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It's a little disappointing that breaking into the apartment of the Flash's civilian alter ego is so easy. The hero of Central City – and a CCPD senior detective's son on top – with the entire impressive array of S.T.A.R. Lab's resources at his disposal, and the kid doesn't even have a reinforced door or some kind of simple alarm system.
Not that any security bells and whistles would have been able to stop Leonard from getting in, but he likes the thrill of a challenge, and this... isn't it.
Then again, perhaps there's method in the sloppiness. There is absolutely nothing in the apartment worth stealing and, in fact, no clue that Barry Allen might be anything but the Central's most boring CSI, whose most valuable possession appears to be a reasonably new Playstation that might sell for a couple hundred dollars on eBay. Not even a hint of the kid's extracurricular activities.
Maybe Leonard should have broken into S.T.A.R. Labs instead, check out what else Team Flash might have up their sleeves to make his life more difficult. But as enlightening as that may have been, if Leonard had done that, he wouldn't have been able to snoop through Barry's personal belongings now. And even if they have no monetary value... There's a unique kind of thrill to poking around in his nemesis' personal life: the DVD collection that has too much sci-fi, the forensics textbooks with messy handwritten scribbles on the margins, the sickeningly domestic assortment of photos of his friends and his family on the shelves like a Who's Who of convenient targets for a villain with a grudge, the Big Belly Burger wrappings in the trash, the unmade bed.
The fridge is a sad wasteland, the kitchen cupboards full of mismatched tableware that Leonard would bet were passed down from the West family when Barry moved out. In the far back, Leonard finds a cupcake mix, expired half a year ago. Not a baker, then. Not much of a drinker either, apparently, but at least there are two bottles of beer in the fridge door.
Leonard grabs one of them and settles on the couch, leafing through Barry's old high school yearbooks as he waits for the Flash to come home.
*
The kid looks tired when he hauls himself inside at last, tense and dull-eyed, slow even by normal human standards.
It's well past midnight, and Leonard has finished the beer and his amusing little excursion into Barry's nerdy teenage years over an hour ago. If Barry were just any average guy, Leonard would assume he had a night out with friends, clubbing longer and harder than he perhaps should have. But there's a tell-tale bruise on the side of his neck going from his ear all the way down until it disappears underneath his collar, and when he shrugs off his jacket, the stiff, gingerly made movements speak of lingering aches and healing injuries.
Leonard watches him dispassionately from his position on the couch, cataloging the way he moves, the way he looks, the way he holds himself when he's alone and all the bravado and attitude fall away. From the way Barry doesn't even bother looking around the room, completely oblivious to having one of the Flash's top villains waiting for him in the dark, it's obvious that no-one seems to have told him yet that he shouldn't abandon his vigilance just because he's on his home turf, that no such thing as a safe house exists.
Good thing Leonard's here to teach him that particular lesson.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawls, powering up the Cold Gun in his lap with a flick of his finger, its faint blue glow illuminating the room.
There's something immensely satisfying about the instant reaction he receives: Barry stiffens and snaps around towards him. His spine goes rigid and arcing flashes of lightning buzz off his body like pretty little fireworks.
He still hasn't learned not to telegraph his intentions. Leonard can tell that the kid is gauging his chances of rushing straight at him, and he grips the gun a little tighter, subtly nudging it up so that the muzzle points right at Barry's suit-less, unprotected body. The implied threat seems to be enough to curb Barry's more reckless impulses, though not the kid's temper.
"Snart." Lightning dances in his eyes, but he stays put. Smart. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He looks pissed. Sounds pissed too. But beneath the anger, there's tiredness. Bone-deep exhaustion, like finding his nemesis in his living room isn't what's ruining his night, it's just the Cold Gun-powered icing on his shit-cake of a day.
It makes Leonard wonder just how badly the Flash's night had gone. Makes him want track down whoever left that impressive mark on Barry and remind them in no uncertain terms why leaving the Flash in such a state that a visit from Captain Cold becomes merely an afterthought is unacceptable.
