A few minutes past seven o'clock, Barry locks his front door and rolls the security gate down over his windows. He secures the metal gate with a heavy padlock, tugging it to test that it's fastened competently. He yawns, mouth open wide, not bothering to cover it. There's no one around, no one he'll offend by letting his manners slide. He raises his arms over his head and stretches his back, sighing with satisfaction when he feels one gunked up spot in particular crack, the pressure built around it releasing, setting him free to lengthen his spine without that pinching pain he couldn't seem to get rid of for the past three sessions. Barry had crammed more sessions than usual into this one day, and the long hours have piled on his shoulders, ready for him to carry them home. But he doesn't mind too much since they remind him of every tattoo he did that day.

And he was proud to put his mark on every single one – a tiny lightning bolt in a far corner, where most people wouldn't notice it unless they were really looking for it.

Despite the future that he had started cultivating while he was in high school, he loves his job. Before his accident, which he initially saw as a curse, he was on the fast track for a career in forensic science. The time he spent unconscious lost him his scholarship, his place at Harvard, a year of his life. But it unlocked within his brain this unfathomable skill, considering, as a child, he could barely draw a convincing stick figure. He loves to create, but more fulfilling than that, he loves having a talent that makes people happy.

That, in some cases, changes their lives.

Standing alone in the half-twilight, nothing around him but the occasional car passing behind him or couple walking by, he takes his phone out of his pocket to refresh his memory of one tattoo in particular.

But it's not the tattoo he's trying to recall, or the tattoo's owner.

It's the woman's brother, who Barry was able to photograph inconspicuously through his reflection in the mirror – his muscular physique, his severe expression, and his eyes, brilliantly blue and shrewd, that, even via photograph, send a chill down Barry's spine in a peculiarly alluring way.

Barry leans an arm against the gate while he stares at the photograph, enlarging the image to isolate just him, gazing at his sister with affection softening his hard-set jaw. Barry was there, he knows Len was looking at Lisa, but for a moment, Barry lets himself entertain the idea that Len might have been looking at him.

Barry is not too alarmed by the sound of footsteps heading his way. It's the voice he didn't think he'd hear again that gives him a jolt.

"I thought you said you stay open late?"

Barry's eyes dart left. He bites his lower lip when he sees Len coming.

"Hey, Captain Cold," Barry says, shoving his phone in his pocket so he doesn't get caught. This man, with his impossible to ignore swagger and air of intimidation permanently fixed on, might not appreciate knowing that Barry managed to snag his picture. If Barry had to guess this man's occupation, he might say that Len worked in intelligence, security, military… Who knows? He might be a Navy Seal. His sister implied that he had dealings with law enforcement. Heck, maybe he's a cop. Not with the CCPD. Barry's surrogate dad, Joe West, is on the force, so Barry would know. Still, it might be worth asking Joe the next time he stops by for dinner. "Yeah, well, I've got a huge client coming in tomorrow. Had to clear my schedule for him. He's got some extreme security protocols apparently."

"Really?" Len says, finally reaching him. "Who's that?"

"Oliver Queen." Barry rests his back against the metal gate. "He and his sister are coming in from Star City."

Len's eyes pop open. "The billionaire Oliver Queen?"

"Yeah" – Barry's shoulders jerk up in a faint shrug – "I guess."

"You don't know him?" Len asks, incredulous of the fact that a man as prominent as Oliver Queen doesn't register on Barry's radar. What does it take to impress this man?

"I mean, I've heard of him," Barry says, "but, you know, people are just people until I hear their stories, see their skin." Barry's eyes glance subconsciously up and down Len's body. "Speaking of which, I didn't think I'd see you back so soon."

"Yeah" - Len shuffles his feet beneath him, somewhat nervous - "I wanted to say thank you for doing such a good job on Lisa's tattoo...and, uh, to apologize for being kind of a jerk. But she's my little sister, you know? It's my job to protect her."

"You definitely take that job seriously."

"I do."

"It's no biggie," Barry says. "I have a sort of sister myself. I know what it's like."

"Yeah," Len repeats, the perpetual beginning of a next sentence he can't seem to get out of his mouth. "But, uh, I was hoping that since you did such a good job on her tattoo, could you maybe, um…help…me?"

Barry raises a brow. "You wanna get a tattoo? Have we suddenly switched to another Earth without my knowing?"

"Whadya mean?" Len asks, his default unamused expression snapping onto his face.

