It's been twenty minutes.

Iris paces impatiently. "Finished?" she asks.

Barry makes a little negating sound, flipping with glacial intent to the next page. "Almost," he replies.

Seven minutes pass in uninterrupted silence. Taking advantage of his fixed position, Iris sits against the arm of the couch, feet up on his lap. He accommodates her without taking his eyes from the paper. "Barry," she says at last, nudging his abdomen with a foot. "You're allowed to Speed-read."

He uh-huhs, head dipping slowly as he follows the text to the bottom of the page. Iris shifts forward, sitting beside him and leaning her head on his shoulder. She tries to read with him, but she reaches the page's end well before he does and waits for him to turn it. With Sisyphean intent, he plods onward at his own snail's pace.

Barry reads three books a year. Between casework and his general tendency to put things off, he doesn't have time for more. But what he does pick up, he focuses on completely. He'll sit for hours with his most recent acquisition, wedged into an unperturbed corner of the world. On several occasions, Iris has found him asleep on his books. She loves that he gets so caught up in the text he nods off in the middle of what seems to be a genuinely stirring moment.

I couldn't put it down, he'll admit later, wincing as he reaches back to rub the crick in his neck.

He flips the page and smiles when she hugs him. "Am I boring you?" he asks, sotto voce, like two kids in a theatre hall. Both hands on the pages, he giggles and squirms when she tickles him. "Hey," he gasps, clamping his arms to his sides and folding inward when she goes for his neck. "Iri-is!"

He sets the papers down in a Flash and has her pinned to the cushions a second later. A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she holds onto both of his hands, knees up around his side. It's hard to tell who's more pinned, but she has no compunctions against foul play. When he frees a hand and starts tickling mercilessly, she rolls them and he hits the floor with a loud whump.

"Oh, our neighbors must love us," he groans, yelping when she catches him off guard and launching into a spirited retaliatory attack.

It would be so easy to Flash and win, but sometimes, she thinks, he forgets he can. Lying underneath her, he's tussled and smiling, clearly happy where he's at. Breathless with laughter, she holds onto just one of his arms with both of hers, pinning his other with her body. Trying to free it, he growls playfully and nuzzles her shoulder.

Head tilting back onto the floor, he looks up at her with a big smile. "Iris West," he pronounces, "Tickling Champion."

She lets go of his arm after a beat and leans over him to kiss him. "Mm, what's my prize?" she asks, smiling when he runs both hands up her sides.

"Eternal glory?" he teases. "Bragging rights?"

Iris flicks his nose lightly. "I'm marrying a nerd," she sighs, mock defeated.

"Isn't it great?" Barry says, all smiles, and Iris can't help but smile back. "Iris West-Allen."

"Barry West-Allen."

He beams.

Sitting up, she lets him reclaim the paper, sitting on the floor by the couch beside him. "What'd you think so far?"

"Oh, I finished it," he says idly. When she lifts both eyebrows at him, he admits apologetically, "I kind of Speed-read it when you were making coffee."

"So you've been tormenting me for no reason?" she asks.

"I wouldn't say no reason," he murmurs, kissing her temple. "I like rereading it. A lot. Your voice is so … it just makes me feel like I'm there." He waves a hand, searching for a description that isn't there. "You're the best journalist I know," he finishes simply, sincerely, and she knows he means it in the broadest sense. "You're the reason The Flash is a hero, and not some … vigilante."

"Was really going for the bad boy trope, actually," Iris says with a forlorn sigh.

Barry laughs and Flashes them back onto the couch, cuddling her in his arms. "I don't think any bad boy in the history of that trope has ever been named Bartholomew."

"You could be the first," she says with irreverent delight, hugging his arms to her.

"Bartholomew West-Allen," he says in a low, serious growl.

"Bad boy extraordinaire," Iris finishes, his laugh like sunshine against her back.

And even though he's a speedster, she has to admit her favorite moments with him are the ones where he takes his time.