Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason forgets about the trip. That is until Barry tosses a suitcase at him and tells him he needs to pack. He stares at it in mute panic, his immediate, crushing thought being that even "I love you" couldn't save them in the end. He knows his boyfriend sees it; taking down his own suitcase, Barry turns just as Jason feels the blood drain from his face.

"New Orleans," the blond says quietly, squeezing his boyfriend's arm gently. "Forensics conference? Beignets?"

The younger man blinks stupidly, waiting for that statement to make sense. "Sorry," he says just as quietly when it comes to him, shoulders sagging. Christ but he needs to stop this shit.

Barry agrees, reading the sentiment etched across his boyfriend's features. There are many things he wants to say, but he goes with, "Come on," inclining his head towards the bedroom down the hall. "I know you probably have stuff from home you need, but at least this way, I know you'll have clean underwear."

The corners of Jason's lips twitch upwards. "Thanks."

The older man just shrugs, needing to will himself not make anything of it, however tiring the circle of doubt might be. "If you're not there, it means no sex for a week. It's not entirely altruistic."

"On the positive side, I guess that means I get something out of it, too." Draping his arm around Barry's shoulders, Jason pulls the other man close and kisses him on the cheek sloppily.

"Probably many somethings...or at least one something many times," Barry replies, wiggling his eyebrows for effect.

Jason casts a leer of his own. "Well, then, maybe I should just not bring underwear at all. I'm sure there are more important things I'll need."

Barry eyes the younger man up and down meaningfully, but definitely doesn't protest the idea. Instead he takes his boyfriend's hand and drags him just a little too quickly to the bedroom.

Chapter Text

It's not that Jason doesn't fly commercial – he most certainly does. He just doesn't fly commercial economy. Sue him, but he's a big guy and it's not like he's exactly poor. Red Hood might be gone, but his money lives on.

Barry doesn't know the tickets have been upgraded until they board, because Jason learned stealth and deception from a certain pointy-eared asshole in Gotham whose name rhymes with "Fatman." They're not flying transatlantic with those individual sleeping pods and fully reclining seats (which Jason thinks is too bad, because why not join the mile-high club?), but the blond's reaction is still comical as Jason stops him short of the dividing curtain between Economy Plus and First Class and plops him down into a large leather seat, tosses a blanket over him, and snags two flutes of champagne from the stewardess.

They don't exactly make out, but the blanket ends up obscuring a lot more than either of them thought it would. Jason takes the window seat, and the minute the "fasten seat belt" light goes off, he shoves the armrest up, tugs open his boyfriend's seat belt, pulls the older man into his lap, drapes the cover over the two of them, and lets his hands roam freely as Barry sighs like the happiest cat in the world (after muttering a weak, initial protest about being in public that Jason completely ignores).

Both of them end up making more than one trip to the lavatory. Separately, unfortunately.

By the time they deplane, grab their bags, and find a cab, both men are spent and content to cuddle and watch the scenery go by as they enter the city. Strip malls spar with houses, cemeteries, and greenery along the side of the road before giving way to the sprawl of downtown. The Superdome rises out of a cluster of parking garages and squat buildings to greet them as they exit the highway.

The colorful, multi-storied buildings of the French Quarter, their balconies decorated with ornate iron-worked railings, hanging plants, flags, and strings of beads, almost come as a shock as they cross from urban skyscrapers into a section of town seemingly stuck in the trappings of the past. A horse-drawn carriage passes in front of their cab as they pull up in front of the hotel, and it's clear upon opening the car door and hearing the music and the laughter in the air that even though it's barely noon, the party is far from just begun.

Barry grins as he surveys the area, taking in the tourists with their plastic cups full of beer and their novelty containers full of something stronger. As he looks up, his eyes catch on the row of onlookers staring down at them from the balcony of the house across the way. "Hey, look," he says, directing his boyfriend's gaze with an outstretched arm, "first crime scene. What do you think, grave robbery?"

"Pretty bold, just leaving the bodies out like that for anyone to see," Jason comments, taking in the family of skeletons – and their skeledog – poised all jaunty-like with their hands raised in welcome. "Maybe they live there – you know, some kind of voodoo thing." Because far be it for him, of all people, to discount the possibility of a zombie family next door. "You think they're friendly?"

"Sure seems that way. If they're still here when we come back out, I'll interview them – see if they can tell me what happened." Turning towards the hotel's entrance, Barry pulls open the door and holds it for the younger man. "Come on, let's check in, drop our bags, and then head for the convention hotel; I need to get my badge before tomorrow."

"And after that, we'll do some digging into our new neighbors." Flashing a toothy smile, Jason pointedly ignores his boyfriend's groan as he enters the lobby.

With a faux-suffering shake of his head, the older man grouses, "I can already tell, we're going to have so much fun."

Chapter Text

Jason is fast revising that assessment less than twenty minutes later. As they enter the convention space and make for the check-in tables, he finds himself wishing he was still on the plane with his hands down his boyfriend's pants and his lips on Barry's throat. Because he now realizes, like the idiot he is, that the kind of people who attend forensics conferences are usually forensic scientists, and a large portion of forensic scientists are criminalists – like his boyfriend. Which means that by agreeing to attend a forensics conference, Jason was actually agreeing to spend a week surrounded by some of the best minds in law enforcement – arguably more dangerous with the their test tubes than cops with their guns.

With each step, he feels like a pig walking to its slaughter, and he has a brief hysterical thought that maybe Babs was right and he should have dyed his hair red. At the very least.

Fuck.

Everywhere he looks there are badges and logo shirts and signs, and he only barely makes it past the two local uniforms manning the entrance without doing something stupid, like bolting – or grabbing one of their guns and then bolting.

What the hell was he even thinking? The only positive is that he and Barry are staying several blocks over, so he doesn't have to see this everyday for the next five days.

"Babe?"

Jason is yanked away from of his paranoia by the tug of his boyfriend's hands on his arm. By the look on his face, this isn't the first "babe" Barry has uttered. "Sorry, what?"

"If you want to wait outside, this shouldn't take too long." The scientist sends a long, knowing glance around the room before his gaze returns to Jason.

The younger man, however, is too busy clocking every exit and every weapon in the vicinity to make eye contact. After he's done that, he does his best to determine if anyone is paying a little too much interest in him. Thankfully, he hasn't seen the word "Gotham" emblazoned on anything...yet. "S'alright," he says, rubbing roughly at the hairs on the back his neck that refuse to relax, "I'm fine."

Barry's kind enough not to call bullshit – at least not audibly. He does, however, pick up his pace enough that Jason has to hustle to keep up. A flash of credentials, the snap of a photograph, and the whir of a printer later, and the two of them are reversing course back to the exit. Jason's ready to breathe a sigh of relief when he hears his boyfriend's name called across the room. Because, of course.

He turns and sees the blond's face split with a wide, excited smile, and then Barry is darting away to give a grey-haired man wearing a tan button-down shirt and dark slacks an enthusiastic handshake that quickly turns into a black-slapping hug.

"Gil! I didn't know you'd be here!" Barry exclaims, loud in his excitement. "It's great to see you!"

Gil's answering sigh comes complete with an eye roll. "The lab finally 'found' money for us to attend – not that I hadn't put it in the budget for the last three years." He physically adds the air quotes, somehow getting them to drip with the same exasperation. His lips, however, curve into a smile as he adds, "It's good to see you, too, Barry."

"Who's 'us'?" the blond asks taking a quick look around for familiar faces.

"That'd be me," a male voice drawls from Gil's left. "Hey, Barry, good to see you."

"Nick!"

Barry's face again lights up, and Jason turns to follow the voice to its origin. What he sees has him wondering whether or not he needs to intercede in the impending hug or risk losing his boyfriend to what is arguably one of the more attractive men he's seen in a long time – and Jason spent years running around with men who wore very, very tight tights.

At just shy of six feet tall with warm, chocolate-colored eyes highlighted by laugh lines and black hair long enough to be styled back but an inch or so off being wavy, "Nick" has a belt buckle and an accent that scream Texas cowboy, and a jawline – square enough to have been put on with a protractor and sharp enough to cut even Superman's super skin – that screams male model.

Jason could definitely swoon. If he allowed himself to swoon. Instead he tries to inconspicuously drape himself over his boyfriend in a not-at-all possessive manner.

"Jason...,"

The younger man thinks the look Barry turns on him is just a little too knowing. He feels himself flush – well, flush more .

"...these are two of my friends from the Keystone City Police Department's crime lab: Gil Grissom," Barry nods his head towards the grey-haired man, "and Nick Stokes. Nick, Gil, this is Jason, he's...." He pauses mid-sentence, realizing he's once more set himself up for a rather jarring, inelegant reveal. With an internal sigh , he just goes for it. "Jason is my boyfriend."

Both Nick and Gil share a moment of confusion before reaching out to shake Jason's hand. There's no overt hostility, just surprise, for which Jason is grateful. He offers a small, apologetic smile as he greets each man in turn.

"Sorry, I need to get better at doing that," Barry confesses once the introductions are concluded. "I forget how awkward it can be when people don't know."

Grissom's eyebrow inches a little higher as unvoiced questions play across his features, and Jason realizes he's actually rather attractive as well, albeit in a nerdy, professorial-type way, which makes him feel slightly less paranoid regarding his earlier concerns. His boyfriend is definitely never attending one of these things alone – even if it means Jason has to cavort around with cops.

Nick offers a genuine smile as he says, "I'll admit, I didn't see that coming. How long have you two been together?"

Barry exchanges a look with his boyfriend, resting his hand on the younger man's lower back. "About six months. And before you ask," he adds, heading off the obvious next question, "I've always known I liked men and women."

"Don't worry man," Nick says, pitching his voice a little softer, "no one was ever going to doubt you and Iris." Reaching out to squeeze Barry's shoulder, he adds, "I'm happy for you. Both of you." Directing his next words to Jason, he says, "You got a good man here – one of the best. You take good care of him, 'cause he has friends who know how to hide a body and make the evidence go away."

"Nick!" Barry cries, caught between wanting to laugh and trying to look appropriately aghast at the threat. Embracing Jason's left arm, he shoots his boyfriend an apologetic look.

"No, no," Nick says, holding up a hand to stop the protest, "this is what friends do." He glances at Grissom for confirmation, but the older man just shrugs as if to say he has no experience in this arena – which Nick knows he really doesn't. With a huff of breath, the CSI turns back to Jason. "Seriously, though, treat him right; you don't wanna see the kinds of things a bunch of lab rats can get up to if properly motivated."

Pressing a quick kiss to Barry's temple, Jason nods in what he hopes is a properly deferential manner, although he can't quite hide his own amusement. "Understood. Good shovel talk."

There's an awkward pause, which is finally broken by Grissom asking, "So, do have any plans for the rest of the day?"

With a nod that's not entirely regretful, Barry replies, "We do. Before the conference kicks off tomorrow and things get crazy, we made dinner plans."

That's news to Jason, but he's certainly not going to argue. He figures "dinner plans" falls well enough under "wander aimlessly and end up at the river at sunset," which is the only plan of which he'd been made aware.

"You'll be here all week, though?" the blond continues hopefully, because he does want to spend time with his friends.

"We will. I'm sure we'll catch up later," Gil replies diplomatically.

"Good, then I'll see you both tomorrow," Barry affirms.

Nick's own smile is more of a smirk. "Count on it. Y'all have a good night. It was nice to meet you, Jason." He lifts his hand in a small wave, which is mirrored by Grissom.

"It was nice to meet you both, too," Jason replies. "I'm sure I'll see you later."

With a last round of "good byes," Jason and Barry turn and head off. He's not taken two steps when the younger man swears he hears a Texas-twanged voice say appreciatively, "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Chapter Text

It turns out that Barry actually does have plans. And because it's Barry, those plans involve food. The scientist walks and Jason follows obediently, and they quickly leave the French Quarter behind for a section of town that is nowhere near as bad as The Narrows, and yet is definitely not a place Jason would want his boyfriend to be after dark alone.

The younger man keeps his head up and shoulders straight, eyes constantly moving. It's overkill, at least a tad, but once they cross under the highway, going straight past a homeless camp, it's obvious they're no longer in Oz. Thankfully, their destination -- if he's guessing right -- is just up ahead.

As he sees the name on the building, he snorts in complete adoration, wondering how this became his life. Barry of course hears him and twists around, cocking an eyebrow as he crosses the street and climbs the steps to the doorway.

Jason meets him an eyebrow for an eyebrow. "Central City Barbeque," he says flatly.

"Yup," the blond replies with a sweet smile, not missing a beat. "Seemed like a place we should check out.

Jason does a quick scan of the street, making sure that no one is checking them out. He's apparently not as surreptitious as he thinks he his, because Barry fixes him with a look that says he sees right through him and shakes his head before opening the door to the restaurant. The younger man once more follows obediently, stopping just inside to survey the surroundings. The interior is at odds with the rest of the neighborhood; clean, open, and somehow both rustic and modern, there's a bar that takes up one side of the space, tables on the other, and a window straight ahead for ordering. As he completes his circuit, his gaze locks and holds on the mascot.

"That's one angry looking pig," the raven-haired man remarks, staring at the wall decoration with a mix of curiosity, appreciation, and perhaps a little trepidation. It's pink with yellow, green, and purple accents, which -- as he devotes far too many brain cells to pondering it -- is apropos for New Orleans. But said pig also looks like it's about to rip his head off, which, if this was Gotham and not Louisiana.... But maybe there are worse places on Earth than Gotham.

