I appreciate those who tried this story, and especially those who have stayed around! This story will be a long one so there is plenty coming for you. Possibly I'll create a series if there are those who don't want to see the Barry whump and Bruce/Barry/Diana end. I'd like to know what you need to see more of. As always, you may gmail me at marthaplayer03 if you aren't comfortable with a public comment. If you have other specific interests or tags that I could incorporate into the story, or subplots or characters, let me know! I don't have many limits to writing, so I'll feel comfortable with really anything as long as I'm capable of writing it. Might you have any requests outside of this story? Let me know. I'd like to fulfill them in my free time.

xx

The sunset started to steal the color from the Batcave. It helped during a time like this, when Bruce couldn't bear to see anything. The gleam of the chemistry lab's pilot light was all he needed. Shadows of the fluorescent light peeking in from the storage room were good for when he needed an excuse to not believe his eyes.

He struggled to grab things with shaky tweezers. The only thing forcing him to sit at his table, assessing this black clump, had been the young man in the bed two rooms over. The infirmary's door was open, allowing Bruce to turn around in his chair and lean to the side and see Barry sleep. Barry was too tired to be fazed by the cannula that had become lopsided, or the pillowcase that had gotten wrinkled underneath his ear.

The clock at the corner of the table told Bruce that Diana wouldn't be back for hours. He'd never realized how far the antiquity museum is from the manor, and how drastic 38 miles could be. Speculating time wouldn't give him any less of it to have to wait through.

His forehead was sweating as much as his gloved hands, which were clammy all down to his wrists. His eyes tried to stay on the NG tube. For once in his whole life, did he not want to delve into an unfaceable issue. He procrastinated by studying the areas that Diana had cleaned bile and phlegm from. Every five minutes, he'd want to turn around.

In place of a sore thumb was a destroyed arm. There were so many questions that Bruce avoided. Diana had everything hidden from him. She wanted to show him what was under the bandages, but she couldn't bring herself to it. All he's seen up to this point was the yellowing infection on Barry's hand, as it swelled upward from his arm. The way Diana'd covered everything thoroughly, despite the infection site being an inch, made Bruce wonder. It made his crazy imagination wonder just how terrible this could be, and how much he was underestimating Barry's illness.

Not talking and not thinking was usually enough for Bruce to avoid feeling anything. This time, silently acting wasn't going to be a thing. Tweezing around at a black mass wasn't being to be enough to support Barry. But Bruce had yet to realize that. Right now, he would be huffing at a gunky tube, waiting for Diana to get back from a curator's assembly so she could tell him what was going to happen next.

The mass was encrusted with what appeared to be ash black mucus. It held onto the tube tighter than fused steel joints. As the tweezers pried through the mucus, pus leaked out like melted butter and stung his wrist at contact. He ripped his gloves off, running to the sink. The heat of the water stream felt like ice over the red spots. The burning worsened and started radiating along both his hands. He whisked his hands from the stream. His breath returned to him as the stinging gradually disappeared.

The water pooled up even higher in the clogged sink, and he'd have to leave it there until he knew how to safely deal with whatever the hell just burned him.

There was a mutter from the other room.

Bruce didn't notice water being dumped on the floor as he shook his hands dry. He was too busy glancing through the doorways. It was a relief to see Barry stretching his half-asleep body, rather than muttering due to pain. Barry had managed to turn himself sideways in his sleep, facing Bruce as he went into the infirmary. Unsure whether he should tread quietly to avoid waking Barry up, or be louder than usual to make his presence known.

Barry's eyes slowly parted. He gazed up at the man, through his eyelashes. His puckered lips pulled into a half smile. "Hi, Bruce..."

Bruce just gleamed at him. He guess he'd wait, having nothing to say and knowing something would come out of Barry's mouth soon enough.

"What's the time?"

"It's near eight." He then responded to the actual question Barry had. "Diana is attending a meeting. Won't be back anytime soon." And he felt terrible for using those words, after he'd already said them. Repeating the last sentence in his mind made him feel like he was being heartless, disconnected, undermining.

With the typical smugness for Bruce, Barry sheepishly held his non-bandaged fist out.

His weak arm was suggesting a fist-bump. The normal Bruce wasn't familiar, but this time he could use it as an opportunity to bond. He touched his fist to Barry's and suppressed his sigh as Barry's fingers trickled away in an explosion.

Bruce asked, "How you feeling, Barry? Long sleep you had there." He grabbed and patted at the boy's shoulder when he conjured up smalltalk.

Barry's sentences turned to yawns. He'd exaggerate the yawns and force more so his brain wouldn't drift away from Bruce. The cheeky smile was only getting bigger and bigger, despite the fact his eyes couldn't stay open to visit with Bruce.

"I'm sorry," Bruce assumed, rubbing at the gray roots of his hair as if he'd comb the right words out. "I meant to be here. It's just... Wayne Enterprises things... you understand?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Yeah..." If avoiding seeing his - inevitably formed - son figure being eaten by an illness was a business project. If drinking alone in the torn-up den, remembering how he'd failed an orphan boy a decade prior, was a business meeting.

