Chapter Text

"God, kill me now."

That's Barry Allen, waiting for his coffee on his way to work, his passionate, although rather vulgar, mouth letting loose a few words. His coffee's late, as is the normal 20 ounce hot, 6 shots espresso, five caramel pumps, oat milk, no whip, ristretto for five stacks of paperwork about the size of his head. 

Usually, he wouldn't be complaining. Maybe at least speaking his mind in a rather accusatory manner. No one can fire him— he's the only person managing the entire division. Between losing the entire thing plus giving out five hundred severance packages and letting their leader be a little late, It's not a hard decision.

He's been sitting in his corner for about twenty minutes now— how much longer his coffee's gonna take isn't exactly his problem, he's an employer but he's not his employer, and they let the newbies run the 7 o'clock rush hour today. The universe hates to see him running late.

Just to run that back, usually, being late? No complaints, but today is no usual day, not the type you'd wish you were late for. He's got paperwork— genuine, important, paperwork— that's due by three minutes ago, and he's really hoping Chester got that memo on his desk, because, damn it, he's not falling asleep face-planted with drool drying on his cheek again, and he's not gonna be happy if STAR's stupid executive calls him asking where he is. 

In fact, the first thing he's yelling into his phone is, 'fuck the supreme—'

"Late, are you?" A voice, an octave lower than his, mewled, almost like a purr in his ears. A man, pulling a chair out of his table, suddenly broke him out of his trance. He looked up. If he were able to see his expression, he'd probably describe it as 'wide-eyed and nerdy', because that's what he is. At least he kept his mouth closed when an absolute hunk of a man decided to ask for a seat in front of him.

If Iris hadn't told him he obviously swung both ways after describing how he looked at Tony Woodward (even though his head had to be in range of a few swirlies), he'd be so in denial right now, because how could a man be so handsome?

"Uh, yeah— sorry, yeah, you can sit there."

The man smiled at him— and, dear lord, those pearly whites are fantastic, what?— and sat down properly. "No more seats— this place's packing." 

"Yeah, no, they're letting the new guy have a turn and it's the worst thing to come across right before work." Speaking of work, how'd this guy know he was running late? He wasn't that obvious, was he? "Uh, how'd you know I was late?"

"You're jittery," Barry didn't know if the man meant to make a pun or not, but he had to snicker a little, given they were in the hot spot called Jitters, "it's a common observation I find throughout most people running late for work— or for anything, really. What is it, an office job?" He asked, eyes taking a well-versed look at his suit before turning away, letting Barry observe him a little more without seeming creepy. If this guy observed that he was jittery, Barry observed that this guy was way too calm. Like he's trying to subject patience onto him. More questions were asked than answers being given. Of course Barry had a rising suspicion.

To be more specific, a theory that Barry was about to prove. 

"Code name. Or did another division send you?"

The man paused, and for a second it was almost as if time itself had come to a halt. Barry relaxed onto his seat behind him and watched as the man turned his head and allowed his gaze to round him— the same piercing, cold eyes that he'd see in any agent trained by STAR. The same eyes he could very well express now, but rather didn't, because he’s not like other agents.

Also, he’d never say something so confidential unless he knew what he was doing.

"Code name Cold. Division 4." 

"Mornin', Cold. Code name Flash. Crime division, was it?" Cold's eyes flickered towards his suit— very noticeably red— before smiling a little. 

"Good. Nice to meet you, Scarlet." There was a curl to his lips at the word, like he knew it would haunt Barry before it even could. Barry smiled back. Cold continued, "you're the manager for a division. I've heard."

"One."

"Spy division?"

"Right on the money."

"How extravagant. I'm sitting right in front of the most important division's manager in a crowded cafe where no one knows where he is."

Barry's smile widened softly, as he always has with coworkers, and Cold remained composed with a small smirk.

The conversation turned silent. 

Barry's been through this before. Coming across his spies outside of the job was only expected, given they were the only ones who knew what he looked like besides his boss, but he's never met anyone from a different division. In any work regarding big work, once you realize you're talking to somebody in the same field and the same sector, especially in a sector like theirs, it is no longer a coincidence, but a reason to be extra cautious. Any report can ruin an image, and Barry's image is too high to be ruined.

