Chapter Text
It already feels almost familiar, to carry Barry through the hallways. He’s the same light weight he’d been before, balanced on Bruce’s hip, though the rough materials of the borrowed slacks and shirt feel obviously out-of-place beneath Bruce’s hands. They’d looked out of place, right from the first moment Bruce had laid eyes on the boy, and he considers that Barry never actually left headspace. He just forced himself to tread water at the surface of it to keep up appearances for as long as he could, being a big boy, and it’s already seemingly had an effect. Barry looks worn down again, his gaze exhausted and far away, and he’s clinging to Bruce like he doesn’t know what else to do.
It’s almost a counterpart to the trust he’d exhibited when Bruce had found him after his drop, but it feels heavier now, surely made that way by the fact that Barry hasn’t dropped. He’s sinking into headspace like a Little normally would, albeit nowhere near as smoothly, and he’s looking like he thinks he might drown.
Ultimately, it makes getting him changed into some more appropriate attire considerably more difficult than it had been when he was sleepy and freshly-bathed last night. There’s no changing table to strap him onto nor toy to offer him to distract him, so Bruce can only lay him back on the crumpled sheets of his bed and murmur soothing words as he unbuttons the ill-fitting shirt, feeling an ache in his heart as a panicked, shame-filled sort of clarity keeps making Barry writhe in discomfort, face flushed bright.
“I--I can...I can do it myself,” he finally tries to insist, looking almost close to tears, and Bruce immediately knows he won’t let him but backs off nonetheless, giving the poor boy some space to inhale so shakily it’s almost a hiccup. He makes a tragic picture, looking so clearly Little even in his grown-up clothes, and it’s all Bruce can do not to scoop him up. He knows it probably wouldn’t make it better.
“I know,” he says instead, in a placating sort of tone he’s familiar with using. The tone he’d use when his children were young and fiercely independent, not wanting the help of Bruce or the Bat but needing it anyway. “I know you can do it by yourself. But you don’t have to, see? I’m here. I want to help. Will you let me?”
It’s a bright sort of pride that lights up within Bruce when he sees Barry start to consider it, the flush of shame on his cheeks lightening to something closer to shyness. He fidgets, already visibly littler, and Bruce continues.
“Just let me help with this, alright? And then you can decide what you want to do afterwards. You don’t even have to do it with me. You can stay with Alfred, if you like.”
A better offer than explaining that Barry isn’t allowed to be unsupervised - and it works. Finally, Barry nods, chewing rather brutally on his bottom lip, and Bruce thanks the gods of convenience when he can lean across the bed and pick up the pacifier abandoned earlier that morning. It isn’t dirty, of course, just has a few little bits of fluff from being dropped on the sheets and left when it was surely still wet, but it feels as natural as anything for Bruce to clean and wet it in his own mouth before holding it out for Barry to latch onto.
He does so immediately, and then relaxes back into the bedsheets like a switch has been flipped. Bruce feels an affectionate smile tug at his lips, and from there it’s much easier to get Barry out of his clothes, though the button-down requires enough manoeuvring to earn a frustrated whine. It’s easily placated with some soothing cooing, and then - perfectly on time - Bruce’s reliance on Alfred’s near psychic powers when it comes to the care of the house and its occupants is rewarded by the butler entering with another bundle of items. Bruce turns calmly and greets him, accepts the bundle with a nod of thanks, but he doesn’t miss the way Barry flushes bright red again and does his absolute best to hide his state of undress, his hands desperately attempting to somehow cover the full expanse of his borrowed briefs. It’s a grown-up sort of shame, but when displayed so childishly it’s shockingly endearing, enough so that Bruce has to quite consciously resist the urge to coo some more.
Instead, mindful of Alfred’s presence, he sets the bundle of gathered items down on the bed and begins to sort through them, not quite relaxing until he hears the door click shut and knows they’re alone again. Only then does he offer Barry a soft almost-smile, patting the boy’s tense tummy half-covered by his pulled-up knees to try and tell him to relax too.
“Shy, aren’t you?” he comments lightly, then considers the irony in him attempting to tell Barry that he needn’t be, after he felt exactly as ashamed when observed by someone else. “It’s alright,” he says instead, picking up a diaper. “I suppose I am, too.”
This time, instead of a singular diaper, Alfred brought the opened pack, meaning that Bruce will know where they are for changes. The rest of the supplies are still nearby from last night too, so Bruce makes quick work of getting Barry out of his underwear and tucking a diaper beneath him in its stead.
