A/N: Warning for anxiety, a panic attack, and more details of Len's father's abuse.
For the first hour, Len sits motionless, breathing meditatively in through his nose and out through his mouth, ignoring with Sisyphusian determination the needles driving in to his skin in an unpredictable, tip-toing-through-land-mines sort of way. It's a Russian Roulette of pain, and this coming from someone who has actually played Russian Roulette. If memory serves, it was less stressful than this. On some areas of skin that Barry tattoos, Len can't feel a thing. There's pressure, impact, but no perception of sensation, though if Len had to guess, he'd say Barry is digging holes in his body. But then Barry moves to the left or the right a fraction of a centimeter, and pain shoots straight through Len's skin, jumping nerves, barreling across synapses, slingshotting around his chakras and into his skull. If he closes his eyes, he can actually track its progress, like a bolt streaking through him, leaving behind an evanescing trail of fire. But he doesn't let on.
He schools his breathing, and forces his muscles to go lax. He employs the methods he had to use when his father beat him to show no visible sign of discomfort, even when the pain comes on so sudden and feels so unrelenting, it almost triggers a panic attack.
Jesus Christ, he hasn't had one of those in years.
But just when he's about to tell Barry to stop, to let up for a second so he can breathe, or turn off the gun altogether because he's done, he can't take it anymore, there's his voice, Barry's voice - talking to him, soothing him, encouraging him, cluing him in on his progress, or even humming a cheerful tune. Barry doesn't launch into a full-scale discussion the way he did with Lisa, but he interjects here and there with tidbits and anecdotes, especially when Len starts to tense up. Len chalks up the lack of conversation to Barry being tired until he glances in the mirror and notices the acute concentration on Barry's face, his eyes not straying from his task, not for a second. He's focused on this tattoo, on Len's back, on covering up those marks and making this dragon flawless, to a far greater extent than he did with Lisa's Golden Glider.
Barry dips his needles in a glass of water, cleaning away the ink, then switches off his gun.
"Now, I'm going to put my hand on the back of your neck," Barry says, "to stretch out the skin up top. It's going to feel like I'm holding you down, but I swear I'm not. If you need me to let go, you just say the words let go, and my hand's gone. Understand?"
"Yeah," Len says. "I understand."
Barry is being overly cautious, Len thinks, but he reminds himself that Barry has done this before, with lots of people, each with a unique experience, exposed to varying degrees of abuse. Barry probably knows that he can't be too cautious.
Barry is an expert. A professional. That's why Len is there; why he agreed to this.
Well, that's one reason.
"Take a deep breath," Barry recommends. "I'll try not to hold on for long."
"Alright," Len says gruffly, between an exhalation and a cough.
Barry puts his hand to Len's neck and presses firmly.
"Gun's going back on," Barry says. This is the first time Barry has warned Len that he's turning on his tattoo gun. Since Barry started working on Len's back, that gun has bounced back and forth between on and off like a frightened rattlesnake shaking its tail. It hasn't really bothered Len. With his hand locked on the back of Len's neck, Barry switches on his gun. It comes alive with a snap, and right away, Len understands why the extra measures, why the precaution.
It starts with that snap, like a toggle activating. It's not a full-fledged flashback. Len has had those; he knows how they feel. But the combination of the hand pressing on his neck, the sound of the buzzing gun, and the needles boring into his skin definitely conjures a memory.
It happened when Len was thirteen. He'd gone on a job with his dad – a big one – and Len flubbed it. It wasn't his fault. The information his dad had gotten from an associate was incorrect. The alarm system they'd thought the building had turned out to be an upgrade, replaced nearly three months prior. This guy that his dad mistakenly trusted turned out to be a lazy do-nothing who didn't bother to double-check his intel, and because of it, Len tripped the panic alarm. They got away clean, but just barely, and without their payload.
It wasn't Len's fault. There was no way he could have known. But he paid the price.
"Good for nothing!" his dad had called him when they walked through the front door, kicking him so hard in the back to get him inside that Len thought the man had broken his spine. "Stupid fucking lowlife!" Lewis Snart spat the words at his son, punctuated them with fist after fist to his face, but they weren't meant for him. They were meant for the man who screwed him over. In reality, Lewis was more pissed at himself for trusting that man than he was at his son. Laying into the boy was a way to blow off steam, to get some resolution, but it was also a reminder to himself of how much of an idiot he had been.
