Chapter Text
Ten minutes, thirty-five seconds: that’s how long it takes before Mick Rory finds a match.
No, not the late-forties Mick Rory she met when he bodily hauled Caitlin away from her car, tied her to a chair (explosive included, free of charge), and ran her blood cold with a speech about fire that would put the most earnest and devoted of worshippers to shame before their chosen altar. This is the Mick Rory after fourteen years of life and the events of a single evening have left him an orphan – none of which would be her problem, except for someone named Rip Hunter and his master plan which, from what Caitlin has since gathered, has gone spectacularly off the rails.
Really, it sounds like a masterpiece of colossal miscalculations and erroneous judgment. It should be studied.
“We don’t trust Rip as far as we can throw him,” Snart and Rory showed up at S.T.A.R. Labs two hours ago and went straight into a bullet-point explanation that somehow circled back to documenting why Rory has a fourteen-year-old’s shoulder in a vice grip and Snart is holding a little blue-blanketed bundle of cherub cheeks, “and we would really prefer to not be erased from the fabric of time. So, if you all would be so kind as to keep an eye on these two, we’ll be back to take them off your hands in good time.”
“Soon as we’re done cleanin’ up another of Hunter’s messes.” Rory adds, jerking the boy’s shoulder in an unnecessary show of force, then he shoves the kid forward and into a chair. There is some distinct psychological undercurrent at play here, that this boy is supposed to be Mick Rory’s younger version and he’s being manhandled like a prisoner of war.
Call her a bleeding heart, considering this kid grows up to be the same man who put a heat gun in her face, but Caitlin feels a twinge of sympathy. Barry…not so much.
“I refuse to be responsible for you.” It’s not strictly uncommon for her to see Barry dig his heels in (quite the contrary, actually) but it is the first time she has seen him dig the heels in about twelve feet deep and not even crack at how cute baby Snart is. And yes, entirely ignoring the man he becomes, the pint-sized Leonard Snart is something out of baby magazines and memes on worldscutestbaby.com.
“You owe me for Mardon and Jesse.” Because of course Snart would pull that card out.
“And I didn’t throw your ass back in prison for breaking into my house and stealing hot chocolate.” Barry shoots back in rapid succession, “We’re even.”
“Come now, Barry,” Caitlin is trying valiantly to keep one ear on the conversation while also keeping an eye on the match being cradled in a teenager’s hand (and why do they even have matches in the cortex? When was the last time they ever used a match in the cortex? Did someone light a candle in here? Why are there matches in the cortex?!) and stroked like one might a cat, “you can’t honestly say no to a face like this.”
“Probably not,” so Barry isn’t oblivious to the ridiculous amount of cute being nestled in Snart’s arms, “but I can say no to your face. NO.”
“It’s just for a little while.”
“Time passes differently on that ship of yours.” Barry crosses his arms tightly, “You say ‘just a little while’ and the next thing I know, I’m paying to send you to college. Absolutely not.”
Mini-Mick has now lit the match. Caitlin very quietly pushes loose papers off to the corner and into one tidy pile, as far away from the little flame as possible.
“Barry, I am confident we can resolve this situation like civilized people.” Snart takes a step forward and neatly deposits his infant self into Barry’s folded arms, in such fashion that Barry is left with no alternative but to yield before the child goes straight to the floor, “You keep me tucked away safe and sound, and I don’t upload your sophomore yearbook photo to the world-wide web.”
Barry’s face equally carries a look of abject horror and utmost betrayal, “You…wouldn’t…dare.”
“I knew we could handle it like grown-ups.” Snart pats him on the head and jerks his head at Mick, “We’ll be back.”
“Hey you,” Rory growls at his younger self, who glares right back with all the unchecked defiance of youth against authority figures, “keep your paws to yourself. I find one hair outta place on the doc’s head, gonna kick your punk ass right up your throat.”
The threat might be chivalrous if not for the content – and that the adult has no right to make comment against the youth without walking himself to permanent residence in Hypocrite Ville.
The two walk out, with the air that they own the damn place, and Barry turns to face Caitlin with arms full of sleeping baby Snart and his face looking like he just swallowed a lemon.
“Trade you.” He says dryly.
“Not a chance.” Caitlin folds her arms to match Barry’s earlier stance, “I’ll take my chances with him.” She would feel a little guilty about addressing young Mick this way – except the kid is back to staring at a dwindling match and it’s obvious he neither hears nor cares what’s being said.
“Traitor.”
Caitlin lets herself smirk, “I give you two hours,” she purrs, wholly confident in every single word, “and that little thief-in-training will have you wrapped around his teeny fingers nine ways to Sunday.”
“Not a chance.” Barry huffs, a grumpy echo of her earlier assertion, then all-but stomps out of the cortex.
Come to think of it…make it one hour. Tops.
