A/N: Un-betaed. Read at your own risk.
A focused Barry was a marvel to observe.
A focused and angry Barry was terrifying to look at.
Frost averted her gaze from the seething doctor, keeping her gaze on Len at the opposite cot instead. The painkiller that she has swallowed wasn't enough to knock her out, therefore she has to brace the suffocating atmosphere of the medbay, unlike Len who was blissfully ignorant of the dangerous aura their resident doctor was emitting. The older man has fallen asleep the moment Barry sedated him and hasn't woken up since, leaving Frost as the only conscious patient in the medbay. Her own counterpart was in a horrible shock, and Frost hated it when she could do nothing to sooth Caitlin from the breakdown that the softer personality was having for both of them.
While Caitlin was suffering from a whiplash of emotional turmoil due to the shock, Frost was left numb and unable to feel anything.
Did she even have the right to be overly upset? She only knew Iris for 2 years since she was born from the explosion, but Caitlin has known Iris for almost a decade. Frost didn't think that she has the right to be overly upset when their latest villain was wearing a familiar face of a friend. Not when there were lots of other people who deserved to be more upset because they were closer to Iris than she was.
One of those people was this seething man that was patching her up.
Barry was usually easy to fluster and tease, especially if either Frost or Lisa was on the cot with their tops off and the doctor has to break his infamous gentleman code. It was a source of amusement for both Frost and Lisa to see how awkward and flustered the surgeon could be as he treated their injuries when they were the most free and least modest.
Though, this time, Barry seemed to not give a damn to practice his gentleman code.
Frost was barely able to conceal a shocked gasp when he was the one ripping her torn top off the moment she was seated on the cot, instead of waiting for her to take it off.
It almost seemed like he was a pro at that, and Frost was so sorely tempted to tease.
But Barry was emitting dangerous aura, and Frost has this slight hunch that it was not wise to provoke the guy who was going to stitch her up when he has a sharp object in his hands and looked like he was about to kill someone.
Barry grumbled under his breath, and despite not being able to hear the exact words, he sounded so annoyed that Frost started to get worried over seeing him this angry. She has expected Barry to be upset or even depressed after Joe and Dr. Wells explained their latest villain to him, thus this reaction was unexpected.
Barry was livid.
When he was told about their latest villain, Barry's expression has morphed from shock, to disbelief, to annoyance and then absolute anger in matter of seconds.
And the anger lasted up until now, approximately 2 hours after the initial explanation. He has worn that seething expression for 2 hours straight.
It was such a bizarre expression to see on the man that Cisco personally dubbed as Starlab's own warm sunshine.
"Last year, we met our evil doppelgangers from Zoom's Earth," she remarked after a long suffocating silence, hoping that her next suggestion would ease up Barry's anger, "…so, this ice witch could be an evil doppelganger for Iris…"
"Hn."
"I mean, there is a high chance that no one has defiled Iris' grave to resurrect her or anything…."
"I hope so."
Yikes. Angry Barry was a scary Barry.
"You're kinda scary when you're mad," she finally commented, honestly so fed-up in attempting to play his anger therapist.
"Uh-huh," he snorted, tipping his head just slightly so that Frost could see the slight quirk of his smirk. "Don't lie. I'm cute when I'm angry."
The joke would've passed if he wasn't emitting that killing aura all over the medbay.
Frost cocked an eyebrow, hardly convinced. "Seriously. You're a sight of horror movie when you're mad—owww, Barry!"
"Woops," he smirked, the needle he was using to stitch her up was prodded harmlessly over the edges of her wound. "My hand slipped."
There was a beat of silence as they both locked the eye contact, neither one of them wanted to back down.
"You a sadist, doc?" she quirked a smirk too, a bit relieved to his improving mood.
"Only when provoked," he shrugged, shifting his attention back to her half-stitched wound.
It was silence again after that, but the mood has lightened considerably—despite the dark aura he was emitting, his hands were much gentler and careful over Frost's tender injured skin—thus, Frost allowed herself to relax. When he finally snipped off the thread from the stitched wound, he seemed a bit more like himself, although the irritation and anger still lurked in his eyes.
"You're all set," he huffed, blatantly glaring at Frost's chest, looking like her bras have personally offended him.
Frost wondered if the bashful and easily flustered gentleman behaviour that Barry usually displayed was an act because he didn't even blush or waver as he reached his fingers to trace the straps of her bra that has slid down her arm.
"I'm not telling you how to dress, but I advise you to avoid using strapped bras until your wound healed," he said, suddenly sounding too professional and detached for Frost's comfort. "The pressure won't help your healing process."
"Sure," Frost mumbled, keeping the blanket over her chest as she shrugged her bra off, all the while she was keeping a watchful eye on Barry who nodded in approval before turning his back to her to check on Len.
It was oddly unnerving to see Barry acting so detached, unemphatic and…. unpredictable.
It was like he shifted to an entirely different personality.
"They're going to exhume Iris, you know?" she said, internally wincing when his shoulders stiffened—his hands froze mid-air, the dirty bandages hung loosely between his fingers. "Sometime next week after they cleared all the procedures…."
"I'm surprised that they didn't exhume her right now considering the number of civilians who has gotten hurt…."
Crap. So cold and detached. If Barry kept this up, he could give both Len and Frost a run for their money.
"City Hall has lots of procedure," Frost shrugged, keeping her gaze on his back while he pointedly not looking in her direction, busying himself with the menial task of changing Len's bandages. "She might still be down there. No one has defiled her grave. Iris is not evil."
There was a beat of silence, and Barry let out an exasperated sigh.
"I sure hope that you're right, Frosty."
Man, that seemed like it backfired. He sounded even more detached now.
Frost didn't like the awkward silence that ensued after that at all.
"Oh," he suddenly exclaimed—right after Frost has settled more comfortably on the cot—and turned around, that fake smile on his face again. "Think you can stay out of trouble for a couple of days?"
Frost's brows shot up to her hairline. "You're skipping town, doc?"
"Visiting patients," he shrugged, pulling the chair beside her cot now, his fake smile relaxed to a somewhat more genuine exasperated smile. "I have to see if the drug we formulated is working well on him or not."
"Oh," Frost mouthed, steely white eyes softened considerably—the sleepless nights working on the drugs to stabilise Barry's 'outside of domain' brother flashed through her head, and she couldn't help but feel her mood lightened a bit. "You never told me their names," she huffed a small laugh, shoulders relaxed against the pillow that was supporting her back.
