Work Text:
It’s 2am on a Tuesday in Keystone City, and Wally West is on his way to work.
The industrial depot next to the Route 67 highway is a long commute from his apartment in the centre of town, but it’s not like he has any other options. His car gets him there fast enough.
Not as fast as he used to be able to run, but fast enough to keep him from wanting to chew his own skin off. Mostly.
He goes as fast as the limit allows in the inner city, but once he’s out, once the roads are quiet, the traffic cameras sparser, and the only other drivers on the road are late-night trucks and the occasional commuter buses, he steps on the gas and watches the speed meter tick up up and up.
The needle fans out in waves along with his heart rate. Wally soaks up all the adrenaline his body is pumping out, closing his eyes and sighing in his seat. It feels so, so good.
He knows this is wrong.
He knows this is very illegal, and very reckless.
He shouldn’t be doing this, let alone enjoying it, and yet.
Nothing, and no one else in this world, has brought him even close to the highs he used to reach when he had access to the speedforce.
The turn to the depot comes up. He doesn’t slow down, and instead drifts into the entrance around the back of the main building. Other cars are already gathered there, facing the Colorado mountains under clear skies and a bright crescent moon.
It’s busier than usual tonight, with more drivers and more groupies gathered at the start of the race. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, and there’s a general atmosphere of dangerous excitement in the air.
Wally needs to win one more race, and it has to be tonight. One more win to gain the full trust of Keystone’s City's most dangerous gang, to find out more about the bigger operation they had planned.
When Wally got cut off from the speedforce, the first few months felt like an eternity of torture. Organised crime slowly realised that The Flash was gone and trickled back into the city. The Rogues took over, and things have gotten more and more dangerous for the average citizen.
Wally overheard a conversation one day while at the garage, about the fact that these new crime bosses are sponsoring illegal street races around the city, and thus an idea was born.
While signing in for tonight’s race, Wally takes the opportunity to ask about the crowd.
“You haven’t heard?” the man adjusts his red beanie over his head to look up at Wally, then points at the two cars behind them. “You’re relay racing tonight. You’re with the kid from Gotham, while the other driver from Haven will be teaming up with Glider.”
“What?” Wally shakes his head. “No, I didn’t agree to a relay race. Especially not with someone I’ve never met.”
“Take it up with our sponsors. They pay for what they wanna see, and tonight, they wanna see a relay race. So, you in or out? If you drop out, they won’t give you another chance. Plus, everyone who bet on you will need to forfeit their money, and we won’t be so happy about that, Red.”
Not much of a choice, then.
Wally sighs.
“Fine. Are we starting on time?”
“Yeah, so better go and talk tactics with your new teammate. Go and earn us some money tonight, yeah, Red?”
*
Wally walks over to the Gothamite’s car. It’s red and black, and Wally wonders for a second if the driver repainted it on purpose so that they would match colours tonight, or if this is all just a coincidence.
Wally’s theory is dead on arrival the second the driver looks up from under the hood.
“Tim?”
It’s Tim Drake, AKA Red Robin, AKA someone who should have no business being here at all.
He’s back to peering into the engine, bent over in black jeans and a white t-shirt when Wally approaches.
“Surprise,” Tim says, without turning around.
Wally cuts straight to the chase.
“Why are you my racing partner tonight?”
“Well, that's kind of a long story that we don’t exactly have time to go over,” Tim answers, running a hand through his hair and adjusting something in the engine, before throwing his hands up in defeat and slamming the hood shut.
He turns around and wipes his hands against his jeans.
“So, are you going to take the first leg or the second leg of the race? I want to take one last look at those maps before we start, seeing as I was only given a few hours’ notice before being asked to come all the way to the Midwest to do some illegal street racing with you.”
“Tim, seriously, who asked you to come race with me?” Wally then responds to Tim's original question, knowing they’re on the clock. “Take the first leg, it’ll be easier. Watch the roadworks on Industrial Avenue, and traffic cams along Millers. They installed new ones last week.”
“Noted, and already disabled those cameras. First leg it is, then. Oh, and if you want answers, you should ask Player Four over there.”
