I Just Want to be Found

by define-serenity

[Barry/Eddie] At a Halloween party Barry Allen meets new detective Eddie Thawne, behind the safe disguise of his costume. What started out as a boring party ends up being a magical night the likes of which neither man has ever experienced. Come midnight, however, Barry runs, leaving Eddie to wonder who he is.

Cinderella au (ish). title taken from Eyes Shut by Years & Years.

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& I JUST WANT TO BE FOUND

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The shrill shriek of his alarm clock startles him from a deep dead sleep. His eyes open to harsh lighting, the morning sun falling through curtains stuck in place since he moved into this sardine can of an apartment. He glances at the radio by the bed, heart jumping against his ribcage when he catches the '8:15' displayed in neon green—his first alarm had once again failed to go off.

"I'm late," he hushes, as if to serve as a dry run for the earful he's likely to get at work; there's no way he can make it there in fifteen minutes, even if he were to leave now.

He still tries, scrambles out of bed and dashes towards the bathroom, where a cold shower makes sure he's somewhat awake before he brushes his teeth, flosses, styles his hair and gets dressed. It takes him well over fifteen minutes and he can't justify starting his day without a quick stop at CC Jitters, a coffee shop not too far from the precinct with significantly better coffee than any a cop could make.

"You're late!" Iris calls the moment he sets foot inside, a small crowd waiting to be served—he quickly skips to the front of the line, where Iris, the best barista in town and his best friend, has his coffee and bagel waiting for him.

"I know, I'm sorry," he sighs, sliding a five-dollar bill over the counter, his heart rate picked up after the short jog here. "Keep the change."

Iris pouts cutely. "One of these days you're actually going to be on time and forget all about me."

"Not as long as you supply me with coffee," he says, instantly amending with a careful, "I love you?" when Iris raises a dangerously spiteful eyebrow.

"Get lost, Barry Allen." Iris scoffs and rolls her eyes.

He smiles and heads for the door, an "I love you too!" nipping at his heels on his way out.

All things considered, he's had Mondays that started off far worse.

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On Tuesday he arrives at work exactly half an hour late, his lungs burning from the extra exertion of running straight from Jitters—one would think the routine knitted into his legs by now, but he's still as winded as he was on his first day, almost two years ago. He ventures into the bullpen, reluctant to invite Captain Singh's temper into his lab later, where he'd undoubtedly find him anyway and educate him (once again) on the merits of being on time.

Captain Singh's eyes find him easily through the slats of the blinds inside his office, and he's braced for impact, scrambling for an excuse more adequate than 'car trouble' but comes up short. Oddly, the captain remains inside his office; it seems he has company.

"New detective just arrived," Officer Vukovich offers unprompted, while he scarcely makes out a head of short blond hair and strong broad shoulders.

"Thawne, right? From Keystone City?"

Detective Eddie Thawne had been the talk of the precinct for a few days, his transfer delayed due to some clerical error neither Keystone nor Central City were willing to admit to, but Keystone's golden boy had finally arrived. His colleagues paid him little attention apart from the tasks they needed him to complete, but he'd picked up enough gossip running to and from his lab. Son of a politician, Detective Thawne had quickly climbed the ranks of the police department, going from beat cop to detective in as few as five years. As to why he requested a transfer opinions varied; some said he messed up a high-profile case and this was his way of avoiding a demotion, others claimed he wanted out from under his father's wings. Whatever the reason, the CCPD would benefit from his presence.

An extra detective, however, sounded like a whole lot more work to him.

Contrary to what many of the detectives around here think he single-handedly runs the crime lab of the 24th precinct. They have someone who comes in during the graveyard shift so he can actually see the inside of his apartment from time to time, but Larry tends to slack and leave most of the work to him. It's a less than ideal situation, but he needs the money and he's a hard worker—he'd make a lot more money in the private sector, but jobs weren't for the taking and he couldn't afford to be picky. He likes the work, the satisfaction of seeing a case through, of catching a bad guy, of helping people.

Still, Iris keeps telling him to stand up for himself, to maybe ask the captain for an intern who could stand to learn a few things; he wouldn't mind teaching someone the tricks of the trade, and he'd be saved some of the finer details of crime scene investigating. But he's lucky to have this job, he's lucky the captain trusts someone as young as him to run an entire lab on his own. He's afraid that asking for help might cost him more than it pays.

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He spends his Wednesday lunchtime at the lab, both centrifuges spinning clearly labeled test tubes, mass spectrometer analyzing samples, printer spitting out two reports he finished typing up moments ago. Somehow Iris had snuck in to deliver him a burger and some coffee, his sixth by his own count, and he makes a mental note to purchase a thermos from now on—ten cups won't cut it today and the day's only halfway gone.

"Allen!" the captain's voice travels the length of the hallway leading to his lab, thankfully separated from much of the rest of the building. Captain Singh bursts through the door, eyes scanning the room. "Where's the blood work on the Orlov case?"

"Processing."

"Processing?" the captain's eyes nearly bulge out of his skull, his shoulders squared beneath the dark tailored suit.

"Chyre needed blood work on the Santori case," he explains, hoping the captain understands he can't physically split himself and his equipment in half to get twice as much work done—and it's been proven he can't actually move at superhuman speed. What more does the captain expect from him? He runs a tiny precinct with a much heavier workload than some of the bigger ones, and on top of that they're strapped for funds, so the captain's hands are tied same as his.

The captain remains tense but he backs off a step, eyes ticking along the empty cartons of coffee on his desk. "Your lab's a mess, Allen," he says, smoothing a hand down the lapels of his suit. "Clean it up."

He rolls his eyes once Captain Singh turns his back, and chucks an empty cup of coffee at the trashcan.

He misses by a mile.

Story of his life, really.

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"Lab rat!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking a few times in the hopes it'll chase some of his blurred vision, and rights his shoulders before the metal sliding door to his lab rolls open—he'd hoped closing it would dissuade any more detectives from storming through it with additional requests.

Detective Chyre breathes heavily, pinching his side with one hand while the other points at him. "Got a case. Stabbing."

And he's not too sure he hides his dissatisfaction when he grunts, "I'll grab my kit."

This week is (quite literally) trying to work him into an early grave.

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The microscope slide slips from between his fingers and falls to the floor, shattering into four near identical-sized pieces, much like the other two that had gone before. His hands shake with exhaustion and (ironically) an excess of caffeine in his system, but he wants these samples prepped so all Larry has to do is note his findings—his nighttime alter ego might be a slacker, but he's a fine scientist.

"Allen?" a voice sounds behind him, sending a fourth slide tumbling to the floor.

"What?!" He snaps, his limbs an uncoordinated mess as he turns around and nearly takes the microscope with him—coming face to face with the CCPDs newly minted detective, Eddie Thawne.

Well—hell. So much for first impressions.

"I'm sorry." Guilt firmly plants him back on the ground, faced with the one detective who hasn't asked him for anything yet. He releases a shuddery breath, pushing his glasses back up his nose—after an eye rub too many he'd lost one of his contacts at a crime scene earlier today. Luckily he kept his glasses on him at all times. "I didn't mean to–"

"It's okay." Eddie smiles easily and falls an equally easy step forward. "We all have busy days."

He's grateful Eddie opts out of the word 'bad' to describe both his day and his mood, even though that's probably the right one to use—his shift's over in five minutes, and he'd really like to go home to unwind from this entire week. Netflix and mac 'n' cheese had never sounded more appealing.

"Captain said you're the guy to see about some neoprenes," Eddie says, calm and polite, a friendly smile in place after the request—it's so unexpected it takes him a full ten seconds to register it, the lack of authority in Eddie's voice a welcome reprieve from the orders thrown at him day in day out.

"Y-yeah," he stutters and trips towards the short supply cabinet, taking out a full box of medical gloves. Most of the detectives don't even ask anymore, they come in and take a box and never inform him when they're running low, which has lead to some dicey situations. He knows Eddie probably has no idea where to find the gloves, but still, it's nice to be asked.

