"Where should I sit?"
The therapist, a middle-aged man who looks like Dan – if Dan who killed a man had a grey mustached beard and a kind smile – replies, "Wherever you please."
A momentary urge to sit on the floor nearly wins out, but Barry settles on the black leather couch across from a pair of chairs. He sits anxiously forward, putting no weight on his back, hands on his knees. "So. What do I call you?" he asks.
Not-Dan smiles. "I leave that to your discretion. Archibald and Archie are equally acceptable. Mr. Thomson works, too."
Barry tries it out. "Archie."
Archie smiles. "I confess I haven't heard any young Archies running around recently. It's becoming old-fashioned."
"No more than Bartholomew," Barry assures, offering a rueful smile as he drags a hand through his hair.
"I suppose not," Archie muses. "Do you prefer Bartholomew, or-?"
"Barry, actually."
"A fine name. Robust." Barry knits his hands behind his neck and shivers once involuntarily. "Are you cold, Barry?"
He doesn't respond, but Archie gets up, clicking on a thermostat and adding conversationally, "I run quite warm." He takes a seat again. He exhales deeply. "I find it hard to talk about hard things when I am physically uncomfortable. Let us both be more comfortable."
"I just – I don't know what to do," Barry admits helplessly, scratching his own neck anxiously.
"What is disrupting your life so severely?"
Barry swallows. He almost can't say it. "Have you seen the news?"
When Archie doesn't speak, he dares to look up. Archie is watching him, inquisitive, patient. "I would rather hear it from you, Barry."
He huffs, lowering his gaze again. "I was arrested and convicted for the murder of Clifford DeVoe," he tells Archie's red-and-gold patterned rug. "I was sentenced to life in prison with a chance for parole. My sentence was overturned after forty-two days when new information came to light. I was released. I've been with my family ever since." He shuffles uncomfortably, aching to curl inward but equally desperate not to show such weakness in front of Archie. "It's been over a month and I still – there are times when I'm still there."
"You were in prison for forty-two days," Archie reminds him. "I'm sure you've heard it before, but it does take time to recover from such experiences."
"I've had time," Barry says. "And support, and – and everything I need, to reacclimate."
"Would you mind elaborating?"
Barry hunches inward. "No."
"That's okay." Archie says seriously, "We're here to talk about what you want to talk about."
"I want to talk about how I can't take a fucking shower without thinking about –" He halts, grimacing. "I'm sorry."
"No need. I've heard coarser language." He can almost hear the slight smile in Archie's voice. "I wouldn't work with prisoners if I had a sensitivity to it. Swearing can be a valuable social gesture." Barry looks up in disbelief. "I wouldn't recommend it with children, but with peers it can show a sense of camaraderie in difficult circumstances. We're social creatures, we like bonding."
"I liked my cell mate," Barry admits. "He was … colorful. I don't think he ever learned my name. I only learned his first name. Dan." He shivers again, but the warmth of the room helps ground him in the present, the leather couch beneath him equally grounding. "I feel like I abandoned him," he admits in a low voice. "I just – I had no warning, they don't –" he makes a frustrated sound, hands digging into his hair. "No one tells you anything. They just haul you up, drag you around, and expect you to adapt."
"Change is disruptive," Archie summarizes. "It's upsetting."
"I liked Dan," Barry says sharply, like he's telling it to the rest of the world, emphatic and heated. "He was quiet and sharp and only ever called me by some variant of 'bitch,' but he was a decent man." He laughs a little, running his hands over his face, pressing down over his eyes. "God. I haven't told anyone else that."
"I'm honored that you would tell me."
Lifting his head from his hands, he looks right at Archie and says seriously, "I don't even want to tell my family, because I know what will happen if I do."
Archie lifts his eyebrows. "What will happen, Barry?"
Barry can't verbalize it, can't find the right expression, but Archie doesn't press him. "The showers were cold," he redirects, deliberately avoiding the question.
"An unfortunately common experience," Archie admits. "Many of the people I work with voice dissatisfaction with them."
"They tell you how it works?"
Archie nods once. "Every experience is unique, but there are commonalities. What was yours like?"
Barry itches at his sleeves. He almost misses the baggy, hard prisoner's uniform. No soft edges to distract him, just – boxed in, neat, efficient, nonhuman. "I didn't catch on immediately," he admits. "There were rules about when could shower. I thought I'd been stabbed, the first time I – I wasn't expecting it, some guy just came up behind me and jammed a fist into my side," he indicates the place, healed-over, would've-healed-over-even-without-Speed-by-now, "and I couldn't breathe." He retreats, suddenly, finishing, "I – I don't want to talk about it."
"That's okay, Barry. You've shared a lot."
"There's just – there's so much," he admits weakly. "I'm trying to come to terms with it, but – I'm just not."
"Recovery takes time," Archie repeats. "It's okay that you're not where you want to be yet. You have time."
It echoes in his head, long after the session is over: you have time.
. o .
Iris doesn't ask how it went; she just stands in Joe's main room and lets him hug her for the better part of an hour, a hand grazing up and down his back.
"I'm trying," he admits, and she squeezes him gently.
"I know," she says, and he presses his forehead against her shoulder because he doesn't want her to see his tears.
He can't bear to look at her and know her love is his, after everything.
. o .
"I think no matter how many times they debunk it, you still think you're gonna be assaulted in prison."
"It does happen," Archie allows, frowning at him. "Were you assaulted, Barry?"
Barry is sitting in the chair across from him this time, trying to get a feel for it, left side of the room versus right side of the room. Insofar, neither option makes him feel particularly comfortable. The floor still seems more appealing, simple, solid.
But at least the room is warm. The thermostat sits at a cozy seventy-four, which must be close to sweltering for Archie but is pleasant for him. If he wasn't in a cold sweat, he might enjoy it.
As it stands, he feels sick to his stomach. "I don't think so," he admits softly. "I – I did some research, after."
"It takes courage to seek out counsel from others after a traumatic experience," Archie says, "and strength."
"Everything was legal," he says dully. "But—" He shudders. The urge to take a shower is almost overwhelming; he can't get latex-gloved hands off of him. He has to stand. "I – I have to go." His chest tightens; he cannot elaborate.
"Barry," Archie says gently, "take a breath. You are allowed to leave, but I encourage you to pause so you don't pass out."
Hands balling into fists – Archie does not even tense, let alone flinch; an extraordinary amount of trust that Barry does not deserve, God, he doesn't deserve this – he tries to assure, "I'm not going to pass out."
"You're white as a ghost."
Stubbornly, teeth gritted, he insists, "I have to go."
Archie nods. "Okay. Take one deep breath, Barry. In through the nose, let it fill your lungs," he narrates, closing his eyes and demonstrating, "and exhale through the mouth, nice and slow."
Shaking apart, but somehow steadied by the order, Barry complies. He's still shaking, but he closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, and exhales. He repeats it once more before opening his eyes and sinking slowly into the chair. It's still warm from him, even if he is still cold, almost clammy.
"Very good," Archie praises. "That's all there is to it. Some people find counting helpful; others say it makes them lightheaded. If it helps you, then count; if you prefer to simply breathe, then do that. The trick is not to overcomplicate it; you needn't even be seated, or particularly focused, to take one deep breath. Even one will calm you down, physiologically. Just one."
"I feel sick," Barry admits lowly, because for some reason he can say it here, where he knows it will not chase him, and he does not have to worry about Joe or Iris or any of them looking at him with pity. He tangles his fingers in his hair. "I don't want to talk anymore."
"That's fine, Barry. We move at your pace. Would you like a blanket?"
Barry thinks about the cot and it's thin, barely usable sheet, and oddly craves it. He nods once. Archie rises from the black leather couch, fishes in a closet, and produces a thick downy blanket. "Here we are – the one blanket Duke has not claimed first." He hands it to Barry. Taking it in his hands, Barry just holds onto it as Archie sinks back onto the couch, leaning against it, arms over the back. There's a notepad nearby, but he hasn't written anything on it recently, only the occasional remark at the beginning. His undivided attention remains fixed on Barry. "Do you like dogs?"
