#2. *want* henry to be assaulted? my brother in christ *i* felt victimized in the third row lmfao

[henrysglock]

honestly seeing tfs like ten times doesn’t make you better or more knowledgeable than anyone else (particularly when you have seen it so many times and can’t even get the point of the play right or just outright lie about or misinterpret things that happened. why does it feel like you want henry to be assaulted so badly?) especially if you say the synopsis is enough, and also that’s kinda unfair to other people wanting to see the play like booking out 3 or 4 performances at a time? what the last anon said, not everybody is that privileged. some people are lucky to see it once if at all, you may have taken the only opportunity someone had by seeing it multiple times

normal people: hi, how are you?

[itsclydebitches]

Summary:

“He likes this song.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

In which Cisco is given seven months to fall in love with Barry Allen. It’s admittedly a little weird - what with Barry being unconscious and all - but since when was anything normal nowadays?

Fandom: The Flash (TV show)

Words: Through Chapter Two: 4,769 (will be around 12k total)

Warnings: None

Pairings: Barry/Cisco

Where to Read it: Below the cut or on AO3 (AO3 recommended for formatting)

~~~ 

Worth the Wait: Chapter Two

Bartholomew Please-Call-Me-Barry Allen. Born 1989 to a Henry and Nora Allen, in their small, shockingly normal suburban home. That alone sent Cisco’s mind into a tailspin and really—he’d think later—it should have been a hint too. Because who the hell had a bio that was somehow this normal and this interesting? In the first freaking sentence?

Forget the god-awful name. Or even the fact that Barry was only a year younger than Cisco—thoughts of how they might have ended up in the same space taking up far too much of his time. All of it paled in comparison to the tragedy that was the guy’s home life and, like a multi-car pile up, it was the sort of horrible you just couldn’t look away from. Cisco spent hours that night flying through every article he could find, piecing all that horrible-ness together: the seemingly idyllic, nuclear family; Henry Allen suddenly going off the rails, the gory descriptions of Nora’s stab wounds; rumors that young Barry got a good look at the body (Jesus Christ); his insistence, for years, that there had been streaks of lightning in the house that night...

Cisco might have found the coincidence funny if it weren’t so goddamn sad. Who only knew how many shrinks the kid had needed to see.

Actually... Cisco knew. It was six, and he got the feeling from the notes he may or may not have illegally hacked into that either a) smarty-pants Barry had just started telling the grownups what they wanted to hear, or b) his adopted cop-dad started doing the exact same thing.

Cisco was really starting to like this guy.

He’d made it through to Barry’s work with the CCPD (“Dude. How are you still such a do-gooder after all that?”) when Caitlin startled him with a flood of light.

“Ahh, bright—bright!” Cisco cowered and hissed like a vampire. When his sight recovered from the assault he found Caitlin looking very unimpressed.

“Are you still here?” she breathed, managing to sound scandalized despite the fact that they’d both pulled all-nighters more times than he could count. She marched over, already ignoring Cisco in favor of checking Barry’s vitals. Her hands did that little fluttery, nervous thing before increasing his... something or other. That’s why she was the doctor.

Cisco just settled for groaning. His back was stiff and he really needed the little boy’s room. ASAP.

“You’re one to talk,” he groused. “It’s—five am!? What the hell, Caitlin!”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, looking about as haggard as Cisco felt. “Do you have any idea the sort of responsibility Dr. Wells has just placed on us? On me? My specialty is in bio-engineering, Cisco. I like my people in their culture dishes. And yes, I took on a broader role when Dr. Wells asked it of me. I do have my medical degree and I do have training in first responder treatments, but I know next to nothing about treating someone in a persistent, vegetative state, let alone someone exhibiting Mr. Allen’s strange, and frankly impossible, tissue regeneration, and—”

Cisco threw up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow it all down. No one is asking for a miracle here. If anyone can keep this guy fine and fair, it’s you, Caitlin. Besides, he—” Cisco stopped. “Wait. Did you just say tissue regeneration?”

Caitlin smiled wide and fake in that patronizing way of hers, pointing fiercely at Barry. “Yes. Apparently there was an incident where a nurse accidentally cut him—heaven only knows what she was doing—and the injury healed in seconds. Dr. Wells gave me the report last night and emphasized that it was the only copy. Told me to destroy it when I was done reading. Hush, hush!” and she put a finger to her lips, only slightly hysterical.

Cisco just blinked dumbly. “I didn’t get that far reading up on him.”

“...what?”

“What.”

