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You feel like you’re gambling on a wing and a prayer when you approach Wally’s quarters, swallowing a deep breath as you hear the familiar plod of footsteps through the door that hisses open with a sigh.
You offer your best bravefaced grimace as you adjust the textbook in your hand and look at a familiar face that seems to light up upon seeing you—before a touch of confusion drapes over it as he looks down to the gifts you come bearing in folded arms.
“Hey Wally, do you have a second?” You ask, trying to keep him from voicing the momentary bewilderment on his face. The half-smile returns as he looks back up to you.
“For you? I have several.” He says, and the compliment doesn’t go by the wayside—you leap on it with your best foot forward.
“Okay, well since you do—”—you smile bracingly at him—“I wanted to ask if there’s something that you can do. I mean—”—his perplexion returns, so you do your best to explain—“—I saw your uncle do it once, so I wanted to know if you can do it.”
At the mention of the shadow he seems to always find himself consumed by, his face becomes a tad more determined at this yet-unspoken challenge that you lobby his way, his shoulders broadening out as he goes to meet it.
“Yeah, sure. What is it?” The curiosity is undeniable in his voice now, his gaze darting back down to the book that still remains the precarious elephant in the room you’ve carried to him.
“Uh—can you learn languages?” You ask, which sounds dumb, so you try to attach it to a follow-up question. “Like really, really fast?”
“How do you think I passed remedial French?” He asks, leaning an elbow on the door, casual now—this is no great hurdle that you’ve asked him to clear, apparently.
“Really?” You ask, dubiously, because this is a feat that even heroes struggle with. At least, if the way that you’ve watched Dick stumble over conjugating Tamaran to Kori’s entertainment is any indicator.
“Sure.” Wally’s face is even more confident now, eager to dispel the disbelieving quality of your question. “What language are we talking about?”
“Okay, well first off, if you’re busy, I don’t want you to worry about it—”—you begin, shifting the hefty textbook to one hand. Because apparently, now that you’re here and your goal is so close within reach, you feel intent to shoot yourself in the foot, this reticent shyness rearing its head to stop at the finish line.
Wally holds up his own hands to pause you in your tracks. “It’s no bother for me. I’m happy to help—but you can't keep me in the dark. So, what is it?”
You finally turn your attention down to the intimidating mahogany book that you’ve toted down a few flights of stairs to him, proffering it out to his awaiting hands. “Well, it’s a little more complex—it’s Japanese.”
This is no great obstacle for the fastest man alive, who makes a pssht noise through his teeth as he accepts the weight into his arms. His finger crooks to open the hardcover, a pleased smile dancing over his face. “Oh, I already speak a little.”
“You do?” You ask, frowning at this unexpected tidbit he drops in your lap.
He shrugs, indifferent to your surprise. “I get bored a lot.”
“Well.” You hesitate, stewing over this information. “I made the mistake of adding this to my grad school courses because I thought it’d be an easy A—”
“Yeah, that was a mistake.” Wally’s eyes flit up to you from the introductory page he’s flipping through, always happy to poke the bear—you offer him your best unimpressed glare.
“—And our midterm is going to be a sit-down conversation with the TA. So I just need to practice with someone who speaks the language, but the problem is—”
“No Japanese speakers to be found, huh?” He asks sympathetically—but not too much; after all, if it weren’t for this conundrum, then you wouldn’t be here at his door, begging for his help, would you?
You hold your hands as means of offering out your proposal. “But if a speaker could be created, shall we say—”
“Then your problems are solved, huh?” Now he grins, because this is where his role comes into play as he tears his eyes away from the hiragana chart.
“That’s the hope. I will be in your personal debt forever, I’m quite aware—”—You clasp up your hands as if in prayer, hoping that he will acquiesce to your meager offer of lifetime indebtedness, trailing off into silence.
“I know, I know, but we can figure that out later.” He says, letting his voice kick in a notch of reassurance to you. You finally feel comfortable enough to smile back.
“I knew there was something I liked about you, Wally.” You say, putting your hands on your hips as you regard the picture. Granted, there’s more that you certainly like, but listing these qualities now while you plead fealty in exchange for services doesn’t seem quite opportune.
“Music to my ears,” he replies glibly, and then finally reaches the table of contents, scanning the sections of daily life that your textbook is delineated to. “Okay, so what’s your level?”
“Um,” you begin hesitatingly, because it is a beginner course but you are still at the most pedestrian of levels, “I can ask you what time it is—“
“Good start,” he says, his finger tracing down the segmented chapters, his brow deepening as he reads.