"Whose names?" He sounded genuinely clueless, but the knowing smirk on his face showed otherwise.
"I know that Savvi is not his real name, Barry," Frost huffed, rolling her eyes hard. "And the only thing I know about the sick one was that he is 34 years old," she huffed, mocking a sulky tone, though a little fond smile did spread across her face when Barry let out a genuine chuckle. "I hate not knowing my patient, Barry."
"Kids nowadays and their weird gang names…," Barry sighed, massaging his temples like that of an exhausted parent. "They're turning me grey early."
"Savvi is three years your junior," Frost retorted, scowling now. "And the other one is older than us. Don't sound so patronising."
Barry laughed a genuine laugh—the kind of laugh that sounded like it came straight from his heart—so boisterous and carefree that it caused Frost to smile too.
"He is not so mature, you know?" the doctor said with a soft voice, his gaze flickered to the pile of bloody ice shards on the metal trolley, and his expression suddenly shifted to that humourless cold smirk again. "Unpredictably immature…," he sighed, giving Frost that exasperated smile again.
Frost quirked a smirk. "I guess we better hope that our drug worked this time," she hummed, closing her eyes as the exhaustion finally caught up to her. "It will be sucks if you're injured in one of his violent childish tantrums."
"If high dopamine level is really the thing he needed to stop having the violent outbursts, I'm flipping a table," he snorted, scowling in distaste. "We studied everything—from his brain activity to the movement patterns of his altered cells, and we find nothing helpful at all…," he sighed, "….but if that one solution from Cisco's random snarky comment actually worked…"
"Hey, Cisco has a point, you know?" Frost cut his rant off, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. "The guy turned violent because he is scared, terrified and convinced that everyone is out to hurt him—it actually makes sense that maybe the thing he actually needed is to be happy."
"So, the best solution is to give him a happy-drug," Barry snorted, the sarcasm dripped from each word. "Why haven't I thought of that?"
"You need to look at the pieces too rather than only the big picture, Barry," she hummed, flicking her fingers at his forehead, only to pout when he avoided the assault. "So, you won't be around when they exhume Iris?"
Barry stared at her for a long time—his lips was pursed to a thin contemplative line, his brows furrowed in a thoughtful frown and his eyes were completely unreadable.
Then, he shrugged. "Maybe," he said, "I'll see if I can return early."
"Gonna miss your sunshiny presence in the cortex, doc," Frost quirked a smile, closing her eyes again.
There was a light warm weight over her forehead, and Frost found herself to nuzzle her temple against the warm palm, all the while feeling the weight of Barry's stare on her. When she sneaked a peek at the man, he was smiling fondly at her, his eyes softened, and his fingers were like warm comb that threaded through her hair. His mouth moved—an inaudible murmur—before he leant down to plant a gentle kiss over the tip of her hair.
Frost swore that she heard him murmur that he was going to miss her too.
So, how do you yell at that one woman who can turn you to ice sculpture without getting hurt in the process?
The answer was, you don't.
Forget the idea. Even if she didn't kill you, she won't give a damn about what you say. You'll look like an idiot when you stormed out of the multiverse portal to straight up yell at your very inconsiderate best friend and all that she did was stare blankly at you and state flatly;
"Blame your fucking doppelganger. This is his idea."
And said doppelganger retorted with a gleeful;
"It was hilarious."
Cue the mad villain laughter.
Savitar bashed his head to the cushion, mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like a plea for someone to end his life for the second time because he was so done with the Flash's insane shenanigans.
Barry, on the other hand, flipped a literal table.
He kinda sprained his wrist in the process, but it was so worth it.
"Technically, I did oblige to your request to not hurt your friends too much," Killer Frost chirped, trailing behind Barry with a wide amused grin spread across her face. "I can't believe you flipped that table."
"I hate chaos in my city," he grumbled back, cradling his wrist to his chest, scowling when her cold hand reached out to wrap around the tender swell. "Create terror, not chaos," he gritted out, contemplating between his ego to push her away or the convenience of having her cold around his wrist.
He was annoyed, irritated, and pretty much wanted to protest despite how futile his effort was.
Therefore, he nudged her away and kept his sprained wrist far far away from her grabby cold hands.
"You're such a baby," she sighed, running her fingers through her hair, one hand planted on her hips as she glared in exasperation at him. "All of you Barry Allens are overgrown babies."
"And you're an asshole," Barry scowled back. "All of you," he stressed, glaring at her. "You already ruined your Earth. Stay away from mine."
"Hey, we make it better," Killer Frost hummed, still not giving up in trying to sooth his sprained wrist. "The crime level has been reduced to absolute zero."
There might be a cold pun somewhere in there, but Barry refused to acknowledge it because he was still mad.
"The crime level is zero because you normalized crimes," he pointed out. "There is no crime because criminal activities are as normal as selling hotdogs on the street in this godforsaken dystopian Earth."
"Don't act like you haven't been taking advantage of our dystopian lifestyle, Ripper," Killer Frost retorted, jabbing one sharply manicured finger into Barry's arm as he fumbled with his passcodes. "Brought another lost kitten here, I see," she smirked, tapping on his door.
"Waste not, want not," he grimaced, acknowledging her words.
It was so much easier working on his victims here. No one cared, even if they knocked on his door to raid his fridge and found a dead body on his couch. It was the other way around. He often received supportive comments on how he was doing a wonderful job and also the unsolicited suggestions on best way to display his handiwork.
Such considerate neighbours he has over here.
"This one is a sleeping beauty," Killer Frost commented, poking her head into his doorway to stare judgementally at the curled up sleeping girl on his couch. "I don't get it how you get them relaxed enough to fall asleep around you while you're plotting how to mutilate their corpses."
"Deceptive charms and tact, sweetie," Barry said dryly, nudging her out. "Something that all of you are lacking."
"Stop being so salty," she sighed. Then, she suddenly perked up, leaning close to plant a cold kiss on his cheek. "See you tonight," she hummed, smoothing her hands over his shoulders.
"Tonight?"
"9pm at the lair," she hummed nonchalantly. "And you're going to be my plus-one, so make sure that you will at least look hot," she pointedly ignored his baffled gape, her index finger pointed dangerously at his face. "Don't embarrass me."
