Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are few things that are constant in Wally's life lately. The clothes on his back barely count; Grodd had already carved a little hole in his heart and curled up in there, so he was also staying for good; the grief and emptiness left by his mother's passing will always hang over his head for the rest of his life, right beside the guilt for killing Barry. But even the most constant things, he was no fool to think that they might still not be taken away, one way or another. Clothes can be stolen; Grodd could be killed or taken back by the scientists; the guilt and the memories can be wiped away with a strong enough hit or the right machine. Nothing is forever.

Well, not nothing.

There is one single thing that Wally can't ever imagine living without. One thing that has been biting his ankles since he was 10, and he had to confront death itself in his mother's open casket funeral. The thing that has keep him moving and running and living and fighting and running and talking and hoping and running.

It's fear.

Fear of death. Fear of loneliness. Fear of his father. Fear for his father. Fear of Barry. Fear of consequences. Fear of the future. Fear of the past. Just, fear.

The paranoia chasing him no matter how fast he ran. The anxiety weighting his shoulders down with every action. The adrenaline kicking in his bloodstream at the smallest sign of danger. He really felt like a scared little cat in the middle of a jungle, and he fucking hated it.

He was getting better, too. The Syndicate was a nice break from the rest of the world that only seemed to want to put his head on a pike. They understood. The powers, the responsibility, the feeling of being chased constantly. He was starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, there could be a new constant in his life that might not be so easily taken away.

Having said that, Wally was down right terrified at this moment. It was supposed to be an easy but important mission, that's why there were together, that's why Wally wasn't scared. Of course, that was his first mistake.

A flashing light was all it took, and he was no longer where he was supposed to be; not in the lab but instead in the middle of a city; it was night, it was midday when they started the mission; there was no one, Green Lantern was right beside me, where is she, is she okay? Where is this? Millions of thoughts running rampant in less than a millisecond, each one more catastrophic than the last. He could feel the anxious ants running under his skin and spiders filling his lungs with every breath. It only got worse when he turned around, taking in his surroundings and he saw him.

Barry?

He was covered up in a red suit, somewhat alike the one he was using when Wally killed him when he last saw him, but somehow it looked more plain. Most of his head was covered, but Wally would never be able to forget those blue eyes even if he tried. Those blue eyes that appear in every single one of his nightmares. They were looking at him, studying, yet there was no realization in his face that Wally could see. 

He wanted to reach out, but he only had one second to want, before it started. It seemed that whatever moved them into this city also fucked with the foreign energy burning constantly in his veins; the energy making him run faster than god; the energy that let him be in multiple times at the same time; the energy that let him see all that was and that could be.

In a moment, he was there. In the same moment, he was running away, he was being spilled into the pavement, he was watching Barry, he was talking to someone. All that was and all that is and all that was going to be assaulting him mercilessly. Head pounding and thoughts spiraling and fear increasing and adrenaline pumping and everything was wrong and everything was calm and everything was too much and—

Wally calm.

That familiar voice settled everything as quick as it started. He realized that what felt like years was probably less than two seconds in reality. Now Grodd was gently pressing his forehead against Wally's nape, the closest he could reach while hanging from his shoulders. Those words, as simple as they were, seemed to do the trick, and Wally was here again, washing away the distress like a light summer rain. All other versions of himself abandoning him, leaving him alone in his time, at his own moment. 

Thank you, he mentally sent to Grodd.

The little monkey may have been able to stop the onslaught of thoughts and movements and memories, but it was not enough to ease the uncomfortable itch of anxiety burning within, only now the panic was underlined with determination. If Barry was alive, then something was clearly wrong, and whatever that is, Wally had to leave before it hit him like a truck. The rest of the Syndicate would survive without him, right? Right now, the wisest thing would be to run and get his bearings and understand what was happening and knowing where they were and—

Between dramatic thoughts, Wally hadn't realized he was already running as fast as he could, gently cradling Grodd in his arms as to protect him from the force of the movement. Between all the noise in his head and the tornado of emotions, one true impulse remained over all of them, keeping sovereignty over all of his current actions.

I need to leave.

It didn't matter how much Wally liked Barry, it didn't change the fact that Wally was part of the Olympus project; it didn't erase the probability that Thawne was behind this. In fact, he was willing to bet that this was Thawne's fault. That is to say that clearly the right option for him was to run away. Obviously. And all of his teammates were strong enough that they wouldn't die if he left, right? Actually, could just not be there and Wally was doing the right thing by leaving and—

Someone following.

It didn't matter how much it happened, he has yet to get used to Grodd's voice in his head when he was deep in thought. It was only by sheer muscle memory that he didn't trip face first out of surprise.

He forced himself to snap out of it and put more attention to his surroundings. Grodd was right, someone was following him. But not in any vehicle like the rogues were, they were also running, just like him.

Turn left. Jump.

He mindlessly followed Grodd's directions, fully believing that the monkey had it in his best interest that they lose their chaser. Letting Grodd figuratively take the wheel, he started going through all the possible options. Diana is fast, so is Kal, but not even them could keep up with me for this long. Is it another speedster? Is it Barry? Did Thawne found a way to use the energy to bring him back and gave him the speedster power? Is he just here to torment me?

Ignoring the hunger that was just staring to take root at the bottom of his stomach for using so much energy so fast, he kept running and taking turns and doing his damnest to lose the other speedster. It seemed he was finally leaving him behind when, out of fucking nowhere, a second speedster came crashing into him in the direction he was heading. For the first time in the minutes since he left that portal, Wally was forced to stop.

Stopping was probably his least favorite part of running, because literally and figuratively, it's when shit caught up with you. With the inertia he didn't have to think about energy or hunger or breathing, but the moment the movement stopped, it always hit him like a truck.

