Chapter 4: Therapy

It took three days, but Bart lost the feeling in his butt.

He'd spent the morning folding every animal or object that existed in the big book of origami. As a result, the room had been littered with everything from paper antelopes to zebras. Bart had gotten so good at it that he even figured out how to make the two robots that bopped each other until someone's head sprung up. (The real thing had been another gift of Arsenal's, however—once the nurses retrieved Bart's weaponized NERF gun, they decided to confiscate anymore gifts received by the young Roy Harper.)

Bart was ready to leave. He'd been at the hospital for at least an eternity now, occasionally surviving on pot pies. The longer he stayed, the more Deathstroke conjured in his mind.

Deathstroke's menacing glare. Deathstroke's palpating, spectral voice. His height, which loomed over six feet too many for Impulse, and the way heavy fingers drew the trigger.

The shot that fired loudly; louder than even Bart's heartbeat.

Given the fact he was annoyed that his leader hadn't visited yet, stacked with hearing the gunshot every time he tried to fall asleep, Bart was disgruntled. Now, he lay curled in his bed with the blanket Joan made wrapped tightly around him until the brunet looked like a speedster burrito. The sour gummy worms that Tim had given him were pressed close to his chest, squeezed so tightly until he could feel them pounding.

Tim leaving the room left a sour taste in his mouth, too. He stared out the window that was further away than arm's length and felt the lump in his throat swell until he couldn't breathe. In truth, once the third Boy Wonder had entered his room, Bart hadn't realized how not having something to do scared him. He was Bartholomew Henry Allen. Impulse. What direction was he supposed to go if he'd completed the only thing he desperately needed years ago?

Especially with the condition of his leg. He was too scared to use it.

The metal wrapped around one leg dug into the flesh of the other, and it left uncomfortable red marks. He refused to look at either of them, so along with the fact he could barely move or twist his body, he kept them covered and refused to get up. Even the catheter was beginning to lose its appeal. (The sponge baths though—those were still okay.)

Bart was miserable. Bored, from having nothing to do and angry at himself because when Tim finally came, Tim didn't feel flattered. He didn't understand why Bart would have done anything for him, which made Bart even angrier. How was he supposed to do good in the world when Tim, one of his best friends, basically told him he couldn't be a hero?

It hurt. A lot. And every time he tried to push the thought away, it came back as a throbbing ache. He couldn't understand why, but Tim steering him from his thoughts felt like all the air in the room had disappeared. He was even less motivated to get out of the bed than he had been before.

"I want to see to him again," he mumbled aloud. Slowly, Bart wriggled in his blanket burrito and brought the gummy worms to his face. He inhaled the sour crystals and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I really, really see to talk to him again."

"Bart?"

Wow. Talking to himself really worked some magic. Bart snapped out of his ministrations and raised his chin. At the door was Jaime, who had a weird look on his face as he took in the sight of all the paper animals. His best friend muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, rolled his eyes in his usual manner and let his lips twist into an odd frown-smile.

"Geez, hermano. I leave you alone for three days and you let the zoo out in your room?" Jaime sighed loudly—whether it was irritated or exasperated, Bart could still hear the affection in his undertone, along with a 'What-am-I-going-to-do-with-you' gesture. "You even look like a giant taco."

Bart snorted. Had he been in a better mood, he probably would have laughed. Instead, he struggled as he uncoiled himself, feeling Jaime's fingers undo where he tucked the blanket. "I like to think of myself as a burrito." Unfurling from the blanket, he slowly sat up against the bed and sighed—then looked to his best friend again. "You brought me another book?"

Jaime handed it to him. College Algebra, 5ed. By Mark Dugopolski. "Yeah. You see, I figured since you remembered everything you read—"

"Done." Bart pushed the book aside after skimming the details and deemed it his new footrest. He looked up, smirking as Jaime made a face, and crossed his arms smugly.

His best friend blinked. Once, twice—maybe ten times, with an indescribable sound stretching from the back of his throat. Finally, he matched Bart's smirk, albeit less enthusiastically. "I hope you know you're a freak."