Stomach rumbling, Barry grabs his boyfriend's hand and directs him over to the bar. "You'd probably be a little angry if you were about to be slaughtered, smoked, shredded, and eaten," he says, studying the menu with single-minded intent, punctuated by another loud burble of his stomach.

Which is totally fair, the younger man thinks, scratching his head as his eyes remain fixed on the pig.

"It's happy hour," the blond announces helpfully. "If you get a draft beer, you get to keep the glass." He pauses, looking up when there's no acknowledgment, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cringe -- so he does both. "Babe, leave the pig alone. He's not real. He can't hurt you." The hand that he rests on his boyfriend's back is meant to be comforting and reassuring -- as if this was a valid concern.

The glare Jason shoots the swine would suggest that maybe somewhere, sometime, in a galaxy far far away, the man once had a vicious altercation of the porcine kind. All Barry can think is, Gotham.

Thankfully, Jason does cease eye contact and stoops to study the menu. Although he appears to keep the pig in his peripheral vision.

Barry very consciously doesn't say a word, too preoccupied by the hands that find his waist and the chin that rests on his shoulder and the warmth of the body that travels up his back. He smiles, allowing himself to relax into the embrace.

After they order, they head outside to grab a seat on the patio, both with beers in hand. Flat screen TVs try to entice them with the latest sports games, while from above, nailed to a long wooden crossbeam, a line of fans helps soothe the heat with a steady stream of cool air. Across the gravel lot is a bandstand that promises live music if they're in town on the right day.

"Not bad," Barry says appreciatively as he takes the first sip of his beer, an amber-colored local draft he hasn't seen in his own Central City before.

"Agreed." Jason licks the foam off his upper lip, savoring the smoothness of the brew. "How did you find this place?"

"The wild and wonderful world of the internet. I was trying to scout the food scene ahead of time so we didn't end up in some crappy tourist restaurant, and this place popped up." He glances from the TV back to his boyfriend only to find the younger man studying a trio of pigs painted in pink, blue, and red on shipping containers stacked behind the bandstand, their eyes also brimming with anger. "You sure you're okay?"

"What? Yeah," Jason replies, shaking himself out of his reverie. For all the weird he's seen in his life, he has no idea why he's so fascinated by a stupid drawing.

"Mmm hmmm," is Barry's unconvinced reply. Thankfully for Jason, he doesn't have time to say anything else as the waiter appears with their food.

"Here you guys go," the apron-bedecked twenty-something-year-old says, distributing matching plates of pulled pork sandwiches, fries, beef brisket chili, mac and cheese, and baked beans. Pointing to a box on their table, he adds, "We have three sauces: sweet, vinegar, and spicy. If you need more napkins or utensils, they're inside to the left, and if you need another beer, someone'll be at the bar. Enjoy."

With that, he's gone, and Jason and Barry are left to stare in appreciation at their meal.

"Well," the scientist says, fishing out his camera and snapping a quick photo, "bon appetite."

That is the second to last thing he says for the next five minutes – mainly because he has to devote most of his attention to not simply ravaging the meal using his super speed.

It starts with a tentative taste of the pork, Barry using his fingers to pluck out a piece of moist goodness from between the bun and pop it into his mouth. He lets the morsel rest on his tongue, the flavor seeping into his taste buds. "Oh, Jesus," he moans, eyes falling shut and head tilting back, "this is amazing."

Jason doesn't disagree, although he's fairly certain they're not talking about the same thing. Watching as the pink tip of his boyfriend's tongue darts out to lap up the juices on his lips, the younger man finds himself shifting in his seat in an effort to ease the sudden and unexpected strain on the crotch of his jeans. Another moan from across the table reaches his ears, and he purposely glues his eyes to his own sandwich and thinks thoughts of Lex Luthor, Clay Face, and Ma Gunn. It works...barely.

He realizes as he takes his first bite that his experience with real barbeque is limited. Gotham has plenty of dirty pigs, they're just not the kind you want to put in your mouth. Trust him, he knows. He also knows, once the flavors hit, that Barry's porno voice-over is more than justified. The food is good – really good. Swallowing before taking a swig of his beer, he clears his palette and moves on to sample the chili.

Meanwhile, Barry has already made it through most of his mac and cheese. Putting down the Styrofoam cup, he grabs each sauce bottle in turn and squirts out a puddle on his plate before snagging a fry and dipping it the sweet sauce and taking a bite. He repeats the process with the vinegar and then the spicy sauce, humming happily as the latter heats his taste buds. "How's yours?" he asks, eyeing Jason's still mostly full plate with not a little longing; he wonders if they're at the point in their relationship where stealing a fry or ten would be cute instead of creepy.

"Good. Really, really good." The younger man's gaze darts up before quickly dropping back down, and he squirms a bit as the effects of another appreciative noise from his boyfriend's mouth go straight to his groin. The likelihood that he's going to cum in his pants before the night – nay, meal – is over is ridiculously high.

"Babe?" Barry asks, brushing his fingers lightly against the back of his boyfriend's hand. Under the table, he hooks his foot around Jason's ankle and rubs the tip of his shoe gently against the younger man's calf.

Startled, Jason looks up and quickly wishes he hadn't.

The blond staring back at him with a carefully composed expression that oh so innocently asks, 'What?'

His eyes, though, shine with a heat that is not at all G-rated, and Jason thinks that as good as the food is, there are definitely places he'd rather be. And things he'd rather eat.

But Barry just smiles, deliberately savoring each bite and each new flavor, uncharacteristically unhurried, each movement and every noise a promise of things to come.

Chapter Text

They successfully navigate their way back to the French Quarter, wandering for a bit to work off their meal – and their rising anticipation. Barry clocks the beignet place he intends to frequent for breakfast, a hole-in-the-wall that opens at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. and is closed by three p.m. Jason clocks a corner market from which to grab a couple of beers, because there's no way he's coming all the way to New Orleans and not drinking on the street. He also grabs a bag of spicy potato chips with the rather unsettling name of "Crawtaters," which have an actual crawfish on the bag; he prays they don't actually taste like the crustacean – because that's a thing.

Back outside, the raven-haired man pops the tab on one can, offering it to Barry expectantly, and opens the other once the blond takes it, albeit reluctantly.

"You trying to get me drunk?" Barry asks after swallowing his first sip; it's the same brand they'd had back at the restaurant, just a different style. He carefully side-steps a massive broken section of sidewalk and twists around the support pole to a balcony overhead, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oblivious tourist who's definitely had one too many.

Huffing a laugh, the younger man replies, "Because either of us really needs alcohol to put out." Looping his arm around his boyfriend's shoulders, he pulls him back close so he can kiss his cheek. Against his side, he feels the vibrations of laughter.

"Very true."

Despite the beautiful weather, they have their choice of benches along the river. Jason, however, forgoes the obvious seating to instead drop down on a set of steps leading to the waterline. Taking a moment to survey the scenery and snap a few photos, Barry makes to sit before catching sight of something on the concrete.

"Suspicious white powder," he muses, crouching down to get a closer look.

Taking a swig of his beer, using the upwards tilt of his head to hide his eye roll, Jason swallows and then says evenly, "Cocaine." His shoulders rise and fall at the look Barry shoots him. "I mean, you've already got skeletons on the balcony, and now there's white powder on the sidewalk. Maybe this is a crime scene treasure hunt or CSI bingo."

"Now who's the dork?" the scientist says, mussing his boyfriend's hair before sitting down and leaning into Jason's side. A pleasant breeze off the water dances against his skin and he exhales slowly, letting the sounds of nature wash over him.

Hand once more snaking around his boyfriend, Jason rests his head against the older man's and stares out at the rippling river as he speaks. "You realize that the eau du weed here is strong enough you'll probably fail your next drug test simply because you breathed the air. Ergo, there is actually a minute chance that that is cocaine. But I mean, you can always lick it and find out."

Barry's face stretches so that it resembles a lizard in pain, exposed tongue and all. "Here I thought the guy off Canal blasting Reggae music and selling edibles out of his 'mystery machine' lent the area a certain je ne sais quoi. I mean, laissez le bon temps rouler and all that."

Jason's expression simultaneously says "sure," "alright," and "ugh," because pot smells nasty.

"Anyhoo," Barry continues, "I leave that kind of thing to Grissom."

The younger man's brow scrunches in consternation. "What kind of thing?"

"Tasting random unknown substances."

"Seriously?" Jason kind of wants to gag. "You need more normal friends."

If only you knew , Barry thinks, burying his snort in his beer can. Out loud he says, "You'll understand once you talk to him; Grissom enjoys his work. He's very...Grissom."

Jason nods, because as much as that explains nothing, what else is he going to do? "And Nick? How's he?" The sun is starting to sink, turning the ripples in the water golden and warming his upturned face.

"Nick? He's a good CSI – smart, dedicated, the kind of guy who always has your back." Barry pauses, takes a sip of his beer and swallows, and keeps his eyes on the river before adding, "He's also warm, funny, has amazing abs, and a drawl that'll make you drop your pants. He's totally hot."

Beer can at his lips, Jason side-eyes his boyfriend.

Barry side-eyes him right back. "I think he liked your ass." He makes no comment as his boyfriend sputters around his next mouthful of beer.

"Cute," Jason says roughly when he finally gets his throat clear.

"So are you when you're jealous," the blond says, leaning over to plant a kiss on Jason's lips, sucking the lower one into his mouth and removing all traces of alcohol before releasing it. "Just so you know, his comment was directed at you; Nick and I have known each other for years, there's no reason he'd say something like that about me."

"Except he just found out you played for both teams." Jason thinks he sounds reasonable, although he could be wrong. Probably is.

"And he just saw your biceps for the first time. And your thighs And your lips. Your eyes...." Barry trails off as he takes a drink. Jason, too, falls silent, studying the water, his expression unreadable. The older man elects to wait him out, draining the last of his beer before once more using his boyfriend as a pillow.

Eventually, the younger man sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out slowly, keeping his gaze on the river. "Sorry," he murmurs quietly, "I'm being an idiot. I know you wouldn't do anything. We've had this conversation."

"We have." Barry turns his own gaze to the steamboat docked down the riverfront as a pretext for studying his boyfriend out of the corner of his eye. "Although 'idiot's' a bit strong. On the one hand, I'm flattered you think I'm such a catch. On the other, I hope you trust me a little more than that."

"I do," Jason says firmly. He wants to say it's the other guy who's the problem, but he also doesn't want to insult his boyfriend's friend. Instead he adds, "I don't know what's wrong with me." Except it's a lie, because he does; he went and fell in love, and now he's got something to lose. And outside the safety of their own city, with all its known elements, he is suddenly and absurdly insecure. "I know you're not that kind of person," he tacks on, keeping the fault in his own lap.

Barry hums not unkindly as he embraces the younger man. "Just so long as you don't mind me getting jealous of all your hot friends, too."

Jason mentally scrolls through his Rolodex of friends – hot and otherwise. All four of them. Well, two, considering Artemis and Bizarro are.... He cuts that thought off before it can lead him nowhere good. "Only have one," he says quietly, "and she's a...she...so I'm back to worrying about you," he says with a tentative smile, trying to make it a joke instead of something pathetic. "I do know a guy who's so stupidly attractive it's almost painful, but you don't have to worry about him. He's more like...well...he's family, kind of...so just no...not going to happen. He's kind of a dick, among other things."

He sighs, eyes falling shut as he tries to get his head together. When he opens them, he finds Barry regarding him with a look of pained amusement.

"Okay then," the blond says, patting his boyfriend's flank as he returns to staring at the river, savoring the breeze that winds its way through his hair.

"Okay?" Jason chuckles as he feels the hug tighten. "Okay," he says, the word carrying with it no small measure of relief.

With that, the conversation drifts away on the wind as they cuddle closer and enjoy the sunset.

Chapter Text

Barry will freely admit that he doesn't do "anticipation" well. As a man used to living his life just shy of the speed of light, there are times when it literally seems like anticipation will be the death of him.

Like now, for example, when it feels like he's been edging for hours – just without the added pleasure of his boyfriend's hand. Or mouth. Or tongue. Or any other damn part of his boyfriend touching any place on his anatomy that is his dick or his balls or his ass.

The refractory period for a speedster is borderline absurd, and by his math, he could have had something like a dozen orgasms by now if he'd just decided to drag Jason back to the hotel and fuck him senseless.

But he hadn't. He's stuck with the plan: dinner, a stroll through the gas light-lit streets of the Quarter, and quiet cuddling by the river under the stars.

It was beautiful. His boyfriend is beautiful. Having the night to themselves, no work, no interruptions, was also beautiful.

What's not beautiful is making it back to the hotel after nine p.m., his cock overly sensitive and pleading for his attention while the rest of his body is exhausted and ready for sleep. It's not fair, is what it is. He wants to cum so badly, wants to feel Jason so badly, and yet he's fairly certain he doesn't even have enough energy to shuck his pants and make it to the bed.

"Hmmm."

The bass of Jason's voice rumbles against Barry, who's practically asleep against his boyfriend's side. He exhales a soft breath as he feels the younger man nuzzling his hair and his brow and his nose and then his lips. He returns the kiss languidly, tasting spice and alcohol and Jason, and moans as he feels his pants get impossibly tighter.

"You look like you're about to fall asleep on me," the raven-haired man whispers. "Not very nice when you've been such a tease all night." He presses his own bulge gently against his boyfriend's thigh, slowly gyrating his hips to get blessed friction.

Barry's eyes fall closed, both from the sensation and exhaustion, but he can't bring himself to pull away from Jason's mouth – finds it blindly, kisses straying to his boyfriend's chin and the corners of his lips. He feels drunk and high and like every nerve in his body is alive, Jason's fingers trailing lines of fire up and down his arms as they caress his skin.