His lungs were burning, and he was suddenly so fucking hungry, and worst of all, he was vulnerable.

They stopped in the middle of a desert, there seemed to be a road a couple of kilometers away, but nothing he could use as a cover or to lose them. Fuck me, I should have been putting more attention to where I was going. Two figures stood in opposite sides of him; a yellow one that he crashed against, and a red one that has been chasing him all along. Both speedsters. How am I going to get out of this one? I've never been against one myself, let alone two. The red one — Barry, started walking slowly towards him with his palms in the air, not unlike how a veterinarian would approach a hissing, hurt cat in an alley. Ironically, this only raised Wally's hackles even more. He pulled Grodd closer to his chest, ready to run again. He had to fight the instinct to take a step back, otherwise he'd be getting closer to the yellow one.

"Wow kid, calm down, we ain't your enemies here," said Barry in a placating tone that Wally has heard before, back in a military base cafeteria, "how about you take a breather, and we talk it out? We can even get something to eat, I know a hungry speedster when I see one." He finished with a humorous tone, clearly trying to diffuse the conversation.

He didn't know how much he believed him. Probably not a lot. But before he was capable of communicating his thoughts about it, up in the sky, he heard a familiar dash of someone flying. Oh, thank god.

Maybe not as fast as the speedsters (but still not someone to underestimate) just a few meters shy of Wally's position, Diana landed gracefully, only raising a gentle gust of sand.

And as always, she took all the attention. Both speedsters turning to look at her for just a single second. A single second that was more than enough. 

Wally fucking booked it.

The dust cloud he created with his departure sure wasn't subtle, but it was going to give him one hell of a head start. So he did as he always does, and ran for his fucking life, quickly following Grodd's indications as to where to turn. Lungs burning and stomach churning, he almost passed out when he heard Grodd's voice inside his head.

Lost them. Quiet now. Safe.

They were now in a forest, seemingly alone, but he could see a small town a couple of kilometers. Perfect. Taking out his patented Wonder Woman Magic Bag, he took out his emergency change of clothes and got out of the speedster outfit. Now dressed as the average homeless teenager, he set off on heavy feet towards the town, praying that they might have a small church that might be willing to help the needy with some food this Sunday evening.

Barry was stumped. He was clearly a kid speedster, hell, with his luck the kid is probably related to him in some way. And yet, he was just slightly faster both than him and Wally.

"No Speedforce residues found on the whole continent, or well, none that isn't from a known member of the family." Declared a defeated Cisco on the comms. "I have on idea what that kid is on, but it's not looking like something we have seen before."

Barry couldn't help but huff in frustration. He had to send Wally back to the HQ to report on what was happening and help the Bat with something. He was really tempted to call Wallace, Bart or the twins to help him out, but it didn't feel that big of a deal to call a whole family meeting over. But still, it felt wrong. The single moment they caught up with the kid the only moment he took to actually see him, Barry can't say he particularly liked what he saw. At the beginning he though he might be just another inter-dimensional threat, as you do, but after seeing meeting him, after having a chance to take in this mysterious speedster, it took him a moment to realize he was wrong. This was no Apokolips, this was a very, very scared child. And fear and speedsters did not mesh well, he would know. He was just a little under Bart's age, but surely older than the twins.

"I don't recommend to keep seeking him, he's just going to hide better." A sure and placating voice stated behind him, and Barry turned to look at the owner of it. It was the Other Diana, looking at him with something he could only describe as understanding. "Let the kid rest, he will come at his own pace, you have my word on that."

"How can you be so sure? Also, didn't you said you had to look after him or something? Shouldn't you'd be helping if you truly meant that you are not an enemy?", he said as he crossed his arms, and probably a little bit more frustrated and rude than any person with common sense would use for Wonder Woman, this universe or not. Luckily, she didn't seem offended.

"I did. And I found him at the same time as you, the difference is that a trusted friend told me not to worry. So I let him go. I recommend you do the same, as I highly doubt that either you or any of your friends in this universe have the abilities to catch him. Even I can admit that he is a slippery one." Her tone was light, dripping with sympathy and reassurance. Barry still didn't take it.

Wait.

She said that they wouldn't be able to catch him, not they they wouldn't be able to find him.

"Maybe you're right. But I still don't like having a rogue speedster running around in a panicked state. But it also didn't seem like he wanted to see me in particular, for some reason." It was a hard thing to forget, the absolute terror that took over the kid's eyes the moment he saw Barry.

"You noticed, I see." She answered, no less understanding than before, "yes, our Flash is very… distrusting of adults in general, especially those in uniform. Took us a long while before he even trusted us enough to have a conversation. He is a good kid, but he has certainty been done wrong by others. I can only pray to Artemis that he manages to heal and find peace, he is too young to be haunted by the past."

"So what do you recommend?", he was getting impatient, but right now she was the only one who could help him on this chase.

"Be kind. Be patient." she stated, and then just promptly laughed at the face of disbelief that Barry made. "I'm kidding, well, somewhat. He is a kid, he reacts better to other kids. On our end, we convinced him to talk using Arrow, one of the youngest of the group. Sure seemed more receptive that way. We could always go get him ourselves, but something tells me you don't want us running around just yet, do you?" There was a mischievous glint in her eye. He sighted.

"Fine. I'm calling the kids, they can continue the search while I take you to HQ. Let's go." She didn't put up any resistance as they made their way towards the closet Zeta tube, even if she did had multiple chances when he turned to his phone to text the children. This is so going to be a fucking mess.

Chapter Text

Wally's mother used to have a saying, "The best seasoning is hunger," and by God was she a wise woman. He was right that they had a Sunday service for the needy, although it is clear that, being such a small town, they really didn't expect new faces. Wally stuck out like a sore thumb.

