Barry, it's cold outside

When Barry Allen shows up, Iris is on her second glass of wine, elbow-deep in chopped vegetables and dirty bowls, and a well-meaning attempt at a nice, sit-down holiday dinner. His face, at her door, on this day, in this weather, is like a last burst of sunshine exploding in her heart and stretching out.

"Barry!" Iris' smile is wide as she swings the door open to reveal a Central City covered in snow, piled higher than her knees. She hops a bit from foot to foot to keep warm as the cold air drifts in. "You made it!"

"Of course," Barry says, walking into her outstretched arms. Her hug is all the warmer and more welcome in contrast to the cold outside. "I wouldn't miss it."

Truth be told, Barry hates the holidays.

But, Iris had said: all my favorite men under one roof, breaking bread, what more could I ask for? Which meant Eddie was joining West family celebrations, and Barry couldn't avoid attending. At least, not without bowing out of yet another part of Iris' life.

When he reluctantly pulls away, his breath fogs up between them. "I mean, Iris West, cooking dinner? You weren't kidding when you were talking about the impossible."

"Alright, mister," Iris returns his sly grin with one of her own. She slaps the side of his arm lightly, and he flinches, almost like he used to. "Tis the season and whatever."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, come in already," Iris steps back and closes the door behind him. He stomps snow off of his boots before kicking them off, and drops a gym bag on the ground beside them. There are snowflakes in his hair. She says, almost like a question: "It's not any better."

"Not really," Barry confirms. "It's getting worse – there are frozen streets downtown."

"You shouldn't have come if it wasn't safe," Iris says, her brow furrowing. He wants to reach out and smooth the worry away. But he doesn't.

"I was careful," he says. He glances around the house, but it seems like he's the first to arrive. "I thought I was late."

Iris follows his gaze and rolls her eyes teasingly. She walks backwards towards the kitchen, and he is a slow two steps behind her.

"You would have been-" she says, her back against the countertop, pausing mid-sentence as Barry scopes out the scene.

Before she can say another word, he can see the brownies are just burning in the oven, and the potatoes are about to over-boil the pot. He dashes about the kitchen, turning off the oven and putting the pot to simmer, before Iris can blink. Because he has a second to spare, and she wouldn't notice, he mixes the salad.

That I'm-so-clever smile blossoms on her face. She scrunches her nose as she admits: "If I didn't tell you to come an hour earlier than everyone else."

"Devious," he says, shaking his head.

"I know it wasn't all your fault," Iris declares generously with a wave of her hand. She glances at the window over the sink. "The snow."

Then her eyes go wide and adorable, and she gasps a perfect "O" of breath. "The brownies!"

Barry suppresses a smile as he watches her retrieve them from the oven.

"Perfect timing," Iris says, letting out a whew of relief. She pauses, for just a moment, forehead crinkled. "I don't even remember turning the oven off." She's a bit embarrassed when she admits, "Must be the wine."

"Brownies," Barry says, his lips turning up in that familiar, teasing smile, "are not exactly a Christmas treat."

"They are if you dust icing sugar snow on top," Iris says as she sets the brownies down. When she turns back to look at him, her lip clipped by her upper teeth, her brows drawn together, a helplessly adorable expression on her face, he already knows that he won't be able to refuse, whatever she says.

"Alright," he sighs exaggeratedly, "What do you need help with?"

Across town, Eddie is holed up at the precinct. His car has been snowed in in the parking lot, with crews focusing on clearing emergency roads to respond to the 9-11 calls. For a three-block perimeter, the roads are covered in ice.

He leans back in his chair, then paces the building. He would grab a colleague and get a few punches in on the bag upstairs, if it wasn't dressed in a shirt and tie in anticipation of Iris' dinner.

He hasn't put a photo of her on his desk yet, out of respect for Joe, so, as he waits, he looks at the two pictures of her on his partner's desk. One is of young Iris and Barry sitting on a bench in a park: his face is too serious for his age, while she is beaming and has an arm around him, her fingers raised over his head in bunny ears. The other, more recent shot, is of Iris and a recently resuscitated Barry in the West living room – in this one they're both smiling, at each other, Iris about to burst into a laugh.

