A/N: Soundtrack for this story is "Rescue" by Lauren Daigle/ cover version by Rosevelt

Disclaimer: If you recognize them, I don't own them

Miscalculation

"I hear you whisper underneath your breath/

I hear your SOS, your SOS"

"'Group work is critical,'" Wally grumbled as he wandered through another aisle of the Central City library, mimicking Ms. Nelly's twelve-pack-a-day voice. "'Collaboration is a key skill for success.'" In annoyance, he threw his arms to the side. "Well, look at all the collaboration going on!"

It came out louder than expected, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Ms. Nelly had assigned groups at random, and of course his group consisted of Matt, the slacker who didn't even bring the textbook to class, Brad, the captain of the football team who was already locked into his top college choice, and Lilian, the coaster who always seemed to put in just enough effort to get a C. To make matters worse, it was no secret that Wally was one of the top students, which meant that as soon as they were seated together, Brad clapped a hand on his back and said, "We are gonna get a fantastic grade!"

If it had been any other trio of duds, Wally wouldn't have hesitated to smile to their faces and leave their names off the final project, but they didn't expect him to do all the work, a startling contrast to his other group projects. Brad had insisted they meet in the school library at the end of the day, and when the group assembled, for a split second, Wally thought that it would actually go smoothly. By the time they were ready to depart, he had gathered all of their electronic sources while Brad had come up with a title, Matt had figured out the best PowerPoint background design, and Lilian had set up a GoogleDocs. That's how he found himself at the public library, scrambling to find written sources. They had two weeks to complete the assignment, but with how in-depth they were expected to be, how little help he was getting, and how time-consuming hero work was, he wanted to get as much as possible completed.

"So stupid," he grumbled, taking a sharp turn around a bookcase. "So incredibly—"

A thud against his legs and a soft grunt brought him back to reality, and he glanced at the young boy he had all but steamrolled. Smooth, Wall-man, smooth. "Oh, geez, I'm sorry."

"No. It, it was my fault," he countered, quickly getting to his feet. "I should have been more careful. I'm sorry."

"No way, little dude. I wasn't paying attention." He observed the stack of books in the child's hands. "Magic School Bus? I used to love those!"

"They're my favorite!"

"Way better than the stuff I gotta read." To emphasize his point, he tilted his own collection, all thick hardcovers with dreary images and at least ten words per title. "I'd much rather be reading your stuff."

"That looks boring."

"Oh, yeah, it is. But that's the joy of high school. I'm Wally, by the way. Wally West. What's your name?"

"Malcolm Redford."

"Well, Malcolm, nice to meet you. Are you here by yourself?"

With a nod, he explained, "I come here every day after school."

"Wow, really? How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Seven? Dude, you must be really mature. My parents would never let me hang out by myself at your age."

Malcolm's face contorted slightly. "I, the library, it's halfway between school and my house, it's, it's not a far walk, and I always get home on time."

"Hey, no need to explain! I think it's great they trust you enough to give you this kind of independence." Leaning down, he faux-whispered, "Between you and me, I was a kind of a terror. My parents probably would have put a leash on me if they could have." At the giggle he earned, Wally beamed. "So, are you still on the hunt for more books?"

"No, I think I'm good."

"Same."

"Are, uh, were you gonna stay after you checked out?" A flush crept into his cheeks, and he began toeing the carpet. "I, my stuff's at a table already, if, if you wanted to sit with me."

The seventeen-year-old had had no intention of staying, not when collapsing on his bed and bitching to Artemis about his bad luck was so tempting, but how could he say no to that adorable face?

"Of course! Gotta crack some of these bad boys open."

Once checked-out, Wally followed Malcolm to his table, his bright yellow backpack with a red lightning bolt sitting in one of the chairs. The ginger felt pride swell in his chest. "You like Kid Flash?"

"Yeah! I'm, like, his biggest fan! He's my favorite hero."

