"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps."

-Pablo Neruda

Chapter 2

It all started innocently enough.

She first noticed it the next morning after her dark sunglasses came off and her Gatorade was finished.

He was staring. Not subtly or in a veiled manner. But obvious, curious, nearly…burning her with its intensity.

Initially, she tried to ignore it. She was a hot mess today; her usually curly locks were thrown haphazardly into a messy bun and she'd worn a loose white shirt and a long gray cardigan with leggings and boots. It was a look better suited to a freshman during Finals week than a top geneticist at a secret lab, but a raging hangover made fashion her last priority.

And she'd wanted to look and be a little less serious today. While she loved the authority and pageantry that her position in Team Flash granted her (something hard-won for a young woman in any STEM field), it was nice to have a casual Friday…on a Tuesday. And her already tumultuous stomach was more than happy to exchange the heels and sheath dresses for some elastic and low-to-the-ground boots.

She felt comfy. Not especially pretty or polished, but it was…relaxing. Until he started staring.

After about an hour of his intermittent staring, she looked up from her computer screen. "What?" she asked with a sharp raise of an eyebrow.

"Nothing. You just look different today," he replied without breaking eye contact. There was nothing accusatory in his tone, but she bristled nonetheless. Alright, so she didn't look like she just came out of a magazine (what woman ever did? Hello, airbrushing) but she didn't look that different…did she?

Going on the defensive, she said haughtily. "Yes, I know. This is my hangover outfit, alright? No need to stare." She tugged on the hem of her shirt and lifted her chin a notch. "You'll have perfectly polished Dr. Snow back tomorrow."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, no criticism from me. I'm staring because I like it." His eyes scanned down her body, almost in the same lazy, sensual way that he had at the dive bar in February. Her skin prickled as he finished, "You look nice. Very nice."

Disbelieving, she asked quietly, "Do I?"

Alright, so she was happy with her clothing choices, particularly given the situation…but didn't most guys prefer the whole dressed up thing? Wasn't there some secret meeting that guys attended in the 8th grade where they voted yes to the whole myth of let's-pretend-that-we-like-the-natural-look-when-really-it-takes-her-two-hours-and-40-products-to-achieve-this-level-of- "natural"-beauty? Not that she was one to dress for a man, certainly not. She liked the confidence that came along with the clothing and cosmetics of her gender…only she assumed that men, especially Barry, who loved the style maven Iris, preferred more…regular pizzaz.

He continued, "I mean, your other outfits are cute. Great. Very professional and stylish. It's just nice to see you more…"

"Comfortable?" she finished helpfully.

He grinned. "Yeah, comfortable. It makes me feel like we're just hanging out on a Sunday afternoon rather than working to stop the latest metahuman. It's nice. I like it."

She felt herself blush. A Sunday afternoon with Barry felt like it might be terribly…intimate. She usually spent Sunday afternoon grocery shopping and doing laundry like a normal person. Even with Ronnie, things had been rather usual, typical, logical.

But Sundays with Barry sounded sensual. All naked limbs tangled in the streaming morning sun. Breakfast in bed with strawberries and whipped cream for afterwards. Cuddling on the couch while watching old episodes of The Office. Then back to bed for more…

And when she did have clothes on…well, sure, it might be this outfit.

She shook her head. This was not a romantic comedy montage. And she definitely should not be thinking about Barry like that…or herself. Her Sunday afternoons were perfectly fine without the ridiculous clichéd romantic assignations, thank you very much.

But he meant it kindly, she knew. And she was flattered. Even if it sent her mind into a talespin.

"Umm, you look nice too," she replied with a sheepish grin, trying to hide her previously lecherous thoughts from his gaze.

And he then smiled, that megawatt, million-dollar, toothy smile. The one that started a tiny million particles of electricity shooting from her stomach through every atom of her body.

It should've been a sign that she was in way over her head.

The following Thursday night she was at home when her phone pinged. It was 9:30. They'd just spent the last few days hunting a particularly nasty metahuman. She'd left early to catch up on some work at home.

She squelched the tiny flutter in her chest when she saw his name flash on the notification. The little gray bubble popped up.

Barry: Hey

Not wanting to seem too eager, she took a moment before replying with a casual response.

Caitlin: Hey

The tiny white bubble showed he was typing.

Barry: What are you doing?

