Work Text:
Folks I'm Headin' Down to St. James Infirmary
All characters © DC Comics
“Get six gamblers to carry my coffin
Six chorus girls to sing me a song
Put a twenty-piece jazz band on my tail gate
To raise Hell as we go along”
St. James Infirmary Blues, American folk tune
Len did nothing to mask the harsh sneeze that erupted like an explosion from his face.
Mick, who had been slowly inching himself farther and farther away from Snart for the better part of the morning, looked over with a wince. “That sounded like it hurt.”
If it had been Len’s first sneeze of the day, Mick would not have bothered commenting on it. But seeing it was his tenth in the past hour (yes, Len was counting) Mick thought sympathy was less likely to get him iced than not saying anything at all.
Len looked up at the dim fluorescents, teasing another. It came with surprising swiftness, doubling him over his worktable. The museum blueprints didn’t even stand a chance. Len muttered an expletive and pinched the end of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. It was running now. Great.
With a sigh Mick hopped down from the pile of crates he’d been sharpening a knife on and grabbed his coat. Len looked up, his scowl growing more pronounced. “Mick?”
“Goin’ out,” Mick grunted. He made for the door, pulling a lighter from his pocket and flicking it open as he did so.
“We have a job,” Len reminded him, eyes narrowed.
Mick stopped and turned. Snapping the lighter shut, he replied, “No, we don’t Snart.”
“I thought the ancient gem exhibit would excite you,” said Len, crossing his arms. His nose wrinkled of its own accord and twitched once.
“Yeah I was thinking,” Mick said. “Roman sapphires do sound nice and all. But,” he gestured with the lighter to Len’s face. “I really don’t want whatever it is you got. It looks like a bitch.”
Len pinched his nose shut again and sniffed sharply. “Fine,” he said, closing his eyes. “Go.”
“Call Lisa,” Mick said, on his way out.
Despite everything, Len snorted. Lisa was hardly the nursing type, and even if he did manage to get her down here he did not fancy exposing his sister to the worst case of the sniffles in the history of things he’d come down with in Central City.
Which, in all honesty, was not his fault.
Long story short: occasionally he got on peoples’ bad sides, and yes, occasionally those people happened to be meta-humans. This week’s brand of genetically altered townsfolk called herself the White Horseman—a health inspector who discovered not only her pathogenic powers of virus transmission, but the Rogues’ safe house. Which was evidently a “sanitary abomination” and the perfect breeding grounds for disease. Her words, not his.
And okay, the safe house may not have had any heating or running water, but it was still perfectly livable. Apparently, others disagreed. Violently.
Last night they were at Saints and Sinners when Len suddenly grabbed a napkin and stifled a sneeze into it. Mick had looked startled, but not unduly surprised. He shook his head.
“Fucking metas,” he said.
A cold itself would have been fine. Not ideal, but Len had the place to himself to be as disgusting as he fucking wanted to and he’d been meaning to catch up on Prison Break for a while now anyway. He reminded himself to thank the Rathaway kid at some point for setting up the Wi-Fi.
But, to add to Len’s rapidly declining day, Weather Wizard decided to pay him a visit.
Mardon wasn’t angry, at first. At first it was all “join me brother in arms with my new and exciting plan to kill the Flash, reign death and destruction, blah, blah, blah,” which on any other day would have improved Len’s mood. But either Mardon was completely oblivious to how dreadful Len looked or he just didn’t care—either way the guy took it very personally when Len snubbed him a second time over.
On a normal day, no one beat up Leonard Snart. On a day when Leonard Snart was off his game due to a meta-human rhinovirus, well.
Let's just say he was glad he never called Lisa.
Cisco’s computer in the cortex pinged. To Barry, who was currently jogging at a leisurely five hundred miles per hour on the STAR Labs treadmill, the ping sounded somewhat sinister.
“Cisco,” he called. “Your computer!”
Cisco rushed in from wherever he had been (judging by the goggles pushed up on his forehead Barry guessed the sample room) and opened a file on his desktop.
