Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim’s pretty sure that Jason hates him.

Granted, Jason hadn’t seemed to hate him yesterday and Tim has no idea what he did to cause Jason to come to this conclusion today—and it’s not like Tim hasn’t been racking his brain for the answer to that very question ever since he woke up—but the signs have been there all morning and the signs never lie. The sullen mood, the closed off body language, the vague grunts and one word responses to Tim’s few attempts at conversation… they all point to a singular conclusion. 

Jason has finally gotten sick of him.

Of course, it had to happen at the absolute worst time for it. Alfred’s away on his yearly sabbatical, spending ten days visiting some old friends back in England, and Bruce got called in two nights ago by the Justice League for an emergency off-world mission (and honestly, how cool of a sentence is that? The furthest Tim’s parents ever traveled was New Zealand, and that was just for another one of their stupid digs), leaving Tim and Jason home alone. They’re supposed to be leaving for school sometime in the next few minutes, but with the way this morning’s been panning out, Tim’s starting to think he ought to just try and catch the bus.

Jason’s been standing in front of the open refrigerator for over a minute now. His gaze is fixed blankly on the middle shelf, like if he just stares long enough, something more appealing might spontaneously manifest.

“Did you, uh– did you want a bagel?” Tim tries, holding up the bag on the counter. “I can’t remember if you like sesame seed or not, but I think there are some blueberry ones left in the pantry…”

Jason shakes his head wordlessly, continuing to stare into the open fridge.

“...Or, cereal?” Tim offers when the awkward silence stretches on. “I saw Cap’n Crunch in the cabinet. Well, I guess it’s not technically Cap’n Crunch. Alfred got it from Whole Foods, so it’s called something dumb like ‘Quartermaster Crispies’ and it’s got puffed millet instead of corn, and coconut sugar instead of—”

“I don’t want cereal,” Jason cuts him off, and Tim’s mouth snaps instantly shut. “Where’s the juice.”

“Oh, uh...” Tim’s gaze flits guiltily between the glass of orange juice in his hand, and the recycle bin containing the empty container. “I kinda took the last of it? But I only had like, two sips, so we can totally split it! Just let me grab another glass and–”

“It’s fine,” Jason says. “I’ll just have water.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asks nervously, watching as Jason retrieves a metal water bottle from the fridge door. “Because I really don’t mind splitting it. I’m sorry, I should have asked if you wanted any before I–”

“Just drink your juice, Tim.” He shuts the fridge, causing Tim to wince as the rows of condiment bottles and jars lining the door rattle with the force. “I’ll be in the car.”

That’s the way the whole morning has been going. Tim doesn’t know what he did to deserve this unprecedentedly cold treatment from Jason, but something has obviously occurred and whatever it is has Tim’s stomach tied in knots. He has to force himself to choke down the rest of his breakfast (Jason hates when people waste food, and Tim’s not about to give him any more ammunition), then shoves his plate and cup into the dishwasher, gathers his things, and hurries out to the garage.

Jason’s already sitting in the driver’s seat of the car Bruce got him for his birthday, which honestly is another red flag. Yesterday morning, he’d swiped the keys to Bruce’s Jaguar, a mischievous grin on his lips, declaring that if the old man was going to be off gallivanting around the galaxy, surely he could stand to let them ride to school in style.

Today he doesn’t so much as turn his head when Tim climbs into the passenger seat.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Tim says, hastily tossing his bag into the back seat and buckling himself in. It’s still a few minutes before they’d normally leave, but he figures it’s best to cover all his bases. Can’t be too careful when people are mad at you, after all.

Jason acknowledges the apology with only a vague grunt. Then he puts the key into the ignition and–

Does nothing.

After a few seconds of stillness, Tim risks a sideways glance at the older boy. Jason’s just sitting there, the car still in park, key unturned, staring straight ahead out the windshield.

Tim has no clue what he’s waiting for.

The awkward silence stretches on for five seconds, ten, twenty. Then without warning, Jason leans forward and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed.

Nervously, Tim clears his throat. “Um, Jason...?”

Jason doesn’t lift his head. “I can’t drive,” he mutters into the wheel.

Tim just stares at him, his brain trying and failing to compute this information. “You… can’t drive?” he repeats dumbly. “Why can’t you–”

“Because I can’t fucking see, alright?”

The snapped retort seems to hurt Jason as much as it does Tim. Both of them flinch, Tim instinctively gripping the door handle, ready to bolt. But then Jason groans and digs the meaty part of his palm into his left eye socket, kind of like his mother always does when she has a—

Oh.

Lowering his voice to just barely a whisper, Tim asks, “Um, are you getting a migraine?”

“I don’t know,” Jason mutters, forehead still pressed against the wheel. “I'm just really fucking dizzy.”

“Okay, uhh…” Tim chews his bottom lip. He’s not usually on this side of the caretaking equation—and honestly, it's only in the past year that there's even been a 'caretaking equation' at all. Prior to the Waynes, Tim just kinda... dealt with stuff. He’s completely out of his depth here.

If it were his mother who was ill, there would be no question about what Tim ought to do: stay the heck out of her way. Janet never wants him around when she’s not feeling well. She just wants peace and quiet, and maybe a dark room to disappear into for a few hours while Tim tiptoes silently around the house—or better yet, leaves the house entirely. In public, she can paste on a smile and power through anything, but her home is her sanctuary. The less anyone interrupts her there, the better.

Jack is a little different. He’ll ask Tim to do things for him sometimes when he doesn’t feel like getting up himself, but his instructions are always super vague and he hates it when Tim asks follow up questions. Simple stuff, like fetching his dad’s laptop charger or starting the coffee maker, Tim can handle just fine, but as soon as Jack asks him to bring him his medication and Tim has to clarify "which kind?" and "how many do you take?" and "where do you keep them?" and "wait, the 200 milligram pills, or the 400 milligram pills?" Jack just gets frustrated and tells him to never mind, he’ll just do it himself.

When it comes to stuff like this, Tim’s most helpful quality has always been knowing when to disappear.

Still, Jason isn’t his parents, and the Waynes tend to have funny ideas about how much help people need when they’re sick. He should probably at least try, right?

“Do… you want me to get you some water…?” 

(Water’s good for dizziness, Tim’s pretty sure. Hydration and all that.)

Jason shakes his head slightly, giving a vaguely negative-sounding grunt. “I’ll just throw it up.”

Tim winces. “Right, okay. Um…” 

He’s still trying to figure out what to offer next when Jason reaches out a hand, fingers fumbling for the door handle. “You should… I don’t know,” he mutters. “Take the bus or something.” His eyes are still squeezed shut, hand pressed against them. “I can’t drive you.” His voice is strained. “It’s not safe.”

“That’s okay,” Tim says quickly, relieved that there’s at least something he can do to help. “I can get to school myself, no problem.”

Jason nods and climbs out of the car, so Tim grabs both of their backpacks and follows him back into the house, mentally pulling up the city bus route map he’s had memorized ever since he was nine. He’s already missed the 7:10 he used to take to school everyday, which was by far the most direct route into the city, but he can still make the 7:40 in a few minutes that will take him from Bristol to Burnside. From there, he’ll have to catch the 8:05 eastbound into Gotham proper, then transfer to the blue line and ride that four stops to the corner of 14th and Jackson before getting off and walking the remaining two blocks to Gotham Academy. He’ll miss first period entirely, along with a good chunk of second, but if he hustles he should be on time for third.

They’re just through the garage and stepping into the house when Jason stumbles, catching himself against the wall. 

“Oh shit! Are you okay?” Tim drops the backpacks, hurrying over to help.

“I’m fine,” Jason grumbles, already pushing himself away from the support of the wall again. He overbalances, swaying a little, and Tim instinctively grabs his arm to steady him, surprised to feel an unnatural level of heat coming off Jason’s skin.

Like, a fever level of heat.

Tim bites his lip again. “Maybe I should call–”

“No,” Jason grits out, the most forceful thing Tim’s heard out of him all morning. “Don’t call B. He can’t, he’s–” He cuts himself off, digging his palm into his eye again. “Look, he’s doing important stuff, okay? He can’t help.”

Tim swallows, nodding. This, at least, he understands. Heck, how many times has he called his parents over the years, only to be told that they were in the midst of something more important than him?

(“Well what do you expect us to do about this from Belize, Timothy?”)

“You should go to school,” Jason says, pulling his arm back. “You’re gonna be late.”

Tim hesitates, uncertain. “I don’t know if I should leave you alone...”

Jason fixes him with a rather pathetic attempt at a glare. “I’m older than you.”

“But if you’re sick–”

“I said I was fine, okay?” Jason snaps, sharply enough that it causes Tim to flinch again. His face falls. “Fuck…” He covers his face with his hands and blows out a sharp breath. “Look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going back to bed.”

With that, he turns and storms off down the hall. Or, at least it would be storming if he wasn’t moving so unsteadily; the irritation is there, while the coordination is not. Vaguely, Tim thinks he should follow him up the stairs to make sure he doesn’t fall, but his thoughts never translate to action. He stays rooted in place.

A minute later, he hears Jason’s bedroom door slam shut.

It’s as if his body had been waiting for the signal. Tim’s throat goes instantly tight and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He steps backwards, one step, two, until his back is up against the wall, then slides down to sit on the floor, knees doubled up against his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them.

It’s the same shit his parents used to say. Telling him that he was too much, that he should just go away, leave them alone, he was making everything worse. That they just couldn’t deal with him anymore.

He’d thought that maybe the Waynes were different. That maybe, just maybe, there were people out there who thought Tim was worth the time, worth the effort, worth the inconvenience of keeping around.

Turns out they’ve just been better at hiding it.

Tim takes a deep breath, scrubbing roughly at his face with his palms. He’s not going to cry about this. He’s not. He never used to cry all the time. Why can’t he just shrug things off like he did before? It was all so much easier back then.

He should go to school. That’s what Jason told him to do, and Jason’s in charge right now—Bruce said so before he left. Besides, it’s not like Tim’s being very helpful here anyway. He’s just asking dumb questions and being all awkward and stressing Jason out. Jason doesn’t need Tim right now, and he certainly doesn’t seem to want him. Tim should just take the hint and leave already.

It’s just that—

Well, it’s just that Tim’s sure Jason wouldn’t leave him alone like this. Not if Tim were running a fever and acting weird and admitting that he couldn’t even see straight—no fucking way. He’d probably drag Tim down to the cave and shove him into one of Bruce’s multi-million dollar machines (Bat-MRI? BAT-scan??) just to make sure he wasn’t having an aneurysm or something. And Tim would groan and roll his eyes and complain about how dramatic he was being, and Jason would tell him to shut up and lie still because he’s not above breaking out the fear toxin restraints if Tim keeps squirming. And it would be annoying and ridiculous and one hundred percent totally overkill, but–

But at the end of the day, it would be proof that someone cared about him. It would be proof that he actually mattered.

Shouldn’t Jason have that too?

Tim hunches over and buries his face in his arms, blowing out a long, shaky breath. He wants someone to tell him what to do. He wants Alfred’s calm reassurance—wants Bruce’s clear directions. Heck, he’d even take Mrs. Mac’s flustered rambling if at least it would mean he wouldn’t have to figure this out on his own.

He wants an adult. He wants an adult so freaking much.

Wait a minute.

A wave of relief rushes over Tim so suddenly that he lets out a little laugh. He’s so stupid. He should have thought of this before. After all, Bruce spent a good ten minutes before he’d zeta’d out of there drilling emergency protocols into them.

“If somebody’s breaking in, call Gordon. If you’re hurt, call Leslie. If you’re in danger, call Clark. If the house is burning down, call 911, Clark, Gordon, AND Leslie, in that order.

“For everything else, call your brother.”

Dick answers on the third ring.

“Hey Timmy, what’s up?”

The words all tumble out in a rush. “Something’s wrong with Jason and I don’t know what to do!”

Dick’s cheerful tone immediately grows serious. “What do you mean? Did he go out last night?”

Tim's confused. "What?"

“Jason,” Dick clarifies. “Did he go out last night?” 

It takes a second for what Dick’s actually asking him over this non-secure line to click in Tim’s brain: Did Robin go out last night? 

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he says quickly. “B said we weren’t allowed to.” 

That’s putting it mildly. Bruce had spent the remaining five minutes of his pre-zeta lecture drilling in how there was to be zero vigilante activity from either of them in his absence (“I’m serious, Jason. I do not care if the Condiment King himself is repainting the Manor in alternating stripes of tabasco and dijon, you do not go after him, got it?”).

“Right, but did he go out anyway?” Dick presses. “Because you can tell me if he did, Tim. You’re not going to get in trouble. Even if you helped him do it, okay? I just need to know.”

The way he says it implies that ignoring Batman’s explicit orders wouldn’t be anything new for Jason (and, given what Tim knows about Robins and their rebellious streaks, that’s probably fair), but he is actually being honest right now. 

“He didn’t go out, I swear,” Tim says. “But he said he's dizzy and nauseous, and I think he has a fever and… I don’t know, he’s just been acting kind of weird.”

“Weird how?”

So Tim rattles off the events of that morning, starting with Jason banging on his door hollering "will you fucking turn that off already?!" after Tim failed to silence his alarm fast enough after his third round of snoozing it, and ending with Jason snapping at him and stumbling back to bed. He tries to stick to the facts, focusing on Jason’s words and actions rather than how Tim perceived them, but it’s awfully hard to avoid adding his own commentary.

“—Like, he told me he’s fine and I should just go to school, but I don’t know if that’s because he’s actually fine or just because I was being annoying. I mean, I wasn’t trying to be annoying, I just didn’t know how to help so I kept asking him questions, but I think that just made it worse because he seems really mad at me now, and it’s probably all my fault because I was being irritating, but I just–”

“Okay, hold up, hold up,” Dick interrupts him mid-ramble. “Tim, I think I know what the problem is, but first I need you to take a deep breath, okay? Here, we’ll do one together.”

Tim frowns, but does as he’s told, mirroring the sound of Dick’s exaggerated inhale and exhale over the line.

“Good, perfect,” Dick praises. “Now, I want you to listen really carefully because this next part is important. Are you ready?”

Tim’s palms are sweating. He wipes them off on his pant leg. “Ready.”

“Jason is being an asshole.”

Tim’s brain skips a track.

“Wait what.”

“Say it with me, Timmy.” There’s a hint of amusement to Dick’s otherwise calm tone. “Jason. Is being. An asshole.”

“Well, I-I mean,” Tim stutters, suddenly feeling the need to come to the boy’s defense, “I didn’t say that. I think he’s just not feeling very well.”

“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” Dick agrees easily. “Sounds like he’s got the flu or something—I’m sure he feels like shit. But he’s also being an asshole. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Nope, no buts. Just because he’s feeling bad doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like that. He’s being an asshole. Say it, Tim.”

“But–”

“It’ll help. Trust me.”

(Well, this is definitely not the direction Tim thought this call was going to go.)

“Jason is…” He lowers his voice a little, glancing over to the staircase as if Jason might just overhear him from an entire floor away. “Um. Kind of, maybe, being a little bit of an asshole right now.”

Dick huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “Close enough. Look, the important thing is that you understand that this is not your fault, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong, and you definitely don’t need to apologize for trying to help. Jason is just… Uh. Not very good at being sick.”

Tim’s glad he’s sitting down already because his brain is swirling. “That’s a thing you can be good at?” 

“Well, it’s more of a spectrum, I guess,” Dick admits. “Jason just so happens to be over on the ‘turns into a little shithead and lashes out at people who are just trying to help’ end of it. Which is still not okay and definitely something we’re working on with him," he tacks on quickly, "but… yeah. That’s kind of where he’s at right now.”

Tim nods a little, taking this in. While it’s good to know that Jason’s behavior probably isn’t anything personal, it still doesn’t give him much to work with from a practical standpoint.

“So, what do I do? Do I just leave him alone, or…?”

“You did the right thing by calling me,” Dick says, and something inside Tim untwists a little at the reassurance. At least he managed to do one thing right today. “I just need to talk to my supervisor about getting someone to cover my classes for the next few days, but as soon as that’s all squared away, I’ll head right over.”

And just like that, the knot in Tim’s stomach returns, twice as tight.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean you had to come!” He’d mostly just been calling Dick to get some advice and maybe fluster out for a few minutes, not because he actually expected the guy to take time off work and drive all the way out here. That’s ridiculous. “I’m sure we’ll be okay on our own.” 

(Okay, he’s not actually sure of this at all, but it seems like the thing to say.)

“Oh no, I’m definitely coming,” Dick says with a small laugh. “This is not something you should have to deal with. Especially not on your own. Sick Jason is… a handful. Even Bruce and Alfred struggle with him sometimes.”

Tim can hear a lot of movement on the other end of the line now: a bag being unzipped, drawers opening and shutting, items being moved about. 

“Traffic’s pretty bad going toward the city at this time of day, so it’ll probably be a couple hours before I can get there,” Dick warns him. “In the meantime, if you can get Jason to drink some fluids, that would be great. But no pressure, alright? It’s totally fine if you want to just give him some space until I get there.”

“Um, okay...” Tim says nervously.

“If he starts being too much of a jerk, I want you to call me, put the phone on speaker, then chuck it into his room and close the door, okay? I’ll deal with him.”

“Uh–”

“Listen, I need to hang up and call my boss before she starts her first lesson, but you’re gonna do great, okay? Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you soon. Love you, kiddo.”

The line cuts out, leaving Tim sitting there, blinking dazedly.

So much for taking the bus.

In the end, it takes two hours and fourteen minutes for Dick to arrange everything with his work and make the drive from Bludhaven to Bristol (not that Tim’s counting). By the time he hears the six telltale beeps of Dick's code being keyed into the Manor’s security panel, he could almost cry with relief.

“Hey,” Dick says with a tired smile as he steps inside, a small duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He drops it unceremoniously onto the floor and pulls Tim into a quick side hug. “How’d it go?”

Tim glances down at his feet. “Um, I got him to drink a few sips of Gatorade”—(after a solid thirty minutes of doing deep breathing exercises to psych himself up enough to even enter Jason’s room)—“but he kinda… threw up afterwards.” 

(In the bathroom, with the door shut and locked behind him, groaning at Tim to just leave him alone every time he tried to ask Jason if he was okay. Eventually he’d just given up and gone back downstairs to wait for Dick.)

Dick gives a sympathetic grimace. “So, a net loss, then.”

“Yeah,” Tim admits guiltily. “Sorry.”

“Hey no, you don’t have anything to apologize for.” He gives Tim’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Like I said, he’s a handful. You did everything right. But I’ll take it from here, okay?”

Gladly, Tim thinks to himself, while Dick moves to the kitchen and starts gathering supplies to take upstairs. Hopefully Jason isn’t in too rough shape and Dick will be able to coax enough fluids into him that he’ll feel comfortable leaving him alone for the half-hour or so it’ll take to drop Tim off at school and drive back.

(Look, Tim loves Jason and everything, don’t get him wrong, but this morning has been… a lot. A few geometry proofs would be a welcome break right about now.)

But as it turns out, Dick’s caretaking approach is a bit different than Tim was expecting.

“Heads up, Patient Zero!” 

A twist of the door handle, followed by a swift kick of Dick’s foot sends the bedroom door flying open. A hand shoots out of the blanket encased lump on the bed just in time for Jason to catch the bottle of Gatorade that Dick lobs at him from the doorway.

“The fuck?” Jason demands, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You almost hit me!”

