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It’s 4:00 in the morning, and Jason is still throwing up. Still. He started sometime after dinner, and ever since, it’s been a brutal cycle of feeling nauseous, lurching to the bathroom to hurl, and hauling himself back to bed. He’s now given up on the trek back to his cozy full sized bed and opted for curling around the porcelain toilet and waiting it out. There’s only so much you can throw up, it’s true, but you have to replenish your liquids in a time like this. And, well… liquids are something you can still barf back up. Unpleasant, right. Jason certainly thinks so.
More unpleasant than vomiting, however, is dehydration. Head-splitting, mouth-parching, lip-chapping dehydration. The kind that makes the bathroom tiles warp and pulse every time you swallow or blink, reminding you tauntingly of water.
He should drop a line. An IV with some fluids would make him feel 110% better, but his hands are so shaky and his veins are probably so small that doing so would be an impossible feat. Not to mention the thought standing from his huddle against the toilet is unthinkable.
He should call someone.
He really, really doesn’t want to call someone.
Here’s the thing: It’s a stomach flu. These things tend to process on their own, anyway. But here’s the other thing: Jason’s immune system has a nasty habit of working against him. Chronic issues are a bitch, and he’s got a slew of them. Entirely ignoring the irrelevant diagnoses regarding his mental health (PTSD, Type 1 Bipolar, chronic irritability due to multiple TBIs.), he is still left with the chronic autoimmune and other health issues: POTS (from his CNS being fucked with so much), rheumatoid arthritis, and chronic migraines. The thing about stress is that it takes a physical toll on the body. Jason knows stress intimately. It’ll fuck with you so much you don’t recognize your own body and brain, if you let it. He let it.
So, with said chronic issues, his immune system kinda blows. Fighting off a simple stomach flu is that much more difficult for his system. Exhibit A: involuntary toilet camping.
He really, really should call somebody, or he’s gonna end up dead against a toilet like the King of Rock. Elvis was on a shit ton of drugs though. I mean, Jason is too, but they’re prescribed, doctor-approved drugs. Not, ya know, Valium and codeine. Real party animal, Elvis was.
His phone is plugged in on the counter. Jason, bracing on the toilet seat, reaches up and paws it down towards him. In his nausea-addled state, he fails to grab it and it clatters to the floor. He groans. When Jason picks it up, there’s a new crack in the corner. Awesome.
Who to call?
Not Dick, he’ll fuss over Jason but bitch about it simultaneously. Not Tim, he’ll just give him shit- well, no, maybe that’s not true. Tim has his own set of autoimmune bullshit. He might not judge. But whatever, Tim’s not exactly the caregiver type. Steph? Maybe. Duke? Hell no, he’s not very fond of Jason anyway. He could call Alfred, but the man spends his whole life taking care of the family, he shouldn’t have to haul his ass across Gotham just to drag Jason up off the floor. Harper and Helena are both not close enough to Jason socially that he feels comfortable asking them for help. Then there’s Bruce.
Bruce. He’d come, too, if Jason asked. But could Jason ask? They’re speaking, and cordial even at times. But there’s so much pride between the two of them, and a fuck-ton of moral contradictions. Bad blood. But… but.
But it's Bruce.
“Hello?”
“Br’ce?”
“Jason? You alright?”
“Mm. Pr’lly not,” he mumbles, his cheek pressed against the cool toilet seat. “Sick.”
“How sick? Why are you calling me? Why didn’t you call Leslie?”
Fuck, Leslie, he knew he was forgetting somebody.
“Fr’got.”
“Hm. I’m coming over.”
“‘Kay.”
The line goes quiet, and Bruce is probably taken aback at how willingly Jason is accepting his help. It’s likely not a good sign from the big man’s perspective. Oh well.
“Alright. I’ll be there in ten.”
“‘Kay.”
And wow, ten minutes is fast. In the time it takes for Bruce to knock on the door of his apartment (not that he can answer it in his state), Jason has managed to haul himself into a more upright position, wet a towel messily in the sink above him, and wiped down his face. Sweat and remnants of vomit cleanse from his skin with every wipe. The cool moist fabric is heavenly against his feverish flesh.
There’s that knock.
“Come in,” Jason grunts, as loudly as he can muster. Either Bruce hears him or he is concerned enough at the non-answer that he lets himself in, because a moment later he’s standing at Jason’s bathroom door.
What a sight he must be. Legs sprawled across the bathroom tiles, arms bracing against the toilet and sink to stay upright, damp towel clutched in one hand. He’s wearing his rattiest pajamas, of course. His hair- god, it must be sticking up in exactly every angle, and the curls would only add to the disheveled picture. In the dim light of the bathroom, he realizes wiping his face down might not have helped him look less sick. In fact, it may have added to the feverish appearance by adding beads of water resembling sweat.
