A/N: First Flash fic! Forgive me if this is something that has been done a lot, I haven't read much for the Flash—but my little bit of researching didn't turn up anything like this, so hopefully it's a little different. This came out of my absolute love of Joe, my psychology class where we talked about the childhood grieving process and childhood trauma, and my interest, of course, in how Joe ended up deciding to take Barry in. This will be a few chapters. At least three, possibly more—I have the bare bones worked out, but who knows when I'll decide it's done. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and I always appreciate feedback!


His heart almost stopped when he heard the address come in over the radio.

"Okay, you're headed to 324 Roosevelt Drive, it's just north of—"

"Yeah, I know where it is."

Joe West's partner glanced at him at his tone.

"You know it?" Joe scrubbed a hand down his face, preparing for the worst. All they'd known when they headed out, sirens blaring, was they had a 911 call from a kid about some kind of attack at his home.

"My daughter's best friend lives there."


"I didn't do this! I swear to God, I didn't do this! Joe, tell them—I love my wife! Oh God, Nora!"

Joe knelt by the covered body of Nora Allen. He had liked Nora; she had been kind, and he had always appreciated that his daughter had a woman like that to look up to in the absence of a mother.

He hadn't known what to expect when they burst into the Allen home after finding a distraught Barry in the yard, but it wasn't this. It wasn't a man he knew, a man he considered a friend and had allowed his daughter to stay with, standing over his dead wife, murder weapon in hand.

"My son!" Henry Allen cried. "What about my son?!" His pleading eyes met Joe's, and Joe narrowed his own. His heart broke a little when he thought of that cheerful, happy little boy, and what he had seen. An officer was with him in the yard, keeping him from coming into the house, but Joe suspected he had witnessed whatever had happened. When they arrived, he had been frantically telling anyone who would listen about the lightning that had attacked his mother.

"I have a son!" Henry shouted desperately as an officer forced the cuffed man out the front door.

Joe turned his attention back to the body in front of him as Henry's shouts were muffled by the closing door.

Nora was someone he considered a friend. She was smart and funny, incredibly witty, and had always been kind to Iris—and she had loved her son very much, that much had always been apparent to Joe.

He rested a gloved hand over Nora's cold, bare one and sighed. He had arrested countless murderers, investigated countless crime scenes, and clinically examined countless bodies—but never in a house where his daughter had spent the night, or of a woman who'd been a friend.

"Joe, you know these people?" a CSI he was friendly with asked as he passed. Joe glanced up at the man.

"My daughter's best friends with their kid."

"I'm sorry." Joe exhaled and stood, rubbing his face, and turned his attention to the CSI, all business.

"Do you have anything?"

"Not much you don't already know. We bagged the murder weapon; we'll run it for prints but, well, I doubt we're gonna find anything surprising. We'll get samples of all this blood, but I'm thinking it's all the vic's."

"Mom." Joe froze and, as if in slow motion, turned to look in Nora Allen's direction.

Kneeling there, peeking under the corner of the cover, was a little boy, wide-eyed and scared.

"Barry," Joe murmured, kneeling and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Mom!" he cried, and Joe carefully took the corner of the cover and placed it back over Nora's exposed face.

"I'm so sorry, Barry," Joe said, his hand firmly on Barry's shoulder. Barry hiccupped softly, then turned to look at Joe, face full of fear and innocence.

"Where did they take my dad?" Joe examined his face for a moment, struggling to find the words.

"To jail, Barry. They're taking him to jail." Joe pulled a little on the bony, pajama-clad elbow, until he and Barry were both standing.

"No, my dad didn't do it! It was the man with the lightning! He was wearing yellow, and there was lightning everywhere and—"

"It's okay, we can talk about it later, alright?"

"But my dad didn't do it!"

"Okay." Joe guided him out toward the police car and opened the passenger door for him.

Joe pulled down the seatbelt and handed it to Barry as he climbed inside.

"Buckle up. I have to go talk to someone. I'll be right back, and then we'll go." Barry nodded, and Joe closed the door and went to find his supervisor.

"I'm getting the kid out of here," he said, and the supervisor turned.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea. We don't need him here for this, the CSIs are just doing their thing at this point."

"And he doesn't need to see when they bring his mom out," Joe agreed.

"How about you take him to the station and get a statement, then you can hand him over to social services. They'll find some family member for him, or foster care." Joe hesitated.

"Do you think the statement can wait? We did make an arrest. Plus I think he's in shock, he's not making a whole lot of sense." The captain nodded.

"Yeah, you've got a point. Poor kid's probably exhausted. Just give him to social services then; I'll make a call and make sure there's a social worker waiting when you get there."

Joe turned and looked back at the car, where a little sandy-haired head was visible, leaning against the window.

