Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a chilly evening in December, not too cold but not too warm either to activate the air-conditioning units. The strip of dorms and student hotels are quiet, save for an indie album being blasted on the top floor of a three-storey building.

Caitlin’s had a shitty night.

All of these statements are observations, facts that Caitlin has gathered, like the scientific thinker she was. The last one was something she detested—even an impersonal approach couldn’t bother her from not reacting perversely to the displeasure this evening had brought her.

Damn Iris.

Damn this dress.

Damn this night.

It all started on 6:57 PM of her otherwise peaceful evening.

6:57 PM

“Cait, you in?”

A voice from the other side of her thin yellow door snaps Caitlin out of her computations, and she flings her pencil in frustration, as she’s allowed. Nothing adds up, and she’s pretty sure that this equation could balance itself if it wanted to.

Power of the mind, and all that.

Successfully distracted, she walks to the door and opens it, not bothering to answer or use the peephole as she already knows who’s on the other side. With a quick twist of the doorknob, Iris’ face appears in view, and she lets herself be dragged by her friend of approximately forty months. Or three years, longer in college years.

Iris West was Caitlin’s group mate in a Bio class during their freshman years, and despite having different majors, her, in the field of bioengineering, and Iris an aspiring writer, they’ve been friends. Caitlin’s quiet, shy reserve is the perfect contrast to Iris’ effusive bubbliness, a fact that she noticed since Iris had picked up new guys and even girls to befriend, with Caitlin having only a few, hand-picked friends.

Iris is one of Caitlin’s girlfriends, and, if she were honest, one of her only ones. She’s not at all surprised that they became friends—after all, Caitlin knew from the start that Iris was the kind of girl who made friends fast. She’s more surprised at the fact that their friendship actually made it this far—up until senior year.

“I had the longest day today—my shift was too long, and the lectures this afternoon bored me to hell. Even Creative Writing couldn’t even pull me out of the funk, and Eddie’s got this stupid house party he wants me to attend.”

Caitlin hears Iris’ chatter, but refuses to comment on it. She’s content hearing her friend rant or rave about her day, and sits back in her lofty chair, looking at the equation as if it were a mystery.

Which it kind of was.

“What’s up with you?” Iris asks her, and Caitlin’s head snaps back.

“Huh?”


“You’ve got this weird frown on your face. Ate something bad?” Iris asks her, and Caitlin’s unsure whether to laugh or shake her head at her friend.

“No. It’s this equation….” Caitlin starts, and Iris puts up a hand to stop her.

“You know I can’t help you with your smarty-smart stuff, Cait. I’m only so good for literary references and a few papers in between.”

“Don’t say that,” Caitlin replies, as if automatically, and Iris looks at her. “You know you’re talented and beautiful. Don’t belittle yourself. Please.”

“Okay. Now you’re just a regular self-loving motivator. What’s up with you, really?”

Caitlin knows the answer to Iris’ question, and she refuses to admit it. Yes, it may have been the pile of stress on her mind that doesn’t seem to go away, or the reports she’s yet to finish, but she knows that she can easily dismiss all of those.

It’s the fact that one year has already passed, and no one knows.

It’s especially hard on her, on this day and this night, but Iris doesn’t need to know the burden that’s been keeping her awake for so long.

So instead she shakes her head and smiles at Iris. Knowing she won’t take no for an answer, Caitlin smiles and indulges her a little bit. “It’s school. Guess I’ve just been swamped for a while and more than stressed. I’m due to break,” she reasons, and Iris tut-tuts. “You should take a break. A well-deserved, more-than-due, much-needed break.” Caitlin shakes her head again and tells Iris she can’t. “I’ve got more papers due than I have time to actually go out and drink some coffee at Jitters.” Iris squints her eyes. “That’s true, but then again you can whip out a 1.00-grade worthy paper in fifteen minutes, printing time and walking time included. All I’m saying is, take a break,” she stresses, “walk out of this cramped space—“

“Hey!”

“—and breathe some fresh air. Flirt some or buy real food at the organic market we used to go to every Sunday. I need to see you out of here. It’s stifling in here,” Iris waves at invisible fog, and Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Get out.” It’s more of a command than real, unsolicited advice, and Caitlin’s forced to make the decision of indulging her when her eyes gleam. “Or better yet, come with me. Right now.”

“Where?”

“The Delta Lambda party down the block. Eddie’s got me as a plus one and he can sneak you in.”

“Um, no.”

“Caitlin.” Iris’ voice is firm, the determination in her eyes shining, and Caitlin rolls her eyes.

“Iris.”

“We have to go. In fact,” she says, pulling Caitlin’s cherry wood closet open, her clothes in disarray, “we’re going right now. And I’m finding you a dress to wear.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Iris, no. Go party with your boyfriend. It’s not my style.” Iris doesn’t even flinch, and Caitlin’s words bounce off of her as she pulls at several folded items, looking for something.

“Ah-ha!” Iris waves a familiar red romper with golden lightning streaks patterned all over the fabric.

“I love this on you. It makes your skin glow. Try it on.” Iris throws it at her friend, clad in grey sweatpants and a hoodie two sizes too large for her.

“No, Iris, I’m not going.” Caitlin decides to stand her ground. She won’t let herself be bullied by her friend, who may mean well.

“We’re going. You, me and Eddie.”

“Iris, no.”

“Caitlin, yes. Do this for me.”

“I have tons to do.”

“It’s a Friday night.”

“I have classes tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t start until two-thirty, and you know the professor’s going to be tardy anyway.” Caitlin’s clutching at straws, running out of reasons to bail out of Iris’ invitation.

“I’ve got the stomach flu.” Iris gives her a once-over and rolls her chocolate brown eyes.

“All you’ve got is a pair of eyebags worth an insomniac year and legs that need shaving.” Caitlin looks at the appendage in discussion and frowns, afraid to agree and succumb to her friend.

“I’m not going. I’m not going, I’m not going.”

“Yes, we are. Go get dressed,” Iris says, and rummages around Caitlin’s mini closet to find the makeup that she uses.

“Just go, Iris.”

“Caitlin, I’m not going without you. Hurry up. I’m running out of time,” she explains, trying to find another dress for her to borrow.

Caitlin sighs and flops down on her double-sized bed, the mattress rising up and down with the sudden weight.

“Iris, please don’t make me do this.”

“Caitlin,” Iris kneels near her friend, looking her in the eyes, “please don’t make me not do the thing that I asked you to do.”

