Alternates

It's probably morbid or strange or somehow unhealthy to think about Earth-2. There has to be something wrong with being preoccupied by another universe where people live different lives and make different choices.

But as she lies in bed, sleepless, hugging her pillow to her chest, Iris can't help feeling envious of the other Iris West, the one who's not her. She doesn't care about the job she does or the house she owns, and she's not thinking about anything R-rated, either.

She reaches out her hand and rubs the empty side of the bed next to her. If she were the other Iris, Barry Allen would be lying there. She wouldn't have to endure insomnia alone. She could roll over and curl up against him and let his breathing and his heartbeat lull her to sleep. She knows what he sounds like when he's sleeping; she's heard him plenty of times, the soft, peaceful rhythm of his breath. And she knows how it feels to have her ear over his heart and to feel the gentle thump comforting her with its regularity—he's held her more than a few times in their lives. If she were the other Iris, she wouldn't mind not being able to sleep. She would lie contented against him, quiet and safe, feeling the beauty of every second like it's a line from a lifelong poem.

Eddie had always been playful, sunny, quick to laugh and joke when they were together, even at the most romantic moments. With Barry it would be very different. There would be a joyful solemnity to it, the shared weight of two people who have mingled years of tears and taken each other's laughter into themselves to share until it's bigger than either of them.

She closes her eyes, unable to resist the pull of her imagination. If she were the other Iris, maybe Barry would wake up and find her restless. Perhaps he would wrap his arms around her and pull her closer so that she could melt into him. She's tired of feeling singular and alone.

She doesn't want to do any of these things with her editor or with any of the other men whose eyes follow her around Jitters. Her imagination only goes to Earth-2, to a life where Barry would be taking up half of her bed. If he were here, she wouldn't mind the insomnia one bit.

She takes her cell phone off her nightstand. "Barry, are you still up?" she texts. It's 1am; there's a chance. He's been having insomnia of his own, she knows, his mind preoccupied with stopping Zoom.

"Yes. Need me?"

She smiles to herself. "Meet me at the 24-hour Waffle House."

Fifteen minutes later, she finds herself face-to-face with Barry in a Central City parking lot. "Are you ok?" He's concerned. Not like she does this all the time—or ever.

Her only answer is to hug him tightly and rest her head against his chest for a second, trying to grasp a few seconds of what she'd imagined earlier. Barry's arms close around her, just as warm and protective as she'd hoped.

"Don't let go," she murmurs. She can't resist.

When they finally break apart, she smiles. "I'm fine. I just—couldn't sleep and didn't want to be alone."

"I needed this too," he answers, nodding seriously. Neither of them has had time for much fun lately. The world has gotten too big and too threatening.

"Remember when we used to come here in high school?" Iris asks as they walk into the small, brightly-lit restaurant.

"Yeah," Barry answers. "Thought we were cool—studying for finals all night at Waffle House."

She laughs. "Yeah, it wasn't even cool enough for my dad to have a problem with it."

The only people at tables are a couple of night-shift cops. The CCPD force likes to come in and mainline the cheap coffee for fuel. They look up and wave, and Iris says hi while Barry claims a table in the back corner.

As she walks across the sticky floor, it occurs to Iris to wonder if they have Waffle House on Earth-2. It's a little hard to imagine it, given the gloss and sheen of that earth as Barry described it. She takes her place across from him and meets his eyes, and a grin breaks across his face.

There is another place, Iris realizes, where they almost certainly have Waffle House—a place called the future. If she were future Iris, maybe she'd be sitting across from Barry in a Waffle House, but there would be a sleepy kid on his lap, wondering why her crazy mom and dad wanted pancakes in the middle of the night. He would be a good father.

"Iris, are you sure you're ok?" Barry's voice pulls her out of her own head.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I was just thinking about the future." No harm in admitting that—she doesn't have to tell him the specifics.

He puts his hand across the table and squeezes hers for a second. "I don't want you to worry. I'm going to stop Zoom. I won't let anything happen to you or to Joe or Wally. You're going to have the future you deserve. I won't let anybody take that away."

The future you deserve. She doesn't know about that, but there's a future she's starting to want more than anything. She doesn't care about their jobs or the house they'd live in. She just wants to watch the man across from her go gray at his temples and play with their children on a swingset in the backyard. She wants to get old holding hands with the man who's holding her hand now.

"I know, Barry," she hears herself say, "I believe in you." She doesn't say it aloud, but she really means, "in us."


Earth-2's Barry Allen has no powers. If he did, he'd give them up in a heartbeat to save Wally West, even if he didn't know him. That's just one of the thoughts that passes through Barry's head as he thinks through his decision. Something changed inside him when he met that other Barry, when he saw that kind of gentle selflessness. It had been like seeing a version of himself reflected in a mirror—not a perfect one, but one that, in spite of not being The Flash, was a hero in ways he hadn't yet attained.

That Barry, the kind one with the nervous manner and the round glasses, was the one who already had Iris West sharing his life and his bed. That was the strange part. Of course, she was Iris from another earth, but she wasn't so different from the one Barry knows.

He's always known Iris loves him—like a brother and a friend. He's dreamed of her loving him as more, but he'd thought that would entail always being stronger, cooler, the least weak or nervous or imperfect version of himself.

But Earth-2 Iris didn't marry The Flash. She married a thin, anxious scientist who wears small, round glasses and can't run around the block as fast as Barry can run around the city. And it doesn't even matter. When Iris looks at him, her eyes fill with absolute adoration, like she's looking at her own private version of Michaelangelo's David. It's as plain as the nose on his face that she loves him for his kind heart, his gentleness, the selfless way he risks everything, not only for his wife, but also for the people of their city. He's not a metahuman; that doesn't mean he isn't a hero.