“Atmospheric anomalies detected thirty minutes ago,” he read, and pursed his lips together because they’d had a rather mild December so far and it wasn’t even supposed to be cold enough outside for what his scanners were saying was a hailstorm.
From the other room, Caitlin asked, “Do you think it’s Weather Wizard?” Cisco shrugged.
Barry came to a stop on the treadmill. “Where was it?”
“Let’s see…” Cisco scratched his head underneath the goggles. “Looks like somewhere off of Chester Ave.”
Barry frowned. That was almost outside the city, likely a safe house or abandoned property. “Want me to check it out?” he asked.
“Couldn’t hurt,” said Cisco. “Oh!” he swiveled around in his chair and nodded towards one of the cabinets in back. “Take the wand.”
Barry knew safe houses came in all shapes and sizes (thanks, Oliver), and people who needed them were not always friendly and defenseless. So when he arrived at what used to be a textiles warehouse he forwent his usual speedy front-door entrance, peering in through the side window instead.
And almost dropped the weather wand.
Barry blinked, then wiped some dust from the old glass to make sure of what he was seeing: Leonard Snart with his shirt off.
“Shit,” Barry groaned.
“Barry?”
“It’s Snart,” Barry replied, touching his comm. “He—wait. He looks…hurt.” He squinted into the window, where Captain Cold was apparently bandaging his own ribs with plastic wrap. There were bruises forming up and down his torso all the way to Sunday, not unlike the ones Barry had seen in Iron Heights. And that was just his top half.
“I think it was Mardon,” whispered Barry. His eyes fell to a battered First Aid kit on the table beside Snart.
“Why would Mardon hurt Captain Cold?” Caitlin asked in his ear, sounding confused.
“He tried getting Snart’s help to take me down on Christmas,” Barry recalled. “Snart refused. Maybe he’s still mad about it, I dunno.”
“Either way we should keep an eye on Weather Wizard,” Cisco said. “What are you going to do about Snart? Talk about being mad; last I checked you were still royally pissed at him.”
“Yeah, but I…” Barry started, and realized he did not know how to finish that sentence. He continued to peer into the window, observing as Snart wrapped another sheet of plastic over his chest. Barry sighed. He wanted nothing more than to pocket the wand and go, leave Snart to his own devices. That would be the right and proper thing to do, and certainly what Snart deserved.
Suddenly, Snart froze. Barry immediately ducked down, fearing Snart had seen him. He heard a muffled noise and a subsequent yell, which, through the glass, must have been pretty loud for him to pick up on it. Curious, Barry poked his head up. Snart was pinching his nose, eyes squeezed shut in pain. As Barry watched, Snart proceeded to launch into a violent sneezing fit that left him clutching his side with white knuckles.
It was so unlike Snart—hooded parka and black shirt shed, bloody, teeth gritted with hurt—vulnerable in a way that was so different from the image Barry held of Captain Cold in his head that he could only stare for a minute, wide-eyed.
“What was that?”
“He’s kind of in bad shape,” Barry told Caitlin and Cisco, still dazed.
“Oh, nuh-uh.”
Barry could practically hear Cisco shaking his head over the comm. He pulled a face. “What?”
“You have that tone, man. Don’t even think about it. There is no way we’re helping Captain Cold.”
Barry threw up his hands and sighed again. “I don’t—“ Sneeze, yell. “Look, I know Snart’s a bad guy, but—“Cough, yell. “Maybe he can owe us one?”
This time it was Caitlin, in his left ear: “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Barry?”
From his right ear Cisco agreed, “It’s a terrible idea.” It was like having two shoulder angels, both giving him sensible advice that Barry would probably smack himself later for ignoring. Why couldn’t it ever be straight-cut black and white with criminals? Either Snart was allergic to his safe house, which Barry highly doubted, or the guy was sick. Sick with busted ribs was no fun combo, and Snart looked all sorts of miserable.
“I could have him there in ten seconds,” Barry offered.
