three days later
Caitlin taps her fingers against the polished desk. Her pens are neatly arranged by color shade beside her planner and her workbook. Her laptop sits, juxtaposed against her phone that only pings when Iris texts her or an email from her mom arrives. The former is something she's terrified of.
It's 8:06 in the morning, and the professor's late. The class was supposed to start six minutes ago, and her frown tells as much of her disapproval.
Professor Harrison Wells was a new professor to Midwestern; vigorous research has told her that he's worked a variety of science and technology, from molecular physics to neurobiology. He's an amazing doctor, engineer and neuroscientist—and he's late.
She finds herself pursing her lips in dismay, and quickly looks up when the back door opens. Her classmates pay no attention, but Caitlin cranes her neck and twists her body to see the person who entered the classroom. She looks out for salt-and-pepper hair and bespectacled eyes, but the sight that descends before her eyes are none of those things.
It's the same person that she's been avoiding thinking about these past three days.
Barry Allen smiles at her, his eyes shining with something mirroring amusement. Or annoyance.
It could easily be both.
Her mouth opens to ask him a question—
What are you doing here?
Why are you here?
Where have you been these past few days?
—but before she can find her voice, Barry's already beat her to it.
"Nice seeing you here, Caitlin."
"Allen."
"Ah, so we're back to that, huh?"
She wrinkles her forehead as Barry Allen invades her senses, towers over her and positions himself in her aisle. She's alone and there are still tens of other seats left in the room—why is he sitting beside her?
"Why are you here?"
"Well, I'm taking Biology 122, Cells and Genetics because it's a prescribed course."
"That's not what I meant."
"Well, do you mean in an existential sense?"
"No," she grits her teeth, and is annoyed with how his charming smile stays in place, that same shine in his eyes brighter. "Why are you sitting with me?"
Barry looks around the room, and cranes his neck. A group of girls whisper as they catch his gaze, and a blonde waves at Barry. He waves back, and the whispering commences. It makes Caitlin want to smack their palms away, and it shocks her.
Thoughts of those calibre shouldn't come to her; her bite's not nearly as terrible as her bark, and she's never been a violent person. But they do. When the blonde shoots her a raised eyebrow, she juts out her chin and gives the iciest glare she could manage. She turns her attention to Barry. "Seems like those girls know you pretty well. Why won't you sit with them?"
"It seems, Caitlin," he leans forward so that his elbows bump the edges of her neatly-arranged pens and his forearm brushes the edge of her desk, "that you're the only one I know here. Well, not that well. And I'd like to resolve that."
His green eyes stare into hers so intensely that she feels the room temperature rising. There's something about Barry Allen's gaze that's so hypnotic, something that makes her lean forward despite her initial hesitation and—
"I'm sorry, class," a breathless voice breaks the bubble, and Caitlin jerks back from her initial position so quick, it might have given her whiplash. She forces herself to fix her posture—back to the stiff stance of her shoulders. She hears Barry settle in beside her, his left elbows slightly touching hers as he pulls out things from his backpack. "I had to deal with some things earlier this morning, but better late than never," their professor reasons, and pulls out a sleek, handheld gadget that flashes an image in front of their whiteboard.
"I'm Dr. Harrison Wells, your professor for this course. I teach a variety of courses here at Middleton during my downtime, which isn't much," he says with a smile, and the class titters. "In this course, we'll be discussing genetics, cells, disparities and other things concerning—oh, hello, young man. Welcome to join us," he invites, and the whole class looks at a man entering the classroom, carrying a cup of coffee and a satchel on his right arm.
"Sorry I'm late, professor," he wipes his hair to one ear, and Dr. Wells waves his apology off.
"No problem. Just don't make it a habit like I do. Sit anywhere you like."
The man sits at the row directly above them, and whispers to them. "Hey. Has he given out a syllabus yet?"
Both Caitlin and Barry turn and shake their heads. "We just started," Caitlin says helpfully, and the man's smile widens. "Awesome. Guess the coffee run was worth it, after all. Oh, by the way, I'm Cisco." "Hey," they both smile, and Caitlin is flustered. "I'm Barry, Barry Allen." He reaches out a hand, and Cisco shakes it. "I'm Caitlin, Caitlin Snow," she says in the same fashion, and Cisco kookily grabs her left hand with his right, creating a cross with their interlocked hands.
