Secret Santa
The precinct does Secret Santa every year, but Iris buys the gift for whoever Joe pulls.
"I got Eddie," Barry frowns, tossing the name on the coffee table. Iris is sitting opposite him, nursing a large hot chocolate. It's been a long shift, and she abandoned her shoes under the table a while ago, and balanced her feet happily on Barry's knee.
"Oooh," Iris scrunches her nose up.
"So?" Barry rests his hand on her ankle. "What should I get him?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, you know what he would like."
Iris tilts her head, and bites back her lip.
Barry's face is suddenly stern. He waves a finger at her. "Don't you dare say it."
"You couldn't get him what he likes." Iris grins and does the goofiest fake-wink he's ever seen.
"Oh, no, you said it."
"Come on," she nudges him, "That wasn't that bad."
"But seriously."
"Just get him coffee," Iris suggests. "He hasn't been in here since we broke up. He's probably barely functioning without the caffeine."
Barry taps the fingers of his free hand against the table. He waits for Iris to tell him – to explain to him why they suddenly broke up. But, she doesn't. All he knows is that one day, she woke up, broke Eddie's heart and spent the next week in a slump. And, though she had since re-doubled on Barry-time, she hadn't explained to him exactly what happened.
"Coffee, huh?" Barry nods pensively when she doesn't take the chance to fess up. "You know, the most expensive coffee in the world is made from beans that have been eaten and digested by these animals that are kind of like weasels-"
"Barry."
"Am I-"
"Yes."
"Sorry."
Iris laughs, her smile wide. She shakes her head. She is about to tell him he's adorable.
"You're so adorkable."
"Don't… ever," now Barry's laughing, "call me that."
"Okay," she laughs into her hot chocolate. "As long as you accept that it's true."
"So, who did Joe get?"
"Barry Allen," she says, mock astonished that he would deign to ask such a thing: "Unlike you, I can keep a secret."
…
The Flash saves Iris. He pulls her from the scene of a crime in progress. She thanks him, he apologizes again, and then disappears. She can barely remember the feel of his arms around her, or the height of him when he sets her down. But for hours after he leaves, she feels hot and flustered. And silly, too, because she can't stop smiling.
…
"This is probably the worst," Barry says, dressed in an ugly Christmas sweater with reindeer with big red noses. His hands are extended, awaiting her judgment.
"It's pretty bad," Iris agrees, when she stops laughing. He throws popcorn at her from the big bowl she is stringing, and falls easily into the seat next to her on the couch. They look at the tree, twinkling in their childhood living room.
"That's good, then, right?" He glances at her, already knows how the lights will look dancing across her skin, and
"Yeah," Iris says, "You'll win for sure."
"In addition to being pretty… busy," Barry pinches the fabric, pulls it away from his chest to examine it: "It's inaccurate. There can't be two Rudolphs."
"Maybe there are two Rudolphs," Iris says conspiratorially. She strings another piece of popcorn to the garland. "And they're just never in the same place at once."
Barry makes that sound that's between a snort and a laugh. "And I'm just lucky enough to capture the moment they meet."
"Guess so," Iris grins. He throws popcorn at her and she catches it in her mouth. "Who's idea was the Ugly Sweater contest anyway?"
Barry's face falls, but in a comedic, exasperated way. As if it should be obvious. As if she should know.
"Joe."
…
After her next late night shift, Iris seeks him out again, and he doesn't know how to stay away. It's been a few weeks since they parted ways and Eddie's investigation started. It's too much to resist – the idea that she might, maybe, forgive him? Give him a second chance? Try to understand that he didn't mean it – that it wasn't really him.
He needed her to accept this part of him. Nothing felt right if Iris disapproved.
So, despite Caitlin's knowing look, and Cisco's laughing smile, Barry dons the costume and makes his way to Jitters.
He scoops her up, and they're on the roof before she can blink.
"You wanted to see me." Somehow, he manages to make the words more neutral than he means them. You wanted to see me! Or, me? You want to see me?
"Yes," Iris lets out an amazed breath. She turns to him, and his face is scrambled. She bits the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "I wanted to see you."
