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1. Axel Walker
There’s someone sitting under the lions outside the precinct. This wouldn’t be unusual – it’s a popular place for CCU students to have an outdoor lunch, given the campus begins barely half a block away – except for the fact that it was eleven o’clock at night and pouring with rain. David Singh frowns, and turns away from where his car is parked to go check on them.
“Can I help you?” he asks, and then feels like a bit of an idiot, because someone half-hiding outside a police precinct at 11pm in the rain almost certainly needs help. From where he is now, David can tell it’s a man, apparently on the younger side, and that he’s soaked-through and shaking. He makes sure his umbrella is covering the man’s figure entirely, sacrificing the back of his suit jacket.
“You’re gonna arrest me.” says the man, and his voice is tiny, soft and scared.
“Hey – no, if you’re in trouble, I’ll do what I can to help.” David says. The guy turns from his hunch to look up at him.
Right. No wonder he said David would arrest him. That’s Axel fucking Walker. It takes a moment of digesting that information before David notices the eyeliner that’s bled all the way down his face and the huge black eye that the spots of stubborn concealer are doing nothing to hide.
“Holy fuck, who did that to you?” David demands, reaching down to get his hand around the kids’ chin so he can see the extent of the damage. “Girlfriend?”
Axel doesn’t move or react, just stares at David with huge and liquid brown eyes.
“Boyfriend?” David offers. There’s another bruise, yellowing with age, on the kid’s other cheekbone, surrounding a mark that looks like the skin split under a ring. Axel flinches, but not in the way that says it’s a boyfriend beating him up. More like in the way that suggests the boyfriend, or the possibility of one, is what’s getting him the bruises. Oh, fuck.
“Parent?” David tries, and Axel’s eyes well right up. Double fuck.
“James Jesse’s doing this to you.” says David, looking for confirmation, and Axel hunches back, tries to disappear into the shadows. David lets him for a moment, and then turns his hands so he’s offering the handle of his umbrella to Axel. The kid takes it, tentatively, and David shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around Axel’ shaking shoulders.
“Come on. Let’s get you a hot shower and some dry clothes, alright? You should fit some of my husband’s old things.”
Axel’s silent as David texts Rob to warn him while they walk to the car, silent for the whole drive home, and silent as David steers him past Rob and into the bathroom and turns on the shower. There’s already two fluffy towels and a small pile of clothes – sweater, boxers, jeans – on the counter, waiting. Not for the last time, David thanks whoever’s up there that his husband is such an amazing human being. He leaves Axel in there, closes the door behind him, and walks back into the kitchen. Rob’s put the kettle on, and there’s three mugs set out on the counter. David rests his head on Rob’s shoulder and breathes out, hard and long.
“You were underselling that shiner.” says Rob, rubbing a hand up and down David’s back. “It’s huge. Do you know where it’s from?”
“His father.” says David, and Rob swears. They both hear the shower turn off, and Rob turns away from David for a moment to make up the mint tea. When Axel enters the kitchen, silent in socked feet and almost nervous, Rob offers him a mug, and David leans back against the counter to give them space. Axel spends the night on their couch, and never speaks a word. It’s not until he’s curled up in the smallest possible ball in the corner of the couch and drinking coffee the next morning that he speaks.
“Thank you.” he says.
“People always seem to forget the second part of the motto is ‘protect’.” says David. He’s going in late, today, and he’s still in sleep pants and a Central City Police Academy t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. Axel offers up a tiny smile – a mockery of the broad one he wore when he was the Trickster – and then looks back down at his mug.
“You know you don’t have to stay just because he’s your blood, right?”
Axel shakes his head, a tiny, lost, motion.
“Don’t have anyone else who’d take me.” says Axel.
“Are you sure?” asks David, sinking into a seat at the other end of the couch. “Shall we go through your contacts and make sure?”
