Chapter Text
“CSIs aren’t supposed to have ‘hunches’ Barry. Leave it for the detectives, please.”
Joe had been so exasperated when Barry wouldn’t stop badgering him over it. He’d promised to look into it but not until after he finished interviewing all his other leads and Barry was sure he was right. He had to be.
A chemical under the nails of the latest victim (this time being one of Barry’s crime scenes) had been traced back to an out of state refinery and Joe was waiting on information the firm promised to send them, but Barry had discovered that another person who died just over a decade back now had worked at this development and manufacturing facility, which used to manufacture the chemical before the company had gone belly up under mysterious circumstances shortly after she died and Luthor Industries purchased it.
Joe thought the only reason Barry was interested was because he’d investigated the company before for his blog, because when it had gone under there were allegations on the internet of the company experimenting with chemicals on gene splicing and the internet ran with it and made it seem like they were trying to create a chimera or something. But so what if Barry thought there was something off about the company in general? Just because Barry believed in the impossible didn’t mean that the very plausible couldn’t also have happened here, and recently.
Barry was sure there was a connection to Joe’s case. And all he had to do was head to the abandoned building, poke around, and see if he could find any sources of the chemical still around, see if it was in the dust or dirt around the facility. That should be enough to get the ball rolling, anyway, and hopefully bring some justice to the victims.
The taxi driver who drove him here clearly thought Barry was nuts for getting out of a car in such a creepy place, but he just smiled and tipped well and hoisted his CSI kit higher on his shoulder before heading to a side door. Bingo. He saw the rusty old chain and lock were cut smooth, clearly by bolt cutters. He snapped a photo and slipped his work camera back into his bag before heading inside.
The door creaked loud and heavy on its hinges in the dark space and a sense of foreboding finally started to creep up on Barry. He pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on, walking in. It opened up to a warehouse as the main chamber, with tall aisles full of old equipment and boxes, all in disuse. He cast the flashlight around, catching on windows of old offices in the distance on the far side of the warehouse a floor up that could overlook the space, thinking to head in that direction and get a better look at the facility. His footsteps reverberated off the metal grated catwalk he’d walked in on, just a few feet above the floor of the warehouse, the sounds echoing around the space.
Once he got about halfway in the hairs on the back of his neck started to raise. He swallowed, feeling like he was being watched. He told himself it was his imagination, or bats. A place like this was bound to have bats, and probably mice and other rodents. As if on cue, a scurrying noise shot his heartbeat into overdrive and he flashed his light onto an angry looking rat that sped away from the light, hissing.
Barry let out a breath and clutched the railing, almost giggled nervously, trying to calm himself down, thinking about solving the case with rodents. What a silly –
A heavy sound and echoing metal sound landed right behind him and he didn’t even get a chance to turn before he heard the telltale click of a gun’s hammer and a “don’t move, kiddo. If you know what’s good for you.”
[ … ]
Len was giving a rundown of the plan to Rutenberg, Calis, and Mick when they all heard it – the door to the warehouse creaked open with a squeal on its rusted hinges, a loud bang as it hit the opposing wall and a quiet, surprised swear at the sound. The voice sounded young and a second later there was a flashlight waving around in the distance.
Len tensed. His men caught his eye and he raised a finger to his lips, sliding his feet slow and careful on the platform they were on near the center of the east wall, more or less overlooking the warehouse on a raised dais. They were around a wall with shelving and equipment that blocked their little camp-style lights from view of this intruder. A glance around told him it was just the one guy, carrying some bag, getting closer. Len and his guys were a story above him still and it was too dark to get a great view, but if he had to guess, he’d say the kid was too young to be a cop.
Which meant he was a total mystery, really. Len didn’t like mysteries, not until he’d solved them.
He nodded to Rutenberg, who had a question in his eyes and dragged a finger across his throat. Len shook his head and pointed at their little table. Bring him here, don’t kill him yet.
The man nodded, got it, and slipped down between the rails on the catwalk, moving like a spider. The kid freaked himself out with a rat – what an amateur – and it was all the opportunity Rutenberg needed to get him.
Len had to admit some surprise when the kid, when faced with a gun at the back of his head, actually tried to run. Wow. That took guts. Or stupidity. Len could almost appreciate it. But Rutenberg clocked him on the head and he dropped, groaning, and Calis went to help. They grabbed the kid’s bag and hauled him up. Len watched him struggle, curiosity mounting, but they twisted his arm and dragged him up the stairs all the same.
