Chapter Text
Seven Days of Falling
All characters © DC Comics
Touching Damien Darhk is like making out with a vacuum cleaner.
Cisco would have found that funny, Barry thinks, as Damien’s fingers splay on his chest along the lightning bolt insignia, colder than anything he has ever felt before. There is this awful wrenching sensation, like his body is one giant sucker being ripped from a wet surface, and he feels something pass through him. Out of him.
Damien staggers back, trembling, and Barry takes the opportunity to get the hell out of there. He manages to jog two blocks before he runs out of breath, lurching behind a fence to dry-heave into someone’s forsythias. When he is done, Barry spits and clutches his comm like a lifeline, shaking.
“Ollie,” he gasps, “there’s a problem.”
“It’s not your fault,” Barry tells Oliver when he finally makes it back to the Arrow Cave, an hour later. The green fluorescents wash over them in an eldritch glow that makes his suit appear black instead of red. “I might not have my speed, but I can still help you find Darhk.”
Oliver runs his hands down the length of his face, looking uncomfortable. “Barry…not that I don’t think you’re helpful, but I need the Flash,” he says. “You are a liability now, and I can’t risk another person getting hurt because of me.”
Felicity wheels over to Barry with a file in her hand. “You’re taking this rather well,” she observes. “I would have thought you’d be more—” she wiggles her fingers “—I don’t know, freaked out?”
“This happened to me before,” Barry explains. “A meta ended up draining my powers. Luckily, I got them back after a day or so.”
“Damien Darhk isn’t a meta-human,” says Felicity, looking worried. “He absorbs life force. Like, when he touches someone, their cells literally atrophy and die. The only reason you’re even alive is probably because he took your speed instead.”
“Wait, does this mean Darhk has Barry’s powers?” asks Oliver.
Felicity frowns. “I doubt it, but he’s definitely going to be stronger for a while,” she replies, placing the file beside one of her computers. Barry can make out the words H.I.V.E. on a page that is sticking out.
He bites his lip, asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
“You should go back to Central City and have Caitlin take a look at you,” Felicity says. “I mean, I can run some bloodwork if you like but if you want a molecular diagnosis, she’s your best bet.”
“But—“
Oliver folds his arms over his chest, looking tired. “Go home, Barry.”
Barry’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Right. I guess I’ll just...go…buy a train ticket, then,” he says, gathering his things and trying not to take it personally.
“You might want to change,” Oliver points out, arching an eyebrow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to call the others off. Darhk is too dangerous right now to engage.”
Oliver leaves; Barry turns to Felicity and slips off his cowl. “I don’t like being benched,” he grumbles.
“Barry.”
He pauses mid zipper, looking up. “Yeah?”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Felicity says softly, touching her wheelchair.
Barry feels what little color he has remaining drain from his face. “What do you mean, this could be permanent?” he asks, slowly.
Caitlin has those lines between her eyes, the ones Barry remembers from their early days when Ronnie’s death was fresh and her smile was nothing more than the glint of the sun in a storm.
“I mean, back when Farooq took your powers, your DNA was mostly unchanged,” she explains. She points to a digital slide on her desktop. “In contrast, whatever Damien Darhk did to you affected you on a molecular level. Your cells seem to be slowly mutating back to the way they were before the particle accelerator exploded.”
Barry squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply. “I just spent nine hours on a train. I can’t—I mean,” he shakes his head, “is there any way to get my powers back? Weren’t you developing something for Jay…what was it, Velocity 7?”
“No,” Caitlin says immediately, pursing her lips. There is something odd in her expression, and Barry decides not to question further.
“Then what about a tachyon device, like the one Wells had on his wheelchair?”
“Even if we could replicate that technology somehow, it took fifteen years for his speed to return,” replies Caitlin, somber. As she speaks, Barry feels something cold and gaping form in his chest, like rime ice around his ventricles. It reminds him of the way he felt with Farooq. Only much worse.
