Intermission: Barry.
T-minus 441 days.
"Hey, Bar?"
"Mm-hm?" Standing on top of a chair, Barry sticks out his tongue as he unscrews the lightbulb in the kitchen. "Did she pick Derek?"
"Who?"
"Silver fox." Tucking the old bulb into his Batman shorts' pocket, he adds, "No?"
"N – I don't know." Iris flicks off The Bachelorette and gets up from the couch, approaching him. "Babe, focus."
"In three – two – one." He clicks the new bulb into place and beams as it lights up, hopping down and twirling to face her. "Oh hey you're really close to me—" His gaze drifts down to the laptop in her hands, screen facing him, and that – is an adorable baby. "Aw," he says. "Whose kid?"
"Nobody's." He cocks his head to one side. "I don't know. Stranger's on the Internet."
"Uh huh." Flicking his gaze up to meet hers, he asks, "And you're … looking up babies on the Internet because you…" He blinks. Then he grins, warmth fanning across his chest. "For real?"
"I'm not saying we have to do anything now," she assures quickly, setting her laptop down on the kitchen table. He saunters closer; she wraps her arms around his bare chest, holding onto her own wrist behind his back. He flattens his hands against her shoulders, swaying lightly. "We're young. We can wait."
"Yeah, but – we don't have to wait," he points out with a sly smile. "You know?"
"Barry." She squeezes his waist. "Be serious. Do you want a baby?"
He thinks about it for a moment before making an affirmative noise. "Yeah?" She lifts her eyebrows challengingly. "I mean, I wanna be a dad someday, that's never changed," he assures. "And we've been married for two years, so it's not like we haven't enjoyed the glow of being alone together. I think we're ready."
She hums, sliding her hands down his sides before settling them at the band of his Batman shorts. "We're gonna be millennial parents, aren't we?"
Barry pretends to think about it. "Mm-hm." She plucks the bad lightbulb out of his pocket and sets it on the table, reeling him in closer. Between the summer heat and her proximity in nothing but boy shorts and a bra, it's really workin' for him. "So, about that baby…."
She rolls her eyes, but when she leans up on tiptoe to kiss him, there's only affection and heat and something like giddiness bubbling between them.
They're gonna have a baby.
Main: Iris.
T-minus 440 days.
"Two days a month, huh?"
"Mm-hm."
"That's pretty narrow."
Iris shrugs, gliding her hand down his arm, brushing against the grain of the hairs there. "I think we can make it work."
Lying flat on his back next to her in their bed, he tilts his head to look at her, hair tussled. He smirks. "Yeah?" He has one arm behind his head and the other curled around her, thumb stroking her shoulder. Speed-purrs fill the space between them like rainfall, soft and soothing. "You think we can? Seems …" yawning, he shuffles closer, "like a real challenge. Might take us more than one try."
She rolls her eyes and reaches up to ruffle his hair. He buries his nose between her neck and shoulder, making a halfhearted reproving sound. Curling an arm up behind his shoulders, she strokes the base of his neck. His half-lidded eyes slide shut. "It can happen during any time. That's just the best window. According to the Internet."
He hums, sliding his hand down to brush the small of her back. "Do we trust the Internet?"
"Occasionally," she replies. "It's science. You love science."
"I do love science," he agrees, yawning and concluding, "but I love you more."
She drapes a leg over both of his, holding onto him. "I love you."
T-minus 438 days.
"I will end the man who decided periods were an acceptable thing," Iris vows, hugging a pillow.
"Mm, just let me take a whack at him before you finish him off," Linda replies, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "So. What'd he say?"
Iris leans over to snag the open mini-carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream from the coffee table. "What'd who say?"
Linda rolls her eyes, reaching for a strawberry carton. "Soon-to-be-baby-daddy, RE: baby?" she prompts.
Iris pops a generous spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, feigning ignorance. She can't hold it for long, a secretive smile finally giving her away. Linda slaps Iris' foot lightly, gushing, "He said yes?"
