Barry Allen x Flash | imagines

the beginning

Warning: mature language and content
first person
word count: 3,100
10:46 am | a few months after Barry leaves his coma

There is always a reason to keep going. I knew that, but I wasn't sure if Barry did.

Lately, he had been in over his head. I understood what it may be like: to wake up after all that time, to feel like living life again, to want to be launched back into your life and appreciate what you took for granted.

Barry seemed much more . . . alive. He seemed so animated. I always asked how it felt, to breathe again and feel again. He always met me with the same smile. He would take my hands in his and say, "I can finally do something now. I feel so . . . I feel like I can make a difference now."

The first time he said that to me, I gave him the most ridiculous look.

Make a difference? All you did was wake up . . . the only thing you could do is share your story. What difference will that make?

I never said anything to him. His hopeful smile and optimistic tone always put me in a better mood. Before his . . . very long nap, I knew Barry very little. We worked together, at the police department. I worked a desk, nine to five, logging and taking evidence and making sure nothing went missing. And if something did go missing, it was definitely going to be my fault. I can't tell you how many times Barry had passed my desk before he noticed me.

Barry Allen was always so late, always stumbling up and down the stairs, always fluttering the papers off my desk. One day, he knocked my coffee over. And I was having such a bad day.

The coffee mug shattered as it hit the ground. The sound of it irritated me. I was already so pissed off.

My new job here paid a good amount less than where I worked before, in Star City. After I asked about a raise, these people just laughed in my face. It better not have been because I'm a woman. My parents also weren't able to help me pay my bills this month, as they're having trouble handling my siblings' expenses from college. I also had chipped my newly done nails and put a stain on my favorite shirt. And that mug was my favorite.

I stood up from the chair that I hated. It made my ass hurt.

I bent down to pick up the pieces from the mug, but somebody was already doing it for me. All I saw was the back of someone's chocolate hair, his arms moving quickly to pick up the broken pieces. I knew who it was before he even turned around.

"Jesus, I am so sorry, I really wasn't watching where I was going," Barry muttered. He stood up, his sweater stained with my coffee. It sort of matched his beige sweater, with all the cream I put in my caffeine. He caught my expression and smiled to lighten the mood. "Hey. I can get you another one."

"Another mug like this? You can't. It was my favorite," I snapped, ignoring his gaze. He was very easy on the eyes, but my day was not getting any better. I turned to get back to my seat, but Barry held onto my arm. His hands still held the glass from the mug, and he cut me with it.

"Jesus! I am so-so-shit . . . I am so sorry," he muttered. He threw the glass away and closed his hands over my wound. "My . . . name is Barry. Barry Allen. I'm not making the best first impression, am I? Are you new here?"

I scoffed. "No, I'm not. I've been here a couple of weeks. You just don't notice me."

Barry gave me a sorry look, grabbing a napkin off the counter to stop the bleeding. "I'm sorry . . . I never really see anything but my feet. I should look up more often."