Written for the lovely FollowtheReaper01 based on a prompt about 4.08, "Legends of Yesterday."
"Barry," Oliver says. "Barry, put it out, please."
Water-water-water-I-need-water-please.
The warehouse is as dry as a bone, and he can't run fast enough, Oliver's going up in flames, and if he could create a vacuum he could extinguish it but his arms won't move, his legs won't either, and he's trying-he's-trying-he's-trying Oliver please.
A wave of heat blasts him off his feet, and he's smoking and it hurts, but he's running, running because Oliver told him to, running even though his legs feel like lead, and he's not fast enough, he's not going to make it, but he has to keep going because he can't let Oliver die.
He yells as he pushes himself harder, faster, faster, faster, even as his legs slow to a jog, and he's shaking hard in the instant before he collapses.
He shatters against the pavement and the last thing he hears before the heat rushes over him are their screams.
. o .
There's a thunderclap as the door smashes into the wall and Diggle's got his gun up and on him and Barry thinks, Don't shoot.
He's on his feet, holding his hands up in surrender, his whole body shaking like he's going to vibrate through the floor, and he has to get to Oliver, he has to, but he can't seem to make his legs move at all.
"Please," he says, mouth dry, and Diggle's already holstering his gun, looking surprised, as Oliver shoulders lightly past him.
"What happened?" he asks Barry, and were his heart not about to beat out of his chest, he thinks he would be crying from laughter at the image of the Green Arrow wearing green pajamas. (And it has to be Felicity because he can't picture Oliver walking into a store and buying them for himself.)
He's shaking his head because I can't tell you, burying his hands in his hair and resisting the urge to pull it. "Nothing," he says at last. "Nothing, I just – bad dream."
Oliver's expression softens and Diggle's still frowning thoughtfully at him, trying to understand, when Felicity steps into the open doorway, points the nozzle of a fire extinguisher at him, and says, "Freeze. I will shoot."
Oliver actually smiles, saying gently, "Felicity," but the noise must startle her because in the next instant he's covered in foam.
There's a beat when no one moves. Then Diggle coughs, a gentle sound, and Barry can see his chest shaking with silent laughter.
Still locked in a ready-to-shoot stance, Felicity stares at Oliver in all his foam-covered glory before slowly setting the empty canister on the floor. "Oliver." Turning to look around the room, she adds brightly, "Dig. Barry." Clasping her hands together, she opens her mouth to speak, shuts it, and settles on an apologetic frown, mimicking Dig's stance perfectly.
Oliver's already shrugging out of his foam-covered shirt and Barry's watching him and trying to keep his breathing light, his heart rate calm, because if he can redirect then he'll be just fine.
Which is why Oliver is a hero: "If you thought I was the hottest guy in the room, you could have just said so," he tells her lightly, dropping his shirt in the corner.
Felicity's face goes red, and Barry thinks that if he could somehow take a snapshot of time, he would, just so he could savor it a little longer.
"Such a shame. That was my favorite shirt," Oliver adds, and Felicity rolls her eyes before punching him lightly on the arm.
Looking like he's trying to put a case together, Dig says slowly, observationally, "There's no fire." He's got his arms folded, brow furrowed, and he watches Barry like he wants to ask but can't quite put it in words.
Fortunately for him Cisco chooses that moment to step into view, stare blankly at Barry, and say, "You have a lot of shit to explain, dude."
"Can we not have family time at this hour?" Barry asks, oscillating between a headache at the fact that Oliver's alive but Oliver could die and the equally prominent fact that he can't even tell him how he dies or they'll cause another rift in time. He can't tell any of them anything.
"I just got a Vibe," Cisco says sharply.
"That's really great," Barry says, and he's starting to shake again because fuck, he needs to stop this conversation from happening or shit really will go down.
Cisco opens his mouth to speak and then oomphs when Barry sets him down outside, saying forcefully, "You cannot tell them what you saw."
"You know, that's rude," Cisco says, staring at him like he doesn't know him. "Flashing your friends–" he waves a hand, and Barry doesn't have time for this, he woke up whatever half of the house wasn't already up the second he tore through it, he doesn't have time for this, so he cuts him off and shakes his shoulders once, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to say listen.
To his credit, Cisco shuts up.
"You need to forget what you saw," he says simply, "it didn't happen, it's not going to happen, and if you tell anyone you're going to create another rift in time that none of us can predict."
Cisco frowns, and Barry seems to be inspiring that a lot lately, but before he can respond he hears Oliver saying, "It's all right, go back to sleep; I fell out of bed. Everything's fine."
"Why are you covered in spray foam?" Thea asks.
"Go to bed."