"Plus-one? But what about your husband—wait plus-one for what?"
Her giggles were devious and mischievous when she kissed his other cheek, leaving behind faint lipstick marks on his skin.
"The Halloween party!"
And she literally skipped away, leaving Barry dumbfounded and confused at his own doorway.
Lucy Gabriella Britton was not a stupid sadistic spoiled bitch.
Yes, she was a rich spoiled bitch, and considering the hell she made her stepsiblings went through, people was right about the sadistic part too.
However, she was not stupid.
She knew she was about as good as dead the moment she woke up in a stranger's apartment and the view outside was nothing that even resembled the city she lived in. A brief self-check has revealed a strange redness on the side of her neck, with a tiny dot of clotted blood right at her jugular, so there was probability that at some point after being brought here, she was drugged too. The door was locked, and it was the kind of futuristic lock that she couldn't pick or hack, therefore, she easily deduced that she was trapped here for a purpose. Upon further venturing in the apartment, she noticed more things about her supposed captor.
The morbid paintings in the bedroom hinted a fascination—or maybe fetish?—towards death and mutilation. No sane person would hang the depiction of medieval tortures in the place that one was supposedly to rest and have good dreams unless if he enjoyed the nightmares the paintings would prompt. The only edible thing in the kitchen was coffee, creamer and sugar—so she deduced either her captor couldn't cook to save his life, or this apartment was a safehouse he used to do his morbid deeds.
Considering that she was trapped here—and the back room was conveniently furnished with metal surgical table and obsessively organized chemicals and dissecting tools—Lucy was inclined to the second idea.
It was oddly amusing how calm she was with the whole situation but hey, she has already decided to die, so she honestly didn't give a fuck even if it seemed like she was kidnapped by a potentially sadistic killer.
Funny that she thought that the blond guy was an angel sent to elevate her guilt when he was actually her personal grim reaper. As if karma would be so kind to her after all of the sins that she has committed.
As she waited for the coffee to brew, she pondered on the identity of her would-be killer, and has came down to one name by the time she poured the coffee into the mugs that she has found in the cabinet.
Duh. Blond hair, looked like he was fond of the colour red based on the colour scheme of the apartment, probably a serial killer considering how well-prepared he was, manipulatively deceptive with those sweet gentle soothing words he spewed out….
She couldn't help but to feel giddy at the idea of being one of the Scarlet Ripper's victims.
He would turn her into a morbidly gross statement of art, no doubt—which would be a fun way to be remembered since there was no chance for her corpse to not be discovered if the Ripper has gotten her. But meh, things wouldn't always go as planned, and Lucy thought that the eventual mutilation on her corpse would ease up the hatred in her stepsiblings' hearts should they survive at all. Emmy and Rod deserved to see her corpse being defiled and mutilated—the only consolation she could give to them since normal apology wouldn't be enough.
And she could almost see the kids she has bullied throughout her life enrolling in the steadily growing Scarlet Ripper's fanclub. The guy has his own fanbase despite being the most wanted man in Central—the evidence of how fucked up the world actually was.
Thus, she beat a hasty retreat to the couch and pretended to be asleep when the locked door beeped.
He almost sounded like a normal average man when he argued with his girlfriend—okay, not girlfriend since he was aware that she has a husband, so probably an affair…? And wow, early Halloween party? He has cool friends.
Then, she heard the door being closed, the lock beeped again and his careful footsteps made his way in. He suddenly halted, and she hid a childish grin under the fluffy blanket when it was obvious that he has noticed the steaming mugs of the freshly brewed coffee.
There was a beat of silence.
"For my guest to brew her own coffee….I'm such a bad host."
She assumed that was the cue for her to open her eyes. He has caught her.
Lucy made a show of stretching and yawning as she sat up from her lying position, blinking her eyes in the groggy adorable way that she often used to fool boys to fulfil her whims, only to stare in disbelief when she has a full look of the maskless infamous serial killer.
To say that she was shocked was a severe understatement.
So he wasn't really a blond after all. She should have known that the Scarlet Ripper was not stupid enough to walk around kidnapping his victims in his real face.
"Don't worry," she hummed, trying to play it cool despite her initial shock. "Your fluffy blanket made up for your mediocre hospitality, Dr. Allen."
Dude. Dude. Who would've thought that the only heir for the Allen's legacy, the guy that Lucy's own mother has been aiming to match her with for a completely political marriage despite their age gap, the man adored by the nation for his compassionate determination to serve the people, the very one that selflessly provided affordable healthcare for those who couldn't afford it, the rich doctor who read to sick kids and volunteered at animal shelter—who, in their sane mind would even thought of him as the infamous serial killer?
Dr. Allen was the infamous Scarlet Ripper.
No one was going to believe this.
"My apology," he tipped his head at her, green eyes were cold and calculative, although the smile he displayed was deceptively warm. "I wasn't expecting you to be awake."
She watched the way his gaze very subtly flickered to her neck, and there went the confirmation that she was indeed, has been drugged.
"I have been told that I have high metabolism," she shrugged, scooting to one side of the couch—a clear invitation for him to sit beside her.
"I'll keep that in mind," he hummed, looking like he was contemplating his options.
Lucy slouched against the plush sofa, making no move that indicated she wanted to fight back but instead, swaddled herself in the fluffy blanket, staring up expectantly at him. "You still have time to spare, doc?"
The mixed look of disbelief and amusement on his face was priceless.
Though, his smile was amused when he made a detour to the pantry where she has left the mugs. She kept her gaze on him as he raided through his fridge—he was taking a mockingly long time to select one of the many strange vials she has found in the fridge. He finally settled with one, smiling brightly as he dumped the content into one of the mugs, all the while he was keeping eye contact with her. He handed the tampered coffee to her, and she crinkled her nose at his prompting gaze, tentatively sipped on the drugged drink.
The chemical taste was an unpleasant tang of bitterness in the creamy coffee.
"You might want to consider fixing that horrible taste…," she complained, crinkling her nose again but made no move to abandon the coffee. "If I'm about to die, at least I want my last coffee to be good."
"My apologies," he smiled, extending his hand towards her mug. "I'll brew you another, if you want."
"Nahh," she shrugged instead, downing the whole content of the mug in one gulp, a bit relieved that her death won't be as painful as drowning in cold harsh ocean as she originally planned.
