Notes: Oh my god, thank for all your reviews! I had so much fun reading your reactions. I'm so lucky to have you guys. I feel really bad for this late post, though, since I did say mid-July, but things got busy. If you follow me on Tumblr, you might know that I took a part-time job in addition to my day job, so I had to get off social media for awhile to meet the deadline for the part-time job. But I'm back with Barry's POV, so… forgive me?
(To guest reviewer Cara: Don't worry, I never get tired of reading reviews, and I understand what you're getting at. I already have most of the story planned out, but thanks for your suggestions. It was sweet of you to want to help, knowing how difficult writing can be. Maybe I can use them in future stories. And yes, I really chose Barry's eyes to be green, haha. Thanks again!)
Disclaimer: The opinion mentioned here by Caitlin is from an article on Nautilus called "Cancer Isn't a Logic Problem" by Jim Kozubek.
After Caitlin had fled, Barry tried everything to get her to come around—if not to face him, then at least to talk to him. Or, at the very least, to agree to talk to him.
He milled around her dorm that night, his hands clammy in his pockets; he didn't like its eerie silence, but he disliked enduring her silence even more. When, despite his vigilance, he didn't see her enter or emerge from the dark building, he left her a long, rambling text instead, which he had composed in white heat and had sent in a moment of mad courage, but which, he realized upon his nth reread, was mostly just gibberish. He fell into a fitful sleep with his phone still in hand, and then he jolted awake the next morning three hours before he usually got up, only to be devastated by an empty inbox. Then, in a haze of desperation, with the same mad courage that had possessed him to send that rambling text, he called her three times in succession, after which he realized, with the sudden clarity that only panic at the threshold of even more panic could produce, that he was being creepy; so he decided to remedy that—being unaware, in his state of mind, of how the attempt to remedy a situation can often exacerbate it—by leaving her voicemail.
"Hey Caitlin," he began, while pacing around his room, "uh, so, I know you don't want to talk to me yet, but… just give me a call if you do. Uh… yeah. I'll… hang up now, I guess. Bye."
And then, as his desperation wore on, he decided, in what would be the final link in his chain of bad decisions, to compose a funnily pathetic voicemail, so that even if she wasn't talking to him, he would at least have the solace of knowing that she was smiling because of him. And so, with a burst of adrenaline seasoned with the wild hope of a gambler looking to rake in millions even after successive losses, he sang:
"Hey, I just kissed you,
And you just kissed me,
So here's a voicemail—
Call me maybe?"
He even accompanied his singing with hand gestures—which, he would realize, could not be transmitted through voicemail in the first place.
He ran his hand through his hair and fisted, ran and fisted, ran and fisted, until there was a tingling sensation in his scalp; and then, suddenly exhausted from frustration and anxiety, he tossed his phone aside, plopped down on his bed, and groaned into his pillow.
God. He had it bad, alright. He had it so bad it was pathetic. He hadn't reached this level of emotional loserhood since middle school, when he had pimples and braces and that brief unrequited crush on Iris that still made his stomach turn every time it crossed his mind.
…Okay, that was an exaggeration. Nothing beats that stomach-turning crush he had on Iris. Granted, there was some reason behind it—she was the only girl that talked to him then—but he still preferred to chalk it up to a pubescent, hormone-induced insanity.
Regardless, the devastation he felt was pretty familiar. He wasn't in the habit of denying his feelings, so he knew deep in his gut, with a certainty that circumvented rationality and defied his own notions of love, that he was in love with Caitlin Snow. Even if, right now, it felt a hell lot like pain, there was no doubt that he was in love.
It raised a lot of questions, of course, questions which even the ancients grappled with (Barry liked to imagine himself in a Greek chiton and laurels resting on his head when he was thinking about life), and which men and women are still asking today, but have believed answered by the prevailing cynicism surrounding love: What is love? What is "true love," if it even exists? Can romantic love lead to true love, without the lengthy passage of time? What if love at first sight, or its cousin the whirlwind romance, was, in its noblest form, not just a product of intense physical attraction, but rather—as it seemed to be in his case—a lucid, bone-deep knowledge of being fated for each other…?
He didn't know. He didn't have answers. Besides, there were already enough stories about the catastrophic nature of falling in love too fast, so that to experience it meant certain doom for the relationship. And, knowing how sensible Caitlin was, she must have already come to that conclusion. Tomorrow, he could imagine, Caitlin would come up to him during lab and say, coolly, "I wasn't in possession of my rational faculties. That kiss was a mistake. We'll remain lab partners so I can ace this class, but this relationship will not cross any other boundary. Understood?"
No. He wouldn't survive it. He'd be heartbroken. He was already heartbroken just thinking about it.
He sighed, turning to lie on his back. God, he was such an idiot. He'd been so careful, too, in making sure she was comfortable with his touches, starting slowly and lightly but withdrawing if she gave any indication of being uncomfortable; and he'd been willing to do that for months, at whatever pace she would allow, but—he raked his hands through his hair again, until the strands stood on end—best laid plans… and all that.
But, really, how could he resist her last night? How could he resist her in that—as she had put it herself—evil dress, that dress that unraveled the iron self-control he'd resolved to maintain when it came to her? How could he resist her charm and wit onstage, the way she'd dazzled the audience with brilliant comebacks on taunts about her terrible singing? How could he resist her on that dance floor, the way she'd slid her hands up his chest, sly and appreciative; the way she'd turned her eyes away when his compliments made her shy? How could he resist her on that open balcony, under that starry night sky, feeling, for the first time, their longing constellating between them, pulling them towards each other, towards that inevitable first kiss? How—?
