Author's Notes: In Greek and Roman mythology, Castor and Pollux were twins. "Inseparable, the brothers always acted together." They "were worshiped as gods who helped shipwrecked sailors and who brought favorable winds for those who made sacrifices to them."
Sometimes, Iris looks at Barry and only sees Barry.
The Flash takes a leave of absence, letting her familiarly dorky best friend play captain for a time. It's refreshing: she likes seeing the playful, warm side of him. She likes how he throws his arms in the air after bowling a spare and lets her tease him over her strike. She likes that he gets them drinks even though he can't get drunk. She likes that he'll hold her "and . . . sway" when she asks him if he wants to dance, hands comfortable at her hips, there but not presumptive, idly aware of the front they maintain.
He's grown a lot in six months. Despite withdrawing into his shell post-singularity, Barry came out of the experience stronger. His experiences resonate: when he's out in the field, Iris knows he's more careful now than he used to be. Less cocky-with-a-bullhorn bravado; more attentive, focused on de-escalating situations. Barry strives to be the hero he doesn't think he already is, to merit their interest, to honor their trust – to work himself until there is no Barry left, only The Flash.
Needless to say, it's reassuring to see that the dork of her college years is still around. In many ways, not much has changed: Captain Singh still regularly calls him out for minor infractions and Dad still good-naturedly complains about the amount of cereal bowls he plows through in a week (albeit, that figure is now in the low twenties). He's still a forensics scientist. He's still a ridiculous overeager geek who enjoys talking about asteroids like he's planning to buy one soon.
"How do they name asteroids?"
"Funny you should mention it, they actually have a system—"
And that tends to be the point in the grand scientific adventure that is Barry Allen's Stream of Consciousness where Iris settles for picking at his blueberry muffin. Nodding and mm-hming periodically (really, he doesn't need much encouragement; there are a lot of rocks in space), Iris silently tests how much muffin she can steal before he notices.
She likes crashing in his corners, whether it's at the precinct or home or Star Labs. He makes space for her – scooting over, welcoming her in, tightening an already busy schedule to fit in a well-needed rant, always there for her when she needs him. Of course, there are times when she knows how busy he is and seeks Linda's companionship instead, or Caitlin's, which usually means Cisco is also involved, which tends to devolve into pizza night at their place while Barry runs off to ostensibly not run himself into the ground.
But despite growing up and learning from his experiences, occasionally Barry does run himself into the ground.
It should have tipped Iris off at the precinct when, by three-thirty, Barry had already taken his leave. By the time she reaches Star Labs, she thinks there's a big project in progress, but Star Labs is empty. Even a detour to the particle accelerator yields no results.
Fear spikes Iris' pulse, mind helpfully leaping to worst-case scenarios. She texts him, knowing that overreaction won't help.
When a quick response isn't forthcoming, Iris heads home and keeps her head up, deliberately calm despite the unease stirring in her belly. There's a reasonable explanation for it. Of that, she's certain.
The front door sways inward and Iris takes in the low snores coming from the couch.
Her relief is almost palpable. Kicking off her shoes, she says, "Don't scare me like that."
Barry doesn't respond – not that she expects him to – so she walks over, intending to sit on his back until he acknowledges her. He's got one arm draped over his eyes and the other dangling off the edge of the couch, still decked out in a pair of sweat pants and a Star Labs shirt. After a moment's deliberation, Iris sits on the arm of the couch and asks, "Bar?"
Barry twitches, arm sliding off his face after a moment as he squints at her, hair askew. "Hey." His voice is heavy, wiped out. "Didn't think you'd be home so soon." Then, lifting his wrist, he squints at his watch, adding with an idly confused noise, "Oh." Dropping his arm over his eyes, he makes a noncommittal noise before wordlessly drifting back into unconsciousness.
Well, that answers are you okay.
Iris pats his knee once consolingly before getting up. She knows this Barry, too, the one who crashes after the Flash's sugar-high of saving people wears off. As long as he isn't bleeding out, maimed, or impaled, then he'll be fine. (The fact that she has contingency plans and real experience with all of the above makes exhaustion pale by comparison.)
