, slugger.

Tears burn behind his eyes, mind wandered too far into the past for him to get away clean— blueberry pancakes bubbling, a younger version of him jumping up and down at the scented sugar rush and his mom's careful eyes making sure he didn't touch his hands to the hot stove. Coffee machine prattling. Mugs clinking together. Rushing toward the front door ahead of his dad to get the morning paper.

He still misses them so much, too much to let it back in, to invite it closer, feel its familiar outlines brush his skin, because it will tear him to pieces, it will sink its sharp corrosive claws in him and leave him someone lesser than the man he pretended to be. He won't have any of this, least of all because of this place.

A place that—

Barry looks up, caught unaware.

What—?

He staggers upright, placing a hand against the wall.

The room is shaking.

Not the room it's the whole tunnel; metal clangs and roars, sand seeps from cracks split through the ceiling, the beds in his room displaced by several inches. His reinforced concrete room shrieks.

An earthquake?

In Central City?

Barefooted he stumbles toward the door, the ground trembling beneath his feet. Barry opens the door into the tunnel, finding it mostly empty— there's no one running around in a panic, no screaming, no one seemingly worried that the roof of the tunnel could cave in on their heads at any moment.

He remains in the doorway, holding onto it for dear life. There's nowhere to run and even if there were he has no clue where they are. He could be buried alive and no one would ever find his body.

Ralph rushes to his side. "It's okay."

"Okay?" he cries, "The tunnel's-" but he's no sooner spoken or the vibrations weaken, the walls stop rattling, and the ground settles.

Silence follows in the quake's wake, but that same calm doesn't return to him; this whole tunnel could've come down and only Ralph came to his aid. Were none of them worried? Or did they figure their powers would save them?

Then, a voice.

Killer Frost's.

Soft and kind, unlike he's heard it up until now.

Barry tracks the source of the voice a few feet down the tunnel to his left, where a young girl sat huddled against the wall, legs pulled up to her chest, crying. Hair the color of magenta.

Killer Frost sits by the girl's side with an arm thrown around her shoulders, whispering words he can't make out.

Sweet dreams, my beautiful boy.

"Who is she?" he hears himself ask, drawing an unconscious step closer.

"Frankie?" Ralph's eyebrows rise, while his tone lowers, solemn and sad, "One of our lost girls."

In his mind's eye he sees one of the older kids at the orphanage, Tony Woodward, make his way over to a much younger Barry Allen. It's a cruel world out there, Allen, he'd said, you gotta toughen up if you want to make it, as if he hadn't been responsible for some of the bruises flowering over his ribs. A cruel world had made Tony a cruel kid well before adolescence, and, weirdly, he'd never blamed Tony for that. Like so many others, he became what he needed to have a fighting chance.

But that didn't make this right— a girl this young couldn't possibly belong here, a girl like her should never have reason to be sad or scared, or alone. She doesn't belong here any more than he did at that orphanage, or any other kids there, Tony included. Tossed aside. Fallen through the cracks.

Was he wrong about this place?

He thought it a means for metas to hide, to move about in the shadows and use their powers for personal gain, but he never could've guessed it provided sanctuary, a refuge, a safe place hidden from a harsh world where girls like Frankie could be among their own. Among other metas. Be part of an 'us', up against the stifling confines of an unjust system.

Who else would take her?

There was no system in place for metas— the city built a prison to hold them, but what about all the others? What about those metas who never committed any crimes, yet were condemned for being different all the same? The city didn't know what to do with them so they were relegated to their own devices, and with people like Amunet in the mix they had to hide, else they'd be used, abused, sold to the highest bidder to be exploited.

The tears behind his eyes burned hotter still.

Wasn't he -mere seconds ago- among those who condemned them?

"Bartholomew," Killer Frost's voice draws him from his thoughts, from the ghosts of his past too eager to sink their teeth into him.

Frankie disappeared back into her room.

"Barry," he supplies unprompted, clearing his throat, "I don't like-"

He rubs the back of his neck, tension returned to his shoulders. When's the last time anyone called him Barry?

"She made the room shake?"

Her eyes dark and suspicious, Killer Frost crosses her arms over her chest, armoring against his next prying question. But that's not why he asks, that's not what he's asking. What does he care about Frankie's powers when her nightmares shook him awake?

He wonders if his own would have the same ferocious effect.

"She had a bad dream. She'll be okay."

Eyes cast down to the floor, he asks, "What happened to her?" without needing the answer; whatever the specifics of her situation she was down here on her own, scared out of her wits, when the people up there believed she was the one who needed to be feared.

Another injustice of a broken system.

"She tried to kill her foster father," Killer Frost says, pausing long enough to account for his response, but his mind is no longer on the here and now; he's fourteen again, an orphan, waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, missing both his parents.

Stories of terrible foster families abounded at the orphanage. Yet, back then, in the throes of his grief, he would've given anything to have a family again.

Who was he to judge Killer Frost for trying to make one of her own?

"The Flash stopped her."

"The Flash?" he asks, wondering exactly how Central City's hero speedster fit into all this. One of the most visible metas in the city, yet everyone sang her praises from the mayor's office to the police department. Did she know about the underground? Killer Frost? Did she know this is where Frankie would end up?

"How'd she end up here?"

"How do you think?"

No. He didn't have to think. He didn't even have to guess.

Frankie had nowhere else to go.

The Flash may have stopped her from doing something she'd regret, but Killer Frost was the one saving her.

.

"You like him, don't you?" Shawna sidles up to him in the kitchen, or what passes as a kitchen around here. Styrofoam cups. Instant coffee. CCPD made better coffee than this. All the appliances were old, battered, repaired half a dozen times.

"Can't fool me, Baez. I've seen the way you look at him."

The Chemist has become everyone's favorite topic of conversation, ever since Frost brought him down here, showed him their inner workings, made him understand that -to some extent- they were choosing to trust him.

Ralph hoped their new guest got that.

"Can't help it." Shawna invades his private space further, pushing so close he can smell her perfume, her shampoo. "I like me a man in a suit," she says, before her eyes trip down to his own suit, her lower lip slipping between her teeth.

What a woman. Ralph shudders. Try as he might, he can't figure out how her sad sack excuse of an ex ever let her slip away. His loss. A man who couldn't appreciate Shawna's unique talents wasn't a man worthy of her admiration.

"So what's the plan, boss man?" Shawna asks, eyes alight with mischief, her fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket.

"Right now we don't even have a 'pla' let alone a plan," he says, and eyes her pointedly. "Gotta know where the diamonds are first."

Shawna rolls her eyes, "Promotion's really gone to your head, Dibny," though her lips curl into a smile.

She withdraws a step, checking to see if anyone's watching, and pushes her lips to his once she's sure they're alone.

Arms reaching around her, Ralph pulls Shawna closer, lips parting against hers.

They steal these moments whenever they can, in between Shawna running errands and him coordinating the next relocation. Can't have people think he's anything less than focused on the work. If it ever came down to a choice, Shawna or the underground, he'd choose the underground every time.

He's often wondered if that made him like Shawna's ex, who served nothing but his own self interests.

"I'll find your precious diamonds," she whispers to his lips, before she disappears into thin air.

Ralph laughs. And he thought he had a flair for the dramatic.

With Shawna gone he makes two cups of coffee, one for him, one for science boy, and returns to their makeshift base of operations— it's little more than a table, papers, and a chalkboard thrown together in a small room, but it'd do in a pinch.

"How did you find me?" the Chemist -Barry- asks, sat on top of the table, legs crossed, playing with a compass and ruler.

Shawna was right about his feelings toward Barry; despite his choice of profession he couldn't help but like the guy. Unlike other criminals who often shot their mouths off about the perfect crimes they committed Barry hadn't boast any extraordinary deeds except to get a proverbial foot in the door. His greed may have led him to their doorstep, but if Frost was willing to take a chance on him he saw no reason why he shouldn't either.

"You were asking a lot of questions about us," Ralph says. "I started asking around about you. Greased a few palms. Even followed you around for a while."

Barry grins at him. "You'd have made a good cop in another life."

"In another life I was."

Barry's eyes narrow, checking him over as if his past might show in his shoulders, some ghost badge still attached to his belt or the washed out blue of his rookie uniform. He often wished it did show, so there'd be no need for conversations like these, which only served to remind him of everything he'd lost. What Clifford Devoe took from him.

"What happened?"

Same thing that happened to all of them. First there'd been doubt, then people started talking, then his boss caught on, and fear led to people making bad decisions.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ralph turns his back on Barry. "Not important."

.

Once Shawna returns with the location of the diamonds his days all start looking the same.

Every morning he wakes up in his small drab room, and waits in line to shower, then waits in line to get breakfast. He eats in the dark windowless office assigned to him, joined by Ralph soon after.

Breaking Shawna out of prison had clearly endeared him to her, which kept him safe from less open-minded metas like the one they call Norvock, who would no doubt let the snake in his head poison him in his sleep, or Ramon for that matter, who'd scarcely let him out of his sight.

But he wasn't going to push his luck. He gave every meta a wide berth.

All except for Ralph, who stuck to him like glue, like a good little soldier following orders. At least he'd warmed to him; the former cop kept his distance and his mouth shut when he went out to talk to his contacts.

Day after day is devoted to planning; what obstacles to circumvent, what metas will be between them and the loot, and what metas could be used to neutralize them. He studies the blueprints to Amunet's base of operations -a nightclub in the old warehouse district- down to the smallest details, hoping to find some fatal flaw in its design, an escape route Amunet herself might not know of, anything that might give him a leg up.

Unfortunately none of the metas down here were mind readers. There's no telling what interesting booby-traps Amunet may have installed after taking up residence.

Ralph takes him to the next best thing.

"All I'm saying is try to be nice," Ralph begs as they head down the corridor together, on their way to see Ramon.

Ramon's about the last person he wants to ask for help but he and Ralph have gotten nowhere. He understands the lay of the land, but with an army of metahumans protecting it, he's not sure how to steal the diamonds from under Amunet's nose without bringing an army of his own.

Far too conspicuous for his tastes.

Even if they somehow managed to steal the diamonds, Amunet would strike back the moment she traced the heist to the underground. Was there any way of winning this?

"You wound me, Stretch." Barry huffs. "I'll be nice if he is."

Ralph groans.

There's still a line for breakfast, some new faces since yesterday, and kids play tag further down the concourse, squealing in delight— a conflicting sound reverberating off the walls they're surrounded by. He's had enough time between these walls to doubt their intent, prison or sanctuary, and he keeps going back and forth between those options, no more or less than he had as a teenager, contemplating his own would-be shelter.

"How does this place work?" he asks, eyes zeroing in on Ramon in the distance.

"What do you mean?"

"These kids don't stay here. So is it some kind of halfway station?"

Ralph sighs, realizing all too well they're entering Ramon's earshot and 'playing nice' wasn't on the table. "As good a word as any."

"That how you got here?" Barry asks, not too subtly redirecting his question at Ramon.

