Notes: This is my first Flash fic, inspired by the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men and "Scarborough Fair" by Simon & Garfunkel. :) Caitlin will be bedridden for most part, and I'm taking liberties with my depiction of Killer Frost, since I have no idea how Caitlin/Killer Frost works. Hope you like it anyway.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Flash, or any of the songs used.

Little Talks

"Barry," Caitlin wheezed. He was beside her in the next instant, seconds before she heard something clatter to the ground. Faster than sound, she thought dimly. "What happened? Where's everyone? Why am I…"

Caitlin found she couldn't turn her head. When her eyes darted down, she realized she was strapped down the same steel bed Barry sat on many times before to have his wounds treated. Comprehension dawned on her. "She lashed out again, huh?" A long pause. "Were there casualties?"

Barry swallowed. "Cait, it's not your fault, it was me, I—"

"Did I hurt you?"

Barry fell silent again.

Caitlin knew that he was only trying to spare her from the pain of knowing what her body had done when her mind shut down, and that there was nothing she could do with the knowledge but agonize over it. She was the one with the conscience, after all. When Frost would take over again, she would feel no guilt or remorse; only an endless, gaping hunger that left no room for kindness. No amount of heat satisfied Frost, but she seemed to recede into her unconscious when they bound her like this, to steel Cisco modified from scraps lying around in the lab to withstand ice. So Caitlin had her mind back, but not her body. Frost definitely drove a hard bargain. But Caitlin took what she could; she had to figure out how to control Frost herself, even if it meant dealing with the emotional repercussions of the crimes Frost did.

"Barry, please. Tell me the truth. Maybe next time I can stop her." He was leaning over her, and was staring at her intently, as if he were making sure there were no signs of Frost in her eyes. And then his gaze softened. He removed the clasp around her head and said, "Frost destroyed our HQ today. Cisco's trying to salvage what equipment he can, and Joe's helping him. As for casualties…" His lips thinned, and he gripped her hand fiercely. "One man and one boy."

Caitlin inhaled sharply. "How old?"

"The man was thirty, the boy… eight."

She shut her eyes. Frost's victims died terribly, and in death they were nearly unidentifiable—they were pale and skeletal, with their eyes rolled back, extremities tinged blue, and their hearts gripped in ice. Images flashed in her mind's eye: a young, good-looking man with bright eyes in a sharp suit, kissing his beloved goodbye; the young man spreading the blueprints before him, alone in his office; a red-faced boy, lingering on an ice-carved flower at the park, away from his teacher and classmates; the boy, moving to touch the flower—

"No…" Caitlin shook her head to clear the memories. She was sure they were Frost's, these memories, although she didn't know how she had access to them. She felt her throat tighten, her eyes misting. She mourned for the boy and the man, people she never knew, for all the other lives Frost took, for the families who would never understand the deaths of those they loved.

She would rather die than allow Frost any more victims, but Barry and Cisco wouldn't hear of it. "I'll stop Frost before she does any more damage," Barry had said. "And if you can't," she had whispered (not because she didn't trust him but because she knew him well), "promise me you won't blame yourself."

Unfortunately, neither of them could shed the guilt so easily.

"I'm sorry, Cait," Barry said, brushing the tears from her eyes. She sighed, grateful for the warmth of his fingers, and squeezed the hand still gripping hers and resting on her stomach. "I fell asleep—I didn't think she could break out of that pod—"

"Listen here, Barry Allen," she said sternly, although she doubted she could do stern with her face smeared with snot, "stop blaming yourself. Remember, you promised you wouldn't. We'll figure this out."

Barry gave her a weak smile and finally pulled a chair—or what remained of it, at least, as it seemed this room was also wrecked from what seemed like a struggle—beside her sat, looking suddenly exhausted, leaning his head against the cold steel. "Yeah, I did. Wouldn't want to disappoint you again, Dr. Snow."

