Intermission: Barry.

T-minus 205 days.

"Barry. Barry. Barry."

There's a sharp click, and then something bounces off his chest. Weight shifts on either side of him. Squinting, Barry blinks up at Iris, standing over him, pointing a – a nerf gun at his face. "What'd I do?" he asks warily, pulling an arm protectively over his eyes. He literally just woke up –

She tilts the gun down and foam-darts him in the chest, making him grunt. Leaning forward, he Flashes, hooking both hands around her calves and tugging her down so she's kneeling on his chest instead. Real-time resumes, and she yelps a laugh and darts him on the shoulder for his troubles. "Oh, you suck. No Flashing."

"Turnabout is fair-play," he yawns, sliding his hands up to her hips, anchoring her. "'m I in trouble?"

She rolls her eyes and sets the Nerf gun down before leaning down to kiss him with more heat than he's expecting. He is just starting to really settle into it when she pulls away. "Guess what today is."

"I'm really bad at—"

She picks up the Nerf gun and points it at him. "Barry."

"Tuesday." Dart to the shoulder. "A'right. Wednesday."

"Barry."

"Mm?"

"It's January 21st."

He tilts his head at her. "Is it Cecile's birthday?"

"No. Babe." She sets her gun aside and cups his face. "It's been three months."

He arches his eyebrows. "Three months…" Then he grins. "Oh."

"One trimester down," she says in a sing-song voice, "two to go."

There is definitely a baby bump now, he muses, as she leans forward to kiss him again. It's still a little surreal to think of the babies in such concrete terms. He's caught himself glancing at Iris a lot lately, gaze straying inadvertently to her belly. Before, his searches were in vain, always looking away before she caught him, not wanting to stir up any more grief. But now that bump, while small, is unmistakably present. It's a gorgeous bump. Iris is stunning, but pregnant Iris is … well, he's always stood by it: he's the luckiest man alive.

Before he can indulge in more than a close-mouthed kiss, she pulls away. A little disappointed noise escapes him in spite of himself, but she just says, "Go get ready, Flash."

Obediently, he zips off, and he's back in what must seem like the blink of an eye to her. He sits on the bed, dressed in loose pants and a well-worn STAR Labs' tee, and the second he hits real-time she darts him again in the stomach, making him laugh a little. He brushes the foam dart off and sweeps her into his arms, pulling her forward gently but inexorably. "What's gotten into you?" he asks, amused.

Letting go of the gun, she wraps her arms around his neck, holding onto him. The angle is such that it's easier to kneel on the bed than stand in front of it, so he obliges, and presses a kiss against her jawline for his troubles. She's so soft, and he tilts his head so he can nuzzle the juncture between shoulder and neck. "Mm. I love you," he muses.

She squeezes his neck lightly, tugging him until he follows her. She lies back; he frames her, weight up but knees on either side of her, kissing along her neck. "Okay, what'd I do?" he murmurs.

Sliding her hand down to pinch his side lightly, she says, "Nothing." He makes a soft, dubious sound against her neck. He loves her, more than anything in life, but their relationship hasn't exactly been at peak romance the past few weeks, what with her constant nausea, fatigue, and self-described "I love you, babe, but I literally just need to cuddle the Porg for a couple hours in perfect silence or I will kill a man." Since he is a man, he's learned just to sit back and crack open a cold one with Cisco, reverting almost to pre-dating levels of hands to himself. "I just … missed you," she admits suddenly, and he lifts his head a little to meet her gaze

Unable to help himself, he asks teasingly, "So you Nerfed me—"

She pinches his side more firmly. "I could have poured a bucket of cold water on you."

He shudders meaningfully. "Forgiven," he decides. Her hands slide up to cradle the base of his head, pulling him down for another kiss. "You good?" he murmurs, half-teasingly, half-seriously, because the shift is almost dizzying.

"Mm. I could be better," she says lightly.

Oh, he could totally get used to this, he decides with a grin, kissing her instead of responding aloud.

T-minus 202 days.

Iris feels like a goddess.

A goddess who can officially pack away almost as many calories as Barry at a good meal, which is simultaneously thrilling and refreshing in the wake of morning sickness' unexpected and very welcome departure. Her appetite is formidable: she's making up for lost time and eating for three. She deserves a little food comfort. She survived the first trimester. One hurdle down. Two to go.

She's earned this bag of chips and salsa. Earned it. Has Barry earned it? No. That jerk.

Back at the gym, she's almost back to her ordinary routine, thriving in the wake of her newfound energy. The only catch is that she's had to switch from the belly-revealing crop tops to full-length shirts to disguise the no-longer-invisible bump. She's finally feeling the pregnancy glow, but she isn't quite ready to field off strangers who want to rub her belly for good luck. It's not a lucky charm.

Still, almost unconsciously, she finds herself caressing the baby bump throughout the day. Reading a book, reaching for a high shelf, sitting on the train, even running the show at STAR Labs – her hand strays over the bump, just admiring its existence because hello, world: I Am Pregnant. She catches Barry's gaze on the bump more and more, drawn to the movement, and his perennial smile is a nice sight.

Absurdly, amusedly, she thinks he must be kind of jealous: she gets to have all the baby bump fun to herself. But when he hugs her, he still gets to feel it, so he's not entirely cut out from the picture. And unlike the strangers on the streets who will indubitably reach for her belly at some point that feels years away, he's allowed to touch.

Not too much. Simultaneously cozy and coy, she deliberately keeps space between them when they're together at STAR, but then she'll show up at the CCPD just to distract him at the end of his workday. Winn likes to linger and chat about anything and everything, a repertoire of the weirdest trivia she's ever heard (even Barry's brand of nerd seems oddly unversed next to the Wikipedic level of knowledge Winn Schott Jr., At Your Service brings to the table). She comes to appreciate his presence, even if she's equally pleased when she finds Barry along because, hey, distractions are fun for both of them.

She feels good, fit, strong, robustly and emphatically pregnant. Her shirts still fit pretty well, even though she's already bumped up a size in pants. (And, perhaps fittingly, bras. The "Miracle of Creation" is an interesting experience. She still wants a refund on the heightened sense of smell, but at least Barry's cologne doesn't make her gag anymore.) She's pregnant, but, in true middle school vernacular, she's not pregnant, pregnant.

Not like, beached-whale pregnant. That'll come, she knows, but it feels literally years away.

Right now, fit and fun and full of zest, she's just happy to express her appreciation of the change.

T-minus 200 days.

When Cindy asks them about their babymoon, Iris and Barry exchange a look. "Babymoon?" Iris says at last.

That leads to a fun Google search (thank God for Google, honestly; she would have been lost in the first trimester without the consolation that It Really Does Get Better in the second). Subsequently, they realize they have to capitalize on it. After all, it's like finding out you get two birthdays in one year. Who would say no?

