Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Screaming. There was a lot of screaming. At least, he thinks that what that noise is. The noise is loud in his ears, only intensified by the now shrill ringing that's developed over the course of the last couple of minutes. Loud, sharp pops from a general direction he can't discern, and the burning smell of gunpowder makes him feel faint. He had lost his earbuds at some point; gone in a flurry of movement, there one moment and inexplicably absent the next. He's breathing. At least, he thinks he is. It's hard to get air in his lungs from the way his face was plastered into the dirty concrete floor; haggard inhales and choked wheezing that makes him sound like he's been smoking a pack of cigarettes every day for the last fifty years. There's a wailing cry -which he distantly comes to realize is originating from him- when a pair of hands grab his shoulders. Fingers dig into him, attempting to pull him up, and a flash of white-hot pain so fierce rips through his muscles that he can't even muster up the energy to scream. It's a silently expressed thing that leaves him convulsing and hunched over, black edging into the corners of his blurred vision. 

Then, he realizes he must have passed out, because the next thing he sees is the ceiling, and the next thing he feels is his legs being dragged on the floor, the front of his shirt nearly choking him as it's being pulled from behind, like a cat being scruffed by it's neck. One of his hands scrambles upwards, trying to claw at the figure above him. Everything is sluggish, droning in and out in a dizzy wave of colors. He's not sure he even makes contact, and for some reason, he can't seem to move his other arm, or feel the tips of his fingers at all. 

"-aby!" There's a voice, deep and panicked, shouting in his ear. He can barely hear it above the buzzing. 

"Baby! Get the fuck up!" 

He tries to respond, really, he does. It sounds familiar, that voice, like it should be important for some reason, and- wasn't he supposed to be doing something? Baby knows there's a piece missing in his mind because he can't remember what he was going on prior to ten minutes ago, and he doesn't know why everything hurts, and why can't get the taste of blood off of his tongue?

All that comes out of his mouth is a pained moan. 

"Shit, shit! C'mon, don't fall asleep." Desperate cursing from beside him. 

Baby feels his body being shaken from side to side, and opens eyes that he hadn't even realized had slipped closed. There's more figures next to him, shadowy remnants of people he thinks he should be remembering. They're talking to each other, or maybe yelling, he can't tell - everything is so loud. He wants to let the ebb and flow of sleep pull him under, wants to surrender to the sudden utter exhaustion tugging at him. He doesn't. There's a voice in the back of his mind that tells him he'll never wake up again. It scares him, so he keeps his eyes open and tries to hold back the garbled groans that weren't-quite-words from spilling too loudly from his lips. 

"K-ys. We need...car is over-" Arguing between the figures cuts in and out alongside his hearing. Baby looks down and off to the right; his back is being propped up against the frame of some kind of crate and his head is lolled to the side, leaning slightly against his own shoulder. There's red swimming in his vision, a hot and wet feeling dripping down his right arm, pooling to the floor and smeared all over his jeans. There's so much of it, Baby's half-convinced that red must just be the color of his skin, instead of a foreign liquid that shouldn't be there at all. His eyes go wide, his breathing amping up to a frantic allegro tempo. Red blood, everywhere, on everything. The pungent metallic tang of it hits his nose; it smells like ozone and a dry sort of musk that leaves an aftertaste at the back of his throat. 

He was in a warehouse, covered in blood.

A warehouse.

The deal.

Doc and his crew and The Butcher.

Bats fired first. The others fired back. He hadn't moved in time, frozen in fear. Something tore through his shoulder and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The memories were a kick to his gut, coming back to him in flashes of visions. 

Oh god-

Baby looked around wildly, a strange distressed noise came from his throat as he tried to push himself up. He had to get out of here. He slipped on the puddle of blood beneath him, nearly sending himself spiraling all over again, until a sturdy grip on his un-injured bicep held him upright. Buddy was holding out a steadying hand near his chest - a concerned look was plastered all over his face, mouth moving as if he was talking. Baby made eye contact with the criminal, the crease in Buddy's brow grew worse - Baby could see his own frightened expression reflected back to him in Buddy's eyes. He couldn't hear what the other was saying, so he tried to read his lips. A pulsating pain at the back of his head made it hard to focus, but he was able to make out the words 'keys' and 'where-'. 

Keys? 

The keys!

Baby stumbled forward, allowing Buddy to keep half of his body pressed against him, afraid if the other man let go, that Baby would have nothing to stop him from kneeling over in an instant. I'm going to die. It was the singular thought pressed against the oncoming migraine. Pain was replaced with panic as adrenaline coursed through his veins; Baby stumbled faster in the direction he thinks is the entrance, where he parked and left the car. He had to leave, hadtogetoutofhere, becuasehe'sgoingtodie. The sight of the vehicle had him shoving Buddy off of him, managing to trudge one foot in front of the other long enough to collapse on the side of the metal panels; he dug through his pockets, pulling out a set of car keys, nearly dropping them to the floor as he fumbled to unlock the driver's side. It didn't even occur to him that he probably shouldn't be driving right now. Everything was lost in that wash of panic urging him forward, into the car, behind the wheel. He grit his teeth, blinking away the salty sweat that had dripped into his eyes, barely registering how hot and flushed his body felt. Baby shoved the keys into the ignition and winced when the radio, which had been playing something and was entirely too loud, roared to life in time with the engine. The thumping feeling of three other doors slamming shut was the only verification he needed to rip the car into drive and let his muscle memory take over. 

.....

"Baby?" A soft voice almost directly into his ear, and a warm press on his elbow.

"Hngg?" A pained grunt was all he could manage in response. Baby opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) to stare at the top headliner of the car; it was old and starting to sag in the corners. He blinked, turning his head slowly to look at Buddy, who had opened his door and was now moving as if to drag Baby from the driver's seat. They had made it back to the garage, though he couldn't recall most of the drive, just the feeling of the steering wheel clutched tightly in his palm and the sound of tires screeching painfully against his eardrums. Baby thinks he might've hit a couple of curbs on the way, but it was jumbled together in a mess, so he couldn't be sure. His mouth is open and he's panting, not enough oxygen making it to his brain despite his desperate attempts to capture the runaway molecules. He reaches out a shaky hand, letting Buddy take his whole weight as he essentially falls out of his seat.

