Archive of Our Own ^omega

It starts with Tim feeling itchy on patrol. Bruce notices the boy scratching through his body armor as the night goes on, driven to distraction by whatever it is that’s making his skin crawl.

“Feeling okay, Red?” Bruce asks, watching Tim grind his back against a lamp post like a grizzly. It’s exactly as undignified as it sounds.

“Fine,” Tim says through his teeth. He scrapes at his scalp, not unlike when Dick got that atrocious case of head lice during middle school. “My uniform’s just—chafing a little.”

“Right.” Bruce keeps his eye on Tim all through the rest of patrol, shuddering through bouts of itchiness and scratching himself like a madman.

By the time they’re wrapping things up at the end of the night, Bruce is surprised Tim hasn’t yet cleaved his skin open with a batarang. He’s twitchy, irritable. Bruce caught him popping an Advil around midnight to combat whatever headache he’s battling.

Bruce runs through the mental list of allergies. Tim hasn’t been near a walnut since the Brownie Scare of ‘16, and Poison Ivy is at a flower show in New York for the weekend. Unless Damian sabotaged Tim’s uniform with itching powder again, which is a very real possibility.

As soon as they’ve returned to the cave, Tim rips off his cowl and gloves like they’re on fire. He claws furiously at his skin, scraping it raw with his fingernails. Bruce can see now that there’s a sickly flush to Tim’s cheeks and sweat on his brow.

Frowning, Bruce feels Tim’s forehead and cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re feverish.”

“I think I’m allergic to Alfred’s new detergent,” Tim says, scratching, scratching, scratching.

Unconvinced, Bruce takes Tim’s hand away from where he’s tearing at his neck and pushes up the sleeve. Tiny pink dots freckle across Tim’s skin. “You have chickenpox.”

He might as well have just told Tim he had testicular cancer with the way his face blanches in horror. “You’re kidding me. But I got the vaccine!”

“It could be an immune system issue,” Bruce muses. “You are more prone to catching illnesses than other people.”

“Fuck.” Tim goes to scratch again. Bruce keeps a firm hold on his wrist to keep him from doing so.

“I’ll call Lucius and let him know you’re going to be out for the week.” Bruce tries to remember who in the household has had chickenpox aside from himself. He’ll have to tell Selina she can’t stay over this week. And Cass’ sleepover with Stephanie will have to be postponed.

Tim groans, scratching his side with the hand not held captive. “This is going to suck.”

The next few days are…troubling.

It turns out that Tim was indeed vaccinated against chickenpox as a child, but his parents never took him to get the preemptive booster like he was supposed to. The missing spleen doesn’t help. His poor immune system and age combine to mean that his case will be worse than it would have been if he were a healthy child, which makes for a very unhappy Tim Drake.

Tim’s siblings have all been banned from the manor until further notice, just to be safe. None of them have ever had chickenpox before, apart from Duke and Jason. Best not to risk it. Damian has been banished to the Kents’ house for the week, and the others are safely shuttered away at Dick’s apartment in Blüdhaven for the time being.

Having some company would have surely made this awful charade more bearable for Tim, but he’s just going to have to be satisfied with Bruce’s companionship for now.

Bruce, lucky him, caught chickenpox twice as a child, and has been thoroughly vaccinated in addition to the other preventative measures he’s taken regarding his health since becoming Batman. He dutifully assumes his post as Tim’s caretaker for however long this malady lasts. Alfred insisted on staying as well, insisting that Bruce and Tim cannot sustain themselves on Ritz crackers and Bruce’s potato salad for the next fortnight, and Bruce has given up on trying to shoo him away from the contagion.

“I’ll bet it was that bitch Helen from operations management,” Tim says. He coughs miserably into his arm. “I overheard her saying she didn’t believe in vaccinations a couple months back. I hope her kids die of polio. That’ll teach her.”