“Little shit – calm the fuck down, would’ya?” Rutenberg was complaining, trying to keep the kid’s feet on the ground
Calis was laughing at him even as he helped, voice deep. “He’s got spirit, this one.”
“Well well,” Len said, voice carrying. “What have we here?”
They threw the kid down in the empty space of their makeshift ‘workshop’ and he caught himself on his hands and his knees, breathing heavy, probably terrified. He oughtta be. Mick was at Len’s side and the other two opposite, blocking the stairs. There was no exit. Len pulled out his gun and tapped it idly against his own thigh, stepping forward.
“And just who might you be?” he drawled.
The kid looked up at him and caught sight of the gun, level with his eye. He yelped and tumbled back, landing on his ass and elbows with his arms behind him and Len stepped hard on his ankle, twisting it down. The other man hissed in pain and glanced behind him, realizing he was trapped. Calis kicked the kid’s bag over and he watched it slide up to Len’s feet, looking halfway sick.
“What’s in here?”
“You’re the ones responsible for the midtown murders,” the kid said as a complete nonsequitur. Len had… no idea what he was talking about, but it made him suspicious nonetheless.
“Who are you?” he snapped.
The kid trembled, glancing behind him again. Rutenberg made sure he was standing right in front of the stairwell, not that their captive was going anywhere with Len’s gun ready, boot still on his ankle.
“I’m not leaving, am I?”
“You catch on quick,” Len didn’t bother sugarcoating it.
“Why am I even still alive?”
“Because I’m curious what got you here in the first place.”
He nodded, and Len had to hand it to the kid, he had a stiff upper lip. He looked like he was fighting back the panic, it was all over his face, but the fact that he was succeeding at fighting it back, that was better than most. He was young, pretty, brown-haired and doe-eyed, probably had a whole great life to look forward to. Yet here he was, staring down Len’s gun with more gusto than half Len’s men had ever shown.
“If I tell you…”
There it was. Len prepared to put on a less frightening smile and make some believable promise about letting him go. Turns out, he didn’t need to.
“If I tell you, will you promise to dump my body somewhere else?”
That got his attention. His eyebrows drew together and he tilted his head, waiting.
“I’m – my foster father’s a detective on this case.” Behind Len, Mick whistled and the kid spared him a glance before looking back at Len. “He’s the only one who knows I’m here. If he doesn’t hear back from me or if I don’t show up at work tomorrow… he’s the one who’s going to come looking and I don’t –” his voice cracked, finally, and he held up his arm to his mouth, taking a second to gather himself before wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I don’t want him to be the one who has to find my body.”
Well. That almost pulled on Len’s non-existent heartstrings. It would make his life more difficult, but already he was getting more information than he’d bargained for. “That’s… fair,” he drawled, stepping off the guy’s ankle. “I’ll leave you in the river.”
He choked out a laugh, the type of skewed sense of humor Len could appreciate. “Thanks, I guess.”
Len’s crew chuckled too, already relaxing a little. It was a strange encounter. Killing the kid was gonna be annoying at this rate. The kid who was sitting up better now, off his elbows, knees drawn in closer though he was still on his ass. He was still trying to keep some measure of calm, so Len kneeled down to a squat, gun loosely cradled in his hand.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Barry. Allen.”
“Well, Barry, why don’t you tell me what got you here?” He was curious about that.
“I was following a lead.” Len nodded for him to continue and he took another breath, getting calmer with something to focus on. “There’s been a series of murders, sex workers mostly, and a few days ago we found a victim with a chemical under her nails. It’s not that uncommon but in its pure form… it’s only traced to a place out of state or to here. No one was in a rush to follow this lead with how tough it would be to get a warrant so… I did.”
There were pieces missing here. Len narrowed his eyes. “And why are you investigating? Senior project? Wanna follow in your dear old dad’s footsteps?”
“What – you mean – oh Joe? No that’s – I’m a CSI, not a college student.”
He tensed and could feel Mick do the same behind him. This kid was CCPD?
“How old are you?”
It wasn’t pertinent, but it somehow felt pertinent.
