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When Barry Allen couldn’t sleep – troubling case, bad breakup, too many espressos – he’d sometimes gone for a jog in the early morning, at the time of night even dog walkers and serial killers were tucked up in bed. He’d never been much of a runner then, had just about made it to the end of the block before wheezing and gasping and deciding to walk instead, but it was better than tossing and turning for hours.
When the Flash couldn’t sleep, he ran.
No street in the city was out of bounds, nowhere was too distant or too dangerous. He zipped along without the suit, sneakers smoking under his feet, and thought of swinging by Iron Heights just to check things out, maybe slipping between the bars to see his dad again on a Christmas night. But he took a detour to S.T.A.R. Labs instead, and not only to pick up the latest in superhero fashion by Cisco Ramon. In the hallway outside the main lab he skidded to an abrupt halt (because discretion was occasionally called for at 2am) and peeked around the doorway.
In their frequent discussions about the incredible abilities of metahumans, Cisco and Caitlin always traded crazy ideas back and forth: laser-beam eyes, flight, the ability to talk to fish. Most of those ideas seemed less crazy every time they encountered a metahuman for real. But no one they’d met had been psychic yet. Which was why Barry put this down to pure instinct and a little luck: despite the late hour and despite the festive season, Harrison Wells was not only lying back against the blue pillows of the medical bed, but also awake, tapping at the screen of his tablet.
“Mr. Allen!”
Maybe his voice wasn’t as strong as usual. When Barry had seen him last, he’d still been bleeding, Caitlin stitching up his worst wounds and angrily muttering something about badly bruised ribs. He still looked pretty beaten up, and those were only the parts Barry could see. With all his healing abilities, Barry had still been resoundingly beaten by the man in the yellow suit at the football field. It was hard to imagine how an ordinary person could stand it. Maybe Caitlin had given him the good drugs.
“Hi.” He moved closer, wincing on Wells’ behalf. “How’re you feeling?”
Wells set down the tablet. “Not too bad, considering. I’m sorry I missed your party.”
“You’ve got a pretty good excuse,” Barry said. “But I know Caitlin would tell you to get some sleep. I could take you home…” He’d never carried anyone long-distance, but letting Wells try to move around and drive home by himself didn’t seem like a good idea.
Wells smiled. “Thank you, Barry, but I’m perfectly comfortable here. And, to be very honest, I might own the place, but I’m rarely home. It was easier to outfit the lab to cater to my… specific needs, and I doubt my neighbors miss me very much.”
“Is that why you’re always wearing the same thing?” He’d meant it as a joke, but now that he heard it, it seemed more like an insult. Even if Wells was wearing a black undershirt and black pants and black shoes. “Not that black isn’t, you know, a classic. It worked for Steve Jobs. But Iris was talking about getting you a gift certificate for some beachwear.”
Wells was, thankfully, still smiling. “Iris is a very sweet girl, Barry.”
“Yeah…” He pulled up a chair. It had been a bad idea to bring up Iris. “You’re not going anywhere for Christmas? No family?”
“Not much of one. And in any case I’m definitely regarded as the black sheep.”
“You don’t… um…” No, that was a bad idea too, because it circled right back around to topics he wanted to avoid.
Wells looked at him intently, those vivid turquoise eyes clear even in the half-darkness of the room. “I don’t?”
Why had he never asked this stuff before, or at least asked Cisco, who would tell him without making it a huge issue? “I meant, I guess if you had a girlfriend, a partner, I would’ve met her already. Or him. Hims are okay too. Did you know my boss is gay? Captain Singh? It’s really cool, you know, the way-”
“I didn’t,” Wells interrupted softly. “And no, I don’t.”
“Right,” Barry said. “Right.” He paused and studied his fingers. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can get you? Coffee? Sandwich? Books?”
Wells turned a little more toward him. “Is something troubling you, Barry?”
