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There were a lot of people Iris would never ask for help. Eobard Thawne, for one—though it wasn’t like she hadn’t trusted him in the past. She might’ve listened to his advice when he chose to give it (for his own selfish endgame, of course), but she’d never asked for it.
She’d certainly never asked her mother for help. She’d wanted to, many times, but thinking her mother was dead prevented that. By the time their relationship was repaired, it was too late.
Of course, the whole reason Iris was thinking about this was because she was proving herself wrong. She would’ve sworn up and down—maybe even on Barry’s life—that she would never be here, now, asking for help.
You know what they say about desperate times.
❧
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Iris crowed, placing a charcuterie board on the table. A piece of salami fell off and she quickly picked it up, draping it back on the board. “The turkey has another hour to go so don’t worry about filling up.”
Ralph poked suspiciously at the brie with a cracker until Cisco glared at him. He stopped poking and brought the cracker to his mouth, feigning a bite. Caitlin carefully selected a grape that wasn’t touching anything else and popped it in her mouth, giving Iris a thumbs up.
“Cisco?” Iris said tersely to the back of his head. He was sitting in front of her and she saw his body tense. He turned around and offered her a wide, toothy smile.
“I really don’t want to fill up before—"
“You’re all the worst,” Iris muttered. She turned back towards the kitchen, making a pit stop in the living room to send her dad, Barry and Cecile to the table. They waved her off, pretending to fuss over Jenna, and Iris resisted yelling at them too.
“Why do they all think I can’t cook?” Iris grumbled.
You can’t.
“Thanks,” Iris said. “Has anyone ever taught you the concept of bedside manner?”
Grodd can hear your thoughts. No need to speak.
“I think better out loud,” Iris argued. “That’s why Barry never let me do homework around him in high school.”
Grodd stayed quiet, apparently uninterested in her life story. Iris set to work chopping some bacon for the Brussels sprouts that were currently roasting in the oven. She’d never liked them, but they were one of her dad’s favourites.
There had been some resistance when she asked to host Thanksgiving this year. Joe and Cecile usually had that duty on lock, but they all loved her too much to say no and Iris was determined not to disappoint them. Not after everything that had happened.
Iris grabbed a whisk from the drawer and stirred the gravy. It was her first time making it from scratch instead of using an instant packet and she needed time to try again—maybe even a few times—if it all went wrong.
Potatoes. Oven.
Iris rolled her eyes at Grodd’s bluntness and surveyed the kitchen, looking for the tray of potatoes.
“They’re already in the oven.” She gestured towards the tray with her whisk and flecks of gravy went flying against the wall.
Out.
“Oh,” Iris said, throwing the whisk onto the counter and grabbing a dish towel. She pulled the potatoes out of the oven, only slightly burning her hands where the cloth was too thin.
“Ow ow ow,” she muttered, placing the tray on the stove to cool. She heard Grodd laugh in her head.
“Shut up,” Iris said. “What, do you use oven mitts or something?”
No. Hands too big.
Iris couldn’t help but laugh. “Was that a joke?”
“Was what a joke?” Barry asked, striding into the kitchen.
“Nothing!” Iris squeaked. “Just talking to myself.”
She pretended to straighten her headband, instead brushing her fingers against the cerebral inhibitor to make sure it was hidden. The new and improved version was so small that she could’ve pinned it under her hair like a clip, but the glowing blue lights were a bit of a giveaway.
“Okay.” Barry looked adorably confused. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“I don’t.”
“I have the pizza place on speed dial,” he said. “Or, you know, me dial.”
“Get out,” Iris shouted. She took a deep breath, turning back to the stove. The cranberry sauce was beginning to smoke and she realized she’d turned on the wrong burner.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
Wrong one.
“Thanks,” Iris said. “I don’t suppose you know how to baste a turkey?”
Grodd walked her through the rest of the steps far more calmly than she could’ve hoped. There were some mishaps—‘just tell me to cut the carrots into circles, what the hell is a rondelle, are you telepathically tuned into Gordon Ramsay or something?’—but they muddled their way through. After what could’ve been hours or days, it was finished.
Iris paused to wipe a dish cloth across the counter while the turkey rested, everything else keeping warm in the oven. As she surveyed the feast, an unexpected wave of grief hit her like a punch to the gut. She tore off the cerebral inhibitor, hiding it under the dish cloth.
Last year, she’d had a daughter at this table. She hoped—god, she hoped—that Nora would be back someday to experience a lifetime of Thanksgivings. But Barry was set to disappear in less than a month. What if he did? What if she never had another chance at this?
Iris blinked away tears and ducked into the washroom, wiping the mascara from under her eyes. She flushed the toilet to keep up appearances and went back to the kitchen, sliding the cerebral inhibitor under her headband. All was quiet for a moment and she worried something had gone wrong.
“Hello?”
Grodd understands.
Iris sighed. She knew the grief didn’t go away just because she filled her head with other thoughts. Of course he was able to sense it.
“I’m fine,” Iris insisted, lifting a corner of the foil to check on the turkey. It looked the same as it had the last time she'd checked.
I understand.
Iris wanted to yell at him simply because she could. How could he understand? He’d never even had a family.
Iris flinched at her own nastiness, but Grodd was silent. She pictured him sitting alone in his cell, nothing but her thoughts to keep him company. Iris knew better than anyone that wanting something could hurt just as much as missing it.
“I’m sorry,” Iris whispered. “I know you haven’t had an easy life.”
Grodd earned this life.
“But you’re different now,” she insisted. Iris gestured to the meal they’d prepared and Barry looked over from the dining room, his brows knit in confusion. She transitioned the movement into a stretch and then turned around so he couldn’t see her mouth moving. “Just look at everything you’ve done for me today.”
