gotham trauma with dc men
characters roy harper here, wally west, hal jordan here, kon-el kent here, john constantine here
content gn! reader, 'babe'/'baby' used, childhood trauma, trauma recovery, hurt/comfort, casual discussion of past traumatic events, mention of croc/joker/scarecrow, school evacuation/lockdown procedures, fear toxin exposure references, fireworks as a trigger, nightmares, panic symptoms and grounding after nightmares
masterlist
author's note just noting here that for some of these characters i am not the most well versed with their lore/stories/etc. so please forgive any creative liberties taken! (also note they may come across as ooc)
word count 3.9k
wally west
Wally thinks he knows what ârough childhoodâ means. He grew up around heroes. Heâs seen alien invasions, supervillain attacks, timeline nonsense, world-ending crises, and more speedster trauma than should legally fit inside one human nervous system.
So when you tell him youâre from Gotham, heâs like, âOh, okay. That explains the sarcasm.â
He thinks he gets it.
He does not get it.
The first time you casually drop something horrifying, youâre both sprawled on the couch after a long day. Wally has his legs tangled with yours, one arm thrown over your stomach, half-watching a documentary he absolutely swore he was interested in and is absolutely about to fall asleep during.
The narrator mentions urban legends.
You snort.
Wally cracks one eye open. âWhat?â
âNothing. Just thinking about how Gotham urban legends are usually just, like, actual guys.â
He hums. âDefine actual guys.â
âYou know. Croc in the sewers. The Court of Owls. That guy who used to leave teeth in peopleâs mailboxes.â
Wally lifts his head. âThe what?â
You wave a hand. âHe wasnât a big one.â
âA big one?â
âYeah, not like Joker or Scarecrow or anything.â
Wally sits up so fast the blanket slides off him. âHold on. Pause. Rewind. Circle back. You had villain tier lists growing up?â
You blink at him. âEveryone did.â
âNo, babe. Everyone did not.â
And you say it so calmly. Thatâs the part that breaks his brain. Youâre not trembling. Youâre not telling him this with dramatic lighting and sad violin music. Youâre reaching for popcorn like you didnât just reveal your childhood had a recurring cast of themed nightmares.
Wally stares at you. You stare back.
âWhat?â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
Finally, âI need you to understand that most peopleâs neighbourhood hazards are potholes. Maybe raccoons. Not sewer crocodile cryptids and clown terrorism.â
You frown thoughtfully. âWe also had potholes.â
âNot the point!â
The second time is worse. Because it happens in public.
Youâre both at a grocery store. Wally is pushing the cart with one foot on the bottom rail, letting himself glide like a menace until you tell him he is one loud crash away from being banned from produce.
Heâs tossing snacks into the cart at speedster velocity.
You catch a box before it hits the bread. âWally.â
âWhat? Snacks are essential infrastructure.â
âYou got three kinds of cookies.â
âExactly. Infrastructure.â
Then thereâs a sudden loud bang from the back of the store. Someone dropped a pallet. Totally normal. Totally harmless.
But you go still.
Not dramatically. Not visibly to most people.
But Wally sees it.
Your eyes flick to the exits. Your shoulders lock. Your hand tightens around the cart handle.
It lasts maybe two seconds. Then you blink, exhale, and keep moving like nothing happened.
Wally doesnât say anything until youâre outside.
He loads the bags into the car slower than usual. Which, for Wally, is basically a medical event.
Then he asks, gently, âYou okay back there?â
You shrug. âYeah. Just sounded like one of the old evacuation alarms.â
âEvacuation alarms?â
âAt school.â
Wally pauses.
Your voice stays casual. âWe had different ones. Fire, rogue attack, gas exposure, active shooter, Arkham escape within two blocksââ
âWithin two blocks?â
âYeah. If it was further than that, they just locked the outside doors.â
Wally stares at you over the trunk.
You blink. âWhat?â
He looks like someone just handed him a bomb. âYour school had an Arkham escape alarm?â
âNot officially.â
âThat does not make it better.â
âIt was more of a bell pattern.â
âBabe.â
âWhat?â
âThat is so far from normal I canât even see normal from here. Normal is in another zip code. Normal packed a bag and left.â
You almost laugh because Wally is doing that thing where he gets animated when heâs upset, hands moving too fast, words tripping over each other.
But then you notice his face.
