Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Permission to enter your fort, General?” Barry says, and even though Lup can’t see him, she can hear his little smile. It makes her chest ache like hot wings heartburn, and her impulse is to curl up so small she disappears like she got shrink rayed, but the rational part of her that’s had a lot of opinions about how much time she has spent in the blanket fort today knows that he will help. 

“Permission granted,” she mumbles. Even though it’s hard. 

He ducks in, very careful not to fuck up the delicate architecture of her hideaway behind the couch, and squeezes down in next to her. He pulls a stuffed animal out from under his ass and gently relocates it. 

“Apologies, Corporal,” he mutters, with that little flicker of a glance he always does to see if Lup thinks he’s funny, and that gets her more than the dumb joke. Part of her wants to resist the smile. Most of her is just fucking tired. 

“Hey,” she says, world-weary and ruined by gravity, and he rests his head on her shoulder for a moment. 

“Hey.” He’s cold, probably just came in from outside, not that she was listening for the door or anything. She’s been lost in a thought spiral and going in circles. Her dizzy stomach has only allowed Chex Mix since she woke up at one. “One of those days, huh?” 

“Mhm.” She runs a hand through his hair, gently dusted with snow, and rubs his scalp the way he really likes. He sighs softly, and she feels it deep in her chest like it completely readjusted the air pressure in her little tent. “One of those days.” 

He leans up and kisses her cheek, just barely, softer than a peck. Like bumping into a cloud at the grocery store. She closes her eyes and aches about it, aches in that falling-down-the-stairs way of thinking–he’s so sweet and good and loving, and can she really say she deserves that? Can she say she’s made his life better than she’s made it worse? Can she really-

“Hey,” he says again. “Let me return the favor.”

“You always make a mess of my hair,” she says, with a la croix essence of humor, like maybe this breath was in the same room as a laugh, once, but it’s easy enough to shift in the nest she’s made and lay her head in his lap, closing her eyes again and submitting her hair to be played with. It’s so fucking soothing she could cry, and maybe she will, maybe she will.  

Who’s going to tell her to stop? 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks, something just above a whisper. Mezzo piano, maybe. She debates this at length, more focused on his soothing hand in her hair. Between blanketzone static and him, she’s going to look ridiculous when she finally resurfaces. 

“Dunno,” she says. “I guess there isn’t much to say. You know how sometimes you wake up and, and you feel rotten from the inside out? Like you were trying to hang a shelf on the wall and missed with your hammer and you’re like, shitballs, this whole fucker’s hollow with termites?”

“That’s no good,” Barry says, still in that gentle-but-not-too-gentle way. Like he’s trying to be chill but not trying so hard to be chill that he’s an asshole about how delicate she is right now. Chill enough to defrost tonight’s chicken dinner the slow way and not chill enough to maintain popsicle status chill. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I have to live in this stupid house. And it’s like, who put those fucking termites here. They weren’t invited. And it’s not like someone fucked up and let ‘em in. Termites are the opposite of vampires.”

“So true,” he says. “Should I call the exterminator?”

“Probably.” She rolls a little and looks up at him, and he looks down at her, tangling his hand in her hair. “It’s hard, you know, when you’re just…doing bad, out of nowhere, and you can’t be like, well, obviously I shouldn’t have had a whole pint of BJ’s with the cookie dough in the middle, because a bitch can’t be trusted to not eat the whole thing. And then you can be like, note to self, don’t buy ice cream at the store next time.” 

“Yeah, I feel you there.” He shifts to hold her a little better, rubbing her shoulders achingly slowly. 

“And instead,” she continues. “It’s like, well, I didn’t see that shovel coming and now my nose is broken. And there was nothing I could do about preventing the shovel. And I can’t unshovel me. And now my nose fucking hurts and my white sweater is stained, and we’re back to vampires?” 

“All roads lead to vampires,” Barry agrees solemnly. 

“I’m glad you get me when I say shit like that,” she says, as an aside, and he smiles so fondly at her it makes her teeth ache. 

“I put in the research.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and his smile gets even sweeter. “It was worth it. You always put words in an order I’ve never heard before, and you- so much of you makes life worth living?”

“Cool,” Lup manages, quickly turning her head so she can pretend he didn’t see her tear up just now. “Cool, cool.”

