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Summary
“Can I hold your hand?” Barry interrupts, and abruptly scatters whatever ideas Len had started pulling together. “Just, just for a second. I’m not. No tricks, I promise.” The jazz hands he offers as a demonstration of innocent intent do no favours for the edge of mania he’s giving off.
“I’m not exactly the hand holding type, in cas-”
“Please.” Barry interrupts again, and Len blames the bizzarity of the situation for the hand he raises in offer. It’s not holding so much as it’s Barry grasping Len’s between both of his own suddenly bare ones and doubling over them in a strange imitation of veneration. He watches a shudder ripple through Barry, head to toe, and the energy he’s been practically buzzing with seems to leave all at once, siphoned off into the ether. They stand like that for several long moments—moments that Len absolutely does not spend gaping like an idiot—before Barry straightens, tips his head back, and groans like he’s relieved.
tl;dr: Barry gets cursed. And, somehow, this is Len's problem. Set some amorphous time post-singularity, ignores any cannon past that point.