Rogue Kiss
(Based on the CW television series, The Flash)

Captain Cold leaned forward and planted a firm smack on Flash’s lips.  The hero froze.

The two were dueling in the back alley behind the art gallery.  Flash was pinned in too narrow a space to whip up the walls and over the roofs to chase after the escaping bikes; and Cold was determined to buy time for Mick and Lisa to escape with the paintings.  The alarms had been expertly cut; and, if Glider had not whipped out her gun and left a zip of gilt along the wall (to her brother’s fury), no one at S.T.A.R. Labs would have been any wiser than the police.  But she could not resist making her mark; the power signature registered; and Barry ran to his duty.  By then, the Rogues were already out the back door.

After a brief exchange involving the whole gang, Cold had taken rearguard, the better to enjoy the encounter of nemeses.  The pleasure was, indeed, mutual—up to the point where a lucky blast shocked the hero into not holding back. Len suddenly found his back hard against the bricks, arms gripped by strength accelerated by the Speed Force.  He was not unskilled in brawls; but kicking off the wall for momentum budged the hero not a whit.

He was pinned hard, Barry pressed against him; and, through the thick tripolymer suit, Len could feel the heat generated by the speedster’s metabolism.  Green eyes fixed blue, mere inches apart.

Somehow, some way, he had to pop him one under his guard….

“What the hell happened?” asked Iris when her husband got back to the Cortex.  “I thought for a moment you had him; then you let him go.”

“I think he kissed you,” said Cisco, swivelling his chair.  “Did he kiss you?”  He was grinning broadly.

“Don’t be silly,” said Caitlin repressively.  Then she turned in concern to add, “Barry, the suit registered a sudden spike in your heart rate just before Cold escaped.  What happened?  Did he use his weapon?”

“No,” said Cisco, and added as they looked at him, “The only use of the thermal threading came during the fight, before Barry got him up against the wall.  But,” he said chagrined, “after that, all the suitcam caught was a close-up of the parka.”

As one, Team Flash looked at their speedster.  All he could manage was, “He got me off guard, guys.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Then, when he failed to follow with details, Iris said, calmly and firmly as a team leader should, “That’s not really good enough, Barry.  What got you off guard?  We need to work on ways to counter it in the future.”

Barry stood, tongue-tied and awkward.  Cisco smirked at Caitlin, and held out a waiting palm.  Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.

“He soooooo kissed you,” said Cisco to Barry.  “Admit it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Iris, annoyed.

Barry pointed sideways at her.  “Yeah, what she said.”  Then, in a blur of red and sparks, he zipped back into street clothes.  Pausing only to ask his wife if she were ready, he picked her up in his arms and headed home.  It was over an hour later that he finally murmured, “He did kiss me, you know.”

They’d been in bed for some time, and he rather hoped Iris was already asleep.  If he’d waited a few minutes more, she would have been.  As it was, she sat up sharply and twisted round to put on the lamp.

“Say that again!” she demanded.

He raised his hand against the sudden light, and blinked up at her.

“Damn it, Barry!  Whenever you fight the Rogues, Cisco and Caitlin spend half the time with the comms off arguing with each other whether Snart is flirting with you.  And, when they think I’m not around,” she drew annoyed breath, “whether you’re flirting back—which speculation I just love, by the way!”

Eyes adjusted, Barry lowered his arm and goggled up at her.  “Cold flirts with me?”

“I swear the pair of them have bets on.”

“Cold fl—”  Barry flushed.  “We banter, Iris.  We banter.”

She settled down on the pillow beside him, propping herself on her elbow.  Gently, she pointed out the obvious.

“Well, yeah,” Barry admitted (and his blush deepened), “he did kiss me.  But Iris,” he said urgently, “just to get me off balance and get a chance to escape.  That’s all.”  He strained to explain the truly important bit.  “I didn’t kiss him, Iris.  I swear!  I had no idea he was going to—”

She shut him up with a quick, gentle kiss of her own.  “I know, Barry,” she assured him.  “I know you didn’t.”

Which would have been the end of it … if, two days later, Iris had not run into Leonard Snart at Jitters.