Buddy walks him slowly towards the elevator. The distinct hum of electronic parts so familiar to him eases away some of the panic, the cold of the air conditioning making him shiver. Baby leans his head against the cool metal, hoping that the smoothness of those shiny walls would save him from the awful sound of his blood pumping steadily out of him and drip-dropping onto the floor. 

The elevator comes to a halt, and its doors slide open. Baby whines a little pitifully when he's forced from his corner out into the open hallway. He trips on the ledge of the doorframe that leads to the main meeting room, inadvertently making his knees give out from under him, listing forward as the momentum rips his arm from where it sat secured around Buddy's shoulder. He expects his nose to shatter or to become acquainted with the feeling of the floor crashing against his skull, but instead, he falls into a wall of warmth, stopped in his descent when a pair of arms circle around his chest. Baby makes a confused noise, his face now pressed into fabric that feels soft and expensive, his body hanging limply in the hold of strong arms. There's no energy left in him to make any effort in moving, breathing is hard enough as it is.

"What the hell did you do to my driver?" Doc's voice (he recognizes it easily, though he's confused on why it sounds so loud) usually calm and monotonic, snaps like a whip around him.

There's a smell of cologne invading his nostrils; it smells like a forest, pine trees, and earthy, something fresh that feels like relief compared to the rotten smell of his oxidized blood. A moment passes, or several, he can't tell the difference in time anymore. He hears the solid thumping of a heartbeat that isn't his own; it's stable, a substitution for the music he's lost, rhythmic and grounding. He gasped, flails out an arm in a blind panic when his world tilts suddenly. He starts to thrash around blindly, because it's wrong, this is wrong - his heart is thrashing just as much as his numb limbs, everything hurts and he just wants it to stop. An arm encircles the small of his back, settling around his waist, and another is placed underneath his knees. The floor retreats as he's lifted up, and his side is pressed against a solid material. He hears a shushing noise, the distinct tenor of Doc's voice, as it reverberates into his brain matter, causing him to cease his struggling. It sounds close, but that can't be right...

There are more words, orders directed at other people in the room that he doesn't bother trying to listen to, not when he feels so cold and distant and the body carrying him feels so warm. His face is unintentionally shoved into the crook of a neck; he can feel the body's pulse point on his nose and can make out the rumbling of words as they're carried up this person's throat. 

Safe, he thinks. He feels safe like this. 

His thighs are set down on a table, and large hands are settled on his good arm to keep him sitting upright and- 

Oh.

Baby looks up at the man- at Doc; he's got a crinkle in his brow and his lips are pressed into a tight line that tells Baby that's he not happy. It's one of those things that he's picked up on over the years, learning how to tell what mood Doc is in - one of the tics Doc has that Baby is sure he isn't even aware of. There are smears of red over Doc's white dress shirt, staining the material permanently. He wants to apologize for some reason, but it felt like too much effort to get his tongue to form the words.

Doc had carried him over to the long meeting table and was standing in front of him. It was Doc who he had fallen on top of when he tripped, whose suit he had pressed his face and bloody limbs into. It took him an embarrassing amount of time for his vision to focus and the delayed information to remind him just who, exactly, it was he was looking at. The background panic was quiet now, just a whisper of what it used to be. Baby did his best to keep his mind on the woodsy fragrance mere inches from his nose, and not the fact he could feel something shifting inside of his muscles with every involuntary twitch of his battered arm.  

There was a white first aid box placed on the table next to him that he didn't remember being there a moment ago. The lights in the room had been turned off, but he swore they were bright and blaring in his eyes a second before, hadn't they been? They had, or maybe they hadn't and he hallucinated the whole memory. It's hard to keep track of the sequence of events unfolding. Baby watched with detached awareness as Doc brought a hand up to his face, pressing the back of it against his cold-sweated forehead. He leans into it on instinct, huffing labored breaths that hit the side of Doc's wrists. The warm touch feels good, grounding him to a more stable state of being when all he wants to do is float away and forget about the searing pain coming from the side of his body. Bats is in the room too - he remembers this when his mind lets him. The man is standing off to the side with his arms crossed; there's a snarl on his face and he looks pissed about something.

"We needs us 'nother driver." Bats comments. It's spoken in his direction, but Baby doesn't think it was meant for him. 

Doc's hand leaves him and Baby can't stop himself from trying to chase it, that feeling of warmth, a type of security he never felt so dependent until this moment. He tilted forward fast enough that another has to be placed dead center on his chest to keep him from falling off the table. Doc turns to address the trigger-happy criminal, a sort of angry growl that Baby's never heard before coming from Doc's clenched jaw. 

"And just how exactly do you plan on finding one?" Doc jeered out.

Bats shrugged a shoulder, looking less scared than he ought to. "Dunno' Doc, though that was your department."

"Baby is the driver, and my driver is sitting here with a bullet in him- which, by the way, I'm still curious as to how that happened." Doc wasn't yelling quite yet, but it bordering on the edge of furious. Baby clutches at the end of Doc's sleeve, the one holding his chest up, and tries to tug at it to get his attention. He feels so dizzy all of a sudden, a nauseous rolling in his stomach that only grew in intensity the more they argued. Too loud. Baby huffs in dismay when his attempt is ignored.

"Those guys you sent us to meet? They was cops." Bats said.

Doc rolled his eyes, scoffing like he thought it was the most stupid thing he ever heard. "I know. They were my cops. I'm assuming they're not alive? For fuck's sake-" 

Baby stopped listening to Doc's increasing hysterical chiding. His face was pinched in a tight grimace, beads of cold sweat were erupting all over his body, only increasing the uncomfortable wet feeling of his shirt clinging to his skin as it mixed with the blood already there. He tried to blink the black spots out of his sight, but it stubbornly refused to leave him alone. With a shaky hand he pulled at Doc's sleeve with a little more urgency.

"You'd better watch yourself or-" More arguing, louder voices. It's bleeding into the high-pitched ringing of his tinnitus, blends of screeching and sharp pricks of pain every time a syllable is pronounced too harshly. The only thing silent in the room was Buddy and Darling, who had taken refuge from Doc's anger at the seats by the table. He wants to ask for their help to get Doc to listen to him, but that would require turning around, and that's way too much effort he can't afford to spare. Hot rolls of queasiness, starting from his shoulder, and spreading all over, had him grunting with effort to hold back vile. Doc might forgive him for the blood, but Baby wasn't sure he would be forgiven if he threw up on the man. Baby tugged harder.

