A/N: Originally I was envisaging something like '5 times Cait and Savi bond over drinks and the 1 time they don't need to' but it diverted from that. Drinking is definitely a theme in this fic though - and not always healthy amounts - something they use as a prop to time spend together. Despite drunkness featuring this fic isn't really a humourous one, more melancholy.

Content warning for some of Savitar thoughts being quite depressed in parts briefly (edging on suicidal in one case) because the more he comes back to himself the more shame he feels about his actions, but it is overall hopeful and ending with him in a better place.

Since this is canon divergent, I'm going for a different take on the how to get a speedster drunk issue than S4 did. I cannot take credit for the idea of the medication Caitlin suggests, that came from another author who really knows their medical stuff, RedQ – I really recommend her writing. She often does very heavy whump fic for Barry, but also has a humour fic called "There's Something About Barry " which is where I saw that medicine crop up in. Also, if you like Savitar fic she has a fantastic alternative Savitar origin story called "The Pawn" (but be warned it is pretty harrowing).

Big thanks to shyesplease for betareading.

Making Time

The time is long past when Caitlin should have gone home. He's spied her milling around the Cortex, making busy. She's been waiting for him to finish. He swipes the towel from nearby and sits down on the treadmill in lieu of anywhere else nearby, having broken a light sweat after training – he doesn't need to get faster but there's always an edge of competition between him and Barry, so he likes to try.

Caitlin and him are the only two around, and the way she's been all day, head in the clouds, he really does wonder why she hasn't left. He has a pretty good idea of what's been bothering her. He hears her get up again by the clack of her heels, but he judges by the duration and direction of the noise that she's gone to the medbay rather than stray further afield. She returns not to her desk, but to his room, holding two uncapped beers. She promptly sits down next to him and offers one.

"You know that does nothing for me."

Caitlin half shrugs like she doesn't care. "What about the taste?" she asks, but he doubts she cares about that either.

He raises an eyebrow yet takes the beer anyway, or else she'll be drinking both, which under other circumstances could be amusing, but not now. He doesn't feel like arguing about having a beer today.

He knows how it would go anyhow. He'd brush it off, she'd tell him he owes her, because she knows he feels he does, in the parts of him that are still rebelliously Barry Allen. He can never stop feeling that guilt. He'd masked the feeling with anger when he'd been on a path of vengeance, but he doesn't have that to fall back on now. Being here is making him soft again, vulnerable whilst those gaping wounds of his heal.

Overall, she doesn't treat him like he remembers her treating him as Barry. She's gotten a lot more blunt for his sake, adapting to his temperament. She doesn't let him get away with lies and excuses, things to cover up his pain and push people away. The others are learning this too, but Caitlin saw through him first: she has a headstart there.

He has a lot of memories, and there are a lot of memorable dates to go with them, but he still remembers what this date means – the singularity, the day he toyed with the idea of saving his mother and passed it up in favor of all the good he had in his life. Somehow he'd forgotten about that by Flashpoint, too consumed with fresh grief for his father.

They sit in silence, knee to knee, uncomfortable perched on the edge of the piece of equipment. Caitlin takes another swig, already near the end of her bottle, and then laughs. It comes out more like a snort, and she spews some her drink. He looks to her, incredulous, as she wipes her mouth, though he can see the amusement creasing her eyes.

"I lost the love of my life. You lost the love of your life. Another way we're alike."

His mind catches on the last sentence, wondering what is on the mental list she has created that is implied by it. They have a darkness in common, not that hers is often evident now she has Frost under control again. What else has she been comparing and contrasting about them? Why does it matter to her? Is it fear lying in the back of her mind, about how far she could go if she lost control? Is she looking to him for lessons on what not to do? He leaves the many questions be, he can contemplate this new development on his own time.

"Lost makes it sound like she's gone, not boning another more naive version of myself somewhere else in the city."

He sees her roll her eyes a little, most likely exasperated at his willfully misconstruing her comment.

"I meant we both saw the people we love die in front of us."

"Here's to happy endings," he says sarcastically. He gets a swat at his head in return, easily deflected with his speed if he cared to, but he lets her have that for his choice to be obnoxious and vent a little of his bitterness.

He eyes her without moving his head, trying to be surreptitious about it - she doesn't seem upset, or at least no more than the rest of the day. There's a small teasing smile on her lips that makes him feel a touch grateful they can share something of their pain together, easing their burdens. Sometimes when he is with her he feels like he doesn't have to pretend; to be quite so thoroughly not Barry, nor to hide all the most glaring ways he really isn't anymore.

