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Barry had been missing for four hours by the time Oliver finally tracks down his kidnapper, Axel Walker. Oliver is wholly unprepared for the scene that greets him when he sneaks into the abandoned warehouse.
“No, no,” Barry says, voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. Barry who is still wearing his cowl but is not restrained or otherwise in distress, who is leaning excitedly over a table strewn with black powder, fuses, and colorful shells. “You don’t want to overdo the black powder because—”
“Yeah, I got you,” the Trickster says. “But I wonder if we can get better lift—”
“What about potassium chlorate instead of potassium nitrate?”
Axel is quiet for a moment before laughing excitedly. “Yeah! I think that’ll work!”
And then Barry high fives his kidnapper.
“What is going on here?” Oliver says from the rafters, causing the two men to startle. Axel’s bright smile falls, a look of fear sparking before something manic takes hold—which is broken when Barry places a friendly hand on his shoulder and steps between him an Oliver.
“Heeeey, Green Arrow. What are you doing here?”
“Not rescuing you, apparently.”
“What, no? I’m fine.”
“I can see that.”
“Axel just wanted a second opinion on the fireworks he’s making. His dad’s still in jail and—”
“The other Rogues can be such douchebags,” Axel finishes. “And Baa—oh—err, Flash, is good at chemistry. Uhm. Or so I heard.”
“Soo… yeah,” Barry grins. “Fireworks!”
“Flash…”
“Dude,” Axel voices, already turning back to his work. “I thought you said you texted him.”
“I did! Didn’t you guys get my text?” Barry says, patting at his suit before bringing out his phone. “I specifically told you guys that it’s fine, that I’m building fireworks, and I’ll be back in time for pizza…. Oh…” He trails off and looks back up at Oliver with a wince and a faint blush that clashes horribly with his cowl. “I forgot to hit send?”
*
Oliver kicks down the door to the house, bow at the ready, and frowns a the sight before him. “What the hell, Barry?”
Barry’s sitting on a stool pulled up close to the kitchen counter, legs swinging, cowl down, and barbecue sauce all over his face. “Oh my God,” Barry moans when he sees Oliver. “You have to try these ribs—hey, what’s up with the bow?”
“Barry,” Oliver says, placidly. “You’ve been missing for eight hours.”
“Well, yeah. It takes a long time to smoke the meat.”
“What the fuck, Barry. And you,” he bares his teeth at Heatwave, aka Mick Rory, who is standing across from Barry on the other side of the counter and intently studying two tomatoes. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to decide if I should put tomatoes in the salad,” Rory responds.
“That’s not what I—”
“Snart hates tomatoes,” Barry says as he bites into another rib.
Rory glares at him. “No he doesn’t.”
“He does.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“He does.”
“What the fuck, kid. I’ve been cooking for that bastard for decades now. He eats tomatoes.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t like them.”
Feeling a little like he’s not going to like the answer, Oliver asks, “How the hell do you know that, Barry?” Barry and Cold may have an odd frenemy relationship but, as far as Oliver knew, the villain-turned-kinda-good-guy and Barry didn’t exactly hang out.
“Oh, that,” Barry shrugs. “We had this showdown at the farmer’s market a few months back and—” he stops and shrugs again when Oliver makes a “no, never mind, please stop” gesture.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Rory growls. “That that fucker has been picking off the tomatoes from twenty years’ worth of salads and sandwiches and God knows what else?”
“Maybe he eats it even though he doesn’t like it?”
“That’s worse,” Rory hisses, appalled. “You shouldn’t do something just to make someone else happy.”
Barry gives him a deadpan look. “Mick… you’re testing out different meals on me so you can see which one would make Len the most happy when you bring up the idea for a vow renewal.”
“It’s not the same!” Rory gives Barry look like he’s a rabid animal that is a danger to himself and others. “How long have you two been together now?” He makes a gesture at them. “You guys have got to know that it’s not the same—” He narrows his eyes at Barry before piercing Oliver with a dark look. “Is he treating you right, kid?”
