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He honestly should have seen a disaster like this coming, red flags abundant and coincidental failure fail-safes falling into place, metaphorical planets aligning to fulfill some sort of supremely inconvenient, embarrassing and possibly fatal prophecy - in other words, a beyond crappy day.
First Cisco visiting family across country, and then Caitlin and her Bio-convention, Iris's friend's wedding, Joe speaking at a not so local college, a stupid childhood recurring ear infection that he had hoped he would never experience again; he told them he'd be fine, but that’s clearly not the case when he has to reassure himself the same. Multiple times. Throughout the day.
He does not have separation anxiety.
Okay, maybe a little, but he is convinced the rolling in his stomach is completely unrelated, so he’s just going to sit down, eat a pizza or two at a normal speed, finish his paperwork from his actual job, maybe put on something and by repeated request, 'not do anything stupid'. It’s a friday night after all, he can do that, piece of cake.
Except the pizza doesn't show up, an offence he and the loud protest of his stomach cannot bear, and his paperwork isn't his, and seemingly by divine providence, his internet is out. Doing something stupid sounds not only extremely enticing, but also near unavoidable.
He isn't going to handle anything big, just do a quick sprint around the parks, downtown, a little uptown, swerve through the financial district, and then jog to Coast for pizza. It's a nice night, no need to rush it.
An especially nice night, actually, he thinks as he slows down into a normal jog. No sirens or explosions or rampaging gorillas, just late nightlife chatter far away, the warm summer cicada songs, he can even see the stars through the city-sky haze. A passing car reminds him he's only out for a quick patrol and then to much-anticipated dinner, the headlights get in his eyes, bounce off the expensively clean glass of the finance buildings, glimmer off a few signs, off a black van-
A van, on an otherwise empty street, outside a private ‘financial consulting firm', at 10:30pm. A freaking mini-van, with, very clear as he walks over in complete and utter blind frustration and disbelief, an unusual number of those vehicle family stickers - though it seems to be a single father and a excessively long line of children, which upon closer inspection resemble a certain band of criminals.
No. No. Yeah-No.
Okay, maybe it’s not who-what he thinks it is. Maybe it’s just a Rogues fan with a terrible sense of humor, that happens. Who also is a workaholic financier. Sure. He can hope, as he tugs on the locked building doors, he can hope, as he peers through and sees a light on in the back, he can ho- ...the light is flickering, and there’s smoke; the light is a fire.
Hope sucks.
He stomps through the doors in a buzz of vibration, a vague ringing and muffled voices carrying through the minimalist lobby, “A little more haphazard.” Yep, that’s Snart.
He keeps marching forward, all emotion and no thought, because honestly, he’s a team and a pizza short and for some reason, the Rogues rub him the wrong way. “What, like Picasso?” and that’s Mick.
“Just keep it under control. Baez, a little less preschool?” A bunch of talented people organizing themselves to put time, effort, and work into doing the wrong thing, again and again.
“I’m a pre-med con, not Banksy.” And lo and behold as he phases through the frosted glass wall into the fiery-lit back room, ears popping with the blare of the alarm, they’re at it again.
“Well-“ Snart starts and abruptly stops, hand falling from his chin, too stunned to even act cool - oh god - and the rest of his group follows suit; Mick with flaming ferns, Baez mid graffiti, Lisa leaning boxes next to the normal form of entry - the door, and some guy falling out of an office chair with a yelp.
He’s pretty sure he’s losing his mind, “It’s Friday!” He’s laughing, manically, desperately, and maybe it’s the smoke, but his eyes are watering too, “It’s. Friday!
The room is still, no sounds but the crackle of office supplies burning, the rhythm of the alarm, and the still spinning office chair, Snart tilts his head, blinks, “is that as far as your underwear of the week go or can we get back to business?”
“Snart.” He growls as he stabs a finger in Snart’s bubble of personal space, completely unintentionally despite his usually exceptional depth perception, but Snart just looks down at his index finger and manages to make a snort seem classy, to which his rebuttal is, “I thought you were better than hurting people.”
Snart’s eyes almost roll back into his head as he gently bats Barry’s accusatory gesture away, “I still am. Nobody home except us.” He gestures around to the disaster zone of property damage around him as if that’s supposed to help.
Barry returns the eye-roll, “-and setting off the alarm?” the shrill trill keeps running, seemingly unnoticed by the Rogues watching the verbal spat with extreme interest, and he makes special note of Lisa slipping Mick what can only be assumed is a bet.
Snart scoffs, “What alarm, Red?” offended by the very prospect, and the rest of the room seems to agree.
Alright, he suddenly feels very uncomfortable, “Uh, the ringing?” He asks, frustration boiling down to confusion and embarrassment, which is silly because these are criminals, criminals who don’t hear the very loud, very annoying, drone of high pitched clicks- his stupid ear infection.
His stupid ear infection that he could usually tell was not an actual sound, that should in no way be so bad, or loud, or- “You alright, Scarlet?” Right, Rogues, room on fire.