He was jolted from his thoughts by the shrill ringing of his phone, and he immediately set out to look for it under the sheets, his heart pounding in his chest—Please let it be her please let it be her please let it be her—
"Caitlin?"
There was a snort at the other end of the line.
His heart sank.
"Oh. Iris."
"That's no way to greet your best friend," Iris said, feigning offense. When he made no attempt to summon a more enthusiastic greeting, she made a sympathetic noise and said, "Still no word from her, huh?"
He felt around Wally's desk for the stress ball he kept there, and began tossing it sullenly. "No."
"Aren't you going to see her tomorrow for that class you have together?"
He groaned. "Tomorrow's ages away. Can you imagine if she still won't talk to me by then? We have four hours of labtogether. Iris, that's torture."
"You drama queen," she said, laughing. "She just needs some time."
"You don't know her. She could ignore me forever if she sets her mind to it," he groaned. "Iriiis. Iriiis. I'm so sad. I'm so sad I could write a poem."
She sounded amused. "Like one of those spoken word things?"
"Nah, too long. Maybe like a haiku or something," he said. He caught the ball mid-air and gave it a vicious squeeze. "I met a girl who broke my heart / So I'm going to make some art—"
"…that's about as good as your smelly fart."
"Hey, I resent that. My farts aren't smelly."
"They so are," she said. "Remember that time in my house when you farted after drinking a whole liter of milk? That was the grossest thing ever. Everyone had to retreat to the second floor until the coast was clear."
He couldn't help laughing. "God, that was so embarrassing. Joe was so nice about it, too. He was all—"
"'Iris, don't make fun of Barry. He's just a little lactose-intolerant, that's all,'" Iris said, mimicking her father's tone, laughing in between words.
But the laughter in him faded when he heard the word lactose, the memory of his last lab experiment with Caitlin—the way she'd jut her chin slightly to the right when she was thinking, the sparkling challenge in her eyes when they made the bet—buffeting him with such force that it felt difficult to breathe.
"Bar?" Iris said. "You still there?"
"Yeah," he said. "Barely. It feels like my heart's been ripped out of my chest and shredded into pieces."
"Mmm," she said. "Not a bad metaphor."
"Thanks," he said. Even in this state, he couldn't resist a compliment, and Iris knew it. "Are you going to use it in one of your articles?"
"I don't think so. Hardly the stuff of news."
"Sure it is. I can see the headline already: 'CCU Cutie in Dire Need of Heart Transplant—Says Heart Has Been Shredded to Pieces by the Heartless Caitlin Snow.'"
"Did you just really refer to yourself as 'CCU Cutie'?"
"I did."
"Ugh. You know how much I hate that feature. It should be banned from the school paper."
"I was on last year's list. It's a nice confidence boost."
"Since Scott made editor, I thought we'd finally be able to scrap it, but nooo, he's all, 'It's our most popular feature, and no matter how vapid it is, we can't get rid of it.' Imagine!" she huffed. "Where's the journalistic integrity he keeps harping about, huh? Where?"
"If I made it a poem," he said, spacing out in the middle of her well-worn rant, "will you publish it?"
Iris paused. "Make what a poem?"
"The heart-shredding bit. Or the haiku, whichever's better."
"Bar. Newspapers publish articles, not poetry."
"Same thing. It's still writing."
"I could dismantle that premise in, like, ten different ways."
"You probably could," he allowed. "But I'm sad. You can't fight me when I'm sad."
Iris gave a long-suffering sigh. "Okay look, Bar, you have to stop moping around—"
"But I want to keep moping around—"
"—because moping around won't make her want to talk to you."
He winced. "Ow. Harsh."
"But true." He heard shuffling at the other end of the line. "I was going to skip grocery shopping to work on an article, but since you're in this state, I'm going out to haul you out of your room."
"Nooo. You can't make me."
"Oh yes I can. Now get up, call Wally, and be outside of your dorm in ten."
"Nooo. Nooooo."
"Bartholomew Henry Allen, you will do as I say—"
"Nooooo—"
"—unless you want me to spam Caitlin with middle-school Barry Allen."
"—ooooo—" Barry stopped abruptly when he realized the implications of what Iris said. "Hey!" he cried. "I deleted all traces of middle-school Barry Allen from your laptop!"
"I have backup copies online, dummy."
"Lies."
"Huh, would you look at that, I also happen to have emo middle-school Barry Allen on my phone—"
"Alright, alright," he relented, finally getting to his feet. Iris was notorious for making good on her threats. "I'm standing. God, I hate you sometimes."
"Yeah, yeah." He could almost see the grin on her face. "Love you too, Bar."
. . .
Barry loved Iris, he really did, but sometimes she didn't seem to understand—or she blithely sidestepped attempts to understand—that what was comforting for her wasn't necessarily comforting for him (or for anyone else, for that matter). Right now, as he considered that tendency of hers, he was staring at the entrance of the grocery where Wally, Jesse, and Eddie were standing, chatting amiably with each other and oblivious to their approaching presence.
"You told Jesse and Eddie to come along?" he balked. "Did it occur to you that maybe, juuust maybe, being a fifth wheel is the last thing I need right now?"
Iris paused. "Actually, no," she said. "But we're practically family, anyway. You won't feel like a fifth wheel. And, hey, you never mentioned feeling like a fifth wheel before."