Barry figures he's kind of slow on the uptake when it comes to the girl who grew up next door to him, the one who's really very much like the detective from Earth-2. She likes the idea of the Flash, but that's not what she cares about. All his life, he's worked hard to be good at everything to impress her, to look cooler than he really is, and to show her that he can be powerful and confident. But he knows the truth now—she never cared about any of that. Like the Iris in Earth-2, what she cares about is the contents of his heart—kindness, selflessness, gentleness, the things that make someone a hero far beyond superpowers.

He doesn't choose to sacrifice his powers to save Wally just because of Iris, but when he thinks about her Earth-2 double, his momentary fear that she'll no longer be proud of him if he's only an ordinary man evaporates. She's always loved him the way he is. To be worthy of her, he doesn't need to be faster or cooler or less fearful. She cares about bravery in the face of fear and selflessness in the face of temptation.

As he prepares to give away his most prized possession, Barry hopes he's becoming a little more like the Barry from the other earth, the one who's so much of a hero in his wingtips and his waistcoats that he won the heart of Iris West.

When it comes down to it, it's obvious—Detective Iris West loves her husband because he's a good man. That's what Barry desperately hopes the Iris from his own earth will see in him. It's what she's cared about all along.


Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.

It's always been Joe's favorite Bible text. Reminds him of being a cop, of his oath to make everyone in Central City his friend by giving his life if called upon to do so. He's always seen it as physical life; now he knows it can mean something more.

Barry has a life most people couldn't even dream of possessing. Power, ability, the potential to effect change wherever he desires. And he's holding it out, freely, willing to give it all up for a brother who's civil at best. They haven't learned to be family yet. But love transcends feelings.

"Bear," Joe had once asked him, sitting beside him on the living room stairs, "what was Barry like—the one from the other earth?" He'd put his hand on his son's shoulder and left it there.

"He was—a good guy, Joe. He didn't have powers, but he was willing to give up everything to stop Zoom and protect the city and Iris. He didn't hesitate to risk it all. I wish I could be more like him, to be honest."

Joe had smiled and wrapped his arm tightly around his son's thin shoulders. "You risk your life to save this city almost every day."

"It's different," Barry had rejoined. "I take risks because I know I'm powerful enough to stop criminals and metahumans—because I have powers. He risked everything he was, without powers."

"Well, son, if it came down to it, you'd do the same thing. I know my Barry Allen."

Joe had received a nod in return. "I hope so."

"I know so," he'd reiterated. "I know my kid." His kid. The day Barry stopped being his kid would have to be the day he stopped breathing. Until then, he would always be a father.

Fatherhood now means heart-bursting pain, as he imagines, over and over on repeat, what's happening to Wally. But it also means heart-bursting pride, because the kid he snatched from the jaws of the system, the one who used to cry like he was never going to stop, who was terrified of the dark—that kid is strong enough to give up the most important thing in his life.

"You know what you said about the Barry from Earth-2?" Joe asks once it's all over, once Wally is back, safe and sound under the covers in his room in his father's house. Barry nods. He's clearly drained and sad, confused about what the future will bring. "He may be a good guy, but nobody could have been more of a hero than you were today."

The cop gives his surrogate son a long, warm, thankful hug before he goes upstairs to check on Wally. The younger West is lying in bed on his side, but his eyes are open, and he still has his lamp on. Joe sits on the bed next to him. He's not dumb enough to ask if his son is all right. Of course not, not yet. He just puts out a hand and rests it on Wally's shoulder. "Hey, Son. Really glad you moved in, especially tonight."

Wally looks at him very steadily for a few seconds. "While Zoom had me, I kept thinking about all those things I said to you and Iris, about how I acted like I didn't want to know you or be part of the family. I thought I wasn't ever going to see you again, and those sounded like the dumbest things in the world. I just wanted time—to tell you I'm sorry I wasn't the son you deserve, like Barry.

Joe shakes his head, feeling frustrated. "Wally, I hope this is the last time I have to tell you—you and Barry are both my sons; you're different people, and I don't compare you. I understand why it's been hard for you, losing your mom, meeting me, getting to know your sister. Anybody would have been upset."

He suddenly feels a hand grasp his. "I love you."

"I love you too," Joe answers, feeling his insides contract. "And I'm grounding you."

"Huh?" Wally's eyes open wide. "I'm way too old for that."

"I mean it, Wally," Joe answers, grinning. "The CCPD is going to tell work and school that we need you to help with the investigation, but after we debrief you, you're not allowed to do anything that isn't fun for the next week. No work, no papers, no homework. I expect you to do nothing but have a good time. Understand? You need some time to process what happened and get your bearings back."

Wally laughs. "Thanks, Dad."

"All right," Joe says, getting up. "Get some sleep, kid." Just in time, he notices that Wally is half-sitting up, leaning in for a hug. He puts his arms around his son and holds on tightly before he leaves the room.

Trust is an interesting thing, Joe thinks. Getting Barry's trust had taken ages and been a gradual process. With Wally, all the fighting had happened at the very beginning, and now he's become like a wide-open book that wants to be filled with all the love and care that can fit on the pages.

As he leaves the room, Joe thinks of Iris, satisfied that she's safe and sound, but he can't help also thinking about the other Iris—his little girl in Earth-2 who has no father any more. They say she's not really his, that she's a different daughter of a different father, but it doesn't make any sense to him. She's still Iris, and he wishes he could go give back that hug Barry had delivered from her.

But she has Barry. Neither version of Barry Allen has powers now, but they're both heroes. The Iris on Earth-2 is a lucky woman, and Joe can't wait for the day when his own Iris sees what she has, too.