The Birds Who Smile, a Batman fanfic by Raberba girl
Chapter 6.2 (rough draft 2)
Margie and Renée had not stopped gossiping from the moment the door had closed behind Mr. Wayne. "Where did he find these kids?! In a circus?"
"Well, it wouldn't be the first time."
"A zoo, maybe."
Ronin cringed, hoping that the butler was out of earshot.
"They can't talk!"
"Maybe they're, what's it called, autistic?" Mel wondered. His voice suddenly went hushed. "I hope that's not a bad word. I don't actually know."
"It's not a bad word, Mel," Ronin said, then remembered that she technically didn't know anything about autism herself. "I think."
"I hope they don't go anywhere near my Bridget," Margie huffed. "Did you see what that brat did to poor little William?!"
"I certainly hope Mr. Wayne doesn't intend to bring them here every day. They need different accommodations."
"I wonder what he's hiding with those hats and sunglasses."
As Margie stalked toward Jack, who was now working on an elaborate Lego construction, Ronin cast another desperate glance at the butler. The man, Alfred, had managed to coax Peter out into the open, but was still wholly preoccupied refereeing between Peter and a boy named Lake, who was friendly but violent and often got scolded for playing too rough.
Margie picked at Jack, who kept pushing her away in annoyance but didn't stop her from peeking under his hat and sunglasses. She finally came back, giggling. "Their hair is green! Why do they have green hair?! And he has little marks around his eyes if you look close, all of them look like someone's been beating them up. I bet that sicko really does have lots of 'fun' with all those orphans he keeps adopting, the poor things!" Despite the lip-service to concern for the children's well-being, she looked like she was relishing the new fodder for some of the uglier rumors that cropped up every so often about Bruce Wayne and the boys he kept taking in.
"Please, Margie." Ronin peeked under John's sunglasses herself, trying to determine if there really were signs of recent abuse. She was startled to find that the hints of scarring on the bridge of his nose was more extensive than she'd expected: discolored and damaged skin covered at least a quarter of his face. In fact, it had a familiar shape, just like...
She carefully nudged the glasses back into place and, still holding John with one arm, took out her phone with the other. It didn't take long to find a news article on that disturbing recent attack on Arkham Asylum, the one involving children dressed like Robin.
'My God, it's them. Mr. Wayne somehow managed to rescue the poor things. ...My God. That's blood on their mouths.'
Perhaps John felt her tense, because he raised his head to look at her again. Though his mouth was clean now, it was hard to tear her eyes away from his frighteningly sharp teeth. She couldn't bear being so close to him and not being able to see his eyes, so she took his glasses off entirely. He gazed back at her, his eyes a beautiful shade of blue with a peculiar touch of gold, and her heart rate calmed a bit. "John," she whispered, "you're not going to hurt anyone here, are you?"
He signed something. She had no idea what it was, but it was reassuring all the same. 'Their scary smiles in that photo, the green hair - they were Jokerized. They weren't in their right minds. They're not Jokerized now, they're just ordinary, hurt little children now, and they need love and understanding, not fear and mockery.'
"*ahem* Pardon me, madam." The butler's voice was as cold as ice, and Ronin guiltily hurried to put John's sunglasses back on.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean- I just- They were Joker victims, right? Mr. Wayne rescued them."
Alfred thawed a little bit. "Just so, madam. Master John, come." The boy rose out of Ronin's lap and took the butler's hand, making a pleased crowing noise.
Things settled down for a while. Jack seemed perfectly happy playing by himself - he scared off any children who got too close, but at least he didn't actively bother anyone. John wandered from group to group, and though some of the children shied away from him or got protective of their toys, a few pulled at him curiously, and one bossy child assigned him a role in her game of House. Peter kept causing one ruckus after another, but though his unusual appearance and vocalizations drew more attention, he technically didn't cause more trouble than Lake usually did. He and Lake actually seemed to be getting along quite well, despite their frequent brawls. Lake, when he wasn't getting a taste of his own medicine, seemed rather amazed that he finally had a playmate who never burst into tears or tattled on him like the other children usually did.
