The Flash - The Slow Burn of Anger
Jan. 7th, 2016 07:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Slow Burn of Anger
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Cisco Ramon, Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~5500
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place shortly after S1.07 (Power Outage), but mentions events displayed in S1.17 (Tricksters)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit:theatregirl7299
Summary: Part Two of The Seduction of Barry Allen. Harrison Wells is having a very bad day, and takes his anger out on Caitlin, Cisco and Barry. But Barry – being Barry – isn't the type to give up on a friend. Until he has no choice.
Author’s Notes: I still haven't finished watching Season One – so there are probably more than a few inaccuracies in canon. See end notes for an explanation for one very story-spoilery canon inaccuracy.
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.
__________________
The first piece had been played. The hint of vulnerability underneath a firm hand of control. And Barry Allen responded so beautifully it took his breath away.
It was time to make his next move…
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was a quiet Friday – actually a quiet week. No crime sprees in Central City meant he could focus his attention on clearing out a backlog of reports at the lab. No meta-human crimes meant he and the team could focus on testing and pushing his limits.
Barry tried not to think that there was anything strange about a twenty-six year old guy heading to an almost-abandoned lab on a Friday night to spend the next four hours running on a treadmill, instead of going on a date or hanging with his friends. Barry rationalized – he really was hanging with his friends. Cisco and Caitlin and Dr. Wells were – after Joe and Iris – his closest companions.
It was – perhaps, perhaps not – a good thing that he had decided to walk into S.T.A.R. Labs instead of running in at super-speed. He met Cisco on the way to the Cortex, and the man had his backpack slung over his shoulder, as if he were leaving for the night.
"You might want to think about going home, man." Cisco put a hand on Barry's arm, stopping him.
"Why? We have a bunch of tests set up for tonight. What's the problem?"
"Dr. Wells is having a bad day." Cisco whispered and glanced over his shoulder, back towards the Cortex.
"Huh?" Barry wasn't sure he'd heard Cisco correctly. "A bad day? Is he sick?" Worried, he started to head into the Cortex, but Cisco pulled him back.
"Come on, not here."
Barry followed Cisco towards one of the smaller, disused laboratories. "What's going on?"
"I really don't know what's going on with Dr. Wells, but he's … " Cisco made a face – a cross between puzzlement and disgust, "not himself. He made Caitlin cry. She went home an hour ago. I'm on my way out, too. Don't think I'll be back for a few days, unless some meta-human emergency comes up. There's only so much a man can take."
"That doesn't sound like Dr. Wells – he's never out of sorts." If there was one thing that always surprised Barry about the man who built S.T.A.R. Labs – who caused the accident that led to his transformation, the man who guided him to ever greater feats – was that he never lost his temper without reason. He got irritated on occasion, frustrated with externally imposed limitations, but never irrationally angry. And he was never anything less than kind to his team.
Cisco shook his head. "Man, this more than just out of sorts – he's been downright nasty. Told Caitlin it’s time she got on with her life; that other people had lost a hell of a lot more than she did and he was damn sick and tired of seeing her moping around like some tragic heroine from a bad nineteenth century opera."
Barry blinked. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No, Bar – Dr. Wells is being like an evil Dr. Wells with a double dose of dickishness. Never seen anything like it."
"What did he say to you?"
Cisco shook his head. "Not telling, but I'm out of here for a while. Everyone needs a vacation, even me. Take my advice, Barry, and go home."
Cisco left him standing in the abandoned lab room. He could go home – to an empty apartment and an empty social life. He could drop by Jitters and catch Iris before she went off-shift, either as himself or as the Flash. But then he'd risk running into her and Eddie, and he just didn't need to see the two lovebirds bill and coo at each other. He should just head over to see Joe, have some beer and pizza and watch an old movie. That would be the sensible choice.
Or he could head into the Cortex and find out just what was bothering Dr. Wells.
Barry had spent much of the weekend after their dinner at Amaro's dithering about how he should react the next time he was at S.T.A.R. Labs – whether he should acknowledge the weirdness (who the hell confesses to being a sexual bad boy to someone like Dr. Wells?) or if he should just pretend that nothing happened.
That choice became unnecessary when Blackout sucked away his speed and tried to kill everyone at S.T.A.R. Labs, especially Dr. Wells. And then there was their confrontation over Tony – Girder – and how he told Dr. Wells that he considered everyone his pawn. Although Dr. Wells had apologized most eloquently, Barry's anger and disappointment did an excellent job of erasing any lingering awkwardness from the dinner they'd shared – and the strangeness afterwards.
But now, Barry remembered the sadness in Dr. Wells' voice when he talked about running, he remembered the almost-goofy humanity of his scotch-induced intoxication. Harrison Wells wasn't some inhuman monster – a machine without feelings. On the contrary, he was a man who felt deeply, cared deeply. If he was distressed enough to take his anger out on Caitlin and Cisco, then something had to be terribly wrong.
With deliberately heavy footsteps to announce his presence, Barry headed towards the Cortex, but he didn't quite enter the facility. He lingered at the doorway, watching Dr. Wells work, waiting for some acknowledgement.
"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Allen. I'm beginning to understand your Captain Singh's irritation with your constant lack of punctuality. We have a schedule of tests to run. It would help if you could bother to show up on time." Dr. Wells' voice was cold, rife with irritation and something more. If a tone of voice could have had an odor, Barry thought Dr. Wells' would stink like burning tires.
Despite his compassion, his worry, Barry decided not to try to soothe the man. "We? There's no one else here. I saw Cisco as he was heading out, he told me that Caitlin's gone, too. It's just you and me, and unless you're planning on doing a Multiplex, there's no 'we'."
Dr. Wells spun around and glared at him. "Then let me restate, I would appreciate it if you could bother yourself to arrive at the agreed upon time, so that you can participate in the tests that I've spent a considerable amount of time designing. Just a question of common courtesy, Mr. Allen."
Barry wasn't going to back down. He never did, not when he was a kid and not now. "Just as it's 'common courtesy' to tell Caitlin to stop mourning the man who died saving you, to insult Cisco so badly that he had to leave?"
"Ah, so you ran into Mr. Ramon and he blabbed."
"Cisco didn't blab – he just warned me. And offered some advice."
"Which was?"
"To go home."
"You can do that – or you can get to work on enhancing your … abilities." There was a certain snideness to that last word. And it didn't stop there. "You're the one who wants to be a goddamned hero all the time. What if you're not fast enough? What if you can't pull the woman from car wreck in time? What if she bleeds out before you can get her to the hospital? What if you needed to be just one step quicker? What if you weren't? What if she died because you were too fucking slow?" Dr. Wells' shot those last words at him like arrows from a bow – intending to wound, intending to cause the maximum amount of damage.
