Rejected and Accepted.
Someone pointed out that there is some non-American spelling and phrasing, which I hadn't realised I was reverting back to. I had originally tried to keep everything as American as I could (since the show itself is American,) but I am Australian and things tend to slip through when you become too engrossed with the writing to pay attention to changing your technically fine spelling. So I've axed the idea and will be continuing my writing with my natural spelling (though I will endeavour to keep odd slang/phrases out,) at least until I've finished this first draft and if I decide to edit the whole thing. I hope it doesn't jar anyone too badly!
Also, I'd really like to thank 'An avid fan' for their much too kind of a review. You're a sweetheart.
"Fall seven times, stand up eight." — Japanese proverb
Bob had no name for the surge of emotion his body experienced when Bart declared that he wanted to stay with him again – when the boy chose him over both the troublesome teen delinquent and the insufferable idiot who had somehow managed to slink his way into the education system.
It was probably surprise. Shock. Maybe even a dash of the already low respect he held for the boy fleeing at the sight of his trusting, naive face. Because, honestly, what an idiot. He'd only just wrangled himself free, and he was already jumping back in?
Bob wanted to move closer and wrap his – hands around the boy's throat? No, that … didn't really do anything for him. Not after seeing Bart in such a state in Luke's apartment. He still hadn't figured out why the sight had made him react the way he had (and apparently still was,) but he was sure it was just a technicality. A flaw in the perfect picture. A loose link in the chain. A missing cog stopping the entire clock from working properly.
… Right?
He wasn't sure about much any more.
In hindsight, it occurred to him that he was running off of instincts more and more often lately, rather than logical reasoning. All his careful planning had practically been tossed out the window in favour of something much messier and, to him, completely incomprehensible. Bob was not unaccustomed to the failure of abandoning one's plans and allowing imprudent emotions full rein to control the show. Definitely not. But there was still usually a fairly obvious source of this. Anger, revenge, wounded pride. These were motives easily spotted, things he could identify despite his inability to prevail over them. He was, after all, no inept child incapable of analysing his own actions and behaviours.
But this … made no sense whatsoever. He had been fully aware of what had driven him on his chase for Bart Simpson's blood. Now, though, everything had changed, and he didn't know what had led him here, let alone where to go now. If he no longer thirsted for revenge for whatever reason, why did he not simply drop the boy and move on? If he did still desire revenge but merely could see no way of successfully carrying out his plans with so many witnesses loyal to the victim, why did he not simply drop the boy and move on for now?
What held him here? Why couldn't he dissect himself for the answer?
Why couldn't he simply drop the damned boy?
-~X~-
Since he wasn't in danger of keeling over and dying without hospital observation, Bart was informed that, after some minor surgery to one of his fingers that was badly broken, and then some brief time under supervision, he'd be free to go.
They'd already done their x-rays and fixed up his cuts, checked his internal organs and all that while he was dopey on the painkillers given to him yesterday shortly after his arrival. He apparently hadn't lost enough blood to require a transfer, since the bags that were hanging on his metal hat-stand were all filled with liquids that were clear in colour, not blood red. But his doctor told him that if he had lost any more he might have gone into shock. Which Bart had seen enough movies to know wasn't a good thing.
Marge was an almost constant presence by his bedside, despite the fact he'd spent the majority of Thursday sleeping after his surgery. Homer and the girls had showed up at one point, but Bart had been too exhausted to stay awake for long while they were there.
It was touching, really, how highly they'd suddenly placed him on their priority list. If only he'd known during those years of being ignored and disregarded that all he had to do was stay away from home for a while and get in a horrible car crash.
Bart had to mentally scold himself for being so bitter. But it was hard not to be. His family thought he needed them now more than ever, but he'd needed them most before any of it had even happened. He'd needed their help to realise and fix things before they'd fallen apart around and underneath him. But then again, he guessed it wasn't like he was some innocent person in all this – far from it. And at least they were there ready to help pick up the broken pieces.
If only they knew how little they could actually help.
Late Friday morning, Bart awoke to the sounds of a conversation nearby. Nelson was in the room. He and Marge were having a discussion about … food? Something to do with cooking. Typical.
Bart licked his lips, evaluating his sore throat with a discreet clearing of the throat. There was the rhythmic knead of a quiet headache, and annoyingly bleary vision when he opened his eyes, but other than that he felt alright. Drowsy.
"Bart."
Nelson had apparently noticed his movement.
