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Barry no longer knows whose car they’re driving.
They’d got it in a busy Walmart parking lot a little after seven in the afternoon, five hours after they’d peeled out of Central at 10 miles an hour over the speed limit. It wasn’t far enough to empty the tank but also wasn’t close enough that Len thought it was too dangerous to stop.
Barry had thought they were going to be chased. He’d envisioned the rear view mirror taken up with a whirligig of blue and red flashing lights. So far, though, it didn’t seem like they were being pursued at all.
“You can’t hotwire new cars,” explained Len as Barry stood outside in the parking lot, keeping watch. He touched a couple of wires together and the 80s Ford Ute came to life with a throaty growl. “They’re all computers and shit.”
That had been in Lexington, Nebraska. They’re well into Wyoming now.
***
Barry knows three things in life:
- The man in yellow killed his mum.
- His dad is innocent.
- If he sleeps, the yellow man will kill him too.
So every night he lines up his alarm clocks, 8 in total, set to go off on the hour, every hour until morning. He goes through the day in a fugue but it’s better than being dead.
***
Barry bolts upright in his seat, waking up all at once. It’s light outside the car. It had been pitch dark when he fell asleep.
He unbuckles his seatbelt with shaking hands and slips down from the Ute’s cab to the ground. Each step he takes fills him with more and more anger. When he locates Len he’s in the back of the tray, lying down with a smoke in his mouth. He rises lazily when he catches sight of Barry and shimmies forward so his legs are dangling off the back. He doesn’t expect the fist Barry aims at his face.
“Why didn’t you wake me!?” Barry all but screams. “I told you to wake me!”
Len rubs at his cheek and there’s barely contained fire in his eyes. “You don’t hit me. Ever.”
Barry takes a step back, the anger and the fear bleeding away suddenly. Now he just feels guilty. In a calmer voice, he asks, “Why didn’t you wake me?”
Len hops off the back of the tray and gives Barry a wide berth as he walks back to the driver’s side door. Barry expects Len to break his heart then and there. He can almost hear the words in his voice: “There is no yellow man. You’re being stupid.”
“Because you don’t need to worry about him,” Len says instead, hoisting himself up into the cab. “I have your back.”
***
Barry first sees Len at the supermarket.
He’s trailing behind an old man, putting whatever he’s told into the trolley. When the old man goes ahead, he looks around to see if anyone’s watching and then he sneaks a book of some sort into the waistband of his jeans and hides it under his shirt.
“What are you looking at?”
Barry turns and he sees Iris West approach, the daughter of his foster father. He hopes she hadn’t seen what the boy had done. He’s suddenly and unexplainably protective of the stranger.
She comes up to the store’s window and looks in. “That’s Leonard Snart. He’s a psycho.”
Iris is a kind person with hardly a bad word to say about anyone so that judgement coming from her is shocking. “Why do you say that?”
Iris steps back with a shrug. “He went to our school, before his mother’s accident.”
“What accident?”
“Car crash. She died, and then his dad was sent to jail.” She pauses in respect of the loss. “It’s sad but it’s no reason to turn criminal.”
“What do you mean, criminal?”
“Car thefts and stuff. He’s only just got out of juvie.”
“Really.”
Barry looks back at Len and for a second their eyes meet.
***
They’re sitting at a gas station, watching the world go by.
“You have to smile,” Len says to him, “or people get suspicious.”
So Barry puts on his best, most innocent smile as they share a pack of crisps between them. It’s not that hard; he’s actually enjoying his life on the run.
There’s all kinds of people at a highway gas station. There’s the tourists with their maps spread out over their car’s hood; business people in their sleek imports who pump the gas, go pay and then are gone, no dilly-dallying; locals who stop to chat to other locals at the bowser or the counter. Barry looks at them and wonders where they came from, where they’re going.
There’s a couple by a motorbike and they’re leaning into each other, kissing. Not sweet, chaste kisses; the only reason what they’re doing isn’t public indecency is because they’ve got clothes on. Barry stares at them a little too hard and then looks away in embarrassment.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Len asks, looking out at the anonymous people going about their days.
Barry picks at his sleeve. “No.”
“Boyfriend?” he asks, and this time he turns to see Barry answer.
“No,” Barry repeats and then wonders if he was supposed to fight the question instead of answering it. Is Len about to tease him or maybe even abuse him?
But Len just settles back on his elbows and remarks casually, “Me neither.”
“Okay,” Barry says. “Cool.”
And before he can really give that exchange much more thought, Len is pushing himself to his feet and dusting off the seat of his jeans.
“C’mon,” he says to Barry, offering him a hand up as casual as can be. “That guy left his keys in his car.”
