Chapter Text
Barry sipped from his sugar-laden mug of coffee as he read the latest advancements in forensics technology, his discarded cowl resting on the table. He didn't turn around when he heard footsteps pad across the carpet, nor when the coffee maker sputtered to life.
I could've sworn Snow was working on something similar to this.
Someone really needed to look at that dinosaur. The little one-serve machine was a fixture in the common area since the Justice League first moved into the Watchtower. There was a bet pool going on when the thing would finally give up, how it would die, and who would get fed up enough to buy a new one.
Oh, they're tracing light bleaching patterns instead of chemical scarring.
He overheard Batman calling the thing a dirt-gargling piece of rusted metal one time, which was hilarious and disturbing at the same time. Do not get between any Leaguer and coffee. Just don't.
It could work, but how are they compensating for different light sources? And how is it limited spectrum-wise?
The blond hummed and turned the page to read an article on the latest science fair at his nephew's school. The tips of his gloves bunched up a little and crinkled the corner, which he smoothed out.
Congrats, Wally! I'd better make sure to file for a half-day to celebrate with him.
The coffee maker beeped its 'merry' jingle-- which actually sounded like an ice cream truck on crack-- then someone poured a cup. There was some fumbling as whoever it was cleaned the machine for the next person. That narrowed it down to three people: Victor, Clark, and--
I wonder if Wally would like a caffeine chemistry set. Is eleven too early for him to have coffee, even if it is for educational purposes?
Barry heard the distinctive rattle of chocolate chips. White chocolate chips with dark chocolate pips, to be exact. The white chocolate was softer than most kinds and thudded rather than plunked, while the pips sounded like the seed beads in Iris's sewing kit.
When is Valentine's Day again? I should probably stop by her favorite crafts shop and pick up that tiered box she's been talking about.
No matter how many times he searched the local grocery stores, he could never find that combination. Fortunately, this particular person didn't mind sharing their stash, saying something about the kitchen having a pocket dimension for exotic ingredients. Probably said in jest, but that would be so awesome.
Maybe some chocolates would be good too. Is her current favorite orange-infused or lemon-infused?
"Hey, Cap, may I have a small cup of chocolate chips?" The movement stopped for a moment, then he heard a cabinet open and glass scrape. A grin broke out across his face. "Thank you!" There was no verbal response, but the rustling continued.
Cap's pretty quiet at the moment. Is everything okay?
Barry took another sip of his coffee, making a face when he noticed that the sugar had already started to separate from the liquid. He heard the television on the other side of the room turn on to a nature documentary, then footsteps again.
Ah, he turned on one of those peaceful 'life' shows. Sounds like he just had a rough night. The poor guy seems to work 24/7.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a shot glass of chocolate goodness and a coaster float over to the table, the floppy piece of rubber wavering in the air before firmly planting itself on the surface and the glass following suit. The speedster grinned.
I still don't know how 'magic' works, but it seems to still adhere to some semblance of physics. Maybe it's related to the way some 'sorcerers' can jump dimensions?
Barry popped a pinch in his mouth before pouring the rest in his coffee, swirling the liquid to mix it all together. The white chocolate melted quickly, but there were still some dark flecks.
Maybe Wally would like a chocolate kit instead? I'm probably over-thinking this.
He continued reading his article, enjoying the coffee and the calm music in the background- although his eye twitched every time the narrator said "nuculer" instead of "nuclear." At least the documentary didn't try to use a soundtrack meant for action films to hype up the nonexistent drama.
For a guy who's lived for millennia, he sure enjoys learning new things. I hope I continue learning as much in my later years.
Barry chuckled when he remembered the times Captain Marvel used the facts he learned on a mission. Who knew a giant kraken would be susceptible to a sudden change in pressure? The thing was just ticked off that it was brought out of its home in the deep.
Sounds like a certain simian friend of mine. Wonder how Solovar is doing.
"Cap, did you know that NASA's space probe found evidence of life in the vacuum of space?"
A voice squeaked from the other side of the room, "Really?! That's awesome!"
Barry winced. Did demigods get colds? The guy sounded like one of those chipmunk from the shorts Wally liked to watch when he was little. He shrugged. Maybe one of the guy's rogues Silvia (Snazzy?) did something weird earlier and it just hadn't had time to wear off yet.
I really hope Wally doesn't have to go through the squeaky phase when he gets older.
Looking over his shoulder, the speedster asked, "You doing okay, Cap? Your voice sounds a bit off there." But he didn't see the characteristic white cape draped over the back of the couch or broad shoulders as expected. Instead, an unruly tuft of black hair poked over the cushion. He frowned.
Maybe he's slouching? I know I've told him to relax, but that seems out of character.
The voice squeaked again. "What're you talking about? This is how I normally speak." Now that he was paying attention, Barry could hear a slight lisp turning the 's' sounds into 'th'.
