I'M SO SORRY! The internship situation got so out of control, you have no idea. And then this chapter just wasn't editing itself, so I had to clear some brain space for it. (I feel like an old computer.)

Some of you requested more Nat and Bart time and little did you know that that was exactly what I had planned. What a happy coincidence.

Chapter Seven

my memory is cruel

Nathaniel

If given the choice between bed arrest and physiotherapy, Nathaniel would readily opt for the latter. At least when he was stretching he felt slightly productive. The massaging he could do without, even if his shoulders were screaming at him from the tension most of the time. Dr Elgar had told him that was a result of bad posture and weeks in bed, even if they had taken all measures to lessen it. But the point was that he didn't like strangers touching him, and because some of his muscles clearly resented him, the massages often ended up being anything but pleasant.

"Breathe in," the therapist told him. Nathaniel focused on her freckled face for a split second before she pressed his left leg a little closer to his chest. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth as the pain shot up his side. "And out."

Nathaniel opened them again as he exhaled to look around, maybe find something to distract his brain from the pain.

The physiotherapy gym was an open space behind large glass doors. It was located on the lowest floor of the hospital and for the past three days Nathaniel did a physiotherapy session during lunch hours so no one besides the necessary staff was in attendance.

The space looked like a safer version of a gym—at least that was compared to what Nathaniel remembered from his swimming days. The floor had been covered in a type of soft, blue material that presumably served as protection from falls. In front of the mirrored wall stood a line of bicycles, followed by elliptical machines. Three large balls were spread around the room. A rack full of different types of weights had been shoved into the far-left corner. Other equipment Nathaniel didn't recognise was scattered in pairs around the area, including a slightly elevated platform with two parallel bars.

As Nathaniel underwent his torture, Bartimaeus was bouncing on a bright red ball with a deadpan expression plastered on his face. It almost made him feel better, because only Bartimaeus would manage to pull off a downright bored expression while bouncing on a gym ball, Nathaniel figured. Hidden talents.

"Breathe, Mr Mandrake," the therapist reminded him. "You're doing very well."

In her dreams, he was. Nathaniel bit his lip not to let the words slip through. His pain was manageable most of the time. In fact, when heavily medicated, he barely ever felt anything but a dull throb. However, physiotherapy made his side pound and burn—he could feel his heartbeat there—and his muscles protest at being used so much after so long. And Nathaniel's mind could hardly hold in the frustration as it was.

No one was telling him anything. Kitty and Piper hadn't visited him since he'd woken up, despite their promises, and Bartimaeus knew why but refused to tell him. On top of that, he didn't know what was going on outside of that godforsaken hospital. He was being treated like a baby, and he did not appreciate it. After all, he had saved London. He had risked his life and now was undergoing all this pain as a thanks.

As did Bartimaeus, his mind reminded him. As did Kitty.

Well, he'd been ready to die for the cause.

As was Bartimaeus, his mind insisted. As was Kitty.

Nathaniel hissed, and the physiotherapist loosened her hold, interpreting it for pain. That was just as well. He inhaled deeply, taking advantage of the break, feeling how his skin stretched and his side protested again. He huffed, deeply irritated with his body. There was already sweat lining his forehead. He could feel it pooling between his shoulder blades as well.

"Let's move on to the next exercise," she suggested, helping him shift. Keeping his shoulders still on the floor, she twisted his right leg so it went over his left. She did this slowly and gently, so that his injured side didn't rub against the floor or his hospital gown. If he stayed in this position long enough, he'd begin to relax, but it always took him a while.

Much to his chagrin, Nathaniel ended up facing Bartimaeus, who was still entertained with the gym ball. He frowned at the sight. Really, every time he looked at Bartimaeus, his head would hurt. Ever since he'd woken up from the coma, he'd spent most of his time wavering between wakefulness and sleep, which didn't allow for a lot of thinking or soul-searching, but left a lot of time for nightmares and flashbacks.