“Yeah, but Thawne was also harnessing the speed force artificially. It wasn’t natural for him, like it was for me or Jay,” he points out. “Maybe there’s still a chance I can get it back without having to wait that long.” He swallows, suddenly exhausted.
“Hey,” Caitlin says, putting a hand on Barry’s forearm and offering him a smile. “You’ll always have a place here at S.T.A.R. Labs, powers or no powers. You know that. And we are going to fix this.”
Barry takes her hand in his, small and cool, and tries to smile back despite the fact that he is not so certain.
Monday is a disaster, starting with the alarm that never rang.
Well to be fair it does ring, but Barry does not hear it until Joe is pounding on his door like it is high school all over again and he pulled an all-nighter cramming for a test. He shuts the alarm off and sits at the edge of his bed for a moment, staring off into space. His body feels sluggish, heavy.
Barry drags himself over to the closet and is changing when he notices it: the softness of the skin on his arms and stomach. The lightning from the particle explosion, somehow, had resulted in muscular hypertrophy—or abs, if you prefer English.
In its absence (no pun intended), he’s returned to scrawny Barry Allen the noodle. And not lasagna so much as, well, spaghetti.
Barry tries pulling on an extra sweater to add some bulk, but it only makes him look disproportionately poofy (and his arms even skinnier) so he sticks with his regular sweater-vest. It now has the impression of being a size too big on him.
“Barr! You comin’?”
“Yeah!” Barry yells down the stairs. “I’ll be there in…” he stops, realizes he has to get ready at a normal speed, and groans. “Soon,” he finishes lamely.
“Allen,” Singh barks, looking like he has swallowed a bag of Sour Patch Kids when Barry finally rushes into the precinct forty minutes late with his arms full of manila folders on their most recent homicide case, “I know being on time is remarkably difficult for you, but this is unacceptable.”
Barry swallows. “Yeah, look, I’m so sorry, Captain—” one of the manila folders he is holding falls to the floor with a smack “—I had this thing that I—” as he is picking up the folder another one drops “—I had to take care of—” he loses his grip and manages to drop all the folders. Papers slide everywhere, and Singh pinches the bridge of his nose. Barry flushes and mutters an apology as he bends down to collect the scattered papers.
“I’ve heard better excuses from Seven-Eleven robbers,” remarks Singh.
“I know,” Barry sighs, rubbing the corner of his eye, “I’m just not feeling like myself today.”
Singh peers at him. “If you’ve got something I don’t want you passing it around,” he warns. “Last thing we need is half the CCPD out with the flu.”
“I’m not sick,” Barry protests.
Singh’s nostrils flare. “Then why aren’t you upstairs, working?”
Barry trudges up to his lab after he finishes gathering the dropped papers, scowling. “Try not to cost us collateral damage by breathing, Allen,” he mutters under his breath, imitating his boss. He throws his coat onto a nearby chair, misses. “My precinct is not a petri dish, Allen. If you can’t make it to work on time I’m going to make you analyze your own cause of death, Allen.”
The rest of the day plays out in a similar fashion. Barry drops a test tube, makes an intern cry, and falls asleep at his desk. But the highlight comes after lunch, when he accidentally closes a locker door on his fingers.
Cisco texts him around four with: See you at 7?
Barry removes his hand from the ice pack long enough to text back, What? Did they find a way to get his speed back? A little flutter of adrenaline rushes through him at the thought.
Takeout, man, comes the reply. Monday nights, remember? Kung Pao chicken loves company.
Barry’s heart falls. He is ashamed of it, and has to swallow back disappointment before he writes, Can’t you ask Caitlin?
Cisco responds with a string of rapid texts.
bad idea
she’s all ‘organic’
seriously, if she goes vegan we gotta have an intervention
Barry stares at the phone screen blankly. It’s not like he can exactly fight crime right now, so unless Cisco has plans in the chem lab and needs Barry’s help (which does not sound like the brightest place for Kung Pao chicken), he cannot fathom why Cisco would want him around.
