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We are always getting away from the present moment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial and have no dimensions, are passing along the Time Dimension with a uniform velocity from the cradle to the grave. – H.G. Wells, The Time Machine
Wells had always loved the silence of machines. It was never a true silence, that sort of hollow vacuum where the rooms were always cold and his thoughts bounced off the walls, but a warm quiet, a hum from the servers that was almost white noise surrounding him. A man could think in that kind of silence.
He’d rarely had the chance to enjoy it in the old days of S.T.A.R. Labs, when the place was active day and night, a full staff manning and checking all the equipment, an army of maintenance workers infiltrating even the rooms he had thought were safe. Now that there were only three of them, plus a frequent guest or two, and now that Cisco had given him a convenient excuse to let the janitorial staff go, it was a pleasure he luxuriated in.
Yes, it had always been possible for him to step between walls and disappear, but an entire empty building gave him the chance not only to stand and stretch, but to roam, to hunker down between rows of servers like he sometimes had in the old days when he wanted to be alone. Sometimes he imagined setting the sound system to some old waltz and dancing, although he’d never been much of a dancer. He imagined strolling naked down corridors, and might even have done that once or twice, confident in the security systems warning him before anyone saw… and yet curious what they’d demand to know first: why he was walking, or why he was doing it nude.
But still, that was childish. Most nights, he only wanted to breathe.
“Dr. Wells?”
The wrinkle in his nighttime adventures, which usually limited themselves to the wee hours in which even Cisco was asleep, was Barry Allen. Wells had spent so many years waiting, anticipating, longing to make the young man’s acquaintance, and indeed it was a delight to watch him, to work with him, to put his abilities to the test… But Barry could flash by security cameras between frames. At least he slept, though, and so did most criminals at three or four in the morning. But not tonight.
“Good morning, Barry.”
Barry would have seen the empty wheelchair by the doorway. How tragic, the way people jumped to conclusions that he was somehow wounded without it, that he would never voluntarily leave something that let him move around with comparative ease. Wells slipped on his glasses and sat back against the server, its warmth instantly penetrating the back of his shirt, and waited for Barry’s familiar concerned expression to appear.
He wasn’t wearing the suit. That was something. “Are you all right? Did something happen?” Barry seemed somehow luminescent even in the low light. Was that due to his abilities, or just the way youth radiated out from some people like a halo? Barry was no boy – he was an adult, qualified man who endured responsibilities that would have crushed many twice his age – but in many ways he seemed entirely uncorrupted and incorruptible.
“I’m fine, Barry. Although I imagine you’re not, given that you’re up at this time of night.”
His unlined brow furrowed. “I could say the same about you.”
Wells allowed himself a wince of discomfort, all the better to keep up his charade and elicit more sympathy than suspicion. “I don’t sleep well. Sometimes I find it easier to just come here instead of dreaming about it. At least it’s possible I might get some work done.”
“You mean because of the accident?”
“Because of the accident.”
Barry crouched down, matching his eye level. “I know something about having bad dreams. Sort of why I’m here tonight too.”
Wells nodded, comprehending. “Your mother?”
“Yeah, sometimes. Kept me up enough nights as a kid. That or imagining my dad trapped, trying to get him out of there, not being able to run fast enough to escape the guards.” Barry took a long breath and followed it with a shrug. “Now it’s more like everything goes by too quickly. Caitlin says I recover faster than anyone else on the planet, and the way my body heals itself probably applies to whatever our brains normally do while we’re asleep. So I guess I feel okay. But sleeping for two or three hours a night, every night…”
Wells smiled. “Welcome to my world.”
Barry reached out, fingertips almost brushing the perfect crease of Wells’ dress pants. He stopped himself. “Does it hurt? I mean… I’m sorry, that’s personal.”
“Don’t be sorry. I know almost everything about your body, don’t I?” Wells pressed both palms into the rough carpet and straightened his posture. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”
Barry gave him a glance and then really did set his hand down on Wells’ shin, just below the knee. He ran so hot it was barely believable. “You don’t feel anything?”
“No.” Wells tried not to focus on it, the way Barry was touching him, the fact that Barry was touching him at all. “Sometimes I think I do, but… It’s just misfiring nerve centers in my brain. Phantom limbs. They hurt because I expect them to hurt.”
Barry was still looking at him, but not with the sort of pity or dismissal most people did. Not that most people looked at him at all. “It’s unfair,” he said, “that the accident gave me these great gifts and it only took things away from you.”