"Sorry," the blond murmurs, his mouth closing on his boyfriend's lip and sucking gently for a moment. "Tired, but don't want to sleep."

"Certainly hope not." Jason's hand spider-walks down Barry's torso, towards his groin, and cups him gently, eliciting a full-body shiver from the older man, punctuated by a sharp hiss of breath as he squeezes gently. The blond's head drops from Jason's mouth to his chest and burrows under his chin, nose pressed against the hollow of his boyfriend's throat.

"Fuck," Barry whispers, sounding almost pained.

It seems to be the magic word, as suddenly his shirt is gone and there are hands on the button of his pants, then on the slider tab of his zipper, and he almost weeps as one by one the teeth part and the pressure on his groin eases. "Babe, please," he pleads.

"Shhhh, I got you," Jason says, hot breath ghosting over Barry's ear. "Just trying to figure out how I want you."

In Barry's expert opinion, it doesn't really matter; he's not going to last anyway. Chilly air hits his legs as his pants pool at his ankles, and his dick throbs as the blunt tips of his boyfriend's nails drag over the front of his boxers. A whimper escapes his throat and his hips jerk forward shamelessly begging for more.

All he gets is a knowing chuckle from the younger man.

"Now w...who's the t...tease?" the blond stutters as his boyfriend's hands dip inside his waistband and a calloused finger brushes against his leaking tip. He raises his own hands, fully intending to touch himself, but instead fists them in Jason's shirt, screws his eyes shut, and tries to hold on.

A wicked smile twists the younger man's lips. "I'm told turnabout is fair play," he replies, voice low, leaning in so he can nip at his boyfriend's ear. "You gonna tease me again?" He again traces the elastic of the boxers, this time pausing in the back before running his hand down the fabric, following the crack of Barry's ass. The older man's body twitches sharply, and twin groans mingle as clothed cocks rub against each other.

"P...probably," Barry breathes, repeating the motion, the precum oozing from his slit like the herald of an impending eruption. He feels strong hands brush over him again, settling between their bodies, and the unmistakable sound of a button being popped and a zipper being lowered. Releasing his grip on his boyfriend's shirt, he drops his arms lower and now finds skin instead of cotton.

It's bliss, running the pads of his fingers over the bare surface of Jason's ass and thighs, separating his cheeks so Barry's fingers can ghost over his entrance. He doesn't need to see to know his boyfriend is just as hard as he is; he can hear it in every pant and moan and groan and breathy inhale, and he swallows each down, melding his mouth to his boyfriend's.

As much willpower as Jason might have, as much as he desires to give as good as Barry has, he knows he doesn't have it in him to hold on much longer. Distracted by the vee of his boyfriend's throat, the pink nubs of his nipples, and the expanse of smooth skin over his ribs, Jason's hands finally make it back to the offending boxers and strip them away to reveal his boyfriend's cock, standing proud and flushed. There's no time for prep, and no functioning brain cells even if there was.

With far less coordination than normal, the younger man gets his arms under his boyfriend's ass and lifts him, legs almost buckling as the motion once more brings their straining members together. He's lucky the bed is close, and he collapses awkwardly on the mattress before dragging Barry into his lap and locking their lips together.

Barry's back arches sharply enough to break the kiss as Jason's hand closes around his length, a high-pitched keen splitting the air as pleasure that is both painful and exquisite washes over him.

"Yeah, just like that. So beautiful." Jason speeds the motion of his hand, gliding on a stream of fluid.

The blond's head drops down, his eyes open to mere slits, and he realizes the heat he feels against his cock is his boyfriend's own member, now a swollen, angry red. His hips twitch, dragging skin over skin within the circle of Jason's palm, and his abs start to tremble.

"Almost there, babe," Jason murmurs, teeth tugging again at his boyfriend's ear before letting gravity carry his head to Barry's shoulder where he sucks at the tender flesh until it colors. "Come on, babe, know you're close. Cum for me, babe."

"You, too," the older man rasps, thrusting shamelessly. "Please."

The last word is bitten-off thing, cut in two as Jason's fingers find Barry's puckered entrance and press in roughly. Barry's world turns a brilliant white as he explodes between them.

The blond's "oh, god" is lost to the long note of Jason's "fuck" as he, too, cums, the pulsing of Barry's cock and the sensation of his cum – sticky, warm, and wet coating his hand, seeping between the lengths of his fingers and streaking his skin – pushing him over the edge.

It seems to last forever and not nearly long enough, the only sounds the roar of blood in their ears and the heaving of their breaths. Barry clings koala-like to his boyfriend, cursing the fact that Jason is still wearing his shirt and resisting the urge to duck his head under the fabric and seek out the comfort of heated skin.

Jason, too, isn't really a fan of his clothing, and he swears he'd help remove it if only he could remember how to move. "I love you," he mumbles instead, because somehow those words have become a part of his base, intrinsic existence, and when he can do nothing else, he can still say them. "So much."

Craning his head up, Barry tucks a kiss under his boyfriend's chin, sealing it in place with another. "I love you, too. I can't wait to spend the week with you – and not just the part where we have sex."

The younger man feels his cheeks heat, and for once it has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the embarrassment of suddenly feeling far too exposed. Part of him is still afraid of accepting this, of thinking it might be a normal part of his life. That this man could possibly one day be his.

"Penny for your thoughts," the blond whispers, resting his head comfortably against his boyfriend's chest.

Jason has many, none of which he wants to share. This is a happy moment – a quiet, untroubled break in their lives. He doesn't want to ruin it with worry and fear. As hard as it might be, he's all for this week being angst free.

Barry waits quietly, feeling his boyfriend's internal battle play out under his ear and against his body as Jason's heart rate picks up and his muscles tense slightly. Against his back, the man's fingers, sticky with cum, tap out a slow pattern.

"Thank you for inviting me," Jason finally says. "It means a lot." You might be the best thing that ever happened to me. As true as it, he can't bring himself to say it; just thinking it seems like tempting fate.

"There's no one else I'd rather be with more." The older man knows the words are still only barely believed, is sure the hug and the kiss he adds to them only sort of help make the truth real, but as he snuggles in close and tightens his embrace, he hopes that one day Jason will be able to believe in them as much as he does.

Chapter Text

"Up," Barry says, prodding his boyfriend's blanketed form.

"Hrmm?" It's about as coherent as Jason can be given it's...he cracks an eye the bare minimum needed to study the clock...the ass crack of dawn.

"Come on, beignets."

"Beignet, done that," Jason snarks, or tries to; the pillow eats his words. However, he figures something must have been comprehensible when he hears Barry laugh – else his boyfriend is laughing at his distress.

Dipping a hand under the comforter, the blond searches out his boyfriend's chest, his fingers resting atop the the younger man's ribs in warning. "No you haven't, and you can't buy the t-shirt until you do, so...."

"Early," is the petulant-sounding protest as Jason curls into himself in an effort to protect his sensitive, ticklish skin. It really is; they'd spent over an hour basking in the afterglow the previous night, not even the awfulness of dried cum caking their skin enough to convince them to move. By the time they'd managed to wash up and get ready for bed, remaining upright in the shower only by the grace of god, it had been the wrong side of eleven p.m. and they were both barely coherent.

"I know, babe, but the conference starts at nine, so I need to eat an early breakfast. And I'm going to be busy all day, so this'll be the only time I get to see you before dinner." Barry knows he's laying it on thick, but food and Jason are kind of his two favorite things.

Against his better judgment, Jason opens his eyes and blearily regards the older man. Of course, Barry is treating him to the puppy-dog eyes and pouty lower lip; it's a good thing he's not still a crime lord and Barry isn't a villain – he'd still be living on the wrong side of the law given he can't say "no" to that look.

Which is why, fifteen minutes later, Jason blinks and finds himself sitting in the small courtyard next to Cafe Beignet with only a vague, blurry recollection of how he got there. His hands are laced around a paper cup of coffee with chicory, the bitter aroma tickling his nostrils, and a basket of piping hot beignets rests on the table within the circle of his arms. Barry's own coffee sits neglected, wisps of steam escaping from the liquid, as the older man practically buries his nose in his own beignets, inhaling deeply.

"Well, I think we can safely say the white powder wasn't cocaine," Jason says, staring in horror at the sheer amount of powdered sugar blanketing the puffy squares of fried dough. Considering the courtyard is shared with the police station literally next door and there are cop cars parked everywhere – a fact that he's trying very hard to ignore – it's probably not the smartest thing to say. But it's true. And he can't be blamed for saying stupid things at seven a.m., when there's really no good reason for his brain to be functioning.

Barry stops shy of taking his first bite, the beignet hovering just in front of his mouth, and lets out a breathy laugh. A fine mist of powder escapes off the top of the pastry, billows out, and comes to land on his arm.

"Well, there's a grand down the drain," Jason remarks drolly before taking a much more refined nibble of his own beignet. It's delicious, even if he can feel his arteries protesting.

Barry barely manages to swallow another laugh – and escape another shower of powder – by shoving it back down his throat ahead of a ridiculously large bite of the fried dough. He ignores the burn in favor of letting out a moan of adoration.

The sound makes Jason freeze in the process of mopping up a mound of powdered sugar with the last square of his own pastry. Maybe, just maybe, getting up this morning was worth it after all, if that noise is any indication. Mentally, he does the math, trying to figure out how likely they are to be able to finish breakfast, get back to the hotel, and have hot sex before Barry has to leave for the conference.

By the look on Barry's face, he's thinking the same thing.

Chapter Text

It's really disconcerting trying to eat when someone is staring at you. When said someone is smirking like a loon, it's just downright creepy. "What?" Barry finally snaps, glaring over his bowl of gumbo. "Do I have something on my face?"

Nick's smirk grows, his lips pressing out duck-like as he shakes his head. "No, sir, but you do have a little something right about here." His fingers tap hollowly at the juncture of his neck and his shoulder.

As if the blond didn't know. As if he hadn't been caressing and fingering the mark all morning, thwarting the best efforts of his collar to hide the love bite from sight. It takes a lot to mark his skin, and he's savoring it while it lasts.

"Looks fresh – probably not more than a few hours old, I'd say," Nick adds, giving his best coroner's assessment of the body. "Based on the evidence, I think it's safe to conclude that someone had a pretty wild night last night. What d'you think, Gris?"

At the Texan's side, Grissom merely raises an inquisitive eyebrow as he sprinkles a steaming plate of jambalaya with additional cayenne pepper.

Across the table, Barry rolls his eyes and tries to continue eating.

Nick lets the silence stretch like any good interrogator, hoping his perp will feel compelled to fill the void. Three bites of his own gumbo later, and it's he who finally cracks. "Alright man, spill. You and Jason, what's up?"

It's the wrong question to ask a sleep-deprived man running on sugar and caffeine, who did, indeed, have a wild night (and morning) where many things were "up." The blond snorts into his spoon, shoulders shaking with giggles.

Nick's cheeks color, but his grin doesn't fade. "Nice," he says, making the word at least three syllables. "Look at you getting up to no good."

Barry's own cheeks heat; apparently he's reverted to being a teenager.

"Seriously, though, spill. We need details," the dark-haired man prods. "How'd you meet, what's he like, what do you have in common, etcetera etcetera."

The blond looks to Grissom for help, but finds only a patient stare. He's starting to remember how the two CSIs tag-teamed interrogations.

"Okay," Barry says, dropping his spoon with a clink of metal against ceramic and holding up his hands in surrender. "Okay."

Like a switch being flipped, Nick's jovial mood drops away to be replaced by concern. "Hey, man, I don't mean to pry. You don't have to say anything if you don't want. It's cool. It's just, you got a new man in your life, and he seems like a good guy, so...." He shrugs trying to make it no big deal.

Barry scrubs a hand over his face and lets out a breath. "Sorry. I'm just...sorry." He forces himself to take a moment and get his thoughts together. "It's just...my best friend met Jason a while ago and it didn't go so well. I know he was just looking out for me, but...," It hurt , he wants to say.

"Are you happy?" Grissom asks, speaking his first full sentence since they were seated.

"I am," Barry says firmly, nodding.

"Is he treating you well?"

"Yes." Because as low as some of their lows have been, Barry knows his boyfriend never meant to hurt him – did everything in his power not to. In fact, no small measure of their tears and angst have been his own fault – a product of his lies and deceit. The better question – the one he keeps pushing aside for a "better time" – is his treatment of Jason. Something in his gut clenches painfully as his friend continues talking.

"Then I would assume things like age...and perhaps one's past...are not all that important."

The grey-haired man speaks so matter-of-factly that it takes a moment before the blond really registers the statement. His head jerks up in surprise at the same time Grissom's lowers to fork some jambalaya into his mouth. "How...?"

"Come on, man," Nick drawls, not unkindly, "no one could miss the way he looked like a spooked horse when he was here. And the age thing...well, that was just as obvious. But seriously, no judgment here; you look happier than you have in a long time, and it was kind of clear he adores you – not that he was acting possessive or anything." He wiggles his eyebrows knowingly.

For a moment, Barry regards his friends in silence, waiting for something...anything else. All he gets are twin looks of understanding. "We met at a coffee shop; it was crowded and he asked if he could sit at my table. We spent the next hour laughing like morons," he finds himself saying. "Then he asked me out."

"What's he do?" Grissom asks, his lips quirked upwards at the stilted, awkward delivery.

"He owns a bookstore. The one where you used to get your entomology books actually."

The older scientist's expression suggests he just won the lottery. "I thought they closed; last I heard, the owner wanted to retire."

"He did," Barry replies, directing his spoon in his friend's direction. "According to Jason, he bought the place right before the owner was about to sell everything off and pack up. He just changed the name; now it's called, 'In Good Company.'"

