Strapped to a table – no, we're getting outta here, c'mon, c'mon, we've gotta move, c'mon— gazing with glassy eyes at a cool white-blue ceiling that he knows how do I know that –

"Hey, hey," one of the inmates says sharply, jabbing him in the shoulder, and he grunts and hits the floor – and tugs and tugs and tugs the bands on his wrist what the hell's going on where is he – and he gets back up on shaky knees and hears the voices shouting in the distance – the piercing all consuming silence – he crawls because the vertigo is so intense standing is out of the question – c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, break loose, get out now, this is bad, this is bad, this is—

He's following three shadows down the hallway while the jackals yelp and snarl in the background – and there's cold flooding his veins what the hell is that I'm a speedster it's not gonna touch me – and then the jackals are closing in with loping heavy footsteps so he throws himself to his feet after the others – I can't move why can't I move what's going on where's –

A big man grabs him by the back of the neck and hauls him back and he collapses – no, no, no, get up, get up, c'mon, don't lie here, you've gotta move – and gasps in pain as a knee collides with his lower back – the screaming needling pain lances up his arm like venom like a snake and he's never been bitten by a poisonous snake but he never wanted to be – taking him to the floor – where am I, where am I, where am I? – and pressing his face into concrete.

Then the world tumbles loose and he is back in the dream, only this time there is only him, stumbling down the halls – blood dripping from his hand, his mind foggy but his legs anxious to move, tearing at straps that weren't there – and his mouth is full of copper and his lungs are full of dust and he staggers on – and wonders why the straps weren't around his red, chafed wrists anymore – until he stumbles, and falls, and knows no more.

He awakens a third time to two sets of hands dragging him across the floor – pinning him to a table – hauling him upward – strapping him down – and inserting a needle into his left hand.

He blinks, and the world snuffs out like smoke.

Then he's – strangling on an inhale on the ground on the ground how'd I get here – lolling his head to one side to look at the blank blue – dark black – wall and moaning thinly in pain – what is this what is this where am I? – and he hears the jackals, laughing, hooting, distant menacing creatures of the night – they're not human, Anubis was part jackal—

Anubis himself looms over him, and he feels a cold sweat settle over his body – fear or something else? – and then there is something metallic cracking across his – left – right knee, shattering it, and he howls as Anubis cackles – gotta get up gotta get move gotta go or you're gonna die – and something is placed over his leg like concrete – a brace or a chain – and his world slips out of view.

His vision flickers, flickers, grey fuzz and silence and water dripping somewhere – a scene of quiet why is it so quiet does Anubis sleep? – and, and, and …

Barry falls down a very deep hole, crashing to the floor and howling in pain, careful, careful, a voice whispers familiarly near his ear, and he tries to – tries to crawl away but the jackals are so near breathing down on him hot wet breaths and sneering silent laughter at his attempts – "up, up," the hands under his arms urge, firm fingers digging bruises into mottled skin-tight bones – and he twists in their grasp because the court of Anubis awaits him if he is dragged back down the hall and all he knows there is – a rattling, breathless cry as he is jostled into position and both knees, both knees, trembling, unable, collapsing – to Anubis' feet he lies in cold worship, motionless and alive, so alive, alive enough to hear the low-seated growl in the god's chest.

They drag him – backwards – forwards down the hall and – please, he whispers into the air, and does not know what he is asking for – but he knows he is cold, teeth chattering cold and he feels a big, familiar weight nearby and leans into it – Big Sir? Big Sir's gone – heart-sinking with trepidation, heart sinking with fear – Big Sir disappeared from his cell we have you now we saw you on the little red eye of God you can't escape this now Barry Allen – and Barry, Barry, Barry, chime the voices of the living.

He waits for Anubis to come roaring out of the shadows, twisting his body – in their grasps in the jackals' grasps – because he doesn't want them to be hurt – he doesn't want them to hurt him – and he, he, he … - feels the fight sink out of his legs as he is more dragged than carried back to the cell – picked up and put over someone's shoulders, I-got-it-I-got-it-I-got-it a whisper in his ear – strapped to a table – carried towards freedom.

Freedom is cold fuzzy anachronistic blue light painted over the entire grassy scene like a time forgotten outside the futuristic walls of Anubis' cave. He waits for his vision to flicker between the two worlds, but he is frozen in the moment of coldness and darkness and blueness, his breath shallowing in his chest as his heartrate triples and his face drains of color. The person under him – a person under him, a person carrying him, what's happening, what's happening? – moves decisively even though Barry cannot see a thing and is terrified that any of the vague incoherent shapes will yield Anubis in hiding.