“Just running some diagnostics,” Dick says briskly. He chucks a second bottle at Jason, who has to fumble the first one to catch it. “If you missed, I would know to haul your ass to Leslie’s. But you caught it, so I guess you’re not too far gone.” 

“Oh fuck off,” Jason scowls.

“Language,” Dick tuts, striding into the room. “Dirty mouths breed germs, you know.” He flings a third and final bottle at Jason, who deflects it with his pillow this time. “Now drink up, bitch.”

“Oh my god, go away,” Jason whines and chucks the bottle back at him. Or, tries to anyway. His throw is so weak that the object barely clears the end of the mattress before hitting the floor with a sad thud.

Dick just blinks at him. “Wow. Maybe I ruled out Leslie too soon.”

“Shut up,” Jason mutters, rolling over to bury his flushed face into his pillow. “And I’m not drinking more of that crap. I just threw it up.”

Tim, who is still standing in the doorway, winces guiltily at the reminder, but Dick just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, hence the replacement fluids, dumbass.” He retrieves the Gatorade from the floor and cracks the seal. “Hydrate or die-drate.”

Jason glares at him. “I’m not gonna die.”

“No, you’re not,” Dick agrees, almost cheerfully. “Because B’s got like fifty liters of IV saline down in the cave if you’d rather I start playing pincushion. Personally, I have no preference—just thought I’d give you the option first.” 

Jason groans. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kick you in the nuts if you don’t leave me alone...”

Dick snorts humorously. “As if you could even land one right now.”

A foot shoots out from under the blankets in the general direction of Dick’s crotch. Dick yelps and drops his hand to catch Jason’s foot around the ankle. Jason, meanwhile, takes advantage of the split-second distraction to send an elbow flying up at his real target: the underside of the Gatorade bottle Dick’s holding. It lurches upwards, splashing the neon blue liquid straight up Dick’s nose. 

“You little shit!” he sputters, then yanks Jason by the ankle halfway across the mattress. Jason swears, scrambling to grab the headboard in order to keep from being ripped off the bed completely. 

Dick gets him in a headlock, and that’s about the point when Tim backs slowly out of the doorway and retreats to his own bedroom.

It’s nearly eleven a.m. by the time Dick manages to cajole half a bottle of Gatorade into his ornery little brother, and by that time, he declares school for Tim to be a wash. His teachers post all the daily assignments online anyway, so it’s not like Tim is going to fall behind in his classes. He can just take the rest of the day to relax and catch up on homework, and Dick will drive him to school on time tomorrow. Simple.

Except it’s definitely not.

“Jay!” Dick’s voice barks, causing Tim to jump and the graphite in his mechanical pencil to snap for the second time that hour. “What are you doing? You’ve got like twelve blankets on—you’re gonna overheat!”

“Leave me alone, I’m cold.”

“You’re not cold, you’re cooking your brain, that’s what. Now take them off.” 

“Bite me.”

The sounds of a muffled struggle issue from across the hall, including muttered curses and what sounds like a few objects falling off the nightstand. Tim breathes in deeply, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tries to focus on his work.

Given the exterior angle of a triangle is 140 degrees, and its opposite interior angles are equal to each other, which of the following is the measure of the equal angles of the–

“Jason! Is this a curtain? What are you, Maria von Trapp?”

“I was cold, okay?!”

The bickering continues for another ten minutes or so, with Tim making exactly zero progress on his math. Eventually he abandons his worksheet and fishes a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies out of his backpack instead. He’s not much of a reader (he usually just bullshits his way through English class by reading enough wiki articles and sparknotes to answer the questions), but it’s not like he’s having much luck with anything else right now. Might as well give some murderous schoolboys a try.

He’s made it all of eight pages in (and has completely lost track of all the Jack’s and Ralph’s and Piggy’s. Why are there so many characters in this thing?) when an indigent cry from Jason knocks him back to the present.

“What’re you—? Eugh, Dick! What the fuck! Get off!”

“I’m taking your temperature, jackass. Now hold still.”

“By kissing my forehead? The thermometer is literally right there!”

“Yeah, but that’s so impersonal.”

“How about I personally break your nose?”

Tim’s fingers drum anxiously against the desk as he does his best to ignore the sounds from Jason’s bedroom. He’s not very successful.

“Hm… I’d put you at 101.5, give or take two tenths of a degree,” Dick declares after a moment.

“Bullshit. You’re just making numbers up.”

“Feel free to check it if you don’t believe me.”

“Feel free to fuck off.”

“Not until you eat your lunch.”

“I told you, my stomach hurts.”

“That’s because it’s empty.”

Reaching the bottom of the page, Tim suddenly realizes he’s comprehended none of it. He sighs and starts it again from the top.

“Just eat one cracker.”

“No.”

“Alright, two crackers, then.”

“That’s not how negotiation works.”

“Three crackers.”

“I’ll fucking puke on you.”

“Your bed, your loss. I’m not changing your sheets.”

“Fuck. Off.”

Tim’s ears are ringing. He stuffs his laptop and papers back into his bag before fleeing back downstairs in search of literally any place that’s not here.

The rest of Tim’s afternoon passes in a mixture of anxiety, half-completed homework assignments, and more hours than he’d like to admit spent scrolling through his phone trying to find any distraction that will stave off the growing tightness in his chest.

Unfortunately "any distraction" leads him down a rabbit hole of various articles on sibling relationships, because right now, Tim is struggling. There's only so many snapped retorts and hurled insults between the two of them that he can take before he starts questioning everything. 

Dr. Goldstein—and Dr. Easterly, and Dr. Lovett, and Dr. Heines—all seem to agree upon one thing: conflict between siblings is normal. Though, it's not really conflict, is it? Dick, through all his goading, is still taking care of Jason. And Jason, through all of his fuck you's and empty threats, is still letting Dick take care of him (albeit in a hostile and mildly verbally abusive sort of way).

The two have clearly fallen into something reminiscent of a routine. The constant snarking and insults come off easy, practiced. And Tim isn't sure how he feels about it. 

Conflict between siblings is normal.

Because that's certainly not how they treat Tim. Like, ever. And sure, he hasn’t known them nearly as long as they’ve known each other, but they're both always so quick to remind him that he is family now. That he is their brother. 

Conflict between siblings is normal.

Tim groans, setting the phone facedown on the floor and dropping his head into his hands. Is this what he has to look forward to someday? Is this what it means to be part of a family? 

Because he’s not so sure he wants this.

At some point in the late afternoon, Dick bullies Jason into getting up and taking a shower (“Make sure you leave the door unlocked” / “Why, so you can be a creep?” / “You know what, never mind, drown for all I care” / “Good, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt your pervy ass”), then ushers him downstairs to the den for a change of scenery.

Tim, who is occupying said den, tries to evacuate the second he notices the two of them entering, but he misses his window to do so and then it’s too awkward to leave. Jason’s gaze catches on the book Tim has long ago abandoned on the coffee table, and he launches into a heated though somewhat incoherent rant about how stupid Lord of the Flies is and how he tried to petition the English department his sophomore year to assign something with a more accurate social commentary. He has a few dozen ideas, which he rattles off croakily, eyes glazed with fever.

Tim can only nod along, his own gaze flitting longingly towards the doorway every few minutes. He usually appreciates (or at the very least, tolerates) Jason’s classic literature rants, but right now, every negative emotion he’s exposed to only serves to stress him out further. He really just wants to be alone.

Around five o’clock, Dick cooks them all dinner (“You’d better eat this. I slaved over a hot stove all afternoon for you” / “It’s canned soup, dickwad. And you microwaved it” / “You know there are starving children in the Narrows who’d kill for this minestrone” / “It’s literally still cold in the middle”), which they end up consuming in front of the TV while watching one of the Mission Impossible sequels. He isn’t sure which one.

The second the end credits start to roll, Tim excuses himself up to his room, setting his alarm a full hour earlier than usual just in case he needs to take the bus.

No way in hell is he staying home tomorrow.

When Tim creeps downstairs at stupid o’ clock in the morning, Dick is already sitting at the breakfast nook, shoulders hunched over a steaming mug of coffee. He glances up at Tim, looking mildly surprised. 

“You’re up early.”

“Yeah, I just, uh–” Tim shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling a little silly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to drive me to school or not.”

Dick’s brow furrows in confusion. “I told you that I would.”

“No, I know,” Tim says quickly, “I just forgot to tell you that I wanted to get there early. Student Council is having a meeting before first period.”

This is true, though completely irrelevant, given that Tim is not and has never been a member of Gotham Academy’s student council.

(Not that Dick needs to know that.)

“And…there’s also a Horticulture Club meeting after school,” he adds, citing the student activity page of the school website he’d scoured last night in search of anything that could keep him out of the house a little longer, “which goes until like, five. But you don’t have to worry about picking me up or anything. I can totally get the bus home after.”

(Taking the bus will add an additional forty minutes to his commute, so win-win.)

“Horticulture Club,” Dick repeats blankly.

Tim bobs his head. “Yeah, it meets every other Thursday. I think the plan today is to make tomato cages.”

(Both of these facts are also true. Tim hasn’t lied once.)

Dick’s giving him kind of a funny look, and Tim’s heart starts pounding. But before he can rattle off any more technically-true-but-unconnected facts, Dick sighs and gets to his feet. 

“Alright. Well, I guess we better get moving then...”

School passes much too quickly for Tim’s liking, even with the extra hour spent in the greenhouse helping Mrs. Meyers and a half-dozen students he doesn’t remember the names of twist concrete reinforcing wire into metal cages. When they’re finished, they thank Tim for his help and invite him to their annual rototilling event next Saturday. 

(Tim politely declines, informing them that the bowling team has a tournament that very same weekend.)

By that time Tim makes it home, the house is eerily still, and Jason’s bedroom door is shut. Tim tiptoes into his own room to change out of his uniform, then attempts to creep back downstairs undetected. He must not do a very good job of it because Dick slips out to meet him in the hall.

“Hey,” he whispers, carefully closing Jason’s door behind him again. “How was school?”

(Compared to being home? Fucking amazing, thanks.)

He shrugs. “It was fine.”  

Dick nods absently. “That’s good.” He yawns and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Are you hungry? I was thinking of making a frozen pizza for dinner.”

Tim frowns. “Can Jason eat that?” As far as he knows, the guy’s been on a pretty steady diet of soup, Gatorade, jello, and crackers for the last thirty-six hours. 

Dick flaps a hand dismissively. “Probably not, but he’s out now anyway, so I’m just gonna let him sleep. I can always bring him up something later.”

Now that Tim is paying more attention, Dick looks exhausted. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, his eyes have dark circles under them, and there’s an unidentifiable orange stain on the front of his t-shirt. Tim’s tempted to ask how today went, but also isn’t entirely sure he wants to hear the answer.

“Pizza sounds good,” he says instead, and gets a subdued smile and a brief hair ruffle from his brother in return.

They eat downstairs at the kitchen table. Dick tries to keep up the usual small talk, asking Tim about his day and activities and such, but he’s clearly preoccupied. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, and the moment the pizza is gone, he stuffs his plate into the dishwasher and heads back upstairs.

Tim, meanwhile, heads to the den and spends a few hours watching some stupid reality show. The strange stillness of the Manor, which ought to be a welcome relief after the tension of yesterday feels almost oppressive now.

When he finally heads up to bed a few hours later, Jason’s door is slightly ajar and he can hear murmured voices coming from inside. Curiously, Tim creeps closer to the gap in the door. Dick is sitting perched on the edge of the bed, hunched over Jason.

“...Shh, it’s okay,” he’s saying softly, readjusting a folded washcloth over his brother’s forehead. “You’re okay. I’m right here, kiddo. You’re alright.”

“No, n-no I don’t wanna go back,” Jason begs. His voice is weak, whimpering. “You can’t send me back. Please. I don’t want to go…”

“You’re not going back, Jay,” Dick promises. “You’re adopted now, remember? Bruce adopted you and you live here now. You’re never going back to the Cartwrights.” 

“No, no…” Jason shakes his head frantically, causing the cloth to slip down onto the pillow. Dick moves it patiently back into place over his brow. “I- I can take care of myself, I swear. Don’t send me back. I don’t wanna go back, I don’t wanna–”

“Jason, look at me.” Dick brushes the hair back from his eyes. “You’re sixteen years old, and you live at Wayne Manor. This is your home—no one is sending you anywhere. Open your eyes and look around, Little Wing. You can do it.”

Jason’s eyes crack open, just the smallest bit. His voice sounds younger than Tim’s ever heard it. “You – You won’t let them take me back?”

Dick answers in a tone of complete sincerity, “Jay, they’d have to kill me first.”

Jason’s crying now, muffled little sobs racking his body as Dick brushes back his hair, shushing him. It’s the first time Tim’s ever seen Jason cry— or, cry like that anyway. He’s suddenly hit with the overwhelming feeling that he’s witnessing something he has no right to see.

Stomach twisting with shame, Tim slips back to his own room and starts getting ready for bed as silently as possible. His mind is still buzzing when he crawls into bed, yet somehow, he’s still out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

It all happens so fast.

One minute Tim is sleeping soundly in his bed, and the next his eyes are snapping open and bile is rising in his throat. He barely manages to push himself up to sitting before he’s vomiting half-digested pizza all over his comforter.

It catches him completely off guard. All he can do is sit there, gasping, staring in horror at the mess soaking into the bedspread.

Oh no, Tim thinks, only just now registering how hot and shaky he feels, how his head is throbbing, how his pajamas are clinging to him with sweat. Oh no no no no…

He can’t be sick now. He just can’t. Not when Bruce and Alfred are gone and all he can hear in the back of his mind is Dick telling Jason that if he pukes in his bed he’s cleaning it up himself, followed immediately by Jason telling Dick that he can fuck right off or he’ll aim for him instead. The last thing anyone needs is Tim adding to the chaos.

He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this right now.

Dizzily, he gets to his feet and starts stripping the bed. He’s relieved to find it’s really only the top two covers that have anything on them; he doesn’t even want to think about trying to steam clean a mattress right now. He’s careful to keep the mess contained as he folds all the blankets in on themselves, then gathers the massive ball of bedding into his arms and heads for the laundry room.

It occurs to Tim as he’s descending the stairs that he’s never actually done a load of laundry in his life. He hopes the Waynes’ washing machine is simple enough to puzzle out on his own—he really doesn’t feel like watching a YouTube tutorial right now. His head is pounding and his legs feel like noodles.

He’s about halfway down when his head rushes. He sways and gropes blindly for the banister, only to have his foot catch on the dangling end of one of the blankets he’s carrying. He trips, crashing first against the railing, then rolling barrel-style down the rest of the stairs in a tangle of sheets and limbs.

When he hits the bottom, he just lies there, too stunned to even react.

“Tim?” A door opens somewhere upstairs, and then there are hurried footsteps. The overhead light flicks on. “Oh shit.”

Dick is down the stairs and crouched beside him in seconds. “How far did you fall? Are you hurt anywhere? Don’t try to move just yet.” His hands are already hovering over Tim, ready to assess him for injuries. 

Tim shakes his head, opening his mouth to reply that he’s fine, that Dick doesn’t have to worry, that he can go back to sleep, that ironically enough, all the bedding seems to have cushioned his fall. But instead of any of those words, a lump rises in Tim’s throat, and his eyes spill over with tears. 

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Dick freezes mid-injury check. “Why am I being nice to you?” He looks puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I- I just– I mean – with Jason, you said– ” He can’t quite get the words he’s going for out, so he changes course. “I’m sorry. I was gonna clean it up, I swear.”

Dick’s eyes widen a little, seeming to register the vomit-soaked bedding for the first time. His brow furrows as he moves his hand up to feel Tim’s forehead. A moment later, he lets out a soft sigh.

“Oh kiddo…” Dick murmurs, sitting back onto the bottom step. He runs a hand tiredly over his face. “Let’s just sit here and breathe for a minute, alright?”

It ends up being several minutes, but Dick doesn’t rush him. He just sits there, one hand rubbing gently up and down Tim’s shoulder to keep him grounded while Tim lies there struggling to contain his sobs.

It’s nice. It’s so fucking nice, and it makes Tim all the more confused. At least with his parents, he knew what things meant. When they were being mean, they were being mean. When they were being nice, they were being nice. It was simple. It made sense.

The Waynes don’t make any fucking sense.

Only once Tim’s managed to get his breaths back under control does Dick speak. 

“I’m really sorry, Tim. This is on me. I should have explained things better.” 

Tim gives him a confused look.

“About Jason,” Dick clarifies. He hesitates a moment, then says, “Tim, you know that I care about him, right? That he’s my brother, and I love him?”

“I know,” Tim murmurs. He’s never once doubted that.

“Then you also know that you’re my brother, and that I love and care about you too, right?”

Those words shouldn’t make Tim’s eyes sting as much as they do. He manages a small nod.

“Well, part of loving people sometimes is meeting them where they’re at.” Dick pauses for a moment, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “How much has Jason told you about his life before he came to us?”

Truthfully? Very little. 

The broad strokes of Jason’s past are easily found out with a little online digging—dead mother, incarcerated father, a few stints in the foster system, eventually culminating in a life on the streets—but it’s rare that Jason himself offers up any details. 

Whenever he does mention something, it seems almost accidental. They’ll be playing GTA together and Jason will let something slip about how he’d once jacked hubcaps off a car that looked exactly like the one on the game, then stupidly bought so many fucking McNuggets with the money that he had to befriend a stray dog three days later just to keep the leftovers from going to waste. Or Tim will suggest a horror movie for them to watch, and Jason will go on a ten-minute rant about how his dad’s stupid henchman friend got cast as an extra in the zombie scene, and how honestly, the gruesome makeup was an upgrade to his usual appearance. Or they’ll see lemon drops at the cash register of a store they’re in, and Jason will comment about how he used to swipe those from the 7-11 because they were the only thing that ever helped his mom’s constant nausea towards the end. 

Tim’s learned to just listen and not ask questions when he gets these little glimpses into Jason’s past. Any interaction from Tim tends to spook Jason into clamming up again, like he’d only just realized he shared anything in the first place.

“Not much,” Tim answers honestly.

“Yeah.” Dick sighs. “That sounds about right.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

Finally, Dick says, “Look, I can’t tell you everything, because it’s not my story to tell. But… growing up the way Jason did taught him a lot. Like, how to keep himself safe when the people and situations around him weren’t. And some of those things that he learned are still really helpful to him. Like, how he can think on his feet and adapt to new situations. 

“Bruce spent years training those skills into me back when I was Robin, but Jay?“ He huffs out a short breath. “That kid’s had ‘em since day one.”

(Tim has only to recall Jason sprinting out of the school auditorium after receiving a two-word coded text from him a few months ago to know the truth in that.)

“But, he learned other things too,” Dick goes on. “Like, for example”—he rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly—“uh, how to turn into a little shithead who pushes everyone away the second he starts feeling vulnerable so they can’t take advantage of him.

“See, we’ve tried a lot of things over the years to help Jason understand that he’s safe here—that we’d never use something like an illness against him. But lessons like those can take a long time to unlearn, and in the meanwhile, the only thing that’s ever seemed to work is… well, kind of just meeting him where he’s at.” 

Well now Tim feels pathetic. Of course it would make sense that someone who grew up fending for himself every day on the streets would lash out when he’s feeling weak; that’s how he kept himself alive for all those years! Here Tim is falling into hour-long mental spirals over a few go away’s and fuck you’s —most of which weren’t even directed at him—and meanwhile, Jason’s not only feeling like shit, but probably also reliving some of his worst nightmares. 