***
“My mum’s dead, too,” Barry says.
“Well, congratulations,” Leonard says with an eye roll. He doesn’t look at Barry, just continues picking up trash with the claw gripper. Barry trails behind him as he moves from one piece of rubbish to the next.
“I saw you yesterday. At the supermarket. Is that your grandfather?”
Len scowls. “Go away.”
But Barry doesn’t go away. He dogs Len’s steps around the park for several minutes in silence. Len still won’t look at him.
“I saw you yesterday,” Barry repeats, but tries a different approach this time. “You’re a criminal.”
“So, what?” And Len doesn’t sound surprised or defensive. “Are you going to tell on me?”
Barry’s confused as to why Len would jump to that assumption. That hadn’t been what he meant. He’d been trying to say that he was truth worthy. He’d seen what Len was and he hadn’t judged and, more importantly, he hadn’t dobbed.
“I’m Barry. What’s your name?”
He already knows, obviously, but he wants Len to talk to him.
“I don’t have time for this. Go home, Barry.”
Barry likes the way his name sounds coming out of Len’s mouth.
***
They ditch their current ride on the outskirts of Star City and take the metro into the city centre, running through the echoey underground corridors and jumping the ticket gates with reckless abandon. It’s midnight and no one gives them a second look.
They slip easily through the crowds once downtown, completely anonymous and unnoticed. No one cares that they’re teenage runaways who’re 1,700 miles and 4 days away from home. Len’s no doubt got a warrant out for his arrest and Barry’s probably listed as an accessory but right now it doesn’t matter.
Len can pick pockets. Barry only learns this when a man grabs him by the wrist and demands, “give it back.”
Len tries to pull away but the man’s holding on tight. He bristles and that’s how Barry knows the man’s not lying. Chin cocked, Len asks, “Give what back?”
“You know damn well what I mean,” the man replies, shaking Len.
Len kicks out at him but he can’t get much leverage, being pushed and pulled as he is.
“Let go of me, you psycho!”
Then Len yells out in pain as the man twists his wrist in an unnatural direction and Barry sees red. He jumps on the guy’s back and it does get him to let go of Len but he shakes Barry off easily enough and the wind’s knocked out of him when he hits the ground.
But out of nowhere, someone’s hitting the guy over the head with a backpack. He goes down and then Barry, Len and their saviour go off running like the hounds of hell are nipping at their heels.
They only slow down a couple of blocks later when they’re sure they’re safe. They’re all laughing, the kind of relieved outburst that explodes out of you after you’ve had a close call.
The guy who helped them is their age and he extends his hand in Barry’s direction after they catch their breath. “I’m Oliver.”
“Barry,” he says, shaking Oliver’s hand. “And that’s Len.”
***
“A pity, Leonard. You were doing so well.”
Those are the words that start it all.
They’re behind the maintenance shed and garage where Len had gone to collect cleaning equipment but found Barry peering over the fence at him instead.
Len hastily crushes the cigarette he’d been smoking underfoot as the supervisor approaches them. Barry does the same with his own while at the same time trying to hide the small bottle of Jack Len had just handed him behind his back. He’s hoping the fence between them will obscure the pool supervisor’s view. Barry knows their words of only a few minutes ago come back to them both.
“No foster home for me. I’m going to stay with my grandpa and sister.”
“They’ll never let you go. They want to keep everyone.”
“Come with me,” says the supervisor, reaching out for Len. “I’ll have to let child welfare know.”
“Don’t touch me,” Len says, bristling, as he steps out of reach of the man.
“Calm down.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“It’s okay.” The supervisor keeps approaching, hands raised, backing Len up against the fence Barry is on the other side of. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Don’t touch me.”
The punch happens quickly and then the man is on the ground. He’s still – so still – and he’s cut his head in the fall. Barry watches transfixed as bright red blood gathers in the wound and then, overflowing, drip-drip-drips on the ground.
Len is pacing manically, hands on his head, his lips moving around a quiet repetition of: “fuck, fuck, fuck.” He drops to his knees and starts rummaging around in the supervisor’s pockets until he finds a set of keys and then he’s heading for the van. He starts it up and puts it in reverse, knocking down the fence and sending Barry reeling back. Before Len has the chance to accelerate away, Barry runs for the passenger side door and lets himself in.
As soon as his door bangs shut, the van races off.
***
Oliver is rich but he hates his parents. He’s got all the money in the world but he dresses like he shops exclusively at thrift stores. He’s supposed to be the son of a renowned businessman but his hair is overdue for a cut – always falling into his eyes until Oliver gives a flick of his head and sends it out of the way until next time – and he’s got an artful five day shadow going on.
