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Chapter Text

PREFACE

This wasn't exactly a formal occasion (still a Taco Bell despite Bruce's suit and Diana looking stunning as always, and the thing in Barry's hand dripping on his jackets' zippers and the table being his tenth chalupa), but Barry couldn't thank them enough. Every moment with them, individually, or as a group, has been so functional, secure. So drastic in terms of having not one but two people (often an entire team) looking out for him, able to actually understand him.

Diana grabbed a napkin and wiped Barry's face after agreeing with Bruce that it was "No problem, Barry. No problem at all.”

And Barry knew this wasn't a friend trap, or pity, or a plot to lure Barry in and take advantage of him or hurt him (or so he hopes, please don't give Barry a reason to be scared).

But the outing wasn't all about him. They did bring him out for food, but it was about time Barry came to his senses and realized that a pile of burrito wrappers, a Locos box full of napkins Diana was collecting, and even some cheese spatter on Bruce's tie (almost as bad as the stain from the Pepsi that Barry had spilled twice) was probably enough. Certainly enough. His guilty grin pulled away from the chalupa, not to give another order but to agree with Diana's implicating smile and fidgeting with her helix ring. "Yeah…This is... a lot."

"You're a big boy, Barry. Your powers and needs are not in your control." And she and Bruce looked at each other, with mutual relief. Bruce asked Barry. "You think you're full now?" 

Barry answered with a hiccup burp, then another, a burp too big to escape in one go. It took a jerk of his head to break up the acid reflux, then he was back to smiling, the biggest he'd smiled since Bruce had picked him up this morning. Being so reloaded, replenished, recharged. Or quite possibly it was simply Bruce's perspective years and years after that one day where Alfred had finally convinced Bruce to take Dick Grayson out, to have something that wasn't vengeance and suffering, and that same day (coincidentally or not) that Dick had begun coming to terms with the way things were bound to be. Bruce would never forget the sight of that boy showing quesadilla after quesadilla who's boss, having to tell him, "Hey, slow it down a little." to no avail as the boy fed months of hunger and hate.

Even as Barry stood up voluntarily ready to leave, Bruce knew better. Even seeing the ramen and soda stains from this morning on Barry's jacket when Barry stopped next to the table to let Diana wipe the chalupa and cheese off him, Bruce said, "Let's get something for the road.”

Barry's eyes went as big as his cheeks that monched the rest of the chalupa.

Barry's last meal before Hell – cinnamon twists.

Which, after only a minute of exiting Taco Bell and walking down the street, sounded too good. Barry was already fishing around for crumbs and it wouldn't take long for his standard of "crumb" to change: small chunks that wouldn't be missed, next half pieces, then normal pieces with slivers missing.

Bruce chuckled, at the second bag he had folded up in his pocket. 

Since the three hadn't had much time to talk about non-fight team stuff, Diana started as they turned a corner towards some back roads and took a stroll to "find" Bruce's car. 

"So Prince, how's the training with Dr Singh?"

"A bit slower than I'd hoped, "though that's more of a Barry thing, "but after the break they're bringing in new interns, and maybe I'll be promoted.”

Which put a smirk on Bruce. Barry wouldn't get promoted on his own accord or even last the first month, but Bruce had him covered and he would never know what was behind the scenes. He and Diana shared a smile as Barry went on tangent ......How the department is trying to investigate the string of what they can't describe fires or explosions, straight up zapping. The first case had been a BooM and a smoking pit in the ground upon a witness going to check it out. Second case, a pit stumbled upon by a group of hikers out past the train tracks, with no residue to indicate a wildfire and it would had to have been some Maniac of an arsonist to combust crop circles with no gasoline, and patches of dirt rummage without the leaves and grass burnt to crisp. It had to have been a whole group, in order to evacuate an entire downtown, leaving the people so hysterical that they could barely speak properly about the blue swirling that zipped down then back to the heavens... and only three minutes later, leave a truck driver in the highway with his headlights smashed into a pole to avoid a strike of what he could only describe as a tube of electricity that shot down.... And Barry swore at himself for having missed it, despite just stopping by a moment before to check the highway —-he would've seen this monster of a strike, right? He’'d eventually have to figure it out, Singh's crew wasn't about to heil the news with an unresolved NEW ALIEN INVASION— one in 2013 was already plenty, and that theatrics event with the Batman team was ought to stay gossip. 

However, instead of telling the story in a way that would concern Bruce and Diana, Barry broke into hand gestures that send his crumbs flying and goofy sound effects, rendition of what he imagines the BOOM would be up close and a version he had heard luminate through the cities between his dramatic vague story-not-telling that echoed through the backroads.

As they approached Bruce's car, Bruce went ahead of them to unlock it, get the doors open, and get himself in. Diana made the mistake of leaving Barry behind, for only a second.

Barry was filled with this overwhelming urge, a pulsing almost, to zoom over to the Central City observatory. To stand dumbfounded, with a sea of lightning showing him each tiny detail, every frame of reality, as he waited for a crime or an accident to show itself. This time, instead of watching the scene and waiting for an opening, he flicked his head around, desperate for someone to pop out, some type of explosion to begin taking off, or any indicator of anything to explain why he was here.

Speak of the devil. There it was, he looked up into the boom tube as it came down for him and the void sucked him in.

Kent Apartment, present day

A slam resonates through the apartment. Barry sinks into the couch and starts flicking his eyes between Lois, who's seated next to him calm and collected, and Clark at the stove, calm and collected. 

Barry pulls his gray jacket tighter to let his red and black jacket flare up and aim attention away from his pale face and greasy hair. His fingers start fidgeting with the tassels of the blanket Martha had crocheted for him - well, his favorite one of the ones she made him, with the puffy red hearts.

Lois notices. He stops.

She grabs his hand and squeezes. Things will be okay. She likes to say that a lot and Barry wants to believe her. It makes her happy when he pretends to believe her. Or, she's just pretending to be happy. Barry has never made anybody happy. He's only here so Martha can work even if part time and have the house to herself for a few days, to do what Martha wants to do instead of what Barry wants to do.

Lois slowly lets go. "I'll get the door."

Barry pulls a cheeky smile and nods. He can't stop Lois. He's pretty sure he can trust her, even with the ups and downs he's had with Clark. No, he could definitely trust The Superman that once came flying in to save him, so he can absolutely trust Lois, who's just like Martha who's been the first person to show him that being placed in legal custody doesn't have to be a disaster. At least for him.

It's just that… could he trust the door to be opened by her?

She smiles at Barry and says, "It's Bruce with your things." 

Oh yeah, he remembers. Bruce was supposed to come before 5, but Barry understands. Time is hard... Time is very difficult. Today the sunset had seemed to drag on and on, so did the hour after sunset… but it doesn't make any sense, Clark usually starts cooking when the sun is almost down, and if it's Lois then she usually has to start at sunset, so they can eat after the 7:00 news or Lois' show, but right now Clark is nowhere near done, and Barry's pretty sure they aren't currently watching anything today, at least until Lois places the remote in his hand and says, "It sounds like it's all the same stuff I've seen at work today. We could keep watching or you can pick something."

Pick something. It's one of those universal remotes. A button for everything, no more menus, no more clicky click clicky click. Each button is labeled over with yard sale tape to make it easier for Barry to read. Which was Diana's idea, ironic because he's not allowed to watch TV by himself at her place though she still gave 100% support to Lois.

 That being said, what is there to pick from? What's even on TV anymore, after how long? Last he knew adult swim was on 205, now it's cooking. The history channel is now something, in his tunnel vision it appears to be an infomercial. A presentation on something about a stick, something on a stick doing stick things.

Lois opens the door. Clark joins her, just in case.

Both Bruce and Diana ignore Lois' puffy eyes and flat hair. The fact that the tire bug is getting to Clark too is a sign that they're only doing their best.

Clark says, "A little late, wouldn't you say?"

"Got caught up." 

"Staying for dinner? There's plenty."

"Just delivery." Bruce presents a closed paper bag. It's the stuff for Barry's feeding tube and some more Ensure, since Barry's been finally making progress. He has already gotten through a week of tube food on top of home cooked meals on behalf of Martha and Clark and Lois's ability to pack a mean lunch bag to keep him calm in her cubicle. Out of the bag comes a bowl of renowned soup and some tea made by Diana and Alfred. And then the worst part, a bottle of white pills, which Bruce had prepared for with a special cup.

Bruce leans down on the arm of the couch to get to Barry's level. Barry shrinks as he's closed in. There have always been times where Bruce closes in on him when he's had a nightmare or Bruce has something important to say, and Barry really needs that, but, in the clutches of Darkseid, Barry has recently been aggressively surrounded and not so ideal ways have been used to get information. Barry understands that the latter is not how things are supposed work, however such a long period of his life has made torture natural.

Bruce keeps his voice flat so that Barry doesn't go into a panic. "Have you had any dreams since the last time I came? Anything new that you remember?"

Barry looks to his lap.

Oh, he remembers each moment, no doubt. The dimension was packed cold, like slates, frames of a dream. He wishes this was all a dream, or that a majority of it would begin to wash away like one… but how could he think that? Bruce needs him.

"Barry."

Bruce asked him a question. Pay attention, Barry.

Something tells Barry to lie. He knows he shouldn't, and maybe Bruce is just trying to help but even so there's only so much Bruce can do against a galactic overlord that they can't even locate. Barry can't even say where Darkseid had him last or where He was supposed to be going, because the most he could do is describe it a little bit in the stupid way that he does, leave everybody at a dead end... or let Bruce do what Bruce does, leap into danger... and put Granny Goodness into the danger she'd only been trying to help Barry get through. "I... Remember quite a bit. But it's rough... I mean, in my brain, it's fuzzy." It's just easier to not have lived it, but that's not something he can say.

It takes a little bit of coaxing from Diana. She partially kneels and grabs his hand. Her smile makes his mouth glitch back to smiling. "Barry, You can tell us anything you need to. I know you, I've known you for a long time, and we don't have to look deep down to see your strength. You need to empower us and help us be stronger, and we can fight for the sinister things He has done to you. Anyone to put you through this does not deserve to be spared."

Chapter Text

There is an update coming.This

is a notice that this story is being picked back up and it will be continued in 2023. I apologize for all the waiting, I did not expect the story to blow up and I very much appreciate all of the support and all of the waiting.

Chapter Text

With Darkseid

Barry has never been in a situation like this before. Heck, the past, what, 3 weeks since the whole fight team apocalypse thing had been blue skies, dry shoes, minimal zip zoom zip and maximum Margaret Atwood. And bonus, surviving on the dumpster full of crushed goods as a culmination of the disaster that society was slowly coming out of. Barry could take that as a reward with no hard feelings.

No hard feelings about anything. (Barry has been working on the whole feelings thing, chiefly the thing about him being a burden to everybody. Thanks to Bruce having brought Barry closer to completing the skill goals that he'd been assigned in therapy at the age of nine, he's gotten much better at saying what needs to be said; the part where he keeps his mouth shut is quite difficult though.)

To be prodded with a staff towards this interdimensional being was ethereal, if Barry had to use words. And just as surreal, the hellscape of fumes swelling in his throat, crushing his lungs. This lair, a maz e with the only hope being the glare of flaming debris and ruby skies. Darkseid, if he recalled correctly, perched on his throne. Barry Allen, a human who, even if not fumbling from the sudden draft, was less than presentable with greasy clumps of hair that he had cut himself with electrical scissors, ramen and Dr Pepper stains that managed to seep through both his jackets, and a voice that cracked, "Hello, Sir." 

Barry was now like a child about to meet a towering Santa, with the similar expectation where Barry had to pretend to be modest and grateful rather than about to piss his pants.

Barry's height was just as good as his small frame. Amongst other things that would slow him down. Which Arthur usually laughs at, unless Barry just overthinks it and Arthur's just laughing at Bruce's frustration with the whole thing. But Arthur has gotten better over time, like, for example, no longer mocking Barry for having to hold his fingers in an L to tell his left and right, or to at least be sure. Which, as it turns out, a majority of people actually don't do.

A woman's gravely voice came from behind Barry. "To your left."

Barry stumbled. Would he be allowed a grace period to hold his fingers up like an L? Err, Barry had to guess no. He would have to glance to one side, where an empty foundation was waiting for him, and then to his right, where Darkseid was backed up by parademons, or what was left of them after the fight team massacre.

Left it was.

Darkseid was turned his way. His eyes were already piercing, a lava red compared to DeSaad's eyes that rotted like his snarling teeth. And no less demanding was the grimace of Granny Goodness towering from behind Barry. "The Great One will speak to you now."