Understanding lights Grissom's eyes. "'My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot,'" he quotes, affecting a slight accent, "'is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation.' I take it he's a Jane Austen fan then."

"I think his copy of Pride and Prejudice is his most prized possession." Not that he really has many, Barry thinks, knowing how much care his boyfriend takes of the few things that really matter to him.

"I'll have to make it back over there," the older scientist is saying into his napkin, trying to politely hide his full mouth.

The blond flashes a genuine smile. "I think he'd like that. Aside from me and the people he works with...I think he's struggling to feel connected here. I mean," he adds, wondering suddenly if he's spoken out of turn, "I know I'd appreciate it – in his place."

Offering a knowing smile of his own, Grissom nods and goes back to eating. Both Nick and Barry follow his example, the latter sneaking a quick look at his watch to make sure they aren't going to be late.

"Where's he from?" Nick asks, wiping his mouth clean of roux. "Caught a bit of an accent."

Involuntarily, Barry finds himself tensing as he replies, "Gotham."

Two sets of eyes widen perceptively.

Shaking his head, Nick remarks, "What a cesspool. Everything else aside, I'm sure he's glad he got out. Only thing that city seems good for is crime and criminals." It takes a beat, but as Barry's gaze drops, he realizes what he just said. "Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Really. It wasn't my intent to judge."

This time Barry's nod is slower, more resigned. He can't fault people for not seeing the Jason he sees, the man he loves, but it's getting easier to understand why so many people give up trying to go straight if all they ever get is suspicion and scrutiny from everyone they encounter. He imagines it's a heartbreaking thing to have to face. Then again, his own crimes pale in comparison to anything his boyfriend could have done; it's not everyone who can claim to have destroyed an entire timeline.

"Barry," Grissom says gently, breaking into the younger man's thoughts.

Glancing up, the blond warily meets the older man's eyes. "I want you both to get to know him, really. And like I said, I'm sure he would love to feel welcome; god knows Hal did a crappy job of it. But if the only thing that's going to matter is...what came before...." He breaks off, looking away. "I don't want to put him through that. It doesn't matter. What matters is who he is now." He doesn't look up as he picks up his spoon and robotically starts to shovel food in his mouth, no longer tasting his meal as he chews and swallows. I just want people to understand.

"Then help us to."

Barry blinks, glancing up to find Grissom wearing the intrigued expression reserved for studying particularly rare insects. Strangely, as he rubs his knuckles against his temple and curses himself for having spoken out loud, the blond finds it somewhat reassuring. With a slow, hesitant sigh and a sense of deja vu, he finally asks, "Do you mind just listening?" It wasn't so long ago that Jason had practically begged him to do the same.

"Not at all," Nick supplies easily, grinning. "You've always been able to see the good in people; you probably have the biggest heart of anyone I've met. So tell us: who is the man who stole it away?"

'Present tense,' Barry's brain helpfully adds. 'Who is he now .' His eyes dart to Grissom, but the man's expression still hasn't changed – he's still just waiting patiently, head now resting on his hand.

So with a deep breath, feeling lighter than before, Barry tells the tale of how his boyfriend won his heart and he found himself in love.

Chapter Text

"I don't understand it," Jason says over dinner their second night.

They're once more outside, this time down by the French Market at an open-air restaurant whose tables spread out before a bandstand. They'd been lured by the sounds of Zydeco music bursting down the street, walking in beat with the melody over to the seating area adjacent to a tiny park.

"What?" Barry asks after he finishes chewing the bite of his alligator po'boy. He dunks the corner of the sandwich in the spicy remoulade sauce, preparing to take another as he waits for the answer.

"Everyone says 'good morning' here. I mean, goes out of their way to say it -- from the fucking balconies no less." Jason had been walking down the street earlier that day, minding his own business, when an all-too-chipper stranger had shouted it from on high. The furrow in his brow deepens as he ponders the whole situation all over again for the umpteenth time. Because, just, what the hell?

The blond's eyes shift left and then right as he considers the statement. "You don't understand what? That they're acknowledging your existence? Welcoming you, one human being to another. Wishing you happiness?"

"Yes?" The younger man's voice rises, not getting why Barry doesn't get it. "Why? I mean, in Gotham that's a prelude to becoming a homicide statistic. You don't just say 'good morning' unless you're planning on not hearing 'good afternoon.'"

The blond makes a happy noise as he eats. "Well," he says upon swallowing, "Gotham sucks."

Jason freezes midway through a bite of his po'boy. Opening his mouth and removing the sandwich from between his jaws like a cartoon character being rewound, he turns that declaration over for a moment, watching as another quarter of sandwich disappears down his boyfriend's throat. "Yes, yes it does."

And with that, he goes back to eating.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, their second night finds them naked, back in bed, this time driven by significantly less urgency. They'd undressed each other slowly, carefully, each pop of a button causing another hitch of breath, the deliberate lowering of zippers drawing out delicious moans that they'd done their best to swallow with kiss-linked lips.

Content to touch and lick and suck, they'd mapped each other's body with gentle fingers and wicked tongues, Barry eventually positioning himself so he could savor the salty, musky taste and scent of Jason's cock, languidly tracing the veins and teasing the slit, while his boyfriend alternated between stretching him open with callous-rough hands that unabashedly tormented his prostate and dragging those same bliss-inducing digits down his length.

They'd both been careful – oh so careful – not to go too far, neither wanting to tip over the edge too soon. Barry had pulled off well before any of the tell-tale signs of his boyfriend's impending orgasm, allowing himself only a few moments to suckle on the precum that had started to seep freely into his mouth. He felt his own cock dripping, painting Jason's skin, and shivered as the fingers were removed from his ass, his now-empty hole clenching desperately around nothing.

"S'okay, babe," Jason says, voice low and rough and going straight to Barry's groin, "don't worry, you know I'm going to fill you up real good."

And Barry does. He knows he's going to be tight – realizes that he'd only felt two fingers inside of him instead of the usual three – and doesn't care, because he's yearning for the heat and the stretch and the friction as much as Jason obviously is. He goes easily when his boyfriend slides out from under him and gently positions him on his back on the bed. He has to fist his hands in the sheets to keep from touching himself, but there's nothing he can do to halt the eager twitching of his cock as he watches the younger man paw through his bag for condoms and more lube, tossing them both at Barry's side.

With uncoordinated hands, the blond grabs the box of condoms and is wholly unable to stifle a giggle when he realizes it's a brand new, unopened value pack. "Exactly how many of these did you bring?" he asks, pulling apart the top and digging inside to find a packet.

Knee walking back over, Jason straddles his boyfriend's thighs and leans over to blanket the older man before stealing a kiss. "A guy's gotta be prepared," he says, lips against his boyfriend's. "Last thing I wanted was to disappoint."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness," Barry replies, draping his arms around Jason's neck and pulling him in closer. "You're a true gentleman."

What was going to be a laugh becomes a groan as Barry rocks his hips up against his boyfriend's. "I...uh...th...thought it might be fun to see how many we could use," Jason murmurs, repeating the same motion. "Unfortunately, we didn't need any yesterday."

"Was still really good," the blond whispers, head dropping back as he feels his body start to hum.

"Think we can use them all?" Jason asks before craning his neck so he can nip at his boyfriend's ear. The sounds Barry makes sends a jolt through his veins and makes his cock jump eagerly.

"Brought some, too." Barry's voice is breathy as he turns his head to give the younger man better access. He feels hot puffs against his skin as Jason chuckles.

"Guess we're going to be here a while."

"Guess you should probably start fucking me." The older man reaches around himself and starts doing with his fingers what he really wishes Jason was doing with his cock.

"Jeez, no one ever taught you patience," Jason says, slapping the hand away from his boyfriend's entrance. He tears open the condom and slides it down his dick on autopilot, watching, entranced, as the puckered opening quivers with its own desire to be filled. He almost misses the part where Barry's hands reach for him, magically slick with lube, and coat his length.

Planting his feet on the bed, the blond cants his hips upward, his message clear.

"Alright, alright," the raven-haired man says, taking himself in hand and positioning his tip at his boyfriend's entrance. "Can't help it if you're distracting." Expelling a breath, he starts to push in, only making it a few centimeters before pulling almost all the way out and then thrusting back in.

Barry forces himself to relax. Immediately he can tell they should probably have used more lube; he can feel the tug on his rim as Jason works his way deeper. But there's nothing that would make him interrupt his boyfriend now. He's starting to understand what the younger man means by sometimes just wanting to feel everything – including the burn.

"You good, babe?" Jason asks, pausing as he notices the deep wrinkles in his boyfriend's brow and the way the lines around his eyes seem more pained than pleasured.

Barry nods, body rippling as he inhales another long breath and lets it out slowly. "Tight. But it's good." He whimpers as his boyfriend withdraws completely. "Jason...."

"Shhhh," the younger man says, grabbing the lube and squirting a generous amount on his fingers, which he gently inserts into his boyfriend's hole. "I don't have to hurt you for you to feel it." He spreads the slick along Barry's walls, careful not to stretch any further. The push in is easier this time, but still gloriously snug. Instead of scrunching in discomfort, he watches as his boyfriend's features go slack with bliss, mouth forming an "O" when he eventually bottoms out.

Jason doesn't give either of them much time to adjust, craving the slap of skin on skin, the wet squelching noises, as he ups his tempo, yanking his boyfriend's hips to his groin to meet each snap of muscle and bone. His gaze is caught on Barry's cock, bouncing rhythmically against his smooth, taunt skin, so it's a surprise when he somehow manages to sink impossibly deeper into the man's ass. Legs wrap around his body, and Barry's hands are now braced against the headboard, arms flexing with effort as they propel the older man down to meet each thrust.

Something inside Barry wants to be careful – that little voice reminding him that he's never been one for rough sex and pain and he might very well regret this in the morning. But the morning seems too far away to matter, and Tomorrow Barry can't find it within himself to care when Now Barry is being impaled over and over again on his boyfriend's cock, beautiful friction creating a world where the only thing that registers is the sweet sensation flooding his veins.

Jason's pace is relentless, and Barry just hangs on and rides it.

"Oh, god," the younger man croaks out. He can feel the sweat dripping from his brow, the strain of the muscles in his neck and legs. Everything is just him and Barry, or rather his dick in Barry's body. He hasn't let himself let loose like this with his boyfriend before, and there's no way they're not doing it again. The mattress is creaking, his boyfriend's jaw is working with a string of a million curses and encouragements, and between his legs, waving like a goddamned white flag signaling his surrender to whatever Jason may choose, Barry's cock is a flushed, oozing, gorgeous thing that sears Jason's palm with its heat as he wraps his hand around and tugs.

Barry's eyes fly open in wild surprise, the inhuman noise – high-pitched and reedy – that escapes his throat like music to Jason's ears. Jason's thrusts become erratic, his strokes sloppy on the slick of precum. His balls are so tight he knows he has barely seconds left.

Barry steals them away as he slams himself down, driving his boyfriend's cock so deep he swears he tastes cum and lube as Jason's hips stutter, his dick pulses, and an incredible heat fills the blond's core. He thinks he begs for the hand that brings him to release, the rough skin on his hardened flesh sending him over the edge with a yell.

He must black out. It feels like hours until Barry can open his eyes again. It's got to be hours more until he can speak. Jason is still passed out, half on top of him, arm slung around Barry's middle. The used condom is still on his dick. "Get it now," he says, sounding like his vocal cords have been put through a wood chipper.

" Hrm?" Jason's head doesn't move from where it's mashed into his boyfriend's shoulder, his lips practically immobile.

The blond's heart is still racing, and he has to pause for breath. "Get it...you...with the...roughness...get it."

"Ok?" What he means to ask is whether Barry is hurt, but there's no way all those words are happening. He does, however, manage to crack a single eye open and roll it upwards blearily.

"Yeah," is Barry's breathy response. "One down," he adds, managing a weak grin.

It takes Jason a minute, but eventually the hamster in his brain again gets to running. "Thirty-five more to go." For the first time, having sex seems like a daunting task.

"Forty-seven," the older man corrects. Glancing downwards, he finds his boyfriend staring up at him with an uncharacteristic look of horror. "Don't worry, I have more lube."

Almost mournful is Jason's groaned, "Fuuuuuuck!"

Barry just grins. "Exactly."

Chapter Text

Of course they go for beignets again the next morning, both ordering a coffee with which to wash them down. The table next to them appears to order just about everything except the squares of fried dough. At first they both think it sacrilege; it doesn't take long before they're revising that opinion to "smart."

About two bites into his first, Jason's stomach is sounding a warning gurgle. Barry makes it through a whole one and a third of his coffee before his leg starts bouncing.

By a few bites into beignet number two, they're both rethinking their life choices. Barry's heart rate is approaching a rhythm more in line with apprehending purse snatchers on a night of patrol, and Jason is starting to feel a buzzing sensation under his skin that he hasn't felt since being dosed by Scarecrow's fear toxin.

Beignet three has them both looking a little green, but like the hero and anti-hero they are, even if unbeknownst to the other, they refuse to be beaten down by an unassuming lump of fried dough and resolutely power through.

As the last bite goes down, followed closely by the last gulps of chicory coffee, which elicit a shudder from both men, Barry is ready to climb the wall and Jason is ready to vibrate out of his skin.

"Never again," the younger man says through gritted teeth.

"I...uh...I'm going to go run around the block." Barry is only half joking; it's a supreme effort to keep his knee from moving at sub-light speed. "Probably about a dozen times." Or a thousand. Could definitely do a thousand. Ten thousand? A million?

