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find a way or make one

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Barry was already disappearing into the crowd by the time Eobard left the elevator. His charcoal grey suit wasn't difficult to see as he weaved through the men and women clad in stolid black tuxedos and shimmering floor-length gowns; Barry didn't belong among them. He stood out like a sore thumb, and not because he didn't measure up to some absurd, arbitrary standard, but because it almost hurt to look at him. He was plain and sharp in his movements. His eyes were bluntly honest, like a sledgehammer to the head.

Eobard's chest burned fiercely. He warily considered the glass of liquor he held; he had plucked it from a passing server's hand.

Quickly picking his way in the opposite direction through the crowd, he searched for a restroom. He could tell by some of the sidelong glances sent his way that he had been correct in his assumption of spectacle; his hair was no doubt in disarray, his lips kiss-swollen. Knowing Barry Allen as he did, he probably had some visible mark upon his skin. Quid pro quo, Eobard thought, and laughed inwardly.

Nobody disturbed him until he reached the men's room; he could only imagine the forbidding look upon his face. He found himself staring blankly into the mirror sometime later, his eyes locked on his reflection, and he couldn't have said how long he had been standing there. His mouth was as reddened as he had suspected, the line of his jaw rough from the stubble on Barry's chin. They had shaved before attending the conference, but Barry had been distracted and hadn't done a particularly thorough job of it. Eobard hadn't said anything at the time. He had thought Barry elegant, in his way; he had liked the look of studied nonchalance. It had contrarily enhanced Barry's appearance of innocent charm, made it obvious that he had been tended to by other hands.

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

Eobard looked up, startled. It was the restroom attendant. "Privacy."

"Of course," said the man, but he retreated, irritatingly, only as far as the restroom's main doors.

Eobard suddenly imagined killing him. With a visceral sense of vicious glee, he could see himself walking over to the man and shoving his fist through his head, could almost picture the man's grey matter spattering in a chaotic pattern over the sinks and up the mirror, his blood trailing to the meticulously mosaicked floor. But the mess would inevitably be found by some intrepid soul who kicked off a police investigation, and a neater death, with a quickly disposed body, was unfeasible for the same reason. And if Eobard was being honest with himself, the thought of Barry's displeasure did briefly cross his mind--but if he had been bent on murder, not even in the best of circumstances would the boy have prevented it.

As it was, a police investigation would bring too much scrutiny. The handicapped stall would have to do for Eobard's purposes. He could use the private sink and larger space to steam the wrinkles from his clothing; it was a disreputable use of the Speed Force, but needs must when the devil drove.

He took the stall and closed the door behind him. Looked into the mirror again.

His dyed hair was riddled with graying strands; it made him look older, more similar to his aging counterpart. He examined his appearance, and feeling petty, felt that he had done the original Harrison Wells a favor. Earth Prime's Harrison Wells would never grow old, not in any way that anyone currently alive would notice. The Speed Force healed its avatars quickly, including the damage wrought by age, and only Barry could or ever would see the way that Eobard changed. Only Barry, if he bothered to notice. Eobard tugged the makeup containers out of his pockets and rubbed the loose powders into his skin; they deepened the existing lines in his face. With a quick touch of water and Speed Force, he once again appeared immaculate.

Untouched. Untouchable.

Eobard didn't break the mirror on his way out, but it was a near thing.