Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

And sure, Barry’d been in a bunch of situations in the past which haven’t exactly been fantastic. The whole thing with Steppenwolf kinda sucked but even before that, fighting Superman, nearly drowning and the foster system were all somewhere on the podium of ‘worst things to ever happen to Bartholomew Henry Allen’ but this was really gonna take the cake. He could feel it in his bones.

Where to begin? The white walls, maybe. Tiled and absolutely perfectly aligned. Really, he wanted to commend whoever worked on those because whenever Barry saw uneven tiling, he wanted nothing more than to tear it all down and start anew so at least that wasn’t bothering him. What else? The table. Bed would be too generous a word for it. There was a pillow at least, but no sheets. Barry was cold, dressed in a hospital shift that tied up at the back, wearing nothing else but boxers. Camera in the corner with a blinking red light.

That sucked. There was also a door. Big, metal, probably a foot thick and weighed a stupid amount. If he could, he would vibrate the hell out of here entirely.

Which brought him to his last point. The thing around his neck. Heavy and obtrusive and way too tight to be legal. But something was blocking his powers and there was nothing else around to neutralize them. Barry really wasn’t into collars or anything so he doubted this was consensual. Also, there was one more teensy-tiny problem; he couldn’t actually remember how he got here.

No matter. Barry had been spending a lot of time with the World’s Greatest Detective lately so maybe something had rubbed off. He swung his legs over the side of the table he lay on and frowned at his surroundings, before grimacing at the sudden and intense pounding in his head.

Yuck. Hangovers.

Except…Except, since the accident, Barry didn’t get hangovers. Because he couldn’t get drunk. His body burned through any alcohol he consumed, no matter how much it was. Too many competitions in whatever bar Arthur picked out had basically proved it. Especially when Barry had needed to carry Arthur home.

So no, he hadn’t gotten drunk the previous night. Then what?

“Okay Allen,” he whispered, sitting down with his elbows on his knees, “focus.”

His last memory was home. Not the Manor, but his warehouse, curling into his favourite chair and staring blankly at his phone. Alfred had insisted he take home most of the leftovers from the food Bruce had ordered for the League after their mission. It was all still sitting on his table. Probably gone bad now.

For a moment, he mourned the food. Then he remembered his predicament and gritted his teeth. Okay, he needed to focus.

So he was home. And now he wasn’t and his head hurt so maybe he’d been drugged? But what drugs even worked on him anymore? And exactly how high was the dosage? Barry blinked. He was at home. Not in Flash costume or anything but lounging around in his plaid jacket when they probably got him with elephant tranquilisers or something.

So there went his secret identity.

Okay. Awesome. Those were great conclusions he’d just arrived at and Bruce might even be a little proud of them. He scrambled to shove his head between his knees and made himself breathe deeper. One, two, three, four, hold, one, two, three, four. He was not going to have a panic attack here.

Barry wheezed slightly as he lifted his head, breath snagging as he coughed weakly into his elbow. His hands came up to his neck to touch smooth metal and he worked his fingers around the entire thing, searching aimlessly for grooves or buttons or switches.

Nothing. Just a solid band of metal. He was almost positive they’d welded the damn thing on. Okay, great. Good to know. He’s gonna need a better plan if he wanted to get out of it but surely, surely, there was another reason why he couldn’t access the Speedforce.

Tentatively, he walked to the door and touched it with a finger. No zapping, which was a good sign. So surely, if he could just focus and close his eyes, he could—

“That is not gonna work, Mister Allen.”

The voice was disembodied and made him snatch his hand back and stumble away with a yelp as he whipped his head around. “Who-who’s there?” he hissed, forcing himself to lift his chin and keep his hands by his sides. “Hello? This is probably illegal.”

It was a male voice, calm and smooth. Cold in the way Bruce’s could be, with a quiet menace to it. “I’m sorry for the headache.” How the hell did he even know Barry had a headache? Did he mention it? He didn’t think so. “However, now that all of the awkward stuff is out of the way, we hope you’ll begin to cooperate with us.”

Cooperate? Cooperation was the last thing on his mind. “Uh. No. This is definitely illegal, actually. I would know. I’m doing a criminal justice degree right now. Which reminds me that I’m probably late to class and Professor Cross is gonna be really pissed at me because I probably have an assignment due for his class and I always get them in late.” God, Barry, stop talking!

He clamped his teeth shut and looked away. The speaker crackled with laughter. “Don’t be too worried about all of that, Mister Allen. I’ve gotten it all—”

“Stop calling me that. Just call me—actually, wait. Don’t call me Barry either. ‘Barry’ is reserved for friends, and not kidnappers. Not that I have a bunch of friends. The only friends I really have are—” He choked on his words, catching himself just in time. “Coworkers,” he finally bit out. “Now, I’d really appreciate it if you’d get this thing off my neck and you give me my clothes back so I can leave. Oh, ew,” Barry mumbled, grimacing, “you undressed me?”

He wasn’t going to live down that humiliation for weeks. That was probably the worst part about all of this, actually. Screw the collar and the weird white room. “If you could listen to me please, Mister Allen,” and oh boy, the voice was starting to sound pissed now. He had the thought, the split second need to shut up and listen but he shrugged it off and scowled.

“What even is this?” he asked, grabbing at the thing around his neck. “And why is it so tight? What’s wrong with you? Ugh, I can barely breathe through this and you expect me to—”

“Mister Allen!” And there it was. Fury. Barry locked eyes with the camera and clenched his jaw, waiting. “I am going to send in two people to retrieve you. You are going to cooperate and come with us so that we may lay out some terms regarding you staying here.”

“Who said anything about staying—”

The door slid open and Barry took that as his opportunity, launching himself forward to slip through the crack. He had no plan, no speed and no team but he was also the Flash and he could get through anything.

Except for human brick walls, apparently, as a truly massive arm flung out and caught him square in the chest while another pair wrapped themselves around his torso and squeezed tightly. Barry kicked out with a gasp while he choked on air but the arms held strong and they walked down the hall.

“Do you—” he wheezed, squirming around hopelessly, “do you mind? Can’t a guy try to leave? Huh? I-I’d like your first and last name so that when I get out, I can sue you.”

Well. Barry couldn’t afford the lawyers to do that but Bruce most definitely could. Still, they said nothing and walked down a series of hallways that looked the same before opening the door to one room which appeared to be a meeting room of sorts. Big table and multiple chairs with a man in military uniform sat at the head.

The helmeted guards dumped Barry onto the chair at the other end and stood beside him. He wasn’t restrained or anything but maybe the threat was worse. Barry watched the man on the other end warily, leaning back as far in his chair as he could. The man in uniform leaned forward, all sharp features and cruelty behind his eyes. Barry would know. He’d met a lot of cruel people in his life. “Barry Allen?”

“Actually, my name is Arthur Curry so clearly, you’ve got the wrong guy—”

The man steamrolled over his words without much care at all. “I am General Eiling and I work for the United States government. It would be beneficial for the both of us if you listened to what I am about to say.”

Barry glanced around, drumming his fingers on the table. “Why am I here? I’ve definitely missed my class by the way. And work. Which means I’m probably fired so that’s gonna be your problem.”

“Barry Allen, we are aware of your abilities and your other identity.” The general leaned forward even as Barry felt himself freeze over at the words. “You’re the Flash. You work in the Justice League. You are a metahuman.”

His jaw worked uselessly as he shook his head, forcing out a laugh he hoped sounded incredulous. “Me? Are you kidding me? Do you know who I am? I’m afraid of, like, everything. Bugs, drowning, obnoxiously tall people—the list goes on is what I’m saying. And you’re trying to tell me that I’m a superhero? Please.”

“I did some digging on your past, Barry,” Eiling continued, “and I’ve found some information on your father, Henry Allen. How he killed your mother when you were a child.”

“Okay,” Barry said, indignant, “he didn’t kill my mom and that investigation was botched as hell.”

“And you plan to prove his innocence?” Barry looked away. For once, he said nothing, though his heart pounded against his ribs. “I sympathise, I really do. And I’m looking at you and thinking that you do this hero business because you wanna help people just like you wanna help your dad. I have a way you can help everyone.”

Eiling nodded and a piece of paper, a contract, was placed before Barry with a pen. He frowned at it, squinting through his growing headache to process the words printed in incredibly small font.

Cheap trick. But this time, he was going to read all of the terms and conditions.

“We want to learn how you use your speed and how your body works with regards to your abilities. But the only way we can do that is by—”

“Cutting me open?” Barry said flatly, already pushing the contract away. “No thank you. Show me where the exit is and give me my clothes back.”

“Have you read the contract?”

“Yeah. And it states I’ve gotta sign away all of my rights. I dunno about you but I really like having human rights, y’know? So no thank you. Where is the door?”

Eiling sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer, Barry. The government specifically asked for you.”

Barry does not think about how if it was any one of his other friends, they would’ve probably broken out by now. He doesn’t think about how they wouldn’t be shaking in fear. But he tilts his chin up and shakes his head, grinding his teeth together. “I don’t really care about the government that much. They make me pay taxes and, like, for what? So they can keep my dad in prison? No thank you.”

He was levelled with a cold glare. Barry froze up and snapped his jaw shut. “Would you prefer for your father to stay in prison?”

“…Huh?”

“You may disagree, Barry Allen, but I don’t believe your little story. I don’t think your father is innocent. And I have the power to keep him imprisoned for a long time. Or, if I think it’s justice enough, he can face the firing squad.”

For a moment, Barry’s mind whited out and a ringing started up in his ears. Slowly, he clenched his fists, felt dizzy as he did. “Are you-are you threatening me?” he asked faintly.

“Do what’s right, Barry. Help the world.”

Panic stirred in his stomach, a dull sort of ache that intensified as he reached for the pen, and, as if in a dream, signed away his rights and humanity in a few strokes. “Okay,” he breathed.

The contract was snatched up before he could try to take it back. There were men on both arms, hauling him up and out of his seat. Eiling smiled. It was victory and frigid. There was no compassion in his face, his eyes. “Take him to his new quarters. We begin tomorrow morning.”

“Kid’s officially late,” Arthur grunted, massaging his temple with two fingers.

Bruce’s frown only deepened. “Calls are going straight to voicemail,” he murmured. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with him.”

“He may have overslept,” Diana called as she strode in, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Its many tassels dripped to the floor, gold flashing in the light of the manor. “I’m sure he will be here soon.”

Bruce caught Arthur exchanging a look with Victor who stared back coolly, lips pursed. Clark tried on a smile, blinding and toothy and oh so warm. “We can just catch him up to speed later. What was it that you were wanting to go over?”

He pointedly ignores the pun. Intentional or not, it grinds at his already frayed nerves, though he isn’t entirely sure why he feels this way at all. Barry not picking up the phone wasn’t totally unusual, perse, but it wasn’t completely normal either. And the kid had classes too. Bruce specifically asked for his schedule so he could time these meetings so he would get to go to those classes and actually study.

So why wasn’t Barry here?

“When was the last time we saw him?” he heard himself asking.

Victor blinked. “Two days ago. Explosives at the docks. He ran evac. Why?”

Bruce looked up, brow furrowed. “He didn’t seem—”

“He seemed fine, Bruce,” Diana cut in gently. “In high spirits, in spite of the situation. It was a clean mission. No casualties.”

“Didn’t he stay at the manor?” Arthur asked. “He usually does after missions.”

“No. He had an assignment coming up. He went back to Central to finish it.”

Diana laid a hand on his shoulder, warm and soft. “It’s fine, Bruce. Let’s start.”

Her placations only worried him further. Why wasn’t Barry answering? It wasn’t like he was the type to get bogged down with homework. Knowing the kid, he’d do it all at super speed or something. “Alright,” he relented, frowning down at the letters they’d received from the UN. “Alright. Let’s just start.”

Barry got a new room to wait in before it began. Whatever it was, he had no clue, but he was practically vibrating in anticipation, having already gone over every single inch of his new space no less than thirty-two times. Plain mattress, thin blanket, chair, table (both bolted into the floor) attached bathroom with no lock and the bare minimum amenities required for him to function.

He shivered and wished they’d let him wear something more substantial. The hospital gown wasn’t really cutting it for warmth or comfort and even wrapping a blanket around his shoulders hadn’t done much for the chill.

Or maybe the trembling was nerves. He wasn’t sure yet.

Barry tried to sit still for once in his life. He wasn’t sure how escape would work after he’d just signed a legally binding contract with the government but he had to try. And maybe, maybe, there was the childish hope that if he ran fast enough, far enough, if he could take the familiar roads through Gotham and run into Bruce somehow, that he could make the entire thing go away somehow.

He tried not to think about them too hard. What would they say if they found out what he’d done? Barry wanted them here so he could at least have the opportunity to explain his thought process, to plead with them to understand why he had to.

He was meant to be at a meeting. He wondered if they were upset at him for missing it.

But the doors opened before he could spiral too far and two men with machine guns stood there, one of them beckoning him forward while the other levelled the gun at his chest the moment Barry moved. They wore heavy helmets over their heads, obscuring their faces behind black visors.

He swallowed thickly. Tried to smile and balked because the heavy helmets they wore did not give anything away. “Uh. Mind putting that down?”