“I have a headache,” Caitlin reasons, and this time, it’s real. Iris’ constant convincing has made her experience a headache, and it’s no longer pleasant, with the throbbing in her head resonating.

“We can fix that with some aspirin. Come on,” Iris pleads and orders at the same time, and Caitlin frowns for a good fifteen minutes before Iris kneels near her again.

“One month supply of lattes on me if you go.” Another friend would’ve jumped at the opportunity, but Caitlin isn’t one to take advantages or risks.

“No, Iris. I’m not going to be compensated with free coffee.” No matter how much I need it or how delicious it is.

Iris thinks of a reason to persuade Caitlin to go, and it seemingly falls into her lap. Twisting her lips into a smirk, she looks Caitlin in the eyes. “Well, it’s as if I don’t want to go to the party anymore.” She whips out her phone and Caitlin squints her eyes in confusion. “Let me call my dad and tell him to come by and pick us up to spend the weekend at his place.”

“No!” Caitlin’s answer comes alarmingly, as Iris expected, and she smiles. Typical of Caitlin to be terrified at the thought of Joe West scolding the two girls for not having enough fun.

“Yes, I’ll go with you. Don’t tell your dad. We don’t want him to worry,” Caitlin adds. Joe was a fun dad, and a greater dad for Iris, but he can be a mean streak when his girl and his girl’s friends are involved.

