but you are everything I need

The love of her life dies on a Tuesday and seven weeks and two days later, she finds her soul mate.

It's the worst kind of Thursday, not that there's been any other kind since the particle accelerator exploded, but this one seems particularly miserable. Caitlin's first to arrive at the lab, tidying up the mess that doesn't exist before she settles at her computer, strong coffee in hand, and begins the tedious task of combing through data and inventory, flipping through invoices and gathering the scattered remains of their lives and their work. Dr. Wells usually arrives at eight, prompt and timely even now, and Cisco scuttles in nearer to nine. They don't laugh or joke like they used to, there aren't enough voices to carry that kind of easiness, but they talk and it's comforting, this tiny piece of normal.

Today though, Caitlin slogs in a little late, more put out than usual given the poor weather. She grumbles through her usual morning routine and barely notices when Dr. Wells is late—it's not until Cisco arrives, loud and curious, that she realizes he hasn't come in at all.

It's enough to make her worry, brow furrowed and frowning, while they debate if they should call. "Maybe he's just having a rough morning," Cisco suggests, likewise looking put out and concerned, though his words and tone convey a degree of optimism that Caitlin has frankly given up on.

"Or maybe something's wrong," she cuts back, sharper then she really should be. Cisco means well, but Caitlin's vision refuses to widen to hope anymore, not when it's all been stolen from her. Her fingers shudder where they clutch her phone. It takes a moment to steady them enough for her thumbprint to register, and then she's scrolling through her contacts, avoiding Ronnie's place at the top of her favorite list with the heart clenching difficulty no amount of practice can abate.

Wells doesn't pick up immediately and her call cuts to voicemail more quickly then it should: she manages something she hopes is intelligible around her chewed lip and shaking hands and barely contains a gasp when the shaking intensifies—just her phone vibrating, Wells texting to say he's coming with a patient this afternoon, asking her to prepare a medical station.

"Do what?" Cisco asks, startled enough to drop his pen.

"He says he's bringing in a patient, and to get ready."

"But he's fine?" He looks the way she feels, wholeheartedly confused and a little anxious.

"I guess?" So they get to work, re-arranging lab space and setting up the medical supplies, beds, machines and protocols that S.T.A.R. Labs had abandoned when they'd narrowed their research focus onto the accelerator. (She feels a little bit at home as Cisco unearths long unused equipment, the tools for the research that had initially drawn her here, but she doesn't get too excited, not when she has no idea why.)

They're more than ready when Dr. Wells calls to say he and their patient and his family are on their way, giving little more explanation than he had before.

Barry Allen rolls into her life unconscious and on a stretcher, flanked by two disgruntled looking EMT's, Dr. Harrison Wells and a middle-aged man and young woman she assumes must be the victim's family. Harrison explains the situation briefly, his words stifled in a way that says there's something more, but the pinch of his gaze says 'don't ask' so she doesn't and miraculously neither does Cisco. All she apparently needs to know is he's in a coma, it's their fault, and the hospital doesn't have the resources or expertise to care for him.

(She feels a little like the man's been dumped in her lap, like maybe Dr. Wells thinks if she looks after him, if she saves him, she'll forget the people she couldn't.)

She gets his medical history in explicit detail thanks to the man (Joe West, adoptive father) and the young woman (Iris West, his daughter) and eventually they seem content enough with how he's settled to force themselves to go home, leaving Caitlin to finish running her own baseline tests.

It's when she's hooking up the last of the heart monitors (replacing the temporary ones he'd been on with their own, newer models) that she pulls up his hospital shirt and freezes, hand tightening around the thin fabric, knuckles white with the force of her grip (as white as her expression, the blood all gone from her cheeks). In the hazy background of her thoughts, she is grateful that both Dr. Wells and Cisco aren't currently in the lab, both preoccupied with walking the Wests out.