He texts back, Can’t tonight, sorry. At this rate it will be a miracle if he makes it to six o’ clock. He feels like a cat that’s gotten its whiskers clipped. Everything is too slow, too sticky. He’s so tired.
Six rolls by eons later, and Barry stops by the pharmacy on his way home to grab some painkillers for his hand. The index and middle fingers are turning a swollen purplish color, which can’t be good.
His stomach gives a single, solitary gurgle as he makes himself a sandwich for dinner. It is definitely strange, not having to eat constantly. He polishes off the sandwich and immediately makes himself another, despite the fact that he is full, because maybe if he eats enough he can regain some of the muscle mass he lost.
Throughout it all, Cisco keeps sending him random messages.
You alright?
losing your speed blows, I totally get it
but dude you’re missing out on some quality fried rice and grease here
Barry finally gets annoyed and punches out, Shouldn’t you be fixing me? Before pressing the power button on his phone. He almost feels bad about it, but something behind his ribcage aches, reminding him of the people he’s letting down by not being the Flash.
…including himself.
After changing into pajamas he sits on his bed with some Netflix but no chill, sadly. The way things are going, Barry doesn’t think he’ll be getting much chill anytime soon. Heck, the only reason he has any friends at all, let alone lovers, is because he is the Flash. Was the Flash.
So he loses the rest of the evening to mind-numbing dramedies, carefully avoiding the superhero section on his browse page, until the moon is high and white and somehow too small in the black expanse of sky.
His fingers throb.
The next morning Joe strides into his lab with the “We’re gonna have a talk” face, and it is all Barry can do to keep from groaning aloud. He sets his pen down from a game of hangman, wiping a smudge of ink off the side of his finger, and starts, “Look, Joe—“
“What happened to your hand?”
“Oh, um,” Barry wiggles the fingers, which are held together in a splint. “Slammed it into a door, sort of.”
“You’re not healing.” Joe looks grim. He pulls up a chair and eases into it with a grunt, lips pursed and eyes hard. “I spoke with Cisco,” he announces.
“Joe, I just need some time.”
“Look. You lost your powers once,” Joe says. “Back then, it could have been permanent, but it wasn’t. Just because you don’t have ‘em right now doesn’t mean you’re not useful, Barr.”
Barry turns to face Joe. “I know that,” he says, getting up from his desk. He feels like he has been sitting too long, like he needs to move. “I could profile DNA when I was seventeen,” he begins. “I have a double degree in chemistry and forensic science, and I’m the only person the CCPD has hired on the spot in twelve years.”
“Sounds pretty damn useful to me.” Joe frowns. “Sooo…what?”
“So I can’t go a day without dropping or tripping over something,” Barry says, his voice hard. “I weigh a hundred fifty pounds and I ramble when I get excited. That is like, textbook definition of socially awkward.”
“I don’t see where this is going,” says Joe, even though he is starting to understand. Barry is not upset about losing his powers. Barry is upset about losing his powers and being Barry.
Barry stops in front of his bulletin board. “I have friends now,” he says quietly. “More than I’ve had in a really long time. I don’t want to lose that. But what if—I mean, I know it sounds dumb, but…” he trails off, eyes on the floor. “Is it really me they’ve liked all along, or the Flash?”
“You are the Flash, Barry,” Joe says. “Even if you’re not the Flash here—” he gestures to his body “—you’ll always be the Flash here.” His hand comes to rest over his heart.
Barry is silent, but after a minute he forces a smile for Joe’s sake. “I guess you’re right,” he replies. He doesn’t feel great, but he feels a little better. Talking with Joe always does that, somehow.
Joe laughs. “Good. Now stop playing hangman with yourself and get off your ass. Go do something fun.” He points an accusatory finger on his way out. “And stop moochin’ off my Netflix.”
The Netflix Team sends him a binge-watching warning just as his phone chimes with his fifth missed call from Iris. Barry knows without even looking that it is Iris because he’s personalized her ring tone with the theme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (college inside joke, don’t ask).