“Finally.”

~~~

Two hours later, Caitlin and Iris arrive in Iris’ maroon Corvette, haphazardly parked at the front of a building three blocks away from the Delta Lambda fraternity house. Caitlin squirms in the leather passenger seat, her once modest romper now showing too much skin due to the growth spurts she’s been experiencing five years too late.

“Don’t think I can do this,” Caitlin mutters and Iris ignores her protests, checking out her impeccable eyebrows and lipstick in the mirror overhead.

“Let’s go,” she says, a maroon purse flung on her wrist and her keys in her right hand. Caitlin sits, unmoving in the passenger seat, and Iris walks over her car in three-inch pumps to coax her friend out of the car.

“We’re in phase two of two, Cait. Just, five solid minutes inside, I promise you’ll be fine.”

No reassurances can ever make Caitlin fine, but she decides to throw caution to the wind the moment Iris bends over, wobbling in her pumps, just to coax her out of her forever-staying funk. Just fifteen minutes, thirty the maximum, and she’ll ask the keys for the Corvette. No drinks, no random stranger flirting.

“Okay, I can do this,” Caitlin says out loud, psyching herself up, and she walks out of the car. They walk arm in arm up to the fraternity house, and suddenly Caitlin can’t breathe. Iris doesn’t notice, however, and goes straight to the arms of her incumbent boyfriend, Eddie Thawne.

Caitlin’s chest tightens and her body sways, and she hasn’t crossed the threshold yet. She takes a step back with her left foot and it gets caught in a lifted plank, and suddenly the sensation of losing balance takes over.

Ready to fall, Caitlin yields to gravity until a strong grip descends upon her elbow and she finds herself steady once again.

“Easy there,” a voice whispers in her ear, and Caitlin straightens her spine, eyes still wide and breathing still fast. Caitlin whips her head around to thank her hero—but Iris grabs her wrist and pulls her inside. “Don’t tell me you’ve just been standing there this whole time,” and Iris leads her to the heart of the party.

Caitlin shields herself from the bumping and the grinding that’s happening and goes straight to the kitchen, deeming it a safe place, albeit the excessive groping that’s happening right before her very eyes. Avoiding the sight, she spots a fresh stack of beer pong glasses and pulls herself a cup, goes to the two-door refrigerator and pours herself a fresh glass of ice-cold water. Drinking from the cup, Caitlin’s silent, breathing in and out, trying to mask the fact that she’s inside a fraternity house.

“Hey.” A husky voice says behind her, and Caitlin only has to crane her neck before she sees the owner of the voice.

“Hey, Eddie.”

Eddie Thawne, Delta Lambda brother, baseball player and Iris West’s boyfriend of fourteen months walks up to her and gives her a smile. Caitlin mirrors his smile, and it’s because it’s so easy to like Eddie. She was, of course, hesitant to make friends with such an American boy carbon copy, but Eddie made it a point to not cast her out or make her feel like a third wheel during his and Iris’ days of courtship and even after that, but Caitlin still ends up feeling like one. Besides, Eddie’s an all-around nice guy, loyal to his family and respectful to everyone he meets. He isn’t perfect, but then Iris wasn’t looking for someone who was.

“Great to see you here, Cait,” Eddie says with unmistakable sincerity, and Caitlin smiles again.

“Yeah, I didn’t have much of a choice,” Caitlin says honestly, and Eddie laughs, then winces.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Iris can be quite forceful.”

“Yep. But it’s okay, really.”

“Plus, I know that this really isn't your crowd.”

They both stare at the party evolving upfront, and Caitlin suppresses a shiver at the thought of mingling and losing herself at the bodies writhing and dancing at the same time.

“But I’m really glad you’re here. On a Friday night,” he adds, and Caitlin laughs.

“Hope you’re not thinking about your term papers,” he says humorously, and Caitlin glares at him, all in good fun. “I was supposed to be having fun, not growing an ulcer and worrying.”

“Again, sorry ‘bout that. I’m sure a whiz like you could finish it in a flash.” Caitlin laughs at Eddie’s similar comment.

“You two really are in love; Iris said the same thing to me not two hours ago.”

Eddie’s eyes turn humorous to loving in five seconds flat, within the mention of Iris’ name.

“Yeah. I do love her.” Caitlin looks at Eddie, wonders how they could’ve been both so lucky to have met Iris and be part of the people who love her.

Eddie’s spell is effectively broken when another frat brother claps him on the shoulder and asks him to assist in a round of beer pong, and he waves a goodbye to Caitlin, still stuck in the marble counter corner of the kitchen.

She notes the time, a quarter to nine o’clock, and Caitlin searches the swarm for Iris, trying to recall the colour of the dress she’s wearing. Heading back to the living room, cup in hand, she swivels around to put her cup where it belongs, until disaster strikes.

At the same time her arm reaches out to rest her cup on the marble counter, a tray full of drinks hobble above her and descend upon her form, soaking her in sticky beer.

Caitlin’s effectively drenched, from head to toe, and she’s pretty sure she’s never been this humiliated before.

Her lips forming a huge O, she looks to the source of the huge beer rain that’s soaked her to the bone until she sees long limbs dressed in matching midnight blue jeans and a crew sweater.

And looks into the eyes of the most overrated, obnoxious Delta Lambda frat boy the school has ever known.

Barry Allen.

Chapter Text

Barry Allen’s been fast. He’s ran miles and miles with the grace of a gazelle and the speed of a cheetah. His feet has been relentless, his spirit buzzing with unconfined energy.

He’s never been one to go slow, go steady or go still.

He’s never been in place.

So it’s a total surprise when Barry Allen—THE Barry Allen—doesn’t make a single move, and just simply wonders why the pretty brunette across the room is staring daggers at him.

Actually, he does know, but it’s not a single moment—it’s a catastrophic sequence of events that has led to him staying still and her drenched in stinky, watered-down beer.

His eyes shutter close, briefly, remembering the chain of events that happened.

8:17 PM

Barry Allen just wants to go home.

It’s a startling realisation for him, as he stands on the second step of his fraternity house, a place so common to him it feels like he’s been living and eating in the commons for decades instead of years, but Barry Allen knows his real feelings—unmasked and uncoated, and admits to himself that there’s nothing he wants more than to drive home to his family’s home in Central City and abandon all his worries.

Knowing the impossibility of the situation, he just sighs and steps another step forward, about to enter the fraternity house. The number of people congesting the small entryway makes it hard for him, and as people mingle and grind against each other in drunken bliss, Barry waits until there’s enough space for him to sneak himself in.

Another step up, he sees his fraternity brothers’ current girlfriend and ex-conquest, Iris West. Her arm looped with another girl’s, she abandons her friend and runs into the arms of Eddie, her arms tightening around his neck as they share a passionate embrace, as if they haven’t seen each other in five years instead of five hours. Barry averts his gaze, not wanting to be a voyeur, when he sees the girl Iris abandoned heaving breaths and dropping shades too pale for her complexion. He hurriedly steps up and stands behind the girl, the initial mill of the party ignored.

She’s having a panic attack, Barry thinks, and despite his knowledge in science, he’s unsure what he can possibly do to pacify the anxiety that runs through her. There must be something terrible that happened in the past for her to suffer the trauma that arose when Iris left her. Her breath hitches and, from Barry’s viewpoint, her shoulders are visibly shaking. Suddenly, she missteps and stumbles back, and Barry’s able to catch her.

Her elbows are in his hands, soft against the callused skin of his hands, and his lips are millimetres away from her ear. “Easy there,” he whispers to her, and he feels the tension going off of her ebbing, the initial shock going through her body easing away. She straightens her spine and cranes her neck to look at him, and Barry places a soft smile on his lips, ready to talk to her, until Iris whisks her away, inside the frat house.

Barry feels the loss of her in his hands, and he shoves them in his navy blue pocket trousers, walking inside the frat house. Delta Lambda’s known for hosting the craziest parties in Midwestern U, and they’re only able to make up for the nasty parties with their excellence in academics and extracurricular activities. Barry sees another frat brother of his, Tommy Merlyn, chugging beer from his red cup like no one’s business, and he’s only slightly worried, as Tommy has his semi-finals in the archery competition tomorrow. Frankly, he knows that Oliver and Tommy can ace all the awards away—with their pairing, Delta Lambda and Midwestern U’s chances of winning are more than a hundred.

Barry looks around the frat house, the once spotless blue couches littered with girls in cutoffs and his own frat brothers, either chugging their own beers or playing a ridiculous version of a game with an alcoholic twist. Oliver Queen walks up to him and claps him on the back, an action which Barry returns.

“‘Sup, Bar. Been looking for you everywhere,” Oliver says with a smile.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Barry answers with one of his own, and accepts the cup that Oliver thrusts in his hands. He takes a sniff; it’s never too bad to be cautious, and deems it drinkable.

