Bored

'Has the Scarlett Speedster been lying about his height this whole time? Sources reveal the hero may be wearing lifts in his shoes to appear taller, and to act as a sort of sprint block to increase his speed.

Though the hero is said to be around 6ft tall (183cm), he is actually closer to 5’9 (175cm).'

The spoon in Wally’s hand drops, splattering milk along the sides of his bowl. He squints, holding the phone closer to his face, and reads again. His lips tug into a frown when he sees he’s read it correctly, the words on the screen taunting him.

Rising to his feet, bowl of cereal forgotten on the coffee table, he ventures to the bathroom mirror. His reflection looks the same as it always has—tall, lean, a smattering of freckles and unruly red hair. He blinks. 

Stupid, online gossip rags. He shakes his head, making his way back to his now-soggy cereal. Stuffing an angry bite of Fruit Loops into his mouth, his phone buzzes.

Kyle: www.gothamunfounded.com/the-flash-wears-lifts-in-his-shoes/

Kyle: This you?

Wally clenches his phone so tightly he’s worried it’ll break. He can take the occasional dig at him in the papers, a critique of his work online. But this? He won’t stand for something so libelous. 

Wally only reacts to Kyle’s message with a thumbs down, racing to change into his costume. Happily suited up in his costume, a distinct lack of lifts in his shoes, Wally sits back down on his couch and pulls out his laptop. If Dick can track people like second nature, how hard can it be, right?

Wally’s search turns up almost nothing, the rainbow background of the website taunting him. There’s hundreds of articles here, ranging from surface level conspiracies to useful information to utterly insane bullshit.

In the twenty minutes Wally scrolls the page, he only gathers three things: the owner of this website is definitely from Gotham, whoever writes this stuff has major issues, and he has absolutely no idea how to find them.

Giving himself a break from his relentless search, Wally decides to read some of the other wonderful articles on the page.

Here’s what Amanda Waller’s Government Doesn’t Want You To Know

Times That Batman Wasn’t Batman

Guy Gardner Was Grown In A Lab (Proof)

He would be lying if he said he didn’t laugh a little about that last one, clicking on it and reading it all the way through. He has to admit, the writer makes some compelling points and the pictures—grainy and slightly photoshopped—could almost be real.

At the very bottom of the article, he sees it again: The Flash Wears Lifts In His Shoes.

He frowns, picking up his phone and dialling the only person he thinks can help.

“Hey, buddy.” Dick Grayson picks up the phone with a grin, “what’s up?”

“Hey man, do you know something about a blog called ‘Gotham Unfounded’?”

The usual Grayson silence that means he knows something. “Yeah, what about it?” A pause and then, “they didn’t post something about you, did they?”

“...yes.”

He can hear the pad of Dick’s thumbs on his phone keyboard, eagerly searching for the article in question. There’s a swell of laughter. Wally clenches his fists to keep himself calm.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny, Dick.”

“Sorry I just—” He cuts himself off with more laughter, “this is hilarious.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry.” The phone crackles with a breath, “what do you want to know?”

Wally’s pacing the living room now, a hand in his hair. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Dick.”

He sighs, “honestly, I don’t. I just know Tim’s a big fan of their work, and we’ve had a few…run-ins with people that weren’t happy about the blog.”

“So you know where they live?”

More silence. Wally groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Stupid, stubborn Bats, only giving civilians privacy when it doesn’t benefit them.

“Wally, I wouldn’t press them about it. Seriously.” He lowers his voice, “they’re a little…unhinged. Don’t take anything posted to heart.”

“Dude, this is going to ruin my reputation! Kyle’s already making fun of me for it, that motherfucker probably sent the picture in himself.”

“I don’t know, man.”

Wally bites back his frustration. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”

“You asked me for money last week.” Dick chuckles, “and to crash on my couch. And to borrow my bike.”

“I get it. You hate me.”

“I’ll send you the address just,” he breathes a deep sigh, “go easy on them, alright?”

The call ends and the minute Wally’s phone is pinging with the location, he’s sprinting out the door.

Your front door is open. 

You locked it, you know you locked it. You triple checked. Deadbolted it. Took a photo of the locked door after to quell your paranoia about locking it. It was closed, through and through. And now it’s not.

Clenching the thin plastic bag tighter in your hand, you fish in your pocket for the taser you take everywhere with you. Brandishing it in front of you, you kick open the door. 

Nothing seems out of place initially. The front landing of your duplex is as it should be, your slippers sitting exactly where you left them. Dropping your bag on the table you keep by the door, you tighten your grip on the taser and flick off the safety.

