Disclaimer: Don't own "The Flash," don't even own the title (it's a quote rip off from The Fault In Our Stars). I just own the OC. See end for more notes.

Chapter 1: Demands to Be Felt

Plenty of things happened at night. Good things, bad things. Maybe more bad than good, what with the increased amount of crime and accidents. However, there was some guy who dressed in red, ran super fast, and liked to save the day to tip scales back to the good. At least, Mr. Red was what a lot of blogs online were chattering about. Not that she was one to pay attention to what blogs were saying, but everywhere she went, someone was whispering curiously about it and she wasn't deaf. Hearing about it always made her snort - out loud in private and internally in public - though not for the reason most people would think.

Most people would probably think she scoffed at the super powers part of the vigilante with superpowers equation.

Maybe if she'd been almost anyone else, that really would've been why.

As it was, super powers like running super fast was not the most impossible thing she could believe in. The fact that someone would go running around in red and saving people was. Running around in a bright red suit was ridiculous enough on its own, but the fact that someone would use an ability like that for good? She could count on both hands and still need hands for the number of people she knew who would probably have abused that power by now. Like robbed a bank on the other side of the country knowing that they would never get caught.

Sure, she was probably the worst kind of cynic who needed a better outlook on life, or needed to rethink her future career as a social worker. And she probably needed to meet make new acquaintances if that was the caliber of people she was spent time with on a regular basis.

Seriously though, at least one thing she'd believed about nights was right: bad shit happened.

The proof was in the night she'd just had not long ago. She'd been on a late night train home to Keystone one second, then thrown into the air the next, and then deposited safely on the ground near the train tracks after that. Said train was busy crashing and blowing up in the background like it had been part of some terrible action movie sequence. And as if to complete the picture, Mr. Red was suddenly there on the ground amongst the wreckage. With some self-styled villain type standing over him, too, looking just as if not more ridiculous than his tightly leathered counterpart in that stupid parka.

Just as she was thinking that the cherry of witnessing murder was going to top her bad night sundae, three people holding a huge machine that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi flick threatened the villain guy with it. At least, it looked like threatening, she couldn't really hear anything that was said over the sound of the roaring flame right next to her. She inched away from it, and closer to where the confrontation was happening. But not too close, she had about zero percent interest in being shot with whatever the glowing blue substance in either weapon was. It looked like a not so great experience, if Mr. Red's condition was any indication.

As they kept talking and she kept inching closer, she evaluated the situation.

Mr. Red was real. Like an actual superhero. Cool, probably?
If there be superheroes, there be supervillains. It made sense.
There was a wrecked train and she wasn't wrecked with it. So…

Did that mean Mr. Red saved her life?

If he did, well. That was- that was something.

What did you do when someone saved your life? She'd never had her life saved before, at least not in the traditional sense, and especially never by a superhero. Was she just supposed to thank him? Just saying thank you seemed a little lame. Also, did that make her a damsel in distress? Well, she wasn't exactly still in distress, she hadn't even had time to really be in distress. Was she even supposed to be mad? Honestly, gratitude outweighed everything else.

She was pulled from her thoughts when she felt she was being watched. There was no one there when she looked up; Mr. Red was being happy mobbed by the people holding the machine thing, and she only just caught glimpse of the villain disappearing into parts unknown. Which was good, she supposed. His escape was likely to be problematic later, but she could live with temporary fixes. Hopefully she wouldn't be on any form of public transportation he would be crashing any time soon.

There was also a decision here.

Before her brain got to making it, her feet did it for her. She found herself standing in front of the four people. Their conversation had cut short when they saw her approaching, and their gazes grew wary. With pain mixed in on Mr. Red's part. And that reminded her of what she really came over here to do.

"Hey," she greeted them, lifting one hand to give a clipped wave, which the blonde with glasses and not-superhero guy awkwardly returned, "I'm Michela. Thank you for saving my life."

"Just- just doin' my job, miss," Mr. Red said with a grimace and a weak salute, though his charm fell flat. He still got points for the effort.

"We've got to go," the redhead whispered frantically to the group, as if Michela weren't there.

The blonde, redhead, and the brunet (her brain guttered out for a second at the observation, because damn, they were all attractive on top of that) all moved to get the injured superhero onto his feet. Michela stepped closer and wasn't surprised to see them try and put themselves between him and her. It was cute.

"Sorry, just lemme help. If I do this, it'll be better," she promised, elbowing her way through.

"No, stop!" The blonde woman exclaimed, the redhead making similar noises.

But she was through, and Mr. Red was right there, watery hazel, green eyes locking with her own dark ones. And then she had a hand on either side of his jaw.

"Breathe, okay?" She told him, and then pulled.

Some thoughts occurred to her, then and there.

The first being that she needed goddamn pain meds like right now, because the perpetual migraine that lived in her brain now had a dance partner in the searing, prickling sensation along her lower back and gut.

The second being that she was on the ground, curled into the fetal position.

The third being that there were a lot of voices going off loudly above her.

And fourth being that she was an idiot who, despite knowing that it was a complete and utter mistake, had walked right up to Mr. Red and his posse and revealed her own stupid ability.

She'd blame it on the near death experience later.

"What's wrong with her?" Michela heard Mr. Red's voice cut through everything, "And- And why does nothing hurt anymore?"

"Metahuman! Metahuman!" Someone squawked excitedly.

"Did she heal you?! Unzip and let me see!"

"Did that sound dirty to you, or is it just me?"

"Definitely dirty."

"Hey, hey, you can check me over later, right now, let's help her."

Michela felt herself being coaxed out of fetal position and onto her back. She couldn't fight the need to wrap her arms protectively around her middle. Through teary eyes, she looked up at the four of them.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Red asked from where he knelt beside her, the visible features of his face beneath the mask pinched with concern.

