Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League, it's characters, or anything associated.

Author's Note: Hooray! A BatFlash multichapter! I hope you all enjoy it! Thanks to my friend D (can't remember the numbers in her username) for looking this over and giving suggestions.

Just a comment before I forget. I have no idea what Batman/Bruce's eye color is in this universe. I remember in B: TAS, he had little black dots that made him look like Fred Flintstone, and in the New Batman Adventures, I remember him having really pretty blue ones. I think it went back and forth in Justice League, but I prefer my Batman with blue eyes, so such he shall have.

Please review. Reviews are love, and of course, they lead to faster updates. :)

The atmosphere was unbelievably tense, like every atom and molecule was awkwardly standing on edge. The hushed hum of nervous chatter and obligated conversation only added an annoying buzz to the mix, rather than driving off the discomfort of silence.

On the other hand, it was a wake, and Wally wasn't sure if smiles and laughter would've been appropriate anyway.

He'd just arrived himself, feeling really out of place in the kind of suit he used maybe once a year, tops. At the moment, he was hovering around the doorway, eager for human contact but a little apprehensive all the same. When he noticed John and Shayera almost hidden in the corner, he couldn't help but smile in relief and bounce over at a speed that was only a little bit out of the ordinary.

"Hey guys!" he grinned with his greeting, flinching at the reproaching glares they shot his way. Apparently he'd been a little too chipper.

"Go talk to him," John was muttering while clearing his throat, continuing on with what Wally guessed was their previous conversation.

"You go talk to him, " Shayera shot back, adding an elbow into John's side for incentive. John's narrowed eyes flickered towards the front of the room, hidden behind rows of unidentifiable bodies all dressed in somber black clothes.

"He'd react better if you go," John grumbled, crossing his arms and shrinking into himself in as manly a way as he could, trying to avoid another jab.

"Be a man!" Shayera demanded. "When did you become such a coward?"

"I don't see you rushing over," John accused, but Shayera was not deterred.

"He must need someone to talk to," she urged, her voice still carrying a warning bite. "He's our friend-"

At John's petulant look, she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Fine, our teammate, which is completely besides the point-"

Finally tuning in, Wally interrupted, "You guys talking about Bruce?"

Two frustrated heads snapped his way, one with eyes gleaming with an idea Wally was sure he didn't want to hear.

"Wait…" he continued in thought. "You haven't talked to him yet?"

The agitated looks quickly morphed into abashed and ashamed, the guilty scuffing of hastily shined shoes replacing conversation.

"Look, we all know he isn't easy to talk to on a good day," John griped, "but someone is going to go over there, and it isn't going to be me."

"I still have the scars from last time," he added half-heartedly, rubbing his recently assaulted arm.

"John," Shayera sighed deeply, obviously preparing for another argument.

"I'll go," Wally shrugged, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I'll talk to him," he repeated when only stunned stares bore into him uncomfortably.

"Thanks, Wally," Shayera smiled lightly, obviously grateful, and the tense lines faded from John's face somewhat when he gave a thanking nod.

Slipping into the crowd, Wally released a little sigh of relief. Still, he could understand their reluctance. Normally, talking to Bruce was like pulling out teeth, which was overall really painful and awkward all around. The victim would offer a few sentences, Bruce would give them that stare, and they'd melt into a jiggly pile of goo that he stepped over in disgust on the way out.

On a day like today, a funeral, where the last person Bruce considered family had finally left him…well, Wally wasn't sure what to expect. Half of him was sure Bruce would transform into a dragon and start breathing fire, and Wally really wanted to keep his hair. Hopefully that was just his overactive imagination.

It was difficult trying to slip through the wave of bodies clad in expensive suits that put his almost outgrown pants and jacket to shame. Wealth glimmered everywhere in the form of jewelry or the cultured tone that made Wally wary of even opening his mouth. However, there were others, too, the common people that had just been there everyday. The man with graying hair who ran the grocery store down the street from Bruce's mansion was there, as well as all the maids and staff from every other mansion in a sixty-mile radius. It was quite a motley mix.

Finally, after squeezing past a few chattering people and almost knocking an opulently decorated woman into a plate of little sandwiches, Wally was able to breeze through and scout the front of the room.

The coffin was open, Alfred's lined face looking exactly as it had in life; prim, proper, and on point. Everyone else was milling around, eating, talking, glancing for a second before scurrying away or hurrying to the side to unleash an honest show of tears. Only one stiff figure stayed by the side of the polished wood straight as an arrow with arms glued to his sides, unapproachable. Thus, Bruce was easy to find.

Wally meandered over, giving Alfred's still figure a mourning look. He had only met the man on the few times he'd been admitted to Bruce's home, and it was mostly when they were going incognito after some villain who didn't know them beneath the mask. They'd spoken a few times, casual conversations that still betrayed the old man's blend of wit and unexpected sarcasm.

He had liked Alfred, and Wally was sorry to see him go.

His steps slowed as Bruce loomed closer, and Wally mentally calculated that that had to be a first.

"Hey Bruce," he waved as he came to a stop at the man's side. The name felt thick on his tongue, clumsy and bizarre compared to the simple ease of "Bats." While he was on the subject, the whole setting was pretty strange and backwards to him, but Wally didn't feel that it was that much of a sacrifice to be there for his friends.

And Wally considered Bruce a close friend, as weird as that might sound. Still, now wasn't the time to brood on that, since the king of brooding himself hadn't shown any signs of recognition.

