The last time Caitlin had felt this kind of panic, it was in the middle of the night.

Working with Team Flash made her hardened, tougher, less susceptible to the damage the body's reaction to danger could have on her senses. She'd gotten used to the pressure and the fear and had been able to take that adrenaline and put it to good use, even when she was the one in danger. But there was a time where she wasn't so well-trained, where anxiety could shock her awake and keep her up.

The night after the one during which the particle accelerator had exploded, on Earth-1, she had slept at Cisco's apartment, on the couch. She didn't remember much of the day, or the night before. Everything had been a haze, a nightmare she was stumbling through. No more Ronnie. Dr. Wells' legs ruined. He would never walk again. All those people that had died. No more Ronnie. She couldn't think. And she absolutely wasn't going back to her apartment. Too many reminders of what she had lost just 24 hours ago.

So Cisco had dragged her home with him, tried to get her to eat, to talk, anything, but after a while a pillow and a blanket and some quiet was all that seemed to work. She'd fallen asleep on his sofa with her whole body throbbing, feeling like nothing in the world was actually solid anymore.

Then she woke up. Her heart was beating too quickly, her hair was in her face. She felt like she was still in the Pipeline, still desperately clutching the communicator, waiting for Ronnie to respond, but he never did.

She started to cry, so hard it made her face heat up, which made her tears heat up, which just generally made her uncomfortable. The fear of the explosion, the static from the communicator, the look on her fellow employees' faces as she staggered back to the rumbling Cortex without her fiancee. She was reliving it on that lumpy couch, and her tired, grief-electrocuted brain had anxiety pumping through her chest, making her gasp.

Caitlin remembered talking while she cried, probably the babbling of a mind exhausted and traumatized, but looking back what she could be sure of was that she was calling for Ronnie. But he didn't come running, no matter how loudly she yelled for him.

Cisco had, though.

"Hey!" Cisco had stumbled from his room down the tiny hall, eyes very red-rimmed, spitting hair from his mouth. He grabbed his best friend by the arms and shook her as gently as he could. "Caitlin, Caitlin. Stop, calm down, okay? You're safe. You're safe here, chill. It's gonna be okay."

Caitlin's head had wagged back and forth so hard, it hurt her neck. She was barely focusing on him. "I can't," she hiccupped, "I can't, I don't—I want—" But she couldn't put it into words. She wanted Ronnie, she wanted everything to be good again.

He had sat beside her, hugging her, rubbing her back, getting her some water. Anything to calm her down. But it would prove to be a long five hours—for both of them. Caitlin's heart wouldn't slow, her eyes wouldn't stop darting around the room, and she couldn't keep from crying. Eventually her throat hurt too much to continue audibly, and Cisco's company was enough to convince her she wasn't in the Pipeline anymore. She sat up all night, wrapped in an unfamiliar comforter that smelled like churros, and silently sobbed for Ronnie. For Dr. Wells, for the lives their experiment had ruined. But as long as Cisco was sitting beside her, every time her mind spiraled, she could pull it back.

"You're safe here."

Now, after The Mist's attack, Caitlin was experiencing the same all-encompassing sense of panic. For the first time in a very long time, she was afraid for herself, not for someone else. She had never not been able to breathe before. The working of oxygen throughout the human body was so robotic, so subconscious, that to be kept from doing it was instantly terrifying. You don't know what you've got till it's gone. And this time, she didn't have Cisco to put his hands on her arms and hold them down, telling her firmly that everything was going to be fine.

What she did have was a darkened duplicate of Barry Allen.

She slid in and out of consciousness for the next hour. Caitlin became vaguely aware that she was in the med bay, not the Cortex as she had expected to be, and that there was a piercing sound at regular intervals—she was hooked up to a heart monitor. There was nothing more frightening than that sound, whether it was keeping track of your heartbeat or someone else's. For many people, hearing your own heartbeat makes you nauseous, anxious, even if you are perfectly aware that it is beating and beating in an orderly fashion. Try displaying that beat on a large screen, followed by a sudden BEEP every time the organ pounded. Not comforting in the least, even to a physician.

