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batsutousaiTitle: Burning For You
Fandom: CW's The Flash
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Pairings: Barry Allen/Mick Rory
Warnings: no powers/pre-canon AU, hooking up for sex, semi-public handjobs, this is a little shameless, the author regrets nothing
Summary: Barry might not meet Mick at an arson scene but, like moths to a flame, fire is what brings them together.
Disclaim Her: Not mine.
A/N: While none of the FlashWave Week prompts actually spoke to me or my muse, I did still get this idea while looking them all over. (Thank goodness for free days, lol. Although, given the opening, I suppose this could almost work for 'meet cute'? idk, things get heated pretty quickly XD)
This was originally intended to be a no powers AU, but it ended being something that could be a pre-canon AU fic. So, you know, read it as you please?
Any and all references to CSI work can be attributed to CSI: Miami, which I started watching on a whim, and then got a little too serious about binging once I found out it's leaving Netflix at the end of September. Whoops?
Props to StillNotGinger10 for serving as beta reader. :D
You can also read this at Archive of Our Own or LiveJournal.
-0-
The first time Barry'd met Mick Rory was not, odd as it might seem, because of a fire. It was because of a crime, but not one that Rory had committed. (At least, judging by the sour look Joe had developed by the time he was done getting Rory's statement.)
As a brand new CSI, watching Joe get Rory's statement from across the room should have been the sum total of their interaction – James Forrest, his boss, had given him the camera and told him to take photos of everything and touch nothing, because he had to get used to being on the field eventually, and everyone knew Joe would watch out for him if things unexpectedly went south – except the other CSI at the scene, Angela, had walked up to him, holding out a pair of gloves, and said, "The big guy, Rory, he got blood on his jacket. Get it from him and bag it."
"But Forrest said–" Barry started, holding up his camera.
"I know what Forrest said, but he ain't here. Go get Rory's jacket, then finish photographing the scene. I've got some fingerprint dusting to do, so nothing's going to move while you're at it."
Far be it for Barry to refuse to do something more exciting than taking photos, so he made sure the camera strap was securely around his neck, then accepted and pulled on the gloves as he made for the guy Angela had pointed out.
Joe sidetracked to get in his way before he could reach the guy, his expression scrunched up with concern. "What do you need, Bare?"
"I need to get his jacket," Barry explained, waving at the guy not far beyond Joe.
Joe's expression tightened. "Why don't you let me–"
"Joe," Barry interrupted, because he knew that tone of voice, had heard it a million times before his foster dad stopped trying to talk him out of becoming a CSI. "You promised you'd let me do my job."
"Bare, that's Mick Rory," Joe hissed. And then, clearly reading Barry's lack of recognition, explained, "He's an arsonist I've booked more than a few times, usually for starting bar fights over stupid shit. He's not a guy you mess with."
"Okay, but I still need his jacket," Barry replied, because he'd become a CSI knowing he'd be bumping elbows with some scary guys. And it scared him a little, it honestly did, but he couldn't not do his job. "I'll be polite."
Joe still looked like he wanted to drag him back home and lock him in his room, like he'd done a couple of times when Barry'd tried walking out to Iron Heights shortly after his dad was imprisoned there, but Barry ducked around him without giving him the chance to start acting any more overprotective.
The guy, Mick Rory, was... Well, he wasn't much taller than Barry, but he was big. Muscular in that way that said he could break someone in half if given half the chance. And he looked mean, scowling around at everyone, and looking especially cross at the police presence. (Which, in all fairness, Barry didn't expect anyone with a criminal record would be happy about being surrounded by so many members of the police force.)
As Barry approached, Rory turned his scowl on him, and it was intense. Terrifying, even. Barry sort of wished he'd said 'screw the chain of custody' and asked Joe to get the jacket, but he refused to back down, now he was right there, so he squared his shoulders and stuttered, "M-Mister R-Rory? I n-n-need your j-jacket. Please?"
Rory's brow scrunched up and his scowl took on a confused edge. "The fuck ya want my jacket fer, kid?"
