The Birds Who Smile, a Batman fanfic by Raberba girl
Chapter 19.1 (rough draft 2)
Bruce started awake to find John crouched over him, gazing at him intently. "John?!"
"Seatbelts?" the boy demanded.
Bruce groaned and tried to push him away so he could roll over. The rays of sun stabbing through the slits around the curtains were midmorning-bright, but it felt like Bruce had only closed his eyes a minute ago. "Not right now. Later."
John suddenly flopped into a boneless heap. Bruce looked at him. "John?"
The boy curled his arms over his head and hummed in distress.
"Johnny," Bruce sighed, reaching out to comfort him but then hesitating. He didn't deserve to touch a child he was later going to drag into a situation he hated so much. "It doesn't hurt. I promise it doesn't hurt, you know it doesn't hurt. Five seconds, and it will be over and you can have ice cream and play the rest of the day."
"..."
Well, now he couldn't go back to sleep. Instead, he went to fetch John's stuffed elephant and tucked it into the boy's arms. John hugged it lethargically without looking at it. Then Bruce went to check on Alfred, who still had a low fever and looked miserable as he listened to an audiobook. "Any better today?"
"Does it matter? Not better enough," Alfred grumbled, in an understandable but uncharacteristic foul mood. Bruce got him some fresh water and some toast, which was all Alfred said he could stomach.
Then Bruce fed the animals and went back to his room, where he found that John had not moved an inch. "Are you all right, John?" The boy continued to gaze into the distance and didn't answer. 'Dick would rather be comforted than not. John probably does, too.' Bruce gently ran his fingers through the boy's hair, which now had noticeable black roots. It had also gotten so long that Bruce, knowing better than to even suggest haircuts yet, had started tying it back every morning. John never complained about the simple ponytails, but liked to ask other family members to redo his hair into a braid. Peter, with his bright ginger roots, never cared what his hair looked like, but Jack usually refused hair bands and insisted on clips instead, which he then re-arranged throughout the day until his hair had been sculpted into bizarre shapes by bath time.
"I'm going to go take a shower now, John. I'll be back soon." By the time Bruce stepped out of the shower, he found the other children awake, Peter practicing with the bathroom door as Jack wrote his name in shaky letters with his finger on the mirror condensation. "Good job."
"Ggood jobb, Ja'ck," Jack repeated, pleased. "Ggood mmorrrni', Daddy."
"Good morning, Jack. Good morning, Peter."
When Bruce came out of the bathroom with the younger children trotting at his heels, John was still lying in the same position on the bed. "Johnny...let's go get dressed and eat some breakfast."
There was no response. The child was limp as a rag doll when Bruce picked him up, carried him to his room, and set him down on the bed. He didn't lift a finger to help with his clothes. "John, get changed, or you're going to be walking around in your pajamas all day." Too late, he realized that was a rather dumb thing to say. The children didn't care about being properly dressed at the best of times, and in the mood John was currently in, he'd probably rather stay in pajamas if that meant spiting his tormentor.
Bruce sighed and decided to wait until after seatbelts to get the boy dressed for the day.
John had to be carried to the kitchen, too, where the top half of his body sprawled in a boneless pool across the tabletop. The room smelled unexpectedly delicious. Leslie, freshly showered and dressed in clothes she'd found in the guest room closet, was cooking.
"Er- Good morning, Leslie. Thank you."
"I checked on Alfred earlier," she said. "It doesn't look too serious, but call me if he still has a fever tomorrow."
"Thank you," Bruce said again. "You don't...have to cook for us..."
"And with Alfred down, what would you be feeding these children of yours otherwise?"
"...Leftovers."
"Hmm. Considering they'd be Alfred-made leftovers, that's not too bad, but I was already making breakfast for myself. Not difficult to crack a few extra eggs into the pan."
Peter and Jack were watching her from a safe distance, their eyes wide with both curiosity and wariness.
"Boys, say good morning to Dr. Thompkins."
"...She touch us?" Peter asked.
"No. Her job is finished, so now she is just a guest."
Jack edged behind Bruce and instructed Leslie from his safe position, "Yyou be nnicce."
"Of course." She set a plate down in front of a chair. "Come eat, honey."
Her food was plainer than Alfred's, but it was healthy and tasted good. Leslie was curious about the feeding system and watched with a fond little smile as the younger children expertly spoke and signed for what they wanted. "Good way to motivate them."
"It was the only way at first. John and Jack don't care about food as much as they used to, but it still works pretty well with Peter."
"Speaking of not caring about food," Leslie sighed, trying to get John to sit up and eat.
"Just leave him, he's upset," Bruce said. "He usually has a better appetite later in the day. I'll make sure he eats."
"This is fine for the time being, but you are going to get them proper therapists and teachers once their documentation is sorted out, right?"
