Barry doesn't want to go. They shouldn't even be holding a Flash Day.
He isn't a hero.
Eddie is. Ronnie is.
Cisco and Caitlin try to encourage him, tell him he's earned it, but all he can see are the empty seats. He hates that he can't let it go, move on, have a life, but Eddie and Ronnie don't get to have one. The people he wasn't fast enough to save don't get to have one, and where was the Flash then? When they saw a hero and thought it would be okay and it wasn't?
He thinks of the kids they leave behind, the spouses, the parents, the friends. He thinks about their careers, the unread books on their shelves, the way they never had time to say I love you to the people who mattered in their lives. He thinks about how many people die because the Flash isn't fast enough.
It's that crowd that haunts him, plaguing his sleep, drawing on his restlessness. In his more desperate moments, when the insomnia is so deep it feels like pain, he gets up and paces, thinking about how he could go back in time, he could save them – but he knows in his heart that he could never save them all, he could never be in enough places at once.
He's not a hero.
Heroes don't let people die.
Heroes don't go back in time and allow a murderer to stab a knife through their mother's heart, knowing fully well that they could have stopped it. They take the second chance. They fix it. They make the world a better place.
Pacing around Star Labs restlessly, Barry thinks that all he's done is make it a quieter one.
He is not a hero.
The vehemence of the statement brings tears to his eyes because he has to be enough for them, he's the one who gets to live, and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't get that when he doesn't deserve it.
He sinks to the floor, holding his knees tightly against his chest, sobbing into them because he could never, ever save them all but they needed him to.
They needed him.
There's movement nearby and he's trying to compose himself, he's trying, but he can't, so he doesn't even look up, thinking, If you're here to kill me, I'm not going to fight you.
Instead, he feels a warm, heavy weight settle at his side.
Iris curls an arm around his back, leaning her head on his shoulder, as his chest hitches and he tries to form words but gets stuck on I tried and I couldn't save them.
"I know," she says, rubbing slowly, methodically, broad sweeping strokes and he wonders what it must be like to not have lightning under your skin, to live a normal life.
None of us live normal lives, he thinks.
He's coughing and crying and feeling less heroic than he ever has, because he should never have put on that suit. He should never have loved being the Flash when he wasn't good enough to be him, to be a hero, to be someone other people could trust.
He'd betrayed them, Iris above all, and he can feel his heart snapping into pieces because she trusted him and he couldn't save Eddie. She trusted him and he lied about who he was. She trusted him and he endangered her, and she shouldn't trust him, she shouldn't be near him, but she is, hugging him tightly enough that even in the darkest corner of his grief he can feel it.
"Barry," she tells him softly, resting her head on his shoulder, "it's okay."
It's not, it's really, really not, but he can't speak, there's nothing he could say to fix it, and he just needs to leave, to break away from them before he hurts anyone else.
Before he watches another person die.
"I know you loved them," she says quietly, "I know you did everything you could."
He's sniffling and trying to stop because he feels ashamed, horrifyingly, breathtakingly ashamed that he wasn't enough to save them, he doesn't deserve to be what's left.
"It happened," she continues, undeterred, "and I know it hurts like hell."
He makes a weak noise, a muffled, Yeah.
"But God, Barry, if you weren't the Flash, so many people wouldn't get to see their kids again," she says seriously. "So many people would be hospitalized or traumatized or paralyzed." Rubbing slow horizontal stripes down his back, she finishes softly, "So many people wouldn't get to have a future without you, Bar."
"I couldn't save them," he says, like it needs to mean something more than four words, spoken verbatim, over and over in his head.
"Ronnie and Eddie didn't die because you didn't stop them," Iris says. He can tell it hurts her, but she doesn't let it stop her, voice steady, almost unwavering. "They died because they were fighting for something worthwhile. They made those choices, Bar. If you stopped them, it wouldn't have been their choice."
Reaching around her side and retrieving a small packet of tissues, she hands it to him.
The simple gesture helps ground him a little, wordlessly making him feel a little less out of place. He dabs his eyes, sniffs, and takes a deep, shuddering breath because she's right.
She's right, and past the shattered part of him he can feel it, and he knows it's true. He can't save them all. He can only do the best he can, and let people live their lives.
