The Flash is only faster than a speeding bullet if he can see it.
He didn't see it.
Iris did.
She didn't have a name to scream because he'd never told her his name. She'd asked, again and again, first out of curiosity, then out of flirtatiousness, and finally out of exasperation. "What do you want me to call you?" she'd said. He'd shrugged. "You're the one who came up with it," he'd said, "so call me what you named me."
When Iris saw one of the dozens of men he was facing off against pull the trigger, she didn't call out a name. Instead she screamed—a wordless, bottomless sound, torn from somewhere in her she hadn't touched before. Instead of speaking, Iris acted. She threw herself at the Flash, used her body to knock him out of the way. The bullet hit her instead.
"Iris!"
She'd never heard her name dressed in such tones before. Full of anguish and desperation and panic. The Flash screamed her name and the place was enveloped in his red lightning. Mere seconds and the men he'd been taking such care not to hurt before were splayed, haphazard bodies on concrete.
Iris had never realized before that she was made of flesh. Barry had told her once, "Do you know we're made of the same stuff that stars are made of? It's true, look," and then he'd gone off on a series of explanations about supernovas and atoms. He liked to make poetry out of science for her. Iris wasn't made of stars. She was made of muscle and bone and blood. She was made of pulp. The pain from the bullet spread from her gut, spread like her blood was spreading, warm, sticky on her skin, clinging to her clothes, dyeing them dark. Her pulse in her throat was thick and slow. Sweat slicked her forehead and neck. She could not control her body. The shock of the pain was so intense that she went rigid, then limp, and for moments all she could see was pure whiteness.
The Flash knew her name, even though all he'd ever called her was "Ms. West." He'd known her name even before their first meeting, when all he was to her was a hope burgeoning in her chest, a belief that decency and goodness were enough to make a person a hero; when all she'd wanted was to close the distance yawning between her and her best friend, and prove that she wasn't wrong to want more, to look for more, to grab fistfuls of the hope he brought her and open her palms to share it with the world.
Now his arms came around her. Now she felt his thighs beneath her. Now she felt him solid against her. He pulled her up, held her to his chest and his heart was beating hard and fast. His embrace was so familiar. It was warm and safe. His arms were so long. They reminded her of home. They reminded her of—
"No no no no no no nononononono," the word spilled from his mouth until it became nonsense. There were tears in his eyes. He was crying. Iris reached her hand up to touch the bit of his face that his mask left exposed, and his hand scrambled up to hold hers there against his skin. "Iris," he sobbed her name. And then he let her hand go, reached up and pulled his hood back.
Barry.
Barry with his honest eyes and open face, so precious to her. But no, it couldn't be. Because she would have known. Because he would have told her.
"Barry?" She could barely breathe, and his name came with pain.
"Iris please, please, I'm so sorry, please, Iris, don't leave me."
"Barry, please." She didn't know what she was asking.
"Anything, Iris."
There was anger in her, and there was heartbreak. But the pain overwhelmed it all. She wanted it to go away.
"H-hold me," she asked.
He did. He curled over her, tucked her head beneath his chin, rocked her to and fro. He was shaking, Iris could feel his tears on her face, but she could hardly feel her body anymore.
"Barry."
"Anything."
"Kiss me? Please?"
He did. First her forehead, then her cheek, then her eyelids, now closed. Then one last, trembling kiss on her lips that he let linger.