Wally turns to where Tim is pointing and sees the other new driver tonight talking to Glider, Wally’s original opponent. His car is gorgeous, Wally thinks. Black, sleek, with very subtle dark blue accents under the doors. The man is leaning against it, back turned to Wally, as Glider leans over from the other side, laughing and blushing as she touches his arm.
His eyes trace the man’s silhouette: tight jeans, strong shoulders with a relaxed, confident posture, dark hair, and a blinding smile that flashes sharp under the light of the moon.
Wally’s heart stops for a millisecond.
It’s Dick Grayson, AKA Nightwing, AKA Wally West’s best friend, who he’s been ghosting for the better part of this year. Shit.
Dick turns around as soon as the announcer tells them to get to their starting positions, catching a glimpse of Wally’s blinking stare. He expects some kind of sad or angry expression, which would be totally deserved, given the circumstances in which Wally left things between them, but instead, Dick just smiles.
And then Wally does a double-take, because did Dick also just wink at him?
*
Wally waits at the start of the second leg of the race, right behind the inner-city rail tracks, where a cargo train just went past. Where are you, Tim?
He’s got an iron grip on the wheel, constantly checking the mirror for any sign of anything coming up behind. He makes the mistake of looking over at Dick next to him, who has been just as patient, waiting for Glider to arrive. To his credit, he’s been behaving since they took their starting positions, focusing on his own race instead of taunting (torturing) Wally with more heated glances, sultry smiles, all the classics in the Dick Grayson arsenal.
Wally sees the crowd cheering all of a sudden, as the sound of Glider’s engine closes in. Within a split second, Dick takes off.
Tim radios in, finally.
“Just reached the start of the railroad track. Get ready.”
Wally sighs in relief. Tim’s not too far behind. He can still catch up with Dick even with that head start. He sits up and hovers his foot over the accelerator, watching the headlights from Tim’s car approaching in the rear-view mirror.
Three. . . two. . . one.
He’s off.
Wally manages to focus enough up until the first checkpoint. He drives past The Flash Museum as the crowd shoots a red flare into the sky, not far behind the blue flare, still on its way up.
His eyes linger at the vandalised statues of himself and Jay Garrick, the original Flash, now retired, standing side-by-side outside the museum. There was a break-in last month, which was all over the news. Linda was reporting on it. Jay was probably watching, but Wally never picked up any of his calls to hear what he had to say about it.
With the police department stretched thin across the city, they’ve had no choice but to close it down indefinitely.
Another reminder of Wally’s failures. Another reminder that he’s still that same, stupid, impulsive kid, who could never be trusted with a good thing. Linda. His powers. His place in the Justice League. His best friend.
Wally doesn’t realise that his mind has drifted off for so long, that when he snaps back into it he’s surprised to find that he’s nearly halfway through to the second checkpoint. Even before the racing, navigating every street, every turn, every block in Keystone has been etched into his muscle memory by now.
He startles when a voice comes on the radio.
“Hey, Red.”
Wally tenses at the nickname that, up until tonight, was only used by the Keystone racing crowd. How did he even–?
“I hacked your car,” Dick answers easily, voice smooth and sultry in his speakers, slightly fuzzy against the roaring sound of the engines.
“You shouldn’t be here, Dick,” Wally answers, with added emphasis at the end.
“Oh, I get told I shouldn’t do a lot of things. But what fun would that be?”
Wally rolls his eyes, and then catches a sight of Dick’s car in front of him, just past the second checkpoint. Perfect. Wally can speed up right after the loop around the fountains and overtake Dick in the underpass tunnels.
“I don’t really know what your plan is, but winning this race is actually important to me,” Wally says, concentrating on the drift around the fountains and noticing how Dick has gone a little too wide up ahead.
“You know Tim’s the one who first showed me your racing tapes, picked up on them while monitoring the uptick of crime in Keystone,” Dick continues, pulling back in, and for the first time Wally catches a slight strain in his voice. “I called several times, offered to lend a hand.”
“It’s not your problem,” he answers, inching closer behind Dick as they clear the fountains and accelerate straight for the tunnels.
“You know I kept wondering if it was something I said, or maybe something I didn’t,” Dick confesses, and Wally’s so close to being able to overtake. “You never gave me a chance figure it out. You hurt my feelings, Red.”
