Mercy left a strange taste in his mouth.
As Eobard changed out of his suit, he realized he still had the body of the twenty-two year old "Tom Cavanagh." He barked out a bitter laugh. Of course. He didn't switch back to his own body after the conference, and since he would always take Wells', he never noticed. It seems the time loop prefers him in this (younger, more naive) body. It made no sense. At all. He shook his head, almost in exasperation. As though this timeline wasn't convoluted enough already, now he has to somehow accomplish everything with a baby face.
He smiled humourlessly. At least there aren't any singularities. Yet.
(he remembered a gunshot fear despair void of nothing no pain in my arm no feeling as it ceases to exist so why am I screaming—?)
After safely storing his suit, he changed into dull blue jeans, yellow Converse, and a black hoodie. Striding through the hospital as casualties from the various incidents he orchestrated hours ago kept the staff busy, he directed himself towards the scientist's room. When he reached Wells' door, he hesitated.
Why am I even here?
Before he could answer that thought, he let himself in.
Thankfully, Wells was still unconscious. He stood at his bedside for a moment before checking Harrison's chart. Severe concussion and whiplash from slamming on the car door, minor cuts on his head and hands from the broken glass, and a cracked rib. All in all, not a bad state to be in. There were times when Eobard took Wells' identity from his dead body. Eobard shuddered. He almost preferred feeling like someone stabbed his heart instead of the overwhelming sense of nothing that accompanied corpses.
He sat down and sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. How is this going to work?
Assuming Harrison even accepts his help on the particle accelerator, all the people stay the same, and events transpired at basically the same pace, the answer depended on so many variables that it made his head hurt.
Yet, he didn't regret any of this.
Why am I even here?
(a picture of Team Flash accompanied the question. He remembered all that they did together; the people they saved; the triumphs they earned; the defeats they endured. Feelings of warmth happiness guilt pride fear love and a fierce, fierce protectiveness rose in him.)
He looked at Harrison. He can't train them on his own, he thought.
The voice in his mind seemed to shake its head at him.
Why do you want to help him? To atone? To become a better person? The voice paused. None of them will ever forgive you. You have too much blood on your hands. It stopped, as though thinking.
It doesn't help that most of it is theirs.
Eobard looked down.
I know. But Harrison would be too gentle with Barry. Too kind. It is a luxury they can't afford.
What are you protecting them from?
(Barry, broken and not breathing. Caitlin, a bloody mess in the room where Snart and Rory kept her. Cisco, heart attack from robotic bees. Barry, asphyxiating from potassium cyanide. Caitlin, shot by Eiling. Cisco, tortured by Eiling. Barry, frozen by Snart. Cisco and Caitlin, killed by a whammied Barry. Barry, blown up by Axel. Barry, helpless and unmoving without his powers. Barry dead Caitlin dead Cisco dead dead dead—)
Everything.
To what end?
He closed his hands. What did he want?
I want them alive long enough for them to realize their full potential.
The voice seemed to look at him, materializing on the other side of Harrison's bed.
You won't be able to go home, then.
He held himself utterly still as he considered that thought. He emerged from a dull and emotionless void that glorified this century, the Age of Heroes. Escaping from the timeline he was born in, he travelled back to that golden age where he, Eobard Thawne, can see the Flash in all his grandeur. To be with his idol, watching and marvelling at his deeds, his virtues, his legend. That was his dream. It shattered him when he realized he was no hero, embittered him against the man he looked up to in his original, featureless, uniform timeline. He was the monster the scarlet speedster fought, an embodiment of everything that is not Barry Allen; the exact opposite of the Flash.
Was it right, then, that he raged against his fate and became what he hated? Deluded and lost, he time travelled again to prove a point, that he wasn't a villain, a monster, a murderer. He screamed and tore at the world that denied him what he wanted. He alienated the heroes he knew so well and became what he dreaded. The world owed him so much for turning him into what he despised—why not take what was due? Destroying what he loved seemed to be the best course of action at the time, almost purifying in nature. And the Flash, well, he knew he could do everything the scarlet speedster can do but better. If the Flash never existed, he would be the one memorialized. He would be the one they glorified and looked up to; his bloodied and dark legacy, gone. He had the power to wipe the slate clean: all he had to do was kill Barry. So, so easy. He has killed children before, he remembers. That his nemesis was supposed to be one of them was nothing to him.
Does this justify his murderous rage when he failed in that, too? His dark despair when he realized that he was trapped in a time loop? He remembers every single timeline he has altered; every failure, death, and role certain persons played in it. Was that why he wanted to atone? The weight of time, of memory, of actions done and repeated over and over and over again. Will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?
Balance needed to be kept in the world. He knew this well, accepted it as the way of the universe. Shadows exist amid beams of light; hope and failure, the sides of the same coin. He was the yin to the Flash's yang. He almost laughed at that metaphor. He read (eons upon eons ago) that yin was interpreted as "not belonging to this world." He was needed to challenge Barry, push him to the edge of his limits and beyond. He was created to be the darkness surrounding the Flash's light. After all, why else would he be stuck here?