“24?” He moved suddenly, hand reaching up and Len had the gun in his face in an instant and he stopped even breathing for a second. “I was just –” he croaked out, “just reaching for my laminate.”
Len used the gun to knock his hand aside and shifted till he was on one knee, right in the other’s space so he could reach for where he saw the string of a lanyard at the kid (the man’s) neck with his other hand. He brushed aside the collar of his shirt, exposing his long neck. The guy, Barry, stayed stock still, like a properly spooked animal, fight flight and freeze. Len’s fingers and thumb grazed the skin of his neck when he reached to tug at it and his skin was warm and smooth, the touch enough to stir something deep inside him.
His lips twitched into an almost-smirk, unconsciously indulging the train of thought for a half second. Whatever ancient instincts of predators still lurked in human DNA, he couldn’t help some dark imaginings with a lean neck arched and on display like that, prey in his grasp when Len was already so close, right between his knees. A racing heartbeat beneath his fingers. It would be easy, too easy, to take Barry by that neck and press him down against the floor here, take him and mark him up and make him beg –
Barry flinched and Len pulled wrenched himself out of the sudden fantasy fast and hard, tensing his jaw, shoving aside the (not) unwelcome mental imagery.
The laminate had all the right credentials – Assistant CSI, downtown precinct, not an easy job to wrangle – and a photo of Barry’s grinning face, even younger than he was now. The contrast between the old photo and his current state helped him look closer to the 24 he actually was. Some people would always have a bit of a baby face, but around the eyes, Barry didn’t look all that young after all.
Len flicked the plastic back against his chest and shifted his weight to stand, knees popping.
“So tell me, Barry,” he drawled, looking down at the man again, “the lead that brought you here – this chemical – what are the chances your hunch was right?”
Barry swallowed and Len willed his eyes not to track his Adam’s apple, collar of his shirt still askew. Except the look he gave Len was a little disbelieving. “I’d say… 100 percent?” He chanced a look behind him at Len’s crew then back at Len.
He pursed his lips. “Boys, any of you kill a working gal recently?”
They shook their heads, Calis the most evenly. “More class than that, Snart. Even this one,” he pointed his thumb to Rutenberg, an inside joke and Len’s lips quirked. He glanced at Mick, who shrugged.
“Hookers never done me wrong, boss.”
Len nodded. He knew it wouldn’t be Mick (not unless all the victims were burnt to a crisp, anyway), and he tended to know what his men were up to. Even so, none of them looked nervous enough to be lying, no tells, no sudden shifts. A good liar could get away with it, but he’d be surprised if this apparent serial killer was one of his guys anyway. Which left the question.
“Who’s been here besides us?” Len mused. Barry’s attention snapped back to him.
“If it’s really not you…” He stopped talking and looked down.
“What is it?”
He seemed to be debating with himself and it was enough for Len to step closer to him again, enough to make him tilt his gun under the man’s chin, and he told himself he wasn’t doing it out of misplaced spite just to see Barry’s eyes widen like saucers. To see him shudder. To see his resolve harden despite the weapon.
Had to hand it to him, he was a tough son of bitch, whoever he was.
“You’re in trouble,” Barry rasped.
“’N how’s that?”
He swallowed again and Len relaxed the gun, refusing to let himself feel a little disappointed at the loss of an excuse to touch Barry, if only with his weapon.
“Well?” he prompted, expecting an answer.
“The chemical – if it’s residual in the dirt here, which I think it might be, it’s on your boots, might be in your clothes. If anyone knows you’ve been around here, you’re going to be the prime suspects.”
“Fucking perfect,” Mick muttered, crossing his arms, heading toward the table to grab his lighter. Len glanced at him then the other two shifting uneasily.
“Keep your cool, boys. Barry – these murders, how many’ve there been?”
He looked mulish, frowning a little, glancing at the gun at Len’s side then back up at him with a set jaw now. “Does it even matter? You’re going to kill me.”
“And dump your body in the river, yes.”
His glare hardened. Len tried not to be intrigued.
“I’ve already told you enough.”
Len’s eyes narrowed. “I intend for you to tell me everything.”
Barry was silent. Len considered revoking his agreement to play nice with the corpse, debating if he was crass enough to promise to leave it ugly for the detective who might come looking.
“Hey Snart?” Mick broke the staring contest they devolved into and Len’s eyes snapped to him, angry. He’d almost been enjoying that stalemate.
