Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wally gasped.

The world slammed into him like a freight train made of light and static. He hit the floor, shoulder-first, chin cracking against concrete. His lungs clawed for air.

The Cave. The goddamn Cave. He knew that concrete.

Mouth open, body shaking, he stared at the ceiling fan spinning above him like a countdown clock. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? Hell?

No—this was worse.

He was alive.

"Wally?" That voice—Robin. Young Robin. Timeless, bratty, not-yet-burdened Robin.

Wally’s hands trembled. They weren’t the same. His hands weren’t supposed to look this small. There wasn’t supposed to be this much red on them—but the blood was a memory, not a fact. He curled his fingers in like claws. He couldn’t breathe.

"Whoa, you okay? You just… dropped."

The words filtered through like underwater static.

He knew what was happening. He knew. But knowing didn’t help when every second his brain screamed he died he died he died Barry died Bart almost died Artemis was left alone and the world was ending—

The Speed Force didn’t save him. It ripped him out. Yanked him like a snapped cable and shoved him backward. And now here he was. Seventeen. Whole. Broken.

He laughed. Or tried to.

It came out a choking, garbled sound. Like he was coughing up shards of the future.

---

Three hours later, Wally was locked in the bathroom. Cold tiles. Running faucet. He kept looking at his reflection like it owed him answers.

The mirror didn’t reflect a hero. It reflected a ghost. A kid haunted by a timeline nobody knew existed.

He hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t. Not to Artemis—not yet. Not to Dick. Especially not to Dick.

M’gann knocked on the door later, gentle and worried. "Hey, Wally? I—I just wanted to check in. You didn’t eat dinner."

He said nothing. He didn’t trust his mouth.

Not his voice. Not his brain.

He finally opened the door the next day.

Dick had asked her to scan his mind.

M’gann screamed.

---

Chapter Text

The mission alert went off.

Wally didn’t flinch. He just… stood there.

Everyone else moved with muscle memory, springing to life, grabbing gear, and heading to the zeta tubes like it was a normal Tuesday. But Wally stayed planted in the kitchen, staring at the notification on his communicator like it was a live wire.

“Wally?” Kaldur’s voice was quiet, measured. “We need to leave.”

Wally shook his head once. “Not going.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t crack a joke. He didn’t even pretend to be sick or distracted. Just those two words, low and quiet like they were fragile glass:

“Not going.”

And then—he turned, walked to the fridge, grabbed a hoodie that wasn’t his, and left.

Didn’t run. Walked. Like gravity was heavier on him than it was for anyone else.

---

An hour later, he was sitting on the curb outside Mr. Smoothy’s, nursing a melting strawberry cone like it was the last stable molecule in the universe.

No super-speed. No blur.

Just a tired teen in oversized sleeves, eyes hollow, shoes untied, hair a mess, watching the cars go by like they might explode if he blinked too hard.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the last mission. Or the one before that. Or the way things would go. The bombs. The betrayals. The burials. The pain.

His mind wouldn’t shut up.

Every time he moved too fast, he could feel it coming back. The pull. The charge in his bones. The sensation of unraveling, piece by piece, like a thread on a sweater caught on a nail. And he couldn’t go back there. He wouldn't.

He was scared of running.

Wally West was scared of running.

---

Back at the Cave, Barry Allen stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes stormy.

“He said what?” Barry asked Dick, voice sharper than lightning.

“He said he wasn’t going. Then just left.”

“Did he sound sick?”

“No,” Robin muttered. “He sounded… empty.”

M’gann stood nearby, fingers clenching and unclenching. “There’s something wrong with him. I— I didn’t mean to look deep last time, but I caught a glimpse when he was half-asleep. It was… horrifying. Like someone shoved decades of pain into a year.”

Barry’s jaw clenched. “He’s scared of the Speed Force.”

“What?”

“He’s not using it. At all. I can feel it. He’s pulling away from it like it’s poison.”

“Why?” Artemis’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Barry looked down at the communicator on the table.

“I don’t know. But I’m gonna find out.”