Barry cleared his throat and waved one gloved hand at his shoulder. "Uhm, well, there's, ah, there's blood, r-right? And that's– I mean, I ov-overheard Joe – D-Detective W-West, I mean – uhm, I heard him s-saying you...grabbed the suspect? When h– they. When they were fleeing. So that's...Well, it's...evidence? The blood! I mean, the b-blood on–"
Rory snorted, his scowl morphing into something that looked amused. Not quite the mocking amused that Barry was used to seeing when his nerves set off his particular brand of stupid motormouth, but close enough to raise his hackles. "Shit, kid. All ya needed was t'say ya want the blood," he said as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Barry, who was probably a little too used to mouthing off to people who mocked him for his nervous nattering, snapped back, "Well excuse me for wanting to avoid getting set on fire!"
And then he realized what he'd just said and felt his eyes widening, while the blood drained from his face, because oh shit. He was a dead man, wasn't he? He should have listened to Joe. He should have made someone else get the jacket. He should have–
And then Rory threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Barry was pretty sure everyone in the bar had gone absolutely still; god knew he just had.
"I like ya, kid," Rory told him once he'd stopped laughing. He held out his jacket while Barry was still trying to decide if that was a good thing or not. "Here. I wan'it back when yer done, ya hear?"
"Yessir," Barry breathed as he accepted the jacket.
And then he scurried back over to where Angela was staring at him with wide eyes. "Next time," he hissed as he ducked down to get an evidence bag from her kit, "you ask the crazy arsonist for his clothing."
"Yeah, you got it," Angela agreed a bit faintly. And then she shook herself when Barry held out the bag towards her. "Allen, you're never gonna upgrade from photographer if you can't remember how to collect evidence properly!"
Barry looked down at the bag, confused about what he'd done wrong; he was wearing gloves, had shoved the jacket in a bag, was handing it off to another CSI to put with the rest of the evidence going back to the lab...
"Label, tape, and initial," Angela reminded him, pointing down at the roll of evidence tape with a sharpie, which she then held out to him. "I swear."
Flushing, Barry accepted the sharpie and quickly set about properly sealing and labelling the bag, then set it with the rest of the bags and went back to his photographing. On the far side of the room from where the witnesses were lined up for questioning.
He desperately hoped that would be the last he saw of Mick Rory.
It was not the last he saw of Mick Rory. He did manage to avoid him when the man came to collect his jacket, mostly because certain people had lied when he asked if Barry was around. (Barry was grateful, he was. Even if a part of him wished that certain people would trust him to handle himself around criminals, Christ.)
No, the next time he saw Rory, a fire was involved, but he ended up not being the one who set it, even if the first responders had found him standing next to the burning cars, staring at the flames.
Joe was already giving him the third degree when Barry got there – with his own kit, as well as the camera, because he'd finally graduated from full-time to part-time photographer – and while Barry would have loved to avoid Rory, he was out with Ricky, who was about a thousand degrees of skittish and really shouldn't be out in the field, but the other member of their shift had retired a couple days before, and both Forrest and Angela were at another scene, so Barry was stuck with Ricky.
So he sighed and passed the camera over to Ricky. "Start photographing while I check in with Joe for the specifics," he said.
Ricky gave a brisk nod as he accepted the camera, shot Joe and Rory a quick uncertain look, then turned and started stepping quickly and carefully over to the burnt-out wreck, camera shutter already going.
Secure in the knowledge that Ricky would get them started, Barry squared his shoulders and headed over to his foster father. "Joe."
Joe turned away from Rory, the glare he always turned on criminals morphing into that fond look he seemed to reserve for Barry and Iris. "Hey, Bare. So, concerned citizen called in a burning car, but it was two cars by the time the first fire truck got here, and it got halfway through that third car before they managed to get it under control. Bus took off with one casualty just as I got here; not sure if he'll make it, but he was the only one to sustain any injuries."
So, some good, some bad; explained why they hadn't needed to drag the medical examiner away from the shootout Forrest and Angela were at, and Barry would never complain about not having to deal with a burnt body. Still, that was a lot of damages, and this was not the sort of neighborhood where people who could afford to replace their cars lived. "Any idea what started it?" he asked, though he had a feeling that would be something Ricky and him would be tasked with figuring out.