As he coughs into his sleeve, sitting up straight, he thinks he must be a sight, red-faced and teary, but she pulls him into a proper hug without hesitation.
"You can do so much, Barry," she whispers against his shoulder as he holds on as tightly as he dares, "but you can't blame yourself for what you can't."
There's a wave of exhaustion creeping over him, and it takes two tries before he's able to clear his throat loudly enough to speak past the lump in it.
"I think we should – we should go home."
She squeezes him lightly, nods as she pulls back. "Okay."
Then he Flashes them to their doorstep, setting her down gently, and they step inside and Joe is there, holding a mug of coffee and a book, snapping it shut as soon as they walk in.
"Hey, kids," he says, Iris smiling tiredly as she walks past him, leaning down to kiss his cheek.
"Hi, Dad. Brought him home."
Joe smiles, setting his reading glasses down. "Attagirl." Looking directly at Barry, he nods at the couch. "Sit."
Barry sighs, pressing his fists against his eyes, and he wishes he could just take the emotional side of him and crush it. It would have made life a lot easier as a kid.
Instead he toes off his shoes at the doorstep and obeys.
Fire crackling behind them, Joe reaches underneath the coffee table and pulls out a thick envelope, almost bulging at the seams.
"Iris organized this," he says, passing it to Barry, and he holds it carefully in his hands and stares at it, not sure what he dares say. "Open it whenever you're ready."
Then, with familiar movements, he grabs the afghan from his chair and drapes it over Barry's shoulders, and it's warm and feels like a hug, paling next to the real thing – and Joe always gives bear hugs, big, encompassing hugs that leave you feeling protected and stronger – before he steps back, looking down at Barry seriously. "I will be upstairs," he says, very clearly, "and you better wake me if you need me." Ruffling his hair lightly, fondness in his voice, he adds, "Good night, Bar."
"Night, Joe," Barry says, voice a little creaky, as he offers a faint impression of a smile.
Joe turns off the lamp and there's just firelight, now, bright and warm, and Barry's grateful for the quiet, the solitude that doesn't feel like being alone. He needs time to breathe, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, until he feels less like he's going to fall to pieces and more like falling asleep.
Quietly, he pries the envelope open.
He could Flash through the contents, be done in seconds, but the red crayon marks on a page catch his eye and he gently, gently pulls it free.
In crooked red crayon, the top of the page reads, To: The Flash, Love: Carter.
Underneath it, there's a stick figure drawing of a small boy and a much larger stick figure in red with a yellow lightning bolt on its chest, arms on his hips like triangles, triumphant, and they've both got big smiles and Barry has to laugh because he's crying, again, except it doesn't hurt and he thinks that maybe it's a start.
He takes his time, reading countless letters – I don't know if you'll ever read this, but I just wanted to say thank you for saving my life – and pausing to stare, entranced, almost hungry, at the kids' drawings.
He remembers those moments, so vividly, it's like he's there, except he isn't seeing them as panic-hurry-have-to-get-everyone-out moments, but in the breathtaking aftermath, when everyone is safe and sound and he's exhausted, in pain, and ready to go home, things stand out.
Like:
"Hey, buddy. Come over here."
The girl is sniffling, petrified, and Barry thinks he can understand why, given the amount of smoke in the room, even though the fire is still underneath them and the firefighters are working on it.
He says, "I'm here to help you."
And the girl says, "I want Mom."
"She's outside," Barry tells her, "she sent me up here because I'm very fast, and I can take you to her without getting hurt."
"How fast?" the girl asks, inching forward.
Barry grins. "I'm the fastest man alive."
He scoops her up when she's close enough, tells here, "Hold on," even though he's got a tight grip on her and he won't let go, and then he Flashes and there's smoke and flame and then— fresh air.
And his chest hurts, a lot, there are too many reasons why smoke inhalation is bad for you, but then the girl shouts, "Mom!" and Barry sets her down gently.
Holding the letters, the pictures, the tangible proof of his reality – he feels an indescribable swell of gratitude for Iris and Joe, for the city he calls home and all of the people in it.
Somewhere between Dear Flash and thank you, he dozes off, the fire low, his breath slow, even.
When he wakes up, he still doesn't know what he's going to do – but he knows, with a surprising certainty, that whatever he does, it'll be okay.
And that's enough for now.