I have a problem and its name is Snowbarry.

As usual, not beta'd.

Enjoy!

Caitlin's always been an observant person; it's just the scientist within her. She really can't help it, especially when it comes to Barry. So, over the past week or so, as his speed has started to slowly decrease and the bags under his eyes have grown darker each day, it's hard for her not to notice. It's even harder for her not to say anything. She's concerned, of course, but she's been making an effort to not give voice to each small worry of hers. Barry's proved to her time and time again that he can make it through pretty much anything. He's not invincible, she knows this, and they haven't been without their close calls, but she believes in him more than she's ever believed in anything. So she bites her tongue each day, confident with her decision to let him work through it on his own.

She lasts until three o'clock on Thursday morning, when Barry decides to start pounding away on her door.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Barry?" she demands, her voice halfway between a whisper and a scream.

He's a complete disaster. He's wearing clothes that look (and smell) like they haven't been washed in weeks, the bags under his eyes are so dark that it looks like he wound up on the losing side of a fistfight, and he can hardly hold himself up.

"I can't sleep," he answers, and it seems difficult for him to admit. Caitlin feels her heart sink in sympathy for him. She's never seen him look so broken.

"Come on," she whispers softly, wrapping her arm around his waist. He seems grateful for this, leaning his full weight against her and letting her pull him across the threshold of her apartment.

She considers depositing him onto a stool at the kitchen counter, but doubting his ability to maintain even a shred of equilibrium, she decides it would be better to drag him all the way to the sofa on the other side of the apartment. It's difficult, but somehow they make it. He falls into the cushions clumsily and she breathes a sigh of relief at not having to support him anymore, until his head nearly collides with the wooden arm of her traditional couch.

"Be careful," Caitlin scolds, reaching for the blanket hanging over the back of the sofa and placing it over the wood to prevent any future opportunities for injury. Barry smiles appreciatively and starts shifting about, trying to get comfortable. She does her best to keep an eye on him as she crosses the room to retrieve the med kit she keeps in her bedroom. When she returns, he's settled into the corner of the couch, his elbow perched on her blanket and one foot crossed over the other on her coffee table. She resists the urge to push them over the edge when she places the med kit down next to them.

"What are you doing?" Barry asks as she pops open the kit, pulling out a flashlight. She doesn't answer, instead just grabbing a hold of his chin and shining the light into his eyes. But he starts whipping his hands around like she's a pesky fly that won't leave him alone, so she pulls away.

"I need to examine you, Barry," she says apologetically. "Isn't that why you came here?"

Barry laughs, but it's a laugh she's never heard from him before. There's a bitterness to it, and it's so unlike him that a chill runs through her body.

"Maybe I don't always need you to patch me up, doctor," he says, his voice cold and almost mocking. "God, Caitlin, is that all I am to you? A patient?"

"Of course not!" She's quick to reply, but he starts speaking over her.

"Because I thought we were more than that. I thought we were friends! Why can't you just be my friend?" He seems genuinely hurt, and just as she's about to assure him that she is his friend, he adds with acidity in his tone, "I should've known you wouldn't be able to help me."

Her body sinks down next to him, her forgotten flashlight falling to the ground. There's a lump in her throat that makes any words she wants to say difficult to get out, so she just looks ahead and focuses on taking long, slow breaths.

"Shit," Barry sighs, and the softness usually present in his tone has returned. "I didn't mean that, Caitlin."

She closes her eyes, unable to bring herself to look at him, but then his hand is on her cheek and he's turning her head towards him.

"I'm just exhausted," he explains simply. She believes him - knows that he's not trying to make excuses, that he would never want to hurt her. But it doesn't make her feel any better. Seeing how little control he has over himself, and how much that lack of control is breaking him... it just makes her more worried for him.

"What's going on, Barry?" she whispers. Part of her is afraid he'll snap again, but it's a risk she needs to take.

"I don't know," he sighs, dropping his hand back to his side. "It's just... there's this gnawing feeling inside of me. Every time I go to bed, it's like there's something screaming at me. Something is off, or missing or something. And I have no idea how to get rid of it."

Caitlin swallows. "How long has this been happening?"

"A while," he answers. "At first it was just once a week, but now... it's every night."

Caitlin's a doctor, yes. But she's no psychologist. She knows that Barry's problem isn't his body - it's his mind. She doesn't know where to even start figuring it out, and she knows that now is neither the time nor the place to try. Right now, she realizes, Barry needs comfort. He just needs someone to tell him that it's all going to be okay.

And he came to her.

"I'm so sorry, Barry," she says softly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He seems to relax into her touch, so she slides her fingers to the back of his neck where she begins to rub small, soothing circles with her thumb. His head falls forward on its own accord. Tentatively, she snakes her fingertips up into his hair, scratching along his scalp. She knows she's not imagining the way he shudders.

She should be weirded out. If it were any other time of day, she probably would be. She'd come to her senses and put a stop to this before it went too far, but it's nearly four in the morning and she's far too tired to care. She only stops when Barry reaches his hand back to grab hers. He places it gently atop his opposite shoulder before slowly lowering his head onto her lap. She feels the warmth of his body even through the thick flannel of her pajama bottoms, and it radiates throughout her.

"Thanks, Caitlin," he sighs, eyes finally closed. He's about to drift off, she can hear it in the way his breathing starts to slow, but not before pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist.

She knows that he's not entirely himself right now - that a tired Barry Allen is probably the closest thing to a drunk Barry Allen that the world will ever get. She knows he probably won't even remember any of this in the morning, or he'll pretend that he doesn't in order to avoid the awkwardness of it all, but she doesn't care. She's content knowing that he's safe, that he's okay, and that he came to her. Because she knows - without a shadow of a doubt - that she would go to him, too.

And maybe her legs are falling asleep, and maybe she can already feel the crick in her neck that sleeping in this upright position will inevitably cause, and maybe he's snoring so loud that she won't need an alarm clock in the morning... but none of it matters; she's asleep the moment her head hits the cushion.