Barry had been arrogant enough to think that he knew all the intricacies of pain. He knew how loss could hollow him out and fill him up with an anger as futile as a bag of seeds spilled on concrete, and that was enough; he thought there was nothing hurt could unveil that he had not already seen. He was wrong. What the speedforce had yet to teach him, life would.
Iris and he adopted twins, a girl and a boy, aged 7. Their names were Dawn and Don. When he and Iris had first met them, they'd been quiet and shy, only nodding or shaking their heads meekly at any questions they were asked. He'd recognized some things immediately in their behavior. The way Don sat on his hands and refused to move them, so that when he had an itch on his chin he just rubbed it against his chest? That was because he was nervous, and if he didn't sit on his hands he was afraid he'd do something with them he wasn't supposed to, and the only thing remembered about him would be that he'd done something wrong. The way Dawn looked at neither him nor Iris in the eye, and kept her gaze focused on some point behind them? That was because she wanted to look at them with her own discretion, without being scrutinized in return. Barry caught her stealing glances at Iris. He saw that they wanted to be loved, to be wanted, and were willing to do what was asked of them in order to be so. Iris saw it too. In the car on the way back home, Iris had taken his hand in hers, laced their fingers and kissed his knuckles. She told him how it made her ache, that they were so young and already felt that they had to control themselves in order to be loved.
Dawn and Don began calling Iris "Mummy" within a month of their having come home. And they called it that, too. When Barry came to pick them up from school they would wave to their new friends and say, "I have to go home now, I'll see you tomorrow!" In the home they shared, Dawn found her favorite hiding places, and after she'd gone to bed Iris and Barry would check each of them, pick up the book she'd left in one, the stuffed animal she'd left in another. Don had gone from asking if he could take food out of the fridge and cupboards to taking Barry's hand and leading him to the aisles in the grocery store that had the snacks he wanted to bring to school. Nine, ten, eleven months passed. He and Iris spent hours talking about when to let their children know he was the Flash. Don liked to brag that his Mummy knew all the superheroes in the Justice League; Barry knew Dawn's favorite bedtime stories by heart—and both his children still called him by his given name.
One evening after dinner, while Iris was helping Don with his homework and Barry was finishing up washing the dishes, Dawn came up to him. "Barry?" she said. It was a fresh bruise, to hear her call him that. Such a small word, but each time it took so much out of him that Barry had to pause before he could answer.
"Yes, baby?" He wiped his hands on a towel, then crouched down so he was closer down to her height. She was so small, smaller than even Iris had been at that age.
"Can you help me with this, please?" Dawn held a sheet of lined paper out. She and Don both still scrupulously said please and thank you to him, even though with Iris they would run up, tug at her shirt or her skirt, and make demands. She had to remind them to ask, remind them to be polite. Barry longed for that kind of familiarity. If they demanded anything from him, no matter how outrageous or impertinent, he'd go against his good parent judgment and give in immediately.
On the paper Dawn had written something over and over in wobbly, barely legible script. Barry took it gently from her and said, "Yeah. What's this?"
"My name!" Dawn said, indignant, but she immediately tucked her chin to her chest and held her hands behind her back. She murmured shyly, "I want to write it like Mummy does."
"You mean in cursive?" Dawn nodded. "Ok." He paused for a moment, unsure and awkward in a way he hated, and then took Dawn's hand, leading her to the table. He sat down and she clambered up onto a chair next to him, leaned over with her elbows on the table. Her eyes widened with delight when Barry took his fancy ballpoint pen out of his pocket, and he grinned at her. Slowly, in big letters, Barry wrote out Dawn's name. He pointed out when he rounded out the D and how he connected all the letters together. But when he handed her the pen she frowned.
"What's wrong?"
"Finish it," she said.
Barry cocked his head to the side.
"My name, finish it. I'm Dawn West-Allen." And Barry was reminded with a rush and a bright clarity how much he loved her and her brother.
"Of course," he said, and then quietly, "I'm sorry, Dawn." He wrote out her full name three times, skipping lines, Dawn West-Allen. He watched Dawn copy him, her brow furrowed in concentration and her bottom lip sticking out, and then, gently, after asking, "Can I?" and Dawn nodding, he placed his hand over hers and guided her.
That night, after tucking her into bed and turning out the light, Barry gave her her nightly hug. "Love you," he told her. He kissed the top of her head. She held on more tightly than she usually did, and for a little longer, and she whispered, "Thank you."
In the bed he shared with Iris, Barry curled up behind her, his nose in the back of her neck. He pressed his lips against her there, a small kiss that made her shiver and nestle in closer to him. They were quiet for a long moment, long enough for Barry to think she'd fallen asleep, but then she placed her hand over his where it lay against her abdomen. "You upset?" she whispered. How could she tell, when he hadn't said anything? He didn't answer at first, because he didn't want to admit it. He was afraid he was being petty, or overreacting, or giving in to something ugly in him. He was afraid to ask too much from his kids, to ask too soon.