She hadn't been awake to feel Savitar strapping her down, or employing the monitor, but it couldn't have been anyone else. When she opened her eyes after collapsing in the Pipeline, he wasn't immediately visible. She had to crane her neck, throat raw, eyes watering and blurry, to see him. The coughing was riding every breath.

Savitar had his back to her, and yellow light flashed around the room as he zipped from one machine to the next. She couldn't focus long enough to see what on earth he was doing.

Then he was beside the examination table, pressing an oxygen mask onto her face. Caitlin pulled her head away from it, still in the throes of fear, unsure if he knew what he was doing.

"Stop!" he said, voice so sharp it gave her that same tingling feeling children got when their father berated them in front of a group of friends. "You need this on!"

Caitlin felt like she was going to cough up a lung. "What—that's—that's—" she wheezed. "That's—not going to help—" Her words could only be rushed out between every shaking breath. How was she still alive? She'd dealt with a victim of Nimbus' before. She had to make him understand, this was critical. "Even—Barry—"

Savitar pursed his lips, forcing the oxygen mask on at last. "Caitlin, look at me, see me?" He used one hand to gesture to his face. "I know. I know what you did when this happened to Barry—stop moving—I'm not cutting you open. That's not gonna work."

Cutting her open? Right, Barry. That was what they'd done for him. Manually extracted the gas. She thought she tasted blood. A sudden thought burst through the pain. Clarissa Stein. "We need—a sample—"

Savitar wasn't listening, he never listened, he was back at the machines, turning away from her. The ceiling light reflected off his dark hair; his jacket flapped against his back every time he raced to the next monitor, searching for something to fix this. Caitlin leaned her head back, coughing and coughing and coughing, knowing with grim certainty that this was not something her body could expel in its default fashion. But that didn't stop it from trying with all the energy she had left.

Savitar was moving to the other side of the examination table, but Caitlin didn't need him on the other end of the room. She reached out an arm, frantically grasping the cuff of his sleeve.

Savitar stopped as if she'd injected him with something, slowly, staggeringly. He looked down at her, impatient.

"If you get—a sample—of—" It hurt to talk, it hurt to breathe.

"Shut up." Savitar jerked his sleeve out of her grasp, moving away again. "You're wasting breath."

But she tried to sit up, and hearing her strain against the straps made him turn. "Please," Caitlin wheezed. She was blacking out again. All the edges of the room were folding in. "It could save—Stein's wife—we need it..." She broke off, gasping deep now. Her chest felt as if iron nails were being wedged out from the inside.

It may have been her failing vision, but Savitar's expression changed, it looked melted. He shook his head ever so slightly and was back at her side in two long strides, ripping off the oxygen mask; it wasn't doing anything anyway. "I'm saving you first."

Then he reached for her necklace.

Caitlin heaved, body trying to arch but unable due to the straps. Icy terror made her coughing worse. He couldn't. It wasn't as if it wouldn't work—her abilities were, especially if it was her body they were affecting, able to crystalize and repel any threatening force from the inside. But there was also a chance that, given the weakened state Caitlin Snow was already in because of her corrupted system, Killer Frost would be given a free ticket to the control room.

"No!" she choked out. "Don't! I-I can't—I'll be—come—I'll—"

Savitar's mouth tightened, but he didn't respond. Instead he grasped the necklace and pulled, not bothering to undo the clasp, letting it snap.

Everything swam around her. Her vision didn't go sharp, the way it usually did when her metahuman strengths were surging through, but she could feel it anyway. She felt it pulse in her fingertips and swarm toward her chest. The table beneath her grew frigid, and Savitar was only a mix of dark colors rippling over her as she lost consciousness.

Caitlin was in the Cortex when she opened her eyes next. Only the Emergency Lights were on, and something in her could tell it was nighttime. She was lying on Wally's gurney, and her chest was throbbing, and her throat felt cold. But otherwise, she found as she inhaled, she could breathe again. She wasn't Killer Frost. She was Caitlin Snow. Had it all been a dream? A crazy nightmare? She must still be in it, then, because she wouldn't have spent the night here otherwise. She had a room of her own.

