#gotta mute this just because it’s overwhelming my notifications

[cadmium-free]

if you’ve ever thought i’m standoffish, politely distant, or generally hard to befriend, know in your heart that i’m exactly the same in real life. my neighbours just showed up at my door drunk on Canada Day celebrations and told me how desperate they’ve been to meet me for the past few months and then tried to fix the water pump in my basement

[nickiemoot]

ok so this probably isn't what you meant op, but. i have training on how to handle mental health issues because i work with mentally disabled people, and "withdrawal" (as in getting away from people to be alone) is on both the good AND bad behavioral signs lists.

like obviously there's bad withdrawal where people isolate themselves for extremely long periods of time, do not seek help when they need it, may self harm if no one stops them, etc. thats the time to support them with trying to get them to come back to normal (whatever normal is for that individual).

but there are times when withdrawal is good. sometimes you gotta step back and be alone for a bit. we got someone with anger issues and if he steps away and isolates himself when he's mad, instead of picking a fight, that's good! if one of our noise sensitive folks withdraws when things are too overwhelming before they have a meltdown, that's good! even just a socially anxious person taking time to be alone after too much socializing is good! as their staff my job in these situations is to support them by letting them be, because what they're doing is totally fine.

you aren't obligated to be socially available 24/7, and its actually very healthy to withdraw sometimes. post a post/status/whatever that you need some recharging time and mute your notifications for a while. it might be really good for you. seek help if you do it constantly and for like weeks at a time, but a few hours or days of not wanting to talk to people is very normal and good. don't feel bad about it if you need that <3

[lvllns]

confectioners sugar (1/?)

welcome to the neighborhood | fenris x penelope hawke. modern au. 2.4k words.

additional notes: both hawke and fenris are demi, just throwing that out there right now. background relationships will be added to the tags as they become relevant. this is kind of a messy first chapter but it’s gotta start somewhere, yeah?

[read on ao3]

Meeting Fenris for the first time goes like this: Penelope isn’t paying attention to her surroundings and she opens a door right into his face.

It isn’t her fault, not entirely. Her phone is going off in her back pocket, a near constant stream of dings, and she is going to murder everyone when she sees them tomorrow night. The constant notifications paired with the fact that she’s juggling a ridiculous number of bags that are mostly filled with canned pumpkin means Penelope is only half paying attention when she kicks the door to her apartment complex open.

There’s a muffled oof and she squeaks. Looks up and finds herself face-to-face with an elf who is gingerly touching his nose.

“Oh fuck,” she says. “Sorry, are you alright?”

He blinks at her and his eyes are very green. Muted green. Green like pines in the winter, when everything is a little bit foggy and desaturated and soft.

“I, yes, I am alright,” he wiggles his nose, eyes crossing as he looks down before he clears his throat and meets her gaze. “Are you alright?”

She was not expecting that voice from him. It’s deep, a little rough around the edges, and it seems to rumble from his chest when he speaks.

Penelope’s phone dings again. “Fine, fine, I’m just planning on how to best murder my friends,” she grins wide and his eyes drop to her mouth. More likely her teeth. The canines a little too sharp to be human, not sharp enough to be elven. Her smile dims a little and she shakes her head.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he takes a step back, holds the door so she can move by him and actually get into the building. “But the elevator is broken.”

“Of course it is,” she sets the bags down on the ground. Pinches the bridge of her nose and groans. “It was working when I left, damn it.”

He moves and she looks over. Watches as he kicks a leg up on the wall, folds his arms over his chest and cocks his head. He’s not much taller than she is, an inch or two maybe. Strands of chalk-white hair poke out from underneath a beanie, which sits above his ears. His skin is dark, freckles dust his cheeks like stars, and there are silvery lines on his chin that drip down his neck.

He rolls his shoulders. “What floor do you live on?”

“Six,” she groans, head tipping forward.

Hawke’s phone dings again.

He chuckles, a soft thing that hardly breaks the silence.

“Hand me a bag or two,” he reaches out a hand, palm down. There are bright lines along the back of it, twisting around tendons.

“I — What?”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “I will carry some of those ridiculous bags full of canned pumpkin, if you’d like the help.”

“Oh, I, are you sure?” He nods, one corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s just, I kind of kicked a door open into your face…”

He shrugs broad shoulders. “No harm done,” he pauses. Seems to consider something and his gaze cuts away from her to the wall at her back. “Ah, unless...I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Penelope folds her fingers up. Clenches her hands into fists until her nails prick at her palms. “You don’t, it’s fine, I just,” now it’s her turn to shrug. “Don’t want to impose, I guess.”

One dark brow quirks. “I did offer.”

“That you did,” she laughs. “Alright,” picks up a couple bags and offers them to him. His fingers touch hers, just for a moment, barely long enough to register that he is exceptionally cold, and then the sensation is gone. A gust of breath on the wind. She smiles. “I’m Hawke, by the way.”

He hums and places himself half a step behind her as they head up the stairs. “An interesting name,” he smiles, a small thing, and Penelope finds herself matching it. “I am Fenris.”

“Well Fenris, it’s lovely to meet you even if it’s because I almost broke your nose.”

He snorts. “You do kick hard Hawke.”

Penelope laughs and winks at him. “When did you move in?”

“Three days ago.”

They pass two more flights bouncing between casual conversation and companionable silence. It’s easier, carrying only two bags full of ingredients, and neither of them falter. Her phone dings four times in rapid succession and she snorts. Fenris glances at her, eyes curious. Penelope remembers she has a free hand now and reaches back to slip her phone from the pocket of her jeans.

“Group chat, although the last dozen texts seem to all be from Isabela,” she mutters and clicks her phone onto silent before tucking it away again.

“I assume that has something to do with all the pumpkin you bought?”

“Peripherally, kind of,” Hawke shrugs. “It’s...my brother is a firefighter and he finally has time off, him and his,” she cuts herself off. Looks at Fenris and then turns her eyes forward. “Him and his partner,” she watches out of the corner of her eye but Fenris just nods. A little bit of tension slithers from between her shoulder blades. “Anyway, they both love my pumpkin pie bars and so I’m going to make them a few huge trays to bring them tomorrow,” he hums. “It all connects because my brother, Carver, said he was looking forward to tomorrow night and now I guess Isabela has taken it upon herself to blow up the group chat.”

“Does she do that frequently?”

“Yes,” Hawke groans and shakes her head.

“And you do not have it set to do not disturb because…?”

Penelope gasps in mock offense. Stops walking so she can place a hand over her heart. “Fenris, are you sassing me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I would never.”

They stand there, looking at each other for another minute before Hawke breaks into giggles. Fenris chuckles, the sound warm and welcome in the otherwise frigid stairwell.

“Come on, we still have three flights of stairs left,” she says, her voice thick with mirth.

He sighs and looks up. “I would hate to have you kick a door open into my nose after you climb all these stairs.”

Penelope laughs again, louder this time, and decides that she rather likes Fenris.

—

They reach the sixth floor and Fenris holds the door open for her. The hallway is only slightly warmer than the stairwell and he is glad for the beanie on his head. This Maker forsaken Marcher state is a far cry from the warmth of Tevinter and he doubts he will ever grow accustomed to it. Hawke, however, is in jeans, boots, and a light sweater like she was born for this weather.

She is...something. Fenris thinks that striking is the best word. Her face is all high cheekbones and a sharp jaw and a nose that has a bump in the middle of the bridge like it can’t quite decide if it wants to be elven or not. Her eyes are large and grey, almost silver, but there’s something under them, hidden behind layers, and he knows enough about loss and guilt to recognize it. Freckles cover the entirety of exposed skin, neck included. The rest of her is hidden by clothes but he thinks there is a solid, easy strength cloaked under the layers if the impact of the door to his face is anything to go by.