"If I remember correctly, you said, and I quote, not in this lifetime." Barry smiles, and Len can tell he's being teased. Len doesn't like being teased. Lisa does most of the teasing in his life, and she never seems to know when to stop. But it feels less like teasing when Barry does it, and more like flirting. Len's having a hard time remembering what that feels like…or how to do it.

"Maybe I was a little hasty with that remark."

Barry nods, visibly pleased.

"Well" - Barry pushes off the gate that's getting colder by the second and bringing that pinching pain back - "I only have the one appointment tomorrow, but he's not supposed to show till eleven. I can open up at nine…" Exhaustion hits Barry like an anvil in an old school cartoon at the thought of being awake any earlier than noon. "Or you can come in tomorrow evening, after hours. Around ten-ish?"

"I…might not be in town tomorrow." The toe of Len's boot becomes tremendously interesting as Len keeps his eyes glued to it. He doesn't want to see Barry's expression, doesn't want to know that the man couldn't care less one way or another. Len doesn't want to find out that he misjudged him. The silence after his statement draws on too long, and Len figures this is a bust, for more reasons than one. "You know what?" he decides, talking down to his shoes. "Never mind. This was a bad idea."

Len turns to go. He'd been contemplating this all afternoon, ever since he and Lisa left Barry's shop. Len had his reasons for wanting this, one among them seeing Barry again, but that wasn't the main reason.

But he'd gone this long without. He could go longer.

Barry's hand on Len's arm compels him in an understated way to stay.

"Don't leave," he says, letting go of Len's arm to fit his key back in the door. Barry doesn't know what he was thinking not jumping at this. Hadn't he been thinking about this man all afternoon? Didn't he spend hours hating himself for not asking for his number? Wasn't he juggling the moral implications of contacting Lisa with some bullshit reason for an excuse to ask about Len?

So what that Barry needs to get here at the ass-crack of dawn to clean for Oliver Queen's visit? There's no way he's going to let this second chance with Len slip through his fingers. And Barry's inner turmoil aside, the man seems to need him. Barry promised himself after his first cover up that he'd always be available for someone who needs his help, no matter what.

Tonight, Len is that person. Whether it's serendipitous or not takes a back seat to that.

"You know what?" Barry turns the key in the lock. "You just got lucky, Mr. Snart" – (and Barry calling Len Mr. Snart is becoming his favorite thing out of Barry's mouth, with Captain Cold coming in second) – "because if there was ever a night to get a tattoo, it's tonight."

"And why is that?" Len asks, smiling in opposition to his mood.

"Is there ever not a night to get a tattoo?" Barry asks, the locked door jerking open with a click. "And besides, it seems that I'm free for the evening, so if we keep the gate down and the door locked, you can have me all to yourself."

Correction, Len thinks. 'You can have me all to yourself' just jettisoned into the number one slot.

Barry pulls open the door, standing back so Len can walk thru. Barry follows close after, locking the door behind him before anyone interested in a tattoo notices. Barry hates turning away customers. He doesn't have the heart.

"So, where do you want it?" Barry asks, crossing his arms and giving Len another once over, pinpointing the places that guys in particular pick for their first tattoo…and imagining how phenomenal ink would look on every single one. A tribal wrap on his bicep, or something geometric on his calf, with a watercolor overlay. Or a more massive piece - an entire sleeve, with Asian influences that aren't cliché, going from his shoulder to his hand. Barry has always been a sucker for hand tattoos, because he's always been a sucker for hands.

And Len has extraordinary hands.

"On my back," Len says. "There's something I want to cover up. Scars. They're old, and some of them are…pretty grotesque."

Barry nods, waiting for the reveal, but Len does nothing, says nothing else. Barry watches him, hands trembling as he fights with years of internalized pain and suffering, and an insecurity he doesn't wear where people can see.

"I'm gonna need you to take off your shirt," Barry says kindly. "I need to see what I'm covering."

"I…I know." Len reaches for the hem of his shirt, but his hands stop short of lifting it up, doubt clouding his face.

"I've done all sorts of cover ups," Barry says, attempting to put him at ease. Barry has had customers like this before. That's why he's willing to work after hours. That's when they end up at his door, when there's no one else to witness their shame. "I've seen all kinds of scars – burns, C-section, knife fights…abuse…" Len's eyes shift down and away when Barry says that, his jaw squaring off and becoming tight. "If it makes it easier, you're not the only one here with scars."

Barry doesn't hesitate to grab the hem of his own shirt and tug it up over his head, revealing arms and a torso covered in angry red forks that resemble lightning. They start in the center of his chest and spiral out to each wrist, dipping below the waist of his jeans, which means they go farther than Len can see. They have dimension to them, zig-zagging across Barry's tan skin, making it look paler in comparison. The individual branches, marking territory they've claimed as their own, seem like they'd be hot to the touch.