Okay, he’ll be fine.
He puts his hands on his hips, a stance many have mocked him for, but he’s still using anyway, “I’m fine, but you-“ the bottom drops out of the world, but mostly his stomach. The floor seems very far away, but it might get closer very soon with the way the walls seem to twist.
Yeah, he’s not fine.
His stomach is doing flips up into his throat as he leans forward with a hand to the nearest cabinet, and his head is spinning, and his ears are ringing, and Leonard Snart is standing next to him.
“Lenny, no.” Lisa groans, already aware what her brother is planning, an ability that Barry would very much appreciate, “Let his nerds handle him.” Lisa demands under the pretense of pleading.
“They’re not-“ Barry starts, and stops, because he currently has, and has never had any wish to vomit publicly ever again.
“They’re not available at the moment.” Snart finishes for him in a tone that sounds far too uncomfortably like he’s scheming, and why did he just let criminals know he has no semblance of backup or support?
“Lenny.” Lisa hisses.
“Lisa.” Snart replies, starting some nonverbal argument with a single tilt of his head, both Snart’s staring each other down, Lisa blinks, Snart smirks.
“We’re done here,” Snart announces loudly over Lisa’s groan, putting out the burning ferns with a blast of his cold gun, and Barry’s not too proud to admit he flinches, “the kid’s coming with us."
Baez chucks her spray can across the office, at least that’s what he can guess while closing his eyes as tight as possible through the vertigo, “Hell. No.” She says, her heels clicking from his right and with a pop of air like a hot can hitting cold water, the click starts on his far left.
“Hey,” Lisa croons, “Boo.”
“Don’t.” a single word has never sounded so offended until Baez snaps it. “This ‘kid’ locked me in a 5 by 5 cell with no release date or trial because I made a beyond crappy run of decisions, why the hell should I give a shit about his little bellyache?”
A perfectly sound argument, but Snart speaks up at his side, “You’re completely right, but unless you’d like to give him an extensive medical assessment-“
“No.” He and Baez practically yell in tandem.
Snart huffs self-satisfied, he doesn’t even have to look to know, “You agreed, we don’t let anyone get hurt,” Snart pauses for effect, an obvious glance sliding over his embarrassingly vulnerable position, “what does this look like to you?”
“I’m fine, I just-” He tries to straighten up, but his stomach simply spasms in a sharp unpleasant twist and sends him farther bent, almost tipping forward until a hand, a very certain hand, clasps his shoulder and steadies him as a second batch of butterflies tickle his gut into frantic and confused nausea.
“Baez?” Snart says in a hard tone, and in the seconds following it becomes completely clear that everyone is going to agree whether they like it or not, including him.
A medium silence follows punctuated with an aggravated sigh, “Fine, but I don’t have to be civil and you owe me.”
“Fine with me.” Okay, it’s happening.
Snart helps him up awkwardly, obviously avoiding unnecessary contact while also attempting to support him, one hand on his arm and the other on his back. a large hot mass he can only assume is Mick strides by his other side once they get past the gruelling walk to and through the door. He trips halfway through the not minimalist enough lobby, grasps around wildly and almost takes Snart down by the shirt with him, which Mick finds hilarious, chuckling from his position holding the door open, “C’mon, kid, this is just pathetic.” Snart grunts, lifting him up unto his feet.
They push out of the front door and his whole body vibrates with a head to toe shiver, the previously warm breezy night now chilly and stagnant enough to choke. Snart huffs at his shoulder as he digs around his pocket trapped between his side and Barry’s ribs, and brings out keys and a clicker, to which the van - the freaking minivan - unlocks. Lisa, Baez, and Mick detach from Snart’s circle and climb into the back, leaving the door open.
It hits him like a literal ton of completely illogical bricks directly to his roiling stomach and back of his wobbly knees; he’s being loaded into a criminal gang’s nondescript van late at night in a severely vulnerable state, with the company of people who have done jail time, aligned themselves directly opposing him, committed major crimes such as grand theft, arson, and murder- oh, and no one knows where he is.
“Okay, actually, I’m gonna find my own way home, thanks but-“ he mumbles quickly, grappling to detach himself from Snart’s support, attempting to run away to absolutely anywhere at super speed but instead falling forward at nearly the intended velocity, but Snart grabs him halfway to the concrete, slowly lowering him into a sitting position on stable ground, which does not feel stable at all.
“Kid,” Snart says, hand on his back and crouched in front of him at an angle that the other Rogues can’t see, “you’re not okay, and even I can see that.” He pauses, catching Barry’s eyes with his own, obviously waiting for the usual enthusiastic rebuttal, and Barry would love to, but frustratingly enough, he agrees. Not verbally of course, because he knows from great experience that fate and nausea are not to be tempted.
Snart nods as his eyes drift from Barry’s to the pavement, he inhales deeply, shakes his head hard and sighs, and Barry doesn’t need to be well to know Snart’s already regretting engaging in this situation, and most likely his next sentence, “What do you need, kid?”