He
"Tis the season, right?" She slides her hand into her apron pocket and extracts a sugar cookie in the shape of a lightning bolt, iced in yellow. "There was extra dough," she shrugs as he swipes it from her hand. "And I wanted to thank you," she takes a small step forward, towards the shadows, where he is turning it over in his hands. She thinks, maybe, his mouth quirks up into a smirk. "For last time. You know, considering…"
His face shoots up in her direction. He holds the cookie, delicately, between fingers she knows are strong. She catches herself wishing he would carry her long enough, or far enough, for her to experience it in real time: the sensation of his thumbs against her legs, his hands sprawled against her back. His chest under her ear.
"No harm will ever come to you, if I can help it, Miss West."
The way he says her name sends a thrill down her back. And then he's gone, and so is the cookie.
…
Iris bumps into Barry. She's gotten a bit clumsy this holiday season. Usually she's moving from table to table, no problem, not spilling a drop of coffee or getting a single order wrong. But one weekend, he takes a laptop with him to Jitters to keep her company during the busy shift, and she can't seem to get anything right.
He stopped her from breaking three mugs, getting four orders wrong, and caught her after she tripped twice over lace that somehow kept becoming untied.
Then she bumped into him, moving forward when he was stepping off of his chair.
She fall, dropping cookies everywhere. They break into crumbs on the floor beneath them. But Barry does nothing to catch them, because he's holding Iris.
She's looking at him with wide, bright eyes. A smile blossoms on her face, and her fingers are tight on his arms. She shifts a bit, and he is helping her to her feet, but she slips again, and he starts laughing.
"Iris, have you forgotten how to walk?" He steadies her with his palm to her back, sets her up standing and holds his hands out, one brow raised, like he is making sure she can still put one foot in front of the other.
"Yeah," Iris says, her eyes narrowing even as her smile widens. She nods twice. "Just a bit dizzy, I guess."
"It's been a long shift," Barry commiserates. He presses his lips together. "Working the late shift, as well?"
"No," Iris says, blinking rapidly. She finally let his sleeve go. "No, I thought maybe, we could catch a movie tonight. She reaches into her back pocket and extracts tickets for a midnight show.
Barry eyes her suspiciously. "Is Joe my secret Santa? Is this my present? Two tickets to the Lord of the Rings showing downtown?"
"No," Iris whacks him lightly with the tickets, then hands him one. "It's not from your Secret Santa, and you only get one ticket."
"You're-"
Iris grins. "Tis the season, right?"
"…Right."
….
After a particularly long night, the Flash swings by Jitters, and is surprised to find Iris there, closing up. He zooms in easily, tidies up for her, and then takes a seat in Barry's favorite spot.
She smirks when she sees him. Her hair is still floating back down to her shoulders when she approaches him.
"Thanks," Iris says slowly.
"Long night?" he asks. His voice is warbled again.
"Not as long as yours, I'm sure..." she ventures. "Dare I ask who you were saving tonight?"
He dashes across the room to sit on the counter top, behind her. "What makes you think I was saving anyone?"
"Well, that's what you do…" she waves her hand in the air as she turns towards him, "Isn't it?"
"That night," he says, and the warble slips for a second, "Another metahuman…"
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
She can almost feel him frown. He walks straight towards her, face vibrating. She's not sure what she's looking at in the dark room, illuminated only by street lights. But she feels so exposed, somehow. Like he's seeing every fragment of her.
"How?" his voice is a whisper. "How could you know? I could be dangerous. Other metahumans can be dangerous."
"You wouldn't hurt me," Iris says, with conviction. "Or anyone else, if you could help it…" She moves to take his hand, but he is long gone before she can. "Bear."
…
"Ice skating," Barry says, from the edge of the rink. He never liked ice skating. It was always colder than he expected. There was a lot of redundant moving in circles – unless, like Iris, you had two years of figure skating lessons under your belt – and he could never keep up with his friends. "We meet again."
"It's all physics, right?" Iris teases. She laces hers up tightly. She is about to pull her mittens from her bag when she sees, from the corner of her eye, that Barry for once remembered to bring his. She stuffs them to the bottom of the bag.
"Trust you to use science against me."
"You remembered your gloves," Iris says as he pulls them on.
"Yes," Barry grins, "No more falling on the ice for me."
Though, this year, he knew, he was less likely to fall on the ice than ever before. Because he could stop himself in a fraction of a second. He could dodge little kids. He didn't have to go slow, or hold on to the hand rail. This year, he would keep up with the little penguin known as Iris West!