"Nice to meet both of you," he says before he releases their hands, and groans. "Dammit."
"What is it?" Barry says in a hushed voice, and Cisco closes his eyes and massages his forehead. "Can't believe I sat next to a couple. You guys are just going to be smooching the whole time, aren't you?"
His comment makes Caitlin's eyes widen to saucers, and Barry laughs at her reaction. "We're not a couple," she says speedily, and Cisco's forehead wrinkles. "We're not even friends."
"Aw, Caitlin, that hurts my heart a little." Barry pretends to be offended, and she rolls her eyes upward.
"Are you guys messing with me or….." Cisco trails off, and Caitlin shakes her head.
"We're really not dating. Really," she says, almost pleading, and she doesn't catch the intense gaze Barry lands on her features, investigating her porcelain skin and every crevice and cranny decorating her eyes and lips. "Okay, 'cause you guys get pretty weird and intense when you look at each other."
"That's ridiculous," Caitlin mutters, and Cisco raises two hands. "I'm just sayin'."
"Mr. Ramon, is there something you'd like to share with the class?" Dr. Wells bellows, and Caitlin bows her head as she waits for Cisco to talk.
"Uh, nothing, Dr. Sorry," he says sheepishly, and the professor continues on about the necessary textbooks for Mendelian genetics. She picks up on the details and scribbles—neatly—on her notebook, her laptop unnoticed as her fingers shake.
The hour continues on, Barry and Cisco exchanging comments and jokes, with Barry relaying most of these to her. She forces herself not to smile, or react, keeping up her cold facade. She's an expert at blocking her emotions, and a well-delivered joke from Barry Allen—of all people—shouldn't chip away at her wall. She's just lacking sleep and the hormones in her body are going array. The increase of cortisol in her blood must have triggered the release of dopamine. It's biologically impossible, but she believes it the cause of her emotions.
Somehow.
The class ends and Caitlin picks up her black leather satchel, hurrying to stuff all of her belongings in disarray. Barry's taking his time, slow, languid movements as deft fingers pick up a pen and a single, spiral-bound notebook and place it in his bag—and she thinks of those deft fingers dancing up her wrist—nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
The cortisol levels must really trigger the release of oxytocin in her body, for her to think this way. Stop, she commands herself, and pushes herself to walk past Barry to go out of the classroom.
She only realizes it to be a bad idea, however, when every inch of her is pushed up against him.
She remembers that time when they were at the street-side parking, his jean-clad thighs pressed up against her bare ones, how his warmth transferred to hers as he bowed down to talk to her.
This is different, she thinks. So drastically different. The scent of his aftershave is fresher, more potent, hints of mint and sandalwood that shouldn't come together so fragrantly, but they do. From up close, she can see the freckles below his chin, constellations of it on his neck, and all she wants to do is trace them with her nose.
Caitlin. Stop.
"Caitlin?" she hears his breathy voice, and snaps out of her reverie, almost stumbling out the aisle. His hand is there, ready to catch her, but she untangles her ankles and forces herself to go up the steps. "Hey, where you going?"
"Home," she says curtly. She doesn't actually know where she's going at this point—but she knows she needs fresh air and probably two weeks without Barry Allen—without seeing him, smelling him, smiling at him.
It's already driving her nuts.
She hears the doors push forward after she exits, and rapid taps behind her make her turn odd corners. She knows Barry's at her heels, and as much as she wants to stop because her legs are burning (she really should ask Iris to go to spin class with her again), she doesn't. Stopping would mean confrontation, and while Caitlin's not one to back out of an argumentation, she's not in the mood to realize her feelings and thoughts about a certain attractive man.
About fifteen minutes of speed walking, she arrives at the library, and as she deposits her belongings, hears borborygmic sounds erupting from her stomach. Flashing a quick smile at the student assistant, she goes straight to the cafeteria and stretches up and above to rest her legs.
It's a fairly uneventful day, there's no milling around of students yet because lunch time's just about to arrive, and she grabs a tray from her left. She looks for something healthy—a Mediterranean salad, perhaps, or an apple—when another tray bumps hers. About to scold someone, she looks up, and gapes.
