The Flash - Where the Old Ghosts Play
Mar. 16th, 2017 08:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Where the Old Ghosts Play
Author:elrhiarhodan
Fandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: PG
Characters: Barry Allen, Earth-19 Harrison Wells (HR Wells)
Pairings: Implied Barry Allen/Iris West (canon relationship), Implied (more than) Barry Allen/Harrison Wells | Eobard Thawne, Implied Unreciprocated Barry Allen/Earth-2 Harrison Wells
Word Count: ~3600
Spoilers: Episode Tag for S3.16 - Into the Speed Force
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-Canon Death of Non-Canon Character
Summary: Set immediately after the events of Into The Speed Force, Barry doesn't go to Cisco's, but decides to bunk down at S.T.A.R. Labs, where he has a strange and painful late-night conversation with the Labs' permanent resident, HR Wells.
Author’s Notes: I've had a very hard time getting a handle on HR Wells. He's annoying, but at the same time, intriguing. We have no real clue as to his motivations - unlike Harry or EoWells, and despite the massive amount of words that come out of his mouth, we still don't know why he's here. The scenes with Jesse have given me a hint, and this story explores certain ideas. Please pay attention to the tags for this one. If you need more detail, please see the end notes.
There is also the tiniest hint of a crossover. If you know about my other fandom interests, you'll pick up on it.
__________________
Barry tells Iris he would stay at Cisco's, but he doesn't.
He has his reasons.
Things are okay between them, Cisco's simmering anger and pain over Barry's terrible selfishness has mostly subsided, but Barry doesn't feel right imposing himself on his friend at this moment. He'd managed to rescue Wally, something he hadn't even tried with Dante, and while Barry's certain that Cisco wouldn't compare the two situations, Barry can't help but feel like he should. Barry's failed Cisco in so many ways; this is just one more nail in the coffin of their friendship.
As soon as Iris goes upstairs and shuts the bedroom door, Barry flees like a thief in the night and heads to S.T.A.R. Labs. It's only fitting that he seeks his exile there, where everything begins and ends.
The Cortex is empty, which doesn't surprise Barry, since it's well after midnight. Cisco's done a good job of automating things – and up until this latest disaster, Central City has had at least two speedsters to keep the criminals at bay Barry doesn't know how long Wally's going to be out of commission. He may have his speed, but his mind and his heart have taken a terrible beating and he'll need time to recover – if he can. Wally, the smart guy that he is, needs to focus on school and rebuilding his sense of self.
Barry sits at one of the consoles and checks the various law enforcement and news feeds that the system monitors. It's a quiet night in Central City. No fires, no robberies, no random assault reported; there's nothing that requires the Flash's hands-on attention. These quiet nights have become almost common – one of the benefits of having two – and for a brief while, three – speedsters watching out for the people of Central City. Barry has to wonder just how long it's going to take for the criminals to realize that both Kid Flash and Jesse Quick are out of the lineup.
He thinks about Cecile's daughter, who's such a Kid Flash partisan, and Wally's utter delight in being a celebrity, how he'd never hesitated to pose with people for selfies, or sign someone's poster or tee-shirt. He hopes that Wally will be that speedster again, not for the city's sake, but for his own.
With everything so quiet and peaceful, the ghost that inhabits the Cortex soon comes out to play. The low vibrations from the air filters transforms into the electric hum of Dr. Wells' wheelchair and Barry can hear the echoes of the man's voice as he encourages him, praises him, gives him the emotional foundation to run faster than he'd ever thought possible.
"Run, Barry. Run."
Those words are like a pulse beat in his soul, and even now – more than two years after his last battle with the man he'd called friend and mentor - Barry can't stop thinking of the man in the wheelchair, the fake paraplegic, Eobard Thawne, as his Doctor Wells. During that trip back to the early days of his time as the Flash, Barry might have called him "Thawne" and witnessed the man's visceral enjoyment of that name, but in his heart, Eobard Thawne would always be the man who'd murdered his mother – younger, angrier, crueler, more volatile, than the one to whom Barry had given his respect and a large part of his soul, but Dr. Wells would be his teacher, his friend, and a whole lot more.
Barry has to wonder, had Jay not intervened with the Speed Force avatar wearing Len Snart's face, if would he eventually would have faced Eobard-as-Wells. And for that, he's actually sorry that Jay had shown up and saved him. It's likely that Eobard-as-Wells might have given him a lecture and then almost beat him to death. Barry sighs at the lost opportunity to have had some time with his Dr. Wells.
He can almost hear the lecture, those stern tones excoriating him in one breath and encouraging him with the next. Barry misses that more than anything. And that's such a terrible betrayal – Eddie killed himself to save him from the Reverse-Flash, Ronnie sacrificed himself to keep the Singularity – which Barry had been so complicit in creating – from destroying the world. And now, for Barry to sit and mope about a mentor who'd never really existed, is as selfish an act as the creation of Flashpoint.