He nods, carefully working the blanket around his shoulders. It's even warmer than it looks. He feels bad about getting cold sweat on Archie's otherwise pristine blanket, but Archie's smile is sincere and hard to phase. "Deucalion is my German Shepherd. He'll be five this year." He fishes his phone out of his pocket, pulling up an image and showing it to Barry. "Here he is getting his doctorate degree." There's a young man of no visible relation to Archie holding a fully grown German Shepherd up by the torso in front of a college library. Both dog and man look radiantly happy in the summer sun. "That's my own son holding him. A multigenerational photo, if you include me as the photographer."
He turns the phone back to himself and pockets it. "Have you considered an emotional support animal?" Barry huffs a little, burying his face up to his eyes in the blanket and looking at the floor. "They're for people who have endured traumatic experiences, or who are coping with difficult conditions. They make wonderful support systems, and terrific pets."
"I don't have time for a dog," Barry tells the rug.
In his periphery, he sees Archie nod. "Understandable." Then, clearing his throat, he asks gently, "Do you have someone who might pick you up?"
Barry knows Iris would be there in a heartbeat, Joe in even less time, Cisco or Wally in a literal heartbeat, but – "I came alone."
"We endure many experiences alone," Archie says, "but we don't have to endure all of them alone."
Barry swallows hard. He doesn't speak, holding the blanket tighter, insulating himself in the lightning warmth, daring to believe it is all that there is. "I can ask someone," he says thinly.
His hand is shaking as he holds his phone in his hand, and he thinks, Just Flash home but he isn't sure his legs can make it. And Archie – Archie's right, they want to help, they've been trying to help but he hasn't let them in, he hasn't –
He picks the first contact in his messages and sends off a quick text.
. o .
Cisco is there, leaning against the wall and looking every bit the worried best-bud. "Hey, pal," he says. Barry doesn't talk, just walks up to him and waits until he opens a breach before stepping through it with him.
They emerge in Cisco's apartment. Cindy is there, but she's just baking cookies. The smell turns his stomach a little, too rich, too nice, after everything that was prison.
Barry exhales. "I hate this so much," he says, rage shouldering aside anguish. "I fucking – I hate this." He buries both hands in his hair, pacing.
"You don't have to go," Cisco says gently, setting a hip against the couch. With a sudden violent jerk, Barry shoves the coffee table out of the way. Cisco warns, "Don't hurt yourself," but steps back as Barry rearranges his apartment, shoving everything out of his way, everything, until there's a massive blank floorplan in the center of the formerly populated living room.
He's shaking hard when he slows down again, kneeling in the center of the room and looking around at the – the cell, the tiny little grey-walled cell that was the end and beginning of his days, that was his only home on Earth, that was –
He swallows. "I'm – I'm sorry," he says, the fight sinking out of him all at once, the urge to scream dying with a whimper. "I'm so – I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Cisco assures, stepping towards him slowly. Barry flinches; he doesn't want to be shoved back in The Hole for eight more hours, he needs the 1200 hours meal to keep him sane, he can't –
He can't stop Cisco's advance. Cisco sits next to him. "Do you want something to eat?"
He shakes his head, even though he's hungry, his stomach is growling, he's hungry, he's hungry, and he aches for an orange peel so much a sob breaks past him. "Hey," Cisco says, reaching out, resting a hand on his knee before he draws both up to his chest. "It's okay."
Barry curls into his tight little ball and says nothing. He can still picture Dan who killed a man walking into the cell, and shame courses through him. With a ragged breath, he releases his knees, lining his legs out in front of him rigidly. He clenches his jaw, breath shallowing.
"I'll be right back," Cisco says, but he holds up a hand, wait, and pushes himself laboriously to his feet. He's put the weight back on, he's put the pedestrian clothes back on, but there is still that dark inescapable cloud hanging over him, pushing his shoulders down. He gets on his feet.
Cindy asks, "Need anything, speedster?" She holds up a cookie-battered cover spoon invitingly, but his gaze slides sideways and finds a small bowl full of oranges.
His heart begins to pound. Cisco stands and follows his gaze, walking over, and Barry Flashes without meaning to, Flashes almost without trying to, because he is clutching four oranges to his chest like they are his last breaths, shaking hard. "Okay," Cisco says agreeably, taking a deliberate step back. "Those are yours."
Embarrassment at the outburst burns Barry's face, but he cannot surrender the bounty, the – his hands shake, there's gotta be 250 calories just in oranges, another 25 in peels, and he's crushing them to his chest like he can protect them that way, even if he can feel a searchlight on him, a guard's stern command to open his mouth making the heat drain from his face.
"Take a seat," Cisco suggests. "Go ahead. You can have them, we can get more."
He shakes in place. He can't explain it, can't articulate the sudden, ferocious need to protect himself and his calories, his precious calories, his favorite calories, because when he's sitting in The Hole screaming silently in fury, all he can think about are the missed oranges.
Cisco says, "Bar, take a seat."
It's close enough to an order that he complies, taking a hard seat on the floor, still clutching his four oranges. Four. Four. A week's worth of oranges, fresh, available – he takes a bite out of one, skin and all, and groans softly in relief.
All four oranges are gone in forty-two seconds.
He feels around the floor, because no, no, there were four, there were four, and feels his breath catch in his chest when he realizes they're all gone.
For a moment he thinks they were stolen, and fury burns white-hot in him, and it is truly in the best interests of the people near him that they do not say a word, do not call attention to themselves. But he can feel – feel the weight of four oranges, even if it barely touches the lightning's needs, the lightning burns logs like matchsticks. His stomach growls, and he flexes his fingers against the floorboard, desperate for a scrap of oranges, but there's none left.
He runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth and finds no peel. A lump forms in his throat. He swallows around it, but he can still taste the citrus left behind, ache for the citrus left behind. Then he blinks and the world returns to its normal speed, and he looks up and sees Cisco and Cindy nearby.
"I'm okay," he tells them flatly, insincerely, rising to his feet. He can't stop the tremble in his limbs. "I'm okay. Let me just—"
Something yellow Flashes into view and Barry doesn't think, doesn't blink, just lunges out of the way so hard he crashes through a wall, scrambling for safety, I'm sorry, I'm sorry bleeding from him because he hates pissing off the big guys, he hates pissing off the big guys, he just wanted to take a fucking shower—
He barricades himself in a closet and listens with trembling trepidation to the three people convening. In some rational corner of his mind he knows it's Wally, but his limbs are locked into place, and he cannot move. He hears furniture shuffle across the floor and grimaces. They're undoing his mess, of course – that's gotta be half a day in The Hole, you stupid fuck – and he doesn't want to hide, I'm innocent, I have nothing to hide, but he can't bring himself to emerge.
They'll find him. They always do.
But the longer he keeps them waiting, the longer they'll put him away. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly. He dares to let his chest expand, drawing in as much air as he can, holding it, crushing it, releasing it slowly. He can almost feel the oranges against him as he does it again, bracing, fortifying, taking a moment for himself, carving out a finite chunk of this hellhole and claiming it for himself.
At last, the pressure in his chest is light enough that he can stand. He pushes back the closet door, walking slowly back into the main area, full of reassembled furniture. Wally is there, standing in the kitchen and gnawing cookie batter off a spoon – he pauses when he sees Barry, and Cindy, back to him, turns around.
Barry straightens his shoulders – plant your feet, no sudden movements – and says slowly, "I'm sorry."
"No harm, no foul," Cisco assures, sitting on top of the counter, a display of such casual, gleeful insolence that it makes Barry anxious for him, don't let the guards see you like that, and the guards see everything. He hops down, and Barry exhales harshly. "You know you're allowed to not be okay, right?"
