Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews—y'all are too sweet!

Another anon prompted this!

Rating: T

~J.H.

PS: If you'd like to send me prompts, I'll most likely see it if you send it to my tumblr, allen-and-snow

When Barry showed up at her house, she was a more than a little confused. It wasn't like Barry never came over, but usually he'd call or at least text her. This time, however, he shows up unexpected and unannounced, in the middle of the night, rapping on her window. She opens the window, suddenly well aware of her incredibly messy hair, and the oversized Notre Dame Football sweatshirt (it had been Ronnie's) she was using for pajamas.

She was also well aware of the fact that although the sweatshirt fell mid-thigh, she wasn't wearing pajama pants or even shorts underneath it. "What are you doing here?" she says, unable to keep the panic out of her voice as a million questions rise in her mind—is he alright? Did something happen to him? Were Cisco and Doctor Wells alright? Or was he here about Iris or Eddie?

"I just…need your help," he says, his voice strained. He looks pale and sweaty, and he's shaking. He climbs into the window, wincing a little.

"Barry, what—" she suddenly sees that he's holding his side, and blood is seeping out of his fingers, "Oh my god, Barry! What the hell happened!?" She grabs at him immediately, pulling one of his arms around her, and half lead, half carried him to the kitchen. She sets him on the kitchen table, which is clean, thank goodness.

"It's not that bad," Barry begins.

"Lie down," Caitlin orders. He obeys, and she pulls his shirt up to inspect the wound. It's a bullet wound, she's sure of it. But… "Barry, why aren't you healing?"

He gasps as she takes a clean bandage out of her closet and presses it to the wound. "It…didn't come from a normal gun. There…there's some sort of metahuman who can…shoot bullets from his hand."

"What?" shooting bullets from his hands? "That's incredible! How on earth could—"

"Caitlin," he says, groaning.

"Right. Focus sorry." She goes back to the task at hand—the bandage is already reddening with his blood. With shaking hands, she fills up a syringe with an anesthetic. "Did you stop him?" she asks Barry, half afraid to hear his answer.

Barry manages to nod, "Yeah, he's…he's dead."

Caitlin knows he wouldn't have done it unless he absolutely had to. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Barry nods and then looks at the syringe. Caitlin composes herself, "You ready?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to give you this anesthetic, and then get the bullet out. Then I'm going to figure out why you're not healing and I'm going to fix it." She feigns confidence, not wanting him to think she couldn't fix him.

He's skeptical, "How much anesthetic do you have?"

"Enough," she answers, before gently pushing the needle into his arm.

It's still dark when Barry wakes up. There's a pillow under his head, a blanket over his chest, a clean white shirt on, and absolutely no pain in his side. He sits up and presses his fingers to the spot where the bullet hole was. He finds nothing. No wound, no blood, not even a bandage.

Then he sees Caitlin. She's sitting with her head resting on the table, near his hand, fast asleep. He can't help but smile when he sees her—he knows that his miraculous recovery was only thanks to her. "Hey, you," he says, tapping her head lightly. She wakes with a start, shaking her head a little.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she says.

He glances at the window; it's pitch black outside, "What time is it?"

She looks at her phone, "Nearly three."

"Wait…" he thinks back to when he arrived here, "It was quarter to four when I got here?"

She smiles a little, and Barry notices how tired she looks. She's still wearing the same clothes—her Notre Dame sweatshirt and her bare legs (Barry can't help but think how long and pretty her legs look. "You've been asleep for a long time," she says.

"How long?"

"Nearly forty-eight hours."

"Geez, Caitlin, you haven't slept or rested for forty-eight hours?"

She tilts her chin up a little, proud. "I'm your personal physician. I wasn't going to rest until I was sure you were okay."

He gets down off the table and moves to sit in the chair next to her. "You should get some sleep," he says. A quick look around the kitchen reveals that nothing is out of place. In other words, she probably hasn't eaten anything. "And something to eat," he adds.

"I'm fine," she says.

"Okay, then, I'll make you something," he moves to get up, but she places a hand on his thigh, pushing him back down.

"No, you need to rest," she says, using her authoritative "I'm The Doctor And You're My Patient And You Sure As Hell Better Listen To Me, Barry Allen" voice, which she actually had to use quite a lot.

He looks at her, from her frazzled hair, to the dark bags under her eyes, to her day-old clothes. "You do, too," he says.

She smiles a little. For some reason, Barry can't help but think that she looks really beautiful. Really beautiful. Maybe in her usual attire—all her professional skirts and blazers and heels, with her perfect makeup and perfectly curled hair—she just seemed so unreal to him. She was intimidating. They might be friends, but she was way out of his league. But, this Caitlin? This one, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, her hair messed up from the nights of working, sitting bare-foot and bare-legged in the chair across from him? She seemed so real to him, and that somehow made her seem so beautiful.

"What?" she asks.

"What what?" he asks back, caught off guard.

"Why were you staring at me?" her hand moves automatically to her hair, suddenly self-conscience. And, for a moment (well, a lot longer than a moment, actually), all Barry wants to do is to pull her close and kiss her.

"I just…" he suddenly has trouble finding his words, "just, thanks, Doctor Snow."

She looks at him, long enough for Barry to wonder what she's thinking, before rising, "Okay, we're going to get you into the guest bedroom, and then I'm going to go for a shower and a long nap."

He swallows, "Yeah…yeah, okay." Barry follows her down the hall and into the spare bedroom. She busies herself for a minute by making sure he has everything he'll need—soap and a towel in the bathroom, and extra blanket in case he gets cold. She begins to exit the room, but then turns back towards him.

"Barry?" she says, her voice trembling a little.

He looks at her, concerned.

"Just…don't die on me, okay? Please. For the love of God, Barry, don't die on me. Promise me you won't leave me."

He suddenly realizes how scary the last two days must have been for her, "Did you think I was going to die?" He crosses the room to stand next to her.

She takes a deep breath, "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

He hesitates once more, before placing his hands on her cheeks, cupping her face. "I don't think I ever could leave you, Caitlin Snow." He kisses her gently and softly, pulling back after a couple seconds. "Sorry," he says, suddenly worried—what if she didn't want to kiss him?

But, apparently, she did. She puts her hands around his neck and pulls him down for another one, and this one is a little more. As their mouths are working furiously against each other, her hands wander down his back and under the hem of his shirt. She tugs on it, and Barry allows their lips to detach for a brief moment as she pulls it off him. His own hands move down to her hips, pulling her bare legs around his waist so he's hoisting her up.

He's not sure if she pulled him down onto the bed or if he led her to it, but in a moment they're both lying on it, and he's tugging at her sweatshirt trying to get it off, their mouths still attached, kissing, kissing, kissing.

And that's when Barry knows he's done for, and he can never break that promise—he could never leave Caitlin Snow.

A/N: please note that I would like to keep my stories hate-free. This means I won't accept hate towards a character, actor/actress, writer, or ship (yes, that does include Westallen). I hope you guys continue being awesome and respect this!

Thanks so much for all the support! I appreciate each and every review!

~J.H.