But nothing Barry does can banish Eobard-as-Wells' ghost from this place, it'll live here in the Cortex for as long as the Flash exists. And Barry plans to live for a long, long time.
But he doesn't have to sit here and let himself be haunted. He's tired and there are plenty of places in S.T.A.R. Labs where the ghost doesn't linger, where he can rest without the torment of those memories. He heads down to Level Nine, where Harry had resided for so many months, and had briefly taken up residency again on his last two visits. HR is also bunking on this floor – but on the opposite side of the ring.
That's perfect for Barry, since he's really not up to dealing with an overly voluble version of Harrison Wells tonight. At least HR is nothing like Eobard-as-Wells. Certainly, no one would ever apply the terms "suave, sophisticated, and seductive" to the Earth-19 version. Nor is there's the simmering snap-crackle-pop of the relationship Barry has with Harry, that tense admiration that always seems ready to spill over into something else.
Barry lets himself into the room that Harry and Jesse had used; Ironically, this is the same room that he'd stayed in for the six months after the Singularity, when his guilt drove him into exile here. The beds are made up and the room has long since lost its storeroom feel. He toes off his sneakers and collapses onto a bed. The pillows smell vaguely musky, so this must be the one that Harry uses. The scent is more disturbing than unpleasant so Barry swaps those pillows with the ones from Jesse's bed. Except that these carry a lingering feminine scent that makes Barry's nose itch – the aroma on the linens should be Iris', but it isn't.
Barry doesn't bother putting his shoes back on; he just pads barefoot through the corridor to a storeroom on the other side of the ring. He's just too tired to use his speed, and when he approaches HR's quarters, he sees that the door is open, so he's careful not to make any noise that might attract unwanted attention.
He makes it to the storeroom without a problem, grabs two clean pillow cases from the storeroom and heads back the way he came. This time, stealth doesn't seem to matter. HR is having a conversation with someone and it grabs Barry's attention in a way that HR's conversations rarely do.
"Hey, son. How are you settling in?"
Son?
"Doing fine, Dad. The dorms are okay, but it's Paris, and it's just I always dreamed it would be – better, even. It's so beautiful. There's so much art and life and culture here."
"You're having a good time, then?"
"Of course, Dad – it's Paris, after all. And you've told about all the best places to go - the museums and the galleries and the cathedrals."
"You know that it'll take you at least a year to see everything in the Louvre, so don't rush through it. And don't forget about the Orsay. And there are hundreds of smaller museums you need to see. And the windows at Saint-Chapelle… Don't forget to be careful when you go to Notre Dame, the beggars there are ferocious. And don't go off on your own in the Catacombs – you could get lost forever."
"Don't worry – you know that I'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the underground. "
"How could I forgot, you're just a little claustrophobic."
"Trust you to understate the obvious. Remember what it was like getting me to take the subway when we'd visited New York City?"
There a brief pause and then HR continues, "Don't spend all your time studying and going to museums. You need to live a little, too. Within reason."
"As if I'd forget about having fun! Matty and Kate have already found some great clubs to go to. Places where the art students hang out. I'll be fine."
As Barry listens, he realizes that HR's voice is oddly doubled, as if he's talking over someone else, and he sneaks a look inside. HR is sitting on his bed; a hologram of a young man is floating before him. The quality is good enough that Barry can see a resemblance between the two, although the man in the hologram is shockingly young and handsome.
Barry has to wonder about this interdimensional transmission. Admittedly, his knowledge of Earth-19 is extremely limited, but he does know that since dimension hopping is illegal there, technology that enabling interdimensional communications seems almost illogical.
Unless what Barry's watching is only a recording. HR's mouth isn't moving, but Barry can still hear his words. "You stay safe, my son. Don't go into any dark alleys looking for things you're better off not finding."
"Dad …"
"Don't 'dad' me, young man. You're my child, my whole world, and I don't know what will happen if I lose you."
"You're not going to lose me, but you've got to let me fly free at some point."
"I am. I'm here in Central City. You're in Paris, forging a brilliant new life. I just want you to be careful, okay?"
"I will, Dad. Promise."
"Love you, son."
"Love you, too. Talk to you next week."
The hologram holds up a hand and HR repeats the gesture. When their palms touch, the image flickers out.
As Barry watches, HR scrubs his face and stares at the wetness in his hand. He whispers, "Love you, son. Always."
Barry must have made a sound because HR suddenly looks up. The grief in the man's face is terrible and frightening, but it's quickly masked by a bright smile. Barry's a speedster, though, and he can see through the time dilation.
"Hey, BA! What are you doing here so late? Didn't think you'd be hanging around S.T.A.R. Labs at this hour – not that you shouldn't or couldn't. You're our captain after all, and you own the place. So you can be here anytime that you want."
