Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nora had run off again. Barry was sure she was safe, she always was, and Eobard was content to let her run away as often as she pleased. Barry was pretty sure he’d be content if she never came back, but he dared not make those thoughts known. 

“Have you seen Nora?” 

Eobard flipped a page on his book and hummed thoughtfully. “She said she was going out,” he responded vaguely. 

“Out where?” Frustration was bubbling up, and he was trying not to let it show. He tried to not make a lot of his thoughts show, these days. 

“She didn’t say.” 

Barry closed his eyes for a few seconds. He couldn’t get mad. Because it wasn’t- it wasn’t like- “Why didn’t you ask?” 

Eobard looked up from his book, lips pursed, asking the exact question Barry knew he would ask. “Why would I?” 

“Because she’s sixteen!” Just because she’s not your kid, just because you-

“And?” 

He took a deep breath. No. He couldn’t do this. He could do this right now, or ever. Eobard had been willing to take her in, to provide them with a life after- after everything, and Barry couldn’t— he had no right to ask him to be a parent. To ask him to do more than he’d already done. He had no obligation. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I’m… sorry. I’m sorry. I just-” he was overreacting. He was always overreacting. 

“You’re worried about her.” He closed his book, which made Barry’s heart swell, which made him hate himself a little bit, but he took a step closer anyway. “I’m sure she’s fine.” Eobard stretched out a hand, and Barry met it in his grasp, intertwining their fingers. “She always is, isn't she?” 

“Yeah.” The word burned to get out, and Barry looked away. He felt Eobard’s grip tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. “She’s mad at me,” he said softly, and the grip softened again. Eobard stroked his wrist gently. 

“For what?” 

Barry shrugged. “Whatever sixteen year olds are mad about.” 

“So it’ll pass.” 

He closed his eyes. “Yeah.” 

It burned, again. 

And it didn’t pass. 

Nora was angry. At Barry, certainly. At Iris, for dying and leaving them. At the world for giving up on her and on their family. And, temporarily, he was sure, because she always forgave him first, forgave him the most easily, at Eobard, for… something. She wouldn’t elaborate on that one, except to say, god, dad, of course he’d never touch me. I’d have SWAT here in an hour. And he’d never do that. Why would you even think that? And despite Barry’s gentle correction that SWAT typically was not the first responder in sex crimes, but he appreciated her tenacity nonetheless, it made him feel bad enough for even beginning to question it that he hated himself a little more. 

He cares about me. He sees me. That was what Nora said about him. Not that she distrusted him, not that she hated him, or that she ever saw the annoyance he held for her, or if his cruel dismissals of her attempts at bonding with him ever actually affected her. If she even noticed them for what they were. She never really could see anything bad in Eobard, no matter what Barry’s suspicions were. 

What did it say about him, that he was married to a man who he had enough suspicions about to genuinely wonder if he’d abused his daughter? 

Shouldn’t that be enough to… to leave him? 

It was. It was enough. It had been enough, a dozen times over.  

But the problem was that there wasn’t a way to do that. 

The problem was that, whatever comment Eobard made, whatever suspicion he raised, he managed to make up for it with a kind word or surprisingly thoughtful gift a day later, enough to make you forget you’d ever had a problem to begin with. 

“Barry.” 

He did love hearing his name from Eobard’s lips. Did being the operative word, there. 

He wasn’t sure he still did. 

Now it almost always preceded a demand, a complaint, a disapproving frown. 

The praises were few and far between, now, no matter how hard Barry tried. 

He thought of Iris, something Eobard had told him was bad, was the wrong thing to do, was dwelling on the past, on something he could never have again. 

But he thought of her anyway, and felt guilty for it, and looked for her everywhere, in her Jitters order that he started to pick up on the way home from work for Nora, in the words she’d overuse and carefully edit out in her articles’ first drafts (simply and baroque, among others, were words that held special meaning to Barry Allen, at this point), in her smile that he looked for in strangers that passed him on the street, that he looked for in Nora (Nora didn’t have her smile, but he couldn’t fault her for that, he could never fault her for that, he could never fault her anything). 

He looked for her everywhere, but he never found her. And that was grief, he supposed. And he knelt at her headstone when life became too much, and that was where Eobard found him. 

Where Eobard always found him. 

He always found him. 

You can run, run run, but he’s always going to—

Hand. On his shoulder. 

Comforting. He was being comforting. Rewrite your brain to make you realize this is what comfort feels like. Because it is. “I’m sorry.” Sorry for mourning my wife at her grave. No. Sorry for running away. That would be admitting there was something to run from. Sorry for letting you down again.  

“I didn’t know where you were.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You and Nora both… disappeared.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t you know that I worry? About both of you?” 

“I know.” 

“So you just don’t care.” Eobard’s voice was hard, now. 

“I care.” It was routine, at this point. The conversation, the argument, the non-argument. The whatever-it-was. Every other week, by now. 

“Do you?” The hand on his shoulder tightened, and Barry wondered if it was still supposed to be comforting, or if he was supposed to be interpreting something different, now. 

“I just… miss her.” It wasn’t a card he liked to play often. Because it was too real, because it was barely a card, really, because Barry meant it, he really did, and if it garnered sympathy to put Eobard in a better mood, that was just a bonus. 

There was a pause. Then- “I know you do.” 

And he said it with such sympathy, and knelt down to take Barry in his arms from behind him, wrap him up in comforting arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured in his ear, and Barry believed it, “I’m so sorry.” 

Usually, it was Barry apologizing. See, five seconds ago.

Maybe that was why he was so ready and willing to accept Eobard’s apologies whenever they finally came. Or maybe he’d accept them, anyway. However and whenever he got them. 

The questioning came again, though. Like it always did. And it went further than it had the last time. Like it always did. 

Eobard’s past was a mystery Barry had never delved into. 

Iris had delved into it. 

Joe said that was what had gotten her killed (that was why Barry didn’t speak to Joe anymore). 

All her work was still saved, which… wasn’t that proof of Eobard’s innocence in whatever crime you were insinuating he’d been a part of? If he were a criminal, wouldn’t the first thing he’d do be to remove any evidence of his crimes? Of someone reporting on his crimes? 

Of course, only Barry knew the password to Iris’s laptop. Only Barry knew that he kept her laptop under his bed buried underneath carefully-piled comic books. Only Barry knew that she’d been on the verge of some kind of breakthrough that he was still trying to puzzle out, and only he knew the document, the unfinished article that had been an interview of the last person Iris had ever seen alive, aside from her killer, made a day before she’d died. 

Interview A. 

It was unfinished. A transcript of their conversation, with only the barest outlines of an idea for an article, outlined the just after the interview had taken place. 

It would have the potential to be life-ruining, if Iris had published it with what this person had said, if all they said turned out to be true. Life-ruining for her, or for Eobard Thawne, Barry wasn’t sure.

It bordered on conspiracy. 

He didn’t believe it, and the closer he got to Eobard, the less he believed it. 

And then he got too close, and started to believe it again. 

And then the conspiracies made themselves. 

Eobard hadn’t killed Iris. He hadn’t killed Barry’s wife. He hadn’t faked his identity for over a decade and then proceeded to kill Barry’s wife. That was insane. That was an example of a conspiracy theory that Barry Allen was not going to fall down the rabbit hole of. 

Except that the interview, the article, was unfinished, the subject anonymous, per their request, and Barry was slowly puzzling out exactly who that person was, despite their insistence within the interview that they did not want their name typed anywhere on Iris West’s laptop. Because they were scared of what would happen if it got into anyone else’s hands. 

Because they were scared, terrified, of their former lover, disgraced and dead physicist Dr. Harrison Wells, resurrecting from the grave to kill them, too. 

The man that this person was convinced, somehow, was Eobard Thawne. And sure, maybe their timelines made sense. 

But nothing else did. 

And Barry had to keep telling himself that, to feel better, to not hate himself, to not hate Iris for not warning him (how would she have known to warn him? It wasn’t her fault, it couldn’t be her fault). 

“Dad.” 

He slammed the laptop shut and looked up, meeting Nora’s eyes. She looked like she’d run home, hair disheveled and still breathing heavy. He wouldn’t have trouble believing she’d climbed up to get in through her second-story bedroom window just to avoid having to explain her disappearing act to Eobard, either. 

“Where have you been?” He tried to sound mad, but really, he was just relieved, and unfortunately, that was all he managed to convey. 

She shrugged. “Out. You can’t keep me trapped here every day.” 

“We were worried about you.” 