If Killer Frost led the underground and Ramon functioned as her second in command, it stood to reason they were among the first to get here, perhaps even founded the underground. Were they the first lost boy and girl? the ones who founded Neverland? What were they running from?

Ramon's lips curl in disgust. "You got a lot of questions."

"I'm just trying to understand what it is you do here."

"All you gotta understand is that if you don't get us those diamonds-"

"Ralph said you might be able to help us," Barry interrupts, decided that Ramon's threats would have far greater impact if he believed he'd actually make good on them— so far they've all been empty bravado, stabs in the dark, some way to shift his balance. Some more successful than others.

"Oh, he did, did he?" Ramon advances a step, his dark eyes narrowing on his face.

"You don't like me very much."

"You're smarter than you look."

He smiles and crosses his arms over his chest, using his height to his advantage. "Look, Cisquito, I don't need you to like me. In fact, I don't even need you to trust me," Barry says, looking down his nose at Ramon, and with a grin, adds, "not when I have Frost's trust."

Ramon shoots a step forward, lips pressed into a tight line, nothing if not predictable— it's a cheap shot on his part, but he takes it anyway.

"What you can trust is that I don't back down from a challenge, and I commit to a job when I take it."

With a nod, Ramon's demeanor changes. "That's all we are to you, isn't it? A job?"

Was that meant to be a bad thing? He's a career criminal, which is what he thought they needed. Did Ramon or Killer Frost think they could bring him down here, spin him their own sad backstory, and magically make him care?

How tragic.

"Your point?"

Ramon grabs his arm in answer.

His heart jumps to his throat, thinking he's about to be breached to the middle of nowhere to have it out with Ramon, but while his vision blurs, his peripheral vision stuttering with odd images, his body stays put, both his feet still firmly planted on the ground once the world stops spinning.

Yet he finds himself no longer in the tunnels.

Maybe he'd gotten used to Ramon breaching him places, like Ralph said he would.

Where had Ramon brought him?

Eyes adjusting, the wide open floor plan comes into focus.

He recognizes this place— the graffitied walls, the white pillars, the pipes running over the ceiling.

He's been staring at blueprints of it long enough to recognize it.

Amunet's nightclub.

As if the thought itself conjured her, none other than Amunet Black struts into the room.

On instinct, he jumps a step back.

Ramon laughs.

"Can she-"

"See us?" Ramon asks. "No. It's a memory."

Amunet comes straight at him, but phases through him like he's a ghost, a specter, no more than a whisper. An outsider looking in.

Ramon's been here before, he thinks, and he's no sooner had the thought or another Ramon enters the room, right on the heels of a past Killer Frost— neither of them the fearless metas he met. These two walked with hunched shoulders, eyes tripping back and forth between Amunet and the floor, like they were scared to be caught staring.

Had they worked for Amunet?

"Eyes on the prize, Bartholomew," Ramon cautions, his name echoing far louder than a whisper, but much further back into the past than he cares to admit.

It stood to reason Killer Frost would share the details of his past with her partner in crime, but he'd hoped Ramon wouldn't understand the power that name had over him.

Maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe Ramon once learned in much the same way he had how a name held sway over a lost boy's feelings.

Had Amunet taught him that? Was it her who'd made Killer Frost impervious to the same?

Fingertips rubbing together he makes his way to the other side of the room, where a large freestanding vault stood against the wall, flanked by a row of filing cabinets.

Just as he'd feared.

The vault stood in full view of the rest of the room, no furniture obscuring a line of sight, no fake walls protecting it. As far as statements went, this vault screamed 'I dare you', which seemed right up Amunet's alley. There's no way he could walk in here and take his sweet time cracking it.

Two metas guarded the door outside, another two accompanied Amunet, but numbers weren't the issue; for every meta that would stand between him and the vault the underground had two, but few of them were trained fighters. Amunet wasn't stupid either. Any metas he brought with him would lead her to the underground.

Somehow, they had to find a way to make sure Amunet never found out the underground was involved. Which would require nothing short of magic.

"Vault's protected by meta-dampeners," Ramon says, "but those shouldn't be a problem for you, poindexter."

"Not at all. But she'll see us coming. This won't work."

Barry blinks and he's back inside the tunnel, Ralph by his side, feet exactly where he left them.

"What do you think?" Ralph asks, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other.

"We need to find out when the diamonds are being moved."

Magic's nothing more than an elaborate game of smoke and mirrors, perfect timing, and some grandiose theater. Shouldn't be too hard. In fact it might be fun.

"You want to hit them in transit. Not a bad idea."

"She'll still see us coming," Ramon interjects, a warning this time, rather than a threat. There's more history between Amunet and Ramon than he'd previously believed, and that probably meant Killer Frost had history with her too— would that cause problems?

Safe to say he didn't think Ramon was this concerned for his well being.

Barry shakes his head. "Not if we blind her."

It wouldn't be easy, take another week or so of planning, but if they timed everything right, practiced their sleight-of-hand, he might have a way of getting them all off scot-free.

.

"Find the diamonds, Baez," Shawna huffed as she teleported across the city, closing in on Amunet's club one jump at a time, "find out when they're being moved, Baez."

Easy for Cisco to say when she's the one out here risking her life for the cause. It's been two weeks of this bullshit and what does she get in return? Same sloppy lunches as everyone else, same hard mattress to sleep on, and the same four walls staring back at her every night.

At least she has the comfort of Ralph's arms to look forward to.

The things she did for love.

It's more than that, though. Their cause meant to her what it did to Ralph and she'd never betray that.

After her run-in with Team Flash she laid low for a few months but a girl had to eat, had to get by somehow. She'd thought about going back to her old ways, hit up some of the old crew even though most of them resented what she'd become after the particle accelerator explosion.

Cisco found her first.

He'd talked a good talk, about found family and metas having to stick together, about making a difference, but it's Frost who convinced her to stay. Unlike most of them, Frost refused to hide who she truly was, lived her truth out in the open, and showed little fear despite the odds stacked against them.

With Frost's guidance she became part of an 'us' again, appreciated for more than her teleporting ways, befriended by many like-minded down-in-the-dumps metas, loved for who she was as a woman rather than what she could steal as a meta.

Sometimes, though, she missed the good old days with Clay, when all they had to worry about was where to lay down their heads.

Because appreciated or not, she's not sure any of the precarious trips she's made to Amunet's were worth the risk to her life. She's been able to glean information one small lead at a time and so far she's avoided detection, but considering the number of metas Amunet had on retainer that was sheer dumb luck.

Amunet wasn't someone to be trifled with; she was a shrewd woman, both in business and in crime, and had more sins to atone for than the devil himself. Murder, extortion, fraud, black market arms sales, metahuman trafficking— no crime was too small for Amunet Black.

So who was the bigger fool? Frost for continuously sending her out here? Or her, for being all too willing to do so?

Materialized on the rooftop of her final destination, Shawna peers down through one of the large skylights dotting the roof. Not a criminal mastermind in sight.

With her orders clear in mind, confident that Cisco was Vibing her every step of the way, she made one final jump inside, behind a wide pillar she'd hid behind before. It had an excellent view of a large portion of the room, and a direct line of sight to a few skylights, should she need to make a quick escape.

"Something low-key, darling," Amunet's voice fills the large space effortlessly, as do the clicks of her heels on the floor, "Like a Prius or a Volkswagen, but large enough to hold my vault."

"A van?"

"A low-key van. An ice cream truck, or a UPS van. I don't care as long as my pretties get from here to there."

Amunet must be pointing at a map, Shawna thinks, if only she could get a closer look at it. She didn't need any exact locations, but a part of the route the transport would take so they could intercept it— the Chemist hadn't shared all the details of his plan yet, but she knew what this all added up to. She just hoped it would work.

Braced against the pillar, Shawna draws in a few deep breaths as she listens for the click of Amunet's heels to die out.

Now or never.

Silently, on the tips of her toes, she stalks toward the map Amunet and her goons left unattended, eyes quickly scanning the map on top. One 'X' over the night club. One over a warehouse at the docks. No route highlighted in between.

That's okay.

Moving any truck between those two locations left Amunet with a finite number of routes to take, and there's no way she'd be able to cover all of them with meta-dampeners. It'd be easy enough for Cisco to Vibe the routes. Any routes that he couldn't Vibe would make excellent points for intercept. Process of elimination.

"Well, I'll be-"

Amunet's voice sounds out of nowhere— without warning there she is, in all her glory, the queen of the black market.

Her heart jumps to her throat.

"Itsy bitsy-" and then Amunet's eyes find hers, Amunet's head tilts and she sneers, "spy," before her battle glove rises, alnico shards along with it—

All shot straight at her.

.

"Can you do any tricks?"

A child's voice sounds below him, followed by a sharp tug on his pant leg.

Looking down, Barry finds one of the children Ralph was entertaining wandered over to his side of the concourse, staring up at him with big green eyes. Couldn't be more than five years old.

Opposite them, Ralph sat making balloon animals out of his own arms, while they waited for Killer Frost to grant them a moment of her time.

"Tricks?" he asks, wondering if the boy meant if he had any meta powers, and how easily that could be mistaken for magic in a child's eyes.

He outgrew his childish belief in magic much earlier than a lot of kids at school, but found it in other places, like dipping a dollar bill in alcohol so it doesn't burn once lit, or turning water red simply by using a phenolphthalein indicator and sodium carbonate. As far as he was concerned, that was real magic.

But magic could be found in many places, in different shapes and forms, and if there's one thing this place didn't need any less of—

He crouches down and reaches behind the boy's left ear. "Like this?" he asks, and conjures up a silver dollar. The boy gasps and feels around his ear, checking to see if there are more coins to find; he giggles and squeals, coaxing a rare smile out of him, as well.

That is before Killer Frost comes storming in, her eyes an unyielding fiery white, and his heart drops to his stomach.

Something bad happened. Something really bad.

"Get the children out of here"—Frost's hands ball into fists—"Now!" she shouts at anyone willing to listen. No one thinks twice when Norvock, too, comes storming around the corner.

He, Ralph, and some of the other metas start rounding up the children, moving them swiftly away from the action.

"How bad is it?" he hears Killer Frost ask, while he helps usher the children into a few of the sleeping halls.

"Bad," Norvock replies, before a breach opens in the center of the concourse, and Ramon steps through, carrying an unconscious Shawna in his arms.

Blood drips down her left arm.

"Shawna," Ralph utters behind him, and rushes past him like a speeding bullet; he helps Ramon carry Shawna into the makeshift field hospital.

His hands tremble as the walls of the station close in on him, mouth running dry. He didn't do this, no mess, no blood—

He had rules, there were lines he didn't cross and—

How—

How had he thought to keep his hands clean going after one of the most ruthless crime lords in the city? How did he think this would play out? He steered clear of metas because there was a war on, one no one talked about because they weren't initiated into the ranks of the metahuman. It was waged in the shadows, on the streets at night, and the few glimpses the city got of The Flash taking down the metahuman-of-the-week was nothing compared to what was really happening.

People got hurt, they got bartered away like commodities, used and abused as if they were things, no longer human beings.