“Well, hope you’re not too busy. That Linda chick’s been looking for you,” Oliver’s eyes widen and stare straight into Barry’s half-lidded ones, and he forces himself to crack a smile. He once thought girls and booze and speed could cure him of the restlessness that nestled inside him, waiting for him to spring into action, but he realises later that it’s an innate part of him, and that he doesn’t need to chase it away. Before Barry could answer—and he doubts he could formulate one that doesn’t make him look too much of a nice guy in Oliver’s eyes—his buddy gets called by Roy Harper in a game of darts, and Barry nods off to Roy, choosing to keep in his corner.

Barry decides that he’s only going to loiter for at least half an hour, an hour tops, before he rests in his own room. He’ll think of his reprieve later, but right now he has to get past the hour of socialising and resisting girls. More than five girls have caught up to him, one being particularly touchy and gluing her sides to his, but Barry’s adamant and respectfully replaces her hands to her sides, telling her politely that he’s not looking for that kind of company tonight.

Or any other night, but they don’t need to know that.

The weariness in his bones starts to settle, and he heaves a sigh, nodding at his frat brothers. Roy Harper swaggers towards him, with Oliver following him, his arms fashioned tightly around his girlfriend Felicity’s middle. Oliver swoops Felicity in for a kiss, and both he and Roy roll their eyes at the romance seeping out of the couple. Felicity pushes back Oliver away, “You know I don’t like you when you’re sweaty and you reek of cheap beer,” to which Oliver replies with a growl. “You like me sweaty,” and they proceed to kiss again, this one much longer than the first. Barry and Roy walk away, and he and Roy manages to talk about the upcoming Midwestern University Olympics.

“You’re still going to run track, right?”

“Yeah, you’re competing for archery in singles, right?”

“Yep. Let Oliver handle Tommy. Can’t take a duet on the field.” Barry laughs at this, and Roy shakes his head. “You think we’ll win baseball this year?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I don’t know, ever since Dig graduated, we’ve never had a really good game.”

“Nah, I think we got this. Thawne's pretty good,” Barry throws a nod Eddie’s way, and Roy nods in agreement. “Guess so. Hey, you got the invitation?”

“To what?” Barry mimics Roy and takes a swig of his beer, swishing around the liquid in his mouth and swallowing it. It’s nothing like the fourty-year old scotch their liquor cabinet holds, but then again, Barry’s never been much of a fan of alcohol.

“The wedding,” Roy pauses and manages to throw a skinny blonde his signature stare, and Barry only raises his eyebrows. “Dig’s wedding.”

“Ah,” Barry remembers. John Diggle, once their president and close friend, now set to be wed to his girlfriend of five years Lyla Michaels, sent out their invitations individually last Tuesday and attached a note to the fridge to come or the supply of booze was going to be cut off. None of his friends were able to catch Dig, as they fondly called him, and they egged on him for being too whipped to arrange their wedding.

He can barely imagine what actually propelled Dig to drop on his knees and ask for a lifetime with his girlfriend when he’s just twenty-five years old—plenty of time to get old and settle down yet—but they don’t get an answer other than the cryptic, “You’ll feel how I feel when you find the girl.” Barry’s equally perplexed, but they don’t dwell on it. They’re happy for Dig, but happier on their own.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Dig said to get a date to the wedding—and a decent one at that.” Roy muses. “That’d be hard,” he says, and eyes an exotic Latina that passes by him.

“Decent, and by that Dig means….” Barry trails off, and Roy answers for him.

“Probably someone with a 4.0 GPA. Doesn’t dress in cutoffs. Doesn’t drink on any day. And is a bore.” Roy snorts and Barry can’t help but laugh.

“Damn, we gotta get a date. Queen’s all set there,” Roy cranks his head to Oliver and Felicity and Barry nods. “Should be easy,” Barry says, and Roy nods. “Plenty of girls in the Iota Mu house willing to drive away for the weekend and party it away.”

“Yeah, but none of them are decent,” Oliver walks up to them, Felicity surprisingly not beside him, and grabs Roy’s cup mid-drink, and takes his own swig from it.

“Get your own, Queen.”

“I would, but all they have is watered-down beer. That’s good Scotch,” he points to the red plastic cup, and Roy scowls as Oliver rats him out about stealing their scotch away, and Barry tunes out their conversation.

He still holds the cup as he walks around the room, a prop to him mostly, as he doesn’t intend to drink from it. Girls flank him, and it’s a sensation Barry knows all too well. He ignores them again, and chalks it up to the same tiredness he felt earlier. But if he were really being honest, it was a mix of the stress and the pressure of the university-wide olympics and the stress of finding a suitable date to Dig’s wedding.

Had it been any other person, Barry wouldn’t be worrying; he wouldn’t be standing in this party bored as an eighty-year old. He would’ve been relaxed and called up one of the girls in his long list of acquaintances, and kicked back in his lounge chair. But it was John Andrew Diggle, and it isn’t just respect that’s holding him tied to his responsibility of showing up with a perfectly-perfect girl on his arm.

It’s the weight of his words and the significance of them shocking him, making him realise that he may have hit the right buttons and thrown the right punches.

Barry heads off to the kitchen to get a drink, decidedly unhappy with the thoughts swirling around in his head, and he squats down the chrome refrigerator and eyes the bottle of sparkling water at the end of the tray. Reaching far, he doesn’t succeed, and so he brings out the huge serving tray of pre-chilled drinks, all in red beer cups, and grabs his bottle of water.
Bringing the tray out for the next batch of party goers, Barry replaces the once-full tray with the new ones. So is as the honour of hospitability of the Delta Lambda brother, he thinks, and as he raises the tray high, his right hip bounces against a softer one, before his balancing skills get faulty and the tray of drinks tips over.

His reflexes are as quick as lightning and he jumps a good distance over the mess, and Barry doesn’t realise that the mess has landed on a girl he’s seen before, a brunette with a frozen expression and a quick and sharp wit.

Barry looks at the pool of beer, spreading quickly over the marble floor, and he rolls up his eyes, following the mess. Her black flats and skinny legs encased in jeans are wet with huge splotches, and her shirt is completely drenched.

Barry’s eyes sharply rise, and it’s a mistake he’s glad to make, even though those beautiful eyes are piercing icy daggers at him.

Barry feels frozen, and he’s not sure if it’s humiliation or shame rooting him in his position. It’s definitely something else—something he's been afraid of.

He’s sure that he has more to be frightened about, as he stares at the mess he made and the brunette he made it to. He smiles at her, wanting to ease some of the tension, and as fast as he is, his view changes when he notices her leave his point of view.

Without a trace.

Wasting no minute, Barry speeds out the door and runs.

Chapter Text

Barry’s always prided himself on his speed, so it’s a total surprise for him to lose sight of the pretty brunette as he weaves himself in and out of the crowd that’s gathered outside the kitchen and spilling into the foyer. 

At a breakneck speed, he runs, his signature trainers thudding lightly on the floor of the frat house, and into the chilly December night. He cranes his neck to the right and the other way, searching for the curls that were once bouncy but has now fallen flat, all thanks to his colossal mess-up. Barry winces slightly, and silently grateful that the girl hasn’t thrown him a punch or a slap or made a mess of the situation. The inner gentleman in him isn’t happy, and demands to seek out the girl that he was responsible for ruining her evening.

He has no idea where to find her—as he never even got her name, but the familiarity of her face, even as it seethed in anger, haunts him—and he uses his intuition, trusts it wholeheartedly, and heads out to the right, where the dorms line the long street. 

He’s still running, although not using his agility and speed to the maximum, and his breath huffs in small clouds of air. He still looks right and left for the girl—and he’s hopeful that she didn’t speed out into the night with a convertible he can’t possibly place. He’s not sure what he wants to do when she catches her though—maybe apologise and offer something in exchange for the terrible accident that took place—but all he wants to do is find her. 

It’s startling for Barry, as not an hour ago he was complaining about how tired he was, when now he’s jacked up on energy and keen on finding that pretty brunette.

I should stop calling her pretty brunette.

He chalks up to the gentlemanly manners instilled in him from childhood, and decides that it’s nothing but shame and woeful embarrassment he holds for the girl. All he wants is to apologise—and that’s that.

Five buildings later and he’s unsure whether he took the right course—perhaps she walked to the right, but Barry’s luck holds out when he sees her once-straight-as-a-rod form, hunching over a maroon Corvette, fishing something out of small wristlet—maybe her keys, maybe her phone—and muttering curses. 

Barry never got to look at her—but all at once, he knows that she’s beautiful, and the flickering light of the lamp posts lining the streets of the university only accentuates her beauty. Even with limp hair and wet clothes, she manages to look classy, a feat that only a few could handle.

His decision is taken out of him—and he’s uncertain whether it’s the right thing to do, but all Barry wants to do is take her wherever she wants to go and know more about her than what they can share over a cup of beer. 

His next words are careless and unoriginal—but he doesn’t care. All he wants is for her to raise her head and look at him, pierce him with an icy glare or stare at him warmly, her choice, and he’s sure the night couldn’t possibly end better. 

“Car trouble?”