No response. The other guy beckoned again and something about the motion screamed of impatience so Barry gingerly took a step forward and breathed a sigh of relief when he wasn’t suddenly riddled with bullets he couldn’t see coming. Trying not to let his fear choke him entirely, he walked slowly and allowed the two men to flank him with the nozzle of the weapon digging into his back as he went.

Noted. There went any plan to escape.

The two escorting him had no interest in speaking to him at all, as it turned out. “So, do you guys have families?” he tried softly, finding the silence unbearable. He didn’t dare turn around to check if there was a reaction. “It’s just me and my dad right now.” And Bruce, and Diana, and Arthur, and Victor, and Clark. “Does this job pay well?”

The hallways they walked through were unassuming and grey enough for Barry’s mind to fry the longer he spent here. It was relief that washed over him when they herded him into standing before a door which they opened with the flash of a keycard. Inside, chairs, men in lab coats and medical technology that he didn’t really have a name for.

One of the men nodded at the two guards who retreated and stood at the door which was closed now. Barry stood, frozen to the spot as the scientists (doctors?) surrounded him in an instant. Someone grabbed his jaw in a tight grip and he wrenched his head away in a panic. The man who grabbed him frowned.

“Disobedient,” he stated into a recording device, as if Barry wasn’t right fucking there. “Will have to work on building rapport with subject.”

Barry took a step back, ramming into another one who settled his hands on his shoulders and squeezed hard enough to make him flinch. Suddenly, he wanted to be alone in that room with his thoughts again. Way better than being groped by strangers.

Hands squeezed his biceps, ran along his jawline and even pinched his waist hard enough to hurt, though he didn’t move until they wandered too close to his hips. Barry then pulled himself free of the little circle and stumbled away, hands wrapped tightly around his body in a faux hug as he tried to rein in his panic.

He’d done it. He’d gone and just given himself to scientists so they could figure out how he worked and their hungry stares were what was making any of this stick in his mind. Barry might die here. He certainly wouldn’t get out of here unharmed.

“Can I—” he wheezed, pausing to cough weakly into a hand, “can I look over the form I signed again?” he asked.

The guy with the recording device, must be the head scientist or something, sighed and spoke into his recorder again. “Subject is displaying reluctance to obey. Administering first corrective shock.”

Barry blinked. “First wh—”

Electricity ripped through him, tearing through muscle, flesh and sinew and boiling his blood in the process as Barry made a sound halfway between a scream and a gasp, doubling over and coughing up when it passed. His hands shook something terrible from where they were clutching his gown and he managed to raise his eyes to the lab coats who watched on with interest.

Recorder guy was impassive. “Shock administered. Subject has displayed submission. Begin blood withdrawals.”

Submission? Barry opened his mouth to object, to say anything, but hands guided him to a fancy looking chair. Fingers, tight enough to bruise, pulled his hand free of fabric and laid it against the arm rest before tightening a cuff above his elbow. He saw a needle being prepared out of the corner of his eye.

Blood tests. He could do that. Hell, he’d done those plenty before.

“Relax your arm,” one of them said, and he did, breathing out slowly and fixing his attention to his still-twitching fingers. The needle slid in. Barry closed his eyes and allowed it all to wash over him.

Chapter Text

Bruce was goddamn losing it.

Three days since that meeting and they had not heard a lick from Barry goddamn Allen. He’d half a mind to go and barge into that warehouse himself. The only reason he didn’t was because Alfred insisted he give their teammates some peace of mind.

So he was relieved, for lack of better word, when Clark suggested the League meet up to figure out why their youngest was suddenly MIA.

Bruce, obviously, offered his manor as the grounds for the meeting, and spent the hours before it brooding in the kitchen while watching Alfred make dinner for them.

Had he said something? Had any of them hurt the kid accidentally, or god forbid, on purpose? He hoped the hell they didn’t. Barry was the goddamn heart of the team and they all knew that. He wondered if they were all similarly losing their minds over it too.

There wasn’t any luck brooding with Alfred around. His butler ushered him out of his kitchen before long and he was left to wander his halls and find something to do before his team showed up.

Brooding was twice as awful when he couldn’t sit down long enough to commit.

When Diana showed, closely followed by Clark and Victor, he was almost overjoyed. Finally, something to do. He poured drinks, waved his hands around while they chatted and internally screamed at Arthur for holding up the meeting even further.

Diana laid a hand on his knee and he stopped mid-story. “Are you alright, Bruce?”

He studied her and found not a hair out of place compared to him feeling as disheveled as he probably looked. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” he muttered, still stuck in his old ways somewhat.

Victor snorted and leaned back into the couch cushions. “You look manic, man. Like you haven’t slept.”

How on earth was he going to explain to these people that something was horribly wrong? He shrugged instead and took a long sip from his own drink, coffee to help him stay awake. “I’m fine. Just worried.”

Clark, who hadn’t said anything at all until then, the bastard, pulled his glasses off and nodded along tiredly. “I am too. Barry and I were meant to race yesterday and he never responded.”

Bruce squinted at him. “And him missing a League meeting isn’t suspicious?”

To his credit, Clark flushed slightly. “Well-well League meetings can be a little…” He seemed to fish for the right word, refusing to look Bruce in the eye. This is what he gets for forming a team, really. He’s trying to keep world leaders off their asses and fucking Superman is going to try and figure out how to tell him his meetings are boring without hurting his feelings.

Fuck.

“Okay, Clark, I get it.” A beat. “Where’s Arthur?” he growled, now swiveling to take out his restlessness on someone who wasn’t even there to defend himself.

Heavy footsteps startled him and the man himself slumped into a chair next to Bruce, slightly damp. “Right here.”

“Great.” They all stared at him like he was the one who declared the meeting. Even Clark, the traitor. So Bruce loosed a great breath and leaned forward, both hands clamped around his mug of coffee. “Alright. So, we’re here because Barry’s gone MIA on us and we need to locate him for our collective peace of mind.” No objections. Fantastic. “Has anyone gotten any word from him?”

“I called him a bunch,” Clark offered. “Went straight to voicemail.”

Victor shrugged. “Visited but he didn’t answer his door. He hasn’t been to work or college either. I checked.”

“You talked to them?”

Bruce received a roll of his eyes. “No. I checked attendance records.”

“Very out of character for him,” Diana mused. “He tells us most things.”

Bruce levelled a flat glare at Arthur as he opened his mouth because any negative talk about a missing man may just cause him to snap but Arthur only said, “Nothing from any of the coastlines along the Atlantic. I checked everywhere so he’s probably still in the country.”

“Do we have a missing persons case then?” Clark asked. Bruce recognized that glint in his eyes, a look he completely associated with Clark Kent the star reporter and felt relief. They seemed to be all in. Bruce wasn’t alone in his worry.

He wouldn’t be alone again, it seemed, but that was a subject of thought for another day.

Victor sat up and frowned. “You said he went home, right? To his warehouse?”

“As of right now, yeah, he lives in the warehouse.” Bruce was trying to move the kid into a decent apartment or something but pride would be the death of them all and getting him to accept something was most of the struggle. “Why?”

“You have cameras in there, don’t you?”

Bruce, at least, had enough energy to act affronted. “I don’t-I wouldn’t—” he blustered, very, very, tired all of a sudden. Victor only continued looking unimpressed throughout his display.

“Bruce,” Diana said with that warning note in her tone.

He sighed, slumped his shoulders. “There aren’t any inside. Just ones right outside the entrances. Do you need help get—and you’re in, never mind.”

Victor held a hand out, palm facing up, while a holographic video played for them. Barry entering at 7:31 pm, no worse for wear. He wasn’t even limping, which Bruce considered a success in their line of work. “I’m gonna fast forward it. Tell me when to stop.”

The footage sped up and the time ticked by, hours slipping away in the span of impossibly long minutes. It wasn’t until Bruce caught a glimpse of sleek, black cars at 11:57, that he snapped himself into lucidity again. “There!” he hissed, but Victor had already slowed it down. The atmosphere was electric and no one dared speak a word as people filed out from the car and disappeared into the warehouse.

A minute later, and they were carrying an unconscious Barry Allen along with them.

Bruce? Bruce saw red, standing up and pacing furiously while trying to let go of his anger enough to help the others who were still crowded around the hologram. He’d make them pay, he’d find them and get Barry and he’d make them pay as both Batman and Bruce Wayne, he’d—

“Enhance this spot right here,” Clark said softly. There was a soft gasp and a silence. Bruce met Clark’s eyes, and he quickly turned back to the holograph, peering down at it through his glasses. Quiet horror dripped off his words. “That’s the logo for the Department of Defense.”

His mind paused. “What?”

“The Pentagon?” Victor said sharply. “What does the government want with Barry?”

“More like what does the government want with us?”  Bruce murmured.

Diana shook her head and sighed sharply. “World leaders are already very unsure of our continued alliance with each other despite our victory against Steppenwolf. My guess is that Barry is a political prisoner of sorts. By keeping him, they can ensure we do not act out of line.”

Bruce’s mind was going a mile a minute and he nodded to Diana’s words. “That’s part of it,” he whispered. “But there’s more. Surely. If they wanted compliance, why not just threaten us? Hell, why would they not make a move to show their hand either? It’s been days since he was taken.”

Clark looked a little ill. “You don’t think—”

“I think we need to investigate,” Bruce said tightly. “And I think Superman needs to pay the Pentagon a little visit.”

The days were starting to blend together. Distantly, Barry realised that was a bad thing. It meant he was slipping, that he was getting bored and wasn’t looking for a way out of this place, wherever this place was. But what was there to do?

Meals appeared, three times a day. He was left alone for the most part to sleep eight hours before being woken up by an alarm. Testing only occurred once a day and he hadn’t gotten himself shocked again as they took things from him. Blood, tears, saliva, spinal fluid, bone marrow. A host of things that were wholly his collected in little vials and tubes and stowed away to be studied later.

Barry would be angrier about it if it wasn’t so boring.

He didn’t dare complain, however. This arrangement felt precarious, like if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time, it would collapse entirely. He was almost completely sure the scientists working on him didn’t see him as a whole person but rather a specimen to study. A collection of parts to harvest.

Maybe it would be more bearable if anyone actually talked to him.

He shook his head free of those thoughts and focused on his bare feet walking through these corridors for the umpteenth time, it felt. But when he stepped through the doors that day, something felt different.

Barry tensed up, tried to take a step back when his instincts began to scream at him because there was none of the cold interest left in the scientists’ eyes but something warmer and sharper and far crueller. This was excitement.

“Subject appears reproachful,” Recorder said quietly. Arms looped around Barry’s waist and dragged him forward mercilessly. “Has to be coerced into cooperation. We are prepared to administer corrective shocks if needed.”

“Wait,” he tried, twisting slightly to squirm out of the grip. No luck. He was slammed into a metal table and strong arms held his limbs down with iron-tight grips. “Wait, what’s going on? Aren’t you gonna tell me what you’re about to do to me?”

Fuck. Fuck! What was it Bruce had told him long ago, in the event he ever got kidnapped?

(“Humanise yourself,” he had said in that quiet, warm cadence of his. “Show them that you’re a person worthy of living. Say whatever you think will achieve it. Appeal to their humanity, their compassion, because it could be the one thing keeping you alive.”)

“Begin preparations of tools,” the voice droned on and too late, Barry felt something snap into place around his wrist.

He jerked his head up just in time to watch his arms get cuffed above his head and felt something similar wrap around his ankles. “Wait—” he rasped, now in the throes of panic as he twisted and writhed as much as he could. “Wait, what are you gonna do? Tell me what you’re about to do!”

“Restraints in place. Begin test incision with number ten scalpel. Four inches long on upper arm. One quarter of an inch deep.”

The words washed over Barry before the pain hit him and he hissed through his teeth, wrenching his head toward his, now bleeding, arm. Recorder held a hand out and the scientsts stepped backwards as the wound began to sluggishly knit itself back together. “Please,” and his voice cracked out of desperation, which he hoped helped his case somehow, “I have-I have friends and—and a dad and he’s gonna be worried about me.”

One of the scientists, the guy closest to the one holding the scalpel, flinched the tiniest bit. “Sir—”

“Fascinating,” Recorder said, leaning over the cut they’d made. “You’re watching rapid cell regeneration in real time, folks. Second incision on bicep, number ten blade. Same dimensions.”

“Should we not wait for the first to heal?” the one Barry had his eyes on asked, stuttering only once in his quiet plea.

Recorder huffed. “Muzzle the subject. If you can’t handle what we’re doing, I suggest you leave.”

He didn’t leave. Someone grabbed Barry by the jaw and pressed something sharp over his lips, hard enough to bruise. He pulled his head to the side and shrieked from within his mouth. Strong, unyielding fingers gripped his face and forced it into position before squeezing until he was forced to open his jaw. Something cold and distinctly metallic slid in between his teeth and rested while the contraption locked behind his head. Barry’s head fell back against the table and he breathed hard through his nose, tugging uselessly at his arms again and ignoring the flare of pain.

The pain was sharp, searing right through flesh and muscle. Barry spasmed underneath the scalpel and tried not to make a sound, suddenly deeply mortified by his own fear. His fingers twitched uncontrollably.

“Again,” Recorder droned on and he nearly sobbed out loud at the searing through his other arm this time. He was very familiar with the scientific process. This would continue for hours and there would be multiple tests to compare findings. “Once more and then step back for observation.”