“Well. I’m fine.” She spread her hands, as if to say, look, everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. What could possibly be wrong? She’d maybe gotten that defense from Barry. 

“It’s late. You should be in bed.” 

“That’s mom’s laptop,” she responded, and Barry looked up at her, setting the laptop aside. “Oh, sorry,” she said at Barry’s expression. “I thought we were just pointing out glaringly obvious facts.”

“Nora…” 

“What are you doing with it?” 

“Nora.” 

“Eobard says you don’t know how to let go.” 

They were going to have a talk about that. Because you couldn’t just say things like that to his daughter and pretend it was okay (they’d never have that talk; Barry would push it to the back of his mind and forget it). “He says a lot of things. He’d probably tell you to go to bed right about now.” 

“I can’t sleep.” 

Barry sighed. “You don’t look like you’ve been trying.” 

“I went for a run.” 

“For six hours?” 

“It was a long run.” 

Another sigh. “You can’t keep doing this. Don’t you know I worry about you?”

She wrinkled her nose, arms crossed. “Sure. Whatever. I’m going to my room.” 

Barry spent another hour absorbed in the mysteries of Iris’ laptop, before he heard footsteps walking upstairs, and he scrambled to hide it back under the bed before Eobard stepped inside. “Barry.” He smiled, draping his coat over the desk chair. “I see Nora’s back from her little adventure.” 

He said it like, wasn’t I right? I told you she’d be back. Stop worrying. 

“Like father, like daughter,” Eobard muttered, and it was just loud enough that Barry could tell he was supposed to hear it. 

“How was your meeting?” he asked, instead of rising to the bait.

“Long and boring.” He didn’t say anything else, and neither did Barry, and he watched him undress out of the corner of his eye, then disappear to take a shower, and Barry was alone again. 

He laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, mentally going through the lists of Iris’ contacts. She’d gotten the name of the person she’d interview from someone at S.T.A.R. Labs, and it was pretty clear the interviewee had also worked there at some point, though they hadn’t said it outright, but Barry couldn’t very well go around tracking down everyone who’d ever worked there and asking if they knew about a person who had a toxic relationship with Harrison Wells before disappearing off the face of the Earth.

He remembered, back when Iris had been investigating S.T.A.R., a few names that seemed to come up repeatedly, a couple people Barry vaguely recalled even meeting himself. He could start there. With the names he’d found on her laptop—Ronnie Raymond, Cisco Ramon, and Caitlin Snow. 

He looked up the names on his phone while Eobard was in the shower—Ronnie Raymond had died in the accelerator explosion, just like Harrison Wells, and dozens of others. He left behind his fiancé, Caitlin Snow, bingo, though her whereabouts currently were a mystery. 

Cisco Ramon was easier to pin down, he seemed to work as a freelance engineer and inventor these days, patents under his name, papers written, spanning a decade of apparent success after his failed attempt at a career at S.T.A.R. 

Barry found his contact information just as the bathroom door opened, and he practically threw his phone onto the nightstand, knowing full well exactly how guilty his face probably looked. Eobard paused, raised his eyebrows at him. “I’m not even going to ask.” 

Breathing a near-silent sigh of relief, Barry shook his head. “It’s nothing. Work stuff.” 

“You’re supposed to be on leave. You work too hard.”

“I can’t do nothing all day, I’ll go crazy.” 

Eobard hummed. “You have Nora.”

Barry didn’t have a response for that comment that he wouldn’t regret later, so he said nothing.

Chapter Text

Cisco Ramon was easy to set up a meeting with. It was the leaving the house to get to said meeting that was a problem. 

Barry was still on leave from work. It had been six months since he’d been to the CCPD, and he honestly wasn’t even sure how he still had a job to go back to. He assumed it was mostly thanks to Joe and Cecile, who still had hope for him, that he’d come back eventually. 

Iris had been gone for years, but Barry had a child to raise, and it seemed, every time he tried to go back to work in the past few years, something happened to her. Eobard was calling him to say she’d run away again, she was hurting herself, or, on one memorable occasion, she was bringing home feral raccoons and hiding them in her bedroom, apparently just because she could. And Barry had to leave work to deal with the latest crisis, and it was usually weeks before he could come back. 

This break had been the longest since he’d lost Iris, and he was sure Eobard was angling for him to not go back at all. 

So that was the problem, with getting to the meeting with Cisco Ramon. 

Eobard would ask where he was going, and Barry wasn’t a very good liar. He needed a viable reason for leaving the house, and, unfortunately, there weren’t a lot left. 

“I’m going out,” he said, and Eobard looked up from his computer, frowning at him. 

“To where?” 

Barry closed his eyes, sighing. “I don’t know. For a walk? Maybe I’ll get a coffee.” 

He looked at Barry for a few seconds, tilting his head. And Barry half expected him to say no, no you’re not. Instead, he gave a half smile, and fished into his pocket, pulling out his car keys and tossing them to Barry. “Take the car.” 

“I’m… pretty sure my driver’s license is expired.” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

“It’s a Bentley.” 

“You’ve driven it before, haven’t you?” 

“Five years ago!” 

Eobard waved his hand. “I trust you. Take the car.” 

He took the car. It was a harrowing experience. But he was only going ten minutes away, anyway. Don’t ask about the parallel parking downtown. It was fine. He did great (he hit the curb a lot. At least two people honked. And he had to park two blocks away from the coffee shop he was meeting Cisco at anyway. Why Eobard had wanted him to take the car was beyond him). 

“Mr. Ramon?” He approached the man outside the coffee shop, the man who looked simultaneously exactly like he’d expected based on his internet profiles, but absolutely nothing like a professional engineer should look—shoulder length curly hair, a graphic t-shirt, and a messenger bag covered in pins and buttons. 

“Cisco,” he corrected, grinning at Barry and holding out his hand. “You want a coffee? On me.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.” 

They found a table and Cisco sat across from him, pulling his laptop out of his back—a laptop that was covered in stickers (Barry was not judging, he appreciated the way Cisco immediately seemed shamelessly himself). “So, what can I do for you?” 

“Right. So. I may have asked you here under slightly false pretenses.” Barry cringed a little. Cisco slowly shut the laptop he’d started to open. 

“How false?” 

“I don't need help designing an app. I’m not designing an app at all.” 

Cisco blinked. “Okay.” 

“But I do need your help with something. It’s… about S.T.A.R. Labs.” 

His expression changed so fast it was disarming, the way his eyes darkened, he shoved his laptop back in his bag and crossed his arms. “Are you a reporter?” 

“No.” He shook his head. “But my wife was.” 

“Your wife?” 

“Her name was Iris. She… died. Six years ago.” 

Barry didn’t miss the recognition on Cisco’s face, before he shook his head, pushing his chair back. “Look, I’m… sorry. About your wife. But what are you trying to get from me?” 

“Answers,” Barry said simply. “I know that you were one of her contacts. I found your name in her notes, and…” 

“Notes for what?” Cisco interrupted, looking like he already knew the answer to that question and hated it. 

“An interview. It’s unfinished, she was supposed to have another one, but…” Barry swallowed, trailing off pointedly. 

“Look, dude. I’m sorry about your wife, really. But I don’t want anything to do with this. I didn’t, then. I knew Hartley was crazy.” 

Barry tilted his head. “Hartley?” Was it really going to be this easy to find out the name of the person who Iris had interviewed before she died? 

“That’s who you’re talking about, right? Hartley Rathaway?” 

He took a deep breath, tapping his fingers compulsively against the table. “The interview was anonymous,” he said slowly, and Cisco’s eyes widened. 

“Oh. Oh, shit. No, look, I- I genuinely don’t know anything else. People at S.T.A.R. said he went crazy, I know he always was, and I never wanted anything to do with him. Keep me out of this.” He stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, narrowly missing smacking Barry in the face with it. 

“Hey, no-” Barry stood, too, following him out. “Cisco, wait!” He practically chased him out the door, catching up to him easily and stopping him by stepping in front of him. “How did Iris find out about Hartley Rathaway, if it wasn’t through you?” 

“Please don’t,” he said.

“Five hundred bucks,” Barry offered, pulling out his wallet. 

“I- no! I’m not telling you that!” 

“Five thousand,” Barry offered (he never spent Eobard’s money, despite him constantly insisting it was their money, so he felt he was deserved this—though coming up with the lie to why he’d written a five thousand dollar check out of the blue was another story entirely. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it). 

“Five…” Cisco closed his eyes for a second. “Fine. Whatever. It was Caitlin Snow.” 

“I knew that already. What I don’t know is how to find her.” 

