my heart to yours, one stitch at a time

You would think someone as quick as The Flash would learn to avoid shattered glass, but here he is, covered in a network of thin (and some not so thin) lacerations, slowly bleeding all over. They sting, to be sure, but Barry is satisfied that they're worth it, given that Cisco and Dr. Wells are currently placing their latest meta human adversary behind bars. Of course, that feeling of satisfaction for a job well done is somewhat marred by the frown coloring Caitlin's expression as she works to remove the glass fragments embedded in his wounds before they heal over. Once upon a time he would have thought that look meant she was furious with his stupidity—now he knows better. Now he recognizes that that downward tug of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the way her eyes darken and her breath pulls sharply are tells for an entirely different set of emotions (though, he supposes, there's probably a little fury in the mix as well). Mostly though, she is worried, or was, and now she's mostly relieved, maybe a little upset. (She hates the risks he takes sometimes, the low regard he places on his own well being).

"Hey," he calls out quietly, catching her attention and her wrist with the upturn of his hand. He ignores the sting of the antiseptic now abandoned and uneven on his arm as her nose wrinkles in an unasked question. "Sorry about all this—I was trying to be careful." Briefly he wars with how to tone the words, settling for ending them in a way that is both playful and contrite, hoping to draw her into an easier mood.

He does pull a smile, despite what he knows is her very best effort to remain stern and impassive. (Making Caitlin Snow smile in spite of herself is practically a second superpower as far as Barry Allen is concerned and some days it gives him as much a rush as super speed).

"I know," she sighs, though the smile lingers a moment longer. Caitlin abandons his grasp to pick up her forceps and alcohol pads again, returning to scanning his badly cut arms for stray glass, occasionally pausing her search to extract one such piece. "That face wasn't so much about getting hurt as worrying some of these more minor wounds will heal with glass still in them." But her final checks seem to alleviate that worry because she trades the forceps for a suture kit and taps his left wrist.

He holds out that arm, bending the elbow awkwardly to allow her access to the deeper cut that's still bleeding slightly and gaping open just above his brachioradialis. "I guess super healing isn't all it's cracked up to be."

She rolls her eyes lightly, gives a hum of agreement and sets to the task of stitching the wound, fingers pressing softly around the open skin as she considers how best to mend it together. It takes her only a few seconds to come to a decision—proof of practice, he supposes, given how commonplace this situation has become, despite her initial protests to patching him up. A moment later she's sliding on a topical analgesic (that will only dull the first few stitches but she feels better pretending and he's willing to give her that reassurance) and beginning a fresh set of neat, precise, perfect sutures.

Sometimes he wonders why she bothers to stitch him up at all. Even the worst wounds will heal in a few hours, prompting her to cut out the stitches she is so painstakingly placing. He's sure they'd heal relatively well without the assistance (or with the aid of something quicker and easier, like tape or glue) and she knows it too, better than him, yet every time he's hurt they find themselves in this position and she never cuts corners with an easier fix.

He supposes part of that is just in her nature: Caitlin is a scientist and a doctor, she's not one to just leave things on the wayside or do them halfway. If there's a way to be involved, to help, then she feels compelled to do so, especially when helping is in her specific realm of expertise. The evidence is in the precise, practiced way she lays every stitch, and goes through every safety protocol as she works. It's also in the binders of notes he knows she takes each time he's injured or does something new, tracking and hypothesizing (and worrying) in turn.

At the same time, he can't help but think it's more than the mere calling of a doctor or a scientist. That the effort and care speak to something that Caitlin can't help or deny (and neither can he): that they both just need these particular motions to roll through, these moments of reassurance, to help them get through their day to day. Because whatever else they are, they are a reminder, sharp and sure, that they've both survived again. That while life and circumstance have thrown them another loop, they've made it to the other side—maybe scared, maybe scarred but still breathing and beating and there for each other.

He knows it certainly rings true for him. In those moments when the speed and adrenaline have worn off, it's the calm, steady brush of Caitlin's fingers, the stinging scent of antiseptic and the click of her heels on the tile that center him home. Like Pavlov's dog, he's come to respond to these constants—they draw full air into his lungs, slow his heart and bring his mind from survival (and victory) to the here and now. He tries not to be dramatic, but all the same, he can't imagine the mess he'd be without those constants. Granted, it took him a while to realize how important these moments are but that revelation is why he gave up fighting them: now she's the first person he looks for when all is said and done, gladly submitting to her fussing with nothing more than a fond smile and an apology that is equally unnecessary, unneeded and untrue (because they both know it'll just happen again anyway).

He can't be certain but he can certainly hope that she feels the same way, that she draws the same comfort from the familiarity of the scene. (If she doesn't then she is the most patient woman in the world—and for all her fine qualities, he knows that isn't really one of them).

Still, he's sure he can't be entirely imagining the changes that fall over her when he walks back into the lab and immediately heads to the med chair: the way the tension seems to fall away from the planes of her fave even as her eyes are dragging over him, quick and assessing. He's sure that the steely, clinical, resigned look softens each time he smiles and offers up some wayward excuse or explanation. He does know, without a doubt, that it never fails to earn an answering smile, no matter how slight. In rare moments, when he's feeling particularly sure of himself and the world (and when he's feeling particularly calmed by the soft brush of her touch, the light scent of her perfume, the even tempo of her breathing), he would swear that her own body slows as she works. He's almost sure sometimes that he can sense it, as her examination stretches: that her touch gentles, her breathing eases and perhaps even her heartbeat steadies as she comes more and more to grips with the knowledge that his injuries are light and not lingering.

Of course, he might be imagining it, perhaps it is just Caitlin living entirely in her skin of doctor and scientist, but he certainly hopes he isn't.

(He lived too long in a one sided dance, he wants a partner the next time around and with every grounding brush of her skin against his, with every tug of nylon string, he wants more and more for that partner to be her).

I'm torn between feeling the end was rushed and thinking there was no better way to end it—thoughts?

Happy New Year's my snowbarry friends—this was the last fic I posted on tumblr (chasingblue57 there) in 2014 and now the first I've posted here in 2015, but there are plenty more where this came from in the works.

This little guy is dedicated to snowbarrified on tumblr, who is the sweetest of the sweet—thanks for being so positively lovely!

Thoughts, suggestions and prompts always welcome. I've got a list of them I'm working on right now.

Thanks, take care & best wishes!

A.O.R.