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The snow starts around ten in the morning: a light flurry of fat flakes with a distinct chill in the air and gray clouds plumed across the sky. By early afternoon, the snow is falling faster, the chill is getting colder, and the skies are looking a little dark. At three p.m., businesses start shutting down and stalwart citizens begin carving their way through the streets while the snowplows desperately try to play catch-up. An hour later, the plows have to backtrack over all the work they just did. By five, the overly optimistic, those who placed too much faith in the notion that the snow wouldn’t last, are digging their cars out while wondering how on earth they’re going to get home without a sled and eight-dog team of Huskies. The homeless are quickly rounded up and ushered into shelters. The plows finally give up around six. Thirty minutes later, the mayor effectively shuts down the city.
Across town, within the former (and recently gutted in a near-complete renovation) abode of one Harrison Wells (a/k/a Eobard Thawne), the panic and dismay which has gripped the city is a galaxy apart. There’s no time for bemoaning the drastic weather change outside (which may, possibly, be directly caused by one of the inhabitants of said house). There’s a tree to decorate, logs to burn, a feast to feed an army – and those gingerbread houses aren’t going to build themselves.
Mick and Roy have been working the kitchen within an inch of its life: every oven in the four-set being put to use, the stovetop overcrowded, and the counter covered to the point that Barry is starting to forget whether he went with quartz or marble for the final product.
“Red! Taste test!” Mick barks from the stove, and Barry promptly reports for duty – the one he’s been performing for the last hour, because he has no business otherwise being in his own kitchen for a party of this scale. Mick still gives him flack about the Easter incident – which, yeah, was an unmitigated disaster, but the roast didn’t seem like it was cooking, Barry got impatient, and…well, accidents happen.
At least that’s the story he told the fire department.
The gravy Mick spoons into his mouth is sheer perfection: rich and bursting with savory flavor. “Perfect. Don’t add anything. Don’t change anything.” He’s learned to be very specific about the feedback. One-word verdicts somehow convince Mick there is, in fact, something horribly wrong with the sauce or the gravy or the pie filling and he loses his mind trying to correct it.
“My turn.” Roy offers a spoonful of stuffing for inspection. This time, Barry’s tastebuds call for an extra pinch of salt and some more parsley. Nothing drastic. Roy has followed Mick’s recipe to the letter with the same rigid focus as he applies to his canvas. Like the winter landscape piece he’s been slaving over for two months. Barry is secretly plotting to have it sold at the local art gallery. Roy will make a handsome profit from it.
“Barry!! I need an extra hand in here!”
The summons comes from Lisa, and considering she’s part of the decorating team, Barry zips into the sprawling open layout that is his renovated living room. He spots Lisa in precarious balance, trying to stand on her tiptoes to reach the higher branches of the apparent redwood cousin that is the Christmas tree this year. Where on earth Mark and Kyle got this thing, Barry has no idea. He’s just grateful the new blueprints involved taking out the ground floor ceiling and ascending the upper level, or the top of the tree would be breaking into bedroom floorboards.
Lisa makes an adorable squeak when Barry slips under her on the ladder and slots his shoulders between her thighs. Then, registering just how much higher this allows her reach, a little victory cry as she nestles the final coil of lights in place. “Okay, baby!” She calls down to Cisco, who looks very much like he would appreciate her to be back on the floor instead of performing a circus stunt with Barry. “I think we’re done!”
“Not yet, not yet!!” Caitlin ducks around Hartley and Axel at the gingerbread table and executes an Olympic leap over Mark’s hunched form before skidding to a halt in front of the tree. “We can’t forget her!”
Barry smiles as he accepts the angel from Caitlin’s hands. “No…” He gazes fondly over the lightly chipped paint, the feathers which refuse to show the years as much as other parts of her, and carefully hands it up to Lisa. “No, we can’t.”
Lisa mumbles a distracted apology while she negotiates the angel in her proper place, taking care to arrange a cradle of branches for added support as best can be done. Then, right when Barry begins to fear for the straining muscles in her thighs and back, Lisa leans away and slips down his back with feline grace. “Now we’re done!”
“Indeed, we are.” Barry carries her bridal style off the ladder, earning a little giggle and peck to the cheek, then takes a step back for full inspection. “You did great. All of you. This is…amazing.”
“It’ll look even better when it’s plugged in!” Lisa loops both arms around Cisco’s waist and plops a cheek on his shoulder. “Permission to issue the summons?!”
“Permission granted.” And she’s off: the grace and agility which earned her Olympic gold before she was old enough to drink is now put to use darting in and out of rooms, weaving throughout the living room to pull people’s attention away from their respective projects. The last stop is to the back of the house, and it takes less than two minutes for Lisa to reappear with both hands dragging her brother into the fray in the same manner as one leash-trains a recalcitrant bulldog.
“Is everyone here? Yes! Everyone is here!” She bounces in place, brown curls flouncing around her beaming face and cheeks flushed pink with excitement. “Do it, do it, do it!!”
The plug goes in with an idle flourish…and the room erupts in light.
“…Cisco,” Barry vaguely spots his silhouette in the corner, looking suspiciously as though he’s trying to inch out of sight, “when you and Hartley said you were going to experiment with the Christmas lights…”