The thought gives him pause. Check your priorities, Snart. When d'you start caring more about messing with the Flash than about the score? Mick's voice echoes in his head, and even though Leonard snapped at him back then to mind his own damn business, looking back... Maybe Mick hadn't been entirely wrong.
Doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, tonight Barry is the score.
Leonard leans back, spreading out and taking up as much space as he can without abandoning his stance, his finger still curled against the trigger. "Last time you came to see me on my turf. I thought I'd return the favor."
"I found you in a bar. You're in my living room!" Barry splutters, incredulous. "How's that even remotely the same thing?"
It's not the kind of question that's expecting an answer – which is a good thing, because Leonard has no intention of explaining that Saints and Sinners has been a steady haunt to him in a way some random warehouse he's squatting at could never be. Having the Flash in his safe house would have made him abandon the place, move to a different one. No harm, no foul. But if a hero with a chip on his shoulder starts showing up at his favorite bar to pester him for favors, that's a problem. Of course, seeing as how well it worked out for Barry the first time around, Leonard hopes the kid won't be so inclined to make a habit out of it.
He shrugs. "Want me to show up at Jitters instead next time? I hear your foster sister makes a mean latte." The remark is meant to push Barry's buttons, and it does. Barry jolts forward, but Leonard is ready, the Cold Gun already raised. "Careful now, Barry, or things will get frosty fast."
Barry stutters to a halt. "Leave Iris out of this. We have a deal. You can't just—"
"Relax, Scarlet. Not interested in breaking our agreement as long as it serves me well."
It's interesting how quickly Barry deflates, the fight draining out of him faster than it ever did during their previous run-ins. Usually he needs a bit more than some half-hearted assurances and a brush-off.
"What do you want, Snart?"
There it is again, the same twinge of weariness as before, as if he doesn't even have the energy to cling to the antagonism.
Leonard pushes himself up from the couch, curious to see how Barry is going to react. Wary green eyes flicker from the gun in Leonard's hand up to his face, but he holds his ground.
"Just wanted to check in on you. Last time we saw each other, things got a bit... tense."
Barry snorts. "You mean after you stabbed me in the back and then told me I owed you for it?"
The amount of righteous bitterness festering in Barry's words almost makes Leonard laugh. So the Scarlet Speedster still feels wronged over what happened at the airfield. Cute. Misguided, but cute.
"Not true," Leonard snaps, pointedly. "You'll find I did exactly what I promised to do. Helped you get the metas to safety, stepped in when you needed protection. Not my fault you never learned to be precise when negotiating a deal. Told you, you only have yourself to blame."
"Don't worry, it won't happen again," Barry mutters glumly. Conviction in his tone, like he's either sure he'll be more vigilant the next time or he thinks there's not gonna be a next time.
Leonard inclines his head. "We'll see."
He wouldn't bet on it. The kid's a bleeding heart, determined to think the best of people, even when he's already seen them at their worst. Else he'd have flashed himself out of here the moment he realized he wasn't alone and come back wearing his suit, ready to fight, instead of relying on the belief that Leonard isn't just going to ice him for the hell of it. For all his pretense at having learnt his lesson, the kid doesn't even seem to grasp how much he's trusting Leonard right at this very moment.
Under Leonard's sharp gaze, Barry fidgets and looks away, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. Leonard has seen him do it a dozen times, in and out of costume, a habitual gesture of nervousness that he probably doesn't even realize is a tell he should ruthlessly squash before someone takes advantage of it.
This time, it's cut short when Barry's fingers press down against the discolored skin at the edge of the bruise. With a wince, he pulls his arm back.
Holstering the Cold Gun, Leonard steps closer. He reaches out before he can stop himself, unable to resist the temptation of having the Flash under his hands, vulnerable and with his defenses down. When Leonard's fingers brush against Barry's neck, Barry flinches and gives him a wary look, but he doesn't move away.
Leonard keeps his touch light. The cold that the gun's core emits always transfers to his hands, leaving his fingers numb and frosty when he isn't wearing gloves, and the heat of Barry's skin is like a shock to his system. He traces the bruise from Barry's ear down the taut tendons of his neck to the neckline of the S.T.A.R. Labs sweatshirt he's wearing. Inserting a finger under the seam, Leonard pulls it to the side just enough to check if the discoloration stops there, unsurprised to see that it doesn't. If anything, the sweater hides the worst of the damage, the purplish tint of Barry's skin even more pronounced from his shoulder down.