Eddie loves the photos, and hates them at the same time.

Truth be told, he has always been a little jealous of Barry. Of the place he held in Joe's life, taking up his time and resources while he lay half-alive in Star Labs. Then of the place he held in Iris' after he woke up. It doesn't take a detective to figure out that Barry had feelings for his girlfriend.

Luckily, he thinks, Iris is no detective.

Cookies.

He should've known. Iris West had had a thing for sugar cookies ever since they first made them, in high school, for a holiday bake sale to raise money for one or another of Iris' extra-curriculars. They had stayed up so late making them that they both fell asleep on the couch afterwards, waiting for the icing to dry.

She had insisted that he help her through three separate batches – only one of which they burned.

Barry had been so tired from school and baking and sugar and laughing with Iris that he had forgotten, completely, that he would be spending the next day on his way to Iron Heights, to spend Christmas in jail, with his dad.

When he had left the next morning headed to the bus depot, he had found a Ziploc full of the cookies in his coat pocket, with a napkin-note that read, in curly sharpie: "Come home soon."

Caitlin didn't like the holidays until she met Ronnie.

"You're Caitlin Snow," Ronnie had said when they first started dating, "How can you not love a white Christmas?"

But without him, they don't make sense. She doesn't want to go home without him. Her family had loved him. He had made social gatherings more bearable, with his warm smile and his even warmer charm. She isn't sure she knows how to be herself, anymore, without him. She isn't sure if she is even ready to be.

So, without telling anyone, she stays in Central City. In between breaks from analysing DNA samples, she busies herself playing around on Star Labs' newly re-programmed computers.

That's when she notices it. That's when it clicks.

Barry takes the lead, requesting ingredients like a surgeon waiting for his tools, while she finishes her wine. He can feel her eyes on him as he mixes the dough, can almost hear the grin in her voice. It's only after she's got the dough rolled out in front of her, ready to cut into shapes, that she stops looking at him like that – that his cheeks cool down enough for him to keep his voice steady, and his face neutral when he says:

"You stopped writing about the Flash." He's not making eye contact, so she knows that he knows it's a touchy subject.

There's always been a gulf between them when it came to the Flash and Iris.

First, they stopped speaking altogether because he didn't want her to write about him. Now that she's stopped, it's as if they're talking in circles, because she still hasn't told him. She hasn't told him about the Flash pulling Eddie from the car. She hasn't told him about how the Flash visited her that night.

And he hasn't told her that he knows. Or how he knows. Or that his name isn't really Ralph.

Barry feels sick at the idea that they're both keeping secrets from each other. But he also doesn't know how, this far in, to make it any different. It's not like he can just say, I miss you, when they've seen each other every day since she stopped seeing the Flash. It's not like he could let himself flirt with her when he wasn't wearing a mask. It's not like she would even want him to.

You know it's bad when the real costume comes on when the mask is off.

"Yeah," Iris replies, her eyes narrowing for a second and then turning back to her cookie cutters. There was a reason she hadn't told Barry yet. She hadn't fully examined or considered it, but she knew it had something to do with the relief she felt that it wasn't Barry that was pulled from the car, that the Flash didn't know about her best friend. And as long as he didn't know, he couldn't hurt him.

"Careful," she says, gesturing towards the dough that Barry has pressed paper-thin. "Not too thin, okay?"

"I think I know how to roll dough," Barry says. "Baking is a science, after all."

Iris grins to herself and mouths, "Size to heat ratio," when he says it. When she turns to him, he presses his mouth shut, as if she's caught him out.

"Some things never change," she laughs.

"Yeah," he agrees. But it sounds different this time. Almost sad. Kind of lingering. Or maybe that's just what his voice sounds like, across this gulf.