---
Wally sat on the same bench outside Mr. Smoothy’s, plastic spoons discarded like fallen soldiers beside him. Five cups in—he didn’t know the flavors anymore. Coffee. Pistachio. Something purple that might’ve been “galactic grape”? He didn’t care. None of them helped.

He kept eating.

Because if he didn’t, he’d scream. Or run. Or disappear again.

His body was humming with anxiety like a badly-tuned violin string. His hands didn’t shake—he was too far gone for that. Instead, he was still. The wrong kind of still.

Then—

The bench shifted slightly as someone sat beside him.

Barry.

In jeans, sneakers, a jacket too dad-core to be threatening. But Wally didn’t look at him. He didn’t even blink.

Barry watched him quietly for a moment.

“Coffee ice cream?” he asked gently.

Wally nodded, scooping another spoonful like it might anchor him to the moment.

“They say that’s a grown-up flavor.”

“I feel ancient.”

His voice was hoarse. Raw. Like he’d been screaming in his sleep. Barry didn’t smile at the joke—because it wasn’t one.

The air changed.

Barry could feel it.

The Speed Force wasn’t just about running fast—it was about connection. Emotion. And right now, sitting beside Wally, it was like standing at the edge of a black hole made of fear.

There was grief here. Crushing grief. Something cosmic and cruel. It clung to Wally like wet clothes.

“…Kid,” Barry said softly. “What’s going on?”

Wally finally looked up.

His eyes were glass. Not teary. Not angry. Just… gone.

“Do you know what it’s like to run until you break apart atom by atom?”

Barry’s breath hitched.

Wally stared at the last spoonful in his cup. The coffee was melting into soup. “I do. And I don’t want to do it again.”

He said nothing else.

He didn’t need to.

Because Barry finally realized—this wasn’t a phase. This wasn’t burnout. This was a boy who died.

---

Barry didn’t say anything on the way home.

He didn’t have to.

Wally sat in the passenger seat like a statue with a sugar crash. Ice cream headache, shattered nervous system, and something terrible unspoken pressing against the car windows like fog.

When they pulled up to the Allen house, the porch light was on.

Wally hesitated.

“Come on,” Barry offered gently. “Just to crash on the couch. Nothing else.”

“I’m not tired,” Wally muttered, already swaying.

He wasn’t lying. He was exhausted. But sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant death. Better to stay wired on fear and freezer burn.

Inside, the smell of vanilla coffee and something safe wafted through the kitchen. It made Wally nauseous.

The house was quiet—mostly.

Until footsteps came padding down the stairs.

“Barry?” came Iris’s voice, soft with sleep and suspicion. “It’s 5AM, why are you—”

She saw Wally.

He looked like a collapsed signal tower, barely standing, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, skin gray in the wrong kind of way.

“Oh, Wally—” she started, coming forward.

And then she hugged him.

Big mistake.

The second her arms wrapped around him, Wally froze. His eyes went wide, breath caught in his throat. Every nerve in his body screamed DANGER—and not at Iris. At himself. Because this meant comfort. And comfort meant letting go.

And letting go meant—

Wally shoved back. Not hard, but fast—enough to make Iris blink in surprise.

“I—don’t—don’t do that,” he said, voice cracking like broken glass. “Don’t touch me. Please. I can’t—”

Barry moved in fast, catching him by the shoulders before he could bolt.

“Wally—breathe.”

But Wally wasn’t breathing.

His brain was sprinting. The hallway floor felt like quicksand. The air was thick, too thick. Everything was wrong. The lights were too bright. The smell of the coffee was burning. The clock was ticking too loud. He could hear everything. Feel every heartbeat in the house like drums.

And then—

“Rudy?” a voice called from the hall.

Mary West. Wally’s mom.

He turned slowly.

She looked so young. So alive.

“Wally?” she said with a sleepy smile. “What on Earth—?”

His chest caved in.

“Mom?” he whispered, like the word was forbidden.

And then he collapsed.

Didn’t pass out. Didn’t cry. Just crumpled into himself like a building with no support beams.

Barry caught him before he hit the ground. Iris knelt fast. Mary covered her mouth.