"Yeah, but I'm a freak that can do your math homework." The brunet raised his head to look more intelligent, but it simply conjured another sound from his friend. He could almost feel himself breathe again. Sure—this wasn't Tim, but having Jaime here to distract him was the next best thing. He rarely got to see Jaime outside of missions anymore because the guy was busy with school. No matter how much Bart begged him to hang out, Jaime would groan and complain about how he hated his academics.

At the moment, Jaime bothered to snicker and pulled on the complimentary armchair until it met the bed. He put aside the million Tupperware containers and slipped off his backpack to pull out a notebook. "So you gonna help me with my homework?"

"Seeing as you're the only one who didn't bring me pot pie, I'd think it'd be a good idea." There was something odd in the way Jaime reacted to Bart's statement, but he thought best to ignore it. The last thing Bart wanted was for someone to stare at him like—like he was broken, or he was a screw up—

"Oh, gummy worms. Share?"

—oh. Bart bit the inside of his mouth, looking down to the crumpled bag on his stomach. He'd only eaten a few when Tim was in the room hours ago. After that, they were in his arms like a child's teddy bear. "Uh…yeah. I guess—" Raising his gaze to the door, he was met with the sight of Tim.

Double wow.

"Whatareyoudoinghere?" He came back. Bart suppressed his shock as best he could, but the fact of the matter was—Tim came back. He sat up straighter in his bed, failing to conceal the surprise across his demeanor and looked to Tim. Whether it was out of anger or happiness, even he couldn't tell.

Once Tim realized he was being addressed, he raised his head and opened his mouth to speak. Not a word came out. His eyebrows pinched together and he grimaced.

"Found him outside when I first came." Jaime, however, immediately brought the attention back to him. Or tried, at least. Bart could hear the nervousness in his friend's voice, but his attention was still fixated on Tim. Yeah, he wished on the magic bag of gummy worms for Tim to come back—he just didn't expect for it to actually work.

Finally, Tim sighed and slowly sauntered forward. He placed his hands on the edge of the bed, squeezing the metal bars with anticipation before lifting his head again. "I wanted to apologize. For what I said to you."

Bart blinked.

"I would have done the same thing. Anyone—probably would have done the same thing." Tim's throat constricted. "We would have acted on…well…impulse."

Ah. Hearing his codename didn't make Bart feel any better. However, he swallowed the new discomfort that swelled in his throat and allowed his fingers to curl into the blanket. Come to think of it, no one had called him Impulse since his entry to the hospital. Not even Jay, Grandpa Barry, or Wally. "Okay. Crash. Apology accepted."

"So why won't you look me in the eye?"

His fingers curled tighter into the blanket. At that moment, the door opened again and Bart's nurse appeared. Beverley (his nurse—you started to learn a few things after a few sponge baths) looked to him kindly. She was tall and pretty. The way she presented herself reminded him more of his Grandma Iris. "Are you ready for physical therapy, Impulse?"

Bart shook his head, ready to animate a story about explosive bowels—

"You turned it down this afternoon, too." —when Tim interrupted, head raised and invested in the conversation. And—crap, he was frowning instead of tiptoeing. Bart froze, feeling his face grow pale. Beverly glanced Tim's way, an eyebrow high in the air along with a placid, somewhat guilty smile.

"Yes, well, uh...it seems like all the food that people are sending from Central City isn't agreeing with his stomach. We keep relaying messages back when the Flashes visit that it isn't a good idea to give him so much, but as soon as we send it off," Bev clicked her tongue. "More keeps coming."

To prove her point, Bart half-heartedly wiggled around the bed. The sound of food foil and wrappers crunched beneath him and he nodded sagely. "I've been packed all day. It'll probably fall out between my legs like a mudslide."

"Ew." Jaime twitched and backed up two feet. Bart hid his smirk.

Which was easy because Tim glanced his way again, his head raised high and a frown tight on his lips. "You don't want to go through with physical therapy."

"Whatwouldmakeyousaythat?" Craaap. Bart gritted his teeth, his eyebrows naturally contorting in the presence of both his teammates. Worst of all, Jaime was in the room to witness Tim and him annoy each other.