It’s enough to make Wally hesitate on stepping on the gas, and Dick manages to switch lanes just as a truck comes up behind, leaving Wally trapped and trailing behind Dick.
Just as Wally’s about to lay out a string of curses, Dick comes back on.
“But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I owe you an apology. You were going through a lot, and I took advantage of that. How vulnerable you were. You needed a friend, and I was a shitty one.”
They’re fully in the tunnels now, so the sound is getting drowned out under the echoing engines, the sound of horns blaring in the distance, the sirens, the fire trucks – everyone’s down here all of a sudden – but Wally’s pretty sure that Dick just apologised to him.
“What the fuck, dude?”
A pause.
“If you’re going to be an ass about my apology, then I don’t know what else to say to you.”
“No, you idiot. Why are you apologising to me at all? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You mean you weren’t avoiding me because of. . . what happened last time?”
Wally’s spine gets a sudden strange chill, back drenched in cold sweat. He sees an opening, at last, and speeds up to finally overtake Dick. It’s slightly risky, given the tunnels are still wet from the rain earlier, a few other cars are now behind them, and a truck is coming in from the other side at full speed.
He gets blinded by the incoming lights, catches a glimpse of Dick’s worried expression from the window, mouthing something that soon travels through the radio.
“Wally – neither of us can slow down!”
Wally’s well aware of that. He keeps accelerating, the weight of the pressure making it feel like an uphill climb, come on, baby, you can do this, until finally he’s fully ahead of Dick. He switches lanes at the very last second, truck blazing past, retinas still hazy with white lights.
He might have felt a tiny notch against his taillight against Dick’s front fender, but it’s nothing to worry about.
Wally clears the tunnels and the next checkpoints easily, with radio silence all the way to the finish line. It’s still his city, after all, even though it hasn’t felt like it in a while.
It feels good to drive through Keystone like that.
(He’d never admit this to anyone, but sometimes, he closes his eyes shut, just for a few seconds, and it almost feels like he’s running again.)
*
Wally takes Tim and Dick for an early morning breakfast out in Chinatown, because even though his super-fast metabolism might be gone, his love of food isn’t.
They’re at a small outdoor table next to a street corner, eating their wonton noodle bowls under fluorescent orange lighting, silently focused and equally exhausted.
Wally’s the first one to finish, though resumes the meal by pecking at the leftover crackers in the middle of the table. Tim is next, getting up to announce that while this was fun and that his debts to Dick have been paid in full now. Wally wonders what kind of favour Tim asked from Dick in the first place to deserve getting roped into this.
Once Tim leaves, it’s just the two of them, and Wally suddenly feels the highs from the race rapidly dissipating into the still air.
Dick’s been quiet since they finished the race, and Wally knows the ball is in his court now.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone,” he starts, and it’s already uncomfortable, and difficult, to admit. “I’m not isolated, I have friends at work, but I just – since the accident, I haven’t spoken to anyone who knew me as The Flash.”
Dick’s eyes are sad. “I don’t understand, Walls. Why?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
“Wally—”
“Hear me out, please? My powers, they changed my life for the better. Every single part of it. I wouldn’t be who I am without them. But now, I’m not the kind of guy anyone respects, or the kind of guy anyone wants – or needs – on their team. Not the Justice League, not even the Titans. I’m not like you, or Bruce, or Tim. I’m not even like Uncle Barry. He was already a CSI before he got his powers, meanwhile me? I got nothing. I probably would’ve ended up doing this eventually, anyway, out of sheer boredom at the nothing-burger that is my life.”
To Dick’s credit, he listens, and he doesn’t sugar-coat things either in his response.
“You know when I first met you, you were like, the most normal kid on our team.”
Wally sighs and snipes another prawn cracker, swirling it in the sweet chili dipping sauce until it nearly goes soggy.
“So, you came all the way here to tell me I’m boring?”
“No, I am trying to tell you that you were the only one among us who seemed like you had a life. Whenever I talked to you about anything – girls, sports, whether I should go to college or not, I was always looking to get advice from you, Wally West, not Kid Flash. I know there’s nothing I can do to fix what happened to you, or to make you feel better about it, but if you were ever my friend, I want you to really listen to me, because what I’m trying to say is – I miss you, and I miss being a part of your life.”