People who don't like cake, she thinks, sitting on Barry's back while he does push-ups, ostensibly because he's bored and she's willing, but mostly because he likes showing off how much fitter he is than a certain Star City mayor who can apparently bench two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. (Barry can, too, but not without Speed, which is cheating, according to his Man Pride. Iris has no qualms with Man Pride when it means she gets to just hang out while he shows off. He's earned those abs.)

There are a lot of options for a babymoon. Furthermore, given Barry's extraordinary abilities, there's literally no place on Earth they can't go. Barry throws out the remotest locations on Earth just to tease her, back getting warmer the longer she stays on it, scrolling through her phone. The beach appeals to them, but they've already been to the beach on any number of weekend jaunts and their honeymoon.

"What about Europe?" she muses.

"Europe's nice," he says, breathing a little more forcefully now. "But it's also cold in the winter."

Humming, she muses, "Australia?"

Chuckling, he says, "I love your faith in me, but that's a pretty long hike, even for me. Over open water, no less."

"Okay, what's your vote?"

He makes a sound that is the verbal equivalent of a shrug. "Lord Google knows more than I do."

"Lord Google isn't my husband," she points out, but she types in babymoon vacations anyway. Beach, beach, beach – "Oh, hey, we could go shopping in – wait for it – New York City," she teases.

He laughs. "C'mon, that's not a vacation – we could do that right now." He lowers himself slowly, holding steady, before lifting up again smoothly. She's impressed with how little he trembles; he's gotta be past twenty by now. "Give me exotic. I want undiscovered species, gruesome diseases, a ninety percent chance of losing at least two limbs, whole nine yards."

"Oooh, this place looks nice," Iris muses, ignoring him. "How do you feel about Arizona?"

"Arizona?" he repeats, surprised. "S'nice. Never been, but it's got – cool rocks."

"It also has a very nice resort," she says.

With one last lift, he slowly flattens on the floor, sweat dappling the back of his shirt and hair. She slides off his back, sitting next to him and raking her nails lightly up and down his spine. "I like your Man Pride."

"M' what?" he asks his arms, resting his chin on them to look at her.

"Man Pride," she repeats, and his brow furrows a little, humming happily when she draws circles with her nails across his entire back.

"What's in Arizona?" he asks, resting his forehead against his arms, lying flat on the floor, vibrating a little with silent, contented Speed purrs.

In response, she says simply, "Cool rocks."

T-minus 197 days.

There's also a gorgeous little retreat known as L'Auberge de Sedona in Arizona.

It only takes a couple days to organize their affairs so they can drop off the map for a week. If he pushes himself, Barry can finish up a month's work in a day. It does give him a migraine to spend more than a few hours in the Speed Force and takes more than his usual one-point-five-hour recharge to recover from, but he's good to go before Iris has even finished prying her boss with Hamilton tickets.

It occurs to Iris that Australia wouldn't have been a challenge with Cisco's Vibing abilities, but she has no regrets once he breaches them to the resort. It's absolutely stunning.

Left to their own devices, they check in and scarcely get to the doorstep of their little spa cottage before giddiness floods her. She wraps her arms around Barry's waist while he walks backwards across the hardwood floor, barefoot and smiling. It's a big beautiful world out there, but she likes her view better. Besides, the rocks have been there for a few million years; they won't go anywhere anytime soon.

Leaning up to kiss him, she luxuriates in the fact that no matter how far she is from Central, she will always be home with him.

T-minus 192 days.

It's like a fairytale: they dine, they bask, they wander the nearby Oak Creek and spend a disproportionate amount of time in bed. She feels so relaxed and comfortable that it's almost possible to forget she's pregnant at all, loose-limped and happy. They're barely on their phones, only checking in periodically or using them to take the occasional couple's selfie because, hey, they want to remember this moment. A babymoon. What a glorious concept.

A golden Arizona sunrise wakes her slowly. She hears Barry breathing softly nearby. Rolling over slowly, she sees him seated on the floor, bare back to her, a pair of blue shorts on as he stretches his legs. It's part of his everyday morning ritual before and after a run. Judging the flush to his skin, he's already been out for a bit. Her growling stomach finally calls his attention to her, a lazy smile sprawling across his face.

"Morning," he greets, voice still a little husky with sleep, unused. There are plenty of other people at the resort, and they've even hung out with a few, but here, he's almost all hers.

"Morning," she replies, hugging his abandoned pillow. Her baby bump seems more prominent by the day. It's still relatively shallow, but oh, the days of her own wardrobe are numbered. Still, she can't find anxiety, not here, not with him.

"Think they'll bring us breakfast in bed?" she asks, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Bergamot and Barry. They go hand-in-hand, now.

"Mm, I can," he tells her, pushing himself to his feet and ambling over to her. Leaning over, he kisses the top of her head, asking, "Any requests?"

Reaching out, she smooths a hand against his hip. "I love you."

He's smiling when he pulls back to look at her. "I love you."

They're going to have a baby – two babies – before the year is out, and it dizzies her a little to think about it. But she isn't afraid. Not then, not with him there.

They can do this.

T-minus 188 days.

Maybe it's the rose-colored glasses of pregnancy or the alignment of the planets, but God damn, if Barry has rarely looked more attractive to her.

He was pretty when he was twenty-five, drawing her gaze more often than she dared to admit before they were dating. At thirty-one, he's downright sexy. Twenty-six-year-old Barry in a three-piece suit would have a run for his money against thirty-one-year-old Barry in nothing but Deadpool shorts. (Seriously. This nerd does not own normal shorts.)

Thirty-one-year-old Barry in a three-piece suit is almost lethal, and she finds excuses to take him to reporting events just to see him dress up for them, albeit rarely in such extravagant garb. She's quickly approaching critical mass of secrecy; there is now a noticeable little bump with dresses. Another week, and the secret will be out, irretrievably.

She's almost at her fourth month, three-quarters of the way through the third. It seems surreal to think she's almost halfway through the pregnancy.

Maybe it would scare her more, how fast the time is going, now, but when she looks at Barry with the suit on, mask down, she's got other things on the mind than that all too distant point in the future.

They still have time. Lots of time. And that means lots of time before any babies are around to interrupt their free time.

Honestly, she's just paying it forward.

T-minus 185 days.

Oh, Mama, she does not feel good.

That little baby bump isn't so little, anymore. It's heavy. It's aching. She rubs her belly a little in a vague effort to take the edge off, because her entire body seems to be on strike, chiding her for her babymoon-glow.

She's nauseous, again, and it almost makes her cry, because she's also hormonal, and getting a nosebleed at work is the final straw. She leaves midday and finds Linda, who works from home more often than not, and spends an entire afternoon commiserating with her.

"I'm not even halfway," she says, lying on Linda's couch. Her stomach is growling, but the nausea is still kicking around, and she doesn't feel like shoving down an apple only to have it return later.

"You're the strongest woman I've ever met," Linda says without a hint of irony, passing her a glass of water. "You've got this."

T-minus 184 days.

She's got this.

Barry and she celebrate four-months – four months! – with cheesecake in their jammies on the floor.

