The walk to their apartment is silent, but how she and Barry refuse to let go of each other the entire way speaks volumes.

At home, she lays down on their bed in her nightclothes, vacantly staring up at the ceiling, contemplating how almost twenty-four hours ago, she had been laden with worry over Barry's nightmares, oblivious to his reliving her ruthless murder every time he closed his eyes.

The mattress caves in slightly as Barry sits beside her, clad in sweats and a T-shirt, still cautiously observing her like he had ever since the revelation. She doesn't take her eyes off the ceiling when she queries for the third time that night:

"How long until it happens?"

She feels his fingers intertwine with hers.

"Five months," is his calm reply. He squeezes her palm for added measure.

She closes her eyes. At least she'd make it to twenty-eight.

Barry lets go temporarily to circle the back of her hand with his thumb, clearing his throat.

"You know, a wise journalist once told me to stop beating myself up about my previous mistakes," he initiates.

Her eyes flutter open. As much as Iris thinks she doesn't want to listen to a pep-talk right now, no matter how well-intentioned she knows it is, her chest constricts at this small touch of lightheartedness, and she finds herself wanting him to continue. Of course Barry would know how to capture her attention in the most Barry-like way possible.

"She told me I couldn't keep constantly going over the what-ifs and the why-nots," he continues, recalling what she had told him weeks ago in the Speed Lab.

"I would take that a step further, and apply it to the future." It's evident that he's choosing his words thoughtfully. "If guilt isn't going to change the past, then fear isn't going to change the future."

Iris turns to him reproachfully. "You aren't afraid?"

His eyes shine faintly. "I'm terrified, Iris," he admits. "And if I'm scared, I can only imagine what you're going through. What I'm trying to say is that it's okay to be afraid, but I don't want you to surrender. I don't want you to let this dictate your life. The future isn't permanent, what I saw isn't guaranteed to happen…"

"You seemed to think it was," she counters. "Otherwise you wouldn't have been haunted by it in your sleep. Otherwise you would have told me about it earlier. Even in the Time Vault just now, the way you were looking at me-I could tell you believed I'm really going to be killed."

She studies his face. "So what changed?"

He's still surveying her during his swift intake of breath.

"What changed," his speech is throaty, but resolute, "is that I saw you in distress. I saw you in tears. I saw you hurting.

"And that…that tore me apart Iris." He looks away briefly, quivering quietly, as though suppressing a sob, before facing her again.

"I can't stand to see you like that. I won't see you like that. I'll be damned if you're reduced to that, moving forward in fear, and tiptoeing your way through life. Nobody deserves that, especially not you."

He grows louder and more steadfast with every sentence. He's speaking rapidly and vehemently, as though his mind is moving a mile a minute, which Iris sometimes believes to be true, while his mouth struggles to keep up.

"I swear on my life, as both The Flash and as Barry Allen, that anything or anyone, any meta, any Speed God," he practically spits the words, "that thinks they can do that to you, thinks they can hurt you, thinks they can scare you away from reaching your full potential, from living your life, from being yourself, that thinks they can rid this world of Iris West, will be proven wrong.

"I won't let you die, Iris," he declares, with a hint of finality that she detects is more for him than for her. "But if I let you give up, I will be letting you die."

That hint she can tell is for her.

She isn't stunned after such a statement from Barry, but his fortitude and fierce defense of her is promising. She isn't sure if she'll survive five months from now, but she is sure that Barry would sooner give up his own life than let anything touch her or taint her sense of wellbeing. Of this she's certain because she would readily do the same for him

She still can't promise definitively that his words alleviate all her worries. It's a foreign feeling, to be at this level of unease with Barry right next to her, uttering words of solace, holding her hand.

Iris isn't used to it. Barry was her comfort, her safety, her light. If Savitar took that from her without actually killing her, what did she have left? She might as well already be dead.

Her eyes well at this realization, and though her vision is hazy, she can still make out the moment his features flood with sympathy.

"Iris…" he breathes.

