Len sat on the sofa, staring at the blank TV screen. After reprogramming the cold gun, he'd thanked Cisco for his assistance but retreated from the labs back to the lounge. The risk hadn't been worth it. Working with the gun had only made things worse, or maybe he'd simply never stood a chance at keeping his memories from returning. The buzzing was deafening now, and being in the quiet room alone was the only thing that even barely contained it.

He was just tired, had a headache, he told Caitlin when she came in later to check on him, hovering just out of range for him to reach her if he made a move, he noticed, remaining safely behind the sofa. He let her check his stitches when she offered, which she also did from a certain distance, never quite touching him. He was healing fine, she said. He was healing…remembering...

He couldn't look at her, kept turned toward the TV, facing forward. No, he didn't want to talk about it. He was fine, "I'm fine. Please don't call Barry." Len didn't want to interrupt the kid's evening over nothing—nothing they could do anything about.

Len really was tired, and really did have a headache. He gratefully accepted the extra ibuprofen Caitlin brought him, the simply made dinner Cisco offered, the brief checks that he was okay, but he just wanted to be left alone. It was better if they stayed away.

The few times he glanced at either of them when they came in, he imagined their faces in anguish and fear, knowing it was echoes of actual times he'd seen them that way. But what stung was how a part of him felt a thrill in remembering, not only guilt.

That same part of him yearned to pick up the cold gun again in a way he'd tried to dismiss before—but the chill up his arm while holding it, the intricacies of the parts, the hidden power, holding so much in so simple an outward design, it was an intoxicating feeling, he remembered. He remembered…

He felt his hands shaking and tightened them into fists. The quiet wasn't enough. He needed something, anything to keep the memories at bay, that roar of the approaching storm.

"Hey, guys, I miss anything?"

Barry's voice—faint, but still clear within the otherwise quiet space—drifted to Len plainly. No wonder Barry had been able to overhear him and Lisa.

Cisco and Caitlin did a better job of keeping their voices low, but Len still heard them.

"It's, uhh…fine, Barry," said Caitlin.

"Len's just been quieter today," said Cisco.

Barry didn't buy their words for a moment. "What's wrong?"

They reluctantly explained about the gun, how Len had asked to reprogram it, how he'd seemed fine, insisted he was fine, even after they were done and he escaped to the lounge. But something was wrong, they knew something was wrong, and they didn't know what to do about it.

"It's creepy," whispered Cisco.

Caitlin shushed him, but her voice was just as reticent. "Oh, Barry, I don't know. I'm worried. You should be careful tonight. He just…doesn't seem the same."

Len's fisted hands were still trembling. He wished an attack would come. The panic had been something he could face, at least, something that assured him he was putting up a fight, even if he was losing. Now he shook and his head pounded, but his pulse remained steady, like it knew…

He didn't hear much more of the others' conversation. Eventually, he knew Cisco and Caitlin were leaving, slipping away without even wishing him a goodnight. That's how scared they were, how eager they were to leave his company now that they'd been reminded of the man he once was. They felt the storm coming too.

Len titled into the sofa and laid down, knowing Barry would be coming in soon to check on him. He didn't know what to say to the kid. Barry would want to talk, he'd push and he'd soothe, and it would only make things worse. The last of Len's barriers were just waiting for a catalyst, and he had no idea what that might be.

All the more reason he should stay upright, face Barry, make sure they were prepared for the worst…but Len couldn't do it. He felt drained and sick with worry. He wanted something to retreat into, and all he had was this couch, and the darkness behind his eyes that, for now, weren't conjuring any visions of his past.

"Len?" Barry asked quietly as he entered the room.

Len did all he could to steady his breathing, his shaking, thinking of it like meditation, not just an excuse to not face Barry.

He heard Barry sigh with such rich emotion in his voice, it almost prompted him to sit up. Slowly, Barry came around the sofa and sat on the edge of the glass coffee table near Len's head. It was harder to pretend he was asleep sensing how close Barry was and knowing he was watching him.

