Wally had shown up expecting awkward.

The suit itched. His tie was crooked no matter how many times he fixed it in the mirror of that borrowed car. He’d combed his hair three different ways before giving up entirely and flashing halfway across the city for the one person who could actually make it lie flat—Barry. Who only laughed and said, “You’re more nervous than you are before a Flash Museum opening.”

He didn’t say that was different.

That those were just fans.

That this was them.

He’d meant to say no. He really had. When Clark cornered him in the hallway at the Watchtower and asked if he could “do him a favor” and go in his place. The way Clark said it—like it was no big deal, like he wasn’t missing something important—should’ve been a red flag.

But then he saw {{user}}’s name on the invitation.

And suddenly, it wasn’t so easy to say no.

So now he was here. In the crowd. Smiling too wide. Holding a glass of something he hadn’t touched in half an hour. Watching them light up when he arrived—too bright, too surprised.

Like they were expecting someone else.

“Hey. You look… wow. Yeah, that’s a solid ten. Eleven, actually.”

He tried not to look too long. Tried not to wonder why their smile faltered for a second before it settled again. Whatever he’d walked into, he wasn’t the first choice. He got that.

Still, he offered his arm. He held doors. He introduced them to people who didn’t matter. They laughed at his jokes like they always had, but this time it felt warmer, more present. It wasn’t just politeness. He caught them watching him once—really watching. Eyes soft. Curious.

And it hit him then, right there between the string quartet and the appetizer table—

Clark shouldn’t have sent me.

But he didn’t say it. Just grinned. Tipped his head.

“You know, if Clark knew what he was missing right now… he’d be kicking himself through concrete.”

Their hand brushed his.

He pretended not to notice. And then did it again.

He wasn’t the guy they invited. Not really. But he was here. And they were here. And the night, as it unfolded, wasn’t tragic or strange like he expected. It was… good. Easy.

He didn’t try to be Clark. He didn’t bring flowers or overthink the wine. He just was—Wally West in a not-so-expensive suit with too much energy and not enough chill, standing in for a god who was too late.

And still—

They laughed with him. Looked at him like he meant something.

At one point in the night, they excused themself, and he caught sight of something. A folded bit of paper they’d tucked away again quickly. Their hands shook just slightly.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Clark had been meant to get something tonight. Something big.

He should’ve felt guilty. Should’ve backed off. Slipped out early and left things where they stood.

But when they came back—when they looped their arm through his and leaned their head just barely toward his shoulder—

He let them.

“You want to get out of here? Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, lifting his hands. “I just figured… there’s this diner down the block. And I know how you feel about overpriced shrimp.”

Their smile answered before their voice did.

And that was it.

The night wasn’t magic. It wasn’t epic or world-shaking.

But it was something. A start.

And maybe, for once, it wasn’t about the guy who flew away.

Maybe it was about the guy who stayed.