“What?”
Mick was standing with Rutenberg and Calis now at the stairs, playing with his lighter, which meant he really was getting antsy.
“Kid said a detective was gonna come looking, right? Tonight sometime?”
Right. Mick had had the same train of thought but it went to a different station. They might not want to hang around for long.
“Why don’t you boys pack the place up? I’m gonna take Barry here for a walk by the riverside.”
Mick grunted and Rutenberg looked relieved, muttering his thanks and moving to pack of their gear. Calis looked calculating.
“He’s seen all our faces, Snart.”
Len tensed. He’d already moved to Barry’s side, ready to haul him up, but Calis’s words stopped him short and darkened his expression. Mick watched, as he was wont to.
“You wanna kill him, be my guest.” He waved a hand at Barry, who flinched again, but Calis didn’t move. “Didn’t think so. I’ll decide what we do with our little CSI problem. Now –”
He shifted his attention back onto Barry, tempted to dig his fingers into all that hair and use it to haul him to his feet. Instead, he grabbed his arm and pulled him up, threw him against a cabinet. Barry caught himself against it and Len didn’t give him a chance to turn.
“Hands behind your back.”
With a shudder, Barry complied. He was tall, Len hadn’t realized quite how tall, long limbs, lean and built for running. Len stowed his gun away and accepted the zip ties Mick handed him off the table without needing to be asked. He made sure to move up Barry’s sleeves to zip tie his wrists without them in the way, feeling the warm skin again, thumbing his pulse point. It was going a mile a minute under his skin.
He should probably be concerned about how tempted to was to find any excuse to touch this man, even if it was to hurt him, but it had been a long time since anyone as interesting as him walked into Len’s world. It was a shame that he should kill the kid, and probably would.
“C’mon.” He dragged Barry forward by the arm. “Let’s go for a stroll, Barry.”
[ … ]
Barry let the man drag him down the stairs, heart in his throat.
Moving helped him stay calm, helped him focus again. He was so sure he was dead, so sure there was no way out. Now there was. It was almost more nauseating – hoping he might make it out of this alive. Now he couldn’t resign himself, had to keep fighting. But first he had to stay calm, keep his head clear, wait for an opening.
Getting away from the rest of the crew had to be a good thing. It would be so much easier to run from one guy than four.
But whatever was coming next… he had to keep the conversation going. Couldn’t give away everything. Had to make himself seem useful.
He wished the man – Snart? – didn’t have his arm in a vice grip. His phone was in his pocket and maybe when he wasn’t looking, Barry could call Joe, mute the phone, and Joe would understand and find him.
The night air was cooler when it hit him the second they got out of the warehouse, not much light here on the other side where Snart had parked his… motorcyle?
“Uhhh…” Barry started, the first of them to break the silence, startled into stopping when Snart made a beeline for the only vehicle in sight. He wondered for a second where the other guys had parked.
Snart stopped and glanced at him. It wasn’t much lighter out here than in the warehouse even with the ambient city light and Barry couldn’t make out the details of his expression all that well, but he was pretty sure it was either impatient, amused, or pissed. Hard to say.
“Don’t even think of trying anything.”
Right, he should be – Barry tensed, ready to bolt but the man had him up against a wall in a second, one hand flat on his chest, the other hovering over his holstered gun.
“I just said –”
“I didn’t!”
“You were going to.”
Barry swallowed thick. Negotiating with the man who was going to kill him anyway. He opened his mouth to say – he didn’t know what, something, but –
In his back pocket, his phone started to ring and vibrate.
Both of their eyes widened as one. Barry almost forgot to breathe, heart hammering in his chest. Snart moved and Barry whipped into action, throwing his bodyweight against the man and getting all of four steps away before Snart was on him with a snarl and Barry’s face was against the wall this time, stucco digging into his cheek and he swore. The phone was still ringing. Snart grabbed and twisted his arm to get his wrist away from his back pocket where he was reaching for his phone. The sudden shock of pain lanced up his arms and he gasped, arching away from it, giving up on trying to answer the call.
A few heavy breaths later, the ringing stopped. Snart pulled it out for him. He waited, body taught.
“Looks like it went to voicemail.”
Barry didn’t dare pull his face off the stucco. “Who…”
Somewhere behind him, his captor snorted. “Does it matter?”