Hero, not sidekick. Even though he'd been Kid Flash for a few years now, he doubted most people in Central City considered him a hero in his own right. Both he and his uncle were pretty well-loved by the general population, but it was obvious that the Flash was the favorite, his insignia and merchandise bought in droves. Wally didn't mind—well, not really—not when Uncle Barry had been on the job a lot longer than he had, but it was still endearing to hear Malcolm call him his favorite.

There was content silence as Malcolm focused on his books and Wally, resisting every urge to speed-read, trudged his way through one chapter, scribbling on Post-It notes every few minutes and slapping them onto the pages. It was a little over an hour when Malcolm started packing up, carefully tucking the paperbacks into his bag. Wally was far less gentle with his own, still a little bitter over the hand he'd been dealt from class.

"Are, are you gonna be here tomorrow?" Malcolm asked, a hint of shyness in the question.

"'Course!" A thought struck him. "How about I walk you home?"

"You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to, but I want to. If that's okay with you."

A smile split across his face, and he nodded enthusiastically. Both shouldered their backpacks and headed out the main entrance, and Wally allowed Malcolm to lead the way. It was a quick walk, not even ten minutes, and while it was in the opposite direction of his own home, Wally didn't mind. Malcolm was great company, enthusiastically talking about his day and asking Wally about his. His attitude was contagious, and Wally's mood was the highest it had been that day as he waved goodbye to the second grader disappearing through the front door.

For the remainder of the week, Wally looked forward to the post-school ritual, knowing that Malcolm would undoubtedly make his day better. He was like the smaller, human version of Megan, practically bursting with positive energy. The fact that he was Kid Flash's biggest admirer was an added bonus, which he was more than happy to relay to Artemis and Dick.

Combat training on Saturday went smoothly, right until his final match. Despite being his girlfriend—or maybe because of that—Artemis had no problem handing him his ass on a platter, and the fight was over in less than a minute, a few quick jabs and a leg-swipe sending him to the floor with a thud.

With a smirk, the archer helped him to his feet and teased, "Malcolm would reconsider his favorite hero after that display, don't you think?"

Before he could respond, Dick jumped in: "He told you about Malcolm, too? Dude, you're ridiculous."

"C'mon, Boy Blunder, the entire world loves you, let me have this!"

Conner cocked an eyebrow. "Malcolm?"

"Met this little kid at the library and turns out he's a huge fan of Kid Flash. Got my emblem on his backpack and everything. Says how awesome I am, how much he likes watching me on the news." He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face. "I'm kind of a big deal, ya know?"

Dick rolled his eyes behind his mask while Artemis pantomimed vomiting, but Raquel sighed wistfully. "Must be nice. Outside of Dakota City, I feel like people barely even know my name."

With a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, Kaldur said, "Our names are not what define us, but our actions, and our ability to help those who need us the most."

"Yeah, that sounds like something someone whose name people don't know would say."

There was a slight flare of his gills, and Artemis quickly grabbed her boyfriend's hand and all but dragged him out of the training arena. "Alright, Baywatch, you owe me a date, and I'd rather have you all in one piece when we go."

From that point, the weekend had flown, and Wally groaned when he awoke to his alarm blaring Monday morning. The day dragged painfully, and he nearly gouged out his own eyes in Ms. Nelly's class as he listened to his groupmates' attempts at aiding in the project. It was much worse than bearing the brunt of the work alone. Even though it was senior year, he still wanted to do well, and this project was giving him an ulcer. As Brad incorrectly explained one of the core concepts and Wally questioned the future of the human race, he reminded himself that in a few hours, he'd be hanging with Malcolm, whom he would never have met otherwise, and he managed to survive the day without bloodshed.

Arriving at the library, he settled at their table and waited. When he caught sight of Malcolm, his good mood faded fast upon seeing the boy's swollen lip. "Dude, what happened?"

His usual giddiness and enthusiasm were replaced with sullenness as he glanced at the teenager. Opening his mouth, he closed it after a moment and ducked his head. Lip quivering, he sniffled and scrunched himself tightly into a seat, hands clenched in his lap.