Cisco chewed on his lip. “She was my best friend, and I’ve barely heard from her in the past year. You expect me to just… tell you where she lives?” 

Barry held up the checkbook, shrugging. 

“... I can tell you where she works,” he offered. “But I’m not telling you anything else.” 

He’d take that, because it was the best he could get, and sitting in Eobard’s Bentley following a five thousand dollar check signing and an address to a sketchy bar on the wrong side of town, he searched up the name Hartley Rathaway. He found, first and foremost, that he was dead. Had been for six years. He’d died a week before Iris had. His cause of death was impossible to find, and Barry risked logging into his work computer to access the death certificate, the causes of which were… pending. His cause of death had been pending for six years. 

As far as it went, it wasn’t too unusual to see pending as a cause of death in a homicide or accident, but anything over a year… yeah, that was unusual. Unusual enough to seem completely unreasonable and insane. 

Had no one asked? 

Had no one cared about what had happened to Hartley Rathaway to ever notice? 

Upon further research, the answer was a resounding no. 

His parents had disowned him when he’d come out (Barry had a feeling there was more to that story, but there was no way of finding it out), he’d been fired from S.T.A.R. Labs for reasons that were just as obscured and vague as his disownment, and as far as anyone was concerned, he had no friends, no romantic relationships, no thoughtful obituaries written. His body had, apparently, been cremated and the ashes scattered at sea by the government, his remains unclaimed and uncared for, months after his death (if any of this was even true, who could say, at this point, what was true?). 

It was a dead end, so Barry went back to Caitlin Snow, and wondered if he should risk driving Eobard’s Bentley to the shadiest parts of town to question a woman who may or may not have helped to make a man (and possibly Barry’s wife) disappear six years ago. 

In the end, he decided to leave the car where it was, and walk. 

Chapter Text

“I’m looking for Caitlin Snow.” 

The man at the bar appraised him, then shook his head. “You’re in the wrong place.” 

“I really don’t think I am.” Barry leaned forward. “Just tell her Cisco Ramon sent me?” 

The man’s eye twitched. “She had me throw him out of here the last time he tried to come by.” 

“Please?” Barry tried, hoping it looked like someone who would not be thrown out. “I’ll pay you.” Hey, it had worked with Cisco. 

“How much?” 

“How much do you want?” 

The man’s eyes flicked down to Barry’s gold wristwatch. “That.” 

“I-” he raised his hand, frowning down at it. It had been a gift from Eobard, something he’d surely notice had gone missing if Barry came home without it. “No.”

“Alright, then get out.” 

On second thought, I lost it, was an excuse that was very likely to work. Considering it was Barry’s go-to excuse for most things. Because it was true 99% of the time. “Fine.” He pulled it off and handed it over to the man. 

The man took a few long, unnecessary seconds to admire it, before he disappeared into the back room, and for a minute, Barry worried he simply wasn’t going to come back at all, which he probably should’ve thought of, but here he was. Having not thought of that. Oops. 

Thankfully, he did come back, a woman following behind him, and she was holding Barry’s watch, which she handed back with an exaggerated eye roll. “Tell Cisco I still don’t want to see him.” 

“I’m not here because of Cisco.” Barry paused. “I mean, I’m here because he told me how to find you, but not because—I’m looking for someone. And I think you might know where to find them. That's it.” 

She looked him up and down. “Are you a cop?” 

“Not… no.” 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“I’m a CSI.” He should really get better at lying. “But I’m on leave. And this isn’t police business.” 

“So what kind of business is it?” She tucked a strand of wavy, nearly-white blonde hair behind her ear. 

“I need to make sure my husband didn’t kill someone.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d barely even admitted the thought to himself. 

Caitlin Snow didn’t have as much of a reaction to that as Barry might have been expecting. “Who’s your husband?” 

He looked down, twisting his ring around his finger. 

“Who did he not kill?” Caitlin tried, and Barry’s hand twitched, before he shoved it in his pocket. 

“A… former coworker of yours. A long time ago.” He looked up, and Caitlin took a step back away from the bar. 

“This is about S.T.A.R.” She said it the same way Cisco had, like it was a traumatizing, horrifying experience they’d rather never think of again. Barry supposed that made sense. Her fiancé had been killed in the accelerator explosion. They’d all lost something. 

“This is about Harrison Wells,” Barry corrected. 

“You think your husband killed Harrison Wells?” She said it like she was hoping that was what Barry was thinking.

He shook his head, and she nodded, her expression tight. “If your husband is who I think he is, you should stop looking into this now, and get as far away from him as you possibly can. It won’t end well for you.” 

“How do you know that?” 

She looked away, like she knew what he was asking. “Because it didn’t for Hartley.” 

“What happened to him?” 

“He died,” Caitlin said shortly. 

“What happened to him?” he repeated. 

“Why does it matter? I’m telling you, don’t look into it. Just get out.” 

“I can’t,” Barry said desperately. “I- you don’t get it. I can’t leave. I’ll lose my daughter. I’ll lose everything.”  

She seemed to be searching his face for something, maybe a hint that he was lying, or otherwise untrustworthy, and he couldn’t tell if she found it or not. “Hartley was Dr. Wells’ right-hand man,” she said. “They met when he was still in school.” 

“How old was he?” 

Caitlin pursed her lips. “Dr. Wells never specified. I think he was nonspecific on purpose, because Hartley told me once that he was seventeen.” 

“Seventeen?” Barry repeated, and thought of Nora. Thought of the way Eobard could say a few words and have her at his beck and call. The way she looked up to him like he was the most brilliant man she’d ever met. How easily Eobard could turn her against him when he felt like it. 

“He didn’t have any friends. When I met him for the first time, he was…” she waved her hand. “Closed off. Dr. Wells was the only person he was close to. I’m sure that was on purpose.” 

“So how did you get close to him?” 

She shrugged. “Persistence, pretty much. But even then, we really weren’t friends. He tolerated me, at best.” 

“Were he and Dr. Wells… in a relationship?” 

Caitlin hesitated. “They… kept it quiet. But yes. Everyone knew. Or at least suspected. But one day, Hartley was just… gone. Dr. Wells told us all he’d been fired. Most everyone was happy to leave it at that. He wasn’t- no one really liked him.” She looked away, like she was guilty, even years later. 

“When was this?” 

She shrugged. “Before the explosion. Ten years, at least.” 

“So when did he disappear?” 

She looked confused for a second, or maybe she was trying to look confused so Barry wouldn’t know she knew anything. “He didn’t disappear. He died. Years after he left S.T.A.R. I don’t- no one heard from him.” 

“Iris West heard from him,” Barry said, like saying her name out loud didn’t make his entire body ache in pain like she’d died a week ago and not six years. “Right around the time he supposedly died. And you were her contact.” 

“How do you know…” 

“Is he dead?” 

“Of course he’s dead!” 

She was lying. That much was obvious. “I have to know what happened, Caitlin. Please.” 

“It doesn’t matter. If he’s dead or not, or when it happened. Because my advice is the same. Get out, before it’s too late. Take your daughter and run.” 

She was just as sure as Hartley had seemed in the interview. Eobard Thawne was Harrison Wells. It was like she knew, somehow. 

“He would tell you the same thing,” Caitlin added. “So leave it alone, and run.” 

—

Hartley Rathaway was smart enough to have faked his death. He was smart enough to know how to disappear. Barry hadn’t considered that much of a possibility until he’d talked to Caitlin. 

She knew where he was, most likely, but there was no way he’d ever get her to trust him enough to tell him. Barry didn’t want to risk the possibility of Harrison Wells finding Hartley because of him, but he had to know. And he had to assume Caitlin would try to warn Hartley that someone was looking for him, if she knew where he was. 

Finding him would risk Eobard finding out where Barry was, which meant finding out where Hartley Rathaway was, and… if he was Harrison Wells, if Hartley and Caitlin weren’t crazy and Cisco was wrong… Barry could get someone killed. If Hartley really wasn’t already dead. 

He took his time driving back home, to think, and when he walked inside the house, Eobard was waiting for him, smiling gently, sipping a glass of wine. Another glass sat on the table next to him, and he gestured to it. 

“How was your drive?” he asked, like Barry had done something wrong, even though Eobard had been the one to tell him to go in the first place. 

“Fine.” He picked up the glass slowly, not drinking yet. 

“Where did you go?” 

“Downtown.” 

He tilted his head, waiting for elaboration. 

“Just a coffee place.” 

“A five thousand dollar cup of coffee?” 

Fucking Cisco Ramon. Who the hell cashed a check that fast? “I…” he started. 