Bart was sure he had some witty remark on hand about interrupting their conversation, but failed to pull all the correct words together in his head to make it coherent and on topic, and so left it unsaid. Damn meds.
"Hey," he said instead.
Raising his hands to his face, he tried to rub at his blurry eyes, only to smash a hand full of plastic splints and bandages against his face. "Oh." He blinked at his hand to get it into focus. Four of the fingers on his left hand were all splinted – excluding his lonely thumb – the middle finger wrapped with the most care of them all. Bart smiled a little as he remembered Luke's outrage when, after he'd broken Bart's pinkie finger, Bart had flipped him off with the same hand. Hence all the broken fingers. Man he was stupid.
"How are you feeling?" asked a nurse with neat orange hair and freckles.
Bart sat up a little and had to clutch his spinning head. "Dizzy," he said honestly.
Marge was by his side in a flash. "You don't have to get up, honey."
"How's it looking?" he asked, looking at his hand again. "The … you know … finger thing." He couldn't remember the word he meant for the life of him.
The nurse smiled. "Looks like everything is just fine. In fact, you're set to go when you feel able."
Bart nodded his thanks and the nurse left the room. Well, at least his fingers would be okay. He'd be back to flipping off dangerous psychopaths in no time.
Marge's warm hands encompassed Bart's uninjured one. "Looks like we might make it home before your father and the girls do," she said with a smile. "I'm open to requests for dinner. You must be starving for something home-cooked after having to eat nothing but hospital food."
For some reason, Bart hadn't anticipated this. He had no idea why not, but his mother's logical assumption that he would be coming straight home after being hospitalised hadn't crossed Bart's mind. And he was having trouble processing it and any potential lies he could tell to get out of the situation. What could he possibly say to his mother that would make her let him leave hospital and not go home with her? His brain was still too affected by the anaesthesia, too slow and stupid.
"I'm fine," was all he could find.
"I know, but still, some good food never hurt anybody."
He was so screwed.
As soon as he was able to Drag himself up, Bart ducked into the bathroom and came out dressed in the clothes Marge had brought from home for him. She'd tried to insist on coming in and helping him dress, but Bart had insisted she not. And all the while he'd tried to think of an excuse not to go home with her. He wanted to – oh boy did he want to go home and just sleep for the rest of the week and be fussed over. But that mightn't be safe. Luke was unpredictable. Especially if Bob was right and the revenge Luke craved had been taken to a whole new level with Mark's death. Plus, he'd promised to watch Bob's back until the whole thing was over.
Bart didn't know how much help he was going to be in his current state, but he wasn't about to just drop Bob now that Mark was dead. Not after all the man had done for him.
When Bart was dressed and everything was ready, Marge unnecessarily took his arm and made to escort him out of the room, Nelson not far behind. Bart sucked in a deep breath and refused to budge. He had to say something – anything.
"I'm not going home," he said quickly, pushing it out so he couldn't take any of it back.
Still holding on, Marge blinked at him, then frowned. "What do you mean? Are you feeling okay?"
He sighed and nodded. "I'm fine. But I can't go home with you. It's … hard to explain."
"Well you had better try darn hard to do so, mister," she said, her tone hardened. "Because I don't like your chances of walking out of this hospital with the intentions of going anywhere but home to your family."
Bart opened his mouth but had nothing. He was usually pretty good with lies, but he just couldn't come up with anything. Either his brain was still trying to fully kick-start itself, or he was having a really hard time formulating another lie to tell his mother. Perhaps both.
Marge cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well? Where do you think you're going if not home?"
"Nelson's," Bart said, repeating the lie pre-set by him, Bob, and Eric.
"Absolutely not." Marge shook her head, then sent Bart a beseeching look. "Honey, you just had surgery. You were in a car accident. You can go visit your friends later, after you're feeling better. Okay?"
No, that wasn't okay.
"But m-"
"No! This isn't up for discussion, young man."
Nelson stepped up to Bart's unoccupied side, finally joining the conversation. "Uh, Mrs. S., if I can interrupt? There's a pretty good reason why Bart wants to come with me."
Still looking rankled, Marge turned her anxious eyes onto Nelson. "And I'm sure it's simply not good enough, Nelson. I'm sorry."
Nelson nodded in an understanding kind of way. "I hear you. But please hear me out." When Marge only pursed her lips together, Nelson jabbed a thumb at Bart. "This guy right here? Totally in love with me." He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in a 'what can you do?' manner.
Bart spent a moment computing what Nelson had said, only reaching suspicion and narrowed eyes before Marge started stuttering.