"I can take him tonight," he said, turning back to the captain. The captain looked blank, and Joe explained. "He's friends with Iris; he's spent the night with us before. Tomorrow we can deal with social services, but it's the middle of the night. He must be tired."

"Man, I'm sorry. Didn't realize you knew them," the captain answered, scratching his head. "Yeah. You know what, that's a good idea. Take him back to your place; he can stay with you for tonight. You're a family friend, so that's fine."

Joe nodded and headed back to the car.

"We're going back to my house," he said as he got in. "You're staying with me and Iris for tonight." He put the key in the ignition and turned to look at Barry, who nodded. There were fresh tear tracks on his face, and Joe took a deep breath. Joe took his hand off the gearshift and gave Barry a serious look.

"I am so sorry this happened to you, Barry." Barry blinked hard, and Joe sighed. That was the face of a kid who was changed forever.

They rode in silence to the West home. Joe glanced periodically at Barry, who stared blankly ahead, tear tracks still wet on his face.

When they arrived, Barry made no move to leave, so Joe got out and walked around to open his door for him. Almost robotically, Barry unbuckled, and Joe put a hand on his elbow and guided him out of the car and toward the door.

Emma, the Central City University student who stayed with Iris when Joe worked the night shift, was asleep on the couch, and Joe knelt by her side and shook her shoulder gently.

"Mr. West!" She sat up quickly and smoothed her messy hair with her hand. "What time is it?"

"It's only four," he answered quietly. "Something came up and I'm back early, so you can head home if you'd like." Emma nodded and reached for her shoes before noticing Barry standing in the doorway.

Joe leaned in a little and murmured in her ear, "He's had a rough night."

Emma knew Barry, of course; Joe had originally gotten her name from the Allens, back when Iris and Barry were in kindergarten. Her face softened as she took in the shaking, wide-eyed boy, still in pajamas, not even wearing shoes. Joe wasn't sure what she thought may have happened, but she could clearly tell it wasn't good.

As she hastily tied her shoes and gathered her things, Joe led Barry into the guest room—where Emma usually slept, though she had been known to fall asleep on the couch now and then. The bed was made up with fresh sheets, and Joe held the door open and motioned for Barry to go in.

The kid hadn't spoken since they left the crime scene, and Joe suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that there was nothing he could do or say for him. This eleven year old boy had likely watched his father kill his mother, and nothing could make that go away.

"Why don't you go to bed, try to get some sleep?" Joe suggested quietly, and Barry glanced up at him.

"Where's my dad?" Joe sighed and took a seat on the bed, patting the spot next to him.

"He's in jail," he answered once Barry was sitting.

"And my mom?" Barry's voice broke as he asked it, and he turned to meet Joe's eyes. Joe put a hand on Barry's shoulder.

"I'd imagine your mom's in heaven right about now," he said quietly.

"No but… is she still at home? Or… where is she?"

"Oh," Joe murmured, and thought for a moment. How much information to give him? He felt suddenly very much out of his depth. "Well, she probably is still at home. They'll leave her there while they look at your house for clues and information."

"What about when they're done?" Joe heaved a sigh.

"Then they'll take her to a special doctor who will look at her body and can get clues from it—that's the medical examiner."

"And then?" Joe rubbed Barry's back absently.

"Then she'll go to a funeral home, and they'll get her ready for the funeral. And after that you'll get to see her one last time and say goodbye."

"Will my dad get to say goodbye?" Barry turned wide, shining eyes up toward Joe, who sighed and squeezed his shoulder.

"Probably not. Not if he has to go to prison."

"But he didn't do it!"

"We're doing everything we can right now, and if that's true, we'll find proof."

Barry looked unconvinced, so Joe changed the subject.

"Tomorrow you and I will go to the station and you'll give a statement—you'll tell us exactly what happened, everything you saw and heard. Then we'll talk to a social worker who'll help you get in contact with your family so you can go stay with them."

"And then you'll let my dad go?"

"Well, that'll depend on a lot of things. Your statement, the evidence we find, what your neighbors say." Joe hastily steered the conversation back away from this topic. "So then the social worker will take you to go stay with a relative, and then in a few days will be your mom's funeral."

"Her funeral," Barry repeated quietly, tears filling his eyes. He took a deep, gasping breath, and then another, which gave way to big heaving sobs. Joe pulled him closer to him so that he was crying into Joe's lap, Joe's strong arms around him.

"I know," Joe murmured, though Barry had not said anything.

"I—just—wanna—talk—to—my—mom!" Barry gasped word by word, and Joe felt his throat burning and eyes pricking.

"I know, Barry," he answered.

They sat like that for an hour, until Barry had cried himself to sleep, at which point Joe carefully maneuvered him under the covers, head on the pillow. Flipping off the light and carefully closing the door, he glanced at his watch; he had an hour to sleep before it would be time to wake Iris for school.