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“Bruce,” Dick says, in a very calm voice. “We have a slight situation.”
Bruce immediately prepares for the worst. The only time Dick stops being a bundle of dramatics and exuberance is when something is very, very wrong. “Is that so,” he says. He does not turn away from his computer. He barely moves at all. “Who is included in this we.”
“Well…” Dick says, stretching the word out. “Kind of. All of us.”
“All of us,” Bruce repeats. “Meaning.”
“You, me, Alfred, kind of maybe, and… Jay.”
There’s the kicker. Bruce swivels around in his chair. A muscle in his left cheek twitches.
Jay is trying to hide behind Dick, which is not all that effective. Jay is an inch taller and a fair amount broader. And even his best effort at hiding cannot disguise the truly incredible, livid rash covering most of his skin, especially since he keeps scratching it.
Bruce stares.
“Explain,” he says.
“The other day we were doing laundry,” Dick says, and Bruce takes a moment to contemplate how he never imagined that there could be one, let alone two, teenage boys who were enthusiastic about doing laundry in the entire world, and yet he has somehow managed to become responsible for both of them. “And we used up the last of the soap we normally use, and Jay found some other soap so he used that for his clothes. And today he put on the clothes he washed with that soap and now he has a rash.”
Jay nods sullenly and scratches his cheek.
“Don’t scratch,” Bruce tells him, and Jay pouts. “It’s probably an allergic reaction. Do you remember which soap you used?”
Dick pokes the tip of his tongue out and scrunches up his eyes the way he does when he’s trying to remember something. “The… one in the purple bottle? With the white cap?”
“Don’t use that soap again,” Bruce says.
“Oh darn, ‘cause I really like feeling like one big bug bite,” Jay snaps.
“Jay, you should take some allergy medication. I’ll see if we have anything topical we can apply to the rash. Stop scratching,” Bruce says, and Jay takes his fingers off his skin with a scowl. “Dick, go with him and keep him from scratching.”
“I don’t need a babysitter!” Jay says.
“Do we need to talk about last week.”
Jay shuffles his feet. “That was last week,” he mutters.
Last week, Jay scratched open a bug bite on the back of his neck and didn’t notice that it was bleeding. He’d made quite an impressive tear in his skin by the time Dick happened to pass by, noticed the blood covering Jay’s neck, and screamed.
“Dick, show Jay where the allergy medication is,” Bruce says.
Jay huffs. Dick reaches for Jay’s wrist, but pulls back before he makes contact. Dick is a tactile person by nature, but Jay is very jumpy about being touched. Bruce is glad that Dick is making progress in respecting Jay’s boundaries. It’s better for all of them that way. “Come on,” Dick says, and Jay trails behind him like a wayward, rash-covered balloon.
Bruce thinks he has some powerful anti-itch cream in the Cave somewhere. He’s had too many late nights involving brackish, mosquito-infested ponds to keep it anywhere else. Having Jay use allergy medication and the cream may be overkill, but better overkill than underkill. Jay’s compulsive scratching and skin picking doesn’t need any encouragement.
~x~
Ten minutes after Jay took the allergy medication and applied the anti-itch cream, he starts giggling.
Bruce looks up from his tablet. He’s moved into the blue living room to keep an eye on Jay. If the reaction gets worse - or if Jay scratches himself open again - Bruce wants to know immediately. Dick is also in the living room,sitting on the couch next to Jay - presumably for the same reasons. He’s very protective of Jay. Jay can definitely use the protecting.
“Something funny?” Dick asks.
“The bread,” Jay says.
“The what,” Dick says.
“The bread,” Jay says, and offers Dick his laptop.
Dick clicks a couple keys. Mellow music plays over the laptop’s speakers, and Jay laughs so hard he falls over sideways. Bruce gets up and ambles over to see the visuals that accompany the music.
It’s a video of different kinds of bread rising.
Bruce does not understand.
“The bread,” Jay gasps out between giggles.
“Uhhh,” Dick says. “Okay.”
“Dick,” Bruce says. “What kind of allergy medication did you give Jay.”
“Benadryl,” Dick says. “We thought if he could sleep through the itching, that’d help.”
Jay is still giggling and laying on his side. Every time the giggles start dying down he whispers “Bread,” and starts up again.
“He’s not sleeping,” Bruce says.
“He is not,” Dick agrees.
Jay raises one arm and makes grabbing motions at his laptop. “Gimme it back,” he says.
Dick hands over the laptop. The bread video is still playing. Jay takes one look at it and goes from giggles back to full-blown laughter.
“How many Benadryl did you give him,” Bruce says.
“Only one! I swear!” Dick says, holding his hands up pleadingly.
Jay looks up at them and squints, slightly cross-eyed. “You gotta take way more to get high off that shit,” he says. “Like, thirteen. Thirteen Benadryls.”
“Is that so,” Bruce says.
“Yeah. And then you gotta fight off the sleepiness to get there - ‘s what I hear, anyway. I don’t like to get fucked up. Gotta keep my wits about me.” Jay clicks through a couple pages, navigating away from the bread. “Never know when you gotta make a break for it, and you don’t want to be fucked up then.”
Bruce’s chest aches. Dick’s lower lip tightens.