It was reports of a monster lurking in dark backyards in the Keystone City suburbs that drew Iris to Central’s twin city.  After interviewing a home owner who swore he’d almost been attacked taking out the trash, persuading a reluctant mother to let her ask leading questions of a truant middle-schooler, and getting contradictory (and probably imaginary) details from a gang of hilarious teenagers, she took her increasing skepticism off for a coffee break at the downtown mall, where she passed up lunch at the local Big Belly Burger to window-shop her way along the arcade via Ruby Slippers, Sherman’s Jewellers, Watch/ful, Porteous Shoes, and Jazzamatazz, until she came to KC Jitters.  There she ordered a large Flash and a honey-dipped doughnut with chocolate sprinkles.  While waiting for her coffee to be poured, she turned and cast her eye round the room in search of a vacant table.  Leonard Snart was not wearing his trademark parka, nor a black leather motorcycle jacket.  In fact, he had donned a sweatshirt that would have done Cisco proud, paired it with stone-washed jeans, and added a baseball cap to conceal his distinctive hair line.  Glasses—not mirrored shades but horn-rims—did a fair job of turning him into an artist or grad student, at least to the casual eye.  Iris spotted him in an instant.

He was seated, back to the wall, far from the door.  He presumably had not seen her come in; nor was he looking her way now.  In front of him was a paper plate with crumbs that suggested he’d been sitting there a while.  He might, Iris thought, be waiting for one of the Rogues, or an informant, or a fence.  Or killing time.

She turned at a slight cough, took her tray, and paid at the cash register.  A quick glance as she put away her change showed her that Snart still hadn’t seen her.  In fact, not until her footsteps stopped at his booth did he look round, his face going very still.

She put her tray down on the table and sat.  He straightened, pushed his paper plate aside, and toyed with his half-empty cup for a moment before picking it up and setting it on the plate.

“I want to talk to you,” Iris said.  Her tone was hard; and Snart looked startled.

Then he sat back against the padded upholstery, deliberately relaxing, legs thrust forward under the table, hands steepled in front of him.

“Ms West-Allen,” he began, “I do admire your profession­alism … and your chutzpah.  Even so, I should point out that men in my profession (and women, too, for that matter), don’t usually grant interviews to journalists.  Well, not if they want to keep in business.”

“I’m not here about your ‘business’,” she said dangerously.  She supposed he was casing the mall, or some shop there, perhaps Sherman’s Jewellers or the like.

“Well, I’m minding my business,” he countered.  (He’d just come from the Keystone City Museum.)  “So, with all due apologies, I don’t think the two of us really have—”

She picked up her cup and tossed the hot coffee straight at his wicked little smile.  “You assaulted my husband,” she said.

Her voice was clear and hard, but not particularly loud.  Nevertheless, the eyes of half the people in the café caught her swift rise to her feet; and their gasps as she threw the coffee drew the attention of the rest of the customers.

Snart barely flinched.  Lips pressed together, he reached out to the napkin dispenser, hauled out a handful and wiped his face.  Then, seeing a server heading their way, he grabbed Iris by the arm and dragged her towards the entrance before someone called security.  Shocked by her own actions, she did not protest until they were nearly at the door—at which point she tried to shake his grip, only to be surprised by its strength.  He hauled her thirty feet down the mall, where he stopped by a decorative planter with palms and ferns, and finally let her wrench herself free.  As she stood seething, he began swiping at his clothes with the crushed napkins.

“So I land a few lucky shots on Barry,” he said, not looking up, keeping his voice remarkably low.  “What do you expect?  Me to stand there while he slaps the cuffs on?  He’s the Flash and I’m a Rogue!  What do you think that means, anyway?  It means I rob places and he tries to stop me!  So I use the cold gun on him sometimes.  It doesn’t hurt him … that much.  And he heals a hell of a lot faster than I do when he throws a punch at me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!” she said, keeping her own voice equally low.  “I’m talking about you molesting him.  Sexually assaulting him.”

“What?!” he said, looking up at her, utterly taken aback.