Iris tucks the spoon into her mouth, smiling and nodding once.
T-minus 432 days.
They go to the zoo, and Barry muses almost out of the blue, "What do you think their favorite animal's gonna be?"
Swinging their intertwined hands, Iris muses, "Polar bear."
"That's your favorite."
"Okay, Mister." She lets go of his hand, walking backwards on the long wooden walkway between exhibits. There's rain in the air, and it's near closing, but she loves it. Summer is her favorite. "What do you think?"
He smiles, holding out a hand and taking hers, lifting his arm after a beat so she can do a little twirl under it, pretty yellow sundress fanning around her. "Polar bear," he says at last.
She laughs, and holds his hand in the rain.
T-minus 431 days.
NASA has a word for it, a simple sterile acronym: LOS.
One moment Barry is saying on the other side of comms, "Guys, I'm not picking up on—"
Then the audio cuts out. Iris' grip on the central console tightens, but she forces herself to mentally step back, to standby. It's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine. "—got anything on your side?" Barry finishes, uninterrupted. "Guys?"
Iris exhales. "You went dark for a second," Cisco chimes in, feet up on the table, a Red Vine hanging from his mouth. "You good?"
"Yup, just not seeing anything unusual. Remind me what I'm looking for?"
"According to the rumor mill, an 'Orca,'" Cisco says. "And yes, I mean the literal and actual animal."
"I thought you were kidding."
"Buddy," Cisco levels an unimpressed look at the mic. "I never kid."
"…A'right."
Iris sinks back into her chair as the comms go silent once more.
"Y'okay?" Cisco asks after a beat, swiveling in his seat and holding out his pack of Red Vines to her. "Red Vine?"
Sighing, she takes one and bites into it. Maybe there's something to eating sweets in high-stress situations. They play the danger off – they have to, or there's no way any of them would go out into the field – but it doesn't make the uncertainty any easier.
LOS means one of two things: 1) everything is fine or 2) nothing is.
She polishes off the Red Vine, and the panic beacon lights up.
Cisco is out of his chair in a second, levity forgotten. He's already suited up; he just throws open a breach, says shortly, "Be right back," and vanishes before Iris can even think to follow him.
The little panic beacon continues flashing red on the computer. She's staring at it until it's all she can see, and then a breach opens in the middle of the Cortex and Barry and Cisco tumble out of it. Cisco has an arm around Barry, who is slouched at a fairly steep angle towards the floor. Iris rushes forward to help support him on the opposite side and gets a caterwauling cry, letting go instantly. "Easy, easy, easy," Cisco chants.
Stepping back, Iris feels Barry's blood on her shoulders. It only takes her a second to zero in on his left arm, dangling awkwardly at his side and torn open at the elbow, like something caught him by the back of it and refused to leave empty-handed. Which is likely exactly what happened, she realizes, dazed, as Cisco and Barry stagger over to a gurney. Barry half-sits, half-collapses onto the bed. "Gotta—set it," he grunts, face ashen pale, and Cisco's breath punches out of him.
"Okay – all right."
They should never have done this without Caitlin, Iris thinks, stepping forward and cautiously taking up Cisco's spot as he moves over to Barry's left arm. "Hey," she says, and he lets out a thin little gasping noise that might be hey but is likely just another enunciation of pain.
"Gauze," he pants, and gesticulates anxiously at his mouth. Iris doesn't fully understand, but on auto-pilot she fetches a roll. When she hands it to him, he shoves it between his teeth, his groans muffled but louder than before.
"Okay," Cisco says, and Iris sits next to Barry, heart pounding. "All right, okay. This is – not gonna lie, this is gonna suck."