He breathes very shallowly until his ears are ringing too loudly to make out the muffled conversation, hello, hello, who's out there? He flexes his fingers, but they don't want to move much, and his toes are equally compliant, and he is lying on a flat hard cushioned surface and trying to determine if panic is the right answer. He rears up when he realizes exactly what has happened and immediately four sets of hands pin him down and – don't strap me down don't strap me down, please, please, please …

. o .

Beep … beep … beep … beep …

Barry moans softly. His head … hurts … and … every … aching … breath …

He slips underneath the dark waters again to that metronomic tone.

. o .

Beep … beep … beep … beep …

In a dream, Barry resurfaces, eyelids flickering slowly. "Hey," a voice says softly, and he turns his head to the side. There's cotton over his ears, but he can still make out Iris' worried frown. "Are you awake?"

He wants to say – no – yes but his eyelids just dip shallowly, and he exhales again, and knows no more.

. o .

Beep … beep … beep … beep …

Barry jerks upright, screaming and thrashing, trying desperately to throw off the restraints that aren't there, the restraints that must be there, because they were hurting him, they were hurting him, and someone shouts back and then more than one someone shouts and he fights them all, but he is trembling with exhaustion. He is pinned hard against someone's chest, flailing arms restrained in a powerful grip. "All right, all right," Joe grunts. "You're okay." He holds onto Barry as Barry shakes and screams against him, insisting, no, no, no, because—

He sinks and cannot reclaim his grip on the living.

. o .

Beep … beep … beep …

Barry blinks and feels a crushing headache behind his eyes. Reaching up a hand, he rubs at them slowly. There's an IV in his hand, and he tenses, anxious all at once, but a soft hand settles on his ribcage and assures him, "You're okay." He looks over, slowly, and sees not a jackal but Iris, still in the chair, more exhausted than ever. "It's okay." He looks down at her hand, and then at the blanket covering his chest.

Peeling it back, he stares at the protruding ribs and the traitorously unmarred flesh. He remembers every bruise every pinch every scrape every touch every brush with death and yet his skin does not record any of it, a blank slate wiped clean. He tries to sit up, but he feels so heavy, and tired, and his head throbs with pain. Shutting his eyes again, he fishes slowly for Iris' hand, squeezing it tightly when he finds it. "Happened?" he rasps.

She strokes his palm soothingly, her voice pitched quiet and reassuring. "You were taken," she says simply, and he feels goosebumps cover his arms. "For four days."

He tries to sit up. A whimper ruptures in his chest. "Where's … where's …?" He tries to give it voice, the others, but he doesn't even know who they are, or where they might have gone, those shadows from a dream that left him to the jackals. "My head … hurts," he admits with a grimace.

"They put some powerful drugs in your system," Iris says grimly, using her free hand to pull the blanket back up to his collar. "Rest, sweetie. It'll be okay."

He doesn't comply, but his eyelids slide shut anyway, and he listens in a dream as someone else steps into the room. "He up?" Cisco's voice asks, his voice crackling and heavy. It reminds Barry of a bad telephone connection.

"Not for long," Iris says, still holding onto his hand. "Caitlin says it'll take a few more days before he's back up to speed at this rate."

"Hm." A chair moves softly on the floor. It pauses near Iris. "How was he this time?"

"Better," Iris says vaguely.

"Yeah?"

"I'm worried," Iris admits, and there's shuffling movement and her hand lets go of his. "It's never been like this. Waiting and hoping and then…"

A phone buzzes nearby. "It's Joe." Cisco picks up. "Hey, Joe. What's up?" Then: "Yeah, not long. We'll keep you posted. Mm-hm. No, not much improvement, just … hanging in there." Another pause, longer. "I'm glad to hear that," is all Cisco says. "We'll be here. Godspeed." He hangs up. "Gonna be a long night, but they've got Star and Keystone officers busting up the whole operation."

Then Barry inhales deeply, and exhales just as slow, and disappears.

. o .

Beep … beep-beep … beep … beep-beep …

"I came as soon as I heard. Who was this guy?" Wally asks, far away and muffled.

"Collaborator in an underground metahuman collection agency," Caitlin replies. Barry hears a soft, indiscernible sound nearby, like plastic crumpling. "Works with a woman known as Amunet Black."

"What happened to him?" Wally asks in a low voice. Barry has the distinct impression that Wally is referring to him but can't open his eyes to confirm it.

