This took a little longer than usual, but I'm just going to blame that on sickness. And the holidays. And also a little laziness.

So, this is the eagerly awaited angst-fest! For those of you that have been reading me for years, I'm pretty sure you know where this is heading... For those of you that don't, well... I hope you enjoy it. It's a little cliffhanger-y, and while I do apologize (because I rarely do cliffhangers, because I'm so bad at waiting for them myself) it needed to end there. Just trust me.

This has actually been a ton of fun to write, and I've been loving everyone's responses so much I think I might be looking to fulfill another long-loved trope once I'm finished with this... but only once I'm finished!

I don't want to get ahead of myself. ;)

$4$

Midnight
You come & pick me up
No headlights
Could end in burning flames or paradise

5.

In the end, it was her fault. It had been her fault from the beginning, so it seemed only fitting that she be responsible for the end.

Her limbs ached and there was a kind of weariness that had settled deep in her bones. She couldn't recall every feeling this tired in her life—save for the week after Ronnie's death. But that was emotional weariness, brought on by her own depression. This was a physical, the kind of tired that only occurred after hours of exertion and stress.

Which was exactly what happened to her.

Some new metahuman had got it into his head that the Flash was his arch-nemesis, so he went about attempting to kill him in the most ineffective ways possible. Namely, with mirrors.

Mirrors.

When that braintrust of an idea didn't pan out, he resorted to old-fashioned stalking until he spotted her talking to Barry while he was in costume. Which led to him kidnapping her and locking her in a room. Full of mirrors.

Honestly.

She was extremely grateful his powers were only half-formed, because all the normal reflections had given her a hell of a migraine to start with. She could only imagine what annoyance he could wreak once he could control the beams of light.

It had actually been embarrassingly easy to catch him. Technically, she was the one that had done it—right as Barry crashed through the building, she slammed the largest pane of glass against crazy stalker man's head.

Dr. Wells and Cisco insisted on looking her over, which was wholly unnecessary, really. Granted, she had a few bumps and bruises and maybe there was a nasty scrape over her temple, but it was nothing that couldn't be fixed with her own med kit at home and a big glass of merlot.

Of course, they disagreed with her rather impeccable logic. A different day, she might have fought with them more, but the entire time they worked Barry stood behind them, arms crossed and expression serious. Even at her pissiest, something told her not to push his buttons right there.

After an hour of padding and prodding, Dr. Wells and Cisco finally left. Which left her with Barry, alone. For the first time all night.

He had been silent ever since she got back, but she had done her best to ignore him up until now. She couldn't do that anymore, because there was nowhere to look other than down at the replacement for her wrecked blouse, a S.T.A.R. Labs sweatshirt—where did they keep finding more of them?—or at him.

"I should head home," she whispered, finally giving in and looking up. She couldn't read his expression, not quite, but he didn't look happy.

"Okay."

She turned to pick up her belongings, but she needn't have bothered, because before she could get halfway, there was a whoosh and then she was inside her apartment.

Dammit. She wished she could get used to that already.

Barry was still standing behind her when she turned around, with that unreadable expression on his face. She expected him to zoom away, but he stayed there, watching her.

She didn't know what to say. She wondered if she should be comforting him then, but that just didn't seem right when he didn't appear sad.

"You could've died," he said quietly.

"No, I couldn't," she argued immediately, a knee-jerk reaction to his comment like always.

He didn't seem pleased to hear her signature contrariness. If anything, he looked more annoyed, his brow furrowing, which only served to deepen the shadows that fell across his face.

Neither one of them had bothered turning on a light in her apartment. She didn't need to bother, as she had the layout long since memorized and she didn't particularly enjoy dwelling on the emptiness of her apartment.

"No, Caitlin," he replied, his voice hard. He didn't even seem to notice the relative darkness of the apartment. "You could've died."