It's May 23rd and he's been on edge all day. Perhaps that's as much to do with the fact everyone has been on edge around him. Unusually, no jokes are cracked in his presence. There's an undercurrent that feels almost like fear – a reminder of what he is capable of. He keeps his head down, wishes he could forget, but there's no good amount of distance apart from time and it has been merely a year since they'd broken with fate.

He knows Caitlin hasn't forgotten either, yet it feels like she might have, judging by how she pops up in his workshop, brimming with barely repressed energy.

"I thought we could go out for drinks," she says perkily, though he notes she clutches her bag tighter belying the casualness of her voice. "Celebrate everyone being alive."

He's skeptical of the idea, peering up at her with no reply, until she bites her lip and he can tell there's more to this than he currently knows.

She looks triumphant and like she's resisting a full out grin as she desposits a small prescription bottle down on the desk next to him, as if it's meaningful.

"Fomepizole. It's a competitive inhibitor of the enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase, meaning it will inhibit the breakdown of the alcohol in your liver-" she pauses for the briefest breath before continuing, "-without affecting the rest of your metabolism."

Caitlin stands in front of him, bright eyed at this breakthrough, and he wonders if he's the first person she's told. It feels like it. It feels like for once he's come before Barry, that his existence is not relegated to an afterthought - an inconvenience that must be dealt with.

He decides attempted oblivion would be nice.

He drinks too much too fast, and for whatever reason - solidarity perhaps - Caitlin tries to keep up. A few drinks in, she convinces him to go for outlandish cocktails and he doesn't resist because it doesn't matter much what form the alcohol comes in.

She's rambling in no time and he doesn't even hear most of it, but it's comforting, providing a background sense of companionship he rarely gets. He stops drinking more for her benefit than his own, being better aware of the effect it is having on her and recognising they're both past the line of what is a good idea.

As he starts to slowly sober up, his focus drifts back to her enthused ranting about a drug that could in fact sober them up in no time at all. Science never seems to fail to bring out the passion in Caitlin Snow.

"But no, we can't have that! Because...because people would kill themselves with it. By accident. Drink, sober up, drink, sober up, drink, fall down dead. Bam! Because people are-"

"People are stupid," he preemptively agrees, finding his words coming out strangely - not quite slurred but not as smoothly derisive like he intended.

"But...they don't mean to be," she says, bobbing her head, clearly aiming to defend humanity from his judgment, "They just don't know neuroscience. They don't know...what's good for them."

And he turns to her to find her big brown eyes staring up at him, like she's waiting for something in return, but he doesn't know what it is - what to say. She has this quality about her that at times like this makes him uncertain, because he doesn't know what she expects from him. He just knows she expects something more. She doesn't give up on him like his critical inner voice often tells him people should.

"I don't feel so good."

The spell of that odd moment is broken by the sense of deja vu her quiet admission invokes.

There's no karaoke this time and it's him who is drinking to forget. Probably both of them will regret it in the morning, but he isn't sure it's just the hangover he'll regret. He hadn't wanted to feel again, but Caitlin and co. are pulling him back in. She's attempting to build something new upon the ruins of a friendship that is from long ago. It would be easier not to care, but it doesn't seem like she's giving him a choice. At least that's how he justifies it to himself, for why he doesn't push back against her efforts. He doesn't draw her closer either though.

He speeds her back to her apartment door and leaves her to her own devices because he's not Barry and he doesn't want to retread old ground.

They make it a habit.

When the date of Ronnie's proposal to her comes around, they pass the evening together drinking in the woods Ronnie once spoke those words in, with Caitlin reminiscing tearfully about her late husband. He's not there to provide a peptalk, be a shoulder to cry on, or do some other Barry Allen-esque condolence. That's not what they're being to each other thesedays. He barely says a thing himself. What he does is the very basic function he can perform, of being there, letting her be heard, letting her pain be seen, recognised for what it is. He's learnt it can be enough to dull the misery.

She in turn distracts him on Barry and Iris's wedding anniversary, deciding to regale him with some truly atrocious singing at the bar she takes them to. All the better to mock; he's not as polite about her 'talents' as Barry would be. He thinks she knows and takes advantage of it to prevent him wallowing.

