The Flash - The Slow Hand of Time
Jan. 3rd, 2016 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Slow Hand of Time
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~7000
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place roughly around S1.05 (Plastique)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: None - my beta's under the weather, and I'm kind of anxious to post this.
Summary: Harrison Wells is hungry for something more than just another Big Belly Burger. He finds Barry alone in the lab and asks him to join him for a meal.
Author’s Notes: Inspired by a scene in The Sound and the Fury, when Cisco and Caitlin show up at Dr. Wells' house and Barry is surprised that they hadn't been there before. It definitely seemed to me that Barry had been there.
My first fic for this fandom - please excuse any inaccuracies with canon details. Also, utterly shameless food porn.
To my White Collar friends who might be intrigued, this pairing presses all of my Neal/Adler buttons big time. A quick primer on Barry and Harrison can be found here.
__________________
It was one of those nights. The kind where he needed more than cold simulations and the re-confirmation that the timeline was still intact. It was a night to when he desperately needed to assuage hungers that he refused to name, hungers that could alter the future if he wasn't careful. A night when the thought of home was less enticing than the life he constructed here.
A night when one wrong move, one ill-considered word, could ruin everything.
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Barry was working on a simulation in the Cortex. It wasn't anything important – just the speed at which various brands of sneakers would go up in flames from friction against pavement. All the major brands had the same problem – ignition at speeds above one-hundred-ninety miles an hour. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. It looked like he was going to have to take Cisco up on his offer to re-sole all his shoes in the same heat and friction-reducing material that he'd use on his suit's footwear.
"That sounds very heartfelt, Mr. Allen. Problems?" Harrison Wells steered his chair into the Cortex, and the overhead lights reflected an eerie green off of his glasses.
"No, just contemplating my … footwear choices."
"Between the kind that that bursts into flames when you run and other kind that bursts into flames when you run?"
Barry looked up, a little startled at Dr. Wells' witticism. "Yeah."
"You'll have to take Cisco up on his offer."
"I'd just come to that conclusion. And resign myself to a lifetime of fugly footwear."
One elegant eyebrow rose above the black-rimmed glasses. "Fugly? I don't think I know that word."
"It's a combination of fu – freaking and ugly." Barry felt the start of a blush stain his cheeks. For some reason, he didn't like cursing in front of Dr. Wells. It seemed disrespectful.
"Ah." Dr. Wells wheeled around and stared up at him, an enigmatic look on his face.
Barry tried to resist the urge to wipe imaginary dirt off his cheek or his nose. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I'm just … hungry."
That was something Barry could fix. "A quick trip to the nearest Big Belly Burger will take care of that. Do you want one or two?" And a dozen or so for himself.
"Tonight, I'd like something other than burgers, Mr. Allen. I was thinking about going out for dinner. To a restaurant, not a fast food place. I was wondering if you'd like to join me."
"Me?" Barry pointed to himself and looked around. Of course there was no one else in the lab. Both Cisco and Caitlin had left hours ago.
"Yes, Mr. Allen, you."
Barry gulped some air. "Yeah, sure. I'd like that." He looked down at himself. At least he was wearing work clothes – a button down, a tie and a pair of Dockers – as opposed to his usual off-duty garb of jeans, a tee shirt and hoodie. Dr. Wells was – as always – immaculate in his customary black. "Umm, where would you like to go?"
"I'm in the mood for red meat."
There was a subtle inflection on those last two words and Barry felt a blush start somewhere in the neighborhood of his belly button and work its way up to his eyebrows. "So, um, steak?"
"Very perceptive, Mr. Allen."
There was a hint of laughter in his voice and Barry couldn't shake the feeling that Dr. Wells knew exactly what he was thinking.
"Come along."
Barry trailed after Dr. Wells, down to the secure parking bay. A few S.T.A.R. Laboratory vans were still in the parking lot, as well as a specially equipped Mercedes G-class wagon with a retracting driver's side lift-gate. Dr. Wells might be a paraplegic, but he was not a helpless cripple. He drove where he wanted, lived where he wanted, he let no one and nothing - least of all two non-functioning legs - stop him from doing what he wanted.
That steely determination got to Barry every time he thought about it. It terrified and excited him, it made him want to run faster, do better, prove to the man that his trust and his faith in him was justified.
"Have you ever been to Amaro's?"
"No, but I've heard of it." Barry didn't think it was relevant to mention that he'd wanted to take Iris to the very expensive restaurant for her eighteenth birthday, except that he couldn't afford even an appetizer, let alone two steak dinners there.
"Then you're in for a treat."
Dr. Wells drove through the busy streets of Central City much as he did everything, with calm control and utter confidence. When they reached the restaurant and the valet parker came to open the door, Dr. Wells waved the young man off, pulled into a blue-bordered spot and hung a handicapped tag from the rear view mirror. The parker followed and this time, Wells allowed him to open the door. "I trust it won't be a problem if I park my car here?"
"No, sir. Not at all."
Barry didn't miss the folded bill that Dr. Wells pressed into the young man's hand or the bright, almost fawning smile he received in return.
"Come."
Barry followed Dr. Wells into the restaurant. It was a Friday night and he wasn't surprised to find a dozen people waiting for their tables; however, the maître 'd greeted Dr. Wells as if he'd been expected - or as if he was a frequent guest. But the greeting held no warmth.
They were seated at a corner table, slightly secluded and out of the restaurant's basic traffic pattern. It took a little maneuvering, but Dr. Wells was able to tuck himself against the wall, and Barry was seated next to him. The position felt almost intimate and when Dr. Wells' left hand accidentally brushed his right, Barry felt his heart race.
Thankfully, Dr. Wells didn't notice the contact or his reaction. Barry tried to think of some conversational gambit and failed miserably, but he got a momentary reprieve when a waiter came over to take their drinks order.
"Paul, do you still have any of the MacAllen '92?"
"I believe we do, sir."
"And for your companion?"
Barry bit the inside of his cheek. He'd never been anyone's companion before.
"Barry? What would you like?"
He didn't think a Coke was the right thing to order and anything alcoholic would be wasted on him. So he sat there, mouth agape like a fish out of water.
Dr. Wells came to his rescue. "A glass of the MacAllen for my colleague, and a bottle of Pellegrino for the table."
"Very good, sir."
"MacAllen - that's scotch, right?"
"Your powers of speech may be a little faulty tonight, but your powers of deductive reasoning seem to be working just fine."
"It won't have any effect on me - you know that."
"Ah, but getting drunk is the least important purpose in the consumption of a fine scotch. Same with fine wine. It is something to be appreciated for what it is, not for what it does to you. A Big Belly Burger will certainly satisfy your corporeal hunger - or in your case, several dozen will - but a perfectly cooked dry-aged porterhouse will satisfy your soul."
At that, Dr. Wells laughed a little. "I am too much of a carnivore. Forgive me for getting carried away."
Barry swallowed, unable to do anything more than nod. The restaurant's lighting was on the romantic side of dim and the candle on the table reflected first in Dr. Wells' glasses, and then in the blue eyes behind the lenses. It seemed, for a moment, a heartbeat, that his eyes were on fire.
Barry shivered.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Allen?"
He wanted to say "Call me Barry" but the words were stuck in his throat. What the hell was he doing here, in a fancy restaurant, as if he were on a date? But that was all in his head. Dr. Wells wanted to get out of the lab, he wanted some company. If Cisco or Caitlin had been there, they'd be the ones here, now. He was being ridiculous.
"Yeah, I'm fine.
"Are you sure? You seem … distressed."
"No, really – I’m fine. Not really accustomed to this." He waved his hand around.
"Do you want to go?" There was no disappointment in Dr. Wells' voice, and of that he was certain. Barry was familiar with what the man sounded like when he was disappointed.
"No, I'll be okay."
A small smile curved Dr. Wells' lips and Barry felt a curl of warmth. He smiled back, suddenly much more at ease.
Their waiter returned with the scotch, and another waiter was behind him with a bottle of Pellegrino, which he placed in an ice bucket, as if it were champagne. "Shall I take your order now, or do you want more time?"
"Now will be fine."
Barry was confused, they hadn't even seen a menu.
Dr. Wells shook his head and looked over at Barry. "May I order for you?"
Barry nodded.
"We'll both start with the pork belly, unless you'd prefer shrimp cocktail?" Dr. Wells asked, but since Barry had no clue what to say, he just shook his head. He wasn't sure, but he thought that pork belly might have something to do with bacon, and bacon was the best thing in the universe.
