A/N: In 2007, here on , I began this epic Supernatural fanfic called Incubus. It pairs Dean with an OMC, and basically ended up being an AU seasons 3-5. I wrote it originally from 2007-2009, and it was so epically long, and I loved it so much that I wanted to redo it as an original story. I tried for some time to get it published until finally succeeding with BigWorldNetwork, an indie publisher I also do editing work for. Tomorrow, the third book in the trilogy that once-fanfic turned into releases to the public, ending what has been the better part of a decade for me, and I'm just...I'm going to break down crying tomorrow, I just know it.
So, if you enjoy how I write M/M sex, and in general, consider giving it a try. It is its own unique story, but you'll definitely see the heart of Supernatural in there, and all three eBooks are only $6 each. You can see all of my books on my Amazon page by searching for Amanda Meuwissen. The order for the series is Incubus, Changeling, Sidhe.
And even if you are solely here to read this fic, which is more than enough, believe me...omg, you are all so amazing, thank you, thank you, thank you. I have a long weekend ahead with the 4th coming up here in the US, and while I really need to put some work into my current book in progress, I'm sure you'll see another chapter of this soon.
Thank you all again! The light at the end of this long tunnel is ahead, I assure you! Eventually...
"Get his wallet."
"You get it. You're crouched there."
"Dude, check out the pistol! Is that a 92?"
"Forget that piece of crap," called a louder voice from farther way, "look at this gun! What the hell even is this shit?"
Everything sounded distant, and none of the voices swirling around Len were familiar. He felt like he was struggling through shallow waters, in pitch black, and something was holding him down so he couldn't get even a single gulp of air. His head pounded, his jaw ached, the side of his temple too, as if he'd struck it right on the bone when he…fell.
Fuck.
Len broke the surface, gasping for breath as his vision cleared, blurry at first, but rapidly focusing.
"Shit, he's awake!"
"Get his wallet, idiot!"
Roughly, Len was tossed onto his back. Clumsy hands dug in his jacket, then his pants pockets. He tried to roll over, to grab at the offender, but his reflexes hadn't caught up to his waking mind. He groped at air, then saw the haze of some skinny kid scramble out of reach, holding Len's wallet in victory.
He was being mugged—him. The very idea made Len growl in anger.
At last he could see clearly, but the pain throughout his head and face was terrible. When he tried to roll up to a sitting position, some other kid placed a dirty boot on his chest and aimed an all too familiar Berretta in his face. And it was an M9 not a 92; didn't kids know anything these days?
"It says Leonard Wynters," said the kid who'd snagged his wallet. "Must be some business guy took a wrong turn getting outta his town car." The kid snorted.
Len did pride himself on his appearance. Just because he was a criminal didn't mean he had to slum it like some two-bit crook. He might not steal only for the finer things, but he still enjoyed them. And he actually liked that gun, though considerably less so when he remembered pointing it at Barry.
Barry…
"Bullshit," said another kid, walking into view as Len's eyes snapped over to him. The damn brat had his cold gun, with a cocksure grin as he held the weapon close and stroked one hand down the barrel. "He's not any Wynters. He's Leonard Snart. This is Captain Cold."
"Who?" another kid asked with a mocking laugh.
The little shit.
"That freak from the news with the ice gun. This is his gun." The clear leader of the group hefted Len's cold gun as he said it, a manic twist to his lips like he'd discovered some wonderful prize.
Len wished he was on his feet so he could snatch the kid up by the front of his shirt and then see who looked smug. They weren't as young as teenagers, not most of them he didn't think, but they were kids in his eyes, no way around it; none of them were even as old as Barry.
Shit, Len really needed to stop thinking about him. He couldn't afford to be distracted now. These brats were untrained, inelegant, and likely to shoot him on accident if he wasn't careful. They were nobodies. Len usually knew most everyone in his line of work in this city, but whatever gang these young men were from, it wasn't any major player; none of them sparked any recognition.
"If you're aware of who I am," he said as evenly as he could make his voice, though it stung to move his jaw after a direct speed-force punch from The Flash, "then you should realize it would be in your best interest to let me up and return my property. Preferably…prompt."
He was flat on his back now, and he raised his hands not in surrender but in challenge, meeting the stare of the kid daring to scuff his nice black shirt and aiming Len's own pilfered gun like he actually had the balls to use it. The way the kid's hand tremored under Len's stare said otherwise.