Barry swallowed, feeling the blood drain from his face. That was his nightmare – being too slow to save the innocent. He moved towards the treadmill; the tests that Dr. Wells wanted to run were an important part of his training, getting him faster, perhaps unlocking other abilities. Dr. Wells might be behaving like a dick, but he was still right.
He was about to pull off his sweatshirt and attach the electrodes when Dr. Wells said something that stopped him cold.
"Tell me, Mr. Allen – if you're such a fucking hero, where were you fifteen years ago?"
"Excuse me?" Barry wasn't sure he heard that right.
"I said, where were you fifteen years ago? Where were you when a car turned over on a deserted road, killing the passenger?" Now, Dr. Wells was shouting at him, his arms braced against the chair, as if he wanted to propel himself out of it and attack him.
Barry understood the rage, now. "Who died? Who did you lose?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer. He just collapsed back into his chair and slumped down. "Get the hell out of here, Mr. Allen. Your presence is unwelcome."
Barry didn't listen; he knew what it was like to hurt, to lash out in pain and grief. Instead, he knelt before Dr. Wells and reached out to take his hand, slowly, gently – much the way Joe had done when he'd spun out of control.
But Dr. Wells wasn't a child to be soothed. He slapped Barry's hand away and sneered, "Is this the moment when you tell me you understand, that you know what it's like? Is this when you tell me that fifteen years ago, you were eleven and you watched your mother die? Spare me the sob story. I don't need your shoulder to cry on."
The words were delivered like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, cutting deeply and precisely at the parts of him that were most easily wounded. But Barry wasn't willing to give up. "Maybe you do."
"Oh, Mr. Allen – you really think that hugs and milk and cookies will help? You always look at me with such big, adoring eyes, like a really stupid golden retriever. And tonight, you're just like a sweet little puppy who just can't process the fact that his master just kicked him for no good reason at all."
Barry stepped back. If he didn't, he might have punched Wells in the face. Not that distance really mattered, not with the super-speed. But it was still symbolic. It still helped him gather the shreds of his dignity and what was left of his self-respect.
"I think you're right. I think it's best I left."
"Good – you do that, Mr. Allen. And think about all the people you couldn't save because you were just too damn slow."
Barry walked out of the Cortex, out of S.T.A.R. Labs and wondered if he'd ever be able to go back.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Late autumn in Central City was usually chilly, but tonight it seemed bitterly, brutally cold. Or maybe it just was his heart pumping out ice-cold blood.
After all, the time and temperature sign on First Central Bank said it was thirty-eight degrees – about average for this time of year.
Barry walked because he couldn't bring himself to run. Running, using his super-speed, going fast-faster-fastest was what he did for Dr. Wells. What made him a hero.
But he wasn't a hero, was he? He was just a man who was struck by lightning and survived. Over the months since he had come out of the coma, since he'd donned the red suit, he'd been able to forget those words, replace them with others – "Run, Barry. Run!" – words of encouragement, praise, companionship. Words that made everything possible.
Words that promised something more.
"We are friends, right?"
But those words were lies. Whatever Harrison Wells was to him, tonight it was clear that he was not his friend. Friends don't turn on you like that.
Barry walked for hours, replaying that conversation over and over. He could hear the pain, the anguish. He understood the anger. Even the comments about being too slow. He understood that. Harrison Wells lost someone – a car accident – and he was lashing out in grief.
But to make such a mockery of his affection hurt more than anything. “You always look at me with such big, adoring eyes, like a really stupid golden retriever."
The sound of his phone interrupted the dark circle of his thoughts. He wanted to ignore it, to just keep wallowing in his misery, but too many people depended on him
Barry was shocked when he saw the name on the display – "Dr. Harrison Wells" – the very last person he expected to hear from, especially at nearly two in the morning. His thumb hovered over the disconnect button, but he just couldn't do it. He was an adoring golden retriever, stupidly dedicated to his master, apparently, and he answered the call.
"Dr. Wells?"
The voice that answered wasn't the man who called, and Barry's heart stuttered with fear. "No – this is Jimmy. Sorry to bother you."
"Why are you called from Harrison Wells' cellphone?”
So, that's who he is? Doesn't look anything like his picture in the paper."
Barry fought for calm, praying that Dr. Wells hadn't been kidnapped by another vengeful meta-human. "What's the matter, Jimmy?"
"I'm the bartender at The Dead End, down by the power plant, and I want to close up, but I can't. The guy who owns this phone just downed a fifth of gin and he's passed out. Can't wake him, and he's in a wheelchair – don't really want to dump him on the street."
"How come you called me?"
"You're the first name on his contacts list – number one on his favs. Figured you're someone important to him."
Barry didn't know what to say. This morning, he would have been delighted by the information, but after this evening's encounter at the lab, he had to wonder.
"Are you going to come and get him?"
Barry sighed against the inevitable. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm not that far away."
"Great, thanks. Wanna get the place closed, but don't want to put some poor crippled guy out on the street."
Barry disconnected and continued a leisurely stroll towards the old power plant, which wasn't that far from S.T.A.R. Labs. If he ran – "Run, Barry. Run!" – he could be there in seconds. But he had the luxury of time, tonight. Five minutes, an eternity.
He walked until he couldn't bear it anymore and ran the last two miles in a few heartbeats, pausing at the corner to muss his hair, to slap some pink in his cheeks, like he was an ordinary human who just jogged some distance to help a friend. As he walked the half-block towards his destination, Barry noticed Dr. Wells' Cisco-modified Mercedes G-wagon.
The Dead End was truly a dive bar – no windows, just a single blacked-out square hung with a half-broken neon beer sign. The door was propped open, letting out a feeble slice of light. Barry stepped inside and was struck by the atmosphere of lingering despair. It had seeped into the walls and floor like the smell of old sweat in a boxing gym.
"You're Barry Allen?"
A man came out from behind the bar – a caricature of a bartender in a place like this. Stained tee shirt stretched out over a beer gut, broken veins blooming across a red nose, teeth stained from too much tobacco. But there was no malice in his eyes, just a sad kindness of someone who'd seen too much that he'd wanted to forget.
"Yeah, you're Jimmy?"
"Yup. Your friend's in the corner." Jimmy waved towards the far corner of the bar, and sure enough, there was Harrison Wells, face planted on a table next to an empty bottle of gin.
"Here's his phone back." Jimmy held out Dr. Wells cell phone, and Barry was struck by something.