Dr. Wells continued, "I'll have my usual. Mr. Allen will have the thirty-two ounce Porterhouse, rare-to-medium rare, and we'll split the standard assortment of sides."
"And would you like wine with that?"
"The Castello di Verduno Barbaresco, 2010 should do."
"Excellent choice."
The waiter left and while Barry still felt like a fish out of water, he was kind of enjoying the experience.
Dr. Wells picked up his glass of scotch and instructed, "Take a sip."
Barry picked up his own glass and took a small sip. It wasn't what he expected. Once, in college, he'd gotten stinking drunk on cheap whiskey and the taste had been of the liquor had been as vile as its effect. This was nothing like that.
"Close your eyes"
Barry followed Dr. Wells' instructions.
"Swallow. Now tell me what you taste."
With his eyes still closed, Barry let his senses absorb what the scotch left behind. "Winter. I taste winter. A fire. Pine and snow and … something wild." When he was thirteen, Joe had taken him and Iris into the hills to harvest a Christmas tree. The taste of the scotch brought the scents of that trip back to life.
Barry took another small sip and the magic of memory coursed through his veins. He smiled and opened his eyes.
Dr. Wells was staring at him, his expression unreadable, but there was a different sort of fire in his eyes. They glowed a pure and unearthly blue - the color of a winter sky at sunset, just before the stars came to life.
"You are really rather incredible, Mr. Allen."
"Thank you?" He wasn't all that sure he'd been complimented.
"Not too many people can articulate what they've tasted. A connoisseur - or someone pretending to be - might know the language, but a lot of that is pure theatre. Makes for good copy in catalogs and advertisements. You are neither a connoisseur nor a pretender, yet you were somehow able to describe the perfect essence of the scotch itself.
Barry ducked his head, slightly embarrassed by the compliment. "If this whole speedster thing doesn't work out, if Captain Singh decides he can't put up with my tardiness anymore, I guess I could get a job in a high-class liquor store."
Dr. Wells laughed, but there was no real humor in the sound. "Don't have such small-minded thoughts about your future. I have no doubt that you're destined for something very special."
Barry was grateful that the waiter returned with their starter - the promised pork belly. To his delight, it was bacon - a slab a half-inch thick, sizzling hot and perfectly charred around the edges. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so delicious in his life.
He remembered the manners that his mother had long ago instilled in him and waited for Dr. Wells to start first. That earned him another smile of approval and he cut a small piece and ate it. The taste exploded in his mouth - smoky, salty, meaty - and it brought back the essence of the scotch he'd consumed a few minutes before. The bacon fat coated his tongue, but not unpleasantly. Barry took another sip of the scotch to clear it, and then another bite of bacon.
Dr. Wells was watching him, his gaze absolute and unwavering. It was a sensation he was accustomed to and tonight, in this unique environment, Barry found it exciting.
"You like it?"
Barry looked up and met Dr. Wells eyes. He smiled and the man smiled back at him. "It's delicious."
"Better than what comes on top of a Big Belly Burger?"
"Absolutely. But you love Big Belly Burgers - I've seen you eat them for dinner every night for weeks. And for lunch too."
"I do enjoy them, but there's also space in my heart for this."
Barry forced himself to eat slowly. As Dr. Wells had said, this was not a meal to fulfill his caloric requirements, it was a treat for his sense.
But he didn't just eat, he watched, too. Dr. Wells ate his portion with the same deliberate focus that he exhibited in the lab or at the training field. To Barry's surprise, he put down his knife and fork when he was only halfway done, and pushed the plate slightly away.
"You're finished?"
Dr. Wells gave a small sigh. "It's for the best. I can't over-indulge without consequences - not when I'm stuck in this." He patted the chair. "But if you'd like the rest - " He pushed the plate towards Barry, "please finish. It would be a crime for it to go to waste."
There was no point in pretending he didn't want what was offered, and quickly - but not at Flash speed, of course - exchanged plates. Somehow, miraculously, Barry managed to finish the rest of the bacon and the rest of his scotch at the same time.
"That was very good. Thank you."
"We've only started, Mr. Allen."
Barry swallowed. Those words, spoken so cooly, sent a shiver through him. "I can't imagine the steak being better that the bacon." God, that sounded so stupid.
"Trust me."
"I will. I do."
There must have been a breeze or a stir in the air. The candle flickered and the flame's reflection burned red in Dr. Wells' eyes.
Struggling for some thread of adult conversation - something not related to the lab or their work, or his work, or the Flash - Barry asked the most banal question of all. "Do you come here often?"
Dr. Wells shrugged. "Not as much since the accident, maybe once a month. Back before I nearly destroyed Central City, Amaro's was a favorite place to bring investors, politicians, the press. People I needed to impress."
"You don't need to impress me, Dr. Wells."
"No, Barry, I guess I don't."
He flushed and hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide that reaction. Dr. Wells so rarely used his first name.
The waiter interrupted the moment. "Gentlemen, your steaks will be out in a few minutes, would either of you care for refills on your scotch?"
Dr. Wells agreed to a refill, but this time, Barry didn't follow his lead. "I think I'll just have a glass of the sparkling water."
The waiter disappeared, and emboldened by Dr. Wells' approving gaze, Barry asked, "What happened with the investors? Did they sue?"
"They couldn't - the contracts were ironclad in my favor. And truthfully, there weren't that many of them. I funded about ninety percent of S.T.A.R. Labs myself."
Barry found that almost incomprehensible. Although the accelerator was much smaller than the one at C.E.R.N. in Switzerland, he knew that that project had cost hundreds of millions to build.
"Patents, Mr. Allen. Royalties, licensing fees. Activating the particle accelerator at S.T.A.R. Labs might have been a disaster, but the inventions and discoveries that went into its creation were - and still are - lucrative beyond imagining."
"I probably should have realized that. I mean - I know that your work has been groundbreaking, and that you're one of a very few in the field who've managed to work without government, corporate or university backing."
Dr. Wells took a sip of his scotch - Barry hadn't realized the waited had returned - and chuckled. "I forgot you read that damned biography."
"Twice." Barry grinned.
"I should never have agreed to cooperate on that damn book. Who has a biography written when they are thirty-nine?"
"You do, apparently."
Dr. Wells toasted him. "Touché, Mr. Allen."
Their steak, an a variety of side dishes arrived. The waiters fussed with the arrangement of the dishes. After what he'd said about the bacon, Barry wasn't surprised to see that Dr. Wells' steak was fairly small - practically tiny in comparison to the slab of meat in front of him.
There were potatoes and mushrooms and a bowl of something green and mushy. Barry stared at it. "I hope that's not what I think it is."
The waiters drifted away.
"What do you think it is?"
"Spinach." He made a face, he couldn't help it. "I'm the Flash, not Popeye."
"Very funny. But try it, you might be surprised."
He dipped a clean fork into the dish, scooping up a tiny amount of the green sludge - because there was no other word for it - and under Dr. Wells' approving eye, tasted it.
"Well?"
"That isn't bad." He tried it again. "Actually, it's quite good. Doesn't really taste anything like spinach. Or any that I've ever had."
"Let me guess. Detective West made you sit at the dinner table until you finished your vegetables. The ones from a can. The ones that were more gray than green."
Barry chuckled. "Did your parents do the same to you?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer that question. "Try your steak."
If possible, the beef was better than the bacon and everything else was just as ridiculously delicious. Barry remembered to breathe between bites, to savor the food instead of just consuming it. He tried to match Dr. Wells' speed, pausing to ask fairly inconsequential questions - about the lab, about his patents, about random things he remembered from that biography - experiments that failed, methodologies for the ones that succeeded.
Dr. Wells answered each question with amused patience.
Barry felt the inexplicable need to apologize. "I must sound like a fanboy given the mike at a science equivalent of a comic book convention."
"No, Mr. Allen - not at all. Your questions reveal a brilliant and inquiring mind. I'm just sorry that I didn't recruit you for S.T.A.R. Labs when I could."
Okay, this was now officially, the best night of his life.
Maybe it was the undiluted joy of the moment, but Barry lost all sense of discretion. "Can I ask another question? A personal one?"
At some point, they'd switched over to wine, and Dr. Wells stared at him over the edge of the glass. Barry held his breath.
"Only if I can ask a personal question of you in exchange."
He smiled. "Fair enough."
"Then ask away."
"What do you miss the most?"
Dr. Wells appeared startled by the question. "Miss, Mr. Allen? What do you mean by that?" There was something cold in his voice.
Unnerved, Barry retracted the question. "Never mind, I shouldn't have asked."
"No - please. What do you mean?"