"Keep the gun on him, Rhodie," the leader called, observant enough to notice that his point man was losing his nerve. "He's got nothing to bargain with. We found you just lying there, old man, taken out like some bitch by The Flash. I saw his streak leave the building, that lightning shit. He beat you up and leave you here to lick your wounds?"
Internally, Len bristled with anger. Kids these days; no respect—someone should teach them a little. Externally, his eyes remained steady, not moving to the leader but staying trained on the kid above him, who was still quivering and starting to sweat. He'd never fired a gun before, that much was clear. Probably knew the basics, had the safety off, but he was holding only loosely onto the trigger. At least Len wouldn't have to worry about a misfire.
The problem was he couldn't risk taking further stock of the room without shifting out of position, and right now that was his strongpoint; keeping the kid above him locked up and nervous. He'd heard at least four distinct voices; he could handle four. He just had to hope his count was right since he couldn't see behind him.
"Chalo, I don't know," Rhodie said, hand wavering, foot releasing some of its pressure on Len's chest. "I saw the news too, man. He's serious shit. He derailed that train, you know. And Flash…he's like a freaking mutant or something, and this guy's still alive after facing him."
"That's because The Flash is a good guy, dipshit, he doesn't kill criminals, he puts them away. He was letting Cold off easy. It's nothing to beat someone if they ain't really trying to beat you back, and this guy still couldn't take him. Plus I got his gun, you got his other piece. We're golden."
Oh this would be only too easy. Len waited for the moment when Rhodie dared to turn his head and look at his headstrong leader, and in seconds he had the kid by the ankle. He planned the trajectory of the gun, how the aim would shift if it went off while he twisted the kid by the foot, rolling out of the line of fire rather than into it.
The gun didn't go off, but it flew—the damn kid had barely been holding onto it, so there went any thoughts of snatching it up for himself—as Rhodie flipped up and hit the ground with a smack. Len rolled again onto his back and jumped to his feet, fighting past the swell of nausea in his gut and the way the room spun as he surveyed the area.
There were six of them total counting the one on the floor. Shit. Len hadn't taken enough time to assess before he acted, and now it could cost him.
None of the others had weapons, other than a couple with switchblades, and the Berretta had landed too close to Len for any of them to go for it. Chalo had the cold gun trained on him though, still looking fully confident like he just wanted Len to give him a reason. No wonder this kid was the leader.
"You don't scare me, old man," he said, apparently thinking his title for Len hilarious—and admittedly it did piss Len off; some punk calling him old—as he gestured his subordinates to surround Len. "We got you outnumbered."
That hadn't stopped Len before. He grinned at the young men around him, readying himself, daring the first of them to try something. The one with Len's wallet hung back behind Chalo, the slightest of the group, and probably the most effective pickpocket for that reason, while Rhodie crawled away rubbing the back of his head that had smacked the cement, leaving the two with switchblades to try their luck first.
The initial blade swung Len's way was disarmed with a textbook deflection move, Len's knee slamming up into the kid's stomach before he tossed him back to stumble away.
The next came at Len quickly, smart enough not to just wait his turn, and stabbing rather than slicing, but Len grabbed his wrist as he spun to meet the newcomer, twisting the kid's arm around his back until the knife released from his fingers with a clatter on the ground and he cried out at the strain on his shoulder.
The room tilted from the whirl of movement and Len feared he'd vomit all over the kid's back. His hesitation to make the next move allowed the kid to struggle out of his grasp. Len stumbled as he was knocked back into a third kid ramming him from behind, too light to take Len down, but enough to unsteady him, and he almost dropped right to his knees.
He forced himself to stay standing and for his head to clear, for his stomach to stop turning so unpleasantly, and grabbed the kid by the shoulders, crouching, and hefting, and flipping him over onto the floor.
Len stood tall with a snarl. The first of the kids with a knife was coming at him again, so he met him with an open palm to his shoulder, pressing down as his leg swept the kid's feet out from under him. Len slammed him to the ground, crouched and within reach of the Berretta.
He held the kid in place with his left hand as his right snatched up the gun, but as soon as he went to point it between the kid's eyes, he saw how filled with fear they were, how young he really was, how unprepared for this life and how foolishly he was throwing it away, and Len faltered. Worse, he started to shake.
