A/N: I know I swore off any new multi-chaps until I finished at least one, but this fic is going to be updated daily and finished before the episode on tuesday, so that's my justification. Also, my conception of how Barry's memories are erased and return is obvious in this fic. It might not be how it actually is, but unless the show writers tell us otherwise, it's what I'm sticking with.

*I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.

...

He knows this is normal – it is; and he knows she'll say it eventually – she will; he knows she feels the same way – she does; and he knows that often actions speak louder than words – they do.

But there's this voice creeping up on him day after day. In the silent moments, he hears the declaration from a lifetime ago – four months, two days and fifteen hours approximately for him. For this Iris? Not at all. Never. Those four words he cherished from her more than any other have yet to be uttered by those perfect, kissable lips.

It isn't like in Flashpoint where the memories of his past life have started to be erased from even his memory. As distorted as this new timeline is, in its general structure it's the same timeline he left behind. There were some nasty side effects to leaving and coming back, but there's enough familiarity grounded in fact in this timeline to still feel like the home he's known for most of his life. So when he had the Reverse Flash kill his mother again, his memories of that first life, they all came flooding back again.

Some of them get fuzzy on occasion, but only the way memories from decades ago start to get fuzzy. When one ages, every single memory is no longer intact. It's like that for some memories from the first life he knew. But not this memory.

This memory came back with a vengeance as soon as he returned. It stayed there. It stuck. It was ever present in his mind whenever he saw Iris West and whenever he thought of her too. On Joe's porch when with talk of destiny and a simple kiss pushed them into the place that had always felt so out of reach, he told himself he could wait. Iris didn't need to know. He didn't have to tell her. They still got to where they needed to be, and he knew in time she would say it again. He wasn't going to ruin that perfect moment with a 'you know what would make this moment even better?' line. It wasn't necessary and he didn't need it.

Then.

He didn't need it then.

Now he was getting impatient.

It wasn't that he was dissatisfied with their relationship – he wasn't. Their first date, while interrupted and requiring a few changes of clothes and times of day and days in general, had been perfect. Iris had been drop dead gorgeous in every outfit. He'd been smiling like an idiot the entire time, hardly able to shut his mouth long enough to stuff food into it the first time and kiss her the second. God, kissing Iris West was amazing.

If he included all the versions of her he'd encountered, he'd officially kissed Iris West six times before they started dating. If he counted just this current version of Iris, the Iris he knew best, the first kisses totaled to three. Three times he'd first-kissed this Iris. Since their story was almost completely identical to what it had been prior to saving his mom, he saw no reason to separate who she was before and who she is now. She's Iris. His Iris. If he was being honest, the Iris he felt the most connected to and always would was this one, no matter what he'd convinced himself of in the past.

And so, for this Iris to say those four words and then not remember she'd said them was heartbreaking.

He yearned for her to say those four words – ached for it. She could not say those words soon enough as far as he was concerned.

But, as he reminded himself on a very regular basis, if his dad hadn't died, and they had just picked up where they'd left off with him propositioning her for a romantic relationship after their temporary defeat of Zoom, it was likely she wouldn't have said it at all. She wouldn't have said those words. He wouldn't have left and she wouldn't be waiting. Things could proceed in the way a normal, everyday romantic relationship did. And in those, it could be months before a declaration of this nature might be spoken in its most simple form.

Hadn't she said it though before they'd embarked on this relationship?

"I have been thinking about you"

"Maybe we were meant to be together"

"You, Barry, that's who I want to see if I have a future with"

"Come home to me"

"I just wanted to make sure you felt the same"

"We always find each other"

Hadn't she shown it in reaching out to him through the speed force and bringing him back to the land of the living in one piece, powers and all?

His relationship with Iris now wasn't just a steady relationship. It was exciting, thrilling. If her mere presence had electrified all of his senses in the twenty-five years before he became The Flash and before he told her how he felt the first time, it was heightened into overdrive now. How he felt when he was around her left him even more lightheaded and happy than it had with the Iris he'd met in Flashpoint. This was his Iris. And she was – and he was –

She let him hold her hand. She let him kiss her. She initiated handholding and kissing. She lit up when she saw him. When she buried her nose in flowers he brought her, she looked up at him through the petals and seduced him with her eyes. She laughed more, smiled more. She thought everything he said was funny or darling. And when it wasn't, she gave him a light smack on his chest and then curled her arm around his neck to kiss him anyway.

They hadn't slept together yet, but he was in no hurry to get to that step. He was having trouble keeping his head out of the clouds now, and they'd only been dating a month.

Dating. He was dating Iris West.

How much more surreal did it get than that?

I love you, Barry.

That was how surreal it could get.

It was shocking and reassuring the first time. It was warm. It was something to hold onto in the darkness, despite the fact that he knew it was going to be erased in a moment. And that it was his choice.

He regretted letting go of that moment more than anything else.

She had been willing to wait for him. She encouraged him to do what was necessary for him to find peace. And she was his. Totally and completely his. And she loved him.

And he – he told her he loved her. And that he always would.

Something he had yet to repeat and hated to be reminded of.

I already said it! he insisted to himself whenever the accusation of You haven't said it either came roaring back to him.

Because for all the reasons he justified were why she hadn't said it were the very same reasons he hadn't said it since he came back. They'd last said it when everything around them had seemed so very fragile. It didn't make it less true then, but with everything back to normal, it would be even truer now. It would be solid. There would be no doubting it. There would be no going back.

And okay, he was afraid if he said it and she didn't, a wall would rise up between them. He didn't want any more walls. He wanted space. He wanted kissing and hugging and nothing between them but happiness and love.

But he wanted to say it. And he wanted her to say it. He wanted her to say it so badly it hurt. If she didn't say it, he was afraid he'd let it slip one night that she had said it once. Then it wouldn't be organic. She would feel guilty maybe. She wouldn't tell him out of a natural feeling to do so, as she would have if he hadn't said anything.

Because she said she didn't want to know about the other timelines. So, he didn't tell her.

But he knew about the other timelines. He knew about the time she said I love you, Barry. He replayed the memory over and over again in his mind until he almost believed this Iris had said it. She was the same but their story was 2 percent different, and that 2 percent was killing him.