One night he came to her when she was closing up Jitters. He had his suit on and his mask off, hair mussed and a smile on his face so wide she saw it even before he'd stopped speeding. It thrilled her a little, to know that it was for her, because of her, scared her a little to know how much she liked it. She still had dishes to wash, orders to put in for the next week, the floor to sweep. He sauntered over to her, folding his arms on the counter, placing his chin on them, and watched her, still smiling, as she counted down her drawer.

"Don't you have, like, people to save?" she asked him after messing up the dimes for the second time.

"Not right now," he chirped, "Right now I have dishes to wash."

Sometimes he didn't have much time to spend with her. He'd stop by and race through the dishes and arranging the tables and chairs in less time than it took for her to say "Thanks," apologize sheepishly for her hair, and run back to whatever crime he was supposed to be stopping. Other times, like that night, he'd tune the radio from the Top 40 station that played in the café throughout the day to their favorite R&B station.

They stood closer to each other than they needed to while washing the dishes. He soaped up the teacups and saucers, the bowls and utensils, and she rinsed and dried them. Instead of dropping the dishes in the sink he handed them to her, and she didn't say anything when his soapy fingers brushed against hers. They bumped into each other with their elbows and shoulders, and when she thought that really, not much had changed between them except that she had started to realize just how much she enjoyed the touch of him, she bumped him with her hip, and he bumped her back, and they went back and forth until he was flinging soap bubbles at her and she was giggling at him to stop because they were soaking through her blouse.

"You're supposed to be helping me, Barry, did you have to make such a mess?" She tried to sound stern, but her voice was shaking with laughter.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, and in less than a second the counter was wiped down, all the dishes put away, and the sink drained. She was still standing with her wet hands held up in front of her and a mark a bubble had left on her cheek.

"Let me," he said, taking a step closer to her. It would have been fine, she wouldn't have noticed anything at all if he hadn't paused. But he did. He reached for the knot she'd made with the strings of her apron low across her abdomen, and his fingers stilled there. It wasn't more than a few seconds but in them she heard his intake of breath, she glanced up at him, she saw his eyes linger on her mouth. If she tilted her head just a little to the side, if he leaned his just a little lower, she could kiss him. But he looked away from her then, and his fingers worked at the knot, knuckles making tiny folds in her shirt. He unwound the strings from around her waist, leaning in for when they crossed behind her back, hugging her almost, and pulled the apron from her. He let it fall on the counter.

She watched him. Silently, she held her hands out to him. He understood. He pulled a towel from the handle of one of the cabinet doors. Took first her right hand, then her left, and dried them, passing the towel over the backs and then the palms, then drying each of her fingers individually. When he was finished he bit his lip. He told her, "You have some on your cheek," and left the towel in her hand. He stepped away from her, leaned against the counter, curled his fingers around its edge.

"Thank you," she said, and wiped at her face.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. She could tell he was trying to sound nonchalant. "Is there something you want? I can get it for you, if it's within a hundred mile radius." He smirked, wiggled his eyebrows.

"Big Belly," she replied, "Double cheese with pickles, medium fries, and a large Diet Coke."

She was able to get up to the roof and onto their bench before he returned. "Beat you," she teased.

"Barely," he said, and took a sip of her drink.

She grabbed her dinner from him. "Enough of that."

"Really?" he pouted. "I go all the way to Big Belly Burger for you, and not even the one nearby but the one you like out by Route 32—"

"They have better buns!"

"—and I can't even have a fry? Route 32, Iris. That's like, almost the next county."

"Like I care," she said, unwrapping her burger and taking a huge bite out of it. She made a show of chewing and swallowing and rubbed her stomach and said in her best imitation of his voice, "Mmmmmm, so greasy, so good."

Barry gaped at her. "Are you mocking me?" He placed a hand to his chest. "Iris. I'm hurt. No meta could hurt me as badly as you've just hurt me right now. To deny me food, sustenance? When you know how weak I get without it? Where's your laptop?" He looked about them as if searching for it. "Take it out, you need to make a post about how The Flash has been felled not by a man with a mirror gun, not by a maniacal gorilla, but by you. So much colder than anything Captain Cold could ever do, Ms. West."

She shook her head at him. "Oh dear, this whole superheroing thing has really made you dramatic, hasn't it?"