"How did you unlock it?"
"He's got one of those fancy phones with a fingerprint reader. Just tried each finger until it unlocked."
Barry had to laugh. Security undone by inebriation.
"I'll let you take care of him. Got some things to clean up in back. If you leave before I come back, just make sure the door's shut."
"Umm, do I have to settle his tab?"
"Nope – he paid for his bottle before he started drinking. Surprised that a man like that didn't just go to a liquor store and buy a bottle. Take it home and get drunk in privacy. He just rolled up to behind the bar – 'cos that's the only way I'd see him, asked for a clean glass and fifth of cheap gin. Guy didn't blink when I said it'd cost fifty bucks – asked me to deliver it to the table in the back like I'm some sort of fucking sommy-yeah or something. But he tipped well – and seemed kind of sad. And I'm a sucker, I guess." Jimmy shrugged. "Some folks get hit real hard by life – I think your friend is one of them."
Barry nodded. "Yeah, he is."
"Okay – don't forget about the door." Jimmy lumbered towards the back, leaving Barry alone with a dilemma.
He pushed at Dr. Wells' shoulder. "Time to go home."
Dr. Wells sniffled but otherwise didn't move.
He pushed again, a little harder. "Wake up."
And there was still no reaction.
Barry sighed. "I guess I'm taking you home, whether I want to or not." He lifted Dr. Wells off the table, straightened out his glasses, and got him into something that resembled an upright seating position before pulling the chair away from the table. He patted Dr. Wells' pockets and found the car keys. As he pushed the chair out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, Barry kicked away the doorstop and the portal slammed shut with a resounding finality.
It didn't take much to secure Dr. Wells into the wagon and a few minutes later, they were on their way. He thought about taking Dr. Wells back to the lab, but decided to be an idiot and take him home, instead.
About ten minutes into the drive, Dr. Wells woke up. "Wha? Where am I? Wha's goin' on?" He twisted around, fighting with the shoulder harness. "Barry?"
Barry didn't answer, concentrating on the road.
"Wha's goin' on? Why are you driving my car?"
He relented on the silence. "I guess you don't remember going to The Dead End and drinking an entire fifth of gin tonight. The bartender found my number in your contacts and called me to pick you up."
"Oh." Dr. Wells slumped back into his chair and scrubbed at his face. "I remember, I think."
"I have to wonder if you have a picture of a golden retriever assigned to my contact."
"What?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember that?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer right away, and Barry wondered and hoped that maybe he actually had forgotten his devastating comments at S.T.A.R. Labs earlier today.
"Ah, yes."
He hadn't.
They continued the journey in silence. At two AM, the road was nearly deserted and Barry didn't hesitate to push the Mercedes to eighty-five – for him, on his feet – a relatively sedate speed.
"Mr. Allen, would you pull over, please?"
Barry glanced over at his passenger and as they passed under the highway lights, he could see the beads of sweat dotting Dr. Wells face, how he was convulsively swallowing.
"Hang on." He veered off the road and stopped on a grassy embankment. It took almost too long to get the car in park and get Dr. Wells out. He started retching and Barry held him awkwardly through the whole horrible process.
Barry lost all sense of time – it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour – but finally, Dr. Wells stopped heaving and relaxed in his arms.
"Are you all right?"
"I think so." The other man's voice was harsh. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Sorry about this."
Barry didn't say anything. He picked Dr. Wells up and carried him a few feet to a cleaner patch of ground. There was no point in saying "wait here" because it wasn't as if Harrison Wells could get up and walk anywhere.
He retrieved the wheelchair and took his time getting it over to Dr. Wells, ostensibly watching the ground, making sure the wheels didn't hit any rocks or ruts. This wasn't a chair built for anything but smooth pavement.
It took a few more minutes to get Dr. Wells back into the chair and back into the wagon.
They were back on the road when Dr. Wells said, "Thank you."
"Nothing that your average stupid golden retriever wouldn't do for his master."
"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Should I?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer.
The rest of the drive was completed in silence and when he pulled up to the house, Barry wasn't surprised to see that Dr. Wells was sleeping again – or pretending to. This time, his exit from the wagon was accomplished with less speed and more grace. But he woke up as Barry wheeled him to the front door – stopping at the security panel.
He didn't want to wait for Dr. Wells to get inside, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Except that the man just sat there, disheveled and distraught under moonlight – he was twisting his hands in his lap and looking at him with terrible uncertainty.
"Barry?"
"What?"
"Would you come in?"
That was the last thing he wanted to do. "It's late."
"Please?" The request was made with a quiet hopelessness.
Barry stood there, feeling like a fool. Feeling played and betrayed. . "Why? So you can kick me again? I don't think so."
"You deserve and explanation. And an apology."
"Maybe some other time."
"Barry, please."
Dr. Wells reached out, trying to take his hand, but Barry stepped back, out of reach. The effect was ruined when Dr. Wells almost fell out of his chair and Barry rushed to prevent that. Dr. Wells laughed, a light and bitter sound. "You hate me, but you're still protecting me. Still watching out for me."
"Irony's a bitch, isn't it?" And he didn't exactly hate the man.
"As stone cold as winter in the badlands."
Barry shook his head. "What do you want from me?" He couldn't help but respond to the sad desperation
"Just – just come in. Give me a chance to explain, to apologize."
Barry stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Okay, fine." He followed Dr. Wells into the house. The last time he'd been here, he had formed a vague impression of the place – one of glittering modernity, a fitting home for a man on the cutting edge of science. But tonight, there was no glitter – just cold, bleak edges, shadowed darkness filling every corner.
Dr. Wells lead him through the house, into a library. To Barry's surprise – the room was filled with books, printed books. Bookcases lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by a fireplace – sleek and modern and it flared to life as Dr. Wells picked up a remote and turned it on.
"I would beg your patience for a few minutes more, Mr. Allen."
Barry was disappointed in the inevitable retreat back to formality. "Why?"
"I'd like to clean myself up. I'd rather not have this conversation with the taste of vomit in my mouth."
Barry nodded. "Okay."
"Relax, please. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Dr. Wells retreated, his chair whirring silently, leaving Barry alone with the fire, the books, and his resentment.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
So close – so very, very close. It felt like a tipping point. One wrong move and the future would change again. He'd be stuck here forever, locked in a primitive past, bound to a life he stole.
He needed to move carefully. The trap had been baited, but it felt like he was the prey, the one about to be caught.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Barry wasn't at all surprised at the collection of books in Dr. Wells' library. There was a whole wall packed with journals from the most famous physics institutes in the world, and they all looked well-read. Another wall was filled with biographies – not just of scientists, but musicians and artists and architects – stories of the lives of creative men and women throughout the history of humankind.