Barry nods, his hand maintaining a death-grip on the cushion. Iris rests her own on top of it, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. She knows better than to pry it free, because he can and has broken Cisco's hand on two occasions. He needs to be able to break, to press down as hard as he has to, and he won't do that with her hand. He just won't, and she knows it hurts him to have to think about her when he's out of his mind with pain, so she rests her hand on top of his instead, her cheek against his shoulder, and silently chants, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
When Cisco counts down, she closes her eyes, and braces for impact.
T-minus 428 days.
Propped up on his elbows, heedless of the nonexistent scar on his left arm, Barry frames her on the bed and asks softly, "You okay?"
She slides a hand down his side, flattening it against his hip for a moment before stroking upward again. "I love you," she says, neither answer nor explanation. He hums, leaning down to kiss her, detouring to little butterfly kisses along her jaw. She slides her hand up to cup the nape of his neck, scratching lightly. He hums his approval against her shoulder, happy and sleepy, and she slides her other arm around him, holding onto him. "I love you." A tear tracks down her cheek.
He lifts his head up to look into her eyes, and his gaze slides down to the tear before he leans forward to kiss it away. "Shh," he says softly, and she isn't even crying, not really, but she hugs him so tightly that she trembles. His soothing Speed-purr kicks up almost on cue. "S'okay, I'm here."
And maybe she is crying, a little, tiny hitching breaths that just draw more of that affectionate Speed warmth from him, his voice a soft, continuous croon as he nuzzles her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. "Everything's okay, we're okay, we're okay."
When he says it, she dares to believe it's true.
T-minus 425 days.
Barry sleeps ninety-six minutes a night, which means it's nearly impossible to wake up before him, but sometimes Iris is permitted a sweet exception.
She feels the warmth around her waist, his arm still draped over her, before she even opens her eyes. She can hear the soft little noises he makes in his sleep behind her shoulder, more purr than snore, each breath deep and even. For summer, it's approaching sweltering to be under the covers with him, and on any normal day she might kick them off, because he's not usually here. He's a softy for hugs and cuddles, but he's allergic to staying still for more than – well, ninety-six minutes at a time. Even in his sleep, he moves – a lot. Iris is used to finding him on the floor, tangled in blankets.
She rests her hand on top of his, stroking her thumb against his skin. His fingers twitch, just a little, barely a movement at all, and he shimmies closer to her with a deep, pleased sigh, making no other conscious move.
Golden light peers hopefully under the curtains, enticing her with a new day, but Iris doesn't move, savoring the sweetness of her sleeping speedster.
T-minus 420 days.
Pinning his thumb down with hers idly, lying on the couch between Barry's legs, Iris muses, "Eight more days."
"Hm?" He kisses her temple, using his free hand to flick through the TV channels, volume muted. "Till what?"
"Till we know," she says evasively.
He hums, catching on quickly. It's not hard – it's all that's been on their minds, lately. Baby, baby, baby. "What if it takes … nine days?" he teases, freeing his thumb for a moment and pinning hers gently. "Is it a dragon-baby if it's late?"
She rolls her eyes and pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger, making him yelp. "We're trying to have a human baby, Bartholomew."
"Aww." Squeezing her with both arms, he asks playfully, "But think about how much fun it would be to raise a dragon."
"It would burn down our apartment."
"Moving is – a great bonding exercise."
"That's exactly what you said last time."
"Hey, until I tripped down that last flight of stairs, it was a great bonding exercise."
"Because Cisco brought pizza and Jenga."
"We could teach the dragon to play Jenga. I'm sure Cisco would bring pizza again."
She rolls around in his arms and rests her folded arms on his chest. "Babe."
He settles a hand on the middle of her back. "Darling."
She rolls her eyes, leaning up to kiss him. "Nerd."
He smiles at her, eyes full of stars. "Khaleesi."
She laughs, and says, "If you wanna watch Game of Thrones that badly—"
"I really, really do," he says at once, flicking the volume up and oh, look at that: he's already on the right recording. Nerd.
Pillowing her cheek on his chest, she murmurs, "Don't get ideas."
"Mm-hm."
