Chapter Text
The heist was, for all intents and purposes, a simple one. Every part of it was something routine to Baby: bank, guns, money, drive. It should have been clean and easy.
Except. Joe’d had an appointment that night before, except Baby had stayed up worrying about Joe, except Baby had forgot to set his alarm; he had run out the door grabbing a random iPod (red. devil themed songs) and barely remembering shades.
He drops off the team: Darling and Buddy (they refuse to work separate) and a new addition to the field team, Momma. Momma has been working grudgingly with Doc for years and is cold and quiet with everyone except Baby. She towers over him but is calm and nice, has even let loose a couple times when Baby is the only one sticking around as she analyzes data. Her voice will go deep and she'll blush or she'll let out an un-ladylike laugh or she'll forget to shave her face, but Baby doesn't mind. He asks gentle questions and eventually borrows a dress or two to try himself (Doc doesn't let him keep them, and instead buys him his own in his proper size. Baby never touches those)
He drops off the team, and realizes another except: he forgot his meds. Baby takes a pill every morning, except he doesn't, and he sits bouncing his leg anxiously to Blue Öyster Cult as he tries to grapple with the knowledge that he's fucked over the heist for everyone. Today will be bad too, because he's suddenly gone from the beginning of the chorus to the end of it. Loss of time. Absence seizure. If it hadn't been for his obsession with listening to music Baby might not even know he has them. Now it just serves as a reminder that he might get everyone killed. Great.
He makes it through The Reaper and the opening drumline of Sinnerman creeps through his earbuds as the crew runs back to the car. Baby barely waits for them to get in before he's driving, letting the beat guide him and trying not to notice that he hasn't quite timed it right because honestly, that's the least of his problems. He's praying that if he goes as fast as he can, doesn't pull some of his normal tricks, he can get them back to the switch car before he drops. The lord must have already anticipated this prayer because Momma is here, intercepting red lights and feeding false traffic information as he presses heavy on the gas. Nina Simone's belting barely cuts through the ringing and his blood pumping through his ears, but it's enough. It has to be enough.
Stress is the most common trigger of seizures a small voice, something that could have come out of Joe's mouth if he knew Joe's spoken voice, plays in his head but honestly, he has enough to listen to right now. He takes a turn too late, scraping against a curb, but ignores the angry shouts from the back seat. A cop snags their back bumper. They're only a mile or two from the switch, he has to lose them soon.
“Baby, what the fuck are you playing at?” Buddy yells sharply as he shoots out the tires of a car Baby normally would have left well in the dust.
He swerves again, this time jarring the passengers on purpose, but throws in a quiet “shut up” for good measure. Him speaking is enough to shock the three quiet, and with a few traffic cam hoaxes from Momma they're able to pull into the garage relatively unharmed.
Baby can already taste copper on his tongue and doesn't have the coordination left for removing his ‘disguise’; he bats the sunglasses off his face and calls it good, sliding into the back seat. Or he would be, if Buddy wasn't blocking the back door of the sedan he was trying to get into.
“Alright, Baby, what's going on? You tryna throw this?” The man doesn't sound angry as much as adrenaline-drained, and on some level Baby recognizes that he had enjoyed the extra edge.
Baby opens his mouth to respond, and doesn't, because he really doesn't fucking have time for this. None of them do. Thankfully, both Darling and Momma say as much, and Momma, now in her more typical bulky blue box braids, climbs into the driver’s seat. Buddy moves out of the way with a huff to get to shotgun, and Baby falls into the back.
A seatbelt would do him more harm than good at this point, and it's not like Darling sitting next to him has bothered to put one on either. The car isn't ideal for this, but he's honestly been in much worse places with much less warning. Momma starts driving, bickering with the still-heated Buddy. Baby turns to Darling, and he must look as utterly fucked as he feels because her eyes immediately soften
“You know my Buddy didn't mean it, he jus-”
“Seizure. Don't touch my mouth, keep my head free.” His voice is surprisingly calm as he cuts her off, and he's just gone enough at that point that he doesn't see her eyes widen before he's out.
--
Baby speaks for the second time ever, and then suddenly he's passed out next to her in the car.
“Shit! Buddy,” she calls up to him, “stop whatever bullshit you're bugging Momma with and come help me. Baby just passed out.” Darling punctuates this by pulling the young man (God, he can't be older than 18) into her lap.
