Chapter Text
The memory of Barry’s first days with Bruce was still raw, like a wound that never quite healed. It often crept up on him at the strangest times—when he was lying awake at night, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, or when he felt a pang of uncertainty amidst Bruce’s otherwise unshakeable team. It wasn’t just the looks he got from some of the agents. It was how they looked through him, like he was a ghost in a place he didn’t belong.
The first few days after Barry Allen joined Batman’s resistance he’d stumbled into the secret base half-dead, exhausted from running and from the emotional strain of betraying Superman. The decision to switch sides had been a gut-wrenching one, but it was necessary. Still, that didn’t make it easier.
When Barry entered the underground base for the first time, he noticed how the place seemed to breathe hostility. Eyes followed his every move. Conversations died mid-sentence as he passed by. Whispers, muffled by hands, carried his name and tainted it with distrust. And who could blame them? Barry had been with Superman’s regime—an enemy, a betrayer in their eyes.
Barry had tried to reason with himself, convince himself that it wasn’t his place to question Clark. He’d been loyal, too loyal, following Superman even when his heart screamed otherwise. But after witnessing too many broken lives, too many innocent people caught in the crossfire, something snapped. He couldn’t stand by and let it continue—not when he knew in his heart what the League was doing was wrong.
So, he’d run. He’d run fast and far, not knowing where he was going until he found himself standing at the outskirts of Gotham, shivering under the cold, unyielding gaze of Batman.
Barry hadn’t expected a warm welcome—he wasn’t stupid. He knew he’d be met with suspicion, maybe even hostility. After all, he’d been one of them. One of the soldiers who carried out Superman’s decrees without question. But Bruce had listened. He’d let Barry talk—more than he’d expected. He’d stood there, silent and unreadable, as Barry spilled his guilt, his shame, his confusion.
And then he’d nodded, a slow, deliberate gesture, and told Barry, “You’re not my enemy.”
It hadn’t been a promise, exactly. More like an acknowledgment, a tentative truce between two men who were far too tired and scarred to be anything other than cautious allies.
The first few days in Batman’s base were… difficult, to say the least.
Barry was led through the labyrinthine corridors of the hideout, flanked by a pair of grim-faced agents who never once glanced at him. He felt their judgment like a physical weight pressing down on him. To them, he was the enemy, a traitor who’d been foolish enough to switch sides. Their distrust was palpable, seeping into the air around him until it was almost suffocating.
They ran tests—endless tests. Medical evaluations, psychological assessments, even a few that seemed more like interrogation sessions than anything else. They checked his vitals, his reflexes, scanned him for tracking devices, bugs, anything that might make him a threat.
And when they were finally done, they fitted him with his own trackers—a set of small, almost imperceptible devices that monitored his every move, his every heartbeat. A precaution, they’d said, to ensure he wasn’t feeding information back to Superman.
Barry understood the need for it. Hell, he agreed with it. If he were in Bruce’s place, he’d have done the same. But that didn’t make it any less humiliating. Any less painful.
When it was finally over, he was led—more like herded, really—to his room. His new “quarters,” the agent had called it with a sneer.
But when Barry pushed open the door and stepped inside, what he found was not a room. It was a cell.
The walls were stark and unadorned, the floor bare concrete. A narrow cot sat against one wall, its mattress thin and worn, the blanket little more than a rag. There were no windows, no decorations, nothing that spoke of comfort or home. Just four walls that seemed to close in around him, the air heavy and oppressive.
Barry took a slow, shaky breath, the reality of it all crashing down on him. He felt… small. Smaller than he’d ever felt, even standing in Superman’s shadow. This was what he deserved, wasn’t it? After everything he’d done—after all the lives he’d failed to save—this was exactly where he belonged.
He closed the door behind him, the sound of it clicking shut echoing through the empty room like the closing of a tomb. He stood there for a long moment, staring blankly at the barren walls, his heart pounding in his chest.
Then, slowly, he sank down to the floor, his back pressed against the cold, unyielding surface. His hands trembled, the tremor spreading up his arms until his entire body was shaking. He clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the tears from spilling over.
A choked sob escaped him, and he bit down on his lip, trying to stifle the sound. He couldn’t cry, not here, not now. What would Bruce think if he walked by and saw him like this? Weak, broken… pathetic.
He pressed a fist against his mouth, muffling the sobs that kept clawing their way out of his throat. He could barely breathe, every breath coming in ragged gasps that felt like they were tearing him apart from the inside.
