"Master Dick, it's almost time for Master Bruce to take you to therapy. You're yogurt and fruit are ready on the table for you," Alred called outside the young boy's door.
"Thank you, Alfred, I'll be down in a moment!" Dick called back in answer.
"Very good, Master Dick." Dick listened to Alfred's footsteps fading and he quickly shoved his knife back into the false bottom of his drawer and started wiping away the blood from his thigh. He wrapped the wounds in gauze, pulled on his pants, and headed downstairs.
"How are you, Dick?" Bruce asked as the boy entered the kitchen.
"Umm, rough day so far," Dick offered honestly.
"Anything you want to talk about?" Bruce asked as he set down the newspaper and studied his son.
"N-not yet, I'm sorry," Dick answered as he ate a spoonful of his yogurt.
"Don't be sorry, Dick. You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here to listen and help whenever you are ready to talk," Bruce offered.
"Thanks, Bruce."
While his son worked on the yogurt in front of him, Bruce studied the boy and reflected on the last few weeks. The boy's face was gaunt, his body so tiny you could see the striation of muscles beneath the skin of his wrists, arms, shoulders, and calves. His hands trembled dramatically. With the help of Leslie, over the last two weeks, they'd gotten Dick up to eating an egg for breakfast, yogurt for morning snack, a bowl of fruit for lunch, a small salad for an afternoon snack, and a slice of ham for dinner. They tried to get him to eat some chocolate or ice cream or pudding for an evening snack too, but that was negotiable. Leslie stressed it was important not to completely overwhelm the boy's physical capabilities or mental rules. She emphasized how vital it was to get him to eat something at each mealtime, the amount could be increased over time. Bruce was in charge of making sure Dick took his anti-anxiety medications at breakfast and dinner. Alfred was normally in charge of keeping Dick occupied for an hour after each mealtime so that he wouldn't go to the bathroom to purge. Meanwhile, in Star City, two young speedsters were having trouble trying to deal with their own issues.
It had been two weeks since Barry learned of his nephew's suffering. There hadn't been a night of unbroken sleep since that day. Barry gave the boy his sleeping medication with an evening snack every night, and every morning at around 2 am, the house was awoken with terrified screams. Sometimes the boy would plead with the figure of his memory, begging to not be hurt, promising to be good. Every time, Barry rushed to the room, gathered his nephew in his arms, rocked him gently, stroked his hair, rubbed his back, and whispered reassurances until the boy either woke up or returned to a restful sleep.
Now, at 6 am, Barry was up. He'd been unable to fall back asleep following Wally's nightmare. The boy had woken up screaming at his normal 2 am, but it had taken Barry an entire hour to convince the boy to come into the land of the living. When Wally had finally woken, his body was wracked with brutal sobs for half an hour. Barry just held the boy he considered his son, rocking him, trying to give him comfort. When the boy's tears ran dry, Barry tried to convince his son to talk to him, but the teen had remained concerningly silent. The lifeless eyes stared into the distance, seeing nothing. Barry would ask questions, encourage the boy to talk to him, but the only reaction was the occasional flinch when Barry would go to brush some of the damp hair away from the boy's face. Wally had finally fallen back asleep at 5 am and Barry had tried to fall asleep for approximately twenty minutes before giving up completely.
As Barry nursed his third cup of coffee, lost in thought, he almost missed the sheepish teenager creeping down the stairs.
"Wally, what are you doing up?" Barry asked gently when he noticed the teen.
"Uncle Barry, I feel really bad. I'm so sorry for causing you and Aunt Iris so much trouble," Wally whispered nervously.
Barry very slowly stood from the barstool he'd been sitting on. He moved to the sofa and motioned for his son to join him. When the teenager hesitated, Barry gently instructed, "Wally, please come here. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to hold you."
Wally moved to his uncle's side, burrowing himself under the arm of the only man he'd ever considered a father.
After a few moments, Barry spoke again. "Wally, don't you ever apologize. You are not causing trouble. And if I hear about you so much as thinking of yourself as trouble, you'll be grounded for a year. You're aunt and I both love you so much, Wally. We want to help you. We want to see you happy and healthy and well and filled with joy. We're happy to do whatever it takes to get you there," Barry confessed emotionally.
"Uncle Barry," Wally mumbled.
"Yeah, kid?"
"You're stronger than my dad. You had superpowers. If you ever had to hurt me, there wouldn't be anything I could do," the boy confessed nervously.
"I'll never hurt you, Wally. I'd rather die," Barry promised honestly.
"I know. I feel safe with you. I don't know why I flinch all the time. You honestly make me feel so safe. I hate myself for acting scared of you."
"I'm glad you feel safe with me, Wally. Thank you for telling me. I love you. You needn't hate yourself for an instinct out of your control. I love you, Wally, this is going to get better."
"Thank you so much, Uncle Barry. I love you," the boy said wearily. And tucked safely beneath his father's arm, the boy drifted into a restful sleep.
A little over a week later, Dick was sitting on his toilet looking at his arm. He knew he screwed up. He'd cut too deep. He needed to do something, but he couldn't move. Finally, as he started to feel dizzy, Dick pulled out his phone.
"B-Bruce, I need help. I-I'm so sorry. I-I swear I d-didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I-I'm sorry," Dick sobbed.
"Dick, calm down," a calm voice instructed over the phone. "Where are you right now?" Bruce asked.
"M-my bathroom," Dick answered.
"I'm on my way. What happened. Talk to me, Dick."
"I-the words hurt too much. I-I'm failing. I-I can't handle it. I-I hate failing. I-it wasn't supposed to be so deep. I-I just wanted...it helped slow down the thoughts. I-I didn't mean for it to be so deep," Dick sobbed. He could hear Bruce running up the stairs now.
"Alright, Dick. Take deep breaths, son. I'm almost there. Everything's going to be okay. Just keep breathing," Bruce instructed. Moments later, he shouldered through the locked bathroom door and took in the scene that would later make him vomit. Now, he had to stay calm and save his son. His son, the tiny teenager who was sitting in a puddle of his own blood. Countless wounds bleeding along his arms and legs.
"It's going to be okay, Dick. I've got you now. Just keep talking to me. Everything's going to be okay," Bruce assured as he set to work.
"Uncle Barry," Wally's quiet voice asked from the door.
"Wally, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?" Barry asked instantly on his feet. The teenager almost never came into his uncle's room.
"Not really, do you have time to talk?" Wally asked sheepishly.
"Of course, let's head down to the living room, huh?" Barry answered wrapping an arm gently around his kid. The two made their way to the living room and sat in silence for a while before Wally worked up the courage to speak.
"Uncle Barry, Mr. Wayne just called," Wally started. Barry didn't dare interrupt his kid, so they sat in silence until the boy continued. "D-dick cut himself. H-he wasn't trying to kill himself. H-he just accidentally cut too deep, t-too many times." Barry barely kept the gasp from escaping his lips. "U-uncle Barry, i-if I didn't have speed healing, th-that could just as easily be me. I-I don't want to hurt myself anymore," the hurting teenager cried.
After several moments of silence, Barry asked gently, "You've been cutting yourself?"
When the boy nodded, Barry was sure his heart stopped. "Alright, thank you for telling me. We're going to get through this. You're going to be okay. Both of you. It'll be okay."