“Bart,” Wally croaks, and he’s positive that he’s turning blue. He manages to wrench one arm free enough to pry Bart off of him, gasping loudly at his freedom and bracing himself on his knee, coughing. When Bart starts toward him again, he puts up a finger. “Do nottouch me. You’ve fulfilled your hug quota for the next five hundred years.”
“Comeonnn,” Bart whines. “Listen here, first cousin once-removed, old buddy, old pal, my hero, crashest ghost in the universe – I’ve had to deal with a whole year of thinking it’smyfault that you’re even dead to begin with; d’you know how long that is in speedster time? Like ten gazillion light years!”
“Whoa, whoa,” Wally halts him, finally straightening up and frowning (and only sort of at the fact that Bart seems to have gone through a growth spurt in his absence, not to mention the fact that his once boyish face is now slightly more chiseled and his voice isn’t cracking as much). “What do you mean, your fault? You didn’t do anything.”
“Uh, yeah,duh I didn’t do anything; that was the problem!” Bart exclaims, throwing his hands out before sighing and dropping them again. “I could’ve… donesomething. Could’ve helped you. Instead I just stood there. Less than two weeks later and I’m running around in a costume I don’t deserve.”
