Chapter Text
The Slurpee machine is broken again.
It isn’t that big of an issue, not particularly world-ending, no, especially since you get regularly held at gunpoint (or knifepoint) and occasionally used as a hostage.
But for you, working the night shift from eleven PM to seven AM, you kind of need the sugar boost. The Slurpees are easier on your stomach than the coffee is. Even if they do stain your mouth.
You sigh, continuing to stare at the machine; it whirs and sputters strangely and you set aside the cup to shut it off. You’ll also need to file the paperwork for it to be fixed. That seriously blows.
You get it unplugged just as the gust of wind hits.
You stumble. Shelves groan in protest. Several rows of granola bars and trail mix are sent flying.
Oh, great, who is it now—
You hear your name in a question, from a very familiar voice.
You spit out a mouthful of your hair. “Flash?”
Sure enough, in the flesh, the Flash grins at you, blue lightning fading from his body. He spreads his arms as he exclaims your name again.
In a blink, he is there, arms wrapping around you, lifting you off the ground as he squeezes the life out of you. Another blink and you’re on the ground, looking at him, his hand on your shoulder.
“Look at you, kid. It’s good to see you. I can’t believe you’re still working here.”
A stupid grin forms on your lips. “It’s not the same here without you eating up our inventory.”
He laughs. “I bet!”
You shake your head, fixing your hair and your shirt. Flash notices the state of the granola bars and trail mix, sends you an apologetic smile, and in the next blink, they are back on the shelves, neatly arranged.
“So, what brings you here? If you can answer that.”
He waves a hand, flitting around, emptying the sausage grill and making himself several hot dogs.
“One of the rogues got a little, shall we say, ambitious and wanted to try his luck here. Just trying to snatch him up before Batman finds out.”
“Let me guess—Trickster?”
He points a hot dog loaded with mustard and ketchup at you. “Bingo.”
“It’s dripping.”
“Aw, shit.” He shoves the rest of the hot dog in his mouth, grabs a napkin, and starts dabbing at the spot of mustard on his suit.
You watch him, amused, but also morbidly fascinated as usual at seeing him eat so much. When he finishes the hot dogs, he goes for the pizza. It makes sense when you think about it, that a guy who can run faster than the speed of light should need to eat so much, but it’s been a while since you’ve had the pleasure of watching him refuel. Six months, actually, since you returned from Keystone City.
You scratch your head. “I’m not sure why Trickster would want to come here. Batman, I think, is a worse punishment than you—”
“Agree, even if that’s also a little insulting to me.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. You’re avoiding him, aren’t you?”
Flash nods. “This is true. Carry on.”
“Well… Gotham already has a joke-themed guy. I don’t think Joker is going to take too kindly to someone encroaching on that. Unless he’s back in Arkham. Though he might’ve escaped again…”
“Y’see, that’s what I thought. It’s gonna sound bad, too, but I’m kinda hoping those two take care of each other, then I can get Trickster back to Iron Heights without any issues. But—”
You crack a smile, guessing his next words immediately. “When is it ever that easy?”
You had once believed the Flash to be just about infallible. After all, he is the Flash. This is the guy who, like you said, can run faster than the speed of light. He can canvas a city in under a minute. That’s how he takes care of Central City and Keystone City. (Well, the addition of the other Flash and Kid Flash probably help, too, but you know.)
But it’s not that easy. It’s why, you think, Metropolis has issues, even when they have Superman.
No rest for the wicked and all.
“Well, it’s still good to see you,” you say, a tad more hesitantly this time. Unsure if you can say that.
Flash looks back at you, sending you a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, too. How’s school?”
“No classes now. Financial aid doesn’t cover the summer, so.”
He frowns. “You’re still on track to graduate next year, though, right?”
You pause, surprised he remembered you saying that. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”
Flash nods, worries assuaged, then his gaze strays to the Slurpee machine, its lights turned off. “Aw, it’s not working?”
“Not today, sorry.”
He purses his lips, head tilting as he looks at the counter where the machine and your abandoned cup are.