Tucking on a lower shelf, jammed into a corner, was a book he recognized. Harrison Wells had a copy of his own biography. The dust jacket was torn and it seemed that someone had defaced the picture. Barry pulled it out – and yes, the cover picture was definitely vandalized. Someone had drawn horns, a goatee and Groucho Marx-style eyebrows on Dr. Wells' face with a bright red Sharpie.
Barry had to grin – he recognized the pen strokes. They were made by none-other than Dr. Harrison Wells himself. He flipped through the book, finding dozens of comments – almost all in red, and none of them complimentary.
"Of all the books in this room, you have to pick up that monument to my vanity?"
Dr. Wells wheeled into the library. He looked a hell of a lot better than he had a few minutes ago. His hair was a little damp, he had on a fresh black sweater, and Barry could make out the slight ring of white toothpaste residue around his lips. But his pants were the same – the knees stained from the roadside dirt where he'd heaved his guts out.
He took the book out of Barry's hands and dumped it into a wastepaper basket. "That's where it belongs."
Barry fought against the urge to rescue it and won, but he lost the battle against the need to smile. At least until he met Dr. Wells' gaze.
"I owe you an apology. And an explanation."
Barry nodded.
Dr. Wells took off his glasses and scrubbed his eyes. "This is a particularly bad day for me. No – wait – yesterday was. It's already tomorrow."
"It's almost three AM. It's definitely tomorrow."
Dr. Wells gave him a wry grin. "Right. And would you sit down? It would be easier if I could look you in the eye."
Barry dropped onto the long leather couch in the center of the room. Dr. Wells rolled up – close enough for Barry to smell the toothpaste and a still-slightly sour body odor. "Why was yesterday a bad day?"
Dr. Wells looked at his hands, stretching out the long fingers before clenching them into fists. "Yesterday was my twentieth wedding anniversary. The best day of my entire life."
Barry sucked in his breath, he felt like he'd been punched by Tony Woodward. "I didn't know you'd been married."
"Tess and I met in college – she was always one step ahead of me, thought faster, more creatively, more ethically. She was brilliant. I … worshipped her. Took me a whole semester to get up the courage to talk to her. I made a complete ass out of myself, stuttering through some ridiculous explanation of neutrinos and then she kissed me and asked me out on a date."
Barry had a hard time picturing Dr. Wells as anything but utterly self-assured.
"We fell in love. Actually, she fell in love with me – I already loved her." Dr. Wells shook his head. "I'm a scientist, and miracles are just ordinary events that can't yet be explained. But she was my miracle – my inexplicable, incomprehensible miracle."
"Mea inexplicabile est, incomprehensibilis quidem miraculum." Barry got up and retrieved the biography from the trashcan. He flipped to the back, to the last page of the last chapter. "You were talking about S.T.A.R. Labs, about building the particle accelerator – you called it your 'inexplicable, incomprehensible miracle' – which I thought was a strange thing for a scientist to say, but you weren't talking about the accelerator, or even S.T.A.R. Labs, you were talking about Tess. Your wife."
Dr. Wells took the book from him and read the last paragraph of the last chapter.
Dr. Wells closed the book and this time, placed it on the couch. "Our wedding bands were pure platinum – no iridium, no other alloy metal – and I used them to create the key resistors in the accelerator's synchrotron. I buried a piece of my heart in the particle accelerator."
Barry couldn't say anything, he wanted to weep.
"So now you know my great secret. My biographer was correct when he said I was 'arrogant, prickly, brusque, and at times contemptuous' of people. What he didn't know was that I'm also a foolish romantic."
"What happened to her?"
"Tess was killed in a car accident, almost fifteen years ago. We had spent the day at the beach; it was the day for dreaming. We created S.T.A.R. Labs that afternoon – it should have been our baby. It got late and I drove home – the road was deserted. I must have hit a rock or something – the tires burst and the car overturned. Tess was badly injured – I … was mostly okay. The airbag on her side failed. But I couldn't get out, I couldn't get out of the damn car and I listened to her die. Right next to me. I couldn't do a thing to help her. I just …"
Dr. Wells breathed heavily – as if he'd just run a marathon, as if his control was held together by a single fraying thread. "Everything I've done since has been in her name, in her memory."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Barry felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks.
"It's funny. When I was found, when they got me out of the car, I just walked over to the ambulance. Had a few broken ribs, but that's it. When the accelerator failed and I got caught in the rubble, I couldn't help but think that this was an accident that already happened – the injury was just delayed for a decade and a half."
There was no sound in the room other than their breathing. Like he had yesterday evening, when Dr. Wells had lashed out at him in pain, Barry reached out and took the man's hand. This time, his touch wasn't rejected. This time, Dr. Wells gripped his hand like a lifeline.
"For almost fifteen years, I've refused to let myself care about anyone, anything other than my legacy – because that was her legacy, too. Until everything went to hell, until I heard of a young man in a coma, a young man struck by the lightning I created through my hubris, my arrogance. You've taught me to feel, again, Barry Allen. To love, again."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Harrison Wells watched as Barry disappeared in a streak of yellow lightning. He'd been reluctant to leave, but just as reluctant to stay. In the end, Barry let himself be convinced that his friend and mentor was all right – at least physically. Harrison had let his voice quaver just a little, a touching note of emotional distress, as he again begged for forgiveness, for absolution for the sins he committed.
And Barry was quick to grant him that absolution; those warm hands clasped over his were a sweet benediction.
When he ate Harrison Wells, he consumed his memories, his emotions, his dreams. It was necessary for the pretense, but it was easy to keep the softer parts buried. The parts that loved, the parts that worried and fretted and planned for a better future – all the parts that Eobard Thawne didn't need.
Now, though – now he felt all of those unwanted parts blossom into vibrate life, threatening to undo everything. And it would be so easy to let them. It would be so easy to let everything go. To forget the future, to stay and be Harrison Wells. To build a lasting monument here, to create and flourish and put aside a centuries' old hatred. It would be so damn easy to let Eobard Thawne disappear, let him vanish into the mists of memories never to be made.
It would be so easy to love.
Because of all the lies he told Barry Allen tonight, that was not one of them.
FIN
End Note: I am aware that Harrison's story about the car accident doesn't quite mesh with what we saw at the end of Tricksters, but remember – this is Eobard telling the tale.