Axel pulls out his phone and opens the contacts app, and they start scrolling. Not a single contact has anything resembling an actual name in the name field – all nicknames and emoji combinations, as David is coming to realize most millennial phones are – but they all seem to mean something to Axel. He pauses when they get to one that reads “literal hot dad” followed by a fire emoji and then a koala bear emoji.
“You think they might be able to help?” David asks – well, it’s more of a prompt.
Axel shrugs, non-committal.
“Shall we check?” David asks. He stays sitting there, leaving a whole couch cushion between them, while Axel texts whoever’s on the other end of that phone number. The message is short – ‘Dad’s hitting me. Can I stay with you?’ is all it says. Axel’s phone chimes with a response almost instantly.
→ Of course. Want us to hurt him? Do you need us to pick you up? Where are you?
Safe somewhere. Can get a lift to you. Hurting would be nice. ←
David raises his eyebrows at that last.
“They’ll go after him anyway once they see my face.” says Axel. “Might as well give them a head start.”
Both David and Axel start when Rob laughs at the comment. Rob’s grinning when they turn to look at him, leaning on the doorframe.
“Where do you need a lift to, kiddo?” Rob asks. “I can take you on my way to work.”
Axel’s phone chimes again to answer that question.
“124 Kreisberg.” Axel reads.
Two hours later, David almost drops his first cup of Precinct coffee over Allen’s latest evidence report when he reads Rob’s text.
→ He got to his new home just fine. Pretty sure door was answered by the hottest pain in your ass. If so, contact name right on – are you sure we can’t bang that?
David bangs his head against his desk a few times.
ROB. HE’S A CRIMINAL. NO. ←
→ Is that, like, your only objection?
David pointedly ignores his phone for the next few hours, because yes, that is the only objection he has to the idea of him and Rob hooking up with Mick Rory. It might not even be much of an objection, when it came down to it.
2. Hartley Rathaway
At 5 o’clock yesterday afternoon, David gave the press conference that confirmed Harrison Wells as having posthumously confessed to the murder of Nora Allen in a Living Will video. At midnight, yesterday, David found himself helping Rob peel an incredibly drunk Hartley Rathaway off his bar stool at their favorite bar and pouring him into the backseat of their car. Now, at 10:30 on a Saturday morning, on David’s day off, a confused Hartley is walking into the kitchen and gaping a little at the impressive amount of hangover-friendly brunch food crowding the little table.
“What the fuck did I say to you last night?” asks Hartley, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes with his free hand. “Seriously? Did I promise to sleep with you, or something?”
He puts his glasses back on and looks David up and down, and then turns the same elevator eyes on Rob.
“Okay, it’s entirely possible I offered to sleep with you.”
Rob smirks.
“You didn’t. You kept saying things about Harrison Wells, though.” says David. “Also, I was genuinely concerned you were going to give yourself a concussion falling off that bar stool when you passed out.”
Hartley winces.
“Yeah, wouldn’t have been at my best. To be fair, that colossal windbag was the entire reason that I was drunk in the first place. Took the time to fix Allen’s life, and didn’t even bother to think about me. It’s not like it was me he was fucking, or anything.”
The sarcasm drips thickly from his tone, and then Hartley seems to realize what he’s said, and his eyes widen, verging on imperceptibly. Rob pushes a mug of coffee down the counter to him.
“That is hangover truth face.” Rob says, dead serious. “You didn’t mean to say it, but it’s what you really wanted to say. Tell us everything.”
Hartley takes the coffee, and sits in the other chair at the table. He’s finished the entire cup by the time he’s done, and David’s watching in horrified but oddly detached fascination as the story slowly unfolds.
“I’m going kill him.” David hears himself saying, when Hartley finishes.
“Thanks, but he’s already dead.” says Hartley, eyes fixed on the table. Then he looks up and David, and his eyes widen. “Okay, no, your eyes are saying that’s actually what you’re planning and you literally cannot do that. There is also no grave you can dig up and or desecrate.”
