#wondercold

Then Len got distracted by some pottery. Mid-heist. This never happened back at Central.

“Look at it,” he enthuses. “Do you even know how old this is? Look at the characteristic neck – and the design – ugh, why isn’t this out on display? Don’t they realize how awesome it is?”

Mick personally thought all pottery looked the same, but he was currently flipping through some watercolor sketches and making happy sounds, so whatever, to each his own.

“Look at the glazing on this one –”

Mick only looks up when Len cuts off mid-sentence, which was most unlike him.

He’s blinking owlishly at a statute.

No, wait.

That’s not a statute, that’s a woman. A statuesque, gorgeous woman, in glasses and a sensible business suit.

With her hands on her hips.

“300,” Len says blankly. “Crane or heavy-backed floor.”

“I beg your pardon?” the woman says. She has a faint accent – something Mediterranean.

“He’s trying to figure out how he would steal you,” Mick translates, since Len’s grip on speech has apparently failed. He’s accustomed to the bizarreness of the Snart mentality; most people are not. “Assuming you were made of marble.”

“Clay would be easier,” Len says, still sounding vaguely dazed. “You’ve got a finer neck than this vase, and that’s saying something.”

The woman abruptly grins, and it’s frankly stunning even to Mick, who takes a good while to warm up to anybody. “You appreciate art,” she says approvingly. “Why do you not come during the day?”

“It’s the Louvre,” Len says, vaguely scandalized. “We had to try to break in.”

“You succeeded,” she says. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to show me the weakness in our security system you exploited; not every thief will be as respectful as you.”

Len clutches the vase he’s holding to his chest, holding it with the delicacy you would expect from a man holding a baby. “That would be awful,” he says, and he means it, too, the moron. He very gently puts it down. “Yeah, we’ll show you.”

Mick makes a little whining sound.

“…after Mick finishes going through the watercolors,” Len amends.

“They are very fine watercolors,” the woman says. “My name is Diana Prince; I am curator here.”

“Leonard Snart,” Len says. He nods at Mick. “Mick Rory.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mick says politely. “Why ain’t there an exhibit of these? They’re amazing.”

“We’re planning one,” Diana says. “But it has been difficult to convince the museum director…”

“Does he have a name?” Mick inquires very seriously. “Or, better, an address?”

She hides a smile. “You should not threaten people over artwork, Mick.”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he grumbles. “Just a bit of scaring. It’d be good for him.”

“You are welcome to finish perusing the watercolors,” she says. “Leonard – may I call you Leonard?”

“Sure,” Len says. “I mean, I usually go by Len, but, uh, Leonard sounds just fine when you say it.”

She smiles. “Leonard, then. It suits you. Perhaps you could show me the weakness in the security while your friend here finishes up?”

Len nods like a bobble-head doll and she takes his arm and puts it in hers and then they go off.

Mick shakes his head, amused, and dives back into his watercolors.

Diana – and she insists on it being ‘Diana’, not Miss Prince or anything else – is kind enough not to call the police, either.

Len offers her a tour of the local art galleries, after-hours. He’s got a hell of a crush on her already.

He always did like women who looked like they could break him over their knee.

“I couldn’t,” Diana says, but she’s smiling.

“Why not?” Len asks.

“Well,” she says, and then stops, considering.

“You’ve got to have fun sometimes,” Mick tells her, because he’s the best partner ever. “Or else you’ll forget why you do the rest of it.”

“Oh, why not indeed,” she says. “Very well; let us go. I am most intrigued by your unorthodox method of getting around.”

They spend three weeks in Paris, all told. Len teaches her pickpocketing and lockpicking; Mick tells her stories he’d thought he’d forgotten, about being born on a farm so far away from the water he didn’t even know what it looked like until the first time he’d gotten on a plane; she talks of art history and of kindnesses, great and small.

She confides in them that she was raised on an island with a – and here she smiled – unorthodox view of property.

“Now there’s a place I’d like to visit,” Len enthuses.

“Simply because there are no laws against theft?” she laughs.

“That’s the best sort of place! You could try out all sorts of tricks, teach yourself to be better and better, and people wouldn’t throw it in your face when you give something back,” he says.

“Tell me more about how people eat,” Mick requests. He’s really into fresh foods and community gardening back at in Keystone, but he’s run up into a wall of people not believing they can work, or thinking the food will be stolen the second it grows. He doesn’t know how to explain to them that that’s the point.

Diana’s nice, and funny, and smart.

She also, in one memorable instance, throws a truck at someone’s head.

It doesn’t start that way, of course; Diana shows up right when Mick is trying to find his misplaced gun and – upon seeing his panic – asks what the issue is.

“Kids,” Mick says. “Len – the local mafia outlet – he found out – they trade in kids, and that’s kind of a trigger issue for Len so he just jumped in –”

“He has gone to rescue them?”

“Kids,” Mick growls. “If it was anything else, he’d have planned it out first, but not when it comes to kids. I can’t blame him, not really, but I can’t even find my gun -”

“You will not need it,” she says, and it’s almost like she adds an extra foot of height when she straightens her back.

Mick gets his gun anyway. “He’s my partner,” he tells her, because he will be damned to hell before he’s intimidated out of his rightful place at Len’s side, whether into heaven or into hell. “You can help me kick his ass when we find him.”

She blinks, then smiles. She’s still a little too tall, a little too other-worldly, but the smile helps make her a little more human. “Yes,” she says. “After we rescue him, of course.”