Lewis had knocked Len to the ground so many times, it was inconceivable that he had the fortitude to stand, but he did. He defied the odds and rose to his feet, eager to get out of the path of his father's rage, and to make sure that Lisa wouldn't be next. But Lewis Snart had other plans – a way to make certain neither one of them ever forgot the importance of vigilance.
"If you can't do your part," Lewis growled, grabbing his son by the scruff of the neck and forcing him to the floor, "if you can't do the job…" With his free hand, he pulled his switchblade from his pocket. It flicked open with a snap. The razor-sharp tip brushed Len's skin as Lewis sliced the turtleneck off his son's torso with several ragged swipes. "Then you're worthless to me."
Len assumed his father was going to hide him. A hiding - that Len was used to. He'd had more than his share. He knew what to expect - his father's rhythm, the heft of his arm, the limits of his stamina. Len held his breath, waiting for the first strike so he could count them off in his head. He kept a running tally of the amount of hits he'd receive, taking into account his dad's anger, his level of exhaustion, his sobriety. For Len, it had become a science. Being able to rationally cope with the beatings was the only way Len had of surviving in the Snart household, to find the strength to wake up every morning, knowing what the day ahead might hold for him.
He couldn't give up. He had to keep going…for Lisa.
The end of his father's switchblade cutting into Len's skin between his shoulder blades was the only warning he had that the game he'd been diligently learning was about to change.
It took close to ten minutes for Lewis to get the whole word engraved along Len's spine. At one point, he had to plant a knee on his son's ass and put a good portion of his weight on him to keep him in one place. Not a single threat out of Lewis's mouth was powerful enough to keep Len still. A couple smacks to the back of the head with an empty beer bottle helped stun him, but the effect wore off when the knife pierced his skin again. At the very least, Len's struggling tired his old man out. When Lewis was finished, he left his son bleeding on the living room floor, and tromped off to bed with a six-pack of Coors.
He fell asleep after his third beer, and left Lisa alone.
"Okay, okay" - Barry takes his hand and the gun away, switching it off and setting it aside - "It's alright, Len. It's alright. That part's done. You can go ahead and relax. I'm not gonna touch you again until you say it's okay."
Len can't understand why Barry sounds agitated. But then Len's mind returns from the past, and the feeling comes back to his body. He's cold all over – his palms, his arms, his chest, his legs covered in a thin layer of sweat. And somewhere along the way, Len had started shuddering. Eyelids batting quickly, evacuating the residue of that day-mare from his brain, Len looks into the mirror and sees a face behind him – not the cruel, twisted face of his embittered father, but Barry's face, caring, considerate; his expressive eyes broadcasting his emotions; and his hands, raised where Len can see them.
Holding them up so Len can feel safe.
Barry locks eyes on Len's through the reflection. "Let me know when you want me to continue. I won't touch you before then."
It would be so easy for Len to get offended at Barry treating him this way, with kid gloves, like he's weak. Len doesn't accept pity from anyone, not the members of his team, not even Lisa. But he can see in Barry's eyes, Barry doesn't pity him. After suffering the heinous abuse of his father, after spending years trying to forget something that won't be forgotten, it's nice to have one person finally see him this way, and not think he's pathetic.
Len nods. "I'm fine," he says.
"Are you sure?" Barry asks. Len notices Barry's hand jerk, like he wants so much to touch him again, to give him comfort.
Len wants that, too.
"I'm alright," he says. "I promise. Please, keep going."
"Alright," Barry says, reaching for his gun. He dips the needles in a glass of water and turns the gun on, clearing the grey ink, rinsing away the bad karma from before and coming back with something new, something good. He dunks the needles in a cup of a darker color. "I'm gonna start near the same spot, but I'm not going to hold you down, alright? But if you need me to stop, just tell me to stop."
"Shouldn't we have a safeword?" Len asks, winking at Barry to lighten the mood.
Barry's easy, mildly flirtatious smile settling back on his lips is all Len needs, for the time being, to bring him to his comfort zone – this bubble that Barry has created for him.
"Sure," Barry says, returning to the same spot, the effect of the needles pressing into Len's skin altered this time. "How about icicle?"
Len smirks. "How about smart-ass?"
"How about great ass?" Barry suggests.
This time, Len snorts, and Barry turns his head to laugh.
"How about butterfly?" Barry offers in exchange.
"Hmm" - Len smiles – "butterfly. I think that might be perfect."
"Butterfly it is," Barry says, and goes to work.