"Would if this asshole would stop playing fucking innocent," Joe replied, jerking his thumb at Rory, who had taken to leaning casually back against the wall Joe had crowded him up against. Given he was in cuffs, Barry had to be a little impressed at how comfortable he looked.
"Didn't do it, jest came t' watch. Like I said," Rory said in that bored, flat tone that people seemed to adopt after they'd said something so many times, it had become rote.
"You were standing next to the car, watching that guy burn, you sadistic fuck!" Joe snarled, spinning and raising one hand like he was going to hit Rory.
"Joe, no!" Barry shouted, grabbing Joe's arm and pulling back with all of his might, because if Rory did set the fire, Joe hitting him would give him an excuse to walk. "You can't hit a suspect! We do this the right way, remember?"
Joe breathed in and out, sharp and angry, but he dropped his fist and very obviously relaxed his shoulders. "Right."
Rory watched the whole altercation with a bored look, but there was a gleam of something that might have been interest or maybe intelligence in his eyes, which was there and gone too quick for Barry to get a good read on.
Barry took a breath and patted Joe's shoulder, forcing himself to look away from Rory. "Okay. Take him back to the station and stick him in holding. Make sure his clothing finds its way to my desk, and I'll get on it soon as we finish here."
Joe turned a frown on him. "I'm not leaving you here alone, Bare."
Barry rolled his eyes and turned away. "Then find someone else to book him, just keep out of my crime scene."
"Your crime scene!" Joe shot back with a laugh that was a lot more relaxed than he'd sounded when Barry first made it over.
Joe did have someone take Rory back to the precinct to be put in holding, and Barry found Rory's things on his desk when he got back. Their casualty managed to survive, barely, and passed on that Rory had tried to stop him from getting too close to the car; he hadn't tried to stop the fire from spreading and he hadn't helped the guy once he caught on fire, but he'd done his part to warn people away from getting too close, and the guy surviving meant they couldn't imprison him on account of negligent homicide.
The evidence – and accounts from three different witnesses, once they'd finally got people to come forward – proved that Rory hadn't set the fire, and he hadn't helped it along, so he was let go. (Much to the disappointment of pretty much everyone in the precinct.)
Barry was coming back from a late lunch when Rory got released, and he ended up holding the door open for him, though he didn't realize who he'd held the door for until the man said, " 'Ello, little firebird."
Barry blinked a few times, confused, but Rory was still watching him with a distinctly amused smirk twisting his mouth. "Wait, what? I'm not– I mean, what–? Why would you–?" He shook his head, trying to focus on what he wanted to say, instead of the way his cheeks were heating. "Firebird?" he finally managed, and clamped one hand over his mouth, because the potential embarrassment of looking like an idiot was greatly outweighed by sounding like one. (Well, more than he already had.)
Rory's smirk had widened while Barry stammered nonsense, and there was a definite gleam of amusement in his eyes when he said, "Yer cute, but ya got some steel in ya. Firebird."
"Wha– B– I– Cute?!" Barry howled, because no amount of hands covering his mouth could have survived that.
Rory gave him a very obvious look up and down, then hit him with a gaze that was the farthest thing from 'I think you're cute' that Barry had ever had turned on him. "Cute," he agreed, and stepped past Barry with a wide smirk and a smack to his behind.
Barry would deny yelping to his dying day, no matter how many witnesses swore otherwise.
If he never met Mick Rory again, it would be too soon.
It turned out there might just be something to that line about absence making the heart grow fonder, because it was almost eight months before Barry saw Rory again, and a part of him – which he would deny to his dying breath, swear to god – had missed the arsonist.
He had no idea he might see Rory again when he got called out to a fire in the warehouse district with Kelley, the newest addition to their field CSI team. The fire had pretty much gutted one of the warehouses that belonged to one of the Families by the time the fire department got the blaze under control, and Barry and Kelley were stuck waiting while they determined whether or not the building was safe for entry.
They used that time to photograph and collect what evidence they could around the perimeter, splitting up because they had two cameras and it saved time. (If they finished before the building was cleared, they could rock, paper, scissors to see which of them should run back to civilization to collect coffee and pastries.)
Barry wasn't out of sight of the activity at the front of the warehouse for more than four careful steps before he was shoved back against the warm steel siding of the warehouse, a hand covering his mouth before he could shout, while another hand helped steady the camera, as though his attacker knew Barry would rather die than lose or damage the department camera.