Beneath the shades, there was no doubt that Tim was unraveling the "mystery." Probably better than Wally, too, because Bats were just good like that. Suddenly he cocked his head, meeting Beverley's gaze plainly. "He's ready for physical therapy."

"No I'm no—" Well, that wouldn't have helped his case. Bart glared angrily at his leader.

"Uh, dude—" Jaime got up from his seat, obviously finding the problem out now, but faltered when Tim held up a hand, still talking to Bart's nurse.

"I'm his leader," he explained, voice raising firmly. "Trust me. He's ready for it."

Ugh. Beverley spared the speedster one glance, though it wasn't one Bart was familiar with outside the sponge baths. She looked the way Cassie did one day when Bart had stolen her clothes and ran around as WonderPulse. "If you're sure."

No. He was not sure and he totally had no right to this and Tim was so freaking moding Bart.

But for the first time since they'd seen each other all day, Tim looked his way with a real reaction on his face. Sure, it wasn't good reaction—just a suspicious frown and an eyebrow hiked in the air—however it beat out the guilty, wounded pride look Tim had been sporting. Bart couldn't help his own scowl, which to even his own face felt odd.

They looked at each other expectantly, waiting for the other to move. Then, because it was Tim and Tim was Robin, he turned his head back to Bevereley and nodded. "You go ahead and get what you need. My friend and I will bring him to the next room."

Again, Beverley offered a look, but said nothing. Instead, she turned in Bart's direction and smiled. "I'll be right back."

As soon as she left, Tim sauntered over and offered an arm. His gaze was calculative, even beneath his shades and Bart couldn't help his loud sigh.

Jaime looked back and forth between them, clearly unsure what to do in the situation. He snapped Bart out of his stupor by putting a hand on his shoulder. "Have you been holing yourself up here on purpose, hermano?"

"I would have gotten up eventually."

"You managed to sit still for three days." Tim reached out and pulled Bart's arm around his shoulder. "If you were willing to get back on the field, there's a better likelihood that you would have gotten up as soon as the surgery was over. Blue—help me out here."

Bart glared at his other best friend, but Jaime grimaced. The eldest teen bit the inside of his mouth, running a hand through long hair before mimicking Tim's actions. "Were you really trying to postpone leaving, man?"

Placing the gummy worms on the bed, the brunet fidgeted. He didn't miss the way Tim's attention turned to the crumpled bag of candy before returning to him. It was true—he was trying to get out of physical therapy, but—"I haven't even looked at my stupid leg since the day I got shot."

Or at least, to examine it to a full degree. A heavy sigh left his lips as he slowly rotated around and allowed his legs some breathing room. There it was—the thick hunk of metal that incarcerated his leg. He pulled his arms away from both his friends in order to lift it more easily off the bed and gritted his teeth as his feet dangled over the ground.

The metal hinge pierced into his leg, squeaking and squirming as he tried (and muttered in pain) to bend it. Even off the ground, his legs dangled, one painfully heavier than the other. Bart wiggled his toes and sure enough, they wiggled. An uncomfortable sensation stretched down his leg.

It didn't occur to him that Jaime and Tim were still in the room. Not until they brought themselves together and silently slung both Bart's arms around their shoulder. "One," Tim murmured under his breath, "two…three."

Bart shuddered as his feet touched the floor. It was cold. He pressed up against Jaime instinctively, burying his face as close as he could in the other boy's shoulder. In return, Jaime welcomed it. The brunet stumbled, good leg spazzing from the first time of use in three days. The other one dragged along the ground uncomfortably.

By the time they made it to the door, Beverley was there to meet them. A pair of crutches was tucked firmly beneath her arms, adjusted approximately to his size. In the hallway next to the entrance of his room was a chair. Tim and Jaime sat him down carefully and Bart sighed loudly. He wiggled his toes again. At least it was safe to know it was still his leg. Just not his own knee.

Beverley turned around and handed him both crutches. "You won't begin physical therapy until you go back to Central City, of course. But you'll need to get used to using crutches for a while to get around."

"Can I keep the bottle to pee in?" Bart scowled, staring at the crutches as though they were the spawn of the devil. "This is so retro."