Barry presses the dough together and rolls it out again. Iris dusts her cookie cutter in flour and stamps the shapes free.

"I don't know," she says at last. She concentrates a bit too much on a particular Christmas tree. "I thought it might be better to focus on other meta-humans for a while. Plus with Eddie's investigation and all, it just seemed a bit inappropriate."

"I'm sorry," Barry says. She can feel his eyes on her. The sincerity in his voice tugs at her chest.

"It's fine," she says, moving on to the next cookie. "It's not like it's your fault." The rolling pin stops moving. "I mean," she says, "I didn't stop because you and dad wanted me to, you know? It was my decision."

Barry's throat bobs as he looks at her. He doesn't say anything.

She blinks, and it's almost like he shifts in her vision: from hands on the rolling pin, side-long stare to one hand leaning on counter, facing her head-on. Iris narrows her eyes and squeezes his shoulder. She tries to shake the déjà vu from her, but it clings, with the sound of Barry's I've missed you, too.

Too much wine, Iris.

"Barry, it's really fine," Iris forces a smile, "It was just an assignment for school that I got a bit carried away with… It's not as important as the investigation."

"Yes, it is," he says, before he can help himself. "You're important. Your blog, the way you write about everything, how you... felt about the Flash – it was inspiring."

"Barry…" Iris is making her so-embarrassed-I-need-to-hide-my-face expression.

"I hope you keep going, Iris," his lips are pulled into a half-grin, "What you have to say, how you see the world – it matters."

"You didn't feel this way before," Iris says slowly.

I have always felt this way, he wants to say, about you.

"I…" Barry almost chokes on the words that come next: "was wrong."

"WHAT!"

"I was wrong, okay, calm down, it happens…"

"It happens? I'm sorry," Iris looks around the kitchen with a bewildered expression, as if there is someone there besides them to witness the momentous occasion, "Barry Allen being wrong doesn't just happen…"

"Don't say it…"

Iris turns her bright eyes on him with a tilt of her head. "Summer. Oh. Seven."

"Oh," now Barry is narrowing his eyes and shaking his head. "You went there."

"All summer, Barry. I told you, you were wrong, but you insisted. All. Summer." Iris says. She gestures wildly with the snowflake cookie cutter. "And who was right?"

"I mean, on a technicality," he dismisses her with a gesture that has her pointing at him with the rolling pin.

"Excuse me?"

"I still maintain that-." Barry carefully removes the cookie cutter from Iris' hands like it was a dangerous weapon.

"Oh," she interrupts him, taking a step back. "So that's how you're going to play this, huh?"

"Just consider-"

And it happens, before he sees it coming or can do anything to stop it. Iris West has reached into the flour bag and thrown a handful of it right into his face.

"Really." He deadpans, but she is giggling too hard to hear him. Her giggles become laughter, and then the sounds she makes are barely audible as she clutches her stomach.

"You look like the Ghost of Christmas past."

Barry takes a step towards her.

She leans back against the counter, still laughing.

He takes another step towards her, and she reaches a weak hand up between them, but can't contain the giggles.

With a smirk, Barry reaches an arm around her. Their eyes meet. The laughter stops. Her mouth shifts from wide grin to soft smile. He is close enough to pull her forward, if he wanted to. He is close enough to lean down, if she wanted him to.

Instead, he grabs some flour himself, and blows it into her face.

It's not long before they're flinging fistfuls of the stuff at each other, ducking behind counters and dissolving into laughter.

"Great," Iris laughs, throwing a final pinch in his direction. "Now it's snowing in here."

Before the powder settles, Barry enjoys the world in 360-degree slow motion. There's a smattering of flour on her nose, and swiped across her cheek. Her sweater is hanging off of one shoulder, the cuff over the edges of her finger, while the other sleeve is rolled up to her elbow. Her eyes are bright, and her smile is brighter.

Then time picks up again, and before he knows it, Iris is dusting herself off.

She looks at him, up and down, as messy as she, then dons a satisfied smile. "I think I won that battle."

