Like most of these fics, this started out as a request on /tr/ a while back; this was the first request I filled, for memory. I could be wrong though. Also, because it was a request, no, I don't know exactly what's wrong with him and no, it's not an accurate representation of any kind of illness. I know.

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine, in any way, shape or form.

It all started, or so they liked to think, with a single name.

"Lucas."

"Who's Lucas, kiddo?"

"He's my friend, he's sitting right over there." Barry pointed to the couch where Lucas sat perched on the edge, grinning sheepishly at the mess of pencil sharpenings and broken crayons lying on the carpet.

"Where?"

"On the couch! Don't be stupid Dad, he's been here all afternoon and we've been playing and drawing and eating lunch. Oh, I'm thirsty, can I have some juice? Hey Lucas, do you want some juice?"

Of course, Lucas wanted some juice. It had been hours since they had last been offered any juice and he was just as thirsty as Barry.

"Orange or apple?"

"Apple, apple, apple!" Barry exclaimed loudly and ran back to the coffee table to help Lucas pick up the crayons; they could use some of them again if they tore the paper off the outside, there was still a lot of crayon left on the inside. He made grabbing motions when his father returned with the cup of juice and drank half of it before he put it down roughly on the table. "You didn't get one for Lucas, dad, he's gonna be thirsty now."

"Yes I did."

"Oh." Barry looked again and noticed the cup of orange juice just in front of Lucas' drawing. "I didn't even see you give it to him Dad."

"I'm fast. What're you drawing today?"

"Do you remember how we went to Lake Verity last weekend and we saw lots of Goldeen in the water and we stayed for ages and had fun?" Barry asked. He carefully selected the remnants of a blue crayon.

"Of course."

"Well that's me," Barry indicated a yellow blob on the page. "And that's you," The bigger yellow blob. "And that's Mum and that's Goldeen there near the water," The green and orange blobs, respectively. "And that's Lucas and the Bidoof he made friends with." He gestured the side-by-side red and brown blobs.

"We didn't take Lucas to the Lake last weekend, kiddo."

"Did too."

"Okay," Palmer ruffled his son's hair in good humour. "Make sure you don't spill your juice."

"I won't Dad."

That was the first time either of them had heard about Lucas. It was normal, they knew, for five year olds to have imaginary friends and Lucas seemed to be the best kind of imaginary friend in those first few months. It was never Lucas that tread mud through the house. They were never Lucas' socks lying all over the floor. Lucas never broke any glasses or plates or broke the toaster when he tried to cook toast on his own one morning. That was all Barry, and he usually owned up to it; or, he was usually caught in the act and had no choice but to own up. As a child with a vivid imagination and a habit for getting himself into trouble, Barry was rarely left unsupervised for very long. But on the rare occasion when a vase was broken with no one else around, Lucas still never took the blame. With a rushed 'I'm really sorry, really', Barry was already out of the room and on to his next adventure.