Way to make this about you, Tim…

Dick’s expression softens. “But kiddo, I also have to meet you where you’re at. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like you and Jason are in really different places right now. And I don’t just mean because he’s safe in bed and you’re lying at the bottom of the stairs having a heart-to-heart with me at three a.m.”

Despite the tears still threatening to fall, Tim can’t help but to choke out a wet little laugh. “Yeah.”

Dick reaches down and squeezes his arm. “You're right. I do treat you two differently,” he admits. “Because if I treated you like I treated Jason, it wouldn’t be what you needed. And if I treated Jason like I’m treating you right now…” He huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “Well, he’d most likely kick me in the nuts and tell me to fuck off.”

Another choked-off laugh escapes Tim’s mouth. Then a thought hits him. “But you did,” he points out. “Before. When he was crying, you…” 

He trails off, suddenly remembering the context. Dick winces. “You heard that, huh?”

Tim gives him a guilty look. Dick just sighs.

“Well, there’s an exception to every rule, and delirium is usually it.”

Tim winces. “So… he’s worse today?”

“He’ll be alright,” Dick assures. “His fever just spiked for a bit, but we got it back down again. The flu usually gets worse before it gets better.” He frowns, like something’s just occurred to him. “Speaking of which, we should probably get you back to bed, huh?”

“Yeah, probably,” Tim admits. He wasn’t going to say anything, since they were kind of having a moment and all, but it’s actually getting pretty cold down here on the floor. It’s been taking Tim quite a bit of self-control to keep from shivering.

Carefully, Dick helps him to sit up. The change in elevation makes Tim’s head feel floaty.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Dick asks him again. 

“I’m fine,” Tim says automatically.

Dick shakes his head. “No, I want you to actually think about it. Now that the shock’s worn off and you can feel it.”

So Tim takes stock for a moment. Honestly, most of his body feels sore, but it’s hard to tell how much is just from being sick and achy and how much is from his fall. His head hurts pretty bad, but it’s more in the general pounding-full-pressure way than the blunt force trauma way, so he’s pretty sure he didn’t hit it.

“I guess, just like… here? A little?” He gestures to an area on his back, which he’d smacked pretty hard into the banister when he first fell. “But I think it’s just bruised.”

“Can I see?”

Tim nods, so Dick shifts around and lifts the back of his shirt up a little. The rush of cold air makes Tim shiver.

“Yeah, you’re definitely going to have a bruise there,” Dick muses after a few moments of careful prodding with his fingertips and asking Tim what hurts and what doesn’t. “Doesn’t look too bad, though. I can get you some ice if you want.”

Tim’s whole body shudders at the thought. “No thanks,” he declines, teeth chattering. “I'm really cold.”

Dick smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, that would be the fever.” He flips his hand around to press first to the back of Tim’s neck, then against his cheek. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

That turns out to be easier said than done. Tim’s knees give out almost the second he’s hoisted to his feet. It’s only Dick’s firm grip on his arm that keeps him from crumpling right back to the floor.

“Whoa, okay, plan B.” 

Before Tim knows what’s happening, he’s being lifted up and balanced on Dick’s hip, one leg wrapped around each side and an arm under him for support. 

“Uh,” Tim says, dumbfounded. He can’t even remember the last time someone carried him like this—like an actual toddler. He had to have been, like, four years old. Tops.

“It’s the smoothest ride,” Dick says. He starts climbing the stairs, Tim clinging on to him like some kind of feverish koala. “You threw up tonight. This is purely tactical.”

“Right,” Tim murmurs as they make their way up, too dazed to offer anything more.

Dick takes him to the bathroom first so he can get cleaned up and rinse his mouth out. He’s expecting to be ushered back to his own room after, so he’s confused when Dick leads him toward the master suite instead. 

The confusion only grows when he sees Jason curled up on the far end of the massive bed, fast asleep.

“Is he okay?” Tim whispers.

“He’s fine. His fever broke around midnight,” Dick murmurs, helping Tim climb up onto the empty side of the mattress and pulling the covers over him. Jason stirs a little, but doesn’t wake at the movement. “I didn’t feel like changing his sheets, so I just dumped him in here.”

Given the bowl of water and washcloths on the nightstand, and the way Dick’s own pillow and comforter have somehow migrated into the reclining chair beside the bed, Tim feels like there might be more to that story than he’s letting on. But honestly? He’s too cold and tired to care.

His eyelids are already drooping as Dick unfolds the extra blanket from the foot of the bed. He shakes it out and drapes it over Tim, tucking him in. 

Tim stays awake just long enough to swallow a little cupful of cherry Tylenol and a few sips of water before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.

The rest of Tim’s night passes in an uncomfortable haze of sleeping and waking. At some point Dick checks his temperature with an ear thermometer, then cruelly removes the extra blanket, ignoring Tim’s whines of protest. Later, Dick and Jason are speaking to each other in hushed voices. Tim is able to pick out his name coming up a few times, which normally would be enough to pique his interest, but not even curiosity can win out over exhaustion tonight. He drifts away again.

When Tim wakes for real to sunlight peeking through the gaps in the blinds, the room is empty and he can hear the shower going in the ensuite. His head aches in the dehydrated way, but sitting up long enough to take a sip from the bottle on the nightstand seems like a monumental task, so he just tugs the blankets a little tighter around his chin and rests his eyes a little longer. 

Minutes pass—five, ten maybe?—before the shower turns off. The bathroom door opens shortly thereafter and Jason emerges with a cloud of steam. 

Tim blinks lazily at him.

Jason blinks back. “Hey. You’re awake.”

“Allegedly,” Tim murmurs, and Jason snorts a little.

He crosses the room and flops down on his back beside Tim on the mattress with a heavy sigh. “Sorry I got you sick.”

Tim shrugs listlessly. “Might not have been you. Something’s been going around at school.”

Jason pokes his head up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that? Horticulture Club, or Student Council?”

Tim’s cheeks burn in a way that has nothing to do with his current fever. “I never lied.”

Another snort. “Sure, Tim.”

They both lie there for a minute, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan. Tim's glad for it because it’s kind of stuffy in here, but watching it spin is making him a little dizzy. He lets his eyes drift back closed.

He’s almost asleep again when Jason breaks the spell. 

“Sorry for being a jerk, too.”

Now Tim’s awake. And frowning. “You weren’t being a jerk exactly…”

“No, I definitely was,” Jason says, scoffing. “You were just trying to help, and I knew that. I fucking knew that. But I was just… I dunno, like, anxious or whatever. But I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says quickly. “It’s fine, you don’t have to–”

“No it’s not,” Jason snaps at him. “It was shitty and I knew it was shitty, and I shouldn’t have done it, so you’re going to let me fucking apologize, alright?”

Tim just blinks at him.

“Aw, fuck…” Jason rubs a hand over his face, seeming to deflate. “Fuck, Timmy, I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“I know,” Tim says simply.

There’s another stretch of silence.

Maybe it’s the lingering fever, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but before Tim really decides to say anything, his lips are forming a question. “Can I ask you something?”

Jason glances over sideways at him. “Shoot.”

“Who are the Cartwrights?”

Jason’s expression changes a few times, from surprise, to confusion, and eventually landing in something like a scowl. “What did Dick tell you?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Tim says quickly. “I just… I heard you talking about them. Um, when you were really sick. And— yeah. I just wondered who they were.”

There’s a pause as Jason looks at him scrutinizingly. It’s the kind of gaze that would make Tim squirm if he had any energy to spare. 

(He doesn’t, though, so he just kind of lies there.)

Eventually, Jason sighs. “Well, according to my old social worker, they were one of the best foster families in Gotham.” He huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “So good, in fact, that after I ran away, she sent me back to get the shit kicked out of me again. Twice.”

Tim winces. He definitely shouldn’t have asked. “Sorry.”

Jason waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I owed you one.”

They’re both quiet for another minute or so.

Tim turns his head to look at the recliner—empty now, other than a pillow and blanket. “Where’s Dick?” he asks curiously.

Jason snorts. “Bathroom.” He jerks his head towards the ensuite. “He insisted on playing lifeguard while I showered—which is hilarious, seeing as the dude was conked out on the floor by the time I was washing the shampoo out.”

It takes a second for Tim to wrap his addled brain around Jason’s words. “Wait… he’s asleep in there?”

Jason hums affirmatively. “All scrunched up in the corner, like a narcoleptic pretzel in timeout.”

Tim blinks. Twice. “Should we do something?”

“What, like carry him? That ain’t happening—the guy’s pure muscle, it’s like lifting a rock,” Jason scoffs. “Nah, I threw a towel over him. He’ll find his way back when he’s ready.”

‘When Dick’s ready’ ends up being one and a half episodes of Top Gear later. He wanders out of the bathroom, hair mussed and dark circles under his eyes. 

“How was your nap, Baywatch?” Jason quips.

“Ugh.” Dick flops down face first across the foot of the bed with a groan.

Jason prods him irritably with his foot. “Move. Your protruding ass is blocking my view of the McLaren.”

Dick flips him off and shifts so his butt is sticking up even higher. Jason chucks a pillow at him.

(It might just be the lack of energy, but Tim doesn’t mind their antics so much today.)

They all lie there for a while, watching a bunch of middle-aged British men race cars around a track. Tim doesn’t really get Jason’s fascination with this show, but it beats Chopped, which had been making Tim feel nauseous. 

“We should go make your beds,” Dick mumbles after a while. “So we’re not stuck in here all day…”

Both boys hum vaguely in agreement.

Absolutely no one moves.

Three hours later, Dick opens his eyes to Bruce smoothing his hair back away from his eyes, Tim and Jason still sound asleep. Bruce’s voice is low, more a rumble than a whisper.

“Thank you, chum.”

“Y’r welcome,” Dick murmurs blearily. “Glad you’re back.”

Then he rolls over to the edge of the bed and vomits neatly into the trash can.

It’s alright. His dad’s home now.

He's tapping the fuck out.

Chapter Text

When Tim was seven years old, his favorite song in the entire world was ‘The Imperial March’ from Star Wars. 

He’d listen to it constantly: on Jack’s old iPod touch while riding the bus to school, from the kitchen speakers as he sat at the table doing homework, through noise-canceling headphones in his room while his parents were arguing downstairs. He loved the drama of it all, how hearing that song could transport him to another world where he could feel important and sophisticated and cool.

He liked it so much, in fact, that when Tim’s nannies started getting phased out and Tim became entrusted with setting his own alarm in the morning, he immediately picked ‘The Imperial March’ for the ringtone.

(This was, of course, a terrible mistake. Completely ruined it for him.)

Anyway, by the age of thirteen, Tim was convinced that there was no sound on the entire planet worse to wake up to than John Williams & the London Symphony Orchestra. 

Then again, up until a few seconds ago, he’d never woken up to the sound of someone retching into a trash can two feet from his head.

“Wha— oh.” Tim’s nose wrinkles up as he takes in the sight of Dick hanging over the edge of the mattress, vomiting into the very bin he’d set there last night for Tim to use. At least it was empty.

Bruce has one knee resting on the edge of the bed as he hunches over Dick, rubbing circles on his eldest son’s back. “You’re alright, chum,” he murmurs. “Just get it all up…”

Tim’s not normally squeamish around vomit, but he’s been coasting at a low-level nausea since last night’s incident, and this whole display is kind of bringing him up to mid-level. He rolls over, his limbs heavy and achy, to see Jason sitting up against the headboard and grimacing at Dick.

“Gross. Here.” Jason takes the box of tissues from the nightstand and holds it out to Bruce, who nods gratefully and pulls out a few for Dick to wipe his face.

“Why don’t you and Tim head down to the family room?” he suggests as Dick moans and gags into the bin again. “I’ll come and check on you as soon as I get your brother sorted out.”

Jason scoffs a little. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. According to Sir Barfs-a-Lot, Tim’s been doing Humpty Dumpty impressions.”

Bruce’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?”

“He fell down the stairs last night.”

Tim’s face instantly flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry, I won’t do it again.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Right, because it was a conscious choice last time and you’ve since learned the error of your ways,” he says in a sarcastic drawl. “You’re a changed man, no longer susceptible to the sinful temptations of vertigo.”

“Oh, knock it off, Jay,” Dick whines—and Tim really does mean whines. His pitch goes up at least two octaves. “Leave Tim alone.”

“I’m not even doing anything!”

“Okay, enough,” Bruce commands, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s been home for all of five minutes and already appears to have a headache. He glances up at Tim. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt when you fell?”

Tim shakes his head immediately. “No, I’m fi–”

“Yeah, his back,” Jason says, speaking over him. “Dick says it’s just bruised, but knowing this kid, he’s probably fractured like, seven vertebrae and is just hoping nobody notices.”

(Tim’s not normally a violent person, but if he had any more energy at the moment, he might have actually tried to deck Jason.)

“I’m fine,” he grits out. “Dick already checked me last night. Tell them, Dick.”

Head still bent over the trash can, Dick lifts one hand and gives a weak thumbs up.

Bruce sighs heavily. “Alright. I’m just going to take that at face value.” He turns to Tim. “Do you think you can make it down the stairs without falling? Be honest—it’s okay if the answer is no.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Tim says quickly. 

Jason rolls his eyes again, but Tim is just as stubborn. He gets to his feet with only minimal shaking and makes it all the way to the upstairs landing before Jason intervenes.

“You’re gonna hold my arm,” he grumbles, thrusting his elbow out for Tim to latch onto. “I’m not watching you trip and crack your skull open. It’ll make me puke again.”

Tim grimaces at the mental image. He takes the arm and the two of them proceed to hobble down the stairs like two elderly ladies crossing the street for bingo night.

By the time they get to the family room, Tim’s exhausted, and Jason’s only looking marginally better. He makes it all the way out to the kitchen and returns with two bottles of water, which Tim manages to take three sips of before conking out again on the sofa.

“I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying, chum.” 

“Pretty sure I am.” Weakly, Dick removes the digital thermometer from his mouth and squints at the screen. “Look. It says a hundred and four.”

Frowning, Bruce leans over on the sofa to take it from him, but upon seeing the display, his expression immediately relaxes again. “That’s one hundred point four, Dick.”

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Uugghh,” Dick moans. “When I croak, give all my Pokémon cards to Wally. But if he tries to sell my first edition Charizard, let him know I’m coming back from the grave to haunt him.”

“Oh my god, will you make him shut up already?” Jason groans, clamping his pillow around his ears. “My head is fucking killing me.”

“Why don’t you go lie down in one of the guest rooms, Jay?” Bruce suggests. “It’ll be quieter there.”

“Because I was here first!” Jason retorts, his voice croaking with the effort. “Why doesn’t he go to a guest room?”

“You know your brother doesn’t like to be alone when he’s sick.”

(Tim would. Tim would very much like to be alone. He kind of wishes he never came downstairs in the first place.)

It’s late afternoon. Dick and Jason are each sprawled out on adjacent ends of the family room’s massive sectional sofa, Dick’s feet resting on Bruce’s lap, while Tim curls up on the farthest end under three blankets, pretending to be asleep. He’s been doing that for at least two hours now.

“Bruuuuce,” Dick whines. “My throat hurts. Really bad.”

“Wow, that sucks, fam,” Jason says flatly. “Guess you’d better shut the fuck up so you can rest it.”

“Language,” Bruce grunts, then addressing Dick, he says, “I’m sorry to hear that. I can make you some tea if you’d like.”

“Your tea sucks,” Dick says with a pout.

“He’s right,” Jason says, in a rare show of agreement. Or maybe it’s just that he can’t resist the opportunity to gang up on Bruce. “You always oversteep it. It’s like mud.”

“I’ll set a timer,” Bruce promises.

Dick sighs dramatically. “I don’t even like tea. Can I have pudding instead?”

“We’re out, dumbass,” Jason grumbles. “Remember? You ate the last of it while I was napping yesterday.”

“Well you wouldn’t eat it! What was I supposed to do, throw it out?”

“Just put it back in the fridge!”

Tim pulls the blankets around him a little tighter. He feels awful. He’s felt awful all morning, but it’s been getting steadily worse since Bruce arrived home and both of the other boys reverted to their truest form of griping. His eyes feel dry and gritty, and everything from his head to his little toes seems to ache now. 

He also has to pee. He’s been doing his best to ignore it and just fall back asleep for at least the last hour, but it’s getting to the point where he’s actually going to have to do something about it now.

Ugh. 

It’s another five minutes before Tim gathers up the motivation to actually stand up, and that’s mostly because Dick and Jason have moved on to arguing about jello flavors now.

Tim hates jello.

He makes it to the bathroom and manages to do his business without incident, then on the way back, detours through the kitchen to see if there’s anything he could stand to eat. Bruce has been offering him food all afternoon—everything from crackers to chicken broth to bananas—but nothing has sounded good. It’s actually part of the reason he’s been pretending to sleep so much.

What he kind of, maybe wants is cream of wheat. One of his nannies made it for him when he had strep throat once, and it’s been his go-to sick day comfort food ever since. The only problem is that Bruce’s last attempt at cooking that particular dish came out so congealed and lumpy that just the thought of it is enough to kill Tim’s meager appetite.

He could probably make it himself though? It doesn’t seem hard—just boil some water and salt, stir in the cereal, heat it up until it’s thick. The instructions are right there on the box. Alfred said the reason Bruce’s attempt was so bad was because he got distracted and didn’t remember to stir it enough (also the reason the bottom of the pan took ten minutes to scour clean), so as long as Tim avoids that mistake, he should be fine.

Except it’s easier said than done. He’s only just managed to locate the pot Alfred usually uses when a wave of dizziness forces him to sit down, fast, before gravity makes that decision for him. The floor seems closest, so that’s where he ends up, thumping down ungracefully onto his butt with his back to the oven. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his swirling head against them.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps entering the kitchen. “Tim?” Bruce asks, sounding concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Uh huh,” Tim mumbles into his knees. “Just… dizzy.”

Bruce makes a sympathetic noise in his throat. He moves over to the fridge and takes out a fresh bottle of Gatorade, cracking it open and sticking a straw in before coaxing it into Tim’s shaking hands. 

Once he’s managed a few sips and is no longer in active danger of passing out, Bruce’s gaze moves to the stove. “What were you doing?”

Tim’s cheeks flush a little. “Uh… making cream of wheat?” 

(In theory, anyway.)

Bruce frowns. “You should have asked me. I could have made that for you, bud.”

A scoff issues from the doorway and Tim turns his head to see Jason standing just inside the kitchen, leaning against the door frame. He’s wearing an oversized navy hoodie with ‘Bludhaven Gymnastics Center’ written across the front and ‘COACH GRAYSON’ on the back, the hood pulled up over his ears. Dick would probably yell at him for it, if he himself wasn’t currently drowning in Bruce’s size 3XL ‘Wayne Enterprises 35th Annual Golf Outing’ sweatshirt. 

(Tim hopes Bruce doesn’t catch their flu. He can’t really see the man fitting into that Royal Marines regimental jumper Alfred’s been known to wear on chilly gardening days.)

“He’s already sick, B,” Jason says. “Don’t need to give him food poisoning too.” He shuffles over to the cabinet, elbowing past Bruce as he goes, and grabs the cream of wheat box.

Tim’s face gets even hotter, but Bruce just sighs. “Jason, I think I can handle preparing one very simple dish. I’ve seen Alfred do it a thousand times.”

“That’s what you said about the Parm-o-nella.” He nudges Tim away from the stove with his foot. 

“Jay, seriously, you should be–”

“I got it, old man,” Jason grumbles, flipping on the stove burner. 