“I don’t care about the money, Barry. You know that. But I do care about being lied to.” 

Barry took a slow drink of his wine, taking a deep breath. “Where’s Nora?” 

Eobard looked away, swirling his glass, looking like the question was nothing but an inconvenience to him. “She’s in her room.” 

“I bought her a present,” he said shortly, and Eobard’s eyes went back to his, narrowed in suspicion, waiting for Barry to elaborate, which he did not. 

“May I see it?” he finally asked. 

“No.” At Eobard’s look, Barry’s confidence depleted and he shook his head quickly. “Not yet.” This had been a terrible lie. He really should’ve thought it through better. Or told the truth. “I- once it’s ready.” 

“Ready?” 

“Yes.” Barry nodded quickly a few times. “Once it’s ready.” 

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. Eobard sipped his wine, Barry shifted uncomfortably. 

“What’s going on, Barry?” 

“The… case I’m working on,” he said slowly. 

“The case you’re working on,” Eobard repeated, setting his glass down and crossing his arms. “This is why I keep telling you to take a step back. You let it take over your life. What did you pay someone five thousand dollars for, Barry?” 

“I…” he took a deep breath, tempted to start pacing back and forth to alleviate his sudden restlessness, but he forced himself to stay still, “it’s an old case. I was looking into it, and I got carried away, and…” he sighed. “I’m done, though. I’m pretty much at a dead end.” 

“Tell me about it.” It was a command and not a gentle request, the way it was meant to sound. 

“You remember that… tech millionaire who disowned his kid when he came out, like, twenty years ago?” It was eighteen, actually, and Eobard looked like he was about to say that exactly, before he seemed to think better of it, or maybe Barry was just projecting, and he didn’t look like that at all. 

“Rathaway,” he nodded. “I remember. It’s all he’s known for.” He reached out, brushing his fingers through Barry’s hair, messing it up purposefully and letting it fall across his forehead. “And why he refuses to do business with me.” 

“Right.” Barry tried very hard not to tilt his head into the gentle pets but—actually he didn’t try that hard at all. “So, the son…” 

“The son.” 

Was he imagining Eobard’s hand stiffening in his hair? Probably. Almost certainly. 

“He died. A few… well, actually, around the same time Iris did.” 

The fingers resumed petting. “I don’t seem to recall that in the news.” 

Neither did Barry, though he was sure it had to have been, at the time. “I guess we both just had a lot going on.” A funeral to plan, a house to lose, a life to fall apart, a daughter to raise, a- 

“So, he died.” Eobard shrugged. “People die.” 

“His cause of death was never determined. They don’t even know if it was murder, or an accident, or- or what.” 

“And? Why are you letting it consume you?” 

“Because-” because Iris interviewed him right before they both died, and I’m afraid there’s a reason for that. He couldn’t say that. Of course he couldn’t say that. “Because everyone forgot about him. No one’s investigated his case in years. No one’s ever even ordered a death certificate to notice that it’s unsolved. No one’s ever called CCPD asking about him. And if I don’t care, who will?” 

Eobard looked at him for a second, before nodding slowly. “That’s very noble of you, Barry,” he said slowly. 

“I-” 

“It’s very noble how you have the time and energy to care about someone you’ve never met, when you have-” 

“Eobard, don’t-” 

“When you have,” he raised his voice, and Barry shut up, “people right here. Who need you.” 

If Barry had the time to think about it, he would’ve said, I’m here every day, or maybe, fuck you, what about when the people here need you? But he didn’t have time to think about it, and those comebacks and arguments would not occur to him until much, much later. Instead, all he could offer up was a quiet, “I told you, I’m done. And I’m sorry about the check,” and when Eobard tried to further his argument, Barry just muttered, “I’m gonna check on Nora,” and shoved past him, though his words followed him upstairs, words that had been echoing in his head for years now, you're being selfish, Barry, you're abandoning your daughter all day to work at a job you don't need, and you wonder why she resents you? She just lost her mother, and now she feels like she's losing her father, too. I can support you both. Take care of your daughter. 

Chapter Text

Eobard was at a conference. It had been nearly two months since Cisco Ramon had cashed a five thousand dollar check far more quickly than he should’ve been allowed to, and Barry hoped two months was enough to make Eobard forget that had happened at all. 

And hence, it had been long enough that if Barry took the car again (something Eobard always said he was allowed to do whenever he wanted) and talked to Caitlin Snow, he wouldn’t notice or care. 

“You again.” 

Caitlin looked drunk (Barry was not going to point that out). “Me again,” he agreed pleasantly, and took a sip of the club soda she offered. 

“You’re putting all of us in danger by being here. You know that, right?” 

“All of us?” Barry echoed. 

She blinked, shaking her head. “Just get out of here. Please. Go… talk to Cisco.” 

“I did talk to Cisco.” Barry said, frowning. 

“Yeah, and he pawned you off to me. Well, guess what? I’m… pawning you back. Get outta here.” She picked up her glass, swirling her finger around the straw. 

“I’m not gonna do that. Cisco told me he didn’t know anything. Was he lying?” 

She scoffed. “Course he was lying. He lies about everything. That’s why Cait’s not friends with him anymore.” 

Barry blinked at the wording, but moved on anyway. “What did he lie to you about?” 

She shook her head, taking a drink. “No. Nope. I’m not tellin’ you shit. You’re gonna get us all killed.”

“You keep saying that. Who’s us?” 

Caitlin scoffed, waving her hand. “Maybe you should ask your husband.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah. He knows. Ask him. Ask him what he did to us.” 

“What he… did to you?” Barry repeated, and the words felt familiar, in some way.

She didn’t answer him, and the man who’d tried to take Barry’s watch last time ushered her away. He watched them go, eyes narrowed, and downed the rest of his club soda (in a way that looked very cool, had anyone been watching, and had it been an actual alcoholic drink and not a club soda) before leaving. 

What he did to us. 

What he did to me.  

That was the phrase Hartley had used, in the interview. He’d said, after the explosion, what it did to me… and he just left. He just disappeared, everyone thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. I knew the truth. 

What he did to you? Iris had prompted, the same way Barry had to Caitlin, and Hartley had said, I told you you had an hour. It’s been two. And I can’t- what the accelerator explosion did, it wasn’t just me that was affected. I can’t put anyone else in danger. I’ve already done that enough. 

That was when he’d stopped answering questions, told Iris that if she wanted to know anything else, she’d have to wait until it was safe. 

And it hadn’t. It hadn’t been safe. 

It hadn’t ever become safe. 

-

“Nora?” He knocked on her door again, harder this time, and finally, the door swung open. He was honestly glad for that, he’d been almost positive he’d open her bedroom door and find it empty. That was usually how these days went. 

“What?” 

There was a time Barry would try to parent her for talking to him like that. Now he just gave up and let her resentment for him grow, because he didn’t know what else to do. “You want pizza?” 

Her expression blanked for a second, and she looked at him, then glanced down the hall. “What?” she repeated, much calmer this time. Who knew, teenagers liked pizza.

“I’m gonna order pizza. You want pizza?” 

“Yeah. Jalapeño and sausage.” She moved to shut the door again. 

“Hey, wait, wait!” He held his hand out, and she paused, looking annoyed again (or maybe she was looking annoyed on purpose so he’d leave her alone, but wasn’t actually that annoyed). “Movie?” 

She blinked. “Can I pick it?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Whatever you want. Just not-” 

“The new Jordan Peele movie.” 

“Horror,” Barry finished, and Nora grinned at him. 

“It’s got aliens! You love aliens, dad!” 

He weighed the options (she knew what she was doing, and that Barry would hate the entire movie because horror and suspense made him want to die, but, alternatively, if he said no, she’d be upset and eat the pizza alone in her room and resent him forever even more than she already did). “Okay, fine.” 

“Where’s-” she started, and Barry cut her off, shaking his head. 

“Some conference out of town. He’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” 

It was impossible to tell if she was disappointed that he was gone, or that he’d be back so soon. Probably the first one. 

“So…” Barry said, “I’ll order the pizza, you’ll get the movie set up?” He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d forgotten how to talk to his daughter. He wasn’t sure when they’d become so distant from each other. 

“Sure.” She stepped past him without another word, and Barry wondered (hoped) if this was bonding. If maybe his daughter didn’t completely hate him. 

Halfway through the movie, his phone rang, with an unknown number. Nora paused the movie and gave him an exaggerated frown. “It’s fine,” Barry muttered, and declined the call. 

And then it rang again, less than a minute later. Barry put his phone on silent, and Nora squinted at him, smiling a little bit, for some reason that Barry couldn’t figure out. 