"He was abducted from Iron Heights," Caitlin fills in, sounding sour. "By the time we found him, it had been … almost four days since he was last seen in prison."

Wally whistles. "They hurt him?"

A flash of something sharp crosses Barry's mind and he hears bones crackling in his knees. He arches off the flat, soft surface underneath him with a groan. "Hey, hey, hey," Wally says, still with that strange detached quality, pressing both hands on Barry's shoulders. "Easy, buddy, you're okay."

Heaving for breath, Barry looks to – Anubis, but it's not Anubis, it's Caitlin. He thinks. His vision is blurry with tears, head aching horribly. "Cait?"

"Right here," she says simply. To Wally, she adds quietly, "Let him go. You're scaring him."

Wally releases Barry as though burned, and Barry realizes that he's trembling. Jackals laugh in the distance – then pain erupts across his chest, where was it coming from, what was happening, and a choking, cloying sensation like drowning but without water in his lungs consumes him. "S'okay," he rasps, lifting his hand and pressing it against his abdomen. His stomach churns. "I might be sick," he warns, voice sand-paper rough.

Caitlin puts a light plastic bin in front of him. "If you need to," she assures, and he nods once, shuffling so he's more hunched over it.

He whines thinly, a deep sound in his chest, and remembers feeling – sick, not like this but sick, nonetheless, as a boy. He spiked a high fever, drawing the nurse out of his mother. Oh, my darling boy, she crooned, stroking sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. He aches for her presence now as he hunches over the little plastic container.

What happened? he wants to ask, but he doesn't dare open his mouth.

Then Iris enters the room, taking a seat on the bed beside him while Wally keeps asking questions softly, questions Caitlin answers or shakes her head to. Iris drapes an arm around Barry's lower back. He remembers a fist sinking into it, deep and painful, but the mark is already gone, and he dares to lean into her a little. "I don't feel good," he tells the bin.

"I know," she says, rubbing slow circles across his spine. "It might help to—"

He gags a little and spits into the dish, but nothing more substantial arises. After many anxious minutes – he dares not count them, could not count them without a clock – he finally holds it out, and Caitlin sets it aside. Without a word, he turns his head, pressing it against Iris' warm, soft shoulder. Home, he thinks, clinging to it. Exhaustion tugs at his heels, but he holds onto her presence, her company, for as long as he can. I'm home.

Then he is gone, gone, gone.

. o .

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep—

Barry has no idea what day of the week it is, what time it is, or even where he is, but he knows as soon as consciousness returns to him that he's awake, awake to stay, and so he opens his eyelids slowly, hesitantly taking in the scene.

It's one of the small medical side-rooms at STAR Labs. He stares at the white ceiling, dim and a little fuzzy around the edges, but even heavy-tongued and heavy-lidded, he knows it. I'm safe, he thinks, but he tenses anyway, because he knows the moment he thinks he has a handle on reality, it slips away—

Sitting up slowly, he tries to assess his situation with as much detachment as he can summon. A vague, global sense of soreness, akin to the flu, nests in his bones. A pulsing headache lingers behind his right eye. A sick coldness sinks into his veins, counteracted by the gentle warmth seeping into him from an IV line in his right hand. He gazes at it in something like wonder, reaching out slowly to detach it, and then he hears a surprised sound and Joe says, "Hey, hey, hey, leave that."

Barry stares at him, more in disbelief than relief. "Joe?" he asks slowly.

Joe steps forward, pulling him gently into a hug. Barry feels very bony, almost frail against him. "Never gonna lose you again," he says seriously. "Ever."

Barry swallows back tears, not moving to hug him back. "This … this is a dream," he says, testing out the waters of reality.

"Not a dream, Bar." Joe lets go of him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed so he can look him in the eye. "I wish it was," he admits. "Would be easier on all of us if this was just one bad dream." Reaching out, he rests his palm against Barry's forehead, remarking, "Still running hot."

Barry shivers. "Feel cold," he murmurs.

Joe rises and steps over to a closet, pulling out another thick white blanket and getting it situated over him. It only makes Barry feel colder, because – soon, it'll disappear, and he'll be crawling on the floor towards freedom that doesn't exist, because there is no end nor beginning to this place, only darkness everywhere, and jackals cackling in the distance – Joe sits on the bed and holds up his arm. Barry slides underneath it, resting against his chest. It rises and falls slowly. Joe breathes deeply. "You're safe," he says simply. "You're safe, Bar."

If only, if only, if only….

. o .