"Doc..." He said the word quietly. Doc didn't seem to notice.

Baby felt his breathing pick up pace when Doc moved a hand behind his back, grabbing the gun he kept hidden under his suit jacket and pointing it squarely in Bats's face. It was the first time he saw an emotion that could be considered fear to settle on the criminal's features. Baby focused on the gun; a handgun that had a black handle and a barrel made of steel, just like the one he had seen pointed at him right before his music cut out and he fell to the ground. He tugs and tugs at Doc's sleeve.

"Doc-" Baby tries again, more frantic. His voice is hoarse, tongue dryer than a desert without so much as a hallucination of an oasis to soothe it. He let's go of the sleeve, scrambling to grip onto Doc's wrist instead, and he tugs at the skin he finds, blunt end of his nails scraping lightly. Doc finally turns back to look at him, the gun still held in the air with a finger on the trigger. Baby makes a gagged retch sound that he can't quite contain. "M'gona be sick." 

Recognition flashes in Doc's eyes and he curses, shoving the gun back into his waist belt with the safety clicked back on, but not before shoving it in Bats's face with a stern, "Sit. Down. Shut. Up." that left no room for argument. Doc keeps one hand on him, using the other to fiddle with the lid of the first aid kit next to him.

"Jacket, off." He says, and it takes a second for Baby to realize Doc is talking to him. With the coordination of a paralyzed fish, he makes jerky movements to slide the long sleeves of his varsity jacket off his arms. It's sent pooling to the floor, ruined, never to be worn again. It was his favorite; had he been more coherent, he might've even complained. The bullet had embedded itself just above his collarbone and into the mound where his shoulder and neck meet. He can feel the pain as it throbs in pulses around the area. Doc takes one look at it, tsks, and rummages around the kit. He comes back with a pair of scissors and a grim look on his face. His boss places the scissors at the bottom hem of the fabric, snipping up in a single straight line all the way to the top of the collar. Baby's white -even though it was more red than white now- shirt was cut in half, and the sleeves also cut so he didn't have to move his arms for Doc to take the piece of clothing off of him. 

Sitting half-naked in front of multiple people, especially Doc, should have been awkward, embarrassing at the very least. All Baby feels is a looming sense of dread when he realizes there's a second entry wound sitting directly in the front of his bicep; dark maroon, almost black, was slowly leaking out of the circular tear. He has to stop looking at it, half because turning his neck in any direction sent his muscles into a fit of agony, and half because the sight of it makes him want to throw up even more. 

"This is going to hurt." Doc tells him. Baby does his best to nod - it comes out more like an errant twitch. 

There's a long pair of tweezers in Doc's hand that's inching towards his shoulder. Baby lets out a wet, warbled gasp when the pointed tip of it breaches some of the scabbed-over blood doing its best to self-cauterize the injury. The gasp turns into a shout when Doc starts digging around inside his arm, half of the apparatus pushing his flesh apart to look for the bullet's remains. Baby bit down on his tongue to stifle the noise, his nails scratching at the wood near the edge of the table desperately; he miscalculated the pressure, bit down too hard, tasted copper as his teeth sank below the surface of the organ in his mouth. 

His inhales become loud and ragged as Doc searches deeper. A couple more seconds that feel like an eternity and, thank god, Doc pulls the tweezers out. A small object is pinched in between the prongs - catching the light overhead and covered in red. Doc is close enough to him that he can grip onto Doc's arm, and his face can collapse with a pained cry into his chest. A dull tinking noise is heard as Doc deposits the first bullet into a small metal tray. 

"You're alright." Doc says to him, low and soft. A hand cards through his hair in a soothing motion. He concentrates on that one point of contact, on the smell of Doc's cologne, anything but the overwhelmingness of this present moment. He presses his face further into Doc's overly expensive suit, not caring that the other members of the crew are watching, mentally and physically bracing himself for when he feels Doc move on to the second entry point. 

It goes by much quicker, the bullet not so far deep as the last one. His nails dig into the fabric of Doc's clothes when the tweezers get caught on something. It requires a firm tug to get it free, and he has to bite back a curse when the stinging aftershock makes his vision go white and his ears ring. He can feel Doc trying to pry him off, but he can't- it's too much- he can't get his fingers to let go.

"Hurts-" He hisses out. He's trying his best not to cry. He knows he shouldn't, people in this business weren't supposed to be as weak as him, but fuck- it's hard not to dissolve into pathetic sobs when that's the only thing he wants to do. The fact this whole situation is mortifying doesn't help with the somersault of nerves currently performing an ensemble in his intestines. Baby can hear the sneers of Bats from the head of the table, and he can just barely make out the quiet conversation happening between Buddy and Darling behind him. It sends a heated flush to his cheeks and shame to his chest, so he grips onto Doc suit a little tighter, to try and make himself seem small, hidden. 

Doc gently takes hold of the fingers currently gnawing at his sleeves, unfurling them, letting Baby grip his hand instead. Which he does, tight enough that he might be threatening to cut off blood flow to Doc's fingers. The man says nothing about it, letting Baby squeeze him, using his thumb to rub soothing circles into his skin. It's enough slack that he's able to push Baby back into an upright position.

"I know." Doc says; if Baby didn't know any better he'd think there were hints of regret laced in those words, a sort of apology. He leans over to grab an item off the table. Baby recognizes it as a flask of some kind, about as big as his hand and full of a liquid he can hear sloshing around in the container. Doc uncaps it and brings it up to his lips. "Here. Drink it." 

The strong smell of alcohol hits his nose all at once and he gags, automatically turning his face away from the drink. Doc frowns, pushing the neck of the container up to his lips again, pressing it to his mouth so that it clinks against his teeth. 

"This is the only anesthesia you're gonna get. Trust me, stitches hurt a lot worse. Drink it." Doc doesn't say it unkindly, but it's stern. Baby lets the grimace on his face denounce how awful he thinks all of this is. Doc definitely owes him for all this crap. Baby's never gonna let him live it down, he'll bring it to his grave if he has to. Assuming he doesn't die of blood loss and infection, that is.