Barry holds up a hand in an attempt to forestall HR's babble, and to his surprise, it works. HR clamps his mouth shut.
"Can I come in?"
The request seems to loosen HR's tongue again. He gets up and makes one of those distinctive, overblown gestures. "Of course, of course – my humble home is always open to visitors. Not that I get a lot of them, but everyone's always welcome. And please, please – sit down. Make yourself comfortable." HR pulls out the desk chair, brushes off some non-existent dust, and all but pushes it behind Barry's knees.
Barry sits and watches HR, who flutters around the room, a combination of his familiar, but bizarre behavior, and a distinctly unfamiliar nervous discomfort. Finally, HR stills under Barry's gaze. It's strange, but HR should be as familiar as Cisco or Caitlin – people he's all but lived with for the last three years. But as familiar as that face is – the dark hair, the bright, inquisitive eyes and the sharp mind behind them - Barry's absolutely convinced that HR is as much of a genius as Harry, or even Eobard-as-Wells, but simply along a different vector - it's also an unknown. But just as he'd learned that Harry Wells had been a completely different from the man he'd thought of as Harrison Wells, Barry's come to see that that HR is very much his own man, and he'd never mistake him for anyone other Wells in the multiverse. Maybe this was a chance to learn a little more about it. "You've been here for six months, but I feel like I know nothing about you."
HR demurs, "Oh, you know plenty. You know I'm outrageously handsome, smart as a whip, good in a crisis."
"HR – "
"You also know that I'm a writer of some renown and a businessman with questionable ethics. What more is there to me?"
"I think there's a lot more, a lot of things you don't want us to know. You're very good at hiding things."
HR laughs, all nerves and no humor. "Hiding, what would I be hiding?" He bites at his lips when Barry doesn't answer. "I guess you're curious about that little scene – the one that I was playing when you walked by."
Barry admits, "A little."
Of course, HR volunteers way too much information, and it's so obvious that none of it's the truth. "Well, it was just an adaptation of an early story I wrote – something that the money people had thought might make a good video adaption. So they did a screen test and it really didn't go anywhere, you see – in the end, it was too simple a story. Not enough drama, not enough action. Not enough – " HR wipes his mouth and shakes his head.
Barry knows what grief looks like, and he doesn't have to look in a mirror. He's seen it on Caitlin's face for almost as long as he's known her. He's grown accustomed to seeing it in Cisco's eyes. And a few short hours ago, he'd seen it in every fiber of Wally's being as he was trapped in the never-ending loop of his mother's death.
"Who is he?"
HR tries to smile and fails miserably. "Don't, Barry. Please."
That might be the first time that HR's used his name, not his initials, and it actually hurts, but he has to respect HR's privacy and he backs off. "Okay, but if you want to talk, I'll always listen."
HR nods, but won't meet Barry's eyes.
"I'll let you sleep, then."
HR doesn’t respond, so Barry gets up, but before he's out the door, HR whispers, "If you'd overheard the whole thing, I think you have to know who I was talking to."
"You called him 'son' and 'my child'."
That earns Barry another silent nod.
"You left him behind?" Back inside HR's room, Barry sits down again.
"I didn't have much of a choice."
"There are always choices."
HR lets out a breath. "In this case, there weren't."
Barry's afraid to ask, but he does anyway. "Why not?"
"My son is dead." The baldness of those simple words, the very un-HR-ness of them, is like a punch in the face. The wave of helpless grief that washes over Barry is sickeningly familiar. He wants to reach out and take hold of this pain and grind it to dust. What right does the universe have in constantly destroying all of the good people who wear this face?
"What happened?" Barry expects some long and terrible tale; that HR will do what he usually does, covering over his pain with the fantastical, with a million meaningless words.
But he doesn't. All he says is, "He just died."
HR is looking at his hands, they're shaking. After an achingly long pause, he continues "He'd gone to Paris to study for a semester, to walk in the footsteps of the giants. I was going to go with him, help him get settled in, but there was business to take care of, a book to promote. Any one of the million stupid, pointless things I needed to do at that very moment, so I let my son go off with his friends. Two days after that message – the one you overheard – his friends called me. They said my son was dead. That he'd gone to sleep and never woke up." HR's voice cracks. "My beautiful, beautiful boy – he was just gone. They doctors said that he'd had an aneurysm, that it could have been treated if they'd found it in time. "
Barry feels like he's suffocating with grief. This is not something he'd encountered. His parents had died violently. He'd lost Eddie and Ronnie to similar violence. Eobard had been wiped from existence. Iris had lost her mother to abandonment and then to a lingering, painful illness. The type of loss, this sudden and inexplicable death, is not something Barry has had any experience with. Perhaps if he'd actually been around when Dante had died, instead of fucking about with the timeline, he'd have a better handle on this.
