"Where did you find those?" Iris asks, awed.
Holding a bouquet of roses, Barry walks towards her, sweeping across the precinct floor. The place is nearly empty at this hour and colder than he expects, but his lightning casts a soft yellow shadow, keeping him warm.
He stops in front of her and hands her the bouquet. In her hands, they are like gold. "We have them on my earth in … spectacular quantities," he explains. Thanks to Harry's efforts, the word "multiverse" is part of the daily vernacular; his statement calls no attention to itself among the other officers in the room. "I wanted to bring you some here, but then I found out that–"
"They've been extinct for centuries," Iris finishes, holding them up to her nose. She inhales deeply and closes her eyes. Her shoulders relax. "This is magical."
"We have thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them," Barry babbles, brushing the back of his neck. There's a shy smile on his face. "They're – very popular."
"They're precious," Iris murmurs. She looks up at him, her eyes starry with wonder. "I've only ever seen pictures." Delicately, she raises a hand and cradles a petal on her forefinger. She asks quietly, "How long do they live?"
"Not very long, once they're cut," Barry admits. "A couple weeks at most."
Iris hums, lifting the roses and tucking them gently under her chin. She looks at him, eyes playful, her collarbones bathed in red and forest green. The mundanity of the gift melts away for Barry: there is something truly magical about the way Iris West-Allen makes roses look. "Do you wear them?" she teases. She holds them up to his throat; he holds very, very still for her. When he inhales, he catches a whiff of her perfume on the roses, like-mother-like-child. "They're extravagant." She brings them back to herself, reaching up to cup a rose and stroke its petals. "And soft."
He rocks on his heels lightly, warmed to his toes by her appreciation of his gift. "You put them in a vase," he explains. "Like you would any other flower. And then you – look at them." She holds out an arm, and he steps into her embrace, the roses cradled between them.
For a moment, he is almost lightheaded, holding the most beautiful woman he knows, adorned with the most beautiful flower he can find. A flower which her world does not know anymore. It makes something ache in his chest with longing, given how permanent they seem, how inherent they seem. He knows the price that he paid for these flowers far undervalues their true worth, because here – everywhere – they're literally priceless.
"What inspired this?" she asks at last, stepping out of his embrace.
He shrugs modestly. "I was thinking of you," he says simply. "I asked Cisco to open a breach." Shaking down his sleeve, he looks at his watch and smiles. "I told him to give me three hours; I've been here for less than one." Looking up at her, he adds, "I didn't want to leave too soon, but I also didn't want to impose. I can find a way to entertain myself—"
She catches him by the coat in one hand as he takes an involuntary step back. "Give me five minutes," she murmurs. With great care, she hands the roses to him. He takes them; they're still warm from her grasp. Nodding in acquiescence, he wanders over to the mural on the wall, ostensibly examining it while quietly listening to the chatter of officers, the faint movement of Iris at her desk, clearing up shop. When she steps up beside him, she asks, "Ready?"
He turns to her, passing the roses back. "Absolutely."
In one hand, she takes the roses; in the other, she takes his. Together, they walk away from it all.
. o .
Iris loves the Barry that isn't hers.
"I don't want to step on his toes," the Barry that isn't hers warns, standing next to her in the elevator. "I know that –" He doesn't finish the thought, even though it lingers in the space between them: you're not my Iris. "I've left you behind in too many worlds," he says at last. "And I—I don't want to leave you behind anymore." With a helpless little chuckle, he admits, "I love you, Iris."
The elevator doors open, and she leads the way, tossing him a small, inviting smile over her shoulder. They step out into the rain, and it drizzles inoffensively around them. It mists the roses still held in her grasp. He shrugs out of his coat and holds it up to shield her; she pinches his side lightly in gratitude, just to make him laugh. He lets out an unexpected chirp, jumping back. Half a second of silence passes before Iris launches into a full-bellied laugh, his cheeks flushing but his half-smile sticking around. She has never heard her Barry make that sound; she didn't think he could.