They stared at one another across the bed. Barry breathed deeply between them.

Cisco stood. “That’s it. Coffee. Now. You and me. We spill all.”

“But—” Caitlin glanced worryingly at Barry, gnawing at her lip.

“He’s been asleep eight weeks, Caitlin. He’ll be fine without us for a hour.”

Dragging her out of the Cortex was easier after that, but, if pressed, Cisco would have admitted that even he was a little hesitant at leaving Barry’s side.

Get ahold of yourself, dude. He thought. It’s been a day.

Somehow, that wasn’t at all reassuring.

***

The facts, when summed up, were these:

The particle accelerator, heralded as Dr. Wells’ magnum opus and one of the greatest scientific achievements in modern day history, was meant to change the world. For the better.

It did that for exactly twenty-seven minutes.

Then, inexplicitly, there was an explosion that sent a wave of dark matter across Central City. That same shockwave merged with an incoming storm, binding at the molecular level.

A lightning bolt from said storm struck Barry Allen.

Barry Allen was now experiencing some freaky-ass side effects.

+1 No one else in Central City had come forward about similar freaky-ass side effects. However, as any decent scientist knew, the absence of data did not necessarily preclude the hypothesis’ possibility. There could be others.

But that was so not their problem. Cisco felt that one crazy science fiction experiment was enough for them, thank you very much.

“Do you think the government’s involved?” he whispered, stirring his coffee extra hard. Caitlin gave him a withering look over her tea.

“Do you think before you talk? You know STAR labs is privately funded.” Caitlin hesitated. “I think Dr. Wells is actually working to keep the government out of this. Mr. Allen has only been showing these... symptoms,” she lowered her voice anxiously, “for the last few days or so. It looks like Dr. Wells got him here just in time.”

Or decided the time was right, Cisco thought. Yeah, ‘course STAR labs was privately funded, notoriously so, and only about 15% of that came from donations. The rest was staggeringly out of pocket. Cisco had honestly called bullshit on that his first few weeks in, until Dr. Wells had offhandedly mentioned a family fortune as well as his “not insubstantial” number of patents. A quick google search had proven that true enough.

It all meant that Dr. Wells had more than enough money to pour into a victim’s treatment. One who, oh, might be a lowly forensic scientist not making enough to pay those kinds of medical bills. Easy enough then to get frequent ‘updates’ on the patient. Plenty of time to pull the guy out when things got... strange.

Cisco nodded, a number of things clicking together. Like what Dr. Wells might have been doing these last few weeks. Like the enthralled look in his eye when they set Barry up in the Cortex, laid out like some sort of strange museum display. Or an offering.

Cisco shivered. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, finding it cold.

“What now?” he muttered.

Caitlin’s wide-eyed stare said it all. They’d been rather lost since STAR Labs had closed, but they both had new jobs now. Caitlin needed to keep Barry alive. Cisco needed to keep his mouth shut.

And they both needed to make sure Dr. Wells didn’t do anything regrettable. Because like hell would Cisco let him mentor get caught up in some crazy, secret government conspiracy thing. They’d both stuck by him through the media backlash and endless lawsuits. The death threats slipped in the mail and—Cisco shivered again—the one bomb left outside their door. The one that was, thankfully, just a fake. They’d weathered that.

They’d weather this too.

“To the strange,” Cisco settled on, lifting his drink. Caitlin companionably toasted him back.

When Cisco drank the coffee it was still fucking cold.

***

Keep his mouth shut, sure. Cisco had never been very good at it, but at least he didn’t have anyone to blab to. It was kind of a blessing if he bothered to rationalize it. Except not. Looking around at his family—disappointed mother, too perfect brother, a sister in Caitlin (who’d just lost family of her own) and a pseudo-father figure in a reclusive Wells—Cisco realized that he really didn’t have anyone to confide in anyway. Being frank, he had colleagues and people bound to him by blood… but not many friends.

Fuck. No friends at all.

It made stalking Barry Allen so much easier.

Because Cisco didn’t stop with the guy’s tragic backstory. Of course not. Where was the fun in that? He wanted to dude’s social media.

And oh... holy hannah. Was it worth it.

“What a dork,” Cisco breathed. He said it with reverence, the kind of awe that could only come from a like-minded fella, the kind of breed who’d been bullied all through school and still had Magic the Gathering cards stuffed under his bed. Cisco knew Barry Allen. Barry Allen was him.

If, of course, he was a 6’2’’ model-type with a social life the size of a small planet. He could scroll through Barry’s Facebook and Instagram for weeks and still not reach the previous year. Didn’t the guy ever run into post limits?

