Oranges are Barry's favorite prison food.
They're hard to screw up. You keep 'em out on the counter, they'll stay fresh for about a week, which means that they still taste like oranges after being re-shelved seven days in a row. You put 'em in a fridge, they'll last a month. Their tough skins protect them from all manners of abuse, and they even taste clean once you peel 'em. They're full of sugars, vitamins, and fibers. After the rest of the meal surrenders to caloric incompetency, the oranges still have a goddamn peel to toughen your teeth on, something to chew and swallow. You're not supposed to eat the peel, but it's worth maybe six calories – a gift in prison, where 1,800 calories are allotted per day.
He shouldn't complain. Billions of people subsist on fewer than 1,800 calories per day. His land of plenty does not extend to the ends of the Earth, and he should be grateful that he is given any meal plan at all. He's a prisoner, a ward of the state – he has fewer rights than any person on the streets. He owes any mercy to the criminal justice system he once lauded as a foolproof way to help society. It used to be simple: take bad people off the streets, put them behind bars indefinitely, call it a day.
When he gnaws on an orange peel, he tries to ignore the sore just below his leftmost incisor, stinging with every bite of food, commanding attention even without something to distract it. His stomach growls continuously, but it's a low burning hunger, like holding his hand over hot coals – he knows it hurts, but he also knows that it will neither sharpen nor decrease, as long as the meals keep coming.
His favorite time of day is 0600 hours.
That's when oranges are served.
But it doesn't happen every day, and his mood darkens on the ones where his favorite prison food makes no appearance. He tries not to begrudge the system for the way his stomach aches, for the dark headaches building behind his eyes from too many sleepless nights, for the soreness in his limbs vaguely like punishment for staying so still – but he cannot stop the sharpness behind his teeth whenever he sees that there are no oranges, volcanic, dangerous.
One such morning, a fellow convict – convict, noun, a person who fucked up and got fucked over for it – shoulders him in passing, not even meaning to, and he shoves him the guy back so hard he falls over.
The guards haul him off for eight hours in solitary.
It's amazing what eight hours in a small, semi-lit room with no stimuli can do to the human mind. He tries to look at the experience from a scientist's perspective, detaching himself from the room around him, but he's an animal, too, and the animal side of him remains inescapably present.
Prison is cold – a lot colder than anybody on the outside would have you believe, because heating is expensive, and it's not cruelty if nobody gets frostbite – but solitary is colder. He vibrates his hands at odd intervals to keep them warm, but it drains his strength. He misses the 1200 hours meal, which simultaneously sharpens the edges of his anger and saps it of all strength. By the time they let him go, it's 1400 hours. He's shaking with hunger and cold, but he does not shove either of the guards that escort him back to his cell.
He sits quietly in a room with almost no stimuli – a pair of rigid cots and a few odds-and-ends, everything carefully chosen to deny escape, no matter the means – and feels tears rise in his eyes because solitary doesn't end with The Hole. It's an endless cycle.
Before his roomie – Dan something, Dan who killed a man – returns, he's dry-eyed and complacent. They don't talk, even though Barry aches for anything, anything other than silence. Dan who killed a man is forty-six-years-old. He has little in common with baby-faced Barry Allen, who was convicted of killing a man Dan's age. He knows the assignment was relatively random, matching up felons, but he still thinks there's a taste of irony to it, and wonders if Dan who killed a man doesn't think about it, too.
At 1800 hours, he gorges himself on dinner, shoveling bread with a moldy aftertaste down his gullet. He hates dinner because dinner is the last meal of the day, the final opportunity to satiate his ever-growling stomach. It's never enough, and there are dark days when he thinks about how much easier it would be to take, to steal, because he needs more, he needs more, but he's not like that, he's not a bad guy, and he won't let anybody around him suffer for the savage animal living under his skin screaming for more.