"Ew. You just forgot about hygiene here, didn't you?" Jaime made a face, inspecting the crutches for himself. For some reason, he turned to Tim. "Uh—hey. Why don't you stand down the hallway, ese?"

Tim frowned.

"You know, so Bart will have a stopping point."

Silence.

"It'll be good for him."

Silence.

"Dude just—let me talk to him for a little bit." This time, Jaime rolled his eyes and pushed the other teen away, whether Tim agreed to it or not. He helped Bart up to his feet from one side as Beverley did with the other. "You know how to work these?"

Bart shook his head. "I've never damaged a leg before."

"You, uh—you've been immobilized before though. You know. In the future." Jaime's eyes darted back and forth. He looked to the younger teen awkwardly and—well, that was to be expected. They didn't speak about the future very often, or bring up the whole, Blue Beetle-became-a-slave-driver stuff.

"I could still walk," Bart pointed out. Thankfully Beverley didn't seem all too absorbed in the story. He supposed that nursing people and the occasional superhero on a daily basis made her numb to certain things. As he looked up, Jaime's eyes kept darting back and forth from Tim and him, his head jerking as he did so. Bart crossed his arms, trying his best for a scowl.

"Look." Jaime waved his hands around and gestured to Tim. "Truth is, I found him outside on a bench, crushed. I know you're sulking about this leg thing bro, but Rob's trying."

Bart bit the inside of his mouth. Tim looked out of place in the middle of the hallway, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and shoulders hunched uncharacteristically.

He couldn't help the small smile that curled against his lip. Tim looked like a dork. Scraping his crutch against the floor, Bart jerkily shrugged. "I just….don't want him to think it's his fault for this."

"And he doesn't want you to think it's your fault. For time's sake," Jaime did another gesture—a wave with his hand that meant been-there, done-that. "Be sincere about your apology. Be angry later. I can't stand having two of my best friends angry at each other, comprende?"

"Si." The problem wouldn't leave his mind, but knowing Tim was struggling too was strangely calming. Bart curled his fingers against the grips.

Beverley, taking her cue that the conversation was over, returned. She smiled sagely to both boys. "It's very simple. I want you to use your crutches and walk down the aisle. Uh…sweetie?" Bev turned to Tim.

Tim bit his lip. "Robin."

"Oh. Oh. Yes." Wow—she didn't faze one bit whenever scrubbing Bart down, but was certainly blushing now. Robin the Boy Wonder's reputation exceeded him. Rolling his eyes, Bart couldn't help the knot that suddenly twisted in his stomach. "Step back a little more. A little more…yes! Right there, that's good."

Bart dropped his weight and dangled his feet over the ground. "So, how do I work these? One-by-one? Do I get to like, hit people with them?"

WHACK. "Ow!"

"Oh, uh. Sorry, Bev." Wow, she looked angry. Turning his attention back to the crutches, Bart swung himself around. Yeah—that was easy. He eased his weight onto his good leg, careful not to strain his other one and wobbled forward. One step, two step. CLACK. CLACK. Green eyes kept to his feet. The crutches didn't move him very far, but he was moving—

"You're doing well."

Looking up, Bart met Tim's gaze. They locked eyes as he inched forward. CLACK. "Thanks." Again, he felt the tightness in his throat and the knot in his stomach, watching every part of Tim's face. His leader's gaze was somber, eyebrows thin and together. Tim's lips were pulled tightly, arms crossed. Even under the shades—"I don't want you looking at me like that."

CLACK.

Tim startled. His grip tightened on his own arm, then he looked away.

Bart frowned. CLACK. CLACK. "I don't want you to not look at me either, you know."

"I just want you to be able to walk." Tim looked back up—but once he did, he grimaced, faltering again. "To run."

"You think I don't want to? I'm like, dying of chicken pot pie over here." CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

"That's what I'm wondering." CLACK—

Bart halted. He looked up to his leader—to his friend, and froze in his spot. His heart thrummed and a lump swelled in his throat. Instead of just looking at Tim, he…looked at Tim.

No one was supposed to know what he was thinking. But…this was Tim. Dorky, socially-inept Battish Tim who knew how everyone ticked because of just the way he watched. And here he was, doing it again with the brunet on the other side of him.

