❝ IT'S NOT TOO
LATE TO, TOO
LATE TO SAVE
YOU. ❞
The moment Violett Hale heard Barry Allen's voice, she knew she was in trouble. She tried, but she couldn't resist the mellifluous sound coming through h...
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sixteen | boys—charlie xcx
My heavy feet drag me through the already familiar corridor to Caitlin's apartment; my backpack hanging from a hand and my apron hanging from the other one. Each step flaring with pain after a long shift with at least a hundred people ordering that dark and bitter liquid they like to vitiate their bodies with: coffee. I have to phase through the door since I forgot my key—for the billionth time—and I meet the hushed and lonely apartment. Caitlin must be at S.T.A.R. Labs at these hours, place I should be going right now, yet I'm way too tired, the only place I want to go is that comfy couch in the lounge. I kick my shoes off and throw my backpack and apron to the floor before throwing myself on the couch, letting out a tired groan.
The past couple of weeks have had no action—but like other times, this is just the calm before the storm. It's already been two weeks since we got Wally out of the Speed Force—still our mission wasn't quite successful since Jay Garrick took his place in the prison and he wouldn't let me do it. Barry said that I didn't have to feel bad, for it was a sacrifice Jay was willing to make and nobody pushed him to do it—which is very true, but still, I'm not okay with it.
We haven't come across Savitar or a metahuman with psychotic inclinations, the Speed Force hasn't appeared to me to take me to my judgement day, so I'd say everything's pretty good. This lack of action has given me plenty of time to a, keep breaking the rules and become even closer to the team and b, get used to my first job in quite a long time—one that Iris kindly helped me to get and didn't require experience. I didn't know being a waitress would be this hard and tiring—well, it's C. C. Jitters, everyone is desperately trying to get their daily dose of caffeine and they want it fast; this last thing not being a problem for me at all.
The doorbell rings throughout the apartment and I grimace—that must be the new neighbour, again, with another unintelligent excuse to pop at the door and talk to me. So I take my time to get the door, literally dragging my feet as if there were bags with rocks tied to my ankles as I pray for this guy to think that nobody's home. The doorbell rings one more time and I'm halfway there, crossing my fingers, wishing for this guy to leave.
I look through the peephole and feel both relieved and confused when I see that it isn't the red headed boy next door who stands on the other side of the door; instead, my eyes fall on certain brunette with green eyes—Barry Allen. He stands there, nibbling at his lip as he nervously observes the white door before him, completely oblivious that I'm right here watching that cute little face of his. What is he even doing here? When he said he was a forensic scientist, I thought that meant he was busy at a lab when not dashing around as a hero clad in crimson leather. I open the door, a puzzled look inevitably setting on my face and he smiles widely.