With eyes drilling at the back of his head for the whole dinner, he was only capable of eating about half of what he wanted, but it was enough for now. He had to be quick and leave before they tried to talk to him about his "situation" and "where his parents were," or "Do you have any family members you can contact?" Lucky him, he was already a master of dealing with all of this bullshit; he wouldn't have survived so long otherwise.

He was about to get up and leave when a pounding headache assaulted him out of nowhere, making him halt the movement as he let out a hiss of pain.

Rest, said Grodd, food good, but need rest. He felt the mental link waver, going dormant as Grodd got comfy in his backpack to take a rest himself. Well, that's fine, the little guy deserved it.

"I don't know if I have that privilege right now," he muttered through gritted teeth, unable to answer telepathically as he usually did. Regardless of the pain, he tried to push through and leave. Maybe he could find some comfy spot in a public park for the night. He still had a blanket or two in his bag (he is suddenly very grateful to Arrow for forcing him to take those, just in case), so he wouldn't get frostbite. Probably.

While he was making his escape, a gentle hand stopped him by grabbing his arm. Wally would be lying if he said that it didn't startle him. It took effort not to run away that second, but instead he just turned to look at the person that was lightly holding him.

"Are you okay, young man?" The way he spoke gave Wally the idea that it was not the first time he asked, just that it was the first time Wally heard him. It was an elder man, it looked like. Although clearly reaching his golden years, he also looked really well taken care of, towering over Wally and having a really firm grip. "You don't look so well. I saw how much you've eaten; perhaps you've made yourself sick?" He tread his eyes all over Wally, analyzing him. Wally didn't like how vulnerable that made him feel.

"I'm—I'm fine. Just a headache. I'm sorry if I ate too much, I am- was, I was very hungry," he instinctively apologized. Hopefully if he turned the attention away from his health to the fact that he ate so much, that he was bothering them, then maybe this man would be more willing to let him go his merry way to find somewhere to sleep before it got darker. The man squinted, looking at him, as if he was trying to look through him, either not believing him or catching up with his tactic.

"Don't apologize, kid, this is what this place is for," he answered after a second (that felt like two business weeks) with a kind smile. "A headache, you say? Come with me for a second, I can get you something for that." Without waiting for an answer, he let go of Wally's arm and turned around, clearly expecting the redhead to follow him. He could, if he wanted, just leave now, but he also couldn't. The rest of the church attendees were still watching the whole interaction, just like tourists would watch a caretaker interact with an animal in the zoo.

Like a kid being chaperoned to the principal's office, Wally resigned to his fate and followed the man. It's not like whatever he's gonna give me will have an effect anyway. Just keep your head low and the small talk short. He wished he could ask Grodd about the man, but a gentle mind prodding after a lack of response told him that Grodd was, in fact, dead to the world.

"I don't think I introduced myself, sorry. This is a small town, so I have lost the habit. I'm Max Crandall, but just call me Max" started talking the old man, slowing his step just slightly to walk beside Wally. "We don't see new faces over here all that often. What brings you here, lad? And what should I call you?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, um, y'know, just… going around," he shrugged. Pointedly and very ungracefully not answering the second question. Seems like the old man- Max understood the unwillingness though, and did not try asking again.

"Ah yes, the youth and the need to explore," he responded with a light laugh. "My grandson is around your age, and he is always going this place and the other. Sometimes it seems like being still will kill him. He has these friends in San Francisco that he takes every single chance he gets to see them." The man kept talking, just like old people always do when they figure out how to insert their grandchildren into the conversation. "I understand how important friends are, but as it stands, I am trying to teach him the virtues of slowing down, taking the world in, and appreciating the quiet and the slow. Let me tell you, it's way harder than it sounds like." He let out another laugh. He just kept going without the need of more input from Wally aside from the occasional hums, giving the illusion that he was in fact listening about the stories of his grandson.

A couple of minutes later, they found themselves in front of a door that the older gentleman just passed through without a care in the world, prompting Wally to do the same. It looked like a small infirmary.

"Come on in! Please, sit over here while I locate something for that headache of yours," he gestured towards the gurney, and Wally dutifully went to sit on it, waiting for Max to find whatever pill he was seeking.

"Tell me, kid, are you allergic to anything?" Max asked as he kept rummaging around what Wally guessed was the nurse's desk.

"Not that I am aware of, sir."

"Perfect! Now I just gotta find that key… aha! Gotcha!" he raised a key triumphantly. "Tell me something about yourself, kid. I know I must have bored you with all my yapping on the way here," he talked as he walked towards the storage unit at the back of the small room. Wally involuntarily tensed up; he was not up to an interrogation right now. "Like, what music are you youngsters listening nowadays? My grandson only ever blasts that blender of noises that he claims to be 'tech,' truly it baffles me."

"Techno?" he asked, feeling the tension drain away just a little bit. This was a pretty neutral topic, and the elder seemed content to carry the load of the conversation still. "I mean, I like it, but I, um, I'm more of a Rock listener myself," he answered, still non-noncommittally. No information that could be damaging. It looked like Max found what he was hunting for, as he took something from the cupboard and turned towards the mini fridge.

"Rock, huh? I liked it when I was younger, but I have to admit that with age, I have found myself enjoying more the calm smoothness of jazz lately. Everyday I am more like my father." He laughed as he took a water bottle and turned around towards Wally, pills in one hand, water on the other. "Here, this should do the trick."

"Thank you," he answered quietly, taking the pills and trying to take the water bottle, but as he tried to grab it, he noticed that Max wasn't letting go of it. He turned his vision up to meet his eyes, and was only met with a concerned gaze that just forced him to turn away again.

