Celebrated genius that he is, it takes Eobard an embarrassingly long time to put all the pieces together.

He leaps from the time stream and skids to a stop on the asphalt. His skin prickles under the suit. He shouldn't be here. But now he knows there's no hard and fast rule that says he can't be.

"Gideon, the time please."

The disembodied voice speaks as the yellow suit peels off him and tucks itself neatly into his ring. "The local time is 8:45 PM. Thursday. November. The year is tw-"

"Thank you, Gideon." The AI silences itself obediently. Eobard Thawne pops the collar of his well-loved vegan leather jacket and turns himself into the nipping autumn wind in search of a seedy little bar he remembers from long, long ago. "That's all I needed to know."

The final nail in the coffin, excusing the grossly insensitive turn of phrase, was striking across the news report of a certain fateful night early in the twenty-first century. April 25th, 2024. Ancient history for most, but the date was for him a familiar heartache; he'd had those morbid digits drilled into his memory ever since he first visited the Flash Museum in the fourth grade. The day his hero died.

How he could have overlooked the event and its implications since becoming the Reverse Flash remains a mystery. But now he has something to work with. He doesn't have to break time in order to get what he wanted, he just needs it to bend.

He's almost afraid he won't remember where to find the tacky hole-in-the-wall with its blinking neon and faded relics. He's worried he won't get there in time. He's worried that he will.

It's been such a long time since he actually felt in charge of his actions, and the weight of that responsibility threatens to crush the air from his lungs. (On the other hand, it could just be first date jitters. It's a toss up, really.)

But there it is, faithful Joe's, looking no different than it did all that time ago. No reason why it should; there's an Eobard Thawne from a previous life inside right now, lounging at the bar and looking for something to numb the pain. And the insufferable bastard has no idea that what he's looking for is sitting right there in front of him.

Now that he's Older and Wiser, Eobard's willing to risk everything to have his cake and eat it, too. He'll dance to the pied piper's tune if he has to, he'll oblige fate and close that final loop - he must, one day, strike a boy named Barry Allen so hard that the reverberations will ripple forward and backward through all of time, creating the shockwave which he rode (has ridden, will ride) to that moment in the first place.

It has happened, and so it must happen. Eobard has promised the universe that much. Tonight, though, he'll live for himself.

The door of the bar swings open, and out steps the one and only Barry Allen.

A pout like that has no business hanging on the face of a man his age, but Eobard will forgive it. The poor kid (and it's hard not to think of him as a kid, so soon off the tail end of a tussle with one) thinks he's been stood up, after all.

A flutter shamefully resembling something from the butterfly family takes up residence in his gut, and Eobard decides it's now or never. In this moment alone, he is the master of his fate.

"Barry!"

Barry's shrugging into his windbreaker, crimson just like Eobard remembers, and his head snaps around to see that it is in fact a real life Eobard Thawne calling to him from across the street. He barely looks both ways, but at least he has the good sense to jog haphazardly through traffic like a normal human.

"Thawne," he grumbles, partly upset and mostly amazed. There's a sunbeam smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "You're late."

"Am I?" Eobard raises an eyebrow at his own cosmic joke. In every way that counts, he's right on time. "And it's Eobard. Please."

Barry laughs at the hand he's being offered, but takes it all the same. The Flash and his Reverse, standing face to face and hand in hand, spitting in eye of destiny. "Barry. Barry Allen. Obviously."

From where he stands, Eobard sees their future unfurl as a series of glorious unknowns and limitless what-ifs. The night reels wild with possibilities that thrill him to his core. All Eobard has to do is ensure Barry keeps his appointment with April 25th, 2024. Then, with nothing left to lose, he'll be free to end this where it all began.

"Come on, then, Barry Allen," he says with a chivalrous tip of his head, "I believe I promised you a drink."