It’s still clearly an unfamiliar routine for Barry - which can only be expected, since it’s only the second time he’s been diapered - but Bruce is quick and efficient, shushing Barry gently each time a whimper crawls its way up his throat. He’s pink-cheeked and fidgeting by the time the tapes are all neatly in place, but all it takes is a moment of Bruce just looking at him gently to calm him down completely.
“Cold,” he finally mumbles behind his paci, fidgeting again, and Bruce can feel the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Let’s get you dressed, then.”
A onesie or romper would probably be best, considering Barry’s apparent regression age, but Bruce isn’t sure if they have any - if they’d even fit. Barry has a fairly narrow, lean build - the body of a runner, naturally - but he’s hardly got the physique that Dick did at the age of eighteen. Dick is probably smaller, even now, so perhaps it’s a necessity to stick to the things that’ll fit - the pyjama sets and colourful t-shirts and elastic-waist trousers.
For today, Alfred has picked out a short-sleeved baby blue t-shirt patterned with clouds, which Bruce tugs down over Barry’s head easily. The soft grey joggers take some extra wiggling, especially over the considerably thick diaper, but they still result in far less fuss than the grown-up clothes did, and Bruce considers for a moment that he’s done. But, he then considers Barry’s complaints of being cold - unreasonable, considering he runs hotter than any regular human, but endearing in that timid toddler sort of way - and picks up the bright blue socks that Alfred had put with the pile. Barry squeaks in surprise and wriggles when Bruce pulls them onto his feet, cheeks colouring with the natural giggly reaction to being tickled, and the sight makes Bruce’s heart ache so keenly that he can’t resist but to scoop Barry up as soon as he’s done, cradling the smiling boy close to his chest.
“Is that better?” he asks softly, instinctively smoothing a hand over Barry’s unruly, fluffy hair. “Not cold?”
He gets a sincere shake of the head in response, and - just to add to the undeniable something gripping his heart - a mumbled, “‘Ank’oo.”
“Good boy,” he says softly, warmly, then adjusts Barry on his hip. “Now, what would you like to do?”
Barry looks up at him curiously, like the question is unfounded, and Bruce entertains for a moment that he’s too little to really be given choices. It feels wrong to just decide for the boy, however, especially when Bruce doesn’t really know him - when he isn’t Bruce ’s - so he elaborates.
“You can choose what you’d like to do today. Within reason, of course. You could watch some television, or go and see the gardens, or spend some time in the library—”
Bruce trails off with the remembrance that Barry is a child. Not like the Robins, not so abstract and disillusioned - and much younger, in fact. Is he even old enough in headspace to retain his memory of how to read?
He can’t think of anything else to offer, though. The Manor, despite the beliefs of the tabloids and youngsters who take notice of his several adoptions - official and otherwise - is not a haven for youngsters. There’s enough for children to occupy themselves with, a pool table and ping-pong table and a widely-stocked library and more gaming systems than Bruce could ever hope to care about or remember the many names of, but nothing fit for anyone younger.
Well. Nothing available.
Bruce knows that there are toys, tucked away in storage right beside everything else Alfred has been fetching out for Barry, but offering those feels wrong. Like an overstep. And Bruce could consider why it feels like that, why it feels any different to lending - giving away - all the rest of his eldest son’s unused possessions, but he doesn’t want to. His thoughts about Dick, his memories, are already aching like an old bruise that’s been pressed on too much, and it’s only serving as a reminder of what he already knows.
“Alright,” he says, in a gentle, placating tone that indicates the decision is being made for Barry, not Bruce himself. “How about you stay downstairs with Alfred for the morning, hm? You can sit and watch TV, or he can show you around the manor. I’ve got a bit of work I need to do, but I’ll come and see you before lunchtime, and we can eat together. How does that sound?”
There is a somewhat tense look to Barry’s face. He still seems far too still, far too quiet , for a real Little, let alone one as young as himself. Each glimpse of genuine peace in his face seems to be far between, and they only come when Bruce’s attention is fixed solely on the boy.
Like he thinks he’s being a nuisance otherwise.
It has the benefit now, however, of making him agreeable, and he nods mutely at Bruce’s suggestion even as his hands curl to clutch fistfuls of Bruce’s pressed shirt. Perhaps he should comment on it, say something soothing, but Bruce doesn’t even know what’s wrong and doesn’t think he has the right, ability, nor willingness to try and ask. Instead, he just rubs Barry’s back gently as he carries him silently downstairs.