“So good,” Barry nods enthusiastically around another mouthful of rib.
“…Are you talking about us or the food?” Oliver asks, because he honestly can’t tell.
“Well,” Rory interrupts impatiently. “What about bolognese sauce?” He gestures to a half-full pot on the stove. “Or lasagna? Does his prejudice against tomatoes include cooked tomatoes?”
“No,” Barry says, licking his fingers. “He’s totally cool with cooked tomatoes. He loves your bolognese—”
“Did you find this out at the farmer’s market, too?” Oliver exclaims, incredulous. “How long were you guys there? Were you fighting during this talk?”
“Well, yeah,” Barry says. “What else would we be doing?”
“Barr,” Oliver attempts to say patiently as he pulls his hood down and removes his mask. “We thought you were kidnapped.”
“Sort of was, I guess? Mick just showed up and grabbed me. He left a note, though!”
“A ransom note that was not signed.”
“What?” Rory barks defensively, looking up from the stove to check his coat pockets. “No, I—oh, look. Here’s the one I was supposed to leave. I guess I got it mixed up with the other ones.” He slaps a crumpled note on the counter that reads,
“Kid’s with me. -Heatwave.”
"'Other ones'?" Barry mumbles questioningly to himself.
“Your blood was on it, Barry,” Oliver continues.
“Oh! Mick told me what we were doing—after he stopped trying to drag me to the time ship—and I said that my mom had the perfect recipe! But I got a paper cut when I was going through all of her old papers and recipe cards.” He holds his finger up, the tip wrapped in a bandage, and pokes his lip out.
Oliver rips off the bandaid and Barry gasps, offended. “Hey!”
“It’s not bleeding now.”
“Well, no, because it healed.” Barry grins. “Hey! Mick! Ollie can help—” he turns back to Oliver. “Mick’s got this amazing strawberry cake, but I think I would literally kill someone for the chocolate one. I can’t decide which one he should make for Snart. You can be the cake tiebreaker.”
“I’m not giving Queen any of my cake,” Rory declares gruffly. “Douchebag kicked down my door.”
“Mick, please,” Barry pleads, dialing up puppy eyes to 1000. “Ollie is really good at, like, cooking things, too. He can help!”
Rory folds pathetically fast, Oliver observes. Even Oliver lasts longer against that look. “Fine,” Rory grunts and slides a plate over with two big pieces of cake, one pink and the other a dark chocolate. “But I won’t like it. And I fully plan on doing the exact opposite of what he says.”
“You’re awesome, Mick,” Barry nods assuredly. “Snart's going to say yes—again—for sure... Eat the cake, Ollie," he urges when he sees Oliver just staring blankly at his plate. "So good. Look, Mick—I love the barbecued ribs, I think I could marry them…”
Oliver huffs and stabs at his cake.
“…But it’s a little messy. Besides, I’m telling you that Len waxed poetic about the freaking bolognese. So I think it beats the ribs, the pesto chicken, and the curry. And the curry actually made me weep in joy, so this is saying something.”
“Barry,” Oliver says, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “How much did you eat while we thought you were being tortured by your kidnapper?”
“I’m so full,” Barry beams at him, deliriously happy while he pats his belly.
*
“Any sign of him?” Cisco’s voice crackles through the comms as Oliver makes his way through the dense forest. “This is so bad, man. Grodd hates The Flash. We’ve got to find him.”
“I’m working on it, Cisco,” Oliver whispers warningly under his breath as he crouches, trying to pick up the trail of either Barry or the gorilla again.
Wind gusts against his cheek and boots skid by him abruptly.
“Woah!” Barry whispers. “Oli—Arrow! What are you doing here?”
“Ba—you were kidnapped by a killer telepathic gorilla three days ago. Where else would I possibly be?” Oliver stands, running a critical eye over Barry. His lip is busted and bleeding, and the right side of his face is a startling black and blue underneath his torn cowl. Also, Barry is tenderly clutching at his ribs and clearly struggling to breathe. Despite this, he smiles at Oliver, relieved tears in his eyes.