"I just got everyone excited to meet you," Barry whispered, rife with disappointment, "you can't lose hope now. You're too hard on yourself. I know this isn't easy, but…it's going to be okay, Len. I believe in you. Even Joe's starting to believe we can turn this around, that you can be someone different. Not even different, that's not it…"

He sighed again, and Len imagined him scrubbing his hands down his face after a flutter of movement. This kid, sitting here, thinking he was talking only to himself, was too sweet, too precious for his own good.

"This is the real you, Len," he said softly, warm and honest. "I know it. You just have to want it, to fight for it. We're only just getting to know each other, and I...I can't believe how easy it is to like you, to…want you. And not only because I finally know what you're hiding under that parka," he snickered, then returned with somber, quieter words. "I have to make a good call one of these days, right? I know I'm not wrong about this, about you, I know I'm not. I really think this could be something..."

Something what? And what was 'this', Len wondered. But Barry didn't say anything else. He leaned forward, signaled by a creak of the coffee table, and Len felt his breath stutter as Barry's lips pressed gently to his temple, along his hairline. He knew he could open his eyes right then, play the whole thing off, talk to Barry, but he was too afraid. He kept his breaths even, and fought not to move in any telling ways until he heard Barry get up.

A few minutes passed where Barry left the room, Len figured to the bathroom and checking around the labs. Eventually he came back to sit beside Len's feet on the end of the sofa.

As Len's feigned sleep started to turn into the real thing, the last thing he remembered was Barry's hand on his ankle.

It was so cold. Why was it cold? Len shivered, holding Lisa against him. Lisa…

He opened his eyes. They were in a closet in the cellar downstairs. The heat didn't reach down here, and it was cold outside, below freezing, but they had to stay hidden. Their father was on a rampage and Len would not risk him getting a hold of Lisa. He pulled her closer into his chest.

She was so small, thin but with a head like a lollipop, he often teased her, her blue eyes huge and her long brown hair a mess around her shoulders. She didn't brush it well enough, not like her mother used to. Len wasn't any good at it when he tried to help; she always complained when he pulled at the tangles.

He tried so hard to be good at other things. Protecting her, he could always do that. But it was getting so hard to stay. He couldn't stay in this house anymore, but he knew their father would never let him take her.

"I'm cold, Lenny…" she whimpered, then flinched when the sound of their father stomping through the house echoed down to them.

"I got you…"

He'd get free of this place and come back for her, he would, and he'd never be afraid of the cold again.

"You have to be tough, Lisa. You can't be afraid. If he's hard..."

"Then I gotta be hard right back," she said.

"That's right, because if you're not afraid of him, he can't have any power over you."

They heard him at the top of the stairs. Twenty-six seconds. A handful more if he was drunk. That's how long it would be before he found them. Len always knew, he'd learned and he'd counted, so he was ready for whatever happened next.

"Ten seconds," he whispered to Lisa. "Five..."

The door was torn open and Len bolted to his feet. Lisa was gone now, and when he charged the person at the entrance, it was a cop—some uniform, not his father, but what did it matter? Len hated cops if one could be like his dad, if the others could let him get away with what he was.

Len darted out of the house he'd broken into, his haul safely tucked into the pockets of his jacket. Petty theft wasn't enough to get by on, but he'd get better. He'd get better until he had enough.

He turned a corner and he wasn't running; he was planning. Mick looked at him expectantly. They'd only just met, but the guy could fight. That would be useful. His need to start fires was a hindrance at times, but useful at others. Len just had to keep him under control. Mick was a hothead, but he wanted someone to turn to deep down, someone to lead him, and Len needed all the friends he could get if he was going to be successful. He needed to be the best. Then it would be enough. Then no one would be able to stop him when he went back for Lisa.

But she wasn't the same girl he'd left behind. "You told me to be tough, so I got tough. What did you think I was going to do, Lenny?"