"I - I wanted to know what you miss, not being able to walk. Being stuck in the chair." This was now officially the most embarrassing moment of his life.
"Ah." That was all that Dr. Wells said. He leaned back and stared at Barry, who suddenly felt like an insect under the microscope.
"I'm sorry, that was rude and stupid and mean."
"Really? There's nothing wrong with curiosity. I just wasn't expecting that particular question." Dr. Wells took a sip of wine. "It's hard to say what I miss most, but I think it boils down to freedom. To come and go and not have to consider how I will have to manage with this." He patted the wheelchair.
Barry nodded, he could understand that.
"But I think you wanted something a little more … specific."
"If you want to tell me."
Dr. Wells smiled, but it wasn't the same smile he'd given him all evening - the warm, appreciative one - this smile was sad and more than a touch bitter. "I miss running."
Barry sucked in a breath.
"Ironic, wouldn't you say? I miss going out in the morning, before dawn. When the world is silent and still. I miss running through the forest by my home, the sound of my feet against the earth, the scent of leaves and dirt and growth, the sounds of animals waking up, the birdsong. I miss running through the mist and the dew, the rising sun burning in my eyes."
"I'm sorry." Barry thought he just might cry.
"Don't be. You've given some of that back to me. I can't run, but you take me with you when you run. It's good enough." Dr. Wells reached over and squeezed his hand. "It is, don't ever doubt that."
"Okay, okay." Barry swallowed, and was relieved when Dr. Wells removed his hand.
"Now, may I ask my question?"
"Sure, go ahead."
There was a look of speculation on Dr. Wells face; it made Barry a little nervous. And clearly, Dr. Wells knew he was nervous - he was drawing this out. Of course, Barry had to wait through another sip of wine, another dozen heartbeats.
"Tell me, Mr. Allen, what is the most outrageous thing you've ever done?"
Barry let out a sigh of relief. He didn't know what Dr. Wells was going to ask, and he certainly didn't expect this question, but it was one he could answer. "Outrageous as in embarrassing, or just something completely out there?"
"Well, since humiliation isn't my thing, I'd like to know what you consider 'really out there' is."
Barry wiped his lips and considered the answer. He wasn't drunk - because he couldn't get drunk - but he was definitely intoxicated on something. Maybe by the whole evening. And then he didn't think about it at all, the words just came out. "The time I let my fluid dynamics professor seduce me. He thought he was going to teach me how to suck cock, but I think I was the one who taught him a few things." The words were still hanging in the air when Barry clapped a hand over his mouth.
Almost a minute passed before Dr. Wells responded.
"Well, that certainly is a little out there. A little unexpected too." Dr. Wells' tone was quiet, almost thoughtful.
Barry tried to dial the whole thing back. "Not that - um - being with a guy is 'out there'. Just - you know - the whole student-teacher thing. Except that Dr. Rand - "
"Rand? That was his name?"
"Yeah - funny, right? Rand as in 'randy'. Anyway, Dr. Rand had already given me an A+ for the semester, so it wasn't like I was screwing for a grade. He was really good looking and had nice hands. And a nice dick." Oh, he was definitely drunk on something. Barry picked up his water glass and emptied it in two swallows. "I can't believe I just said that."
"And to think, a few hours ago, you couldn't bring yourself to say 'fucking' when I asked you what 'fugly' meant."
Barry had to laugh. "True. I don't know how it's possible, but I think I'm drunk."
"It's the endorphins, Barry. Good food, good company, good conversation. You're high on happiness."
"High on happiness." The explanation made sense. "I like that."
"But I have to say, I wouldn't have pegged you as the type to sleep with your professor."
Barry snorted. He was going to enjoy the high as long as it lasted. "Oh, you don't know the half of it, Dr. Wells. I was a very bad boy in college. Very bad."
Dr. Wells gave him a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised. "Really? I thought Miss West held your affections."
"Iris - yes, she's …" Barry ducked his head. "I guess everyone knows how I feel about her." Everyone but Iris herself.
"I have eyes, and I understand love. Unless you think I'm the living embodiment of the stereotypical cold-hearted, unemotional scientist?"
"No, no. Of course not."
Naturally, Dr. Wells wasn't going to let his earlier statement go. "So - you were saying about being a bad boy in college."
"You want details?"
"Yes, Mr. Allen, I do."
Thank god the waiter came back. "Gentlemen, would you care for dessert?"
Barry didn't wait for Dr. Wells to make the decision. "Nothing for me."
To his surprise, Dr. Wells asked for both another glass of scotch and a cup of espresso. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"
Barry gave in. "I'll have a cup of coffee, that's it."
The waiter left and Dr. Wells pierced him with that bright stare. "Spill, Mr. Allen."
Barry shivered again. "Okay - so Iris and I - she's never going to see me as anything more than her best friend. And when I was in college - that was okay. She's had her own thing going, she's dating and come on, I'm a guy. I'm eighteen - nineteen and when I'm not studying, I'm …" He glances down at his lap, unable to form that last, awful, embarrassing word.
"Horny?" Dr. Wells completed the sentence for him.
Barry laughed. He had to. It was beyond funny to hear that vulgar word drop from this man's mouth. Dr. Wells laughed too.
"Yeah, exactly. And I guess, in my head, doing it with guys was not cheating on Iris. And it was good, too. I liked it." Still like it. Thankfully, he didn't verbalize that last bit.
"Sexuality is fluid for many people, Mr. Allen. You don't need to explain."
Barry had to wonder if Dr. Wells was speaking for himself.
Paul, the waiter, returned with the coffee and Dr. Wells' scotch. "Shall I bring the check?"
"Please."
The waiter disappeared.
Barry fixed his coffee and took a sip. Like every other part of the meal, the coffee was perfect. "So - now you know the most outrageous thing I've ever done."
"You still haven't given me the details, but I think - " Dr. Wells downed his scotch in a single swallow, "those can wait for another evening. It's getting late."
To Barry's surprise, the restaurant was mostly empty.
The waiter returned with the check and Barry tried to look elsewhere as Dr. Wells tucked a hell of a lot of cash inside the folder.
Barry followed Dr. Wells out much as he'd followed him in, like a well trained dog on a leash. But when they got to the front of the restaurant, something went wrong. Dr. Wells couldn't seem to get his chair up the narrow ramp. Not that the chair wouldn't go, but he kept banging into the railings.
Three times, Dr. Wells backed up, three times he made the approach, and three times he ended up straddling the railing, the chair dangerously tilted. "Mr. Allen, I think I'm … drunk." Dr. Wells leaned back and looked at Barry, his eyes slightly crossed. "Help?"
Barry pulled the chair back and steered it up the ramp, letting go once they were on the street.
"You can't drive home."
"That's a very good observation, Mr. Allen. But you can drive, right? You can drive me home."
"Um, yeah, sure."
The parking lot was practically deserted and the valet was snoozing in his booth. The night air felt cool on his flushed cheeked. The buzz - the high - hadn't quite left, but Barry felt almost hyper-alert, they way he did when he was zipping through the streets of Central City at practically supersonic speeds. Which was a different kind of high, to be truthful.
A car alarm chirped and the headlights flashed twice as Dr. Wells deactivated the Mercedes' security system. Barry opened the door when he realized that he might not be able to drive the vehicle. It had no driver's seat - just brackets and clamps to secure the wheelchair.
Dr. Wells noticed his concern. "Ah - the light dawns. But watch." He pressed a button on the car remote and the interior of the car shifted around like a mechanical puzzle. The standard configuration of pedals emerged from the floor, the passenger seat slid over, and an identical set of brackets and clamps for the wheelchair blossomed out of the passenger-side floor.
"Wow."
"For many reasons, I am utterly grateful for the day that Cisco Ramon's resume crossed my desk."
Barry stood there, still amazed. "That is incredible."
"Yes, it is. Remember what I said about patents and licenses and royalties?"
"Yeah."
"This is one of them - although I'm working with a number of government agencies and car companies to provide this system for free to disabled war veterans."
Barry was tongue-tied.
"Catch." Dr. Wells tossed the keys to him and Barry needed to use a little of his super-speed to catch them - the throw was more than a little off-target. "Sorry about that, my aim's still a little off."
Dr. Wells wheeled around to the passenger-side door, pressed some controls and a lift-gate slid out and lowered to the ground. Barry watched as Dr. Wells tried to maneuver onto the small ramp and missed. Unlike their exit from the restaurant, he didn't want for Dr. Wells to try again and miss. He rushed over and eased the chair onto the platform and waited while the mechanics activated, lifting the chair into the wagon and locking everything into place.