In that moment, she knew this was one of those arguments that she was never going to win. She still tried anyway, because no one could ever accuse her of giving up easily. "You almost die all the time," she countered, pursing her lips stubbornly.

He let out a growl in the back of his throat and stepped towards her. She just managed to stop herself from jumping back in surprise. She hadn't anticipated that kind of visceral reaction.

"That's different."

Caitlin let out a huff that was part laugh, part shout. "Yeah, the difference is that it's usually you."

He took a step forward again, so close that their chests brushed. "Exactly," he stressed, eyes dark and intense. "That's how it's supposed to be."

She opened her mouth—because, really, what kind of ass backwards logic was that?—but then his hands were cupping her jaw, cradling it really, and he had bent down to rest his forehead against hers. "You could've died," he repeated. "I could've lost you."

Oh.

She definitely did not know what to say to that. But yet again, before she could form her next words, Barry was interrupting her, his mouth covering hers and deepening the kiss in the span of a heartbeat.

The kiss was bruising, but his hands on her face were gentle, coaxing her to respond seconds before he stole her breath away when his tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth.

His kisses were familiar, but very different. Strange as it seemed, she was used to his lips on hers, comfortable with the mix of pressure and slickness, primed with her body's immediate reaction to his stimuli.

She didn't notice them moving, but then her back was thumping against the living room wall and apparently they had crossed the length of the apartment.

He certainly had his talents.

Barry broke the kiss, and the darkness in his eyes made her inhale sharply. She had seen him upset before, and angry, and even jealous—but she had never seen him look like this. Lost. Afraid. Hurt.

And looking only at her while he did.

"Barry—" she began, but stopped. She still couldn't find the words she needed—she should have been comforting him, but instead, she was standing there, silent and uncertain.

He shook his head, once, and then he was resting his forehead against hers again. His hands had slid down her face to her arms. He was rubbing soothing circles into her skin, from her elbows up to her shoulders and back down again. It took her a moment to realize that he was only doing this because she was shivering. Violently.

Maybe she wasn't as fine as she'd thought.

She didn't know what to do, or say, but she did know that she needed him near her more than she ever had before. Rather than voice that recognition, she tipped her chin forward and kissed him.

Caitlin knew she was using him again, but this time seemed different than before, because it felt like Barry was taking as much as he was offering.

He hadn't stopped touching her—in fact, he seemed to be on a one-man mission to her body back to a normal temperature again and stop the shivering. She appreciated that effort, because when they broke apart so he could bury his face in the crook of her neck, he teeth immediately began to chatter.

But it was mostly okay, because by that point he had slipped his hands under the heavy material of her sweatshirt. When Barry's hands enveloped her waist, was nothing but skin-to-skin contact, and it felt heavenly.

The palms of his hands were very nearly hot against her skin, and she released a shaky little whimper of pleasure at the almost overwhelming sensation. She wanted—needed—to wrap herself around Barry like a climbing vine, absorbing every joule of heat he gave her.

Almost as if he had heard her plan, Barry removed his hands from her waist, only to bend at the knees, cup the backs of her thighs, and heft her into the air. All in the span of a second.

She hadn't been expecting the rather smooth move—if it hadn't been so quick, she might have yelped—but then he was wedging her between himself and the wall and his hands were under her sweatshirt again and she was practically melting, his heat felt so good.

He was still kissing her throat, alternating sides while his fingers traced the dips and slopes of her ribcage. His kisses were light and gentle, almost brushes of skin against skin, and then he would nip her collarbone or swipe his tongue against the space where her jaw met her ear. Whenever he did this, she would whimper his name and clutch at his shoulders tighter.

Her legs had wrapped around his waist, the bare skin of her thighs rubbing against his jeans as her skirt hiked up higher. She could feel him pressing more and more insistently against her, and when she tightened her legs around his hips instinctively, he groaned. She couldn't help it though, because his body was so much warmer and she needed his heat. The fact that he seemed to enjoy it as much as her was just a happy coincidence.