People- metas- were dying.

Why had he put himself square in the middle of that? Greed? The challenge? A desperate need to prove himself?

His feet carry him closer blindly, and he watches Ralph and Ramon holding a thrashing Shawna down on a gurney so Killer Frost can sedate her, survey the damage done, come up with a plan.

What was he even doing here, with his greed and professional pride when these people fought for their lives, for their right to exist?

Ralph lays out a surgical tray while Ramon slowly backs out of the room; Killer Frost ties her hair back, washes her hands and slips into a pair of surgical gloves, before starting a first tentative incision.

"How does she know how to do that?"

Ramon throws him a cold hard stare. "Wasn't always mother hen to metas big and small."

Not for the first time he puzzles over Killer Frost's and Ramon's past. How long had they known each other? Was this before or after working for Amunet? Who were they in their previous lives, before the particle accelerator explosion? Had she been a doctor? A nurse?

If he were any braver he might look her up, but he remembers how she'd told him Caitlin Snow no longer existed, and the fire that burned in her eyes when she did so, and the power his own name still had over him.

The Chemist and Barry Allen may be one and the same person, but there's a reason the alias existed— he didn't want people to find out his real name, his past, let alone the tragedy at the root of all the choices that led him here. The name held power because he wanted it to, to protect him from having to lay out his life story for all who cared enough to want it. The ghosts of his past haunted him as much as Killer Frost's and Ramon's did, but unlike them he became a ghost himself.

The Chemist worked alone.

The Chemist didn't leave traces. No fingerprints. No fibers.

No name.

"I thought you two were friends."

Ramon casts him a sideways glance.

"You listen to me, Bart," he spits, and gets in his face, digging an index finger hard into his chest.

He wields that name like a whip, realizing full well the power it has over him, the power he's allowed it to have. Hearing it shouldn't split him open, shouldn't dredge up his past with it, because it's nothing more than a collection of four meager letters— Ramon can't know it was a family name, or that kids at school called him Bart to tease him, or that hearing Barry in any context can still turn him into a fourteen year old who lost his parents.

"I would lay down my life for that woman any day of the week," Ramon says. "I don't know what she's thinking trusting you, but if I find out you're hustling her in any way you'll find out I'm willing to kill for her too."

No. That's not right. None of them were killers, and if any of them were they would never be allowed down here again. Killer Frost would make sure of that.

Put firmly in his place, Barry retreats back toward the sleeping quarters, where the children sat huddled close together, frightened by all the commotion. He sits down among them, and pulls out every magic trick he ever learned.

This place needed all the magic it could get.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asks a full two hours later, finding Killer Frost alone with Shawna, washing blood off her hands. It won't come off easy, as blood was wont to do; it stuck to skin, polluted it until all one could see or hear or feel was red.

Killer Frost's bright white eyes find him across the room, and for the first time since they met he'd hazard to call them cold, icy, sharp— a chill traces up his spine despite the fact that it's a glare directed past him, at the woman who hurt Shawna, whose name was spoken in these tunnels with such quiet awe it started its own cold front.

It didn't take a genius to figure out there was a lot more going on between the underground and Amunet's black market operation than mere rivalry or contempt. Killer Frost's hate, Ramon's hate, ran much deeper than the skin, much hotter than blood, and turned solid bone brittle enough to break.

"Amunet didn't hit anything vital," Killer Frost murmurs solemnly.

Hadn't she?

The concourse, so vibrant with life and laughter earlier had lapsed into a dead silence. Amunet Black had once again struck at the heart of them. Hitting any of them hit all of them, and none so hard, he suspected, as Killer Frost.

She grabs one of the shards she dug out of Shawna's shoulder.

Alnico alloy.

Aluminum, nickel and cobalt, melted together to create one of the only magnetic substances that was also electrically conductive.

Shaking, Killer Frost grips her hand around it so tight he fears it'll cut through her skin. Instead, her fist ices over for half a second before it opens again, the shard reduced to minuscule brittle pieces, like long since fossilized remnants of the past; sometimes pressed together so hard it formed diamonds, other times, blinking them out of existence.

"This wasn't your fault," he says tentatively, fully aware that the trust between them is fragile, temporary in all likelihood, and he hasn't chosen to carry the weight of a species.

"I sent her out there."

For the first time since she walked into his life, he can see the weight of her leadership bearing down on her. She appears smaller, much like she had in Ramon's memory— before him stood not a fearless leader, nor a human woman without her powers, but the truest shape of her. Killer Frost, who wielded her own name like a whip, used it to strike fear, to keep everyone in their place. To keep everyone at a distance.

Yet the name didn't suit her. She wasn't a killer, nor was she cold. She saved Shawna's life. Shawna wasn't a tool or a simple cog in the meta machine.

"I'm the reason she was out there," he says.

Frost rolls her eyes, in no mood to debate the minutiae, and faces away.

"We needed her."

He looks at Shawna, at her pale complexion, the stunted rise and fall of her chest— "Not necessarily," he says, none too sure if this is the time or place to bring up his plan. A teleporter could have been useful, but he didn't need her for his plan to work. All he needed was Ramon, a truck, and a half decent actor or two.

Frost looks at him, her eyes taking in his face one slow second at a time. How steadfast her conviction was even now, how breathtakingly unshakable in the face of so much adversity— her eyes like blue diamonds, filled with hate and anger toward the woman who continued to take too much.

"What do you mean?"

"Let me show you," he says, and leads her back to his temporary office.

There, he lays out the details of his plan for the truck, what he'll expect Ramon to do, and what he'll ask of her, however insurmountable that may sound. Ralph assured him that Amunet won't change her plans simply because she caught Shawna spying, so he operated on the assumption that the truck would be delivered to the docks— on route, his sleight-of-hand will start, with a little extra flair to keep Amunet distracted.

"So what are you saying?" Frost says as she crosses her arms over her chest, overlooking his elaborate cup shuffle with some skepticism.

Barry smiles slowly. "Would you like to steal 20 million dollars worth of diamonds with me?"

.

Without any time to lose, Amunet charges toward the loading dock at the back of her nightclub— it would normally be abuzz with activity this time of day, shipments coming in for the night's festivities, contraband going out to her buyers, but tonight is different. Tonight it's quiet, in preparation for the transport of her diamonds across town, where they would be handed to a world renowned diamond cutter.

Only the best for her pretties.

She had a few buyers lined up, both overseas and domestic, but until the diamonds were cut they would be useless to her. They still needed to be cut down to size, be polished properly, and lose some of their natural flaws. Then, she'd have the real treasure.

Her procurement of the diamonds had not gone unnoticed, evidenced by the spy teleporter she caught snooping a few days ago, but no matter— Frost and Reverb could try all they wanted; nothing would stop her from collecting her winnings.

Her bucket hits the floor in a hard thud.

"What's this?" she asks, the loading dock too quiet, and her vault decidedly not yet loaded into the van. "We all got time to twiddle our thumbs now?"

Too few of her stooges look up at the sound of her voice. What was this?

"Chop chop"—she claps her hands, teeth gritting together—"lots to do."

"But boss," one stooge brave enough to speak says, "if Frost knows-"

"Let me worry about her, darling."

Of course this would be about Frost. Amunet sighs. She couldn't blame them for their reticence, she'd created the little monster after all, and she knew all too well her bite did greater damage than her bark, but it hardly warranted mutiny.

These diamonds would reach the docks, one way or another.

A teleporter would come in handy right now. She should see about getting one.

Still, no one in the room moves, and the stooge who spoke earlier dares try again. "If she-"

"I will not let some petulant child dictate my actions!" she shouts, starting a headache at her temples— her body trembles, the alnico shards rattling in the bucket beside her a clear warning sign that no one should try to take this any further.

Part of her hopes Frost will try something, just so she can strike at her precious underground again, but she doubts Frost had the nerve to carry through— they do so much prefer sticking to the shadows, so much so that not even her informants have been able to find them. A shame, because she didn't teach her to be shy. With all that power in her fingertips, the army she could command, Frost shouldn't be afraid to show her face to the world.

Amunet draws in a deep breath, and conjures a smile. "You will ready the truck and load up my pretties, and head for the docks."

Should Frost or her darling Reverb show up, she'll be ready for them.

.

"We roll out in five."

Foot braced against the open door, Barry watches Ralph's shoulders tense at the sound of his voice, but there's no other change in his demeanor; the taller simply stood staring at the large schematics pinned to the corkboard detailing his plan.

"Stretch."

Ralph lets a non-committal grunt, his mind elsewhere.

Behind him, the compound thrummed with nervous energy. Everyone knew what was about to happen, who they were going to face, what they were stealing, and exactly who would be putting their lives on the line. As the underground's fearless leader, Frost would take the lead with Cisco by her side. His plan hinged on the two of them distracting Amunet long enough for him to crack the safe.

Dangerous for any of them to be preoccupied by anything else.

Barry pulls back his foot, allowing the door to fall shut.

"Hey, man."

He rubs the back of his neck, unsure of where he's going with this. He could relate to what Ralph was going through -the fear of losing a loved one, the uncertainty that came with it, the knowledge that each time you said goodbye it could well be the last time- it was all too familiar to him, but he never learned how to convey that to other people in any clear manner.

Sentimentality didn't suit him, not the way that logic and rationality did, so the words weighten his tongue.

"Shawna"—Barry draws in a deep breath—"she'll be okay."

Ralph gives him a quizzical once-over, before snapping out of whatever stupor he'd been caught in. "Your bedside manner needs work."

Barry huffs a laugh, grateful his lack of tact won't be held against him. He's come to like Ralph and the quiet hovering thing he did, always somewhere in the background keeping a close eye, but never intrusive enough to become a nuisance.

Moments later, Ralph follows him out the door.

Most everyone has gathered in the central concourse -all save the children-, flocked en masse around Frost as their lord and savior, their voice of hope and clarity, and not at all the cold persona she liked to identify as.

"First sign of trouble I want you out of here," she tells Norvock. "All of you."

Norvock nods. "You can count on me, boss."

Barry nudges Ralph with an elbow. "What's that about?"

"In case something goes wrong."

It should come as no surprise to find out they've thought of an escape plan, a way out of here, yet it once again puts in stark contrast their differing reasons for doing this. All they're doing is looking for a way to survive in a city that would rather see them all gone or locked up, while he—

"You're nervous."

Frost's voice shakes him from his thoughts.

He rubs his hands together in an effort to warm them up, and grins, "Fine line between nervous and excited," while his shoulders crawl with a familiar unease. A few hours from now their precarious partnership will come to an end, he'll go back to his life of crime... and the underground will still be down here, fighting.

Sure puts a lot in perspective.

Feet heavy, he follows Ralph and Frost down to the train platform, where Cisco's waiting for them.

Moment of truth. Time to find out if his perfect plan is truly infallible.

"Here, science boy."

Ralph drops a small caliber gun in his hand.

A shudder runs up his spine and he pushes it back against Ralph's chest. "I don't do guns."