He returns to his cell at 1900 hours with Dan who killed a man, and falls asleep for eight hours, waking at 0300 hours. It's a mistake; it's painfully dull this early. The guards are still around, they're always around, but they're not his friends, and it's lights-out, shut-up time. Make a noise, they'll lock you up in The Hole. It's strict because it keeps the peace. He gets it. Everything about the system is meant to keep him and Dan who killed a man in line.
Just like how after breakfast with oranges, (good days begin with oranges), he's pulled from the line for a strip search. He hates strip searches – everybody hates them, but there's something especially loathsome about them when he knows how deeply unnecessary they are; he still wants to shout it from the top of his lungs, I didn't kill anybody – but he also knows he's a target because he smuggled orange peels back to his cell. He succeeded by hiding the peels against the back of his mouth, passing the cursory muster that the guards gave everybody returning to their cells.
The technique doesn't work for a strip search. That's how they finally caught him; he couldn't risk Flashing to swallow it, so the minute the warden asked him to open his mouth, he was done.
There are no words to describe what it is like to stand, fully naked, before a prison guard flashing a light into your mouth, knowing that he's staring at an orange peel probably fourteen days old. It's a humiliation more profound than virtually any other action: the notion that keeping something as worthwhile as a dying orange peel would be worth punishment.
He gets the manual search after that, and tries not to Flash through it, even though his skin crawls everywhere the guard's latex gloves touch him. It doesn't matter that it'll happen again, and again, and again – he isn't sure when desensitization begins, but after four manual strip searches, it's not easier. He tries to tell himself that it's like going to the airport: strangers jabbing fingers into your armpits, folding forward your ears, feeling you up, digging around in every orifice you can think of.
The first time, he manages to keep his cool for eighty percent of it, but then he balks when the guard gets to his hips. The next step is so invasive he can't fathom its legality, he literally cannot comprehend that the justice system he grew up believing in permits this, and then he has to take a deep breath and take it like a goddamned man because he has no choice, here. He can refuse, get violent, add to his sentence, or he can submit. The humiliation of the visual squat-and-cough routine ain't got nothing on the manual cavity inspection.
He spends every second of his shower time scrubbing himself raw and still feeling invasive fingers everywhere.
Shower time is an interesting phenomenon in prison – it's where the most silent communication takes place. It's pretty simple – don't shower if there are already two guys in the communal stalls, or if there's a towel on the communal stalls or the door of the single private shower. Dan who killed a man doesn't care if Barry showers in front of him – Dan who killed a man doesn't seem particularly chuffed by him, unlike some of the addicts who side-eye the buddy-buddy killers – but he's wise enough not to shower with the more territorial prisoners. He's gotten a bruise or two for his troubles, but the marks always fade before the guards can be bothered, and he's learned to just keep it low, don't make a noise, don't make a fuss.
Dan who killed a man likes that about him, that he's not a bitch. Dan who killed a man also sits next to him at meal times. At 0600 hours, he might haul Barry's bowl of oatmeal towards himself and slap his three slices of untoasted white bread on top of Barry's. Barry hates white bread almost as much as visual cavity searches, but he still shoves it down because it's calorie heavy, and it sits a little heavier in his stomach than a bowl of oatmeal.
The oatmeal has about 250 calories. The bread slices are dense, 90 calories a pop. Three bread slices are worth twenty calories more than a bowl of oatmeal. If Dan who killed a man tried to take from his strictly controlled register of calories, then he'd fight it, but he's almost relieved that Dan who killed a man involuntarily offers him just that little bit more. Every calorie counts when you're slowly starving to death.
He knows he's getting desperate when he's just standing under the shower drinking water until he pukes. It's terrible water, not filtered, not designed for human consumption, but he's so hungry, he's so hungry, he has to fill his stomach somehow. He could ask a guard for water, it's his legal right, but guards reserve the power to deny anything. (Like how they denied Kenneth his insulin until Kenneth collapsed, and then it was a big fuss and they got yelled at, and the guards who got yelled at took it out on their prisoners by cutting out yard time.)