Heâs not joking. Not really. His eyes are too soft. Too bright. Like heâs trying to outrun how much it hurts to imagine you as a kid, sitting under a desk, learning the sound difference between fire danger and fear toxin danger.
You immediately backpedal. âIt wasnât that bad.â
Wally goes very quiet.
Thatâs rare. Thatâs how you know youâve accidentally stepped into something serious.
He closes the trunk and walks around to your side of the car, not crowding you, just standing close enough that his warmth is there if you want it.
âHey,â he says softly. âI love you. So Iâm gonna say this very carefully.â
You swallow.
âIt was that bad.â
And because itâs Wally, because heâs usually motion and laughter and bright lightning under skin, the stillness of him makes the words land harder.
You look away.
He doesnât make you look back.
He just says, âYou donât have to convince me it didnât hurt.â
That one gets under your ribs.
Because Gotham taught you that pain only counted if someone didnât survive it. Anything else was just âlucky.â
You say, âEveryone had stories like that.â
Wallyâs jaw tightens. âThen everyone deserved better.â
That shuts you up completely.
After that, Wally notices everything.
Not in a paranoid way. Not in a pitying way.
In a Wally way. Which means he notices at the speed of light and then tries extremely hard to act normal about it.
He notices how you donât like sitting near windows in restaurants. He notices how you track every person who enters a room wearing heavy coats, even in warm weather. He notices how you hate carnivals but love fair food.
He notices how you never say âIâm scared.â You say, âThis is probably fine.â
Which, he learns, means you are very much not fine.
He starts translating your Gotham-isms.
âCould be worseâ means: I am uncomfortable but trying not to be inconvenient.
âFunny storyâ means: This is about to be deeply alarming.
âI had a weird childhoodâ means: A supervillain may be involved.
âIt was fineâ means: It was not fine, but I survived, so I filed it under fine.
Wally becomes so offended by the word âfine.â
You say it once after flinching at fireworks, and he points at you with a French fry.
âNope.â
You blink. âNope?â
âNot accepting âfineâ as a valid emotional status. Try again.â
âIâm okay?â
He squints.
âIâm⌠mostly okay?â
âBetter.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âYeah, but Iâm cute and emotionally available, so it balances out.â
He makes you laugh even when you donât want to. Especially then.
Thatâs one of Wallyâs gifts: he doesnât use humour to avoid feelings. He uses it like a lantern. Something warm enough to make the dark less humiliating.
The first real conversation happens after a nightmare.
You wake up with your heart sprinting faster than even Wally could manage, throat tight, fingers twisted in the sheets.
For a second, you donât know where you are. The room is too dark. Too quiet.
No sirens. No shouting. No distant helicopters.
Just Wallyâs apartment. Soft blankets. The low hum of the fridge. Rain whispering against the windows.
Wally wakes instantly.
Heâs a speedster; his body is basically allergic to delayed reactions.
But he doesnât grab you. Doesnât shake you. Doesnât flood the room with questions.
He just sits up slowly and says, âHey. Youâre here. Youâre with me.â
You try to laugh it off. âSorry. Stupid dream.â
Wallyâs face does that thing again. The soft hurt. The careful patience. âWas it Gotham?â
You go still. Thatâs answer enough.
He nods once, like heâs accepting the shape of the thing without forcing you to name it. âCan I turn on the lamp?â
You nod.
He turns it on. Warm golden light fills the room, gentle as sunrise.
Then he asks, âCan I touch you?â
You nod again.
Only then does he reach for you.
And Wally West, who could move faster than thought, touches you like time is holy.
Slow hand on your shoulder. Gentle fingers around yours. A soft squeeze.
âThere you are,â he murmurs.
You hate that your eyes burn. You hate that he sees it. You hate even more that he doesnât look away.
âIâm fine,â you whisper.
Wally gives you a look.
You huff. âMostly okay.â
âThank you.â
You sit there in the lamplight for a while, your hand in his.
Eventually, you say, âThere was this thing when I was a kid.â
Wally stays still.
You tell him about being trapped in a subway station during a rogue attack. How the adults kept whispering, like quiet could save everyone. How you learned to breathe through your sleeve because someone said there might be gas. How the lights flickered for hours.
How afterwards, everyone called it lucky because Batman showed up before anyone died.
Wally listens.
No jokes. No interruptions. No âbut youâre safe nowâ thrown like a blanket over a wound that still remembers the cold.
When you finish, he says, âHow old were you?â
You answer.