If Len had been lying on his stomach, the way Barry had originally intended, this attack, which is what it was, could have been a lot worse. Len doesn't like people seeing him that way. Falling prey to a physically stronger foe, Len can handle. There are very few fights he can't think his way out of. Becoming a victim to the monster inside his own mind he's still trying to deal with. It rarely announces itself, and it doesn't come at him the same way twice. Len usually has to lock himself up, or pound his fist into something to make it go away.
Len appreciates Barry's segue into light flirting and mindless banter. It's unexpectedly effective at taking Len's mind off it. But the thing that gets Len over the bump is the fact that Barry knows - he gets it completely. He doesn't ask Len for an explanation, though it's obvious that the invitation's open. Barry starts talking about some indie band from Jersey he saw playing at the convention center last month that he thinks Lisa might groove on, and soon, the fragile threads of trauma clasping to Len's psyche fray and fizzle.
As the hours tick on, flashbacks like that first one hit and dissipate, hit and dissipate, like storm winds beating against a sturdy oak tree, one whose roots run deep. One that refuses to bend. Len's anxiety becomes less and less, until the memories that rise up to submerge him calm to a lull. With Barry there, giving him constant reassurance, and an anchor to hold on to, Len bobs above the tide, and that minefield he's been tip-toing around becomes little more than an empty battleground, dry and barren, with a few catastrophic memories wedged in here and there, but nothing that can really destroy him.
"So," Barry says as he continues down Len's back, "I know it's been kind of quiet. Anything you wanna talk about? Or are you fine contemplating life?"
Barry is giving Len an opening to talk about his problems, in case he needs prompting, but Len doesn't take it. Selfishly, there's something about Barry that he wants to know.
"I…do have a question," Len says, shifting in his seat. Aside from one bathroom break (after Barry ordered them coffee and donuts), he hasn't moved in about seven hours, and an avalanche of pins and needles floods his legs and butt because of it. "But it's kind of personal. I don't feel right asking."
"Go ahead," Barry says, wiping over a spot on Len's spine, not letting on that he's working meticulously at obliterating the word worthless from his back. But it's not the heartbreak of the word itself that Barry is attempting to disregard, or the gruesome thoughts of how that word got there, but Barry's growing impulse to press his lips to the remaining letters, the idea that he missed out on an opportunity to kiss the hate away before he got the honor of covering it up. "I'm pretty much an open book. Besides, it seems only fair."
"You don't have to answer," Len preempts, "if it's too personal, or you just don't want to. I mean, you don't know me from Adam, so I'll understand."
"Gotcha," Barry says. "Go ahead. Shoot."
"That scar…over your heart…how did you get it?" Len peeks over his shoulder. "How did your mother die?"
Click. The needles on the tattoo gun go silent. Barry wipes Len's spine, down the dragon's sternum, with an ink saturated paper towel.
"Asking how my mother died is kind of a second date revelation, wouldn't you say?"
"I suppose it is," Len says, baffled at himself for even asking. Why did he want to know? Why was it so important to him?
"If you really want to know…"
"I'm not a small talk kind of man, Barry," Len puts in, the words harsh but sincere. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't wanna know."
Barry dunks his needles and fires up his tattoo gun again.
"Alright," he says, starting on a section that needs shading. "My mom, uh…was murdered…when I was a kid."
"Oh, wow," Len says. "That's awful, man. I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Barry says. "She was stabbed, but I think that the person who killed her might have tried to come after me first. That's how I got the scar. I think he stabbed me but…" Barry shakes his head. Len sees the movement in the mirror, through the reflection of Barry he's barely taken his eyes off of since his tattoo began. "I don't know. I never saw my mom's killer."
"How's that possible?"
"I…" Barry shuts off his gun and leans back in his stool. "I don't know."
"I'm sorry," Len says. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"It's not that." Barry leans forward, regarding Len's tattoo closely to keep from meeting the man's eyes. "I mean, yeah, it is. Who likes to talk about their mom getting killed? It's just…I've told a lot of people about that night, and no one believes me. They say that I was young, traumatized, that I didn't really see what I saw, but…if I close my eyes, I can see it like it was yesterday. I can hear the glass shattering, I can hear my mother scream. I can feel the wind on my face, the heat from the…from the…"
"Hey" - Len reaches back to put a hand on Barry's knee - "you're right. We can wait for our second date."
Barry grins to convey his thanks, but it looks more like relief.
"Or your second tattoo," Barry says, touching up the dragon that's gone from drawing to life on Len's back. "Most people can't stop with one."
