The blast hits him from the right, instantly seizing every muscle and tendon from shoulder to hip. At the speed Barry was moving, it's like hitting a wall - an icy, unforgiving wall - and Barry isn't really sure why he doesn't shatter against it. The cold burns. Barry screams and screams, tumbling end over helpless, cold-deadened end, in too much pain even to try and alter the violent trajectory of his tumble.
He ends up draped over something hard and angular - a bench, he realizes, when he can recover himself enough to look, to think. He's sitting in Central City park - lying, really, across one end of the bench - in an almost upright position, like a limp doll some careless child has abandoned or tossed away.
Barry looks back, over his frost-charred shoulder, to see the wreckage his body has left in its wake - a broken fence, a few cracked tree limbs. The ground is scarred; big gauges disturb the otherwise pristine green of the park's meticulously-kept hills. Barry's not looking to inspect the damage, however. He's waiting. Watching for the man who did this to him. He tries to pull himself up, off the bench, but collapses with a shriek when the slightest movement proves too painful to manage. Barry nearly passes out from the agony. He hears a screech of tires and knows he won't be fast enough, this time, to escape.
Eventually, Leonard Snart appears over the hill, walking cheerfully around the ruins of an old tree without a second glance, as if it had always been there. He grins at Barry with a wide, almost unhinged grin, his cold gun hanging casually from his shoulder.
Barry watches him approach with horror and dread, sure he's projecting every ounce of fear he feels.
"Well, well, well... Look what the cold blew in," Snart practically sings as he approaches the bench, his usual monotone replaced by a voice of pure satisfaction.
Barry wants to throw up, but he can't be sure whether that's from the pain or the thought that he's given Snart this pleasure.
Captain Cold nearly skips when he makes it to Barry's side, playfully sliding into the bench and up to Barry. From a distance, if not for Barry's mask, Snart's gun, and the scream Barry unleashes when Snart tugs his body closer, it would look like they were a couple, cuddling here in the dark in front of the lake.
"Hey, baby," Snart mocks, in a perversion of the type of greeting lovers exchange in this spot every day. He even goes so far as to press a split-second kiss on the corner of Barry's bloodied lips. "Thanks for meeting me here."
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Fill 1/2
Date: 2015-01-21 11:34 pm (UTC)He ends up draped over something hard and angular - a bench, he realizes, when he can recover himself enough to look, to think. He's sitting in Central City park - lying, really, across one end of the bench - in an almost upright position, like a limp doll some careless child has abandoned or tossed away.
Barry looks back, over his frost-charred shoulder, to see the wreckage his body has left in its wake - a broken fence, a few cracked tree limbs. The ground is scarred; big gauges disturb the otherwise pristine green of the park's meticulously-kept hills. Barry's not looking to inspect the damage, however. He's waiting. Watching for the man who did this to him. He tries to pull himself up, off the bench, but collapses with a shriek when the slightest movement proves too painful to manage. Barry nearly passes out from the agony. He hears a screech of tires and knows he won't be fast enough, this time, to escape.
Eventually, Leonard Snart appears over the hill, walking cheerfully around the ruins of an old tree without a second glance, as if it had always been there. He grins at Barry with a wide, almost unhinged grin, his cold gun hanging casually from his shoulder.
Barry watches him approach with horror and dread, sure he's projecting every ounce of fear he feels.
"Well, well, well... Look what the cold blew in," Snart practically sings as he approaches the bench, his usual monotone replaced by a voice of pure satisfaction.
Barry wants to throw up, but he can't be sure whether that's from the pain or the thought that he's given Snart this pleasure.
Captain Cold nearly skips when he makes it to Barry's side, playfully sliding into the bench and up to Barry. From a distance, if not for Barry's mask, Snart's gun, and the scream Barry unleashes when Snart tugs his body closer, it would look like they were a couple, cuddling here in the dark in front of the lake.
"Hey, baby," Snart mocks, in a perversion of the type of greeting lovers exchange in this spot every day. He even goes so far as to press a split-second kiss on the corner of Barry's bloodied lips. "Thanks for meeting me here."