"Don't, don't get upset." Wally knelt beside him, wondering the right thing to do. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he offered softly, even as the tears started dripping down his cheeks. "It's n-nothing."

"That's not nothing," Wally countered.

"I, I did it to myself. By accident. With the door."

"C'mon, buddy, we both know that isn't true. You can tell me the truth, I promise."

His bright brown eyes met Wally's, and a small sob escaped him, winding down to a whimper as he tried to swallow it back. Chest tightening, Wally pulled him in for a hug; Malcolm buried his face in his shoulder. No words were spoken for a few minutes.

Once Malcolm had calmed, Wally broke the silence: "I used to get bullied a lot when I was your age, too. That's who hurt you, right? A bully?"

Malcolm did not reply, just pressed himself tighter against Wally, but that was all the answer the speedster needed. "Let me guess, some jerk who's older than you and thinks it's cool to pick on someone half their size?"

"Something like that," Malcolm mumbled.

"Well, look, I can't make you do anything, but I think it's a good idea to tell someone. Like a teacher."

"I can't! It'll only get worse if I tell."

Wally sighed. He'd been picked on plenty back in elementary school—an easy target between being small for his age and being seen as a nerd—and despite his parents' pleas, he'd refused to go to any of his teachers for the exact same reason. After a moment of consideration, he snapped his fingers. "I got it! I'll go to school with you tomorrow, and you point them out, and I'll beat them up! How about that, huh? Oh, wait, no, even better—you and me, we go on the lam. You know what that means?"

"Uh-uh."

"We run away. Live off the land, wild and free, don't have to worry about school or bullies or anything. How about that, huh?"

Wiping at his cheeks, Malcolm let out a little hiccup of a laugh, and Wally grinned. "There we go! That's better. Listen, I can't say that there's any sure-fire way to get a bully to stop picking on you, but you can't give them any satisfaction on getting a rise out of you, okay? Just ignore them." Ruffling his hair, he continued, "It gets better, trust me. I know that sounds lame, but it really does."

The young boy's face twisted slightly, and Wally feared a fresh wave of tears as a surge of anger boiled in his stomach. Who would even want to be mean to such a sweet little kid? "Hey, hey, let's not talk about it. Whoever it is, they aren't worth any more of your time being upset." A glance at Malcolm's backpack gave him an idea. "Why don't we read one of your books, huh? Get your mind off of this nonsense." He gestured to the Kid's Corner, where story time was held on the weekends. "We can hang out there. How about that?"

Nodding, a wavery smile crossing his face, he pulled out The Magic School Bus in the Bat Cave. Quickly sneaking a SnapChat photo of the cover to send to Dick, Wally led Malcolm to the Kid's Corner. Each settled into an overstuffed beanbag, and Wally took the book from Malcolm's outstretched hand. By the time the story was finished, Malcolm was back to his usual self, all but bursting with renewed happiness, and the walk to his house was brisk and cheerful, no more thought given to the swollen lip or who had given it to him.

Not that Wally didn't stew on the idea of someone picking on his new friend and Number 1 fan. He had jokingly (well, mostly jokingly) told Artemis that he had plans to stalk the school in his Kid Flash uniform until he found the bully, and she, who was ride or die regardless of the seriousness of the situation, had offered to come along because Gotham Academy was getting too boring and she needed a break and besides, wouldn't that be a little bit of community service? By the end of the conversation, they had roped the entire Team into tracking down Malcolm's tormenter, and after he'd hung up, he no longer felt like beating up an elementary child. Still, he kept a close eye on Malcolm the remainder of the week, searching for any further injuries or change in demeanor, but fortunately, there weren't any.

The weekend was relatively uneventful, a large portion spent on the project from Hell, and as much as he hated giving presentations, he was more than ready to get it over with. To his complete and utter shock, his groupmates gave a startlingly competent display—sure, Wally had written a script for each of them and had advised, in no uncertain terms, not to deviate, but they really put in the work to sound like experts on the topic. Even Ms. Nelly, who seemed almost incapable of expressing emotions, was beaming once they finished. As they sat down to the applause of their classmates, Brad slung an arm around Wally's shoulders. "Dudeees, that was great! We gotta celebrate tonight. My treat."

