"…I question now, the side I play – black? White? – or am I merely just a piece on the board…"

Third Mirror:
Bad Bishop
A bishop whose movement is restricted by the player's own pawns

It was the source of some amusement when Wells had opened the letter. An invitation to the Police Families Benevolent Fund's annual gala. This year the fancy dress theme was European literature.

He had been working on raising his profile, both of himself as scientist and that of STAR labs, over the last couple of years. His plans for the particle accelerator had to be skilful introduced to the right people. Alliances had to be struck, egos had to stroked, talents nurtured. It never occurred to him that this might involve something that would cross his path with Barry and the Wests.

His plus one was Cynthia Stone, one of STAR labs less interesting scientists and he chose her because she was in all likelihood not at all interested in Wells as a person and yet too timid to make up a viable excuse for turning down her boss's request for her company. She was gamely dressed in the bikini that Ursula Andress had made famous in Dr No. Wells himself had simply worn a typical James Bond tux with an ID badge clipped to him declaring his "license to kill."

The ball was being held in the Central Royale and was already thrumming with guests when Wells arrived. He had a set agenda that he intended to get through as soon as possible so he could leave: make his generous donation directly to the police chief, invite the major and her husband to a private tour of STAR labs, charm the cities two leading philanthropists into considering supporting the sciences, meet Rachel and Osgood Rathaway and take the first steps into insinuating his way into the life of their son Hartley, whose work on applied theory was just brilliant and, if he was honest, get a closer look at how Barry was turning out.

And finally, there was the small matter of Annabelle Lane…

"It's cold in here." Cynthia complained once they had made their way into the main hall.

"Your costume choice," he replied, looking up and down at the skimpy attrite. "Not mine."

"Well I thought you'd make more of an effort."

"Dressing up in costumes… " He smiled to himself. "That really isn't me."

Her reply faded into the background as Wells found his eyes drawn to the figures entering the hall. The Wests were dressed in bright blue Musketeers tabards over shirts and breeches and each wore a ridiculous feathered hat. Joe was nodding and laughing at his colleagues, Iris was smiling nervously and Barry…

It had been several months since Wells had viewed Gideon's camera's – the life of a fourteen year old boy was terribly dull – but that had clearly been before a growth spurt because he was now a least a foot taller, up to Joe's shoulder, and whippet thin, all long bones and sharp joints, as if he'd been stretched. But once that initial shock wore off, that wasn't what drew his interest. Barry looked…sad.

"Someone you know?" Cynthia asked.

"No." He turned his attention back to her and made a mental note to be more cautious in future. It wouldn't do to reveal his interest in Barry in a room full of Central City's finest. "Just admiring some costumes. Shall we get some champagne?"

8

Thawne remembered that, from so long ago, in a future so far ahead, how expressive The Flash's face could be, even behind a mask. A window to his feelings, his thoughts…such weakness that Thawne still loathed.

From his position beside the buffet table, Wells could see the boy and his family, could with the use of a sonic amplifier pushed into his ear hear what being said.

"…of my favourite books," the mayor was saying to Joe, "and I was lucky enough to first read it when I was studying in Paris." She looked at Joe's costume.

"You must be Porthos."

"Because he's the biggest!" Iris chimed in, clearly overexcited to be at the party.

Joe laughed, "and he's my favourite character. Just…don't tell anyone I said that."

"Of course not, detective," she smiled.

"And you know, raising two kids alone, sometimes it really does feel like we're the Three Musketeers."

She placed a hand on Joe's shoulder, "that's why causes like this are a top priority in this city; to support families facing unimaginable loss."

Iris bounced on her toes, "I'm Aramis!" She giggled. "Aramis is my favourite!"

The woman smiled indulgently, "and very fine you look too, my dear!" Then she looked at Barry. "And that means you must be my favourite character, Barry. Athos."

Barry's look was sharp. "I'm D'Artagnan." The words skirted close to being rudely spoken.

Wells frowned. Interesting.

"Oh…" the mayor forced a smile, "your favourite?"

"No."

"Barry…" Joe's voice was low.

Barry took off his hat and fixed his foster father with clear frustration, "I am not Athos!" And he dropped the hat at their feet and walked away.

Wells allowed himself a smile. Teenage rebellion. Even the saintly Barry Allen was not immune.

"Barry!" Joe called after him.

But the boy didn't stop.

8

The gardens were beautifully lit with coloured lights, skilfully creating some romantic nooks and intimate spaces by casting shadows on the hedges and trees.
Following Barry outside was probably unwise and yet Wells felt inexplicably drawn. He tried to dismiss the compulsion as a vulgar desire to see the boy suffer, but he knew that wasn't truly the reason.

The kid sat on one of the benches, frowning through what was probably an intense internal conversation, before burying his face in his hands.

And then Wells saw her.

Annabelle Lane.

