There are many benefits to being a speedster.
You can see the world without paying for more than a pair of new sneakers and food. You can slow down time to truly live every moment to it's absolute fullest- a talent that is appreciated when lightning strikes or a when a beautiful person blinks or you're tired and a test question doesn't quite make sense.
As a speedster, time doesn't lose meaning so much as take on a completely different characterization. It becomes malleable. More gooey and watery instead of the hard bedrock everyone else is accustomed to.
With your perception of time being faster than your top speed, overthinking is nearly constant. Anxious foot taps burn through your favorite socks. And in this middle ground adulthood that is the early twenties, where every other human has the ability to drink and not think for a minute… the same metabolism that makes a day without food feel like a month of starvation makes any amount of alcohol act and taste like bitter water that burns.
Which is to say that in a world of equivalent exchange, the benefits of being a speedster come with some detriments, as well.
So it goes.
For Wally, the loveable soul that he is, it means he never really minded. It meant he was a sure-fire designated driver. It meant he could ensure that his friends were safe and taken care of. It meant that the world Wally crafted out of the people he loved could keep turning even as speedbumps and nightmares and battlescars made their inevitable appearance.
It means that when the villain of the day decided they wanted to drug a speedster- that it shouldn't have worked. And yet, despite that it shouldn't- it did. It was awful, too, because baby's first drunk is supposed to be fun times shared with people you trust and love so they can be just a little bit less drunk acting as witnesses to embarrassing stories they will hold over your head for years.
Not like this.
It is these thoughts, however fleeting, that go through Dick's head as he watches Wally buzz uncontrollably. Certain limbs, one at a time, vibrating without his control. His legs moving him accross the room and into a wall with a groan, head whipping quickly away from his best friend to hide the tears Nightwing had already seen.
He's a detective. And he isn't blind. Sue him.
(He'd win.)