Moreover, in the moments he was awake, his head felt hazy, like it still needed to lift some sort of veil. He was getting better at pushing out of that state, but mostly his thoughts were still a tangled mess of memories and emotion. They felt like angered lions wanting to get out of an iron cage. Lions and iron. Bartimaeus again.

Nathaniel was supposed to feel lucky and glad—that's what most of the staff told him, anyway. How amazing was it that he'd survived an entire building collapsing on him, plus a nasty Pestilence and a Detonation! All in a day's work too. Sam never echoed the sentiment, and so Nathaniel liked him best. Bartimaeus also hadn't said anything, but you never knew what he was thinking. Well, except when you teamed up in one body to save London.

His head was beginning to hurt again.

"Should we try the other leg?" the therapist suggested. Nathaniel should learn her name, but he honestly couldn't be bothered. She probably saw him either as a detestable politician or some idealised version of a hero. In the past, he would have loved the attention, but at the moment he could barely keep track of himself without his head splitting in two.

"If we must," he said. She ignored his tone and went about shifting him again. Nathaniel hissed again when his injured side was twisted to accommodate the position. It burned angrily, and tears prickled his eyes, but he would not cry in front of his therapist, and much less in front of Bartimaeus.

The flare of pain took him back again and reminded Nathaniel that he'd been truly close to dying, that he'd been ready to, so he didn't know how to feel about this turn of events. The Pestilence and then the Detonation had just about sealed his fate, no matter how hard Bartimaeus had tried to convince him otherwise in front of Kitty. So he'd accepted his fate and decided to do something useful with the time he had left. Nathaniel could see the irony in it now—how his insisting with the Prime Minister that they should use Gladstone's Staff had nearly brought about his death a second time. By all accounts, he shouldn't have been this lucky. Bartimaeus probably thought so too.

Speak of the devil—if Nathaniel were truly being honest, Bartimaeus had been part of his decision. It was easier to walk to your death with someone ready to die alongside you. He'd never had that—someone willingly walking beside him towards something utterly unpleasant, to put it mildly. Or someone willingly walking beside him, period.

But then he'd seen a glimpse of a hidden memory and that had hardened his resolve. So he'd done what he should have years ago: he'd dismissed Bartimaeus. After all, it was a logical decision—there was no point in sacrificing two lives when one would suffice. It was enough to have someone walk with you and then watch you go. But Bartimaeus hadn't taken it that way, of course, and something had happened then. He just couldn't fully comprehend what, nor did he want to, because it meant reliving it, and he did that plenty already.

Bartimaeus's memories didn't help. Nathaniel felt like he'd crossed a line he hadn't even known was there. It had been one thing to share mind and body for practical purposes, and while he had to ruefully admit that they'd worked quite well together, Nathaniel wouldn't recommend the experience to anyone. It was another thing completely, however, to dive into Bartimaeus's most hidden memories. He'd seen—felt—Bartimaeus's worst memory, and probably the most vulnerable moment in this life. Now it played on loop in his head, all the words and all the emotion, all the time. And Nathaniel grieved for someone he had never met and wondered why he should be so lucky when Ptolemy hadn't been.

There was no helping it either. Bartimaeus always paraded around in Ptolemy's guise, even now. It was exhausting to have to keep reminding his dulled and confused mind that this was just Bartimaeus—look, the eyes aren't the same, the smile isn't the same—and not long dead Ptolemy, and that he hadn't sworn to protect Ptolemy or the version Bartimaeus presented.

Somewhere along the way, he'd remembered Kitty telling him that Bartimaeus always reverted to Ptolemy's form, hadn't he noticed? Nathaniel had noticed—of course he had—but back then he'd chalked it up to Bartimaeus's asinine methods of trying to bother him, and afterwards he hadn't really thought about it. That's what he'd learned for years, after all. Demons would do anything to get you—play the dirtiest tricks, say the most elaborate lies. They weren't equals.