It did to him. “Please?”
There was silence for a moment, before he heard, “someone named Iris, according to your contacts.”
Barry felt his body sag, not even sure if it was in relief or disappointment. It wasn’t Joe. But fuck, it was Iris. His best friend. Who was probably worried about the fight he’d had with Joe.
He heard a rustle and then he was being hauled off the wall. Snart pulled the gun out for compliance as he dragged him over to the bike. He was tempted to fight but was sure it wasn’t the right time. Snart had his arm hard enough to bruise and even if he could pull off some badass manoeuvre and run, Snart seemed plenty fast on his own. Barry doubted the man would hesitate to pull the trigger either.
“What’s your name?” Barry asked.
“Trying to build a case?” he seemed grim and Barry winced. The answer was yes, but –
“No! Just – just want something to call you.” Everyone told him he looked innocent.
The man arched an eyebrow at him. “I know you heard it. Playing dumb won’t get you anywhere. In fact, let me make something clear before you get any more ideas, Barry. You run, you fight, you call for help – you don’t live to tomorrow.”
He shivered at the ice in the man’s voice, dread filling him despite the counterfactual here. “Does that mean there’s some version of this where I do live to tomorrow?”
Snart went from cool to amused, tilting his head to the side. “Let’s see how the chips fall, hm?”
He got Barry on the bike ahead of him. It was dangerous and uncomfortable, hands still tied behind his back. He tensed his thighs hard around the body of the machine under him and clutched the fabric of Snart’s shirt to hold on. Snart had him boxed in by his arms but he felt far from secure, and was unspeakably relieved that the man didn’t go fast, or far.
He really did take them down to the riverside.
Barry shuddered when the bike purred to a stop but they didn’t get off immediately. They were looking out at the water. The bodies of two of the three confirmed victims had been dumped in this river.
Snart was right behind him. “Ready to talk?”
Barry let out a half-gargled laugh, his anxiety seeping into it, suddenly fighting back tears. “Jesus, what’d you even want from me?”
The man finally moved off the bike but had his gun out again in a second, trained on Barry. “Off, c’mon.”
Barry obliged.
He walked them to an alley not far from the water, in between a closed cafe and a spare parts shop.
“What I want,” he said finally, when he had Barry up against a wall, hand plastered to the wall over his shoulder to box him in and Barry’s anxiety was reaching a peak, “is an assurance. That no one else is going to come poking around that warehouse, or that your little murder investigation doesn’t get traced back to me and my pals.”
Barry wanted to cry. “I can’t– I can’t do that. I don’t have the power to–”
“The chemical you traced to the warehouse, how do we assure ourselves it’s not on us, forensics-wise?”
“Just throw out your clothes, shower, it’s not that complicated.” His own voice sounded so strained.
“And your detective?”
“He’ll follow up with the warehouse eventually but I don’t – I can’t tell if he’ll find anything of yours!”
“You’ll process the scene?”
“Not if there’s no scene to process!”
He glanced away, down the alley, wrestling back the tears. Joe’s voice was in his head, years of warnings to be careful, to not go off on his own, to not run away. He’d been so stupid trying to crack open a case on a serial killer all on his own.
And now that serial killer was probably right in front of him, demanding all the information he’d need to cover his tracks.
“Tell me, Barry, how many murders’ve there been?”
Barry should be lying. He could feed him false-information and make it easier for the cops to find him, not harder. He had no idea what to say though, panic intruding his brain too much to come up with a good story, to find out how sneak in lies. Because with a man like Snart, there was no dodging the question. But this information, telling him how close or far the cops might be…
Was he ready to betray the investigation for the man most likely responsible for the murders?
“Barry?”
Did it even matter?
He closed his eyes and forcibly willed down the fear with a deep inhale before he kept talking. “Three prostitutes. One of them one was male. One of the women had the chemical under her nails. She turned up a few days ago in a field outside of town. The detectives weren’t sure to connect the cases but the evidence…” he glanced down. “The killer is mutilating the bodies. Taking trophies.”