At one point, Ronin was sitting in a rocking chair, trying to hold fussy little Cherise still long enough to give her a bottle. John approached, bedecked with flower stickers that he'd let a little girl put on him earlier. Ronin was nervous at first that he might hurt the infant, but when he reached out, it was palm-first and slowly. He made very gentle contact and stroked his hand over Cherise's silky hair, and almost at once, she quieted and started sucking.
"Nice and gentle, Johnny," Ronin murmured in approval. "Very nice." John started to make a cooing sound like a dove that Ronin herself found comforting, and Cherise relaxed. Ronin smiled. "I think the baby likes you. She's never this calm for anyone but her mother."
He signed something.
"I'm so sorry, John, I don't know sign language. Oh, you're such a good boy. You're so good with the baby."
"Bbebbe," he said in that soft, whispery voice. He set a single fingertip on Cherise's cheek and stroked, slowly and carefully. When a bit of white liquid dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, John touched it and brought it to his mouth to taste. Then he made one of the few signs that Ronin recognized.
"'Milk,' that's right. The baby is drinking milk."
More mysterious signing.
"Did you want some milk, too, John?" she guessed. "We don't have any milk for big kids, but we do have juice." She looked around and saw Mel starting to set out snacks for a group of children at a table. "Why don't you go ask Mr. Hammond for some juice and a snack?"
"Bbebbe." He gently touched his lips to Cherise's head and cooed at her some more.
It was Peter who first started prowling around the snack table, growling every time Mel set a muffin or a freshly-opened package of crackers in front of a child. When Mel gave him a nervous look, Peter signed at him.
"Shoo," Renée snapped, clapping her hands sharply at Peter as if he was a stray animal. "Leave them alone!"
He looked like he was about to pounce at her, but Alfred managed to intervene in time.
"Mel, Renée," Ronin said quickly, "I think he just wants a snack, too."
"He can wait his turn," Renée said, ignoring whatever Peter was signing at her.
"But there are plenty of seats and food left, there's no need to make him wait."
Some of the children were watching Peter warily, and a pair of overdramatic girls screamed and ducked every time he passed by.
"Look, he's scaring the children!"
"Then he can eat over here next to me!"
Peter got right in Renée's face to make frustrated, emphatic signs. She shrieked and slapped him - not hard, but Ronin was still shocked. "Renée!"
"Madam-!" Alfred started at the same time, but then had to step in Peter's way to absorb the furious, retaliatory blow meant for the woman. Peter screamed and leaped back, now even more upset.
"Oh, stop, please-" Ronin had to put down the bottle, which caused Cherise to start screaming, too, but she couldn't stand it anymore. She tried to shield the baby from any stray blows as she approached. "Renée, that was uncalled for!"
"He attacked me! You saw him attack me!"
"He didn't try to hit you until you hit him, first! Before that, he was only trying to talk to you!"
"Let's all lower our voices," Alfred said. Several of the other children were joining in with Cherise's and Peter's screams, some for the fun of it and others out of genuine fear. Renée's agitation certainly weren't helping, and neither was Margie, who was pressed into a corner, clutching her daughter tightly and shrieking something into her phone. John was moving between his brother and the baby, adding to the din with his own noises of distress.
"Here," Mel said anxiously, "here. Peter, here, you can have a snack, too. Please don't hurt me." He stretched out one arm to offer a packaged muffin with the tips of his fingers.
Whatever it was that seemed to be making Peter so upset, this was apparently the last straw. He screamed again, made a vicious swipe at Mel that Alfred managed to knock off-target, then dashed out the door.
o.o.o.o.o
Everyone seemed glad to see Bruce when he walked into the conference room where the meeting was. "Bruce! Glad you could make it."
"Thank you, Lucius. It looks like everyone's been doing great work. Tim, fill me in."
They made it through nearly 45 minutes before Bruce got a text from Alfred. Master Bruce, I'm afraid that Master Peter has gone missing. "Excuse me, gentlemen."
"Bruce, wait, if you'll just let me finish-!"
