Author's Notes: "Pragma" is a Greek word used for "longstanding love."
Sixty-seven years sit well on a speedster.
Barry doesn't run like he used to, but he canters with an old warhorse's grace, covered in invisible scars, weathered muscles a testament to hidden strength. He greets coworkers with a smile and a familiar hand on the shoulder, sliding into his desk and commandeering a small fleet of CSIs. They like him for a lot of reasons: he lets them leave early on Fridays, takes them out for brunch on Sunday every now and then, pops a bottle of champagne for them whenever a big life milestone catches up to them. He asks about their kids and grandkids. He forgives mistakes and extends deadlines. He is still judicious, pulling those who need direction aside for a quiet conversation. He never raises his voice. The Flash doesn't, and neither should Barry.
Everyone seems to know that The Flash is aging. When he runs, he's still a blur, but when he slows down, they're closer to him than they were when he was their age. Like they're ready to catch him if he falls. They needn't worry – his limitless verve may have dimmed, but his reflexes are still spectacular – but it still warms him to know that they're there. Because, every now and then, he does need them. He needs their direction and their comfort, their presence and their solidarity, when foes grander and humbler than his youth meet him.
He's become the guardian of Central City. At night he walks the streets and sits with the homeless, keeping them warm. He talks suicidal teens down from their ledges, holding onto them after for as long as they need him to. He has a special fondness for kids, bringing magic into their lives with periodic visits, cowing bullies and catching stray softballs. He is seemingly infinitely patient, even with the drunks who shout and smash bottles at him or belligerent muggers who just wants a break, man. They have a right to fear him; his power has been tested, time and time again, against seemingly unstoppable forces and always won. They should fear him. Instead, for the most part, they love him.
With a satisfied air, Barry completes a final lap around the city, doubling back, heading home.
Keen though he's always been, he never noticed the transition from youthfulness to age, but it happens to fine wines, and so it happens to him. He loves it. It surprises him how much he enjoys being old, being able to say I'm sixty-seven. They never knew if he would live that long, and maybe no one understands it, but no one contests the way he smiles with child-like pleasure at a cake crowded with too many candles. He loves being old enough to see kids coming into their own in a field which once welcomed him, almost half a century ago. He loves being old enough to see only peers, colleagues, and scholars around him, no longer solely seeking counsel from elders but providing it. He loves being at a point where life's lessons have sunk in and sharing them makes a difference. He loves taking his time, slowing down, letting life happen to him.
He loves visiting other worlds in the multiverse and sharing comfort and strength with younger speedsters; he savors the counsel and courage exchanged with older ones. He's almost legendary, the oldest speedster in many timelines. Sixty-seven. It's a beautiful record to hold. The most life lived of any of them. The most time spent breathing under a ceaseless sky and a sea of stars.
His relationship with the Speed Force has changed over time, too, deepening profoundly. At times he'll abandon civilization to spend time with it, entering that suspended state of being between death and life where he is neither but retains Awareness. There, he can converse with it, with his parents, with Iris' mother, with Joe. He can hug Eddie; he can make Ronnie laugh again. The dead live on in other worlds and are happy to share their stories, translated across eons by the Speed Force. The reunions are always bittersweet and the night will always end in tears, but it's worth the pain to see them again. Barry wouldn't trade it for anything.
He knows he could spend the rest of his life in the Speed Force and return long enough only to let himself die. But he doesn't. He has a life to live. However joyful or tragic it may be, he has a city and a world that need him.
That resolve doesn't change even when his body hurts and slows down on him, when bones that once healed in three hours take ten times as long to reset. Caitlin still patches him up, her doctorial manner a constant in his life. It's irking when he has a headache that won't go away and can't take a painkiller to kill it. It's lifesaving when a meta nearly kills him. He's lost count of how many times he almost involuntarily joined the Speed Force. She'd never let go of him, but he's tried his damnedest to leave her anyway.
When she asks why he doesn't retire, his answer is always the same. I have to try, he'll tell her through a splintered jaw, black bruises hanging onto his face for three days, nightmarishly prominent, necessitating a leave-of-work. I have to try, he'll insist before howling with familiar misery when she relocates his shoulder. I have to try, he'll whisper through a collapsing lung, scarcely audible before the world blacks out.
The papers still record his trials and tribulations with novel enthusiasm, new reporters stepping up to test their writing chops against the pros. Among that indispensable coterie of correspondents is Senior Writer Iris West-Allen. Happily married for thirty-eight years.
Skidding to a halt in front of their home, Barry takes a moment to let his heart rate slow down, a wash of morning light painting purple across his back. Despite the fatigue weighing down his final steps, he can't help but smile. The world feels new again. Somehow, in spite of everything, just being alive is still a joy to him.
When the Speed Force's spectacular show of strength has subsided and he can walk without stumbling, he reaches out and opens the door. It slips shut silently behind him, his entrance greeted by an empty living room, a half-finished book arched on its belly next to an empty coffee cup on the table. There is a kindling smell in the air, an old fire cremated in a dark hearth. Winter is coming, and he can feel it in his fists and his spine, a biting cold that wakes him up when he wants to just sleep. It is a necessary transition, and he doesn't begrudge the universe for inflicting it upon him. He welcomes it. Change is growth, and growth is being alive.
Being alive is everything to him: another day with the CCPD, another day protecting his city, another day with Iris.
Crossing the room, he ascends the faintly creaking stairs, railing gliding smoothly underneath his palm. At the top, he lets sleepy feet take him into their bedroom. Shedding the suit and toeing off faded boots, he slips into a comfy set of clothes before settling into the space next to her. She rolls towards him, drawn by his heat, Speed like lightning diffusing harmlessly between them. When she opens her eyes, they almost glow, such is her smile.
They're like, stupid in love.
He pulls her into a hug, gentle no matter how strong the Speed Force is, kissing her forehead once lightly. She wraps an arm around his waist in return, fingers tucking into his shirt. She holds onto him, calming the lightning under his skin, centering his world. He hums and says it with every heartbeat, every moment he has alive:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And when they fall asleep together, he hears her echo it through his dreams.