title | call it karma, call it bad luck, call it a cruel twist of fate
notes | Here you go anon. I’m not sure this is quite what you were looking for, it’s more an angst-fest then denial. I’ve got another similar prompt, so I will definitely try and rework this idea the other way as well but hopefully this will suffice for the moment.
If there exists a lifetimeachievement award for poor timing, Barry Allen is no doubt a front-runner. If
competition even exists in his bracket, they are likely distant echoes of brief
ironies that pale in comparison because really, how can this be happening
again? How can he, once again, have fallen in love with the wrong woman, at the
wrong time? He’s never been one to believe in fate, but he’s running out of
logical explanations for how on Earth this can keep happening.
Maybe it’s karma. Maybe
it’s bad luck. Maybe he just needs start opening his own two eyes a little
earlier. Maybe he needs to start learning from his mistakes and saying
something before it’s too damn late.
Except, he’s pretty sure
it doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s already too damn late and he’s
definitely sure he never wants to fall in love and do this all over again. Iris
had been his first love and watching his chance with her slip through his
fingers (repeatedly because thank you time travel) had been painful. It had
torn him apart, left him a shell of his usual buoyant personality but he had
recovered and moved on.
But Caitlin? Caitlin is
the true love he’s always believed in and he knows, watching them from across
the lab, that there will be no recovering from this.
When her powers had begun
to develop, it had snapped into place all the little pieces that were swimming
around in the back of his mind, all the little misinterpreted emotions that
he’d been passing off as friendship for over a year. The thought of losing her,
of her uncontrollable powers draining away the woman he had come to rely on so
much, left him devastated in a way he hadn’t been since the night he watched
his mother die. In that moment, watching her skin pale and her eyes drain of
their dancing warmth, he knew he was in love with her and there was nothing he
wouldn’t do to keep her safe.
It’s a knife to the gut to
realize the only thing that can do that is her former fiancé. Only Firestorm’s
constant warmth has been able to balance out the effects of Killer Frost’s
chill, despite their many, increasingly desperate attempts to find an alternate
Barry’s pained gaze
focuses on the way they’re curled together, standing a little ways apart from
everyone else. Without really meaning to, he thinks back to that afternoon, so
very long ago, when he’d first worked up the courage to ask Caitlin about
Ronnie and she’d smiled that far away, wistful smile and told him about the
nicknames he’d given them: fire and ice. They’re so appropriate now that it
breaks his heart into tiny pieces, like the shattered surface of a lake, and
then sets those pieces ablaze.
It only hurts worse when
her gaze catches his, startlingly blue now but still achingly familiar anyway,
and he can read the way she feels torn in two and he knows, dammit he knows,
that she’s feeling all the same things he is.