Call me Pearl -She/Her

The bar is a kaleidoscopic prism of sensation—of glasses clinking, of free-falling liquids that are poured to foamy head in overlarge mugs, to people sloughing the struggles of another day added to the notch in their bedpost.

You three are already deep in your cups as you slump in various states of dishevelment across the circumference of the table. Foggy openly reclines, Matt slouches on his elbows, you prop your cheek on the table. 

The conversation has transitioned into amiable silence as you repose. And you’ve been relegated to people-watching, admiring a couple so closely entwined in mutual limbs that they must be melded by the mouth, the search of drunken tongues.

It’s the inebriation that encourages your own boozy tongue, thick and slow to vacillate sloppy words. 

“It must be nice to be kissed.” You comment in passing, atonal frequency. Matt pauses, the lip of his cup suspended mid-air to his mouth. Foggy shoots you a look of discerning bewilderment as he comprehends through the haze of beer. 

Matt recovers first, settling down the drink with muted click into a familiar rimmed ring of condensation. 

“You say it like you don't know what it is.” He communicates with unspoken question. The sigh you make is of a wistful melancholy, your shoulders heaving in grievous airs. Matt’s brow hikes up the acreage of his forehead as he realizes what Foggy is still doubting. 

“I mean—”—Your eyes are hesitant to meet his—“—I don’t.” 

Foggy interjects into the fray, his statement an expulsion of disbelief. “Get the fuck outta here.” 

This makes you purse your lips, a self-defensive grin of abashment that spreads slow on the curve of your mouth. You stare with dogged intent to the smudged tabletop; Matt senses the hike of your pulse that demarcates your shame. 

“Honest, I don’t. I—”—You huff in momentary sobriety as you slump your shoulders—“—God, this is so embarrassing.” 

There’s something still unstated in the cadence of this confession. Matt holds out a hand to pause the flow of conversation, to bid you look his way. 

“Hold on—”—He levies this at you like brandished steel— “—You’ve never been kissed before? Not once?” 

You wield what you can produce from the faltering crest of memories. “Well—I’ve been kissed on the cheek before. On the forehead.” 

Foggy pushes his way to the forefront with a clarifier. “By a partner?” 

“Uh.” You defer to silence, your only measure of escape. “No.” 

Matt picks up point for Foggy on this one, inching closer along the median to the heart of the matter. “Which eliminates the matters of the mouth entirely.” 

And at matters of the mouth; well, should you let your own eyes linger on the terrain of his, you are only grateful he’s unaware of this. But then you let yourself collapse tipsily onto the tabletop, letting the prolonged shame finally consume what remains of your dignity. 

“Look, this is humiliating.” You bemoan your kiss-less fate to your coworkers. “Could we possibly move on to other topics of conversation?”

You settle a resentful glare upon the two of them. “I mean, I know you two have gotten action before.” 

Foggy blusters with a laugh of disbelief; Matt remains captured in a somewhat stony silence. He seems to be riveted in the direction of your body, the mien that you preoccupy yourself with. The push and pull of your mouth as you enunciate syllables to make way for speech. 

“Yeah?” Foggy grins, willing to be game for this potential lambasting. “What makes us so ideal for it?” 

You roll your eyes rather skeptically to the ceiling, before returning your gaze back to them with only minor difficulty. 

“Pffft, come on.” You gesture to Foggy with a pirouette of fingers. “You have such a good sense of humor and big-dick energy you couldn’t be disqualified from a kiss.” 

Foggy seems minorly enthralled by this assessment of his character and proffers a look of smug self-satisfaction to Matt. Matt himself appears to be stifling a laugh. 

“Hmmm.” He directs your way as you beam. “I like you more and more.” 

You direct a hand over to your left-hand table side companion. “And Matt’s blind.” 

The expulsion of laughter from Matt is immediate at this observation. Fingers splay on the full of his chest as he looks after the intonation of your voice. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” He asks—meanwhile, Foggy appears to be in the process of resisting herniating a lung. 