~~~

Caitlin’s had better luck than this evening, she thinks, and blames Iris and careless frat guys walking around for the accident that’s happened. 

She blames her rotten luck for landing her the task of being doused over by stinky beer by no other than Barry Allen—knows that she has no one else to blame but herself—but still doesn’t take the edge off the irritation that borders around the fact that Barry Allen proceeded to ruin her perfectly nice night with an accident that she’s sure he could’ve avoided, what with his athletic skills and lightning-fast reflexes. 

But he didn’t, and now she’s inundated with anger and annoyance and smelly cheap beer from the frat house. 

She smells like the normal college student who spent his or her whole night slumming it with shots and beer cups. And to think she didn’t even have a sip. If she went home right now, her parents would throw a fit.

She smiles at the thought; Caitlin’s perfect record messed up by an innocent—she hopes—accident. The air isn’t biting, but Caitlin feels chilly in her deluged red dress, a trouble that she’d have to deal with once she drops it by the dry cleaners. She frowns, and it turns deeper as she pauses over Iris’ car, fishing out her friend’s keys in the miniature wristlet that adorns her thin, white wrist. All she finds is the red silk lining and her phone, and nothing else, and Caitlin almost rips out a frustrated scream at the nonexistent keys in her purse. How was she supposed to go home now? Caitlin contemplates the thought of walking nine blocks and a right turn back to their dorms, and her frown turns deeper until she’s convinced she looks like a five-year old outside a closed playplace. Even with her feet slowly dying in her heels, she’s sure she wouldn’t last in her effectively drenched dress, and mutters curses to the granite. She still roots around her wristlet—praying silently that the keys would appear out of nowhere for her to drive home—but nothing appears, and Caitlin’s convinced that the gods of luck must hate her tonight.

Caitlin thinks of her options at this point—either waiting for Iris and Eddie or going back to the darned frat house. Caitlin fumes at the thought of staying two more hours beside the Corvette—she knows her friend and Eddie would take their sweet time and probably make out for two solid straight hours—and realises that even though she’s the designated driver between the two of them, Iris isn’t probably returning home, choosing to stay with Eddie for the night. Her other option would be to walk back—pride shattered, dress soaked in alcoholic liquid—to the Delta Lambda frat house and ask for Iris’ keys and leave. Caitlin thinks she can do all of those things in less than three minutes, but she doesn’t want to face the stares. The pathetic stares thrown her way, or the questioning glances, or, God forbid, the patronising smiles they’ll fire at her. She can take icy glares and daggers at her back, but not cooing words of sympathy and empathy as they pretend to care and pat her back.

She heaves out a huge breath and prays to God for a hero—anyone would be nice at this point—closes her eyes and snaps back her head when she hears a voice break the darkness of the night an her thoughts.

“Car trouble?”

She straightens her back and looks at her hero sent from heaven—and suddenly everything’s shattered. She knows—hyperaware—that she asked for any hero, anyone, but she never thought the world would hate her as they sent the same guy twice the same night.

Caitlin takes a huge breath and raises her head slowly and looks in the amber eyes of her hero and antihero.

Barry Allen.

Again.

Chapter Text

Barry’s plan is a success, or at least that’s what he calls his poorly veiled attempt at getting the girl to actually look at him. With a safe distance between them, Barry looks at her with investigative and probing eyes, noting the drenched dress she’s in and the glare that she throws his way.

It’s so cold it could turn him into an icicle in the middle of the street.

One look into Barry’s eyes and he recognises her—the Ice Queen of Midwestern University. He knows her as Caitlin Snow—one of the smartest girls around campus and in his Chemistry class, and a close friend of his frat brother and once-crush Iris West. Other than that, he knows she’s affiliated with no Greek houses, and that she got the moniker because of her icy demeanour.

One that she’s showing him right now.

Barry clears his throat and takes two hesitant steps forward, as Caitlin stands her ground, freezing him to the ground with a cold stare, and he opens his mouth. To make peace, hopefully.

“Hey.”

Caitlin turns her eyes into slits and Barry finds the need to explain to her what he’s doing in her space, near what appears to be her car. “I wanted to help you out, in case you had car trouble. Or opening the car. Or lost,” he stammers, and in a flash, he’s an arm away from Caitlin. “I’m Barry Allen, by the way,” he smiles in that charming way of his, or so his aunts tell him, and he knows that this has worked on hundreds of girls before, but Caitlin stays frosty, a regal image in her wet dress and slightly messed-up makeup.

Barry’s heart skips a beat, and from attraction or terror, he’s not sure.

Caitlin’s still for about another minute, and Barry thinks he could stand there or maybe break out into song and Caitlin would still have that expression on her face. When she speaks, Barry’s made aware that he had been holding his breath, and he exhales it once her cherry-red lips form words. “I know,” she says dryly, and Barry raises an eyebrow. Normally, he’d be playing the I-don’t-know-you-but-I’d-like-to game with other girls, but Barry somewhat knows that it wouldn’t work on Caitlin, that pretending wouldn’t cut it, and it shocks him even more that he wants to know her the traditional way—and not by some game he has played.

It makes him still for a while, and they just stare at each other, surveying and sizing each other up.

He clears his throat again, and Barry finds that he has no other choice but to bring up the subject that has brought them into this kind of impasse. “Look, I’m really sorry, for earlier,” he scratches his head and bows it shyly, using his smile to somehow charm Caitlin out of her ice-cold demeanor, but her expression stays, and Barry thinks that nothing works on this girl. “I didn’t mean to do… that.” He finishes, his words as awkward as he feels, and he waits for Caitlin to speak—a scream or a yell thrown his way would be nice—but she doesn’t, and even as he sucks at articulating what he wants to say, he knows he has to continue on.

He doesn’t know Caitlin enough but he feels as if an apology’s about to be pulled out of his lips. 

And he obliges.

“I really am sorry. I didn’t know you would be there, or that the tray would tip, or that the accident would’ve happened. But I came out here,” he stretches his arms wide, gesturing to the now-quiet street, “to see if you were doing okay.” 

“I’m doing just dandy,” Caitlin says, her words toneless but dripping with ice nonetheless, and Barry finds that he wants this to be over—for Caitlin to forgive him.

To give him a chance to take her wherever she needs to be taken.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Barry says with boyish charm, wrinkling his nose, and it appears to throw Caitlin off, her straight form slumping onto the sides of the Corvette. “Hey, you okay?” Barry takes another step forward until their thighs are touching, and Caitlin brushes his arms away. “I’’m great, thanks,” the same ice dripping from her words, but Barry’s not convinced. He waits until Caitlin stands fully up to her height, and looks at him again. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats for the third time, and Caitlin’s aura shifts, as he feels it in the air. “It’s okay,” Caitlin says softly, and it surprises him, his eyes going wide. “I’m truly, very, exasperatedly sorry,” Barry says this time with a smile, and Caitlin shakes her head, her hair following the movement. It mesmerises Barry, and he holds on to every word Caitlin says. “It’s okay, really. It was an accident,” she says, more to convince herself than him, and Barry stares at her, waiting for her to speak. When she doesn’t, Barry takes it as a sign for her to leave, and Barry’s sure he doesn’t want that to happen.