It's been over twenty years since she first noticed the red lines on her wrist, more than a decade since she's taken to covering them with a watch, and a few less since she gave up caring about them and what they meant entirely, but suddenly they're staring her in the face once more—vibrant and familiar, even etched against the unfamiliar collarbone of an unfamiliar male.

In the sleepless nights to follow, she will laugh humorlessly at the irony: that she lost the love of her life only to find her soul mate in a coma she caused; that in losing one person she loves, she's found another that she should, with absolutely no guarantee that he too won't be taken away from her (another ghost waiting to haunt the long nights and longer days, another empty echo waiting to strike against the beat of her own battered heart).

Caitlin literally has months to try and get used to the sight of her brand against his skin, but it startles her a little bit every time she checks his vitals, frowning at the way his muscles seem to shape slowly when they should really be deteriorating and letting this abnormality distract her (which is perhaps why it's always a shock, she has become astoundingly proficient at ignoring it).

"I just don't understand why his muscles aren't atrophying Dr. Wells. He's been in a coma for nine months." It's definitely a question she's asked before, standing over a clipboard, wearing that same furrowed look that has become her norm. It's mid-morning, she's finished her first round of research and is taking her usual updates on his condition, making the exact same notes she has every day since he was wheeled into her lab and her life, wholly unexpected (and unasked for, in so many ways).

"It's got to be something to do with the explosion," Harrison says as carefully as he's done every time.

The answer is never satisfying, but she nods and goes back to making her perfunctory marks, while Wells heads elsewhere and Cisco ambles in. "No change in sleeping beauty?"

Her eyes roll, unamused. "He has a name Cisco," not that she ever uses it.

"I know, I know," and then there's nothing but clicking keys as they settle back to their separate work—at least until Cisco starts playing Lady Gaga, a little while later.

Caitlin looks up from the report she's reading, "what are you doing?"

"He likes this song," Cisco protests, getting up to walk over to their silent guest. "I saw it on his Facebook page." He takes a bite of a twizzler and nods downward. "I mean, he can hear it right?"

She's already standing opposite him, resisting the urge to shake her head. He does have a point. "Auditory functions are the last to degenerate," she yields, hovering a moment to let her gaze sweep over his bare chest, eyes faltering a little on his collarbone. It's ridiculous, the way anxiety crawls suddenly up her spine, leaving an uncomfortable twist in the pit of her stomach. She shouldn't care, shouldn't really be worried about this stranger, but the longer he lays on a table in their lab, the more anxious she gets about whether he'll wake up (it shouldn't matter, but it does). A sigh slips low from between her lips and she turns to the medical table—the last calm moment for a long time.

Because suddenly the monitors are alive and the lab is filled with their shrill beep at the sound of gasping. She watches it start in slow motion—Barry popping up on the hospital bed, Cisco turning back in shock—and then she slips into doctor mode so quickly it's a little comforting, grabbing a flashlight and clicking it on.

"Where am I?" he breathes, ragged and tugging at his monitors and tubes.

Caitlin ignores it, calling out vitals and checking his vision, his ears, anything he'll stay steady enough for her to examine with the tools already sitting out. Her heart is racing beneath the authoritative bark of her voice, but it all stutters to a stop when he gets up and his palm settles over the red tattoo.

Caitlin flinches—it's all reality now. She has a soul mate, alive and awake and standing in front of her, somehow standing on his own two feet after nine months in a coma. Cisco rushes in where she falters, filling in details and trying to calm him down, telling him where he is and what's been going on. It gives her the time she needs to catch her breath again, to focus and remind herself to be a doctor first (the rest of this tangled mess can surely wait).

"Lightning gave me abs?" He sounds as puzzled as she's been for months, and it's the last bit she needs to jumpstart her ability to process and deal, leading him back toward the medical table with careful hands against his shoulders, pressing against the muscles as if to check that yes, they are still real. Her fingers burn when they stray against the dopamine symbol, and she knows by the widening of his eyes that Barry feels it too, sudden and surprising and startling them both, but then Dr. Wells walks in and the reaction dies momentarily between them.

