Chapter Text
Furious wasn’t a strong enough word to describe Iris's current state. She was also struggling to find a filthy enough curse with which define her new boss right now. And just when she thought they had had a break through, that they had reached an understanding, that they could, would, get along.
Granted, kissing your boss might not be the best strategy, but she thought it had meant something. Even if they were a little tipsy at the time; she was waiting for Barry at their regular bar - they were going to play darts, and he didn’t make it; some disturbance at the CCMoMA that had kept his hands full most of the night, first as the Flash and then as a regular CSI - when she had spotted Scott, drinking alone, claiming he had been stood up by someone he met on Tinder.
Now, they were having editorial problems; he thought her opinion about the Flash was, well, completely and totally wrong, questioning every single line about him she had written, so she had figured that, maybe, surrounded by different walls than the ones that they usually were when they had their already customary rows (even if it had been only three weeks), they would be able to work things out.
She wasn’t expecting the kiss, and maybe the shots and the margarita, and the feeling of being kinda low on Barry’s list of priorities at the moment, hadn’t exactly helped, but after talking for a while he turned out to be someone she saw herself opening up to.
She hadn’t realise just how much she needed to talk about Eddie (ironic, considering she had been a psychology major) until it all started to come out, in a huddle and mostly incoherent she guessed, but it had helped. And then Scott said it wasn’t healthy that she hadn’t had kissed anyone since Eddie, and she agreed, she probably did need to just fuck someone to get it out of her system, and he was there, all tall and fashionably dressed and smelling nice and she wasn’t about to fuck her new editor like that but a kiss couldn’t hurt, so she kissed him.
The next day he called her in his office and apologised profusely, saying he was drunk and it had been completely unprofessional but she had made a joke and he had laughed and since then they seemed to be on the right path.
Until now.
Now she contemplated her completely ripped article about the latest meta-human Barry had caught and what it should be her byline reading by Iris West and Scott Evans and she could kill him right about now.
Iris took one steady breath, because she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her shaking, and opened the door to his office without knocking, causing him to jump from his chair, and asked, in the most composed voice she could manage, trowing the newspaper on his desk;
“What the fuck, Scott?”
“I take you didn’t appreciate my editing,” he retorted, in very calm voice, which only accomplishment was to make her blood boil.
“I don’t care who the fuck you are, nothing in the world gives you the right to twist my words like that, so no, I don’t appreciate your editing. Next time you are that dissatisfy with my article you pull it, you don’t do this shit.”
“I would just like to remind you," he told her, closing the door behind her and still refusing to match her tone; “that I’m your editor, and therefore your boss, and this is a work place, so I’m not very pleased with the language.”
She dropped herself on one of the chairs he had in front of his desk and said;
“Well, if you’re gonna fire me then fire me, if you aren’t then you fucking deal.”
He sat back down in front of her, impassive, waiting for her to continue and she didn’t want to give him any of what he was expecting at the moment, but she couldn’t help it, this was bad, so bad in so many levels.
It would hurt Barry so much, it made it sound like she didn’t agree with anything the Flash had been doing and she couldn’t even begin to grasp on how she would fix it, what she would say to Barry, how on earth she could apologise for it, how on earth she would correct this publicly, so it just came out in form of word vomit, as Scott seemed to inspire it out of her;
“Do you have any idea that my career, my role on his public figure, on how he is perceived by this city, my relationship with him, all of that is endanger by the fact that you decided to use my research on the matter and change the meaning of every word I had written and keep my name on the fucking byline.”
“Your relationship —" he started, but then seemed to change his mind; "It was three in the morning. I couldn’t call you. I gave you credit for your research.”
“Next time you fucking call me. And don’t you ever dare to use my name again.”
She pulled herself up by the same second her phone started to ring, showing Barry’s photo on the called ID and something cold slid down her insides. Maybe the fact he was calling her should be a good sign, if he had seen it already at least he wasn’t freezing her out, and whenever they would actually talk, they manage to figure things out, so she took another deep breath, holding it in;
“Hey.”
The voice that answered back at her was rushed and small, like he had been crying, when he said;
“Iris, I need to talk to you.”
They had so many things hovering over them those days that it was difficult to be sure what exactly that meant. Just for a second Iris believed, or most likely wished, it could be something other than the article, that it could be about them, that they could once and for all just sort every fucking thing between them out, but the timing was too weird to be that, so she said, in the most neutral tone she could manage;
“I know.”
“You — Rooftop?” he asked.
“Ok.”
“How fast can you be there?”
“15 minutes,” she said.
“Ok, I’m waiting.”
Scott had been studying her intently throughout the conversation and she prayed he hadn’t figure anything out. It would destroy her if he did, but he kept quiet until she said;
“I have to go, I have to go fix this fucking mess you made.”
“Iris —”
But whatever he was going to say died on his lips, and he swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing on his throat and for the first time during the conversation he looked a little shaken too, as he questioned her;
“Was that the Flash?”, and when she kept quiet he asked; “Are you in love with him?”
“It’s none of your fucking business,” she replied sharply. Maybe she should have said no, but when she considered denying it, it died on her lips.
“Iris,” he tried again, but she cut him up telling him;
“My article for the anniversary issue is ready, I haven’t proof read it yet, but seeing as you are just going to change everything anyway you can proof read it, I’ll email it to you right now and I won’t be here for the rest of the day, I have to clean the mess you’ve made for me, if you have a problem with something I’ve written, you text me, email me back, send a fucking carrier pigeon, or you pull it, I don’t care, just don’t use my name, ever again.”
He kept his eyes on her, intently, a little disconcertingly even, but he didn’t fight back, or told her she couldn’t go, he just asked;
“Are you going to the anniversary tonight?”
The next day would be the 200th year anniversary issue of the Central City Picture News and they were having a gala to commemorate it. Presence was short of explicitly mandatory, everybody knew that if you weren’t in the hospital, dying, you had to go. Iris had been dreading it for weeks now. Debating whether or not to invite Barry as her plus one, mulling over on what exactly would that mean, and if she was ready for it to mean it, and now it was too late. She was the one too late this time, so she just told Scott;
“I don’t know yet.”
And she left, his door open behind her. She was tired of the man already in her life making decisions for her. She was absolutely not about to let another one start it too.