Nathaniel was still struggling with this. Just like the propaganda he'd helped create had conditioned the commoners' thinking, so had his judgement been conditioned from a young age. But it had protected him from making mistakes, so he wasn't ready to let it all go yet, since there was so much he still didn't understand. Much less for Bartimaeus, who, in spite of everything, was still as aggravating as they came. But something had definitely changed, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"That's it," the therapist said soothingly as she brought him back to neutral and Nathaniel trapped the air in his lungs so he didn't groan. Doing this in front of Bartimaeus was enough humiliation, thank you very much. "Should we try some walking so your friend can help?"

"He's not my friend," Bartimaeus and Nathaniel said in unison, then frowned at each other.

The therapist fought a smile. "Can you help me get him up?" she asked Bartimaeus, who bounced over on his gym ball. Nathaniel frowned some more as Bartimaeus positioned himself behind him. "Good. Now, put one arm under him and gently lift him up, so he doesn't have to use his abdominal muscles and trigger his injury."

Bartimaeus did as he was told, and soon Nathaniel was sitting up and so far not regretting his life decisions. But he reckoned that was only a matter of time with Bartimaeus around.

"Now, Mr Mandrake, feet on the floor, knees curved. Just like we did yesterday. Bartimaeus, keep your arm around his back and another around his knees. You need to work together and remember, Mr Mandrake, don't clench your abdominal muscles. I know it's against natural instincts, but yesterday—"

"I know," he snapped, and watched her close her mouth in stunned silence. Served her right for being a broken record.

Bartimaeus scoffed, so Nathaniel whipped his head around to glare at him too. But all it did was win him a raised eyebrow and make Nathaniel realise how close their faces were.

"Stop squirming," Bartimaeus said, annoyed. "We don't have all day, so let's get you up."

"Fine."

So he did. Nathaniel felt weightless for a split second before gravity made his knees buckle. Bartimaeus caught him by the armpits before he face-planted, but Nathaniel had already squeezed his core for support. He cursed under his breath as it exploded with pain and his right shoulder throbbed from being stretched. He knew he was leaning heavily on Bartimaeus, but at the moment all he could see was red. The smell of spices wafted in his nose, soothing him a little, and then unsettling him again when his mind worked out what it meant.

"Easy," the therapist cooed as she took some of his weight. "Do you want to sit down? We can try again tomorrow."

Nathaniel shook his head. He wasn't going to spend another day sitting and lying down without so much as a short walk under his belt. He motioned with his head towards the platform with the bars. It wasn't far away. He'd walked before. Well, just to go to the bathroom, and with help, but it was still something. He could do this. He just needed to breathe through the pain.

So Nathaniel inhaled deeply, hoping that the oxygen would clear the fog in his brain and energise his muscles. He noticed he had one hand clawed to Bartimaeus's arm, so he loosened his hold, feeling another dose of embarrassment spread. He moved one leg, then another, slowly, deliberately. As he gained confidence, the therapist let him go, and Nathaniel tried moving faster.

Suddenly pain shot up his side and his vision tunnelled. Bartimaeus caught him as he stumbled forward, moving one arm down to his uninjured side. Nathaniel found himself in an awkward hug of sorts, with both parts equally unwilling to be in it. He desperately tried to get himself vertical again, and with some effort, he managed to.

"Easy does it," the therapist told him. Nathaniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He did slow down, however, not wanting a repetition, and soon he was grasping one of the bars. "Excellent, Mr Mandrake," she said with a smile. "Now, Bartimaeus, stand in front of him and make sure he doesn't fall. The goal is to have Mr Mandrake's need to use his hands as support decrease over time."

That sounded fantastic in theory, but as Nathaniel stood on one end of the platform, his brain deemed walking impossible. He simply didn't have the strength, and his arms and wrists were already hurting from holding him up. His right shoulder was beginning to throb.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?" he directed this at Bartimaeus, hoping his voice didn't sound as strained to the djinni as it did to his own ears.

"No."

"No?"

"You're so high and mighty, surely you can cover this small distance without help," he said with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest as if to rub it in that he could stand just fine without their help. Nathaniel sighed in annoyance and wondered how deluded he was to think Bartimaeus had ever been generous towards him.