"I'm gonna cut the chase, kid. Do you have anywhere to stay the night?" he asked, way more directly and seriously than anything he had said all evening. Wally couldn't help but swallow. He was never a good liar. In his head, he went through every single possible believable lie he could come up with, but all of them seemed to come up short. This man looked smart enough to see a lie a mile away, if he was being honest. On an impulse, he decided to cut his losses.

"No, sir. I'm—" he swallowed nervously, "I'm leaving soon anyway, the earliest bus actually, so it doesn't really matter much. I have a couple of blankets, so I'll be fine." He didn't want to see the face the man was certainly making in that moment. Not the pity. Not the concern. He didn't need that right now.

"Well, it does get mighty cold in this town at night. What do you say you stay with me? I have a guest bedroom on the first floor that wouldn't mind seeing some use. You can have dinner with us, too; my grandson is home right now," he let go of the water bottle, but Wally didn't pay that much mind, as he snapped back towards looking at the man, unbelieving of the offering that was just made. His shock was soon exchanged by distrust. He might be young, but an old man inviting a kid into his house is not the best idea, especially if the kid is homeless. But he did say that his grandson (that is his age) was going to be there, and that the bedroom was on the first floor. Worst case scenario, he makes a run for it (which was his plan anyway), best case scenario he get some more food in him and a warm bed to sleep in. He could even leave before the rest of the house wakes up.

It seems that the decision is made for him, as his stomach protests loudly at the promise of more food. He can't help turning away to try and hide his embarrassment, feeling how his face turns red. Max only let out a hearty laugh.

"I guess that's the answer, huh?" he laughed lightheartedly, only to change his demeanor to a more open and understanding one, "C'mon kid, I mean no harm, and you look like you need a warm meal and a comfy bed. What do you say?"

It takes him a second to think about it, going through all his possible options, but he always arrives at the same conclusion. Even if the man in front of him was hunting him down, then why give him meds? Why just not take him down when he was leaving and he grabbed his arm at the beginning? Hell, why didn't he take him away before he could even eat something at the service? And worst of all, Wally was tired. He hasn't slept in an actual bed since the military base (the homeless shelters barely count, those are more slabs than they are mattresses), and a warm meal did sound very good (although he did just had one of those lately; Diana is a godly—pun intended—cook).

Slightly, hesitantly, he nodded.

"Bart, please," he almost begged on the phone, "I need your help finding this kid."

"I'm not saying no," answered his grandson (God that still feels weird to say when he barely is a father yet, well kinda, it didn't count when your kids came from the future to a point they weren't born yet). He could hear the video games playing in the background. "I'm saying later. I'm about to beat Tim in Mario Kart right now—"

"No, he isn't," a leveled voice pitched in from the background of the call. Bart ignored it.

"—do you know how important that is? You do know, I am winning against a Bat over here—"

"No, you are not."

"—and after this I have to get back to Max's house to help with dinner. It's Sunday, you know how he gets if I miss Sunday dinner. Why can't Wally help you? Or Ace? Or Don? Or Dawn? Or Jay? Or—"

"Stop. Stop. I get your point." he interrupted him, pinching his nose for patience, "The general answer is that most of them are on missions right now, well except for the twins. I was actually hoping you would go searching with them; I still don't know how comfortable I am leaving them alone on a mission, even if it's just a recon one."

"Oh? But I thought you said we had to catch him?" Bart asked, still distracted by his game, but at least he was showing some interest.

"I guess you were paying some attention after all," he sighed as he passed a hand through his hair, having forgone the mask a while ago. "The answer is yes and no. Yes, the best would be to have him in our custody, no, I don't think you kids would be able to do it." He heard an over-the-top offended gasp on the other side and someone loudly laughing, only to be followed by the sound of a video game car crashing. "And before you get all offended on me," he continued loudly, interrupting whatever rant Bart was about to embark on, "this is not only my assessment, but the League's. His teammates all agreed that he is quite possibly the hardest to catch, and that's not even mentioning how he outsped me and Wally at the same time. This kid is on something else. Right now, our best shot at bringing him in is if he wants to." He needed to get Bart's attention to this case; in a family full of time travelers and scientists, he was still the best at trans-dimensional travel and stable time loops, let alone his experience with other speed energies that weren't the Speed Force. He was also hoping that Bart's optimism and friendliness would help lower the guard of their slippery friend.

"So that's why you are recruiting Bart and the Twins in particular, huh? You think he is going to be more receptive towards other kids, or at least more receptive than he was to adults," the background voice pitched in again, now closer.

"Okay, but why not Wally? I mean, I know he is old, but not that old," Bart snickered.

"That's another part of it," Barry continued explaining. "We have no direct confirmation on this, only the statement of one of his friends. This speedster is actually Wally from another dimension. It seems he was exposed to another energy that isn't the Speed Force, which is the second reason that I want you on the case, Bart." Please take the bait, please take the bait.

A low, thinking humming sound could be heard along with the noise of a new race starting in the game. "So you think that seeing himself is gonna fuck him up, huh? I'm guessing that this one is also not well versed in trans-temporal dimensionalism?" Bart commented, clearly getting into the case. Barry could almost hear the cogs working in his head with all the possibilities. A dimension without Speed Force but with speedsters? The concept was fascinating. He couldn't help the smile that spread on his face. Hook, line, and sinker.

"According to his friends, no. It looks like he ran away more out of fear than out of malice. I shouldn't have to tell you how bad of an idea it is to leave a disoriented speedster running around without any supervision, do I?"

A sigh. "No. No, you don't. Fine. I'll take the case." Barry could feel the relief flowing out of him. "But, it has to be after Max's Sunday dinner. Nothing short of an apocalypse is going to make me miss that."

"Thank you, Bart." Click.

