Cisco has – let's call it a sixth sense. For Danger. He knows when either Caitlin or Barry are in trouble. He knows it before he ever powers up the comms' system and asks. It scares him, the way the sudden anxiety will sweep over him, portending doom. He'll fumble with his phone and call Caitlin first because she's more responsive and if he can rule her out half his heart will be at ease. When she doesn't respond, he's doubly anxious to talk to Barry, who can understand him no matter how quickly he babbles. Even his most frantic tones are glacial to Barry, frozen to Flash; Barry will understand him, and Barry will sweep the city to find Caitlin and reassure Cisco that she's okay.
Late on Friday night, towards the end of the shift, Cisco – pauses, his screwdriver stilling as he abandons the device on the table. Something's up. It's the weather, he tells himself, even as his palms sweat, chafing to get back to the cortex. There's a storm gathering in the air, late-afternoon showers anticipated, and Cisco tells himself that it's nothing more than a charged environment setting him on edge.
Even so, he cuts his way down the hallways like a lab rat in a maze, quick and decisive. The route is imprinted on both soles: he could find the cortex in his sleep. Both Barry and Caitlin are there, working on cataloguing metas and inventorying equipment, respectively. It's work that doesn't require Cisco's presence, and he had taken advantage of the downtime to modify the sonic devices in Hartley's gloves. Now, though, he can't get there fast enough, moving at a clip that is just short of a run.
When he gets close, he slows down, walking with conversational nonchalance into the main sector.
Barry isn't there.
"Where's Barry?" he asks at once. Caitlin pauses and looks up with owlish surprise, scanning the room for a moment before frowning.
"He was—"
"I'm right here," Barry says quietly, his voice low and rumbly, like grinding stone. He saunters into the room, slow for him, and Cisco zeroes in on it even as he walks towards Caitlin. He needs to know she's okay, even if his sightline gives him nothing to doubt it. He can't put the notion at rest until he's sure. "Hey. Sorry. What's up?"
"Everything okay?" Caitlin asks Cisco, putting a quieting hand on his arm to still him, and at once Cisco picks up on the cool tundra he has come to associate with her, unblemished, cavernous, like a polar bear home. He relaxes, grateful for the touch, for the immediacy of its wellness. "Cisco?"
"Everything's fine," he says, nonchalant as he can, following Barry as the latter migrates towards the center console. Every step raises goosebumps, a sudden certainty that he should not proceed halting him halfway to Barry's side. "You good?" he asks, itching to step closer but suddenly, overwhelmingly afraid to intrude.
"I'm good," Barry says, looking up at him, bowed over the console but not faltering, gaze steady. "How're the gloves?"
"Might've fixed our battery problem," Cisco admits. He dares to venture closer, even as queasiness rocks him. Stay back, it says. Give room. Pushing it down, he tells himself it's speedster-related, not Barry-related. Barry would never hurt him. Barry would never even think about it. His uneasiness has nothing to do with Barry.
Even so, he hesitates before closing the final gap between them, arm's length. Barry says softly, "Cisco." It approaches a warning, echoing the silent cues. Cisco ignores it and Barry grunts when Cisco puts a hand on his back, hissing softly at the heat pouring from him. It's hot enough that Cisco has to withdraw his hand, Barry swaying away from him as soon as the contact is broken.
"Are you sick?" he asks stupidly.
Barry might've even inclined his head in a nod, might've given an indicator that was more substantial than pouring off heat, to confirm it, but with the prompt Caitlin is drawn from her station, there, and it tips something in Barry. Cisco knows that she can't pick up on those Speed Force nuances, utterly unaware of the gentle heatwaves warning her off. Go away, go away, go away, they insist, increasingly heated as Barry's shoulders tense, Caitlin's hand reaching for his forehead.
"I'm fine," he says immediately, ducking out of reach, and he looks it, too. No slump, no tremble, no raw, gaping wound. Nothing to indicate anything less than perfect health.
He's just a literal furnace, Cisco reminds himself.
"Barry," Caitlin warns, Doctor voice in place. Don't fight me, it says.
The waves of uneasiness only intensify. Don't try me, they reply. Cisco half-wants to tell her, but Barry cuts in before he can speak. "I'm fine," Barry stiffs, voice still an octave too low, too slow. "I've gotta get to the precinct."
He Flashes out of sight and Flashes back into sight half a second later, crashing against the opposite wall in the cortex, crumpled, one knee on the ground, shaking hard.
For a moment Cisco thinks he'll be okay, struggling to stay upright like that, almost, almost regaining his feet. With little shuffling movements, he tries, and Caitlin moves towards him, cautious but certain. Cisco tries to join her, but before he can take one step Barry draws in a long, wheezing breath.
Then he pitches on his side and convulses.
. o .