Dan who killed a man says, "You're one desperate sonuvabitch."
He's too sick to eat the next day, haggard, barely able to walk by the following morning. With dull-eyed resignation, he lets himself be taken aside for a search, and is too exhausted to care that it's visual, the flashlight is just as invasive, prying into him. He's lying on his side on his cot, too catatonic to want anything other than rest or something deeper, when an orange peel falls onto the space in front of him.
Dan who killed a man doesn't say anything, just returns to his own bunk, drawing on the wall with a piece of chalk because it's the only tool fragile enough it can't be used to kill a guard. Barry lifts the orange peel to his mouth and sucks on it, not caring that Dan who killed a man probably put it in his mouth or behind his ear to smuggle it back here.
He eats it as fast as he can, tears streaming down his eyes because oranges are his favorite prison food, and when there are so few things to love in prison, the things you love become absolutely precious.
It's disarming when after some indefinite time he's permitted to visit Joe.
He doesn't know how many 0600-1200-1800 hour cycles he has survived, but he knows from his reflection how haggard he appears. Joe's deep, furrowed brow is only part of the story; Barry sees his fingers clench hard around the phone. He knows who it is, even remembers vaguely what good etiquette is, but he's tired and sore and would have traded this precious conversation for a single orange peel.
Because the conversation only renews the ache in his gut, reminds him of the shame of his position, shame he thought he'd left behind, but it only returns forcefully with Joe's eyes on him. He wants to tell Joe to look away from him, but his mouth is too dry to speak. Joe tells him reassuring things, hollow things, like "we're here for you" and "we'll get you through this," and Barry knows to read between the lines, we'll get you out, but there's an acid burn in his stomach that resists attempts at cajoling him.
He'll be okay when he's out, he knows, like a war vet coming home and crushing his final cigarette into foreign soil. He'll remember that other foods carry the same luster as oranges and showers can be refreshing and warm. But sitting in the little phone box with Joe, all he can think is I'm trapped and he has to hold a hand to his mouth to keep from shattering to pieces.
Joe says Bar like it's still his name, but it doesn't feel right here, no one calls him Bar here. The nickname doesn't belong in these hollow walls. There's a number on his uniform like a bar code, 17498, and he half-wants Joe to refer to him by it.
That first time, Joe visits alone. He's grateful – because shaking apart on the cot later, sobbing into his sleeve to keep quiet during shut-up time, he knows he wouldn't be able to handle it if Iris or Cisco or Caitlin or Wally had been there.
He braces himself for the next visit, dreading the next visit, not asking how far away it is until a guard is telling him to come along.
He requests a restroom break and the guard complies. He empties his stomach, rinses his mouth, and finally confronts his family, having successfully wasted fully half of their visit in a panic.
When he sees Iris sitting at the desk, alone, he nearly passes out. His numb fingers don't want to grasp the phone; the sick feeling is back in his stomach as he takes a seat clumsily, knowing he's shaking and not being able to help it. "Ir—Iris," he says, astonished, devastated, because he never wanted her to see him like this, what is she doing here, but her eyes read only heartbreak and resolution.
"We submitted the appeal," she tells him.
Shoulders shaking, he has to set the phone down, wasting more precious minutes, because he's falling apart, breathing too fast, get it together Allen, and he manages to deep-breathe for an impossibly long minute before picking up the phone again. He clears his throat, but nothing will come out. He gasps, holding a hand to his mouth to hide it, because he cannot name the simultaneous desperation and devastation that sweeps through him.
He feels so fragile tears feel inevitable when 0600 hours bring no oranges, but there is something like hope daring to build in his chest, and it keeps him dry-eyed and silent throughout the meal.
He aches to put on weight, to freshen up, to stand in his suit and be the man they remembered, and is painfully reminded that he is not that person when he looks down at jutting ribs.
Eventually – eventually – he is lying on top of the cold, perpetually damp cot staring at the ceiling, and it is his last night in prison and he does not realize it.