He assumed Cold thought the same. 

Before anything, he noticed that Cold's gaze had lost his again. Barry was very familiar with the predatory gaze that Cold was unintentionally expressing— the type of feeling you'd only recognize if you were one of them. Cold had a target here, and he'd just spotted the red dot sight. He decided not to question it. He figured during his time in the agency that the less questions asked, the more answers given.

Cold was unmoving as the bartender announced, "uhh, this's-- Six-- six shots ristretto?!" And Barry spectacularly knew it was his— the unhidden look of judgement in the bartender's eyes never failed to make his day as he stood without a word. He looked back at Cold, who was now standing as well.

To justify the expression on the bartender’s face, a sip of whatever was churning in his cup would keep anyone running for at least two days before crashing significantly. The bartender will need it after finding out what Cold will do in the next few moments.

The conversation had ended, and they both had jobs to do.

"Have a good one, Scarlet." 

He hummed. "See you in the office, Cold."

And as he took his leave with his coffee in hand, though the bartender definitely did his caramel pumps wrong, the screams of confusion and terror after finding a dead body in a bathroom stall, probably, according to STAR's usual practices, with a good stab right into the jugular, was only expected, followed by the very composed exit of his newly made acquaintance out the back door. 

Actually, maybe that was through a window. His suit’s mussed and he smooths it out as he steps forward.

Mission Accomplished. Cold had mouthed to him with a smirk, before disappearing into the alleys. 

God, if he sees Cold's face again, he's definitely asking him out. 

It was not a dark and stormy night unlike all the others that Barry had been when he was on a mission.

The man he'd been hunting was not only taller than him, but overly suspicious, which meant he had to do the extra work of making sure he wasn't caught.

This was the last target of the month, and, Barry supposed, the easiest he's had to deal with as the last one was the full fleet underneath the target. Central City had a rise in crime lately, and the company had been affected in such a way that it meant full deployment of most of the company's specialized task forces. 

It's a scientific research enterprise, he understood the need for security, but the basement level atrocities he was made to do were strangely overloaded, and he knew that, and he laughed at it from time to time, only to realize it really shouldn't be that funny. 

One particular conversation made its way to mind as he watched the man step into a puddle towards what he could only assume was the hotel he was using to meet the receiver.

More like, as Iris stepped into a puddle and splashed the water a little more before realizing it was staining her pants, she'd said, "it'd be funny, you know, if, like, you actually got the job you wanted when you interviewed."

"I dunno, I like this job better." 

"What, killing people?"

Barry had been silent for a little more than five seconds before he sighed. "I mean, when you put it like that."

She’s always been the older sister of the relationship, and he’s never really blamed her for it. After all, he’s in the field. If he were a cop like Joe, she’d be as worried. But he’s not. Iris and him go through this rollercoaster all the time. It doesn’t get any newer than it is frustrating.

He stepped into the building, with no need to gather his wits, knowing that the man was far through the hallways in search of his room. He followed closely behind with no question from the shady receptionist lady because, frankly, as long as he wasn't a cop, he's all grand to keep going. 

Barry thought that the frequency of which he'd been told off for 'not being careful enough' had, at this point, become incalculable. Maybe twelve times a week. Three a day if he's lucky. But all of his reasons for being 'not careful' are valid, no matter how many times they've said otherwise. Because if he's 'not being careful enough', then he'd be dead. And he's surely not dead, because only the dead aren't careful.

Obviously, that doesn't mean they don't still bother him. 

The hallway wasn't that dark and spooky, nor was he feeling any adrenaline— just like any old drug dealer he'd had to deal with because the entire freaking opposing organization was full of people who've stolen shit from other pieces of shit. He hadn't had any weapons in his dark red jacket, just his fists and whatever drug they'd assign to give both the trader and the receiver— you know, official business. 

If it was up to him, he’d have a weapon— anything from a bread knife to an AK-47— but that wasn’t how they were trained, and the way they were trained ensured the most essential points. Cleanliness, speed, and efficiency. Guns were for snipers, knives were for assassins, and spies? They had poison, because unlike the others, they weren’t trying to get arrested.