"You good?"
"Yes. Thank you … Barry."
"You're welcome."
Barry got into the driver's seat and sort of marveled at how utterly normal the wagon felt. Everything was in the right place. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Barry realized something. "Um, Dr. Wells, where do you live?"
"Take Broadway out to Highway 12 and go north. I'll direct you from there."
Twenty minutes later, Barry pulled up in front on a large, ultra-modern house nestled in an old-growth forest. The moonlight reflected off of great panels of glass and steel.
Barry needed to give Dr. Wells a little help as he steered up the front path. "Sorry, Mr. Allen - I usually don't drink quite so much. And I appreciate the assistance."
The front door wasn't secured by anything as prosaic as a lock and key. There was a handprint and a retinal scan required before the front door swung open.
Barry felt strange following Dr. Wells inside, and he hovered at the threshold. "Can I help with anything else?"
"No - I think I can manage. But I will need my car keys back." Dr. Wells held out his hand and Barry gave them to him.
Barry felt like this was an awkward end to a very strange first date and he stuck his right hand in his pocket, leaving his left hanging loose. He was just as reluctant to leave as he was to stay. "I enjoyed myself. Dinner was really nice."
"I had a good time, too. It was nice to go out with someone who doesn't think of me as a pariah."
Barry felt like he'd been slapped. "That's a pretty low bar."
"Yes, and a little insulting. Let me rephrase. It was a very lovely … and very enlightening evening spent with someone I think of as a friend." Dr. Wells smiled, his eyes soft and a little unfocused as he looked up at him. "We are friends, right?"
A little shaken and maybe still a little high, Barry felt himself grinning goofily. "We certainly are."
"Good." Dr. Wells reached out and his fingers traced a line down Barry's arm - resting for just a moment over the delicate skin at his wrist, on his pulse point - until he clasped his hand for a too-brief moment. Dr. Wells' palm was cool, his fingertips a little calloused, and Barry felt like he wanted to vibrate with pleasure. "Have a good night, Mr. Allen. Safe travels home."
Barry just nodded and stepped back outside. He watched the door swing shut and waited a few more heartbeats. It didn't open again, so he took off, running faster that than anyone ever could.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Harrison Wells waited until he saw the streak of light blaze off into the distance before getting out of his wheelchair and stretching with relief. Like his "intoxication", it was an effective piece of theater. But sitting almost perfectly still for so many hours was exhausting.
Tonight; however, the tedium paid off.
Barry Allen was falling into his hand like a ripe piece of fruit. The perfect plum. His stomach growled at that food analogy and Harrison grimaced. There was more to playing the role of a paraplegic than roaming around in a wheelchair. As long as he was in public, he couldn't eat what his body truly required without raising eyebrows. And that was the last thing he wanted. One of Cisco's nutrition bars did the trick. It wasn't particularly tasty, but it took care of what his body needed.
That hunger satisfied, he unlocked a room not too dissimilar to his secret chamber at the lab. and activated the AI interface. "Good evening, Gideon."
"Good evening, Doctor Wells."
"Status?"
"It has been two hundred eight-eight days since the lightning struck. The timeline is intact."
"Thank you, Gideon."
"You're welcome, Dr. Wells."
Harrison dismissed the AI interface and picked up a tablet. As he left the chamber and went to his bedroom, he called up one of the dozens of cameras he'd had installed throughout Central City, in all of the places that Barry frequented. The one he selected was his favorite. It was also the most advanced, with high definition color video with a pin-point sound pickup. He had personally installed in Barry's apartment, in his bedroom, right over the bed. At the moment, the room was dark, and a quick check of the other cameras showed that Barry hadn't returned to his apartment just yet.
He'd actually been shocked by Barry's confession earlier this evening, about having sex with men. He'd been watching Barry for years - for more than half of the man's lifetime - and nothing Harrison had observed had led him to believe that Barry wasn't as virginal as a nun. He'd never seen Barry with anyone other than his right hand and a bottle of lotion.
To now learn that Barry was sexually active - with men, at least - angered him. Bitterly.
Harrison Wells knew all about Professor Stewart Rand - an adequate teacher of physics at Hudson University. Tall, blond, and fit, he had students of both sexes falling all over him, and Rand never hesitated to help himself to what was being offered, especially when pretty boys were making the offer. He'd plucked Hartley Rathaway's cherry a decade ago and left the poor boy broken hearted when he'd moved onto to others eager students willing to give it up for a better grade or a stellar recommendation.
Of course the bastard would made a play for Barry - he did have good taste - but Harrison never figured that Barry would be willing to play, too. He never figured that Barry would have been able to teach Steward Rand - of all people - a few things. That he was a "very bad boy".
As long as it wouldn't damage the timeline, Harrison was looking forward to discovering just how "bad" Barry Allen could be.
He'd finished undressing and had just climbed into bed when the lights came on in Barry Allen's bedroom. Perfect timing…
The camera, designed to track motion, followed Barry around the room as he paced. He was nervy, maybe still intoxicated by the earlier rush of endorphins. Harrison, as a scientist, was curious about what the combination of endorphins and the body's use of the Speed Force did to the brain. He wondered idly just what it would take to convince Mr. Allen to participate in such an experiment. Multiple times. Because a sample of one was meaningless, to a scientist.
He grinned at the thought.
And that grin broadened as Barry striped to the skin. And it seemed that the universe was still spinning in Harrison's favor as Barry got into bed, naked. The night was cool, but he didn't pull the covers up. He tapped an icon on the screen to trigger the recording function - this was something he'd want to watch again.
Barry's legs parted and his right hand drifted slowly down his belly, toying a bit with his navel, fucking the little indentation with his middle finger, before moving to points south.
If Harrison didn't know better, he'd think that Barry was giving him a show, playing to the camera like an actor in a porno. But he wasn't, and that made the scene all the more delicious. He was taking it slow tonight, teasing himself to a full erection before reaching for some lubricant.
Harrison leaned back and watched Barry stroke his cock with slow, even strokes. The man knew what his body liked and tonight, he didn't hesitate to give into the pleasure. Too many nights, Harrison watched with mild annoyance as Barry simply jerked off, came, cleaned himself off and rolled over to sleep. Yes, there was pleasure to be taken in observing that basic bodily function, but Harrison preferred to savor the pleasure.
Barry was working his cock with his right hand, letting his left drift over other erogenous zones - his balls, his navel, his nipples, pulling and twisting. The sight was delicious and Harrison indulged in a brief fantasy involving body jewelry - lightning bolt-shaped piercings that he could play with until Barry screamed from the pleasure and the pain.
A sharp moan coming from the tablet's speakers drew his attention back to reality.
Barry was close to orgasm - his feet were planted on the bed, his thighs splayed, and his hips were jerking as his fist worked his cock fast and faster. As the come erupted from his dick and splashed over his right fist and onto his belly, Barry did something completely unexpected. He lifted his left hand - the hand that Harrison had stroked just before their parting - to his mouth and brushed his lips over his wrist, across his palm and fingers, letting his fingertips linger for a few heartbeats. As his body relaxed, Barry whispered "Harrison."
Harrison watched as Barry pulled up the covers, without even cleaning himself off, rolled over and clumsily reached to to turn off the light. He watched for a few more minutes - not bothering to switch the camera to night-vision mode - as Barry fell asleep, his deep, even breathing audible to the sensitive microphone.
Shaken to the core, Harrison tapped the screen to turn off the recording and dismiss the application. He was shocked to see his hand trembling, palsied from the emotional rush. He was aroused, too - that wasn't unusual after these sessions - but the intensity was surprising. He was a man with a man's appetites, but he was also a man who had near-absolute self-control over those appetites.
Desire was a distraction he could ill-afford, but tonight, hearing Barry whisper his name, his self-control was gone. He placed the tablet on his nightstand, turned off the lights, and took his own pleasure.
Harrison allowed himself to dream as he stroked himself, to dream of Barry Allen - bright and beautiful and utterly vulnerable. He allowed himself to fantasize about all the terrible, wicked things he'd do to him, teaching Barry just what pleased him, making him abase himself, lose himself, making him exist just to satisfy his master's desires.
Desire - lust - crescendoed and Harrison cried out. Not words of triumph, of a victor over the vanquished. No, the words he spoke were far more devastating. Three simple words that, if heard, would destroy the timeline.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~7000
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place roughly around S1.05 (Plastique)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: None - my beta's under the weather, and I'm kind of anxious to post this.
