There was no dreaming where Bart had been. It wasn’t like reality, where there was noise and people, sleeping and eating and life all over the place. It wasn’t physically painful or drastically unpleasant. It accepted him and he (in some way) belonged to it. It was an important part of him and Bart kept thinking that because of that, he should have known how to escape from its hold.
He hadn’t hallucinated the whole time he was there. Bart had a strong mind and had no problem keeping it and not fazing out. The Speed Force was emptiness and loneliness and pulsing energy, bright and crackling, lively, otherworldly. It felt better to be outside of it, warmer and friendlier, orderly and normal. It didn’t hurt, being aware that Virgil had looked for him, being aware that he’d tried to get him back and hadn’t given up. Not many people would do that for a year. They’d bail out. Virgil hadn’t and Bart loved him for that. He adored him for that.
Bart rested his head on Virgil’s shoulder, basked in the familiarity that was real and not just a memory that he couldn’t touch. “Sorry,” he murmured. He really was. Sorry. For leaving him alone while he walked around in circles trying to think of another way that wouldn’t work when he tried it. He didn’t always think things through and unsurprisingly, wasn’t thinking of the consequences when he'd moved as fast as he did. They'd called him Impulse for a reason.