"W-what? What do you- what are you talking about?"
Nelson shrugged again and slung an arm over Bart's shoulders. "We're a thing."
Bart wasn't sure what to make of the situation. It was suspended somewhere between hilarity and embarrassment. Surely Nelson didn't think this would work? Marge wouldn't even buy it; Bart wasn't gay. And even if he was there's still no way she'd let him go home with Nelson because of it.
Marge's eyebrows didn't seem to know if they wanted to dip into a frown or jerk up in surprise. They kind of did both.
"This isn't the time for making silly jokes," she finally said, hints of hesitant reprimand in her tone.
"It's true," Nelson said, jerking the arm that was around Bart's shoulders. "Isn't it?"
Bart blinked rapidly, not sure if he should go along with Nelson's stupid lie or not. "Uh …"
Marge didn't wait for his answer. She shook her head. "I don't believe it."
There was a brief pause, and then the next thing Bart knew, Nelson's face was way too close. He felt Nelson's hand shift from his shoulder to the back of his head to stop him from going anywhere, the soft but unwavering pressure of lips on his. The kiss only lasted a moment, but was far from a simple peck. Nelson didn't look directly at Bart when he pulled away, but instead looked at Marge and asked, calmly, "What about now?"
Bart could only sneak a single, mortified glance at his mother with wide eyes he hadn't closed. She looked just as embarrassed as he did, if not more so. Entirely red, her whole body language had flipped directly into uncomfortableness.
"Uhm … oh. Uh … I …" she stuttered uncontrollably, withdrawing her arm from Bart so she could wring her hands together nervously. "O-okay. But I don't see why this means he can't come home." She peeked at Bart for a millisecond and blushed all over again. But there was contemplation woven into her naturally open expression that spoke of different matters. Resignation, too, like she knew that she suddenly had less say in what Bart did and where he went.
She stared at the carpet for a moment before looking back at them and saying, "H-how about Bart comes home for one night. Has dinner with his family. We've all missed him so much. I'll be much happier having spent some time with my eye on him. And this way he can pack an overnight bag to take with him."
Nelson shared a questioning glance with Bart. Was one night okay? Bart didn't know the answer, but considering everything that was going on he figured his mum was being incredibly liberal. Too liberal, in fact. He was sure there was something else factoring into her decision. What, though, he didn't know.
He nodded his head. "Yeah, that's alright."
Although clearly still flustered, Marge smiled at him.
"Well okay," said Nelson, "but I'd like to come, too, if that's okay with you, Mrs. S."
"Oh." Marge almost seemed like she would refuse. But then she bit her lip and nodded, another smile appearing. "I don't see why not. I guess I'd like to have a chat with the both of you anyway, since …" She swallowed and looked between them, apparently at a loss for words. "Since you two … since this has been brought to my attention." A small laugh escaped her mouth in a sigh. "It actually explains a lot," she admitted. "And I'm glad it's this and not something sinister that's been keeping Bart away."
Oh god. When will the lies stop? How had running from amateur gangster thugs turned into him being gay? – with Nelson?
After settling that, they left. Marge rambled on about what'd been happening at home (not a lot,) while she drove. Bart sat across from Nelson in the back of the stuffy car. Apparently oblivious to Bart's irritation over being kissed without warning, Nelson reclined back and let his limbs take up more room than his designated seat provided.
"Here." Nelson passed him his phone. "You'd better tell you-know-who about the change of plans."
Bob. He was supposed to be picking them up from the hospital. Bart wondered how the man would react to the news Bart wasn't coming until tomorrow. Scrolling through Nelson's surprisingly long list of contacts, he found nothing under b for Bob, s for Sideshow Bob, or even t for Terwilliger. He nudged Nelson and gave him an expectant look.
"Where's his number?"
"Check the c's."
Bart scrolled back up to c and immediately zeroed in on one contact name in particular. Clown. He couldn't repress the grin that forced its way onto his face. When he got a new phone he was so putting Bob's number under the same name.
He opened a new message up and addressed it to Clown. Hey this is Bart. Change of plans. Mum insisted I stay the night. Bart re-read his message and chewed on his bottom lip in thought before adding: Do you think thats safe? and hit send. He left the phone cradled in his hands on his lap, somehow knowing that Bob would reply quickly, and so wasn't surprised when the phone buzzed less than a minute later.
From: Clown
I believe one night won't kill you.
Shall I pick you up tomorrow from your house, then?
Bart wrote back an affirmative. Yeah okay. Me or nelson will text you when
This time the phone buzzed before he could set it down.