"I'm Eddie, by the way," the detective says. "Eddie Thawne."

He takes a beat to appreciate the hand Eddie offers, something no one in this building has done so far. Most of the people here don't see him as an equal, if they see him at all.

"Barry Allen." He shakes Eddie's hand, cool to the touch.

"Have a good weekend, Barry."

He wonders how much time will need to pass before Eddie Thawne starts barking orders at him too.

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After a full eight hours of sleep he joins Iris and her soon-to-be roommate Caitlin for breakfast, the first real one he's had all week. None of the furniture has been assembled yet, which he suspects is one of the main reasons they invited him, but he couldn't say no to either of his friends' sprightly company—Iris came into his life at eight years old and Caitlin drifted into their circle of friends after a rushed trip to the ER, where young resident Caitlin Snow had stitched up Iris' hand.

"Come on, Barr, you have to go," Caitlin says as she passes him a screwdriver, throwing him a pointed stare the likes only Caitlin Snow can achieve. So far he's put together two beds, a wardrobe and a bookcase, while Iris and Caitlin painted the living room. Even if they don't finish the work today, at least they'll be able to sleep here.

"I'm with Caitlin on this," Iris says, standing on tiptoe to reach the paint roller as high as she can. "It's Halloween."

"Can't. I'm working the graveyard shift."

Iris curls her lip. "You willingly signed up for that?"

"It pays well," he says. "Besides, Larry had plans."

"Scary Larry had plans on a Saturday night," Iris deadpans, passing the roller to Caitlin while she wanders over to his side of the room—Caitlin had her own roller; whatever's coming, he doubts he'll be able to opt out.

He busies himself with a particularly tough screw. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Your shift only starts at midnight." Iris starts rifling through a box labeled 'Halloween', though he's at a loss to what she might find in there that'll convince him to go to a fundraiser for the CCPD. The city throws the Halloween party every year to raise money for the police department—it usually attracts some heavy hitters, politicians who want to run for office and consider the city's finest a decent investment. He's not sure what he'd do there though. "You could go to the party and still be on time."

"With my track record? I don't think so."

"Why are you being so difficult?"

"Iris," –he looks up at his best friend. He loves this girl to pieces, but he's fine with his life the way it is, to most extents. He could use a break at work, but going to a party won't fix that. Besides, why would he go to a Halloween party on his own? It's not like he's tight with any of his coworkers, not even Larry. Iris has work and Caitlin vowed to study, so why would he go at all?– "it's a charity event. I can't exactly spare the cash."

"You deserve a night off." Iris finally unearths what she'd been looking for, accentuated by a cute 'aha!' before she raises an all too familiar black mask over her eyes. "Incognito."

As soon as recognition sets in he scrambles up from the ground, soon finding the mask joined by a Stetson hat and the costume he'd made to resemble The Lone Ranger, a character in a series of books on hand at the group home; John Reid, a deputized Texas Ranger wore the mask to become The Lone Ranger, a vigilante searching for his brother's killers.

"I can't believe you still have this," he says, reverently drawing his fingers over the metal badge he'd meticulously recreated.

"After all the science you put into this?" Iris raises an eyebrow. "Who do you take me for?"

He worshipped the Lone Ranger books, devoured them over and over until they were truly worn; he'd read the stories to the younger kids who couldn't read or whenever the administrator needed everyone entertained. Last year, he'd become The Lone Ranger for Halloween. He'd spent two weeks sewing the costume so it would fit him; he already had the white shirt, but Iris helped him find the black vest and blazer at a thrift store, after which he made some adjustments to the sizes. He bought the Stetson second-hand, along with the boots, and a holster with some fake pistols, weighed down with some magnets so they appeared real.

The mask, one he used to make from old socks when he played pretend with other kids, he cooked up at the lab when Captain Singh wasn't looking; a compressible micro fabric molded perfectly to his face it would fit no one else. He must've left it with Iris without realizing.

"It's just for a few hours, Barr. Your lab won't catch fire in your absence."

She looks at him with her big brown eyes and his resolve melts like ice to the sun, in much the same way it did when Iris asked for his help today. He could never deny her anything. What's the worse that could happen? He'll go to the party for a few hours, have a drink, grab a bite, maybe talk to some people. Whatever happens, it'll beat sitting home alone with nothing better to do but watch TV.

.

The party is in full swing when he arrives. He had hoped to get there sooner, but, well, timing has never been a particular skill of his—a character flaw he developed at the group home, where being late meant eating alone or entertaining oneself, and after his parents died he'd been quite content on his own. With his parents gone and no one else in the world by way of family he learned to fend for himself, which mostly meant keeping his head down, staying quiet, and doing as he was told. Iris had made it easier; for some reason she latched on to him the moment she came to live at the group home and hadn't let go since. The two of them became inseparable, a team of vigilantes creating adventures in their imagination, and as the years went on, they became people the younger children could look up to. Neither of them was ever fostered, but they had each other. That was enough.

Checking his invitation at the door he's soon surrounded by many of Central City's finest: the mayor, the district attorney, the police chief, deputy chief, and dozens of politicians he doesn't recognize. Most of them dressed up in masks at the most, including Captain Singh, who sports a black and white tux in combination with a masquerade ball mask. He'd be seriously underdressed if it weren't for the occasional police officer dressed as a Jedi or any range of popular superhero, but he's still out of sorts. How did he let Iris talk him into coming to a party on his own? A party where he knew everyone but no one cared to know him. His mask didn't matter. No one here would be interested in what hid underneath it.

Until he spots Eddie Thawne from a corner of his eye.

He shuffles back and forth, glancing around the room without purpose—Eddie's the only one here who's ever showed him any kind of courtesy, and it would be a shame to leave so soon after he got all dressed up.

Oh—what the hell. He'll only live once, and he could stand to test the boundaries of this new work relation. If he can find out what kind of cloth Eddie Thawne's cut from, then maybe he can find a way of working with him. Unlike two years ago, when he started at the CCPD, he's not the one being thrown into the deep end. Maybe his relationship with Eddie doesn't need to be the same he shares with all the other detectives.

"Detective," he calls as he approaches the other man; Eddie's dressed in his work clothes, his badge clipped to his belt, gun to his right hip.

Eddie turns towards the sound of his voice, eyes tripping quickly down the length of his body before they find his. "What gave it away?"

"The costume–?" he says, pointing a hesitant finger at his outfit.

"Oh. Right." Eddie laughs, busying his hands by readjusting his belt, the simple gesture effortlessly distracting as his eyes get lost in the tight cling of Eddie's spotless white shirt around his hips. It's easy to stare when you're in disguise. "It's not a costume. I'm a police officer."

His lips form around his courage, fleeing from the room behind his resolve.

Eddie doesn't recognize him.

He's not sure why he thought he would. They only talked the one time. Interacted, actually, more like, and that same old pinpoint ache starts below his sternum—why is he wearing a mask when the people hovering around him rarely see him? Why did he come here alone when he's alone every day at the precinct anyway? He might as well have gone back to work. At least he could finish some pressing reports.

Solitude worked fine for him until the day he ran out of grief, until the day he understood he couldn't spend the rest of his life hiding from the reality life dealt him. His parents were gone but he couldn't let that define his life. It's a creed he'd hoped he could implement in his day-to-day life now. He's not a puppet on a string made to do everyone's bidding, he works as hard as anyone at the precinct, and gets zero appreciation for what he does. A little respect would go a long way to make his workplace a less hostile environment—he'll be damned if he lets any of that hostility seep into any parts of his life it doesn't belong. Tonight's his night off. No captain to boss him around. No detectives to lay new assignments at his feet. As far as Eddie's concerned he's any other guy at any other party, dressed up for Halloween. Iris had mentioned something about being incognito—he sees no reason to let Eddie know who he is.