Leonard Snart is trying to take care of him. Leonard Snart. Captain Cold. “You still with me, kid?”
“I knew it.” He says.
“Excuse me?” Snart replies with a scrunch of his face. He really doesn’t know.
Barry says it very slowly, heavily empathetically, because he enjoys spelling it out a tad too much, “You care about people.”
Snart double takes, “Kid, you’ve got a fever-“
Barry shakes his head, a poor choice but he’s already making it, “You’re a good person.” He’s stubborn and right, an unbeatable Barry Allen combo that has not yet failed him. Snart scoffs so hard it’s practically a gag, but Barry continues, sitting on the cement proudly smiling, completely smug, “You are a good person. You just make terrible decisions, like horrible decisions-“
“Want me to take off that cowl of yours before or after I call an ambulance and a news outlet?” It’s an empty threat, but it’s enough for Barry to stop, though he’s still grinning like an idiot, a correct idiot. “That’s what I thought,” Snart sneers as he stands up.
Snart looks down at him, streetlight’s shadows making his expression even harder to read, he sighs down at him, “C’mon, up you go.” He offers his hand, and Barry rises at his side a little too swiftly, head spinning as Snart helps him over to the van.
He honestly can’t think of any other option - everyone who could help is at the very least 3 hours away, and even the most respectful EMT would have to take his cowl off to properly assess him, but even then have no clue what to do with his meta-human biology, and he truly believes this is just a cold, just all the symptoms crammed into a tight schedule. If there are any other routes of avoiding this, he can’t think of them with the thunder dome going on inside him.
So he’s doing this. Cool.
Ugh.
He’d usually be happy to be in a car with the luxuries of this century, but his current view of the van is the floor, very clean, which is nice, but also likely not to last, and he considers himself quite a ways from happy.
“Where to?” Snart calls over his shoulder, settling into the driver’s seat.
He tries to think, but his thoughts are going a mile a minute, one more contradictory and illogical than the last - home? No, they’d know where he lived. Bus stop close to home? He likely wouldn’t make it anywhere near home, let alone adding public transportation to nausea and vertigo. Star Labs? Empty. And big. And empty.
Snart breaks the van’s silence with a sigh, his crew currently too enthralled or disgruntled by his presence to decide a destination, “K, drugstore it is.” Snart announces.
The car starts, conversation does not. The mystery man that’s remained quiet so far is in the passenger seat out of view, though Barry can’t for the life of him remember seeing him climb in. Mick hums in the seat behind him, Baez glaring daggers into Barry’s back at his side, and Lisa sits to his left smiling like she’s thinking of something much more entertaining than a simmering minivan of Rogues and a sick Flash.
He’s trying to keep his stomach’s contents where they are, but he can see something pass between Lisa and Snart, a tap to his shoulder, a whisper, no reply from her brother. She sits back, eyes now definitively trained on Barry, making having his eyes closed and his head between his knees both comforting and disturbingly vulnerable.
At least until Lisa pipes up, ”So, our great and under-appreciated hero,” she raises a brow and smirks, and he feels incredibly uncomfortable how obviously related the Snarts are when they’re up to no good, “you listen to the police chatter, right?”
“Yeah.” He says in equal parts suspicion and reluctance, trying to keep an eye on her without turning his head and making the throbbing in his temples any worse.
She ‘hmm’s and he’s quite sure that this is only the beginning of what she has in mind, “What’s the most appalling call you helped out with?” she asks.
She’s trying to ease tension, he tells himself, because he doesn’t have the focus to postulate what her motive or endgame might be, so he’s going to go along with it, maybe distract himself from the ringing and the aching and the need to expel all contents from his body. “237 and..." He pauses to remember, it adds effect without intention, “239."
"You don't mean-" Lisa says, barely veiling her jubilant amusement with mock shock.
"Yeah, no, I really wish I didn't." It had happened, he had thought it had been another of Cisco’s mistakes over comms, he had hoped, but he has no such luck, “…Public indecency and dog leash violation."
"Now that's just sick." Baez shakes her head from her spot in the back, but her growing disappointment in humanity is drowned out in Lisa, Mick, and mystery man’s cackling, while Snart remains silent, though Barry swears he sees pity in the rear-view mirror.
Baez heckles from the backseat, “Though I’m surprised you didn't get booked as a co-offender, showing up like that." Ugh, not this again.
"For the last time, it's not leather. It's tri-poly-" okay, he really should not be speaking more than one sentence at a time if he wants to keep what he has left down, especially in a car this nice and new, and then there’s the fact that it’s Snart’s. He doesn’t care how surreally accommodating the Rogues are being, he’s not risking adding carpet cleaning to the villain uber bill.
Lisa laughs with enough pity to make it appropriate, “Say it, don't spray it, sweetie. We get it, it’s triad polyamorous material.” Mick snorts from right behind him, his permanently heat blistered hand reaching around the seat to hand him a bag. Mick Rory, Heatwave, is giving him a barf bag.