The novelty delights her in the same way that his presence in the cab, hip-to-hip, delights her. He radiates heat she can feel, a lightning-warmth that originates in the deep-earth, plutonic and pressurized. She leans her head on his shoulder and knows that he could burn her, that the mythical side of him is always present in every breath, in every heartbeat. Her own Barry is bright and soft like summer's silver skies; this Barry is dark, like a universe unto himself, enigmatic and waiting to catch the light that will set him on fire.
She calls her Barry. They exchange pleasantries. Eventually she says, "You-know-who is here."
Her Barry pauses. On speaker, he replies, "Oh. Hi." Then, clearing his throat, he adds, "I feel like there should be a greater disturbance in the force this happens."
Not her Barry lets out a huff of laughter. "That would be nice," he admits. "Especially in my line of work." He clears his own throat. Iris squeezes his hand. "Hey, listen – I don't want to intrude, I just –" The cab stops and they exit together. Iris takes her Barry off speaker. The Barry that isn't hers looks at the phone, lifts an eyebrow, and she passes it to him. "Hey. Yeup." He casually, unthinkingly drapes his coat over her shoulders. It's full of lightning-warmth, tiger-warmth. "Things are good. Yeah. No, I get it – no kissing." The blush on his face is clear even in the semi-darkness of twilight. Iris smiles and tugs on his coat a little. Still here. He offers her a smile, almost nervous. "Uh huh. Don't be a stranger – you're allowed to visit us, too." He huffs again, another almost-laugh. "Yeah, I know. Mmhm. Mmhm. Cool. Bye." He passes the phone back to her.
"Bar?" she asks.
He sighs. Even over the phone, she can't not hear the happy twinge to it. "I love you to the ends of the multiverse. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do, hon." She tucks her arm through his doppelganger's. He squeezes it gently. They step into the shelter of the café together, and she rests the roses on the table between them. Getting up, he points a thumb at the sign over the register. She smiles and mouths, Surprise me. With a nod, he weaves his way towards the line. Iris rests her elbows on the table, shrugging out of his coat. "You can join us, we're at the M. He hasn't ordered yet, so we can still get more cinnamon rolls. And you know the cinnamon rolls here are amazing."
Her Barry groans. "Don't tempt me, I've been so good. I just have four more reports to write."
"Wow, only four," she muses, propping her chin in a hand.
He sighs. She hears him press his forehead against a table. "I wanted this job. I wanted this job. I wanted this job," he chants.
"Join us," she invites. "It'll be good to get out."
He whines against the wood. "Don't tempt me. I promised myself I would get these done before I indulged in any sort of debauchery."
She laughs a little. "Your willpower is substantial, Mr. West-Allen."
She wishes she could see the slow smile on his face. As it stands, his chair scoots back a little, and his voice is clearer when he responds. "It's weird, isn't it? Talking to a … a mirror version of me."
Watching the Barry that isn't hers ordering at the counter, she admits, "It's not … typical."
"I'd say it's like finding out I have a twin I never knew about, but he's not my twin, you know? I feel like he could be saying these exact words. Why is the multiverse so weird?"
"If I ever find out, I promise to tell you," she assures. Not her Barry returns with a pair of coffees and a single giant cinnamon roll on a plate. Iris smiles. She chose well. "Are we good?"
He sighs. "Don't let my superhero self sweep you off your feet. Statistically, he's probably a snorer."
"Pot, kettle?" she reminds, eyebrow raised. She reaches for and breaks off a chunk of cinnamon roll. "I love you, babe. I'll see you soon."
"I love you, too. Bye."
Not her Barry doesn't flinch when she rests her feet on top of his. She strokes her foot experimentally down his calf and he nearly flips the table in surprise. "Sorry, sorry," she hastens to apologize. "I – curiosity?" She smiles helplessly. She doesn't admit that her Barry reacted the same way the first time she tried it. It's almost disarming, how similar they are – she half-expects her Barry to laugh and break the quieter demeanor of his doppelganger.
"No, no, it's fine, it's – " He laughs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. His face is on fire. He takes a sip of coffee to distract himself. "I'm intruding. Curiosity is fine."
She asks, "What's your favorite color?"
He frowns. "Blue." One-for-one. He takes a bite of the cinnamon roll and groans deeply. "Oh, my God." Two-for-two, Iris thinks, smirking as she pulls off another bite-sized chunk. "H'ohhh my God, Iris." When he doesn't reach for more, she picks off a piece for him and lays it on the table in front of him.