"I forgot mine," she pouts. She rubs her bare hands together.
"Take mine," Barry says, without thinking. He is pulling them off when she stops him.
"Just give me one," she says.
"Then we'll both be half-cold."
"Trust me," Iris tugs on one of Barry's gloves, then she hops to her feet, hobbles to the ice and gets on. She turns around to face him, and extends her bare hand. "Come on," she says, "My fingers are freezing."
Barry smiles and catches up. They skate, hand in hand. When it gets too cold, she tucks both of their hands in his jacket pocket and smiles up at him.
It's a pretty bright smile, he would argue, later, to console himself. Because as soon as she flashes it, and squeezes his palm, he slips and crashes into the ice.
Iris hovering over him, asking if he's alright, though – that's almost worth it.
…
It becomes a habit – seeking her out after a particularly crazy night, while he's still high on adrenaline and his judgment is impaired and he has a dozen reasons for why he's not really, totally, all to blame. Most nights, he helps her tidy up Jitters, and they exchange a few words, before he's off again. Once in a while, though, they go to the rooftop, and she talks to him like she knows him.
Are you okay?
What did you get up to tonight?
Stay safe. Please.
And sometimes, she just laughs, and says, without a hint of accusation: you're late.
Even when he wasn't. Even when she had no reason to be expecting him.
…
There was something about Barry Allen's lips. They were the first boy's lips she saw up close and personal when they were eight. She had seen them drooling, she had seen them red and blistered after a smart punch, and she had seen them smeared with another's girls lipstick after a tragic game of spin-the-bottle. She had seen them smiling, and grinning, and laughing. She had seen them, constantly, in motion, usually while talking about science, but also sometimes while telling her: You're awesome, Iris. You're the best, Iris. I'm so happy you're here, Iris. Iris.
But she hadn't ever stared at them before. Let alone be caught staring at them.
Her coworker nudges her out of her reverie.
"You've been drying the same mug for two minutes," she says, her voice deliberately knowing. Then she slid Iris a broken chocolate chip cookie. "Can't sell this one," she says, "Might as well give it to your favorite customer."
Iris accepts it happily, and practically gallops over to Barry's table where he is staring at a laptop screen sipping his second cup of coffee.
"Hi," she says, almost breathlessly. The plate clinks on the table. Barry's lips curve into a smile.
…
Iris kisses the Flash. It's a slow, warm kiss on a cold night, on the rooftop of Jitters.
They're talking, him behind her, and her with her face turned as much over her shoulder as he will allow. Maybe he doesn't notice, or maybe he doesn't care, but she's taken two steps back, and is so close to him that she could reach her hand back and grab his.
So she does.
He stops mid-sentence when her fingers brush his, and she uses the element of surprise to spin herself back to face him. Her face is scant centimeters from his, and though he's vibrating, she leans forward and approximates enough to get more lip than chin.
And the vibrations stop.
"Iris-" he begins, but she stops him with another kiss.
Her lips brush slowly against his, and he has to close his eyes against the stunning pleasure of it.
Part of him is sad that she doesn't know it's him she's kissing, but the rest of him can't believe his luck. He's wondering how far he can take it – can he kiss her back? – before it's gone so far he can't take it back when Iris finds out. Because Iris will find out, sooner or later. And he doesn't want her to hate him.
But then his thoughts dissolve as she hmms against his lips. It's like her whole body has melted against him. Her arms have folded against his chest and she is leaning into him – all parts of her against all parts of him, and he can't really think about anything else.
She nips at him slowly, like she's sampling something expensive. Her hands shake, as they do when she's nervous, and she slides them up to his shoulders for support. When his fingers close, finally, on the small of her back, she kisses him again.
His lips are cool against his, but his mouth is warm and slick when he kisses her back. He slants his lips over hers, coaxing her from gentle pecks to pulling, teasing tugs with lips and teeth to whole mouth kisses with clever tongues and hot breaths.
It was too much, he thinks. He could never go back after this. He could never go back to not kissing Iris West after this.
She moans in his arms. A light-headed, sigh of a moan that he swallows with his lips. She sucks on his bottom lip until he is dizzy with the hot, tingling sensations she elicits.
One hand raises to cup her cheek and they both wish he wasn't wearing this suit. She wants to feel his hands on her, has been dreaming about it – and he wants to touch her skin.