He pulled his mouth away from her neck, and the whimper of frustration fell from her mouth unbidden. He rested his forehead against her own, but it was hard for her to focus when she could feel his fingers brushing against the underside of her breasts. With every pass of his fingertips, her skin tingled and tightened in anticipation.

"Caitlin," he whispered, thumb dragging up along the slope of her skin. She was trying to listen to him, she was, but his hands were distracting and—

"Caitlin, I need you," he murmured, his brow furrowing over his dark eyes. Her breath—which before had been panting—caught in her throat as the words settled in her bones. He was staring at her again, lost and desperate and—"I care about you," he hesitated for a second, but powered on. "I l—"

She didn't let him finish. She couldn't, really. She couldn't risk letting him finish that sentence, and opening them up for too much risk. It was—it was dangerous to let him admit that.

Or so she told herself.

It had been too easy to shut him up with another kiss, because he was just as addicted to their connection as she was. It probably wasn't fair of her, but her brain kicked in before her emotions could think twice.

She was quite firmly wedged against him, and with her legs wound around his waist the way they were, she didn't have to worry about staying upright as she wound both hands into his hair. There was nowhere for him to go, and—more importantly—nothing for him to say.

But kissing him didn't make him feel any better, because she could still feel his unspoken words floating in the air, taunting her. Her chest felt a little like it was cracking open all over against, only this time she felt raw and exposed instead of frozen and hollow.

She wasn't sure which sensation she hated more.

She was grateful Barry didn't fight her on her blatant distraction technique, because she still wouldn't have any words to defend herself. Instead of doing that, though, his hands slid the rest of the way and cupped her breasts.

The sudden contact tore a gasp out of her throat, but his mouth swallowed the sound. She hadn't been prepared for the feeling, and briefly wondered how he was still managing to shock her at this point.

They were doing this so backwards, she thought, as he expertly manipulated her body, using just the right amount of pressure and resistance that she needed.

He broke the kiss, and she was afraid he was going to start talking again—but instead of saying anything about feelings, he pushed her sweatshirt up and ducked his head.

The man was good with his mouth, and while she knew that already, she still couldn't stop herself from moaning his name as his lips dragged against her overly sensitive skin.

He had to heft her up a little higher so he didn't hand to bend down as much, but there was no point in pretending as though that didn't just make her hotter. She was past lying to herself about that, so she buried her fingers in his thick hair and clutched his head to her chest.

Caitlin whimpered words of breathless encouragement as his teeth and tongue elicited tiny shocks and shivers down her spine. His hands pushed her skirt up even further, until it was fully ringed around her waist and he had full access to her plain black panties.

It wasn't easy for her to move much with his big head in the way, and his hand already had her underwear pushed to the side and was working studiously to build up her already aching slickness. Her body was well past primed, and she didn't need him going and distracting her again.

She nearly lost her focus when he slid a finger inside her and crooked, but she wasn't falling or that trick again and grabbed a handful of his hair tighter and tugged him up.

She didn't miss his unrestrained moan at her borderline manhandling, and filed that little fact away for a later time. "Barry," she said, her tone a command. "Put a condom on. Now."

This time, he didn't bother distracting her.

She was grateful for his powers, and even more so for just him, particularly when he wrapped a hand around her thigh, opened her up further, and pressed inside, all within moments of taking off his pants and putting on the condom.

"Barry," her breath caught on a gasp, and his name came out as broken, high-pitched syllables. How was it possible that she could miss this with him so much?

A knowing grin spread across his face, but it seemed far more taunting when he didn't start to move and instead kept her pinned against the wall with his hips.

Caitlin's brow furrowed in confusion when he didn't immediately start to move. What was with this man and wanting to torture himself—and her, by extension? She just wanted him to fuck her into the wall.

Literally.

"Goddammit, Barry," she growled, head banging ineffectually against the wall in frustration. As a last-ditch attempt, she inhaled shakily and clenched her inner muscles.