Bowing or kneeling without stumbling isn't exactly Barry's expertise. Before he could even attempt, Darkseid came forward with his chin on his fist, and Barry nearly fell back.

"Is it true you were present at the interference of the unity?" 

Barry stammered, "Well to be fair…" At the initial attempt of separation? No. Non. Nej. Нет. Nein. Όχι. 

Technically not fair and maybe a little bit of lying, technically actually a lot of lying here because both Barry and Darkseid were highly aware that had happened, with Barry manipulating time and calling the shots. But, as bad as Barry is at lying, it was a shot at improving the situation that obviously wasn't going to get better. To buy time until someone could come to save him. 

No, what was Barry kidding, to think that somebody was going to come find him the same way that the flashy blue boom tube had plucked him from that park with Diana and Bruce just around the corner. But worth a shot, right? With how bad Barry is at lying, then, well, that would be substandard of Darkseid if he were to believe it. His fault, not Barry's.

"I wasn't there. At the moment of the initial attempt at separation? Me? No. That was…"

"You are responsible for the failure of the unity."

Well, no again. Not quite. Close, but not quite. See, Barry did do all the time travel stuff, as said before, but in the grand scheme, he was merely a liability. No, not a liability – what's a less dangerous way to put it? He jumps towards Victor, Superman swoops in, Victor and Superman pull, and voila, world saved.

"It was-" 

But wait, he couldn't rat Victor out. And he couldn't have Superman killed again or have the entire league killed in the hunt for Superman. Not to mention that whole nightmare thing Bruce had, which Barry had believed and continued to believe.

Granny Goodness' staff was like a spear on Barry's back. He winced. "Not quite, Sir… But quite." 

To both Barry's relief and vice, Darkseid would cut right to the chase. The relief: "Enough illustration." The vice: The how, the why. 

(This is a part of the Darkseid torture stuff that Barry cannot remember. Things begin to fuzz, and admittedly it's not because of his memory - because everyone knows as well as he does that his memory is only a blink away, But because, he "can't" as in he doesn't want to. Is that okay? 

Clark and Lois -and Martha- are all fine with this, in their own ways, for their own intents and purposes. Most of the time Diana can follow the mantra of "Give it time." yet Barry knows that Diana knows when it does and does not apply, and although it doesn't exactly apply here, Diana has let it slide…until now. Now, there was nothing Bruce could do for the "freak accidents'' that coincidentally happened throughout the industrial district of New Gotham. Now, what was once the Stryker port project, abandoned in smoke and char, has met the rest of its demise as Gotham harbor is flushed by glowing brimstone. Up north, down south, sleeping into the West River. What's next, Hobs Bay? Chinatown, and inevitably the big Metropolis area with Heroes Park, Daily Planet? Barry can go on. Any answers, or even clues as to how this has happened, what can they do and what can they expect, are a hard confession for Barry to face and are probably next to pointless. Is pointless suffering and pointless concern for them, and an undeserved survival for Barry, along with the false hope that he can help. It may not make sense to those in the room, or even the God that he's been conditioned to lean towards the side of belief in by his parents and now Martha, but it makes sense to him. He shouldn't let Bruce and Diana press the answers out, but on they go and on he goes.)

Barry was prodded by Granny Goodness again. Darkseid had posed a question, and Darkseid waits for nobody.

"You manipulate time and space. Is this correct?"

Barry threw his hands up in a surrender, rather a half surrender, just to let Granny Goodness know that he needed a little bit of time to get his head straight. And she obliged, the staff was resting between his shoulder blades, but slowly digging in as a reminder. How could Barry put this? No way could he make himself out to be weaker than he really was, undermine how useful he could be to Darkseid and how much force Darkseid could rationalize if Barry were to fight back. Play possum? No. Play dumb? Play dumber than he already was? Yeah sure, make things more difficult for Darkseid and get fried to a crisp, great idea, let's not do that again at 1,000% power.

The staff was no longer rested, now digging……ouch, the digging. 

"I would say that's correct. That's more of a simplification." Then he gasped and threw his hands out. " Okay, no, please don't take that the wrong way, I wasn't presuming you stupid, that's not what I was implying."

The gravelly voice behind him reminded him, "Enough. After answering, you will speak when you're spoken to."

The demon attending Darkseid's throne, DeSaad, ordered on behalf of Darkseid whose eyes we're rolling with a red charge, "The great one knows all. If you seek mercy-" 

Join us? Surrender to us? Barry cut him off. "I'm not…" It took a few seconds of waving his finger in the air to process and verify that, No, this was not right. Never be on the same terms with the enemy. "No." Goosebumps swarmed his arms and back as quickly as more bug demons surrounded him. His fumbling feet took him further back. His nervous laugh gave his fingers a sense of warmth. "No can do."

Maybe the first step here would have been to, HMM, not piss off the bad guy? The worst bad guy ever, to make matters worse. In retrospect, maybe Barry could have done something to calm him down and give him more respect, like what he's been working on with Bruce. In retrospect, as his jacket sleeve rubs against the spot where Darkseid had first zapped him, maybe Barry could have made a deal with Darkseid like the cenobites from the hellraiser franchise.

To be fair, Darkseid had actually made a deal with him and overall Barry had agreed to it, albeit the deal not being as expected.

Diana interjects. "Barry, this is no fault of yours. Darkseid is beyond God," while, here, at least for Diana and the wisdom and brutal length that comes with Bruce's life, Barry is just a boy. A shaking, stammering boy who has lost his quips, his sense, his innocence; all stolen. The blame falls on the adults of the situation, particularly Diana for initially allowing him to wander off during that one day out, having known full well from Bruce that Barry has a tendency to do that. And what was no help was spending an entire three hours grieving alongside Bruce, chasing the wrong solutions that should have been obvious at the time – hearing the boom then proceeding to blow two hours searching the parks and shops for a kid who hadn't even been in the same universe and had instead been a victim of high stakes, a victim of a one-sided choice. 

The destruction that another living being was willing to place on such an innocent, and for what? Barry is a good boy, he does what he's asked even if unconventional, and if he doesn't then you can just forget about it. And the same principle if answers or information is needed, in a typical situation unlike now, Barry respects feelings and the needs of others, but he has feelings too, so if some probing doesn't work then forget about it. There was nothing for Barry to give and Darkseid destroyed the wrong person.

And although this Darkseid shaming, blame shifting has Barry able to breathe again, it's not completely convincing for anyone.

Clark breaks the tension. He comes up to the couch, one hand squeezing the corduroy and the other on Barry's shoulder. A part of pretending to not have heard the conversation is asking, "How are you, Barry? If you and Diana need more time, consider it granted." He asks Diana once again if she would like to stay for dinner, which is finished as the kitchenette emanates Kent spaghetti, fluffy milk bread, and a shredded Caesar salad.

Bruce takes this as a hint that it's time to leave though empty handed. His hands go into his pockets. He gives Diana eyes.

She looks back at him. Definitely not enough information to leave with.

Bruce smirks. Could have been better.

But they won't interrupt dinner. It's not enough information to do anything with however credit is due to Barry for opening up, and hopefully it's enough for him to feel better, because that's what really matters.

As Bruce is ready to leave, he hones in on his earpiece and asks Alfred if he's caught everything.

Indeed.

Barry squeaks. Well…everything? No. Everything? Absolutely not. Everything that he withholds, every little shred that they don't know is piling up and this pile is certainly bigger than what they do know. And that's rude, Barry. That's horrible, Barry.

He starts frantically trying to correct himself, but it only comes out as word soup. Clark steps in to help the two get their things together, which includes a folder with a copy of his and Lois's work schedules, Barry's eating schedule and other information from so far this week, some information from Martha as well as updated phone number, because Clark is old fashioned like that.

Bruce and Diana

The glare of the Batcomputer takes on Bruce while the stack of papers have Diana. Bruce could investigate this in his own old-fashioned way, but, admittedly, It's nice having Diana around. Aside from being better at the crucial parts of this investigation, whether it's the fine art of tying Barry into conversations that would otherwise make him collapse or the ultra fine art of being able to decipher conclusions from word choice or even a little pen stroke, there is the company. And not that type of company where Bruce wakes up and has to pretend dumb to the name of the woman next to him, in the chance where he actually does remember. 

Alfred's at the workbench, and, albeit wearing a cocky grin and glancing at him and Diana at every drop of a tool, he has yet in the past week or two to hoover and nag. And the same for Bruce, 10 consecutive days of not fighting with Alfred, followed by the shame of finding Alfred to be right in the worst way possible. 

This time, what Alfred's right about is the thing that can set Bruce free: the flutter that Bruce gets when he and Diana, once again, clash hands together reaching for the mouse at the same time, this flush of relief he gets when Diana breaks the silence and finds words for his anxiety, and especially that sliver of comfort when her hand is warm on his back.

Bruce's voice goes deep. "What's the news?"

Diana goes on to explain the expected, Barry's not eating and then he's eating too much. Barry's experiencing tremors. Barry, during a conversation, will suddenly forget what he's about to say or begin to skip over his words, in a way that's not Barry typical. Barry lost his focus the other day on a trip with Martha to a new downtown shop and tripped over Dusty's leash, which in itself isn't that concerning, however this time rather than having let his curiosity and clumsiness get the best of him, he, as Martha states: seemed to have lost connection with the world, the world was too big in his empty eyes as if he were unconscious but still standing.

And Diana pauses. As someone who has become like a mother to Barry, to hear from somebody who is also picking up the same role that Barry is becoming more and more lost despite being home safe is…another level of despair.

And especially for a father, Bruce, who has failed too many times. Before Diana can get out another word that Bruce will regret hearing, Bruce dodges with, "Where's that lasso of yours?" Diana would have used it by now if unnecessary pain followed by brainwashing wasn't so unethical, but it's tempting to make Barry sting for a few minutes, or even a tiny spot sting if all it takes is contact. 

Quite tempting after Diana's unsuccessful attempts at coaxing, not limited to buying him games and letting him play them while she worked instead of watching the news, allowing him to consume media that's not exactly appropriate for him anymore - letting him choose books without intervening or turning the television to the alien show despite the fact that he supposed to be sleeping, to name examples - and scheduling You, Me, and Tea time. 

Diana, not exactly looking forward to addressing a failure, says that she believes there is another factor to this. And it's true, she does. Beyond heinous, merciless, malicious at best.

Barry 

Barry, none of the wiser. Sure, he does think there's something wrong with him, yeah, but knows it's just him being his spaz head self. The spaz who started out the meal by holding his fork semi properly, and now has to resort to shoving a shaky pile of noodles into his mouth. On his chin, down his jackets and shirt, slowly sweeping through the fallen napkin bib onto the balled blanket.

But don't be ridiculous. With Clark on one side of the table and Lois on the other, and an entire library of books to his back, Barry is good, he is safe.

Everybody here, safe. Good. Something Barry is still, in general, getting used to, and particularly in need of after recent events. Something that still makes Lois blush, when Clark asks, "Sure you're alright?" After yet another argument, or rather one-sided dispute, between Lois and Perry that Clark had overheard all the way from his office. This time, about the kid that they keep bringing into work who doesn't know what a trash can is, nor a shower, can't keep his hands to himself, amongst the many things that Lois fails to manage more and more as time goes on and the morning sickness comes on stronger.

Barry stares at Lois and stops chewing. Oh yeah, that argument she had with her boss. For the second time that week. Presumably about him, absolutely about him, the behavior and the general unwantedness. This flu or whatever that he's been transmitting to Lois that would only reach everyone in a matter of time…yeah, Barry's immune system and/or life choices hasn't proven the greatest over the years (SARS, chicken pox, shingles, mumps, norovirus, bird flu from the source, pneumonia a few times, regular hay fever, flu A and B, bronchitis, streptococcal pharyngitis, mononucleosis, conjunctivitis–) and… yeah, sorry Mr and Mrs Kent.

Clark, as he and Lois both rub each of Barry's shoulders, asks, "Are you good, Bar?"

Lois gives a smile and grabs a napkin to pat Barry's full cheeks, as a little smile breaks on him.

"You're doing a good job. We're happy and everybody else is going to be happy." Happy in particular about one of his first steps in recovery, possibly leading to no longer having to bribe and press for him to eat in order to prevent another day of feeding tube and mush. "You should be proud. Are you proud?" Next, with his help, wipe down his shirt. "This will be good for now. If you're ready for a shower tomorrow I'll have your other watchmen shirt and your Rick and Morty shirts ready and we can wash what you have now. Clark has a jacket you can wear. Flannel, just like this one and it's very warm."

"You're welcome to anything you'd like, Bar." 

Barry's shaking hands burrowed between his knees. Despite the overwhelming need to begin stimming, his smile got bigger.

