Tempest of Time: A Bart Allen Fanfiction
A personal disclaimer before you read: Hi friends! I'm currently reading Pride and Prejudice and it's definitely influencing my writing. This piece is also partly me processing some heavy stuff - I admitted myself to a psych ward last Monday for depression and an eating disorder. Writing has always been my escape, so thank you for reading what came out of my messy brain. Much love to all of you supporting me through this journey. ❤️
The rain fell in heavy sheets across Central City, the kind of downpour that made even speedsters seek shelter. Bart Allen found himself in the Flash Museum, wandering past exhibits of heroic feats that his family had accomplished throughout generations. School groups had gone home, and the museum was quiet save for the patter of rain against glass.
"Cool, isn't it?" Barry's voice came from behind him, making Bart jump slightly.
"Yeah, crash," Bart replied, but his mind was elsewhere. Something about this weather made him restless, a feeling he couldn't quite place.
Barry clapped him on the shoulder. "I've got to run to Star Labs. Cisco thinks he found something in the speed force readings. You good here?"
"Totally crash," Bart replied with his characteristic grin, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll catch up later."
As Barry departed in a flash of lightning, Bart continued his solitary exploration. He found himself drawn to a new exhibit about temporal anomalies—instances where the speed force had created unpredictable rifts in spacetime.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" The curator, an elderly man with kind eyes, gestured toward the display. "The speed force is still largely a mystery, even to those who harness it."
Bart nodded, studying diagrams of theoretical time distortions. "Has anyone ever been trapped by these? Like, sent somewhere they shouldn't be?"
The curator's eyes twinkled knowingly. "Oh, I suspect there are many stories we don't know. The speed force connects all time, all realities. Who's to say what happens in those spaces between?"
Thunder crashed outside, and the lights flickered momentarily. When they stabilized, the curator was gone, leaving Bart alone with his thoughts and the howling storm.
Something pulled at him—an instinct, perhaps, or the speed force itself. Before he could second-guess himself, Bart was running, faster than he'd ever pushed himself before. Lightning crackled around him as he burst through the museum doors and into the torrential rain.
The world blurred around him, and then—a tear, a rift opening before him like a wound in reality itself. Bart couldn't stop his momentum, couldn't redirect his course.
He plunged through, and everything went dark.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the sound of chirping birds and a gentle breeze. Bart groaned, his head pounding as he blinked against bright sunlight.
"What the..." he muttered, pushing himself up from soft grass. Gone was the urban landscape of Central City. Instead, rolling green hills stretched before him, dotted with wildflowers and bordered by stone walls. In the distance, a small village of stone cottages puffed smoke from chimneys into the clear blue sky.
"This is so not crash," Bart whispered, patting himself down. Still in his civilian clothes—jeans, sneakers, and his favorite graphic tee—but definitely not in his own time. Or dimension. Or whatever had happened.
He climbed to his feet, taking stock of his surroundings. The architecture, the landscape—if he had to guess, he'd landed somewhere in England, perhaps the early 19th century.
"Great," he muttered. "Just great." He needed to find a way back, but first, he needed to understand where—and when—he was.
The village seemed his best bet. Bart adjusted his clothes as best he could and began walking, careful not to use his speed. The last thing he needed was to be burned as a witch or whatever they did in olden times to people with superpowers.
As he approached the village, Bart became acutely aware of how out of place he looked. Women in long dresses and bonnets turned to stare, while men in waistcoats and breeches whispered behind their hands. Children pointed openly before being hushed by their mothers.
"Uh, hello," Bart tried, offering an awkward wave to a group of onlookers. "Beautiful day, right?"
They scattered like startled birds, leaving Bart alone in the village square. This was going to be harder than he thought.
A commotion from a nearby shop drew his attention. A young woman exited, struggling with several parcels. As if in slow motion (though Bart knew it was just his perception), one package slipped from her grasp, tumbling toward the muddy ground.
Without thinking, Bart moved—not at super speed, but quickly enough to catch the package before it fell.
"Your parcel, miss," he said, holding it out with what he hoped was a charming smile.
The woman looked up, and Bart felt something seize in his chest. She was beautiful—not in the manufactured way of his time, but with a natural grace that seemed to emanate from within. Dark curls escaped from beneath her bonnet, framing a face with intelligent eyes and full lips now parted in surprise.
"I thank thee, sir," she replied, her voice musical and formal in a way Bart had only heard in historical movies. "Thy quickness hath saved my new ribbons from certain ruin."
"Happy to help," Bart replied, still holding the package between them like an offering. "I'm Bart. Bart Allen."
She tilted her head curiously, studying his strange attire with obvious interest but surprising lack of judgment. "I am pleased to make thy acquaintance, Mr. Allen. I am Miss Y/N Bennet."