They take him to a holding cell the next morning, explain the circumstances behind the retrial. He feels like an alien next to the guards, and balks at the notion of meeting with Cecile prior to trial. The whole notion of a retrial makes him feel physically ill. He actually backs away from the door to his cell, straining away from the outside world. The guards' hold on him immediately tightens, painfully tightens, and he knows they won't hesitate to taser him if he fights them, or goes limp.
Insolence and insubordination are synonyms in these grey walls.
Numbly, he lets himself be led to a small chamber adjacent to the courtroom. He feels shame prickle the back of his neck, dressed in prisoner clothes, stomach growling incessantly, a low, desperate hunger forcing its way to the surface, demanding acknowledgment. He has the sudden urge to Flash away, to drink shower water until he's full, to sink his teeth into an orange peel, but he resists it.
Dan who killed a man is waiting for him back in their cell, and he anticipates the 1800 hour meal throughout the entire conversation. The prosecuting attorney is there – and so is Cecile, his defense attorney, and he struggles to keep himself from asking her to leave, please, because he can't bear her to see him like this.
It goes on forever. His stomach wrests his attention away from the moment, and he thinks about the second yard time at 1400 hours and hungers for it. There's something almost soothing about yard time, the mundanity of grass and grey skies and guards. Wire fences and felons of every imaginable cruelty around him. These were the people he used to put away as The Flash, as Barry Allen.
Now he's one of them.
He does not fall apart in front of the stage, the courtroom, this bastion of justice, but he feels every on eye on him for the duration of the retrial. He's still wearing his prisoner's uniform. He's hyper-aware of his own stench, having missed a shower nearly four nights in a row, now, because some of the more territorial prisoners decided to move into his timeslot. He's glancing almost compulsively at the clock on the wall, aware that every meal only lasts sixty minutes. His anxiety picks up the second the minute hand circles the face, and keeps going.
Again.
And again.
Someone offers him a glass of water, and he stares at it, knowing that he's not supposed to drink the shower water, but it's water. He downs it, and nearly gags, because it's not what he expects at all, shaking with it. They take a brief recess, and he aches for a safe space to fall apart, for his cell, he'll take The Hole at this point, but they bring him back to the small room and he has to keep it together for the guards, and Cecile, and Joe.
They're not allowed to hug him, but they talk to him in low, soothing voices, and he knows they're trying to help him, to comfort him, but he wants to scream until he loses his voice and he can't do that here. He can't alarm them, upset them, show them any sign that he is anything but their Barry under the uniform.
They reconvene at some indeterminate hour. It takes him longer than it should to figure out what time it is – 1622 hours.
He chafes his wrists anxiously, aware that they have to wrap this up soon to make the twenty-minute walk back to the prison, get through the fifteen-minute entry examination, the eleven-minute strip search, the—
He blinks, focusing on the clock again.
1700 hours.
His palms sweat.
He didn't catch a word, didn't hear a damn thing any of them were saying, prays it wasn't important but of course it was important. The judge addresses him and he wants to sink into the floor. He rises mechanically, carefully stands before the bench. He does not cry; he does not throw up. He stands, stone-faced and silent, as the judge rules, "In light of recent evidence, I overturn the previous conviction for the murder of Clifford DeVoe and relieve Bartholomew Allen of all charges. Mr. Allen. You are free to go."
His ears are ringing, his heart pounding, and he can't form a single sentence, let alone coherent thought of gratitude or – or fear, or resignation, or fury –
There's so much noise, surrounding him, overwhelming him. Someone puts a guiding hand on the back of his shoulder. He's led back to the holding cell, and he's grateful for the quiet, even if the chatter beyond it makes him anxious. His personal items are all bundled in a bag and handed back to him by a guard, who recites the entries. When his shaking hands will not open the bag, he uses his teeth to pry it open. He feels soft fabric and withdraws his hand as though stung. Shaking, he removes the clothes he was wearing when he was brought in. That was one of the first things he had to do, once the cleaner things were finished, the finger-printing and mug-shotting – surrender all of his personal artifacts.