Baez laughs, “I’m so glad Central City has the hero it deserves." And yes, he deserves at least some of her unadulterated derision. His list of accomplishments as the Flash is great, but his list of failures he tries not to agonize over has a glaring red circle drawn around the Meta-human containment fiasco. But falling down a depressive hole is for home, in his pajamas, informally scheduled on Saturdays usually. Sometimes there’s ice-cream, which there probably wouldn’t be this time seeing as he’s out of pretty much everything.
Lisa has achieved her goal, at least what he can assume was her goal. The tension is gone, Lisa chatting amiably with the man in the passenger seat about motorcycles, a conversation that he can barely follow right now, though the backseat is relatively quiet. He chances turning in his seat enough to look back and honestly, knowing this much about his villains is just going to make his hero work a lot harder.
Heatwave and Peekaboo are leaning shoulder to shoulder in the back seat, stretching their seat-belts to huddle around the phone in her hand. Doing snapchat.
Mick is squinting at the screen as Baez scrolls through filters, “You’re gonna like this one,” Baez says as she tilts the screen towards him, his face lighting up, both figuratively and literally.
“I’m gorgeous.” He whispers reverently, flickering red light reflecting off the screen to his face.
Baez grins next to him, “Open your mouth.”
Mick does as she says, howling with laughter, pausing in-between thigh slaps to open his mouth again and continue wheezing. He somehow notices through his tearing eyes Barry watching with what he can only place as confusion. Mick turns the screen towards him and he honestly should’ve expected it. The camera recognizes his face despite the cowl and animates him engulfed in flame, the slight gape appearing on his face triggering a burst of flame to swirl around the screen.
He’s completely sure pyromania is not supposed to ever be endearing, but he’s not sure what else to call Mick and Baez posing as they take pictures using the filter, Mick pulling out his own slightly charred phone to set the picture as his background.
The car lurches to a stop as they pull into the mini-mart parking lot, conversation dying down. Snart puts the car into park, but the doors stay locked, “Only basics. No drama. Back to the van in 15 or you walk home.” He says, turning in his seat to address the back, “Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Lisa says with a limp wrist parody of a salute, which Baez seconds following at Lisa’s heels out the door, and Mick at hers.
Snart opens Barry's door, motioning him out, and he manages to remember to unbuckle before practically falling out into the parking lot, because that would’ve just been embarrassing.
“Is he gonna stay in the car?” He asks as Snart reaches past him to grab something out of the van.
“Who?” Snart asks, closing the door and locking up.
“The guy-“ Barry starts, gesturing into the empty passenger seat. Empty. The door hasn’t opened, or window, or- Empty. “How did he-when-how?”
Snart looks like he’s holding back a laugh, “C’mon, Scarlet.”
The drugstore doors open with a whoosh, muggy summer night breeze mixing with the clinically air-conditioned atmosphere, something he can appreciate.
Snart nods to the queue of the pre-teen version of normal grocery carts, “Grab one.” Having something to lean on is a relief as he pulls a - thankfully - freshly sanitized cart out, pushing it a foot before Snart snatches the front of it and leads both him and it towards the first isle, finding the cold medicine without pulling the cart right out from under Barry’s elbows. Yet.
“You don’t have to do that.” Barry says, because it’s not a whine, he tries hard enough to ensure that, he just doesn’t like being dragged around on his tip-toes like he’s 10.
“You wanna sit in the baby seat?” Snart teases absentmindedly as he scans a shelf, not aware enough to stop the cart from rolling over his foot in retaliation. “Very mature,” Snart says just as absently, pushing the cart back and keeping it there with a hand, “now, I’m guessing general cold, extra strength?”
He’s about to bless Snart’s existence before his voice of reason - which rotates between all of his current family and it’s extensions, but mostly Joe and Caitlin - reminds him Snart is still a dangerous criminal.
A dangerous criminal who is helping him buy cold medicine while guiding him around a mini-mart. “Yes, please.” He says instead, because things are confusing enough right now.
Snart takes one box off the shelf and makes to continue pulling the cart, but Barry digs his heels in, a feat not easily done on squeaky clean linoleum, “Um, I’m gonna need about ten of those.”
Snart squints back at him, obviously trying to weigh whether this is illogical fever talk or a scientific method. Barry is trying very hard not to feel embarrassed, because he has enhanced metabolism, not a cough syrup addiction. Snart takes one last sceptical look at him before he scoops exactly nine more boxes into the cart, grabs the front, and keeps walking.
Snart makes his way pulling both Barry and the cart past the isles, one of which is the snack isle, to which Barry’s stomach makes a painful protest, the traitor. Snart turns to him slowly, “What did you have for dinner?”
He really has to stop feeling embarrassed around criminals, “…I didn’t.”
Snart’s eyes roll so far back into his head Barry honestly wonders if they’re gonna come back. Snart does recover his eyes back to their natural forward position, but only so he can push the cart back a foot and pull Barry along with it as roughly as someone as coordinated as Snart can into the snack isle next to Mick. “Go on.” Snart says, nodding towards the shelves of chips, cookies, and snack bars.