Caitlin quickly volunteers to go find him clothes, leaving the bulk of the explaining to Dr. Wells (aided by Cisco's unscientific but amusing asides) and then avoids his suddenly curious, lingering gaze when she walks back in and hands him the sweats.

She realizes too late that in their haste to calm him, her watch had fallen off, leaving her wrist bare and the mark visible. Looking up, their eyes catch and there's something both faraway and immediate in the even green of them, seeing straight through her without really knowing anything about her—she fights a shiver and shakes her head. "Later," escapes before she can think better of it (there are most tests to do, more to learn and too many people around—these are the lies she tells herself, quick and casual: any excuse to put off this conversation she's not really sure she can have). Despite herself, something in her heart settles a little at his nod, the tiniest curve of a smile and the curiosity lingering behind his eyes.

Later doesn't come for several days because her soul mate has superpowers and the fallout of that fact takes a great deal of precedence that affords them no time alone to talk (and if she facilities that a little, she blames the way his eyes linger and burn through her every expression all too often). But a chance does, inevitably, come.

Barry is sprawled across the hospital bed, a little too pale, but awake and grimacing at the pain of his relatively (for him apparently) minor injury. Hovered above him, desperately willing Cisco not to wander away, Caitlin stitches the cut closed. "I know you can heal quickly," she scolds, annoyed and voice thin in a way that it shouldn't be (she doesn't feel for him what she felt for Ronnie, she can't, but there's a gravity about him that she knows she can't quite escape), "but you really need to learn how to stop without tearing yourself apart."

He grits his teeth against the piercing needle and the unapologetic way Caitlin slides it through his skin—she doesn't bother to waste the analgesic: it wouldn't do much anyway. "I'm trying," tumbles out, a little breathless and strained.

It does give her pause, brow crinkling and something in her chest loosening a bit. "I know." He's so remarkably good: kind and thoughtful, if reckless in a way that sets her nerves on edge. His whole life has turned upside down and all he wants to do is learn how he can use it to make things better again (she's not sure she could feel that way; not sure she does, now that the opportunity presents itself).

It's not really rational, but she reaches for the topical analgesic anyway, using a gloved finger to spread it over the still-open seam of his gash before tugging the needle through once more. Barry's metabolism burns it away quickly, but she's only a few stitches from being finished and she can just keep reapplying. The whole process takes a bit longer for it, but he doesn't squirm in his seat as much as before, even wears a suddenly soft look as she works, trying to watch her from beneath his lashes while making his focus appear to be resolutely on his (somewhat melted) sneakers.

Caitlin ignores it, finishes tying the last knots and then carefully scrubs away the last of the iodine before walking towards her desk without a word. He's sure that means stay put and don't do anything stupid, but he's not sure watching her unabashedly wouldn't quality as 'stupid' to her.

"What?" She asks, a few moments later, when she feels his eyes and has finished jotting down the notes on his chart.

The slope of his gaze is thoughtful, eyes dark and intense as he regards her. "I just noticed that you don't smile too much," comes out a lot more tentative than he means it; a careful venture forward now that they're finally alone (Wells gone who knows where; Cisco down to make repairs on his suit).

"Two months after an accident destroyed my career and killed my fiancé, my boss put my soul mate on my medical table," she's a little sharp, all edges and hard lines—not unlike the mark that draws them together, dark eyes fierce and defensive where they meet his. "And after being in a nine month coma, he wakes up and turns out to be a reckless superhero...this blank expression pretty much feels like the way to go."

His face crumbles in on itself (God, he's the type to wear his heart on his sleeve) and there's a tug, a heady undercurrent, of guilt. None of this is Barry's fault. But then he gentles, seems to resolve himself, and nods. "I get it you know," there's a deep sigh, a thoughtful pause. "My mother was murdered when I was seven and they charged my dad, even though I know he didn't do it." This is news; it startles her and draws her gaze back to his, eyebrows climbing with surprise. She knew there had to be some story, when Joe West had claimed his medical power of attorney, but she had never felt it appropriate to ask. "I know how it feels to have your whole life turned around."