They get a few steps down the hall when Hawke freezes.

Fenris narrowly avoids crashing into her back by catching himself with a hand on her shoulder. He removes it as soon as he stops stumbling forward. “Hawke?”

“How are you with dogs?” She asks, head tilting.

He scratches at his jaw and shrugs. “I do not mind them, though I am more of a cat person.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Me too,” a nod and then she is walking again. He follows. “I only ask because Theodore may still be here, I don’t know if Carver has picked him up yet.”

“Theodore is your brother’s dog?”

She flashes him a grin over her shoulder, those shining eyes of hers glittering. “Theodore is my brother’s purebred mabari,” Fenris cocks his head. “I watch him when Carver’s at the station and then he picks him up when he’s got days off. Sometimes Bethany will watch him if she’s out of school.”

They stop walking right outside her door and she sets her bags down to rummage around for her keys. The door clicks, unlocks, and there’s no noise. Everything remains silent until he chuckles.

“I assume the lack of noise and drool means Theodore is gone?”

“Yeah, we’d both be knocked down already otherwise.”

Fenris follows her into the small apartment and he is immediately overwhelmed with the smell of lavender and sugar.

There are bookshelves tucked away up against the walls and they’re overflowing with books and trinkets. Mostly crystals, from what Fenris can see, but a few glass birds catch his eye. Plants sit tidily along windowsills and on the coffee table and on an end table. Fenris realizes, rather suddenly, that it feels like a home. His own apartment is bare, both from not having unpacked entirely yet and just not having a lot to his name, but Hawke’s...it’s warm and inviting. His nerves settle a little, a soft sigh chases tension from his shoulders as he follows behind her.

Her kitchen is small, like his own, and when they lay out all the bags on the counter, there’s almost no space left. She pulls her hoodie off and throws it over the back of a chair. His eyes catch on her arms and the freckles that cover them almost completely. They’re strong arms, muscle under skin and fat, and they confirm the easy strength. Fenris wonders if she lifts or if it’s something else entirely. Archery or just genetics maybe.

“There are cookies in those jars,” she points and he jerks his eyes from her biceps to the counter. “Biggest one is chocolate chip because all my friends are godless heathens,” Fenris laughs. Hawke smiles wide enough to show her teeth. “Medium jar is, uh, double chocolate chunk. However, it may be empty since Carver was already here. Smallest jar is shortbread.”

Fenris heads straight for the littlest jar.

“Finally, someone with good fucking taste!” Hawke says as she begins removing cans of pumpkin from bags.

“You don’t care for chocolate?” He pops a cookie in his mouth, holds it between his teeth, and steps in to help.

“Dark chocolate is okay in moderation but that’s it,” she says. “Shortbread is the best, not as sweet.”

He nods and sets cans of pumpkin on the counter until all the bags are empty. He finds they settle into an easy enough rhythm, they bump on occasion but the contact does not dig thorns into his hands or spine. Something about Hawke settles whatever anxiety he had about offering to help her. There is a wariness in his bones that will most likely always stick with him, but it fades to a manageable level as he watches her move around her kitchen.

“Well,” she places her hands on her hips. Looks from the bowls to Fenris. “You’re welcome to stay but if I’m keeping you from anything…”

He shakes his head. “You are not, I had just arrived back when you kicked the door at me.”

Hawke groans and tips her head back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m never going to live that down.”

“You are not.”

“Maker’s balls,” she chuckles. “Right, if you’re gonna stay, hand me that measuring cup?”

Fenris obliges.

And promptly loses track of time.

Hawke puts on some classical music, something he can’t put a name to, and they talk. About simple things. He learns that she also has a sister, Bethany, who is Carver’s twin. That they’re from Ferelden and they’ve only been in Kirkwall for five years. She mentions a mother and an uncle and grandparents but no father. Fenris changes the subject when he hears her voice go a little bit distant.

He tells her that he is here for work. Which isn’t entirely a lie. It’s just that he can work from anywhere, Kirkwall just happens to be where he’s stopped for the time being. Somehow they end up on the subject of languages and when Hawke finds out he’s fluent in six, she goes bug eyed and makes him promise to teach her how to swear in at least four of them.

They start talking about books and authors and Genitivi’s works until there are three trays of pumpkin pie bars on the counter and Hawke is making yet another. Fenris can feel his energy flagging. This has been more socializing than he’s done in quite some time and, while the company is more than good, it’s beginning to chip away at him.

“This has been enjoyable, but I believe I will take my leave Hawke,” he says and he offers her a smile when she looks up at him from the dough she’s mixing.

“It was wonderful meeting you, even if it did take me kicking a door into your face,” she grins and he chuckles. “I — Fenris, if you aren’t busy tomorrow, drop by The Hanged Man. We’ll all be there around eight.”

He frowns, brows pulling together. “I would not want to impose on —“

She flicks flour at him, a spray of powder off her fingertips that makes him dance away. “You wouldn’t be. We’re all gathering to eat and play cards and probably listen to Varric whine about the next bit of the campaign, but look,” she turns to face him, gaze going serious. “It’s all friends and I’m inviting you because, well, I’d say we’re friends now.”

She makes it sound so simple and maybe it is but Fenris has only had two years to shake off a past that clings to him like spiderwebs between branches.

“You hardly know me,” is what he says instead of the acceptance of her offer that scrapes at the back of his tongue.

“That’s rather the point of inviting you to game night. To get to know you more,” her face falls a little. “I really don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to do anything but, the invitation stands.”

If he had any doubts that she was not genuine in her desire to simply befriend him for the sake of friendship, they vanish as she speaks. So simple, so easy. No chilled creek of water under inches of frozen ice. No, nothing sinister or double edged at all.

“I will consider it,” he smiles, a little wider this time, and says his goodbyes and leaves Hawke’s apartment feeling lighter than he has in months.

[spideyandstark]

#38 : iron Dad or stony

38: “You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

I’m doing this for Peter & Tony, hope that’s okay! :D

“Dude,” says Ned, his eyes going wide in a semblance of revelation from one of the semi-comfortable blue chairs in the nurse’s office. He lowers his voice, ever so slightly. “Since you’re a superhero, aren’t you, like, immune to stuff like this?”

A brief look of surprise flitters across Peter’s features, too. “That - makes sense. Yeah, I guess so.”

“So you don’t need the vaccination?” Ned pulls a face. “Lucky.”

The nurse comes back with a needle and a small swab of cotton. She looks at Peter harshly over the rim of outdated spectacles. “Do you need the flu vaccine, Mr. Parker?”

Peter discretely crumples the signed yellow form in his fist and shrugs. “Er, no. I already had it. At the doctor’s.”

“Then I’ll need you to wait outside.”

Peter nods, catching Ned’s look of jealousy and flashing him the thumbs up as he wanders outside, pressing his back against the wall while he waits. 

He spots MJ with a plaster at the top of her arm from the vaccine and fails to hide the smug look on his face. She spots him and flips him the bird.

Ned walks out a second later, absently rubbing at his arm. “It feels dead.”

Peter smiles sympathetically. “At least you won’t get the virus that’s going around.”

Ned shrugs. “I guess.” He looks at Peter. “But you know what would really make me feel better?”

“I’ve got the LEGO Iron Man in my locker,” Peter grins.

Hey Mr. Stark! Peter punches out on his phone. He sits on the roof of a particularly tall building, his legs swinging over the ledge. The wintry sun somehow penetrates his skin and he quietly whips his mask off, wiping the beads of sweat with his sleeve. Is it cool if I swing by the compound tonight?

