Wally West | Kid Flash

The second Wally got the call, he was already running toward Gotham, red lightning cracking against the pavement beneath his feet. He barely remembered answering, barely remembered the voice on the other end choking out your name. His body moved on instinct, faster than thought, faster than fear.

It didn’t fully register. Not at first. In his head, it was just another close call, another bad night that would end with you bruised but joking it off. You always did. It wasn’t until he saw you that reality slammed into him.

You were standing, or trying to. Your legs trembled violently, barely holding you up, one hand pressed flat against the wall as if it were the only thing keeping you from collapsing altogether. The back of your suit was completely destroyed, charred and torn away, smoke still clinging faintly to the fabric.

Wally stopped short, his breath leaving him in a sharp, audible gasp.

For a split second, he couldn’t move.

Then your knees buckled, and instinct took over.

He crossed the distance in a flash, catching you before you could hit the ground, hands gripping your arms with a gentleness that didn’t match the panic burning behind his eyes. “Hey—hey, easy,” he said quickly, voice pitching higher than usual, words tumbling over each other. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t the one injured. He hadn’t taken the hit. And yet his hands were shaking as he steadied you, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might tear straight out of his chest.

His eyes swept over you, searching for injuries, blood, anything else he’d missed, and then they landed on your back.

The bat-shaped burn was enormous. Raw, angry skin stretched beneath scorched edges, the symbol unmistakable even through the damage. Wally sucked in a breath through his teeth, his face twisting as he winced. He’d seen burns before, too many of them, but this one hit differently. This one was you.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, barely audible, like saying it louder would make it worse.

You leaned into him then, all the strength draining out of your body at once, and Wally reacted immediately. One arm wrapped securely around you as he lifted you up, cradling you close to his chest. He adjusted his grip again and again, hyperaware of every movement, every breath you took, terrified of hurting you more.

“Okay,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Okay, okay… think.” His mind raced, options flashing past faster than he could grab onto them. A hospital was impossible. You couldn’t risk being seen. “Where do I take you?” he asked, glancing down at you, desperation creeping into his voice. “The cave?”

Your answer was barely there, a small, exhausted “mhm” against his chest.

That was all he needed.

Wally took off, the world dissolving into streaks of color and wind as he ran. He pushed himself as fast as he dared, constantly adjusting his pace, cradling you like you were made of glass. Every jolt of movement sent a spike of fear through him, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to slow whenever your grip tightened even slightly.

“Almost there,” he murmured over and over, a soft, frantic mantra. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The Batcave came into view in a blur of stone and shadow. Wally skidded to a stop, boots scraping loudly against the cave floor as he rushed inside. Alfred looked up sharply, startled, and then his expression shifted the moment he saw you in Wally’s arms.

“This way,” Alfred said immediately, already moving, gesturing toward the medbay.

Wally followed without hesitation, laying you down with painstaking care, hands lingering as if he couldn’t quite make himself let go. As Alfred assessed the damage and began treating the burn, Wally hovered nearby, utterly useless and painfully aware of it.

He darted around the medbay like a man possessed, grabbing bandages, ointments, tools, anything he thought might help, even when Alfred hadn’t asked for it. His foot tapped nonstop against the floor, energy buzzing beneath his skin with nowhere to go. By the time Alfred finally stepped back, the worst of the treatment done, Wally had already chewed his nails down to nothing.

He swallowed hard, shoulders finally sagging as the adrenaline began to fade.

“God,” he said quietly, voice rough, eyes fixed on you. There was no anger in his tone, only guilt, thick and heavy. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone today.”

He moved closer, sitting beside you, his hand sliding gently over yours. His thumb brushed reassuring circles against your skin, warm and grounding, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he stopped touching you. He looked at you then, really looked at you, eyes wide and glassy with concern.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

The sad, helpless puppy-dog look he gave you might have broken anyone else’s heart, but you knew it meant he wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.