“Fuck, really?” Buddy turns to look in the backseat and yep, the person who was driving them all seconds ago is now dead to the world. “Do you know what's happening?”
Darling shakes her head, “No, he said something about a-”
“-Seizure,” Momma cuts her off, “he has epilepsy. Honestly, you'd think Doc would brief everyone.”
The couple is left gaping at her like dead fish. “How the fuck do you know then?” Buddy grinds out, unbuckling his seatbelt to get in back with his Darling.
Momma throws him a look like he's just asked if the Earth's round, “I talk with him. I swear, just because he don't prefer talking out loud don't mean he's antisocial. Whatever; he's prolly gonna actually start seizing soon so Darlin’ get him outta your lap and lay him down flat on the seat back there, I'll try to drive slow.”
Darling and Buddy don't have time to protest at being ordered around before the twitching starts. Within seconds, Baby's whole body is arrythmically jerking, and Darling goes against her instinct to hold him still and gets on the carpeted flooring over the car instead and ushers Buddy to follow. She can't help but reach out a soothing hand to stroke through his hair as he seizes, and a low humming tells her that Buddy feels the same. They may not be Momma, but right now all they wanna do is take care of their Baby.
“How long’ll he be like this?” Buddy asks after a few beats, running a hand up and down Baby’s shaking leg.
Momma chances a look in the backseat as she takes a right turn faster than she should, “Could be a minute more, but shouldn't be longer than that. Baby says his are normally on the short side, so should be soon.” Her voice is steady but her knuckles are white around the wheel. It feels like years, decades maybe that they wait for him to stop seizing, but it can't be more than thirty seconds of anxious waiting before his movements slow. His breathing evens out from the hitched gasps it was during the seizure, and if they didn't all known what just happened they could have mistaken it for a nap.
On Momma’s instruction, Buddy rolls Baby onto his side in case he vomits, but he doesn't. Instead, the movement rouses the young man enough and he starts making controlled movements of his hands. Darling and Buddy stare at him in confusion, and he seems to realize what he's doing and his hands stop.
“W-wha happen,” he slurs, after opening and closing his mouth for a while. Buddy could kiss him, he's so relieved to hear the kid speak, and Darling does, a quick peck on the cheek.
She then huffs out a relieved laugh, “You had a seizure, Baby. Scared us all shittless.” Once it sinks in what she said, Baby's eyes widen, and he tries to speak again, but Darling understands what he's worried about, “It's no sweat Baby, you weren't driving. You even told me what was happening.” He relaxes back into the seats at that.
“Just get some rest, Baby,” Momma calls back, “we'll get you back to Doc soon.” He does what he's told, closing his eyes, but Buddy and Darling both catch his flinch at his boss’ name. They share a look; they're not gonna let that go unanswered.
The drive ends in minutes, and Buddy doesn't hesitate to scoop Baby into his arms. Baby tries to resist, but coherent thought or movement age both too difficult in his post-ictal stage. Knowing the married couple is too busy mother-henning the driver, Momma grabs the cash and remaining gear. She's worried about him, too, but knows from experience that being crowded after a major medical event is more hurt than help.
Baby gets bits and pieces of the journey back to the planning room; an argument about coffee, Buddy hitting his foot against a doorframe, and Doc's annoyed tone turning to understanding and concern. “How long? Did he hurt himself?”
Momma is quick to answer, “A minute, and he was safe in the car. The only hitch was the seizure itself.” Baby's focus tunes back out at this point in favor of trying to sleep and not get a migraine. Thankfully, his hearing makes tuning them out pretty easy, and it only takes moments for him to slip back into unconsciousness.
Doc turns to address the whole crew, “Alright; I want to thank you all for getting my driver back in one piece, now take your cuts and get out.” Momma and Darling agree willingly enough, sending their last concerned looks to Baby before sitting and waiting for Doc to count up the cash, but Buddy hesitates. That flinch in the car had made him think, remembering other looks between the two, and just how young Baby was when he started. He shakes it off and sits too, but whispers to Darling to pay attention.
“Believe me, Buddy,” she whispers back, voice sickly sweet and full of venom, “Darlin’ always watches her babies.”