"Well, now I am," Barry groaned. "I mean, okay, Jesse's fine, but I already told you that things are kind of, you know, awkward with Eddie—"
"Bar, we've had this conversation already," Iris said. "Eddie says he doesn't find it awkward between you two. He never has."
"Still," Barry said, not knowing how else to explain to Iris that he and Eddie just didn't click the same way he did with Wally or Ray or even Cisco. It wasn't that Eddie wasn't nice or friendly, because he was, and in fact Barry even felt bad that he couldn't get along better with such a great guy. But there was just something about him that seemed a little too great, a little too perfect, and he wasn't spilling all the messy details about Caitlin to a guy like that.
He sighed. In any case, there was one thing Eddie did spectacularly well that he had no reservations about: Eddie made Iris happy. One only had to watch the way they looked at each other to know how in love they still were, even after two years of being together. It was, in fact, the same way his parents had used to look at each other; and, he wondered, was it the same way he looked at Caitlin…?
At the thought of her he felt the familiar misery rising in him again, and he took a quick look at his phone to see if he had messages or calls from her.
…No such luck, of course. This cycle of tremulous hope and sinking despondence he went through every time he checked his phone was bound to be bad for his heart.
To distract himself from the gnawing disappointment, he tuned back in to what Iris was saying—had she been talking this entire time?—and he managed to catch the tail-end of her monologue. "…and anyway," she said, "Eddie can probably give you a more balanced perspective on this whole situation."
He looked at her blankly. "Balanced perspective?" he repeated. "Are you implying that mine's imbalanced?"
Iris shot a pointed look at his hair, and he realized that it was still standing on end after he'd worked his anxiety out on it. "I am implying that you, Barry Allen," she said, "are a nervous wreck, and any perspective besides yours would sound balanced."
"I'm not a nervous wreck," he protested weakly, running his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to flatten down the strands.
Iris only snorted in response.
When they were finally within hearing distance of the other three, Jesse was the first to greet them. "Hey," she said, her face lighting up. "Nice hair. Is that a new thing you're trying, or…?"
"Definitely the or," Wally laughed, clasping Barry's hand and thumping him on the back.
"Ha ha," Barry said. He and Eddie exchanged a brief nod of greeting, as usual, and then he promptly turned away when the latter slung his arm around Iris's waist and kissed her on the lips by way of greeting. They did that often enough by now so that all three of them had stopped calling them out for their PDA, but they strived to see as little of it as possible. "At least I have hair."
Jesse raised an eyebrow and turned to Wally. "Was that supposed to be an insult?"
"If it was, it was a pretty bad one," Wally agreed, lightly squeezing her hand. "Considering that I do have hair."
"Right," she said, reaching to ruffle his short curls. "Well, Barry, that's pretty insulting, not to dignify someone with a proper insult."
"Mm-hmm," Wally said. "Haha-emoji that."
Jesse turned sharply to him. "Oh, come on. I said that one time—"
"What? I think it's cute. I'm not making fun of you." Wally paused. "Okay, maybe a little."
"Wallace Rudolph West…"
"I mean, who blurts out emoji reactions in real life, when you have, you know, facial expressions?"
Barry shook his head, a smile creeping up his face, even as he felt a slight pang of envy at their teasing. Their relationship wasn't like Iris and Eddie's, with their vibe of still being madly in love, but there was an easy familiarity between them that stemmed from being friends for a long time, so that they couldn't seem to shake off acting as friends even if they'd been dating for a little over half a year already.
He wondered what he and Caitlin looked like, from an outsider's point of view. They definitely weren't Iris and Eddie—he and Caitlin bickered too much, he mused, and for the life of him, he can't imagine Caitlin being sweetly affectionate, the way Iris was with Eddie. It was more likely that he'd smother her with affection while she'd constantly duck out of his hugs. They weren't Wally and Jesse, either—the way he and Caitlin bantered was a lot flirtier (courtesy of him, of course). So, what were they…?
"Uh, earth to Barry?" he heard Jesse saying.
He blinked, his eyes refocusing on their faces again.
Jesse looked amused. "Well? Are you going to tell me what happened, or what?"
"Tell you what?" he repeated, realizing that it was the third time in the past half an hour or so that he'd spaced out while someone was talking to him. He thumbed his phone again out of habit, despite knowing that it hadn't pinged with a message.
"Wally said to give you a break because you're heartbroken," she said.
"I didn't say I was heartbroken," Barry said to Wally.
"You didn't need to, man," he said. "I was with you in the room last night, you know. All your sighing woke me up."
"I—really? You were in the room?"
Wally and Jesse exchanged looks.
"He's so far gone," Jesse said.
"Yup," Wally agreed.
"Okay, guys," Iris said, with the tone she often used when she'd come to an important decision. "So here's the plan. I just need to pick up a few things from the grocery, and then we can all head to Jitters for coffee."
"'Pick up a few things'?" Wally said. "You mean, ransack all the sale items?"
Eddie snorted, placing his hand affectionately on the small of Iris's back. "We all know we're just here to carry your things."
"No," Iris said, "we're here because Barry needs emotional support."
"How is your grocery shopping going to give Barry emotional support?" Jesse said.
"It got him out of his dorm?" Iris said. "Anyway, I'll be quick, I promise. I only need a few things. Swear to God."
All four of them exchanged knowing looks. This was definitely not going to be quick.
. . .
"So, tell me about this girl," Jesse said, as they ambled along the aisle of chips. Iris was browsing the section of sale items, and Eddie was weighing the merits of two different brands of chicken breasts. "She must be something if she can do this to you in two weeks."
