Zoom.
It's a name that chases Barry Allen in his dreams, a figure that hovers behind his shoulder, one hand clasped insidiously on the bone and then – crack, broken.
Barry tries to pull away and Zoom twists him like a ragdoll, a swift, world-ending pirouette that leaves him gasping for air, his spine contorted in a way he wished he never knew.
When he wakes in a cold sweat, he's alone.
Not really. A slow, painstaking glance around the room – and he can't wait for Caitlin to remove the neck brace – reveals shapes. One shape resolves into Caitlin, tapping away quietly at a computer; a hunched shape at Barry's side becomes Cisco, arms folded on top of his bed, sound asleep.
"Hey," he says – tries to. It comes out as a thin noise, but Caitlin's typing ceases immediately, her gaze meeting his half-lidded one.
She crosses the room and Cisco's awake now, too, sitting up and grinning. "Hey, buddy. Welcome back." He stands, letting out a long, satisfied groan as he stretches, arms over his head.
Sitting on the bed beside him, Caitlin asks, "How are you feeling?"
"My chest hurts," Barry admits quietly. Then, more pressing, he tries to sit up and asks, "Where's Zoom?"
"He disappeared after Cisco shot him with Harry's serum," Caitlin explains patiently, gently putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "It's very important that you maintain this alignment or there could be permanent nerve damage to your lower back."
"I need a drink," Barry rasps, tired, sluggish. "Where's – water, please."
"On it," Cisco says, vanishing from his sightline, the collar preventing him from following his movements. He can still hear him rummaging in the corner, humming to himself as he does so.
"What song is that?"
"Telephone."
Barry huffs. "Lady Gaga?" he asks.
"Your favorite," Cisco replies with a grin, reappearing with a water bottle and bendy straw. He puts the straw in the bottle and passes it to Barry, guiding his hand to his face but letting him be the one to take the straw and drink. He guzzles it down slowly, scarcely pausing between sips for breath, passing the empty bottle back. "Want another?"
"Please," he says, and his throat hurts, but it's an ache, and not a burn, and he can handle it.
"Don't drink too fast," Caitlin cautions, swapping an IV bag out for a fresh one. "You need to stay hydrated, but your body has been through a lot."
You're telling me, he thinks, gently shutting his body's alarms off, choosing to ignore what he can't change. "You've got me on painkillers," he remarks, a lilt of surprise in his voice.
She smiles sadly at him, running a hand so, so delicately through his hair. His eyelids flutter shut of their own accord, the contact enough to make the hitching quality to his breath ease a little.
"It was risky," she admits, "but the shock was going to kill you, and we needed a way to ensure it wouldn't do that as soon as you regained consciousness, so you're on a comparatively low dose of ibuprofen until you can tolerate the pain."
"What's a comparatively low dose?" he asks.
"About 4000 milligrams."
"As opposed to . . . ?"
"400 to 800, depending on the severity."
"Mmm."
He gratefully takes the second water bottle from Cisco, letting him guide it to his face and support his hand as it trembles.
Barry closes his eyes as he drinks, willing reality to vanish. He wants to believe it will: that he'll open his eyes and a grinning Cisco will clap him on the shoulder and tell him how crazy-awesome his latest stunt was; Caitlin will walk by rolling her eyes fondly and telling them off before ordering pizza (disregarding Cisco's complaint that she always gets to choose the toppings); Joe will smile and tell him that he's reckless but he still has a good heart before hugging him; and Iris will hug him even tighter and drag him off for a celebratory coffee and that's when he'll know the day is done.
Another job well done for the Flash.
He releases the empty water bottle and Cisco removes it; lets himself breathe for a few moments, pretend his daydream exists—
Then there's a crack, and it's his spine, snapping under Zoom's hands with the same inexorable force of gravity (except gravity is weak and Zoom is incredible, nuclear, holding power between his hands with the same ferocity of atoms holding themselves together; he could tear apart the very fabric of the universe if he wanted to).
He tore apart the Flash and humanized him to a world who needed someone better, someone who would stand up to Zoom and make justice prevail.
He couldn't save his mother, he couldn't save Ronnie or Eddie or any of the countless victims of meta-human crimes, and he couldn't save Central City from the menaces on other worlds. He couldn't even save himself: he was only alive because Cisco took a shot at the right moment and Zoom went down, vanishing before any of them could react. Had Cisco not intervened, Barry wouldn't be alive; without Caitlin, he would have died a slower, equally painful death within hours.
