The final temperature reading on Barry's suit is 171 degrees Fahrenheit.
It's impossible to judge his internal body temperature, permitted only a profound sense of scorching heat. Knowing that the suit's coolant system has broken down in Speed-time creates the possibility that it could provide great relief, were he in real-time. Since he is not in real-time and cannot be in real-time, it doesn't matter. He's suffocating in Speed-time, drowning in Speed-time. He falters and fumbles along the steel wall, staggering on alone, divorced from every human being on Planet Earth.
There is only one he must reach, in these final, dying moments. One he must find.
He needs the suit to hold out, his legs to hold out, until he finds her. Then whatever the universe desires, it may reap. He needs only her. He must stagger on.
In a truly staggering number of universes, tragedy defines this moment. In untold realities, he dies in Iris' arms. He dies halfway to the Cortex. He dies in the middle of the street. To capture the enormity, one must imagine billions and billions and billions of universes where Barry West-Allen dies in a fire.
At last, he finds her.
Staggering over to her, he hesitates, hands shaking, hands flinching back. There's no time for this, he decides, and finally takes her shoulders in hand, hands-shaking, her-shoulders-flinching-back, until they find their equilibrium. Then she takes it all in, astonished and horrified in equal parts. Still her gaze is fixed on him, soft and affectionate, anxious and so, so sad.
Not for the world, no – because she doesn't believe in no-win scenarios, and neither does he, even though he is the one with molten Speed in his veins, fire around him – but for him. She cups his cheeks and her hands are deliciously cool against his skin. She supports his weight, not easily, but effectively.
For Barry, reeling in those final moments, the best-case scenario of the worst-case outcome is to die with Iris, his face pressed to her shoulder, her hands cradling his neck, his entire body leaning against her. Overheating and exhausted, he struggles for breath, for solid ground. He can barely speak. For a time, he cannot open his eyes.
She talks to him softly. She talks to him like they have time, lacking Harry's pandemonium and Cisco's panic. She talks to him soothingly, slowly, forgivingly. She talks to him with the calm, authoritative softness that belongs to the Sun as it heralds each Earthrise, majestic in repose, extraordinary in being.
I am here, the Sun assures the Earth. I cannot change the way you spin or the bounties of stars around us. I am strong and fierce and protective of this small universe of mine, but I am humble, too. There are fortunes I will never know and misfortunes I will never experience. There are infinities beyond my grasp. One day, as assuredly as you, I will die. But until that day comes, I will persist alongside you. I will be here.
That is all Iris can promise from such a vast distance. Unlike their cosmic counterparts, they are not separated by 93 million miles. Rather, they are divided by the vast ethereal Ether that is the Speed Force and the humble mute marble that is the multiverse. As soon as he lets go, Barry knows, she will be left behind, lost in translation, frozen in the multiverse's sense of time.
Ninety-three million miles. It's a measure that is both too far to describe the breathlessness between them as they hold each other, and too near to encapsulate how utterly stranded they are. Barry clutches Iris not because he wishes to protect her – although he does, and always will – but because he needs to be with her. He needs to be close to her, to be captured by her. He needs to be held by someone strong enough to take the weight of the world off his shoulders.
Tear-stained and tired, he presses his burning face against her cool shoulder. She voices her concern – Barry, oh my God, you're burning up – but he doesn't move. He can't move. He is so heavy and tired that he will simply fall to the floor and die if he pulls back. In billions and billions and billions and billions of universes – enabled by those equal-opportunity levers of fate labelled yes and no, operating in every conceivable scenario, stretching from the beginning of time to that horizonless entity out-there called Eternity – he does precisely that.
Sobbing breathlessly, he tries to tell her that he tried, he tried everything he could and still he wasn't enough, he tried every action he could think of because the city needed him, and he still failed. He tried every solution he could formulate because it was the reason he had powers at all, and still he failed. He won't have a tombstone in those tragic universes, but somewhere in the wind the whisper remains, Barry Allen's final words: I tried.
She shushes him and assures him that he never needed to do more. Every moment was enough. It was all enough, exactly where it stood. She wants another day – he can feel it in her, the urge to keep fighting, to keep going even when the fight is already over – but she looks fondly on those past Earthrises. She knows, too well, what it is like to stand this close to Death, to experience the end of everything.
He wants to give her everything, to show her the love she deserves, to be the hero she needs.
In the end, she is his hero. She finds the way. She shows him the right path.
Given a clear course of action, his animal instinct takes over. Told where to go, he moves. Told what to do, he succeeds.
When he opens his eyes, lying on the warehouse floor, the world is soft-edged and grey, every muscle aches dully, and his ears are ringing. Joe, close to him, says something. Barry can't quite make out the words, so he asks if they're dead instead. Joe says no. Barry closes his eyes again, overcome with gratitude for that simple negation, that joyful proof. We're alive.
Wrung out, he can't sit up on his own, let alone walk. He doesn't need to; he isn't the only one alive anymore. He passes on the torch of consciousness. He awakes as someone sets him down on a soft surface. When he blinks, eyes barely open, he sees that he's in a white-walled room.
Six shadows crowd near him. The closest one unzips the jacket of his suit, maneuvering his arms carefully through the sleeves. He wants to help, but it's so much effort. Even with his back on the elevated gurney, he cannot find the strength to move. He closes his eyes instead. When he opens them again, he's in a soft grey sweater and a dark pair of sweatpants. He feels more tired than he has in years.
He wonders if he didn't slip into a coma and has not the courage to ask.
But even the panic arising from that will not come; it simmers low before flickering out. Belatedly, he realizes that Iris is next to him. She rubs circles against his palm idly. When the others file out (notably, not before soliciting promises from him that he'll rest), she stays with him. She tells him to scoot over, so he does, and then she tucks herself against his side and cuddles him.
It's suddenly much, much harder to stay awake.
It's been a long day.
"It's okay," she tells him, because she knows he needs to hear it. He fumbles for her hand, eyes shut. In the self-imposed darkness, he finds it. He squeezes it weakly. His strength will come back to him, but slowly. On its own time. "I've got you," she promises. She rests their intertwined hands on his belly. Her cheek is on his shoulder. His breathing evens out.
"L've you," he murmurs, last-breath-soft, losing the tug-of-war with consciousness. She kisses his jaw, holding it there for a long moment.
"Love you more," she replies, equally soft, and that is all, and it is enough.
To be with her, however fragilely, however impermanently, will always be enough.