Work Text:
Barry Allen could understand why to the outside observer he appeared to be one of the most unorganized people on the planet. His reputation of being late everywhere did not help to discourage this assumption; he knew that. His unique way of thinking—speaking about his thoughts and ideas, well not necessarily speaking, it more came out like stammering, were phrased in fragments, unsure convictions because one fact was leading up to the next, contradicting or adding to the last and his mind was working at some unimaginable speed to process it all!
Or he spoke in run-ons. Like that last one.
At any rate, getting past the lateness factor and his not so reliable attention span, the CSI considered himself to be pretty on top things in life. His lab was the evidence of that: all the chemicals were arranged on the shelves based mainly on their similarities in reactions, composites, and overall molecular structure.
Of course, his apartment wasn't nearly as organized to that degree. Every once in a while his books would fall off the end table and their disappearance escape his notice, but there weren't even any bookshelves to stack them on.
And, well, his fridge was all but a chilly barren wasteland with nothing aside from a six pack of beer inhabiting the interior. He'd given up commercial grocery shopping after numerous encounters where his shopping cart had been, no joke, stared down by shoppers, the looks ranging from skepticism to alarm. If he did buy anything, it was haphazardly thrown into cabinets or wherever there was free space.
The real indicting culprit of disorder was his bedroom. Sheets, covers and blankets alike were hung over the foot of the bed. Clothes littered the floor due to the quick changes he often had to make between the Flash suit and his normal outfits. At least, these were his guesses at to why anyone would find anything wrong with his apartment. But his living space was set up like how his mind worked: organized chaos.
Even though he was content with the ways things were there, Barry still found himself pretty nervous to be introducing his billionaire partner to the place when said billionaire's former residence was a giant mansion. Even Oliver 's apartment that he shared with his sister Thea was well above being modest, at least from the scientist who'd lived in average American suburbia practically all his life.
So he'd been surprised when Oliver simply looked over the apartment with a precursory glance at best, but the archer's eyes seemed to be more trained on the speedster's face and lips and couch right behind them. So most of the house tour had been forgotten in haze of Oliver's amazing explorative lips and hands that night, and more than ever Barry was so glad that their priorities agreed so well with each other.
The next morning, Barry awoke to a call from Joe asking him to come to a crime scene. There was really no reason for him to say no other than the fact that cuddle time between him and Oliver wasn't over yet, but he didn't feel like he needed to tell Joe that information nor would the man want to hear that at seven in the morning.
So begrudgingly the two of them got ready for the day, Barry to go to work and he assumed Oliver to go to the train station.
“I could drop you off at the train station before I meet up with Joe,” he had offered, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.
Oliver had barked out a laugh in response. “Barry I'd shoot you with another arrow before you could carry me. I'm not Felicity.”
Before the threat might have made him concerned, but by that point he had known that the words lacked an actual follow-through; it was just another part of their relentless banter that Barry honestly couldn't get enough of.
As such he had teased, “Yeah, I think I kind of noticed.”
His remark had been rewarded by the signature Oliver Queen eye roll, but this time some fondness had leaked into the traditionally judging gesture.
“Are you sure you don't need anything to eat before you leave?” Oliver had asked. “I know the Flash makes a lot more day errands than the Arrow.”
“I'll be fine,” Barry assured him, smiling at the gesture, without any hint of exasperation. He knew not to dismiss these kind of questions from Oliver; it wasn't nagging anymore, it never was really, it was just the way the older man was slowly starting to show everyone that he cared. “I'll just pick up something from Jitters on my way to the crime scene.”
The speedster had darted right in front of the older man, giving him a peck on the lips as a goodbye before racing out of the apartment.
He'd just run out of the building when he thought of something he'd forgotten to say. Only a millisecond or two must have passed for Oliver since the man was standing in the exact same spot as when Barry had left.
“Wait!” Barry had chided himself internally for that one; Oliver was still standing in the same place. “You know how the way out and how to the get to the train station from here, right?”
His partner sighed. “Yes, Barry.”