He shakes his head in denial, despair, some inaudible emotion between crowding out words. "I think I'm just gonna head home," he says, and before any of them can respond he disappears in a Flash of red light.
. o .
It's cold and empty and quiet out here.
He inhales frozen air and exhales blue mist, looking around the fathomless stretches of snow and ice surrounding the warm oasis of the city. It's not warm, not at this time of year, but it's not Antarctic, either.
Out here, with nothing to shield him, it's blistering. It's mind-numbing cold, exactly the kind of cold he needs to reset, to step away from his own life and get back to himself.
But he is himself, he's sane, he's fine, he's fine, and he realizes with a start that in this big, open, awful space there is one thing he never permitted himself before:
A place to scream and not be heard.
He opens his mouth and empties his lungs in a long, unbroken howl.
. o .
"I feel like I'm losing my mind."
Archie tilts his head to one side. "Describe it to me," he requests.
It's only been three days, but it feels like years since he's seen the man. "Everything – triggers me," he says, trying out the words, fumbling with the words. "I can't eat without thinking about it, I can't sleep without thinking about it, I can't fucking shower without thinking about it—" His voice cracks.
"The showers seem to be a particularly memorable point for you," Archie suggests. His voice is light, non-coercive, but Barry can read the question: Care to elaborate?
His skin crawls. He can still feel latex gloves on him, taste the heavy acrid water filling his aching gut. He remembers shaking with frustration and fear after seeing and deliberately ignoring another towel already draped around the stall because he needed this, dammit, and there were four showerheads for a reason, fuck the guys who thought they owned it—
He buries his hands in his hair, staring at the floor directly underneath him. In solidarity, Archie is seated cross-legged across from him, clipboard off to one side. The rug is surprisingly comfortable, but he almost aches for concrete, aches for something hard, in-line, they've gotta be strict. He understands that. He gets it. "I used to be part of the law," he says. "I was a forensic CSI with the CCPD. The arresting officer was my immediate superior."
"I imagine that must have been very difficult for you."
Barry snorts, disbelieving. "Yeah, it was fucking—" He retracts the verbal claws. "It was hard. I – I'm not used to being on this side of the law."
"Many people are surprised at the mismatch between their expectations and reality of being incarcerated," Archie says. "It's a very disruptive experience."
"I'm not – I'm not even a felon, anymore," Barry says with a weak little laugh. "I have nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to—" He shakes his head. Protect, he thinks. Because he's supposed to be safe out here, free out here, but how can he be, when every orange is still a six-calorie peel, and every shower is a sick feeling in his stomach? "I'm not a bad guy," he says softly, "so why do I still feel like one?"
Archie muses, "Barry, you had something bad happen to you. Prison leaves its marks. We can recover from these things, but your feelings are completely understandable." When Barry doesn't respond at all, he continues. "Being a 'bad guy' doesn't mean you stop being human. It means you broke a law. Our society lives on its laws. It's admirable to strive for a better society by enforcing them, but enforcers are human, too. Our flaws accompany us wherever we go."
Barry feels his eyes burn. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. "I helped add so much misery to people's lives," he says, hating how choked up he sounds. "I get – I get the removal of privileges – losing the freedom to go where you please, the freedom to pick your own meal plan – but – it was just, it was excessive," he says fiercely, furious tears in his eyes.
"You feel you were mistreated," Archie supplies helpfully.
He scoffs, nods, but he can't articulate it for a long moment. His breathing turns a little ragged around the edges, but he hauls in a deep breath, daring himself to not panic. "Have you ever been strip-searched?" he asks.
"I confess I have not."
Barry lifts his gaze, looking Archie hard in the eye. "You're standing in a small, featureless room with a guard," he narrates, hating that he can immediately picture it, dread pooling in his stomach because he knew strip searches were a routine part of prison, but he'd already been subjected to one on entry, wasn't that enough?
"He asks you to take off all your clothes." Ostensibly, it was done because they needed to make sure you weren't hiding something, but it had the bonus side effect of highlighting how cold the room was, how hard the concrete was against your bare feet. Staring, cold-eyed with dispassionate resignation, an old orange peel pressed against his teeth, it also revealed a special kind of vulnerability, standing in front of the fully-clothed guard. Without your reused prisoner's uniform, you were just a fragile, naked animal.
"He holds up a flashlight. He gives you a list of verbal commands. Sift your hands through your hair – vigorously. Tilt your head, show him your nostrils. Lift your upper and lower lips. Open your mouth, lift up your tongue. Fold your ears forward. Lift up your arms, show him your armpits. Show him your hands, your fingernails. Lift each foot, show him the soles." All the while trailed by the ever-watchful flashlight, burning against his skin, too cold to feel but irremovably present.
He has to lower his gaze to the floor, knitting his hands behind his neck. "It goes on," he finishes evasively. "He never touches you – you're the one who has to comply. If you refuse, then you're manually searched." Bile rises in his throat. "It's the visual search, but it's his latex-gloved hands folding your ears forward, digging into your armpits, feeling you up. It's invasive as fuck." He digs his nails into his scalp. "You'd be arrested in a fucking heartbeat if you did any of that stuff outside of prison."
"I'm sorry you had to experience that," Archie says. He doesn't reach for the clipboard. Barry might kill him if he did, hating the impulse to lash out, suddenly, to hurt him when he didn't dare touch the guards.
"I'd spend hours in the showers, trying to wash it off," he says. "I'd feel it all night long." He rubs a hand over his mouth, dangerously sick to his stomach. "It was fucking legal. It didn't matter if it was illegal then – they kept Kenneth from using his insulin; they could do anything they wanted, then, and you just had to take it, challenge it later – but to see it written out in the fine print…" He swallows hard. "I'm gonna throw up," he warns thinly, and Archie rises smoothly, retrieving a plastic-lined trash bin.
"It's all right," Archie tells him as he gags, hugging the bin to his chest. "Take your time." He asks, "Would you prefer to be alone?"
Barry's hands are numb, but he still finds the strength to shake his head slowly. With Arch, at least he can pretend that he's not being the bitch Dan always said he wasn't; without Arch, he knows it's just gonna come back to bite him, God, you oversharing fuck—
He throws up. Archie stays with him.
. o .
Mid-afternoon, Iris is still at work – so is Joe – and even Cisco and Caitlin have STAR stuff to preoccupy them. Cindy and Jesse are both off-world, and Harry's never been a touchy-feely guy.
But Barry knows exactly where to go.
He knocks on Joe's door, even though he has a key, could let himself in. Wally opens it, looks at him, and invites him in. While Barry sheds his winter gear, Wally ambles off into the kitchen in real time, returning with a pair of beers. They can't get drunk on them, but it is such a godawful taste it almost makes Barry feel better.
They head upstairs and sit in Wally's room pouring over schematics for Cisco's next round of speedster suits. Wally traces out the edges of things he likes, points out the things he's not sure about, looks at Barry for his opinion. Barry finishes a six-pack with him, nodding and chiming in with increasing zeal, "Oh, fuck no, we're not putting needles in any part of the suit."
He doesn't know how long they spend working with the blueprints, sharing a pen and jotting down notes for Cisco until the original schematic is almost completely covered. "He'll be able to read it," Wally assures, writing in big letters "COOL IDEAS" at the top. "It's good to start on a positive note," he explains, and Barry finds a small smile.
. o .
"How are you today, Barry?"
Barry shrugs, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Archie, again. He likes sitting on the floor. It's safer down here; no one can sneak up on him with his back to the wall. "I've been better," he admits gruffly, and knows he sounds three days deep into a cold. "I promise I'm not sick," he adds.
"I trust your judgment," Archie assures. He smiles. "You've already come so far."
Barry huffs, hugging himself a little. "When I was a kid, I was sent to a counselor," he murmurs. "I only went to one session. I didn't like it."
"What for, may I ask?"
Barry keeps quiet for a long time. "My mom's murder."