From: Clown
Nelson is staying at your house, too?
Bart typed a quick, Yup. Long story. and sent it before passing Nelson back his phone, thinking that was going to be the end of the conversation. Bart blinked when Nelson's phone buzzed once again. This time, Nelson opened it up and read it, scrolling a bit with his thumb, then smirked and started typing.
"Who was that from?" Bart asked. "What did it say? What are you typing?"
Nelson hit one last button before passing it over.
From: Clown
What happened? Is everything all right?
And then Nelson's sent reply: Oh everythings great. Nelson just finally told mum that me and him are an item
Bart felt his jaw drop of its own accord. He whipped his head around to stare at Nelson, who, looking straight ahead, was clearly having a difficult time keeping a straight face.
An outraged "Why?!" was all Bart could manage.
A small amount of stifled laughter squeezed its way out of Nelson. "You're too easy, Simpson. And so is he."
Bart dropped his expression into a deadpan. "You're such a dick."
Nelson's phone didn't buzz again for the rest of the night.
-~X~-
Being in the car as it pulled into the driveway of his home had never felt so dangerous before. Bart's skin tingled with sharp, invisible pinpricks, and his heart ached with the effort of repressed instincts to get the heck out of there. The last time he'd seen his house Mark had been lounging on the front lawn near the boundary fence with a handful of his goons. It had become a place he absolutely could not go. It'd been seared into his brain – danger.
The sudden turn of the table wasn't something he could convince his lately anxiety-riddled body to accept so easily. He was glad that Nelson was with him. Having someone who knew the truth and was willing to watch his back was relieving.
Luckily, though, as alert and wary as the sight of the outside of his home made him, the inside was a totally different story. As soon as he crossed the threshold his shoulders eased down and his heartbeat began to even out. Everything was as he left it. It even smelt the same. It was like being transported to last week, when none of the truly bad stuff had even happened.
It would be easy to simply forget everything that was going on and fall back into how things were before. Mark was gone. He could do it. He could text Bob and apologise and say that he just wanted to stay here and sleep for a whole year or two or three until Mark and Luke's faces have been shed from his memory like the topic of last week's homework assignment.
His family loved him again.
He could do it.
But he wouldn't. Because there was this niggling, gnawing, unfinished debt he owed. He owed it to Nelson and to Eric, but most of all he owed it to Bob, who was the one in danger now – the one who had put himself in danger to take Bart out of it. And to think Bart hadn't even trusted the man.
Bart thought about this as he was escorted up the stairs by Marge like he was a toddler. She helped him into bed, and he was just way too exhausted to fight her on it.
"Sleep for a while," she told him as she tucked him in. "Homer and the girls won't be back for a while yet, and you need some Z's. When you wake up I'll make you some lunch. Or dinner. Whichever."
Again, he didn't fight it. He didn't want to this time, either; he was on the verge of passing out.
She turned to Nelson, who was hanging back by the doorway. "And you, Nelson. Why don't you come with me downstairs and I'll make you something now."
"Thanks Mrs. S., but no thanks. I've had breakfast. Maybe you should go get some shut-eye yourself. You look tired," he said. "I'll stay here and make sure Bart's okay."
To her credit, she only wavered for a moment before she smiled at Nelson, and oh yes she did look tired.
"All right, Nelson. Thank you. But I'll be having a chat with you two later tonight, you hear?"
They surrendered their acknowledgement that there was going to be 'a talk' later on, and she left the room, making a bit of a pointed show of pushing the door a little wider open and eyeballing them on her way out. She may as well have said 'and no funny business' while she was at it.
"Dude, your mum's adorable," Nelson said after she was well out of earshot.
Bart grumbled and turned over so his back was facing the window. "You're just loving this, aren't you?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
The bed dipped as Nelson plopped himself down onto it, forcing Bart to wriggle back to make room on the narrow mattress.
"Hey watch it!" Bart warned, a small amount of pain lancing through different parts of his body when the mattress was jarred. The painkillers still in his system helped dull most of the ache, but he still had to be careful with himself. "Broken bones here, if you've forgotten."
There was a pause before Nelson shimmied down onto his back, much gentler than before. "Sorry," he said genuinely. "It's kind of surreal though, don't you think? It feels like a dream – finding you in that room? It doesn't feel … real."
"It feels real enough for me." Bart waved his mummified hand above the sheets he was securely tucked under.
"Yeah, yeah, said I was sorry didn't I." Nelson grinned at him before putting his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.