It turns out that a sick Tim is a grouchy Tim. Alfred provides their boy with plenty of fever reducers and home remedies for the itching, but it doesn’t accomplish more than taking the edge off.

Tim is wearing the loosest pajamas he owns (which is a polite way of saying he stole Bruce’s pajamas and Bruce, the kind man that he is, gave up on getting them back a long time ago) and has bundled himself on the couch in the TV room to wait it out. He’s been supplied with his computer and some cold case files to work through with all the free time on his hands. He gives up after the first two hours, the unbearable itchiness making it impossible to focus.

The chickenpox have spread to pretty much every inch of Tim’s body by now, dotting his face like a bad case of zits. It’s kind of adorable, not that Bruce would dare to tell Tim that. Chickenpox has turned him into a polka-dotted hyena.

Bruce is on his phone now, texting the family group chat updates on their brother’s condition. “Cassie says get well soon.”

“Tell her I spit on her doorknob,” Tim replies from under the mound of blankets he’s built around himself. The only visible parts of him are his head and the arm he’s extended to dunk a slice of bread into his bowl of soup, watching it get soggy and fall apart.

“Such a ray of sunshine,” Bruce deadpans. “I’m so proud to have raised such a polite young man.”

“You’d be cranky too if your skin was starting a mutiny.” Tim burrows deeper into his blanket fort so only his face is showing. “I feel like Anne Hathaway in the first act of The Princess Diaries.”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

This is not the first time Bruce has witnessed a sick Tim by any means. When Tim caught the stomach flu his freshman year of high school, Bruce was the one who stayed up with him all night while he vomited. Still, Bruce wishes he had some backup.

Dick would be perfect for this situation. He’s always had a softer touch than Bruce, whose go-to method for treating sickness is sitting on the couch watching documentaries until the disease abates. There’s a reason he dropped out of medical school.

In the chat, Damian has begun demanding photos of sick Tim for blackmail purposes, which the others firmly concur with. Bruce, ever the loyal and loving father, inconspicuously angles his phone camera to where Tim sits at the far end of the couch, glaring at his bread mush.

Tim catches the glint of light off Bruce’s camera. His eyes widen. “Do not take a picture of me.” Bruce’s phone makes a shutter sound. Tim shoots upright, soup sloshing onto his blankets. “Judas!”

He makes a grab for the phone, but Bruce is stronger and not hindered by illness. He quickly sends the photo, ignoring Tim’s furious tugging on his arm. Immediately the group chat floods with gleeful responses.

“You’re the worst,” Tim whines, flopping back onto the couch. “I’m gonna make sure they only feed you steamed cabbage at the nursing home. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You’ll wish for death.”

“I’ll simply tell the orderlies I don’t like cabbage.”

“And I’ll tell them you have dementia. It’s your favorite meal. You requested it in your will before the Alzheimers eroded your brain.”

“Right, of course.”

“Bruce, I’m itchy.”

“I can see that.”

“Can I scratch? Just a little?” Tim pleads. “I won’t tell Alfred if you won’t.”

“My answer has not changed in the five minutes since you last asked me.” Bruce would have more sympathy for his son if he hadn’t watched Tim walk off a gunshot wound last year like it was nothing. This is just excessive.

Bruce is flipping through a homeowner’s magazine, perusing the decor. “Maybe we should convert the back wall of the kitchen into a breakfast nook. Lots of light in that area, perfect for small brunches. What do you think, Tim?” He receives no answer. “Tim?”

Bruce can see now that Tim is fiddling with something at the other side of the couch, hidden by his blanket hoard. “What do you have there?”

Tim freezes. “Nothing.”

“Tim. Show me what you have.”

Tim bolts. Bruce is just quick enough to grab him by the arm and pry the object from Tim’s grip. “A batarang, Tim? Really?”

“Give it back! I’m itchy!”

“I’m not letting you scrape your skin off with a sharp blade. What’s the matter with you?”

Tim snatches the batarang back and flees the room.