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Cisco Ramon, Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~5500
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place shortly after S1.07 (Power Outage), but mentions events displayed in S1.17 (Tricksters)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit:
theatregirl7299 Summary: Part Two of The Seduction of Barry Allen. Harrison Wells is having a very bad day, and takes his anger out on Caitlin, Cisco and Barry. But Barry – being Barry – isn't the type to give up on a friend. Until he has no choice.
Author’s Notes: I still haven't finished watching Season One – so there are probably more than a few inaccuracies in canon. See end notes for an explanation for one very story-spoilery canon inaccuracy.
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.
The first piece had been played. The hint of vulnerability underneath a firm hand of control. And Barry Allen responded so beautifully it took his breath away.
It was time to make his next move…
It was a quiet Friday – actually a quiet week. No crime sprees in Central City meant he could focus his attention on clearing out a backlog of reports at the lab. No meta-human crimes meant he and the team could focus on testing and pushing his limits.
Barry tried not to think that there was anything strange about a twenty-six year old guy heading to an almost-abandoned lab on a Friday night to spend the next four hours running on a treadmill, instead of going on a date or hanging with his friends. Barry rationalized – he really was hanging with his friends. Cisco and Caitlin and Dr. Wells were – after Joe and Iris – his closest companions.
It was – perhaps, perhaps not – a good thing that he had decided to walk into S.T.A.R. Labs instead of running in at super-speed. He met Cisco on the way to the Cortex, and the man had his backpack slung over his shoulder, as if he were leaving for the night.
"You might want to think about going home, man." Cisco put a hand on Barry's arm, stopping him.
"Why? We have a bunch of tests set up for tonight. What's the problem?"
"Dr. Wells is having a bad day." Cisco whispered and glanced over his shoulder, back towards the Cortex.
"Huh?" Barry wasn't sure he'd heard Cisco correctly. "A bad day? Is he sick?" Worried, he started to head into the Cortex, but Cisco pulled him back.
"Come on, not here."
Barry followed Cisco towards one of the smaller, disused laboratories. "What's going on?"
"I really don't know what's going on with Dr. Wells, but he's … " Cisco made a face – a cross between puzzlement and disgust, "not himself. He made Caitlin cry. She went home an hour ago. I'm on my way out, too. Don't think I'll be back for a few days, unless some meta-human emergency comes up. There's only so much a man can take."
"That doesn't sound like Dr. Wells – he's never out of sorts." If there was one thing that always surprised Barry about the man who built S.T.A.R. Labs – who caused the accident that led to his transformation, the man who guided him to ever greater feats – was that he never lost his temper without reason. He got irritated on occasion, frustrated with externally imposed limitations, but never irrationally angry. And he was never anything less than kind to his team.
Cisco shook his head. "Man, this more than just out of sorts – he's been downright nasty. Told Caitlin it’s time she got on with her life; that other people had lost a hell of a lot more than she did and he was damn sick and tired of seeing her moping around like some tragic heroine from a bad nineteenth century opera."
Barry blinked. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No, Bar – Dr. Wells is being like an evil Dr. Wells with a double dose of dickishness. Never seen anything like it."
"What did he say to you?"
Cisco shook his head. "Not telling, but I'm out of here for a while. Everyone needs a vacation, even me. Take my advice, Barry, and go home."
Cisco left him standing in the abandoned lab room. He could go home – to an empty apartment and an empty social life. He could drop by Jitters and catch Iris before she went off-shift, either as himself or as the Flash. But then he'd risk running into her and Eddie, and he just didn't need to see the two lovebirds bill and coo at each other. He should just head over to see Joe, have some beer and pizza and watch an old movie. That would be the sensible choice.
Or he could head into the Cortex and find out just what was bothering Dr. Wells.
Barry had spent much of the weekend after their dinner at Amaro's dithering about how he should react the next time he was at S.T.A.R. Labs – whether he should acknowledge the weirdness (who the hell confesses to being a sexual bad boy to someone like Dr. Wells?) or if he should just pretend that nothing happened.
That choice became unnecessary when Blackout sucked away his speed and tried to kill everyone at S.T.A.R. Labs, especially Dr. Wells. And then there was their confrontation over Tony – Girder – and how he told Dr. Wells that he considered everyone his pawn. Although Dr. Wells had apologized most eloquently, Barry's anger and disappointment did an excellent job of erasing any lingering awkwardness from the dinner they'd shared – and the strangeness afterwards.
But now, Barry remembered the sadness in Dr. Wells' voice when he talked about running, he remembered the almost-goofy humanity of his scotch-induced intoxication. Harrison Wells wasn't some inhuman monster – a machine without feelings. On the contrary, he was a man who felt deeply, cared deeply. If he was distressed enough to take his anger out on Caitlin and Cisco, then something had to be terribly wrong.
With deliberately heavy footsteps to announce his presence, Barry headed towards the Cortex, but he didn't quite enter the facility. He lingered at the doorway, watching Dr. Wells work, waiting for some acknowledgement.
"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Allen. I'm beginning to understand your Captain Singh's irritation with your constant lack of punctuality. We have a schedule of tests to run. It would help if you could bother to show up on time." Dr. Wells' voice was cold, rife with irritation and something more. If a tone of voice could have had an odor, Barry thought Dr. Wells' would stink like burning tires.
Despite his compassion, his worry, Barry decided not to try to soothe the man. "We? There's no one else here. I saw Cisco as he was heading out, he told me that Caitlin's gone, too. It's just you and me, and unless you're planning on doing a Multiplex, there's no 'we'."
Dr. Wells spun around and glared at him. "Then let me restate, I would appreciate it if you could bother yourself to arrive at the agreed upon time, so that you can participate in the tests that I've spent a considerable amount of time designing. Just a question of common courtesy, Mr. Allen."
Barry wasn't going to back down. He never did, not when he was a kid and not now. "Just as it's 'common courtesy' to tell Caitlin to stop mourning the man who died saving you, to insult Cisco so badly that he had to leave?"
"Ah, so you ran into Mr. Ramon and he blabbed."
"Cisco didn't blab – he just warned me. And offered some advice."
"Which was?"
"To go home."
"You can do that – or you can get to work on enhancing your … abilities." There was a certain snideness to that last word. And it didn't stop there. "You're the one who wants to be a goddamned hero all the time. What if you're not fast enough? What if you can't pull the woman from car wreck in time? What if she bleeds out before you can get her to the hospital? What if you needed to be just one step quicker? What if you weren't? What if she died because you were too fucking slow?" Dr. Wells' shot those last words at him like arrows from a bow – intending to wound, intending to cause the maximum amount of damage.