He raised his shoulders casually, shrugging in a way that made her realize, not for the first time, just how form-fitting his suit was. "I just spent the day cleaning out all the rain gutters in the south lying suburbs. I'm afraid drama comes with the territory."

Iris smiled fondly at him. "Fine," she said, and she responded to his triumphant grin with her best long suffering sigh.

He folded his arms across his chest and lay out across the bench, his legs dangling off the side and his head settled in her lap. She fed him some of her fries as they talked about what presents they should get her dad for his upcoming birthday, improvements Cisco was planning for his suit, the inarguable merits of Cab Calloway, the letter she was writing as part of her internship application to the Post. She even let him have some of her burger.

She had finished making soft slurping noises with the ice at the bottom of her cup and was looking across at the twinkling lights of Central City. Barry had his eyes closed, his body was relaxed against hers, familiar in a way she loved, and she was running her hands lightly through his hair. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs where he lay, so that she could feel the texture of his suit against them, warm and rough, taut against the expanse of his shoulders. She heard him sigh, and then she heard him mumble, "Is this all you're gonna do to make it up to me?" A thrum trilled up her spine. Her fingers stopped and she looked down at him. There was a satisfied smile playing about his lips.

She trailed her fingers down the side of his face and then traced the edge of his bottom lip with her thumb. He blinked up at her. "How would you like me to make it up to you, Barry?" She meant it to come out flirty and dirty and it did. But instead of saying something that would make that place low inside of her curl, instead of sucking the tip of her thumb into his mouth, instead of arching up and demonstrating what she could do, his eyes went wide and panicked, and he sat up so quickly that she had to move back so he didn't hit her. "Barry! Are you ok?"

"I'm fine! I mean, yes! I'm sorry!"

"Don't apologize!" she cried, exasperated. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just—" he made to move from the bench but instead his foot got caught on one of the legs and he tripped. There were flailing limbs and something close to a yelp, and then he fell right on his butt. There was an actual thud.

"Oh my god, Barry!" Iris got up and made to help him. He looked positively stricken. She didn't think she'd ever seen him so red. He lay back on the ground, brought his hands up to his face and let out a long moan. He followed it with a string of obscenities, many of which might have been accurately descriptive of the rest of the night, had the last few minutes gone the way she'd imagined. She sat back down, impressed Barry could curse so creatively, and perched herself on the edge of the bench, her back very straight.

"Are you still looking at me?" It came out muffled.

"…Yes?"

"Could you please not?"

"…Ok?"

She turned so she wasn't facing him and heard him get up with a huff. "I'm sorry Iris, I just—I have to go." And he was gone.

Barry's apartment was very tiny, just a little over 200 sq feet, with thickly painted walls and a boiler that made clanking noises all throughout the night. Iris often woke there, now. She had a toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, dresses hanging up in his closet, her own drawers in his dresser packed with pajamas and jeans and underwear. Three different recipes for brownies were taped to the door of the fridge, and Barry liked to refer to them whenever they baked them together on Sunday mornings. The one article she'd gotten into the Post was taped to the wall above his bed, next to a picture he'd taken of downtown Central City all lit up as he sped through it, and another of him and Nora and Henry the day of his 11th birthday, all smiling and wearing pointy party hats.

Iris hadn't slept over for two days, not since that last night on the rooftop, but the third morning after she was standing in front of his door with a determined twist to her mouth. She had to pull the door towards her and wriggle the handle to the left in order for it to unlock. A gentle bump with her shoulder and it opened, just like Barry had showed her the night he'd given her her own set of keys.

Inside, the television was on, muted. Barry had the shades in his room open, so that the bright morning light lit up every corner, and she could see the motes suspended lazy in the air. In one corner was his bed, all pillows and rumpled sheets, and scattered about the floor were piles of their clothes. From where she stood she heard a sudden quiet overtake the small space, and she realized that the shower had been running. She closed Barry's front door, leaned against it with her hands behind her, still on the handle. A moment passed and Barry came out of the bathroom, humming some song as he made his way toward the corner where his bed stood.

He was barefoot. He was wet. He had a towel wrapped tight around his hips and another in his hands as he dried his hair. Iris swallowed as she took him in. Her heart felt as though it had dropped to somewhere low in her stomach, but she could hear her pulse in her ears. He hadn't noticed that she was there and she couldn't help but think that of course he would be like this right at this moment, barely clothed and freshly showered and silhouetted against the morning sunlight, when that was her favorite kind of guy.