Summary: Harrison Wells is hungry for something more than just another Big Belly Burger. He finds Barry alone in the lab and asks him to join him for a meal.
Author’s Notes: Inspired by a scene in The Sound and the Fury, when Cisco and Caitlin show up at Dr. Wells' house and Barry is surprised that they hadn't been there before. It definitely seemed to me that Barry had been there.
My first fic for this fandom - please excuse any inaccuracies with canon details. Also, utterly shameless food porn.
To my White Collar friends who might be intrigued, this pairing presses all of my Neal/Adler buttons big time. A quick primer on Barry and Harrison can be found here.
It was one of those nights. The kind where he needed more than cold simulations and the re-confirmation that the timeline was still intact. It was a night to when he desperately needed to assuage hungers that he refused to name, hungers that could alter the future if he wasn't careful. A night when the thought of home was less enticing than the life he constructed here.
A night when one wrong move, one ill-considered word, could ruin everything.
Barry was working on a simulation in the Cortex. It wasn't anything important – just the speed at which various brands of sneakers would go up in flames from friction against pavement. All the major brands had the same problem – ignition at speeds above one-hundred-ninety miles an hour. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. It looked like he was going to have to take Cisco up on his offer to re-sole all his shoes in the same heat and friction-reducing material that he'd use on his suit's footwear.
"That sounds very heartfelt, Mr. Allen. Problems?" Harrison Wells steered his chair into the Cortex, and the overhead lights reflected an eerie green off of his glasses.
"No, just contemplating my … footwear choices."
"Between the kind that that bursts into flames when you run and other kind that bursts into flames when you run?"
Barry looked up, a little startled at Dr. Wells' witticism. "Yeah."
"You'll have to take Cisco up on his offer."
"I'd just come to that conclusion. And resign myself to a lifetime of fugly footwear."
One elegant eyebrow rose above the black-rimmed glasses. "Fugly? I don't think I know that word."
"It's a combination of fu – freaking and ugly." Barry felt the start of a blush stain his cheeks. For some reason, he didn't like cursing in front of Dr. Wells. It seemed disrespectful.
"Ah." Dr. Wells wheeled around and stared up at him, an enigmatic look on his face.
Barry tried to resist the urge to wipe imaginary dirt off his cheek or his nose. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I'm just … hungry."
That was something Barry could fix. "A quick trip to the nearest Big Belly Burger will take care of that. Do you want one or two?" And a dozen or so for himself.
"Tonight, I'd like something other than burgers, Mr. Allen. I was thinking about going out for dinner. To a restaurant, not a fast food place. I was wondering if you'd like to join me."
"Me?" Barry pointed to himself and looked around. Of course there was no one else in the lab. Both Cisco and Caitlin had left hours ago.
"Yes, Mr. Allen, you."
Barry gulped some air. "Yeah, sure. I'd like that." He looked down at himself. At least he was wearing work clothes – a button down, a tie and a pair of Dockers – as opposed to his usual off-duty garb of jeans, a tee shirt and hoodie. Dr. Wells was – as always – immaculate in his customary black. "Umm, where would you like to go?"
"I'm in the mood for red meat."
There was a subtle inflection on those last two words and Barry felt a blush start somewhere in the neighborhood of his belly button and work its way up to his eyebrows. "So, um, steak?"
"Very perceptive, Mr. Allen."
There was a hint of laughter in his voice and Barry couldn't shake the feeling that Dr. Wells knew exactly what he was thinking.
"Come along."
Barry trailed after Dr. Wells, down to the secure parking bay. A few S.T.A.R. Laboratory vans were still in the parking lot, as well as a specially equipped Mercedes G-class wagon with a retracting driver's side lift-gate. Dr. Wells might be a paraplegic, but he was not a helpless cripple. He drove where he wanted, lived where he wanted, he let no one and nothing - least of all two non-functioning legs - stop him from doing what he wanted.
That steely determination got to Barry every time he thought about it. It terrified and excited him, it made him want to run faster, do better, prove to the man that his trust and his faith in him was justified.
"Have you ever been to Amaro's?"
"No, but I've heard of it." Barry didn't think it was relevant to mention that he'd wanted to take Iris to the very expensive restaurant for her eighteenth birthday, except that he couldn't afford even an appetizer, let alone two steak dinners there.
"Then you're in for a treat."
Dr. Wells drove through the busy streets of Central City much as he did everything, with calm control and utter confidence. When they reached the restaurant and the valet parker came to open the door, Dr. Wells waved the young man off, pulled into a blue-bordered spot and hung a handicapped tag from the rear view mirror. The parker followed and this time, Wells allowed him to open the door. "I trust it won't be a problem if I park my car here?"
"No, sir. Not at all."
Barry didn't miss the folded bill that Dr. Wells pressed into the young man's hand or the bright, almost fawning smile he received in return.
"Come."
Barry followed Dr. Wells into the restaurant. It was a Friday night and he wasn't surprised to find a dozen people waiting for their tables; however, the maître 'd greeted Dr. Wells as if he'd been expected - or as if he was a frequent guest. But the greeting held no warmth.
They were seated at a corner table, slightly secluded and out of the restaurant's basic traffic pattern. It took a little maneuvering, but Dr. Wells was able to tuck himself against the wall, and Barry was seated next to him. The position felt almost intimate and when Dr. Wells' left hand accidentally brushed his right, Barry felt his heart race.
Thankfully, Dr. Wells didn't notice the contact or his reaction. Barry tried to think of some conversational gambit and failed miserably, but he got a momentary reprieve when a waiter came over to take their drinks order.
"Paul, do you still have any of the MacAllen '92?"
"I believe we do, sir."
"And for your companion?"
Barry bit the inside of his cheek. He'd never been anyone's companion before.
"Barry? What would you like?"
He didn't think a Coke was the right thing to order and anything alcoholic would be wasted on him. So he sat there, mouth agape like a fish out of water.
Dr. Wells came to his rescue. "A glass of the MacAllen for my colleague, and a bottle of Pellegrino for the table."
"Very good, sir."
"MacAllen - that's scotch, right?"
"Your powers of speech may be a little faulty tonight, but your powers of deductive reasoning seem to be working just fine."
"It won't have any effect on me - you know that."
"Ah, but getting drunk is the least important purpose in the consumption of a fine scotch. Same with fine wine. It is something to be appreciated for what it is, not for what it does to you. A Big Belly Burger will certainly satisfy your corporeal hunger - or in your case, several dozen will - but a perfectly cooked dry-aged porterhouse will satisfy your soul."
At that, Dr. Wells laughed a little. "I am too much of a carnivore. Forgive me for getting carried away."
Barry swallowed, unable to do anything more than nod. The restaurant's lighting was on the romantic side of dim and the candle on the table reflected first in Dr. Wells' glasses, and then in the blue eyes behind the lenses. It seemed, for a moment, a heartbeat, that his eyes were on fire.
Barry shivered.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Allen?"
He wanted to say "Call me Barry" but the words were stuck in his throat. What the hell was he doing here, in a fancy restaurant, as if he were on a date? But that was all in his head. Dr. Wells wanted to get out of the lab, he wanted some company. If Cisco or Caitlin had been there, they'd be the ones here, now. He was being ridiculous.
"Yeah, I'm fine.
"Are you sure? You seem … distressed."
"No, really – I’m fine. Not really accustomed to this." He waved his hand around.
"Do you want to go?" There was no disappointment in Dr. Wells' voice, and of that he was certain. Barry was familiar with what the man sounded like when he was disappointed.
"No, I'll be okay."
A small smile curved Dr. Wells' lips and Barry felt a curl of warmth. He smiled back, suddenly much more at ease.
Their waiter returned with the scotch, and another waiter was behind him with a bottle of Pellegrino, which he placed in an ice bucket, as if it were champagne. "Shall I take your order now, or do you want more time?"
"Now will be fine."
Barry was confused, they hadn't even seen a menu.
Dr. Wells shook his head and looked over at Barry. "May I order for you?"
Barry nodded.
"We'll both start with the pork belly, unless you'd prefer shrimp cocktail?" Dr. Wells asked, but since Barry had no clue what to say, he just shook his head. He wasn't sure, but he thought that pork belly might have something to do with bacon, and bacon was the best thing in the universe.
Dr. Wells continued, "I'll have my usual. Mr. Allen will have the thirty-two ounce Porterhouse, rare-to-medium rare, and we'll split the standard assortment of sides."
"And would you like wine with that?"
"The Castello di Verduno Barbaresco, 2010 should do."
"Excellent choice."
The waiter left and while Barry still felt like a fish out of water, he was kind of enjoying the experience.
