He can feel a scream itching at the back of his throat; a raw-born impulse that isn't getting squelched as Wally's gloves claw harder into the drill of the navy, bloodied blazer.

Civilians watch them from across the intersection, morbidly curious. Some dialing on cell phones. Some have camera phones. Others turn away, undisturbed in appearance but they know they'll have a more interesting story to reveal over dinner, and before the 10 o' clock news. He's not seeing them. He's not hearing Dick calling to him urgently in a whisper, placing his bare hands over Kid Flash's.


Wally's eyes start to unfocus; cloud; behind his goggles.

There's only… the glare of fresh, dark blood on the spotless Gotham Academy emblem. A loosened, red-striped tie flutters between them.

And the sing-song of the gunman's voice inside his head.


This wasn't the first time Kid Flash had visited Gotham, or politely conversed with Dick Grayson—a widely publicized and kinda annoying mission. As far as the public comprehended the subject, Dick Grayson knew little martial arts from private tutoring sessions… but twenty-seven different ways to break a chokehold would have been considered suspicious. Any of them would have been.

So, naturally, came the role of the obedient, somewhat baffled victim with a pistol jammed against the base of his neck.

Leaving Kid Flash to play the hero.

He can still see it—how meaty, scabby fingers raked through his best friend's hair, combing several, dark strands from his expressionless face; they tried to play off affectionate but-…it was just grotesque.


Those same fingers wrapped around Dick's limp wrist, sliding up over his expensive watch and towards limp fingers; the wide-eyed man recited through the children's rhyme, jeering at the speedster and setting his chin on top of Dick's head possessively as the pistol muzzle pushed and trembled into Dick's neck, enough for a wince as a reaction—pale finger by pale finger clasped.

The gunman's reedy, sing-song voice. The hammer cocking.


Seconds. Barely even seconds. An accelerated speed-kick upwards, snapping the gunman's jacketed wrist holding the pistol and it sent the object flying harmless towards the road. Wally's foot kept going on its upward path. A gush of blood onto the cement sidewalk. Another snap of bone when his foot collided into the man's thin, angular nose. Blood that… gushed onto Dick's uniform.

"You need to pull yourself together, KF…"

Everything stops tunneling.

A pair of crystalline blue eyes. Staring, narrowing on Wally. Not the white slits to the domino mask. "Listen, there's no crowd control here. I need you to talk to me," Dick insists, monotone, controlled. He gives the redhead a faint, bodily shake on his feet. Crimson gloves finally release the ruined, navy blazer. Wally blinks at him. Approaching police sirens. The blacking out, maniac gunman begins twitching.

"Sorry—…" Wally swallows, throat flexing.

The impulse to scream… fades.

"I freaked. I'm good now," he adds, nodding, and then rams his foot with less force into the groaning man's side.

"That's putting it one way, I guess." Dick's smirk tightens on his lips. He knocks the flat of his hand to Wally's shoulders. "Smooth move, Flash Boy."

"Someone's gotta have your back, Dickie."


Bro-fluff makes everything better? x3


"Wally and Dick's school uniform.

Run with it Anons"