Len blinked and Lisa was in front of him, not Mick. She was older now, her eyes fierce, her fists tight. She'd found ways to survive too. Len couldn't remember when they'd lost the version of themselves they used to be. But it didn't matter. They were together. And if they were together, then it was them against the world.

Everyone who got in Len's way was the same to him, just a copy of Dad. The lowlifes were symbols of what he really was, the cops of what he pretended to be; the full roadmap of a system that didn't work. Someone had to bring it down around everyone's shoulders so they could see how fucked it was, and if Len had fun along the way, well, wasn't he due? Hadn't they earned being the ones calling the shots instead of being stepped on?

He had to be hard. He had to be cold. He had to be the best. He was the best, no more angry, flippant voices to bring him down, other than uniforms and badges, and those never meant more than a reflection of something Len hated. The only reflection that mattered was the way he looked in Lisa's eyes, and he'd come back for her. Too late, but he'd come back. Nothing was going to catch them by surprise or exploit their weaknesses again.

There were jail cells, and there were heists. There were safe houses, but never a home—he had never known one to begin with. There was Mick, and there was Lisa. There were others, too, few he trusted, but some that were useful. The thrill made up for the ache. Beating someone out was better than being beaten down. Eventually it was all he knew and all he wanted.

The first time that cold gun was in his hands, he'd felt satiated for the first time in years. But when the ache came back it was stronger than ever, a need, a hunger, a sickness—so much more like Mick than Len would admit. Nothing beat that rush with a chill running up his arm as he fired.

"You know I don't do this for the pretty trinkets or cash, Lisa, I'm interested in something greater."

"The challenge, the next big score."

"There is no greater challenge than helping The Flash save people."

Len whirled around. Why was Cisco here? Why was Caitlin? They stood in front of him looking so kind and supportive, he didn't know what to say.

Sensing that he wasn't the only one standing there facing them, he glanced over his shoulder, and there was Mick and Lisa, all suited up holding their guns. Len had his cold gun in his hands, his parka, his gloves, his goggles over his eyes.

He looked back at Cisco and Caitlin but they weren't smiling or supportive anymore—their fear mixed with hatred as they backed away from him.

And suddenly there was Barry, just beyond them, walking forward. He was in his S.T.A.R. Labs sweatshirt, then a T-shirt, then his Flash suit, then the sweatshirt again. His expression flickered as much as his clothes did and the personas he carried. Affection, understanding; disappointment, disgust. Len wanted to rush forward to meet him, tell him he was sorry, that this wasn't what he wanted, but he felt frozen in place until Barry was standing just in front of him.

"Joke's on me, right?"

Len gasped and arched up, only to find himself arching toward a T-shirt-clad chest, tight arms wrapped around him as they moved superhuman fast up and down his back to stay the chills wracking his body. He was shuddering deep to his core, even as the chill dissipated beneath the steady palms of Barry Allen—holding him close, comforting him, murmuring soothing words into his hair.

"It's okay, you're okay, please wake up…god, you're freezing…"

"I-I'm awake," Len stuttered, his teeth chattering as he gulped in air.

The dream hovered around him like afterimages, only it was real, all of it was real, and he could feel the match ready to strike and ignite everything in a blaze that would rush back with horrible purpose. In a moment it'd be so much more than buzzing, he could feel it—twenty-six seconds—but no! He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to remember…

"I'm here, Len," Barry said, like he knew it was all Len wanted, just to be here as he was, with Barry, and not like half of him wanted to knock Barry back from him in a contemptuous shove—you're cramping my style, kid.

Len keened into Barry's shoulder from the pain, the conflict in his head.

The blurred movement of Barry's hands slowed, moved more soothingly up and down his back, clung and pressed and pulled. Len dug his face into the crook of Barry's neck and felt the tears smudge away. He had his hands twisted in Barry's T-shirt, and he didn't even know how that had happened. They were on the sofa, the room dark, Barry scrambled up onto the cushions, all tangled limbs practically in Len's lap to hold him the way he was.

