#flashwaveweek

“Damnit, I knew Mick was too good to be true. You Family Men?”

“Technically, no.”

Iris gives her captor a long, hard look. “Define technically, mister.”

Len winces. “I…recently took over a small corner of the slum district and declared myself Godfather so yes, technically, I’m a mobster, but no, technically, I don’t belong to a Family. My sister’s actually a mechanical engineer, so I don’t have any Family family, if you get me. Except Mick, I guess.”

“…you’re very new at this.”

“Yeah, pretty much. The mobster stuff, not the criminal stuff; that’s long-standing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, really. Started with popping ATMs, moved up to jewel and art theft.”

“Why’d you move to mobsterville, then?”

“Hey, I was born here.”

“Nooooo, really? I couldn’t tell, what with your accent. I meant, why the move to becoming a mobster?”

“Would you believe me that a mobster family lived right above me and it was the only way to get them to turn down the noise?”

“No,” Iris decides after a long minute. “I have my own apartment with thin walls. I get you. I’d go evil, too, if it could get me some peace and quiet.”

They share the sort of long-suffering nods that are the sole domain of city dwellers surrounded by awful neighbors.

“So why’d you kidnap me?” Iris says, getting back on track. “If you want Mick and Barry to break up, I’ve got some news for you – you’re a bit late for that.”

“Are you kidding?” Len asks. “I want them to get back together.”

Iris blinks. “A mobster wants to match-make,” she says faintly.

“Mick’s unhappy,” Len says. “He’s barely even enjoying lighting fires anymore, and that’s just sad.”

“Oh god.”

“I know, right?”

“No, the fact that you’re asking me for help with this is what's sad.”

Len ignores her. “You have to help me.”

“Why me?”

“I figure you have inside information on Barry, the way I do on Mick,” Len says, quite reasonably in his view.

Iris sighs. “Fine,” she says. “Let me out of the handcuffs?”

Len does.

She tries to deck him.

He catches her fist, pulls her forward, twists her around and shoves her back into the chair she’d been tied to.

“Okay,” Iris says. “You’re not totally incompetent.”

“Basic self-defense ain't got nothing to do with competency,” Len says. “Now – how do we get them back together?”

“Well, what were you thinking?”

Len coughs. “Well, see, that’s the other thing I need you for.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t get romance.”

“By which you mean…?”

“I don’t get it. Sex, sure, but romance? Why bother?”

Iris closes her eyes. “You’re aromantic.”

“That the word?”

“Yes. Oh, god, an aromantic just kidnapped an asexual to try to match-make. This isn’t a plan, it’s a knock-knock joke.”

“More of a ‘entered a bar’ joke, I’d say.”

“You’re not helping.”

“You’re asexual?”

“Yeah. Not really into the sex thing.”

“That should be perfect, though, shouldn’t it? I tackle the sexual stuff, you tackle the romance stuff.”

“For most people, those go together.”

“…yeah.”

“We’re doomed.”

Len considers this. “We always have Hollywood to guide us?” he offers helplessly.

Iris buries her face in her hands. “We’re doomed.”

A few heart beats later as the time moved to 3:47am, his wrist stopped with the sharp pain, and gently cooled down. Barry leaned back against his bed, before scrambling up to turn a light on, and examine his wrist. He stared not reading for a few seconds as he noticed that the name was written in gold and red flames. "You like fire, or something close to fire." Barry stated as he traced the name Mick Rory. "I can't wait to meet you one day." Barry hummed and turned the light off, ignoring how a lot of the time, soulmates never actually met each other.

Barry's 19, almost 20 when his right arm gets covered with burn scars, and Barry can't help, but feel phantom pains on his arm for months afterwards. He gets a gunshot scar on his left hip, a few years later and he is starting to really wonder what his soulmate does, the fact that sometimes it feels as if flames are being pressed closely to his right arm, warrants even more questions.

Mick's in a juvenile detonation center as his 17th birthday comes around, he doesn't know what time it is, all he knows is that he woke to his wrist feeling like the heat of flames are pressing against it. Mick jerked and grabbed at his wrist at the sharp pokes of pain ran through it, he can't see what the mark says, or looks like. A part of him is glad of that, but another part wishes he could see it already, tracing his fingers were he knows it sits, doesn't give him any clues.

The sharp pain vanishes, alongside the heat, before he just lays there fingers trailing along his wrist. He can feel the smoothness almost like a tattoo as he presses against it. A part of him excited to see what it looks like and who it is, while another part is nervous and feel like shit for burdening someone with him as their soulmate.

