West has spent most of the next day sleeping, his body seeming unable to regulate between zealous wakefulness and long periods of unconsciousness. This works in Bruce's favour as Dick is at school and unable to sit in with him and Alfred is busy with his usual chores.
Fortunately his now approaching 13 hours of consecutive sleep have given Bruce ample opportunity to intravenously feed nutrients into his body without his usual wakeful exuberance burning them up. Already colour has begun to return to his face and his features seem a little less ghastly.
The respite has also done amazing work on his wounds. His eye is now fully recovered and skull had nearly finished healing when he re-bandaged it 6 hours ago, even covered in an inch of pale red-haired regrowth. It's exactly miraculous recoveries like this that make meta humans such dangerous enemies.
The name pulled from his muscle memory proves less useful but is also unlikely to be fictitious given how it was procured. Wests in the vicinity of Central City are not overly common yet there's still more than a couple of families of interest for Bruce to investigate.
Almost seeming to deny logic and fate, the trail once again runs cold. Ultimately the essential lead gives him nothing but a run around and more wasted him, yet one branch of Wests does catch his eye. Or rather, their hair colours do.
Ira and Nadine West.
One of whom has 'Wally's' exact shade of red peering back from their passport photos of 20 years prior. The pieces don't quite fit, but the resemblance is frighteningly coincidental and Bruce doesn't believe in coincidences.
Though now both deceased from natural age-related causes, the couple produced a son – Rudolph West – who's current age would fit that of Wally's father (had he reproduced fairly young) were it not for the fact the boy died of leukaemia at the age of 11.
A decade later Ira and Nadine adopted a daughter, Iris West (same hair, same eyes, Bruce notes) but with her current age of 27 and Wally West's youngest estimates at 17 it's simply not possible for her to be his mother. She has no children and married for the first time only early last year.
Bruce is missing something, he knows this without any doubt. The picture on the puzzle box is right but none of the jigs fit together.
Even with a name Wally West remains a John Doe.
He hears a faint crash from inside the medical enclosure and knows Mr. West has finally awoken. He curses Alfred for persuading him to release West from his restraints a couple of hours ago while he's 'dead to the world' as the Englishman so eloquently phrased it.
Guilty green eyes turn to stare at him from the sight of a old teacup he's accidentally knocked from the bedside to the floor. This is not the first cup his nerves have cost the Wayne crockery collection while left by himself so fortunately Alfred has stopped using the china and settled for simple ceramic mugs.
He grins at him sheepishly, though Bruce observes he's not trembling as much as he used to in extended isolation. A sign of improvement... or the discovery of a more adequate coping mechanism.
"Oops." He jokes somewhat stiffly.
The Batman disregards the downed mug – it's inconsequential after all and strides towards the bedside. West tends to thrash like a dog in his sleep and the angry red lines linger at his extremities from before he removed his bindings. Batman gathers the man's wrists firmly into his hand causing the man to squirm forcefully against him with a yelp of "Hey Bats! Said' I was sorry! Don't -" He calms rapidly as soon as he understands Batman does not intend to return him to his restraints, Bruce instead swabbing the shallow wounds with anti-septic before releasing him once more.
West celebrates his new found freedom by massaging the previously captured skin gingerly and uses the reprieve to scratch at the apparently itching bandages on his head.
He is a man of simple concerns, either by design or injury and forgoing his usual hunger his first concern is apparently the discomfort of his bandages.
"M'i gonna have'ta keep these on much longer?" he faintly raps a knuckle against the side of his head (Bruce can imagine the hollow 'conk' that should echo back from inside) and grins "Feels all better".
Batman says nothing but glides forwards to begin unravelling the bandages. The scars that served as gleaming red evidence of the surgery have faded to a pale pink and his hair has grown another two inches, long enough to begin to curl boyishly at the tips.
West sets to work enthusiastically scratching here and there to relieve his apparently still nagging itch and Bruce leaves him to it, half listening for posterities sake as West begins to absently chatter about this or that. Obscure English comedies, cheaply made science fiction programs and the finer points of why donkeys would beat zebras were they ever to erupt into some nonsensical equestrian war.
Batman says nothing to encourage or end the one-sided conversation, but that doesn't seem to dishearten West any.
The results from the spectrum of tests he initiated while the meta was under are ready to be collected and Batman reviews the reports on the monitors of the medical station unsurprised that they confirm what he had come to suspect.
With all major injuries healed, West's body has been able to begin storing much needed energy again without needing to burn through it; he's retained a few new pounds and while it isn't much it's an improvement. His resting pulse has increased, along with temperature and metabolic rate as his 'powers' begin to reawaken.
He glances to the man inanely blathering to the room around them (now about Vietnamese food and full-body animal pyjama-suits). No doubt that same energy will soon begin to extend far beyond just his vocal cords.
It may prove difficult to contain him and Bruce can't risk West escaping into the rest of the cave or manor. Its at times like this Batman considers needing a second facility – one located somewhere isolated and far less damning, like underwater or geosynchronous orbit.
"-And- Your not really listening to me, huh?"
" I am" he replies shortly, to which West grins gently.
He wishes he wasn't.
"So like, did you find my folks? Cn'I go home, cos I feel way better?"
"No" Batman replies carefully "I'm still searching."
"Oh" West replies, his disappointment is palpable. Green eyes downcast to wrists and he once again fiddles with the smarting little lines there "Walter West a bumb name then?" he asks with a note of self-accusation.
"Wally West" Bruce corrects. The slip on the name makes no difference, he's already thoroughly screened any and all Wests with W forenames. Thankfully not too many people seem keen on the alliteration.
