Chapter Text
The hash is good. To Baby, the potato, beans, rice and veggies all blend together in a sad mush, but there’s enough tobasco that he can taste it in his eyes. He hasn’t tasted anything in a while. It’s nice.
Eating breakfast (and the mild nausea it causes him) reminds Baby to take his meds; after missing his pill, both his neurologist and Joe had insisted he keep an emergency case on him. Or, his neurologist insisted, and Joe slipped the case into his pants pocket. Another side effect of the seizure a month ago is a new medication, this one aimed at reducing tonic clonic seizures like that one and drop attacks like the night (day?) before. So he pops his two pills and pretends not to notice the looks Buddy and Darling give him as he swallows. He hasn’t been participating much in the meal conversation, but with how standard that is to the rest of his interactions with the married couple they don’t seem to mind, instead arguing about some type of shoe (clogs, Crocs, or Docs; he couldn’t tell with just a few glances up between bites). Darling has turned out to be an avid fan of late 90’s-early 2000’s fashion, as Baby learned through his swimming session in just a small collection of her closet last night.
“Baby! We need you to play Switzerland: are Crocs ugly or fashionable?” Buddy’s gruff voice surprises him, but while his face is a parody of gravely serious Baby can tell he's trying not to laugh. It's almost like the older man is… letting him in on the joke.
Darling looks at him eagerly, and Baby doesn't know what answer she's hoping for, just that she's got that kid-in-a-candy-store-that-her-father-just-bought grin on. Definitely letting him in on the joke. Baby makes a show of hemming and hawing before clearing his throat; “Both.”
He didn't quite manage to keep the question out of his voice but his answer is apparently enough for Darling, who jumps up and whoops loudly, crowing like a rooster.
“Ha! I told you those Balenciaga's were worth it!” She gloats over Buddy, before turning back to him, “Oh, you have to see them Baby; they’re terrible,” crossing to his side of the table, she tugs playfully at his wrist until he stands, “and you can try on some dresses while we’re at it.”
Even with someone dragging him by the arm, the grin that spreads on Baby’s face can only be described as dopey, his smile spreading even wider as he barely makes out Buddy’s grumble about ‘eight-hundred dollar ankle-breakers’. He lets himself be dragged to the master bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later, Baby is standing in front of a full-length mirror in an ankle-length black dress. Turning from side to side, he marvels at the way the sheer floral overlay spins up to the empire waist. He feels… feminine, yes, almost stereotypically dainty in the long-sleeved dress, but not womanly. The high waist adds shape to his otherwise straight body, but he doesn't look like a woman, or like a man wearing a woman's dress. He looks, tentatively, happy.
Darling walks back in from putting the Balenciaga platform shoes away and lets out a slow whistle as she takes him in from behind. “Damn, Baby, you look better in that than I ever did.”
He blushes and turns to face her, saying “Now I'm sure that's not true.”
“Cross my heart; I bought it off a runway so it’s way too tall for me, but on you it's perfect,” she punctuates her decree by popping her gum (seriously, he's starting to wonder if she just wills the stuff into existence) before grabbing his arm to drag him yet again,”Now lemme do your makeup and then we can go show Buddy.” He follows her lead, noting that this time she lets go as soon as he starts walking.
“Why’re you still callin’ each other your codenames?” Baby asks without thinking, his mind more on the wall of shoes they walk by on the way to the bathroom than whatever is coming out of his mouth. Darling's step falters for a little bit but she recovers quickly.
“Well, we figured it'd be easier to keep using the names you already know.” She says, before pulling a chair in front of her bathroom counter and pushing him into it.
He sits patiently as she pushes his hair back with a headband and starts prepping his face, wiping off the remnants of the previous night's experimenting. While she's turned, looking into her makeup kit, he speaks quietly, “It reminds me of Doc.”
For a terrifying moment, the only sound is of Darling ruffling through her makeup. She silently applies primer on his face, starting at his forehead. Once she gets to his chin, not looking at him but with her mouth visible, she says “Buddy’s name is Jason. I'm Monica.” and moves to the next step of the makeup.
“My name’s Miles.”
--
‘ Where's Miles?’
“I don't know sign language, but he's in the main room. The name’s Jason.” The career criminal steps out of Joe's path, debating and quickly retiring the idea of offering a hand to shake.
Joe fumbles in his pocket for a second once he's out of the doorway, pulling out his phone and typing quickly. His phone then reads out “You're the one who killed Doc.”
“Yes sir.” It wasn't a question, but Jason answers anyway. Joe doesn't respond, merely holds eye contact before nodding and finishing the journey to the living room.
Baby jumps up at the sight of his foster father, fiddling nervously with the sleeves of his dress. Joe wheels close in front of him and flips his brake.
‘They've been treatin’ you to nice clothes, at least,’ he signs after a moment, and that's all it takes for Miles to bend down and pull him into a fierce hug. Joe makes a noise of surprise before wrapping his arms around to meet him, patting his back with his slightly shaky hands. He presses ‘I love you’ into the boy's back and feels Miles sob in response, a hitch in his breath and wetness forming where the younger man’s face meets his shoulder. Eventually, Joe moves his hands to Miles’ shoulders and pushes him back to see his face.
‘You tell me what happened.’ He signs, and Miles instantly tenses.
“What’d he say B-Miles?” Darling asks, stepping closer from where she was waiting by the couch. Buddy moves from behind Joe, almost instinctively getting closer to his wife.
“H-he asked what happened. I-Joe,” Baby signs as he speaks, trying to find a way to sort through his jumbled memories of what happened. He doesn’t know where to start; where the start is ; what Joe already knows (does Joe already know?).
