Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Joe had looked up from his phone, surprise shifting into recognition as he saw Barry turn round the corner with two coffees in hands. “Thanks, Bar,” he said, looking one last time at his phone before placing it face down on the table. 

“Everything alright?” Barry asked, shooting a curious glance at the phone. 

“Mmhh…yup, just someone who announced to drop by this weekend for our ‘ Central City Midway CSI workshop collab’.” Joe then patted Barry's shoulder as if to postpone that topic and both turned back to the Flipchart, walking through the canvassing findings of the recent crime scene.

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Barry trotted into the cortex, where HR greeted him with a short spin of his drumsticks. “There he is, our guest of honour,” he grinned, his dimples making Cisco momentarily forget to focus on the satellite recalibration he went through. 

“Uh, guest of honour?” Barry slowed down, looking around. Caitlin stood beside Cisco at his workstation, shrugging her shoulders almost apologetically at him. Cisco's eyes still lingered on H.R.'s face and she nudged him playfully to refocus on the screen in front of him. 

“Yeah, we had an… idea,” Cisco added, jumpstarted by Caitlin's nudge. He was rolling his eyes right after, clearly hating that he had liked the idea. 

“I had the idea,” H.R. corrected Cisco charmingly while he pointed a drumstick to his chest. The continuous display of his dimples made the younger scientist’s fingers freeze again and he had to be restarted by another nudge from Caitlin. 

H.R. twirled the drumstick in his left as he made a step forward, enjoying the attention for once. “Game night. The team, drinks, games–” 

“--Food!” Lilian chimed in gleefully as she stepped in from the hallway. She carried two bags with too many snacks she had organised for the group and Cisco used his chance to escape another nudge from Caitlin by standing up and walking to Lilian. 

“Yeah, that is so not going to save your sassy little asses from getting thumped at Pictionary!” Cisco grinned slyly at the others after peeking into the bags with too much interest. 

“Monopoly,” Caitlin narrowed her eyes, almost scolding him while she opted for something equally competitive. “Mon-” H.R. started, trying to figure out the counterpart on his world when Barry’s voice cut him off. 

“Twister?!” The face of the scarlet speedster was priceless, as he held up the mat with coloured circles that had been pulled out from God knows where. 

“Guilty!” Cisco shouted at him and crossed his arms defiantly. “Or do you want to tell me, where are not going to go full ‘I never had a school excursion when I was 12 and tried to kiss a girl’?”

“What girl?” Caitlin asked with a smug smile and it took one second of silence before Barry and Lilian wheezed at the unexpected blow. They raised their hands in defense as Cisco shot them a death glare. H.R. on the other hand smiled knowingly. “Well Francisco, there are methods and methods to charm a woman and given the premise that you want to charm a woman, your game of ‘ Twister’ or as we call it ‘Quake’ --” 

“'Quake’ ?” Lilian raised an eyebrow, biting her lower lip to prevent herself from snorting again and found herself focused on H.R.’s sonorous voice too easily. 

“On my Earth,” H.R. chuckled–and those enticing dimples appeared again, “we use ‘Quake’ as a similar–though quite primitive –method for flirtation. The goal of the game is to stack people one above the other, you know? The one at the bottom needs to carry them with their limbs assigned to the colours. Then we stack one on top, then another…” H.R.’s arms moved in circles, demonstrating the stacking of human bodies. “The first tower to fall–” 

“'Quake',” Lilian finished, nodding with an approving smile before she shot a teasing look at Caitlin. 

“'Quake'.” H.R. confirmed, smiling broadly back at them. “It is a way to get to know new people, Francisco.” Cisco rolled his eyes but huffed amusedly as he waved a hand at Barry and Lilian dismissively.

Caitlin shook her head, her hair waving like brown silk poured down as she chuckled softly. Her eyes followed Lilian picking up the bags again, as she simultaneously tried to shoo Cisco away who had decided to follow her. When he started a debate on how to stack the snacks accordingly for later, they started circling each other like cats for the best spot in the sun; Lilian still holding the bags and Cisco trying to snatch them. 

The historian was usually one to wear sporting clothes made for comfort which was a stark contrast to Caitlin’s choice of wardrobe. Today was not different. She wore one of those tight-fitting merino base layers made for compression after a workout and a dark blue stretch denim. Caitlin knew she had been swimming at the Central City Aquatic Centre because she had come into the lab with damp hair tightened up into a ponytail. And flushed cheeks framing a wry smile Caitlin tried not to stare at for too long.

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And now? Maybe because Lilian didn’t think of drawing attention towards herself at all, all that Caitlin could focus on right now were moving muscles and tendons beneath that caramel coloured fabric. How toned her neck and shoulders were, slightly pumped after the exhaustion of muscles from the swim session. 

Every time Lilian turned her head, Caitlin’s eyes flickered towards her SCMs and she let out a breath. Sternocleidomastoid–if there was ever a more enticing word for how raw and strong a woman could look… It created those elegant lines from behind the ear down toward the collarbone and Caitlin found herself thinking of how they would feel beneath her fingers.