"I'm serious."
"Mmmm-hmmm."
Intermission: Barry.
T-minus 412 days.
"So?" Cisco one-two punches Barry's chest, a playful gesture, but Barry just sighs as he steps into the Cortex.
"No," he says shortly, sliding into a chair. He shrugs, attempting nonchalance. At least he's not the one who has to deal with cramps and mood swings. "I mean, it's fine."
Cisco frowns, setting a hip on the console. "Yeah, but – you're allowed to be a lil' disappointed, too. What with being the fastest man alive." Barry arches both eyebrows and looks at him until Cisco says exasperatedly, "You know what I meant."
"Ooh, love me some good drama," Ralph announces, setting down a six-pack of beers on the counter. "What's the 4-1-1?"
"Why are we drinking at ten in the morning?" Cisco counters.
"Oh, these're for later," Ralph says, lifting a cooler onto the console. "I thought we could take a good ol' Thursday afternoon off so we boys could crack open a cold one at the beach."
"There is a 90 percent chance of rain this afternoon," Cisco points out dryly.
Ralph laughs. "Those predictions are—" Thunder rumbles quietly. The distinct patter of rain rat-a-tat-a-tats on the rooftop. Shrugging, Ralph waves a hand dismissively. "It'll pass."
"Uh huh."
"Ye of little faith," Ralph says, stepping up and smacking Barry on the shoulder. "Back me up, buddy."
In response, Barry pulls out his phone, Flashes through a quick search, and swivels the screen around to face Ralph. A time-lapse radar image shows clear green patches of precipitation drifting across Central City until well after five PM.
Sighing, Ralph plucks a beer from the pack and says simply, "Cracking open a warm one with the boys at the lab doesn't have the same ring to it."
T-minus 411 days.
It's hard to focus at work.
She wanted a baby, and Barry wanted a baby, and they were ready, but, evidently, the universe did not agree. She can't help but think about the emptiness in her belly with every cramp, a low-burning frustration keeping her edgy all day. She writes rough drafts to distract herself and ignores Barry's texts, mostly because she just doesn't want to think about anything, at all, except what is, rather than what could be.
We're young. We'll try again.
Future promises don't quell her present impatience and disappointment. In some selfish little corner of her mind, she'd hoped that they would be the exception to the rule. Most couples don't get pregnant the first try, she consoles herself, but it's a stale comfort. She wanted. Surely that should have been enough. There was no reason it shouldn't have happened.
To make matters worse, it rains – all day, from the minute she steps into the CCPN main room to the minute she steps out. She's sulky and sullen by the time she gets home, throwing her bag off to one side near the door. Barry isn't around – it's too dark for him to be home – and she exhales, toeing off her shoes and trying to cool off. It's just one chance. They have so many.
She doesn't spot the little note on the kitchen table until after she showers, feeling somewhat more like herself once she's cozied up in her favorite bathrobe, window open to listen to the pouring rain. She peels the note off a small, unlabeled box of chocolates, flipping it open.
I love you to the ends of the earth and back.
Barry
Plucking one of the chocolates out of the little case, she closes her eyes when the richness of its soft, sweet flavor melts across her tongue. Mm.
She loves a speedster-hubby who can Flash across the world to fetch her the finest chocolates from France on a whim.
When he finally shows up, she's polished off four of the ten sweets and is curled up on the couch with Moana and a heating pad. He doesn't ask her about her day, which she appreciates – if she wanted to talk, she'd have said hello – but he does amble over and, when she slides her legs off the couch so he can sit, obliges. She shuffles around so she can settle against him, still hugging the heating pad. He's warm, deliciously warm against her aching back, and the arm he tucks around her is soft and secure.
At some point, his stomach growls. Without displacing her, he reaches out to pluck one of the chocolates out of its wrapping and pop it into his own mouth. She doesn't begrudge him; he can always fetch more, if he's so inclined, and the way he purrs softly is worth every one of them.