You’re as matter-of-fact as you can be after the consumption of your body weight in alcohol. 

“Well, it helps you get in the door.” You explain, to Matt’s continued disbelief. “People take pity on a beautiful blind face and want to take care of you.” 

As Matt’s jaw draws agape, Foggy points the victorious, perfunctory finger your way. “Exactly. He goes for the empathy approach.” 

You nod in abject agreement while Matt finds himself under attack, holding his arms out in disbelieving spread. The conversation seems to have taken a turn from the lament of the work day to an impromptu roasting session. 

“This is ridiculous—”—Matt declares as the two of you smother laughter—“—Any kiss I’ve ever had has been mutually agreed decision. I never preyed on anyone’s sympathy for it.” 

“How would you know?” You ask, smiling along as you go back onto the offensive. “You sit there guileless and smiling and people just see you—”

Foggy is not exempt from his own contribution—“—And they think, ‘oh the sweet lawyer who saved those kids from the well’—”

Foggy clasps his hands in maidenly display under the cliff of his jaw; Matt welters in unvoiced outrage—“—I just have to think of some way to thank him—”

“Oh, I know!” You provide the coup de grâce, “I’ll give him a wet one on the lips.” 

The two of burst out into a peal of laughter, holding onto the table for lifeline of support, slapping each other with a pronounced zeal at your supposed victory. Meanwhile, your third sits broken and worn-down in his chair, assuming the thousand-yard stare of defeat. 

“I think this constitutes itself as harassment.” He finally offers as the two of you resuscitate. “There's a disability discrimination suit being written against you both.” 

Foggy is unmoved as he pulls at his shirt, working to distance himself from the high-top chair. “Ah, whatever. You’d never sink your co-partner and your best para.” 

Matt grimaces at the truth of the statement while you watch Foggy hop down to greener pastures.

“I'm gonna go use the bathroom.” He announces cheerily. “You two want anything for when I get back?” 

Matt defers to the classic, “Just a beer.” 

“I'm okay.” You smile him off as he makes departure, and the two of you let the ambience of the bar substitute for conversation. Even given the insults taken aim Matt’s way, there’s an ease in the quiet the two of you cohabitate. And the disjointed chorus of clinking glasses and spirited conversation takes auditory prominence. 

You’re savoring the final acrid burn of your drink when Matt suddenly speaks up. 

“You know, if you ever want a first kiss,” He says in lowered, rugged note, “I’m certain we could work something out.”

It’s not the alcohol that persuades the consumptive burn fluttering in the pit of your stomach, that ushers your throat to congeal to inarticulacy. That makes you stare at Matt, your heart squealing to stop—before resounding back into overdrive. 

You hope your voice doesn’t betray you as you force a playful smile on your face. “Oh, please. I’m not falling for the doe-eyed blind trick.” 

Matt smiles, but there’s no joke he makes on the territory of that mouth. He leans in, letting you taste a mote of cologne he still bears. 

“Who said it was a trick?” He smirks, the wicked quality of his smile taking prominence. “Maybe I’d just like to kiss you.” 

You scoff at this—but your body still moves in magnetic tether to him. Just as his does to you. “Because you found out I’m unclaimed territory?” 

Not wanting yourself to be easy prey. Establishing exactly what this is: an exchange of goods and services, or something more. You wait, with your pulse making elapse on the spread of your tongue, for his response. 

“No—”—Matt says, and there's something purposeful as he speaks—“—Because I’ve been wondering what your mouth tastes like.” 

When you laugh, the exhale of air is expressed upon the full of his lips, each syllable your mouth makes felt on his own. 

“How many times has that line worked for you, Mr. Murdock?” You grin. 

Matt remains collected, but the words ring glib. “Will you let it work now?”

“Let me get back to you.” You reply, and then you close the way across the threshold.