"I don't know about that," he says, reaching out to swipe the powder off her nose. If he hesitates before touching her, she doesn't notice.

"I should probably get dressed before Eddie gets here," she says. "I'm a mess."

You look amazing, he wants to say. Messy and honest and real. But the name Eddie alone is enough to keep the words caught in his throat. So, instead, he smirks and says: "I think he's figured that out by now."

Iris pushes him playfully, and then she is gone, disappearing up the stairs and into a room that used to be one door down from his. And it all happens way too fast.

Cisco is at the bottom of a dogpile of nieces and nephews when Caitlin calls. The youngest of the bunch, a munchkin with pudgy cheeks and big, brown eyes, answers the phone like a pro. He attempts garbled conversation before extending his entire arm to hand the phone to Cisco.

"It's Elsa," he whispers, his eyes wide and conspiratorial.

Cisco laughs. The other kids scatter. The Pudge-kin is waiting, wide eyed, bubbling spit. Cisco tugs the kid's elf hat low over his ears and he giggles.

"Hello?"

"Cisco," Caitlin says.

"Ah," Cisco says. "Snow. Elsa. I get you, kiddo."

"We have a problem."

"It's not an ice queen, is it?" He ruffles the Pudge-kin's hair.

"What? No, but—" he can practically hear Caitlin frowning. "Kind of, yes. I think."

"No," Cisco says, but his voice says YES! And his smile is slow and mischievous. She hears him navigate through family, walking up stairs, and finally closing a door.

"Tell me," he says. "Everything."

As soon as Iris is out of sight, Barry pulls out his cell phone. There are three missed calls from Star Labs, and two from Joe. In a flash, Barry has changed into his costume and is heading out the door. He only pauses once to confirm that the shower is running.

Joe gets the call while he's at the precinct. He's the only one that knows where Barry is. Because if he isn't at the precinct, and he isn't at Star Labs, then he's with Iris. He looks at Eddie as he dials. He watches him smile at a picture of Iris, and an awkward feeling of guilt or sadness or shame overcomes him, and he doesn't know if it's because he's lying to his partner, or to his daughter's boyfriend, or because he's about to interrupt what is probably the highlight of Barry's week.

But as the voicemail kicks in, he knows the real reason without wanting to accept it.

It's because he's still lying to Iris. To protect her, he reminds himself. But he doesn't feel any better.

There is a distinct feeling Iris gets when Barry is gone.

It was overwhelming the night the lightning struck, and for the nine months that followed. Every time she looked up at a doorway, expecting him to walk through, and he didn't, she felt it. Every time her phone rang, and it wasn't his number, or it wasn't his voice, she felt it.

Then, Eddie had let her cry in his arms. He had walked through the doorways; his voice came through her phone. The feeling lingered, still, but she was less aware of it.

When they fought over her blogging about the Flash, Iris had felt it again. It was a desperate, clawing feeling; and she hated it. The loneliness that came from Barry's unexpected absence was unlike anything else she had ever felt. Since he woke up, she had felt herself constantly, instinctively, bracing for it.

And when Iris got out of the shower, Barry wasn't there.

Captain Cold, Cisco said. Caitlin had agreed.

The ice was unusual considering the temperature had not sufficiently dropped for the snow to melt into water and then freeze. On top of that, the ice had a distinct pattern: surrounding the entire perimeter of the police department and several key portions of the downtown area.

Ever run on ice before? Cisco asks, the calculations and formulations already beginning in his head.

Be careful, Caitlin says between directions.

Looks like we'll be missing dinner tonight, Joe says over the phone.

Barry's stomach is tight as he thinks of Iris and the brownies and how hard she has worked.

But then a car is swerving, and the Flash is sliding, half-running, half-skating to wherever the icy road will take him.

"Iris?"

"Oh my God, Barry!" Iris said, her hand flying to her heart. "You startled me."

