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The Flash's body is shaking so hard that it's a struggle to get him out of the stiff, ice-coated suit that seems to be frozen to his skin, specs of frost raining down like tiny snowflakes when Leonard carefully peels the material away.
"Why the hell would you go into a fight if you don't have your powers? Didn't peck you for suicidal, Scarlet."
There's a patch of frostbite on Barry's left hip where the Cold Gun's blast hit him, angry red and sore. Leonard feels sick, looking at it. He's done far worse damage with the gun, has watched it freeze off limbs and snuff out lives without blinking an eye, but it's different when he never set out to do real harm. Who's he kidding? It's different with Barry. He's gone soft on the Flash, and there's not much point denying it.
Barry jumps a little when Leonard touches the injured skin, but he doesn't pull away.
"Still got my speed. Most of it anyway. Just not the accelerated healing," he mumbles. His lips are faintly blue and the words sound sluggish, but Leonard figures that if Barry's already arguing, he'll be okay, eventually.
Still. It's easy to envision how he might not have been. If it had been someone other than Leonard, someone who genuinely wanted to do away with the Flash rather than thrive on the thrill of the fight. Or even if Leonard had angled the gun just a little bit higher—
"Not an argument pro throwing yourself into danger."
He's startled by how angry he is. With Barry, for being so foolish and reckless. But most of all with himself. He should have realised that something was off before he fired the gun.
"I'll be fine. I had worse," Barry insists. "'m already feeling better."
But he's shaking like a leaf underneath the blankets Leonard has wrapped around him, so better is probably a matter of perspective. Leonard stands over Barry for a moment and watches him, his body cocooned almost completely, only his face visible, eyes closed and cheeks pale and blotchy.
With a sigh, Leonard removes his parka and slips under the pile of blankets next to Barry, who doesn't even crack open an eye when he's pulled against Leonard's chest. It would be concerning, if Barry's arms didn't immediately wrap around Leonard's body, his fists tightening in Leonard's sweater with surprisingly firm fingers. Just this once, Leonard decides to let him get away with it. His general aversion to uninvited physical contact notwithstanding, he almost doesn't mind the touch.
Barry still feels cold, even through layers of clothing, but the shivering doesn't take long to subside and his face slowly turns to a healthier color, signaling those temporarily dampened healing powers finally kicking in.
He probably doesn't need the extra body heat now. When Leonard makes a move as if to pull away, though, Barry's hold on him tightens.
"Barry." It's meant to come out sharp, like a threat, but he's warm and comfortable, and having an arm full of mostly-naked speedster is— It's not something he is particularly keen to relinquish, even though he knows he should, for his own peace of mind.
Barry's eyes are open and alert, sparkling with amusement. "I think I told you before, Snart. You're doing a lousy job of being a villain."
Leonard narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue. "Careful, Barry, I can always kick you out. Let you run all the way back to your friends in nothing but your boxers."
"Nah, you wouldn't. Not after going through all this trouble to warm me up. I think you're—"
Leonard has no interest in hearing what delusions of goodness Barry is about to thrust upon him, so he decides to shut him up in the quickest and least violent way he can think of.
Barry's lips are soft and warm underneath his, and he can feel Barry's mouth curling into a smirk. He kisses him until the smile falls open into a breathless gasp, until every strip of skin he touches feels heated and there's no trace of frost lingering.
End