Barry's always prided himself on his speed, so it's a total surprise for him to lose sight of the pretty brunette as he weaves himself in and out of the crowd that's gathered outside the kitchen and spilling into the foyer.
At a breakneck speed, he runs, his signature trainers thudding lightly on the floor of the frat house, and into the chilly December night. He cranes his neck to the right and the other way, searching for the curls that were once bouncy but has now fallen flat, all thanks to his colossal mess-up. Barry winces slightly, and silently grateful that the girl hasn't thrown him a punch or a slap or made a mess of the situation. The inner gentleman in him isn't happy, and demands to seek out the girl that he was responsible for ruining her evening.
He has no idea where to find her—as he never even got her name, but the familiarity of her face, even as it seethed in anger, haunts him—and he uses his intuition, trusts it wholeheartedly, and heads out to the right, where the dorms line the long street.
He's still running, although not using his agility and speed to the maximum, and his breath huffs in small clouds of air. He still looks right and left for the girl—and he's hopeful that she didn't speed out into the night with a convertible he can't possibly place. He's not sure what he wants to do when she catches her though—maybe apologise and offer something in exchange for the terrible accident that took place—but all he wants to do is find her.
It's startling for Barry, as not an hour ago he was complaining about how tired he was, when now he's jacked up on energy and keen on finding that pretty brunette.
I should stop calling her pretty brunette.
He chalks up to the gentlemanly manners instilled in him from childhood, and decides that it's nothing but shame and woeful embarrassment he holds for the girl. All he wants is to apologise—and that's that.
Five buildings later and he's unsure whether he took the right course—perhaps she walked to the right, but Barry's luck holds out when he sees her once-straight-as-a-rod form, hunching over a maroon Corvette, fishing something out of small wristlet—maybe her keys, maybe her phone—and muttering curses.
Barry never got to look at her—but all at once, he knows that she's beautiful, and the flickering light of the lamp posts lining the streets of the university only accentuates her beauty. Even with limp hair and wet clothes, she manages to look classy, a feat that only a few could handle.
His decision is taken out of him—and he's uncertain whether it's the right thing to do, but all Barry wants to do is take her wherever she wants to go and know more about her than what they can share over a cup of beer.
His next words are careless and unoriginal—but he doesn't care. All he wants is for her to raise her head and look at him, pierce him with an icy glare or stare at him warmly, her choice, and he's sure the night couldn't possibly end better.
"Car trouble?"
Caitlin's had better luck than this evening, she thinks, and blames Iris and careless frat guys walking around for the accident that's happened.
She blames her rotten luck for landing her the task of being doused over by stinky beer by no other than Barry Allen—knows that she has no one else to blame but herself—but still doesn't take the edge off the irritation that borders around the fact that Barry Allen proceeded to ruin her perfectly nice night with an accident that she's sure he could've avoided, what with his athletic skills and lightning-fast reflexes.
But he didn't, and now she's inundated with anger and annoyance and smelly cheap beer from the frat house.
She smells like the normal college student who spent his or her whole night slumming it with shots and beer cups. And to think she didn't even have a sip. If she went home right now, her parents would throw a fit.
She smiles at the thought; Caitlin's perfect record messed up by an innocent—she hopes—accident. The air isn't biting, but Caitlin feels chilly in her deluged red dress, a trouble that she'd have to deal with once she drops it by the dry cleaners. She frowns, and it turns deeper as she pauses over Iris' car, fishing out her friend's keys in the miniature wristlet that adorns her thin, white wrist. All she finds is the red silk lining and her phone, and nothing else, and Caitlin almost rips out a frustrated scream at the nonexistent keys in her purse. How was she supposed to go home now? Caitlin contemplates the thought of walking nine blocks and a right turn back to their dorms, and her frown turns deeper until she's convinced she looks like a five-year old outside a closed playplace. Even with her feet slowly dying in her heels, she's sure she wouldn't last in her effectively drenched dress, and mutters curses to the granite. She still roots around her wristlet—praying silently that the keys would appear out of nowhere for her to drive home—but nothing appears, and Caitlin's convinced that the gods of luck must hate her tonight.
Caitlin thinks of her options at this point—either waiting for Iris and Eddie or going back to the darned frat house. Caitlin fumes at the thought of staying two more hours beside the Corvette—she knows her friend and Eddie would take their sweet time and probably make out for two solid straight hours—and realises that even though she's the designated driver between the two of them, Iris isn't probably returning home, choosing to stay with Eddie for the night. Her other option would be to walk back—pride shattered, dress soaked in alcoholic liquid—to the Delta Lambda frat house and ask for Iris' keys and leave. Caitlin thinks she can do all of those things in less than three minutes, but she doesn't want to face the stares. The pathetic stares thrown her way, or the questioning glances, or, God forbid, the patronising smiles they'll fire at her. She can take icy glares and daggers at her back, but not cooing words of sympathy and empathy as they pretend to care and pat her back.
She heaves out a huge breath and prays to God for a hero—anyone would be nice at this point—closes her eyes and snaps back her head when she hears a voice break the darkness of the night an her thoughts.
"Car trouble?"
She straightens her back and looks at her hero sent from heaven—and suddenly everything's shattered. She knows—hyperaware—that she asked for any hero, anyone, but she never thought the world would hate her as they sent the same guy twice the same night.
Caitlin takes a huge breath and raises her head slowly and looks in the amber eyes of her hero and antihero.
Barry Allen.
Again.