The CCPD has made an effort to keep his killing method as concealed as possible to the public, but Lucy has connections, and her connection told her that the Scarlet Ripper's victims died painlessly and peacefully.
He seemed even more impressed when she tentatively wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest, hearing his calm heartbeats. It was ironic that the rhythmic sound calmed her down, despite the knowledge that she was dying and soon she would feel whatever the effects of the drugs she has just willingly swallowed.
She remembered forcing detergent down Emmy's throat, and the memories of her stepsister's pained choking had her arms tightened around his waist, her face buried closer to his chest, wanting the sound of his heartbeats to drown the echoes of Emmy's pained sobs in her mind.
"Can you promise me few things?"
Her voice was meek and muffled against his shirt, but it seemed to be heard—his fingers were gentle as they thread through her hair, and she whimpered, clinging onto him like a child desperate for comfort.
"Sure," he hummed, resting his chin atop of her head. "You're such a wonderfully behaved guest. I'll try my best to fulfil your requests."
Somebody please remind her that this man was a serial killer with an established body count because it really didn't feel that way.
"One," she started, shifting so that she could make an eye contact with him, wanting to be sure that her requests were really heard. "Listen to my story until the end, or until my death—whichever that come first."
"Easily done. That is my intention in the first place," he agreed, beaming all too brightly.
Dr. Allen has a beautiful sunshine smile, to be honest.
"Two," she exhaled, wondering how much time she has left before she died. "If you have time…," she hesitated, wondering if she could even make this request—normal people didn't ask favours from their would-be killers, do they?
But normal serial killer didn't gently cuddle their victims either, so maybe she could ask for favours in exchange for her life?
"If I have time…?" he prompted, and one glance at his face, she knew that his curiousity was genuine.
"Can you try to fix my stepsiblings…?" she requested meekly, wondering if that was even possible. "If they survive, can you try to restore the damage that I have done to them…?"
Emmy has lost her voice when she forced the detergent down her throat—the girl would never be able to sing again. Rod probably wouldn't be able to run again, either from the damage to his legs or the trauma itself—because from what she heard about the men she hired to destroy her stepbrother, they were ruthless, especially with teenage pretty boys. Though, to be honest, she hired them for Emmy in the first place, but who knew that those guys could even have a strange preference to teenage boys instead of a perfectly grown young woman? Emmy ended up as the side dish instead of the main course.
Lucy really hoped that Dr. Allen would at least try to fix the physical injuries of her stepsiblings because that was the only thing she could do to atone for her unforgiveable sins to them. Beg her would-be killer to fix her stepsiblings because the apology letter she left for them wouldn't even be enough to compensate anything.
He stared thoughtfully at the walls for a moment before shrugging and nodded. "I'll give my best."
She smiled at him, clinging tighter to him when there was a slight burning sensation in her chest. It has started, whatever that he has selected for her to drink, the effects have started to show. Though, she held on her strong front, settling even more comfortably on his lap as she slumped against his chest.
"Three," she huffed heavily, the burn spread to her throat—and she has to wonder if he has done his homework on her, and knew exactly what her sins were, because this burn was what she imagined Emmy felt when she forced the detergent down her throat.
Karma sometimes came in the form of a hot doctor who was secretly a sociopathic serial killer.
Or Dr. Allen was not a human and a real Grim Reaper that punished his assignments in accordance to their sins.
"Hmm….?"
"Do your worst," she huffed, relaxing a bit when the burn passed, leaving her with strange heaviness that made his chest seemed even more comfortable now. "I don't care how. Rape my corpse, throw it into a grinder, melt my bones in chemicals, record the process and show it live on public—whatever you want, do your worst," she smiled bitterly, honestly couldn't believe that she was actually requesting this. "Heck, if you want to force yourself on me now and livestream it, be my guest. There are lots of people who would love to see me being defiled, mutilated and violated."
He was silent for a brief moment, as if he was contemplating her request. For a moment she worried that she has asked too much, but then he tilted her face up; his thumb traced her lower lips while there was a look of concerned worry in his eyes.
He didn't say anything to question her strange request nor was he agreeing to oblige it.
Instead, he leaned down to kiss her forehead.
"45 minutes," he said, letting her face to nuzzle against his throat, his cheek was resting against the side of her head. "You have 45 minutes before you lose your speech function, then another half an hour of being paralyzed before you lose your consciousness. After that, your heart will stop in a few minutes."
So that was the time she has left to confess her sins to him.
Lucy pouted. "I take it that you are not torturing me while I'm still alive?"
"Not my style," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Torture and pain are not fun."
Awh, that sucks. Lucy was expecting to be tormented, so that her stepsiblings would have the satisfaction of knowing that she has experienced a well-deserved torture.
"Please tell me that you'd at least defiled my corpse like you did to your girlfriend?"
He stiffened for a moment—going completely rigid against her slouched body as if her question has struck a nerve—but then he slowly relaxed, his grimace was strained as he huffed, "I'll consider it."
She went silent for a moment before deadpanning;
"Man…you're a horrible serial killer."
Barry was pretty sure he has a good sense of humour.
Yes, his humour could be a bit dark sometimes, especially if one would consider that he was secretly a sociopathic serial killer who enjoyed both spectrums of publicity—so he considered that his dark humour was properly justified. Despite that, Barry loved to think that there was a part of his sense of humour that was acceptable to normal society he lived in. He knew when to use his sense of humour so that it wouldn't traumatise anyone.
Then, why must his doppelganger have the worst sense of humour in the multiverse?
"You don't have to look so disturbed, you know?" Killer Frost hummed to his ear, her freezing breath invoked a chill that racked down his body. "If you squint, they actually looked adorable."
He squinted as much as he possibly could but still couldn't find the 'adorable' part.
Standards on this Earth were fascinatingly morbid.
Barry couldn't help but grimaced when her bare arms wrapped around his body, her breasts pressed flush against his back—for the love of God, Barry was honestly wishing that the grin Deathstorm was shooting at him was not jealousy-fuelled because it wasn't his fault that the man's wife has a fondness to molest Barry any time she has the chance. He could barely suppress a terrified wince when the burning man's grin grew maliciously wider the moment Killer Frost ran her cold teeth along the length of his neck.
Barry didn't have any good memories with fire after all.
Therefore, to be at the receiving end of a literal burning man's jealousy was not in his bucket list.