Chapter Text

Trembling hands, cold sweat running down his back. Maybe it was pathetic. Who was he kidding, it was pathetic. Having the same reaction when he is being held at a gun point as he did at just the prospect of sitting in a family dinner. When was the last time he was in one? He had a hard time calling the late nights sitting in the same table with his father in silence a proper 'family dinner'; he would probably categorize it closer to 'psychological warfare'. So now here he was, awkwardly standing in the entrance of a stranger's house, being lured inside with the promise of food like he was some sort of Grimm Brothers' story protagonists.

"Come on in! Come on in, please!" Max shouted over his shoulder, making his way into the house, towards what Wally could only guess was the kitchen. Reluctantly, Wally followed. "Lucky you, I always buy extra groceries in case my grandson decides to bring over his special friend," he threw a cheeky wink in Wally's direction. "You know how much teenagers eat, so we have enough food to feed a small army." He started taking out different ingredients and utensils as he spoke. "You told me you don't have any allergies, right? — Oh, can you pass me the bowl? Third drawer from the bottom. Thank you. —We are making beef brisket, with some seasoned and baked root vegetables, like carrots, parsnips, and some sweet potatoes. The sides I had planned were some fried rice, mashed potatoes, a large casserole dish of homemade macaroni and cheese—my own secret recipe, mind you—and a bowl of creamy coleslaw, plus some curry leftover from yesterday. I also have some dough for sourdough ready that I want to get baking, so it's nice, fresh, and warm for dinner. Sounds good? —Can you please start peeling these potatoes? Thank you— Oh, right, there's also the cookies that Miss Robinson gave me today that we can have for dessert with some fruit salad—you know, before the pears go bad—and there has to be some chocolate milk that I usually don't let Bart get his hands on, but tonight is a special occasion, just a nice way to finish the evening, don't you think?"

As he spoke, he moved around the kitchen like a natural, just cutting things and giving Wally tasks to do without a second thought. Wally, on his part, just did as he was told, unable to find it in himself to deny the small and simple missions he was being given. Well, I guess this way I can make sure there is nothing weird in the food. "Oh, it, uh, sounds delicious, actually, and no, I don't have any allergies," he answered pathetically as he did his best peeling a potato for the first time in his life. How hard could it possibly be?

Turns out, it’s harder than running away from the government, apparently. While Max was calmly but quickly moving around, mixing, cutting, peeling, and cooking, Wally wasn't even a third way through his first wretched potato. He turned to gaze at the older man, who had no right to appear so calm and in peace while multitasking and making five different dishes at the same time, all while keeping a pleasant conversation flow going by himself. Despite himself, he let out a frustrated huff when he turned to face the cursed potato again. If he could only use his super speed, this would be a breeze, but he couldn't, so he just had to keep trying. Despite the frustration over the fucking potato, Wally could admit that it was… kinda nice, actually. It was calm. Domestic. Without noticing, he found himself falling into a state of concentration over his task, feeling an unexplainable need to do this small favor for the old man.

"I'm sure that if you keep looking at that potato like it shot your dog, then it might just peel itself out of shame," said Max over him with a joking tone. Max’s voice, though quiet, exploded in Wally's hyper-aware ear, violently yanking him from the intense concentration he had focused on the vegetable. For a disastrous fraction of a second, his muscles locked up in pure shock. The peeler, betrayed by his loss of control, missed the potato entirely, going straight towards his thumb, making a sizeable nick on it, letting blood flow onto the damned potato.

"Ouch!" he yelped, immediately dropping the potato onto the kitchen table and bringing his thumb toward his mouth, trying to lick the blood clean.

"Be careful! Are you alright over there?" Max yelped too, now concerned and reaching out to see the damage. "Here, let me take a look. It looks like a nasty cut, and we don't want that getting infected." He almost grabbed Wally's wrist, but before he could, Wally recoiled a little too aggressively for it to be normal. Max flinched too, raising his hands in an innocent gesture, probably worried of scaring him away.

The wound is almost closed. He saw the blood. He is going to be suspicious if it's instantly cured. A familiar panic started bubbling inside. He quickly took the thumb out of his mouth and covered it with his other hand.

"I'm sorry, kid, I didn't mean to startle you. You just looked like you could use some help—"

"It's fine!" he interrupted him, far too loud and squeaky for it to be actually fine. "It's fine, I just… it's not your fault. I'm sorry, is— is there a bathroom here?"

"Yeah, door to the right of the entrance. There should be some Band-Aids in the drawer—"

"Got it. Thank you. BRB." He didn't let him finish the sentence before he was already running towards the bathroom, trying his best to not tap into the energy and running a little too fast for the old man to notice.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Wally turned open the faucet, hoping the sound of running water would help masking the sound of the panic attack that he was certainly going to have, or already having. He wasn't sure anymore. He never parted with his backpack (he was smarter than that), so he just hugged it, and by correlation, hugged Grodd into his chest, waking up the little guy. His grip was getting tighter, hoping it would ground him. In his mind, it felt like two opposite fronts were created, clashing against each other, both dragging him deeper into his panic.

He noticed. He so noticed the blood and I wasn't fast enough to hide it and he is going to know that I'm a speedster and he will notify the police or Lazarus or Olympus and I should leave now—

Don't be stupid it was just a shallow cut, you are being dramatic and your stupid overreaction is what is giving you away. Just go back or he will become even more suspicious of you and then he will actually call the authorities—

But what if he did see? Going back is suicide. I need to leave now or I'm going to die I'm going to be killed—

You are so dramatic and such a fucking snowflake, go back out there and confront something for the first time in you life you fucking coward—

He didn't realize he was crying until he felt small, furry hands wiping away the tears. Clearly his dramatic episode was enough to fully wake up Grodd. The small friend, seeing that Wally finally noticed his presence, gently tapped his forehead. Let me in, he seemed to be saying. Huh. In his crisis, Wally didn't even notice shutting him out.