He takes them back to his mansion on the outskirts of the city, totally empty for the night. His parents are at a black tie gala, he says, and won’t be back until tomorrow; his sister is at a friend’s house; and all the staff have left for the day.
They raid his father’s collection of expensive whiskey and don’t appreciate it one bit as they throw it back like water. Oliver is laidback and he listens to their story without judgement. Barry likes him immediately but Len is unexplainably hostile.
“You can stay here as long as you like,” Oliver offers. “My parents won’t even notice.”
Len scowls.
“Who’s this?” Barry asks, holding out a photo of two girls that’s on the mantelpiece.
Oliver leans forward and squints, then collapses back in his chair. “My sister, Thea, and my girlfriend, Laurel.”
“Where’s she tonight? Your girlfriend?”
“Studying,” he answers with an eye roll. “She’s great, though. Just a little too serious sometimes.”
Barry pictures the two of them together. They’d make a cute looking couple. Perfect for the photo shoots Oliver says he’s subjected to as part of his parents’ social position and work. Barry looks to Len and his heart aches.
“Which way’s the toilet?” Barry asks, needing a moment to himself.
Oliver pushes himself up and out of his chair. “Let me show you.”
As they exit the room and walk along the corridor, Oliver asks, “How do you know Len?”
Barry considers the question. “I don’t, I suppose,” he admits, “not really. We’ve been thrown together by chance.” That’s true, they have only known each other 4 days, but it also belittles what relationship they do have, so Barry feels obliged to add, “I trust him, though.”
“So not your boyfriend.” Oliver doesn’t say it like it’s a question. He backs Barry into a wall and leans in close and the only response Barry can muster is hysterical laughter.
“No,” Barry confirms, even though it wasn’t a question. He grabs Oliver by the upper arms. “What are you doing?”
Oliver nuzzles into the side of Barry’s face and his beard tickles. “You’re really hot.”
Barry pushes him back. “I thought you said you had a girlfriend.”
“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” He leans in and kisses Barry, his tongue flicking out teasingly against Barry’s lips and for a second Barry lets him do it because it’s nice to be wanted.
Then he pushes Oliver back for the second time. “But I’d know.”
Oliver falls back against the wall beside Barry, chuckling amiably. “You’re a good man, Barry Allen.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Oliver Queen.”
“I wish that was true.” He pushes off the wall and stumbles for a second, finally getting his feet steady under him. “The bathroom’s that door up there. I’ll just…” He gestures back the way they’d come.
Barry’s eye follow the movement of his hand and land on Len, standing at the other end of the corridor, watching.
***
Len continues his mantra of: “fuck, fuck, fuck,” until they’re out in the suburbs, heading west out of Central.
He suddenly swerves to the side of the road and Barry has to grab onto the dashboard to stop himself flying into the front windscreen. Len gets out, slamming his door behind him and Barry’s on edge. The image of Len’s fist connecting with the supervisor’s face is still fresh in his mind and he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to defend himself.
Len yanks his door open and states quite plainly, “this is where you get out.”
Barry doesn’t want to get out. If Len’s running away, he wants to go too. It’s not like there’s anything keeping him in Central. His mum is dead and his dad is behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. Joe, his foster dad, doesn’t believe him and will only take him to visit his real dad once a month. He has no friends, no other family. Perhaps if he runs, the man in yellow won’t be able to find him.
“This isn’t funny,” says Len, his voice going high in distress. The quick stop reminded Barry that in all the excitement he’d forgotten to put on his seatbelt. He rectifies that now, the strap going into the buckle with a decisive click. “I’ve got no use for you,” Len continues, but it lacks sincerity and Barry knows he’s already won.
Len kicks at the gutter. “Fuck!” Then he slams Barry’s door closed and goes back around to the driver’s side.
They peel away from the curb.
***
The next morning Barry wakes up with Len wrapped around him and takes a minute to enjoy it. The inside of his head feels gritty and his stomach feels like a garden gone to seed but he wouldn’t change this for anything. He feels safe with Len, completely and unquestioningly. Last night was the most restful night of sleep Barry’s ever had and he wonders how he spent all those years sleeping one hour at a time.
“You awake?” he asks, tracing a finger along Len’s hairline.
“Mmm,” murmurs Len, turning into the pillow.
Barry continues to trace the lines of Len’s face: the sharp angle of his jaw, the lines that have been creased around his mouth from when he smiles, the furrowed curve of his brow. Len shakes his head with a huff and rolls on top of Barry, tickling him mercilessly. Barry wriggles and squirms to get away from his touch, laughing until he’s out of breath.
