Author's Note: This is my first SnowBarry fic. I'd love to know what you think. Also, this isn't beta-ed (and I'm publishing this at 2am so). All mistakes are mine. Standard disclaimers apply.

She's long since given up at introducing him to self-preservation, but Barry wouldn't be Barry if he weren't stubborn.

She's tried everything she can think of to try and make him see reason, even daring to shed some tears.

Ultimately, the argument is ended with a hand on her cheek, and a lasting kiss on her lips. "I will always, always find my way back."

Most times, she understands his need to be there, to be an active agent against malice. Supports it, even. But sometimes, she can't help but wish he'd just, for once, listen.

If not for himself, then for her.

Tonight she watches him run off once again, her hair whipping across her face, his smell still in the air, like sandalwood and fire.

When she opens her eyes to papers scattered around the floor, she can't help but wonder how different things would be if that lightning hadn't struck.

But then again they wouldn't have met if it didn't.

She shakes her head and breathes a sigh.

"Hey. You worry too much," Cisco says, eyes not leaving the monitor.

She wishes for the millionth time that she could have Cisco's faith in the general goodness of the world, but she's already lost too much of her heart to be able to trust that things will turn out just fine.

Statiscally, she's sure they all know they're bound to crash, to find a metahuman way more advanced than they could ever hope to defeat, but it seems that Cisco has permanently blocked off that truth in his head.

"Caitlin. He's going to be fine," he says to her silence.

She's heard that line too often that it's lost its desired effect.

She hates that there's nothing she can do.

Sure, the cops are backing him up. Sure, they're tracking his vitals and feeding him pertinent information.

But when it all boils down to it, they're really just three arguably successful nerds hoping for the best.

When things go wrong, all they can do is patch him up and try again.

And she hates that the most - that all she can do is help him heal.

What if someday, he comes back all black and blue, and she's too late? What if one day his body refuses to repair itself? What then?

She pounds frantically on the keys of the computer, not even daring to blink, trying not to dwell on the fact that her job is actually enabling him to go and get himself beaten up.

She's dedicated all her life to science, but when the lines are cut and feeds go blank, she sends a silent prayer to whatever god there is: Please.

She doesn't even know what she's begging for.

He's in a gurney being pushed through the hall and it takes her a while to bring herself to move.

He's always been well enough to come back on his own.

Guess they finally ran out of luck.

It's weird watching him, limp and unresponsive. His red suit dim and uncharacteristically cold.

It's the first time he's ever needed doctors besides her and she tries not to think why that might be.

When she finally recovers, she speeds into the crowd surrounding his bed. She catches the report given by the medic, and she tries her best not to cry.

"Severe head trauma. Punctured lung. Ruptured spleen."

She doesn't trust anyone else to make these assessments on him. She's never had to.

It takes much of her willpower not to redo the examination. She knows they might be running out of time.

She clambers up the gurney and reaches up to feel his pulse.

It's one of the things she hopes she never has to do again.

He watches her for a while, content to just stare at her face.

Her neck rests on the back of the chair, her legs tucked under her.

The sweater she has on is the same one he had brought with him to the lab. He remembers draping it over her shoulders and planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.

Her arms are crossed on her belly, chest rising and falling. The sunlight is making a halo of her hair and reaches out to tuck a strand behind her ear.

He watches her carefully open her eyes, reflecting the smile that slowly forms on her lips.

"How did you sleep?," he says, pulling her off the chair and into the bed with him.

"I wasn't the one with the head trauma." She tries to remain stern but to no avail. She's just really happy to finally see his eyes and feel his arms on her waist.

They settle into the bed facing each other, their breaths mingling in the space between their lips, hands clasped around each others.

"I wasn't the one sleeping in a wooden chair," he replies.

His eyes close when he feels her palms on his cheek as she laughs at his comeback. He knows how much she worries and he hates that she does but he's given up convincing her otherwise.

He allows himself to revel in this moment: her thumb brushing the rise of his cheek, his lips on her knuckles, her breath tickling the skin on his face.

When the blow landed on his side, pain searing through every bit of his body, his one thought was her.

Because even though he's the one risking his life, he's scared of not being able to go back to her. More than anything, he's scared of losing them.

"Hey."

He wouldn't have heard it if he weren't so close.

And he feels his gut clench and his heart break when he finds tears pooling in her eyes.

"You had me worried back there," she whispers, fingers grazing the bandage on his head.

"Hey," he breathes back, tipping her chin so they're eye to eye. "Look at me."

He kisses the tear that runs down her face and stays there, his lips never leaving her skin.

"I will always, always find my way back."

AN: I hoped you liked it. Leave me a review, please? :)