"On duty?" he asks, if only to distract Eddie from his disappointment. He shouldn't be disappointed; Eddie's new, and his mask combined with the Stetson hat disguises a lot of his face. He's here to relax, to spend some time not thinking about work, or paying his rent on time, or the mountain of college loans he's yet to pay off. It's not like he's allergic to fun or anything, however much Iris liked to claim it so.

"No," Eddie answers. "But I didn't have time to get a costume. I just moved here."

"Welcome to Central City."

"Thanks." Eddie smiles, and it isn't the first time the sight of it spurs a fluttering below his ribcage—in a complete picture kind of way (not that he's taken any special notice) Eddie Thawne would be considered good looking by most people; deep blue eyes with a tenderness to them detectives scarcely possess, broad shoulders along with a sleek muscular build, and that smile that could entrap time itself.

Okay—maybe he's taken some notice.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure," he says, the offer too enticing to pass up. Eddie heads for the bar, and he sees no reason to stop his eyes from wandering down Eddie's body, explore what he might otherwise be too shy to admit he's interested in. He has his fantasies, of a picture perfect life in the suburbs, a well-paid job, respect from his coworkers, and a reliable relationship to come home to.

His feet carry him out to the balcony, away from the glitter and glamor of the ballroom, the lavishly decorated high tables, the garlands woven around the stairs, gold and yellow ribbon tied to whatever the designers could find. Maybe he runs, leaves the room in the hopes of losing Eddie, of never having to explain what or who hides behind the mask, but he wants to explore all the merits of his anonymity all the same.

"You're not hiding from anyone in there, are you?" Eddie's voice nears, and his eyes close momentarily under the weight of his decision—he could come clean right now, no harm, no fuss, and still salvage some modicum of dignity, of any potential friendship with Eddie.

But he doesn't.

"Oh no." He shakes his head, gratefully accepting the glass of champagne Eddie offers; it'll go straight to his head but help with the mounting tension in his chest. Facing away he looks out over Central City, dark but for the countless of storefronts that leave the lights on at night, the streetlights, cars with the lights on roaming through the streets like fireflies. "I'm not really sure what I'm doing here."

It's been a long time since he's felt his loneliness this acutely, so utterly disconnected in a room full of people—he tries not to let it get to him most of the time. Despite his misfortunes he's been lucky, he hasn't really been alone that often; Iris made sure of that. But he can't deny there are moments it all weighs on him. Tragedy. Loss. Solitude.

"Well, then, you can keep me company."

He catches Eddie's eyes in between two breaths, in between the echo of his loneliness.

"I don't really know anyone here," Eddie confesses, a jovial quirk in his brow that fails to disguise a sound he'd recognize anywhere. "Might as well get to know a masked vigilante."

"You know who I am?" He blinks. "I mean, who I'm–"

Eddie nods. "John Reid."

Every time he believes he has accounted for enough aspects of Eddie's personality to map out most of it, the rug gets pulled from underneath his feet. It shouldn't surprise him, not a single one of his colleagues has given him the time of day or the chance to get to know them, so how could he know any of them? Vukovich likes his coffee black; Chyre likes an extra report printed in a bigger font so he can remain in denial about needing reading glasses; Captain Singh likes them alphabetized one day, in chronological order when the mood strikes. But there's not a single intimate detail he's learned these past two years that might help him relate to any of the other people working at the precinct. And that goes both ways.

He smiles, tugging the Stetson a little further down over his forehead, drawn to the polar opposite of his solitude. "There goes my secret identity."

"You a fan of the TV series?"

"The books, actually," he says; there were too few television sets at the group home, let alone any decent DVD players. He let the younger children watch their cartoons, the older boys their action movies, quite content with his books in a corner of the room. Kind of how he's happy up alone in his lab and never complains to anyone about it. "I used to make the mask out of old socks."

"I used my mom's curtains." Eddie smiles. "She never lets me forget it."

He tries to picture it but fails, the holes cut into flower-patterned curtains too reminiscent of the ghost he'd trick-or-treated as sixteen years ago, schlepping a papier-mâché ball and chain, his mom to his left, his dad to his right. Knocking back his glass in one go he returns to the sight of Eddie holding out his hand, the same hand offered to him late last night, a kindness, a courtesy, one he hadn't expected and can hardly believe now. "I'm Eddie."

His green eyes fall into sparkling blues as their hands meet again, and with the right inflection it's me, Barry Allen could sound so natural at this point, he could still pass it off as an endearing little prank, one that wouldn't ruin anything because there's nothing yet to mess up.

But he doesn't.

"It's nice to meet you, Eddie," he says, watching how the detective quietly accepts his disguise. He doesn't want to be himself tonight, not Barry Allen, not the forensic scientist, not the CCPDs slave. Tonight he'll be John Reid, a boy without a story that has power over him.

Eddie makes another run for some drinks; to his relief they remain out in the fresh air, where no one comes to disturb them or ask their names, and to be honest that's why he stays at all—being around Eddie is easy, being anyone but Barry Allen is easy; there are no expectations about work or deadlines or any professional rapport. He's a random guy at a party, talking to another random guy who could've been anyone.

"So what's your story?" Eddie asks unassuming.

"You mean besides the secret life I lead fighting outlaws and finding justice for my brother?"

"Yeah," –Eddie laughs– "besides that."

"Not much to say, to be honest," he shrugs, yet he falls into a litany about his life the same way he's fallen into Eddie's orbit, with a quiet and imperceptible gravitational pull. He says enough to give Eddie a full picture; how his parents died in a horrible car crash, how he grew up in a group home, how he ran away from so many families no one ever legally adopted him. He came close once; a Harrison Wells and his wife Tess had been trying to have children for years to no avail, so they started taking in foster children. They owned a big house with plenty of bedrooms, but his stay started no different than in any of the other families the state had provided; Dr Wells had to call the police three times because he'd run away. A few months into his turbulent stay Tess got pregnant after all. It pained Harrison and Tess to have to tell him, but he assured them it was okay. He had a home that made him happy. He had Iris.

In hindsight, that's probably when his fight with the world ended.

"Where did you run to?" Eddie asks, in the middle of a silence where he often pitied his own story, his own tragedy, and his inability to render it invisible.

He shrugs. "Nowhere in particular. Just–"

"Had to get away," Eddie supplies and when their eyes meet, when his lips part, they don't share a story, let alone a tragedy, but there is a part of him Eddie fathoms in ways he wouldn't accredit anyone with. Who could understand, unless they'd lost something too? Had he been wrong about that all along? He never ran towards anything, not anything real, just dreams and fantasies where his parents were alive, where he and Iris suffered a different fate.

Mostly he ran from things that made him happy.

This time, he doesn't.

"Your turn," he says. "Why did you move?"

"Had to get away. Put some distance between me and some mistakes I made." Eddie casts down his eyes, adding another echo, another whisper in the void encompassing the overlap he hadn't considered could exist between him and a person like Eddie. From all the gossip he had gathered he thought Eddie had it all; born into a wealthy family, both parents still around, a chance to attend good schools. A decent start in life.

Eddie offers up his story in return, growing up in the shadow of the mighty and powerful Edmund Thawne, forced to live up to other people's expectations rather than follow his own dreams—his father never showed him any love, or care, or much of an interest besides the ambitions he tried to force on him. Becoming a police officer was a compromise—Eddie wanted to make a difference, help people, but not through the same means his father did. And that had worked for him for five years; he'd gone from beat cop to detective through his hard work and keen instincts, and his father showed some measure of pride. Until he'd made a horrible mistake that almost got another cop killed.

"I'm sorry," he says, while the guilt of that mistake filters into Eddie's features, pulling the other man further away from him when all he can think about is move closer, be a little bolder, talk until the clock strikes twelve and beyond that. It's an entirely new feeling to him, wanting to know someone.

"Don't be. A fresh start is never a bad thing."