There’s more discussion after that, but Bruce uses that moment to hoist Tim up to his feet, and the ensuing head rush makes it hard to hear any actual words. Tim doesn’t walk so much as he glides over to the breakfast nook, with Bruce supporting pretty much his entire weight. He deposits Tim in the corner where the two ends of the bench connect, then slides in next to him, probably to keep him from tumbling back out.

Tim’s head still won’t stop spinning, so he finally gives up all pretense and lays it down against the table. The coolness of the hardwood feels amazing on his burning skin.

Bruce rests a hand on his back and starts rubbing gently. “You sure you’re alright, bud?” he asks again, and Tim just hums a bit. He’s so tired.

They stay like that for a while. Tim doesn’t think he sleeps exactly, but he’s not fully awake either. He can hear Jason moving around the kitchen, drawers opening and shutting, water bubbling, a wooden spoon scraping against the bottom of a pan. Bruce lets his hand rest on Tim’s back and scratches gently with his fingertips, like Tim is a pet cat or something. It would be humiliating if it didn’t feel so nice.

“Here.” Tim startles and lifts his head up just in time for Jason to slide a bowlful of cooked cream of wheat across the table at him. It’s topped with a pat of melting butter and sprinkled with salt. “Bon appetit, Woozy.”

“Thanks,” Tim murmurs. He picks up the spoon and starts swirling the butter into the cereal tiredly.

Dick comes wandering into the kitchen a few minutes later, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and hair mussed. He blinks around in confusion. “B…?”

“Right here, chum,” Bruce answers.

“Oh.” Looking relieved, Dick stumbles over to collapse down onto the unoccupied side of the bench. “Fell asleep. Didn’t know where you all went.”

“We decided to finally ditch your whiny ass,” Jason answers in a deadpan. “Went to Disney World.”

“Shut up, Jason,” Dick grumbles into his arms. “And we can’t go back to Disney, anyway, because someone got us banned for life.”

“Well what was I supposed to do?” Jason demands, turning on him. “That furry rat freak snuck up on me!”

“You kicked Mickey in the balls! It was Chuck-E-Cheese all over again!” 

“Boys,” Bruce intervenes, pinching the bridge of his nose, “can we please just have five minutes of peace?”

So Jason slides into the seat next to Dick and starts dishing up more bowls of cream of wheat. Dick declines—(“I only want pudding” / “You can’t have pudding, idiot, you’re lactose intolerant” / “I make my own choices, I fight my own demons” / “Yeah well when you choose to fight them in our bathroom, I think I get a say…”)—but Bruce accepts a bowlful and digs in as well.

Meanwhile, Tim keeps working on his own portion. It tastes good, but Tim’s stomach is hurting again, most likely from the fact that Jason and Dick are back on their bullshit. He tries to tell himself the two are just miserable and blowing off steam, but it’s hard to keep remembering that when his brain feels so fuzzy.

By the time Bruce and Jason have finished off their bowls (and Dick has consumed two cups of green jello), Tim’s still only made it about a third of the way through his own bowl and he’s struggling. It feels like someone’s got his entire midsection in a vice grip, and every snarky comment and insult exchanged by the others seems to twist it tighter.

(“—Noooo. I don’t wanna watch ‘The Sound of Music.’ It’s like three hours long.”

“It’s your fault. You’re the one who put the idea in my head. You triggered me.”

“It’s the most boring movie ever.”

“How? It’s got war, it’s got historical accuracy, it’s got some absolute fucking bangers—”

“Language, Jay.”

“—it’s got Nazis—”

“Oh so Nazis are a selling point now?”

“Shut up, you know that’s not what I meant—”)

Tim can’t get the next bite down. On his third try, he gives up and sets the spoon down, wrapping an arm around himself under the table.

Jason looks down at his bowl, obviously unimpressed with the effort. “You’re not gonna eat the rest?”

An instant wave of anxiety and shame washes over Tim. Jason went to all this trouble to cook for him, and Tim can’t even bring himself to eat it. Worse than that, now he’s wasting food, which is just going to make Jason even more annoyed with him, and the more annoyed he is, the more he’ll be mean to Dick, and the more Dick will whine back, and the more Bruce will do that exasperated sigh thing. And then Tim’s stomach will hurt even worse so he won’t be able to eat the next meal either, which means he’s going to waste even more food, and then Bruce is going to get all worried about him, and then—

“Whoa, are you crying?” Jason’s expression changes from disapproving to disbelieving.

“Tim?” Bruce asks in concern, which of course makes Dick lift his head up from the table to see what’s going on, and Tim desperately just wants to disappear into the floorboards.

“I’m sorry!” he blurts. “I know you made it for me, and I thought I could eat it, I just— I don’t know, my stomach hurts really bad, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Jason’s looking both confused and annoyed. “You’re sick. You can eat or not eat, no one’s fucking forcing you.”

“Jay,” Bruce warns, while Dick goes for the more direct approach of kicking his brother’s shin under the table.

“Ow! What the hell?” Jason demands, kicking him back even harder.

“Would you knock it off?” Dick snaps. “You’re making him anxious.”

“Then he can tell me that himself!” Jason retorts, throwing his hands up. “He doesn’t need you to be his spokesperson.”

“He doesn’t need you to be a jerk.”

“Dick,” Bruce says sternly.

Tim can’t take it anymore. “Can I get out?” he begs. “Please?”

"Of course." Bruce stands up immediately, allowing Tim to scoot to the end of the bench and climb out. He follows him out of the kitchen, keeping one hand around Tim’s upper arm for support.

“Are you going to throw up?” he asks once they’re in the hallway and the sound of Dick and Jason’s argument has faded a little.

Tim shakes his head, eyes stinging with tears. “I just need to lie down.”

Bruce nods understandingly. “Okay, no problem. Do you want to go up to your room? I can dig out some spare sheets and remake your bed, or you can just take one of the guest rooms for now.”

“Guest room is fine,” Tim mumbles. At this point, anything with a door will do. He just wants to be alone.

Thankfully, Bruce seems to understand and takes him to a guest room on the lower level that’s a little more out of the way than the ones they usually use. Bruce gets him situated in bed with a glass of water on the nightstand and a trash can nearby, then checks his temperature.

“Your fever’s up a little,” he explains quietly as he ejects the plastic cover from the ear thermometer and tosses it into the trash. “That’s probably what’s making you feel worse. I’m going to go grab the Tylenol from the kitchen. Do you need something for your stomach, too?”

Tim shakes his head, embarrassed. “It won’t help. It just hurts because they’re fighting. It’s stupid.” 

Bruce’s face softens and he sighs lightly. “I’m sorry, Tim. I can try talking to them, but—”

“No,” Tim says quickly. “It’s fine, we already talked. I know they’re not really mad, I just…” He inhales deeply, tears filling his eyes again. “I don’t know why I can’t just believe them, you know?”

“It’s going to take time,” Bruce says simply. “Just like it’s taking time for Jason to understand that he’s safe here and he doesn’t need to protect himself in the same ways anymore. Bodies and brains learn things on different schedules. It’s okay that your head knows something the rest of you doesn’t yet.”

Tim scoffs, a little wetly. “That’s dumb.”

“It is,” Bruce agrees, nodding. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.” He leans in to plant a kiss on Tim’s forehead. “You know I’m really proud of you, right?”

“For what?” Tim frowns.

“For speaking up,” Bruce explains. “You had a need—to not be around your brothers right now—and instead of trying to ignore it, you listened to your body and asked for what you needed to feel better. That’s amazing progress, sweetheart.” 

(Funny. Tim was seeing it a little more like running away from his problems and hiding like a pathetic baby who can't handle the slightest hint of conflict without freaking the fuck out, but Bruce’s explanation certainly sounds nicer.)

Bruce leaves him to chew on that for a few minutes while he fetches the Tylenol. When he returns, not only does he have the medicine, but also a steaming mug of mint chamomile tea and a microwavable heat pack shaped like a sloth.

“This is from Jason,” he says, setting the tea down on the nightstand. “He told me to tell you he doesn’t mind if you drink it or not.” He hands the heat pack over to Tim. “And this is from Dick. He says Sid-the-Regret-Sloth always helps.” 

Tim smirks a little, laying the warm, fuzzy sloth over his stomach. “Are you getting him more pudding?”

“I didn’t have to," Bruce says, looking very unamused. "He already placed the Instacart order with my credit card. It should be here in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll give Sid back in an hour,” Tim promises solemnly.

Bruce just sighs.

Once Tim’s been topped off on Tylenol and a few sips of tea, Bruce pulls the covers up around him. “I’ll come check on you in a little while, but you can always text if you need anything in the meantime, okay?”

“I know,” Tim tells him.

“I know that you know,” Bruce says. “But will you actually do it?”

Tim's lips quirk upwards, just the smallest bit. “I will.”

And for once? Tim thinks he might actually be telling the truth.

Chapter Text

It’s going to be a long few days.

Dick sighs as he checks his rearview mirror and changes lanes. He’s been driving for over two hours already, stuck between cars barely moving and drivers slamming on their horns. The bottleneck clog of traffic finally opened up a few minutes ago, but a part of him (a small, selfish part of him) almost wishes he could have gotten a bit longer to soak up the last few moments of peace before it’s gone.

Sick Jason is a handful.

That’s what Dick told Tim on the phone, and it wasn’t a lie. The part about Bruce and Alfred struggling with him was meant to ease Tim’s anxiety about Dick driving all the way out from Bludhaven, but in truth, it was a tame way of explaining the sheer chaos he knows is to come.

Dick wasn’t there for Jason’s first night at the Manor, but he’s heard the stories. How he’d spent half an hour in the bathroom heaving up the double Batburger and fries Bruce had bought him, cussing both him and Alfred out every time they tried to approach. How he’d proceeded to make himself sick several more times that first week until they’d finally figured out just how much (how little) food was appropriate for a severely malnourished twelve-year-old, Jason fending off any and all attempts at comfort along the way.

Their next experience with sick Jason came about a month later. He’d come down with a nasty chest infection, which had made him, well… nasty. He fought Bruce and Alfred every step of the way, shoving them away, locking doors, hurling insults, refusing medical intervention. Eventually they decided to just back off and give him some space, which backfired spectacularly when Jason turned up missing the next morning.

It was Dick who’d finally found him tucked away inside a dusty old wardrobe in the attic and coaxed him out. Even shivering and half-delirious with fever, the kid still managed to kick him hard enough to bruise.

That’s when Dick realized he’d have to start getting creative.

See, Bruce and Alfred both try their best, don’t get Dick wrong, but they tend to cater to the wrong needs. Alfred is used to dealing with Bruce, where a snippy tone and a few passive aggressive remarks work wonders to counter the worst of his own brattiness. Meanwhile, Bruce is used to dealing with Dick, who needs gentleness and patience to balance out his own misery when he’s not feeling well. Somewhere along the way, Dick’s learned that both of these approaches are terrible for Jason.

Simply put, a sick Jason is a vulnerable Jason, and a vulnerable Jason lashes out. When those lashes are met with too much softness, it frustrates him—makes him anxious, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. But when he’s met with judgment and disapproval, it makes him feel like shit for how he’s treating others and he usually withdraws even further.

It’s taken an awful lot of trial and error, but over the years Dick’s learned that when Jason’s lashing out, he needs neither coddling, nor shame.

He needs bullying.

Well alright, bullying probably isn’t the best word for it, but it’s the easiest way to explain it. Somewhere along the way, Dick figured out that the best way to reassure Jason that he’s safe and secure is to take exactly what the kid is dishing out and throw it right back at him. To return volley for volley, insult for insult, snark for snark, all while aggressively continuing to show Jason that no one here is giving up on him. That it doesn’t matter how mean or nasty Jason gets with them—Dick can take it. And that he won’t hold any of it against Jason, because by the time they come out of this, he’ll have made sure they’re both even.

If Dick’s being honest, it’s not his favorite way to treat people. He can do it, sure—heck, he’d even say he’s pretty good at it—but it still takes its toll after a while. It’s exhausting. Draining.

But it’s also not about him. It’s about Jason, and making Jason feel safe in whatever way he needs to feel safe.

Of course, this time there’s a new variable to factor in: 

Tim.

With another sigh, Dick takes the turn onto the long road leading up to the manor. Tim had sounded so anxious on the phone; it’d been pure instinct to start packing a bag when he heard the kid spiraling. From everything Dick’s observed, Tim doesn’t do well with conflict. Dick’s definitely gonna have to remember to keep an eye on him too.

He pulls into the garage and parks the car, then just sits there for a moment, engine still humming, and gives himself one last pep talk.

He’s got this. It’s not going to be fun, per se, but it’s not going to be unbearable. Jason’s not nearly as bad as he used to be—it’s been years since Dick had to drag him kicking and screaming out of that wardrobe. He’s grown a lot since then, and honestly, who knows? Maybe having Tim around will mellow him out even more.

Killing the engine, Dick reaches to the backseat for his duffle. He’s got this. He’s a grown-ass adult—a vigilante team leader, for crying out loud. He can handle a couple of emotionally charged teenagers for a few days. It’s gonna be fine.

He takes one last deep breath, then pops open the door.

Showtime.

After a brief chat with Tim in the kitchen, Dick grabs an armful of supplies and bounds up the stairs, purposely landing on both the fifth and twelfth creaky steps so Jason will hear him coming. Being sick always kicks Jason’s hypervigilance into overdrive, and while Dick definitely plans on making an entrance, he also doesn’t want to genuinely startle the kid. This seems like a decent compromise.

“Heads up, Patient Zero!”

It’s a calculated move—bursting through a door and chucking a full bottle of Gatorade at a sick person—but Dick likes his odds. Two major facets of Robin training are risk analysis and reaction time reduction drills, so he’s fairly confident Jason will catch it. Like, seventy-thirty.

He’s right. Just before the bottle smacks into the headboard, Jason’s hand shoots out to snag it from mid-air.

“The fuck?” he demands, sitting up. His voice is croaky, but still appropriately irked, which Dick takes as a good sign. “You almost hit me!”

(He hadn’t. Dick was aiming wide by a good three centimeters, which a fully cognizant Jason would have recognized. But Jason’s also dramatic as hell, so Dick lets it slide.)

“Just running some diagnostics,” Dick quips, lobbing a second bottle at him for confirmation purposes. Jason fumbles the first bottle to catch that one as well. “If you missed, I would know to haul your ass to Leslie’s. But you caught it, so I guess you’re not too far gone.”

It’s a partial truth. Yes he’d been checking Jason’s reaction time, but more importantly he’d been using the action to provide his brother with some subtle reassurance. Being incapacitated in any way has always been a major source of anxiety for Jason, so Dick figures getting a physical reminder that he does actually still have control of his own faculties might put him more at ease.

“Oh fuck off,” Jason scowls, but his shoulders relax a little, so Dick takes that as a win.

“Language,” he tuts, striding into the room. There’s that vague, sour scent of bile wafting from the open door of the attached bathroom that joins his and Jason’s bedrooms, but he purposely doesn’t wrinkle his nose. “Dirty mouths breed germs, you know.” He tosses the last Gatorade bottle, a little more carefully. This time rather than catching it, Jason blocks it with his pillow. “Now drink up, bitch.”

“Oh my god, go away,” Jason whines. He tries to throw the bottle back, but there’s no power to it. The bottle makes it all of five feet before thudding to the floor.

Well, that’s concerning.

Dick’s careful not to show it. “Wow,” he says, forcing his tone flat. “Maybe I ruled out Leslie too soon.”

(If Jason responds with anything besides annoyed disgust at the suggestion, they’re going.)

“Shut up,” Jason grumbles, smashing his face into the pillow. “And I’m not drinking more of that crap. I just threw it up.”

“Yeah, hence the replacement fluids, dumbass.” Dick reaches down to grab the gatorade—light blue, which is decidedly not Jason’s favorite flavor—and cracks the seal. “Hydrate or die-drate.”

Jason glares at him. “I’m not gonna die.”

“No, you’re not,” Dick agrees, though he’s glad to hear Jason say it. Going back to the whole ‘subtle reassurance’ thing, it’s probably good for Jason to hear himself say it as well. “Because B’s got like fifty liters of IV saline down in the cave if you’d rather I start playing pincushion. Personally, I have no preference—just thought I’d give you the option first.”

That one is a straight-up lie. Dick absolutely has a preference, and that preference is not running IV lines on his mildly needle-phobic brother. He will if he needs to, but it’s an absolute last resort. He’d sooner fill a squirt gun with electrolyte solution and try to shoot it in the kid’s mouth whenever he’s not looking.

(Hmm. Actually, now that he thinks about it…)

Jason groans. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kick you in the nuts if you don’t leave me alone.”

Dick grins. He never could resist a little goading. “As if you could even land one right now.”

They dissolve into a proper fight after that, limbs flying and Gatorade splashing. Dick’s going easy on him of course, but not too easy. It’s a delicate balance, trying to keep things believable while also bearing in mind Jason’s condition. He thinks he pulls it off pretty well.

…At least until Dick yanks him across the mattress a little too aggressively and Jason gulps hard, his face going a shade greener.

Shit.

Dick’s eyes dart sideways. He’s about to lurch for the trash can under Jason’s desk, when Jason does actually land one on him. In the form of a knee to the solar plexus.

Dick howls in pain, and Jason grins, and fuck the flu, alright? Now it’s on.

Tim’s being weird.

Which honestly is saying something, because that kid is a little kooky on a good day, but he’s acting especially strange today. At first Dick thought maybe he was worried about Jason, which would make sense given Tim’s own propensity for medical issues rapidly escalating to critical levels.

(Seriously. For a non-vigilante, his file at Gotham General is getting absurdly thick.)

Anyway, Dick figured letting Tim stay home today where he could see for himself that Jason was fine (albeit ornery) might help ease his mind, so he calls the attendance office to let them know both boys will be taking a sick day.

But when Dick pops into Tim’s room to tell him the good news, his reaction isn’t quite what Dick expected.

“Wait, so…” Tim blinks at him, looking confused. “You’re not driving me?”

“It’s almost eleven,” Dick points out. “You’ve missed half the day already.”

Tim looks oddly distressed. “Should I take the bus?”

“Take the– ?” Now it’s Dick’s turn to blink in confusion. “No. No, you definitely don’t need to take the bus, Tim. That would take hours.”

“It’s actually only like ninety minutes,” Tim corrects. “I could probably make it in time for sixth.”

Dick frowns. “Why? What do you have sixth period?” Maybe Tim’s got a test or something; Dick probably should have run it by him before making the executive decision to call him out. Whoops.

“Uh.” Tim bites his lip. “Lunch?”

Dick huffs out a laugh. “Is it nacho day or something?” he jokes, but Tim doesn’t so much as smirk. In fact, he looks even more distressed than he did a few moments ago. Dick clears his throat and tries again. “Well, what do you have for seventh and eighth?”

If Dick didn’t know better, he’d swear he sees Tim wince. “Uh, gym. And English.”

“Do you have a test for English?”

Tim shakes his head. “We just had one yesterday.”

“...Okay…” Dick’s looking his youngest brother over curiously now. “Uh, is there some reason that you really need to be there today? Because honestly, it doesn’t sound like you’re gonna be missing all that much. Wouldn’t it make more sense for you just to do your assignments at home and show up on time tomorrow?”

“Well, it’s just–” Tim begins, then hesitates, biting his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, no, you’re right. That would make more sense.”

He looks so resigned that Dick frowns. “I mean, I can drive you if you really want me to, but I already called you out, so–”

“No, it’s fine, you’re right,” Tim says quickly. “It doesn’t make sense.” Huffing out a meek laugh, he adds, “Besides, I think it’s meatball sub day.”