Rob crosses to stand behind Hartley’s chair and scoots it in a little bit.
“Eat something.” he says. “Seriously. And right now.”
Two plates of French toast and four strips of bacon later, Rob stops staring intently at Hartley to make sure he’s actually eating, and turns back to David, who finally feels like he’s in command of his own faculties again. The eye contact feels particularly meaningful.
“Where are you staying?” David asks. “You have a place somewhere, right?”
He tells the feeling of déjà vu tickling the back of his mind to fuck off.
“I have a room?” says Hartley. “In a house?”
“With who?” asks Rob.
“I refuse to answer on the basis I might incriminate myself?”
“Right, you’re staying with Rory as well.”
Hartley’s eyes bug out.
“You’re the ones who dropped Axel off! He wouldn’t tell any of us who’d looked after him.”
Rob shrugs, and grabs Hartley’s phone off the table.
“Passcode, please.” he says. “I’m giving you my number.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?” says Hartley.
“Because David needs plausible deniability and I need to make sure you have a minder if you want to get that drunk again, and I am more than happy for it to be me.”
Hartley gives him the passcode, something approaching a genuine smile gracing his face. He actually hugs David on his way out the door.
David’s phone chimes while he’s driving to work, this time, and he checks it at a red light.
→ Starting to seem like a good guy
David rolls his eyes.
Still a criminal, honey ←
→ Does that mean you’re conceding that he’s hot?
I will even admit that his polar opposite might be considered attractive too ←
Rob’s response is three heart-eyes emojis and then a second message with a flame emoji and a snowflake emoji sent with confetti. David parks the car and then sends back a “I can’t read suddenly – I don’t know” gif, and then walks into work.
3. Lisa Snart
“The fuck is this?” David demands, slamming his office door open and brandishing a print copy of a memo. A memo which suggests Lisa Snart has lost it because she dared to suggest that she used “other pronouns” – which yes, had been placed in quotes in the memo, as though that wasn’t a perfectly reasonable request.
“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.” says Harrelson, smugly, from his desk.
“No, it is not!” says David. “It’s fucking bullshit, is what it is!”
Barry Allen is standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at his phone with his back ramrod straight, probably reading the very memo that David is waving around in the air. Fuck. Fuck Harrelson. Allen’s got superhero-ing to do, he shouldn’t have to deal with this transphobic bullshit from his work colleagues. Neither should anyone they arrest, which is why David’s waving this thing around.
“What pronouns?”
“I’m sorry, captain?”
“What fucking pronouns were you asked to use?”
There’s some kind of commotion happening by the door, near where Allen is, but David isn’t going to turn around and check.
“They.” scoffs Harrelson. “But you can’t use they for one person.”
“Yes you fucking well can!” roars David. “And you will, if you are asked to!”
“But she’s a woman!” snaps Harrelson, on the back foot and angry.
“If they tell you to use them, you damn well use them! Regardless of how they choose to fucking present!”
David’s aware he’s probably red in the face. He doesn’t care. Harrelson is absolutely red in the face. David spins away, fully intended to slam his office door and then scream into a pillow for a little while, and catches sight of what the commotion from earlier was. Lisa Snart, hands cuffed behind their back, is standing in the front lobby of the precinct, staring straight at him with something like pleased disbelief on her face. David – sort of nods at her, and then flees to his office.
He pretends not to be hoping that Lisa might be putting in a good word with their brother and Rory.
4. Mick Rory
There is an alien invasion.
David really doesn’t know how to feel about that.
Mostly he copes by knowing that the supers had it handled and he did all he could do, and by feeling smugly delighted that it was mostly Allen who took care of the situation. He even puts up with Rob’s delighted crowing after spotting Rory up on the dais with all the other heroes involved in driving back the invaders.
And then the thought occurs to him.
“Fuck.” he says, and Rob’s jubilation dies down, just a little.
“What, babe?”
“Where’s Snart?”