"I'm not disappointed," she said softly, squeezing his hand again. She wished she could hug him, but Frost would take over once she was free of her constraints, and the last three times that happened she nearly killed him. Barry had been stubborn, but Caitlin even more so; he and Cisco finally relented that they would never let her out of constraints even when she was herself. "Come on," she began, trying to sound lighter, trying to rid her mind of the young man with bright eyes and the red-cheeked boy, "let's talk about something else, while I'm still myself."

"All right," Barry said. His thumb traced circles around the skin of her wrist, and the action struck her as so familiar and intimate that she wondered when they became so comfortable with these light touches. His face was only inches away from hers, and she could feel his breath fanning her cheeks. A little closer and each word they spoke would have been a kiss.

"Tell me a story, just like last time," she said. "Any story."

"As you wish, your bossiness," he returned, tone teasing. At this distance, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes cast by the light behind her, and she could see the circles under his eyes, so dark they were like bruises. He didn't look like he was wounded, but then he probably made sure she didn't see him hurt. That was just so him, so anxious to spare her from worry. "My mom used to sing me lullabies. I made her sing me to sleep until I was twelve."

"Twelve?"

"Twelve. No kidding."

"She must have had the most beautiful voice."

"No, actually. She used to smoke a lot when she was in college, during what she fondly called her rebellious phase, so her voice had this raspy quality to it. But she could sing on-tune. Unlike someone I know…"

"I would hit you if I could move my hand."

He laughed. "I'm kidding. You weren't that bad."

"You know, Barry, I'd hit you whether you insult my singing or compliment it."

"Poor me. I don't stand a chance."

Caitlin laughed. "Don't worry, you heal fast. So, anyway, your mom…?"

He seemed to wince at that, but maybe she imagined it, because now he moved to brush a white lock of hair from her eyes, his fingers tickling the lobe of her ears and sending goosebumps over her skin. "She actually only knew one lullaby. I don't think it was even a lullaby, strictly speaking, but she said it was the only one I fell asleep to when I was a baby, so she never bothered learning anything else."

"Will you sing it to me?"

"No way."

"Chicken, Mr. Allen?" she teased. "Don't make me compliment your singing."

"I won't. I mean, we could sit here all day and stare at each other, I don't mind." There was laughter in his eyes, but his gaze was suddenly so tender, so reminiscent of how he used to look at Iris, that Caitlin felt something clench at her heart, silencing the words in her throat. But she wasn't Iris, and she wasn't even exactly Caitlin anymore.

Barry must have seen the troubled look on her face because he said, "Hey, you're still beau—you, I mean, no matter how you look. The white hair is weird, but you know, in a… pretty… way," he amended.

"Weird in a pretty way," Caitlin mused. Was he about to say that she was beautiful? Why did he hesitate? "So that's what you're into now, huh? White hair?"

"I could get into it," he grinned, and for some reason she felt like he wasn't talking about white hair.

But she let the feeling slide. It took him nearly ten years before he admitted his feelings to Iris, so if he had feelings for her—she felt wildly hopeful at the thought, although she didn't yet want to admit to herself why she did—surely he would be equally careful in hiding them.

"You and your fetishes," she returned.

"You have your 'hobbies,' I have mine," he echoed what she told him so long ago, when she brought the blood collection kit out of her handbag, and they shared another smile.

"I don't think I want to know what your other hobbiesare," she said. "Hey, don't sidetrack me like that. You have a lullaby to sing."

"And you have a compliment to give."

Caitlin relented. "Fine. You have an amazing voice."

"I believe you can be more eloquent than that, Dr. Snow, if your PhD proves anything."

"My PhD is in biological engineering, not flattery."

"Potato, potato."

She rolled her eyes. "Your voice… is like… pairing DNA and RNA nucleic acids during transcription. It calms me down," she finished lamely.

Barry shook with laughter, and Caitlin glared at him. "I'm sufficiently flattered," he said, when he caught his breath.

"Good, because I am not going to say that again."

