(A/N) For the tumblr prompt "things you said when you thought i was asleep" from sophisticatedloserchick

Iris always used the ride up in the elevator to compose herself, to blink her eyes dry, to put her shoulders back and settle a bright, sunny smile on her face, ready to greet the Star Labs staff. What there was of them, anymore. "How is he today?"

Cisco looked nonplussed at the question. He usually did. "Uh. Still comatose. Sorry."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Well. I brought Scientific American." The subscription came to the house now, redirected by the post office. She'd tried reading it on her own, but resorted to saving it for when she visited Barry. She still didn't get half of what it was talking about, but reading the articles aloud to him at least felt like he was telling her about science.

"Well, hey. That's pretty exciting."

She shot him a smile that was a little more genuine. "Thanks, Cisco."

"Yup. You let me know if you need anything."

"Of course."

She started in with the letters to the editor, updating Barry like it was their favorite soap opera. This actually kind of was. She enjoyed seeing the people responding with flaming indignation to some article or another, and then the people who responded to those letters. It wasn't quite as entertaining as Twitter, but it would do.

Dr. Snow came through, checking Barry's vitals, silent and businesslike as always. She worked around Iris like she was another piece of equipment, and not an especially interesting one. Iris had gotten her to talk a few times, but not many.

When she had recorded the numbers in a tablet and had turned away, Iris said loudly, "He's not losing any muscle mass."

The doctor went still, then looked over her shoulder. "No."

"I've read articles about coma patients. About what to expect. This isn't normal, is it?"

"No," Dr. Snow said. "But it's not necessarily bad. Excuse me." She ducked her head and turned away, heels click-click-clicking out of the cortex.

Iris raised her brows at nothing, then shrugged. She'd at least gotten a few words out of her. She'd long ago decided the other woman was shy and awkward, piled on top of her shattering loss, and considered a few words from her the equivalent of a warm chat.

She had to set aside the magazine halfway through the first article, which she understood but wished she didn't, because it was about something Barry had spent an hour and a half geeking out about last year and it made her want to cry.

She played with his limp fingers as she chatted to him about the behind-the-counter soap opera of Jitters - how many phone numbers the baristas had gotten, who was dating who, the dramas of the regulars. She launched into a story about a new regular that they all called the Online Dater, a guy who came every Thursday night, who always sat in the corner booth and always ordered the same thing and always met with the same kind of woman even if they weren't the same woman - "It's like the definition of insanity, Bare, doing the same thing over and over again and always being surprised when you get the same result."

Barry would have laughed at the different ways the women avoided the OD's hugs or attempted kisses at the end of an hour. She wanted to hear him laugh so much her heart creaked. But his eyes stayed closed and his mouth a flat, unsmiling line.

She was wondering if she should tell him that her dad's new partner had asked her out when a voice said, "Ah, Miss West. Four o'clock already?"

She turned in her chair. "Dr. Wells. Hi there. How's your physical therapy going?" He'd mentioned it last time, in passing, so she felt safe using it as small talk.

He rolled into the cortex, a little twist to his mouth. "About like you'd expect for a paraplegic. Although today I was meeting with the lawyers. There are a number of pending lawsuits. More all the time."

"Well," she said. "I know one family that won't sue you. You've done so much for Barry. I really can't thank you enough."

"My pleasure," he said softly, and she felt her stomach creep, the way it did sometimes at Star Labs, when she saw the sly, knowing edge of Dr. Harrison Wells' smile.

It made no sense. He'd been nothing but kind. He'd taken over Barry's medical care almost completely, and she'd seen the hospital bills from before so she knew if he hadn't, she and her dad would probably be bankrupt by now.

A corner of her brain lit up neon and klaxoned, WHY WHY WHY

Because he's a good person, Iris, Barry-in-her-head told her. He believed in good people.

So did she.

She did. Really.

All the same, why would he do all this for one person, when so many people had been hurt or killed by the explosion?

Dr. Wells wheeled closer. "And how is our Mr. Allen today?"

Not yours, she wanted to snarl, and when he paused, giving her a quizzical look, she thought maybe she'd slipped and said it aloud.

Then she realized, she'd shifted a little closer to Barry's hospital bed, angling herself to block his defenseless body with her own. Her head pounded with sudden, shocking rage.

Dr. Well's brow rose, and through his glasses, those flat blue eyes locked onto hers.

A thin ringing started in her ears, a buzz of energy at the edge of her fingertips. Her heart thudded harder and harder with every beat.

What are you protecting him from? she asked herself, and had no answer. But her fingers curled in the bedsheets and her spine crackled with energy that wanted to go everywhere.

"He's fine," she said, answering his question. "According to Cisco and Dr. Snow."

"And they would know, of course."

"Of course."

He smiled, a thin flat lizard flick of a smile, and wheeled himself backward. "Tell your father hello for me," he said. "See you tomorrow, Miss West."

"See you tomorrow, Dr. Wells," she said, and didn't relax until he'd turned into the corridor. Then she went limp.

When she unhooked her fingers from the blankets, they shook with the aftereffects of adrenaline.

That … that had been weird.

Except not so weird. Dr. Wells was … she didn't think she was imagining it. There was something hungry about his eyes when he looked at Barry.

That was ridiculous, she told herself. What could he possibly want from a CSI? Barry was brilliant, she knew, but it wasn't as if he was a superstar theoretical scientist. He ran blood samples and analyzed carpet fibers.

Dr. Wells was - had been - an internationally renowned physicist, with a stable of brilliant minions under him, attempting to push out at the boundaries of reality as they knew it. Or something. She'd zoned out a little on Barry's explanation, preferring to watch him jump around and his face light up as he explained it to her.

It just made no sense.

All the same, when she leaned down to kiss her best friend's cheek to say goodbye, her usual farewell of, "Wake up soon, Barry," had a note of extra urgency.

Because she couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to get out of Star Labs as soon as possible.

FINIS