It’s when you walk into the living room that you see him, firing the taser before you even register who exactly is sitting at your desk. You flinch when suddenly he’s standing two feet in front of you, having perfectly evaded the prongs of your weapon.

You blink, stunned. “You’re the Flash.”

Wally’s not sure what he expected. By Dick’s description, he expected some neckbearded lunatic in a tinfoil hat. Aside from the slight tiredness to your eyes and the slouch to your posture, you look just like any other person. 

“Did you just try to taze me?” Wally scoffs, eyes narrowed at the weapon in your hand.

His mouth falls open when he sees the sparkly stickers adorning the black material of the taser in your hand. Rainbows, stars, a few cartoon characters he absolutely recognizes.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you bedazzle your taser?”

“Why are you in my house?” You rest the taser against your stomach, using your thumbs to pop out the used cartridge, “are you going to kill me?”

“I—” Wally opens his mouth to defend himself, shoulders slumping, “yeah, this is not a good look for me.”

“You think?”

He raises his hand in surrender, “can we talk this through?”

“Is this about the article?”

The exposed parts of his face underneath the cowl start to redden. Yes. 

You blow out a puff of air through your lips. “Take a seat,” you gesture to the old armchair behind him, “but if you fuck with me…”

“I get it, I won’t.”

You disappear around the corner, coming back with your bag of snacks. You pull out a bottle of soda and a bag of your favorite chips, “do you want something?”

“Got anything sweet?”

You toss him a chocolate bar. “Here.”

Wally catches it in his hands, peeling back the wrapper and taking a big back. He pauses, “you didn’t poison this, right?”

“Shouldn’t you ask that before eating?”

He shrugs, taking another bite. “So, you think I wear lifts in my shoes?”

You fidget slightly from where you’re sitting on your couch, shifting your hip upward to unclip something from your side. Wally’s eyes bulge at the small, silver object wrapped in a pair of wired earbuds.

“Holy shit, is that an iPod shuffle?” He narrows his eyes, looking back to the desk he was sitting at and the off-white, sticker covered pc tower that couldn’t have been made in this century, “what’s with the dinosaur technology?”

“Dinosaur technology? It’s younger than you.”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. “Do you bully every superhero that you meet, or am I just special?”

“You’re the only one I’ve met, so…”

“What? But that’s not what—”

You’re grinning ear to ear, listening keenly to what he’s saying. Too late, Wally realizes he’s stepped into your web. Maybe he isn’t the one holding all the power here.

“I knew it,” you say. “I knew you couldn’t find me on your own. You asked one of the Bats, right? Was it Nightwing? I bet it was Nightwing.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You wear lifts in your shoes.”

His face reddens again, “I do not.”

“I’ve never seen proof that you don’t.” 

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him. Wally’s not one to back down from anything, especially not the unhinged, not-quite-fan of his taunting him. He rises to his feet, about to take off his boots, when he pauses.

“You don’t have a foot fetish, do you?” You scrunch up your nose. Butterflies bloom in the pits of Wally’s stomach. No, he tries to tell himself. Not cute. Not cute at all. It’s a total lie, of course.

“I know you don’t wear lifts in your shoes,” you admit, falling back against your sofa. “Please do not go barefoot in my house.”

“Aye aye, Captain!”

You take a sip of your soda, savouring the sweet taste. On a better night, you’d be hunched over your computer playing SuperTux, or scrolling through your submissions to find this week’s newest post. Better yet, you’d be working on another segment of exposing Waller’s newly formed ‘Bureau of Sovereignty’.

Instead, you’re having snacks with the Flash. Colour you shocked.

“If you know I don’t wear lifts in my shoes, why even post that?”

You rub a hand over your face, “do you know what it means to run a blog like mine?”

He shakes his head, finishing off his chocolate bar and crumpling up the wrapper in his palm.

“Credible news organizations can’t report on things they don’t have concrete proof of, anything without evidence is considered libel and opens them up to lawsuits.”

“I know that.”

You roll your eyes. “So then you know that there are hundreds of blogs like mine, trying to get the truth out there. Always anonymous, always crowdfunded and untraceable. Well, for most people.”

“But not for the Bats,” Wally says, leaning back in your chair. It’s surprisingly comfy, if a little dated. 

“Every once in a while, the blogs gain traction. They expose something big, they get too credible, and that person goes missing.” Your lips press together in a frown, “there are people that don’t want the truth to get out.”

“People like Waller.”

