Barry's worst fear is that someday, he won't be fast enough to save someone who he really loves.
Seeing it come to fruition a mere week after breaking a dimensional barrier is a lot to process.
At least the particle accelerator is a safe space for him. No one comes down here unless they're visiting a meta-human; which, admittedly, happens less frequently than Barry would like. Neither Nimbus nor Mardon make particularly thrilling conversationalists, so the task tends to fall on the wayside.
Sitting in front of the closed portal, alone, he wraps his arms around his knees and tries not to fall apart.
He made the wrong choice. Lately, he's made a lot of wrong choices – deviating from the timeline when he should have stuck to it, risking friendships on the basis of irrational hopes that effects could exist without causes, and putting a man's life at risk by not taking his warnings seriously – but this might be the worst one yet. He took the bait. Searched every building, every street corner, every alleyway when he could have been reexamining the situation.
He found exactly what the Imposter wanted him to find: an empty bomb case.
And he didn't have enough time to prevent the real attack from happening.
Freeing James Jesse from prison was the Imposter's plan all along. A hostage was insurance; Henry Allen was collateral. Watching the tape, Barry could scarcely keep his emotions in check. He needed to be able to think clearly; instead he felt like throwing up, panic seizing him.
He made the wrong choice.
And it was a choice. That's the part that crushes him. He had a choice. He could have continued to blindly trust a known sociopath's word. Or he could have taken Dr. Wells' advice and called off the search.
I made a mistake.
It doesn't make sense to him. None of it does. If Dr. Wells killed his mother, why was he helping Barry?
It doesn't matter, he thinks bitterly, resting his forehead against his knees. His dad is in the hands of two psychopaths who enjoy killing for fun. They had no luck tracing Cisco's location when the Snarts had him. How are they supposed to find his dad before the Tricksters tire of their hostage and cut their losses?
What if they've already cut their losses?
He tries to keep the hiccupping sobs down, but they shake his shoulders anyway, curling him inward. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
If his dad dies, it's Barry's fault.
He didn't listen. He was stubborn and stupid and made the wrong choice.
There are footsteps down the hall and Barry draws in a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself. He doesn't want to look upset in front of any of them. The clip of footsteps is reassuring; at least it isn't Dr. Wells.
It's hard to actually look at Dr. Wells. Even being at Star Labs sends a chill down his back because there are times when it feels like Dr. Wells can sense his emotions. Not read his mind, but – know when Barry knows more than he's letting on. Catch him lying before he ever opens his mouth.
It's disconcerting. Before, it was nice: Dr. Wells always knew what to say to get through to Barry.
Now, Barry wishes he could throw a cape over his shoulders, muffle his own cues, process his own thoughts in peace.
Joe rounds the corner, coming to a standing halt beside him. "You okay?" he asks.
Barry has to focus on his breathing for a moment before he can speak. There's anguish in his voice. "Do you think my dad is still alive?"
Joe doesn't even hesitate. "Yes," he says, then, more firmly, "yes, he is, of course." Barry can't look at him, wishing he shared his confidence, he shared his blamelessness, but he doesn't deserve that. This is all his fault. I made the wrong choice. Still, Joe tries to reach out to him. "Jesse only took your pop to use as leverage. He might be crazy, but he's not stupid. And everyone upstairs is looking to find him."
Caitlin and Cisco look but will not find. And Dr. Wells –
"So . . . now I'm supposed to just – leave my dad's fate in the hands of the man who may have had something to do with my mom's murder?" He shakes his head, losing his fragile grip on his emotions, choking out, "Joe, I can't do this."
"Yes you can." Joe sits down beside him, facing the opposite direction, giving him space but not leaving him alone in his thoughts.
It's good; he's always been better at expressing his emotions than hiding them. They crush him if he doesn't let them free.
"It just doesn't make any sense." None of this makes any sense. He can't tell Joe that – can't tell any of them that – because he's already messed up the time continuum enough. Nobody needs to know.
You told Dr. Wells.
He's ashamed that he needed to tell him, that he couldn't hang in there long enough to adjust to it on his own terms. He had to confide in someone. He had to let go of the terror and anguish and frustration somehow, and the only person he trusted to tell it to was Dr. Wells.
Shaking his head slowly, he asks, "I mean, if Wells is a murderer, why does he want to help me?" Then, more forcefully, he adds, "Why has he helped me stop criminals or save Ronnie?" It hurts, but he has to say it. "Why didn't I see this?"
It doesn't seem possible that he could misread someone so completely. From the minute he learned about Dr. Wells' mission, he knew he had found a kindred spirit, a man who was a mentor before he ever said so much as hello in Barry's direction. He admired Dr. Wells for years, read his biography (ten times, even if he'll never say as much aloud), and quietly kept up with his life. Praised him, defended him, trusted him. And, when given the opportunity, he let Dr. Wells into his life mere days after waking up from a nine-month-long coma.
Never once asking this man might not be your friend.
Because he didn't see people that way. He couldn't see people that way. Ulterior motives and lies eluded him: he always looked at other people like people just trying to make it in life. Unless given reason to, he didn't jump to darker conclusions. It's what allowed him to let Caitlin and Cisco into his life so freely, what made casework doable, what made his life work.