Let your first kiss start slow, as you feel the chafe of his mouth against yours, warm, dry—still upon beginning. And then his mouth moves against yours, lips parting as he searches for more access to you; your own, in your eagerness, do the same. 

His hand draws across the edge of your jaw, careful, deliberate, grounding—you circulate a breath through your nose as his thumb works up your cheek. And you seek out more, more to feel the shape of him against you, to encourage the heat that pools in between your legs the longer that you kiss him. 

The longer that you savor the taste of this man, the more you want the rest of him. His tongue laps with a gentility stoking the fire greater against the seam of your lips.

And as you open your mouth to him, his hands coax you further to him. And you let yourself be led, while taking the lion’s share of his mouth. As you let the want you’ve never experienced before consume you whole. 

Neither of you are aware when Foggy returns, takes admiratory glance of the sight of you both so tightly enveloped in the exploration of each other’s bodies. He just lets a triumphant cluck of approval tumble free, before he makes his way to the bar. 

“Get me a stiff one.” He instructs the bartender, sending a careful look back to where the two of you remain isolated in the oasis of the other. 

“Three of them.” He amends upon second thought.

Seems like he'll need them for when you two finally come back up for air, to the real world. For now, he’ll let the two of you indulge in matters long overdue. 

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You’re already in tears by the time you’re turning the key to Dick Grayson’s apartment. The clicking of the lock brings relief, the promise of your best friend on the other side. After the day you’ve had, he’s the only person you want to see. 

You swing the door open only to be met with a tall, red haired man on the other side. He blinks at you, brilliant eyes framed by a smattering of freckles and a handsome jawline. 

Jesus, Dick really needs to stop giving a spare key to everyone. 

You find yourself self consciously rubbing away the fat tears on your cheeks. “You’re not Dick,” is all you manage to say. 

“Funny,” he cracks a smile, crossing his arms over his old band t-shirt. “I was gonna say the same to you.”

You nod, tight lipped and awkward. “Do you—“ Your voice breaks slightly, “do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No clue, I just got here.”

Your heart sinks further in your chest, more tears burn at the back of your eyes. You scrub a hand over your face, pinching the bridge of your nose and taking a deep breath. 

You speak quieter now, words muffled by the lump in your throat. “Can you just let him know I stopped by?”

“Sure thing.”

You turn around to leave, taking another deep breath to compose yourself, when he speaks again. 

“I know it’s none of my business but—“ He pauses, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “Are you okay? It just—you seem like you’re having a bit of a rough day.”

You look back at him, “that obvious, hey?”

He nods solemnly. “I heard I’m a good listener, if you want someone to talk to.” He laughs slightly, “well, no, that’s not exactly true but you don’t need to know that.”

Your heels spin back towards him. He gestures towards the big sectional in Dick’s living room, plush and inviting. 

You give in. “Alright, Mr. Not-so-good-listener.”

He flashes you a toothy grin, “just Wally is fine.”

He reaches out a hand and you shake it, offering up your own name. Something glimmers behind his eyes like the start of something new. 

It’s hours before Dick finally comes home, his arrival going unnoticed by the two people sitting on his couch that he very much did not invite over. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen a more confusing sight than you and Wally West sitting on his couch, talking like you’ve been friends for years. 

“I guess I missed my invite to the party,” he calls out, setting his backpack down on the chair. 

Your head snaps up, looking at him like a dear in headlights. Wally barely reacts, more than likely having heard Dick’s arrival and just choosing to ignore it. 

“You’re late,” Wally calls back, looking him up and down. “And not even fashionably.”

That draws a laugh out of you, a little colour coming to Wally’s cheeks at the sound. Dick frowns, tugging off his coat and giving his outfit a once over.

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

Wally shrugs, a perfect picture of nonchalance, and turns back to you. You’d stopped crying hours ago, your conversation shifting away from your terrible, no-good day to casual conversation with Wally.