Clad in the warmest sweater he owns and still trembling a little on his feet despite Cisco and Iris supporting him on either side, Barry takes a step forward. His knees ache, but the bones have healed, and it's not enough to keep him from taking another step. Another. "That's it," Cisco encourages. "Doing great."

Slowly, Cisco releases him, and Barry keeps moving with just Iris' help.

"Good as new," he tells her in a hoarse tone, and she squeezes his waist gently and says nothing.

"It's good to see you on your feet," Caitlin says.

"Good to be back on my feet," he replies, taking a few more steps forward. His trembling legs finally slow him down. He sinks into a chair in the Cortex with Iris' help and a sigh. "Just wish I could keep my eyes open for more than ten seconds," he admits, reaching up to rub them.

"The narcotics and sedatives they gave you should have killed you," Caitlin reminds him. "You're lucky to be alive."

"It's been two days," he tells her, jaw cracking with a yawn. "I should …" His eyelids flutter. "I wanna…"

"Hey, no, come on, you'll hurt your neck," Cisco says, but Barry just closes his eyes, chin sinking to his chest.

. o .

Three full days.

That's how long it takes Barry to stay awake for more than thirty minutes at a time, to walk without shaking. "When do I go back?" he asks his team softly.

Cisco rests a hand on his shoulder. "You don't," he replies.

"There's some … compelling street camera footage taken from the Wolfe-Black operation," Joe adds. "We've already shown it to the judge and secured a medical leave."

Barry sighs. "I have to go back to court," he realizes. He longs to feel something more than disappointment at the thought, but his mind conjures visceral memories of being verbally torn apart for hours. The thought makes his stomach hurt.

It hurts constantly these days. Whether from lack of food or a drug overload, it revolts his mistreatment, disavowing his rule. He settles a hand on his abdomen absently, aching to settle it. They've been easing him back into his 10k-a-day calorie diet, a decision he has no qualms with: anything more than 2k sets him off, ensuring he spends half the night surrendering every scrap he ingested into a plastic bin that couldn't care less about his troubles.

He feels sluggish and sleepy in his best moments, frustrated with his new normal. Cold, tired, hungry, he catalogues, flexing a hand, trying to remove the bone-deep soreness. He hasn't felt this out-of-sorts in years. Heavy, sore, cranky with fatigue and too weak to do anything about it. Caitlin assures him that he'll feel better once he purges the drug from his system, but every iteration of the statement only makes him less certain that it's true.

Welcome back to the land of the living, Anubis rumbled, snatching the firm footing out from underneath him.

His bloodwork still gives back abnormal readings, even for him. He tries not to resent it, but it's hard not to feel frustrated, to jerk his arm away with a sour shake of his head and refuse another sample. I don't like needles, he thinks, rubbing the back of his left hand compulsively.

"When can I go home?" he redirects aloud, looking at his team.

Cisco clasps his hands together. "I can take you there now," he says.

"I'll still need to check your vitals again in a few hours," Caitlin warns.

Barry waves a hand dismissively. He stands, and Iris settles underneath his arm. He doesn't strictly need her support, but he enjoys having it. Looking at Joe, standing silently near the central console, Barry asks, "Can we …?" His throat closes up on him, and he can't bring himself to finish the statement: go home with you.

Joe nods and steps forward. Cisco throws open a breach, and the four of them pass through it, reemerging in a familiarly warm living room. Just the sight of it makes Barry's eyes burn; he's grateful Iris lowers him to the couch, but he's shaking too much to steady himself. "You good?" Cisco asks. Barry nods, closing his eyes.

Iris sits next to him, and he pries his eyelids open to look at her. "Work?" he croaks.

She tucks an arm around his back. "I already explained the situation," she assures. "I'm working remote." Scratching gently along his spine, she adds, "If you want some space, honey, that's—"

"No," he says, leaning against her. "S'fine."

"You tired?" she asks sympathetically, his head sinking onto her shoulder.

"'f I ever sleep again, I'm gonna lose my mind," he grumbles, only partially kidding.

She slides her hand up to rub the back of his neck. "We can put on a movie, if you want."

He shakes his head. Seeing the Wolfe-Black tragedy in sound bites on the news, one of only too many challenges for The Flash, soured his taste for TV. Besides, they didn't have TV in prison; even the sight of it makes him somewhat uneasy. "No," he sighs aloud, shuffling around as she settles against the arm of the couch, encouraging him to lie down beside her. He complies, wrapping his arms around her midriff, pillowing his head on her belly. It's very warm, and very soft, and smells as lilac-pretty as she does. A few deep breaths, her hand carding through his hair and his body cushioned by the familiar comfort of home, and he's out.