"I'm sorry." Barry has come to hate those words, the stupid banality of them.
HR rocks back and forth, holding on to the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles are white. "I know you are. I know that you – of anyone here – understand loss."
Barry reaches out to hug HR, but HR shies away. That's not a surprise. Despite all the differences between the various versions of Harrison Wells, there is one thing that seems constant – casual physical contact with Barry Allen is something to be avoided.
"What can I do?"
HR gives him a sad smile. "Nothing. There's nothing anyone can do." The laugh that follows is bitter. "You've only recently learned the price of trying to fix things. I learned that lesson a long time ago."
"HR?" Barry's not sure what he's trying to tell him.
"A year after my son died, I approached the Accelerated Man. I offered him a fortune if he'd help me save my child. Travel back in time and take him to the doctor. He told me it was impossible. I asked why and he very generously agreed to show me. Let's just say I got a rather in-depth education on the nature of the speed force and how badly changing just one thing will completely mess up the future."
"That's why you know so much about the speed force."
"Yeah." The sound is soft and sad. "The price I paid for that knowledge; it's something no one should ever have to pay." HR doubles himself over, trying to hold back the grief.
Barry reaches out and rests a hand on HR's shoulder and leaves it there for a few heartbeats.
"It's why I came here, you know."
"What do you mean?"
HR sits up and Barry wants to look at anything but this man's face, the pain and loss are unbearable. "Randolph was tired of my grief and I can't blame him. My son was gone for more than a decade and I was still behaving like it had just happened yesterday. He needed me gone and I wanted to go. I knew that you'd all be young. You were looking for a mentor, someone to help you channel all of your intellectual and meta-genetic gifts. I thought that just maybe – maybe – I could watch over you, keep you safe. Make sure that you didn't fall into the pit and if you did, I could be around to toss you a rope and help you climb out." HR laughs and shakes his head. "What a bone-headed idea that was. I'm a moron and a fraud and an annoyance. A liability that provides occasional comic relief."
"You're none of those things – well, except for the fraud bit when you first arrived."
HR smiles and shakes his head. "You don't have to say that to make me feel better."
"I'm not. Who figured out that Grodd had mind-jacked a member of the military? Who helped Jesse figure up that Savitar was vulnerable? You trained Wally when no one wanted to consider that he could be a hero, too. Your thinking is unconventional and that has saved our lives." Barry keeps his hand on HR's shoulder for a moment longer, feeling the strength there, muscles bunched and twitching from this unexpected contact.
"I'm sure that your Hard-Hat Harry wouldn't have let things go down to the wire like I did."
"Don't compare yourself to Harry Wells – your genius is different. You are different."
HR shakes himself free of Barry's grasp. "That morning, when Jesse arrived and saw me, she called me 'Dad'. I thought my heart was going to explode. My son used to do that when he was little." HR pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes. "I'd go away for a few days and when I'd get home, he'd come running out of the house and into my arms." HR's voice cracks. "At that moment, Jesse looked just like my boy."
Barry feels his own tears fall. "I'm sorry."
HR tilts his chin up and wipes away the wetness on Barry's face. "It's not your fault."
Barry knows that, and yet his over-developed sense of responsibility takes hold. "I wish I knew about this. Maybe there's something I could have done."
"Barry, no. There's nothing you can or should do about changing the past. And as for Jesse mistaking me for her dad, well – it was a hurt I could bear a thousand times over." HR shoves his handkerchief back in his pocket. "I'm sorry you overheard that recording."
"I'm sorry I pried. It's something private and I interfered." Guilt is as familiar a feeling as grief these days.
"No, it's not that. You didn't pry. I just wanted to spare you my own pain. I look at you and see the living embodiment of hope. That's what I told Joe once, that your real superpower is hope. But the last few months, the world has done its best to beat that out of you. I shouldn't add to that. You've already lost so much; you don't need my grief, too."
"But isn't this what friends are for? To provide comfort, to share the pain?"
HR looks at him with terrible hope. "We're friends? Really?"
"Really." A ghost of a memory, of Dr. Wells calling him a friend, flicks a taunting finger at him. Barry banishes the memory, but he can still hear the ghost's laugher. "Are you going to be okay?"
HR nods and his mask falls back into place. "As good as new after a few hours sleep."
"I think we can both use that." Barry gets up and feels every bone in his body ache.
HR ask a question Barry doesn't want to answer. " Why are you here tonight?"
"I'll tell you in the morning, okay?"
HR seems to understand. "Yeah, okay."
Before Barry leaves, he asks HR one final question. "Your son, what was his name?"
HR looks down as he answers, "Neal. His name was Neal."
FIN
End Notes: Spoilery warning: Reference to death of adult child.
Did you catch the crossover hints? I'm not going to write it until we know for certain that HR isn't Savitar.