“Wait a second,” he says, then the food that was in his hands is on the counter and he’s gone with arcs of blue lightning following him, a tingly feeling spreading through your fingertips and toes, like when you used to be a kid and dragged your hands across those old TV screens, feeling the static.
True to his word, in the next second, he is in front of you, two Slurpees in hand. One blue raspberry and another cherry.
You grin as he proudly presents the blue raspberry Slurpee to you.
“Thanks.”
He winks. “My pleasure.”
He collects his food again then gestures to the front with his head. Sipping at the ice-cold Slurpee, you follow him, sliding behind the counter.
“Time to head off?” you guess, ringing up the food he already ate, then the rest of the stuff.
He slips out a few bills from a hidden pocket at his hip. “Yeah, I need to go before—”
“Flash!” The door opens roughly. You balk as you see who it is. “Seriously? You can’t just run off. You’re just as bad as Impulse sometimes, I swear.”
Red Robin stands there, hands on his hips, scowling, doing a good impression of a teacher scolding a student, which is really weird for you, since you’ve always held a good dose of fear and respect for the Bats and this doesn’t really… go on par with that. And also, you’re pretty sure Flash is older than him.
Flash frowns. “Now that’s seriously uncalled for. I’m much better than he is. We were done talking, weren’t we? You’d call me if you found anything and it’s not like it would take me time to get there, would it?”
Red Robin doesn’t respond to that, mostly because he’s looking at you now. You’ve never seen him up close — any of them up close. Black fair falls sharply over his forehead, a black domino mask hiding his eyes. Not like a normal one; this one allows for more coverage under his eyes, going down to his nose, the end of which curves in a way reminiscent of a bird. But under the bright fluorescents of Circle K, everything else is easy to make out. Pale skin, a sharp jaw, a soft-looking mouth.
Great. He’s hot. And something else… something that niggles at you. Familiar in a way that bothers you because you’ve never seen him in person. Not like this.
You swallow nervously, giving him a half-hearted wave. The action jars him and he looks away from you quickly.
“Hey, don’t be mean to her,” Flash chides. “Seriously. Look at her. You’ve made her nervous.”
“Flash.”
He shoots you a troublesome grin. “Nah, don’t worry about him, kid. He’s harmless.”
“Flash,” Red Robin hisses out, his voice sounding stranger than before, modulated, in a way.
You compose yourself, giving Flash a look. “You know better than that. Perception means everything.”
“That is true,” he says. “But believe me. If fear worked as well as they’d like it to, Gotham would be the safest city in the country.”
A long-suffering sigh. Red Robin is turned away now and by the movement of his arm, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated.
“Hey, I’m not wrong,” he says to him, even despite you silently waving for him to drop it. “Look, fear is fine and all. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with nurturing relationships with the people you protect. That’s what I did with you, isn’t it, kid?”
“Yeah, but I’m also not, you know, from there…”
He collects his change. “Which is why it’s even more embarrassing that these guys make you nervous and I don’t.”
Red Robin huffs.
Flash shrugs, smirking. “Just food for thought. I’ll see you around, yeah, kiddo? Gotta get going before this guy gets annoyed enough to just tell Batman about me and then I’ll really have problems.”
Then he’s gone, blue lightning arcing in his wake. Red Robin sighs again and leaves without a word or backward glance.
You stand there for a minute, unsure if that really happened. But the signature Slurpee cup of blue raspberry, already sweating because the June heat in Gotham is unbearable and the AC is not up to task, assures you very much that that did just happen.
A little unsteady, you take a seat on the stool, shaking your head and dragging the cup to you.
At least you got to see Flash again.
You don’t see him again, which is what you expected.
What you don’t expect is the appearance of Red Robin the next night.
You’ve grown up in Gotham City. Like anyone else, you have a healthy dose of fear and respect for the vigilantes that prowl the shadows. You also, unlike Vicki Vale or any journalist or obsessive conspiracy theorist, have absolutely zero interest in interacting with them.
Usually, interacting with them means you are in grave danger.
(You had to unlearn some of that during your brief tenure in Keystone City; the Flash was a little bit different from them. Maybe more than a little bit…)
So, when Red Robin shows up at Circle K at half past one in the morning, you are… a tad wary.
