Archive of Our Own

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Their line of work meant a fair amount of blunt trauma. Bruce’s fighting style was much more suited to taking blows; the heavily armoured suit was designed specifically with hits to the chest in mind.

Dick’s, though, was the exact opposite, relying on being fast and bendy to avoid getting hit. His suit was hardly reinforced, in comparison to Bruce’s. It was why he didn’t really take note of the mottled bruises colouring his torso in vivid shades when he woke up after a rough night.

Alfred was expecting him at the Manor tonight for their fortnightly (sometimes even monthly) family dinner. But as Dick sat up in bed, he honestly wondered if he was going to have to cancel. His stomach didn’t hurt that much, though – he supposed that ointment and perhaps a hot water bottle would make it tolerable enough for patrol and the drive to Gotham.

Dick stood up to head into the bathroom, wincing the entire way. His whole torso ached. It was lucky that his classes for today had been cancelled – something about the gym needing to be hired for a safety program – because the thought of having to keep up with a group of kids made him want to crawl back into bed.

As it was, Dick crashed in front of the TV with a packet of bread and a jar of jam. The jar was already half-empty, from when Alfred had brought it over for Dick to taste. He’d been trying his hand at jams lately, something about growing a sweet tooth in his old age.

It was only when he’d already sat down that Dick realised he hadn’t gotten a knife or anything. With a sigh, he glanced at the kitchen, and then at the jar in his hand. Was he desperate enough to just dip the bread in there?

Ten minutes of debating later, the answer was yes.

There was some weird crime show on TV that Dick half paid attention to, flicking back and forth between three channels as all of them failed to keep his attention. He finally settled on the news, dozing off as the weatherman talked about the oncoming storm that was due to hit in the next week.

Dick woke with a start at a terrible churning deep in his stomach. He stumbled off the couch, knocking over the jar and the bread bag, sliced bread spreading all over the coffee table. His head was reeling as he staggered into the bathroom, vision coming in spotty and dark and breath all too harsh, the only sound he could hear over his pounding heartbeat.

He threw up in the toilet bowl, eyes squeezed tight. Half-digested bread and bits of red jam came out, and his stomach convulsed as stomach acid burned against his throat.

Dick crouched there, breathing shallowly through his mouth to avoid having to smell it. After a moment, when he was mostly certain that his stomach had calmed down, he closed the toilet lid and flushed. He finally opened his eyes when his pulse settled, blinking away dark spots as the bright light pierced his vision and made him wince.

He didn’t feel like walking back into the living room, but it was cold sitting here on the tiles. The bedroom would be closer, but he’d also left his phone on the coffee table. And besides, the jam jar was open and on its side. There’d be ants in no time if he just left it like that.

Dick braced himself on the countertop, pulling himself up to standing. Even that motion stole his breath, and he stood there with his hands spread out on either side of the sink, staring down at the drain as he willed his body to keep his insides where they belonged.

It was about midday right now – Dick had woken a little later than he usually did, a result of both patrol the night before and the fact that he didn’t have work today. Dinner at the Manor was normally at around six, to account for patrol. That gave him about four hours to get his shit together and make the drive to the Manor.

As Dick walked back to the couch gingerly, he genuinely contemplated calling Alfred up right now to tell him that he wouldn’t be able to come, but he knew that Tim had said that he was going to be there – his father was out of town again – and Dick liked the way the kid’s face lit up when he saw him.

There weren’t many people he had that effect on, and sue him if he liked sliding into the role of the idolised older brother. Besides, he missed Tim now that he was in Bludhaven.

It was about four in the afternoon when Dick finally gave in and dialled Alfred’s number, telling him that he wouldn’t be attending. He could barely keep his voice normal as it was, and even the thought of moving from where he was leaning against the bathtub made his stomach swirl with nausea.

Dick must’ve fallen asleep there, because the next time he came to, he had the worst crick in his neck, and now his back was sore atop of the burning in his gut. He moved like a zombie, limbs slowly waking up.

It was dark outside – now that it was summer, that meant that it was well past midnight. Dick shakily used the toilet bowl and edge of the tub as leverage to stand, the shivers running through his body sending spikes of pain and nausea through him at the same time.

He walked blearily into the kitchen to get a glass of water and maybe something solid, like that packet of biscuits he vaguely remembered still having. Dick gulped down water, spotting the bread bag and making a beeline for it instead of rifling through his cupboards.

