Chapter Text
Tonight was the last night Leonard Snart would spend casing the First Central Bank. This was a quick check-up, to be sure nothing had changed since he’d put the finishing touches on his plan. If all looked good, he and his crew of Rogues would be hitting the place in an hour.
Quietly he settled himself between two bushes in Main Street Park, tucked out of sight of the jogging paths. Though he was armed, it was with a regular pistol, and he'd left the cold gun and parka behind.
Len wasn't here to call attention to himself. In particular, he didn’t want to draw the notice of any of the unsavoury characters who roamed the area at this time of night. Pimps and drug dealers, petty thieves and the desperate homeless. None of his business and none of his concern, as long as he stayed out of their way.
There were many reasons Len was so successful as a thief. He’d learned quite a few important lessons from his father in what not to do. He’d spent years accumulating a wealth of useful skills and information. He was quick on his feet, both physically and mentally.
Most of all, he planned. He planned every detail, accounted for nearly every contingency.
Sometimes things didn’t go the way he wanted them to, admittedly. With the arrival of the Flash and other metahumans on the Central City scene, nothing seemed to happen quite like it was supposed to anymore. Irritating as that was, Len had to admit it added to the challenge, and often to the fun.
Knowing that things would inevitably go sideways was no excuse for jumping in with no thought, however. He still cased his jobs, sometimes spending weeks watching the building from all angles. Making notes about who went where and when. Listing potential weak points, both in the building itself and the people within it.
As he raised the binoculars for a good look at the bank across the way, the unmistakable click of a safety being flipped sent sudden tension singing through Len’s muscles. He dropped the glasses and reached for his pistol, but before he could get a hand on it he felt cold metal pressed to his head from behind. A gun barrel, undoubtedly.
Len froze. Damn it, he’d gotten sloppy. Nobody should have been able to get that close to him. “Now, now,” he said, trying for conciliatory rather than annoyed. “No need for violence.”
He was positioned awkwardly; there was no way he could whip around and bat the barrel away before whoever it was fired. He needed to play it cool, convince them to back off, make them slip up somehow.
Instead of hesitating, his unknown assailant pulled back the hammer to cock the gun, another unmistakable sound. "I oughtta just blow your head off right here." The voice was low, hardly better than a dog’s growl, but it sounded vaguely familiar.
Len’s mind raced, running through the possibilities of who might be out to kill him. The list was extensive. No help there. He needed more intel, had to keep the guy talking. "I'm sure that won't be necessary. Why don't you tell me what you want, and we can come to some kind of arrangement."
"An arrangement?" The suggestion was met with a harsh, angry laugh. "Why, so you can betray me to your buddy, the Flash? You're an embarrassment, you know that?"
That drew a silent snarl from Len, lip curling in disdain and anger. "The Flash is far from my buddy. Maybe you've confused me with someone else."
"Don't give me that shit, Snart.” The more the man spoke, the more he sounded familiar. "Once, you know, your crew was an outfit to aspire to be in. I thought it was a fucking honour to work with you. But now you've gone soft. If I take you out, I'll be on top."
The information that the man had once been on his crew was the last puzzle piece falling into place. Gary McDonald, one of the men he’d brought in for the Khandaq Diamond job. The asshole had pulled a gun on him then, too. That it happened a second time was very much a ‘fool me twice, shame on me’ situation for Len.
Still, the knowledge gave him a chance to regain the upper hand. McDonald wasn’t the brightest bulb. He was easily unnerved and even more easily distracted. Len could work with that. "Is that so? That's an interesting theory. I think it's more likely that you'll be dead at the hands of my friend, coming up behind you right now."
McDonald jumped, jerking his head around like an idiot. "Huh?" The gun wavered, still aimed at Len but no longer pressed against him, and McDonald's attention was completely diverted.
Unfortunately, Len couldn’t take advantage of the opening as planned, because he was just as startled. Somehow, completely unnoticed by either of them, a third man had appeared seemingly out of thin air. McDonald made a belated attempt to swing the gun around, but the newcomer ducked low and came up inside the asshole’s guard.