He sends a message to Joe to tell Iris that he is sleeping if she decides to come over. It is only half a lie. Barry is exhausted—a vapid, bone-deep weariness not unlike the feeling of getting into a car that is too warm, and he is only now beginning to suspect that Damien Darhk took a little more than just his speed.
Iris: Here to talk when you’re ready.
Barry rolls over on his bed with a groan. It’s not that he does not want to see her. He knows Iris, and knows that when it comes to pep talks she is even worse than Joe. She will try and try, and more than anything, Barry does not want to disappoint that smile of hers, the smile that reminds him of daffodils in June and hazelnut pirouettes.
It is usually a smile that makes him happy. But even Iris cannot fix this one.
Burrowing under the covers, Barry yawns, stretches. He’d taken the second half of the day off work, much to Singh’s relief, but if anything he is even more tired than before. Iris would only worry.
The little Netflix pop-up on his screen stares back at him disapprovingly. You doing okay?
“Don’t look at me like that,” Barry tells it. “I haven’t watched that much.”
“I’m aging,” Barry says on Wednesday night, when he takes Joe’s advice and finally musters up the courage to go drinking with Jay. He is still avoiding Cisco and Caitlin. Harry’s easy enough to avoid, since Barry suspects he is avoiding them in turn, and Jay is the only person he can stomach right now anyway.
Jay tosses back a Guinness and wipes foam from his upper lip. They are at a nightclub where the light is dim, the music is loud and irritating, and no one gives a shit about two ex-speedsters. “Gray hairs?” he asks.
Barry nods miserably. “Five. Which I don’t understand. My metabolism is slowing down, not speeding up.”
“The speed force can be unpredictable,” Jay replies, sympathetic. “It has the potential to accelerate or decelerate the aging process, and it goes different ways with different people. Good thing is, you’ll look more distinguished.”
“I don’t want to look distinguished. Leonard Snart is distinguished.”
“He really isn’t.”
“I guess girls seem to like that,” Barry waves his unbandaged hand, “silver fox thing.” What's unfair is how well Snart pulls it off, he does not say aloud, not to Jay.
Jay gives him a contemplative look. “You haven’t been drunk in a while, have you?”
“Buzzed, and no.”
“Do you want to go home?” Jay asks.
“Not really,” replies Barry. “You’re the only one besides Felicity who understands. I mean, she just got crippled for life, and Ollie’s still all over her.”
“You expected him not to be?”
Barry shakes his head. “It’s not that, I just mean…it’s not something that defines her. She’s so much more than that.”
“And you don’t think there’s more to you if you’re not the Flash?” asks Jay.
Barry does not answer.
After a pause Jay shrugs and says, “Hey, Caitlin somehow managed to fall in love with a regular, speedless Jay Garrick.”
Barry squints. “She loves you? Actually wait, I knew that.” He gulps down another shot with a grimace. “I want someone to love me, too,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “Girl, guy, doesn’t matter. And I mean for me, not for, for the Flash. Like Patty did.” The Flash had not gotten in the way that time; Barry Allen got in the way. Like he always does.
Glancing sideways, Jay nudges his elbow and replies, “Well, from the way that girl over there’s been looking at you, that may not be too difficult.”
“Huh?”
Jay points to a redhead at the far end of the bar who is clearly into one of them. She catches Barry’s eye and smiles. But it has to be a trick of the light, because Barry is the weird guy, the guy who Googles forensic entomology in his free time and gets excited over things like cordite and post mortem deterioration. No doubt she’s looking at Jay, with his leather jacket straining over hard, broad shoulders. That’s where the meat is.
Barry is just the stringy pasta, and girls don’t like carbs.
So he points out, “She’s probably interested in you,” and Jay responds, “We’re about to find out.” The girl has left her stool and is heading in their direction.
Jay uncrosses his legs. “Act casual.”
