Chapter Text
The drive home is largely free of the usual Central City traffic thanks to the late hour, but the traffic lights operating on their own in the dark prevent it from being an entirely smooth ride. Barry is fast asleep in the back seat, head titled towards the window and his pacifier bobbing in his mouth, and the radio is playing one of Joe’s favourite jazz CDs at a volume almost too soft to hear.
It’s the type of atmosphere that Joe adores - more than enough to make up for him being forced to get up and dressed and come running to STAR Labs when Cisco had called him to let him know that the latest fight hadn’t gone anywhere near perfectly, and Barry had slipped upon arriving back. Not that Joe could possibly fault Barry for that, he’ll always come running for his son - his little boy - but it’s also often just more stress than he can handle. Hearing that Barry is hurt or has been forced into a drop is never going to get easy.
It’s all Joe can do to just roll with the punches.
“Alright,” he murmurs as the car pulls up in the driveway to their home, glancing at Barry in the rear view mirror. “C’mon, little boy. We’re home now.”
Barry stirs with a whine as Joe climbs out and rounds the car to scoop him up and carry him inside, but he’s still far too sleepy to be much help as Joe juggles him and the tasks of locking and unlocking and opening and closing various doors, cursing the fact that Iris chose tonight to be out. Eventually, though, they make it to the lounge and he can set Barry down on the sofa with a soft grunt. The boy immediately curls up and snuggles down against the cushions, knees tucked close to his chest and his pacifier still bobbing steadily as he suckles on it, and Joe hesitates for a single moment before he crouches down beside his little boy to gently stroke his hair. He’s glad that Barry’s finally fully content now that they’re at home, because as much as it’s frustrating when Barry’s being bratty and uncooperative, it’s also genuinely painful to see him unhappy like that.
It always makes Joe think of when he’d first found Barry under his care, and come face to face with that furious little nightmare who’d yell like it was a competition and run off into the streets looking for trouble the moment Joe glanced away for even a moment. That little boy with so much that he couldn’t process - the image of his dead mother burnt into his mind, the knowledge of his father’s atrocious actions, and those damned good-for-nothing little assholes at school who couldn’t give him a break, even when he was still reeling from something far worse than any child his age should have been able to even imagine.
Not for the first time, Joe allows himself only a moment or two to wonder whether Barry would be doing better than he is now if it weren’t for the whole Flash thing. Would he be further in his recovery? Would he be processing things better? Is the additional trauma that the job provides worth more than what being the Flash seems to mean to Barry?
Or, if he wasn’t the Flash, would he just be hurting himself in different ways?
Joe sighs as he cards his fingers through his son’s soft, messy hair.
These aren’t the sort of questions he’d thought he’d be asking himself, all those years ago when he’d had Iris. He hadn’t thought for a moment that life could possibly take this course when Iris had made a friend in grade school, this bright little boy, always full of sunshine and smiles, but then darkness had crashed down on that little boy and forced him into Joe’s arms - arms he was desperate not to go into. But he’s here now. And he’s a goddamn superhero with the weight of the world on his shoulders and Joe can’t do a damn thing but what he’s doing right now - trying to take care of the broken pieces when it’s all over for the night, because Barry still is and always will be that boy who goes running off into the streets looking for trouble.
At the very least, Joe can try and find some comfort in the knowledge that Barry is safe right now, safe and still for Joe to lean down and press a kiss to his hair before he finally stands. It’s late, and he’d been midway through getting ready for bed after a long day at work before Cisco had called, so he’s more than eager to resume and get some sleep - presumably with Barry curled up next to him, if his clinginess earlier had been any indication. For now, he picks up the soft blanket lay over the back of the sofa and unfolds it to tuck it carefully around Barry, enough to keep him cosy and warm and fast asleep while Joe’s being noisy in the master bedroom en-suite. He can then come back out and rouse Barry, hopefully manage to get his teeth brushed and get him changed into some pyjamas and maybe a pull-up, and then finally carry him up to bed.
Alright. That’s good. A plan. Joe’s always thought that plans are the best way to tackle anything, the best way to focus on getting something done - because, if he didn’t have one right now, he’d spend the rest of the night crouched here beside Barry, watching over him and worrying like he’s done so many times before. Like he’d done for the nine months he spent believing that his son was only ever a heartbeat away from death.
