Dads
Iris hates conflict. She's always hated it, not because it scares or threatens her, but because it seems so incredibly pointless to her when people won't just say what they mean. It's a quality she inherited from her father, who isn't shy about, well, much of anything.
She especially hates it when Joe and Barry are fighting. Oh, it's not fighting in the knock-down, drag-out sense. That might be easier, actually. It's the kind of fighting when neither one of them wants to talk, and she can't fix it.
It's in these times that she's forced to remember that Barry isn't actually her brother, is the progeny of people with a different conflict style and a different history. If it were up to her, she would march into her father's office and talk it out. She knows by experience that he's usually only mad when he's worried. It's sweet, except when it blows up into one of the legendary West-Allen standoffs.
She wants to shake them both.
Except, well, it's different with fathers and sons. She's old enough to know that by now. It's not just that Barry comes from a different family, and it doesn't really matter how old he is. She can sweet-talk Joe West into a lot of things, but her brother is different.
It's like those National Geographic videos from science class, the ones of lions head-butting each other. For Iris, becoming a woman was a graceful, gradual process. Sure, Joe had vetoed a few boyfriends and a few outfits over the years, but overall, she'd gone from flats to high heels without much of a problem. It's different with Barry, so very different. Becoming a man, somehow, is about a weird dance of head-butting and reconciling, over and over. Even the sweetest nerd in the world has to test his independence.
But maybe that's comforting, she thinks. Lions don't test their strength against those outside their tribes. Maybe the conflict is not meant to remind her that her brother comes from another family. Maybe it's supposed to show her just how much he belongs.
Barry sits on the edge of a table at Star Labs, feeling sick to his stomach. He doesn't get angry that often, and he doesn't like it. He forces his mind to focus on his father's face, the face he only sees behind protective plexiglass.
He can't let himself think of Joe West's face. Joe isn't the man who gave him life, isn't the man he wants desperately to free, isn't his father.
The problem is, if that were really true, he wouldn't feel the knot of guilt eating him alive. The irony is that you don't say, "I'm not your kid," with tears in your eyes, unless you're somebody's kid. And you don't say, "You're not my father," with that kind of anger, to someone who doesn't deserve the title.
He has a dad in Iron Heights, but that dad isn't the one who chased him every time he ran, who forgave him every time he yelled, and who still checks on him to make sure he's ok. It's not disloyal to Henry Allen to admit the truth: He's Joe West's kid, and he always will be.
Pizza heals all wounds, at least, it did when Barry was fourteen, and Joe had punished him for something he hadn't done. The cop still remembers that with regret. When you're a dad, your mistakes stay with you, even as the years pass.
Three pizzas. The kid can eat. No telling where he puts it on that lanky frame.
It's a peace offering. Joe just hopes they can move on, hopes that his acknowledgement of Barry's abilities will let them pass through their latest conflict and forge a new path.
Except, it hurts. Joe West knows he isn't perfect, but he can't help hearing the words over and over in his mind. "I'm not your kid, and you're not my father." He's tried. Lord knows, he's tried. Those nine words are like knives, poking all the memories of the times he yelled when he should have been silent and said no when he should have said yes.
He's in for the long haul. When you're a dad, it doesn't matter if your son disowns you, stares at your face and tells you he doesn't belong to you. He's still your kid.
"I know I'm not your father." He'd hoped they wouldn't have to rehash it again, have another conversation that cuts the wound even deeper.
"You're right. You're not." Joe can't believe how much he can hurt. But that's not the end of the conversation; it's just the beginning.
Neither of them has ever spoken aloud what it is that exists between them, and Barry's words feel like the last crumbling of a wall that has been falling, steadily, for fourteen years, the wall between a cop and his surrogate son.
Joe cries, but he doesn't mind. When you're a dad, there are tears, but those tears are worth it.