“This your car?” “No, it’s Iris’. I don’t have her keys,” Caitlin says as her upturned palms display an absence of car keys, and Barry takes it to himself to be the gentleman and for his plan to be a complete success.

“Let me take you home, then,” Barry says, and as Caitlin begins to open her mouth, he cuts her off. “It’s the least I could do, really,” and in amusement, he watches Caitlin internally debate until she gives in.

It’s a firm, solid nod, but it makes Barry feel like he has the world.

And it scares him.

Chapter Text

It scares Caitlin that she’s with Barry Allen.

It scares Caitlin that within five minutes of Barry introducing himself—smoothly—then apologising—less smoothly, something that she never thought Barry Allen was capable of doing—he was able to charm the pants off of her and persuade her to be taken on a ride in his scarlet Chrysler.

It scares Caitlin that she’s seated in warm leather seats, especially warmed up by Barry for him, and that she’s wrapped up in his navy sweater.

It scares Caitlin that she may be the first girl Barry treated this way—and by the looks of things and how he carefully wrapped the sleeves of his sweater around her shaken shoulders, she is—and that she likes it.

But most of all, it scares Caitlin that she’s with Barry Allen, in his beautiful car, and the night could be as long as it could and the way as far and she wouldn't mind.

She looks straight ahead, and even as Barry’s car is fast—a precise machine as fast as he runs—he takes his sweet time driving over the dorms and turning corners, a fact she notices as they stay quiet in the car, the slow thrum of his car the only noise in the car.

She sneaks a glance at Barry, his face relaxed, the lines of his smiles etched in his cheeks and the shadow of his dimples steady on his face. 

“So it occurs to me that I never got your name,” Barry says, and Caitlin’s eyes widen in surprise. Perhaps she wasn’t as discreet as she thought, and she looks over at Barry, his hands easy on the leather steering wheel.

“I thought you’d be the guy who would take girls on rides after he gets their names,” Caitlin says sweetly, the plurality of her words echoing the sentiment: Surely I’m not the first girl you’ve brought home.

“Yeah, well, there are certain cases which make excellent exceptions,” Barry says, looking over at Caitlin with a smirk on his face. “Which you are, an only exception.” You’re the first.

Barry’s words make Caitlin’s heart hitch, an unwelcome feeling, and she resorts to frowning to mask her feelings. Barry doesn’t notice, or displays on his face that he doesn’t, and Caitlin sinks further in his car seats, feeling the warmth seep into her bones. She’ll worry later about wiping the stickiness off of his indulgent seats—but right now, all that matters is her feeling the warmth of the seats emanating.

“So, your name?” Barry’s question pops her bubble, and she straightens up.

“Of all the sagacity of Barry Allen, the one thing that he doesn’t have is my name,” Caitlin whispers, and smiles a tiny smile.

“I don’t know everything.” Barry says with a smile, “and I’m sure someone as smart as you are would be more than glad to educate me.” 

Caitlin pauses, and suddenly her common sense comes crashing into her. “Why are we doing this?”

“Doing what?” Barry asks her, and Caitlin shakes her head. 

“This. The charade of introducing oneself to the other. I understand that these are common practices for courtship—“

“Jumping the gun, aren’t we?” Barry’s joking tone stills Caitlin’s tangent, and before she can speak, Barry apologises. “I’m sorry. That was a joke,” he explains, but Caitlin doesn't nod or gesture in agreement.

“Why are we doing this?” she repeats, more of a question to herself than him, and Barry looks at her from the corner of his eyes. Contemplating whether he should placate her or tell her the truth, he decides to go with the latter.

“I don’t know, really.” He says with complete honesty, and Caitlin’s brown eyes look at him in surprise. “I just wanted to bring you home after the accident, and maybe strike up a conversation with you. Just to avoid generic cricket noise.” Barry smirks at her again, and despite her initial protests—still yielding a battle in her mind—her stomach flutters, and she presses her right hand against her abdomen. 

Caitlin is stuck with the ease at which she’s already being comfortable in his presence, and Caitlin decides to halt it all—before she starts getting ideas about her and him.

“I appreciate your generosity and concern, but please take me home.”

“Tell me where you live, then,” Barry says, and before Caitlin can open her mouth, he smoothly turns into their corner, and turns off the engine for Caitlin to decide.

“Our building’s just another block away,” Caitlin whispers softly, suddenly shy, and Barry whispers in the same tone back. “Okay,” and moves into their driveway.

Once they’ve reached the familiar block, Barry turns off the ignition and shifts a little so he could see Caitlin, and she shrinks in the comfort of the seats and the intensity of Barry’s gaze. 

“Thank you for bringing me home. Making sure I got home safely,” she clarifies, and Barry lets out a soft chuckle. “Anytime.”

Caitlin doesn’t feel the urge to get out of the Chrysler and get inside, and Barry relishes the chance to talk to her. “You were asking me a question earlier,” Caitlin groans at Barry’s query, and throws her head down. “It’s nothing.” “Surely it was something for you to ask me.” “I was just asking what you were doing—why you were doing this,” Caitlin says, and Barry raises an eyebrow. “Doing what?” “Bringing me home, making a conscious effort to get to know me,” Caitlin explains, and Barry laughs. “I just wanted to bring you home safely. Plus I don’t think we’re effectively getting to know each other.” 

The sting of Barry’s words make Caitlin back off, and with clumsy hands, she fumbles with the car lock. “I’m sorry. Thank you for driving me home. Have a nice—“

Caitlin’s scramble for words get cut off when Barry’s hand circles her wrist, and tugs her back. “I’m sorry for what I said just now,” he says, and Caitlin stays, seeing the storm in his eyes. “I was being an ass,” Caitlin nods, almost imperceptibly, and Barry laughs. “I guess I’m doing this because I owe the girl whose night I ruined something more than an apology, and because I want to know her better.” Barry confesses quietly, and Caitlin tilts her head softly. “Thank you. For being honest,” she explains, and Barry nods. “I should go home,” Caitlin says as she looks at the dashboard, the digital clock blaring an angry 11:48 PM, and Barry’s hand lets her wrist go, something she notices immediately.  Caitlin walks out of the Chrysler and into the night, and before she shuts the door, she crouches, just enough so Barry could see her dark curls and half of her face. “And it’s Caitlin Snow.”