He lets Doc tilt the flask up, gulping down the fluid as fast as he can. The angle is a bit too high, the flow of liquid a bit too fast. Some of it doesn't make it into his mouth, opting to spill down the sides of his chin and flow all the way down his chest. When Doc takes it away, he sputters, coughing the excess that slipped into his lungs, then coughing harder at the burning taste of whiskey that is way too fucking strong. Jesus, what did Doc have in there? The burn is bad enough to distract him from his shoulder. Baby's not sure if he should be grateful or even more pissed about that. He can hear Bats chuckling, like this is all one big joke and Baby's suffering causes him endless amusement. Baby doesn't turn to look at him, he keeps his eyes downcast and uses Doc as a makeshift shield in between them, blocking Bats's view of most of his body. 

While he's busy wheezing like he's dying (which Baby is still convinced might be happening) he watches Doc pull on a pair of gloves. He soaks some cotton balls in alcohol (the medical kind, not the drinking kind) and starts dabbing it against his open wounds. The lack of warning and the sudden stinging has his arm twitching up, pulling away from the cotton and nearly smacking Doc in the face. The older man pauses for a second to adjust his glasses. 

"Hold still." 

He tries to glower in Doc's direction, but he thinks he must just look scared because Doc's expression softens. He mutters a soft apology that only Baby can hear, and dabs at the wound again, much gentler this time.

Whatever was in that flask was certainly doing its job though. Baby wouldn't call himself a lightweight by any means, but he's never been in the habit of chugging nearly an entire bottle of whiskey before, and he already feels the light buzz in his system. It makes his already dizzy vision worse, but the pain becomes almost secondary to the floaty feeling of tipsiness. He swallows nervously when Doc threads the line suture through the small hole at the end of the hook. It's...intimidating. That's the only word Baby can come up with in his sudden state of fish-eyed paralysis. The needle is long, curved into a c-shape, and very, very pointy at the end. It takes Doc a minute, and a lot of squinting, but he's able to push the end of the thread through, and makes quick work on trying a little knot that won't come loose.

It's just like...sewing, right? It can't be that bad, can it? 

The mental image that presents to his brain does absolutely nothing to ease his nerves. He just hopes Doc actually knows how to use that thing. 

When Doc turns towards him, freshly made needle inching towards his skin, he feels cold goosebumps raise the hairs on his arms. Baby nearly grabs Doc's wrist on instinct, to keep the very pointy and very long, sharp object away from his vulnerable body parts. He manages not to, settling for wringing his hands together in his lap in anticipation. Doc starts at his bicep, the worse of the two, and gently pinches the skin of the wound together with one hand, while the needle-holding one pierces the uttermost bottom of the entry wound, and through to the other side. The way it's shaped means that Doc has to raise it vertically and back towards him, to make sure the c-curve of the needle passes through smoothly. The thin thread is pulled through just the same, except in one long pull and with more speed. Doc was right, this was way worse; the effects only dulled so much with the influence of alcohol. Baby ends up breathing harshly through his open mouth, face pinched together and hands clasped so tightly around each other that Baby fears they'll never get unstuck. The stinging pain of the needle going in and out, agitating the already sore flesh, was just about as pleasant as one would expect; the feeling of the scraggly thread neatly zipping through the freshly created tears was just...ugh. 

It goes on, and on, and on. At some point Baby had shut his eyes, hoping that it would cause time to pass by him faster, only to open them again a minute later because the lack of a visual aid only meant he was ten times more focused on the feeling of his skin being stitched back together. Doc finishes the last one, hold the the needle up to cut the thread at the base, and grabs a thinner, plyer-looking object to grasp onto the leftover ends. Doc wrapped the ends of the thread over the metal prongs a couple of times, opening them to pinch at the loose end on the other side, and did a sort of...weird twisting, tying motion to quickly close up everything nicely. Doc makes sure to dab away any excess amounts of blood before readying another needle to do it all over again. 

Baby is proud of the fact he manages to sit (mostly) still throughout the entire thing - he thinks that earns him a hundred million dollars off his debt and a bed to sleep in for the next six months. He blearily watches Doc take off his gloves, rolling them inside out and making sure not to touch the outside contaminants against his skin. He's grabbing some thick pieces of gauze and situating them at the very center of each bullet hole. At this point, the area is so tender that Baby hardly even feels the rough material catch on his newly acquired stitches. 

"Hold them up." Doc instructs to him. He does his best to follow the order; it takes him a couple of attempts to get his arm to move the way he wants it to, and he has to stretch out his pinky and thumb to keep both gauzes in place at the same time. 

Doc unfurls a roll of white bandages. Starting from just above his elbow, the bandages are wrapped in a spiral leading up to the top of his shoulder. Doc takes care to wrap it delicately around the wound, ensuring the gauze does its job and stays in place, before moving on to the next part of Baby's body. The second graze is in an awkward position - even without any medical knowledge, Baby knows this. Doc has to draw the bandages diagonal across his chest, right to left, and have them loop back around to cover his neck area. To make sure they won't shift unnecessarily, Doc finishes off the roll by wrapping it horizontally across his ribcage, tucking the end piece into one of the neatly made lines.

"There. All done." Doc stands back a little, looking over his handiwork. Baby breathes a visible sigh of relief. The hard part was over, now all he had to deal with was the constant aching throb emanating from every possible crevice in his DNA. No big deal.

Baby runs a shaky hand through his sweat-soaked hair, cringing at how greasy it had become. The white of the bandages were already tarnished, and they hadn't even been on for more than a couple of minutes; little spots of red were pattered along the spaces that just wouldn't stop bleeding. He dreads the moment that he'll have to take it off and replace it - with one hand it wasn't exactly going to be very easy.

"So we calling it off? What's the plan here?" Buddy's voices emanates from behind him. It was the first thing the man had said since Baby deliriously pulled the car into the garage.

Bats scoffs from his place at the far end of the table. "Like hell we are! The plan is the plan, ain't nothin' changed. Phones' over here is just gonna have deal." 

Doc looks at him. Baby looks back.