The two of them stare at the lineup on the news.
“Where is Snart?” asks Rob, apparently directing the question to the air.
David finds out exactly where Snart is rather more abruptly than he was perhaps expecting to, mostly by virtue of being called in by the Flash about a week later to talk police crowd control during some kind of standoff at high four o’clock in the afternoon between the crew that Rory is part of and some kind of Time Authority. He can hear the capital letters involved in that last part, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.
“I wish Len was here.” says a small blonde woman David is sure is Sara Lance. Who is supposed to be dead.
“Mister Snart would have been most useful to the planning of this duel.” says Martin Stein, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
“And he was a mean shot.” says Ray fucking Palmer – honestly, half these people are supposed to be dead, what is the world coming to.
“He’d be more use than Mick, at least.” says Sara. “We wouldn’t need to assign him a minder.”
And that is when David finally catches sight of Mick Rory, who looks like – well, David’s never been one to mince words, and he’s certainly not about to start now. Rory looks like shit, with huge black circles under his eyes and a general dishevelment that echoes Allen at his worst, after his father’s death. David doesn’t take his eyes off Rory, but he does finally open his mouth.
“And why, exactly, won’t Leonard Snart be joining us?” he asks.
“He died, a while back.” says Palmer. “He saved the world.”
There’s a moment of silence, as though they were all pondering Snart’s sacrifice. Rory and the two young people he’s walking with draw closer. David turns back to look at the team, in utter disbelief.
“Okay, hold on here.” he says. “You’re telling me that Snart died, a while back, and Rory looks like – like that-“ he waves a hand to encompass all of Rory’s everything, “and none of you are even a little bit concerned beyond being annoyed he needs a minder?”
Palmer looks lost.
“What do you mean?” asks Sara.
“Holy God, none of you know? How on earth do you not know?”
David looks back and forth between blank faces.
“They were fucking married! Holy shit, the most important person in his world died, and none of you are the least bit concerned with his mental health? It’s not like that was exactly stable to begin with!”
Lance opens her mouth, and David gestures at her to speak, almost daring her to try and justify the action.
“He tried to kill Snart.” she says.
“Did he?” asks David. “Why?”
“He was brainwashed.” says Palmer.
“Hold on, backtrack, he was brainwashed? And then had his husband die?”
“Snart only died because he didn’t want Mick to die.” says the kid who’d been walking over with Rory. Rory’s still a good few yards back with the pretty young woman Allen had said was called Vixen.
“Fuck me, Rory was there?”
“Len knocked him out and took his place.” says Palmer. “Mick had taken mine.”
David throws his hands up in the air.
“What the fuck are you people on? The man’s clearly depressed and traumatized, and all you’re doing is complaining and mocking him for not being smart enough? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you all? I don’t even like the man and apparently I have more compassion for him than all of you put together!”
Okay, the first part of that last statement is a complete lie, but the second half is entirely true. None of them even look abashed.
“Okay, no, fuck all of you, he’s coming home where his family can look after him.” says David, and marches through the middle of the group.
“Captain Singh!” calls Palmer, behind him now, and Rory looks up.
“Come to arrest me, then?” asks Rory, with a kind of exhausted finality. He looks like he might even go quietly, which is says terrifying things about his mental state.
“No, I have fucking not.” says David, and curls a hand around Rory’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you to a car. Are Hartley and Axel still at the Kreisberg Street house?”
“Yeah, they are.” says Rory, warily.
“Good. Call Lisa, I’ll drop you off there.”
He leaves Rory’s new crew gaping after them.
5. Mark Mardon
“Captain?”
“Yes?” says David, rubbing his hand over his face. It’s 7:30pm, and David’s been at his desk since 6:30am. The only reason he’s still there is that he’s waiting for Mark Mardon’s transfer to the Meta Wing to go through.
“Mardon’s been looking at the clock every few minutes for the last hour and he’s acting all shifty. I’m worried someone’s coming to break him out.”
