Author's Notes: This scene takes place during Barry's meltdown after finding out that Jay Garrick is actually his father's doppelganger.
Joe hugs a sobbing Barry to his chest.
"Hey," Joe says, holding and hushing him as Barry crumples like he can somehow disappear. "Easy, Bar. I'm right here." He gives Barry a pat on the back, trying to calm him down, and succeeds in starting a fresh round of stifled sobs. Sighing – bleeding fondness; he can almost feel his heart splintering sympathetically – he hugs Barry a little more tightly, letting him know he's there.
Joe has been here dozens of times at different ages:
Eleven-year-old Barry clinging to his waist and shaking hard as "I'm not going home" finally sunk in.
Thirteen-year-old Barry sobbing into his shoulder after some jerk kids beat him up, all because he couldn't keep his head down low enough.
Sixteen-year-old Barry biting his lip and sniffling, pretending not to be broken-hearted over his first breakup as Joe sat up beside him late that night.
Eighteen-year-old Barry drunk-dialing him and breaking down, suddenly and unexpectedly, prompting Joe to fish him out of the bar he shouldn't be in and chauffeur him home, Barry's head on the window but his hand holding Joe's sleeve the whole way.
Twenty-one-year-old Barry happy-crying at graduation, hugging him so tightly that Joe would've told him to ease up on any other day, but he wanted to savor this one.
Twenty-three-year-old Barry, shame-faced and hiding in his lab, gaze fixed on the window and a distinct choke in his voice when he asks Joe to leave, and Joe sighs and locks the door behind him and hugs Barry until Singh's latest reprimand loses its razor sharpness.
Without malice, he called Barry a "second daughter." Iris emotes loudly, joyfully, and everywhere, and Barry does the same. It's as innocent as their "white shadow" remarks, and somehow even more fitting. This is Barry. It is as consistent with his character as the sun being yellow. Half the guys he works with can attest to daughters with more masculine characteristics than their sons; Barry's sweetness is a big part of his charm.
It's also a big reason why he falls hard – and why he still lets Joe see him like this. It'll kill him otherwise, this raw, unadulterated pain. It must be shared, to be diffused. Joe is willing and able to support him through it. He just wishes Barry didn't have to live through it.
"I've got you," he promises, Barry's sobs muffled against him. "It's okay, son. I've got you." Barry has reigned himself in sufficiently to keep nearly silent, but he doesn't let go, and he doesn't stop crying.
God, he just doesn't run out of tears, does he? Joe thinks, heart aching. Even when Barry was eleven and his mother's death was still raw in his memory, he cried, but somehow it didn't hurt as much as this.
I didn't know him then, Joe reminds himself, squeezing Barry's shoulders. Not like I do now.
He'd kill to have a shot at Hunter Zolomon, just one punch, something to remember him by. Nobody hurts my kids. He knows it could never happen – Zolomon broke Barry's back, and Barry could run faster than the speed of sound – but he aches for something to remediate the situation. Anything to take away a little bit of the agony that is twisting and tearing Barry's heart apart.
He almost wants to punch Jay, too, for throwing Barry back to this place so quickly. Joe had hoped that it would happen at home, when things were settled and Barry felt like he could grieve, not here, when he was still trying so painfully hard to pull himself back together for his friends. And family, Joe insists, rubbing his back. And family.
Inhaling slowly, Barry leans against Joe for a long minute, trying to soak up some of his strength. Joe wishes he could break it off into pieces and hand it off, anything to mitigate Barry's pain. He can't, but he can feel a hint of Speed Force around him regardless, a taste of the lightning like sea-salt in the air. That's different, too, he reflects, swaying lightly, soothingly. It's a badge of honor, the reason they gave him a key to the city – and a brand, a target for other metahumans to throw themselves at.
With obvious reluctance, Barry steps back. He presses his fists to his eyes for a moment, but the redness around them has already begun to fade. Joe won't ever be used to that – won't ever forgive what Speed Force will inevitably put Barry through – but he's grateful that it helps center Barry.
"No one is gonna judge you if you need to leave," Joe reminds him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Barry's hand rises automatically to curl around it, thumb brushing across his sleeve. Were Barry much younger and much smaller, Joe would pick him up. It's a help me gesture that rips off another unshredded corner of his heart. "Okay, Bar?"
Barry nods, still a little frantic, one wrong word away from hysterical, and Joe waits until he sways backwards before letting him go again. "I just … need a minute," Barry admits, and he turns his back on Joe and presses his fists against the opposite wall, head bowed.
Joe's been here a lot, too, and he walks away, knowing Barry needs space. Sometimes he needs to be held together, and other times, he needs to be given breathing room. Luckily for Joe, Barry has never been a subtle person. He tells Joe things. He dares to confide.
Walking back into the cortex, Joe finds the kids mercifully preoccupied with Jay Garrick and yup, that is a sight to see, even for him. He knows that doppelgangers exist, but it's one thing to hear about them, and another thing entirely to see one in front of him. Dr. Light was the closest alternative, but hiding behind her white mask, it was easy to divorce her from her CCPN counterpart.
But this – this is Henry Allen. An amnesic, hurting, overgrown Henry, but Henry, even so. His doctorial manner is visible only in his eyes, his voice kind, firm, and compelling as he directs the kids. Even Wells falls into step, assisting where he can.
Like Barry, Jay's a speedster, but the reality doesn't want to sink in. There are no visual cues, no strong gut feeling that he is what he says. Joe doesn't doubt him, but he struggles to internalize the belief.
Even with Barry, Joe's never been able to detect the siren song of Barry's speed like Iris describes it, a strong and unmissable thing. Wally claims to recognize Barry by his "Speed signature," some sort of invisible aura that projects like warmth from a fireplace, preceding him into a room, or announcing his presence behind a closed door. For Joe, no matter how many times he watches Barry get his ass handed to him and emerge from the suit a few hours later unscathed, he still struggles to pair "mythical creature" with "human being." Barry heals quickly and eats a lot and runs really fast; as far as Joe is concerned, that's all there is to it.
But it isn't, and for the first time he can feel Barry's presence before he sees him, a strong, red, hurting pain like he's bleeding out. Reflexively, Joe takes a step towards the threshold. Then Barry appears, and the agony deteriorates, and Barry is just his son again.
Jay straightens and Joe can almost feel Barry flinch, but he meets Jay's gaze and steps forward.
And they all pretend for a little while that it's somehow normal, that this Jay isn't really Henry, that the man six feet under is going to stay six feet under.
For Barry's sake, Joe wishes the lie was true.
When they've all said their peace and sent Jay home, Joe finds a moment to pull Barry aside. He holds Barry by the shoulders and tells him, "I'm proud of you." Head tilted down, Barry closes his eyes. "I'm proud of you," Joe insists, winding him in for a hug that Barry accepts, cold and quiet and empty. Huddling against Joe, he stays like that for a long moment.
Then he sniffs and steps back, and Joe wishes he could hold on a little longer.
Because he can feel it in Barry, the urge to run, and Joe's been there before, too. At first, he was almost frantic, because Barry was gone and even though logically Joe knew where he was likely headed, it was one thing to find an empty space where Barry was supposed to be and another to drive up beside him in a cruiser. Defeated, Barry climbed into the car, and the game carried on for weeks, almost every day.
It was worse on the days when Barry didn't try to run, finality and pain meeting apathy, and Joe tries to tell him with a final squeeze to his shoulder that if he needs to, he can go.
This time, Joe knows, he can't stop Barry.
But he can trust that in the end, Barry will come home.
. o .
And so he always does.