"Yeah, she is something," Barry said. He scanned the shelves of chips in front of him without really seeing them, taking his favorites off the shelf—Doritos (Nacho Cheese), Cheetos (Jalapeño), Ruffles (Sour Cream)—and tucking them under his arm, until Jesse prompted him to dump them in Wally's basket. "Let's see, something about her… Well, I'm taking your dad's class with her."
"No way. Who's the unlucky victim?"
"Your dad's not a villain, you know," Barry said, amused at her antagonism. "Anyone would be lucky to be his student. He's the most influential scientist in America, the founder of one of the top research facilities in the world—"
"—and like, the most overprotective dad in the universe," Jesse scoffed. "What would you feel if your dad moved halfway across the country to teach in the university you're going to, just because you told him you were seeing someone?"
"He's hella scary," Wally said, who was about a foot away from them. "I still avoid him when I see him. I'm pretty sure he has heat vision. Might fry me on the spot when he sees me…"
"He seems to like me," Barry said.
"That's because you're not dating his daughter," Wally said. "Keep up, man."
"Did he ever mention me to you, by any chance?" Barry said to Jesse.
She stared at him. "You know, you really have to tone down on that nerd crush you have on my dad. It creeps me out."
Barry laughed. "I'm kidding. It's just fun to see you squirm."
"Oh, it's fun to see me squirm," she said, placing a hand on her hip. "Well, I'll have you know that he did mention you—"
"He did?" Barry swiveled to her. "He actually did?"
"—but I'm not telling you, because it's fun to see you squirm," she finished, smug.
"Jesse. Come on."
"No," she said breezily.
"Jesse. This is a life-or-death situation. This could make or break my career."
"Let me think about it… No."
Barry turned to Wally. "Do you ever win fights with her?"
"…Nah."
"He knows he can't win," Jesse said.
"I only pick fights I can win," Wally said. "And to date, I've picked zero fights." He held up a Tostitos salsa dip and a creamy spinach dip, one in each hand. "Which one should I get?"
"Salsa," they said in unison.
"Nice. I thought so too."
"So, who is this girl?" Jesse said. "Wait, don't tell me—is it Caitlin? The one you were with during the sing-off last night?"
Barry stilled, and he unconsciously fingered his stubbornly silent phone again.
Jesse looked at him with amusement.
"You're way too obvious."
"Hey, be nice," he said weakly. He placed a hand over his heart. "I'm heartbroken. I'm very fragile right now."
"I mean, you were obvious even onstage," she went on. "Complimenting her over the microphone? Really?"
"What can I say," he said. "Smooth is my middle name."
Jesse snorted. Wally, without looking at them, also snorted.
"Hey, you there," Barry said to Wally, with comically feigned swagger, "are you dissing me? Huh?"
"If you were actually smooth I won't be dissing you," Wally hollered.
"You guys were pretty entertaining, though," Jesse said. "And I've never seen Caitlin like that. I've always had this image of her as really smart, but also really uptight…"
"Wait, you know her?"
"I know of her," Jesse corrected. "I attended a few talks that she also attended, and she always asks the best questions. One time—oooh, bacon-flavored chips—one time, in this talk about the latest cancer research, she asked the panel, 'Is it possible to cure cancer, once and for all?'" They paused as Jesse took the bacon-flavored chips and dumped it in Wally's basket. "And she really caused a stir, you know, because here were all these hotshot scientists saying that they've been able to figure out the molecular changes that lead to cancer, so obviously, they're getting at a cure, right? But then she goes something like, 'From an evolutionary perspective, cancer cells are continuously evolving, so we may get better at treating it, but we may never actually cure it,' like, it was probably going to be a continuous effort instead of something with a definite end-goal." They ambled over to the biscuits aisle, and Barry didn't say a word, greedy to hear about Caitlin from someone else. "Kind of like how multiple sclerosis researchers approach multiple sclerosis, you know? And she didn't sound like a know-it-all at all, she was pretty respectful and appreciative of the ground that cancer research has already covered, but I'm pretty sure that she stepped on some egos that day. It was pretty amazing. Hm… I think I'll get some oatmeal," she said. "Are you getting oatmeal, too? No? I think Wally wants some, he's been trying this whole healthy-eating thing lately, but obviously he's not trying too hard…"
Barry made a noncommittal noise, zoning out of the scene. He could already imagine the Caitlin that Jesse had painted in her story: He could imagine the figure she cut, emerging from the sea of students in that classy scoop-neck blouse she wore on their non-date, her hair gathered in a neat ponytail, her face young and fresh. He could see her standing before the microphone, in front of a panel of distinguished scientists, curious and unafraid. She probably didn't see it herself, but whenever she was explaining some scientific theory or process to him, a change would come over her: she would sit straighter and speak more clearly; her eyes would be alight with pleasure, her cheeks slightly flushed from excitement, her posture a picture of quiet confidence. It was no doubt one of the most attractive things about her.
To be sure, it wasn't the sort of thing that people usually found attractive—it wasn't even something that he would take notice of in the first place. Linda, for instance, was attractive in the more conventional sense: she dressed well and she dressed confidently; she was charming and she knew it; and, if she chose to, she could use her charm to her advantage. When he first met her, in fact, her presence was positively magnetic. He wasn't the only guy who looked when she sauntered into the party, wearing a purple dress that dipped alluringly down her back; and when she looked right at him and smiled that mega-watt smile of hers, he felt like the luckiest guy in the room.