Lilian continued to joke with Cisco, unaware of how Caitlin had already pulled off that tight merino layer with thoughts alone, as she continued letting her eyes wander over her deltoids that were–oh–so visible beneath the fabric right now. She felt a craving within her to examine the muscles covered by bare skin alone.

She remembered how the biceps of her colleague–her friend--had bulged when they had fought in the lab a few days ago. How suddenly fixated Caitlin’s eyes had been and how unable to focus after her hands had grabbed Lilian's body in an attempt to attack. In that second–while something inside her wanted to kill her, something else wanted to feel her. 

What the hell?  

—---------

She blinked. Barry had wandered over to H.R., talking about the latest meta sight from the day before. 

Since their fight those thoughts had been intruding on Caitlin's mind again. A soft and invisible pull seeping into her, making her eyes momentarily hazy and missing entirely what the men were talking about. 

And yes, there had been a lot going during those last days. A lot of drama, tension and unspoken feelings that were too much for a human soul to bear alone. 

And today for whatever reason, without naming it, without labeling it and compartmentalizing and thereby reducing it, everyone–including her–had agreed to the idea of taking a break. To once forget that they were part of Team Flash with far too much responsibility and pretend they were just a group of people instead. A group of people who had lived through too much to be just colleagues–who had cried not enough with each other to call themselves friends out loud. 

“Caitlin?” Oh, damn. She looked at Barry, hoping it wasn’t the first time he had called her name. If he did, he didn’t show anything. 

“Hey, uhm,” he continued, his head shooting between H.R. and her. “Do you mind if I bring someone along?” She furrowed her brows questioningly at him, seeing a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“Iris is at her journalists’ congress and Joe just told me that Patty will visit for a few days for the CSI-Workshop,” he explained sheepishly. Patty. 

“Yeah, sure,” Caitlin pressed her lips together and forced them to a small and kind smile while she could feel her cheeks warm up even more. If this wasn't going to be fun.

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Patty . 

Patty Spivot, the woman Barry dated while trying to forget Iris. 

Gods, she had shot Harry in the cortex the second she saw him. That was the first time Caitlin and her had met–if you can call it that. Though Caitlin was alarmed by the gunshot, she had stood a second too long to eye their intruder. Asked the too obvious “what’s going on here?”. She had stood there, too stunned, eyes fixed on Patty. She hadn’t even noticed Harry bleeding… because Patty. Because Patty had looked confident and poised and pissed. Gun in hand and with eyes that could burn holes into mountains. 

Patty Spivot. 

She had been unyielding. After Joe had escorted her out, she had snuck later back in. All the while, while Harry was still recovering in Medbay. She had confronted Caitlin and was set on staying; like a buzzard clawing into prey it refused to let go. Wearing those skinny jeans and a leather jacket over a top and moving with a grace that had made her stand out like a flame between tame candles. 

She had been a hurricane. She was overwhelming in a way that told you no defense could hold. And she had left a mark on Caitlin more than any man before. 

Caitlin had reasoned it with having respect for a cop, a woman aspiring a career in an environment dominated by men. She had thought that she had been impressed by that self-confidence and that hint of complacency. Until Barry told them he was dating Patty for real. And then it was suddenly something she couldn’t reason with. She had felt her heart jump. It should have been because of keeping The Flash a secret. 

But instead her heart jumped because she had started envisioning herself with Patty, while Barry talked about them: envisioning her knowing smile, her body, her confidence. And something inside her knew: she wasn’t afraid that Patty would uncover Barry’s secret eventually–she was afraid that Patty would eventually leave once she did. 

It had been uncommon and embarrassing for Caitlin to realize that the looks she shot at the woman were more than kindness. Her eyes had stayed a second too long at her lips, a blush too many at her delicate curves. A thought too long at how it would feel if she were with Patty and not Barry. If she would share a first kiss and not him. And when she went home and touched herself that night, she thought about Ronnie and Patty. Until Ronnie disappeared and it was only Patty in her dreams. 

Those thoughts, her own betrayal of her fiancé, had scared her more than anything and she buried the thoughts with Patty leaving Central City. She had been glad. She still loved Ronnie. She then even thought that Patty did not leave an impression. Really…  

Until Barry had mentioned her name.

Yeah, game night was going to be fun.

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“Because my breasts are bigger than yours,” Lilian tilts her head, her eyes gleaming with annoyance and mischief as she looks at Patty. She crosses her arms just beneath her chest, as if to underline the argument and– the arguments…

“You sure?” Patty huffs, daring her with a hint of smugness herself. But her eyes run up Lilian's body, slowing down at her chest before they return to her face. 

“And you are going to tell me next, that you also have as many scars as I do.” Patty’s blue eyes sparkle now, raising the bar. She enjoys a real challenge and Lilian is ready to go all in.