The thought is enough to make his plan waver in his head, make him truly weigh the option of curling up right here with his son, but he forces through it. He goes upstairs, telling himself that Barry is fast asleep and safe, and sets about following his normal bedtime routine.
He’s in his pyjamas, just finishing up patting his face dry, when the sound of screaming cuts through the house.
Immediately, his blood runs cold, and he’s running downstairs before he’s even thought about it. There’s not a single plan in his mind except to protect his son, grab his gun if he can get to it, but the possible need for physical violence is thrown away when he gets halfway down the staircase and sees Barry writhing on the sofa, tangled in the blanket and clearly deep in the throes of a nightmare. His pacifier has apparently fallen to the floor, the nipple still wet, and it’s a wonder that Joe doesn’t trip over it as he practically throws himself down at Barry’s side.
“Hey, hey, Barry, Bear,” he coos, voice only slightly frantic as he watches his little boy choke on petrified sobs, face red and wet, “It’s alright. It’s okay. It’s just a nightmare, baby, c’mon. Wake up for me. Daddy’s here, you’re safe. You’re safe, baby, wake up.”
Blessedly, it only takes a few gentle shakes to pull Barry from the terror, but Joe is entirely unprepared for the raw, terrified, and incredibly young-sounding scream of, “Mommy!” he lets out as his eyes snap open. They’re unfocused and bright with tears, staring up for a moment as if expecting someone to be looming over him, and then darting to the floor. Joe knows exactly what he’s looking for, exactly what he’s expecting to see - or perhaps is still seeing if the heartbreaking sob he lets out is any indication - and he quickly crowds himself closer, close enough that Barry can’t look at anything except him.
“Daddy’s here, baby,” he says, smoothing his palm over Barry’s brow, now damp with sweat. “Just look at me. Focus on me and focus on your breathing, alright? You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
It’s the exact same routine as the one he’d used when Barry was a child - right down to the way Barry sobs as he leans into Joe’s hand and babbles hoarsely, hysterically, about a man dressed in yellow. His eyes are still seemingly unseeing, uncomprehending, and he’s showing no sign of calming down, no matter what Joe says as he continues to coo. He’s still mumbling about his mother, about lightning and blood and how he wasn’t fast enough, about the man in yellow who stood and stared at him, and he sounds so vividly terrified, so vulnerable, so broken.
Joe doesn’t really have a plan as he opens his mouth, but, “Beautiful boy,” comes out like an instinct, just barely cracking into a melody halfway through.
Like always, it feels like he’s stealing. He can’t remember if it had been Henry or Barry who had first told him, but he knows that Henry used to sing Barry to sleep after nightmares with ‘Beautiful Boy’. To this day, it’s the one thing that’s capable of providing any real comfort when Barry is particularly worked up after a night terror, no matter how hard Joe tries to keep away from it - to leave the memory of it pure, leave the song to belong to Henry.
But what is he supposed to do?
He’s so damn tired, and Barry is so distraught, and seeing him like this hurts , because even like this - in a headspace that’s supposed to keep him safe, let him relax, make up for everything he’d faced growing up - Barry can’t be happy.
“Close your eyes, have no fear…”
Hands trembling just slightly, Joe lifts Barry beneath the armpits and pulls him gently into his lap, holds him tightly. Barry clings to him in kind, shaking like a leaf as he presses his face to Joe’s neck and sobs.
“The monster’s gone, he’s on the run and your daddy’s here.”
He leans down and presses his face to Barry’s messy hair, presses something too half-formed to really be called a kiss to the crown of his head.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy…”
And, as Joe sings, over the verses and looping the chorus over and over to encourage Barry to respond to the melody like he always does, his breathing gradually evening out as he starts to hoarsely and clumsily hum along, it gets harder and harder for Joe to remind himself of the reality that Barry isn’t a little boy anymore - not really. He’s an adult, tall and bright and confident despite his endearing awkwardness, but the fragility of him right now makes all of that just about invisible.
“Are you feeling better now?” Joe asks in a whisper, after he’s sang the whole song twice and listened to Barry attempt to sing the chorus along with him, managing to mostly carry the tune even though he could only babble the simple lyrics, clearly littler now than he had been earlier. “You’re not scared anymore?”
