Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hartley should’ve known. He should’ve known by how Wells smiled at him, by how he would never be able to get too close when they were in front of people, but had no problem pushing Hartley against a wall the minute they were alone. He should’ve known by how it made him feel, being Wells’ secret, being his guy , was just so intriguing. It was so easy, it was exciting . It made him feel special, as if he was a trophy; something to be worshiped for its greatness. No one - not even his parents, his old boyfriends - made him feel like that. Made him feel loved like that.

For a while, he actually thought Harrison might love him, earnestly. He looked at him so earnestly, laughed at his jokes, told him that he was his guy . Hartley was his . But Hartley was wise. He never said “ I love you ”, it would’ve been foolish, childish, too open. Too vulnerable . But it showed in everything he did. It seeped through the cracks. When he picked up some coffee for Harrison, made exactly how he liked it. When he would invite Harrison to have a match of chess with him after-hours; just the two of them. How he’d be at Harrison’s side at his beck and call. When Harrison had him under him, the way he’d keen and listen to whatever Wells had to say, when it was over; how he laid there for a few more moments than necessary. Pretending that bed was his, that home was his, that Harrison was his. Until Wells told him that he had a car waiting outside for him to be picked up, or until Wells said he was going to ‘hop in the shower’, which they both know meant go ahead and make yourself presentable while I’m gone, and be gone by the time I’m out. I don’t want to be reminded of this in the morning . 

But he continued on. He was hopelessly devoted. He told himself he could stop, he could stop and it could all be normal at any time - but he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the same. Harrison could fire him - would fire him. He saw it in his eyes anytime Hartley hesitated. The threats. The unspoken no one will ever love you like I do. He couldn’t leave. So he continued. Trying to be the best, trying to be the perfect worker, the perfect chess opponent, the perfect fuck buddy. So that’s when he found out that the particle accelerator was set up to blow up, he brought it to Wells’ attention immediately. 

“I know.” Wells said to him, looking at him with a face Hartley had never seen him bare before. It was filled with regret. 

“So you’re planning on fixing it? I-, I can help remodel it, it will only-” 

“No. No, I’m not.” Wells interrupted, looking down. He sighed, “I had hoped this part would have to come later.” He paused for a few moments, Hartley looked at him with doe-eyed confusion. The dread, the hopelessness, the rage hadn’t quite set in yet. 

“You’re fired, Hartley.” 

“What?” Hartley stood there, pit in his stomach. He felt sick. Like he hadn’t eaten in days, like he had just had his stomach cut into, like it was leaking out bile. He could feel the burn in his throat. Wells just sighed, as if he knew . As if he had accepted letting Hartley go. “Go pack your things,” 

“Sir, you-, you can’t do this. What-, I, I’ll go to the press, I’ll tell them all about this, and, and,” he was stuttering over his words, eyes burning suddenly. His throat felt sore, a choked out, pathetic sound letting its way out as he took a breath in. “You can’t do this to me. I thought, I-, we,” 

“There is no we. Now, would you rather me ruin your record? Make sure you can’t get a job anywhere?” Silence. 

“That’s what I thought. Now go pack your things , or do you need to be shown out by guards?” Hartley’s mouth was dry. He could feel his hands shaking. He pushed past Wells, into the office. Cisco and Caitlin were chatting at Cisco’s desk, looking up when Hartley entered the room. Tears were threatening to spill, his hands shaking violently as he packed his computer into his bag, along with the rest of his things. 

“Where are you going?” asked Caitlin innocently. 

Hartley’s hands froze, he went ridgid. He opened his mouth, trying to get words out but they wouldn’t, he couldn’t talk. Nothing was right. He felt a sob making its way down his throat and he shut his mouth, unwilling to be so pathetic, so vulnerable in front of them. So instead, he just grabbed his bag and walked out. 

On the drive home, he couldn’t think. He was going in and out of autopilot. If he wasn’t thinking about Harrison, he wasn’t thinking at all. He pulled out into the driveway of his apartment complex, parking. He didn’t get out of his car for a few minutes, staring blankly at the steering wheel. His throat ached, and old tears laid on his eyes, never leaving. He blinked a few times, before getting out. He grabbed his bag, opened his apartment door and closed it. He blindly went to his couch, not even aware of what he was doing. He took out his computer, staring blankly at it. 

