If someone had told Iris that her week would play out as it had, she would not have believed them. Not in the slightest. It was one thing after another, one realization after another. If she was being totally honest, it was two weeks of absolute madness that she mentally needed to sort through, deal with, and process. By the end of the week, it had nearly boiled over into being into too much to handle. Very nearly, almost, and she was pushing through on sheer stubbornness alone. It was a lot to handle, to think about, and to figure out exactly what was going on in every aspect. People to worry about, her own life, a life that was Lillian West's, a life that was hers (but not), and a newfound place with a group of people trying to make a difference.

It was, for lack of better, more intricate words, a lot.

And then Barry had shown up at her house, bloodied and bruised and broken, shaken by how his own week had unfolded, and it took everything she had within her to hold it all together and be there for him. It was a familiar role for her to slip into, an easy one, and one that felt right for her. No, his words and situation were not ones that were easy for her to hear, but in some part of her mind, she welcomed it all. In a world that was chaotic and ever-changing, one that made even less sense than theirs, being able to be there for Barry, in a way, made her feel grounded again. For a little while, she could pretend things were back to normal and what she knew best. Taking care of her family.

At some point in the evening, after their talking was done and they were both relaxed, settling in, she'd curled up against him on the couch at his request (and who was she to deny such a simple, little, thing, that she wanted as well?), head nestled against his chest, and she drifted off to sleep to the steady sound of his heartbeat. Something solid and secure, a grounding point in absolute madness that surrounded them at all times.

The house was still quiet when she was woken up with early morning sunlight peeking through the curtains, reflecting and bouncing off of various surfaces. She blinked a few times, willing her tired eyes to open -- they wouldn't, though, fluttering back shut with each attempt. Through her sleepy haze, she could make out early morning sounds -- a few birds singing, a car horn, the chatter of joggers taking an early morning run. Her body felt sleepy and heavy, but most of all, she felt content and relaxed. It was a feeling she hadn't felt in some time. Months, perhaps, and the circumstances that had led to it weren't ideal, the week had been a long one, trying as well, but moments like this made it worth going through all of the hassle and chaos.

Fleeting moments, moments that she knew couldn't last, moments she couldn't cling to for one reason or another, as much as she appreciated the feeling of being content, relaxed, and at ease. But she was the one who had decided there needed to be boundaries and limits, they needed to check themselves, and that they had to be careful. The separation of two lives was becoming more and more clear and she had no idea what to make of it. She blinked a few times, attempting to get her body to work and not be a useless lump. It was Saturday, she didn't have many plans, and she was more than content to lay like this, despite the nagging voice in the back of her head, reminding her that this was a bad idea, as innocent as it was, and it was a feeling she should not be getting attached or used to having again. For a lot of reasons, of course.

The grip of the arms around her back had loosened at some point in the night, enough that she could comfortably prop herself up onto her elbows on either side of him. Somehow, he managed to be a heavier sleeper than her, powers and all. He earned it, she supposed, and it really shouldn't have been surprising to her; healing factor or not, he was still human, and he was a human who used an incredible amount of energy just to keep up with his own body each day. So when he simply stirred, but didn't wake, she wasn't all that surprised.

Their relationship was a strange, undefined, place of acknowledging their importance to one another, but also one of boundaries and being slow, carefully measured words and conversations, where they both kept their distance from one another and knew their lives weren't what they were back home. Nothing more than this, simple hugs or basic forms of physical affection, and it was strange. But it worked. Somehow. It worked and it was how it had to be for the foreseeable future. So moments like this, they were both easy and difficult to slip into. It was warm and familiar, it was as needed for her as it was for him, but it wouldn't, it couldn't last. And this was the furthest they'd go, casually and comfortably falling asleep close together, and that, she supposed, was better than nothing.

Iris sighed a little, looking down at him, slowly shifting her weight backwards in order to sit up completely, raising a hand to brush away hair that had fallen into her eyes, weight still supported onto one elbow. She'd barely sat upward when the arms tightened around her again and she blinked in surprise, a small smile coming across her face. Shy, even, as she glanced back down and was met with a pair of sleepy green eyes.

A gentle laugh escaped her lips.

"Morning, sleepyhead."