He scoops animal crackers and a box of cookies into the cart while he tries to hide his glee at a free selection of baked goods, because Snart may know an embarrassing amount about the Flash, but he doesn’t need to know that he’s a 26 year-old grown man, college-educated forensic scientist who’s father and best friends still dictate what ‘fake bake’ treats get past his home and work’s threshold. A terrible side effect of having one of your best friends also be your nutritionist.
He indulges in juice boxes which will last a literal minute, granola bars, and stops himself short of adding Dunk-a-Roos because Snart needs no more ammunition in his snark arsenal. Mick holds up a giant bright red bag embellished in flames to Snart, ‘4-Alarm-Fire Hot!’ the only words discernible to Barry’s tired eyes.
“No.” Snart says.
“Kid can eat whatever he wants.” Mick protests as he drops it into the cart.
“No.” Snart repeats,
Mick grumbles, but he still grabs the bag out of the cart, jamming it back on the shelf with a huff before stomping off with a bag of corn chips and accompanying dip.
Barry leans forward over the front of the cart and whispers reasonably, “You could’ve just called it trash.”
Snart huffs a laugh, dripping with sarcasm, “Because I’m looking to get murdered in a mini-mart over a bag of dusty orange foam peanuts.”
He tries very hard not to laugh at the mental image of Mick Rory tackling Snart over a bag of Cheetos, and he’s succeeding while Snart is inspecting a package of something off the shelf that’s unnaturally pink and abstractly round. He seems satisfied with it because he tosses it in the cart, plastic at just the right angle to read ‘Snowballs’.
Oh my god. “Hypocrite.” Barry scolds darkly, feeling mainly amused and only slightly concerned for Snart’s wellbeing if Mick sees the receipt.
Snart replies, “Add it to my rap sheet.” and either Barry’s fever is worse than he thought, or Snart winks, smirking as he rolls them out of aisle while also managing to remind Barry he personally erased his records, including his rap sheet, so he can not in fact add it. If there’s any such thing as backhanded-flirtation, he might’ve just experienced it - but of course he’d have to acknowledge it as flirting, and he is not opening that particular can of- he doesn’t even know. So it’s staying closed. Tight.
Snart stops the cart in front of the meager produce section of fruit. Barry waits, but Snart simply looks at him, “What?” Barry says.
“You need to eat something that occurs in nature.” He says then sighs, taking his time rushing to dispel another fever-induced speech about his good heart and terrible decisions, “I don’t think scurvy is a good idea when you’re already falling down, and that’s just a common cold.”
He very maturely resists the urge to reply ‘you’re a common cold’ and instead leans forward on the cart, attempting to roll past this entire subject, “I’m fine, I’ve got stuff at home-“
The handle bar digs into his stomach as he lurches forward, Snart standing with his hand staying the cart directly at his elbow, “Pick one.”
He could technically stubbornly refuse to ‘pick one’ and continue the current glaring match for the foreseeable future, it is a 24-hour mini-mart after all, but his grumbling stomach and aching ears make a small dent in his indomitable will to withstand villain peer-pressure to have a balanced diet.
He grabs three oranges from the display basket and shoves them into Snart’s hands, “Happy?”
Snart smirks as he drops them into a plastic bag, “Exhilarated.”
Snart drops the bagged fruit into the cart, letting Barry push it forward on his own, but his hand still rests on the side of it as they move towards the checkout counter, the other Rogues filing in behind the both of them. They roll into the checkout line, the cashier freezing mid spray of her counter cleaning.
Oh, right. He’s guessing the Flash and the entire Rogues gallery aren’t normal customers, and the cashier’s expression of disbelief, confusion, and fear is supporting that theory, but somebody better say something soon because she looks like she’s either going to press the burglary button under the counter or have a panic attack, possibly both consecutively.
“Cosplay party.” He blurts.
All eyes turn to him, but he doesn’t care, he’s done it before and he’ll do it again. No regrets.
“Oh,” The cashier says, she takes a breath, the first breath he’s witnessed her take, “Nice.” She says, she takes another breath, and much to Barry’s relief, keeps her hands above the counter to start scanning items.
Without missing a beat Snart starts to unload the grocery cart, running the granola bars over the scanner, opening them, and handing them to Barry, obviously still revolted by his missed meal, but Baez interrupts him, “Granola bars? Cookies? You said only basics.”
Snart looks upward, doing what Barry can only guess through his second bar is cursing god or any other being that might be watching, including his Rogues, “…One each.” He sighs.
“Yes!” the unnamed Rogue says with a pump of his fist as he takes off back to the isles in a sprint, the rest of the Rogues following with only slightly more control.
Snart finishes emptying the cart, payment total rising steadily on the screen and Barry’s box of bars already half-finished, not needing super speed to inhale half a dozen granola bars, “How do you pay for your appetite? Is there a charity I should know about?" Snart asks as he leans against the checkout counter.