When he pulls away, her face gently cradled in his hands, her lips are swollen and her eyes are half-lidded and dreamy. She presses her hips against him, feels the evidence of his arousal and kisses him again. She tries to show him, in one kiss, how much she wants him. How much she is longing for him, even now. All of him: every secret, every sound, every touch.
"I've wanted to do that," she says, breathlessly, "For a really long time."
The Flash admits: "Me too."
This time, he doesn't ask about her boyfriend. Not with words or insinuations or meaningful glances. So, she takes a deep breath and tells him.
"We broke up," she says, her eyes squinting up at him. "Because of you."
He stays for the duration of one long blink before he's darting away again. He wants to laugh, but his whole body is tense. His heart is beating so hard, it might be vibrating.
…
Barry had been avoiding her for two days. Two. Whole. Days. He didn't call, he didn't text, and he didn't stop into Jitters, even when Iris was on barista duty making his favorite holiday lattes. Even when she promised to make him a free one. She even spooned out the foam to look like a sly little lightning bolt.
But he never showed up.
Which was really fucking annoying. Because Iris was not a metahuman, and only a metahuman could forget about a kiss like that. And she really, really wanted to kiss his stupid face again. For real this time. She wanted to pull him down by the dumb collar of his dumb shirt sticking out of his dumb sweater. Or maybe by the lapels of one of his stupid blazers. Or maybe she'd just settle for a handful of his goofy head.
And she also wanted a thesaurus for all the ways Barry was an idiot.
But that would have to wait until she sobered up.
"I didn't know who else to call," her friends are giggling as they hand her over to Barry. Who has shown up, on purpose, in a sweater.
He looks exasperated as she falls into his arms. He supports her weight with his own, and for the first time, Iris realizes that there's more to him, beneath those shirts now.
"I missed you," she mutters drunkenly. Her voice hits the skin at his neck, and he shivers. She feels his muscles tense. She says it again, with a grin this time.
"Alright, time to get you home," he says.
And the next thing she knows, she's tucked in bed, with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on her bedside table. Her feet have been massaged, and the bobby pins are out of her hair.
She cries, a little bit, out of frustration, before she passes out.
…
Iris is very good at revenge. You wouldn't think it, if she just served you coffee at Jitters, or cooed over your puppy in the park. But there was a reason she was a good detective, and a good reporter: she had a knack for figuring things out. Including things that you didn't want anyone else to know.
For example, she knew that Barry Allen liked her breath against his neck.
The next time the Flash appears, Iris is ready. They're in Jitters, in the dark, with just the streetlights drifting in through the window. She sets down her tray and walks towards him. "I'm gla
"We can't do that again," the Flash says. He steps back into the shadows, and finds his back up against a wall.
"Okay," Iris agrees. She keeps approaching him, and he lets her. Soon, her hand is over his heart, its now familiar beat thrumming into her palm.
He's a bit shocked, and a bit disappointed.
"There are other things we can do," she smiles slyly.
He takes a deep breath.
She leans forward and lays a kiss to his jaw. "I've missed you," she says. She pulls his hands forward and places them on her his. When he is unable to bite back a moan, she grins into his jaw and slides one hand lower on her ass.
"Take off the mask," she says.
"No," he says, instinctively.
"Please," she asks, flicking her tongue against his chin. She pulls a clean kitchen towel from her apron pocket, turns around, and wraps it around her eyes. "I won't look, she promises."
There is a split second where the Flash can leave, scott-free. No harm, no foul – or something like that, right? But it passes in a shaky breath. He ties a gentle knot, careful not to catch any of her hair, careful not to make it too tight.
She turns, slowly, and presses her hands against his chest. Slowly, they travel up, over his shoulders, to his face. He unzips the hood, and her smile is wide, and she is laughing.
I know you, she wants to say. Because she did: she knew these ears, she knew his hair cut. But she didn't know that his fingers were curve into her hips when she pressed her lips against those ears, when she trailed her tongue against those curves, and whispered a hot Thank you against them. She didn't know his hair was so soft, and silky, slipping between her fingers. She dragged her nails gently against his scalp and he groaned.
"Someone might come in..." he gives her a final out, "the delivery guys..."
She can't help herself: "What other boys?"
And then, finally, he's kissing her back.