Caitlin is at Barry's side in a second, but he's already slowing down, tremors wracking his frame as the seizure ends. Lying flat on his back, his breathing is raspy. Holding onto her sleeve, she brushes his mouth once, clearing his airway. With steady hands, she helps him up onto his side, feeling the heat and shakiness of his body. "You're okay," she says as he heaves for breath, prone and panicky. He tries to sit up, fumbling with it, but she says, "Easy." He lifts his head and blearily stares at the floor in front of him, trying to get a read, before settling back down and resting his head on the floor.
Caitlin says, "Cisco." They share a wavelength; he scrambles, putting a towel in her hand a moment later. She eases it under Barry's head, projecting a calm she tries to feel as medical training reminds her that brief is good and Barry's medical reactions tend to be intense. It's not nothing, but it isn't life-threatening, either. Probably, she reminds herself grimly, forewarningly. Cisco, frozen, seems close to hyperventilating himself, queasily pale, and after six seconds he excuses himself with barely concealed haste.
Caitlin understands; she feels like throwing up, too, the sudden panic associated with Barry is having a seizure scarcely dying down with time.
Brushing a hand down Barry's side, up and down, she counts in her head, one-one-thousandth, two-one-thousandth, three-one-thousandth, until he sags, boneless. She talks to him, trying to get him reoriented: "You're okay. You're at STAR Labs. You had a seizure, but you're okay." Eventually, his breathing levels out to such that she knows he isn't listening, but she doesn't stop or move until she hears Cisco return, shaky and ashen-faced but present, nonetheless.
"You okay?" she asks him. Cisco nods slowly, like he doesn't quite believe it himself, and Caitlin gives Barry's shoulder a little shake. "C'mon. Let's get off the floor. You'll feel so much better off the floor. The beds are cooler. Come on." Each line coaxes him back to coherence, applying a little pressure to her shoulders when she gets his arm up over them, helping him sit up. Cisco is on his other side at once and his grip tightens noticeably, grounded, I-am-here, and up they go.
Barry leans on them with wounded heaviness, soaked with sweat and still shaking finely, but letting out a deep, relieved sigh as he sinks onto the gurney. It is cooler than the floor, Caitlin knows; at least, until his overheated skin touches it, warming it up, degree by degree. Thermodynamics will leach from him what cannot be taken away: his warmth, his lightning, his speed.
They can't cool him down, only hope that the heat doesn't kill him.
Still, as soon as Barry is settled, Cisco at his side and evidently not leaving, Caitlin steps back and fishes out some washcloths. She soaks them in breathtakingly cold water at the sink before piling them on Barry's legs, his side, his shoulders, his head. She puts one over his forehead and he reaches up with a lethargic hand to tug it down over his eyes, reaching for the next cool cloth she brings and releasing the first.
It goes on, and on, and on, the toasty washcloths providing minimal relief. He whines and pushes his face against Cisco's side, reaching out and curling a hand in Cisco's shirt. They stay like that, Cisco's hand on Barry's back, while Caitlin soaks and re-soaks the wash clothes until her own hands are numb with cold.
Her own hands.
Numb with cold.
Stupid with fatigue, she hadn't even – realization nearly dumbfounds her as she draws in a deep, centering breath.
And then she lets her heart rate slow, slow, slow, cooling her until the world is chilled, wintry. Then she reaches towards that blazing fire and touches the center of his back, feeling Barry's flinch before he shivers. He releases Cisco, who looks a mixture of relieved and agonized, to shy from – shy towards – Caitlin. He curls inward on himself, shivering enough that Caitlin worries about inducing a second seizure, before slowly, slowly uncurling.
Rolling with painstaking effort onto his opposite side, he exhales when she grazes a hand through his sweaty hair, cool fingers immune to that hellacious heat. She sits beside him and he curls around her as well as he can, hugging her stomach and pressing his face against her thigh.
Like fire and ice, she muses, scratching his head lightly.
In a low, soothing voice, she looks up and says, "Cisco, could you grab my kit?"
He blinks at her, like she's speaking another language, and she repeats the request again. Then he nods, fetching it from the shelf, and she goes for the thermometer even though she knows Barry has a fever – a spectacular one.
It's still a shock to see 110.4 flash on the screen; it would kill an ordinary human being and seems to be doing its best to pull off the feat with Barry. She runs through a quick check, methodically marking off the worst deviances – heart rate too fast, respirations too shallow, skin clammy and trembling to the touch – before satisfying herself that he isn't crashing in front of her.
"Is he –" Cisco makes a strangled noise, like he doesn't know how to say it, and takes a seat near the foot of the gurney, resting a hand on one of Barry's feet. He gets the boot off without thinking, like it's something he needs and Barry isn't attached to it. Like Barry isn't a part of it. But Barry's soft groan against Caitlin's leg is appreciative. Thank you.