Even a good five years out of high school, Dick finds himself shuddering on reflex. “Is McCarthy still the head lunch lady?”

Tim nods.

Dick shudders again. “Yeah. You’re definitely better off at home.”

The rest of the afternoon passes much like the morning, with Dick continuing to pop in and out of Jason’s room to check on him between naps while Tim busies himself with his homework. On one of Dick’s trips down the hall, he notices that Tim’s still staring at the same diagram of an isosceles triangle that he was an hour ago. He stops in the doorway, about to offer up his former Mathalete skills, when out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the towering mass of covers atop Jason’s bed.

“Jay!” Dick snaps, whipping his head around. The mass shifts a little. “What are you doing? You’ve got like twelve blankets on—you’re gonna overheat!”

“Leave me alone,” Jason croaks, voice muffled under the covers. “I’m cold.”

“You’re not cold, you’re cooking your brain, that’s what,” Dick argues, barging across the hall and into the room. “Now take them off.”

“Bite me.”

Dick sighs under his breath. Looks like they’re doing this the hard way.

From the foot of the bed, he grabs a handful of blankets and yanks. Jason kicks wildly, but he’s too tangled up in the covers for it to do much good. Dick’s ripped three of them off before Jason manages to twist himself around enough to shove Dick’s hip into the lamp, sending both it and a stack of books toppling off the nightstand.

By the time Dick’s wrestled all the additional blankets (and curtain??) off of him, Jason’s sweating enough that he doesn’t even want his original comforter. Definitely not a good sign.

Time for another quick reflex test, this one with a little signature Mary Grayson flair.

“What’re you—? Eugh, Dick!” Jason shrieks as Dick plants his lips against Jason’s brow. “What the fuck! Get off!”

“I’m taking your temperature, jackass,” Dick retorts, far more concerned by the fact that his lips actually made contact than he is by the warmth radiating off Jason’s skin. “Now hold still.”

“By kissing my forehead?” Jason flaps a hand at the nightstand. “The thermometer is literally right there!”

“Yeah but that’s so impersonal.”

More threats are exchanged, and then talk moves to lunch. Jason’s been refusing all offers of solid food all day, which Dick will let slide for now since he’s at least managed to keep down some fluids. Dick chucks some crackers at the kid anyway, mostly to keep up appearances.

The brief struggle seems to have zapped most of Jason’s energy. His eyes are drifting shut before Dick’s even made his way back out of the room.

Closing the door softly behind him, Dick slips his high school math tutor hat back on and pokes his head into Tim’s room.

Huh. That’s weird.

…Where’d he go?

Having just topped off Jason’s water glass and grabbed him his next round of meds, Dick walks back into the den just in time to catch the boy mid-rant, gesticulating wildly with Tim’s copy of Lord of the Flies.

“—the whole story operates on the basic premise that we’re all, like, savage beasts under the surface, right? Like you’d get into a horrible situation, and then instantly just revert to your… uh…” Jason flaps the book, searching for the words. “To your base impulses. Which are evil, right?”

“Uh huh.” Tim nods, looking a little wary.

“But that’s not what people actually do in a crisis—we’ve got, like, oceans of research to prove it! Nine times out of ten, they fucking come together—real kumbayah type shit. But for the sake of argument, let’s say it’s that tenth time, Timmy, okay? Let’s just say that it is.”

Jason’s eyes are bright with fever and his words are coming out a little more slurred than usual, but with no less passion.

“Uh huh,” Tim says again.

“You ever heard of ‘Miracle of the Sierra Nevada’? Wait, no that was the Donner Party…” He trails off, frowning, then shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, my point is, Golding had a real opportunity to show the beast of man here, and he goes with calling a kid a fatty and pushing him off a cliff? They didn't even eat him afterwards, ya know? Like there's dark, and then there's savage, and I just don't know if that dude fully considered the implications.”

“Uh huh.” Tim’s eyes are flickering back and forth from Jason to Dick over in the doorway.

“Not that I’m pro-eating people or anything—I mean, fuck Killer Croc, that guy’s bad news. But if you’re already butchering the social commentary and your goal is to show real depravity, real grittiness, why wouldn’t he–"

“Oh wow, would you look at the time,” Dick interrupts in a loud voice, underhand lobbing a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol at Jason. Jason doesn’t flinch as it hits him in the chest. Yikes. “How about we take two of those and see if we’re still arguing for cannibalism as a literary symbol in half an hour, okay?”

Jason turns to him, scowling. “I’m onto something here and you know it. More than William-effing-Golding ever was anyway. Tim agrees, don’t you, Tim?”

“Uh huh.” Tim bobs his head obediently, glancing over at the doorway once more. Dick tries giving him a tiny smile of reassurance, but Tim doesn’t react, almost as if he’s looking through Dick rather than at him.

Time for a different method.

Dick clears his throat. “Well, you know what they say: too much classic lit will rot your brain.” Lifting one leg, he swings it over the back of the sofa and plops himself down on the cushion between the two boys. He grabs the remote. “Who’s up for a movie?”

Tim’s weirdly quiet throughout both dinner and the movie. Dick tries to draw him out a little by directing the majority of his commentary towards him, but he gets mostly vague hums from Tim in response.

Jason, meanwhile, croaks out a series of threats about what he’ll do if Dick doesn’t shut the fuck up and let him enjoy Ethan Hunt scaling the side of the Burj Khalifa the way the good Lord intended: in reverent awe.

“Wanna watch Rogue Nation now?” Dick offers as the end credits start to roll, nudging Jason’s half-conscious form with his foot. Jason grunts out a noise that could honestly be interpreted either way.

Tim, though, is already on his feet. “Nah, I think I’m gonna head to bed,” he says, jerking a thumb sideways in the general direction of the stairs. “But you guys can if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Already?” Dick glances down at the time on his phone. “It’s barely seven.”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, but I didn’t finish my geometry homework yet, so…” His eyes flit towards the doorway. “I should probably go do that.”

Dick winces slightly. He’d totally forgotten to follow up with Tim about that earlier. “Do you need any help with it?”

Tim looks startled by the offer. “What? No. No I’m good,” he says quickly. “I just need to like, focus. But I know what I’m doing, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Dick agrees. “But let me know if you have any questions, alright? I was always pretty good at math in school.”

“Yeah,” Jason mumbles into the couch cushions, “Dickie was a nerd.”

Dick snorts. “Look who’s talking, Mr. Honor Roll. You’ve never even gotten detention.”

“I got suspended last quarter!” Jason croaks, kicking Dick’s feet irritably with his own. “‘M way more of a badass than you ever were!”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You were suspended for all of five minutes before Bruce made his legal team get it dismissed so you could belt out alien plant songs all weekend. Not really what I’d call ‘badass’ behavior,” he says with air quotes.

Jason scoffs weakly. “You’re just jealous ‘cus you got cast as ‘Townsperson #6’ in West Side Story.”

“For the last time, that audition was rigged, okay?” Dick exclaims, jumping to his feet on pure pent-up energy and continuing towards the opposite wall. “I would have made a fantastic Officer Krupke, but they went ahead and gave it to Byron Hayes. Byron Hayes, Jay! That kid had zero talent, aside from his family being loaded. The director though? She shows up to the first rehearsal in a brand new BMW. You know what she was driving before that? A Hyundai.” He turns sharply and starts walking back the other direction. “And that’s not even touching the clear nepotism in the superintendent’s daughter getting cast as Maria…”

By the time Dick’s gotten this particular rant out of his system, he’s paced a clear path into the shaggy carpet fibers, Jason is snoring snottily into the sofa pillows, and Tim?

Tim is long gone.

By the time Dick ushers Jason upstairs, Tim’s door is already shut and the light is off. That seems a little odd to Dick, since he knows the kid usually stays up until at least ten or eleven (even later on the nights that Alfred lets him sit in on the comms), but he’s hardly about to complain.

It’s far from a restful night. Jason’s sleeping fitfully every time Dick checks on him, and he ends up getting sick again sometime around five a.m.—which Dick only knows because he’d woken to the muffled but still unmistakable sound of someone gagging in the adjoining bathroom.

With a tired exhale, Dick climbs out of bed and pads across the carpet to his side of the door. Lifting one hand, he raps the back of his knuckles gently against the wood.

“...Jay?” he calls quietly. “You alright?”

“Go ‘way!” Jason croaks. He’s breathing heavily, almost panting. Dick tests the doorknob. It’s surprisingly unlocked.

“Jason, I’m coming in, okay?” he warns.

“Fuck–” But that’s all Jason gets out before he’s cut off by another unproductive gag.

Turning the handle, Dick enters carefully, blinking as his eyes adjust to the sudden influx of light. Jason is sitting on the floor, wedged into the space between the toilet and the bathtub. His knees are pulled up to his chest and he’s gripping them tightly. His whole body lurches forward with the next gag, but he just clamps his mouth and eyes shut, somehow willing it to stay down.

“Jay,” Dick sighs quietly, “you gotta stop fighting it.”

Jason opens his eyes just long enough to fix Dick with a glare. “Fuck. Off,” he grits out.

“You’ll feel better if you just get it over with,” he reasons. “You don’t need to try to–”

“Shut up,” Jason hisses, and this time Dick swears he can see the kid’s stomach spasming through his thin t-shirt as he fights to suppress yet another gag.

Dick grimaces. That has to hurt like hell.

Silently, Dick lowers himself down to the floor and sits crosslegged with his back to the vanity, careful to maintain his distance. Jason has never been one for back rubbing.

For as long as Dick’s known him, Jason’s fought tooth and nail to keep from throwing up. In the beginning, they’d just assumed it was some kind of phobia for him, but when Jason finally admitted the actual truth to Alfred in a moment of weakness, it had ended up being far more heartbreaking.

Simply put, Jason could never afford to get sick growing up. The food he consumed was precious—not something that could be wasted just because it didn’t always agree with him. When a good portion of one’s calories are harvested from literal dumpsters, having a strong stomach isn’t just a perk; it’s survival.

It’s gotten a little better over the years. Jason’s body and mind seem to be slowly starting to grasp that things are different now—resources are much more expendable when living with a literal billionaire. Case in point, that one time he and Dick begged Bruce to purchase them twelve chili dogs for a little post-patrol eating competition that had ended just as disastrously as one might imagine. Jason hadn’t even seemed fazed when he’d inevitably forfeited by puking on Nightwing’s suit.

(Dick had been so surprised by Jason’s nonchalance that he almost forgot to get mad at him for it.)

Tonight however, Jason seems to have taken several steps back. He’s shaking and gasping, fighting every single gag. Behind the glassy eyes and fever flushed cheeks, there’s genuine fear.

“It’s okay, Jay,” Dick reminds him. He doesn’t have the heart right now for anything more aggressive. “You don’t have to fight it. You can just—”

Jason’s hand shoots over to the tub ledge, and Dick has to duck to avoid taking a shampoo bottle to the face.

“Alright, alright!” Dick holds both hands up in front of his chest in a non-threatening gesture. “I’ll shut up, okay?”

It’s another ten or fifteen agonizing minutes before Jason finally loses his battle. Dick can’t do anything but sit there, feeling helpless.

When the heaving finally tapers off, Jason leans the back of his head against the wall, eyes closed. The skin around them is dotted with tiny burst capillaries.

Carefully, Dick gets to his feet. “C’mon.” He steps over to his brother and holds out a hand. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Don’t need your fucking help,” Jason mutters irritably, swatting Dick’s hand away. He pushes himself to his feet unassisted and stumbles over towards the sink to start rinsing out his mouth. When he’s done, he pushes past Dick back to the door leading to his own room, pointedly locking it behind him on his way out.

For a few seconds, Dick just stands there, staring at the closed door. Then he steps over to the sink and looks up at the mirror, eyes locked on his own reflection.

“Jason,” he reminds himself quietly. “Is being. An asshole.”

With a tired sigh, Dick runs a hand over his face.

Coffee, he decides. He’s going to need a lot of coffee.

Dick is sitting at the breakfast nook table, one and a half mugs deep into one of Bruce’s imported Colombian brews when Tim enters the kitchen. He freezes in place just inside the doorway, looking about as surprised to see Dick as Dick is to see him.

“You’re up early,” Dick remarks.

“Yeah, I just, uh–” Tim shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to drive me to school or not.”

“I told you that I would,” Dick says, frowning a bit. Maybe he should have driven Tim to school yesterday afternoon; the kid seems weirdly stressed out by the idea of missing classes. His parents must have made a big deal about perfect attendance. God knows he didn’t get it from Bruce.

“No, I know,” Tim says quickly, “I just forgot to tell you that I wanted to get there early. Student Council is having a meeting before first period.”

Okay, that’s weird. Dick’s pretty sure that Tim’s not in Student Council—pretty sure he doesn’t do any extracurriculars for that matter (besides occasionally sitting in on Jason’s drama rehearsals). Jason keeps trying to get him to join stage crew, but Tim’s been dragging his feet about it, likely due to all the improv games the club plays.

Then again, if they’re still running Student Council like they did when Dick was in school, they do allow non-members to sit in on their meetings. Maybe he’s thinking of joining? Dick could see him making a damn good class rep…

“And…there’s also a Horticulture Club meeting after school,” Tim adds, “which goes until like, five. But you don’t have to worry about picking me up or anything. I can totally get the bus home after.”

(Okay, now Tim’s lost him.)

“Horticulture Club,” Dick repeats blankly.

Tim bobs his head. “Yeah, it meets every other Thursday. I think the plan today is to make tomato cages.”

Dick can give him the benefit of the doubt about Student Council, but there’s no way in hell Tim’s in Horticulture Club. Meyers has been running that club since the late nineties, and her guilt-tripping tactics when it comes to ‘suggesting’ that club members accompany her downtown for the city’s weekly Community Gardening Saturdays could put the Catholics to shame. Dick once knew a girl who faked a relative’s funeral just to get out of one; another who’d claimed they’d come down with polio. If Tim had joined Horticulture Club, Dick definitely would have heard about it by now.

So that means Tim’s lying.

But why?

Is he just overwhelmed? Ever since Dick got here, he’s been doing everything in his power to make himself a target and keep Tim out of the line of fire, but maybe more went down between the two of them yesterday than Tim let on. He doesn’t think Jason would have done anything intentionally harmful, but he can be kind of a loose cannon when he’s like this, and Tim’s a little… sensitive when it comes to other people’s emotions. It’s a classic trauma response for children of narcissistic parents. Makes total sense.

It’s kind of funny really. Tim and Jason both had shitty childhoods, but they’re on complete opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to dealing with conflict. Jason’s the type to charge in headfirst and try to make the first move, whereas Tim’s go-to strategy seems to be–

…Avoidance.

Right.

Okay, Dick should really do something here. He should sit Tim down and have one of those nice, calm, reassuring heart-to-hearts: the kind where dialogues are opened, and feelings are validated, and concerns are patiently and compassionately addressed. Dick should use this opportunity to reassure Tim that regardless of whatever conflict may arise, this is his home, and that within these walls he is safe and secure and loved.

That’s what Dick should do.

But if Dick is being honest right now?

If Dick is being honest, it’s 5:45 in the morning and he’s running on four hours of sleep and 350 milligrams of caffeine after spending the last eighteen hours catering to the needs of a woozy teenaged firecracker. Dick is exhausted, and the idea of having an emotionally charged conversation with a thirteen-year-old ball of anxiety before he’s even eaten breakfast is… not particularly appealing.

Besides, what is Tim really asking for anyway? To get dropped off at school a little early, and stay late for a club at the end? To ride the city bus home rather than get picked up—the same bus route he used to take to and from school every day of the week?

Okay, sure, the whole lying-to-Dick’s-face thing is a little troubling, but the kid is also clearly expressing a need to not fucking be here right now. And since it’s stupid-o’-clock in the morning and Dick is already being exceptionally honest with himself, he has to admit that a few extra hours of knowing that Tim is safe and occupied at school while Dick focuses his attention on his other brother doesn’t sound half-bad.

If Dick’s learned anything from the vigilante life, it’s that you’ve gotta pick your battles.

He gets to his feet with a sigh. “Alright. Well, I guess we better get moving then...”

To Dick’s surprise, by the time he gets back from dropping Tim off at school, Jason is already awake and lying on the couch in the den. He doesn’t even turn to look when Dick enters the room. He’s curled up on his side with his head against the armrest, eyes glued to the TV—which is tuned to some kind of infomercial for absurdly high-powered vacuum cleaners.

“Oooh can it pick up steel bolts?” Dick asks casually, coming up behind the couch and flopping himself over the top of the backrest, belly first, like a sloth on a limb.

Below him, Jason gives only a vague grunt.

“What about marbles?” Dick goes on. “Wood chips? Pet hair?” He gasps, slow and dramatic. “Jay! Will Alfred finally let us adopt that pair of Siberian Huskies we’ve always wanted?”

Dick knows he’s being annoying. He’s fully expecting Jason to shove him off the back of the couch any second, but he doesn’t. Jason just keeps lying there, watching the overly chipper host suck an entire roll of nickels out of a shag rug.

Hoping to elicit some kind of response, Dick ups his game. He slides lazily off the backrest, landing directly on top of Jason, squishing him against the sofa cushions.

Jason barely even grunts.

Well, Dick can’t back down now. He stretches out, distributing his weight evenly across his brother’s shoulder and side, and continues to lie on top of Jason until the end of the infomercial.

When the host finally gives his last ‘five easy payments of $29.99’ speech, Dick rolls himself off and stands up. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Jason shrugs, which Dick takes as a no.

“What do you want?” he asks. “Toast? Applesauce? Smoothie?”

Jason gives another half-hearted shrug. He’s still staring at the TV listlessly.

Frowning, Dick presses the back of his hand to Jason’s forehead. It’s warm, but nothing that would explain his odd behavior.

Taking a breath, Dick decides to just go for broke. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Any other day, the question would be met with a scowl at best. But today Jason just gives another tiny shrug.

“Right. Uh…” Dick rubs a hand at the back of his own neck awkwardly. This is uncharted territory for the two of them. “Do you maybe wanna talk ab–”

“Jello, bitch.”

Dick stops, blinking. “What?”

“You asked what I wanted for breakfast,” Jason murmurs, a little croakily. “The answer’s jello.” Letting his eyes drift closed, he adds, “So go make me some jello, bitch.”

Dick stares at his brother for a few more seconds, before he feels a tiny grin spreading across his lips. “Just for that, you’re getting lime.”

Jason opens his eyes just enough to glare at him. “Raspberry, dickhead.”

“Keep calling me names and it’s gonna be apricot.”

“Alfred doesn’t even buy apricot.”

“So?” Dick shrugs nonchalantly, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening the Instacart app. “I’ve got B’s card number memorized.”

As Dick ducks and the TV remote goes sailing past the side of his head, he can’t help but feel a little relieved.

It’s good to have the asshole back.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

By late morning, Jason’s condition has gone noticeably downhill. He’s sullen and lethargic, responding less and less to Dick’s attempts at banter. He’s managed a few spoonfuls of the jello, which so far have stayed down, but his fever has been creeping steadily upwards all day and he definitely hasn’t been drinking enough fluids to compensate. Dick threatens him with the IV again, only half-joking, and gets a rather pathetic glare in response.

By afternoon, Dick’s had enough.

“You’ve gotta eat something, Jay.”

“Not hungry,” Jason grumbles.

“Didn’t ask,” Dick retorts, ripping open a sleeve of saltines. “You need something in your stomach so I can give you more meds.”