"Peachy," she replied in a wheeze, "So okay, you don't even know."

"Somehow, I don't believe you," he snarked back, making her lips twitch up feebly in response, "Really though, what did you do?"

"Oh, you know, took your pain." The second she felt actual tears coming on, she threw an arm up to cover her eyes, making a thumbs up with the hand of that arm. "Felt like it was a better way to say thank you than just saying thank you. Hurts like a bitch though. What did you do to piss that guy off?"

That drew a choked off chuckle out of him.

"So you didn't heal him?" Though she couldn't see her, she had a feeling that had been the blonde.

"No," she groaned out with a shake of her head, "My first born to whoever has painkillers they are willing to part with."

Someone pressed pills into her hand and she swallowed those suckers down dry in an instant. It was going to take a while to kick in, but future her would thank her then.

"Really though," Redhead started again, "If we stay here any longer, the police will arrive and we really don't want them catching us."

"Go, you should go," Michela agreed, making a shooing motion at them with a hand.

"We'll take you with us," Mr. Red insisted, "You're hurt."

"No thanks," she insisted back, her weak smile starting to wear into gritted teeth, "I'll be fine. You four are giving off, 'return to base' and 'secret identity' vibes, and I'm just going to cramp your style."

"But-" Mr. Red tries.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Redhead cut him off hurriedly.

"Yeah, it's just pain. Let the paramedics take care of me whenever they get here. I'll be in good hands."

Lifting her arm away from her eyes, she looked up at the distraught face of her savior. He looked as if he wanted to say something more. She wondered if she was the first person he'd encountered so far who also had abilities like he did. Until she'd started hearing about him, she'd thought she'd been alone, too.

"Hey," she said softly to him, putting a hand on his knee, "If you wanna find me later to talk, look me up. My full name is Michela Calhoun. I have facebook."

There was that chuckle again.

"I might just do that."

By the tone of his voice, it didn't sound like it would be just might.

"Now get out of here. Live to hero another day."

He snorted, then grasped the hand resting on his knee with his own gloved one and squeezed.

"Thanks," he told her, releasing her hand, "And take care of yourself."

"Sure thing, Mr. Red."

And then her eyes slipped shut and all she focused on was breathing deeply without hissing in agony on every exhale. The next time she opened them, a paramedic was squatting down and assessing her condition. She told him she was experiencing her usual migraines, exacerbated by the stress of the freak train crash. Thankfully, the paramedics chased off any cops who tried to ask her questions. Someone also managed to locate her cellphone and bring it to her before she was trundled off to the hospital due to her complaints of excessive pain and settled in for the night for observation. Michela sifted through the panicked and worried phone messages and texts she'd received from school friends and her uncle who heard about the train wreck.

The last thing she did before she fell asleep for the night was shoot all of them (less than grammatical and confusing - she was tired and on drugs, okay?) texts to let them know she was fine. Just as she began to fade for good, she felt a gust of wind blow through her room. If she was less out of it, she might've questioned why it was windy in a hospital room with firmly shut windows and doors.

As it was, she didn't notice there was a new number in her contacts until now, only a day later, when she was back to her normal routine at her internship and she got a text from someone listed as "Mr. Red." Frankly, she'd been pretty sure she'd hallucinated talking to the guy while high. Except. Except apparently she really had been that special kind of dumb in revealing what she could do to a man with questionable tastes in fashion and hobbies.

Proof that the whole thing had happened was right there, in the three words that stared damningly back up at her from her phone.

-Can we talk?-

Just how out of it had she been to make that offer? Had she really had time to trade contact info like that? And did he not even realize how much of a bad idea it was talking to her? Not getting involved with civilians was textbook superhero modus operandi. Except for the fact that she'd kind of outed herself as not one hundred percent civilian. So maybe this all circled back to her being an idiot.

In the midst of her freak out, she received a handful of texts.

-Hello?-
-Michela?-
-You know who this is right?-
-From the trainwreck?-

Jesus, the guy had no chill. Which helped surprisingly, because as a result, she was coming down from her own lack of chill.

-Hello?-

She could just ignore him. She really could. It would be really shitty after basically telling him he could talk to her and he'd seemed really hopeful when she said so. That part she remembered at least. But if her messy childhood had taught her anything, she needed to look out for herself first and inviting a superhero into her life was not going to help her in that endeavor. Her phone pinged again. And again and again, faster than she expected.

-Are you mad im sending so many txts?-
-Or bc of you kno…?-
-Or cuz i put my # on ur phone?-

So that's what happened.

-Im rly sry-
-Sry-

Oh hell, she really needed to put the guy out of his misery, he'd already devolved into chatspeak. If she didn't, he could take this to the next step with weepy emoticons or something. It was hard to even actually be mad because it was just that pitiful. Taking a fortifying breath, she started typing back.

-STOP-

And after a deafeningly long bout of silence, she sent one more text, because she was as good at compounding her mistakes as ever.

-Hey Mr. Red. So you wanna talk?-

Michela immediately shoved her phone into her purse to ignore for a while and nodded grimly to herself. She definitely deserved all the things - bad, good, whatever - that she had coming for this.

AN: First fic ever for "The Flash"/DCverse. I just started watching the show, and Barry Allen/Grant Gustin is adorable and I just wanted to give him another friend. Not sure about whether there will be an OC pairing yet, I just need a broship between Michela and Barry, as I continue to develop Michela's character and how she will impact the plot.

Also, shameless plug: if you are looking for another OC story and like Marvel/Captain America, check out my story "Perception." Less shameless plug: "Tides of Lightning" by FruitCup is a Barry/OC fic I just started reading that is really good so far and needs love! I'm looking forward to leaving FruitCup a review when I can.