“Have you met me?” mutters Barry. He downs another shot and coughs just as the girl pulls up to the bar table.
“Hi.”
“Uh, hi,” Barry says. At this, the girl smiles and tosses some hair over one shoulder. Hair that is full and copper and definitely not graying.
“You’re cute,” she informs Barry, completely ignoring Jay.
Well that is unexpected. She’s probably into nerds, Barry suspects, but he is a little more than buzzed by now and it’s better than dying alone so he splutters, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Next to him, Jay brings a hand up to massage his temple.
The girl licks her lips, grin widening. It’s not a lie; she is rather pretty, and after a few more semi-awkward but charged exchanges that make Jay take several large gulps of his beer, Barry and the girl, whose name is Rebecca, leave together.
It goes well, for a bit. They make out, plaster themselves against each other, the usual. Becky’s a microbiology major at Central Uni and is wearing a Captain America bra. Definitely into nerds.
But then things become intimate and Barry finds his mouth getting dry. Becky is generous with her compliments, but they are starting to make Barry more nervous than flattered. What would happen if she knew he used to be the Flash? Would she still like him? Or worse, would she like him because he used to be the Flash and not because he is ordinary, geeky Barry Allen?
Don’t know why you keep separating them, Joe’s voice chides, oddly clear in his mind. The Flash is Barry and Barry is the Flash.
But Barry is also drunk, and his fear gets the better of him. The night, much to his embarrassment, ends up being a repeat of his date with Linda Park all over again. He does not sleep with Becky, instead leaving things at that uncomfortable, “I’ll call you but I won’t actually call you” point before bailing with his fly undone and his shirt on backwards.
Thursday is the hangover from hell.
On Friday, Barry is poking at an unappetizing turkey burger when he receives a text alert from Cisco that simply reads ATTACK ON STAR LABS. His phone is supposed to be off, but by now he knows better than to underestimate Cisco when the guy wants something.
Barry grinds his teeth. Helplessness, thick and cloying, wraps around his throat so tightly he has to resist the urge to swallow. There is nothing he can do. But he has to go. His friends may not want him, but they need him.
So he grabs his CCPD standard issue gun, splinted fingers fumbling with the holster before he gives up and jams the weapon into his jacket. It doesn’t occur to him to text Cisco back.
Joe is stuck in a meeting so Barry takes his car, breaking about eight police and traffic rules on the way. He runs up the steps and through the revolving door, unlocking the safety on his gun as he bursts into the cortex—
—To find Cisco and Caitlin sitting calmly at their computers.
“What—” Panting, Barry doubles over to catch his breath. There is nothing out of the ordinary, no meta attacking, not even an alarm going off. “What’s going on?”
Cisco spins his swivel chair around, arms crossed. “You haven’t been answering your phone,” he says.
Barry regards the gun in his hand. What was he going to do with it anyway, miss spectacularly? He can hardly nail a trash can from three feet away, much less a moving target. Barry feels his ears turning pink. “So you sent an SOS?”
“We figured it was the only way to get you to come,” Cisco admits.
The corners of Barry’s mouth turn up in a humorless smile. Now that there is no imminent danger, he is fairly pissed off. “I can’t believe you guys,” he says.
“Barry, we’re only trying to help,” Caitlin says. “We’ve been really worried about you.”
Barry huffs, replies, “Why, because no one’s stopping the bad guys anymore? Find another meta for the job. You’ve got plenty to choose from.”
“We miss you,” says Caitlin, hushed.
Barry gives a sharp laugh and runs a hand through his hair. It’s all too much. “When the particle accelerator exploded, you only took me in because Wells insisted,” he tells them, bitter. “You had no idea if I was going to be a douchebag or a psycho, or what. Cisco even put together a gun to stop me.”
“Which was my bad, since you turned out to be supremely awesome,” argues Cisco. “And you’re going to get your powers back. Like last time.”