Dick shuffles off to his room to change out of his outfit—a plain t-shirt and jeans, not dissimilar to what Wally’s wearing—and Wally thrusts his phone at you.

“Here,” he says, “so you can call me next time you have a bad day.”

You offer him a coy smile, “you know for being a not great listener, you actually listened pretty good.”

“It helps when the person speaking is good looking.”

You snort, fingers pausing on the keyboard of his phone. You glance up only to see he’s being dead serious, not a hint of nervousness on his face. You go back to filling out your name and number for him, sending yourself a quick message from his phone before handing it back.

He grins when he sees your contact. “Alright, Good Looking, well played.”

You and Wally text regularly after that, just quick messages to see how your day’s going, or little things that remind you of each other. 

There’s a few things you’ve learned about Wally West since you’ve met. One being that he’s an incredibly disorganized person, his texts coming in sporadic bursts rather than consistent conversation. The other being he has the most unusual sleep schedule known to man, seemingly asleep and awake at all hours of the day.

Unfortunately for you, you’ve come to find both endearing.

It’s at a party you see him next. A small mixer held on the roof of Dick’s building, a group of friends you’d never met before all talking like they know each other.

It should be fun and yet, here you are, tucked away on the fire escape, sipping on a glass of water in the hopes it’ll stop the simmering under your skin. It doesn’t, and does nothing to quell your thoughts going a million miles an hour.

Dick had been too busy chatting with Kory—a tall woman who was also probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen—to notice you slip out of the party. A different set of eyes, however, had noticed.

You’re sitting with your eyes squeezed shut, taking deep breaths when you feel a sudden warmth settle in next to you. Your eyes snap open only to find a familiar pair of brilliant ones staring back at you. Wally.

“And here I thought the party was upstairs.” He nudges you slightly, and despite his joking tone, his face is a perfect picture of concern. “What’s going on, Good Looking?”

A sigh passes through your lips. “Just…a little overwhelmed. Lots of people I don’t know and—” You play around with a frayed string from your pants, twirling it around your finger, “it’s silly, really.”

“Hey, I love silly.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water over your head, clarity washing over you. For the first time since you stepped away from the party, you take a deep breath. You go quiet for a minute, letting the silence of the night fill the cracks between you.

“I hate parties,” you say finally. “I always end up following Dick around like a child, hoping he introduces me to people.”

Wally hums, “why’d you come then?”

Another beat of silence, comfortable but stretched a little too thin. 

“I was really hoping you’d come,” you admit quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, that playful demeanour gone for the moment, “so was I.”

You shift closer to Wally, absorbing his body heat through the cold night air. He drapes an arm over your shoulders, inviting you in. 

“You could always follow me around, you know.” He rubs a hand up and down your arm, “I know people, too. And I’m better company than Dick.”

“You know people here?”

“All kinds of people,” he flashes you a grin, “Dick and I go way back, I pretty much know all his friends.”

“You didn’t know me.”

“Touché.”

You giggle slightly, and sometime during your conversation, you’ve come to rest your head on his shoulder. 

“I think Dick was hiding you.”

You shift your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“I have a bit of a—“ He cringes, “reputation, I guess.”

“A reputation? Anything I should be worried about?”

Wally takes a minute to think, weighing his own history with the dozens of people he’s lost and regained over the years. In the short time you’ve known him, this is the quietest he’s ever been. 

“No,” he says finally, resting his head over yours. “Nothing at all.”

Wally’s just finishing up stopping a bank robbery when you call, pausing on top of a building to answer the call. 

“Hello?”

“Wally?” Your voice sounds shaky. 

“Hey, Good Looking.”

“I think—“ You let out a sound of surprise, your voice coming through slightly more muffled, “I think someone’s trying to break into my house.”

Wally’s heart rate picks up. “Why are you calling me and not the police?”

“I live in Bludhaven.”

“Shit.” He hates that you have a point. “Why aren’t you calling Dick?”

“He didn’t answer.”