While he waits for a response, a notification pops up from leedtheway: hey peter i think mj’s onto our surprise party idea

It’s followed by: oh crap are u spidermanning pls send a pic from the empire state building

And then: but not if ur kicking ass or something that’s cooler

Finally Tony texts back. Hey kid, sorry to disappoint but I’ve got a board meeting tonight. I’ll pick you up from school tomorrow. P.S. Did you seriously unironically use the word ‘swing’ just to make a Spider-Man pun

Peter gazes down at the screen in disappointment, but he tries to make his response as lighthearted as possible. Did you seriously unironically use the word ‘unironically’ because it has ‘iron’ in it

The typing dots linger beside Tony’s name for a long time, before the response finally comes through. Yes.

Smirking, Peter swipes back onto Ned’s chat and says: I’m just on some building man. how’s your arm?

feels like i got bitten by a radioactive spider

i can relate

Peter switches off his phone and slips it into his pocket as he scans the street below. He absently wrestles with his mask, briefly wondering if it’s worth sacrificing his identity for the feeling of the brisk winter air against his warming face. Eventually he sighs and pulls the mask back on.

“Peter, your temperature is slightly higher than average.”

“I’m fine Karen, just from moving around.” He stands up. “Any news?”

“I’m picking up on a robbery relatively close by,” says Karen. “They appear to be unarmed.”

“Sounds easy,” Peter says, aiming a stream of webbing at an adjacent building. 

“I’ll light up the path for you.”

He swings relatively smoothly between the buildings and lampposts. At one point, he drops low to the ground to high five a kid in a Spider-Man shirt as he passes. The girl giggles and waves as he hoists himself back into the air, legs pulled into his chest as he latches the next wall.

When he arrives at the scene, he feels hotter than ever, and a writhing sort of discomfort moves around in his stomach. He wants to rip the mask off his face. Instead, Peter winces: “Jeez Karen, is the heater on?”

“No. Your temperature is climbing. I’d advise you seek medical attention.”

Peter swallows and waves his hand dismissively. “I told you I’m fine; I gotta stop these guys!”

“Peter -”

“Mute.”

Peter drops down to the ground, crouching below one of the florist’s airy windows and peeking over the sill. Two men stand blocking the door, while a woman stands at the counter, brandishing a set of keys at a boy who’s shakily pulling cash from the register. Peter sighs, almost amused. Keys?

He pushes the door open with a bout of spider-enhanced strength, sending the two men tumbling into a pile of lilies. Peter’s eyes widen. He holds a hand up to the boy at the counter. “Sorry about your flowers! I’ll pay for - hey!”

He ducks as one of the men punches the space above his head. Peter drops to his back and kicks upward at him, sending him sprawling into a pile of prettily arranged roses and hydrangeas. When he leaps to his feet, the strong scent of flowers almost makes him gag.

The other man takes advantage of his hesitation, and while Peter attempts to sidestep, he catches his shoulder with a swift punch. Peter shoots him down with webbing and stands panting for a moment.

Then the woman’s fist shoots into his stomach and he doubles over with pain that shouldn’t be blinding - but is.

Peter does his best to straighten, but the floorboards tumble beneath his feet and he resists the overwhelming urge to throw up. Somehow, he clocks the woman in the jaw and restrains her with significantly fewer webs than the other guy, but the world is darkening rapidly at the edges, and he throws the boy a questioning thumbs up to which he smiles and says: “I’m good, thanks!”

Peter sprints out the door, ducking into the alley behind the building and doing his best to ensure one Tony Stark would not be interrupted from his important-sounding meeting.

“Karen,” he pants, “I’m gonna - go to sleep. So. Don’t call Mr. Stark. Please. Thanks.”

He sinks down against the dumpster before he can hear his AI respond.

“Peter, it’s 11PM. Your temperature is dangerously high. Should I contact Mr. Stark?”

Peter’s eyes open into slits. He groans, regarding his surroundings in unconcealed confusion, before instinctively trying to go back to sleep.

“Peter, if I don’t receive a verbal response I am obligated to call Mr. Stark.”

Peter sits up quickly, the large white eye-patches on the suit widening comically. “No! I’m - good! I’ll… go to the compound.”

He stands up staggeringly, holding a hand briefly against the wall. His head follows, pressed against the cool surface.

“Peter,” says Karen warningly.

“Yeah?” says Peter. “Oh. Yeah.”

He pushes away from the wall, stumbling back before squinting around for the direction of the Compound.

“I’ll light up the path.” Karen’s voice almost sounds exasperated. As the blue directions appear in Peter’s field of vision, he starts on his way, his voice reduced to a slurred murmur.

“Thanks.”

Peter webs his way up the side of the tower instead of using the door, despite Karen’s objections and the cloudy, logical instructions from his own brain. He spots an open window and crawls inside, leaning against the condensed glass and pulling his mask off.

He’s entered Tony’s lab. The man looks up as he hears Peter. He’s dressed smartly - his crisp suit and bagless eyes look out of place in the lab, where Tony works in grease and sweat and caffeine.

“Hey, kid,” he says cheerfully. The smile quickly falters. “Well, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter swallows. “I thought you were working.”

“Just got back.” Tony drums his fingers against the worktop, the concern palpable in the space around him.

“Oh, cool.”

He blacks out.

Peter wakes up a second later in Tony’s arms. He knows it’s only been a fleeting moment because Tony is still looking down at him wide-eyed, awkwardly trying to hold him up while he repositions himself. 

As Peter looks up at him, confused, Tony smirks.

“You just fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes, kid.”

Peter half-smiles, but he feels safe. He closes his eyes again, and the next time he wakes up he’s in the med bay with Tony at his bedside and Dum-E holding a half-spilled bowl of soup, and maybe this was worth the sickness.

(”It most certainly was not, Jesus Christ, I signed that fucking form for you,” says Tony. Dum-E spills coffee on his pants.)

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: An Internal Affair - Chapter 11 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: Leonard Snart, the CCPD Captain of Internal Affairs, is known as Captain Cold for a very good reason: He hates corrupt cops with a merciless vengeance, and once you’re on his list, you’re in serious trouble.

His next target?

A CCPD lab tech named Barry Allen who’s developed a suspicious habit of disappearing at random intervals.

—————————————————————————————————

Len had been having such a good day before this, too.

Allen (Barry, you should call him Barry - but not yet) was knee deep in CSI work, so he hadn't had time for a proper date, but they'd been texting and had met briefly to go for coffee once or twice and then again a couple of days later for lunch. All in nice, well-lit places that appeased Danvers.

Thawne reported that he and Iris were making some progress in their investigation of the disappearances, mostly interviewing people who'd submitted complaints that appeared Flash-related. They’d exhausted the list of people who’d complained to the CCPD and had gone to the mayor’s office to dig into the complaint archive there in case there were others.

Danvers had shaken his tree of contacts on his behalf and continued to find no evidence of Allen's corruption in relation to any Family, although his involvement with STAR Labs in some capacity was at this point undeniable.

He still hadn't gotten a warrant for STAR Labs (oh, did he ever want a warrant!), but the pile of evidence he was going to use to apply for one was growing nicely.

And then he'd come here and his world had fallen apart.

"So what's that mean?" Len asks through lips that feel like they've gone numb. "Does that mean - are you saying we gotta -"

"No, no," Dr. Callahan assures him. She's a competent-looking Latina woman in her thirties, whose usually mildly distracted air could turn into razor-sharp focus at a moment's notice. Len had picked her to be Mick's primary physician because he'd been oddly comforted by her habit of always carrying a small, thick paperback in her coat pocket. "We're nowhere near the point of needing to make end-of-life decisions."

Len nods shakily. That's good. Because if they asked him to pull the plug on Mick, he's not sure what he'd do.

Shoot himself next, maybe.

"I just wanted to be clear with you about timeline," Callahan continues, gently but firmly. "He's still well within the boundaries of a plausible coma, but given how well his burns are progressing, we're starting to get to the end of where we feel comfortable assisting with medical induction. But the more we phase it out, the less positive the signs are."