"He'll be fine," Caitlin assures with a confidence she has no right to feel. Years of experience with speedster miracles, she reflects, carding her fingers through Barry's hair. They need to get him on an IV to replace some of those fluids, she knows, carefully detaching herself and replacing her hand with one of those all-too-fleetingly cold washcloths.
So much for an early night, she thinks as Cisco gingerly accepts the role of replacing the washcloths while Caitlin gets the IV started.
. o .
Cisco has his head on Barry's too-warm stomach when Caitlin says something – I'll be back is all Cisco hears – and then the side room is silent except for his and Barry's breathing. It must be late – late enough that Cisco craves a real bed and a change of clothes – but he can't find the will power to sit up and fix it. And he can't leave Barry, either, not with Caitlin gone. So he drifts, reassured by the steady trot of Barry's too-fast heartrate.
Cisco doesn't know how long it's been since Caitlin left, but he stirs when the surface underneath him moves.
He doesn't want to get up, but the movement doesn't relent and he is carried upright with it. A questioning noise quickly turns into bleary consciousness as Barry pushes against him mildly, like he's a blanket, nothing more. Cisco grunts, "Hi," because he has no idea what time it is but he is tired and Barry's wakefulness is not helping. "Whassup?"
Barry blinks at him, blinking yellow sparks, like his eyes want to light up with gold but can't find the strength to. "Cisco," he says, voice warbled, and it raises the hairs on Cisco's arms because Flash doesn't speak but Cisco has come to associate the warble with it exclusively, regardless. "Where . . . am . . . I?" He keeps pushing against Cisco, trying to dislodge him, and takes notice of the IV.
Blinking solemnly at it, he traces a hand over it.
"Hey, buddy," Cisco says, intervening, by wrapping both hands around Barry's questing, wandering one. "It's okay."
Barry blinks at him, eyes glowing a low gold, burned, and Cisco's heartrate picks up, half expecting the hand in his to vibrate to obscurity and plunge right through him.
Barry reaches towards him with the IV-strewn hand and Cisco flinches, expecting it in spite of himself, but Barry just rests his hand on the juncture of Cisco's shoulder and neck. "Cisco," he repeats, hand sinking, retreating as gravity carries it back down.
Cisco reaches out, mimicking Barry's aborted gesture, feeling the energy settle between them as Barry's hand settles on his elbow. "Barry," he explains, like he needs to, like Flash really is here and needs to back down, buddy. "You're at Star Labs. It's Cisco." Ramon, his subconscious fills in automatically.
And, when Caitlin reappears in the shadows of the darkened room and whispers, "Hey, sorry, I'm here–" Cisco thinks, This is Caitlin. Dr. Snow.
Barry holds onto Cisco's arm for a moment longer, eyes still burning gold, and then he releases it as Caitlin's shirt is within reach, burying a hand in the cool fabric from memory. She isn't shy around him, isn't afraid, and Cisco marvels a little that she can approach such power with such fearlessness.
She never had her heart shredded, Cisco reminds himself.
"I know," Caitlin is saying sympathetically, brushing one of those icy hands across Barry's forehead, answering questions he hasn't asked. "It's okay; go back to sleep. I'm here."
The offer – I can take the next watch – is clear, and it occurs to Cisco that she's in down-clothes, not quite pajamas but not her formal work-wear, either. The unspoken offer is a tantalizing proposition: he can go home, collapse face-first against his bed, and forget that this night ever happened. By the time he wakes up, Barry will be healed and it'll just be another scary memory to linger in his subconscious, arising in nightmares every so often but not haunting his present.
Watching Barry cling to Caitlin with such hurting desperation stirs something in Cisco, however, and he can't walk away from it. He stands, murmuring something insensible to both of them, and finds the computer and quietly powers it up. Within minutes, slow, sleepy tapping at the keyboard conjures a pianist from the shadows. It's soft, barely-there, but Cisco's own shoulders relax instinctively as it begins to fill the silence.
He fishes around the cortex for a blanket, finding it in the lower shelf and bringing it back with him to the side room. Caitlin is seated on the gurney next to Barry, just-enough room, his body turned towards her, craving the cold that only Killer Frost can conjure. It's an ironic name and Cisco wanted to change it, but Caitlin wanted to keep it; wanted to remember a-rose-by-any-other-name. The fact that it produces the opposite effect for Barry – easing his discomfort, saving his life – does not escape Cisco.
Nor does the fact that Flash, life-saving extraordinaire, terrifies him a little.
Caitlin and he share a look before Cisco settles into the same chair as before, using the blanket as a pillow and resting his arms on it, eyes closing slowly, slowly.
And he's aware that those golden eyes are doing the same, lulled by their presence and the pianist drifting quietly across their consciousness.
. o .