***
Caitlin’s apartment isn’t as much small as it is modest: a one bedroom unit with an open layout allowing full line-of-sight through the kitchen, dining area, and a rather spacious living room which – in addition to a few other amenities – ultimately sold her on the place. She knows the couch will be a little cramped, but young Mick doesn’t appear to take up too much space.
She smiles, just a little, to realize how much of a growth spurt the kid is preparing to experience.
“What’re you smiling about?” his dark eyes narrow suspiciously; he hasn’t moved from the far wall, arms tight across his chest, in the last half hour while she makes the couch into a bed and sets out fresh towels.
“Random thought. I have those now and then.” It almost warrants another smile to think how easy it is to talk to him, even when he’s giving attitude. Maybe because he hasn’t hit his full size and isn’t nearly as raw around the edges. Teenagers growling like wet cats, she seems to handle well enough. The adult version, volcanic and muscular and in love with the flame…different story.
“So what’s the deal with you and what’s-his-name? The jerk who threatened me?” after a moment’s pause, he drops onto the couch without once uncrossing his arms, “You’re his girl or something?”
“Hardly.” Caitlin fluffs a spare pillow and sets it on the armrest, “You hungry or you just want me to leave you alone?”
The look on his face answers that well enough. “Right.” She dusts her hands and nods briskly, “Sleep well.”
“You gonna lock your door?” the bitterness in his voice stops her mid-stride, “Wouldn’t want someone like me to just have free reign, would you?”
Caitlin is quiet for a time. A very long time, in fact. The ugliness twisting his young face and the bitterness, almost self-loathing, in his words is…difficult to comprehend. The Mick Rory she’s known, however reluctantly, is many things but he has never appeared wanting for self-image or an ego boost. He is unapologetic in every sense of the word. Aggressive. Ravenous. Hungry for life and all that is to be consumed in and through it. Raw and unchecked and terrifying because of it.
This boy glaring at her from the couch…is anything but.
“Sleep well, Mick.” She says, very softly, and closes her bedroom door. She doesn’t lock it.
***
Having to explain to Joe just why half Barry’s apartment has been converted into a nursery required elaborate fabrication and the use of a poker face which Barry knows is subpar on the best of days and just embarrassingly pathetic on the rest. Joe doesn’t entirely look like he buys it, and Barry breaks into a cold sweat with his brain going into overdrive – how could Joe possibly know this is the infant version of Leonard Snart, and how is he going to explain that—?
“Barry, I thought we established you can be honest with me.” Joe puts a heavy hand on Barry’s shoulder, and the reckless speed of his imagination screeches to a halt, replaced with profound confusion, “Of course, I thought we also discussed using proper protection, but I promised I wouldn’t judge you too harshly for it – as long as you really cared about her.”
Protection? Really cared about her? Who is ‘her’? Who—
Reality breaks over Barry’s head like a plate. Oh. Oh. OH.
“Joe, that…no. That’s not. I didn’t…” he can only imagine how many different shades of red his face is showing off right now, “That’s not…he isn’t mine.”
Joe’s eyes immediately narrow in obvious displeasure. “So she’s one of those girls?”
Oh sweet mother of Jesus… “No, no, no! It’s not like that at all!” now he’s sweating too…fantastic, “Joe, seriously, he isn’t mine. I mean, he is, for a few weeks. I’m fostering him.”
The suspicious glare is wiped away in record time, replaced by relief and a bit of intrigue, “Barry,” but at least Joe sounds pleased, even impressed, “you didn’t tell me you were a foster parent.”
“He’s a special case.” Barry wrangles his very best grin, “Being so young – and very cute – they’re confident they can find him a perfect home in no time.”
From the crib, a polite little coo calls for attention. Inside, a pair of bright blue eyes look up, bleary from sleep, and small hands paw lightly at the air. Something flutters in Barry’s stomach as he reaches down to collect the small shape in his arms. So very small. Fragile, even. He suddenly experiences a sense of protectiveness over something so delicate and vulnerable – not entirely for the first time, over the past few days, but this morning marks the first time when he didn’t immediately snap out of it just by remembering who this baby is. Or, rather, will become.
Joe chuckles as a tiny hand bats awkwardly at Barry’s chest, “What’s his name?”
“Leo.” It feels like a betrayal, oddly enough – Barry hasn’t forgotten the way Snart visibly tightened, as though physically injured by Lewis calling him by that name – but there’s nothing he can do. Strictly speaking, ‘Leo’ isn’t a lie anymore than it is a complete revelation of the boy’s true name.
“Good strong name.” Joe reaches out and gently strokes a head of downy fluff, “Better keep Iris away as much as possible. Face like that, she’ll try to convince you to adopt the kid yourself just so she can play favorite auntie.”
“Duly noted.” This time, the smile isn’t disingenuous – though Barry is forced to admit most of the smile is prompted by the sight of Leo rolling to the left and squishing his face against Barry’s chest.
…He’s already in deep.