“It took away your ability to do nothing. To sleep through the night. To spend time with your friends without tearing off to stop armed robberies and pull babies out of fires.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Using a wheelchair isn’t the end of the world, Barry.”
Barry blinked. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that it was. I just... You’re here alone in the middle of the night, crawling around server rooms, and I don’t think you would’ve been before the accident. Which probably doesn’t have too much to do with your legs.”
“No?”
“No. You’re smart, you’ve got that dry wit thing going for you, and you’re better looking than most quantum theorists I know.”
“Barry.”
“I mean it. If you just put yourself out there-”
Wells closed his eyes and pulled off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Barry. You came here in the middle of the night, when no one should be here at all, and I don’t think it has too much to do with how well you sleep these days.”
“No?”
Wells opened his eyes again and trained them on Barry. “No. You’re smart, you’re young, you’re better looking than almost anyone I know. You should be picking up a crowd of girls from a club and making the most of your stamina.”
Barry shifted his hand, maybe unconsciously, squeezing Wells’ knee. Wells had to resist the impulse to tense up. “Is that what you’d be doing, if you had my abilities?”
Wells laughed. “Oh, something like that. Probably not girls, though.” There was a time when he would have been anxious about that little truth. But not now, and not with Barry.
“So why not? Using a wheelchair isn’t a dealbreaker.”
“I’d imagine not, unless you’ve been caressing my leg for five minutes as a purely friendly gesture. Unfortunately, if you’d like to take this further, you really will have to get more hands on.”
Barry snatched back his hand like he’d been scalded. “I... I wasn’t doing anything.”
“We both know you could be anywhere but here. Read fifty books. Run to Argentina. And yet you are here, where only I might be, worrying about my sex life.”
The smile, when it came, was both bashful and mischievous. “Only trying to be helpful.”
“Sure.” Wells shifted to press his back firmly against the wall, and began to unloop his belt. “You can be safely home in the blink of an eye, Barry, and we can both pretend this was all a bad dream. Or you can really be helpful.”
In the blink of an eye, Barry was still there, shifting along beside him, helping to undo his fly, slipping a hand in over his briefs. “Can you feel it, if I do?”
“Yes. But I’ll need some help to get hard.”
“Help?” Barry’s face was so close now, Wells could see every fleck of color in his eyes, smell that fresh youthful sweat.
Wells laid a hand on the back of his head. Applied pressure. “Help,” he said.
It had never been worth the risk to find someone before. He was too much of a well-known face after the S.T.A.R. Labs incident that even some dumb rent boy from another county might recognize him. And keeping up this charade of paraplegia during sex would have been far too much effort for anyone else. But this, as Barry smiled again and pulled away his underwear, was more than worth the wait.
His body’s reactions were too immediate and obvious to fake: he plainly wasn’t the first man to have ever been in Barry Allen’s mouth. But it wasn’t impossible for someone with his sort of spinal injury (the sort that was listed in his records) to enjoy every single aspect of it, from the glorious warmth to the clever tongue, to just watching Barry take him in, head bobbing, eyes half closed, a hand pushed down to rub at the crotch of his jeans.
Wells slid his fingers through Barry’s hair, stroking, encouraging. More pressure resulted in pleased laughter rather than gagging. Wells stopped himself from holding back, letting his breathing become fast and audible, as thoughts became real moans and then gasps of “Barry, Jesus Christ.”
Why why why hadn’t he ever taken the initiative before, knowing what he did about Barry, about his preferences, his sexual frustration, his internalized need for father figures? Not that Wells wanted to be Barry’s father, anything but that, but if it was contributing at all to the way Barry was sucking him now… he could probably bear it for a little while longer.
“Take off your shirt,” Barry said, breathless.
“Why don’t you take it off me?”
Barry nudged Wells’ cock with his tongue. “Because I’d dislocate both your shoulders at the same time.”
“There are cots up a level,” Wells said, glancing at the ceiling. “For staff working late. Might be useful if you want to avoid carpet burn.”
Barry grinned and gripped him, then hesitated. “You don’t mind if I carry you? I could bring your chair.”
“That’s very considerate, Barry, but I don’t-” The soft mattress and clean linen were already under him. Wells lay back with a sigh of relief. “If this is going where I think it’s going, we’ll need some supplies.”