Silver Fox makes it to the final rounds on The Bachelorette, up against Blue Eyes and Kevin.

Iris is still rooting for Foxy to win, but Barry, to be contrary, has started pulling for team Blue Eyes. She threatens to kick him out of bed for supporting the Enemy and he gives her a backrub to win her back.

Pregnancy life is pretty good, all things considered.

T-minus 183 days.

At the third OB-GYN appointment, they let her listen to the babies' heartbeats, and wow, those are literally and actually her babies, growing inside her. It surprises her how little it freaks her out; melting affection is the only response. It's all about hormones and the "bonding instinct," but it still amazes her. She can barely bring herself to let Barry have an opportunity to listen to them. His teary smile makes up for it.

They're back again because the twins are deemed a "high risk" pregnancy. There is no such thing as a "zero-risk" pregnancy, because no one is perfect and everything from age to health to number of babies has an effect. They all can amp up the potential for complications. (Yay!) Fittingly, since she's have twins, she's been here twice as much as a Mom-to-be with only plus-one would be. The appointments are also long: she gets the magic wand treatment for upwards of an hour, because, as the doctor cheerfully points out, there are twice as many babies to look at.

She pities the poor mothers of triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets.

The mere thought of five children at once almost makes her throw up. (She refuses to think about any higher-level babies. Those Mamas are the real superheroes.)

As it stands, the twins are doing an outstanding job making things a little less comfortable, day-by-day. Babymoon is an almost-distant memory already. Everything is now backaches, and dry eyes, and a raging libido. (Okay, so she's not exactly complaining about the last part, even though she doesn't know why her dreams have started to fill in the gaps left by every-waking-moment.)

Oh, and she's busty – like super, stupidly busty, what the hell – which means she has to go bra-shopping, again. To be fair, she's not exactly complaining about that, either, but she's sore and kind of cranky, she has no desire to say goodbye to her comfy bras. Which are not so comfy.

Yay, pregnancy.

Barry, Adonis incarnate, doesn't even get a paunch if he eats 20,000 calories in a day, but she gets to carry their children for five more months with the full plethora of side effects. There's a man behind this all. She knows it. And she wants to introduce that man to her fist, but first, she really, really wants a big stack of Nutella-covered tortilla chips.

T-minus 182 days.

Iris knows she's in full pregnancy craving mode when she asks Barry if he would ever eat the Poptart-M&M-chocolate-syrup-marshmallow spaghetti dish that Buddy cooked up in Elf.

Barry shrugs, agrees to try it, but evidently doesn't find it as good as Iris does, because he turns down more than one experimental bite. Iris finishes the whole pot. Barry polishes off the free, unopened Poptarts.

T-minus 181 days.

For Valentine's Day, they watch rom-coms and make "Crème De la Crème à la Edgar." It's sinful.

Unfortunately, Barry likes it, too, which is a problem, because she is the one eating for three, and she wants the whole thing. No, not one sleeve of crackers. She wants Every. Goddamn. Ritz. Cracker. They. Have.

He buys four additional boxes of Ritz crackers, and she eats them all, washing them all down with an entire gallon of milk.

Barry sits on the floor near the couch she's lounging on, watching her with a politely stupefied expression. Her stomach growls.

"Know what sounds really good?" she says, nibbling on the last Ritz cracker, crème de la crème'd.

"I'm scared to ask, but hm?"

"Burnt pancakes."

T-minus 180 days.

She's losing weight, despite nibbling on any and every impulse food that comes to mind regardless of time of day. Week fifteen was her peak weight. She's dropped fully two pounds in the past week alone. Her baby bump is the same, but she's leaner elsewhere.

She needs to be gaining one to two pounds, minimum, for the twins to be healthy.

So she stops counting calories and just eats five pancakes slathered in whipped-cream and Sprite, eats fruit until she feels like she should puke and tops it off with an entire jar of nuts, and plows readily and happily through four sandwiches at lunch.

By evening, she's eaten almost 4,800 calories, and she's still hungry.

God damn, this is Barry's everyday, she thinks, and feels a flicker of sympathy that disappears when she sees her stupidly-fit baby-bump-less husband casually consume an entire box of cereal in 2.8 seconds.

She hits 8,000 before her stomach finally stops growling, but she still has enough of an appetite to top it off with an entire carton of raspberry-flavored sorbet.

She thinks it's a fluke for one day, just a side effect of the jaunt into the Speed Force catching up to her, surely it'll be gone the next morning, but -–

T-minus 178 days.

She's still eating for five by the end of the week.

She's also getting dizzy spells and unexpected cold sweats, which dramatically decrease her enjoyment of day-to-day life. She brushes them off, insisting that she feels fine overall, which is a dirty white lie that neither she nor Barry buy. She's feeling pretty sucky, and she has no idea how to fix it, because she's doing everything she's supposed to be doing – and consuming an Olympic number of calories to boot.

Hey, she's feeding twins. Maybe it's normal.

Lord Google says it's normal, eating more, feeling sucky. Not in the exact same way, but, hey, close enough.

She's fine. She's fine.

T-minus 176 days.

Iris wakes up in a hospital with absolutely no memory about how she got there.

Panic is her first response. She lurches upright, only making it partway before searing backpain stops her, and oh my God what the hell, but Barry catches her and says soothingly, "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay." It's then she notices not one but two IVs in her, one in each arm. She moans softly in disapproval: she hates needles. Stroking her shoulder soothingly, looking ashen-faced and decidedly not reassuring, Bartholomew, he assures, "It's okay, you're okay."

Leaning back against the bed, she looks at him, fuzzy and headachy and scared, dammit. "You passed out at work," he explains softly. "They brought you here and called me. Joe's on his way. The babies are fine." Some tension unwinds from her shoulder, but she's still staring at him, confused and not happy about it. "You were really dehydrated," he adds explanatorily. She grimaces but doesn't look at the IVs.

"Barry," she says, her voice a dry rasp, ow. He reaches around and offers her a little Dixie cup full of crushed ice cubes and a tiny amount of water. "Thanks." She nibbles on a cube; he keeps talking, stroking her shoulder, seated as far forward as he can be in the chair beside her.

"Your blood sugar level was through the floor," he says. She frowns, chewing ice loudly and open-mouthed, unconcerned with the look because she just needs to be able to talk again, screw being lady-like. "That's basically the definition of hypoglycemia," he adds helpfully.

Her frown deepens. "So … GD?" she asks, her throat painfully dry. He gets up, retrieves another cupful, and passes it to her.

Shaking his head, he says, "I don't think so. GD is technically the opposite problem: hyperglycemia. I mean, your blood sugar should be through the roof with gestational diabetes. Did you … skip a meal, or something?" he prompts. She shakes her head. He hums, sounding frustrated and worried. Now you know how I feel, she thinks, tipping another ice chip into her mouth.