He stood, still aiming the gun, but his arm trembled and he couldn't pull the trigger. He finally understood the conflicted, constricting feelings swirling so violently inside of him, and it really was all Barry's fault, but he couldn't bring himself to be resentful of that.
The flood gates his amnesia had opened had made him panic when he tried to ignore the part of himself that was Captain Cold, and it made him panic now because he was trying to ignore the part of him that had honestly loved being seen through Barry Allen's eyes those few days at S.T.A.R. Labs. Len was only steady, only fully himself and in control, when he found a balance.
He couldn't harden himself to find the strength to face the monsters in his life the way he had with his father. Not when the last monster looming was himself. Something had broken down the wall he'd built as a young man, and he couldn't hide or bury himself that way without resurfacing the terrified boy he'd been.
He wasn't only Len. He wasn't only Cold. Barry had wanted him to be both, had encouraged it, told him it would be okay if he just believed that both parts of him could want the same things. Was that actually possible…?
"You're pathetic, old man."
Time lurched forward with a scream of pain, and an actual scream erupted from Len's lips. His left leg was on fire with sudden agony, and when he looked down, he saw that it was from the burning cold of ice encasing it from knee to ankle. Chalo had shot him—with his own fucking cold gun.
Four of the kids facing him were down, one still cowering, but Chalo remained resolute with the cold gun whirring in his hands, freshly fired. He seemed amused, elated, not impressed with how much Len had managed as a lone, mostly unarmed man, or at all worried.
"Get the gun. Now," Chalo ordered the kid Len had been threatening with the Berretta. He scurried to his feet, and gingerly, fearfully snatched the gun out of Len's shaking fingers.
Pain lanced up Len's side from his leg, and he clenched his teeth as he wavered, fighting to stay upright. Shit. Shit. He should have known it would hurt this badly by the way everyone else screamed when he shot them. He didn't cry out again though, feeling a strange numbness overtake him as rage bubbled and then subsided within him.
He'd been beaten out by kids—fucking kids. It was so horribly funny, he had to laugh.
The kid with the Berretta backed away, pointing it at him, unsure but still seeming more likely to pull the trigger than Rhodie.
"No," Chalo called, keeping the cold gun trained on Len's other leg, a frenzied look in his eyes as he grinned. "We're not gonna kill him. We're taking him with us."
"What?" Rhodie sputtered, on his feet now but huddled back with the wallet kid, still spooked from how Len had subdued him, and rubbing his sore scalp. "What the hell for?"
"Do you know how many people want a piece of this guy?" Chalo said—and it was an astute and very accurate observation, Len couldn't deny that. "We're sitting pretty now, boys, like you can't even imagine. We're gonna get the word out about who we nabbed, let everyone know we've got Cold's ice gun to prove it, and see who the highest bidder is when they wanna come calling and say hello." He smirked at Len coldly—at Len coldly.
A few days ago Len would have wanted to take the brat under his wing. Now he felt sick, still nauseous, and almost hysterical from how unfortunate, how bloody hilarious it all was, just his luck, that when he finally had an epiphany about what he really wanted, his own foolish decisions had already led him to his downfall.
He couldn't count the amount of Central City's underworld who would pick up the call when these kids started spreading the word that Leonard Snart was on ice, disarmed and helpless. He'd be dead by morning.
Lisa was going to be so pissed. Though she and Mick's retaliation would be something beautiful to witness—not that he'd be around to see it.
What stung the most and made him chuckle even as three of the kids swarmed him and had him by the arms, dragging him from the warehouse on his useless iced leg, was that he hoped these poor fools following Chalo didn't get caught in the crossfire when things spiraled out of their control, and Glider and Heat Wave came calling for blood. They were just dumb kids, after all.
Barry really was a terrible influence, Len thought with a resigned smile. He just hoped that in the wake of this, some day Barry found a way to forgive him.
Barry didn't need to work out. In fact, in some ways it was a hindrance, and Caitlin often told him to avoid it, given the amount of food he needed to consume just to keep his body running during normal activity, not to mention excursions as The Flash. It was useful to train, of course, and Barry tried to find time for that on occasion, to work on what Oliver had taught him, what he could glean from Joe and Eddie and any others willing, but usually he simply didn't have the time.
Today he was making the time, because he really needed to punch something.