Worst case scenario, If all he had to focus on was paperwork, he was sure he would’ve broken all the rules at this point. But he was a spy, too, and breaking protocol wasn’t it. They only do that when it’s getting bad. 

It never gets bad.

Not for Barry.

Okay. He was losing focus. He’s right around the door, waiting for the guy to stop talking.

To listen to his breathing.

To know he’s there.

The guy opens the door, cup of joe in hand. Barry’s nowhere, disappears like a flash.

He sees the receiver sit down, all comfy, on one of those plush chairs you’d only ever see in the movies. He’s got no doubt the guy’s feeling all protected because the paid sniper’s aiming right at the window.

But all windows have blind spots.

“The fuck?” 

Damn, this guy sounds like he plays poker, the one who loses all his chips when he forgets royal exists.

He didn’t know Central had New Yorkers. 

Before the guy knows it, that fly's got the poison running right round his circular and there's really nothing he can do about it. Maybe he passes out, maybe he's dead. No matter. The guy at the door takes a sip of his own drugged coffee.

Barry's out of there before anyone can fall to the ground in agonizing pain. He's sure he's looking at a war, but he doesn't give a fuck. He's got the case of blueprints in his hand and his job's done.

That's how he works.

He never gets attached, never makes them suffer, never gives them the time of their life. 

Never needs to learn their names.

Not like snipers, who watch, keep an eye on the target and see them laugh with their kids or wives or husbands and smile wholesomely around the dinner table until they’re at a clear spot with no casualties.

Not like assassins, who're there to make sure of an illegal justice, who make sure they feel the same pain their client felt, who aren’t exactly there for anything but to cause harm, who know exactly what makes each victim click.

He just does. 

And he's never felt an ounce of guilt in his entire life.

That's what makes a spy.

“Chester, did you get that paperwork to Doctor Wells?” Was his first question before literally anything else (hell, not even ‘how’s it been’,) when he got to work, piping wild coffee in hand. Chester glanced at him and then back at the technology he was sure was extremely important because Chester could never focus unless it was important.

He finished off a wire and looked back at Barry, smiling. “Sure did, cap’n Flash!” And grinned. He’d told the kid to call him by his name, but he’s never resisted a smile when Chester gave him nicknames just like that. 

After Cisco had become his own division leader, Chester had been assigned to fill his shoes. Large shoes. Barry thought he filled it fine, but the kid himself didn’t, so he was always over-reaching. It wasn’t such a bad thing, by any means, because it let him give Chester tasks that no one else would accept, but he really hoped that the kid wasn’t overdoing it.

“That’s good, it was due way before I got here.” He took a sip of his coffee and set it down on the top of his cupboards near the door, leaving the door open— like always. Keeps the workflow steady and even. No need to knock, no need to yell ‘come in!’. Those were always annoying.

And then he looked up. 

If he wasn’t a spy working amongst spies, he’d be surprised to find Wells himself with a man, whose face he couldn’t quite see because Wells seemed very adamant to keep him hidden for some reason (he assumed it was for the plot), sitting on his desk with a small smile and all the worth of gold.

Barry shrugged off his coat, letting it hang, and then stepped forward. “Doctor Wells, sir,” he addressed, respect evident in his words, “what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Code name Flash, is that right, Allen?” 

Of all his days as a spy, he’d never think that Harrison himself would dox his name to some stranger sitting right behind him.

He’s skeptical, but he responds— still respectfully, because he can’t be an asshole, “Yes, sir.” Harrison seems to notice the tension in his voice because he smiles back, wrinkles shaping his god-sculpted face rather perfectly and keeping him on his toes because, even if he’d never admit it, kid Barry had a big crush on the dude when he was, like, twelve.

“You’ll be working alongside somebody from another division from now on… As I’ve heard you don’t exactly have a schedule.” Damn it, some outsider made a report.

He sighed softly, underneath his breath, and responded, “by all means, sir, the division is thriving well underneath my leadership. I suspect the complaint was from a separate division.” Like that Cold from division four. After all, he’d met him in a bustling cafe when he was supposed to be writing signatures on useless advances.

Harrison chuckled, but there was no humor in his smile. “No, no— the complaint was from me.”

He paused.

“Excuse me?”