“Uhm, lad-unpfgh” H.R.s hand covers Barry's mouth in an instant as the speedster tries to solve the unmistakable tension lying in the air, the eyes of all three men and Caitlin's focused on the exchange between Lilian and Patty. 

“Don't-” H.R. whispers and Barry muffles something to which H.R. responds again with another–tenser ‘Don’t mess up the chance of our lives ’: “Don't! ”

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And it all started with H.R.’s proposal to play his ‘Quake’. Man knew too much of underlying tension to not draw it out like the conductor of stories he was destined to be. 

Both women had ended up being entangled with arms and legs, not even caring for the game or the others anymore. H.R. had smiled like he knew a secret. And while Patty and Lilian started insulting each other for obviously no reason, the others did not dare intervene.

The tension had continued even after that and Barry thought about blowing the whole thing off. 

They did not know why it went sideways. The rest of the team– except H.R.--knew Patty from the time Barry had dated her–and went along well with her. And Lilian, who usually went along with everyone she got to know, stayed visibly monosyllabic and almost hostile when it came to any subject about Patty. 

Cisco did not understand it. He and Caitlin were leaning against a wall in the lounge and shared a bowl of chips. He pointed with his chin towards both women at the other end of the room. Both were sitting on the couch at different ends. “I’ve never seen her like this. I have never seen Lilian not liking anyone. If both had guns, we'd be in the middle of an ‘A Handful of dollars’ remake.”

A low chuckle emerged from H.R. who joined and stepped between Cisco and Caitlin, draping his arms around both. “Oh, this is going to be fun .” His dimples short-circuited Cisco again nearly as much as his touch. And those glacy-blue eyes he believed to lose himself in, promised trouble.

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“Show me yours, then.” 

Cisco almost chokes on his drink now, coughing violently before he turns his head to catch a breath behind H.R.'s back. Caitlin sees a grin blooming on the author's face as he already imagines 50 pages of smut between both women. 

It is a sight for sore eyes. Lilian and Patty are equally tall, but Lilian holds at least 15 pounds more muscle mass than Patty. Patty looks like a model, slim and beautiful and able to wear all the skinny jeans and elegant small sized-dresses in the world. Lilian's body is shaped by training and races in triathlons. Thighs thick enough they deny to be fit into skinny or even slim. Sweet thighs Caitlin wishes would squish her against the wall before she'd feel hot breath against her cold lips, paving a lustrous way into her mouth. 

Something turmoils inside Caitlin that has been usually cold since Ronnie left and she shifts awkwardly. They should be gaming, right? They should be enjoying their time. Why does it feel like both females seem to assess each other like prey–or as options? 

Lilian narrows her eyes, lifting her merino layer at the hem up to her ribcage and H.R. feels both Cisco and Barry halt their breath. He smirks, clearly amused at how paralyzed the boys are and observes the abdominal muscles tensing under Patty's eyes.

“Arrow,” Lilian points to a scar between her last two ribs and Patty leans a bit forward to examine it, nodding approvingly. 

She then pulls back–only to lower the waistband of her skinny jeans that hugs her delicious waist so eagerly down to her left hipbone. “Knife.” Her fingers brush over the scar just above that bone and H.R. feels his hand dampen from Barry’s breath. It is Lilian’s turn to lean in now, her fingers moving without hesitation to join Patty’s as they follow the line of her scar. Caitlin hears Cisco struggle with his breath again but realizes she is holding her own. Patty meanwhile has an expectant expression. The smile tugging at her lips is more than just competitive… it is–inviting.

It seems that the room has narrowed down to those two. Two warriors from different kinds, comparing their scars. 

“Did it hurt?” Lilian asks, her fingers still on Patty’s skin. 

“Like hell,” and Patty chuckles. “Your turn.”

Lilian smirks wryly and turns around, lifting the hem of her base layer once more. There is a long scar running from the low left of her back up to the upper right, disappearing under the caramel merino. H.R. feels a hand on his shoulder. Cisco holds onto him while he dares to peek again. He feels shaky hot breaths hit his neck and blinks several times, before he can focus again. 

“Impressive,” Patty states with that little smile still on her face. She goes and lifts the hem a little more and reveals the black lace of Lilian’s bra. Her knuckles brush over skin and H.R. watches how Lilian’s cheeks warm up with a delicious red. Barry’s cheeks echo the flushing and radiate warmth into the hand still covering his mouth. 

Lilian tilts her head to the side, her eyes to the ground, as she responds almost cooly: “Knife. It was my first mission with the team. Wanted to protect an artifact.”

She can hear another chuckle behind her and it is not the first time she compares it to thick honey dripping from a spoon. Patty’s fingers trace the scar before they dip beneath the lace. Cisco is seconds away from biting into H.R. 's shoulder and Barry whimpers almost inaudibly against his fingers. 

“Wouldn’t have thought that your kind gets into danger.” Patty purrs now.

“My kind?” Lilian arches an eyebrow but does not move away.

“A scholar.”