And then there was Patty. His blockmates had shipped them the moment they started talking, but even before that he'd found her attractive, too: She had that bubbly charm and approachability about her that neither Linda, with her breezy confidence, nor Caitlin, with her air of impenetrability, had. She was hardworking and always willing to lend a hand, really the quintessential girl-next-door. But sometimes, Barry had a feeling that she was nice because she wanted people to like her. He felt it in the way she kept insisting that he had great ideas, even when he knew they weren't all that, or in the way she was reluctant to speak up in a group if it meant rocking the boat. It wasn't bad, per se. He had the same tendency, as Iris would be quick to remind him, and it wasn't the only thing they had in common—they liked the same science pages, shared the same (well, almost the same) memes. In fact, had he not met Caitlin, he felt like his friendship with Patty would have eventually progressed into a romantic relationship.
But the thing is—he dimly registered Wally, Jesse, and Eddie's conversation about which brand of rolled oats was better—the thing is, he did meet Caitlin, and he'd never been so intrigued by anyone else in his life. She was smart and stubborn, and, unlike Patty, unafraid to show it; she was self-assured, but without the showiness of Linda's confidence; and she had no need for the effusive charm that most girls have been taught in order to endear themselves to others. And yet, for all her indifference to people's opinions, she could be caught off-guard by the simplest things, like his compliments or his staring, and this baffled him to no end.
He remembered the first time they'd met, and he remembered how completely disarmed at how little social tip-toeing she did around people. And, since they'd been in the damp darkness under the bleachers, he remembered wondering if her blunt manner matched her appearance: Would she look as disagreeable as she seemed? Would her mouth be twisted into a perpetual frown? Would her face be angled as sharp as her words? But he couldn't have been farther from the truth. When, unable to rein in his curiosity, he finally held the flashlight to her face, what he saw was not a sour, disagreeable face: what he saw was a kind face, blinking uncertainly at him in the harsh light. A serious face—one not given to smiling, he could tell—but with soft brown eyes, delicate cheekbones, and a rosebud mouth… which he must have stared at for a good while, because she'd grown uncomfortable under his gaze, and the way her brow had creased in that brief moment of vulnerability intrigued him even more. How could she meet him head-on for nearly every line of banter, and then be disarmed by something as simple as his staring? What was it, exactly, that made her shift from clipped annoyance to speechless bafflement? What did she look like when she smiled?
That was how it all started, he supposed, looking back—it all started with curiosity. How could he have known, really, that something as innocent as curiosity, and the casual observation that it took to satisfy it, would morph into a keen attention on her, which would then transmogrify into a consuming desire to find out more about her, to be with her? How could he have known that curiosity would lead him deeper and deeper into the walled garden that was Caitlin Snow's mind, until he realized that he never wanted to leave?
He had no way of knowing—at this point, Wally, Jesse, and Eddie had finally decided on a brand of oats, and Eddie said something about dragging Iris away from the sale, and Jesse said something like Let's talk more later, it's weird to have a heart-to-heart in the checkout line—really, he had no way of knowing that this was how things would play out, especially soon after things with Linda had ended. He couldn't have known that he would have been so enchanted by Caitlin, by her smiles—whether it was a full smile, or an amused half-smile, or a suppressed smile, or, God forbid, that slow, sly smile she'd given him last night, when they were onstage and when they were dancing.
He still remembered the first time she'd really smiled at him, and how it felt like finally finding the key to a locked room. It was during their first lab class together, and he'd been making a string of jokes to gauge her sense of humor. He was fast getting discouraged because she either ignored him or gave him The Look—he didn't know anyone else who managed to convey haughtiness, disapproval, and (he had to admit, at the risk of sounding masochistic) sexiness, with a single raised eyebrow—but, when he made the diatom joke, her expression finally changed: Her eyes lit up; the corners of her lips lifted, and she quickly bit down on her bottom lip to suppress the blooming smile, no doubt not wanting to give him the satisfaction of laughing at his joke.
It was the most endearing thing he'd ever seen.
Every time she smiled at him like that, he felt the entire world—the lights, the voices, the landscape—go soft, and all he wanted to do, as the Beatles sang, was to hold her hand. All he wanted to do was hold her and tell her that she was the most beautiful thing in that moment; to tell her, above all, that he wanted the rest of his life to have moments of softness and beauty like that, with her…
He'd tell that to her straight, the next time he sees her. He'd apologize for what he'd said, and he'd tell her that he was as scared as she was, but he'd be willing to give it a try. He couldn't live with himself if he gave up on the possibility of them so easily. He had to try. He had to hope that she wanted to give it a try, too.
Now, if only she would talk to him…
. . .
Jitters was, well, a rather jittery affair, at least for Barry.
Once they were seated, and once he'd convinced everyone else to pay for his drink because he was brokenhearted, he'd felt inexplicably nervous about telling his story. It was the first time, after all, that he'd recalled the whole thing with Caitlin from start to finish, instead of the piecemeal updates he'd been giving Iris and Wally; and he feared that once he finished the telling, they'd all laugh at him for being ridiculously dramatic, and he'd have no choice but to hide his unease and laugh along with them, too.
But he went on and told the story, anyway. He started slowly at first, faltering and frequently losing his train of thought; but, as he caught the rhythm of it, he told it faster and faster until, towards the end, he had to stop for a few moments to catch his breath.
"Wow," Jesse ventured. "All that in two weeks?"