Guns got people killed. All it took was one nervous trigger finger for a job to go sideways. He learned that the hard way, how blood stuck to skin, the weight of a gun in his hand, and he swore he'd never touch one again. Not if he could help it.

"Might need it."

His jaw clenches, teeth gritting together. "I said no."

Ralph shrugs. "Suit yourself."

All he needed was his kit and his wits about him. Nothing more.

If Frost and Cisco played their part, Amunet would never even have to see his face.

A breach opens a few feet away, all four of them stepping through to a rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in the city. It overlooked two major crossroads; if Amunet's truck wanted to reach the docks, it would have to come through one of these, an ideal point for intercept.

Ralph and Cisco head for one corner of the roof, he and Frost to the other.

A strong wind blew in from the north, but the fresh air provided a welcome reprieve from the stifling confines of the tunnels. Below them people went about their lives -cars honked, people talked animatedly on their phones- unaware of what played behind-the-scenes of their Central City.

"I never did ask," Frost says, eyes scanning the street below before landing not too pointedly on his face. "Why do you hate metas so much?"

Why—

Barry blinks and teeters a step closer, caught off guard by the sudden and frank question in among the clamor of the city. Drawing a hand down his chest he tries to gather his thoughts; his rejection of a gun had nothing to do with the person offering it, but his mistrust of metas has been a matter of public record since day one. Why would she ask now, minutes before embarking on the greatest heist he's ever attempted?

Frost stares at him, unblinking.

Do I make you uncomfortable? she once asked him, and truth be told she did, they all did. They all carried concealed weapons and all it took was for one of them to go off half-cocked— that's how Zoom happened, and Savitar, and the Thinker, all prime examples of metas who thought themselves better than everyone else and had powers near unimaginable by mere mortals like him.

But supervillains were the exceptions.

It's the regular villains he had a problem with.

"I don't hate metas," he says, his voice no longer recognizable, his words no longer his own, rather a conviction embedded over six years' time, watching one meta after the other with powers more impossible than the previous one. All because some lab exploded.

"I worked hard to get where I am.

"I educated myself, learned from the few willing to teach me, and worked myself up in the business.

"Then suddenly S.T.A.R Labs explodes and half the city thinks they can have a piece of the profits?"

Frost's eyes narrow.

"Simply put," he says. "I don't like cheaters."

It's not the right word to use, not by far; the underground didn't profit from their heists the way he did— all the money they took went toward food and water, providing them with the bare essentials and safe relocation for those who needed it.

He could no longer think of them as cheaters, not after seeing the children, Frankie, or watching a wounded Shawna being carried in because she was spying for him. He couldn't lump them all into the same category.

That didn't mean he wouldn't stick to his principles.

"You think we have it easy?"

His shoulders roll, too small for his coat. "I didn't say that."

Frost advances a step, leaving him no room to catch his breath. "Why are you here, then?"

A few weeks ago the answer to that seemed obvious. Now he's not altogether sure he knows anything anymore. So much has gotten confused; the reflection of his past, their shared need for secrecy, for remaking themselves in the name of survival— it all seemed to dissipate the clear distinction he'd made before coming here. Us. Them. What did it really matter?

"I'm not above setting aside my pride." Barry sniffs. "Job needs metas to work."

"So we're just a means to an end."

He can still hear himself think it.

A handy tool in his bag of tricks.

That's all we are to you, isn't it? A job? Cisco's words spin all too precise circles around his sense of self.

"Isn't that what I am to you?"

The smile that follows forms slowly around her blue-tinged lips, one he couldn't decipher if he had a roadmap and a key, and it settles near the back of his neck like a thousand little needle points pressed into his skin. What was she really asking?

"You're a nobody. A ghost."

Frost echoes words he spoke weeks ago, in an effort to convince Ramon of his worth, to gain some footing on uncertain ground. Strange how hearing them repeated takes away some of the balance he thought he'd found.

He liked his reputation.

Had he given her any indication that he didn't?

Azure blue eyes search his face— what for, he couldn't say, but it's clear she has a point to make.

"You're a man with no roots, Bartholomew."

He grins. "I prefer the term 'strings'."

With that, Frost's face falls, the corners of her mouth pulling down, eyes losing some of their warmth. "That's not what I meant," she says, her mood changed at the flick of a switch. "You don't have attachments. No responsibilities. No one to take care of but yourself."

Yes. That's exactly the life he built after aging out of the system, after learning that no one prepared him for the cold and wretched world out there, a life he settled into with ease. Ghosts didn't carry any baggage, no strings could control them, and they weren't tied down by any ill-conceived relationships.

"Maybe Cisco's right about you."

His heart drops to his stomach, Frost striking a blow hard enough it nearly knocks him down to his knees.

Because he doesn't have to ask her what she means.

He can't be trusted.

But if he was so untrustworthy to begin with why let him in at all? Why allow him access to the underground, a home they all so passionately protected, consequences be damned? Were they still playing the same sleight-of-hand game, playing each other too, all in an effort to let him take the fall for them?

What if he's nothing more than a scapegoat should things go wrong? Would they leave him to the wolves? Can he trust them to have his back out there?

Frost's lips twist into a spiteful smile. "Easy to risk all of our lives when you've got no real skin in the game."

Barry rubs his fingers together. Of course he has things at stake, he's about to rob Amunet Black, one of the most notorious crime bosses Central City has ever known. There's the risk to his life and he has his reputation to think of and—

"This isn't a game to me, Barry."

Frost pushes another breathtaking step forward, pity spinning around the black of her eyes.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you're not just in this for yourself."

Mouth run dry he finds no more room to breathe; she's like a flash fire burning all the oxygen in the room and he's left exposed to the elements, to the fire in her eyes, to her conviction that she's fighting for their lives, for what's right, and all he's looking for is a profit. No different than Amunet Black, perhaps.

It sounds nothing short of unforgivable.

He'd long since realized that their excursion to Iron Heights was as much a test of character as it was of skill. There was strategy behind her every move, every word, like bringing him down here was meant to spark memories of a time when he'd felt lost, afraid, alone.

He hadn't realized until now he failed her test. He didn't amount to much more than a common thief in her eyes, a lowlife swindler, a pickpocket out to make a quick buck from the misfortune of others.

Served him right, he supposed, for thinking of himself before anyone else.

That never used to bother him.

Now, with Frost's eyes on him so intently he's a raw nerve, not much of a ghost at all. She touches at the dysfunction at the heart of him, his fear of connecting, his inability to see past the confines of his own carefully (re)constructed life.

He averts his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. "Plan's solid."

All that matters. Come up with a plan. Stick to it. Don't deviate.

If he were to look at her now, he's certain she'd be smiling.

"A plan isn't everything."

Barry licks over his teeth, trying hard to swallow down the unsavory taste of doubt.

.

As far as Cisco's end was concerned, Barry's plan sounded straight forward enough; breach the driver and the tracker on the real truck to an empty decoy in an abandoned industrial hangar south of the city— Cisco was happy to explore a more intricate application to his powers and proved all too eager to oblige if it meant sticking it to Amunet.

That was the easy part.

Caitlin and Cisco brace themselves the moment the truck appears in the hangar, and watch as the driver stumbles haphazardly out of the truck, disoriented by the sudden change in scenery.

She recognizes him instantly.

Farooq, better known under the name Amunet gave him, Blackout.

"Hiya, Caity," Farooq growls, hands crackling with electricity.

A shiver runs up her spine at the sound of that name, as it had when Mardon spoke it at Iron Heights. Back then, under Amunet's employ, neither of them would've gotten away with that kind of disrespect; now Amunet insisted everyone used her real name.

"You don't have to do this, Farooq," Cisco says, making an honest attempt at bringing Farooq over to their side; they'd all been friends, once upon a time, after all. "You don't have to keep following her orders."

"Name's Blackout." Farooq spits. "And unlike you two, I understand loyalty."

So much for that avenue.

"Blindly following orders isn't loyalty," Cisco says, even though he realizes all too well they won't convince Farooq to betray Amunet. But keeping him talking is easier than having to fight him.

Between the two of them, she and Cisco were more than capable of taking on Farooq, but she highly doubted he was the only one left in charge of protecting the truck and its contents.

If she knew Amunet—

"Tsk tsk tsk," sounds right on cue from the other side of the hangar, sending a chill through her veins as if her entire body got dipped in ice water.

There, in the corner of her peripheral vision, stood her would-be savior.

Amunet Black. Metahuman queen of the black market.

It seems like a lifetime ago now, her cushy job at CC General, the beautiful apartment she shared with her fiancé Ronnie, the plans they had for their future. She took great pride in the life they'd built together, in her budding career and the innovations Ronnie made at S.T.A.R Labs, yet still found time for each other despite their hectic schedules.

Then Ronnie died in the particle accelerator explosion, and the dark matter wave changed her forever. Changed Cisco forever. Changed Amunet forever.

"You thought you could steal from me, Miss Frost?" Amunet smiles, nose scrunching. "Surely I taught you better than that."

Caitlin draws in a breath that fails to reach her lungs. "Amunet," she says, shrinking a little smaller. She wishes that being in Amunet's presence still didn't have this immediate effect on her, but she hadn't yet mastered that particular act. Amunet reminded her of a time she was so insecure she looked to others to mold her. It'd made her vulnerable to manipulation, so much so she'd lost a part of herself.

"Caity. Beautiful as ever."

Amunet's words came with a more implicit meaning -You have me to thank for that- but if Amunet offered up the mask of Killer Frost for a scared girl searching for a sense of identity, she's the one who learned to carry it— the fearsome wave of destruction Amunet hoped to create became someone stronger in spite of all the outside influences, not a killer, not the frost, but someone who fought for those who couldn't fend for themselves.

"Happy to see some things don't change."

She knew who she was, no matter what Amunet said.

All she had to do was stall for time, give Barry enough time to crack the safe, get the diamonds, get the hell out of dodge. There was no need for her to lose her calm or to let Amunet get to her.

Amunet's eyes fall to Cisco—"I see you're still thick as thieves"—and promptly bursts into laughter.

"You see what I did there"—Amunet giggles—"Thick as thieves, and they're..."—she guffaws, pointing at them as she slaps her knee—"stealing my-"

She snorts a few times, hand to her chest while she tries to catch her breath, but quickly catches on that her audience of three isn't too impressed with her humor. Even if it'd somehow been funny, they all knew Amunet didn't take kindly to others laughing with her. No doubt they all learned that lesson the hard way.

"Anywho-" Amunet waves a dismissive hand, her dark eyes settling on her and Cisco again. "You're in my way, darling."

Jaw clenching, Caitlin conjures two icy knives out of thin air, one in each hand. "You're not getting your hands on these diamonds again."

Her heartbeat rises.

No matter how well Barry had engineered his plan, this would've always led to a confrontation; stalling Amunet meant angering her, and there was nothing that pissed Amunet off more than people being ungrateful for the so-called help she gave them. Amunet may have tried to make her, but she'd let herself be known too; a weakness she happily exploited.