Iris wondered if she should say something, stop him before he unwrapped the towel to dry himself off, before she breached some line of etiquette about privacy, or something. A larger part of her, though, wondered what he would make of her looking at him like this, if he would let her, if he would like it. She liked to think he would, and for a moment more she let herself appreciate the way the muscles of his back worked as he dried his hair before she pushed herself off the door and cleared her throat.

Barry whipped around at the sound. "Iris!" he cried. "Oh my god!" In his surprise he backed up against his dresser, hitting it so hard as to rattle its drawers and all that was on top of it. He winced from the impact and bit down on his lip, and Iris had to press her own together so as not to laugh. She saw him take a deep breath, and then he opened his eyes to fix her with a wary look. He cleared his throat, ducked his head, repositioned himself so that he was leaning against the dresser with one leg crossed over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Iris," he said again, his voice imitating casual calm, "what are you doing here?"

Iris wanted to say something funny, something like, "Why, nothing, Danny Zuko," but the Barry before her was a vision altogether different from the Barry she was used to. She saw more freckles dotting his skin than she remembered him having. They were sprinkled all along his shoulders and abdomen. His hair was darker than it usually was because of his shower, and it was all ruffled up from how briskly he'd been drying it. Droplets of water shone on his lashes and shoulders and arms and lower. His bath towel lay improbably low across his hips. All she could do was stare.

"…Iris?"

"Huh?" she asked, startled. Her eyes darted back up to his face, and she saw that his brows were drawn together in confusion. "Oh! I mean, what? What do you want?"

"What do I—" Now he was frowning at her. He pushed away from the dresser, gestured to where she was standing. "Iris, you're the one who just came in here. I should be asking you that."

"Oh! Oh yeah, I…" Iris raised her eyes to somewhere above his head, as if she would find her reason for visiting him there. "I just wanted to talk. To you."

"Ok. Um. Can I get dressed first?"

"Dressed? Sure, go ahead, get dressed. Clothes are cool." She didn't move.

"Iris?"

"Mmm?"

She was biting her lower lip, her gaze drifting down his chest and slipping lower. Barry looked down at himself, then back at her, then down at himself and back at her again. A realization seemed to dawn on his face. His eyes went wide. He raised both eyebrows at her.

Iris had always known that Barry was attractive. His goofy smile, how oblivious he was to how he looked, even as he lavished attention on his hair—he was easy to like. He had an openness about him that showed itself in the mannerisms he'd gained when he'd shot up to over six feet back in high school—the way he tucked his hands in his pockets or crossed his arms over each other, the way he rested one foot over the other when he was sitting, as if he didn't quite know what to do with his limbs, never quite had enough space to fold them into, but wanted to make sure they weren't in anyone's way; it showed in the artlessness of his enthusiasm whenever he was excited enough about something to share it with her; it showed in the absolute attention he gave when she spoke to him about something that was close to her. But looking at him like this, bare skin and lean muscles, she saw that he was actually beautiful. And the thought didn't make her face heat up. It made her want to pull him to her and kiss him, the better to tell him just what it was she thought of him.

"Iris."

"Oh," she said, not at all startled this time, "you mean get dressed without me leering at you." And she gave him a slow smile. It was sweet but had a rudeness to it, and Barry blushed. He ducked his head. Iris realized it was because of her, because of the way she was looking at him, and she smiled even wider, knowing that he knew she wanted him.

He brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck and let out a sound very close to a "pfft." Iris couldn't tell if he was bashful or just amused by her joke, but she found she liked his hesitancy. It licked something delicious inside her, made her bold. She wondered what he would say to her right then, if he were wearing his Flash suit instead of a towel. Could he tell just how much she wanted him? If she asked him, would he tell her how he felt, knowing she was thinking about him? She cleared her throat. "I'll just be in the kitchen, then. You get dressed here. Just call me when you're done."

Barry had his head bent. He was looking at her through his lashes. He nodded, and she felt his eyes on her as she turned to leave.

