Go Gentle
He was a dead man breathing for fifteen years. It never seemed to matter. His life ended by half the moment he woke from a blow to the dead to find Nora glassy-eyed, bleeding out, bled out, on the living room floor. Barry was gone, Barry was gone, Nora was dead and his son, what had happened to his child?
He died again when the gavel came down, and he realized no one believed him, no one believed Barry—and how could they, would they, such an impossible thing? It was better to be dead, to not imagine, to not miss. It didn't quite work. Could the dead miss the living? His life was over, and all that was left was to watch. He wished Barry more happiness than he had ever had.
When the sky had opened up and he'd seen the flicker falter, he had known, a feeling like fear and pride, that Barry had made the right choice. As much as he wanted to hold Nora again, her warm, soft hand in his own, Barry was still the same brave boy he had become. Still human and hero, and now possibly about to die. Fear that Henry had never felt on his own behalf, even shivved in the gut, clenched at him now.
Barry lived, though, and six months later, on a day that would only have been just another day, no anniversary or any significance other than a clean blue sky, a gate opened. Henry had not lived a half-life for fifteen years, had hardly lived at all, and now the ground under his worn shoes was new and free and wild. He had been a dead man breathing for a decade and a half and only now did he breathe fully—
How do you go back to living, fifteen years dead after you should have been dead in the ground, where all that matters is the life that still goes on around but never within? You don't, really. That was acceptable. He could wander, find a place free of walls, where green things sprouted from the ground and lakes rippled with gnats dipping down to the surface, the call of owls at night and scrub jays and chickadees, and perhaps, in watching new life come from old, mushrooms grown wild on fallen logs and a mother bird feeding her young with scraps, lining a nest with the feathers of her own breast, he could learn. Barry's life, in a way had stopped, stalled, started up again. Air caught in his lungs, his own, and he smiled into the slate grey sky, the pelting rain and flicker-falter-strike of lightning.
He had to return, though, he knew with certainty like a stone lodged tight in his throat. He could not hide away forever, and while the world might have needed Barry to be the Flash, not Henry Allen's son, Barry himself needed that latter title more. He could be both. Both have made him who he is. And he is so proud of both faces, masked and unmasked, the same desperate need to follow the lessons he and Nora strove to teach—Nora would be proud of him, if she could see. He wants to believe that she can, that she has been watching over their boy, their son, their Barry, but at the same time, now standing in the door of a cabin he thinks he'd like to return to, someday, in the fall when the leaves begin to brighten like gold coins, he hopes she cannot. That somehow she never saw how he let himself die with her, let himself fade like a child's crayon drawing left in the sun.
Barry dies. Barry returns. Hope flickers, despite everything that has happened, Barry's words—the Universe is with us—lift something in Henry. He has to believe everything happens for a reason, even if that reason is only bad luck, because if he doesn't, he knows he will shatter. There must be something more waiting, more than darkness of space and a drifting and a cold patch of earth that never warms no matter how many flowers bloom above. Still, fear that he never has for himself gnaws—a dead man cannot fear death on his own behalf, and despite it all, Henry is still unsure that he truly is alive. It's like the chickadees singing, to see that hope in Barry's eyes, when for so long everything was tempered by grief and guilt. But the fire is a thing to fear as well- You know you still have to be careful, right? Because what point is learning to live again if Barry is the Cost? Barry's fire-bright Hope builds, and anger, too, and Henry wants to hug him, hold Barry's head close to his chest so that he can hear the beating heart, steady. He wants to say, I love you, be careful, I love you, I know you can do whatever the world asks because you have but remember to be careful. He says none of these things. There will be time, he thinks, when fear has been beaten back a little more.
He thinks he is right, everyone gathered in Joe's living room, cozy lit, the image of Home, a multitude of faces united by so much more than blood. They have so much cause to be joyful, they are all-all—alive, and pride swells in his chest. He takes a breath—and then it's gone, arm wrapped tight around his throat. Old lines of poetry brushed the tip of his mind but would not stay still long enough to quote, the world is still only for a heartbeat and then blurs into black and blue like healing bruises.
They stand in the room where he already died once, and Henry dares not close his eyes in Peace. It seems fitting. He knows he should be afraid, knows what the monster behind him has done, can do, will do. He remembers Nora's cry and the lighting wind, and then Barry stands before him. There is no fear. What happens, happens. He does not want to leave, but that's all he's ever done, choice or no. He wants to say, I'm sorry. But this cannot be about him. His brave boy stands, looking 11 again, a child crying out. He wants to say, be brave, be strong, kill this bastard, but he cannot do that, either, because he knows better than any what loss can do, how it can sap strength and he cannot let his last words be a command that Barry may feel he's failed.
He does not listen to the Hunter's words. What he says does not matter. He knows from the grip on his arms and neck that there is only one escape, and it will come soon enough. Too soon.
I'm begging you, Take me, kill me, Barry's voice is broken.
Barry, look at me, son. He looks at his son, desperate. They both know how this will end. He cannot let his son die, holds him at bay. This is fitting, and not for the reason the Hunter meant. He will die in the same place he did before, a full circle. Barry's eyes lock on his the way he imagines they held Nora's. He wants to meet that gaze in his last moments, can't let Barry watch the face of his killer. Look at me. Just at me, he wants to say, but doesn't. There is no time, a decade and a half of things to say and only seconds remaining. Whatever happens you have made me - the happiest father—There is movement, and he Knows, nothing will change this moment. No amount of fighting, of begging, of prayer. God, the things he wishes he could say in this living room, promises and sermons of love, of peace, that this is ok. He knows Barry can survive this, he has been dead for fifteen years and only now living, watching the flicker-flash-falter of lightning in his child's eyes. Barry is the best, brightest thing, swamped in so much darkness and fear and still managing to fly—he just hopes that he can weather this, as well. All he can offer is the Truest thing he has to give, the last gift, a goodbye without the word. Your mother and I—
The sentence does not finish as pain floods him, too large for words, the literal shattering of a heart. A last breath, and with it words unspoken, a finishing of things:
-Love you
-Are so proud of you
-believe in you
-will wait for you,
-watch for you,
-see you again
-Love you
-Love you
-Love you
And then there is no pain, no darkening of a dark room, no floorboards beneath him. Surrounded by light, there is no need to breathe.
*skips merrily down to hell* Let me know what you think!