The other three shared glances. With a shrug, Lillian said, "Yeah, sure."

It was only after Wally agreed and was walking to his next class that he thought about Malcolm. He felt a pang of guilt, then shook himself free. Sure, they were buddies, but the second grader would likely think nothing of Wally not being there one day.

Tuesday afternoon, he learned he was very, very wrong.

Halfway to their usual spot, Malcolm saw Wally, and his walk turned into a run, earning a grunt of displeasure from the librarian. Staring up at him with watery eyes, Malcolm stuttered, "I, I'm s-sorry!"

"Sorry? What? Why?"

"I, you weren't, you didn't show up y-yesterday, and I figured, I musta done something wrong to make you not come, and, and I d-didn't mean to, I'm sorry! Please don't be mad, I didn't mean it!"

"I'm not mad," Wally insisted, crouching to Malcolm's height. "Promise. Something came up after school yesterday, that's all. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I d-didn't?"

Stomach twisting around in knots, Wally forced a happy voice: "Nah, little dude, of course not. Now, c'mon, don't be all gloomy. Tell me how school's been."

Although Malcolm seemed okay by the time they headed home, Wally could not get how upset he had been out of his mind. And that he thought—no, not just thought, fervently believed that he had done something wrong? Not an expert in kids, not in the slightest, Wally still knew that that reaction was not normal, but he couldn't figure out what would cause Malcolm to reach the conclusion that he did. It became an itch he could not scratch in the weeks that followed, compounded by more incidents of harassment: a black eye, dingy blue bruises encircling his left wrist, what looked, faintly, like fingernail scratches on his neck. No matter how hard he tried, though, he could not convince Malcolm to give him any names or a promise to go to a teacher for interference. Part of him wanted to tell him just to stand his ground, throw one well-aimed punch, put the bully in his (or her) place, but he knew that zero tolerance policies would end with Malcolm being in just as much trouble, and he did not want to be the cause for suspension.

One Thursday, as fall teetered on winter and darkness claimed the sky early in the evening, Malcolm never arrived. Wally didn't realize at first, consumed with banging out his homework as quickly as possible, but when he took a break to glance at his phone, it was already quarter to five. The elementary school let out at 3:30, and Malcolm was at the library no later than 3:40.

Wally felt a surge of panic, then clicked his tongue at his own foolishness. He was probably sick, that's all, one of those twenty-four-hour bugs that ran rampant in schools, especially as the seasons changed. Content with his self-supplied explanation, he collected his belongings and made his way home. As he passed a convenience store, an idea popped into his mind. Moseying for a few minutes, Wally spotted a yellow pencil case with a red lightning bolt in the center. Dick and Artemis would never let him live it down if they found out he was buying his own memorabilia, but he figured it would be a nice little surprise for Malcolm.

The next day, Wally waited impatiently in the library. Despite his best efforts to stay distracted, he kept watching the clock. Seconds ticked even more slowly than usual, but 3:30 still became 3:40 still became 3:50. Stretching in his chair, he stared at his notebook and mindlessly doodled. Fifteen more minutes passed before he conceded that, once again, Malcolm wasn't coming. He's just sick, he thought as he packed up, but he wasn't nearly as convinced as he'd been. Malcolm had been the picture of health Wednesday, so it seemed unlikely that he'd fall ill so quickly with something serious enough to keep him out of school for multiple days.

Worse scenarios skittered through his thoughts. Maybe he'd been in a car accident. Maybe the bully had gone one step too far, or maybe Malcolm had snapped and retaliated. Maybe there was a family emergency.

Shouldering his backpack, Wally stood but did not move, the itch as strong as ever, clues to a mystery he hadn't even realized was playing out in front of him coming together. For all their talks, Malcolm had never mentioned his family, nothing at all, not even when it came to the bullying. Considering how egregious his injuries were, Wally was sure that any parent would be freaking out, more than ready to bring Hell itself to the school to solve the problem. He rewound to the day of the first incident, replayed their conversation. Malcolm had never actually said that he got the bloody lip from a bully, hadn't even really confirmed it when Wally suggested it was the case.