"Better cut my losses," Nathaniel sneered, and forced himself to take the tiniest of steps. He didn't fall. Progress. "As far as I know you'd let me fall on purpose."

Bartimaeus snorted. "You don't need help with that."

Nathaniel glared and took a bigger step forward. "You're all bark and no bite."

Bartimaeus was grinning, but his eyes were icy. "I suppose you would know all about that, eh? Sending spirits off to war to do your dirty work. Sending commoners, too, and making the most ridiculous promises because you knew they wouldn't come back. How's your sleep, Mandrake?"

"Sod off, Bartimaeus." Out the corner of his eye he saw his therapist jump a little at his tone, but Bartimaeus didn't even twitch. "You know nothing." He tried not to think of the many times Bartimaeus had probably heard him mumble or even scream in his sleep.

"I think someone's forgetting where I was."

Nathaniel wanted to have the strength to march right up to Bartimaeus and smack him. But he didn't, so he held on tighter and tried to control his breathing. He shuffled forward, not caring that the point of this exercise was that he could actually lift his feet and control his legs.

"And I think you're forgetting where I was," was his weak reply. But then he remembered something. "Worship at my temple, why don't you?"

He didn't know if Bartimaeus had caught his double entendre. All he knew was that Bartimaeus had taken a step forward and his shoulders and neck were tense and slightly lifted, possibly in order to intimidate him. His eyes were dark, with no hint of humour left in them. It all worked. His heart was beating so fast, like it wanted to squeeze in as many beats as possible before Bartimaeus decimated him.

He barely registered his therapist finally interfering by making calming gestures. She was saying something as well, but Nathaniel paid her no mind. You did not look away when Bartimaeus was glaring daggers at you.

"Do not drag me into your miserable, guilt-ridden pity party," Bartimaeus growled in his face. "My favour to Kitty does not cover idiocy and death wishes."

Nathaniel was shaking and his heart was thudding, but he still found it within himself to respond with, "Practice what you preach," even though his voice was creaky and not at all as menacing as Bartimaeus's.

"Jesus Christ," a fourth voice joined them and the glaring contest broke. His therapist sighed in relief. "Knock it off." Sam approached, and the closer he came, the angrier he looked. "Which part of 'no excitement' wasn't clear?" He directed this at Bartimaeus, who was still looking murderous. Sam seemed unaffected. "And you, Mr Mandrake. Do you think this is the time to pick up a fight with a friend?"

"He's not my friend," Bartimaeus and Nathaniel muttered at the same time, then growled at each other.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, calming inhale. "For the love of God. I leave you two alone for less than an hour—" He exhaled angrily. Then he turned around, grabbed the wheelchair and came back.

Nathaniel had never seen Sam worked up like this. To be fair, he had just met him, but Sam always had a calm, happy demeanour about him. He was constantly smiling and trying to cheer him up. He often succeeded too.

"Now finish the exercise," he said more calmly.

When Nathaniel woke up for the second time that day, his eyelids were being warmed by the sun. It had pulled the grey clouds back like curtains, revealing an intense orange sky, and inundated the room, casting a golden glow everywhere it touched. The rain droplets clinging to the window shone with rainbow colours like pearls.

Still in a haze, he blindly reached for the glass on his nightstand, missing several times, before drinking the water in three big gulps. His right shoulder burned a little from the effort, but nothing that he couldn't take. He felt sore all over, though, and it was probably nearing the time for his medication, given that his side was beginning to throb uncomfortably. It was itching too.

On the armchair near the window, an Egyptian boy rested folded in on himself. He was deeply focused on a magazine in his lap, brow set in concentration and lower lip pouting out. Ptolemy's face was sculped with the utmost detail—from inquisitive eyebrows to the two moles on the thin neck to the boyish round chin, where Nathaniel knew a scar should be. A failed attempt on his life, eight world empires ago. But that was as far as Nathaniel could observe. The rest of the boy's body was wrapped in a navy-blue blanket cocoon, which dwarfed him almost comically, but his toes still managed to stick out. Nathaniel found that detail endearing.

