Oopsie. Forgot to mention that this is post-'Divided We Fall', so if you haven't watched it, pretend that Chapter 1 is a oneshot. D
Warning: this chapter isvery emotional and… yeah. And I know we all hate Clark, but that doesn't mean Clark himself cannot be compassionate… I think….
Also, feedback is welcome.
Oh, and one more thing… I don't write slash. Sorry.
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Chapter 2: Something Left to Hide.
Come a little closer.
Whisper in my ear.
Then, as you go, leave me to die.
Wally opened his eyes, blinking bewilderedly as Clark pushed through the doorway, dragging something large, dark and hidden behind him. He sat up, initially mute and unresponsive.
Clark managed a sympathetic, tragic smile, and the background seemed to flicker.
"How are you feeling?"
"Peachy," Wally muttered sardonically.
He stared at Clark, and the acrimony etched gruesome images on the walls of his mind.
Clark, his saviour from certain doom. Clark, who will let no one die. Clark, the reason why….
Mentally, he scowled, realizing that the only reason that Clark had probably even bothered to stop by was to get the guilt off his chest.
For an instant, they fell into thick, pooling silence, and Wally sat in cold, patient expectation of Clark's platitudes.
"I'm so sorry," Clark whispered finally.
There had been a fleeting dampness in his eyes. Wally grudgingly acknowledged that it wasn't a lie or a front either, though neither of those had ever been characteristic of him.
Wally breathed. It was time for his façade, and somehow, it made him more deserving. In his head, he could hear the countdown music.
"It's okay, Supes… you don't need to apologize."
Clark had always been like Dick, and both had always secretly sought comfort in the idea that there was always a straight answer, that it was either their fault or not.
In a sense, it had been Clark's fault. His fault for having the best of intentions. His fault for wanting to save him.
It was a morbid thought, a morbid wish, to want to dissolve away into nothing. It had been his clandestine soul-desire, but all the months of wishing fervently in the solitude of his room had brought him to something more terrifying that he'd ever imagined.
This was something altogether.
This wasn't right.
This was sick.
He couldn't even begin to describe his mental nausea. He didn't know where to start.
And everything he had lived for was gone, and shunted to the path of all things left to be forgotten. They'd be cloaked in dust, and, on a dark, inevitable winter's day, he'd look back in his senility, trying to remember whether or not it had all been nothing more than a medicated, sepia-coloured dream.
Had he been punished somehow, for wishing so hard? It was a more a selfless wish, really. To be one with the universe and its forces, like that. Perhaps, to be part of something greater.
He supposed that he hadn't been ready yet, but then… who decided that? The Force? Was it conscious? God? Was there a God?
He looked up at Clark's docilely concerned face and swallowed noisily. Clark seated himself on the edge of the mattress, and Wally was suddenly aware of how bitterly the blame had poisoned his thoughts.
No, he wasn't being punished for anything of the like. He was being punished because he had hesitated. The curse of indecision. He, above all people living, should have known the difference a split-second makes.
And now, he was neither here nor there. Neither dead nor….
His eyes itched with hot tears, ready to be discharged at a moment's notice. His retinas seared as he looked down the bed. His cheeks burned, and the sheer, unadulterated fury flared up once more. He hadn't looked further than his blanket.
Perhaps, this was all a dream. A vision. Perhaps, he would wake up and find himself surrounded by friends and bliss. Perhaps, his spirit was a somnambulist. Or perhaps, somebody- a really sick, twisted somebody- was fucking with his mind.
He restrained a mordant chuckle and, suddenly, thoughts of him and Arkham flooded his bemused, vacillating mind.
He looked to the side, and realized that object that Clark had pulled in so discretely had been a wheelchair.
Disgust, panic and horror suddenly drenched his reeling thoughts as, fiercely, he fought the lull of delirium. His head thudded dully against the tiled wall, and the blood thundered in his ears. His shrouded, tangled form went rigid.
He was wedged between a wall and an abyss of distance and of silence, foreign, unwelcoming. The shadows thrashed over its expanse.
"Wally, are you all right?"
There wasn't an immediate reply. He felt claustrophobia gather up tightly in his chest and waist, like a drawstring bag being toyed with by a little child.
He wanted to curl up and die. Die, just then and there. Or succumb to a drug induced coma. Anything to shatter the pain that came from this nightmarish existence.
And, as suddenly as the panic had come, he was ready… though anger left a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, as it always had done.
He nodded his delayed response and gestured towards the chair. Clark nodded back, his face darkening with compassion and a revolting tinge of pity that only made Wally want to bolt.
Though, unfortunately, he couldn't.
"Here, let me help."
Clark pulled back the cotton sheet and helped Wally into his arms. Wally blushed awkwardly as he was seated into the chair, suddenly feeling all the frailty of a helpless little damsel.