Dr. Wells picked up his glass of scotch and instructed, "Take a sip."
Barry picked up his own glass and took a small sip. It wasn't what he expected. Once, in college, he'd gotten stinking drunk on cheap whiskey and the taste had been of the liquor had been as vile as its effect. This was nothing like that.
"Close your eyes"
Barry followed Dr. Wells' instructions.
"Swallow. Now tell me what you taste."
With his eyes still closed, Barry let his senses absorb what the scotch left behind. "Winter. I taste winter. A fire. Pine and snow and … something wild." When he was thirteen, Joe had taken him and Iris into the hills to harvest a Christmas tree. The taste of the scotch brought the scents of that trip back to life.
Barry took another small sip and the magic of memory coursed through his veins. He smiled and opened his eyes.
Dr. Wells was staring at him, his expression unreadable, but there was a different sort of fire in his eyes. They glowed a pure and unearthly blue - the color of a winter sky at sunset, just before the stars came to life.
"You are really rather incredible, Mr. Allen."
"Thank you?" He wasn't all that sure he'd been complimented.
"Not too many people can articulate what they've tasted. A connoisseur - or someone pretending to be - might know the language, but a lot of that is pure theatre. Makes for good copy in catalogs and advertisements. You are neither a connoisseur nor a pretender, yet you were somehow able to describe the perfect essence of the scotch itself.
Barry ducked his head, slightly embarrassed by the compliment. "If this whole speedster thing doesn't work out, if Captain Singh decides he can't put up with my tardiness anymore, I guess I could get a job in a high-class liquor store."
Dr. Wells laughed, but there was no real humor in the sound. "Don't have such small-minded thoughts about your future. I have no doubt that you're destined for something very special."
Barry was grateful that the waiter returned with their starter - the promised pork belly. To his delight, it was bacon - a slab a half-inch thick, sizzling hot and perfectly charred around the edges. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so delicious in his life.
He remembered the manners that his mother had long ago instilled in him and waited for Dr. Wells to start first. That earned him another smile of approval and he cut a small piece and ate it. The taste exploded in his mouth - smoky, salty, meaty - and it brought back the essence of the scotch he'd consumed a few minutes before. The bacon fat coated his tongue, but not unpleasantly. Barry took another sip of the scotch to clear it, and then another bite of bacon.
Dr. Wells was watching him, his gaze absolute and unwavering. It was a sensation he was accustomed to and tonight, in this unique environment, Barry found it exciting.
"You like it?"
Barry looked up and met Dr. Wells eyes. He smiled and the man smiled back at him. "It's delicious."
"Better than what comes on top of a Big Belly Burger?"
"Absolutely. But you love Big Belly Burgers - I've seen you eat them for dinner every night for weeks. And for lunch too."
"I do enjoy them, but there's also space in my heart for this."
Barry forced himself to eat slowly. As Dr. Wells had said, this was not a meal to fulfill his caloric requirements, it was a treat for his sense.
But he didn't just eat, he watched, too. Dr. Wells ate his portion with the same deliberate focus that he exhibited in the lab or at the training field. To Barry's surprise, he put down his knife and fork when he was only halfway done, and pushed the plate slightly away.
"You're finished?"
Dr. Wells gave a small sigh. "It's for the best. I can't over-indulge without consequences - not when I'm stuck in this." He patted the chair. "But if you'd like the rest - " He pushed the plate towards Barry, "please finish. It would be a crime for it to go to waste."
There was no point in pretending he didn't want what was offered, and quickly - but not at Flash speed, of course - exchanged plates. Somehow, miraculously, Barry managed to finish the rest of the bacon and the rest of his scotch at the same time.
"That was very good. Thank you."
"We've only started, Mr. Allen."
Barry swallowed. Those words, spoken so cooly, sent a shiver through him. "I can't imagine the steak being better that the bacon." God, that sounded so stupid.
"Trust me."
"I will. I do."
There must have been a breeze or a stir in the air. The candle flickered and the flame's reflection burned red in Dr. Wells' eyes.
Struggling for some thread of adult conversation - something not related to the lab or their work, or his work, or the Flash - Barry asked the most banal question of all. "Do you come here often?"
Dr. Wells shrugged. "Not as much since the accident, maybe once a month. Back before I nearly destroyed Central City, Amaro's was a favorite place to bring investors, politicians, the press. People I needed to impress."
"You don't need to impress me, Dr. Wells."
"No, Barry, I guess I don't."
He flushed and hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide that reaction. Dr. Wells so rarely used his first name.
The waiter interrupted the moment. "Gentlemen, your steaks will be out in a few minutes, would either of you care for refills on your scotch?"
Dr. Wells agreed to a refill, but this time, Barry didn't follow his lead. "I think I'll just have a glass of the sparkling water."
The waiter disappeared, and emboldened by Dr. Wells' approving gaze, Barry asked, "What happened with the investors? Did they sue?"
"They couldn't - the contracts were ironclad in my favor. And truthfully, there weren't that many of them. I funded about ninety percent of S.T.A.R. Labs myself."
Barry found that almost incomprehensible. Although the accelerator was much smaller than the one at C.E.R.N. in Switzerland, he knew that that project had cost hundreds of millions to build.
"Patents, Mr. Allen. Royalties, licensing fees. Activating the particle accelerator at S.T.A.R. Labs might have been a disaster, but the inventions and discoveries that went into its creation were - and still are - lucrative beyond imagining."
"I probably should have realized that. I mean - I know that your work has been groundbreaking, and that you're one of a very few in the field who've managed to work without government, corporate or university backing."
Dr. Wells took a sip of his scotch - Barry hadn't realized the waited had returned - and chuckled. "I forgot you read that damned biography."
"Twice." Barry grinned.
"I should never have agreed to cooperate on that damn book. Who has a biography written when they are thirty-nine?"
"You do, apparently."
Dr. Wells toasted him. "Touché, Mr. Allen."
Their steak, an a variety of side dishes arrived. The waiters fussed with the arrangement of the dishes. After what he'd said about the bacon, Barry wasn't surprised to see that Dr. Wells' steak was fairly small - practically tiny in comparison to the slab of meat in front of him.
There were potatoes and mushrooms and a bowl of something green and mushy. Barry stared at it. "I hope that's not what I think it is."
The waiters drifted away.
"What do you think it is?"
"Spinach." He made a face, he couldn't help it. "I'm the Flash, not Popeye."
"Very funny. But try it, you might be surprised."
He dipped a clean fork into the dish, scooping up a tiny amount of the green sludge - because there was no other word for it - and under Dr. Wells' approving eye, tasted it.
"Well?"
"That isn't bad." He tried it again. "Actually, it's quite good. Doesn't really taste anything like spinach. Or any that I've ever had."
"Let me guess. Detective West made you sit at the dinner table until you finished your vegetables. The ones from a can. The ones that were more gray than green."
Barry chuckled. "Did your parents do the same to you?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer that question. "Try your steak."
If possible, the beef was better than the bacon and everything else was just as ridiculously delicious. Barry remembered to breathe between bites, to savor the food instead of just consuming it. He tried to match Dr. Wells' speed, pausing to ask fairly inconsequential questions - about the lab, about his patents, about random things he remembered from that biography - experiments that failed, methodologies for the ones that succeeded.
Dr. Wells answered each question with amused patience.
Barry felt the inexplicable need to apologize. "I must sound like a fanboy given the mike at a science equivalent of a comic book convention."
"No, Mr. Allen - not at all. Your questions reveal a brilliant and inquiring mind. I'm just sorry that I didn't recruit you for S.T.A.R. Labs when I could."
Okay, this was now officially, the best night of his life.
Maybe it was the undiluted joy of the moment, but Barry lost all sense of discretion. "Can I ask another question? A personal one?"
At some point, they'd switched over to wine, and Dr. Wells stared at him over the edge of the glass. Barry held his breath.
"Only if I can ask a personal question of you in exchange."
He smiled. "Fair enough."
"Then ask away."
"What do you miss the most?"
Dr. Wells appeared startled by the question. "Miss, Mr. Allen? What do you mean by that?" There was something cold in his voice.
Unnerved, Barry retracted the question. "Never mind, I shouldn't have asked."
"No - please. What do you mean?"
"I - I wanted to know what you miss, not being able to walk. Being stuck in the chair." This was now officially the most embarrassing moment of his life.
"Ah." That was all that Dr. Wells said. He leaned back and stared at Barry, who suddenly felt like an insect under the microscope.
"I'm sorry, that was rude and stupid and mean."