Without thinking he opened his emails, and clicked on one of them - something Ronnie had sent to him to double check the math on. He started reading through it only to realize it wasn’t his job anymore. That wasn’t his coworker anymore, it wasn’t his life anymore. Hartley finally lets out the sob that’s been burrowing in his throat. 

Not 9 months later the particle accelerator is due to go off. Hartley doesn’t go. He can’t, he tells himself. Not when he knows what might happen. Not when he knows what it’ll do, what it’ll look like, how it’s made. He knows every inch of it. Almost like it’s his. But it isn’t. It’s funny, Hartley thinks, in a way, it's ironic he lost both his lover and his job at once. He lost what he created, what he adored, what he devoted himself to all at once. 

He hasn’t gotten a job since then, actually. He’s been offered a position at Mercury Labs, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to even begin to be in a lab again. Because all he’ll be able to think about is Harrison. And his stupid face, and his stupid smile, and his stupid voice. How he should be with him right then and there. How he should be with the man he loved. Because, in all truth, he loved Harrison Wells. He loved him so much it made him want to cry. It was pathetic, really. Being hopelessly in love with the man who hates you, who fucked you like some cheap whore, who used you and wrung you out. Who never loved you back. 

Hartley again, should’ve known. 

Hartley holes up on his couch, eating microwaved noodles, some show playing on the TV. The entire time, he’s thinking about Harrison. How he wished he was there with them, watching it go off. But maybe it’s for the better. Hartley wishes it wasn’t. He decides it’s best if he’s somewhere else when it goes off. Maybe a stroll will help. 

He’s walking down the street, which is scarily empty at this time of night, when the blast goes off. The dark matter wave pushes him against a concrete building, and as his head is half-bashed in, he can’t help but wonder if Harrison wished this on him too. If this was another part of his plan to fuck over Hartley Rathaway. But he can’t think that for long, because the blood is pooling over his hands and his ears are ringing - louder than they were before. And he can’t even find his hearing aids to help, and it hurts , it hurts so much. He can’t breathe, less because his lungs are hurt, more because the pain is searing through all his body. He can barely feel his hands, blood running down his nose, running into his mouth. He barely makes his way onto his feet, limping his whole way home. 

He nearly collapses on the stairs, crawling into his apartment and laying on the floor. His ears are still ringing, it almost feels like screaming. The pain has died down in his torso and arms, but his head still pounds with pain. His own blood stains his carpet, as he claws at his ears, tears spilling down his cheeks. Begging, pleading for the pain to stop. He doesn’t know who he’s saying please to, as if someones causing the pain, continuing it. Maybe God, he thinks. Maybe Harrison Wells, which is more likely. He grasps at his chest, coughing and dragging in breaths. He tries to lay on his back, but somehow the pain increases tenfold and he chokes out another sob. 

He can’t move, everything hurts too much. His vision blurs, and he can't even form coherent thoughts anymore. He’s so tired, everything aches so much. It feels like his skins buzzing, like it’s not even his anymore. The blood from his head runs into his eye and he has to close them, the iron mixes with salt and paints his skin. He can feel himself drifting away, the pain becoming nothing, the ringing becoming white noise. He can feel his rigid breath become shallow; but still raged, still shaking. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s asleep, but he wakes up with blood all over - on his knees, on his hands, on his face, in his hair. It’s coming from somewhere on his head, he’s sure. Maybe some from the inside of his ears, maybe his mouth, his nose? He can’t tell where the wounds begin and the blood ends. He tears the cracked, stained glasses from his face, rolling over. The first thing he notices, again, is the pain in his ears. The ringing is so loud he almost gives up again. He tries to cry but his body can’t, so he just heaves and whimpers. He notes that he can hear people out on the street talking as if they’re right next to him, and it’s so loud . Like it’s piercing. The second thing he notices is that his muscles ache. Unsurprising, he thinks, trying to haul himself up. He stumbles, catching himself on the wall, limping into the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror - what a sight. 

His hair is fucked up in every direction, and he can now see the gash coming from the left side of his hairline. It seems to have stopped bleeding, but he should probably clean it up. There’s also blood trailing from his mouth - which explained the iron taste on his tongue. Then his ears. There's blood coming from in them, from around them, from everywhere. It trails down his neck, onto his shirt. He grimaces, grabbing a washcloth from the sink and running it under cool water. He places it on the wound on his head and flinches away from it for a second, before hesitantly wiping it down. He hissed through his teeth as the blood soaked up the rag.