Then he remembered he was watching a tangible ghost, and his thoughts scattered. The monitor on his right beeped quietly. An aging bouquet of red poppies tried to brighten up the room from his nightstand, replacing the distinct hospital smell with that of dying flowers. The calendar stated today was the 17th of November. Which meant he'd been at the hospital for a month and a half already. Which, in turn, meant that Bartimaeus had been there for almost two weeks.

His eyes returned to the dozing figure, like damned moth to damnable flame, and he sighed.

He didn't know why he felt so irritated, since he should barely have the energy for it. But Bartimaeus had always managed to rile him up somehow. It was so frustrating to have him there to witness his weakest moment, so frustrating not to be able to do anything about it or about anything else, really. And he was still smarting from the argument.

Nathaniel could admit that he hadn't always acted honourably. In the past he'd blamed the Council for not taking the right measures, but he'd been part of that same Council. As much as he'd convinced himself otherwise, he could have done something. He'd just felt paralysed by all the consequences. Ironically enough, none of that had mattered when he'd seen Bartimaeus dying on the fine tiles of Devereaux's Richmond estate. The danger of being ostracised and even sent to the Tower had barely crossed his mind. Jane had called him sentimental, and that had scared the living daylights out of him. Because if he was sentimental and he'd been so towards one of his de—spirits, then what kind of magician was he?

Nathaniel closed his eyes again with a heavy sigh.

"Stop that, will you? You're bringing the entire building down."

That surprised him. Bartimaeus enjoyed using the silent treatment every time they argued. It usually made Nathaniel start talking a lot more to make up for his share of the silence. Circumstances had changed, he supposed, and while they had avoided any kind meaningful conversation like the plague, they had shared a few words during the little time Nathaniel stayed awake.

Nathaniel peered at Bartimaeus again to find he'd barely moved and was most definitely not staring at him. Nathaniel wasn't sure if he felt annoyed or slightly paranoid that Bartimaeus could tell his mood so easily without even looking.

But there was no reason for Bartimaeus to know that. "I thought I'd lost those abilities after I dismissed you."

"No, you always had that talent," Bartimaeus offered, frowning at the paper before him and stabbing it with a pen. "I wouldn't be surprised if your head started to smoke." Bartimaeus glanced at him to check and Nathaniel frowned. "There are some sparks."

Nathaniel couldn't tell if Bartimaeus knew about the invasion of privacy, but his choosing to be in Ptolemy's guise all the time felt like some form of passive-aggressive punishment Bartimaeus would think up. Not that Nathaniel had been the most subtle about it a few hours ago. He couldn't decide if he wanted Bartimaeus to know and be done with it or spare them both the extra layer of awkwardness.

Nathaniel unclasped his hands from the covers, only now realising he'd been gripping them since Bartimaeus had first spoken. He squirmed some. His side was starting to bother him. "Maybe you did leave some magic behind."

Bartimaeus shrugged noncommittally, attention back in the magazine. "Word for feigning death," he said with a scoff, clearly amused. "Ten letters."

What were they doing? Were they just going to pretend they hadn't argued a few hours before? Bartimaeus always enjoyed rehashing stuff, so this felt strange and forced. Had Sam forced him to do this? Were they going to do a crossword puzzle together and pretend to forget all about their argument? What next? Sudoku and silly riddles?

Bartimaeus had to be under orders. Sam or Dr Elgar had probably told him to do this so Nathaniel's brain could get some exercise. So far, Bartimaeus had admitted to being there as a favour to Kitty. However, that went without saying; of course Kitty would refuse to follow proper summoning procedures. And really, could he even say anything, given that he'd had Bartimaeus dancing around in his head? It did make him wonder again just how deep Bartimaeus's bond with Kitty was, which never helped, so he pushed it to the back of his mind.