"Just Bart is fine," he said, then realized that was probably inappropriate for the time period. "I mean, if that's okay with you, Miss Bennet."
A smile played at her lips, transforming her already beautiful face into something radiant. "Thy manner of speech is most peculiar, Mr. Allen. Art thou a foreigner to our lands?"
"You could say that," Bart replied, helping her rearrange her packages. "I'm a long way from home."
"Then thou must allow me to show thee proper English hospitality," she insisted. "My family's estate lies just beyond those hills. Perhaps thou wouldst accompany me on my walk home? It would be most agreeable to have conversation after my tedious errands in the village."
Warning bells sounded in Bart's mind—he shouldn't get involved, shouldn't risk changing anything in this timeline. He needed to find a way back, not get entangled with the locals.
But something in her earnest invitation made refusal impossible.
"I'd like that," he heard himself say.
And so they walked, Miss Y/N speaking in her antiquated but charming manner, Bart trying his best to tone down his modern slang while explaining that he was a "traveler" from a "distant land."
"Thy clothing is most unusual," she remarked as they crossed a meadow dotted with wildflowers. "Is it the fashion where thou comest from?"
Bart glanced down at his Flash logo t-shirt and jeans. "Yeah, pretty standard stuff where I'm from. But I can see it's a bit different from what you wear here."
"Indeed," she replied, her eyes sparkling with curiosity rather than judgment. "It must be a most extraordinary place, thy homeland."
"You have no idea," Bart murmured, helping her over a stile in the path.
Their hands touched, and even through her glove, Bart felt a jolt of electricity that had nothing to do with the speed force. He withdrew quickly, feeling a blush creep up his neck.
"Forgive me," she said, misinterpreting his reaction. "I did not mean to impose upon thee."
"No, no," Bart hastened to explain. "Where I'm from, it's just... different, how men and women interact. I'm still learning your customs."
She smiled again, that radiant expression that made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with super speed. "Then I shall be thy teacher in the ways of proper English society. Though I warn thee, I am often considered too forward in my thinking by many in our community."
"I like forward thinking," Bart replied earnestly.
They walked and talked until they reached Longbourn, the modest but comfortable home of the Bennet family. Bart knew he should leave, should start figuring out how to return to his time, but when Y/N invited him to take tea, he found himself accepting.
Days turned into weeks. Bart fabricated a story about being a traveler from America, explaining his odd speech patterns and lack of knowledge about local customs. The Bennet family took him in, fascinated by his tales of his "homeland."
He tried not to use his speed, though sometimes when alone he would run, feeling the familiar rush of the speed force but finding no way to create a rift that would take him home. Instead, he found himself looking forward to afternoons spent reading with Y/N in the garden, or accompanying her on walks through the countryside.
"Thou art unlike any gentleman I have encountered," she told him one day as they sat beneath the shade of an oak tree. "Thy mind races with ideas most would consider improper or impossible."
"Is that a bad thing?" Bart asked, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers.
"Nay," she replied softly. "It is most refreshing. Most men of my acquaintance speak only of hunting or politics, with little regard for the wonders of the world beyond their limited experience."
"And what wonders interest you, Miss Bennet?" Bart asked, genuinely curious.
Her eyes lit up. "I long to understand the heavens—the stars and their movements. To comprehend the natural philosophies that govern our world. My father allows me access to his library, which is most generous, but society deems such interests unbecoming in a young woman."
"Where I come from," Bart said carefully, "women are scientists, leaders, even heroes."
"Truly?" Her eyes widened. "That sounds a most marvelous place. I should like to see it someday."
The words hung between them, an impossible wish that made Bart's heart ache with knowledge he couldn't share.
As summer bloomed across the countryside, Bart found himself falling deeper into a romance that defied time itself. Y/N's intelligence, her curiosity about the world, her kindness—everything about her drew him in despite his best efforts to maintain emotional distance.
"I think I'm in trouble," he confessed to himself one night, staring at the ceiling of the small cottage the Bennets had arranged for him to rent in the village.
He knew the speed force. Knew it would eventually correct the anomaly that had brought him here. Knew that one day, without warning, he might be ripped back to his own time, leaving her without explanation or goodbye.
The thought was unbearable.
Yet each day he remained, he fell more deeply under her spell. They attended local assemblies where he fumbled through dances she patiently taught him. They read Shakespeare together in the garden, her voice bringing the ancient words to life in a way that made them feel new again. They debated philosophy and science, her mind sharp and insightful despite her limited formal education.
"Dost thou believe in destiny?" she asked him one evening as they watched the sunset from a hilltop overlooking the village.