"Let me guess, some jerk who's older than you and thinks it's cool to pick on someone half their size?"

"Something like that."

A tidal wave of nausea crashed over him, and he sat again to steady himself. An adult hurting Malcolm made more sense than another child, and it provided a more logical explanation to his previous freak-out. Then again, it was a pretty big leap to take, and the fallout from that kind of accusation would be monumental. He didn't even have any solid evidence, just a hunch, and that wasn't nearly enough. What he needed was proof, but he couldn't just burst into Malcolm's home and interrogate his parents, not even as Kid Flash. There was, however, a much more subtle way to get more information.

Hastily leaving, he pulled out his cell phone as soon as he was outside.

"What's up, dude?"

"Hey, Dick. Uh, are you down to do something that's a bit morally ambiguous?"

A cackle. "Dude, it's me. I'm always down for that. What do you need?"

"Would you be able to look into Malcolm's medical records and his school attendance records?"

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah, I can do that. What's going on?"

Wally broke down his suspicions, mentally hoping that Dick would laugh them off, but instead, he said, "I'll check. Give me a bit, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

Even though he was expecting the call, he still jumped when his phone rang as he was stepping through his bedroom door. "Hi. Find anything?"

Any hopes that he was wrong were dashed when Dick replied solemnly, "Yeah, I did. Malcolm's been to Urgent Care four times since he was a toddler and to the hospital once. All related to blunt-force trauma. After the hospital visit, CPS was called, but their investigation yielded "insufficient evidence" to conclude that his parents were responsible. They did a couple of home visits after that, but nothing turned up. They haven't been in contact in the past two years, and during that time, there were no hospital or Urgent Care trips."

From the tone of his best friend's voice, Wally knew there was more. "But?"

"But he's been to the school counselor a handful of times since kindergarten for episodes of emotional distress that were seemingly brought on by nothing. And he's missed a decent amount of school. Not enough for truancy, but at least fifteen times a year, and it's never for more than a few days at a time, so not just vacations or trips or stuff like that."

Wally sat heavily on his bed as he absorbed the information. "Okay," he finally managed. "Okay. Thanks, Dick."

"You good?"

"Yeah. Just, just gotta do some thinking, you know? I'll see you tomorrow during training."

"Okay, but if you need something, hit me up, alright? Bye."

"Bye."

Flopping onto his back, he stared at the ceiling. He was much more confident now that at least one of Malcolm's parents was abusive, but if CPS had investigated and found nothing, maybe there was another explanation. Jumping the gun would mean imploding the lives of not only Malcolm but his parents. Despite impatience being one of his biggest flaws, he knew that the most beneficial course of action would be to ask Malcolm directly about what was happening. They were buddies, after all, and he felt confident in his ability to get the truth, even if that meant waiting until Monday afternoon—he'd be back by then for sure.

Definitely.

Probably.

Groaning, he sat up and cupped his head in his hand. On the floor was his backpack, and resting on top of his books and folders, just peeking through the slight opening from the zipper, was the bright yellow pencil case.

If he was right, he couldn't wait any longer.

Jumping to his feet, he threw on his uniform and sped to Malcolm's house. At the front door, he hesitated, knowing that there was no turning back, no undoing the chain of events which would unfurl the second he entered the residence, regardless of whether or not his suspicions proved correct. Was he ready to accept that?

Are you ready to accept whatever happens to Malcolm if you're right but chicken out?

With a quick breath, he steeled his nerve and tried the handle. Unlocked.

Silently closing the door behind him, he took a second to survey his surroundings. There were footsteps, the click-clack of shoes on what sounded like linoleum tile, too loud to be that of a child—Mr. or Mrs. Redford in the kitchen, but no other indications that anyone else was in the house. Dashing upstairs, he scanned the hallway. There were four rooms total, and after inspection of the bathroom, master bedroom, and spare room, he went to the last one, what had to be Malcolm's. It was then that he noticed that, unlike the others, this door locked from the outside, an old-fashioned kind that required a key. Dread settled over him as he tried to open it. As expected, it was locked.