"I'm truly sorry."
Barry nods, scratching his forearm a little, anxious and restless. "They put my dad away for fifteen years for her murder. He didn't do it," he rasps, "but his fingerprints were all over the knife."
"Circumstances eerily similar to your own," Archie chimes in delicately.
"Fifteen years," he repeats, looking at Archie in disbelief, despair. "How can any person stay sane for fifteen years in prison?"
"We adapt," Archie replies simply. "No matter how unkind the circumstances are, we learn to cope with them in whatever way we can. Your father learned to cope with them."
"I didn't – I didn't understand half of it, until I was wearing a uniform with a barcode that said 1-7-4-9-8," he rasps, gaze fixed on his arms.
"That was your prison number." It's not a question.
Barry nods wearily. Maybe he is getting sick – he's certainly felt slow enough, heavy enough, tired enough for it. Iris worried about him even going to the session – you sure? He nodded, assured her he wanted to go, and cleaned up his lunch at exactly 1300 hours.
"I don't even remember my dad's," he admits. "He – he didn't explain it to me for years, and he was always just Dad." He reaches up to rub his eyes. "I felt like 17498," he says. "A number in the system. Three meals a day, a cot in a two-person cell, a few hours in solitary confinement, a strip search, a towel, around and around it went."
"You felt dehumanized," Archie supplies.
Barry's throat tightens. He digs his nails into his arms. "Whenever I wasn't so hungry my teeth hurt, all I could think about was my dad," he says. "How he endured this – for years. I barely made it forty-two days."
"Duration does not gatekeep the intensity or misery of an experience," Archie says. "The worst experience of your life may be a single moment, or it may last years." He holds Barry's gaze for a moment longer before pulling out his phone and pulling up a calculator. Barry watches him punch in two numbers: 42 x 24.
1,008.
"There are more than 1,000 hours in forty-two days," Archie reads aloud, looking up at Barry. Barry keeps his gaze on the phone, processing. "Counting to a thousand is a time-consuming task. Living it is another difficulty altogether. The length of your father's sentence does not mean yours carried no weight. You endured, Barry, an intense, unrelenting experience, for more than one thousand hours. The amount of strength that took is literally incalculable." He pockets his phone.
Barry swallows. "I don't feel strong," he admits lowly.
"You're likely measuring the quality of your present life against your pre-incarceration life," Archie submits. "But I don't want you to hold yourself up to that standard. That Barry didn't endure what you did. You survived. To feel disarmed by the experience is normal, but the feeling does not mean you are inherently weaker than who you were, or incapable of obtaining a functional, healthy life." Softly, he assures, "You don't have to purge this experience in its entirety from you to feel well again. The memories won't have the same effect that they do today. Every day that you are free, you overlay those schemas in your mind with new material. You choose your new life, consciously and unconsciously, every day. You become more like the person you want to be."
Barry lifts his gaze. "I don't want to flinch from towels," he admits. "I don't want to panic if someone puts a hand on me when I don't see it. I don't want to be afraid of half the things I'm afraid of, like clocks and flashlights and chalk."
"Dehumanization is an uncontestable evil," Archie says, "but desensitization is more complex. You want to desensitize yourself to stimuli that trigger painful reactions." Barry nods once – the scientist in him appreciates the clean-cut nature of it, stimuli and reactions, that's fine, he can do that. "I mentioned schemas. We want to overlay your negative ones with positive ones, reinforcing the duality of the things you struggle to dissociate with discomfort, pain, or fear. In some contexts, yes, they can be frightening – certainly, you were justified in your fear while you were in prison – but outside of prison, the things you fear can also be harmless objects."
Barry nods slowly. "Face your fears," he muses.
Archie bobs his head in a side-to-side nod. "Yes and no. We want to experience these things in a way that does not induce the justifiable negative reaction – to do so in a context that is completely safe. It is okay to have sensitivities – you may always request that people only touch you if you can see them first – but when our sensitivities debilitate us, prevent us from living a functional life, then we confront them, reassure ourselves that they are not what we imagined, and learn to live with them. That reassurance is part of the desensitization – you will not be harmed by the thing you fear, even if it was once used to harm you."
Barry pictures it, picking up a towel and realizing, not just after a mini panic attack but immediately, that it doesn't mean pain is imminent. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Okay," he says simply. "Where do we begin?"
"We want to approach this systematically," Archie explains. "Start with one item. What's one thing that bothers you?"
Barry doesn't have to think long. "Clocks."
Archie nods. "Okay." He pulls over his clipboard for the first time. "We'll start there."
. o .
Think about a clock.
Sitting in a chair in Harry's lab at STAR, Barry tenses involuntarily. He forces himself to inhale slowly, hold it for a moment, and exhale just as slowly, refusing to let the idea of the thing rattle him. There is absolutely no way for an imaginary clock to harm him. It doesn't even tell real time. (He doesn't need it to, he knows the numbers by heart: 0600, 1200, 1800.)
Antsy, he looks over at Harry, cradling a plasma gun, tinkering with it. He's completely oblivious to Barry. That's the wonderful thing about Harry – he's utterly undemanding company. You could construct an entire city around him and he might not look up from his original work. It annoys Cisco to no end – he does the whole fake megaphone routine fairly often to get Harry's attention, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting from the doorway – but Barry kind of likes it.
Harry picks up a screwdriver and begins methodically unraveling his gun. Barry returns his attention to his own task, taking in another deep breath, forcing his jittery, over-hyped Speed body to slow down, quiet down, and let the numbers shuffle back into view.
0600 hours. Breakfast.
They've been up since 0500 hours.
They don't need that much time to get ready, but they have to submit to the usual line up. You get to keep your uniform for the lineup: it's just a cursory check for any hitherto undiscovered means of turning their cells or themselves into weapons.
They're brought to the dining hall, permitted to roam wherever they please, as long as it's within these grey walls. They get in line, get their trays, get their prison rations from fellow inmates. It's pretty amicable, as far as prison is concerned: conversations are freely exchanged and the guards rarely interfere, so it's yard time, with food.
The cooks are friendly enough. Cook is one of the many prison jobs that inmates are employed to work: mopping floors, doing laundry, and janitorial duties are other, less coveted, assignments. They're assignments – you either accept or you spend half a day in The Hole to soften you up, and then you accept through gritted teeth – and they don't pay cash, but they do add credits to your account. It's not much, but credits can be turned into "privileges," ranging from bags of chips to music.
Sardonically, he remembers a conversation between officers about how soft prisons were, how they needed to toughen up. Prison was becoming adult daycare, prison didn't have enough chains and whips for their tastes, we're being too nice to prisoners. They had televisions now, God, televisions!
There was indeed television in the main hall, but it was far from glamorous, and coordinating the requests of nearly a hundred convicts at a time was an easier-said-than-done task. Even among friends and family Barry had had spirited discussions about what movie to watch, what channel to play. With the rest of the prisoners, he's quiet while a handful decide for the masses, working quickly, fiercely, because if they're too slow the guards either shut it off or put on Sesame Street, and absolutely nobody wants to watch Sesame Street during their precious television time.
Sports are a common fallback, even if nothing's recent. It's familial, and it invokes conversations that, if he closes his eyes, can be mistaken for any-place, that bar down the street, his family living room, his coworkers roaring joyfully at a screen, ordinary people talking about ordinary things. It's easy to forget that they're all convicts – innocent or not, they all have deep shadows – when it's family TV time.
Family TV time ends at 0900 hours, sharp. About a third of the inmates are occupied with various assignments, cleaning, preparing for the next meal, collecting garbage. Everything is done under the watchful eyes of a handful of guards. They're permitted to use the library or attend clerical services, go to the gym, twiddle their thumbs. At 1030 hours, they're brought to The Yard for the first shift.