Feel free to follow me at my tumblr Obscene Circus Ponies, or on my old school (and much beloved) Dreamwidth account.
Author:
elrhiarhodan Fandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: PG
Characters: Barry Allen, Earth-19 Harrison Wells (HR Wells)
Pairings: Implied Barry Allen/Iris West (canon relationship), Implied (more than) Barry Allen/Harrison Wells | Eobard Thawne, Implied Unreciprocated Barry Allen/Earth-2 Harrison Wells
Word Count: ~3600
Spoilers: Episode Tag for S3.16 - Into the Speed Force
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Non-Canon Death of Non-Canon Character
Summary: Set immediately after the events of Into The Speed Force, Barry doesn't go to Cisco's, but decides to bunk down at S.T.A.R. Labs, where he has a strange and painful late-night conversation with the Labs' permanent resident, HR Wells.
Author’s Notes: I've had a very hard time getting a handle on HR Wells. He's annoying, but at the same time, intriguing. We have no real clue as to his motivations - unlike Harry or EoWells, and despite the massive amount of words that come out of his mouth, we still don't know why he's here. The scenes with Jesse have given me a hint, and this story explores certain ideas. Please pay attention to the tags for this one. If you need more detail, please see the end notes.
There is also the tiniest hint of a crossover. If you know about my other fandom interests, you'll pick up on it.
Barry tells Iris he would stay at Cisco's, but he doesn't.
He has his reasons.
Things are okay between them, Cisco's simmering anger and pain over Barry's terrible selfishness has mostly subsided, but Barry doesn't feel right imposing himself on his friend at this moment. He'd managed to rescue Wally, something he hadn't even tried with Dante, and while Barry's certain that Cisco wouldn't compare the two situations, Barry can't help but feel like he should. Barry's failed Cisco in so many ways; this is just one more nail in the coffin of their friendship.
As soon as Iris goes upstairs and shuts the bedroom door, Barry flees like a thief in the night and heads to S.T.A.R. Labs. It's only fitting that he seeks his exile there, where everything begins and ends.
The Cortex is empty, which doesn't surprise Barry, since it's well after midnight. Cisco's done a good job of automating things – and up until this latest disaster, Central City has had at least two speedsters to keep the criminals at bay Barry doesn't know how long Wally's going to be out of commission. He may have his speed, but his mind and his heart have taken a terrible beating and he'll need time to recover – if he can. Wally, the smart guy that he is, needs to focus on school and rebuilding his sense of self.
Barry sits at one of the consoles and checks the various law enforcement and news feeds that the system monitors. It's a quiet night in Central City. No fires, no robberies, no random assault reported; there's nothing that requires the Flash's hands-on attention. These quiet nights have become almost common – one of the benefits of having two – and for a brief while, three – speedsters watching out for the people of Central City. Barry has to wonder just how long it's going to take for the criminals to realize that both Kid Flash and Jesse Quick are out of the lineup.
He thinks about Cecile's daughter, who's such a Kid Flash partisan, and Wally's utter delight in being a celebrity, how he'd never hesitated to pose with people for selfies, or sign someone's poster or tee-shirt. He hopes that Wally will be that speedster again, not for the city's sake, but for his own.
With everything so quiet and peaceful, the ghost that inhabits the Cortex soon comes out to play. The low vibrations from the air filters transforms into the electric hum of Dr. Wells' wheelchair and Barry can hear the echoes of the man's voice as he encourages him, praises him, gives him the emotional foundation to run faster than he'd ever thought possible.
"Run, Barry. Run."
Those words are like a pulse beat in his soul, and even now – more than two years after his last battle with the man he'd called friend and mentor - Barry can't stop thinking of the man in the wheelchair, the fake paraplegic, Eobard Thawne, as his Doctor Wells. During that trip back to the early days of his time as the Flash, Barry might have called him "Thawne" and witnessed the man's visceral enjoyment of that name, but in his heart, Eobard Thawne would always be the man who'd murdered his mother – younger, angrier, crueler, more volatile, than the one to whom Barry had given his respect and a large part of his soul, but Dr. Wells would be his teacher, his friend, and a whole lot more.
Barry has to wonder, had Jay not intervened with the Speed Force avatar wearing Len Snart's face, if would he eventually would have faced Eobard-as-Wells. And for that, he's actually sorry that Jay had shown up and saved him. It's likely that Eobard-as-Wells might have given him a lecture and then almost beat him to death. Barry sighs at the lost opportunity to have had some time with his Dr. Wells.
He can almost hear the lecture, those stern tones excoriating him in one breath and encouraging him with the next. Barry misses that more than anything. And that's such a terrible betrayal – Eddie killed himself to save him from the Reverse-Flash, Ronnie sacrificed himself to keep the Singularity – which Barry had been so complicit in creating – from destroying the world. And now, for Barry to sit and mope about a mentor who'd never really existed, is as selfish an act as the creation of Flashpoint.