His fingers close around something small, metallic, rounded, and a lump builds in the back of his throat. He pockets it; he can't bear to put it on.
They give him room and he changes methodically, shivering continuously, still so hungry that all he can think is he would eat anything, an entire loaf of untoasted white bread, just to curb it. He feels strange, unfamiliar in clothes that fit him – because they don't fit him, not anymore. The pants hang; the shirt bags. With great embarrassment, he realizes the pants will not even stay up without a belt, and chides himself for not wearing one when he was arrested.
Like a kid caught off-guard for a school photo, he holds them up with one hand. Overwhelmed, he takes a seat, and there's a knock on the door sometime later that he doesn't respond to. It opens, and Joe steps inside. He says, "It's time to go home, buddy."
Barry shakes his head, tears in his eyes, because he could bear anything in prison but he doesn't have a belt and he can't, he can't do this. Not today. Not now. Dan who killed a man is still waiting for him. It's past time to shower – he'd risk a good beating for one, now, because all the bruises will fade in quick time, even if quick isn't as quick as it used to be, not since his calorie intake plummeted to less than one fifth of its bare minimum.
Joe gets an arm around his waist, pulling him gently to his feet. He keeps a hand tucked in the band of his pants. God, how long has he been away, how is this even possible? He dares to think it's his fast metabolism, that everything happens quickly, now, there's a joke in there but no humor, and he tries to disappear into Joe's side as he is forced to reenter the normal world.
With almost violent enthusiasm, cameras are thrust into his face, reporters crowding around for the hottest story of the night, former-CSI-turned-killer-cleared-of-all-charges. They're piling onto each other, asking questions over each other, how do you feel, how do you feel?
He doesn't respond to any of them and Joe forcefully clears a path for them. Then he's sitting in the back of a car, and nausea wells in the back of his throat. He thinks, Don't throw up, but he can't, he can't, and he croaks desperately, "Joe."
Joe reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out an empty grocery bag, and hands it to him. He surreptitiously opens the front passenger window.
Barry retches until his stomach is so painful it makes him cry, silent tears tracking down his cheeks, and he knows he's free and he should be happy but all he can feel is tired and sick and afraid.
A glance at the digital clock on the car reveals his worst fear: 1904 hours.
He closes his eyes in despair. I missed it.
Joe gets him home, but he doesn't get out, just sits huddled in the back seat clutching his grocery bag. Opening the car door, Joe crouches next to him and puts a hand on his knee, and he jerks in surprise. Retracting his hand, Joe advises, "Take a minute."
Barry does, trying to breathe, trying to stay here-in-this-moment, even though he's been trying to run from the moment for – for years, it feels like. "How long?" he rasps.
Joe is quiet for a time.
"Forty-two days," he says at last, and Barry dry-heaves.
. o .
It takes almost an hour to get Barry out of the car.
He doesn't want to go, feels strangely and desperately attached to the interior, where he can maybe cope, being in a box is so much safer than being out in the open, and the night air hits him like a slap in the face, but he doesn't let himself retreat to it once he's standing. Joe takes the bag from him, tying it off and tossing it aside, take-care-of-it-later. He puts a firm arm around Barry's back and Barry resists the urge to push him away hard because it's just Joe.
Inside, it's warm and bright and familiar, a whole new world of sounds and smells, a crackling fire, five people, five people, and he presses back against Joe's arm hard.
"Hey, buddy," Cisco says gently, standing in front of him, ten steps away, "you're back."
But he still looks compulsively at the clock, where is the fucking clock, and finds one over the mantle. 2019 hours. He swallows hard. His mouth tastes disgusting, and he feels disgusting, but his focus sets on his need to shower before 2200 hours, the last-call.