“Tim! Get back here!” Bruce takes off after him. “Tim!”

“You’ll never take me alive!”

“This is child abuse.” Tim’s arms are crossed—a difficult position with the two layers of oven mitts duct-taped to his hands. “I could have your ass thrown in jail with one phone call.” Bruce politely doesn’t bring up the fact that Tim can’t even hold a phone at the present moment.

“You’re an emancipated adult,” Bruce reminds him. “At the very most, you’re being slightly oppressed for your own good. You’ll thank me when this clears up in a week and you’re not in the hospital with an infection.”

“Okay, Adolf.” Tim grabs the nearest pillow, only for it to slip from his gripless mitts. He uses both hands, pressing the pillow tightly between his imprisoned palms. He throws it at Bruce’s head. It lands next to Bruce on the sofa, missing its mark entirely.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Bruce suggests. Watching Tim writhe in discomfort on the couch for half an hour is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds. “You won’t feel itchy if you’re asleep.”

“Why don’t you bite me?” Tim replies.

Bruce sighs. “I understand you’re frustrated, Tim. No one likes being sick. Just try to be patient; it’ll be over before you know it.”

Tim slinks onto the floor like his limbs have turned to rubber, dramatic as ever. Bruce takes only some credit for that. “Just smother me with a pillow and get it over with.”

Bruce pats his head. “And waste a perfectly good pillow? I don’t think so.”

“Just sedate me already, Alfred. Put me out of my misery. Let me drift off into sweet oblivion.”

“Not without medical cause, young sir.” Alfred places a fresh cup of tea on the side table closest to Tim.

“The cause is I’m dying.” Tim is slumped over the armrest, giving off a flawless impersonation of a dead animal on the highway. “Euthanize me. Spread my ashes in the ocean. Erect a statue in my honor.”

“Perhaps you could take this time to do something useful, like study a new language,” Alfred suggests. “Or ruminate on the meaning of the word silence.”

Tim sticks out his tongue. “It’s not nice to mock sick people, Alfred. Show some respect for the dead.”

“I must remind you that dead people are quiet, Master Tim.” He pats Tim’s shoulder.

Around noon, Alfred brings Tim a snack of apple slices and peanut butter—full fat and full sodium, rather than the fat-free kind Alfred buys that no one in the household enjoys. Sick child privileges.

“No thanks,” Tim grumbles, turning up his nose at the snack. “I’m too itchy to eat.”

“You missed breakfast,” Alfred reminds him. “You won’t get any better if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Tim throws his arm over his eyes dramatically. “It’s too late for me, Alfred. I’m a goner. Let me serve as a cautionary tale for generations to come.” He pushes away the plate.

Like he said. Dramatic. Bruce shrugs. “Can’t let it go to waste, can we?” He grabs an apple slice from the abandoned plate and takes a bite.

Immediately Tim’s tune changes, sitting up like a corpse awakened. “Hey, that’s mine!” He swats at Bruce with his oven-mitt hands.

Bruce holds the apple out of his reach. “You said you didn’t want it.”

“I change my mind! Give it back.” Bruce rolls his eyes and hands over his half-eaten apple slice. Tim takes it from the palm of his mitt with his teeth, not unlike a wild horse ravaging some oats. “What kind of monster steals a sick orphan’s snacks?” Tim demands with his mouth full, apple juice spittle hitting Bruce’s cheek.

Bruce sighs. At least he got Tim to eat something healthy for once. Thank you, reverse psychology.

“My face itches.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And my back.”

“That’s fascinating.” Bruce licks his thumb and turns the page of his novel.

“And my armpits.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m itchy.” Tim rubs his back against the armrest of the couch, trying desperately to soothe the crawling of his skin. “Why does Scarecrow even bother with fear gas? Just give everyone chickenpox. They’ll be clawing off their own flesh by sunset.”

Bruce closes his book with resignation. “Would you like to play a game to take your mind off it?”

