Caitlin's never been particularly fond of the idea of soulmates.
It's irrelevant – this concept of predestination, of letting something immeasurable, intangible, unknowable determine what your future will be like and who the most important person in your life will be. The belief that there could only be one such person? And that they would be so important that they'd have to be appointed by some higher power? Laughable.
The words written across her left shoulder blade are nothing special. Formal, polite, impersonal. Written in elegant black cursive, conspicuous only when she's wearing a bikini.
I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.
There are times when Ronnie traces the words with his lips, as if to invalidate the person who would one day say them. As if to mock fate.
Caitlin lets him, because she doesn't care.
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They met a long time ago. She doesn't really remember much from that time – some frat party, loud music, too much liquor to think straight. What she remembers is his laugh when she introduced herself, stumbling over her words, smiling too wide, showing off too much chest. But Ronnie just laughed, eyes glued to her face, and shook her hand; said "I'm glad you're not my soulmate, I think I could really like you."
They started dating two weeks later.
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It's kind of strange, Ronnie's dislike of soulmates. She thinks it must have something to do with his parents' relationship – they were each other's soulmates, romantic-comedy in love, two of the lucky few who found each other early on in their lives. But his father died, and Ronnie's mother wouldn't move on. She locked herself up in their house, depressed and resigned, a shell of a person.
"She always says it's like her heart's been ripped out of her chest," Ronnie said bitterly, taking a swig of beer from his bottle. It was their second date and Caitlin was deciding whether to take him home.
"And you know, it's such bullshit. I was thirteen. I needed her. But she just drifted away."
He looked at her then, fire burning in his eyes. "I don't want that," he said, "I want to be able to make my own choices."
The intensity consumed her, drew her in. They wanted the same things.
So what if he only wanted them to get back at his mother? He was handsome, intelligent, kind. On his way to becoming one of the best structural engineers Central City had ever seen. He wouldn't get in the way of her plans.
She liked him.
So she took him home.
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Three years and two degrees later, a conversation:
"Care to repeat that for me, Cait?"
She giggles again, so unlike herself, her heart bursting with joy. She's still holding her iPhone and when she puts it away she realizes that her hands are shaking.
"I got the job," she says, then lets out another high-pitched laugh, "I can't believe this!"
Ronnie slips his arms around her waist and pulls her closer. "Of course you did. You're brilliant." He presses a lingering kiss to her lips then lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.
Breathless, she covers her face with her hands. "Ronnie, Harrison Wells is going to be the director – the director of Central City's S.T.A.R. Labs. Where I'll be working. I'm going to work with Harrison Wells!"
She starts laughing and Ronnie joins her, a bottle of champagne in his hand. "Be good, Cait, so maybe you can get a job for me too. I've had a crush on the guy since I was thirteen," he chuckles as the cork pops.
They toast and Caitlin feels like she could fly.
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Burton Thompson and Jenet Klyburn greet her at the entrance. She receives her identification card (it reads Dr. Caitlin Snow, bio-engineer, S.T.A.R. Labs – Central City, and her breath catches). The building looks enormous up close, and shines in the morning sun. There are groups of people behind the fence, gossiping excitedly and pointing fingers – the lab has been open for barely a week, it's still a novelty to the city residents.
"I'm so glad you accepted our offer, Caitlin," Dr. Klyburn says as they make their way inside the building. "I must admit, after seeing your resume I almost wish we were the first to snatch you up, to our lab in Metropolis."
"I'm sure she's not going to waste away here, Jenet," her colleague says. "The particle accelerator is our most important project right now."
Caitlin blushes, jubilant. "Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity."
"Actually, it was Harrison who picked you. It's a shame, I know, but we never look for young talents anymore. It's one of the things we should change immediately, right, Burton?"
They walk through the huge glass doors to the main lab. It smells of newness and plastic and... something burning? A group of white-clad employees are crowded in front of an engine prototype – Caitlin can't really see what exactly it is from that far, but a cloud of smoke above them is visible enough.
