Thaw
by Sandrine Shaw

He's learned to associate touch with violence. His father's punches. Older, bigger boys pushing him around at school and later in juvy. Cops slapping handcuffs on him. Associates coming at him with fists and knives. Anger. Intimidation. Restraint. Control. Hands on him were never meant to be a good thing, and he instinctively reacts in kind. Coils into himself, adrenaline buzzing, hands balling into fists and reaching towards his gun.

Instigating contact without an ulterior motive is not something he does, nor is it something he tolerates from others. People who know him have the sense not to try.

Most of them, anyway.

And then, there's Barry Allen, who somehow seems to think that it's alright to step into Leonard's personal space, throw his arms around him and pull him into a hug barely thirty seconds after Leonard has fallen out of the breach and steadied himself.

Leonard stiffens, fight-or-flight instincts and a sense of claustrophobia clawing up inside him, the need to get away as fast and far as he can. But Barry's hands are steady and soft, nonthreatening, and when his fingers curve against the nape of Leonard's neck, the jolt that he feels isn't entirely unpleasant.

He wonders if it's all that time in the Oculus, separated from his physical body, bereft of all kinds of human interaction, that's made him more susceptible to being touched. But he knows that's not it, knows he'd still throw a punch if anyone else tried to trap him in a hug. No, this is just Barry, once again barreling through all of Leonard's defenses at super speed, the exception to every single one of his hard-learned rules.

It should be an effort to make himself relax, but it's not. His body melts into Barry's like it's only been waiting for this kind of contact, like all it took was the gentle brush of warm skin against skin to overwrite years of instinctive need for distance. There's a part of Leonard that wants to hate being betrayed by his own body like this, wants to hate Barry for the way he keeps changing the game, but he's too busy marveling at the sensation of being held. Arms around him, firm but not constricting, fingers softly rasping over the hair at the back of his neck. Barry's face buried in his shoulder, his breath brushing against Leonard's cheek.

Somewhere behind him, someone fakes a pointed cough, and Leonard disentangles himself with unexpected reluctance.

Barry takes a step back, hands falling away, and Leonard tells himself he absolutely doesn't miss their warmth. When he faces their audience, he covers the churning feeling of embarrassment with a sardonic grin.

Cisco's expression of fascination with Leonard's resurrection hasn't quite worn off. Doctor Snow seems confused by the enthusiastic reception Barry has granted him, whereas Detective West looks positively apoplectic. His daughter appears to be struggling not to let her amusement show. It would irk Leonard, but there's no maliciousness in the grin she's failing to hide. He thinks he quite likes Miss West.

"Sorry," Barry says. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flickering to Leonard and away again, a perfect picture of awkwardness. "I didn't mean to just... jump you."

His self-consciousness has an oddly calming effect on Leonard. They might not be the enemies they used to be – won't likely be able to get back to that, after everything – but there's a part of him that still enjoys seeing the Flash so wrong-footed, at a disadvantage. It evens the playing field a little. Makes it easier for Leonard to offer a one-sided shrug, casual, like it's no big deal. "No harm done, kid. A bit more warning next time, maybe."

The words are already out when he bites his tongue, cautious about what that suggestion of a 'next time' implies. He expects Barry to latch onto it, to spot the weakness and press down like Leonard would. But he only rolls his eyes in fake exasperation. "Sure, yeah. Because asking you if I can hug you would go down well. I don't really like being iced, Snart."

Leonard raises an eyebrow. All things considered, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised by the Scarlet Speedster's preference to apologize rather than ask for permission, but he finds himself appreciating the underhandedness of the attitude.

"You never know. I might surprise you." His voice curls into a drawl. He aims for mocking, but the sentiment gets lost when he looks at Barry.

"Yeah," Barry says softly. "You keep doing that."

There's a warmth in his gaze that feels every bit as physical and as disarming as his touch, and Leonard can't bring himself to avert his eyes.

End