"Um. There's always a concern that – with pregnancies, I mean," reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he continues, "that there's something with the babies, but the doc said everything looks good? Babies are good," he adds firmly, seeing her expression, which must convey a tenth of the aghast fear she feels because God, if she lost the babies now…

Dad shows up, then, escorted by a nurse, who promptly takes over in the interrogation-and-ice-chip-dispensary department. It takes the anxiety in the room down another notch just to have him around, even though she's still confused, and tired, and not sure at all what happened. She remembers being at her desk, remembers feeling – well, feeling sucky, as per usual. She was cold-sweaty and headachy. Maybe a little dizzy. Maybe a lot dizzy.

But whether she stood up or stayed seated, she couldn't say. Just – there and gone.

They refill her IV bags, but she's still feeling pretty slow, pretty low, and even though Barry holds her hand and they watch non-cable TV, normalcy fails to return. She's scared. She's also sore and sick to her stomach and wants to be home in bed right now, but she's too afraid that there is something wrong with the babies because she should feel better by now. They've given her a lot of sugar water.

Hours later, her condition has only modestly improved. Barry has his chin on the side of the bed, hand on her knee, stroking it slowly. Anxiety is written plainly in his slumped shoulders, his tense frame. She feels it, too. His fear is her fear.

When her stomach growls, he tips his head to look up at her with a tired expression because he hasn't left her side in hours. Hours. That's forever for a speedster. He must be pretty hungry, too.

Something finally clicks.

Dizzy for a different reason, she doesn't say anything, carding her hand through his hair slowly, mostly to distract herself and partially because it makes his tired-eyes slide shut. He's still tense, alert. As soon as the doctor reappears, he sits up again.

The news is the same. So far, so good, the doc assures them: all the lovely tests assure that the twins are fine. It only cements the certainty in Iris' gut.

Almost stupidly, it makes her think of Star Trek, because Barry and Cisco both quote it more often than she cares to remember. Specifically, it makes her think of Spock:

When you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Technically, Barry would love to tell her, that quote belongs to none other than Mr. Entitled Pants Sherlock Holmes, but the sentiment remains the same. They've ruled out all the scary-sounding stuff. She just fainted. She wasn't getting enough calories. She'll feel better once she's back up to speed.

Back up to speed. It almost makes her laugh.

Around five PM, fully four hours after being admitted, she's deemed well enough to be released. She couldn't be happier, ready to cry with relief. They insist on wheeling her to the ground floor, just policy, and she lets them. Dad brings the car up to the curb. Barry holds her hand the entire way and clambers in after her while a nurse takes the wheelchair back inside. Resting her cheek on Barry's shoulder, she dozes on the way home, wondering if she should tell them.

He carries her up to their apartment, saying something to her dad, who accompanies them, opening doors that Barry could probably phase through. With exceeding care, he sets her down in their bed. She grabs a little corner of his shirt, holding on, and he makes an apologetic noise, kissing her forehead with a promise to return.

He's only gone for a few seconds – just a soft breeze and a scent like lightning where her husband should be – but it feels like a very long time, especially since she's so tired and she just wants him here. When he returns, he settles in beside her, sitting next to her against the headboard. Burying her face against Barry's shoulder, she wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him from the side. It's not comfortable with the bump, and she groans softly and readjusts, lying instead on her side more fully. She buries her nose against his side.

Dad comes in and talks to Barry and she should talk to him, too, but she doesn't want to move. Barry crunches audibly on one of Cisco's protein bars, and Iris tugs on his shirt a little, gliding a hand across his belly, searching for it. With a confused hum, he breaks off a piece and puts it in her hand, and she brings it to her mouth and chews on it.

It tastes like iron, literally iron, a heavy taste that makes her crave something sweet or bitter or sour or anything other than pure iron. But the growling, roaring hunger in her chest settles down. She holds out her hand. He passes her another bite-sized piece. Dad asks something about timing. Barry makes an inconclusive sound.

Finally, Dad squeezes her shoulder gently and she mumbles a goodbye, and then it's just her and Barry, Barry's skin warm and soft to the touch. Without being asked, he breaks off another part of the bar for her. Its sharp iron flavor isn't quite as potent. It's almost appetizing. Does this make me a vampire? she muses absurdly. There's iron in the blood. Vampires drink blood. Ergo: she's a vampire.

She finishes six or seven bites of the bar before she finally just curls her hands in Barry's shirt, holding him. "You know," he says aloud, softly, "hypoglycemia was one of the first things I noticed after …" He can't finish. Inhaling slowly, he observes, "You were in the Speed Force."

"Mm-hm." She doesn't fill in the blank. He's smart.

And he's already figured it out. "You don't think that…" Trailing, he exhales. "Yeah."

She rubs her cheek against his side. "Yeah."

Finishing the bar off, he shimmies down, sliding his arm around her back and shoulders, vibrating gently. It's so nice, and her bed is so soft and familiar and warm, and she finally feels a tear slip down her cheek. "Hey," he croons, sliding his hand up to brush his thumb against it, wiping it away. "S'okay." When she starts sobbing silently, he scoots closer, no space between them, and rubs her back, assuring, "S'okay, honey, you're okay."

She doesn't sleep much that night, despite her exhaustion, and neither does he, and it is cathartic in its own way.

T-minus 174 days.

It's not an exact science. They don't know how powerful the effects of being exposed to the Speed Force can be on a pregnant mother or her babies. But Cisco has already successfully kept two full-time speedsters out of the calorie red for the better part of ten years, now. He's a pro. And as long as she eats a few of those calorie-packed bars a day, she stays in the clear. (Doesn't stop her desire to put increasingly ridiculous food items together, but, hey, she needs other nutrients, too.)

It's not an exact science, but it keeps her well enough to function just fine, and that's all she needs.

If there's anxiety around the edges of Barry's eyes, watching her with newfound guilt, newfound fear, she does her best to reassure him, hands cupped around his face, that she's still okay.

T-minus 172 days.

She's lying on her side reading when she feels it, a little, faint, almost unnoticeable flutter, like someone very gingerly tapped her on the belly.

Mid-sentence, she stops reading, one hand still cradling the decidedly more prominent baby bump. She strokes the bump with her thumb, heart pounding because – another, little, almost unnoticeable flutter passes by. She sets her book aside, and just lies there, and at some point she texts Barry because, hey, he deserves to be here. He's there in an instant, it seems, and it's then, of course, that the twins fall still and silent once again.

But in another hour or so, another little flutter. This time, cheek pressed against her belly, wonder in his eyes, Barry beams up at her.

"Babies," she says, simply, informatively.

"Babies," he repeats, adoring, awed.

T-minus 170 days.

Eighteen weeks. Hallelujah.

According to Lord Google, her babies are now the size of pomegranates.

It is such a humorous mental image that it gets to feature in a particularly vivid dream, complete with an applauding theater of doctors delightedly proclaiming, "Two ripe pomegranates!"

Needless to say, her appetite for pomegranates is decidedly curbed.

