Back at it again with more out of context WIPs for my racing au because well. Why not
Wally’s voice is tinny over the phone, slight and nervous as he speaks. “Hey, I have a favor to ask.”
Dick tilts his head, pressing the phone tighter between his ear and his shoulder as he scoops the day-old Chinese takeout onto his plate. “Of course. Anything.”
Wally laughs, gently. “You know, I kind of hate it when you say that.”
“Because sometimes I really do think you mean anything.”
I do, Dick doesn’t say. I always have. Instead he asks, “What do you need, Walls?” and leaves the rest unspoken.
“Can I crash at your place for the night?”
Dick pauses. “Weren’t you already going to crash at my place?” He didn’t know where else Wally was planning on sleeping, given that the drive to Keystone was more than a few long hours and Wally barely lived in his own apartment anyway.
“No, yeah, I was, but-” He cuts himself off with a groan, the accompanying thump sounding like he’d probably hit his head on the dashboard of Dick’s-but-it’s-really-his car. “My aunt and uncle, they need me to watch my cousin. Just for the night, I think, unless the thing they’re dealing with takes longer… I dunno. I don’t want to bother you, you can say no, I’ll drive him back to Keystone or Central or something but-”
“Walls,” Dick interrupts. “Yeah. Of course. Always.”
“What, did you think I was going to say no?”
“No, of course not, I just…” He trails off. Dick fills in the blanks himself— Dick had never met Wally’s family. Not more than a brief introduction back when they were teenagers, at most. Wally had never offered, and Dick had never pried. He knew Wally had a cousin, vaguely recalled that his name started with a b or something similar and that Wally loved the kid but thought he was too much like him (or maybe not enough like him?), knew the basics of Wally living with his aunt and uncle since he was in middle school after his parents lost custody. His uncle’s name was Barry, he was pretty sure? But other than that…
He didn’t know why Wally didn’t talk about them. Or brought Dick to meet them. Wally loved his family, he knew that. Whenever they were in the States long enough he’d always make time to meet up with them, would disappear for hours in the evening when they were abroad to call. And yet, in spite of that, Dick didn’t know them.
He wondered if they knew him, or if Wally’s odd insistence of separation went both ways. He had a feeling it might.
“You’re both welcome,” he says, remembering suddenly that Wally is waiting on the other end of the call. “I’ll make sure the guest room is clean. Have you eaten?”
“No,” Wally admits reluctantly. “He hasn’t either, I don’t think.”
“I’ve got some leftover Chinese takeout, if you want, but you might need to stop and grab something on the way.”
“All I really want to do right now is fall into bed,” Wally huffs. There’s a pause, and then he says, “That’s a lie. I want to see how fast I can run that new car they designed for you around the track until the engine blows or I pass out, whichever’s first.”
“But I can’t do that,” he agrees. “So I’m settling for falling into your bed and passing out for the next eight to ten hours.”
Dick hums, putting his plate into the microwave and hitting start. He leans back against the counter, the marble digging into his back. “How far out are you?”
“Ten from the place they’re staying. Twenty five from yours.”
“Then I’ll see you and your cousin in forty minutes, give or take?”
“Yeah,” Wally says, hesitantly. Then, a little firmer, “Yeah.”
The door buzzes as Wally unlocks it, and Dick looks up, standing quickly.
Wally grins slightly, running a hand through his hair as he holds the door open. “Hey.”
“Stop flirting,” an unfamiliar voice snarks, pushing past Wally into the apartment. Dick looks Wally’s cousin over, and the kid narrows his eyes, clearly doing the same. He’s short, slight, a narrow build. A red backpack hangs off one shoulder, over a homemade sweatshirt that reads “Young Justice” in roughly sewn letters, and Dick tilts his head.
He scowls. “None’a your business.”
“A thing with his friends,” Wally says, shutting the door and pushing his cousin towards the counter. “Bart, this is Dick. Dick, this is my cousin.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Dick offers. The kid, Bart, rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever. You too.”
“Play nice,” Wally warns. He tugs at the strap of Bart’s backpack, jerking his chin towards the kitchen. “Go eat, I’ll drop this in your room.”
Bart’s frown deepens. “I can keep it on me. It’s fine.”
“Well, I need a few minutes without you being snarky in my ear, so why don’t you just accept the excuse and eat something? It’s eight, you haven’t had dinner.”
Bart grumbles under his breath, but hands the bag to Wally, who disappears into the hallway with a tired groan. Bart goes back to staring at Dick suspiciously, and Dick offers him a tight smile.
“Want some… Chinese takeout?”
Bart huffs, grabbing the takeout container Dick offers him. “Yeah, whatever.”
Dick watches him eat, taking him in. He’s young, maybe fourteen or fifteen, if Dick had to guess, and he looks… he looks like Wally, actually. His hair is longer and straighter, a dark auburn color compared to Wally’s orange, and his eyes are a sharp amber-yellow, but if you looked past that… the slope of his nose, the spread of his freckles over his cheeks, the curve of his jaw. All Wally, really. The kid looked more like Wally’s brother than a cousin, practically looked like his, well, kid.