“Of course things are troubling me. What’s not troubling me? This is the happiest time of the year for so many people, and I don’t have my parents, and I lost nine months of the last year anyway, so it feels like I’m in some kind of eternal winter, and you could’ve died.” He’d touched Wells only once that he could remember – other than carrying him away from Farooq – and then it had been a thoughtless pat on the back rather than the tight, lasting hug he wanted to give now (not that a hug was a good idea anyway). But he let his hand rest on Wells’ forearm, and Wells didn’t snatch it back. “I don’t know what any of us would do without you.”
“Losing nine months seems like a blessing,” Wells said, covering Barry’s hand with his own. “I lost nine hours and woke up in hell, half my body numb, the other wrapped in blinding pain, the hospital nothing more than flickering lights and panicking people. For a long, long time I thought it was over for me, that I had nothing to expect from the rest of my life but pain and guilt. But then I met you.”
“I was asleep.”
“You were life itself, thrumming and raging inside a human body. And when you woke up, you certainly didn’t disappoint.”
Barry tried looking him in the eye. “You never wanted me to be a hero.”
“I was very wrong, and the Flash has given us all someone to believe in. Someone to love, even those of us who had forgotten what love was.”
“Someone to love?” He’d thought he could happily go another year without thinking about that. But Cisco and Caitlin had become as close as siblings recently, and Wells himself… He should have been yet another father figure in Barry’s life, but there was something irrepressibly young within him, behind those eyes: youth that had been beaten and broken and scarred over.
Wells settled back against the pillows and touched his side gingerly. “Perhaps you can fetch me something: a sweater. It’s getting chilly in here.”
There were usually clothes lying around – S.T.A.R. Labs had once sold a lot of branded merchandise, and had a lot of stock left over – and Barry didn’t have to search far. When he returned, Wells had eased out of his undershirt, which was ripped where Caitlin had cut it open, and stained from the bandaged wounds Barry could now see.
“Holy…” What was that instinct, to reach out and touch what you knew you shouldn’t? His fingertips barely brushed the gauze. “You look like you went one-on-one with a bulldozer.”
“Something like that.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t be taking you to a hospital? I mean, Caitlin’s great, but…”
“But they wouldn’t let you touch me like that in a hospital.”
He’d moved away from the bandage, was touching smooth, warm, black-and-blue skin. It was a year since he’d injured himself for more than a few hours. Even when he’d smashed his hand on Tony’s face it had been more like a niggling annoyance he knew would be healed by morning. But by morning Wells would still be black-and-blue, and in a year, five years from now, he would still be in a wheelchair.
“I’m sorry,” he said, more feeling welling up inside him than could answer why he was touching Wells in a way Caitlin probably wouldn’t. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve ignored you and Joe. I could’ve stopped this.”
“We all make our own decisions, Barry.”
Barry nodded. “And it was the wrong decision. Just a couple of weeks ago Farooq almost killed you. I know what it felt like getting blasted by him. It was more than awful watching that happen. I couldn’t watch that happen. I should’ve learned. I can’t lose you.”
Wells made an amused noise. “Two Christmases ago I was that impossible thing, a rock star physicist, with young people like you writing me adoring love letters. And this Christmas I’m the wise old man who can’t defend himself.”
“You’re not old,” Barry said. “Or very wise, if you think I wouldn’t write you more adoring love letters in a second. I just thought you’d prefer the scotch.”
Wells studied him for a moment and slid off his glasses, placing them on top of his tablet. “I think you know what I’d prefer.”
How many people over the years, men and women, had been lured in by those preternaturally blue eyes? It was easy to convince himself that he only wanted to move closer, but then Wells’ hands were in his hair and they were kissing, Barry afraid to touch anything and wanting to touch everything, Wells’ split, swollen lip coppery under his tongue. He’d been thinking of Wells as weak and skinny beneath his black clothes, maybe because of the nerdy occupation, maybe because of the chair, but he’d been wrong about that, and he was wrong about Wells being fragile too. Because Wells was holding him, pulling him like he was wanted for the first time in forever, grabbing onto his belt, and oh…
“Can you?” he found himself saying, which was way ahead of where his conscious thoughts even were, and stupid and probably insulting, but he needed, needed to know before this went further or he messed up even worse. “I mean, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re…” It was completely impossible to argue with Wells. It always had been, and the way Wells was kissing him, sliding a hand up underneath his t-shirt, wasn’t making anything easier. “I don’t want to hurt you. Also,” he added, as something occurred to him, “you’re probably out of your mind on painkillers.”