Well, it’s not like that’s an unfounded fear. The Rogues have certainly done it before. David gets up and goes to have a look. Mardon’s curled up in a ball in the corner of the bed where it’s pushed into the corner of the room, under all the blankets that are available in the cell. He looks up at the clock, and then shrinks further into the corner he’d been in.
Well, fuck. David has a sneaking suspicion he knows what’s going on, and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with a breakout. Mardon’s eyes are wild and his breathing is all over the place, and David winces in sympathy.
“Hey.” he says, and Mardon glares.
“Fuck off.” he snarls.
“I will, too, but why don’t you tell me what dose you’re on, and I’ll go get it.”
Mardon’s whole demeanor changes in an instant.
“Who told yo- wait –“
A single finger emerges from the blanket nest and points at David.
“You’re the one who – and Mick – “
The finger disappears back into the blanket nest.
“Shawna.” says Mardon. “At Saints. She has all my stuff.” And then he buries his head under the blankets too.
Right. David turns and heads out the door, followed by a very confused officer.
“What was that all about?” he asks. He’s young, and white, and probably both straight and cis, although David hates to assume.
“It doesn’t matter.” says David. “But it’s not a breakout.”
Shawna-At-Saints is Shawna Baez, who claps her hands in delight when she puts the same two and two together to get the same four as Mardon had, and then slides a neat case across the bar to David. It’s organized, and clearly marked, and looks like a shaving kit.
“Nice.” says David. Shawna preens a little.
“Now go.” she says. “He’ll be getting worried.”
David does. Mardon emerges entirely from the blanket cocoon to get the kit, shoves it back to David as soon as he’s done. The officer from before looks confused when David walks back out again.
“It’s Testosterone.” David says, waving the kit.
The officer looks no less confused.
“Google it.” says David, and goes home for at least twelve hours of sleep, during which he will not have to think about the fact he just went out of his way to help a man who almost killed him not mess up his hormone routine, and that said man was willing to trust him because he’s done similar things for multiple members of his crew.
6. +1 David Singh
David’s been giving speeches at Central City Pride for years, now – an easy pick for CCPD diversity poster boy. He’s used to it – the relived and joyous people who thank him for his service, the usually drunk and over-eager men who want to proposition a man in uniform, and the detractors and picketers and people vibrating with righteous fury.
This certainly does not mean he was ready for this year.
He knew it would be worse than normal, given the uptick in hate crimes since the election, but he really hadn’t expected the number of people who would show up, their vehemence, or the particular exception they would take to him, up on stage in his dress uniform. They’re ranting, and yelling, and hurling abuse, and David’s already watched Joe West physically restrain a couple of the younger officers – including Allen - from removing them after some particularly vitriolic comments. Good for Joe – he’s remembering that David had asked that people like that not be removed from his speech unless they got physically violent.
One of the assholes gets his hands on a megaphone, and yells a word David hasn’t heard in years – one that starts with ‘f’ and puts David back on a field in high school, football clutched to his chest and lungs heaving for breath under his practice jersey. He actually stops his speech, flinching, and he can feel Rob’s hand tightening around his own.
“Well, that’s quite enough of that.”
The voice rings loud and clear in the sudden quiet, and David starts a little when he recognizes it.
Shawna Baez, who he hasn’t seen in the four months since he picked up Mark’s T from her, is standing on a bench with her arms folded across her chest, which does nothing to hide the cursive rainbw ‘queer’ plastered across her t-shirt. She looks utterly pissed. At her left stands Mark, in a trans flag crop top that’s rather flattering to his fucking washboard abs, and at her right Lisa Snart, in a “I’m the lesbian the TERFs warned you about” shirt-dress that only just covers the tops of her thighs. There’s a ball of ice hovering over Mark’s hand.
When did he become Mark in David’s head? Not the time.