"Well," Dr. Thompson wrinkles his nose, "it's their first day, too. Cut them some slack, huh? Oh, Wells, there you are!"
Caitlin's first thought when she sees him turn around is he looks so much younger in real life, which is so embarrassing and unprofessional she wants to slap herself in the face. He's tall and slender, dashing in his black suit, striking blue eyes glinting intelligently behind his glasses. His lips stretch into a charming smile when he comes closer and it makes Caitlin's insides melt a little. It definitely shouldn't. Heat rises to her cheeks.
"There you are," Thompson says, "we were just talking about you. Caitlin, may I introduce you to Dr. Harrison Wells?"
For a millisecond, her throat closes. She's at a loss for what to say, what to do – how often do you meet people you've idolized for half your life? She's prepared a speech of course, but all the words have deserted her mind under the scrutiny of his gaze. Her hand moves of its own volition and he shakes it, encasing her small one in his. His grip is firm and warm, sends shivers down her arm.
Finally, she finds her voice. "I'm so grateful for this opportunity, sir." She beams at him. "It's a dream come true."
His eyes widen, lips tightening, freezing the smile on his face. He looks like his breath's been knocked out of his chest.
There's a sense of dread crawling up her spine. Quietly, she adds. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Wells."
Wells closes his eyes. When he opens them, the easy smile is back on his face. "I assure you, the pleasure is all mine."
And in that moment, Caitlin's world implodes.
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The first words your soulmate says to you. Tattooed on your body.
The first words Harrison Wells says to her. The same as the ones written across her left shoulder blade.
Harrison Wells. Her new boss.
Her soulmate.
A few minutes later, they're standing in his office. Wells is leaning against the edge of his desk, his brows furrowed in thought. Caitlin, once more, has trouble forming sentences.
"I assume," he finally says, blue eyes drawn to hers, pinning her in place, "my words sounded familiar to you."
She takes a deep breath. She can't screw this up.
"Dr. Wells, I – I swear, I'm not going to make a big deal out of this. Actually, I would love it if we just pretended none of this took place. I'm not – I'm not like that, I don't care about the soulmate identification at all. I can still give my one hundred percent to this job, it won't influence it in the slightest." Please don't fire me, she adds in her mind.
Wells looks almost relieved. It sends a sharp sting of disappointment through her, but she forces herself to thwart any such feelings. It's not because she particularly cares about him; it's because she's never been good at dealing with rejection.
"Good," he says. "We can be professional about it."
Caitlin nods, her identification card digging into her palm. "Absolutely, sir."
Wells smiles, all white teeth and dimples (oh God), and reaches for his tablet. "By the way, you can call me Harrison."
It almost hurts saying that, but this job means the world to her; so she grits her teeth and straightens her spine. "I think it would be best if we kept our interactions strictly businesslike, Dr. Wells." She forces a smile. "It will be easier this way."
"Of course. You're right, Dr. Snow." He nods, his whole demeanor unwaveringly polite and friendly. "Your lab is in the east wing, you'll be sharing it with your new partner, Louise Lincoln. She'll show you around."
Welcome to S.T.A.R. Labs.
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Everything is fine until she stops believing her own lies.
The job's great – challenging but rewarding, the results worth every minute of overtime she's spent poring over blueprints. She's made some friends – Louise and Cisco becoming two of the most important people in her life. The money's good, too; it's more than she needs, anyway.
The only problem is Dr. Wells. Or rather, Caitlin herself, when it comes to Dr. Wells.
She's not sure how she's graduated from thinking he looks so young in real life to wondering what his lips would feel like against her own, but it happened and now she's having a hard time concentrating when he's in a room with her. Nothing of the kind seems to bother him and she hates him for it – she's jealous of how collected he is, how impassive. Sometimes she thinks that maybe the flaw is in her; that she's some freak of nature who reacts differently to a completely common occurrence.