Thus, he decided to ignore his best friend's blatant flirtatious teasing and focused on the morbid show his doppelganger was displaying on the dance floor.
It was a bad idea.
Barry was honestly contemplating to screw his manners and common courtesy to the host right there and then. He was so tempted to empty the content of his stomach—to throw up all the alcohol and sweets Killer Frost had shoved into his throat earlier—directly onto the Flash's spotless floor.
Courtesy be damned—the speedster has superspeed, therefore the Flash could clean the floor off content of Barry's stomach in a blink of the eye if it bugged him so much—but this was too morbid, even for Barry.
He was a surgeon, not a forensic scientist damn it.
And he wasn't drunk enough to digest this.
"It's…a corpse...," Barry managed to grit out, wincing again when his gaze met the hollowed stare of the embalmed stitched up face that was nestled to his doppelganger chest as the speedster flitted from one guest to another like a perfectly normal host. "I know Flash has some loose screws in his head but this—"
His words were cut off when Killer Frost turned him around, his hand was suddenly resting against the tight fabric of her corset while his other hand was trapped in her cold unforgiving grip as she led him for a dance. They made quite an odd match in this spooky dimly-litted setup (with exception of the Flash and his embalmed date which by far the oddest pair of all) because Barry wasn't prepared for this whimsical costume party at all.
And Savitar thought it would be funny to dress Barry up in his old suit when they dragged Barry out of his quarters.
It wasn't funny. Barry wasn't used to skin-tight clothing.
But he didn't have any say against the speedster so, lho and behold, here Barry was, dressed in vibrant red skin-tight leather (tri-polymer whatever) suit as he was half-forced to be the plus-one of his best friend who could easily passed as the queen of the vengeful dead. He looked like an escapee from a fetish con and she looked like a flawless ghoul queen—needless to say, Barry didn't think that the high-tech suit was cool now. Killer Frost's make up was dramatically red tonight—as opposed to her usual blues—and she had even taken the effort with the special effects.
Barry was impressed with the realistic details of the ripped skin of her sliced-open-and-rotting mouth.
He also thought that she looked hot and sexy dressed up like this—and he meant it from a completely platonic perspective, therefore, could Deathstorm stop staring at him, please?
"You fucked that bitch multiple times, Ripper," she deadpanned, giving him an exasperated look with those steely white eyes. "Don't be a hypocrite, babe."
Barry scowled at her. "I fucked her when she was freshly murdered," he retorted, and instantly hated on his own defensive tone. "Iris has been dead for months," he muttered, shoving the rising guilt back into the depth of his heart and braced a quick glance at the ashen face of the embalmed corpse that was nestled at the crook of the Flash's neck. He instantly looked away, shaking his head, not wanting that image to stick inside his mind. "This is not okay."
"As opposed to you fucking her corpse right after you murder her?" Killer Frost retorted, her painted lips curved to a wicked smirk under the special effect make up of her ripped skin. "Time make the differences?"
He scowled back at her.
Killer Frost burst out to hysteric giggles that she eventually muffled against the lightning emblem over his chest as she buried her face there, her arms slid down to curve around his waist. Barry sighed, wondering how the hell he ended up attending this impromptu party in the first place. He was supposed to fulfil Lucy's last wish before he brought her back to his Earth, but yet Killer Frost has gotten to him first and forcefully booked his schedule for the rest of the night.
And to think that he was mad at these people literally a few hours ago.
"Hey," Killer Frost grumbled, poking one finger over his cheek just when Barry was about to sigh again. "You can deal with your prey later, babe. No one is going to enter your private quarters and touch her."
"I'm not so fond of parties," he sighed, making it obvious that he rather went back to his quarters to dissect his dead prey instead of being here.
Killer Frost shrugged. "And so does your dearest doppelganger," she said, tipping her head in the direction of the Flash, whom now was giving a show of a perfect haunting waltz across the dimly-litted dance hall with his corpse date. "It's rare of him to suggest anything remotely fun—especially in this time of war—so for now, enjoy the party and don't ruin everyone else's night, will ya?"
"It's not even Halloween yet," Barry muttered back, casting a suspicious look around the morbidly decorated area—he honestly wouldn't put past the Flash that half of the decorations were very much the real thing.
Barry has enough experience to know which one was the fake corpse and which was the real one right on the first glance.
The staggering amount of the real ones made him wonder if those were from the enemies the Flash didn't bother to burn to ashes.
"The only rules that existed on this Earth are the words of the Flash. If he says today is Halloween, then it's Halloween," Killer Frost grinned, though she did stop swaying Barry around (she was probably already fed up with Barry's dead weight that he purposely did as a protest to being forced to attend the party), and opted to retreat to the food table.
Barry quirked an eyebrow when she ignored the filled glasses and straight up downed the booze from the bottle. Noticing the look he was giving her, she grinned and pressed a glass of the alcholic punch to his chest.
"Drink," she instructed, popping the cap of her second bottle with her teeth. "You probably need the blissful ignorance of being drunk to survive the night."
Barry shot another quick glance to the dance floor and visibly cringed at the sight of his doppelganger dipping Iris' corpse in a romantic low dip. He quickly looked away from the morbid sight, his lips stretched to a grimace as he reluctantly drank the offered punch, knowing well enough to stay away from the unopened bottles that wouldn't be kind to his normal human's metabolism. He lost count of his own drink between his struggles to stop Killer Frost from downing her twentieth-something bottles (she forced more drinks down his throat as a retaliation), and by then, Barry was pleasantly buzzed and started to feel a bit too warm in his suit. The freezing cold that emitted from Killer Frost's body distracted him from the unwanted heat—she was leaning against his side, looking almost like she was about to pass out drunk.
Barry exhaled softly and tilted his head to rest against hers—he was suddenly missing the similar cold back home on his Earth.
Team Frost would be severely traumatised when CCPD dug up Iris' grave.
Casting another look at the deranged way the Flash was cuddling Iris' stitched-up corpse, Barry couldn't help but shuddered. The sight made his stomach churned in discomfort. He wasn't expecting for his doppelganger to go to this extent to ruin Iris' reputation.
(Geez…talk about salty ex—and that Iris wasn't even the Flash's own Iris!)
Anyway, he knew that the Flash wasn't exactly sane most of the times, but to retrieve Iris' corpse from her grave so that CCPD wouldn't find anything when they tried to exhume her….