Caitlin glanced down as far as she could in the low-lit room, seeing the pendant of her necklace glow in brilliant contrast to its surroundings. Hadn't Savitar broken it? How long had she been out? She struggled to sit up, her breathing coming in too fast by choice now; she was gulping as much air as she could. The gurney creaked beneath her. The Cortex was warm.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came that dry voice. Savitar was leaning on the glass doorframe of the workstation on the dais, watching her.

Caitlin blinked, trying to urge her eyes along in the adjustment to the light. Trying to see him.

He descended the three steps slowly, walking toward her with his arms loose at his sides. "You must be feeling pretty sore."

"How—" Caitlin winced, hand flying to her throat, massaging the outside though she knew for a fact that this would do nothing to improve the inside. It made her feel better, though.

That sickly blip of a yellow glow, and Savitar was pushing a glass of water into her free hand.

Caitlin drank desperately, the cold liquid bringing strength back into her limbs. Her head was pounding. This didn't make sense. The room was so comfortable, the lights so dim she could only see vague shapes on the edges of the Cortex to signify objects sitting there. She might be in a coma, on the edge of death, and this was the scene her mind brought to her to calm her down. That would explain the temperature, the lighting. Caitlin often worked with her computer screen's brightness brought as low as it could go; bright lights could be taxing during long nights of research and experiments. And she was always cold. Her mind would, by default, put her in the most physically placid scene it could find in her preferences. This was all in the case of prolonged unconsciousness following the large amount of terror and peril she'd been in, of course, but one thing stood out to her that proved this theory wrong: No Team Flash.

There was no Barry Allen in this little comforting reality her brain may have weaved for her. There was no Cisco. And it wasn't possible for her to be fully convinced that everything was right when those two particular people were not involved. So this wasn't a dream. Which was disappointing, actually, because it left her with a basketful of questions to answer.

She lowered the cup and mumbled hoarsely, "How am I..."

Savitar pointed to his own collarbone, gesturing with a glance to her pendant. "Your powers. Crystalized the gas in your system, shattered it. Killer Frost has a killer immune system, I guess." He smirked.

Life-threatening experience or not, drained or not, Caitlin was still very much capable of a good old-fashioned rage. She treated the speedster to her most knife-like of looks. After the incident when they'd first arrived here, after everything they had done since then, he still couldn't take a hint. He still didn't understand. Necklace on—Caitlin Snow, bioengineer. Necklace off—Killer Frost, murderer and criminal. It was simple. And he knew which one she preferred.

"How could you do that?" she snapped. "No—I don't care what set of circumstances—I-I don't care how bad it is. I don't ever want you to so much as breathe on this necklace again. You have all of Barry's memories. You know exactly what could happen if you remove my dampener, how could you risk—"

"You're stronger than me."

That effectively shut her up. Savitar was standing at the end of the gurney now, and when she blinked, staring at him, he averted his eyes. He chose to lock his gaze on the wall behind her. Caitlin's shoulders relaxed, but she squinted at him, confused. When she tried to speak, the itchiness at the back of her dry throat made her cough, just once this time, before she could get the word out.

"What?"

He clicked his tongue. "You're stronger than me. That's how." The former God of Speed did look at her now, and it was impossible to tell if he was angry or not. His tone definitely told her he was, but his eyes—he just seemed so tired.

"I don't understand," Caitlin sputtered, shaking her head, still irritated. A compliment didn't wipe away what he'd done, what he could've done. She reached for her water.

Savitar sighed, short and impatient. His hands gripped the metal frame of the bed. He sometimes moved as if it hurt, like everything in him was sore and aching. Where Barry made an effort to wake up and stand tall, his remnant never worked at posture, and his eyes were hardly ever all the way open. Even his voice took on a lazy drawl, as if it were barely worth the time it took to form a sentence aloud when he could just think one to himself. For someone with super speed, Savitar did things rather slowly. As if there wasn't a finish line. His shoulders hunched, he leered at her as he spoke, and every word was annunciated just so—whether this was to patronize her or to reign in some kind of emotion, she couldn't say. Even a face she knew by heart could keep things in.

