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Dick stares into his coffee instead of drinking it. Idly he stirs the spoon around the rim, watching the foam leaf swirl and dissolve around the edges—disintegrating out of existence. He came here with the intention of getting work done, yet it’s been twenty minutes and he hasn’t so much as cracked open a file.
“If you’re not going to drink that, I’d be happy to take a donation,” a familiar voice says.
Dick doesn’t look up.
“Silent treatment? That’s cold even for you, Nightwing.”
Dick’s head stays motionless but his eyes peek up through his lashes, brows locked in a furrow. “What do you need, Wally?”
“To fix your quarter-life crisis, apparently.” He’s more upbeat than Dick has felt in months, eyes bright and glowing. As if he doesn’t know. As if he’s got no idea at all.
“That’s generous.”
“I know, right? You’re lucky to have me.” Dick’s scowl doesn’t change. “Yeesh,” Wally says at the less-than-stellar reception. “What’s got you so droopy today?”
“You know what.”
Something about the way he says it makes the cheeriness finally abet, and Wally’s lips press together in a sad smile. “Yeah,” he says—sighs, really. “I do.”
He’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and jeans even though it’s the middle of August, but he wouldn’t care. He never does. His hair is messy, like he’d run a hundred miles to the cafe.
“You should brush your hair,” Dick says, gesturing to the red strands hanging in front of Wally’s face.
Wally shrugs and swipes them back. “Who’s going to notice?” Then he leans forward with his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his locked fingers. “So how’s the team doing?”
“Ask Kaldur. I’m not leading it anymore.” He squints. “Which you already know.”
“I was hoping things might have changed since our last conversation. Nice to see you’re still taking your little—” He makes air quotes. “—‘sabbatical’ or whatever you’re calling it.” He peruses the files on the table. “Math homework?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know perfectly well what this is,” Dick says, eyes narrowed. “You know all of it. You know why I had to leave the team, you know what I’ve been doing since then—you already know everything.” The last word comes out as a growl, and Dick can feel his hands tightening into fists.
Wally’s not remotely shaken by the outburst. His eyes dart to the side, and Dick follows his gaze to see an elderly couple at the next table staring.
Dick forces the roiling in his blood to simmer down and drops his voice back down to a whisper. “Just tell me what you’re really here for.”
Wally purses his lips. His fingertips lightly tap the table to the beat of what Dick is fairly certain is "Jingle Bells," but there’s no sound. “Not sure. I mean, you’re the one who invited me here, right?”
“Not intentionally.”
“You sure about that?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.”
Before Dick can piece together a response, the waitress comes over to their table holding a steaming pot of coffee. “Refill yet?”
Dick’s been coming to this place often enough in the past weeks that the staff all know his routine by now. Pore over research and chug down coffee by the quart until his eyes glaze and his brain has turned to mush.
“I’d love a cupcake,” Wally tells her politely.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Dick says, ignoring him. The waitress smiles and moves on, while Dick tries his best not to look at Wally. “Look, Walls, can you come back later? I’ve got work to do.”
“Sorry, but that’s not how this works.”
Dick rolls his eyes. “Of course it isn’t.” He forces himself to pick up his coffee and take a sip, if only for something to do with his hands. It’s gone cold by now. “Look. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, okay? Can you blame me for taking a break?”
Wally looks down again at the files littering the table like autumn leaves. “This is your idea of a break?”
“You know why I have to do this.”
“Do I?”
Dick’s fingers tighten around the ceramic. “Isn’t the fact that you’re sitting here right now feasible cause?”
“Like I said, you’re the one who brought me here, so…”
“What reason would I possibly have,” Dick says through gritted teeth, “to intentionally torment myself with visions of my dead best friend?”
“Because you’re lonely.” Wally’s eyes are bright and piercing.
Dick doesn’t realize he’s been leaning forward until he sits back again with a huff. The liquid inside the mug quivers. He places it back on the table. “I’m not lonely.”
Wally gestures to himself with that look—the classic Wally West “um, helloooo?” look; raised eyebrow, stuck-out lip and all—and it’s so realistic Dick can almost believe this is the real Wally sitting in front of him.
“For your information,” Dick says, “Tim and I are going to a Gotham Knights game tomorrow.”
Wally raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Big brother instincts finally coming to the call?”
“You could say that.” Dick swirls his coffee and watches it slosh against the sides of the mug. “I think it’s obvious by now that I have a bad habit of not spending time with important people until it’s too late.”
“That is true,” Wally agrees solemnly. He reaches out to smooth over the corner of a paper that’s become wrinkled with handling. His fingers pass right through it, and he frowns.
Dick bites back the pang in his heart and smooths the wrinkle himself.
Wally smiles sadly. “Remember when things were better?” he asks. His eyes are far away. Wistful.
“Were they ever?”
“Not for a while. I miss it.”
“Yeah,” Dick says, the lump in his throat thickening. “Me too.”
Wally folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them. “Have you talked to Artemis lately?”
“We’ve both been pretty busy.”
Wally hums. “Well, you should. She’s lonely too.”
“Maybe you should go be with her instead of me, then.”
Wally lifts his head. “Do you really want me to leave?”
Dick thinks about it for a long time. “No,” he says finally.
A tiny, tiny bit of relief gleams in the resulting smile. “Good. Me neither.”
Dick’s eyes roam over his files, his research, his lifeline. “You know I won’t stop, right? I’ll figure it out.”
“What if you don’t?”
“Not an option.”
“How come?”
“Because I’m not giving up until I find a way to bring you back.”
For the first time, uncertainty ripples in Wally’s eyes. “But what if—”
“Chocolate cake?” another voice says, making Dick’s head jerk up. The waitress has returned, this time carrying a small plate with a slice on it. “On the house.”
Dick looks back across the table, but Wally’s chair is empty once again. Like he was never there at all. Disappointment sours on Dick’s tongue, and he pushes away the grief and stands.
“Sorry, but I think it’s time I head out.” He starts packing files into his backpack.
The waitress’ eyes skim the papers curiously as he gathers them up. “Speed force, huh? Isn’t that a Central City thing?”
“Something like that.” He zips up the bag and tosses a twenty on the table. “Thanks for the coffee. Keep the change.”
As he leaves, he pretends it’s not Wally’s face staring back at him in the glass door where his own reflection should be.
Pretends it’s not Wally standing on the sidewalk, smiling at Dick the way he used to.
Pretends it’s not Wally’s voice whispering, “I miss when things were better,” before the apparition turns to mist—dissolving with the breeze.
Dick keeps walking.