Bruce nodded, his finger pointing to Barry's chest. "I asked last night - your chest. Does it hurt?"

Diana stared into Barry. He would need to answer.

He opened his mouth, ready to say yes. His reddened lips glossed over, drool bubbling out of his teeth and trailing onto his chin. Once it reached his neck, Diana pulled a cloth from her pocket and cleaned him off. Barry grabbed her hand then gently moved it away and let go. "It feels- - - -" fast, rough. Like a machine, pumping to his aching head and cock. But the spicy drool wasn't letting any of those words come out. "Heartburn..?"

Bruce cracked, "Heartburn so bad you rub your chest all day?"

Diana rubbed his shoulder.

A gruff sigh. "There are things..." Wrong. "Barry, you wouldn't..." Understand? Of course the boy gets it. Empathize? Cope? Bruce can't say that.

Barry reached for Diana's hand. Peering around them, trying to see through the turns of the hallway. "Could we maybe get something to eat?" Maybe some cake or pasta or - doubt it but let's try - pizza? Something chunky with fibers of carbs. That bubbles with fat at a high temp. Nothing is drowned in salt or sugar or grease. Nothing sounds good.

Barry fidgeted with Diana's fingers. "Or just... Nevermind." He took turns looking them both in the eyes. "Can I just go back to my room?"

Diana looked at Bruce then back down. "Alright. We can bring you a plate down. Or a snack platter, if that's more accessible."

"No... it's fine. I'm not hungry." When his belly piped up to prove him wrong, Alfred's voice echoed in the distance. Barry mumbled, "I mean. With what Alfred has to a deal with."

"Barry," she laughed - probably at Barry's stupid remark, "Alfred has the party. I will go get you something." With that, she broke her hand free, patted Barry's shoulder, and was off down the hall.

He tucked towards his knee, then the floor to count the marble tiles, or the pillar near his head, basically anything besides for the bear that stood at least two feet above his head. Whose heavy breathing made his neck stiffen, oddly, making his cock twinge instead of retracting with fear.

Bruce grabbed the armrests of Barry's chair and hovered over the side. He demanded, "You have to eat."

"hhn," softly came from Barry. His eyes glossed up and blinked to suppress the tears.

Bruce's tone went softer, but not any less low or gruff. "Barry, I mean it." His eyebrows were furrowed though softer. "I know how much you need to eat. If you're hungry, you need to be eating."

Barry's eyes trailed up the hall. Diana's heel disappeared behind the corner. Her voice whispered like a feather, but hit like a brick- "Alfred I'm making a platter for Barry..."

"The desserts are still in the kitchen, Miss Prince. Shall I prepare some?"

They all knew what Bruce "Knew" he had to eat.

"No, but thank you, Alfred."

Barry clenched the armrests of the wheelchair. Bending his arms, but without his back arching, to not stand.

"Madam, there is plenty of parfait to go around." And plenty for Diana to shove down Barry's throat. Hopefully enough to make him barf it up, the way things were after the special fight team's boss battle with Superman wore Barry down and sent the baby crying to Alfred for enough parfait to feed an army, and enough food to cover the entire lakehouse's patio floor. Months of food wasted. Alfred had made the mistake of being generous. "An accident", "unintentional", as Alfred tried to croon, "nothing unseen before, Barry". All of which was going to change. No more.

Even if he had to go against Bruce, for this one time. It was saving everyone, especially Bruce, from the horror. The slob, the waste, the chunks would not be a problem. Nor the food or the trail of vomit.

Bruce clenched the handles on each side of Barry's head. The lingering odor of rubber was masked too well by his grip's sweat and fancy shaving cream; the man's gruffly warm breath as he leaned toward Barry's hair was actually comforting; there was no anxiety or deappetizing.

The chair whipped around 180. Barry's fists tightened white and his head rammed into the man's layered chest. Brown mist encased his vision, black spots floated on the wall and floor, and were slowly washed away by another migraine wave. His lungs were flat from sudden shock, he was flushed up through his chest to his furrowed brow. His raspy grunt was followed by Bruce's raspier huff. Bruce corrected himself with a cough. "Barry." The way a parent does with their little shit, respectively. "We are going back to the room where it's quiet. And you can eat. Alfred brought you a TV, Diana will be with you, and I will be back."

Barry huffed through his teeth to catch his breath. His elbow raising to try opening his lungs. "Stop, please," came out. It was impossible to reorientate as Bruce pushed his chair through space.

"Nno."

"Barry."

Not ten feet away from hundreds of people. An amount that could easily make up a quarter of Gotham, or Barry's entire home city. Impressionable, fancily dressed, weathily fat, polished individuals that Bruce deserved respect from. Barry's fluttering eyes squeezed a tear out. He swallowed as id the pain would go down with it and disintegrate in the acid, because it didn't matter. The shock was no reason to stop and embarrass Bruce.

"We're going." The chair strode forward at professional walking speed. Bruce's hard steps ticking towards the panels that concealed the hallway separating them and Barry's room. Bruce needed to be responsible, more importantly not allow Barry to starve and strain away from beds due to a tantrum out of his control.

Barry's hands, still retained in loose fists, rested onto his lap.

Tilting his head and slowing down a little was Bruce's "thanks".