In the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the living space by a partial wall, Iris sunk down in a corner and pulled her knees up to her chest so that she could wrap her arms around them and bury her face there. In the semi-darkness this afforded her she closed her eyes and thought of Barry just a few feet from her, naked now, probably, and how in just a few minutes he'd be all dressed, and all that beauty she'd just admired would be covered up under his customary layers of clothing.

She thought of Barry in his Flash suit, of how he'd once stood behind her in it and, because she was speaking of him to who she'd thought was a stranger, she'd hidden her face from him. Their shadows had stretched out long and distorted in front of her, his lengthening and morphing to cover hers as he'd approached her. She'd felt the heat of him all along her back. He'd been close enough for her to reach back and touch, close enough for her to lean back and rest, but instead she'd just tucked her chin over her shoulder to look back at him out of the corner of her eye. There'd been the slightest moment, right after she'd turned to face him, where he was the one hiding his face from her, just by looking down, and all she'd wanted to do was reach over and tug his mask from his face. He'd been hesitant then, too.

Iris thought that she could reach down and touch herself right then. Not enough to make her come, just a little teasing to make her breathless and aching. She pulled down on her jacket so that the fabric went tight across her breasts and she wondered what Barry would do if she didn't answer when he called, if he came into his kitchen to find her doing what she liked to do in the comfort of her bed, touching herself and thinking of him. She thought, though, that it was time he touched her.

She took a deep breath, stood. Made her way back to Barry's room, where he wasn't dressed at all, but naked now, towel in a heap on his bed. She smiled at the sight of his bare ass, which had to be the cutest ass she'd ever seen, but quickly rearranged her features.

When she said his name she sounded very serious.

Barry yelped at the sound of her voice. "Iris!" He snatched his towel off the bed before turning to face her, but it was the one he'd been drying his hair with and, unable to do much with it, held it out in front of himself. "It's been, like, two seconds, Iris, I'm not done yet!"

Iris took in the blush that was spreading to his ears. She didn't let herself look away from his face. She cocked her head to the side and asked, "Two seconds? What, that's not enough time for you to get dressed, Mr. 'anything within a hundred mile radius'?"

Barry opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Iris held his gaze. She took a step towards him. He didn't move. She took another. She brought a hand to the zipper on her jacket, pulled it down. His eyes followed the slider over the teeth, followed as she shrugged the jacket off and tossed it on the floor, followed her hands when she pushed her hair over her shoulders. He searched her face. He offered quietly, "I—I take a lot of care in how I dress."

"Do you?" Iris asked the question as if she were truly puzzled. "Were you trying to decide between a sweater-vest and a cardigan?" She took a few more steps, feeling her confidence in the rise of her chest, the strength of her thighs, and closed the space between them. She could kiss his chest if she leaned in. Barry didn't move away, but he lowered his head and curled his shoulders in. She stood before him, waited for him to give her a sign, anything that would tell her she could touch him as she wanted. She saw the muscles in his arms were tense as he held them close to his body, and she almost thought he was trembling. They stood that way for minutes, neither of them uttering a sound, Iris with her breath stopped up in her chest.

Finally, Iris took a step back. If he didn't want this, if he wanted her to go, then she would. But before she could turn he reached out for her. He let the towel fall to the floor and with both hands he took hold of each of her wrists. His grip was light. "Iris," he said. He looked at her as though asking a question. Iris pulled a hand from his grasp, and with steady fingers she grazed her way up his arm, down over his chest, over the ribs that showed as he let out a shaky breath, over the corded muscles of his stomach, and back up again. She stroked his neck. She took him all in and when she met his eyes again his lids were lowered, almost shut.

Barry swallowed, she felt his Adam's apple under her hand, and he said, "Between a sweater and a cardigan." His voice was very soft. "Oh," she said, just as softly, and brought her hand to the nape of his neck, nudged him so that her lips could reach his, "Well maybe I can help you choose."

Their first kiss was feather light, just warm breath and a brush of their lips. The pleasure of it was enough to make Iris weak, and the way he arced towards her after she pulled away sent a fresh wave of longing through her. All a sudden he shook before her, all a-blur so that she could hardly see him, and she had to dig her fingernails into his sides to get him to come back to her. His eyes were widened in surprise when he did, and before he could apologize Iris shook her head and brought her arms up around his shoulders. "It's all right," she told him, "Just hold on to me."