Then Leonard stills and what air Barry has left seems to go out of his lungs like a catastrophic hull breach in space. He looks up at Len’s stormy eyes, gentled by the early morning light, and wishes he could swim in them forever.
The moment Barry convinces himself that nothing is going to happen, that he’s let his overactive imagination get the better of him, is the moment Len leans down and presses their lips together in the softest of kisses.
When he goes to move away, Barry chases him, winding his arms around Len’s neck and pulling him back down.
They’re broken apart by the sound of a door shutting. Leonard’s the first on his feet but Barry’s not far behind, grabbing the backpack they share at the last minute. They tiptoe out of the guest room Oliver had left them in last night and along the corridor to the balcony. Once there, they peek out over the banister and down on the entrance hall below. A couple who Barry can only guess are Oliver’s parents are hanging up their coats on the hall stand, a young girl coming in after them. Oliver comes to greet them, and he’s dressed like a young Republican and his hair is combed back neatly, his face clean-shaven and he smiles at his parents and kisses them as they exchange greetings.
When they go through into the kitchen, Len makes a quiet motion at Barry and then they sneak down the stairs – stealing a set of keys off the hallstand on the way – and out the door.
***
“There was a man.”
Len’s eyes flick to Barry, prompting, and then go back to the road, but it takes a little longer before Barry works up the nerve to continue. He’s never told this to anyone who believed him and if Len doesn’t either, it might wreck him.
“A man dressed all in yellow. When I was eleven, he came into my house and killed my mum.” Once he’s started, the words tumble out of him without effort. “They said my dad did it, but I was there. I saw. It wasn’t him. It was the man in yellow. He was covered in lightning and his eyes glowed red. My dad told me to run…”
Barry comes to a stop as quickly as he’d begun. He knows the stuff about the yellow man is the bit that makes him sound crazy. Sometimes he’s almost convinced he did make it up. But he knows his dad would never hurt his mum, so the yellow man had to be real.
Barry looks to Len but his face is expressionless. He can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s not saying anything either, so Barry finishes the story.
“They locked him up for it, but he didn’t do it and I don’t know how to convince them he’s innocent. They think the trauma made me make up this story about the yellow man but I know what I saw.”
“Barry Allen…” Len says ruminatively and Barry can see the moment it clicks. “You’re Henry Allen’s kid. I remember when that happened.”
Barry wrings his hands together. “Do you believe me?”
Len shrugs as well as he can with both hands on the steering wheel. “I don’t have any reason not to.”
It’s not a resounding yes, but it’s more faith than anyone has put in his story, ever. Barry would take a maybe over a flat no any day.
“He’s after me, too. I just know it,” Barry admits and feels breathless afterwards. Child psychologists had described this aspect of the story as obsessive paranoia stemming from childhood trauma. To Barry it’s just the plain truth. He knows it like he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. He’s always felt watched, hunted. “So I can’t sleep. Not more than an hour at a time. Okay? You have to wake me.”
Again, Len answers like it takes him no effort at all to go along with Barry’s story – whether he believes it or not. “Sure.”
***
They reach the ocean just as the sun is setting.
Barry takes off his shoes and socks and goes out onto the sand. It’s still sun-warm and for a moment he stands there, enjoying the dying heat of the day. The waves lap at his feet as he strides forward, going in until it’s almost at his knees.
He screams at the horizon until he’s out of breath.
Len is waiting by the car when he comes back. Barry kisses him as he passes, just because he can. He takes some delight in leaving sandy footprints in the Queen’s fancy car as he finds a pair of dry (but not clean) pants in their bags in the backseat and changes into them.
Len helps Barry climb up on the Maserati’s hood once he’s changed and then follows after him, not trying to be gentle on the car’s body. They lay back against the windscreen and watch as the sun sinks into the sea in a blaze of purples, pinks and reds. Barry reaches across and finds Len’s hand and squeezes.
It feels like a dead-end in some ways. They’ve gone as far west as it’s possible to go without getting on a boat or plane; there’s nowhere else to run to. Back home Barry’s dad is still in jail, and the yellow man is still after him. So perhaps Barry should feel disappointed – but mostly he just feels accomplished. It feels like they’ve done something, even if it isn’t a big something.
“We can’t keep running forever,” Barry notes, in the same tone as he would mention the weather. Just stating the obvious.
“No,” replies Len, and he doesn’t sound particularly perturbed either, “I suppose we can’t.”
“It’s been fun, though,” Barry looks to Len, “hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” says Len, hooking an arm around Barry’s shoulders and pulling him closer, “it sure has.”