When Wally just started talking, his pronunciation was perfect, and he chattered about anything and everything the moment he thought it. But, from how Rudy and Mary were going on at the time, I suppose that having trouble with speaking is typical for younger children.
The world fell to a crawl as he stood up, abandoning his coffee cup and magazine. The blond decided to not push in his chair just yet so that he could return to his reading if it was just nothing.
Though when is it ever 'just nothing'?
He took care to not trip over the edge of the carpet as he walked-ran to check on Cap. Leaning over the arm of the couch, he raised his eyebrows at the stranger in the hero's normal place. Or rather, child. "Who are you?"
A pair of big blue eyes tore from the TV as a little boy turned to look at him, his small hands clutching at a cup of mocha. The red hoodie the kid wore swallowed his body, but thin wrists and slim shoulders hinted at a smaller frame.
His feet barely passed the edge of the cushion.
"What d'ya mean, Barry? It's me." The boy's voice was light and familiar, as though he encountered him on a daily basis, and the corners of his eyes were crinkled with confused amusement.
Hold up. Blue eyes, black hair, slight build? If not for the different speech patterns and get up, this kid can pass as one of Batman's flock. (That dude has a problem.) Although the face structure and fondness for red does seem familiar...
"...Cap? What happened to you?"
The boy bleerily blinked once, his brow furrowed as he looked back at Barry over his mug. "Yeah...? What are you--oh."
Cap looked down at his hands and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with the free one in an all-too-adult fashion. "I'll take care of it."
The raven slid off the couch, chugged the remaining drink, and stalked off. A moment later the Boomtube announced Captain Marvel's departure.
Barry blinked and opened his mouth only to close it again.
What the-what just happened?
"What do you do when you fly too high?"
Clark looked down from the stars at the sound of a young voice.
He saw a little boy in the glass.
The little boy's hands were stuffed in the pouch of his oversized red sweatshirt, his shoulders proudly, confidently rolled back and his feet shoulders' length apart as though he could take on the world.
But the little boy also looked exhausted. Too thin were his limbs, too clouded were his eyes (the color of which were obscured by the reflection of the thousand stars and planets that the boy was watching quietly), and the boy himself was too...too...rundown. The boy looked like he was a few minutes away from falling asleep.
Clark did not know the little boy, nor how he had gotten into the Watchtower, and he was concerned.
He hadn't even heard him walk over, and his heartbeat and breathing were...muted, indiscernable, just barely there for him to know the boy was alive.
Or was he?
His spine crawled. Perhaps the boy was another ghost, or a hallucination. He was tired after all, and they had many artifacts in custody. The boy didn't look like one of Batman's brood, nor like his own boys.
Clark kept his voice light, not wanting to startle whatever the boy was, human or ghost or otherwise. "Well, I've never gone too high," he told the little boy. "My body makes it possible to fly high enough to breach the atmosphere and go beyond."
The boy nodded once, his chin touching the fabric of his collar. "Okay."
They stood there in silence, Clark watching the boy's reflection out of the corner of his eye, and the boy looking out at the Earth with a strange, knowing innocence. The description was contradictory, but it fit.
"Are you sure?" The boy still did not look at him, but the question was there.
Clark nodded. "Yes, I am sure."
The boy furrowed his brow. "What if somebody's with you? What then?"
"Well," Clark shrugged. "I suppose I just fly lower."
"How do you know you're flying low enough?"
Clark frowned. "I just do. Why do you ask?"
The boy sighed. "I'm scared, sometimes, that I'll fly too high by accident. Icarus did, you know, and the wax of his wings melted in the sun. He flew too high, defied his place on the earth as a human, and the gods smited him."
The boy looked him in the eyes through the reflection. "So, Supahman, what do you do when you fly too high?"
"I don't know," Clark admitted. "I just try to do my best. That's all we can do after all, isn't it?"
The boy nodded, more satisfied with this answer, and his eyes drifted back to Earth. He bounced on the balls of his feet, thinking of something. After a moment, he turned and looked at Clark. "Thanks. I needed that."
Clark smiled. "No problem."
The boy took one hand from his pocket and put it up to shake. Clark turned to look at the boy, and realized that the boy was real.
He took the boy's hand in his and shook it, wondering at how thin and scarred it was, how human the boy seemed, then let go.
The little boy grinned. The dimpled smile was familiar. So were those cornflower eyes.
When the boy turned away, there was a hand stitched yellow lightning bolt on the back of his sweatshirt.
Clark realized with a jolt that the little boy was none other than Captain Marvel.
By the time he thought to call after him, the boy was gone.
The next night, Captain Marvel was laughing at some joke Flash had told as if nothing had happened.
Captain Marvel was an adult.
Clark never found out what that little boy was after all.