Len swallows hard staring at them. He'd like to run his fingertips over one and find out for himself.

"What…where did you get those?" Len asks, gesturing with a finger tracing the air.

"Oh…those?" Barry asks, as if he'd forgotten those scars were even there. "I was struck by lightning. But that's not the scar I'm talking about." He points to a jagged-edged raised area of skin above his heart. Because of the other scars, it's easy to miss. But if Barry didn't have those lightning marks, this one scar would look devastating. "This scar here." Barry traces over it, the slide of his single finger over his skin making Len's stomach clench. "I think it's from a knife." Barry strains to look down at it. "Anyway, I got this the night my mother died."

"You think it's from a knife?"

"Yeah." Barry slips his shirt back on. "I don't know for sure. It's…well, it's a weird story. Sort of hard to believe. The doctor at the hospital told me that's most likely what it's from, considering the smooth cut. But I got that scar long before I was struck by lightning. Because of it, I didn't like taking my shirt off at the pool, didn't like changing in the locker room at school. It got infected, didn't heal properly, so it's always been kind of ugly. But it's a constant reminder of that night, and I've always wished I could cover it. I've tried a couple of times."

"But you can't."

"Nope," Barry says, popping the p and yanking down sharply on his shirt. "And then I went and got struck by lightning. Karma has not been kind to me aesthetically."

Len nods, even though he's dying to disagree.

"So, I showed you mine…" Barry approaches Len slowly, and Len finds himself captured in the depths of those eyes of his. God, those eyes. There's magic in them, Len knows it. He's never felt someone's stare before the way he can feel Barry's. But even though this gaze smolders as hot as the rest, there's a tenderness to it - a request. He's asking Len to trust him. Barry gets within hand shake distance of Len and stops. "Can I see yours?"

Len's fingers curl into the shirt but his hands don't move, snared by indecision.

"Out of curiosity, what did Lisa tell you when she asked you to do that butterfly tattoo?" Len asks, his voice dropping above a whisper. "Did she tell you why she wanted it?"

"She said she wanted it for luck," Barry tells him. "She said that her childhood was kind of a bummer, that her dad was a mean drunk. She said that she used to believe that butterfly was the answer to her prayers, that it could take her and her brother…I guess that's you then…away to a better place. She left it kind of open to interpretation, but I got the gist."

"Yeah," Len says. It's less than he supposed, but it's enough. Barry is a smart man. Lisa might be impulsive, and immature at times, but she chose Barry for a reason. She probably knew that he'd get it. "Yeah, okay. Well, keep that in mind." Len takes hold of the edge of his shirt and lifts it up to his shoulders, facing his back to Barry while he does.

For his years of experience doing cover ups for victims of abuse, Barry has to bite down on his tongue to keep from saying what he's thinking.

Oh my God…

Barry's never seen a body part as defiled as this. It isn't just that the scars on Len's back are excessive, they're personal…and they're brutal. Barry has seen scars similar to these, but not so many, and not all on one person. There are burns, cuts, what have to be belt marks, gorges made from something ragged - a broken bottle perhaps. But the worst of them are the words, carved deep into Len's skin so that they'd never heal – bastard, asshole, and from the knot of his spine down to the small of his back, worthless.

"Who?" Barry asks needlessly. "Why?"

"My dad" - Len coughs – "He was kind of an asshole."

"I can see that," Barry agrees. "I have a feeling you took some of these hits so your sister didn't have to." Len's shoulders slump an inch, and Barry shakes his head, sadness and anger welling up inside him, nearly causing his entire body to vibrate. "Please tell me he got what was coming to him," Barry begs through gritted teeth.

"He did," Len assures him. He hears Barry sigh with relief, but it doesn't loosen the vice around Len's heart. Killing his father didn't change any of it – it didn't erase the nightmares, didn't bring him any closure, didn't turn off the conditioning his dad beat into him like he was a dumb dog. Having this mélange of his father's abuse on his back meant that the filthy old alcoholic son-of-a-bitch won.

If Barry can fix it, Len will owe him more than the money he's going to pay him.

Barry peeks around Len's body, searching his face. "May I…touch you?" he asks. "I just…I need to see how thick some of your skin is."

"Uh…yeah, alright," Len answers. He subconsciously holds his breath, anxiously awaiting that first touch.