There's a long stretch of silence and neither Barry nor Cisco speak, Barry ready to spirit them both away if need be, this cannot escalate any farther—
Then the back door opens and Oliver steps outside, alone.
"You had a vision," Oliver says. It isn't a question.
Barry exhales hard and says, "It's fine. It was just a dream."
"Which tend to have a basis in reality." Crunching forward, dirt crackling underfoot, he asks again, "What happened?"
Barry shakes his head, thinking back to what Dr. Wells once said – you cannot tell anyone about this – and wishing he'd just taken his advice, there had to be another way than getting Oliver involved in this.
We should never have done this, he thinks, and all he can see is Oliver's anguished expression in the instant before disintegration.
Even though he's gone back in time, and he'll never be able to wrap his mind around it, the concept of changing the future. Itnever feels like it. He can feel the original events trying to happen, pressing in from every side, pulling him apart.
Don't say anything, it hisses. Let it happen.
But he didn't get a second chance to watch them all die.
So he says at last, "I saw the future. The one I came from."
"You mean that . . . happened," Cisco says, faltering.
Barry sighs. "Yes."
Oliver's looking at him, and Barry thinks, You're not the Oliver I watched die, even though he is, and it's strangling him, the paradoxes.
He's not their Barry, either, he's from a different timeline, a future that doesn't exist.
"Whatever happened," Oliver says, pulling him back from that mental spiral, "it's not going to happen again."
Barry huffs. Any deviation, however small, could result in a cataclysm. "Yeah," he agrees breathlessly, running a hand through his hair, "yeah, we couldn't replicate it if we tried. It's going to happen differently this time."
And it's that, almost as much as Oliver's physicality and Cisco's affirmative, "Damn straight" that helps him accept it, be a part of their world and not some ether of possibilities.
He's still Barry Allen.
Maybe he'll die twenty hours sooner than he was supposed to, or maybe he'll live fourteen years longer. There's no way to know, because those futures will never happen.
Maybe he grieves for them; maybe some part of his nature rebels simply because an event is not supposed to precede its cause.
He shouldn't be alive. None of them should be.
But they are, and Barry's glad he gets to live in a timeline where Felicity can still spray-foam Oliver, where Digs can still give him looks like he's both an enigma and a friend, where Thea can still argue with her older brother, where Cisco can still vibe.
"We should get some sleep," he tells them, his voice heavy, exhausted, carrying the weight of two worlds.
He's also carrying twenty four more hours than he should be and it's draining, the adrenaline tapering off as the cool night air sinks into his shoulders and lungs.
Cisco exhales and says, "Let's hope we get it right this time."
"Let's," Barry agrees, sobered.
Oliver claps him once on the shoulder and he isn't a touchy-feely guy, a hug would be too much, but it's still comforting, the way he squeezes once before letting go, a tangible reminder that he's still alive, that he's going to stay that way.
And when it's quiet again and everyone is asleep, he closes his eyes but can't fall asleep, thinking about the future, about Oliver's son, about what's going to happen between Felicity and him (his heart gives an unpleasant twinge at the thought that it could ruin them).
That's not your future, he reminds himself. That future is gone.
But he belongs to it, intimately aware of his connection to that world, this world, and it's only when he hears Oliver padding almost silently out of bed to snag the first show that Barry thinks, This is real, too. You can change this future.
He drifts off to sleep just as Oliver's whistling drifts from the bathroom and the sun begins to rise.
. o .
The smell of pancakes wakes him up.
He's tired and headachy but he's also never been so hungry in his life, so he lets his nose guide him to his sleepy feet while Cisco and Caitlin argue amicably in the kitchen over what truly compromises the breakfast of champions.
"Morning, champ," Cisco tells him with a grin, passing him a plate with an eight-stack and saying, "We've got of ten pounds of pancake mix to get rid of, so I hope you're hungry."
"You might actually be my heroes," Barry says, grumbly with sleep, taking a seat at the island next to Diggle, who casually halves his pile and goes to work.
Oliver's already doing stretches out on the lawn, and Felicity hip-checks Cisco to talk to Caitlin, the chatter in the room escalating when Kendra and Carter join in. Barry can't keep track of what they're saying when the smell of pancakes is sinking in his brain; instead he focuses on consuming as much food as Caitlin and Cisco are willing to cook, single-handedly packing away half of the bag of pancake powder.
In the end, soporific with satisfaction, belly actually jutting out slightly with how full he is, he finds a comfortable spot on the couch, shuts his eyes, and instantly falls asleep.
He doesn't dream, hovering on the brink of true sleep, aware of their conversations in a peripheral manner.
And all he can think is, I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you alive.
I'm going to do it right this time.