Barry points to his hair, which now has visible silver flecking at the temples. “Look at me, Cisco! This isn’t just ‘having the yips!’” he exclaims. He takes a breath in through his nose, calming himself. “Over the past two years we’ve become friends, but that’s mainly because I turned out to be a successful science experiment,” he says, jaw clenching. “Well, I’ve filled that quota. I’m not useful to you guys anymore, so it’s best if I just…stay out of your way.”
“Yeah, and Captain Cold is the mayor of Central City.”
Barry blinks at Cisco. “What?”
“My point is, that’s ridiculous, Barry.” Cisco waves his hand. “C’mere.”
Barry narrows his eyes at Cisco, but nonetheless he puts his gun away and slowly steps forward.
“Closer.”
Barry inches forward. “Cisco, what—oomph!”
Before he can protest Cisco’s squeezing him in massive hug, which would have been fine except Caitlin jumps on the glomp train too and Barry’s windpipe is suddenly squashed between them.
“I couldn’t give shit or shinola if you have your powers,” says Cisco, voice muffled against Barry’s shirt. His and Caitlin’s arms wrap easily around Barry and even though Barry can barely breathe, in that moment, he wants to stay like this forever.
“We know you’re hurting, Barry, but Cisco and I will always be there for you,” Caitlin tells him. “You’re our friend, and we want to help.”
Something swells inside Barry, twinging at the corners of his eyes. There is also a warm feeling in his chest, which has been cold ever since Damien Darhk put his hand there. He smiles, properly, for the first time that week.
“Thank you,” he says.
Cisco claps a hand on his back. “Also, I had to eat two servings of Kung Pao chicken, which is something I never, ever want to do again.”
“Why’d you get two?”
“Thought you might show up anyway.”
“Uh, guys?” Barry coughs, because his airways are waving little white flags, “love the hugging and all, but I love breathing more.”
“Whoops, sorry about that.”
After letting go Caitlin grabs a nearby folder and hands it to Barry. “Although we love you with or without your powers, we have been brainstorming ways to get your speed back,” she says. “Ideally we want to restore your speed in a natural way as opposed to an artificial way, so we’ve both been reading up on combining tachyon particles with electromagnetic currents.”
“There’s even a bulletin board,” Cisco chimes in. “It has graphs and everything. We haven’t been able to find anything yet, but I’m sure we’d make more progress with three heads put together.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for five days,” Barry says, frowning, “and I’ve been looking at it from different angles. I was thinking, instead of focusing on the solution, maybe we should be looking at the problem.”
“The speed force,” says Caitlin, tilting her head.
Barry nods. “From what we know so far, the speed force is basically extra-dimensional energy, right? I somehow need to tap into that energy again, and it should reverse what Damien Darhk did to me.”
“Great!” Cisco rubs his hands together. “I sense a geek-out coming. Let’s be fabulous. So, how do we harness extra-dimensional energy?”
“Minus opening a portal,” Caitlin points out.
Cisco snaps his fingers in her direction. “Right. How do we harness extra-dimensional energy without turning the fabric of reality into Swiss cheese?”
Barry rubs his forehead, unsure. He opens his mouth to reply, but as he looks at Cisco the answer comes to him all at once.
“With you,” he concludes, excitement dawning on his face. Oh, he is definitely going to geek-out. A part of him admits that he’s sorely missed this—the act of pure and simple sciencing, which had bonded them all together in the first place.
Cisco’s eyes widen. “Dude,” he says, “that could take a while. I’m nowhere near that level yet. That’s like passing the Lost Levels in Super Mario Brothers.”
Grinning, Barry says, “I trust you, Cisco. Even if you did build a gun to take me down.”
Cisco snorts. “Let’s get on it, then.”
Caitlin clears her throat.
“Oh, right,” Cisco says, suddenly looking sheepish. “Uhh, hate to burst the bubble, but can we maybe raincheck on the geek-out session?”
“What? Why?”
“Well…” Cisco shares a glance with Caitlin. “Thing is, there kinda was an SOS.”
Barry snaps his head up in alarm.