He can't move, though, because the showers aren't here, and there are five pairs of eyes on him, six-if-you-count-Joe, which he does, even if he's almost okay with Joe, now, because he can gently ignore Joe and just breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and not be judged for it.
"We can get you anything you want, food-wise," Wally chimes in, sitting on the couch in front of a muted TV, feet up on the coffee table, watching him. "Say the word."
Frowning, Caitlin – seated in the chair next to him – asks carefully, "Barry?"
He's pushing back hard against Joe, shaking, and he tries to say something comforting, something reassuring, but only a thin noise comes out. Iris approaches slowly, and he looks at her, looks at her, and feels the noise falling away. "Iris," he breathes, because of all the things he never thought he'd get again, she was the top of his list. "Iris."
He's still shaking, but he dares to hold his ground, and Joe releases him and she wraps her arms around him, supporting him, as he quietly falls apart.
Joe takes care of the rest – assembling in the kitchen with mute gestures, Wally zipping off first, Cisco and Caitlin joining him, Cecile trailing after – and Barry just breathes as he holds onto Iris. She says quietly, "What do you need?"
He feels a tear trickle down his face, but his voice is steadier, more able, with the simple command. "I need a shower."
. o .
The rest of the family stays downstairs, but she accompanies him upstairs, and it's a bizarre and unsettling feeling to walk upstairs.
He knows he should take his shoes off, but that's not how it works, you keep your shoes on, you listen, you obey. She shows him where the bathroom is, and he knows but it's been forever, he almost doesn't know, he knows he could find it but he's afraid it would take him more than one try, and how can he have forgotten everything in forty-two days?
It's unsettling, being in a bathroom like this. He expects Dan who killed a man to walk in, strip, and turn on the shower. There's a towel on the door and he feels a fist against his kidney, hard and unexpected, so painful it stunned him. He backs out of the room, and Iris frowns thoughtfully. She asks, "What's wrong?"
He shakes. "It's occupied."
She looks at him, at the room, and finally back again. "I don't understand," she admits.
He closes his eyes, knowing he's being difficult. His hands clench into fists before relaxing. Gotta relax. Don't fight them, don't make them mad. "There's—" He can't speak, can't give it voice, feeling tears burn in his eyes, shame and frustration and fear all roiling. "I can't – I can't do this," he says, putting distance between himself and the room.
Iris says simply, "Okay."
He keeps retreating, trapped in a horror house, every edge a little darker and sharper than he remembers them being, and then he's in a room he should recognize but every room is different, now, so full, so much noise to sort through.
In something approaching desperation, he finds the closet and almost aggressively tears everything from it, until it is simply a square box, about half the size of The Hole, and he scrambles into it, sitting on the floor.
He presses his forehead to his knees and tries to breathe, the darkness, the stillness, the small space almost comforting in their familiar wretchedness. He hates them, hates how he aches for an orange peel to chew on, hates how he misses Dan who killed a man talking about nothing, hates how he can't stop shaking or aching for food he cannot bring himself to ask for.
He hears Iris' knees crack softly when she crouches on the floor, and he hugs his knees tighter to his chest. She slides carefully into the space across from him and shuts the panel, leaving them in near perfect darkness, near perfect silence but for his ragged, hyperventilating breath.
She's mirroring his position, must be, because they don't touch at all in the small space. She doesn't question him, doesn't force answers out of him, and he feels her calm ambience sink into the space. Slow breath, patient breath. Soft, quiet presence. When he dares to unfold a little, one leg sliding forward, it brushes against her foot. Her leg is warm, and it doesn't move, just letting him be there.
A few small infinities pass before he unfolds a little more. He's still got his shoes on, he realizes belatedly, and she rests her hands on his feet. He inhales slowly, exhales deeply.
"Can you help me?" he asks his knees, because he can't bring himself to do it alone, can't do it alone, and she squeezes his ankles.
"Yes."
. o .
