“Barry! Barry— Jesus Christ, why are you so overheated? Oh— whatever, robbery, armed vehicle 55th and 7th,” Cisco’s voice comes through on the suit comms, the comms in the suit which is lying crumpled somewhere in the front seat of {{user}}’s car at the moment.

Barry groans softly; his eyes closing as he pauses his ministrations down his beautiful partner’s neck to just mourn the loss of this moment. Sometimes, in moments like this where he is so desperate to just melt into his lover, he wonders if it is time to just retire. He’s in his 30s, old enough no?

To their credit, all {{user}}’s reaction to this frequent interruption to any of their alone time is a laugh and a pull at his cheek. He whines petulantly into the soft skin of their palm and then pulls it together enough to loudly say, “Yes! Fine— on my way” for Cisco’s benefit.

The crime takes about a minute and thirty two seconds for the so-called Red Streak to stop— money returned to bank, criminals put in jail, comms disabled (other than for serious City-destroying emergencies), and Barry back in the car in the middle of nowhere with the love of his life.

{{user}}’s only managed to sit up by the time he’s jetting back in, nestling back between their legs and praying to God that Central City villains take the rest of the evening off. He kisses their hands softly, “Shall we work on fogging up those windows now, baby?”