He was standing in the kitchen, dressed in sweat pants and a Star Labs shirt that fit a bit more snugly than she remembered shirts fitting him. He looks more tousled after their flour fight, his hair sticking up at odd angles, but he seems to have wiped most of it from his skin.

"Where have you been?"

"Uhh," Barry hesitates.

"I didn't see you in here," she says, "I thought you left."

He had left. For exactly thirty-five minutes. Captain Cold got away (again), but he managed to foil his plan and break up some of the ice while he was at it. He even swung by Star Labs to deposit Caitlin at Cisco's where he invited her to hang out with him and his extended family. He even considered picking up Joe, but then remembered Eddie, and thought better of it.

"Nope," Barry says, his mouth feeling dry. Iris takes at least twenty minutes in the shower. And her make-up was done. She was wearing jeans and a sweater. She was barefoot. How long had she been missing him? He took a chance, and said: "Still stuck here, snowed in with you. Don't sound too excited about it."

"Sorry," Iris says sarcastically. She presses her hand against his arm and doesn't remove it. She squeezes him, almost imperceptibly, as if she's making sure he's there.

Their eyes meet, and there's concern in hers. Worry. Maybe a bit of fear.

Whatever is in his, she can't name it. She can't place it. She's just glad it's there – that warmth, that familiar affection. "I just-"

"Careful," he says, pulling away from her touch to reach the oven just as the timer dings. He pulls the door open and glances inside. His heart is pounding in his ears. He barely hears himself when he says: "Cookies are done."

He pulls them from the oven and throws her a champion smile. But he turns away quickly, because those eyes are still inquisitive, too inquisitive. She hasn't even peeked at the cookies.

"Where'd you get the change of clothes?" Iris frowns. "I was going to grab you something of dad's."

"Gym bag," Barry reminds her.

"Since when do you go to the gym, anyway?"

"Eddie," he can't bring himself to say your boyfriend, "likes the punching bag."

"Has he been teaching you how to throw a punch?" her eyes are more playful now. Barry's stomach sinks at the reason for that. But then she hurries to add: "Because I've already taught you that, and I'm a much better teacher." – and he's feeling light all over again.

She's grinning up at him and he's cursing himself for the rollercoaster of emotions he's built for himself due to all of these secrets and lies. He's cursing himself for not being able to get over her, to move on.

"I'll get the icing," she says excitedly.

"They have to cool," he reminds her.

But Iris is already gone, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the well of emotions at bay.

She doesn't ask him about the snow that's not quite melted on his hair, or the fact that his shoes were freshly soaked in the stuff. She doesn't press him on why he's wearing Star Labs merchandise, and she certainly doesn't quiz him on why it took thirty five minutes to bake a seven-minute batch of sugar cookies.

As she looks for the icing, Barry manages to expostulate on the pagan history of holiday traditions as well as the different varieties of evergreens. And even though she knew he was right there, nerding out in front of her, Iris couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't really there, at all.

Joe calls fifteen minutes later, right as Barry is shoo-ing Iris away from the cookies.

"They're cool enough," she insists.

"This is why your sugar cookies suck," he replies.

"We can't make it tonight,"Joe says, apologetic, on speaker phone. Her eyes are on Barry's as Joe speaks. "There's been an attempted robbery at the bank."

Because Eddie and Joe are already at the precinct, they get called up to check it out.

Barry sees the moment she wants to ask about the Flash. Her mouth moves, her eyes brighten for a brief second, and then her face falls. She is the opposite of smiling. Barry feels dizzy.

"Do you need Barry to go?" She clears her throat. "He's here."

"No," Joe says, too quickly, "No, you two enjoy your dinner. Save some cookies for me."

Barry and Iris smile, at each other, eye to eye.

"If she lets me have any," Barry says.

"I won't even bother asking her to save me some brownies," Joe says.

"Oh, whatever," Iris shoves Barry lightly as he laughs at her.

They sit on the living room couch, eating cold chicken and potatoes and salad, watching the fireplace crackle. They move on to brownies (without icing sugar) and sugar cookies (with melted icing), their fingers and lips gooey and sticky with sweets.