There's concern etched into Doc's brows that wasn't there this morning. Baby doesn't want to disappoint him; he realizes this with a small amount of surprise, and a larger amount of understanding. It didn't matter if he owed Doc money, or that Baby was almost certain of the fact Doc wouldn't let him go after he paid it off (he pretended to be ignorant of this fact, mostly for his own sanity). It didn't matter, because, despite it all, he didn't mind - he stopped fighting the idea of working with Doc the moment he accepted that it was the only thing he could see himself doing. Baby didn't have any skills other than this, didn't get rushes of thrills and adrenaline from anything other than this. Without this life, he was nothing, even if getting shot kinda sucked more than a lot.

"Well, Baby? It's up to you. Should we do it?" Doc asked him - looked him right in the eye when he did. 

Doc was asking him. Doc would call it off if he said no. It was a type of power, an actual state of equality between two people, in what should have been a partnership, that Baby had never had before. He doesn't hesitate when he answers. He wants to prove it to Doc, that they could be partners instead of dictator and servant. Baby wasn't weak, he was capable of doing his job, and doing it well. He wanted Doc to see that.

"We're friends, aren't we, Baby?" 

Did Doc really believe that? He had given a stilted answer at the time, a lie and a truth rolled into one. He had thought Doc was just taunting him with his hold over his life, but what if he truly meant it? Baby's head hurts a lot, and his body more so - too much to try and decipher the complicated message of a complicated man.

"I can do it." He says. It's the truth, he knows.

The concern on Doc's face doesn't ease. He opens his mouth as if to speak, maybe to protest, despite giving Baby the choice, but closes it with a resigned sigh.

"Alright then. It's an early morning tomorrow, you're all staying the night. There's bedrooms upstairs, pick one." The commanding voice was back, orders to the people in the room, laced with impatience and a veiled hint of anger. 

The three shuffled out of the room. Sounds of Bats complaining and the voice of Darling telling him to shut up echoed down the hall. 

Doc's shoulders dropped. The man let out another sigh, longer and more drawn out, as he took his glasses off to rub at his face. 

"Sorry." Baby said. Doc opened his eyes to land him with a questioning look. Baby just waved his hand in the general direction of Doc's bloodied and ruined suit in lieu of a verbal explanation. Doc looked down at himself, and, as if it was the first time he even realized the mess, let out a soft laugh that was more akin to a tired huff of air.

"It's fine, don't worry about it." And then Doc paused, crossed his arms over his chest, and stepped a little closer. "Are you alright?" He asked. The genuine tone of the question took him off guard.

Baby shrugged, rubbing his hands together absentmindedly. His vision was still cutting in and out in a woozy landscape, he felt more exhausted than he had ever been in his entire life, and he doesn't think he could possibly get down off the table without collapsing to the floor, but...he was alive. "I'm ok...I think. Tired." Is what he settled on. Doc hummed; a noncommittal sort of noise. He brought his hand back up to Baby's face to sweep locks of hair that had been plastered to his forehead with sweat. It was warm, gentle in its movements. Baby let his head fall forward into the touch, content to focus on the feeling of Doc's hand move around to various features on his face; his eyebrow, then to his temple, the bridge of his nose, to the hollow of his cheekbones. Movements slow and methodical, like Baby was about to dissapear, and Doc was taking his time to ensure he memorized every part of his face before he did. It ended with a light curl of a finger beneath his jaw, pointing his face upwards, thumb settled on his chin, before Doc's hand fell away.

"C'mon." 

Doc moves to his left side to grab his arm. He lifts it up and situates it over his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around Baby's waist to help him stand. Baby allows his body to be manhandled, leaning on Doc for support, and dragging his feet in the direction of Doc's office. Maybe Doc would let him sleep on the couch or something if he asked. Getting every part of him up to the higher floors seemed like an impossible task; that, and he didn't want to be anywhere near Bats right now. Baby was half-convinced the man would finish the job and kill him in his sleep if given the chance. 

Doc directs him to the bathroom off to the side of his office; it's labored and slow going but Doc doesn't make any move to rush him. Baby might be taller than his boss, but right now he feels so small it's like any crack in the floorboard could swallow him whole. He gets gently set down on the closed lid of the toilet after nearly tripping on the fluffy floormat. 

Doc leaves the room; Baby can gear clattering of objects from the closet outside and a soft curse followed by the sound of something falling. When Doc pushes the door back open with the heel of his foot, there is a small wooden bucket in his hands, along with a tiny cup and a sponge sitting inside of the bucket. He raises an eyebrow at the newly acquired equipment but chooses to ponder in silence. 

It becomes increasingly obvious what the purpose of those objects are, when Doc places the bucket underneath the spicket in the bathtub, turning it counterclockwise to the hottest setting, and letting the water pour out into the container. Doc wasn't- he wasn't actually-? Baby kept his eye on the man and shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Water filled the bucket about half-way full before the lever closed the source shut. With a slight heave, Doc carried it out of the tub and set it down by Baby's feet, grabbing some soap off of the shower's walls to mix with the water. So this was- was he just supposed to...take off his clothes? A bath sounded nice, but being nude in front of his boss didn't. Acutely aware of his lack of shirt, he wrapped his arms around his stomach and hunched over, trying to quell his panic. 

"What- uh, what are you doing?" He asked, though it came out more like a crazed wheeze. 

Doc paused in his water-soap-mixing task, standing up to shrug off his jacket and roll up his sleeves, which- did absolutely nothing to ease his nervousness. 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Doc mumbled. He sounds as tired as he looks, gruff with dark circles under his eyes.

I don't know, that's why I'm asking!

Baby shifted on the ceramic lid. Doc dragged over a little stool from the corner of the room, situating it firmly in front of Baby and next to the bucket now full of soapy water. He let out a startled yelp when Doc pulled of his shoes and socks, only barely managing to stop himself from kicking. He let out another string of nervous babble and flashed his hand out in front of him to grip at Doc's arms when the man attempted to undo the button on his jeans. Doc paused in his movements, looking up at him slowly with a face of tired exasperation. 

"I'm trying to help. I can't do that if you keep fighting me." Doc sighed.

"But- you-" Baby started and stopped. 

"You're acting like I told you to strip. Relax. You can keep everything else on." Doc didn't wait for him to protest; he unbuttoned and unzipped his blood-soaked jeans, tugging them down and off his legs in one smooth motion.