She clicked a quick picture, showing her steaming mug of tea balanced on a stack of journal articles on her lap.

Caitlin: [picture included] Work.

Barry: Those pjs look familiar ;)

Oh, right, a small corner of her pajama pants were visible in the photo. Choosing to ignore his allusion to their long ago night, she responded with a similar inquiry.

Caitlin: What are you doing tonight?

It took a moment for him to respond. Taking a sip of her tea, she waited for him to respond with some quick note about Patty or pizza or some other decidedly Barry-like activity in which he was engaged.

However, his response was none of the usual things. No Joe. No Jittters. No Iris or Cisco. It wasn't technically a response at all.

Instead what he sent back as reply made her snort tea through her nose.

Because there in graphic, full-color detail was a picture of a shirtless, smiling, and winking Barry Allen holding a Star Labs mug up. Oh. My. God.

Inner hormone-ridden fourteen year old Caitlin (who still made random appearances) was screaming out her appreciation. Unsolicited images of Barry in her phone, which were so easy to save and view later in her weaker moments? This was her fantasy.

However, 27 year old Caitlin was fuming with…indignation. Photos of a sexy Barry Allen sent to her phone? This was a nightmare.

The phone trembled in her hands. It was bad..terrible..awful enough that he strutted around like some exhibitionist in the lab. It was distracting, of course, terribly unsettling for her lust-fueled brain to process. Felicity had once complained (pre-Olicity, of course) that Oliver had this horrible habit of walking around nearly nude. Towels, tight green pants, any potentially insanity and lust-producing garment was always his preference. He might've given some answer full of male bravado that alluded to his time on the island.

BUT for Barry to send her this ridiculously HOT image that was borderline pornographic, if you know, the parameters of pornography were broadened to include things like Teen Bop or posters from her middle-school bedroom… STILL….this was crossing some kind of line.

This… was too much. Not when she was at home. Not on her phone. Not with a damn photo that was so damn sexy that she felt it might burn into her brain forever.

Frustratedly, she slammed her thumbs against the screen and typed.

Caitlin: Were you robbed?

Barry: No…Why?

Caitlin: Because you appear to have lost your shirt.

Barry: LOL, clever deduction, Sherlock.

Caitlin: This is NOT funny.

Barry: I didn't realize you were so squeamish. It's hardly a new sight for you, DR. SNOW

Caitlin: That's different. This isn't the medical bay, MR. ALLEN.

After a moment of contemplation, she replied with a more serious concern.

Caitlin: What would Patty think? I doubt she wants her boyfriend sexting other women.

Barry: Patty and I broke up.

Well, that was unexpected. A feeling coursed through her body; it felt like exhalation. But, no, she needed to be the sympathetic friend, like always.

Caitlin: Oh, Barry, I'm sorry.

Barry: It's fine. We were just in different places. It was amicable. She's a lovely person. We're going to stay friends.

Caitlin: That's good, at least. She really is lovely. I'm sorry it didn't work.

Barry: Thanks.

She tried to compose another text, but everything seemed really trite and silly. For once, she didn't know what to say. Without tone, she didn't know how to read him. After a few attempts, she gave up and went back to work. Barry was silent after his words of gratitude.

An hour later, she was brushing her teeth when her phone vibrated.

Barry: Caitlin? You still up?

Caitlin: Yes.

Barry: When I do sext you…well, you'll know it. Goodnight!

Toothpaste ran down the side of her mouth. Not "If I decide" but "When I do."

She couldn't even type a perfunctory goodnight in response.

End of Chapter

Thanks for all the lovely reviews. I usually try to respond (mostly because I love to talk Snowbarry with other fans), but I've been grading essays and final exams. Yuck. Only a few more to go before grades are due…then I'm free to eat Christmas cookies and write fanfiction while pretending to do other important academic work.

Please review! I couldn't decide what type of tea Caitlin would drink, so I left that detail out. Any ideas? I usually give characters, particularly ones that are similar to me (points to Caitlin then taps nose), tastes that are close to my own. As a raging Anglophile, I drink Yorkshire tea or Forstum and Mason's Queen Anne tea if I'm feeling fancy. But I also like Good Earth Sweet and Spicy (delicious, try it if you haven't already. It's a cinnamon lover's dream!).

Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! Happy belated Channukah!