Slowly, he forced his lungs to follow the rhythm that Grodd was still gently tapping, until his chest wasn't burning anymore and it didn't feel like he was dying in the next five seconds. Cautiously, he let down his mental barriers, letting his friend in.

Calm, Wally. A familiar, small voice said in his head, and just like that, the immediate feeling of impending doom was washed away, only to be replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and insurmountable hunger.

It looked like even if he did run away right now, he wouldn't really get all that far.

Wally okay?

"Yeah, yeah. Wally okay, buddy. I'm sorry for worrying you." He took a deep breath and curled on himself, hugging Grodd even closer, and finding comfort in the small hug he got back.

He allowed himself to stay like that for a couple of moments more, trying to soak in and accept the idea that he was not alone in this. Which only strengthened the idea that he had to stay, if only because Grodd deserved the rest more than he did. He only had to find a way to sneak some food for him during the dinner, or if he could, try and grab something from the kitchen while Max wasn't looking.

He got up from where he was huddled on the floor. When did that even happen? Looking at himself in the mirror, he didn't really have to wonder what made Max take pity on him. Leaving aside the puffy red eyes and the clear tear-marks, his hair was an oily mess, his clothes looked like they had been through a damn hurricane and barely survived. A humorless laugh escaped him at his reflection. A homeless teenager as a hero. What a fucking joke.

To the best of his abilities, he tried to clean up using the sink. He only left the bathroom when he felt like it didn't look like he just had a panic attack in the bathroom of a stranger's house over a fucking potato peeler. Yeah, he is a well-accustomed, healthy individual. That's him.

He immediately went towards the kitchen, only to find Max looking at his phone, typing with one finger like all old people do. Although he looked up and put his phone away the moment that Wally came back. Before he could apologize for the episode, Max beat him to the punch.

"I'm sorry, kid. I didn't mean to surprise you like that. I understand if you would rather stay in the guest bedroom while I finish making dinner, I can just call you when it's done." He said, posture open and apologetic. Wally felt the guilt eating him alive.

"What? No! Uh, no no. It—it wasn't you. It was me. I was just too focused in uh—" he felt his cheeks redden and his volume drop, "in peeling the damned— uh, darned potato," he quickly censored himself. "I just… never done it before, but I didn't want to interrupt you so— um, I would like to stay here, if you don't mind…" It's to supervise the food, he told himself, just to make sure he doesn't do anything funky with it.

"No!" exclaimed Max, and looking up, Wally saw the relieved expression on the elder's face. "I mean, yes. I mean, no I wouldn't mind you accompanying me while I cook. Do you…" Wally saw the old man hesitate for the first time since he met him, "do you want me to teach you how to peel potatoes?" he asked in a way that left it clear that there would be no bad blood if Wally refused.

"Um— yes, yes please. If it isn't a bother, I mean." He answered, still embarrassed, but somewhat endeared at the old man's excitement at the prospect of being able to teach someone, especially when he saw him light up at his answer.

"Fantastic! Come here, it's easy once you get the gist of it. Oh, and when we are over here, I can teach you how to make my famous Mac&Cheese, how does that sound, lad?" he continued with a wide, genuine smile.

"That sounds great, thank you." Put a gun to Wally's head, and he still wouldn't be able to tell you why the prospect of mac&cheese was the thing that got him the most excited in months.

The general citizen might be surprised, even baffled, at the prospect of a speedster running late (pun intended), but anyone that had actually met a speedster for more than 30 seconds in their life, would tell you that it's the reality more often than not. Most speedsters, on the other hand, would defend themselves by saying that if someone with super speed is late, then it surely must be for a good reason.

At the very least, that was the argument that Bart was planning to make to Max once he got back home. After all, almost beating a Bat in anything is as good as a reason as there was ever going to be, if you asked him. Of course, in his (very brief) way to Alabama from San Francisco, Bart took the time to mentally finish his English homework, send an email to his Spanish teacher from his phone, plan his next prank for Kon, buy all the necessary equipment for said prank, read all the messages that Max sent him, fantasize about dinner while doing his next move in his game of chess with Tim, he got a bumper sticker for Cassie in New Mexico, picked a couple of cool rocks that he was sure Cissie was going to love, read the case file that Barry sent him, and took a couple of funny selfies to later show Greta. Oh shoot, he forgot to get Anita the candy from Arizona that she asked him. Oh well, it will have to be a task for when he went back.

In his road trip, it was only halfway through Texas that he noticed the outlier in his normal commute to-do list. Max never texts.

He found himself comically and dramatically braking in the middle of a desert, taking out his phone to actually read and take in what Max sent him. Man, Max would be so proud of me.

Speedygramps: Someone is having dinner with us.

Speedygramps: A kid I found at the service today. Homeless. Probably a runaway.

Speedygramps: I invited him to dinner and he is staying in the guest bedroom in the first floor.

Me: sure no prob

Speedygramps: Are you actually reading my texts? Make sure to enter the house like a normal human being. No powers.

Me: always do g

Speedygramps: No, no you don't.

Speedygramps: See you soon.

Me: 👍

—New messages!—

Speedygramps: The kid is jumpier that I expected. I just lightly surprised him and he went running to the bathroom. I think he is having a panic attack.

Speedygramps: If he doesn't run away by jumping out of the window in the bathroom, please keep it in mind when you come to dinner.

Speedygramps: Also, I suspect he might be a meta. Would check out with the runaway theory. Keep that in mind, too.

Me: ??????

Me: what do you MEAN

Me: grampa???? max???

Me: dude

Me: you cant jsut drop tht on me and NOT elaborate????