He recognized the wall of muscle pushing him back against the warehouse before he could start to think he might have a chance of fighting back, and he slumped in Rory's grip, hoping his expression made it perfectly clear how unimpressed he was about being attacked. (And didn't give away how it was...kind of a little exciting. Rory was hot, okay? And Barry had spent way too much time remembering the way he'd looked at him the last time they'd met.)
"Ya dun' wanna go 'ny further, Firebird," Rory murmured in a low voice that did horrible things to Barry's overactive libido.
"Hiding evidence?" Barry had to ask, though he wasn't certain how much Rory understood around his hand.
"Stay," Rory warned, and when Barry nodded – he didn't really want to know whether or not he was faster than Rory, honestly, especially since few people were dumb enough to be in that part of town without a gun, and he knew he wasn't faster than a bullet – he leant over, body brushing against Barry's the whole way, and picked up a rock from the ground with the hand that had been covering Barry's mouth. Barry was just considering the pros and cons of shouting – he was out of sight, but hopefully not out of hearing range – when Rory tossed his rock and, before it reached the peak of its arc, something shot it to pieces with deadly accuracy.
Ice raced through Barry's veins, and he probably would have dropped his camera – and damn the consequences – if Rory hadn't still been holding on to it. "Wh-what the h-hell?" he stammered.
"Security," Rory told him with a shrug. "Need less guards watchin' if ya got auto guns at the back."
"Oh my god," Barry breathed, slumping back against the warm wall and trying to get his heart back into a calmer rhythm. Because, holy shit. He would have been swiss cheese if Rory hadn't grabbed him.
And then he remembered that he wasn't the only one walking the perimeter. "Kelley!" he shouted.
Rory pushed bodily against him, covering his mouth again before he could try and do something stupid, like run for the other side of the building through the kill zone. (Which, in fairness, Barry had been maybe about to do.) "I sent sum'un after yer partner," Rory murmured, voice low and almost soothing, even as he cast a worried look at the corner hiding them from the police and firefighter activity. "We don't kill cops."
There was a huge difference between actively killing a police officer and keeping a CSI from walking into a trap, but Barry was alive, so he wasn't inclined to argue about it. Instead, he relaxed back against the wall again and, once Rory lowered his hand from Barry's mouth, said, "Thanks. For saving my life."
Rory shrugged, not looking away from the nearby corner. "Call it trade fer stoppin' West from punchin' me."
Barry cleared his throat. "I mean, that was more so you couldn't walk on account of police brutality, but, uh, sure. You're welcome?"
The look Rory turned on him was way too amused, and Barry took a moment to curse his motormouth. And his blush, which he could feel warming his face. And his libido, which was waking back up now the immediate danger was past. Not that getting caught being shoved up against the wall of an active crime scene where a fire had been set by a known arsonist wouldn't see him in some serious hot water, but the thought of that did the exact opposite of what it should be doing.
What the fuck?
Rory's eyes widened, because they were way too close for him to not feel Barry's body responding, and then went half-lidded. " 'Ello, little Firebird," he said in that low, rumbling voice.
"Oh my god," Barry whispered, and maybe grabbed at Rory's arm to– Well, he had no idea what he'd intended to do. He sort of wanted to just pull him closer, but he should be pushing Rory away. Should be questioning him, because he was a prime suspect in this case, given his history and the crime.
Rory leant in, close enough their noses brushed, and Barry maybe let out a groan, but he was fully prepared to lie about it under oath, if need be. "Say no," Rory murmured, low and dangerous, " 'n I'll walk 'n ya won't see me again."
He smelt of something acrid and smoky, and Barry would bet his next paycheck that Rory'd had something to do with the fire.
"Say no," Rory said again, head tilting and moving in closer, closer–
Barry closed the gap, licking his way into Rory's mouth, because no way he was going to be taking this slow, not with the chance of discovery hanging over his head.
If Rory had any complaints, he didn't share them, kissing Barry back firm and hot, pressing him back against the wall so hard, Barry suspected he'd end up with bruises in the shape of the siding on his back and ass. He really didn't give a shit right then, though, far too intent on giving as good as he got.
