Best Last Words

This little piece owes its existence to Airsay whose review to THOSE LEFT BEHIND put the seed of the idea in my head to write Caitlin's POV of that story's events. It's not exactly that, but rather something of a continuation. Can also be loosely tied into THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND.

Disclaimer: CW & DC own it all. Imma just playin'.

AN: While technically, this is far more a Flash-centric story it can also be considered an ARROW crossover.

"He told me he loved me. Finally. It's like he knew it would be his last opportunity."

"Oh, Felicity—"

"It's okay, Caitlin. I mean, no, it's not okay because he's gone and… and…." Felicity made a barking sound somewhere between a sob, a laugh, and a hiccup. "Gone," she repeated softly as she stared down into her glass. "Isn't that a stupid word? It's such a stupid word. Gone. So stupid and it's the best I can come up with. Me. I've got a degree from M.I.T. and can hack into government systems and security infra- infrastructures and… and… banks and…and… things—and I can't even bring myself to use the proper word. Even though I know it's the truth. Even though I felt the exact moment he was… gone, I can't bring myself to actually say that Oliver's dead—"

Caitlin's breath caught in her throat as Felicity blurted out the words she'd been unable to utter for so long. Of course, the fact that she could say them now was probably due more to the fact that she'd just imbibed the better part of two bottles of really fine Cabernet pilfered from the remains of the Queen family cellars than it did to any kind of actual acceptance of Oliver's demise at the hand of Ra's al Ghul.

Caitlin debated the merits of opening a third bottle, but seeing as Felicity retained possession of the corkscrew—not to mention the fresh bottle of wine—it wasn't as if she had much say in the matter. And honestly, how much more harm could another bottle of wine really do when compared to losing the love of one's life? Truth be known, she would have done exactly the same in the wake of Ronnie's death—if it hadn't been for Barry.

If it hadn't been for Barry—seemingly her mantra this past year.

"Did Ronnie tell you?"

Caitlin glanced up from the delivery menus she'd been perusing—her refrigerator was woefully empty and she felt the responsibility of both doctor and friend to make certain Felicity had something solid and preferably starchy with which to absorb at least some of the booze.

"Excuse me?"

"Did he, you know—" Felicity waved her hand in expressive circles, eyes suspiciously damp behind the lenses of her glasses. Guess Oliver's declaration of love was something else she was only capable of uttering once.

Not in the habit of confessing her most closely held feelings, she hesitated before slowly saying. "Not… exactly." Which was true. Ronnie hadn't really had to say anything—he knew she knew.

At the same time, however, she couldn't deny what he might have said at the end continued to haunt her.

"Cait, whatever happens, I—"

She'd known what he was going to say. Knew it like she knew her own name, but the fact that it had remained unsaid left an uncomfortable bitter aftertaste she couldn't seem to rid herself of.

"Didn't need to, did he?"

With a sigh, Caitlin abandoned the menus in favor of reaching for the bottle and topping off her glass. "No," she said after a long sip. "He didn't. That's not how we were."

"We weren't either." Felicity tilted her head back on the sofa cushion and stared up at the ceiling. "Not to imply that we had what you and Ronnie had. I mean, you guys actually acknowledged you loved each other. Out loud and everything. You were going to be married and go on a honeymoon and start a life together, while Oliver and I couldn't even get through a single date without things blowing up—literally—and his making the executive decision we couldn't be together because it was too dangerous." A bitter laugh escaped. "Too dangerous. What a joke. I was so angry at him that he did that. It felt like such a copout when we both knew the truth. But you know, I would trade his saying he loved me if it meant he was still… if he—"

Her voice caught as a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye. "I'd make that trade every damned time," she whispered.

Caitlin hesitantly reached out and covered Felicity's free hand with her own. "I know, Felicity. I know. But it wouldn't have changed anything. He still would have gone. Just like Ronnie did."

And just like Barry does.

The thought came on her so suddenly, the hand holding the wine glass jerked, sending liquid sloshing over the side and onto her skirt. Mesmerized, she stared down at the deep red splotch, not unlike a Rorschach blot.

Not unlike the deep red of Barry's suit.

"Caitlin, I have to go."

A faint echo of Ronnie's words to her that last horrible day, except now ineffably overshadowed by the quiet certainty with which Barry said them. Over and over he said them as he rushed headlong into dangerous situations from which he might never return. Anger as potent as Felicity's sorrow rushed over her, followed by an inevitable sense of resignation.

"It's who they are," she added softly.

"Damned hero complex," Felicity muttered, raising her glass with an unsteady hand.