He'd had to check in at work first, of course, get through some actual cases, tests, and samples, the usual paperwork and humdrum activity that could be interesting even at the dullest of times if Barry was in the right mood. Not today. He rushed through things he'd usually take more time with, until he was blissfully able to take a break, and used it to head upstairs to the gym.
This was one of the slow times for the other officers and personnel, not early enough for those who worked out before work, and not late enough for the lunch crowd. Barry was grateful to have the place to himself.
He'd purposely not gone back to the house to retrieve his Flash suit or com, and had texted back in response to Caitlin and Cisco's calls to not bother him unless it was important. He needed to work.
Yes, he knew about the bank robbery. Yes, he knew witnesses hadn't seen anything, but that there were reports of gold residue and scorch marks on the vaults—or at least he'd been able to guess that last part, given who had robbed the bank while Cold had Barry distracted.
No, he didn't want to talk about it. Or how incompetent the headlines were going to make The Flash sound when they reported on him having been there minutes before the heist, blissfully unaware of the real crime occurring.
And no, he really, really didn't want to talk about Len, or anything that had happened between them.
Only...a small part of him sort of did. He wished he had someone to just yell to about what had happened in that warehouse, but he didn't know how to face Cisco and Caitlin after he'd ignored their advice to think things through before meeting Cold on that bench. He wished Iris was here. Maybe he'd call her at lunch, see if she could meet him, and he'd confess the whole damn thing.
Maybe. Right now he kept punching, imagining that the bag was Cold's smirking face.
"I'd be careful there, Barry. Remember what happened last time," came Eddie's amused, ever appeasing and patient voice.
Barry turned, gripping the bag to steady it as he looked over at Eddie's entrance, who was dressed in his wife beater, ready to take a few shots at the bag himself.
Barry hadn't brought a change of clothes so he'd simply stripped out of his sweater and button down and tossed them into the corner, not even bothering to wrap his hands since he healed so quickly. And anyway, he relished the sting sometimes after each punch.
"Hey, Eddie," he said, trying for a smile that probably looked more like a strained grimace. "Early lunch?"
"In a bit. I finished up a few things ahead of schedule, so I figured I'd let off some steam first. Seems you beat me to it." He smiled as congenially as ever.
Barry wasn't sure if Eddie had picked up Iris's bad habit of frowning smiles when she knew something was wrong and couldn't hold back her pity, or if Eddie just always looked filled with sympathy for others. Either way, Barry was no fool.
He stepped back from the bag as Eddie moved in to hold it for him, echoing the last time they'd been here. "Joe put you up to this, right? Or you saw how wrecked I looked when I come up here?"
"Maybe a bit of both," Eddie grinned pleasantly. It was impossible to ever dislike the guy.
Barry took a few steady punches at the now stationary bag.
"I heard about The Flash's missed bank robbery this morning," Eddie said, and it made Barry falter but he didn't stop. "And Iris might have mentioned Joe's call from last night. Sorry about Cold. I was really hoping things would turn out differently."
Barry punched a little too hard and caused Eddie to rock back on his heels, though the other man didn't complain. "Me too," he said.
He gave another punch, more half-hearted, and finally dropped his fists when he was about to go for another. He leaned into the bag and looked at Eddie so close to him on the other side, feeling all of his emotions welling up again, all of the painful, damp emotions he couldn't seem to shake, just from seeing his friend's compassionate stare.
"I slept with him," Barry said without preamble.
The widened eyes Barry expected. The way Eddie deflated almost immediately into deeper understanding and grief for his sake was a slight surprise. He'd been prepared for at least a little shock and revulsion. But Eddie just looked like he wanted to hug Barry instead of clinging to the bag. "Oh Barry," he said.
It somehow summed up exactly how Barry felt. "The night before he left. He had a nightmare. He was crying. I was just trying to comfort him, you know? And then he kissed me again…"
"Again?" Eddie prompted.
Barry sighed as the truth he'd left out before came pouring out of him. "The first time was the night Lisa came to the labs. He was all broken up over her being there, and I held him, so he'd know it was okay, that I still trusted him, and he…he kissed me, and…" The tears were as ready as ever, but this time Barry managed to will them away. He looked at his hands pressed to the bag, because Eddie's eyes were too sincere. "When he kissed me the next night, I wasn't thinking about doing anything more than that. Of course I wasn't. He was hurting and confused and I knew it wasn't right. But he begged me, Eddie. He begged me to help him forget…"
One of Eddie's hands slid around the bag to cover Barry's, the other dropping down as he moved a step closer.