This feels like a fresh start, a clean slate, even though it won't last. It can't last as long as Eddie doesn't know who he is, and he's not inclined to tell him. What good would it do to take off the mask now? It would only raise questions, ones he won't answer, ones he can't answer. How does he tell a guy he's starting to like that he's the village idiot? That associating with him might get him ridiculed all the same? Why would he chase Eddie away with the truth?

"How are you liking Central City?" he asks, if only to distract from his own train of thought, one where he knows this night must inevitably end, and they'll go back to being strangers.

"Much busier than Keystone," Eddie answers, and looks at him with another smile, leaving him a little breathless; it's been a long time since he's felt this kind of attraction towards someone, if he ever has at all. "To be honest I'm not used to the rhythm yet."

"You will." He finds himself smiling back. "It's an easy city to love."

The thought that Eddie might be an easy man to love catches him unaware, somewhere in the midst of his blood alcohol content slowly rising and the bold assumption he might be a man worthy of loving Eddie—it's not like him, he's the forever doubter, he talks himself out of ideas as fast as the thoughts occur, he's not this suave masked vigilante who says all the right things.

"Would you like to dance?" Eddie asks.

"Wh– Here?" His perfectly fake complexion nearly slips, Eddie's request too sudden, too unexpected, too bold in the short time they've known each other. They can't dance—people will stare. "In front of– everyone?"

Eddie chances a step forward. "Why not?"

He's taller than Eddie. He never realized.

Why not? No one knows him here, he's nameless, faceless, not Barry Allen but the brave Lone Ranger who wouldn't let this scare him. He stares down at Eddie long and hard, protected by his mask, pulled in several different directions.

"I'm not too good on my feet," he says softly.

Eddie smiles. "Okay."

But he's lost the will to look away, to tiptoe back to a comfort zone where he only has to meet Eddie's eyes from time to time to be polite, and more than a little caught up he leans in, pushing his lips to Eddie's. "I'm sorry," –he pulls back instantly,– "I don't know where that–"

Eddie pushes forward and captures his lips, and whatever small part of him that still held onto some sanity gives way like ice to the sun. His lips part and he breathes in, lips moving of their own accord, Eddie's hands warm at his waist—he can't decide where to put his. It's the kind of kiss a person waits for his entire life, something spontaneous in a life that's been anything but, passion he hoped would sear through him one day—it's the kind of kiss that lasts, embeds itself into memories—slow and tentative, but somehow deeper than any gone before, all lips and tongues stroking, exploring, and he surrenders to it completely.

He could stay in this moment forever, he could never be anything or anyone again but a faceless stranger kissing Eddie Thawne and he'd be happy—he wouldn't run, because there'd only be this moment in time.

The alarm on his wristwatch releases its first warning sounds.

He pulls back and finds Eddie's eyes. "I have to go," he breathes.

Eddie blinks. "What?"

He'll be late for his shift if he stays, he'll get behind on work, he'll only be asking for more criticism if he doesn't show up—mostly he'll lose any fight left in him. He wants to stay. But he can't. "I'm sorry."

"No, wait," Eddie calls, while his hand catches around his wrist, followed by a breathy laugh, "I don't even know your name."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, and pulls himself free, watches helplessly how any amusement fades out of Eddie's face and his heart constricts around the sharp edges of his betrayal—what kind of person leaves now? Who would leave behind this question mark, this faceless stranger to remember?

But he runs. He's good at running.

As soon as his feet hit the tiles in the ballroom and an urgent, "Hey, wait!" chases behind him he breaks into a sprint, heading for the glass front doors in some sort of mad dash for freedom, for a guilt-free existence, even though the, "Please!" following him out the door breaks his heart. It's too late now, he's left it too long—if he turns around now he'd make a fool of himself in front of the entire force, all the detectives who already derive far too much pleasure from his sad meaningless existence.

He pulls the Stetson free from his face so he can see properly, dropping his mask on the steps leading down to the street—he skids to a halt and staggers a step back, one hand reaching for the mask when another, "Wait, please!" makes him freeze. He won't let Eddie find out like this, he won't be the same point of ridicule he's been for so long, he won't become the butt of yet another endless joke—so he leaves it and takes off down the steps remaining, hits the pavement and crosses the street and doesn't stop, there's no power in the universe that could now.

The catalyst of his own misfortunes.

He stumbles into his lab fifteen minutes later, struggling for breath and a distinct ache in his side—he's alone again in this lonely space, this room he's appropriated to stack all his regrets, dressed in the dark of night.

While a kiss lingers on his lips.

.

"Let me get this straight," Iris says, setting down two large cups of coffee on the small table between them; they might as well be filled with righteous judgment. "You went to the Halloween party, like I told you. You met a great guy who you kissed, and then you ran away without telling him your name."

Hearing it laid out like that makes it sound like the convoluted plot of a romantic comedy: boy meets hot detective at a masked ball, detective spends all his time afterwards trying to unmask the boy he has fallen head over heels in love with, they live happily ever after.

"In a nutshell." He grimaces, the palm of his hand burning hot around the Jitters mug. What had he been thinking? Remaining in disguise? Telling Eddie his life's story? Had he been thinking at all when he leaned in and–

His lungs fill with water, the sweetest kind of panic he fails to breathe through. He hadn't been thinking once Eddie leaned in too, once he'd checked the boxes to his own needs and that included someone not unlike Eddie Thawne kissing him back.

"Are you going to tell him?" Iris' eyes go wide in question, her quiet shock translating into disbelief—it's then he realizes Iris has never heard him talk about a guy before, never saw him date or express an interest in anyone, even though there've been a few awkward first dates over the years. How does he tell his best friend he doesn't really date, that the whole tradition of flirtation and relationships is lost on him? He grieved his parents for a long time. After that, happy endings simply stopped being an option.

"It's weird now." He shrugs, the excuse weak and unfounded. It wouldn't be weird. Not with Eddie. "We kissed, and I ran off like some–"

Some scared little boy who ran away from foster family after foster family, back to the group home where against all odds he'd pieced together something of a life. That same boy who didn't take chances, who remained stuck in a job because he had one and the hardship of moving the clear boundaries that made up his life filled him with terror his darkest nightmares hadn't known.

"But you like him."

Yet the ease of Eddie, his light and kindness—could it be enough to cancel out the shadows at his back? He does like Eddie, more than he cares to admit, but that's no guarantee it could work between them.

"It was one night, and one kiss."

It hardly mattered. Eddie never saw his face, and probably wouldn't want anything to do with him once he found out who he really was. The lab rat. The boy up in the tower left to his own devices. A Lone Ranger.

"He's better off not knowing who I am," he says, tempted into the black abyss of his coffee. Who knows, they might still get along as colleagues; all hope isn't lost. They could still be friends.

"Do you ever hear yourself, Barry Allen?" Iris reaches for his hand across the table. "You deserve to be happy."

He deserves the right to make up his own mind, he catches the thought before it can push past his lips; Iris is right, of course, the way she's been right about a lot of things in life he's denied himself for no reason other than sustaining his own loneliness. And what for? So he could be treated like a slave at the precinct? So he could be berated on a daily basis and go home to an empty apartment with nothing waiting for him but his DVR? What has stopped him from starting a relationship with anyone all these years?

.

The faint tone of a newscaster's voice draws him out of a restless dream, one filled with breaking glass and an empty ballroom. His eyes open to the neon green glow of the clock radio by the bed, his brow furrowing at the curious and unknown '7:30' displayed—could it be? Has he actually woken up on time for once?

"Hmpf," he groans, and turns on his back, blinking up at the boring gray ceiling. It's true, he's awake, on time, on a Monday morning no less, and he has more than enough time to get ready for work. Knowing himself, though, he should really get going. He wouldn't put it past him to still be late despite the early hour. If he lingers in bed any longer he'll either fall back asleep or find his mind flooding with thoughts of Eddie.

Eddie Thawne. A gentleman if ever he met one.