Wells laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Barry, rest assured you will not hurt me, and that I most certainly can. But probably not here.”
Not here. “My apartment?” Barry suggested. Having Wells there seemed pretty crazy, but having Wells anywhere wasn’t the sanest thing he’d ever thought up. “I can… I have a bed.”
Wells was surprisingly heavy to carry – the chair made Barry constantly underestimate just how tall he was – but it wasn’t as though Barry had to do it for long. The worst thing was having to lay him down in the rumpled bed Barry had left unmade just an hour or so before.
“Well this is very… sophomoric.” Wells stretched out, though, while Barry zipped around the room to pick up stray socks and try to pretend he didn’t live in a disaster zone that was barely the size of Cisco’s treadmill. “I’m guessing you don’t bring too many men home. Or women.”
“Many probably isn’t the right word.”
Still, Wells didn’t look as incongruous as he might have done on Barry’s bed, shirtless and battered. Maybe the bruises and cuts made it somehow less crazy that he was here rather than at a gallery opening or the opera or with some equally sophisticated person in a sophisticated bedroom having sophisticated sex. Barry wasn’t exactly sure what sophisticated sex might be, but it was pretty likely he’d never come close to doing it.
He stood awkwardly by the bed. “So…”
Wells looked up at him, amused as ever. “So.”
Barry had never seen him without his glasses for so long. What did he need them for? He didn’t seem blind without them, so maybe it was a small-print kind of thing. He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re sure-”
“Barry.” Wells propped an arm behind his head, sighed. “If you don’t want to fuck me, that’s one thing. If you’re going to stand there all night and make me beg, that’s quite another. Take off your clothes, and take off mine while you do it. I spend half my life dressing and undressing these days.”
Barry’s brain stuttered. In the blink of an eye he’d undressed them and was folding Wells’ pants neatly over the back of a chair. His own clothes could stand being kicked into a corner.
The rest of Wells was a little less badly scraped up, but otherwise… Barry didn’t want to stare or make assumptions, but he’d expected that someone who’d been unable to use their legs for the past year would have much less muscle tone.
“Therapy sessions three times a week,” Wells said. “Exhausting, painful, and I don’t know what good they do, but Caitlin insists.”
Which just left the rest of Wells. The part that now riveted Barry's attention. Barry lay down on the bed, careful to keep a couple of inches between them. “You want me to… to fuck you.”
“I don’t think I’ll be much good for anything else.”
He hadn’t been touched by anyone in over a year, and that stood even without counting the nine-month coma, which meant Wells touching him, stroking down the planes of his body, made his cock suddenly very interested.
“But you can… you’ll be able to feel it?” Barry was just as afraid to touch Wells’ cock as the rest of him, not because it might hurt, but because he might not feel a thing.
“Probably. I haven’t exactly tested it out.”
“You haven’t been with anyone since the accident?”
Wells reached for him, fingers encircling his half-hard cock. “Wheelchair-bound pariahs don’t top many dating lists.”
“You’d top mine,” Barry said, and cringed internally for all the ways that was surely not true, as well as all the ways it evidently was. Then again, dating Harrison Wells was probably a little different than whatever they were doing now. He might be calling Wells by his first name, for a start.
“Barry, shh.”
He’d never really considered the idea of sex being comforting before. In his experience, first times were something shot through with terror and anxiety, and were often the direct result of one drink too many. But Wells was a friend, someone as safe as he was searingly attractive, who Barry needed to protect rather than fear. And he was someone who, more or less, knew what he was doing.
They kissed while Barry finally touched him, and there was no doubt at all what Wells’ body was capable of, he hardened and thickened so easily in Barry’s hand. “You feel that?” he asked, while Wells stroked him too, while he fucked Wells’ hand.
“Scoot up,” Wells said.