"Barry, babe, talk to me," Iris said.
"It's nothing. It's just…"
"Did the kids call you Barry again?" Somehow, when she said it aloud, it didn't sound stupid and inconsequential, the way he was afraid it would sound if he said it. Her voice was low and warm and the slightest bit rough, the way it got right before she fell asleep, and full of understanding. She knew that it hurt him, and she didn't think it was silly of him to be hurt.
"I just don't understand why," he said.
"It'll take more time, is all."
"Do you think–maybe–are they scared of me? Is that it?"
"Babe, no," Iris turned in his arms to face him and placed a palm against his jaw. She rubbed her thumb across his cheek. "They trust you, Barry."
"How do you know?"
"I can just tell."
Barry shook his head. "I don't even care," he said. "I just want them to be happy."
At this Iris's expression faltered, and Barry chided himself silently. This was new for her, too, and he knew she had her own anxieties, that she was trying her best for their children. At the orphanage they'd had Dawn's hair cut as short as Don's. One of the first things Dawn had asked Iris when they brought her home was if she could grow her hair out. Iris had said yes, and the next day she'd come back with her own hair cropped short. She'd told Dawn she wanted to grow her hair out with her, and Dawn had beamed.
Long before they'd started the adoption process, Iris had told him she was worried she was being selfish. She'd thought maybe that having birth children was something important to him, something he needed in a family. She hadn't wanted to ask him to give up something he'd always dreamt of. But Barry's greatest dream had always been to have a family with her, and it didn't matter to him the shape or make of that family. And so they had adopted not because Iris had difficulties with pregnancy, but simply because it was something they both wanted. And once they'd agreed to adopt, Barry had felt how right it was in his gut. He'd seen little Don and Dawn, and he'd been reminded of himself not too far from their age, needing a home and a family.
But when acquaintances learned they were adopting, concern would blanket their features, and they'd take Iris's hand in pity or empathy, tell her they too had had problems conceiving, and that she shouldn't give up hope, that there was always a chance she would be able to give birth. They'd give her the names of doctors and acupuncturists, self help books and medication. "As though my babies aren't everything I've ever wanted," Iris had once told Barry. She was always torn between anger and guilt, because Dawn and Don were so precious to her, but she still felt how keenly these people wanted what she didn't—pregnancy and birth, offspring you could point at like some coming attraction and say, "look, your eyes, and look, my mouth." She still struggled with it, the feeling that she was somehow a fraud, that a person—a woman—never chose adoption unless she had no other choice. When she was very tired and very scared, so vulnerable that thoughts she usually kept at bay would overwhelm her, she would ask Barry, "Am I really that strange? Do you think I'd feel something different for them, if I'd given birth to them?" But there was no answer to that, of course, because Barry knew she loved Dawn and Don fiercely, and all he could do was hold her and let her cry out her doubts and frustrations.
"You don't think they're happy?" Iris asked him now.
"They are, they are," Barry assured her. He ran his hand over her cropped hair and pulled her closer to him for a kiss. "They're happy, Iris. They love you."
"They love us."
Barry didn't answer her. He kissed her again, and that night they fucked slowly and without any words, their faces never too far apart, giving each what the other wanted, because they'd been together for so long that bringing each other pleasure came as easily as thought, and was a pleasure in itself.
#
Barry couldn't believe himself, that after everything, after getting to be a hero to his city, after marrying his best friend, after being raised by a man he adored and respected, after having children who were more precious to him than his power, he could still want more, and want it so badly. People often pitied him his dead parents, but even with all the grief in his life Barry knew he was blessed.
Was this selfishness, then? Was this greed? Could he content himself with the knowledge that he loved his children, and that he would care for them and protect them, gladly give his life for them? He tried to tell himself that it was a very small thing, but every time he heard "Mummy," every time he heard a little voice say "Barry," he felt a sadness so deep inside himself it was all he could do not to wince.
It was a pain he'd never thought of before, he hadn't known it existed. And so he didn't know how to protect himself from it, or even have the words to describe it. If he tried to put it as easily as he could, it was simply this: that he wanted his kids to know he loved them, and that he was theirs, and that there didn't have to be any distance between them. He'd be there for them when they needed him. He wanted only to be a good father to them.
He tried to think of what he'd been like with Joe. He'd only been a few years older when he'd moved in with him and Iris. He'd been so much angrier than either Dawn or Don. They neither of them yelled at him or Iris, or slammed doors or refused to eat. They never tried to run away. They were such good kids, so much better than he had been, and he felt piercingly, now that he was a father, what it must have been like for Joe all those years ago. He told Joe this, and he apologized. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but Joe only shook his head and told him, "You were a good kid, Barry. Still are."
Barry didn't agree, but he kept it to himself. He didn't know how he'd managed it, ending up surrounded by people who believed he was better than he knew himself to be.
"Do you remember when you started calling me Dad?" Joe asked.