….it was a bit too much.
Barry felt nauseated.
He definitely wasn't drunk enough for this.
"I think it's time you return to your dearest hubby," he murmured to Killer Frost the moment Deathstorm was close enough to them and nudged her into the man's arms before she could even retort.
He quickly made a beeline out of the party before anyone can stop him.
Barry just emptied the content of his stomach and felt slightly less tipsy than he was before when he finally decided to not return to the party. The empty stare of Iris' stitched-up embalmed body unnerved him. She looked pretty much like she was during the funeral—a bit imperfect with the stitch-job the funeral director had done to her to fix Barry's handiwork, but her beauty was still intact and preserved—and Barry found himself remembering the night she ended their happiness.
It wasn't as painful as watching Killer Frost using her face—because her dead stare and ashen skin meant nothing to him as opposed to her twinkling eyes and healthy chestnut skin—but the anger and memories of betrayal hurt him all the same.
Oddly enough, her dead stare also stirred his lust and that was definitely not okay.
"You look like hell."
Upon hearing the nonchalant comment, Barry whipped his head around so fast that he lost the little balance he just regained and would have fallen on his ass right on the floor if not because of Savitar's quick grab on his waist.
"And you're definitely drunk," the scarred speedster sighed, looking strangely exhausted and worn out.
"I'm not drunk," Barry retorted, using the offered leverage of the speedster's arm to straighten his ground. "Tipsy, yes, but not drunk."
Savitar gave him a disbelieving stare that Barry promptly returned with a defiant scowl.
He was expecting for yet another sarcastic or degrading remark but Savitar simply huffed a tired laugh and waved him away. "Go to sleep, Ripper," the scarred speedster said, not even looking at Barry as he headed to the opposite path.
Barry's mind flashed to Iris' body that was literally cradled in his doppelganger's arms, in the same building as him and decided that he would say no to sleep tonight. Being alone wasn't an option too because he tended to overthink when he was alone, so he made mental note of the possible destination of the scarred speedster and headed to get some coffee for the both of them. It took some time for him to find the time remnant that the coffees have turned lukewarm and his head has cleared a bit by the time he finally found Savitar in one of the many smaller control rooms of the building. The speedster was staring blankly at the monitor screens, his feet were crossed and resting over the control table while his back has slouched down the chair like he was too tired to keep it straight.
It was odd to see the scarred speedster so unguarded and exhausted, so Barry knocked on the door first before barging in.
Better safe than sorry.
"Thought I said that you need to go to sleep?" Savitar merely rolled his eyes to look in Barry's direction, before shifting his gaze back to the screens. "Go to sleep. You have a dead body to deal with in your room later."
"Can't sleep," Barry said, seating himself next to the speedster and offered the lukewarm coffee to his doppelganger, despite knowing that it wouldn't do much to Savitar's metabolism. "You look like you needed the sleep more than me, though," he commented, noting the hints of dark circles underneath the mismatched eyes, as well as the pale ashen skin of the speedster that could very well rivalled Iris' embalmed ones. "If I look like hell, you look like death."
If Barry needed any more proof of how tired Savitar was, this was it. The speedster didn't even make the effort to make a scathing remark, but instead, he simply gave Barry a tiny smile and closed his eyes, his shoulders relaxed against the chair.
"Babysitting is a tedious task," that was the only thing that the speedster offered.
Barry shot a quick glance to the screens and resisted the urge to wince at the sight of the Flash and Iris' corpse together in one of the footage. "So, the drugs Caitlin and I formulated was no good?" he asked.
Savitar snorted. "It worked damn too well."
"Then?" Barry was honestly confused.
He has noted that the air of this Earth was less tense, and a little snooping around and chatting up the rest of the criminals that have vowed their loyalty to the Flash has revealed that his doppelganger has been happier and saner nowadays. Perhaps due to the stress over the war has been reduced significantly for each resistance force they have vanquished, or the experimental drugs he has formulated with Caitlin were actually working—the lesser criminals were mainly happy that they were no longer been worked to hell and back to fulfil the Flash's warmongering whims. To not have injuries from subduing their leader during one of the speedster's violent outburst was a major plus too. They all were very happy and it showed in their enthusiasm dressing up for the rare party tonight.
The only one who didn't seem enthusiastic about the change was oddly the Flash's own second-in-command.
Though, before Barry could press on, Savitar silenced him with one confusing sentence;
"Don't poison him."
Barry stared at Savitar, wondering why he even thought that he would have a normal, non-confusing conversation with this particular doppelganger of his. It was impossible.
"Huh?"
"Don't poison him," the scarred speedster repeated, one hand motioned carelessly in the direction of the surveillance monitor, eyes remained close while his voice was almost inaudible, sluggish and close to a mumble. "I mean, Barry—my Barry—don't poison him."
Barry has to wonder if the speedster was even lucid.
"Savitar…?" he called tentatively. "Are you awake?"
Savitar let out an exasperated sigh, and Barry swore that the speedster looked like he was fighting his own body to open his eyes. "His teasing is crossing the line," he gritted out, motioning to the screen again. "But we all would appreciate it if you don't poison him as a retribution. He has enough trust issue as it is."
Barry took a full minute of shifting his gaze between the mismatched eyes and the surveillance footage of the party, before he snorted, breaking to a fit of amused giggle—yep, he was definitely still tipsy.
Needless to say, his scarred counterpart wasn't as amused.
"If I'm not so tired, I would've silenced you, Ripper…"
"I know he meant that as a harmless teasing, Savvi," Barry assured, smirking when Savitar scowled at the nickname. "To be honest, it doesn't affect me that much."
Savitar quirked an eyebrow. "She's Iris," he said, and if not because of the sluggishness of his voice, Barry would've thought that he was shocked and confused. "Your Iris. The real thing that I phased out of her coffin," his voice grew softer—whether it was because of disbelief or exhaustion, Barry wasn't sure. "You're not thinking about slitting your own throat?"
That was the moment of realisation Barry needed to realise that Iris' hold over him wasn't as strong as he thought it was.
"I'm only freaking out over how salty of an ex the Flash could be…," he murmured, lips curled to a tiny pleased smirk.
"Frost said that you were upset when she wore Iris' face."
Barry took a moment to contemplate that argument.
"Frost moves. She breathes, and her eyes are alive," he then countered flatly, jabbing his index finger to the footage that showed the Flash and his date. "This one is just a corpse. She is too dead to be Iris."
