"Bart, you're the best at people." Tim is ... not entirely discontent here. Better than 20 seconds ago. The arm on the back of the couch is nice. It's reassuringly there, weighing down the couch cushion so Tim can feel it even if Bart's arm isn't on his shoulders, and Tim could probably weasel it into more of a hug if he wanted to. It's very low pressure affection. That's about what Tim can handle right now, anything more would feel like it was a demonstrative reaction to what happened. To the perceived trauma. This is something that just might be part of a day.

Maybe Bart's not good at all people, but he's at least good at Tim, in this moment. "You don't have to say anything. Do anything. I don't want to talk about that, anyway. We can just name the chickens. Or you can tell me how to make cocoa."