Barry was gone for several minutes – enough time for Wells to strip off his shirt, untie his shoes and pull down his pants. But he was still hard when Barry flashed back into the room, waving a carrier bag with a gas station logo. He might have actually waited in line to pay.
“Okay!” Barry said, and was clearly going to launch into one of his excited mission reports about what exactly he’d purchased and whether perhaps he’d rescued any kittens on the way. But then he saw Wells and more of Wells’ skin than anyone had seen in a year, and then in a crackle of lightning his clothes were a rumpled heap on the floor. “You,” he added, “are in incredible shape for-”
“A scientist? A cripple? An old man?”
Barry leaned in and cupped his cheek and kissed him. Sort of a boyish kiss, as kisses went, but then Wells grabbed him too and pulled him over, and there, that was better, Barry’s body hot and smooth against his, Barry’s large and insistent erection prodding his hip.
“I’m not too heavy, am I?” Barry asked, and Wells, despite himself, rolled his eyes.
“I’ve done this more times than you’ve imagined doing it with anyone, and you have the body fat percentage of a carrot. So no, Barry, you are not too heavy, and please stop treating me like I’m made of glass, because I fully intend to fuck the life out of you in a few minutes.”
Barry stayed where he was and reached down between them, his cock rubbing purposefully against Wells’ cock. “You have the most incredible eyes,” he said. “I never really noticed before. You should wear contacts instead of-”
“You could also,” Wells suggested, “stop talking entirely.”
He’d never been more tempted to blow his own cover than now, when he could have flipped Barry over and pinned him down and made good on his promise. What did Barry know about his body, after all? There was a wide, wide spectrum of spinal cord injuries and wheelchair users. But, much as it pained him to think it, getting off like that simply wasn’t worth the risk. Maybe next time. Let Barry think his penis had gained magical healing powers in the blast.
Barry, good boy, shut up. For at least as long as it took for another question to occur to him. “So… how do we do this?”
How do we do this? Maybe the wheelchair would have made things easier. Letting Barry fuck him would make it much easier, but Barry already had all the power, or almost all of it. Wells couldn’t let that one last illusion be stripped away. “We’ll need more pillows.”
Sometimes talking to Barry was like making wishes to a genie. The rest of the pillows in the room, and probably some from the supply closet in the hall, were suddenly beside them. And Barry… He was golden in the light, an eager puppy all grown up into a body of firm muscles and slim hips and the full, weighty cock he was idly stroking. All that, and Wells couldn’t shake the notion Barry knew nothing about what his looks and new body and ever-present boyish charm could do to a man. Or at least nothing beyond what it was currently doing to Wells.
Wells shoved the pillows into position, stacking them for enough support that he could beckon Barry onto his lap. Barry, with his model’s lips Wells kissed and bit, that only reddened with the blood rush. No one could look at something so beautiful and not want to tear it apart. Wells could only grab at him, hold him, yank his hair to steal another kiss while Barry touched him, ran thumbs over Wells’ nipples, moved his hips. And it was Wells who found his breaths turning ragged, helpless moans coming unbidden to the back of his throat. Barry was supposed to be the untutored, inexperienced one, but instead he was proving…
“Tell me what’s good,” Barry was saying. “I want to make it good for you.”
Oh God. Barry Allen thought he was the virgin: the poor, lonely man dealing with a sudden disability who needed to be helped to rediscover his own body.
“I…” His mouth was dry; words didn’t come.
Barry met his eyes and glanced down. “Or at least tell me what’s bad.”
“Nothing… Nothing’s bad.” Especially not with Barry tonguing his nipple like that. Wells had read extensively about the capabilities of people with the type of disability he’d intended to fake, and some articles had emphasized the fact that, for many people, sensation was increased above the area where it had been lost entirely. Which wasn’t true for Wells in any physical sense, but the way Barry’s mouth felt on him it might as well have been. He was warm, so warm, almost like he was coming just from that, making noises that were probably nonsense. Maybe he really could come, but he hadn’t got what he wanted yet.
He grabbed Barry’s hip hard, pulling so Barry fell forward into him, and then took hold of that ass, that runner’s ass. His other hand pressed down on the back of Barry’s neck, hard enough that Barry was gasping against his shoulder. “You want to get fucked, don’t you?” Wells said, low and clear. “Want my dick in you? Want me to come in that tight ass of yours?”
He expected a laugh, but Barry only turned his head and said: “I want everything.”