“—Thank you. They said the conversation would be mostly around practicing directions and locations, so I really only think you need to go to chapter 4–”
At this you point down to where the book has titled Supermarket and Department Store, so you really miss the opportunity to see that odd glint in his eye that you’ve caught every-so-often when he looks your way. It’s a deep in thought, contemplative, near-disassociating look that you’ve come to know quite well, being the oft-time recipient of it, though you’ve yet to ever get to the bottom of it.
“Uh-huh, got it,” he acknowledges in that voice that says he’s half-listening, half-distracted—and then your eyes barely register the lightspeed flip of pages, save for the afterimages of crooked, turning hands, the breeze on your face manifested from nowhere.
And then he’s at the back of the book, the near-blank afterword cover greeting you. You look up to him, bemused.
“Wally, I’m fairly certain that’s past chapter 4.” You return dryly.
“Can’t help it if I'm an overachiever.” He returns, clearly unrepentant. “So where do you want to start,” he says, his voice transitioning to the language you’ve spent the past half-quarter struggling over—“—“<At the train station, or the supermarket?>”
“Oh boy.” You sigh through your smile, because it seems like it’s going to be a long day.
There are two parts that your TA says that you’ll have to practice for—the first where you will be given a map and have to help them weave a path to the bus stop. The second will be where you have to walk through a department store to buy something for a friend for the holidays.
The bus stop, it seems, will be the bane of your existence. You slump your head onto the cool metal that seems so conveniently ready for you to smash your skull into—the only thing that stays your hand is the presence of Wally beside you, diligently enduring your suffering with you.
“I’m going to scream.” You say. “Why is language so hard for me?”
“Seems pretty easy over here—”—comes the endearingly infuriating voice next to you—“—Maybe you should just develop super speed.”
“Yes, yes,” you nod in abject agreement, “I’ll get right on that.”
“Okay, let’s try this,” Wally says, pointing at the ramshackle map he (literally) whipped up in a second for you, switching back to Japanese, “<Where is the bus stop?>”
Your response, thankfully, is stuttering, but legible, as you screw your face up to the vaulted ceiling above you both. “<The b-bus stop is over—to the left, by the harbor.>”
Wally nods, and then says something too quickly, far too complex for your acumen—you frown as you catch vocabulary you’ve practiced only briefly, when you had to make introductions in class. Pretty, and eyes—everything else is indiscernible to you.
You blink at him, lost barely describing how you feel. “What?”
“What?” He asks innocently, feigning surprise at your obtuseness. “I can’t practice my own skills that I picked up from your suffering?”
“Not until I figure out how to pay my fare on this damn bus.” You point accusatorily towards his chicken scratch doodle that appears to have all the concepts of a bus but none of the actual bearings of one.
“Okay, then—”—he obliges, a playful look on his face—“<When you get to the harbor, where do you turn?>”
“<When—when you get there, you have to take a forward direction. Until—>” you glower into the distance, at a loss for words, scraping from the well that you’ve amassed and coming up empty.
“<Until you walk into the water?>” he’s got a shit-eating grin that tempts you to push him off his chair. He’s lucky he’s such a good looking picture in it or else you might.
“<Yes. No.>” you catch yourself, shooting a scowl his way he returns with a cheeky smile. “Gah—maybe.”
You glare at the little person that he’s scribbled down in an instant while you were considering a daytime swim. Their guileless smile mocks you.
“Can you just drown me now?” You ask curiously, putting your hands down on the table as you look back to him.
Infuriatingly, Wally falls back upon his previous tactic, opting for something far too advanced—the verbal snippets you are able to parse through are “smile” and “love.”
“Not helping.” You add, cupping your chin in your hand as you re-assess your life choices.
“Could’ve sworn it was.” He adds cheerfully. At least someone is satisfied out of the two of you.
“If I can say at least one word for ‘shirt,’ isn’t that a start?” You ask, looking at the mock-up of the department store chart you spent a few minutes crafting up with him.
“Sure, but if it’s winter, don’t you want to know the difference between a tank top and a jacket?” Wally asks, cocking an eyebrow. The fact his question actually makes real, logical sense also seems to aggravate you a tad more—but not by much.
“Well,” you reason in your counter-argument, “If I do ever go to Japan, I’ll still have my eyes, theoretically.”
“Famous last words,” he warns in a singsong voice.
“Don’t jinx me,” you grin. “Besides, everyone says it’s better to go to Japan during wintertime. Summer’s a real killer over there.”
“They do say Mt. Fuji is pretty beautiful that time of year.” He says, and for good measure, a mountain manifests besides the impromptu department store, for aesthetic purposes. Though you’re not certain Mt. Fuji has ever had such sparkling bishie eyes.
“Well, when I pass this with flying colors, then we can go to celebrate.” You say with steadfast firmness to your voice you’re not certain your skills can uphold.