Jason rolls over, face towards the couch. “What a shame,” he mutters. “Guess I won’t have any meds then.”

Rolling his eyes, Dick pries a cracker out of the package. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, then flicks it across the room at Jason, paper football style, landing on top of his blanket.

Jason does nothing, so Dick flicks another cracker at him.

Then another.

Then another.

When the fifth cracker lands in his hair, Jason just pulls the blanket up over his head and smashes his face even further into the couch back, completely ignoring him.

Dick sets the sleeve back down with a sigh.

For the second time in thirty-six hours, he’s considering getting Leslie involved. She probably won’t be able to make a house call—it’s flu season and the clinic is short-staffed as it is—but he’s pretty sure she’d squeeze Jason in if Dick drove him there. She’s always had a soft spot for the kid.

Jason won’t be happy about it; Dick will probably have to manhandle him into the car. Then there’s the whole ‘sitting in the waiting room’ bit (which, depending on Leslie’s schedule, could take hours). And that’s not even to mention Jason’s general hatred of being poked and prodded by medical professionals.

Besides, it’s not like Leslie could really do much anyway. She’d probably just take his vitals, do a quick exam to ease Dick’s mind, and end up sending him back home with orders to drink fluids and rest. It seems a bit stupid to drag an already-miserable sick person all the way downtown just to get a refresher course on basic first aid.

No. They’re better off staying at home.

Dick’s got this.

Despite Tim’s insistence that he would be perfectly fine taking the bus, Dick had every intention of picking him up after his club ended. He was going to use the ride home to debrief with Tim—see how he’s feeling, where his head is at, if there’s anything Dick could do to help—as well as let Tim choose which drive-thru they’d be stopping at for dinner.

But then Jason’s fever hit 103.5, and all plans went out the window.

Jason’s back in his bedroom now, drifting in and out of a restless sleep while Dick keeps watch nearby. Dick finally got some Tylenol and a little more Gatorade into him about half an hour ago, but the poor kid looks miserable.

Tim makes it home a little before six. Dick hears the soft creak of the floorboards outside Jason’s room and instantly kicks himself. He should have at least texted to confirm that Tim was still okay with taking the bus. It completely slipped his mind.

Sheepishly, Dick steps out of the bedroom to meet Tim in the hall. “Hey,” he whispers, shutting the door quietly behind him. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” Tim says with a shrug.

Dick stands there, giving Tim a second to elaborate. 

He doesn’t.

“That’s good,” Dick says, filling the awkward silence with a yawn. While he’s at it, he also rubs a crick out of his neck. He’s spent way too many hours today scrolling through his phone. “Are you hungry? I was thinking of making a frozen pizza for dinner.”

Tim looks puzzled by the offer. “Can Jason eat that?”

“Probably not, but he’s out now anyway, so I’m just gonna let him sleep. I can always bring him up something later.”

(He says it casually, like he hasn’t just spent the last two days doing everything in his power to force food down his brother’s throat.)

Luckily, Tim takes the bait. “Pizza sounds good,” he agrees with a small smile, and Dick gives him a hair ruffle in return.

Dinner that night consists of meat-lovers Digiorno and guilt. Dick does his best to keep up the small talk and stay present with Tim at the table, but his thoughts keep drifting back to Jason upstairs. He knows the flu can do a number on a person, but it’s just so disconcerting to see the usually feisty kid so out of it. He hadn’t even blinked when Dick threatened to polish off the rest of Jason’s pudding that afternoon—just rolled over and told him to knock himself out.

(Which of course meant that Dick had to eat it on principle. At least Alfred keeps his Lactaid pills in stock.)

Before Dick knows it, the pizza is gone, and he’s barely comprehended any of Tim’s commentary about his school day.

Oops.

His only consolation is that at least Tim doesn’t seem upset by the lack of attention. Honestly, he looks less tense than he had that morning, so maybe the alone time did him good. Tim slips away as soon as the dishes are done to go watch TV in the den, so Dick heads back upstairs.

At first, things are relatively peaceful. While Jason continues to sleep, Dick sits in his own room messing around on his laptop and answering emails. His supervisor wants him to cover a class for her next Saturday—competition cheer, level III—which everyone knows has been drama central ever since Caitlyn didn’t invite Frida to that sleepover last month. The whole team has been taking sides; there’s an entire flow chart in the staff break room for which girls are no longer allowed to spot each other.

He’s in the middle of drafting his reply when he hears the sound of distressed whimpers issuing from the other side of the wall.

“Jay?” Dick calls, hurrying out of his bedroom and into his brother’s.

Even before he reaches the bed, he can tell something is seriously wrong. Jason’s cheeks are flushed bright pink and he’s mumbling incoherently, his blankets twisted around his legs.

“...Don’t wanna go back,” Jason murmurs while Dick fiddles with the thermometer. “They don’t… I’m not…”

Dick takes his temperature, then curses under his breath when the screen comes back displaying ‘104.3.’

“Okay,” Dick breathes, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. “Okay, alright. We need to get you cooled down, Jay.”

Dick starts tugging at the covers, unwinding them from around Jason’s legs, eliciting choked sobs as he does so.

“I’m really sorry,” Dick says honestly, “but we need to do it. We gotta get you cooled off.”

Once the covers are off, Dick grabs a bowl of cool water and a few washcloths from the bathroom. He wets a rag and wrings it out, then drapes it across Jason’s brow, his other hand reaching up to turn on the ceiling fan.

“Please,” Jason murmurs, shivering a little from the fan’s breeze. “I don’t want… I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” Dick assures him. “You’re just sick right now and it’s making you a little confused, but we’re going to get your fever back down and you’ll feel better, alright? I promise.”

Jason doesn’t seem to be hearing him. “No, n-no I don’t wanna go back,” he pleads. “You can’t send me back. Please. I don’t want to go…”

Dick’s heart sinks as the realization of exactly where his brother is begging so hard not to go back to sets in.

“You’re not going back, Jay,” he says firmly. “You’re adopted now, remember? Bruce adopted you and you live here now. You’re never going back to the Cartwrights.”

“No, no…” The cloth slips back down from Jason’s forehead, and Dick moves it back into place. “I- I can take care of myself, I swear. Don’t send me back. I don’t wanna go back, I don’t wanna.”

Dick’s heart clenches. “Jason, look at me.” With the pad of his thumb, he brushes the hair back from the boy’s eyes. “You’re sixteen years old, and you live at Wayne Manor. This is your home. No one is sending you anywhere.” He shakes Jason’s shoulder gently. “Open your eyes and look around, Little Wing. You can do it.”

Jason manages it, but just barely, his glassy eyes locking with Dick’s worried ones. “You – You won’t let them take me back?”

“Jay,” Dick says honestly, “they’d have to kill me first.”

Jason dissolves into sobs. Dick shushes him, brushing his hair back from his eyes, whispering reassurances. It feels like hours, though it must be only ten or fifteen minutes, before he’s able to get Jason settled back down. By then, Jason’s barely keeping his eyes open.

“...Dick?” he mumbles, eyes full of tears. "I... I don’t feel good."

“I know, kiddo,” Dick whispers, his own throat going tight with emotion. “I’m right here. I’m gonna fix it, okay? Just trust me.”

Perhaps the most worrying part is that Jason doesn’t react when Dick starts setting up the IV pole and rubbing down his arm with disinfectant. It takes two sticks to get the needle in, yet Jason barely even flinches.

By the time the fluids are flowing, Jason’s asleep again. Dick watches the steady dripping of the saline inside the bag for a few moments before sinking down into a chair, head in his hands.

Fuck.

Dick could really use an adult right now. A real adult. Not some twenty-something who’s faking it. Someone with experience.

Someone who’s got, like... a mortgage.

He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through the contacts, weighing his options. Leslie will have already closed up the clinic for the night and headed home; he’d hate to bother her when she’s finally just gotten a break. Alfred is five time zones ahead, making it nearly two a.m. for him, and Bruce is literal galaxies away. He could call Clark, he supposes, but the alien has always been a bit clueless when it comes to matters of human illness.

It’s kinda funny actually. Superman can stop a bus with his bare hands without breaking a sweat, but that one time as a kid when Dick got sick while Clark was watching him, the grown man had just panicked and called his—

Huh.

Dick’s thumb stops, hovering over the contact. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. Kansas is an hour behind New Jersey. She’d probably still be up.

Before Dick can think better of it, he presses the call button.

The phone rings twice.

“Kent residence.”

The voice on the other end of the line is so warm and competent-sounding that it causes a lump to swell in his throat from pure relief.

“Hi Martha, it’s Dick Grayson.” His eyes are still locked on Jason’s sleeping form. “Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nonsense,” she laughs. “I might not be as young as I used to be, but I still don’t go to bed before ten. I’d miss the new episode of ‘Yellowstone.’”

Dick huffs out a meek laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Now then,” Martha’s voice goes a little softer, “I’m guessing you didn’t just call to shoot the breeze. What’s on your mind, Dick?”

Dick brings her up to speed on the events of the last few days. Martha is no stranger to Jason’s trauma responses. Both Bruce and Alfred have called her at times over the years for advice on how to get through to him. Clark was a stubborn (and often, angry) child, so she’s always had some unique insight when it comes to dealing with Jason’s emotions.

“I should have just taken him to the clinic earlier,” Dick laments, rubbing a hand over his face. “Now the only place open is the ER, and… well, you know how he gets there.”

“You said you’ve got him on a drip now?” Martha confirms.

“Yeah,” Dick replies. “Saline and electrolytes. And acetaminophen, a few hours ago.”

“Well, that’s pretty much all they’d be giving him at the hospital anyway,” she muses. “How’s his fever? Is it going up or down?”

Dick grabs the thermometer and checks it again. Jason stirs a little, but doesn’t fully wake.

“Down,” Dick reports, reading the screen with relief. “He’s at 104 even now.”

“Then just keep on doing what you’re doing, hon,” Martha says kindly. “It sounds like you’re taking real good care of him.”

Dick’s throat tightens unexpectedly. “I’m trying,” he whispers.

“And you’re succeeding,” she tells him firmly. “Just keep him cool and hydrated, and make sure he gets another dose of fever reducer as soon as that one wears off—even if you have to wake him up for it, alright?”

“I will,” Dick assures, then swallows. “Thanks.”

“Of course, sweetheart. And if his fever starts climbing again and you feel like you need to take him in, you call Clark first, you hear? I don’t care how late it is, and I promise you, he won’t either. You just go on and give him a call and he’ll be there in a jiffy, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees.

“You’re a good brother, Dick,” she reminds him. “Those boys are lucky to have you.”

(Dick doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.)

“...The fuck?”

Dick’s head snaps up at the confused murmur. He’d been sitting in the chair beside Jason’s bed, playing a mindless game on his phone, but he’s fully alert now.

Jason is staring down at the catheter taped to the back of his hand. “Why ’m I on a drip?” he demands croakily.

“Don’t pull it out,” Dick warns, pocketing the phone and getting to his feet.

“I’m not stupid,” Jason grumbles, shoving the covers—which Dick had only given him back an hour or so ago—off in a heap. He sits up shakily against the headboard, his light gray shirt clinging to his back with sweat.

“I think your fever broke,” Dick remarks wryly.

“No shit,” Jason deadpans. He wipes a hand across his brow, then grimaces. “Ugh. I feel so gross.”

Dick huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ll take ‘gross’ over ‘imminently combustible’ any day.”

Jason gives him a funny look. “How bad did I get?”

“104.3.”

“Oh.” Jason relaxes, flapping a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, well excuse me for preferring you not sustain brain damage on my watch,” Dick grumbles. He grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the floor and cracks the seal before handing it to Jason. “Now, drink half of that and I’ll consider taking you off the IV.”

“I already have to pee.”

“Good,” Dick retorts. “Built in motivation. Start chugging.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason brings the bottle to his lips. He drains half the bottle in a couple of swallows, then lowers it back down to give Dick a very unamused look. “Are you gonna unhook me now, or do I need to use my safeword?”

Now it’s Dick’s turn to roll his eyes. He goes about removing the IV line, then helps Jason wobble to the bathroom.

Jason is way too shaky for a full shower, and the only way Dick’s letting him take a bath is if it’s supervised—a declaration met with a truly withering glare. They eventually compromise with Dick standing just outside the door while Jason washes off with a rag at the sink.

A few minutes later, Jason emerges in fresh pajamas, looking exhausted, but still about eight times more human.

The last thing Dick feels like doing right now is wrestling fresh sheets onto Jason’s bed, so he just ushers him into Bruce’s bedroom and gets him set up on the massive bed with a trash can, water, and meds, all within reach.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Jason says as Dick sinks down into the overstuffed recliner that Bruce uses on bad back nights. “‘S not like I’m gonna croak if you go sleep in your own room.”

“You’re already croaking,” Dick points out, lobbing the half-drunk bottle of Gatorade at him. “You sound like shit.”

“Fuck you...” Jason murmurs tiredly.

It’s the last thing he says before he drifts off.

Dick wakes with a jolt to a tiny muffled shriek and the telltale thump-thump-thump-thump-CRASH of someone falling down the stairs.

His first thought is that Jason must have somehow slipped past him. But then the lump on the bed moans a little and rolls over, and Dick immediately realizes who it actually must have been. Within seconds, he’s out of the chair and throwing open the door to the hall.

“...Tim?” Dick calls, flicking on the overhead light. There’s a crumpled figure lying at the bottom of the stairs, legs tangled in a mess of bedding, and it makes the breath catch in Dick’s throat. “Oh shit.”

His feet barely touch the stairs as he races down. “How far did you fall?” he demands, crouching over Tim. “Are you hurt anywhere? Don’t try to move just yet.”

Tim shakes his head slightly, which makes Dick want to shout at him because he literally just told the kid not to move until he can rule out a spinal injury. But before he can decide whether or not to start immobilizing him, Tim’s eyes spill over with tears.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Dick freezes, hands hovering in mid-air. “Why am I being nice to you?” he repeats, baffled. Isn’t he always nice to Tim? “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tim looks like a deer in the headlights. He starts to backtrack. “I- I just– I mean – with Jason, you said–” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I was gonna clean it up, I swear.”

It takes a second for it to click. Tim’s gaze drops to the blankets, and Dick finally registers the distinct smell of vomit. Oh please no, he silently begs whoever up there might be listening as he moves his hand to Tim’s forehead. Please don’t be–

Yup. He’s warm.

Fuck.

“Oh kiddo…” Dick sighs, lowering himself to sit on the bottom step and running a hand over his face as a wave of guilt crashes over him. “Let’s just sit here and breathe for a minute, alright?”

It’s at least as much for his own sake as it is for Tim’s. Dick needs at least a minute to shove down the panic he’d felt at seeing Tim lying lifeless at the bottom of the stairs, gather his thoughts, and figure out how the hell he’s supposed to approach this.

Tim’s obviously trying not to cry; his shoulders are shaking from the effort. Dick rubs his hand up and down over his back to try and comfort him, all the while swallowing down the lump in his own throat.

“I’m really sorry, Tim,” he says once Tim has regained some control over the silent sobs. “This is on me. I should have explained things better.”

At Tim’s confused look, he adds, “About Jason.” He pauses, trying to determine how much he can say without betraying the other boy’s trust. “Tim, you know that I care about him, right? That he’s my brother, and I love him?”

“I know,” Tim says immediately.

Dick presses on, “Then you also know that you’re my brother, and that I love and care about you too, right?”

That one causes a bit more hesitation, but Tim still manages a small nod. Dick will take it.

“Well, part of loving people sometimes is meeting them where they’re at.” He pauses for a moment, then very carefully asks, “How much has Jason told you about his life before he came to us?”

“Not much,” Tim murmurs.

“Yeah.” Dick sighs. “That sounds about right.”

Dick wants to tell him more. He wants to tell Tim how when Jason was five, his dad lost his job packing shipping containers down at the docks after taking three unauthorized days off work. Jason had come down with chicken pox, and the daycare wouldn’t take him back until his spots had all scabbed over—which was some bullshit, seeing as they’re the ones that got him sick in the first place.

How when the rent came due, jobs were scarce, but Two-Face was hiring.

He wants to tell Tim about Catherine Todd, and how she’d sworn up and down to her son that she’d beat her illness one day, only to finally succumb on the filthy tile floor of a gas station bathroom, her ten-year-old child pounding at the door outside.

He wants to tell Tim how Jason spent the next year bouncing around in the system from home, to home, to the streets. How it was a case of pneumonia that had landed him back—first in the hospital, and then with the very same foster family he’d fled from two weeks prior, this time with a bright red ‘FLIGHT RISK’ stamped across his file.

He wants to tell Tim about how illness has been the consistent thread, the driving force, behind so many of Jason’s past tragedies. How time and time again, that immovable force has stripped Jason of his agency, his safety, his choices. How it’s left him vulnerable and unprotected, and how it’s taken away—both directly, and indirectly—the very people in his life who’ve mattered to him the most.

Finally, Dick says, “Look, I can’t tell you everything, because it’s not my story to tell. But… growing up the way Jason did taught him a lot. Like, how to keep himself safe when the people and situations around him weren’t. And some of those things that he learned are still really helpful to him—like, how he can think on his feet and adapt to new situations.

“Bruce spent years training those skills into me back when I was Robin, but Jay?“ He huffs out a short breath. “That kid’s had ‘em since day one.”

Dick thinks for a moment of those first few years and how seriously Jason took his lessons. He and Bruce constantly had to drill into him the concept of tapping out of a spar. Jason was so used to pushing through pain, to fighting like his very life depended on it, that he’d frequently allow himself to become injured if it meant winning a fight.

“But, he learned other things too. Like, for example”—he rubs a hand at the back of his neck—“uh, how to turn into a little shithead who pushes everyone away the second he starts feeling vulnerable so they can’t take advantage of him.

“See, we’ve tried a lot of things over the years to help Jason understand that he’s safe here—that we’d never use something like an illness against him. But lessons like those can take a long time to unlearn, and in the meanwhile, the only thing that’s ever seemed to work is…well, kind of just meeting him where he’s at.”

(AKA: aggressive bullying.)

Dick softens, his attention turning back to Tim. “But kiddo, I also have to meet you where you’re at. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like you and Jason are in really different places right now. And I don’t just mean because he’s safe in bed and you’re lying at the bottom of the stairs having a heart-to-heart with me at three a.m.”

Tim’s eyes are misty. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

“You're right. I do treat you two differently,” Dick admits. “Because if I treated you like I treated Jason, it wouldn’t be kind. And if I treated Jason like I’m treating you right now…” He huffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, he’d most likely kick me in the nuts and tell me to fuck off.”

Tim returns the halfhearted laugh, then sobers. “But you did,” he protests. “Before. When he was crying, you…”

“You heard that, huh?”

Tim gives him a guilty look.

Dick sighs heavily. “Well, there’s an exception to every rule, and delirium is usually it.”

Tim’s expression clouds with worry. “So… he’s worse today?”

(Understatement of the year, Dick thinks bitterly.)

Out loud, he says, “He’ll be alright. His fever just spiked for a bit, but we got it back down again. The flu usually gets worse before it gets better.” The words jog his memory back to the present and he gives Tim a sheepish look. “...Speaking of which, we should probably get you back to bed, huh?”

It takes a good ten minutes to finish up Tim’s injury check, carry him upstairs, and get his teeth rebrushed and pajamas changed. Once that’s taken care of, Dick bypasses Tim’s room entirely (they seriously need to do some laundry, but that’s a problem for tomorrow) and takes him directly to the master suite. Amazingly, Jason’s still asleep.