He doesn't say he's sorry and she appreciates that (it doesn't change anything, doesn't make anything hurt less) but she nods a little, acknowledging the sentiment that lingers (empathy, understanding, not sympathy or pity or judgment).

"I'm not going to push you," he adds, after a lengthy pause and Caitlin doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker to her wrist, covered again. "But I'm here if you ever want to talk."

It feels like there's a whole lot more than just shared loss echoing along the edge of his words, the whole tangled list of implications brought on by their shared marks, but if he has more to say, he loses his chance to say it. Cisco walks back in barely a heartbeat later, asking if he's ready to come down stairs and help with suit modifications.

He defers to her, a silent flick of his eyes and tilt of his head. Caitlin doesn't bother to examine how easily she can already read his non-verbals, just gives an exaggerated sigh (glad to fall back into doctor mode) and shoos them both out.

She feels his eyes on her from across the lab, a prickling sensation that dances along the notches of her spine and settles at her neck, so steady she can't possibly ignore him forever (which, determined to finish what she's working on, is all she really wants). She tries to though, stares at her computer screen with an intensity that Cisco would joke burns holes, scrolling through page upon page of notes, the routine broken only by an occasional edit and the overshadowing, overwhelming weight of his stare. Eventually though, she breaks and heaves a beleaguered sigh, realizing that somewhere along the way his scrutiny won out—she's read the same paragraph three times and she's still not sure what it says. "Yes Barry?" The words spill out like warm honey, quick but easy, too sweet off her tongue.

Her concentration is admirable (endearing is a word that skirts, tied to a fond smile, through the back of his thoughts) but clearly floundering: Barry buries a smirk at the set of her shoulders, the way tension builds steadily the longer he watches her. He doesn't mean to be obnoxious, not at first anyway, but he can't help himself. He's confined to the bed, shackled there by mending bones and her exhaustive anxiety on his behalf (which feels increasingly like it means something, hope growing in his chest), and it shouldn't intrigue him, shouldn't make him want to know more, but he does. He wants to peel back the layers of Dr. Caitlin Snow and turn over the reason she's still fighting this so hard, dancing passionately on the edge of waning apathy and waxing concern. He's trying not to push her, but he try though he might, he just can't fight off this curiosity, this thing that buzzes almost tangibly beneath his skin, demanding to know her better.

"What's your favorite color?" He asks, the first thing he thinks of when her mouth finally drips his name and those dark eyes (murky with agitation) turn the force of their heat onto him. It's a ridiculous question, so far from the forefront of the ones he wants to ask, but they've made too much ground the last few months to toss it aside on questions she's not ready for. This feels safe: lighthearted and playful, wrapped up with the curl of his smile and his gaze holding hers.

It doesn't hurt when her nose wrinkles a little, and her forehead slopes with confusion, her focus roving over his features careful and calculated, as if trying to guess at some game he's playing.

Barry doesn't fold, just smiles and shrugs, absent and casual (even if he is, beneath the surface, waiting with bated breath for any each and every bit of personal detail she'll willingly give up).

"Red," she decides, dragging it out like it's a question rather than an answer—like maybe it's something she never thought of before and it's scarcely out of her mouth when his eyes track, quick as a flash, to the covered spot on her wrist he knows holds her mark (his mark; their mark). His chest swells and smolders, a feeling that reaches right to the tips of his toes. "You?"

A grin, disarming. "Same," because it always has been, since that first time he looked down and saw it etched in his skin, twelve lines of crimson that defined half his heart.

It's a start—a semi-conscious choice that connects them where so many uncontrolled forces have so far. Caitlin laughs and the sound, the way it radiates through her entire face, chases away the ever-present ache in his hand. "I wonder if everyone feels like that?"