Tim pulled his hands out of his pockets. They uncurled from fists and he held them out welcomingly. On the other side, Jaime and Beverley were at least yards away. His best friend's gaze softened and he shifted between his feet. Allowed Tim to shine through beneath all of that Robin.

"I want you to be able to do what you're great at. And come back. With…" Red bloomed in his cheeks and Tim twitched. "Us. Me. I'm…I'm sorry. Really, I am."

Oh. Bart's hands tightened around his crutches. He swiveled in his position and started again. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK—"Whoa—"

"Oof." Tim stumbled backward six steps and engulfed Bart as the (ex)speedster fell forward, crutches and all. Bart grabbed the teen from behind, fisting Tim's jacket with his hands and buried his face in the other teen's neck and creating the weirdest hug ever.

Nuzzling, Bart took a deep breath. "Doc."

Above him, Tim moved. He could feel the small contortions until—Tim smiled. Quiet and meaningful, just like Tim always was. "McFly."

"Mmsorry." Bart's hands tightened. "It'stotallyyourfaultandtotallymyfaultand—I'm sorry." He didn't like arguing with Tim. It made him feel worse than worse.

The space around them disappeared until they were simply torso against torso. Bart never hated the stupid crutches and the cast more until now as he realized he couldn't hold Tim closer. However, Tim sighed softly—relief, most likely, and let his chin rest above Bart's hair.

"I can agree to that," he whispered, voice cracking.

"Yousmellnice."

"It's…Nightwing's aftershave. Uh." Grife, he could hear the blush as it spread across the elder teen's face. "You're…really heavy."

"Ha. I just buffed out. Got twenty pounds added to me. I'm ripped you know." Pulling away slightly from his leader, Bart looked up and grinned gently. "Very ripped."

"Noted." Tim grinned back.

They were good now. Bart sighed loudly, content, and allowed himself back on his crutches. From the other side of the hall, both Jaime and Beverley clapped.

"That's very good of you, Bart." Bev smiled just as contently, though she looked a little weirded out. Jaime, too, with that usual look of confusion and constipation. (Then again, that was normal. Jaime tended to look at him funny.) "We'll start taking strolls outside so you can get used to them."

"Guess that means no more catheter." Fumbling with his new method of transportation, Bart blew the hair out of his face. "Can I hang out with my friends for a bit?"

Beverley nodded. "I don't see why not."

Before they returned to Bart's room, Tim touched his shoulder. He looked down to the younger teen thoughtfully and fumbled. "I brought Back to the Future with me. If you want to watch them."

"All three of them?" Bart grinned.

"Yeah."

Without even thinking, Bart dropped his crutches. He threw his arms around Tim's shoulders and hid a snicker as the teen struggled again. Jaime made a noise as the crutches hit his feet and Tim fumbled. Bart only laughed. "Crash."

xxx

Jaime stayed through most of the first movie before announcing he had to leave. There was something funny about his voice, and he looked everywhere but Bart's face whenever conversing until the end where they fist bumped. Giddy, Bart managed to convince Tim to sit on the bed with him and immediately rested his head upon his leader's shoulder. They curled up with two layers of blankets above them, and every so often, Bart would tap out Morse code on his knee. Every so often, Tim laughed.

"So how come you're Doc and I'm Marty?" Bart murmured under his breath sleepily. He decided cuddling was nice—Tim and he needed to cuddle more often. Preferably with more pillows and less chicken pot pie around the room.

"I doubt very many people would trust you as a doctor, Bart." Tim snorted as Bart pouted. "Uh. More so than me, at least."

"I could be a doctor. And Doc." The brunet scoffed, half-offended and grinned languidly. "All I'd have to do is read a book about it."

"That's hardly the case."

"Hah. Suuure. But most people these days go to college and all they do is read. Read, read, read." Squinting at the screen, Bart snickered as the Marty McFly on the screen began running away. "I memorize everything that I read. Even the moles on peoples' faces and the page number it's on."

"So you've got an eidetic memory." Tim turned his head slightly to take in the sight of his friend. "That could come in handy."