Opening his eyes and taking in their solemn expressions, he draws in a shallow breath and says in a slow, husky voice, "Thank you for saving my life."
"Of course," Caitlin replies. And then, equally seriously, she adds, "You fought so hard to stay alive, Barry. You can't discredit the fact that you survived." She squeezes his hand lightly and he nods, breathing slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check because he already feels vaguely sick and crying will only make it worse.
But the tears come and he has to breathe through it, trying not to let his emotions overpower him. Zoom is still out there and he stands little to no chance of beating him, assuming he even survives their next encounter; Patty has no idea why he's been gone for three days; and –
"Patty," he says aloud. "I have to – I have to call her." He tries to sit up again, instantly regrets it, folding slowly back onto the bed.
"Easy, dude," Cisco chides, passing him a tissue and pretending not to notice as Barry dabs at his eyes. "I already took care of it."
Barry groans in spite of himself, a soft, comical sound. "Please tell me Caitlin made up the excuse."
"I wanted to give you ebola, but she said the flu would be more reasonable," Cisco assures. "So we met halfway and I told her you developed a rare Lyme disease –"
"You have the flu," Caitlin interjects firmly, helping him get readjusted on the pillows. He scarcely moved an inch but the fire races across his back, making every nerve scream, and it's an effort to keep his mouth shut even when he's still, breathing shakily through his mouth. "You okay?" she adds, suddenly concerned. "You look really pale."
"And that's saying something," Cisco adds helpfully.
"I might – need a bucket to throw up in," Barry admits.
They find a little trash can and he empties his guts into it, tears streaming soundlessly down his cheeks as Caitlin helps him adjust to a slightly elevated position, just enough so gravity doesn't choke and disarm him. Once the fit passes – even though the pain scarcely diminishes – Caitlin takes the trash can away and Cisco says, "How can we make this more comfortable for you?"
It's a question he isn't expecting, a kindness he doesn't fully believe he deserves – they kept him alive, they brought him back from the farthest edge he could stand on, reached out and caught him when he should have died – but he still responds to.
"It's bright," he rasps.
"Dim or dark?" Caitlin asks, moving towards the light panel.
"Dark."
She carefully adjusts a setting and it's darker, yes, like dusk, just light enough to see other people, not bright enough to make his head throb anymore.
"I may need to turn those on again to monitor your vitals," she warns.
"That's fine," Barry says, eyes closing, a slow, almost satisfied stupor slipping over him. "This is better." Letting the silence sink in, he adds quietly, "Music would actually be really nice."
"I could sing," Cisco volunteers, moving around in the dark. "Or play the ukulele, to spice things up a bit."
"As amazing as that sounds . . . ." Barry surrenders the thought to oblivion, too tired to complete it. Thankfully Caitlin catches his meaning and after some fiddling, an unseen performer assumes position at a piano and music fills the air, a brush of feeling, an undercurrent to break the soft hum of machinery. Barry's shoulders relax as he listens, grateful that Cisco and Caitlin are capable of entertaining themselves for a time as he lets the world pass him by, a passive listener.
He's forgotten them entirely when a low growl infiltrates his thoughts. Zoom stabs him through the chest, driving the needle deep and turning it into a sickening tool of impalement.
Barry tries to sit upright, to push it back, pull it out, anything to make the pain stop, but Cisco is there, holding his shoulders down carefully and telling him, "Hey, hey, it's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay now. Nothing's gonna hurt you. Zoom's gone."
Zoom's gone.
Feeling shaky and cold and sick with the memory, he stares at Cisco and asks slowly, "How long was I out?" Nine months?
"A couple hours, give or take," Cisco replies, and Barry lets out a delicate sigh of relief.
"Your vitals are already improving," Caitlin remarks, and he can't really see either of them, his eyes are too hooded, but he can feel their presence close by. "It'll probably take all night before you start to feel an improvement, but I feel a lot more confident calling you 'stable.'" She squeezes his hand lightly and he squeezes back, grateful for something to hold onto amid the instability; she releases it too soon, but she's still close by, still close enough that he can reach out and delicately grab her sleeve if he needed to get her attention.
Instead he focuses his attention on the one thing he hasn't dared ask. "What about my legs?" he asks, pressing forward to face his fears, to confront Zoom out loud before he quietly destroys him in the dark, over and over and over.