Barry is groggy but finally conscious by three PM the next day, up to eating crackers and nothing else. He's weak and tired, only managing a few steps before taking a seat again, shivering nearly continuously no matter what Caitlin or Cisco do. The only monumental effort he makes is a shower to wash off. Afterward, he doesn't bother with a shirt, just drags on some boxers and collapses with catatonic relief onto a fresh set of sheets.
By six, he wants to go home, convinces Caitlin that he won't die if he's off IV fluids, and, when that fails, agrees to one at home to appease her. Caitlin is reluctant – it's a hassle dragging equipment around and it won't be easy getting him from gurney to house – but she sees his point. The labs aren't meant to be a place of residence; they're cold in a different way, far from the healing space he needs.
Even after Zoom broke his back, he begged to go home for three days before finally surrendering to his incarceration. He was immovable: his injuries were too severe and the healing process too new to risk a transfer. She'd seen how demoralizing it had been for him, consigned to a single room for the better part of a week, unable to do more than stay conscious for scant minutes at a time, swallow a few bites of food, submit to yet another wearying evaluation that he still couldn't feel his legs. He'd hated it. Caitlin had, too. But there was no alternative; he couldn't be moved.
But Barry walks under his own power, now, and even though there are dark shadows under his eyes and a visible tremble in his hands, he is steady enough to look her in the eye when he makes the request. It is a request only because, he knows – and she knows, too – that he cannot make it from his bed to the house unaided.
With a sigh, she relents, detaching him from his IV.
To stand Barry leans on Cisco and Cisco holds his ground, an arm around Barry's waist to keep him steady, a soft stream of encouragement helping him along. Caitlin knows a wheelchair would be easier – a lot easier, necessary, even – but she'd rather watch Barry struggle than shatter the tentative strength he has by taking it away from him.
Barry is just lean enough that Cisco can handle him unaided, and they shuffle out of sight while Caitlin gets what she needs. It takes fifteen minutes for her to be satisfied, but when she walks out to the van Cisco is only just encouraging Barry to lie down in the back seat. Barry mumbles something about a speed limit before obliging, draping an arm over his face, tension visible in his jaw.
His words are slurred, his mood tentatively optimistic, but he's tired, and he doesn't try to engage either of them in conversation as Cisco shuts the door and Caitlin loads up the trunk. They don't need to talk, either, and when Caitlin takes the wheel, Cisco reaches back to rest a reassuring hand on Barry's knee. In response, Barry reaches out, eyes closed, and tangles their fingers, holding on.
He doesn't let go for the entire ride.
. o .
Star Trek is healing; this, Cisco knows.
Doesn't hurt that Barry's appetite, while curbed, rebounds swiftly, graduating to soup by the time they reach The Voyage Home four hours later. On Cait's big, comfy bed, Barry sits up against the headboard with most of his body weight pressing against Cisco. It should be crushing, uncomfortable, especially since that fever has only died to 103, but it's oddly soothing. He can feel Barry's energy, the rhythm of his life: steady breath, steadier pulse, steadiest of Speed Force souls.
Caitlin herself is all but dozed off on Barry's other side, watching but not watching the film, her attention largely inward, concentrated on staying cool. It's less important but still comforting to Barry, Cisco knows, now that his fever is down from life-threatening, world-ending.
On screen, space voyagers echo humanity's urge to explore, to go farther, to do more, be more.
But in Cisco's immediate orbit, he's glad to be home, feet firm on the ground, his whole world within arm's reach.
. o .
A little shuffling lets Cisco sleep on the floor next to Barry, fingers still loosely intertwined, Cisco's barely-audible snores like white noise in the small space. As for Caitlin, she stays on Barry's other side, her cheek against his shoulder as she dozes between IV doses. Whenever her phone gently buzzes, she gets up dutifully to replace the empty bag with a full one, even when neither Barry nor Cisco stirs.
It's worth it for the way Barry is warm and dry towards dawn, lightning taking care of more than just his life. He smells nice, like rain, like fresh sheets, and Caitlin buries her face against the back of his shoulder and keeps an arm wrapped around his belly, just to soak him in. He feels like Flash, too, radiating an inner pleasure that seeps to her core. Lightning dancing between them, gratitude and relief and acceptance all at once.
. o .
At noon, Barry takes them out to Jitters for a belated brunch. Feet tapping against theirs every so often companionably, snatching bites of Cisco's cronut and sips of Caitlin's mocha, he feels like himself, again. Wrung out, sore, like he'd been subjected to a lengthy beating or an overstraining day on the field. Seated, he feels strong enough to carry on a conversation, already explaining how he wants to talk to CCPD again about improving their metahuman detection equipment.
He hasn't forgotten, exactly, the nausea, the discomfort, the feeling of being scorched to his core. But he has the grounding sensation of Cisco's thigh against his own and Caitlin's wrist under his palm, his thumb gently stroking her skin.
It doesn't need to be perfect, he knows, for it to be good.
They're exactly what he needs, exactly the way they are.