Damn old people and their cryptic way of texting and then just refusing to elaborate. Probably gonna give me some weird old story about the Second World War if I ask him about it. Probably something about Russian spies or something. Grumbling, he continued his merry way towards the glorious Sunday dinner. Oh wait, he could take advantage of his stop in Texas and make a slight detour through Palmera City. He hasn't seen Jaime in such a long time. Maybe like a week? Preposterous. He could even convince Rocio to give him some atole and pan dulce for dessert. Surely that would make Max less mad at him for being late; Max loves Rocio's conchas.

A small detour and a great conversation later (God, he loves talking to Mili and Nana about their telenovelas), he was coming to a screeching halt two blocks away from Max's house with two doggy bags full of good Mexican goodies. Rocio even let him take some tamales de mole that she was making! God, he loves that family something fierce, definitely the best thing to come out of Texas. Oh, and Jaime is cool, too, I guess.

"Hellooooooo!" he loudly announced his entrance, kicking the door closed. "Anybody hooooome?" he asks towards the inside, fully expecting Max's head to pop out of the kitchen to ask him to help set the table, as he always does. But nothing happens, and the kitchen door remains slightly ajar, letting him hear the patient tone of his mentor, clearly talking to someone. Or at least I hope he is talking to someone; I'm not mentally ready to put him in a nursing home. Wait. Are there even nursing homes for metas? Or am I going to have to send Max to Arkham? His train of thought is interrupted when he gently opens the door, somewhat aware of the texts Max sent him. He breathed a sigh of relief when he does see someone else with his mentor, no Arkham for him, yet.

Surprisingly, neither males noticed his entrance; both of them seemed deeply interested in shaping dough. He felt an impulse (ha! classic) to move behind them and scare them with a comment, but Max's earlier warnings alone stopped him. Bart took advantage of being currently unseen, and analyzed the kid that Gramps brought in today. Redhead (there's a lot of redheads in his life, surely it was a statistical anomaly, right?), rocking one hell of a mullet, younger than him, probably (he guesses around 14 or 15) and really unkempt. No wonder Gramps is so sure that he is a runaway.

In a millisecond, he mentally debates all the possible ways he could make them aware of him without scaring anybody. At last, he settles with only gently knocking on the door, trying to announce his presence in the most unoffensive way.

"Hello?" he starts and two sets of eyes shoot up to him, both looking like deer in the headlights. He contained the urge to snap a pic and laugh out loud, because that is 'rude'. "Whatchu two doing? Am I interrupting something?" he asks, making an effort in memorizing Max's face. It's not every day that he catches him off guard.

"Oh Bart! You're home early! I was just teaching the kid here how to make braided bread. And you brought… is that Rocio's cooking that I'm smelling?" Max exclaims, rising to attention. Bart does not find the need to correct him and tell him that, in fact, he is 20 minutes late. The kid only keeps looking at Bart with open eyes, clearly trying to ascertain if he was a threat. That's what Grampa meant when he said jumpy, huh.

"The one and only. She says hi, by the way. Said that you owe her a coffee, that she has some chismecito for you or something," he delivers the message, gently placing the bags on the counter, and one by one taking out the food, careful to not succumb to muscle memory and using his super speed. "And who is this? I'm Bart, just in case this old man forgot to tell you my name. He is at that age, y'know?"

"First of all, my memory is perfect. Second of all, this here is um…" he says, turning to look at the kid, clearly hoping he presents himself. The kid doesn't seem to get the memo as fast as Bart did, as he doesn't answer for a couple of seconds, not until he notices both expectant gazes on him.

"Oh I— sorry," he gets up quickly from the kitchen chair he was sat in, and clumsily wipes his hands in his ratty jeans before awkwardly offering Bart his hand. "I'm W—, uh… Rudy. Yeah. Pleasure to meet you. Max talks a lot about you." Neither Bart nor Max felt the need to point out that that is obviously a lie. Pressing a runaway for answers is a sure way to get none.

Not wanting to make things more awkward for the kid, he cheerfully took his hand and shook it with gusto. "Pleasure to meet you, Rudy! Now, I'm sorry, but I'm also not sorry at all to interrupt your cooking lesson. I'm starving, and it was taking all of my strength to not eat all of the food that Rocio so gracefully gifted us. Well, maybe I did. A little bit. Maybe. You have no proof and I have the right to remain silent and to have a lawyer present." His little rant seemed to have the intended result, as the kid laughed lightly, and relaxed a little bit. I'll take that as a win.

"Oh dear, you're right, it's already time. You two mind helping me set the table while I get all the food ready? Bart, you already know where everything is, please give Rudy some help, will you?" Max turned around, not waiting for an answer as he plated everything he and Rudy apparently spent the evening making. It all smelt like heaven.

"Come on, over here." He guided Rudy deeper into the house, to the dining table. "The plates are over there, I'll get the cutlery," he commanded easily.

"Gotcha," answered the kid, but it didn't look like he was willing to make conversation as of right now. Bart wasn't worried; Tim always said he could befriend rocks if he put his mind to it. The silence also didn't last long, they were speedsters after all, or as Wally called them, professional yappers, and that was a title Bart and Max (despite all of his slow and quiet charade) wielded proudly.

"How was service today? Did Matilda give you any grief this time?" He spoke loudly towards the kitchen, making sure he wasn't screaming. Max caught up quick with his intention, and although usually the setting of the table and serving of food was a rare quiet affair in the Crandall household, that was a tradition that they were willing to sacrifice in favor of their guest.

"Oh kid, you have no idea. Apparently, my biscuits are too sweet for her delicate stomach," Max answered, the latter part of his sentence using a high-pitched voice, with a clearly sarcastic and mocking tone.

"Oh, she didn't!" bounced Bart back, with a really offended tone. It would be a lie to say it was completely exaggerated; Matilda was insufferable.