But nothing Barry does can banish Eobard-as-Wells' ghost from this place, it'll live here in the Cortex for as long as the Flash exists. And Barry plans to live for a long, long time.
But he doesn't have to sit here and let himself be haunted. He's tired and there are plenty of places in S.T.A.R. Labs where the ghost doesn't linger, where he can rest without the torment of those memories. He heads down to Level Nine, where Harry had resided for so many months, and had briefly taken up residency again on his last two visits. HR is also bunking on this floor – but on the opposite side of the ring.
That's perfect for Barry, since he's really not up to dealing with an overly voluble version of Harrison Wells tonight. At least HR is nothing like Eobard-as-Wells. Certainly, no one would ever apply the terms "suave, sophisticated, and seductive" to the Earth-19 version. Nor is there's the simmering snap-crackle-pop of the relationship Barry has with Harry, that tense admiration that always seems ready to spill over into something else.
Barry lets himself into the room that Harry and Jesse had used; Ironically, this is the same room that he'd stayed in for the six months after the Singularity, when his guilt drove him into exile here. The beds are made up and the room has long since lost its storeroom feel. He toes off his sneakers and collapses onto a bed. The pillows smell vaguely musky, so this must be the one that Harry uses. The scent is more disturbing than unpleasant so Barry swaps those pillows with the ones from Jesse's bed. Except that these carry a lingering feminine scent that makes Barry's nose itch – the aroma on the linens should be Iris', but it isn't.
Barry doesn't bother putting his shoes back on; he just pads barefoot through the corridor to a storeroom on the other side of the ring. He's just too tired to use his speed, and when he approaches HR's quarters, he sees that the door is open, so he's careful not to make any noise that might attract unwanted attention.
He makes it to the storeroom without a problem, grabs two clean pillow cases from the storeroom and heads back the way he came. This time, stealth doesn't seem to matter. HR is having a conversation with someone and it grabs Barry's attention in a way that HR's conversations rarely do.
"Hey, son. How are you settling in?"
Son?
"Doing fine, Dad. The dorms are okay, but it's Paris, and it's just I always dreamed it would be – better, even. It's so beautiful. There's so much art and life and culture here."
"You're having a good time, then?"
"Of course, Dad – it's Paris, after all. And you've told about all the best places to go - the museums and the galleries and the cathedrals."
"You know that it'll take you at least a year to see everything in the Louvre, so don't rush through it. And don't forget about the Orsay. And there are hundreds of smaller museums you need to see. And the windows at Saint-Chapelle… Don't forget to be careful when you go to Notre Dame, the beggars there are ferocious. And don't go off on your own in the Catacombs – you could get lost forever."
"Don't worry – you know that I'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the underground. "
"How could I forgot, you're just a little claustrophobic."
"Trust you to understate the obvious. Remember what it was like getting me to take the subway when we'd visited New York City?"
There a brief pause and then HR continues, "Don't spend all your time studying and going to museums. You need to live a little, too. Within reason."
"As if I'd forget about having fun! Matty and Kate have already found some great clubs to go to. Places where the art students hang out. I'll be fine."
As Barry listens, he realizes that HR's voice is oddly doubled, as if he's talking over someone else, and he sneaks a look inside. HR is sitting on his bed; a hologram of a young man is floating before him. The quality is good enough that Barry can see a resemblance between the two, although the man in the hologram is shockingly young and handsome.
Barry has to wonder about this interdimensional transmission. Admittedly, his knowledge of Earth-19 is extremely limited, but he does know that since dimension hopping is illegal there, technology that enabling interdimensional communications seems almost illogical.
Unless what Barry's watching is only a recording. HR's mouth isn't moving, but Barry can still hear his words. "You stay safe, my son. Don't go into any dark alleys looking for things you're better off not finding."
"Dad …"
"Don't 'dad' me, young man. You're my child, my whole world, and I don't know what will happen if I lose you."
"You're not going to lose me, but you've got to let me fly free at some point."
"I am. I'm here in Central City. You're in Paris, forging a brilliant new life. I just want you to be careful, okay?"
"I will, Dad. Promise."
"Love you, son."
"Love you, too. Talk to you next week."
The hologram holds up a hand and HR repeats the gesture. When their palms touch, the image flickers out.
As Barry watches, HR scrubs his face and stares at the wetness in his hand. He whispers, "Love you, son. Always."
Barry must have made a sound because HR suddenly looks up. The grief in the man's face is terrible and frightening, but it's quickly masked by a bright smile. Barry's a speedster, though, and he can see through the time dilation.
"Hey, BA! What are you doing here so late? Didn't think you'd be hanging around S.T.A.R. Labs at this hour – not that you shouldn't or couldn't. You're our captain after all, and you own the place. So you can be here anytime that you want."