He tensed. "It sounds impossible, I know—"
"Well, Steve Trevor and Diana fell in love in three days," Iris mused. "So it's not impossible."
"But that was a movie," Wally said. "Nothing's impossible in the movies."
Eddie said, "I fell in love with Iris the moment I saw her"—a chorus of groans—"so, based on personal experience, I would declare Barry's situation not impossible."
Iris rolled her eyes, but not even that could mask the brilliance of her smile. "You sap," she said.
"Geez, you two, get a room," Wally said.
"Are you sure you want that?" Iris said sweetly. "Need I remind you that Eddie's room is two doors away from yours?"
"Oh, gross!"
"Iris, TMI!" Barry said.
"Huh, not sure if I'm grossed out or turned on," Jesse said.
"Jesse!" Wally said, horrified.
"Now that was definitely TMI," Eddie said, and they all dissolved into fits of laughter.
When they finally recovered, Iris said, "But, seriously Bar, it's not impossible, but it's probably best not to rush it."
"If she pushes you away, don't give up," Eddie added, "but don't push back, either. Give her some space."
"If it doesn't work out, don't take it personally," Jesse said. "Knowing her, I'm pretty you'll always be second to her work—if, you know, you're even gonna make it to her priorities in the first place."
"Priority," Iris corrected. "If there are a lot of it then it won't be the most important."
"Right, just accept you'll never be her priority."
Barry blinked. "…Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"I'm just being honest here."
"Honesty isn't always the best policy, you know," Wally said.
"Oh, really now," Jesse said, turning to him. "Are you saying that you've been lying to me, Wallace Rudolph West?"
"No! Of course not!" Wally backtracked. "I'm just saying it's, uh, you know, strategic sometimes, to lie—"
"Did you just call lying strategic?"
Wally looked at the rest of them helplessly. "A little help here?"
"Nah," Iris said, grinning. "I think I'll enjoy watching you dig your grave."
"Or who knows? Maybe this is the first fight you'll win," Barry said.
"Shall I take bets?" Eddie said. "But someone'll have to bet on Wally…"
"Ha ha, very funny guys…"
They all laughed, and the conversation, as conversations usually do, moved on to other topics and other lives. Barry tried to follow it, but after a few minutes, his attention wandered again. Talking about Caitlin gave him temporary reprieve from the pain of her silence, and he was grateful to have friends whom he didn't mind rambling to; but, as he checked his phone for the nth time that day and found no messages or missed calls from her, he couldn't help but feel the anxiety creeping back in again.
He sighed. He'd get through to her eventually, he thought bleakly, trying to stay positive. At the very least, she can't possibly ignore him for four full hours of lab, right?
The next day, Barry woke to warm sunshine filtering in through the blinds, creating bands of light around his legs and torso; and, without quite being aware of it, he rolled out of bed with a slight smile. Human beings have a peculiar way of interpreting meteorological phenomena as somehow prophetic of the day ahead, and Barry, being an average human being—albeit slightly better-looking than the average male, or so he liked to think in good humor—saw the beautiful day as a good omen. Surely, the soft rays of sunlight proclaimed, today Caitlin would speak to him. Surely, today she would listen to his apology, smile, and tell him that she was willing to give them a chance, but that she wanted to take it slow. Surely, today she would, as part of 'taking it slow,' allow him to hold her hand, or brush his lips to her temple, or, if he were well and truly lucky, steal a kiss from her lips…
He was in a better mood than he'd been the day before, thanks to the fine sunny weather, and he went about preparing for their class together with a bounce in his step. He whistled in the shower, shampooing and scrubbing to the beat of JT's "Can't Stop the Feeling!" He styled his hair with gusto, using his trusty matte styling clay (low shine, firm hold). He chose his outfit with care, finally settling on a maroon polo shirt, and he left, with a crafty smirk, the collar slightly upturned. He rehearsed in feverish whispers—Wally was still asleep, after all—the script he'd composed to win her back, one that bore the obligatory stamp of approval of another member of the female species (Iris's). He tried on various expressions designed to make Caitlin Snow melt—pun completely intended. These expressions included, but were not limited to: the boyish grin, the sheepish grin, the wolfish grin; the puppy dog, the cocky smirk, the smolder.
Having thus prepared himself for battle—because that was what this was, a battle to sway Caitlin from the trappings of her own reasoning, a battle to convince her that his lowly self, with his meager virtues of devastating handsomeness and rather decent kisses, along with his wealth of bad science jokes, was worthy of her affection—he lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and nodded at his reflection.
"Looking good, buddy, looking good," he said to himself. "You can do this. You got this. I mean, she kissed you back, didn't she?"
. . .
The time was quarter to eight. The battlefield was the laboratory, with its wide, gray desks, its shelves of bottled chemicals, and its faint smell of formaldehyde. The hero, the warrior of love marching into battle, was himself, the dashing Bartholomew Henry Allen; and the heroine—he was about to say damsel in distress, if only out of habit of this particular narrative, but he quickly corrected it, already hearing said damsel's vehement protests in his mind—was the fair Lady Caitlin Tannhauser Snow, icy, sharp-tongued, beautiful beyond belief, and in whom he had met his match.
Before he approached her, his eyes circled the perimeter. There were only three other people there, all engrossed in their phones. They would be no threat. Hartley Rathaway, the assigned and necessary villain for this narrative, was, by a stroke of good fortune, not around. The coast was clear.
