Author's Note: A little bit AU as I'm pretty much throwing out/mixing up everything we know about Wally's official origin. (Or origins plural, depending on your age and how many comics and cartoons you read or watched growing up!) Expect liberal license to be taken on his background and current status! This story is primarily based on the Justice League cartoon-just after Starcrossed and well before A League of Their Own.
Camaraderie
A young man with bright red hair and freckles that stood out starkly against a pale face sat in the far corner of a quiet coffee shop in Central City. He was leaning on one hand, picking idly at an apple fritter with the other—and it was obvious at a glance that his mind was nowhere near Earth. This wasn't uncommon—lately most people were every bit as distracted and lost in thought as he. Being invaded and nearly destroyed tends to force humanity into unusual introspection...at least temporarily. It wouldn't be long before the lingering sense of worldwide unity began to fade. Already governments were starting to bicker over borders again, and news coverage was beginning to focus once more on vapid celebrities with more money than sense.
The man took a bite out of his pastry without tasting it, picked up his steaming coffee cup and sipped. It was his fourth coffee and his twelfth doughnut—not that anyone was particularly counting.
"Wally West, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne."
The words rolled over in his mind for the umpteenth time. The trouble was past, the world was safe again. Unfortunately for members of the Justice League, this meant unwanted time to think. So much had happened to them in such a short time—betrayal, helpless captivity, heartbreak, loss….and revelation.
It seemed silly, in hindsight, that people who worked as closely together as the League would keep their identities secret from each other. They'd watched each others' backs, shared living quarters—they knew each others' favorite foods and how they took their coffee. They trained together, worked together and played with each other. Wally hadn't lied when he said he trusted the others.
He also hadn't lied when he said he wasn't ready.
Desperate times, though. Batman had been right to do what he did. The world was in peril and they were the only ones who could save it. They couldn't do that in costume, so the masks had to come off.
But….darn it, he really hadn't been ready.
When he was in the suit, he didn't have to be himself. He could be confident, funny, even brash—and he could be loud enough that no one looked much past the surface. It was the only way he felt like he belonged—the only role he knew how to play, to keep himself in (pun intended) the same league as the rest of them. Because, really, who was Wally West but a gawky tagalong from Central who could barely keep a job long enough to pay his grocery bill, never mind his rent?
He used to wonder what it would be like to take off the mask for them. His imagination tended to wax dramatic—sometimes he'd take it off on purpose, sometimes he'd be injured so badly they had to take it off for him. One or two daydreams involved suicidal heroics and grateful kissing (and why not? It was his imagination!)
He'd never imagined anything like what had actually happened. Hiding in a department store. A finger in his chest. "Wally West, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne." And then to top it all, Batman casually pulling off his cowl and flashing a brilliantly self assured smirk.
What a boost to his self-esteem that had been. The Quadrillionaire Playboy, Mr. Pulitzer Prize and the no-name orphan. Add those to The Last Martian, the Amazonian Princess, the Mean Green Ex-Marine and the gorgeous winged alien cop...and which one of these things is not like the others, boys and girls?
Even if The Princess's affection as she ruffled his hair had been genuine.
Wally allowed himself a small smile as he cradled his coffee cup in both hands. He'd been around nine the last time someone had ruffled his hair. The gesture had been surprisingly comforting to him—it had conveyed instant acceptance, even though his face wasn't recognizable. To her, at least, he was still The Flash. He supposed the others still saw him as the same person, too—they hadn't treated him any differently out of costume than in it.
He didn't know why he was having such a hard time merging his two carefully separated lives into one. He wondered if Bruce and Clark had the same trouble.
He wondered if Hawkgirl'd had that trouble, too.
His eyes closed briefly as he thought of their absent teammate. He wished she'd stayed with them...but he knew that sometimes you couldn't work through things unless you were alone. And she...she had a lot to work through. She'd been as betrayed by her people as they'd been by her—more, even. It never occurred to them that she wasn't actually hopelessly lost and cut off from her home, let alone that she might be collecting data on their weaknesses. It never occurred to her, however, that her people were actually planning on the genocide of the world she'd been sent to become a part of. He wondered if she'd ever found out his real name-if her spy work had been as comprehensive and intrusive as Batman's.
And speaking of tall, dark and broody—it was making Wally's head implode trying to reconcile the grizzled old-cop persona he'd dedicated his life to tormenting with the handsome, engaging and independently wealthy businessman.
He absently reached for another bite of his fritter, realized that it was gone and sighed. He was hungry, and he was too depressed to go find real food. Having a superhuman metabolism sucked a lot, sometimes.