And when he sees her hands shaking, unable to stand being anywhere near the breach room one day randomly, he recalls watching Zoom destroy her happiness in front of her there – a hand as surely cutting through her heart as it had through "Jay's". He knows sometimes memories resurface so vividly when you least expect. He takes her hand to still it, a glance up to check if it is what she wants. Their silent communication is an echo of the old friendship in him, and he leads her away from there, away from S.T.A.R. Labs, no questions asked. The only thing he does that day is take her as far away from the pain as it's possible to.

Any time one of those kinds of dates - of heartbreak or of grief - comes up, one of them will find the other, make it known subtly and take some time out, usually drinks included. He doesn't always take the enzyme inhibitor when they do, but it's an option she keeps open for him and he's grateful to have the possibility. Occasionally, he simply doesn't want to remember what's in his head - he has so many lifetimes of painful memories, full of shame and regret.

They share these melancholic moments with each other, with no pretenses and dry gallows humour. He'd given in to this at first because he couldn't bring himself to pull away from what she offered, what she needed, but strangely enough he finds it makes it easier for him too, to live with how his life is, knowing there is always this to fall back on when the bad days strike.

They don't do normal celebrations. He ignores her birthday, knowing others have that in hand. Others – her friends and family - they will tease a smile, congratulate her. That isn't what they do, they commiserate.

He stays away from them all for Barry's birthday - not able to share in a day it will feel he's encroaching on and is denied ownership of. He also stays away for the solemn date no one knows here: when another Barry created him to die. That's the closest he has to his own birthday - a day that he doesn't have it in him to celebrate and he can't burden Caitlin with to commiserate. He can't paste a convincing wry smile over the overwhelming pain the thought of that day causes. No morbid jokes could disguise the wondering it inspires about if he had died as intended, if it would have been better for everyone.

He knows she would tell him to look at what he does have, what he's gotten back of a life he'd been so close to ruining. Perhaps he doesn't share this day and the thoughts it brings because he wants one thing to himself, even if it is to mope hopelessly about. He's gotten used to opening up to her again, differently than when he was Barry, but he knows what is in store when he goes to her. He doesn't hide in the shadows of his darkness, and she doesn't pretend to be perfectly controlled. They accept what each of them is, everything right down to the ugly. Anger and bitterness are old friends they settle into, emotions made more mellow as their burdens lift over time with the act of sharing.

Somewhere in amongst the time he and Cait spend together, he starts to want excuses to do what they do, but he doesn't look for any additional ones because it wouldn't feel right somehow. There is a routine to it - a definition he won't break.

He's comfortable with the level of attachment he has to the people around him, anything more would test his limits. He still doesn't want to care, but he's accepted it as inevitable he will and can even see that it could be a strength if he let it, some day far, far in the future. But he's not ready to fall back into that pit of emotions he used to live with daily. For one thing, he's severely out of practice, his emotional range still stunted and mostly consisting of the negative, working up to barely past indifference, except where a victory is concerned. So he'll control this descent – he can be measured about it, retain his boundaries, make sure it doesn't go sideways. He can't afford to let things get away from him, enough is unknown as it is in this divergent timeline.

He doesn't know how Caitlin feels about their time together, about the tentative connection between them. She doesn't push for other interactions than their commiserating, so he presumes it is all she needs from him. There's an unwelcome pang at that thought, but also a little pride that it appears to be something she can't get from the others - it's theirs alone.

Eventually he starts to realise there is something else she can't get from any of them here. She never says as much, but he sees the signs that indicate she is trying to date again. She's twitchy about hiding her browsing on her phone in breaks, and there's the anticipation at the notifications too - bitten down smiles over text messages as she attempts to curb her giddiness. Then there is the change of shoes in her bag some days, ready for her to switch into more fashionable, less practical ones than the ones she tends towards in this job. Fancier jewellery gets swapped in and makeup touched up in the bathroom before she leaves, indicating she's off out post-work.

When she starts to get antsy about how long the mission is taking one evening, clock watching and lamenting about it from time to time, he knows he can't be the only one aware that something is going on. There are some looks shared between Cisco and Iris when Cisco gets back, Barry having gone to Iron Heights to secure the meta captured. Neither mention what they've noticed, leaving it up to Cait to bring it up when she is ready to. Iris fixes him with a curious look as Cait strides out, obvious that she knows he knew too and has an opinion on it he can't be bothered to decipher. He avoids the whole team for a few days following that exchange, not willing to get sucked into the drama.

