Touch
Pairing: Barry Allen x Gender Neutral!Reader/OC (Depends if you're on AO3 or FFN) Female!OC if you're on FFN
Warnings: slightly angsty, slight pessimism, it's mentioned that the Reader/OC is bisexual (they had both a female and a male partner in the past) it's nothing explicit, fluff
Summary: Every person you love (romantically) leaves a colour on your skin when they touch you, a mark of their own if you will. I hate the colours that I don on my skin, they're a sad reminder of all that I lost, of what I may never have. I see him around, the man with the white staining him, everyone looks at him with pity. The one he loves doesn't love him back. Never did I think that I would be the one to wash away those marks, that I would be the one who brought colour back to him.
Prompt: Every person you love (romantically) leaves a colour on your skin when they touch you, there's one rule. When you meet your soulmate they wash away all other colours, leaving you with just their colour on your skin.
A/N: I know Mission Medic hasn't been updated in a while but to be honest I'm not really getting inspiration I will update as I do though but I found this prompt at three am and I just had to write it! I'm also obsessed with The Flash at the moment that's why this is Barry Allen.
The entire thing will be in the Reader/OC's Point Of View
The hands of the waitress that handed me my coffee this morning were stained orange, the bright colour standing out against her pasty skin. I guess she got lucky, found someone to wash away the rest, or maybe she never had any to wash away in the first place. Her cheeks and hairline are stained to, signs of gentle touches, a pair of lips marked her neck.
Yeah I know most people use words like 'painted' or 'caressed' to describe the colours. I use 'stained', because that's what they are. Stupid marks that wouldn't go away no matter how hard you tried. Marks that show everyone your personal life. Stains that show if you love too much or not at all.
You see I hate the bright fuschia and blue that lace my body, the constant reminders that the only two people I loved left me. She left for someone who could mark her with a deep purple, him for someone with bright green, both washing away my pitiful gold.
Most people think gold is a great colour to leave behind. Not them. They hated it. Both of them, he said it reminded him of all the medals he should have won in his days of being an athlete, she said it reminded her of the greed for riches that brought her father his imminent death.
At least I'm not stained with white. That's the worst of all. White means that you've fallen in love, but the person that you love doesn't reciprocate, so every time they touch you, your skin is bleached. A constant reminder that they don't love you back. The worst part is that they don't see it. Everyone else does, but they don't see the pain they're causing you, they don't see how much they're hurting you.
Most of those people find a soulmate, someone who washes away the pain and brings colour back to their skin.
There's only one person in this city that I know of with bleached skin. He's a CSI, I don't know his name. But it's obvious, I always see him interviewing my patients at the hospital, and occasionally on the streets, his black case with his scientific equipment on his shoulder as he runs clumsily bumping into people.
I've never actually spoken to him though. Hell I've never even looked him in the eyes. There's a reason for that though; I'm too scared I'll see myself, see the same hopeless look all people left by their colour match have.
I get that there's still hope. That maybe by some miracle you might find someone who will wash away all the other colours, or paint over the bleach.
Then I look at that CSI and I lose all hope.
As I walk out of the children's ward after finishing my rounds I see him running in. He's always late, that much is obvious by the annoyed scowl on the police captain's face. A scowl painted in mauve.
I shook my head, moving to my next patient. Trying to ignore the bleached soul behind me, trying to pretend that my hands aren't stained in blue and pink.
"Emily." One of the nurses call.
"Yeah?"
"The CSI has to question your patient."
"Send him in." I reply as I carry on taking my patient's vitals.
There was nothing I wouldn't have done in that moment to not be in that room. To not see my own fate reflected in his eyes.
I could ignore him. I think to myself. I could carry on performing my duties and pretending he wasn't in the room. I could just make sure the patient was stable and handle the rest once he leaves.
Easy enough. That is until he enters.
He's much taller than I anticipated. At least a foot taller than me. He approaches me, tries to introduce himself, tries to shake my hand.
I give him a sideways glance, a half-smile and a nod, continuing to ignore him after that. I couldn't address him. That would mean addressing all of him.
I try not to notice the looks my patient is giving him. The sad, pitiful looks.
I carry on with my full exam, sparing him not so much as a glance before practically running from the room.
The rest of the day thankfully went on fine. A couple patients commenting on how happy I must be. Because that's the only option when colour stains your body as much as it has mine. No one thinks that maybe that person could have left.
Because somehow everything revolves around those stupid colours.
As I was walking home that day I heard running behind me. Upon turning I saw him, the CSI running towards me.
No. No. No.
This was not happening. There was no chance he could know me, none at all. I avoid him as much as possible. This wasn't happening.
"Hey! Wait." He called running up to me.
When I turned to look at him I saw just how bad his situation was. His hairline, cheeks, the outline of his lips, his neck and hands, almost every inch of skin that was exposed, all bleached, like every bit colour was drained from him, pain painted on his face by some cruel artist.
He held something in his hand, something colourless and shiny, it shimmered in the sun.
"I found this hooked on my shirt after I left the hospital, the picture inside looked like you," he sounded nervous, one hand outstretched to me with an open locket, as the other rubbed the back of his neck as he continued, "I went back to find you but you had already left." It was the locket my brother had given me, my last reminder of him before he left home and never came back, lost at sea they said. I smiled softly at the picture inside, I was on his back, clinging for dear life as we both laughed, his smile painted bright red. I hadn't even noticed it was gone.
"Thank you so much," I breathed, "I don't know what I would have done if I had lost this!" He smiled, he looked so different when he smiled. Like there was a trace of his former self in there somewhere, fighting to resurface.
"No problem." He said as he gave it to me.
As I took it from him I almost screamed. Our hands touched. I watched as the blue and pink faded from my skin, replaced by a deep maroon only on my hands. I looked at his hands and saw the bleach slowly returning to his natural skin tone before his hands were painted gold.
"Hi." He whispered, a crooked smile on his face.
"Hi." I laughed, grinning as I bit down on my bottom lip, tears of happiness welling in my eyes, tentatively reaching up and cupping his face, brushing his jaw with my thumb and watching as the bleach there turned to gold.
It's been two years since that day and I have to own up to something, maybe soulmates aren't that bad after all. I learned that his name is Barry, I've learned that he's the Flash (his colour is maroon for Christ's sake!) His family and friends are great. We've moved in together and in six short months we'll be the proud parents of a beautiful baby boy.