Len doesn't know about that. He was done with sitting in the chair, needles shing-shing-shinging into his skin, hours ago. His back, which hasn't felt so much as a pinch in a long while, is a mess of raw nerves, itching, burning, the constant monotonous digging of the tines into him, whether they stung or not, driving him to the point where peeling off his fingernails one by one might actually be preferable.
But for this intimate time spent with Barry, talking to him, feeling his gentle touch on his skin – particularly for his touch – Len would endure it again. He checks the time on the clock on the wall. He notes the minutes creeping towards sunrise, and does the math in his head, counting down his twelve hours. He wishes it would stop, rewind, that Barry would say, "You know, this area didn't take. I'm going to have to do it again. Sorry, but you'll be here another hour."
Or, Len could man up and ask Barry out to breakfast.
He can't. He knows he can't. He can't get involved with Barry Allen. His life won't permit it. Half of him is pissed for things turning out that way, painting him into the kind of corner where he can't have something like this, something that's good for him. Another part of him is pissed at Lisa for dragging him here to get her God dammed tattoo, for putting him into a position to question everything he's doing and everything he's about, not when he finally came to terms with spending the rest of his life as the villain in his own story, and not the hero.
He hears Barry sigh behind him, an undeniable heaviness seeping into Len's body through that one breath.
"Len," Barry says, working on an outline that is both numb and agonizing at alternate intervals, "I'm about to make some assumptions here. I'm hoping you'll be honest and tell me if I'm wrong."
"Of course," Len says. "What's up?"
"You seem like an intelligent man. The kind of man who doesn't jump to conclusions. The kind of man that, when you feel comfortable around someone, you're willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Am I right?"
Len catches Barry's eyes in the mirror. "I'd like to believe I'm those things," he says. "I try to be."
"And…" Barry rakes his top teeth over his lower lip, "are you comfortable around me?"
Len looks at Barry over his shoulder, not through the reflection of the mirror, so he can see Barry's face.
"I am," he answers.
Barry gazes into Len's eyes – his clear, open, honest eyes – and nods.
"Alright then." It takes Barry finishing up the outline before he begins, and Len waits, turning away to give Barry space. "When I was younger, I…" Barry stops, switches off his gun, blows out a breath. He turns to his tray of inks, picks up more color, then goes back to Len's tattoo. "My mom had finished tucking me in and kissing me goodnight," Barry says, feeling adolescent for starting there. "It had been a horrible day. I wasn't exactly a popular kid. I was being bullied at school, and, well, let's just say it was beyond awful." Barry shuts off his gun, picks up some color, goes back to work. "But my mom, she always had this way of saying the right thing, you know? I mean, she had the whole mom thing down pat."
"Yeah," Len says with a wistful smile, memories of his own mom scrolling through his head. "I know what you mean." God, Len misses her. That's something he and Barry have in common, but that Len has yet to mention. Because of all the memories in his brain, fighting every day to chip away at his sanity, his memories of his mom are the ones that he battles hardest against surfacing; the ones that, under no circumstances, does he allow himself to dwell on. If he lets himself indulge in even one memory of his mother, it wouldn't simply tear him to pieces. Pieces can be put back together. It would raze him, demolish him, turn him into ash. Len holds his arms tight, waiting for another panic attack, but, surprisingly, it doesn't come, and that is due, Len knows, in no small part, to Barry. "Some people were born to be parents, and others…they weren't even meant to breed."
"I'm sorry," Barry says, wiping down Len's back but slower. "I shouldn't be…"
"What happened next?" Len asks. He doesn't need an apology; he needs a diversion.
"She went downstairs with my dad," Barry says, the tattoo gun returning to Len's left flank. "They were hanging out in the living room, having a glass of wine and catching up, the way they did every evening. I don't know how long before it happened."
"It?"
Len watches through the mirror as Barry goes over a line, and then goes over it again, then starts filling it in with the same color, completing these tasks methodically.
"I heard a crash," Barry says in a tight voice. "The windows in the living room shattering, like someone threw a boulder through them." Barry shuts off his gun, returns to his inks. He checks the levels in the cups, tops a couple off, and Len wonders if he really needs more, of if he needs a moment. He cleans his needles, dabs them in a cup. "I came downstairs" – Barry's gun switches on - "and I saw these two…streams of electricity, like lightning, swirling around the living room, twisting together and pulling apart, forming a vortex, with my mother stuck in the middle. She was…she was calling my name, telling me to go. My father grabbed me…he told me to run. I saw him fly back, I felt something sharp stick me in the chest and then, boom."
"Boom?" Len can only imagine what happened – the house exploding, his mother blown to pieces, his father...Barry hadn't mentioned what happened to his father.