He expects Caitlin will tell him when she needs him next, like he would for her, like they've done for each other the last year or more.

She doesn't, but she's no good at hiding her disappointment. She's there later than she needs to be and she keeps looking at her phone. He can tell by how she's dressed up her work outfit and added fresh, darker makeup, that she had plans. And yet she's still here. He watches her fish out her phone one more time and unsuccessfully ring someone up - a call which goes directly to voicemail.

He stands in the middle of the Cortex, hands in his pockets and says nothing.

She sighs and admits her defeat, "I was stood up."

It's the first time she's spoken about her going on dates and he doesn't know what she wants him to say when she hasn't appeared to want anyone to say anything about this development of hers in general. Should he put forth a pathetic and pithy 'sorry' he isn't sure he means precisely? He can't do a mushy heart felt commiseration, and he doubts a verbal lashing at the guy who dared to stand her up would go down well when she tends to see the good in everyone; she'd probably defend the guy, able to think of a dozen reasons not to be mad. Should he be putting forth cheesy superlatives to boost her self-esteem after the hit it has taken? That's not his style though. He's out of his depth. He doesn't even know how he feels himself.

Caitlin continues, filling in the silence, "I don't have a ride home. He was meant to pick me up here."

Knowing Cait, he doubts that is her fishing for a lift, but it inspires him anyway. A plan forms. He flashes in and out in the blink of an eye.

"We're going for drinks," he tells her, and she stares at him, mouth a little agape with surprise.

"You changed," she points out meekly.

He half rolls his eyes, mostly avoiding her gaze as it tracks over the dark grey three piece suit he'd paired with an equally dark blue shirt. "Didn't want to be underdressed," he retorts, indicating to her own relatively fancy attire. Despite the perfectly reasonable explanation, she seems a bit stuck on this detail. He supposes it isn't common she sees him out of the dark denim and tshirts that are practically a uniform for him, more so even than his polymer suit Cisco had made him once he'd been reintegrated into the Team Flash structure.

She looks uncertain how to take his invitation. Maybe he'd read it all wrong and she does simply desire going home - solitude. When that worry occurs, he has to swallow down a spike of dissapointment of his own, and the looming sense of embarassment at having made an effort. He blanks his mind as quickly as possible, aiming to distance himself from those alien emotions. He tries to be patient, to not assume what she wants, as he walks around to her side of the console. He stretches his hand out, wondering what exactly he's offering other than his willingness to do what she needs.

For him it feels like an eternity, doubt starting to suffocate his confidence at the action as it drags on. In truth, the moment spans just a couple of seconds before Caitlin takes his hand, her cool fingers wrapping around his warm ones steadily. The gesture chases away his doubt and prompts her to find her voice again, "I know a new place we can go."

He takes them to the upmarket cocktail bar she gives directions for and is pleased to see her glee at the extensive menu. He doesn't have any of the concentrated Fomepizole with him, meaning the drinks are much more for her benefit than his but he joins in despite that, able to enjoy the taste at least. There's a niggling thought about whether he should try to help set her up, whether that fits what their relationship is. Logically, she could find someone to drown her sorrows with here, a substitute for her anticipated date, but she seems content to do that with him...Then she blurts out much the same thought in reverse, trying to do that for him, which has a weird type of irony there.

"I could be your wingman!" Caitlin exclaims, like it is a brilliant idea she's been bombarded with and can't wait to share. "Wing-woman. Wingperson?" she asks, getting distracted by the insignificant detail of what to call her suggested role. She's already over the line of tipsy and into the next category of drunkenness, so he flags up the bartender and orders two mocktails as he ignores her rambling.

"You don't like the idea?" she questions, pouting, somehow taking personal offense at his indignant rejection of it.

"I'm not exactly boyfriend material. I don't just have baggage, I have a cargo plane of issues," he deadpans, hating the truth and the sentiment of the statement.

"So, what, you plan to be alone for the rest of your life?" she asks, with a duck of her head as she does and emphasizing her disbelief with a raise of both her eyebrows at the same time. "That's a long time for a speedster you know," she points out, clearly disapproving. She's clapping her hand over her mouth once she cottons onto the unwiseness of saying it quite so loud in quite such a public place. "Sorry," she whispers when she removes her hand. The pause between her reactions had allowed him time to think though, for which he is grateful.