Even if it's pouring rain, they'll request yard time, and the guards will oblige, even if it's pouring rain, because prison air and fresh air are from two different planets, and the opportunity to walk around outside is precious. Yard time is when most conflicts break out – the taste of freedom overcomes the cordial illusion of family TV time – but the guards are vigilant, and instigators are swiftly punished. It's frustrating for non-violent parties, because they're all sent in after an altercation, no matter how peripheral their involvement, but it's the way of the world, the order that the system needs to work.
Then it's 1200 hours. Lunch.
Lunch is inoffensive – his hunger, almost sated by breakfast, has come back full force. He's eager to sink his teeth into recycled bread, soggy salads, meat that expired three days ago. It's the one myth that is absolutely true: prison food is godawful, and only getting worse, according to conversations he overhears among long-term inmates. They're not friendly – Dan who killed a man is one of the nicest people he meets, and Dan thinks his first and last name is simply "Bitch" – but they're also not particularly cruel. They know how the whole routine works, and they've learned to live with it. Barry almost envies them and their easy confidence.
After, there's more gym time, more yard time, more sitting around doing nothing time, and finally it's his least favorite time of day:
1800 hours. Dinner.
The last meal of the day, the final opportunity to eat as much as he can before he is shut away in a box and left to scream silently over how hungry he is. His darker impulses arise during dinner – steal, take, do whatever you have to to get what you need – but he suppresses them, like he struggles to at breakfast-without-oranges, because at least he has survived the day, he can survive the angst of dinner as well. Dinner is usually the hardest meal to swallow – the fish and chicken are absolutely identical in taste, complexion, and texture – but he forces down every bite, every crumb, until it's 1900 hours.
And then, as far as the guards are concerned, it's party-time-over. They're either back in their cells or The Hole, sweeping floors or scraping obscenities off the walls, keeping their hellhole alive until it's lights-out, shut-up time at 2200 hours sharp, and then it's dark until 0500 hours.
And around and around the cycle goes.
"Allen."
He blinks, and feels tension like pain in his back and shoulders, releasing his breath with a sharp exhale. "Sorry, I – I didn't mean to interrupt you," he says.
Harry frowns. It's his resting face. "You didn't," he replies, still holding his gun in nearly the exact same position as before. Barry feels cold sweep over him – he Flashed, he must have, because nothing on the gun has changed. God. How long was he gone? Harry sets the gun on the table. He swivels his chair to face Barry. He stays silent for a disconcertingly long moment. "I wasn't enlisted in the War of the Americas," he says at last. "I volunteered."
Horror lances down Barry's back. "You don't talk about it," he says slowly, voice even more guttural than before.
"I don't like to talk about it," Harry rasps. "War changes you. It makes you look at the world differently. It removes your peace with the ordinary." He fishes in his pocket, retrieving a purple yo-yo and rolling it across the table. "Jesse was six years old when it started. I lost contact with her until she was twelve." He clasps the yo-yo in his hand tightly, knuckles white. "We found – children – among the casualties."
Barry can't speak. It's too vivid in his mind.
"I thought I could come back to the same world," he says, rolling the yo-yo again, this time properly, letting it rise and fall in his hand. "My wife, my child, my world – it wasn't the same." He throws the yo-yo down with force. "My wife was dead. My child was grown and living with my brother's family."
Barry doesn't ask you have a brother? He's eerily sure that his brother is no longer in the picture.
"I took her back, of course I did," he says, fiercely, like he's trying to convince Barry he deserves her back, she's his daughter, "and I lost touch with most of my family. I didn't know how to talk to them. They rejected the war, refused to touch the war, thought the war was above them." He lets the yo-yo slap into his palm, holding onto it. Barry sees his chest rise deeply, fall slowly, and feels a strange sense of relief that it's not just – for people like him, for people who are weak. "No one was above the war," he rasps. "Some people were just too afraid of it to confront it. I wasn't. I refused to let people die if I could help them. People still died."
He releases the yo-yo, letting it bob up and down again. "I hate war," he says at last. "I hate the stench, I hate the way your shoes are never dry, I hate the constant fear and constant influx of memos to say your friends were dead, I hate that people died," he squeezes the yo-yo almost hard enough to break it, "and I could do nothing but watch."
Barry holds his silence. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't think anything can be said. "Jesse was ten years old when the war ended," Harry continues softly, letting the yo-yo fall down again. "She'll be twenty this year. Ten years since the war ended." He clasps the yo-yo one last time, holding onto it. "I'm still – coping."
At last, Barry finds his voice. "I'm sorry, Harry."
Harry looks him dead in the eye, does not blink, and says sternly, "I refused help for years. I wouldn't talk about it. I became bitter, estranged from my own daughter. I lost part of myself for a time. I've never gotten it back – I'm never going to get it back, that pre-war innocence. But I'm still here. You're still here. You're getting help." He tosses the yo-yo. Barry catches it effortlessly. "I'm proud of you, Allen."
Emotion shoulders aside any verbal response. He nods once, holding onto the yo-yo, a shiny purple yo-yo, a memento from another life, another time. It's not a gift – it's a promise.
Stay the course.
Heal.
. o .
"I'm afraid of missing a meal. I'm afraid of being jumped. I'm afraid of being sent into The Hole. I'm afraid of being searched."
"And you associate each experience with a particular object," Archie says, sitting on the floor with him.
"Clock, towel, chalk, and flashlights," he recites, reading from his phone. He spent all week trying to pin down each trigger, each thing that made his heartrate kick into overdrive, that made him feel sick, that made him physically recoil. "I – I get these – flashbacks? If I think about them too much." He shifts uncomfortably. "I'm having trouble getting past the first step," he admits. "I think about a clock and then I'm sitting in the dining hall listening to the guys complain about Sesame Street." He laughs a little, unable to help it. "Honestly, I don't think I can ever watch Sesame Street again."
"If it does not decrease your functionality, by all means," Archie says agreeably. "We all have our preferences. I do not like bell peppers, even though my wife adores them. We make little compromises in our day-to-day, choosing things we like and skirting those we do not. It is when those things we do not like are forced upon us that we experience discomfort."
"I had a girlfriend who loved spicy food," Barry muses. "Linda." He thumbs his ring unconsciously, warmth blooming in his chest, the simplest gesture bringing peace. "I'm married, now. Iris West-Allen."
"She works for the CCPN, does she not?"
Barry brightens. "Yeah? You read her stuff?"
"It's hard not to," Archie muses. "She writes the best Flash material there is."
Something in Barry's mind shuts off instantaneously. His heartrate does not quicken; it slows down. His breathing shallows. He's terrified for a second he's going to pass out.
"Are you a fan of The Flash?" Archie asks him lightly, conversationally.
"I'd – I'd rather not talk about him," Barry manages, and his voice sounds far away to him.
Archie nods. "No trouble at all." When Barry does not recover, he asks with a frown, "Are you all right?"
Barry swallows. He feels suddenly cornered, like his mask is on, and Archie can see right through it. He reads her articles, he – he'll know, he'll figure it out, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
"I'm not feeling well," he says, which is not a lie.
Archie nods, closing his eyes and offering. "I find that no matter how physically unwell I am feeling, a few deep breaths can help. I leave it entirely to your discretion," he adds, letting his own breathing deepen, inhaling, holding, exhaling. It's just loud enough that he could not tell if Barry mimics him, and relief sinks into his skin as he mirrors Archie, quiet but equally deliberate. "Why don't we back off the thought experiments for this week," Archie suggests, "and simply find a moment to breathe? Three minutes a day would be spectacular, but one minute would be enough. Even a single deep breath is better than nothing at all. Do you think you could manage that?" He opens his eyes.
Barry swallows. He still feels sick, but there's no judgment in Archie's eyes, no curiosity breaking through, no journalistic probing: why is The Flash a problem for you?
"I think so," he allows.
Archie nods and closes his eyes again, letting a smile cross his face. "You may not feel it, Barry, but you are progressing wonderfully. It just takes time."
. o .