“I mean it. I really do. I mean, I know you know that, but when you’ve got brain termites, it’s hard to believe the termite inspector? And, uh, I’m…following your figurative ballet here, I promise, I just, you know, I have a harder time, keeping up on the participating front, and then I say shit like-” he clears his throat. “I love you, is the thing. And I’m not just saying that. Obviously. I love you all day long, and I love you less like a bandaid and more like oxygen, and every moment I spend away from you I’m thinking of you, and every moment I spend with you I treasure, even if we’re, uh, you know, arguing about who loads the dishwasher wrong, and-”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, incredibly fond. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Facts and feelings are rollercoaster roommates.” He combs through her hair with his fingers again. It’s so fucking grounding and pleasant she feels a little nauseous about it. “Sometimes they get along and sometimes it’s a cold war and you’re air-fryering chicken tenders in the bathroom while they shower so they don’t steal your food, and they take the door off the hinges just to be a dick about it.”

“For sure,” she says. “Feelings sure is a food thief.”

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of reflection, but it isn’t as heavy in the air as it could be. They sit in it comfortably, like a hot air balloon still tethered to the lawn. Part of Lup wants to yank on the fire thing and take the hell off. Part of her wants to touch the grass again. And it’s hard to know which way is up. 

“How do I feel better?”

“Takes time,” Barry says. “Takes being taken care of. Takes support. Takes effort, and structure, and intention. But if you have ice cream on the brain, I bet I could find some.” 

She laughs, even if it’s a little croaky, and he looks at her like the frog princess of his dreams. 

“How’d you get so soft, Barry Bluejeans?” she teases. She sits up and wraps her arms around him. 

“I started soft on my mama’s side, and I fought the hardness all my life to stay that way,” he says, affectionate and earnest, and silly, and she kisses him. 

“You couldn’t be if you tried,” she says. 

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve spent a lot of time under a rock, and when you spend a lot of time under a rock, you think, I may as well be a rock, too. And being a rock is easy. Being soft is hard.” He kisses her forehead. “Worth it, though.”

“God,” she says, shaking her head a little. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“I was wondering the same thing.” He smiles.” Can I convince you out of your blanket fort, beloved?” 

She snickers, loving how that word gets to her even when shit’s rough, and full of termites. 

“What do you have in mind instead?”

“Ohh,” he says, thoughtful and warm, “I was thinking we could curl up on the couch under the same blanket, and watch a bad movie, and throw popcorn at the screen that we have to vacuum up later.” 

“Keep talking, handsome,” she says. She kisses his cheek again. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe we could make good dinner together, or maybe it’s hot chocolate and carbs night, and we just don’t worry about it. And tomorrow I wake you up trying not to burn pancakes, and we try to eat breakfast in bed, and in the process of desperately not getting syrup on the sheets, we spill the orange juice, and then we have to do laundry first thing in the morning, and we look at each other in our underwear and just laugh?”

“Ooh, romance me, smooth talker.” 

“Can’t do it in a blanket fort,” he says, pretend-miserably. 

“That’s quitter’s talk. I’ll bet you could.” 

Barry laughs. 

“Counterpoint, my glasses are starting to fog up, and I really want to see that smile you’re healing, so if you don’t mind, maybe we could exit? And go open a new bottle of salsa?” 

Lup pretends to consider this. 

“Hmmm,” she says. She really lays it on thick. “Hmmm.”  

“Does my argument need more evidence?” He chews his lip, trying to hold back the goofiest smile in the world. It’s not working. “I present before the court, my wedding ring, and also, my heart, and also, if you listen closely, you will hear my stomach growl.” 

“Mmm.” She runs her hands through her messy hair and ties it back with the elastic on her wrist. It’s still going to be a disaster. “Yeah, alright. Let’s breathe some fresh air, I guess. For the carbs. And the vampires.” 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I suppose?” 

Lup laughs, and it feels good. It feels like sunshine. It feels like love. And she feels positively thawed about it. Barry sweeps her up in his arms and just stands up, completely ruining the blanket fort, and he carries her, cackling, to the kitchen, blankets trailing behind them. 

She looks back at the comfy destruction and sighs, tucking her head against his neck, and remembering deep as her bones that she is loved, so loved, even on the bad days. Maybe especially on the bad days. 

And it feels good.