Bear

A/N: This is going to be a completely flashback chapter, to exactly how Iris and Barry became friends and to exactly how Barry ended up with the Wests after his mother's murder.

If that's not your thing, feel free to skip it, since it doesn't tie to a particular episode of The Flash. It's my own little gift to myself for reaching 50 chapters, and I hope some of you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


The first time Iris West really talks to Barry Allen is on a bench outside the Central City Police Department. She's seen him at school. He's in her homeroom, and they've said hi a few times. He's shy; she usually isn't all that shy around other kids, but something about his timidity bleeds over and makes her feel like she is. She's a lot taller than his slight frame, but that isn't a big deal. She's taller than most of the boys her age.

This time, late in the evening, Iris's Daddy gets a call on his phone. She watches as his face changes from calm to horror. As soon as he hangs up, he grabs his jacket from its hook by the door. "Baby, come here." He gives Iris a very tight hug; she doesn't understand why.

"I have to go. I hate leaving you alone at this time of night, but you know the phone number for Mrs. Clark across the street, and you can call me at work if anything bad happens. Just tell Officer Mary who you are, and she'll put you through."

Iris nods very seriously. "Ok, Daddy." He hugs her again, so tight it almost hurts. They've always been big on hugs, but this is weird.

"Everything is going to be fine." She's left alone as her father leaves the house. She believes him. He never lies to her.

Still, the little girl can't sleep. She's not used to being alone in the house at night. She'd always thought it would be fun, but it isn't. She makes sure the door is locked and turns on the TV, but it's hard to concentrate. Finally, she goes to her room and picks up a book, Anne of Green Gables. She reads for an hour before the phone rings.

"Iris, Baby, I need you to do something for me." It's her father.

"Sure, Daddy."

"I'm sending Officer Mary to pick you up. She's going to bring you here. There's a kid—Barry Allen, from your class. You know, you guys are friends. Something happened at his house. We're not exactly sure what, but it would help if you came and talked to him. Do you think you can do that?"

"Ok," she answers, figuring he must have seen her saying bye to Barry after school or something. It's not like they're that close. But she would do anything for her dad. She waits ten minutes, and Officer Mary Doyle pulls up in her cruiser outside. Iris and her father don't live far from the station; that way, her dad can get there quickly when he needs to.

"What happened?" she asks, sliding into the passenger's seat. Iris likes Officer Mary; she's nice.

"Not sure, hon," says the woman on the other side. "Your dad and a couple of the guys are working on it. Joe wanted me to tell you not to worry about anything Barry says. He's—not making a lot of sense right now. They're sending a child psychologist down from Starling City on the redeye flight, but she won't be here until tomorrow morning. Just listen, and don't try to talk him out of anything."

Iris nods, but she has no idea what any of it means, so she just watches out the window until they get to the huge station building where her Daddy works. Officer Mary lets her out near the door, and she walks over to where her dad is standing by a stone bench that sits under a streetlight, right next to Barry Allen. Neither of them says anything.

"Hi," Iris says softly.

"Hi, Honey," her father answers. He sounds nervous, which isn't like him at all. "Barry, you know Iris from school." The silent boy doesn't respond.

"Iris, I need you to stay with Barry while I go back inside and do some paperwork." He hands her a walkie-talkie. "You guys have any problems, you call me." She nods, and he hurries back into the building as fast as he can without running.

"Hi, Barry," she says. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Ok." His voice is even quieter than usual, but he takes his place next to her. She doesn't really know what to do. She's never done anything like this before. "Do you—want to talk—about anything?" she asks.

Barry shakes his head hard, his breathing fast and sharp. Iris is only eleven, but she recognizes what he's doing. It's exactly what she does when she knows that she'll start crying if she opens her mouth. The little girl reaches over and takes his left hand in her right one. She doesn't know what else to do.

Barry puts his head down, blinking hard. Iris has no idea what made him like this, but she's angry at it, whatever it is.

"It's—ok if you cry."

He looks over at her, his eyes wet, and then crumples against her like he's not strong enough to sit up any more. He finally cries, and his sobs are so violent they make Iris's body shake almost as much as his.

Iris reaches around him and holds on tight. She doesn't really know how or why, but there's an instinct to it. She rubs his neck and his shoulders, and she wonders if he even remembers who it is that's holding him. He's so lost in his own painful world.

The little girl's arms are beyond tiredness to actual pain before Barry's sobs die down, but she wouldn't pull them away for the world. Finally, he sits up and rubs his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but she takes his hand again, and he closes his fingers around hers.

It's the first time in Iris's life that someone has cried in her arms. She doesn't know that before she'd come, Barry had refused every other person's attempts at comfort, that he'd winced away from anyone else who tried to touch him. She only knows that there's a closeness in shared pain that she's never understood before. Sitting on a stone bench, holding hands, she has the strange feeling of knowing Barry Allen better than she knows anyone else in the world.

Years later, when Iris remembers that night, she always remembers it as the first time they'd really talked. It takes effort to recall that they'd never really said anything at all. The truth is, some communication is beyond words.


The second time Barry Allen really talks to Iris West is on a bench in front of the Central City Police Department, two weeks after his mother's murder. He's angry. Angry because no one will listen to his story about what really happened, no one will let him go home, and no one will tell him where he's going to be staying after this. He's been going from house to house every couple of nights; everyone's been nice, but he hates every one of them.

"Hi, Barry." Officer West lets Iris off at the entrance to the station, and she comes over. "My dad said you were stuck here for a while, answering some questions."