"What's that mean?" Len asks again. "Does it mean there ain't no hope of him waking up?"

"There's always hope," she says. "But this next month or so is probably crucial: he either wakes up on his own, or we have to start seriously considering the possibility that he won't wake up at all and adjusting his care accordingly. And that means discussing what might be the best care going forward, which does include end-of-life options."

Len nods dully. Mick hadn't had a DNR order on file, the idiot, but Len knew he didn't want to be one of those unfortunate creatures kept alive by machines years after all hope was extinguished.

He'd made that clear to Callahan, and that's what she was referring to: if Mick didn't wake up, they were going to talk about - to talk about -

Len's killed men before. Some women, too, if they were rotten - never children, despite a few jokes about wanting to strangle particularly loud ones.

He's never killed a friend before.

"I wanted to discuss this with you now so that you had time to get yourself ready, should the worst come to pass," Callahan says. She's sympathetic, he can tell, but she knows him well enough by now to know that he wouldn't appreciate any expressions of that sympathy. "We're going to do everything we can this month - pull out all the stops, so to speak - but in the end, it's going to be up to him."

Len nods mutely. His hand has somehow found Mick's on the bed, through no intention of his own, and he's squeezing it hard enough that his knuckles have gone white.

Callahan says some other things, more reassurance that there are still things they have to try, but he mostly tunes her out and eventually she goes away and leaves him there.

"Mick," he whispers, and his voice is scratchy. "Mick."

He hasn't really faced up to the idea of Mick not waking up. Oh, he's thrown in an "if" in his thoughts and words, but he's never really believed it.

His whole life is still centered around the belief that Mick will wake up one day: Danvers' increasingly long group chat of updates on Len's life, meant for Mick to one day read; his ridiculous crush and now possible-relationship with Allen, meant for Mick to learn of and hopefully approve...

His revenge, meant as a gift to help convince Mick to forgive him all his lies.

All dreams. All hopes.

All dust in his mouth.

He's never going to talk to Mick again. Never get the benefit of his kindness, his crass humor, his understated wisdom and insight into the human soul. Into Len's soul. He's never going to hear Mick lecture him on his health, on eating his vegetables, on not hanging out with Charlie too much. He's never -

There's still hope, Callahan said. Still hope.

He just can't see it right now.

It's a bad night.

Allen tries to text, but Len turns off his text notifications. Danvers calls, but he hangs up on her - not that that stops her from actually coming and banging on his window, but he snarls at her to go away and she does. Even Lisa calls - at Danvers' encouragement, no doubt - and Len's sense of duty as an older brother makes him pick up, but he doesn't actually say anything more than "This ain't a good time, Lise," and remaining otherwise mute.

Hearing her voice does help a little, though.

It helps enough that when Danvers shows up to escort him to work the next morning, jaw set in a manner that suggests refusal isn't an option, he agrees to go.

Work will be good, he thinks. Thinking certainly isn't doing any favors.

It doesn't work.

Len spends the morning staring down at the paperwork he's supposed to be filling out with an overwhelming feeling of despair. He knows he's doing good work, necessary work, vital work cleaning up the city police into something worthy of the name, but what good is it, really, if Mick's not going to be around to see that Len being a cop isn't actually all that bad?

When you have nothing, you still have your duty, he reminds himself, and forces himself to pick up the pen. You still have your city, which you love.

Paperwork isn't really doing it for him today, though. Necessary, yes, but he's already gone as far as he can right now - the DAs won't take any new cases out of his backlog unless he can prove something truly egregious, and there's only so many subpoenas and wiretapping warrants he can fill out.

He needs action.

That's why it's a relief when Iris sweeps into his office in the early afternoon, taking one look at him and announcing, "You look like reheated crap."

"Reheat crap often, do you?" Danvers asks grumpily from her desk. She's been stressing about him since last night; she's entitled to a bad mood. "We usually just flush it away, here."

Iris is surprised into a snort, which interrupts the entrance line she'd no doubt had lined up. "Okay," she says. "That was a good one. That was really good. A+ for both timing and delivery."

Danvers smiles a bit at that. "Captain Snart's not exactly feeling up to company right now," she adds.

"Captain Snart is right fucking here," Len says through gritted teeth.

"See?" Danvers tells Iris, who nods.

"I just need something really quick, I promise," Iris says, shifting over to speak to Len directly. "Eddie got pulled away on a precinct-wide thing going on today - something about a gorilla? I'm not sure - and I wanted to follow up on a lead that I got, but he insisted I clear it with you first. We all good?"

Len, not being an idiot, blinks slowly at her. "Funny," he says. "Nowhere in that sentence did you actually inform me of what lead you're intending on following up, where, and what you're planning on doing that Detective Thawne sent you here first."

"Damn," she says mildly. "You're sharp as a tack, aren’t you? Okay, fine. I want to go question a guy who supposedly got fired from STAR Labs right before the Particle Accelerator went live. I found his name in Mason's notes."

Mason Bridge - that was the newspaper editor from Iris' internship, the one that had been her supervisor. He'd been one of the more recent disappearances.

"I thought all his notes had disappeared along with him," Len says. "What with him being paranoid over anyone getting a glimpse at them."

"Says the hypocrite," Danvers coughs.

"So did I," Iris says, smirking at Danvers. "But then it occurred to me - after talking with Kara here, actually! - that he might've asked one of the CCPN secretaries for some help with them at some point during his career, and one of them was actually able to show me a secret nook in his office where he kept some files in the event of a fire. Sadly not all of them, but it did have this one guy's name. That's something, right?"

"That sounds like a very promising lead," Len says.

"That's what I thought!"

"What's the guy's name?"

"No way," Iris says. "I'm not telling you that; you might try to assign the follow-up to someone else. I’m tired of sitting around in the mayor’s office’s archives digging through papers; this is my only leverage to make sure that I get to go."

She's not wrong. Len appreciates that, even if it’s annoying.

"Makes sense," he says.

"So you approve?" she asks hopefully.

"Why don't you tell me why Detective Thawne wanted you to ask my permission before following up on it, first," Len says wryly, "and then we'll see?"

Iris is a positive sneak; he likes that in a person.

She makes a face at him. "Well, this individual - er - may or may not be - uh - living in the Keystone slums."

Len arches his eyebrows. "Where in the slums?"

"...near Leopold Ave."

"Ah, yes," Len says. "Now it all makes sense. I have no idea why Detective Thawne might have any hesitation about letting you go down to Murderers' Row all by your lonesome."

"...so that's a no, then," Iris concludes.

"Oh, no, I think it's a great idea," Len says. "In fact, I'll go along with you."

"What? No!" Danvers exclaims. "Are you crazy?"

"Danvers -"

"Don't you 'Danvers' me! Do you have a memory problem or something, where you can't remember that the Families are trying to kill you? Murderers' Row is prime Family territory!"

"Technically not -"

"Only because no one wants to deal with disciplining it! Just because it's too unorganized to be properly called organized crime does meant that -"

"I need to do something," Len says flatly. Something about his voice makes Danvers pause and look at him warily. "This will do just fine."

"...fine," she says. "Will you at least wear the -"

"I ain't wearing the mask to Murderers' Row," Len says, rolling his eyes. "Keystone ain't Central like that; they'd shoot me just for hiding my face."

"But -"

"No. And that's final."

"Fine!" she exclaims, crossing her arms and glaring hard enough that Len fancies that he can feel the hair on the back of his arms crisping up again. Danvers has a good glare. "But I'm coming with you."

"I don't think taking either of you is a good idea," Iris says. "Snart, you're wanted by the Families, and Danvers, listen, it's dangerous -"

"What, and it's not dangerous for you? You're literally a civilian!"