He’s caught; should he really be telling him anything? But really, how much has Snart already dug into about his personal life, and with Barry’s record of indiscretion and Central City’s obsession with the Flash, how long will it be before he knows just about everything without help?
He’s probably making a mistake but, “I, uh, inherited some of Harrison Well’s fortune.” ‘Some’ is a lie, but he’s working on this ‘secret-keeping’ issue he has, lying casually might help.
Snart continues to pretend to browse the magazines, but Barry can see the little change in Snart’s posture, interest sparking in his eyes, ”Better not let Lisa know; she'll have her sifting pan out and ready in a hot second.” Snart quips, pulling the cart out of the checkout line.
Snart steps around him to pull out cloth grocery bags as Barry says, “Isn’t that a little co- mean for a brother to say?” not so deftly avoiding playing into his puns and praying Snart doesn’t notice.
Snart definitely notices, “I’m not calling her a gold digger, but-" He says, packing items neatly into one of the bags.
“Did somebody say gold?" Lisa asks appearing at his shoulder, reaching around him to drop a triangular chocolate bar onto the conveyor belt.
“Case and point" Snart adds as he drops the freshly scanned bar into his bag.
“Hey Lenny,” Lisa starts, side eyeing Barry, “the others were just wondering whether we’re all still doing that activity next week.” Lisa asks as she leans closer to her brother and as far away from Barry as possible without climbing up into one of the bags.
Snart looks up and around, overacting the process of thinking, “Definitely.” He says, eyes flicking to Barry, completely aware how he just added 24 hour anxiety to Barry’s schedule next week and enjoying every second of it.
“Got it,” She says, the same mischievous spark lighting in her expression as she glances between them, “See ya, Lenny-loo.” She sing-songs as she practically skips out of the checkout with one of the bags towards the doors.
Barry repeats in a whisper, ”’Lenny-loo?’” Snart may be temporarily partly in control of his well-being but that’s not going to stop him from teasing him relentlessly and without mercy.
“Yes, Teddy-Barr?" Snart mimics, true evil reflecting in his blue eyes that his sneer definitely contains sincere enough joy to reach.
"That's low." and slightly unnerving that Snart knows about the nickname. Though it's a logical leap, something in his gut is spelling out 'stalker', but that could just be the nausea talking, well, talking more.
Mick comes up to the checkout chuckling like he’s just set the entire produce section on fire, “Ha!” he says as he slams the 4-alarm fire hot bag down on the conveyor belt with a crunch, followed by Baez taking the scanner directly out of the confused cashiers hand to scan a family pack of pop-rocks, which he honestly didn’t even think existed.
The mystery man- He’s just going to call him Sam, Sam’s a nice name, he looks like a Sam. Okay, it’s the first name to come to mind and the sheer mental dissonance of Sam’s every action or rather not witnessed actions is becoming too great to handle along with everything else. But back to Sam dropping a child sized - as in the size of a child - chocolate bunny on the counter with a disconcertingly heavy thump.
At least, he thinks it’s a bunny. “It’s clearance.” Sam states in way of justification.
Barry looks over to Snart, and he’s never been the one in his family to eat up drama with a tablespoon, but watching Snart’s jaw clench at the sight of a 10 pound eldritch horror of chocolate is riveting.
“Peachy.” Snart says through a tight-lipped grimace.
The cashier clears her throat, “Your total comes to-“
Snart hands her a few hundred dollar bills between two fingers, “Keep the change.” Barry's a second away from commenting on how sweet Snart attempting to bribe the cashier into silence is when Snart takes both remaining bags and strides out the automatic doors without a glance. That he thought being wobbly was embarrassing is just silly when he, the fastest man alive, is winded just trying to catch up with a 40-year old carrying groceries.
He collapses into the open van, Lisa laughing bubbly from her seat beside him. He jumps and his ears pop with a sting as Baez appears behind him with a snap, still glaring hurt daggers whenever he even looks in her general direction, though it’s less intimidating and guilt-riddling when she’s pouring pop rocks into her mouth at the same time.
Snart appears at the door with the sound of the hatch closing, settling Barry’s bag at his feet and handing two packages of cold medicine and a water bottle to him, which he opens, popping each pill out into his hand before throwing them to the back of his throat, and praying that it has some sort of positive effect that lasts longer than a few minutes as he chugs the whole bottle.
“Wow.” Baez says from the back, voice a mix of amusement, vitriolic sarcasm and just a hint of crackling, “I’ve got some Ibuprofen if you feel like crushing it up and doing lines.” He scoffs, but with no intention to ever snort anything but water, he makes a foggy mental note to talk to Caitlin about testing different absorption methods to counteract his rapid metabolism, and also never telling her about any of this, because she would be so mad.
Mick sidles up to the van’s open door, poised to open the oversized Cheeto bag, “You will not open that within ten feet of me or my vehicle.” Snart says with his arms crossed.
“Our vehicle, Mr. Restraining Order.” Mick says, but he just tucks the bag into the inside of his overcoat where it miraculously stays without showing more than a bump on the outside, walking around and hauling himself behind the wheel.
