"Why hide?"

The Flash tilts his head downward. It's not the lighting that casts a small smile on his lips. "Collateral damage," he says in that same unearthly warble. Iris folds her arms across her chest to hide her shiver. "My friends, my family … none of them would be safe."

"What about you?" Iris presses, daring to take a step closer. They're separated by twenty feet, a safe distance – she can only just see his face, making out no distinctive features. In the right light, she could pick out his eyes, his jaw, but little else. "Or are you as invincible as you seem?" she adds lightly.

He huffs. "That's a loaded question."

"Sorry. I'm not selling information," she promises, holding up her right hand. "I'm just – curious." She lowers her hand to her side and dares to advance. "You're real." Then, clarifying, she allows, "I mean, of course you're real, but – I didn't think there was anybody like you. My friend – Barry, he's … always talking about impossible things." She's less than fifteen feet away from him. He idles back half a step, and she pauses responsibly. "Were you born this way?" she asks. "Or did it—"

"It happened to me."

"How?"

He lifts his gaze, looking right at her. She knows she should be afraid – should retreat, as fast and as far as she can from this spectral in the night – but she finds herself only desperately eager to know more. "You don't want it to happen to you," he evades.

That stirs a laugh, half-breathless, half-disbelieving from her. "Who wouldn't want to be a superhero?" she tantalizes. "The Flash?"

He ducks his head. She swears his cheeks flush, even in the dark. "Iris—"

She steps closer. "How do you know my name?"

He keeps his gaze on the gravel between them. "You write about me." Then, disappearing, he reappears on the edge of the shelter-roof just above her. "You should stay away from me. It's dangerous. People will think you – know more than you do."

"I don't care," she admits, still a little breathless, a little dazed. "I'll take my chances. You take yours."

"I have superspeed."

"I'm not made of glass."

"Iris."

Her whole world seems to still for a moment. Even distorted, there's something about the way he says her name that calls her back to reality, making her heart race. "I don't want you to get hurt," he says seriously. "I couldn't live with it if – if this put you in danger."

She approaches and he shuffles. She chances him Flashing off to say, "Being alive is dangerous. You can't protect me from that, unless you—" The sheer notion, that this perfect stranger with the ability to run faster than her eyes can even begin to process could kill her, brings her to a gentle halt at the edge of the rooftop. "You wouldn't," she finishes, looking up at him, close enough to touch.

His breath is shallow, but he holds his ground. "I wouldn't," he agrees. He swings his feet lightly. The irrational urge to reach out and touch Mercury's boots nearly overwhelms her. She tucks her hands in her pockets instead. "I … I just want there to be as few casualties as possible. In all of this," he confides.

The openness astonishes her. "You're saving a lot of lives," she points out. "Why the worry?"

"I can run fast, but I'm not a—" He pauses. Aborts. "I should go."

Her heart sinks. "Stay," she pleads. Almost slyly, she adds, "I'll bring you coffee."

He huffs a laugh. "It's late. Jitters has been closed for—"

She reaches out. Maybe it's his laughter, or his relaxed demeanor, that inspires her to put a hand on his gently-swinging left foot, stilling it. "Stay," she repeats.

He looks right at her, eyes glowing faintly, highlighting hints of yellow that obscure their true color. In the blink of an eye, he slides off the rooftop and lands in front of her, nimble and sure-footed. "I can't stay all night," he warns.

"I know." She doesn't touch him, honoring the implicit request as he stands a few feet away from her, putting space between them. It doesn't hurt – the mere fact that he's still in her company is a balm to any such wound – but she aches to gravitate towards him, to feel that hint of – lightning, and power, and above all else the human person underneath the brilliant red suit. She restrains herself; she'd rather be left wanting in his presence than wanting in his absence. "I can –" She gestures towards the door, but he's gone in an instant, back before her breath catches. Two piping hot cups of coffee in his gloved hands. "Wow," she finishes, taking the one he hands out to her. Teasingly, she asks, "You didn't break my coffeemaker, did you?"

He hums and sips his own drink. "Not fast enough," he admits. "But I can—" He holds up his now free hand and lets it vibrate. She stares at it. He lets it slow after a moment, cradling his cup in both hands. "Speeds things up," he elaborates.

"Name one thing you can't do," she challenges instantly.

Equally reflexively, he says, "Fly."

She laughs, not expecting an actual response, before taking a sip of her own coffee. Mm. Nice and hot with just the right amount of sweetness to tide her over. He's good. "How'd you know?" she asks, lifting her cup towards him.

"Lucky guess." He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. It's familiar, but – she shakes her head, clearing the stars from her vision long enough to look at The Flash, Central City's most enigmatic – and magnetic – hero and immediately ruling out the absurd coincidence. "What?" he asks warily.

Still – she can't help it, can't resist leaning her weight forward a little, heart pounding. "You just – remind me of someone," she says slowly. He holds his breath when she takes a step closer, putting him in arm's reach. It would be easy to reach up, push back the cowl, see what the most fantastic hero looks like without his red armor – but she knows he would never give her the chance, disappearing into the night, never to be seen again. She doesn't push it. She doesn't want him to go. "When I see – the blur, sometimes I forget that you're a real person," she admits. "But when with you here, I can – I know you're real, and human, but – you're him. The Flash. I know that doesn't make sense—"

"It does." He says it like he means it. She relaxes a little, tension leaking out of her shoulders. It's hard to be tense around him – the warm vibes he puts out are palpable – even if her heart continues to race. "I forget it, too. Sometimes it just seems so – fantastic."

"How old were you when you – became The Flash?" she prods.

He smiles evasively. "I can't tell you."

"Did it hurt?"

He shrugs neutrally. "I'd rather not say."

"So it did." She frowns at the thought.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

He sips his coffee, aura broody in an instant. "It doesn't matter," he says at last.

She lets it go. The fact that he's answering her questions at all – it's something to hold onto. "You look good for whatever age you are," she teases.

His flush is definitely visible. He finishes up his coffee and says, "I'm not gonna tell you how old I am."

"I didn't ask," she replies, dryly echoing his sentiment.

He smiles, a little quirk of his lips that is familiar, but every ounce of energy he exudes is ethereal, beyond, greater-than anything she knows. He might be human, and he might remind her of – she can admit it, staring right at The Flash's cowl, he reminds her of Barry – but this isn't Barry, and she's met 'doppelgangers,' before, people she thought she knew in the echoes of strangers. He's just an echo, perhaps falsely exaggerated by the way his voice warbles, creating the illusion that she can hear Barry's in it. "I should go," he says again, apologetically this time, and she nods.

"Thank you."

He frowns. "For what?"

She holds up the cup of coffee, even though it isn't what either of them mean. "For keeping me company," she finishes.

"Thank you for seeing the good in what I'm trying to do," he replies. Nodding at her cup, he adds, "Don't throw that out right away."

Before she can ask, he's gone, disappearing like a wisp of wind, stirring up the dry autumn air around her.

Intrigued, she returns to the semi-lit warmth of the after-hours Jitters, turning the cup in her hands. She finds the number jotted down just underneath the rim of the lid and smiles. There's no name attached to it, nothing to help her identify him – even if she has such distinguishing characteristics, she'd be ill-equipped to stage a full-fledged investigation – but she almost doesn't want to.

There is something beautiful in the not-knowing.