"My mom's favorite color was midnight blue." don is a little quieter, but it holds a little more significance—a real part of himself offered to her, careful but offered nonetheless. "The color of the sky around the stars," he adds, clarifying. "Theirs were golden."

"My parents' is blue," she mentions after a pause, like she's testing the words on her tongue before she decides to give them up. They soften the smile on Barry's face, train his eyes back to her (not that they stray much; it's only been a few weeks but she's already become his homing beacon, his barometer for every situation). "Quill pens—dad's an archivist and mom just loves to read."

"My mother used to read me Peter Pan before bed each night," a book he's never finished.

"That's one of my dad's favorites."

They're silent for a long moment, tentatively taking one another in, basking in the minute connections, the tiny threads that have been stitching them together for far longer than they'd ever realized. He wants to say more, is searching for words, but Caitlin stands suddenly, abandons her chair for the stool nearest his bed. She says nothing as she scrolls through the monitors, begins to check his bandages and carefully test his healing. "I'm glad you're okay," warms his arm, as she prods gently along his wrist, close enough to hear the wobble behind her words.

"I'm glad I'm here," and he's nothing but soft smiles when her eyes teeter back to his.

It's been years since Caitlin buried her hopes and dreams of something as frivolous and impossible as soul mates and destiny, tucked them away like all the other remnants of childlike faith. And yet, suddenly, the idea is real again, a concrete possibility, tangible and visible, and it's thrilling and frightening all at once. It's real, Barry is real: twelve crimson lines scattered precisely across the otherwise smooth flesh above his collarbone, a perfect match for the ones curled around the inside of her wrist.

She's spent months avoiding it, but now he's breathing and watching her with eyes as green as late spring grass, too intent to hide an ounce of the marvel that glitters behind them.

"I was beginning to think I'd never meet you," he starts, tentative, into the silence that's settled around them since Wells and Cisco left for the lower lab. "That maybe someone got it wrong and I didn't have a..." he trails off and she's torn (grateful and longing, afraid and excited, such a wide world of possibilities she'd shuttered off for so long).

"I thought that too," she admits, finally, edging into his balance, likes pieces settling into place (she's spent years scoffing the whole institution, but it's impossible to deny the way every part of her practically sings synergy, thrumming with the connection). "Especially when I fell in love with Ronnie," it's still not easier, more than a year later. She still stumbles over his name, still loves him, and Barry seems to understand that, rushes across the space between them to carefully curl his fingers against her elbow, drawing her attention back in.

"It's okay," and it is, she knows it, can feel it (his sincerity, his worry, the slow but sure shoring up of affection). "This is whatever we need, right? Right now you don't need anyone to love," her lip catches between teeth, a knot of anxiety loosening but still tangled somewhere near her heart, "just someone to be there. I can do that." It works mostly free, and the knot must have been connected to the corners of her mouth, because they turn up softly, her dark eyes finding his.

"Thank you Barry," it means a lot, that he understands (she's still grieving, but for the first time since it all happened, it feels like maybe she won't always be).

"Of course, always, I mean it." It's a little breathless, the way the promise spills out around his lips and that should be weird but she knows she'd say the same and mean it equally, so it's really not.

There's a catch in her throat, something a bit too tight, so Caitlin nods and Barry smiles back, careful and tentative but so ridiculously fond and it leaves her a little flustered, to be the center of that much easy affection. As they've done so many times in the past, the fingers of her free hand begin to slide against the watch band covering her mark and it catches Barry's attention immediately—his smile melts into something more intense, something hyper focused and his own fingers reach out without him even seeming to understand what he's doing.

"Can I see it?" The question is a shadowed whisper, an impulsion he's trying to fight for worry it will bother her but she's surprised to find she doesn't mind.