Her ravenous love of raspberries, strawberries, and cherries remains unabated. The babies are getting big, now. Soon, they'll be grapefruit-sized.

She tells Barry and he can't stop giggling, playfully cradling a grapefruit in the crook of either arm and crooning, "I love my beautiful grapefruit babies."

T-minus 167 days.

Iris aches a lot, nowadays. She envies the days of effortless comfort. Everything has the potential to become uncomfortable: standing too long, sitting too long, lying on her side too long, lying on her back too long, working out too long, walking too long, existing in the conscious realm too long.

The OB-GYN appointments are still routine, in spite of the fainting episode. Babies are good. Mama is good. Everything is good. She does get promoted to an even higher-risk pregnancy, but, hey, go big or go home.

T-minus 166 days.

Okay, maybe a little less big, she thinks, amused, as she tugs on her loosest shirt and a sizeable gap is left at the bottom.

She snags one of Barry's Star Wars shirts and rocks it to STAR Labs. His smile is big and happy, so she doesn't think he minds terribly.

T-minus 165 days.

God, she thinks, stuffing a wad of towels against her nose, can the universe not?

Has she not done enough penance by bearing her future children and all of the other side effects? Must she also have nose bleeds?

T-minus 164 days.

On average, Barry sustains a life-threatening injury once a month, a serious injurious once a week, and a minor injury daily.

Nursing a badly broken arm in a sling, he stays at home from work for the afternoon to prevent suspicion when it spontaneously heals by the next morning. He doesn't ask her to stay with him, but there's a tightness around his eyes that she doesn't like, a silent expression of the quiet but intense pain he is in. Sure, he doesn't need her around – and there isn't much she can do for him, honestly – but she stays with him because he doesn't deserve to suffer alone.

Together, they curl up on the couch, eat ice cream, and watch golf, of all things, until they fall asleep.

God, they really are adult-adults, now, aren't they?

T-minus 163 days.

The twins kick often, and spiritedly.

Grunting, Iris rests a hand on her ever-growing belly, hoping to soothe the flare of discomfort, a sharp, almost-pinch sensation that is decidedly not cute or "aw" inducing.

She bites enthusiastically into a calorie bar and channels her agitation into a fearsomely productive afternoon at work.

T-minus 160 days.

Her energy soars, her energy plummets. It washes over her like a temperamental tide, coming in great bursts of productivity and a day where she successfully bathes and gets back in bed.

She snacks on crème de la crème de Edgar and scales back her exercise routine once again. She upgrades her pants. She wears Barry's shirts, because they're comfortable, and they fit. He doesn't seem to mind much. If anything, he looks at her even more appreciatively.

Hey, she can be sexy, too.

T-minus 157 days.

How is it March?

It was January yesterday. Hell, it was December just a few weeks ago, and it was summer barely a breath before that –

It's 62 degrees outside.

It's March.

And she is nineteen weeks pregnant with twins.

Woof.

T-minus 156 days.

Barry's "How Garbage Is My Husband?" score is at a historic low lately. Why? One word: backrubs.

He is surprisingly good at them. Like, ridiculously, unfairly, amaaaazingly good at them.

It doesn't entirely compensate for the leg aches or the shortness of breath (or, y'know, the urge to pee every forty-five minutes), but at least it makes her feel like her back is made of clouds, or something, for the time that he does it.

She loves him. She looooves him.

T-minus 155 days.

"Do you want to know?"

Barry pops an Oreo into his mouth. "Want to know what?"

Iris takes the bag from him and crunches down on a cookie of her own. "Girl-girl, boy-boy, boy-girl," she says, taking a seat on his lap. She's not insubstantial, but thanks to an eight-inch height difference between them and the fact that her husband is literally The Flash, he doesn't even huff, just wrapping his arms around her like nothing's changed. His hands settle on her belly comfortably.

The bump is noticeable, now. Strangers are eyeing her hopefully. Soon, the lucky charm will be ready for their weird, unavoidable impulse to rub it. Soon!

One of the twins kicks. Barry hums thoughtfully. "Do you?" he redirects.

She elbows him lightly in the gut. "Barry," she warns, biting into another Oreo.

He shrugs. It feels honest. "Sure?" he says warily. "I mean, honestly, it's not gonna change much, I'll be pretty stoked no matter what we get."

"Stoked," she repeats, letting him sneak a cookie from the bag.

"Mm-hm."

Sighing, she says, "We're millennial parents."

"Stoked is timeless," he insists, making a disappointed sound when she moves the bag of Oreos out of reach. "Iris…"

"Yes or no," she says simply. "Do you want to know?"

"You still haven't answered," he points out.

"Bar."

"Iris."

She gives him the container. "Yes."

He bites into another cookie. "Yes," he repeats through a mouthful, and she rolls her eyes at him and cozies down into his arms because: oh boy, oh girl, oh babies.

Tomorrow.

T-minus 154 days.

"We're gonna have to think of names," Iris muses, smiling when Barry holds up a hand, playfully twirling under it, still wearing his plaid red-and-blue shirt.

"Star and Trek," Barry prompts. She pokes him in the side, and he slings an arm around her waist. It's deliciously warm out – a rare spring day where coats could be left on the rack – and she's feeling warm and fuzzy. She always feels warm and fuzzy after seeing the babies, hearing the babies, oh my God, those are her babies.

They're really hers. Theirs. She supposes she'll have to share them, eventually, and muses about that silently on the walk home because she kind of doesn't want to, they're her babies.

But if she has to share them with someone, she could not be happier that it's Barry.

The levity of seeing their babies again certainly helps to make the cake-fest that is Barry's birthday even better, but she's convinced the best part is after their friends are gone and it's just them.

T-minus 150 days.

Halfway.

She feels halfway there, halfway to Mars. A little over halfway to Mars, actually, because it's a seven-month-trip, although that is a very optimistic estimate, borderline unrealistic.

Halfway there.

They go to Disney again, just the two of them. It's somehow even more magical, because she feels the little periodic kicks. It feels like their first trip as a newly minted family to Disney.

Resting her cheek on Barry's shoulder, she listens to mechanical pirates yell and fire fake cannons at each other, and feels warm in her heart.

T-minus 140 days.

Iris has taken off her wedding ring before, but it feels strangely final when she finally can't put it back on one morning, somewhere between the twentieth and twenty-second week of her pregnancy. It feels wrong, not walking around. She misses the subtle reminder, the quiet but emphatic statement that she's married. To a gorgeous, sweet, wonderful man who deserves to see his matching ring on her finger.

Alas, her swollen fingers (swollen, mm, wow, what a sexy situation – not; she's shaking her fist at the universe nearly constantly, now, oscillating between "Everything is Awful!" and "Everything is Awesome!") won't let her put it on. Barry understands. Of course he does. He hasn't put on twenty-two pounds in five months. His legs don't cramp up unexpectedly.

Actually, they might. But he definitely does not have stretch marks. So. There you go.

Men are garbage.

T-minus 139 days.