Wordlessly, he moves from the middle of the bench to the left side to give her space to sit down. He may be mad, but he's not a jerk. Besides, Iris is the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

"Want to talk about anything?"

It's the same question as before, but this time it gets an answer. This time, Barry spews out the story no one will believe. Iris doesn't look surprised, so he can tell that her dad must have explained it all to her. She just looks sad.

"I know there's not anything I can say to make it better," she says quietly, when he's finally finished, "but I'm really sorry." He sees tears in her eyes.

"Thanks for—last time." His voice is abrupt. He thought he wanted to forget his breakdown and ignore the fact that Iris has seen him at his very worst. But when he's next to her, with the end of her hair brushing against his face in the breeze, he doesn't feel ashamed any more. He feels calmer with her than with anyone else he's talked to since the worst night of his life.

"You're welcome," she says.

"Iris, are we—friends?" Suddenly, it seems to Barry like that's the most important question in the entire world.

She looks over at him and smiles. "Of course we are."

He does not know that her answer will echo in his mind for years—in moments when he's tempted to feel alone, when he can't sleep, when his grief threatens to swallow him up, and when a guy in a red suit can't go as fast as he needs to go. He will close his eyes and picture a bright-eyed little girl in a purple hoodie who said he was her friend, and he will find that feeling of safety once again.


The first time Joe West really talks to Barry Allen is three weeks after Nora Allen's murder. Barry has been difficult. What kid wouldn't be? He's normally a good kid—top of his class, never in trouble, polite to his teachers. Now, he's become a pint-sized volcano, going from completely silent to yelling a fantasy about a yellow streak, and back again.

"Just going to have to wait it out," says the psychologist. "Severe trauma affects every child differently."

Barry's been in short-stay refuge homes, people who will take a kid for a night or two but no longer; there's no extended family to send him to. The detectives and social workers have been throwing around phrases like "group home" and "long-term foster care" for a week.

Every time Joe hears those words, his heart contracts in his chest. He's already chased the kid around Central City. He's listened to hours of ranting and hours of silence. He's been pushed away and punched in the chest by fists that couldn't hurt him but brought tears to his eyes anyway.

It's the day he knows they're going to sign the papers, to send Barry somewhere to float around a messed-up system and probably become a juvenile offender because he'll never get the therapy or the nurturing he needs. Surely, Joe thinks, a kid who's been through that kind of pain needs extra care, not the below-average pittance he's likely to get.

The little boy is in a back room by himself. They're waiting on his caseworker to arrive so everything can be finalized. So Barry Allen can become another statistic in a big city with too much crime.

Joe knocks on the glass window of the office where Barry is sitting, slumped over. Then, he opens the door and comes inside, taking his place on a metal chair, right across from the little boy. "I need to talk to you." Barry nods. He's a smart kid, and Joe knows that he's aware of what's happening around him, to him.

"Son, I know you get what's going on out there. Pam's coming here, and Chief Andrews is going to sign some papers that say we don't need you for the investigation any more. That means—Pam's going to take you to a group home until they can find a foster family for you." He sees the apprehension in Barry's eyes, even though the little boy is trying very hard to hide it.

Joe continues. "I'm telling you this so you understand exactly what your options are. The thing is, Bear, I talked to Iris today. We'd—we'd like to ask you to stay with us, to live with us permanently." He doesn't say "become part of our family," even though he wants to. It wouldn't be fair to push the kid that hard.

Joe sees pure wonder fill the kid's eyes. "Why?" he asks. "I—hit you."

All Joe wants to do is reach a few inches and put his arms around the little boy, but he knows better than to try. Not yet. Instead, he just nods matter-of-factly. "That's right, I forgave you, and it doesn't change a thing. I want you to move in with us."

Barry reaches back and rubs his hair and the back of his neck, a nervous, self-soothing habit Joe will come to know well. "But why?" He's not going to let that one go.

"I love you, Bear. That's the truth." And it is. Three weeks of day-in and day-out crying and punching and screaming and running, and he loves Barry Allen more than he'd ever realized he could love a child who didn't share his genes.

Barry cries, not the uncontrollable kind of tears, the quiet kind that come from somewhere very deep. Again, Joe pushes down the urge to try to hold him, but he lets himself reach out a big hand and cup the little boy's right cheek very gently. "Come home with us, Son." He's flooded with relief when he feels an almost-imperceptible nod against his hand.

Joe doesn't know why Barry said yes, exactly. It's not like they'd bonded in any kind of positive or happy way—yet. And Barry doesn't really know either. Any time Joe asks him, years later, he just says thanks and gives his foster father a hug.

The truth is something small and simple and huge and monumental. It's something Barry can't remember later because his mind files it in a deep, dark corner with a lot of the memories from those three weeks that he'll never be able to recall again with any kind of clarity.

It's the way a cop with big hands looked him in the eyes and called him Bear.

Not his full name, sharp and loud, the way the other cops said it, or soft and weird and fakely understanding the way the psychologist and the social workers said it. Just "Bear," a nickname that sounded warm and kind and a little bit like something to hang onto. He couldn't have explained it, but he knew he wanted to go home with the man who said his name the way Joe West said it

That's why, though he can't explain it in words, Barry never stops loving the way his surrogate dad and his not-sister call him Bear, because it makes him feel instantly better—safer, calmer, and deeply loved.

To the world, his name is Barry Allen. To his family, he'll always be Bear.