Chapter Text
Single parenthood -no matter how temporary it is- is absolutely exhausting, Wally decides. He has no idea how Bruce does it, with at least seven kids under his roof no less.
Although, Wally thinks as he blurs into action once again to catch Irey before she superspeeds into the countertop, Bruce never did have to deal with any kid below the age of eight. And he’d always had Alfred.
And he’d never had to deal with three superpowered kids at once, no doubt.
Tsk. His father-in-law doesn’t know how lucky he is, Wally concludes.
Usually with Dick around, it’s never this hard to look after the kids- they could always divide and conquer, and if Mar’i had somehow flown herself up into some unreachable corner of the house, Dick could always climb his way up to get her down. Unfortunately, that’s a skillset that Wally doesn’t possess, and he thanks god everyday that Mar’i is finally reaching an age where she has more conscious control over her powers.
Still, Wally would be beyond grateful when Dick’s off-world mission ends, and his husband is back with them.
The other Bats have offered to help with Blüd patrols while Dick’s away, but even with a veritable army of bats and birds offering, Wally knows that Blüdhaven’s crime wouldn’t rest if both of their resident heroes didn’t show their face regularly, so Flamebird still has to be seen on patrol on a regular basis.
Not to mention the League missions too- the downside of officially joining the Justice League, Wally thinks, is the damned paperwork.
The mission reports, the damage control, the goodwill publicity events- it was never-ending, and it doesn’t help that with some of the League’s main roster off-planet, monitor duty shifts come even more frequently than they usually do.
Basically, Wally thinks as he finally settles Jai, Irey and Mar’i down for the night, then crashes into bed, too tired to even think about getting under the covers, he’s just about operating on instinct, desperation, and sheer willpower.
(Huh. Maybe he finally gets what Tim feels like all the time. Except Tim probably doesn’t feel it.)
1.
Wally is running on fumes.
Barry can see it- it’s the monthly League meeting, and his nephew practically stumbles stepping out of the zeta tube, before zipping into his seat with a hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Sorry- sorry I’m late,” Wally says sheepishly, waving at Batman when the other pauses his lecture to stare at him. “Haha, work, patrol, life, you know how it is, Bats.”
Batman just grunts, and continues the meeting, which is how Barry knows for sure that Wally is running on fumes. Bruce wouldn’t have tolerated tardiness if he hadn’t seen it too.
Beside him, Hal’s jaw drops, and he grabs Barry by the shoulder and shakes. “Barr, Barr, what the heck, did you see that? Spooky just- didn’t say anything when your kid strolled in late? And called him Bats- Bats! Barr, I was late once because I was literally fighting a genocidal maniac on another planet and Spooky still chewed me out! What is your kid blackmailing him with-”
“Lantern,” the word is low, growled in that familiar gravelled tone, and Hal immediately jerks upright in his seat.
“Right, present, here,” Hal blurts, and Barry hides his laughter when Batman glares a moment longer and Hal quails. God, he remembers the days when he’d used to be terrified of Batman too, but once he’d seen the cowl off, and Bruce absolutely buried under a dogpile of his own wayward children, he doesn’t think he can ever really get that fear back again.
Besides, like Iris had said, it was kind of hard to be intimidated by a guy who’d begun crying when walking his eldest son down the aisle.
(It felt great, being one of maybe three people in the entire League in the know about Bats and his soccer team of kids. He got to laugh at Hal’s and Ollie’s crazy conspiracy theories even more now, and then rewatch them after asking Oracle to send him the footage.)
“The property damage from the last alien battlefront was extreme,” Batman continues, and Barry tunes back in. As boring as these meetings were, it wasn’t advised to check out entirely- Batman liked to slip important bits into the middle of the most boring lectures, and then drop questions on them like a sadistic university lecturer. “Luckily, the governments of the world have decided that Earth’s continued sovereignty is slightly more important than calling for our heads, and the Wayne Foundation along with other organisations have offered to fund the rebuilding.”
Barry suppresses his smile at the sentence- ever since he’d found out who was behind the cowl, it had been never-ending amusement every time Wayne Enterprises, or the Wayne Foundation, or any other of the hundreds of charities and subsidiary companies that the Waynes had their fingers in, stepped up to take the heat off of the League.