“Sounds like a date to me.” Wally casually returns, and before you can really process that gauntlet thrown before you (or the warmth it inspires under your cheeks), he transforms into a stately department store clerk before your eyes. “<So, what are you looking for again?>”
He gestures to your map for the evening as you straighten in your seat, trying to find words to articulate yourself.
“<I am looking for a long sleeve for cold weather.>” you offer your best pronunciation.
Wally does that thing again—where he jumps a few levels too advanced for you; but this time you’ve been practicing your vocabulary to steeple yourself for the challenge of the awaiting midterm. This time, you pluck three words you comprehend from the incomprehensible—“intelligent,” “beautiful,” and “body.”
You furrow your brow, though you can’t stop the smile from rising to your face again. “Jerk—stop flexing your intellectual prowess over me.”
He shrugs, indifferent to your incapability—practically relishing it, you think. “Maybe you should just read the textbook a few more times and you'll be good to go.”
“No—”—you disagree with a grin, pointing directly at him—“That’s what I paid you the big bucks to do.”
“I didn’t know three subway sandwiches were the big bucks.” He shoots back, and there’s a teasing fondness in his eyes as he regards you.
“To a struggling grad student,” you coolly respond, “It’s a veritable wealth.”
“Cool—”—he agrees, playing along, “Now say ‘veritable’ in Japanese.”
“Best I can do is ‘socks.’” You respond with all the authority you can muster.
Wally laughs to the ceiling, and you can’t help but let the butterflies flutter in your stomach as you watch him do so.
Dick is in town for a spell, so he plays audience to the last practice session before you go in for your midterm the next day. You and Wally take up residence in the near-empty mess hall, Dick a few tables away. You’ve practiced relentlessly with Wally, and when you speak there’s a confidence that you feel like you didn’t possess before. All thanks to your conversational partner.
“<So, how do you get to the bus stop from here?>” he asks, pointing at a specific location on the map—for the occasion, he’s actually located the real deal from a route that apparently is in Okinawa. You frown as you look over the detailed legend, trying to discern the meaning of the words on the printed, glossy paper.
“<You have to go down the street, and turn right at the supermarket.>” You dictate, tracing your finger down the road as you explain them to him.
“<And after the supermarket?>” He asks, watching you carefully. “<Where then?>”
”<You have to go forward. When you are at the school, turn right again and then you are there.>”
“<And how much is a bus ticket?>” Wally asks, and holds another article that he’s snatched from the source—he holds out a billfold that you turn and open twice, trying to discern the words that you can understand piecemeal from the whole. Over Wally’s shoulder behind you, you see Dick look up in your periphery as you squint at the words.
“<A ticket costs 300 yen.>” you say after a long pause, finally locating the fine print that informs you so.
“<And how much for both ways?>” Wally asks—this prompts another prolonged search as you look carefully, humming as you search.
“<For both ways—750 yen.>” you assert, looking up to see a wide, congratulatory smile on his face as he nods happily.
Wally nods approvingly. “<Great. But for free—>”—At this, his words diverge, once again, beyond your understanding, though this time you’re expecting it and only grace it with an eyeroll. You don’t catch the way that Dick looks up from his table, ramrod straight—your attention is only devoted to the smiling man opposite you.
“<Good job, young pupil.>” He compliments you, to which you respond with a pirouette of your hand as you incline your head to him in a bow.
“<Thank you, young teacher.>” you reply graciously, and you watch as he angles his head back at the clock bolted to the wall—at this, Dick turns back to the contraption that he’s supposedly diligently working over, feigning productivity. When Wally turns back to you, you can’t help but feel something wistful, longing turn in your chest as he gives you an apologetic smile.
“Okay, I think I have to head out now.” He grimaces, clearly unhappy at the prospects of abandoning you to solo practice. “Roy still owes me that favor.”
“Is he also compensating you with sandwiches?” you ask him wryly as he pushes himself to his feet with a gusting sigh.
“No—you’re my only sandwich supplier,” he returns cockily, and even though it’s a goofy title, you straighten your shoulders with pride. “Wouldn’t want anyone else competing for your title.”
“And proud of it.” You return with a smirk. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it,” he says as he turns to leave, “You’ve already had the best teacher you could’ve asked for.”
With that, it’s almost like he disappears, his afterimage burned into your vision as you blink it away in his wake. You don’t even realize that there’s a small smile on your face until Dick speaks up, saying your name. You turn to see him stand from his seat, abandoning the contraption on his original table.
“Hey,” Dick says as he rounds the corner of his table, walking to yours, “Do you know what Wally’s saying?”
“Yeah,” you nod, feeling that odd sensation of bewilderment again, “He’s been helping me with my midterm.”
