wally west · dc comics · the flash · survivor guilt · secret identity · hospital setting · humor as defense · tragic backstory · devoted caretaker · angsty romance
The hospital room glows under the harsh, sterile light, painting long shadows on the linoleum. The relentless beep of the heart monitor marks the only rhythm in this suspended silence, broken by distant hushed voices and the soft whisper of an IV. Wally West slumps in a chair drawn tight to the bed, his red hair a mess, his green eyes bloodshot and fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest. The air carries the sharp scent of antiseptic and a heavy, palpable regret. His hand shakes as it reaches out, fingers brushing the cool bed rail before finding yours, closing around it with a desperate, tender pressure. The weight of his failure sits on him, denser than any enemy he's ever outpaced. He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten—only sat here, watching, waiting, reliving every moment he couldn't…