“Barry...”
“We’re also looking for the White Horseman, and what Snart’s got looks suspiciously like her MO. Maybe he knows something.” There, that felt more in line with the order of things.
Both Cisco and Caitlin exhaled simultaneously. “Fine,” Cisco said. “As amusing as Cold with a cold is, he could be useful. I also may want to gloat a little.”
So Barry swept in and dashed Cold off to STAR Labs. Snart raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of scenery. The cot he found himself sitting on was clean and sterile, like the rest of the lab. In the bright lighting his swollen eye, blood-crusted lip, and fresh-forming bruises showed like beacons.
“Flash,” he greeted, smirking, and Barry cringed. Snart sounded, putting it mildly, awful. “I appreciate the concern, but I do have my own doctor, you know.”
Caitlin, dumping a tray of gauze and antiseptics on the bed, began prodding Snart. Her face was scrunched and tight like it was whenever she found herself doing something unpleasant. As she worked, Cisco pulled up a picture of the Horseman and shoved it in Snart’s face. “You know her, Snart?”
Snart took the picture, thoughtful. “We may have met. She doesn’t—“he flinched as Caitlin poked a particularly sensitive spot on his torso—“seem to like dirty places.”
“Any idea of where she might be?” asked Barry. Instead of answering Snart pressed a knuckle under his nose, which looked irritated and pink.
Caitlin seemed to notice and pulled back a little. “Don’t sneeze,” she warned, glaring.
“Wouldn’t if I could, Doctor Snow,” Snart drawled, smirk still on his face. But his eyes were watering and his voice was beginning to waver.
“It’s gonna hurt,” Cisco informed him. If he came across a little smug, hey, he thought he had every right to be. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for the guy but unlike Barry, Cisco was not big on sympathy for supervillains. In his book, Snart deserved the snottiest virus the Horseman had.
Barry, on the other hand, bit his lip. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” he muttered. He walked over to Snart and braced his foot on Snart’s upper back, just in time. His hands held Snart’s shoulders steady as he jerked with two wrenching sneezes, one right after the other.
Barry looked down at him. “You done?” Snart managed to shake his head before a final, grating sneeze threw him forward. Finally relieved, his shoulders slumped and he let out a tired sigh, cuts standing out against his pallor. Snart was visibly uncomfortable, Barry saw—and not just physically. He was embarrassed. To be fair, anyone in his current position would have been.
“Your sixth and seventh ribs are broken,” Caitlin told him, pointing to his right side and handing him a Kleenex. “And your arm needs a few stitches. The rest is just bruising, but you also have a pretty nasty rhinovirus and a low-grade fever from the White Horseman.”
“Yeah, remind me to thank her for that,” Snart said, voice muffled behind the Kleenex. “Any chance you could fix it, or am I going to have to carry the Flash around with me every time I have a sniffle?” Barry reddened.
“Is it just me, or do you get even more sarcastic when you’re sick?” Cisco wondered aloud, as Snart threw his iciest glare at him. “And no. There’s no cure for the common cold.”
“But,” added Caitlin, “we can give you something for the pain until you’re all healed—“
“If you tell us where to find the Horseman,” finished Barry. “You don’t have to thank us, Cold, but at least help us find her before half of Central City is down with this bug.”
Snart seemed to deliberate. Finally, he pursed his lips. “Back pocket,” he said, nodding behind him. “You’ll have to get it.” Apparently, humiliating Team Flash as much as possible was his way of dealing with the awkwardness of the situation. Gritting his teeth, Barry reached into Snart’s pocket and pulled out a small square of paper.
“I’ve found if you’re in the business of hurting people you shouldn’t carry around a calling card,” said Snart, a hint of amusement creeping back onto his face. “Did you know her middle name is Michelle?”
Cisco took the card from Barry, blinking. “Her phone and address is on here. Is this for real?”