"Wait up," Jason says, gathering his trash, his face twisting into a grimace as one of his internal organs (or maybe all of them) protests loudly. "I'll race you." Because, between the sugar and the caffeine, he could give The Flash a run for his money. "Don't worry," he adds, catching the rapid, surprised blinking of his boyfriend's eyes, "I'll give you a head start."

Caught flatfooted, Barry forces himself to nod, hoping he looks appreciative.

And when they hit the street and Jason takes off running, Barry goes just fast enough to snag his hand. He holds on, stumbling theatrically, letting himself be pulled along as if he hasn't a prayer of keeping up without his boyfriend's able-bodied assistance, his laugh echoing behind him as they make their way down the street like the complete and utter dorks they are.

Chapter Text

Jason returns to Central City Barbecue alone on day three, knowing his boyfriend is going to be sequestered away at the conference for a panel over lunch. It's a good two-mile walk, and it's not like there aren't plenty of other restaurants in the French Quarter to choose from, but he figures he can save those to try with Barry.

Entering, he finds himself once more glaring at the pig on the wall as he orders a pulled pork sandwich with a side of brisket chili and a beer. Drink in hand, he heads back outside to wait for his meal.

As before, the pork is delicious and the chili has a smoky spiciness he'd love to learn to replicate at home. The table he's chosen again faces the colorful trio of angry swine, and he savors his meal bite by bite, all the while fixing them with a narrow-eye glare – right up until the point he licks the last of his sauce from his fingers and downs the rest of his beer.

They stare back, silent but hateful.

He's not three steps out of the restaurant before the heavens open up and a downpour vicious enough to rival the Genesis deluge comes crashing to Earth.

By the time he makes it back to the hotel, he's drenched all the way through, hair plastered to his head, feeling more drowned than a rat going down with the ship. As he ascends the steps to the second floor and his room, the only thought going through his head is, Well played, swine. Well played.

Chapter Text

The conference attendees get an unexpected break just after lunch on day three, when one of the presenters – an older gentleman with an expertise in botany who carved out a specialization in the identification of flora in stomach contents – gets called to assist with a homicide in St. Bernard Parish. Speculation is that the victim was drowned in one of the swamps or bayous, but investigators had yet to determine the primary crime scene; they hoped that trace analysis on the plant life found in and on the body could help narrow down the search.

The scientist's eyes had practically gleamed in excitement as he'd made the announcement of his departure, seemingly apologetic (but really not) as he'd hurried out the door. He didn't even notice that no one minded the reprieve; even amongst criminalists, some fields were less desirable than others.

Barry debated calling Jason, but elected instead to try and get some shopping done. Given they only had two more days left, and outside the conference he was usually with his boyfriend, he figured it might be his only chance to be able to get something and keep it a secret. They had crisscrossed the Quarter several times, in and out of art galleries, trinket stores, book stores, and stores that sold things he couldn't even start to identify, and he still had yet to find a suitable gift.

A fact that was weighing heavily upon his shoulders as he exited yet another shop without success.

Of all places, he'd figured a bookstore specializing in older books and books on New Orleans might have something his boyfriend would like, but nothing he'd seen had triggered any sort of "ah ha" reaction. The cookbooks were new and commercially available, the old prints and maps of the state and surrounding area had seemed interesting to him, but Jason had never expressed any interest in that kind of thing, and there wasn't anything by Jane Austen at all.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind Barry seems to physically shove him forward into the support pillar just outside the entrance. He leans heavily against it, groaning. "Why is this so hard?"

"Probably because you care so much," Grissom replies, regarding the blond over the top of his glasses. He, too, is empty-handed, having scoffed at the price of a tome on entomology in the swamp region after finding it half price online using his phone.

"He's right," Nick drawls, melding his back against another pillar and bringing his foot up so it rests against the stonework. "You're thinking too hard. No such thing as the perfect gift, just one that the person will appreciate and enjoy."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Barry's gaze drops to the pavement. He studies the cracks and chips, feeling something he can only call shame rising in his throat. "Or maybe I don't know him as well as I thought I did," he says dejectedly. There is a lot he doesn't know – intentionally – but after all this time, if he can't even pick out a simple gift based on what he does know, what kind of boyfriend is he?

Nick and Grissom exchange looks of mild concern over the top of the other man's head.

"Hey now, none of that," the Texan says, stepping forward to rest his hands on Barry's shoulders. "You know him just fine, and what matters is that you care about him. So how about we talk this through – maybe find you some inspiration, yeah?"

The blond sighs, eyes lifting to study his friend. As always, Nick appears unfailingly earnest. "Okay."

"Good. Now, you said Jason likes to read, but there was nothing in the bookstore. He likes to cook, but you could find any of those books anywhere. How about food, though? Didn't you say he likes tea?"

"He does, but we passed a grocery store the other day and he already bought the ones he wanted to try." Barry's gaze joins Nick's in wandering the street sluggishly, seeking a revelation in the storefronts boasting pralines, snowballs, Cajun candies, and more. "He's not really a sweets person, and there aren't any seasonings you couldn't find back in Central."

"Well then, let's examine the man himself," Grissom adds, expression thoughtful. "You said he grew up in Gotham and that his family was poor. Maybe it's not New Orleans-themed, but is there anything he's said he wanted that he was never able to have?"

Someone who loves him, is Barry's immediate thought. He shakes it aside before it can sink his heart even further. "He doesn't really do mementos, and he barely goes shopping for anything besides necessities. He hasn't mentioned wanting anything – at least nothing tangible."

"So he just wants you," Nick clarifies with a grin. "Not a bad thing. But how about things you like to do together – aside from the obvious." A mischievous glint appears in his eye.

Barry just rolls his. "I'm sure there's a sex shop around here somewhere," he says straight-faced.

"You'd be on your own for that one," the dark-haired CSI replies, although something in his tone suggests otherwise. "But seriously, any music that means something to you both? Any totally platonic activity you enjoy together?"

The blond's eyes fall closed in thought, his head dropping back against the pillar. "He thinks it's funny I'm stuck on the oldies; the only bands he knows from the sixties are The Beatles and the Stones. Apparently the fact I'd heard of AC/DC was noteworthy."

"There's nothing wrong with the classics," says Grissom with a shrug.

"By which you mean Mozart and Beethoven," Nick snarks.

Grissom's look says, 'So what if I do?'

"Mostly we just enjoy being with each other," Barry continues, glossing over the exchange as he opens his eyes to study the sky. "He likes being in my arms. We'll be on the couch or in the backyard or up on the roof of his flat, and most of the times he's wrapped up in my arms. Even here, we've spent every night outside by the river together, listening to the water, watching the boats."

"So he likes being outside?" the grey-haired man asks, hooking his index finger over his lips as he considers the information.

Barry nods, watching the clouds drift by. "Up on the roof is our favorite place. Where he grew up, he said it was so polluted and the buildings so tall that you couldn't even see the sky. He said he used to stare at Christmas lights strung between the buildings thinking they were...."

He cuts off abruptly, shoving off the pillar and standing rigid in place for a moment before making for the street. "Come on." He doesn't wait for a response as he takes off towards Decatur Street, crossing his fingers it's not too late and they're still there. He makes an effort to stay within a dozen steps of his trailing friends, but it's hard now that inspiration has hit and what he wants may just be one-of-a-kind and already sold.

He darts into the store, this time pushing through the displays of jewelry and pottery, glass baubles and beads, voodoo-themed statues and paintings, until he comes to the back half and a small nook with a collection of ceramic decorations. He and Jason had strolled through the previous day just before dinner, almost overwhelmed by the breadth of colorful wares, struggling to take it all in. Neither had bought anything, expecting to come back later in the week.

Two sets of uncoordinated footsteps come up behind him as he's browsing the hanging decorations, heralding the arrival of two out-of-breath CSIs. He winces in sympathy, but doesn't look up from where he's sifting through those dangling from the branches of a fake tree with copper limbs.

"Alright, Allen, spill," Nick says, the first to stop panting. "What have you got there?"

Barry mentally cheers as he finds one of his targets, plucking it off the display and laying it on the low table before craning his neck to find the other one. He finally does, near the center, apparently having been moved by another prospective customer. He deftly untangles it from the others and holds it up for his friends to see. And winces again when he sees how winded Grissom looks.

"Sorry guys, guess I got a little excited." Grissom shoots him a look that says, 'No, really?', which is kind of hilarious given the CSI has a habit of running off mid-thought and leaving people staring stupidly at his back side. Barry steps sideways as Nick approaches the table, letting the other man see the ornaments.

"'Crescent Box Water Meter, New Orleans,'" he reads off the clay, needing to move the pieces together to get the full text. Nick stares for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't get it."

"It's the cover for the water meter boxes here; you see it as you walk through the streets. The artist molded the clay around parts of the design," Barry explains, pointing to the imprint of a crescent moon, rays of light, and a few stars. "It's distinctly New Orleans; you can find it on coasters and T-shirts in the shops."

Cocking his head sideways, Grissom eyes the two ornaments as he scratches at his brow. "So why these?"

Barry tries not to let doubt creep in, but as he thinks more about his selection, he wonders if his boyfriend will understand or if he'll be as clueless as his friends. "Jason didn't see the sky growing up; he said it was all smog and neon lights – billboards during the day and strip clubs at night. He used to stare at Christmas lights someone had strung up and imagine they were stars."

"And now you both spend your nights outside under the sky, together," Grissom supplies.

The blonds nods, offering a soft, "Yeah," as his eyes trace the patterns.

"So, something unique, something distinctly 'New Orleans,' and something that has meaning for your relationship," Nick adds, ticking off the points on his fingers. "I think you got it covered.

"You do?" Barry asks, because the longer he stares at the ornaments, the less sure he feels. He startles as a strong hand clasps his shoulder, and he twists his head to see his friend smiling broadly at him.

"Yeah man, I do. I really do."

Chapter Text

"Are these seats taken?"

Barry chuckles as he motions for Grissom to sit, Nick plopping down next to him on one of the metal chairs.

After the shopping excursion earlier in the day, the trio had returned to the conference for the presentation on digital forensics and analyzing the acoustics of a recording. It had actually been pretty informative, and Barry had been impressed with the sheer amount of evidence available to investigators hidden within the layers of an ordinary modern sound bite. Over a dozen examples had yielded everything from basic pet noises to the sound of delivery men checking in on their routes to the unmistakable tones of people having sex – which, unfortunately, had led to their untimely deaths at the hands of one very pissed off neighbor who just couldn't take it anymore.

The session had ended just before four, at which time they'd split off to change and have dinner, promising to gather again later in the evening for live music in a courtyard off Bourbon Street that the two KCPD CSIs had passed by earlier in the week.

Barry and Jason were the first to arrive, snagging seats across from the low stage. By unspoken agreement, they'd mostly avoided Bourbon Street like the plague, but the courtyard is mercifully insulated from the blaring rock music and rowdy drunkenness. The crazy appears limited to girl across the street who's dropping beads off the balcony of her hotel room into the grabby hands of tourists below. Thankfully, no one is lifting their shirts.

Turning his body sideways so he can stretch out without tripping anyone, Nick twists his head so he can give Jason a "what's up" nod. "It's good to see you again, man. You enjoying yourself?"

"Definitely," Jason replies, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the singer. "This place is something else."

"Helps that you have good company," the CSI replies, his smile widening. "Think Barry missed you; he was certainly in a hurry to leave after that last presentation."

"Mmmm, I think he just wanted dinner."

"Hey!" the blond exclaims indignantly, trying to wiggle out of his boyfriend's embrace, his expression one of mock outrage.

Jason just curls his arm more tightly around Barry's shoulders and drops a wet kiss on his temple.

"So what's good here?" Grissom asks, ever the peacekeeper as he tries to head off any fireworks – even if they are exaggerated. He inclines his head towards the half-empty cups sitting before the two men.

"Eh," is Jason's less-than-enthusiastic reply. "I mean, avoid anything pre-mixed," he says, indicating the machines behind the bar spinning mojitos, hurricanes, and other cocktails. "Not that it'll really make a difference – the bartender kind of sucks; at this point it's just about the music and the lack of crazy."

Looking pained, Nick replies, "I know man, they're nuts out there!"

"Yeah. And how many times you show skin?" Jason asks, taking in the strings of shiny beads around the other man's neck.

Coloring slightly, the dark-haired man flashes a cheeky grin, laughing as he says, "Hey now, don't be hating. There's a reason I hit the gym everyday; not all of us have found the person of our dreams."

Gaze dropping down to the scientist in his arms, Jason feels himself go a little gooey inside. "Yeah, he is pretty awesome, isn't he," he says, kissing the top of Barry's head.

For a second the blond looks almost shocked at the endearment, but he quickly shrugs it off in favor of smiling brilliantly at his boyfriend before twisting so he can kiss the younger man full on the lips.

Jason's eyes go wide before he leans in and gets with the program, although he can't help but laugh into the kiss. Both men pointedly ignore the catcalls from across the table; when they part, Nick just looks smug, while Grissom's expression says he's trying to solve some complex program – although the dusky flush of his skin suggests he's at least slightly embarrassed.

"So about that bartender," Nick says, saving his boss from the awkwardness, "what can't he screw up?"

"Probably not much," Barry answers, eyeing his glass with distaste, "unless you're drinking something straight. The one cocktail that sounded interesting they actually don't do anymore – although he maybe possibly can do it, but just with a different liquor that doesn't even taste like coffee. And another cocktail they're out of, unless you want him to substitute gin for vodka." There are twin grimaces at that; even he who hardly ever drinks knows that's absurd. "And they don't have anything local – not even Sazerac – which, considering they have a small factory off Canal and you can buy the stuff onsite, is just ridiculous." He and Jason had done the tour, and it was certainly impressive; even though neither was really into the flavor of anise, there were plenty of other spirits to try.