“In any case,” Batman says, flicking through what seemed like an unending stream of property damage photos. “This should be a reminder to all of you- if able, take your fights out of the city, and out of populated-”
There’s a low thud, and Barry’s head jerks to the left, where- oh. Oh dear.
Wally’s chin is tucked into his chest, his hand lying slack against the table where it had fallen, eyes shut behind his cowl. As Barry stares, Wally lets out a small snore, and the entire table freezes.
“Oh that’s it, he’s dead,” Hal mutters beside him, and Barry surreptitiously reaches over to smack his best friend’s thigh.
“What,” Hal whispers furiously. “It’s the truth, Spooky’s gonna murder him, no one’s fallen asleep so obviously in one of these meetings since that time in the like… third ever League meeting when Ollie did-”
And got monitor duty for a month, followed by arranging the storage room, Barry completes silently. Inwardly, he begins praying for Wally’s mental health and safety when Batman turns those whited-out eyes to his slumped form.
“Hn,” Bruce says, then flicks to the next slide. “As I was saying, this is a timely reminder to take your fights out of populated and built-up areas whenever possible. Not only will that minimise civilian casualties, it also minimises the amount of ammunition the League’s naysayers have to protest against us.”
…wow, Bats really does play favourites. Barry has kind of always known that, especially once Robin -the first one, that is- stepped onto the scene, but he’d never thought he’d see that favouritism for Wally, of all people.
A green-gloved hand closes over Barry’s shoulder, then, “Dude, you have got to tell me what blackmail Wally has on Spooky.”
Barry just shakes his head.
(And, if after the meeting ends and he stays behind to gently shake Wally awake, only to hear Bruce clear his throat and say, “Flamebird, I’ve sent the main points of the meeting to you, review them when you have time.”
Well. Maybe his cowl is on too tight, and he didn’t really hear the words clearly.)
2.
To be honest, Hal has no idea why he’s on the Watchtower. There’s no mission, no meeting, he doesn’t even have any duties or responsibilities or reports to fill in. He’s kind of just… lounging around.
He kicks his feet up onto the couch, leaning back to stare at the ceiling and practice making weird shapes and constructs with his ring before he gets bored of that and stands to disturb whichever unlucky soul was stuck with monitor duty today.
When he enters the monitor room, it’s to the sight of Oliver and Wally seated at the monitors. Oliver is in the middle of polishing his bow, feet resting on the table and chair inclined, while Wally…
Well, Hal isn’t really sure if Wally’s all there, to be honest. The younger hero has his eyes fixed on the screens, sure, but he’s otherwise unmoving. Which is very, very odd, for a speedster.
As Hal watches, Wally blinks, slowly, lethargically, and brings a hand up to scrub at his face just as his jaw practically unhinges in a yawn so huge that Hal isn’t entirely sure if it’s even humanly possible.
Wally has been inexplicably tired this past week, Hal recalls. He’d heard Barry mutter about it to himself at some point, concerned, but Hal doesn’t know the reason why. Still, it’s hard to deny that the younger hero is pretty much checked out, especially given the way that he’d literally fallen asleep in his seat at the last meeting- and somehow avoided the Wrath of The Bat while at it.
Honestly, Hal is pretty impressed that Wally hasn’t straight up fallen asleep yet, given how boring monitor duty could be. Hal will never admit it out loud, but he’s almost fallen asleep on monitor duty more than once before, and that was when he was actually well-rested.
He waves at Oliver, then claps a hand on Wally’s shoulder.
“Hey, kid,” he says instead, wondering if talking to Wally will keep him awake. “You good? Looks like you could use some sleep.”
Wally blinks at him once, then shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah I’m good, don’t worry-”
“Flamebird.” The call is low, in that familiar hoarse voice that never fails to send shivers down Hal’s spine, and Hal freezes.
Poor Wally. Hal has no idea what the younger hero has done to invoke Spooky’s ire -unless Spooky somehow knew Wally was dozing off on duty even though he’s literally just entered the room- but Hal would not want to be Wally West right about now.
Exchanging a glance with Oliver, whose gaze is darting between the Dark Knight and the speedster before conspicuously lowering to his bow, Hal shrugs, and makes himself as inobtrusive as possible.
