A/N: This was requested by someone on tumblr. I'm generally proud of how this came out. Thank you to anyone that takes the time to read this.
Disclaimer: I own nothing from Young Justice. From my standpoint this is probably a very good thing.

Foible

He remembers blue skies and the sounds of charred meat sizzling on the hot grill. And that was summer. It was heat. It was sprinklers, and a laughter for miles. It was knowing that someone would always wait for you.

The curb they frequently chose to occupy was always unbearably warm closest to noon, but he liked it that way. It was their spot. The ice cream seemed to melt a little slower here.

It was just him and his uncle. And his grin stretched past his freckled cheeks until he was absolutely beaming with delight. It was only logical that he would take his time here. That time belonged to him.

The air is cold. He can't really feel it, but he can see it, wispy tendrils of warm air escaping his lips and curling their way around the frigid night. He watches it before the wind snatches it away and bellows angrily against his ear.

He's been here a while. Standing at the front step, staring blankly at the numbers that claimed this porch—this house—was his. And he knows this place better than anyone. He could tell you exactly where his room was situated, the precise way the sheets on his bed were folded every time his mother replaced them with clean ones, and even where the floor boards creak under the weight of his feet when he reached the entrance of the kitchen. It's years of knowing what this place is—or was—to him that has him nervous, has him frozen in place for five minutes too long.

His eyes dart to the slight jiggle of the knob, and when he's consumed in an embrace and met with a face full of auburn hair, there's no questioning it. He's home.

But it's different.

She hurries him inside. And she's eager and full of smiles and shouting for Rudy to see their son. He swallows thickly before removing his jacket and offering something along the lines of warmth, a hug.

"Wally. It's been a while. I don't think I've ever seen you stay away from home this long. The teachers must be running you up a wall with work," Rudy muses aloud.

He emulates the warm tone of his father, "You know me dad, little over achiever here."

Mary claps a hand on his shoulder briefly, sharing a look with him he can't discern. "And I suppose Artemis is just as busy? It's a shame she had to miss out on dinner."

"Just as busy," he reaffirms.

Something is off, and the fact that his parents refuse to acknowledge it has him on edge. They were never that careless. They pounced on moments like this only to make sure that they could bring it back and regain normalcy. But they aren't. They don't even notice that he's not adding his extra inflections to words, beating them to conversations about their day, or groaning about his mother insisting that he use a hanger when he firmly believes coats can go on the floor if that is the most convenient spot to throw them.

Mary is too busy making her way to the kitchen, worried over a dried roast or two or three that he can smell from where he's standing. It was distinct, a trade mark secret she would say and add a wink that generally made him smile in anticipation because no one cooked like she did, no one else could make coming home an enjoyable habit.

"Wally? Could you set the table for six? Your aunt Iris is coming with Barry," she says plainly as she's exiting the kitchen, wiping her hands clean on a dish rag.

"Uh, not that I ever question you," she gives him a look before he decides to continue, "But wouldn't I just need to set five places then?"

She rests the now folded rag on top of the breakfast nook, eyes darting back to his. "No, six. They're taking care of Bart while Jay and Joan are out of town for the weekend. I insisted they bring him along. He's a charmer."

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach in that exact moment. "Oh?"

It's the only thing he can manage without losing every sense of comfort he was trying to settle back into. Then the doorbell rang, and the tension was back, the whirring noises that amplified the electricity of the room when he walked in played in his ear.

He was the only one who chose to feel this disturbance. He was the only one caught up in this field—this energy—because everyone else was acting fairly normal. Everyone else was offering hugs and welcomes and nostalgia at the entrance. He stood far back until he noticed striking blue-green eyes catch his face. And the way he just lit up with an expression like he knew him for the longest time made him physically ill.

He's not really ready to deal with him again, but of course Bart decides in that very moment to zip over and give him a hug that seemed unfair, needy, and so lonely. And it's a horrible mistake, it all was. His hands are on the younger boy's shoulders instantaneously, removing him much the same as their last encounter.

"Will you cut that out?" he reprimands, but it fails to change Bart's demeanor.

"Wallace. That's no way to speak to a guest," his mother warns. And it's really serious because she never just throws Wallace around like that.

"But-But, he ran inside the house! Powers are so off limits, or don't you remember? Why does he get special treatment?" He hates how childish he sounds, desperate for her to be in his corner. And he really knows better. He's literally better than this, but the air has him panic and grasping at straws. He crosses his arms, eyes glaring at the wooden panels of the floor. "Guess it makes sense."

