#pre-coldflarrow

“Dear God,” Len sighs. Barry breaks off into another round of giggles.

“He was reciting poetry a few minutes ago,” Barry says gleefully. “Shel Silverstein. And then he recited all of the lyrics of "My Neck, My Back” in a British accent and I didn’t even know he knew that song and I can’t. You want to see the video?“ He waves his phone around. Unfortunately, this same arm is the one connected to the saline and medicine bags by an IV. The movement actually makes the IV pole jolt and tugs at the needle in Barry’s arm.

Barry hisses, dropping his arm to cradle it, frowning confusedly at the brief spark of pain.

Len rolls his eyes, feeling very put upon and a little like he’s being laughed at by whatever powers that be, and stalks over to Barry. He puts his cold gun down on one of the two guest chairs in the room, followed after some thought by his parka. Then he wedges himself between the two beds and takes Barry’s arm in his hands, checking the needle and carefully removing the phone from Barry’s long fingers.

"Don’t wave your arms around like an errant windmill,” he reprimands as he lays Barry’s arm back down on the bed. And if he continues to cradle said arm, well, it’s to prevent the dope from injuring himself further and thus extending his (and Len’s) stay in this godforsaken city.

Barry blinks at him, clearly trying to remember the definitions of Len’s words, before smiling wide and lazy up at him.

“OK, Len.”

Len narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious at the complacency, and leans forward a bit to take in Barry’s features. “They got you on some good stuff too, huh?”

Barry shrugs drowsily. “It’s already wearing off again. Caitlin says I should be healed enough to not need more next time.”

Len frowns. Barry unthinkingly mirrors it. “I wish I could have more, though. Wish it lasted longer. It hurts.”

Len rubs his thumb along the crook of Barry’s arm, before he takes his hands away from Barry’s skin completely. Barry pouts at him. “Hey! No! Touch me!”

Oliver snorts. Barry glares at him. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You wish you meant it like that,” Oliver points out, and Len thinks that’s in the top three of the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard Oliver utter (right after his “you have failed this city” mantra). It still seems to incense Barry, as the man goes for his phone again, this time with the clear intention to chuck it at Oliver’s head.

Len swipes the phone out of Barry’s hand and presses his arm back down on the bed. This time Len doesn’t remove his hold, keeps his hand curled around Barry’s fingers.

Just to make sure the kid doesn’t injure himself. Again. That’s all.

“Boys,” he drawls. “I think you’ve made asses of yourselves enough for one day.”

And that’s when Oliver freaking Queen sticks his tongue out at him.

Len is actually forced to facepalm. There is no other action to take. Barry giggles again.

And then, very belatedly and sounding quite affronted, Oliver says, “Hey! I am not an ass of myself!”

Barry starts laughing so much he groans in pain, clutching at his ribs with the arm not currently being held captive by Len. Echoing laughter sounds from the doorway and Len looks up to see Laurel and Cisco, both with hands covering their mouths in an effort to stay quiet in the hall.

“I’m just stating the facts, Ollie,” Len says and quite enjoys the way Oliver’s nose scrunches at the name. From Barry, the moniker is gentle and doting, something almost soothing to Oliver. From Len? Fighting words.

Which is, of course, why Len likes to throw in the nickname occasionally as a barb. It’s too interesting to see Queen bristle in a way more reminiscent of a disgruntled house cat than a tiger capable of easily snapping the neck of its prey. Len is all about leveling the playing field by any means necessary.

“So,” he says, faux-conversationally. “Whose asinine plan was this?”

Barry shoots a not-at-all inconspicuous look at Oliver. It’s a wide-eyed “oh no, you’re in trouble!” look that would be cute if Len wasn’t so done with them both. Oliver, meanwhile, becomes very interested in the hem of the sheet. Len almost regrets that Oliver is a little too mellowed out by the drugs. He kind of likes that dark, cold resolve Oliver has whenever his plans, motivations, or actions are questioned. The way he shuts down and all that peeks out from behind shuttered eyes is the hardened, scarred regard of an old, primordial soul.