"So what I'm hearing you say," Grissom begins slowly, "is that we should pass on the libations."

"Or get a beer," Jason says, nodding at his Dixie Voodoo. "It's not bad."

Pushing himself upright once more, Nick replies, "Works for me. You want one Gris?"

"Sure. Do you mind getting some beignets as well?"

"Roger that. Be right back." And with a jaunty salute, the Texan departs for the Cafe Beignet counter adjacent to the bar.

"So what have you two been up to?" Barry asks his friend before taking a sip of his drink.

"Just wandering and shopping," the grey-haired man replies. "Found a few prints and souvenirs for folks back home, and a few things for ourselves. Nick insisted on getting me a gris gris doll from one of the voodoo shops."

The blond's face scrunches in confusion. "Why's that?"

Grissom's eyes dart to the side to make sure his colleague is still occupied at the bar and out of earshot. "Because when he read the sign on the display, he thought it said gris gris," he replies, pronouncing the "s" as if saying his nickname. "Ergo, he thought it a fitting gift. Neither I nor the lady at the register had the heart to tell him it was pronounced 'gree gree.'"

Barry's shoulders shake at that, but he manages not to spray his sip of Jason's beer across the table. "Impressive," he says after swallowing.

"It's the thought that counts," Grissom replies, shrugging. "He also got a few voodoo dolls for himself — a decorative one that was dressed up for Mardi Gras, another for balance, and one for good luck."

"In this job, whatever works." Barry had seen the same dolls and had been tempted to buy the one representing Chango, the ruler of the sky and lightning whose colors happened to be red and white. The tag on the doll had even had a symbol much like his own. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he'd had enough encounters with people like Constantine to make him think twice about tempting gods and playing with mystical powers; even if it wasn't real for him, it was certainly real enough for others.

"What'd I miss?" Depositing two beers and a basket of piping hot beignets on the table, Nick once more drops down into his seat, immediately taking a pull on his drink. Behind him, the band launches into an old-time sounding tune, the trumpet warbling almost mournfully as the singer croons about love found and lost on a Mississippi River paddle boat.

"Just talking about shopping," Jason answers, feeling his stomach roil almost violently at the sight of yet more beignets.

Nick, however, tears into one as if his intestines were made of steel, white powder sticking to his lips and fingers. "Damn, these are good," he mumbles, not even waiting until he's swallowed. "I could get used to all this.

The trumpet chooses that moment to blat mockingly, and the other three at the table share a look of amusement. Nick just shrugs good-naturedly and continues to eat, letting out a long, obscene moan in time with the slide of the trombone that leaves them all sputtering.

"So Jason," the dark-haired CSI drawls once his mouth is clear of food, "Barry waxed fairly poetic over lunch about all the ways you're awesome and amazing. Now it's your turn." Tipping the neck of his bottle towards Barry, he adds, "What do you see in good ol' Allen here?"

The first part of the sentence is enough to make Jason choke on his beer. He does his best not to cough all over his boyfriend as he stares in bewilderment at the older man. 'Awesome and amazing?'

The blond's shoulders pop up and down.

"What did you say?"

"The same thing you told Hal." At his boyfriend's shocked expression, Barry manages to keep a straight face for all of five seconds before his lips stretch into a grin and he's shaking his head. "I didn't, don't worry. They weren't being nearly annoying enough to deserve that."

"Well, what happens if it's true? What if that's what I see in you?"

The blond's cheeks heat, because he knows his boyfriend wasn't entirely making things up. "Could you, uh, say something else instead?"

"What did you tell Hal? Not that I've met Hal, but your earlier description wasn't too favorable," Grissom asks, letting his curiosity get the better of him. Across from him, Jason and Barry share a look that lets him know he probably shouldn't have said anything.

"It was pretty...explicit," Jason replies slowly.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Jason's hand rises, but it can't decide whether it wants to rub his neck or cover his face in embarrassment. It settles for re-wrapping itself around his drink.

"Hal asked him the same question," Barry clarifies helpfully, "only, it was after he'd been obnoxiously bombarding Jason with questions for about an hour. He deserved what he got."

"But I'm assuming the sex is good," Nick chimes in, not bothering to hide his shit-eating grin.

"Well," Jason says with a slight shrug and a thoughtful press of his lips, "even if it wasn't, we still have forty-seven more tries to get it right." He manages to keep his expression blank as beer bubbles up between his boyfriend's lips, the older man needing to slap a hand over his mouth to avert the impending disaster.

Across the table, Nick just looks at them in awe. "Forty...wow. God, I'm doing something wrong."

"We're not...I mean...there's no way we can...not all of them." Barry trips over his words, caught between desire and embarrassment. He meets his boyfriend's eyes, and in them sees the challenge.

"That's what I love about you, babe," Jason replies, slinging an arm back around Barry's shoulders, "always the optimist."

"Realist," Barry mumbles, "I'm a realist. I'd also like to be able to walk at the end of the week."

Again, Jason shrugs. "That's cool, I have nowhere to be." He's only half joking, but he doesn't let Barry see it. He only feels slightly bad at the mortification coloring his boyfriend's features.

"Ummm...."

Redirecting his gaze to Grissom, Jason feels slightly worse at the obvious discomfort etched on his features. "Uh, sorry. Got a little carried away," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Blame him," he adds, lifting his arm and hanging his hand over Barry's head, finger pointing downwards. He expels a pained grunt as an elbow connects with his ribs.

"Thanks, babe. Very kind," the older man says drolly, gazed going half-lidded.

"God, you two are adorable. You have 'old married couple' written all over you – don't you think so, Gris?"

The eldest CSI's smile is small but amused – it certainly isn't at all contrary.

"Nah, you guys are good," Nick adds, slouching in his chair and grabbing his bottle. "You're gonna do just fine." With that he takes a swig of his beer, a grin on his lips as he turns towards the band and taps his foot to the rhythm.

Catching his friend's eye, Grissom flashes a smile and nod of his own before turning his attention to the stage.

Between them, Barry and Jason share uncertain smiles of their own, color rising on their cheeks and up to the tips of their ears. 'Old married couple?' the older man mouths. At his side, his boyfriend's shoulders rise and fall, hands flailing like they're just as lost as the two other men.

'I haven't.... I mean, have you...?' Jason's expression falters, but he has no time to ponder the end of that thought as it's stolen away by Barry's kiss.

Chapter Text

Get to Jackson Square. ASAP -- JP

The presentation on cutting-edge fingerprint lifting techniques in the modern age should have been fascinating. Back in the dark ages of printing, before computers and digital technology allowed for the reconstruction of prints off porous and non-straight surfaces, any print that wasn't on a flat, smooth object was pretty much unobtainable or unusable. But with virtual reconstruction, a whole new world had opened up in the field of forensic fingerprinting – and the tools had only gotten better with time.

Which is fascinating. Again, just like the presentation should have been. Except for the fact that Barry read the paper over a year ago, has been using the new techniques for almost as long, and has already refined his procedures based on personal testing in his own lab at home.

Which means he's bored.

And based on the fact that he's currently on his sixth Words with Friends game with Grissom and his third with Nick, both of his KCPD colleagues are in a similar predicament.  That or they're just at that point of the week where they're overwhelmingly disinterested in everything.

Which is why when the text from Jason appears on his appropriately silenced phone, Barry doesn't even care that the taxpayers are fronting the costs for his excursion -- he could serve them better by keeping his brain cells intact and fully functioning, which isn't going to happen if he remains in the room much longer.

Can I bring friends? -- BA

K, just get here. Am sitting in front of the church. -- JP

For Jason to text in anything other than full sentences implies a distraction of amazing proportions. Which means there are definitely better places for Barry to be.

Follow me out. -- BA

At the blond's side, two phones vibrate softly. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the message is read and two pairs of eyebrows are raised. Without further ado, he slides out of his seat like any other participant in need of a bathroom break and calmly heads for the door. No one pays him any mind.

Before he exits, he glances nonchalantly behind him and notices Gil and Nick gathering their things. Halfway through the lobby, he's flanked by his friends.

Wordlessly, the three of them take off running.

Chapter Text

They round the corner near the church and stop short as the wall of sound slams into them.

"What the...?" Nick breathes as the trumpet hits a particularly high note, supported by the rumble of drums, the long slide of a trombone, and a guy on a mobility scooter who definitely believes more cowbell is better.

"Wow," Grissom adds, an uncharacteristic bob to his head. "They're really good."

The crowd definitely agrees; hands are clapping, couples are dancing, and money is falling freely into the "collection" box that sits in front of the musicians, who seem determined to wail away without pause.

Barry smiles as a pair of muscled arms slide around his waist and pull him close to the body of the man who has snuck up behind him. He'd be concerned, but he knows those arms anywhere -- as well as the rest of the man they're attached to.

"Better than test tubes?" Jason asks, mouth next to his boyfriend’s ear, breath pleasantly warm against skin.

Barry shudders. "Fingerprints. The presentation on lab supplies is tomorrow."

"Oh, well then, I'm sorry I interrupted. Should I let you go?" the younger man asks. The lead trumpet shows abject disdain for the question as the player bends himself in half backwards getting into the rhythm of his solo. At his side, the trombone gives a ten count before turning the riff into a call/response. Jason's hips sway to the beat, carefully positioned behind his boyfriend's ass.

"Don't you dare," the blond replies, clamping a hand down on his boyfriend's crossed arms and pressing back against his chest. He cants his head up, kissing the underside of the younger man's chin. "On a scale of test tubes and fingerprints to you, you win."

"Awww, that's so sweet," Nick drawls as the brass cuts out and the drums take over. "You know, you're having an adverse effect on Bartholomew here. Turning him to a real bad boy."

"How's that?" Jason asks, words laced with skepticism.

"Well, I can honestly say that in the half dozen or so conferences we've attended, never once has CSI Allen ever played hooky from a presentation before. And that includes that one on DNA identification that had most of the room asleep in their seats, snoring loudly. Congrats."

An innocently serious look crossing his face, Grissom adds, "Next thing you know, he'll be rolling up in his Tahoe blasting The Beatles, wearing Aviator sunglasses, and making witty quips at crime scenes."

"I was considering replacing the yellow evidence markers with neon pink ones to add a little flare," Barry adds, straight-faced.

"Look at you all rebellious. Should go in for the matching print dust," Nick says with a chuckle and a soft punch to his friend's shoulder.

Barry opens his mouth to say he already has, but the words are cut off by the band launching once more into a crowd-rousing number that has the locals singing along from the benches. He laughs as he notices the signs urging silence in the area of the church, to which no one is paying attention, and then muffles a moan as Jason holds him tighter. And then words don't seem so important as he loses himself in the music and the motion of his boyfriend's body.

Chapter Text

"Can I interest you gentlemen in a reading?"

They're crossing Jackson Square on an after-dinner walk when the question floats their way on the warm, floral-scented air. The sun has set and the final rays have faded into the moonlight, which now bathes the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and the fortune tellers and tarot readers below in a wash of silver. The effect makes the bits of crystal and cut glass adorning both tables and people glow with a power all their own.

It's from one of these tables that the question is spoken, from a man with flowing auburn hair down to his shoulders and a nearly trimmed goatee the color of dirty steel wool. Atop his head is a leather hat that's seen better days, and around his eyes and nose are etched deep creases that speak of a multitude of futures seen – not all of them pleasant.

His hands belie his age as they deftly shuffle a deck of tarot cards as if caressing the keys to yet untold secrets. The beaded and braided yellow, pink, and purple cloth before him holds another deck and a rainbow assortment of stones. He eyes the two men with a knowing glimmer, letting them believe he's already seen their answer.

"Thank you, but I think we're okay," Barry replies politely, adding a friendly smile. At his side, hand-in-hand with Jason, he feels the younger man's tug as he tries to walk on without pause.

"Don't believe in the future, do you?" the man asks before the couple can take more than a step. He waits expectantly for them to stop.

Barry does, as does his boyfriend – although the sigh from Jason and the ineffectual pull on his arm tell the scientist the other man is less than thrilled. He tries to convey that this is simply part of the French Quarter experience with the kiss he brushes against Jason's knuckles. Squeezing the hand before he lets it drop back to his side, he turns his attention to the reader, churning over the strangely worded question. "I do believe in the future – I can't not or there's no reason to get up in the morning. I just fail to believe it can be predicted."

The man purses his lips and nods, his hands coming to halt. "So it's all chaos and chance? There are no patterns or indicators that a man of science could draw upon?" The grin he offers includes a flash of teeth.

If Barry were any other man, he'd have been caught visibly off guard. As it is, his moment of bewilderment comes and goes before the normal eye can perceive it. He's seen this trick before – in interrogation rooms as the detectives cold read their suspects. From Jason's unamused snort, he gathers his boyfriend has seen it, too. A forensics conference in town, the streets crawling with people spouting formulas and chemical compounds, and a passerby who obviously doubts the power of tarot. It's a logical conclusion, even phrased to obfuscate the assumption that Barry is himself a scientist. Not bad.

"Some behavior is predicable – people are creatures of habit," Barry concedes with a matching twitch of his lips as he engages in the verbal sparring. "And entire careers are built around playing the odds. But that's math and statistics."

Seemingly at random, the man selects three cards from the tarot deck in front of him and places them in a line face down. "And what about what's left to chance and luck? Or those patterns that aren't quantifiable?"