…
At first, Barry is elated. What other boys, said the love of his life, with her tongue in his ear. But then he realized, he was one of the "other boys" as far as she knew. And that was kind of a wet blanket.
So he stops visiting her as the Flash. He tries to cut it off altogether. Cold Turkey.
If Caitlin notices the swing in his mood, she doesn't mention it. Cisco asks about Iris, but when Barry shoots him a look, he stops. Which is something, for Cisco. Even Wells knows that Iris is a touchy subject.
"What is going on with you two?" Joe asks at the precinct one day.
Barry shrugs. He presses his lips together and, testing out the waters, says: "I think she's seeing someone new…"
"I don't think so," Joe frowns. "I would've noticed. Especially after Eddie," he wags a finger in Barry's direction, "My senses are on high alert."
Barry hides the relief from his face. Because if Joe caught wind… that would not end well.
Just another reason, Barry reminds himself, to stop.
It goes well, for the most part, until, one day, Iris stops by the lab and rubs his shoulders while chatting about her coursework. She brings him a one of a kind, specialty holiday latte, made by yours truly, just for you, with a big dorky smiley face where his name should be. She hovers behind him, and insists that he opens the lid, just to let it cool off a bit.
He does.
Her shoulders fall, and he can hear her pout behind him. She leans over one of his shoulders, and is sad about what she sees.
"I drew you something," she explains.
"What?" Barry asks, half a grin on his face. "A Christmas tree? Mistletoe?" His face turns red after the last, unintentional, comment and he clips the lid back on.
"No," she says, her lips pulling to the side. Then she takes a deep breath, pecks him on the cheek, and bounces off.
Or well, she meant to kiss him on the cheek, right? Not on that spot, just behind his ear, that leaves his eyes rolled up in his head for minutes after she's left.
He recites the entire periodic table to calm down.
…
"Iris…" he whispers her name, voice clear as day, and she thinks it's the sexiest sound she's ever heard.
Yeah, she's heard it before – calling her for dinner, emanating from the stands at one of her baseball games, or even answering a phone. But she hasn't heard it like this: breathy, and low, and hot.
"We shouldn't…" he tries, but his voice is stuck in his throat. Because Iris West, in an impossibly short skirt, has him pressed against a wall in an alleyway, after midnight. Her hands are clinging to him, and her lips are so, so soft. She's lapping at him, like she can't get enough of him. Her cheek is smooth and warm against the lower half of his face.
"Why not?" she asks, and her voice is heady, and teasing and seductive. It's sending off every alarm bell. It's making his heart jump out of his chest. She slides her finger into the edge of the suit, encouraging him to take off the mask.
"It's not," he shudders as her tongue traces his upper lip. His fingers squeeze, pulling her body closer, flush onto his, "right…"
"It feels right," Iris says. She's overcome, totally.
One minute, she was in a building about to explode, and the next, she was deposited safely into this alleyway. She had followed a metahuman story, about a burning man, to an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. He was gone for a few minutes to clear the rest of the building before it exploded on the horizon. And when he came back, she practically launched herself into his arms. You're okay, she had said, over and over again in her head. And she wanted nothing more than to make sure he was alright – to check every inch of him, to kiss every bit of skin, to know in her bones, that her best friend was alive.
"Doesn't it feel good?" She presses her hips into his.
"God, yes… but…"
"Then go with it," she tugs hungrily on his lips. "And take this thing off."
They're in the darkest corner he can find in seconds. She opens her eyes and can barely see two inches in front of her. She hears the rasp of the zipper, and then they're all over each other again. Except this time, she can ran her fingers through his hair, scraping his scalp with her nails. She can flick his ears with her tongue, and suck at his neck until she's sure she's left her mark.
Soon, he's pushing her up against a wall, and she's not complaining. His gloves are off in a blink, and his fingers – warm and long – are rubbing against her through her underwear.
"Yes," she spurs him on. Her eyebrows are knit together, and her voice is floating in the air between them. She feels like she's flying when he finally pushes her panties to the side and slides two of those gorgeous fingers against her. She grabs onto his shoulders and moans.
He leans forward, and his breath is on her ears.
"You're so beautiful," he's saying. His voice is warm and his breath is hot. He kisses her ears and she holds onto him tighter. He presses his thumb against her clit and makes small circles. "More beautiful than I could have ever imagined."