Barry flinched again as the blade sliced neatly through his flesh one final time before the presences around him simply dispersed, leaving him chained to the table and shivering violently. Slowly, he turned his head and tried to lock eyes with anyone and found no one cared enough to stare at his face. Everyone watched his arms, pointed out how much the bleeding had slowed. How fascinating he was.

He shut his eyes and breathed, long and low, fought to get a grip on himself before he did something pathetic, like cry. He would not cry.

“Time of first incision recorded at 13:42. Total clotting recorded at 13:43.”

And on it went.

Superman touched down in the Pentagon and began to walk through its winding halls and corridors with a mild smile and the kind of gait that assured others that he was meant to be there.

Clark Kent was very, very stressed.

He’d spent a solid five minutes serenely floating above the building, hidden behind enough cloud cover to remain anonymous, just listening to the various conversations flowing through the building while trying to catch a glimpse something, anything that would point him in the direction of Barry.

When he’d heard, “…subject is proving to be easier than expected to control. We’ve begun testing on its metabolism. The full report will be on your desk by the end of the week,” Clark zipped down as quickly as he could without appearing overeager. No one could know that whoever held Barry held all the cards. Superman had to remain fearless.

The voices coming from behind the door he located had gone quiet but they where unmistakably the same. Clark was struck by the willingness of the people who worked within the building, the fact that they simply stepped aside and were ready for him to continue his march through it. No one sounded an alarm or so much as twitched toward their weapons, for all the good that would do them.

Still, he couldn’t afford to show his confusion and knocked three times, loud enough to garner outside attention for a brief few seconds. The seconds lingered on his skin and his facial muscles twitched uncomfortably with the force he had to put behind the smile to keep it up but, to his utter relief, the door opened.

“Superman,” an older man greeted roughly. The military uniform and his general unimpressed look really sold Clark on the character. “What brings you here?”

He gestured for him to sit beside another man in a white coat. Scientists? Didn’t know they wore those coats outside of the lab but sure. He pretended to be unaware of the man’s increasingly rapid heartbeat and replastered his earnest/mildly threatening smile firmly onto his face. “I’m sure you already know,” he said amiably.

(“Why me?” he had asked Bruce, just before he set off.

Bruce shrugged half-heartedly which explained even less. “You’re the face of the team. All-American goodness. Why not you?”)

“I’d like to get the specifics, Superman,” military guy said.

Clark fought the urge to frown. Couldn’t keep calling him ‘military guy’ in his head. “Can I ask for a name?” he asked instead, tilting his head just enough.

“General Eiling,” he replied roughly, before pointing to the scientist. “This is Doctor Manfield. Head scientist of Project Hermes.”

That struck a chord. Something very deep in Clark’s heart began to ache at the thought of Barry stuck behind white walls, facing hospital beds and scalpels all alone. He swallowed the feeling as quickly as it appeared. “Hermes, huh? Would that have to do with the Flash?”

Eiling snorted, slumping into his chair behind the desk and leaning forward to place his chin atop his intertwined fingers. “If you are here for Barry Allen, then you’ll find there is very little you can do.”

“And why,” Clark said, still smiling, “is that?”

“Because,” and here, the general rummaged through his desk drawer before pulling out a slip of paper and sliding it toward Clark, face up, “MisterAllen signed an agreement to come with us quietly. He is officially property of the United States of America and will remain at Project Hermes until further notice.”

A lump grew in Clark’s throat as he studied the form, the signature scrawled in Barry’s own hand. He cleared his throat to rid himself of it. “And if the Justice League were to step in?” he asked quietly.

Eiling leaned back. He looked smug and Clark felt an uncharacteristically hot bolt of rage rip through him. “I imagine if the Justice League were to step in, they’d find that the UN would not approve of them meddling in government affairs. Especially when our papers are so orderly.”

Clark grasped for something to say, something to do to save Barry but the signature screamed back at him and he had to choke back all of his words and nod. “Thank you, General.”

“Is that all?”

Against his best wishes, his gaze snagged on the form Barry had signed. The smile finally slipped away and was replaced with something a little more real. “No. I’d like one more thing.”

Which was how Clark found himself flying laps around the country to rid himself of any following eyes and excess energy before he went back to the manor for his report with a copy of the form held tightly in one fist.

When he landed, almost barrelling through the door but stopping just short for Alfred’s sake, he found himself face to face with four faces pinched in worry. Wordlessly, he smacked the form down on the table. “Barry signed this,” he started, slightly breathlessly. “He’s property of the US government and they’re running this thing—Project Hermes—run by this scientist, Doctor Manfield. They said if we tried to take action as the Justice League, the UN will be notified and…” He trailed off. The consequences, while not clear, would be dire in any universe.

Diana pressed her lips together tightly. “Do you believe there is any way we would be able to move around this restriction?”

“No,” Bruce murmured. “If they’ve got Barry, they’re gonna be pretty protective of him.” He turned to Victor. “What about Project—”

“Already ahead of you,” the kid replied, pulling up a holograph from his palm. “It’s new but plans have been in the works since Barry’s first few days as a hero. I’ve got a base of operations and—yup, here’s footage of Barry from the one camera connected to the internet.”

They crowded around and peered into footage so grainy and awful that they could barely make out facial expressions on it. But that was unmistakably Barry and Eiling, opposing each other on a long table. They watched a conversation but without a good look at their faces, it was impossible to tell what the tone was. “Is there any audio?”

“None,” Victor whispered back.

There was the sliding over of the paper and Barry’s back hunching over as he signed his life away and Clark wished he’d been there to grab him by the shoulders and shake him gently. Why would you do that? he wanted to scream.

“Anything else on it?” Bruce sounded faint.

Victor was silent for a few more moments. “From what I can tell, they’re getting equipment and facilities from the government but the whole thing’s privately funded.”

“Who?” Arthur hissed. “What kind of sick bastard—”

“It’s an encrypted database,” Victor said flatly. “And they’ve been using fake names everywhere else.”

“So what?” Clark asked. “We’re stuck? We know where he is but we can’t make a move without getting everyone to come for us.”

“I will not sit on my hands,” Diana said, somewhat indignant. “We have to get Barry back. We have no idea what they’re doing to him in there.”

“I basically don’t exist to the government,” Arthur muttered darkly. “And Victor’s legally dead. If you want someone to take the fall then we’ll go.”

Before Clark could open his mouth to argue, Bruce stepped in, quiet and calm and surprisingly collected. “No one needs to attack,” he said and there was a glint in his eye that felt familiar. Clark relaxed the tiniest bit at the sight of it.

He decided to bite. “What do you mean?”

Bruce’s stare was downright unsettling in its calculation. “Because we didn’t need Superman at all.”

Okay. Ow. Wounded, Clark recoiled slightly, muscles tensed and ready for confrontation. “I tried, Bruce, I swear, but he—”

“No! No, you’re not understanding me. We don’t need Superman because we have someone better.” And Bruce threw something at Clark which he caught before he could even register it. Unfurling his hands, he found that he was holding his own glasses.

“Did you just throw my glasses—”

“We have Clark Kent,” Bruce continued loudly. “And Wonder Woman and Batman can’t do the same things Diana Prince and Bruce Wayne can do, right?”

Diana crossed her arms. “What can Bruce Wayne do that Batman can’t, exactly? What is your plan?”

Bruce’s grin could only be described as ‘shit-eating’. “I’m gonna buy Barry back and I need your help to do it.”

Chapter Text

Barry was almost convinced he’d died when he jerked back awake to a world of agony.

When he shifted, he felt bone fragments grind against each other in a way that set his teeth on edge. Blood dripped from his teeth and ran in clear rivulets down his chin and neck and he pretended not to care for how sticky it was, the thick taste of iron in his mouth.

Barry wasn’t built for many things. He was never meant to have a gentle life or a family or friends. He’d fought tooth and nail for the things he already had but this? This was entirely too much.

“Subject is conscious. Begin x-ray on right leg over break site.”

He let out a choking, burbling sound as they moved his leg, brisk and efficient enough to make the chafing of bone against bone less agonizing by the second but his resolve was weakening and his limbs trembling fiercely. The shock of the mallet had made him reflexively jerk up hard enough to catch someone’s elbow in his mouth. They’d slammed him back onto the table and he’d blacked out and come back and it still wasn’t over.

“Oblique, slightly displaced tibia.”

Recorder mulled this over. “Splint and then wait. Move onto left humerus.”

A burst of pain Barry could barely keep up with and hands moving around his leg, securing it tightly to a wooden rod while everyone drifted to his left side, closer to his face.

He screwed his eyes shut. “I can-I can just tell you how quick-quickly I heal,” he stammered. Unconsciously, his arms tensed in their restraints and someone grabbed his hand to massage it back to being lax. He wanted to cry. “Please just—you don’t have to do this. I can just tell you, I can just—”

The rest of his plea was drowned out by a scream, his own scream, and the white-hot crack that reverberated throughout his body. Someone had set his arm on fire, he was almost completely sure of it and if he pried his eyes open and took a breath, he’d see smoke and smell burning meat.

Someone was rubbing their knuckles into his chest, pressing deep into his sternum and urging him to breathe and hysterically, he wondered how awful it would be if Barry just gave up, just died on the table. He wondered how badly it would skew their results.

But he gasped and coughed and every breath sounded more like a sob but he was breathing and alive against the odds, even if he felt more like a corpse than before he walked in. His fingers trembled as they x-rayed and set the bone.

There was something like pity in their eyes. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and stared directly up into the lights, refusing to acknowledge his burning eyes. “It’ll take a couple of hours,” he rasped, despite himself. “If I’ve eaten. If I don’t, it’s at least a few days.” Silence met his words. The ceiling grew blurry. “I’ve gotten every injury I could possibly get multiple times. I know how long they take to heal each and I’ll tell you everything, I swear, just—” Barry choked himself off. Just stop hurting me, just let me go home, just let me see my friends again.

“Would you say the meals we’ve been providing you have been adequately nourishing your body?”

Barry’s head snapped to the side. The first time Recorder has ever even acknowledged him and he’s already looking as if he’s regretted it. He almost stumbled over his words to reply. “Yes,” he said quickly, and it wasn’t even a lie because the lack of anything has left him unequivocally bored and with nothing to do, there was no reason to burn calories. Especially if all he ever did was sit on that mattress and heal.

Granted, the calories he received weren’t particularly delicious but they were much needed and very appreciated. “Good. As for your suggestion,” and Recorder looked as if he was eating a particularly sour lemon here, “I do hope, MisterAllen, you can understand why we cannot just take your word for it. Science is not as wishy-washy as you might believe, given your lack of background—”

“I got my powers in a lab,” he blurted out. “I know about the-the scientific method and everything but this is—”

“Then you should understand why we do this.” Recorder leaned down so they were almost nose to nose. “Multiple tests, multiple variables, it’s all part of the process.”

His voice cracked down the middle when he next spoke. “It’s unethical.”

“You signed the form, Allen. You knew what you were getting into—”

“I didn’t because no one bothered to explain anything—”

“—and you need to understand that all of us have a role to play.” His eyes crinkled and deepened the crow’s feet around them. From here, Barry could see him with children, laughing and playing. From here, Barry could feel comforted. “And yours is the most important.”

“It hurts,” he whispered and found he could not feel embarrassed for sounding like a child as he spoke. “Please, there has to be something you can give me. I need-I can’t—it hurts.”

Recorder drew back sharply enough to make him flinch. “Your metabolism burns through medication too quickly. It would be a waste.”

Barry lost the battle. His tears spilled over and he did his best to tuck his face into his shoulder as he cried, not daring to move or speak or try to plead again and shuddered around a sob when the voices rose above the crescendo of his blood rushing through his ears.

“…are we testing for tomorrow?”

“Burns. First through to fourth degree. Prepare necessary contingencies.”

He held his breath, counted to three and opened his eyes. Found his limbs still ached something fierce and tried not to cry too loud.

“This is weird. We’re heroes, not spies,” Arthur grumbled into the comms, not really sounding like he believed himself.

Clark winced, eyes drifting toward Bruce whose lips thinned. “Keep it down,” he growled. “And smile more, people are looking at you.” Then, he readjusted his mask, embellished black and gold, before greeting an older woman with a dazzling grin.

This was his scene, Clark supposed, staying near his post which happened to be near one of many refreshments’ tables scattered strategically across the ballroom. He’d been rotating randomly, flitting from one to another in an effort not to appear out of place, though they’d done their absolute best in making Clark appear to blend in, with a relatively simple suit and dark blue mask.

No, Diana and Bruce would be doing all the dazzling for this evening. Clark and Arthur were there for recon.

He caught Arthur’s eye from across the ballroom and smiled slightly, shaking his head at the question in his eyes. Nothing yet but the evening had only started and there was still time.

(“There are twenty-six names on the encrypted files,” Victor explained. “All of them are referred to by pseudonyms throughout the official documents; we have Mx A through to Mx Z. I can get into their individual files to check out what they each do as well as get an identity off of them but the security is tight. I won’t be able to get through all of the profiles without setting some alarm off.”

Bruce’s lips tightened as he frowned, forehead creased deeply in thought. “How many attempts before they lock you out?”

Victor shrugged. “Three? Maybe five if I’m quick.”