“Is he okay?” Tim whispers, shivering a little.

“He’s fine,” Dick says firmly, mostly because he doesn’t have the energy for Jason to be anything but.

He gives Tim a dose of fever reducer and tucks him under the covers. “Try and get some sleep, okay?” If this bug goes anything like Jason’s, it’ll only be downhill from here. Tim will need all the rest he can get.

Tim’s eyes are already starting to droop as he murmurs his assent. A minute or so later, and he’s out.

Meanwhile, Dick curls up in the recliner and pulls the duvet up around himself, his gaze fixed on the two sleeping boys. As their chests rise and fall in a steady rhythm, it occurs to him that this is the most peaceful either of them have looked all day.

That revelation causes Dick’s eyes to start stinging and a lump to settle in his throat. He’s trying. He’s trying so damn hard to be everything his brothers need from him, to stretch and mold and shape himself to fill in the gaps, and yet he just keeps on coming up short.

For a long time, he just sits and watches them, rocking the chair ever so slightly with his feet, his eyes hazy with a moisture that hasn’t quite spilled over. He should have talked to Tim earlier. He should have made sure he understood what was going on with Jason so it didn’t freak him out so badly. Dick had been so worried about overstepping and betraying Jason’s trust that he hadn’t said nearly enough to build Tim’s.

“...Y’r thinkin’ too loud,” Jason murmurs from the bed.

“Sorry,” Dick whispers back hollowly, before his brain can catch up enough for a proper retort.

Jason frowns. Carefully, he pushes the covers down and sits up, leaning against the headboard. “What happened?” He nods sideways to Tim’s sleeping form. “Why’s the shrimp in the bed?”

“He’s sick,” Dick responds dully. “Threw up. Fell down the stairs.”

Jason winces. “Shit. Did he get hurt?”

Dick shakes his head a little, still staring straight ahead. “Bruised his back, but that’s about it. Didn’t even want ice.”

“Because he didn’t need ice?” Jason asks skeptically. “Or because he wouldn’t take ice?”

For some reason, the question makes Dick’s throat tighten even further. “I don’t know,” he admits, barely a whisper. He pauses, then adds, “I think I fucked up, Jay.”

Dick’s eyes are stinging so badly that he feels more than he sees Jason swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and padding across the carpet towards him.

“Move,” he orders, so Dick, slightly bewildered, scoots all the way over to one side, allowing his brother to squeeze in next to him on the oversized chair. They manage it, but just barely, their sides pressed tightly up against each other.

“You used to fit better on here,” Dick remarks.

“Yeah, well your ass used to not be the size of Massachusetts,” Jason grumbles in retort.

They both lapse into silence after that, the gentle rocking of the chair the only sound between them.

Dick’s the first one to break the spell. “Tim’s not in Horticulture Club, is he?”

“That kid?” Jason huffs humorously. “You know that ficus we used to have in the library?”

Dick turns to look at him, brow furrowed. “You mean Bertha?”

Jason nods grimly. “A couple weeks ago, Alfred made it Tim’s job to water her.” He pauses a beat. “Bertha drowned.”

“Aw,” Dick says with a pang of nostalgia. “I loved Bertha.”

“Yeah, you weren’t the only one…” Jason mutters, side-eying the sleeping figure on the bed, then whispers, “Apparently that plant’s been in the family for like, forty years. B’s dad used to keep it in his office.”

Dick blinks once. Then again. “Does Tim know that?”

“Fuck no,” Jason says with a snort. “And we’re never gonna tell him either. He’d die on the spot.”

They fall back into silence after that, the two just rocking the chair slowly back and forth in the dim light. Eventually, exhaustion wins out and Dick’s head lolls down to his chest. He snaps it up again with a start, blinking.

Jason gives him an amused look. “Take the bed, dumbass,” he says, nodding towards the empty space on the mattress. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“No way. You’re the sick one,” Dick argues.

“Yeah, which is why I’ve been lying down all freaking day,” Jason points out with a little huff. “Take the bed. My neck hurts just looking at you.”

He’s about to protest again when Tim stirs on the bed and lets out a tiny moan, drawing Dick’s attention to how flushed the boy’s face looks. Frowning, Dick extricates himself from the chair and slips over to check his temperature with the ear thermometer.

Tim comes in at 102.2, which isn’t super concerning, but Dick would really like to avoid another Jason situation. Preemptively, he tugs off one of Tim’s extra blankets, leaving him with only the comforter and eliciting a small whine of protest.

“Sorry,” Dick whispers, feeling like the world’s biggest bully. “I’ll give it back in a little bit, I promise.”

Tim hasn’t opened his eyes once this entire time, so Dick’s not really sure if he’s asleep or awake. But the words seem to calm him anyway. His body stills and his breathing evens back out.

“You know,” Jason says, glancing sideways at Dick, “it’s a stupidly big bed.”

“It is,” Dick agrees.

“Could probably fit like, eight people. Minimum.”

Dick hums, the image of a particular vibrant orange Volkswagen from his childhood at Haly’s popping into mind. “More if they’re clowns.”

“More if they’re–?” Jason stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the fuck, Dick,” he demands. “Why’d you have to make it weird?”

“I dunno,” Dick mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m really fucking tired.”

Jason huffs out a breath. “Then let’s go to sleep.”

So they do exactly that.

Dick wakes the next morning feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. His mouth is dry, his head is throbbing, and his entire body aches as if he’d spent the night chasing Killer Croc through the sewers instead of sleeping.

On his left side, Tim’s still out cold, but to his right, Jason is in the process of pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the mattress. The movement is probably what woke Dick in the first place; he’s always been a light sleeper.

“Where’re you goin’?” Dick murmurs blearily.

“To shower,” Jason mutters back. He gets to his feet, only to immediately wobble and sit back down on the bed, one hand gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You want to shower,” Dick repeats skeptically.

“Yes,” Jason scowls, pushing himself up again. This time his legs hold. “I’m like, sixty percent sweat. I’m fucking showering.”

Dick can tell from Jason’s tone that he’s not going to take no for an answer, so rather than arguing, he just drags himself out of bed and follows his brother into Bruce’s ridiculously large bathroom.

“If you’re showering,” Dick declares, pushing past Jason as he heads to the far side of the room, “then I’m supervising.” He plunks himself down on the floor, arms crossed and back leaning against the wall. “I don’t feel like breaking the door down when you biff it in there.”

Jason groans irritably. Then he steps into the shower, still fully clothed, and yanks the curtain shut after him. A few seconds later he’s chucking his balled-up pajamas over the top of the stall and flipping on the water.

(To be honest, it’s far less resistance than Dick figured he’d get.)

While Jason showers, Dick gets comfortable by wedging himself more into the corner, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his aching head against the wall. Between the rush of the water raining down and the warm citrusy steam filling the room, it isn’t long before the exhaustion catches up to him. He lets his chin droop to his chest.

Ten minutes or so later, he registers the sound of the water turning off and the curtain being pulled back. There’s rustling noises, like someone is pulling on clothes, and then footsteps pad towards him across the tile.

“Some lifeguard you are…” he hears Jason mutter before a bath towel is draped over Dick’s shivery frame. The footsteps recede, and then the door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Dick shifts around a little, pulling the towel up around his chin.

“Hey. You’re awake,” comes Jason’s muffled voice through the door.

Whatever Tim says in reply is a little too low for Dick to make out, but it causes Jason to snort humorously, which probably means the two can handle themselves for a while.

That’s good, Dick thinks as he curls up tighter under the towel. He could really use the break.

“How was your nap, Baywatch?” Jason quips as Dick finally wanders back out of the bathroom an hour and a half later to find the two boys watching reruns of Top Gear.

“Ugh.” Dick flops his achy body down face first across the foot of the bed with a groan.

Jason prods him irritably with his foot. “Move. Your protruding ass is blocking my view of the McLaren.”

Flipping Jason off, Dick summons what little energy he has remaining to position his butt so that it’s more thoroughly blocking the view. Jason expresses his frustration by smacking him with a pillow.

There’s no denying it at this point; Dick is sick. He knows it, and based on Jason’s relative tameness this morning, he’s pretty sure at least one of his brothers has picked up on that fact too. Still, no one acknowledges it. They just don’t have that luxury quite yet.

Earlier, he texted Bruce a quick update on the two boys. Dick left out any information about his own health, ending it with a simple: How much longer do you think you’ll be?

Within minutes, he had a reply:

Skipping debrief. Home ASAP. ETA 3 hours.

(It ought to make him feel guilty, but the only emotion Dick registers is pure relief.)

Dick holds out all the way until Bruce arrives before hanging his head over the side of the bed and vomiting into the trash can. Between rubbing Dick’s back and murmuring reassurances, Bruce sends the other two boys downstairs, leaving the two of them alone.

The moment the door shuts behind them, the tears that have been threatening to fall since last night finally spill over.

“B,” he gets out, voice wavering, “B, I think I really fucked up.”

“You didn’t,” Bruce assures him, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “That’s the fever talking, chum.”

Dick scoffs out a small, bitter laugh. “How would you know? You weren’t even here.”

“I know because I know you,” Bruce says firmly. “I know that you love your brothers more than anything and that you did your absolute best. That’s all anyone could have possibly asked.”

“I had to call Martha,” Dick admits through tears. “Jason’s fever, I— I let it get too high. I should’ve taken him in.” He draws in a shuddery breath. “And I freaked Tim out. He thought I wouldn’t even help him after he threw up. That’s why he fell down the stairs. I should’ve been paying more attention…”

“Shhh,” Bruce says, pulling his eldest son into a strong, solid hug. “You did everything right, Dick. Just rest now, alright? I’ll take it from here.”

Honestly? That’s the best news Dick’s heard all day.

So, the thing is, Dick isn’t trying to be whiny.

No really. He isn’t.

What he’s trying to do is to keep up some banter so that Jason’s grumpiness, which has come back in full swing now that Bruce is home, gets directed at himself rather than at Tim. It’s purely tactical—some might even say selfless. Frankly, he deserves a medal of valor when this is all over.

Unfortunately, the higher Dick’s fever climbs, the duller the part of his brain that usually comes up with snarky things to say starts getting. And in the absence of wit, the only thing left to manipulate is his own vocal pitch.

(Plus, he really does feel like shit.)

It takes his sluggish brain an embarrassingly long time to catch on to just how much the constant string of negativity is affecting Tim. Somewhere in the middle of an argument about famous musicals and World War II, the kid ends up giving up on his food, pushing the bowl of cream of wheat away from himself.

Jason asks why he’s not eating, and Tim just bursts into tears.

“I’m sorry!” he blurts. “I know you made it for me, and I thought I could eat it, I just— I don’t know, my stomach hurts really bad, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Jason demands, clearly exasperated. “You’re sick. You can eat or not eat, no one’s fucking forcing you.”

Dick knows Jason’s just trying to help in his own way, but he also knows that being sworn at is the last thing Tim needs right now. He kicks Jason’s shin under the table in warning.

“Ow! What the hell?” Jason whirls on him, kicking back.

“Would you knock it off?” Dick snaps irritably, inclining his head towards Tim, who is hunched over on himself and shaking visibly. “You’re making him anxious.”

“Then he can tell me that himself!” Jason exclaims, throwing his hands up. “He doesn’t need you to be his spokesperson.”

“He doesn’t need you to be a jerk,” Dick shoots back.

“Dick,” Bruce warns.

Tim looks like he’s going to be sick. “Can I get out?” he begs. “Please?”

Bruce moves immediately to let him out. The two exit the kitchen, leaving Dick and Jason where they sit.

As soon as Tim’s out of earshot, Jason seems to deflate. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Shit,” Dick agrees solemnly.

They both sit there for a moment.

“He gets stomachaches when he’s stressed,” Jason comments after a bit, more to himself than to Dick. “I think it’s why he pukes so much.”

Dick’s brow furrows, considering this. “I mean, he doesn’t puke that much…”

Jason blinks at him. “You’re joking, right,” he says in a deadpan. “He literally puked on you within two seconds of meeting you.”

“Yeah, but he was concussed then,” Dick argues. “That doesn’t count.”

“Dick.” Jason blinks at him again. “I have literally never known a person to puke as much as that kid does. And I grew up with addicts.” He heads over to the stove and flips on the kettle. “I keep telling Alfie, he needs to see a GI doc or something…”

A little while later, Bruce returns to grab the Tylenol and a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Is he okay?” Dick asks, a little guiltily. He’s standing by the microwave now, having dug out his old sloth shaped heat pack from his bedroom.

Bruce’s face softens. “He’s fine. He’s just sick and a little stressed out. I think he needs some space.”

Dick nods knowingly. “Right. Horticulture Club.”

Bruce looks puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dick mutters, dismissing him with a hand wave. “Had to be there.”

“Here.” Jason hands Bruce the mug of mint chamomile tea he just brewed. With a shrug of forced nonchalance, he adds, “Tell him he doesn’t have to drink it if he doesn’t want to—I don’t give a shit. Just thought it might help.”

“Thank you, Jay,” Bruce says sincerely. “I’ll let him know.”

The microwave beeps, and Dick pulls the lavender-filled plushie out and passes it to Bruce. “Tell him Sid-the-Regret-Sloth always helps.”

“I will,” Bruce agrees before heading back to the guest room.

Tim’s little sabbatical lasts about three hours before he wanders back out to the den where Dick and Jason are lying sprawled out on the sofa.

(Bruce, meanwhile, is in the laundry room, running yet another load of bedding.)

“Hey,” Dick croaks softly in greeting. “Feel any better?”

Tim gives a half-hearted shrug, which Dick takes as a ‘not really.’ Given his own general state of health, that seems accurate.

“We’re gonna watch Fallout next,” Jason offers, nodding to the TV where the tail end of Rogue Nation is still playing.

Tim hums a little. “Haven’t seen it.”

Jason gives him a disgusted look. “I have never been more disappointed in you.”

“Jay,” Dick groans in exasperation.

“What? It was a joke!”

“Yeah, but–”

“It’s fine,” Tim interrupts tiredly. Stepping around the coffee table, he shuffles over to his usual seat on the far end of the sofa. “I just… might not stay very long. No offense."

“None taken,” Jason quips before Dick can get a word in. “I wouldn’t want to sit next to pudding-boy either. Only reason I’m still out here is because my nose is blocked.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dick whines, readjusting the recently-returned sloth plushie over his stomach. “I drive all the way out here to take care of you, you get your germs all over me, then you judge my coping mechanisms.”

“Coping mechanism?” Jason scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“My throat hurts!”

“So you thought you’d fuck up another organ to keep it company?”

As the two boys continue to bicker, Tim silently grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV volume up several notches. Laying his head against the armrest, he curls up, pulling the blanket up around his chin.

Tim might not realize it just yet, but he fits right in.

Chapter Text

Bruce is overwhelmed.

He’s been home for less than twenty-four hours, and he’s already as exhausted as he usually feels after an Arkham breakout. He has three flu-riddled children in various stages of illness—at least two of which are experiencing incompatible trauma responses—and Alfred isn’t due back home for another four days. Dick is whining about everything from the pulp levels in the orange juice, to the scratchiness of the tissues, Jason is ready to throw hands every time Bruce approaches him with a thermometer, and Tim is–

…Nowhere to be found?

“Tim?” Bruce calls, brow furrowed as he enters the guest room to find only a tangle of covers abandoned on the bed and a distinct lack of teenage boy. He checks the ensuite next, knocking twice on the half-open door before pushing it open. “Tim, are you in here?” 

Nothing.

He checks the hallway bathroom next, then extends his search radius to the two closest sitting rooms, the library, the den, his own office, and even Alfred’s personal quarters. They’re all similarly unoccupied.

Oh boy.

Bruce is speedwalking now, clearing one room after another as he makes his way through the west end of the Manor. He’s calling Tim’s name, checking closets, peering behind and under furniture. He’s so focused on the task at hand that he walks straight into Dick on his way out of the billiard’s room.

Dick stumbles backwards in surprise, and Bruce has to grab his shoulders to steady him.

“Dick?” he asks in concern, taking in the clear discomfort and beads of sweat on his son’s face.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Dick announces, then promptly makes good on his threat, diving for the closest receptacle—which just so happens to be a large heirloom vase that’s been in the Wayne family well over a century. Alfred is going to kill them.

No, scratch that. He’s going to kill Bruce, because Dick is already dying. 

He’s throwing up blood.

“Jason!” Bruce shouts, maneuvering his eldest towards the hallway bathroom he continues to vomit concerningly dark red liquid into a nineteenth century china vase. “Get my phone! Call Leslie!”

“It’s not blood,” Jason says in an exasperated tone, appearing at the end of the hallway with a roll of paper towels. He chucks them, spiral football style, into Bruce’s hand. “The idiot just ate like five cherry popsicles.”

“Shut up, it was only four,” Dick whines miserably. “And my throat hurt.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s doing much better now after deepthroating half a dozen bomb pops,” Jason quips, and Dick flips him off with one hand while simultaneously retching into the vase again.

Bruce runs a hand over his face, sighing deeply and wondering for not the first time why exactly he ever thought himself equipped to parent three adolescent boys. “Jay,” he says tiredly, “can you try to find Tim while I help your brother?”

Jason scoffs. “What, you lost him?”

Bruce says nothing.

“Holy shit.” Jason blinks at him. “You did. You fucking lost him.”

Dick lifts his head up, giving Bruce a heartbreakingly pathetic look. “You lost Timmy?”

“He is not lost,” Bruce says firmly. “He’s just… unaccounted for at the moment.”

“Oh this is rich,” Jason huffs, turning to head back down the hall. “I’m totally telling Alfred on you.”

Bruce sighs deeply. He probably deserves that.

Chapter Text

Jason’s got no idea why Dick had been so anxious for Bruce to come home. The guy’s been here for one day, and already Timmy’s MIA. Honestly, they were doing better without him.

While Bruce tries to get his eldest child to stop upchucking into a vase, Jason starts his search for the deserter. Bruce hollers from the hallway that he’s already checked most of the west wing of the Manor, so Jason heads for the east wing. He doesn’t bother calling the kid’s name—if the last couple days are anything to go by, he’s pretty sure Tim doesn’t want Jason finding him. He’d probably just wedge himself even further into whatever hiding place he’s currently occupying if he heard him coming.

Well, joke’s on him. Robins train for stealth.

Except it turns out stealth might not be needed after all, because when Jason walks past the main entryway, he finds the front door hanging partially open, hinges creaking slightly in the breeze.

He stops immediately, blinking at the sight. No. No, there’s no way a kid with raging fever is just going to–

Aw hell, who’s he kidding. This is Tim they’re talking about. Of course he’d just fucking up and leave. This is actually incredibly on brand for him.

Muttering a string of profanities under his breath, Jason slips on the first pair of shoes he sees—which just so happen to be Dick’s lime green Crocs—flipping down the ankle strap to secure them in place. 

(As everyone knows, step one of any good chase is to make sure you’re set to sports mode.)

Granted, it’s not much of a chase. He finds Tim less than a hundred yards down the long, winding access road leading up to the Manor, shuffling along so slowly that it takes a few seconds for Jason to realize he’s even moving at all.

“Yo,” Jason calls out as he approaches. He’s not moving particularly quickly himself. It’s more of a brisk walk than a jog. Or maybe just a regular walk. “Where the heck do you think you’re going?”

Tim turns around to look at him, a puzzled expression on his face. “Uh…” Now that Jason’s closer, he can see the kid’s not even wearing shoes—just an oversized t-shirt, plaid pajama pants, and a pair of fuzzy Chewbacca socks. “Home?”