Except – she's seen the movies. She's read the books. She's been – for God's sake – to the obligatory classes in high school. Meeting your soulmate is supposed to change your life. You become attuned to them, dependent, because they're supposed to hold the other part of your soul. (It's such an invasive theory and Caitlin hates it, she rejects it – although there are times when she wonders why everyone would lie about it if it really weren't true.)
Ronnie keeps asking questions; he acts like a teenage fanboy, curious about what Wells is wearing and what his favorite baseball team is; he even asks her to invite the whole science team for dinner once and Caitlin almost bursts into angry tears on the spot. (She deals with it though, takes Ronnie with her to the weekly Friday night outing and introduces him to Cisco – they become friends in a matter of minutes. Such a brilliant move on her part.)
So the lie she tells herself is: it's going to pass. And: she's strong enough to push those feelings away.
That's what she tells herself when she walks into his office to hear his thoughts on her new project, and when she chats with him by the coffee machine every other day, and when he holds the door for her and she catches a whiff of his cologne and forgets how to breathe.
(She's always been a terrible liar.)
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Ronnie proposes. It catches her by surprise because she's been spending most of her awake time at work, and barely ever found time for going out with him anymore. Their relationship has been stagnant, a perfectly comfortable routine they had.
"It'll be good for us – a rekindling of our romance," he laughs, not even for a second doubting she'll say yes. It bothers her, that the first thought that comes to her mind is it's unnecessary – they already live together, and they've been a couple for so long no one doubts their commitment anymore. They love each other, after all. They don't need paperwork to prove it.
But maybe – maybe it is a good idea. A ring on her finger would keep her focused; remind her where her priorities should be.
She says yes.
The ring glitters on her finger tauntingly when they fuck that night, and when she imagines Wells's hands on her body, his lips leaving a burning trail of kisses down her neck.
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She leans over his desk, in the midst of explaining her new theory, points her finger at the yellow figures glowing on the tablet. Wells catches her hand in his.
It's as if time has stopped and she's frozen mid-air, her lungs deprived of oxygen. They don't touch, that's the unspoken rule, and the effect he has on her right now is proof enough of how important it is to follow the rules. Wells looks at her hand, watches the way the light reflects off the diamond ring she wears.
"Is this going to be a problem?" she asks quietly, making no move to withdraw her hand.
Wells lifts his head and the silence stretches. His eyes are two pools of ocean blue, and she thinks for a second that she sees a spark of something in them – something dangerous, that fills her veins with liquid fire and makes her breath quicken.
He lets go of her hand and the feeling is gone, replaced by a crushing wave of emptiness.
"Not at all," he says in a low voice. A part of Caitlin silently rejoices – at last, she's not the only one affected by their connection – but it doesn't take long for the rational part of her mind to remind her of how bad this is; her job, her whole career is on the line here, and she's devastatingly close to ruining her entire life over some stupid man. She imagines the taunts if anyone found out, the condescension. She was only hired because of the soulmark, they'd say. Her abilities, her achievements, all deemed fake. She could try to explain, of course, but news like that is like a virus, nearly impossible to tame. (After all, there's a reason why workplace relationships in high places are so rare.)
What happened to her priorities?
She backs away, torn between the urge to climb onto his lap and the urge to run for it; "I'll email you the rest," she says, struggling with the door handle. Wells turns his back to her.
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"You've been distracted lately," Ronnie remarks, emptying the contents of his duffel bag onto the dinner table.
Caitlin's hand tightens on her coffee mug. "I have?"
"Yeah. Something's bothering you?" He takes off his dirty tank top – he's dragged Cisco to the gym again – and throws it on the table, too. Caitlin wrinkles her nose.
"We're adding the finishing touches to the accelerator. It's only normal that my mind is all wrapped up around it, I guess."
Ronnie's soulmark is stretched across his ribs, a ridiculous "It was a cheap knock-off, anyway." in clumsy writing. They used to make fun of it all the time at the beginning of their relationship, make up juvenile stories about what could possibly prompt such a response from his soulmate. They used to have such fun together, back then. Used to laugh at anything; used to know each other's every thought.