Male seahorses give birth.

They're only pregnant for nine to forty-five days (what a range; that's the human equivalent of being pregnant forty to two-hundred weeks, or nine months to just under four years). But they endure the trials and tribulations of gestation and finally go into labor before giving birth to their many, many, many, many, many seahorsechildren.

Male seahorses are less garbage than most males. Most.

Now, when Barry hugs her from behind, his own flat belly – complete with well-defined abs – pressed against her, she thinks about those male seahorses. She thinks, Lord Google was onto something. Because her feet hurt, her back hurts, her breasts hurt, and he's just his usual nerd-self.

She sulks with the porg for a few hours and refuses to tell him why she's grumpy. She's twenty-two weeks pregnant. She's allowed to be grumpy for no reason.

T-minus 135 days.

It's official. Their babies are grapefruits.

Oh, God, she's so pregnant.

Gym time has become "I shall walk to the gym and sit on the bench while Linda works out, eating chips and fielding off strangers who want to rub my belly for good luck."

Shower time has become "God damn, look at that. I am huge. I am already huge. This is impossible. I am barely halfway through this."

Couch time has become "This is uncomfortable. This is worse. This is a lot worse. Nope, don't like this."

Work time has become "Stop kicking. I'm trying to write. Are you fighting? Can babies fight before they're born? Lord Google, can babies fight in the womb?"

Night time has become "I have to pee. I have to pee again. I have to pee again. Yes, again. It's 3:13 AM. I have peed seven times tonight. I am not going to pee again. I have to pee again."

Doctor time has become "Gel is weird. Babies are weird. Look at those smudges. Aww. Aww. Look at my babies. Barry, look at the babies. Look at the babies. Aren't they cute? They're grapefruits."

And when she finds it, sleep time is "My dinosaur children have taken over the world, please send help."

T-minus 130 days.

Barry breaks his neck.

Oh, he survives – and nobody calls her until he is on the mend enough that she doesn't feel bad for leveling her flattest, most unimpressed look at him. He just blinks back at her, gently startled with a neck brace on and a pretty spectacular black eye. He reminds her of an owl with a mouse in its mouth, looking at her like: what, this little thing?

Maybe he expects her to yell. But she's tired, and they've been at this superhero game for almost ten years, and if he's not dead, and he's not going to die, then it's actually been a pretty good day.

She makes crème de la crème de Edgar with Cisco's help, and then they pull out a projector and watch The Aristocats until they fall asleep.

When she wakes up, Barry is still knocked out, recovering, the black eye faded to yellow, the neck damage likely already well on the way to fully mended. Reaching out, she twines her fingers with his, ring-less but still warm, still full of nothing but affection for him, and squeezes gently, a silent I love you.

His fingers twitch, just a little, but he doesn't open his eyes. She still hears it.

I love you.

They don't need rings, she thinks, full of affection and aching hope, because she just needs him to live, to be here.

Central City may need The Flash. She needs Barry.

T-minus 128 days.

Everything is more pronounced with just sixteen weeks – four months – left.

It feels like no time, and all the time in the world. Four months to nurse this big baby belly that keeps taking up real estate. It's cute right now (it's also frightening, because she's still got four months of pregnancy to go). Standing in the mirror in one of Barry's outsized tees, she feels cute as they come, and is even gracious enough to let a stranger or two rub the belly for good luck.

Her workouts are still "I will walk to the gym" and bedtime is any time she has a horizontal surface and a pillow, but, overall, she thinks she's handling it pretty well. You know. For a first time Mom-to-be, pregnant with twins and trying to feed herself, her babies, and the Speed Force.

She's doing good. She's doing real good.

T-minus 121 days.

Okay. All right. She'll take "seahorse dad can take over the pregnancy from here" for 500.

The glow, if it ever existed, is presently competing with sore ankles, sore back, sore everything for champion emotion. She thinks the weird line on her belly sums it up perfectly in terms of "What the hell even is the human gestational experience?"

Seahorses. She wants to be a seahorse.

T-minus 118 days.

Lord Google, will I ever return to my pre-beached whale form?

Come April, Iris is twenty-seven pounds heavier than she was on New Year's Eve. She's also 5'4. It's an absurd amount of weight for a person of her stature to carry. And it's all sitting in one place.

This was the most ludicrous plan on Planet Earth.

T-minus 115 days.

Barry sleeps ninety-six minutes a night. It's like clockwork. He falls asleep and wakes up a little over an hour and a half later, refreshed and ready to go. It's a goddamn miracle.

Iris is also beginning to sleep closer to ninety-six minutes than eight hours a night, but unlike Barry, she is not ready and raring. She is tired. She is cranky. She is hangry.

These babies literally cannot come soon enough. Her back is killing her. Her feet are killing her. This was a bad idea. And they're going to have to care for two babies before the year is out.

Staring at the bump that is now a full-blown balloon, she wonders just how much bigger it can get before August.

T-minus 110 days.

She misplaces her keys. Literally every day. She could tape them to her forehead, and she would misplace them.

Maybe this is how Barry feels about being on time. He still wears the sundial watch, and he's always late. The consistency is soothing.

T-minus 108 days.

Did you know babies can hiccup in the womb? Babies can hiccup in the womb. Babies can hiccup in the womb. Babies can hiccup in the womb-

T-minus 106 days.

Barry sings in the shower.

Iris lies on her side on the bed listening to him, nursing a sleep hangover because she hasn't slept more than five hours a night in weeks. His voice is pleasant, soothing and familiar. She wonders if the babies enjoy it, too. Hypothetically, they can hear him. That's what Lord Google tells her. They're certainly kicking around to it.

T-minus 105 days.

Another doctor's appointment! Hip hip hooray! They're moving right along!

That's Barry's bracing attitude, at least, as he tries to coax her out of bed for the appointment. They're so close to the finale! Yippee!

Iris pitches a pillow at him, draws the blankets back over her head, and rolls back onto her opposite side to avoid him for a bit longer.

T-minus 103 days.

Cinnamon on pickles: don't knock it till you're twenty-seven weeks pregnant.

T-minus 102 days.

They call it "nesting" when it's two in the morning and a pregnant person feels the sudden, all-consuming urge to clean a house from top to bottom in preparation for the baby. Cleaning is not the only example, but it's a prominent nesting behavior. Gotta make the place look nice for baby. Gotta make it look spick and span for baby.

Or, in Iris' case: babies. Has she mentioned how big her belly is? Barry, look. Look at it. Look at it. It's huge.

He, of course, the idiot, thinks it's beautiful. She's beautiful. She's glowing. Wow. What a Miracle.

She doesn't want to be a Miracle anymore. She wants to be about thirty pounds lighter and able to take three steps without noticing, oh, ha-ha, why yes, I am humungous! Among her repertoire of new tricks: almost passing out every time she stands up, being short of breath after even the lightest activities, peeing a little when she sneezes, and not yelping out loud whenever one of the twins lands a K.O. kick to her belly.

