His lab is a mess.
Truth be told, his workspace is never the tidiest, but for the first time in a while, it's an undeniable disaster zone by even his loose standards of organization.
Nearly every inch of his desk is covered: stacks of file folders that he's given up arranging in chronological order, piles of clipped papers that still need to be read and sorted on a case-by-case basis, his battered copy of Forensic Pathology open to a reference page. If he turns around, the lab bench adjacent to the desk hosts an arrangement of DNA samples that await centrifugation and extraction, in addition to trays of fibers from several crime scenes requiring analysis. Any potential free space is occupied by dirty test tubes and littered with empty Jitters coffee cups. The caffeine is useless, with his exceptional metabolism, but at least it gives him the illusion of stamina.
Barry straightens up to adjust his posture, cracking his cramped neck after being bent over a microscope for what seems like hours. He glances to his left at the wall clock and groans: 12:46 PM. He would have to sacrifice another lunch break to be meaningfully productive today, or else Singh would have his head. That marks his fourth day of continuous work this week alone in what has been the busiest month during all of his service with the CCPD. Crime and misconduct in the city had reached an ultimate peak: he's drowning in evidence, incomplete reports, and unresolved cases. While his speed capabilities certainly give him an advantage over every other CCPD employee, at times, it feels like utilizing his skills actually exhausts him further, depleting his energy levels at a rate he simply doesn't have the time to make up for in sufficient caloric intake. He's taking on more than he can handle and he knows it.
More cases not only require extra time spent in the precinct, but are also marked by longer nights on the streets of Central City: his duties as The Flash still call to him, and in fact are directly correlated with the increase in criminal activity. Joe tried to convince Barry to give some nights a rest, let him and the folks at STAR Labs handle the more minor cases to allow him time for crucial sleep. Surely Cisco and Caitlin knew enough to keep a tamer meta-human subdued, or to assist police with common incidents of theft and assault, but Barry refused to allow it, knowing he could never live with the guilt if anyone was hurt in the process of carrying out his job.
Worst of all is how little he sees Iris. Whenever he's lucky enough to zip back to their shared apartment to squeeze in one or two hours of slumber, he finds a cold, vacant bed: she's already making her commute to work. The irony is bitter: she was the one who had anticipated that they would be spending less time together after her recent promotion to senior investigative reporter at CCPN, while he had assured her otherwise:"I will always have time for you. You're my clock, you're my only time." Yet here he was, on the verge of a burnout, lacking the memory to recall the last time he and Iris shared a proper meal together.
The raucous growl of his stomach reminds him he can't recall the last time he had a proper meal at all.
"Hungry?"
The sound of stilettos clicking the floor echoes through his lab. He glances up to see Iris standing before his desk, bucket purse swung over her shoulder, Tupperware in hand.
"Hey, you." She holds up the container, scanning the room purposefully. "I made mac and cheese last night…Barry, how many times have I told you that you need a microwave for this place?"
Too many times, he thinks. But it's not like I've ever really needed one till now. He swallows his sourness though, immediately regretting that the cynical retort even crossed his mind. He's touched that she's here, really, that she's using her lunch break to bring him his favorite dish, to make sure that he's eating well, to check up on him. And he'll be damned if she isn't a welcoming sight after hours of staring at blood cells. She's sublime, of course, when is she anything otherwise? But today she looks exceptionally sharp in a blazer and white blouse duo.
"You look nice," is all he manages to utter, fully aware that she looks better than nice and wishing he had the enthusiasm to compliment her the way she deserves to be.
She flashes that brilliant smile that makes him question science and all he stands for.
"I figured since I'm senior reporter now," she sets the pasta and her purse down, walks across his desk to settle in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, "I should start looking like one."
He stares up at her, grinning dejectedly. "And since I'm the CSI everyone loves to dump their shit on, it's fitting that I look pretty shitty right now." It's a joke: he knows Iris doesn't care what he looks like, but he's suddenly conscious of the contrast in their physical states. He doesn't need a mirror to know he has dark bags under his eyes, scruff on his chin, or wrinkles in his shirt. She's impeccable, while he looks (and probably smells) like he needs a thorough shower, a change of clothes, and a good night's sleep.
She giggles, nuzzling his neck. "You've looked better before. I won't lie to you."
"I've definitely felt better before too," he grumbles. He can't believe he's reached a point where he's so put out by all he has to do that having Iris in his arms can't even improve his mood.
They sit in silence, Iris nestled onto his shoulder. Barry rests his head over hers, but his eyes watch the clock. 1:08 PM. He wishes he could hold her longer, but he needs to get back to work, otherwise he'll seriously be jeopardizing his schedule for the remainder of the week.
Iris stirs below his head, bringing her lips to his earlobe, kissing it. "Wanna fool around?" she murmurs.
The idea is so preposterous and unexpected he almost laughs, but he understands where she's coming from. It seems like an eternity since they've been in each other's presence, let alone been intimate. He empathizes with her missing him because it's exactly how he feels toward her.
He sighs. "It's not that I don't, I promise." He shifts his head so that she can at least continue trailing kisses down his neck. "I just have so much to do, Iris. My mind is all over the place. It wouldn't be fair to you to be quite honest."
