#tom cavanagh

It’s nearly midnight at S.T.A.R. Labs, and the lights in the cortex hum a dim gold, flickering over blueprints scattered across the main table. You and Harry have been going back and forth for hours—debating stabilizer configurations for the particle core.

The argument started logical. It turned personal somewhere between “your math is wrong” and “you’re infuriatingly smug.”

“Smug?” Harry snaps, glancing up from the schematic. “I’m confident. There’s a difference.”

“Sure,” you mutter, scribbling on your tablet, “confidence with a side of condescension.”

He sets his stylus down, voice sharp. “You know, if you actually listened instead of improvising, we might have solved this an hour ago.”

You glance up, unbothered. “And if you tried not to micromanage every molecule that moves, maybe you’d see I’m right.”

He blinks at you—slowly, like he’s recalculating. Then he exhales through his nose, “You are so—”

“—brilliant?” you interrupt with a grin.

He gives a short laugh despite himself, muttering something about “arrogance” as he turns back to his monitor.

It’s quieter for a moment. The sound of typing fills the room. The air hums between you—an unspoken rhythm you’ve fallen into over the past few weeks: argue, solve, argue again, somehow end up respecting each other more than before.

You sneak a glance at him. He looks tired. His shoulders are tense, his dark hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up, veins visible where he grips the table edge.

You shouldn’t stare. You do anyway.

A voice cuts through the silence, “Wow. The tension in here could power the Speed Force.”

You both turn. Cisco’s leaning in the doorway, tablet tucked under his arm, grin way too smug for this hour.

Harry groans. “Ramon.”

Cisco steps closer, eyes flicking from you to Harry. “You two been at this all night? Because the air’s thick with—what’s the word—unresolved something.”

You roll your eyes, but laugh, “Just working.”

“Right. Working,” Cisco says, drawing out the word, then looking towards you, “So, I was actually coming to ask if you wanted to help me recalibrate the holo-sim tomorrow. Could use someone who actually listens to my ideas.”

Harry’s head snaps up,“She’s busy.”

You blink, “I am?”

“Yes,” he says shortly, “with our stabilizer test.”

Cisco raises a brow, “I thought that was done.”

Harry glares, “It’s not.”

“Mmhm,” Cisco hums, clearly enjoying this. “Or maybe you just don’t like sharing.”

Harry’s tone drops dangerously low. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

You jump in, trying to diffuse. “Cisco, I’ll check the schedule tomorrow, okay?”

Cisco’s grin widens. “Oh, sure. Don’t let me interrupt your lab date.”

Harry’s glare could fry a satellite. “Ramon—”

Cisco just laughs, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. Message received. You two have fun doing… science.”

He winks—winks—at you before strolling out.

You’re left staring after him, face hot, when Harry cuts in, “He’s insufferable.”

You turn to him, crossing your arms. “You could just say you were jealous, you know.”

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. “Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally barked at him for asking a work question.”

“That wasn’t—” He stumbles for words, visibly thrown. “I wasn’t— It’s about efficiency. He distracts you.”

You grin. “Oh, so now you notice when I’m distracted.”

He looks like he wants to argue but can’t. His lips part, close again. He finally mutters, “You’re impossible.”

“Thanks,” you say sweetly, turning back to your tablet.

The next half hour is quiet—except for the occasional sigh or muttered curse from Harry’s corner.

Your energy dips. The numbers blur. You press your palm against your temple, fighting the wave of exhaustion.

Harry speaks suddenly, his voice gentle, “You should go home.”

You shake your head. “Still finishing the resonance model.”

“You’re half-asleep.”

“So are you,” you murmur.

“I handle it better.”

You snort softly. “That’s debatable.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words never come—because when he looks over again, your head has dipped forward, your tablet sliding from your grip onto the desk with a soft thud.

Harry freezes.

You’re out cold—cheek resting on your folded arms, hair falling into your face. Completely still except for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders.

He exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

Still, he crosses the room. Gently, he lifts your tablet out of the way and sets it aside. His fingers hover, uncertain, before he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

The smell of his cologne fills the air—faint spice and coffee grounds and something sharper, cleaner.

He hesitates again, eyes lingering on you—how your hand is curled under your chin, how the tension in your face finally looks gone.

“Stubborn girl,” he mutters softly, almost fondly.

He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear before sitting down beside you. His eyes flick to the screens, pretending he’s checking data, but he doesn’t look away from you for long.

He doesn’t notice Cisco leaning in the doorway again until the man whistles quietly.

“Ohhh, busted,” Cisco says under his breath.

Harry jerks up, startled. “Ramon, I swear to God—”

Cisco grins. “You know, for a guy who says he’s not jealous and not soft, you’re really bad at proving either.”

Harry growls low in his throat. “Get. Out.”

“Fine, fine,” Cisco says, backing up. “But she’s gonna know you like her when she wakes up wearing your jacket, man. Just saying.”

He leaves before Harry can throw something.

The silence returns, heavy but strangely peaceful.

Harry glances at you again. Your lips twitch faintly in your sleep—like you heard some of that.

He exhales, leaning back in his chair. “You drive me insane,” he says quietly. “And I can’t even bring myself to mind.”

