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Water's cold. He'd asked maintenance to turn the heat off when they left for the night. Only the pool lights are on, casting mesmerizing, writhing reflections against the white paint chipping from the walls.
He begins another lap. And another. 54. 55. 56. 57.
With each kick and stroke, the headline plays like a terrible song: MAYOR SNART ENGAGED. MAYOR SNART ENGAGED.
And then, crashing behind his eyelids, the photo of his little sister holding a petite blonde woman, both smiling with their eyes more than their mouths.
A woman.
MAYOR SNART ENGAGED.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Lenny?"
"Sara Lance is a fencing instructor. Born in Star City, she moved to Central for career opportunities, and stayed for our Mayor..."
"You mean you'd—? Do you realize how disgusting that sounds? You're a guy."
"The couple plan to have a summer wedding with a private reception..."
He shoves his head above water, white knuckles gripping the pool's edge. His free hand yanks off his blue goggles.
MAYOR SNART ENGAGED.
Leonard Snart puts his forehead between his arms. He stays there a few breaths, silent in the cold.
It's late; he should get out. Go home. Maybe review the new designs for the Rathaway building. Just—get out.
In one seamless movement, Len lifts himself from the water and stands, wiping stray drops from his eyes. Reluctantly, he traipses to the locker room. Truthfully he can't stand public showers, but when he swims he makes an exception. Going home stinking of chlorine is so much worse.
Quick and efficient, he removes his trunks; scrubs himself down; runs shampoo over his shaved head. And all the while, that terrible song plays.
After getting disowned by his family for coming out as a pansexual, Len was forced to strike out on his own. He worked odd jobs for a while to keep himself in school, got himself a patron for college by getting good at sucking him off. Once he got his Physics degree, he moved on to Mechanical Engineering. Didn't use any of it though, since he decided to apply himself to architecture instead.
Now he's one of the most respected employees at Palmer Industries' Central Branch. He has a spacious apartment he designed himself in the heart of his beloved city, with a couple close friends and everything.
But the name he puts to paper is Leonard Winters. He wishes that didn't make such a huge difference. Wishes that when his baby sister was running for Mayor, he didn't have to hide among the crowds to see her smile. Wishes that, when she got elected, he could've been at her side with their mother. Rehearsed her speech with her, helped her campaign.
Len sighs through his nose, shouldering his duffle and making his way towards the gym exit. He nurses a water bottle on the way, not so much to keep hydrated as giving himself something to do.
The bomb explodes just as he's reaching for the door handle.
Someone's carrying him. Someone warm and firm.
"Stay with me, buddy," a gruff voice is saying, "stay with me."
Glasses gone, Len can't see the man's face. That voice, though—filled with smoke as it is, Len enjoys its cadence, almost as if he's heard it plenty of times before and is just now remembering how special it is. Like an old friend speaking to him after years of separation.
Or maybe he got hit on the head and is hallucinating. Who knows?
He's put on something hard yet soft. A few ragged coughs force themselves out of his throat.
"Sir?" another voice, firm, feminine, "I'm going to put an oxygen mask over you. Try to relax and keep breathing."
Len passes out before it reaches his face.
It's a bit hazy after that. Good news is that gruff voice returns.
"Might have a concussion, so I'm gonna ask you some questions. What city are you in?"
Len blinks slowly. "Central," he croaks, "Central City."
He still can't see the owner of that voice, only a blurry outline.
"Age?"
"Forty-three."
"And your name?"
Without thinking, Len replies, "Leonard Snart."
The blur pauses. "Says here you're Winters."
Len squeezes his eyes shut. "Yes, I—yes, it's...I changed it to Winters."
Another pause. "Well, if you can remember all that, guess you're good there. You want your glasses? Kinda look like a wet cat with all your squinting."
Len snorts. "I would appreciate it."
Heated, calloused fingers hand them over. Len puts them on, and ah. As he suspected, he's in a hospital room. Both his legs have casts on them, and hurt like a son of a bitch. Won't be swimming for a while, then. His arms and torso have bandages, probably scrapes from breaking his fall.
As for his rescuer—oh, fuck him.
Broad-shouldered, muscled, with facial hair and a dirty fireman's uniform. Everything Len ever fantasized about since he learned what wet dreams were.
Yet, strangely, he looks incredibly familiar.
In light of this, Len has to ask: "Have we met before?"