“Well, that’s what it is!” she said, almost spitting out the words.  “It’s assault, Snart!  It’s a #metoo, non-consensual sexual activity; and it’s a horrible thing to do to him!  Whatever else you are (and you know you are!), I thought you had some limits.”

That evening, Barry clocked out late, having finally finished an overdue crime-scene report.  From his lab, he’d have run home.  However, Singh had asked him to leave the file on his desk; so he took the slow way out through the squad room.  As he then hurried down the steps outside, he pulled out his cell phone to text Iris that he was on his way, and walked along the street with his head down, thumbs flashing.  Suddenly he was shouldered into the wall, grabbed by one arm and his collar, and hustled down an alley.  Dropping the phone, he turned, drawing on the Speed Force to use his powers against his attacker—and stopped, confused, as he realized he did not face a mugger, but Captain Cold.  Or, more accurately, Leonard Snart in plainclothes, for the other man was sans parka, though he wore a long duster that probably concealed the cold gun.

“Want to talk to you.”

Snart let him go; and Barry shook his clothes back into comfort.  “What about?” he asked, and stooped to pick up his phone.  “If you’re about to confess to your latest robbery, I should point out that, by the time the CSIs got there, there was no evidence to tie the Rogues to it.  Not that it was my case.”

“Well,” said Cold, “it is about the robbery.  Though,” and he smiled, “I never confess.  To anything.”

“Okay,” said Barry warily.  “What is it, then?”

“I think I may owe you an apology.”

For a long moment, Barry stood silent.  Finally, he ventured, “What for?”

Cold looked a bit irritated.  “For kissing you, of course.  I gather from your wife that you were—”  He hesitated, frowning.  (Barry was looking astounded.)  “Well,” he continued, his eyes narrowing, “I gathered from Ms West-Allen that you—”

“Iris?” Barry said incredulously.

Cold nodded.  “Said that you were … traumatized?”  Barry looked anything but traumatized; but Cold forged on.  “Said I sexually assaulted you.”  He looked honestly embarrassed.

“Where did you meet Iris?”

“What does that matter?”

Barry shook his head.  “No, I—”

“I think we were just in the same place at the same time.”

Barry took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Okay, I get that.”

“So … I apologize,” said Cold doggedly.  “It was not my intention to … er … sexually assault you.  I was just—”

“Oh, God, Snart!”  Barry laughed.  “I don’t mind you kissing me.”

“Oh?”  There was a pause; then a sudden twinkle came to Snart’s eye.  “So you don’t mind my kissing you?” He looked amused.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Barry with dignity.  “Well, not that.”  And he flushed scarlet as his costume.

He got home a little later that evening than he had intended (which surprised Iris not at all); and, as she’d ordered Thai take-out which arrived five minutes after he did, his mind was thoroughly distracted from the encounter.  They watched Netflix as they ate, and then the late news.  It was only as Iris slipped out of her clothes and into bed, turned and kissed him, and snuggled down, that Barry recalled the other kiss and its curious aftermath.

“Well, of course I did,” said Iris indignantly.  “Non-consensual kissing is sexual assault.  You expect me to not to say anything?”

“Well, I didn’t like it at the time,” said Barry mildly.

“Exactly!”

“No, no!  You don’t understand!” Barry hurried to explain.  “It was so sudden, I didn’t exactly have a chance to like it.”

Iris gave him a fishy look.

“Which isn’t quite how I meant to put it.”

“I will admit,” said Iris, in tones of great concession, “that he’s not bad-looking.  Quite good-looking, in fact.”

Barry nodded meekly.

“But he’s a thief and a killer.  He’d have a rap sheet a mile long if you hadn’t destroyed his records.  He ought to be in Iron Heights behind bars for life.  And don’t tell me there’s good in him!”

Instead, Barry said slyly, “So you find him attractive?”

Iris glared at him.  “Handsome is as handsome does.  And we both know what Snart does!”

Iris did not, of course, leave matters there.  The unexpected encounter with Leonard Snart piqued her interest.  He must have gone to Keystone for a purpose, she reasoned, and it had to be nefarious.  On consideration, she thought it unlikely that he planned to raid the mall.  More likely, he’d just been taking a break from casing his real target.  And that, she suspected, was Iron Heights prison.  Presumably, he either planned to break someone out—though, if so, it was not one of the regular members of his Rogues, for none of them was in jail—or else he was pre-emptively planning a future escape should one of his gang be captured.  (Though not, she thought dryly, by her husband.)

