Some days Barry was so tired he didn't even bother to change into his civilian clothes before heading home. One such morning, early enough that it would be some hours before any alarm clocks would go off, he sagged against their door, fatigue in his shoulders and thighs, and frowned when he saw that he didn't have to turn the key in the lock to open it. He'd told Iris before that he didn't think she should leave the door unlocked for him; he came back late so often, and he didn't like the thought of her alone, without even this smallest of defenses. But he couldn't help the smile that came to his face, or how good it made him feel, to know that she'd left it like that thinking of him, and that when he closed the door behind him he could lock it and make his way to her.
In just a few hours he would have to head to work, the one that actually paid—for the house and the groceries, and one day for the diapers and trips to the doctor and the college tuitions. But right then he climbed carefully into the bed he shared with Iris, making sure not to wake her. Iris slept on soundly. Barry bent over her and pressed two kisses against her belly. One for Dawn and one for Don. Then he pulled his gloves off and settled behind her. He brushed his lips against her shoulder in a silent greeting and gently lay a hand on her waist. He was still unsure of how to touch her, even though she was showing now. He was still scared of hurting her, even though when he'd first told her this Iris had laughed and told him that if she could carry twins then she could pretty much take anything.
Barry hadn't wanted to have kids, for a lot of reasons. He wanted it too much, and that made him cautious. He didn't know what kind of a father he would be, if he could be as patient and kind as his own, or as caring and generous as Joe. He wanted to be good to them, to give them the kind of love he'd received. He was worried about what could happen to Iris. Pregnancy was always dangerous, and having twins only made it more so. They didn't know yet if their babies were metahumans. What would happen to Iris, if they were? Would it hurt her? Would he hurt her? The day she'd told him he'd started asking her every few minutes, "Are you all right? Are you ok?" and then, finally, "You don't have to do this. Not for me." But she'd squeezed his hand in hers and said, "I want this, Barry." Her confidence had been enough to reassure him.
But Barry had another lingering fear, one he didn't know how to tell Iris. He was scared he had the same destiny as his mother. He'd leave them one day, his wife and his kids, this family that was the world to him, that made him understand just how deep his love could go, and he didn't know what he could do to keep that from happening. The by-line had read "Iris West-Allen," and she was now, just like he was Barry West-Allen. But the headline Iris had written—would one day write—had said "disappeared." Each night Barry had to spend away from Iris, and now, away from little Dawn and Don, stopping a robbery at a gas station or keeping the police from giving a homeless man too much grief, the fear grew in him. He'd learned that he wasn't supposed to grow up with his mother's love, and that no amount of wanting it to be different would merit changing that. He didn't want his own children to have to learn the same.
Iris shifted in her sleep, turned so that she was facing him. Barry moved his hand and placed it on her stomach. She'd told him she'd felt them kicking, but Barry had yet to. Looking at her, with the covers kicked off because she was always so hot now, and her nightshirt a little too tight across her chest and stomach with how big she'd gotten, Barry thought again how beautiful she was. He always told her she was beautiful, but he hadn't really found the words to tell her what he meant. What he meant was that he celebrated every day knowing that she loved him. He meant that she'd saved him, and that he didn't regret a single day since he'd made the decision to come back to her, and let go of his childish dream of having the world exactly as he wanted it. What they had was good. It filled him with hope for Iris and their children. If he, of all people, stubborn and willful and strangely possessive of his loss as he was, could find a way to be truly happy, even as he missed a life he never had, then maybe he didn't have to worry about them so much. Iris and Dawn and Don, they could be happy, too, without him. He wanted that for them. He wanted it more than anything. He thought of his mother, and he knew she was proud of what he'd managed to do—found someone he loved, who loved him in return, and built a life with her.
Delicately, Barry ran the backs of his fingers over Iris's cheek. He reached over and gave her a chaste kiss on her lips. Iris's eyes fluttered open at that, and her face broke into a smile at the sight of him. And her smile reminded him that he was there, with her, and no matter where he went, he'd always find his way back to her.
"Hey," she murmured.
"Hey."
"Missed you."
"I'm sorry. I'm here now," he said, and as she scooched over as close as she could with her belly in between them to embraced him, "and I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
Barry kissed her forehead. "Promise."
*
Some days Barry was so tired he fell asleep in their bed with his suit still on, with only his mask down and his gloves off, so Iris could feel his skin when he touched her. That morning, as sunlight filtered into their bedroom, Iris watched him with a smile on her face, trying not to giggle at his soft snores and the way his face twitched as he dreamed. His hair was all messy, from the bed and from his hood, and she could tell right where his mask came to a stop, because his cheeks were smudged with some soot right underneath. He needed a shower and some Chapstick, and to change into some clean clothes, but he was still beautiful, her Barry, with his long lashes and thick brows, with all the worries he tried to keep to himself, and with the fierce love he had for her. He would have to get up soon, probably after she'd already left for work, but she didn't wake him. She kissed him instead, one quick, silly kiss right at his hairline, because she liked knowing that she could kiss any part of him she wanted, and then a softer, longer one on his lips, a promise of her own for him to keep with him throughout his day.