Or maybe Dick just sees Wally in him because he sees Wally everywhere.
“My br- Wally doesn’t talk about you,” Bart says abruptly. Dick startles, looking back at his own plate.
Dick swallows. “He doesn’t talk about you, either.”
Bart’s fork scrapes against the bottom of the plastic container. “I used to be mad about it, y’know,” he says. “That Wally’s the way he is.”
“You know. All…” He trails off, looking away. “You know.”
Maybe he does. Dick isn’t sure. “Mad, huh?”
“Don’t you get mad?” He barrels on, not waiting for a response. “I think I hated him when he went off to college. I dunno. It’s weird hating people, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Dick says softly. “I guess it is.”
Maybe Dick does know what he means, really. About this, at least.
He thinks he might hate Bruce, sometimes.
Most of the time he just thinks he might hate himself.
Bart stares at him out of the corner of his eye, then shovels more fried rice into his mouth. “I’ve seen you race,” he says, not bothering to finish chewing first.
“Mhm. On TV and stuff. You’re pretty good.”
He grins at that, resting his jaw on his palm. “Pretty good? Is that what forty four Grand Prix wins gets me?”
Bart smirks. “You race like you’re afraid of it.”
Dick startles— Wally has told him that before, word for word. “What?”
“The way you race,” Bart repeats, pointing his fork at him. “It’s like you’re afraid of it. How are you supposed to be the best when you’re afraid to even be on the track?”
Dick swallows, smiling. Tries to ignore the churning feeling in his gut, the way the asphalt had mixed with the taste of the blood as Jason’s car burned. “A bit of fear is probably a good thing to have when you’re controlling a dangerous vehicle moving a hundred and thirty miles an hour on a track full of people in the same position.”
“Sure, a little,” Bart says. “But not the way you do it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bart shrugs, going back his fried rice. “Wally doesn’t drive like that.”
Dick turns, reaching a hand out towards his… towards Wally. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Wally laughs, taking it. He steps closer, leaning his cheek against Dick’s hair. Bart makes a face.
“Stop flirting,” he repeats. Wally flips him off.
Bart’s nose scrunches. “You’re a better driver than he is.”
Wally laughs again at that, the vibration of it pressing against Dick’s arm where it brushes Wally’s chest. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, though,” Dick says lightly, slipping a hand around Wally’s wrist. Wally snorts, flicking his ear.
“Am not. You do this like, professionally, man. You’re good, everyone says so. I just think it’s fun, that’s all.”
Bart scowls into his fried rice, then asks, “How come I never met your boyfriend sooner, huh?”
Wally falters, and Dick coughs, face heating. “That’s not- we aren’t- we’re not… together. Like that.”
“Sure,” Bart says, disbelieving.
Wally pulls away abruptly, rounding the counter to reach for a cabinet. “I need water,” he says, voice strained. “Either of you want water?”
Bart ignores him, staring at Dick out of the corner of his eye. “If you really think that, you’re a lot dumber than I gave you credit for.”
“Bart!” Wally snaps, and the kid holds his hands up defensively.
“What? I’m just being honest!”
“My- Dick and I, we- our relationship isn’t any of your business,” Wally warns, stammering the way he does when he’s badly flustered.
“Geez, the way you two act you’d think it isn’t any of your business either!”
The cabinet door bangs as it swings shut, and Wally flinches, hard. Dick freezes, staring at him.
“Walls?” he asks. “Are you…?”
“Startled myself,” Wally forces out, eyes closed. “Sorry. I’m not handling things well tonight.”
Bart stands, dropping the empty takeout container on the counter. “I’m pretty tired,” he says, quietly. “I think I need some sleep. Where…?”
The barstool scraped the tile as Dick pushes it out. “I’ll show you.”
Bart nods. Wally doesn’t move. He guides Bart down the hall, showing him the door.
“Here. You should be all set, but if you need anything my door is the one across the hall.”
Bart chews on his lip for a moment, hesitating in the doorway, then says, “I didn’t mean it, y’know. I’m not- I’m aroace. Your relationship can be whatever. I was just trying to- I mean, I was…”
He trails off. Dick gives him a tight nod.
Bart’s jaw works, fists clenching and unclenching in his hoodie sleeves. “You seem like a nice guy,” he says.
“Mhm. But, like. My br- my cousin, he… aw, fuck. I dunno. You’re really important to him. Right? Like, I know that even though he never talks about you.” It almost seems like a question, but Dick doesn’t answer, and Bart doesn’t wait for one. “I’m not gonna give you some shitty speech cause I think that’s stupid as hell. But like- just don’t fuck it up, right?”
And before Dick can work out what any of that means, the door shuts tightly behind Bart, and he’s alone in the hall.