"All of a sudden, I was standing in the middle of the street, six blocks away," Barry says. "I have no idea how I got there, but there I was. It took a split second. By the time I made it back to my house, my mother was…" Barry's story loses momentum, and Len hears him gulp over the whirring of the gun. "She was gone. She'd been stabbed. And the police arrested my dad for her murder. I tried to tell them what happened, what I saw, but no one believed me. Not my best friend, or her father - the man who took me in. They've known me all my life, but they can't find it in themselves to believe me."
Len hears the frustration in his voice. It's the same frustration Len has felt so many times, trying to find a balance between living with his dad, protecting his sister, making sure she had something close to a normal life, while also being a fucking criminal…hoping to find a way out of that life. Until he began to realize that he enjoyed the rush too much to give it up. The adrenaline involved in pulling a heist, taking what he wants and getting away clean – he needed it, and not just to put food on the table.
He needed it to feel alive.
He was stuck, sentenced to the thing he had once promised never to become, not even in the tiniest measure.
A thief. A killer.
His father.
"So, I decided that I was going to figure it out for myself," Barry continues. "I studied forensics. I was good at it, good at solving problems, making clues fit, seeing things in a way other people didn't right away. I'd even volunteered on a couple of cases with the CCPD. I was primed and ready to join the force."
"Why didn't you?" Len asks, so drawn in by Barry's story, he's not even aware that another whole hour has flown by, and Barry's tattoo gun, which had started underneath his ribcage, is drawing lines around his hips.
"I got hit by lightning. It knocked me unconscious, and I ended up in a coma. Between being in the coma and then readjusting afterwards, I lost a year of my life. The doctors who took care of me told me that that whole time they believed I was on the brink of death. I was seizing, having heart attacks daily, and they didn't think I would make it. After I heard that, I realized that I couldn't spend my whole life wrapped up in the mystery of what happened to my mom. I had to do something else, something that brought hope to the world, not focus on my own personal vendetta. I mean, no one believed me years ago, they probably won't believe me tomorrow."
"But…what about your dad?"
"I'll find a way to get my dad out of Iron Heights one day," Barry says, "but being on the force…I don't think that's the way. Plus, when I woke up, I discovered something about myself. I had something I didn't have before, something I didn't want to go to waste."
Len raises a brow at Barry in the mirror. "What was that?"
"This" – Barry motions around the studio to the pictures on the walls, photos of the tattoos Barry had done, but also others that Len had noticed earlier on - black and white sketches, pastel drawings, miniature watercolor paintings. Len thought they might be lithographs or prints of famous works, but they shared a similar style. They felt connected. Len had suspected they were Barry Allen originals, but now he knew. "I could draw, which I never could before. And not only could I draw, I couldn't seem to stop drawing. It's not only a talent, it's a compulsion. Sometimes, it wakes me up at night, and I need to grab my sketchbook and…you know…have at it. Got to the point I keep one under my pillow."
"Have you done anything larger than these?" Len asks, sweeping his eyes around at the pictures, all of which are about the same size.
"I do have several canvases, but for the moment, they're only hanging in my loft. They're…a little too personal to show to anyone yet." Barry catches Len's eye and shrugs. "But who knows? Maybe it's about time I showed them off, hmm?"
Len detects the hint, and as much as he wants to, as much as he'd love to say, "Let's hit your loft after this and you can give me a private showing," he has to let it slide.
"You're right," Len says, conceding to the previous point. "That sounds…unreal."
"Yup," Barry agrees with unconcealed chagrin. "That's what I've been told my entire life since that night. It's alright if you don't believe me." Barry laughs wryly. "I don't think I'd believe me if I hadn't been there."
"I didn't say that I didn't believe you," Len corrects him. "Yeah, it's hard to believe, but I have no reason not to believe you."
Barry's smile becomes thin, doesn't touch his eyes. "Thanks, but, you don't have to say that."
"Barry, I don't pull people's legs. You seem like an honest guy. Now, I wasn't there, but if you say you saw those things, I'm gonna believe you saw those things, even if I can't explain it."
Barry switches off his gun. He tosses out his old paper towel and grabs a fresh one. He takes his time wiping down a spot, examining it carefully, while a subtle blush colors his cheeks.
"Thank you," Barry says. "Thank you for saying that."
"You're welcome."