As Caitlin walks out of his car, oozing grace and class, a smile slips into his lips, and he wholeheartedly grins as he turns the key in the ignition and drives away, a strange but not unwelcome feeling settling in his chest.

Chapter Text

three days later

Caitlin taps her fingers against the polished desk. Her pens are neatly arranged by color shade beside her planner and her workbook. Her laptop sits, juxtaposed against her phone that only pings when Iris texts her or an email from her mom arrives. The former is something she’s terrified of.

It’s 8:06 in the morning, and the professor’s late. The class was supposed to start six minutes ago, and her frown tells as much of her disapproval.

Professor Harrison Wells was a new professor to Midwestern; vigorous research has told her that he’s worked a variety of science and technology, from molecular physics to neurobiology. He’s an amazing doctor, engineer and neuroscientist—and he’s late.

She finds herself pursing her lips in dismay, and quickly looks up when the back door opens. Her classmates pay no attention, but Caitlin cranes her neck and twists her body to see the person who entered the classroom. She looks out for salt-and-pepper hair and bespectacled eyes, but the sight that descends before her eyes are none of those things.

It’s the same person that she’s been avoiding thinking about these past three days.

Barry Allen smiles at her, his eyes shining with something mirroring amusement. Or annoyance.

It could easily be both.

Her mouth opens to ask him a question—

What are you doing here?

Why are you here?

Where have you been these past few days?

—but before she can find her voice, Barry’s already beat her to it.

“Nice seeing you here, Caitlin.”

“Allen.”

“Ah, so we’re back to that, huh?”

She wrinkles her forehead as Barry Allen invades her senses, towers over her and positions himself in her aisle. She’s alone and there are still tens of other seats left in the room—why is he sitting beside her?

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m taking Biology 122, Cells and Genetics because it’s a prescribed course.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, do you mean in an existential sense?”

“No,” she grits her teeth, and is annoyed with how his charming smile stays in place, that same shine in his eyes brighter. “Why are you sitting with me?”

Barry looks around the room, and cranes his neck. A group of girls whisper as they catch his gaze, and a blonde waves at Barry. He waves back, and the whispering commences. It makes Caitlin want to smack their palms away, and it shocks her. Thoughts of those calibre shouldn’t come to her; her bite’s not nearly as terrible as her bark, and she’s never been a violent person. But they do. When the blonde shoots her a raised eyebrow, she juts out her chin and gives the iciest glare she could manage.

She turns her attention to Barry. “Seems like those girls know you pretty well. Why won’t you sit with them?”

“It seems, Caitlin,” he leans forward so that his elbows bump the edges of her neatly-arranged pens and his forearm brushes the edge of her desk, “that you’re the only one I know here. Well, not that well. And I’d like to resolve that.”

His green eyes stare into hers so intensely that she feels the room temperature rising. There’s something about Barry Allen’s gaze that’s so hypnotic, something that makes her lean forward despite her initial hesitation and—

“I’m sorry, class,” a breathless voice breaks the bubble, and Caitlin jerks back from her initial position so quick, it might have given her whiplash. She forces herself to fix her posture—back to the stiff stance of her shoulders. She hears Barry settle in beside her, his left elbows slightly touching hers as he pulls out things from his backpack. “I had to deal with some things earlier this morning, but better late than never,” their professor reasons, and pulls out a sleek, handheld gadget that flashes an image in front of their whiteboard.

“I’m Dr. Harrison Wells, your professor for this course. I teach a variety of courses here at Middleton during my downtime, which isn’t much,” he says with a smile, and the class titters. “In this course, we’ll be discussing genetics, cells, disparities and other things concerning—oh, hello, young man. Welcome to join us,” he invites, and the whole class looks at a man entering the classroom, carrying a cup of coffee and a satchel on his right arm.

“Sorry I’m late, professor,” he wipes his hair to one ear, and Dr. Wells waves his apology off.

“No problem. Just don’t make it a habit like I do. Sit anywhere you like.”

The man sits at the row directly above them, and whispers to them. “Hey. Has he given out a syllabus yet?”

Both Caitlin and Barry turn and shake their heads. “We just started,” Caitlin says helpfully, and the man’s smile widens.

“Awesome. Guess the coffee run was worth it, after all. Oh, by the way, I’m Cisco.”

“Hey,” they both smile, and Caitlin is flustered. “I’m Barry, Barry Allen.” He reaches out a hand, and Cisco shakes it. “I’m Caitlin, Caitlin Snow,” she says in the same fashion, and Cisco kookily grabs her left hand with his right, creating a cross with their interlocked hands. “Nice to meet both of you,” he says before he releases their hands, and groans. “Dammit.”

“What is it?” Barry says in a hushed voice, and Cisco closes his eyes and massages his forehead.

“Can’t believe I sat next to a couple. You guys are just going to be smooching the whole time, aren’t you?” His comment makes Caitlin’s eyes widen to saucers, and Barry laughs at her reaction. “We’re not a couple,” she says speedily, and Cisco’s forehead wrinkles. “We’re not even friends.”

“Aw, Caitlin, that hurts my heart a little.” Barry pretends to be offended, and she rolls her eyes upward.

“Are you guys messing with me or…..” Cisco trails off, and Caitlin shakes her head.

“We’re really not dating. Really,” she says, almost pleading, and she doesn’t catch the intense gaze Barry lands on her features, investigating her porcelain skin and every crevice and cranny decorating her eyes and lips.

“Okay, ‘cause you guys get pretty weird and intense when you look at each other.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Caitlin mutters, and Cisco raises two hands.

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Mr. Ramon, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Dr. Wells bellows, and Caitlin bows her head as she waits for Cisco to talk.

“Uh, nothing, Doctor. Sorry,” he says sheepishly, and the professor continues on about the necessary textbooks for Mendelian genetics.

She picks up on the details and scribbles—neatly—on her notebook, her laptop unnoticed as her fingers shake.

The hour continues on, Barry and Cisco exchanging comments and jokes, with Barry relaying most of these to her. She forces herself not to smile, or react, keeping up her cold facade. She’s an expert at blocking her emotions, and a well-delivered joke from Barry Allen—of all people—shouldn’t chip away at her wall. She’s just lacking sleep and the hormones in her body are going array. The increase of cortisol in her blood must have triggered the release of dopamine. It’s biologically impossible, but she believes it the cause of her emotions. Somehow.