“We can’t leave this up to chance,” Diana mused. “But how will we know who to single out? And how can we match strangers up to anonymous names in encrypted files.”

The five of them fell into silence. Bruce spoke up slowly. “Can I ask you to handle the identification part, Vic?”

“Sure. You got an idea?”

Bruce hummed, lifted a shoulder and grimaced. “What’s the best way to get a bunch of rich people together in a big room without seeming suspicious?” Silence. He continued quickly. “We’re gonna throw a charity gala.”)

Bruce had outdone himself, truly. The decorations, the food, the hall itself was exquisitely handled and everything balanced itself out. Airy enough to not seem stuffy but with a cosiness to ward off the draught of a Gotham fall. He tried not to appear too nervous and tuned back into the chatter on the comms for a moment to gain his bearings.

“…sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry…”

“Mrs Wintershell! Is that dress new? It suits you beautifully. Oh please, let me get you something to drink.”

“…offering but I don’t da—”

“Actually, Diana can you dance with him? Just try to get him talking about Barry.”

“—actually, on second thoughts, I would love to.”

“Anything, Clark?”

He jolted slightly at the sound of his name and readjusted his glasses to squint at passing couples, tuning back into the hubbub and organized chaos of a gala. “Nothing. You sure these glasses work?” he mumbled underneath his breath.

Victor huffed and the sound crackled through the comms. “They better. Try moving to the balcony area. I see a bunch of old guys there. Might be of interest.”

Obediently, he moved on autopilot while the rest of his brain preoccupied itself with filtering through their many conversations. “On it.”

The men were huddled so tightly that Clark’s presence leaning against a pillar and candidly checking his phone was not a hinderance or seen as strange at all. He listened diligently, occasionally looked up to hopefully pick something up with the lenses of these glasses.

(When Victor gave Clark his glasses back, he knew immediately that something had changed with them. “What did you do?”  he asked, heart sinking slightly at the smug little smirk on Victor’s face.

“Few adjustments. Listen, I can’t actively snoop around in those files without triggering all kinds of alarms but I downloaded a little software with facial recognition on it. I looked into it and all of the files have JPEG images of each donor. If you can get a clear look at people while you’re in the gala, the software’ll run and match up faces and hopefully, we’ll get a lead.”

His lip twitched. It was good. It was really good and Clark couldn’t be mad at him for helping because this was going to do wonders for their little mission but his glasses—

“Get me a new pair after this,” is all he grumbled.

Victor’s answering smile made up for it all.)

“My wife’s been nagging to go to the house in Santa Fe,” one of the men said, a lilt in his voice that suggested disgust or, perhaps, disdain. “Says she misses the sun.”

“Tom you bastard, don’t you keep the mistress there?”

“Don’t say a word! Sarah’s around here somewhere and if she finds out…”

“This is why I didn’t sign a prenup.” There was a round of guffaws, the clinking of glasses and quiet after that. Then, “First time Wayne’s hosted one of these things in a while, huh?”

Clark straightened slightly and took a tiny sip of his drink. “Didn’t he used to have a kid or something? What happened to him?”

“A kid?”

“Little guy, black hair, blue eyes. Probably went off and did his own thing. I wouldn’t be surprised. I mean, Brucie Wayne as your father?” Some scattered chuckles.

“I mean, how many of us hear back from our children these days?” The men murmured in agreement, sporting smiles that looked almost pained and Clark bit back a smile at their discomfort. “But anyway, what’s this one for?”

“Some kind of fundraiser for the Justice League.” A snort from someone and Clark found himself repositioning to scan their faces, multiple at a time. One man lit up, his face encircled in blue behind Clark’s modified glasses with the letters ‘Mx N’ neatly underneath.

“Do you see that, Victor?” he breathed, slinking back into the shadows to listen.

“What are they talking about?”

“…know that the Justice League were taking donations.”

“Don’t rag on them too much,” MisterN murmured. “They did save the world.”

“Wouldn’t anyone in their place?”

“You definitely wouldn’t, Johny!”

(“The money isn’t actually going to us,” Bruce grumbled. “I’ve got enough to fund us completely. But we’re pretending it is so we can lure our guy in. If I’m right about him and he is obsessed with us, he’ll want to go to any event concerning us.”

“Okay but it’s still weird,” Victor muttered.)

“Talking about us,” Clark muttered, stalking away, “but no mention of Barry. Try it?”

A moment of silence. Victor exhaled softly. “Wrong guy. It’s fine. We have two more shots before I get locked out.”

“Any suggestions?”

“There’s a guy eyeing Bruce,” Arthur said quietly. “Blue lapel, old. He’s near the south side.”

“Mark Autumn,” Bruce replied immediately, his voice strangely jovial. “Never liked me. He used to work at WE before I fired him for sexual misconduct with a younger employee and he started his own company to try and compete. Never got too far. I don’t think it’s him.”

Clark glanced at him surreptitiously and shook his head the barest amount. “Nothing’s showing up.”

Victor hummed. “His record’s definitely not clean but he’s bribed every prosecutor and judge willing to take on the case. Want me to…”

“Do your worst.” Bruce smirked at Clark from across the ballroom and he smiled back fondly. “Clark, six o’clock, Dior shoes.”

“Bruce, I don’t—”

“They’re brown leather, slight heel. Don’t be suspicious. Yes, yeah, that guy. He’s always struck me as kinda odd.”

Clark scanned him, snagged his face and a pseudonym; Mx C. “Who is he?”

“Adam Barton. I’ve had a feeling about him for a while. Oh! Mrs Smith, I didn’t see you there. And is this Henry? Look at you now! You’ve become your father’s son, eh?”

“Unfortunately,” Victor said, “not our guy. He’s backing some weird shit but it’s not us. One last try.”

Clark hunkered down and accepted an hors d’oeuvre, shoving it into his mouth the moment the server’s back was turned. There were too many faces to scan, too many failed attempts to risk before they could land on the right guy.

Okay. Take a breath. Barry was God knows where and he needed them to pull through.

He shut his eyes, hid behind a pillar and focused.

“—son’s going into finance just like his father! He—”

“…wish Bruce hosted these more often. Good excuse to catch up—”

“I would let Wonder Woman crush—”

“…though personally, I’ve always loved the Flash.” Clark’s eyes snapped open. “He’s got integrity, you know? New hero and whatnot with him making his debut with all of these big, tough guys. I mean, the Flash and Batman are about as opposite as they go but they’re working on the same damn team here. You’ve gotta be curious as to how that happened.”

“It’s definitely…interesting?” a second, younger voice said haltingly.

Clark peered out and squinted at the pair. A young man, barely an adult who looked viscerally uncomfortable as he was spoken to by someone bigger who, very enthusiastically, was raving on about the Justice League, about Barry.

So he migrated around them, carefully keeping the older man in sight. “Bruce,” he started quietly, “to your left, there’s a kid in all black—”

“Timothy Drake?” Bruce hissed. “He’s too young, Clark, I know his parents and—”

“The man he’s talking to! Who’s he?”

A beat of silence. “William Heath. Are you sure, Clark?”

He said nothing, and allowed his glasses to scan. They came up with a Mx J. “Run it,” he muttered, meeting Diana’s gaze through her red mask with a nod.

She was halfway there before Victor huffed a laugh that sounded like victory, like relief. “Project Hermes. It’s him. He’s got Barry. I’m looking through the—oh fuck, there are videos.”

Something unpleasant churned in Clark’s gut. “Victor,” Bruce growled.

“I’m saving whatever I can. Go talk to him, someone.”

Diana was already there, smiling as she slid between the kid and Heath and offered her arm. “I’m afraid I can’t find a dancing partner in this room of couples,” she said gently. “Would you care for waltz or am I interrupting?”

The Drake kid was already gone and Heath looked like he’d just won the jackpot as he took Diana’s proffered hand, beginning to lead her through the dance somewhat clumsily. “Usually, it’s the men that offer,” he said, almost chiding her. “What made you come to me?”

“You…struck my eye. I found you and could not look away.”

“I don’t have that effect on most people.”

“Well I am not most people,” she said warmly. Privately, Clark thought she was killing this. The comms remained silent, save for her voice. Even Bruce had disappeared from the social scene, probably to scheme some more. “What do you think of the party so far?”

“Beautiful. I think it’s supporting a noble cause.”

She laughed. “Oh well, I don’t mean to brag but I helped Bruce organize it.” Her teeth flashed. Clark thought briefly of a shark.

Heath grinned bright. “Well thank you, then, Miss…?”

“Prince. Diana Prince. And you?”

“William Heath.”

“I’m flattered you are enjoying the gala, MisterHeath. Even more so that you agree to the cause.”

“I think we should be paying more attention to our heroes, quite frankly,” he said in a near whisper. “I mean, my respect for them is truly off the charts. They saved the world and wanted no thanks for it either.”

“It is certainly admirable,” Diana agreed pleasantly. “I find them wonderfully honourable and exquisitely mysterious. I was the one who suggested to Bruce we do something to honour them.”

“You were right to, my dear. Very right. Does Mister Wayne harbour a fascination with them as well?”

“Oh yes.” With a twinkle in her eye, she glanced at Clark before turning Heath around lightning quick. “He has a direct line to Superman,” she breathed. “I didn’t believe it either but he showed me personally. I’m sure he would not mind showing someone such as yourself.”

The look on Heath’s face was positively hungry. “So you say. And you’re sure it was Superman and not some lookalike?”

“Positive. He flew me around to prove a point. I believe it.”

“And what about the Batman? Aquaman?” (Arthur growled here.) “Or the Flash?”

“What about them?” Diana’s smile did not slip but it was starting to simmer around the edges. “All mighty in their own right, I believe.”

“Do you think Wayne could get me an audience with them?”

Clark held his breath. “Well,” Diana said slowly, “I am not sure about Batman and Aquaman but the Flash…it’s difficult. And no one has seen him in several days now so we believe he is laying low.”

“Shame,” Heath said absently. “He’s my favourite.”

“I’m partial to Cyborg,” Diana said dryly. “But, from what I’ve heard from Superman, Flash is good. He has a kind heart which, from what I’ve heard, is crucial to being a hero.”

Victor spoke up, the first words since the exchange had begun. Something about the cadence of his voice was different. Flat, unenthused, dead almost. “Someone get him to Bruce. We need to build a rapport.”

“On it,” Clark said as the music began to die down. He moved quickly and in a few strides, had reached Diana, offering his arm. “So sorry but could I steal Miss Prince from you?”

Heath’s expression soured. Clark only continued to smile blindingly as Diana accepted with a soft smile. “Of course,” Heath said, as jovial as he could. “William Heath.” He stuck out a hand to shake.

Clark took it and tried not to break his fingers. “Clark Kent.”

“Mister Heath,” Diana chimed in, “if you would truly like an opportunity with what we just discussed, I recommend going to talk to Bruce personally. He would be overjoyed to find another enthusiast like yourself.”

“Of course Miss Prince. Will I see you again?”

“Soon, I hope.” She held out a hand, allowed him to kiss her ruby gloves and let Clark whisk her away while keeping a sharp eye on him. Sure enough Heath made his way to Bruce himself. “We did what we could, Kal.” Diana sounded exhausted all of a sudden.

He swallowed and nodded tightly. “Do you think I’ll need the other guy today?”

“Not today,” Victor said. “Today, we have some footage to go over. Tomorrow, maybe. But phase 1 is over. Good job, guys.”

It didn’t feel as victorious as it should have.

Barry needed—

Barry needed to get up. Get his head off the mattress and sit up properly to take stock of his body. He needed to reach his arms forward just enough to snag the sandwich they’d left for him, needed to fill a glass with water from the metal pitcher they gave him and drink it.

He needed to do those things in that order.

Barry couldn’t move.

The burns were worst. Blowtorches sucked and he hadn’t anything funny or interesting to say while it happened. He couldn’t even beg because he’d spent his time screaming himself hoarse. And now, he was in purgatory, a dull throbbing ache permeating his body with no painkillers to take the ache away.

Worst of all, he was alone. No guard or scientists or people who remotely cared about him to keep him company. Just him, alone in a room convincing himself to eat.

Briefly, he wondered what would happen if he refused eat ever again. It was childish and stupid and it hurt his stomach even thinking about it but it was somewhat of a solution.

But these people burned him, cut him, broke his bones. There was nothing to say they wouldn’t simply shove a feeding tube down his throat and watch him choke as well. He blinked back tears and found himself surprised that he still had tears left to cry after all of that.

“Get up, Barry,” he whispered and shoved his trembling arms beneath his body to winch his way up. He swayed slightly as he reached for the food and, robotically, shoved it in his mouth one tasteless bite at a time. His hands shook too much to pour water from the pitcher so he settled for drinking out of it instead, forgoing the plastic cups.

Already, he felt better even with his bandaged and healing wounds. Even with the way his limbs still shook helplessly, waiting for pain that felt inevitable at this point.

But Barry was nothing if not resilient. And the Justice League was full of stubborn people with wild, spectacular powers he could hardly fathm at times. So surely, surely, one of them was out looking for him. Surely, one of them cared.

It was a nice enough thought to help him drift back off into a deep slumber once more, fingers twitching as they awaited whatever else was on the other side of sleep.

Chapter Text

Clark felt a little stupid in his costume.