Wally would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little disappointed at that, hoping you’d come to him first and not his smoking hot best friend. 

“What do you think I’m gonna do? I live in a different city.”

“I don’t know,” you trail off, a rustling noise coming in the background. “Just…stay on the line with me while I check it out?”

Wally’s breath catches in his throat. “Check. It. Out?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, absolutely do not do that.”

“I have a bat.”

“You have a—” Wally groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, already planning his route to Bludhaven. “Do not investigate.”

“What, and let them just rob me?”

There’s shuffling, sounds of movement, and Wally curses. You’re going to get yourself killed. 

There’s silence on the line while you case your apartment, slowly pushing open your door with the tip of the bat. You’re braced and ready, the banging you’d heard on your front door having ended as soon as you called Wally. 

Either someone got in, or someone gave up. You hope for the latter. 

It must be your unlucky day because the minute you turn the corner to the entry, a tall figure dressed in dark clothes greets you. You cover your mouth with your free hand, stifling a gasp as you duck back around the corner. 

“What is it? What’s happening? Are you okay?” You scramble to turn down the volume on your phone. “Are you there?”

In your panicked haste to mute Wally’s voice, your phone slips from your hand and clatters to the ground, sliding out from around the corner. You press your hand tighter against your lips and flush yourself to the wall. 

There’s a clicking sound, followed by heavy footsteps coming closer. You’re so fucked, you’re so fucked, you’re so—

There’s a flash of lightning, all of the hairs on your arms standing up. A blur of red races through your living room. One minute, there’s a shadowy figure and the next, it’s gone, replaced with the Flash.

The Flash is in your living room. 

He’s breathing heavily, hands on his hips, face slightly red under the mask from exertion. “Are you—“ He clears his throat, “are you okay?”

You blink, suddenly lightheaded. “You’re…The Flash.”

“I am.”

“You’re in my house, I—why are you in Bludhaven?”

“Are you,” he says slowly, moving to rest a hand on your shoulder, “okay?”

“Where did the—the robber go?” 

He says your name, loud and familiar. You stare at him, brows furrowed. The Flash knows your name. 

“How do you know me?”

And Wally sighs, because he shouldn’t be here, because he shouldn’t have come back to check on you, because he’s completely screwed himself. But he couldn’t help it. Not when he thought you might be in danger, not when he could hear your time running out. 

“Don’t freak out.”

“Why would I—“

Your words die in your throat when the Flash rips off his cowl to reveal Wally West, eyes concerned and face void of his usual smile. You stagger slightly, head spinning as you take in the sight. 

“I said,” he catches you against him, walking you down the hall to your bedroom to set you on your bed. “Don’t freak out.”

“You’re the Flash.”

“I am.”

“You—you saved me.”

“It’s what I do.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “You…you got here so fast.”

“They don’t call me the Flash for nothing,” he laughs awkwardly. “You never answered my question.”

“Question?”

“I asked if you were okay.”

You swallow, nodding. “I’m fine, I just—I don’t think I’ll get much sleep after that.”

“I could stay,” he offers just a little too quickly. “If you’re scared.”

Wally’s grateful you don’t seem to notice his sudden eagerness. 

“Really? You don’t have bigger, more superhero-y things to do?”

He laughs, cheeks flushing slightly. “I think I could spare a few minutes to make sure you sleep easy tonight.”

And true to his words, Wally steps away for a minute to change, coming back in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that definitely came from the Flash museum. You raise an eyebrow at his choice of attire, no longer self conscious about your own pyjamas he’d caught you in. 

Wally climbs into bed after you, keeping a respectful distance despite how badly he wants to pull you into his chest. He lays perfectly still, counting his breaths. 

“Are you sure I’m not like,” your voice is tired and thick with sleep, “dooming someone to a horrible fate by keeping you here?”

“You’d be dooming me to a horrible fate by sending me away.”

You drift off soon after that, Wally like a furnace next to you.