Shooting up in bed he makes a beeline for the bathroom, where showering, brushing his teeth, and shaving barely distracts him from his biggest concern. How would he ever face Eddie again? His time with Eddie wasn't meant to be romantic, he'd simply hoped to unravel any potential problems that could arise at work, and– How had things derailed so quickly? Talking to Eddie came easy, as effortless as Eddie's charm and kindness and all the confessions spilt late that magical night. He'd grown bold underneath the protection of the ranger mask, told Eddie things he hadn't shared with anyone but Iris for good reason; fourteen years after his parents' accident it all still hurt, the scars hadn't healed, and so people knowing reopened those old wounds. Talking to Eddie without running the risk of having to read his past in Eddie's eyes later made things easier.

Yet now, with that kiss haunting him, it's like he carved out new scars—he never soaked in his own misery, never one to let his past or people's expectations of him dictate his life. No one ever stated it explicitly but he was expected to fail, to drift in the system like so many others before him and settle for a mediocre life, no education, no prospects. He'd proved everyone wrong.

But when it came to his past, when it came to what he'd lost and would never get back—that would follow him wherever he went. Not because it had to. But because he let it.

Iris became his friend because she understood his burden; her dad shot in the line of duty and her mom busted for distribution of a controlled substance she suffered the same as him, felt that same sense of abandonment, of loneliness. So he let Iris in as she'd let him, their only attachment in a lonely world. Iris dated the same way he did. Rarely.

"Barry." Iris' eyes go wide as he pushes through the doors at Jitters well before 8:30, her lips setting in a straight line that fails to hide her initial shock.

"Yes, I'm on time. Try not to faint," he says, while waiting patiently in line for the first time in months; the pace is slow-going, but it's a nice change from the usual hustle and bustle that Monday brings. He's never been good with time, deadlines, being on time, curfews—despite the level of organization he likes his life to have, he's never let a clock dictate it.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the cute detective you kissed on Halloween, would it?" Iris raises a surreptitious eyebrow, sliding his standard order of coffee and a bagel across the counter.

His face falls. "N-o," he says, and shakes his head, but recognizes the lie as easily as Iris does.

"Can't fool me, Barry Allen." Iris beams, before she gives him a hard stare. "Tell him the truth."

He rolls his eyes as lovingly as he can manage.

.

For the second time that week he steps off the elevator at an hour considered more than acceptable, assaulted by the commotion of a dozen officers readying for their shifts, detectives preparing for their day in court, and others already at their desks going over reports.

"Allen!" Captain Singh's voice rings loudly through the bullpen, and a sea of blue uniforms parts to let their superior officer pass. He twists on his heels, startled by the unexpected reprimand—surely the captain won't give him flack for actually being punctual for once. "You're on time," he says, unable to hide his surprise, and checks the clock on the wall and his watch for good measure.

"Yeah," he breathes, swallowing hard, grateful when the focus shifts away from him, back to the rhythm of the working day. It's really not that big a deal; so he's on time. Hardly a reason to alert everyone.

"Thawne," the captain calls. "My office."

If anyone were to ask him to explain his reaction in the immediate aftermath of the captain's words he decidedly did not actually duck at the sound of the name, or at the realization that Eddie must be behind him. He turns around again in time to catch Eddie's eyes, the brief "Hey, Allen," followed by a quick friendly smile enough to make his heart stutter. He's haunted alright, by the soft press of Eddie's lips against his, the magnetism between them, the undeniable restlessness that comes with falling for someone new.

"Hey, Det–" he starts, but doesn't get much further than that.

Eddie passes him and heads for the captain's office.

His heart sinks.

There he is, invisible again.

.

On Wednesday he arrives exactly ten minutes early, sparking an applause that travels through the bullpen, cops and secretaries and even a few uncuffed criminals happily joining in.

His only consolation comes when he catches Eddie's eyes, still sat at his desk, clearly having no intention to applaud. Eddie offers a sympathetic smile, but he fears that when he returns the smile, Eddie might be able to read the sad that sneaks in plain as day. Can't he do anything right around here?

"Cut it out!" Captain Singh's voice booms through the room, which he takes as his cue to run up to his lab cheeks burning, and resolves to hide from anyone and anything until someone needs him. He catches up with three different crime scenes; pictures, evidence he gathered at the scene, his notes, and the detective's notes. It keeps him busy and distracted from his colleagues' teasing, and the thought that somewhere downstairs, Eddie's working too.

Sometimes he wonders why he sticks around at all, why he doesn't start sending out his CV to other labs right now and put an end to this disastrous unhappiness growing bigger and heavier every day. But no one ever taught him how to escape his circumstances without running away.

.

"Hey, Allen."

His left index finger lingers on the 'F' on his keyboard long enough to fill an entire paragraph—he's been doing that a lot the past three days, nearly jumping out of his skin whenever the by now too familiar voice sounds in his vicinity, the hope rising in his chest instantly squashed when Eddie's eyes don't read that sense of recognition he hasn't allowed him. It's his own fault, he knows that, but one of these times his heart's going to give out and the precinct will be short its only forensic scientist.

"Detective," he says, willing his voice into submission.

Eddie shuffles a step closer, his hands hidden behind his back. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

His eyes tick from Eddie's middle back up to his eyes, getting a little suspicious. Eddie wouldn't try and pull any pranks on him, would he? At least not this early after his transfer. "Sure."

Still, Eddie hesitates. "I know you're busy."

He pulls his hands away from his keyboard, leaning back in his chair. "What's up?"

And before he even manages to catch a breath, before he's mentally prepared for close to any question about any case, he comes face to face with The Lone Ranger mask he'd lost on All Hallow's Eve. Eddie found his mask. He found his mask and picked it up, stored it in an evidence bag and all.

Eddie had started looking for his lone ranger.

"Could you take a look at this?" Eddie asks, carefully placing the see-through bag on the desk in front of him.

"What–" He swallows hard, trying to keep his breathing under control. "What is this?"

"Just something I'd like to know a little more about." Eddie shrugs. "Anything you can tell me."

Licking his lips he scratches the back of his neck, caught in the mess of his own lies, his own secrets, a tangled web entirely his own. He could come clean right now, tell Eddie the mask is his, that he'd cooked it up in this very lab a little over a year ago, and– But what would that accomplish? Eddie might get angry, he might not understand why it was easier for him to be in disguise.

So he treats the mask like any other piece of evidence gathered at a crime scene; photographed, carefully logged, collected in a standard issue plastic bag—his eyes pause over the lack of signature on the chain-of-custody label. He might not have left behind a crime scene, but Eddie deemed it important enough to keep, to ask him about it now. What has he done?

He slips on a fresh pair of black neoprenes and removes the mask from the plastic bag, laying it out carefully on a metal tray. Grabbing a scalpel and some tweezers he studies his own creation closer. What would he say about this mask if he didn't know its origins? He'd scrape off a sample for further analysis, but he can't justify using department resources. "It's definitely not something you'll find in any department store," he says. "Some sort of compressible micro fabric if I had to guess. Someone put a lot of work into making this."

"Meaning?" Eddie's voice sounds a whole lot closer, making him sit up straight and look up into the detective's eyes—a mistake, he decides, because he spills about everything he can without giving away his identity.

"It's one of a kind. Made to fit someone's face perfectly." His nose itches at the memory of the mask strapped over his face. "Does that help at all?

Will it lead Eddie straight to him?

Eddie bites at his lip. "Where were you the night of the Halloween party?"

"The–" His eyes go wide, elbow slipping off the armrest of his chair. "Here!" he exclaims. "Where I always am. Captain wanted me to run some fiber analyses. I'm kind of the only one who can."

Before he can question whether that last part sounds too braggy, Eddie nods, leaving him with a little more oxygen in his lungs. He's left it too long, it's gone too far. If Eddie finds out now he probably won't forgive him and he'll lose the one person he might consider a friend around here.