Amunet points her battle glove at her. "You don't want to cross me, Frosty."

"You knew we'd try something like this, didn't you?" Cisco asks. "Arrogant witch."

That sets everything off.

Farooq blasts Cisco with an electrokinetic pulse, while she manages to fight off Amunet's shards with her daggers.

"Cisco!" Caitlin calls, but a quick survey of the situation tells her Cisco has things well in hand, trading one punch after the other with their former friend.

That left Amunet up to her.

Knowing she's far less adept at hand-to-hand combat she charges Amunet, lashing out with one knife which Amunet blocks with her glove, then immediately with the other, cutting into Amunet's left leg.

Amunet screams and she smiles triumphantly, but it shifts her focus for a moment too long.

Amunet strikes her with the back of the battle glove.

Caitlin crashes to the ground hard, ears ringing, head spinning. Eyes falling shut a sharp pain cuts across her temple, warm blood dripping down the side of her head.

What did you think would happen, darling? she hears Amunet say in some far outreach of her memory. This world will not help you. Least of all humans.

You need me.

Amunet makes a run for the truck but she's quick to send a blast of ice behind her, freezing the doors of the truck shut in front of Amunet's eyes.

Get up, she thinks, get up now, and manages to stumble upright, loath to let Amunet get away; she needs to buy Barry as much time as she possibly can— her healing will kick in, but if Amunet catches on to their intent the damage will be far greater.

"You ingrates," Amunet hisses, slamming her first against the frozen doors, barely making a dent in the ice. "I gave you everything! I took care of you when this world turned its back on you!"

"You used us," Caitlin says, recalling vividly the times Amunet ordered her to freeze an enemy's hand so she could shatter it, the threats to her own life should she not follow orders, the training and the beatings and the metas she helped Amunet capture. Not a life she looked back on with pride.

"I made you!" Amunet bellows. "If I hadn't found you you'd be living on the streets, fending for yourselves. I taught you how to control your abilities."

No. No. She made herself. She stood up to Amunet when she saw the injustice done to metas, the injustice she suffered first-hand under the guise of mentorship, and she's worked every day since to make sure that never happened again.

"You taught us hate and anger and fear." Caitlin sneers. "And if we hadn't been useful to you we would've been sold to the highest bidder."

This time, it's Amunet's mask that falls.

"Fine."

She rolls her eyes.

"I saw two scared little metas lost in the woods and I fattened you up."

Cisco, having knocked out Farooq, joins her again.

"And I'd do it all over again." Amunet's head tilts and there's that smile again. "Maybe add some shock collars, this time."

Heat flashes in her chest the power of a thousand suns and she's struck out before she can consider the decision; she shoots an icicle at Amunet, then another, and another one.

Sharp as a tack, Amunet parries and dodges the first, striking at the other two with her battle glove— before shooting a cloud of alnico shards straight at them.

A breath catches in her throat; she wasn't ready for this, not this particular confrontation, there was too much bad blood between Amunet and her. How did she think she'd be able to keep her cool after what happened to Shawna? Her revenge has been boiling inside her since the day she broke free and it'd only gotten hotter.

But revenge needn't look like this.

Cisco opens a breach that swallows up all the shards shot their way— before a second one opens inches away from Amunet.

Amunet drops to the floor instinctually, the shards striking the truck behind her.

Metal frozen to such a low temperature it's become brittle, the doors of the truck shatter—

Revealing an empty cab.

"What in hell?" Amunet exclaims, clambering upright, stumbling unevenly toward the truck to study its contents more closely. Contents, Caitlin hoped, Barry had managed to get his hands on.

"It's a decoy," Cisco hushes, as instructed.

"You tricked us!" Caitlin shouts.

Amunet looks at them, frowning. "What?"

"Where are the diamonds, Amunet?" she asks, the question distracting Amunet long enough for Cisco to fire a few vibrational blasts at her, knocking her clean off her feet.

Another one hits her just a second later and before Caitlin can stop him Cisco's on top of Amunet, grabs her by the collar, and punches her in the face.

"Where are the diamonds?!" Cisco screams, hitting Amunet again, and again, again.

A memory rips through her so violently it freezes her in place.

The first and only time Amunet asked her to kill.

Cisco stood up for her, stood up to Amunet, and as a thank you Amunet knocked him down and hit him in the face with her battle glove. It'd split through his skin like a knife through butter, over, and over, and—

"Cisco, that's enough!" she shouts, and with a short ice blast pushes Cisco away, like she had Amunet, years ago.

This is not the shape their revenge would take.

Legs trembling, Caitlin runs over to Cisco and grabs him by the shoulders. "We're done here," she insists, while Cisco's eyes remained trained on Amunet, who lies unconscious on the hangar floor. What did he do? The plan was to keep her busy, to keep her distracted, buy time for Barry to—

"Cisco."

She tries to shake her best friend out of his trance. Her only hope was that Barry worked fast, that no other metas had found him and Ralph, that they'll make it back to the compound unscathed. Otherwise this will all have been for nothing.

A breach opens beneath their feet, both of them skillfully landing on their feet on the train platform.

Home.

Cisco throws off her hands. "You should have let me finish her."

"Excuse me?"

Cisco rips off his goggles, his eyes wild. "You should have let me kill her."

Caitlin's throat closes up. "You don't mean that."

Does he not remember the look in those metas' eyes, the ones they hunted down for Amunet? Cisco would vibe their location and she'd smoke them out, bring them to Amunet so she could sell them to one of her clients— the paralyzing fear in their eyes, their pleas for mercy, they still haunted her sleep every night.

"We're better than that."

She'll never save enough metas to make up for the ones she didn't, but they never had to resort to Amunet's ways again; they'd broken free together and built something better.

Cisco's eyes narrow, lips setting in a tight line. "Are we, Frost?"

It strikes like a bolt of lightning, burning branch-like scars over every inch of her skin.

Not Cisco, too.

Tears fill her eyes. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me." Cisco grits his teeth together. "Killer Frost."

There were moments she wished Cisco did see her like that, that he saw the image she projected and not the uncertain girl that hid behind it, but not this, never this— she's not the killer, not the frost, not anything Amunet tried to make her into. Amunet took a lot of things but not their integrity. They hadn't killed and wouldn't kill, not ever, not as long as she had a say in it.

"We're not killers, Cisco. We said-"

"And where has it gotten us?!" Cisco shouts, making her jump back a step.

For the first time since Ronnie introduced them, she sees a side of Cisco that takes her by surprise. Gone is the happy-go-lucky, often cynical young scientist she met at the S.T.A.R Labs personnel party, and all that's left now is an angry boy screaming over all the injustice in the world.

She would know.

She sees a girl like that staring back at her in the mirror.

"We're dying, Caitlin," he cries, and turns to leave the room, "and we could've stopped it."

She does understand. They're forced to live underground while Amunet lives like a queen, a self-proclaimed goddess, untouchable. It took them years to get where they are and they still lost people to Amunet's illegal trade, but had they not created something real in spite of all of Amunet's efforts to thwart them? Had they not made a home? Did the underground's existence not give them hope for a better tomorrow?

Was this not the kindest form revenge could take?

"Cisco."

Her best friend halts in his tracks, keeping his back turned.

"At what cost?" she asks, and watches Cisco's shoulders slump in defeat.

Maybe this particular confrontation has always been coming too; she's been so focused on her own pain that she forgets Amunet shaped Cisco too, tried to strip him bare of his compassion, his vibrant personality, his smile and quick jokes.

He puts on a brave face, but he's hurting the same way she is.

.

Ralph had called it the old switcheroo.

While Amunet kept a close eye on her truck, and undoubtedly had one of her metahumans do the same, she would watch it get breached to an undisclosed location— the tracker on the truck would lead her straight to Ramon and Frost, who would need to convince Amunet the diamonds got snatched from under their noses as well.

Truth be told, it was one of the oldest tricks in the book, a shell game, a sleight-of-hand magic trick so quick it went by undetected. Cisco breached the real truck to his and Ralph's location, while the tracker and the driver were breached into a decoy truck identical to its counterpart.

Ramon and Frost played their role to perfection; Amunet had no clue who stole her diamonds. For all she knew, one of her own crew had sold her out.

Either way, the underground came away clean and was 45% of 20 million dollars richer.

The vault itself had provided its unique challenges; the wiring was protected by electronic shielding, which rendered a targeted EMP useless, but his trusty micro-explosive took care of that. Inside, further proof of Amunet's paranoia, hid another vault, this one with traditional tumblers, easily defeated with an acidic concoction.

Anticipation traipsed along his skin in featherlight touches.

Twenty million dollars worth of uncut diamonds lay on a black velvet tray.

He did it.

With patience, planning, and -granted- a little help from a metahuman or two he managed to rob Amunet Black, Queen of the black market. What was that saying about plans coming together? Who cared about praise or a reputation when it was the achievement that mattered? Everyone thought it couldn't be done, even Frost had her doubts about him, but there he sat, staring at the result of his elegantly constructed plan.

Diamonds at his fingertips.

In their uncut state the raw stones were unpolished, shapeless, but that didn't make them any less beautiful— their edges were sharp, their surface coarse, their brilliance somewhat muddy, hiding their full potential well beneath the surface. Their value would be determined by looking at four key characteristics: clarity, lack of color, the proportion of the cut, and the size of the stone. The eventual end goal would be to preserve all four qualities, but even the most skilled jeweler often sacrificed one for the other.

An elegant process in and of itself.

"You sure live up to your reputation, science boy." Ralph had clapped him on the shoulder, and bagged the diamonds before handing them off to another meta, who would escort him back to the compound.

Ralph stayed behind to get rid of the truck.

"I'm not going to lie."

Frost finds him rifling through their medical supplies hours later, long after their triumphant return to the subway station, long after her raucous fight with Cisco, long after her attention to him remained warranted. Job's done. Treasure collected. Surely that would end their partnership sooner rather than later?

"I half expected you to double-cross us."

She smiles at him sweetly and nearly genuine, but he fails to find any reciprocal honesty. Her earlier words to him maintained their impact— was he not to be trusted? was that why Ralph made sure to handle the diamonds the moment he'd done his part?

Were they done with him?

What's hilarious is he thought he'd be the one severing ties with them the moment his plan was executed; he'd pack up his bags and head on home and he wouldn't look back once. He'd count his money and move on to the next challenge.

Yet this entire operation left an impact on him. Not just Frost, or girls like Frankie, or any of the other children down here, but Ralph, who he suspected lost his job as a police officer because of his affiliation with the underground, and even Ramon, who behind his hard facade and cruel words hid a love for this place he couldn't relate to in the slightest.

How had Frost and the others rooted so skillfully under his skin? He'd done a thorough 180 as far as metas were concerned.

"Sorry to disappoint," he says solemnly, and continues his search for a bandage.

"You're hurt."

Frost takes note of the bloodied handkerchief around his right hand, and steps closer. She pulls back the make-shift bandage and studies the cut running across the palm of his hand.