He lost the camera at some point – didn't even spare a thought for its safety – in favor of shoving Rory back enough to go after his belt. Rory responded with a low, rumbling laugh, which turned into a groan once Barry had his hand down the man's pants, fingers wrapping around an unfamiliar... (Was thinking of it as a penis too juvenile? And was he honestly going to stop and debate semantics with himse–)
Rory got into Barry's pants way quicker, and Barry couldn't stop his moan or the way his body pushed into the contact.
Thinking at all quickly became far too much effort, because it took a lot of brain power to jerk Rory off. Especially when his own brain was being oh so quickly and expertly coaxed out of his penis. Cock. What-the-fuck-ever.
Only once they'd both come and Rory had tucked Barry back into his pants, did what he'd just done really hit Barry. And it must have shown, because Rory rumbled out another one of his low laughs and leant in to lick over his lips, then whispered against them, " 'Til next time, Firebird."
And then he pulled back and started away with what looked suspiciously like a skip in his step, leaving behind a long strip of cold down Barry's front.
Embarrassed and sated and maybe still a little turned on, Barry took a minute to try to collect himself, failed utterly, and settled for doing his damnedest to not look like he'd just got off at a crime scene. With the most likely suspect.
(He was so screwed. And not in that way, Christ.)
His camera, miraculously, had survived the incident intact. His kit was a little battered from being dropped when Rory had first assaulted him, and he had to hunt through it for some of his supplies that had fallen from their shelves later, but he was clumsy enough that he was used to dropping it and having to do that anyway.
Based on the preliminary evidence, the fire had been started accidentally, and since no one had died and the warehouse had been being used as drug storage for the Darbinyans, the commissioner determined they shouldn't waste money looking into it any further.
Privately, though, Barry knew Rory had been involved. Both because his being there didn't really make sense, otherwise, and there had been a metal safe that looked like it might have held valuables at one point, but had been empty when he'd got it open.
Well, he had to give Rory and his partner props: That truly had been the perfect crime. Assuming the Darbinyans never figured out where their valuables got to.
It was almost a full month before he saw Rory again, which was plenty of time to go back and forth between hoping to see him again for a second round, and hoping they never met again because rules at least a dozen times.
The call about the fire came in as Barry was getting in to work for the day, and the looks the night crew threw the radio when it was announced made it clear that it had been a shitty night and they were not handling that.
"Allen, Stanton," Forrest called from where he was already looking through the paperwork that had been waiting for him, not bothering to look up at them, "collect your kits and get over there."
"Right away, sir," Kelley said for both of them, because Barry had been in the middle of taking a drink of his coffee, and they'd been partnered together enough times, by then, that she knew better than to let him try to answer.
They took their time getting ready, and didn't try to race through the morning rush, since it would take a bit for the theater to be cleared by the fire chief for processing. And, indeed, they had to wait almost fifteen minutes before they could go inside. Which was plenty of time to get the specifics: The theater was old and had been reported a number of times in recent months as a possible fire hazard due to outdated electrical wiring. The owner hadn't had enough additional funds to update, though, so it had gone ignored.
Given that the skeleton staff that had been in the theater when the fire started was reported to have got out safely, and it had burnt at just the right speed and direction to keep from damaging any of the surrounding buildings before the fire crews got there and got it out, there was a suspicion of it being arson in hopes of the insurance payout being enough to rebuild a building that was actually up to code. So both the fire crew and Barry and Kelley would be looking for a way to prove or disprove that theory. And since the insurance company involved had donated a lot of money for the mayor's reelection campaign, the commissioner wouldn't be nixing the investigation that time.
Barry didn't see any signs of Rory while they were waiting to be cleared to go in – not that he was looking or anything – and he wasn't certain if he was feeling relieved, or upset. Not that arson scenes meant anything in terms of their...whatever was going on. Assuming anything was going on. Maybe Rory had got what he'd wanted and Barry would never see him again. Which was totally cool; he didn't need the heart attack he'd get from the constant fear of discovery.
Honestly.