"Bruce?" Wally tried again, and this time he thought he saw Bruce's eyes shift his way for a millisecond tops, but that may have just been a play of the light.

"Hello Wally," the reply eventually came, growled and harsh and completely unsettling to be coming from the mouth of Bruce Wayne. It was Batman's voice, guttural and primal, a restrained animal. Wally had heard Bruce Wayne speak, and the voice was light, cultured, projecting the image of an incapable, but rich, fool.

Bruce wasn't even putting up that front today, not deeming the audience worthy of such a show. What stood next to Wally was some science fiction Bruce and Batman hybrid; Bruce's face, but Batman's soul.

Wally wondered if, in a way, this was the closet to whoever lurked inside both men that he had ever been.

"You okay?"

And immediately after, Wally wanted to speed forward straight into a concrete wall, because Bruce was obviously not okay. He was as far from okay as humanly possible, all the way down on the other end of the spectrum. He might as well have asked the man if he was in the mood to go dancing.

"Fine," Bruce grunted, brusque and curt, a reflex, and maybe Wally imagined it, but he seemed to lose the smallest ounce of tension, a little less like the gargoyles that were mounted on the balconies overlooking Gotham.

Wally tried to think of something else to say because he hated silences and even with the talking around them, this was most definitely a silence. Wally loved noise, life and talk and color and all the things that were lacking here, and the feeling was getting under his skin. He wished that for once the jokes he had in his arsenal were enough to jolt everything back to normal, where Alfred was alive and everyone was in the Watchtower like the great big family that they all needed.

From Bruce's responses, along with the little nagging voice in the back of his head, Wally decided that conversation wasn't the way to go. Even so, that same voice knew that Bruce shouldn't be left alone. Grief is a bitter thing for anyone, and the world knew what grief had turned Bruce into last time.

So he didn't talk, even if he couldn't stop his fingers from tapping to a beat on his thigh. Instead, he just stood next to Bruce, hoping that his presence would offer some kind of comfort to the man who at times seemed to be made completely out of rocks and stone.

Time inched by, and it wasn't easy, but every time the little black hand passed the twelve, Wally gave himself an invisible pat on the back. He was sticking it out, and so what if his other hand had joined in on the beat? He was still there, being a good friend to someone who would never admit to needing one.

After a few glances around the room, it suddenly occurred to Wally to wonder where Supes, or Clark (which just felt weird to say, or think) was. While on the same note, where was Diana? When he gave the room a few more quick looks, he was sure they weren't in the crowd, but his eyes were also led to that clock that was continuing its ominous ticking. It had been over an hour since the gathering started, and he'd forgotten his excuse of being fashionable late once he had crossed the threshold.

It wasn't really his fault that his suit hadn't been as clean and pressed as he had remembered it, and Wally was sure it was better to be a little late than to show up in a wrinkly suit, especially with a crowd this tough.

It did explain their absence though. Wally knew they had to have been there at some point, but duty must've called them away.

"Wally."

He jerked out of his thoughts, spinning his head around to see Bruce fully facing him.

"You can go," Bruce stated, gesturing slightly with his head. Wally turned to look, noticing that only a few people were mulling around, an air surrounding them that showed they were unsure of when it was appropriate to depart. Scratching the back of his head in some bewilderment, Wally was sure that he hadn't been thinking for that long.

"You staying?" he asked Bruce, who had turned back to the casket, hands clasped solemnly behind his back. There was a quick nod, and Wally shuffled his feet unsurely. Sure, part of him was itching to run, but another was just telling him that it wouldn't be the right thing to do.

"I've got some time," Wally admitted easily, shifting his hands to his pockets and shaking some overgrown red hair out of his eyes. He gave Bruce a careful smile, because honestly, he wasn't sure if the expression was appropriate.

"All that's waiting for me are dirty dishes, and trust me, I want to put off facing them as long as possible."

Bruce's head shifted towards him, and on a different occasion, Wally would've bet that he could've at least scored a smirk with the offer and explanation. Instead, Bruce offered a simple, "Alright," leaving Wally to wonder if the gesture was appreciated or viewed as a hindrance. Wally decided to go with the first because it made him happy.

They stood together until the last guest snuck through the doors, letting the ornate wood swing shut with an embarrassing bang behind her. It went on for another few seconds before Bruce became close to human again. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it stubbornly, then opened it again after a few seconds of contemplation.

"Thank you," he offered, the voice still gruff but a little less hostile.

"No problem," Wally responded to lessen the moment, spinning on his heel and taking a few steps to loosen up. For some reason, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask Bruce…something. He didn't know, maybe to ask if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee, just…well, something. But one look at Bruce could tell anyone that he needed privacy for his last goodbye.

"I'll see you later then," Wally gave a tentative wave, taking Bruce's continuing silence as his cue to depart. Halfway through the room, he halted and turned around, still feeling the apprehension.

"Bruce?" he asked, feeling a little like a child in the way his voice reverberated through the high ceilings. Only a setting of the shoulders gave him any indication that the man was listening since he didn't turn around, but Wally was grateful for even that little action.

"Just…uh…"

He rubbed his arm a little awkwardly, the way John had what was only a short time earlier.

"There are still people who, um, care about you," he rushed a little, his feet preparing to rush to the outside so he could breathe.

"Just because he's…well, we care about you, me and the League, I mean. You're our friend."

Bruce said nothing, and after a while of getting more wound up with every ticking of the clock, Wally let himself give in to his senses and found himself in his apartment before he knew it.

He fell backwards upon his unmade bed spread-eagled, hoping that his words had meant something, anything at all.