While the tattoo gun hums, Len visualizes the events of that night as Barry recounted it – two streaks of lightning fighting neck and neck (so to speak) over a little boy and his mother…but why? He thinks about asking Barry if he has any theories, but decides not to, figuring he's pried plenty for one evening. He rests his chin on his arms and lets Barry get back to his work.
Morning sunlight begins to seep underneath the gate covering the window of the shop, stretching across the floor toward them, when Barry removes his gun from Len's skin for the last time.
"There," he says, giving Len's back a final wipe. "You're done."
"Already?" Len watches with dismay as Barry puts his gun down. Twelve hours sounded like forever when Barry first said it, but now, Len glances up at the clock, wondering where did the time go?
Barry rubs his arm across his forehead, wiping his brow. His eyes, so full of spirit and energy, are red-rimmed from concentrating for such a long stretch without sleep; his eyelids so heavy, he looks like he might decide to crash on the floor, or on one of the couches in the waiting area. He stands from his stool and slowly bends backward, his spine snapping a few times, kinks that spent hours working their way into his muscles as he sat hunched over popping when he stands to his full height.
Len wants to spring out of his chair and get a look at the finished artwork covering his back, to find out if that imposing dragon accomplished what Len hopes it did, but he steals a moment to watch Barry unfurl, reaching out his arms like a flower toward the sun. His shirt pulls up over his abs, exposing not only his smooth skin, but those hidden, bifurcating scars, and Len can't help but think how tragically beautiful they are, knowing what they represent.
After another back crack and a long, drawn out yawn, Barry sees Len staring, his eyes fixed on the mirror, as if he's confused about what he should do next.
"Hey, big guy," Barry says. "You stuck? Do you need a hand up?"
"Uh…no." Len unfolds his arms, swinging his numb legs back and forth, preparing to stand. "I've got it."
"Good" - Barry walks across the shop to retrieve another full-length mirror - "because I really want you to get a look at your back. I think that dragon's probably one of the best tattoos I've done in a while."
"Well, then" - Len pushes himself to his feet, walking to the mirror in front of him while Barry moves the second mirror behind - "I absolutely have to see this…"
Barry sets the mirror down, angling it so Len can get the best view, but he's already caught sight of it and gone quiet. Len's eyes graze over the dragon taking up the majority of his back, the image bleeding around his sides in some parts. Len walks toward the mirror slowly, twisting to get a better look, and Barry repositions the second mirror, sliding it closer. Len can't see any marks, not a single scar. No burns, no belt lashes, and those words - those disgusting words – have been replaced by this powerful creature, bursting out of its chains, spreading its wings, ready to soar into the sky.
Like Lisa's butterfly, taking flight, carrying her away from the pain of her past, and towards a better and brighter future.
Could Len have that kind of future?
Len's eyes find Barry's, peering at him through the mirror.
Could this dragon be the first step towards getting there?
"It's…it's remarkable," Len says, throat dry. He traces the reflection of his tattoo on the surface of the glass. "My sister was right. You really do incredible work."
"Well, you're a pretty incredible canvas," Barry says, staring down at his Converse sneakers and grinning ear to ear.
Len turns away from the mirror. It's harder than he would have ever imagined, not looking at himself. Of course, it's not himself he's looking at, but this fantastic work of art.
Something he has because of Barry Allen. Something that will change his life.
"Thank you for this," Len says, shoving a hand in his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He counts out a grip of hundreds and hands them over. "For staying open late and for…" Len's lips pull taut, caging his emotions over what Barry has done for him. Len isn't used to expressing them verbally, and he doesn't feel like making a fool out of himself, so he relays his gratitude the only way he knows how. "There's…uh…an extra couple hundred in there for your trouble."
"That's very generous," Barry says, folding the bills in half and putting them in his pocket, having the grace not to count them.
"Yeah, well" – Len peeks back over his shoulder – "it's nowhere near enough."
Barry pulls out his phone and takes a picture. Then another. And another. The first two are of Len's tattoo, but the three or four that follow are of him, his face, looking back at Barry through the mirror, so that this time, when Barry looks at them, he doesn't have to pretend.
"In that case, you could always stop by every once in a while when you're back in town," Barry suggests. "Shirtless, so I can visit with it. And, you did mention a second date, so, technically, we'd have to go out on a first one."
Len's gaze shifts to his feet, his lips tugging up in a smile. "I'd like that."
Barry takes another quick picture of Len like this, bashful smile climbing up his cheeks, head slightly bowed, looking humble but proud…and breathtakingly handsome.
Len hears Barry's camera click and his eyes flick up. He points at Barry's phone, a mask of worry coming up like a protective barricade.