His eyes close for half a second.
When he opens them, his voice is careful.
âIâm so sorry.â
You shrug automatically.
He catches your hand before the gesture can finish.
Not hard. Just enough to stop the reflex.
âYou donât have to do that with me,â he says.
âDo what?â
âMake it smaller.â
You look down at your joined hands. âItâs easier.â
âI know.â
That surprises you.
Wally rubs his thumb over your knuckles. âI do it too. Different stuff. Different flavour of messed up. But I know what itâs like to turn something awful into a joke because otherwise it just sits there taking up the whole room.â
Your throat tightens. âDoes it work?â
He gives you a small smile. âSometimes.â
âAnd the rest of the time?â
âThe rest of the time, you let someone sit in the room with you.â
That becomes the foundation.
Wally doesnât try to fix you. Heâs not naĂŻve enough for that. He wants to, obviously. This man loves with his whole chest and half the Speed Force. If he could run back through your timeline and carry kid-you out of every bad moment, he would do it in a heartbeat and probably break twelve cosmic laws in the process.
But he knows he canât. So he does the next best thing.
He stays. He stays when you tell another story in the wrong tone. He stays when you go quiet. He stays when you laugh too sharply. He stays when peace makes you restless because your body keeps waiting for the next alarm.
And he makes safety feel less like a locked door and more like a living thing.
A hand in yours. A light left on. A text that says: made it home, no rogues, no drama, just one suspiciously judgmental cat outside.
He starts sending you little updates because he realises uncertainty is one of your triggers.
Not obsessive. Not controlling.
Just thoughtful.
Running late. Actual running. Be there in six.
Big storm tonight. Iâve got you.
Fireworks downtown at nine. Wanna watch a movie louder than capitalism?
He learns your nervous system like itâs a map.
Lovingly. Respectfully. With snacks.
So many snacks.
Wallyâs love language is food, movement, and pretending he didnât just sprint across town because you casually mentioned craving a specific pastry.
One night, you mention that you never really did normal fairs growing up because Gotham fairs were, quote, âvillain bait.â
Wally looks personally wounded. âVillain bait?â
âYeah.â
âLike, regularly?â
âI mean, itâs a lot of people gathered in one place. Very kidnappable energy.â
He stares at you.
You sip your drink.
He points at you. âShoes. Now.â
âWhat?â
âWeâre going to a fair.â
âItâs nine at night.â
âI know a place.â
âWally.â
âNope. You deserve fried dough and rigged games and one emotionally significant plush animal.â
That is how you end up at a small-town night fair two cities over, lights glowing warm against the dark, music drifting through the air, Wally practically vibrating with determination.
At first, youâre tense. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many bright colours. Your eyes keep catching on exits, dark corners, strangers with oversized bags.
Wally notices.
He doesnât call attention to it. He just offers his hand. âWanna start small?â
You nod.
So you start with food.
Then a quiet booth.
Then a game.
Wally deliberately loses three times before realising youâre better at the ring toss than he is.
You win him a plush turtle.
He gasps like you proposed. âFor me?â
âYouâre embarrassing.â
âI will treasure him forever.â
âYouâre going to lose him in two days.â
âHis name is Bartholomew, and heâs family now.â
By the end of the night, youâre laughing. Really laughing. Not Gotham laughing. Not sharp-edged, survive-the-bit laughter.
Just pure joy.
Wally sees it and almost short-circuits. Because there you are, under cheap carnival lights, holding a paper tray of fried dough, powdered sugar on your sleeve, face open in a way he doesnât get to see often.
He looks at you like youâre faster than light.
You catch him staring. âWhat?â
He grins, softer than usual. âNothing. Just like seeing you happy.â
You roll your eyes, but you lean into him.
And Wally, because he cannot help himself, kisses powdered sugar off your cheek.
âGross,â you say.
âRomantic.â
âSticky.â
âAlso romantic.â
The fair becomes one of your safe memories.
Thatâs what Wally does. He doesnât erase the old ones. He helps you grow new ones beside them. Carnivals become fried dough and Bartholomew the turtle. Storms become blanket forts and terrible movies. Sirens become Wally squeezing your hand and saying, âAmbulance, three blocks over, moving away.â
Crowds become escape plans and shared headphones. Quiet becomes less terrifying because Wally fills it with humming, breathing, life.
