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For weeks now, Bart has been acting strange.
It’s almost like he can’t decide between avoiding Max and seeking him out. Whenever Max catches him off-guard, his face goes a little fuzzy, moving between expressions in speed-force. He looks heartbroken whenever Max tries to tell him he’s doing a good job, and he’s been… quiet.
Not mischievous quiet, but the kind of quiet that suggests he’s scared of making too much noise.
He jumps in and out of speedforce mid conversation, like he needs extra time to think about what he’s going to say, but Max is a speedster too, he can see the panic and the hesitation. He can see the guilt.
Of course, as soon as Max starts to be suspicious, Bart will go out and cause trouble, but his heart isn’t in it. It’s like he’s trying to put on a show. Rambunctious teenage boy.
Max isn’t really good at any of this. Most people his age have trouble keeping up with normal teen culture, let alone culture from the 30th century. He talks to Wally, to Morlo, to Helen, too. He gets on the computer and crawls through forums and advice columns. When he finally gets sick of waiting for pages to load fractions of seconds at a time, he runs down to the local library. Pages might not have a loading time, but Manchester Library doesn't stock much of what he’s looking for. So he runs to the state’s central library. Then the bigger libraries across America. He finds a flier with a few numbers and calls a hotline. He just… He doesn’t want to do wrong by the kid.
They all say to give the kid time. Let him come to Max. To offer support and kindness and acceptance of whatever the kid might want.
He tries. He really does try.
But when he tells Bart that he’ll be there for him no matter what, Bart forgets he’s a speedster for a second and speeds through the most agonized expression Max has ever seen—Guilt and want and shame all wrapped into one—then it’s over and Bart gives him a big smile and tells him ‘great, because I might have crashed another car,’ and even though the crash is real and Bart gets grounded, Max knows it’s an act.
He catches Bart ducking his head to avoid meeting his own reflection’s eyes.
The advice everyone’s giving him is worthless. Bart can think a million thoughts before any one of them is done blinking, and there’s clearly been a miscommunication somewhere. Max is not going to let him overthink himself into being miserable.
So, if Bart isn’t coming to him, Max is going to have to go to Bart.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Bart.” Max tells him, when Bart appears in the living room, moments after the final bell. Bart goes blurry for a split second, reappearing with a confused and cautious look on his face. He’s likely searched the house top to bottom for context clues, and spotted the cookies Helen has made in the kitchen. Probably the cheesecake in the freezer, too. Helen’s making tea for the two of them but she hadn’t quite started in time—everyone’s always late on a speedsters schedule anyway.
Max watches in real time as Bart schools his expression into nonchalance and makes a show of flopping over onto the couch. Max gives him a smile, trying to convey that he’s not in trouble, Bart sticks his tongue out at him in return.
When Helen comes through the kitchen door carrying a tray of tea, Bart’s on his feet again—not startled, but going to help her.
He’s been doing that a lot, recently. Helping her out around the house, doing his homework on time. He puts on an act for Max, but with Helen it’s like he’s trying to apologise for something.
“I can carry one tray of tea by myself,” She says flatly, “Sit. Max has been rehearsing this one all day.”
“Oh god,” Bart says jokingly—nervously, “He had to rehearse?”
He’d normally go on a longer ramble, but with the way he stands there in the living room, shifting from foot to foot, Max gets the feeling he doesn’t know what to say.
“Sit,” Max says, gesturing to the couch next to him, “You’re not in trouble.”
“I don’t know if I believe that.” Bart jokes again, and when Helen goes to get the car keys, he lets slip a genuine panic, “You’re going?”
“I’ll bring back take-out.” Helen waves him off, “You’ll be fine.”
Helen was the one who suggested that she be out of the house for this. Bart doesn’t do well when he feels he’s trapped, or cornered. And if Max completely flubs this conversation, she’ll get a second shot at it.
Max lets Bart tear through the cookies as they both listen to the sound of Helen getting into the car and driving off.
“I just—I want you to know that I love you,” Max tells him, “and nothing is going to change that.”
“You wouldn’t have to tell me that if it were true.” Bart points out immediately, then immediately fixes the bleak pessimism of that statement with something more Bart. “What are you building up to? Did I do something? Whatever it was, it wasn’t me, promise. I’ve been an angel all afternoon.”
“This is something kids your age are sensitive about.” Max tells him, “I want you to know that there’ll be no judgement here, if you choose to tell us what’s been going on. Or even if you don’t! We’ll still love you.”
“What’s been going on?” Bart echos, “Nothing’s been going on. Or, nothing more than usual, at least.”
“I know you’ve been having issues with your identity.” Max says, and Bart freezes like a deer in the headlights. “It’s not obvious, but I’ve been worried about you, so I was paying a little more attention than usual.”
Bart’s breathing goes a little shallow, Max can almost hear him trying to think of a way out of this one.
“Don’t.” Max says, “I can tell you’re trying to find an excuse or convenient distraction, but I’ve noticed, kiddo. I don’t want you to have to lie to me.”