The assholes looks temporarily taken aback, before one of them yells something at the three of them – something hard and snarly about not being scared of three girls, and then something obviously intended to be flirty about offering to show Lisa and Shawna what a real man was like. Mark’s face hardens, but Lisa’s whole face twists in disgust, and David finds himself barking out a laugh at their expression. That same sound, however, cuts off when the sound of the charging cold gun echoes through the June air.
“I’d be careful what you say to my sibling.” snarls Leonard Snart, and David looks to find Mick Rory right at his side, grinning. Flanking him is the sweet-faced young guy from Rory’s crew, who someone is managing to look menacing in a rainbow tank top.
“Welcome home, Captain Cold.” says Mark, with obviously false enthusiasm. “We all thought you were dead and the country’s taken a turn for the prejudiced.”
“I heard.” says Len, sourly. “I come back from the dead thanks to true love and my new queer son and it looks like they’re going to make it impossible for me to adopt. Honestly!”
Len plasters on a grin that’s all teeth, and Hartley Rathaway, Axel Walker, Frankie Kane, Rosa Dillon, and Sam Scudder all materialize out of the crowd behind him, each in their own version of Pride gear, all looking murderous.
“Are these assholes giving you trouble, Captain?” asks Mick, cracking his knuckles. Fuck, David has to stop first-naming the queer criminals he’s started looking after. Mick’s faded Stonewall Anniversary shirt is stretched taught across his broad shoulders and faded-soft enough that you can see the ridges of his burn scars.
“They’re certainly causing trouble.” says David, trying to set aside the way the Rob is clutching his hand like a lifeline because of his weak knees. It’s actually criminal how attractive that rumble is when the violence it promises isn’t aimed at you. “I’m not sure I’m the only subject, however.”
Mick shrugs.
“We’ll get rid of them anyway, how’s about that?”
David tries to suppress his grin as the assholes do some truly extraordinary fish impressions.
“But – why are you helping them?” one of them finally asks.
“Because I’m ‘one of them’.” says Mick, complete with finger quotes. Len laughs, and David swallows hard - entirely fairly, he thinks, given that Len must have modeled at some point in his life.
“Didn’t you hear, honey?” asks Lisa. “The very first one of these was a riot.”
Len levels the cold gun, and the assholes flee. The crowd erupts in cheers, including both David and Rob. The rest of David’s speech goes absurdly smoothly, and before he knows it, he and Rob are in the middle of the crowd, and facing Len Snart and Mick Rory. The circles from under Mick’s eyes are gone, and he looks content. There’s more salt in Len’s cropped hair than there used to be.
“Mick tells me you got him off the Waverider.” says Len. “Thank you.”
David nods, rather than reply.
“You don’t suppose there could be a reward for that?” asks Rob, before David can step on his toes. Len raises an interested eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“There’s – some things you’d certainly be invited to do.” says Rob, dancing out of reach of David’s elbow.
“Really.” drawls Len. It’s a very attractive drawl.
“But – um – those glasses, were they for a job? Or –“ Rob’s voice trails off into a kind of questioning voice.
“ROB!” yelps David. Some things one tells one’s husband are supposed to remain in confidence.
“I can put them back on, if you’d like.” says Len.
“LEONARD SNART!” gasps David, looking to Mick for help. Mick shrugs.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to heating things up.” he rumbles.
“This is illegal.” David says to the sky.
“Actually, it’s not.” says Len. “I don’t have a record anymore and Mick got a Presidential Pardon.”
David buries his face in his hands.
“Have we dealt with all the excuses you built up for yourself?” asks Rob. David punches him in the arm.
“You – do want this?” asks Len, looking a little suspicious.
“Yes.” says David, probably too quickly. “But – I’m still going to need plausible deniability.”
“I presume you have a plan.” says Len, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
“If I can’t see you –“ David says, letting the implication dangle. He’s rewarded with Len’s eyes glazing over with lust in the most satisfying of ways.
“Shall we?” he asks, and starts back towards home.