Jay snorts. “Look at this cat,” he says, and sits up and turns the laptop so Bruce and Dick can see the cat in question. It is very cute, but not particularly remarkable, and given the lack of accompanying laughter, Bruce gets the feeling that Jay is not overly amused by the cat and simply intends this as a distraction. Dick glances at Bruce, and Bruce can see the same thought process writ on his expression.
Bruce gives a tiny nod. They will accept the deflection. They will not push.
“That’s a good cat,” Dick says.
“A very good cat,” Bruce agrees.
Jay nods solemnly, then yawns. “‘M gonna nap,” he says, and lays back down on his side. He places the laptop on the floor gently, then slowly lifts his arm up above his head. “Whoosh,” he says, and giggles. “This is a good couch.” He yawns again, then grabs a pillow and tucks it under his head. He’s asleep in a matter of minutes. Bruce moves the laptop from the floor to a nearby footstool.
“Bruce,” Dick begins.
“I know,” Bruce says. “But we can’t push. He’ll talk about it as he feels comfortable.”
“Yeah, but… he’s thirteen. The things he says…” Dick rubs his arms. “I wanna know what he’s been through. I know I’m not gonna like the answer, but I wanna get it over with, you know?”
Bruce knows. God, does he know. He’s tried to stay out of Jay’s past and respect his privacy as much as possible. He’s not pushing to adopt Jay, at Jay’s request. While he and Jay have discussed enrolling Jay in online classes, he hasn’t pressed Jay to enroll in a formal school. He’s promised to drive Jay to monthly appointments at the Park Row Youth Clinic and hasn’t asked why.
It’s the last one that bothers Bruce the most. Monthly appointments suggests a chronic condition - several chronic conditions, possibly. And given Jay’s general aversion to anything other than do-it-yourself healthcare, it also suggests something serious. It would be painfully easy for Bruce to hack into the clinic’s records. Probably easier than simply searching Jay’s room for medications, because if the kid’s uncanny ability to pull snacks from thin air says anything, Jay’s very good at hiding things.
Bruce hates that. Hates all the reasons a thirteen year old would have to develop those skills. Hates that Jay is so used to being in unsafe and unstable places that this kind of behavior is second nature to him. Hates the way that the world chews kids up and spits them out. Hates all the people who don’t bother to know that this happens, how many people are ground under the gears of the almighty system, how many people are suffering right beneath their noses.
Hatred is not productive. Not in these circumstances, anyway. Bruce sighs, puts his tablet to the side. The figures for the firefighter’s charity ball can wait. “Dick,” he says, and the boy looks up. “I think if we keep the volume down, you and I can watch a movie.”
“A weird black and white grandma movie?” Dick asks suspiciously.
A smile tugs at the corners of Bruce’s lips. “I’ll let you pick.”
“Hm.” Dick stands up, careful not to disturb Jay. He follows Bruce to a different couch, one adjacent to Jay’s, so they can both keep an eye on him as he sleeps. “Okay. That sounds good.”
They put closed captions on and keep the volume low. Jay sleeps through the entire movie. He rolls over a few times, but doesn’t seem to be having nightmares, and doesn’t scratch in his sleep. The rash appears to be fading. Good. Bruce wasn’t looking forward to the fight there would be if he had to take Jay to a hospital.
Alfred stops by a few minutes after Dick and Bruce start the second movie. “Good evening, Master Bruce, Master Richard. Have you seen Master Jay?”
Bruce points to where Jay lays on the couch, blocked from Alfred’s view by a tall lamp on the side table.
“Ah. Dinner will be ready shortly - will Master Jay be joining us, or shall I set some aside for him for later?”
Bruce tilts his head, considering. Waking Jay is a tricky prospect - but leaving him alone, when he fell asleep in their company, might be worse. “He’ll be joining us unless he requests otherwise,” Bruce says.
“Very good, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and leaves.
Bruce hands Dick’s tablet back and stands. His knee - the one he dislocated two months ago when a dirty cop got in a lucky hit - creaks. Bruce winces. If he keeps acquiring joint injuries at this rate, he may need to build soundproofing into the Batsuit. That’ll be a fun modification.
He walks over to Jay, taking each step precisely, making enough noise to hopefully alert Jay to his presence, without stepping heavily enough to startle him. “Jay,” he says.
Jay blinks awake. “Whuzzat.”
“Dinner is soon. Will you be joining us, or do you need to keep sleeping?”
Jay yawns enormously. “‘m awake,” he says, and stretches.
“D’you still itch?” Dick asks.
Jay shakes his head. “Only a little. Feel blurry, though. Naps suck.”
“Drinking water and eating something will help,” Bruce says.
Jay swings his legs over the side of the couch. “Yeah. Hey - thanks. For the medicine. And waking me up for dinner.”
He shouldn’t feel like Bruce taking care of him is an occasion for praise. He shouldn’t, “Of course,” Bruce says. “But you don’t need to thank me.”
“I can thank you for whatever I want,” Jay says mulishly. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dunno,” Dick says. “Race you to the kitchen.”
The words are barely out of Dick’s mouth before Jay is off like a shot, skidding across the hardwood floor in the hall. Dick throws himself over the back of the couch and takes off after him. It’s anyone’s guess who will win - Jay has a head start and slightly longer legs, but Dick is Robin. Then again, Dick may hold himself back and let Jay win. It’s anyone’s guess.
Bruce follows after the boys at a sedate pace.
There’s no need to rush. He has plenty of time.