A tight smile flickers across her lips, almost as if Lilian does not want to share too much… yet: “Never saw Indiana Jones, huh?”

H.R. hears Caitlin almost fall over her feet as she scrambles up to leave for the tea kitchen, a little too loud and hasty and it breaks the moment. Both Patty and Lilian look after Cait and Barry’s mouth is relieved from the hold.

Patty steps away from Lilian and both women exchange looks. Lilian contemplates who should go after her, because she knows one should. Her instinct tells her to go by herself, but she remembers how the last time turned out. Though she does not expect another Frost- moment, she knows that something has changed since their last encounter a few days ago. 

Patty watches the expressions changing on the other woman’s face. She reads concern and care and something else she cannot quite place but does not engage yet. Only when it looks like Lilian has made a decision, nodding her head slightly towards her, she understands the request. And she does understand that it is not the time to discuss if Lilian has the right to request that Patty should go after Caitlin. Patty’s eyes last only one more second on Lilian’s before she turns and walks towards the tea kitchen. 

Cisco excuses himself, clearly looking for something to distract himself from too much sexual tension and Lilian shrugs her shoulders at Barry before she scratches her neck, deciding to walk to the small workstation which is stacked with sweets Cisco arranged. 

She sees the deck of cards Barry had fetched earlier for poker but they hadn’t even started to play yet. 

In shortage of space, she sits down on the ground, leaning against the massive table of the workstation and starts mixing the cards. 

_________________

“I didn't think this thing existed here.”

“What?” She lifts her head a little in his direction, while she lays out a game of Solitaire. Counting cards now: one, two, three, and lays them down, faced up.  

“That women can fall for women. I had a suspicion that this world is different, but you proved it.”

Lilian looks up, her hand frozen in air, before she pushes herself to rest it on her thigh.  Her eyes are careful first, surprised and caught and she is ready to respond with what she's used to: That ‘she isn't’ , that ‘it's not anyone's business’ , that ‘it is just an european thing’ and she almost laughs at her own rack of excuses that sound so silly right now. 

But it is H.R.. Just H.R.. He wouldn't know what the rules on this earth are; if there are any. She could tell him a fairytale and he may believe it. But something in the way he asks makes her exhale carefully instead and she answers slowly: “I'm not into ‘women’ or ‘men’.” 

He tilts his head, his smile almost gone and she wonders if anyone told him how beautiful he looks when he doesn't try. 

“Theres a word for it, surely. And it has so many nuances in the community it's shared. I–” She starts gesturing with the Queen of Hearts that she wanted to place beneath her king but instead she taps the card against her chin.

“I'm… into people?” She raises her eyebrows questioningly, as if he of all could evaluate her response objectively enough without justification. 

“I mean–” And there it is, that hesitation, that insecurity that has been accompanying Lilian for so long; when she's needing to tell everyone that if won't affect the things she'll provide by being herself. Justification at its best. Second guessing. Hiding. Her shoulders slump a little.

“I guess, I fall in love with someone who–leaves an impression, you know?” Her voice goes soft and almost shy at the revelation. “Someone I can see. Not a performer,” and a small amused glint seeps into her eyes as she watches him. A subtle hint laced in those words, that–while both might seek truth, both refrain from being it. At least not entirely. Not for everyone. Not even to themselves. Pretenders. 

“Someone I do not need to ask, if they stay, but because they want to. Someone who makes me laugh and keeps me close when I–.” She stops and exhales now, a bit shaky. Now it feels like too much, too much she is afraid to tell. So she looks back at her cards, sticking the Queen of Hearts now beneath the King of Spades.

“How is it in your world?” 

He chuckles at her diversion and looks at his hands on his thighs for a moment. Quid pro quo. He wrestles with himself how much he can tell, how much he can show . Maybe because she offered something he does now. too.

“We don't have-”, he gestures at her: the rare species she embodies for him, “--that.” She raises an eyebrow and waits calmly for him to continue. There's still a tug of a smile at the corners of his mouth, but he tries to focus and it looks almost painfully uncomfortable for him to stay like this: without a mask. 

“People on Earth-19 don't look for partners of the same sex.” He shrugs his shoulders and taps the drumsticks against his thigh. He still hasn’t looked up but his smile grows different, softer now. 

“I went out the other night,” he continues slowly, “when Francisco–when he went through my things...” 

She remembers. She remembers calling Cisco out because of that and how they had argued. It had been then that she had found out that H.R. knew exactly what face he wore on this earth. 

“Had my–you saw that–the transmogrification device.” He looks up now, his eyes with a sharp sparkle now, as if there is a need now pushing him to share and he exclaims softly:

“Love here is so different! I saw a man–kiss a man, and no one batted an eye!” 

He whispers those last words with such force and his hand moves up waving wildly. 

“We don't have that on Earth-19. Love… Sex… biology is… simpler than yours here. Pheromonal attraction aligns only heterosexually. It was never different! At least from what I know.” He takes a breath. A grin breaks his thoughtful expression. 