"Hey, maybe we should get a dog."
Caitlin looks at him in disbelief, her brows furrowing wearily. "Are you mad?"
"Why? I'm not talking about a kid. Yet," he adds with a laugh that shoots needles of pain through her temples. Caitlin groans.
He's too loud. She has a migraine again.
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She's walking down the empty hallway, going through her papers. It's late and most of the S.T.A.R. Labs employees have already left, but frankly, she has little interest in going home; there's still so much work to do.
When she lifts her head, she notices Wells standing midway down the hallway. How tired is she, if she can't even notice him approaching?
His posture is rigid, but he relaxes when he sees her approach. He pushes his glasses back up his nose.
"Shouldn't you be heading home, Dr. Snow?"
Caitlin tightens her lips as her heart speeds up. It's late and they're out of sight and she's getting all those ideas, terrible ideas, and – what is he even doing there, anyway?
He watches her intently, trying to gauge her reaction to something she's not exactly aware of. His smell invades her senses and this is all such a bad idea, he's so close and she's tilting her head back, and she's forgetting something important something like – like the fact that Cisco is staying late, too.
She draws back, flushed and angry with herself. "Workaholic, me," she says with a fake laugh, feeling like she's run a mile, "I'll be leaving soon, though. Goodnight, Dr. Wells."
She doesn't dare look him in the eye.
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They sit together at the annual S.T.A.R. Labs Christmas dinner in Metropolis, their shoulders touching, knees bumping under the table. Caitlin starts a conversation with Gotham's director of biochemical research to distract herself, and it works, for the most part – until a sharp sound of a chair scraping on the floor captures her attention. Wells tenses, his eyes locked on Burton Thompson, who leans back in his chair and takes a sip from his wineglass.
"Look, Harrison, it's nothing personal. It's just us reassessing our priorities. At the moment, saving the world from an alien invasion, or God knows what else, is more important. When we succeed, you'll get your funds back, I promise."
She can barely process what she's hearing. He can't possibly mean...
"If we shut down the project, all research will be gone. Not to mention that we may never have such an outstanding team of experts again." Wells sounds so collected, as if the news hasn't rattled him, as if his fingers aren't curling into a fist under the table.
Thompson shakes his head. "Not shut down, just – put on hold? Unless, of course, you'll be able to finish it in the next two months."
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"We'll make it work," he says calmly, and Caitlin panics for the both of them; she thinks about their careers – ruined, no matter the sacrifices they've made; thinks about the world and how much worse it will be without the particle accelerator.
Wells puts down his glass and places his hand over her shaking one. "Caitlin. We can find sponsors outside S.T.A.R. Labs. We can ask for donations. I will not give up on this, I swear to you."
"It's too much money," she whispers, warm and cold all over, her thoughts running a million miles a second.
"Or we can finish it... before the deadline."
She doesn't say it's impossible. The word stopped having meaning to her a long time ago.
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A bad idea:
"Aren't you curious?"
"I'm a scientist, Caitlin. Curiosity is in the job description."
"Curious about us. What it would be like. How it would feel."
"It's dangerous to think about those things."
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She feels so weary, her lips bitter with wine. Wells doesn't leave.
"I never expected to find you here," he says, and yes, of course, she knows that, she can imagine how awful it must have been to find out that his soulmate wasn't his beloved wife but a twenty-something-years-younger employee he barely knows.
"I understand."
He smiles, softly, "you really don't."
Caitlin leans back against her hotel room door, the handle digging into her ribs. Wells takes a step closer and she shivers. "I still don't know what to make of it." She gets lost in his blue gaze, akin to a stormy ocean; dangerous and beautiful. "You could be my undoing."
A shocking wave of certainty fills her, and she lifts her hand and presses it to his chest, right above his heart. "No. I will never be that."