Nathaniel would resign to this silly game, even though he was still very much annoyed.

"Just one word?" he asked with vague interest.

"Doesn't say. Stupid puzzle."

"It's not stupid just because you can't solve it," Nathaniel supplied, hoping to get some reaction out of him.

But Bartimaeus simply rolled his eyes at the paper, and said, "You're all talk. Give me the bloody answer, then."

Nathaniel considered it. Feigning death. Ten letters. Assuming it was an idiomatic expression, then… "Try play possum."

Bartimaeus scribbled on the page and then narrowed his eyes at it. Nathaniel didn't even try to fight back a winning grin. "Lucky guess," Bartimaeus grumbled.

Nathaniel didn't say anything. This was bizarre, but not unpleasant, and he wanted to see what Bartimaeus would do next before he decided what approach to take. Besides, his brain could do with the exercise, so this wasn't the worst idea.

"Ooh, another funny one." Bartimaeus grinned mischievously. "Acidic citrus fruit. Four letters."

Nathaniel frowned. "Lime? That's hardly challenging. How have you finished any of the others?"

Bartimaeus rolled his eyes at him and emphasised the word, like Nathaniel was being dense. "It's your old friend Rufus, the fish-faced fellow."

Nathaniel clicked his tongue. "Honestly. Is there a word in that puzzle not related to our misadventures?"

"Doesn't seem like it. Look here: bad guy. Seven letters."

"Villain?" Nathaniel immediately supplied.

Bartimaeus's lips curled at the corners a little too much for a human face. He was beginning to look like the Cheshire cat. Which was good. The less human-like, the easier to separate from Ptolemy. Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned at himself as his side throbbed and itched some more.

"This next one's your specialty!" Bartimaeus announced like he'd found out there was a leftover slice of cake after all. He dramatically cleared his throat as he rearranged his position to be more upright. He flung the hand holding the magazine to the side, the other theatrically poised over his chest. "Rise as if by magic," he uttered in a voice full of wonder, with gasps galore for that extra something. It was only lacking in the lighting department.

Nathaniel tried to fight his amusement, but there was no helping the snort this time around. "You haven't given me the number of letters, Shakespeare." He refused to think of Makepeace now.

"Shh, you can't rush these things," Bartimaeus chastised in a whisper. Nathaniel recalled that was exactly what he'd said before they'd joined in his body. He shook his head, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Eight's the magic number! And the letter 'L' is already available."

There'd been a word in Nathaniel's mind right from the start, but he'd been waiting for the performance to end before deadpanning, "Levitate."

Bartimaeus sighed. "Killjoy." As if to prove his point, he began hovering over the armchair and slowly rotating to the right. Before long, he was upside-down. "Although I suppose I can't blame you. Magicians are very lacking in the sense of humour department."

Magicians were very lacking in other departments, namely the spirit department. Because magicians were wrong about spirits. Now that he'd allowed the thought to enter his head, there was no taking it back. This thought wouldn't have been allowed to cross his mind a month and a half ago. But oh, the truth of it rang like painful waves crashing against his temples in a steady rhythm. It didn't mean he knew how to deal with Bartimaeus any better now, however. Lord knew how his interactions with other humans went, much less an entirely different species. However, there was no denying the similarities between them, and that reinforced his newfound belief.

But he still wanted to strangle Bartimaeus. And rip out his side, but that was another issue entirely.

"No need to look so crestfallen. You have better sense of humour than most magicians, I suppose," Bartimaeus offered. "Not that that's saying much, but—"

"Thanks," Nathaniel said before Bartimaeus could ruin the moment.

Silence stretched between them for a few minutes. Nathaniel took the opportunity to grab the water bottle on his nightstand in order to fill his glass. It was farther away than the glass, so it was quite the feat, but with some shuffling and some smarting from his shoulder, he managed to grab it. Another hand snatched it away.

"I can do this much, you know," Bartimaeus said from beside his bed.