“You gave me the Odyssey the other night. And you offered that I could take books from your bookshelf whenever I wanted… you know, from the shelf in the meeting room slash–” “-- Creative dashboard ” she joins him, both smiling a little. His eyes shine like the lake of Melissani in Kefalonia as he looks into hers. 

“'The poems of Sappho'. There is a woman on the cover, the poet: Sappho–with other women…” She laughs softly as he describes it, carrying that hint of disbelief mixed with admiration of how much of this world he wants to explore. She rests her hand gently on his arm. “You have time to explore all of that.”

His posture stiffens. She feels it almost immediately beneath his fingers, how he tenses and how something else creeps into his eyes. She pulls her hand back almost too quickly, exhaling softly. “Sorry.” She looks back at her cards, both hands closing around the cards again, but her fingers twitch once. 

He laughs under his breath but it is slightly shaken. “It’s… okay. You know, I am usually used to women getting wooed by me and my charm.” It is back now, his grin, his dimples and she does not even have to look up to know that the moment is over. She hears him twirl his drumstick and after another breath, another second where she does not dare to look up–he leaves. An all too measured breath escapes her before she presses her lips shut and shakes her head almost imperceptibly. She should have known that people can take only so much of the real her and continues to lay out the cards– one, two, three –while her fingers tremble.

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Barry

Barry wonders if he misses anything tonight. 

It feels strange, seeing his friends being all around him, joking, having fun, disappearing…

He sees how H.R. tenses and how Lilian pulls her hand back. Wonders what they talked. Wonders why both flinched. 

He is not stupid, though many mistake his naivety–or his goodwill and need to look on the bright side of things–for stupidity. But because many see only this: only his motivating smile, his determination and much too much experience for his age and believe he is too stupid or too good to understand. 

Or too experienced. Or too forgiving. Or… 

…too much of 

…everything.

He sits on the couch, watching H.R. walk to Cisco. Watching Lilian sitting alone now. Caitlin and Patty are somewhere else, possibly in the Tea Kitchen. He sits alone. Wonders if he chose to sit alone or if the others avoid him. Wonders if he is emitting the aura of the lonesome leader like Harry used to, or Wells– Thawne. 

They think he will manage. That he will live through misery and disaster and pain like he lived through everything before. That this additional layer of grief–for the next death, the next loss–will make him only stronger, more determined and better than he already is.

He is alone. 

He is alone in a way that none of the others are. They joke and flinch and cry themselves to sleep. They hurt and accuse him and expect him the next second to fix things. To just run. 

Run, Barry. Run. 

And he does. He always does. And he always carries. And he always cries. Not with them, not in front of them. Not even at home, because home means Iris and he needs to protect her, too. Not here, where he observes lost souls trying to pretend and connect, only to be ripped apart the next second by feelings–feelings so strong no one should feel them. 

It hurts. It hurts collecting pain and not letting it out. It hurts coming back to those same old wounds and it hurts to know you can go weak only for so long. Until you have to be the fucking beacon of love and hope and everything again. 

His losses shaped him. Thawne did so exceptionally well and with a wonderful pleasant ache in it, that Barry will never know how it is to not be himself. Even with Flashpoint, where he was another him, when he had his true self buried but clawing his way out, keeping Thawne caged like the dirty little secret that would turn his picture of Dorian Gray to a nightmare. Like a present he was gifted once and feared to be taken away. Even then he could not be him. 

He truly never was someone else since the death of his mother. And because he never really was, he doesn’t think of how he could be. He just carries that scratching ache in every faked smile and nod and convinces others that he can make it right.

The thing is, it makes him alone because he tries keeping things together. Because the more he keeps fighting and staying motivated, the more he isolates himself from those who simply don’t. 

He does not cry. Not really. His heart goes heavy and he sheds a tear or two. 

But them? They expect him to lead them through. To be everything they can not be and demand from him. And sometimes–just for once–he simply doesn’t want it.

And he knows that they look: that they do not see him as a part of them–not really. Because he never cries. Because he is The Flash . Because he is meant to be a hero–by Thawne’s destiny bestowed upon him and by the SpeedForce choosing him–and heroes do not cry. They do not belong. 

They sacrifice. 

They sacrifice their sanity, their time, their love, their grief even. When he grieves, there is always another who grieves more. When he wants to cry, there is always another who hurts more. Without him, the team is nothing, but to them he feels like a wheel attached but only used for its specifically designed purpose.. 

He serves a purpose and nothing else. He was made for it.

Who is he anyway?

He watches Cisco shoot a longer glance at Harry, no– H.R . and wonders if Cisco still sees someone else while looking at those dimples. Just as he did. 

Cisco… He had gone to Cisco after Flashpoint. He knew he wasn’t really welcome when he started to make it up, wishing to reconnect. He had wanted to help, fixing like he always does, like he was trained to do and yet he couldn’t without risking everything again. He had tried making himself smaller, being there–helpless–while Cisco grieved. And by the time those days passed he questioned all those words about friendship.