She's not sure why she says that. She's not sure how she knows it. But the only important thing is that she does. "I believe you," he says.
He kisses her.
She tells her brain to shut up and kisses him back.
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She's walking in the direction of the Pipeline when she hears Hartley's hysterical voice. She stops in her tracks, hidden from sight behind the metal door.
"It's not stable enough. People will die."
"You don't know that." It's Wells, his tone conversational. Like he doesn't even care.
"It's still a huge risk – you can't possibly..."
"That'll be all. Please escort Mr. Rathaway out."
Before she has time to collect herself, the security guards are dragging Hartley away, his angry screams echoing in the hallway. He catches her eye and frantically tugs at the hands holding him. "Stop him," he calls to her, straining his neck to not lose her from his sight, "you need to stop him, Snow."
She turns away from him and she sees Wells.
She knows she shouldn't have heard it. Knows she shouldn't be there.
For a second, she wonders if he's going to drag her away, too.
"What do we do?" he asks, and she doesn't believe this is happening, doesn't believe he gives her a choice.
She licks her lips, something changing inside her. Something taking shape. "What are the odds?"
Wells takes off his glasses and runs a hand over his eyes. "Optimistic."
Caitlin nods, once. She's not sure who she is anymore.
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This is what Caitlin remembers from the explosion:
the champagne rising in the bottle;
Wells's hand on her elbow, go outside, you'll be safe there;
Wells and the structural engineers running to the Pipeline;
someone grabbing her – Louise – tugging her away, running, running –
going back inside (to look for Cisco);
bright red light.
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When she opens her eyes, the world swims. Her lungs are filled with ash and dust and she coughs harshly, but it only makes the pain spread through her body. The backs of her hands are scraped, blood and dirt all over them, all over her, and there's something horribly wrong – shivers of fear crawl up her spine, urging her to get up.
She stumbles; her knees are too shaky, the world around her gray and foreign. She walks through a fog, God, she's concussed, she shouldn't be moving, goes back to what used to be the main entrance – her stomach turns, there are bodies on the ground –
She hears sirens.
Her mouth is so dry. Her hands so cold.
More steps, fear clawing at her throat, and then – she falls to her knees.
"No, no, no, " she whispers, her fingers pressing to the pulse point in Wells's neck, looking for a heartbeat. He breathes, but only barely, his face coated in blood, his body bent unnaturally. Caitlin's vision clouds and she chokes; she tries to help, but her hands betray her –
voices –
she screams.
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The ambulance ride passes in a daze; she's barely aware that someone tends to her, her only focus on Wells and the paramedics around him; they take him away when they get to the hospital and Caitlin is left in a crowded emergency room, leaning her back against the wall, breathing in and out, in and out, in and out –
It hits her then, how many people got hurt in the explosion. Every few minutes another ambulance arrives bringing more injured; moans and cries fill her ears, and she closes her eyes for a second, trying to gather all the strength she has left.
She's still a doctor. The least she can do for them is try to help as best as she can.
"Daphne," she calls, and a blond woman in scrubs turns in her direction, wide-eyed and alert. They know each other from the time Caitlin interned at Central City Hospital, and she sees the realization on the woman's face. "Can I do anything to help?"
Daphne looks her up and down and bites her lip. "You're in no state to be helping anyone, not even yourself. Did anyone check on you?"
"I'm fine," she says firmly. "You don't have enough people to take care of everyone. You need me. You know I'm qualified."
"Like hell I'm letting you near our patients looking like that. Clean yourself up first." Caitlin breathes a sigh of relief, but the woman holds up her hand. "Look, I'm not promising anything. Just – get yourself sorted out, okay?"
Purpose. Maybe it will be enough to dull the all-consuming worry.
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Caitlin's reflection stares back at her with the eyes of a frightened animal and a face painted with blood. She washes her face – it stings, it does a lousy job, she wishes she had antiseptic – counts the cuts that mar her skin. She must have hit the ground pretty hard, judging from the swelling across the left side of her face. The shoulder of her dress is torn, there is a huge bruise blooming where the fabric used to be; the front is red with dried blood. Wells's.