Hours later when he manages to get a bit of privacy he looks at his wrist and finds himself staring at a lightning bolts. They stretch and bend forming a name of Bartholomew Allen, small strays of lightning escape the name and travel a few inches up his up towards his elbow and he can't help but smile slightly and stare at them. He wonders just who this Bartholomew is, and if he should introduce Len to him so he can see another person with a bad name.

Mick's 25 when he gets a scar on his left knee, his not sure what it's from, but he decides it's nice to have something else from his soulmate besides his name.

Mick's inching into the 30's when he falls onto his knees, trying not to scream as pain, pain, pain goes through him. Then it's gone and his just kneeling on the floor frozen, and slightly shaking. He knows something had to happen, and staring at his wrist, watching as it looks as bright as ever, he knows Bartholomew isn't dead. Somethings happened though and he wants to know what, he needs to know what happened.

It's not as hard to find a Bartholomew Allen as he thought it would be, some are to old to be his, a few are younger, but the one that catches his attention is the one that got struck by lightning. Mick can't help but be thankful for having Len and Lisa as his friends, sneaking into the hospitable would have been easy, but not Star Labs at least not right now. It seems after Bartholomew or Barry as he liked to be called was placed inside, their security system tripled. Mick can't help, but find that odd.

It won't be until he helps Len battle against the Flash, lose and both are arrested that he sees his baby faced soulmate, staring at him with wide eyes that know. Mick can't wait to see what Barry does.

Mick isn’t a hero. He never budgeted for becoming one. But here they are, all of them together – the Legends, the Flash’s backup crew, the gang from Star City, sitting around in the STAR Labs’ conference room, panicking.

“He’s going to run himself into oblivion.” says Iris, her face taught. “He’s losing it, blaming himself for everything that went wrong.”

“It’s not like we have a protocol for this.” says Oliver, frown permanently etched on his face.  

“Well, where would we look for one? He’s moving too fast for us.” Cisco cries. His voice would be a shout, if not for the pain in it.

Mick considers the kid in red. He thinks about everything good the kid has done, all the things he’s made, the fact he’s lit up Central with his belief in justice, made everything brighter.

His mind cuts back to a night in the twilight, hos mother’s voice, low and warm, syllables from their home that came straight from her diaphragm and carried strength in their sound. The kid’s bright – he’s fast, too fast –

“I know what to do.” says Mick. Everyone turns to look at him. “My people have done this before, we have a tale –“

“Your people?” asks Nate, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “What, in Gen Pop?” 

Mick rolls his eyes. Pakeha. Honestly. 

“No, my people. Look, the kid, he might as well be Tamanuitera.”

“Tama-who, now?” asks Jax. He, at least, looks intrigued. Come to think of it, so does the new speed kid.

“Tamanuitera.” says Mick. “The sun.”

“Walk me through your reasoning.” says new speed kid. Wally, that’s his name.

“Bright. Too fast for the rest of us.” says Mick. Cisco pulls a contemplative face and then nods in acquiescence. “My people have a hero who slowed the sun.” 

“How?” 

“With a magic jawbone and rope and a prayer.” says Mick, because that’s the truth of it. Jax, Cisco and Wally come closer as the other members of the teams roll their eyes and move on.

“You think you can pull this off?” asks Wally. “Got that jawbone hidden away somewhere?”

Mick laughs, deep and throaty.

“That’s not what Scarlet is missing.” he says. “The jawbone is for force. Ropes are for binding and anchoring.” 

“And Barry doesn’t have an anchor?” suggests Cisco.

“If he did, he wouldn’t be running into oblivion because of guilt.” says Mick. “Look, Lenny got like this whenever Lisa and he had a fight. Blame himself for every bad thing that ever happened to her, take every unthinking barb and bury it deeper. He’d stop eating, stop sleeping, just throw himself into planning.”

Jax nods, thoughtful. He’d seen the aftermath of Mick disappearing and reappearing. Mick thought he’d get it.

“Lenny wasn’t like Barry. But the principle is the same. He needs an anchor to keep him here. A family.”

They nod, his three accomplices.

“Do you have a kitchen here?” asks Mick.