Barry swallowed, feeling the blood drain from his face. That was his nightmare – being too slow to save the innocent. He moved towards the treadmill; the tests that Dr. Wells wanted to run were an important part of his training, getting him faster, perhaps unlocking other abilities. Dr. Wells might be behaving like a dick, but he was still right.
He was about to pull off his sweatshirt and attach the electrodes when Dr. Wells said something that stopped him cold.
"Tell me, Mr. Allen – if you're such a fucking hero, where were you fifteen years ago?"
"Excuse me?" Barry wasn't sure he heard that right.
"I said, where were you fifteen years ago? Where were you when a car turned over on a deserted road, killing the passenger?" Now, Dr. Wells was shouting at him, his arms braced against the chair, as if he wanted to propel himself out of it and attack him.
Barry understood the rage, now. "Who died? Who did you lose?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer. He just collapsed back into his chair and slumped down. "Get the hell out of here, Mr. Allen. Your presence is unwelcome."
Barry didn't listen; he knew what it was like to hurt, to lash out in pain and grief. Instead, he knelt before Dr. Wells and reached out to take his hand, slowly, gently – much the way Joe had done when he'd spun out of control.
But Dr. Wells wasn't a child to be soothed. He slapped Barry's hand away and sneered, "Is this the moment when you tell me you understand, that you know what it's like? Is this when you tell me that fifteen years ago, you were eleven and you watched your mother die? Spare me the sob story. I don't need your shoulder to cry on."
The words were delivered like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, cutting deeply and precisely at the parts of him that were most easily wounded. But Barry wasn't willing to give up. "Maybe you do."
"Oh, Mr. Allen – you really think that hugs and milk and cookies will help? You always look at me with such big, adoring eyes, like a really stupid golden retriever. And tonight, you're just like a sweet little puppy who just can't process the fact that his master just kicked him for no good reason at all."
Barry stepped back. If he didn't, he might have punched Wells in the face. Not that distance really mattered, not with the super-speed. But it was still symbolic. It still helped him gather the shreds of his dignity and what was left of his self-respect.
"I think you're right. I think it's best I left."
"Good – you do that, Mr. Allen. And think about all the people you couldn't save because you were just too damn slow."
Barry walked out of the Cortex, out of S.T.A.R. Labs and wondered if he'd ever be able to go back.
Late autumn in Central City was usually chilly, but tonight it seemed bitterly, brutally cold. Or maybe it just was his heart pumping out ice-cold blood.
After all, the time and temperature sign on First Central Bank said it was thirty-eight degrees – about average for this time of year.
Barry walked because he couldn't bring himself to run. Running, using his super-speed, going fast-faster-fastest was what he did for Dr. Wells. What made him a hero.
But he wasn't a hero, was he? He was just a man who was struck by lightning and survived. Over the months since he had come out of the coma, since he'd donned the red suit, he'd been able to forget those words, replace them with others – "Run, Barry. Run!" – words of encouragement, praise, companionship. Words that made everything possible.
Words that promised something more.
"We are friends, right?"
But those words were lies. Whatever Harrison Wells was to him, tonight it was clear that he was not his friend. Friends don't turn on you like that.
Barry walked for hours, replaying that conversation over and over. He could hear the pain, the anguish. He understood the anger. Even the comments about being too slow. He understood that. Harrison Wells lost someone – a car accident – and he was lashing out in grief.
But to make such a mockery of his affection hurt more than anything. “You always look at me with such big, adoring eyes, like a really stupid golden retriever."
The sound of his phone interrupted the dark circle of his thoughts. He wanted to ignore it, to just keep wallowing in his misery, but too many people depended on him
Barry was shocked when he saw the name on the display – "Dr. Harrison Wells" – the very last person he expected to hear from, especially at nearly two in the morning. His thumb hovered over the disconnect button, but he just couldn't do it. He was an adoring golden retriever, stupidly dedicated to his master, apparently, and he answered the call.
"Dr. Wells?"
The voice that answered wasn't the man who called, and Barry's heart stuttered with fear. "No – this is Jimmy. Sorry to bother you."
"Why are you called from Harrison Wells' cellphone?”
So, that's who he is? Doesn't look anything like his picture in the paper."
Barry fought for calm, praying that Dr. Wells hadn't been kidnapped by another vengeful meta-human. "What's the matter, Jimmy?"
"I'm the bartender at The Dead End, down by the power plant, and I want to close up, but I can't. The guy who owns this phone just downed a fifth of gin and he's passed out. Can't wake him, and he's in a wheelchair – don't really want to dump him on the street."
"How come you called me?"
"You're the first name on his contacts list – number one on his favs. Figured you're someone important to him."
Barry didn't know what to say. This morning, he would have been delighted by the information, but after this evening's encounter at the lab, he had to wonder.
"Are you going to come and get him?"
Barry sighed against the inevitable. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm not that far away."
"Great, thanks. Wanna get the place closed, but don't want to put some poor crippled guy out on the street."
Barry disconnected and continued a leisurely stroll towards the old power plant, which wasn't that far from S.T.A.R. Labs. If he ran – "Run, Barry. Run!" – he could be there in seconds. But he had the luxury of time, tonight. Five minutes, an eternity.
He walked until he couldn't bear it anymore and ran the last two miles in a few heartbeats, pausing at the corner to muss his hair, to slap some pink in his cheeks, like he was an ordinary human who just jogged some distance to help a friend. As he walked the half-block towards his destination, Barry noticed Dr. Wells' Cisco-modified Mercedes G-wagon.
The Dead End was truly a dive bar – no windows, just a single blacked-out square hung with a half-broken neon beer sign. The door was propped open, letting out a feeble slice of light. Barry stepped inside and was struck by the atmosphere of lingering despair. It had seeped into the walls and floor like the smell of old sweat in a boxing gym.
"You're Barry Allen?"
A man came out from behind the bar – a caricature of a bartender in a place like this. Stained tee shirt stretched out over a beer gut, broken veins blooming across a red nose, teeth stained from too much tobacco. But there was no malice in his eyes, just a sad kindness of someone who'd seen too much that he'd wanted to forget.
"Yeah, you're Jimmy?"
"Yup. Your friend's in the corner." Jimmy waved towards the far corner of the bar, and sure enough, there was Harrison Wells, face planted on a table next to an empty bottle of gin.
"Here's his phone back." Jimmy held out Dr. Wells cell phone, and Barry was struck by something.
"How did you unlock it?"
"He's got one of those fancy phones with a fingerprint reader. Just tried each finger until it unlocked."
Barry had to laugh. Security undone by inebriation.