He did. His arms went around her waist and he pulled her so close she had to raise herself up on the tips of her toes. This time she kissed him so he could bruise, though she knew he wouldn't. She sucked on his bottom lip, licked the moan he gave her off the roof of his mouth. His hands fisted in the fabric of her shirt, but all she had was the skin of his shoulders, so she curled her fingers in the riot of his hair instead. She could feel the thrum of his heart where his chest pressed against hers. When she pulled away to catch her breath he pressed his lips against her temple, then against the corner of each of her eyes, and right as he was about to get back to her mouth he caught sight of her blouse. It had spots of dampness on it from the water from his shower. "I'm sorry," he said, fingering the material, "I'm getting you all wet," and he swallowed down her laugh with a kiss.

Barry's hand slipped under her blouse to palm her breast, her hands trailed down his back to grip his ass, and between more kisses and curious, hungry caresses, and Barry stopping to stare at her wonderingly, they stumbled their way to his bed, where Iris guided Barry so that she could sit astride him, her legs on either side of his waist. He used the front of her blouse to pull her down to him to kiss her, then slipped a hand between them down to her crotch. She felt a sudden rough vibration against her, it had her clenching up and gasping, squeezing her thighs against him and grinding down on his hand.

"Mr. Barry Fucking Allen!" Iris hit him twice on the shoulder.

He leaned up into her, tracing the tip of his nose along the side of her neck, nudging her to get her to angle her head back, the better to kiss her there. He undid the button of her jeans, tugged the zipper down. "Why are you hitting me?" he murmured.

She could feel him smiling against her skin. "Because I want to know where you learned that!"

He trailed wet kisses down to her shoulder, the tips of his fingers grazed against her nipple while his other hand trailed down her back, and he breathed, "In my dreams of you." Iris gave a low laugh just as he came back to her neck, because of course Barry would say something like that to her. She pulled away from him then, but he followed, propped himself up on one elbow and reached for her. She shook her head and pushed him back against his pillows. His hand fell to her thigh and he looked up at her, almost pouting, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. He is so silly, he is so cute, I want him so much. Why did this take so long? A warmth bloomed in her as she thought this. She asked him, "Why'd it take so long for us to do this?"

"This?"

She made a vague gesture with fluttering fingers in the air, indicating his rumpled sheets, his nakedness as he lay beneath her, his waist fit snuggly between her thighs. He was playing with the hem of her shirt, unbuttoned one button, then another. His fingers skimmed against her stomach. He pulled at the elastic of her underwear, let it snap back against her skin. She took his hands and laced his fingers with hers. She liked so much the feel of him against her. "Why'd you take so long to kiss me?" she said.

He let out a small laugh, as if he couldn't believe she didn't already know, but when she kept looking at him his smile faded and a blush returned to his cheeks. "I've just—" he stopped to clear his throat, look away from her, "I've wanted you…for a very long time. And now I can tell you. And I can hold you. And I can kiss you, and—and I don't want to scare you with it."

Something stretched inside her like a yawn, an ache that was no less pleasant for its pain. She brought one of his hands up to her lips and placed little kisses along his knuckles. She untwined her fingers from his and used her thumb against his chin to guide his gaze back to her. "Barry," she said, "I don't know what you think this is, but I'm not scared of it."

He seemed to search her face. His was uncharacteristically inscrutable. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not, but she could see, in how still he held himself, in the steadiness of his gaze, that he would only take from her what she was willing to give. So how to tell him just what it was she was offering?

"I love you." She said it once. She said it twice. She said it until he looked again like the boy who never kept secrets from her. "Do you believe me?"

"I believe you."

His voice was low when he said her name, so that it made her want to suck it off his tongue. He rubbed his hands up her thighs and gripped her by her waist. "You don't think we might fuck this up?" he asked. "You won't regret it?"

"No." She shook her head at him."You're mine now."

His eyes widened in delight at her words, his hands slipped from her waist to cup her ass, and she recognized the smirk that usually came when he was wearing his mask. "I'm yours now?" Afterwards he would wrap his arms around her, kiss the shell of her ear, and tell her that he'd always been hers, but right then his smile turned into a wide grin, and Iris wondered how anyone could still look adorable when it was so clear they were thinking something filthy.

"Every inch of you."

"And what does being yours get me?"

She gave him a smile to match his own, and she leaned down to show him.

8