Hartmon, coda to 3x19
Cisco snaps into wakefulness so suddenly it leaves him gasping for air. Something’s nagging at his consciousness, something he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time, and he sits up against the headboard, grabbing his laptop from the bedside table.
“Why do you hate me,” Hartley groans and rolls over, still mostly asleep, fingers tangling in the thin cotton of Cisco’s boxers. It hitches the fabric up his thigh and Cisco smiles absently, taking a moment to run one rounded knuckle along Hartley’s bare shoulder. The circuitry is keeping his hands warm, nowhere near the human skin levels, but far from the usual icy feel of metal. It was Hartley who came up with the solution, after Cisco kept startling himself awake in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat and dreaming of ice crackling up his forearms; but the warmth has its other uses, simpler, sweeter.
Hartley mumbles under the touch and cracks one eye open as Cisco taps away, giving into the strange foreboding sensation in his gut.
“What is it?”
“Just a feeling. Go back to sleep,” Cisco whispers back, unwilling to rouse his partner unless there’s an actual emergency. Daniela will do that anyway, soon enough – the nights have been less than peaceful ever since the teething pain came back, and so they’ve had to resort to afternoon naps like this one whenever there’s a moment of peace.
The security feed of the city looks like it does any other day, or at least any day that Cisco bothers to check; it’s less and less often, these days, what with the constant rollercoaster of formula, diapers and snatching any chance at getting some rest.
And then, his attention snags on a flash of red, and Cisco’s heart nearly stops in his chest. He plays it back, slowly, and sure enough, there he is: the Flash, Barry Allen, in all his long-forgotten glory, blazing red and daring, fighting the Top and the Mirror Master as if the last seven years never happened. For a split second, Cisco dares to hope that his friend has had enough of his hermit life, but then he catches a glimpse of the Flash symbol on the speedster’s chest, and he knows with heart-wrenching certainty that this is not his Barry. Or at least, not his current one, the man destroyed by the loss of his heart and of himself.
Cisco snaps the laptop shut and leans over to press a kiss to Hartley’s temple.
“I gotta go.”
That gets Hartley’s attention, and he scrunches up his face, blinking slowly.
“Be careful, alright?”
Hartley doesn’t ask where it is he has to go, and Cisco takes a second to breathe through the sudden wave of intense love that sweeps over him: he knows they’ve come to trust each other implicitly in the past four years, something he never would’ve thought possible, but it still catches him unawares in moments like these, when Hartley doesn’t even think about treating him as anything else than a self-sufficient genius that he still is, even without his powers.
“Get some rest while you can,” he chuckles quietly and slips out of the bed, grabbing his padded gloves and some clothes off the floor. With a grimace, he tosses his hoodie, stained with spit-up, in the vague direction of an armchair that has become an impromptu laundry basket in the past few days. He grabs Hartley’s oversized sweater instead and ties his hair in a quick ponytail, grimacing as he realizes he doesn’t remember the last time he had the time to hop into a shower. Well, 2017 Barry will just have to deal with it: he’s not here for a beauty contest, anyway.
“Be right back,” he calls softly over his shoulder; before he slips out of the room, he hears Hartley’s voice, muffled into a pillow:
“Love you.”
“Love you too,” Cisco mumbles. He checks up on their daughter real quick, making sure she’s still asleep, and closes the door as quietly as possible, then runs towards the wreck of an apartment where Barry Allen will no doubt be looking for some answers.