You hum in agreement. “Waller, and everyone else like her. Because if the truth got out, people would be angry.”

You see the exact moment realization dawns on him. His mouth forms into an ‘o’ shape, the light bulb behind his eyes flickers to light. You stay quiet, letting him form his own conclusions.

“So you throw some random things in there. Bullshit conspiracies and misinformation to throw them off.”

“Ten points to Cabin 11.”

“Was that a—you know what? Nevermind.” His eyes meet yours, “so I get you need to do that but did you really need to tell the world I’m 5 foot 9?”

You laugh a little. “No, but it was a submission. And I wanted to.”

“Wait—someone submitted that to you?”

You bite your lip and nod.

“Can you see who submitted it?”

“Duh.”

You’re not sure how he convinces you to let him see but suddenly the two of you are hunched over your computer, the old fans whirring to life. The Flash is sitting close to you, his chair only a few inches from yours. He bounces his leg nervously.

You force him to look away as you scroll through your files, trying to find the submission you logged less than a day ago. He finds it before you do, poking his pointer finger into the screen.

You click it open, scanning the info you’d written down about it. “Yeah, that’s right. This one was…weird.”

“Weird?”

You hum, “it was routed through a bunch of servers that it shouldn’t have been, but the sender didn’t bother to spoof their email address.”

“And the email address was?”

You highlight it for him on the screen. 

Wally leaps out of his chair. “Aha, I knew it!”

You look between him, currently doing a victory dance in your living room that is sure to have your neighbors complaining about you again, and the highlighted text on your screen. 

“You know this person?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was Green Lantern?”

It’s your turn to leap to your feet triumphantly. “I knew that picture had to be taken by another hero. Wait—which Green Lantern?”

“Dorky one, black hair, middle part?”

“Oh, the hot one?”

“The—” Wally pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. His stomach twists in something close to jealousy. “Whatever, man.”

It’s not whatever, man. 

The Flash apologizes again for breaking into your house, making you promise not to slander him again before going on his way. You watch him leave, lightning crackling in his wake, before locking up your doors and windows the way you usually do.

You miss the conversation he brought when the silence comes rushing back in. It’s been a long time since you had a friend, most of your contact being with the Bats after they’ve helped you out of a jam.

With nothing better to do, you settle back in at your computer, starting to write this week’s submission.

The Flash is back exactly a week later, a bag of snacks in his hand. He comes up behind you while you’re typing, catching a harsh elbow before it collides with his throat.

“Jesus,” you shrink back, ripping your arm from his grasp. “How do you keep getting in? The doors are locked.”

“I can phase through walls.” He gives you a weird look, “you didn’t know that?”

“Whatever. Why are you here again?”

“I brought snacks.”

You examine the plastic bag in his hand, clearly purchased from the same convenience store you frequent. At the bottom of the bag, you make out the distinct colour and shape of your favorite soda.

“What’s the catch?” He smiles sheepishly, “I was hoping you could write something for me.”

He pulls your soda out of the bag and offers it to you, the bottle cold and dripping with condensation. You take it from him, your fingertips brushing his and sending shocks up your spine.

You sip on it. “What am I writing?”

His smile turns into something akin to an evil grin as he opens up his phone and shows you a photo of Green Lantern, the same Green Lantern who’d submitted the picture of him a week earlier.

“Dude, no way. What if he comes here?” You cross your arms over your chest, “it’s bad enough you’re here. It’s only a matter of time before someone tracks me and—”

“Holy, paranoid much?” He hesitantly rests a hand on your shoulder, “I’m the fastest man alive, I’m quite literally untraceable. Besides, GL’s not really the type to hunt you down.”

“Oh, so you’re just insane then. Got it.” You point to the phone in his hand, “and by tracking I meant that.”

“My phone? It’s untraceable. Little trick I picked up from Nightwing.”

You relax a little bit. “You swear if I write this, there’s not going to be a Green Lantern at my door later?”

“I promise. The Flash always keeps his word.” He smiles, “and if he shows up, give me a call. I’ll take care of him.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”

Wally slumps into the spare chair next to your desk. It’s going to be a long night. 

To his delight, you’re a fast writer, spinning the words together so quickly, Wally wonders if it’s a super power. He can’t help but rub his hands together in anticipation, watching the story unfold on the screen of your computer. Kyle’s not going to know what hit him.

He’s so distracted thinking about how the other man is going to react to this story that he doesn’t realize you’ve posted it until you’re waving a hand in front of his face.

“Hello? Earth to Flash?” 

He blinks. “What’s up?”

