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Barry sat up slowly, reaching for his phone to check the time. It was still early, not even four o'clock, but he found himself awake and unable to get back to sleep. He glanced over at Harry - visible in the dim light from the hallway - who was curled on his side, back to him and clearly still fast asleep. Well, it was possible he was faking, but that seemed unlikely, because Barry hadn't noticed any change in his breathing since he'd woken up himself.
He set his phone aside, holding back a sigh. It was probably for the best he couldn't sleep; Harry had made it very clear that he was to be out of bed and dressed before his daughter got back from her girls' night with Caitlin and Iris. And it was less out of any sense of shame over their relationship - that thought had actually made Harry laugh, before he pointed out that he was the one lucky enough to be sleeping with a man half his age, what did he have to be ashamed about? - and more out of a basic sense of propriety, or more accurately, "It's one thing to know your dad has a… partner. It's another to see them in bed together."
Which, really, was not something Barry could argue with. He didn't particularly want Jesse to walk in on them sleeping together - even in the innocent sense of the phrase! - either.
He drew his knees up closer to his chest so he could lean against them, and frowned at the doorway. Not that he wanted to get up now, but he knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep tonight. That was the problem with being a speedster; once his body had gotten enough rest, that was it. No more sleeping. Barry kind of missed sleeping in.
He could probably go for a run, see if there were any petty crimes to be stopped.
"You're thinking too loud," Harry murmured groggily.
Barry jumped. He whipped his head around to look at Harry, who had at some point rolled onto his back and was now sitting up slightly, weight propped on his forearms. More importantly, perhaps, was the fact that his position made the sheets slip down, revealing skin and toned muscle and the thin line of hair that trailed enticingly down his stomach.
"Didn't know you were psychic," Barry teased lightly, bringing his eyes back up to Harry's face.
"Mm," Harry quirked an eyebrow, corner of his mouth turning up a touch, "Maybe I am. Or maybe you have a tendency to sigh when something's on your mind, and I have a tendency to sleep very lightly."
"Damn it," he laughed, hiding his face in his hand. He'd tried not to sigh, really he did!
"Can't sleep?"
Barry shook his head. "Nope. Kind of not surprised; I haven't been able to sleep more than six hours a night since I woke up from the coma. And that's if I really exert myself."
Harry nodded, eyes closing. "So, what's on your mind?"
"…You're gonna be pissed when I tell you."
"Try me."
"I'm trying to decide if I should go for a run or not."
"…Huh," Harry yawned. He twisted to the side, picked up his watch and opened it to look at the time. "Barry."
Oh no. Barry flinched away from that tone, because he recognised the warning inherent in it. The one that said Harry knew where he slept and was not above enacting his great and terrible revenge as Barry slept, because he was at least above dosing him with speed-dampener to get vengeance whilst Barry was awake. (He thought he'd almost prefer the speed-dampener, to be honest.) "…Yes?"
"It is three fifty-two," Harry growled.
"Yep," Barry agreed, mouth stretched into a tight grimace. "That it is."
Harry fell back against the bed with a soft whump and a creak of protest from the frame. He glared up at Barry, ran a hand through his hair and held it there. "I haven't woken up this early for no good reason in three decades, so I would suggest making this worth my while."
"Um. I could just. Go for that run and let you get back to sleep?" Barry offered.
"Try again."
Barry swallowed nervously, looking down from the too-intense stare he was on the receiving end of. Actually, the fact that they were both still undressed? That gave him an idea. He looked back up, smirking a bit impishly. "Or…"
He darted in, pressed a gentle kiss to Harry's lips, and pulled back just enough to speak. "…you could lay there and let me take care of you?"
Harry hummed, the lines of his face easing out a bit as he considered that offer. "That, I think we could do."
Barry grinned. He kissed Harry again, slow and light, enjoying the press of lips and not seeking anything more. When he drew away, it was to mouth a line of kisses along the line of Harry's jaw, pausing to linger over the faint divot hidden just under the bone.
"What are you doing?" Harry murmured, a touch of amusement colouring his voice.
"Wondering how you got this scar," Barry replied, nipping lightly before pulling back.