But he also saw how Cisco had helped Barry against Rival, how they had tried–together somehow–after Flashpoint. So, Barry hopes… Hopes, he won’t sit alone all evening. Hopes, that someone will sit in this mud of darkness with him. Not to fix like he always tries. Just to stay.

Chapter Text

The tea kitchen is small and functional. Everything in S.T.A.R. Labs is functional. 

The small dishwasher has been one of the things Caitlin thought was superfluous when she had encountered it. She used to wash the dishes at home by hand, as she lived alone.  But Dr. Wells– Thawne –did know what staying too long in a tea kitchen meant. It meant staying in the tea kitchen longer to wash your mug, eventually starting to chat when a coworker joined, skipping work for minutes. So the tea kitchen had been equipped with a dishwasher. It had been one of their tasks to empty the programmed machine every morning, which took less time than washing each of them by hand. Caitlin still hates doing it. She did it anytime Cisco “forgot” it had been his turn. She hates the smell: soap and moisture and cleanness, which is quite the paradox, given that she lives in an environment where everything she touches needs to be cleaned afterwards. Maybe because she can not control what is happening inside the dishwasher, which seems a silly thought itself. Maybe because the work seems bigger, when she opens the lid and that smell promises-in her eyes-unnecessary work.

The lid of the dishwasher has been down, the caskets with mugs and cutlery ogling at her while she stands against the counter, the wood hitting her lumbar spine every time she bounces back and forth on her heels. The logical side of hers wants to focus on emptying the dishwasher now. Distracting herself until she feels safe enough to return outside. 

She can not. 

It is disgusting. 

She is.  

All at once the knee-high skirt she wears feels too revealing once she shifts her legs; the brush of skin against skin too vulgar and exhibitionistic for all of them outside. Something inside her– there –has started to heat up, to clench in sweet agony, laying down its defenses with each passing second.  She should be cold , she should be exhaling coldness and ignorance. Instead everything she feels is warmth: growing and seeping from inside through bones and skin and fabric.  Her hands are bracing her mouth, and she whispers something almost inaudible against her palm to get her mind away from what she saw.

What she felt…

Eyes pressed shut she repeats over and over the same word until she realizes it is the name of her deceased fiance. It runs down her skin like a hopeless spell that should lift the burden from her shoulders.  “Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie… please, Ronnie…”

Instead the answer to her words–her blasphemic prayer–remains the same: silence.

A thousand thoughts race through her mind, all pressing against the inside of her skull, poking, scratching for a way out. What is happening ? Why does her heart hammer? Why on earth does her pulse spike? And why– fucking hell –is she feeling a tightness, not only in her chest, but also in her lower body? A tightness that promises relief if she gives in, if she'd press her thighs together more, allowing them to feel each other. If she’d shift her posture a bit more, letting her hand wander under her skirt to that warmth that is so inviting…

A soft gasp escapes, muffled and sweet and high and she squirms, alert and aroused by her own sound. She does not allow herself to name what this could be, what causes her to run warm and hot and wet all of a sudden. 

It does not help that she cannot suppress the thoughts of getting pushed against the counter, imagining hands roaming under her blouse, a warm body pressing against hers. It doesn’t help that she wants to spread her legs wider, arching and welcoming--and yet there is just emptiness. She swallows, groaning with shame and shaking her head. She forces herself back to analysing.  Her brain runs diagnoses, tries counting her own heartbeat and assessing her overall state:  It could be a panic attack. It could be stress or the caffeine in the cola mixed with the vodka she had promised herself she’d never touch again but did anyway. 

What if someone comes in? What if someone sees her like this? She needs to change. She needs to find a place that is safer–more hidden–and where she can change into something else: The locker room, where Lilian usually showers and changes after her morning training– fuck…

She inhales sharply, that unwilling thought making her heartbeat just pause for a moment before it continues.  A plan starts to form in her mind, calculating and minimising risks and impact, like she always does. She can get out and walk down the hallway; if everyone is busy and no one notices… If they do not look directly into her direction.  She could step into the locker room and change into a pair of denim instead. She could make up an excuse should anyone ask: a spilled drink, feeling cold, anything . 

She could. She could. She could.

The second she decides she will , the door opens: slow and purposeful. Caitlin prays with everything that’s left that it’s not Lilian and she also wishes that it is her; her body tensing, readying for anything but calmness, when she sees Patty enter. And she wonders if whoever she prayed to maybe understood their assignment too well. 

“Hey,” Patty enters, her hands casually in her pockets, thumbs out and pointing so deliciously towards her groin like a subtle invite. 

Caitlin knows what her brain is doing right now. Overcompensating, flowing on that wave that started to rise since H.R. proposed the party; knowing she won’t cool down anytime soon unless she takes a cold shower–or a hot one, with some time for herself.  So her eyes dart once to the space so wonderfully outlined between Patty’s thumbs and the waistband of those low hugging jeans that create that enticing triangle before she forces herself to look up into Patty’s eyes. Her hands drop from her mouth–caught, as if to tell everyone and herself that she didn’t bite into her palm to ease the stress. 

