Barry likes to be left alone.
He also likes to draw on the walls and sit near but not on furniture. He will answer to his name but stare blankly if asked to repeat it. He gets stressed if music is played at any volume above soft and likes to sit in front of the window and watch the rain. He doesn't like to be spontaneously touched, startling if a hand falls on his shoulder without warning. He shakes at night and sleeps on the floor. He bites his knuckles and curls up in corners if he's anxious. He drifts barefoot around the apartment, wearing mismatched clothes in any texture but sharp. He doesn't like TV, period.
In public, he walks hand-in-hand with Iris, dressed in his mismatched clothes hidden beneath an austere grey coat. He walks patiently, tirelessly, across the city, taking no offense to intermittent pauses at traffic lights or city traffic. Occasionally, the sun-behind-clouds smile graces his face, and he squeezes Iris' hand gently, calling her attention to the object of his affection with one word: "Red."
That's her name, now. Red, like irises. She likes it, has even come to anticipate a certain warmth in her chest whenever he says it. Red-like-irises.
Together, they go back to the CCPD for the first time since the officers brought Barry in. Barry wanders around, quietly curious and unobtrusive, while Iris keeps an eye on him and Dad debriefs Singh in the captain's office. Cecile approaches her and asks how Barry is. In the brief interval that follows, Iris lets her attention fix on the other woman, and Barry slips away.
She doesn't notice his absence immediately, but she can't miss the sound of glass shattering in the forensics' lab above them. She takes the stairs two at a time and finds Barry standing in the center of the room with his hands in his hair, an anguished apology in his eyes when he turns to look at her and babbles, "The-the lightning, the lightning did it, the lightning-"
There are dozens of spilled chemicals, swept with abandon from their shelves into a psychedelic mix of reds and blues and brilliant neon greens onto the floor, but Iris doesn't care about the mess: she cares about Barry, his hands covered in the same mixture. Before Iris' feet uproot from the floor, Cecile responds, stepping forward and guiding Barry over to the chemical shower. She gets him to put his hands under the water, his shoulders trembling, skin flushed.
"Burns," he mumbles, yanking his hands away from the water with sudden agitation. "Burns, urns, coffins for candlesticks." He laughs, a sharp, hysterical sound. "Candlesticks, coffins, no, no, no, I can't say goodbye, Dad." He gasps, and Iris captures his wrists before he can bury them in his hair. "No more cradles, no more candles," he begs.
There are other challenges - but there are also things that Iris expects to challenge that Barry manages easily. He can't stick to a schedule, but he can follow a recipe, and as soon as he realizes he can make food by doing so, he bakes - all the time. Iris doesn't mind, just buys cupcake mix in bulk and lets him at it, kicking back on the couch and enjoying his company. He's creative, too, deliberately burning a batch to crunch into the resultant cupcakes or carving shapes into them before oozing frosting into the cracks. Before, she never thought of cooking as a science, but when she watches him do it, she sees it.
Another pleasant surprise is how little trouble he has with upkeep, mimicking her morning and evening routines. He loves to approach her with shower-spiked hair and bow his head so she'll run her fingers through it, patient and pleased.
He's sweet, affectionate - casually, unpresumptuously happy to be with her.
She takes him to work with her and he sits under her desk with his sketchbook, calm as a potted plant, and she finds that she gets the most done on those days. And his sketchbook fills with symbols, symbols which he will explain patiently to her, all night, if she doesn't doze off on him.
"Wolves and thorns," he'll tell her, tracing a pair of intersecting triangles. When he looks at her, waiting for comprehension, he sees her arched eyebrows, curious but not following. Instead of frustration, his eyes light up, an old familiar delight hidden in a simple question: What's that? He sits up, eager to explain, and holds up both hands, palms facing her, like stop, before carefully curling his fingers forward at the knuckle, miming claws. "Wolves," he emphasizes. "Thorns." Then, leaning forward, he trails a clawed hand gently across her side and finishes, "Wolves like thorns."
"Sharp," she surmises, and he smiles, and gathers her hands in one of his and holds them to his heart.
"Sharp," he echoes. "Like snow." And then he laughs, soft and sweet, and she aches to show him the snow.
He doesn't seek out blankets, but he shivers at night and begins to gravitate towards her as the weather cools. At first, it's just a sort of tentative adjustment, taking her wrist and pulling it gently around his waist, and she squeezes his side and stays close, sharing warmth. But as time goes on, he becomes more confident, hugging her and cuddling her, gravitating towards her in their big quiet apartment. He kisses her temple once, just softly, reflexively, and she has to close her eyes to hide her tears from the rest of Team Flash.
They're still Team Flash, and they still stop crime. Barry doesn't seem to mind being at STAR Labs, even if he keeps mostly to himself. Occasionally, he sidles closer to Wally, standing next to him and sharing his Speed-warmth. Other times, he might interject with a quiet comment like, "Thunder is faster than rain," and he won't try to explain it, but Wally will nod, and Iris knows he understands.
Iris likes leading the team. She sees Barry watching Cisco and Wally and Cindy, learning, absorbing, and one day he returns with his old red suit, dug out from a closet Cisco didn't even remember still having, and Iris needs no translation: I don't know where I stood, but I want to start here. Teach me.
Ironically, Barry's curiosity lends itself to caution, and despite Iris' initial apprehension, he comes home unscathed more often than not. He skates into view flushed with happiness and no words to describe it. Iris doesn't need words - she can feel it in his lightning, the sort of quiet wonder that's always been there amplified by the absence of occluding noise. He loves it. And she loves that it's still his.
The Flash sightings reappear, to the relief of an adoring audience, and Iris smiles when a picture she didn't take circulates on the Internet: The Flash kneels in front of a young boy who hugs his neck tightly, faces hidden by the darkness, flames still eating away at an apartment complex nearby. Kid Flash and Vibe receive due credit for their victories - their names grace headlines, with mentions of The Flash included when appropriate - but the dynamic improves when Barry is around.
The dynamic improves when Barry is around - it's the story of Iris' life. She survived six months without him, but she missed the warmth he infused in her space, her world. Their love language doesn't disappear: in many ways, it simplifies.
It simplifies on the nights when Iris cooks in her dad's kitchen and Barry taps her on the shoulder. She turns to face him, and he says clearly, "Red," to which she responds lightly, "Blue." His grin slants with amusement, catching on, and he considers what he wants to say for a long moment before declaring firmly, "Iris."
She smiles and squeezes his hand. "Barry."
He draws their hands gently to his heart, a closed fist representing a simple phrase: I love you.
Iris echoes him, and finds joy in the simplicity, in the quiet. She finds herself relaxing more, enjoying the soft moments, like the intimacy of helping him shave. She wonders, at times, if he'll ever kiss her like before, but she finds she doesn't miss it, because he loves her just as deeply, as openly, as honestly. He still loves her when he hugs her, when he lets her rest her feet on his at the coffeeshop, when he holds her hand.
He's not the same Barry, but he is her Barry.
Day in, day out, forever.
And for every nightmare and every setback, she finds herself scrapbooking the little victories, and coming out on top.