"What they see when they look at me is never going to be what I am. The might fall in love with the lie. The truth is uglier." He aims to proclaim it as matter-of-fact, but the bite of it betrays how he really feels, the release angry and bitter. He'd worry if not for the fact she's already familiar with that side of him. It's nothing new to her. He still wishes somehow he could shake that off this once and sidestep her pity. He hadn't entirely meant to talk about his actual scars – the emotional damage was bad enough, would be hard enough for someone to get past – but he can't escape the notion of how the transmogrifier could hide them, yet anyone getting close would know the difference. Any pretense he could put up would have the illusion broken sooner or later.

When he dares look to her, Caitlin is pensive in an open and exaggerated way due to her inebriated state. As she worries her lip caught between her teeth, he wonders what she's going to say – tell him off for being pessimistic and defeatist, make an offcolor joke – he can't predict what is going to come out of her mouth.

"I don't mind them," she says softly, reaching over to touch the afflicted area. He sucks in a breath, caught off guard equally by her motion and her declaration. The pad of her thumb ghosts across his cheek gently and he has to turn away.

"You're used to them," he replies defensively, not wanting to examine further how her words make him feel. He assumes she's desensitized to seeing the mess of skin on his righthand side, that knowing what he used to look like she has become adept at imagining him as the man he once was.

"It was shocking at first...but only because I wondered if they hurt, what had happened to you, how else you were different. Now I know. You've shown me who you are." Caitlin pauses and she reaches out a hand to rest on his knee unexpectedly, a single point of contact he expects is meant to be soothing. They don't usually touch each other more than necessary. Crowded up against each other at times when they sit, his carrying her as he speeds, her for medical reasons, but he's avoided anything else, too conscious of how he might crave more if he allows himself that after countless years of loneliness.

Caitlin continues on, oblivious to how startled he is at her move. "You've changed in a lot of ways, but you've also been there for me. Sometimes it feels like nothing has really changed at all, not in the ways that matter."

He's staring into his drink as he lets the words sink in and then she's offering up what sounds like it should be a platitude but it doesn't seem trivial coming from her.

"I'm glad you're you."

"And what is that?" his curiosity has him asking, feeling a weight settling on him at her comment.

"Alive, and-" He sees out of the corner of his eye she punctuates that interruption with her finger in the air, moving to pick up her drink to raise in a toast. "-my friend."

As he chinks his glass with hers, she's smiling at him like she's grateful he exists, which is definitely a new experience for him. One that renders him virtually speechless for the short while until they call it a night.

He's long since realised that's what they are again – friends - but neither of them has ever spoken of it. They're not Barry and Caitlin, that they both understand. They're Savitar and Caitlin, a different breed of friendship entirely.

For the third year in a row he avoids the labs on Barry's birthday.

Understandably, he doesn't expect it when his doorbell rings and he opens it to find Caitlin Snow on the threshold. A six pack in one hand and what looks like a box from the 52nd Street Bakery in the other. The beer isn't that unusual for one of their commiseration sessions, but this isn't a day they do that for. Caitlin has always been elsewhere, she has always been Barry's friend today – yet here she is with what he suspects is cake in tow.

Is it commiseration or celebration – is it somehow both? She couldn't have missed how he gets around this day - the black mood that grows, the sullenness descending upon him, and then those retreating after the day passes. She's observant, she must know why it is difficult.

He doesn't say anything, peering at her standing there awkwardkly. She makes a small half shrug with one shoulder, as if to say 'why not?'. There are so many why nots on the tip of his tongue but he represses them and instead opens the door wide, letting her in anyway because he fears turning her away - he doesn't exactly have many people who would choose to visit him.

Caitlin's never been here before. No one has. He's been to hers, to Cisco's, to the West's when he can stand feeling like an intruder there. He's aware now that she has come into his space that there really isn't anything much to look at. He's never suceeded at making his apartment look lived in; he's barely tried in all honesty.

He'd bought the place with his share of Wells' inheritance that Barry had insisted on splitting with him – one of several deeds intended to "be fair," as if any of them could make up for all the things he can never have back.

The apartment doesn't even have any identifying items. Those belong to Barry and another life. He could've replaced the photos - duplicated them like himself - but those of Barry and Iris and Joe do not feel like they belong to him anymore, and those of his parents would not fit with the cover story designed for him. So what he is left with is an unnaturally clean space, edgy and impersonal, fixed with chrome and wood, and dull tones that match his wardrobe - his evolved style. Barry had once tried to gift him some of his favourite clothes but he'd spurned that peace offering. Like so much in Barry's life, they weren't his anymore – he's moved beyond those things. Or at least he intended to.