"You," she pants as the circles speed up and the pressure increases, "imagined me?"
Then he's sliding two fingers inside her, and they both let out a pleased yes.
His free hand unbuttons her blouse in record speed and slides under her bra. He frees her breasts and wastes no time licking and kissing and sucking at them. He holds them tentatively in his free hand – first one, and then the other. He is staring at her like she's a fucking masterpiece and she can't take it.
She can't take that she can't see him, can't touch him.
His suit is tight – way too tight – for this. Her mouth waters as she looks at him. He watches her lick her lips, her eyes cloudy with pleasure. He curls his fingers inside her and starts to move.
This is right, she thinks, as emotion swells up inside her. He can't see her face, but she thinks he can tell anyway - how much she wants him. How much she loves him.
Fuck it, he thinks. It's never going to happen again, so he might as well…
His fingers start vibrating inside her and she falls apart. She comes hard and fast, all over his hand, crying out yes, and fuck, and don't stop, and I'm so close, and a few tight moans. She has to bite back on her lip to keep from shouting his name to the heavens.
But he's not done yet. The vibrations stop, but he enjoys how her entire body clenches around him, like she doesn't want him to leave. Her arms are still around his shoulders. Her legs are hooked behind his thighs, keeping him in place.
His eyes meet hers and he forgets to hide his face. But it's dark, and she doesn't seem to recognize him. Instead, she holds his gaze as her hand travels down his shoulder, then his chest, to his hip bone and thigh. Then she spreads her fingers, and raises it up to touch him where she needs to touch him the most.
His head falls back and he lets out a hiss of breath.
"Iris," he says and the pleasure in his voice has her wet and throbbing again.
I need you, Iris wants to say. She wants to feel him inside her. She wants to feel like they're connected. She needs this intimacy. She's going crazy without it.
"Oh my God," Iris mutters out of frustration. She tugs at his belt, her brows knitting together. "Does this thing come off?"
The Flash stills like he's been slapped. He extracts himself from her embrace. That would be too much. That would be crossing a line, right? That… Iris would never forgive him for that. He chills all over. Would she forgive him for this?
She is a languid mess when it's over, and he's gone before she can return the favour.
…
Iris was annoyed.
She hadn't masturbated thinking about Barry Allen since puberty. As soon as she was old enough to realize how dangerous those thoughts were, she had locked them up and never returned to them. Before she knew any better, the idea of Barry kissing and touching and wanting her was enough to send her to the moon and back.
But now, as a grown ass women, she found herself trying to recreate his touch with her own hands and failing. She couldn't match it. Which was really frustrating because, as things stood, she couldn't really have him, either.
…
Barry is avoiding her, again. She tries to surprise him at work, but he sneaks out in a… flash. She stops by his apartment, but he's never home. She tries to follow him to wherever he goes after work, but he's too quick for her. He skips dinner with Joe, and stops coming by Jitters.
One morning, she gives Joe a latte with lightning foam, and a round sugar cookie with a lightning bolt iced on.
"Make sure he takes the lid off," she tells him.
But either he doesn't, or he doesn't see it, or he doesn't notice. Because he still doesn't respond to her texts, or her calls.
"What did he say when you gave him the latte?" she asks.
Joe shrugs. "Thanks?"
"That's it?"
"What else is he supposed to say?"
"What about the cookie?"
"Oh," Joe says, sheepishly. "That never made it to him."
"You ate it."
"I ate it."
…
Iris decides that she will tell him as the Flash. Then, he can't deny it. She's going to march right up to him and insist he take the mask off.
I know it's you, Barry, she'll say, in deadpan.
Or maybe, she'll get him out of that mask again, and he'll touch her, and she'll let herself moan Barry instead of holding back.
Or maybe, she'll tell him she can't see him anymore, because she's in love with her best friend, and he'll fess up.
Or maybe, she'll hold her breath until he confesses, like she used to do, when they were eight, before his mother died, and their biggest fight was over the black crayon.
But her plans are foiled when the Flash keeps his distance. He shows up, and doesn't help her tidy. He doesn't whisk her away to the roof. He is disguised within a disguise, the entire time.
"We can't see each other anymore," he says.
She tries to approach him, tries to say something, but all that comes out is: "But I love you."
"You don't know me," the Flash tells her. "You don't even know who I am."