You wake a little while later, groggy and disoriented, warmth pressing against your shoulders. You blink down at the jacket, then up at the man sitting a few feet away, typing furiously, pretending you don’t exist.

“You stayed,” you mumble, voice rough from sleep.

He doesn’t look up. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t drool on the prototype.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks… for the jacket.”

“It was that or a hypothermic corpse,” he says without missing a beat.

You chuckle softly. “You could just admit you care.”

His typing slows. He glances at you, expression unreadable. “You’re persistent”

“Mm. You like that about me.”

A pause. The faintest curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Go home.”

You stand, still wrapped in his jacket. “I will. But I’m keeping this. At least until tomorrow.”

He raises a brow. “You will not—”

“Too late,” you say, heading for the door.

He calls after you, “That’s a limited-edition Earth-2 leather composite—”

You grin, half-turning. “Guess you’ll have to come get it.”

For a moment, something unguarded flashes in his eyes—equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“Y/n,” Dr. Wells cut in, a gentle firmness in his voice he unconsciously reserved for your interactions. “I see sentiment in almost everything you do for people. I can assure you this is no different. Please come inside. There’s no reason to be standing outside and catching cold.”

You finally retrieved your wrapped package from your bag, following Dr. Wells as he led you into his home. Truthfully you were in awe at the size and layout of his house. You knew Wells had wealth but seeing it up close in a tangible fashion was different. He led you to the kitchen and motioned his head to a chair by his counter. “Uh… here.” You handed your boss the package.

Harrison let his fingers brush against the cool-tempered wrapping paper—dark green background with snowflakes—and curled his pointer finger around the bow—light blue (to match the snowflakes)—before looking back up to see your face. Wells had observed you long enough to identify the quiet anticipation in your raised eyebrows and shy smile.

Inside the package was a canvas. Mildly small, approximately a 10x8 painting of the selfie Cisco had insisted on taking. On the left was Cisco, upper teeth showing as his face tilted up with excitement. Barry was in the middle, caught mid laugh at his idea of taking the picture and then zooming back to be in the picture. Caitlyn stood on the right with a rare smile with teeth that hadn’t been seen since the particle accelerator’s failure. On the bottom, between Cisco and Barry was Dr. Wells, a quirk of his lips hiding his white teeth. Beside him—on one knee with her arm resting against Wells’s arm—stood you: a side smile at the antics that you took for granted.

You worked your teeth against your tongue, anxiously observing the way Dr. Wells’s eyebrows went slack as he took in the painting. His fingertips brushed gently against the paint, feeling the smooth top coat. His tendons flexed under his skin, igniting the same fire that burned when you painted the pink of his lips. It wasn’t your best work, but it definitely was praiseworthy (your tutor approved for once, saying that she was impressed at the emotion you managed to capture in the eyes).

“Y/n, truly,” Wells began after swallowing thickly. “This is beautiful. I knew you had an ability with the arts but…” he shook his head, a thoughtful smirk playing on his lips as his brow quirked that signaled the contemplation crossing his mind, “this is truly wonderful. Thank you. Thank you. I apologize… I didn’t get you anything.”

The whooshing behind your ears dissipated as you exhaled with relief. “Thank you, Dr. Your approval is enough.” Your familiar crooked smile made Harrison want to hold your face in his hands and kiss you until you passed out.

“No, no. It’s not. Don’t worry, I will find you a belated Christmas gift.”

“Unnecessary,” you chortled, rising slowly. “I only wanted you to get your present and make sure you weren’t—I dunno, doing something irrational.”

Harrison watched the way you avoided his eye contact and knew then that he would protect you in a manor that surpassed his devotion to Barry’s future. “Let me escort you out.”

When you reached the door, Harrison paused. “Oil on canvas or acrylic?”

Your face lit up at his question. “Oil. It required patience my therapist says will be good for me. And I selfishly enjoy that I don’t have to be paranoid about making sure my paints are closed and won’t dry out if I walk away for five minutes,” you say.

Noted. “Understandable,” Wells nods. “Thank you for coming, y/n. It was… very nice to see you.”

Smiling, you didn’t mention the fact that you saw each other every day at S.T.A.R. “You too, Doc. Merry Christmas!”

Harrison waved, a true smile gracing his lips. “Merry Christmas, my dear,” he murmured as you got into your car.

——bonus. 💋

Your jaw dropped as you got a good luck at the box sitting on your desk. A brand of oil paints—foreign and expensive—sat waiting for your arrival. Shiny and new and calling your name. Excitement bloomed in your chest and head as you stepped forward closely.

Swallowing, you brushed your knuckle against the thin plastic layer around the box to secure it’s contents. Who would have…?

“Merry belated Christmas.”

Turning around, you saw Dr. Wells’s gleaming smile waiting for you. His eyes held a kind of light you didn’t frequently see. “This is-“

Wells offered “not enough” at the same time you stated “unnecessary”.

“Don’t think about returning it. I want to be the first person you show when you create another masterpiece.”

Nodding, your eyes flickered between Wells’s eyes, determination and finality etched into his retinas. “I understand, sir.”