"I have to go, there's been a problem with one of my children."
"Something's wrong with the kids?!"
He'd forgotten that many of his employees were still, despite hiding it behind game faces when they were working, traumatized by recent events. Half of them got up to accompany him at the mere hint that their children might be in danger. "No, no, he's probably just run off and gotten lost, I'm sure the center itself is fine-"
They were not soothed, so when Bruce came back to the second floor, he was trailed by a resigned-looking Tim and about five or six anxious-looking parents.
The center itself was a little chaotic, but not overly so, considering how many children were inside. Most of them were playing, watching a movie on the TV in a corner of the room, or eating snacks; some of them were dubiously watching John, who was having a meltdown in another corner as Jack held onto Alfred's coat and trilled anxiously.
Bruce hurried over to them. "John. John. Calm down, no, don't do that, chum, please." He held John's hands to stop him from clawing at himself, trying to be gentle enough that the boy wouldn't find it threatening.
"[caw]! [caw]!"
"Yes, I know, but I can't go look for him until you calm down. Do you understand? You have to calm down, John." Perhaps it was too many words. "Calm. Gentle. Soft. ...Good. Talk to me, John."
"...Gone!" the boy finally managed to sign.
"Yes. Be still and calm for Alfred, and I will go look for Peter."
"Scared! [caw] scared!"
"Yes, I know. Are you scared, John?"
"I want [caw]. I want [caw]."
"Ssshh." John let Bruce hold him for a minute. "Here. Will you sit here with Alfred instead? Sit here, and I'll bring some books for Alfred to read to you, and I will look for Peter, all right? I will bring him back safe."
John crooned sadly. "[caw]scared. Bad food, ha hafood."
"...What?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what exactly it was that upset him so much, sir," Alfred offered, "but Master Peter reacted badly when Mr. Hammond over there was setting out snacks for the children."
"I'll ask him. Oh, thank you, Jack." The little boy had, of his own accord, gone to fetch a pile of books, and he now settled down with his brother as Alfred opened the first book to read to them. Bruce, hoping that no one had happened to take any pictures of the scars on John's face, gently re-fitted the sunglasses that the boy must have knocked off in his distress.
When Bruce headed for the intently conversing huddle of adults by the door, a woman with a three-year-old on her hip turned to address him. "We can help you look for him, Mr. Wayne."
"He ran right out the door!" another woman exclaimed. "He was so fast, by the time we got to the door, we couldn't even see him in the hall or which way he'd gone."
"It's fine, I-"
"He's not allergic to anything, is he?" Hammond asked anxiously. "I don't know what set him off, Mr. Wayne, I was just handing out snacks like usual-"
"Really, it's okay-"
"-he was already upset, I thought he wanted a muffin, too, so I gave him one, but he yelled and ran. I don't know what I did, Mr. Wayne, I swear I didn't mean to scare him!"
"I'm just going to-"
"We should call security and have them check the cameras," someone suggested.
"And in the meantime, we'll split up," the second woman said briskly. "I'm sure he can't have gone far, and with all of us looking, we'll find him in a jiffy."
Bruce was exasperated. He didn't want to reveal that he routinely put trackers on his children, so he was going to have to play along with the search party for a least a little while.
Tim saved him. "I know where he is," he said, lowering his phone. "He scared Saychelle out of her office, and she reported it to the wrong person. They only just now figured out he's Bruce's kid."
That room was two corridors away. Bruce headed there at once, followed by a little group of concerned or curious adults and one or two children who wouldn't let go of their parents.
Saychelle was standing near her office, talking animatedly to a couple of security guards. "...and he flew at me screaming like a little monster, I thought he was going to bite me! I ran out of there, I tell you, ran! Oh, Mr. Wayne, hello! Oh, I wouldn't go in there if I were you, there's a scary little boy in there!"
Ignoring her, Bruce started crossing her office, paused, sharply gestured for everyone who had followed him in to back out again, then continued cautiously until he saw Peter glaring at him from the shadows under Saychelle's desk. "Hello, Peter," he said softly.