"I know you," Iris insists. "You don't just… kiss someone like that without knowing them. That's not the kind of intimacy you get with strangers."
She moves towards him again, but he doesn't let her catch him.
"Are you breaking up with me?" Iris' eyes well up with tears.
"Were we even really together?"
She feels like she's been punched in the gut. Yes, she wants to scream. Yes, we're together. We've always been together, we'll always be together, you big, stupid… Bear!
But he's faster than she is.
…
There's a reason Barry avoids Iris.
He knows what she feels like when she comes. No amount of teenage (and… post-teenage) fantasies could have prepared him for that. He knows how smooth and slick and warm she is. He knows what it feels like to have her legs wrapped around him. He has seen her breasts, and kissed her bare skin.
He has knowledge about her that he's not supposed to have. She doesn't know he has it. He's betrayed her. He feels awful. He feels so guilty, he can't sleep.
And the one person – the only person – he could even being to talk about something this messed up with, is Iris.
When he gets home from work on Christmas eve, Barry tosses his satchel full of files on the couch, and hangs his coat off the back of a chair. He grabs a glass of water from the fridge and then makes his way to his room to change out of his work clothes. It's a pretty typical end of day routine that is ruined, suddenly, by one half-dressed Iris West.
She saunters out of his room in nothing but a red shirt with a lightning bolt and even redder panties. She leans against the door way, crosses her arms, then her ankles, and raises a brow at him.
He grabs his book bag and holds it in front of his groin.
"I-I-Iris…"
"Hi," she smiles. Then she pushes off of the doorway and walks towards him. Her hips are swaying, and that shirt is way too small, because it's revealing hip bones with each step she takes. She doesn't stop until her body is a few inches from his, separated only by the satchel.
She leans forward and he realizes she's not wearing a bra.
"What-what," Barry clears his throat, averts his eyes. "What are you doing here?"
Slowly, Iris takes the satchel from him. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the impending embarrassment.
But when Iris takes a step forward, and presses herself against his obvious arousal, she lets out a low, sultry moan. He opens his eyes, but bites his cheek. Because if he's not careful, he's going to be making the same sound.
"I came to see you," she says. She takes his hands, which are clenched at his sides, and unfurls his fingers. Then she places them low on her hips. His fingers skim her lacy panties, and a few slip under to the bare flesh of her ass. It takes everything in him to keep from squeezing. She presses forward instead, and his shoulders hit against the front door.
"I don't understand…"
"Barry," she turns her eyes to his meaningfully. Her entire face is serious. She's searching him for something, but he's not sure what. "Isn't it obvious?"
"You've had too much to drink," he concludes, shoving his hands in his pockets. He sidesteps to get away from her. "Did you need to borrow some sweats? I have some Star Labs stuff in the closet."
He hurries into the kitchen where he has a glass of the coldest water possibly. He presses his palms into the counter top and leans forward. He takes deep breaths to calm himself.
But then she's behind him, clinging to him. And he's aware, once again, of how clothed he is compared to her.
"I'm not drunk," Iris says. She leans forward and nips at that spot again, just behind his ear. Except this time, with him locked in her arms, she explores a bit further. She tugs and tastes until his whole body his tense and his eyes are closed.
Suddenly, Barry pulls away from her, angrily. His eyes are hot, but not with passion or even lust, as he appraises her.
And, just as suddenly, Iris feels very naked. And very small. And very, very silly.
"What are you doing?"
She tugs her shirt lower over her body, but she doesn't manage to cover much. Her brows draw together. "I don't know, I…"
"Did some guy hurt you?" His voice tightens, then lowers, more softly: "What, am I your rebound?"
"No," Iris barks. "I mean, yes, some guy hurt me."
"Right." He was the Flash's rebound. Iris' second choice to himself. Ha. As if this Christmas could get any more perfect.
"But no, you're not my rebound."
"Then what am I?" Barry shrugs.
Iris waits a second, until he says it again. He runs a hand through his hair.
"What aren't you, Barry?" She takes his hands in hers, kisses each finger in turn. "You're everything, to me. I went from worrying about you to thinking about you all the time. I think," she took a steadying breath, forced herself to meet his eyes. "I think I'm in love with you, and-"
Barry's eyes soften. His whole body softens, actually, and blushes. He smiles, almost sadly, and shakes his head. Like everything was right, but the timing.