Sorry kid, you’re on your own for this one.
Wally spins in his seat to face Batman, and -here, Hal really has to respect the dude, because there is not an inch of fear on his face- looks up. “What’s up, Bats?”
Damn. Whatever the West-Allens were feeding this kid, Hal kind of wants in on it. It hadn’t escaped his notice that even Barry hasn’t seemed as cowed by Batman as he used to be- Hal swears, he’s even heard Barry call Batman “B” once.
B! Like, an actual, proper nickname for Spooky that wasn’t, well, Spooky! The same nickname that so far only Nightwing had miraculously gotten away with, but everyone knew that the big bad Bat had a soft spot for Nightwing.
And Wally had used a nickname too- oh, whatever miracle mind control the speedsters had on Batman, couldn’t they let Hal in on it too? Wasn’t Hal like, the Flash family’s closest family friend?
Batman just stares that unnerving, unholy stare of his that always felt like it was boring into your soul, then he-
He puts a takeaway cup smelling of coffee on the table? Good coffee, even, if the smell of it was to be trusted.
“Two sugars, no cream,” Batman says, and Hal stares. That sentence can’t be implying what he thinks it is-
“I take coffee with three sugars, Bats,” is all Wally replies, and Hal thinks his jaw might actually be on the floor now.
“Hn,” Batman grunts. “I know, but that’s too much sugar for someone who hasn’t slept in two days.”
What. Hal stares openly now, dumbfounded.
Batman knows how Wally takes his coffee? Batman brought Wally coffee?
Batman is not only allowing Wally to drink in the monitor room, but actively bringing him drinks?!
“I must be dreaming,” the whisper from beside Hal snaps him out of whatever twilight zone trance he must be in, and he jerks his head hard enough to give himself whiplash, meeting Oliver’s wide eyes.
“If you are, must be a mass hallucination,” Hal replies, one hand reaching down to pinch his own thigh.
Ouch. Not a dream then… a hallucination? Mind control? Some kind of new airborne toxin that only affected people with green in their superhero names?
Wally just laughs. Laughs. “Thanks, Bats. I really needed the caffeine, even if it’s just going to burn out of my system in a bit.”
“It’s Red Robin’s recipe.”
Wally blinks. “…yeah, that’ll work.”
And Batman- Batman chuckles.
Yep. Alright, it’s official, Hal’s crossed over into some strange alternate dimension. That’s the only possible explanation.
3.
"That’s three bad guy masterminds in jail, and one countrywide metahuman trafficking ring dismantled,” Wally announces as he steps out of the zeta, Superman behind him and Batman in front. The Leaguers who are on the Watchtower turn to face them, welcoming the trio back, and Wally offers them a grin that feels too exhausted around the edges.
“Hn,” Bruce says, turning briefly to face Wally from where he’d started typing into the monitor. It had been weeks of stakeouts and careful infiltration before they’d finally managed to bring down the trafficking ring that had started in Blüdhaven and crossed over into Gotham before finally making its way into Metropolis, but the memory of the people they’d rescued, the relief on their faces, adults and kids both, but mostly children-
God, the reason he’d thrown himself into investigating this so thoroughly, the reason he’d made sure that the kids had either himself or Uncle Barry or a Bat with them at all times- all three of his babies were metas, or at least meta-adjacent, and if the trafficking ring had gotten wind of them-
The fear had driven him, more than anything else, and god was he glad that things were finally over.
He collapses into the nearest seat, and watches as Bruce pulls up the mission report forms on the screen beside him.
Ah, hell. He’d need to do up his own part of the reports later, since the ring had started in Blüd and he’d been the one to raise the alarm, but he really just wanted to get home and hug his kids, then maybe pass out for the next three days.
…he really should get those reports done if he’s going to crash for the next three days, huh.
Wally sighs, and activates the holoscreen in front of his seat. It’s just as well that every seat at the main table had a screen attached, because there is absolutely no way that he’s going to fight Bruce for control of the main monitor. He pulls up a report template, fingers already flying as he inputs the key details.
