|Fic -- the first of the Top/Glider fics
||[May. 4th, 2008|11:47 am]
Hail the Rogues!
Title: Dinner With the Snarts
Word Count: 986
Characters: Captain Cold, Golden Glider, the Top.
Summary: Leonard Snart is a long-suffering man.
Warnings: Implied naughtiness.
Author's Notes: This story is the first I wrote since ending my painful two-year writer's block and is supposed to somewhat humourous; hence, it's kind of stupid. Some of the later ones are better, I promise. They'll be posted in the order they were written, so the timeline jumps all over the place.
Note-worthy things: A few scans to go with this fic: here and here.
“All I’m saying is, I see the guy a lot during the day, and I don’t get why I gotta see him at night, too,” Len grumbled, looking resentfully at his sister.
“Because I like him, and I invited him,” she retorted. “You will be nice to him, or you will regret it!”
He muttered ill-temperedly under his breath as Lisa tested the spaghetti sauce and pronounced it palatable.
“Fine. But I don’t have to like him.”
The doorbell rang almost on cue, and she jumped into the air excitedly. “Oooh, he’s here!” she squealed with delight. Len rolled his eyes heavenward.
This is gonna be a long night, he thought to himself.
Lisa practically bounced to the door and swung it open to reveal her paramour.
The lanky man in the doorway looked just as happy to see her. “Baby!” he exclaimed affectionately. “I brought you flowers!”
The two of them exchanged a long, lingering kiss, which elicited an audible snort from Len. He would have told them to get a room, but frankly the thought of that gave him the creeps.
“Come in,” Lisa told her boyfriend after the two of them stopped nuzzling. “Lenny’s here and the food’s just about ready.”
Len gritted his teeth at being called such a childish nickname in front of a ‘work’ colleague. It is difficult to be respected when people know you by silly names, and even worse if you all happen to be supervillains.
“Greetings, Len,” Roscoe said with that damned inscrutable smile of his. The Rogues could rarely tell what he was thinking (unless tops were somehow involved, of course).
“Hey,” Len replied sourly, not really bothering to hide his resentment.
“I brought you wine,” Roscoe announced, holding out a bottle to the other man. “A Sauvignon Blanc, very good year.”
Len immediately warmed to him as he accepted the gift. Perhaps things were looking up. “Thanks.”
“Those flowers are so pretty,” Lisa cooed, hanging onto her boyfriend’s arm, and he presented them to her: a bouquet of yellow lilies.
“Not nearly as beautiful as you,” Roscoe said fondly, and Len rolled his eyes again. It was time to start drinking to drown out the vomit-inducing cutesiness, so he popped the cork on the wine bottle and lightly chilled it with his cold gun.
“Save some for us!” Lisa called to her brother as she went into the kitchen to retrieve the food. Roscoe seated himself at the table, looking at his fellow Rogue with an amused and imperious air.
“You don’t like me,” he observed calmly, that smile visible again.
“I think you’re a pain in the ass,” Len said honestly, swigging some wine. “I don’t get what she sees in you. But she wants me to be nice.”
“No matter,” Roscoe replied with a slight shrug. “I have nothing against you. But you don’t have to like me for us to get along.”
“And what the hell do you see in her, anyway?” Len demanded. “You like to think you’re smart and cultured and crap. We’re trailer trash.”
The smile widened. “You don’t want to know. But the G-rated version is that I find her constantly delightful. You could learn from her example, strive to take a little more joy from life.”
“If you talk about having sex with my sister, I swear I’m gonna smash your face.”
The smile widened further. “You could try.”
“Dinner’s here!” Lisa called out in a sing-song voice, and the tension broke. Both men turned to look at her as she carried in the main course. The Snarts were not accustomed to having appetizers or elaborate meals.
“It looks delicious, my dear,” Roscoe assured her, his grin genuinely happy now, and she beamed at him.
“You say the sweetest things, babycakes,” she said appreciatively, and Len took a deep swig of wine to dull the pain.
As they ate, the happy couple chatted about various trivialities, while the odd man out said very little. The wine was catching up to him, and his nose itched terribly for some unknown reason. He rubbed violently at his reddened eyes, unnoticed by the others.
“Feel like hell. Going to get some air,” he suddenly announced abruptly, and stood up. Surprised, the couple stared at him as he walked out the front door, slamming it harder than necessary. A picture fell off the wall.
“That was unexpected,” Roscoe noted, and Lisa grabbed his hand.
“Oh good, he’s gone. Let’s go to my room…I have something to show you,” she purred, winking in the alluring manner that had originally attracted him to her in the first place. Taken aback for the second time within moments, Roscoe obeyed with a smile, following her silently as she gleefully skipped to her room with the flowers he’d brought her. Placing them carefully on her nightstand, she closed the door and playfully pushed her boyfriend to the bed.
Fresh air had cleared up Len’s nasal passages somewhat, but did little to assuage his pounding headache. Tired and grouchy, he just wanted to get to bed, sister and her annoying suitor be damned. Still woozy from the wine (as well as the cheap beer he’d bought at the corner store during his walk), he stumbled down the hall and opened his bedroom door.
“Lenny!!” Lisa screamed, hurriedly covering herself with a pillow. Even Roscoe looked alarmed and slightly guilty.
“What the hell are you doing in my bed?!” Len demanded.
“Your bed? This is my room! Get out!” Lisa shrieked.
Len sneezed violently. “I think I’m allergic to your damn flowers,” he muttered irritably, and stepped back into the hall.
“Now that went well,” Roscoe declared ruefully, slicking back his mussed-up hair and feeling quite thoroughly embarrassed. Lisa threw the pillow at him.
“I saw his bare ass…” Len lamented with drunken unhappiness, now back in his own room. “No amount of booze will ever take away that memory….”