"Yeah she did. And in front of everybody, loudly. Can you believe it?" continued Max. And so they went, going back and forth with miscellaneous gossip and what happened in their week. They might have turned up the drama just a little, but if it made their guest laugh under his breath, then no one needed to know. Before they knew it, they were sitting at the table full of all the dishes their speedster's hearts could ever desire.

"Bon appétit!" exclaimed Bart before digging in ungracefully, and Max sighed disappointedly, only to start eating himself. Rudy, despite his obvious hunger, didn't start eating, however, looking at Bart and Max with wide and expectant eyes.

"Come on, kid, feel free to dig in. You put more effort into making this food than that caveman over there," Max told him, gesturing towards Bart with his fork. Bart only acknowledged the comment by sticking his tongue out, you know, like a gentleman. "You'll like it. Food tastes better when you make it yourself."

The kid nodded cautiously and started eating. His shy act only lasted a couple of bites, as apparently hunger is stronger than learned politeness. Bart knows that well. It didn't take long for the kid to start eating like it was going to be his last meal, and Bart noticed how Max took a suspiciously long swig of water to hide his pleased smile. That old softy.

"This is so good," Rudy commented when he finally slowed down.

"I know right! Gramps' cooking is the best, I swear," Bart seconded.

"It's just practice, and as I said, making it yourself makes it taste better," Max reiterated with a cheeky wink. 

"Yeah, but nothing I have ever made has tasted this good, like, ever," repeated Rudy, and it was like a breath of fresh air to listen to the kid say a full sentence without stuttering.

"Oh? You cook?" asked Bart between bites, unwilling to let go of this opportunity to let the kid open up.

"I mean… sorta? My dad sure didn't, so someone had to. Instant rice and ramen barely count as cooking though." Hanging around orphans and a general repertoire of traumatized teens had taught Bart that asking where the kid's mom was, was a terrible idea. He exchanged a quick glance with Max: Tread carefully, it seemed to say.

"Oh boy, do I know the struggle," he started, aiming for a sympathetic tone. "I'm from a looooong line of scientists, and believe me, a lot of people would assume that being able to put together a proton accelerator machine is interchangeable with making a single bowl of soup; it is not." He finished with a laugh. Rudy gave Max a questioning look.

"I've been retired a long time. Gives time to get into a couple of hobbies. Physics are fascinating, yes, but there is only so much one can take before going insane. I'm currently taking care of this little rascal because his parents are a couple of busy bees," Max slid down the white lie without flinching, and Bart decided to not comment, only shrugging when Rudy turned to look at him with sympathy.

"I, uh, knew a lot of scientists because of my father's work. He wasn't one… just worked with them. I—" he seemed to hesitate, moving his eyes between Max and Bart, clearly weighing the risk of what he was about to say. "I'm a military brat, so there weren't a lot of kids to hang out with, so I would just… go hang around the scientists. I learned that if you ask them stuff, they are usually happy to talk about their field of study. That's the story of how I know more about molecular thermodynamics than I do about pre-calculus," he laughed a little bit, more self-deprecating than anything else.

He filed that information in his head to parse through the implications later. Right now, they were about to have a breakthrough with the kid.

"Daaamn—" 'Language,' chastised Max in the background, but Bart paid him no mind. "—that sounds like it sucks. But yeah, I get it, scientists get a bad rep, but most of them are pretty chill and fun to hang around. Any in particular that were your favorite? I know I did. My dad had this coworker called Cisco that had a game where he would see how many candies he could sneak me before my dad noticed." He laughed again. He was hoping to get a name out of the kid; maybe they could zero in on a single person and work backwards from there.

The kid also let out a small laugh, but it died quickly. "Yeah, there was," he answered quietly, turning his gaze towards his plate with a small smile that almost looked… guilty? "He was nice; he would accompany me during his lunches, and would use his free time to show me around the lab, even the stuff that he definitely shouldn't have," he let out a bitter laugh. "His name was Dr. Allen. Pretty cool dude."

At the name drop, he had to make a conscious effort to not tense up, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Max do the same. There was no need to jump to conclusions; there were around 482,607 people in the US with the surname Allen, not only that, but the way the kid was talking about him, it sounded like his Dr. Allen was dead. Maybe it was related to his meta powers? Questions for later, he reminded himself in a voice that sounded too much like Tim. The only thing that it meant right now was that they had to search for a military scientist with the Allen surname, easy peasy. It looked like both him and Max took too long to answer, as Rudy turned his gaze up, now slightly panicked, no doubt wondering if he said too much. Fuck, time to divert the conversation. Improvise.

"Max, I'm getting a mullet. He convinced me," he said immediately, faking that the attentive stare he is giving Rudy was because of his hair and not because he was trying to dissect his actual identity.

"Absolutely not, you are not," answered equally as fast Max, once again flawlessly following the lead that Bart set up. "With that floof of a head of yours, it's going to be closer to a Mohawk than a mullet."

"First of all, don't diss the floof. Second of all, you say that like it's a bad thing—" And so the dinner went, with mindless topics being bounced around, gathering some info on the kid (nothing substantial though) and ignoring how Rudy kept sneaking little pieces of food into his bag. At the very least, the kid didn't look like he was going to leave the moment they averted their gazes.

When the kid let out an involuntary yawn, they decided to call it a night. It only took a little prodding to convince the kid that he didn't have to help clean up—'That's the job of those who don't cook,' said Max with a pointed look towards Bart that he also pointedly ignored—but they eventually managed to send him on his way towards the guest room, mostly by telling him about the fully stocked shower that was waiting for him there.

Once they were sure the kid was gone, they turned to look at each other, closing the kitchen door just in case.

"So, what do you think?" asked Max.