Being a super anything sucked a lot, sometimes. It was the reason he didn't have any "outside" friends to speak of right now—friendships didn't usually hold up to hundreds of last minute cancellations and long periods without communication. And even if he did have someone outside of the League, how could he talk to them about this?
Wally put down his (empty again) coffee cup and ran both hands through his hair. The Justice League was his whole life, not counting the orphanage. What if they couldn't rebuild? What if they didn't survive Hawkgirl's resignation? What else could he do?
The sound of something being dropped onto his table startled him out of his bubble of self-pity and he looked up to see a very familiar figure in a trench coat pull back the empty chair across from him and drop into it. A plate piled high with fresh, steaming donuts and two cups of coffee sat between them, and Wally felt his mouth curl into a real smile in spite of himself.
"Didn't you want some too?" he asked, old bantering habits taking over.
"Nah, I'm on a diet," John Stewart replied, patting his stomach dramatically. "Besides, I thought maybe we could grab dinner and a beer later. You are old enough to legally drink, aren't you?"
Wally snorted, shook his head. "If that's your way of asking me out on a date, we really need to work on your technique."
John choked on the sip of coffee he'd just taken, and some of the palpable pain in his dark eyes (he was doing the incognito thing too, go figure) receded. "Not on your life, kid," he said when he could talk again. And scalding coffee came out of Wally's nose when he added, "Even if you are a redhead."
"Where oh where have you been hiding that sense of humor?" Wally sputtered, wiping his face with a handful of napkins.
"I only bring it out in emergencies," John said with a dry grin.
"Jeez, GL, after everything we've been through these last few years I'm afraid to ask what your definition of an emergency is."
"It's an emergency when I'm the one who wants to talk instead of you," John admitted. "You know, you're not an easy guy to find when you're not…dressed up."
"I don't spend much time like this," Wally shrugged. "Not much reason to."
"What would make you say that?"
Wally busied himself with a doughnut, shrugged his shoulders. "Got lots to do in uniform. Who has time for anything else? Besides, most folks let me eat for free when I'm all...recognizable. I've been accused of having the metabolism of a hummingbird—honestly, I think it's worse than that. How did you find me, anyway? Ba…Bruce give you my location?"
John frowned but didn't press. "Nah," he said. "I didn't want you to feel stalked."
"It wouldn't be a new thing," Wally said with a short laugh. "I wonder how long that guy's been waiting to tell us we suck at secrets."
"You don't suck at secrets," John said. "He's just got the best computer money can buy, a mansion full of tracking devices and an idea that he's personally responsible for every one of us—whether we get hurt or go evil."
Wally mused on that for a moment, then shook his head. "Some people crawl into bottles. He crawls into a cave."
"Sums it up," John agreed. "Anyway, I figured you'd be somewhere with food and quiet. I gambled and guessed you might be close to the address of the only Wally West in the phonebook."
"Heh, and I thought he was the detective. I'm not really good company today, GL."
"Yeah, I don't think any of us are. I don't know when any of us might be again. Could you use some company anyway?"
There was an unfamiliar tone in the older man's voice, and Wally gave him a long and inscrutable look.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I could."
They wound up at a steakhouse on a nearly deserted outside patio and over the next few hours (mostly Wally) went through five appetizers, a 32 and 16- oz steak respectively (extra fries on the side), and more than a few pitchers of beer. They talked about everything but the last week—and everybody except Hawkgirl. John gave Wally some of his more entertaining stories from his days as a Marine, Wally offered stories from the orphanage—kids were funny. Even when they were serious, even when they were misbehaving-you never had any lack of stories when you worked with kids on a regular basis.
Eventually the conversation edged towards more serious subjects. The invasion, the loss of the Watchtower, Shayera... The things both men needed to talk about.
"I still can't believe that look he gave us when he pulled off his cowl!" John said with no lack of mirth. "How often do you think he practiced in the mirror, to achieve the optimum effect?"
Wally laughed hard at the image. Even knowing the famous face under the mask, thinking of Batman standing in front of a mirror striking poses... "For that matter," Wally couldn't help but giggle, "How on God's green Earth does he manage to keep his hair so perfect under that thing? Do you think it's a built-in Bat function?"
Actual tears leaked from John's eyes, he laughed so hard. Neither one of the men had ever been quite so relaxed with each other before—full stomachs and a slight buzz were doing wonders for both of their injured spirits.
"I just still can't believe how much has changed," Wally said finally as their laughter started to subside. He felt much better than he had in the coffee shop, but a fair bit of melancholy was trying to slip back over him. John's mouth was pulled down at the corners as he nodded in agreement.
"Takes a damn lot to turn our crazy world on its ear, doesn't it."
"Speaking as someone who's personally fought you guys possessed AND who's run on a green energy treadmill in the vacuum of space to throw something into our dying sun, I guess I'll have to agree with you."