Setting up at the kitchen table, Iris pores over an article and a bowl of grapes, productive and centered. Her concentration drifts as Barry shifts position on the couch continuously, eventually resorting to lying face-down. He seems almost comfortable like that, so Iris leaves him alone, finishing up fully two thirds of the article before a low, frustrated groan precedes him shifting positions yet again.
Getting up, she sits on the couch next to him. "Beds are more comfortable than couches," Iris points out, rubbing a thumb idly over his shin. When Barry doesn't respond, she stands. "Come on." On her feet, she grabs his arm, tugging lightly until he sits up.
Ushering him upstairs is no easy feat – especially since he nearly walks into a wall instead of the stairs not once but twice – but Iris gets him there. He stumbles under his own power to his room, all but collapsing onto the sheets, face-first; Iris follows and waits a moment. When he doesn't stir, she asks, "Need anything?"
Barry grunts once.
"I'm heading out tonight with Linda – think you can manage?"
In response, Barry snores.
"Awesome." Shutting the door, Iris thinks, Central City's finest, everyone.
. o .
Two hours later, the Flash is on the news.
Iris knows it as soon as it happens because her metahuman feed on her phone goes wild, and sure enough, there's the scarlet speedster himself with no less than four kindergartners monkeyed to him, a school bus sitting on its side by the road. On camera, he keeps his back to the screens, addressing the kids, setting down the two in either arm before helping the girl from his shoulders. The boy clinging to his back seems reluctant to let go, eliciting a quiet huff as Barry crouches down, encouraging him to let go.
Of course, as soon as he's on their level, the Flash is promptly swarmed with six-year-olds, each trying to cling to him.
Iris tries to ignore it, but the urge to confirm – and the undeniably rich opportunity for a positive report on the Flash – is too strong.
"I'm sorry," Iris tells Linda, who waves a hand.
"Go get your boy," she replies with an all-too-knowing smile.
On the scene, Barry hasn't moved, sitting on the ground cross-legged and listening to the kids as they talk. Despite being in the presence of a superhero (no matter what Barry says), they seem more interested in talking to him, Barry's lips twitching in a smile underneath the mask as he directs his attention to as many of them as he can. He hugs the ones that walk up to him, mid-speech. They hold onto his neck until he squeezes them gently, slipping their hold before they fully realize he's done so.
Iris keeps her distance, standing behind and to the left of him. He's getting faster, but it still dizzies her to see the damage – or, rather, potential damage. Everyone is safe. A paramedic attends to the shell-shocked driver while the kids insist on staying close to Barry.
Within fifteen minutes, anxious parents arrive on the scene, drawing their kids' attention from the Flash, a sense of reality returning to their sphere of surreal calm as the kids disperse, one-by-one. Once it's down to just two kids, Barry pushes himself to his feet, somewhat stiffly, a beacon for the twins' older brother. He actually puts a hand on Barry's shoulder, squeezing it hard, a wordless thank you, before refocusing entirely on the kids.
"Nice work, Flash," Iris says, stepping forward, and she can see the satisfied grin tugging the corners of his lips even though there's the faintest tremble in his legs.
"Just doing my job," he replies in that familiarly metallic voice, straightening his shoulders and taking off.
. o .
At home, Iris is tempted to chain him to the couch to keep him from running off again. He looks miserable, sitting upright with his head in his hands again.
The husk in his voice is obvious now that it isn't warbled. "I had to."
Iris squeezes his shoulder. He's right – the Flash couldn't not respond. Ninety-nine-to-one, the Flash's goals overrules Barry's. Physical and mental exhaustion are secondary: pain can be managed, shock can be absorbed, systems can be recharged. All that matters in the moment is get the job done.
She just wishes the Flash could speed through the repercussions. Instead, it's Barry, putting on a smile at the precinct even though he's nursing a set of cracked ribs, living his life with the Flash's baggage. Secrecy is too paramount: no matter how uncomfortable, Barry has to pretend to be fine – and the Flash does, too.