For the third time, the phone lit up, with the same unknown caller, and Nora paused the movie, still smiling. “Who is it?” 

“I don’t…” he picked up his phone. “I don’t know.” 

“Uhuh.” 

“Nora, I don’t know who it is.” 

“You should answer it.” 

“I’m not gonna answer it.” 

“Lame, dad.” 

Barry tried to bite down on his smile. “Don’t call me-” 

“Laaaaaame.” 

“Oh, my god.” 

“Lame!” Nora reached for the phone as it started ringing again, but Barry held it out of her reach, trying very hard not to laugh. 

“Fine! I’ll answer it!” He stood up, holding his hand up to keep her quiet, which she did not listen to, laughing quietly to herself. “Hello?” 

There was silence for a second on the other end, before a mildly familiar voice spoke. “Uh, yeah. You still looking for Hartley Rathaway?” 

Barry blinked, taking a step back. Nora even seemed to notice his mood change, her smile disappearing. “Who is this?” 

“Saints and Sinners. Tomorrow night. Be there by eleven.” 

It was Cisco, he was pretty sure, but the phone hung up before Barry could say anything else, and he stared down at the blocked number. 

“Dad?” Nora had sat up, frowning at him. “What is it?” 

“Oh. Uh, wrong number, I guess.” He shook his head, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“Yeah, so, I’m not gonna believe that?” 

“It’s… work stuff. Hey, play the movie, okay?” 

“It’s not work stuff,” Nora muttered, but she picked up the remote anyway, and didn’t bring it up again. 

Chapter Text

Barry showed up to Saints and Sinners (he didn’t take Eobard’s car this time, even though he was still out of town and wouldn’t know the difference) by ten, sat at the bar, and waited, watching the door and slowly sipping his single drink, until, finally, Cisco Ramon walked through the door. 

He looked different than he had at the coffee shop, his hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and he wore a long black coat, and a pair of sunglasses. He passed the jacket to the coat check along with a couple bills, or maybe a note, or maybe both, before he pulled off his sunglasses in a move that he probably thought was very cool (honestly, it kind of was) and headed Barry’s way, sliding into the chair next to him, and ordered a beer (which was less cool than, say, a whiskey would be, but Barry wouldn’t hold that against him, because at least beer didn’t taste terrible). 

They drank in silence for a moment, before Barry spoke. “Did you practice that?” 

Cisco gave him an exaggerated frown. “C’mon, man. I’m doing a whole thing here.” 

“Yeah, and I’m trying to figure out what happened to my dead wife,” Barry shot back, feeling guilty for finding Cisco’s antics kind of fun, because this wasn’t a fun murder mystery roleplay. This was his actual life, apparently. 

“Exactly! How many opportunities am I gonna have to do this?” 

Despite himself, Barry let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, alright. Let’s do this.” He cleared his throat, turning so he was looking straight ahead, and spoke quietly. “What’d you bring me here for, Ramon?” 

“That’s more like it. Get in the spirit of things.” Cisco took a long drink before he spoke again. “Band’ll be on at eleven. They play ‘til midnight. If you time it right, you can buy him a drink and ask some questions.” He glanced at Barry. “You might even try flirting. He’ll see through it, but he will either way, and he'll think it's funny, and play along.” 

“You’re talking about Hartley.” 

“Dude. Blowing the cover.” 

Barry gestured around them. “What cover? There’s hardly anyone here.” 

“Yeah, but that’s not his name anymore. He goes by Piper.” 

“What, is he in a jazz band?” 

“No, actually. He’s the keyboardist in a metal cover band. But that’s not the point.” 

It was impossible to tell if Cisco was just playing into the joke or not. “So what do we do until he shows up?” 

Cisco shrugged. “Wait? Try to blend in? Because right now? You’re not doing that, if I can be honest.” 

“Second time someone in a skeevy bar has told me I look like a cop.” 

“Yeah, so maybe fix your face,” Cisco offered, and Barry snorted. 

They didn't talk for another minute, and Barry considered waiting in silence, but then thought, what would Iris do? and glanced at Cisco, wondering the best question to ask. The most subtle, and the most likely to get an answer. “So how long did you work there?” 

Cisco wrinkled his nose. “No more than a year. Started right at the height of everything. When Harrison Wells was still a god, and we were young.” He closed his eyes for a second, tilting his head back. “Remember that? Life was still good.”  

“2012? Yeah. Iris was still alive,” Barry said, trying not to sound bitter. “How old were you?” 

“Twenty-four. Probably too young to be the head of the S.T.A.R. Labs engineering department.” He laughed a little. “At least, Hartley sure seemed to think so. Up on his high horse for being three years older than me. Knowing Dr. Wells for so much longer.” He shook his head. “Fuck. Not that it got either of us anywhere, right?” 

“I thought Ronnie Raymond was the head of engineering.” 

Cisco turned and gave him a look that said, very clearly, we don’t talk about Ronnie Raymond. “You worked at the CCPD after the explosion, right?” He said it like it implied something

Barry shook his head. “That was right around the time Iris died. I took a leave of absence. Didn’t work for almost a year.” 

“You still don’t work, though,” Cisco pointed out, and the words put a sour taste in Barry’s mouth. He swallowed it down with the last sip of his drink and signalled the bartender for another one. 

“Yeah. I’ve got a daughter.” 

“You had a daughter then, too,” Cisco pointed out, and… yeah. True enough. And Iris worked full time, but they had both managed it. 

“I had help," he said carefully. 

Cisco scoffed, and Barry’s face twisted, but Cisco held up his hand placatingly. “It’s not because Iris died, is it? What’s the real reason you haven’t been back to work, Barry?” 

Barry didn’t answer right away, thumb drawing lines in the condensation of his glass. Cisco waited, and said nothing else. “Compromise,” he muttered, finally. 

“What’d you get in return? A nice house? Expensive wine?” 

“Safety,” Barry corrected, knowing his anger at Cisco's assumptions was coming out strong and clear. It reminded him too much of the last conversation he'd had with Joe. “For me and my daughter. Love. Support.” As if you can't get that living with me. He's manipulating you, Barry. Can't you see that? You're too smart for this. Barry shook his head, shaking away the memory. 

Cisco watched him for a time, before he shook his head. “That’s a trip, dude.” 

“Sorry?” 

He didn’t elaborate on what he'd meant by that. “Tell me more about him. The guy who did all this.” 

It was hard to describe, in words, what Eobard had given him, what he'd done for Barry and Nora after what had happened.  “He… gave us everything when we had nothing,” Barry said slowly, and Cisco closed his eyes. 

“Wild.” 

“What? What’s wild about that?” 

“You talk about him the exact same way Hartley did. You know, I’m not sure I actually fully believed it until right now. But that’s Harrison Wells, every word you said.” 

Barry didn’t have an answer for that, because there was nothing coherent he could say. Harrison Wells wasn’t his husband. He already had some working theories on the matter. Maybe that he’d worked with Eobard. That they’d been colleagues. But they were not the same person. He could accept, maybe, Eobard knowing the person who’d killed Iris. Maybe even suspecting him. But he could not accept him as the person who’d killed Iris. Not without proof. 

“Hey.” Cisco waved his hand, and Barry blinked. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but-” 

“You said Hartley was crazy, when we first met,” Barry interrupted. 

“Yeah. I know what I said. I was trying to protect him. But…” he shrugged, “I don’t think he wants my protection. And if you want to find him, more power to you. Maybe you’ll finally actually get him killed.” 

He sounded almost like he wanted it to happen. Barry tilted his head. “You really hate him, don’t you?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Yeah? How so?” 

Cisco shook his head, pushing his sunglasses back on like he was trying to look more mysterious. “He screwed us all over, big time. And also, he was a dick. But he was a dick because Harrison Wells made him that way, so it’s not all his fault, I guess.” 

“Us,” Barry repeated. “Who’s us?” 

“You ask too many questions that I can’t trust you enough to answer right now, dude.” 

“Fine.” They devolved into silence, then, and waited for the band. Eleven came and went, and at eleven-thirty, Cisco stepped away to make a call that he wouldn’t let Barry listen to, and came back to tell him the show was cancelled. Hartley wouldn’t be showing up. 

“So you made me come out here for nothing?” Barry clarified, and Cisco looked like he was oscillating between wanting to apologize and wanting to punch him. 

“He was supposed to be here!” Cisco brandished the flyer for tonight’s show in front of his face before Barry snatched it away and shoved it in his pocket unthinkingly. “I- I guess he got cold feet.”  

“Did he know I was going to be here?” 