The single foundation all else rested on.
People are good.
You studied that case for fifteen years, Barry thinks, reflecting on that board of notes and how scarcely he's been willing to reexamine it recently. There was a time – before the particle accelerator explosion – when he checked it every day. Sometimes hours at a time. Rereading every piece of news and scouring the Internet for more. Digging out the file box and sifting through it, trying to find something he hadn't heard, any subtle cue that could free his dad. Giving up, frustrated and exhausted, hours later.
He'd studied it so much he knew every detail. He'd examined every possibility. He'd kept searching.
"I spent a tenth as much time with him as you did," Joe says, "and he almost had me believing in him."
It's a whisper, a breath: "Almost."
God, he was so stupid. So trusting.
"Look, whatever else he is, he is Harrison Wells," Joe reminds him. "You love science, he is science. It's like being best friends with Einstein."
He thinks of all those days spent telling Iris about Dr. Wells' latest research. How often he came back to some pivotal line in his biography, quoting him like Shakespeare, embracing every little word of wisdom he said. Dr. Wells was the kind of person Barry always believed in. The kind of scientist who believed in changing and bettering the world.
It was all a lie.
And he fell for it.
"You're saying I wanted to be tricked," he says slowly. It makes sense: you don't see things you don't want to. Denial is easier than acceptance because it maintains the illusion your mind craves. Acceptance requires a shift in worldview. Acceptance is hard.
Joe's voice is sad and fond as he speaks. "You always want to be the person who sees the best in people." He looks over but Barry won't look at him, feeling an overpowering sense of helplessness at his all. Who he can and can't trust. He's never had to make that choice before, never made an enemy. Never actually confronted the man who murdered his mother.
"I've been a cop for twenty-five years," Joe continues, "all I can see is the flaws, the lies, the dark thoughts that people think." Barry thinks, It keeps you alert. It keeps you alive.
Being cynical is safe: it means questioning where you put each step before you put your foot through the ice and plunge into a crevasse. Pretending the ice field doesn't exist won't make the fall any easier. It might shorten his life not to see the danger, putting him at risk of falling compliantly in step behind the wrong person. A person who will say it's safe even as the ice begins to crackle underfoot.
But what a way to live, always afraid to make a single step, constantly aware that tragedy is an inherent part of living. It's crushing, stalling.
It's why Joe says, "I don't see – I wish I could be you." Because his lifestyle isn't easy, but it's bright. He can look at the ice field and see a breathtaking vista. He can watch the sun rise with a sense of wonder instead of dread that it might melt the ice underneath him. He can walk forward without hesitation because he wants to see how far he can go, how much he can change the world, even if there will be a point when he falls.
I made a mistake.
(And one day a voice will growl Yes. A costly one.)
But Joe doesn't see it that way. "As fast as you are, that is your real power," he asserts. "Don't let Wells take that from you." Then, softening his tone, he admits, "I don't know why he's helping us. All that matters is that he is."
All that matters is that he is.
With so much on the line – his life, the lives of everyone he cares about – trusting someone else to lead the way is hard.
But he never thought twice about Dr. Wells. He helped him bag case after case, save life after life, prevent tragedy after tragedy.
And now you didn't listen, he thinks, lump hardening in his throat until he can barely speak, and now Dad's going to die.
"I can't lose my dad, Joe," he whispers, voice breaking, tears obscuring his vision as he ducks his head against his knees, curling himself as tightly inward as he can because he didn't want to hurt anyone but he did and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
He walked when Dr. Wells said stop, and now – now he isn't the one who has to pay for it.
"Oh, Bar." Joe moves closer to him, but he hugs his knees, trying to keep his sobs silent. "Bar. Come on." He's on his feet, one hand on Barry's shoulder, shaking lightly. "Come on." A gentle tug. "Come on."
With an effort, he lifts his head, drawing in shuddery breaths. Trying to compose himself. Come on, he cajoles himself, dragging himself to his feet. Come on.
It's hard to fall.
But the way Joe hugs him when he finally gets his feet underneath him makes something in him let go.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, sobbing against Joe's shoulder, pleading, "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Joe tells him, "it's okay. We're gonna get him back."
And it sinks in. I don't have to do this alone.
He doesn't know who he can still trust, but he knows he can trust Joe, and that's a start.
I don't have to do this alone.
It takes a weight off his chest, making his breath finally slow from hitching to almost normal, deep inhales to center himself.
When he left his world, a world consumed by a tsunami and a life he couldn't live with, and entered this one, he had to find his place in it on his own. He talked to Dr. Wells, but ultimately, it was all on him. Operating alone, trying to make it work, desperate to set things right, voicing his concerns but handling everything on his own.
It doesn't have to be that way, this time.
I'm not the only one who can fix this.
"It's gonna be okay, Bar," Joe tells him, hugging him hard, and he tucks his chin over his shoulder for a moment, closing his eyes and letting his confidence steady him.
"Yeah," he says at last, clearing his throat as he pulls away, reaching up to rub his eyes. "Yeah."
Joe cuffs him lightly on the shoulder, wrapping his arm around both as he turns him towards the door, walking him out. "Come on."
And Barry lets him lead the way.