Technically, as admin staff, so is Danvers, but Len's not dumb enough to say as much.

"One person can more easily escape notice than two -"

"If by 'escape notice' you mean 'get kidnapped and sold into human trafficking,' which I suppose is one way to interpret that phrase, albeit an uncommon one," Len says dryly. "No. We all go, or I go, and those are our only options. And Danvers, if you really want to do this - which you don't have to -"

"I know that, and I'm doing it anyway," she says stubbornly.

"- then at the very least I insist you take a service weapon with you," Len continues. "I don't care if you don't like guns."

"Fine. But I get hazard pay for this!"

"Of course you get hazard pay for this," Len says.

Danvers blinks at him. "I - wasn't expecting that to actually work. I really get hazard pay?"

"Why not? This is what hazard pay was meant for."

"Can I get -" Iris starts.

"You're a consultant, it was your idea in the first place, and you're basically blackmailing us into taking you along with us by threatening to withhold the witness' name," Len points out. He likes people with spirit, but even he has reasonable limits. "No hazard pay, you take a stun gun, and if we all survive, I'll consider giving you a bonus in retrospect. And if you ever try to blackmail anyone over anything bigger than a ridealong, I’ll crush you like a gnat."

"...understood,” Iris says. “Also, a stun gun, seriously? I’m a cop’s kid; I can handle a real gun -"

"And until you can handle it to my satisfaction on a police shooting range, you take the stun gun," Len says firmly. He was a cop’s kid, too, and while he’ll allow that it typically provides some knowledge of how to use a gun, it doesn’t instill significant confidence in a person’s ability to know when not to use a gun, which is more his area of concern. "Now, we're wasting daylight. Shall we catch a ride into Keystone?"

The original taxi they catch takes them into the center of downtown, which is as close as the driver is willing to go to Murderers' Row. Len can't blame him; the area's awful at the best of times, and the times following the devastation wrought by the Particle Accelerator could hardly be considered the best of times.

"We can't walk there from here," Iris objects. "It'd take us over an hour even without factoring in Snart's crutches, and - all jokes about stupid bravery aside - I don't want to be stuck here past sundown."

"No problem," Len says. "Why'd you think I asked him to take us to the corner of Rundown Street?"

Iris glances at the street sign with a frown. "It's called Sundown Street -"

A car zooms them by at illegally high speeds, coming out of nowhere on a sharp turn, passing close enough for the wind to buffet them. It's followed a second later by another one.

If they'd been even a single step off the curve, they'd be dead.

"Like I said," Len says wryly. "Rundown Street. Otherwise known as the most popular drag racing strip inside Keystone City proper. C'mon, we're not far from the finish line - we'll be able to get one of the losers to give us a ride if we pay his loser's fee."

"Loser's fee?" Danvers asks.

"The buy-in amount," Len says. "Not too expensive, but more than most drivers can afford - but it can be waived if you're willing to bet your car as collateral."

"I get it," Iris says. "We save someone's car - and their livelihood - and they drive us wherever we want. That's...kind of cold-blooded."

"Well," Len drawls. "They do call me Captain Cold, you know."

"I bet they wouldn't if they knew how much you enjoyed it," Iris says, but she's grinning.

Their selected driver turns out to be a young African-American man on the verge of college age, who goes by the street name "Wally Wheeler", and he's incredibly grateful about them saving his car.

"I'm trying to save up money for my mom's medical treatments," he explains to a sympathetic Iris and Danvers. "I got a part-time job at first, but it didn't make enough. And I was good at this, so..."

"As long as you stick to racing," Len says. "Those sort of problems are what lead people to the Families, but if you go there, you'll get trouble you won't get out of."

"Isn't racing also illegal?" Iris asks, giving Len a look.

Len shrugs. As vices go, racing's far from the worst one to have.

"The boss is a big believer in victimless crime," Danvers tells Iris, sounding long-suffering. "He thinks it's a panacea against crimes that do have victims, like the corruption involved with and caused by Family work. Also, don't ask what he considers to be 'victimless', it'll just turn into a rant about the modern state of property insurance."

"Chattel insurance," Len mutters under his breath.

"That's not necessarily wrong, though," Wally - Len refuses to call any human being 'Wheeler' - says. "About the difference between petty law-breaking like drag-racing and, well, worse stuff than that. I know lots of guys that do stupid stuff and justify it on the basis that at least it's not the Family biz."

"Hmm," Iris says. "That's interesting. Tell me, would you consider letting me interview you..?"

"Yeah, sure, if you'd be willing to get tested for bone marrow compatibility for my mom," Wally says. "One interview if you get tested, and if you’re a match, well, I'll do all the interviews you want."

"Deal," Iris says. "Danvers, what about you? Want to get tested together?"

"I can't," Danvers says apologetically. "Medical issue. But I have a really, really rare blood type, so I wouldn't be a match anyway."

"Snart?"

"My doc says she's the only one allowed to stick me with needles for the foreseeable future," Len says, waggling his crutch pointedly. Giving blood after getting shot in a dirty warehouse is just asking to potentially spread some sort of blood-borne disease, even if the tests have come up negative so far. "Anyway, Wally, about that ride – we need to go to Murderers' Row."

Wally's eyebrows go straight up. "You gotta death wish or something?"

"We need to talk to someone there," Iris says. "You don't have to stay -"

"Are you joking? Of course he has to stay," Len says. "How do you expect us to get out again?"

"But -"

"No, it's cool," Wally says. "Your man here looks like he can handle himself - you're packing, right?"

"Of course."

Wally nods. "Then I'll stick around. I've never been in Murderers' Row long enough to see what it looks like."

"Me either," Iris says, sounding excited.

Len blinks at them. "It's a slum," he says blankly. "It doesn't look like anything."

Danvers pats him on the back. "The guy with a ranking system for different prisons doesn't get to throw stones here, boss."

...it's not his fault Iron Heights sucks balls. Or that Len has a multipage spreadsheet to prove it.

Murderers' Row, on the other hand, is just your average old slum: ratty dirty buildings halfway or more to falling apart, shoddy half-hearted repairs, people hanging around looking at each other suspiciously, everyone packing more heat than a summer's day - lead in the walls, dirt in the water, and violence in the air.

Len feels at home already.

"You're humming, boss."

"Nice to be back in the old parts of town," Len says. "Though of course this don't have anything on Central's slums - now there's a prime bit of slum territory -"

A member of the local gangs - not Family, just a local - who was oh-so-casually loitering ever closer to them, hand on the gun in his pocket in the event of their being either a threat or unwary prey, gives out a snort at that, his shoulders dropping.

"Shoulda known a Middleman'd be the only one dumb enough to bring two bits into Murderers' Row," he says, friendly enough.

"What, and after all the effort I went getting one of each color, too?" Len replies, smirking back even as his voice drops back into the comfortable nasal drawl he grew up with. "Archboys got no taste - and no discernment, neither, if you think these here are bits. You really think I'd come here with one leg and no protection?"

The gang member nods amiably. Like most low-level thugs, he's willing to give the benefit of the doubt to just about anything he doesn't understand - and the idea of a slum kid like Len showing up with crutches and two pretty ladies ripe for kidnapping is just ludicrous enough that he's willing to believe that Danvers and Iris are both enforcers hidden in sheep's clothing.

"Don't start nothing," the guy still says in warning, clearly more reflexively than anything else, and heads back to rejoin his gang.

Iris does Len the tremendous favor of waiting until he's gone to ask, in an undertone, "Middleman? Archboys?"

"Middlemen are Central City slum kids, born and raised," Len tells her. "Archboys are the same but for Keystone. There isn't an official divide, of course, but everyone's got their loyalty, what with the two cities being so close."

"And bits?" Danvers asks. "What's that mean?"