“Okay,” Tim says amiably. “I spy a bitch and his name is Bruce Wayne.”

“Great.” Bruce picks the book back up. “Never let it be said that I didn’t try.”

“Are we sure it’s not smallpox?” Tim is yanking on the duct tape with his teeth, trying to tear it off the mitts keeping him contained.

“Pretty sure, Tim.”

“But how do you know? Maybe it was a misdiagnosis. I could be withering away into certain death and we wouldn’t even know it.”

“Are you living in seventeenth-century Plymouth?” Bruce asks.

“No.”

“Then I think you’re fine.”

“But how do you know that? I could be an extraordinary case! I could be dying as we speak!” Tim gives up on trying to rip the mitts off. He presses his cold toes to Bruce’s arm in civil disobedience.

“If you die,” Bruce says, “I’ll make sure they write ‘I told you so’ on your gravestone.”

“Thank you. About time I got some recognition around here. I also want a chocolate fountain at the wake.”

“Why? You wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.”

“My ghost will, duh. Learn to think outside of the box, Bruce.”

Tim shoves a piece of paper at Bruce. “Sign this.”

Bruce takes it, brow knitted. He tips his reading glasses down onto his nose. “What is it?”

“A petition,” Tim declares proudly. Though, it’s hard to be proud when one is covered in itchy bumps and dots of calamine lotion.

Bruce scans the sheet of paper. It’s blank but for the bolded title at the top, typed in Times New Roman font: Sick Boys Deserve Burger King. Below that is Tim’s signature, sloppily scribbled from having to hold the pen in his mouth.

“Alfred will never let me bring Burger King into this house,” Bruce informs him. Alfred has had a longstanding ban on fast food for as long as Bruce has been alive. He gave up on trying to sneak it in years ago; Alfred can smell it in his bloodstream from a mile away. Bruce’s long-distance relationship with White Castle is in hospice.

“Come on, Bruce,” Tim protests. “You’re a grown man. Alfred isn’t in charge of you.”

Bruce snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“I’m sorry, whose name is on the deed to the house? Is it Pennyworth, or is it Wayne? You need to rise up and take what’s yours, old man. Claim your authority over this household. Show the butler who’s boss.”

“You can’t have Burger King, Tim.”

Tim crosses his arms and flops onto the couch in defeat. “Selina would get it for me,” he grumbles.

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce winces. “Yes, Alfred?”

“Would you like to explain why there is fast food in my house?”

Bruce points accusingly at Tim, who is happily eating his Whopper and wearing a cardboard crown, free of shame or regret. “He made me, Alfred!”

“You are a grown man, Master Bruce.”

“It was psychological manipulation!”

Tim is covered from head to toe in a slathering of calamine lotion, a picture of misery. It’s almost three in the morning, but Tim gave up on sleeping hours ago, too itchy to attempt anything resembling rest. Bruce stays up to keep him company, putting on a nature documentary for them to watch.

“I hope a panther breaks in through the window and eats you,” Tim says. He’s too exhausted to put much fire behind it.

“I’m not taking the mitts off.”

“Why not?” Tim whines. He wiggles his way across the couch until his head is in Bruce’s lap, looking up at his father with pleading eyes. “I’m in pain.”

“They’ll scar.”

“So? I was stabbed last month. I don’t care about scars. Please, Bruce? Just five minutes of scratching, that’s all I need. Five teensy minutes.”

“No.”

“Four minutes?”

“Tim.”

“It hurts.” Tim is near tears now. “Come on, please? I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll cover your patrols for a week. A month. I’ll be nice to Damian, and I’ll stop stealing your socks, and I’ll—I’ll clean the whole Batmobile. Just take off the mitts.”

Bruce rubs Tim’s arm, not enough to mess with the blisters, but hopefully it can take the edge off of the itchiness. “How about a chamomile bath instead? Alfred said it helps.”

“I don’t want a bath. I want to scratch.” He kicks his feet like a toddler.