Still, she returned to the Keystone Mall just in case, and was interested to spot Captain Cold dressed in chinos and a sweater-vest.  She trailed him at a discreet distance.  He stopped outside Porteous Shoes, where he spent a few minutes looking at a selection of Italian leather loafers before passing on.  She lost him near the Food Court.

She continued to haunt the mall; and was rewarded the following week.  This time he was wearing a pricey suit and Windsor knot.  He could have passed for a banker.  She picked him out as he exited Sherman’s Jewellers.  Which might confirm his target, she thought; the more so when he stopped sharp in his tracks to look at the display in the window, where an ostentatious—and rather ugly—tiara topped a column of black velvet.  (Or else, she thought cynically, he was admiring his reflection.  It was a toss-up.)  Eventually he moved on; and she tracked him through the mall to the entrance, where he got in a limousine which, she could swear, was being driven by Mick Rory in a chauffeur’s uniform.  Hailing a cab, she had the thrill of saying, “Follow that car!”

To the railway station, as it turned out, where she dashed down to the barrier to see that he was heading back to Central City, and then to the counter to buy a ticket.  On the trip home, she walked from carriage to carriage; but she never spotted her quarry.

Only belatedly did she realize it was her reflection Snart must have been admiring in the jeweller’s shop window.

She did not tell Barry.

It was fully six weeks later that she returned to Keystone City to cover the opening of a visiting international antiquities exhibition at the museum.  Barry was not with her:  it was, she told him, not a date but an assignment, and she’d be up half the night writing her article.  When she arrived, she passed inside with a flash of her press card (all publicity being good publicity).  There were several galleries, with a path laid out from one vitrine to the next in a predetermined order, with labels explaining the history, function, and significance of each piece of art and artifact on display.  The more academically inclined could be seen trying to trace the set route; but, as it was a gala opening, much of the crowd were patrons and donors whose reasons for attending were mostly social.  Wait staff passed with trays of champagne and canapés; chatter drowned the Muzak; and groups of schmoozers slowed the progress of those whose interest was in the exhibit itself.

At first, Iris made quick notes:  on the presence of high society in their clothes and jewels, the effectiveness of the layout, and the handful of exhibits that particularly caught her eye.  She turned down a glass of champagne, and walked through to the next gallery.  It was then that, ahead of her, she thought she spotted a familiar back.  She ducked behind a gossiping group of local artists, took a quick snap of the room, and kept her eye out.  Eventually, Snart turned his head just sufficiently for her to confirm his profile.  From then on, she watched her quarry keenly, if only from the corner of her eye, expecting imminent mayhem.

Suddenly, he disappeared behind a column and did not reappear.  She hurried over to find a door warded with a “Private” sign.  It was presumably locked. She knew, though, how little that would mean to the thief, reached out to try the handle—and stopped at the sound of a sudden burst of gunfire.  Screams broke off suddenly, and were followed by heavy footsteps.  She heard a harsh voice order people to sit on the floor.  “Hands where I can see ’em.  No funny business.”

The column barred her view.

Which meant that she had not been seen, either.  She held her breath, stilling herself to immobility, wishing she dared hold out her phone to catch an image of the robbery—it would be a marvelous scoop!—yet knowing it would be absurd folly to try such a thing.

Suddenly, the handle she was holding shifted, throwing her off-balance.  In an instant, the door behind her opened and she was yanked inside.  A hand over her mouth held her silent.  For a moment, she began to struggle and then, governing herself instantly, froze into silence.  It had to be Snart.

“Who are they?” she mouthed in the faintest murmur.

His lips were at her ear.  “How should I know?”

She twisted enough to see his face.  No:  whoever the robbers were, they weren’t the Rogues.  She’d heard Snart’s crew often enough over the comms in the Cortex to know their voices.  Anyway, this was not his style:  too crude—not to mention violating his agreement with Barry not to endanger innocents.