And then, through the haze of his panic, he heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible sound. The faintest rustle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. He froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Batman was standing outside his door.
Barry’s heart lurched painfully, his body going rigid. He held his breath, every muscle straining as he tried to quiet the sounds of his sobs, tried to make himself as small and invisible as possible.
He waited, eyes squeezed shut, listening for the telltale sound of the door opening, for Bruce’s voice—cold and unfeeling—to demand why he was sitting here crying like a child.
But it never came.
Instead, there was a long, agonizing silence. Barry could almost feel Bruce’s presence outside the door, could imagine those piercing eyes staring at the closed door, the calculating mind behind them weighing his worth, his loyalty, his usefulness.
And then… the sound of footsteps, soft and measured, retreating down the hallway.
Barry let out a shuddering breath, the sobs finally breaking free now that he was alone again. He curled in on himself, his head resting on his knees, shoulders shaking as he cried silently.
I deserve this, he thought miserably. I deserve every bit of it.
The panic attacks started a few days later.
It was almost inevitable, really. The stress, the isolation, the constant sense of being watched, of being judged—it all built up until it felt like his chest was going to explode. The first time it happened, he was alone in his room, staring blankly at the ceiling when his vision started to blur. His heart pounded wildly, his lungs refusing to draw in enough air. He’d clawed at his own skin, gasping desperately as the walls seemed to close in around him, the ceiling pressing down, suffocating him.
It had taken what felt like hours for the panic to finally subside, leaving him trembling and weak, curled up on the cold floor.
After that, it became a routine. The panic would creep up on him out of nowhere, stealing his breath, making his heart race uncontrollably. He’d lock himself in his room, pressing himself against the wall, eyes wide and unseeing as he fought to breathe, fought to remember that he was safe, that no one was coming for him.
But there was no one to help him through it. No one to hold his hand, to tell him it was going to be okay. Not like before, when his friends—his family—had been there.
He had to face it alone.
Unless he was called out on a mission, he stayed in his room, rarely venturing out unless he needed food or water. Even then, he made sure to take as little as possible. He didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want to take more than he deserved. Bruce had people who needed those supplies—people who hadn’t betrayed their friends, hadn’t turned a blind eye to atrocities in the name of misguided loyalty.
He started shaking constantly, his hands trembling even when he was just sitting still. It became a familiar sensation, almost comforting in a way. A reminder that he was still here, still alive, still trying to find his place in this new, broken world.
The other agents noticed, of course. Some of them gave him strange looks, whispers trailing in his wake as he walked by. But no one said anything. No one asked if he was okay, if he needed help. Why would they? He was just the traitor who’d switched sides. The former lapdog of Superman.
He deserved their disdain.
Over time, Batman seemed to stop actively avoiding him. It wasn’t much, just small acknowledgments here and there—a nod, a brief glance in his direction, an order given without the usual cold edge. The other agents, too, seemed to soften slightly, the hostility in their eyes fading to something more like wary acceptance.
But Barry still felt out of place. Still felt like he didn’t belong. He’d sit in his room for hours, staring blankly at the corners, the silence pressing in around him like a living thing.
Four barren concrete walls and a cot were all that waited for him. He stood in the doorway, staring at the stark, empty cell, his breath catching in his throat.
It was fine. He deserved this.
But when he closed the door and the emptiness of the room closed in around him, the weight of everything crashed down all at once. He backed up against the cold concrete wall, sliding down until he hit the ground, and that’s when it started—shallow breaths turning to sobs he tried to muffle with his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, knees pulled up to his chest, the tears flowing hot and heavy as he tried to quiet himself.
Barry fell into a pattern after that. He’d only leave the cell when necessary, for missions or food, and the rest of the time he stayed curled up on his cot, staring at the ceiling. He would sit there, numb, barely eating or sleeping. When he did eat, it was only just enough to get by, and when he did sleep, it was only because his body forced him into it. Nightmares followed him into the rare moments of sleep he found, and waking felt no better.
It was a few hours later, when the solitude and quiet of the base started to press in on him, that he decided he needed to stretch his legs. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or the restlessness that always buzzed beneath his skin when he wasn’t moving, but Barry knew he couldn’t sit still any longer. He needed to feel the ground beneath his feet, the wind against his face. He needed to run.