Caitlin hesitates. "You should have full mobility back."
"Should."
"That serum was powerful; it was meant to take down a speedster even faster than you are," Caitlin elaborates. "You're healing, but a lot slower than you're used to, and because of that there's a chance that the damage could be permanent."
"Permanent." Barry tries to digest that, feels like throwing up again. "I might never run again."
"Hey." Cisco hands claps onto something softly, and it's only when he apologetically squeezes Barry's shoulder instead that he realizes that he meant to give his leg a consoling pat, a gesture Barry can't feel, he can't feel anything below his waistline. "You're the Flash. We're going to get you back on your feet."
The way he says it, it's a promise.
He steps back and Barry misses the contact, the assurance that he's not alone in the dark, but he can feel him close by, and Caitlin's close, too, checking a monitor.
A tightness in Barry's chest eases as he sighs and says softly, "You should go home. Get some sleep."
Cisco laughs, a deep, contagious belly laugh, and it isn't until Caitlin lightly smacks him on the shoulder – "Um, ow" – that he snorts and quiets. When Barry doesn't reciprocate his levity with a humoring grin, Cisco deadpans, "Oh my God you're actually serious."
"Even if we wanted to leave – which we don't – you still need someone to look after you, Barry," Caitlin adds. "We worked very, very hard to undo what Zoom did. Don't undo what we're doing to help you."
"Besides," Cisco interjects, opening a can of soda, "we haven't had a sleepover in like, ever." He takes a sip and Barry is almost jealous, almost envious of his ability to just be normal and okay while he's hurting, aching to his core, but it's gone almost as quickly as it comes. He just wants to go home, to have Joe hug him good night, to feel Iris' warm embrace, to know that he's safe under their roof. Nothing can hurt him when they're around. But he's got Cisco and Caitlin and maybe they're not Joe and Iris, but they're close, a complementary second that make him feel just as loved and protected.
"This is the worst sleepover ever," Barry grumbles, good-humored, and Cisco snorts.
"I could have brought the ukulele."
"Please don't."
"I mean, I do have –" There's a momentary shuffle as he taps around on a tablet, pulling up a file. "This," he finishes.
"You come prepared," Barry says hoarsely, amused.
"Damn straight." Clearing his throat, he asks, "You ever read Game of Thrones before?"
"Once, but it's been a few years," Barry rasps.
Cisco hums, clears his throat, and begins to read.
Caitlin has to turn the lights up slightly to check his blood pressure, oxygen levels, and temperature, among other things, but Barry compensates by shutting his eyes, listening to Cisco's voice trace a time and place outside of his, triumphs beyond his ability to touch and concerns of a different world lulling him away from Central City, from The Flash, from Barry Allen.
He drifts and Zoom tries to find him but Oliver and Firestorm flank him, forming a living shield that lets him limp towards his destination, concealed in the shadows of his dream until he reaches a door and pushes it open slowly.
"Hey, slugger," his dad greets, and he can still feel Zoom in the distance, biding his time, but it's less terrifying amid the daylight is streaming in, the darkness fading as he smiles wearily and lets himself into his childhood living room.
"You should go," Barry tells his dad, "it's not safe for you here."
Henry laughs, rich and open, and says, "Barry. I'm safe because I have you."
"I can't protect you," Barry says, feeling choked with his own helplessness.
"Not alone," Oliver agrees, clasping his shoulder; "but together," Firestorm finishes, burning bright at his side.
When he blinks up at the ceiling, awakened for a third time that night, he knows two things: it's late and the world is very quiet. Except: he can hear Cisco's soft snoring nearby, Caitlin's hushed, delicate breathing a comforting contrast at his side. Joe is there, too, snoring in his seat. He'll have a terrible crick in his neck and Barry wants to wake him, but he can't find his voice, and it's so quiet, and he doesn't want to disturb any of them, not when it feels like he's finally, finally safe.
Zoom is still out there – and Zoom still has the capacity to destroy him – but he has a safe house, a place to retreat when the storm closes in, and it exists wherever they go. They're not going to leave him, and no one's going to hurt him, and it's not true, but it's a dream he can chase back down, only peripherally aware of Joe waking and closing a hand around Barry's.
"I've got you," he says, and Barry feels it closing in, warm and protective, a sleepy barrier against the world. "It's okay, Bar."
The very last words he hears before he slips under are, "I'll be here."
And that's all he needs to know that he's going to be okay.