Instead of answering, Caitlin's thumb finds the end of the band, pushes it up to release the pressure and lets the whole watch fall to her palm. The intensity of his focus tears a shiver up her spine and once again, his digits have a mind of their own, skirting with a scarce ghost of pressure along her forearm: closer and closer until they stutter to a stop. "Is it okay, may I?"

She wants to say no a little bit, draw some sort of line between them, but then she looks up to take in his expression: his brown is furrowed, mouth pulled taught with concentration and there's something behind his eyes (yearning? longing? disbelief?) that resonates deep in her chest. "Yes," as if the clipped, careful syllable will gather any sense of order amongst her frayed emotions.

It doesn't, or if it does, they burn up entirely as the tips of his fingers brush along the lines of her mark for the first time, a jolt of electricity that courses through every nerve ending and cell. It's all she can do to hold air in her lungs (she's chewing most of her lip now, with the force of holding something in). "It's beautiful," as if he hasn't seen it every day of his life, echoed on his own flesh.

She wonders. "Can I," there's a pause, a second of second thoughts that burning curiosity set to useless flame. "Can I see yours?"

Her soul mate courts death like a lover, takes risks like they're oxygen and it leaves her frayed and frustrated on the best of days (she cares about him, they're friends and it is hard, so hard, to watch him run headlong into danger knowing he'll just wind up back on the medical table a few hours later, victorious but bleeding).

At first it's merely annoying, drawing her scoffs and her scorn when he and Cisco try and hide it from her (poorly; she's not sure which is the worse liar) but the months drag by with their highs and lows (bad guys and good guys littered between their building friendship, quiet shared moments and brief, comforting touches) and it quickly becomes anxiety inducing more than anything. She can't forget the way Ronnie looked when he went into the accelerator to save the day and even though Barry has said it before (he's not Ronnie), she can't help the way her pulse spikes every time he speeds off cloaked in red leather and foolish optimism.

Still, he comes back and he heals and he learns how to reassure her (notices how she bites her lip when she's worried, how she rolls her eyes when she's trying not to laugh, how she takes her tea and dog-ears her favorite passages of her favorite books) and they get closer. She figures out the way his fingers drum along his thighs when he's nervous, how they retreat to his pockets when he's stalling, how his eyes crinkle just before he grins and how many sugar packets he prefers in his coffee (an inadvisable amount by anyone's standards—he always laughs fondly when she huffs this at him).

It's progress: slow and steady and sincere (he sidles into her heart far less dramatically then he did her life).

And then, one night, it all shatters open.

He's fighting with some maniac Cisco's taken to calling Savitar, whose powers feel disconcertingly similar to Barry's.

They've been after him for weeks now, the meta human appearing now and then, just long enough to wreak havoc and draw the Flash out before disappearing and Barry's frustration has been mounting with every encounter (clearly Savitar's intention all along).

They're locked in a speed battle now, so fast that Caitlin, Cisco and Dr. Wells hardly know what's happening before it's over: static on the mics interrupted by a sudden groaning, pained and pinched and then stifled with a crunch, before being replaced by a smug voice. "You might want to come and collect your hero," it echoes, cold, over the line, "or what's left of him."

Caitlin is frantic while Cisco calls Joe, who's nearer by and ready to intervene. He's still bleeding by the time they get to STAR Labs, covered in bruises and lacerations that together should be fatal (and would be, on anyone else). Caitlin's hands shake right up until she picks up her sutures and needles and gets to work, cutting and cleaning and stitching with an intensity that never falters (not one tremor, no single tear). The others hover just behind her, wise enough not to interrupt until she's finished.

Barry's still out when she does, but his vitals are improving and she can see the quick effects of his healing, knitting his skin back together, so she sinks onto the stool and promptly loses it the second she exhales and notices the blood coating her gloves and her lab coat and, in some places, the clothing beneath.

"Cait," Cisco starts, gentle and as worried for her as he is for Barry. "Why don't we get you cleaned up?" She's shaking violently while Cisco leads her away, oblivious to the looks the two older men trade.