There was a slight gilded crack round the door, haloing it with light; but, even though her eyes quickly adjusted as far as possible, she could make out little of her surroundings.  She put out a hand, felt lightly around, and realized it was probably a janitor’s closet.

Snart took his hand off her mouth.  Neither of them spoke again:  it was too risky.  There was another short burst of gunfire in the gallery outside, followed by stifled screams and barked orders.  Iris could only reassure herself that she heard fear more than agony; so probably it was more sound than fury, just to encourage obedience.

Were the robbers after the travelling exhibit of Mayan art?  What sort of market existed for such things?  (It was the sort of question she could have asked Snart, if either of them dared speak.  She did not doubt that he’d know the answer.)  After a bit of thought, however, Iris concluded that, like as not, the gang outside had actually raided the museum because of the opening gala, planning to rob the society patrons of their wallets, watches, and diamonds.

It was dark.  She could make out the pallor of Snart’s face and shirt, but little more.  And quarters were close.  After a while, Iris was desperate to move around; yet she dared not.  If she bumped into a bucket or clattered a mop….  Janitor’s closets are not large, and usually full of supplies.

Iris shifted her feet once—only a fraction, but she heard the faint scrape of her heels on the tile.  She wanted to apologize for endangering them both; and dared not breathe so much as the faintest whisper.  To multiply her guilt, she knew that Snart himself, with his infinite patience, had moved not a muscle since yanking her to safety.

She could feel the texture of his tuxedo, and a hardness under his coat that lacked the curve of muscle.  She suspected it was a holstered gun.  His hand was still on her arm.  He no longer gripped her tight; but she could feel—she was sure she could feel—cufflinks pressing into the side of her wrist.

He was far too close.

She took a deep breath, and let it out very, very slowly and quietly.  And then took another, deeper breath.  She seemed to need the air.

After news of the robbery had got to Central City and a terrified Flash had broken the sound barrier getting to the museum, the Halloween-masked thugs found themselves whipped off their feet and dumped at the Keystone precinct.  He returned to find the local police inside the museum corralling witnesses, and the scene being taped off for the forensic team.  Iris opened the closet door and quietly rejoined the crowd.  She did glance behind her, but was not at all surprised to see no one there.  The attendance of Captain Cold at the gala opening would simply have confused the police to no purpose.

Outside, Barry Allen was being refused entry, despite insisting that he was worried about his wife.  A few minutes later, a scarlet blur checked through the building.  Iris caught sight of it, though no one else was paying attention.

Much relieved, the Flash went back to S.T.A.R. Labs.

The statement that Iris finally gave the Keystone cops included the janitor’s closet but omitted Snart.  She did, however, tell Barry.  “He must have known I was there,” she said.  “How he spotted me—”

“Of course he spotted you,” said Barry.  “He probably had an escape route planned—through the ceiling of the closet, maybe?  But he wouldn’t leave you in danger.”

Iris bit her lip.

“Any more than we left Lisa in danger,” Barry added.  “Friends and family are off limits, and all that, except when they emphatically aren’t.”  After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Some things I do trust Snart.”

“He has his points,” Iris admitted.

“I take it he didn’t kiss you,” Barry teased.

She looked embarrassed.

Startled, he said, “Iris?”

“No, no—of course, he didn’t kiss me.”  She shrugged.  “Actually, he didn’t really even look at me.  His attention was on the door.”  After a moment, she added, “I think he had a gun.  He didn’t draw it, but—”

Barry laughed.  “Of course he had a gun.  Probably two, and knives to boot.  He sure has the motto, ‘Be prepared’, though I doubt he was ever a Boy Scout.  That’s our Cold, all right.”

Iris was quiet.  Barry looked at her, a bit worried, and then leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  “You okay?” he asked.

She shrugged, eyes down, hugging her knees.  “Yeah, there are worse things than being crammed in a tiny closet with a handsome Rogue.  I could’ve been handing my nonexistent diamonds to a guy with a machine-gun.  Who wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.”

Barry put his hand gently under her chin and turned her to face him.  “Handsome rogue?” he quizzed her.