Barry looked up to meet Eddie's kind eyes, summoning all of the anger he'd been punching into that bag, because he was so sick of feeling sad and defeated. "It was all a lie. He faked the whole thing just to push me that far. You know," he smiled bitterly, "when I asked Wells why he killed my mother, why he wanted to kill me, why he'd done all of it, he said...he said it was because he hated me and wanted me to suffer. And when I asked Len why…he said because I was oh so fun to manipulate and he just wanted a good fuck."
Eddie's arms wrapped around Barry as he choked on the last word, and a few tears streaked down his face despite his best efforts. Eddie was strong and present and held on too tight, like he knew that was exactly what Barry needed.
Barry squeezed almost as tightly back, careful not to crush his friend's ribs. He dropped his head to Eddie's shoulder, and there was something so grounding, so needed in feeling someone else's skin against his without anything but comfort between them.
"I didn't think anything else could ever hurt this much…but somehow this feels even more personal, even more…low and dirty and…" he sniffed, "fuck, Eddie, I actually thought he wanted me. How am I this messed up…?"
"You're not," Eddie said heartfeltly back at him. "Barry, come on…I told you, you're a great guy who deserves someone amazing, and I meant that. Snart's decisions don't reflect back on you. What you felt and wanted was real, even if you think it was a mistake now. Him choosing to make a mockery of that is on him. Just like Wells was at fault with none of that falling back on you. I'm so sorry, Barry." He gave another short, sharp squeeze before letting go. And there was that frowning smile again, trying so hard to be supportive.
Eddie had something else in common with Iris. He always meant well and was incredible at knowing the right thing to say. Barry wasn't sure if he'd ever truly feel better about this situation, but the weight felt lessened, more manageable, just from having confessed all that and hearing Eddie tell him it would be okay.
He stepped back and scrubbed at his eyes. "Sorry. Shit. I didn't mean to dump all that on you, Eddie. I just didn't get the chance to tell anyone else. I mean…Joe knows, and Caitlin and Cisco, but I didn't know how to face them after the bank this morning. I haven't told Iris anything, though I think she suspects—"
"You told me before Iris?" Eddie's concern for Barry gave way to a more personal panic. "Wow. She's gonna kill me."
Barry laughed, though he suspected much of Eddie's reaction was honest fear and not just to break the tension. "I'll tell her. I will. I just didn't get the chance this morning when we met for coffee. It's sort of the most mortifying thing I've ever done." He scowled.
Eddie smiled again in sympathy. "Don't think of it that way, Barr. I mean…was it good?" His eyes widened in horror. "Not—I didn't mean it like…! That really came out wrong. I'm not asking the way you think, I just meant, when you were together, in the moment…did it feel like it was something you wanted to share with him, something, you know...good?"
Barry frowned after grinning a little in the wake of Eddie's fumbling. "But…but he didn't really—"
"Barry," Eddie interrupted, holding Barry's gaze. "In the moment."
And damn it, Barry couldn't deny that in the moment it had been more than good, it had been amazing, and not only because he'd gone without for so long and had several new tricks to share with a partner, but because in the aftermath he'd felt so content and happy just looking at Len while lying beside him. Barry had never experienced that before.
"I don't understand how he could fake that…" Barry muttered, gaze distant as he remembered.
Eddie reached out to grip his arm. "Maybe he didn't."
The heavy silence that fell between them lasted only a few short moments before Barry's cell phone started chiming from atop his discarded sweater. Barry looked at Eddie gratefully, knowing he could never thank the man enough for listening, for being there, despite any weirdness that had once hung between them, before he crossed the room to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Barry?"
"Cisco, yeah…what's up? Oh god," he suddenly realized he'd told them to only call in an emergency, "what happened?"
"Nothing, nothing," Cisco assured him quickly, while Eddie's eyebrows raised in concern as he approached Barry at the hurried words. "We just found something we think you should see. Can you swing by the labs now before your lunch break?"
"You just want me to see something?" Barry asked, partially for confirmation, but also to assuage Eddie.