Savitar cocked an amused brow. "Too dead."
Before Barry could even retort, he yelped in shock when a lump of dead weight was dropped onto his back and the Flash's whiny voice sounded right from behind him.
"Aw, Ripper you're no fun."
Barry has to wonder if he was more drunk than he originally thought so because he definitely didn't hear the speedster walking in or feel any breeze or statics that usually announced the Flash's entrance. He struggled to shrug the dead weight off his back, only to grimace when he came eye to eye with Iris' dead stare—her corpse was so close to him that the blue make-up on the stitched face smudged and left unwanted stain on Barry's cheek.
Her dead stare was the exact same like after he killed her months ago that Barry mentally swore, hating his mind for reminding him of the twisted lust that this dead stare had invoked within him.
It had felt so good back then, when Iris no longer has the ability to resist his whims.
"You do feel something, though."
The Flash's smug comment snapped him out of his stupor, and he promptly scowled at the speedster.
"Shut up."
"She's a total beauty when she no longer talks, right?" the Flash grinned, his teeth as white as his make-up as he pulled Iris into his arms again, swaying her in a stationary dance. "No more hateful words," he twirled the corpse once, Iris' stitched face rested in the crook of his arm now. "No more disdainful glare…," he chuckled, dipping Iris in a romantic dip, teeth flashed in a manic grin when he straightened her back up, moving her around like a stringless puppet in his arms as he added; "…she doesn't get mad, she doesn't hate, she doesn't yell, she no longer fight back."
The Flash's eyes were deranged, his grin was manic when he clasped his hands over the front of Iris' tattered bloody dress, his chin was hooked over the exposed bones of her shoulder and his voice was low as he hissed;
"And she could no longer betray our trust."
Barry reached out a hand to stroke Iris' cheek, running the knuckles of his fingers over the stitches running down her temple to her jaw, a tiny smile grew on his face. "Yeah, she's a total beauty like this."
Savitar made a gagging noise.
"Don't be jealous, sweetie," the Flash instantly cooed, dumping Iris into Barry's lap like a child discarding an unwanted toy as he was suddenly looming over the scarred speedster—one hand cradling Savitar's jaw while the other was resting a bit too low down Savitar's hips. "I still adore your feisty stubbornness the best."
If Savitar has protested, the grumbling words were not heard.
"Cute," the Flash chuckled, pressing yet another gentle kiss at the corner of the scarred speedster's scowling lips, his arm curved tightly around Savitar's waist. "I won't have to resort to her if only you agree to be my plus-one, you know?" he pouted, jerking his head in a nod towards Iris' direction. "She could've have her reserved spot at the corner with the rest of the decorations and I won't have to waste my precious time getting rid of her rotting parts," he stated sulkily.
Savitar's scowl deepened. "You wanted us to be Jack and Sally, asshole."
"You would've been a wonderful Sally."
"You wanted to shove me into a frickin dress."
"It's for the spirits of the Halloween," the Flash retorted, sounding a bit too childish and pouty for a grown 34-years-old man.
Savitar groaned, glaring in disdain at the bloody wedding dress Iris' corpse was wearing.
Why the Flash kept this bloody wedding dress of his dead ex-fiancée was a mystery that Barry refused to ask.
"The dress is stained with blood," Savitar growled, blurring a bit as if he was attempting to phase out of the Flash's hold. He failed to escape, but his lips curled to a cruel smirk nonetheless, "Barry, the hell are you implying?"
"My Iris started the trend of brides to wear her groom's blood on her wedding dress."
"Oh, really?"
"Yep. Bloody wedding dress was a trend back then."
"A decade ago, you mean."
"Vintage," the Flash hummed, leaning down for another quick kiss that Savitar evaded.
"Do you want me to spill your blood over my clothes…?" Savitar growled, and Barry knew that it was no empty threat because the scarred speedster already has a vibrating hand pressed over the Flash's ruffled shirt. "Fuck off, Barry. I'm tired."
The Flash grinned.
Savitar's exasperated growl was drowned when the Flash leant close again, and as he observed the way Savitar's vibrating hand slowed to a frantic grip over the lapels of the Flash's costume, Barry himself grew restless, wondering why the hell he could still be turned on while practically being the third wheel between his superpowered doppelgangers—the embalmed corpse of his girlfriend on his lap was just the cherry at the top of this whole weirdness.
Savitar only have that split second of freedom to glare at Barry when Flash retreated to shrug his suit off—the scarred speedster was giving Barry an angry accusing glare when the Flash's vibrating hands got even more frisky on him.
"I didn't do anything," Barry mouthed to the trapped speedster, but it was no use because Savitar was conveniently distracted.
Geez, it was weird to be the third wheel of your own doppelgangers, but Barry has a bigger problem he needed to worry about.
He needed to stop this, needed to stop staring at the way his doppelgangers were fiercely making out right in front of him and needed to stop thinking about how good it was when he raped Iris' corpse back then…
He refused to have an encore of that twisted night of lust—no, not again. Iris' corpse wasn't as perfect as he thought it was, and was in no shape for an encore, if the hard bones rubbing down against Barry through the layers of fabrics were any indicator.
Barry was in the middle of silent contemplating whether he should ask Deathstorm to cremate Iris' corpse to be rid of the evil that tempt his lust (or just admit that he was as morally fucked as his superpowered doppelgangers and retreated to his quarters for some quality time with his victim) when the Flash chuckled, distracting Barry from his mental debate. The speedster pressed one more kiss on top of Savitar's forehead, his lips quirked to a smirk when Savitar half-heartedly tried to shove him away—the scarred speedster seemed like he was so close to passing out of exhaustion.
"There are no rules here but my words, you know?"
"What?" Grateful for the distraction, Barry asked, keeping his gaze on his doppelganger and pointedly ignoring Iris' head that rested lifeless against his throat.
Cold. She was so cold. Not icy cold, but there was no life inside her at all.
It felt strangely comforting—this lifeless weight nestled to his chest.
"There are no rules here but my words," the Flash repeated, letting the semi-conscious Savitar to curl on his lap as he reached his hand out—the hot palm curved over Barry's cheek, a striking contrast to Iris' cold corpse. "Aren't you tired, Barry?" he hissed, his voice so smooth that it almost sounded hypnotic. "You relied on your mother to love and protect you….," the manic smirk on the Flash's face widened when Barry visibly winced.