Wally just kept whispering one word, over and over again, until it stopped sounding like language:

“Mom.”

---

Morning came in quietly, like it was afraid to wake Wally.

Light spilled in through the curtains, warm and golden—but Wally didn’t care. He was already awake, sitting upright on the couch like a broken statue. Hair wild. Hoodie still on. Blankets draped around his shoulders like a cape made of exhaustion.

He stared at the floor.

And then at Barry.

Barry had only stepped into the kitchen to get coffee, but the second he turned back around—

Wally looked at him.

Not just a glance. The look. The “don’t leave me” look. Like Barry was the last solid object in a world made of glass.

Barry sighed and sat back down.

Wally’s shoulders eased by 3%. Progress.

Rudy had tried talking earlier, but Wally hadn’t responded. Not out of defiance—he just didn’t know how. His words were buried somewhere under the weight of memories that didn’t belong in this year, in this timeline, in this house.

And then Iris came in.

She brought pancakes.

Stacked high. Butter melting. Syrup warm.

“Morning,” she said softly, setting the plate in front of him like she was approaching a startled deer.

Wally picked up the fork. He ate.

No comment. No “thanks.” No smile. Just the sound of metal against ceramic as he took mechanical bites.

It was progress, too.

Until Barry’s phone buzzed.

He checked it.

And froze.

“…It’s Bruce,” Barry said, trying not to react.

Wally stopped chewing.

“Ignore it,” Wally muttered, barely audible.

Barry raised an eyebrow. “He said you disappeared off the comm grid three days ago. You weren’t answering Zeta beam pings. You weren’t—”

“Don’t answer it, Barry.”

The edge in Wally’s voice was sharper than a shard of broken mirror.

“I’m not ready. I can’t—I can’t do this with Bruce right now. He’ll ask questions. He’ll want answers. He’ll look at me. And I—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

Barry silenced the phone. No hesitation.

Wally stared at him like that was the greatest act of mercy in the world.

“…Thanks,” he mumbled.

Barry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Kid, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you’re hurting.”

Wally looked at him.

Really looked.

And there it was.

The face of a boy who died, and then somehow lived, and didn’t know what to do with that miracle.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now,” he whispered.

---

Chapter Text

“Barry.”

Bruce’s voice was already gravel and judgment and zero caffeine, even at 8AM.

Barry held the phone between shoulder and ear, hands busy making coffee with the quiet panic of someone who hadn’t slept in three days and was raising an emotional lightning koala.

“Bruce,” Barry said, flat. “If you’re calling to interrogate Wally, I’m hanging up.”

There was a pause.

“No. I’m… checking in.”

Barry blinked. “You’re what.”

“Checking in.”

“…Is that the sound of you caring?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

Barry stared at his mug like it might contain answers. “Right.”

Bruce continued, ignoring Barry’s sarcasm like the pro he was. “I cross-checked the comm logs. His bio-signature dropped during a scheduled recon mission. That’s not just skipping class. That’s vanishing.”

Barry exhaled.

“He tried to run this morning.”

Bruce’s breath caught—just a little. “And?”

Barry took a sip of his coffee. “Crashed into the fridge. Got scared mid-vibrational phase, glitched through a wall and knocked over Iris’s plant shelf.”

“…Is he okay?”

“Physically? Yes. Mentally? He’s currently clinging to my torso like I’m his emotional tree branch.”

There was a rustling on the other end of the line. Possibly Alfred taking Bruce’s mug away like no more brooding juice for you, sir.

“…I see,” Bruce finally said. “Is that… normal?”

“For Wally? No. For a PTSD-ridden teenager who time-glitched back into his trauma-riddled past self with all his future memories intact? Pretty par for the course.”

Bruce was quiet.

“Take him to Mount Justice,” he said eventually. “Let the others see him. Let him see them. If he’s anchoring to you, use that. Ease him into the team. We’ll handle this. Together.”

Barry almost smiled.

“…You said ‘together.’ Who are you and what have you done with Bruce Wayne.”

“I will hang up.”

“No you won’t. You’re worried. It’s adorable.”

click.

Barry turned back to the living room.