Half an hour later, she's clean and largely steady when she sinks into the armchair Joe's moved to Barry's bedside. She reaches for his hand as soon as she's settled, weaving their fingers carefully together before exhaustion overcomes her.

It takes Barry another hour to wake up, but when he does, Caitlin is the first thing he sees, guilt wrenching sharply through his chest at the sight of her. She's still sleeping, curled up in the cramped chair, tiny makeup stains lingering from her tears and wearing a spare set of STAR labs sweats (it's not hard to imagine what happened to the dress she wore to the lab, given the bandages he's covered in).

"Caitlin," he whispers, noting that everyone else seems out of the lab for the moment. She doesn't wake up, is clearly exhausted, so Barry gently pulls his fingers loose and moves to swing around on the bed. It hurts: a dozen aches and protests that he steadfastly ignores to get his feet on the ground and then his arms under his still slumbering (beautifully stubborn) soul mate. Somehow he manages it, gets her to the couch in the lounge, but then gets stuck when his back twinges setting her back down.

"Ouch," he hisses, trying to stifle the sound between clenched teeth but apparently still loud enough to wake Caitlin.

Her eyes flutter sleepily for a moment before snapping open, alarmed. "Barry! You should be in bed!"

His smile is as fond as the roll of his eyes. "So should you."

"Seriously," she's sharp now, annoyed as she sits up on the couch. "You should be resting and recovering..." and here she falters, sagging beneath the weight of almost losing him. "You almost died."

"I'm sorry." And he is, because he knows her history and knows that it isn't fair to her. Her eyes skitter toward the floor, not quickly enough to hide the tears that pool behind them. "Oh God Cait, I'm so sorry." She's already crying by the time he gets her in his arms, big tears that shake her entire frame and echo through the small side room.

"I can't do this," she breathes, ragged. "I can't lose someone again Barry Allen, I can't lose you." Ronnie had been horrifying, heartbreaking, but Ronnie had not been her soul mate, much as she loved him.

"I know, I know," Barry mumbles, bringing his hands up to frame her face, palming her jaw and thumb brushing away the steady stream of tears. He does know. The thought of her (whoever she may have been) was the only thing that kept him moving forward after everything happened with his parents, he cannot imagine living through the pain of losing a soul mate (saw exactly how it drained all the fight from his father). "You won't, I'll never do that to you," whatever it takes, he promises himself. She's his center and his life and his first priority.

They shake together a while, still clung close until, gradually, the shock of the day fades a little and the twin pressure in their chests dies away some. His eyes reach for hers, dozens of promises he can't be sure he'll keep tangled in the emerald, and presses their foreheads and noses together, just breathing the same air for a long moment before he eases closer.

Her eyelashes flutter above the pained pull of her mouth, but they hold his steady and she leans in too.

In some ways, it's rough and desperate, thick with tears and worries and months of slowly built longing, but there's still something insanely them about the kiss (the way they fall together slowly, inch by inch, hesitant but finally, finally ready).

Her scent is still there, that reassuring hint of lily that's come to calm him like nothing else and his gentle way of edging into her gravity is there as well, like he's trying to give her every piece of his soul without forcing it upon her (she already has it, has for months but she gives her own back to him, fully, for the first time when she reaches back for a second kiss after they've drawn away).

"I'm sorry," she mumbles when they part again (for panicking, for worrying, for not being there: he's not sure which but he knows it's not for kissing him).

"I love you," because he can't possibly not say it now.

Somewhere beneath his fingers, he feels the last of the tension drain from her muscles as she falls against him, face buried against his neck. "I love you too."

It sounds like an admission, a promise, a prayer—like destiny.

When he was a little boy, his mother told him fantastic stories about soul mates and destiny, about love and friendship and tattoos that melded two hearts into one. He'd listen to her stories with rapt fascination, little fingers tracing dutifully along the crimson pattern on his collar that held his own mark, dreaming of a person who shared those twelve little lines and the other piece of his soul and wondering how (and when) they'd meet.