Wally can’t look at Dick right now.
He replays what Dick said in the car, and it was easy enough to tune it out then, to ignore what Dick was saying and focus on the race, the speed, the streets.
But all that noise is gone now, and Wally’s forced to confront all of it again.
His senses awaken at the sudden touch of Dick’s warm hand, resting on top of his. It sends a tiny spark of electricity through his body, and his nerves respond by curling his fingers around Dick’s just a little bit tighter.
They sit like that for a while, exchanging glances down at their interlocked fingers. Wally starts to trace the inside of Dick’s wrist with his other hand; his middle finger and his forefinger pressed closely together, tracing the veins towards Dick’s inner palm, clasped tight with his own.
Wally then lets out a long groan, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach that always seem to violently explode, whenever Dick Grayson melts through all of his best defences.
“I hate that you don’t get turned off by my most annoying traits,” Wally says, at last. “You should.”
He looks back at Dick and finds a cautious smile, slowly growing.
“I hate that I’ve been an asshole to you for a whole year, and you just show up one night, apologising to me,” he continues. “And speaking of, no, I wasn’t avoiding you because we slept together for the first time on the worst day of my life. In fact, the sex made it slightly better, but it was still the worst day of my life, and I was still a mess afterwards. But I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that, though, and I’m really sorry.”
Dick’s smiling like a man who hit the jackpot right now, which flips on a dormant switch inside Wally.
Now, Wally was met with whole new spectrum of slightly terrifying and exciting feelings.
“I can think of a few ways we can both make it up to each other,” Dick suggests.
Before Wally can ask further questions, Dick kicks the big bag of cash under the table that Wally won from the race. It lands on Wally’s feet, the conspicuous lug of evidence, and Dick casts a glance over towards Wally’s car, parked at the end of the street.
“I’d love to take a look inside your engines, Red.”
*
It’s 5am on a Tuesday in Keystone City, and Wally West is on his way home from work.
The car smells like grease, sweat, oily wontons, and stacks of money. Dick had unzipped the bag of cash from Wally’s winnings and let the notes fly all over the car before they started to drive back. It’s obscene, not to mention risky, especially if any cops were to drive by. But Wally doesn’t care, because there’s a gorgeous brunette in his lap giving him spectacular head right now.
Wally isn’t even thinking about what happens next with the racing crew and the gang. He’s sliding deeper into murky territory now, and without a plan, or powers, to take them down, things will likely get even more dangerous.
But right now, none of that matters.
He rests a hand on Dick’s head, who responds with an enthusiastic hum. Wally feels Dick taking in all of him, hitting the back of his throat as it closes in around him—tight, wet, warm, so good. He’s so close.
Wally gently presses his foot down on the accelerator, watching that speed meter inching up up and up. Dick is an idiot to trust him enough to do this. What is wrong with him? It baffles Wally. It gets him hot. He blows his load in the back of Dick’s throat, knuckles white as Dick presses down even further through the aftershocks, swallowing every last drop.
“Shit, that was incredible,” Wally gasps as Dick peels off his lap, slumping back into his own, cash-covered seat with a satisfied grin. He cleans the edges of his mouth with the tip of his finger, delicately dotting at it. “But my post-nut clarity is telling me we shouldn’t do that again.”
“Oh, so now you’re one to preach about road safety?” Dick challenges, amused.
“Point taken. But I can do stupid shit on my own all day - same rules don’t apply when someone else is in the passenger seat. Especially when that person is someone I can’t afford to lose, ever.”
“Hey, Walls. If you’re in, I’m in, remember?”
Really not the lesson Wally was trying to impart onto Dick, but sure.
He appreciates the sentiment. He thinks back to way back when, whenever Kid Flash or Robin asked each other to jump, the only response that would ever come out of the other would be to ask how high. Wally realises now that he’s beyond lucky to have someone like that in his life, and he’s not going to screw it up again this time.
“All right, gorgeous. I’m in, too. Let’s give this another shot.”