As he scrambled to sit up, there might have been a little guilt in the back of his mind about letting Wells blow him with that wounded mouth, but there was a kind of excitement about it too, a spark that went through his groin at the thought that Wells wanted him so much, not even all those injuries could get in the way. And then Wells really was sucking him, Harrison Wells was sucking his cock, and in a flash Barry thought of just how many magazines and articles and, oh God, his actual biography were in this room somewhere, and yet here was the man himself with his head in Barry’s lap. Barry didn’t know where to put his hands.
It wouldn’t have taken much to come, and every time Wells brought him close he felt just on the edge of blurring out, vibrating, losing control. But maybe that was how it had felt before he’d been struck by lightning too – he just hadn’t worried about doing his partner permanent damage back then.
Had Wells been thinking about this before tonight, the way Barry had sort of thought about it sometimes in a corner of his mind? A year ago, Wells had been the sort of nerd every nerd longed to be: tall, charismatic, well-dressed, with looks that might have belonged to a movie star. And now, even after the disaster that had wrecked his image, his body, and his life’s work, he still had that commanding presence, that sly wit, that smile that Barry longed to earn.
“Let me,” he said, touching Wells’ hair. “Let me make you feel good.”
He’d never done it enough before to be convinced he was much good at it, but it felt good to have Wells in his mouth, pushing against his tongue, making his jaw ache. And the way Wells was breathing – not making a noise otherwise, but breathing hard, ragged, his fingers tightening in Barry’s hair – it made Barry push his hips harder into the mattress. He stroked a hand down Wells’ thigh, avoiding the scrapes and bruises as best he could. Did Wells feel anything? Pressure, maybe, or warmth? It seemed unreal that he couldn't: his legs felt as warm and alive as Barry's did, but they never moved, and maybe that was how it was. Barry had never been to bed with anyone who used a wheelchair before. He'd have to read up.
Cautiously, he moved a finger down, pressing and vibrating just a little. He'd tried it on himself of course – who wouldn't? – but other people weren't necessarily okay with superpowers in the bedroom. Unless other metahumans were signing up for OKCupid, Wells was probably the only person who’d ever been faced with the opportunity.
For the first time, Wells cried out, his body rigid, and he bit down on his split lip. “God, Barry. Get in me.”
Other guys had been pretty happy to flip Barry over and fuck him into the mattress. He’d resented it a little, the way they automatically took charge, but now guidance was something he needed in spades. “How do I…?”
Wells looked up in frustration. His lip was trickling blood. “Quickly,” he said.
Quickly he could do: lubricant, condom, checking the expiration date on both. Maybe he should’ve Googled sex positions at the same time, although his laptop couldn't exactly work at superspeed. His laptop could barely work at regular speed.
He didn’t want to hurt Wells or embarrass him, and busting open his stitches would take some explaining to either Caitlin or a paramedic. He would’ve asked Wells if he was sure, if he was okay, if maybe they shouldn’t wait, but the way Wells was breathing, watching him, needing him… He couldn’t ask any more questions.
Barry lodged a pillow under Wells’ hips and moved his legs upward and apart. He’d assumed being manhandled and exposed like this would be uncomfortable for Wells, but maybe Wells liked it. Maybe Wells liked the exact reverse of all of the things Barry liked, not the least of which was Barry sliding lubed-up fingers against him. And Wells... If he couldn't feel it, he watched it all. And hell, porn got guys off without them feeling it, right? Still. Barry wedged his thighs under Wells' and stroked his free hand over that firm, warm body, that bruised skin. Maybe this really was the best way to take care of him, after everything he’d endured. Another moment and he could’ve been killed, and who knew what memories that would bring back of the night his back was broken?
“It’s okay,” he found himself saying. “Relax. I’ll make you feel good. Really good.”
He hadn’t been in someone in forever, but it was easier and better than he expected or remembered, just to slide in, Wells tight but not resisting. And Jesus, the heat of him.
“Move, Barry,” Wells said. He’d tipped his head against the pillows, eyes shut, while he stroked himself. Barry pushed back on his legs and moved in deeper to Wells’ answering groan. “Yeah, there. Right there.”