Wally was still clamped onto him like a baby sloth in a hoodie, eyes wide and wild.

“…So,” Barry said. “Mount Justice?”

Wally made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “kill me.”

Barry patted his hair. “Love the enthusiasm.”

---
Mount Justice was exactly the same.
And that was the problem.

Wally stood in the main common area like it might eat him. The couch was still slightly lopsided. The Zeta tube still sparked when you sneezed too close to it. The kitchen still had that we-just-burned-a-hot-pocket smell.

His fingers twitched.

Barry gently nudged him forward.

“I swear, if you bolt again, I’m just duct-taping you to the couch.”

“Hot,” Wally muttered, but there was no spark behind it. Just static.

And then—

“Hey.”

Wally looked up.

There, standing in full Shazam form, six feet of muscle and lightning and power, was the World’s Mightiest Mortal.

Holding pineapple juice and nachos.

“I, uh… heard you were coming,” Shazam said awkwardly, holding the plate like it might explode. “Figured snacks couldn’t hurt?”

Wally blinked. He blinked again.

“…Pineapple juice?”

Shazam nodded.

“Nachos?”

“Loaded.”

Wally walked forward slowly, like approaching a mythological creature. Then—without a word—he plopped down next to Shazam, accepted the plate, and took a massive bite.

Everyone watched in stunned silence as Wally devoured chips like a starving goblin.

Barry tilted his head.

“…You brought snacks, and suddenly he’s fine?”

Shazam shrugged, arms crossed casually. “Nachos fix a lot.”

“I’ve been making him waffles for three days,” Barry hissed.

“You didn’t add jalapeños.”

Wally let out a low content sigh. “God bless jalapeños.”

Robin leaned over to Kaldur, whispering, “Should we be worried he’s more emotionally stable around a walking lightning god than any of us?”

Shazam smiled slightly. “I’m good with trauma.”

And for a second—just a second—Wally’s eyes met his.

And they both knew.

Oh.
You’ve been through it too.

And nothing else needed to be said.

---

The air outside Mount Justice was heavy with summer heat and leftover ozone. The sky hadn’t decided whether to storm or shine, which felt appropriate. The wind blew softly, pushing the grass around like it didn’t know what to do with itself either.

Wally sat on the edge of the training cliff, legs dangling over like he didn’t remember how to be afraid of falling anymore.

No more koala clinginess—for now.
Now he just stared.

“Nice view.”

Wally didn’t turn around. “Hey, Billy.”

Behind him, Shazam—the hero, the icon, the tank in red with a god-tier lightning bolt—stepped into the sun. But the shift was smooth, seamless, and crackling with unspoken truth.

And then—
Shazam was gone.

Left in his place was a kid.
Tired eyes. Hoodie. Too-small sneakers. Wisdom that didn’t match his freckles.

“Didn’t think you’d drop the disguise,” Wally said, voice quiet.

Billy plopped down next to him. “You told the truth. So should I.”

They sat in silence for a while. Wind rustling. Waves below.

Then—

“We’re experiencing the same thing,” Billy said. No lightning in his voice. Just soft thunder. “The not-sleeping. The fear. The time that chewed us up and spit us out in the wrong timeline with too many memories and no instruction manual.”

Wally didn’t speak, but he didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to break alone,” Billy continued, voice just above a whisper. “Let me be your pillar, Wally. I’m here. You can lean. You deserve to lean.”

The silence after that was louder than any shout.

Wally blinked hard. “Dude.”

Billy tilted his head.

“That was… insanely profound for someone who eats marshmallows straight out of the bag.”

Billy shrugged. “Trauma makes poets of us all.”

Wally laughed—broken, surprised, but real.

“God, we’re so messed up.”

“We’re alive,” Billy said. “That’s something.”

They sat there a little longer. Just two boys who’d carried the world and were finally allowed to breathe.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes—

Wally didn’t feel alone.

---

Chapter Text

Mount Justice was quieter than usual.

No sparring. No shouting. No Wally zipping around like a ginger-colored raccoon hyped on candy and ambition.