Together, they watch the movie, the backdrop of soft summer rain like an apology, healing what words cannot.
T-minus 404 days.
Iris runs down the empty beach, racing across the sand. It's warm but not scalding this late in the day, the sun nearly below the horizon, the sky a soft baby-blue. She hears Barry laugh somewhere far behind her, crowing, "Run, Iris! Run!"
Powerful, in her element, she does, racing across the shoreline until there is a pleasant burn in her calves and chest, a warmth like lightning in her veins, going and going and going until at last she canters to a halt in the shallow waves. There is a beat, and then she feels the air shift just before he skips into the water with a laugh of his own. "Look at you," he exults. "The fastest woman alive." He sweeps her clean off her feet, twirling her in a circle. Affection melts over her.
When he sets her down, she reaches up to cup his face, bringing their foreheads together and closing her eyes. His fingers encircle her wrists, holding on, keeping them together.
They stay like that for a long time, she still catching her breath and he chuckling faintly, basking in their own happy little nowhere on a beach no one but a speedster could take her to.
Intermission: Barry.
T-minus 400 days.
"You're glowin', Barry," Winn Schott Jr., CSI extraordinaire, remarks in his drawling twang. Barry had to double-take when Singh mentioned his new partner – in your – absence, we've had to make a few adjustments – but had assured the man that they'd get along just swell. And so they had. Still, he tries to keep his stupid smile to a minimum, knowing that it'll just make him a giggly dork all day if he indulges it.
"What've we got on the Henderson case?" he redirects, picking up a blue folder.
"Glowin'," Winn insists before dutifully launching into a spirited rehashing of the case.
Despite his own intentions, Barry can't stop thinking about Iris. He hasn't been this giddy in years, and maybe it's silly to feel so warmed by the thought that Iris and he are trying to have a baby – a real, live, human baby – but he doesn't care. All he feels is … sunny. Just like the weather, matter of fact.
God, he loves his life.
T-minus 387 days.
In some symphonic pieces, there is a lull, a departure, a period where the exultant rallying cry becomes a somber melody, an emotion unutterable in words but perfectly understandable in verse. It draws a hush, not only over the audience, but over the entire orchestra, until it seems that it is not a piece being played so much as it is a color being witnessed for the very first time. No one knows how to verbalize exactly what it is that they see, but all partake in the wonder of the experience in their own way. Somehow, some way, they all understand the underlying tinge of sadness, the expectation that an emotion so pure may not even exist in real life, that it will vanish once its final notes fade.
It is this all-consuming, utterly silencing feeling that holds her fast as another opportunity slips through the fingers, and the world acquires a new shade, an unutterable shade of blue, labeled simply Try Again.
T-minus 356 days.
With gleeful expectation, she finally breaks out the pregnancy test. It's nearing the end of August and she knows what they say: third time's the charm. She can feel it, in her core, in her soul. Third time's the charm.
Three tests later, spanning three days, only confirm one thing:
Third time is not the charm.
T-minus 352 days.
"According to some studies, it takes most couples three to six months to conceive."
"Mm."
"So, we're … average?"
Iris sighs, approaching Barry, seated at the kitchen table, and resting her hands on his shoulders. "Know what sounds amazing right now?" she murmurs, chin on top of his head.
"Hm?" he asks, thumb stroking her elbow.
"Pizza."
With a soft huff of a laugh, he says, "Pizza."
"Mm-hm."
"We can get pizza."
She squeezes him gently, and the tears burn her eyes but do not escape. "I love you."
"I love you," he replies, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it.
They do get pizza – Coast City pizza, the pinnacle of pizza, the greatest culinary experience ever known to humanity – and it makes something sore in Iris' chest ache a little less.
T-minus 330 days.
One pink bar has never looked so disappointing.
T-minus 327 days.