Barry only became more beautiful with that sex sheen over his muscles and long limbs, as he sat back and worked them both with lubricant. Wells hadn’t asked what Barry’s experience was, if anything, but Barry certainly didn’t shy away from handing Wells the lubricant and turning around. College was always a great educator.
Barry was fucking his own hand as Harrison drew him closer, sliding well-lubed fingers around and over his hole, dipping and twisting two fingers inside. Barry pushed back against him. “God, more. You said you were going to fuck me.”
He’d intended to use a condom, to be good, to be clean. But with all these scanners around, neither one of them had any chance of something dirty in their blood. Wells pulled his fingers out. “Come here, then.”
Had he ever been so hard as he was now, pushing into Barry, listening to Barry’s pleased sigh?
“Oh, deeper. Dr. Wells…”
The kneejerk reaction, the one he had to bite away from his own lips, was to tell Barry to call him something else, some better name. But now he didn’t want Barry to call him anything at all. Only to know and to feel.
He lifted his arm and pulled it tight around Barry’s neck, jerking him back so Barry’s spine was right against his chest, Barry coughing with surprise. Wells couldn’t dare move his hips to really fuck Barry the way he wanted, but he was inside him, and God did the boy know how to move. Wells’ other hand went to Barry’s cock, that thick, pulsing thing he couldn’t help imagining inside him. What would that be like? But this time Barry only moved through his hand, the rocking force of him thrumming back through Wells’ cock, and deeper into his body.
“I love your dick,” Barry was murmuring. “So fucking perfect inside me.”
This was, and always had been, a terrible idea. Terrible because it would change his relationship with Barry. Terrible because how was he supposed to keep his secrets secret when Barry was making him feel this warm and blissed out? But that was also why he couldn’t stop himself.
“Oh fuck,” he found himself saying, tightening his grip on Barry’s neck, on Barry’s cock, as if he were actually the one in control. “Oh God, Barry. What are you doing to me?”
Barry just kept moving, one long line of aching tension from chest to thighs. That fluid motion, firm ass grinding into him, clutching at his cock…
“Come inside me,” Barry said.
Wells turned his head, looked at Barry, at those bitten lips and pleading eyes.
Barry strained to kiss him. “Want you to. Want to feel you.”
He’d thought it might be hard to come fast enough for Barry. Barry was, what, half his age even without his metahuman abilities. But lightning was running down Wells’ spine already, the warmth inside him pooling and spreading… so that at a certain point he slackened his grip on Barry and just went with it, everything Barry was making him feel, everything Barry wanted to make him feel.
His vision whited out around the edges with that sudden feeling of complete, utter release, spilling himself out into Barry, his body aching in ways that suddenly seemed glorious. And as he was crying out, Barry’s hand covered his, moved his, and he felt Barry come in his hand, around his dick, spasming and vibrating in ways that didn’t seem entirely human.
“Good God,” Wells said.
He felt used, exhausted, lying back against the pillows and thinking about how many security feeds he’d need to ask Gideon to wipe. Had he done anything, had his body betrayed him in any way, that would arouse the least bit of suspicion? Not as far as it seemed now, with Barry snuggled up next to him, absently rubbing his thigh. Of course Barry Allen was a cuddler, the type who’d want to pull up the blankets and stay the night.
He nudged the kid. “Barry?”
“Mm, yeah?”
“You should probably be getting home.”
Barry smiled sleepily. “’s not like I’ll be late for work.”
“No… But I’d prefer Cisco and Caitlin not walk in on us like this, and I really should get some actual sleep.” And the longest, hottest shower of his life once he could stand up.
“I could take you home,” Barry said, lifting his head.
“Maybe I’ll stay here for now.” His hand rested on Barry’s hair again. “If you could just bring up my chair before you leave…”
And there it was, and there Barry was, once more fully clothed, handing him his glasses. “I can take a hint,” Barry said. He paused. “How about we go for a drink tomorrow? I can watch you get drunk.”
“Or a meal. I can watch you eat ten chickens.”
Barry bent over and kissed him again. “Raincheck on the chickens?”
He was gone before Wells could think up a way to get him to leave. Barry could come back at any time, which tended to preclude any further wanderings, and it really was late… or early. Not to mention the bed was filled with a dozen or so pillows.
Wells slid off his glasses again and placed them carefully on his wheelchair by the bed. To hell with them all. The kids could take care of saving Central City from superpowered villains by themselves for one morning. If he was going to be fucking Barry Allen on a regular basis, he really, really needed to get some sleep.