She was looking towards Barry with concern and caring, drawn to his obvious distress. So this was how she met and wormed her way into the West's family. Wells had often wondered. No doubt that same maternal warmth had… would have spurned Joe into proposing to her, would have encouraged Barry into following his mother's path around the world, far away from Wells influence and Central City…

It would have made them…happy…

Annabelle started towards Barry, lips parting to ask something like, are you OK?

Wells' hand gripped her wrist, grasp firm but not hurting.

She made a soft noise, eyes alarmed, surprised, but not yet afraid.

"That is a path," he told her softly, "that you cannot go down." I will not let you go down.

"Let go of me!" She snapped.

He met her eyes as he slowly withdrew his hand. "Too few people have the opportunity that you have right at this moment." He kept his voice very, very low.

"You should take it." She was nothing. She had died long ago. But he would not kill if he did not have to. "Walk away."

"Who are you?" She demanded.

"You do not want to know the answer to that."

Wells watched the play of emotions on her face – mostly annoyance, righteous anger, not a little disgust – until enough discomfort and dis-ease worked its way into fear that she made a tutting noise, called him a creep loudly and stalked away, heels clicking sharply on the floor.

Wells watched her leave and then turned back to see Barry looking at him. Perhaps he heard what Wells said to Annabelle or seen enough of her body language to know something terrible had happened.

He felt faintly amused. It was far more terrible that the boy would ever, ever imagine; a whole future, gone in nine small words.

But he was too young to follow the instinct to help that Wells knew was itching inside of him even in the face of whatever had driven him out here and away from his family.

Barry looked away, down at his feet.

Wells felt a sudden, faint urge to finish what Anabelle had begun and talk to Barry, draw out whatever was troubling him, not to better enjoy but to...what? In all these years he had never spoken to Barry, never wanted to and yet…

A few minutes passed and they only strengthened his motivation to talk to the boy. But just as that would have finally moved his feet forward, Iris called out.

"Barry?" The girl ran over. She was clutching Barry's feathered hat against her chest. She looked anxious. "I was looking everywhere for you!"

He didn't look up.

"Barry?" There was worry in her voice now.

The boy raised his head, smiled at her, a little forced at first, but gradually changing into something more genuine, which made her smile back, reassured.

"Dad's really mad." She said. "I thought you liked the Three Musketeers."

"I do, Iris, I just…" He looked at her. "You know I didn't want to do this. But Joe was just so set on it."

"Because it's us, Barry." She offered him a sweet, brace-toothed smile, "we're the inseparables."

"I just… " He bowed his head, hid his face. "Joe can't make me Athos."

"Then you're not. Be D'Artagnan instead, like you said."

"The costume is Athos. It's on the label."

"Since when did you, Barry Allen, care about labels?"

"When the label names a man who killed his wife."

Iris stared wordlessly at him.

"Iris." Joe's voice.

The children looked over as their father walked towards them. Wells too found his gaze pulled to the detective and he stepped back further into the shadows to avoid being seen.

"Iris, I want to speak to Barry for a minute."

The girl got up, clearly reluctant, and walked away as slowly as she could.

"Barry." Joe sat down on the bench. "I heard what you said. I'm sorry. I never thought…" He sighed. "You know I don't think you could ever be a man like that."

"But you think my dad is."

"Barry-"

"Everyone, even you," he shook his head against the tears lacing his words, "probably even Iris, thinks my dad murdered my mom."

"Bae-"

"And that makes it the past for you." Barry drew a shaky breath. "But it's not for me. The man who killed my mother is still out there."

"Barry, son, you have to stop this."

"I know you think what I saw was…" He trailed off and Joe tangled his fingers in Barry's hair and pulled his forehead to his lips. "You never even considered, did you, even for a moment, that what I was telling you was what really happened?" He looked away from Joe. "You've never thought I was telling the truth."

Joe shook his head, "I always believed you, Barry. Don't ever think that I didn't. But your truth, what you saw, was the creation of a scared little boy whose mind couldn't process what it was really seeing." His hand was still cupping Barry's head and he used it to make the boy look at him. "Sometimes, God help me, I'm glad that's what you remember. You and Iris…you both deserve good memories of your parents. But you have your whole life ahead of you and you need to make what happened to your mom your past and move on."

"I can't do that, Joe. I won't do that."

Joe's hand moved to lie against Barry's cheek, where his thumb brushed for a moment before he pulled away. There was clearly more he wanted to say and yet it had all been said already. He sighed. "Well we can at least put tonight in the past." He said, getting up, "how about we go home, throw off these stupid costumes and order a pizza?"

A small, fragile smile grew on Barry's face and he got up. Together they walked to where Iris was waiting.

Wells watched them leave, the family that would forever be three, and felt strangely…less. He had no taste now, to go back to Cynthia and smile and charm at the influential benefactors and yet…

Home.

It was the only way home.