"That…" Harry's hand slipped between them, to go to the spot Barry had just bitten. When he reached it, he flushed, cheeks going deep pink. "Ah. That one. Basic training."
"How d'you get a scar in boot camp?" he asked with a laugh.
Harry gave him a considering stare, blush deepening, before he shook his head. "Tell you what, you make me scream your name, and I'll share that story."
Barry pouted. "That is so not fair. I don't think I've made you gasp!"
"Life isn't fair, Allen. That's the deal I'm offering. You want the story, you earn it."
He huffed and leaned back in to bite Harry's adam's apple reproachfully. Fine. He'd figure out how to get that story out of him one day. Maybe not tonight, but one of these nights. All he had to do was figure out where Harry's unmute button was, so to speak.
He sucked hard, intent on leaving a mark, until Harry tugged him up by his hair with a warning noise. Right. No marks where they couldn't be hidden by clothing, and Harry hated turtleneck sweaters. (Hated collared shirts in general, actually.)
Barry still had to note with some satisfaction that he'd left a reddened spot behind. In the light cast in from the hallway, he was almost able to make out some petechiae, which made him feel just a touch smug. Maybe he'd get that story after Harry saw what he'd done to his neck. After all, he never specified how Barry had to make him yell his name.
He dipped down once Harry released his hair, kissing and nipping his way down Harry's chest. He pressed his palm over the scar above Harry's heart - another dent in his skin, about the size of a nickel, still an angry red with little puckers around the edges. That one, Barry didn't like to look at. That one, Barry felt just the barest bit responsible for, because if he'd only told Patty what was going on, maybe she wouldn't have felt the need to shoot Harrison Wells when she saw him.
Instead of giving that mark any attention, he focused his efforts along the slight swell of muscle, ignoring Harry's nipple - he never really responded to any touch there - in favour of leaving marks where they were allowed. Harry squirmed underneath him, enough that Barry moved so he straddled his hips to try to hold him in place. Harry's breath hitched when he bit down on the lower edge of his pec, but no noise escaped.
He continued down, moving his entire body, following the edges of Harry's, to stop at the line that curved over the left side of Harry's stomach. Another recent scar, though one Barry couldn't blame himself for. He hadn't asked to lose his speed, Caitlin hadn't asked to be kidnapped, and no one had asked Harry to go rescue her, but he'd done it anyways. That one, therefore, he lavished attention on, tracing the edge of it with his tongue. Harry arched slightly, gasped under his breath, before twisting and pushing himself up into a sitting position.
Barry pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the scar as he looked up at Harry. He ran his tongue down the middle of the mark, felt Harry's abs tense even more at the touch, and held in a smirk.
Harry just raised an eyebrow. "What on earth are you doing now?"
"Appreciating you," Barry replied. He shifted until he was laying on top of Harry's legs, and rested his head on his thigh.
"Appreciati-" Harry cut himself off, looked away with a slight roll of his eyes. Barry was barely able to make out the thin line of his lips from where he lay; what was more apparent was the slight tension in Harry's jaw and neck, the tendons standing out more sharply than usual. "Right. That tickles, you know."
"Nope, didn't know that." Barry grinned wickedly, then sat up to nudge the scar with his nose. Harry jolted slightly, glared down at him, though the effect was muted by the grin playing at the corners of his lips. "What?"
"I should have known you'd take advantage of that," he groused.
Barry chuckled, and then resumed kissing that scar, pushing himself up on his forearms to get a less awkward angle. He relished the way Harry fidgeted under his attentions, shifted and stuttered as though he couldn't decide between moving away or pressing closer, until finally Harry sank back down onto the mattress. Which Barry took as his cue to move.
He dragged his tongue along the planes of Harry's stomach, curving up slightly to fasten his teeth into another line that glanced over the bottom right of his ribcage. If he poked with his tongue hard enough, he swore he could feel a slight chip missing from the bone underneath. Harry's fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him in place, so Barry took the time to explore that scar thoroughly.