“Newsflash, buddy.” Jason points over his shoulder. “Home’s that-a-way.”

“No, I…” Tim’s brow furrows, like it’s taking all of his mental capacity to compute that information. “I can’t come over,” he murmurs. “Not now.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jason repeats, “You can’t come over.”

“Yeah.” Wrapping his arms around himself, Tim shivers a little in the chilly breeze. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy with fever. “Not today. Um. I think I’m sick.”

Jason can’t help but snort. “That’s never stopped you before."

“...Huh?”

“Timmy, I’ve seen you sick like a dozen times already,” he points out. “You’re like a freaking Victorian child. I’m starting to wonder if you even have an immune system at all. You gotta start pounding the gummy vites, dude.”

The admittedly shitty attempt at humor goes straight over the kid’s head.

“Oh no…” Tim whispers, his dazed face suddenly stricken with horror. “My parents are gonna be so mad.”

“Yeah, well your parents are selfish nincompoops who lost custody of you, so I’m pretty sure their opinion is irrelevant here.”

“I…” Tim’s expression is so perplexed that it looks almost painful. He takes a shaky breath, eyes flitting from Jason, to Drake Manor in the distance, then back again. “I don’t think I should be outside right now.”

“I second this.”

They both stare at each other for a moment, Tim looking so dazed and pathetic that it sends Jason’s mind reeling back to another time, another place. His mom would get like this, sometimes, when she’d taken a little more than usual, or the shit the dealer sold her wound up being a little stronger than she was expecting. It wasn’t the worst thing—this weird, floaty, confused state was relatively manageable compared to some of the more extreme reactions she’d get from a bad trip—but he hated how vulnerable it always made her, how easily she could be manipulated.

Maybe that’s why Jason’s always fought so hard to stay in control when he’s sick. He’s seen exactly what can happen when you’re not.

Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, he turns his attention back to Tim. “Alright, c’mon.” He places a hand on Tim’s upper arm, nudging him back towards the house. “Let’s go home.”

Tim shakes his head weakly. “‘S the wrong way,” he mumbles.

“No it’s not. It’s the right way,” Jason tells him, all desire to tease the kid washed away by the sudden flood of memories. “Would I ever steer you wrong?”

“You're steering me wrong right now…” Tim complains, but he shuffles forward all the same, seemingly resigned to his fate.

“I’m not,” Jason promises while Tim lets out a yawn. “You live with us now, remember? You’re my brother.”

Tim hums, a little absently. “Always wanted a brother.”

“Well, you’ve got two of ‘em now. For better or worse.”

“Hm.”

Another gust of wind blows through, rustling the budding branches and causing Tim to shiver in only his shirt sleeves. Hesitating only a second, Jason tugs his Wonder Woman hoodie up and over his head.

“Here,” he says, shoving it into Tim’s hands. “Merry Christmas.”

Looking down at the material in his hands, Tim frowns in confusion. “It’s April.”

“It’s tradition,” Jason corrects, recalling how Dick had wrapped him up in a faded old Gotham Knights sweatshirt after dragging him out of the attic that time Jason had gotten bronchitis and freaked the fuck out. He’d been forced to surrender it again thirty minutes later, once Alfred had gotten a read on his temperature (just as he suspects Tim will have to do once they make it back to the house) but even after all these years, Dick’s never asked for it back.

Tim hums again. There’s a pause before he adds, almost offhandedly, “I’m Jewish.”

Jason snorts. “I’m not giving you seven more hoodies, Tim.”

“...Huh?”

He sighs. “Just keep walking, kid…”

Chapter Text

Clark Kent is standing in the frozen novelties section of his eighth grocery store this afternoon, scanning the array of colorful cardboard boxes. According to Dick, who’d called to complain about everything from his achy joints, to how his throat feels as though he’s been gargling thumbtacks, the only thing in the entire world that could possibly restore him to a mere sliver of his former health is a mango raspberry lemonade popsicle—a limited edition promotional flavor that’s been almost impossible to acquire for the last month and a half.

Clark took it all in stride; it’s hardly the first time that Dick’s called him for emotional support when he wasn’t feeling well. Dick needs an audience for his complaints to feel validated, and Clark’s always fancied himself a good listener. Part of it probably comes from having no personal experience with human illness, so Dick’s dramatic descriptions of his suffering really do tug at his heartstrings.

(Who knew it was possible for someone’s eyelids to ache?)

If Clark’s being honest, there’s a slight amusement factor to it as well. A few years ago during a mission, Nightwing got impaled through the thigh with a piece of iron rebar. He officially rated the injury ‘about a 3.5’ on the pain scale, then proceeded to crack stupid jokes while his teammates frantically worked to staunch the bleeding right up until he passed out. Meanwhile, Bruce innocently asking his son how he was feeling during a particularly bad bout of hay fever last September elicited a response of ‘ugh, I dunno, B, just shoot me.’

Clark’s always been a bit more… indulgent than Bruce when it comes to this kind of thing. The Dark Knight’s skills are better suited to problem solving than sympathizing, so Bruce handles his son’s more practical needs, while Clark is simply content to provide a listening ear. It’s a solid system, one they’ve been employing ever since Dick was in middle school, and it’s worked out well thus far.

The only problem is that this time around, Bruce is dropping the ball.

“—was at the store for two hours last night, and he didn’t even get half the stuff on the list.”

“Two hours, huh?” Clark readjusts his cellphone, sandwiching it between his shoulder and his ear as he digs through the various ice creams and sherberts in the bargain section chest freezer. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Dick groans, then coughs a few times. “So not only does he leave me here with Jason—who’s worse now because it all went to his lungs so he’s coughing up crap and being mean again, and Tim, who started throwing up like five minutes after B left—but when he finally does make it back, all he’s got is a head of iceberg lettuce, the un salted saltines instead of the reduced salt ones, and a big bag of tropical Starbursts. Nobody even likes the tropical ones.”

Clark hums, pushing aside a box of sugar-free fudge-pops as he continues to search the bin. “I like the tropical ones.”

He groans loudly, “Claarrrk…”

Clark chuckles. “Sorry, you’re right. Go on, Dickie,” he says placatingly.

“He messed up the laundry, too,” Dick continues, an audible pout to his voice. It’s so reminiscent of his nine-year-old self that Clark’s struggling to remember that the boy is in college now. “He was trying to wash Tim’s sheets, but he used waaayy too much detergent and it gave Timmy a rash. He’s itching like crazy. It’s all over his arms and up his back.”

“Oof,” Clark sympathizes. From everything he’s heard, the kid’s allergies are no joke. “How’s Tim doing now?”

“He had to take a bunch of Benadryl,” Dick reports, sniffling, “which made him kinda weird and weepy. Then he got all embarrassed and now he’s hiding in his closet and won’t talk to anyone.”

Bingo! Right under a six-pack of Klondike bars, Clark finally spies his prize. Mango raspberry lemonade ice pops: limited edition.

A grin spreads across Clark’s face. Uncle of the Year award, here he comes.

For the remainder of his shopping trip, Clark listens as Dick continues to bemoan both the horrors of influenza, and Bruce’s extraordinary levels of incompetence. He picks up a few other items as he goes—cough drops and herbal tea for Jason, crackers with the correct sodium content for Dick, and some oatmeal infused bath powder that Lois recommends via text for Tim. He finishes things off with some cans of soup and a few boxes of tissues, then brings everything up to the register.

“—and Jason won’t even let me watch ‘Everybody Loves Raymond,’” Dick rants as Clark starts unloading the contents of his cart onto the conveyor belt. “He said the laugh track was giving him a migraine, but of course he’s totally fine with a bunch of British dudes revving car engines for hours on end.”

“Oof, yeah, that’s rough.” Clark purposely doesn’t mention that the Manor has at least seven other television sets Dick could use; he’s well aware that that isn’t the point at all. Tossing the divider bar onto the belt at the end of his order, he says, “Dick, I need to let you go now, but try and get some rest, okay? You know you always feel better after a nap.”

Dick groans in response. “You can’t just say stuff like that! You make me sound like I’m five.”

Clark’s lips twist upwards as he uses his remaining self-control to keep from pointing out how the whining really isn’t helping Dick’s case. “You’re never too old for a nap. Pa still takes one every Sunday.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Dick says with a sigh. “I might try one, if Jason can stop being a jerk for five minutes.”

Jason’s muffled voice interrupts, “Fuck you, I’m not a—” but that’s as far as he gets before he’s cut off by a series of hacking coughs. Clark holds the phone away from his ear a few inches.

“Paper or plastic?”

Shooting the cashier a pained smile, Clark points at the paper bags. She nods and starts scanning his items, just as a moan of “ew....why’s it green?” issues over the line.

“Alright, I really do need to run now, Dick,” Clark says into the phone. “Feel better, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees tiredly.

Ending the call, Clark glances up at the smirking cashier. “Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly. “My nephews are having a bit of a rough time.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks as she beeps a can of soup through. “Have they got that hell flu?”

Clark blinks at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s been going around the schools,” the cashier tells him knowledgeably. “They had to shut down the elementary building for the rest of the week. Over a third of the staff are out sick. The middle and high schools aren’t doing much better. Some folks are saying this must be Ivy’s doing—y’know, biowarfare and all—but if you ask me, it’s not really her style. They just like to blame her for everything these days. It’s blatant sexism, honestly. Ooh, don’t these look good…” She cuts herself off, examining the back of the popsicle box. “Mango raspberry lemonade. I’ll have to try them sometime.”

Clark chuckles. “I think you might be a little too late. I’m pretty sure this was the last box in the entire tri-state area.”

Shaking her head slowly, the cashier lets out a sigh. “Figures. I’m always the last one to know.” Beeping the final can of soup through, she presses a button on her keypad. “Your total comes to $59.64.”

Clark swipes his credit card.

Thanks to the evening traffic, it takes a good forty-five minutes to make it back from the city. Clark leans over every so often to exhale into the paper grocery bags, using his ice breath to keep the popsicles from turning into a mango raspberry lemonade puddle. He usually tries a little harder to comply (sometimes maliciously) with Bruce's ‘no meta powers in Gotham’ rule, but when it comes to the boys, they both know all bets are off.

Clark hasn’t told anyone that he’s coming over—not even Dick—so he’s not surprised when he has to punch his access code into the keypad to gain entrance. He is surprised, however, when Bruce doesn’t intercept him in the kitchen like usual.

“...Bruce?” he calls, stepping through the back door into the eerily deserted kitchen. It’s a mess; the dishwasher is hanging open, half-loaded, the floor is littered in cereal flakes, and a pot of unidentifiable mush is boiling sluggishly on the stovetop. Egg noodles, Clark deduces from the empty bag on the counter. Or at least they were at some point. Now they’re just scorched, shapeless blobs.

He turns off the burner.

“Bruce?” he tries again, unloading the groceries—minus the bag with the popsicles—onto the counter. That one he takes with him further into the Manor. “Dick? Jason? Anybody home?”

There are two, chesty coughs before a familiar voice rasps, “In here.”

Clark turns the corner into the family room. Jason is sitting curled up in a recliner, a fuzzy blanket pulled up to his chin, a half-dead look in his eyes. Top Gear is playing on the TV and there’s a three-foot radius of wadded up tissues and cough drop wrappers surrounding him. To his left, Dick is conked out on the sofa, snoring steadily through an obviously blocked nose.

“Hey, Jay. How’s it going?” Clark asks.

With a withering glare, Jason makes an encompassing gesture to his immediate surroundings.

“Right, uh—” Clark rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. Sick-Jason has never been his forte. “Is Bruce around?”

“He’s–” Jason starts, but that’s all he gets out before another fit of coughing has him pulling the front of his hoodie up over his face and doubling over himself hacking. Dick startles awake at the noise, blinking around the room.

“Jeez, Jay…” Dick mutters, rubbing a hand over his face while his brother continues to cough croupily. “You need to go turn on the shower and breathe in the steam again.”

Clark isn’t quite sure how Jason manages to scowl and wheeze simultaneously, but manage it he does, as well as extending his middle finger.

Turning back to Clark, Dick lets out a longsuffering sigh. “I keep telling him it’ll help, but he says it’s too boring in the bathroom.”

“I’d… rather die… on the couch,” Jason gets out between rasping coughs.

“Bruce said he was going to go dig out the humidifier,” Dick offers tiredly. “After he finished making Timmy some lunch.”

Clark glances down at his watch. It’s well past six p.m. “Was that what he was doing with the noodles?”

“Think so,” he croaks, and Clark winces. A story is starting to fall into place, and it’s not a very pretty one.

First things first, though. He sets down the grocery bag and pulls out the box of popsicles.

Dick’s dull eyes light up so quickly that Clark instantly decides his afternoon of rifling through freezer bins was worth it. “Oh my god, have I ever told you you’re my favorite,” Dick moans as Clark tears the top off the box and distributes one to each boy.

Immediately, Dick unwraps his prize and digs in. Jason looks far less enthused, but a sideways glance over at his brother, who is eyeing Jason’s pop hopefully, is enough to inspire a change of heart. He tears off the plastic and licks the entire surface of the popsicle before sliding it back into the wrapper and setting it down on the end table.

“Such an ass…” Dick mutters, while Jason coughs out a few dry huffs of laughter.

Clark just sighs.

“Do you know where Tim is?”

Dick gives the small, listless shrug of a man who’s already spent the better part of a week looking after two flu-ridden teens and has precisely zero percent more energy to devote to the task. “Not really, but he’s somewhere in the house. B put a tracker on him after his last escape attempt and he hasn’t set off any alarms.” Nibbling his popsicle, he nods lazily at an electronic tablet on the coffee table. “You can check the app if you want.”

Clark takes him up on the offer. The program in question shows a blueprint of the Manor with a blinking red dot in what looks to be the closet of one of the upper level guest rooms. Closing his eyes for a second, Clark can make out a steady heartbeat and a few sniffles from the same general location.

Satisfied that the boy isn’t in any immediate danger, Clark sets the tablet back down on the table. “I’m going to go see how Bruce is coming along with that humidifier, okay?”

He gets another listless shrug and a few more horrible sounding coughs in return.

The search doesn’t take long. He finds Bruce in the library standing approximately three inches away from one of the room’s massive bay windows, completely zoned out. His mouth is slightly open and he’s exhaling slowly against the glass to make it fog, then wiping it away again with his sleeve, over and over.

“Whoa there, buddy…” Clark says, slipping into that particular concerned-but-amused voice he usually reserves for calming panicking farm animals. “Having fun?”

Slowly, Bruce turns around. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, but he doesn’t seem to be registering Clark’s presence at all. It’s as if he’s looking right through him.

“Okay…” Clark says, a little more worried now, “I’ll be right back, just gonna make a quick phone call, alright?”

Bruce gives the vaguest of grunts. He turns back to the window.

Clark, meanwhile, slips back into the hall and proceeds to call his Ma, asking completely normal and casual questions about humans, fevers, and brain damage.

Chapter Text

Contact dermatitis. 

That’s what Dr. Leslie Thompkins—swamped between back-to-back appointments at her clinic—diagnosed Tim with during the five-minute video call Bruce managed to finagle out of her early this morning. He’d been ready to drive Tim straight to the ER, convinced the itchy red rash that had suddenly developed all over his upper body was measles or something—especially when Tim couldn’t say for certain whether or not he’d ever been vaccinated.

“I mean, I might have been. My parents weren’t like, against vaccines or anything,” Tim had said with a shrug, scratching absently at the back of his elbow. Frowning, Bruce gently tugged his hand away. “But I wouldn’t necessarily trust the records because some years Dad would just sign the name of one of his golf buddies on the form and fax it to the nurse so she’d quit emailing him about it…”

(This admission had gotten Tim booked for a complete physical next month.)

Despite Bruce’s fears (and Tim’s less than reliable medical records), Leslie was quite certain that the rash was less the result of a highly communicable childhood disease and more the result of Bruce having used a cup and a half of ultra-concentrated Tide on a single load of bedsheets, which Tim had then proceeded to sweat profusely into when his fever broke at three in the morning.

She’d prescribed a thorough shower and a dose of Benadryl. That was all well and good until it’d made Tim start bawling at Jeremy Clarkson’s strangely emotional tribute to Eagle Speedsters along the Cliffs of Dover. 

He’s been holed up in his closet ever since.

It’s actually kind of nice in here. He’s made a nest out of some pillows, a sleeping bag, and a pile of his out-of-season clothes, and he’s got his Nintendo Switch, sound-canceling headphones, and phone to keep him company. There’s also a paperback copy of Of Mice and Men from freshman English last year that he found wedged between the shelving units, but he highly doubts he’ll get that desperate. Downstairs, Jason is hacking like a dying goose and glaring daggers at anyone who tries to suggest remedies while Dick is whining to anyone who’ll listen about how unfair it is that a person can feel both hungry and nauseous at the same time (as if he is the only human being to ever experience such a paradox). Tim has no desire to rejoin them.

He’s just queued up a true crime podcast (this one involving a cannibalistic mailman) and started on another round of Subway Surfer when three muffled knocks against the closet door startle him back to reality. He tugs his headphones off his ears and opens the door a crack, fully expecting to find Bruce bearing yet another one of his mediocre attempts at cooking. Instead, a tall muscular man in a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and glasses smiles back at him in a way that’s almost apologetic.

Tim freezes. “Uhh—”

“Hey there, you must be Tim,” the man says. “I’m Clark, one of Bruce’s friends.” He holds out a colorful cardboard box. “Would you like a popsicle?” 

Dazed, Tim lifts a hand and presses it to his forehead, searching for the fever he’s now certain he’s spiked.

Clark frowns. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Tim says simply. “I’m hallucinating.” Because what other explanation could there possibly be for Superman himself to be standing in front of Tim’s bedroom closet offering him limited edition frozen novelties??

The wrinkle in Clark’s brow deepens. “Hallucinating?” He sets the box down on the dresser before reaching his own hand towards Tim. “Do you mind if I—”

Tim scrambles backwards, dodging the hand. “B!” he yelps, unsure of what’s going on, but accepting that Closet Time is officially over. “B! I need you!”

Superman—(Superman!?)—actually winces. “Ah, sorry. Um…” He pulls the hand back, rubbing it awkwardly at the back of his neck. “See, Bruce isn’t really in a state to—”

The bedroom door opens with a bang. Bruce stands wild-eyed in the doorway dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe, his nose rubbed raw and at least 48 hours worth of stubble on his face. 

“What’s wrong,” he demands. He’s holding one unmatched sock in each hand.

Tim gestures at the figure in front of him. “Do you see him too?”

Bruce’s gaze shifts to the intruder. “What did you do.”

“Nothing!” Clark holds his palms out in front of him. “Everything is fine—I was just checking on Tim. Dick said he’s had a rough couple days, that’s all.”

It’s only now as Bruce continues to stare straight ahead that Tim notices how glassy the man’s eyes are, unfocused in a way Tim’s never seen on him before. 

“Um… B?” he can’t help but ask. “Are you, like…okay?”

“Hn,” he says absently. Whatever alertness had sparked in him at his son's cry seems to have faded out just as quick. He continues staring straight ahead.

Tim shoots a questioning look at Superman. “Is he okay?”

“Ma thinks so.” Clark says it like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Tim. Fishing a popsicle out of the box on the dresser, he hands it over. “Keep your fluids up, okay?”

“Uh—”

Crossing the room, Clark puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back to the laundry room, alright pal?” he says, turning Bruce back around. “Those socks aren’t going to fold themselves…”

“Hn,” is all Bruce says as he’s guided back out.