"Are you gonna put those up on your wall here?"
"Not a chance," Barry says, putting his phone back in his pocket. "Not on the walls, not on the website. I don't want anyone else thinking they can have this tattoo. It's one of a kind. Always will be."
Len smiles, having a hunch Barry is referring to more than the tattoo. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
A sudden flare of light grabs Barry's attention, and he looks toward the window. Paper thin God rays are lighting his shop, bleeding through the cracks between the metal gate and the window, unwilling to be kept out any longer. It's a new day. Their twelve hours together are up. Len's tattoo is done. They're going to have to say goodbye, and Barry has no idea if he's ever going to see him again. He sighs. He had recently gotten to the point where he was fine being alone. The woman he'd loved for most of his life had found happiness with another guy – a good guy, so Barry couldn't really hate him (even though he tried). A couple of other partners, two bordering on the somewhat serious, didn't pan out, but he didn't let that break him. But here he was falling fast for someone else he couldn't have. What the frick, universe? Why now? Had he spent a past life kicking puppies and swindling orphans? What did he do to deserve this?
"Since I don't have your email address," Barry says, clinging to the professional in him since that's all he has to lean on, "you can go to my website for the whole aftercare spiel. But in general, keep it covered for the next three to four hours, wear loose cotton clothes, keep it clean, and give it plenty of time to heal." Barry grabs a tube of ointment from his work station. "I recommend using a thin layer of Aquaphor to help your tattoo heal faster." He squeezes a dollop on to his fingertips and spreads it over Len's back. Len breathes in through his nose and holds it, tamping down the stirrings in his stomach that Barry's touch evokes, the drifting of his body toward it when what he really needs to do is ignore it. "The website…also has my email address and my cell phone number on it," Barry adds nonchalantly. "You can contact me anytime if you need a touch up, or you want to do another one…or, for any reason really."
"That's good to know," Len says. He doesn't watch Barry through the mirror as Barry bandages his back. He's clearing his head, thinking through the next steps he needs to take in order to leave, tossing aside every temptation he has regarding this man to put himself back on his original track.
Whether that track is the right one or not remains to be seen.
Barry takes off his gloves and pitches them, then runs his bare fingertips over the tape, his hands lingering on Len's shoulders before returning to his sides.
"I think you're all set," he says.
Len feels Barry place his discarded shirt in his hands. Without a word, Len slips it on. He takes his time straightening the hem, watching Barry unlock the front door.
"Thank you again, for everything you've done," he says when Barry returns to his work station, where Len feels planted. "I don't really know how to say it, but what you did means a lot to me."
Barry smiles. "I think you just did."
There's a tension between them, but it's not uncomfortable or unpleasant. It's filled with questions and compliments and things left unsaid. The twelve hours they've spent together doesn't seem like enough. It's too open-ended, and Len feels it's his responsibility to put a period at the end of this sentence. He gives Barry a wave, then turns towards the door. Barry watches him, getting an awful, pitted feeling in his chest that, regardless of what he feels passing between them, he might not see Len again.
"Hey" – Barry follows Len to the door – "d-don't I get a hug?" Barry's expression is comically awkward when Len meets his eyes. "I mean, your sister gave me one this afternoon."
"You mean yesterday afternoon, don't you?" Len jokes, stopping a half-foot shy of the door.
"Oh, yeah. I guess it was, huh?" Barry rubs the base of his neck with his work-sore hand, doing a below average job with stiff fingers. "Well, was that just a Wednesday thing in the Snart household, or…"
"No, that's my sister's thing," Len says.
"Oh."
"But…" Len chews his idea over along with his inside right cheek. "If you'd let me…"
"Yes?"
Len puts a hand to Barry's cheek. He doesn't want to ask him out loud. It's definitely the P.C. thing to do, but it also seems so…gauche. There's also the fact that Len isn't use to asking for this, not when he really, really wants it…which he hasn't. Not for a while. But with his eyes flickering to Barry's lips, then back to his eyes, holding a gaze that's becoming darker by the second, he's more than certain that he's made his intentions clear. And even if he hasn't, he moves slowly, purposefully, putting his free arm around Barry's waist, giving him every opportunity to tell him to stop. He draws Barry close to him, and feels Barry's heart hammering against his own chest.
It's the most erotic thing in the world.