"I've been touted as The Flash for a long time," Jay says, sliding a cup of coffee into his waiting hands. "But I am childless, my friends are all even stronger than I am, and all of them are just as protective of Joan. Little trouble has ever arisen."
Sitting in the tiny coffeeshop with The Flash of another world, Barry cradles the steaming cup of coffee between his fingertips. He can't quite look at Jay, even though he came here specifically to see him. It's too raw – too real – to see his father's face. His cadence is different, almost an accent – it helps, a little.
"We hold these secrets tight to our chests to protect the people around us," Jay goes on, tearing open a packet of sugar for his own coffee. Barry leaves his cup alone, letting the warmth sink into his fingers. "Our own safety is on the line every time we're out in the field, and that's a lot but we can protect ourselves, but we fear what will happen to our family when we leave them. It's understandable. It took me years to adjust." He stirs his coffee. "I wouldn't recommend outing yourself, but it's up to your discretion who you tell."
Barry fiddles with his cup a little. "I feel like I've told too many people already," he admits. "I made a list. I stopped after fifty."
Jay's laughter is warm. "I'm not laughing at you," he promises. "It's just fun to revisit my own youth. I think I'd told a hundred people by the time I was your age."
A little of the tension eases out of Barry's shoulders. "You seem so … reserved."
Jay huffs another laugh. "I stole my father's motorcycle so I could ride it outside city limits until it threatened to give out on me – reserved is not how I would describe my youth." He takes a sip of his coffee, humming thoughtfully. "It's a matter of trust," he says at last. "You tell people you trust. We have to have trust in people, Barry, or we're never going to make it in this cold, lonely world."
It's startling to hear Jay, beacon of the Golden Age, speak of a dark world. "And if we're wrong?" he hedges. "If we trust the wrong people?"
Jay shrugs. "Then we deal with the fallout and keep moving forward. Setbacks are inevitable." He slides a sugar packet across the table. Barry takes it, opens it, shakes it into his coffee. "Surviving the setbacks is what makes us human. We keep going, Barry. No matter what." Barry takes a slow sip of his coffee, closing his eyes. "I don't have all the answers," Jay admits, "but you're a smart kid. You don't need my stamp of approval. You can do this."
Barry opens his eyes and meets Jay's gaze for the first time. There's a fire in them, a play of light that could almost be mistaken as a simple reflection, that makes him smile a little. Speedster. "Thanks, Jay," he rasps, and Jay reaches across the table to squeeze his wrist firmly, his lightning present.
"And if things ever go south, you call me, I will be there in a heartbeat," he says, and Barry can only nod, grateful and overwhelmed at once.
. o .
He doesn't tell Archie that he's The Flash. Not the next session.
"I had a good night," Barry says, taking a seat on the black leather couch. Archie settles into the chair across from him, smiling.
"That's wonderful, Barry."
"I just – I felt good, you know? Strong." He clenches his fists demonstratively. "Like you've been saying. No flashbacks or anything."
Archie keeps smiling. "I'm happy for you."
"I finally feel free of it, you know?"
Archie hums. "Your enthusiasm is wonderful, Barry, but I caution pushing yourself too hard."
"No, I'm okay," he insists, shuffling on the couch, eager to show Archie that, hey, it's working, he's good, he's good, "I didn't do anything. I just was, and I was okay."
And it was – it was just an utterly ordinary night, no nightmares, no meal anxiety, nothing to quip about. He'd loved it.
"A moment of peace is a huge relief," Archie says.
Barry frowns. "But you don't think it'll last?" he asks.
"I think that it's a process," Archie corrects, "and you are doing well, but if you assume it's entirely over, you may be unpleasantly surprised if a negative moment returns."
"It won't," Barry says, suddenly, sternly committed to it. He survived fifteen years without talking about his mother's death to anyone other than, occasionally, Joe or Iris or his dad. He can handle repressing prison forever, cutting off all those loose strings and moving on. "I'm not gonna let it."
. o .
It happens on duty.
One moment he's fine, he's fine, and then he's standing in an alley and there's movement out of the corner of his eye and he turns but nothing's there. "Cisco?" he asks. "You catch that?"
"Negative. What am I catching?"
Barry tenses. "Check for heat signatures," he suggests, circling. "They might be invisible."
"You saw something?"
"Check," he grits out.
"On it." There's silence, painful, ear-splitting silence, and then a voice in the dark that makes him jump: "Ran thermal. Negative."
Barry's heartbeat is loud in his ears. "There's somebody here," he says, and he should run, he can Flash through it in an instant, but suddenly the dark alley walls are a little too close, his legs a little too leaden.
"I can Vibe over, but then we're flying blind," Cisco says. They weren't even going to be on duty tonight, but the police chatter was irresistible – something that sounded suspiciously like metahuman activity was going down on the waterfront. Alleyways are the city's arteries: they lead to all the major sections. Cutting through them is routine, ordinary. Until something blurry emerges from the shadows and disappears when he fixes his attention on it. "Want me to call Iris? She can sit in, we'll check it out."
"There's no time!" Barry barks, urgency making him sharp-edged. His back is against a wall. He's shaking hard, suddenly.
"I'm not picking up anything on the satellites, Bar," Cisco says. "If it's a metahuman, then they're either completely diffuse or made of dark matter. All my scans are turning up blanks."
He can't breathe, realizing with mounting horror that there is no one in the alley – nobody on the roof, nobody ducking around a corner, nobody disappearing into a building.
"Barry? Do you copy?"
But there's gonna be somebody there, there's gonna, and he needs to get out, get out now, this is not where he belongs, this was never where he belonged, but his legs won't move.
"Bingo! New heat signature—"
There's a flashlight on him and he can't breathe. "Flash?" the officer says, sounding surprised, and Barry would be surprised, too, if his heart wasn't ready to beat out of his chest. "What're you doing here?"
"You're gonna have to narrate, the signatures look pretty normal – what're we dealing with?"
The officer reaches for his belt. "Gonna have to start talking, buddy, or we might have a problem," he warns.
"Barry?"
He stares at the headlight, at the shadow of the officer visible behind it.
A breach opens beside him and the officer's light goes wild in surprise. Instinct alone causes Barry to Flash. He tackles Cisco around the midriff, throwing them back through the breach before it can close, and has the single most vertiginous experience of his life as he travels in reverse through a breach for one agonizingly long Speed second before they tumble hard on the floor of the engineering room.
Cisco grunts hard in pain, and Barry scrambles aside, away from him, vibrating with pent-up anxiety, fear, some unnamable fury that bursts out of him in a sudden scream. "Fuck!"
Cisco must hit his panic button because he hears no words exchanged, but suddenly Wally is there, skidding to a halt and looking between them. "The hell happened?" he asks, a little out of breath – Barry doesn't know how far he was, but it sounds like he was outside the city when the call came in – and visibly flustered by the energy in the air. Barry knows he's projecting his anxiety, his anger, and he can't bring himself to put a lid on it.
"We didn't get our guy," Cisco supplies, and Wally frowns, looking between them. "Barry?" he asks, pushing himself to his feet. "You okay?"
Barry places both hands on the nearest table and growls, a deep, furious sound that keeps even Wally back. "I am so fucking tired of being broken," he says.
"You're not broken," Cisco says, and Barry Flashes to the opposite side of the room, putting distance between himself and Wally and Cisco. "I heard a gunshot – are you okay?"
Barry shakes his head, reaching up to clutch his hair. "I was innocent," he shouts. "I didn't kill anybody."
Wally and Cisco exchange a look. For a moment he wants to kill them – stop it, stop it, I'm not crazy, I'm innocent, I'm innocent— but then he looks at them, really looks at them, and realizes just how startled, how worried they look.
"We know," Cisco says at last, slow, careful. "You were innocent. You are innocent. The judge agreed. He let you go."
Barry shakes his head, disagreeing on principle, no, no, the judge locked him up, he said I sentence you to life with a chance of a parole.