Barry Allen's found her, again.
No, not found. Followed.
"Why are you following me?" she hisses, and Barry just patronizes her. "I'm just here to get some brunch."
"You live in a fraternity. I'm sure your pantry is better stocked than some university cafeteria with stale food."
"Hmm, nah. Not really in the mood for Combos and beer. Besides, I need to eat some nutritious food to keep my brain going." He bumps her, ever so softly, and she almost freezes. She hides her shock by dumping food on her plate that she doesn't find appetizing at all.
"Your food choices are pretty unconventional," Barry notes as he follows her to pick out a table. She picks out the farthest from the water fountain—and is still surprised to see him following her.
"Stop following me," she snaps, and Barry shrugs.
"I'm not following you. I'm just looking for a table."
"You can sit just about anywhere."
"Yeah, but I'd rather sit with you. Economy of cleaning. You want to help out the staff, don't you, Cait?"
The nickname stills her. It's been one year since she's been called Cait, and while the emotions rush her, memories flooding her brain, it's a welcome auditory stimulus from Barry Allen.
And it surprises her.
It's on the tip of her tongue to say "Don't call me that," when Barry sits down at her favorite spot, the one farthest from the crowds and nearest the window that filters just enough sunlight for reading and warmth.
"Hey. Sit down," Barry tells her, and she sends a glare his way. Her legs apparently like the idea as they fold down the bench opposite Barry's, and their knees bump.
Static goes up her thighs and shocks her, but Barry seems to feel nothing.
She tries to bend her legs in an opposite manner to Barry's but it makes her legs cramp so bad. Crossing them would result in bruising her knees, so she settles for sparks. Er, static. Not sparks, she insists.
"So. Do you always like morning classes?"
"Yes. I find it a good discipline for the future."
"You don't like sleeping in?" Barry doesn't begin to eat, and instead focuses on poking a hole with his straw in his juice box. His concentrated stare and tongue peeking out the edge of his mouth makes him look so young, and so adorable.
Wait. No, not adorable.
Irritating. Incorrigible.
"I think a fair amount of sleep is enough to facilitate a day's activities."
"God, that sounds so sad. You should try staying up late, watching good movies and waking up late."
"And that must be a practice restricted to frat boys like you. No, thank you. I'd like to keep my routine as it is, thank you very much."
"As much as I hate pointing this out, please don't generalize us just because we belong in a fraternity. Not all guys are douches."
"Yes, but most men who join fraternities are."
"I see the change between guys and men."
"Yes. It's too bad you don't manifest it."
"Ouch," Barry says jokingly, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. To give him the time of day would mean succumbing to whatever he asks and says. And hasn't she done that enough?
"So," he continues, unwrapping his sandwich with deft fingers, "do you want to be my lab partner for Wells' class?"
"No," Caitlin answers in a firm tone, and his brow furrows.
Adorable.
No. No.
"Why not? I make a great partner. I'll bring you stuff you need, plus, I'm not exactly an idiot with two opposable thumbs," he says, and Caitlin blushes. Insulting him was the least of her intentions, and she has the greatest urge to grab his hand and apologize.
She only does the latter, stumbling with her words. "I, I didn't—I didn't mean it that way, I meant that I didn't want—I just—"
"It's okay," Barry chuckles. "I know that the Ice Queen has quite the reputation for working alone anyway." He takes a bite of his sandwich, and Caitlin's eyes widen in shock. She's not unaware of what she's called around the university, but for Barry Allen—personable, fun, Barry Allen—to tell her that she's the Ice Queen, stings through her heart.
"Is that so?"
"Yup," he tells her after chewing a mouthful of his sandwich (a virtue she appreciates). "You're either friendless or boring. Some even call you uptight."
"I am not uptight!" Barry only raises an eyebrow at her, and she feels her eyes widen. "You can't call me uptight."
"Pretty sure you are."
"I told you, I'm not uptight," she says, looking into his eyes, and she finds only humor in them.
"Prove me wrong, then."
"How?"
"Go out with me."
It takes a while for Caitlin to process the words as they are, but when she does, her jaw drops in shock.
Did Barry Allen just ask me out?