Location, case details, date of start and end of investigation…
“Flamebird.” Bruce’s voice is familiar to him now, both the Batgrowl and the smooth baritone under it, but that doesn’t stop the way he jumps when an armoured hand clasps over his shoulder.
He blinks. The holoscreen glows in front of him, cursor blinking even as he notes the barely understandable, typo-ridden summary that he’d just begun.
“Ah,” he says, fingers already flying to fix his mistakes.
He gets two mistakes in before that armoured grip squeezes lightly, and Bruce clears his throat.
“Flamebird,” he repeats, and his tone is less Batman and more Bruce now, almost like the voice he uses when Jason jokes about his death, or Damian’s pulled a knife out of thin air, or Tim’s gone a week without sleep again. “Go home. Get some rest. I can handle the reports.”
(Somewhere in the back of the room, Wally vaguely registers a splutter that sounds like someone choking on their drink, and a voice that sounds a little like Hal, or maybe Ollie, stage-whispering, “The last time I submitted a mission report late I got sentenced to cleaning out the locker rooms!”)
Wally’s eyelids are heavy, but if he doesn’t get the beginning details of this mission out now, he never will, and he was the one who’d started this entire thing anyway. He stares at the bright screen, willing his eyes to stay open, and says, “Trafficking ring started in Blüd, Bats, that means I’ve gotta-”
“Red Robin was with you at the time,” Bruce interrupts. “He and I can handle the reports. Go home, Flamebird.”
(“What the heck,” comes another furious whisper from the back of the room. “Is that really the Bat under there? Did anyone check for mind control? Or an impostor, or some kind of toxin-”)
“I-” Wally starts, blinking rapidly.
“You have people waiting for you,” Bruce says instead. “Let me and Red Robin settle the reports.”
Bruce’s hand rubs lightly at his shoulder, just for a moment, squeezing warmly before he pulls away, leaning over to deactivate Wally’s holoscreen. “Go.”
A mental image of the kids, curled up in bed, blinking sleepy eyes up at him flashes through Wally’s mind, and Wally caves. He could really do with cuddles right now, especially after seeing how those traffickers had treated their victims, and he hadn’t spent more than two continuous hours with the kids since this whole thing started.
He stands, and wobbles. Bruce’s hand immediately clamps around his forearm, and Wally stabilises himself, blinking the spots from his vision.
Ah, right. And he hadn’t had more than five hours of sleep in the same number of days. He’s a meta, and a speedster, which meant that he could go a while without sleep, but he sure as heck isn’t Tim. Wally knows himself well enough that he knows he’ll crash the moment he allows himself to lie down, so that means that he’ll need to head home, take over from Cass and Steph who were looking after the kids, and tuck them all into bed before he can stop moving.
Yeah, he thinks as he leans briefly into Bruce’s bracing grip before straightening. Yeah, he should get back soon before this brief adrenaline dies off too.
“Thanks, B,” he offers, heading toward the zetas.
(He doesn’t see the way Bruce lifts a hand to his comms behind him, nor does he hear the low, “Spoiler, Black Bat, tuck the kids in and get them to sleep, he’s on the way back.”)
4.
Something, Oliver swears, is up with Batman.
It’s been a week and a half since that time that Wally had fallen blatantly asleep in the middle of a League meeting, and that had somehow kickstarted an entire uncharacteristic series of events where the big bad Bat suddenly acted almost human.
It was so odd, how Batman’s suddenly being nice, but only to Flamebird. Oliver himself had just gotten lectured -again- when the Bat caught him with his booted feet on the monitor desk, and Oliver hates how he was pretty sure that they were around the same age, but somehow Batman could still make him feel like a kid who’d disappointed their dad.
(Which was just wrong- Oliver himself had a kid, who had a kid, Oliver was a damn grandfather, and still felt like a scolded child around Batman!)
Doesn’t change how scarily efficient Batman is on the field, though.
Oliver watches as Batman flings himself at another mecha-robot-android-thing, grappling hook firing, and nocks an arrow as the robot turns to chase the Bat and puts Oliver conveniently in its blind spot.
He lets the arrow fly, and the robot explodes as Batman grunts once into the comms and swings away again.