Barry ends up closing the distance between them, sliding their lips together, grabbing the waistband of Len's jeans and holding on for dear life. Len's arm tightens around Barry's waist, and he backs up to the window, dragging Barry with him, needing more of him – his body pressed against him, a leg wedged between his, giving Barry room to lean in. Barry's tongue inside Len's mouth sizzles with a tantalizing heat, making his body crackle, every swipe of Barry's tongue sending sparks down Len's throat. Len tries to flip positions, pulling away an inch, but Barry mutters, "Nu-uh," and deepens the kiss, anchoring his thumbs in the belt loops of Len's jeans, which Len is fine with.
As this kiss with Barry stretches on longer, Len finds he's negotiating with himself, seeing what he can do, what he can change to make this possible, and not just for this morning. He's seriously re-thinking a few of his life choices, and he's not at a place in his life where it's safe to do that. Knowing that, he keeps kissing Barry anyway, because there's no way he can leave his studio with just his tattoo to remember Barry by.
This isn't a simple first kiss. It's heated and desperate, but that doesn't make it worthless. As far as Len is concerned, that word doesn't exist in his vocabulary anymore, buried forever under the numerous touches and the stupendous talent of Barry Allen, who met Leonard Snart and didn't see a criminal; who witnessed his scars and didn't automatically see a broken little boy. He saw a man –a man that he's kissing as if every breath in his lungs that exists and will ever exist depends on Len being there to take them away from him.
As much as Len wants to be that man for Barry, he can't. Not now. Probably not ever.
And because of that, Len stands up from the window, slows down this kiss, and pushes Barry away.
"I hope…" Len glances down at Barry's mouth, a traitorous part of his brain contemplating shutting the hell up and kissing him again. He swallows that impulse. If he does what he's thinking of doing, what will inevitably follow a second kiss, Len won't leave. "I hope that was better than a hug."
"Yeah," Barry says, glimpsing the conflict in Len's eyes, frowning like he can read his thoughts. Considering everything else Barry Allen can do, Len wouldn't be surprised. "It was better. Much better."
Barry's arms latched to Len's hips are difficult to pull himself out of, but Len has to. He's never been a man who has lacked strength when he needed it, but he has to hit up all of his reserves to take a single step away.
"I'll see ya," Len says, knowing it's not a promise he can guarantee he'll keep, but he sure as hell's going to try.
"Yeah," Barry says. "See ya."
Len slips out of Barry's grasp and leaves, out the door with the clanging bells and into the dawning day, where spreading sunlight does its best to sweep the remains of the night from the ground. But traces of it cling, one sidewalk bathed almost entirely in shadow while the street and other sidewalk are both lit with a golden glow.
Len crosses the street, choosing to walk on the dark side.
Barry watches through the glass door as Len shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls away. He looks back once when he reaches the end of the block, then turns left at the corner. Barry follows Len with his eyes as he disappears down the adjacent street…then waits a moment longer.
But he's gone, and experience tells Barry that he's not coming back.
Barry locks the front door and wanders to his station, looking at the clock as he passes by. It reads fifteen after eight. Barry groans. It'd be fruitless to go home. There's no chance he's getting any sleep before the Queens come. He might as well stay and start cleaning for their visit. Barry tosses out the cups of used ink, looking at the colors one at a time, remembering their placement on Len's skin, how they fit into his dragon, picturing where every hue belongs. When the last cup is gone, he picks up his gun. He unplugs it, tosses out the needles, and wipes it down. He's about to stow it in its drawer, but he stops. He plugs it back in. He sits in his stool and puts on a new set of needles. He sets out a few clean paper cups. He pours out some colors – two shades of white, three of blue, a silver, one of black. He dips his needles in a cup of blue ink, and begins to draw on the back of his hand. It smarts like hell, this location notoriously sensitive, but he's done it so many times it hardly bothers him anymore. White joins the blue, and the two blend together, creating a muted shade. Quickly he adds silver, racing against time and his own body, trying to get this done, so he can see it once in its entirety before it fades. His hand wielding the gun vibrates, moving faster than a blur, using a unique ability he has yet to tell anyone about, one he doesn't understand himself. He goes over lines and fills in colors until he has the most realistic and dazzling snowflake of his career tattooed on the back of his hand. Barry raises his hand to look at it. It's positively fabulous, even in his own opinion. It's detailed, ornate, and sparkles in the light. He wishes he could have incorporated this somewhere in Len's tattoo, or placed it separate on Len's body – on his calf or on his bicep. Maybe on the back of his hand. It would have definitely been something to see. But like a real snowflake, Barry's tattoo doesn't last long. He sighs as he watches the delicate crystal of ice dissolve, melting into his skin, becoming only a memory.