Chapter Text
Gérson's law: “An advantage should be taken in every situation, regardless of ethics.”
The West household is quiet, tonight.
The gentle glow of the crescent moon lulls the night into a gentle sleep, chirping crickets filling the silence with their soft din. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
This scene represents the crux of peaceful, suburban life: the very picture of comfort and safety.
A night almost identical to this one wells within the recesses of his memory, and he allows a quick, nostalgic smile to flit across his face. It’s gone the next second, weighed down with the reminder of what it cost him.
Going back in time and killing Nora Allen, however satisfying in the moment, was the worst mistake of Eobard Thawne’s life.
A moment of recklessness stretched into a lifetime of imprisonment in a time not his own; every moment is a glaring reminder of what he’s lost. Eobard has never been one for sentimentality, but he truly didn’t realise how much he loved his own world until he lost it.
Tonight, though, he reminds himself; tonight he sets his plan into motion.
His own speed is insufficient for the returning race through time; whether it be age or overexertion, his abilities have been on the fritz, unreliable. He’s mulled over the problem for countless hours, considering all manner of possible remedies, but he was forced to conclude that he’ll never get home.
At least, not through his own strength.
It’s a rather frustrating irony, something out of the Greek epics of old, that in order to return to his time and defeat his nemesis, he must first create him.
Eobard emerges from his place in the shadow of the bowed willow across the street, walking with no particular hurry towards the Wests’ front door. He’s not wearing his suit tonight. He can’t; it would give him away.
Phasing through the door is as easy as breathing, although disconcertingly taxing. He can feel the well of his power and how much it’s shrunk since his coming here. Every use of his speed, however minor, chips away at his ever-weakening reserves. Sometimes, he wonders if it’ll run out eventually.
To clear his mind of the distracting thoughts, Eobard sucks in a silent breath through his nose, holds it for a second, then releases it. The predator’s calm overcomes him—it’s the muted thrill of the hunt, the prolonged adrenaline of the pieces falling into place.
Tonight, he will take Barry Allen, and make him his.
He ghosts up the stairs and down the hallway, silent steps colliding with soft carpet. Barry’s room is the last in the hall; Eobard knows every inch of this house from all his hours spent watching.
They’ll never even know Barry’s gone until morning.
He doesn’t bother with the door handle—too noisy—instead choosing to phase through Barry’s door as well. Eobard steps inside the room, and—
There he is.
His mortal enemy, the man he loathes with every supercharged atom of his being, sleeping soundly in a bed with striped blankets. Fifteen-year old Barry Allen is a far cry from the man he knew, but in the sharpening of his jawline, the elongating of his childish nose—he can see him, underneath. Waiting to emerge, like a butterfly from a caterpillar’s cocoon.
Now that he’s here, he must admit that he may have made this plan for some reasons beyond strategy. When he’d first realised he was trapped here, he’d originally intended to subtly manipulate Allen from the shadows, posing as a benevolent mentor. As the years passed in tangled knots of homesickness and restless hatred, his desire turned harsher, more malicious.
And then it came to him.
Why just remake the Flash, when he can make him his?
A step closer to the prone form on the bed, and Thawne’s speed is thrumming with anticipation under his skin. Barry Allen is so unaware, so vulnerable, so killable. He can see it as clearly as a recent memory: Thawne could raise his hand and channel the dregs of his speed into making it vibrate, sharpening it like the most delicately forged knife.
He’d shove it through the boy’s chest, feeling his thick, warm lifeblood spill all over his hand and arm. Allen’s eyes would snap open in alarm, his final moments marked by suffocating agony and Thawne’s face above him. It would be so easy…
No, he thinks to himself with a shake of his head. Stick to the plan. Barry Allen must not die, or you will never return home.
Unwilling to delay any longer lest he give into the murderous impulses, Thawne stops next to the bed, then pulls the cap off the syringe in his hand. The metal of the needle glints in the cold moonlight spilling from the gap in the curtain.
“We are going to do great things together, Barry Allen,” he whispers as he plunges the needle into his neck.
The boy jerks awake at the unexpected pain, wide hazel eyes settling dazedly on Thawne without comprehension. He inhales sharply, fear creeping into his features, before he opens his mouth.