Instead, the only movement came from the sofa, where Conner Kent sat like a living wall of comfort and mild confusion, while Wally West—literal Speedster of the Century—was draped across him like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues.

"You're warm," Wally muttered, cheek squished against Conner’s shoulder.

"...Yeah," Conner replied, nonplussed. "You’re... not usually like this."

"I like you better now. In this timeline."

"...Okay."

He didn’t mind, really. If Wally wanted to press against his side like a sad, half-melted kitten, he could deal with that. He just didn’t get why.

But then—Wally shifted, muttering, “I wanna see Roy.”

Conner blinked. “Red Arrow?”

“Roy. My Roy.” His voice cracked. “I just… need him.”

Somewhere across the room, Dick Grayson (hoodie half-zipped, hair an absolute mess) was already on the comm.

---

Twenty-three minutes later…

The Zeta tube flared to life.

“Recognized: Red Arrow. B-06.”

Roy Harper stepped out, posture military-straight—but his eyes scanned the room like he was looking for something fragile.

And there it was. A blur of orange and green, barreling toward him without even a warning.

“ROY!”

Wally hit him like a human missile, arms wrapping so tightly around Roy’s neck he almost choked—but didn’t care. Because the next second, Wally was clinging to him, face buried in his shoulder, and trembling like he might come apart at the seams.

“Oh—Wally—hey, hey,” Roy dropped the bow, arms folding tight around him. “I’m here, I’ve got you. I’m here, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Not even close.

But Wally didn’t let go.

Not after two minutes.

Not after four.

Not after six.

And Roy didn’t make him.

He just stood there, rubbing his back gently, eyes over Wally’s shoulder—meeting Dick’s across the room, who simply nodded once.

He needed you.
He still does.

But.... it wasn't his Roy and Wally knew that and he knew this was wrong he couldn't fall anymore he had to pick himself up and to fix it all

---

Mount Justice had seen a lot of weird.

Alien invasions. Giant psychic gorillas. That one time Wally and Conner tried to make a pasta volcano in the kitchen.

But this?

This was new-level weird.

Wally West—once the team’s chaos engine in sneakers—was now a terrified, clingy, dissociating koala, currently wrapped around Aqualad’s arm like a sentient bracelet with abandonment issues.

Kaldur had adapted. He always did. He’d seen sea monsters and Atlantean politics. This wasn’t too far off.

“I believe he is... nesting,” Kaldur offered gently, Wally tucked firmly against his side like a heat-seeking missile.

Roy blinked. “He bit me.”

“Affectionately.”

Across the room, Grayson was holding a stress ball and staring like he hadn’t blinked in a decade.

Then—

“Wally, duck!”

Too late. Dissociated Speedster Reflexes activated.

SMACK.

Dinah Lance hit the floor with a startled grunt.

The room went still.

“...I’m okay,” Canary wheezed, sitting up slowly. “Just... gonna call the certification board. Again.”

Wally blinked out of it two seconds too late, horror crashing into his face. “OhmygodIpunchedCanaryIpunchedCanaryI’MSOSORRY—”

“It’s fine,” she said calmly, brushing herself off. “I have a folder for this.”

---

M’gann sat on the sofa with Conner, eyes wide, holding a bag of marshmallows like it was a holy relic.

“I just wanted to see why he was scared,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I saw everything,” she continued, voice warbling. “The deaths. The timelines. The Speed Force. The loneliness.”

She shivered. “I’ve seen actual warzones that were less traumatic.”

Conner nodded. “He’s got, like, twelve trauma bundles just in his elbows.”

M’gann blinked. “Conner. He said goodbye before every mission. Out loud. Just in case.”

Conner looked like he’d never punch anything ever again.

---

Artemis watched from the hallway, lips pressed tight.

This wasn’t the Wally she’d read about. The one who made bad puns and ate like a human vacuum.

This one was... quiet. Haunted.

But he tried.

He looked at her like he wanted to be normal.

He laughed sometimes, and it was hollow but real. Like a house that hadn’t had furniture in a while.

So she stayed nearby.

Didn’t force it.

She’d wait. Because Wally West?
He was worth waiting for.

