[ Barry waits patiently, and he doesn't seem hurried when he steps over to the desk and picks up the device. He recognizes the username, reads it through once with an odd sense of detachment — numbness, in retrospect. The second time he tries to read the poem he gets about four words in.
He realizes he isn't breathing, lets out a slow, shallow exhale as his brow knits together in disgust. His grip's tight on the device without being secure, and he has to focus for a second to make sure he doesn't drop it, gaze lifting to seek out Harry's. ]
This isn't— [ All conviction with no words to back it up. It isn't Harry's fault. That feels important, but it's sidetracked by the shock of ice in his stomach, the way it's making his limbs feel hollow. He has no idea if it's offense or anger; maybe a mix of both. Whatever it is, it's disabling. He wants to find Eobard right now, hit him until he's a bloody mess. He doesn't want to leave Harry standing here with this. Both at odds, both vague enough to feel directionless when he needs to say something, needs to fix it. ]
He can't touch you.
[ Because of the truce, because Eobard knows he'll lose Barry if he does — but it feels weak. Not enough. He can't take the message back any more than he can take back all the years Eobard had lied to Cisco and Caitlin, the years he'd watched Iris and Eddie. The fact that Eobard's already killed one version of Harrison Wells. Barry stalls out for half a second, then the numbness breaks as he drags his other hand out of his pocket, both hands going to the back of his head while he half turns to look back towards the door. He doesn't leave, though; it's just an anxious movement, anger without an outlet, and the device is starting to strain beneath one tight fist. The exclamation that goes with it is more of the same, breathless and frustrated. ]
no subject
He realizes he isn't breathing, lets out a slow, shallow exhale as his brow knits together in disgust. His grip's tight on the device without being secure, and he has to focus for a second to make sure he doesn't drop it, gaze lifting to seek out Harry's. ]
This isn't— [ All conviction with no words to back it up. It isn't Harry's fault. That feels important, but it's sidetracked by the shock of ice in his stomach, the way it's making his limbs feel hollow. He has no idea if it's offense or anger; maybe a mix of both. Whatever it is, it's disabling. He wants to find Eobard right now, hit him until he's a bloody mess. He doesn't want to leave Harry standing here with this. Both at odds, both vague enough to feel directionless when he needs to say something, needs to fix it. ]
He can't touch you.
[ Because of the truce, because Eobard knows he'll lose Barry if he does — but it feels weak. Not enough. He can't take the message back any more than he can take back all the years Eobard had lied to Cisco and Caitlin, the years he'd watched Iris and Eddie. The fact that Eobard's already killed one version of Harrison Wells. Barry stalls out for half a second, then the numbness breaks as he drags his other hand out of his pocket, both hands going to the back of his head while he half turns to look back towards the door. He doesn't leave, though; it's just an anxious movement, anger without an outlet, and the device is starting to strain beneath one tight fist. The exclamation that goes with it is more of the same, breathless and frustrated. ]
I'm gonna kill him. I have to, I can't just—