Unlike the one from Grodd, it was harder to map with his tongue except where it passed over Harry's lowest rib. The fact that it was so faded - honestly, almost invisible except for some dashes of paler skin - was testament to its age; Barry assumed it must have happened when Harry was in the army. Not that he knew for sure. He wondered if he'd get an answer, if he asked.
No harm in trying. He drew away, lips parting from Harry's skin with a soft, wet noise. "What about this one?"
"If I tell you, will you get on with it?" Harry asked, no small amount of impatience in his tone.
Barry hummed as he thought about that. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. I will."
"Bayonet," Harry replied tersely.
Barry blinked, frowned, and pushed himself back up onto his forearms to stare sternly at his lover. "That. Is not an answer."
"Yes," Harry growled, "Yes it is."
The hand on his neck pressed down insistently, but Barry resisted. "That was one word!"
"And if you don't keep going, I am never speaking to you again!"
Now there was an empty threat if Barry ever heard one. He huffed, steadfastly refusing to give in, even though he knew Harry wanted him to continue. Knew not just from the impatience in his voice, but in the need that had pressed hard against his chest when he'd been lowered against Harry to map his scars.
"Nope. Not until you tell the rest of the story."
"Barry!" Harry yelled, head thumping back against the pillow with frustration.
He missed the utterly wicked grin that spread across Barry's face. "Sounds like someone has two stories to tell me," he mused, before he eased back down to press his mouth to Harry's flesh.
"What?!" Harry almost sat up, muscles bunching and tensing as he curled, fingers digging into Barry's spine. "I do not!"
"Yeah you do," he murmured as he slid downwards, punctuating the sentences with more bites. "You. Shouted my name."
He felt the answering growl more than he heard it. "That doesn't count; I meant yelling in pleasure."
"Didn't say that," Barry responded coyly. He stopped at the juncture of Harry's hip, sucking his mark into the delicate skin there. "You just said, and I quote, 'You make me scream your name, and I'll tell you that story,' end quote."
Harry shifted and bit back a groan, but settled down at last. He huffed, grip growing even tighter for a moment, until Barry swore he'd end up with bruises. Then Harry's fingers relaxed, carding up into his hair. "…Fine."
At the mumbled, "We'll make a CEO of you yet," Barry couldn't help but laugh.
He finally took mercy on Harry, though, because he had been a little mean in exploiting that loophole to get what he wanted, and eased the sheets down off Harry's hips, dragging them over his arousal. The sharp intake of breath that motion earned him was not lost on Barry's ears.
Nor were any of the soft moans or loud gasps that followed.
He took his time, savouring not just the weight of Harry in his mouth, not just the salt-bitter taste of him, but also every quiet noise he made. The way Harry's blunt nails dug into his scalp, silent praise that neither pushed nor demanded more than Barry was ready to give. This time, Barry didn't employ any of his usual tricks - localised vibrations in his throat or his tongue. Instead, he sought to draw Harry's orgasm from him slowly, almost gently.
When Harry's release finally washed over him, Barry didn't withdraw until the spasms of pleasure eased, shifted into strained shudders from too much stimulation on too sensitive flesh. Then, and only then, did he pull away, swallowing down the last traces of come as he slid back up the mattress. He pressed a kiss to Harry's lips, and laughed softly when Harry drew back, nose wrinkled.
"Why," Harry muttered, tone somewhere between pure contentment and the epitome of mortal offence.
"Oh, come on, you've sucked my dick," Barry teased. He felt his cheeks burn a bit at his own phrasing, which was quite possibly more embarrassing than talking so frankly about sex because he was so not a blushing schoolboy.
Harry snorted, rolled his eyes, and dragged Barry back down to the bed. He sat up just enough to tug the sheets back in place over top of them - which made Barry feel overheated, but he'd live if only because he knew Harry preferred being warm - before he settled on his side, curled towards Barry. "That's different. It's not mine."
That only made Barry laugh again, because it seemed pretty ridiculous to him. He held his tongue on that count, though. Instead, he draped his arm over Harry's side, ran his fingers down the man's spine light as a breath. When he reached the limit of how far his wrist would bend, he brought his fingers back up. Down, up, over and over until Harry grumbled and squirmed.
"That's annoying," he murmured, as he shifted closer to Barry's chest.
