Swaying with Barry in the snow-covered field a ways from the wedding reception hall, Iris rests her cheek against his shoulder, fingers splayed across his back.
"I can't believe I married you," she tells him, tilting her head and pressing a kiss to his jawline. "We're married."
He rocks her lightly, humming. She can feel it in her arms, a pleasant lightning warmth keeping the winter night aglow. Hugging him, holding him as close as she can, she feels him slow to near stillness, and still he tilts his weight gently from foot to foot, like he can't resist it, can't slow down.
Thoughtfully, carefully, she rests her own feet on top of his. He doesn't hesitate, just keeps rocking with her, gait a little more confident, a little more pronounced. She can feel his smile in the soft violet air between them. "I love you," he tells her, and she wants to keep him, tangles a hand in the back of his hair like she possibly can. "I love you."
Iris slides her hands down his back, resting them low on his hips, holding onto him and all his speedster warmth. He sways with her, tireless and content in a way she has no words for. Peace comes to mind, but it's a mood deeper, sweeter, satisfaction of the soul she'd been craving for – years, now.
And it's theirs, now.
She can still hear the chatter and laughter from the reception hall, a light band enticing them to return, but this is the only place in the world she wants to be, right here at Barry's side. She knows she has to share Barry eventually, but right here, right now, she wants to keep her Golden Boy to herself. It surprises her to realize how much he wants to be here, how happy he is to be with her, how his every heartbeat and breath is close enough for her to keep, how he balances her effortlessly on his feet, how he enjoys her.
God, she loves him.
She squeezes him tight and pressing her forehead and her tears against his chest, and he keeps up his steady sway, his hand stroking her back idly. He presses a kiss to her temple and she clutches his suit for a moment, overwhelmed. She gets to keep him.
They're married.
They're married.
A laugh bubbles out of her chest, and she has to pull back to look at him. "I always knew I was going to keep you, Barry Allen," she says, and kisses him.
He tucks his hands against her back, keeping her warm in the chill winter air, and kisses back, slow and sweet, we've got all the time in the world. She thinks about kissing him for the rest of her life, an electric warmth fanning outward from her chest to her fingertips. They have so much time, and she already wants all of it, and none of it. Because to have anything other than this exact moment is to leave it, and she never wants to let it go.
He breaks away softly to press a kiss to her jaw. She lets her eyelids slide shut, sighing happily. Her fingers coast along his back, curling against the back of his shoulders. She won't get tired of this, she thinks as she leans her cheek on his chest, savoring it. Savoring him.
He smells amazing. He's soft and responsive to the touch, squeezing her gently, sharing his warmth freely, purring continuously. He looks stunning in his suit, and she shouldn't be able to fully appreciate it this close, but somehow it's even better for proximity, because she is a part of him and sees the suit like he does, rising and falling with the breath of this unbelievable human being.
It's breathtakingly cold and her fingertips are a little numb against him, but the night is still perfect, because it's just them. Like always. And somehow so much better. Because there's no aching loneliness on the horizon, no awareness that all of this will fade like smoke when they let go—
It will fade, but like stardust. It will be a glorious, hidden constellation she will remember every time she looks at him, a story written in the warmth they share and the way they sway together. She wants the way he isn't perfect, the little discrepancies between him and some preconceived Prince Charming. She loves that he's still a little awkward, still a little shy, still a little overwhelmed simply by being this close to her. It's a reverence she aches to preserve, a love she aches to reciprocate.
I love being this close to you, she tells him with every heartbeat, every breath, her steps perfectly synchronized with his as he rocks them back and forth, back and forth, tireless as the night sky above them. I love being close to you.
I love you.
"We're married," he murmurs. "I can't believe I married you."
She dares to step back, dares to break the fairytale spell of her weight on his while maintaining their overall proximity. Sliding her hands up, she cups his face, meeting his happy golden eyes, and tells him with a sincerity that promises to last, "I love you." Leaning up, she kisses him, lingering, holding onto it. When they break apart again, he tilts his forehead to rest against hers, and she repeats softly, "I love you."
And his love is so deep, and so warm, and so sincere that it is almost an extension of herself.
I love who I am with you.
Together, they sway outside their own wedding reception to their own beat, and feel utterly, completely at peace.