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Dick took a sip from the mug beside him and wrinkled his nose. Cold again. It would do absolutely nothing for his scratchy throat. He sighed and downed it anyway, then set it among the other empty mugs scattered across the table. The kitchen was too far away. He shifted in his chair and then frowned when the thick, scratchy blanket fell away on one side. He tried to tug it back into place, but he had a stack of files in his lap and didn't want to have to bend over and retrieve them, to put them all back in order if he dropped them. It was too much effort. Had been too much for a day or two, at least. He'd just have to deal with being cold for a while longer. He needed to stay awake long enough to finish this case.
It was a lie, but he tried to pretend. The exhaustion helped. He just needed to stay awake a little longer, solve these cases, hide from the nightmares. No, that wasn't it. He needed to read these files. That was it. That was why he was awake, still, huddled in an old armchair in his apartment, surrounded by file folders and blankets instead of his family, back at the manor.
His family. That was why he was here. They didn't need to be exposed to whatever he was coming down with. Or to his foul mood. No need for the younger ones to see that, and no need for Alfred to worry or have the extra burden of caring for him. He was a grown adult, he could manage through a cold on his own. Or the flu. Whatever it was.
Maybe it would help if he knew, though, because whatever he'd taken before hadn't helped. His heart pounded a little faster just remembering. He didn't need pills to get through this, anyway. Hot tea. Soup. Sleep.
Except he was too tired to make soup. Or the tea. And he wasn't going to sleep. He had to read these files.
He should probably get a sandwich. Or a granola bar. An apple. A poptart? He felt like he should be hungry. Food was a thing, and he knew he should be eating, maybe even wanted to at least a little, but he was busy. And tired. So very tired.
He rubbed his temples. The words had been dancing and blurring in blobs across the page before him for the last two hours, but he couldn't (wouldn't) stop now. He stared out the window for a long moment, giving his eyes a break from the small print, but it was gray everywhere. Gray walls, gray sky, gray trees. If he looked down at the gray pavement, the puddles would be gray as well. He was so damned tired of gray. (He was so damned tired.) He closed his eyes for a moment, to block it out, remember something, anything, else.
And then he was clawing his way loose from the blankets, fighting against them, papers raining down across the floor and the nearby table. He fought again, eyes darting this way and that, pushing at shadows, seen and unseen.
~~
“How long do you think he's been like this?”
“Hnn. Alfred spoke to him three days ago, let him know the last Arkham escapee had been recaptured and that it was back to normal patrol routes.”
“That's why I stopped by. He was going to work a stakeout with me, tonight. Watch out. He's got a mean left cross. He never showed, and he didn't answer his comm. Then the window was open when I got here.”
“Alfred was concerned as well. He was supposed to carve pumpkins with Damian this afternoon.”
“Watch his head. He shouldn't be thrashing around this much, still, should he? Shouldn't you… I don't know, give him something so he doesn't hurt himself more?”
“Not until we know what's wrong. Let's get him to the car. He's been here alone for too long.”
~~
Dick stretched. He was achy, and tired. A little fuzzy. But he was warm. He burrowed into the soft pile of blankets and breathed deeply, smiling at the scent of crisp linen.
Wait, that was wrong. He was in Blüdhaven. He frowned and tried to sit up. Tried.
Capable hands were there in a moment, rearranging pillows and bringing him a mug. With a curly straw. “Alf?” Dick cleared his throat and took a sip, relaxing a little more when he recognized the taste of Alfred's mulled cider and the scent of what had to be a freshly made pumpkin donut.
“Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred answered quietly. Further conversation was cut off by a muffled snore from the chair in the corner.
“That bad, huh?” Dick took a few more sips of cider and Alfred traded the mug out for a small plate with the donut he'd smelled. Orange glaze and tiny bat sprinkles. “You're the best, Alf.”
There was a quick knock at the door, and then Jason ducked in with a mug of coffee and another donut. “I uh… Figured I'd save you a trip, Alf.” He nodded towards the corner and passed his burden off to Alfred.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Goldie.” A scant handwave later, Jason was gone again.
And then Alfred was settling “breakfast” on the table beside the corner chair and pulling back the curtains.
The sky was still gray, and wisps of fog curled through the trees Dick could see from the window. But he could make out the brilliant scarlet of maples, the vivid oranges and yellows and golds of oak and ash and beech, and the purple of the dogwood trees against the muted greens of pine and fir, punctuated by the already bare white branches of a stand of birch. The scent of spices mingled with woodsmoke and Alfred's barely there orange oil, sandalwood, and tea scent. He could just make out the darker hints of cedar, leather, and vetiver that could only be Bruce. It all blended together with the lavender and linen from his bed to let him know he was home. He couldn't remember now why he'd tried to stay away.
“Why didn't you tell us you'd been dosed with fear toxin?” Bruce sounded more curious than accusatory.
“Fear toxin?” Dick tore off a few pieces of his donut with a frown, staring down at the plate for a long moment.
“Just as I told you, Master Bruce. It was a light dose and he never even noticed. There were no signs he'd administered an antidote.” Alfred turned to add another log to the fire.
“I had a cold or something… I took something for it, but it gave me nightmares so I pulled out some old case files, tried to stay awake…” He didn't sound sure, though.
Bruce pulled his chair closer, brushed Dick's hair back from his face. There was a wicked-looking scratch on Bruce's cheek, where the cowl didn't cover his face. “You must have run into a small pocket of fear gas that hadn't entirely dissipated the other night. Jason came to check on you when you missed a stakeout with him down by the docks.”
“Oh crap. The Leone case.” Dick's brows furrowed. “And I missed carving pumpkins with Damian. And Tim and I were going to meet for coffee… this afternoon? It is still Tuesday, right?”
“It's quite alright, Master Dick. They all understand.” Alfred nudged the mug closer to Dick.
Dick dutifully took another long sip, absently watching the liquid swirl through the straw. “Jason had a black eye… I put up a fight, didn't I?”
Bruce paused before answering, weighing his words. “He wasn't expecting it. You appeared to be asleep when he came to check on you. You were struggling when I arrived a few moments later. Only minor injuries.”
“But…”
“Minor injuries, Dick. We were more concerned about you. Your heart was racing and you had a fever. You were showing signs of dehydration.” Bruce brushed a finger against Dick's cheek. “You were sick, hurt, and we didn't know it.”
“I'm sorry, Bruce, I didn't mean to worry you…”
Alfred interrupted. “No apologies are necessary, dear boy. He's just doing his normal fumbling job of telling you he missed you. We all have.”
One corner of Dick's mouth quirked up in a smile. “I missed you, too, B.” He took a few bites of donut. Pure heaven. “So since everyone's here, do you think we can convince Alfred to let me go down to the den tonight? Movie marathon?”
There was a slight pleading note hidden deep beneath the words, the slightest bit of worry and fear for the others behind the request for a movie night.
“If you promise to make an early night of it. And let Jason pick the movies.”
Dick relaxed back into the pillows. “Deal.”
Things weren't perfect yet, but they were worlds better than yesterday. He nibbled at the donut as Bruce left, imagining the coming night's festivities.