The first time you tell him that, he cries. Youâre lying together in bed one morning, sunlight slipping through the curtains, and you mumble, âI like quiet with you.â
Wally goes still.
You glance up. His eyes are shiny.
âOh my god,â you say. âAre you crying?â
âNo.â
âYou are.â
âI have allergies.â
âTo emotional intimacy?â
âYes. Very serious condition.â
You laugh, and he buries his face in your shoulder.
But his arms tighten around you.
Because he understands what you actually said. You didnât just say the room was quiet. You said your body trusted him enough to stop listening for disaster.
That is not small. That is cathedral-level trust. That is holy ground.
Wally treats it like it matters.
He also becomes your number one defender against your own minimising.
You: âIt was just a mugging.â Wally: âYou were nine.â You: âBut it was only a knife.â Wally: âI need you to hear the sentence you just made.â You: âIt wasnât even one of the big gangs.â Wally: âBaby, I say this with love: your scale is broken.â You: âGotham scale.â Wally: âExactly. Broken.â
He starts using the phrase âGotham scaleâ whenever you underreact to something insane.
You tell him your old dentist accepted protection money from Penguin?
âGotham scale.â
You mention your neighbour had a bunker under their laundry room?
âGotham scale.â
You say your elementary school had a âno riddles from strangersâ assembly?
Wally has to lie down.
âGotham scale, but also Iâm suing the concept of childhood.â
Sometimes, though, the shock gives way to anger.
Real anger.
Not at you. Never at you. But at the city. At the adults who normalised it. At the way Gotham turns children into witnesses and then calls them resilient because it sounds better than abandoned.
Wally tries not to let you see the worst of that anger.
But you do.
Youâre both visiting Gotham for a brief errand. You insisted you were fine. It was just a day trip. No big deal.
But Wally watches the city change you.
Your shoulders tighten before you even cross the bridge. Your voice goes flatter. Your eyes sharpen. You know which streets to avoid without checking a map. You know the sound of distant gunfire and donât even flinch until you remember Wally is there.
That hurts him in a way he canât joke around.
At one point, you pass your old school.
You mention, almost absently, âThatâs where the Scarecrow lockdown happened.â
Wally stops walking.
You keep going for two steps before realising.
âWally?â
Heâs staring at the building.
There are kids outside. Laughing. Running around.
His jaw is tight.
You touch his arm. âHey.â
He looks at you. For once, he doesnât have something funny ready.
âYou were just a kid,â he says.
You donât know what to say.
He looks back at the school. âYou were just a kid.â
The repetition cracks something open.
Because you know that. Obviously you know that. But hearing him say it like heâs grieving, like heâs angry on behalf of a version of you no one protected, makes it feel real in a way you have avoided for years.
You whisper, âSo were a lot of people.â
Wally nods. âYeah. And every single one of you deserved better.â
You have to leave after that.
Not because of danger. Because of kindness.
Which is somehow harder.
Wally gets you out of Gotham fast. Not because he thinks youâre weak. Because you asked, and he listened before your pride could interfere.
Back home, he doesnât push. He orders your favourite food. Puts on a comfort show. Sits beside you close enough to touch but not close enough to trap.
Eventually, you lean into him.
He wraps an arm around you.
âI hate that place,â he admits.
You laugh weakly. âThat place made me.â
âNo,â Wally says, firm but gentle. âYou made you. Gotham just made it harder.â
That line sits between you for a long time.
Then you whisper, âI donât know who I am without it sometimes.â
Wally kisses the top of your head. âThatâs okay. Weâve got time.â
Of course, because heâs Wally, âtimeâ is a loaded word. He has outrun it, broken it, lost people to it, begged it for mercy. But with you, he means something simpler.
Mornings. Weeks. Years.
Slow things. Human things.
He is a speedster who chooses patience for you.
Thatâs how you know he loves you.
Wally helps you learn that healing doesnât have to be dramatic.
Sometimes healing is him convincing you that not every unknown package is suspicious.
Sometimes itâs him labelling leftovers because you once mentioned food insecurity after city shutdowns.
Sometimes itâs him keeping extra batteries, water, and first-aid supplies in the apartmentânot because he expects disaster, but because he knows preparedness helps your body unclench.
Sometimes itâs him making silly playlists for ânon-traumatic cleaning day.â
Sometimes itâs him asking, âDo you want comfort, distraction, or solutions?â and actually listening to the answer.
Sometimes itâs him understanding that you may never love surprises.