"Thanks for this."

He nods, "Any time," and watches as Eddie gathers up the mask and plastic bag again, leaving the lab moments later. He swallows hard, his throat dry, his heart beating a hundred miles an hour. In what world would someone like him even deserve a person as good and kind as Eddie Thawne?

.

He spends his Friday lunchtime running back and forth between the lab and a few briefings down in the bullpen, juggling four different folders of unrelated cases. There's a cup of coffee in his right hand, his reports in the other as he makes his seventh run downstairs, his stomach growling, and he collides with another body at the bottom of the stairs. His papers tumble to the ground, his coffee spills a little but manages to avoid anything of importance, and he dives down alongside the person he hit to gather everything together again.

"Sorry." He counts himself lucky he started numbering the pages in his reports, otherwise the captain would have another reason to shout at him. "I should really start watching what I'm doing."

"Considering the amount of cases you're juggling I'm impressed you haven't quit yet."

His eyes shoot up when he recognizes the voice, and meet brilliant blue ones, alight with a smile.

"Kinda– need this job," he stutters, finding it hard to look away. No mask this time, no disguise. Nowhere to hide.

"No job is worth your coffee."

He laughs, right alongside Eddie, the same way they had a few nights ago, and he's surprised at the room still left for joking. Because in this space he's Barry Allen, completely unmasked; he's clumsy and often inattentive, especially when he's immersed in his work; he stutters through conversations or can't figure out what to say. Yet Eddie isn't running, and not for the first time he questions why he had. He ran from his happiness in his teens, but he likes to think he's not that same boy. Is he?

His eyes skip down to the papers Eddie dropped. "A guest list for the Halloween party?" he asks, while a quick scan of the page shows no listing of names—the invitations had been passed out one Thursday afternoon during a meeting, no names listed on any of them. He imagines only the VIPs got personalized invites, not the foot soldiers. His name shouldn't be anywhere on those papers.

For some reason, his question makes a soft red dusts over Eddie's cheeks, and for a few infinitesimal seconds, Eddie sizes him up, as if he hasn't decided who to trust with this confidential information. "I sort of– met someone at the party. We really connected, talked. But I have no idea who he is."

It takes a few moments for his brain to register how Eddie's talking about him, and to force his mouth to say, "How can you not know?" instead of despairing and shouting it out. How can Eddie not know? How can he still not see him? They talked all night, didn't he sound the same? Would he recognize Eddie if the roles were reversed?

"He never took off his mask. Never told me his name either," Eddie says, and the quick nip at his bottom lip that follows, the cute hint of desperation in Eddie's eyebrow becomes so distracting that he loses all decorum and invades Eddie's personal space with a single step forward.

"So you're–" He clears his throat. "–using your detective skills to track him down?"

"According to you the mask should fit his face perfectly."

He did, he did say that, and feels the imaginary itch of the compressible micro fabric along the bridge of his nose again.

"I'll find him, Barry Allen." Eddie winks, playfully swatting his papers against one of his shoulder. "Just you wait."

And his heart does that missing-a-beat thing it's been doing, that one-two step back into the memory of that kiss and—oh. He's in trouble. He wants that kiss again. He wants that magic again. But how can that happen without a little bravery on his part first? How can that happen without him changing directions and running towards something for a change?

"By the way," Eddie says. "I'm having a small housewarming on Saturday. You should drop by."

The rooms spins around him a little; Eddie's so close and so far at the same time—he omitted enough details from his story to stay under the radar of suspicion, but some part of him hoped Eddie would be a better detective than that. What he wouldn't give for someone to see him, right now.

.

On Saturday he shows up to the housewarming clearly having misjudged what kind of party it would be; he's wearing his best dinner jacket over a white shirt while everyone else sported something a lot more leisurely. He'd also gone out and bought a bottle of wine while this was clearly a soda and beers kind of thing.

"I'll keep it for a special occasion," Eddie winks, and pushes a beer into his hand, off to greet the next person at the door before he can get a word in. He's not sure why he expected Eddie to have time for him, but he can't help the pang of disappointment; he's become so desperate for Eddie's attention that anyone else might never be enough. He has to accept that's how it's going to be though—he held the reins of their magical night in his hand and as long as he choses not to tell Eddie who he is, well, this will be his fate. Of his own making.

As far as parties go it's not a total disaster—he talks to a few people about the weather, about sports, even about work, so at least he doesn't turn completely invisible. He doesn't stand out, but he doesn't blend in either, with his solitary beer barely halfway gone by the time the party's in full swing.

Eddie runs from the kitchen to the front door more times than he can count, and talks to everyone; he wonders how he does it, Keystone's golden boy, how he hides that story he heard at Halloween from everyone around him, including his father. It should make him realize that him knowing Eddie's story hasn't changed his opinion of him, in fact it's given him this complete picture few others must be privy to, and Eddie knowing his story might not change his opinion of him. But that hasn't generally been his experience.

Somewhere in the course of the evening he finds Eddie's DVD collection, half of it on display, half of it neatly stacked away in the drawers underneath the flatscreen television. It comes as no surprise that The Lone Ranger television series hides among his collection—he should try and find a cheap version on Amazon or EBay.

"Are you a fan?" Eddie asks, voice coming out of nowhere.

Bile rises in his throat. The same question he got exactly one week ago—but he's not wearing a mask, no costume, no disguise. This hardly seems like the place to reveal his identity; not even superheroes are that stupid.

"No," he answers, swallowing hard. "Never heard of it."

.

By the end of the weekend he's accepted his fate—guys like him don't get the guy, not the house or dream job or any fantasy come true, but they do get the heartbreak of potential love, of cowardly acts, all the fallout of a missed opportunity. He doesn't even talk to Iris about it; she's heard enough of his sob stories to last a lifetime and he won't bother her with something that could've easily been avoided.

It was all a big cosmic joke, or an odd feat of acrobatics, how he's gotten everything so twisted. He likes Eddie, yet he continues to talk himself out of situations where he might actually get somewhere.

He's entirely the sole creator of his misfortunes at this point.

.

That Monday he's wide awake when the first alarm goes off, and still more than alert by the time the second one kicks in half an hour later. He's hardly slept for three days, constantly shocked back into wakefulness when the outlines of his own stupidity strike him again—remaining in disguise at the party, kissing Eddie, running away, choosing to keep his secret rather than simply tell Eddie the truth. It's a long succession of excuses along a clear line of self-pity and it makes him sick to his stomach.

So he calls in sick for the first time in his life.

He turns in bed, pushes his radio off the bedside table, and goes back to sleep.

One-man pity party? Commencing.

.

"Allen!" Vukovich calls the moment he sets foot in the bullpen, coffee warm in the cup he picked up at Jitters moments ago, still too tired from a lack of sleep. If it'd been up to him he would've called in sick for the rest of the week, but he knew time away from work would only add to his stress—Larry would've more than likely taken over his work yesterday, but a long-time replacement would be a lot harder to find. Larry's not one to go the distance. "Thank God you're back."

He blinks, convinced he must've heard Vukovich wrong. "Excuse me?"

"This shmuck up in the lab can't tell a microscope from a magnifying glass. I'm telling you, Captain needs to give you a raise, kid."

Okay. Yes. He sees how it is. The village idiot calls in sick for one day so pulling a prank or two is fair game—he can't believe he started the day in a good mood and it's already headed downhill. For once he would like to come into work and be welcomed like any other member of the CCPD. He has more than earned his keep; he set up new and improved procedures regarding the chain-of-custody, he works longer hours than some of the detectives around here to make sure they have everything they need, and he never complains. At least not to anyone's face.

So this is pushing it. No one knew he stewed in bed over a stupid mistake he made—for all they knew he could've been dying of some tropical disease. Was Larry in on this?