He moved in, quietly, stealthily, so as not to startle her from her reading. He slipped into his seat beside her, dropping his bag with a whisper on the floor. She did not look up; did not, in fact, give any indication of hearing his approach. No matter; he expected this. The warrior of love was always prepared, and the warrior of love did not retreat at the first rebuff.
"Hi Caitlin," he said, tone cheery but not chirpy, smile warm but not too wide. "So, uh… how was your Sunday?"
Not even a glance. Her posture remained the same, and her eyes firmly trained on her tablet. She was highlighting sections of a paragraph from their textbook for this class, and she gave no indication of hearing him. Her iciness may have frozen any other man, but certainly not a warrior of love, and certainly not this warrior of love.
"My Sunday was great," he said, conversational. The trick was to bait her in with casualness. "I went grocery shopping with Iris and Wally and their significant others—oh, you might know Wally's girlfriend, Jesse. She's Dr. Wells's daughter, but she doesn't like telling people that. She mentioned that she saw you at a talk about the latest cancer research?"
Still nothing. She had moved on to the next page now, and, as far as he could tell, she was reading intently; she didn't seem like she was rereading the same paragraph over and over again, in what would have been an anxious tell. He went on, deliberately provocative, "Apparently you told the scientists that they might never actually cure cancer. That was a pretty bold statement."
Her finger paused mid-highlight, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Bingo, he crowed inwardly. There was nothing like a scientific debate to draw her out of her shell.
"You wouldn't understand," she said. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm studying."
"I wouldn't understand?" he said. "Try me, Caitlin."
She lapsed back into silence, not rising to his taunt.
Damn, he grimaced. He decided to switch gears. "Uh, so, I kind of spent my Sunday morning practicing my singing," he said. "Did you… um, get my voicemail?"
Silence. She moved on to the next page.
"Well, if you didn't," he went on, "I could give you a live encore. Privately, even. And free of charge."
Not even a flicker in her eyes. She had erected a fortress around her, and her defenses were airtight.
"Or not," he muttered. He knew she'd be stubborn, but he didn't expect her to act like he didn't even exist, and from the stony quality of her silence, he had a feeling that he was bound to give up before she gave in. Even warriors of love, he thought, would wither without, well, love…
Still, he mustered up the courage for one last blind stab at conversation. "So… care to let me know what you're studying?" He made a show of digging his tablet from his bag. "I should probably try that, studying."
No response.
He couldn't take this. He finally turned away from her, feeling so dejected that he couldn't even pretend to study. How the hell was he going to get through to her? How long did she plan on keeping this up?
More importantly, how long could he endure her silence, before he gave up for good?
. . .
The rest of their lab class passed by in the same fashion.
She didn't utter a word to him during Dr. Wells's brief lecture; she didn't even glance at him from her peripheral vision—he knew because he was always glancing at her from his peripheral vision—and she seemed to go through great lengths to avoid touching him, such as removing her arm from the table when he'd placed his on it. It was devastating. He thought that it might get better once they began the experiment, since they had to talk, after all; but if anything, it only got worse. For the division of tasks, for instance, she only muttered a total of two short sentences before shutting him out again with her steely silence; and, instead of working beside him, as pairs usually did, she worked opposite him, across the absurdly wide lab table. At one point, he even asked her questions that he already knew the answers to, in an attempt to make conversation; but all she said was, "It's in the book. Look it up."
By the end of class, he was feeling extremely morose. Gone was the dogged determination to win her back; gone were his fantasies of being a warrior of love on the battlefield. He was just plain old Barry now. Or no, not even—Caitlin's rejection made him feel diminished, somehow, like he was middle school Barry Allen all over again, with pimples and braces and a nerdy love for dinosaurs that made him the butt of jokes in his class. Even if he knew that her rejection wasn't entirely personal—he surmised earlier that she might be avoiding him because she didn't want to get hurt—it still felt personal as hell, as if she were saying that he wasn't good enough for the likes of her.
Still, he couldn't help watching her, from the corner of his eye, even if it hurt to look. She moved swiftly, slipping off her lab coat, sliding her notes and her tablet into her backpack, and lifting her backpack onto her shoulder; and then, still without looking at him, she headed towards the door. Her retreating figure was illuminated, mockingly, but the fierce glare of the sun, which had, only a few hours ago, promised to deliver her to him.
He was about to blame the weather for his woes when something caught his eye. He didn't know if it was a trick of the light, or if he had become desperate enough to hallucinate things… But for a brief moment, he saw Caitlin pause at the doorway. He saw her waver—as if she'd wanted to look back at him before she left.
And then she was gone.
He sat frozen in his seat, unable to reconcile what that split-second of hesitation in her frame meant. Had she merely forgotten something, and so thought twice about going back into the room to get it? But their workspace was clean, and the only thing left on it was his bag… Had she perhaps wanted to clarify something with Dr. Wells? But Dr. Wells, he realized belatedly, had already gone ahead, just shortly before Caitlin herself had left, muttering about some important international call…
Could it really be, then, that she had hesitated because of him…?
The mere thought of it injected a wild, irrational hope in his veins. He startled from his stupor; he shoved everything else into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Confidence surged in him again, propelling his legs forward, flinging him out the door; he barreled past the flood of students rushing in between classes, mumbling vacant apologies as he went, keeping his eyes firmly trained on her auburn hair in the distance. It was now or never, he realized, heart pounding in his ears; that moment of hesitation he'd seen, that was the crack in her defenses that he'd been waiting for—
"Caitlin!" he called out, just before she turned to take the stairs, "Caitlin, wait up!"