"Can you hold me?" she sobs, echoing his request from last night. "Now that everything's changed."

She understands now what his grim words to her yesterday meant. Everything had changed. Henceforth, nothing would be the same. She would be conscious of every move she made, every word she spoke, every path she took, wondering if it would lead her away or closer to death. Perhaps there was some benefit in Barry keeping this from her, but her journalistic integrity calls for truth, no matter what the stakes, no matter the torment they might induce.

Barry reaches across her to turn the bedside lamp off. Consistent with her appeal, and with every night since his nightmares emerged again, his arms encircle her, only this time, there are no secrets between them, there is no pretending, only the two of them basking in each other and in whatever time they might have left together, starting with tonight.

She isn't sure whether minutes or hours pass, is only cognizant that she doesn't slip into slumber, despite glaring at the white cotton of Barry's T-shirt as he holds her close. She resolves herself to a restless night, hoping this is only a one-time occurrence and not something she should come to expect until she dies. She'd like to rest peacefully before she's forced to rest permanently thanks to Savitar.

"Mhmm," she chuckles lightly to herself at her dark humor, briefly glancing up from her focus on Barry's shirt to view his face. To her surprise, she discovers that he's just as awake as she is.

His gaze is too intent while he searches her. In the black of the room, his eyes shine distinctly, two fallen stars that landed in her bed. She's trying to read him, but figures he's attempting to do the same to her. Maybe he was confused by her unexpected snicker, or perhaps heartened by it.

She pretends that they're engaged in a staring contest, like so many they had when they were younger. She remembers always losing to him, remembers deeming his pretty long eyelashes an unfair advantage, remembers how he would sheepishly hang his head in flattered embarrassment.

Barry's lashes flutter.

"Ha," Iris points out, her voice subdued after a period of silence. "You blinked."

Maybe Barry understands the allusion to their childhood game, but if he does, he doesn't laugh or even crack a smile. Instead he blinks once more before edging forward to catch her tongue between his lips, sucking gently. It's an unexpected gesture, but familiarly tender nonetheless in a way that could only be so with Barry.

The quiet is deafening other than the wet sound of his mouth fixed to hers. Iris opens her lips hungrily, welcomes the desire for him, welcomes the opportunity to prove Savitar wrong, to show that she could still revel in Barry and find amenity with him, in spite of what was coming or what wasn't.

She assumes Barry might be contemplating the same thing as he twists to settle himself on top of her and she readily pulls him closer. She decides he is, judging by his urgency as he moves from her lips, to her neck, to her navel, until he's finally baring her thighs.

He spreads her wide and she closes her eyes at the move, grateful for darkness, but also desperate for enlightenment at his touch.

"Are you still afraid, Iris?" he murmurs from beneath her. She shivers at the gust of his warm breath, can feel him exhaling compassion against her.

She shakes her head, her hands searching for him until they find the tousle of his hair.

"Not of Savitar."

He hesitates, and she can discern that he's not sure if he believes her. Her fingers curl against his head, assuring him.

"It's true," she insists, shifting slightly in anticipation of what was to come. "I'm not afraid of him anymore, but…"

He blows softly on her exposed center, and Iris shudders again.

"But?" he whispers.

She inhales, her breath shaky and tattered, and even though he's the one bowing, she's the one confessing.

"I'm afraid of not being with you."

He rewards her honesty with his mouth, which consumes her like she's luxury, like her flesh is the richest thing it's ever tasted.

As she lifts her hips to meet his strokes, she figures if she gets to experience this type of bliss with Barry every night until her assumed death, let Savitar come for her. She's already felt heaven and it's under his tongue, and she knows hell would be anywhere without him.

He licks her soothingly while she floats, and as her euphoria gradually wanes, he doesn't break contact without pressing a final kiss between her legs. He surfaces, slowly easing back up her body to draw her nearer, until they're practically lined, rib-to-rib.

"Then you'll never have to be afraid," he swears. And finally, for the first time that night, his words console her.