“A small one, though,” Cisco says quickly. He plops back into his swivel chair and pulls up to the main computer, opening a grid map of the city with a rather foreboding click. “I got word from a little birdie that the Rogues have their eyes on the Central City museum,” he explains. “Again. Apparently, Captain Cold heard from a little birdie that you were out of commission. So there are too many birdies out there and they all sing, which is good because we know about it, but bad because, you know, crime.”
“The museum just opened an exhibit on the New Kingdom of Egypt,” Caitlin adds.
“Isn’t that when King Tut lived?” asks Barry, scratching his head. His ancient Egyptian history is a tad rusty.
“Along with all the other very, very rich guys.” Cisco gives a sagely nod. “They were blingin’ back then.”
“Queen Renenet was recently discovered to have been buried with a diadem of pure lapis lazuli,” Caitlin says. “Along with…um…what was it, Cisco?”
“Gold scarabs,” Cisco supplies.
“Gold scarabs. That’s the main display. We think Captain Cold is going to hit the museum either tomorrow night or Sunday.”
“I’ve been gone five days,” Barry marvels. “How did he even find out about me?”
“Well technically you’ve been gone nine days, if you count your trip to Star City to help Oliver,” says Cisco. “And my guess is that Cold’s just speculating. He’s probably been planning this for ages, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”
Barry raises an eyebrow. “So when nothing happens in Central City for nine days everyone just assumes the Flash is gone? I thought Snart was time traveling, or something.” Which he and Mr. Rip Hunter need to have words about at some point, but that is for another time and place. Literally.
Shrugging, Cisco says, “I don’t know, man, but I did hear from Ray a few days ago. He said something about a crisis, but he wasn’t making much sense.” Cisco holds up a finger. “And when I can’t understand Ray Palmer, we have a problem.”
“So yeah, they don’t exactly have the best timing,” Caitlin admits. Cisco opens his mouth, possibly to point out the pun, but changes his mind and draws up another document instead.
“Was Ray your little birdie?” Barry asks. “And wait a minute.” Just the words Egyptian empire are enough to have any sane, educated criminal drooling (though admittedly, Snart doesn’t drool. He sits there and schemes for weeks, which is somehow worse. And comically diabolical. Barry wouldn’t be surprised if he has an armchair just for scheming).
Not that Barry can sympathize, exactly—he just knows how Snart works. “Wouldn’t Cold pull this heist anyway, even if I wasn’t benched?”
“Maybe,” says Cisco. He considers. “Probably.”
“But he might not be on his best behavior anymore,” Caitlin remarks. Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “If he finds out you’re not able to stop him he could go back on the arrangement you two have.”
“Meaning he’ll kill civilians,” Barry finishes. There’s that lump in his throat again, hot and itchy. He sees Snart in his mind: cool, grinning, confident, and for a moment he feels an unprecedented wave of jealousy. Snart was never one to care how many friends he had or who liked him.
And while Barry is not so sure Snart will kill so easily (a lot has changed in two years), he does not relish dealing with Captain Cold and his renegades any day. Especially when he’s this scrawny, pathetic mess.
Barry worries his bottom lip. “I’m not the Flash right now, Caitlin. I don’t have my speed. The suit doesn’t fit me anymore.” He grits his teeth, suddenly angry. He’s not crippled, he’s not alone, and he deserves to help. Why is he finding that so difficult to believe? “Can I do anything at all?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Caitlin says, looking for all the world like Barry is their ace in the hole.
“We may have come up with a little something,” Cisco tells him, grinning. “Contingency plan while you’re without your speed. If this actually works, let me tell you—it is a bad day to be a Rogue.”
Barry, still uncertain, says, “I trust you guys, but are you sure I can do this without my powers?”
Caitlin meets his eye with a smile. It is the kind of smile that’s been on her face more and more, although now it has somewhat of a mischievous curl to it.
“We don’t need the Flash,” she says. “Today, this is a job for Barry Allen.”
To be continued...