He was never any good at being quiet. That was something they all had shared, him and his family, they all liked to talk, to shout and laugh as much as possible. They liked to keep busy. Keep moving.
He hadn't moved since they'd got back to the Watchtower. He hadn't said anything since before that, when they'd boarded the ship. He'd just looked out window at the scenery flying by, not quite seeing it. Now, staring down at the planet from orbit it finally hit him how quiet it was. It hurt.
It was probably that awareness of the sound, the lack of sound, that let him hear when Bruce showed up behind him. Normally he didn't stand a chance of hearing the Bat when he didn't want to be heard.
"We sent the team home," Bruce said. "They need to get some rest."
"Thanks," he said. His voice came out hoarse.
Bruce joined him at the window. He was grateful for the company. He'd expected Dinah, maybe, to come and find him, or even Clark, but he was glad to have someone who wouldn't push him. Try and make him talk.
He just wanted to watch the planet turn. To see the world Wally had saved.
"It was all my fault," he said. It was unintentional. He wasn't certain if he was speaking or just thinking until the words were spilling out of him. "Everyone's telling me it wasn't, but I don't even mean the... the incident. I mean the whole thing was my fault. It was my notes, my experiment, my stupid pride that got him into this whole thing in the first place."
"It was his choice to be a hero," Bruce said. Calm. Factual. "Always. He came of his own free will, he kept going. He wanted to save the world."
"I know! I know that. Of course he did, there was no stopping him. God, he was born to be a hero! But I never gave him the time, I never –" He remembered Wally, tiny, seven years ago. Or was it eight by now? It seemed so long ago, the little boy digging through his supposedly hidden files, grinning and dancing around him. A little boy swathed in bandages, covered in burns and cuts, ashamed of his failure, and then so proud of his success the first time he realized how fast he could go. Desperate to help. Forcing his way in.
"I never wanted a sidekick," Barry whispered, leaning against the window. "And he knew it! It was always there between him and me. We never talked about it, but... he knew. And he tried so hard. But I didn't train him properly. He did amazing on his own, with the team, with Dinah, but who was going to teach him to use his speed? Me, and I didn't. There was no reason he wasn't as fast, none that I could find. But I never even tried to figure it out, never helped him achieve his full potential. I should have been there."
"It isn't your fault, Barry. You did everything you could. You were a great mentor, and Wally became the hero he was because of you. He made his own choices, and he saved the world. You should be proud of him, not blaming yourself for his death."
"I am proud of him. I always have been." Barry sighed and stepped away from the window. He pulled off his hood, ran a hand through his hair. "Did it help you?"
"Did what help?"
Barry smiled wryly. "You're parroting back the same things we said to you. When you lost Jason."
"Hm."
"It's not that I don't believe they're true. I do, but..."
"You still blame yourself."
"Does it ever go away, Bruce?"
Batman adjusted his position, bringing his cape forwards and around his body. It was something Barry could recognize now as a habit, something he only did when he was uncomfortable.
"No," Bruce said. "It never did for me. But I couldn't forgive myself when I was eight years old either. It's not something I do easily." He turned around to look at Barry, sighing as he pulled off his own cowl. "The only thing to do is to try and focus on how proud you are instead. Think of how amazing he was when he was alive. Then concentrate on the living, and try and look to the future. But you never do forget. You never really want to."
"No." Barry closed his eyes. He had a new Kid Flash to train now, he supposed. And two more on the way, tiny and helpless. And if they turned out half as amazing as Wally had, he still had something to be proud of.
His palms pressed into his eyes, sending warm wetness down his cheeks and soaking into his shirt sleeves. "Thank you, Bruce."
But it's still my fault.