Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or psychologist or any kind of medical expert, so I have no idea if I've portrayed selective mutism even remotely accurately. But it works for the purposes of my story, so we're just going to ignore any medical inaccuracies.

Read, review, and enjoy!

Chapter 5: Aftermath

The nightmares persisted for nearly a week. Every time Harry closed his eyes, he was greeted with screams, cruel laughter, and green. And even when awake, he couldn't stand the color. Just seeing it sent him spiralling into a flashback.

He couldn't wear his favorite (only) hoodie.

So Jason gave him the red one, since the color seemed to comfort him, and found a grey one for himself in the bag of clothes and other miscellaneous items he'd received. The red hoodie nearly swamped Harry, but it was comforting to have it so close, and it was soft, and warm.

Harry couldn't speak, either. At first, it was his throat, but it had healed after two days (and a lot of honey). After that, Harry just couldn't form the words. It was scary, and frustrating. Harry was pretty sure he'd shed more tears in the week since the gas attack than he had in his entire life, but he never once made a sound. After three days, when it became clear that Harry was physically able to speak but simply wasn't, he and Jason returned to the library and checked out a book on sign language. While Harry taught himself to finger-spell, Jason did some research on the library computer.

An hour later, Jason pulled Harry into his lap in what Jason had started calling "their" nook—the grouping of three armchairs in the deep corner of the nonfiction section. Then he quietly explained what he'd found.

"Apparently selective mutism—the term for non-medical muteness—is a trauma response," Jason began matter-of-factly. "I'm guessing the gas made you relive some long-buried memory, and now your brain can't process it. So it's basically gone into power saving mode. It's easier to process in the background, without engaging the language centers of your brain."

Harry blinked and tilted his head on confusion.

Jason chuckled. "Okay, ya caught me. I was quotin' the article. It didn't make a lotta sense to me, either. But basically, your brain is processin' that memory, so it's makin' things easier by not speaking. Don't ask me how it works, though. But what it comes down to is, we'd both better learn sign language, because we don't know how long this is gonna last. Could be a few more days. Could be weeks or months." Jason shrugged.

Harry smiled faintly, then pointed at Jason and painstakingly spelled out, 'get to work.'

Jason laughed and pulled the book toward them. "Once I get finger-spelling, we're takin' this book home."

Harry nodded. 'test you," he spelled out, smiling. He went slow enough that Jason could consult the book. Then Jason smiled.

"Yep. You can test me."

It took another hour for Jason to confidently decipher Harry's finger-spelling. Neither of them was very fast, but Harry did have an hour's head start, so he was slightly faster. Then Jason tucked the book under his arm, took Harry's hand in his other hand, and marched out of the library.

It didn't even occur to Harry that "home" now meant Jason's base.

It was another week of constant practice before Harry and Jason could have halting conversations entirely in sign language, interjecting finger-spelling when they didn't know the right sign. It took the same amount of time before Harry could sleep through the night without a nightmare, and before Jason was able to leave Harry alone without either of them panicking.

At the end of the second week after the Scarecrow's gas attack, Harry insisted on venturing out on his own, to update Tim and to retrieve the rest of his belongings—because under a dumpster was not a good place to spend the winter. And because Jason insisted they stick together.

After much arguing, mostly verbal on Jason's part and entirely nonverbal on Harry's, Harry finally won. With a triumphant grin, Harry layered his flannel over his t-shirt, then Jason's red hoodie over both, jammed his grey beanie over his head, shoved his feet, covered in two pairs of socks, into his new hiking boots, then took his mostly-empty backpack and saluted before heading out.

It was midafternoon when he set out. It was chilly, chilly enough that Harry's breath fogged in the air in front of him. But the cold made the air feel fresh, and since, other than the library trip, it was Harry's first time outside in almost two weeks, a certain sense of freedom settled over him. He stayed vigilant, though it took running from a would-be mugger to jolt his street senses back into gear, and made it back to his old hideout without (further) incident. Checking his surroundings and finding the alleyway (and the rooftops) deserted, Harry crawled inside and was both surprised and pleased to find it completely undisturbed, if exceptionally damp. The squish of wet cardboard under his knees was a good reminder that it was safer to stay with Jason through the winter.

Harry's tattered duffel bag was right where he'd left it. The bag itself was ruined from the water, but its contents, canned goods or otherwise packaged in plastic as they were, were spared the damage. Harry loaded up his backpack with a few water bottles, the last of his emergency cash, some cans of baked beans and peaches, a half-empty bag of jerky, and a soggy box half-full of still-functional Justice League band-aids. That made Harry smile. He collected a few other odds and ends, then tossed the ruined bag back in the dumpster on his way out. He tried to leave the structure of the hideout intact, in case he wanted to come back when it got warmer. But something told him he wouldn't.

By now it was nearly dusk. And a full backpack was asking for trouble. So Harry quickly and quietly made his way back to Jason's base—their base now, he supposed—to unload his things. He kept some of the band-aids, two water bottles, and his bag of emergency cash—just in case he found himself in trouble—then left Jason a note that he was going to see Tim, and to expect him back around midnight. Harry brought the rest of the half-empty notebook and the pencil with him, because he still couldn't bring himself to speak, and the chances of Tim knowing sign language were slim to none.

That done, Harry picked his way cautiously toward his favorite rooftop on the outskirts of the alley. By the time he'd reached the top, it was fully dark. The wind was stronger up here, so Harry sat in the lee of a chimney to avoid the worst of it. It was colder than he'd expected now that night had fallen, and he sat shivering slightly in his minimal layers, his fingertips going numb until he jammed them into his armpits to conserve warmth.