Maybe he should call it uniform. The blue, the red and the yellow were a little bright but Barry walked into battle wearing bright red all the time and Arthur’s armour was embossed gold. He had the same colour scheme as Diana which felt cool but she wore hers as a suit of armour too and he couldn’t help but compare it to his weird onesie. Even Bruce had Kevlar.

It wasn’t often that Clark started thinking of things like this. That he started doubting himself and his abilities but he was here on assignment. Here with a purpose. And that purpose was not to go around and punch things into oblivion as he so desperately wanted it to be, but rather it was a delicate operation where he would have to talk to the guy who owned their friend and pretend he wasn’t silently losing his mind the entire time.

No one had let him watch the footage Victor had recovered. Not yet. He figured he would strong arm it out of Bruce later on but something in his stomach felt queasy at the thought of unearthing that particular can of worms.

All he knew was that Arthur had to take a break. And, with his hearing, he’d gotten mostly pleading. Screaming and pleading and crying and the crunch of bone, the roar of a goddamn blowtorch and felt sick.

They were torturing him. That was it, plain and simple. They were torturing Barry who couldn’t have done anything to remotely deserve this, not that anyone deserved it in the first place. No, Barry’s only crime was wanting to help with the abilities he’d been gifted with. And he, Clark—Superman—was now tasked with looking the man who authorized this in the eye and smiling at him.

He wiped his palms against the throw in the room Bruce had him wait in, impatiently pacing the length of it up and down, restless in every movement. He could hear his remaining teammates within the Manor and tried to take comfort in it. Bruce offered them all rooms while they worked this case and Clark was all too happy to take one, even offering to move Lois in while they worked.

She remained at the farm. Safer, probably. He certainly didn’t want her in the same building as William Heath when he arrived.

Clark could hear Diana, Arthur and Victor, all in Diana’s room and talking in hushed voices while huddled around the comm set that Clark was privy to, even if he didn’t need it. He could hear Alfred and Bruce making last minute preparations for the visit, ensuring the bugs in each room were properly concealed and working and he tried to quell his rising anxiety as well as the want—the need to fly a couple of laps.

The doorbell rang. All movement in the house ceased and Clark clocked it as the exact time Bruce’s heartbeat increased just the tiniest bit. Enough to be noticeable to him at least. 

He headed for the window and clambered out, drifting idly by the side of the house while he waited for his cue. The two men spoke and he tracked their movement through the house, his eyes burning as he did.

“Thank you for having me, Bruce,” Heath said warmly, clapping Bruce on the back as he walked. Alfred took his jacket without a word and Clark winced on his behalf. “Really, I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.”

“Well, really, I was just excited to find someone else as interested as I am.”

“How did you get Superman as one of your contacts, Bruce, I really need to know.”

Bruce’s words were wry when he next spoke. “He owed me a favour. It’s a complicated story, remind me to tell you next time. Just up here.”

They made away from the room Diana and the others were closeted in and Clark slid to the agreed upon meeting spot, hovering just outside the window. “And you’re certain Superman wouldn’t mind.”

The door opened, the two men walked in and Clark sucked in a deep, silent breath before loosing it. “I’m sure Superman would be delighted to meet a fan,” Bruce said warmly. Clark popped his head through the window and earned a startle from Heath who jumped back, hand over his racing heart. He grinned and tried not to show his malice.

“Not so much delighted as I am ecstatic.” Sliding through the window and landing on his two feet, he stuck a hand out and prayed his voice and appearance differed to that of Clark Kent, the guy who’d stolen Diana from him a few days before. “It’s wonderful to meet you Mr…?”

“Heath,” he breathed, and shook Clark’s hand. He made a conscious effort not to crush it entirely. The crumble of Barry’s breaking bones, his residual screams still echoed loudly in his mind and he plastered his smile on thickly in the hope it didn’t slip and reveal him. “It’s an honour to meet you, really it is. Bruce has told me so much about your character and, I have to say, thank you for the work you do.”

“Of course, sir,” he said mildly. “It’s just part of the job.” He gestured to sit and perched on the couch opposite, refusing to look at Bruce too often. “Are there any questions you wanted to ask.”

Heath lit up and, with all the shyness expected of a teenager asking out a crush, he uttered, “Your identities—”

“Sorry,” Clark cut in, firm, “but that’s the one question I can’t answer for the safety of myself and my teammates. We have lives and families we want to protect.”

Heath only slumped. “I assumed Bruce—”

“Mister Wayne doesn’t know anything about us either. He and I are only associates due to circumstance, sir. Is there anything else?”

Bruce was giving him a warning look over Heath’s head. Clark only smiled again and Heath didn’t seem to notice the silent conversation the two were having over his head. “I really am fascinated by your team dynamic. How would you describe it.”

Right. What was the cover story? “I mostly lead the team. We put it to a vote and everyone decided on me. Batman helps out with planning strategy and the others help to chip in wherever their powers might be useful.”

A total lie, obviously, because this man had no right knowing their team dynamic in any universe. “Fascinating,” Heath murmured. “So you consider yourself the head of the Justice League?”

(“We need him to think you’re the highest authority there is on the League, Clark,” Bruce explained. The lines around his eyes, on his forehead, only deepened with the added stress of Barry’s disappearance. “There can’t be any debate. If we leave any room, he’d want to meet the others and that’s just too messy.”

“Got it. I’m the leader. So what, you guys just chip in?” he had asked uncertainly.

“Exactly. You’re the leader. Not Batman, not Wonder Woman. You are the highest authority. The face of the damn League.”)

He forced out a laugh that he hoped sounded more embarrassed than utterly manic. “I mean, that’s what everyone tells me. It’s a little strange still, working as a team but it’s a welcome change. I have people watching my back now.”

“Would you go back to being solo? Knowing what you know now?”

Clark looked this man in the eye. Searched for any sign of remorse over the fact that he had Barry, had him in his fucking grip and knew full well that Clark wouldn’t have been able to do anything even if he had known. To his horror, he found nothing but curiosity. “No,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t go back. My team are important to me and I care about each of them very deeply.” Bruce was burning holes into his skull with his glare and Clark found he couldn’t care less in the hope that this worked.

But Heath said nothing about it. The corner of his lip twitched upwards and he opened his mouth for another question Clark cut off by standing up abruptly. “Superman?” Heath called, rising to his feet.

“Sorry,” he said in his best approximate of an actual apologetic tone. He even smiled sheepishly. “Duty calls. I hear someone stuck underneath some rubble.” Which wasn’t technically a lie because there had been an earthquake in Tokyo but the stuck person was already being lifted out and to help. “It was nice to meet you Mister Heath, but I should go.”

“Of course,” Heath blustered. “Of course. Feel free to come by any time! I’m sure Mister Wayne wouldn’t mind passing on my address to you!”

“Right.” Clark gave a two fingered salute and stepped through the window, ripping through the air as fast as he could relieve himself of the itch that had settled underneath his skin. From afar, still high on jittery nerves and the awful nausea that came with the conversation, he listened in.

“…nice guy, he’s just busy I guess. Don’t worry about it too much. Do you want a drink?” Bruce offered.

“Please. And how’d you get this favour from him?”

“Oh well—” the splash of liquid in a glass, “I got the League out of some legal trouble a couple of weeks ago. Signed an NDA so I can’t talk much. Governmental issues.”

“You’re involved in that?”

“Oh yeah. Whole League’s kinda indebted to me.” Clark could practically see the smirk on his face. “I actually helped fund them back in the early days.”

“Never seen this side of you before, Wayne. Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

“It’s nice, having some heroes under your belt.”

A pause. “You know,” and here, Clark held his breath and floated up to rest above the clouds, his back to the earth as he stared up into the expanse of the sky, “I’m working with the government on a project related to the League as well.” Hermes. Barry.

“Really? You sure you’re allowed to tell me.”

A snort. “I’m funding the damn thing. I can tell whoever I want. Anyway, we call it Project Hermes. I thought…well I’m not sure what I thought but you kinda have Superman in your pocket. So I thought that maybe you’re interested in the research.”

In his mind’s eye, Clark envisioned Bruce leaning forward, clasping his fingers together and resting his chin on them as he feigned interest. “What’s the research?”

“We caught the Flash.” The unfiltered delight in Heath’s tone sent a bolt of rage straight through Clark’s spine. “We’re holding him securely and we’re testing the limits of his powers. Trying to see if they have any military benefits. I basically founded the project myself.”

Bruce whistled lowly. “You caught the Flash?”

“It was easy once we figured out his identity. Bartholomew Henry Allen from Central. It was only a matter of time after that. We’re hoping to get the other identities of the League from him so we can expand the operation.”

And now, there was true silence on every end of the comm as each person took in that information and digested it. Bruce huffed. “You’ve always been a crazy bastard.”

“Hey, don’t knock it yet. You in?”

“Of course I’m in. Do I need to sign anything?”

“Give me a few days and I’ll sort it out. You and I can be co-funders of Hermes, eh?”

“You sure you’re up to working with me?”

“Oh Bruce. It’ll be a blast.”

Barry knew something was horribly wrong the moment they shoved him through a different corridor than usual. Peeling right instead of left, they arrived in front of a single door that led into a dark room with only a few pieces of furniture, namely two chairs and a table with chains and manacles bolted into it.

He didn’t need to be prompted to sit down in the chair and almost buzzed at the change of scenery, the prospect of not being horribly tortured for once. They were running out of tests to run and it only terrified him for what was to come. The guards, impassive as ever, only clicked his hands into the chains and stepped back. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not be rude. We have the controls to your collar and we’ll be watching the exchange.” A modulator or something of the sort distorted his voice to the point of comedy.

Questions burned on his tongue but fizzled out with nowhere to go. After all, who in this place bothered to tell him anything? So he nodded and sat, fidgeting with the metal around his wrists until the guards left and the door swung open once more.

A man stood there in business casual with a shirt that probably cost more than all of Barry’s belongings combined. He tried not to quail under the gaze as hungry as it was and sat straight, stared at him steadily and waited. “Barry Allen?” the man asked. He didn’t wait for the response Barry didn’t feel like giving and only plowed on. “William Heath. I’m responsible for all of…well, this,” he said with vague wave.

Barry clenched his jaw and nodded again, keeping his eyes on a mole on Heath’s cheek, never dipping, never wavering. “Nice to meet you,” he said softly. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how he got out.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard promising things from the researchers about you.” Heath leaned forward and Barry was suddenly extremely aware that, with the way his hands were chained, he could not jerk away. “I have to say, I didn’t think catching the Flash would have been this easy. If I had, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

“Okay,” he said numbly, mind going too fast for his mouth to catch up, “but not before Steppenwolf, right? Because that would’ve been monumentally stupid. I helped save the world you know.”

“I know this and I’m grateful. But as far as I can tell, there are no world-ending cataclysms coming our way so for now, your position here is secure.” He smiled, a mockery of human emotion. Barry felt small in its presence. “You’re doing a lot of good here.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he said wearily. “Feels like I’m being tortured. I can promise you my team won’t like that.”

“Mhm. And that brings me to my other point of conversation. Your team.”

Barry sat up straight. “What about my team?”

Waving a hand, Heath gave him a faint smile. “Your team and their position here with us. I know from your position that it all seems a little barbaric but the discoveries being made about your body are already making headway in scientific news. So if you could divulge some information on your team, we could begin the process of further exploration.”

Barry’s heart sank to his stomach as he froze underneath a cool glare, mouth dry with fear. “You want me to-you want me to rat out my team,” he said quietly. “So you can do the same things to them.”

It wasn’t a question. Heath looked on impassively. “The way you word it is so crass.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Give me your answer boy.”

“No!”

Immediately, Barry’s head slammed down onto the table involuntarily as spasms shot from his neck through the rest of his body. He gasped as the pain receded, forehead pressed against the table while he tried to catch his breath. The collar.

“Allen?”

“Present,” he rasped, lifting his head weakly. “Are you just gonna-gonna torture me until I te-ell you?”

“Torture is an ugly word.”

“Your face is ug—” This time, his forehead struck his arm as it jerked with the rest of his body. It was agony, white hot and burning deep into the skin of his neck but it was short and when it was over, he found he could breathe again. He’d been electrocuted before. He could survive this.

Coughing weakly, Barry didn’t bother pulling his head up this time. “Barry,” Heath said, his voice right beside his ear this time, “I just want to help. Tell me what I want to know.”

“What-what do you wan-na know?”

“Starting off simple. Superman. I met him recently and he seemed nice. What’s his name, son?”

“Name’s Superman,” he mumbled into the table. He cried out, choked, when another jolt shuddered through his limbs. Tears pressed at his eyelids which he kept stubbornly closed, though they fell when a hand fisted in his hair and dragged him up into the air so he was face to face with his assaulter. “I’m not lying,” he managed to spit.

“I know you’re not.” He pulled his hair taut and Barry grunted quietly, blearily gazing at him through watery eyes. “But his real name. I need to know what his real name is.”

His throat stuck when he spoke. “Harry,” he mumbled, mouth twitching as Heath leaned in closer. “Harry Potter.”

Bang!

Barry yelped and groaned as Heath slammed his head down into the metal table hard, causing stars to pop in and out of existence in his vision. He moaned softly, tongue probing the part of his cheek he’d bitten down and drawn blood from. It pooled in his mouth, warm and coppery, dribbling out from between his teeth. Barry felt as broken as he probably looked but at least Clark was safe for it.