Well, Len doesn’t like that aspect of Oliver, actually. It sets his teeth on edge, raws his nerves. It’s too close to his own self for him to be comfortable with it, much less like it.

But he can respect it.

Now, sharp edges dulled by the drugs, what’s left behind is the scared boy lost at sea. Once, not too long ago, when he thought Oliver was taking one of the few things that ever mattered to him away, he might have triumphed in this sort of vulnerability, might have picked apart the exposed wound until it bled. Len’s a monster like that, and he knows it. He likes surgically cutting in and ripping out the weak parts of someone else, likes to put it in their face as if to say you’re not better than me, you’re just like me. Whatever it took to level the playing field, to leverage power over something or someone else.

But now…

Len averts his eyes from the soft expression on Oliver’s face, the aching allure of his downcast eyes, the curve of his neck and shoulders, still broad but made less intimidating by the oversized hospital gown. Len’s thumb traces patterns over Barry’s knuckles, and he does that while he shores up his anger and frustration again like a suit of armor. He dares not meet Barry’s eyes. They’d be all-knowing, like he can actually begin to understand Len, like he can read Len’s thoughts and desires of late towards Barry’s other lover.

(And the absolutely discombobulating thing is… Barry does know him, has always known him, and Len hates that. He hates the imbalance of it, because how Barry can know Len for what he is and still say that he loves him remains unfathomable to Len.)

“It’s not Oliver’s fault,” Barry says quietly. And then, more insistently, “Oliver, it’s not your fault.”

Oliver sighs, lays back a little more on the bed, shifts so he doesn’t have to look at Barry, at Len. The movement pulls at whatever wounds he has underneath the gown and sheets and he winces, breath hitching as he looks confusedly down at himself, too far removed from his own body to remember that he’s injured.

Barry nearly lunges across the small gap between the beds at Oliver, eyes worried, always diving after loved ones, always reaching out to dig his hands into them and never let them go (not again, never again, and it’s weak flaw that’s so easy to take advantage, that has been taken advantage of time and again, and yet Barry still pours out love like he’ll never run out of it).

Len catches him mid-motion, which is good because Barry has gone sheet-white, blood pressure dropping at the sudden movement.

“I told you,” Len says softly as he turns Barry’s shoulders and presses them firmly into the mattress. “You’ve made enough of an ass of yourself for one day.”

Barry’s eyes are fluttering but the corner of his mouth quirks in a rueful smile. “Love you, too. Oliver?”

Len sighs and says, “Stay.” It’s pretty futile, Barry is the worst at following orders, but his pallor indicates that he’s not feeling well enough to fight it at the moment. So Len takes a fortifying breath, stands up and turns fully toward Oliver’s bed.

Sea blue eyes dart up to him when Len wraps a hand around his shoulder and presses him back down on the mattress, much like he’d just done with Barry. He pulls the sheets down, wondering again how the muscle-bound, imposing figure of the Arrow can be reduced to looking so small in the hospital bed. He easily sees bandages peeking from underneath the sleeves and neckline of the gown, as well as beneath the hem, white tape stretching over his thighs.

Len returns the sheets and definitely does not tuck the asshole vigilante in. “Well, at least you weren’t dumb enough to make yourself bleed again,” he announces.

Oliver blinks slowly at him before giving him a small smile, a huff of laughter escaping through his nose. “Our new nurse has a terrible bedside manner.”

Len scoffs, and Oliver’s smile widens when Barry laughs, too. Drugged up and in pain, Oliver is still disproportionately pleased to make Barry laugh.

“You wouldn’t be getting poor bedside treatment if you weren’t so monumentally stupid,” Len reminds him, because it’s impossible for him not to. He digs in and pulls out the vulnerable parts. Levels the playing field. It’s all he knows how to do, the only way he knows how to communicate.