He left without telling anyone, slipping out of the base and into the dark streets of Gotham. The city was as gloomy and oppressive as ever, but it didn’t bother Barry. He jogged down the empty roads, his pace slow by his usual standards but fast enough that he felt his muscles working again, the tension easing with each step. He pushed himself a little harder, picking up speed as he left Gotham’s city limits and made his way back to Central City.
The familiar skyline came into view, the twinkling lights of the city sparking a sense of nostalgia and longing in Barry’s chest. It had been too long since he’d been home, since he’d seen the people he’d sworn to protect. But as he slowed his pace and entered the city, he felt a strange heaviness settle over him.
Central City was quiet, too quiet. He expected to see people bustling about, cars honking, the usual hustle and bustle of the city he knew so well. But there was an eerie stillness in the air, like the city itself was holding its breath. Barry frowned, glancing around, until something caught his eye—something that made his heart stutter in his chest.
He found himself standing in front of his own statue.
The towering figure, a likeness of him in his Flash suit, loomed above the square. He’d never paid much attention to it before, always considering it a bit too ostentatious, but now… now it was surrounded by a sea of flowers and candles, handwritten notes and colorful drawings scattered at its base. Barry’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped closer, his eyes darting over the offerings.
There were messages of hope, of love, of gratitude. Cards with “Come home soon” and “We miss you, Flash” written in shaky handwriting. Drawings from children, the crayon lines messy and bright, depicting him saving the day in a dozen different ways. His hands trembled as he reached for one of the cards, picking it up with delicate fingers.
It was a simple piece of paper, folded in half, with a drawing of him lifting a little girl from a burning building. The details were crude, but he recognized the smile on the child’s face, the way she clutched a small stuffed bear in her arms. The words beneath the drawing were scrawled in uneven letters:
My Hero. Thank you for saving me and my bear. Come back soon, please.
The tears came before he could stop them, sliding silently down his cheeks as he stared at the card. He remembered that day. The fire had been intense, the building collapsing around him as he raced to get everyone out. He hadn’t even thought about it as he’d dashed back in to grab the girl’s bear, handing it to her just before the flames consumed the room they’d been trapped in.
She’d looked at him like he was a miracle. Like he was everything.
Barry sank to his knees, the card clutched tightly in his hands as he looked at the other offerings. There were so many of them—too many. Pictures of him with messages of hope and prayers for his safety. People had been praying for him, hoping he was okay. He could barely breathe as he read through them, each one hitting him like a punch to the gut.
He’d been gone for so long. He’d left them without even knowing if he’d make it back, without any guarantee that he’d survive. And yet, here they were, his city, waiting for him, believing in him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he bowed his head. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He hadn’t meant to leave them like that. He’d just wanted to keep them safe, to protect them the only way he knew how. But seeing all this—seeing how much they cared, how much they needed him—it was almost too much. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a failure. Like someone who’d abandoned his people when they needed him most.
Barry took a shuddering breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t handle this right now, couldn’t face the reality of what his absence had done to these people. He glanced around, his gaze lingering on the statues and the flowers one last time before he turned and blurred out of the square.
He didn’t stop until he was miles away, the wind whipping against his face as he ran without a destination in mind. He just needed to move, to feel the ground beneath him and the air in his lungs. He ran through fields and forests, over rivers and mountains, until he found himself standing on a quiet beach, the waves lapping gently at the shore.
The sand was cool beneath his feet as he slowed to a stop, his chest heaving with exertion. He dropped down onto the sand, staring out at the endless expanse of water before him. It was peaceful here, the sound of the waves soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, and closed his eyes.
Maybe a vacation wasn’t such a bad idea. He needed time to think, to process everything that had happened. Central City would be fine without him for a little while. He’d done his part, given everything he had to keep them safe.
But still…
Barry’s mind drifted back to the card, to the child’s shaky handwriting. My Hero. The words echoed in his head, a soft reminder that, no matter how broken he felt, no matter how much he doubted himself, there were people out there who still believed in him.
He wouldn’t let them down again.
With a small, determined nod, Barry got to his feet, brushing the sand off his suit. He took one last look at the ocean, the waves glimmering under the soft light of the setting sun, before he turned and started jogging down the beach. He’d rest, recover, maybe spend a day or two away from the madness of being the Flash.
And then he’d go back.
He’d go back, stronger and faster than ever, ready to be the hero they deserved.
Ready to be their Flash.