He ends up scrubbing his skin raw, desperately trying to get it off as soon as he realized how much of it there was. He kept having to rinse out the rag. Eventually rinsing it out didn't work anymore - the rag was ingrained with his blood. He felt sick. He took a step back, dropping to his knees and keeling over the toilet, spilling his empty stomach into it. His throat, his eyes, his face, they all burned. The bile dripped down his lips, snot coming from his nose. 

He sat back on his legs and dry heaved, almost sobbing. He dragged himself back up, got a new washcloth, and kept scrubbing. The blood dripped from the rag. His skin was red, raw. He splashed his face a few times with shaking hands, the water still coming off red. He settled for it, though, drying his face and limping out. 

Onto the next problem - his ears. He took a shuddering breath, uselessly walking over to his old work station - covered in dust. He reached into his pockets and grabbed his hearing aids. These would have to do. He reasoned that he just needed to adjust them to make things quieter. He used to have cochlear implants, but his parents forcefully had them removed after he was disowned. He opens his hearing aids, bitterly getting to work. 

After hours, he hastily puts them in his aching ears, almost sobbing in relief as the sound becomes muted - quieter. The pain is still there, but it’s less, and everything is so much quieter , he’ll settle for now. He sighs, laying his head down on his desk. He has half the mind to get some water, something to eat, but he doesn’t. He falls asleep not too long after. 

A year and a month after the incident, Hartley finds himself face to face with the flash. He’s smarter now, tougher, he knows how to use his hearing to his advantage. With the help of adjustable cochlear implants, and some sonic gloves he made from extra parts, he’s able to fight back this time. He grins as he lists their names - Harrison Wells, Cisco Ramon, Caitlin Snow, - he can hear them talking, them muttering. It hits him for a moment, that this is the first time he’s heard Harrison’s voice since… that night. 

He lets himself get taken in. Grinning when he finds that the lab hasn’t changed much. He willingly goes into the cell, the cage , they’re keeping him in. He even cracks some jokes. He’s faced with Cisco, then Caitlin, then - always the show stealer - Harrison Wells. 

“Donec a dictum est. Quomodo tuum novum guy, Harrison?” He smiles, strained. He knows he shouldn’t be tempting the beast. He shouldn’t be taunting him, not with what he knows. 

Harrison stares at him, face unreadable. “Video tempus non optimum tibi.” 

“Non est processu temporis quod me male attulit.” He spits out, still bitter. Still ragefilled. Harrison sighs, turning around and leaving. Hartley almost calls out ‘ Coward. ’ but he knows it wouldn’t change anything. Cisco and Caitlin leave the room. They leave Hartley alone. That was their mistake. 

Nearly two hours later - enough time to where they wouldn’t need to check up on him, maybe even forgotten about him - Hartley prepares himself. He reaches into his ear, picking the cochlear implants out of one of his ears, the piercing ringing setting in. His winces, mouth forming a silent scream. His eyes well up, but he continues on. He pulls the other one out, stumbling back out of pain. He places both on the glass doors of the cell, bracing himself as they blow up. The blast doesn’t help with the pain. It’s so loud, so overwhelming. He continues on, stepping out, leaning down where Harrison was almost from the fallout on the floor. He stares at him for a few moments, almost feeling bad. 

He wants to kill Wells then and there. He wants to so badly, because it’d be so easy. It’d be too easy. He wants to kick Wells's stomach in and break his neck and strangle him until he's the one on the floor, unable to move because of the immobilizing pain. But he doesn’t. He leans down farther, whispering, “Am I still your guy, Harrison?” Before walking off and out of the building. 

He has plans for the evening. 

He doesn’t remember what happened the night of the fight on the dam. He remembers the Flash, but besides that, everythings a blur. He can barely feel anything, eyes blurry. He can feel the familiar feeling of blood dripping down from the inside of his ears, but he’s laying on something soft. Almost comforting. He hears the beeping of a heart rate monitor, realizing it’s his own heartbeat he’s hearing. It’s almost loud enough to drown out the ringing. He opens his eyes a little more, seeing blobs of people he knows, he’s sure of it, he just can’t think of it right then. 

“You’re okay, Hartley, just breathe ,” one of them says, one soft, and warm, and so so amicable but he can’t put a name to the voice. He wants to resist, he wants to scream, and rip his arm away from their fragile touch, and run. Run far away. But he can’t. He can’t move. He can barely keep his eyes open, so he lets himself fall back into sleep, the familiar pain lulling him to slumber. 