His attention snapped to his plate, as Lois clanged his fork around scooping him up another bite. He takes the cue to open up.

As his brain goes numb, Barry won't remember the rest of the night. 

As he sinks into some of the comfiest pillows he's had since, well, forever ago, this entire day is far beyond him. Most flashes of this morning could go on until 11:00 p.m. without being of the essence…frames that don't even feel real… of today's crack of dawn hitting this same bed, piled with more pillows where Lois packed his Joey bag up… scenes of Lois's desk, where papers and utensils are being moved around against the rhythm of her phone call voice, which keeps getting interjected by her mom voice, "Barry, you can't touch that." "Barry, please put that back."

 And well past midnight? Trying to figure out what the hell happened after doing some office errands for Clark, when Clark took him to the break room to wash up for lunch…or where the time went upon coming home, scrapbooking with Clark, hearing cool stories accompanied by rocks and other artifacts, and then…suddenly being on the couch and getting interrupted by Bruce and Diana at the door. Well, correction, not interrupted, but, yeah, no.

Now? Trying to make out anything said from outside of his storage room-turned-bedroom door. Lois moves back and forth in the little hallway, tending to the hampers, the pumping washer, tumbling dryer, and a load of clothes that needs to go in the dresser. Clark comes in, and a Clark-but-at-the-same-time-not-Clark voice asks if Lois needs help, or something along those lines, Barry isn't even sure because it's just so muffled. And not muffled as in suppressed by the boxes, board games, books and other clutter lining the brick and plaster around him. These sounds that translate to nothing, and in no way similar to the effects of, unfortunately often, not paying attention, or, fortunately decreasing, odds of being not fluent, or, highly fortunately but possibly not permanently lacking, seizure. The only thing to hold on to is his name. And not a bad mention on his name exactly, no, but it is obvious when something is wrong. 

Chapter Text

Martha

Mrs. Martha Kent takes a moment after the busy morning to rest on the couch, when the ringing in her ears is outdone by her telephone. As the call comes in, the cracks on the phone from Barry having dropped it on the oak floor click and clack against each other. It sends Dusty into a spiral of barking–and from where the dog got all this energy from after an hour of throwing a tantrum upon seeing Martha get ready for work, Martha has no clue.

Her instinct now when she picks up the phone is that it must be Clark, ready to open up with a string of apologies for having to call her and bother her.

And, when she picks up the phone, the soft voice on the other end does just that. "I'm sorry..."

Her head shakes and her voice is firm. "No, no. Don't be sorry. What's going on?" Then she fully wakes up to realize it was Barry's voice, and it's Barry's partial stammering and mouth sounds.

She pushes the phone into her ear as if it brings her closer to him, and all the happenings out there.

Her voice is tempted to go firm, but she holds back because inconsistency, quite frankly, makes it a hard time for Barry and everybody else. "You don't be sorry for anything. Okay? No being sorry."

And for once, somehow, it works. He is reduced to just the mouth sounds and breathing.

"Hi, honey. Did you just wake up?"

It's 6:43 in the morning. She can hear him rubbing his legs and feet together, he has shoes and a jacket.

The silence leads her to assume, "Do you want to talk?" The clarity in these stammers and sounds signifies no Lois coaxing Barry into talking, no Clark guiding him through the conversation. It's odd for Barry to be doing this on his own. "Are they getting ready for work?"

"No. Um, Martha- they're gone..."

 She has to avoid any other assumption, as concerned as she is and as scared as he sounds, because for all she knows they just don't have to work today and they have faces in their pillows, leaving Barry all alone, scared. And to be fair, this has happened a few times. "Barry, I need to let you go for a minute now so I can make a call to my boss, and then we can call back, okay?"

And this tells something in Barry's brain to start unloading, despite suddenly bursting into tears and barely being able to speak from heaving, because this can't wait. "They're gone. They're gone. They're not in bed, they're not outside, I didn't hear them leave, I looked out the window, I didn't want to leave because I'm not allowed, you know. I tried calling Diana-"

"You can't find them? And they're nowhere in the apartment? And you called Diana, and Bruce?"

He confirmed. Before he can get worked up again, she says, "Barry. Barry, listen. I need you to do something for me."

"Yes?" is consumed by a rumbling, warping, beaming, and the rush of what sounds like smoking, crisping lava. Barry can barely get a scream out as–

The entire farmhouse is shot over in what appears to be a violet, a blue she has never seen even in her wildest imagination. The clouds outside the windows roll a deep red, the lightning is sharp, bright like bullets to her face, the heat pierces, and only God knows what has Barry down on the other end.

Martha jolts awake. She grabs her chest, and pushes out a few wheezing breaths, but calms down a little as the farmhouse materializes around her, complete with more silence than she's had all week.

It was too real. The only thing to prove that she simply dozed off in her work clothes rather than the idea that she somehow passed out is the time on the clock, being one moment before Barry called.

The minute strikes. So does the phone. She can already hear the possible outcome of Barry crying, her convincing him everything was going to be okay, and being terribly wrong, if not this same gosh darn conversation. But no, she needs to compose herself. It's most likely, more rationally, a phone call from Clark just like any other day, and if she's wrong about that, she will handle it differently.

"Honey, what's going on?"

This takes Clark by surprise with a stunned silence. It's unusual, but perhaps she it's just missing them a little too much.

She grabs her heart and sighs in relief upon hearing, "Everything's fine, Ma." He'll go on to explain that he's at his desk, going through things. Barry is about to have breakfast, some ramen in agreement that the adults don't take turns trying to force that tube down, as Clark and Lois aren't very hungry this morning, instead they're going to set up a TV in Barry's room since they don't have to go to work today, they actually have the rest of the week out and Barry is going to be stuck at home bored.

This parallel, knowing that Clark and especially Lois wouldn't be caught dead taking a day off of one job or another, has Martha clenching the phone.

And of course, they're waiting to see what Diana wants to do about the TV. What her opinion is on the 300 channels and box of assorted DVDs, but she has yet to answer the phone…

Another parallel. The phone clicks as Martha shakes, and it's all to her imagination how things are up to go now.

And it's nice for him and Lois and Barry to have today off because The weather outside is rather questionable, The tint of the sky, some clouds beginning to pour in.

That's it, Martha wants to crack… She knows the glare in the windows and the pink cast is only the sun blazing up like any other day, but she also knows that Bruce Wayne has also had trouble of his own with premonitions and dreams, and she's no stranger to tragedies that she could have spoken up to prevent.

"Well Ma, besides for the good morning, I must admit I called needing a favor. I wouldn't want to bother you after work tonight."

If Clark was calling asking for favors, it's not the right time to concern him. It's a relief when Clark says, "Lois and I need to get some errands in, Bruce needs to speak to you and Barry is kinda missing you. When would be a good time?"

"The moment he's available, they can get on the plane and head my way. And I hope I get to see you soon? If you need anything at all…"

Barry

Such as needing Barry to go somewhere else? Great.

Barry's around the corner, watching Clark, initially was waiting for Clark to get off the phone to tell him about how he's just clogged the toilet with his barf, but now cowering and playing with both zippers on his jackets and trying to figure out what's going on this time. From the sound of it, it's yet another conversation about Barry. Who's taking Barry this time, who's dealing with Barry, who is next in the circle to unclog the barf toilet, clean the barf from the carpet while vehemently denying his help, or wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of the retching, and this is only the first task of the day if not calming Barry down after the nightmares – and it won't be Clark and Lois' problem again tomorrow because Clark has just called to get Barry moved again.

Just another cycle of taking away Martha's life, probably because she feels bad, and then crawling back because Clark feels bad, repeat, repeat because Barry can't keep his shit together.

And they're still doing things for him? He woke up with the TV in his room, and laundry including his favorite shirt smelling better than it ever has, in place of the pile of junk (which Lois organized with no problems, not even a word). If that isn't enough, he'd tripped over that box of things they had found for him via going out of their way, and Barry pays them back with the resulting twisted ankle which had been the second reason to come to Clark, another thing that Clark would address and fix. And for what?

Clark is used to Barry making a ruckus but he's come to find the difference, Barry limping, Barry looking around as if he didn't need anything as he considered changing his mind and walking away.

"Ma, I need to let you go. Have a good day at work."

Barry now realizes how important the conversation must have been and he could only imagine what Clark has to give up and how seriously he's taken Barry's minor problem, to let his mother go like that and just hang up.

"Barry, come here."

He mumbles what Clark hears almost perfectly, "It's okay. I'm going back to my room."

"You needed something. What's wrong?"

Now Barry explodes loud enough for Lois to hear. "You got this stranger in your house, barfing on everything, eating all your food, breaking everything." Before Clark can fully interject with, "Barry, you're not a stranger, you're family." Barry's voice is louder and faster. "I'm not your friend. I can't be on the fight team. I betrayed you. I made this mess."

Lois hurries in, still drying her hands from kitchen work. On her way over, in one hand is a special cup with a pill hidden in the compartment, and with the other hand she starts to pull up chairs as a way to corner Barry into a conversation. "Barry, talk to us."

Clark's smile is a bit sympathetic but very genuine. "If you tell us about it, we will probably forgive you."

And for Clark, probably always means yes. As for both of them, Barry is sure they can handle the information well if it's necessary enough for anybody to know – of course they would, it's their job, they've probably heard worse, right? 

He breaks the attempt at eye contact and his eyes are guilty towards the hot cocoa-Ensure mix that's so soothing in his hands, so satisfying with the marshmallows and candies bouncing around in it. Next his eyes go to his bedroom door, the ripped box and cords and DVDs strewn across the room, out the door. But Lois is calm and collected. "We'll clean that up later." They'll take care of everything later. Yes, everything, she made her own mess in the bowl she keeps next to the bed for morning sickness, she even has the same sweat broken out across her forehead that Barry does.

Everything's a mess. And it's not just Barry. This whole situation. They're just doing their best when there's nothing to work with.

And with that, Barry is a little comfortable with giving them something. Hey, they asked for it.

With Darkseid

He will never forget, Darkseid's voice beaming:

"I could have you returned to your world. What leads you to believe you have a place and the purpose?"

Barry stammered, "Not intending to argue but-" he had a place. He had a purpose. It may have taken him about two decades to…still not having not figured it out, but he was loved, or at least something he could call love. This special fight team. All that cool training with Bruce, those times Diana offered a place to live and even cared for him when he was sick, when Arthur, the most macho man's man had actually asked Barry if he was alright after catching him crying instead of laughing at him or even pounding his face in, that sick day when Victor came out of hiding and tracked him down to play fallout. Even if it was all forced and all an act, it was a pretty good one and they at least cared enough for safety more than anybody has since losing his mom. And despite how many times he's messed up, he's still proved to be a useful asset for this fight team, and that was good enough for him.

"They're coming for me, you know?" and then Darkseid will be sorry. Right? Actually, no.

Barry knew that he was only arguing with himself. Arguing with reality. Darkseid proved it with, "Look around you."

Barry followed orders. Cautiously but obediently turned around, to find himself surrounded by a growing army, and a confident one, with no glare of a lantern, no swoop of a Kryptonian, no thrash-thwash of an Amazon. Surely he would have noticed a buzzing Nokia from Bruce, the freaking BATMAN, tracking him down with the help of Victor using his literal psycho machine powers.

DeSaad revealed, "In your world, Earth, you were one in billions. Your absence will be unknown."

"Well," Barry fumbled, like a lost child, and exactly just as small under the eyes of this army. Surely Bruce and Diana don't think that Barry would just abandon them, go home and be a hermit, even though that is exactly what Barry would do in a different situation.

"Are you certain?"

A voice behind Barry, surrounding him with the shaking of the hellscape, insisted, you belong to us, expect to forget your life on Earth. For the time you continue to waste in the effort to be of value and not a burden, perhaps it's for the best.

That's when he broke down. "Please. Please." He didn't even know what he was begging for exactly — A chance to get out of here? Hope that the reality would change and somehow Darkseid with his godly powers would snap his fingers and Barry would be at home, and this would be a warning of some kind, or premonition? The hope that someone would blast through the hellscape, or sweep him up, or… Would Darkseid at least be a little nice until then? And not play mind games. Barry would rather not spiral back into that mode he had been in at 19, that manic depression and uncertainty and delirium upon receiving the mock award for "most insufferable student" (by the computer nerds that he had outperformed in the science fair for crying out loud) in front of the entire graduating class, and to add salt to the wound, being chased down by jocks -oh God, the hazing- for the millionth time as a way to celebrate the (late) graduation his father couldn't attend due to getting transferred to the hell hole of Iron Heights for something he didn't even do, and that being said, the panic of what Berry was going to do now, when everybody else had a plan, a purpose to go do, and a family to miss them. Oh, Barry would have done anything. Barry would do anything now for all of this to go as smoothly as possible.