"What's in these?" he asks, pupils blown. "They're like –" He pops the bite into his mouth and groans. "Oh, my God."
"Do you not have cinnamon rolls … at home?" she asks. Dr. Wells has disseminated the "multiverse proof" fairly broadly, but it's difficult enough explaining her husband's doppelganger to her husband; she'd rather not deal with inquisitive stares from strangers for the rest of the evening.
"We do, but they're not – Iris, this is like a drug, it's so—" He takes a big chunk and just inhales deeply. "God, I love your Earth," he says shamelessly, and yes, a couple of strangers do catch her eye, but she smiles at them, and they look away. "These would be illegal back home. I refuse to believe they're not a controlled substance." He devours his bite so fast he accidentally Flashes; it's just there and gone. Thankfully, no one else is even watching, and she barely sees it. "Wow."
She props her feet up on his shins again. "I'd tell you the recipe, but it's a very closely guarded secret."
"Hm." He picks at the cinnamon roll, barely looking at her as he devours it. "Hm. Mm. Wow. I love this."
She rubs her foot along his calf. He looks at her again. "Hi," she says. "You two are … very similar."
He blinks uncomprehendingly. Then, curious, he frowns and asks, "But you knew it was me – when I showed up at the precinct. How?"
"No cane."
The frown only deepens. "Did something happen?" he asks.
Iris snags another bite from the cinnamon roll. "Bad guy with a gun took a bite out of his left hip during a report. He'll heal," she assures, because the unharmed Barry across from her looks aghast, "but it's been a long process."
"When did this happen?"
"Two months ago. He's almost off the cane," she adds. Then, reaching up, she taps the bridge of his nose. "There's also the glasses. But he has contacts, too."
He mulls that over, reaching for another bite before retracting his hand when he sees how little is left. Iris pushes the plate towards him and takes a sip of her drink. It's perfect. She almost laughs. "Chai tea?" she says instead, affecting a disappointed frown. "Barry."
He's already pushing back his seat, her feet sliding back to the floor. "I can get you something else–"
"Did you get four percent or skim?"
He blinks. "What's four percent?"
She cocks her head at him. "You clearly got skim, but – four percent is – you know. The fat content. Four percent milk." He blinks again. She reaches out and squeezes his hands, taking pity on him by assuring, "Babe. You did good."
His ears turn red, but he smiles. "Yeah? Because that's –" He doesn't finish, doesn't need to: her coffee order. "Cool. You know, we just call it 'whole milk' back home."
Iris scrunches up her nose. "That sounds gross."
"It's the same thing," he clarifies. "Four percent fat content. Sometimes three. Between three and four."
"It sounds like it's all fat."
He makes a touche noise. "Do you want another drink? I'd be more than happy to—"
"Go get another cinnamon roll," she advises, patting his hip. "The drink is fine."
"Fine as in 'I like this,' or—"
"Barr—"
He zips off, reappearing before she can even finish his name. The cinnamon roll plate rattles a little before spinning to a halt. "One very hot cinnamon roll, for the gentlelady," he says, taking a seat and sucking on his fingers. "They don't put warning labels on those things, ow."
Iris cautiously holds a hand over the cinnamon roll before peeling off a bite. She pops it into her mouth and smiles. "Doesn't seem that hot to me."
He slants a smile back, brushing his hands off on a napkin. "I've seen Joe take trays out of the oven with his bare hands. You Wests are made of tougher stuff." Then his smile softens, fades. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"
"No," she says. "He's – it's okay. He liked you." She takes another sip of coffee to keep the line of her mouth flat, and not trembling. "It's not like we can't talk about him."
"I'm sorry," Barry repeats.
She shrugs. "I'm glad you were there. Even if I wish –" He waits, but she can't bring herself to verbalize it: even if I wish it had been him. Some things were sacred, and it felt – sacrilegious, to grieve with the alternative Barry, the Barry who wasn't truly hers. "He was so scared that I was going to die that he turned that fear on you," she redirects. Then, softly, she clarifies, "On – him. This was back when Zoom was still a rumor, before he had a name. Before he was a cop-killer."