Barry holds up a hand in an attempt to forestall HR's babble, and to his surprise, it works. HR clamps his mouth shut.
"Can I come in?"
The request seems to loosen HR's tongue again. He gets up and makes one of those distinctive, overblown gestures. "Of course, of course – my humble home is always open to visitors. Not that I get a lot of them, but everyone's always welcome. And please, please – sit down. Make yourself comfortable." HR pulls out the desk chair, brushes off some non-existent dust, and all but pushes it behind Barry's knees.
Barry sits and watches HR, who flutters around the room, a combination of his familiar, but bizarre behavior, and a distinctly unfamiliar nervous discomfort. Finally, HR stills under Barry's gaze. It's strange, but HR should be as familiar as Cisco or Caitlin – people he's all but lived with for the last three years. But as familiar as that face is – the dark hair, the bright, inquisitive eyes and the sharp mind behind them - Barry's absolutely convinced that HR is as much of a genius as Harry, or even Eobard-as-Wells, but simply along a different vector - it's also an unknown. But just as he'd learned that Harry Wells had been a completely different from the man he'd thought of as Harrison Wells, Barry's come to see that that HR is very much his own man, and he'd never mistake him for anyone other Wells in the multiverse. Maybe this was a chance to learn a little more about it. "You've been here for six months, but I feel like I know nothing about you."
HR demurs, "Oh, you know plenty. You know I'm outrageously handsome, smart as a whip, good in a crisis."
"HR – "
"You also know that I'm a writer of some renown and a businessman with questionable ethics. What more is there to me?"
"I think there's a lot more, a lot of things you don't want us to know. You're very good at hiding things."
HR laughs, all nerves and no humor. "Hiding, what would I be hiding?" He bites at his lips when Barry doesn't answer. "I guess you're curious about that little scene – the one that I was playing when you walked by."
Barry admits, "A little."
Of course, HR volunteers way too much information, and it's so obvious that none of it's the truth. "Well, it was just an adaptation of an early story I wrote – something that the money people had thought might make a good video adaption. So they did a screen test and it really didn't go anywhere, you see – in the end, it was too simple a story. Not enough drama, not enough action. Not enough – " HR wipes his mouth and shakes his head.
Barry knows what grief looks like, and he doesn't have to look in a mirror. He's seen it on Caitlin's face for almost as long as he's known her. He's grown accustomed to seeing it in Cisco's eyes. And a few short hours ago, he'd seen it in every fiber of Wally's being as he was trapped in the never-ending loop of his mother's death.
"Who is he?"
HR tries to smile and fails miserably. "Don't, Barry. Please."
That might be the first time that HR's used his name, not his initials, and it actually hurts, but he has to respect HR's privacy and he backs off. "Okay, but if you want to talk, I'll always listen."
HR nods, but won't meet Barry's eyes.
"I'll let you sleep, then."
HR doesn’t respond, so Barry gets up, but before he's out the door, HR whispers, "If you'd overheard the whole thing, I think you have to know who I was talking to."
"You called him 'son' and 'my child'."
That earns Barry another silent nod.
"You left him behind?" Back inside HR's room, Barry sits down again.
"I didn't have much of a choice."
"There are always choices."
HR lets out a breath. "In this case, there weren't."
Barry's afraid to ask, but he does anyway. "Why not?"
"My son is dead." The baldness of those simple words, the very un-HR-ness of them, is like a punch in the face. The wave of helpless grief that washes over Barry is sickeningly familiar. He wants to reach out and take hold of this pain and grind it to dust. What right does the universe have in constantly destroying all of the good people who wear this face?
"What happened?" Barry expects some long and terrible tale; that HR will do what he usually does, covering over his pain with the fantastical, with a million meaningless words.
But he doesn't. All he says is, "He just died."
HR is looking at his hands, they're shaking. After an achingly long pause, he continues "He'd gone to Paris to study for a semester, to walk in the footsteps of the giants. I was going to go with him, help him get settled in, but there was business to take care of, a book to promote. Any one of the million stupid, pointless things I needed to do at that very moment, so I let my son go off with his friends. Two days after that message – the one you overheard – his friends called me. They said my son was dead. That he'd gone to sleep and never woke up." HR's voice cracks. "My beautiful, beautiful boy – he was just gone. They doctors said that he'd had an aneurysm, that it could have been treated if they'd found it in time. "
Barry feels like he's suffocating with grief. This is not something he'd encountered. His parents had died violently. He'd lost Eddie and Ronnie to similar violence. Eobard had been wiped from existence. Iris had lost her mother to abandonment and then to a lingering, painful illness. The type of loss, this sudden and inexplicable death, is not something Barry has had any experience with. Perhaps if he'd actually been around when Dante had died, instead of fucking about with the timeline, he'd have a better handle on this.