He hoped Tim came quickly, or else Harry would have to leave him a note and go home before he froze to death. It would be nice if Tim brought hot chocolate, too.

Luckily, Harry had only been waiting for perhaps fifteen minutes (though it felt much longer) when he heard the faint rattle of the fire escape. Smiling a little, but still on guard, Harry waited for the person to come around and meet him.

He heard light, cautious footsteps roaming the far side of the rooftop, then venture closer. Then a familiar silhouette appeared against the sky.

Harry waved. The movement caught the other boy's attention and he snapped around, eyes going wide.

Then Harry was tackled in a hug.

"Harry! You're okay! I got so, so worried! I thought you were kidnapped or sold or beat up and left for dead!"

Laughing near-silently, Harry hugged the smaller boy back.

When Tim finally pulled away, he gave Harry a confused look. "You haven't said hi back. Are you sick? Did you lose your voice?"

Harry grimaced and made a so-so gesture.

"Good thing I brought hot tea this time, then," Tim said with a grin.

Harry smiled in relief at the sound of a hot drink. He made grabby hands at Tim's backpack and mimed drinking.

Tim laughed and took out his thermos, then portioned out some for Harry in the wide, deep lid. He took it and sipped gratefully, the heat warming him right through. Then he set the cup aside and hesitantly signed, 'thank you.'

Tim cocked his head. "Sign language?" He signed along with his words, and Harry lit up.

'Yes!" Harry signed back eagerly. 'I didn't think you'd know it!'

Tim shrugged, continuing to sign along with his words. "I got bored last summer and taught myself. It's a thing, I guess. Every summer I've taught myself a new language."

'Jason's teaching me. Well, we're teaching each other. I'm not very good yet.'

"Why aren't you talking, though?" Tim asked.

Harry hunched his shoulders and glanced away as he signed his response. 'I got caught in Scarecrow's attack two weeks ago. Faceful of gas. It was…bad. Nightmares…I can't stand the color green anymore,' he signed, making a mournful face.

"Oh, I get it. It's a trauma response, right?" Tim asked.

Harry furrowed his brow, but nodded. 'Why do you know that?' He pointed extra-vigorously at Tim as he signed "you." 'Jason had to look it up."

Tim smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I did the same thing, when I was three. I…did you hear about the Flying Graysons?"

Harry shook his head and took another sip of the tea. It was so good, faintly sweetened with honey, with herbal and floral hints to it.

"They were a famous circus act, parents and their ten-year-old son. My parents took me to see their show. But someone sabotaged the act and…the parents fell from the trapeze. Died instantly. I had horrible nightmares for weeks, couldn't make any sounds except to scream or cry." Tim continued signing along with his words, even though Harry didn't need him to. It helped him practice, though.

'That sucks,' Harry signed back. 'For you and the kid.'

Tim nodded. "My parents hated it, though. It was right after that…that they went on their first extended trip. Since then, I barely see them for a few weeks each year," he said quietly.

'When the gas hit me, I saw…' Harry hesitated. He hadn't even told Jason yet. But maybe Tim would understand. 'I remembered, the night my parents died.'

Tim gasped and grabbed Harry in a hug. "I'm so sorry. I'm here complaining about how I never see my parents, but yours are dead."

Harry hugged him back briefly, then pushed him away so he could sign, 'Not your fault. I don't mind you talking about your parents. Don't want pity. Just…I wish I could forget again.' Harry pulled his knees up to his chest.

Tim settled beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. Harry surprised himself by leaning into it, letting his eyes fall closed as tears pricked behind his eyelids.

For some moments, they just sat there in silence. But eventually they both began to feel the cold again, even Tim who was wearing a thick fleece pullover over his usual black ensemble. Reluctantly, Harry pulled away first.

'I'd better go. Jason's been way overprotective since the gassing,' Harry signed, painstakingly spelling out "overprotective" because he didn't know the sign.

"Oof. I'd better brush up on my finger spelling," Tim joked. "I think you said 'overprotective'?"

Harry laughed a little and nodded.

"Okay, then. I guess I'll see you a little less frequently for a while?"

Harry scowled, but signed, 'probably. I didn't really tell him I was coming tonight either.' He cringed. 'He might actually yell at me this time.'

"You'd better go, then. I'll see you around. Oh!" Tim suddenly went digging through his backpack. "I thought you'd like a copy of those pictures we took last time."

Harry's eyes widened as Tim passed over prints of the two photos of them together. Harry chuckled at the glaze on Tim's face in the first one, grinning a little bigger when Tim's face turned red. The second one made a lump rise in Harry's throat. Holding the photos close to his chest with one hand, Harry signed 'thank you' with the other.

Tim smiled. "You're welcome. I printed them out for myself, too. I found some empty frames. They're displayed on my dresser."

This time Harry's hand was shaking as he signed 'thank you, so, so much. Thank you…for being my brother.'

Tim smiled shyly. "Twin," he corrected, signing along with the word.

Harry mimicked it. 'Twin.' Harry tucked the photos into his backpack, then gave Tim a tight hug that the smaller boy returned. Then Harry waved and, for perhaps the first time, he was the first to leave.

He waved over his shoulder as he jogged away from the fire escape, and imagined he saw Tim waving back. Then Harry hurried home. Home to his big brother.