Wally says, "Barry, slow down."
He doesn't even realize he's hyperventilating until he takes a single step forward and the world promptly capsizes. He holds onto consciousness, barely, and sinks to the floor to regain his balance. "I'm okay," he tells them blankly, shaking hard, as Cisco steps forward, crouching in front of him.
"It's okay if you're not," Cisco assures. "Really."
Barry shakes his head. "I'm – I'm okay," he promises thinly, but he doesn't sound okay, even to his own ears.
. o .
"I had a bad night," Barry says softly.
Seated across from him on the floor, Archie frowns sympathetically. "I'm sorry."
"I – I wasn't – I panicked." He won't look up from the rug. "I was stupid, and overeager, and I got caught in the lie." He presses a fist to his mouth. "I thought I was getting better. I just feel worse."
"You had a setback," Archie says gently. "A human response to a traumatic experience. It's okay, Barry. It will get easier."
Barry shakes his head, hating that he came because it's not fixing him, it's just showing him that he's unfixable, and still he almost finds comfort in the simple solidarity of sitting on a rug across from a man who doesn't look at him like he's crazy. "I was only in prison for forty-two days," he says, ashamed. "I wasn't abused, or – or mistreated, or anything." The lies taste bitter on his tongue. He can tell Archie sees right through them. "I should be okay."
Archie is quiet for a moment. "I want you to think about your best friend," he says at last. "And imagine that they endured what you did for forty-two days." Waiting, he adds finally, "I want you to think about what you would say to them, if they had been through this experience, and had a setback."
Barry thinks about it and it makes him want to throw up. Iris.
"Would you berate them for not being fine with every traumatic thing that happened to them?" Archie asks. "Would you tear them down for failing to leap to the moon in one bound? Barry, would you blame them for struggling with the aftermath of this experience?"
Barry looks up, finally. "Of course not," he says, and the intended anger only comes out as resignation, a dull, chest-thumping sensation that hits him hard. "I would – I would never blame her."
"We're harder on ourselves than we are on our loved ones," Archie explains. "Yet we pile abuse on ourselves for the same circumstances. But self-compassion is a valuable practice, Barry. Sometimes we have to accept that we have not met our goals, and we are still human, and worth protecting and loving and caring for."
He feels tears prickle his eyes. "I just – I want to be okay."
"I know you do, Barry. And you will be. A setback doesn't mean you are a failure. It means you are still human. And you are resilient, and strong, and capable. You can do this. And I will help you in whatever way I can."
Barry nods, knitting his hands behind the back of his neck and looking at the rug. "It's been a heavy week," he admits in a low voice. "Could you – can I see Duke?"
Archie smiles and pulls out his phone. "Sure." He pulls up a picture, sliding the phone so Barry can see it. "My son bought him one of those Star Wars collars," he adds, and it brings a smile to Barry's face for the first time in – days, it feels like.
. o .
"How do you feel about a dog?"
Iris turns onto her side to look at him. He has his arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling of Iris' childhood bedroom. "A dog?" she repeats, a hand on his chest.
Blushing, he admits, "An emotional support animal. They can be any animal, technically, but –" He shrugs a little, self-conscious. "I know that we've both enjoyed McSnurtle, but it can be – nice. To have something to, you know. Cuddle." He squeezes her shoulders gently. "But we're both like, super busy, so—"
"What kind of dog?"
Barry blinks. "Oh. I don't know." He scratches his head with one hand, anxious. "Um. You'd be interested?"
She brushes her thumb over his heart. "We're responsible adults."
"But do you – want a dog?" he presses, because he doesn't want her to agree simply out of – pity, and it makes his chest tighten to think that she would ever do something she doesn't want simply because she feels bad for him—
She sits up, looking down at him, hands on either side of his chest, and when she boxes him in, he doesn't feel scared – he just feels protected. "Yes," she says firmly. "I want to get a dog." She kisses him; he reaches up, slides a hand over her shoulders, gratitude and the beginnings of excitement buzzing in his veins because – they're getting a dog.
. o .
Luke is eight pounds, five ounces, and has the biggest ear-to-dog ratio that Barry has ever seen.
He also chews through all of Barry's shoes in one night.
Barry adores him.
. o .
The first thing he does when he sees Archie is pull out his phone and show him a pic of Luke gnawing on his favorite pair of shoes. "Oh, my," Archie says with real mirth, smiling big. "I do love corgis. What's the name?"
"Luke," Barry explains, his hands craving the puppy warmth, suddenly – it was hard, leaving Luke at STAR, even if Cisco couldn't be happier and Harry couldn't be more vocally averse to having a corgi puppy trampling around underfoot. "Took your advice."
"It's a big step," Archie says, smile still in place, "but you're a very capable man. I have nothing but faith that it will be an excellent relationship."
Barry's ears flush a little, relieved more than he can say that Archie approves – he half-feared a hint of a disapproving frown, any indication that he had moved too quickly, too dramatically. "I want to keep moving forward," he acknowledges, "but I – I know it's gonna take time."
"That's all you can ask of yourself, Barry. The opportunity to heal, however long it takes, however out of reach it feels at times – it is a thing that will be yours someday. A sense of normalcy. A sense of peace."
Barry closes his eyes for a moment. "I want that," he says.
"I want that for you," Archie adds. "And I believe you are on the right track. One step at a time, Barry. It is all we as human beings can do."
. o .
The door is locked when Joe arrives home after work, but he knows that Barry is home. Sure enough, he steps inside, drops off his coat, and finds his son-in-law sprawled out on the couch, snoring soundly, a snoozing corgi curled up on his chest.
Neither kid stirs as Joe makes himself useful, preparing dinner. He's humming to himself, ensconced in Grandma Esther's famous noodle dish, when he hears a little giggle from the other room. "Luke," Barry grunts, eyes still shut. Joe peers around the corner and sees the puppy chewing on his shirt. "Buddy, not yours."
Luke ignores him cheerfully, carrying on, and Joe huffs his own amusement, returning to the task at hand. He'd let the puppy ruin a thousand of Barry's shirts, if it put that little bit of laughter back into his home.
Barry's always been their light, and knowing that it's still there – however dim, however much it's hurting – warms him immeasurably.
. o .
It takes the better part of two months after imprisonment to regain the dynamic, but Wally likes having his double back in the field.
There's something steadying about having Barry beside him, even if he's letting Wally take the lead, offering only backup. Like a safety net, ready to catch him. He doesn't fall – he's that good, and his grin after he triumphs is proof positive that he knew he wasn't going to fall – but he likes the idea that he could fail and still be okay. Barry's approval is surprisingly heady, too – Cisco jokes that it's like being complimented by Superman.
. o .
Harry is tinkering with his plasma gun, trying to resolve an overheating issue, when the yo-yo rolls across the table and bumps gently into his palm.
He turns slowly in his chair and finds Barry standing there, holding Luke up under one arm. "Thank you," he says.
Harry nods once, unable to voice his relief at having it returned – closing his fingers around it, pocketing it carefully. "You're welcome."
. o .
Iris says, "Are you sure?"
Barry looks up at the CCPD, swallowing. "No," he admits, holding Luke under an arm, his ESA jacket in place. "But I want to try."
Iris nods. "You can do this," she tells him.
He smiles a little. "I really hope so."
Alone, he walks back into the police station for the first time in months.
. o .
People stare. Inevitably, they stare. Several frown. A few tense. One unconsciously flexes for his belt before steadying.
But there are also non-reactions and even a few smiles. Officer Denmark greets, "Hey, Allen."
"Good to see you back, Allen," Officer Samson adds.
He keeps a hold on Luke and chances a small smile. "Hey," he replies.
"Barry." It's Singh, sounding half-astounded, half-relieved. "Who's this?" he adds, and Barry's surprised at how bright his eyes are when he looks at Luke. "Here, let's talk in my office," he interrupts himself. "Unless you'd prefer the lab?"