Barry runs his fingertips over Len's skin, and Len concentrates on not reacting. But Barry's touch is gentle, so deliberately cautious, that Len shuts his eyes to fully experience it, to memorize it. It's been a long time since anyone has touched his bare skin, especially his back. He doesn't go around in public without a shirt, he hasn't been to a beach in ages, and he takes his lovers from behind. He makes sure that no one sees. But this man is seeing, touching, and he doesn't seem repulsed. He's not pulling his hand away. He's tracing the lines of marks and scars down Len's shoulders, over his spine, to his hips, outlining words that Len prayed everyday would just go the fuck away.

And Jesus fucking Christ, it feels good.

"Some of this scar tissue…" Barry pauses when he presses it, thinking about how many times these bruises were laid one over the other for them to be as dense as this. Some of it doesn't even feel like human skin. "I'm going to have to go over it several times. You might want to consider limiting the amount of color we use. They might not be as vibrant after it heals, certain areas will be duller than others, altering the effect. You may need to come back for touch ups. Normally I would recommend doing this in several sessions, but if you only have tonight…"

Barry waits for Len to agree or contradict, hoping he'll contradict.

Because then Barry might see him again.

"I've only got tonight," Len says.

"Oh" - Barry's head bobs in disappointed acknowledgement - "well, it's a hundred an hour, and this is going to take about twelve hours, maybe a little more…" Barry sighs. He didn't realize how tired he was until he said the words twelve hours. "I get a $500 retainer fee upfront, but that'll be applied toward the overall cost of the tattoo."

"Do you take cash?" Len asks, tossing his shirt onto a nearby chair and reaching for his wallet.

"Do weasels fuck in the dark?" Barry barks with a clumsy laugh at the notion of someone walking around at night carrying $1200 plus in cash in their wallet. He's seen other people do it, so he knows it's not only Len, but it floors him every time. Len looks at him blankly, and Barry raises an eyebrow. "You know, I don't actually know the answer to that question. But yes, I take cash." Len opens his wallet, counts out five individual hundred dollar bills, and hands them over.

"Thank goodness the Starbucks down the block delivers twenty-four/seven," Barry comments, folding the money and shoving it in his pocket, "because we're in for a long night." Barry doesn't mention that he's so tired he feels like he's going to start bleeding out his eyeballs, because he can't deny the fact that he doesn't mind spending twelve hours alone with Len. "Did you have any idea what you might like to get? Like, were you thinking a collage, or one single image? Did you have a theme in mind? A piece of art you like?"

"I…uh…I didn't think I would get this far, to tell you the truth," Len admits. "And, I really hadn't thought about it before right now."

"Usually, I'd advise against that."

"I figured as much," Len says, "but…"

"I know," Barry says. "I understand." Barry puts a finger to his chin and taps pensively. "If you don't mind my saying, your sister made a lot of jokes about you being…cold." Barry winces. When Lisa said it, it sounded like a pet name. When Barry says it, it sounds like an insult. "Is that a thing with the two of you, or…"

Len laughs. "You can kind of say it's an inside joke."

"She also mentioned you hardly being home?"

Len's eyebrows shoot up. How did Barry hear that? He wasn't even on the shop floor when Lisa said it.

"I've spent some time behind bars," Len says defensively. "I won't lie."

Len waits for the judgmental sneer or the wide eyes, shining with fear, but Barry's thoughtful expression doesn't change.

"You know," Barry says, moving on in the conversation as easily as if Len said he sold ice-cream for a living, "I've been toying with something that I'm pretty proud of, but I've never found anyone that fit it. If I make a few tweaks, it might be right up your alley. Give me one second."

"O-kay…" Len's not sure if he should be impressed by Barry's under-reaction or wary of it. Barry might be running off right now to call the police. He did say his family has a history with law enforcement. He probably has them on speed dial. And Len let himself get locked in to this place. Idiot! As far as he can tell, the front door is the only way in and out, but there's an alley out back. There has to be another door…

Before the thought finishes passing through his head, Barry returns with a book-size tablet, swiping through images with his finger until he finds one, then sits and starts working with a stylus. He makes some quick marks, a couple of slashes, and a few other things Len doesn't catch because Barry works so damn fast. His hand literally blurs. It reminds Len of the shimmer he saw when Barry signed his name on the back of his hand and the tattoo ink bled away.

"Here." Barry turns in his chair so Len can see over his shoulder. "What do you think? I'm hoping you won't think it's overused. You seem to have such a protective streak, you know, about your sister, this was the first thing that came to mind. But if this isn't the direction you want to go, I literally have hundreds of other samples. Or I could draw you something fresh, quick and easy."