"Uh," Len says.

"Whores," Wally says, amused. "Except your guy here somehow convinced him that we must all actually be really dangerous because it'd be too stupid to come here otherwise."

Len shrugs modestly. He's always had a gift for bullshit. "Now's your turn," he says to Iris. "The name?"

"Hartley Rathaway," Iris says.

Len's eyebrows shoot up. He's not the only one.

"I know, I know, a Rathaway here of all places; it sounds dumb," Iris says, seeing his expression. "But he was disowned by his family after he came out and then blackballed from the scientific research industry after getting fired from STAR Labs, and Mason'd traced him here."

"Well," Len says. "At least he'll be easy to find."

"Not without street numbers," Iris says, scowling at the rundown buildings.

"Who needs street numbers when you've got cardboard?" Len asks. "Wait here."

He hobbles over to the nearest outpost of the cardboard brigade - not far, there's a nice alleyway where a handful of homeless people are congregating.

Len likes the cardboard brigade. His usual contact – a crazy ageless woman called the Mad Magpie that likes to hang around the police precinct, thus the ‘crazy’ moniker – likes him back, and that usually means he can ask for favors other people wouldn’t get. In this case, he gives them the usual set of passwords and asks for the courtesy of an hour's head start before they start spreading his name and face around.

They agree cheerfully and direct him to one of the buildings on the street, the one with a green door and boarded-up windows.

Their target supposedly resides on the third floor.

"This is wild," Wally murmurs, staring at the entranceway to the building with some trepidation. "I can't believe you're going to go interview a guy in Murderers' Row, ex-millionaire's kid or not. You journalists have got some serious balls."

Len decides not to correct Wally's misapprehension as to their profession, as cops are as little liked here as anywhere in the slums. Besides, that comment was mostly aimed at Iris, who is, in fact, a journalist.

...technically.

Being a blogger counts, right?

Len struggles up the steps. The slums are not exactly handicap-friendly, to say the least, but at least he has Danvers' strong arm and excellent sense of discretion to help get him there.

By the time they're on the third floor landing, he's breathing hard and both Iris and Wally have identical worried expressions.

Literally identical, actually; Len wonders if they're related. Sadly, there's probably no polite way to ask Iris if her dad happens to have any illegitimate kids out there.

"You sure you're -" Iris starts.

"I'm fine," Len says, catching his breath. "What's all that PT for if not for climbing stairs and interrogating witnesses?"

"Assuming this guy's there at all," Wally says.

"That's a good point," Iris says. "He could've been disappeared, too."

Wally looks intrigued. "People have been disappearing? That sounds bad. Can I help?"

"You're already helping," Iris assures him.

"Danvers, how much of a budget do we have for interns?" Len murmurs as quietly as he can, knowing that Danvers' ridiculous bat-ears will hear anything he says as long as there's even the slightest exhalation giving sound to the words.

"You could use having a more reliable driver than Charlie, of all people," she whispers back. "I'll check when we get back to the office, but we can probably make it work."

"S'long as he never intends on being a real cop later in life, it could get him outta some of his current trouble..."

With that settled, Len decides to ignore Iris' attempt to brief Wally on what they know (nothing, but told from a fairly pro-Flash perspective) and knock firmly on the door.

Nothing.

"Danvers?" Len asks.

"There's someone inside," she confirms. "Only one person, as far as I can tell."

"How can you tell?" Wally asks.

"Danvers has ridiculously good hearing," Len says proudly. "The only way she could be more accurate about this sorta thing is if she had X-ray vision."

Danvers flushes.

It’s simultaneously hilarious and rage-inducing (mostly at her family) how shy she is about how awesome she is.

Len knocks again, this time harder. "C'mon," he calls. "We know you're in there, we mean no harm, and anyway, I hear that the price of door replacements on Murderers' Row is killer."

Danvers groans, Iris smirks, and Wally stares up at the ceiling like it can give him answers to how he ended up here.

A second later, the door swings open.

"That was fucking awful," the man inside informs them, smirking.

Len frowns at the man - about the same height as Len, Caucasian, brunet, and scruffy like he thinks Indiana Jones is a role model, wearing a dark green hoodie and cheap jeans - and says, "I'm gonna assume you ain't Hartley Rathaway."

"No shit," the guy says. He looks vaguely familiar, now that Len thinks about it. "What gave it away, the extra foot of height or the fact that I don't talk rich?"

"The latter," Len says. "Given that I ain't never met the guy in person to know about the rest. He live here?"

“Who wants to know?”

“A nosy asshole,” Len says. “Don’t make me go ask the cardboard brigade to tell me the same thing, okay?”

The guy snorts, acknowledging the point.

“So does Rathaway Jr. live here?” Len prods.

"Usually, yeah," the guy says, giving in. "He’s my roomie. Ain’t been back in a couple weeks, though."

"He's been disappeared?" Wally exclaims.

The guy gives Wally a weird look. "Or he's just not been here for a couple weeks. It happens sometimes – jobs, laying low, that sorta deal."

"Oh."

"What’s that about people getting disappeared..?"

"Can we come in anyway?" Len interjects, not answering the question. "I could use a chair to crash in before attempting those stairs again."

"Yeah, sure, come in. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I was just thinking that," Len says. Danvers is shaking her head at him pointedly like she's trying to tell him something, but he's not sure what; he's too busy trying to place the guy. "What's your deal?"

"Usual cut crew work, largely freelance - used to work with my brother -"

"Do you have a name, maybe?" Iris asks, following them inside, even as Len's nodding. “That might help more than your profession.”

The guy flushes, remembering his manners. "Uh, Mark. Mark Mardon. Nice to meet you."

Len snaps his fingers as it comes to him. "The Dollarhyde Street diamond job! The getaway drivers!"

"Holy crap," Mardon says, recognition lighting up his own eyes. "Leonard Snart?! I heard you went straight!"

Danvers puts her head in her hands.

Oh, right. That's what she'd been hinting at him about: Len's a wanted man in criminal circles.

Damnit, Danvers, thirty years a thief and four months a proper cop - he's going to mess up sometimes!

"Uh," Len says, wondering if this is about to escalate into a firefight.

"You were badass, man," Mardon says admiringly. "We got away clean with the cut from your job with no sweat, and it lasted us nearly a year of good living. One of the best jobs we ever did. You're good people, man; the criminal underworld lost a genius when you turned."

Aw, Len's touched.

Also rather relieved.

(Danvers' shoulders are now shaking with laughter, while Iris and Wally both gape.)

“Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” he says, ignoring his audience. Hopefully they’ll know well enough to stay out of this conversation and leave it entirely to him.

He knows how to talk to criminals.

"Is it true that you sent fifty pigs to jail in one month alone?" Mardon asks eagerly.

Len grins. Being admired for his cop work by criminals is somehow even sweeter than being admired for his top-notch criminal skills. "Almost. Some of 'em refused to plea bargain out and are going to trial - or are supposed to go to trial. They're begging for a plea bargain now."

"Fuckers deserve it," Mardon says fervently. "Every one of 'em. I hate cops."

"Corrupt cops," Len corrects.

"Aren't they all?" Mardon asks.

"Leave me some hope here, please," Len says dryly. "I don't wanna have to start the whole thing from scratch."

"Hey, they're not all bad," Iris protests. "My dad's a cop! So is my boyfriend!"

"Can we keep it down with all this cop talk?" Wally hisses. "My old man was a cop before he ditched my mom, but I don't go around boasting about it! Especially not here of all places!"

Mardon's frowning at Iris. "You’re from Central," he says slowly. "Your dad wouldn't happen to be Joe West, would he?"

"Uh," Iris says instead of confirming it, proving that she's not a total idiot. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Joe West murdered my brother," Mardon says, still frowning suspiciously at Iris. "My baby brother, Clyde - West shot him right in the fucking back. And one day, I'm going to get back at West by murdering someone he loves, too."