But damn, does she wish Barry could experience just one day of this. Then he would know. He wouldn't look at her like she was beautiful.

He would look at her like she was a motherfucking Khaleesi.

T-minus 101 days.

It's finally starting to sink in that she's in the last leg of the race.

Third trimester. "We're approaching for landing" territory. Look, there's Mars. Look, there's a crib. Wait. What?

She feels in a bit of a daze, lately, because she can't drink much coffee, and she can't get much sleep, but she's at least trying not to be too scatterbrained about the whole thing. Linda is organizing a baby shower. God bless her. Iris is just happy to make it to work, somehow survive a day, and make it home to sleep until she has to pee and repeat until it's time to go to work again. And down a few of those iron calorie bars. Maybe some Doritos and rice. Stop judging, she's hungry.

She's also twenty-eight weeks pregnant, and there are two goddamn eggplants competing for territory in her belly. She can't get much bigger. She really can't.

If Barry didn't rub her back as often as he did, she'd file for divorce, because it is not fair that he gets to look like he was carved from marble and she gets an outtie bellybutton for her troubles. Seriously.

Maybe there will be cake at the baby shower. She surfaces on the hopeful premise that there might be cake.

Intermission: Barry.

T-minus 100 days.

He feels bad, because he knows Iris is uncomfortable, but he's also so happy, because they're going to have a pair of babies soon, and just the thought improves his entire day. He's going to be a Dad. Officially. He'll have his own kids. Kids that he made.

It's trippy, and he finds himself thinking about it so often that Cisco has to call his attention back to Planet Earth and Winn sometimes just straight up smacks him on the back of the head because focus, kid, focus! He doesn't want to focus. He wants to embrace the fact that his gorgeous, beautiful, perfect wife is pregnant.

And they're in the final third of the race. The amazing race. (Which, incidentally, only lasts three weeks. He could have sworn it was longer. But, hey, those contestants only got a million dollars out of it if they won. He gets babies. Who's the real winner?

T-minus 95 days.

There is cake at the baby shower. It gets her through the week.

In fact, she's having a pretty decent week, all things considered. Decent in the same way that Barry dislocating his shoulder is "a good day." She's getting used to the weird pregnancy quirks, the mind-fogging haze of fatigue. She dreams about chasing coffee cups shaped like dinosaurs.

She gets a pregnancy pillow, because she can't cuddle the Porg properly. Barry can spoon up behind her, which is nice, although she's restless and rarely stays still long enough to truly enjoy it. He's patient – he sneaks his hour-and-a-half in early in the evening so he's more moral support than equally miserable party seeking sleep.

Scratch that. There is no-way, no-how he is even a quarter as miserable as she is. Because he gets to drink coffee. And he is not toting around a magical eight-ball the size of a small beachball, that weighs as much as a small child.

Because those are their babies getting bigger by the day, kicking her and each other more enthusiastically than ever. Those are her Braxton Hicks contractions, adding just a little more zest to her life, although mercifully not too much. (Not yet. Those contractions wait for the finale.) Those are her headaches and swollen ankles and digestive woes.

This is her struggle. It will be her spectacular finish.

T-minus 88 days.

Summer creeps up on Central City, but Iris' appreciation of it is greatly dulled by the fact that she is a beached whale.

She still consents to photographs, especially if she's in one of Barry's longer shirts. She lounges on the couch and uses her belly as an impromptu table (one of the only pregnancy quirks she will actually miss). She takes long walks and eats a good deal of Oreos slathered in peanut butter.

She talks to the babies, musingly, earnestly, affectionately, exasperatedly. She never voices frustration at them – even when they kick her, she knows they're just trying to move all those little limbs in an increasingly small space – but at their daddy, because he sure isn't suffering like she is for all of this. She tells them that she loves him, too, because she does.

And she tells them to take their sweet time, don't be premature. There's a greater risk with twins – fighting for real estate like they are, there's a greater chance something will go awry and labor will be kickstarted, almost literally – but she's hopeful, given the many doctor's visits, that all is well. They're on track. Early August.

It's almost June, now.

Soon.

T-minus 73 days.

Time flies when you're super pregnant.

And she means literally – because either she or the twins or some combination therein has clearly latched onto the Speed Force, necessitating huge calorie loads. She's banking on the twins. She certainly doesn't feel miraculously less uncomfortable thanks to Speed-healing. She doesn't know if it's more terrifying or thrilling to think about the babies inheriting any part of the Speed Force.

Time is flying. Is she ready? Are they ready? Can any of them be ready?

T-minus 61 days.

A full-term for twins is 37 weeks.

She's totally fine with that. That puts her a mere four weeks out. One more month. She can do it. Just one more month. Easy-peasy.

They've already packed a hospital bag, per Lord Google's instructions (and, of course, the OB-GYN's suggestion). It seems strange to be preparing for labor this early, knowing that it's weeks away. It also seems strange to search for new apartments because, oh, yeah, we don't have a spare room. What were they honestly thinking? They're not ready for a baby, let alone twin babies.

But ready or not, they are coming.

Leaning against Barry, trying not to feel like a beached whale, she says, "I love you."

Surprised, he tilts his head to kiss her forehead, and he is so gentle and unpresumptuous about it that it almost makes her cry. "I love you."

And it's true. Despite all the frustration, the pain, the fear – this is really happening.

They are really going to have two little ones, come August at the latest.

T-minus 56 days.

Compared to what comes next, pregnancy is easy.

Iris is still the boss, the one in charge of her day-to-day. It's just her and Barry. Yes, she has to eat consciously and cope with the various side effects induced by the fact that there are two butternut squash sized babies in her belly making life difficult, but it's just the two of them. Barry is independent and can fend for himself as well as verbalize what he wants or what's bothering him. Babies? Babies are so much more.

They're helpless. They need you. They need her. And Barry.

Right now, she just has to keep them safe, and they're happy. Once they're out in the world, that won't be the case. She won't be their entire world. She'll just have to make sure they're ready for it.

It's a daunting task, and she spends more than a few hours wondering if she can do this, raise children. Two at once, no less.

Rolling onto his side, catching up on a good night's sleep, Barry rests an arm around her waist, inadvertently cradling her belly.

It is daunting. It's absolutely terrifying.

But she won't have to do it alone. It gives her strength. It lets her close her eyes, and chase sleep.

T-minus 53 days.

It's definitely one of the more memorable birthdays, eight months pregnant with twins.

She spends most of the day just dozing in Barry's arms, lying on the couch between his legs with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Sure, she'll enjoy doing something more thrilling next year, and has certainly indulged in spectacular birthdays in years prior, but there is something indescribably lovely about just spending a day with her husband, doing next-to-nothing, and still doing everything for their twins.

T-minus 46 days.

They say au revoir to their old apartment in the thirty-sixth week of her pregnancy. Moving into the new place is a breeze with Barry's Speed. Everything just seems right about it, instantaneously, because there is no long unboxing. It's all just there. It's all ready to move in.