"I'll let you take care of him. Got some things to clean up in back. If you leave before I come back, just make sure the door's shut."
"Umm, do I have to settle his tab?"
"Nope – he paid for his bottle before he started drinking. Surprised that a man like that didn't just go to a liquor store and buy a bottle. Take it home and get drunk in privacy. He just rolled up to behind the bar – 'cos that's the only way I'd see him, asked for a clean glass and fifth of cheap gin. Guy didn't blink when I said it'd cost fifty bucks – asked me to deliver it to the table in the back like I'm some sort of fucking sommy-yeah or something. But he tipped well – and seemed kind of sad. And I'm a sucker, I guess." Jimmy shrugged. "Some folks get hit real hard by life – I think your friend is one of them."
Barry nodded. "Yeah, he is."
"Okay – don't forget about the door." Jimmy lumbered towards the back, leaving Barry alone with a dilemma.
He pushed at Dr. Wells' shoulder. "Time to go home."
Dr. Wells sniffled but otherwise didn't move.
He pushed again, a little harder. "Wake up."
And there was still no reaction.
Barry sighed. "I guess I'm taking you home, whether I want to or not." He lifted Dr. Wells off the table, straightened out his glasses, and got him into something that resembled an upright seating position before pulling the chair away from the table. He patted Dr. Wells' pockets and found the car keys. As he pushed the chair out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, Barry kicked away the doorstop and the portal slammed shut with a resounding finality.
It didn't take much to secure Dr. Wells into the wagon and a few minutes later, they were on their way. He thought about taking Dr. Wells back to the lab, but decided to be an idiot and take him home, instead.
About ten minutes into the drive, Dr. Wells woke up. "Wha? Where am I? Wha's goin' on?" He twisted around, fighting with the shoulder harness. "Barry?"
Barry didn't answer, concentrating on the road.
"Wha's goin' on? Why are you driving my car?"
He relented on the silence. "I guess you don't remember going to The Dead End and drinking an entire fifth of gin tonight. The bartender found my number in your contacts and called me to pick you up."
"Oh." Dr. Wells slumped back into his chair and scrubbed at his face. "I remember, I think."
"I have to wonder if you have a picture of a golden retriever assigned to my contact."
"What?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember that?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer right away, and Barry wondered and hoped that maybe he actually had forgotten his devastating comments at S.T.A.R. Labs earlier today.
"Ah, yes."
He hadn't.
They continued the journey in silence. At two AM, the road was nearly deserted and Barry didn't hesitate to push the Mercedes to eighty-five – for him, on his feet – a relatively sedate speed.
"Mr. Allen, would you pull over, please?"
Barry glanced over at his passenger and as they passed under the highway lights, he could see the beads of sweat dotting Dr. Wells face, how he was convulsively swallowing.
"Hang on." He veered off the road and stopped on a grassy embankment. It took almost too long to get the car in park and get Dr. Wells out. He started retching and Barry held him awkwardly through the whole horrible process.
Barry lost all sense of time – it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour – but finally, Dr. Wells stopped heaving and relaxed in his arms.
"Are you all right?"
"I think so." The other man's voice was harsh. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Sorry about this."
Barry didn't say anything. He picked Dr. Wells up and carried him a few feet to a cleaner patch of ground. There was no point in saying "wait here" because it wasn't as if Harrison Wells could get up and walk anywhere.
He retrieved the wheelchair and took his time getting it over to Dr. Wells, ostensibly watching the ground, making sure the wheels didn't hit any rocks or ruts. This wasn't a chair built for anything but smooth pavement.
It took a few more minutes to get Dr. Wells back into the chair and back into the wagon.
They were back on the road when Dr. Wells said, "Thank you."
"Nothing that your average stupid golden retriever wouldn't do for his master."
"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Should I?"
Dr. Wells didn't answer.
The rest of the drive was completed in silence and when he pulled up to the house, Barry wasn't surprised to see that Dr. Wells was sleeping again – or pretending to. This time, his exit from the wagon was accomplished with less speed and more grace. But he woke up as Barry wheeled him to the front door – stopping at the security panel.
He didn't want to wait for Dr. Wells to get inside, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Except that the man just sat there, disheveled and distraught under moonlight – he was twisting his hands in his lap and looking at him with terrible uncertainty.
"Barry?"
"What?"
"Would you come in?"
That was the last thing he wanted to do. "It's late."
"Please?" The request was made with a quiet hopelessness.
Barry stood there, feeling like a fool. Feeling played and betrayed. . "Why? So you can kick me again? I don't think so."
"You deserve and explanation. And an apology."
"Maybe some other time."
"Barry, please."
Dr. Wells reached out, trying to take his hand, but Barry stepped back, out of reach. The effect was ruined when Dr. Wells almost fell out of his chair and Barry rushed to prevent that. Dr. Wells laughed, a light and bitter sound. "You hate me, but you're still protecting me. Still watching out for me."
"Irony's a bitch, isn't it?" And he didn't exactly hate the man.
"As stone cold as winter in the badlands."
Barry shook his head. "What do you want from me?" He couldn't help but respond to the sad desperation
"Just – just come in. Give me a chance to explain, to apologize."
Barry stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Okay, fine." He followed Dr. Wells into the house. The last time he'd been here, he had formed a vague impression of the place – one of glittering modernity, a fitting home for a man on the cutting edge of science. But tonight, there was no glitter – just cold, bleak edges, shadowed darkness filling every corner.
Dr. Wells lead him through the house, into a library. To Barry's surprise – the room was filled with books, printed books. Bookcases lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by a fireplace – sleek and modern and it flared to life as Dr. Wells picked up a remote and turned it on.
"I would beg your patience for a few minutes more, Mr. Allen."
Barry was disappointed in the inevitable retreat back to formality. "Why?"
"I'd like to clean myself up. I'd rather not have this conversation with the taste of vomit in my mouth."
Barry nodded. "Okay."
"Relax, please. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Dr. Wells retreated, his chair whirring silently, leaving Barry alone with the fire, the books, and his resentment.
So close – so very, very close. It felt like a tipping point. One wrong move and the future would change again. He'd be stuck here forever, locked in a primitive past, bound to a life he stole.
He needed to move carefully. The trap had been baited, but it felt like he was the prey, the one about to be caught.
Barry wasn't at all surprised at the collection of books in Dr. Wells' library. There was a whole wall packed with journals from the most famous physics institutes in the world, and they all looked well-read. Another wall was filled with biographies – not just of scientists, but musicians and artists and architects – stories of the lives of creative men and women throughout the history of humankind.