The name still sits heavily in her stomach. She won't ever forget the fear and rage and anguish of that night. She knows that she could have been there, could have tried to help – could have been another body lying on the precinct floor waiting to be bagged. "Dad was almost okay with it until that night. Barry was in Starling, covering another case, but he took a redeye and got in as soon as he could. Everything changed."
Barry picks off another piece of cinnamon roll. "Joe and I – have had our fights," he allows. "Back home. When my mother died—" He swallows hard.
Iris frowns. "Your mother died?" He bites into the cinnamon roll, silent, suddenly distant. "Bar?"
"She was murdered when I was eleven."
The hard lines make sense. "I'm so sorry."
"It's – it won't ever be okay, but I've found peace with it."
Her voice is soft, genuinely curious. If there is one thing she knows, there is a profound and real difference between the two Barrys. She knows that she can learn from this one, too.
He smiles ruefully. "I had a – long time to think about it," he allows. "And I had a case to solve. They arrested my father for her murder, but he didn't do it." There's steel in his voice, and she can feel the Sisyphean strength, pushing a boulder uphill for years. "He was innocent. I had to prove it. It took fifteen years." His voice is tight, and his hands clench into fists for a moment before relaxing. "You don't move past an open case. That's one thing I've learned, being a CSI all these years – you can't let it go. It's easier to bury someone than it is to never know if they're still out there, somehow."
She reaches out and squeezes his hand. He takes a breath, collecting his thoughts. "Turns out another speedster was responsible," he says in a low voice. "A man named Eobard Thawne. Called himself the Reverse Flash." His lip curls in the hint of a sneer when he says it. "Calls, unfortunately. The joys of the multiverse." He lifts his cup with his free hand, a mock toast. "We took care of him, but – it's hard to kill a speedster."
Iris feels something cold sink into her spine. "Is Zoom really dead?"
The man who looks exactly like her Barry, and still somehow, irrefutably is not, is quiet for a long time. "It depends on how big the multiverse is," he allows at last. "If we're some sort of … multiversal focal point, and everything stems from us and our actions, then yes. The Zoom we knew is dead." The alternative makes her tighten her grip on his hand. He gives it voice: "But if there are … dozens, hundreds, millions, billions, countless other multiverses, then …" He reaches up to brush a hand over his eyes. "Then I have a lot of work to do," he finishes quietly.
He sounds so tired it makes her heart ache. "Barry, you can't save everyone," she tells him softly. His hand tightens, pinching his brow. There's a feral fire under his skin that won't be curbed, and when he lowers his hand and looks at her, his eyes are gold. "No matter how strong you are, how fast you are – you can't save everyone." She holds his gaze, even when her eyes begin to burn, because he does not blink. "Trust me," she finishes. "I'm a cop."
Eyes still flushed with gold lightning, he scoops her hands up, cradling them in his own. "He is so lucky to love you," he whispers, bringing his hands to his chin but not his lips. He just holds her hands there for a moment, and she is reminded of the roses underneath his chin, how they flushed faintly gold against him, because the glow he emits is so soft it's almost invisible. He's intense, something else, sharp where she expects soft edges, dangerous where she expects him to be steadier than the sea. Wild.
"And I'm lucky to love her," he finishes, lowering her hands to the table, to the stems of the roses. "I am—" He swallows. There are tears in his eyes, but his smile is so real, and it takes Iris' breath away as he looks at her with dim, human eyes she knows. "I am so, so lucky to love you, Iris."
She strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. "Why did you come?" she asks softly.
He ducks his head a little. "I don't sleep very well," he admits. "Not since – things have been, chaotic recently." He shrugs. "Cisco's a night owl, he just thinks I wanted to make sure everything's okay here with Jesse. There's a time difference," he adds. "Between your world and mine. It's much, much later back home."
Iris glances out the twilit windows, the darkening sky. Looking back at him, she asks, "So, it's like a dream?"