There are many ways to break in a new house. Iris' favorite is falling asleep on their new bed.

T-minus 44 days.

Any. Day. Now.

It's a mantra in her head, and Barry seems just as antsy as she is, which is impossible, because no one is as eager to meet these babies as she is. They're almost at a full term for twins, nearing thirty-seven weeks. Okay, babies, she thinks. Any day now.

She's so tired of the weight, and the fatigue, and the hundreds of little aches across her body. Some not so little aches, too, nesting at the small of her back and the arches of her feet. She's so ready for a full night's sleep she can taste it. She just wants to rest without a watermelon protruding from her stomach.

Soon. Soon. Soon.

T-minus 39 days.

Day one of the thirty-seventh week arrives without a bang. It arrives with Barry's soft breath against her shoulder, innnn, ouuut, deeply asleep. She aches to join him, but she aches even more for the contractions she knows must be coming. Any moment. Any moment.

T-minus 36 days.

The week drags on interminably. She can barely focus at work. She can barely focus on anything, Barry included.

She just wants to be done.

T-minus 33 days.

She would have landed on Mars by now.

T-minus 24 days.

The twins are still growing. She feels like she's going to explode. Maybe she will. It would be a rather horrible way to relieve the growing pressure on all of her internal organs, but at least it would be relief.

Barry doesn't offer much consolation, instead helping her get comfortable whenever he can and pressing little butterfly kisses to her jaw. She loves him for the quiet. There aren't many words that could be spoken, and none would capture the mood perfectly. There is only restless anticipation.

T-minus 21 days.

They won't induce labor unless the pregnancy goes beyond forty-two weeks. Inducing pregnancy isn't without its own risks, and the overwhelming majority of pregnancies do not land square on the due date.

August. Shoot for August.

At least they won't be premature, she thinks, and tries to wait patiently.

T-minus 19 days.

One day more.

It's like Christmas Eve. Tomorrow marks the first day of the fortieth week. She can't sleep, but she knows that's only partially from nerves.

T-minus 18 days.

For the first time in nine months, a second pencil heart appears on the calendar. July 29th.

Iris stares at it, one hand cradling her Goliath belly, and wonders where the time went.

T-minus 14 days.

Turns out the time can't go fast enough. God, she's so tired.

Lounging on the couch, she hums softly in approval when Barry picks up her feet and massages them.

Good man.

T-minus 12 days.

Iris wakes up and goes through her morning ritual, albeit more slowly now than usual. She showers. She puts on comfy clothes. She tries not to bend over more than she needs to. She doesn't weigh herself. She eats blueberry pancakes for breakfast. She looks at the calendar on the wall for a long time. She finally goes to work, and returns home midday because she's too tired.

It's the end of the fortieth week, the technical due date.

No babies.

She's too sore, too exhausted to feel disappointed.

They'll come. Soon. Soon, soon, soon…

T-minus 5 days.

"It's all gonna change."

Rolling over is an effort. Iris captures Barry's hand instead where it rests on her belly and squeezes it gently. "Hm?"

"Once they're born."

"Mm."

"You ready?"

A huff of air that might be a laugh on a better day. "Is anyone ever ready?"

He snuggles closer to her, squeezing her gently from behind. They can't exactly cuddle face-to-face anymore, but this is still nice. "Dawn and Don," he muses. "We're not gonna regret homophones, are we?"

"Dawn and Donny," she reminds him.

He hums and doesn't argue. "I love you, you know," he says, kissing the back of her neck. "More than anything."

"I love you," she tells him, stroking his hand. "I'm scared, but I'm less scared because I have you."

He squeezes her gently. "Always," he promises.

T-minus 2 days.

Had she known when it would happen, would she have changed anything on that second-to-last day?

Embraced the backache a little long, luxuriated in the cramps and congestion and countless other side effects a moment more? Taken a longer walk, kissed Barry again? Been pregnant more thoroughly for one last day?

No. Because they're at the beach again in a distant land no one else can reach, and watching the sunset, and everything is perfect. Her husband, her babies, herself.

Everything is perfect.

T-minus 1 day.

Just after eleven PM, the contractions hit. Hard.

She's barely been sleeping, but when she feels the first crushing, ungodly contraction, she nearly kicks Barry out of bed because a) ow and b) oh my God.

Luckily, he catches on fast. He's only running on sixteen minutes of sleep, which makes her feel better, because she's exhausted, but also excited, and mostly, above all else, very ow.

T-minus 0 days.

They're so, so much more beautiful in person.

Cradling a baby in either arm, exhausted and loopy and flushed with endorphins, Iris looks down at her babies, awed, overwhelmed. They're really hers. Theirs. She looks over at Barry, standing nearby, looking down at the babies with the same open adoration. His gaze flicks to hers after a moment, and he smiles, one of those big, warm, Barry smiles that made her fall in love with him.

Closing her eyes, she holds the twins for a little eternity, savoring their realness, and the fact that they're there, and – they're real. Then she murmurs, "Bar," and moves her left arm, just a little, just enough, and with exceeding care he reaches forward and scoops the baby – Dawn – out of her arms. She holds onto Donny for a little longer, but she opens her eyes to see Barry holding Dawn, tears trickling freely down his face, rocking lightly on his feet. His Speed-purr is soft, but she can still hear it.

She knows there will be ten thousand challenges yet to overcome, many far more difficult than the ones she has already faced, they have already faced – but she also knows they'll do just fine. Holding Don close, marveling that he's hers, that he's theirs, that this is finally their dream actualized, a reality so far it seemed impossible two years ago –

God, it really is a miracle.

Finale: Barry.

T-plus 2 days.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who fell in love with a princess, and that princess was no ordinary princess, but one with a heart of fire, an irrepressible spirit. She would grow up to be a fearsome warrior, protecting those she loved, fighting for the things she believed in. She was an inspiration, fearless in the face of catastrophe. She knew that some things in life were big and terrifying dragons, but she still approached them with that same courage as before, and no matter how battle-weary she grew or how insurmountable the obstacle seemed, still, she persisted.

Cradling their little dragons to her chest, the princess looks over at him and offers a small smile, a tired, happy look, because she is never going to give up on the important things, and it is that resilience that shines through, every second of every day.

He still aspires to be as brave as that princess, as strong in the face of adversary, as full of love as she is. In the meantime, he saunters over and embraces her, because he married the princess, and it is surely the greatest decision he has ever made.

Holding the three of them in the fold of his arms, so careful not to hurt any of them, he marvels at the absolute miracle that is Iris Ann West-Allen, cradling their twins.

"I love you," he tells her sincerely, kissing her forehead.

"I love you," she replies.

And together – they are well, and happy.

And someday, they will find out about the Tornado Twins, gift endowed by both Barry's extraordinary genes and Iris' own jaunt to the Speed Force.

For now – for now, the ordinary is enough.

Indeed, as far as Iris and Barry are concerned, the ordinary is perfect.