They don't lock the door, don't even fully shut the door, because there was no lock on the door in the single stall shower, and it's more than he can handle to lock it, but no one interrupts them. No one even comes upstairs, and it is quiet, and simple, and almost peaceful.
While she runs the water, he brushes his teeth with a new toothbrush. It's strange – everything feels cleaner, more his – but he feels better once his mouth is washed out. When he's finished and she's satisfied with the temperature of the water, he peels off his own clothes. A shiver passes through him despite the warmth of the room because it hits him, the nakedness, every time, but she unbuttons her top, slides off her pants, with languid, easy motions that remind him that there is still a kind of exposure, of vulnerability, that can be good, soft, trusting.
The water is warm, and he relaxes into it, feeling hours, days, weeks of grime finally washing off. He closes his eyes when she soaps up his chest, his arms, his hands, taking her time, the water doesn't run cold here like it did in prison – did, past tense. He's so tired it hurts, but he doesn't want to move, doesn't want to leave, basking.
She slides her hands up to his collarbones, and he bows his head for her. It's incredibly intimate, the way she glides her fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp, easing away the tension at the back of his neck. He stays half-bowed for her, humbled for her, forever, it feels like, and for the first time in hours he doesn't think about prison at all.
. o .
They dry off at some indeterminate-later. He smells nice – it strikes him because he hasn't smelled this clean in over a month, and he feels old embarrassment that he smelled terrible before wash away as she uses a separate towel to dry off his hair. He holds the towel around his hips and she keeps one around her chest, and gently, hesitantly, he reaches out and draws her into his arms, tucking his chin over her shoulder for a long moment.
She sets the towel aside and glides her fingers up and down his back, a featherlight presence, and he knows he's bonier than she's used to but she doesn't shy away, doesn't flinch. We'll get better, her presence says, and he squeezes her, gently, because he didn't know how badly he needed to recognize that he was not well, before he could start feeling human again.
They get dressed and settle under her covers, and he catches a glimpse of his own room, trashed by the closet-exodus, but he doesn't worry about it, sitting up against the headboard, holding her in his arms, a thumb stroking her shoulder. She lies against him, breathing against him, and he closes his eyes, savoring her company, the simple tandem of her chest rising and falling. The temptation to doze off is strong, but he doesn't, stays with her, aches to keep this real.
Eventually, though, he loses track of time completely, and falls asleep.
. o .
0600 hours.
His eyes open and he nearly panics when he encounters something next to him, something— but he relaxes when he sees who it is, aching relief in his chest as he cuddles closer to her, hugging her, and she hums against him, stirring. "Hey, Bar," she murmurs, kissing his shoulder.
It sounds okay, when she says it, in this warm, comfortable space. "Iris," he echoes, kissing her forehead.
His stomach growls, loudly, and he feels a hand settle over his side. She asks, "What do you want?"
He wants oranges, an orange peel, six extra calories, but he holds onto her for a time, keeping his silence. At last, he admits, "I don't know." Because this isn't prison anymore, and he doesn't want it to be prison anymore.
In the end, one of Cisco's speedster-strength granola bars is enough – his stomach stops growling, an ache he didn't realize he'd been nurturing ceasing.
He has to rest his forehead on the table for a moment after, has to, for sheer, indescribable relief.
. o .
It takes a week before he's comfortable enough to let Caitlin check him over, everything over the clothes and glancing-at-most touches, Iris right there with him. It's two weeks before he eats more than a granola bar or two at meals, graduating to actual food slowly, bite-by-bite. It's three weeks before he can eat something outside of 0600 hours, 1200 hours, and 1800 hours. It's four weeks before he starts seeing a therapist, needing to get the weight of prison off his chest so it doesn't crush him, everything his dad endured, everything he endured, coming back full force.
But by the forty-second day, he is not the same, but he is still, undeniably, immovably Barry.
Wedding band on his finger, he sits beside Iris on Joe's couch, belatedly watching a Christmas special, and dozes off, safe, comfortable, warm again.