Everything he’d said was going to come out in the press in a day or two anyway, other than the chemical part which he’d already spilled the beans on. Except that he wasn’t given the whole truth. There was a fourth victim. Not that Joe was willing to count the one Barry thought was part of the case yet. It was a circumstantial link at best, no mutilation, no trophies taken. It was the director of the facility they’d just been in, back when it was still in operation, believed to be a murder for personal gain, someone who worked there maybe. Except it went unsolved, went cold, and she’d been strangled, the same cause of death as the recent sex workers. With her, unlike the others, it was a crime of passion. Maybe the killer’s first.
“A real psycho,” Snart stepped back, jarring him out of his thoughts with a scathing note to his voice. Barry didn’t know a lot about the inner workings of a serial killer’s brain, but the derision with which he said it… he didn’t know what to think.
He swallowed. “Untie my hands.”
“Excuse me?”
“You asked me to give you information that could lose me my entire career, I want some assurance I might not die.”
He had a pocket knife out in a blink, lips twitching up. “Cute.”
Barry tensed, wondering how bad it would hurt to be stabbed, but the knife went behind him and Snart didn’t need to see his binds to cut through them, apparently. He did get awful close, though, and Barry was starting to suspect he was doing it on purpose. The hand on his chest before, the way he’d touched Barry’s neck and wrists, earlier – just like he was right now, fuck. A caress against his pulse point. He shivered and Snart withdrew, stepped back.
Barry swallowed and brought his hands forward, cradling them, rubbing circulation back into his fingers. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Snart was staring at his hands and Barry looked away. “Tell me, how long apart were the deaths?”
He couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why do you care so much, Snart?”
“So you do know my name.”
Barry rolled his eyes heavenward. Like they were playing a game. The man with the gun and knife and who the hell knew how many other weapons who’d crowded Barry into a creepy alley by the river to murder him was acting like they were playing a game.
“If you killed them all, you already know how far apart the victims died and the only reason you even care is so you can cover your tracks and I’m not gonna make it easier on –”
“I didn’t,” he snapped, angry, finger up like he was admonishing. “Murdering call girls isn’t my style, Barry. I’m a thief, and not a good man, but not a serial killer.”
He desperately wanted to believe that was true, if only for his own wellbeing. But, “Why should I believe that?”
“Why would I lie if I were just going to kill you? Wouldn’t I reveal my grand plan and watch you suffer?”
Barry tensed, for some godforsaken reason. If Snart really wasn’t behind any of this… “Then why am I even here? Unless… unless you just don’t want to kill me?”
He had to have a little hope, right?
Snart’s eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. “Make no mistake, Barry, I’m capable of it. But you could prove… useful.” His eyes flicked down Barry’s frame and he felt like a piece of meat.
“Because I’m with the CCPD? I’m not about to be some mole.”
He tilted his head, voice cold. “You sure about that?”
“I didn’t do it to help you, I did it so Joe wouldn’t find my body. Because I won’t compromise an investigation for you. You’re not getting that kind of favor out of me.”
“Consider your bargaining chips here.”
“I was useful enough letting you know to clear out the warehouse and cover your tracks if you’re not the guy. Isn’t that why I’m alive?”
“You’re alive because there’s heat involved with killing a badge, especially one who’s dad’s a detective. A detective who’s already going to be looking for clues in the right places.” His voice dropped low a moment later, less sardonic and cruel. “If you give me a reason to keep you around, I just might take it.”
Could it really be as simple as that? Barry tried to study Snart, but he was so close, keeping Barry boxed in again, too close for him to run unless he wanted to tussle again but he was still tempted. He swallowed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he wouldn’t have to compromise his work.
“What’d’you want from me, Snart?”
He tilted his head, meeting Barry’s gaze. “Keep the heat off me.”
He let out a half-laugh and on instinct, moved a hand up to drag through his hair. Snart tensed at his sudden move and Barry half-expected the knife in his gut but it never came. Snart was looking at him too intensely.
As if he even could. As if he had that power.
“If I say no, you’ll kill me?”
“Unless you have something else to offer me. It has to be worth the risk of keeping you alive and able to squeal. Otherwise, you’re as good as dead.” He was deadly serious and then, a second later, a smirk pulled at his lips. “Which would be a shame, really.” His eyes were on Barry’s lips again and he swallowed.
Bargaining chips.
Snart was his space, had been standing so close, so insinuating, and Barry had to decide, fast and sudden, if he thought sleeping with Snart might help him get through this, and if he was willing to do it if it would.