Cisco winced. “I didn’t tell him. He really never would’ve showed up if I had. But…” he waved his hand. “He’s Hartley. He kind of knows everything.” 

“Cisco, I have to find him.” 

He shrugged, stepping away, and Barry followed him to the coat check, where the same man handed Cisco his coat back, and Barry didn’t miss the fact that he slipped a paper into one of the pockets. “Why? Your wife’s still gonna be dead.” 

Barry reeled back, blinking. “I…” 

“Shit, I’m sorry. That- it came out without thinking. I didn’t-” 

“Fuck you,” Barry said shortly, and stormed out of the bar without another word. Cisco didn’t follow him.

Chapter Text

“Alright, starting recording. Iris West, August 23rd, 2014. Interview A, with… what do you want to be called?” Iris reached out and stopped the recording. “H?” 

Hartley shook his head, pacing back and forth across the length of his small apartment. “Too easy to figure out it’s me.” 

“If he’s still alive, he’ll know it’s you, either way,” she pointed out. 

“Yeah, no shit. I mean anyone else. Last thing I want is someone to find me.” 

Iris nodded. “Alright. Come sit down, or the recorder won’t pick up on your voice. You’ll be anonymous.”  

Hartley eyed the audio recorder skeptically. “I still don’t know about that thing. Can’t you just type down my answers?” 

“Can’t you just be agreeable about one thing, for once?” 

Hartley rolled his eyes and sat down. “Fine.” 

“Thank you.” She turned the recorder back on. “Interview A with anonymous. There will be a voice distorter over all of their responses, and no names will be mentioned aside from those anonymous chooses to disclose. So.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “Tell me about Harrison Wells.” 

For a second, Hartley looked like he might back out of the whole thing, staring at the recorder with a fear in his eyes Iris hadn’t thought Hartley Rathaway to be capable of. 

“I don’t know Harrison Wells,” he finally said, and Iris waited, patiently. “Never had the pleasure of meeting him. He was killed when I was still in high school.” 

“In the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explosion?” she prompted, knowing what his answer would be. 

“No. He was killed by the man wearing his face.” Hartley seemed to regret his wording right after, and stopped the recording. “Iris, I sound like a psycho. No one’s going to believe this. Not without proof.” 

“The proof that we’re going to get, right?” 

Hartley grit his teeth, before nodding, reaching out and starting the recording again. “Harrison Wells was killed fifteen years ago by a man named Eobard Thawne. Thawne stole his identity, stole his life, and built the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator to create an explosion. When the explosion didn’t achieve his desired result, he was forced to abandon his plan, faking the death of Dr. Wells and-“ 

Now Iris had stopped the recording. “Okay, no.” 

“What do you mean, no? I thought we were on the same page here!” 

“You can’t- look. You need to explain. Give yourself credibility. I know you want it anonymous, but you have to give me something to make people believe you’re actually a real person. Who were you to Harrison Wells?” 

Hartley gave her a sharp look. “No one. I never knew the man.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She started the recording again. “Who were you, to Eobard Thawne?” 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what I was to Eobard Thawne, but I know what he was to me.” 

“And what was that?” 

Hartley shrugged, and spoke like his next word was wrenched out of him against his will, blinking his eyes open. “Everything.” 

-

“After the explosion, what it did to me…”  Hartley trailed off, his eyes distant, staring at his boarded up window like he could actually see through it, “and he just left. He just disappeared.” He shook his head. “Everyone thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. I knew the truth.” 

Iris leaned forward a little. “What did he do to you?” 

Hartley reached out to stop the recording, and Iris grabbed his wrist, pushing it back. 

“Hey! You can’t keep doing that!” It was the ninth time Hartley had decided he didn’t like a question, and turned the recorder off to complain about it. 

Hartley shifted. “Iris,” he said slowly. “There are things I can’t talk about. Not even anonymously. Not now. And I told you this interview would be an hour. It’s been two. I know he’s watching me, and I’ve put a target on your back, inviting you here. And I can’t- what the accelerator explosion did, it wasn’t just me that was affected. I can’t put anyone else in danger. I’ve already done that enough.” 

This time, Iris stopped the recording. “I thought you scrambled the camera’s signals.” 

“If he’s watching, eventually he’ll realize there’s no signal to any of the cameras here. The longer we’re here, the more likely...” he trailed off pointedly, and Iris sighed, before nodding.  

“Let’s wrap this up, then.” She flicked the recording back on. 

“If you want to know anything else, we have to wait until it’s safe. I can’t do another interview now.” 

“Then I guess we’re done here,” Iris said softly. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time.” She stopped the recording again, and Hartley gave her a tense smile. 

“No problem,” he said, before laughing at his own words, standing up again. 

Iris stood, too. “Guess I should be going, then.” 

“You really should.” 

“We can have the second interview somewhere else,” she offered, and Hartley shook his head no. 

“I told you. I can’t do that. If there’s any chance of him seeing you with me, you’re dead, your husband’s dead, and your kid’s worse than dead.” 

Iris winced. “You really know how to mince your words, don’t you?”  

“Just being honest.” 

She ran a hand through her hair, stepping away and turning to Hartley’s workbench, idly picking up a tool and swinging it around, before examining his half-finished projects that were sitting out. “Where do you get all the tech to make this stuff, anyway?” 

She sorted through a few things as Hartley answered (mostly stolen), and froze as soon as she saw it, staring at the small, silver object that had caught her eye. “What’s this?” She hesitated, before picking it up carefully, holding it up to her face. It was familiar, and it took her only a second to place where she recognized it from. 

“It’s a dampening chip. Give it to me.” Hartley held out his hand for it, and Iris shook her head. 

“I’ve seen one of these before. Where’d you get it?” 

Hartley shook his head, trying to snatch it from her, but she took a step back, examining it closely. “That’s impossible. I made it. There’s nothing else like it in the world.” 

“What does it dampen?” 

“I can’t… tell you that. Give it to me. Please.” 

She closed her fist around it, taking a step back. “You didn’t make this,” she insisted. 

“Oh, really? Because I have a year’s worth of prototypes and diagrams proving I did exactly that.” He held out his hand for it. 

“Ten years ago, I was given one of these.” 

“One of these,” Hartley repeated, almost mockingly. “There’s only one! I made it!” 

“This came from the future.” 

Hartley’s hand dropped, and he stared at her, unblinking. “What?”

Fairly certain she didn’t need to repeat herself, she opened her fist and looked at the chip again, turning it over in her hand. “I know you won't believe me, but it looks identical. Like it could be the same one.” She looked up at him, and Hartley’s expression was not one of disbelief, but of slow realization. 

“Ten years ago,” he said slowly, “this was the future.” 

Iris looked at him for a long moment. “Are you a time traveller, Hartley?” 

“No.” He swallowed. “But one is going to be coming for that chip within the next month. And I have a feeling you’re going to want to let her.” He tilted his head, holding his hand out again. “If you want her to be safe from him when she comes out of that coma.” 

Her eyes found his again and she made a soft noise in the back of her throat, before nodding quickly and handing it over. She watched as he slipped it in his pocket before looking away, crossing his arms. “You should go. When I have a plan to get away without him following me, I’ll be in touch. But until then, it’s too dangerous.” 

“We can work together, Hartley. I can help you get away. I have contacts.” 

“Yeah, so do I. Mine might be a little more… capable. Of keeping me safe from him, if it comes to that.” 

Whatever Hartley meant by that, he didn’t explain himself, but Iris had a feeling she could parse it out, given his vague hints throughout their conversations. She closed her laptop and put it and the audio recorder in her bag, holding it against her chest. “When she comes back for that chip…” she hesitated, “tell her I… that I…” 

“Yeah.” Hartley nodded. “I will. But, Iris.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I promise you, she knows.” 

Chapter Text

-August 9th, 2013-

Nora tried traveling to the future to get the technology needed to dampen her powers, but, as it turned out, no one had ever invented it. And when she’d first realized that, it had felt like the end of the road. That had been the backup plan of the backup plan of the backup plan, and now she had nothing. 

Then, she’d happened upon the Pied Piper. Sort of. 

It was like he existed, but didn’t exist. She remembered him on some days, and others forgot him entirely. Like, in this tenuous timeline she was forced to exist in, Hartley Rathaway was either alive or dead, existant or not, relevant or completely forgotten. 

And on the days she remembered, she researched him. Some days, he was the smartest man in Central City, or the country, or maybe the world, or maybe he was a failed musician, or a former physicist who had a falling out with Harrison Wells and sought revenge against S.T.A.R. and anyone associated with it, or a nightclub owner or a political activist or a murderer locked in Iron Heights for life, but the point was, time was fluid around Hartley. 

