Barry hadn't meant to go to Wayne Manor. Not so late at night. He hadn't meant to go anywhere, really. Just out for a run to try and warm up because the warehouse was cold sometimes. He'd gone to Gotham, because his feet knew the way and he didn't have to think about it. Because he'd done three runs around Central City and still felt cold.

His coat had seen better days. Not that he could wear it while he was running (heat and friction and fire and all that). And his shivering had been too fast—he'd started to worry about breaking something—so he'd left. Brought spare clothes in a hyped-up backpack just in case. He was wearing them now, hoping they'd be warmer than the suit.

Barry hadn't been cold in a long time. Not since the super speed because his molecules were vibrating faster and making him warmer and—Barry didn't care right then.

Gotham was cold in winter—and Barry should be leaving now, he really, really should. Honestly, the manor looked even colder than the pavement felt. Barry just stared at it, vibrating with shivers. There were probably cameras out here, staring right at him, and he really didn't want to have to explain anything. He should just go, right? Right.

But he didn't want to move. He was too tired to move. Too cold. Too hungry—and that was why he couldn't get a new coat or space heater, really, because he couldn't even afford enough food for his black-hole of a metabolism.

Barry sat, leaning against the wall just beside the gate. It was colder, so much colder, against the bricks and pavement, but after the initial shock, it started to feel warmer. Got the wind off his back, at least. And his chest, when he pulled his legs up.

He was shaking into the wall, and boy, was that going to leave some bruises… no it wasn't. Speed healing, and all that.

He'd just stay here a few more minutes and then he'd go. Back to Central City, and maybe the run would warm him up even if it wouldn't fill him with food. Warm was taking priority right now, and it was a little scary because he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He'd manage, though. Payday was Friday. Today was Wednesday—Thursday now, probably—so not long. Of course, it usually took at least another 24 hours for the money to actually go through and be available in his account, but that was a matter for Friday. It was barely Thursday now.

Barry's shivers started to become less violent—and maybe his body was adjusting to the cold. Maybe the shivering had finally started to warm him up a little. His eyes kept trying to close. He fluttered them open and told himself just one more minute, then home, then sleep. Just one more minute. Please. Please, god, he didn't want to move. The wind was so cold. Every time he moved his body told him just how cold it was. He'd tripped several times getting here, and he ached. How did the cold manage to make every movement hurt so much?

Barry fluttered his eyes again, rolling them around in their sockets to keep himself awake. One more minute. And if only his sense of time wasn't so skewed, he might've actually left at some point. As it was, his eyes finally stayed closed.

"Mister Allen."

The sound woke him. The sound of his name and nothing else, which was strange because he was usually a light sleeper and footsteps on pavement were supposed to be loud. Barry flinched backwards into the wall when he woke and then all he knew was regret because ow.

"Mister Allen." They said again, and Barry's tired mind put the voice and face and words together.

"Alfred?"

"Yes." And Alfred never looked anything other than calm and composed and prepared, but here he was with a pinch between his eyebrows. "We need to move you inside."

"I was—I was just leaving." The words blurted from his mouth, blending together at the edges as though his tongue was too numb to separate them.

Alfred shook his head. "No. Come inside." And when Alfred gives you a command, you obey.

But Barry's legs and hands and arms wouldn't. Everything was stiff—his limbs were still half-asleep, probably. He managed to get semi-upright, at least, and then Alfred got an arm beneath his shoulder and simply hoisted him to his feet. Wow, Alfred was strong. Super-strong, probably, and suddenly it made sense that he was in on the secret, not that he hadn't been awesome before, even without the super-powers, but now his uncanny ability to deal with anything thrown at him actually made some sense. It seemed more believable now.

"Barry," Alfred said, trying to tug him away from the wall, but Barry's feet were frozen—and they hadn't moved, so maybe he didn't have super-strength. Or maybe he was just really nice, you know? Alfred was like that, always asking permission and doing things to help Barry and maybe he just didn't want to have to actually pull him. It was very considerate, actually, when you thought about it.

"Barry." Alfred sounded concerned.

Oh, right. Barry jerked his foot forward—jerked because that's the only way it seemed to obey him at all. It slid across the pavement. Then his other foot jerked to meet it. Alfred led him through the gate—not closing it, Barry noticed, though maybe he pushed a button inside? Or maybe it just closed automatically, wouldn't that be neat?—and up the long driveway toward the—not the front steps, Barry noticed, but toward a little door on the side, because he'd been expecting steps, been prepping for steps, and was a little confused when there weren't any. Alfred ushered him inside.

This was a nice room. Not that it shouldn't have been, or that any of the rooms in this mansion weren't nice, but Barry was just a little—he just noticed, that's all.

Alfred settled him on a couch in front of a fireplace before he left, and wasn't that nice? He even draped a blanket over Barry's barely shivering form.