“Len,” Barry admonishes, still a little weak and breathy.

“It was a terrible plan,” Len continues. “Letting Barry be bait? Acting like you were turning sides? No back-up?”

(It belatedly occurs to Len that the part about back-up is the Legends in him talking, and was not something he would have ever uttered two or more years ago. He wonders if this new reliance makes him weak, or if it makes him the smarter player. It’s most likely a bit of both.)

The lost look that Oliver’s been wearing, that kicked puppy guilty one that kind of pisses Len off but always makes Barry melt into comfort-overdrive starts crumbling at the edges.

“Does your life mean so little to you? Does Barry?” Len continues.

“Hey,” Barry interjects, the rustle of bedsheets indicating that he’s moving to sit up again.

But though Oliver likes to have someone on his team, likes to have someone believe in him on the days when he cannot do it for himself, he’s never been fine with someone else fighting his battles for him. He doesn’t sit up, Len’s looming over him a little too much for that, but that look is back, those features frozen into a resolute scowl, the animal behind his eyes awake and pacing, it’s figurative fangs flashing as it burns to tear its way out of Oliver.

Len shivers, equal parts ready to run from that look and ready to clash with it tooth and claw.

“I did what I had to do,” Oliver says like he’s voicing the mantra in his head by rote.

“You did what you wanted,” Len corrects, crossing his arms. “Regardless of consequences.”

Barry snorts. “Look who’s talking.”

Len throws a shushing gesture at Barry without even looking at him. Barry stutters a chorus of indignant noises, and Len hardly bothers to hide the resulting smirk.

“Look,” Oliver cuts in, voice hard. “I already apologized to Barry, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Where’s my apology?” Len asks. “I had to come all the way here to this godforsaken city—a lot of good you’re doing here, Ollie. I was almost mugged in the hospital parking lot, did you know?”

“He’s probably lying about that for dramatic effect,” Barry interrupts.

“I know,” Oliver says, taking his eyes off Len and sharing a small smile with Barry.

The shared moment between the two cuts, but not like it used to, a sharp and cold hurt. This moment is shared because it’s about Len, about their mutual understanding of him, and it hurts still, but in an achingly warm way almost entirely foreign to him.

“You didn’t have to come,” Oliver continues. “Caitlin was here, Barry will be fine.” And, see? That right there is why Len had to come. Oliver still sounds like he’s trying to convince himself about Barry’s survival and health.

But admitting that, yes, he had to come is not possible. He can’t tell them that when Iris first called him and told him Barry’s heart stopped, that his heart had stopped, too. That when she told him about how they couldn’t stop Oliver’s bleeding, Len had had to sit down and remember to breathe. He couldn’t say out loud that he had been on his bike before he’d finished hanging up with her, that he refused to stand still one more minute when Barry—when they—were dying.

Len couldn’t say any of that. He wouldn’t. (Though he suspects that Barry might come to know, in the way he just does sometimes.) He had to keep the playing field level. Had to keep some power in his hands.

“And miss the opportunity to rub your face in your terrible planning skills?” Len asks with a careless shrug. Oliver rolls his eyes and reaches up, shoving at Len to get off of his bed.

The shove is distressingly weak, and Oliver’s arm drops too quick and boneless on to to Len’s lap. Oliver’s face scrunches up, his shoulders tightening, hating the feeling of weakness as much as Len does, maybe more so, always expecting an army of enemies to attack from all sides, to surround him and beat him while he’s down.

Len lays his hand over Oliver’s. The skin is pale and cool to the touch. He tucks it back under the sheets and blankets and if the look Oliver gives him is calculating, like he’s trying to dig past Len’s skin to unearth his motivations, then Len looks away too quickly for him to get very far.

He hopes.