"Yeah, but it's…we think it's important. If you're free?"
"Sure, yeah, I mean…I'm between case work right now. I can bolt over there and just stay on call in case anyone needs me." He eyed Eddie hopefully.
His friend nodded with an easy smile. "If anyone comes looking, they just missed you," Eddie said, then chuckled, "Which is usually true anyway. I'll call if you need to rush back."
"Thank you," Barry mostly mouthed, trying to hear both Eddie and Cisco at the same time. "What was that? Yeah, yeah, I'll stop home to bring the suit, Cisco. Sorry about that. Really, I'm…I'm sorry," he said more solemnly.
"It's okay, Barry. Maybe what we have to show you will help."
Barry highly doubted that. "I'll be right there. Five minutes."
"Okay," Cisco said, "see you then."
Barry arrived, perhaps mildly sweaty, which was about as bad as he ever got—always an added bonus of his powers—just under five minutes later, freshly dressed again and carrying his Flash suit for Cisco to store at the labs where—in Cisco's words—it belonged. He even smiled at Barry in his usual, chiding, 'how dare you be so rough with my baby' expression, which almost made everything feel normal.
"So what's up? What do you have to show me?" Barry asked.
They were gathered, as per usual, in the main labs, by the various computer screens, which were remarkably free of ice residue, and not at all wet looking. The pair of them had obviously been busy while Barry sulked at home the day before. The monitors were even all on, though a couple appeared to be fritzing.
"Well," Caitlin started, standing behind the chair Cisco plopped down into in front of the one working monitor, "Cisco's been compiling all of the surveillance footage from while Cold was here—"
"Still?" Barry frowned. "Why? We don't need to track him down anymore. He was found. And I don't feel like finding him again any time soon." He crossed his arms defiantly, even if his time with Eddie had eased some of the pain. Cold had made his choice.
Caitlin oozed sympathy with her own version of the frowning smile, her eyebrows downturned, and damn it—why did everyone have to look at Barry like that? "I know, Barry, and we understand, but we still think this is worth seeing."
"I just wanted to track his movements more from times when he was alone," Cisco said, turning to the monitor and starting to pull up the footage. The thought of watching any of Cold while he was pretending to have amnesia churned Barry's stomach, but he figured he owed it to his friends to at least see what they had to show him. "Everything was what I expected, or what I'd seen before keeping tabs when he was still here. But then I pulled up something from one of the outside cameras I'd forgotten about. First, here's the camera that looks out from the main exit. You can see when he leaves."
The footage started, showing the S.T.A.R. Labs parking lot and surrounding area from a camera clearly mounted on the building. After a few moments, Cold walked into view, heading away from the labs, dressed in his parka, his cold gun safely tucked away.
"And this…is the opposing view from a couple minutes earlier," Cisco said with a furtive glance at Barry before he swapped cameras and clicked PLAY.
Barry didn't understand. The view was of the door, sure, but if it was a couple minutes earlier, wouldn't they simply be staring at the closed door until Cold left?
But Barry soon realized his mistake. Cold exited almost right away, he just didn't immediately continue from the building. He stood there, looking blank and unsure as the door closed behind him. He was holding the cold gun; it wasn't yet hidden in his parka.
And then it dropped to the ground with a silent crash, as Cold backed up into the door like something awful awaited him outside. He closed his eyes, brought his hands up to his face to scrub down it, his hands shaking…like so many times before when Barry had caught the man trembling and unable to breathe.
A wave of unmistakable grief filled Cold's face as he brought his hands down, and he pounded a fist back into the door. It wasn't close up on him enough to see the fine details, but the way his other hand came up to rub at his eyes made Barry think he was wiping away tears.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing heavily, slowly, leaning back trying to get a hold of himself and steady his shaking. For one brief moment, he turned in facing the door and placed a palm to it, his gloved hand ghosting down toward the handle, hovering, almost grasping it but holding back.
In the end he slammed that same palm into the door and pushed away from it, snatching his cold gun from the ground to stuff it into his jacket, and rubbing at his eyes one final time before pulling on a resolute expression and walking out of frame.
Barry stared as Cisco stopped the footage. He shook his head, trying to dismiss what he'd seen. "He knew about the cameras."
"Sure…but unlikely that one," Cisco said. "And even if he did, Barry, why keep up the act after the game was over?"