Bart thought of the speed force, of time travel, of the impossible circumstances that had brought him to her. "I believe some things are meant to be, even when they seem impossible."
"I have felt since thy arrival that fate brought thee to our village," she confessed, her gloved hand hesitantly finding his. "Though it defies all reason, my heart recognized thine from our first meeting."
Bart knew he should pull away, should protect her from the inevitable heartbreak. Instead, he laced his fingers with hers. "Mine too."
The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity—and not just metaphorically. Bart felt the familiar tingle of the speed force, saw the faintest blue flicker at the edges of his vision.
"Y/N," he said urgently, releasing her hand. "I need to tell you something. Something impossible."
"What troubles thee?" she asked, concern etching her features.
"I'm not from another country," he began, the words tumbling out now that he'd started. "I'm from another time. The future—over two hundred years from now."
He expected disbelief, perhaps even fear. Instead, she studied him with those intelligent eyes, searching his face for truth.
"The strange fabric of thy clothing," she said slowly. "Thy knowledge of sciences not yet discovered. The odd manner in which thou sometimes moves, faster than the eye can follow."
Bart stared at her, stunned. "You noticed?"
"I am observant," she replied simply. "And whilst thy tale seems the stuff of fantasy, I cannot deny the evidence before me." She reached for his hand again. "Tell me of thy world, Bart Allen. Tell me everything."
And so he did. He told her of cars and planes, of computers and the internet, of medicine that had conquered diseases that in her time were death sentences. He told her of heroes with extraordinary abilities who protected the innocent. He told her of his family, of the legacy of the Flash that had been passed down through generations.
Night fell as they talked, stars emerging in a sky unspoiled by light pollution. Y/N listened, asked questions, her mind absorbing and connecting concepts in ways that amazed him.
"If what thou sayest is true," she finally said, "then thou cannot remain here. Thy presence disrupts the proper flow of time."
"I've been trying to find a way back," Bart admitted. "But the speed force—the energy that gives me my powers and brought me here—it's unpredictable. I don't know when or if I'll be able to return."
"Then we shall treasure the time granted to us," she said with quiet determination, "be it days or decades."
Lightning split the sky, though no storm clouds were visible. Bart felt the hair on his arms stand on end.
"I think it might be sooner than we thought," he whispered, seeing the blue energy beginning to crackle around his hands.
"No," Y/N gasped, clutching at him. "Not yet. There is so much more I wish to say to thee."
Bart pulled her close, memorizing the feel of her in his arms, the scent of lavender in her hair. "I love you," he said, the words he'd been too afraid to speak until this moment of inevitable separation. "Across time, across worlds—I will always love you."
"And I thee," she whispered against his chest. "My heart shall remain thine until my final breath."
The lightning intensified, the world around them blurring as reality itself seemed to bend and twist.
"Y/N," Bart called over the growing roar of energy. "Live your life. Be happy. That's all I want for you."
"I shall wait for thee," she cried, her fingers slipping from his as the rift began to pull him away. "In this life or the next!"
A flash of blindingly bright light, a sensation of falling through endless space, and then—
Bart slammed into the wet pavement of Central City, the rain still pouring as if no time had passed at all. His clothes were the same, but a pressed flower—a forget-me-not she had given him—fell from his pocket to the ground.
"Bart!" Barry's voice cut through the rain as he raced to his side. "What happened? You just disappeared into a rift!"
"How long was I gone?" Bart asked, clutching the flower carefully.
Barry looked confused. "Seconds? Maybe a minute at most."
But Bart had lived months in that minute. Had fallen in love across centuries.
"I need to go to the museum," he said suddenly, pushing himself to his feet.
"What? Why?" Barry asked, but Bart was already running.
In the historical wing, in a display case he'd never noticed before, sat a small portrait. The plaque beneath it read:
"Y/N Bennet (1791-1860). Notable astronomer and natural philosopher whose observations and writings, published posthumously, contributed significantly to early understanding of celestial mechanics. Never married, she was quoted as saying she had 'pledged her heart to a traveler from beyond the stars who would one day return.'"
Beside the portrait lay a journal, open to a page with a pressed forget-me-not identical to the one Bart still held in his trembling hand. Beneath it, in elegant script:
"Time may separate us, my beloved, but love transcends its boundaries. Until we meet again, I remain eternally thine."
Barry found him there, tears streaming down his face as he pressed his palm against the glass that separated him from the woman who had waited her entire life for a return that could never happen.
"Come on," Barry said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go home."
As they walked away, neither noticed the faintest flicker of blue lightning that danced momentarily around the portrait, nor the slight smile that seemed to shift on the painted lips, as if acknowledging across the centuries that her beloved had found her message at last.
