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Six months ago, if you had asked Barry what he thought he’d be doing on a random Tuesday night in November he probably wouldn’t have said ‘cuddling Leonard Snart’.
He definitely wouldn’t have pictured being the big spoon.
They were curled up together in a sparsely furnished apartment downtown, with the sounds of the city drifting from the street below. After months of stealing moments in darkened alleyways or dive bars, a combination of growing trust and worsening weather had finally convinced Len to relocate their bedroom activities to an actual bedroom. Whose bedroom, Barry couldn’t be sure; Len had yet to bring him to the same house twice, and if he had someplace to call a permanent home he had yet to invite the Flash over the threshold, but tangled up in the sheets, sated and half asleep with his head resting on Leonard’s scarred shoulder, he wasn’t inclined to ask too many questions.
The distant wail of a siren cut through Barry’s sleepy haze, rousing him immediately to awareness like someone had called his name. He lifted his head, the movement stirring the sheets. Beside him, Len burrowed deeper into the pillows with a grumble. Barry sat up properly, rubbing sleep out of his eye with the heel of his palm as he listened to the sound fade away. The disturbance was a few blocks away, at best guess. Half a mile at most.
He should go. Someone might need the Flash’s help.
Barry sighed. He already had goosebumps from the cool air outside of their cocoon of warmth. The thought of trading this very comfortable bed and his pleasant nap for adrenaline, the lash of the wind and a high-speed chase after a cop car was not an appealing one. Reluctantly, he rubbed his eyes.
“Are you going or not?” Len asked. His face was still buried in the pillow.
Barry's lips twitched. “Is that your way of asking me to leave?”
“Stay or don’t,” Len said. “It’s your call. But speed up the decision process a little. You’re letting all the heat out.”
“I thought you loved the cold,” Barry said, leaning in to drawl right in his ear in a spot-on imitation of Len's voice.
Len rolled over and fixed him with a blistering glare. The pillow crease down one cheek rendered the effect a little less intimidating than he’d intended, and Barry had to fight a laugh.
He glanced over at the window again. The curtains were only half drawn, and the evening light of the city crept in. Already the sirens had disintegrated into nothing on the breeze, and no matter how hard he listened, all he could hear was the thud of bass from the bar down the street and the steady sounds of traffic. He could still catch up to the cops, of course. He wouldn’t even break a sweat.
Apparently bored of waiting for him to make up his mind, Len turned over with an eye-roll and burrowed back underneath the sheets until only the top of his head was visible, the tip of his nose just poking out over the edge of the duvet. The warmth of his body was like a siren song, summoning Barry back in. He bit his lip.
If he’d heard sirens, he reasoned, that meant the CCPD was already in pursuit. He could leave them to handle it themselves for one night, right?
Decision made, he slid back beneath the covers and cuddled up to Len again to steal back some of the warmth he’d lost. Leonard made an irritable sound when Barry pressed his cold nose against Len’s scarred shoulder. In apology, Barry started vibrating, generating just enough friction to heat the sheets and make up for the warmth he’d let out. Before long, it was pleasantly warm, like they were lying between electric blankets. Len relaxed against him, and his scowl smoothed out. He was surprisingly nice to snuggle with; Barry hadn't expected him to tolerate the closeness, let alone to apparently encourage it. Cold by name, not so cold by nature, Barry thought—not as much as he appeared to be, anyway.
The vibrations stopped abruptly as realization dawned.
“You don’t like the cold at all, do you?”
Len ignored him, but Barry felt his twitch of annoyance, like a cat’s tail flicking in warning.
“Oh my God,” Barry said, the full truth of the situation dawning on him. “You hate it.”
“Nobody likes freezing their ass off,” Len said primly.
“That’s like if I didn’t enjoy running!" Barry said, scandalized. "Freezing things is your entire MO! How the hell can you not like the cold when you made it your entire personality?”
“Yes, well the cold gun wouldn’t have been my first choice. I needed to counteract someone with a very specific skill set, as you know. I had to choose from the weapons that were available.”
“The weapon was a necessity,” Barry said. “The branding was a choice.”
“Cisco picked the name,” Len reminded him.
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to use it.” Barry shook his head. “Guess that explains why you’re so married to the parka. It does look cosy.” Definitely cosier than the Flash suit. He’d definitely envied Len for his furry hood in the past. “What’s next? Pocket handwarmers? Fluffy socks?”
There was a shifty silence.
Barry sat up again, eyes wide. “Seriously?”
Len, who was doing his best to ignore him, didn't even open his eyes as he pointed out, “You literally wear a onesie, Barry; I’m not sure you have the high ground in this situation.”
“Fluffy socks,” Barry said gleefully. “Thermals. Fur-lined undies.”
“I will shoot you.”
Barry was enjoying himself too much for the threat to register. “Fraud,” he said, punctuating it with a kiss to Len’s shoulder. “Fake.” Another kiss. “…Phony.”
Len let out a long-suffering sigh.
“They’ll take away your villain card for this,” Barry told him with mock seriousness. “Pretending to like the cold… snuggling with the enemy….”
“Breathe one word of this to anyone I’ll turn your house into an ice rink."
Barry laughed silently. Oh, Len was never living this down. He could already imagine how he’d use this against him in a fight. The first hint of a cold pun and it would be game over.
“One word, Barry,” Len warned him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Barry said, snuggling in closer. “I know.”