Bread rolls are not redemption.
“Isn’t that how the saying goes?” Iris joked, pitching her voice low. “The road to redemption is paved with bread rolls.”
No.
God, is this how Barry and Cisco felt when she didn’t laugh at their Star Wars references? Maybe it was time to watch those movies.
Iris’ phone timer went off, signalling that the turkey was ready. She began to move and then paused, wavering between the meal and their conversation.
Go, Grodd insisted. No cold food.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Iris whispered. “Thank you for all of your help.”
And then there was nothing. Iris strained to hear even the smallest thought, but Grodd had taken off his inhibitor. Iris removed her apron, spattered with unidentified stains, and smoothed down her skirt. Then she picked up the tray and headed into the dining room.
“Let’s eat!” Iris said cheerfully, placing the turkey on the table. Barry helped her carry the rest of the food from the kitchen and everyone stared at it wide-eyed.
“Go on,” Iris said, settling into a chair between Barry and Cisco. “Dig in.”
“This looks amazing,” Joe said, surveying the table. Iris sensed a note of suspicion in his voice. Everyone murmured in agreement and began to load small amounts onto their plates.
Iris had been through a lot in the past few years, but she’d never been as nervous as she was watching them take the first bite.
“Oh my god,” Cisco said, ever the brave one. “These potatoes are amazing.”
“Really?” Iris asked. The others looked at Cisco warily but followed suit, tasting whatever they thought looked the safest. Caitlin made a surprised hum when she ate the roasted carrots. Ralph grabbed another portion of turkey as soon as Joe had carved it.
“This is perfect,” Barry whispered, placing his hand over hers where it rested on the table. His eyes shone with pride and Iris swallowed around the lump in her throat.
“I’m so thankful for you,” she said, watching Barry’s face melt into a soft smile. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek and kissed him, trying to remember every piece of this moment.
“Hey!” Ralph shouted, tossing a plastic gourd at Barry’s head. “We’re eating over here.”
“You are!” Iris squealed, standing up to serve herself. Everyone laughed around mouthfuls of food, the swell of chatter growing as they settled into the meal. Iris’ worries melted away as plates were emptied, wine was poured, and cheeks flushed with joy and laughter and intoxication.
“That was a beautiful meal, Iris,” Cecile proclaimed. “I’d help clean up, but I need to get Jenna home. Plus, that’s what men are for.”
Caitlin raised her glass to that, taking a long sip. Barry stood up to clear the table but Iris stopped him.
“There’s still dessert,” she said, grabbing the pumpkin pie from the counter. She balanced it in one hand and grabbed the whipped cream from the fridge, bumping the door shut with her hip.
“Here,” she said, sliding the pie onto the table. Ralph immediately began cutting it into slices. For once people were desperate for the first piece, and Iris couldn’t help but smile.
“Dios mío,” Cisco whispered, chewing the largest bite he could fit in his mouth. “Are you sure you didn’t buy this? Perhaps from God?”
“I bought the crust,” Iris admitted. “But the filling is homemade!”
Caitlin took a bite and smiled encouragingly at Iris, but there was something in her expression that wasn’t quite right.
“What’s wrong?” Iris asked. “Too sweet? Not sweet enough?”
“No, it’s perfect,” Caitlin said, carving out another piece with her spoon. “It just—reminds me of someone. An old friend.”
“Me too,” Iris replied, swallowing around an unexpected lump in her throat. Then Ralph grabbed the can of whipped cream from Barry, stretching it across the room until Barry gave up and chased it with his super speed, and Iris couldn’t help but laugh.
❧
The halls of ARGUS were cold and dark during the day, let alone at night. Iris hadn’t planned to come tonight—everyone was back home, partaking in some mulled wine she’d accidentally scalded—but once the idea had entered her mind, she knew it couldn’t wait.
Grodd was lying down on his bed, though that was a generous word for the hard-looking slab they’d given him. His black hair was stark against the white interior and large glass walls. He must’ve sensed Iris’ presence because he rolled slowly onto the floor and approached the glass.
“Hi,” Iris said hesitantly. “I brought you something.”
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments before the locked slot on the opposite side of Grodd’s cell opened and a plate slid through. It clattered against the floor and Iris resisted shouting at the guard. He was already doing her a massive favour, even if it included a generous bribe.
Grodd lumbered across the cell and picked up the plate, sniffing it before removing the foil. His back was turned so Iris couldn’t see his reaction, but she didn’t need a cerebral inhibitor to know it was bittersweet.
“Can I ask you something?” Iris said. Grodd came back towards her and sat just behind the glass, the plate of food on the floor in front of him. He nodded.
“Where did you learn to make pumpkin pie?”
Grodd paused, the turkey leg halfway to his mouth.
“Father.”
Iris had a million questions—namely since when did Eobard Thawne bake?—but Grodd took a massive bite of the turkey leg, putting an end to any further questioning.
Iris knew she should leave. But she was a woman who followed her instincts, and the niggling sensation in her gut hadn’t left. So instead, Iris lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged on the concrete. Grodd picked up the entire slice of pumpkin pie in one hand, taking a bite.
“Shouldn’t you eat the carrots first?” Iris asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Burnt,” Grodd replied.
“They are not burnt,” Iris argued. “I took them out of the oven right when you—”
Grodd began to laugh, deep and slow, and Iris realized he was messing with her. She burst into giggles and their collective laughter echoed off the walls of ARGUS.
When Iris pictured her life, she never imagined sitting on the floor of a metahuman prison, joking with a formerly murderous gorilla that had just helped her pull off a low-stakes remake of Ratatouille.
It was a strange life, but it was hers. And she was very thankful indeed.