Her arms are too sore to reach that far, so she asks one of the other women to help her pull down the zipper of her dress. She shakes as the woman tugs it down, revealing the pale skin of her back.
She turns to the mirror and looks at her soulmark – now faded, like an old scar, the once-black words almost indecipherable.
Her throat closes. Her blood runs cold.
He's dying.
He's almost gone.
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Cisco finds her in the waiting room and wraps her in a hug she fears will crush all her already bruised bones.
But it doesn't matter anymore.
They sit in silence for a long time. He brings her coffee and she mechanically swallows the bitter liquid, the lukewarm styrofoam cup burning her hand.
"It wasn't his fault," he says, and Caitlin bites her lip, lowers her gaze. It was, and indirectly, maybe hers too. The scary part though – she doesn't really care.
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The double doors open for what feels like a thousandth time.
This time, they let her in.
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Paralyzed. The word echoes in her ears. Caitlin doesn't know why, out of all the horrible things that happened, this is the last straw – and when the tears start falling there is no way to stop them. Wells looks so fragile, surrounded by the beeping machines, bruised and battered, and so terribly, disturbingly still. She has never seen him still.
She doesn't know him. She doesn't know his family, doesn't know what he likes. Doesn't know the stupid domestic things people close to each other know, but then – they're not close in the conventional way. They agreed to never be.
She holds his hand to remind herself that he's real. He's alive, he's going to make it, and the words across her shoulder blade are filling in with every hour that passes. His hand warms her skin.
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She has a fiance. She is reminded of the fact when Ronnie walks into the room and her legs turn to lead. She can't move. She can't look him in eye.
"I was sick with worry," he says, his voice shaking. "I didn't know where you were. I didn't know if you made it out alive. Would it have fucking hurt to call?"
Caitlin feels odd. Like a stranger, watching it all happen from the sidelines.
"I'm sorry," she says. Through her chapped lips it comes out harsh, broken.
"You're sorry? Then why can't you even look at me?"
Obediently, she lifts her head. She hates his accusatory tone. His face is pinched – she hates that, too.
"There was so much going on, it escaped my mind."
He laughs humorlessly, points to the bed. "Busy taking care of the murderer? Have you seen the news? Do you know how many people he's killed? How many are injured?"
"You know nothing about it," she says. Something snaps inside her, a dam breaks, and suddenly one thing is perfectly clear – she wants him gone.
"Fine. Okay. I'm sorry," he says, holding his hands up. "I just want to take you home. You've had enough worries for a lifetime. Let's go."
"I can't."
Ronnie stills. Like a statue, cut from marble. "And why is that?"
"He needs me."
I need him.
"Why does he need you? There are other doctors here."
Caitlin looks him in the eye, tries to feel sorry, finds nothing in her heart. "I can't go with you, Ronnie."
He grits his teeth. "Why not?"
"Because."
"Because what?"
"He's my soulmate."
It's like a punch.
She almost expects him to fall to his knees.
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He wakes up.
He says, "I told you to go outside."
She doesn't cry and he doesn't tell her the truth, but he holds her hand, and their soulmarks are stark black again.
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It begins like this:
they move a comatose boy into STAR Labs.
Barry Allen.
In the future, it will mean something.
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It begins like this:
Caitlin turns up the heat and still shakes in her thick sweater.
In the mirror, her lips are blue.
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It begins like this:
"You need to tell me the truth."
He takes off his glasses and stares at her as if he's trying to look into her soul, break through the walls of her propriety and naivety and her sense of righteousness.
But those walls have already come crashing down, a long time ago.
"I will not be your undoing," she says.
She wants to kiss him and feel his warmth spreading through her body; wants to feel blood pumping in her veins; wants to feel alive again.
Wells stands up from the chair. She doesn't flinch. "I know."
He shows her the future.