His smile slipped to more of a grimace, but otherwise he didn't move. She could've cried, really, because from his angle she couldn't get any of the stimulation she needed without his assistance.

Digging her nails into his t-shirt clad shoulders, she levelled him the best glare she could manage while panting. "I would've been better off with my vibrator."

Watching his eyes darken with barely restrained want was satisfying to a degree, but not nearly enough for her tastes. Rolling her eyes, she released one of his shoulders and slipped her hand down, between their bodies—

Or she would've, had he not caught her hand and pinned it against the wall by her head.

She narrowed her eyes at the borderline display of aggression—why, yes, she was capable of hypocrisy—but him moving closer caused their bodies to shift and she honestly didn't care at this point.

Very, very capable of hypocrisy.

"This isn't just sex to me," Barry said, and her chest seized with unexpected terror, even as her body rejoiced in his closeness. "Tell me that this is just sex for you."

She opened her mouth again, but like before, she couldn't get the words out. She wanted to say yes, but she also wanted to say no, and her added lust wasn't making things easier. She didn't know what she wanted.

Barry snapped his hips at a pace that was this side of punishing, and the noise that escaped her throat was akin to a half-cry. "Tell me," he growled, never breaking eye contact, and then he did it again.

She was caught somewhere between flinching away and pulling closer, but every time she was about to make up her mind, he would snap his hips again and her thoughts would dissolve. She wasn't used to this kind of brutal, determined pace, and yet it seemed to be exactly when her body needed, as it climbed steadily towards a release faster than she could ever imagine possible. She had wanted him to fuck her into the wall, and he was making due on that desire.

His hand, which still had her own pinned to the wall, flexed, lacing their fingers together. The muscles in her arm tensed, instinctively wanting to shy away from the obvious display of affection, but then his free hand was slipping between their bodies and unerringly finding her clit. Her voice hitched on a little whine, brow furrowing once more as her body tried desperately to process all the stimuli.

Barry dropped his forehead against hers again, his nose bumping against her own as he continued his rigorous pace. She wanted him to kiss her, but she didn't dare make a movement to do so. She wanted so much but didn't dare take anything.

Barry wasn't like that.

"I care about you, Caitlin," he said, clearly. His face was too close for her to ignore, she couldn't look away. She might have closed her eyes, but it was too late for that now, because she was already firmly under his spell.

The pleasure was getting to her, it was too much but not enough, and yet he still continued on, undeterred. With every thrust, all the breath left her lungs in a pant, but Barry barely seemed winded. Maybe he was just too damned determined to be winded.

"Shutting me up with sex isn't going to make me not care about you," he continued, and she could feel the heat of his words wash across her skin temptingly. "You can't avoid me this time."

Her legs clutched his desperately, and her toes were numb again, but this time the tingles weren't from the cold and Jesus, they were going to need to try this again because—

"Tell me."

Caitlin's orgasm caught her so hard and so fast she didn't have the chance to prepare, but the tipping point had nothing to do with his hips and everything to do with his eyes—namely, the stubbornness and determination and, oh god, love—

"It doesn't."

His own orgasm came chasing right after her own, but it was too late, because the words were already out of her mouth and she couldn't pull them back. Even as her breath began to regulate and she could feel her pulse slow, she knew it was too late. She had ruined everything.

Barry was never going to forgive her, and she was never going to forgive herself.

Edit:

Okay, so some of you razor sharp folks have pointed out to me that Caitlin's response doesn't quite make sense... that would be because it was a typo.

However, upon rereading what I wrote, and thinking about how it applies to +1, I decided that I'm keeping it. ...Because... reasons.

Just trust me, that despite the typo, everything has a plan! In fact, it has even more of a plan than it did 24 hours ago. In fact, I already have a quarter finished, and my goal is to have the rest done by New Year's.

So, thank you for that, everyone!