"Hand slipped," he lies, foregoing the incident with Norvock a few minutes ago. He may have come to appreciate the underground, but it refused to show him the same courtesy; it didn't like him being down here, in among their secrets, their cherished hopes and dreams for a future, and he couldn't blame them.

He'd outstayed his welcome.

Barry winces as Frost deep freezes his cut.

She scoffs, "Don't be a wuss," and wraps some fresh gauze around his hand.

He laughs, before he catches a whiff of her perfume, and his eyes draw over her slim fingers, her delicate hands skilled at tying bandages, patching up wounds far graver than this. He knows better than to question who she's had to become, but he can't help but wonder— Who was she before all this? What tragedy catalyzed her into becoming this fixed point, immutable, stabile, an unchangeable leader amidst multitudes of tragedies, persecution, and fear?

"You and Black have a past," slips out against his better judgement.

"I never denied that."

"You should've told me it could come between-"

"It hasn't." Frost looks up. "Cisco will be fine."

Maybe he would believe that if Ramon and Frost hadn't screamed at each other so loudly that the entire station heard it— he couldn't make out the exact words but everyone knew the gist. Ramon had a chance to take out Amunet, and Frost stopped him.

He had no trouble believing that they would work things out, even best friends disagreed from time to time, but about killing Amunet? He thought he'd finally figured them out, that they weren't the killers the world made them out to be, not the ruthless, heartless thugs locked up below Iron Heights prison.

"What is your problem with her anyway? I didn't ask before because it didn't matter-"

Frost draws a step back. "Still doesn't."

"Because you got what you wanted?"

For half a second her eyes turn frightful, like he's coming around to the heart of the matter, the bare bones of it, and it wasn't at all about protecting their reputation.

"Who exactly used who here, Caity?"

It has its desired effect.

Rather than flash their usual fiery white, Frost's eyes go stone cold, hard, and her entire body goes rigid.

She grits her teeth together. "You don't get to call me that."

Barry advances a step. "What is your problem with Amunet?"

"She uses us."

"Us?" all of them? or just her? just Cisco? just the remnants of a past that they both share with Amunet?

"Metas, Bartholomew," Frost spits, "like Cisco, like Frankie. Like me. Or has that conveniently escaped your attention?" and to underscore her point her eyes glow a dangerous and icy white, as if to show exactly how different they are. He's not a meta, one of them, so he could never understand.

"The night of the particle accelerator explosion we became a family, for better or worse," she says, "All we have is each other, and we stick together, no matter what."

Except he does understand. Kids thrown together in an orphanage, no matter the circumstances, don't live there unaffected by each other— their stories were his story and vice versa, and all they had was each other, so they stuck together, for however long they needed to get away from that place. He may not be a meta, he may not have superpowers, but he too was once kicked to the curb by society, lost in the system, blamed for who he chose to become in spite of the circumstances.

"I get that," he says. "What you've built here is amazing. I just don't see what that has to do with-"

"You think Norvock asked for his snake?" Frost cuts him off. "No. He saved a little boy from a snake at the zoo the night of the particle accelerator explosion and this is how he's repaid."

She gestures at the room, at all the others beyond this, at the dark stuffy tunnels they've made into a home.

"Down in the dumps with the rest of us.

"Cisco lost his brother.

"Ralph lost his job when his boss found out what he was.

"Even The Flash wears a mask." Frost grits her teeth together, speaking the speedster's moniker with such disdain it's hard to believe they're on the same side. Everything The Flash does is out in the light, and while Frost doesn't help metas for the credit that must weigh on her too, knowing people in this city considered The Flash one of the only metas worth believing in.

"Every day there are kids that find us because they have nowhere else to go."

Lost boys and girls.

"But who do you think took in Cisco and me?" Frost says, and, much to his surprise, her eyes dim, a sparkling hint of tears at their corners.

His heart skips a beat closer but he can't move—

"Who do you think pretended to care for us?"

Of course.

Who else but Amunet Black.

It was Amunet who found two newborn metas stumbling all alone through a changed city, plied them with promises, showed them how to use their powers and strike at the heart of a broken system. He recalls all too precisely how Frost said Caitlin Snow no longer existed, and he wonders, given everything he's learned, if Amunet Black was the one to chip away at her— if Caitlin didn't so much lose her life, her friends or family, but herself instead.

So what was this underground business? Revenge? Rebellion? A child acting out against its parent? Or was this, all of this, kindness she was never shown when she was thrown into the chaos of meta-dom? Had she adopted this killer persona to protect every next new meta against people like Amunet?

"All she sees when she looks at us is profit," Frost says, "She took me in and twisted me up, and I was too blind to see what she was doing."

"What happened?" he dares ask, mouth run dry.

"I outgrew her. Cisco and I saw her for who she really was and we got out of there as fast as we could."

There's more to the story, he's certain, like there's a lot more to his story than his parents dying and orphanages— a smart mouth out on the street got beat down a lot. If it hadn't been for his quick wit and self-sufficient nature, he could've easily ended up with the wrong people.

Caitlin Snow had, and it changed her.

It made him wonder if he'd at all have gotten along with Cisco Ramon before the particle accelerator explosion.

"And you still couldn't kill her."

"I'm not a killer. Despite the name she gave me.

"Cisco made a new name for himself. Vibe."

Frost wipes at an errand tear.

"Not me."

It all made sense now. Amunet had tried to cut Caitlin down to size, determine her worth, her shine, her relation to others, and turn her into a polished metahuman who would do her bidding, and hers alone. A Killer Frost she could control and sic on those who opposed her. She'd sacrificed parts of Caitlin Snow, whoever she once was.

"And Caitlin Snow?" he asks, while he asks himself a wholly different question. And Barry Allen? What had he sacrificed to become this ghost, the Chemist? What qualities had he lost in the process? Were those the pieces she hoped to find when she was deciding whether or not to trust him?

"She wouldn't get far in this world."

"You really believe that," he whispers, thoughts racing while tears fill up his eyes too. How far would he have gotten if he'd fallen in with gangsters, people who would've exploited his abilities?

How far had he really gotten, on his own?

The Chemist worked alone.

He didn't leave traces. No fingerprints. No fibers.

And he had no name.

Who was Barry Allen, after erasing most every trace of him?

Was he still a person at all?

"I thought you preferred to steer clear of metas."

Frost turns his back on him, and just in time too, else she might have seen the tears slipping down his cheeks. He wipes at them slowly, their heat sinking into his fingertips.

"Maybe I've changed my mind."

They're not all that different.

Frost draws in a deep breath, "Don't do that on my account," and storms out the door.

.

She pushes at the door of Barry's office so violently it creaks in its hinges and hits the wall in a loud metallic thud that's sure to wake up everyone in the tunnel. Let them, she thinks, let them see her true power, her fire and conviction. Isn't that who she was supposed to be? This killer cold?

Her vision has gone red.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Caitlin flips the table at the center of the room, screaming as she does so, hitting the corkboard with a few targeted ice blasts, tearing blueprints off the walls and ripping them to shreds.

Who did he think he was talking to? What did he know about Caity or Caitlin Snow or even Killer Frost when he hid behind his alias no different than The Flash? Sure, he'd offered up his name at the slightest crack in his armor but what did he know of hers? What did he know about persecution? About living in constant fear that everything they had could be taken from them without a moment's notice and no one would bat an eyelid?

He saw their suffering and he wasn't immune to their plight, so where did he get off telling her who to be?

All she had to be to everyone in these tunnels was a fixed point, the nucleus around which every other part of their operation moved. Ruthless. Unchanging. That meant embodying Killer Frost down to the steely-eyed gaze and tight-lipped threats, that meant keeping her distance. And this Chemist, this master thief had no business talking about being used when—

Her breath stutters to an abrupt halt, recollecting how she'd stumbled into Amunet's path all those years ago. Lost. Alone. Naive enough to think Amunet had good intentions.

Had she used Barry?

Caitlin falls back against the wall, and sinks down to the ground.

Had she used him like Amunet used her, used Cisco? Had she consciously put him in danger so the rest of them would be safe?

Had it all been a mistake? inviting an outsider, letting him help them rob Amunet?

No. The hesitation at the factory had been hers and hers alone. Barry had nothing to do with it. She stopped Cisco. She let Amunet go.

They weren't killers. None of them were. Cisco stopped her from becoming one for Amunet and she'd done the same for him now.

In time, he would understand that. In time, he would forgive her.

Cisco worried about losing her, about her losing herself but truth is Killer Frost is nothing more than a mask. Amunet tried to create her in her image, tried to make her an assassin that danced to her tune. She simply repurposed some of that vision to suit new needs. The underground's needs.

Caitlin won't disappear. Amunet may have remade her and she may carry those scars for the rest of her life, but despite the hardship she'd held onto the things that made her Caitlin. Compassion. Kindness. Even her survival instinct was Caitlin's.

"Hey, boss."

Ralph's voice startles her.

Good old Ralph, Caitlin thinks. Somehow, despite his moldable nature she could count on him to remain the same too, dependable— he thrived on it, being his own fixed point, because if at all possible he loved this family even more than she and Cisco did. That made Ralph invaluable. Irreplaceable.

"Diamonds are safely locked away," he says, surveying the aftermath of her outburst, Barry's plans in pieces on the floor. "Gave science boy his share."

"Good."

For a moment, maybe two, she thinks Ralph will leave it at that, let her stew in what anger still kept her pinned to the floor, let her fight the tears pushing at her mask.

But that wouldn't be in his nature.

"You're not a killer," he says. "We all know that."

Maybe her mask isn't as impenetrable as she believes it to be.

Maybe there's no point in her wearing it.

She feared she'd lose their confidence once everyone found out she let Amunet go, but no one said a thing, even though her death may solve a lot of problems for them.

"You know, boss lady, we-"

Caitlin smiles to herself.

Good old Ralph.

"You've taught us a lot about the world out there, how to blend in, how not to."

Did that make her like Amunet? Had she taught her children to mistrust humans, the police, social workers, even the ones that might actually care? Plenty of them had families on the outside, people who weren't affected by the particle accelerator explosion or the Thinker's dark matter satellite.

Amunet would have them believe they were all their enemies, lesser than them, dangerous.

"But most of all you taught us how to care. For ourselves, for others like us. And them, too."

Humans. Others. Them.

People like Barry.

Had she used him?

"And that's not Amunet," Ralph says. "That's all you."

She'd like to believe that, that she made the underground into an 'us' out of a need for one, not out of fear for whatever 'them' they were up against. She'd hoped to make a family, because everyone needed to put down roots from time to time, which Central City and Amunet made exceedingly difficult.

Then there was Barry, a man so frightened of connecting he'd lost himself in this ghost persona, thought himself immune to caring. It'd made him easy to read. Easy to control.

But had she used him?

No.

No more than he'd hoped to use them.

.

It's frightening how it all comes back so fast.

Barry watches Ralph sat by Shawna's bedside, lips pushed to her left hand.