No one says anything initially. Maybe it was his childish comeback or how much he meant what he was saying that threw everyone off. He can hear the harshness in his tone, the grip tightening around his elbows, the twist of a snarl curling around his lips. He's angry, unreasonably angry.

Bart's the first to react, and it almost makes him laugh because of course he's fast enough to do it first.

"Haaa, totally my fault, but now I know," he beams apologetically, throwing a mock punch at his shoulder, "And this is exactly why I need you! You need to teach me all these things, totally bond, right?"

He's asking a lot in the single second it takes him to utter all of those words. He makes it a point to make sure he catches every word especially when Barry is approaching them, a hand already settled on Bart's shoulder. He refrains from acting out again, arms slipping to his sides.

"I think that's a great idea," Barry mediates.

"You would," he admonishes under his breath, and he's almost certain it's low enough for anyone else to catch, but when Barry's smile falters, and the muscles in his face slacken in a sense of realization, he's already half way across the floor with his mother calling after him.

He pulls his arm through his jacket again, and he feels indescribably warm as he's twisting the knob of the door. "Wally, where are you going? Dinner's re—"

"Out," he says simply as the cool air meets his face again, quicker this time because his feet are carrying him at an inhuman speed away from his outburst, away from the things that were currently eating him up alive. He's speeding, blurring into a nothing he hadn't felt comfortable moving in since he decided to leave it all behind.

And he's from the future, stealing their time without permission. He settle's comfortably between the rift that had already begun to exist between himself and his uncle after his retirement. He's angry, but he thinks it's fair considering Bart makes it look much easier than it should be. He's cheating.

He's not ready to forgive Bart yet.

He's groaning. He's embarrassed.

"There you are."

He's been found. Crap. But really he hadn't tried hiding. He saw no real point to it. He just needed the temporary space, the silence to clear the muddiness in his head. His uncle standing over him, expecting an explanation wasn't really helping.

He groans a little louder this time, getting ready to push himself back onto his feet and leave. Bolt far, far away from here—their city—from him. He was the last person he wanted to deal with at the moment.

The grip on his wrist stops him, pulls him round until he's forced to peer a few inches upward to meet his focused gaze. "Uncle Barry, please let go."

"So you can run off again without even a word?" he questions before releasing his grip. He was always that trusting of him, expecting him to stay put and unleash a torrent of feelings, words, anything really. He was tired of being that compliant, that easy.

"And what's it to you if I do or not? Since when do you even care whether I am here anymore?" The wind blows through a sea of blonde hair as his uncle's eyes fall at his words.

"Wally…" Barry raises his hand, but he's cut off before he can touch him.

"No. You don't get to say anything right now," he sneers, hand settling at the base of his neck, fingers tangling, struggling, and pulling at the hair curling there. "What are you even doing here anyway?"

"I came for you." His voice sounds so sincere, and for a moment he thinks of their summers. "You just ran off like it was supposed to explain everything. Your mom's worried about you. She said you'd been acting strangely since you got home. Then you just skip out on dinner. You never turn down dinner."

"You're picking a horrible time to try and insert a joke," he adds coldly.

Barry sighs, and he's taking calculated steps towards the base of the monument he had been occupying. He settles just in front of the plaque, and he motions for him to take a seat with him.

He won't have it though. He wanted things to be on his terms for once. So Barry stops, deciding to hunch over and rest his elbows on his knees instead.

"You know what, Uncle Barry?" he continues without even waiting for a response, "You can't save everyone."

"It's not part of the job description." His apple green eyes shift, almost expecting different words. Something about determination and perseverance being mattered most to a hero. "Is that what this is about?"

His hands are clenched into fist, nails digging into the palms of his hands violently. "No. But I don't like these expectations anymore."

"I'm not exactly following," Barry replies smoothly.

"Of course you wouldn't. You're the Flash," he annunciates with quoted fingers, "You're meeting your expectations. Everyone is meeting their expectations. And then there's me."

He bows his head, turning in on himself as the weight of the problem seems to have taken a hold of his tongue. It's heavy. These problems were always heavy, but he was at least willing to try and bare them on his shoulders because he loved it enough to try once.

"And what exactly is so wrong with just being you?"

He doesn't exactly have a witty retort prepared for that one. "Being me isn't good enough."