Baby kept his arms crossed, and brought his legs together, self-conscious about his amount of skin exposure. There was an embarrassed flush on his cheeks that was thankfully not commented on. True to his word, Doc let him keep his briefs on, and instead, moved to dunk the sponge into the soap liquid. He squeezed out the excess moisture with both hands, ringing the sponge until it was just shy of damp, and brought it up to Baby's skin. Doc started at his face, wiping away the day's collection of dirt and grime from his pores. He moved to the sides of his neck, careful not to get any of the bandages wet, systematically going over any patch of skin that seemed to be covered in filth. Baby shivered instinctively when Doc swept the sponge over his stomach to the sensitive sides of his hips.

Doc didn't let his touches linger too long, keeping them firm but professional in their manners. The quiet calm that enveloped over them in the room soothed him enough to make his muscles relax and his protests die on his tongue. Warm sweeping of a soft sponge over his tired body drained any and all coherent thoughts other than how nice it felt, and how sleepy it made him. Baby had closed his eyes at one point or another, leaning his head back against the wall when holding it up became too much effort. 

He either dozed off, or was lost too far in the surrealness that he flinched a little when the loud pouring sound of water was heard to his left. Cracking an eye open, Baby lazily observed Doc as he dumped the water out of the bucket, leaving everything inside of the bathtub to dry. There was a pair of clean clothes, probably taken from the overnight bag Baby left in his room earlier that day, sitting on the sink next to him, folded in a neat pile and stacked on top of each other. Similarly, Doc had changed too; his ruined suit was gone, replaced by casual sleeping wear that, had Baby been himself, would have stared at in amazement. It's the first time Doc looked so...normal. It was almost unnerving. Baby made an attempt to sit up straight, groaning when a rush of pain from his shoulder made itself known past the drowsiness. He tried to paw at the pile of clothing, missing the mark, and hitting his knuckles against the ceramic of the sink in a painful knock of bones. Doc reached past him to take the clothes instead. The older man unfolded a pair of sweatpants, threading them past his feet and slipping them to the bottom of his thighs without so much as a word or sarcastic mocking comment being spoken. Doc tugged at his arm to get him to stand; black flooded his vision for a couple of seconds as his blood pressure dipped, and Baby had to hold onto Doc's shoulders to keep himself upright. The sweatpants were pulled up past his thighs, settled comfortably over his hips, and the drawstring tied into a neat bow. Baby looked on with heavy-lidded eyes, too bone-weary to experience anything close to embarrassment anymore, just glad he had help doing something he probably couldn't have done on his own. Doc took a loose-fitting tank top, carefully lifted his bandaged arm through the large sleeveless opening, doing the same to the other side, and pulling it over his head. 

Doc was saying something; he could hear the vibrato of vocal cords rubbing together and the subtle sounds of syllables in the air, but none of its meaning made its way to Baby's brain. Exhausted, Baby listed his head forward into the crook of Doc's neck, relying on the other person to hold his weight, to keep him safe. 

More words, a sigh of resignation. When his body was lifted off the ground, an arm under his knees and a hand supporting his back, Baby didn't flail around in a panic - he only pushed his face further into the welcoming warmth of skin, like a cold-blooded creature seeking out a rock in the sun. 

His back came into contact with something. It was soft, smelled like clean laundry, and dipped under his presence. The lights to the room had been turned off, or maybe that was just his view of the insides of his eyelids, Baby didn't know anymore, and frankly, he didn't care. All he knew was there was a pillow under his head and soft blankets around his body. Baby was turned to lay on his left side, so that his injured shoulder could be pointed to the ceiling and kept from being agitated by the bedsheets. He sank into the mattress, completely boneless and immovable. The police could be knocking down the doors at any moment and Baby wouldn't have found the energy to care. A shuffle of sheets behind him, and Baby felt strong, solid arms curl delicately around his stomach. He thinks a noise of contentment might have slipped through his defenses, encouraging the touch, because those arms pulled him over until he was chest-to-back with the person behind him. It was warm and soft and safe, and Baby gripped at the hand on his stomach to keep it there, to make sure it wouldn't move and leave him vulnerable. Huffs of breath tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. The thumb from that hand was rubbing soothing circles into Baby's wrist, prying open his limp fingers and intertwining them into one mesh of human cohesion. 

"You almost died..." A whisper in the dark. Baby can feel it tickle against his hair. He wants to answer it, but his tongue feels heavy and the words themselves don't come, just the idea of them exist somewhere in his fragile state of being. So he holds on tighter to that hand, a desperate attempt to convey his relief and pain without the use of pesky words. He feels the hand squeeze back, feels arms wrap around him firmer, and Baby thinks that words aren't needed after all. 

It pulled at his conscience until he slipped, falling into a sense of security and distant dreams.

.....

Jason woke up before anyone else. Monica was snoring lightly in bed next to him, lying on her side with a single hand on his chest. He checked the time. Not enough time to go to back to sleep, but just enough to get ready for the day before they were scheduled to wake. Quietly, he untangled himself from his wife's hold, kissing her hand and placing it back on the bed. 

He's been worried ever since last night. Baby had looked awful before he left the room with the others; his face was a sickly pale shade of grey, his hair was stuck to his skin was cold sweat, and he had been constantly shaking while Doc stitched him up. Bats might not give a shit if the kid was hurt, but Jason certainly did. Hell- he and Monica were the only ones who ensured the younger driver made it back with them at all (Bats was happy enough leaving him in that fucking warehouse to die). It was probably also the only reason any of them were still alive, give that, had they returned without Baby, Jason had no doubt in his mind Doc would have killed them on the spot. He had made his conclusion when the crime boss rushed to catch Baby's falling body, picking him up and holding him firmly to his chest as he carried him over to the table like he was something precious. Or when he was looking over Baby's injuries with a carefulness people in this business don't often get. 

Jason trudges down the long hallway, avoiding Bats's door and heading straight for the one that had little musical stickers plastered all over it. He snorts a little when he sees one of a little guitar with the words 'don't fret it' in a bubbly whimsical font above it. Jason knocks on the door, opting to turn the doorknob slowly when he hears nothing. Really, the fact it was unlocked in the first place should have been all the information he needed. The room was a mess; stacks of iPods in boxes on the wardrobe, instruments of different calibers scattered on the floor or leaning on the walls, and an unmade bed in the corner with a distinctive lack of Baby laying on it. 

He's not worried. Of course not. 

