Scene: 1.23 Fast Enough, shortly after closing the singularity, Barry talks to Henry about Nora.
"I had the chance to save her," Barry says, his voice ashy and thin.
Dad puts a hand on the glass wall. "Bar," he says. "You made the right choice."
Barry buries his face in his folded arms. "I had the chance to save her," he repeats tearfully. "I watched her die."
Dad taps the glass. "Hey," he insists. "Look at me." Barry inhales harshly, exhaling a sob. "Bar," Dad repeats, brushing his hand over the glass as if he could touch Barry's head. "What you did takes courage. And strength. And heart."
Barry sniffs, looking up. "She died because of me," he whimpers. "I could've saved her, and I didn't, and that means—"
"You're human," Dad finishes. His eyes burn with silver light in the dim prison overheads. "Kiddo, no one – and I mean no one – in your shoes could've made a more heroic choice."
"I don't wanna be a hero," Barry says tiredly, leaning his head on his hand, elbow on the cold steel table. Hand still cradling the phone, his sole connection to his father. "I wanna be her son."
"You're mine," Dad says fiercely. "You will always be mine. And you're always going to be hers, too."
Barry watches him, hungry, aching for contact he can't have. He puts a hand on the glass wall near his father's palm. "I miss you."
Dad's thumb brushes the glass against his palm. "I miss you, too," he admits. "There has not been one day – not one day, Bar – where I haven't been proud to be your father. And that will never change, whether I'm here or there or anywhere."
Barry nods slowly, tired, bearing a burned smell his father can't taste in the sterile air between them. Two worlds in isolation, the point of contact between them is painfully indirect. But even seeing his father is a balm to a still gaping wound.
He hears a siren in the distance and knows his time is limited. The Flash needs to be out there. The Flash needs to help repair the city in the wake of the singularity.
But Barry lingers a moment longer. "I'm gonna get you out of here," he promises fiercely. Dad says nothing, rubbing his thumb over the glass, thoughtful, supportive, dismissive, in-between. "You're not gonna be here forever."
Dad stares at him with those same silvery eyes, a trick of the light, a glimpse of the soul, and says simply, "Wherever I am, I'm always with you."