"And what standards are you basing this on?" Barry strains uncharacteristically.

"Mine. You. It was always based on you. And I think, at one point I thought that maybe one day I could catch up. It was like you were always waiting, but I was always so far behind. It was exciting once, and I don't think I'd ever not want to have repeated that experiment. But—"

Barry's hanging on every word, eyes soft not once reflecting an ounce of judgment. He hates his uncle.

"This is stupid." And he can feel the electricity, the desire to just make a swift exit on feet he purposefully forced to run. But Barry's faster, he's always faster and his hand is on his shoulder, firm.

"It's not."

"I was never good enough. I was never fast enough. I was never smart enough." It's all out in the open. And he's no better than an exposed wound.

"You know that's not true, Wally. Look at everything you've accomplished. Think of all the people you've helped."

He almost wants to laugh, lips twitching against his will. "Accomplished? Where's the punch line because if you've forgotten, I quit. There's no accomplishment there."

"But it was your decision. It was what you wanted, and it's not wrong of you to." When there's no sign of movement, Barry drops his hand.

"It's just. It's not what I stand for. Being a hero now, it's just not what I thought it should be. It's all wrong. And it's not like it should matter, but a part of me just doesn't see the difference I would make in the long run anymore especially now that everyone has Bart. He's not even at his prime, and he can keep up with you. He can lap me, and not just once." He sighs heavily, letting his lungs push out the shakiness of his tone.

"You aren't Bart."

"Understatement of the century," he interjects.

Barry regains control, and it almost sounds like he hopes he'll listen. "I never expect you to be anything or anyone other than yourself. You're fast. You really are. I've seen you. I've seen the hunger for it in your eyes before and how it makes you really run. But you have to want it. That's what it comes down to. You're the only one that's holding yourself back. You're bigger than you think you are, Wally."

"That's nice of you to say, Uncle Barry," he mutters uselessly, "Really. It is. But what good is telling me that? It doesn't change anything."

His uncle can't formulate a response quick enough, so he's turning away, feet moving without his mind telling him what for or even where to go. He just needs to move. His muscles are craving it, his bones need it—the quick snap and step—and he just wants it so bad.

"Do you? Do you want to run with me?" His sneakers dig into the gravel. It was really the last thing he ever expected on this night when the air is a little too cold even for him, and when there were people waiting on them to eat a roast that was probably too dry now.

He wants to. Running with his uncle was something that even now sounded infinitely better than anything he could think of doing now. Because where exactly would he go from here anyway? His uncle was at least trying to provide a destination even if it wasn't a guarantee of anything, happiness, normalcy.

"Can you keep up?"

Barry was always up to the challenge. And maybe it doesn't get him to change his position. Maybe it doesn't make the world a better place. But in that moment when he was kicking up dirt, and running till his lungs were burning, he could feel those summers again. He could feel himself roasting under the hot sun, the reverberation of sound moving through his lungs as he laughed until it hurt. And most importantly the ice cream was melting slower here. And he had the time back.

He hopes he can forgive Bart one day.

The sky is much darker than that night he can only faintly remember now. Ash is drifting, and the sounds of shoveling have muted the noises he grew up loving and remembering. There's no sizzling, there's no electricity, and he's waiting for the day when his collar decides to suffocate him.

"Wally?" This is the only confident, strong noise left.

"What's up, Bart?" There's little less that he can offer him these days, but he tries.

"Can you tell me about your souvenir collection again? Tell me about the arrow first? I like that one." And he appears hopeful and bright even under the layer of soot marring his pale complexion. They hadn't seen the sun in over a year; it was something they'd grown accustomed to. The stories at least made these revelations bearable. At least when he talked about them, the team, when things were whole, he felt happy, warm.

He digs the tip of his shovel into the dirt, swiping once at the sweat gathering at his brow. "The day didn't start off that great. We were kind of lacking in our team spirit mojo in the beginning."

"Wait! Wait!" Bart jumped in excitement. "You know you have to describe it, the day, what you guys were wearing. Were you wearing your Kid Flash outfit?"

He's gotten used to his excitement and ruffles his auburn hair in return. "Well. When we were given the mission the sun was setting and the sky was still a little bright, lots of orange and pinks. And of course I was wearing my outfit. I always felt naked without it."

There's a dream like stupor spread across his face before he asks, "And what was that like?"

That question was always the hardest to answer. "It was sunny and warm."