"How does it feel?"
"Weird."
He didn't lie. It felt… very weird. He disliked the way the seat cushioned his bum, and how he had to lean back to grip the wheels.
"Do you want me to-"
"No, no. I can handle it," he replied tonelessly.
Wally twisted his fingers around the grooved rubber, and the anger was bland at the tip of his tongue. He squeezed and rolled the wheels forward, spinning around on the momentum of his surreptitious odium.
"I don't know if you saw, but Kara and Don painted your insignia on the back." A smug, sympathetic curve dressed his lips. "We looked for the most comfortable manual. We didn't think you'd like any of the automatics," he added absently.
He regarded Wally inattentively as he made his way around the room, darting from corner to corner in silent observance. Suddenly, he seemed to snap back.
"So, how many people have been to see you?"
Wally exhaled noisily.
"Not many. You. Bruce. Shayera. John and Diana are … somewhere. J'onn's probably too happy that I'm not stealing his Oreos to bother."
Clark's amusement at the last statement was apparent.
"Hm. I'd think people would be queuing to see you." He sighed. "Then again, I guess I understand."
"Understand what?"
"Understand why they wouldn't want to see you.
"And why is that?"
"Hm. Do you want to go out for a bit of air?" The avoidance in his reply left Wally slightly vexed, and he swiveled fluidly on the waxed tile flooring. Clark raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
Wally sighed, registering the innocent concern of the words.
"Sure. It would be nice, I guess. And… I guess I feel like some Bats-bugging."
His legs dangled awkwardly, and Clark pursed his lips, indicating the door.
Wally pushed forward, cutting through the stale, scented air. He rolled the wheels, slower, slower, slower until he ground to a painful halt in front of the door, staring blankly at its gleaming, leering button.
He choked. It was a painful, looming sensation, like a heavy, twisted, kerosene-dipped towel being shoved down your throat.
"I…I can't," he stammered. The pain had turned to anger, and the anger had turned to sheer, unconquerable, stabbing terror.
"Wally?"
"I… can't go out there… because-"
There was a fleeting pause, and the silence was punctuated by a sob. Brief, and hard, it reverberated like a dusty guitar chord through the vast, immaculate brilliance.
The façade was broken
He would never be able to word how eerily shameful it was, as he broke into the jolting, uncontrolled, irate tears, his hands clasped firmly over his ears so he wouldn't be able to hear the sound of his own crying. He hated it. He hated the sound of his voice, that made him out to be so pathetic and young and weak, validating everything he had refused to believe about himself. Slacker. Child. Clown. He hunched over and his forehead was even against his knees, and he cried, until the tears suffocated and he began to gasp for breath.
He didn't… want them to see him like this. Not like this.
And then came Clark's placid voice, brushing against his ears, coaxing and comforting as his arms wrapped around his back.
It was an awkward moment as Wally realized that, for the first time since they had met, they were seeing each other as individuals, as men with minds… and souls.
Here was Clark, the man. Not Kal-El, not Superman, but Clark, however trite it seemed. Clark, who felt his guilt. Clark, who felt his pain. Clark, who felt his hatred. Clark….
"It's okay," Clark soothed. "You're fine now. It's okay."
Wally gulped, and the serenity swept over him. He relaxed weakly, still hunched in his chair, the fierce, livid tears still trickling down his hot, paling face and onto Clark's caped shoulder.
Not that he had ever really enjoyed hugs….
As he began to pull back, Clark gripped his shoulder and face, firmly, forcing him to look into his unfathomable blue irises. Wally lowered his eyes. He was too tired to protest any further.
"Look at me." Clark's voice was quiet and firm. "It was either you, or the universe, and you chose the universe. God knows if any of us would still be alive you hadn't done what you did. And I can't even begin to describe how much we admire and respect you for your courage." Wally looked up slightly. His eyes were dull and pale. "You are one of the bravest men I have ever known, and trust me, you will look back on today and see this as the beginning of your life. Because that's how you are, and that's how you always have been. You are the Flash, and nothing can stop you from moving on except you." Clark smiled and receded. "Now, come on, there are people waiting for you."
Wally nodded and wiped his face, and Clark couldn't help but smile a little more at his humble, child-like presence. Wally rested in his seat, and the silence was once more thick upon them. Clark strode towards the door, and it buzzed open, large, glowing, inviting. Wally breathed and rolled forward as a warm, comforting hand pressed to the top of his back. He heard Clark swallow.
The door slid shut, and the years, past the walls, were like tides behind him. The loss didn't resound so thunderously; it had already begun to degenerate, like the wheels of his chair, as they had halted at the door.
And, though there were still things yet to be forgiven, suddenly, the future didn't seem all so bleak….