John chuckled again and lifted his glass in a mock-toast. "Kid, I'm glad I know you."
"Why?"
The word slipped out without thought, and Wally flushed at John's subtly raised eyebrow.
"I hope you're just fishing for compliments."
John was a lot more intuitive than he let on, most of the time. Normally Wally would give a wisecrack answer and move along, but between the spirit of the evening and the beer (which he metabolized as fast as he burned it off), he decided to be honest. "No fishing, though I wouldn't mind a few," he said. "I really don't know what you guys see in me."
John's eyebrow rose higher and Wally laughed at his own awkward phrasing. "You know what I mean."
John sipped his beer.
"I mean," Wally went on, "I'm cocky, and arrogant, I don't think before I act and I run my mouth at inappropriate times. I'm also ten years younger than the youngest of you guys. I've got no money, I can't hold a job... I was actually starting to think of staying permanently on the watchtower so I don't have to try to pay rent anymore. I'm a grade-A mooch, and I don't know why anyone puts up with me."
"Exactly how long've you been holding all that in?"
"Grade school," was Wally's dry reply.
"Huh. And I thought I was the one with shit self esteem."
Wally took his turn raising his eyebrow, and John just shook his head ruefully. "What kind of work do you do?"
"Used to assist with forensics work, believe it or not. That job went down the toilet after the accident—since then I've worked every minimum wage job from bussing tables to stocking shelves at three o'clock in the morning. Most places only let you miss a few shifts before they give you the axe. Makes it hard applying anywhere requiring a resume...I can't put any of those jobs down as references, and most people want to know why there's an employment gap."
"So, you think you're a good-for-nothing mooch because saving the world on a regular basis keeps getting you fired?"
Wally opened his mouth to reply, hesitated and took a sip of his beer instead. "Clark manages," he finally said in a tone much more petulant than he intended.
"Yeah, and he has the word 'Super' in front of his name for a reason."
The younger man just shrugged halfheartedly.
"You know you could ask for some help finding something more flexible. And higher-paying. Between all of us at the League, it would be easy to do."
"No," Wally said. "I need to be able to take care of myself. I don't want them knowing about it."
"Why? They wouldn't rag you so hard about the TV commercial incident."
"No."
"Use your big people words, kid."
"It's lame."
"Come on. It's just us, there's beer involved, the world's already on its ear and I know for a fact everyone opens up to you all the damn time. Your turn."
The tone in his voice was the same one he used for battlefield direction—it brooked no argument.
"Well then," Wally said. "In the spirit of full disclosure... I just don't want the group dynamic to change any more than it already has, I don't want anyone to treat me any different than they always have—and if they know...stuff, they will."
"Stuff like what?" and at Wally's look, "Hey man, you said full disclosure, not me."
"Yeah, alright," Wally said. "Not to be mushy, but you guys really are the only family I have left. I'm so close to that orphanage because I used to live there. I know what those kids are going through, and what they have to look forward to. It's not pretty. Kids shouldn't go through that, you know? I was lucky to have my Granny and Uncle Barry around as long as I did—they're the only reason I thought graduating was necessary. Uncle Barry's the reason I got into forensics. I ramen noodled, double-shifted and moonlighted my way through college—most of the money I made from those commercials paid off the rest of my loans, you know. Then there was this freak bolt of lightning in the lab one night..."
He glanced up at John's face, tried for a grin. "The rest is history."
"Lightening, huh?"
"Lightening and chemicals. Hurt like a bitch. Don't really like remembering it."
"I bet."
"Nothing else to say?"
"Nothing in your story changes my image of you," John said. "Don't know why you think it would. And you know that none of it will be news to J'onn and Bruce."
"Actually...nope, hadn't thought about that."
"Both of them probably know most everything about us," John said. "It's easier for J'onn to not talk than to control what his mind picks up. And Bruce..."
"Doesn't even try to control himself," Wally said with a smirk.
"You didn't ask for my advice, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. Don't make your life a secret anymore. You call us family, treat us like family. Give us some credit and let us in."
"Maybe I'm that weird reclusive cousin who only comes out at weddings and funerals, and who may or may not be involved in the mob."
John laughed. "Sorry, Bruce already has that title. You're the obnoxious little brother. We torment you on a regular basis, but we'll beat anyone into the ground if they look at you cross-eyed."
Wally fixed his teammate with a wide-eyed, solemn look. "You're going to make me think I'm adopted, aren't you."
"Well, you are. That or you belong to the milkman. Don't they always have red hair too?"
The serious air evaporated in an instant, and the two friends—because they were friends—dissolved into a round of jibing and laughter entirely unbecoming of a pair of dedicated superheroes.