He existed in flux, just like Nora did. 

So she followed him, back in time, until she found where he solidified, where he became one person she could pin down, and realized why nothing was working. None of her plans, or theories. Because he couldn’t escape. Just like Nora couldn’t, he was stuck the same way. 

And Nora was the only one who could fix it for him. Fix both of them, and everyone else along with it, she hoped. That was the goal, at least. 

So that was why she was here, now, cornering Hartley Rathaway in the one place she was sure Eobard Thawne had no cameras, trying to figure out how she was supposed to convince him to build her something impossible based on knowledge that he didn’t have but he was somehow also the only one who could do it. 

“Okay.” Hartley put his hands out, shutting her up, for probably the fourth time in the last five minutes. “Just… show me again?” 

Nora sighed, reaching out and finishing her soda before standing up. “Fine. Time me?” 

“Obviously, I’m timing you, what the fuck else would-” (Nora ran to the edge of the city and snapped a photo with Hartley’s camera) “-oh, shit, you’re already back.” (She had not missed more than three words). He grabbed the camera, staring at the photo for a few seconds, before looking back up at her. “And you want me to get rid of this- this power you have?” 

“Not get rid of,” she corrected, “If all goes well, and it’s safe again, it’s something that can be taken out without affecting me. But it needs to completely dampen my powers. Make me seem like a normal human and pass any tests Eobard might run on me.” 

“Right.” He closed his eyes. Hartley was still hesitant, mostly, on the Eobard Thawne aspect of this plan. He was confident (or egocentric) enough to believe in his abilities to subdue someone’s superhuman speed to a point it was completely undetectable, but he was far, far less able to believe that Harrison Wells was Eobard Thawne, a time traveling murderer hell bent on killing Nora’s father. Which was fair, Nora allowed, but still. “And you know this technology exists?” Hartley rubbed his temples. “Why can’t you just go to the-” he waved his hand, “-timeline where this happened, then?” 

“Because that timeline doesn’t exist anymore. Trust me, if I could go back, I would. But that’s why I have to do this.” 

“I just-” he broke off. “I can try to make this. But it’s not going to be because I believe your story. It’s going to be because I believe in your powers, and I’m curious what’ll happen if I try to dampen them.” 

Nora nodded, and turned away, before pausing, suddenly having a terribly impulsive idea. “What if I could make you believe?” 

“Sorry?” 

“What if I could make you believe, with irrefutable proof, that Harrison Wells has been lying to you about who he is for the entire time he’s known you, and he’s planning to blow up the particle accelerator to create people like me, with my powers?” 

Hartley blinked. “I’d say, I don’t believe you, and, why didn’t you lead with that, and, tell me, immediately, because, seriously, why the fuck didn’t you lead with that?” 

“There’s a flaw in the accelerator. He knows about it. I’d show you, but he has cameras literally everywhere. But I can tell you where to look.” 

He stared at her for a long moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Do you like ramen?” 

“Huh?” 

“There’s a place down the street. I’m hungry.” 

Hartley ordered vegan spicy ramen with something simply called ‘death sauce’ on the side, and when their food arrived, he dumped it all in the ramen bowl seemingly without a second thought. 

Watching him do it, Nora laughed, and Hartley looked up, frowning in a way that felt familiar. 

“What?” 

“It’s weird. I- it’s all faded, by now. But I have this hazy memory of you. I was… I was young.” She smiled a little, closing her eyes. “You were friends with my dad, I think. Anyway, I was asking you why you always eat all your food so spicy.” 

He mixed his ramen, casually trying a spoonful. “What did I say?” 

“That you’re a glutton for punishment.” 

Hartley paused for a second, getting another spoonful of ramen, before shrugging. “That’s about it, yeah. So tell me about the accelerator.” 

“Right.” Glutton for punishment, indeed. 

-August 25th, 2014-

Nora hadn’t meant to get Hartley fired. Obviously. She hadn’t intended to ruin his life. That was not necessary for his help, and she couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much she’d fucked up the timeline by doing that, but… the sanctity of the timeline was the least of her concerns, at this point. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing around the coffee shop where Hartley now worked. 

“For what? It’s not your fault.” 

“Kinda is.” 

Hartley didn’t answer, nor did he look up from the dampening chip, tinkering with it almost mindlessly. When he did speak, it made Nora jump, she’d wandered over to a shelf to judge how expensive the bags of whole bean light roast were. “You’re Iris’s daughter, aren’t you? The one in a coma right now.” 

She looked over, eyes wide. “How did you-” 

“Doesn’t matter. How are you going to convince her to surgically implant this in… what, you as a baby?” 

“That’s for me to figure out.” It would’ve been easy to pop the implant into the Nora of this time, what with her being in a coma and all, but unfortunately, there was the Eobard Thawne factor. The fact that Nora-in-a-coma was being monitored every second of every day. 

Hartley looked at her for a second, before he shrugged, and held it out to her. “Be careful.” 

She grinned. “I’m always careful.” 

“I find that very hard to believe.” 

“You don’t know me.” He was right, but… whatever. She examined the dampening chip, not that she really had much of an idea what she was looking for, before slipping it in her pocket. 

Hartley watched her for a second, “It’s undetectable to S.T.A.R. technology. Not that any of them would even know what to look for,” he said, before going behind the counter. “You want a coffee?” 

She frowned, considering the fact that she’d gotten Hartley fired and made him build an impossibly complicated piece of technology for free, and he was still offering to make her coffee. Even though she was the reason that one of this generation’s most brilliant minds was forced to work at a coffee shop. “Why are you not kicking me out right now?” 

He shrugged. “Something tells me I still need to thank you.” 

“I haven’t done anything.”

Hartley rolled his eyes. “You want the coffee or not?” 

She did, and she was positive Hartley could make a delicious chai latte, but she shook her head. “I should go. The longer I’m here, the easier it’ll be for…” she trailed off, and Hartley nodded, not questioning it. 

“Will this- will I remember this? When you change the timeline?” 

“I don’t know.” She’d been trying not to think about that fact. Or the fact that as soon as she got the dampening chip implanted, this version of herself would cease to exist. Would never have existed. It was a good thing, she told herself. A necessary thing. It was still terrifying. 

Hartley seemed almost as scared of it as Nora was, or maybe he was scared of everything else, of Eobard Thawne finding him, of- “You should fake your death.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Sorry?”

“You should fake your death,” she repeated. “It’s the best way for you to get away from him.” 

“I have gotten away from him.” 

Nora looked up, to the security cameras tucked in the corners. “You don’t know that,” she said, and she wasn’t trying to make him paranoid, because this was Hartley Rathaway, a man whose paranoia was rivaled by no one. 

Hartley looked at the cameras, too, and shook his head. “Those aren’t his. He doesn’t have any here. I’ve checked. They’re just in my apartment.” 

Nora’s watch beeped and she looked down, frowning. “I have to go, but- thanks for everything. Fake your death.” 

Chapter Text

There wasn’t much to be found of Hartley’s band on the internet. No social media accounts to speak of, no advertising their shows at any local venues, no website. It was like they didn’t even want anyone to know they existed. Which, Barry was pretty sure, was typically the last thing most bands wanted. 

He stared at the crumpled up flyer like it might contain some sort of secret code (it did not, he concluded, after examining it for hours). 

He hadn’t heard Eobard walk into the room, but suddenly he was behind Barry, leaning over his shoulder, and there wasn’t time for him to hide the flyer. 

“What’s this?” 

“Nothing.” He folded up the flyer and moved to throw it in the trash, only to find his wrist caught in a gentle hold and pulled toward Eobard. “It’s nothing,” he said again, wanting to tug his hand away but knowing exactly how suspicious that would look. 

Eobard hummed, his other hand carefully prying the flyer from Barry’s fingers. He smoothed it out and tilted his head. “A concert?” he asked, stepping around the bed to fully face Barry. “Why are you hiding this from me?” 

“I- I’m not. It’s just- it’s nothing.” 

He was still examining the flyer. Hartley’s face wasn’t in it, so Barry could take solace in that fact, but it had the name of the bar, and the band. Enough to identify, if he decided to go down to Saints and Sinners to investigate. “Is it work?” he asked, sounding annoyed yet resigned, and Barry clung to that lie without a second thought. 

“Yeah. I- I’m sorry. I know it’s just this one case, and as soon as I get it closed, I’ll-” 

“You promised me.” 