Once inside, he quickly shifted his attention to photographing, sorting through, and collecting bits and pieces of debris that might answer some questions. He avoided places that were still smoking, or parts of the floor that didn't look like they'd hold his weight, following a vague possibility of a lead after motioning to Kelley that he was going to check something on the other side of the lobby partition.
"Firebird," a familiar voice murmured behind him just as he saw the outlet that his hunch had led him to, hidden in a darkened little cubby that the footprints in the soot and ash suggested had been overlooked by everyone else.
"Rory?" he hissed, spinning to look. And, yup, there was Rory, standing behind him in a sooty fireman's suit that looked far too realistic to be a Halloween costume. He wondered which of the firehouses Rory had stolen it from. "Did you set this?" he asked before he thought better.
And then, of course, he did think better, and silently cursed himself in his head.
Rory titled his head to the side, which was reminiscent of how he'd moved it before kissing Barry their last meeting, which Barry really didn't need to be thinking about right then. "If I say yes, will the insurance pay out?" he asked.
Barry opened his mouth to say–
Okay, he didn't really know how to respond to that, because what? Did that mean Rory had set the fire? Or was he just willing to take the fall so the theater owner got the money? In which case, did that mean it was purposefully set by the owner? And what did Rory get out of taking the fall? Did he owe the owner for something?
"I don't...know," he finally admitted. "It depends on what his policy says, I think?"
Rory's expression falls. "Didn't think 'o that. Shoulda checked."
"You did set it!"
Rory shushed him, casting a quick look around them. "Didn't say that," he said once he was certain they were alone.
"Oh my god," Barry moaned, covering his eyes, because how was this his life? "Did you set the one at the warehouse, too?"
Rory let out a huff, sounding way closer than Barry had expected, which was all the warning he got before a jacket was dropping over his shoulders and he was being shoved back into the cubby he'd found. "Thought that one was an accident," Rory said, close enough their noses brushed.
Barry did his damnedest not to let Rory know how turned on he was, but he suspected that was a lost cause. "On paper, maybe," he whispered.
Rory's laugh was low and familiar in a way that went straight to Barry's, uh, lower brain. Penis.
(Oh, god, not this argument again.)
"Clever little firebird," Rory murmured, which Barry suspected was as much of an agreement as he was going to be getting out of him. And then Rory was kissing him.
Barry was powerless to resist the draw of the forbidden, and every creak, hiss, and moan of the resettling building, or the rise and fall of voices beyond the shadows of their cubby hole, just made him that much more turned on. Which Rory had clearly figured out, or else it was affecting him in a similar way, because his hand on Barry would speed up when there was a noise that suggested they might be caught.
It seemed like it was over far sooner than the last time, but Barry suspected his timekeeping might be called into question if he ever said as much out loud.
" 'Til next time, Firebird," Rory said after they were both tucked back into their pants. And then he pressed a quick, hard kiss to Barry's lips and vanished beyond the cubby.
Barry hurried forward to go after him, not really noticing as the jacket Rory had put over his shoulders fell to the floor behind him, but there was no sign of him in the little hallway. "Dammit," he muttered as he turned back towards the fallen jacket and the outlet he'd come for.
The outlet which was gone.
"You conniving asshole," Barry breathed, and couldn't decide if it sounded too impressed or not. Because that? That had been some excellent sleight of hand. But Rory had also just run off with evidence.
Without the outlet and whatever proof had been on it, the fire was declared accidental and due entirely to the faulty wiring, so the owner got the insurance payout. Barry should have told someone that Rory had stolen evidence, he knew, but he didn't want to face the questions of how he'd got away.
(Anyway. A part of him, just maybe, was already looking forward to the next time Rory found him at a crime scene, and the man being in prison would make that very difficult.)
Barry didn't really know who the idea had come from, or how they'd got it approved, but Central University got permission to have a giant bonfire in the town square for New Year's Eve. Iris insisted he go with her and some of their friends from high school who were still in school, same as Iris, so he'd got dragged along, shared a few laughs with the group, and then drifted apart when Iris saw some classmates of hers that Barry didn't know.
New Year's wasn't supposed to be a holiday for loneliness, but Barry was definitely suffering from that as he watched Iris laughing with people he couldn't bring himself to get to know. One of the guys kissed her cheek and Barry had to fight back the urge to go over and punch him; Iris wasn't his – would never look at him in a romantic way, and he knew it – and he had no right to be getting jealous over her being in a relationship. (Besides, there was no way he could take the guy.)