There’s only a few robots left, and each of them have at least one of the League’s heavy hitters already on them- Oliver nocks another arrow, but doesn’t aim. There isn’t really anywhere that needs his help. Superman had already defeated his target, Green Lantern was in the process of crushing his in a steadily shrinking cage, and the last one already had both Flamebird and Flash tagteaming it.
Even as the thought crosses his mind, the last robot falls in a blur of yellow and white lightning, and Oliver returns his arrow to its quiver, trading it for a grappling arrow that he uses to swing himself down and reunite with the rest of the League.
He’s just entering hearing distance when Batman drops down beside Flamebird and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Agent A asked me to inform you that your attendance is expected on Saturday.”
Flamebird blinks, then grins. “I wouldn’t miss it, Bats. Besides, the rest would murder me if I did, and I’m not dumb enough to cross Agent A no matter what N says.”
Batman makes what could almost pass for an approving sound, if he was capable of such a thing, and presses something on his utility belt even as he says, “Additionally, I was asked to make sure that these made it into your hands-”
With a roar like an armoured tank, Oliver watches as the Batmobile pulls up beside Batman, somehow navigating driverlessly through the rubble-filled streets with ease.
Batman opens the passenger door and reaches in, pulling out a- Oliver blinks, then blinks again. He’s not sure if there’s something wrong with his vision, because there is no fucking way that Batman, the Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham and actually pretty much the rest of the world too, just- just pulled out a stack of tupperware out of his heavily armoured war vehicle?!
Oliver reaches up and tries to rub his eyes before remembering that he has a mask on.
“These should be enough for the next week,” Batman continues, handing Flamebird the bag of tupperware and turning to pull more out of the Batmobile. “If you need more, you know the door is always open.”
“Bats, I-” Flamebird starts, eyes wide. There are now four whole bags filled to the brim with food hanging from his arms, and Batman looks terrifyingly smug.
“Agent A sends his regards,” is all Batman says, and Oliver sees the way Flamebird visibly deflates, protests dying on his lips.
“No way,” Barry says as he zips up to stare at the bags on his nephew’s arms. “Is that mealprep from the famous A?”
Batman hums, and levels a deadpan stare at Barry, who just shrugs. “Hey, I can be jealous without stealing my nephew’s food, don’t look at me like that.”
“Good.” Batman nods. “Flamebird, head home and get some rest. I expect your part of the mission report submitted by next week.”
Oliver can’t help the way he stares. The Bat was usually cryptic, but this was a whole other level of it. Oliver could swear that he was speaking English, but none of the words made sense, and-
Why did Flamebird get an entire week to submit his mission report? For a battle that involved the entire League, Flamebird really only needed to document his presence and record any significant observations he may have made during the battle, it wouldn’t have taken any longer than an hour to draft.
If anyone else had submitted their report later than the end of the day, provided they weren’t injured or recovering, Batman would have had their hides! And he hadn’t even expected Flamebird to report to the Watchtower for the debrief as per protocol- who the hell was this guy and what had he done to Batman?
As if to prove Oliver’s point, Batman lifts a hand to press at his communicator, and then his voice comes, growled lowly over their comms. “Justice League, report. Battle has ended, head back to the Watchtower for mission debrief. I expect each of your completed reports from the battle submitted in the system by twenty-three hundred hours today.”
Oliver scowls. Batman expected the reports in by eleven PM?! It was already four in the afternoon, and Oliver would still need to collect any still usable arrows and get out of this dust-covered suit before he could get started on that damned report, was Batman trying to kill him?
Oliver curses under his breath. What game was Flamebird playing that the big bad Bat was cutting him so much slack, and how could Oliver get in on it?
(And who the heck was Agent A, and how did even Barry know him?)
5.
Wally had been running himself ragged again. Barry is finally moving past the stage of concern for his nephew and into worry instead, particularly when he sees the way Wally trips over thin air even when moving at a normal human pace.
He’d thought it gotten better, when Wally had let the rest of the family, Bats and Flashes alike, help out, but it seems that his frustratingly independent, chronically incapable of asking for help nephew has finally reverted to his old ways.
(Really, if there’s one thing Barry wishes Wally wouldn’t learn from his husband’s side of the family, it's the chronic lack of self-care.)