Something curls in Leonard's gut, tense and unpleasant. He pushes the feeling aside before he can examine it too closely.
"Someone did a number on you," he comments with well-practiced nonchalance. He manages to make his tone mildly curious, bordering on appreciation. Like he's impressed by whoever left those bruises, instead of wanting to pay them a visit and turn them into a nice, solid block of ice.
He doesn't straight-up ask who it was, but Barry answers the implied question anyway. "Mardon. Turns out getting repeatedly hit with lightning isn't any more fun if you're a speedster."
Well. That explains Barry's lingering bitterness over the role Leonard played in setting the metas free.
His eyes are far too keen and observant, scrutinizing Leonard's face as the words hit home. Leonard isn't sure if he succeeds in hiding his reaction behind the impassive mask he used to have perfected before one Barry Allen started making himself a nuisance and a challenge in equal parts, burrowing under Leonard's skin with unshakable persistence and a spark in his eyes that has nothing to do with his powers.
Leonard hates the guilt that niggles at him even more than he hates the rush of protectiveness, the urge to put Mardon in his place for marking Barry up like that. Perhaps Leonard should have made himself clear when he let Mardon and the others escape that the Flash was off-limits until he said otherwise.
He puts the thought on ice for the time being. Something to revisit later, perhaps, to make Mardon and his friends remember who's top dog in Central.
"Maybe you need to stop trying to beat him at his own game. Play to your strengths instead. They keep calling you the fastest man alive." Leonard's mouth twists into a sneer. "Shouldn't be hard for you to dodge faster than your enemies can take aim."
For the first time since he came home, Barry smiles. It's a small, fragile thing, nothing like the sunny grin which Leonard's familiar with from their fights and that not even his cowl can conceal. But even the tired, scaled-down version reaches his eyes easily. "Are you sure you want to give me tactical advice I can use against you the next time I'm out to stop one of your heists, Snart?"
It should be Leonard's cue to get himself in check. To remember that they're enemies, and that every weakness Barry can't weed out is something Leonard can exploit to his advantage. But in the muted, late-night stillness of Barry's apartment, with Barry's bruised skin hot and tender under Leonard's fingers, it's hard to maintain the ruthlessness that comes so easy out there when it's Captain Cold vs. the Flash.
"You know I like a challenge," he quips drolly, and it's worth it to see Barry's mouth twitch as his smile grows.
Barry's pulse is a steady, enticing beat against Leonard's palm, and he lets his hand curve more firmly around the pale, defenseless neck. And Barry – who should know better than to trust a man who's already proven he has no qualms about hurting him, who appears to have already forgotten what Leonard told him when he had the Flash stretched out on his back on the asphalt at Ferris Air – sweet, upbeat Barry, who will take leaps of faith even when he's bruised up and beaten down, turns his head and leans into the touch instead of twisting away.
"Your hands are cold." His voice is quieter, softer, the snappy back-and-forth of their earlier banter drained away. "'t feels nice."
His eyes flutter shut, and his breath evens out. The blatant display of trust hits Leonard with the force of one of the Flash's lightning-fast punches.
"Careful," he bites out harshly.
The admonition is as much for himself as it is for Barry, a reminder to keep a cool head, to not let Barry's vulnerability affect him. Doesn't matter. Neither of them heeds the warning.
When Leonard moves, it's not to let go, or to tighten his hold on Barry's neck. There's a part of him that wants to. A part that still wants to teach the Flash a lesson, make sure he'll remember this time. The rest of him just wants Barry. And, well. He's a thief. Taking what he wants is what he does for a living.
He pulls Barry in, and Barry comes easily. His lips are soft and open under Leonard's, and he arches into the kiss with an unhurried familiarity as if they've done this a million times before.
Leonard lets his hand cover the bruise, and quietly vows to make Mardon pay for it.
End.