Barry shrugs. "They remain unknowable. There are some things you can't predict, and I believe the future is always in motion." So says the multitude of villains past and present who have tried to change it. Even he couldn't have predicted the chaos that was unleashed by the simple act of trying to save his mother from Reverse Flash. For all he knows, his future changes every day at the hands of time travelers – well-intentioned and otherwise – and he doesn't even know it.

"And what about you?" the man says with a nod towards Jason and a sly narrowing of his eyes. "Do you believe you can predict the future?"

"I believe I don't want to know," Jason replies flatly, something soul deep wanting to get away from the entire conversation. He went to bed one night and woke up the next day without a future. He's seen magic in action – has two swords he can conjure into reality from the power of his mind alone. Even if the next minutes, hours, days, and years aren't entirely set in stone, between the All Caste and The Untitled he's had enough of visions, prophecies, and destinies destroying lives to never tread in those waters – regardless of how bogus the soothsayer appears.

Another nod and another smile. "There's nothing wrong with a little fear," the man says, gaze dropping as it seems to bore into the card backs.

"Shit happens," Jason fires back, "but it's stupid to be afraid of an illogical idea that someone plants in your head. You tell me I'm going to die in a week, I spend the next seven days being afraid, and then I don't die."

The man makes a tsking noise, and some of the amusement that shone in his eyes fades. "Any good reader would never profess to predict death," he chides. "But to your point, maybe forewarned is forearmed. If the future is in fact always in motion, as your boyfriend suggests, maybe you made the decision to be more careful than you otherwise would have been, thereby staving off your fate for another day."

"And then I get cocky and die the next because I think I'm out of the woods. Thanks, no," Jason replies harshly, done with the mind games. "I'll live in blissful ignorance like everyone else." It actually hadn't been so blissful for his teenage self, but at least he'd only had a few hours to live with that fear before the end came instead of agonizing over it for days or weeks.

"Never ask a question to which you aren't prepared to handle the answer." The man returns to studying the cards before him. "Your boyfriend's right, though. The future is always in motion; the tarot offers advice – and perhaps a warning. It's your choice to heed it or not. You choose your own path."

"Well, great. That's my path right there," the raven-haired man says, directing a stern finger in the direction of the alleyway that runs beside the church. His eyes meet Barry's, practically pleading with his boyfriend to leave. Thankfully the blond nods, and Jason feels another squeeze on his hand.

"I think we need to get going," Barry offers more diplomatically. "Thank you."

It seems an effort, but the man drags his gaze up from the table to meet the blond's as the latter begins to walk away, Jason in the lead. He nods shortly, the enigmatic smile returning to his lips. Despite knowing better, the look manages to rattle the scientist, and he carries it with him as he and Jason disappear down the passage.

As they fade from sight of Chartres Street, another reader leans over to study the cards the man has laid out, now face up with a fourth added to the row. A rueful laugh escapes her lips. "Forewarned, indeed," she says, the bangles on her wrist tinkling as she tucks a strand of ruby hair behind her ear. "A relationship built on a bed of deception." Her long nails tap the Two of Cups and the Seven of Swords in sequence. "And here I thought they seemed so in love."

The man laughs, but it's a hollow thing. His smile turns grim. "They might very well be," he says, lifting the final two cards to his eyes and studying them under the street light; the Knight of Cups reversed and The Tower flash in its yellow glow. "But if they're not careful, chances are someone is going to show up and bring it all crashing down."

Chapter Text

Gift shopping is a horrible, awful, no good, very bad thing. At least that's Jason's assessment after he's been at it for the better part of three days. The art that he initially thought unique and interesting he'd subsequently seen in just about every store. The hand-made masks had been beautiful, but he couldn't see his boyfriend needing to look like a tree spirit or wear a trout on his face, and the jewelry...well, he wasn't even going to think about buying jewelry – not for a guy and certainly not now.

He knows he doesn't have to get anything. He's fairly certain his boyfriend isn't even thinking about it – probably wouldn't have time to find anything if he was, given how late the conference goes. So he doesn't know why he's worrying about it.

Except that he is.

Because he wants to find something special. He wants Barry to know he's loved and that Jason values their relationship; and since Jason's crap at saying it, finding the perfect gift seems like a good start.

Except that he's learning there is no such thing.

Darting in and out of shops, browsing through so-called treasures that are clearly made in China, heart growing heavier with each failure, his only consolation is that he feels totally justified in never attending Christmas festivities at the manor; there was no way he was ever going to find a gift for Demon Brat that didn't involve a bullet.

Although Tim would likely swoon over the coffee.

Not that he's getting The Replacement anything. He's already apologized for almost killing the kid by letting him stay alive.

Seriously, though, why is he even thinking of his shitty excuse for a family? They can take a fucking number, because the only thing that matters right now is his boyfriend – or rather, the fact that he still doesn't have a gift for said boyfriend.

He kind of wants to scream, but he settles for sinking his fingers into his hair and tugging, trying to disrupt his thoughts. Which is why he looks like a fucking crazy person as he enters the artists' co-op just behind the French Market. He's literally at the end of the French Quarter; at the other side of the main road are bars and clubs and a few record stores that he wasn't planning on checking out, but which might now be mandatory stops if he strikes out here.

A voice greets him from across the store as he steps through the threshold. He tries to settle himself as his eyes seek out the source, almost running into a display of earrings as he makes his way towards the man behind the cash register.

"Hello. How can I help you?" Said man removes his reading glasses and lets them hang from a thick cord around his neck.

"I'm looking for a gift." Jason turns slightly so he can survey the store, keeping the proprietor in his periphery.

"Anything in particular?"

The younger man shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't shove them back in his hair in frustration. "No idea. I'm not having much luck. I just want something unique – something he'll enjoy."

The proprietor tilts his head in thought. "Is he older? Younger? Family? Friend?"

"Older. Boyfriend." Jason takes in the display of fleur de lis- and Louisiana-shaped decorations made out of reclaimed metal. They're pretty and unique, and there's a heart on one marking where New Orleans is located in the state. He files that away as a "maybe," although not a great one.

"...Everything here is hand-made, most by local artists," the man is saying. "There's a lot of women's jewelry up front, but in the back there are paintings and prints. One of our artists does clay sculpture, which you can see behind you. Another does wood work; his pieces are in the back. There are fabrics and cards. If you want to take a look around, I'm happy to answer any questions."

Jason sighs, trying not to feel overwhelmed. "Thank you, I appreciate that." He flashes a smile before stepping away, beginning his search with the display of photographs to the side of the register. The colors are brilliant, but he's seen so many pictures of buildings and doors and bands and weeping angels over graves that not a single one sticks out. He bypasses the scarves and shawls, flips through a basket of macabre-ish prints that feature plague masks, skeletal animals, and other random death-themed objects, and barely glances at the inspirational quotes and bizarre pictures of farm animals dressed in Victorian garb. He realizes the average vacationer is looking for a basic souvenir that just happens to be hand-made, but much of the work is still very commercial (and by the yellowed price tags, has been around a while).

Frustrated, he lets his feet carry him to the back of the shop instead of the preferred direction of out of the door. Here a set of shelves displays a collection of wooden bowls, boxes, and cutting boards, each made from one or more woods native to Louisiana. They're beautiful, each wood lending its own unique color to designs that range from simple stripes to more intricate geometric patters.

But they're not "Barry."

"Seems like you could use a hand," the proprietor says, coming up on Jason's side. "Doesn't seem like anything's speaking to you."

Shaking his head, Jason gently replaces a bowl and does a slow turn. He's opening his mouth to announce his defeat when he sees them, carefully tucked away in a display case, each in its own compartment. He blinks, making sure he's not imagining them. "Actually," he says, kind of wanting to cry in relief, "I think I found exactly that I was looking for."

Chapter Text

Their last night in New Orleans is of course spent by the river. Despite the grey clouds having portended rain, the storm never happened and the sky had cleared up come sundown. So, just as they'd done at the start of the trip, Jason had grabbed two beers and a bag of chips from the grocery store and, fingers entwined, they had wandered down to the water for the final time.

For a while, neither man seems inclined to talk, each caught up in his own thoughts.

They'd dined on fried chicken in Louis Armstrong Park, taken their last array of photos and selfies in front of monuments, odd graffiti, and iconic locations, and caught one more pop-up concert for a few moments before the band moved on.

And now, at least to Jason, it seems like every sip draining his can is another minute closer to their return to Central and real life.

"We can come back," Barry says, his voice as quiet as the wind, seemingly reading the direction of his boyfriend's thoughts. "I had a good time here – with you."

"Me, too. I mean, I had a good time with you." Jason wonders if he's jinxing himself by thinking of the future – of being with Barry long enough to take another trip together. He falls silent, struggling to keep his thoughts from drifting in that direction; it's as hard as fighting the river's current. "I got you something," he says, because he did and because he needs to focus on something else.

From where he's curled into his boyfriend's side, Barry looks up in surprise, his eyes bright with expectation. "Yeah?"

Jason nods, suddenly afraid of that expectation crashing into disappointment. The hand in his pocket tightens around the small box but refuses to emerge.

"Jason," Barry says softly, reaching up to cup his boyfriend's chin, feeling his insides churn at the doubt that's clouded the younger man's features, "what matters is that you thought of me." He stretches upwards so he can press a kiss to Jason's lips. "I got you something, too," he says softly.

The way his boyfriend's eyes go wide with shock brings back that familiar urge the blond has felt on and off for months, the one that tells him to seek out and punish everyone who has hurt this man – because no one should look so certain to be undeserving of a gift, so completely floored to even be thought of.

Jason looks away, then down, then back up. His eyes follow a passing cargo vessel headed for the bridge, its frame already lit by white lights. By the time his eyes again meet Barry's, he's withdrawn his hand from his pocket, a gift box resting in his palm. He says nothing as his boyfriend takes it, wanting to believe the smile on the older man's lips won't fade when he sees what's inside.

Carefully peeling back the tape holding the lid closed, Barry sets the box in his lap before opening it. Inside are two objects, each rolled in a different color tissue paper. Withdrawing the bundle in the blue paper first, he unwraps it cautiously, afraid for small pieces to tumble out; but the object is a single piece, longer than it is wide, and light in his hand. Once revealed, he stares at the gift, a wide, toothy smile stretching across his face. Wordlessly, he picks up the second bundle, this one red, and unwraps it. Somehow his smile grows even larger.

"Wooden bow ties?" he asks, unable to believe it. "You got me wooden bow ties?" His thumbs caress the smooth surface, gliding over the square of the "knot" and the line of the "fabric's" fold, in wonder.

"They're handmade," Jason whispers, something warm settling in his heart as he takes in his boyfriend's joy. "The woods are from Louisiana; the darker one is cherry and the lighter is cypress."

Placing the bow ties back in the box, Barry sets it on the step before leaning in and snaking his arms around his boyfriend's neck. With more strength than grace, he brings their mouths together for a long, slow kiss that's all tongue. When they part, they're both breathing hard, skin flushed from too much heat and too little air.

"They're beautiful," the blond says against Jason's lips. "Thank you." He watches as his boyfriend's skin somehow manages to turn even redder, this time in embarrassed gratitude instead of doubt.

"You're welcome," the younger man replies softly, seeking out one more kiss.

They part and Barry rests his forehead against his boyfriend's, his gaze going to his gifts. And now it's his turn for doubts, wondering if his present is too complicated or too childish or too anything-other-than-good. Leaning away, he reaches for his messenger bag, tucked away carefully under his legs. Opening it, he withdraws his own gift box, larger and flatter than the one with the bow ties, and searches deep for confidence as he passes it over to Jason. Again there's that look that asks if the gift is really for him, and it's an effort to simply nod in encouragement.

Jason slices through the tape holding the lid on as if committing some form of vandalism. He's so gentle working the lid off that it takes several tries to get the box open. Barry thinks Moses parted the Red Sea with less care than his boyfriend parts the layers of tissue paper to reveal first one and then the other ornament. The blond's insides clench uncomfortably as the younger man fully withdraws both and places them atop the paper, staring at them with a furrowed brow.

It takes a minute, but Jason's gaze suddenly jerks upwards, searching the sky, eyes landing on the crescent moon, and then swings right to the bridge, lit up under the dark of night.

"We've spent every night out here by the water under the moon," Barry begins softly, "and back home, our spot is up on the roof under the night sky, tracing all the stars. You said growing up it was neon signs and Christmas lights, so I wanted you to be able to see the sky wherever you are, and to remember being out here, together, these last few days."

Jason's hand goes to his mouth, and Barry's first thought is that he's trying to muffle laughter. But then the light catches his boyfriend's eyes, and in them he sees the watery reflection of tears.

"So you got me a moon and a star," Jason murmurs, voice rough with emotion. He tells himself he's not going to cry, he's so not. Going. To. Cry. Which is completely and utterly a lie, because seconds later the tears spill down his cheeks. "You got me a...." He breaks off as his breathing catches, his throat unable to handle words among the onslaught of feelings. Bowing his head, he laces his fingers behind his neck as his shoulders start to shake.

At his side, Barry's own eyes shine a shimmering silver under the moonlight. Bits of clay shouldn't mean this much. A simple gift shouldn't move someone to tears. It's almost instinct now to gather his boyfriend in his arms and hold him close, "I love yous" on his lips and a silent wish in this thoughts for pain to befall the one who wrought this damage.

Jason doesn't hear that wish. Instead, in the shelter of his boyfriend's arms, Barry's words making the world slip away, something inside him dares to believe that everything is going to be okay.

Chapter Text

They'd made love.