Don't let them know you're not strong enough to fight them.
Sitting beside the Flash – beside Barry – Iris doesn't sense weakness. She knows he would get up to his dying breath to defend another human being. There is no stopping him. He shakes pain off because he has to; confronts the impossible because no one else can. Iris can't – and won't – stop him from being the Flash.
The Flash just needs to stop destroying Barry in the process.
Oblivious to her concern, Barry curls up around the arm of the couch, asleep in seconds. She can feel the energy radiating off of him, burning like heat but less intense, comfortable. Healing. Unconstrained, it relaxes her own shoulders, sinking under her skin, apologetic and sincere, like a hug.
What startles her is how healing just being in its presence is, as if for a moment the energy doesn't consider them separate entities but embraces her, too. She feels powerful, calm, wondering if this is how Barry feels every time he steps into the fray and lets it take control. One hand resting absentmindedly on an ankle connects her directly to it, her free hand balancing her phone as she scrolls through her feed.
There are pictures of the Flash and those kids, and in print Iris only sees Barry, his open, friendly manner shining as he sits with them, staying with them until the crisis has passed. What the pictures don't reveal – what she was too far away to feel – was the way the lightning reached outward, persuasive, calming, in control. It kept them close, keeps them safe, promising it'll be okay. She can see why they wanted to hug him – the surety of it is intoxicating. She wants to hug him, overwhelmed at how sweet it is.
Instead, she stays close, keeping guard, letting him recover.
Barry might bear the Flash's baggage, but he doesn't do it unaided. The lightning belongs to both of them – the hero and the mask – and it doesn't distinguish between them. It is there when Barry needs it, but even when the mask is gone, when the Flash is formally clocked out for the evening, it remains.
She'd been infatuated with the Flash: who wouldn't be? The charm, the confidence, that irresistible smirk and gentle persuasion, the way he said what other girls?
He was predictable, good, and it made her feel utterly safe.
But Barry was different. He was safe in a different way: unthreatening, familiar. He was just Barry. He would be with her for the rest of her life. She couldn't imagine a life without him: his easy routines, his familiar friendliness, his intense pride and support for all of her endeavors. He wanted her to be happy.
It was never a question of losing Barry, but the thrill of losing the Flash drew her closer to him. She wanted to make an impression, to mean something, to earn more of his time. With Barry, she already had: she had all of the time in the world. Barry would always be there, but the Flash was fleeting, too-good-to-be-true, and breaking it off with him (we're not breaking up, we weren't even dating) hurts like hell.
But he attacked Eddie.
Barry attacked Eddie.
She forgave him – she'd seen the proof, watched the video as Oliver took him down, brought him back from the edge – but it changed her relationship with the Flash.
They weren't dating anymore (we were never dating), but she still wanted to be friends. So she gave him another chance.
Then she found out Barry was the Flash and it changed everything.
Suddenly predictable was a lie, familiar was a façade, easy was an act, and everything – everything – she knew about Barry had changed.
She'd almost hated him.
Sitting next to him now, Iris thinks about how this is the Flash. Barry is as much a façade for him as the Flash is for Barry: to distinguish between them is to divorce the most fundamental aspect of his being.
I'm the fastest man alive isn't about his speed: it's about the core of his being, how he is a speedster.
When Barry stirs, he looks better – tired, but better, jaw cracking in a yawn. He only makes it to sitting up before groaning and listing onto his side, curling up next to her like she's the one with the lightning under her skin, inexorable, irresistible. Without a word, she lets him. She tangles a hand in his hair as he curls an arm over her thigh, resting his head on top of it and dropping off before she can tease if he's comfortable.
This is comfortable. It's not the fleeting, thrilling uncertainty of being in the Flash's presence, wondering if she'll ever experience it again (the lightning); nor is it the formerly forgettable confirmation of Barry's presence, always there, happy to watch her live. It's comfortable: a halfway space in between, something extraordinary and something utterly familiar.
It's them.
Whatever they are.
And Iris knows that it doesn't matter what the future brings as long as she gets to keep him.