It's the perfect opportunity.
Hey. There's something I need to tell you.
Okay?
Look, Iris . . . I – after the lightning struck me, something happened. Something incredible. Something . . . impossible.
(Hands intertwined behind his neck, he paces in across the floor, and Barry knows she will wait for him even if she's quietly vibrating under her skin, aching for answers. She's always been better at hiding emotions, at concealing her true intentions, at keeping secrets, telling lies. Barry's impressed she hasn't seen through him sooner, but he's grateful, too, even if it makes his chest ache because she trusts him so much and he does not deserve it. He does not deserve her compassion or sympathy or trust, he has not earned it, he has not honored it.)
It wasn't an ordinary bolt of lightning.
(A nervous smile, a piqued frown.) What do you mean, 'an ordinary bolt of lightning'? Because you know my meteorology is rusty at best.
(He drops his hands, lets out a breathless exhale that, under better circumstances, would have been a laugh.) Iris . . . the night the particle accelerator blew, it threw energy skyward. A lot of energy. And that energy contained – particles that we've never seen before, we've never detected, we've only theorized about.
Okay. (She takes a seat, looking at him, gently curious, still in the dark.) Particle accelerator blows, throws energy into the sky.
Exactly. That energy . . . seeded a storm cloud . . . which created a lightning bolt . . . that struck me.
(He takes a seat opposite her, looking at her and willing every ounce of apology and gravity into his words.)
I wasn't in a coma for nine months because I was fighting for my life. (Soft, careful. Needing to pick words.) I was in a coma for nine months because my body was undergoing . . . extraordinary changes.
What kind of changes? (She's leaning forward, engaged, and the levity is gone, there's a current of tension between them and Barry needs to resolve it before she pieces it together, he has to be the one to tell her.)
The particles altered my DNA. They gave me . . . Iris, it gave me speed.
(She's staring at him, not saying a word, and he thinks that maybe time has frozen except for her breath, slow and steady, in real time.)
I'm . . . I'm the streak, Iris.
(She's breathing very, very shallowly and he envies the ability to contain her emotions, to project nothing but diluted shock on the surface. Cop's daughter.)
You're – him.
Yes. And I am – so sorry that I kept this from you. I didn't want to put you in danger. Joe and I –
My dad knew about this?
(Fists against his eyes, regretting it instantly.) Yes.
(She blows out a breath and it is a laugh, scornful, dazed, processing emotions in slow motion.) I've been writing about you.
(He nods slowly, lowering his hands, meeting her gaze) I know. I wanted to tell you, I just – I couldn't. Joe made me promise and he's right, you could get hurt—
How could you keep something like this from me? (There's a volatile edge to her voice, on the verge of – anger, tears, he doesn't know.) How could you lie about the fact that you're a superhero?
I'm not a hero.
Bullshit. (Another laugh, softer, more disbelieving. She shakes her head and reaches for her phone when it buzzes on the table between them, hitting the decline button immediately. I have your attention. There's an authoritative set to her shoulders like it's an interrogation and she's talking to a friend who turned out to be a monster.) You're him. You were on the rooftop, you were – oh my God, you were there last night.
(Ducked head, shy eyes.) Yes.
Barry . . . God, I can't believe you kept this from me, but you saved my life.
(Not the first time, he wants to say. But he doesn't. Because he didn't exactly protect her when he went after Tony on his own, he just got his ass handed to him again.)
You're really him. (Anger retreats as a startled smile crosses her lips.) You're the streak.
You've gotta stop calling him that. (Abort. Redo. He doesn't have to hide it from her anymore.) Me. You've gotta stop calling me that.
(She's on her feet and he stays down, stays low, hoping to come across as unthreatening as possible.) This feels like a dream. This can't be real.
(Glides to his feet, takes a breath, a tentative gleam of excitement in his eyes because she hasn't started hitting him or told him to leave and never come back. She's listening. She can be won over.) It's real. (Then, with an ease simplified by familiarity, he reaches for her hand and she lets him take it. He holds it against his beating heart and it's flying, he's nervous, but normal human beings pant from exertion when their heart rate runs at 200 miles an hour. Barry doesn't even break a sweat.) It's real.
You're him.
I am.
You didn't tell me. (She steps away, arms folded carefully, balancing her weight so she's leaning away from him. She'd walk away but something tells him that she couldn't take her eyes off him now if she tried, and he knows she sees two people – Barry, the Streak. Barry.) You lied to me.
I'm so sorry. (He doesn't try to justify it, can't even begin to form a proper apology; nods slowly, tries to keep his hands from shaking visibly from sheer nerves.) I should have told you. I hurt you and I'm sorry, Iris. It wasn't fair to you.
I trusted you.
(The past tense hurts.) I know.
You told me to stop blogging about him.
I didn't want you to get hurt.
I'm a journalist, Barry. This is what I do.
Iris, they're not – I'm not normal. The police can handle normal criminals. No one can stop people like me from hurting people like you.
People like you. (Echo. Listening.)
We call them meta-humans.
We?
Caitlin. Cisco. Dr. Wells. Me. (Dad.)
And that's what Tony is. (She's a quick study. Journalists live in the fast lane.)
Exactly.
That's why his skin turned to metal.
Yes.
How does that even happen?
(A shallow exhale, a shake of his head. He holds his ground when she closes the distance between them, and his heart is definitely racing now, knowing how fragile everything between them is.) We think that – it has something to do with what they were doing at the time of the accident. Tony – fell in a vat of molten scrap metal as the shockwave passed over him. That was his lightning strike.