It turned out that the answer to both of those things was a very easy ‘yes’.
He leaned forward and closed the barely-extant gap between them, inhaling sharp and deep when their lips connected. For a horrible, dizzying second, he thought he was wrong, that he read Snart wrong. But he wasn’t. Snart kissed Barry back.
In a second he had Barry back against the wall harder, brick grinding into his back as the man cupped his face and slotted their bodies together and Barry took it. He kissed Snart and opened his mouth to let his tongue inside, responding in kind. He felt like he was drowning, not enough air, but kept kissing, tilting his head. He didn’t even know where the knife or gun had gone, only that Snart’s hands were bare and far too close to his trachea, so he didn’t consider stopping, gasped instead when Snart raked his teeth over his lower lip, let him get a thigh between Barry’s legs and made an appropriately needy sound.
He also started to shake, limbs trembling. It got so bad after a minute that his hands fisted Snart’s sweater over his biceps, desperate for anything to hold onto to suppress it, willing himself to just do whatever Snart asked of him.
After breathless moments of being kissed, Snart pulled back first. One of his hands had made its way to Barry’s hair and his throat constricted to quell the rising tide of nerves.
“You’re shaking.”
He made some noise and then managed to push words out. “That’s what people do when they’re scared.”
Snart thumbed his cheek. “What a shame.” His voice sounded different somehow, but maybe that was just because he was so close. Still, Barry opened his eyes.
“What?”
Snart’s gaze flicked to his lips and back to his eyes. “You’re only doing this because it’s life and death then, I take it?”
Did Snart need him to pretend to want it? Could he? He swallowed, fingers tightening in Snart’s sleeves. “If you need me to – I can pretend I –”
Snart put his thumb over Barry’s lips and stepped back, the heat of his body leaving a sudden cool in its wake in all the spots they suddenly weren’t connected. He shivered.
“Some people get off on the thrill – danger, adrenaline. Figured you might be there with me.”
Barry didn’t want to poke the man with the gun, but he couldn’t help but indignantly snap back, “why the hell would I want to sleep with the guy who keeps promising to kill me?”
He was fully out of Barry’s space now, hands entirely to himself, and he seemed to actually concede the point, nodding halfway to the side, gaze flicking around like he was… less angry, more entertained. The rejection didn’t seem to faze him all that much.
“Fair,” his voice was so nasal, “but you can’t pretend you don’t have a fear-boner, Barry.”
He glanced down. Shit. That was… awkward. And embarrassing. And new. But Snart kept talking before Barry could start to have an existential crisis about his body’s betrayal.
“We’re at a crossroads again then.”
He glanced up. Snart was back to cold and calculating, just as flat as he’d been in the warehouse, all the heat and humor of a moment ago gone in an instant.
“You don’t have to kill me.”
“You’ve seen my face, you know my name.” He paused. “Isn’t this the part where you promise not to tell?”
“Is it? Would you believe me?”
“… no.”
“You’re not the Midtown Murderer.”
“I’m not.”
Barry nodded, glancing at his hands, hoping against hope that it was true. “Then… I don’t care. Who you are. What you are. You won’t use that warehouse again and unless another victim gets linked back to you, there’s no reason why…”
“Why?”
He felt a little sick, wrong and right suddenly twisting up inside him. “Why I would need to even tell anyone about tonight. Just a private citizen who ran into a man with a gun and didn’t report it. Happens all the time.”
“And your detective dad?”
Barry’s eyebrows drew together. “My real dad’s an innocent man in prison. I don’t tell everything to Joe.”
There was a low whistle. “Now that… I almost do believe you, Barry.”
He met Snart’s gaze. “I won’t tell anyone I found you there. You won’t kill me and dump me in the river. And if… if something happens with this case that implicates you…”
“You’ll what?”
His resolve hardened. There were still some things he couldn’t do. “I’ll bring you in.”
The man laughed. Actually laughed. “I’d almost like to see you try. But know this.” His voice lost any mirth and he was in Barry’s space but there was nothing sexual, or even sensual about it. It was pure threat. “I know your name. Your friend Iris. Your foster father detective. If I have any reason to, Barry – I won’t start with you. I’ll start with them.”
He stayed stock still. When Snart finally left his space, his jaw was so tense it hurt.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Yeah,” he rasped, thinking of Iris, of Joe. “We do.”