Barry started to thrust, finding a rhythm. No question he was in way better shape than the last time he’d been to bed with someone, so he could fuck Wells with a force and speed that would have made him breathless before. The problem was not going too fast, with a crackle of lightning around him. But Wells didn’t tell him to ease up, just covered his eyes with one hand and took it all.
And if Wells felt good, Barry felt… Okay, he’d felt pretty good ever since he woke up from the coma, felt incredible when he was out there running, saving people. But this was better even than that, miles better than his own hand in the shower. Maybe it was his new, upgraded, better-than-ever body, but it felt like he could go longer, go forever if he wanted to. And Wells – Wells was perfect, even broken and beaten by the very forces that had made Barry that way. God knew how beautiful he'd look whole, with bruises and abrasions healed, but now at least Barry could try to make amends. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I couldn’t beat him for you.
“Harrison,” he said. He’d been thinking it, how it might be to call him something Caitlin and Cisco never did. But when he did say it, it felt like a step too far. Wells wasn’t a kid, wasn’t family like Joe.
Wells, though, only lifted his hand a little and smiled, the streetlight from outside flashing over his eyes almost like… Barry snapped his hips hard, his thrusts growing shorter. “Tell me what you need.”
“Shh,” Wells said, and closed his eyes once more, his hand moving faster.
Pure, blissful relief shot through Barry when Wells came in a violent tensing of muscles and a spurt of come, and it rolled into his own climax, which was on him before he could think about holding back. He kept moving, spilling out inside Wells, his eyes fixed on Wells' eyes, and all he could think was oh God, oh God. Talk about being hit by a bulldozer. His body crackled, vibrated, flashed. And then he was lying on top of Wells, kissing him, holding him, being held.
“Shit,” he said, realizing what he was doing, half-crushing the man who'd already been half-crushed. “I’m…”
“Stay.” Wells was weirdly strong, but probably that happened when you had to use your arms for everything. “I waited so long to have you.”
Only when Barry did relax and was about to lay his head down on Wells’ chest, did Wells push him away. “You should take me back,” he said. “My phone's at the lab and Caitlin may have a fit if I'm missing without my chair.
“I could just get your phone,” Barry said, sitting up so he could stretch and yawn, and zip to his tiny bathroom for a damp washcloth. “And your chair. We can say we were up all night doing… important research.”
Wells wiped himself off and inspected his bandaged side. “I’m not concerned that she might know we slept together, Barry. I’m concerned she’ll know I did anything other than lie stock still in bed all night.”
That was something, not to be seen as shameful, although Barry wasn’t too sure how he felt about Caitlin – or anyone else – knowing how they’d spent the night. Not that he was ashamed of it, exactly. But it would change things. And every time things changed lately, someone wound up in the hospital.
Barry nodded. “Okay… but wait, have some eggnog before you go.”
Wells looked at him as though he was just realizing that he really did need his glasses. “You’re holding me captive to make me drink eggnog?”
“Not captive, but it has zero effect on me and Iris has stuffed my fridge with it.” He whipped on some boxers and chugged eggnog into a chipped mug. “I swear she makes this stuff in vats.”
“I’m sure Cisco would appreciate one of those vats.” Wells had pulled himself up into a sitting position, and took the mug with what seemed a genuinely grateful smile. “Thank you.”
His lip actually looked a little better, strange as that seemed, but at least he wasn’t wincing when he drank.
“Oh, you know, maybe you shouldn’t,” Barry said. “Alcohol and painkillers don’t mix.”
Wells laughed. “Caitlin would disapprove?”
“I’m pretty sure she reached max disapproval a while ago. There’s going to be a system overload.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t much like painkillers. Not after…” Wells waved his hand vaguely as he took a swallow of eggnog. “Besides, there isn’t much left of me to hurt.”
Barry laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “I’ll come back with you. He’s still out there somewhere, the man in yellow.”
Back at the lab, they sipped more eggnog together – it didn’t taste bad, even if the alcohol was lost on Barry – and Barry helped Wells into a clean branded S.T.A.R. Labs sweatshirt and pants, and Wells lay down and Barry sat in a chair by him.
As dawn broke, with one hand tight around Wells’ wrist, the Flash finally slept.