Jason closed the door, walking back through the hall with a minor increase in urgency. If there was one person who knew where the kid would be, it was Doc. He makes his way downstairs to Doc's office. The lights in the room are off but the entrance to office sub-space is ajar. He peaks in, but it's empty. There's one door on the right that's open, leading to a bathroom, and another on the left that's closed. In hindsight, he should have thought about this more, stopped himself from doing something stupid, or remembered who it was he was walking in on. It only registers to him what a bad idea this is after he's slowly opened the bedroom door and is met face first with the barrel of a gun. Jason freezes, looking down the barrel in a pretend apparition of calm (in reality his heart just dipped into his stomach and he's wondering how he get's out of this without dying.) So yeah, maybe not a good idea to startle your criminal boss awake by sneaking into his room. He'll keep that in mind for next time. If there is a next time. 

Jason lets his eyes flick to the bed. Doc is only sitting partially up, having to lean on the elbow not holding the gun to support his weight. His face his scrunched up in that 'I just woke up and I'm not a hundred percent aware of the world' kind of look, with his eyes narrowed and slightly unfocused. Not that it mattered; the gun was held steady in the air, perfectly aimed at Jason's head. 

He has to do a double-take when he realizes there's another person in bed with Doc. Baby is curled up on his stomach, face pressed into the side of Doc's ribcage, and his uninjured arm slung around Doc's stomach. He's snoring softly and seemingly content with his current position. 

Okay. Well. This is awkward. 

He had only wanted to make sure Baby was alright, and in return, he had walked in on an event he really didn't think he was supposed to have seen.

Doc took a second to look at the sleeping figure trapping him; there was a softness in his eyes Jason thinks he wasn't supposed to have know about either. Then Doc turned to look back at him and that softness disintegrated into a growled threat. 

"Get. Out." The words were punctuated with sharp syllables and hissed with anger. Soft enough to not disturb Baby, but ringing out in its intent loud and clear. 

Jason turns on his heels. He doesn't need to be told twice.

There's a burning of second-hand embarrassment lingering in his chest as he retreats back upstairs. Guess there was no need to worry about Baby after all. Now he just hopes Doc won't kill him to silence him for figuring out his secret.  

Chapter Text

The moment he regained consciousness, he wished he hadn't. The throbbing pain coming from his shoulder was the only thing he could focus on - sharp, stabbing, nauseating. His head wasn't in any better of a state. The only upside was the lack of blinding sunlight shining in his eyes to exacerbate the problem, and that was probably only because this place lacked any real windows. Baby groaned, a drawn-out, audible sound that became muffled as he tried his best to worm his way back into the comfort of whatever softness he was lying on. It takes him a moment to truly regain his senses, to truly understand where he is, what happened. 

Pillows. 

That's the strange softness his head is pressed up against, slightly buried under. Pillows that have cases that smell like soap and fabric softener but also with the lingering scent of...something. Something warm, like skin. Just as slowly as he realizes that, he realizes the sheets he's lying on, the blanket half covering his body. Soft and warm enough that he has no inclination to want to move at all. 

Baby cracks open his eyes, blinking more than a couple of times to keep the stinging from bothering him, to focus his blurry vision. 

A voice travels into his ears, slightly distorted by the ringing and the fabric pushed against them.

"Are you going to get up, or do I have to drag you out of here?"

A familiar voice - bland, always slightly irritated, condescending.

Doc's voice speaking to him from somewhere across the room. Doc's bed that he's still lying on. Doc's hands that had been on him last night, picking him up, holding him, firm but not unkind. Baby sits up slowly, the world a little dizzy and muddled with grey colors. He flexed his hands, the fingers that Doc had intertwined with his curling against his own palm as if to recreate the sensation, as if to try and forget it altogether. His eyes search and come to land on the origin of the voice in the corner of the room. Doc was sitting in the armchair, leaning forward slightly, busy adjusting the watch on his wrist. Any lingering sense of vulnerability he thought he might have imagined the night before was gone. The suit was back in place, sharp and commanding. The worried expression was masked by something professional, distant. 

He becomes keenly aware that he's still sitting in Doc's bed, staring at Doc, fingers gripping uselessly at the blanket that smells like Doc. So, naturally, he stops doing those things.

Naturally, he fails. 

When Doc makes a vague gesture to the nightstand, where a glass of water and what looked to be pain pills, he doesn't hesitate in reaching for them. His arm was killing him, and his shoulder wasn't any better. He had bled through some of the bandages during the night, it seems, staining the white medical supplies and the sheets he had been lying on a speckled red.

He hoped he hadn't bled on Doc.

The image of Doc's chest being pressed against his back flashes through his mind for a moment, unbidden and entirely outside of any topic he should be thinking about at all. He shoves it away quickly. Not the place or the time. Never the place, never the time. 

Baby downs three of the pills, ignoring the directions on the bottle, and drinks the whole glass in one go. He startles a little when Doc dumps a first aid kit on the bed, now hovering over him. He hadn't even realized Doc had moved at all. 

"Let me see," Doc said, already moving to undo the bandages around his chest. 

The tank top he was wearing was getting in the way of it - he could see the scowl on Doc's face, annoyed at the slow-moving progress. Taking the hint, he quickly uses his good arm and grabs the base of the fabric, pulling it over his head in one swift motion and then slowly threading his bad arm through it carefully. He wonders if now would be a bad time to make an inappropriate joke about nudity in the workplace. Given the serious look on Doc's face, and the hint of dark bags under his eyes, he figures the joke would go unappreciated, so he resolutely keeps his mouth shut. 

The tucked-in portions of the bandages are loosened and unwrapped from his torso, then his shoulder, then finally come completely free when unwrapped from his arm. Doc made sure to go slowly around the main wounded areas, carefully unsticking parts of the skin that had healed and clung to the wrappings so that they wouldn't peel and cause more bleeding. They look awful. Awful isn't even a good enough word to describe it. Horrible might be better, atrocious even more so. The entire portion of his skin had already started to bruise from the trauma; black and green and purple discoloring that makes his pale skin look sickly. It hurts about as bad as it looks. His muscles feel stiff, and he can barely twitch his arm or move his neck without spasming in pain and seeing tiny white dots in his vision. 

Doc, for his part, hasn't commented on it, reaching into the kit for antiseptic and fresh gauze. 