. o .

"Mm, that smells amazing," Iris sighs.

Barry tries to resurface to concur because there is a heavenly scent reaching his nose, but he's so comfortable that he gives up the effort too quickly. The heaviness between him and the rest of the world is safe. He can't be hurt if there is a wall between him and the rest of the world.

"Grandma Esther's chicken," Joe explains, his voice more distant. Barry thinks he might be in the kitchen, but wrapping his mind around the image is trying. It hasn't even been that long since his imprisonment, but everything outside the six-by-eight-foot cell still jars him a little. "Should be done in an hour or so. How's he doing?"

"Out cold," Iris says softly, carding a hand through his hair.

"He's been through a lot," Joe acknowledges, but Barry's thoughts drift to the simple sifting pattern of Iris' hand, and he nuzzles his cheek against her belly a little. She pauses. "You awake?" she asks, sounding a little clearer.

He hums. Yeah. Trying to sit up and open his eyes escapes him, but he's so comfortable, the urge to move passes quickly. Making a slightly more indecisive sound, he scoots closer to her. With a sigh drawn from his toes, he surrenders.

. o .

"I hereby exonerate you of all charges," Judge Stewart proclaims.

Barry looks up at her. His wrists aren't shackled, but they feel tied down; his gaze isn't forced upon the podium, but it feels inexorably fixed. "You are free to go," she adds. The media erupts, cameras clicking, murmured questions threatening to rise to a crescendo. Cecile guides him away from the bench, and he swallows because –

I'm free.

His first act as a truly free man is to hug his wife. In that instant, the camera shudders pause; the world melts into stillness, surrounded by flickers of yellow lightning. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly. "I'm sorry," he murmurs into Iris' hair.

She holds onto him, both arms around his back. "Why?" she asks.

He tries to encapsulate the last five years of their lives into simple words, the feeling of restlessness and pain and daunting challenges, and can only focus on her breath against him. "I'm damaged," he says at last, and it feels the most honest.

"You've survived hell and back," she replies, and he bows his head, resting his forehead against hers. "You're brave. You're strong." She squeezes him lightly. "This was a setback. We'll get through it."

He swallows hard. The world speeds up around them, stillness becoming slow movement. "I love you," he says sincerely.

In a murmur, she echoes, "I love you." Leaning up, she kisses him, and he's aware that that is the picture the cameras finally snag, but he doesn't care.

. o .

Six months later.

Lobbing the football back at Ralph on the STAR Labs' lawn, Barry calls out to Cisco, "How're the kids?"

"Overenthusiastic," Cisco replies, tweezing small rocks from the belly of his prototypal mini-Roombas. In the early evening light, it's hard to see the stone until he pries it out, holding it up triumphantly. "Ambitious, like their father."

Barry catches the ball, pitching it back. When it goes wide, Ralph stretches up to catch it. "You ever think about getting away?" he asks both and neither of them.

"You mean, like, to Aruba?" Cisco prompts.

Barry nods, grunting as the football hits his chest hard. "Yeah. Just … out of town. For a while." A year, maybe more.

"If you're offering to sponsor a trip to Aruba," Ralph begins lightly, but Barry lobs the football back at him with enough force to negate the thought, "I will politely decline, as my gentlemanly nature dictates."

"Good answer," Iris puts in, and Barry smiles and catches the ball, spinning around to face her. "Hey, babe."

He holds up the football; she opens her hands. When it strikes her hands, it makes a satisfying thunk. "Hey, babe," he echoes, sidling over. "I thought you were working late?"

"I was," she agrees gravely, tossing the ball back to Ralph. Sliding her arms around Barry's waist, she adds, "Then I remembered I had a sweet husband to come home to."

He smiles; it still warms his chest to hear her say it. "I don't wanna cause trouble," he says, nosing at her hair lightly.

"Oh, you're always trouble," she says fondly, and he squeezes her gently. "You somehow make it charming."

He huffs a soft laugh. "I do try," he replies, rocking them side-to-side. "But I was thinking maybe I could be less trouble if we … if we went away, for a while."

She hums. "You mean, like, to Aruba?"

He laughs full-bellied. "Yes," he says. "Like to Aruba."

"I could be persuaded," she says loftily, stroking a thumb against the small of his back.

He tucks his chin on top of her head, humming deep in his chest. "I love you."

"I love you," she replies, and it amazes and warms him to no end that it is absolutely true.

Come hell or high water, she's there.