Chapter Text
The day Barry Allen woke up, it was raining.
He blinked against the sterile light of the hospital room, his lashes sticky and his tongue dry. His chest rose and fell slow—too slow—and the heart monitor beeped in a rhythm that made nurses frown and check their watches. His skin glowed faintly under the flickering lights, but no one mentioned it.
“Iris,” he rasped, and the name was enough to have her at his side, fingers trembling as they clutched his.
"You’re awake," she whispered, eyes glassy with relief. And he smiled. Soft. Kind. Familiar.
But thin. Like something wearing kindness like a well-worn suit.
Barry didn’t become the Flash.
There was no surge of speed, no blinding trail of lightning behind his steps, no trail of scorched footprints on pavement. He walked the same way, talked the same way, made the same terrible puns about molecular decay. He laughed at the same dumb sci-fi movies and cried at documentaries about dying coral reefs.
But he… changed. Little things.
His blue eyes weren’t just blue anymore—they shimmered like opals, hues shifting like oil on water, glinting softly even in darkness.
His breath came slower than humanly possible—ten seconds between each inhale, sometimes more. But his skin stayed warm. His heart still beat. The doctors couldn’t explain it.
And the static. It clung to him like a halo. Anything metal sparked when he was near. TVs fuzzed out. Radios garbled. Dogs barked when he passed by, their hackles rising. He apologized politely, always with that soft, thin smile.
It wasn’t right.
But it wasn’t wrong enough to stop.
A year had passed since the lightning. A year since Iris married Barry Allen. And now, finally, they were having dinner with her brother Rudolph and his wife, Mary.
"I just think we should wait," Iris said again in the car, her fingers tight around the steering wheel.
"Nonsense," Barry said, his voice light, airy. “It's high time I met your family properly. We’ve been married a year—I’m starting to think you’re hiding them from me.”
He smiled, and the dashboard lights flickered.
Dinner was nice.
The food was warm, the wine flowing, the conversation polite. Barry asked questions, listened intently, laughed softly. He complimented Mary’s cooking, even asked for seconds. He talked about his work at the lab. Iris watched her husband with a strange mix of fondness and unease.
Mary smiled. Rudolph forced it.
There was a weight in the room—like the moment before a storm. The static never left. The chandelier above them crackled now and then, the lightbulbs humming at odd intervals. Barry didn’t notice.
“Forgive us,” Mary said halfway through dessert. “We didn’t mean to keep it from you, but... we have a baby.”
Iris blinked. “You—what?”
“A boy,” Rudolph said, voice low. “Wally.”
Iris’s mouth parted in surprise. “You didn’t tell me?”
“We didn’t want to bother you,” Mary said quickly, her smile faltering. “Not after Barry’s accident.”
The baby monitor crackled. A soft cry echoed from upstairs.
“Oh—Wally’s hungry again,” Mary said with a sigh, pushing herself up.
“He’s always hungry,” Rudolph muttered under his breath.
Mary shot him a glare. “He’s a baby, Rudy.”
Barry stood. Three sets of eyes turned toward him instantly.
“I’ll go,” he said, voice still gentle. “It’s no trouble.”
“No—Barry, really, you don’t—” Iris started, but Barry was already walking, steps noiseless, breath slow.
“It’s really not a problem,” he said again, disappearing up the stairs. His footsteps were practically inaudible.
The nursery was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of a nightlight.
The crib was simple. The baby inside was not.
Tufts of ginger hair. Big green eyes. Freckles. Chubby cheeks damp with tears. He whined, kicking his legs, fists curled in tiny trembling balls.
Barry stared.
For a moment, he did nothing.
Then slowly, methodically, he reached into the crib and lifted the baby with eerie grace. The static in the room surged, lifting the baby’s downy hair in wisps.
“Hungry, little guy?” Barry cooed, his voice almost musical. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
He cradled Wally in the crook of one arm. Then, with the same soft smile, he raised his other hand and bit into his wrist.
There was no pain. He didn’t flinch.
From the wound came not red, but gold—liquid and luminous, thick and glowing like syrup spun from sunlight. Wally whimpered louder at first, until Barry gently touched the bleeding wrist to the infant’s mouth.
The baby latched on instinctively. Suckled. Drank.
The light in the room dimmed, shadows rippling outward like the whole house exhaled.
Barry hummed. A lullaby no one had ever taught him. Something old. Something deep.
When Wally finished, Barry’s skin sealed back over, smooth and perfect. He kissed the baby’s nose. Static puffed Wally’s hair up in all directions. The baby giggled.
And Barry… Barry beamed.
“Good boy,” he whispered. “You’ll burn bright one day, little spark.”
He laid Wally back in the crib.
Within seconds, the child was asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of stars and static.
Downstairs, the air shifted.
Iris paused mid-sentence.
Mary sat up straighter. Rudolph’s wine glass trembled in his hand.
Something had happened. They felt it—like the echo of thunder five seconds after a flash of lightning.
Barry descended the stairs smiling.
“He’s fine,” he said. “Fed and content.”
The others stared. Thin smiles all around.
No one spoke of the hum in the walls, the prickling at the backs of their necks.
No one asked what had fed Wally.
No one would.
Not yet.