Barry scooted off the couch and closer to the fire, holding his hands out to try and warm them. He was suddenly cold again. The flames were loud. Bright. Slow.

"Barry."

That wasn't Alfred. Barry didn't care enough to move or turn. Just shifted his hands above the heat of the fire. One more minute, then he'd leave.

"Barry, look at me."

Barry turned his head partway toward the voice, but his eyes stayed on the fire. He didn't want to leave it.

"Barry." It was Bruce—Batman—somewhere to his left.

Barry turned, mouth almost too slow and stiff to speak. Bruce had probably been sleeping. Barry was an inconvenience. An unwanted guest. And so Barry reassured him, "I was just leaving."

Bruce shook his head. "Don't. You're probably hypothermic."

Barry shook his head back, hands still splayed toward the fireplace, his whole body curving toward the flames, "I don't get cold—speed thing."

Bruce looked at him pointedly. "You're not cold?"

"No." Barry turned back toward the fire, "No, I was just leaving."

"I don't want you to leave Barry. I'm telling you right now, don't leave. Do not leave, do you understand?"

Barry nodded slowly, eyes on the shadows that played across his hands when he moved them. "I'll just stay right here, then."

"When's the last time you ate something?"

Barry shrugged. Breakfast sure, but he'd snacked later, so the last time he'd eaten was sooner than that. "I had an apple."

"When?"

When? What did he mean, when? "Today?"

"Okay, but when today? No. No, nevermind, it doesn't matter. Your glucose levels are nonexistent, I'm sure. I'll have Alfred make you something."

"Okay." Barry was starting to shake again. It hurt.

"Barry." Suddenly Bruce was much, much closer. "What were you doing out there?"

"Just visiting. Just… I was about to leave. Really, I was."

"Barry."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Barry. I'm not mad." Bruce pulled the blanket further around him, rubbed his back. Barry curled into it, shivering more and more. "Why aren't you at home?"

"I… it was cold. Went for a run."

"To Gotham?"

"I didn't mean to. I—I'll leave, I'm sorry. I did—I didn't—"

"Do not leave, Barry."

He was shivering faster. Harder. The blanket kept slipping and Bruce had to hold it over him with an arm around his shoulders. It was thicker and softer than any blanket Barry had ever owned.

"Okay," said Bruce, "So you were cold, you went for a run, and you ended up here. Why didn't you come inside?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you come inside the manor? Get out of the cold?"

"I…" Barry shook his head, "What?"

"Look at me, Barry?"

Barry looked. Bruce was… softer than usual. "Did you think Alfred wouldn't let you in?"

"It wasn't… I didn't even… inside?"

"Yes. You know you're always welcome."

Barry shifted closer to the fire, face turning toward it. His shaking hands were trying to hold the blanket closer around his frame. "Am I?" he asked, voice wavering.

Bruce rubbed his shoulder. "Yes, Barry. Next time, come inside."

Alfred appeared a moment later, food piled on a tray.

"Thank you, Alfred. Just set it next to us, please."

Bruce shifted. Moved. Pulled away and Barry could feel the warmth pulling with him. He folded in on himself a little more, inching closer to the fire. Closer and closer, because he was just so cold. And then a hand found his shoulder and stopped him. Scooted him back a little.

"Barry." It didn't sound like Bruce was saying it for the first time. "Barry, not so close." Someone shoved a bar of something—food—into his hand, smashing it against the blanket, "Eat."

Barry curled his nose and tried to hand it back, "I'm not hungry." The person wouldn't take it back.

"I wasn't asking."

Barry shook his head and pulled the blanket tighter, empty hand slipping inside the folds. His eyes were heavy. "I'm just tired."

"You can sleep after you eat." They—Bruce, of course it was Bruce—lifted the hand Barry held the food in, pointing it up. "Eat it."

So Barry did. Small bites, because chewing was tiring. It was hard. And he didn't want to.

"All of it."

Barry groaned. He lowered the bar, tilted onto his side and curled at the base of the fire, the heat finally reaching his skin.

"Please, Barry."

Barry lifted the bar to his mouth. Took a few more bites, and then just kept going, and it took forever, but he finished the bar.

Bruce pushed the tray toward his face. "Have another one."

And Barry's eyes started to water. He rolled over onto his other side, shivering, and his front brutally cold again but his back pleasantly warm. "No." His voice broke just a little. "I'm not hungry."

"Your body needs it."

"I don't care." He squirmed backward, closer to the fire, and Bruce's hand stopped him. "Why's it so cold in here?"

"Because your body doesn't have the energy to warm you up. Eat another bar."

"I'm too tired."

"Barry."

"Tired," Barry mumbled, and then he closed his eyes, flames dancing behind his eyelids.