Coldflash and Legends One-Shots

Illusion (Rated PG13)

Summary:

Barry needs to find a way to fix things. To change things between him and Len. To stop the inevitable. But as smart as Barry is, with all of his super powers, are there some things that just can't be changed?

Notes:

This is kind of a re-write of a one-shot I wrote for another fandom. Also, it has a twist to it, so you've been warned.

***

Pop ...

Sizzle ...

Crackle ...

Whir ...

The intense silence in the kitchen amplifies the sounds of breakfast cooking, but Barry's mind has wandered so far from this room, the noise barely chips its way in. He's working on autopilot, meandering from stove to sink to counter, paying no attention to where his feet land, his hands powered by déjà vu, not a thing pulling his notice – not the bacon, smoking in its oil, needing to be flipped; not the toast, popped in its slots, cooling for over thirty minutes; not the eggs he's been whisking so fast they're becoming meringue. A groan from upstairs jars him out of his stupor, and he finally looks down at the bowl of frothy pale yellow on its way to becoming white peaks. He glances over at the staircase, a huge lump settling above his Adam's apple, then back at his eggs, and sighs. He was never that good at cooking anyway. Most of his adult life has been spent existing off of cold cereal and ramen soup when he wasn't living with Joe and Iris. Of all his talents as a scientist and a superhero, whipping up pancakes or frying an egg wasn't among them. Funny since cooking is basically science, a factoid that his boyfriend points out every morning Barry overcooks oatmeal.

Just this once, for this breakfast, Barry had wanted to get something right.

Labored footsteps cross the floor overhead and Barry continues whisking. He's in no danger of making anything out of the eggs at this point, but he can't think of anything better to do. It's not actually about the breakfast, it's about this moment. He's been waiting all morning for it, and now that it's arrived, he's not ready to face it.

Thunk, thunk, thunk – the sound of one-hundred seventy pounds of lean muscle making its way to the kitchen kicks Barry into overdrive. He zips around, collecting up the edible elements of the meal and laying them out on the table. If he'd been searching for self-satisfaction, he'd have to admit that the spread he comes up with – a stack of toast and another of waffles, the original pound of unburnt bacon, and a farmer's market worth of diced fruit – is impressive, especially considering he doesn't remember making any of it.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Len grumbles to the streak of red lightning serving up food. "The infamous Flash making breakfast for little ol' me? Whatcha tryin'a do, Red? Fatten me up before you drag me off to Iron Heights? My last decent meal as a free man?" He runs a hand over his shaved head, suspiciously side-eyeing the wall clock as he makes his way to the table. "12:30? So, either you let me sleep late on purpose or you're still not talking to me." He takes a seat, reclining with his arms locked behind his head. Silver-blue eyes watch Barry hop between pans on the stove, preparing what looks like a colossal meal.

Big meals mean people, and Len's not exactly in the mood.

"Are you expecting guests for breakfast, Red? Iris? Joe? The CCPD, perhaps?"

"No," Barry says, cursing the hoarseness in his voice. He turns off the bacon, gives up on the eggs, and sets two empty plates down on the table. Barry has yet to look at Len, spread out in his chair, observing him curiously. He's been on the edge of tears all morning and if he looks at his face, that smug smile and those mischievous blue eyes, he's not going to make it through breakfast. Crap! He should have done this another day.