"I'm sorry they couldn't make it," Barry says. "I know you were looking forward to this."

"Yeah," Iris says. She nudges her foot into his hands and he humours her by rubbing it, like he used to, when she first started waitressing. "I really wanted you guys to spend some time together, away from work, you know?"

"I know."

Then she presses her lips together and narrows her eyes into the flames. "I like him," she says. And then again, more forcefully. "He was there for me, you know, when I needed him." When you weren't. When I thought you were gone.

But I'm back now, Barry wants to say. He would have said it, too, if it didn't make him sound like a complete jerk. Eddie wasn't replacement-Barry. For starters, Iris had never wanted to kiss Barry… as far as he knew.

"He really likes you, too, Iris," Barry says.

"You think so?" Iris says, her nose scrunched up.

"How could he not?"

Iris shrieks as he cracks her toes with a devilish grin.

Then he's tickling her, and she's kicking him between gasps of laughter, and by the time they've settled down, they've rearranged themselves on the couch. She's sitting up close to him, holding him by the wrists, and he's leaning in towards her, letting her.

He's so close, glowing in the fire light, being there. Living. Existing. Being her Barry on his most hated of holidays. She's warm all over, and it's not the wine. And it's not the fire.

Maybe it's the gratitude. She's grateful that he is who he is. That he's alive. That his heart's still beating, impossibly fast. That he woke up so she wouldn't have to spend the holidays alone, without him, without their cookies. That he saved her, from being Iris-without-Barry – a person she doesn't know, doesn't want to know, and could only just barely bear to be.

Losing Barry Allen, she realizes, is something she will never be prepared for.

"Barry," Iris begins, dropping his arms. "I am so glad you're here."

Barry's smile is slow and sweet. And she wonders, for a second, if maybe it's something else.

He throws an arm around her and pulls her close. "I told you, I wouldn't miss it."

"I hate when you tickle me, though," she says. Her eyes are welling up, but she blinks the tears back.

"I know," he says, grin wicked and eyes closed.

"You've gotten weirdly good at it."

"Yeah, I think I won that battle."

She jabs him with her elbow.

"It's too cold to go home," Iris says sleepily.

"Okay," Barry says.

"Just stay," she whines.

"Okay," he says again.

"Thanks for the cookies," she whispers, closing her eyes as well.

"Thanks for everything else," Barry says. After a long moment, he steals a glance at her and feels his chest clench. She's fast asleep, leaving him with leftovers to put up and a sink full of dishes to clean. But he doesn't mind. Hell, he doesn't mind if they spent every Christmas – or even, every day – like this.

The next morning, Iris wakes up before Barry, but she doesn't move. She doesn't even open her eyes.

Because she knows that the second she does, it'll be over – she won't be able to snuggle into Barry's chest like this, or nuzzle against his soft shirt. She won't be able to hear his heart racing under her ear. If she can just stay here, in these familiar arms, against this warm and sturdy chest, just a little bit longer, everything would be okay. The happy feeling in her chest would stay. Barry would be safe.

With her eyes closed, she can pretend that this is them: no secrets, no quarrels, no distance. Just Iris and Barry, like it always was. Like it was always supposed to be.

Barry makes a noise and shifts, and Iris instinctively tightens her hold around him.

"Iris," he murmurs sleepily. "Are you sleeping?"

She holds her breath to keep from reacting.

"I should go," he whispers. She feels him sit a little straighter and she presses her weight against him. When his hand finds hers, he traces her fingers, and she curls hers around his.

"No," she says, finally. "It's too cold."

She can feel his face against the top of her head. She can feel his jaw clench, can hear his heart stutter and his breath catch. They're on the verge of something, though she's not sure what. She just knows he has to stay.

Stay, Barry.

"Okay," he agrees, settling back into the couch. She smiles against his chest, and he lets out a long, shaky breath before saying again: "Okay."