“Jo—!”
The rest of the word—Joe, Thawne is assuming; how cute—drowns in Thawne’s palm as he covers Barry’s mouth, grinning at the stricken expression. His eyes mop up every trace of delicious fear in the boy, the tension of his body as he poises to flee—not that he can.
He’ll never run from Thawne. He’ll make sure of that.
“Sleep well,” he whispers, an almost tender note entering his voice. As if obeying the command, the sedatives finally start to kick in; Allen goes slack in his arms, roaming eyes slipping closed. It’s a strange thing, to watch someone so utterly consumed with fear slip into an unwilling sleep. Lines of tension smoothen into slackened features; clawed hands trying to scrabble out of Thawne’s iron grip drop to his side.
“You’ll grow to love your new home. I know it.”
Barry wakes up afraid.
It takes him a moment to remember why, as he blinks sluggishly at the stark white ceiling above him. Flashes of memory and sensation hover just out of reach, dissipating into mist whenever he tries to grasp them—a sharp pain in his neck—glittering eyes hovering in darkness, blinding white smile—something heavy traveling through his veins, pulling him back down into unconsciousness—
His eyes snap fully open, any lingering vestige of sleep banished as adrenaline rushes to replace it. Shooting upright in the bed, Barry breathlessly scans his surroundings.
It’s a small room with strangely textured walls, everything a white so blinding it makes his eyes burn. He’s sitting on some kind of flimsy medical cot, starchy covers tangled over his legs. There’s no door.
There’s no door.
The fear is overwhelming now, a snarling beast ready to swallow him whole. His whole body is wracked by tremors, tears beading in his eyes. No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. This kind of thing, it only happens in movies. Kidnapped from home and locked in some freaky white room, that isn’t—this shouldn’t be happening.
Oh, God. Barry wants to go home.
His breaths are coming short and fast now, lungs bucking with the need for more, more, more oxygen, I can’t get enough, but there’s a painful fullness blooming in his chest. He stumbles to his feet, vision swimming with vertigo, probably caused by some unholy mixture of the drugs and the hyperventilation.
Blindly, he stumbles to a wall, running his trembling hands over their surface for… something. A door, a key, a—a fucking button to send him home, he doens’t know. “Please, God, please,” he whispers, voice cracking.
Joe’s words come back to him, a stable memory that he clings to amidst the nauseating panic swarming his mind. If you ever find yourself in a dangerous situation, the most important thing is that you don’t panic. You panic, you die.
Barry’s trembling lips curve into the ghost of a smile for a second as he recalls his foster Dad’s words, and he leans his head against the wall, the surface cool to the touch. But panicking is the body’s natural response, Barry remembers whining to Joe during their talk. How can I stop it?
You need to ground yourself, had been the Detective’s answer. Hold onto what you know. Keep track of what you don’t. Study your surroundings and the people threatening you. And, he’d said, face twisted in a bitter smile, if there’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing you can do. Don’t waste energy trying to escape from an inescapable situation. Wait. Watch. Be ready whenever a chance arises.
Barry and Iris had thought the talk was stupid. They thought Joe was just being overprotective, which was pretty normal for him. But there’d been something in his eyes that day, some untouchable heaviness, that had cemented the moment within his memories.
Never did Barry think he’d have to use his advice.
He opens his eyes, seeing nothing but the white blur of the wall, and focuses on his breathing. Joe’s voice rings clear as a bell in his mind, counting out his breaths: “In for four, Bar, you know the drill—three, four, great. Now hold, two, three, four. Breathe out through your mouth…”
Slowly, the tight feeling in Barry’s chest loosens, his breaths evening out into a pattern approaching normal. His arms are still shaking where they’re holding him against the wall, but his mind feels clearer, sharper.
“Okay,” he whispers to himself, stepping back from the wall and wiping his face. “Okay, Barry, stay calm. You’re gonna make it out of this. Joe will find you.”
A pang of homesickness hits him then, a heavy blow that caves in his ribcage and makes his heart ache. Cold prickles up his arms and legs, and Barry imagines the phantom touch of Joe; he recalls the way the man’s strong arms would wrap so securely around him like a steel wall protecting him from everything bad in the world. He always feels so safe in Joe’s arms.