Caitlin deposits the box and the bottles on his coffee table and leaves to root around in his kitchen drawers for a bottle opener he could find in a fraction of a second. He leaves her to do it to delay the upcoming conversation he dreads. When she comes back in, she sits down on the couch next to him and pops the top off two bottles. She also settles down a container with the enzyme inhibitor in beside his beer. He doesn't hesistate to knock a pill back, eager for the haze it will bring him tonight, and downs two beers in quick succession.

"Woah there, take it easy," she says lightly, her concern evident and her hand starkly touching his shoulder.

The small action of her hand holding him back is unexpected. It makes him freeze, but he doesn't look to her, afraid she will read him too well if she can catch his eye. He doesn't have his sharp wit about him to hide how he feels tonight. He settles for the much simpler strategy of being a jerk – aiming to make her leave before he starts to get used to the idea she'll stay for him – but he can't drum up any vehemence, it falls flat. "You shouldn't be here."

Naturally, it doesn't deter her, her compassion overruling any annoyance at his brusqueness. "I wanted to be here. You don't have to be alone."

Her hand is still on his shoulder, pressing tenderly in what he thinks is meant to be a reassuring squeeze and then another is added to his person, her other hand finding its resting place on his knee. Caitlin has never been expressly a touchy-feely person. It takes time for her to warm up to people, but she hasn't ever shied away from him, a behaviour he'd guessed was a relic from her interactions with Barry. Tonight she's making a special effort for him though, reaching out not just by coming over or with their token beer, but with something just for him, some undisclosed dessert and an unrelenting intention to be there for him.

Today of all days, he wasn't expecting to get anything for himself and it breaks him down. He swipes another beer and drinks the whole bottle before he can think better of it. He can't deal with the sudden influx of emotions when he's been steeling himself for having nothing - being as good as nothing - on this day that has been empty to him, devoid of joy. He's only made up for a fraction of his mistakes in these last few redemptive years of his and the many he never will be able to make up for have left him with a guilt that does tend to overwhelm him. He hasn't felt he's deserved happiness for far too long and hadn't expected anyone else would think him worthy of it either anytime soon.

"Did you just...I think you've had enough."

Her hand is on his cheek, trying to turn him to her. He allows it but won't look up at her. From the corner of his eye he can see her studying him, trying to figure him out.

"Did you hear me? You don't have to be alone, Barry."

That gets his attention, his focus snapping to her, and he can see from the way she is looking at him, the calculated gleam in her eyes, that it wasn't a mistake to call him that.

"You're still Barry. You've always been Barry. A different Barry, yes. Older, darker and maybe not in name anymore because it'd be confusing, and besides you asked us not to-" She goes from strong to rambling in a relatively short amount of time. Resolve faltering, she looks away. He watches her intently, sees her take a deep breath, and she pulls herself back to the certainty she'd initially found, "-but you still get to be Barry Allen. You get to have your birthday, same as he does."

There is a welling emotion inside him he can't pinpoint. For a moment he considers how satisfying it might be to dash the empty bottles against the nearest wall, watch the destruction as if in slow motion. To make his mark on the world in some small way, litter the floor with pellets of glass, disrupting the visage of his characterless apartment with something as broken as he has felt. It isn't exactly rage he's feeling though and what bubbles up is a choked sob instead.

He's quick to mask his face in his hands, bracing his elbows against his legs, hiding himself away. He's never cried in front of Caitlin before. She's seen Barry's tears but she has only witnessed his anger, his bitterness, his wry reflection, never his full on despairing regret – he feels weak and exposed even though it can't entirely be a surprise to her. Part of him resents her bringing this pain to the forefront, wrenching it out of him with her pushy version of kindness that won't let him simply be. However, he can't find it in him to push her away when she shifts closer and cradles him against her. He leans into her embrace, clinging to her, as he struggles to breath through the waves of sadness that grip him.

"It's okay. It gets better, I promise. Just remember, you're not alone now, Savi."

He notes she's back to using his new name, or at least the shortened version of it only her and Cisco ever get away with using. She's usually drunk when she says it, otherwise proper in calling him Savitar in full; here it's not quite the same as it has been before, not playful like when she's intoxicated, but personal, affirming who he is to her.