It doesn’t help that he seems awkwardly frozen, too, as your voice catches in the middle of your perfunctory Hi, welcome in as you realize who it is.
For a minute, it is painfully, painfully quiet.
“Is there something—”
“Do you have any—”
You both stop. You purse your lips. Red Robin is… blushing a little bit? Holy shit.
“Go ahead,” he says, clearing his throat after. His voice still sounds off like yesterday—modulated.
You grimace. “Sorry, I was just asking if there was something going on? Should I lock down the shop or hide or something?”
He looks briefly confused. “No? I mean, no… Everything is fine. I was just wondering if you guys had any, uh—” he seems to falter, scrambling a little bit “—hot… chocolate?”
Hot chocolate in June? What a weirdo.
You keep your face straight, though.
Flash might’ve let you off the hook when it came to formalities but you’d be an idiot to think you could get away with that with these guys.
He exhales the briefest laugh at something, then— you , you realize, your expression, which should be perfectly polite, what the hell. He turns his head away as a smile curls his lips. That niggling feeling—which began as soon as you realized he was here—strengthens. You push it away for a second.
“I know. Late night. Don’t like coffee, so it’s a good alternative.”
How did he—?
Must be the detective thing.
You apologize anyway.
“Sorry. My, uh, friend’s like that, in a way,” you say, your tongue again moving faster than your brain can grapple with. He won’t care about the fact that your friend, Tim, is like that, too. Well, Tim likes the occasional energy drink if he’s staying up late because he doesn’t like coffee. Not this hot chocolate business. But maybe? Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. Probably better than Red Bull, even if he doesn’t drink it often, maybe once or twice a month. And, anyway, it’s not the point. This guy doesn’t care. He probably couldn’t care less. You’re just trying to show him—oh, it doesn’t matter. This entire thing has gone straight to shit. All because he managed to read your judgment.
“Oh?” It’s a question but it’s a bit strangled. See? He doesn’t care. Poor guy. Probably trying to think of a way to get out of this. Well, you’ll do him one better.
“Uh, yeah… he’s—well. Doesn’t matter. Yeah, the machine is working. It’s over there.”
“Thanks.”
You nod and glance away, leaving him to cross to the other side of the store. You can’t help but watch him go, watching the way the heavy black cape swishes with his movements, boots soundless on the shitty tiled floors. He disappears behind the shelf, but his head is visible. A head of dark, dark hair that seems… familiar to you.
Ugh. What is with you?
It’s Red freakin’ Robin. You’ve glimpsed him and the others briefly. Shadows in the night, swinging from buildings, jumping from rooftops. Anybody who lives in Gotham long enough has seen the same. Doesn’t mean you know him enough to be this way, to be so bothered by something that won’t even come to mind.
You shake your head briefly.
You should think more on why he’s even here.
Though, it seems obvious, given what happened yesterday night.
Flash has a way of getting beneath your skin and inciting the most childish tendencies. You imagine his little comment about trust between vigilante and citizen bothered Red Robin.
Well, rest assured, you understand the position they are in. You enjoyed the way Flash visited you but they can’t afford that. Perception is gold. It is true, in some ways, that if it were as effective as they wanted it to be, Gotham would be less crime-ridden than it currently is.
(But that was also a conundrum with the corrupt government. So long as the systems were in place, crime would always happen, and it would take more than the Bats to fix that.)
Either way, they cannot afford for that mask to slip—metaphorically and literally.
There is a level of trust, you think, between the Bats and the people but… it’s not the same kind Flash fosters with his own.
You feel obligated to let Red Robin know that, with that, he has no obligation to do anything out of the ordinary.
So, that’s what you do when he comes back over to the counter, two small cups of hot chocolate in hand.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
He turns forward with a five dollar bill in hand. “I can’t just not pay—”
“I’m not talking about that.”
He is paying. You are moderately appreciative of what they do but not that appreciative.
“So, what else is it that I don’t have to do?”
You gesture between you two. “This. Come here to try and prove the Flash wrong.”
“I’m not—”
You try to level with him.