"Lab rat!" Chyre calls, and he can't help but roll his eyes. "Boy, am I glad to see you," the detective says and slaps at his shoulder. "I don't know who you have up there, but he can't organize worth a damn. I can't even read–"

"Chyre," Captain Singh chimes in, joining them in the main lobby, "give him some space."

Chyre opens his mouth but droops off without another word, back to his desk. Was this–? Were Chyre and Vukovich not joking? Did he just receive actual praise for his work? He can't believe that after waiting for it for so long it feels corrosive against his skin, like he hasn't done anything to deserve it. He called in sick like some lovesick puppy. And he'd been missed.

"Good to have you back, Allen," Captain Singh says. "Now get to work."

He can't suppress a small smile, some measure of pride blooming in his chest—maybe taking some time off hadn't been the worst idea. Larry rushes past him in the hallway without bothering to give him an update, and he fears the worst. What kind of state would his lab be in? Would he spend the rest of the day cleaning up after Larry?

Opening the heavy door to the lab he finds Eddie at one of the windows. "Detective?" he calls, while Eddie turns towards the sound of his voice with a smile, another picture of good-looking.

"You should really call me Eddie, Barry."

Here he thought Eddie would appreciate his professionalism, considering he hasn't called him by anything but his last name up until now. What changed? Did his absence cause this much of a disruption? Maybe he should call in sick more often.

"Captain told me to keep an eye on Larry," Eddie says, rearranging his belt around his hips again—his mouth goes a little dry; how's he meant to remain professional when Eddie goes around doing that all the time? "You might need to do a little damage control."

His silence stretches, left somewhat speechless in the wake of his decision to be a complete idiot around Eddie and Eddie somehow always finding a way to undo him a little. Hadn't he spent the whole of yesterday coming up with a plan to stay away from Eddie? To be professional and collegial but nothing more? Exactly how much of a resolve did he possess if he feels it wane already?

Eddie passes him on the way out, halting right next to him. Their shoulders brush together. "Hey, Barry."

"Hmm?" he hums in question, not moving an inch. It's like the whole universe has turned against him. Maybe it knows how stupid he is too, how futile it would be to deny that Eddie's had a lasting effect on him and he shouldn't ignore that simply because he's afraid. Bravery takes courage. Bravery takes resolve.

"I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thanks, Det–" He makes the mistake of catching Eddie's eye. "Eddie."

But how does one learn bravery when it's eluded him his entire life?

.

Wednesday at noon Eddie shows up at the lab with two meatball subs, asking him to go over some evidence with him on a case that's decidedly hit a dead end. They're nowhere closer to catching the killer than they were last week, so Eddie hopes that a fresh pair of eyes might help—detectives asking him for his opinion isn't unheard of, he has a keen eye for details after all, but they rarely buy him lunch in the process.

Eddie takes notes in between bites of his sandwich, adding his findings and theories along the way. Half an hour later he has a whole list of things yet to investigate, in light of some theories behind the motive of the murder. He's professional throughout, because he has no reason not to be, until Eddie changes the subject of their conversation again.

"Barry," Eddie says, followed by a short breath—Eddie sits forward in his chair, leaning his elbows down on his knees. "How would you go about finding someone?"

He pretends not to know who Eddie's looking for.

"Fingerprints. DNA. Fibers."

He's made such a mess of things.

"Suppose you don't have any of that."

"Not really my skillset."

"Humor me."

Licking his lips he surrenders to it, the stabbing pain in his chest that he drove Eddie to this, that he decided both their fates that night when they so clearly made a connection. He supposes no one got away clean kissing a good detective. "Way I see it, you're the best witness we have. You may not have seen this person's face, but you heard his voice, you saw him move– presumably. And I assume you talked."

Eddie falls back into his chair. "I've been over it twenty times already."

He hates this. He hates himself. If he came clean now Eddie would look like an idiot and he knows firsthand how that feels—he can't do that to Eddie. Not anymore. Maybe it's better if this Lone Ranger remains a mystery, fades with time and becomes a distant memory. He's not there yet, and clearly Eddie isn't either. But it's for the best.

Still, he can't help asking, "Why are you so determined to find this person?"

Eddie shrugs. "I don't make connections easy, I guess."

He hears the remnants of Eddie's loneliness, of his own, dusted along the room, reads it in the quick rap of Eddie's fingertips on his desk, the leftovers of the lunch he bought them, in every step Eddie's been taking in his direction. Not towards the Lone Ranger. But Barry Allen.

"Allen!" the captain's voice travels the length of the hallway, bursting through the door no three seconds later. "Where–" he starts, but stops once he notices Eddie, the files open on his desk, and any trash properly thrown into the garbage. "Thawne. What are you doing up here?"

"Going over some of the evidence with Barry."

Captain Singh looks at him. "So you finished?"

"Yes, Captain." He sits up in his chair, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands down his legs. He's not in fact bad at what he does, if the praise earlier this week was anything to go by—his workload's heavy so a lot of things get backlogged, but he is fully capable of seeing his cases through. The captain knows that, he hopes.

"Good. I want the report as soon as you can. Keep up the good work."

He frowns.

"What's wrong?" Eddie asks, once Captain Singh has vacated the lab again.

"He never compliments me."

"He should." Eddie winks, and stands up, snagging his jacket off the back of the chair. After all the compliments he got earlier this week it's almost too much to take, knowing that Eddie appreciates his work too, that the Captain does to some degree—had he been unwilling to hear it up until now? Or was Eddie having some sort of psychedelic effect on everyone? "Thanks for lunch."

He huffs a laugh. "You sort of invited yourself."

Eddie smiles wide, soon disappearing from the room again, but leaving behind a distinct sense of belonging—they've become friends, despite all his fears. Maybe it hadn't been too much to hope for, after all.

.

He spends most of Thursday at a crime scene, a shooting putting some 13 bullets through a small supermarket downtown. Chyre and Eddie write down witness statements while he takes picture after picture, to make sure the computer reconstruction of the bullet trajectories is as accurate as can be later. He notes down where he finds every drop of blood and every bullet, collecting and labeling any additional evidence. Meanwhile the storeowner was resuscitated at the scene, so he has to account for some contamination of the scene. He's at it for hours, so focused he doesn't even stop for coffee or food, so by the time he makes it to the precinct the last thing he wants to hear is, "Captain wants to see you in his office."

What has he done this time?

He heads for Captain Singh's office without giving it too much thought, the door wide open while Eddie and the captain talk—he's not sure if he's wanted yet, if the captain wanted to talk to him alone or if this had something to do with the case, so he waits outside, trying to catch some of the conversation.

"Barry's the best we have," the captain says. "The 24th would collapse without him."

Yeah. No. He can't take this kind of praise anymore.

"All I'm saying is if Barry had help he wouldn't have to carry all that responsibility on his own," Eddie says, and his heart drops to his stomach. How was Captain Singh the one defending him in there, and Eddie—what was he trying to do? All that responsibility? He's been running the crime lab on his own for close to two years and he's never cracked under the pressure. He hasn't complained. He hasn't given up or made a mistake. Not once. Was his work in question now? Was it not up to par with Detective Thawne's standards?

"Allen," –the captain's eyes catch him hesitating outside the door– "Get in here."

He crosses into the captain's office sheepishly, treading as carefully as he can. What exactly is he walking into?

"I never told you how to run your lab because you're a bright kid, and you never asked," Captain Singh says. "But do you need help?"

"I can do the work," he says, more than a little defensive, even though he's thought about it. People running their own labs usually included, well, other people. Maybe Eddie hadn't meant any harm. Maybe Eddie was being brave for him. He never would've asked himself. "But I wouldn't say no to some help."

What was it his mom used to say? You can always risk a 'no' but you can't let it determine your every decision? He's never lived by that creed, he wouldn't know how to, but he's been shown a way and he should take it. In his own way, Eddie was showing that he cared.

"Maybe we can hire and intern or two," Captain Singh says. "We don't need to pay them much. I'll put the request through."

