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There’s something jarring about having memories of two lifetimes. The original memories, from before the Legion changed reality, and the new memories, from a life that’s supposedly never lived.
But Ray remembers. He remembers everything.
God, how he wish he doesn’t.
Ray doesn’t want to remember his life as a STAR Labs janitor. He doesn’t want to remember the long overworking hours he’d been forced to stay there. He doesn’t want to remember the measly salary he made that still barely pays for the storage space apartment he lived in and his living expenses. He doesn’t want to remember the Cortex of that world, the empty room that only more often than not, only holds himself and him.
He doesn’t want to remember the meaningless tasks he would be given and forced to complete. He doesn’t want to remember the harsh and condescending words, the long questions about scientific theorems that he could never understand, much less answer, not then, or the punishments that come with failing the tasks or the questions.
He doesn’t want to remember the touches that start out as firm grasps, slowly growing in strength until they were enough to bruise, the cruel and pleased smile that appears when all he could do was plead and stutter apologies, the voice—
Ray doesn’t want to remember the reason he can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes.
Ray doesn’t want to remember the reason he can’t stop himself from mentally calling him Mr. Thawne.
Ray doesn’t want to remember being a pet.
He desperately buries these half-real memories deep in the reaches of his mind and pretends they don’t effect him, they don’t hurt him, they don’t exist.
The others don’t question him.
They don’t question the STAR Labs cap Ray suddenly decides to wear everywhere.
They don’t question how he’s grown quieter and more withdrawn.
They don’t question the pause after each explanation of scientific knowledge he has, waiting for someone to say something, to contradict him, to tell him he’s wrong, even when he knows he’s not.
They don’t question the changes, and honestly he’s glad.
He doesn’t even know how to begin explaining any of them anyway.
And Ray pushes on, until they’re back in STAR Labs, trying to grab hold of the Spear. And everything slows when young Leonard, cold Leonard, not his Leonard, kills Amaya.
And everything falls off the deep end of no return when he regains consciousness.
Ray keeps his head low, hoping with all his might that the brim of the cap is enough. He can hear him, feel him, coming closer and closer, and it’s everything he can do to stop himself from shaking.
But then the hands land on him. And he flinches anyway.
And Ray doesn’t know if he hates himself or him more.
Finally they leave, Sara leading the way as she storms out of the Labs, and Ray trailing behind the rest. Maybe he can get away with just the flinch. Maybe he will let him go, just like this, just this once—
“Raymond.”
Everything falls away as time freezes, and he along with it.
He doesn’t need to turn to see the satisfied smile already etched into his mind. He doesn’t need to turn to see the sadistic glint in those amused eyes already seared into his memories. He doesn’t need to see to feel everyone else’s eyes on him, watching his every move, and he can’t breathe.
At least the rest of the team had already gone on before him.
“What,” a drawl all too familiar yet completely foreign at the same time suddenly cuts through the haze, and Ray latches onto it and drags himself back above the surface, “are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” his voice answers, nonchalant and full of twisted pride, “just wanted to test something.”
Ray runs. He wants to get out. He needs to get out. To get as far away from him as possible. He knows, logically, that he can never outrun a speedster, but God knows that won’t stop him from trying.
The End