"What is it that you want from me? Are you saying I join you?" He went into rambling, hoping that his guess here wasn't just giving the elite ideas, or unintentionally volunteering himself. He wasn't about to be liable for some apocalyptic damage, the damage he's done already is plenty. Or, wait, was the attempt to alienate The fight team away to brainwash him into being okay with a hypothetical demise at Barry's hands?

In response to another jab in the back, "Okay okay, stop! Anything. I'll listen."

He never actually listened to anybody, he realized, it was always him running his mouth, but he would try. The first time of many times that he would submit to his new master.

Most of his talking is actually rambling, but that's bound to happen. Nothing Clark or Lois can't filter out as well, they've heard it all.

He pauses the topic at hand to assure them, "Clark and Lois, both of you, you don't owe me anything. I don't need to be here."

They both tilt their heads. They won't argue with the sentiment, especially as Barry stammers about how much he appreciates their help and what a nice home they have and such. But they also won't exactly lie or put the idea that he can just up and disappear into his head, when he really does need to be here for his own life. They shouldn't enable his helplessness though, should they? Lois settles on, "We're here for anything you need."

Barry is about to take it quite literally, but his lips purse shut before a request can come out.

It's when Clark insists, "Let's hear it," that Barry raises the empty cup and announces that he's done, he's hungry.

She, and even Superman, are stunned to silence. They've never heard him ask anything of them. Maybe Bruce and Diana and the others have before, but it's surely better quite the eternity since.

Barry catches on, he's done something wrong. He pulls the cup back and looks down.

Suddenly something kicks Lois in every nerve of her body. A new tone of voice she never thought she had in her comes out. "Did you hear what I said just now?" And when Barry looks up at her with wide eyes and begins to stutter, she repeats herself, but she will not say it again so he better listen. "We're here for anything you need."

Barry submits. Lois is off with the cup.

The second time Clark has seen something like this from her. "I'm sorry. She's experiencing some changes." Beyond what Clark could ever imagine.

But Barry understands. No, for real, he actually gets it. Not the pregnancy part (–they won't burden him with that yet, they still need to figure out whether or not the baby is going to make it) but the change part. Barry knows change. He's had his fair share. 

At one point, just when he thought he'd seen it all, the very worst that life has to offer, everything that his education has established and everything that his culture pounded into his brain was stripped.

Overridden, overstepped, by Darkseid's demands.

With Darkseid

Sit, like you tell the dogs that you walk to do, be a good boy. Look, up at your new Master, the way you drool over those gas station nachos, the fuel of your meaningless life. Bow down and make a promise to the god, the true God, not the myth that you claim to hold dear to your heart, that a piece of your body was even sacrificed for, too, only for you to forget the existence of in the daily passage of time all but for taking his name in vain.

When Barry listened, it was just a tiny shock to his arm through his sleeves, or against his rib next to the zippers, or at most a red flick on the nose like a dog.

When he failed to listen, and started asking questions, the Omega beams blasted, somehow absorbing insane amounts of heat each time they ricocheted off the rocks and flames. The physics were impossible to calculate, the angles were impossible. The wrenching in his gut told him to shield his eyes but he needed his eyes to see where the blast was headed.

A clean slice through the sole of his shoe caused a billow of smoke that sent him into a coughing and panicking fit. More smoke made him wince, another clean slice through his pants, another beam grazing the end of his hair. Why? What did Barry even do?

And a shot to the lip, making the bitten creases swell pink and numb… because Barry clenched his jaw, trying to keep the questions away, keep the groans and cries from escalating into cursing?

A red laser to the ground, and a burn on his knuckle that was already white with a blister. And for what? Because he fumbled his hands together, desperate to take the pressure off of his back that was being strained out of its slouch, by a force beyond Barry's control? 

If Darkseid wanted so much control, why leave Barry with a sliver of control that he was obviously going to abuse, and waste trying to cope and protect himself? Why not just take it away? Take it all. Please, paralyze him, use mind control, something. Keep Barry from earning himself punishment.

Please, before–

A beam just barely missed his cheek. The fight or flight response jolted out of his chest, then came the splashes of lightning, bursts of blue, the flashing frames of Darkseid's army skipping in slow motion and the lava pooling without the spurts and bubbles. Darkseid knew what this was, or maybe he didn't, but it was definitely going to be seen as an attempt of self defense or attack, Barry knew it, and it was only a matter of time before–

The next shot surged straight to his chest. The searing made his heart race, pumping the anger and malice and fear and contempt and lust, pride, sins, power through his body. His face and chest, down to his fingertips and his curling toes, tingled red as every cell in his body was charged. And all he could do was scream in agony while being swarmed by lightning that started to burn the more purple it got.

Barry remembers this, at the same time not. Is that okay? Is Barry–

Lois places something in his hand. He smiles and says thank you, the bowl of ramen is so cozy, swaddled in another one of Martha's beautiful creations and there's even room for his fingers to slide into the cup handle. But before he can get to taking a bite, an almost invisible steam billows into his nose. Once it reaches his throat, and the heat casts over his face, he's sent into a gagging fit. His hands convulse and the small amount of broth splashes onto his lap. 

Lois gave him a head start, a chance to get his first bite before she got some sort of bib on him, and he's completely failed. Fortunately most of the noodles are still in the bowl, but some noodles and the broth are all down his shirt and even on the chair.

Lois uses her napkin bib to clean him up as best as possible to make him comfortable.

"You're okay, Barry. After you eat, we'll get you in the bath."

The conversions in his hands spread to the rest of his body. Even his eyes begin to shake in this irrational fear. He shakes his head and goes nh-nn.

Yes, it's been a week since they've gotten him in a sink and it's been a month since Martha was able to get him in a bathtub with a sprayer. But… The traumatized part of him doesn't care. He'd already been accustomed to having greasy bangs in his eyes and black fingers from metal scraps, motor oil, food, ink and oils; even before all of this trauma, getting naked in a trailer park shower or being drenched in the river water coming through a broken pipe in the warehouse was an easy thing to procrastinate on. And now after everything he went through with Granny Goodness, procrastinate isn't the right word.

His voice is already high-pitched when he says no thank you, but once he looks to his lap and the tears are free to well without being seen he instantly loses composure. 

Clark puts his hand up to intercept a panic attack before it begins. He says, "We won't force you."

Don't get them wrong, this isn't a point where they give up. But Clark knows he's going to use too much force. And for the massive headache that takes over Lois, she's done her best as well as the bribes and reasoning. And for all the talking Barry has done, and all the suffering he's probably in for with Bruce, it's time to breathe and give Barry a chance to talk about some good things.

As long as they can keep him comfortable for now, he will be taken care of. He always leaves Mom in good condition and, if Clark is to be honest, the only other person he can trust as much as her is Bruce's Butler, Alfred.

Chapter Text

With Darkseid

The Omega beams were beginning to fade out. The charge was dying out and short circuited with a few purple sparks flying from Barry's body.

It left him collapsed, instantly sobbing. All he could do was sob, cry, and wonder what the hell just happened. It couldn't have been real. He forced himself to look at his hands, and begged to see blurry mounds of six, seven, a hundred fingers… because this was a dream, some horrible trip.

He could literally feel his blood cells curling away from the stream, being pulled away from each other, being terraformed. Upon seeing his hands, the blood coming out from the new cuts crawled down his skin, scraping as if the cuts themselves were spreading. Barry stared with big eyes and shook his head while hysterically babbling as the cells crumbled, turning blacker than the new bruises forming under his skin.

The bleeding…oh God, the blood …

Barry

Barry's blood is never the same. Only 5 minutes on the plane –even with his layers of jackets, and his blankets draped over one arm and the other hand clutching his backpack– his hand is still all cut up. Black bubbling blood, tingly, as if it has tiny spikes in it.

Probably from that railing. He is used to Diana or Martha or the collective efforts of Lois and Clark supporting him on the stairs, rather than fending for himself with the sharp metal ends, peeling paint that hasn't been maintained.

Barry's not meant to be here, and, to be fair, nobody is. It's not the same plane Barry got on when he initially came home with Bruce and nothing like the one he took with Bruce to meet Diana the first time, but instead it's personal, discreet, private. And it kind of does remind him of home, some dust here and there, a water damaged seat, a crack where some rain smell can trickle in while the beating drops begin to fog up the windows. Something to focus on while Alfred sits with him, unloads Barry's things onto another seat, and starts working on Barry's bleeding hand.

Finally Alfred has something to manage, other than a giant gash on Master Wayne that Bruce might as well have just inflicted on his own self, or a finger that Alfred accidentally mangled with some tool.

Out comes a voice that Alfred hasn't used since Bruce was a child, "There we are, Mr Allen. A few scratches. We'll keep an eye on it."

Barry beats him to it. He stares harder to keep himself from picking at it, as well as to figure out why Alfred is doing all this. Where Alfred got these awesome Band-Aids with lightning bolts on them, he doesn't know, but he digs it, especially the black one that covers up the bleeding beneath it.

Where Alfred got the incentive to do all of this, Barry can't imagine, whether it's the cart of beverages and all of the snacks that Alfred remembered Barry not being able to choose a single one from during the days with the fight team, or the little TV playing Rick and Morty, or the blanket next to him. And the best part? The eyes that listened even though Barry wasn't talking, only thinking.

With Darkseid

It took all of his strength to reach a hand out, please…what are you doing? His blood was not supposed to look that way, for Darkseid's information, if Darkseid even cared anyways. As light as Barry's skin is, it certainly wasn't supposed to be ghost white. The forearm sticking out of his jacket was dainty enough to conceal anything, whether the tiny unintentional nicks or full-blown not-unintentional scars.

Granny Goodness gave him another nick as she drove the staff through his jackets and hoisted him up like lifting a dog by the scruff. As her claw of a hand dove over his shoulder, he prayed, not the face, don't go for the face…

She snatched his chest, took hold of his torso and forced him back up to attention.

Darkseid's eyes turned downward upon realization –Barry's eyes were not only blazing red with tears, but actually sinking. The human was less likely to survive with further attacks. There was still enough of a charge, dormant in the human skin, to continue the job as the human heals.

For now, the master could trust Granny Goodness to heal the human. Barry would be returned after an Earth day at most from the clutches of Granny –along with Bernadeth, sister of Desaad, and their army– prepared for phase 2.

"Take him to the Furies."

Barry found himself being carried away. He dared to look back at Darkseid, torn between whether he was being saved or was off to a much worse fate.

Barry still can't get the taste out of his mouth. That slime, slop that had been crammed into his face by the Furies as he collapsed onto his knees begging for better since day one when Granny had taken him away. With Mr and Mrs Kent, there's a taste of home and love, and here with Alfred, his love is multiplied and then outdone by variety, perfection, and a focus on his interest. But even then, his soft baked cookie doesn't taste as good as it should, obviously because of that gunk that destroyed his mouth, but also because, well, he doesn't deserve it. He only starts eating to please Alfred, and to not get a stern talking to from Bruce but instead a "Hi there."

And a, "You're already eating, great. Great."

So that Barry doesn't have to stammer and try to talk to Bruce, Alfred interjects. "I was thinking it would be a great favor for Mrs Kent, and nothing to worry about, with Mr Allen taken care of as we take time to visit."

Barry with his overly full mouth says, "Amai goen thair? Or widyew?"

Alfred and Bruce don't comment on the kid's lack of manners or the food spilling out of his mouth. As reserved as they normally are anyway, they need to be careful of what they say. The kid is being his normal self, or now what is considered the best version of himself.

Bruce says, "The plan is, I need to have a talk with Clark's mother, then we're going to leave you there."

Alfred tries to clarify with, "You can stay there if you'd like. If not, it's your choice to come back with us." But Barry isn't buying it.

And Bruce just fucked it up.

The color is draining from Barry's eyes. The cookie melts down his throat and he freezes.

Leave? "Leave you there"? That's it? What's that supposed to mean? Bruce, what does that mean?

Alfred tries to clarify more with, "We will leave you be and you can stay with her. She's been waiting a long time to see you." But again, Barry isn't buying it.

First of all, Alfred, pay more attention to how her house looks when he comes over (The tidy kitchen, the scent of rhubarb pie that still lingers even days later, the fort in the living room along with the little snacks in case Barry needs somewhere to hide away, the brand new puzzle waiting at the table, the TV antenna set up just right to cater to his newfound addiction to soap operas, and proof of all the other things that Martha was able to get done without Barry being there) VS when they come to retrieve Barry. And second, if they really want to abandon Barry, don't dump him on poor Martha and don't let Martha do that to herself. And-

Alfred gives a passive order, "Mr Allen, finish your food." It is clear Bruce isn't emotionally available for any more interaction, and Alfred himself has some duties to fulfill in the next few hours, and it's only a matter of time before Barry talks to himself to sleep after a few quite exhausting days in Metropolis. Before they know it, they'll be landing directly at the farm and Alfred will be damned if Martha doesn't greet them with a dirty apron and take Barry by the arm into the house to the kitchen.

