Chapter Text
Over about seven and a half years or so, Kid Flash ducked in and out of Lyle’s bar at least once every few months. And not just to borrow the phone again, unfortunately - brat seemed to get it in his head he’d be welcome in the establishment, as if Lyle didn’t need to glare his patrons down every time until the boy put some cash on the counter. Only one time, though, did he need to pull out his sawed-off shotgun and tell a particularly stubborn man to leave, when the idiot insisted on trying to grab the Kid’s arm and pull him off his seat. Lyle refused to ever serve the man again, his usual go-to threat to keep fights from breaking out, and after a while he heard a general cold shoulder from the rest of the crooks and Rogues caused him to skip town entirely.
Good riddance.
At least that instance seemed to knock it into the Kid’s head that safe didn’t necessarily mean welcome, and he tended to only stop by for short visits afterwards. Just long enough to duck in, grab a hot or cold drink depending on the weather (or depending on if he’d just finished fighting Captain Cold or Heatwave), and then check in with Lyle or any other half-friendly faces before scooting out again. Unless Trickster happened to be around, because that looney-tune always insisted the Kid stick around long enough to play at least one game of darts with the board hung up on the back wall.
Helped that the widely accepted motto around town was villainy’s the gig, not the lifestyle. Also helped that even as he got older and mouthier, everyone remembered the little pipsqueak middle schooler who came dashing in on Flash’s heels like he was playing dress up with daddy and loving every minute of it.
Seven and a half years. Even after he took a step back from day to day running around to go attend college (with a steady girlfriend, apparently, half the Rogues who’d been awkward audiences to the Kid’s early days of learning to flirt still couldn’t believe it), that yellow and red suit would sometimes blur into the bar for a root beer and some nostalgic wise-cracking. Seven and a half years, with Flash himself dropping in to grab his boy now and then, making his own teasing remarks, did you need to call your mother again? But Flash, at least, didn’t want to press his own luck, and never came alone or tried to stay longer than a minute or two. Lyle never needed to bother reminding patrons not to try and grab him by the arm, thankfully.
Seven and a half years.
And then the damn Reach bastards got petty, when their attempt at taking over Earth or whatever didn’t pan out. News reports all day had been talking about all the different heroes seen taking care of the alien bombs scattered all over the planet, and no one in town felt much like pulling any jobs in the wake of their near-miss, so Lyle found his bar more packed than usual by ten o’clock.
And then Flash walked in.
Walked, not ran. It took Lyle an almost embarrassingly long minute to notice the man, when he quietly slipped through the door and came up to the bar, face and shoulders sagging like- like the world had ended.
It caused a bad feeling to take up residence in Lyle’s stomach.
A hush spread down the line of barstools and from there across the rest of the crammed room. Some guys came in costume, some in plains clothes, but Lyle would bet his favorite pair of boots most if not all were carrying at least one weapon.
Flash didn’t pay any of them the slightest bit of attention. He just placed a fifty dollar bill on the counter, waited for Lyle to approach. “Whiskey, please.”
Lyle took the money.
The two low level thugs seated closest to Flash made some grumbled remarks and stood to move elsewhere. That left a gap to the next nearest seat, occupied by- “What, were all the regular bars closed?” -Captain Boomerang.
Flash didn’t seem concerned. Lyle definitely wasn’t; Boomerang talked a big game, but he obeyed the main rule just like everyone else.
“Super speed,” Flash said, in a normal tone of voice than nonetheless managed to carry in the quieter than usual room, “Means an enhanced metabolism. I try going to regular bars, I get cut off with warnings about alcohol poisoning by the time I’m just starting to get tipsy.”
Boomerang snorted into his beer. “Cry me a river. So you decide to come subject us all to the sight of your sorry arse getting plastered? What’s the occasion?”
For a moment, Flash didn’t answer, head tipped down to stare at the countertop. Lyle set the whiskey in front of him, wary of whatever the man might be about to say. But wary didn’t come near close enough to brace him for the actual response:
“Kid Flash is dead.”
Even the hushed mutterings around the fringes of the room went utterly silent.
“...thought he was out of the game,” Weather Wizard cautiously said, further down the bar.
“Jumped back in to help beat the Reach.” Flash’s words came out choked. He picked up the glass of whiskey and downed it in one go, before adding, “But their last MFD went Chrysalis, in the Arctic, and he- I-” His face twisted, shoulders hunching, and he brought one clenched fist down to slam against the counter. “He was right next to me."
Seven and a half years. And there it ended.