“Oh, if only Gotham’s criminals could see their fearless adversary now.”

“Fuck you.”

Can felines contract chickenpox? Bruce privately types into the Google search, watching Tim warily. Alfred the cat has come over and now sits on the boy’s chest, purring contently.

“You are my only friend in the world,” Tim tells Alfred seriously, staring into his slitted eyes. Alfred blinks slowly at him. Tim slowly blinks back. “Throw up in Bruce’s bed tonight and I’ll give you as many treats as you want.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Bruce says, which should not need pointing out, seeing how he is seated literally right next to Tim with Tim’s legs stretched across Bruce’s lap, well within hearing range.

“Mind your beeswax, old guy. This is a private conversation between me and Alfred. My closest companion. My most specialest friend.” Tim bumps his forehead lovingly into Alfred’s. “I would travel the world with you.”

“Damian will have some reservations about that when he comes home.”

“I don’t care. The love Alfred and I share is more powerful than any five-year-old.”

Alfred coughs up a hairball onto Tim’s chest and scampers away.

“Bruce. Bruce. Bruuuuuuuuce.”

Bruce sighs. “What, Tim?”

“I’m bored.”

Bruce tosses Tim the closest thing within reach. “Here. Knock yourself out.”

Tim picks up the book, wrinkling his nose when he reads the cover. “This is a cookbook.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“No. I’m a rich kid.”

“Then you can learn something. You’re welcome.”

“Hey, Bruce, check out this Mongolian chicken stir fry. Cook time’s only twenty-five minutes.” He shows Bruce the page he’s on, pointing at the very tasteful photo taking up half the space.

“Hm,” Bruce appraises. “Very high in sodium, though.”

“We’ll have Alfie health it up, of course. And take out the lima beans.”

“Lima beans are rich in iron and protein, actually. And they lower your risk of heart attacks. You could use some more lima beans in your diet.”

“That doesn’t make them any less gross. Green beans are better. Or okra. Okra’s good.”

Bruce is rightfully disgusted. “How can you say that? You can’t possibly be my child.” Okra being put into existence was a mistake. It should never have been introduced to Alfred’s kitchen. Bruce still hasn’t forgiven the man for trying to hide it in Bruce’s meatloaf when he was a teenager.

Tim turns a page. “Blood orange pound cake,” he reads, fascinated. “Ooh, we should make this. Now. Today.”

“You’re full of germs,” Bruce reminds him.

“That’s so defeatist of you, B. Obviously Alfred will do the real baking. I’ll just lick the spoon.”

After nearly thirty-six hours awake, Bruce finally gets Tim to fall asleep. Bruce’s leg prickles with pins and needles after the first hour of Tim using it as a pillow, but he doesn’t dare move away. Tim managed to get in one or two small naps before now, but that was about as close to a good night’s sleep as he got. The itchiness kept waking him up, ever-present and painful.

Tim keeps pulling faces in his sleep, still uncomfortable even while dreaming. He keeps wriggling, trying to scratch in his sleep, but Bruce is quick to bat his hands away before he can pop the blisters.

Alfred comes in with a tray of dinner food. “Finally he’s getting some rest,” Alfred observes, his voice a whisper to keep from disturbing Tim.

Bruce nods, running his hand through Tim’s hair. “I checked his fever an hour ago. It’s gone down by two degrees.”

Alfred hums. “He should be through the worst of it now.”

Bruce slaps away Tim’s hand for the fifth time today when he starts playing connect-the-dots with his chickenpox. “Cut that out,” Bruce says. “You’re going to get an infection.”

“I hope it kills me,” Tim says, unconcerned. He stretches out his leg to show Bruce his artwork. “Look, I drew you.” Just above Tim’s knee is a crudely drawn frowny face with triangle ears.

“I’m honored,” Bruce drones. He reluctantly surrenders his arm to Tim, who starts drawing what could either be a phallus or a double-scoop ice cream cone. At least he’s not drawing on the chickenpox.