“I’m gonna head home.” Sam says casually hoisting his disturbing score under his arm, a strange image to apparently no one but Barry.
Lisa waves and he barely manages to dodge Baez’s attempt to do the same, “Goodnight, Sam.” They call, starting a jinx battle that only slightly distracts him from the discombobulating fact that he guessed his name by slim odds of coincidence, or if Cisco were here, manifesting psychic abilities.
Of course, Cisco or any of his friends will not be hearing about this, he doesn’t need a lecture, Cisco having a crisis over to bug or not bug him about Lisa, or Caitlin worrying him into agreeing to 24 hour medical observation without stimuli - or all three at once, a horror he will never endure again.
“Goodnight, guys!” Apparently-Sam calls far too loudly into the van for Barry’s ears, and he’s still having a hard time coming to terms with this guy walking however-many city blocks with his cocoa abomination at 11:30pm, “Boss.” Suspiciously-Sam intones professionally with a nod to Snart in the passenger seat where he’s made himself quite comfortable.
And either 2 boxes was way too much cold medicine, or Supposedly-Sam and his clearance edible cult idol disappear in a blink in the passenger mirror of the van, “Did anybody else see that?”
“See what, sweetie?” Lisa asks with a little tilt of her head, and yeah, that’s just mean and disconcerting.
He looks to the rearview mirror for some sort of confirmation that he is not cold medicine high, but he can only manage to see Snart saying, “Seatbelt.” and the following snaps and clicks and minimal grumbling from Mick. He manages to buckle himself, score, but a heavy exhaustion that settles his stomach and muffles the clicking in his ears sweeps through him indicating his medicine has definitely kicked in, double score. He hopes.
Mick reverses surprisingly smooth out of the parking spot, drives them out of the parking lot and into downtown, past a museum he stopped them in last month, and lot of streetlights that all start to blend together as it becomes impossible to keep his eyes open. Triple score.
Baez whispers from somewhere backish, “Did you just let him overdose on cold medicine?” because somehow having his eyes closed is rendering his spacial logic inadequate. Inadequate. In add a quit. What.
Snart huffs from somewhere frontish, “No, the kid can handle it.” He’d say thanks, but just the idea of opening his eyes or mouth is depressing, so he’s gonna stick with sleeping.
Lisa whispers, “He’s still breathing, by the way.”
Snart says in that usual sarcastic lilt of his, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He manages to mumble back, manners automatic enough to overpower twilight sleep.
He really should be worried about being in such a vulnerable state around opportunist repeat offenders, but either nighttime cold medicine can also reduce reasonable anxiety, or he trusts Snart to keep his promise and by extension the Rogues. Maybe it’s just the cold.
He’s vaguely aware of streetlight filtering in periodically, doors open and close between half baked dreams, quiet chattering lessening, roll of the wheels evening out. And at one point, he’s pretty sure he hears a camera click.
"Hey, kiddo." Snart says, and it’s a rather sudden transition from asleep to, well, not.
Okay, he still isn't quite awake, because everything's a little blurry around the edges and a little too loud despite the quiet hum of the engine and summer crickets begging to be noticed, and he does in no way remember moving up to the passenger seat. "This is your stop, isn't it?"
"Pfft," he grumbles while he struggles to pull his cowl back, eyes less bleary as he squints at the dark of the driver’s seat that shrouds Snart, “like you don’t have my postal code memorized.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Snart makes a show of adjusting his mirrors, and he can appreciate the slight bit of shame ebbing off him.
“The least you can do is admit you’ve stalked me.” He smiles smugly through his yawn, arm’s above his head going through the sun roof, something he’s never had the pleasure of not bumping into.
“The least you can do is take care of yourself so your nemesis doesn’t have to.” Snart sneers, rolling his head to look Barry straight on.
Barry squints, thinking at a sluggishly slow pace, “…My ‘nemesis’?”
Snart pauses, offence blatant, “I’m not your nemesis?”
“I don’t know,” he starts, because honestly what is he supposed to say, “you’re up there but…”
Snart twists in his seat, and okay, he’s started something, “But what?” Theres no way to say it without even further offending Snart’s sense of criminal pride.
He sighs, tilts his head back, rolls his head to the side and says it with as much reluctance and apology as he can muster, “You drove me home in your timeshare mini-van."
Snart pauses, looks down, then ahead, choosing to focus on nothing at all out the windshield on the quiet suburban street rather than acknowledge that comment’s existence, “…You feeling better?”
He smiles despite himself, “Yeah, actually, a lot.“
“Good.” Snart says, eyes meeting his, and in any other circumstance following or preceding, he wouldn’t just sit and stare, he wouldn’t think it, or admit - something’s happening, a moment. A moment of something, something that the sliver of him that takes risks, naively believes in third and fourth chances, and rushes in wants to examine, wants him to stay right where he is and watch whether this moment will break and disperse or build and build and, he doesn’t know what. But wouldn’t that be interesting?