Swallowing hard, Wally pulled out his cell phone and dialed Uncle Barry's number.

"Hey, kid! What's—"

"Ineedyourhelpyougottacomewiththepolicepleasepleaseplease!"

Practically a single syllable, his uncle was able to decode it. "What's wrong?"

Giving a quick breakdown of the situation, Wally ended with the plea, "You gotta get here right away, please? Please?"

"I will, and I'll bring the whole cavalry. Don't worry."

Hanging up, he stared at the single piece of wood keeping him from Malcolm. He knew there was no point in searching for the key or getting through with brute force, and he thought it best to leave whichever parent was home to the police.

"Some hero you are, Kid Dork," he muttered, blinking away the burning that pricked behind his eyes. The third fastest person in the world, and he always seemed too late.

"You like Kid Flash?"

"Yeah! I'm, like, his biggest fan. He's my favorite hero."

Gritting his teeth, he tightened his goggles and braced both hands against the door. It had been months since he last tried to vibrate his molecules through solid objects, and that attempt had been as unproductive as all the others, but now more than ever, he needed to succeed.

Focusing all his energy, all his conscious thoughts and movements, he mentally broke himself down to the smallest pieces and concentrated on speed, his speed, from his core outward, every single miniscule molecule of his being he needed to do this—

And then he was on the other side, staring at posters of him and his uncle tacked on the walls.

A weak laugh of relief escaped, but it died almost instantly when he saw the bed, where Malcolm was sprawled over the covers, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, face a collection of bruises glazed with dry blood, seeming so very, very small.

"No," he whimpered, sinking to his knees, bile climbing in his throat. "M-Malcolm. B-buddy, wake up. Please, p-please." He placed one hand on his hair, the other on his chest, and for a moment—a thousand seconds to a speedster—he felt no heartbeat, no rise and fall with each breath. "Malcolm, c'mon, please, it's okay now, I promise. Please, Malcolm."

A raspy, rattling gasp worked its way to the open air, and Malcolm opened his eyes slowly, and Wally didn't even try to stop the tears.

"Kid…Flash," he managed with a mangled, half-formed smile. "You…you're here. And you know my name."

This was not the end for Malcolm, Wally wasn't so naïve to think otherwise. He knew what was to come: the hospital visit with the photo documentation, the police investigation, legal preparation for a trial that may or may not happen, foster homes and therapy. He knew, too, that there were more kids like Malcolm, suffering the same fate, waiting for help that may never come. But as the red and blue police lights flashed through the windows, their sirens cutting through the silence of the incoming night, Wally allowed himself to relish in this moment. What was to come would come, and he would be ready, for Malcolm and all the others he could find.

"Of course I know your name," he whispered, resting his forehead against Malcolm's. "I'm your biggest fan."

"I will send out an army/

To find you in the middle of the darkest night/

It's true, I will rescue you"

It's not always obvious when a child is being abused, and they are often afraid to come forward. Abusers are good at covering their tracks, deflecting blame, and maintaining their innocence despite evidence. With the lockdowns due to the pandemic, children are at an even higher risk because they are stuck at home and have limited contact with mandatory reporters like teachers. In America alone, five children will die from abuse every single day.

ChildHelp is a non-profit that relies on donations to run prevention, intervention, and treatment programs, and the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption seeks to increase the number of adoptions from foster care. Donate if you can. If you can't, please write to your local government representatives to support legislation that helps victims of abuse, including the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act (CAPTA).

If you think someone is being abused, intervene, and don't stop until he or she is safe. Do what you think is best. It's not easy to interfere, and it may not always feel like the best path, but no child deserves to live in an abusive home.

To all the victims, you are in my thoughts and prayers always. If you need help, reach out. Someone will believe you. I do. Never give up hope, and never believe that you deserve anything other than love.

No more concrete angels