Bart suddenly felt mildly embarrassed by the fact there were glow in the dark stars scattered over the ceiling directly above them. But the familiar scent of his bed sheets, the well-known dip of his pillow, all lulled him toward sleep. The edges of his vision fuzzed pleasantly. He closed his eyes, and something slid languidly into his mind, something that needed to be voiced. Without cracking his eyes open, he said, "Nelson? I'm sorry that I dragged you into all of this. You didn't ask for any of it. But … thanks for helping me anyway."
The bed shifted ever so slightly.
"Don't dwell on it, Simpson. Just remember one day when I'm being chased by crazy wannabe gang bangers that you owe me big time."
Bart smiled into his pillow and murmured, "I won't forget," and, satisfied, finally allowed sleep to drag him under.
His rest was blissful and swift, and although it felt like he'd only been asleep for a few minutes, he was soon woken by Maggie and told to come downstairs for dinner, apparently having slept the rest of the day away.
Of course, Nelson was there, standing behind Maggie as Bart sat up in bed and groaned groggily as his chest in particular immediately protested.
"Evenin', sleeping beauty," Nelson said straight-faced, before helping him downstairs, where the rest of Bart's family were all seated around the laden dinner table, directing warm smiles at him.
It made his heart ache. For some reason it didn't feel real. It felt like a dream, or a nightmare – the cruel kind that showed you your heart's desire only to tread and trample all over it by forcing you back into reality.
All through dinner, Bart had to keep swallowing down the lump in his throat that just wouldn't go away.
Unfortunately for both Bart and Nelson, Marge hadn't been kidding about 'having a talk' with them. Bart had hoped she'd chicken out, or at the very least go easy on them. Instead, after dinner was over and she'd shooed everyone else out of the kitchen, she'd unleashed every ounce of parental concern she'd ever possessed on them. It'd been intense. And utterly mortifying.
Bart and Nelson exited the kitchen where they'd left Marge at the table and walked with as much speed as they could be subtle with back to the safety of Bart's bedroom. Once inside, Bart closed the door, then remembered his mother's demand that it be left open at all times while they were alone together inside. He desperately wanted privacy from the mother who thought he was inclined to do intimate things with Nelson if they were alone together with a bed, but he also really, really didn't want to give her any reason to assume it either. So, groaning, he opened the door again a quarter of the way.
"Bart," Nelson said, and Bart turned to see the brunette standing next to a blow-up mattress on the floor next to the bed. Nelson gave him a disappointed shake of his head. "I'm afraid your mother doesn't trust us. She must have sensed the intense passion you have for me. Came to the logical conclusion that you simply can't keep your hands off of all this." He idly gestured at himself.
Bart rolled his eyes and stomped over the blow-up mattress so he could collapse onto his own bed. He'd done it as gently as possible but still managed to inflict some minor waves of pain. "This isn't funny," he said into his pillow, miserable voice muffled.
"You're wrong. It is. It really, really is."
Bart turned his head so he could breathe. "When did she even set that up?"
"Probably got your dad to do it while she lectured us about safe sex," Nelson said with an easy shrug.
"Oh god. Why is this happening? I don't deserve this – no one deserves this." He paused to glare accusingly at Nelson. "Actually, I can think of one person who deserves it."
"Hey now, I got us off with one night, which was more than you were working towards."
"And you couldn't come up with something better than us being gay together?" Bart asked dryly.
Nelson shrugged again. "Apparently not. I didn't exactly have much time to come up with a lie to save your drowning butt, did I?"
Grumbling under his breath, Bart rolled onto his back and settled his busted hand over his chest, feeling the pain killers he'd taken with his dinner start to gloss over the fading previous ones.
"Hey, Bart," Nelson said casually, like someone about to ask about the weather. "What's up with your sister? She didn't look too happy at dinner."
Bart blinked blearily, barely holding onto comprehension of the conversation. "Huh? Lisa or Maggie?"
"Lisa."
"Oh." He shook his head a little, letting it roll over his pillow sloppily. "I dunno, man. I didn't notice. I mean, she's kinda on to me about this whole thing. I had to tell her a while back to keep away from Mark and that when they were, like, hanging out on our front lawn. Told her to be careful. She definitely knows something. Doesn't like that I'm keeping secrets. Dangerous, dangerous secrets …" Bart trailed off with a yawn.
"Okay, Bart, okay. Get some sleep."
Not even remembering what they'd been talking about, Bart happily obeyed and sunk into oblivion.