But the hand left his hair and he dared peer up from behind his arms. “You—are you do-done?”

A bolt through his neck had him arching his back to get free, fingers clenched in a fist so tight it drew blood from where his nails pricked his skin. Barry panted and every breath rasped deep in his throat, scraping against his windpipe so roughly he was afraid he’d devolve into a coughing fit that just wouldn’t stop.

Heath was standing, pacing, face terse. When they met gazes, Barry found only icy wrath in those pale eyes. “I want you to move into the second phase of experiments with Mister Allen. I’m sure he’d be more willing to talk afterwards.”

Well that wasn’t ominous at all.

Clark smelt the coffee before he saw Bruce and sighed as he walked into the kitchen, loud enough to voice his displeasure at him drinking a caffeinated beverage this late at night.

“Can you keep your disappointment down? I’m trying to read,” Bruce shot back gruffly, squinting at small pile of documents with reading glasses perched on his nose. Every word only made his face scrunch up further into a dark disapproval and Clark could only really imagine what he was seeing that was making him so upset. “I have to get these signed by the morning.”

“You had to leave it to the last minute?”

“He had to give these to me at the last minute. Wanted to call my bluff or something. Guess he didn’t realise how serious I am about funding…this,” he muttered, gesturing at the paper with a look of disgust.

Clark sat next to him and pulled the half-full mug away as he twisted his head to read the words. They spilled over him, ‘jurisdiction’ and ‘intellectual property’ and, worst of all, ‘property of the United States government’ underneath a picture of Barry’s face. How Bruce stood any of it for this long was beyond him but he was grateful, selfishly enough, that it was him and not Clark having to do this. Sometimes, he felt too similar to a loose cannon, a powder keg about to blow when it came to something like this.

“Looks heavy,” is all he offered. “I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Bruce looked up sharply. “Clark,” he said slowly, “it’s okay, really—”

“Let me help. Please.”

He knew he’d won that battle when Bruce’s shoulders slumped so he went and pulled out a pot and some milk before digging around for chocolate. The moment the bag crinkled open, a dark-haired head peeked into the kitchen. “I heard we’re bringing out the sweets?” Diana said.

Clark suppressed a grin. “You want some?”

“Please. It has been a long day.”

“Arthur and I want some too!” Victor yelled from somewhere in the next room. A pause. “And Alfred! Don’t forget Alfred!”

“I won’t!”

“Thanks Clark!”

“It’s too late for this,” Bruce grumbled.

Clark snorted, sharing a look with Diana. She’d been looking more tired lately, though still filled with the restless energy they needed to complete their mission. Diana had been putting out fires elsewhere with Arthur, going out in their superhero personas while the others have remained busy on the case.

She sat beside Bruce and leaned into his body slightly, a jacket draped over her shoulders. Exhaustion rang in her every movement. The fact that any of them were still standing was a testament to their will, he supposed. “It’s too late for coffee, Bruce.”

“Never too late for coffee,” came the sullen response.

Clark hummed and poured liquid chocolate, Ma Kent’s recipe and all, into six mugs. “Chocolate’s ready!” he called and listened to the footsteps approach. He pushed a mug into everyone’s hands as they squeezed around the kitchen counter.

“Does this count as a meeting?” Arthur asked, glancing at the clock. Just past midnight.

“No.” Bruce took a tentative sip and one of the worry lines in his forehead disappeared entirely. Clark took that as a win. “I’m just finalizing some things about the contract. Need to make sure my name doesn’t go into the database at all. I need to stay anonymous if we want to come out of this okay. I’ve been designated Mx J-2.”

“Then what?”

“Then,” Alfred piped up, standing straighter, “I suppose we find ourselves unable to vouch for our dear friend, Mr Heath on accounts for the numerous cases of tax fraud and embezzlement he has on his record. And the bribery too.” He tsked. At Clark’s surprised noise, the old man only smiled faintly. “Believe it or not, Master Clark, but I have enough time to do some work of my own. I don’t take kindly to someone kidnapping one of my charges.”

“What Alfred is saying is that if we can get Heath convicted and in jail, I get full jurisdiction over Barry. From there, we fire the staff, force them to sign NDAs and get Barry out of there.”

“That easy?” Victor took a sip and sighed into his mug quietly before continuing. “How do we stop them from doing it again?”

“I’ve got a plan for that too and it requires a journalist by the name of Mister Kent and the Lasso of Hestia.” Bruce yawned and stretched, shoving the wad of papers away from him in a sharp motion with a mirthless grin. “Gonna see if I can sue the United States as Batman for an infringement on metahuman rights.”

“Do those exist?” Clark asked haltingly.

“Nope. But they will once the United Nations has seen all of the videos our friends took of Barry.”

Diana hummed. “And you’re sure this will work?”

“It had better.” Scrubbing his face, Bruce drained the rest of his mug. “The only thing I need now is an excuse to send one of you undercover into the facility to keep an eye on the kid. But I’ll find an opportunity when it presents itself. Barry is going to be fine. He’ll be back with us by the end of the month.”

It was still too long in Clark’s opinion, considering the things they were putting him through in that place but it was a better prospect than what they were facing before, with the uncertainty that followed them like the plague. He considered it a win because he had to. Because there was no alternative to making progress. He had to believe they were getting closer and not hurting Barry any further.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured. “But it’s late. We should turn in for the night.”

For once, everyone agreed.

Barry almost dug his heels in and refused point blank to walk into the testing room this time.

Almost being the key word here because he didn’t. He faltered, stuttering slightly in his resolve as he walked but he did not stop and only continued through sheer willpower. But something was different. A few things were different.

The table was scrubbed clean, the restraints thicker and shinier than they were before. Another table on wheels sat beside it, covered in an array of sparkling, steel tools. And the scientists, the people experiementing on him, were now decked in full surgery gear. Scrubs and all, with the head covering, the mask, the oversized goggles and Barry felt his lunch threaten to come back up.

“No,” he said and dug his heels in this time, stumbling backwards a step as the blood actively drained from his face. “You can’t. You can’t.” The breaking bones, the burns, the lacerations he could take. He could take it all because those things healed and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him as a superhero but this might break him entirely.

“Subject is resistant,” Recorder said and sounded gleeful over it. “I’ll give you one chance, Allen. Come here and lay down.’

“You have to-you have to give me something for the pain,” he choked out instead. “You can’t just seriously expect me to—You can’t do this.” Barry was blubbering and it was painfully obvious that no one cared. The nozzle of a machine gun poked into his back.

His legs itched and his mind screamed at him hysterically to run run run as fast as he could, as far as he could, until his feet bled and his lungs cried for air. Run until everything stopped hurting, until his team could find them and make it all go away.

Barry stood stock still instead and took tiny, stiff steps toward the table, heart pounding something fierce in his chest as he did. His eyes darted every which way and, instinctively almost, he drowned out the noise of chatter around him, sickened by the excitement.

It was when he saw the scalpel blades glinting in the stark, white light, that Barry turned away and retched.

Nothing came up, though the mind numbing panic settling underneath his skin gave him something else to focus on as he slid to his knees slowly, leaning against the table he was supposed to be lying on. “Give me—” he gasped, “give me a minute.”

Someone moved in the corner of his vision and he flinched back, tucking his knees to his chest and swallowing down the wave of nausea as figures crowded his vision. “Allen—”

“Please,” he sobbed. “Just-just give me a minute.”

For a moment, one terrifying moment, he thought there were hands coming toward him, ready to grab and yank but no one moved. No one breathed even as he sat there and gasped for air, curled up tight in a ball while they waited for him to get his shit together and stand.

And he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

When he clawed at the metal to haul himself up, he swayed on the spot and for a moment, thought he was going to pass out completely. By some miracle, he stayed standing, stayed conscious and looked down at the tray of instruments.

This entire time, Barry had remained pliant in some misunderstood hope that they would try to preserve his humanity or some of his dignity. No such luck that way. Their eyes were hungry and their stances called for blood and there was a hammer on the table which would be used for breaking his ribs. A hammer on the table that would fit perfectly into his palm.

Just because they’d taken his speed didn’t mean he could stop processing things faster than most people could think. And Barry was staring at the hammer for picoseconds, for eons. There was a hammer on the table and Barry had never been a fighter before. The team usually had him run evac or head a manoeuvre that had whatever they were fighting trip up on its feet. He ran from most things because most things scared him but this placed ran on fear and Barry felt entirely numb to it.

There was a hammer on the table.

Barry blinked the tears out of his eyes and turned to Recorder who was too far away anyway, turned to the guards who were reaching with gloved fingers and their expressionless helmets and voice modulators and wanted to laugh hysterically because Barry’s fingers had found the hammer in all of its smooth, frigid glory and closed around the handle.

It was heavy in his hand. Lighter when it swung but the impact crunched as he slammed it against some poor man’s temple, through a helmet, through hair, through skin and bone.

He dropped like a stone and Barry supposed he should feel something but the hammer on the table was in his hand and dripping blood onto his toes now. There was a man at his feet and yelling in his ears and he was stumbling, screaming, crying as he got away, tripping on bare feet while he ran to the door.

The hammer in his hand dropped to the floor or maybe he threw it in revulsion because Barry had just killed a man, there was no doubt about it, but he had to because they would have killed them so surely Bruce would understand and not cast him out when the time came for his judgement to pass.

Or maybe, when Bruce arrived, there would be nothing left of Barry Allen, but a collection of organs and tissue. Skin and bones sold separately of course. When the Batman bust in to save him, he’d have to put the pieces of the Flash back together so they could hold a funeral for him.

Barry hoped there would be enough of him for a funeral. He didn’t want the casket to be empty.

His head snapped backwards as a jolt of agony ripped right through him, tearing into the tender flesh of his neck as he went down slowly, to his knees, to his stomach. Someone was screaming in his ears. He thought faintly that it might have been him.

The shock went on and on and Barry thought that this was it, that this was the moment someone finally cared to break in and find him dying, dying, dead on the floor except no one did. No one opened the door because no one here cared.

Barry Allen was dead and there was nothing even Superman could do about it.

Chapter Text

Bruce had scarcely left the room before the doorbell rung. The visit from Heath was last minute and they’d all only just managed to scramble into Clark’s room with a bug set up in the kitchen where the two would talk before Heath walked his ass in as if he owned the place.

“This can’t be anything good,” Victor murmured darkly. Diana hushed him, sharp and expectant as they listened through the comms.

It was a weird set up too, Clark on the armchair, Diana, and Victor on the bed and Arthur near the door, as if he was guarding it. It was a two way communication too, so Bruce would be able to hear their every word which meant silence most of the time. That was particularly difficult as now, Clark needed to keep the very creative words he had to describe Heath to his chest.

“So sorry for coming in with such little warning,” Heath was saying, making them all go dead silent and rigid. Bruce’s answering affirmation rung hollow in all of their ears. He was the angriest at the change of plans but none of them could come up with a feasible reason for Heath to not come. It would be a well of information at the very least. “It’s just that you’re also funding this whole thing and I thought you’d want to know.”

“Is there something wrong with the subject?” Bruce asked too sharply.

Heath snorted. “The subject is the problem, if you can believe it. It’s been weeks and he’s been completely fine. Mouthy, yes, but docile for the most part. I really thought he was understanding what I was saying but today…today, he attacked a security officer. Grabbed a hammer and smashed his skull in.”

“He fought back,” Diana murmured, pride in her eyes.

Arthur ran a rough had through his hair. “Were they going to use the hammer on him?”

Bruce was silent, seemingly mulling over his words. “Is the officer alright?” he asked, knowing full well that most of the people listening in did not care if the officer was alright.

“Unsure. Out of my hands right now. It’s a mess. We weren’t able to get the tests done today and we were supposed to start the second phase of experimentation but…well, we got sidetracked. It’ll be a couple of days till I can find someone else to fill in for the position of officer and—ugh, Bruce it’s all a mess.”

“Sounds awful,” he mused. “Do you think there was a reason why the subject fought back today of all days?”

“God,” Heath groaned, voice crackling, “who knows? He’s had access to food and water and shelter, testing never goes for longer than a couple of hours and he’s safe at all times. Nothing we do would ever kill him. I’m not sure what else he could need.”

“Anesthesia might be nice,” Victor hissed.

Clark shut his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, jaw clenched so tightly he was afraid his teeth would shatter. He knew. Of course he knew what they were going was torture but to hear Victor say it so plainly sent a ball of revulsion through his gut, so strong it nearly had him keeling over. 

“Wait,” Arthur rumbled, “Bruce, the officer position that just opened up. That’s it. That’s the opening you wanted, right?”

All heads snapped up. Bruce continued carefully. “You know, I have a pretty tight security system in place, right? You might not need a few days to look for a new officer. I could lend you one of my guys.”

“Can your guys keep a secret?”

“Of course they can. I wouldn’t pick them if I wasn’t sure if they could.”

“Your guy needs to be prepared for security measures so tight he’ll feel like he’s suffocating. We provide housing and transportation to and from the site. Everything is bugged to hell and back.”

Arthur paced. “I can do it, Bruce. Diana and Victor’ll take over League stuff for a while, right? You want muscle in there, a guy calling the shots that doesn’t hate Barry? I’ll do it.” No one missed the desperation in his tone. “We’ll figure out a way to get information out to you. You’re Bruce fuckin’ Wayne, you’ve got a billion plans shoved up your ass. Just let me do this.”