A swift movement that hinted at significant fighting expertise twisted McDonald’s arm into a punishing hold. The unknown man’s other hand came up to clamp over the petty thug’s mouth, and a moment later an awful crunch sounded from McDonald’s elbow. His scream was muffled by the man’s hand as the gun fell from nerveless fingers.
"Next move you make, I snap your neck instead of your arm." The new guy’s voice was flat, as cold as the beam from Len’s signature weapon. It wasn’t a threat, just a statement of fact. No remorse, no hesitation.
That was the voice of a stone cold killer. Someone who had ended many lives in the past, and didn’t much care if he ended another tonight. Len’s well-honed survival instinct told him this was a man he definitely didn’t want to cross.
Curiosity threatened to eat him alive. This was clearly not some good Samaritan. This guy knew what he was doing, and was ruthless in his efficiency. Len thought he knew all the major players in Central City, but he’d never seen or heard of this guy.
The man wasn’t especially tall or short, but that was where ‘average’ stopped applying. His muscled build was obvious even through the leather jacket he wore, and his every movement was filled with power, grace, and speed. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, framing a pale face half covered in scruff. At least two knives and a gun were visible, tucked away in various locations on his body, and no doubt there were more out of sight.
Everything about him screamed ‘pro’, which meant he must be in town to work a contract. Why would a high class hitman get involved in a minor scuffle like this? Was he actually helping, or would he turn on Len next?
There had to be a way Len could twist this to his advantage.
For the moment, the stranger seemed willing to play along with the fiction that he was there as Len’s backup. He held McDonald in a tight grip; if the thug’s attempts to squirm free made any impact at all, it didn’t show. His eyes were locked on Len, silently daring him to make the next move.
Hiding his surprise, Len rose to his feet, unhurried. Never let them see you’re ruffled. "Hello Gary. So, you think I'm soft, huh?"
McDonald panted, unable to respond with his mouth covered, his eyes wild with terror. He shook his head slightly, but emphatically.
What the hell was he going to do with this clown? Len had told him that if he ever saw the man again he’d put a bullet in him, but there were layers here, and he needed to play it right. If there were rumours flying around that Len had gone soft, was in bed with the Flash - amusing as that particular thought was to contemplate in the literal sense - he needed to put an end to them.
Bodies could send an effective message, but a terrified, agonized messenger tended to get the point across even better. Besides, there was his deal with the Flash to consider. "If I let you go, you gonna try this again?"
Again, another headshake, even more emphatic. Was that the sharp scent of urine on the air? Len almost thought the guy was sincere, he was so obviously cowed.
"Good. Go tell your friends just how soft Cold really is."
He gave the stranger a nod, a curt and silent order to let him go. Hopefully, the man would actually obey.
Rather to his surprise, the hitman released Len’s would-be killer with a shove that sent the injured man stumbling toward the jogging path, almost falling on his face. The push had been hard enough to force McDonald out of reach, not that he was in any shape to try to jump them. McDonald gave one longing look at his gun, on the ground by the stranger’s foot, but in the end he did the smart thing and bolted.
Len didn't bother to watch the punk go. He knew the idiot would run with his tail between his legs, and wouldn't be back. Probably.
If he was stupid enough to try again, Len would be ready, and he wouldn't be so merciful a third time.
Now it was only him and the stranger, and the full weight of the man’s regard landed on Len. It was almost physical, like the guy was trying to pin him in place. Cut him open and spread out his insides, take a look up close and personal. There was no hint in his expression of what he was thinking, but it was clear Len was being judged.
Never one to be intimidated, Len cocked his hip and arched an eyebrow. He might not have the parka and cold gun, but he was still Captain Cold, and he had a reputation to maintain. “So? What now? If you’re expecting an engraved thank you note, well, I can probably manage to steal something like that for you. But I didn’t ask you to step in, so if you think I’m going to owe you a favour…”
"Do you?" The stranger’s voice was rough, like he maybe hadn’t used it in a while. "Work with the Flash, I mean."
Len’s eyes narrowed at the question. His first instinct was to deny it, because surely a guy like this wouldn’t be any happier about an ally of the Flash than McDonald had been. And yet, if that was the case, why step in to help?