"Yes, of course."
The children were still eating when Leslie finished her meal, rinsed off her plate in the sink, then called the clinic to tell them she was on her way back. She groaned when she hung up. "Ugh, you terrible, sneaky man... They are swamped without me. They were swamped even before I left."
"You can't help people when you yourself are severely sleep deprived, Leslie."
"Hmph. Pot calling the kettle black." She shook her head, and then her face softened. "I admit, the sleep and the shower and the quiet were...very nice."
"You can borrow a car for the trip back, if you want. I have some that won't warrant a second glance in that part of town."
After Leslie left, Bruce kept an eye on the kids until Peter and Jack had eaten a decent amount but weren't yet restless. He stood up.
"No!" Peter cried in dismay, leaping back. Bruce managed to catch him and tuck him under one arm. He hoisted up John's limp deadweight with the other, and got the protesting Jack moving in the right direction by threatening to withhold ice cream.
In the car, John lay where he'd been placed, as unmoving as roadkill; Jack kicked and complained; Peter flailed and loudly made his displeasure known. "Bad Laugh Man tie you! Why you tie us?!"
"There is good tying and bad tying. The man who hurt you did bad tying, but we have to practice good tying so we'll be safe when we drive. Do you want to have your turn first, or do you want me to take my turn first?"
"YOU! You tie!"
"All right." Bruce buckled a seatbelt over himself. Peter made an angrily triumphant noise; Jack stared, wide-eyed. John looked unimpressed. "Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen..." After he'd counted down to one, Bruce unbuckled himself. "Whose turn is it next?"
"NO!" Peter shouted, and Jack shook his head insistently.
"If you don't want to choose, then I will choose." He reached for Peter's seatbelt. The boy fought him, hissed when Bruce counted down from five, then curled up in a corner afterward with his back to Bruce in his cat-like, 'I am punishing you by withholding my attention' display.
"Jack. Your turn."
"N-No! [chirp-chirp]!"
"He'll have his turn in a minute. Right now, it's yours."
"Nno, bbu't, bu't, do nnot ttie goo'd boys, dis we nnow, nnow we hhha, we do ai ceam..." After a while, it became clear that he was stalling rather than actually saying anything.
"It's time to wear your seatbelt."
"I DOHT WWAH'T TO!" Jack shouted as the buckle was fastened around him.
"Ten, nine, eight-" He stopped counting when Jack started working at the lock mechanism. "Don't undo it, Jack. Leave it fastened until I finish counting."
Click.
Jack grinned cheekily at Bruce. Bruce buckled him in again. Jack reached for the lock. Bruce held the boy's hands still long enough to warn, "Jack, if you unbuckle yourself before I finish counting, you will not get ice cream." He released the boy's hands.
Jack eyed him.
"Ten, nine-"
Click.
"Jack, you lost your ice cream."
"Bad Daddy."
"Hn." Bruce sighed and turned to the last child. "John."
"Kill you."
"Five seconds."
"Hate you."
John came out of his lethargy long enough to fight; then, when the seatbelt was moved back away from him, he collapsed again.
"It's over for today, John. You'll get ice cream in a minute."
The boy didn't bother responding.
When they all got out of the car, Peter and Jack immediately ran to where the cooler usually sat, then stopped and looked around in confusion.
Bruce, holding John, could have kicked himself for forgetting YET AGAIN that he did not have a butler at the moment. "The ice cream is in the kitchen. We have to go to the kitchen first."
"AI CCEAM!" Peter bellowed.
Once there, Bruce had to set a suddenly clingy John onto the floor so he could open the freezer and get the box of ice cream sandwiches. "Peter finished his seatbelt practice. Peter gets ice cream." Peter joyfully snatched his reward and crammed the whole thing into his mouth. Bruce held another dessert sandwich down to John. The boy didn't react for a moment, but then unwrapped an arm from Bruce's leg to take the treat. Then he just held it, making no move to take a bite. "John finished his seatbelt practice. John gets ice cream." Bruce looked at the impatiently hopping third child. "Jack did not finish his seatbelt practice. Jack does not get ice cream."
"crow! GIVE ME!"
"No. You did not earn it this time."
"I WUH, WAN'T AI CEAM!"
"No."
"CROOOOW!"
John held out his ice cream sandwich, but Bruce caught it up before Jack could reach it. "No. It's good to share, John, but not when your brother did not earn the reward."
Jack threw a tantrum. John bit Bruce. The ice cream got accidentally dropped, and was instantly devoured by Peter. Bruce wanted very much to go back to bed.
He eventually got the boys settled down again. He'd set a sheet of poster board on the floor in front of Jack, who was now making angry scribbles on it with a crayon. Peter, with his endless appetite, was happily finishing breakfast. John was finally eating as well, but only while Bruce sang. If Bruce stopped singing, John would just stare at him pointedly (letting whatever was in his mouth drop back onto the plate) until he resumed again.