"We don't think he was faking it, Barry," Caitlin chimed in. "It just doesn't make sense."
Whatever flutter of hope flared to life in Barry's chest just as quickly diminished. "It doesn't matter," he said, turning away from the screen.
"But Barry," Caitlin tried.
"It doesn't matter!" he swung back around. "You didn't hear the things he said to me in that warehouse!"
"No," Cisco replied evenly, bitterly, his stern gaze locked on Barry, "we didn't."
Barry collapsed out of his outburst almost instantly, but what could he say? He knew he'd been in the wrong blocking them out, but he couldn't actually feel bad about them not having overheard. He would have felt even more humiliated than he already did.
Caitlin looked at him sincerely. "Can you honestly tell us that there wasn't a single moment, even through the worst of it, where he didn't sound unsure?"
Barry shuffled and backed up a step, feeling anxious in his own skin; he didn't want to think about this anymore. It ached worse every time. Eddie thinking maybe Cold hadn't faked how good their time together had been, and now Cisco and Caitlin saying he hadn't faked any of it? Barry wanted the thought to soothe him, but it just soured inside of him and started to unravel what he'd managed so far to overcome this.
"Barry…" it was Cisco, sounding caring and sorrowful now, "being a hardened criminal is all he's known of himself for over half his life. Maybe the way he's acting now is the part that's fake, because he doesn't know any better. And I know that's being too lenient after what he pulled, believe me, I'm pissed too. But I thought the whole point of what we're doing here was to save people. You're the one who keeps trying to convince us that everyone can be saved. Even the villains."
"We wanted to reform the metas," Caitlin reminded him. "Why not start with Cold?"
The sentiment was everything Barry had tried to believe in too, but it wasn't right, it wasn't fair. "He shot at me."
"Okay…" Cisco conceded, "but we reprogrammed the cold gun to be less dangerous, remember?"
"Then he pulled a normal gun and shot at me again." Barry eyed Cisco pointedly, then Caitlin. "In the face."
Cisco's stubborn, pursed lips reappeared. "Seems like he missed."
Anger rose from the back of Barry's neck, filling him with heat that bled down his body. The shift must have been palpable, because Cisco immediately raised his hands.
"I'm not excusing anything he might have said or done to you, Barry. I'm sure as hell not excusing what he did here before he left, that he left at all, any more than I'd excuse what he did to me and Dante, or to Caitlin. But if we were willing to forgive him before, there's only one thing that would make it impossible for me to forgive him again.
"Do you really think there's no part of him that's still the Len we met? Is there no part of him that wishes he could be better, that maybe isn't as sure about the things he's been doing as you think? Or is he really just Cold?"
A ready answer stirred on Barry's lips, heated and biting, but it died on his tongue. He thought back to that morning, to Len's last few words to him after he'd turned away, and there had been desperation there, a subtle cracking. Barry hadn't taken it for remorse then, just frustration that the game was over, but maybe…
Maybe.
Then all Barry could think about was how he'd told Joe that he had to believe it was possible to even forgive Wells—Thawne—because if he didn't…
"What the hell am I doing going out there pretending I'm a hero?"
Barry pressed his palms into his eyes, worried more tears would form, and let out a deeply held breath. He looked at his friends and they both seemed so hopeful. "How could I ever trust him after this?" he stated more than asked, because it seemed to be its own answer.
"We're not asking you to trust him, Barry," Caitlin said. "We're just asking you to consider that maybe the fight isn't over yet."
Cisco's phone rang, disturbing the strange, buzzing static in the room with a Japanese rock song Barry was pretty sure was the theme for an anime. It managed to disrupt the tension, at least.
"Sorry," Cisco smiled sheepishly. He eyed the caller ID, but frowned. "Hello?" he answered uncertainly, and then his eyes shot wide as he sputtered, "Lisa?"
The tension immediately returned, causing Barry to flash closer to his friend, crowding him against the chair. "I thought you didn't have her number?"
"I don't," Cisco hissed around the mouthpiece. Somehow his eyes sprang wider as he listened. "Wait, what? Slow down, Lisa, calm down. He's been what? Cold's been…" He gulped almost audibly, unable to finish the phrase as his gaze lifted and centered on Barry.
All the anxiety Barry had been feeling skyrocketed as it became clear that something was very, very wrong.
TBC...