"I didn't think you'd want to," Nathaniel replied. They had just argued, and Bartimaeus was rarely ever in the mood to help.

Bartimaeus shrugged and poured the water. "Your shoulder isn't fully healed yet." Nathaniel made a sound in acknowledgement. Bartimaeus stood there a bit longer, letting Nathaniel sip the water before blurting out, "Listen, we need to talk about something."

Here it was. Bartimaeus had figured it out after all and wanted to ascertain how much Nathaniel knew. Suddenly that was the last thing he wanted to do, so he babbled out, "Bartimaeus, look, I didn't mean to—"

"I think I know how you survived." Bartimaeus paused and frowned. "What didn't you mean to do?"

"Nothing. Maybe you should call someone. It must be time for my meds."

"No, if you're apologising for this morning, then let's hear it first." Bartimaeus crossed his arms and looked smugly down at him.

Nathaniel sputtered indignantly. What a suggestion! "Excuse me—"

"You should also apologise to your physiotherapist. What was her name again?"

"No idea." Nathaniel crossed his arms, mirroring Bartimaeus. "And why do I have to apologise? I didn't say anything wrong. You, on the other hand..."

Bartimaeus shook his head. "Forget it. Even after all that happened, you choose to think of me as a soulless demon. I don't know why I bothered."

Nathaniel felt himself deflating through his sigh. "That's not true," he said quietly.

Bartimaeus snorted bitterly. "You sure show it."

"Well, you aren't exactly a picnic," he snapped, but it was half-hearted.

Bartimaeus let the words hang in the air for a bit, and Nathaniel took the opportunity to squirm some. His side was really, really bothering him.

Bartimaeus grabbed his glass and set it down on the nightstand. "Scoot over," he said and started to sit before Nathaniel had the time to protest.

"What are you doing?"

Bartimaeus rolled his eyes. "Spare me the insult. Don't you want me to take a look at your side?"

Nathaniel only stared at him suspiciously. "We're at a hospital. There's medical staff here."

"Well, who do you think brought you back?"

"I know that."

"So?"

"I thought you could only do it when there was magic inside."

"I'm not sure there'll ever not be some left," Bartimaeus said. "Dr Elgar agrees, if you need an expert's validation. It's not necessarily lethal," he added at Nathaniel's alarmed look. "When we tried to pull it away from you, it caused more harm than good. So I… pushed."

"You pushed," Nathaniel deadpanned.

Bartimaeus gave him a look. "It's hard to explain. I reactivated it and tried to manipulate it. Which is what I'll try to do now, if you stop stalling and let me."

Nathaniel sighed and shuffled a bit to the left. Bartimaeus made himself comfortable over the blankets, crossing his legs and not at all bothered that his knee was touching Nathaniel's right hip. Nathaniel looked pointedly at it for a few seconds, but Bartimaeus either didn't notice or didn't care.

"No funny business," Nathaniel warned.

"Please," Bartimaeus drawled. "Like I haven't seen it all already."

Nathaniel's face exploded as he made a bunch of incoherent noises.

"Just let me see it. You haven't stopped squirming since you woke up."

And here he'd thought he'd been discreet. "Fine." He lifted his gown, careful to keep the blanket covering his waist at all times. Bartimaeus leaned over to inspect it and frowned. "What?" he asked.

"It's a bit red, but it doesn't look bad. Is it hurting?"

"And itching. And, well… Last time I believed you I nearly died."

"You didn't believe me last time."

"Fair point."

"If I touch it, will you jump through the ceiling?" Bartimaeus asked in a patronising tone, but he sat still awaiting Nathaniel's reply.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at him. "As long as you don't do anything inappropriate."

"We've been over this. Not interested. Go sell it elsewhere."

Nathaniel huffed in annoyance. Every time he so much as thought Bartimaeus was being nice, the djinni went and undid it. "You are impossible."