“It’s cool, man. He can be annoying. Annoying enough that he could make anyone want to prove him wrong. I get it. But he’s also a little bit of a doof when it comes to matters of the public. Though I’m betting he was trying to aggravate you more than anything. Either way, I get it. You have an image to keep up. Do what you have to do.”
“So, you don’t want me to come back?” Not an accusation. A genuine question.
You blink. “That’s not what I said. I don’t mind. I’m just… letting you know.”
“What do you know about it, anyway? Upholding an image? You seem very confident on the do’s and don’ts, despite being a civilian.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You guys actually refer to us non-vigilantes as civilians? Like, unironically?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you with the emotionless white lids of the domino mask, lips pressed in a line.
You smile and roll your eyes, finally taking his five and opening the register. “I’m majoring in communication with a concentration in PR. Did an internship at Quickstart Enterprises last semester working with their PR department. You can say I know a thing or two about it.”
“What year?”
“Just finished my third. Starting my final in the fall. Look, I’m not saying you have to take my advice, I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I’m not holding it against you.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
You slide his change to him. “That’s all I ask.”
He picks up the cups, says, “Keep the change,” and then, he’s gone, dark cape fluttering, his figure swallowed up by the darkness of the night.
The only traces of his presence is the door slowly closing and the change still sitting on the counter.
These hero-types and their dramatic exits. Honestly.
You meet the Flash in your second week of work at Circle K.
The stipend from QE covered your housing and groceries but didn’t allow for much options regarding the latter. At least not the fresh produce kind.
So, you picked up a job at Circle K. Part-time only, which worked well with the schedule you had at QE. You typically worked evenings—not the graveyard shift you do now, which you took only because it paid better during the night—so from seven to eleven.
The Flash was different from the Bats in that regard. While Signal worked during the day, the rest of them worked during the night.
Flash told you he liked sleep, so he would take care of things during a reasonable hour in the evening to accommodate that, which meant you were beheld to his presence.
Frequently.
And the first time…
You have no idea what to make of the superhero currently raiding the sausage grill.
A larger part of you is suspicious, hoping that the Flash isn’t about to come up to you and say something arrogant about not being required to pay. A lot of the cops you get say something to that effect. It takes so much willpower in you to not roll your eyes.
But another part of you right now, the Tim part of your brain, is fascinated. Wants to ask some geeky questions about his power. Presumably, the fact that he is the fastest man alive means he has to eat a lot to sustain it, right?
Well. That one is a bit self-explanatory. At least if the way he’s stuffing his face tells you anything.
Suspicion wins out, though.
Keystone City is a nice enough city. Central City, across the river, is the same. They aren’t Gotham, that’s for sure, and sometimes you don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.
It’s mostly that Keystone City is situated in Kansas and across the Mississippi, in Mississippi, is Central City. These regions of the country, historically conservative, make you a bit tetchy. Not at all helped by the fact that for a very long time, Keystone City was suspended in the fifties. Or rather, what they thought were the fifties. Time passed normally outside of it until the Flash fixed everything.
It gives Keystone an aesthetic old-timey vibe to it but with all the modern luxuries of the late 2010s, like phones and, you know, civil rights.
But things have been okay, for the most part. The people you encounter here at Circle K are amiable enough. (Well, except for the cops you get. You could go without dealing with those idiots.)
Though, admittedly, between work for QE and here and trying to keep yourself fed and (mostly) rested, you haven’t gotten out much.
The Flash, though… you haven’t directly encountered him. Not in your few weeks here. Sometimes when walking to the subway, you feel the sharp gust of wind, commonly associated with him as he makes his way through the city faster than a speeding bullet, glass windows and cars rattling dangerously in the aftermath of his path. On the news, when he takes down whichever rogue woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and in the newspaper. But nothing beyond that.
People speak fondly of him, for the most part. Rumors are solid sources of information but you just can’t help but be a little bit suspicious. There is such a thing as too good to be true, after all…
You reach for your half-empty cup of blue raspberry Slurpee. Though it’s the beginning of September, summer takes longer to leave the midwest, you’ve learned, and the summers here are loads worse than ones you’ve experienced in Gotham.