"Lucky for us that she’s a Lloyd, not a West, then, ain’t it?" Len interjects, lying his ass off with the name of the first black cop he can think of that isn’t West and extremely uncertain as to whether it's going to work. He wishes he were less surprised that even when he's not part of the investigation, Joe West still manages to fuck everything up. "You know I'm not going to let you do that, right?"

Mardon glances at him, scowling, and then just as Len's considering going for his gun, suddenly relaxes. "Should've figured," he says with a grin. "I know your code against killing civilians; if you had that as a thief, I can't see you changing it as a pig."

Len shrugs. "What can I say? I never much liked the idea of some civilian getting iced just 'cause they happened to have the wrong blood. If the whole world acted like that, I'd've never made it out of the crib before someone would've put me out of my misery to make a point to my old man."

Mardon grunts. "Yeah, I guess," he says reluctantly. "Sure wouldn't've have wanted someone going after Clyde because of some damn stupid thing I did, I guess."

"Exactly," Len says, then hesitates. "You want me to look into hammering West for that shooting?"

Sadly, he knows it's probably a lost cause if the officer-related shooting's already been resolved by the bureau. They don't reopen stuff like that without evidence of some sort of cover-up or something, and it sounds like Clyde Mardon being shot in the back was pretty public already.

Still…

"Might not go anywhere,” Len continues, ignoring how Iris is trying to death-glare a hole into his back. She’s got nothing on Danvers. “But at least it's better than you getting sent down for life 'cause you murdered an innocent, yeah? What do you say?"

"No," Mardon says. "Thanks, and I appreciate the offer, but no. I've got a back-up plan in place that ought to show West what for without getting in your crosshairs. Property, not people."

"It'd better stay property not people," Len warns him. "I'm gonna have to tip off the CCPD about this little convo; you'll get pre-med for sure if anyone goes down, and that means the death penalty gets put on the table."

"Yeah, whatever," Mardon says. "The pigs won't be able to stop me even if they tried."

"That's what they all say," Len says wearily. "Now listen, can you help us or not?"

Mardon blinks at him. "Help you? With what?"

"We're looking into some disappearances, most of which seem to happen right around the same time as a Flash sighting," Len says. "We think Rathaway might have some insight. Can you tell him to call when he gets back? And let us know if he doesn't get back?"

"Sure," Mardon says, accepting Len's card. "But only 'cause you go exclusively against cops in your new job. D'Angelo said you were still cool with the trade for the most part."

"D'Angelo also promised to keep his mouth shut," Len says with a sigh. He really hopes Iris doesn’t remember to pay attention to this part of the conversation, but she’s a would-be journalist; he’s sure she will. Well, he always did believe in the philosophy of not doing anything you wouldn’t want to go down for doing later on, and he’s perfectly willing to face the music on this one. After all, working with D'Angelo got him the best lead they’ve had yet on the Flash. "Amateurs. Anyway, I didn't say it before, but I'm real sorry to hear about Clyde; he had a beautiful way with just about anything on four wheels."

Mardon smiles. "That he did. That he did."

Len nods and gets painfully back up to his feet. "Don't suppose you've got anything to add about these disappearances yourself? Or the Flash?"

Mardon snorts. "No. Or, well, yeah: if you don't see anything really big go down by the waterfront in the next few days or so, assume that I've been disappeared, too."

"So noted," Len says, then turns his attention to his small crew, mute and watching. "C'mon, all, we're wasting daylight. We'll hear from Rathaway when or if he comes back."

They follow Len down those horrific stairs – he needs so much more PT than he thought he did before he tried those stairs, but his leg is considering secession in self-defense while his side and spine are basically giant screaming pits of agony – and back out into the street.

"So, that went - uh - interestingly," Danvers says, her voice somehow still cheerful even though she’s looking at Len a little worriedly. "At least we got a heads up about possible violence, right?"

"Honor among thieves," Len says, nodding. "Mardon's a bit old school at heart; he didn't have to give us that much."

"Probably not. And, uh, weird question," Danvers says. "Did anyone else notice how right in the middle of the conversation the weather right outside the window got all -"

"He's going to do something terrible!" Iris explodes. "We have to stop him!"

"We'll tell everyone," Len says soothingly. "Including Detective West; we’ll just get him to avoid the waterfront for a bit. It'll be fine."

"You sure?" Wally asks anxiously. "I mean, I've never met this West guy, and I'm sure he's a total dickbag, but that doesn't mean I want him to get hurt."

"He's not a -" Iris starts, then pauses. "Listen, he's not a total dickbag, okay? Not all the time."

Len would disagree, but whatever.

"And what do you know about him, anyway?" she continues accusingly. Clearly a believer in the ‘I can criticize him but you can’t’ school of thought, Iris West. "You're not even from Central; you’re from Keystone! He’s never even policed your area – you don’t know anything about him! You don’t have any reason to say anything about him!"

"Yeah, well," Wally says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. "According to my mom, he's my old man."

"He's what?!" Iris shrieks.

Oh, boy. Len'd thought they looked similar, but he hadn't really thought that whole 'illegitimate child' theory had water in it.

This is going to get unnecessarily emotional fast, he just knows it.

"What do you care?" Wally snaps. "Your old man's Lloyd or whatever; mine's the one at risk!"

"I'm not a Lloyd, I'm a West!" Iris exclaims. "Snart was just lying so I wouldn't get shot!"

"Uh, guys?" Danvers says. "Maybe we should be having this out in Murderers' Row?"

"But," Wally says, then falters. "If you're a West – and if he really is my old man –"

"- then I'm your sister," Iris finishes. "Holy crap. You're my brother!"

“Holy crap!”

“Holy crap!”

Yeah, Len's done with this.

He gives his best ear-piercing whistle.

All three of them look accusingly at him, clutching their ears. Danvers in particular looks like a sad miserable puppy that’s been betrayed by a surprise visit to the vet or something.

Too bad, so sad.

"Everyone get back in the car," he orders. "You can talk about all this family stuff on the drive back to Central. And maybe let’s do this before we all get shot? The cardboard brigade only promised me an hour before they sold my presence here to the Families."

That, at least, gets everyone moving.

Len resigns himself to the worst car ride ever.

[almostrealdudes]

Sunset Drive-In

a/n: hi, here goes the first part of the two-part story about Colin I promised earlier! I know how people feel about original characters, but I ask you to look past it and read the story because I hope it’s totally worth it xoxo Pairing: Colin Ritman x female!OC (Lucy Mayfield) Word count: 1.7k Warnings: none Summary: The second Colin and Lucy meet - they click together. Eventually, Colin makes a decision to set Lucy free and show her the true nature of time.

(gif credit @movie-gifs)

There are people who stand out from the crowd. They glow in a special way, signifying their presence beforehand. You can always tell you’re seeing one. It is almost like being thrown into a movie scene for a moment. The frame gets narrower, the colors of the surroundings change, as if a filter has been put right in front of your eyes. They are kernels of the timeline. Those people have a soundtrack to them. A song that accompanies them everywhere they go. When you see them, you know you are about to be involved in something significant. Or at least witness it happen.

“Colin, how’s that update going, mate?” Mohan was his usual overactive self as he walked past Colin’s desk, glancing quickly at his screen to check the progress.

“Will be ready by the end of the week,” Colin uttered abruptly, not looking away from his computer, typing rapidly.

“I need it sooner,” Mohan patted the programmer on the shoulder, maybe too hard for the latter’s likeness, and proceeded to his office.

“And I need realistic deadlines,” Colin muttered under his breath, finishing another line of code and reaching into his pocket for a roll-up.

Thakur was not quick enough to reach his office before one of his assistants ran up to him from across the room.