He needed more information. "Why do you want to know?"
"Means I'm less likely to kill you." Again, it sounded like a simple statement of fact. He said the words like they shouldn’t need saying. He stood with unnatural stillness, balanced and ready to move in any direction but motionless until motion was required. A hunter’s stance. "I’ve been watching you all week. You hadn't hurt anyone, so I left you alone. I wanted to see what you would do."
Len didn’t much enjoy feeling like potential prey. He cocked his head, eyes remaining narrowed, now with calculation. It concerned him that the guy had been casing him while Len cased the bank… and Len hadn’t even been aware of him. This was entirely unexpected, and now he was questioning his earlier assessment. Why would a guy like this care that Len hadn’t hurt anyone?
"Then I've been known to help the Flash at times, when it was mutually convenient." He kept his voice dry, almost playful. "Who do you work for? Why were you watching me?"
"I wanted to see what you would do." The words came slower this time, with heavier emphasis, like he thought maybe Len hadn’t heard him. Or was too simple to understand. "I don't work for anyone. I just don't like bullies. If it had turned out you were planning to hurt innocent people, I'd have stopped you."
None of this made any sense. Len hated it when things made no sense. Made it so much harder to plan. "Innocent people might get hurt. But that's not the goal. It's wasteful. And I don’t kill on the job." Should he mention his deal with the Flash? No way to be sure how the man would react. Best to leave it for now, he could always play that card later.
The man nodded, the first time he’d moved since releasing McDonald, like Len had just said something profound. “What is your goal? Why did that guy try to hurt you? Who are you?"
“Who are you?” Len countered, filing away the fact that the guy didn’t recognize him. Not that many people would without his signature outfit, that was part of the point of having a distracting, highly recognizable look.
For some reason, his question caused the man to tense. He glanced away, then back again quickly, like he didn’t trust Len not to try something if he let his guard down for even a moment. “I’m… nobody.”
Interesting. Very interesting. He took a step closer to the strange, nameless man. "I don't get personal about my goals with just anybody - or nobody. You want to know all about me, but won’t share anything about you. Not very fair, wouldn’t you say?"
"Life isn't fair." The flat tone wavered and broke. There was agony in those words, a wealth of painful experience shading his tone. It struck an answering chord deep within Len, the first lesson his father had ever taught him, the one that he’d never forgotten.
Life wasn’t fair, and never would be. Truer words.
Then, as if he’d come to some kind of decision, the man relaxed. Marginally. "You can call me James. You're Snart? I know you were casing that building. You've got a lot of discipline. I was curious."
"Leonard Snart," he allowed, giving him a little more as reward for a name - even if it was probably fake. Give and take. Quid pro quo. "The Flash calls me Captain Cold."
"Captain Cold?" James stared at him. "Christ, and I thought Captain America sounded stupid. I ain't calling you 'Cap', let's get that clear right now."
For a moment as he spoke there was more animation in his voice, life in his expression. He sounded halfway like a man instead of an automaton. There was a slight slur to his words, a hint of Brooklyn if Len wasn’t mistaken. Curiouser and curiouser.
"I didn't say I wanted you to call me that." Len gave him an amused smirk, even as he wondered what had caused the change. "For that, you can call me Cold."
James seemed unimpressed. “Sure thing. Snart.”
The retort drew a chuckle from Len. It had been a bit of a test, to be honest, to see if 'James' would call him by that name. Snart was just fine with him.
"I was casing the building, though now I wonder if all my preparation is worthless." He cocked his head, like an idea had just occurred to him. "Unless you'd like a cut of the action. What do you think, James? Want to rob a bank with me?"
As fast as it had appeared, the animation faded back into the stillness of the killer, though a hint of it remained in James’ eyes as he considered the question. What thoughts were running through his head? What sort of factors did a man like him evaluate? A killer with a conscience.
"I could use some operating capital," James finally said. "It's not something I could tackle on my own. So long as the plan isn't for people to get hurt. You seem competent, at least."
Oh, the possibilities here. Someone with skills like James clearly had would be an invaluable asset to the Rogues in any case. But finding someone with skills like that who would obey the Flash’s rule about killing, without Len having to babysit him every step of the way? Priceless.