"You look like shit."

Well, he spoke too soon. 

"Yeah. Feel like shit," Baby responded, more to himself than anything. Doc heard him anyway, huffing as he wiped away the excess blood around the stitches. 

"You really think you can drive like this?" 

Was that a challenge? An observation? Or was it just internal disbelief at his bravado externalized for him to hear? Baby isn't sure. It was always hard to tell with Doc. In all the years he's known the man, he doesn't think he can pin down a single time he was able to truly decipher what Doc wanted from him, what the meaning behind his words was really saying. Maybe he'll never know.

"I've dealt with worse," is what he ends up saying, though, "Maybe I just want you to think I can," had been a close second. 

Doc hums, not convinced. Baby doesn't blame him; he hadn't sounded very convincing at all. 

The wrapping starts in reverse - from his arm, around his shoulder, slowly snaking its way across his back, ending at his chest. Doc was meticulous, as he is with everything. He can see his own downturned face in the reflection of Doc's glasses, and when Doc leans in to tuck the loose end into place, he can feel the lingering warmth of skin-to-skin contact from Doc's hands, Doc's presence. 

Just as fast as it started, it was over. Doc leaned back out of his space, silently declaring that the pain wouldn't kill him with that subtle dismissive look he threw at Baby's arm, and worked effectively to put away all the first aid supplies, tossing them back into the side closet. If he didn't know any better, it was almost as if Doc was avoiding looking at him. Doc has talked to him, sure, but he doesn't think Doc has made eye contact with him all morning. 

Doc only checks the time on his watch, polished dress shoes clacking on the concrete flooring as he makes his way to the door. "Meet time is in twenty. I suggest you get up and make yourself presentable."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Baby to stare at the wooden structure in silence, still sitting on the bed. Doc's bed, he reminds himself for the hundredth time. He brushes his hands over the still-exposed bandages, recalling when Doc had first put them on yesterday. The ever so slight panic in Doc's movements as he carried him to the table, the hand on the center of his chest to keep him upright and steady, the soothing gesture of fingers in his hair and cologne against his nose when the pain had been a little too much for him to reasonably handle. That had felt like a different person. He thinks maybe it had been a different person - someone who had been scared to lose something they never thought they would have to worry about losing. Baby frowns, swinging his legs off the side of the bed, letting them dangle there for a moment while his blood pressure dipped. 

It had felt like Doc cared- really cared. Not some false sense of smug, overconfident half-truths meant to be shoved in his face to keep him in line. Not anything to be used or dangled over his head like a carrot on a stick. Doc had cared. It's a thought that runs burnout-shaped circles in his mind. He had been a little too out of his last night to think about it too hard. Baby had only had the energy to care about the fact that the thing he was sleeping on, the person he had been sleeping next to, had been comfortable, nothing more. He hadn't stopped himself, hadn't become self-aware of his own actions or the way Doc had been behaving. 

But he's awake now, hurt but not dead. Aware. He's so painfully aware, that he curses under his breath, a single soft exhale with derogatory language laced underneath - something Doc would have chided him for if he heard. It's his own fault, really. He's looking for any reason to justify why he's here. An obligation - because Doc says so. A debt - because he owes doc. A sense of loyalty - because deep down, he's become reluctantly fond of Doc's gruff attitude, the way Doc can be so predictable in his violence. There's no room to hate the man when he's too busy sighing and begrudgingly going along with Doc's latest schemes. 

He's been looking for a reason for years, and he thinks maybe he's finally found it. 

It's too much to think about right now. Baby can't possibly unpack what that means when his arm is too busy screaming at him, and he's having to use the wall for support as he drags himself to the bathroom. 

Make yourself presentable.

Yeah, he could do that. 

He grabs his overnight bag on the way out, hoisting it up onto his good shoulder and slowly making his way through Doc's office to the bathroom on the other side. He can hear the distant sound of talking and conversation coming from behind the office door. It's not what he needs to worry about right now. He had fifteen minutes before Doc stomped back in here and dragged him out, whether he was ready or not. He really didn't feel like getting caught with his pants down a second time, literally speaking. 

And wow, if that wasn't awkward to think about. 

Doc had undressed him, washed away the dirt and grime from his skin, put clothes on him like he was some hospice patient. Maybe in another life, Doc really could've been a doctor, or maybe a nurse might be more appropriate.

Baby resolutely stops that train of thought in its tracks. Not important. 

He clutches the edge of the ceramic sink and forces himself to look into the mirror. There were cuts all over his face and chest, bruises near his scalp from when he had fallen face-first onto the dirty floor of that warehouse. He touches one experimentally and flinches, hissing at the pain as he peers more closely to look at it. 

Doc was right. He does look like shit. 

He looks like he got shot twice and then had someone drag him across the floor. 

If Griff were here, he would probably get made fun of for losing his pretty privileges. Real showstopper, probably scare all the kids, huh? The thought makes him huff, half amused and half annoyed. 

Sighing, he turns on the faucet, letting water pool in one of his hands; a small puddle that leaks out quickly, with most of it falling down the drain before he can splash it on his face. He grabs a couple more handfuls, feeling the sting of his cuts as the water drips down his cheeks. He'll probably have more than a couple of scars that linger, joining the ones he has from the crash. He doesn't mind the thought so much -he's already got more than he can count, so what's a few more added to the collection?- but the idea that...he might have permanent damage to his arm...that makes him a little worried. As is, he can barely move it, and the searing throb every time he moves his neck to the side makes him feel like Michael Keaton in costume on some dark and grimey set. 

He's seen Doc's injuries before -maybe not the scars themselves, but the stiff way Doc sometimes stretches his shoulders, and the way Doc will grimace in phantom pain when the temperature outside dips too low- and he knows that these things don't just go away on their own. Some part of him thinks that's why Doc's so content to stay in the background; a planner that sits behind a desk on most days and makes the younger, more able criminals carry out his schemes for him. 

Baby just hopes that this is just a minor setback. One more job, a few weeks of bed rest, and he'll be back to hanging on the arm pole in his kitchen and listening to Doc complain about the tenth repeat of Bon Jovi's You Give Love A Bad Name while they stake out some obscure building they'll rob later that week. 

8 minutes, Baby.

Right. 

He can do this...probably.

He has to.