Iris doesn't feel sad – not at first, not in the full-blown sobbing way that she expects, especially after the second attempt failed – but she doesn't feel like herself for the better part of a week. She goes through the motions, aching with hopefulness until a different ache replaces it. Nothing overtly changes – she even continues to make light conversation, the usual how-was-your-day song-and-dance expected of a good spouse – but inwardly, she feels like a light has gone off, and she doesn't know how to fix it.
At last, she tells Barry, "We should take a break."
He blinks at her, looking up from a case report at the table, preoccupied and concerned. "What?"
"We should take a break," she repeats firmly, suddenly confident, and he – something slumps out of his shoulders, a guilty expression crossing his face. "What?" she asks, suddenly defensive, as she crosses her arms over her chest.
He shakes his head, reaching up to rub his face with a hand. "Nothing." Looking back down at the papers, he adds in a dull voice, "We can take a break."
"Barry."
"Hm."
She sighs, stepping towards him and setting both hands on the table in front of him. "Hey."
He looks up. He looks tired, shadows darkening under his eyes, hair a little more mussed up than usual. "Hi," he says neutrally.
"We're not giving up," she says.
He nods, distracted, but he won't meet her gaze anymore. "Yeah."
"I know you're upset," she begins.
He shakes his head. "I'm not—"
"Barry."
"I'm not," he insists stubbornly, because he's nothing if not stubborn, that is Barry Allen's middle name, Barry Stubborn West-Allen. "I'm just …" He rubs his eyes a little more firmly. "What if … what if we can't … because of … all of this?" He holds up a hand, and there's a little flicker of yellow lightning between his fingers when he snaps them together.
Her stomach twists. "It's only been …" Four months. She hates that she knows the number, that she's been keeping track at all, because it feels like forever. The sweetness of summer has faded; fall is approaching, drawing warmer clothes out of her wardrobe. Scarfs and sweaters and mittens, soon enough. God. Where does the time go? "We need a break," she says seriously.
He looks at her for a long moment, blinking once, processing. "Okay," he says at last, softly.
Something achingly sad and relieved sweeps over her, and she has to cradle his face and kiss his forehead, or she might cry, and she doesn't want to cry.
"I love you," she insists, like a promise.
He sniffs, once, almost but not entirely inaudibly. "I love you," he echoes, soft and sincere.
T-minus 321 days.
They go to the zoo, again, and he doesn't ask her about polar bears, or twirl her under his arm.
When they see a couple stroll by, a toddler swinging between them, they smile perfunctorily and quietly tuck away the sting of jealousy that arises.
They spend a great deal of time at the emperor penguin exhibit, of all things, watching the birds march in idle patterns across the ice-packed terrain. They don't move fast and they hem and haw but not loudly, a surprisingly pleasant mixture of normalcy.
Standing beside him in front of the glass wall, Iris holds onto Barry's arm with both of her own and rests her cheek against his shoulder. It's cold in the hall with the air conditioning piping into the exhibit in front of them, but they don't move. Barry projects enough heat to keep them comfortable. Together, they watch the penguins trundle on, quiet, peaceful, as rhythmic as the tides.
She doesn't know why it makes her cry, watching the penguins, but it does. Barry tilts his head to kiss her temple, acknowledgment without words, and she could not say what it is about the penguins that finally makes the hurt finally free, but whatever the reason, she is glad that Barry stays alongside her.
T-minus 309 days.
They make blueberry pancakes. They stop dozens of crimes. They play cards. They go bowling. Sometimes, they shower together.
They take naps on the couch and spend all-nighters at STAR Labs, hurting but healing. They throw themselves into their works and produce a great sheaf of papers between them. They save the city, quietly and ostensibly, heroes by their trades.
They go to the museum and gaze in wonder at the dinosaurs. They hold hands. They get coffee at Jitters; they get chocolates from Switzerland. They wash dishes. They watch Project Runway. They take selfies together.
Everything is normal, and the same, and fine.