Before you can even get your mouth around the red straw, a breeze hits and you blink, finding the Flash in front of you, depositing mostly empty cartons of hot dogs onto the counter, with a few of them still full. On their way to being empty, though, as he crams more into his mouth. A cup of cherry Slurpee finishes it off.
The Flash points a half-eaten hot dog at you. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“No, no, not like that. You’ve just got this suspicion to you. This… paranoia. A paranoia that can only belong to someone from Gotham,” he says, nodding to himself.
Well, that’s—
Hm.
A bit embarrassed to be caught out like that—because it isn’t the first time—you attempt to make up for it.
“I’m from Metropolis, actually.”
Best to stay on the east coast. Even you couldn’t pass as someone from the west coast, like Star City or Coast City or something.
Flash grins at you. “Liar.”
You aren’t used to this kind of playful banter. Certainly not from a literal superhero, from someone who regularly saves the world with the likes of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman and more. You don’t think you expected the cold brutality the city gets from the Bats back home but… you didn’t expect this, either.
To get a much-needed sense of normalcy, you scan one of the hot dog cartons, adding them up on the screen.
“Was it that obvious? I wasn’t trying to be… I mean, I was, but, you know, I didn’t, um…”
You stop, cringing. Very eloquent and more than a little annoying, given your career choice. Can’t be like that when you get put on the spot. Even if it’s by a superhero. Especially if it’s by a superhero. Journalists are even worse, anyway…
“Relax, kid,” he laughs. “To tell you the truth, it was hard to miss but I’m sort of geared for that kind of thing, what with my choice in career.”
“Right.” You scan the Slurpee and take a drink of yours while he fiddles with some zipper in his suit. A deep red, with a purple tinge, a silver Flash symbol on his chest, and a cowl, but with the top free, showing off a shock of red hair, and his eyes still exposed. Pretty green.
“But I do have an unfair advantage,” he goes on. “I see a similar look every time I have a League meeting.”
You blink. “The League…?”
“You should know. Your caped crusader, Batman. Of course, that’s also because he doesn’t like me—and the feeling is mutual, trust me—but, you know. Schematics. He sits right across from me and that’s all I get, this classic brand of Gothamite suspicion on top of the usual wordless Batman disapproval.”
“Should you be telling me that?”
He hands you a twenty. You pop open the register to break it. Another breeze hits and the empty cartons of hot dogs are shoved into the trash, with him eating the last one and on his way to finishing the large cup of cherry-flavored Slurpee.
“I mean, what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” you say lightly, calculating his change. “I could go to the press. Breaking News: Strife within the League. Tenuous relations between Batman and the Flash.”
“Oh, really?”
“That’s the press. A common dislike will absolutely turn into that in their headlines. They would take it and run.”
“That is true. You a journalist?”
“Oh, no. Communications, with a concentration in public relations.”
Flash thinks on it for a second, finishing his hot dog, then the Slurpee. You partially expect him to get angry. It would be a justified reaction. He doesn’t know you and you don’t know him. You can admit that some of what you just said is a bit… imperious. Who are you to lecture him, right?
“You aren’t wrong,” he finally says, repeating his earlier words as the last hot dog carton and Slurpee cup disappear from the counter—thrown in the trash.
“But,” he presses, accepting the change from you—a few dollars—then dropping it into your tip jar. “I know you aren’t going to take that to the press.”
“How’s that?”
He points at you. “Because I don’t think you’re the kind of person to do that.”
“You’re appealing to my morals?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
“Not much work to be had,” you admit. “I was never going to. I was just…”
“Being nice and telling me I should watch what I say,” he finishes, grinning. “Which is true. All true. I just couldn’t help myself. What’s your name, kid?”
You tell him. He extends a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to Keystone City. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
A bit bemused, you nod politely and say, “Thanks.”
Before he can say anything else, he visibly tenses, lifting a hand to the Hermes-like wings at his ears, then, in the next blink, he is gone, off to stop someone or something, leaving you with a sharp gust of wind that rattles the windows and knocks the candy from the shelves under the counter onto the ground.
Well, then.
Talk about a first impression.