"And I think you feel the same way, too." She tilts her head at him. When he doesn't respond, she laughs out of embarrassment: "Maybe this wasn't the best way to tell you, I just… can't stop thinking about," her eyes flicks to his lips, "kissing you."
Barry licks his lips. "But, the Flash-"
She whacks his arm. "Cut the crap, Bear. I know you're the Flash."
"You… what…"
"I know you're the Flash!" Iris repeats. "That's why I broke up with Eddie. He wanted to hurt you. My Bear. That's why I forgave you for trying to beat him up."
"I… but…" Barry's face transitions from stunned to confused.
"I didn't have feelings for the Flash, Barry Allen. I have feelings for you." She shrugs. "You just never, made a move, as yourself. Maybe it was selfish, but I—"
And then his lips are on hers, in a flash. One hand is behind her head, holding her to him, and the other is scooping her up by the ass, sliding inside of those red panties.
"I didn't know," he whispers against her mouth. It was so familiar, so welcoming. Her embrace, and her kiss. Her body pushing so hard against his like she couldn't get close enough. "I didn't know."
"You're not as," Iris's voice goes breathy as he slides her panties down her legs, walking her backwards into the room, "smart as you think."
His room was lit up with electric tea candles, everywhere.
"I was going for romantic," she said, scrunching her nose up.
"Iris," is all he can think to say.
"I've been waiting a long time to do this," Iris whispers, her hands finding the hem of his sweater. He tugs it, and his dress shirt, off over his head in one fell swoop. She presses her hand against his skin, and wipes his brain completely clean. He can't hear anything over his thudding heart as she lays sweet kisses against his skin, except the sound of her approval.
Finally, he pushes her back onto the bed. His heart is so full, he thinks it might burst.
"No powers," Iris says, leaning up on her elbows and meeting his eyes. "I know, this is part of who you are, but, just this once, no powers okay? Just me and you?"
"Okay," Barry agrees. He toes off his socks and hops out of his pants to the sound of her happy laughter.
He doesn't know where to begin – he has a good decade of sexual fantasies stored up – so he starts with the basics.
She lets him slide her panties the rest of the way down. He takes his sweet time kissing her legs, until they're both hooked over his shoulders. Then he's kissing her in another way altogether. She cries his name when she falls apart, her back arching off the bed.
Then he's kissing her stomach, and pulling that silly shirt off of her. She's got her fingers in the waistband of his underwear and has them tugged off in awkward, hopping seconds.
"That was awkward," Barry admits, with a wry smile.
"I like awkward," she laughs, and pulls him close.
Apparently, Iris wasn't the only detective. Her skills must have worn off on Barry some, because in their few encounters, he knew exactly where and how to touch her to send her right up to the edge, and how to kiss her to send her plunging over.
The entire time, he tells her how much he loves her. How much he wants her. How beautiful she is, how gorgeous, how stunning. He tells her that, yes, he's dreamed about her – yes, he's dreamed about them. That he was avoiding her because he couldn't lie to her, that he kept coming back, because he couldn't resist her. That he felt awful about her not knowing.
And she tells him how much she loves him. How good his skin feels. That she wants to see his eyes when he slides inside her. She tells him that, yes, of course, she knew – that she worried about him, that she admired him, that she thought he was so brave, and strong, and good, and kind. That he couldn't hide those things with a mask – not from her.
She cries his name to her heart's content, not caring who hears, wanting the world to know he was hers.
"I love you," Iris says again.
"God, I love you, too, Iris," Barry says, then he says it again, against her mouth, and again, against her neck, and one more time, for good measure, into her ear.
…
They order in Chinese food, and eat in bed, half naked, with chopsticks. His back is against the head board, and she sits in between his legs, leaning back on his chest. He picks food out of her carton, and she lets him.
"So, how was work?" she asks, in between bites.
"Good. We had Secret Santa today," he laughs as he watches Iris stop mid bite. She's already turning around to apologize. "I didn't get a present."
"Sorry," she draws the word out, "Sorry."
Barry shakes his head knowingly. He aims a chopstick at her. "I knew Joe got my name."
"Well, let's not tell him that I gave you an experience you'd never forget."
Barry's grin grows, if that is at all possible, and she finds herself grinning back.
At the same time, they say: "Lord of the Rings tickets."