“Can’t kick his ass without that,” Mick replies, tranquilly.

“You are a good partner, Mick Rory,” she says. “Leonard is lucky to have you.”

“And me, him,” Mick says, more honestly than he meant to be. “He saved my life.”

“He told me you saved his.”

“He saves mine every day,” Mick tells her, because Diana has a way of looking at you with her old eyes that makes you tell the truth even if you don’t want to. “Just by being who he is. Have some pity on the man and let him down easy when you do, will you?”

Diana arches her eyebrows and presses her lips together thoughtfully.

“Lead the way,” is all she says.

They find Len, who’s having it out with a bunch of assholes, a child clutching at his hip, an even smaller child held under one elbow, gun out in the other. “Don’t make a fucking move,” he’s saying, but there’s more of them than of him and they’re inching closer.

“I’d listen to the man,” Mick says, and Len’s eyes flicker to him, betraying relief.

The little movement is what the local Family assholes were waiting for, guns at ready, and they lunge forward.

So does Diana.

Diana wins.

More people run in.

It would take far too much time to explain the whole sequence of events – Mick honestly doesn’t remember much of it, torn between his surprise at Diana’s surprising strength and protecting Len, and erring to focus on the latter – but it concludes with Diana thrown a truck at the Family guys and their lines breaking and fleeing.

“That was amazing,” Len says, beaming at Diana. “Now, here, hold Lucille while I convince Isabelle to let me go get the others.”

It’s clear to Mick that Diana anticipated many possible reactions to her actions, including how impressed and starry-eyed Len is, but having a small child shoved into her arms wasn’t one of them.

“Petit Izzy,” Len croons, kneeling down. “Tu parles Anglais?”

“Non! N’y va pas!”

Diana kneels and says something in French.

Isabelle just grabs onto Len tighter.

Mick walks over and says, “Okay, brat. Hop on.” He holds out his arms.

Isabelle looks at Len, who nods.

She immediately detaches from Len and flings herself into Mick’s arms.

Mick speaks exactly zero words of French, but he’s got a way with kids.

“I’ll get the others,” Len says. “We’ll take them back home so they can rest. Then we can figure out what to do with them.”

“The police?” Diana asks.

“Probably corrupt,” Len says grimly.

“He always thinks police are corrupt,” Mick interjects.

“Because they usually are. Who the hell operates a child smuggling ring this close to a police station without someone looking the wrong way?”

“I will investigate,” Diana says. “In the meantime, I have connections with several good organizations that will help locate their parents, if possible.”

“And monitor them,” Mick says firmly as Len strides off to find the other children he referenced. “I was in the system for a bit, and there’s risk involved.” He hesitates and glances in the direction Len went. He doesn’t want to mention unpleasant things, but if Diana will be placing the kids… “Len’s got some things to say about blood relatives not being too trustworthy either, if you want to hear it.”

Diana nods, her expression solemn. “They will be guarded. I will confirm it myself.”

“This way,” Len sings out cheerfully, leading the children out of the dark like some sort of Pied Piper. He has a way with kids, too. “Follow me, mon lupins. Hop, hop.”

“Lapins,” the older children, the ones with a big of English, giggle. “Not lupins!”

“What’s the difference?” Len asks innocently.

They take the children to Diana’s friend.

The children are all quite fond of Diana, who is also good with children, especially once little Isabella tells the others about the truck; Diana is apparently called L’Princesse Amazone, or ‘Wonder Woman’, in Paris for her little way of solving issues. They go happily.

Len looks after them wistfully for a few minutes before turning to Diana. “That,” he tells her solemnly, “was wonderful.”

“That,” Mick grunts, “was awful.”

Diana laughs.

They leave shortly thereafter, albeit regretfully. Len wants to avoid any Family recognizing him and Diana is occupied with the placement of the children; there’s really no reason to stay.

Still, it’s hard to tear themselves away. Not just Len, but Mick, too. He’s grown more accustomed to her than he’d have thought.

“You should come visit us in Central,” Len tells her before they go.

“Perhaps I will,” she says with a smile.

Impulsively, Mick steps forward and presses his lips to her cheek. Len blinks in surprise, but when Diana doesn’t object, he steps forward and does the same to her other cheek.

And then they’re off.

Even though Len made the offer, no one is more surprised than he is when a year later, back in Central, the Central City Museum announces a partnership with the Louvre in which a curator will be swapped for three months every year.

Len and Mick are there on opening day.

Diana smiles.

“Perhaps you will show me around here, too,” she says, holding out her hands.

“Absolutely,” Len says.

Mick nods.

“And this time,” she continues, her smile widening, “I will not let you two escape with only a kiss good-bye.”

Len and Mick exchange blinks.

“Uh, we can do that,” Len says.

Mick nods furiously.

"I brought the rope," she adds innocently.

"We can definitely do that," Mick enthuses.

“Oh, and we got you a present,” Len says.

“It was in a museum,” Mick adds. “Sort of.”

“Was it obtained illicitly?” Diana asks with a knowing smile.

“No more illicitly than the museum originally got it?” Len tries.

Diana laughs.

(Fifteen years later, Diana looks down at the Flash, pinned under her boot. “You will not interrupt our dates,” she says sternly.

“I will not interrupt your dates!” he squeaks. “Also, wow! You’re real! And…dating my villains?”

“We were dating first,” she says. “I will discuss their life choices with them another time.”