“Bruuuuuuce, my tongue itches.” Tim sticks out his tongue, showing off the single red dot poised right on the tip of it.

Bruce winces in sympathy. “Would you like an ice pop?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“What kind of ice pops do we have?”

“I believe Alfred bought cherry, lemon, and grape.”

“I want pineapple.”

“We don’t have pineapple.”

“You’re a billionaire. You can’t afford to buy one more kind of popsicle?”

“I can afford it,” Bruce says, “I’m just not at the store right now. I’m here. With you.”

“Could you go to the store? Pretty please? I’ll be your best friend.”

“Will you stop complaining if I do?”

Tim grins sweetly. “Yes.”

Bruce gets up from the couch, his knees crackling like rice cereal. “Is there anything else you need while I’m out?”

“Well, since you asked…” Tim takes out his iPad from behind his back and shows Bruce the webpage. “Hot Topic just got these super cool new Kirby socks. Like, today.”

“So order a pair online.”

“But that’ll take days, Bruce.”

Bruce sighs. “Fine, I’ll get you the socks.”

“You’re the best dad ever.”

Bruce grabs his keys. “Yeah, yeah.”

Bruce doesn’t know what Mario Kart is, nor has he ever been particularly motivated to try it. But having a controller shoved into his hands was a fair signal that Bruce is not getting a choice on this one.

“Now you can choose your character, Bruce.”

“How?”

“Move the thing. The toggle thing. No, not that—yes, that one. There you go.”

Bruce moves the cursor on the screen, navigating through the grid of cartoon characters. “Who is this?”

“That’s Mario.”

“Oh. Who is this?”

“That’s Toad.”

“It’s a mushroom.”

“Yeah, but his name is Toad.”

“Oh. Who is the frog?”

“Yoshi.”

“Why didn’t they name that one Toad?”

“Will you just pick a character already? God, you’re so old.”

“I can’t believe you chose Peach.”

“Why not? She’s a princess. That gives me a prestigious advantage.”

“It literally does not. They’re all the same. Being royalty doesn’t do anything on the track.”

“Then why have I won the past five rounds?”

“Because I’m wearing oven mitts. I can’t even press the buttons!”

“Sounds to me like someone is being a sore loser.”

Bruce has made a habit of FaceTiming Dick every morning for proof of life, just to make sure none of his remaining children have been murdered or maimed yet. “Have you been making Duke take his allergy medication before school?” Bruce asks.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Yes, B.”

“And Cassie has a ballet lesson at four today that you need to drive her to. You don’t have to stay for the whole hour, but I do prefer to check in with the instructor after every class to make sure everything is going smoothly.”

“I think they have support groups for people like you. You should look into it.”

“Oh, look, there goes your trust fund. Down the toilet. What a shame.”

Dick rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “How’s Timmy doing? Still miserable?”

Bruce flips the camera around to show Tim sitting across from Bruce at the breakfast table. He’s gloomily sipping a strawberry smoothie with a straw, since he can’t pick up the glass with his hands immobile as they are. “Say hi to your brother, Tim.”

Tim holds up an oven mitt, glaring at his smoothie.

Dick laughs. “Are you giving me the finger?”

“Yes, I am,” Tim says.

“Leslie said he should be back to normal in a day or two,” Bruce says. “I’m going to keep everyone away for the remainder of the week, though, just in case he’s still contagious.”

“I’ll show you contagious.” Tim licks the palm of his oven mitt and slaps it on Bruce’s sesame bagel.

Bruce gives him a withering look. “Do you honestly think that will stop me? You spent all of last night drooling on my shirt. This is nothing.” He takes a bite of the bagel, just to prove his point.

“Oh my god,” Dick cackles, “did he really? Please tell me you got pictures.”

“I’ll send them right over.”

This time Tim holds up both mitts, glaring daggers. “I’m giving you both the finger now.”