“Yeah.” Barry replies, not even trying to resist that little part of him that’s made so many mistakes, most bad, but some okay. Some really great, actually.
Snart blinks, expression changing minutely by a crease in his brow.
The doors unlock with a snap, “K, Get out.”
Snart stabs his seatbelt button with the kind of detached distaste he thought only waste management could muster, the clip springing past his bed-head and slimly missing his nose, “Snart-“ and minivans are supposed to be child safe.
“If you don’t like the ‘timeshare mini-van’ you can get out, you’re up past your bedtime anyway.” He says coolly, annoyance and offence wrapped into a curt package of petulance masked in apathy distracting from his initial motivation, that little frown.
Snart reaches for the keys in ignition, and was that a snowflake keychain? He would laugh, uh, ask about that later, “Snart-Leonard-Len-Hey“ he reaches out as Snart turns the key, conservative engine roaring to life, catching his eye and possibly regretting doing the same with his hand, “Out of all my nemesis’, you’re my preferred, by far.” And yes it might kill him to say favorite, he barely managed to get home without an entire criminal organization masquerading as a cosplay party, he can allow himself this.
Snart bats his lashes with an aggressively sarcastic roll of his eyes, “Well, shucks.” But he hasn’t shirked or shrunk from the contact, so he considers it a win, at what game, rules or score, he has no clue, but he has a feeling unrelated to his prior gut issues that this is good.
Really good, and he knows from past experience that this is most often, no, always, a warning to slow down and think it through, but, he’s not ‘the wisest man’ alive, is he? “No, I mean it, if I had to pick a villain to deal with everyday of the week, it would be you-“ Snart tilts his head to the side a degree, “-and the minivan-“ he loses the tilt, seemingly satisfied for now, “Sunday to Saturday.”
He’s going to regret this, he can tell, how he’s going to regret it he hasn’t yet guessed, but the lingering indefinable look he receives gives him the impression that Snart already knows and is enjoying it proactively.
“Well, as glad as I am that your underwear covers weekends, you really should head on in,” Snart says with a nod towards his well-lit and waiting porch, but he can’t help but feel like he’s missing something, a crucial action to take before downing another few packages of cold medicine and falling into bed, and maybe he just imagined that underlying something, but Snart interrupts the troubling thought process, “your ice cream’s melting.”
“Ice cream? I didn’t get ice cream-” Snart points to his feet, and okay, he did get ice cream; rocky road nestled in with junk food and the mandatory oranges in an environmentally conscious cloth bag.
He guesses he probably should head in, he turns to the car door and pauses, failing to remember the last time he was in a car that wasn’t old enough to have a tape deck and how he had gotten out, and whether reaching through the open window to open it from outside would be more or less embarrassing. Snart sighs, reaches across him, tugs on a silver latch and sits back as the door swings open, definitely enjoying Barry’s frustration at not being able to open his own doors.
He picks up his bag and closes the door, looks back to Snart, “Goodnight.” Barry says.
“Goodnight, Barry.” Snart says.
Snart goes to shift out of park, but something inexplicable and urgent makes Barry stop on the curb, “Hey,” Snart turns, waiting, “thank you.” He says, but Snart sits like a deer in headlights before he looks down to busy himself with straightening his seatbelt, eyes anywhere but Barry’s, and he wouldn’t think a middle-aged mastermind doing his best impression of bashful would be cute, but-
Maybe it’s not such a bad night after all.
“You’re welcome,” Snart draws out, and for once, Barry can tell he’s completely sincere, no joke would be that hard to say. Well, he’s at least 99% sure. And, minuscule and nearly indefinable but for the light of the dashboard, he can see Snart smile, a real smile.
Not a bad night at all.
Snart is definitely smiling, and he can’t help a feeling that tugs on his gut, “See you Monday.” There it is.
The regret.
“Snart, no-“ he tries to reach for the door, but the car - freaking minivan - shoots off and he’s completely sure that no normal family vehicle can move that fast out of park.
Snart’s hand waves through the sun-roof, “Bright and early!”
“No!” he yells, but he’s pretty sure no one can hear anything over Foreigners’ ‘Cold As Ice’ blasting that loud.
So much regret.
Headlights wash out the midnight street, Joe’s little car pulling into the driveway next to him, showing up a day early. The car door barely has time to open fully but Joe’s already in dad-mode, “Bartholomew Allen, what did I say ‘bout Flash business without backup?”
He shouldn’t have gone out at all, but he did, and he’s strangely not regretting that part.
Joe stands at his shoulder, hands on his hips, ”Hey, I’m trying to be a hard-ass,” He says but laughs reluctantly anyway, “why you smiling?”
Smiling, him? “I am?” He is, his cheeks are sore, actually.
Joe squints, “Teddy-Barr, you feelin’ alright?” He pulls back his suit’s sleeve and lifts his wrist to Barry’s forehead on instinct, pulling away even more confused as he looks down the street, “Who was that?"
That was a good question, actually, he really wishes he knew. “I have no clue.”