The man from behind Wells stepped into perspective to give his well-versed, un-asked opinion. “Scarlet, pipe down.”

Shit. That fucking bastard. It was never a coincidence. Barry had known it, but the evidence hit hard when a man was as hot as Cold. 

“Cold?”

“The one and only.”

Harrison steps in between them, intercepting the quickly-heating argument. “You’ll be working with Mr. Snart, who’ll be your co-leader starting… Ah, today. Isn’t that just nice?” His voice is stern, a low growl evident, and Barry’s sure he’s mocking him right now, but he doesn’t snark back because there’s a difference between higher-ups and highest ups.

“That’s… That’s just great, sure.”

Snart’s smirk raises an inch and Barry can’t help but turn a little red because despite his frustrations, the guy’s still hot as hell. He’d tear the guy to shreds if he got him in bed, though.

“Treat him nicely— he used to be an ex-spy, turned division four leader after a few bargains, can’t imagine what he could’ve done to be thrown away like that— but he’s one of our best.”

Ex-spy?

Cold used to work for him?

How does he not recognize him?

“Of course. Will do.”

“And the paperwork’s already done, you had Chester in place for it, is that correct?”

He bit his lip. Snart glanced at his lips. So not cool. “Yes, sir.”

“Great. I’ll be out.”

And then they were left alone. 

“I’ll be in my own office. I left my usual schedule on your desk, so it’s best to review that. Did I forget to mention I was the leader for Div 4 before they placed me here?”

“...Must’ve.”

No, but Wells had mentioned it, and he hates himself for not noticing it sooner.

“Don’t be discouraged, Scarlet.” There’s a hand on his shoulder before he can object. Snart’s walking out of his office already.

So that’s why that room was cleared out.

Sardonic bastards, they never wanted to give the division a new storage room. 

They really needed a new storage room.

He’s off to his desk in a raging fury, letting the door slam closed because he only closes it like that when he’s too arrogant to treat his subordinates with respect, and next thing he knows he’s sending out a memo to all comms about the new (and ‘totally needed’) leader, Cold. 

A few people are cheering about Flash finally getting a boyfriend before he disclosed with full honesty that he’s not dating the man.

Snart ends it off with an open-ended ‘sure about that, darling?’ And it leaves Barry both fuming and also really aroused because no one’s flirted with him in so very long. He is not about to pine on someone who’s essentially just replaced him in a way. 

Also, what does that even mean?

The next day at work, he notices something different. First of all, everyone’s lined up— and Snart’s checking names off a list.

“What’s all this?” He questioned, whispering to the man.

He’d responded, “if you read my memo, Allen, it’s a roll call.”

Barry scoffs at him. “They’re spies, Cold, not sixth graders.”

“Exactly my point.”

He’s never looked at someone with so much frustration that his face had neutralized, but there’s a first for everything.

He decides to tell him off for it and inform him of the system that allows spies to register even on a mission and Cold, at first, seemed content— until he walked away with the most rigid eyeroll he’d ever seen in his life. 

Second, right after ‘roll call’, the line disperses quietly and everyone sits down to file before they go out to work. It frustrates him to no end, because, honestly, they’ve been working well even before the dumb schedule. Maybe even better.

But then he realizes that the gossip during break and through comms while he’s on radio duty shows that everyone’s content— hell, grateful— for this new routine.

This continues for the next seven days.

‘This’ meaning a whole bunch of new routines including potted plants to ‘brighten up the dull place’ and some round-up bullshit that’s somehow got everyone so organized the place feels like a factory. 

There were no complaints— in fact, Barry could bargain the opposite. It was appreciated. 

‘Finally feels like work.’

‘Snart’s making me feel all motivated, dude.’

And through all of the times he’s had to listen to his subordinates worship the ground Cold stepped on, he’s had to keep a smile plastered over his irritation that it’s working.

Barry’s at his wit’s end, and, frankly, that’s because he realizes that his leadership seems to have overlooked the fact that maybe people did want a schedule.

He’s strong. Better. Crashing into this workplace like a wrecking ball and leaving an obvious footprint that Barry’s couldn’t hold a candle to.

That’s just what a leader needs, of course, on top of his deliciously sculpted face.