“No,” Dick shakes his head, as though you’re not quite getting it. “Do you understand everything he’s saying?”
You feel a little foolish as you relay your answer, “Oh. Well—not everything. He’s been messing with me a little bit.”
“Little bit how?” Dick asks, taking the opposite seat that Wally occupied moments before, eyes carefully appraising your reaction.
“Uh—”—you begin, running your tongue over your lips—“—He read the whole book back and forth before we started practicing, so he’s been messing with me. You know, using the vocab that I haven’t gotten around to yet.”
“Huh.” Dick asks, and rubs his jaw as if he’s thinking about how to break it to you.
“Do you know what he’s saying?” You ask, wondering if you should be worried—Dick nods.
“Sure. Bruce and I went to go and train in Japan for a few months so I had to pick it up.” He explains.
“Well…” you trail off, not quite sure you understand why you feel so nervous. “What’s he saying, then? It is…bad?”
“No.” Dick holds up a hand to reassure you. “At least—you won’t think it’s bad.”
“Well, then what is it?” You ask, furrowing your brow.
“I think,” he diplomatically replies, “Maybe you should ask him about it. In a language that you’re both fluent in.”
At this, Dick claps his hands to his knees and stands up to return to his table, leaving you with a great deal to think about.
You find Wally the next day, with a certain pep in your step, a beaming smile emblazoned to your face that has yet to fade in the past hour since you’ve inherited it. As you approach, you watch as his expression mirrors your own, crossing the distance to beeline over to you.
“How’d you do?” He excitedly demands, holding out his hands to await your answer—you flourish the scorecard that’s been glued to your hand for the past hour.
“Read it and weep,” you reply smartly as you pass it over to him, watching as his eyes alight with alight with joy as he takes in the perfect score written hastily over the page.
“Flying colors,” Wally nearly shouts, a broad grin spreading over his face, “I knew you’d do great.”
“Well, having a fantastic teacher sure didn’t hurt my chances,” you reply coyly and he returns your compliment with a humble shrug.
“Always happy to lend my services,” he retorts, and it’s here that you feel like it’s time to finally put an end to the charade.
“But,” you continue purposefully, and it’s the way that you deliver it that makes him turn from admiring the scorecard to you, “I think it’s time for you to come clean, Wally.”
“About what?” But his poker face is terrible, his face already turning a light shade of pink, growing redder.
“About how you can’t pay for bus tickets with kisses.” You reply calmly, and this is what turns his face from red to a blatant crimson.
“Well—”—for once, it seems that he’s at a loss for words, though he recovers with startling panache—“—In my book, maybe you should.”
“Not in my textbook, though.” You say, and perhaps it’s the fact that you have a slow-growing smile on your face that keeps him from turning into another startling silhouette in your vision. You approach him the way you would a shy doe, ready to bolt at any sudden indication of danger.
“Please tell me you didn’t tell your professor that.” He says after a prolonged moment, the blush yet to retreat from his face.
“No—Dick made sure to advise me away from that.” You reassure him. It’s a task in itself to suppress a laugh as he makes a noise of disappointment at Dick the Snitch, grief wracking his features at this imminent betrayal.
“Oh—ratted me out.” His shoulders slump as his head bobs in abject disappointment. This is short-lived, though, as his head turns back up to you, warily cautious. “And you’re…not mad?”
“No—”—finally, you feel like you can laugh, though making him twist in the wind certainly did have its fleeting joys. “I just wish you had said something ahead of time—instead of doing all that.”
You gesture at the ridiculousness of the past few weeks, and he has the good graces to offer you an embarrassed chuckle.
“See, it was all part of my master plan.” Wally holds his hands out palm up to try and reason his scheme to you. “Have you figure out what I was saying as you got better and better at the language—”
For the Fastest Man Alive, he sure doesn’t seem to be able to stop you as you close the small distance between you both, snag the collar to his shirt, and pull him down into a kiss. He makes a jolted noise of surprise as you press your mouth to his, though this relaxes into a blissful noise of relief mixed with pleasure as he realizes that everything is, impossibly enough, going according to plan. His hands slide around you, pulling you closer to him as the two of you finally make up for blessedly lost time.
You pull away when you feel like your point is clearly made, grinning at the dazed, dreamy happiness on his face.
“And have to wait three months until we get to the chapter with body parts?” You ask, arching a brow at the best laid plans of Wally West. “No way.”
“I guess we could start a crash course now,” He gives you a salacious smile, “If you really wanted to.”
You sigh, but can’t help but let a corner of your mouth turn up. “Shut up and kiss me again, Wally.”
Wally, it turns out, is all-too-happy to assist.