She's known him (really known him, not just the familiar, comatose body she guards over, but the pure hearted, sometimes awkward but always well meaning man she works with) for scarcely a month when he makes the comment: we were all struck by that lightning.

At the time, her lips tug upwards and she catches Dr. Wells' eyes and she agrees with the sentiment but it's a while yet before she realizes how very accurate his words are.

Central City is covered in a delicate (i.e.: dangerous) mixture of ice and snow and Barry Allen is covered in a disastrous (i.e.: disappearing) mixture of thin scratches and raw skin. He's sitting in what has become his usual seat on the med table, and she too is in her usual seat, hovering over him on a high stool, quickly disinfecting the injuries before they heal over. Cisco is elsewhere in the lab, gleefully making modified shoes for the Flash and Dr. Wells is just elsewhere.

She's doing her best to hold on to the disapproving scowl she tries to always maintain when patching Barry up, but the situation that created his wounds is so ridiculous (though not as ridiculous as his childlike pouting), that it's a battle she knows she'll soon lose. (Leave it to Barry Allen to forget to account for the reduced traction of winter roads and go sliding on his face and hands like an awkward toddler).

"You know, you can laugh Caitlin," he grouses, the tone so uncharacteristic that she startles. Dark brown eyes tear from the last of his lacerations to catch green through a slender forest of dark lashes. The quiet laugh that has been building at each disinfectant-caused flinch dies on her lips. Despite his tone, his eyes are dancing with mirth and that would be reassuring if it wasn't so distracting.

Caught in the shared gaze, she loses track of her limbs for the briefest moment, until Barry winces at the string of antiseptic and they startled out of the eye lock as easily as they startled into it.

This time she does laugh, partially because she can't help it and partially because it's the least awkward way to move past whatever's just happened. "I wonder what the bad guys would say if they knew that the Flash, Central City's big hero, could be brought down by snow and hydrogen peroxide?"

"They'd probably tell me to find a nicer doctor," he teases back, enjoying the play on words. The green of his eyes is blazing so brightly, she can only roll hers in response.

They were all struck by lightning—she just never expected it would lead to this kind of burn.

Obviously, I do not own the Flash or these characters. This is just the first of many bits & pieces inspired by the fantastic chemistry between Grant Gustin & Danielle Panabaker.