"You sneaky, manipulati~ve little child~" Bruce sang passive-aggressively, since John seemed to care more about the melody than the words, "Dick would be so proud~ of you~"
Tim came staggering into the kitchen and flung the file folder on the table in front of Bruce, who guiltily remembered that he'd only had the chance to read and sign two of the documents so far.
"Ttimmy!" Jack exclaimed, hurrying over to his older self, "Daddy bbe mmean to me!"
"Daddy is mean to me, too," Tim said in a dead voice, now zombieing toward the coffee maker, which he started stabbing at.
"I'm not going to have time to go through all of these before you have to leave-"
"Sign them now. Read the digital copies later." He pulled a nutrition shake out of the refrigerator.
"That's not how signing works, Tim."
Tim looked down at Jack, who was gazing up at him in righteous expectation. "Daddy's the worst, huh."
"He does not give me ice cream!"
"He does not give me signatures."
"Angry at Daddy!"
"Preach." He threw back his head to take a swig of the shake.
Bruce signed, trying to at least skim the documents first. He trusted Tim with...everything, really, but it still went against his instinct to sign things he hadn't read properly. "You could be a shapeshifter, tricking me into signing things I shouldn't."
Tim couldn't argue with that. "Uuuugggghhhh- Whatever; I'm already late for work." He sat down and laid his head on his folded arms and dozed until the coffee maker beeped. Bruce got up long enough to bring him a steaming mug. "Don't stop signing!" Tim pushed Bruce back in front of the documents, poured his coffee into a giant glass along with another nutrition shake, and sipped at the concoction, still looking only about 60% awake.
"...I can't believe you're drinking that."
"Energy. Nutrition. Taste buds dead. Sign." Jack offered Tim a crayon. After a moment, Tim took it, then dragged it across the poster board Jack held up for him. "This is our 'We are mad at Daddy' art, huh."
"Goo'd jobb, Timmy," Jack praised.
The instant Bruce lifted the pen from the final document, Tim grabbed all the papers and lurched toward the garage.
Bruce tidied up the kitchen as best he could and then went to fetch an outfit for John. (He purposely brought the most outrageous, peacock-flashy clothes he could find in the closet. He was rewarded when John gave a tiny smile at the sight of the bright colors.) While he was helping the boy dress, a notification popped up on his phone, so he made his way down to the Batcave with the birds trailing in his wake. "Barbara."
She glanced up from the lab table as casually as if she had only seen him yesterday rather than months ago. "Hi, Bruce. Just using your equipment real quick."
"It's been a while."
"I've been busy." She straightened up to get a better look at the birds. The younger two had clustered cautiously behind Bruce; John stood silently apart. "You've been, too."
"Yes."
She chuckled. "I heard that whoever comes within a hundred yards of this place gets roped into babysitting your new Robins."
"No. They're my responsibility."
She frowned briefly, but her expression smoothed out as she approached. "Hey, kiddos. I'm Barbara."
"Bbaba," Peter murmured.
She shook their hands and chatted with them a bit. Both children warmed up to her immediately when she brought up the subject of books. "Baby birds and baby bat are family," Peter told her.
"Someone's been reading you Stellaluna, huh." Barbara ruffled the children's hair, and that brief frown crossed her face again when she stepped aside and lowered herself to John's height. "Hello, Boy Wonder," she murmured.
He gazed at her, his expression unchanged even when she gently brushed a knuckle along the upper edge of his mask scar. She straightened and set a hand on his shoulder. "Bruce, there's something wrong with him."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. Obviously survivors of severe abuse would have problems.
"Bruce, Jason and Tim stopped clinging to you in order to greet me and tell me all about their favorite books. Meanwhile, Dick Grayson is over here by himself - in the room with four other people, and not a single word or touch or smile so far."
Bruce felt a tinge of alarm. He looked at John, who continued to gaze at nothing in particular. "...Depression?"
"Have they had any counseling?"
"Things have...been...hectic."
Barbara's expression turned harsh.
"Barbara, you know how risky it is."
"Bruce Wayne-"
"I didn't say I wasn't going to get them counseling, I just haven't had a chance to start vetting therapists yet. Gotham is still a wreck, every day is challenging even just here in this house, you haven't seen-"
"Look at him, Bruce."
Bruce's already overloaded mental To Do list started reshuffling itself. "...I'll make it a higher priority."
Barbara turned her attention back to John, cupping his face gently with her hands and laying a soft kiss on his forehead. "There are a lot of people who love you, Dickie Grayson."
John closed his eyes. Tears seeped from them and slid down his face.
TBC