He never expected the hardships and heartbreak that would separate them, but he also could not have imagined how worthwhile they would feel, curled up in bed with Caitlin's fingers, long and lithe and gentle, tracing the crimson symbol pensively while he relays his mother's stories, her smile quiet and soft (the perfect summary of his whole heart and world and happiness).

"She sounds wonderful," Caitlin murmurs, looking up from his tattoo to catch his gaze.

"She was," Barry agrees, his own fingers wandering until they brush her mark where it lays, unhidden, on her wrist. "She would have loved you."

Caitlin's smile lengthens as she stretches against his chest, inching closer. Leaning down, she presses a chaste kiss against his collarbone (even months after their first kiss, each one sends electricity through his heart in a way that his speed never does) before making her way to meet his mouth, a languid embrace that says they have all the time in the world (a lifetime, he hopes, with an extra hammer against his ribcage, thoughts momentarily distant). "She would have been a little biased," Caitlin teases when she pulls away, scrunching her nose the way she does when she's being playful.

Barry's laugh shakes them both where she's still tangled against him. "Only because she would've loved anyone I did and you make me so happy."

It's still strange for her, sometimes: all his open, easy affection. It's so at odds with the loneliness of her younger years (high school and college, surrounded by people but so different from them all) that she still pauses now and then, as if stunned by how it's all happened (how damn happy she is). It's getting better though, she barely pauses for the span of a heartbeat before she's laughing too, so brightly her eyes sparkle where they hold his. "Good thing you're so easy to please."

She means it as an affectionate joke, something she's teased him about dozens of time, but the second the words fall into the air between them, Barry's expression turns serious (despite herself, she worries; loss is not so distant a visitor that it doesn't still knock against her heart whenever it seems to please). "Barry?"

Something about his expression settles, resolute and then he's sitting up in their bed and tugging her up along with him, so that they're pressed against the headboard, his fingers finding and tangling with hers. "Maybe not that easy to please, Cait." There's a telltale breeze and a ruffle, just the smallest disturbance to let her know he's flashed away and back already, gripping her hands once more.

"Listen, I love you Caitlin Snow and nothing will ever, ever change that." She nods, brow creasing: of course not, she's his and he's hers, soul mates. "So if this is too much, too soon, then that's okay. All I really need is you, but that being said," his right hand leaves hers, to dig at something he's obviously just tucked beneath their sheets: a simple black box that shakes between his fingers, "You're the twelve lines that have been branded, body and soul, across my heart since the day I was born and will be until the day I die. The twelve lines that held me together through my hardest days, that guided me to the home I've found in you and I want to marry you, someday, whenever you're ready," his other fingers untangle from hers now, flip open the lid to a simple silver engagement ring set with a crimson stone. "Marry me?"

The tears pool behind Caitlin's eyes even as a smile stretches across her face (it's not the first time she's been proposed to, but for the first time in a long time, the pain of the past doesn't haunt the life she's living in this moment). Her shaking fingers reach for Barry's face, sliding to gather at the back of his neck and pull him forward for a lingering kiss (it feels a lot like the first one: clinging and rough, gentle and hesitant, a promise and a prayer—destiny).

"Yes."

This is the longest continuous fic I've ever written and I'm fairly proud with how it turned out but I very much hope you folks like it as well. I will probably write some bits and pieces to go with it at some point, but those will be bonuses, this is otherwise very much finished.

If you're looking for a soundtrack to this story, I'm fairly certain I played Ed Sheeran's Tenerife Sea at last 100 times (judging by my iTunes play count) while writing this. Also, if you watch Code Black, their first kiss was somewhat inspired by the Neal/Christa kiss an episode or two ago.

Feedback is always appreciated and welcome, thanks for following along on this and all my ventures!

Best Wishes!