At some point in the night, you wake up to a pair of arms around you and Wally’s face nuzzled into your neck. He snores softly against you, body pressed flush to yours. 

You can’t help but push yourself closer to him, greedily drinking up his presence.

Things with Wally become routine from that night onwards. He comes over a couple times a week, checks in on you, occasionally stays for dinner. Sometimes, after a particularly bad night, you’ll even wake up with him in your bed, curled around you. 

He never talks about the bad nights, at least not to you, but you can always tell. 

The last thing you’re expecting on a Tuesday at well past midnight is for the Flash to be standing in your doorway. You flinch when you notice him, sitting up quickly in your bed and flicking on the lamp. 

“Wally?”

His head is hung low, his cowl off and red hair covering his face. He doesn’t respond, only stands there like a zombie. 

“Wally, are you okay?”

You’re on your feet in an instant when he doesn’t respond again, bare feet against the cold floor as you rush to his side. You cup his chin in your hands, lifting his head so you can look at him. 

“Walls?”

A tear slips from his eye, his hands shaky as he brings them to rest on your shoulders. You swipe away his tear, the concern in your throat growing thicker. 

“Wally, are you—“

You’re cut off by his lips pressing to yours, a messy desperate kiss connecting him to you. His hands meet at the back of your neck and clasp, pulling you tighter into him while his tongue swipes at the backs of your teeth. 

You pull away, stumbling back from him like you’ve been burned. “Wally?”

“Let me pretend,” he mumbles. 

“Huh?”

“Let me pretend,” he repeats, stepping towards you. “Just for tonight.”

“Pretend what?”

His hand catches your hip. “That you’re mine, that this—this is okay, that things aren’t terrible.”

“Why are things terrible?”

He steps closer, chest touching you now. His grip on your hip tightens. “I fucked up tonight,” his voice catches in his throat. “People got hurt, I—I couldn’t help them and—“

“Shhh,” you cup his cheeks, looking at him seriously, “it’s okay.”

He shakes his head, more tears coming. “It’s not, it’s really not.”

“You’re a hero, Wally, through and through.”

He brings his head to rest on your shoulder, wet eyes rubbing against the side of your neck. You stroke his hair, rubbing soothing patterns into his scalp. Somehow, you manage to walk him back towards your bed. 

He flops backwards onto your mattress, tugging you after him and pulling you into his chest. He breathes in your scent, rubs his hands up your sides, memorizes your shape. 

“Wally?”

“Hm?”

“We don’t have to pretend,” you say quietly. 

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, confusion written all over his features. 

“Earlier,” you say, “you said you wanted to pretend that—that we’re together.”

All of the breath stills in his body.

“We don’t have to pretend,” you repeat. “We can—I can—“

Wally saves you from your own embarrassment by leaning in and pressing his lips over yours. It’s less desperate than before, less messy, but he burns for you nonetheless. 

“Let me stay tonight?” He asks softly. 

“Always.”

And Wally knows you mean it. 

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“Dick,” you sniffle, throwing open his apartment door. “I’m sad.” 

You’re halfway through Dick’s living room when you find that the man laying on his couch is not, in fact, Dick. Silly you for assuming otherwise. 

Wally West’s head pops up, red hair bouncing. “Huh?”

You cringe, spinning on your heel to leave when he’s suddenly in front of you. He takes you in, from your wet eyes to the pout on your lips. 

“Why are you sad?”

“Where’s Dick?” Your voice breaks. 

Wally says nothing, pulling you into his chest. You freeze, entirely confused by the warm set of arms currently wrapped around you.

You and Wally have never been close—at least not in the way you were close to Dick. You've never talked about your feelings with him, never spent more than a few minutes alone with him and yet, here you are.

Slowly, you peel your arms away from your sides and wrap them around him, letting your face rest in the cologne-heavy fabric of his t-shirt.

"You don't have to tell my why you're sad," he says quietly. "But I'm here."

And he means it.

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