Len could feel it. Seconds, only moments were left, like a ticking time bomb, and he'd be gone, erased, swallowed by memory and experience.

He pulled back so he could look at Barry. The kid was between his bent legs, arms around him, their faces close, even pulled away to look into each other's eyes. Len still shivered, but Barry was so warm there between his thighs, radiating all this glorious heat from the lightning in his veins.

The fearful look in those hazel eyes captivated Len, the frantic, desperate affection bared so openly, the mussed shape of Barry's hair from sleeping, the subtle part to his lips as he shuddered from them being that close to each other…

You'd be so good to ruin, Len thought, and it choked him that part of him—most of him—meant that.

Barry flushed. He had to be able to see the heat, the hunger in Len's eyes. Something to feed the beast, that's what Len needed now, to quench the need that always won out because he'd trained himself to love nothing else. That would keep the memories back just a little longer…just long enough to feel something beautiful before the end.

Len was sickened by how much he wanted that, but he still did want it, craved the triumph of wrecking The Flash—no, Barry—and being able to hold some small piece of that forever. Those lips looked as soft and inviting as they had the night before.

It delighted him that Barry bent for the kiss first.

A gong struck in Len's head, like thunder. Barry's lips pressed tenderly, but Len didn't want tender. He sought out Barry's smooth tongue, sealed their lips together and rocked forward until Barry toppled back onto the sofa. The memories were there, all right there, but with Barry the buzzing held back, leaving them and their kiss in the eye of the storm.

"Len," Barry gasped as Len climbed on top of him, straddling him easily once the kid was knocked onto his back. "What are you doing?" He already looked flush and wanton, the most delicious temptation.

There were still tears in Len's eyes, down his cheeks, his hands wouldn't stop trembling as he rested them on Barry's chest, and he breathed in the close scent of the kid, like copper and electricity. "Please," he near whimpered. He needed something to ground him if he was going to get swept away anyway.

Barry rested his hands atop Len's, his eyes caring, loving, but pitying too. "You were having a nightmare again. We should—"

"No," Len didn't want to talk about it. He'd lose this chance if they talked about it. "Help me forget, Barry...I just want to forget..." He tried to go for another kiss, but Barry held him back.

Those downturned brows looked so sad. "Len, you can't do this. You're making yourself sick. Cisco and Caitlin are worried, and so am I. You can't fight your memories, it's who you are."

Len knew that now, but Barry had no idea who he really was. He wanted to grip Barry by the hair and kiss him fiercely, make him understand who—what—he was, but he used the last of his strength to fight that brutal inclination. He needed this to be the one last beautiful thing in his life, even if it was gone moments later.

So he spoke the truth, "Please...you're everything about a new beginning I'd ever ask for, kid," and gently touched Barry's cheek instead.

A menagerie of emotions flitted across Barry's face. Surprise. Joy. A cringe like he wanted to challenge what Len was saying, protest that this was just a diversion and a dangerous one when everything between them was so new. Then the deepest despair and longing, like the kid had never been wanted before and was selfish enough to not want to let this pass them by either.

Len capitalized on the moment when he saw that particular emotion flicker to life. He looked at Barry, just looked at him, and thought of every sweet moment, and long talk, and shared laughter between them, how much this poor, dumb kid was trying to save something that couldn't be saved, and he wanted to gather him up and protect him in his arms…as much as he wanted to shatter him. So he kissed him, but he forced himself to be gentle, pleading with the touch of lips on lips.

Barry shivered beneath him—you make it so easy, Scarlet.

Len's hands shook as they curled into Barry's T-shirt again. He pulled back, breath stuttering, hips aligned over Barry's but waiting, silently beseeching Barry to answer his advances the way he wanted.

As the cyclone roared around them, that Barry couldn't understand was right on the brink, bearing down on them both, he grasped the back of Len's neck and pulled them back together.

TBC...