Bartimaeus grinned and Nathaniel's heart lurched at the sight. Ptolemy had smiled just like that at the flea market. His mind was brought back by Bartimaeus's touch. Nathaniel forced himself not to move, although he did hiss at the contact. Bartimaeus locked eyes with him, and Nathaniel nodded for him to continue. This was the oddest situation, to have Bartimaeus sitting on his hospital bed with a hand on his side and not in order to kill him.

"So, should I tell you about my theory?" Bartimaeus suggested, moving his hand over the scarred tissue with great care.

"I don't want to talk about it," Nathaniel muttered through gritted teeth, trying to watch the glow coming off his side to keep himself distracted. Right now he just wanted Bartimaeus to get on with the healing. He didn't want to talk about it, dissect each step and each image in his brain. The thought made his hands begin to sweat.

Bartimaeus gave him an odd look, like he was examining Nathaniel's brain for potential injuries. Nathaniel thought he'd insist and call him a baby for not facing the situation head-on, but instead, Bartimaeus said, "Well, no wonder." And then, after Nathaniel had stared at him in stunned silence for longer than a minute, he added, "I was there, Nathaniel. I may not function like a human, but I sure felt everything with you."

It hit him like thunder that Bartimaeus—or anyone else, really—couldn't have said anything better in that moment. He thought no one would get it. The medical staff, although professional and kind enough, surely didn't. Kitty and Piper hadn't even bothered to be there, and they certainly didn't get it either. Maybe Kitty would, a little. But it wasn't the same. And while Bartimaeus wouldn't have the exact same perception or process it like Nathaniel, he understood.

It was like Bartimaeus had put a balm over his brain rather than his side. He felt weepy all of a sudden. He felt like his turmoil had been validated in a bunch of apparently insignificant words.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, flinching a little when his voice cracked.

Bartimaeus pretended not to notice, giving him a terse nod. "We can talk about it whenever you're ready, or not at all. There's nothing else left to solve there."

Magicians really were so wrong about spirits.

"There's a lot left to solve," Nathaniel muttered, not entirely sure himself what he meant by it. Bartimaeus gave him a quizzical look before returning his attention to the wound. Nathaniel could barely feel any lingering pain. "I think you can stop now."

Bartimaeus nodded again and removed his hand, carefully pulling down Nathaniel's hospital gown until it reached the blankets. Nathaniel's side was blissfully dormant now, as was he. Which in a way proved that Bartimaeus's magic accelerated his healing rather than eliminating the problem altogether, thus making him tired. Moreover, this proved Bartimaeus correct in that there was still magic left in him. How odd.

Sam chose to appear in that moment, carrying a tray with Nathaniel's dinner and definitively putting an end to an awkward silence. Nathaniel felt his body relax at the intrusion.

"Good evening!" he said cheerfully, all traces of his anger erased, even though the circles around his eyes still looked like bruises. Nathaniel could sympathise. "I see you two have made up." Neither Bartimaeus nor Nathaniel had the bite left in them to deny anything, which made Sam's smile waver for a split second. He soon recovered with: "Who's ready for some delicious dinner?"

Nathaniel crinkled his nose. Delicious wasn't the adjective for it, not by a large margin. Regardless of the hospital's reputation, the food still tasted bland and unappetising.

Sam caught his expression and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know, I know. But you still have to eat. How do you expect to make any progress in physio if you're not getting the proper nutrition?"

"He thinks his iron will suffices," Bartimaeus helpfully supplied. Nathaniel was even glad for the jab. It was a piece of normalcy.

"Well, there's no iron will without iron," Sam lamely said. Nathaniel and Bartimaeus shared a look. "That wasn't my best effort."

"It wasn't that b—"

"No doubt," Bartimaeus cut him off.

Sam grinned at them, seemingly unfazed. "So, about that dinner…"

Anjumstar is... well, a star for not only letting me rant about this chapter and helping me figure out what do to, but also for telling me what was working and what wasn't.

Another quick thing: I'm never abandoning this story. I haven't put a ridiculous amount of blood, sweat and tears on NaNo for me to jump off the boat now. But sometimes I need a little more time to edit and get annoyed at past me.