Tucking on a lower shelf, jammed into a corner, was a book he recognized. Harrison Wells had a copy of his own biography. The dust jacket was torn and it seemed that someone had defaced the picture. Barry pulled it out – and yes, the cover picture was definitely vandalized. Someone had drawn horns, a goatee and Groucho Marx-style eyebrows on Dr. Wells' face with a bright red Sharpie.
Barry had to grin – he recognized the pen strokes. They were made by none-other than Dr. Harrison Wells himself. He flipped through the book, finding dozens of comments – almost all in red, and none of them complimentary.
"Of all the books in this room, you have to pick up that monument to my vanity?"
Dr. Wells wheeled into the library. He looked a hell of a lot better than he had a few minutes ago. His hair was a little damp, he had on a fresh black sweater, and Barry could make out the slight ring of white toothpaste residue around his lips. But his pants were the same – the knees stained from the roadside dirt where he'd heaved his guts out.
He took the book out of Barry's hands and dumped it into a wastepaper basket. "That's where it belongs."
Barry fought against the urge to rescue it and won, but he lost the battle against the need to smile. At least until he met Dr. Wells' gaze.
"I owe you an apology. And an explanation."
Barry nodded.
Dr. Wells took off his glasses and scrubbed his eyes. "This is a particularly bad day for me. No – wait – yesterday was. It's already tomorrow."
"It's almost three AM. It's definitely tomorrow."
Dr. Wells gave him a wry grin. "Right. And would you sit down? It would be easier if I could look you in the eye."
Barry dropped onto the long leather couch in the center of the room. Dr. Wells rolled up – close enough for Barry to smell the toothpaste and a still-slightly sour body odor. "Why was yesterday a bad day?"
Dr. Wells looked at his hands, stretching out the long fingers before clenching them into fists. "Yesterday was my twentieth wedding anniversary. The best day of my entire life."
Barry sucked in his breath, he felt like he'd been punched by Tony Woodward. "I didn't know you'd been married."
"Tess and I met in college – she was always one step ahead of me, thought faster, more creatively, more ethically. She was brilliant. I … worshipped her. Took me a whole semester to get up the courage to talk to her. I made a complete ass out of myself, stuttering through some ridiculous explanation of neutrinos and then she kissed me and asked me out on a date."
Barry had a hard time picturing Dr. Wells as anything but utterly self-assured.
"We fell in love. Actually, she fell in love with me – I already loved her." Dr. Wells shook his head. "I'm a scientist, and miracles are just ordinary events that can't yet be explained. But she was my miracle – my inexplicable, incomprehensible miracle."
"Mea inexplicabile est, incomprehensibilis quidem miraculum." Barry got up and retrieved the biography from the trashcan. He flipped to the back, to the last page of the last chapter. "You were talking about S.T.A.R. Labs, about building the particle accelerator – you called it your 'inexplicable, incomprehensible miracle' – which I thought was a strange thing for a scientist to say, but you weren't talking about the accelerator, or even S.T.A.R. Labs, you were talking about Tess. Your wife."
Dr. Wells took the book from him and read the last paragraph of the last chapter.
"The heart of S.T.A.R. Labs is the accelerator, what I hope will be a true gift to humankind. But within that piece of machinery is something I can't explain, mea inexplicabile est, incomprehensibilis quidem miraculum , 'my inexplicable, incomprehensible miracle'."
Dr. Wells closed the book and this time, placed it on the couch. "Our wedding bands were pure platinum – no iridium, no other alloy metal – and I used them to create the key resistors in the accelerator's synchrotron. I buried a piece of my heart in the particle accelerator."
Barry couldn't say anything, he wanted to weep.
"So now you know my great secret. My biographer was correct when he said I was 'arrogant, prickly, brusque, and at times contemptuous' of people. What he didn't know was that I'm also a foolish romantic."
"What happened to her?"
"Tess was killed in a car accident, almost fifteen years ago. We had spent the day at the beach; it was the day for dreaming. We created S.T.A.R. Labs that afternoon – it should have been our baby. It got late and I drove home – the road was deserted. I must have hit a rock or something – the tires burst and the car overturned. Tess was badly injured – I … was mostly okay. The airbag on her side failed. But I couldn't get out, I couldn't get out of the damn car and I listened to her die. Right next to me. I couldn't do a thing to help her. I just …"
Dr. Wells breathed heavily – as if he'd just run a marathon, as if his control was held together by a single fraying thread. "Everything I've done since has been in her name, in her memory."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Barry felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks.
"It's funny. When I was found, when they got me out of the car, I just walked over to the ambulance. Had a few broken ribs, but that's it. When the accelerator failed and I got caught in the rubble, I couldn't help but think that this was an accident that already happened – the injury was just delayed for a decade and a half."
There was no sound in the room other than their breathing. Like he had yesterday evening, when Dr. Wells had lashed out at him in pain, Barry reached out and took the man's hand. This time, his touch wasn't rejected. This time, Dr. Wells gripped his hand like a lifeline.
"For almost fifteen years, I've refused to let myself care about anyone, anything other than my legacy – because that was her legacy, too. Until everything went to hell, until I heard of a young man in a coma, a young man struck by the lightning I created through my hubris, my arrogance. You've taught me to feel, again, Barry Allen. To love, again."
Harrison Wells watched as Barry disappeared in a streak of yellow lightning. He'd been reluctant to leave, but just as reluctant to stay. In the end, Barry let himself be convinced that his friend and mentor was all right – at least physically. Harrison had let his voice quaver just a little, a touching note of emotional distress, as he again begged for forgiveness, for absolution for the sins he committed.
And Barry was quick to grant him that absolution; those warm hands clasped over his were a sweet benediction.
When he ate Harrison Wells, he consumed his memories, his emotions, his dreams. It was necessary for the pretense, but it was easy to keep the softer parts buried. The parts that loved, the parts that worried and fretted and planned for a better future – all the parts that Eobard Thawne didn't need.
Now, though – now he felt all of those unwanted parts blossom into vibrate life, threatening to undo everything. And it would be so easy to let them. It would be so easy to let everything go. To forget the future, to stay and be Harrison Wells. To build a lasting monument here, to create and flourish and put aside a centuries' old hatred. It would be so damn easy to let Eobard Thawne disappear, let him vanish into the mists of memories never to be made.
It would be so easy to love.
Because of all the lies he told Barry Allen tonight, that was not one of them.
End Note: I am aware that Harrison's story about the car accident doesn't quite mesh with what we saw at the end of Tricksters, but remember – this is Eobard telling the tale.