People crowded towards Cold and asked for his number because to hell if a man wasn’t getting asked out with how attractive he was.

Out of professionality, he supposes, because who could ever turn Agent Vanilla down, Cold said no to all of their advances. 

Actually, he couldn’t help but realize it— the place was better, and it stung.

He sips on his coffee, both hands wrapped around the cylindrical shape and letting the warmth mix with his skin. He’s in his office, but it no longer feels like his. He could very well quit and it’d be the equivalent of such a low turbulence you sleep through the earthquake. Water wouldn’t ripple at all.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but he’s suddenly all off in the head. The fact that this absolute stranger was doing his job so much better than him, making him so much smaller in comparison, when he worked from the ground up just to build the first ever division— next thing he knows, he gets demoted out of pure democracy and he’s off to find a new job elsewhere because obviously he’d needed a slap to the face just to realize how much of a bad leader he was—

“Sir?”

He looks up.

“Chester. Come in.”

“Are you good, dude? I started calling your full legal name five minutes in and all you were doing was…” He glanced down at his coffee. “Staring. At your coffee.”

“I’m fine. Just tired. What’s the new job?”

“Um, there’s this whole company war going on with the other side— Eobard.”

Barry shifts in his seat.

After what happened with his mother and him, he was never going to hear that man’s name normally ever again. 

He shakes himself out of it— because he’s at work, and Eobard is work.

“So? What about?”

A fat stack of papers gets smacked dab onto his desk. “This is all the information we have on him. Higher heavens says we need more. Like, a lot more.” He points at the first few lines. “This guy’s been stealing our tech for a while and they’re hoping to get him into legal trouble. Possibly even make it to PA. They also know the illegal crap he’s been doing and… Well, expensive companies, extensive evidence.”

“Ches, any company like ours in any trouble is sure to get on PA. If anything, there’s no possibility it doesn’t.”

“Right.”

Barry scans through the documents for a bit— a bunch of blabber about needing a spy on the inside (they never need spies on the inside) and the proof they currently have (maybe three pictures of Eobard dealing drugs)— before landing on the last page. 

The due date is in one month.

His eyes fall a little, his mouth gaping, because info like what they’re trying to get can’t possibly be gathered in one month.

“Chester, they’re requesting this in one month?” His voice turns stern, cold, like the trained dog in him is bleeding out. Chester nods once, twice, then his face falls as well.

“Yes— well, it’s the deadliest.”

“Deadliest!?”

He pauses.

Shakes his head, lets the files go.

“I can’t do it. We can’t get that much info in one month. We’re not intel.”

“That— That’s just it, sir, Intel’s taken up. They’ve been working for weeks. Only our div gets that type of info from such secure sources.” Hey, that was some good alliteration.

Focus, Barry, focus!

“Are you sure they’re full? This is important stuff, couldn’t they just— psh,” he gestures sliding paperwork off his desk.

Chester shakes his head. “They need both of us working on this at the same time, but Intel just kinda sucks at it since they’re underemployed and we’re maybe second best to the actual thing.”

“So why’re they making us cram?!” He very well slams a fist onto his desk before softening. “I’m— sorry, I’m stressed. I’m not mad at you.”

“It’s fine, sir, and—” Chester clears his throat to begin his explanation— “well, if we can’t get it by the end of the month, they release the tech before we do, we get labeled thieves—”

He holds up a hand. Chester pauses.

Barry opens his mouth for more than five seconds, closes it, then finally gets the words out, “I get it, I get it. It’s fine. You’re dismissed.”

“Shit.”

That's the first thing Snart said as soon as Barry had handed him the documents.

Also the first time he’s ever heard a swear come directly from Snart’s mouth.

“Shitshitshitshitshit.” 

At first, Barry's confused. Because who wouldn't be, when your colleague's swearing his ass off before even reading the paperwork? He'd skimmed through the entire thing, and all it had to say was that the entire division was going to be shut down if the dossier wasn't done by the end of the month and that the only information they had on REVERSE was that it had stolen tech from STAR countless times.