"What kinda name is Wally?" He muses with frustration, glancing up at Batman with self-depreciation in his eyes.
"Wallace" Batman offers in explanation.
West scrunches his nose in a childish look of mild disgust. It's almost faintly amusing. He moves on to a new topic.
"What'ya gonna do with me?" his voice is laced with nervousness.
He doesn't see Batman as threatening or ill-meaning … though he probably should... but no matter how decent a host or how great the room-service being strapped to a bed in a cell is still being strapped to a bed in a cell.
Hearing his musings of room-service his gut shoots him a painful ache, eliciting him to hug his arms to it with a small groan of discomfort.
"You need to eat" Bats declares in that voice that's like 90% coco hot chocolate. He can only reply with a soft nod and grimace.
"Will you cope here alone?"
He glances around the room nervously, honestly unsure of the answer. He knows it's pathetic and there's no danger in being here alone, but it's like once they leave the room he's got no concept of how long they've been gone for.
Robin laughs at him for getting so jumpy when he goes for bathroom breaks but honestly he thinks the kid needs some more fibre in his diet cos he seems to take so very very long.
He tries to force some degree of confidence
"I'll be fine."
The Batman stares at him, probably able to smell, taste and hear his lie in stereo but nods nevertheless and escapes the cell. Then he's all alone again curling his knees up so he can hug them to him.
Bats probably only went to go get the doc; despite how he dresses he's secretly not sure the man is actually a real doctor... but then again Batman isn't a real bat... so he supposes it all fits. How long could that possibly take? A few minutes?
The black walls of the room stare back all around at him tauntingly. The urge to see what's on the other side of them has been building almost unbearably since he last woke up. Call it stirr-crazy, or cabin fever or whatever but suddenly he'd give just about anything for the open road or countryside stretching endlessly ahead of him; the feel of wind in his hair or bugs in his teeth.
Okay maybe that last one was a little weird.
He tries to distract himself from the enclosure, humming some asinine tune about fences from somewhere the distant corners of his mind. It frustrates him. His brain seems to have taken to furiously clinging with great clarity onto meaningless crap like Scamp's Adventure, yet his friends and family...
He cant call up the sound of his dad's laugh, or the smell of his mom's cooking – the classic family things – all he can remember is some little shit animated dog singing about how horrible it is to be loved.
A world without fences... something something something free, something something something something real dog out in meeeeee...
Okay so maybe he couldn't remember that so well either.
He wonders if his mom was a good cook, or one of those comically terrible ones like in sit-coms who could burn water? If his dad had red hair like him, or brown, or blond? If he had a trio of sisters or a twin brother?
Mostly he wonders why no ones looking for him.
Maybe he's a bad guy; the kind that's not worth finding.
He's hummed 'A World Without Fences' three times over by now he realises. If that song was like, lets say 3 minutes long, then doesn't that mean its been like 9 minutes already? That's almost 10 minutes! Shouldn't Bats be back by now? What if he's never coming back?
He curls up a little tighter and doesn't bother to hide his whimper. Who's gonna hear him anyway?
He's trembling a little and he doesn't remember when that started but it's enough to make the bed frame rattle; to jostle the red goggles sitting on the bedside table that make him ache to look at, though he cant remember why.
The hydraulic door hisses open, the doc's British tones slicing through the silence
"Pea and Ham soup sir, and if you can manage them afterwards mince pies with brandy cream – an old family recipe -"
Fearful eyes lock onto the doc's gentler brown ones
"-Oh my dear boy." the doc soothes.
Alfred sets the tray down as always and pulls up a chair next to the bed. He'll make sure to scold Master Bruce for leaving Mr. West so unattended. Now he's too fussed to eat his dinner.
He's happy to sit with him regardless; his expressions are so open and its pleasant to see his cooking be so blatantly appreciated even if his table manners are deplorable. They chat and he calms enough to eat. The boy is no chore to be around really; his knowledge of Ripping Yarns, The Missionary and Monty Python is a delight for the repressed Michael Palin fan at the butler's utterly English core, though strangely enough on more than one occasion he finds himself noticing its like Mr. West has had their exact conversation before.
Dick arrives home later into the day and immediately hurries to find Bruce, who's scowling at the cold cup of coffee Alfred's brought him in civilised revenge for 'abandoning' West.
"Bruuuuuuce!"
He scampers down the stairs and into the bowels of the cave, blue eyes sparking with the kind of glee he only gets from triumph or mischief. Bruce hopes it's triumph. He isn't sure he can handle Dick's mischief as well as Alfred's.
"Look!"
He slaps down a flier in front of him; the world announcement of the latest additions to the hulking behemoth that is the Pokemon franchise: 'X' and 'Y'.
"aaaaand -" Dick begins "Guess who they approached to play Aragorn and Gandalf first but couldn't do it each for personal reasons -"
"Cage and Connery" Bruce answers without missing a beat. Dick nods so hard his head may fall off his shoulders if he makes a habit of it.
" - Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." He finishes, gasping for breath.
Arthur Conan Doyle. Bruce is impressed. Highly impressed. Dick has shown great initiative following up something even he dismissed.
"Good work, Dickie"
His protégée looks poised to spontaneously-combust in happiness and he's earned it. Some sort of treat is defiantly in order...
So that was it. The missing piece of the puzzle.
Wally West was from another earth.
AN:
Well that's everything I had written down typed up for now. This fic's only going to be a short one in possible preparation for a longer follow-on so this is now about half way through. I saw the thing about Connery/Cage on reddit so I have no idea if its actually true or not. R+R.