"Sorry," Barry whispered. "I thought you were falling back asleep."
"Not with you doing that, I'm not. Besides, I still owe you two stories, don't I?" The question tapered off into a yawn. Harry cleared his throat before continuing. "Press harder."
Barry nodded, though that was useless as a response considering the top of Harry's head was about even with his chin, and rubbed Harry's back more firmly. No more words were forthcoming as yet, but Barry knew enough to be patient. Harry wanted to talk, and so he would in his own time. Pushing then, being too insistent or impatient, would only make him balk.
"Why the sudden curiosity?" Harry asked softly.
Which wasn't what Barry had been expecting, but he was willing to work with that. "About your scars?"
After he received an affirmative hum, Barry continued.
"You offered to tell me about the one, so I figured you wouldn't kill me if I asked about another?" Barry replied, shoulder raised in a brief shrug. "I mean, I can guess at most of them -"
"CSI. Right," Harry agreed in a low murmur.
"Yep. I mean, some of your scars? I don't normally see examples of. But… certain things leave certain patterns, even when they heal." Like the spot Barry moved his hand to as he finished speaking, low on Harry's back, near his pelvis. It might have faded, the worst of the damage erased by the passage of time, but Barry would have recognised the distinctive pattern imprinted in Harry's skin anywhere. A wide patch of too smooth skin, faint ridges left where tissue hadn't built back up evenly, the jagged edge of the entire mark.
At some point, Harry had been burnt, badly enough to permanently mar his skin.
Barry dug his fingers in, pressed hard enough that he earned a soft groan for his efforts. There was a slight knot of tension in the muscles underneath his hand, but truth be told, Barry was just using that as an excuse to keep mapping the scar there with his fingertips. It was one that he'd yet to get a good look at; Harry almost never turned his back to him after he took his shirts off. And he wasn't about to sneak a look at it without Harry's permission. It seemed like a breach of trust, somehow.
He kept up the massage, waited as patiently as was possible for Harry to continue speaking. Presently, he did.
"The bayonet wound was during a battle to try to take the Panama Canal." Harry hummed absently, which Barry took as him gathering his thoughts. "The weather had been terrible, which interfered with our supply lines. It did worse for the enemy, apparently, because… One morning, just before dawn, they charged us with fixed bayonets."
"Oh," Barry said. He felt a bit dumb for not having anything more profound or soothing - or at least with actual words and multiple syllables - to say.
Harry chuckled. "Yep. That was almost my thought when the watch reported what was happening."
"Almost?"
"The full thought may have been, 'Oh. Shit.'"
That startled a laugh out of Barry. He could picture it, though. Harry, young and tired and soaked to the bone with rain. Dragged from his sleeping bag by a frantic subordinate. Or maybe he had already been awake when the report came in. Sleep deprived, exhausted to the core, fueled by terrible rations and worse coffee. There was something sobering about the mental image, to be sure, but the idea of even Harry - not as eloquent or strategic-minded as Thawne had been, but still easily the one of the most clever men Barry knew - being reduced to a response as blunt as 'Oh. Shit.' was too funny regardless.
It didn't hurt that Harry was still clearly amused. Soft huffs of his laughter broke over Barry's chest for a few seconds more before Harry yawned once more.
"You want to hear something really funny?" Harry rasped, voice rough with encroaching sleep.
"Sure," Barry said with a grin.
"The one on my throat. You ever try to shave with a drill instructor screaming at you?"
"No - Oh my God, no." Barry gasped with disbelief as the implication behind Harry's words sunk in. No way.
"Mmhm," Harry replied. "First morning there. Took a good slice out when the bastard yelled right in my ear. Course, that only made him yell more because now I was bleeding all over his uniform. Not. His uniform, of course. The one I was wearing. Drill sergeants."
Barry tried to cringe sympathetically, truly he did, but he failed miserably, a helpless victim of the laughter that bubbled in his throat. No wonder Harry hadn't wanted to say anything about it, had turned such a vibrant pink when he figured out which scar Barry had asked about.
His snickering was interrupted by Harry's fist thumping solidly into his ribs. "Shut up, Allen."