They received a sigh on the other end. “Naturally,” Bruce grumbled. “I’ll send the details your way in a couple of hours. Where do you want me to drop him off?”

“I’ll text you an address. Really, Bruce, I can’t thank you enough for this. You’re saving my skin here.”

“Don’t thank me.” A smile wormed its way into Bruce’s voice. “Consider it a favour between friends, alright?”

When they came back, Barry was still on his mattress. Not really awake, half starved and exhausted. Shaking too. His fingers wouldn’t have been able to clutch the plastic utensils they gave him even if he wanted to eat.

But eating required will and Barry lost all of that when he slammed a hammer into the side of an innocent man’s head. But they were back, in their black bodysuits, armour and helmets and there were two meaning the guy he’d killed had been replaced and it terrified him to think of the consequences, but it mostly hurt to wonder if the man had a family, children to provide for. What had Barry done?

One of them approached, slowly as if Barry was a wild animal and he didn’t blame him. “Gonna put these on you,” he said, holding up a pair of manacles and what looked like a gag. “Security measures, kid.”

Kid. Kid. No one had called him kid in a long time. Not since he’d been taken. He swallowed the revulsion and nodded, raising his shaking hands and waiting. The man balked at that, maybe not expecting his compliance, but clicked the metal around his wrists quickly. Before the gag could be fitted in, Barry ducked his head out of the way.

“The man—the other one,” he stammered quickly, desperate to finish before they shut him up for good. “Is he…?”

“Alive,” was the soft reply. Fabric slipped between his teeth and was tied tightly against the back of his head and Barry stumbled over his feet in the relief that overtook his entire body as he stood, not expecting arms to catch him. Instead of pain, he got silence. “Up you get.”

Somehow, Barry got his feet underneath him and walked, a step at a time toward certain pain. Not death. He would never be allowed to die and after his stunt the last time, Barry’s death would be drawn out as long as possible but it would hurt. It had to hurt.

But pain was pain and Barry was tired. And there was a hand on his shoulder that led him through the grey corridors rather than a gun to his back which was messing with his mind. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe underneath the touch that he could pretend was kind, even if it was leading him toward something awful.

They arrived and Barry could feel himself begin to slip away as he was scooped up as if he weighed nothing at all and laid flat on a table as hard an unforgiving as a rock. The cuffs were removed but his hands were forced apart in the same breath, pinned down alongside his legs with more metal. A band stretched over his forehead and Barry’s eyes stayed locked to the ceiling as his body trembled. The gown was cut away. He felt exposed, alone.

Recorder’s face hovered over his and he pressed two fingers to Barry’s cheek, scraping away the tears as they came. “Begin live vivisection. We will begin with a liver sample,” he said softly, malice colouring his tone.

The scalpel burned even before it pressed in. Icy sharp metal braced against his skin and Barry’s heart fluttered helplessly against his chest as it pounded and shrieked and begged for an escape that would never come. He recognized quietly that he was having an anxiety attack and saw, in the same vein, how little he was able to do about it.

But oh, the scalpel pressed down and tore through skin and he shrieked out of pain and shock, the noise caught in the gag. He was open on the table and there were hands digging in, tearing him up from the inside out.

There were hands in Barry.

He screamed again and thrashed wildly and felt a hand against his face and a voice rumble from above him that quieten him down to harsh sobs. Another wave of anguish flashed through his torso and he moaned, leaning desperately into the hand, pleading to whoever was out there that no one would take this comfort, as small as it was, away from him.

Through bleary eyes, he saw a helmet and sobbed out loud again, tensing for a shock.

Which never came.

And it made sense. In his crumbling mind, it made sense why they wouldn’t want to shock Barry when his heart was out in the open like this, beating to the white light and the faces of men in masks and goggles.

Passing out was a kindness Barry did not deserve but received anyway.

The plan was simple.

Arthur would leave his new Heath-provided apartment and head down to the coffee shop a block away, close enough to remain unsuspicious but far enough to get out of range of any bugs that may have been hiding. He would wear clothes sent to him by Victor under the guise of online shopping, clothes that hid a commlink sewn into the collar.

Arthur would sit in the corner of the shop and order something small along with a newspaper while Clark and Diana settled down near the window. This way, they could all pretend that they were spies on a mission and not total and complete weirdos submitting themselves to Bruce’s overactive sense of paranoia. Bruce moved most of them, bar Victor, to Washington to carry out the last phase of the plan and get Barry home.

But Bruce might have had a point because Arthur looked haunted enough to believe that whatever happened in the facility should not reach the ears of average citizens. Still, Clark spoke quietly, heart hammering and practically itching all over for information.

“Turn the page if you can hear me,” Clark muttered lowly. Arthur did without a second of hesitation.

Diana cleared her throat. “Take a sip of your drink if you read me.”

Arthur did. Mouth slightly concealed with the newspaper, he said, “Is this really necessary?”

“Bruce insisted. There’s no way to get into contact with you without tipping people off. Unless we kidnapped you but that would cause a lockdown and we’re so close that Bruce can’t let that happen.”

“Are we?” Arthur asked bitterly. “Are we close? Or is he just saying that to keep us on our toes?”

Clark clenched his jaw. “We have to trust him. We don’t have a choice. Bruce knows this stuff better than we do—this is his world. Victor just sent the charges to the police.”

Taking another long sip of his drink, Arthur lowered his voice into something deadly, powerful with rage. “Bruce’s way is getting the kid hurt more than you can imagine. There’s nothing wishy-washy about it either. I was there. I saw it.”

“What’d they do?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

Arthur huffed mirthlessly. “I don’t—they-they cut him open. Took all sorts of shit from him. And the kid was-he was awake for the whole fucking thing. He couldn’t even scream at some point. Just fucking laid there and cried.”

It occurred to Clark, over the buzzing in his own ears, that Arthur described all of this with a waver in his voice. This had affected him. So much so, he was stumbling over his words even with how carefully he was choosing his words now. “God,” he breathed. “Oh God.”

“Is he alive?” Diana asked carefully neutrally. Her expression was schooled into something that looked like apathy but Clark knew her well enough to understand the rage hidden behind her eyes.

“They said he’d make a full recovery.”

“How do you even recover from something like that?” Clark whispered. He slipped off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Some patrons sent him sympathetic glances and he smiled them off meekly, painfully aware of how intensely ridiculous his situation was. “Was there anything else you got?”

Arthur grunted. “Apparently we’re supposed to take him to talk to Heath every couple of days. Some kind of interrogation. And he’s wearing a collar. It’s got a remote with a fucking shock feature.”

“Is that how they’re demanding compliance?”

“Seems like it.” A headache was growing behind Clark’s eyes. “I’m not allowed to touch it but I stopped the other guy from going all trigger happy on the kid. I think they’re getting suspicious of me already.”

“It’s been a couple of days, Arthur. We need more—”

“I won’t fucking hurt him to prove myself or some shit,” Arthur snarled back. “I told you I’d go in to keep an eye on him and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Boys,” Diana gritted out. They both shut up, teeth clicking against each other in their haste. “Bruce just texted me. Heath has been arrested multiple counts of forgery, tax evasion and embezzlement. He just asked to see Bruce and he wants you to go with him, Clark. He’s sending a car.”

“As the other guy?” he hissed.

Diana frowned. “I’d assume not.” She jerked her head to the window. “Go. I’ll stay. You should wait a few minutes after Clark leaves before you go, Arthur.”

“Yippee,” came the glowering response, “back to the place of horrors.”

Neither of them had anything to say about that. So they stayed silent and Clark stood, leaving a tip and walking outside into a miserably overcast day to wait for whoever showed up. Every molecule in his body felt alight with anticipation, the fear already growing into something bigger than itself. How much longer until Barry’s body gave out under the treatment it was receiving? How much longer would they have to wait over this.

But the car rolled up soon enough with Alfred driving and Bruce was in the backseat, tossing Clark a blazer without another word. “It has to be about Hermes,” Bruce was muttering. “It needs to be about Hermes. He wants to talk about it and ask me to take over.”

“Or you could get him to transfer ownership over to you,” Clark piped up. “How are you gonna get him to not bribe the police?”

He received a wicked, borderline feral grin. “Heath’s gonna open his bank account and realise that he’s been left with only a cent to his name after a horrible glitch in the system caused all of the money to redistribute into selected charities.”

Despite himself, Clark snorted. “You’re ruining him? Can’t say I’m that mad about it.”

“You should’ve seen Victor’s face when I asked him if he could do it. It was like Christmas came early.”

“Of course it was. How close are we, Bruce.”

His eyes crinkled and his mouth twitched upwards just the slightest bit. Clark recognized that as a smile, or the closest he would get to one in a while. “If I play my cards right, by the end of the week. Maybe in a few days.”

“Maybe sooner?”

“Maybe sooner.”

“Did you know what Arthur saw?”

Bruce’s lips pressed together so tightly that they turned white. “I saw the report. They took tissue and organ samples.”

Clark hummed. The state penitentiary came into view, obscured with rain. It wasn’t long until they were meandering the halls, being led by an warden toward a windowless room. No lead. So even as Clark was instructed to sit outside, he could still listen in on the exchange. He’d been doing a lot of listening into conversations he should not have lately.

“Bruce.” Heath sounded relieved. “I didn’t—they got me? I’m not sure how, I-I didn’t do anything wrong—”

“It’s okay. I’ll figure something out.”

“And-and my work! My life, my assets and my houses. God! Fuck! What do I do?”

“Just leave it to me,” Bruce soothed. “I’ll handle everything. You should have enough to get out of here anyway,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“I don’t,” Heath moaned. “I have nothing. I checked—I keep checking every hour. I think the bank seized everything.”

“Oh. Oh my god. I’ll talk to them right away. I’ll-I’ll—”

“Bruce. Don’t. I’m just—I’m worried about Hermes.”

Clark sat up and the warden gave him a searching look which he reciprocated meekly, smiling to alleviate the awkwardness. “Been trying to iron out my posture lately,” he mumbled, puffing his chest out for emphasis. “It’s not—”

“I don’t care,” the warden cut in.

He nodded and let his gaze drop.

“What about Hermes?”

“It’s not—it’ll go bankrupt, Brucie,” and oh, Bruce would hate that. What Clark would give to see his face. “Your share isn’t big enough to be substantial for the project. It’ll collapse and everything I’ve built…”

“Then give me ownership,” Bruce said gently.

“What?”

“Give me ownership while I figure out how to get you out of here. I’ll keep Hermes floating. Just record your vocal consent to hand things over and I’ll keep it all safe until you come back for it.”

“I-I—”

“Neither of us want to lose this. It’s once in a lifetime. Just until you’re back on your feet. Trust me.”

“Of course I trust you, Bruce,” Heaths sputtered. “But that’s my-that’s my work.”

“And I’ll give you all of the credit. But I’ll keep it running anonymously. Here, I’ve got my phone. Just need your consent.”

“Brucie—are you sure?”

“Positive.”

A pause. A long, stretching pause that had Clark wondering if this was what Barry felt most of the time because this was agonizing, not being able to discern their individual reactions and body language. He could look. He could, but the warden was eyeing him in suspicion and he didn’t want to look like even more of a red flag.

So he stayed stock still and listened.

“I, Mx J,” Heath intoned quietly, “relinquish ownership and full financial power of Project Hermes to Mx J-2. Any and all further decisions regarding the project will be determined by them. Was that any good? I don’t exactly have a script to read off of.”

“No.” Bruce sounded almost breathless. Clark felt breathless, as if he’d ran laps around the world a thousand times. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

When they stepped out of the prison, the sky was clear.

Chapter Text

The uniform was uncomfortable. Tight and form fitting, though not in the way his suit was. It was reinforced in a hundred different places, not that Clark particularly needed it reinforced, but they didn’t know he was Superman and they never would, if all of this went to plan.

He walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur, nerves a bundle of jitters in his stomach. None of them, the five men that they walked with, bothered to talk or act friendly with one another. This was all business.

When they stopped in front of a door, he wondered if his heart beat was so loud that Arthur would be able to hear it, but to his relief, no one commented because no one else had super hearing like he did. The door slid open and there was a lump with a mop of dark hair curled up on a plain mattress.

Barry looked up at them and nervousness flitted across his face as he pushed himself up gingerly. His movements screamed hurt. Clark unjammed his jaw to speak. “You’re being moved,” he said as gently as he could. A wheelchair was brought forth, covered in restraints. Barry tracked it with his gaze and nodded, eyes a little distant.

So Clark stalked forward and picked him up, pretending not to be bothered by how light he was, and carefully sat him down in the chair before snapping the metal over his wrists, his ankles. Barry said nothing, did nothing, and that worried him more than anything else. The kid had fought and he’d been punished for it but Clark didn’t know how bad it could’ve been.

Arthur pushed the chair. He practically shoved another guy to do it and Clark would have reprimanded him if he didn’t feel the same wave of protectiveness wash over him as they meandered down identical hallways. They took the elevator up to the ground floor and walked out through the lobby.

Barry blinked in the sunlight and part of Clark wanted to break down for him. How long had it been since they’d let him outside? Did he think he was going to die in there, alone and afraid?