I bet, Len thinks, considering how fast he changed up this one. When Barry sat down, it was a colorless sketch; now it's a complete work of art.

Len examines the picture on the screen. It looks like a combination of free-hand drawing and Photoshop painting. It's a dragon, but it looks mechanical, industrial, made entirely of steel in a gunmetal shade, and covered in crystal…no, covered in ice, a thin sheen of it, icicles dripping off its body, the tips sharp as daggers; wings, slightly bent, a little damaged, spreading out, breaking through a single heavy chain; its head tilted up in the direction of the sky, looking forward to a taste of freedom.

Len never thought he'd ever want anything on his skin after those scars. Even when he showed up at Barry's place, he was sure he was going to hate every idea Barry had. Getting a tattoo to cover up his marks is a means to an end. A way to keep from having to fight off every thug he meets in prison from now on who'll think he's someone's bitch. A way to avoid his sister's non-stop teasing, which comes from a place of caring because she knows something's there, even though Len refuses to show her.

But this, this masterpiece that Barry came up with…Len wants it so badly.

"It's perfect," Len says.

"You're not just saying that?"

"No," Len says. "No, it's…it's amazing."

"Is there anything you want different?" Barry asks. "Change the color, add a layer, take something away? Maybe the position of the head? The expression?"

But Len shakes his head through Barry's entire question.

"No," he says. "I wouldn't change a thing." Len watches as Barry enlarges the image, noticing in an area he had seen Barry working, words scripted along the line of the dragon's wing. "I saw you write that just now. What does it say?"

"It's Latin," Barry says with a sheepish grin. "It translates to Reign supreme in hell the knight who has been denied his chance to serve in heaven."

Len side-eyes Barry, a sly smirk replacing his previously insecure grin. "Are you coming on to me, Mr. Allen?"

Barry winks. "I might just be."

Barry directs Len toward the bench that he usually puts his customers on for doing back work, but after a thought, he rewinds a bit. Len would be lying on his stomach. He might feel vulnerable in that position.

"You know, since the place is empty, I'm gonna let you pick how you want to sit," Barry says. "Most people who have a full back piece done lie down, but I've got this seat over here…" Barry points to a leather chair in front of a full-length mirror that resembles something a person would sit on at the gym to do bicep curls. "That way you can sit upright and lean over the headrest."

Len looks at his two options, then makes a motion toward the chair.

"I think I prefer this one, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Barry says, grabbing the chair and pulling it over to his station. "Plant your ass and straddle it while I get my stool."

Len grins at the mention of his ass. "Don't you need to print that up on transfer paper or something? Or do you do all your work freehand?"

"Ah, so somebody's been watching Ink Master," Barry kids, sitting down on his stool behind Len. Len can see Barry in the reflection of that full length mirror, and keeps his eyes trained on him. "Most artists do that, especially for intricate pieces. The other artists who work here do." Barry starts going over Len's back lightly with a pink disposable razor, like the one he used on Lisa, but not too much before he pitches it. Barry slips on a pair of disposable gloves, then he grabs his gun and inspects it. He turns a screw, slaps on fresh needles, checks his wires, makes a few other adjustments. It's hypnotic to watch Barry's attention to detail, how he maintains his tools with such care. It's a trait that Len can respect. Barry dips his needles in a cup of greyish ink, and switches on his gun. "But nope," Barry says, picking up the conversation where it left off. "I do all my work freehand."

"Oh," Len says, flinching on reflex when he hears the gun fire up, "so you're just that good, huh?"

"I'm just that good," Barry echoes, giving Len a flirty wink through the mirror. "Once I get something under my fingers, I never forget it."

That comment, and the way Barry says it - his mouth close to Len's skin, breath tumbling down his back - makes Len's entire body throb before the needles even touch him. But Barry sees Len shift in his seat, and mistakes it for him being tense.

"You know, some people find having their back worked on relaxing," Barry tells him. "So, if you knock out or something, I'll understand. And don't worry…" Barry puts a hand on Len's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze, "you'll be safe with me."

Len doesn't feel safe alone with most people, but as the tattoo gun hits his shoulder, the low hum of it beside his ear, the thrum-thrum-thrumming needles beating against a sensation-dead patch of skin, he begins to relax, his mind slipping away. The rhythm of the gun on his back has a cathartic effect, and Barry's presence behind him is soothing. As premature as it seems since he's only known him a day - barely that - Len can see himself adding Barry Allen to that short list of people.