He goes to talk, but coughs up blood instead.
“Holy shit,” Oliver mutters, stepping closer, eyes darting to the tree line and toward the direction that Barry came from. “Holy shit, are you OK? Are you being followed?”
“I—yeah, I got away and I think—I think I trapped him for now but we’re… gonna need help to…” Barry’s sluggish speech wavers as he blinks confusedly. He starts teetering to the side and Oliver hurriedly catches him, taking on his weight.
“Oh my God, oh my God, fuckfuckfuck, oh my God,” Cisco is chanting in Oliver's ear. “His suit is back online and his vitals are starting to plummet. Please tell me you got him.”
“I got him,” Oliver vows fiercely. “I got him. Come and get us, Cisco.”
*
Barry’s just leaving the precinct, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and typing out a reply to Iris when a cable wraps around him, trapping his arms to his sides. Barry has enough time to blink before he’s abruptly being hauled by the cable two stories into the air and then swung over to dangle a few feet above a rooftop.
“Not again,” Barry sighs resignedly, but perks up when a familiar laugh stretches across the rooftop.
Oliver steps from the shadows, bow in hand, and looks up at Barry with a boyish grin that never fails to turn Barry into a puddle of goo. “Barry, I think you’re the only superhero I know who gets kidnapped more than he doesn’t.”
Barry just smiles stupidly down at him, shifting excitedly in a way that makes him swing back and forth faster. “Ollie! I thought you had that huge conference this weekend.” He blinks, finally registering that it was Oliver who had captured him this time. “Whaaat are you doing?”
Oliver reaches up, stops Barry’s swaying and stands on his toes to kiss him. “I’m kidnapping you.”
-
It turns out that Oliver’s version of ‘kidnapping’ meant whisking him away to a remote cabin where Oliver plied Barry with pasta, ice cream, and candlelight in an attempt at romance that quickly devolved into a lot of wild monkey sex.
Like now, for instance.
“You have a standing invitation to kidnap me any time,” Barry murmurs as he rocks desperately against him. Oliver runs his hands down Barry’s bare back, digs his nails into the soft cotton of Barry’s underwear, kneading at the flesh beneath.
“Don’t know,” Oliver responds thoughtfully, moving to trail kisses down the column of Barry’s neck. “Seems like there’s a lot of competition.”
“I’m in high demand,” Barry agrees, hand eagerly moving towards the waistband of Oliver’s sweats.
Which is when their door is kicked down.
“Oh,” Leonard Snart drawls, tilting his head as he takes in the scene, considering gaze so intense that it makes Barry flush with embarrassment and elicits a glare from Oliver. “It looks like our rescue mission is a bust, Mick.”
Mick frowns, holstering his heat gun and moving into the kitchen where he promptly takes out a beer. “You’ve been missing for hours, kid.”
“Oh my God,” Barry cries, mortified. “Please get out.”
“Imagine our concern when Ramon called us up and told us that Barry was missing,” Snart smirks as he sits in a chair, crosses his legs, and folds his hands on top of his knees, making it obvious that he has zero intention of leaving. The bastard. “Of course, being the altruistic criminals we are, we agreed to rescue Central’s beloved hero from his Kidnapper of the Week.”
Barry looks at Snart sharply over his shoulder, mouth opening in some retort when Mick interrupts with, “I brought you cake, kid. It’s in the car.”
“Yes!” Barry pumps his fist in the air and in a blink he and Oliver are somewhat dressed (Barry in his own sleep pants plus Oliver’s shirt, Oliver's pants pulled up but shirt forgotten in favor of cake) and Barry is at the cabin’s kitchen table, already shoveling cake into his mouth.
Oliver sighs, gets up, retrieves a beer, and leans against the counter next to Rory, watching as Barry eats cake and gets increasingly incensed at Snart, who keeps poking at him with drawling, barbed comments.
“You shouldn't forget the ransom note,” Rory advises. And then, after a thoughtful moment he adds, “Or mix them up.”
end.