That's the thought that sticks in Barry's mind as he adjusts his position against the side of the plane and holds Jason closer against his chest, his left foot planted on the ground to keep them both from slipping horizontal. He keeps trying to pull it apart and turn it inside out, because on some level it doesn't quite make sense. They'd had sex before – they'd had lots of sex. Gentle, rough, vanilla, slightly tangy, in a bed, up against a wall, hell on a motorcycle. He'd told his boyfriend to fuck him, to ride him, to blow him, and god-only-knew what else.

When they'd been gentle, it had all the obvious hallmarks of "making love" – at least as he'd defined it from how it felt making love to Iris. But although they'd openly declared their love for each other and said "I love you" before, during, and after sex, Barry realizes this is the first time he's found himself thinking, We made love.

And it's kind of a big deal.

Something had been...different...between them last night. Something subtle he still can't put his finger on. Maybe he's reading way too much into it, but last night they hadn't wanted it harder or faster, they hadn't said "fuck me" or "put your dick in me." They'd asked for "more," they'd whispered "please," they'd rocked against each other unconcerned with "jerking" and "blowing" in favor of "touching" and "exploring" and "enjoying." They'd been together, in sync, seemingly with nothing between them.

At least that's how it'd felt. To him.

Maybe he'd thought men just didn't make love. Maybe he'd thought they were making love before. Now he knows they have made love. He thinks. Maybe.

Letting out a sigh, he tips his head back against the curved shell of the aircraft and tries to clear his head, letting his eyes fall closed. He doesn't think he's crazy, but he also knows that his speed thinking has a way of running away with him. Maybe he's just hoping....

"Penny for your thoughts."

Opening his eyes, the blond glances downwards to find himself falling into Jason's sea-blue, sleep-clouded gaze. For the dozenth time in a second, he thinks, I love this man. He sucks in a breath that's lost to the rumble of the jet engines and lets it out. His fingers dance along Jason's hairline.

The younger man waits quietly. As Barry usually does.

The older man wonders what he is thinking; not in a bad way, but in a why-is-this-important? way. "It felt different last night – in bed," he finally says, quietly, wishing for a little more privacy than being surrounded by other passengers affords, but unwilling to turn hypocrite when he's wrung so many of these emotional heart-to-hearts out of his boyfriend in the past. "It felt more...intimate." He'd say the words, but he's afraid they might be too much; he's still wrestling with them. So instead he asks, "I guess...I mean, I was wondering if...maybe you felt it, too?"

Barry watches as Jason looks away, eyes narrowing, bringing out the lines at their corners and the wrinkle in his brow, as he thinks.

Barry waits quietly, his own thoughts still swirling.

Jason will admit he's never been one to examine sex too deeply – to assign too much meaning to what he and his partners get up to in bed. Except that months ago, he was forced to admit that he wanted what he had with Barry to be different than what he'd had with everyone else. He didn't want it tainted by shitty coping mechanisms. Less and less he found himself thinking about that box under his bed or about that sharp, acute pain he'd always thought he'd crave; it'd always made him feel alive. Or maybe it'd just been his only way to know he was was alive back before he'd met Barry, because now he finds that pain just hurts, and he doesn't want to hurt.

They'd barely talked last night after returning to their hotel from sitting by the river. It was like they'd known exactly what to do – what they'd needed. Where to touch, how to touch, how much prep, when to go, when to stop, what each stuttered breath or silent cry meant; they hadn't needed words. They were just there. Together. At peace. Nothing to hide behind and no reason to hide. He was a kid who'd grown up with nothing, lost everything, and then been given the heavens by the man he loved – who loved him back. Something had changed: everything.

He nods, because the moment has stretched too long and Barry is waiting and he's right, but Jason doesn't know what to say.

The knot in Barry's chest loosens; he'd felt it constricting as the nanoseconds ticked by. He knows where his boyfriend is concerned that that nod could be a whole novel unto itself, so he has no intention of pressing further; it's not like he fully understands where he's going with this anyway. It's enough that they both acknowledge the shift, whatever it is.

"I love you," the blond says instead, enjoying the softness of Jason's skin under this hands, such a contrast to the man himself. Or rather how Jason views himself. And how others likely see Jason. "Anyone ever tell you you're sweet?" Barry hates that the smile his words spark is small and sad and full of doubt.

"Only you, just now." The younger man leans into his boyfriend, suddenly all too aware of that "difference," wondering what exactly he's supposed to do with it – that knowledge that they're not in the same place they were not even a week ago.

In his arms, Barry feels Jason tense – has no qualms about holding him closer and burying a kiss in his hair. They're on a plane, surrounded by people, and he's not about to drag them through an embarrassing, angst-ridden baring of souls, which, by the uncertainty in his boyfriend's tone, is where they're probably heading if he doesn't pull them back.

Letting his hand drift south to creep up under the thin fabric of the younger man's t-shirt, he brushes his fingers lightly over warm, smooth skin until the smile widens and becomes something happy. "Well, you are. You're sweet, and adorable, and more than a little cuddly."

Jason's eyes roll up to his boyfriend above, and his expression hangs somewhere between fond, thankful, and "faux-disgusted about to puke"; exploiting the "out," he decides to vocalize the gastrointestinal distress, opening his mouth wide and letting his tongue loll out before twisting so he can hang his head over the gap between rows and gag.

Ignoring the aghast stares from their fellow travelers, Barry huffs a laugh and carefully maneuvers his boyfriend back against his chest, brushing errant hairs back into place. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You could always wrap me up and take me home with you," Jason replies, feeling his eyelids grow heavy as they always seem to do when his boyfriend's heart is beating under his ear.

"Hmmm." The older man considers the suggestion as he lets his fingers roam along with his thoughts. "Any special requirements for that?"

Jason's left shoulder rises and falls minutely. "Well, I'm a little too big to sleep on the sofa."

"Not a problem, there's a guestroom."

The younger man lets out a thoroughly displeased noise. "Twin bed's still too small. Plus, it's kind of cold...and lonely."

"I could get a bigger mattress, more blankets...," Barry begins, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I don't mind sharing," Jason cuts in. "A bed, I mean. Your bed. I can't promise I'll always be a perfect gentleman, but I don't steal the blankets or snore."

Barry hides his smile behind the hand that he scrubs across his face. Just looking at his boyfriend trying to stave off sleep just a little longer is making him tired. "And what would I get out of it?"

"Did I mention I'm not always a perfect gentleman?" A lazy, toothy grin tugs at Jason's mouth as his boyfriend's chuckle rumbles against his chest.

"Noted. What else?"

"What else?" the younger man echoes indignantly, eyelids cracking open. "I didn't realize my skills were so lacking that you required an 'else.'"

"No no, your...skills...are definitely amazing," Barry replies hastily, trying to soothe the unintentional slight. "Consider it less a requirement and more...curiosity."

Even half asleep, Jason still doesn't look completely appeased. However, he offers up a few suggestions. "Well, my culinary abilities are certainly above par. I have it on good authority I make a comfortable pillow. I clean up after myself...."

"Do you put the toilet seat down?"

"No?" Jason's eyebrow raises, as does his inflection, unsure if there's a correct answer to the question.

"Well then, it's done," Barry says firmly, like a salesman closing a deal. "When can you move in?"

Jason laughs. And then Barry joins him. And they both keep laughing until the full weight of the older man's words sinks in. And then they abruptly stop and stare at each other, not quite sure if....

"Did you just ask me...." Jason's mouth goes dry before he finishes the question, and he has to swallow a few times before there's enough moisture for him to add, "...to move in with you?"

The blond blinks, using the seconds to replay the statement in his head – very, very slowly. It definitely sounds like he did. Those were definitely the words he said. But were they...did he mean to...are they there yet? "Yes," he eventually says. "Yes, I think I did."

Jason blinks, too, before staring hard at his boyfriend. He's not sure if that hopeful feeling he has is a good thing yet. More importantly, he's kind of surprised at said hopeful feeling, given he hadn't really thought about, well, that before. Meaning ever. "Really?"

Barry nods. He's not sure he meant to say it, but now that he has, it does feel right. "At the very least," he says, suddenly fearful of scaring the younger man away with such a jarring, unexpected turn of events (or maybe he's the one who's actually scared – of acceptance or rejection, he doesn't know), "I'm putting it out there for consideration."

"Which means what exactly?" Jason asks cautiously, that feeling turning to lead in his belly.

Barry wishes he could read his boyfriend's expression better; he's honestly not sure if he's moving too fast or too slow or doing the right thing by trying to temper his words. Jason looks disappointed, it's just not clear about what. Expelling a soft breath, he tries work the whole thing through logically. "Obviously moving in together would be a big step."

"Agreed," the younger man says in the pause between thoughts, trying to figure out what it is he wants his boyfriend to say.

"I guess this week was kind of like a dry run, even if we didn't mean it to be; no fights over emptying the dishwasher or doing the laundry, but plenty of opportunities for disagreements if they were going to happen."

"I think we did pretty well." To Jason's ears it sounds like he's protesting more than simply pointing out a fact.

"True. No blood was spilled. The neighbors didn't complain about the yelling." Barry offers a lopsided grin.

Jason doesn't return it. "Should I be concerned your bar is so low?" He's not even sure what the question means; he just doesn't know what to do with the mixed messages. Or with the fact that he might really want this.

Shaking his head, the older man replies, "What I'm saying is that we shared a small space and a bathroom for a week, and the worst disagreement we had was over watching NCIS: New Orleans for mindless entertainment. That's not bad. We didn't even fight over the thermostat."

"You did force me to get up for beignets at the ass crack of dawn after keeping me up late with mind-blowing sex. Twice."

Now Jason does flash a smile, and Barry gladly matches it, marginally reassured he hasn't led them totally off a cliff. "In hindsight, I consider that foreplay."

It was, Jason recalls, cheeks heating. "That's...fair." Highly caffeinated, sugar-fueled sex was, too, mind blowing. It's probably a good thing his boyfriend usually doesn't drink coffee; it definitely did things to him.

"So, this is something we want to think about?" Barry both says and asks, trying to pin down Jason's reaction. "I mean, it doesn't have to happen now or all at once, and we don't have to pick the house. I mean, you just moved to Central, and I know you like your place – as do I. There's nothing that says we can't live there."

The younger man nods to himself, mulling it over. "Maybe we could try it both ways. See which one we like best." He really does like his flat, but if either them need some personal space, he knows it'll be too small. If nothing else, there's no way it'll hold all of Barry's possessions.

"How about this," Barry offers. "A lot happened this week, and we spent a lot of time together. Let's take some time to decompress and catch back up with our normal lives. We do what we were doing, and if after a while we think we're ready – you know, if we miss the closeness – we can try living together."

"You realize we don't really spend nights apart now, right? Or most days after we're done working."

"True," the blond says, acquiescing with a cant of his head. "But have you ever had someone living full-time in space you considered yours? Messing around with your things? Forcing you to change your routine?"

The wrinkle in Jason's forehead is back as his eyebrows draw together in concern. "Don't make this sound like such a good thing."

"I'm being serious," Barry replies firmly, although the look on his face is apologetic.

Between the tone and the expression, the younger man finds his mouth snapping shut as he really thinks it over. "Not really," he admits. "A friend of mine crashed on my couch for several weeks once when he needed some help." It doesn't really count as living with him, but dear god, the mess Roy had made – his inability to wash dishes and keep his dirty laundry in one pile or even take his shoes off by the damn door....

"You know what I'm talking about," Barry says, watching as his boyfriend grimaces in disgust. "It's hard to stop thinking of it as 'your space,' and to not get angry with people touching 'your things.' And it's different when you know the other person isn't leaving. The laundry not getting done, the dishes in the sink, the papers everywhere – it'll start to get to you. Especially when you realize you have no other home to go to anymore."

"You and Iris?"

"Two busy adults with two full-time jobs that always went into overtime. It took a while to figure out how things were going to get done. And we fought about it – more than once."

"I am a little...neater than you are," Jason hedges, not intending it to be an accusation.

"I can definitely be more scattered," Barry agrees easily. "In thought and action."

"There are probably other things, too." The raven-haired man grimaces as he says it, sudden understanding of what they're walking into hitting him.

"Probably." The disappointment he feels creeping up on him surprises Barry a little bit; he didn't want to dive in unprepared, but he also didn't want to scrap the whole idea – which is what it sounds like Jason is leaning towards. Still, he doesn't intrude on the silence that follows, letting the younger man decide for himself.

It feels like it takes forever, but finally Jason looks up and nods. "Okay."

"Okay?" The blond's eyebrows scoot to his hairline even as he swears he feels his heart flutter happily.

It's hard to swallow his doubts, but Jason does, nodding again. "Yeah. I'd...I'd like to try. Or talk about trying. If I miss you, that is." He flashes a teasing smile that's only a little unsure. "I mean, I might not."

"I guess there's a chance, but I kind of hope you do," Barry replies earnestly. "I have a feeling I'll miss you. I just want us to do this right – make sure we're ready for it."

Reaching up to brush his fingertips against his boyfriend's cheek, Jason says, "I get it; it's the right thing to do. But I really enjoyed being with you, and I'm pretty sure I want this – even if I didn't know it."

Further conversation is interrupted by the captain announcing the start of their descent into Central City, which also forces Jason to return his seat to the upright position and buckle up.

Even that much separation is enough to make Barry miss his boyfriend, and once the younger man is settled, he leans in close, unabashedly confirming Jason's earlier claim about being a comfy pillow. Feeling his boyfriend curl into him, he goes back over the last week, picking it apart for clues and contraindications, finding plenty of the former and few of the later.

Which leaves him with the sinking realization that if they're really going to do this, he really needs to tell his boyfriend soon. Or he needs to make peace with the implications of not being able to tell him at all.