"Of course! I'm telling you. If there was a book on the Batmobile, I could read it and build one of my own in ten seconds flat. And that's me going slow." A gleam appeared in Bart's eyes and he looked to the corner of his vision, where Tim was flashing a look. "What do you have against being Marty?"

"Well. I…used to have a crush on Michael J. Fox." Huh. Tim made a face, a begrudging smile curling across his lips. "Back when I first watched this movie as a kid. Thought it was cool how he ripped on guitar."

"Before your crush on Nightwing?"

"That was never proven."

Grinning, Bart tossed his head back with a laugh. He inspected the retro movie and crossed his arms to mimic Tim's gestures. "I think I'd look better in the vest."

"Yeah." The corner of Tim's lips raised. "You probably would."

Crash. The thought warmed Bart from head to toe on the inside. He tucked himself closer under Tim's grasp, no longer giving a damn about personal space. There was nothing he wanted to do more than babble and chatter and hear Tim's voice as he responded and to see Tim's reaction and watch Tim watch him. But this was good, too. Different.

He liked the video games and occasional sleepovers they had. And he liked this, too. Without thinking, he curled his hand around Tim's and smiled when Tim squeezed back.

So they stayed silent, happy in each others' company with Bart tapping Morse code on his knee. N-I-C-E. S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R. C-R-A-S-H.

"Who taught you Morse code?" Tim turned his head. Actually—he'd been staring for quite a while.

"My dad." Bart shrugged. Then to show off, he began rattling off the first few lines of The Hunger Games against his knee. "For a bit. Then Red Robin. I've told you about him, right?"

"You've…mentioned him."

"He was a friend in the future. My mentor for a short while." What to say about Red Robin. Actually—what…wasn't there to say? Red Robin freed him. Taught Bart about his speed. Everything. Before he could go on a tangent on what made Red Robin so dear to him, something beeped.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Tim parted carefully from their hold. Faintly, Bart could hear Nightwing on the other end. "Yeah?" Pause. "Yeah, I'm coming." Tim rolled his eyes and looked back to Bart as a faint laugh could be heard. "Nightwing says 'hi.'"

"Cool." Bart waved.

"Did I—?" Suddenly Tim cut himself off and turned red. His jaw tightened and he turned around, the lack of amusement evident on his face. "Did you ask Wally about—he hung up." After that, a Tim-ish smirk appeared across his face, mischievous and a little evil.

It was exactly what Bart liked about him. "What's he planning on asking Wally?"

"Ask Wally. Most likely Wally's planning on asking the same thing." Shaking his head, Tim looked to the speedster wryly and parted from the bed. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and his smirk widened slightly. "Those two know everything about each other. But the instant something is different, neither one can seem to function."

"Must be a grown-up thing." Bart snickered and thought back to the day Grandpa Barry insisted Wally and he would appreciate having little kids run around the house. He lay back in his bed and looked to his friend appreciatively. "Must be good to be in love, too. Or whatever the Flash and Nightwing call it."

"You think?"

Bart nodded without reluctance. "More than anything."

They watched each other. Behind Tim, the sun was finally setting for San Francisco. Orange light fluttered into the room, glowing against the origami jungles and safaris Bart had created for the room and illuminated against the Boy Wonder's light skin. It carved a soft outline of his face—handsome, with ebony hair that tinted brown and a smile that looked broader in sunlight. In that moment, Bart wished he could remember that image forever.

He reached out, nearly childlike, and felt his heart flutter as Tim stepped forward. Tim's lips twitched—like he wanted to say something, or do something. Faintly, Bart wondered if his lips were twitching too. Then—

"I gotta go on patrol." Tim pulled away, voice heavy. "That's…what the call was for."

"Oh." Um. Bart's hand curled around Tim's wrist and he thumbed the veins there. Disappointment bubbled in his stomach. "You'll come back though, right?"

At this point, maybe it was stupid for him to even ask that. Tim's lip twitched in the way that meant disbelief and his way of saying, I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-me-that. "I'm not going to leave you."

Crash. "Crash." The grin conjured across Bart's face again.

He threw his arms around Tim, getting as much of his friend in his arms as he could, and hummed when Tim hugged back.