"You've lost everything before." Savitar exhaled through his nose, long and controlled. "Ronnie. He died twice. First he exploded in a nuclear blast when the accelerator failed, then he disappeared in the Singularity. And you were right there when it happened. Gone forever." He snapped his fingers, cocked his head, and she could just make out his eyes glittering in the dark room. "And Jay." Her heartbeat accelerated at the name; she swallowed. "Zoom? He kidnaps you—starves you, terrorizes you." Savitar's voice fell into a kind of hush, and it might have been awed if he didn't sound so bitter. "You couldn't sleep for a month. But you got back up."

He said those last five words so deliberately, letting them thud into the air, that Caitlin closed her eyes briefly, trying to read his demeanor, setting her glass back down. Bitter, yes, but not enraged? Not angry as usual? There was something negative there. He obviously wasn't pleased at this discovery.

"Barry made you Killer Frost," he went on. Caitlin opened her mouth to object, but he was too quick. "He created Flashpoint, he ruined everything, and you paid the price like everybody else. But you didn't hate him." He narrowed his eyes then, and finally his cold voice dipped with bewilderment, fascination. "You stayed. You stayed with them, you fought for him."

"What are you talking about?" Caitlin interrupted at last, quiet and somber. There was something in the shape of his mouth, the tightening of his fingers on the bar, that made her careful.

"You, Caitlin." Savitar scoffed, showing some thick emotion at last, leaning back in his favorite frustrated gesture. He left one hand on the bed frame, but the other swung limply at his side. He shifted his weight, rankled. Finally he left the end of the gurney and walked toward the center of the Cortex, turning his back to her. "You, you were broken, you were...hurt, you lost people." He turned on a heel, pointing at her in that same angry way. "You've lost just as much as I have." The point was redirected to his own chest. He was getting louder now. "You've suffered, you've been alone. So why didn't it take you too?"

"Why didn't what take—"

"Darkness."

He sounded like Barry. He sounded just like Barry Allen. The same wobble in the undertone, the same climb Barry's voice made as he fought to keep himself in check. The same despair the Flash had to remember and overcome day after day.

Her eyebrows knit together, waiting for him to explain.

Savitar rubbed his good eye, and she thought he looked old then, like he'd lived through too much. Like he'd spent eternity living through too much. "I lost everything. Like you. I've felt that pain, it consumed me." He was nearer to the gurney now, pacing toward it, more and more agitated. "And you didn't let it consume you. No matter what happened, no matter what was taken from you, you—" He bit back the rest, hesitating, thinking. Finally he finished, deeper than the original, gruffer, "You're stronger than I am, Caitlin. I was Barry. And I was good. And now..." Savitar gave a frightening little smile, one without any hope at all, spreading his arms to gesture to himself. His guttural, dry tone returned. He had arrived at the side of the bed. "Well. You can see for yourself."

Caitlin knew she was cured of Nimbus' gas, but she still felt short of breath. She was floored by the sight, the sound, of this much of his mind. Savitar's outburst was like the backpack Barry had mentioned earlier that day, during their video chat. It was as if the remnant were holding the heavy backpack out to her, with one hand, and she was being given the choice to take it from him or not. Maybe that wasn't how he saw it. Maybe to him, he was simply opening it up so that she could see its contents and feel his ache. But she always wanted to take someone else's load. She always saw it as removable, shareable. Because he was right, she'd had one of her own, and she knew the best way to ease it. A burden is only a burden if you decide to focus on the weight.

Caitlin reached over the cup of water and grasped his sleeve.

He stilled, the way he had earlier, but this time he didn't have anywhere to be, any machine to rush to, and perhaps that was why he didn't wrench away. He glanced down at her again, though, but now he looked raw. He looked uncomfortable, eyes flicking to her face and down again, as if regretting saying so much.

