Coldflash, In the Same Bed
Barry doesn’t slip into consciousness so much as consciousness hits him like a semi truck. His first inhale is a gasp and his fist exhale a pained, strangled groan.
“You’re alive,” drawls a voice to Barry’s left. “Mick owes me money.”
Barry’s vision is blurred, but there’s no mistaking the figure in bed beside him as anyone other than Leonard Snart. Barry watches with a deep furrow in his brow as Snart grabs a small piece of cord from the nightstand nearby and wedges it between the pages of his thick, well-worn paperback to mark his place.
“Snart, why are you in my bed?” Barry asks. He means for it to come out harsher, more like a threat, but his voice is too hoarse to have the desired effect. Barry’s whole throat feels like it’s on fire, and he swallows thickly in an attempt to extinguish it.
“Actually, Barry, you’re in mine,” Snart replies. He reaches up and removes his reading glasses, round, clear frames that Barry does not -- does not -- find adorable on the older man.
Snart sets his glasses and his forgotten book on the nightstand and grabs a glass of water instead, passing it over to Barry as Barry slides into a sitting position. Tentatively, Barry takes the offered glass. The water is room temperature and soothes the ache without any of the sharp sting cold water would cause.
“That’s not any less concerning,” Barry says once he’s greedily sucked down half the glass. His voice sounds more even for his trouble.
Snart chuckles. The curve of his lips, one pulled higher the other in more of a smirk than a smile, sets a kaleidoscope of butterflies loose in Barry’s chest. “If you wanted to get into my bed so badly, Barry,” Snart drawls. “All you had to do was ask. That whole passing out thing you did was a lot less fun.”
A flush spreads across Barry’s cheeks and up into his hairline. He remembers now, going up against the Rogues after three days with no sleep, the world turning dark around the edges, his breath shallow and laboured, as his body gave up its fight to keep him awake.
Barry flicks his gaze to Snart from the corners of his eyes, opens his mouth to get defensive and make excuses, but stops short when he notices the way Snart’s brow pinches ever so slightly against the canvas of his otherwise impassive face.
“Were you worried about me?” Barry asks before he can think better of it.
Snart tenses, draws his shoulders back and sits up higher, straighter. “I’m not racing to catch heat for killing The Flash, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says.
Glancing over his shoulder, Barry notices a matching nightstand on his end of the bed and twists around to set down his glass. He turns to face Snart again and offers him a sheepish smile.
“I was just tired,” Barry explains. As if on cue, a yawn forces his mouth open wide. He covers it with his hand, but it leaves him off balance, leaning into Snart’s space.
“Sorry,” Barry murmurs once the yawn’s passed, but he doesn’t draw back. Snart watches him with careful, scrutinizing eyes, and Barry lets him, a thrill of something running up his spine.
After what feels like an eternity, Snart finally moves. He raises one of his hands until it hovers just over Barry’s face, then, with his thumb, Snart traces the puffy bags under Barry’s right eye.
“You should take better care of yourself, Scarlet,” Snart whispers, his fingers still brushing Barry’s skin, and the sound feels so much louder than it actually is. “Can’t have my nemesis collapsing on me when I can beat him fair and square.”
Barry laughs, bright and bemused, and tilts his face into Snart’s hand. “I didn’t think the word fair was in your vocabulary.”
Snart shrugs. “It usually isn’t.”
Barry chuckles again, then pulls away from Snart’s fingers in favor of laying down beside him. He burrows into the cocoon of pillows and blankets and oversized sweats that surround him as Snart watches with sharp, guarded eyes.
Barry tugs pointedly at the sleeves of the sweater he’s wearing as he glances up at Snart, his eyelids already heavy with sleep. “Pretty sure I was wearing a supersuit when I passed out,” he mumbles.
“Which was no doubt embedded with a tracker,” Snart replies, no remorse in his tone. “It’s in a warehouse on the other side of town, relatively unharmed. Assuming Mick didn’t get trigger happy with his Heat Gun.”
Barry winces at the mental image of his suit up in flames. Cisco would throw a fit.
“Don’t worry,” Snart adds, catching the wrinkle in Barry’s nose. “I was the perfect gentleman. Plus, briefs under the tripolymer? Looks like Lisa owes me money, too.”
“It’s comfy,” Barry says. Whether he’s talking about not going commando in the suit or the layer of fleece lining the inside of Snart’s sweater, he isn’t sure. Snart doesn’t seem sure either, if the uncertain gaze he sends Barry’s way is any indication.
Barry’s brain is already half asleep, which is probably why he shuffles forward and press his face against Snart’s side, an arm looping around his waist for good measure, like it’s a good idea. Snart stiffens, but Barry doesn’t let up.
“What are you doing?” Snart asks.
Barry shrugs. “You’re the one who doesn’t wanna catch heat for killing the Flash,” he says.
Snart relaxes, if only a little. “And you’ll die if Captain Cold doesn’t cuddle you?” he quips.
Barry yawns again, pressing his face more firmly into the soft cushion of Snart’s stomach. “You said it, not me.”
The last thing Barry registers before dropping off again is the way Snart’s arm curls around his shoulders, and the gentle feeling of fingers running through his hair.