Besides that, Snart would hardly be affected because, frankly, he knew exactly how much they loved the guy— at least, now that he has any sort of need to know about other people. He'd just be given a new division of his own before they knew it. If anything, he should be glad about this. Barry would be out of his hair, Harrison himself would personally shake his hand not unlike he did years ago, when the first division started, and he'd be the leader of highly organized, brilliantly trained spies— not Barry's spies, perhaps, as they seem to think his methods were unorthodox and needed to be replaced, but Snart's.

If he were in Snart's position, and he once was, he'd be over the moon.

“You're serious? This is official?” He stated more than asked. “You can't be. It's only been several weeks.” Barry was mildly impressed by how much the guy can raise a brow. He'd never had a problem with anything else, so this was the first time he's ever seen him distressed.

Over a stack of paperwork that said ‘Snart's new opportunities’ in big bold font. 

Barry's not impressed— the entire reason they put the div on a one month timer to the guillotine was because they wanted Snart to lead it and they couldn't find a good enough, sensible, reason to fire Barry. At least, that's what he convinced himself at a point.

“It is. Got its little badge and everything.”

Snart slammed his hand into the paperwork. Barry was pretty sure the papers would be crumpled by the time they were signed, all to a mad man who seemed to think he was going to die. 

“Motherfucking-load-of-shit,” he'd mumbled in reply.

And, wow. With all the schedules and potted plants, you’d think Snart would never swear this much in his entire life. Maybe he was holding it in. You know what they say about blowing a fuse. Or maybe that was about gas tanks. Or was it balloons?

He walked behind the desk, staring at Snart's buzzed head, then shifting his gaze towards the letters. “What? You should be glad. Next thing you know, the company's giving you leadership to the second version of the first division. Second-first division, leader Cold.” He wasn't sure if he was trying to comfort Snart, or humor himself. 

“That's not what I want.” The man groaned, keeling over himself and leaning over his desk in such a way that would've broken Barry's back. “It's not what I meant, Allen, you don't understand.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly to look at Snart and his tight-shut eyes. “Then what do you want, Cold? You're a good leader, the div will be fine.” He tried to keep himself from ripping his mouth off, the definite idea being one he'd never thought of expressing.

He knew he was better. That didn't mean he liked him as a leader. But he'll pass up on insulting him because the guy really did seem like he was going to get sick. 

Snart paused, like he was weighing the sudden confession of a lifetime, and then he looked at Barry like he'd just realized what he said. He stood up. “That doesn't mean half of anything if I'm dead!” He'd then yelled. 

For a moment, he looked like he was surprised with himself. Then it faded, like he decided it was best to come out with it now than never at all. 

Barry, on the other hand, had paused. Significantly paused. There was no training in the world that would tell you to your face that you'd be killed if you failed. Especially not STAR, because they're reasonable people and no spy for STAR has ever been killed for failing. 

Death was not a punishment. At least to them, punishment was early retirement. You die on the job, you die a working hero, but getting laid off? It meant you were an anomaly. So they stopped making it a threat and started making it a trophy. 

He thought Snart was joking, but there was something strange about the way he looked when he said he'd be dead.

He was serious. So serious, in fact, that there was sweat rolling down his scalp even when the AC was on. 

No one died because they were killed by STAR. But Snart's shifting eyes led him to believe he may have been different in that way, apart from all the other ways he's been different. 

He knows this because one of those failed spies was Ralph Dibny, who was also his roommate, who fed their dumb stretchy cat tuna every Tuesday so it got so fat it started replacing his pillows.

Snart didn't seem like he was thinking about a retirement plan. 

When he realized he had come up with no response during his five minutes of silence, he'd decided on one simple word.

“What?”

Snart glared at him, then sighed frustratedly. “If you have to know, Allen,” and yes, he did, because Snart, although extremely infuriating, was his co-leader, “I am not one of your normal spies. I was trained to be perfect because I,” he said as he took off his jacket, and Barry watched, because Barry's bi, “am not human.”

He just furrowed his brows and stared angrily at Snart for a moment.

“So? What are you, a unicorn?

“Way farther. I'm neither human nor animal.” He paused. “Nor am I a living thing. Think, kid.”

Barry was a scientist before he was a spy.

He'd applied to be a scientist before they'd realized he was strangely athletic and extremely agile for somebody his age. When they found out they needed a spy, he was the first they came to.