“Mr. Thakur, your two o’clock visit is here.”

“Oh, brilliant!” The man exclaimed, stopping right in front of his door and clapping his hands. Colin’s hands froze as he threw a brief look at his boss. Mohan, noticing the attention, pointed his thumbs up.

Intrigued, Colin raised his brows and turned in his chair to face the entrance to the parlor.

And there it was. Music. Everything slowed down. The sounds of the office went mute. Colin swore he could hear something playing. Maybe it was the headphones. Maybe it was the nature of the divine. Funnel of Love. So laid-back, yet so daring. There she was, one of those people. Standing out. Walking out, to be exact.

“Hey! You are—Daisy, right?” Blue hair. A pink t-shirt that says “Cherry Bomb” on it, in a red, bold, curvy font. Puppylike.

“Lucy,” her voice is soft. Her sky-clear eyes examine the surroundings with curiosity. She reaches into the pocket of her high-waisted jeans to turn her player off. “Lucy Mayfield.”

“Yeah, right, sorry about that,” Mohan retreated, raising his hands apologetically.

Colin had to continue working on the update. But he couldn’t bring himself to it. Her freckle-spangled face was raised up, looking at Mohan as he was talking. She was very short. She turned her cassette player off, but the song was still playing. Was it in Colin’s head? Or was it the vibe Lucy—right, that’s her name—had about her?

“Hey, Colin, c’mon. Lucy has something to show us.”

“Colin as in Colin Ritman?” Lucy asked, astonished. Colin huffed in satisfaction. It was nice sometimes to have a reputation, to make an impression. Keeping his cool, he waved with his hand before getting up from his chair. He wasn’t looking away the entire time, keeping his gaze on her, as she looked back at him in awe.

“Come, my office.”

The “Sunset Drive-In” was a driving game. It was stylishly colored. The entire theme was in different shades of orange and purple. A small-sized car was in the middle of the highway, controlled by a joystick to move in different directions to dodge the rocks and sticks on the road. Soft beat music was playing in the background.

Colin was moving the lever, scrutinizing every single pixel on the screen. It was a beautiful work.

“This is rich,” Mohan said, grinning excitedly.

“The transitions are so smooth,” Colin mumbled, a roll-up in between his lips,” I bet this took some doing.”

“Yeah,” Lucy was sitting at the table, fiddling with her fingers. “I spent so much time on this. Perhaps, way more than I had to. But I really wanted it to look good.”

“Is it an endless game? Like an arcade?” Thakur questioned.

“Well, kind of, but not really. There,” she pointed at the screen as the car reached a cube with a sign that said Sunset Drive-In on it, followed by the Level Complete notification. “The levels are kind of the same randomly generated path, but the car always reaches the Drive-In.”

“Why is the player going to the Drive-In?” Colin asked, putting the joystick away and looking at Lucy. She seemed surprised, she didn’t expect this question to be asked, apart from the technical ones.

“They have a date. Levels change in difficulty, but eventually, the car gets to the finish and the player is reunited with their significant other. I think it’s symbolic, in a sense,” she looked away awkwardly, “like a destined meeting kind of thing.”

“Kind of cliché,” Colin shrugged, fixing his glasses. The girl jerked her head up, glancing back at him with her eyes narrowed.

“Well, it’s not for the common user anyway. It’s just a personal gig, for me,” she crossed her arms, clearly offended by Colin’s observation.

“Wait, so the game is finished?” Thakur asked, distracting Lucy from her little staring contest.

“Uh, yeah, pretty much.”

“Wicked. We can make some add-ups and get it ready by the next month. This is beautiful, Lucy, congratulations. I’ll be expecting no less from you.”

“What—what do you mean?” Lucy blinked rapidly, her fingers slightly digging into the chair.

“What do you think I mean? I’m hiring you. You’re talented, we need people exactly like you.”

She gasped, covering her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god, I—thank you so much, Mr. Thakur! You will not regret this.”

“I’m counting on you, Lucy. Alright,” Mohan clapped his hands before looking at his hand watch, “I gotta go. You, “he pointed at Lucy, “come back tomorrow, we’ll get you a desk and everything. And you, “he pointed again, at Colin this time, “get on with the update.”

Colin rolled his eyes, slowly moving away from the table. His gaze lingered on Lucy again, who was hurriedly stuffing her game back into her bag.

“Good job. Thakur is not the easiest to impress.”

“Easier than you, I figure,” she stood up from her chair, still looking slightly irritated. “You know, you are disappointingly close to an image of a typical famous wanker.”

Colin smirked.

“Hey. Your game is good. I just choose to be honest when I give an opinion.”

“Or you’re simply justifying your rudeness,” Lucy teased, shortly shrugging her shoulders after. “Whatever. I’m not a sissy. I can take criticism.”

“Can you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she smiled, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’ve got anywhere to be later?” Colin suddenly changed the subject, shoving his hands into pockets.

“I don’t know. Why?” She looked at him skeptically, quirking a brow.

“I could ask you out.”

“And why do you think I would be interested in that?”

“Because you still haven’t said no.”

Lucy pressed her lips together, being at a loss for words. Colin victoriously took a puff from his cigarette and walked up to the door.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

“Thought you had an update you needed to finish.”

“I’m not leaving. Just going out for lunch.”

“Just?”

“Come.”

When two kernels meet, they merge. Their radiance intensifies. There is no way for them to disconnect afterward because one meeting is enough to destine them to share their lives. Whatever was planned for those people before is overwritten.

Colin and Lucy clicked. Both working at the same place and having an overwhelming interest in one another brought them closer and closer, stronger than any magnet. They did everything from secretly making out in storage closets to hitting it at Colin’s place. They competed, sitting down at the screen and waiting for both of their games to be rated, keeping score. Colin was usually in the lead.

“It’s because you pay too much attention to the design,” he told Lucy, watching her clench her fists in anger.

“It’s because you wankers don’t care for a game’s style as long as it’s at least merely entertaining!”

Colin took his time in enjoying his little moment of victory, but he always ended up cheering Lucy up. They were coming over to Colins’s place, smoking and letting the world be without them, as they existed in this small bubble, only for the two of them. Their lips were always close, either in a kiss or in millimeters away from one. They touched, caressed, hugged, held, and stroked. Time felt funny every time they were together.

When the night breeze was pleasant, they sat outside on the balcony, smoking and watching the stars. Lucy liked sitting on the edge as Colin stood in between her legs.

“What’s my anarchist thinking about?” she cooed, running her fingers through his spiky bleached hair.

“I want to show you something,” Colin’s were firmly placed on Lucy’s hips.

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“It concerns a discussion we had before. About time.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows in interest.

“The ‘time is a construct’ one?” She leaned back, supporting her weight with her hand behind her.

“Exactly. I will show you something that will set you free. But you have to promise not to freak out.” He took a puff of his joint and handed it to her. She chuckled, accepting the rollup and bringing it to her lips.

“Usually, when you ask me not to freak out, I end up doing the opposite.”

“Yes. That’s why I need you to promise me not to.”

She let a cloud a smoke out of her lungs, examining Colin’s face while he patiently waited for an answer.

“Okay,” she finally said, “sure.”

“Promise.”

“For fuck’s sake,” she whispered mildly irritated, “yes, yes, I promise.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Jesus, Colin, what are you going to do, kill somebody?”

“Say it,” Colin insisted, looking her directly in the eyes. Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Yes, Colin, I trust you. Get on with it already.”

He smirked, taking the joint back. He then took a step back, and his hands slowly traveled down Lucy’s hips to her knees. She watched him, waiting for whatever was to come next. Colin’s fingers squeezed her harder.

“I’ll see you around.”

Before Lucy could ask anything, Colin yanked her legs into the air and threw her over the balcony.