So he stops surprising you in big ways.
Instead, he gives you small, predictable joys.
Your favourite drink appearing in the fridge. A blanket warmed in the dryer. A note on the counter: No emergencies. No mysteries. Just love you.
The first time he writes that, you stare at it for a full minute.
Then you stick it on the fridge.
Wally notices.
He does not make a big deal out of it.
He absolutely takes a picture when youâre not looking.
He is sentimental as hell. Itâs terminal.
Thereâs also a funny side to all this, because Wally cannot exist without becoming at least a little ridiculous.
He starts rating your stories based on âhow much they emotionally damage him.â
You: âOne time Two-Face robbed the movie theatre I was in.â Wally: âSeven out of ten. Upsetting, but Gotham-coded.â You: âI still remember the smell of fear gas.â Wally: âTen out of ten. I need to walk into the ocean.â You: âMy old landlord was probably laundering money.â Wally: âThree out of ten. Honestly, that could happen anywhere.â You: âThrough Black Mask.â Wally: âEight out of ten. Why would you save that for the second sentence?â
It becomes a weird little ritual.
Not making light of it.
Making room around it.
Because with Wally, the wound is allowed to breathe. It doesnât have to be hidden, but it also doesnât get to swallow the whole sky.
He reminds you that joy can be defiant. That laughter can be a survival skill and a love language. That being soft after Gotham is not weakness.
It is rebellion.
And Wally loves your softness.
He loves when you get sleepy and clingy. He loves when you trust him enough to complain about tiny problems. He loves when your biggest issue of the day is that he ate the last of your cereal.
Which he did.
And he is sorry.
Mostly.
Okay, half sorry.
He replaces it at superspeed and adds two more boxes because he values his life.
Wally also gets emotional the first time you call his place âhome.â
It slips out naturally.
Youâre looking for your keys, distracted, and you say, âDid I leave them at home?â
Wally looks around. âYour place?â
You blink.
Then realise.
âNo. I meant⌠here.â
Wally freezes.
You freeze too.
For a second, neither of you breathes.
Then he smiles. It starts small, then grows, bright and devastating.
âYeah?â he asks.
You look away, embarrassed. âDonât be weird.â
âIâm gonna be so weird.â
âWally.â
âThis is a historic moment.â
âDonât.â
âI need a plaque.â
âI will take it back.â
âYou canât. Verbal contract. Speedster law.â
You groan, but he pulls you in, laughing softly into your hair.
He doesnât tease you for long.
Just enough to make it feel normal.
Then he murmurs, âI like that this feels like home to you.â
You press your face into his chest. âMe too.â
And thatâs the thing. Wally doesnât make you feel like a tragedy. He makes you feel like a person with a future. Not just someone who escaped Gotham.
Someone who gets to build something after. A life with sunlight in it. A kitchen with too many snacks. A couch where nothing bad happens. A lover who can run faster than almost anyone alive but never rushes your healing.
When your past comes up, Wally is shocked every time. He canât help it. The man is expressive. His face has no security system.
But beneath the shock is always the same steady truth: He believes you. He grieves what hurt you. He loves what survived.
And he is so, so proud of who you became.
One night, much later, you ask him, âDoes it bother you?â
He looks up from where heâs fiddling with the TV remote. âWhat?â
âAll of it. The Gotham stuff.â
Wallyâs expression softens.
He sets the remote down.
âBother me how?â
You shrug. âThat Iâm⌠like this.â
He moves closer, slow enough that you can move away if you need to.
You donât.
He takes your hand.
âI hate that it happened,â he says. âI hate that you had to learn fear before you got to learn peace. I hate that you still flinch at things that should just be sounds.â
Your throat tightens.
âBut you?â He squeezes your hand. âYou donât bother me. Not ever.â
You look down.
He ducks his head until you meet his eyes. âYouâre not hard to love.â
And that one ruins you. Completely.
Because Gotham taught you to be useful. Alert. Tough. Prepared. Quiet when needed. Fast when necessary.
Wally teaches you something else.
You can be loved tired. Loved scared. Loved healing. Loved messy.
Loved on bad days. Loved when the past catches up. Loved when you donât have a joke ready. Loved without having to earn it by being okay.
Wally West loves like lightning, yesâbright, wild, impossible to ignoreâbut with you, he also loves like morning.
Gentle. Patient. Arriving again and again, no matter how long the night has been.