Silently, Barry shakes his head where it’s still resting against Joe’s shoulder. He’s still clinging, lanky arms wrapped tightly around the back of Joe’s neck, but he’s much more pliant now than he had been. Joe can still see that he’s afraid, at least a little bit, but provided his boy’s no longer on the brink of a panic attack, he feels safe to count it as a victory.
“How ‘bout we go up to bed, then, hm?”
Even if Barry’s not quite okay enough that the notion of trying to sleep again doesn’t immediately make him whimper with impending tears. Joe quickly pulls him closer, presses another kiss to his head.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he soothes. “You’ll be safe with Daddy this time. I won’t leave you. Doesn’t that sound better? You don’t even have to go to sleep straight away. I can read to you, if you want. And you can just snuggle down and see if you feel sleepy again, eh? Just get comfy in Daddy’s arms.”
It’ll work. It always works - it’s how Joe’s been working around Barry’s issues with sleep for over ten years now, though most of the barters when Barry had been younger had been the two of them watching movies side-by-side on the sofa until Barry finally lost out to his own exhaustion.
“...Da’y...stay?”
Barry’s voice is so wrecked with tears that it’s almost unrecognisable. It sounds like it hurts for him to speak, and Joe is suddenly hit with a different idea of how to get Barry to sleep.
“Daddy’ll stay,” he promises, leaning back so he can meet Barry’s eyes and hopefully exhibit his sincerity with a soft smile. “He’ll help you get all ready for bed, too. But first...how ‘bout we make you a bottle?”
♥︎
It’s a purchase that Joe had almost been ashamed of, a couple years ago - the adult-sized baby bottle. Just the same as every adult-sized pacifier, every pack of diapers and pull-ups which had made the whole situation uncomfortably real - forced Joe to confront the fact that this is weird.
It’s hard to find even an ounce of shame or regret inside of himself now, though, as he watches Barry doze against his chest, suckling steadily on the bottle of warm formula Joe had made for him.
Cisco had worked on it. He’d wanted to create something like the energy bars, but adapted for when Barry is...smaller, enough to almost keep up with his necessary calorie intake without overwhelming him or saddling him with the task of choking food down when he’s too little to really do so, particularly without help. Right now, though, the formula is mostly serving its purpose of satisfying Barry’s instincts and soothing him to sleep, helped along by Joe rocking him gently back and forth, supporting his back with the hand that isn’t holding the bottle up, because he’d said that Barry was too little to do it himself - a decision which had served its intended purpose of soothing Barry even deeper into regression.
They hadn’t even made it through a book - one of the children’s books that Joe still has, kept from Iris’ childhood, ready to be gifted to a grandchild in the future but for now proudly serving for little Barry. Joe had offered, had even picked a book out specially, but Barry had shaken his head and made grabby hands at the bottle on the nightstand and whimpered and that was that decision made.
Really, Joe’s glad. Not just because he can see now as Barry finally falls into sleep, his mouth falling lax around the nipple of the bottle and letting a little bit of milk dribble down his chin, but because Barry’s finally, really content now, dressed in his softest pyjamas and a nighttime pull-up.
He may still have another night terror yet, or just sleep restlessly and work himself into a terrified panic when he wakes up ‘alone’ in the dark because Daddy’s fast asleep and he swears he can feel the man in yellow staring at him again, but that is something that Joe had expected and accepted when he’d had Iris: he would have any number of sleepless nights for his children, whether they’re sick or hurting or just fearing imaginary bogeymen.
Grunting slightly with the effort of stretching over without risking disturbing Barry, Joe manages to set the near-empty bottle on the nightstand and turn the lamp down before finally settling down against the pillows, lifting his arm up so Barry can snuggle up against him. He dreads to think what time it is, doesn’t even want to think about what time they both have to be up for work in the morning, but he might be able to get some leeway for a morning off if he’s lucky.
And, if he’s even luckier, he’ll wake up to find Barry sleepy and happy and still lay beside him, rather than tense and ashamed and hiding away in the kitchen or bathroom, already dressed, with his pacifier and baby bottle and cute pyjamas and the bag of pull-ups hidden away somewhere in his room like Joe won’t just find them again.
He won’t be able to wake up with a plan. There’s no way to predict how Barry might be feeling, whether he’ll still be small or if he’ll be that bright, awkward young man or if he’ll just be a man weighed down by the weight of everything.
“G’night, beautiful boy.”
It’s all Joe can do to just roll with the punches.