The talking starts now. Barry isn't good at social cues but he's seen enough of Bruce to know that Bruce gets tired of Barry's blabbing pretty often, however unlike most people Bruce is pretty nice about it. The talks with Mr and Mrs Kent earlier actually went far better than expected; he doesn't know if he completely believes them about him being not annoying and being completely free to talk about anything but he'll go with it. He can trust Alfred enough to stop him if really necessary. So, after Barry does what he's told and takes another cookie into both hands, what he instantly recognizes as pepper chocolate, his voice cracks, "Alfred, I…" Now he has eyes on him. "Never mind."

"Go on."

Barry's voice is flat, but some tears choke him. "I used to love these. My mom… when I was a kid… every weekend…"

His eyes go empty and he drops the cookie. And oh boy, this time he wishes it was from emotional trauma, as instead physical pain comes on. He weeps as the burning, stinging, tingling takes over his hand. The juice of the pepper and a few spicy crumbs are already inside his Band-Aids and putting his finger in his mouth helps only for a second, panicking and flapping his hand against his jacket is only more abrasive and makes Alfred panic.

Bruce snatches Barry's wrist and holds harder the more Barry moves. It's the only way Alfred is able to grab a wet wipe to surface clean.

"Mr Allen, I would have taken them off the tray if it hadn't slipped my mind. I am very, very sorry."

No matter how much experience he's gotten, in the military and working for the Batman, Alfred still fidgets while trying to pull the Band-Aids off. Barry winces with each pull and touch, but is it really his fault? There hasn't been a cut in the past few years that didn't instantly start to scar or vanish completely, and Barry's actually had the pleasure of suppressing what it once felt like to snag a scrape against clothing, to rub some sanitizer or eat some Cheetos and get a friendly reminder of his paper cut, to be a lot more careless as if he wasn't already clumsy enough, amongst other things. Though, Barry has just enough self-awareness to know that he knows better, that his powers don't work anymore and plus, he's felt worse before so there's no reason to be overreacting here.

Oh God… oh well. He could say the pleasure was worth it even if brief, even if dwindled by the taste of that gunk.

And it gives Bruce a chance to see this black blood for himself, so that Alfred doesn't have to find a way to break the news, so that Barry doesn't have to come to Bruce later in the middle of a problem and reveal that something went wrong with his hand and then showing him something 10 times worse than it should be because moron Barry tried to fix it.

Barry hasn't fucked it up too bad. A few crumbs but it could be worse. Some liquid suture should do the trick – along with wrapping his entire hand. As Bruce gets the materials and Alfred tends to Barry, Barry dips his head and apologizes. 

"No need to apologize, Mr Allen-"

"I'm sorry I caused all this trouble. I appreciate that you, not just you and everybody else as well, gave me the chance to eat on my own instead of shoving it in my face, I appreciate that you're feeding me so well regardless how much of a burden I can be." Or, that's what he wishes he could say. Instead it's an obnoxious, "Thanks for not, like, shoving the food in my face or shoving me into the food, on my knees and-."

"-I'm the one who's sorry."

"Don't be."

"Mr Allen, might I ask-" with how oddly specific what Barry just said is, "why would we shove it in your face, or shove your face into anything?" If Barry meant the feeding tube, Alfred feels he would be more specific. Barry is also smart enough to know that each time they used the tube it was only necessary. He pours Barry a glass and, while Barry pays attention to the juice fogging up the cup, Alfred signals Bruce to stay away and listen from afar.

The Furies……. Just when he thought whatever torture from Darkseid would be bad enough, he was in for some traumma. And it was so weird to say that, it's really weird to say that it fucked him up so much, and it's so goofy that he stammers and rolls his eyes around trying to find the right words.

After his mother passed away, he'd gone through some hard times. As to be expected. But now, even as an adult who's crammed at least half the psychology and philosophy books in existence in a shorter time than it takes to binge a Netflix series, he is not so sure that it's exactly…normal? Conventional? Healthy to be in the place he was at 13.

He can easily place his younger self in the group home, the best in the state, for his best interest… only to watch some of the kids finishing rehab, returning to their family, or otherwise getting taken by a nice couple who just wanted a paycheck if not a hero award for saving some sick child (the same thing he later initially thought about when Bruce Wayne came to get him and kept being oddly nice to him, for the record). Barry couldn't bear to watch the kidswalk out anymore or even hear about it, because he was so sick of wondering what they were going home to, what could have been for himself… 

The memory of his mother's friend Darryl coming to get him, for whatever reason, is just so vague. And for what reason, Barrywill never know, but he'll always assume that Darryl genuinely respected Barry's mother and thought he could respect Barry and expect better of him. Surely Barry fucked it up, rather quickly, because all of his memories are squished as a unit: the horrors of navigating holidays, surviving between those holidays, constantly transferring schools, switching between on campus and off-campus, normal classes and special ed and ISS as well. All of Barry's memories from living there end in his "bedroom" at Darryl's house –a little room in the basement with a bed sheet over the doorway– sulking in his "bed" –an old mattress and box spring lined with a neoprene mat and a blanket with a hole in it- the perfect recipe for overheating his laptop, and well, in addition to all of that… pornographic content… And it was never actually about the sex, the coping was what really mattered, the hidden treasure trove called "hot mums" and the idea of bonding with moms and oh God, especially those "femdom" women became a taboo as he grew desensitized to the m-word and…

Of course it would progress, when he was returned to the system, and into the group home he would go. That time not even having his own bed, being pressed into the bed rails by a bedhog, but eventually actually embracing it, letting the memories flood back, surviving via the daydreams of being a child again, dozing off in a crib that he was definitely getting too big for but his mom hesitated to tear him from. All even to the point of sucking his thumb in front of all the other kids.

The only time he would question it was when he got in a certain red car, blinked a few times and realized his situation now, that he had just been signed off to this really nice couple– who proceeded to return him upon believing he was actually developmentally disabled, and fairly so because they weren't completely wrong… wash, rinse and repeat until… the Smiths… The big family, and a nice neighborhood and a good school system where Barry could finally do something right, nd have what he was supposed to… until finding himself back at square one, hiding in his "bedroom" -which constantly changed between storage room, closet, basement, anything they could put a curtain over- on his "bed" -a mattress with planet sheets that barely hid the yellow stains, and the water stains from when Mrs Smith was tired of smelling him and tried to give him a bed bath, or when the other kids came to shoot water guns at him and throw soap. As well as stains from meatloaf and sloppy Joe from when Mrs Smith had to come force feed him, sometimes literally piling food in his mouth just to survive him. AAnd why? Because Barry was too depressed to come out of his room and see the golden child, the cute child, the favorite child, the prodigy child, the special needs child who was somehow saveable when Barry wasn't, and the baby of the family with the parents enjoying their dinner, talking about their day. He could never forget the two separate occasions where he'd learned his lesson by not just hearing, but by walking in on Mrs Smith cooking dinner and babytalking her little golden helpers before feeding them bites straight from the pot, the way that Barry's mother used to. He's never going to forget the tingle it actually gave him anytime she screamed at him or bossed him.

 And from then on, that taboo, that fantasy, he wouldn't call it a fetish because that was partially incorrect and partially an oversimplification, but anyways, it grew… it was there to stay. Even if it went dormant as he tried to push through high school and freshman year and internship, there were periods he wasn't doing anything with his life besides for running away, and dreaming. That dreaming eventually turned into something, during that one time that a sweet old lady invited him in for some lunch, and, upon seeing him begin to cry, went into full mom mode with a mix of ex cop mode and started piling the food into his pie trap. It wasn't exactly shameful, but it was something. No, the feelings it gave him weren't shameful or unnatural exactly, but something.

And it was as if Darkseid knew this. As if Granny Goodness has followed him around his entire life, and knew exactly how to punish him and put the fear of hell into him.

So how can Barry explain all of this to Alfred? How far back does he have to go? Is it okay to leave stuff out? What if Bruce is listening, which he most definitely is because how else does Batman know everything, then how can Barry preface this? How does he explain all of these weird feelings he's had in order for Bruce to understand just how much Granny Goodness and the Furies have hurt him and just how deeply all of this cuts without being so disgusting and depraved and disrespectful toward mothers and —

Bruce is a man of culture for sure. Barry has walked in on it while staying with him or dropping by, walking into his bedroom to see some woman and… sometimes two. But. Barry chatters his teeth and looks down.

This was the point where Barry began filling in blanks, for lack of a better term. Lying, yes, but he wouldn't call it that, rather focusing on some details more than others, fixing the truth to make it sound sound better while still being overall accurate.

"There was this demon lady thing. Essentially I was taken to this pit with a lot of rooms and she was there and I got tied down and. I don't know why she was doing this, I think it's some sort of punishment?" His tone is obnoxious and his head shakes around but he is still confident. "It was like she was literally trying to bust my face open. There was this stuff on the ground and it was like feeding a dog but forcing me on my knees and I don't know why she was doing this but essentially then it turned into shoving the stuff in my mouth and getting cuts all over my mouth and shoving my face in it and busting my face on the floor which wasn't even a floor but it was just rocks and she was calling me names and again I don't even know why she was doing this."

For a second, Alfred's face is flooded in horror from just the thought of all this happening to Barry. But then he puts his hands out and gestures them downward to get Barry to calm down, and when Barry copies him, although with an apprehensive face, Alfred says, "Mr Allen, we really need you to slow down and stay calm."

With Darkseid

Okay. This is how it began. 

Granny Goodness dropped him on the ground. Getting up on his hands and knees was rougher than stumbling back up after wiping out on a busted road in Southern Central City. And just when he could barely breathe or move, the air around him got warmer, and his chest grew tighter. Suddenly the same tightness was around one of his wrists, and snatched up his other wrist so hard that it pinched the skin, and before he could process the silver rings around his arms, he was thrust forward and faceplanted into shards of rocks. He didn't dare look up as footsteps thudded around his head, and more footsteps vibrated the ground as they followed. His mental prayers were even more silent under his sobbing. He couldn't hear the sultry, velvety voice giving what would be his first command, look at me, human.

A claw for a hand, but nothing like Granny Goodness' as the fingers were more dainty and dared to have no armor, stroked his face. The fingers grabbed his jaw and forced his face off the ground.

He was surrounded. Feet, more than 10 of them, each large enough to smash his face in if they really wanted to. Goddesses and demons, appearing twice his size from the ground up. One armed with a staff, another armed with the bands around his arms, and the others snarling with no fear of doing what was necessary.

Clark and Lois 

Clark's hand interlocking with Lois' keeps her warm through the grocery store. While they have to admit it is a blessing to finally have some time to themselves, it's not exactly easy, holding each other's hands instead of Barry's, passing all the food and wondering if Barry has had anything besides for the ramen, which they are very proud of him for getting through, and especially having qualms, wondering if they really deserved to take this personal time to stock up on the essentials instead of spending time with Barry.

The only thing to distract Lois, besides for a kiss from Clark, is stumbling upon a certain display shelf. She did love stuffed animals as a child, but over the course of school and career, it's been so desaturated by seeing every child in her life running around with one, speaking to tragedy victims as they have mass-manufactured toys put in their face by authorities as protocol rather than a genuine comfort anymore. However, there's a new affinity, something draws her to the shelf, whether it's the colors that pop from so many animals, or the big sparkling baby eyes and the plump bellies. Barry would absolutely Love one of these, it would help him sleep to hold something other than a pillow. She grabs the one with the softest fur, big feet and wiggly tail and cute little monkey smile.

Chapter Text

Barry at Martha's

Barry is the first out of the car. He goes straight through the yard, with a hello to Dusty. Martha can tell he's feeling a bit sick, anxious, and she lets him hurry straight into home as she greets Bruce and Alfred.

Barry makes a run for the toilet, which is even easier here because of the three bathrooms (but isn't that counterintuitive, since everyone else's places are smaller? Never mind that, it's time to barf.)

On his way through the kitchen, a big pot is knocked off the counter and hits the floor with a giant bang, and tumbles with clangs as he slams the door shut.

He can't even reach the floor before he starts filling up the toilet. And it's not the usual hacking and grunting, his body is literally ripped forward. Something is caked up in his throat, he breaks down into gurgles and he heaves, heaves, heaves, heaves until it falls into the toilet.