From his scientific days, he knew that most organisms that were natural were described as living. These things included animals from humans to fish and plants like flowers and vines. 

The only things that were described as ‘non-living’ were rocks and man-made structures designed to never break down or rot. The topmost idea he'd decided was closest to the situation right now was something he could only describe as… not ideal.

“...What?”

He didn't know he'd be repeating that word again, clueless as to which made the most sense for this situation, and he stood there like a duck with its beak cracked open because he really needed air and it wasn't quite getting to his lungs at the moment.

Actually, he seemed to be breathing through his ears.

“What's so hard to understand, Scarlet?” 

If he had any sensibility left, he'd have said, in such a way that the other party would get annoyed and leave abruptly: “What's so hard to understand? THAT YOU'RE NOT FUCKING HUMAN?” But instead he said, as he was losing the last of his coffee dealing with this, “you're a fucking WHAT?”

And then Snart had confirmed his worst fears, because Snart’s a fucking asshole; “an android. A robot. What do you want me to say?” 

He's not taking this and he really needs sleep.

“And, what–?” He paused as Snart, whose tie had miraculously been set aside while Barry wasn't looking, unbuttoned his blouse and shrugged it off. 

Underneath his collared shirt was very clearly a human body— only, it was shaped to perfection in a way that Barry could only describe as ‘crazy for a nine to fiver’. It matched everything else that Snart had to offer, chiselled, sleek and perfect. Also, he could feel himself resist the urge to pant at him right now.

For a brief moment, he had assumed that Snart was bluffing. That he really was just joking around, because any normal person in any normal situation would assume what he assumed. There was no reason not to. But the thing is, anyone— even spies— have their own tells. Barry has his own tells. Snart had his tells, and, from a matter of experience, he’d crease his eyes whenever something was any sort of humorous to him and he was trying to keep himself from laughing at least a little. 

When he snapped back, Barry watched as he tapped a button near his neck and released the panel over his chest. Inside was no heart, but a clear, chrome, and buzzing piece of technology one could only describe as a power source. He could clearly see the port where you plug in a charger— he can only assume he charges as if a human sleeps.

It was his battery. 

“If this division fucks up, I die.” Snart repeats, calmly— clearly. “Any sort of failure now, in my position, will render me useless.” He looks around at his office, then walks towards the door and locks it just in case. “The reason I got transferred here as a division co-leader from div four wasn’t because I’m that good, it’s because I fucked up as division leader but they gave me a chance. And now, I have to take that chance. And of all the people I could’ve been thrown with, it was you.”

Barry was silent, strangely silent. Usually, he’d be running his mouth with questions, but this is Snart— Snart, who never says anything personal, who tells him none of the rules until he’s broken one and who smiles all the time, who works in the dark for infinite stakes but never fucks around with his job, Snart, who has just revealed a large secret to Barry of all people. 

“Why— why would they want you dead?” He slowly asked, choosing his words wisely.

Snart stared at him. But not in an, ‘are you stupid?’ way, just… stared. Like it's the most strange thing he's ever heard. As if he's never even heard of the words Barry had just let out of his mouth. “Well, because…” he trailed off, shrugging at first. “I'm basically a living rough draft unless I'm perfect.”

Barry frowned at him. “What does that have to do with… Killing you?” He shook his head a little. “They built a sentient AI, they can't just kill you like you're…” He paused there, because he was about to say something he would've deeply regretted. Surely, there was a better word. “I don't know— any normal machine. You're not normal at all. In fact, I'm actually really… Curious.”

Snart was taken aback. Or at least, that's what Barry thought the widening of his eyes meant. “I mean, you're a completely sentient artificial intelligence— not only does that defy the laws of technology, you're basically the living example of science used correctly. You were what I worked for.”

Snart's eyes stayed wide.

“They used my research to make you. I know it. My semantics.” He was beaming with some sort of pride. “I mean… They stole it, sure, but holy hell. You're like, my prodigal son, or something. You're perfect.” He’s off analysing Snart’s body like it’s Adam and Eve as he yaps his mouth off about the components used and what they did differently. And then, he’s back to a wide smile, sitting on Snart’s desk drawer.

