SNOWBARRY: Sometimes Runs, Sometimes Can't

Chapter 22 - Pathetic

The trace stretched further than Barry expected. For three days, he and Frost tracked the signal across highways and backroads, until the city lights thinned and the woods pressed in on either side. 

Each night, the trail grew colder. Each day, Barry grew harsher. The lightning in his veins was barely sputtering, feeding his rage more than his speed. And every night Frost matched his darkness with her own.

By the end of day three, they stumbled across a nameless roadside motel. 

They parked the car; the signal had pulled them miles from Central City. The neon motel vacancy sign buzzed overhead, flickering like it might die at any moment.

They had slept in the car for the last two nights, and the sight of the motel, no matter the hour, was a relief they both accepted without argument.

Inside, the room was as bare as Barry felt. Two beds, threadbare blankets, a single lamp casting yellow light that made the peeling wallpaper look sickly.

Frost dropped her bag onto the nearest bed and sat, crossing her legs with deliberate ease. "Romantic," she said dryly. "Just how I pictured spending the week, cheap motels and the world's most brooding man-child."

Barry peeled off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. "You didn't have to come."

"I came," she said, tilting her head, "because without me, you'd be face down in a ditch by now. Admit it, Allen. You need me."

Barry's eyes flicked to hers, sharp but tired. "I needed Caitlin. Not you."

Her smile was ice. "Caitlin's gone. Get over it."

Silence filled the room, heavier than the stale air.

Barry sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. "Is she?" His voice cracked. "Is she really gone, or do you just keep telling yourself that so you don't have to feel?"

She'd told him earlier that she doesn't do feelings, that that's not how she was built. 

Frost's eyes glittered dangerously, but she didn't look away. "Caitlin was weak. She broke every time life demanded strength. She drowned in her feelings, and as a result, I resurfaced. She's shielded or buried. Call it whatever you want. But she's where she belongs."

Barry's jaw clenched. "Sounds familiar."

Frost arched a brow. "Oh? You think we're the same now?"

Barry's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I think we're both liars, pretending we don't care because caring hurts too much."

Frost faltered for a flicker of a second, the faintest crack in her mask. 

But then her eyes iced over again, her voice sharper than before. "Maybe. But at least I'm honest enough to admit that I hate you for what you did to her."

Barry leaned back, exhaling through his nose, eyes on the ceiling. "Hate is a feeling, too, Frost," he said quietly. 

The words slid under her skin. She stiffened but refused to let him see it. "Whatever. I'm taking a shower," she snapped back at him, pushing herself off the bed.

***

The bathroom door shut behind her with a click.
As steam filled the cramped space, fogging the mirror, curling over the pale tiles, Frost stared at her reflection. Silver hair plastered against her face, the ice fire in her eyes burning brighter than the lights above.

But the steam didn't ease her stiff shoulders or her thoughts. 

It only sharpened them.

For three days, she'd been veering him, his looks, his breathing, those silent glances he thought she didn't notice.