"That's not a happy look," a familiar voice said at his shoulder.
Barry sighed. "Rory. Are you sure you should be showing your face out here? Some cop's going to see you and suspect you're going to make trouble."
Rory let out his low, rumbling laugh into Barry's ear, and a gentle hand that would be easy to knock away curled around Barry's hip. "Oh, tha' big fire may'a drawn me, but it's not the trouble I'm lookin' fer tonight."
Barry didn't need a help guide to figure out what Rory meant, and he knew he should shrug off his hand, end whatever this was between them and maybe go over to Iris. He should start the new year right. Legally.
Except he was lonely and a little heartsore, and meeting up with Rory at crime scenes had become something he'd started to look forward to, even though it had only been twice. Even though he shouldn't be waiting for that. He should be waving down the nearest police officer and telling them to take Rory in, because he was a criminal who had stolen evidence.
He leant back and was oddly unsurprised when Rory took his weight without complaint. (Or maybe his lack of surprise wasn't odd; Rory had saved his life, had used his stolen jacket to keep Barry's suit from getting sooty. Maybe he was a criminal, but that didn't mean he couldn't be courteous.)
"What are we?" he heard himself ask.
Rory was quiet for a long moment, and then he slowly moved, giving Barry plenty of time to rebalance himself, and turned Barry so they were facing each other, standing perpendicular to the bright bonfire licking its way towards the sky far above them. "What do ya want us t'be?" Rory asked quietly. Seriously.
Barry watched the way the light of the fire played over the side of Rory's face, like he was made half of shadows and half of fire. "Uncomplicated," he said, because too much in his life was tainted by his eternal crush on Iris or the memories of the night his mother was murdered.
Rory's mouth twisted upwards, but only on one side. "There's no such thing, Firebird," he said, quiet and tired and old.
Well, Barry supposed that was the truth, in many ways. But, in terms of the complications in the rest of his life?
The bonfire let out a loud pop and sparks flew up into the air as one of the larger logs cracked. Rory turned to look, his eyes bright and intent, and Barry realized he recognized that look, had had it turned on himself a couple of times.
"Let's be like fire, then," he said, and Rory turned back to him, head tilting to the side. "Burn bright and hot when we meet, and smolder quietly like embers in between."
Rory let out a quiet snort, his eyes light with humor. "Poetic."
"Shut up. It sounded better in my head."
Rory leant in, nose brushing Barry's, and Barry's eyes slid closed without his permission, like a conditioned response. "Dun' mistake me; I love anythin' what has ta do with fire."
(Barry wondered, briefly, if the nickname Rory used for him turned that sentence into something else, but he shied away from considering it too deeply. Maybe something to wonder after the next time Rory vanished for months.)
And then Rory was kissing him, hard and hot, and Barry gave as good as he got, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around Rory so he could feel the heat of him all along his front.
"Dark alley?" Rory whispered against his lips. "Or somewhere in town hall?"
"Oh my god," Barry moaned, because those were both terrible ideas; town hall was awash in cameras and currently closed to the public, but they'd be more likely to be caught in an alley, as many people were out. "Alley," he decided, because getting caught for public indecency was a lot less terrible than being caught breaking and entering. Probably.
Rory's laugh was low and promised terrible things. And then he was pulling away, catching one of Barry's hands and using it to lead him away from the massive fire.
They'd separately return to it twenty-three minutes later, after having miraculously avoided getting caught in the dark alley Rory had led him to. Barry would return to Iris and blush and stammer when she asked him about the guy she saw him trading spit with. She wouldn't believe a word of the lies he'd finally manage to get out, but she'd stop pushing for more and just let him have his secrets.
And, at midnight, in the shadows of the almost burnt out bonfire, Rory would touch his shoulder and, when Barry turned to look, brush a light, barely-there kiss over his lips, then whisper, " 'Til next time, Firebird."
Barry couldn't quite stop a smile, feeling warm in a way he hadn't before Rory had shown up, and he whispered back into the empty space where Rory had been, "Until next time, Mick."
.