"Really? There's nothing wrong with curiosity. I just wasn't expecting that particular question." Dr. Wells took a sip of wine. "It's hard to say what I miss most, but I think it boils down to freedom. To come and go and not have to consider how I will have to manage with this." He patted the wheelchair.
Barry nodded, he could understand that.
"But I think you wanted something a little more … specific."
"If you want to tell me."
Dr. Wells smiled, but it wasn't the same smile he'd given him all evening - the warm, appreciative one - this smile was sad and more than a touch bitter. "I miss running."
Barry sucked in a breath.
"Ironic, wouldn't you say? I miss going out in the morning, before dawn. When the world is silent and still. I miss running through the forest by my home, the sound of my feet against the earth, the scent of leaves and dirt and growth, the sounds of animals waking up, the birdsong. I miss running through the mist and the dew, the rising sun burning in my eyes."
"I'm sorry." Barry thought he just might cry.
"Don't be. You've given some of that back to me. I can't run, but you take me with you when you run. It's good enough." Dr. Wells reached over and squeezed his hand. "It is, don't ever doubt that."
"Okay, okay." Barry swallowed, and was relieved when Dr. Wells removed his hand.
"Now, may I ask my question?"
"Sure, go ahead."
There was a look of speculation on Dr. Wells face; it made Barry a little nervous. And clearly, Dr. Wells knew he was nervous - he was drawing this out. Of course, Barry had to wait through another sip of wine, another dozen heartbeats.
"Tell me, Mr. Allen, what is the most outrageous thing you've ever done?"
Barry let out a sigh of relief. He didn't know what Dr. Wells was going to ask, and he certainly didn't expect this question, but it was one he could answer. "Outrageous as in embarrassing, or just something completely out there?"
"Well, since humiliation isn't my thing, I'd like to know what you consider 'really out there' is."
Barry wiped his lips and considered the answer. He wasn't drunk - because he couldn't get drunk - but he was definitely intoxicated on something. Maybe by the whole evening. And then he didn't think about it at all, the words just came out. "The time I let my fluid dynamics professor seduce me. He thought he was going to teach me how to suck cock, but I think I was the one who taught him a few things." The words were still hanging in the air when Barry clapped a hand over his mouth.
Almost a minute passed before Dr. Wells responded.
"Well, that certainly is a little out there. A little unexpected too." Dr. Wells' tone was quiet, almost thoughtful.
Barry tried to dial the whole thing back. "Not that - um - being with a guy is 'out there'. Just - you know - the whole student-teacher thing. Except that Dr. Rand - "
"Rand? That was his name?"
"Yeah - funny, right? Rand as in 'randy'. Anyway, Dr. Rand had already given me an A+ for the semester, so it wasn't like I was screwing for a grade. He was really good looking and had nice hands. And a nice dick." Oh, he was definitely drunk on something. Barry picked up his water glass and emptied it in two swallows. "I can't believe I just said that."
"And to think, a few hours ago, you couldn't bring yourself to say 'fucking' when I asked you what 'fugly' meant."
Barry had to laugh. "True. I don't know how it's possible, but I think I'm drunk."
"It's the endorphins, Barry. Good food, good company, good conversation. You're high on happiness."
"High on happiness." The explanation made sense. "I like that."
"But I have to say, I wouldn't have pegged you as the type to sleep with your professor."
Barry snorted. He was going to enjoy the high as long as it lasted. "Oh, you don't know the half of it, Dr. Wells. I was a very bad boy in college. Very bad."
Dr. Wells gave him a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised. "Really? I thought Miss West held your affections."
"Iris - yes, she's …" Barry ducked his head. "I guess everyone knows how I feel about her." Everyone but Iris herself.
"I have eyes, and I understand love. Unless you think I'm the living embodiment of the stereotypical cold-hearted, unemotional scientist?"
"No, no. Of course not."
Naturally, Dr. Wells wasn't going to let his earlier statement go. "So - you were saying about being a bad boy in college."
"You want details?"
"Yes, Mr. Allen, I do."
Thank god the waiter came back. "Gentlemen, would you care for dessert?"
Barry didn't wait for Dr. Wells to make the decision. "Nothing for me."
To his surprise, Dr. Wells asked for both another glass of scotch and a cup of espresso. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"
Barry gave in. "I'll have a cup of coffee, that's it."
The waiter left and Dr. Wells pierced him with that bright stare. "Spill, Mr. Allen."
Barry shivered again. "Okay - so Iris and I - she's never going to see me as anything more than her best friend. And when I was in college - that was okay. She's had her own thing going, she's dating and come on, I'm a guy. I'm eighteen - nineteen and when I'm not studying, I'm …" He glances down at his lap, unable to form that last, awful, embarrassing word.
"Horny?" Dr. Wells completed the sentence for him.
Barry laughed. He had to. It was beyond funny to hear that vulgar word drop from this man's mouth. Dr. Wells laughed too.
"Yeah, exactly. And I guess, in my head, doing it with guys was not cheating on Iris. And it was good, too. I liked it." Still like it. Thankfully, he didn't verbalize that last bit.
"Sexuality is fluid for many people, Mr. Allen. You don't need to explain."
Barry had to wonder if Dr. Wells was speaking for himself.
Paul, the waiter, returned with the coffee and Dr. Wells' scotch. "Shall I bring the check?"
"Please."
The waiter disappeared.
Barry fixed his coffee and took a sip. Like every other part of the meal, the coffee was perfect. "So - now you know the most outrageous thing I've ever done."
"You still haven't given me the details, but I think - " Dr. Wells downed his scotch in a single swallow, "those can wait for another evening. It's getting late."
To Barry's surprise, the restaurant was mostly empty.
The waiter returned with the check and Barry tried to look elsewhere as Dr. Wells tucked a hell of a lot of cash inside the folder.
Barry followed Dr. Wells out much as he'd followed him in, like a well trained dog on a leash. But when they got to the front of the restaurant, something went wrong. Dr. Wells couldn't seem to get his chair up the narrow ramp. Not that the chair wouldn't go, but he kept banging into the railings.
Three times, Dr. Wells backed up, three times he made the approach, and three times he ended up straddling the railing, the chair dangerously tilted. "Mr. Allen, I think I'm … drunk." Dr. Wells leaned back and looked at Barry, his eyes slightly crossed. "Help?"
Barry pulled the chair back and steered it up the ramp, letting go once they were on the street.
"You can't drive home."
"That's a very good observation, Mr. Allen. But you can drive, right? You can drive me home."
"Um, yeah, sure."
The parking lot was practically deserted and the valet was snoozing in his booth. The night air felt cool on his flushed cheeked. The buzz - the high - hadn't quite left, but Barry felt almost hyper-alert, they way he did when he was zipping through the streets of Central City at practically supersonic speeds. Which was a different kind of high, to be truthful.
A car alarm chirped and the headlights flashed twice as Dr. Wells deactivated the Mercedes' security system. Barry opened the door when he realized that he might not be able to drive the vehicle. It had no driver's seat - just brackets and clamps to secure the wheelchair.
Dr. Wells noticed his concern. "Ah - the light dawns. But watch." He pressed a button on the car remote and the interior of the car shifted around like a mechanical puzzle. The standard configuration of pedals emerged from the floor, the passenger seat slid over, and an identical set of brackets and clamps for the wheelchair blossomed out of the passenger-side floor.
"Wow."
"For many reasons, I am utterly grateful for the day that Cisco Ramon's resume crossed my desk."
Barry stood there, still amazed. "That is incredible."
"Yes, it is. Remember what I said about patents and licenses and royalties?"
"Yeah."
"This is one of them - although I'm working with a number of government agencies and car companies to provide this system for free to disabled war veterans."
Barry was tongue-tied.
"Catch." Dr. Wells tossed the keys to him and Barry needed to use a little of his super-speed to catch them - the throw was more than a little off-target. "Sorry about that, my aim's still a little off."
Dr. Wells wheeled around to the passenger-side door, pressed some controls and a lift-gate slid out and lowered to the ground. Barry watched as Dr. Wells tried to maneuver onto the small ramp and missed. Unlike their exit from the restaurant, he didn't want for Dr. Wells to try again and miss. He rushed over and eased the chair onto the platform and waited while the mechanics activated, lifting the chair into the wagon and locking everything into place.
"You good?"
"Yes. Thank you … Barry."
"You're welcome."
Barry got into the driver's seat and sort of marveled at how utterly normal the wagon felt. Everything was in the right place. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Barry realized something. "Um, Dr. Wells, where do you live?"