He ends up depositing the boy in the main living room after finding Alfred and requesting he keep an eye on Barry. The television is turned on promptly - a bright educational cartoon for toddlers - and, though the boy’s eyes get noticeably watery and his voice very wobbly when it becomes truly apparent that Bruce really will be leaving him, he doesn’t kick up a fuss. Perhaps it’s selfish for Bruce to relish it, but Barry being too uncomfortable in his headspace to rely on the relief of tantrums will serve him well for the time being, especially as he somewhat awkwardly bids yet another firm but patient goodbye to the miserable-looking Little and then shuts the door behind him. It isn’t enough that he can’t hear the unmistakable crack of Barry beginning to cry, but he steels himself and walks away, making his way straight down to the Cave which has lay untouched for far too long now.
He has systems in place, of course, for him to be notified of anything truly pressing even when he’s in public as Bruce Wayne, and the fact that none have come, even in the form of Alfred telling him about something, is a relief. However, there is still the matter of non-pressing matters which may still be important, and his concern on that front is proven to exist for good reason when the screens of the computer - once awoken - display what can only be described as a barrage of notifications. Attempted communications, from off-planet.
From Hal.
Bruce curses softly, noticing that the majority of the notifications are from hours ago, and he is forced to entertain the thought that Jordan’s chance at communication has come and gone. Bruce is unsure what exactly his mission had been, but it’s nothing to scoff at if it’s kept him away from Earth for so long, and the idea that he may have already been swept back up in it is unpleasant - Bruce needs answers, and he would like them now.
Aware that it may well be fruitless, but all too eager to try, Bruce opens the League communications feed that Hal had attempted to use to contact him. He’s prepared for a long wait - perhaps hours, if not days, of keeping an eye on it, but instead he hears the unmistakable crackle of the feed being opened on the other side almost instantaneously.
He’s expecting a wise-crack. Some comment about how, for a guy so tech-obsessed, he sure is terrible at answering his phone.
Instead, he is met with a tone so serious, undercut by something so frantic, that he finds himself almost taken aback.
“Where is Barry?”
Bruce can’t even think to respond. He’s heard the tone before, on a lesser level. Hal and Barry are close. Hal is protective. Any information of Barry getting hurt while the Lantern is elsewhere easily results in that tone, either over the comms or echoing through the hallways of the Watchtower as Hal trails Bruce, pestering him endlessly that he needs to be let into the medbay to stay with Barry, but Bruce has never heard it quite like this.
Hal sounds exhausted. Desperate. Somehow resigned to something awful even as he sounds poised to fight tooth and nail against it.
“Batman.” The snapped title - brutal insubordination - pulls Bruce from his thoughts. “Where is he? Where the hell is he?”
“He’s with me.”
Perhaps it’s a wonder that Bruce’s voice - the Batman’s voice - comes out so effortlessly, even after days spent speaking softly and cooing, but perhaps he owes that to being posed the simplest of all possible questions. The ones to follow, however —
“What happened? Is he okay? What’s going on?”
— those are more complicated.
Bruce sighs thinly, trying to organise the chaos of his thoughts, the chaos of the situation , into something that can be explained. Truly, the baseline of it is simple - Barry is a Little, he dropped badly due to neglect, he’s now under Bruce’s care with every bit of deep-set damage steadily swimming to the miserable surface - but the current story almost doesn’t seem to matter. Bruce isn’t even sure Hal deserves it, suddenly reminded with a harsh jolt of fierce protectiveness of Barry when he’d first dropped, confused and terrified and hurt, asking for Hal - Hal, who had left him, with no alternative Caregiver. Who hadn’t told anyone, had directly endangered Barry’s safety by keeping the secret of his headspace for this long, allowing him to push himself the way he clearly has been. Bruce thinks of Barry’s apartment, thinks about the mess which must’ve accumulated over months - thinks of the lack of toys, the lack of pacifiers, the lack of any objects to adhere to the needs of a Little, the fact that Barry doesn’t seem to know what being taken care of feels like.
“This isn’t the time for the damned silent treatment, Bruce! Is. Barry. Okay ?”
He almost severs the comm line.
Fury is a burning weight low in his chest, a new and unfamiliar type born of having a charge so young, so vulnerable, to protect, but Bruce swallows the great flame of it and allows only embers to spark from his tongue.
“No. Your Little is not okay.”
The ensuing silence is satisfying and infuriatingly not so in almost equal measure. He likes the idea that he’s caught Hal out, caught him off-guard, made him feel - if only for a moment - panicked and exposed, fearful despite the harrowing distance of cold space separating them, but he wants a response. He wants to know - the truth, the reality, the details of what this situation is, why Barry has been hurt like this.
What he receives isn’t any of that.
“My...my what?”