Faster Than Fevers (Barry Allen x Reader)
You’re sick. Feverish. Miserable. Barry Allen is the most attentive boyfriend in existence.
barry allen x reader
You knew you were sick when Barry stopped teasing you.
No smug remarks. No playful eyebrows. Just soft eyes and the gentlest hands imaginable tucking you into bed like you might dissolve if he moved too fast.
Which was ironic, really.
Because Barry Allen always moved fast.
But not with you.
Not when you were like this—pale, weak, sweating through your pajamas and shivering under three blankets. Not when you could barely lift your head without groaning.
Not when he was scared.
He didn’t say it, of course.
He never did. Not the way most people would.
But you’d been together long enough to know what fear looked like on Barry Allen.
It wasn’t panic. It was quiet.
It was the way he slowed his steps when he walked into your bedroom. The way he held your tea like it was something fragile. The way he’d pressed a hand to your forehead and murmured, “You’re burning up,” and then didn’t let go for five whole minutes.
The way he never left your side without promising, “I’ll be right back.”
Like you’d slip away while he wasn’t looking.
You’re half-asleep when he comes back this time—arms full, hair windblown, still dressed in sweats and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his when you fell asleep (Cisco’s? Maybe? You’re too feverish to care).
He sets a tray down on your nightstand, all soft clinks and quiet care. You blink up at him, dazed.
“Soup,” he says gently. “Tea. Ginger chews. Two kinds of cough drops. And—” he leans closer, grinning, “a new thermometer. Because I know the old one lies to me.”
You huff a tired laugh. “You bought a new thermometer?”
He shrugs, clearly unrepentant. “I may have stolen it from STAR Labs.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed. “It’s a terminal condition.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes.
Barry reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. You lean into his touch instinctively.
“How’s the fever?”
“Still awful.”
He hums, reading your face. “Headache?”
You nod.
“Sore throat?”
You nod again.
He kisses your forehead softly, then mumbles, “Don’t move.”
Before you can ask why, he’s gone.
Gone-gone. Speedster blur gone.
You blink. He’s back three seconds later holding—
“A cool rag,” he says proudly, tucking it behind your neck like he’s just performed a miracle. “Dampened to exactly 74°F.”
You squint at him.
“I used my watch,” he explains.
You sigh. “You’re gonna set the bar so high for other men it’s gonna mess with the timeline.”
He smirks. “Good. Let them fear me.”
You open your mouth to tease him again but dissolve into a coughing fit. It racks through your chest, makes your eyes water. Barry’s there instantly, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, whispering the whole time:
“I’ve got you. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
And when you finally go still, exhausted and slumped against him, he whispers something even softer.
“I hate seeing you like this.”
You rest your cheek against his collarbone. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
His arms stay wrapped around you as you drift again, body warm but safe, heart fluttering slow under the press of his.
Barry sits behind you in bed, legs on either side of yours, your blanket-swaddled body resting against his chest like a human marshmallow. You’re tired, overheated, and grumpy, but he’s determined to get you to eat something before you pass out again.
So now? He’s got a spoon in one hand and your hair tucked behind your ear with the other.
“C’mon,” he coaxes gently, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Just one more bite.”
You groan. “No more. I’m a sick little sack of soup now. I’m done.”
“You’ve had, like, six spoonfuls.”
“Which is, like, five more than I wanted.”
He chuckles softly, pressing his nose into your hair. “You’re dramatic.”
“Says the man who sped across town for three brands of cough drops.”
He shrugs. “Your suffering makes me reckless.”
You laugh—quietly. It hurts your throat. But it’s real.
Once he’s finally convinced you to sip some tea, he sets everything aside and settles in again. His arms wrap around you automatically, blanket and all, his hands rubbing lazy circles over your ribs through the fabric.
“Feel a little better?” he asks.
You nod against his shoulder. “Warm. Full. Safe.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“That’s kinda my whole brand.”
You don’t mean to fall asleep.
You just sort of drift.
Your head tucked under his chin. His hands never leaving you. The sound of his heartbeat steady in your ear, rhythmic and grounding.
And in that hazy, half-conscious space between dreaming and waking, you murmur:
“I think I wanna marry you.”
It’s soft. So soft you almost don’t hear it yourself.
But Barry goes still.
You’re too far gone to notice—eyes closed, breath even, fever making the world heavy and slow.
But he hears it.
He feels it.
And god, he’s never been so in love with anything in his life.
He holds you a little tighter. Presses a kiss to your temple. And whispers, almost inaudibly:
“Yeah, babe. I think I wanna marry you too.”