He moves back onto Barry’s bed. Barry reaches out for him and that's—that’s disconcerting still, to have someone like Barry seek him out. Like Len could ever be anything remotely close to safety and comfort. How ridiculous.

He cradles Barry’s hand in both of his, anyway, checking for the IV needle first. He’s relieved that Barry’s skin is warming, meaning that his powers are strengthening.

Not for the first time, Len wishes he had the same kind of healing factor, wishes he could go through life knowing he’d heal from whatever his enemies threw at him.

(It doesn’t work like that, Len knows. The Speed Force heals Barry’s skin, keeps him soft and smooth and whole, but it doesn’t heal his heart, doesn’t prevent all kinds of hurts from being tattooed under his skin, invisible to anyone who looks and all the more painful for it.)

For the first time, he wishes that Oliver had a healing factor, too. Len doesn’t know what his injuries are, will probably steal a look at the medical sheets later, but those had been a lot of bandages he’d seen. Oliver’s recovery would be much slower, his susceptibility last long after Barry has to return to Central and Len meets back up with the Legends.

“Sorry you had to come all the way out here,” Barry whispers.

“That’s not what you should be apologizing for,” Len sighs when Barry sends him a questioning glance. “With you both all laid up your friends are going to expect me to be all nurturing.” His lip curls at this, not unlike the way it would if he had bitten into a lemon. “You know how I feel about that.”

“You do lack a certain something when it comes to playing nurse,” Oliver says.

“The outfit, for one,” Barry says with an overly salacious waggle of his eyebrows.

Len rolls his eyes and fastidiously puts a pillow lightly over Barry’s face to muffle his cackling laughter, easily dodging a flailing arm, keeping the one with the IV still.

Len sits with them a long time, Oliver dropping to a drug-induced doze without much preamble. Upon Barry’s request, and after a great deal of bartering and bantering, Len finally agrees to push their beds completely together. Barry scoots closer to Oliver, giving Len more room to sit on his other side. After that, Barry starts wavering in and out of consciousness as his rapid healing saps the energy from him

Because Barry is like a child up past his bedtime and refusing to admit that he’s tired, Barry slurs increasingly delirious conversations at Len whenever he resurfaces to wakefulness.

“So, you took a video of Oliver making an ass out of himself?” Len asks during one of these times.

Out of absolutely nowhere, Barry brandishes his phone and all of a sudden Oliver’s voice blares through the speakers:

“Shake your body, don’t stop, don’t miss

All you ladies pop yo—”

Len nimbly retrieves the phone from Barry’s grasp and turns the sound off. He glances up, but Oliver doesn’t stir. He glances at the door to find Iris leaning over, blinking owlishly at them. Barry smiles happily and waves at her, or tries to, and Iris smiles back at them before receding from the door to curl back into Caitlin and Cisco.

“Very interesting,” Len says, this time pocketing Barry’s phone to keep it out of reach.

“I did it for posterity,” Barry slurs, eyes already closing again.

“Blackmail, you mean. I’m so proud.”

Exhausted beyond human limits and half-dreaming the fight he just narrowly escaped (Len can tell from the pained moans and the desperate “Oliver!” that quietly leaves his lips a time or two), Barry’s a creature of endless motion. Shifting, jerking, half-crying out when the sudden movements pull on still-healing wounds. Agitated by the constant movement, the bedsheets keep working down his body and Len has to work to keep them pulled up around Barry’s chest.

Oliver, by contrast, is ramrod straight in his sleep. Tense and ready for a fight, ready for pain, even in sleep.

After the second distressed sound from Barry, Len sighs, kicks off his boots, gently shifts Barry over a little more, and lies down beside him. He slowly wraps his arm across Barry’s stomach and forearms to keep him still. Barry continues jitter and twitch, and Len thinks he can feel the rapid pulse of his heart, as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. But, with Len’s weight over him, Barry gradually settles and quiets.