The class ends and Caitlin picks up her black leather satchel, hurrying to stuff all of her belongings in disarray. Barry’s taking his time, slow, languid movements as deft fingers pick up a pen and a single, spiral-bound notebook and place it in his bag—and she thinks of those deft fingers dancing up her wrist—nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

The cortisol levels must really trigger the release of oxytocin in her body, for her to think this way. Stop, she commands herself, and pushes herself to walk past Barry to go out of the classroom.

She only realizes it to be a bad idea, however, when every inch of her is pushed up against him.

She remembers that time when they were at the street-side parking, his jean-clad thighs pressed up against her bare ones, how his warmth transferred to hers as he bowed down to talk to her.

This is different, she thinks. So drastically different. The scent of his aftershave is fresher, more potent, hints of mint and sandalwood that shouldn’t come together so fragrantly, but they do. From up close, she can see the freckles below his chin, constellations of it on his neck, and all she wants to do is trace them with her nose.

Caitlin. Stop.

“Caitlin?” she hears his breathy voice, and snaps out of her reverie, almost stumbling out the aisle. His hand is there, ready to catch her, but she untangles her ankles and forces herself to go up the steps. “Hey, where you going?”

“Home,” she says curtly. She doesn’t actually know where she’s going at this point—but she knows she needs fresh air and probably two weeks without Barry Allen—without seeing him, smelling him, smiling at him.

It’s already driving her nuts.

She hears the doors push forward after she exits, and rapid taps behind her make her turn odd corners. She knows Barry’s at her heels, and as much as she wants to stop because her legs are burning (she really should ask Iris to go to spin class with her again), she doesn’t. Stopping would mean confrontation, and while Caitlin’s not one to back out of an argumentation, she’s not in the mood to realize her feelings and thoughts about a certain attractive man.

About fifteen minutes of speed walking, she arrives at the library, and as she deposits her belongings, hears borborygmic sounds erupting from her stomach. Flashing a quick smile at the student assistant, she goes straight to the cafeteria and stretches up and above to rest her legs.

It’s a fairly uneventful day, there’s no milling around of students yet because lunch time’s just about to arrive, and she grabs a tray from her left. She looks for something healthy—a Mediterranean salad, perhaps, or an apple—when another tray bumps hers. About to scold someone, she looks up, and gapes.

Barry Allen’s found her, again.

No, not found. Followed.

“Why are you following me?” she hisses, and Barry just patronizes her.

“I’m just here to get some brunch.”

“You live in a fraternity. I’m sure your pantry is better stocked than some university cafeteria with stale food.”

“Hmm, nah. Not really in the mood for Combos and beer. Besides, I need to eat some nutritious food to keep my brain going.” He bumps her, ever so softly, and she almost freezes. She hides her shock by dumping food on her plate that she doesn’t find appetizing at all. “Your food choices are pretty unconventional,” Barry notes as he follows her to pick out a table.

She picks out the farthest from the water fountain—and is still surprised to see him following her. “Stop following me,” she snaps, and Barry shrugs.

“I’m not following you. I’m just looking for a table.”

“You can sit just about anywhere.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather sit with you. Economy of cleaning. You want to help out the staff, don’t you, Cait?”

The nickname stills her. It’s been one year since she’s been called Cait, and while the emotions rush her, memories flooding her brain, it’s a welcome auditory stimulus from Barry Allen. And it surprises her.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to say “Don’t call me that,” when Barry sits down at her favorite spot, the one farthest from the crowds and nearest the window that filters just enough sunlight for reading and warmth.

“Hey. Sit down,” Barry tells her, and she sends a glare his way. Her legs apparently like the idea as they fold down the bench opposite Barry’s, and their knees bump. Static goes up her thighs and shocks her, but Barry seems to feel nothing. She tries to bend her legs in an opposite manner to Barry’s but it makes her legs cramp so bad. Crossing them would result in bruising her knees, so she settles for sparks. Er, static.

Not sparks, she insists.

“So. Do you always like morning classes?”

“Yes. I find it a good discipline for the future.”

“You don’t like sleeping in?” Barry doesn’t begin to eat, and instead focuses on poking a hole with his straw in his juice box. His concentrated stare and tongue peeking out the edge of his mouth makes him look so young, and so adorable.

Wait. No, not adorable.

Irritating. Incorrigible.

“I think a fair amount of sleep is enough to facilitate a day’s activities.”

“God, that sounds so sad. You should try staying up late, watching good movies and waking up late.”

“And that must be a practice restricted to frat boys like you. No, thank you. I’d like to keep my routine as it is, thank you very much.”

“As much as I hate pointing this out, please don’t generalize us just because we belong in a fraternity. Not all guys are douches.”

“Yes, but most men who join fraternities are.”

“I see the change between guys and men.”

“Yes. It’s too bad you don’t manifest it.”

“Ouch,” Barry says jokingly, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. To give him the time of day would mean succumbing to whatever he asks and says. And hasn’t she done that enough?

“So,” he continues, unwrapping his sandwich with deft fingers, “do you want to be my lab partner for Wells’ class?”

“No,” Caitlin answers in a firm tone, and his brows furrow. Adorable.

No. No.

“Why not? I make a great partner. I’ll bring you stuff you need, plus, I’m not exactly an idiot with two opposable thumbs,” he says, and Caitlin blushes. Insulting him was the least of her intentions, and she has the greatest urge to grab his hand and apologize.

She only does the latter, stumbling with her words. “I, I didn’t—I didn’t mean it that way, I meant that I didn’t want—I just—“

“It’s okay,” Barry chuckles. “I know that the Ice Queen has quite the reputation for working alone anyway.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, and Caitlin’s eyes widen in shock. She’s not unaware of what she’s called around the university, but for Barry Allen—personable, fun, Barry Allen—to tell her that she’s the Ice Queen, stings through her heart.

“Is that so?”

“Yup,” he tells her after chewing a mouthful of his sandwich (a virtue she appreciates). “You’re either friendless or boring. Some even call you uptight.”

“I am not uptight!” Barry only raises an eyebrow at her, and she feels her eyes widen. “You can’t call me uptight.”

“Pretty sure you are.”

“I told you, I’m not uptight,” she says, looking into his eyes, and she finds only humor in them.

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“How?”

“Go out with me.”

It takes a while for Caitlin to process the words as they are, but when she does, her jaw drops in shock.

Did Barry Allen just ask me out?