In a calculated move he turned his back on James, as if unconcerned by the potential threat the man posed. A show of trust. Frankly, if James wanted him dead, he’d already be dead, that much was clear. "Follow me, then. I have to pick up something from headquarters, and round up the boys for the job. You prove yourself, you get an equal cut to the rest of the crew."
James fell in beside him, just far enough to be out of easy reach, not so far they'd need to raise their voices to talk. "How many on the team? Are you the leader?"
Watching him walk told Len a few more things about his new recruit. He had already noticed that James moved like a powerhouse, and he was big. There was a natural swagger of someone who was used to barrelling through any obstacle with sheer force, but incredible skill and speed as well.
Len would bet his left nut that this man was a metahuman, and probably not just a hitman, but an assassin. God only knew why a guy like this was in Central City, apparently at loose ends. Len wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity. "I'm the leader. You said you don't work with anyone. Is that a new thing?"
"It's complicated.” Yeah, Len didn’t doubt that for a minute. Probably an overwhelming understatement. "I can be a team player when I want to be, if that's what you're worried about."
"If you can be a team player, then you're probably better off than most petty criminals. But there's nothing much petty about you, is there?"
"It's not a word I've ever heard applied, no." James shrugged. "I'm the best at what I do. I just don't want to do that, any more. So I'll find something else to be the best at."
They reached Len’s bike and he swung his leg over the seat. He settled farther forward than usual, leaving room for James to perch behind him, though it would be a close ride. The bike wasn’t meant for two. He didn’t have a helmet for the other man, either - good thing the bike was fast enough to outrun any cops that might try to pull them over.
James stood in the mouth of the alley, blocking a significant amount of light from the street. Len could see his eyes scanning over every detail of the bike, then sweeping back up to meet Len’s. He remained stone-faced, no way to know what he was thinking, but Len was certain there was some kind of risk/threat assessment going on.
Apparently Len passed the test. James swung on behind with no further hesitation, gripping Len’s jacket at the waist and settling with his weight perfectly balanced.
Either he was confident or foolhardy - Len was betting on confident. He gunned the engine and tore out of the alley at an excessive speed. They blew through a red light, weaving between the sparse traffic crossing the intersection. Len pushed the bike to its limits, but he was in total control. He had no intention of crashing. His only goal was to learn something more about this strange man, get an idea of what he might be capable of.
James followed every motion the bike made with ease, shifting his weight appropriately, reflexes apparently more than a match for the reckless driving. If he was nervous, it didn’t show in the least. Unless Len was very much mistaken, the man was gripping mostly with his legs, not his hands on Len. Impressive, to say the least.
Having learned what he needed to know, he eased off the gas. There was no need to be the fastest man in Central City tonight, even if that were possible.
"So what it is you used to do, James?" Len was curious to see how much the man would tell him.
"I'm... I was... an assassin." The words sounded like they’d been dragged out of him, even rougher than usual. His grip went tight for a moment, almost punishing - the left more so than the right. Thankfully, he eased up again immediately. "I'm tired of killing for other people. Now I'm in charge of my own fucking life."
Len smiled. As difficult as the confession had apparently been, he was satisfied that James had told him the truth. "Good. Sounds like you'll fit in in my crew just fine."
"I wouldn't mind having a team again." The words were almost too soft to catch over the wind, and there was a wistful quality to them. He might not work for anyone now, but he clearly had at one time, and he missed it.
Then his voice returned to his usual arctic levels. "Just so we're clear, I won't start anything, but I will finish anything other people try to start with me. Some guys can't seem to resist waving their dicks around to prove theirs are bigger. I don't pull my punches."
Len snorted with amusement as he pulled up in front of the warehouse that they were using as a lair at the moment. "If anyone's stupid enough to start shit with you, they deserve what they get. Just try not to kill anyone. It’s so hard to find good replacements."
“I’ll do my best. No promises.” It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there might have been a smirk accompanying James’ nod.
Len grinned back at him, more than satisfied with the events of the night so far. Even if the heist turned out to be a bust, he’d already made off with one hell of a treasure.