Patty notices the flicker in Caitlin’s eyes and the bitemarks on her palm but says nothing.  She contemplates asking if Caitlin is alright but decides against it. It is clear, she is not and so she changes her approach to a perspective she knows and feels safe at.  So she pulls her hands from her pockets, making them visible for Caitlin as she leans against the small table opposite to her. The stance is intended, making Patty less the interrogator though she will use the methods she was trained on. Why not, if it helps them both? 

“Can you tell me what happened, Caitlin?”

Her head tilts just a bit, just that tad that offers Caitlin assurance and grounding and not domination. And then Patty waits. And somehow it bothers her, that she has to wait and that she cannot already state the assumption of what she believes has happened: That she could be the reason Caitlin bolted. Hold on, stick to the facts, Spivot. Let her talk.

Oh, that question . Caitlin narrows her eyes with anger for a moment before she relaxes her expression again. How investigative Patty sounds when she wants to. Creating distance–providing a safe environment but this, this is what Caitlin should need, shouldn’t she?

Why do I hate it when she does it?

She shrugs, balances from one foot to another and rubs over her upper arms as if something cold is running now through her body. It is not a shiver of cold though. It is this feeling of being torn between wanting to dive into the unknown-Ronnie went scuba-diving with her and she hated it-and- Ronnie… No…

Caitlin presses her eyes shut, still in that self-soothing movement of petting herself and concern creeps into Patty’s eyes. 

Patty does a step forward, against her initial plan to play it safe. But what is here to play safe? And so–before Caitlin realizes it, Patty rests a warm hand onto her shoulder. Warm… Too warm… I should be cold. Why don’t I become cold? 

Instead her heartbeat skips one of those trusted beats. And she knows–as the accredited doctor that she is–that this is no sudden atrial fibrillation nor irresponsible use of alcohol or drugs she assumed before. Hell, she wishes for alcohol now. 

But because she is Dr. Caitlin Snow she uses that last ounce of restraint to stay calm instead of flinching and allows herself to sigh instead: “I am good…”

Patty tilts her head, now absolutely in that manner that Joe always does with a look that warns not to play them.  “Caitlin.”

Caitlin inhales barely, her eyelids going heavy by the way Patty says her name and she lets her brain repeat that word with Patty’s voice inside her again and again. Her brain starts altering tonality, speed, thickness, and turns it to a wicked and enchanting spell: Patty whispering it against her ear, her lips, her throat while undressing her… while fucking her slowly with her fingers… every time differently, just slightly differently…

Patty wouldn’t be Patty if she didn’t notice the change. She knows what a body does when they fail to hide the obvious; has seen it so many times with suspects writhing and shifting almost imperceptibly.  “You know you can talk to me, right? Even if Barry invited me, I can be here for you, too.”

Caitlin watches her speak, while her brain is somewhere else entirely and she inhales every further spoken word and every intonation with the intention to permanently save it to her memory and be able to reproduce it whenever she needs. Only when she senses that Patty stopped to talk, does something pull her out of that spiral and she blinks, trying to focus again. 

“Patty…,” Caitlin starts without even knowing what to tell her and yet she feels herself shift again just by saying her name. She dares to lift her eyes to the other woman, shy and careful and trying to look composed. “I’m all right. It was just a bit much those last days.” Trying a polite smile. Feeling that hand still on her arm. Trying not to move. Trying for everything she holds dear. And when Patty squeezes– squeezes –her arm lightly, that is when a soft sound escapes her. Fuck.

A soft whimper–no, not even a whimper. Just a soft little sweet surrender that slips out when you get pushed a little too far and cannot help it. Caitlin wishes she could just sink into the ground. 

And Patty holds her breath, tilting her head just a little bit more at Caitlin’s reaction.

Cisco tenses just a bit, as he sees how H.R. walks over to him, busying himself quickly with a chocolate bar–one of those Lilian brought–and he narrows his eyes onto the wrapping material, pretending to decipher the ingredients that promise protein supplement with a “natural sweet taste”. 

It feels like being shocked– to life –as H.R. 's hand touches his shoulder and Cisco presses his lips together before he looks up with what he hopes is a neutral expression. “Hey, what's up?”

H.R. furrows his brows in perfect unbothered denial, crossing his arms as he peeks at Cisco’s hands with an angelic smile that would make Cisco return to church: “Ah, just enjoying the team taking a break. It was a good idea, you know? You all work so much and have barely a chance to relax… Does it taste good?”

Cisco nearly chokes on the piece he just bit off the bar, raising a hand in defense as H.R. begins to pat him on the back before performing circular motions. "There, there. You have to chew it, Francisco."

The tears that start to dwell in his eyes are matched by his reddened face and Cisco is somewhat relieved that HR will probably attribute it to his failed attempt to swallow and not to the way that last sentence sounded just so calmly ingratiating. 