After a while, he regains some control, wipes his tears away on his sleeve, and straightens up into a more usual hug, taking what comfort he can without showing his face. He still can't look at her, hiding from her gaze in the crook of her neck. As he tries to find a calm he's very much aware of both his breathing and hers, of how they've fallen in sync, and of just how intimate they are at present.

Caitlin brings a hand up to back of his neck unexpectedly and he feels the hairs there stand on end, a sense of energy surging between them. He withdraws a bit, his cheek brushing against her cheek as he does, making his breathing stutter briefly at yet more contact. He continues the slow withdraw just enough to look her in the eye, trying to read what's contained there but he doesn't recognise it, it's something new to him.

His lips are so close to hers, each tiny movement bringing them nearer, building up the anticipation of what is coming. He doesn't rush, letting her have time to stop him, but willing her not to.

When they finally meet, it is in a brief, experimental kiss - light and sweet, an invitation to more. Resting a little apart, he feels relieved knowing Caitlin had moved towards him too at the last second. They quickly fall back into each other's orbit, the second kiss turning heated as she pulls him hungrily to her with the hand on the back of his neck. He wants, and wants to be wanted, and she doesn't disappoint, showing him the same with her enthusiasm.

Eventually they stop, each breathless. That's when it gets awkward. Caitlin looks distinctly flushed in a way he could get used to, and she's also trying to avoid looking at him. She's asking if he wants any cake, and he suspects what just happened is something she needs time to process. She's not denying it, just leaving it be, something to deal with another time. Which he starts to think is entirely sensible when the room is suddenly spinning.

"Cake is not a good idea unless you want it on your shoes."

That dispells the tension in the room, getting an admonishing look from her at it, and then she's tugging him up, guiding him to the bedroom.

"Time for you to sleep this off," she says, sounding like she's slipping into her doctoring persona.

When they get to the bedroom he speed changes out of his jeans, not wanting to sleep in them, but leaves on his boxers and a tshirt, so as to not give Cait the wrong idea by sleeping in nothing like he normally would or undressing in front of her in a noticeable manner. He speeds into bed too, so she doesn't have a chance to see how thoroughly he was affected by her. He almost throws up for his efforts.

Caitlin approaches him to sit on the side of the bed and looks bemused at his seemingly unnecessary use of speed and its consequences. He manages to dampen the queasiness down and her amusement disappears rapidly, replaced by a seriousness, leaving the air thick with something unsaid.

"Stay."

It's not a demand, nor a plea, but something inbetween. He can see as she stares down at him it's a request she considers, but she also looks like she doesn't know what to make of it in the aftermath of their more or less sucking face.

He watches her leave the room without another word and ponders morosely if it was too much, an overstep on his side. He feels doubly sick at the thought and closes his eyes, intent to go sleep if he can and figure out the gravity of the situation when he's sober.

He wakes up groggily from his dozing a few minutes later to see Caitlin place a glass of water on his bedside table. He expects her to leave - her duty of care done in keeping him hydrated - but she walks around to the other side and climbs onto the bed, laying ontop of the covers, a choice he eyes with interest before he turns on his side under the covers.

As he is drifting off, he feels the springs move, and then dip again as she gets underneath the covers and curls up against him. There is a bizarrity to being spooned by Caitlin Snow whilst the room is still spinning for him, but it's a comfort to have her next to him. She strokes his hair gently and something in him feels like it is waking up - a flicker of hope inside his heart - something he's been missing, not because he couldn't have it, but because he wouldn't let himself have it. But maybe he can stomach it, maybe it's worth the risk. Whether he's recognised it or not, he's had something to lose again for a while; there's no point in refusing to see what's in front of him.

End note: If you're wondering what science Caitlin was babbling about mid fic when drunk it's a drug that's an EtOH receptor antagonist, Ro15-4513, developed as a sober pill that apparently does work to stop impairment caused by alcohol but doesn't stop some of the other effects of ethanol on the body. So if you were to keep drinking and taking the pill to sober up, then drinking more and building up the level of ethanol in your system, you could feel fine and sober because of the pill but there would still be increasing damage happening in the background to the lipid bilayer from the ethanol. And the lipid bilayer is vital for transmitting messages from your brain to your body for things like keeping breathing. That's a condensed version, there's a lengthy post about it over on tumblr from someone who studied neuroscience that I can point people to for anyone interested.