He doesn’t know how long it is when he wakes up next, but he realizes that he can feel . He can feel so much, it’s so overwhelming. He heaves in, suddenly, coughing, and crying, and letting out little scared noises. He clenches his palms, his fists balling up what he assumes is a thin blanket. He is immediately greeted by yelling from a room, maybe two away from where he is. He covers his ears, a scream ripping itself from his throat. He still can’t quite see, eyes blurry without glasses but also filled his tears. He tries to cover his ears but it doesn’t work, it just gets louder. 

He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he can hear them. The people. The familiar blobs. He wants to scream for them to get away from him, for them to stop talking, for them to make the pain stop. But he can’t. He can’t put it into words, his mouth moving faster than his brain. 

“Stop, stop, please I-, It, I can’t, It’s so, I,” he mutters out, voice shaking. Hot tears run down his face, as he heaves in, breath picking up. 

“Hartley, Hartley, you need to slow down, you’re not-” A voice says. It’s friendly, autumn toned. It sounds like a girl. He can feel her hand touch his arm, trying to pull it away from his ears. He rips it away, breath stuttering. 

“Get away, stop touching me,” He lets out another sob, it burns where her hand was. “It hurts so much, I’m, I,” He feels sick. He gags, again and again, as more people try to talk to them. He can’t hear them. He keeps trying to say he’s going to throw up, but it wont come out. He clutches at his throat as he gags, shaking. Eventually what feels like a plastic trash can gets shoved into his hands just as he retched up the bile from his stomach. His tears run down into his mouth and he presses himself into the back of the hospital cot. 

“Please,” he begs, “make it stop,” he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Maybe the pain, maybe the vomit, maybe the touching, maybe everything. He keeps begging, muttering incoherent pleads under his breath.

“We need to sedate him again,” the voice from earlier says. Suddenly the soft, warm tone it took early is laced with something deeper. Hartley makes a pained sound in his throat and shakes his head no. “Please, please no-, please, don’t,” he backs away from the hand that clutches his wrist. 

“Stay still, Hartley, you’re just delirious,” says the voice. He can hear some back chatter from the other people in the room, he looks at the people. He suddenly remembers names - Cisco, Caitlin, Barry. Harrison. His head strikes over to Harrison, the voice, as if he’s a wounded animal.

“ No. ” he says firmly, “No, nono, I’m not, you-, you knew, you,” he tries to convey everything. All that he knows. He looks at the others pleadingly, “Please, help, I-, no,” But Harrison pulls his arm out, baring his forearm. 

“Dr. Snow, do you have the needle?” His voice is cold when he says it. Eyes boring holes into Hartley’s head. Hartley whimpers, shaking his head, desperately trying to pull his arm. “You’re hurting me, you’re-, stop it,” he begs. 

“I can’t sedate him in this state.” Caitlin says, sounding sympathetic. Harrison sighs, taking the needle, “Then I’ll do it myself.” Hartley makes a strangled noise, alarmed. He shakes his head, pulling his arm away harder. 

“Don’t let him do it, please, don’t,” He pleads, desperately trying to get away. He can still barely see them, but the tears make it worse again. He feels the tip of the needle press against the inside of his elbow, he wants to scream. He shakes his head, pathetically flailing about as Harrison presses the needle into him, injecting the sedative into him. He whimpers, pulling his arm away as soon as Harrison lets go. 

He tries to scream, to yell at them for not helping him, for not saving him . But they get caught up in his head, and everything’s fuzzy, and next thing he knows, he’s not even awake anymore. Everything is quiet. 

Hartley wakes up in the cell, lazily slumped against the wall. He notices that he has new glasses, and that the ringing isn’t there anymore. He reaches up to his ear, feeling the new cochlear ear implants. He swallows dryly, looking at his hands, which were now covered in bandages - still stained red and yellow. He sniffs, cringing at the ache in his face. 

He curls up into a ball, leaning back against the wall. No one talks to him. He can see sometimes some of them walk in, but they just stare, air tense; uncomfortable. Sometimes they check on his vitals, but they never speak to him. He assumes it makes sense. They don’t want to ask why he was pleading. They don’t want to ask why he was so afraid of Wells. 

Cowards , Hartley thinks bitterly as he lays back against the glass door of his display cage. Another trophy for Harrison to look at and smile. It’s ironic, Hartley thinks. He should’ve known time is a circle. 

Once a trophy, always a trophy.