Fortunately, the man looks just as intrigued, slightly narrowing his eyes and tilting his head a couple noticeable centimeters. "Don't think so," he grunts. Then, smirking, "I woulda remembered."
Len's heart monitor spikes. The fireman's smirk widens and Len wants to dunk himself in cold again.
"Mick Rory."
Len shakes his hand. "I suppose giving my name would be redundant."
"S'ppose it would."
When their hands drop, Len takes a deep breath. His lungs have cleared of smoke, thankfully. "So," he says after a beat, "why was there a bomb in a deserted gym?"
Mick shrugs a shoulder, plopping himself in a nearby chair. "Beats me," he says, clasping his hands on his stomach, "gorgeous flames, though."
Len raises an eyebrow. "'Gorgeous flames'?"
Mick's lip curls. "I didn't get into this business for the glory. I just like fire."
"Well, well. A pyromaniac who puts out fires."
"Actually, I don't do jack shit with the hoses. I run straight in."
"Lucky me."
Mick chuckles and something in Len eases. Unbidden, a thought flashes through his mind: Haven't heard that in a while.
"Are you sure we haven't met before?" he asks again.
"Feels like we have, don't it?" Mick replies. "Ever been to juvie?"
"Do I look like a criminal to you?"
"You'd be surprised."
Len rolls his eyes. "No, I've never been to juvie."
"Well, you've got a few years on me, so I don't think we coulda met in high school."
"Oh? And how many years exactly do I have on you?"
"I'm thirty-nine."
"Hm. You look older."
"You say that to all the guys?"
"Mick."
It's like a jolt shocks the room.
Len has never snapped like that before. To anyone. It'd just been—he doesn't know. Instinct?
Mick pushes to his feet. Approaches Len's bedside, eyes narrowing again. He practically glows with heat, and Len's torn between balking and basking.
At length, Mick says, "I'm gonna do somethin' I don't normally do. You don't like it, you turn the other way."
Len nods. He's pretty sure he's not gonna turn down this kiss, though.
He's wrapped his arms around Mick's neck when the door bursts open, shoving them apart.
Len's jaw drops.
"Lisa?"
Because that's his baby sister, dressed in a rumpled black business suit, eyes wide and chest heaving like she'd sprinted all the way here in her devastatingly high heels.
Mick breaks the silence by pointing between them. "You know the Mayor?"
"Fuck." The word drags from Lisa's throat in a broken hiss. "They said my family would be targeted, but I didn't think they knew about—"
Over Mick's surprised noise, Len demands, "Someone threatened you? Who?"
Lisa responds with a tearful laugh. "After what I said—what I did to you, you're worrying about me?"
Oh. Oh, oh, oh, please let him have this.
Len dares a tiny smile and says, "I always worry about you, sis."
"Wait," Mick interrupts, "Sis?"
An unfamiliar man shouts, "Mayor Snart, are you saying that you have a brother?!"
A camera flash momentarily blinds Len, leaving him blinking rapidly. Lisa's face twists behind her curtain of hair.
"Vultures," she whispers.
Mick stomps to the door, slamming it shut. He draws the blinds next. "Security sucks ass around here," he says.
"Then you're not staying here," Lisa immediately tells Len.
"Wh—Lise—"
"I know I can't make up for what happened, Lenny." Fuck, when was the last time she called him that? "But I can damn well take care of you now. You're staying with me, under my personal security detail, until this Trickster character is apprehended."
She's so sure of herself. A full grown woman, who doesn't need her big brother—hasn't for a long time. Len's heart gives a wrenching lurch.
Then she abruptly slumps. Cautiously, she approaches his bedside and reaches for his hand. Len readily gives it to her, savoring the contact.
"I'm sorry, Lenny," she whispers, "After all the things Dad said—I let myself believe every word, and—the way I treated you..."
Len pulls her into a tight hug. Lisa tenses, and for a terrifying second he's sure he just made the wrong move. Next second she's hugging him back. He hasn't been so close to tears since the day his home was closed to him.
Mick interrupts again: "This is touching an' all, but those 'vultures' are still out there, and I'm pretty sure that Trickster guy knows how to wire a hospital. You get him a chair, I'll call CCFD."
He makes to leave. Len's suddenly struck with desperation, as if he'll never see Mick again if he walks out that door.
"Mick!" he turns. Len pulls him into another kiss. "I promise to remember you next time."
Mick grins, "Lookin' forward to it."