Barry’s breath hitches, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. With numb arms, he attempts to embrace himself, the limbs settling awkwardly. The angle isn’t right, and they’re too skinny; they don’t surround him the way Joe’s do.
He wants his Dad.
A soft whirring to his right brings him reeling back to the here and now, and he turns his head to see a section of the wall retreating into itself, revealing a doorway. There’s a silhouette there, framed by the soft light of the industrial-looking hallway behind it.
Barry’s stomach bottoms out, and on weak legs he backs away, until his back collides with the opposite wall. His lungs have turned to stone, a vacuum without oxygen; for all his earlier efforts, he can’t seem to breathe.
The man in the doorway doesn’t move for a second, just studies Barry’s huddled form with his icy eyes. He appears to be in his thirties or forties, a shock of dark hair deepening the harsh wrinkles and sunken cheeks of his face. There’s a pair of black glasses sitting on his nose.
Barry knows this man.
“You’re—” he starts, the words dying in his throat, swallowed by the coldness of the room and the man’s gaze. He clears his throat and reminds himself how to breathe. “You’re… Dr. Har—Harrison Wells.”
The man steps further into the room, drawn lips ticking upwards in a smile. The door closes behind him, making something in Barry’s heart clench. “That I am.”
A feeling of absurdity floods through Barry as he stands, shaking with fear, in a mysterious cell with his scientific idol. The terror is ever-present, but it’s warped into something delirious, dream-like. This feels like some convoluted nightmare he’ll surely wake up from, though Barry knows with cold certainty that it isn’t. “Why—why did you bring me here? What do you want?”
“Oh, Barry,” Wells says, reaching up to remove his glasses from his face. He looks scarier without them, Barry thinks. More dangerous. “It’s not about what I want, but what you need.”
His brows draw together. “What?” he asks, in a hushed, strained whisper.
“I have brought you here not out of some twisted desire to hurt you, but for your own protection,” Wells says, words tumbling out in an almost comforting, staccato rhythm. It reminds Barry of all the videos he’s watched of the man, in which he explains his various scientific theorems and experiments. “You see, Barry, you were right. The ‘Man in Yellow,’ as you so eloquently have referred to him, is real. He killed your Mother, and he wants to kill you.” Wells takes another step closer, blue eyes standing out so starkly in the sea of ivory.
Barry didn’t think it was possible to feel any more terrified than he does in that moment, but the painful squeezing of his heart and nausea churning in his stomach prove him wrong in the worst way. “No… no, he can’t be—”
“Oh, but he is.” Closer Wells comes, until he looms directly over Barry. The boy’s chest feels like it’s about to explode, and he pushes himself as far as he can into the wall, as if by making himself smaller his kidnapper will somehow forget he’s there.
“Please,” Barry chokes, arms tightening around his chest. He drops his gaze from Wells’s face, settling it on the unblemished floor, wishing with every fibre of his being that he wasn’t here.
“Don’t worry.” Barry flinches back as a hand settles on his cheek, but the grip turns tight, bruising, not permitting escape. He screws his eyes shut as the hand tilts his head upwards forcefully, thumb ghosting over his face in something almost paternal. “Look at me, Barry.”
The words are soft, gentle. It sounds like the kind of comfort a parent might give to a distressed child, a request rather than a demand.
“Look at me!” Wells screams, spittle landing on Barry’s face. The hand on Barry’s face migrates to his neck, clamping shut like a vice and pinning him against the wall. Barry’s eyes pop open unconsciously as he gasps for air, vision fizzling into blackness as he wheezes for the smallest scrap of oxygen. His eyes flit around in their panic before settling on Wells, whose face is deceptively calm.
As quickly as it came, the choking pressure disappears, and Barry crumples. Those same hands catch him gently, guiding him to look upwards once again.
Barry doesn’t make the mistake of disobeying a second time; through tear-filled eyes he looks at the man who took him from his home, any pleas or protests he might otherwise have made buried deep down and untouchable. Wells smiles as Barry looks at him, wiping away a stray tear on the boy’s cheek.
“Oh, Barry. We're going to have so much fun together.”