"Tell me about it," Caitlin agreed, raising her own glass in toast before draining it.

She wasn't sure how long they sat there, trading stories about the idiots—pardon—men in their lives. Long enough to laugh a little.

Get angry a lot.

Cry even more.

Long enough that she eventually went rooting through her own cabinets and unearthed another bottle of wine to go with the pizza they wound up ordering. Not quite as quality a vintage as what Felicity had brought with her, but not bad either, since it had been an engagement gift from her team at S.T.A.R.—back when she had a team.

Check that—her old team. She still had a team. Different—a little ragtag—definitely not held in the same regard as they had been as top-notch scientists, but they were a team. And because of Barry and insistence on being the one to go, the work they did was maybe even more important than what they'd done prior to the accident.

But why did he always have to be the one to go?

Why did it always have to be him?

Because it did. She knew that. Even if it scared her. And it did. She wasn't sure why, but it did.

"Caitlin—"

"Mmmph?" She squinted, fighting to bring the blurry visage into focus and failing—miserably. But that was okay—she knew that voice. She'd know that voice anywhere.

"How much have you and Felicity had to drink?"

She pursed her lips and squinted harder, head throbbing as she attempted to string random bits of thought together into some sort of cohesive sense. With some effort, she lifted her hand, thumb folded across her palm.

"Four… glasses?"

"Noooope…not glasses. Felicity wears glasses. I don't wear glasses."

"God, you are so plastered." Even fuzzy around the edges, his smirk was evident. And wildly annoying.

"Am not!"

"Oh yes, you really are."

"How would you know?"

"Because in time-honored college tradition, I indulged in more than a few ill-advised benders. Good thing, I guess, since even a mild buzz is no longer an option." His smirk broadened into a full smile. "Good thing, too, because I can definitely recognize when someone's had a few too many and you, my friend, passed that benchmark more than a while ago."

If she could have mustered the coordination, not to mention the energy, she would have slapped that smug smile right off his face. Instead, she settled for a haughty sniff. An instant later, indignation faded as a sudden wave of sobriety overtook her. "Barry?"

"Yeah?"

"Why're you here?"

"You didn't come into work and weren't answering your phone. Dr. Wells gave me the spare key to your place and told me to come check on you."

"Oh." Disappointment whose source she couldn't define prickled along her skin. "I'm fine," she mumbled.

"Right."

"I am!"

"Uh-huh."

"But Felicity's not. Oliver told her he loves her. And he's dead."

"I know."

His somber tone sobered her further—at least enough her to lift her head to see Felicity curled up at the opposite end of the sofa, a blanket draped over her sleeping form.

"You know he told her he loved her?"

Barry was oddly still. "I know he's dead." His voice was very soft. "I also know he wouldn't have gone into a battle with someone like Ra's al Ghul without telling her what she means to him."

The expression on his face softened—or that could have just been her vision blurring as the combined effects of exhaustion and alcohol overtook her once again. Through a haze, she watched as Barry started, then rocked back on his heels and stood, phone to his ear.

That meant something, didn't it? Something important. Something she should care about. But the sofa was comfortable. And she was so tired. And she felt as if she hadn't slept in years. Or at least a year. Well, except for those times when she'd been watching over Barry. She'd watched over him a lot. And she'd slept during his long sleep, his steady breathing and the beeping of the machines monitoring his status lulling her into a sense of security and calmness that had proved elusive since that fateful day in the labs.

"Caitlin, I have to go."

The hated words sent a bolt of alarm shooting through her. She clutched at his sleeve. "No."

"Caitlin—"

She struggled to a sitting position, swaying as her vision refused to settle on a focal point. "Then I'll go too."

His face hove into view as his hands settled on her upper arms, mercifully holding her steady and allowing her to focus. She was kind of sorry she could, since what she could see was his face, eyes bright with obvious humor—the same humor that had the corners of his mouth twitching and the colored his tone as he chided, "You can hardly sit up straight."

She shook her head, gritting her teeth as the movement blurred her vision once more and sent her stomach into an alarming tailspin. "I just need a minute. I'll be fine. And you need me."

"Yeah, I do." His hands tightened on her arms. "But not for this."

Fear gripped the base of her spine in a painful vise. "Barry—"

"It's a CCPD case, Caitlin."

"Oh." Relief and disappointment combined to send her sagging forward, head coming to rest on his shoulder. "You don't need me."