Darling, recognising his distress, steps more in Joe’s eyeline and speaks up, “If it helps, we can say what happened on our end?” Baby seems to deflate and nods his thanks, and after a small signed exchange, Joe agrees. Buddy and Darling take turns, starting with what they’d noticed in the years they’d worked with Baby and finishing off with the confrontation in the garage.
“I—we—noticed how Baby, er, Miles was reacting to the conversation, and Monica,” Buddy motions to his wife next to him, not noticing the look Baby was throwing him as he continued, “asked if he’d been… abusing Miles. I asked Miles, and his reaction was severe enough that I knew it was the truth. So I shot him at the same time Monica slit his throat.” He clasps his hands in front of him once he’s finished, looking as confident about that decision as he feels.
A shiver runs through Joe as he watches the hired gun, Jason. To have no remorse for the killing chills him in a way he can’t describe, and yet he can’t help but feel grateful that these crazy people protected his boy. Had he known where to find the man, Joe would have done the same. He’d only found out what Miles’ ‘tutoring sessions’ actually were two years ago thanks to an image on a news report. Miles hadn’t been identifiable in any definite way, but Joe recognized the carefully decorated I-Pod nano witnesses had described as one of the many his son keeps in his room. Joe knows if he went to the police to get help Miles would end up behind bars; it’s not like he could afford to get the boy a decent lawyer. So he tries to keep him on the right track. Had he known just how bad it’d been though…
Baby’s relief at Darling and Buddy taking over the conversation was short lived. They talked about moments, back from when he was in middle school and early into high school. Just small moments, flinches or weird looks, nothing to be concerned about on their own. Except they were concerning. Because Baby doesn’t remember them. All he remembers from those years is feeling uncomfortable, getting mediocre grades, and spending too much time practicing his evasive maneuvers. He’d assumed that Doc had been keeping him off of jobs so he could shorten his escape times, but from what Buddy and Darling have said, he was working a job at least once a month. There’s a cold feeling running through his chest like ice water but his body feels hot and clammy. This doesn’t make sense . Baby rocks on the balls of his feet, his hands instinctively spelling out lyrics, ‘that’s why I’m easy, I’m easy like Sunday morning…’
‘Miles? It’s okay, you’re okay. Doc isn’t here, your Pops isn’t here, it’s just your dad.’ Joe signs, repeating nearly everything to make sure it gets through to his son. He can hear what is probably talking, the criminal couple freaking out or asking what is happening, but he focuses on Miles. He recognizes this as a meltdown, most likely one triggered by anxiety more than overstimulation. Joe remembers these most from early in his care, any time Miles felt he would be punished for repeating movie quotes or flapping his hands. He doesn’t pressure him to respond, knowing the movements of his hands are doing just as much to calm him down as anything Joe can do, if not more. Eventually Miles opens his mouth, saying something for the benefit of the confused hearing couple.
“I-I’m alright. I’m alright. What we've got here...is failure to communicate. ” Baby chooses the quote from a catalogue in his mind, trying to find something to convey that he wasn’t purposefully ignoring them and that there are things they don’t know.
He gets a snort from Jason and Joe, but out of the two Joe seems like the only one old enough to have caught the reference. “You got that right. You good?”
After an awkward beat Baby remembers to nod, and Darling instantly decides that her and her husband’s presence is doing more harm than good. “Why don’t you and Joe talk in the guest bedroom, Miles?” she asks gently, pointing to a door to the left of the entryway, and then nudging Buddy, “Me and this lug will go make some lunch.”
Buddy quickly catches on, “More like I'll make lunch while you sit on the counter and look pretty.”
“It's what I do best,” she replies with a jackal’s grin, and Joe gets the distinct impression she's used that misconception to help many people meet unkind fates.
As the duo make for the kitchen, Joe taps Jason on the shoulder and mouths as clearly as he can while giving a short, recognizable sign: ‘Thank you.”
The hired gun doesn't ask what for, just nods, “If someone had done that to my kid…” and strides to catch up with his wife, the message clear
--
The room is pristine, impersonal in a way completely unlike the colorful master bedroom, just an expanse of unfeeling white and unworn carpet. Baby sits on the edge of permanently made bed and waits. He knows who's supposed to start, he knows who's supposed to bare their soul and cry; he knows it's him , he knows he's the victim and yet he has… nothing. A collection of feelings, of pains and gaps and maybes, so much that it almost has to be something . He has an almost-something, and he waits and asks himself if that's enough.
‘What happened, Miles? What did Doc do to you?’ Joe finally asks, slow and caring as always, and that's enough, not for him to know but for him speak.
‘ I don't know!’ he stands up from the bed, suddenly too empty, all he can think is (God what if Doc had him in a bed and he didn't even know ) and he's pacing, struggling to keep his hands from pulling his hair so he can sign, ‘I know Doc was bad to me, I know he did some awful things, but the rest, I'm not, I'm not sure—’ He gives up on making full sentences, using the flexibility of his language to describe this in a way speaking can't. Two signs repeat themselves as he makes his internal conflict visible: ‘feel’ and ‘know’ . There is so much more he feels has happened than what he knows: disgust at Doc, dread, a fear that makes him feel like he's in the back seat of a car with his white I-Pod again. The fantom fingers he felt on his thighs whenever Doc called him ‘Baby’. How he loves dresses but the ones Doc bought him were all too tight. He isn't even sure how it's all related, if it's all related, just that if he doesn't get it out he might puke. He doesn't really finish, just signs ‘feel’ again and again as if that explains it.
Baby stops when he sees tears in Joe's eyes. His foster father raises his hands, shaking more than their usual tremors, and asks simply, ‘What do Jason and Monica think that he did?’ No judgement nor explanation, just connecting back to what they both know happened.
The signs alone make him feel dirty, ‘They think he raped me.’
‘And what does that feel like?’
‘The truth.’