"Take Broadway out to Highway 12 and go north. I'll direct you from there."
Twenty minutes later, Barry pulled up in front on a large, ultra-modern house nestled in an old-growth forest. The moonlight reflected off of great panels of glass and steel.
Barry needed to give Dr. Wells a little help as he steered up the front path. "Sorry, Mr. Allen - I usually don't drink quite so much. And I appreciate the assistance."
The front door wasn't secured by anything as prosaic as a lock and key. There was a handprint and a retinal scan required before the front door swung open.
Barry felt strange following Dr. Wells inside, and he hovered at the threshold. "Can I help with anything else?"
"No - I think I can manage. But I will need my car keys back." Dr. Wells held out his hand and Barry gave them to him.
Barry felt like this was an awkward end to a very strange first date and he stuck his right hand in his pocket, leaving his left hanging loose. He was just as reluctant to leave as he was to stay. "I enjoyed myself. Dinner was really nice."
"I had a good time, too. It was nice to go out with someone who doesn't think of me as a pariah."
Barry felt like he'd been slapped. "That's a pretty low bar."
"Yes, and a little insulting. Let me rephrase. It was a very lovely … and very enlightening evening spent with someone I think of as a friend." Dr. Wells smiled, his eyes soft and a little unfocused as he looked up at him. "We are friends, right?"
A little shaken and maybe still a little high, Barry felt himself grinning goofily. "We certainly are."
"Good." Dr. Wells reached out and his fingers traced a line down Barry's arm - resting for just a moment over the delicate skin at his wrist, on his pulse point - until he clasped his hand for a too-brief moment. Dr. Wells' palm was cool, his fingertips a little calloused, and Barry felt like he wanted to vibrate with pleasure. "Have a good night, Mr. Allen. Safe travels home."
Barry just nodded and stepped back outside. He watched the door swing shut and waited a few more heartbeats. It didn't open again, so he took off, running faster that than anyone ever could.
Harrison Wells waited until he saw the streak of light blaze off into the distance before getting out of his wheelchair and stretching with relief. Like his "intoxication", it was an effective piece of theater. But sitting almost perfectly still for so many hours was exhausting.
Tonight; however, the tedium paid off.
Barry Allen was falling into his hand like a ripe piece of fruit. The perfect plum. His stomach growled at that food analogy and Harrison grimaced. There was more to playing the role of a paraplegic than roaming around in a wheelchair. As long as he was in public, he couldn't eat what his body truly required without raising eyebrows. And that was the last thing he wanted. One of Cisco's nutrition bars did the trick. It wasn't particularly tasty, but it took care of what his body needed.
That hunger satisfied, he unlocked a room not too dissimilar to his secret chamber at the lab. and activated the AI interface. "Good evening, Gideon."
"Good evening, Doctor Wells."
"Status?"
"It has been two hundred eight-eight days since the lightning struck. The timeline is intact."
"Thank you, Gideon."
"You're welcome, Dr. Wells."
Harrison dismissed the AI interface and picked up a tablet. As he left the chamber and went to his bedroom, he called up one of the dozens of cameras he'd had installed throughout Central City, in all of the places that Barry frequented. The one he selected was his favorite. It was also the most advanced, with high definition color video with a pin-point sound pickup. He had personally installed in Barry's apartment, in his bedroom, right over the bed. At the moment, the room was dark, and a quick check of the other cameras showed that Barry hadn't returned to his apartment just yet.
He'd actually been shocked by Barry's confession earlier this evening, about having sex with men. He'd been watching Barry for years - for more than half of the man's lifetime - and nothing Harrison had observed had led him to believe that Barry wasn't as virginal as a nun. He'd never seen Barry with anyone other than his right hand and a bottle of lotion.
To now learn that Barry was sexually active - with men, at least - angered him. Bitterly.
Harrison Wells knew all about Professor Stewart Rand - an adequate teacher of physics at Hudson University. Tall, blond, and fit, he had students of both sexes falling all over him, and Rand never hesitated to help himself to what was being offered, especially when pretty boys were making the offer. He'd plucked Hartley Rathaway's cherry a decade ago and left the poor boy broken hearted when he'd moved onto to others eager students willing to give it up for a better grade or a stellar recommendation.
Of course the bastard would made a play for Barry - he did have good taste - but Harrison never figured that Barry would be willing to play, too. He never figured that Barry would have been able to teach Steward Rand - of all people - a few things. That he was a "very bad boy".
As long as it wouldn't damage the timeline, Harrison was looking forward to discovering just how "bad" Barry Allen could be.
He'd finished undressing and had just climbed into bed when the lights came on in Barry Allen's bedroom. Perfect timing…
The camera, designed to track motion, followed Barry around the room as he paced. He was nervy, maybe still intoxicated by the earlier rush of endorphins. Harrison, as a scientist, was curious about what the combination of endorphins and the body's use of the Speed Force did to the brain. He wondered idly just what it would take to convince Mr. Allen to participate in such an experiment. Multiple times. Because a sample of one was meaningless, to a scientist.
He grinned at the thought.
And that grin broadened as Barry striped to the skin. And it seemed that the universe was still spinning in Harrison's favor as Barry got into bed, naked. The night was cool, but he didn't pull the covers up. He tapped an icon on the screen to trigger the recording function - this was something he'd want to watch again.
Barry's legs parted and his right hand drifted slowly down his belly, toying a bit with his navel, fucking the little indentation with his middle finger, before moving to points south.
If Harrison didn't know better, he'd think that Barry was giving him a show, playing to the camera like an actor in a porno. But he wasn't, and that made the scene all the more delicious. He was taking it slow tonight, teasing himself to a full erection before reaching for some lubricant.
Harrison leaned back and watched Barry stroke his cock with slow, even strokes. The man knew what his body liked and tonight, he didn't hesitate to give into the pleasure. Too many nights, Harrison watched with mild annoyance as Barry simply jerked off, came, cleaned himself off and rolled over to sleep. Yes, there was pleasure to be taken in observing that basic bodily function, but Harrison preferred to savor the pleasure.
Barry was working his cock with his right hand, letting his left drift over other erogenous zones - his balls, his navel, his nipples, pulling and twisting. The sight was delicious and Harrison indulged in a brief fantasy involving body jewelry - lightning bolt-shaped piercings that he could play with until Barry screamed from the pleasure and the pain.
A sharp moan coming from the tablet's speakers drew his attention back to reality.
Barry was close to orgasm - his feet were planted on the bed, his thighs splayed, and his hips were jerking as his fist worked his cock fast and faster. As the come erupted from his dick and splashed over his right fist and onto his belly, Barry did something completely unexpected. He lifted his left hand - the hand that Harrison had stroked just before their parting - to his mouth and brushed his lips over his wrist, across his palm and fingers, letting his fingertips linger for a few heartbeats. As his body relaxed, Barry whispered "Harrison."
Harrison watched as Barry pulled up the covers, without even cleaning himself off, rolled over and clumsily reached to to turn off the light. He watched for a few more minutes - not bothering to switch the camera to night-vision mode - as Barry fell asleep, his deep, even breathing audible to the sensitive microphone.
Shaken to the core, Harrison tapped the screen to turn off the recording and dismiss the application. He was shocked to see his hand trembling, palsied from the emotional rush. He was aroused, too - that wasn't unusual after these sessions - but the intensity was surprising. He was a man with a man's appetites, but he was also a man who had near-absolute self-control over those appetites.
Desire was a distraction he could ill-afford, but tonight, hearing Barry whisper his name, his self-control was gone. He placed the tablet on his nightstand, turned off the lights, and took his own pleasure.
Harrison allowed himself to dream as he stroked himself, to dream of Barry Allen - bright and beautiful and utterly vulnerable. He allowed himself to fantasize about all the terrible, wicked things he'd do to him, teaching Barry just what pleased him, making him abase himself, lose himself, making him exist just to satisfy his master's desires.
Desire - lust - crescendoed and Harrison cried out. Not words of triumph, of a victor over the vanquished. No, the words he spoke were far more devastating. Three simple words that, if heard, would destroy the timeline.
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no subject
Date: 2016-01-04 01:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-04 01:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-04 03:33 am (UTC)Love this!! I love how both of them have this sexual tension, that Barry is more 'bad' than Wells thought, that both of them feel more than they rationally know they should but can't help it, the very in-character way that Wells tries his seduction. And the details, like the restaurant worker showing no warmth, or the food porn, or that Cisco made the van awesome.
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Date: 2016-01-04 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-04 03:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-04 03:27 pm (UTC)