An instant later she felt herself swooping again, but not in a nausea-inducing sort of way. Rather, an enveloped in comfort and safety sort of way. Sighing, she allowed her head to remain on Barry's shoulder as he carried her—more easily than she might have imagined, which she hadn't, not really, okay maybe only in the briefest of instances—in the direction of her room. She followed his quiet directive to hold on as he carefully leaned down and pulled down the covers. After placing her on the bed, he arranged the sheets over her, then shockingly, reached beneath them.

Next thing she knew, she was clad in the oversized t-shirt she typically slept in, her wrinkled, stained clothes lying in a pile atop her hamper.

"I didn't see a thing, I swear." As she stared up at him, he grinned sheepishly, a faint blush staining the high slashes of his cheekbones. "Okay, maybe I peeked. Once."

Before she could fully process his words, not to mention, the expression on his face, he'd disappeared in the direction of her bathroom—at a shockingly normal pace, as if to give them both time—and returned, bearing a large glass of water and two tablets that he placed in her hand.

"You're still gonna feel like crap, if the number of bottles I saw in the living room are any indication, but maybe this'll head off the worst of it."

Obediently, she swallowed the pills and suddenly desperately thirsty, drank down more than half the water in the glass. Exhausted and almost impossibly sleepy, she slid down until her head was cradled in the comfortable familiarity of her pillows.

Faint shock registered as rather than dashing off, Barry perched on the edge of the mattress. His steady gaze, brilliant green even in the dim light, studied her as one hand stroked her hair back from her face. God, but that felt good.

"Don't you need to go?"

"In a minute."

Faint pain shot through her head as her brows drew together. "You're going to be late."

He grinned, wide and cheeky and endearing. "Joe finds it weirdly reassuring."

"You're hopeless." Alcohol and fatigue combined to make the words emerge slow and slurred.

"So you keep saying." He kept stroking her hair, the motion hypnotic and soothing, the occasional glancing brushes of his fingertips against her ear or the nape of her neck making her shiver. "You're wrong, you know."

"I rarely am."

"You are in this case."

"About what?"

"I do need you."

His voice was so low, she almost thought she'd imagined the words, except she knew she hadn't.

Suddenly angry, she shook her head, trapping his hand against the pillow. "No you don't."

"I do."

"You don't—"

"Caitlin—"

She hated—hated—how her voice broke. "You always leave."

Slowly Barry eased his hand from beneath her cheek. From beneath her lashes, she watched as he even more slowly lifted it and turned it over, his thumb rubbing gently across the tips of his fingers before he pressed them to his lips, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks as his eyes drifted shut. In a burst of insight so intense it made her head throb anew, she understood this must be what it was like for him when he was speeding through the world—moving so fast everything around him was slowed to infinitesimal increments, each motion diamond-etched in sharpness and clarity.

His gaze remained fixed on his hand, on the motion of his thumb meditatively rubbing away the sheen of wetness on his fingers. "I have to go."

She turned her head into the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden sting. "Then go."

His hand slid beneath her cheek once more. "You don't understand, Caitlin—" Warm breath drifted across her skin followed closely by the faint rasp of stubble. His voice very close, right in her ear, rumbled, "I go because I have to—but I return, because I need to."

Her chest felt tight. "Why?"

The sound of his breath catching resonated with uncertainty. And oddly as it seemed—fear. "I… I can't say it. Not yet."

Her chest tightened further. "Why not?"

His sigh caressed her cheek and teased the sensitive skin of her ear. "For one thing, you'd never believe me, not yet. Hell, I'm not sure I believe me. At the very least, I sure as hell don't trust myself."

"You can trust me."

His soft laugh ruffled the tiny hairs above her ear. "That's the one thing of which I'm absolutely sure."

She wanted to open her eyes, but instinct told her whatever words were said next, some measure of distance needed to remain. A level of plausible deniability as it were.

"It's you, Caitlin. Every time I return, it's for you."

The words were less than a whisper—a mere brush of air against her skin so faint, that when she woke up hours later—alone—she'd even wonder if she hadn't imagined the whole surreal exchange.

Except she couldn't deny the faint whiff of cologne and worn leather—a scent she associated solely with him—that clung to her sheets and the t-shirt in which she'd awoken. She couldn't shake how, every night that followed, as she drifted off to sleep, the last conscious sensations she experienced were the feel of his breath on her skin and the touch of his hand to her cheek and the sound of his voice in her ear.

And perhaps most telling was how, every time he left because he had to, he'd pause for an instant—a moment so brief she knew neither Cisco nor Dr. Wells noticed—and whisper "I'll be careful," before disappearing in a streak of red.

And she somehow knew, without his having to articulate the words, what he was really saying was "For you."

For now, it would have to be enough.

Hopefully, circumstances wouldn't steal the time necessary for the rest.