A/N: Another chapter. This is what happens when uksarah and I get together and talk about weird things. And when I do Physics homework.
Warning: Shouldn't the chapter title explain it? (i.e. If you didn't see the chapter title, the warning is for alcohol.)
Roy and Bart both blinked rapidly, watching the drunken Wally meander around the dingy apartment in Washington DC. Harper hadn't believed it possible for a speedster to get drunk with the whole metabolism thing and then a triple dog dare had been mentioned. It was all downhill from there. (Although some magic booze had helped aid the process. Thank you, Zatanna!)
"Make me a sandwich, woman!" Wally demanded of Bart, glaring at him furiously. "I wanted my sandwich an hour ago, minion!"
Aside to Roy, Bart quietly noted, "He's only been drunk for like twenty minutes."
"Where is my sandwich?!" called Wally again, now to the rafters of Roy's torn-up, trainwreck apartment. "My sandwich, minion!"
"I'm not a minion..." Bart really wasn't sure how to respond to all of this. He was raised in a bad place, sure, but there weren't any drunks.
"Wally, you need to shut up and sober up," said Roy slowly and calmly, his naturally growling voice sounding neutral for once. His hands were up as if defending himself if Wally were to charge or something. "Just sit down and calm do-"
In a blur, he was in the kitchen area, slapping together ingredients on bread, making the sloppiest sandwich the other redhead and the other speedster had ever seen. Ketchup dripped off of the white bread and bologna slices were hanging off at awkward angles. After slapping another piece of bread on top, he held it up triumphantly, his words now slurring as he shouted to the world: "I made myself a sandwich! And you can't have any!" The second part was added indignantly.
"Do people usually get this drunk?" asked Bart as puzzlement splashed across his face; Roy couldn't even begin to answer because Wally was suddenly half hanging out the window that overlooked the empty street below.
"Behold!" he screeched, holding his latest prize out the window like Simba in 'The Lion King'. "My sandwich!"
"Wally, back away from the window before you hurt yourself," pleaded Roy slowly, now really regretting asking Zatanna for the magic-tainted booze. From his angle, it appeared as though Wally could fall out the window at any second. "Just take a step back-"
"I'll bet," he began in a yell, "that I can throw my sandwich out the window and catch it at the bottom!" With a grin wide enough to rival the Joker's, he turned back to the window, chucked his sandwich out, and raced to the apartment's front door.
"Impulse, can you catch hi-"
Just outside the apartment door, a loud clatter arose along with shrill, sissy-sounding squeals and cries of pain.
"Wally!" Roy rushed to the door, peering out at the crumpled heap of Wally at the top of the stairs. From the looks of it, it appeared as though he'd run into the wall and hadn't made it even to the top step. "You're such a moron," breathed the archer, a hand on his forehead as Wally continued to whimper and nurse faint bruises that would vaporize within minutes.
Sad, puppy-like eyes looked up at the other redhead. "That really hurt, Roy..."
"Wally, can you just sit down and try to get sober? Your metabolism should run through it in a few more minutes, I think..."
"Should," agreed Bart, appearing in the doorway, a smirk on his face. "But in the meantime, the sandwich is bleeding."
Jade green eyes flashed open at the speed of light; the rest of Wally soon following, rushing down the stairs as fast as- He stumbled down the second flight of stairs, more agonized shrieks soon following.
"I should hurt you," muttered Roy, retreating back into his apartment, Bart hot on his heels. "But that was funny, so I won't."
Bart's smirk grew broader, green eyes glimmering devilishly. Now suddenly standing in front of Roy, he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Wait for the blackmail material."
Finally understanding, Roy jogged his way to the window, meeting the sprinting Bart there, and they peered out side-by-side.
Wally was on the sidewalk. He cradled his "bloody" sandwich like a baby. "Why must the good die young?!" he hollered to the cloudless sky. "Why?!"
Roy pulled out his camera phone and began recording it all. "Kid," he said with a hand on Allen's shoulder, "I like the way you think."