How many meta-humans are there? (She can see through him, and he's certain she's imposing the mask on his face, flicking between two realities.)
We don't know. So far we've been able to – contain, four of them. Clyde Mardon. Danton Black. Kyle Nimbus. And now Tony Woodward.
Mardon's dead.
(Eyes closed. Guilty, agonized.) Black is, too.
What happened?
He committed suicide. I tried – (a heavy swallow. It's only been two weeks and he's still reeling from it, the way Danton looked at him, forced his hand off, ended his life) –I tried to save him. He wouldn't let me.
(Pause. Silence. With his heightened sense of awareness, it feels crushing.)
How long?
(She isn't talking about Black.) I don't know. But I woke up and – I was able to run faster than the speed of sound. (It still dizzies him at times, overwhelms him, and he starts pacing, needs to create white noise, to exhaust the energy raging under his skin.) All my life I've been searching for the impossible – never dreaming that I would become the impossible.
(It's a sign of trust that she doesn't speak, doesn't interrupt him.)
I wanted to be something better, but I wasn't the only one out there. I wasn't the only one capable of extraordinary things. (Halt, looking at her from across the room, and it's so familiar, standing in the shadows, that he feels like he is the Flash.) But I was the only one who could stop them. So I convinced Caitlin and Cisco and Dr. Wells to let me fight them. To take them down. To protect the people they were trying to hurt.
There was a surge in criminal activity after the particle accelerator explosion. (Contemplative. Catching on.) A lot of unexplainable things happened. We should have seen it.
(A gentle shake of his head.) How could you have? The impossible . . . isn't supposed to exist.
You do.
(There's a beat, and he edges forward slowly, cautiously. Out of the shadows.) I do. And I never wanted to hurt you. But I had to keep you safe and Joe was right – if anyone knew about our connection, they would go after you. To hurt me.
Barry. (Firm.) I'm in danger just by being alive. We all are. We have to take risks, but you can minimize those risks by telling me what I might be up against. (Takes hold of his arms, doesn't let him escape, needs him to hear her next words.) I don't need to be protected. I need to be kept aware of what I should watch out for. I need to know who I can trust and what I can rely on.
(Lets go. It's dizzying.) Iris.
Don't say you're sorry. (Steely, and it hurts more than punching Tony Woodward in the face.) Don't you dare, Barry Allen.
(Deep breath. Regrouping. Nodding.)
(She has to walk away from him, has to draw in a deep breath, echo him. Nerves.) You saved my life.
(Fire in his chest. Rage and agony and fear.) Iris, if he had hurt you, I – I would never have been able to live with it.
(Steps closer.) You saved all those lives. The fires, the robberies, the car chases. That was all you.
(He looks aside, demurs.) The police were . . . definitely involved. (Cleaning up. Taking credit. Doing their jobs.)
God. (She closes the distance between them and then she's hugging hard enough to crack ribs, and he lets out a tiny noise but holds her back, lets her hug him as hard as she needs to, to reaffirm that he's there, that the universe didn't annihilate the Barry she knows and loves when it created the Flash. He can feel the way her breathing is steadying, moving from shaky to calm, and it hits him how her anger doesn't stem from disappointment: it's fear. It's what if you'd died and I couldn't save you because I didn't know.) You're so Barry.
Is that a good thing?
(She laughs, squeezes him, lets go to look at him.) Yes. (More affirmative.) He's you.
Yes.
All those nights . . .
Mhm.
And you knew I was blogging about you.
(Blushes.) I did. And I – Iris, what I do – it's not about the glory. I don't want people to owe me for their lives. They have a right to them. I'm not doing anything heroic.
I watched you run up the side of a building to save a man. I watched you pull twelve people from a burning building. I watched you take on a meta-human made out of steel to protect me. (She shakes her head, fond, almost amused, as she takes his hand and squeezes it, centering his attention when he tries to look away.) Barry, if that isn't heroism, I really don't know what is.
It's what has to be done.
(Her eyes catch the bandage on her own hand, the way he isn't flinching.) Your hand – did you really break it?
(A rueful smile.) Five fractures. I heal fast, too.
Anything you can't do?
That list is a lot longer than you think.
Fastest man alive can't dance.
(Rolls his eyes, lets her put her arm around his waist, steer him to a small table.)
Tell me everything. (Serious. Inquisitive. It's her I-will-sit-here-for-nine-hours-in-silence-if-you-make-me-Barry-Allen.)
Okay.
(And he smiles and tells her as much as she asks, feeling something rekindle between them, a lost connection finally stabilizing.)
. o .
"Barry?" Iris says out loud, and they're sitting across from each other again, and the present is jarring, the reminder that – he hasn't told her overwhelming him.
"Yeah?" he asks, breathless, shaking his head a little, trying to clear it.
"Are you okay? You zoned out for a minute."
A small smile, and he's a better liar than he thought because there isn't a trace of anguish in his voice as he says, "Everything's fine."
And it is. Iris is safe. Tony is locked up. Everyone is alive and well.
If that results from him keeping his silence – from not telling her the truth – than he can resist the urge to do so. Gravity is strong, but love is so much stronger.
He'll do anything he has to protect her.
Anything.
Even if it means telling her a beautiful lie – I'm the same Barry you know – to hide a painful truth – If you knew who I was, it could hurt you.
And I can't let anyone hurt you.