He knows Wally’s own childhood had left scars on him that always made him reluctant to ask for help unless absolutely necessary, but Barry really, really wished that his nephew just would. It made Barry’s heart ache, seeing the exhaustion in Wally’s eyes, in every sluggish movement of his body, in the way there wasn’t a single spark of Speedforce in any of his actions.
Ah, if Iris was here she would know what to do- unfortunately, Iris wasn’t here, which meant that it was up to Barry to make sure that his nephew didn’t work himself into the ground before his husband could come back planetside and smother their entire little family in hugs.
Barry sighs, and pinches at the bridge of his nose through the cowl. He steps into the League pantry and lounge, wondering if there was anything he could make that Wally would eat without hesitation, or would make him stop overthinking and actually get some rest.
Then he steps into the lounge, and freezes. Wally is collapsed sideways on the couch, limbs splayed out in a way that clearly says he did not mean to fall asleep, and Barry stifles the small chuckle that wants to break out.
It’s been a while since he’s seen Wally sprawled out like this, not since he’d moved out of the West-Allen household, but it’s nice to see that even being married with three kids hasn’t changed the way Wally starfishes in his sleep. Barry lets a fond smile spread over his lips, recalling the way that a younger Wally had spent more time at Barry’s house than he did at his own, the way Wally’s school trophies and achievements still decorated the walls of the small guest bedroom that had quickly become Wally’s own.
It was nice, that even all grown up like this Wally was still the boy that Barry raised and loved like his own son. Barry steps forward to smooth Wally’s curls off his masked forehead, leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head like he’d used to do when Wally had been much smaller. He pulls back, looking around for a blanket, and is met by the sight of Batman pulling out of the shadows, said blanket in hand.
“Flash,” Batman acknowledges, stepping past Barry to unfold the blanket in his arms, spreading it out over Wally even as Barry watches, mouth slightly agape.
He watches as Batman- no, Bruce, this was all tired single father Bruce, and none of Batman- begins tucking the edges of the blanket in around Wally’s sleeping form, then shifts Wally’s head slightly and props a cushion underneath it, fixing the sharp dip of Wally’s neck that had Barry’s own aching just from looking at it.
“You-” Barry starts, blinking. “You really do care for him, don’t you? And not just as Nightwing’s husband.”
Bruce grunts, but years as the Bat’s in-law have given Barry a somewhat rudimentary understanding of his speech patterns, and Barry knows that the lack of an outright denial in this case says more than an agreement ever could.
The long silence that follows is finally broken by Bruce blowing out a breath, one hand smoothing out a crease on the blanket. “He’s made Nightwing happier than I ever could have, and has been for over a decade at this point. He comes to family nights, diffuses the fights between the kids, runs additional art supplies to Robin without even needing to be asked. He makes waffles with Spoiler, talks chemistry with Red Robin, babysits Speedy when Hood and Arrow can’t. He plays board games with Signal and watches Black Bat practice for her recitals and always has words of encouragement that god knows our family needs more of-”
Bruce pauses after the barrage of words, the most that Barry has ever heard from the man, and Barry stares. His heart is full in his chest and his vision blurry with emotion as he sees the way Bruce smooths a hand over Wally’s curls almost the same way Barry himself had just done moments before, and abruptly realises that Wally has found himself yet another dad.
“He’s driven himself into the ground since Nightwing has been off-world for the past few weeks, and he won’t ask for help even though any of us would be willing to.”
Barry chews at the inside of his cheek, then nods in agreement. “It’s… what happens when you grow up thinking love has to be earned, I think. But now he has us, and someone has to take care of him. You have been, you’re not subtle about it, and I know you’re not doing it for me, but thank you.”
A low chuckle, and Bruce adjusts the blanket slightly. “Well, I’m willing to admit that I’m doing this in part for Nightwing as well.”
Barry laughs. “Oh, definitely. I would not want to be there if he comes home and realises that no one’s been looking after his husband in his absence, and said husband has run himself straight into the ground.”
“A good thing then, that that’s not going to happen."
(And, if Barry settles himself into the seat beside the couch that Wally is on, carding one hand idly through Wally’s hair and watching as Bruce fixes the Batglare on anybody who enters and is just a little too loud…
Well, he can keep his amusement to himself. And to Iris.)