When Lyle could make himself move, he grabbed the mostly full bottle of whiskey, and set the whole thing down at Flash’s elbow. Then he grabbed himself a glass, poured a shot, and lifted it high enough for everyone else in the bar to see.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
Other glasses and bottles went up, crooks and criminals solemn-faced as they made a silent salute. Not even the grumpiest bastards who always glared when the twerp came around made a single noise of protest.
It took Flash a second to notice. Lyle saw his throat bob, and his hand shake, filling his glass again. But it steadied long enough for the man to raise it too. When Flash lowered his arm again everyone else followed suit, some taking sips, others draining their whole drinks, and slowly, conversation crept back in.
Flash stayed silent, the next few hours. Lyle kept the alcohol flowing; didn’t make one mention about cost. Even if he hadn’t felt inclined to let the man have his drinks on the house, others throughout the bar kept muttering half-intelligible excuses and tipping extra, which would cover Flash’s tab and then some.
Most of the costumed types sidled closer as the night wore on, until a line of them stretched down from where Flash sat, Pied Piper the closest, and also the one to start reminiscing. The Rogues stayed tentative, at first, keeping a close eye on Flash and his reactions, but when a small wobbly smile crept into view despite the tears, they got a little bolder.
Lyle spotted at least a few others crying, here and there, but avoided drawing attention to them.
Of course, eventually, inevitably considering where they all sat, Mirror Master brought up the Kid’s first visit to the bar. “I still remember his voice cracking, trying to pretend we weren’t all listening to that call like it was primetime television. ‘But I did do my homework!’ Funniest thing I’d heard all month, I swear.”
“It wasn’t-” Heatwave hiccuped, “It wasn’t due until next week!”
A round of sniggers went up the line, even Flash letting out a half-hearted chuckle. “I thought- he was the, the only one, in trouble, at first. Then we- got back, and his mom- she let us both have it.”
“Your, fearsome sis-in-law,” Boomerang guffawed.
“...she didn’t- today,” Flash said, his words slurring a little around the edges. “Didn’t yell. When I told her. Or her, her husband. They just... shut down.”
The mood turned abruptly somber again. Lyle spoke for the first time in a while, and asked, “Should you be with them?”
Something that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, leaked out of Flash like air escaping a balloon. “Probably. But I- I wanted them to yell. Blame me. Deserve it.” He shook his head. “My wife’s there. And- and Artemis. Kid’s girlfriend.”
The one he’d been dating for years. Gone off to college with. Lyle slowly nodded. “Girl know how he died? Or did she have to hear a cover story?”
It took Flash a minute to parse the question. “She was- she was there. First one, I told. Her and, his best friends.”
Other hero kids, then. At least if the girlfriend was also in the game, she wasn’t some civilian getting told a made-up story about a car crash or whatever.
“He was right there,” Flash whispered, slumped with both hands tight around his glass. “My hand- passed right through him. And he said- he said, she’s gonna kill me for this. And- and don’t get me started, on Mom and Dad.” The tears started up again, leaking out from behind his cowl. “Told me to tell them. Last thing he said. My kid-” Piper cautiously put a hand on the man’s shoulder, right as he fully, finally, began to sob. “-my kid is dead.”
No one told any more stories after that.
About the point in the early morning hours when Lyle would be wrapping up to close shop, the door swung open. He half expected a woman in regular clothes, come to collect her husband. Or maybe another superhero, one of the people Flash had been on the Justice League for ages with.
Well, the person in the doorway was a hero alright. Just not who Lyle would have expected.
Though he supposed it was fitting, the Kid’s best friend coming to collect the Kid’s uncle.
A foot taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier, different suit and different hair, he still recognized Robin in a heartbeat. The boy didn’t hesitate to step inside, unlike the last and only time he’d ever come to the bar. Some of the remaining patrons nodded to him; all of the Rogues lined up at the counter watched closely as he came and pulled one of Flash’s arms around his shoulder.
“You got him?” Captain Cold asked, furthest down the line. Was the first thing he’d said all night, since Flash showed up and made his announcement.
Robin, or whatever name he’d upgraded to, nodded. He also slipped a wad of cash from one of his belt pouches, and left it on the bartop. “Keep the change.”
Twenty dollars for a few root beers, back then. Looked to be about ten times that amount, sitting on the polished wood. Lyle accepted it just the same. With the thoroughly drunk Flash leaning on him for support, the boy headed back out the door, expression just as eerily blank as when he’d walked in.
No laughter, this time.
Seven and a half years wasn’t too long, in the grand scheme of things. But thinking about that chunk of time made Lyle feel abruptly old regardless.