He never talked about his past with his doppelgangers, so how did the Flash know…?
The speedster brushed Barry's hair out of his face, humming harmlessly; "…but she left, didn't she?" The curve of his smirk was vicious as he pushed on, seeming like he enjoyed the pained melancholic expression of his doppelganger. "And your dad? He fucked up so bad…didn't he?" the Flash's hand was unbearably hot even through the tri-polymer heat resistance suit, making Barry struggled to not swat that hand off his thigh. "You poor boy," the speedster cooed, grinning maniacally upon the panicked horror on Barry's face.
Barry exhaled a loud relieved breath when his superpowered doppelganger removed that hand off his thigh.
"That's not funny…," he mumbled, struggling hard to ignore the lingering warmth on his thigh, the ghost of the warm palm over his limb made him uncomfortable.
"What's funny to the demon is the horror to the mortals," the Flash smiled, the skeleton make-up did no justice to the horror his careless cruelty has invoked.
Barry was trembling in fear.
No, he wasn't afraid of his doppelganger—because despite everything, he knew he was too valuable to be disposed that easily—but the idea that the Flash knew of his past didn't sit too well with him. The speedster has an annoyingly irritating habit of using someone else's nightmare as the source of his amusement.
"And your Iris left you too…," the Flash chuckled, as if the fact amused him so much, "…but I guess you can't lament over something that you have never truly had."
Barry grimaced.
Ouch. That actually stung.
"I told you that she would turn on you the moment she notices your flaw," the speedster hummed, tapping the knuckles of his fingers over Iris' temple, the soft hollowed empty sound made Barry realised that this Iris was even more empty than he originally thought. "Point is, you should take after my example and do whatever you wanted. People leave us all the time…," he giggled, scooping Savitar up into his arms, and as if he wanted to make a point, he made a show of affectionately nuzzling to Savitar's throat, "…so, you shouldn't care."
"Easy for you to say," Barry muttered, his mind unwillingly retreated to Frost and Caitlin, and to an extent the rest of team Frost too.
He couldn't not care about them. They were nice to him.
The Flash snorted—the sound was mocking, as if he knew what exactly Barry was thinking. Barry flashed his teeth in an uncomfortable grimace.
"You can't resurrect the dead like how I did…," the speedster droned on, giving a pointed glance towards the sleeping speedster in his arms, "….but you can definitely fuck them," he shot another pointed look at Iris' corpse. "Get laid, Ripper. Studies showed that sex makes you happier and since you're socially uptight, the dead is the best choice for you.," he waved a dismissive hand in Iris' direction. "You don't have to bring a corpse to dinner date before you bed them you know?"
Barry shuddered. "Fuck, Flash. When you put it that way, it sounded weird."
"Like anyone would judge you here," the speedster retorted, shifting a bit so that Savitar was snuggled more comfortably to his chest. "Leave your humanity and morals at the portal."
Barry didn't realise that his lips has quirked to a smirk that perfectly mirrored Flash's own. "Basically, you want me to be just like all of you," he deadpanned, although there was no bite in his tone.
"Just want to let you know that you have a home here too," the Flash shrugged, completely nonchalant, though there was something that resembled sincerity when he mumbled out the next words. "A completely non-judgemental home."
"Aww…that is so sweet of you, Flash," Barry cooed, placing his free hand over his heart in an exaggerated show of swooning. "You warmed the cockles of my heart."
Barry didn't miss the hint of pink on the unpainted skin of the speedster's neck. Nope. He totally didn't miss that.
"Fuck you," the speedster scowled.
And whoosh, he disappeared just like that, leaving Barry alone with the embalmed corpse of his dead girlfriend.
Barry cracked an amused laugh, honestly wasn't expecting for the Flash to use the most basic evasive technique when he was embarrassed. Carrying Iris' corpse back to his quarters, he lamented on her dead empty weight and the philosophy of life and death. He still loved her. Remembering her would reopen the wounds he though he had healed, but forgetting her felt like he was tearing his heart to half again. But to see her like this, merely an empty shell of what she once was, it felt comforting and nice.
It was funny that her memories felt more real than this embalmed corpse.
Upon reaching his quarters, Barry eventually ditched her on the couch, having no interest in the empty husk of the woman he loved, and strode straight to his bedroom.
"Leave your humanity and morals at the portal, huh?" he huffed, sitting at the edge of the bed, right next to the limp body swaddled in his blanket.
Lucy's last words were her plea to be violated—something that he oddly enjoyed obliging as the girl went limp and lifeless in his arms.
Barry has enjoyed obliging to her last request way too much that he lost track of time, and was barely able to do anything but throw a blanket over her naked abused body by the time Savitar and Killer Frost came barging into his quarters to drag him to the party.
"I haven't even kissed you, right?" he murmured to the limp body, tracing his thumb over her cold lips and felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
Her eyes were empty and glazed—deep warm brown so similar like Iris'—and Barry huffed another laugh, wondering if the Flash's insanity was contagious, or it was in the nature of Barry Allen to be such a salty, creepy ex over Iris West.
"Well, you did ask," he murmured, brushing her red hair away from her fair skin so that his palm could curve perfectly over her cheek.
As he smashed his lips to hers, he remembered the muffled screams, the resisting tensed body and the teary defiant brown eyes of the one and only Iris West.
And oddly, it turned him on even more.
"You did ask for it…Iris."
A/N: I have no excuse for my lack of updates in February. I was too cold to function. Hey, I'm a cold-blooded creature. When it's too cold, I can't function. I literally alternate in writing one paragraph (or one sentence) between this story and my other story, Baby Steps, before falling asleep halfway through. Let's hope spring won't be as cold and I could be more productive. Maybe.
Anyhow, shit has started to go to the morbidly twisted path in the most insane way. Barry has started to go insane, y'all.
Have I mentioned somewhere in my previous author notes that good will NOT triumph over evil in this story? No? Well, here is your warning. And if you want to know when Barry would stop playing tug-o-heart-war with Frost, it was set to happen 2 years after Iris' death, estimately a year from current timeline, after his doppelgangers knocked some senses into him (not a spoiler, since I wrote that event first before writing this one). So, for now bear with their close friendship.
BTW, Flash totally dropped a major hint of the path of this story somewhere up there.