Barry swallowed. “I know. I know.” He had, repeatedly. For years. And broken that promise over and over again. He should stop promising. Or Eobard should have learned by now, not to believe Barry’s promises when it came to work. “It’s…” he stopped, realizing he didn’t have a lie prepared. The last work thing he’d brought up had been Hartley Rathaway, and he definitely couldn’t bring that up again. 

“It’s what?” 

“A missing person.” He shook his head. “There was a lead at the bar, and I- they never showed up. I was looking for a way to get in contact with the band, but I can’t find one.” 

Eobard’s eyes still hadn’t left the flyer. Barry shut his eyes, silently praying to whatever god was listening that he hadn’t just gotten Hartley killed, that everything had somehow been wrong, and he hadn’t ruined everything by being an idiot, and— 

He handed the flyer back and Barry crumpled it up quickly. “You’ll find it.” His hand went to Barry’s shoulder, massaging slowly. 

He looked up, meeting his eyes. “I will?” 

There was a small exhale from the man above him, and he smiled softly, his other hand cupping Barry’s jaw, thumb running over the cheekbone. “You love what you do. I don’t want to take that from you. I don’t think I could if I tried.” He leaned down, and Barry met his lips in a soft kiss. “As long as you don’t let it take away from this. From us,” he murmured against his mouth, and something in Barry’s chest twisted, and he wasn’t sure if it was comforting or the exact opposite. 

Cisco Ramon didn’t call him again, but Barry developed a routine. He told Eobard he was going to his lab for a few hours a couple days out of the week, and he did, sometimes. But he always stopped by Saints and Sinners to check for Hartley’s band, for more flyers of their performances, and after a few weeks, he really thought it was a fruitless effort. Caitlin Snow gave him club sodas and judged him, but didn’t kick him out, and he was sure, if she was still in contact with Hartley, that he knew by now, someone was looking for him. 

“You bleached your hair,” he said to her one day, and she simply raised an eyebrow at him, snorted out a laugh like he was an idiot, and charged him seven dollars for a soda. 

A week later, her hair was red again, and Barry decided to stop pointing it out. Then it was white, and he was forced to come to the conclusion of, “Are you Caitlin’s twin?” 

The white-haired woman laughed, and it was different from Caitlin’s laugh. Another indication that he’d been right. Barry probably also should’ve noticed how different their fashion choices were, but, hey, he’d had a lot on his mind. It had taken him long enough to notice the rapidly changing hair colors. “My name’s Frost.” 

“Your… name is Frost Snow?” 

She laughed again, and didn’t answer, and Barry’s later research indicated the fact that Caitlin Snow did not have a sister. More mysteries he was starting to think he didn’t have the capability to unravel. 

He didn’t stop coming back, and, eventually, he told Caitlin, or her nonexistent sister, whichever one of them it was, “You can tell Hartley Rathaway I’m not going to stop until I find him. I’m gonna keep coming here.” 

Nonexistent sister Frost glared at him. “Yeah. I’ve told him you’re looking for him. Guess what. He doesn’t give a shit. And because of you, we’ve been short staffed for over a month.” 

Barry blinked at her. “He works here?” 

“Barely! Because of you!” 

“Why didn’t any of you tell me he works here?” 

“Why the fuck would we tell you that!” She let out an inscrutable angry noise that may have also been a bitten-off attempt at cursing him out. “Ugh. Get out. I’ll… tell him again. Okay?” 

Barry doubted that would do anything. Considering the past month. 

-

Four months of persistence later, and four months of Eobard letting him go to ‘work’, when he was really spending hours of his day at a bar (hey, at least if he got caught, he could pretend he was an alcoholic), it paid off. 

He walked in, locked eyes with the man in the corner of the bar, who spoke to him in a tone that, as Barry recalled Cisco saying, could make an eighteen year old intern cry over accelerator energy output designs in two sentences or less, “You’re going to get me killed.” 

“Are you Hartley Rathaway?” 

He was almost unrecognizable from the pictures Barry had found of the professional, suit-wearing, hair-slicked-back man standing slightly behind Harrison Wells in nearly every photograph of him he could find, but the person cleaning tables at Saints and Sinners straightened up, looked at him, eyes flitting up and down and up again, not quite focusing on Barry’s eyes, but a point past his ear—maybe an escape route. “Get out,” he said simply, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

He looked fairly young, though it was kind of hard to tell, he was wearing makeup, light foundation that made his skin look almost translucent, and thick, wavy eyeliner. The amount of rings he was wearing seemed like a workplace hazard, and he had a silver eyebrow piercing, along with an uncountable number of ear piercings that caught the light every time he moved his head. 

Barry chose not to listen to him, and did not get out. Instead, he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “So. Obviously you’ve heard I’m looking for you.” 

Hartley did not answer. 

“I… think we have something in common.” He took another step; Hartley took a half-step back. His eyes narrowed, and the shadows under his eyes seemed to darken further. He was wearing colored contact lenses, brown ones, Barry could tell, and he could tell they were cheap, too, because every time he blinked, the right one moved slightly before going back into place. 

“What’s that?” His voice was wary, suspicious, and Barry wondered if it was because of Eobard Thawne, or because of something else entirely. 

“Eobard Thawne.” 

Hartley didn’t just take a step back, he stumbled, in his attempt to leave as soon as possible, tripping over a chair and falling back, then scrambling up before Barry had time to say anything else, and grabbing his arm, pulling him to the side and not saying a word until he had him pressed against the brick wall of the bar. “Do not ever try to find me again. I want nothing to do with that man,” he hissed, and as he stepped back, Barry took his arm. 

“Wait. Please.” 

Hartley shook him off. “Tell him. To leave me. Alone. I have spent years trying to get away from him. Just let me live.” 

“I’m not working with him!” 

Hartley froze for a second, glancing back at him.

“I’m… I’m trying to get away, too.” 

He let out a dry laugh. “Good luck with that, then. More power to you.” 

Desperation, now (from both of them, Barry could feel it). There wasn’t another plan to go with. Just be honest. “I need help.” 

“Look somewhere else.” He grabbed his dishcloth and turned away again.

So Barry threw his Hail Mary (not that he thought of Nora like that, not that Nora was an afterthought, but everyone else seemed to think she was). “Please, I- it’s not just me.” And he saw Hartley stop, could practically feel the way his jaw clenched, as he waited for Barry to elaborate. “I have a daughter.” 

He didn't move for a second, and Barry kept talking. “She’s sixteen. My wife died, and- and Eobard took us in. We were friends before it happened, and I thought… I thought he was being that. A friend. But a year or so in, things… changed. And I can’t leave, now. He’s isolated us from everyone.”  

“What do you expect me to do?” Hartley still hadn’t turned back around. 

“I believe you.” He wasn’t sure he did, but there was enough doubt there that he’d spent half a year of his life trying to find out. “So tell me how you did it. If he really is the same man you know, how did you find out who he was? How did you get away from him?” 

When Hartley did turn back to look at him, his eyes were shadowed, expression unreadable. “He almost killed me.” 

“Tell me. Please.” 

Then Hartley said something that made Barry’s thought process come to a grinding halt. “Your daughter. Is her name Nora?” 

He stared at Hartley for a long time, eyes wide. “How- how did you know that? How do you know her name?” 

Hartley laughed without humor. “You know it’s because of you, Barry, don’t you?” 

“I… what?” 

“It’s because of you, Barry. Barry fucking Allen.” 

When Barry didn’t answer, still reeling from the fact that Hartley Rathaway somehow knew him, knew his daughter, Hartley nodded to himself, and stepped back again. “Leave me alone.” 

Barry followed him back to the bar as Hartley stepped behind it, and Hartley gave him a fierce glare, raising his voice and bringing the attention of the bouncer at the front who’d let him in, a large, buff man who looked like he could probably dropkick Barry at a moment’s notice. “I said, leave me the fuck alone.” 

The bouncer stepped up behind him, and Barry didn’t miss the way Hartley was reaching under the counter for something. “How do you know my daughter?” 

“Stop. Stop looking. There’s a reason you don’t know.” Hartley’s eyes traveled to the bouncer, and he nodded, and suddenly there was a firm grip on his arm, and the man was pulling him backwards with what seemed to be no effort at all. 

“C’mon. Time to go.”

“I can walk by myself.” He tried to pull his arm away, but the man’s grip was like a steel clamp until they were outside the bar. 

“I think this means we don’t want to see you around here again, yeah? You’re not getting the answers you want.” 

“I’m just trying to-” 

The man pushed him away, dropping his arm. “Don’t care, didn’t ask. Don’t come back.”