When Barry realizes that the Reverse-Flash is going after Iris, fear takes his breath away.
Oh my god, he thinks, already running, hurriedly explaining to the rest of his team what's happening, Wells has been watching them, Wells knows everything, and he knows that if Wells gets to her first she'll die.
His heart is pounding as he runs, flying out of Star Labs without pausing to tell any of them where he's going because he has to find her, if he can get to her first he can hide her, Wells can't see the screens if he's not there, Barry can hide her and they can come up with a plan and take down Wells, he just has to get there before Wells does.
He runs until his chest is heaving because he's so afraid of what he'll find, that he won't be able to save her, that she'll die, and he can feel tears burning at his vision because he cannot let that happen.
She trusted him, trusted the Flash, and he has to be enough now. He has to find her.
A full minute passes in agonizing silence, and Barry's scouring the city as fast as he can, crashing into things because he can't stop, he has to go as fast as he can or he'll never get there in time.
Then Cisco shouts, "Barry, they're on the bridge!"
He takes off and his lungs ache, and he can't run any faster, he's trapped at eight hundred miles an hour, fear stalling him.
Then he can see the bridge and he runs.
As he closes in he sees a streak of yellow take off. Why did you run? he thinks, breathless.
Then he crashes in front of Iris and he's holding her shaking arms as she gasps, and he wants to hug her, wants to tell her it's okay going to be okay, but he can barely breathe for how scared he is, and was, and how relieved he is that she's alive, shaken and panicked but alive, and he finds his voice, barely. "Hey, Iris, it's okay, it's me."
"He took him," Iris tells him, breathing hard, on the verge of tears. "The Man in Yellow, he took Eddie."
"I promise I will find him, okay?" Barry tells her, and he can't let go of her, it's the hardest thing he's ever done, but Eddie could die and he can't let that happen, either, he needs to let go.
"What is happening?" she asks, and there's such open fear in her voice that he finds his, strong, clear, pulling her to her feet.
"Listen to me. Go home. Don't say anything to anyone. I swear to you, I will bring him back, all right?"
"Wait, stop," she pleads, but he's already gone.
And he promises her, silently, that he will do everything he has to to keep her safe.
. o .
It's him.
He's already running, disappearing over the horizon, but Iris can't move.
Hey, Iris.
It's okay.
It's me.
She can see his goofy smile, the way he bounces in his seat whenever he gets really into his rambles about energy and physics and the future of science, the way he tucks himself into the corners of the world, shy, unobtrusive, kind, quiet, stable.
She can see him over the years, how he blushes even though he looks great in a tux and it's just prom, Barry, relax. She watches him breaks up fights ("Hey! Hey!" "Fuck off." "Leave her alone."); nurse broken bones; stress over essays; ramble around the kitchen in his pajamas; eat spicy food and gasp for air afterward. She can hear the way he laughs, giggling, how his entire face just shines with it, how he counts the days to the particle accelerator's debut.
He's the one who sits on her bed cross-legged and asks What's wrong, who brings her coffee when she isn't expect it, who helps her play hookie and teaches her how to ice-skate.
He's an utter constant in her life, and even when they're mad at each other, she can't hate him; he annoys her, and she wants to shake him sometimes, but he's still Barry.
The night is cold and sharp and terrifying, but all she can see is his face, the way it vibrates into obscurity but there are lines, there, familiar edges she knows. There's an inflection to his voice she recognizes, a bearing to his shoulders that reminds her of him, a panic in his tone that she can feel, far beyond the call of duty: it's personal, it's them.
Their lives are in danger and he's running straight for it, and her first compulsion is to run after him.
But she can't move; the air is ice in her lungs and there are tears on her face because Eddie might die and Barry might die, too, and she can't lose them both, but he's not just Barry, he's never going to be just Barry again, he's the Flash.
She can't breathe, thinks she might actually pass out from the wave of terror that sweeps over her.
Then Cisco shouts, "Iris!"
She turns and he's running towards her, Caitlin in tow, and they both crash into her, Caitlin asking, "Are you okay?"
"We have to go," Cisco adds urgently, and they're already moving towards the end of the bridge again but Iris can't speak, can't breathe.
When they come to a halt and Joe throws the van doors open, she climbs inside and lets him hug her, lets him even though she can feel a new emotion swelling in her lungs, her heart, sharp, bitter.
Why didn't you tell me?
They're rocketing down the streets and the only thing she can think is, Barry.
She can see his smile, his need to help people, and she doesn't know where the lies began, where the confidence came from, where the skill and tact and maturity developed, but somewhere Barry and the Flash became two different people to her, and now –
Now she sees him in the headlines, in the fuzzy photos, the anonymous thank-yous. She sees him walking in the Flash's shadow, becoming the Flash: their footprints overlap, their postures, their voices, their smiles. She sees him in the red suit, in the lightning, in the warmth and safety and calm he projects, even when it isn't, because he's fast, he's very, very fast, and in a way it makes him untouchable.
She sees him saying, very clearly, "I swear to you, I will bring him back, all right?"
And she knows it's true.
She doesn't know when the tears started but they won't stop, because Eddie is gone and Barryis, too.
The Flash's death would be painful, and Eddie's would hurt like hell, but Barry's –
Barry's would be unthinkable.
Watching the Flash walk a thin line between success and catastrophic failure as he pursues the Man in Yellow, she thinks, Please, please don't fall.