"Office is fine," Barry assures.
Singh shuts the door for them, and promptly repeats, "Okay, who is this?" He actually holds out his hands. Barry passes Luke over without thinking.
"Emotional Support Animal. His name is Luke," Barry adds.
Singh holds Luke up high. Luke's tongue lolls a little, tail wagging. "A fine addition," he says, handing him back to Barry. "It's good to see you looking well, Barry."
"It's good to be feeling well, Captain," Barry admits. He's antsy, but he's not panicking. You're okay. You're okay.
"David's fine, Barry," Singh dismisses, waving a hand. "Seriously. How are you?"
Barry tucks a hand in Luke's fur. "I'm, uh. Adjusting."
Singh nods. "I'm truly sorry for everything you went through," he says. "It's difficult for everyone, but – with your history, and – needs." He draws a lightning bolt on the desk. Barry's eyebrows arch.
"You knew?" Luke gnaws on his shirt; he gently pries it out of the puppy's mouth.
Singh nods. "I've known for the better part of three years, Barry," he says. "I am the Captain," he adds dryly.
"Never doubted your investigative skills," Barry assures. "I just – wow." He smiles sheepishly. "I feel like I should apologize."
Singh holds up a hand. "No need. I get it." He sets his hand down, asking seriously, "Where do you want to go from here, Barry?"
Barry lets Luke gnaw on his hand. "Honestly? I don't know." He clears his throat quietly, admitting, "I love what I can do as … the other guy. But, I still want to help people, here. Even if – it's hard. Who knows, maybe by helping here, I can make it better for people there."
"It won't change in a day," Singh warns.
Barry nods. "No, I know," he says. "Everything takes time." He smiles a little. "But – I have to try. I have to try."
Singh sits back in his seat, regarding him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Let's try a case-by-case basis," he suggests. "I'm sure you can handle more, but I want your transition back to be as smooth as possible. Plus, it'll give you a chance to work with the new guy without taking all his toys."
There's a knock on the door. Singh sighs. "Speaking of—" He waves a hand.
Winn Schott Jr. pops his head in the door. "Evening, sirs. Heard there was a puppy on the grounds. Morally obligated to investigate."
"Schott," Singh warns.
Barry lifts both eyebrows. "You're the new guy."
"Yessir," Winn says, scooting into the room and thrusting out a hand. "Winn Schott Jr., at your service." Barry shakes his hand carefully. "You're bringing the puppy to work every day, right?"
"Winn," Singh says sternly. "It's an emotional support animal, it is not—"
Barry says reassuringly, "If I'm here, there's a better than likely chance Luke will be here, too."
Winn actually coos. "That's the little guy's name? Love him already."
"You're free to go now, Mr. Schott," Singh says, last warning tone.
Winn sighs and salutes. "Good to meet ya," he adds to Barry, clipping the door shut.
"He's from Keystone," Singh explains. "Their dynamic is – different. But he's a good CSI."
"No doubt." Barry smiles at the thought of explaining it to the Earth-38 doppelganger he already knows. His hands are shaking a little, though, and he knows he can push it and regret it or leave while he's ahead. He stands, Luke in hand. "It's a lot to take in," he admits apologetically.
Singh says, "I understand. We can talk more later. Schott can hold down the fort for quite a while; he's almost as fast as The Flash."
Barry smirks. "Yeah? We'll see." Holding out a hand, he shakes Singh's. "Thank you for the opportunity," he says seriously. "I'll be in touch."
Singh shakes his hand once, firmly. "Let me walk you down," he suggests, and Barry nods his agreement.
It's nice, having a buffer, and everybody – even the neutral-leaning negative among them – takes their cues from the captain.
. o .
"How's Duke?"
Archie smiles. "Magnificent," he says, pulling up a new photo on his phone. "Here he is contemplating the meaning of life." It's the German Shepherd curled up in front of an empty fireplace, deeply asleep. Barry smiles. "I see Luke's growing well," he adds, nodding at the corgi sitting on his lap. They're all on the floor today. It's a good day, but it lets him give Luke some freedom, leash nearby. "How are you, Barry?"
"Honestly?" Archie nods. "I'm still a little shaky. I went to see the police captain yesterday. It went well, I'm just – it's a lot of change."
"Did your conversation go well?" Archie prompts.
"It did. He's a good guy. Decent. Understands people." Doesn't call me a bitch, he muses, even if the short bark of Allen! for years might as well have been on his nametag. "He's willing to work with me."
"That's wonderful."
Barry nods, letting Luke bite his fist. "I'm not ready to jump right back in, but – I'm working on it."
"And I am here to support you throughout the transition," Archie assures. Some of the tension in Barry's shoulders eases. "Job placement after incarceration is one of my specialties. I deal with people in varying starts of incarceration, before and after. It really doesn't end the minute the cuffs come off."
"It really doesn't," Barry agrees, gently freeing his fist from Luke's jaw. "But, thank you. For everything. I – honestly don't know where I'd be right now, if it wasn't for your help. Not getting better," he says.
"You would still be alive and as well as you could be," Archie says. "This has all been your work, Barry. Your strength, your conviction, your determination. I have offered suggestions; you have taken them up."
"I needed the suggestions," Barry admits, letting Luke off his lap. "You don't mind if he—?"
Archie holds out his hands. Luke tramples over happily, face-planting once before letting himself be picked up. "He is wonderful," Archie says, holding him up for a moment before setting him back down. "You chose well."
Luke tries to gnaw on his shoe but Barry warns, "Luke" and he comes trotting back over, tumbling into his knee. "I'd like to keep seeing you," he says, stroking Luke's back as the puppy begins mauling his newest pair of shoes. "If that's okay?"
"Barry, I am here for you until you no longer need me. I like to see people do well and you, Barry, you are doing well."
Barry picks up Luke, hugging him to his chest for a moment. "Yeah?"
Archie nods. "It is a genuine honor to see you come this far."
Moved, Barry yelps when Luke sinks needle-sharp puppy teeth into his chin.
"The joys of parenthood," Archie muses, as Barry lowers Luke, tail wagging, and rubs his chin. "You'll get the hang of it. You already have an excellent start."
. o .
It takes another month before he can look at a clock without feeling anxious, before he can eat a meal outside of those three times, before he can take a shower on his own without having a panic attack.
But sometimes he looks at the clock just to remember, just to remind himself, and finds it firms his resolve to help more, to look at what he can do outside of catch-and-cage. He eats well and still sucks on orange peels when he wants comfort. He showers alone, and he showers with Iris, because sometimes it's nice to not be alone.
And he tells Archie, three months after their first session, that he's The Flash.
. o .
"Prison was hard for all of the reasons I've mentioned," Barry begins, holding onto Luke, "but it was especially – challenging, with my needs. I could never get enough to eat. I was restless, sore. I had headaches all the time, from hunger, from stress, from – I call it 'Speed Force.' It was … one of the worst experiences of my life."
Archie is quiet for a moment, sitting in the chair across from him. "You have only proven what I have already known," he says at last, "you are stronger than you think you are." Then, smiling, he adds, "You might also find a particular irony in Duke's newest fashion choice."
He pulls out his phone, turns it to Barry.
A slow smile melts across Barry's face.
It's Duke, beaming up at the camera, wearing a red collar with little yellow lightning bolts on it.
"We're Team Flash," Archie says, a twinkle in his eye.
. o .
"I love you," Barry tells Iris, holding onto her and swaying in their new apartment. "I love you."
She leans her head on his chest, humming. "I love you, too," she says.
And he tries to convey with wordless adoration just how much he loves her, appreciates her, for staying with him, even when he was not the man he was when he agreed to marry her.
I'm different now, he thinks, reinforced when Luke starts gnawing at his ankle, drawing a small smile from him. But I like who I am.
I like who I am.
And it finally feels like a moment of peace that will last.