She sits up, searching his face. "Not even a little foreplay?" she asks, pushing the hair back from his forehead.
His heart breaks at her pleading eyes. He knows she isn't trying to guilt him, but he feels awful. There was no excuse for allowing this much time to pass without each other. They didn't have an ordinary relationship: he knew they were going to encounter unique obstacles that kept them apart, possibly for extended periods. But that meant more than anything that they had to work through those obstacles together. She was already willing to be with him, to stand by him, to devote herself to him even though she had to share him with the city. He had to actively make time for her. When was the next time he would have seen Iris, had she not stopped by to feed him today?
He offers a weak smile. "Foreplay, huh? What'd you have in mind?"
"You've been so busy and working so hard that I wanted to give you a treat." She shrugs off her blazer and allows it to fall to the floor. "I don't know that it's as good as my mac and cheese, but I think you might like it."
He can't help himself: he beams at her, feeling himself return to his usual state of adoring the gift that is Iris West. "I'm all yours."
"No one's going to come in, right?" She glances over his head at the door behind them, but despite her concern, unbuttons her blouse.
"Not likely," he answers. "If Singh barges in, he can watch I guess. Serves him right for the hell he's putting me through."
She laughs and unfastens her bra. Contrary to his earlier reservations that he would be too distracted to focus exclusively on her, he presses his face to her chest without hesitation, closing his eyes, breathing her in. The familiar aroma of her perfume greets him, his favorite one in fact, a blend of violet, sandalwood, and vanilla. He recognizes she probably wore this particular fragrance intentionally. He loves her even more for it.
He missed her scent, her skin. How had he managed to go this long without touching her? She huffs lightly: they remain still for a moment, Iris cradling Barry's head to her core, combing her fingers through his hair.
For the first time in nearly a month, Barry allows himself to relax, allows his mind to wander to pleasant, comforting thoughts of Iris, to take him back to the memory of the last time they were in bed together, weeks ago. He had idly peeled off Iris's clothes and was working his way down her figure when-
"What's your favorite part of my body?" Iris asked earnestly.
He had paused abruptly in the midst of planting kisses around her navel to look up at her incredulously, taken aback by this sudden outburst of curiosity.
"Are you—seriously asking me this question?"
"I want to know!" Iris exclaimed. "Come on," she smirked. "Journalistic inquiry."
He shook his head in amused disbelief, but propped himself on his elbows above her supine form to ponder the question. He had blushed slightly, suddenly shy to respond.
"What?" Iris pressed.
"Don't get me wrong, I love everything about you. But if I had to pick a favorite…." he gestured toward her chest bashfully.
She bit down a grin and kicked him playfully.
"Ow! You wanted to know!"
"Oh come on! You are so unoriginal, Perv."
"No, not like that." His indignant expression at her kick softened. "It's just…" He reached down, rubbed his thumbs lightly under the space where her breasts fall. "This is the part that connects your head to your body." He traced his fingertips, touch featherlike, from her chiseled collar to her sternum. "It's the closest I'll ever be to your heart."
His eyes met hers, her face momentarily unreadable until she had smiled timidly, a smile she only ever revealed with him. He loved this vulnerable expression because he didn't see it very often from confident, headstrong Iris, even though it's burned into his memory. During the rare moments it materialized, it didn't last long either: almost as soon as it appeared, it vanished, and sure enough, where Iris had just been unguarded, she then swiftly rolled her eyes.
"You are such a dork, Bear."
But he knew she was moved.
An outpouring of affection for her surges through him as he suddenly realizes the reason behind her insistence at intimacy, at this particular "treat." He's fairly certain she's recalling the same memory he is, as she completely wraps her arms around his neck desperately, pulling him nearer, to the extent that he feels his own hot breath on her breasts. Lust overcomes him: he catches a dark nipple between his lips and sucks gently. Her fingers that were rhythmically petting him stall. She inhales deeply: he feels her chest rise then fall slowly, juxtaposed to her rapid pulse.
Footsteps sound from outside the door as someone passes. He hesitates, but Iris only wraps the lapels of her blouse around his head more tightly, a careless attempt to conceal him while bringing him even closer. Any concern she had shown earlier at the possibility of being discovered was seemingly gone. Still, the noise brings him back to reality. He allows himself one last indulgence of sealing his lips around her other raised nipple, tenderly sucking until she quivers quietly.
He pulls away from her breast so carefully that he leaves a visible trail of spittle in their wake as they break apart. He's too engrossed by Iris to be embarrassed and she's apparently too roused to care. He rests his chin directly over her heartbeat as he looks up at her, losing himself in the ebony pools of her eyes.
"Do we have to go back to work?" he whines.
"Now you have time for me?" she teases, playing with his hair.
"I miss you," he finally admits, eyes soft, imploring.
She places a hand on either side of his face and kisses him gingerly.
"Get some more work done," she advises, adjusting her bra and buttoning her blouse. "We're taking a shower tonight when you get home." She bends over to pick her blazer off the floor, shooting him a sly glance. "You kind of need one, Bear."