Getting under his skin. 

That’s what this Wells does. He does it with a languidity, a lavishing nonchalance and those mischievous dimples that have started to short-circuit Cisco ever since he allowed himself to look at him. He had told himself that this Wells was no different than the others–either held evil intent like Thawne or grief and anger like Harry. And yet, every time Cisco had pushed and punished and behaved like nothing he wanted to be remembered for, H.R. had stayed. Held the other cheek like a fucking martyr. 

He wasn’t perfect. Cisco had told him several times. He had stomped onto every idea and spark that the older man tried to ignite with a maliciousness that had been nurtured over those last two years. Cisco had been everything and more–had been accusing him of stealing, of endangering the team. He had held on that anger because he couldn’t hold onto the grief and sadness. 

But H.R. did not go away. It had been unsettling. 

And the more H.R. stayed, the more he had understood that being perfect for him–Francisco Ramon, younger brother to a praised untouchable dead brother–was something different than for H.R., for Barry, for the others. That maybe there was no aim for perfection but just for acceptance as they were; something Cisco had fought for his whole life before he chose another family: the S.T.A.R. Labs-family.  And maybe that was what had made Cisco think, questioning himself: who was he when everyone left and who could he be when someone stayed?

H.R. hands him a glass with water. “Better?”

And Cisco, the footnote, the scientist, the friend, looks into H.R. ‘s eyes and nods: “Yeah. Better.”

Lilian untangles her feet from the spot she has been sitting for the last ten minutes–trying to solve the solitaire that proves unsolvable. 

She's been eyeing her watch, making it up to those ten minutes with counting the cards over and over before she decides that the right time has come to leave. If she'd run too soon they'd assume it's because of her feeling uneasy. Maybe she'd make them pity her. They would connect her talk with H.R. being the catalyst–or just being her amongst a group of people she hopes to belong to someday. Her eyes are glued to a spot on the ground before her–a perfect angle to look unbothered by what happened–while she makes some evenly unhurried strides and leaves the lounge. The doors glide shut behind her. 

H.R. has been watching it all along. 

Has focused his eyes onto Cisco’s as he purposely strides towards the young scientist with the glossy waves of dark hair. Has deliberately ignored what happens behind him as he steps away. Ignores that faint and suppressed exhale as he forces himself to a broad smile, watching the man with the chocolate bar in front of him drop his gaze. 

His arm burns as if it has been doused with petrol and set alight from that touch alone. He shouldn’t let it go to his head. He knows it is better than that: He needs to stay distant; curious, yes, kind and open and attentive, yes. But never letting someone reach out for him like just now. He does not know what to do with that: with people who start seeing him, who start showing kindness in return. He has been working so hard to please everyone, that this gesture–tiny and unimportant as the skip of his heartbeat was–means nothing, should mean nothing. And yet his arm burns and he is torn between wanting to cut it off or weeping about it. 

It means nothing…

Because if it means something… and he had too much of that hope. He still has… 

It means… no. It means nothing . And if he tells it to himself a few more times, he may believe it long enough for the next half an hour. 

It is different with Francisco Ramon, the man who gives nothing. 

He is walking to Cisco, knowing too well he resumes his pattern of entertaining and starts to loathe himself for it. Yet he cannot stop. Not yet. He hates it since he was praised and needed for it on his Earth. Things don’t change. People don’t. 

They needed him but never wanted him . That’s okay. That’s perfectly fine.

This is fine. Perfectly… fine…

He has seen the effect he has on the young man with the dark brown eyes. Has tried him like an animal in an experiment. Since he knows what effect he had–has–on everyone in this team but especially Cisco, he has confronted him on various things and at various times, watching every reaction: every aversion wrapped in deflection, every lash out in annoyed ignorance. 

He noticed how leeching each comment from Cisco was, how targeted in destroying everything he himself had been trying to build. He still notices that Cisco’s body language has not fully softened yet–on the contrary. The touches H.R. places deliberately are received now differently. Shoulders tense and gazes drop and the fierceness with which Cisco’s cheeks heat up stirs something in H.R. as well: curiosity and fascination how someone with his face can provoke another man’s uneasiness that has shifted from being simply an asshole to someone slowly opening up.

He has no more feelings for the scientist than those of someone who still wishes to connect and he cannot fathom yet that the man standing close to him and fumbling with that chocolate bar can be his friend someday. His mind prevents him from going there yet.  So he compartmentalizes the shifts and looks and touches he exchanges with Francisco Ramon, the one his attention has turned to from the beginning. Putting on his smile and easy charm. Gifting a bit of softness to the grieving soul beside him. Giving again a bit of himself away because he sees how much the other is in pain. Keeping himself small enough for others to heal. 

H.R. has been good at keeping his feelings at bay. He has prided himself with that, smiling now with warm affection at the young blushing man, while his fingers brush over that burning spot on his arm absentmindedly.