“Lookin’ rough, chum,” Bruce murmurs, kneeling on the tile beside him and laying the back of his hand against Jason’s forehead.
“Thanks,” Jason grumbles, but it's a scratchy and grated sound. Throwing up so much took a toll on his throat.
“Let’s get you back to bed.”
“Mm. No, I’ll thr’w up ‘n my bed,” he slurs his words a little, the effort to talk being tremendous.
“I’ll grab a bowl or a bag. I’m assuming you have emesis bags in your first aid kit?” Bruce asks.
“Mhm.”
Bruce shifts Jason’s shoulder aside for a moment, opening the cupboard under the sink and extracting a red first aid kit. He opens it and removes three emesis bags, as well as an IV starter kit.
“I’m assuming you have fluids on hand?”
“Al’wys.”
“Where?”
“Kit’chn,” Jason mumbles back.
“I’ll go get it.”
“Mhm.”
In Bruce’s subsequent absence, the bathroom’s stale stench refills his nose. Quiet notes of the manor and an expensive cologne had given him a reprieve, but the “sick” smell is back. Sick people always have a smell, and you know it's really bad when they themselves can smell it. Jason can smell himself.
Bruce is back in a minute, packing a saline pouch and a collapsable portable IV stand. He sets them on the sink counter and kneels beside Jason once more.
“Ready?”
“Ngh.”
“Alright. On three,” Bruce warns, wrapping an arm around Jason’s waist and positioning himself to hold the brunt of Jason’s weight. “One, two, three.”
.
.
.
.
He’s not sure how long he sleeps for, but when he wakes, there’s light pouring in through his blinds. The IV drip to his arm automatically shut off when it reached empty, though who knows how many times Bruce has swapped the bags by now.
Bruce, speak of the devil, is sitting in Jason’s armchair by his bookcase with his reading glasses on. When he squints, Jason can make out “The Odyssey” printed on the cover of the book in his hands. Figures. Bruce went through a whole Greek fiction phase during Jason’s first year as Robin. It had been jump-started by Jason reading Anabasis. So, yeah, it would figure that the guy would get all gushy and nostalgic while Jason is sick. Despite what his Rogue Gallery and Justice League friends might assume, Bruce Wayne is the biggest fucking bleeding heart to ever exist in Gotham. No contest.
"Surprised Leslie isn't here," Jason croaks. His voice is rusty from sleep and lack of use, and likely the abuse it suffered through the night from recurring appearances of stomach acid. Bruce peers at Jason over his reading glasses.
"She was. Awfully obsessive over if I started your IV correctly, too. You'd think she'd trust my medical skills, after all these years. I did go to medical school after all."
“Yeah, and dropped out. Nice choice. Not at all sentimental,” he says, nodding to the book in Bruce's hands.
“Sentimentality isn’t a crime. And actually, I was reading it more because I see us in it," Bruce says as he removes his glasses.
“In The Odyssey?" Jason frowns, pushing himself to his elbow and wincing at the tightness in his muscles.
“It occurred to me how similar we are to Odysseus and Telemachus,” Bruce explains, closing the book and setting it on the bookshelf. “The pressure you always felt to live up to my expectations, my mentorship being both a blessing and a burden to bear. And, of course, their destinies.”
“Telemachus had a happy ending.”
“Telemachus grew into a brave young man who worked side by side with his father to fight for his homeland and people. Sounds an awful lot like someone I know,” Bruce elaborates. There’s an uncharacteristically vulnerable hush to his voice.
“Yeah… well… Sounds more like Dick to me.”
“Odysseus didn’t raise Telemachus. When he reunited with his son, they’d been apart for many years. That sounds more like you. Not to mention, Dick would never appreciate the literary comparison like you would. I find the description of Telemachus to line up with you perfectly.”
That’s… something. Jason clears his throat awkwardly.
“Well… thanks.”
Bruce nods once with the smallest of smiles, then stands from the armchair. He makes his way to Jason’s bedside and removes the IV catheter, replacing it with a small square of gauze and a bandaid.
“Next time,” Bruce says as he balls up the bandaid wrapper and deposits the catheter in a waste bin, “Please call for help sooner. I didn’t like seeing you so sick, Jason.”
“Ya know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re getting emotional with age, old man,” Jason snorts.
“I’ve always been emotional. It’s admitting to those emotions that I’m getting better at,” Bruce says coyly. Jason could swear there’s a twinkle in his eyes, or maybe it’s the daylight coming through the blinds.