For a moment, they just kinda stayed there, staring at each other with wide eyes. Then Snart shook his head. “Don't say that, that's weird. I’m not your prodigal son.”

Barry stared at Snart for a few more moments before looking at the paperwork. “They can't erase my division. And if they do, they kill you. Either way, this division's dead, after all of my hard work. I'm not letting it happen.” He looked back at Snart. “I am not giving my spies away just ‘cause they think their egos are more important.”

“Are you now?” 

“No.” He looked dead into Snart's eyes and then creased his brows. “This is my division, you got it? Even after I've been fired. I built this entire system from the ground up for six damn years and I'll be damned if anyone gives it all up over one failure. Also, you’re my robot. Sort of.”

Snart rolled his eyes. But then, back to business.

“I see our goals align.” He hummed, looking down at his desk. “This could work.”

“Or it couldn't.”

“Maybe it won't.”

“I hate your guts. Maybe I should let them shut you off.”

Snart smirked at him in a very sexy way and Barry had to resist smiling back. That is so unfair. “You wouldn't, you love my face.”

That he does, but he’d never admit it. “We'll see.” Barry lent out a hand.

Snart took it. “See, we shall.”

“‘See we shall’? See we shall? That hunk of metal is so not real,” he’d ranted to Iris a few hours later, while Joe cooked them a pan of lasagna. 

“Barry, calm yourself.”

“Iris, you have to understand. I’ve never seen a hotter man, right? I’d never let the guy die before I bed him, but honestly, one month!” He felt his voice pitch up around the first few words before dying down.

The last time he was in any sort of oppressive time limit was when he first attempted to break into prison, and that was one year. Should it be any more obvious there’s a big problem about the time? He’s got one month to gather information about a company— not just about what they stole, but about the illegalities of its CEO dealing recreational drugs to vulnerable policemen and his obscure connection to the recent murders around town. How are you meant to gather evidence that they’ve made sure to burn?

He knows very well what this guy’s done, especially after his mother’s murder, but he has no idea how to prove it because the only eye witness he really has is himself, who, at the time, was maybe eleven.

“Is that all you’re worried about?” Iris suddenly snapped him out of his reverie. “Ever since you became a— a spy, honestly, that’s so weird to say— you’ve been a little more desensitized to most of the stuff you’re actually, actively dealing with. Like, this is— this is probably your mom’s murderer, and all you’re talking about is some hot asshole that you supposedly hate to the guts?”

Barry blinked, then huffed a small laugh, rolling his eyes a little before settling himself because you do not want to mess with Iris West, “look, if we actually get any sort of evidence, he’ll be arrested— but it’s been, what, seventeen years? That’s how you know he’s never getting arrested, Iris. I’ve come to terms with it, alright?” He shrugs his shoulders— more to get some movement rather than gesture ignorance. “If anything, I should be more worried about the life I can save right now rather than justifying a life that’s already gone.”

That sounded really poetic, and he’s proud of that.

“...You— you’ve changed, like, a whole ton.” He looked at Joe, who was now scrolling through facebook on his phone while waiting for the lasagna to finish in the oven, a small smile evident in his features. “You used to be so passionate about it, you know? After the company hired you for something else completely you just… Switched up. Two years, that’s how much time they needed to change you. You’ve been going after this guy for more than that.”

“They taught me to move on.”

He never moved on. 

“It’s better this way, Iris— I’ve never felt happier, I promise you.”

Iris’s features softened for a moment, before they were back to the stern, sisterly look in her eyes. “If you’re sure. Fine. But I’m not backing off on the ‘different person entirely’ part. Five years down the line of not being a scientist, and suddenly you’re not that sweaty, anxious nerd I grew up with.”

“Do you really want sweaty, anxious nerd Barry Allen back? I could yap your ear off to Starwars if you really need it.”

Iris cracked a smile and laughed. “No! Nevermind, I don’t miss him, go back to being the new nerd.”

“After all this, I’m still a nerd?”

“You are still a nerd. It’s your root.”

“Oh, come on.” 

The oven buzzed, and both siblings rose towards the dinner table to eat. Joe’s smile was as giddy as it’ll get as they settled down.

For now, he won’t  focus on that. 

Tomorrow, he’s gonna have to get an even worse coffee.