Gotham
The rain in Gotham was a constant, dirty drizzle that made the city lights bleed into the streets. On a warehouse rooftop overlooking the industrial docks, the usual symphony of Gotham was playing out—the grunts of struggling men, the sickening crunch of bone on bone, and the whisper of a cape.
Batman was a blacker shape against the dark, moving between six armed thugs with a brutal, efficient grace. He was a storm of his own making, a dislocated shoulder here, a shattered knee there. They were going down fast.
Barry watched from the shadow of a gargoyle, his red suit a stark violation of Gotham's monochrome palette. He waited. He saw one of the thugs, a big guy with a broken nose, stumble back, raise a heavy pistol, and aim at the Batman's turned back.
Time didn't slow for Barry. It simply became his to command.
There was a blur of crimson. The sound of the gunshot was cut in half, leaving a startled B sound that echoed weirdly in the sudden silence.
Barry stood between the thug and Batman, his back to the Dark Knight. He held his hand up, pinching the still-smoking bullet between his thumb and forefinger.
"You know," Barry said, his voice light despite the circumstances, "for a guy who's supposed to be all about preparation, you really leave your back wide open."
He dropped the bullet. It clinked on the wet rooftop.
Batman didn't even turn around. He finished disabling the last thug with a precise strike to the neck before slowly straightening up. His cape settled around him like the wings of a great bird.
"Flash," Batman's voice was a low growl, weathered by countless nights like this. "What do you want?"
"I was in the neighborhood," Barry said with a shrug he didn't feel. "Thought you might need a hand."
"I don't."
"Would it stop me if you said you didn't?"
Batman finally turned his head, the white lenses of his cowl regarding the speedster. A long, slow breath escaped him, a sigh that spoke of a long-standing, weary familiarity. "No. It wouldn't."
"Didn't think so."
"Just stay out of my way."
It took them less than thirty seconds to finish up. While Batman used his grapnel to descend, Barry simply zipped down, tying up the unconscious men with their own shoelaces in a complex series of knots that would have made a sailor weep. By the time Batman was securing the last one, Barry was leaning against the Batmobile, arms crossed.
The ride to the Batcave was silent, filled only with the roar of the engine and the thrum of the rain. The cave itself was exactly as Barry remembered—a cathedral of shadows and technology, with the quiet squeaks of bats far overhead.
Under the cold light of the main computer bank, Bruce Wayne pulled off his cowl. His hair was damp with sweat, and there were new lines around his eyes that hadn't been there the last time Barry visited.
Barry phased out of his own suit, standing there in his street clothes, feeling suddenly small and very human in the immense space.
Bruce didn't offer a chair. He just leaned against the console, his arms crossed. "You're not 'in the neighborhood,' Barry. This is Gotham. No one comes here without a reason. What's wrong?"
The casual facade Barry had clung to crumbled. The fear, the sheer weight of it all, came rushing back. He ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping.
"I need your help, Bruce."
"Talk."
And Barry did. He told him everything. Not as the Flash, but as Barry Allen, a man who had seen his own ghost. He explained Savitar. Not as a villain, but as a cancer grown from his own future pain. He told him about the time loop, the remnants, the deaths of everyone he loved on a specific, cursed date. His voice was raw, stripped of any heroism, laying bare the terrifying paradox.
Bruce listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't flinch. His expression remained an unreadable mask, but his eyes, those always gave him away. They were focused, calculating, absorbing every horrifying detail.
When Barry finished, the only sound was the drip of water somewhere in the cave.
"So," Bruce said, his voice low. "You're here because you think I have a contingency plan for you."
"I know you have a contingency plan for me, Bruce," Barry said, a tired smile touching his lips. "You have a plan for Clark. You probably have a plan for Billy and Ollie. I'd be insulted if you didn't have one for me."
Bruce was silent for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. "I don't."
"Bruce."
"I don't have one, Barry."
Barry just looked at him, his expression pleading, calling on the truth of their friendship, on every battle they'd fought side-by-side.
Bruce finally broke, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. "...Fine."
He turned towards the computer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "The protocols are theoretical. Untested. They rely on—"
"Stop."
Bruce's hands froze.
"Don't," Barry said, his voice firm. "Don't bring them up. Don't even look at them. I don't want to know."
That finally got a reaction. Bruce turned, a flicker of genuine confusion in his eyes. "Why? You came here for this."
"I came here to tell you," Barry corrected him. "If I know about it… he knows about it. Savitar is me. He has my memories, my knowledge. The second I learn how you could stop me, he learns it too. It becomes useless."
He took a step closer, his expression deadly serious. "He's trapped right now. In the Speed Force. He's going to stay there for a while. But he will get out. And when he does, he's coming for my world. For my friends."
Barry met Bruce's gaze, his own eyes shadowed with a fear he couldn't hide. "I'm not asking you to help me fight him. Not yet. I'm just asking you to be ready. And… be careful. He doesn't just want to kill me. He wants to break me. And that means he might come for the people I'd call for help. That means he might come for you."
The unspoken words hung in the air between them. He might come for your family, too.
Bruce studied Barry's face, seeing the young man beneath the legend, terrified of his own reflection. He gave a single, slow nod.
"Understood."
It wasn't a promise of victory. It wasn't a grand declaration of alliance. It was Batman's version of comfort. Acknowledgment. Preparation.
"Thank you," Barry said, the words heavy with relief. He suited up in a flash of lightning. "I've got to get back."
Bruce watched the empty space where the Flash had been, the air buzzing with residual energy. He stood there for a long time in the silent, watchful dark of his cave, the gears in his mind already turning, constructing a new, terrible plan for a friend who was now his own worst enemy.