---

The Watchtower conference room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which meant one of two things:

1. Someone did something terrible.

2. Batman had a PowerPoint presentation of concern.

Today? It was Option 2. And no one was ready for it.

"You're saying Captain Marvel's performance has declined?" Superman asked, arms crossed but tone gentle.

“No,” Batman said flatly. “I’m saying something’s wrong.”

A flash of lightning appeared on the monitor. A clip. Captain Marvel during a rescue—hands shaking as he cradled a child. He hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t made a single joke. He’d handed them off and disappeared.

Diana frowned. “He used to be... lighter. He lit up the room.”

“I haven’t seen him crack a joke in four missions,” Hal added. “Not even a bad one.”

Hawkgirl raised a brow. “And no ‘wisdom of Solomon’ quips either. That man once lectured a Thanagarian about gravity in the middle of a dogfight.”

The silence was heavy.

And then, Batman pressed another button.

Still frames.

Shazam, sitting in the Watchtower’s observation deck at 03:14 AM, staring at Earth.

Alone. Motionless. Lightning flickering, barely noticeable.

“His spark is dimming,” J’onn murmured.

“It’s like someone unplugged the sunshine,” Diana whispered.

Bruce said nothing.

Because he knew.

He’d known.

The nervous ticks. The inconsistent energy. The way Shazam flinched when asked about his past or future.

The way he looked at Wally recently—like they shared a war no one else remembered.

And maybe it was the world’s worst case of cosmic irony, but—

Blue eyes. Black hair. Powers. A whole vault of Issues™.
Check. Check. Check.

Of course Bruce would recognize the signs.

“I need to talk to him,” Batman said at last. “Alone.”

“Should we prepare for a therapy session or a thunderstorm?” Green Arrow asked.

Bruce didn’t answer.

But his cape flared like a bat-shaped threat as he left the room.

---

Somewhere in a park, long past midnight, two figures sat on a bench like they were both running from ghosts.

Wally West, traumatized ginger raccoon in koala-mode, clutched a half-eaten churro like it was a sacred artifact. His hoodie was too big. His eyes, too haunted.

Beside him sat Shazam—but not the booming, lightning-wrapped powerhouse the League knew. No, this was Billy Batson in disguise, shoulders hunched, lightning crackling gently around his fingers like nervous static.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Until—

“Wally, you’re squishing the churro again,” Billy mumbled, deadpan.

“I am the churro,” Wally whispered, thousand-yard-staring a squirrel. “The churro of despair.”

Billy blinked. “Okay, that was weirdly poetic. I'm concerned.”

Then—

Rustle. Cape. Presence.

“Batman,” Billy said without turning. “Didn’t even hear you coming. Which is rude.”

Wally flinched so hard he nearly yeeted the churro into another dimension.

Bruce looked at them—two kids who were too tired for their ages, one physically stuck in adult form, the other mentally aged by pain—and for a moment… he just stood there.

Then he crouched.

“I know.”

That’s all he said.

But Wally’s breath hitched.

Billy froze.

“You’re not alone,” Bruce said softly, carefully, like each word was weighed with guilt and history. “I see you. Both of you.”

Wally tried to laugh. It came out a sob.

Billy—sweet disaster child Billy—whispered, “I made a fart joke in the middle of a funeral once. Still not my worst moment.”

Bruce blinked.

“…That’s impressive.”

“I know.”

Then—Wally broke.

Tears fell. Silent at first. Then ugly. Snotty. Koala-level sobbing.

Bruce said nothing. Just reached out, steady hand resting on Wally’s shoulder, grounding him like lightning rod and anchor all in one.

Billy wiped his face. “You’re gonna be mad when you find out how many kids are like us, huh?”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “Already am.”

Wally sniffled into Billy’s cloak. “You smell like dryer sheets and trauma.”

“You smell like depression and cinnamon,” Billy replied.

“Boys,” Bruce said with the long-suffering tone of a dad who did not sign up for this—yet somehow absolutely did.

Billy smiled for the first time in days.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “For coming.”

Bruce looked at them both.

“We start fixing this. Together.”

---