He looks down with big eyes. Then out the bathroom window, where he can hear a barking Dusty chase after the faint voices coming closer to the house. Then back to the toilet. 

This black mass in the water is almost glowing, it sounds like it's weeping as if it has its own control, an essence that he can only compare to… the mother boxes. It's engulfed in vomit, and, when it doesn't come back up, Barry is tempted to just… flush. Flush the blood or whatever it is. He thinks it's blood. But he's as quiet as possible when he walks out of the bathroom.

Just as the toilet settles, in come Martha Bruce and Alfred. Martha asks what that loud bang was and Barry goes cold, realizing that the pot that must have had dinner or really anything, it doesn't matter, is now upside down on the kitchen floor. 

The apologies start pouring out, Barry can't even breathe. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry. He knows how much time Martha puts into cooking and he knows that food isn't easy to come by and he should be appreciative, just because she has legal custody doesn't mean she has to feed him and it doesn't make her have to care for him. He knows she's going to forgive him as if she has no choice, but she doesn't need to feel bad, Barry just needs to be better. Or maybe not, maybe she won't forgive him, maybe this will be the day where the nicest person actually cracks. But really, it isn't even about Barry in the end.

 He is reduced to apologies and stammers as he watches Martha crouch down and move her hand around the pot, trying to figure out the best way to pick this thing up in case it's salvageable. Which it probably isn't, even with Alfred's help after he places Barry’s things down. Fortunately the lid is locked onto the pot and Bruce can handle the hot glass with one bare hand to help pick it up, but beyond the glass, mixed with the steam, the pot roast looks smashed up… oh, it's definitely smashed between the corn cobs and glass, the beef on top is shredded, the potatoes are as good as gone, the cauliflower may as well be minced, and whatever carrots aren't only a little soggy and slimy are completely destroyed like the celery. That's it, they're eating smashed corn cobs and roastmush tonight.

Well, Martha is going to be stuck dealing with that. Barry is better off leaving. At this point, he can't even be here for 5 minutes without destroying something. He turns around to hide his tears, and when both Bruce and Alfred are completely turned, Barry starts inching towards the door.

The turn of the knob echoes through the house.

Bruce, in his Batman voice, belts out, with the same flatness one would use when giving a dog commands. "BARRY ALLEN." Really, it's his means of dealing with the guilt of letting Barry get so far away from their sight, even in a safe place.

Alfred gives him the benefit of the doubt, and if Barry really is trying to leave, Alfred gives him a chance to not be doing something he best not do. "Mr Allen, I've got all your things right here. No need to worry."

Martha wants to give him the benefit of the doubt as well. Barry has also had his moments of confusion, on top of his normal absent-minded quirky self. "I saw you walk out of the bathroom. Don’t mind the cleaner in the tub, you can still use that bathroom.”

"I-well-I… can go outside.”

"Honey, you can go to the bathroom." He is family, this is home, he doesn't need permission. "Unless you need something?"

This is Barry's chance to escape and run to the bathroom as if nothing happened, and pretend to go to the bathroom. Or, actually try to go because he's feeling something coming on.

Meanwhile, Martha thanks Bruce and Alfred for stopping by, as well as helping with the pot roast. She offers to make them some tea or a drink, and when she gives them a dinner time and offers them a bite to eat before they head back out, Bruce takes it as a cue to go stand in the living room and wait for her to sit at the couch, and then take a partial seat against the cozy rocking chair, piled up with blankets where Barry’s book fort begins.

Martha looks down at her lap as she feels Bruce staring at her, as Alfred comes in. "I saw something yesterday, laying on this old couch. Last night, all week if dreams count.”

Bruce gives her a smile. “Me too.”

Barry's head pressed against the door picks up Martha's voice. “You saw the skies?”

And Bruce, “Shadow figures?” And “Sirens?” which got a solemn nod from Ma Kent.

"Let me guess," Bruce is a bit casual to ward off his own panicking, "the demons with wings and fangs?” At this point, she doesn’t know who Darkseid is beyond what he has done to Barry. The news about the hellscape likely doesn't reach cozy Kansas or gets mistaken for typical gang violence, so when she describes the burning, she means it. Brimstone, magma, pikes sprouting from the ground and marking the corners of symbols etched into dead grass. A scream racing through the clouds from states away, that only a mother could hear, and a red blur shooting through the sky, circling beyond the atmosphere, even diving into the core as if it’s trying to escape something.

The scene is more vivid each night. She finds herself driving, to where she doesnt know, her senses take her to stretch of a highway, and another, and many more as she finds that red blur just up ahead, and follows it, follows it far, chases after a storm that somehow rages harder than the one that took her son’s father, to find Barry’s face in the same exact spot she saw her husband’s face for the last time. And Barry’s face is– —

Bruce and Martha’s voices keep cutting. What Barry can catch translates to nothing. Muffled. But again, 

Not muffled by the acoustics -his feet shuffling, heart thudding, or foaming of the cleanser in the tub with the acid smell that messes with his senses. Again, not a result of not paying attention, because he is literally right here. And no, he is not having a seizure.

The only thing here is his name… Not a bad mention, but something is most likely wrong here too.

A call from Enterprises comes in. The fifth one today. They won't let up.

Bruce sees himself out of the living room, and Alfred follows. Alfred knows Bruce is in a hurry to avoid Barry, who already has a penchant for going crazy trying to say bye properly and now actually has a reason for having such separation problems.

Barry is actually avoiding him too. Pressed against the bathroom door, waiting for Bruce to leave so he doesn't have to be guilty looking Bruce in the eyes knowing full well he is failing to tell Bruce about the black mass, of which he just vomited more of a second ago. Plus, if he doesn't give himself a chance to tell Bruce, he's not lying or anything right?

As Bruce passes the bathroom door, his words of wisdom are: “Don't get into the habit.”

He steps out with phone to ear, and his drunken voice disappears in the wind. “Bruce Wayne speaking-” or, rather slurring with a tired gruff. Now a fake laugh, in fake disbelief (an innocence a part of him wishes was real – The Wayne Council for Youth in South Gotham has five members missing? Oh no. The Wayne Administration building that does things for education and other stuff for the homeless is burned to the ground as a result of these literal hellfires? Wowza. The Wayne Humane Society was robbed of stock amidst the crises?). “Oh wow? Really?”

Alfred’s mouth falls open. He’s slow following Bruce into the car, but the instant he catches up he gets a phone on his face.

Bruce's other phone is going off. Despite five missed calls from Diana, he calls Amanda back first.

When Barry does come out, the way he goes straight to Dusty and weakly but joyfully greets him makes Martha think that what's really wrong is he needs some fresh air after being cooped up in Metropolis and in that old plane.

She rubs through Barry's hair to assess how greasy it is, but it ultimately doesn't matter. For an outing, as the breeze outside starts turning to wind, the poor boy is going to need a hat, – shame Bruce hasn't dressed him in more, as skinny and weak as he is and as non-communicative he is.

She has the night planned. If you give a mouse a cookie– If Barry gets a snack now, and takes the dog for a walk, the food will process and his belly will be hungry for roast. If he gets a walk and sees the sights, then gets a full belly, he will submit to a bath that he very much needs. 

“Honey, where is Dusty’s leash? Go get his leash and find your hat.”

Barry following orders gave her the time to get a little bowl and fill it with some homemade mud pudding. She can blend the little white pill in along with essential oil. 

When bent to his knees with the dog, Barry is introduced to the brown glop. The natural course of action here is to… submit… get further down, wait for his food. As she waits for him to get up, he takes it as a sign to put his now-shaking hands together and plead, and wait patiently to see whether it would be given to him to consume by hand or thrown onto the ground for his face to be shoved into.

“Honey?” What is wrong? The dark slop does catch the corner of her eye, and it does resemble a poison of some kind, or soil (as was the intention, which she can fix by going to the cupboard for a bag of gummy worms that were originally meant for his blood sugar but will suffice). “This is your food, honey. It’s ready. Have a snack before we take Dusty out?”

His mouth comes open as sludge, slathered on a gummy worm, is brought to his face. 

He… can’t even eat a freaking gummy worm. The thing he used to down at least two bags of a week, if not enough gummy worms a month to equal the amount of actual worms in the world. But it just slathers the pudding all all over his lips, and makes it stick to his palate and gums as he chews. It actually burns against his nose, just like the actual mud(? Slime? Actual fucking acid?) that Granny Goodness once had him faceplanted in.

With Darkseid

It wouldn't be the last time. Barry. knew full well.

Being bound by not only a deal with a devil, but now by the bands over his wrists and around his torso like a harness. As the bands seemed to absorb the light that he needed In order to see more than the near black and white that dogs are limited to, it made the furies surrounding him suddenly disappear, with the reflections of their armor now just as dull as their emotionless stares. The otherworldly metal, hot enough to scald him through the intact parts of his clothes limited him to pressing his hands together. If resting his head against his praying hands, and gasping as his mouth absorbed the nutrients from the dirt caked on his face, wasn't enough to hold him down, the demon with the bands had more.

The weight of a tether being connected to his harness pushed a squeaky breath from him. But a clawed hand ignored his little cries. The soil kept getting crammed and the only thing that could help it hurt less, and prevent his face from getting dragged through the ground, was to open his mouth. To not fight, to let the tether pull his neck and jaw into place.

Granny Goodness only gave Barry what he needed to hear. The praise, the clear instruction, the inclusion, cooperation and belonging and purpose. "Good boy. Eat it. Replenish." The sense of inclusion and equality that came with her praising others - Bernadeth for the feeding, Lashina for restraints.

It made Bernadeth feed harder, scooping soil off Barry's face and feeding it back to him.

“Come on, up.”

Martha handles his torso like a child’s. He is bigger, and she does have to be gentle because he is still sensitive despite the bruises having cleared up, but she helps him / forces him to get up.

She has orders for both of them. “You found them! Now it’s time for you to eat and for me to get ready."

Diana

Diana smiles. The only way to improve this long day in her office surrounded by dust, fragile glass and war remnants is to hear Bruce’s voice. To hear him actually begin the call with how well Barry is, at least in terms of food, and location currently in the hands of the one the best people, is so refreshing. She regrets having to start with,”Well, Bruce, I have some news. Good news?--No, but it is good to know.”

The sun strikes at the perfect time for Bruce’s reflection in the dashboard to stare daggers at him for not picking up sooner.

Alfred asks, “Miss Prince? What’s going on, Master Wayne?”

Bruce continues to drive, knuckles white on the wheel and watches the road out of the corner of his eye.

Diana is on speaker. “I have done some thinking and researching of my own, and from what I’ve learned, Darkseid is capable of energy manipulation. Many forms, physical, even spiritual. Surely to a molecular level, for all we know subatomical –weakening cells, destroying cells, cloning, transplanting, harvesting. Dark matter on Earth, potentially other forms of matter not known to man."

Bruce's heart is actually racing. He keeps clearing his throat preparing to respond, but there's nothing to say. Everything to feel, everything to avoid feeling. However many things to do, avoid doing, and possibly little time.

"He needs to be monitored for signs. No telling when they're to be expected, or if."

The first time in over twenty years, he's actually scared. Unsure whether he wants answers.

 Bruce usually acts with absolute certainty with even the smallest chance however this time he would like to take comfort in the if.

Chapter Text

In her office, Diana puts the last few words in her journal, before opening the desk drawer and shoving it under paperwork. She should get to that, but the top of her desk has plenty already. She could handle this at super speed to make up for all the time she spent worying about Barry however it is a human matter that requires her best focus. 

She smiles as her coworkers scolding echoes towards her office.

Arthur's voice insists, "I'm here for a visit. What's it to you?" The shuffling of his three coats, dreads of hair still matted from the swim here and boots slightly too small for his feet march up to her office.

"How's the kid?"

"He's with Clark's mother. Afterwards he was going to be with me these next two weeks, but Bruce said he will take him the first week."

"Still moving him around surely has to be good for his health," Arthur sarcastically grunts.

While Barry isn't much younger physically, he's still a kid. He fares like one. Nentally, he's probably 14 with the little remnants of a traumatized 9-year-old. But Bruce, the one in charge of the operation, surely has no idea what a little stability could do.

"It is difficult, but we can help him through. As a team we all have something to contribute for him. Besides, Bruce deems it best for him to not stay in one place."

Oh yes, Bruce's plan to act on faith? Unless there's something he's not telling Arthur, which is something else he seems to deem fit far too often.

Arthur was actually hoping Barry would be here. It's times like these where Arthur regrets telling Barry to shut up, picking on him for being so weird, AKA being himself. And since Barry isn't here for Arthur to see for himself, he clenches his fists –there's some weird shit going on. Diana better tell him why the trip from Lubec to Paamiut with his father has been nothing but shit, with Days of visions, scents, fluxes in energy levels, and nights of Arthur waking up from visions with sweat clamping his chest down.