Fourteen years since his mom died and he still recalls every detail; the beep of a heart monitor paired with the unmistakable scent of antiseptic, his mom weak and frail in a huge hospital bed that she grew smaller in each day, the chemo sinking inside her body one drop at a time, destroying healthy cells right alongside unhealthy ones, her smile in spite of the pain, the fatigue, the horrific changes her body withstood until it could no longer.

Take care of each other, she'd whispered. My beautiful boys.

His dad died no three months later. Fell asleep at the wheel of his car coming back from a late shift at the hospital.

Barry blinks through the tears in his eyes.

Maybe it's best he got out of here.

This place has had a corrosive effect on his mind, whittling at the walls behind which he's forced Barry Allen, his memories, his boyhood hopes and dreams, not to mention a future that'd been taken from him. His mom and dad were meant to be there to watch him graduate high school, college, prepare him for his first job interview, meet his girlfriends, his future—

No. None of that mattered.

He became what he had to in order to survive.

"You still here?" Ramon asks, his impatience and frustration with him still clear as day. He could blame that on his falling out with Frost, but he knew better.

Ramon halts a few feet away, peering inside the room Shawna occupied while she recovered.

"How's she doing?"

"You care now?" Ramon spits, underlain with the repeated instance of you're not one of us, and he's sick of it. His initial greed notwithstanding he's helped these people a great deal— Amunet won't trace the heist to them and they got a nice 45% cut for their troubles, enough to keep this operation of theirs afloat for another five years.

But had any of them thanked him?

No.

Had any of them shown him the slightest bit of gratitude?

None.

He could've easily hired some renegade metas with the promise of a handsome payday, but he came to them, the underground, because they had a cause.

Barry sighs. Was that true? Or had he chosen the lesser of two evils?

As if he could ever label any of them as evil again after seeing how they lived, how they cared for each other, how they'd built this place together and found a new family, a new purpose.

The same couldn't be said for him. All he wanted was a new challenge, the next one, and to line his pockets with as much money as he could.

Two weeks ago, Ramon's words wouldn't have upset him.

Now, they leave a sizable dent in his armor.

He leaves with Ramon's, "Don't let the door hit you on the way out," nipping at his heels, a goodbye that matched his initial welcome.

So much for that. He won't miss any of this.

He heads for his room and starts packing his belongings together; it isn't much, a few outfits and some trinkets, nothing he couldn't do without.

"You're not leaving without a goodbye, are you?"

Frost.

Her voice fills the room, his head, his entire body with guilt. He shouldn't have spoken to her the way he did. Despite having lived among them these past weeks he doesn't have a clue what it's like to be a meta, what it's been like the past six years hiding from Amunet, the police, living with the thought that no matter where you came from, the moment you gained powers everyone feared you.

He sneers, "Job's done" with Ramon's words still ringing in his ears, and he hates how she must think that's easy for him, to walk away when there's nothing tying him to this place. He's always taken comfort in his solitude, learned to rely on himself and no one else because letting anyone close meant strings, it implied relinquishing control.

Or maybe Ramon was right about him all along. Maybe he just doesn't get it.

Mouth moving uneasy, he looks at her, surprised to find her staring at the floor.

She still throws him off his game, that's what, even without meaning to. She's a force to be reckoned with, but flesh-and-blood all the same, vulnerable to all the same things he is, and he wishes he could know her, the woman behind the mask, behind the name, the frightened girl in need of a new family.

"You wanna get a drink?"

The words slip from his lips like loose threads at the bottom of a wool sweater, unraveling one knitted stitch at a time, even faster as Frost finds his eyes, and amusement curls around her mouth.

"I serve a mean scotch."

Frost crosses her arms over her chest, gauging his sincerity. "More of a gin girl, myself."

Would he ever catch a glimpse of the real her?

No, he supposed, since this is where they'll part ways.

He hadn't intended on saying goodbye.

"But I suppose"—Frost idles a few steps closer, catching his eye—"one scotch won't kill me."

Barry smiles wide.

Ramon was going to have an aneurysm.

Half an hour later he opens the doors to his penthouse, returning a modicum of warmth to his skin— home had a way of doing that, even to him, a man who supposedly never put down any roots. He'd long since abandoned his search for a new family, but everyone needed a place of their own, somewhere to return to at the end of the day.

Truth is he lied to himself more expertly than anyone else— despite the myriad of disillusionments it dealt him he stuck to Central City like it was the glue that kept him together, its streets, its people, all small puzzle pieces of a checkered past.

He throws his coat over the couch, headed straight for the bar.

Undoing the buttons on his shirt sleeves, folding them up to his elbows, he watches Frost take in his home; the floating glass staircase leading up to the first floor, the sparkling marble fireplace, the gourmet kitchen, even the pool outside— all raised so high Central City stretched out below them in its entirety; the harbor and the river, all of downtown, now lit up like a Christmas tree.

On clear summer days, he could catch a glimpse of Keystone on the horizon.

It seemed immoderate now. Given what little the metas in the tunnels below Central City had, he understood their mistrust and loathing of someone who had so much, and did so little with it.

Frost wanders about, caressing fingers over the smooth kitchen counter.

"You've done well for yourself, Bartholomew."

She glances at him over her shoulder, and her eyes sparkle as she adds, "Selling your genius", recalling a conversation about why he did what he did and the tragedy at its foundation. Iron Heights lay ages behind them now.

"I'm sure your parents would've been proud."

He pours himself a finger of scotch.

"My mom was a housewife and my dad a doctor. They never had any need for-"

"Living it up?" Frost is quick to supply, her eyes narrowing on his face, as if wondering if he lived this high up because then there was no chance of a home taking root beneath him. Maybe that's unfair, maybe she's not here to comment on his lifestyle, which he won't make apologies for no matter her intent.

He's no less self-made than she is.

His parents' deaths, the particle accelerator explosion, the orphanage and crooks he met along the way, and Amunet Black— they all lay at their foundation, polished them into the people they are today, led them both here.

"I guess this is where we part ways," he says, walking over with a second glass.

"A toast"—Frost raises her glass—"To unlikely allies."

Their glasses clink together.

"We make- quite the pair, Mr. Allen," she says, eyes sparkling.

"Yes"—he smiles—"we do, Miss Frost."

His eyes track her across the room toward the fireplace, which she turns on with the flip of a switch, flames soon licking the inside of the glass.

"No pictures," she says, turning to him as she gestures around the room.

"I mentioned the tragedy that led me to this life of crime, no?"

Frost's nails click playfully against her glass—"You also called yourself a ghost"—while a bemused smile curls around a corner of her mouth.

"Occupational hazard."

"Come now, Bartholomew." Frost tsks, closing the distance between them with a few leisurely steps, not buying into any of his feeble excuses. She sees right through him, like she has from day one.

He's haunted by the ghosts of his past, the same as everyone else. He just found a way to become one.

"You want the truth?"

Barry swirls around the leftover scotch at the bottom of his glass. How did he expect to see the real her if he's unwilling to do the same? Here, now, far from the prying eyes of any metas, more alone with her than he's been thus far, he'll let slip his mask.

"I haven't been anybody for a long time," he says, gaze falling to his drink. "Not sure I know how to be anymore."

How to be real. How to love. How to be loved. No roots below him and no strings to puppeteer him.

He may as well be a ghost.

"I felt like that when I got my powers."

Barry looks up and finds her eyes, returned to their ocean blue color. Any response sticks to the back of his throat, caught up in quiet awe of the reciprocal raw honesty.

"I tried so hard to be someone else I lost myself altogether."

"Caitlin?"

"She's still here." Frost shrugs. "But I am who I need to be right now."

Her stark blue eyes lighten ever so slightly, as if her confession proved a little more arduous than she'd expected. Still, unlike him she carries her otherness like she's in line with it, like there aren't any chalky outlines that have yet to be colored in— whereas his own outlines are far less defined.

What did she see looking into a slice of his life like this? No pictures on the mantle. No pictures anywhere. No childhood memories. No old teddy bears tucked away in old boxes. Not even any of his mom's old books. What little remained of Barry Allen hid in whatever place she'd dug up his real name, and his memory.

So what did she see?

Did she see the boy, the one who decided he'd no longer rely on anyone the moment he aged out of the system? Did she see the young man struggling to find his place in the world, and finding he had skills unsavory people would pay a lot of money for? Or did she only see the man he's become, grown complacent about his solitude, because no one up until now had proved worthy of his time?

Which begged the question—

"Why are you here?"

This, at long last, catches her unaware. Throws her off. Makes her ever so slightly uncomfortable. Her electric blue gaze falters.

But why should it when she's held all the cards, made sure to keep him close, keep him guessing, left him to question her every intention. Was he chosen? Would they have made him a scapegoat had anything gone wrong? Would she have left him at the mercy of Amunet Black, the monster who tried to make her a killer?

"I like the way you look at me."

The tables turn again.

Barry blinks. He can't make sense of her.

Her disguise helped mediate how people saw her, the white hair, striking blue eyes, lips dark like a thunderstorm. Even her name compelled a specific response.

"Cisco, he-" she says, eyes unable to settle anywhere, and she rolls her shoulders, as if suddenly the clothes she wore were no longer tailored correctly.

Ramon saw Caitlin Snow, his friend, the doctor, the healer, and perhaps not this remade version of her, whether she called herself Killer Frost or not. Did he look at her so differently then, to warrant this excursion outside her comfort zone? Surely there'd been others who'd seen only this version, the Killer Frost who was all those things Caitlin was too, yet stronger, more resilient.

Caitlin Snow wasn't gone. The world simply pressed down on her so hard it'd turned her into diamonds, lost perhaps a quality or two, but far more capable of carrying the weight of a species.

"Back at Iron Heights."

His fingers tap twice at his glass.

"You changed."

Frost cocks an eyebrow. "And?"

Barry draws in a breath, hesitant about this line of thinking. Not once over the past few weeks had she shown any hesitation about dropping her mask, about revealing her name— but what if that was theater all the same, her way of gaining his trust, a calculated give and take to make him dance to her tune.

Would she be here if that were the case?

"Why don't I look like that whenever I'm not using my powers?" Frost provides, monotone returned.

He's not the first to ask. So he can't have been the first to see her change.

But if she could look human whenever she wanted to, why not hide in plain sight?

"Only decent thing Amunet ever taught me." Frost sneers. "A leader shows her stripes. Whether she wants to or not."

Diamonds, he thinks. She's made of diamonds.

"Do you prefer me like this?" Frost asks, so softly he nearly misses the seductive undertone in her voice.

And as if it takes no effort at all her snow white hair morphs into a deep auburn, starting at the top of her head to the very ends of her long curls, her skin and lips flash a little more pink, her mesmerizing crystal blue eyes coloring brown. Back at Iron Heights he didn't take the chance to really look at her, to see the girl she once was, the girl she consciously chooses not to be. Now that he does, he doesn't have much care for her; this isn't the fearless leader he's gotten to know, not the queen at the heart of the metahuman underground.

Staring at him out from under her lashes, Frost plays with the ends of her hair.

"The meek Dr. Snow? Naive. Uptight. Always-"

Unthinking, he reaches out a hand, brushing her hair back behind her left ear.