He snaked around the gray lockers; he slid between a crush of people, dressed in identical green shirts for some convention; and, when he stepped onto the landing she was on, bright in a patch of sun, he lunged forward, reached out, and caught her wrist; he held onto it firmly even when she whirled around with enough force to loosen hair from her ponytail, giving him a withering glare that nearly made him recoil.
"Caitlin," he said, striving to sound calm, even as his palms began to sweat. "We have to talk. Please."
"Let me go," she said coolly.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out. He knew he had a script for this, but he couldn't remember any of the careful turns of phrase, any of the well-worded apologies, any of the clever, self-deprecating jokes he'd rehearsed; instead what came out was a torrent of words that more closely mirrored the emotions roiling in his gut. "I'm sorry for the things I said last night, I didn't mean it that way, what I really meant was that I—I want to take it slow with you, and the ki—ah, last night was unexpected, but it wasn't unexpected in a bad way, you have to believe me, please—"
"Last night was nothing," she gritted out, cutting him short. "Let. Me. Go."
Her shoulders were rigid and she seemed poised to flee, but she herself made no move to extricate her wrist from his grasp.
He decided this was a good sign. He took a step closer, cautiously gauging her reaction; and, even as she stiffened, she remained rooted to the spot.
"Nothing," he echoed.
"Nothing." Her voice was a knife's edge.
"Look at me," he said, taking a gamble and leaning closer. "Look at me and say that one more time. Say that last night was really just nothing."
She pressed her lips together and fixed her eyes on a spot behind him.
"Alright, if you want to ignore last night, fine," he said softly. "But was watching the sunset at the Observatory nothing, too? Was that conversation about your Dad and my Mom nothing?"
"Don't," she said; and he heard, in the word's long vowel, a slight wavering that wasn't there before.
Encouraged, he continued, "How about all those long phone calls, those study sessions, the always-extending talking time limits, the cactus-human pact, the blood-buddy pact, the—"
"Don't—"
"—the way you bite your lip and smile when I tell a joke," he barreled on, "the way you fisted your hands in my shirt when you kissed me back, the way I can't stop thinking about you, how you talk and how you laugh and how beautiful you are—"
"Barry, stop," she said, her voice cracking. Her knuckles were white around the black strap of her bag. "Please."
The final confession was still swelling on his tongue, but when she said his name, he stilled.
Don't give up, Eddie had said, but don't push back.
So he took a step back. He let go of her hand.
"If that was all nothing," he said, his voice low, "then I'm willing to give that nothing a try."
Silence. He could almost hear her thinking, could feel her withdrawing, putting up her walls again. Had he lost her? he thought dimly, watching her take a deep breath. Would she really keep on pushing him away, again and again and again…?
When she looked up at him, her face was blank, unreadable.
"Nothing is nothing, Barry," she said. Her tone was neutral. "It's not wise to pin your hopes on it."
And then she turned around and walked away.
He stood there on that deserted landing and felt his world splinter at the seams.
.
.
Notes: So… I know you want them to get back together and make out already and all… but there's this pesky thing called character development to pan out, so there'll be one more chapter of them being apart. I'm switching back to Caitlin again, but let me know what you thought of Barry's.
Now to address the million-dollar question: "Yay a new update but when will you update again?!" A perfectly valid question, and I'm grateful for your enthusiasm, but I do get nervous when readers ask me this, because I don't know what to say. I don't want to get your hopes up with a date and then disappoint you when I can't deliver, so… here's an answer, sort of. Given that real life gets busy, and I write slow and revise obsessively, the next update may be in 2-3 months…? Forgive me, it's all the time I can spare for this story. I really try to write as soon as I have time (and inspiration *cough*). But rest assured that I don't plan on abandoning this, no matter how far apart the updates are. In the meantime, there are a number of great fics in this fandom. You can check out my Favorites for recs, or you can ask other SB fans for fic recs. SB shippers are pretty generous with that, and we don't bite, so don't be scared to ask.
A final note. I don't know if this is still relevant, but I guess better late than never. There was an initiative a few months back by a couple of SB fans on Twitter, who requested fans to tweet the show's writers for more SB, or even for more Caitlin/Barry/Cisco friendship scenes, or realistic character development scenes. I know the trailer's out, but… I guess it won't hurt to let them know what you think. If you plan to do it, please do it respectfully and without bashing anyone else.
Alright, that's it for my rambling. Thanks for reading until the end. As a sort of incentive for those who did, here's a sneak peek of the next chapter ;)
. . .
Monday, 7:07 PM
Hi Caitlin, it's me again. I don't want to sound like a stalker or anything by spamming you with voicemail, so… just tell me to stop if you really want me to stop, okay? I swear I will. But if you won't say anything, I'm just going to assume that your silence means, Yes, Barry, you can be as annoying as you possibly can. —Why, Caitlin, it's my pleasure to serve up my specialty. In fact, this is your first daily dose of annoyingness, served fresh from the kissable mouth of CCU Cutie Barry Alle—ah, crap, Wally just heard me saying that. Crap. Now he's laughing his butt off. Can you hear him? Here, I'll move closer. He laughs like a hyena. It's hideous. I don't think you've ever met him, but I hope you will sometime… Anywaaay, uh, I called to let you know that I'm sorry, and I'm not giving up. That's all for now. I'm going to dig myself a hole if I keep going while Wally's listening, so call me if you want to talk, I guess. Bye.
. . .
Reviews are cookies, and I love cookies, so you know what to do ;) Until next time,
eccacia