"I'm sorry." Barry has come to hate those words, the stupid banality of them.
HR rocks back and forth, holding on to the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles are white. "I know you are. I know that you – of anyone here – understand loss."
Barry reaches out to hug HR, but HR shies away. That's not a surprise. Despite all the differences between the various versions of Harrison Wells, there is one thing that seems constant – casual physical contact with Barry Allen is something to be avoided.
"What can I do?"
HR gives him a sad smile. "Nothing. There's nothing anyone can do." The laugh that follows is bitter. "You've only recently learned the price of trying to fix things. I learned that lesson a long time ago."
"HR?" Barry's not sure what he's trying to tell him.
"A year after my son died, I approached the Accelerated Man. I offered him a fortune if he'd help me save my child. Travel back in time and take him to the doctor. He told me it was impossible. I asked why and he very generously agreed to show me. Let's just say I got a rather in-depth education on the nature of the speed force and how badly changing just one thing will completely mess up the future."
"That's why you know so much about the speed force."
"Yeah." The sound is soft and sad. "The price I paid for that knowledge; it's something no one should ever have to pay." HR doubles himself over, trying to hold back the grief.
Barry reaches out and rests a hand on HR's shoulder and leaves it there for a few heartbeats.
"It's why I came here, you know."
"What do you mean?"
HR sits up and Barry wants to look at anything but this man's face, the pain and loss are unbearable. "Randolph was tired of my grief and I can't blame him. My son was gone for more than a decade and I was still behaving like it had just happened yesterday. He needed me gone and I wanted to go. I knew that you'd all be young. You were looking for a mentor, someone to help you channel all of your intellectual and meta-genetic gifts. I thought that just maybe – maybe – I could watch over you, keep you safe. Make sure that you didn't fall into the pit and if you did, I could be around to toss you a rope and help you climb out." HR laughs and shakes his head. "What a bone-headed idea that was. I'm a moron and a fraud and an annoyance. A liability that provides occasional comic relief."
"You're none of those things – well, except for the fraud bit when you first arrived."
HR smiles and shakes his head. "You don't have to say that to make me feel better."
"I'm not. Who figured out that Grodd had mind-jacked a member of the military? Who helped Jesse figure up that Savitar was vulnerable? You trained Wally when no one wanted to consider that he could be a hero, too. Your thinking is unconventional and that has saved our lives." Barry keeps his hand on HR's shoulder for a moment longer, feeling the strength there, muscles bunched and twitching from this unexpected contact.
"I'm sure that your Hard-Hat Harry wouldn't have let things go down to the wire like I did."
"Don't compare yourself to Harry Wells – your genius is different. You are different."
HR shakes himself free of Barry's grasp. "That morning, when Jesse arrived and saw me, she called me 'Dad'. I thought my heart was going to explode. My son used to do that when he was little." HR pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes. "I'd go away for a few days and when I'd get home, he'd come running out of the house and into my arms." HR's voice cracks. "At that moment, Jesse looked just like my boy."
Barry feels his own tears fall. "I'm sorry."
HR tilts his chin up and wipes away the wetness on Barry's face. "It's not your fault."
Barry knows that, and yet his over-developed sense of responsibility takes hold. "I wish I knew about this. Maybe there's something I could have done."
"Barry, no. There's nothing you can or should do about changing the past. And as for Jesse mistaking me for her dad, well – it was a hurt I could bear a thousand times over." HR shoves his handkerchief back in his pocket. "I'm sorry you overheard that recording."
"I'm sorry I pried. It's something private and I interfered." Guilt is as familiar a feeling as grief these days.
"No, it's not that. You didn't pry. I just wanted to spare you my own pain. I look at you and see the living embodiment of hope. That's what I told Joe once, that your real superpower is hope. But the last few months, the world has done its best to beat that out of you. I shouldn't add to that. You've already lost so much; you don't need my grief, too."
"But isn't this what friends are for? To provide comfort, to share the pain?"
HR looks at him with terrible hope. "We're friends? Really?"
"Really." A ghost of a memory, of Dr. Wells calling him a friend, flicks a taunting finger at him. Barry banishes the memory, but he can still hear the ghost's laugher. "Are you going to be okay?"
HR nods and his mask falls back into place. "As good as new after a few hours sleep."
"I think we can both use that." Barry gets up and feels every bone in his body ache.
HR ask a question Barry doesn't want to answer. " Why are you here tonight?"
"I'll tell you in the morning, okay?"
HR seems to understand. "Yeah, okay."
Before Barry leaves, he asks HR one final question. "Your son, what was his name?"
HR looks down as he answers, "Neal. His name was Neal."
End Notes: Spoilery warning: Reference to death of adult child.
Did you catch the crossover hints? I'm not going to write it until we know for certain that HR isn't Savitar.
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