Caitlin swung her legs off of the gurney so that she was seated, leaning very slightly on the mound of pillows, on the side of the bed. Her feet dangled, those and her legs tingling madly, and she was glad the room was heated. Autumn air on her toes would not be beneficial to her health after an encounter with The Mist. And she really didn't like cold feet.

Sure now that he wouldn't yank out of her grip, Caitlin gingerly pulled on that black denim cuff, and he followed as if it were a remote for his body's balance, robotically sitting beside her as she directed him.

His head was turned toward her, but his eyes refused to land. "I knew you wouldn't become Frost," he muttered. "You can't. She's not strong enough for you." He said it so neutrally, well, that's just life, but he still somehow sounded like he was pushing back a flood.

Caitlin let go of his sleeve and pressed her weight onto her palms, both of which rested on the gurney. She bit her lip. "I didn't feel strong," she admitted. "Without Ronnie. After Zoom. I felt...empty. And angry. I felt weak, like I—I was someone else." She held the snowflake pendant out in one hand, twisting it, looking down at it but seeing icy white eyes in its shape, seeing pale hair and a wicked smirk. "I'm only strong because I had people there to help me up," she explained at last.

Savitar's exhale was silent, but she saw the air go out of him. He glanced at the entrance to the room, pointedly refusing her gaze, though she hurried on, leaning closer and speaking louder so that he wouldn't have the chance to ignore her.

"I had Barry. And I had Dr. Wells, and Cisco. And even after I was Killer Frost, even when I felt like they didn't care, that they—couldn't help me, Barry reminded me—he said—he said that underneath all the cold and the heartache and the hurt, I was still me. I chose to do the right thing; I chose to change. They just helped me see that...I had that choice." Caitlin paused, watching him. Letting it sink in.

Savitar didn't turn to look at her. But he said, "Having people who cared no matter what you were. No matter what you did." She saw his shoulders jump a little as he snorted. "Must be nice."

Caitlin put a hand on his shoulder, and she felt every muscle in his body freeze and then melt. He was like a cat, leaning into the touch just a tiny bit, just enough to be noticeable. She hadn't thought about how little he had had someone physically reassure him. For someone with Barry's memories—a memory stuffed with hugs and fist bumps and back rubs and hands on shoulders—it must have been like that glass of water on the side table to him.

"You can have that again, Savitar," she said.

A barely-audible chortle. "You say that like I've had it before."

Caitlin managed a little smile at that. At the semantics. "Okay, well—I guess this will be a first, then."

Finally, he glanced at her. His scars were barely noticeable in this light, and his eyes were almost shut; she couldn't tell one from the other. She wondered fleetingly, as only a doctor could, if it was too warm for him in the Cortex, wearing that jacket with the heat on like this. His expression was open, wanting. He swallowed, nodding, not responding audibly to her very clear claim—as his friend. He seemed to be waiting for her to retract it, which obviously she had no intention of doing.

"Thank you for helping me," Caitlin told him, pulling her hand away. "Even if it meant taking this off." She turned the pendant in her other hand.

Savitar watched the one that had held his shoulder drop back onto the gurney with slightly starved eyes. "No problem," he mumbled softly, as if hardly hearing her. His own hands were grasping each other, limp and hanging off the edge of the gurney, fingers tightening and unwinding. He looked glazed, like a drowning victim, dazed by what she'd just initiated.

"I know you didn't have to," Caitlin added, babbling now. "And—" She held up a hand before he could say it. "I know you don't need me—but—thank you anyway. You saved my life."

He didn't say anything.

Caitlin got up, leaning against the gurney. Savitar stood too, suddenly jelly where he had been stiff before, loose-limbed and watching her the way a puppy watches its new owner leave it in its bed for the night.

"Where're you going?" he asked throatily.

Caitlin gasped, stumbling. Oh, of course. Lack of oxygen, lack of movement. Her entire lower half was numb—asleep. Didn't she feel foolish for not expecting it.