There was—is—nothing waiting for him, in the past he escaped and future he wanted. There is only now.
No. I'm not going home.
He smiled sadly as he released the hope that fueled him for centuries.
You still haven't answered my question. Why?
Eobard blinked. Because they are mine.
He sat quietly for a minute, his mind processing and planning what needs to be done.
(his numerous failures chased after each thought— the kind that actually restarted the time loop. They ran through his mind like wolves to carrion; punctuating each idea with a bloody end. Always, it included a dead Barry Allen, whether by meta-human or freak accident. Sometimes, the bodies of Caitlin and Cisco joined him.)
How is this going to work?
(he knew he couldn't go through that again.)
He closed his eyes and sighed.
It seems "Tom Cavanagh" is going to be useful after all. There is no way Harrison is going to ignore an up and coming physicist with a special interest in particle accelerators. Especially if this physicist creates technology that isn't supposed to be invented for another decade. From that position, he can keep an eye on Harrison, guide him to Cisco and Caitlin. He might even have more time to do what was needed. It was a start.
When he opened his eyes, a spark of crimson lighting ran through his cornea.
It might not work. But I have to try. For them.
(suddenly, he remembered why he wanted to be here, in the 21st century.)
Eobard laughed softly. The lighting in his veins crackled sardonically with his mirth.
Who knew it would ever come to this?
He stood up.
"Never," said Eobard quietly to Harrison Wells, "ever mistake this, or anything else I do, as kindness."
The Wells in his mind, his adopted persona of a thousand lifetimes—the voice in his head— chuckled bitterly.
"How could I?" he said. "You killed my wife."
Eobard gave a small smile to that.
(he wanted to be a hero.)
"Fair point."
Slowly, Harrison made his way back to the land of the living.
It took awhile. His dreams were fraught with nightmares. Sometimes, he saw red lightning and a yellow blur run, taunting him. Other times, he saw Tess lying dead in his arms. He would wake, fitfully, before a nurse "mercifully" increased his dosage of morphine. Once, he was aware that he had a visitor; a stranger. He wasn't awake for long, but in those few minutes of consciousness, he knew this person was talking to him.
When he finally (truly) woke up, the first thing he was aware of was the soft snores of Tina beside him.
Nothing hurts, he noted. Mind sluggish. Smells like... limonene. Disinfectant. I'm... I'm in a hospital...?
He opened his eyes.
As with any hospital, the walls were stark white. His room was sparsely adorned, several cards and flowers scattered haphazardly everywhere. Besides himself and Tina, there was no one else. He was attached to a heart monitor and an IV, the saline solution attached to his left arm. He tried to sit up, hissing at the sharp pain came from his side.
What...?
"Harrison?" Tina blinked once before gasping. "You're awake! Thank God. I thought..."
"Tina...?" Harrison shook his head slightly before wincing. His head hurt. So did his neck, now that he thought about it. "You're... Aren't you're supposed to be at—"
"I was," Tina cut in quickly. "The meeting ended early. I came as soon as I heard."
"What happened?"
Tina's face became unreadable. "You don't remember?"
"Not much." Harrison rubbed his face. "A flash of red. Tess swerving. The car flipping." He frowned, thinking. "It gets hazy after that. I remember seeing a man in a yellow mask."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, I—" he blinked.
"Tina. Where's Tess?"
To her credit, she didn't flinch when he asked. Her grey eyes were stormy. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away.
He found himself breathing very carefully.
No.
"I'm so sorry, Harrison." Her voice broke. When she looked back at him, tears were streaming down her face.
She was crying. Tina was crying.
He found himself holding her close as she wept. All he saw in his mind's eye was Tess.
(the vivid blue of her eyes, deep as the ocean what why—)
"Tina," Harrison breathed out, almost involuntarily. He opened his mouth and then closed it.
(—soft hair that smelled of apples and springtime I don't understand—)
"Why are you sorry?" There was a feeling in his chest, not quite despair or panic or fear.
(—her mellow laughter, ringing throughout the house why is Tina crying—)
"Tess... Sh-She isn't coming back, Harrison."
(—the way they danced on their wedding night Tess Tess Tess Tina is crying—)
"I don't understand."
(—the day on the beach, when they planned for the future and he told her his dream help me please—)
Tina was still for a moment as she gazed at her best friend, as though steeling herself. Then, she wrapped her arms around him, mindful of his injuries.
"Tess is dead."
(—her fierce grin as they wrestle on the pale sands I can't do this by myself—)
"Oh."
(—he held her lifeless hand as tears streamed down his face, his sight dimming I couldn't protect you I'm sorry I'm sorry—)
Another moment passed as she held him. He began to shake, his arms gripping her smaller body tightly. His head rested on her shoulder as Harrison Wells cried softly for his wife.