The helmet hid everything. For that, Clark was thankful.

Unmarked cars greeted them. Arthur, maybe sensing his catatonia, placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him over to the middle one. Bruce mentioned that they should take the car with the ‘JL’ on the number plate. All Clark could do was trust him. “We’ll take the subject,” he said gruffly. “The rest of you follow.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Metropolis,” Clark said quickly. A lie, but nothing they were doing could be traced back to Bruce. Besides, it wasn’t as if these other guys were going to make it all the way to the airstrip. “New base of operations.”

One of the men snorted but waved them off. “Your guy couldn’t move here?”

“My boss has commitments in Metropolis he can’t leave behind,” Clark retorted. Arthur was loaded Barry into the car and he took it as his opportunity to stretch his palm out. “I need the key for the collar, before I forget.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’re transporting the subject. We need access to the collar in case he’s volatile.” And Clark thought please, please, please don’t see through my bluff. Please give this up, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

He watched the exchange in slow motion. Every action was telegraphed so excruciatingly that he wanted to snatch the damn thing for himself and fly the hell away with the other two in tow. But he didn’t give into the instinct to soar and stayed firmly grounded, feeling the remote in his hands and squeezing it once, careful not to break it, before slotting it into a hidden pocket. “Don’t go too trigger happy with the shock feature.” Clark could feel the leer through the helmet. “He needs to be alive when we get there.”

“I think I’ve got it handled,” he near snapped.

Without another word, Clark clambered in behind the wheel and took three breaths to calm himself. Arthur looked at him from the passenger side. Clark only shook his head and started driving. “Should I text Mr J?”

“Do it,” Clark said through a sigh. He looked through the back mirror. Found Barry was leaning against the window and staring out of it forlornly. Wished desperately he could comfort him and found that he couldn’t, not without blowing his cover because they were still connected to other cars via the comms.

“He says it’s been greenlit. Everything’s ready,” Arthur muttered with a hint of humour in his voice.

Not for nothing. The messages poured in quickly afterwards, rattling around in their skulls.

“—problem with the engine—”

“…cooling system malfunction. Have we been compromised?”

“Nothing’s been tampered with. We got these cars straight from the higher ups.”

“Car B, do you copy?”

“I copy,” Clark chirped. “Is there an issue?”

“Take the subject to the airstrip and leave without us. We’re having some issues.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur cut in. “That could cause problems.” That was the plan but a little resistance never hurt anyone.

“I’m positive. We cannot be late. Go to Metropolis. We’ll follow.”

“Understood.”

Clark tried not to make his resulting sigh of relief too loud. Didn’t want to tip anyone off after all and technically, they wouldn’t be done with all of this until they were safely in Wayne Manor sharing a mug of Ma Kent’s cocoa but they were pretty damn close to count.

Barry was…

Alive. He was alive. On a wheelchair with his restraints off but the remote still firmly in a guard’s hands. They sat across from him and occasionally traded looks but Barry was too tired to read them. Too tired to do much of anything.

His eyes slipped shut of their own accord, not meaning to but not really having a choice. He was exhausted. Still so tired after surgery, even if it had been days judging by how much the wound had healed since then. Everyone always talked about how hard it was to heal from abdominal surgery. Emily from 6^th grade got her appendix removed and she was in recovery for weeks. Theoretically, the Flash would heal quicker but something, the stress perhaps, made healing difficult.

So he closed his eyes.

Pretended not to notice the stares boring into him, the stilted attempts at conversation. Their kindness was nice but he didn’t understand why they felt as if they had to keep being kind to him when everyone knew what he was there for.

Barry curled up as best as he could on the airplane seat and attempted to go unconscious.

Between one blink and the next, he was cradled in someone’s arms, leaning against rough Kevlar. “You can go back to sleep,” a voice, a familiar voice, said above him.

“Alfred might want to—”

“He’s tired. Look at him.”

No. This was so weird. Weird enough for him to believe it was a dream. He pried an eye open, caught a glimpse of a very chiseled jawline and found that the answering gasp was stuck in his throat. He couldn’t quite choke it out through the collar and the rising panic-hope-fear that clogged his airways. That looked suspiciously like Clark in a guard uniform.

A moment later, Not-Clark smiled and Barry just knew.

Clark, Clark, looked down at him with a quiet sort of gentleness in his eyes. “Hey, Barry.” He had eyebags. All-American, apple pie Clark Kent looked less than great as he gently set Barry down against something soft and cool. Pillows and sheets, which were things he hadn’t seen in a while. Clark sat down and clasped his hands in his lap, although his arms kept making half-aborted motions to reach out. “Are you—how are you feeling?”

“What’s going on?” he rasped. They all winced at the rawness in his throat. “I-I don’t understand.”

Arthur, still in guard uniform, came to the other side of the truly massive bed he was perched on. “You’ve been rescued, kid. Congrats. You survived.”

It was all gruff in a watery sort of way. Barry felt tears burn in his eyes. “I didn’t think—”

“That we’d come for you?” And oh God, Clark looked like he was about to cry at that, but he cut Barry off and he hurried to rectify it.

“No! I just didn’t—I thought I’d be rescued by the other guys.”

“We were about to. Figured it was better this way.”

Barry pressed a palm to his eyes and muffled a sob into his hand, skull hitting the headboard behind him. “This better not be a some elaborate scheme to break me. Or a dream. God, I’d hate it if this was a dream.”

“Barry,” Clark whispered, “can you-can you come here?”

He blinked his eyes open to clear the blurriness from his vision and saw Clark sitting there, arms open awkwardly with a stricken look on his face that screamed for comfort. Slowly, disbelievingly, Barry managed to migrate his way into Clark’s arms and felt them squeeze around his shoulders, crushing him to his chest in a way that should have been suffocating.

But Barry Allen who had not been hugged in God knows how long very nearly started to sob.

Another hand joined the hug, though this time to clasp his shoulder. “You should let the kid sleep, Clark,” Arthur grumbled. “Bruce is going to be all over his ass when he gets back to Gotham.”

“Shut up. You just want him to yourself.”

Arthur, weirdly enough, didn’t even deny this, only grunting quietly and going silent. The moment Clark’s grip loosened, Barry was pressed against another armoured chest. Beach-blond hair tickled his face and somehow, things became a little more real. His fingers, trembling fiercely with every panicked breath he sucked in, gripped Arthur’s arm as tightly as he could manage.

“They know,” he gasped. “My identity, they know-and—and my dad—” he wailed, pressing his face against his chest. “They’ll kill my dad, Clark!”

“Hey, hey,” the voice above him soothed, “it’s okay. Bruce has it all under control, alright? They can’t do anything to you or your dad right now, I promise.”

“Go to sleep, kid. The others’ll be back by the time you wake up.”

It sounded like a promise. The hand running across his back, pulling the sheets up around him, all of it felt like reassurance. Still, Barry reached out and caught someone’s sleeve in a loose grip. “Don’t leave,” he breathed. “Please,” he added on in a hopeful manner.

He caught a smile. “We’ll be right here.”

Barry was startled into wakefulness with the distinct clang of metal. Blinking at the clock blearily and then at the open window, he deduced it was sometime after three in the morning when the figures rounded the bed and sat next to him.

A warm weight was pressed to his arm. When he looked down, he found Clark, fast asleep. Arthur sat near the foot of the bed, alert with his arms crossed over his chest. As if he was guarding Barry. He couldn’t help but choke up a little.

Warm hands pressed against either side of his face, lips making contact with his forehead. “Barry,” Diana whispered in the dead of the night. It was only a word, only his name, but she said it with such reverence, such relief that it tore through Barry’s bones. “You’re safe. They will never hurt you again.”

“I don’t think he’s getting any of this, Diana,” Victor drawled. The look on his face was stricken as he took Barry in, however, an odd juxtaposition. “He’s too out of it. How are you, man?”

“Better,” he answered truthfully. Then, sheepishly, he tacked on, “Hungry.”

“Good.”

Barry whipped his head around and stared at the Bat in civilian clothing, looming by the doorway with a soft sort of look on his face. “Bruce!”

“Barry,” he said evenly with a crinkle around his eyes. “Are you up to eating yet? Alfred could bring something up. He’s been stress-cooking the whole day. Won’t take too long.”

“I don’t—” he fumbled, “I don’t wanna be a bother, or anything—”

“I’m literally begging you to eat something, Barry,” Bruce pleaded. “Whatever you want. There’s not many places that are open right now but we can order in. Alfred will make you a feast if he needs to. You need to eat, Barry.”

His head spun slightly with the pressure of care. Diana’s hands were wrapped around one of his own and he couldn’t really think through the relief and fear and everything good that had fallen into his lap by some miracle. “I don’t-I don’t know.”

Bruce softened the slightest bit. “I’ll tell him to bring up some soup. How’s that sound?”

And to that, Barry could only nod as he sank back into the pillows, squeezing Diana’s hand tight, casting a glance at Clark who was just beginning to stir. Arthur followed his gaze and kicked the poor man’s foot, which only caused him to grimace and stagger away as he swore softly.

Barry laughed. “Man of steel,” he mouthed at Arthur, as Clark blearily looked around.

He blinked and his face brightened. “You’re back!”

“Yeah, genius,” Victor snarked. “We’re back.”

“I’ll send the evidence over to you, Clark. I need that article written up by the end of the week so Victor can publish it,” Bruce said shortly, his eyes never leaving Barry’s face. He added on, probably for Barry’s benefit, “We’re going to make sure something like this never happens again,” and Barry thought that was good, that no one deserved to go through something like that. “We have the…files on what they did to you and the last part of this plan requires a damn good journalist and someone willing to speak to the UN.”

“I volunteer,” Diana said dryly. “They already know me and they do not frighten me in the slightest. I will get this done.”

“Great.” Bruce nodded and, as an afterthought almost, explained, “The reason we didn’t come get you as the other guys is because we were threatened by the government if we acted as heroes. It was easier to come after you as civilians.”

Something felt caught in Barry’s throat. “Do you want me—” he stammered, unsure of how to end the sentence. It was overwhelming, he thought, to be here, to listen to all of this. There had been a plan to get him back, to make sure this wouldn’t happen to anyone else. There had been a plan. They had cared. “I could—”

“You need to sleep,” Arthur cut in.

Victor hummed in agreement. “We’re all gonna be making sure you’re not out running before you’re ready.”

Barry faltered. “I don’t-I don’t know if I could go running anymore. They know…everything.”

The genial mood took a dip for a second. No one knew quite what to say to this but Bruce cleared his throat and shook his head. “We’ll roll with the punches as they come. All you need to worry about is getting better, alright?”

He hesitated. Too much had happened and apparently, they knew enough of it to worry, to look at him with soft eyes and give him hugs and kisses galore. They knew and Barry should feel ashamed or something but he felt nothing of the sort. Maybe relief, if anything. The fact that they knew and they were fighting for him, that they hadn’t stopped fighting for him even with all they had faced.

So he smiled and said, “Okay. “

Bruce was woken up by a sob and moved before he could even process the action himself. It was some instinct he’d forgotten he had that made him stumble, still half asleep, to Barry’s bedside. He hadn’t moved from his chair even after the others had gone to sleep for the night, though Bruce was almost sure Clark was working on that article still. “Barry?” he whispered hoarsely.

The kid was curled up, fists clenched tightly to ward off the terror. Bruce’s heart ached for him, for the soft sobs and sniffles that escaped, and it was instinct that had him sit down on the bed and run his fingers through Barry’s hair gently, up and down. It had grown out since the last time he’d seen it.

“Barry,” he said again, “it’s okay. You’re safe here. You’re at Wayne Manor and you’re okay.”

The words may as well have been to no one, but it soothed Bruce at the very least and he swiped his thumbs across Barry’s cheeks to rid them of tears. Dark eyes snapped open and he shuddered through a gasp, fingers reaching for nothing. “Bruce,” he rasped, surging upwards with a wince.

It shocked Bruce a little when Barry barrelled right into him in a hug that felt desperate. He reciprocated quickly, a hand over the back of Barry’s head as he pressed his face into his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m right here. No one’s gonna hurt you on my watch, okay?”

He never thought he’d get the opportunity to be soft again, but the team was a blessing under a guise. “I didn’t-you’re real,” came the muffled words and Bruce could have cried with them.

“Of course I am,” he said gruffly. “You’re okay, kid.”

“’m okay. Sorr—”

“Do not apologise for having a nightmare,” he said tiredly. “Just go back to sleep.”

Barry peeled himself free tentatively and nodded with an sheepish smile. Slowly, he tucked himself underneath the covers and Bruce watched his face relax, his eyes close as he drifted back off into a slumber.

Slowly, he relaxed and turned his attention to the corner of the room. “You’re back,” he said to the alien that resided there.

J’onn nodded slowly. “I am.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No.” A slow shake of his head, a small smile. “No, there is not. I merely wished to tell you that the Flash’s identity is safe. I have dealt with it.”

Bruce’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did you—”

“They still live. They will receive their just desserts but they will find that, no matter how hard they try to, they cannot remember the name and face of Barry Allen.”

Relief poured through Bruce’s veins. It was almost intoxicating. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Of course.” J’onn bowed his head slightly. “I will be around to assist with the cleanup. Good night, Bruce.”

A smile split Bruce’s face in two. “Night, J’onn.”