Savitar moved as if on instinct, strong arms and hands catching hers, pushing her upright again. Barry had held her in the same places after Hartley Rathaway's attack on Earth-1, years ago. Maybe he was thinking of the same thing, because when she looked at him, scientific mind following the precise similarities in movement, he let go of her, and she repositioned her hold on the gurney's frame.

"Nowhere in a hurry, apparently," she muttered. "Oh—ah—my head—" She massaged her temple, hoisting herself back up onto the bed.

Savitar's hands were back in his pockets. "I said you'd be sore," he reminded her, voice just a mite less dull than usual.

"Yes, you did," Caitlin cleared her throat, frustrated. "Thank you for that. What about the sample?" she added suddenly, head snapping around to look at him.

Savitar's eyes narrowed. "Your powers crystalized the gas, Caitlin."

"You didn't get it?"

"I was preoccupied," Savitar replied nonchalantly. "You weren't breathing. Was a little distracting."

"But—" She tried to curb her irritation. "The gas—it could have components that could be used to develop a cure to Clarissa Stein's damaged lungs. She needs that sample!"

"I'll get Nimbus," Savitar told her suddenly, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. His voice was getting stronger by the minute. "Okay? And Rory. I'll have them back here in two days, tops. Believe me."

"Every minute we wait, she could take her last breath," Caitlin sighed, rubbing her eyes. "It was the perfect opportunity—"

"I don't care. You were the one dying. She held on this long, she can do it a little longer." Savitar took the edge of the gurney's covers and impatiently draped them over her legs. The way he did it made her think his body was on autopilot, not really thinking about it. "I'll deal with it."

"You can't go after him now," Caitlin protested, sitting up again. "I won't be able to help you like this. No more big missions until I'm back on my feet, not right now. All right? If you try going in b—"

"Caitlin." Savitar pressed the glass of water into her hands again, refilled in seconds with his speed.

"What?"

"I know Barry never mentioned this," he said slowly, and she blinked, sitting up even straighter. "But you talk too much."

He watched her take another long drink, and when she had finished she lay back down, getting comfortable. After a moment, she closed her eyes, and the warmth of the room and the weight of the blankets almost had her asleep, breathing in and out, in and out, drinking in the clean air with more appreciation and awareness than she ever remembered having before.

She heard a shuffling noise, and she sat up, propping herself up on an elbow. "What are you doing?" she called.

Savitar was halfway to the exit. He stopped when she spoke, turning to cock his head at her. "Letting you rest."

Caitlin felt her heart soften, a bit like Playdough fresh out of its bin, squished and molded for the first time. His voice was still hoarse, but there was no bite to it now. She wondered if it would stay that way. Its volume made her sleepier.

But the dim lights were flickering, and she suddenly remembered, the way you do at night sometimes, that careless look in those permanently-wide eyes of Nimbus'. She could hear Rory calling her unimportant, she could still smell the gas. The dark made the negatives in her imagination pop out when it was time to go to bed. It would always do that, no matter how old you got, if you had been through certain things.

"Can you—" She was almost embarrassed to ask, then decided she didn't care that much. "Can you turn the lights up? Please?"

Savitar didn't move for a moment. His half-open gaze traveled from her to the lowered lamps on the walls, and he said, "Scared of the dark, Caitlin?"

Before she could answer, he had strolled over to her, pulling a nearby wheeled chair with him. He set it down beside her bed, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest the way they had been the night he'd come out of those nightmares.

Caitlin looked him up and down, calculating.

"How bout we do this instead?" he grunted, leaning back.

Caitlin's eyebrows puckered. Her voice rose above the hushed tones they had been speaking in, skeptical. "You can't just turn on the light?"

He glanced at the switch near the entrance to the room. Then he glanced back at her, back at the switch, back at her, pointing. "It's so far away."

Caitlin could take a hint. She settled back down. "Call me pathetic," she sighed, "but I think I can add Kyle Nimbus and his toxic smell to my dolly dreams now."

Savitar didn't call her pathetic. She opened an eye to see him watching her, expressionless. But what he said was, "You're safe here."

And she could fall asleep. The panic was gone.