And still, even as Iris lies in bed across from Barry, one leg draped over both of his, nothing between them, she can't help but wonder if she isn't waiting for a new normal. If she isn't anxious for a new normal. She looks at him and reaches up to smooth back his ruffled hair, making his eyelids flutter shut for a moment before he blinks at her again, half-lidded and smiling a little.
In spite of everything. Because of everything.
Intertwining their hands, she rests them on his side, a safe, neutral, meaningless place. She keeps them there, and he looks at her, and doesn't need to say a word to express his understanding.
Feeling bolder, determined, she brings their hands to rest over her belly instead. She holds their hands there, long enough to say it without saying it, I want a baby, and then she lets his hand so she can cuddle up to him even closer, head under his chin.
His Speed-purrs lull her to sleep, but she swears there is something satisfied and hopeful in them that wasn't there before.
T-minus 282 days.
They strike out. Again.
Five months.
No pregnancy.
T-minus 275 days.
It changes their intimacy.
Love is an awkward thing between them, now, because he is afraid to imply anything and she is afraid to hope for anything, however quietly, however unconsciously. They still kiss, but only chastely, and less often than before. Hands don't wander or linger like they used to, vanishing like a snuffed-out candle. They spend a lot of time holding each other because there is no expectation there, and it is easy and sweet and fulfilling on a deep level that they both need, even though she aches for more.
They visit the penguins a lot, now, often going to the zoo simply to make the trek to that cold, Antarctic exhibit and find a sense of peace. Of true normalcy.
The penguins have no idea that they are broken. The penguins do not know that they are unable to conceive.
T-minus 254 days.
There is no premonition.
Iris wakes up like any other day and curls into the warm space left behind by Barry, lingering in his empty blanket nest for a long time. At last, her own alarm finally goes off, and she rolls over to turn it off. Getting up, she hears him cooking in the kitchen, but she doesn't join him. She freshens up first, showering alone. She spends a long time brushing her hair and quietly but unmaliciously avoiding him.
Finally, when she is ready, she joins him, idling up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Morning, babe," she says, one of his hands sliding down to squeeze hers, wrapped around his belly.
They eat blueberry pancakes together, and fashion something of a normal morning out of the whole affair, right up until Iris' phone buzzes with a notification to log her period. She frowns. She thought she turned off the notifications, in light of the terrible little everything between them. Barry asks with arched eyebrows what it is, but she just pockets her phone, a hand-trembling unease building in her chest.
When she cannot wait any longer, she finally gets up and finds that she did remember to discard all of the pregnancy kits. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she looks herself in the eye, silently asking if she's ready to broach the topic again. She doesn't want to think about how much it will bleed this time, another disappointment.
Some couples take years. Only half conceive within the first six months.
They're not comforting statistics. And she is desperate not to let the sadness grow, but –
Drawing in a fortifying breath, she steps out of the bathroom and finds Barry sitting on the bed, rumpled hair and worried eyes. "Iris?" he asks softly, standing.
She draws in a deep, slow breath. She could easily go to the store, but the thought of even the minor delay when he is right there is unbearable. "I need you to do me a favor."
Lighting up a little, happy to help, he says simply, "Anything."
T-minus 254 days, ten minutes later.
Two pink bars.
Plural.
Four pink bars, actually – she took two different tests, refusing to take one at face value even though her heart leapt immediately when she saw two bars.
She doesn't dangle Barry at all, and his reaction is profoundly relieving. Holding her in his arms, rocking them gently, Barry croons, "Iris, Iris, Iris." There are tears on his face, and there is such an overwhelming joy in her heart that she's surprised she isn't crying, too, but she holds onto him, her rock, her Barry, and aches to believe and be happy.
"We're pregnant," she tells him. A little laugh bubbles up out of her chest. "Barry. We're—"
"I love you," he says fervently, kissing her brow. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Held in his arms, swaying together in their bedroom and bathed in sunny December light, Iris feels like the luckiest woman alive. "I love you," is all she says, kissing him properly.