Diana looks down at her crossing arms. She realizes Arthur has been left out in his absence. And she remembers that pact they've developed, the further talks they've had since initially agreeing that they could put there race aside, and establishing that their powers combined are something special. She's compelled to tell him something she didn't have the heart to tell Bruce, and cannot bear herself if it turns out she is correct.

Martha

Martha's voice is much more energetic, finally being out of that old house. She hopes that it does Barry good to feel some leaves under his shoes and to have some air getting through even if it's only through clothes.  Artificial lights from the downtown, ice cream shop, barber shops and market and drugstore signs, are just as important as the sunlight coming through the autumn leaves.

Barry has a good grasp on Dusty's leash, being wrapped around his wrist while Martha still gives orders and commands, mostly for the overeager dog who constantly pulls at Barry to sniff everything and eat things off of the ground. Barry won't stop twitching, he keeps having to remind himself that Martha's tone of voice is not for him and the commands are not directed at him.

"Whatcha been up to, Barry?"

Barry stammers. No one has ever actually asked him how he is or cared about what's up. The closest he's gotten other than from a doctor or a teacher or someone who is mandated has to be Bruce, but it's kind of obvious that his little comments of "Hi there" and "What do we have going on here?" are just an attempt to be more involved, to be better as a person, Barry understands. A snarky tone or soft voice makes it less business casual and more friendly, whereas the lawyer who manages Martha's legal custody over Barry is more like that welfare lady who used to pop into his life as a child, all business casual and part of the job. Barry won't say that Lois and Clark have this issue, he knows that it's just a side effect of Lois Lane the reporter not growing up in the best conditions and developing a tough thicker skin for the things she sees all the time at work, and it's a natural factor of Clark being isolated on that farm for the first third of his life then dealing with so many feelings of being unwanted, singled out, finally finding a purpose at a desk in a big corp. As for Diana, she's just nice to everyone. It's just like Victor, a good heart and the tendency to filter all the frustration where it matters, kicking bad guy butt. And Arthur's all over the place, Barry doesn't know what to say. It's going to suck for everybody here.

Martha asks, "Do anything fun?"

Barrry will give credit where it's due.

"I got an early birthday gift. Well, a bag." 

And while Martha already knows, because there's no way that Clark could hold out for the next few weeks, she smiles and enjoys hearing him blab on about Just how comfortable the new socks are. His theory on how he's going to get some books to go with the bookmarks they gave him. How he can't wait to see how much the flowers they planted together in that little box have germinated by the time he gets back.

"I bet you're swamped already. Don't take it personally," she corrects herself, "'situationally'. They love you so much. There are no words for that, only the sight of you being happy."

No, this is most definitely situational. Pity. They're just good at making it look like something else.

Happy to see him alive and somewhat well as another birthday creeps up? Sure. But isn't that simply what being hero is about? Liking when people survive? Needing for people to be happy? Spreading hope, what Barry understands to be kryptons nature, or religion or whatever it is?

Has to be. Really. And seeing Lois the not-superhero function so well under the high demands of Barry, let alone at all with the sickness, has to be her nature.

Barry blurts out, "What's going on with Lois?"

Martha's eyebrows furrow. "Nothing that I know of. Hopefully nothing." And with a smile, "I'm sure the baby is going to be just fine, honey."

The baby?

Barry gives a fake cheeky grin when Martha looks up at him.. And he just walks on autopilot, listening to her talk about the days going by, things she's gotten don at work and at the house, something funny that Dusty did the other day. And asking Barry all these things he can't keep track of because all he can think about it is…

The baby, on the way. This all makes sense now. The sickness, the stress, these appointments and the conversations where Lois and Clark don't actually talk but still lay in bed and convey ideas.

Right. Part of life. This stage of Lois and Clark's life that he is intruding right now. The thing they can't enjoy, with this third wheel in the way sucking up their attention, this thing they can't celebrate in fear of undermining Barry's survival and the shit he is going through. And of course Lois and Clark aren't going to simply drop everything to invest in their child, Lois cares too much about lost causes. 

And now Barry's thoughts are coming out. Literally out loud, he's mumbling something and arguing to himself. But he doesn't even know what he's arguing about or what's just happened, as he's hit with this sudden overlooming guilt, self hatred, confusion, and dissociation.

"Barry?" Martha is polite despite all of this being so awkward, and despite just being interrupted and talked over, Martha is more worried than upset . And what concerns her is the confusion when she calls him Barry again.

He tells himself, "Yes, that is still your name – of course that is still your name –"

Suddenly, it all cuts out. And no, he's not not paying attention. No, he's not having a seizure or–

Okay, this definitely isn't any of that for sure, but that reassurance does nothing to help him in the crazy department. A voice drops in, like an emergency news drill interrupting public broadcasting.

"Human."

It's a silent grumble, a spark in his brain. Fuck, maybe it is a seizure.

He grabs his head and leans into Martha. Reflexes don't react to Dusty jolting from the sudden stop.

But he can't feel her arm squeezing his, or the leash tugging his wrist, or his confused babbling leaving his lips.

The voice of DeSaad comes through. And a wave of heat takes over Barry's body as if he is surrounded by the fire and brimstone again.

 "You pathetic human. You mean nothing to them and they mean nothing to you.

Don't forget the mission."

And Barry snaps back. Tears start coming down as he's hit with Dusty jumping and barking, Martha squeezing and rubbing, and all the lights and smells that prove he's a human in the human world.

Martha can't say she completely understands what Brry won't tell her about, but she knows sensory overload when she sees it.

"Dusty," she calls out as Dusty pulls his leash, towards a warehouse just barely visible from two blocks down, and growls start scraping around in his throat. He's already barked his head off twice in the past five minutes, where is this energy coming from?

And she apologizes to Barry. "I know it's loud, honey. Let's go over here where there shouldn't be any people." To the picnic table outside of a shop with a closed sign, hidden behind some trees.

He grabs his head, and he's shaking so hard he can barely make it over to the table. He lets his guard down for just one second, Dusty tugs that leash, and suddenly Barry is yanked down into the gravel.

His eyes dart around with flickering eyelids, his joints are loose but his muscles are tight as he starts fumbling around, he gasps for air as the spasms take over.

The gravel beneath his skin and clothes erupts in a glow, with colors the eyes can't process beyond the blasts of purple and fiery orange streaks. It should be burning, searing, but it's so tempting for Barry to lay there and give in to the seizing and the bubbling, tingling that takes over his cells. And what feels like forever of straight up melting into the ground, becoming one with the surface of the Earth, is over in an instant before Martha finishes blinking.

And by the time she gets down to pick him up, he's already forgotten.

Diana

Arthur had finally found it in himself to calm down and sit at Diana's desk. "And tell me why Darkseid's genius plan was to let us find him and bring him back here if that's the case?"

"That is where I'm stuck."

They both have to be clear: Barry didn't simply wander through and out the tunnels of brimstone and hell, that Darkseid has been notoriously acclaimed for, Barry wouldn't have stood a chance. Darkseid had no chance either- Iosing an asset that He has successfully tortured and enslaved, as well as creating a trail that would give the Justice League, his only threat, any odds of advancement. Wouldn't Darkseid have not allowed Barry to see his rescue?

"A final act of torture? False hope."

Clark and Lois

The room that was speculated to be the baby's room if they weren't able to move before the baby slept full nights is… rather destroyed. Even Clark has to admit. The big hole in the wall next to the bed they got for Barry isn't exactly Barry's fault though, and Barry did try to pick up the boxes of office supplies that he kicked down during his nightmare last night. They don't know how they're going to get the black blood stains out of the floor, the ones from the past two weeks still haven't come out and are just as black as the ones from last night or sometime before. 

There's a lot of clutter for Clark to get around as he hooks up this gaming system, or admittedly attempts to. Growing up on the farm with a lot of work to do, wide open spaces for exploring and playing, and periods of power outages, he can't say he knows where these cords go or how this thing is supposed to work.

Lois asks, "Do you need me to call Bruce?" But really she's laughing at herself, because she's none the wiser. The Super Nintendo she and her sister once received on Christmas may as well have not had Lois's name on it, the schools and journalism programs had her seeing home five hours a day, eventually five a week sometimes. And now, Clark is the only reason she's kept this place outside of little business trips, and this baby and now Barry have her down to 9(in her case,7)-5 work days and chores and formulated TV shows and books. 

The clothes he didn't take this time goes into the dresser and the things he's scattered on the floor go back on the shelf just like it should be. She has more little things for him to fidget with and some snacks he hopefully won't be able to resist, and she'll find a good place to put them (he's used to them getting thrown wherever they happen to go, but he can't keep stepping on them). And Monkey  can go on the bed. Under the blanket, where Clark is less tempted to give it to Barry.

Clark says, "Lo... Did you feel something off last night?" She responds the way he typically does, "Yes. I'm worried too. Things get worse before they get better." 

"What if they don't?" Barry was doing very well and adjusting, now not so much. Every time he makes progress, he gets pushed two steps back. And Clark is back to the beginning. There is nothing he can do. Barry probably needed to talk last night, laying awake all alone in this tiny place The four corners that lock in a smell that Clark has been filled with before. Depression? Dissociation ? A form of loss. Detachment. Deterioration 

Chapter Text

Bruce

The plane landed and Bruce was already out, and Alfred caught up in time.

Now in the van there's not a word from Bruce as he drives straight to the industrial district. It raises a brow on Alfred as the van turns down the avenue into inner city.

"Where might we be going? Master Wayne?"

"I need to run an errand before we go to Corp." He needs to hurry, R and D is expecting them.

Before Alfred can get an explanation, Bruce pulls into the most unlikely place. The last time he been here wa

years with the perspective of the back of the building from a high spot

In the alleyway. This place has changed a lot since the last time he and his parents had come.

The superstore sign is big in Alfreds glasses. Bruce is already parking and gets out of the car and leaves Alfred to sit holding his glasses wondering what, why, how Bruce is here. Bruce goes straight into the doors and misses the surprised crowd by just two seconds. He actually has no idea what he's doing here and putting on a drunken smile allows him to stumble around in search of the homeware department. He won't admit this is all (probably) an excuse to not be dragging himself through Wayne Corps Development Division right now. 

He grabs things off the shelf as he loathes the scene of walking into R and D and hearing the developer head's son Luke hasn't quite engineered a particle detector that is strong enough but can still legally be registered as a tangible prototype long enough to get the parts. No, what Bruce truly loathes is walking into the division door and seeing…

Luke catching him as he arrives, with a blueprint to shove into his hand.

The blueprint, with the concept that Bruce and Alfred are going to have to transform The beginning of the torture device they get to put Barry through.

It looks so bad in his hands. The voices and noises around the Wayne Corp actually hurt his ears, to think everyone else simply going about living, working another day. Luke's voice explaining how this contraption will hypothetically work in a normal, intended context makes Bruce numb it presses how far this situate has become and the perversion he and Alfred will have to put towards something Luke talks about as if it just a research project all the modifications and toying going to take to build this thing that may or may not help them get a lead on a situation Barry doesn't deserve. One that wouldn't even be if Bruce hadn't have hunted him down to fight this war and let him join on the presumption this was all just a fun fighting adventure, what Bruce can imagine Barry seeing as an Avengers Watchmen Rick and Morty clash where he so happens to qualify and make a friend or two. What friends they are. what friend Bruce let himself be.

 If this isn't the best proof that history repeats itself, Bruce doesn't know what is. These blueprint are so close to the beginning of the advanced CT scan that had been constructed beneath the cave over a decade ago that a certain Dick Grayson found himself in more times than Bruce remembers and it feels like only yesterday he loaded a boy's pallor body into an alien device to prove what he already knew, that there was no saving Dick..

And Bruce has to ask, has this all been worth it? When he took Dick in was it worth it?

Losing Dick, worth it? Failing him, is it worth it?

Taking Barry in during the war, insisting he has a place to sleep that wasn't a hoarded warehouse, was it worth leading to this? Was it all worth offering him a place after the war, only to respect his wishes to go back, but to absolutely, definitely have Bruce and Diana as good friends? Probably, Bruce can't handle things and organize personal affairs and he's well aware of it. Is it worth letting himself allow Barry to live like this? Or to allow himself to try his best to help, and to accommodate Barry post-war after round two with Darkseid, being a prisoner.

 Barry's destroyed his house, he comes home to the same thing he would once return to when Dick was young. Soda stains all over the couch, spaghetti sauce splattered on the designer rugs, somehow Ensure and spitup from Barry choking on a pill have made it onto the ceiling.