"Almost," he admits. Something sinks out of his shoulders, a tension he'd been unconsciously carrying, and suddenly she sees her Barry in him, in his soft eyes, his warm smile, his slightly slouched and deeply relaxed posture. "God, it feels good just to talk to you," he says, and squeezes her hands. "I mean, I talk to – her, of course. Of course," he insists fiercely. "But sometimes, when it's late like this, and I can't sleep, I just – I have to make sure you're okay, too. That the multiverse isn't broken when I'm not watching it."
She lets go of his hands and cups his face with one instead. He closes his eyes. He looks even more like her Barry, and for a moment she thinks she's the one dreaming. But his face is warm and slightly stubbly under her palm, a little rougher than her Barry's, and there is knowledge in his eyes that her Barry has never touched. Pain. She strokes her thumb over his cheek once before lowering her hand.
He finally looks down at his watch, and then at her, and smiles sadly.
They polish off the plate and gather their things. She puts on Barry's coat; he lets have it without a word. They greet the rain with roses, walking arm-in-arm. They don't get far before he asks, "Do you trust me?" She nods, and he very gently picks her up, his strength astonishing her, this close. She can feel his heartbeat flying in his chest, and that is the only precursor she has before he takes off, and the world dissolves into darkness and stars for a breath.
Then they're home, and he sets her down, and the whirlwind of magic chases her joyfully, little harmless sparks of electricity fading into silence. The roses are still in her hands, and his face is flushed with joy. "That's amazing," she tells him, putting her arms around his neck again and squeezing it. He kisses her cheek, and then they break apart gently. "You'll be safe?" she asks, stroking his arm a little, unconsciously needing to ground him, to keep him. It seems strange – beyond strange; wrong – to send him away.
Stay with me.
She wants to take him inside, wants to curl up with him, wants to live in his embrace, in the ways he is so familiar and in the ways he will never be.
He rocks her lightly, assuring, "I'm right beside you. No matter where I am. No matter where we are."
"Please stay safe," she urges, the roses in her hand pressed against his side. "Please."
He leans his forehead against hers and says nothing. A tear tracks down her face. "I promise," he tells her, and gently lets her go.
She doesn't move, so he knocks on the door twice, and a voice from within calls, "Coming!" Iris hears the click of a cane, and then the lightning-warm Barry takes her hand, squeezing it once, and says softly, "I still love you."
And then he's gone, just as the door opens, just as her Barry appears. "Iris," he says, and his smile is relieved, and his eyes are tired behind the glasses she loves but God, he doesn't even hesitate to hobble forward another step and hug her. "Hi, hey."
She squeezes him back, a little too tightly – he grunts, almost in pain, but doesn't let go, insisting, "Are you okay?"
"I love you," she tells him, nesting a hand in his hair at the base of his neck. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
He looks at her, all soft human eyes and familiar smiles, but she can see the hint of steel in his shoulders, a hint of strength hidden and untapped, potential waiting to become kinetic. She thinks about him infused with lightning, consumed by lightning, and finds she doesn't need it to need him. "I love you, too," he says, and she can't help but lean up and kiss him.
They venture inside, retreating from the rain, and he has to wipe off his glasses, and still leans into the cane when he walks, but he is her golden boy, and she will love him forever.
"Those are beautiful," he tells her, and she realizes she is still holding the roses – and they're more worn than Iris remembers them, petals missing, ruffled around the edges – but she still finds a smile.
Lightning boy, she muses, placing the roses in a vase that her Barry fills, and they keep it on the table, in sight, and look at them for a very long time.
"How did we ever lose these?" he says at last, reaching out to gently run a forefinger down a petal.
Iris thinks about it, and thinks about that vast multiverse around them, and the roses safe-harbored elsewhere, and admits, "I don't think we did.
"Home just isn't here."
. o .
Stepping into their apartment just before dawn, Barry is quiet but not quiet enough when he slips back underneath the covers. "Mm, babe?" Iris asks, rolling over and tangling her arms around him without opening her eyes. "You okay?" She curls a leg over his, resting her cheek on his chest. Soaking in his lightning-warmth, and he purrs quietly in relief because he loves this, loves her, so much.
Resting his chin on top of her head, cradling her in his arms, he thinks of those roses, and smiles, letting a tear drip down his cheek. "Never better," he promises, rubbing her back gently.
"Never better."