He was doing it again, those light brushes along her cheekbone and ear, the soothing movements of his thumb against the hand resting on her stomach, his heat seeping through her thin blouse to warm the skin there. It was driving her crazy, and she wanted nothing more than to return his touches. "The lullaby's called Scarborough Fair. Ever heard of it?"

"No," she admitted, "but the title is familiar."

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?"he sang the first bars of the song. "Ring a bell?"

"Still no," she said. "What's Scarborough Fair?"

"I don't know," he said. "Scarborough is an English town, I think. In the song, a man sings and asks his love to perform a series of impossible tasks before he would take her back, and the girl returns with her own series of impossible tasks."

"How romantic."

Barry resumed singing, and Caitlin turned her head away from him and closed her eyes, allowing the eerie melody in Barry's clear alto wash over her. "Are you going to Scarborough Fair? / Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme…"

And then Caitlin felt a strange sensation in her stomach, like she was falling from a high place. And as she fell a cold wind surrounded her, robbing her of the sensation of his hands on hers—as if her nerve endings were being numbed—and her eyes were frozen shut.

… remember me to one who lives there…

Barry's voice seemed to get fainter and fainter, and the blackness around her felt more solid, like a prison.

She had experienced this before. Frost was trying to reawaken.

Barry! she screamed, get away from me!

… she was once a true love of mine…

. . .

"Singing lullabies to each other now, are we. How quaint."

Barry had just finished the first verse when Caitlin's eyes shot open again. He was on his feet the next moment, his instincts kicking in before his mind had time to process that Caitlin didn't sound like that, that this wasn't Caitlin anymore. "Killer Frost."

"Flash," she acknowledged genially, without warmth in her eyes. "I'm sorry to ruin your moment there. The darkness was starting to feel suffocating, so I sent that woman there in my place."

A chill went up Barry's spine. He still wasn't used to seeing the malice on Caitlin's soft features; it reminded him of the time he saw the police wrap the blood-soaked knife used to kill his mother with his white, cotton blanket. "You can't break those bonds."

"You're getting more cautious," she clucked her tongue. "Lucky for me, though, not cautious enough."

And with a sinister grin, she tilted her head and sent an icy wind to the joints of the bonds around her torso and legs, and Barry realized his fatal mistake. He had unclasped the bond that secured her head, and with that action he had demonstrated where the weaker joints of her bonds were.

Barry ran and jammed the intercom, barking, "Cisco, frost alert. I'm going to need reinforcements."

"A lot of it," Frost added, jerking up sharply and cracking the iced metal at the sides of the steel bed. She seemed to have recovered her strength. "I see your wounds aren't healing. Can't stand the cold?"

Barry could still feel the phantom sting of her icicles on his still-closing wounds, but he bluffed and said, "They're healing well, thanks for your concern."

"Hm," she muttered, jerking up again.

That isn't going to hold for long, he thought, and quickly scanned the area for something he could use against her without hurting her. She was still Caitlin's only body.

Frost spoke again, each phrase punctuated with a jerk. "That's good, I suppose. I prefer healthy males. The more fight they have in them"—with one last, violent jerk, the bonds clattered to the floor—"the more heat they produce." She gingerly lifted the ones around her stomach and cast them aside. "Now, that's better. So, Flash. How do we go about this? You won't hurt me, but you know I will kill you."

She smiled. "What was that phrase that woman used to say? Ah, yes—we are quite the pair, Mr. Allen."

"That woman's name," Barry said through gritted teeth, "is Caitlin."

With a rush of wind he hand bound her in yards of teflon tape and slammed her back to the steel bed. Upon contact with her he felt his energy draining already, and the strain of holding her down reopened the wounds in his shoulders. But with the strength he had left he kept her pinned down, forearm jammed at her neck.

"And you," he growled, "have no rightto say that."

But in his mind he saw Caitlin, floating in darkness, with no memory of ever being alive, with no memory of him. And to himself he whispered, quietly, desperately, repeatedly, like a prayer: Cait, hang on. I'm here. I'll get you out of there.