“I am sorry,” Oliver’s voice unexpectedly sounds, startling Len from his light doze. He glances across Barry to see Oliver’s face turned, watching them with something dark and adrift in his expression. “That Barry… It was stupid. I—I should have accounted for how reckless he is. I should have known there would have been another bomb. I don’t know,” he finishes in a whisper so low Len almost doesn’t hear it. “I don’t know what I’d do if…”

They stare at each other for a drawn-out moment of expectations and voiceless words.

Len’s not Barry. He’s certainly not Joe West or John Diggle or any of Barry and Oliver’s slew of teammates who, despite sometimes serious personal issues and shortcomings, always seem to have the right thing to say to their downtrodden heroes. And he’s still angry. He doesn’t know how to tell Oliver that he almost took Barry away from them both, that if Oliver doesn’t know what he would do without his lover than why the hell would Len be any different? He won’t say any of that out loud, though. He’s not about to admit it, for one thing. But also he’s not made to say it without it hurting, without digging at Oliver’s selfishness, without saying “you ruin everything you touch”.

A few months ago, when Len still wanted Barry to be only his, when he was afraid that the only good thing in his life was going to leave him no matter how many times Barry assured him that “I love you both, I love you, Len”, he probably would have said those things to Oliver. Anything to make Oliver hurt like he was hurting.

But something is different, now. For one thing, Oliver’s starting to feel as much his as Barry does.

For another, it’s not like Len’s any different. He knows that one day his hands, his own wants and desires, are going to break Barry, too. He knows this like he knows his name. He’s just too selfish to let go.

(Oliver the hero, however, would probably let go before that happened. It rankles that Oliver’s still somehow the better man, though perhaps not as much as it used to.)

“It was really stupid,” he finally decides to say, and weathers Oliver’s glare with a slow, unaffected blink. “But, in some fairness, there’s no accounting for Barry’s recklessness. I don’t even pretend to, anymore.” He refuses to look down like a besotted fool at Barry, who’s still sleeping soundly.

Throw away the plan.

The knowing smile Oliver gives isn’t remotely happy, but the way his gaze slowly travels over Barry’s form—over the both of them, if Len isn’t mistaken, and he hardly ever is—is at least fond. “I honestly don’t know what else I could’ve done,” Oliver admits. Len decides that Oliver’s probably a little too compromised still if he’s in a position where he’s willing to admit a flaw to anyone, much less to Len.

“You could’ve called me.”

The simple statement rings in the ensuing silence. Their eyes meet again and this time Len refuses to look away. He knows Oliver, more so than Oliver is probably comfortable with. He can guess at the thoughts and gears currently turning in Oliver’s head. Does Len mean that he’d come to Star City, team up with Oliver and Barry to take on the big bad? Does Len mean that he’d come for Oliver, if he needed him?

Len isn’t so sure himself what the answer is, but he thinks that it’s more “yes” than it’s ever been before. But it’s not as heroic as Oliver probably thinks. Len doesn’t care about Star City, he doesn’t care about some villain or other civilian lives. But Oliver is Barry’s and Barry is his. They are his. And he’s never been interested in losing his possessions, in squandering his investments. That’s all.

“And you would come?” Oliver asks. His lip twitches, but no matter how much he fights it, he’s being pulled under by exhaustion and the drugs. His blinks are slower and longer, and his mouth becomes slack mid-smirk.

“My rules, of course,” Len drawls. Oliver breathes out a short laugh.

“Not likely,” he scoffs as he gives up completely on keeping his eyes open. With the last of his strength, Oliver reaches under Barry’s sheet to hold Barry’s hand.

“But you would come? If we asked?”

Len thinks about Barry and the wounds tattooed under his skin.

“Yes,” he says, and is taken aback by his own honesty.

“…If I asked?”

He thinks about broad shoulders, strong and scarred, made small by a hospital gown and stark white sheets.

It takes a long minute for him to answer. He doesn’t know if Oliver is still awake when he says, “Yes.”