“What gave it away?” Bart asks, voice almost sounding hollow. There’s a slight tremor in the air around him, like he’s getting ready to run.
“You’re starting to resent putting on the suit.” Max says, trying to sound gentle. He thinks he fails, this has been eating at him too, and the hurt bleeds through. “You look guilty when I praise you, like you think you haven’t earned it, or that something negates the good you’re doing.”
Bart looks stricken.
“You look sad when I say your name.” Max tells him, quietly. Something very very fragile in Bart is pulled forward. Just barely held back.
“It’s alright.” Max tells him, and Bart starts reflexively shaking his head, like he can’t believe the words. “It’s alright, Bart—Kid.”
“Do you want us to call you by another name?” Max asks him, hesitantly. Bart goes from shying away to looking right at him in—under a second, actually. Like he slipped into the speedforce for a heartbeat. The look in his eyes is the strongest force of hope Max has ever seen.
“What?” He asks hoarsely.
“What should we call you?” Max asks him, and Bart starts to shake his head again, balling his fists and looking away, face going ruddy.
“I’m not—” Bart says, then all at once he asks, like it offends him “How can you be okay with this?”
“Because it’s you.” Max tells him. Then he gets up out of his chair, going to sit next to Bart. He leaves his arms open for a hug. “I know you, kid.”
“But I replaced him.” Bart says, deliberately not looking at Max, face turned away, hands gripping his pant legs tightly.
“You aren’t replacing anyone.” Max assures him—her?—Bart. “You’re just being yourself. Being yourself is a wonderful thing, Bar– Kid. ”
“But don’t you miss him?” Bart asks, still not looking at him. “How can you say you loved him when you’re so okay with me taking his place? You’re not even angry.”
Max has no idea how to handle gender troubles in the present, let alone how to handle gender troubles informed by thirtieth century culture. Even with all the research he’s done, he still doesn’t know how to navigate the loaded concept of transition as replacement, or the idea that Max couldn’t have loved the old Bart because he’s okay with the new Bart transitioning. He really doesn’t know all of the fancy terms for these conversations. Faced with a lack of knowledge, the only option left is to do what feels right.
Max reaches over and pulls Bart into a hug.
Bart goes limp against him. He doesn’t hug back, but then again, teenagers never do.
“You’re not meant to go your entire life pretending you’re Bart Allen,” Max tells the kid in his arms, “not if you don’t want to. And yes, I miss the kid that was Bart Allen. Of course I do, I loved that kid. But I love the kid in front of me too. And if being Bart Allen is making that kid unhappy then… it’s okay if they stop being Bart Allen.”
“You don’t mean that.” Bart says, in an incredibly tight voice.
“I do.” Max tells him.
“You don’t.” Bart says.
Max keeps holding him, “I do.”
Bart sniffs. Then he reaches out, and cautiously begins to hug Max back. He’s a little too careful, like he’s worried this will all vanish as soon as he reaches for it.
“It’s okay, kid.” Max repeats, trying to promise, “No one will think any different of you if you’re a girl.”
Bart goes stiff in his arms the second Max says it. That’s the problem, isn’t it? The worst part of wanting something is having to say it. On top of all that, who could know the words? Max is from centuries past, Bart is from centuries in the future, just trying to cross that generational gap is hard enough. Max may have spotted the signs, but this is the first time either of them have said it. There’s a natural aversion there. Max put the word down, now Bart will have to agree.
Bart tries scrambling to get away instead, trying to rip himself out of Max’s arms. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed the kid on this, maybe he was supposed to wait for Bart to come to terms with all of this on his own; but Max isn’t stupid either. Bart’s been tearing himself apart for weeks about this. So Bart tries to push Max away, and Max just holds on tighter.
He’s just gotta make sure Bart knows that—that he loves this kid.
The fight bleeds out of him all at once. Max is about to pull back to check on him, when Bart wraps his arms around him and holds him just as tight. Max can feel the part of his shirt where Bart’s face is getting wet.
“I love you, kid.” Max assures him.
Bart lets out a loud sob, then another, then another. His grip on Max tightens and tightens as he does, like he’s afraid of letting go. Bart howls. It’s such a heartbreaking sound that Max has no clue what to do.
“You don’t.” Bart argues, voice snotty and hiccuping under the force of his tears, “I just wanted you to be proud of me. That’s all—I don’t care anymore. I’m a failure, I’m such a failure—I just wanted you to love me for me.”
“I do.” Max Mercury promises.
“You don’t even know me!” Bart protests, before breaking into more sobs, “I’ve been pretending—and I don’t think you’ll like me—and I don’t wanna stop being Bart Allen—but I hate Bart Allen—I don’t wanna be—I don’t want this. I don’t want this! I want this to be real. I wanted you to love me.”
“I do love you,” Max repeats. Bart lets out another angry sob, crying even harder. Max rubs his back, “I’ve got you, kid. I’m with you.“
“Don’t hate me.” Bart says, “No matter what happens, no matter who I am, promise you won’t ever hate me.”
“I promise I won’t hate you.” Max says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is the easiest thing in the world.
Bart cries for an awful long time.