Snart looked somewhere between humored and trying not to cough. “Why don’t you find out, Cisco?” he said. “I’m not usually into the whole revenge…thing, but I wouldn’t mind seeing her get a taste of her own medicine.”
Cisco rubbed his temples. “You did not just—“he stopped. “Wait, that was actually pretty good.”
“I try.”
With a shake of his head, Cisco returned to his computer to track their new meta (stopping on the way to grab a gargantuan bottle of hand sanitizer). A moment later Caitlin injected something into Snart’s shoulder and handed him a tee-shirt that was, thankfully, plain. Snart, despite his mild shivering, probably would have flat-out refused a STAR Labs hoodie. It took him a few tries to get it on himself.
“So explain to me,” Barry said, crossing his arms, “how you run into the Horseman and Weather Wizard on the same day.”
“It wasn’t the same day,” Snart replied, sounding nasal. Now that he was fully clothed he leaned his head back against the cot, slowly, and closed his eyes. “And I told you. Miss Neat-freak thought she’d teach me a lesson for forgetting to Lysol our warehouse. Ironic, really.” Barry resisted the urge to snort. Cisco was right; Cold really was snarkier when he was ill.
“And Mardon?”
Snart ran a finger under his nose, grimacing. “Didn’t appreciate me turning him down again.”
“Wait, again?” Barry watched as Snart stifled a sneeze, wincing because yeah, that definitely looked painful. “Is he planning something else?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” sighed Snart. His eyes were still scrunched shut in discomfort, their lids dusted purple-gray like pencil smudges. The left one was turning a mottled plum color, and wet at the corner from the strain of a recent sneeze.
“I gotta say, you look pretty pathetic right now, Snart,” Barry told him, chuckling a little.
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing when I had you flat on your back with a bunch of meta-humans firing at you.”
Barry pretended to let that slide. “I’m surprised you’re not being more,” he shrugged, searching for a word, “I dunno, stubborn about it.”
At this Snart cracked an eye open, wearing an expression that plainly told Barry that would be stupid. “A waste of energy,” he replied. “Plus, why not take advantage of free health care when you need it?”
“Woah,” said Barry, backtracking, “who said any of this was free?”
Snart’s lip curled. “You expected me to pay you? And here I thought you were good at reading people, Flash. Guess I was mistaken.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Against my better judgment, I’ve been doing you favors all year, Barry,” said Snart, yawning.
Barry rolled his eyes. “What, you call breaking into my house, stealing my hot chocolate, and tipping me off about Mardon without doing anything to actually help a favor?”
“And not blowing your cover to daddy dearest. Not to mention I’ve held up my end of our bargain.”
“Jesus.” Barry rubbed his forehead. It was sort of funny, in a sad kind of way. “Your idea of a favor is really skewed, Snart.”
Snart only smiled and closed his eyes again. Whatever Caitlin had given him seemed to be taking effect. While it was definitely amusing to see Captain Cold knocked for a loop, it was also odd and unsettling. Barry tried to shake the feeling off. People had told him, on more than one occasion, that feeling sorry for the enemy was his greatest weakness.
And while that was true in some ways, Barry also considered it his greatest strength.
“Tell you what, Barry,” Snart mumbled from the bed, quiet. Barry saw that he was more asleep than awake at this point, and decided to humor him.
“What?”
“Was going to…relieve the museum of their Roman jewels.” He coughed. “Might hold off on it.”
Barry huffed a laugh. “Don’t do me any big favors, Snart,” he said. “Think you can handle not robbing anyone for a week?”
But Snart was fast asleep. Out cold, you could say. Barry sighed and uttered a soft, “Finally.”
Sparing one last look at Snart, he shook his head, smiling a little, and pulled his cowl down. A meta needed catching. Probably more than one, Barry reminded himself, thinking of the tennis ball-sized bruises on Snart’s stomach. After taking care of that, he expected things would return to blissfully normal. Or as normal as one could get in Central City. Soon the weather would change, Snart would heal, and before long Barry would be dodging icicles and portable flamethrowers.
Just as it should be.
End.