"Thank you, sir." He nods, and all but runs out of the office. Two? His mind reels. The captain wants to hire two interns? It's almost too much to hope for—he could delegate the work, he could train new and inquiring minds, he could get things done in time without overtime or worrying himself a stomach ulcer.

"Barry," Eddie calls behind him, catching up to him outside of the bullpen. "Hey, Barry. I'm sorry if I overstepped, I just thought–"

Eddie thought to help him, a lot more than anyone around here has ever done for him, except maybe the captain, he now realizes. He's been so desperate for anyone to notice him that he's been blind to those few instances where people saw him crystal clear. No one interrupts him at briefings. No one doubts his findings in the lab. He's just different than anyone else, and while that shouldn't make him stand out that's often the way of the world. That doesn't mean he's not appreciated around here.

"It's okay," he says. "Just give me a heads up next time."

Eddie nods, lingering by his side.

"Why are you–" He shakes his head, but scarcely dares to ask. Why does Eddie notice him? How does he see him with and without the mask, without even realizing he's caring for the same person? Why can't Barry Allen be brave right now?

"I like you, Barry," Eddie admits freely, like he's never been invisible at all. Just like that, it's all out in the open—Eddie likes Barry Allen for all that he is, for all he's seen up until now. "If that wasn't obvious already."

"What about your Lone Ranger?"

Eddie shrugs. "A fairytale."

.

The strap of his CSI case digs deep into his shoulder as he ascends the six flights of stairs up to the crime scene, Eddie somewhere close behind. Captain Singh requested two interns first thing this morning, but it'll take some time to organize, so in the mean time he still has his work cut out for him. Still, the thought that he'll have more help around the lab soon has brightened his days, so much so that he still shows up on time in the morning, give or take a few minutes.

"Victim is Shirley Thompson, 24, lives alone," Eddie says, his footsteps heavy on the steps. "She's a waitress at a diner a few blocks from here."

"And she lives in the only building in Central City that doesn't have an elevator?"

"Speaks to our killer's motivation."

He considers it more than a little disrespectful to do around a crime scene, but he laughs. He's never laughed at a crime scene before, he's never laughed all that much around the precinct either outside of the occasional 'eureka' moment, but Eddie brings out a side of him he didn't know existed. They've shared a few lunches up at the lab now, regardless of the fact whether there was work to be done.

Eddie stopped asking about the mask, or guest lists, or finding someone who clearly didn't want to be found. And he's stopped lying to himself. He likes Eddie, and there's no reason for Barry Allen to stay out of any equation where the two of them are friends.

After what seems like half an hour they finally reach the landing, only to find the medical examiner hasn't arrived yet. Protocol is clear on this; pathology goes first, forensics second.

So they wait, right outside the victim's apartment.

They don't talk, both a little winded from their trek up the stairs, and he can't help a preliminary glance inside of the apartment—if all his crime scene visits included having to wait for the medical examiner to arrive he wouldn't get any work done at all.

"Would you like to go out with me sometime?"

One of the neoprenes he'd been mangling in his hands escapes from grasp and shoots halfway across the room. "Wha-at?" He blinks, and meets Eddie's eyes, realizing the other man had been looking at him all along. He thought they were friends, that 'I like you' included nothing more than a confirmation that given time, a lot more time than has passed since then, maybe they could become something more.

A quiet husky laugh disturbs the air around them. "Dinner. With Me," Eddie says. "Tomorrow night?"

Be brave, a small voice echoes—let the Lone Ranger disappear and just be Barry Allen, he's good enough, he's worth this, he deserves to be loved.

"Okay," he whispers.

.

After a day that won't seem to end, running from home to Jitters, from Jitters to work, from the bullpen to the lab more than a few times the end of the day marks the start of his date with Eddie. He hadn't known what to wear so he'd enlisted Iris' help, who packed him a regular shirt and cardigan to change into at the end of the day.

On a Friday night there's little to no one left in the bullpen—Captain Singh went home an hour ago, so few people stuck around after that. He waits by Eddie's desk, as instructed, getting a little more nervous by the second. What if he messes up? What if they have nothing to talk about? Or worse, what if Eddie asks him about his past? Does he lie? Or does he finally tell him the truth?

Was this date even a good idea?

His eyes fall to a half open drawer, a plastic evidence bag peeking out. Eddie's not supposed to keep evidence in his desk—all evidence should be up in the lab or in storage.

"Hey," Eddie calls, "you ready?"

He reaches down and opens the drawer, pulling out the bag—and of course it's not what he suspected. It's exactly what he never hoped to find. His Lone Ranger mask. "You still have it." He swallows hard. Maybe he couldn't expect to leave it behind, or assume Eddie would forget without some difficulty.

"Barry, I'm sorry." Eddie rushes to his side, drawing a hand down his arm. "It's just a mask. I'm not hung up on some fantasy."

But isn't that exactly what he's done all this time? He wasn't himself that night, in fact he'd tried hard not to be, so how could he hope to recapture magic founded on a lie? How could he think to go out with Eddie and not reveal anything about his past? Is he going to lie to him forever?

No.

"I believe in what I can see and what I can feel, and right now– You're shaking."

"I'm the one who's sorry."

"What for?"

The plastic cracks between his fingertips, too hard, too clinical a feel for the space he and Eddie appropriated together—this night's his clean slate, his fresh start, his chance to leave this stupid mess of a mistake behind him once and for all, now come back to haunt him. How can he go out with Eddie knowing about their night together? How can he be alone in that? Does he keep that a secret forever?

But his silence speaks volumes. Eddie catches on and carefully pulls the bag free from his fingers, removes the mask and raises it to his eyes, hesitating for a brief moment.

"Do it." His voice cracks, skin tingling as Eddie eases the mask over his eyes. A perfect match. A perfect fit to his face. If Eddie's hurt his eyes don't show it, but he's been in the business of hiding his feelings for long enough to know it doesn't have to. Pain doesn't have to be visible for it to be there.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He pulls the mask away, and drops it on Eddie's desk, shuffling a step back. Time for the truth. Lies have no place between them anymore. If this is it, if this is the last time Eddie will ever speak to him, he owes him the whole story. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to know me without the mask."

His hands wire together. "I'm just a– nerd with his own lab. I live in a shoddy apartment, and I have no dreams bigger than making the most of what life dealt me. I didn't think–"

Tears fill his eyes, the overwhelming magic of that night magnified in his mind's eye. He was seen. And heard. Not pitied but worth more than his story. "God, Eddie–"

"You didn't think it was real."

"More like something out of a fairytale, wasn't it?" he says. "But now you're–"

There's no point in lying anymore, no reason for him to hide, and if Eddie wants to run, if Eddie wants to end this, that'll be his fault too. Because he was a coward, and Eddie's been real with him all this time.

"Real," Eddie says, closing the distance between their bodies. "And so are you."

Can it really be that simple?

Eddie reaches for his hand, and places it over his heart. "And so is this."

Beneath the palm of his hand Eddie's heart beats fast and steady, and his eyes never leave his face. Eddie doesn't run, he's not the type to, and it's about time he stops running. He can't live a life on the run, never allowing happiness inside—that's not a life at all, and Eddie's made him see that.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, and closes his eyes, surrendered, defeated.

Eddie's reply comes with the soft press of his lips to his, a kiss he readily returns, his lips parting against Eddie's. His hands reach up for Eddie's face, thumbs stroking at the soft stubble along his jaw and somehow, somewhere, he can see a way out of all his misery, out of the tower, away from his loneliness. Solitude may be something to be shared but loneliness isn't, they'll cancel each other's out, because what's the use in being lonely when he has Eddie?

"Eddie, I–" he whispers to the other man's lips, but his own thoughts hardly come into this; he wants this more than he's ever wanted anything, and in the midst of all that he can scarcely believe his first thought is, "Captain won't like this."

Eddie steals another kiss. "Captain doesn't need to know yet."

.

.

fin

.