 It's not about the mess. Bruce has his own mess that's been sitting for a week or more from before Lois and Clark took Barry back and Bruce no longer had to pretend Gotham didn't need Batman. He puts away the new cookware he bought. Some things end up on the counter on the clean spots that don't have stains from (Bruce's attempt at) cooking spaghetti. The sprawl of cookbooks and spices make it look the way it once did during the short time Alfred stayed here and tried taking care 

of 18 year old Bruce to No avail, and Bruce finally understands why all the dishes are in the sink. He could have Alfred help but wouldn't. Alfred would only go around the kitchen getting every nook and cranny, all the junk that's gotten crammed under the table and really, all the furniture, every pen and fidget toy and even drink coaster that Barry seems to enjoy hoarding and losing. Bruce do has found himself doing the same thing the more he's at home, Alfred could be maintain the makeshift office areaBruce has accumulated, or the bed that Bruce and Barry shae now due to Barryl lacking the ability to stay in the bed that once belonged to Dick however Bruce won't let him.

It feels good to be destroyed. Bruce feels good for once and it feels good to feel good. It's a special kind of  destruction, like ao safe space, to have Barry here without him actually being present for Bruce to see the suffering and fuck things up the way he does.

Chapter Text

This wasn't exactly a formal occasion (still a Taco Bell despite Bruce's suit and Diana looking stunning as always, and the thing in Barry's hand dripping on his jackets' zippers and the table being his tenth chalupa), but Barry couldn't thank them enough. Every moment with them, individually, or as a group, has been so functional, secure. So drastic in terms of having not one but two people (often an entire team) looking out for him, able to actually understand him.

Diana grabbed a napkin and wiped Barry's face after agreeing with Bruce that it was "No problem, Barry. No problem at all.”

And Barry knew this wasn't a friend trap, or pity, or a plot to lure Barry in and take advantage of him or hurt him (or so he hopes, please don't give Barry a reason to be scared).

But the outing wasn't all about him. They did bring him out for food, but it was about time Barry came to his senses and realized that a pile of burrito wrappers, a Locos box full of napkins Diana was collecting, and even some cheese spatter on Bruce's tie (almost as bad as the stain  from the Pepsi that Barry had spilled twice) was probably enough. Certainly enough. His guilty grin pulled away from the chalupa, not to give another order but to agree with Diana's implicating smile and fidgeting with her helix ring.  "Yeah…This is... a lot."

"You're a big boy, Barry. Your powers and needs are not in  your control." And she and Bruce looked at each other, with mutual relief. Bruce asked Barry. "You think you're full now?" 

Barry answered with a hiccup burp, then another, a burp too big to escape in one go. It took a jerk of his head to break up the acid reflux, then he was back to smiling, the biggest he'd smiled since Bruce had picked him up this morning. Being so reloaded, replenished, recharged. Or quite possibly it was simply Bruce's perspective years and years after that one day where Alfred had finally convinced Bruce to take Dick Grayson out, to have something that wasn't vengeance and suffering, and that same day (coincidentally or not) that Dick had begun coming to terms with the way things were bound to be. Bruce would never forget the sight of that boy showing quesadilla after quesadilla who's boss, having to tell him, "Hey, slow it down a little." to no avail as the boy fed months of hunger and hate.

Even as Barry stood up voluntarily ready to leave, Bruce knew better. Even seeing the ramen and soda stains from this morning on Barry's jacket when Barry stopped next to the table to let Diana wipe the chalupa and cheese off him, Bruce said, "Let's get something for the road.”

Barry's eyes went as big as his cheeks that monched the rest of the chalupa.

Barry's last meal before Hell – cinnamon twists.

Which, after only a minute of exiting Taco Bell and walking down the street, sounded too good. Barry was already fishing around for crumbs and it wouldn't take long for his standard of "crumb" to change: small chunks that wouldn't be missed, next half pieces, then normal pieces with slivers missing.

Bruce chuckled, at the second bag he had folded up in his pocket. 

Since the three hadn't had much time to talk about non-fight team stuff, Diana started as they turned a corner towards some back roads and took a stroll to "find" Bruce's car. 

"So Prince, how's the training with Dr Singh?"

"A bit slower than I'd hoped, "though that's more of a Barry thing, "but after the break they're bringing in new interns, and maybe I'll be promoted.”

Which put a smirk on Bruce. Barry wouldn't get promoted on his own accord or even last the first month, but Bruce had him covered and he would never know what was behind the scenes. He and Diana shared a smile as Barry went on tangent ......How the department is trying to investigate the string of what they can't describe fires or explosions, straight up zapping. The first case had been a BooM and a smoking pit in the ground upon a witness going to check it out. Second case, a pit stumbled upon by a group of hikers out past the train tracks, with no residue to indicate a wildfire and it would had to have been some Maniac of an arsonist to combust crop circles with no gasoline, and patches of dirt rummage without the leaves and grass burnt to crisp. It had to have been a whole group, in order to evacuate an entire downtown, leaving the people so hysterical that they could barely speak properly about the blue swirling that zipped down then back to the heavens... and only three minutes later, leave a truck driver in the highway with his headlights smashed into a pole to avoid a strike of what he could only describe as a tube of electricity that shot down.... And Barry swore at himself for having missed it, despite just stopping by a moment before to check the highway —-he would've seen this monster of a strike, right? He’'d eventually have to figure it out, Singh's crew wasn't about to heil the news with an unresolved NEW ALIEN INVASION— one in 2013 was already plenty, and that theatrics event with the Batman team was ought to stay gossip. 

However, instead of telling the story in a way that would concern Bruce and Diana, Barry broke into hand gestures that send his crumbs flying and goofy sound effects, rendition of what he imagines the BOOM would be up close and a version he had heard luminate through the cities between his dramatic vague story-not-telling that echoed through the backroads.

As they approached Bruce's car, Bruce went ahead of them to unlock it, get the doors open, and get himself in. Diana made the mistake of leaving Barry behind, for only a second.

Barry was filled with this overwhelming urge, a pulsing almost, to zoom over to the Central City observatory. To stand dumbfounded, with a sea of lightning showing him each tiny detail, every frame of reality, as he waited for a crime or an accident to show itself. This time, instead of watching the scene and waiting for an opening, he flicked his head around, desperate for someone to pop out, some type of explosion to begin taking off, or any indicator of anything to explain why he was here.

Speak of the devil. There it was, he looked up into the boom tube as it came down for him and the void sucked him in.

Chapter Text

With Darkseid

After the cleansing, what little soul and autonomy left in Barry was just enough to allow the bands to restrain him—not surrender to them but allow them to hold his weight like the strings of a puppet. He looked up at the Furies, physically destroyed from the lungs out despite the blood pumping strong, the wheezing not fatal but only a flaw of his and wounds sealed tight like the glaze in his eyes.

Eyes that begged, why? Why are they doing this? It had to be over now, there was nothing else they could do to him.

this was the coldest he had ever been, he dead of hell and space made the sweat freeze on his back and the comfort of his jackets was a lie.

Everything, a lie. The past 23 years of his stupid life, a lie. The idea of him beyond that including his conception and two loving parents wanting him and being brought to tears at the idea, the imagines, of who their son or daughter would someday be –lies. And the things his parents have done, Bruce too, and the memories of his mother's warm embrace, her voice telling him how special he was, and nowadays Diana selling the same script -- whether this all actually happened, or Barry was able to convince himself of some bigger picture out of desperation to have a purpose or solid identity, it was now all redundant, inconsequential, obscure. The here and now, as The Great One's asset, was all Barry ever needed, wanted, existed for…

Granny Goodness's command snapped through. "Agent 205." 

"Yes, Mistress?" It wasn't fully automatic at the time but compelling out of fear and a new nature that rotted its way into his brain.

"Good boy," she praised for his attention.

Barry's brain flared, the need to please, obey, earn appraisal and deserve a place here burned like a fire in his neck, spreading to his limbs.

"Rise for your mistresses." 

"Yes,” his voice cracked, as he bore the weight of his restraints.

As a silhouette conjured in the distance, Barry stood to attention… too tight to even perk his head in order to get a better view of DeSaad as he came to check on this operation. Little did Barry know, his first session with the Furies was expected to not last much longer. The Great One would like the human back, even if it meant DeSaad coming to lead the human's cleansing.

Bernadeth spat. "We can handle this!"

Barry grew dizzy from his lungs beating and heart racing, torn on whether to agree with Mistress Bernadeth at the cost of disregarding the authority of a Master so closely affiliated with The Great One or to ask, "Yes Sir, what needs to be done?". He flicked his eyes between the Mistress who had graced him with these restraints and Granny Goodness.

Barry squeaked, with frantic nodding towards Bernadeth. "They're doing well, rather well, yeah!"

Bernadeth could prove it. Her claw of a hand snatched the ground between her feet. Barry had no time to flinch, his face didn't stand a chance. The acidic gravel and mess she flung at his face was heavy enough to knock him back down, and he got tangled in the bands as he desperately fought the restraints and the searing in his face to get back up, like Granny had ordered of him. DeSaad gnarled, and not even at the defamation of such a powerful asset, but at the petty of his sister.

Bernadeth screamed at Barry, with another thrash of soil. “Learn to take it. The Great One has more coming. The agents never survive." 

DeSaad ordered her, "Resist sabotage. This human will survive. It's a guarantee." Barry had been successfully cleansed, and the little autonomy that was left to be stripped of this pathetic human was being wasted, tearing up and panicking over Bernadeth's petty threats. As if death was the worst end to this nightmare.

Martha and Barry

Martha's not filling the bath with much water after what's just happened outside. There's something incognizant or incoherent about  his eyes, he's not okay, even as all the cuts he'd gotten from falling are healed and faded like normal when his clothes are off.

When she takes a rag to the scrapes to get the rocks out and check for any glass she missed, he shivers and winces a bit, he's not used to it hurting for this long.It's so concentrated in these gentle, fragile nerves, the black clotting is so sharp, and hot.

Now she needs to take the bandaids off and replace them after looking at his scraped fingers. Really it's just procrastination, stalling. "Honey, I know it's hard getting in the bath, but we need it." And surely Barry wants to go to the fair tomorrow if he feels better, before Bruce comes back to take him back to Clark and Lois, right? He needs to be clean for that. There's no guarantee yet that Barry will wash at Bruce's either, one time last month wasn't substantial, and here at the farmhouse is the only way. The only place he actually feels... relative. As he steps into the tub, and sits on the faded fish pads and surrounds himself with things that Martha couldn't bring herself to throw out, like Clark's old soap bottles, and one of Jon's razor clips, and the  lived-in porcelain and chipped walls, this is actually home. It's not the solid black abyss of a shower at Bruce's, or the wide open space at the Kent apartment where the water goes from cold to fire in just seconds, or Diana's place that's so organized he's scared to even touch anything. 

When Martha takes a cup and pours hot water over his back, it slides off. He's not drowning or getting pelted or held down. And she has a story for him, in between her constant asks of "Is this okay?"

He clenches his eyes and gets lost in this story, while she carefully wets his hair, moreso with her fingers rather than just throwing the water on him.

The story of a boy named Clark Kent. Fortunately, she's  the very rare kind of mother who can spare the embarrassing details or more personal ventures, but she's not afraid to tell Barry what he, or what the ideal world, should know.

Although it's not the intention, this is essentially the perfect compilation of the reasons why Barry needs to just... leave Clark be. The school bus, the oil rig, all these travesties that Clark single handedly fought for complete strangers. The things he does for others all the while not being totally Invincible – Clark has a human side too and he literally died before. Clark has his own business and Barry is the last thing he needs, Clark is too good.

DeSaad channels in to remind him of the only place he belongs, the only thing Barry exists for both in fate and in The Great One's mercy.

The experimentation that followed the cleansing wasn't for nothing. It was an honor to be Darkseid's favorite asset, the key to taking the League down and  igniting the Anti-Life Equation. And the human would have an opportunity to amend his sin of interrupting the unity.

Martha has a towel ready for Barry when he is out of the tub.

She'll dry him off and take another chance to check his skin.

Barry's feelings of safety manifest as letting her run her hands over him once again, and not feeling conscious or shameful as goosebumps grow under her fingers or the towel. 

Martha tells him, "I know it's cold. Let's get dressed. We're doing a good job." Barry really did do a good job. Everything today, he has been so strong. He's taken so much he shouldn't have to, there's no reason for Barry to be so strong. At only 24 --scratch that, any person at any age on God's earth should never have to be here at this point. She can only imagine what's gotten him here, but she doesn't let it go too far, her little heart can't take it. Not to mention Barry's dignity.