A wave of relief had washed over him. “Okay, great,” he said more to himself than anyone else.
Oliver's voice snapped him out of his momentary daze. He must have been thinking long enough to be noticed.
“Barry?” His lover's voice was soft but firm and his eyes flitted behind Barry to where the door was ajar. “Work?” was the one word reminder and suddenly all the day's priorities flooded back into his head.
“Oh yeah, I've got to go now or I'm going to be late,” the CSI realized quickly. “Bye!” was all he could think of saying to the man he loved before he zipped out the building for the second time, wind and electricity pulsing through his veins as he ran through sunlit city streets.
***
Barry turns his apartment key in the door lock sluggishly, the day having taken more out of him than he had anticipated. At this point he shouldn't be surprised that working simultaneously on three caseloads, saving people from four separate fires, giving Star Labs new data on the progression of his speed, and helping Iris on her article is going to be the new norm for him. He’s just thankful another rogue metahuman hasn't started wreaking havoc. Yet.
It’s when he opens the door that it hits him that something is different about the place. As Barry looks around the living room and the kitchen adjacent to it, it doesn't take long for him to realize what is wrong.
“What the—what the hell is a bookshelf doing here?”
Yes, in the corner of his living room a bookshelf about five feet tall now occupies, by the scientist’s estimates, a 20 by 15 square inches of carpet. He walks over to the wooden shelf, running his hand along one of the sides. Definitely new then. It almost has the smell as though it was built, not bought in a store, recently, not even within the last two days. And that’s not the only weird thing. Everything looks as though it’s been dusted; he crouches down, knees bent, pressing his head against the tile floor checking to confirm his suspicions that the carpet has in fact been vacuumed, as indicated by the upright fibers.
A voice, equal parts husky and amused, interrupts him from his self-initiated investigation. “Who knew it would take cleaning house to get you to bend over for me so early in the night?”
Barry’s head jolts up from the ground, feeling flustered. The red floods to his cheeks at the smug smirk the other man has donned while gazing down at him and here begins his aroused embarrassment all over again and why does Oliver do this to him?
The CSI stands up quickly, shelving those kinds of thoughts for later.
“Oliver what? I thought you were going back today. And why is everything—"
He’s cut across by his partner first before he can finish his question. “Organized?” Oliver hedges as an answer.
“Actually I was going to say out of place. I mean, where are the couch blankets?” Barry begins, gesturing to the couch, assorted with only two small pillows at either end of the piece of furniture now.
Oliver sighs, stating, “Barry, a couch doesn't need blankets. It makes the place look like a college dorm.”
“We needed covers last night,” he rebuts firmly. Oliver rolls his eyes slightly at the remark, but he says nothing to contradict it.
He moves on to the next item on the list. “And why is there a bookshelf in my living room? I mean did you actually build this today?”
“You've said that you need somewhere to keep your books,” his partner annoyingly brings up. “Anyway, half of your things being on the floor is kind of ridiculous, Barry.”
“No, but there’s a system to it. It all works in my head. I know what’s where and where to leave things so I remember,” the scientist explains, pacing now at the stress of trying to find where all his things are. “Why… why did you do this? Was this part of showing me I still don’t know how to ‘case every inch’ of an environment?”
“No,” his partner shuts down quickly, “this doesn't anything to do with that.”
Barry’s stress and bitterness that flared up at recalling that memory ebbs at the reply.
He tries more for humor this time. “Then are you trying to be my own personal Martha Stewart?” He quips with a grin.
The billionaire casts him a bemused glare. “No,” the older man repeats but this time it is said with a far more condescending tone.
“Barry, I just… I just want to help you whether we’re on a mission or if you need a bookshelf. Is that reason enough?” Oliver asks, voice soft and gentle, just above a whisper. Barry loves it when the older man speaks to him in that tone because he knows Oliver uses it only for him.
It’s like his words melt away any prior fatigue and confusion Barry had been feeling before and this warmth and understanding fills him in its place.
“Yeah,” Barry replies with a grin. “It is.”