“Awkward pic with hot girl, third wheel with hot guy and girl,” Cisco shook his head, scrolling quickly. “Eating. Lame-o sunglasses. More eating. What is that face? Tumbling down the stairs—okay, that one has gotta be staged.”

Except that Cisco looked across the room at this gangly sasquatch and was suddenly positive that he made it through life by tripping over his own feet and acquiring bruises he couldn’t explain. Barry probably got his shoelaces tangled together. He’d probably slip on a banana peel if one suddenly appeared.

Cisco snorted. “You would. You totally would.”

“Would what?”

“Oh my—” Cisco very nearly upended his laptop as he jumped, thinking for one shocking second that the coma guy had actually spoken. By the time his brain had re-booted Dr. Wells had already rolled into view, a slightly teasing look in his eyes.

And wow. He hadn’t seen that in a while.

It was a small improvement, but noticeable, and Cisco saw why as Dr. Wells bypassed him completely to get at Barry. There was a collection of saline drips in the back pocket of his chair that he immediately began hooking one up, taking care not to jostle the needle in Barry’s arm. A small dusting of crumbs on his shirt spoke of lunch actually eaten and—Cisco noticed with a pang—he had pile of journals in his lap, ready to be read. He didn’t need to see the titles to know they dealt primarily with long-term coma patients; theories on how to treat any... unexpected side-effects.

In the week since Barry had come to STAR labs his abnormal cellular structure had hung between the three of them, unacknowledged overtly, but driving them all the same. It was like they’d just been waiting for the world to give them something new to focus their talents on, something more personal than a particle accelerator. Caitlin had taken a dive into her research with real enthusiasm, the first since Ronnie’s passing. Dr. Wells was playing overseer once more. And Cisco...

Cisco was having the sudden, utterly crazy image of Barry in his Suit.

Yes, the Suit had a capital ‘s’ in his mind because it was the biggest and best-est thing he was ever going to make. A state of the art, indestructible, lightweight body armor that would completely revolutionize the world of protective gear. Big dreams, sure, but Cisco was confident enough in his abilities to imagine the outcome, even if it was years—decades even—down the line. Someday every fire fighter, police officer, and first responder would wear armor developed in STAR labs, capable of withstanding whatever the world chose to throw at them. In the Before it had been just a way to save lives. In the After it was also a way to save the Lab’s reputation.

He kept it on the table downstairs, pieces thrown into a hazardous pile that would only seem disrespectful to someone who didn’t know Cisco’s style. He could have put it up on a mannequin, sure, but for some reason Cisco didn’t want to give the Suit a face yet, even a blank one. It was too... individualized.

That is, until he started imagining Barry in it instead. Randomly. Little flashes like day dreams that just sort of came to him with no real context. It wasn’t even the Suit as it was now, but what Cisco wanted it to be someday. Slick and lean, dynamic, skin tight to allow for complete freedom of movement. Barry’s measurements were perfect for it.

Even weirder though was that Cisco hadn’t realized he’d wanted it in red until he’d seen that pic of Barry from last fall: sporting a fire-engine sweater that had him glowing amongst the crowd. That was exactly what Cisco’s Suit needed: a color that both stood out and oozed confidence. Don’t worry, we’re here to help. Don’t worry—you won’t get to see me bleed.

Too bad forensic scientists don’t need a Suit, he thought.

“Cisco?”

The realization that Dr. Wells was still waiting on an answer made a flush run up Cisco’s neck. His mind blanked on what they’d been talking about.

Dr. Wells seemed to realize. He folded his hands, not in his lap, but atop the blankets where Barry’s legs lay. It was the exact spot where Cisco had rested his feet on that first night together.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dr. Wells asked.

“They’re worth more than that,” Cisco said, but the joke didn’t land. He just shrugged, wondering if he could articulate everything his mind had been running through. Whether Dr. Wells, with that faraway look still lurking in his eyes, would be able to understand.

“Do you think he’ll ever wake up?” Cisco finally settled on. It was, in a way, all his thoughts rolled into one.

Instead of answering though Dr. Wells just regarded him. Insert here: bug under the microscope feeling.

“You’re growing attached to him,” he observed. It wasn’t necessarily a condemnation.

Cisco scoffed. “He just got here.”

“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He rolled past, the soft whrrr of his chair the only sound in the room. There might have been a time when Dr. Wells laid a rare, complimentary hand on Cisco’s shoulder. Now he just called out as he left:

“I’m growing fond of him too.”

He’ll wake up. He has to.

Cisco blew out a breath. At least he wasn’t the only one.