His thumb strokes along the shell of her ear.

Frost shivers.

"You don't need to wear a mask around me," he says softly.

Small creases knit her eyebrows closer together.

It's not a side he shows a lot of people, but since they seem to be swapping stories he's not above taking off his own mask, drop any pretenses he'd held onto in the name of good old pride. Someone ought to see the real him at some point. Might as well be her.

"You think you're the first to tell me that?" Frost asks as her head tilts back slightly, chin jutting out— interesting how he's the one who seems to be making her uncomfortable now, with both of them exposed, both of them a little more skin in the game.

"No."

Fingers brush her cheek, skin warm to the touch. Caitlin Snow was not without her charm, not without her beauty even, but she missed her most vital trait. Beneath this human disguise, this veneer of what society wanted her to be, lay the frost, rooted so deep in place no storm could rip it free. Certainly not Amunet Black.

Certainly not him.

"Might not even be the first to mean it," he says, and leans in a little, searching her face for any apprehension.

With little else left to lose he kisses her, pushes his lips to hers, and when at first she doesn't respond he fears he made a mistake, misinterpreted the whole situation and pushed a little too far to walk away unscathed, unburned by the ice that hides like fire beneath her skin.

"I'm sorry, I-"

Frost smiles, and his stomach bottoms out.

Still playing games.

"Which one of me would you like?" she asks, toeing the line between coy and submissive, but leaving little by way of doubt when she steps closer, takes hold of his glass, and places it on the floor right alongside hers.

"The real you," he's quick to answer. All of her. Not meek but bold. Not naive but fully aware of how the world works, how it twists and turns, how it's broken— and if that's the real her he'll show her the real him, not this ghost of a man he's pretended to be, but the boy beneath all that, still so afraid to lose. Lose people. Lose his grip.

It was foolish of him to assume he could work with someone so beguiling without being affected, like some renegade catalyst touching lives left and right and not undergo transformation too, but here he was, a changed man.

Negating the few inches left between them, Frost drops her mask one last time, lips tingeing blue before they meet his in another kiss. The real her. The meta.

He has skin in the game now, and it came in the form of Frost's pale skin tone, her plump lips moving against his, his tongue licking inside her mouth. Blood speeds through his veins as surely as it does through hers, their kiss slow but deep, both content to take their time.

Slim fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, trace down his chest sweetly.

If he ever thought her cold he regrets that now, because her hands are warm as they smooth down his skin, fingers pausing at his belt.

Their mouths separate to allow a single breath between them.

She unbuckles his belt, releases the button, eases the zipper down— all the while her eyes, a deep cobalt blue, are trained on him, like they have been all along, and they see right through him, to the boy, the man, the ghost, the master thief, whatever he's tried to spin himself into in the name of autonomy.

What little it all accomplished.

He strokes a hand over her hair, breath catching at the back of his throat as Frost grabs a hand around him. Eyes closing he kisses her again and moans to her lips, her hand set a slow excruciating pace.

Heat coils inside his stomach.

Fingers twist involuntarily into Frost's hair.

Head swimming, his eyes open to a vision of a woman, a queen, a true leader, and he's completely, shamelessly, at her mercy.

With a coy smile twisted around her lips, Frost strips down to her underwear, black against her silken skin, clothes discarded on the cold floor. She leans in only to bite at his lower lip and he chases after her like a puppet on a string, all too willingly yielding to her control.

Within seconds his mouth skates over hers again, tongue tripping against her teeth as breath stutters through his chest— his skin crawls as if on fire, blisters forming in the wake of Frost's fingers. He means to devour her, swallow her whole, get lost in all the aspects that make them exactly the same.

He picks her up and sets her down on the bar, on top of the glass surface but she doesn't seem to mind the cold.

Bottles and glasses clink together, glittering like diamonds in the moonlight, like Frost's skin, translucent, gleaming, appearing white in the twilight of the room.

Frost's legs wind around him, hands slide up into his hair, fingernails scraping along his scalp as if she's trying to reach underneath, well beneath the skin and tissues into the marrow of his bones. As if she means to devour him too.

One of his hands slips down her waist, fingers caressing down her abdomen before they slip into her panties— Frost moans against his lips.

He throbs slotted so close to her body, her heat beneath his fingertips, wet and wanton, and he can't wait much longer, he means to undo her like he's become undone, means to see what the fire inside her looked like set free.

Panties peeled off, Barry grabs around her hips and pushes into her gently.

A gasp parts Frost's lips and he stills, body thrumming with a near nervous kind of excitement as he grabs around her bottom.

Nails dig sharply into his back at the first tilt of his hips, deeper still as he sets the pace.

One of her bra straps slips off her shoulder.

Tumblers fall off the bar and crash onto the floor, shattering like ice into a million pieces.

Their bodies let slip heat, fire meeting an oxidizing agent, breathing together, moans lost to kisses and vice versa. It's hard even though it's not fast, neither of them under any illusion that this is anything but intimate. It might not even mean anything come morning but it's what they make of it in the moment.

He stills inside her, unhooking her bra, her skin soft and silky beneath his acid-burned fingertips. In so many ways he's still a raw gemstone, running from the uncertain chalky outlines of his past but that's not the man Frost sees, or saw, weeks ago.

Barry smooths a hand between her breasts, before planting a kiss to the delicate skin there, and tightens his arms around her lithe waist.

Her thighs tight around him he carries her to the couch, glass shards popping and cracking beneath his boots, and with his pants sunk around his ankles they turn into a writhing mess on the couch, all mouths and wasted breaths and tongues, hands everywhere, their hips meeting in an even back-and-forth rhythm.

Both of them have shed their masks, their names, their otherness, to be an 'us' for whatever time they have, give back as much as they take, equal parts selfish and selfless.

Frost reaches a hand between them and touches herself, eyes trained pointedly at his face until she's quivering beneath him, and, burying his face into her neck, teeth at her throat, he comes inside her stuttering hips and clipped breathing, groaning as release shudders through him.

Frost winds around him, legs around his waist pulling them closer together again, arms around his neck, humming into his skin.

They lie there for several minutes catching their breath, basking in the heat of each other's bodies.

He nibbles over her throat, behind her ear.

Frost laughs.

For half a moment whatever spell she had him under is broken, and he opens his eyes to the reality of their heedless act, the consequences. She can't stay here, and he won't keep her here— it's not who they are or who they pretend to be and dwelling on it wouldn't do either of them any good. They are who they are unapologetically, which is what drew them together in the first place.

Barry lies down next to her.

The cut in his hand has reopened.

Frost sits up and his eyes trace along her narrow shoulders, down along the raised bumps of her spine, down to the small of her back where he plants a soft kiss— drawn to her essence, her unforgiving nature, her practicality even now, after stripping each other naked.

His lips linger, as do his thoughts. How many others like him have there been, men she's warmed up to, men who had to warm up to her. Did it matter?

"You don't do this a lot," he says, unclear exactly what he's asking.

"Sleep with my business partners?" Frost asks, throwing a coy smile at him over her shoulder.

He grins. "Leave the tunnels."

"I go where I'm needed."

Strange choice of words.

"Burden of being a leader," he says, though her words stick to him like cellophane— did she think he needed her? that he's the one who needed his eyes opened, stitches torn, his whole view on metas changed?

Was that her plan all along?

"That why you work alone?" she asks softly before she stands, heedless with her nudity; she crosses the living room toward the stairs and ascends one graceful step at a time, the bottom strands of her long white hair tickling at the small of her back in a come-hither kind of way.

He sits up, eyes tracking her up to the first floor.

When exactly had she set beneath his skin? Did it happen when he wasn't looking, when she was nothing more than a metahuman means to an end and he was too focused on winning his prize? Or were his eyes wide open when she stepped out of the shadows, asked her targeted questions, opened him up one thread at a time?

Working alone suited him fine; he made his plans and executed them, reaping the rewards of meeting challenges he set for himself. He never felt anything missing.

Did he feel that now?

He laughs, rubbing a hand down his face.

Only time would tell.

A few moments pass before he ventures upstairs too, toward the bathroom steadily steaming up.

He leans into the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest, and smiles— Killer Frost's lithe silhouette shines through the frosted shower glass, water cascading down on her, humming a tune he fails to identify.

And he decides he likes this. He likes having her here, in his home, among his things, close-by. He got by living free of any attachments but maybe the time of getting by was over. What's the point of all this wealth if he can't share it with anyone?

"Don't stand there gawking, pretty boy," Killer Frost's monotone cuts through the room, drawing a low chuckle out of him.

Without further hesitation he kicks off his shoes and peels off his pants, stepping into the shower with her.

Soundlessly, the shower door falls shut behind him.

.

.

now

.

His business with Snart concluded, Barry winds back down to the small plaza where everything started four months ago. It hadn't changed much; still the same blank walls flanking it, a row of bushes now covered in snow, and in a round bed stood a brand new sapling tree.

A tree that starts squeaking like a balloon the moment he lays eyes on it, shaking and twisting until it starts resembling a person.

Four months ago, that would've made him question his sanity.

"Hey, Stretch."

Ralph smooths a hand down his chest, looking a lot less tree-like. "They don't call me that anymore."

"Man who elongates doesn't have the same ring to it," he says, recalling the nickname from a news report last week— it was the latest in a long string of nicknames attributed to Ralph's superhero alter ego, who'd been seen saving people right alongside The Flash.

How he'd gotten into The Flash's good graces was bound to be an interesting story.

"I'm sending Cisco next time."

Placing a hand over his heart, he says, "You're breaking my heart, Ralph," and without any further ado hands over an A4 envelope filled to the brim with cash.

The Rathaways had a lot of valuables locked away in their state-of-the-art vault; a variety of priceless sundries, important papers, along with some paintings that were last seen in a modest art gallery in the South of France. Only went to show how wealth could never truly negate greed.

He and Snart split their earnings and went their merry way, and after a few visits to a fence he trusted he collected his half into an A4 envelope. His donation to the metahuman underground.

50% of it anyway. A tiger and its stripes, and whatnot.

But it was a gift nonetheless, a tether, or string if he felt like getting poetic, to— not the metahuman underground, if he was completely honest.

Funny that.

Ralph hands him a blue folder in return.

"What's this?"

"The last remnant of Barry Allen's existence. We purged the digital records."

Eyes quickly scanning the documents inside he sees his real name printed in black-and-white on the paper. Last ace in the deck. What's he supposed to do with this? Burn it? Stub Barry Allen out of existence? Or put it on his mantle?

"Tell her-" the words slip out before he's had time to properly consider them.

Ralph turns back toward the sound of his voice.

What would he say to Killer Frost if she were here right now, in front of him? Something corny along the lines of Long time, no see, or some such, which would make her roll her eyes, never once losing that steeled expression he'd come to appreciate.

Best not to dwell.

"Never mind."

He'll tell her himself next time she slinks back into his life, before slipping out just as quickly. Makes no nevermind to him. He's always been a 'no roots' kind of guy.

.

fin

.

.

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