Barry had never started calling Joe Dad. He'd thought of him as a sort of father for the longest time, had relied on him as one, and when he and Iris had gotten married he'd started to introduce Joe to new colleagues not as his father-in-law, but as his dad.
Barry shook his head, "No."
"And does that mean we're anything less to each other?"
Barry thought of everything Joe was to him, of how, now, he tried to be as good a father to Dawn and Don as Joe had been to him. "No," he answered quietly.
#
Sometimes on Saturday mornings Iris would go into the office to get edits to a piece in late. On these mornings Barry woke up late, usually still groggy from patrolling the night before, and usually to find his kids on the floor in front of his and Iris's bed, lying on their stomachs and watching cartoons with the volume turned down low. He'd make them breakfast, get them washed and dressed, and then they would head out for Joe's or Wally and Linda's.
This morning they headed for the park a just few blocks from Picture News. It was a popular little park, full of old ladies with their grandchildren and nannies with their charges, and dogs sprinting after balls. Barry knew Dawn and Don liked it best because it was so close to where Iris worked that they could pick her up once she was done, and it was close enough to their school that they sometimes got to see friends and classmates there. When they arrived Don and Dawn both scurried off to the large clubhouse that had ladders and the slides and the monkey bars, with the swings off to the side. "Be careful!" he called after them, and they chorused back, "Ok, Barry!"
Barry sat on a bench close by, where two nannies were speaking in patois and feeding the babies in the strollers in front of them. From where he sat Barry could see Dawn and Don as they ran up and down the plastic stairs of the clubhouse, chasing after each other and getting in on a game with some of the other children that was already in motion. Dawn's hair was growing out little by little, and that morning she'd insisted he split it down the middle and tie it into two little puffs with pink ribbons. they were coming undone now, and fluttering behind her as she ran. When Don had to stop to tie his shoelaces, Dawn stopped with him and waited patiently.
Barry thought of what he'd assured Iris, that their children were happy. They were. He thought of how every day he got to be with the people he loved best in the world. Content? He wouldn't trade what he had for something as small as that. He took out his phone, put one earbud in and tucked the other in front of his shirt, and scrolled to his favorite podcast, grinning the whole time.
Twenty minutes passed, and then he heard Dawn.
"Daddy!"
Her voice pierced straight through him. The panic Barry felt was total, absolute. It came so quick it almost blinded him. He saw Dawn standing and next to her, Don sprawled on the ground. He flashed to them, right there in broad daylight, ran so hard time became less than a wrinkle, nothing. Dawn wasn't done calling out to him and he was already beside her, picking Don up from where he'd fallen right under the monkey bars and cradling him in his arms.
Dawn was crying, but Don seemed to be in shock. His eyes were wide and he was quiet at first, but then he blinked and he bawled out "Daddy!" He flung his arms about Barry's neck and sobbed. "It's ok," Barry said, "It's ok, Donnie, I'm here, I got you."
Barry held on to Don tight. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself the same thing. Donnie was fine, he was fine he was holding him right there, right against him. He reached out without letting Don go and Dawn was there, and he pulled her to him, too, held both his kids in his arms.
"Don, Donnie, let me look at you," he said, but Don didn't want to let him go. His hands were fists at Barry's collar.
"Daddy, let me–" Dawned hiccuped, blinked hard at her tears that were still falling, "–let me help you."
"No, it's ok, baby, I can do it. Don't worry, ok? It's all right."
Gently, Barry used his thumb to wipe at her tears. He kissed her temple. Then, just as carefully, with firm hands that didn't shake, he pulled Don from him.
"Daddy, nooooooooo."
"Just for a second, Donnie, I promise."
Barry looked at Don all over. He looked at his small hands, with the nails he was learning not to bite; he checked his arms and knees and calves for scratches and bruises; he pressed his fingers along his neck, against his forehead, against his elbows. Nothing. Barry asked him if anything hurt. Don shook his head. The second Barry was done checking him Don wrapped his arms around him again. He was fine. He'd just had a fall he hadn't expected.
"You're ok," Barry told him, and rubbed his back. "He's ok," he told Dawn, who was no longer crying, but still trembling.
"C'mere," Barry said, and hugged her again.
The three of them held on to each other long after Don and Dawn had stopped crying, long after Barry's breathing had gone back to normal. And then, when they felt safe again, and the shock of Don's blow was already becoming a memory, Barry stood from his knees and they three walked the few blocks to Iris together. With one arm Barry carried Don, who was falling asleep with his mouth open and his head on Barry's shoulder. With his other he held his hand out to Dawn, who held on to it tight with both of her own.
#
Being with Iris for so long, Barry stopped thinking of what he deserved. He thought if he were to mete out what each person deserved, he'd give himself nothing. Now that he was older, now that he'd been back from death so often he no longer feared it for himself or mourned it for his parents, he didn't think about whether he deserved Iris and Joe, Dawn and Don, or anyone else he couldn't do without. He thought only of how he could love them better, and how he could care for them, and how his family could be so beautiful that his love for them was greater than any fear he could ever have.