***

He tells them the story while the four of them start on Mick’s culinary plan. He’s thinking like he used to when he fed Len in moments like this, cheese scones and individual pastry-bound Shepherds Pies and kumara and slow-roasted lamb. He might even make a pavlova to finish, get Gideon to create some hokey pokey ice cream. Jax and Wally oooh and aaah in all the right places, and even cheer at the end, and Cisco is smiling the whole time, so Mick counts it as a small victory. There’s a warm homeliness to the whole affair that gives Mick hope for what they are planning to achieve. He puts on a Muttonbirds album and sings along an laughs at the flabbergasted looks on their faces when they hear him for the first time.

“You’ve been holding out on us!” gasps Cisco, but by the second time through the album, Cisco’s belting harmonies on Wellington with him, tragic key change and all.

And all the while, through every ingredient and addition, Mick is reciting the same karakia that Maui did, pressing the hope and the intention into what he was creating.

"Taura nui, taura roa, taura kaha, taura toa, taura here i a Tamanuiterā, whakamaua kia mau kia ita!” 

***

Barry slows down to eat, when he sees the feast they made for him, smiles warm for a moment, a fragment of sun. He likes cheese scones, eats every scrap of the pavlova, and looks momentarily contented, before he’s running off, again. It’s a step in the right direction, and Mick’s proud of himself. He couldn’t save Lenny from himself, sure. But maybe he can save the kid instead.

After dinner, while Jax and Wally have a suds fight and Mick and Cisco do the actual dish-washing, Joe West makes his way into the kitchen.

“I’ll admit,” he says, “you may be onto something.”

Softly, in the background, Frank Turner is singing about getting tattoos when he gets bored because time is passing to fast for him to follow. It feels apt. Mick nudges one of the very small number of remaining pies in the Detective’s direction. There is a long and meaningful pause.

Then Joe takes one.

"Taura nui, taura roa, taura kaha, taura toa, taura here i a Tamanuiterā, whakamaua kia mau kia ita!” 

***

Iris comes to Mick’s next plan, a swing past the apartment the kid is living in. As Mick expected, it’s a tip. They wade in to clean up the same way they did the cooking – meaning Mick’s brought speakers and enough Miles Davis to fill the Blue Note for a year. With every sweep of a duster, every plumped pillow and polished glass, Mick is speaking, filling the home with hope and family.  Iris and Cisco are dancing in the middle of the room and Joe is singing along, while Jax and Wally whisper back and forth in a way they think is secretive but really isn’t. There’s a warmth building, and Mick knows the sun will rise, soon.

"Taura nui, taura roa, taura kaha, taura toa, taura here i a Tamanuiterā, whakamaua kia mau kia ita!" he whispers, into the folds of the clean tea towels.

***

There’s a cup of Jitters coffee on Barry’s desk, just the roast he likes. There’s more of the cheese scones on his kitchen counter. Someone is looking out for him. Barry doesn’t know what to think, can’t decide if its pity or mockery.

So of course, that’s when he runs into Mick, pulling a roast out of Barry’s oven. In Barry’s house. Which he has broken into. In order to cook.

“What the fuck?” Barry demands, flashing over at speed and slamming Mick back into the wall. It seems he’s destined to do this with all his temperature themed nemeses. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make sure you don’t go flying into nothing.” Mick snarls back.

“I deserve it!” Barry snaps. 

“No, you don’t.” says Mick.

“Look at the people who’ve died because of me!”

“Look at the people who lived.”

There’s a beat. The roast smells really good. Barry steps back.

“Why do you care?”

Mick tells him the story, tells him about Maui slowing the sun so that the people who needed its light had the time to appreciate it, to do what needed to be done. Barry’s eyes are welling up as he finishes telling it.

“I’m the sun?” he whispers.

Mick doesn’t answer. Mick kisses him.

*** 

Barry is something beautiful, underneath Mick, spread out on sheets that Mick has washed and folded and cast something through. He shakes and whimpers and moans, desperate and perfect and Mick’s. And Mick – between kisses and bites and marks, between nips and sucks and licks and more kisses – Mick presses his words into Barry’s skin, holding him, binding him in place in the world that Mick has built for him, somewhere safe and just dark enough that Barry will shine all the brighter.

"Taura nui, taura roa, taura kaha, taura toa, taura here i a Tamanuiterā, whakamaua kia mau kia ita!"

Barry shakes and shakes and vibrates and comes apart, and Mick follows right on behind him.

***

They go to brunch the next morning with Wally and Jax and Cisco, who are all laughing and joyous and on just the right side of teasing. Barry smiles, genuine and real, and Cisco winks at Mick as soon as Barry’s not looking.