Barry's face gave him one more burst of hopeful energy. To smile at him for being here, patting his shoulder and lending him his voice.

"How about we get your temperature?"

It made Barry's eyes open.

The click of a thermometer cover echoed through the Batcave. Bruce told him to open his mouth.

Barry was hesitant, but upon seeing the man he urged to make proud, his mouth drifted open.

"Tongue."

Due to being with him after weeks of not hearing from him, Barry surely didn't want things to become complicated. He let Bruce slide the thermometer in, this time being more considerate than in the ambulance. When Bruce failed to maintain eye contact, Barry made it a point to glance into the distance.

A beep resonated off the walls. Bruce hummed in relief of hearing a single beep without the red alert flashing, which could've been totally possible. "Well, you're looking better."

"I'm feeling considerably better," Barry remarked, with a little forced energy to make Bruce happy.

"99." He looked back at the boy with a smile, as a trade-off for Barry giving him good news to tell Diana.

Before he could suggest Barry go back to sleep, he was looking at a body slumped over. Fluttering eyelashes, mouth fallen open and alternating between drool and steady breaths. Bruce had to admit, at least a small part of him could agree that Diana was right; Barry was sort of precious.

"Goodnight," he told Barry. He moved back to the lab in increments, glancing over his shoulder a few more times than he thought he would.

Falling into his chair, pulling gloves onto his hands, he fished into his stacks of materials. Out came a thin blue case, which opened to reveal scalpels and scissors. He groaned. The only reason he dared to delve for answers was, again, the boy he needed to save.

When he sliced it, the mass poured with pus. He reached for the tweezers to very gently poke the fluid that'd burned him. It only stuck to the points of the tongs and began to dry up. He placed the tweezers in a baggy, with the tightest seal known to earth.

He turned around to look at Barry, but he wasn't in bed.

Bruce flung from his chair and hurried for the infirmary. There was no sight of Barry, in the corners or closets, until he turned back around. Barry was standing along the wall of the lab, painted with shadows.

Barry wouldn't respond to his name. Nor a wave to his face.

Bruce got his arm wrapped at Barry's back. "Let's get back to bed," he tried demanding in the way Diana would, only for it to come out as a gruff mumble.

He noticed Barry's bandaged hand was fisted up at his chest. When Barry realized Bruce was looking at it, he held his arm tighter against him as if he was concealing something in his fist.

He stopped trying to get Barry to walk and he turned Barry to face him. "What are you doing, Barry?"

Barry met his eyes for a split second with the most dead gaze, as his head and eyes fidgeted around. He seemed disoriented and overstimulated simultaneously, and it was confusing as hell to Bruce.

Bruce's eyebrows scrunched, and he tried to suppress it to avoid appearing angry. "Does your hand hurt, Barry?" He put his hands on Barry's shoulders and maneuvered his head down so he could see into Barry's face. "If there's something wrong, you need to..." He froze when it hit him, that everything was already wrong, and there was no way for him to help besides for guessing.

Bruce immediately turned for the worst - or, at least what could've been the worst in that moment. "Barry. Does your chest hurt, Barry? Does it feel tight?"

When he thought Barry wasn't going to respond, Barry's fist struck Bruce's ribcage.

Trying to regain his breath, Bruce grabbed Barry's wrist. Barry's other hand popped him in the gut before he could try grabbing it. Bruce growled and clenched Barry by his jaw.

Bruce opened his mouth to yell for Alfred, but was silenced by Barry's eyes. His whole face was washed up with fear. Glossy eyes, the color pressed from his skin, mind completely seared of everything. Both of them silenced with the reality that Bruce had just tormented the most innocent person he knew. The young man who has needed him and loved him, despite the shit Bruce has put him through, was now having his thin face bones squeezed in Bruce's large hands. The young man he has failed to be here for was now breathlessly, speechlessly accepting his abuse. The fist he'd just bumped with was now having its circulation pressed off.

As Bruce's hand released his jaw, Barry fell towards him and nestled his cheek into the big shoulder. All the pain in Bruce's body dissolved into a need to hug Barry. Bruce has never been up to hug anyone, however now it felt like his arms had brains of their own. Apologies strung from him in order to keep him from shivering in anger towards himself.

Barry left Bruce's hug. He wandered towards the sink, following a trail of water droplets. His feet were inches away from a large puddle, and his hand was ready to dunk into the sink of water.

"Barry!" Bruce yelled. He didn't care how aggressive it sounded; Barry needed to be safe above everything. He lunged into Barry, his grip tight enough to make Barry stumble into him. "You're going back to bed, Barry." His head was pounding too hard for him to feel his voice drop into a growl. "And you're going to stay there."

Barry dropped to his knees. Bruce caught him around the elbows, and his body weight pressed towards the floor. He slipped into unconsciousness.