“It’s posted,” you say, looking at him in concern. “You better follow through on that promise.”

“I will, I will.”

Wally’s whipping out his phone so fast, opening Kyle’s contact.

Wally: www.gothamunfounded.com/green-lantern-fakes-his-space-missions/

Wally: this you?

Speech bubbles pop up. Excitement flares in Wally’s chest, the redhead happy to finally be getting his lick back. The bubbles disappear and reappear again, and Wally laughs thinking of Kyle at a loss for words.

Kyle: this isn’t the end of this

Joy swells in Wally’s chest, the feeling overwhelming him until he’s pulling you into his chest. You freeze in his arms—when was the last time you hugged somebody? You can’t remember.

Slowly, you bring your arms up and squeeze him back, relishing in the feeling of his warm body against yours. 

“I take it you’re happy with the article?”

“I could kiss you right now!” He freezes, loosening up, “metaphorically.”

You laugh. “Whatever you say, man.”

He hangs around for a little while after that, listening to you ramble about a different article you’re working on. You show him the wall you keep all your evidence pinned on, threaded together with rainbow yarn and stuck to the wall with star stickers.

There’s a shocking amount of detail put into it, and though Wally doesn’t really get your ramblings, he appreciates it nonetheless.The sun is starting to set by the time he leaves, running off into the morning glow to get ready for work. 

The loneliness eats away at you again.

It’s four days later that the Flash returns, this time taking off his shoes at your door and loudly announcing your arrival.

Your voice is meeker today as you shout back, “come in.”

He walks up the stairs, eyes scanning the too-familiar living room until he sees you laying on the couch. There’s an ice pack pressed to your forehead, rainbow bandaids pressed on your cheek, forehead and chin. One side of your lips is swollen.

His smile drops. “What the hell happened to you?”

He’s admittedly a little frantic when he kneels at your side, scanning the rest of your body for similar injuries. There’s an actual tensor bandage wrapped tightly around your wrist, a clear sign of a sprain. A few other colourful bandaids are smattered on your body,

“Your best buddy Nightwing didn’t tell you?”

He’s tempted to tell you that he didn’t tell anyone, not even Dick, about what happened the night you met and what’s happened since. Partly for your safety, partly because he’s not ready to come to terms with the little crush he has on you. 

For now, you’re his. Wholly hidden away until he’s ready to confront his feelings.

He rubs a thumb over the bandaid on your chin. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I—” You laugh dryly, lacking that usual sense of humour, “I was following a lead. It didn’t end so well.”

“What kind of lead?”

Your breath crackles when you inhale. “Roman Sionis has half the GCPD on payroll and uses them as drug mules.”

“Jesus, what the hell are you getting yourself into?” 

“R-Red Hood helped me out of a jam, not before yelling at me for a good 20 minutes.” You look at him through your lashes, eyes half-lidded, “spare me the lecture.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing around your living room to burn off some of that nervous energy that never seems to go away. He doesn’t like seeing you hurt, doesn’t like the idea of you running around Gotham at night trying to expose its criminal underbelly.

Yeah, the Bats are around. But the Bats can’t protect you forever.

“Call me next time.”

“What?”

He nods, “call me next time. Let me be your backup, take photos for you, whatever.”

You consider it. It would be nice to have some backup, someone to call when you get into hot water with the wrong people again. And as far as people go, having the fastest man alive on your team isn’t a bad idea.

“I can’t pay you.”

“I don’t need to be paid,” he shrugs. “Just…write the occasional article for me and we’re even.”

You fish in the pocket of your sweatpants for your phone, tossing it to him. A silent yes, the action speaks volumes.

He smiles, disbelieving. “You still have a flip phone?”

He turns it over in his hands, thumbs rubbing the seams of the stickers you’ve covered it with. 

“Why is that a surprise? You’re the one that said I have ‘dinosaur technology’.”

He types his number into it, saving himself under ‘Coolest Man Alive’. He doesn’t toss the phone like you did, instead crossing the room and pressing it into your palms.

“Promise you’ll call?”

“Will you be waiting by the phone for me?”

The corner of his lip quirks up. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It’s during one of your usual convenience store runs that you get caught. Bag in hand, exiting the store with your iPod blaring, you bump directly into his chest. Flinching back, your eyes draw a path up a uniform that looks a little too familiar. 

“We need to talk.” Green Lantern grins at you, holding out his phone screen for you to see.

You stare at the screen in horror, pocket dialling the Flash.

(Alt text: Green Lantern Fakes His Space Missions)

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