"Go away!"
"I won't come any closer. I'm just going to sit right here, Peter, so we can talk for a minute." He sat down on the floor. "Are you upset, Peter?"
"Bad food!"
"Mr. Hammond told me he tried to give you a snack. Alfred made muffins for breakfast a few days ago, don't you remember? You liked them then. Was something wrong with this one?"
"...Ffoo'ppeez."
"You want food?"
"Ffoo'ppeez! You give food to me. Nno 'ffoo'ppeez,' no ffoo-duh!"
"Oh." Now he felt a little guilty, even though he had good reason to make the children practice their new communication skills. "He did it wrong, is that it? He did something you didn't expect; the routine was different. Is that why you're upset?"
"You give me, Bad Laugh Man give me good food, talk nice, pet me, bad food, bad food, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
Bruce suddenly remembered Peter's reaction to the only other freely-offered food he'd had during his time in the Wayne household. The only reason he hadn't been triggered since then was because after that, he'd always earned (or 'stolen') his food in some way. "We'll...we'll talk about this later, Peter." He didn't want to discuss his eight-year-old son's firsthand experience with poisoned bait when there were outsiders watching curiously from the doorway. "For now, why don't we give Saychelle her office back. John is very worried about you. Follow me back to the childcare center, and we can show him that you're safe."
He stood up and moved back, and a minute later, Peter crept out from under the desk. Bruce picked up the discarded hat and sunglasses from the floor and, after several uneasy rebuffs from Peter, managed to get them back onto the boy.
As soon as they came out into the hall, most of the adults burst into noise, thankful that the child had been found or scolding Peter or congratulating Bruce or teasing Saychelle, and some of them tried to grab Peter, probably thinking he'd run away again if not anchored down. Bruce managed to shield the child until he'd latched onto Tim, the only other person he knew. Tim finished whatever text he'd been typing, slipped the phone into his pocket, and set a protective hand on Peter's head. "Looks like you've had a busy day, huh. Bruce, you can take them home now, I know we're not going to get anymore work out of you today."
Bruce gratefully clapped his shoulder.
Back in the childcare center, John ran to hug his wayward brother as Peter shouted at the snack table, "BBA-DUH MM'FFIN! BA-DUH MM'FFIN!"
Jack, holding a math-themed toy, went straight for Tim and pressed a button. "Six times six is thi~rty-six!" the toy sang. He pressed another button. "Three~ times four is twelve!"
Tim smiled a little. "Yeah? I know Bruce started teaching you letters and numbers the other day. What's seven times eight?"
Jack frowned. He looked down at the toy and studied it for a minute. Then he slid his finger across the numbered buttons until he reached the one he wanted. "Se~ven times eight is fi~fty-six!"
"Okay, but can you do it without the toy?" Tim pulled it out of his hands. "What's twelve times twelve?"
Jack glared at him. "crow"
"What about one you already did - what's six times six?"
"...Sssi'kk ttimme ssi'kk iih...ssehrry...sssffuh~rry-ssi'kk."
"Nice. Have Bruce teach you the T-H sound." He handed the toy back.
Jack dropped it dismissively. "Ttmm. Hhello, Ttmm."
Tim's faced softened. "Hello, mini me."
"I Ttmm, yyou Ttmm, I nno Ttmm, I Jj'ckk, yyou Ttmm."
"'Guess from your perspective, I'm the one who stole your name, huh," Tim mused. "But I'm the older one, so I get to keep it."
"Ggoohbbye, Ttmm." Jack said goodbye again in ASL, then went to join Bruce, who was calling for him at the door as John tugged crankily at his hand and Peter clung to Alfred.
"Goodbye, Jack," Tim murmured, watching them go. "See you later."
TBC
A/N: (Ftr, "autistic" is not a bad word. I included that part to comment on how ignorant the general public still is about special needs in general.)
As of 8 December 2018, this is all I've edited so far. If/when I do get around to editing the rest of the story, you'll be able to tell by whether it says "rough draft" or "rough draft 2" in the parenthesis.