She punched him on the shoulder, fairly gently.  “You’re the one who flirts with him.”

“I don’t.”

“Methinks you doth protest too much,” she said.  And giggled.

“Hey, what a thing to say about your own husband!”

She shook her head.  “I don’t forget the others have a bet going on about … whatever’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said automatically.  And then, with a grin, “I’m not the one who just spent an hour in the closet with the guy.”

“Oh, if we’re talking about the closet!”

“No one’s in the closet!”

They broke off.  For a long time, they stared into each other’s eyes.  Iris bit her lip again; and Barry dropped his eyes.  Finally, he broke the silence.  “It’s kind of a moot point.”

“He may be a flirt,” agreed Iris, “but no one’s going to do anything.”

“I mean, Snart’s a criminal.”

“You’re a C.S.I.”

“Your dad’s a cop.”

“And you’re the Flash.”

There was another pause.  Then Barry added quietly, “And he’s Captain Cold.”

With security increased at the Keystone City Museum, the Rogues reluctantly put off any robbery … at least for the moment.  Nevertheless, Len did not forget being tracked around the shopping mall as the target of Iris’s investigative reporting.  A week later, therefore, he returned to Keystone City to rob Sherman’s Jewellers.  While he was there, he fired a brief burst of icy cold at no target in particular.  As a result, the Flash arrived long before the Keystone police to find Captain Cold in full costume, smirkingly ready for him.

He obliged.

Twice he managed to get inside the range of the cold gun; but, each time, Snart somehow sensed his proximity and whirled, blasting sub-zero chill that the speedster had to evade.  The store was tight quarters at Flash speed.  If he were not to crash into the walls, or vibrate through them, he had to change course on a dime (no! the head of a pin!) to avoid his path becoming predictable.  He would have preferred to take the fight out into the mall itself—better yet, out of the building entirely—but Snart stuck fast to a position blocking the door.

As Barry flashed round the store, he could see empty cases that had once held brooches, pendants, rings, and necklaces of pearl and diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire.  Some of the lesser pieces remained; but the finest stones were, of course, nowhere to be seen.  Barry cast his eye over Cold, wondering where he’d stashed them.  He suspected the prize was indeed still here for to him seize:  there was no sign of the other Rogues, not even Heat Wave or Glider.  It made sense.  The jeweller’s was, after all, a small heist by Roguish standards.  It looked as though Cold had, for some reason, decided to pull a lone job.

Suddenly, a sharp icy agony clipped his elbow.  He faltered, his scarlet blur slowing to human form.  He stopped, bent in pain, instinctively gripping the injury, and turned to see Cold put up his weapon.

“You okay?”

Barry nodded, knowing that it wasn’t the full truth.  It was a glancing blow; but he was not truly “okay”.  With only an arm out of commission, his speed was unaffected; but his balance was thrown off.  For a moment, as he sped up the wall, his vector became sufficiently predictable for Cold to spray a slick of ice ahead of him.  He lost all friction and fell to the floor.  Still, as he slid across the tiles, he had a sudden memory of Green Arrow’s lessons.  Using his momentum, he snatched at Snart’s feet and brought the other man down.

For one startled instant, they stared into each other’s eyes.

Then, Barry leaned down for a fleeting kiss.  As Snart froze in disbelief, he frisked the Rogue and found the loot.  A flash later, the jewels were back reposing in the display cases (not the right cases, to be sure, but there was a point to be made); and Snart got just one clear moment to appreciate the sight before being whisked away.

“You kissed me,” was all he managed, once Barry stopped on the roof of CC Jitters and let him catch his breath.  “You kissed me.”

Barry pushed back the hood of his costume.  “Turnabout’s fair play,” he said lightly.

“Where the hell are we?”  Cold looked around, and took off his goggles.

“Jitters.  In Central City.”  Barry tilted his head to the right, and looked at Cold consideringly.  “After all that, I could do with a break.  How about you?”

Cold stared in stunned, suspicious silence, then relaxed … just a little.  It was, after all, Barry Allen.

“My treat?” Barry added.  Then, with a grin, he emended, “No, our treat.  I think Iris owes you a cup of coffee.”

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