This time he didn’t bother with jam or anything, taking a bite out of the slice of bread and swallowing it down with another mouthful of water when it conglomerated into a giant soggy ball in his mouth.

His body needed more fluids; he knew that much. He grabbed out a few of those dissolvable electrolyte tablets that Alfred had slipped into his medicine kit the last time he’d seen him, and dropped two of them into a glass of water. They fizzed and popped as they liquefied; Dick could already smell the artificial lemonade flavouring.

The clock read two in the morning. Dick grimaced, knowing that a decent night’s sleep was now unthinkable. Instead, he grabbed the bin and placed it next to the couch, sitting down carefully to avoid agitating his body.

There was nothing particularly good on TV, so Dick settled down for watching late night cartoons and old TV show reruns. He took careful sips from his glass, risking larger ones when his thirst took priority over how his stomach would take it.

It was only after he’d finished the entire thing that Dick allowed himself to tilt to the side and use the armrest of the couch as a pillow, staring blankly as the screen as the Flinstones argued about something.

He woke again because of his stomach, rebelling against the single piece of bread and the two glasses of water he’d downed a few hours ago. There was light coming in through the window now, allowing Dick to see where he’d put the bin.

He grabbed for it, managing to yank it over just in time to throw up everything he’d eaten, and then some. He leaned over the edge of the sofa for what felt like hours, gagging and retching as his stomach tried to throw up non-existent food.

When he was done, Dick grimaced at the thought of having to make it all the way to the kitchen bin to get rid of his sick. At least he’d had the presence of mind to use a bin liner.

But then Dick’s eyes fell upon what he’d just vomited up, and he frowned. Because there was definitely blood in the wastebin. He poked his tongue around in his mouth, wondering if perhaps he’d bitten it or his cheek, but everything was fine. There was a burning feeling in his throat, but that wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it’d been one time when he’d gotten food poisoning, and he definitely hadn’t been puking blood then.

Dick looked to his phone, contemplating whether now was a good time to call Alfred and Bruce. He glanced at the bucket again, resisting the urge to chew on his lip.

The gross taste in his mouth, and the general smell of the apartment, settled it. He needed to clean up before he did anything, because it would take them an hour or so to get here, and there was no way Dick was going to be living in this smell in the meantime.

But after he’d cleaned everything up and replaced the bin liner, Dick was sure he’d overreacted. There was no reason for him to call anyone; he knew that Bruce had said something about a case, and Alfred always had things to do around the house. He’d just wait it out, see if it continued over the next day or so.

For once, Dick wasn’t woken by his stomach. This time, it was to the sound of his door opening, and footsteps approaching the couch.

“Dick?” a voice called, and Dick’s guard dropped immediately.

“Bruce?” he said in confusion, lifting his head slightly. “What’re you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone. Alfred said you cancelled dinner last night because you were feeling sick, so he packed you leftovers.” There was the sound of something being placed on the table, and then Bruce’s face came into view. “Food poisoning?”

Dick shrugged. “I think so?” he said. “I keep throwing up, and my stomach hurts.”

Bruce grunted, crouching down to lean on his heels. He reached out and placed a hand against Dick’s forehead, almost absentmindedly, and then his eyes widened and he pressed it there more firmly.

“What?” Dick asked irritably, moving his head back.

“You’re freezing,” Bruce said, standing in a flash and heading towards the bedroom.

He emerged seconds later with a giant blanket, fluffy and warm. Bruce placed it on Dick, tucking it into the sides with quick hands. Then he disappeared again, but at that point, Dick didn’t particularly care where he was going, because he was just happy at feeling warm.

“How long have you been feeling sick?” Bruce asked. Dick could hear him rifling through what he assumed was his med kit.

“Yesterday night?” he said. “Since I woke up. It’s probably something I ate, though. Or maybe there’s something going around.”

Bruce walked over with a thermometer. To his credit, he didn’t even attempt to ask Dick to take it in his mouth, no doubt having anticipated that Dick refuse – his mouth felt gross. He tugged the blanket down a little, sliding it through the arm of Dick’s T-shirt and into his armpit.

When Bruce glanced at his watch, Dick grinned a little weakly. “There’ve been great advances in modern technology,” he said. “Now, the thermometers will beep when they’re done.”

Bruce grunted at him, but he looked up from his watch, at least. “You could’ve called,” he said.

Dick shrugged, unable to hide the wince that followed that action. “It’s just a few shitty days of being sick,” he said. “Part of being an adult, right?”

Bruce hummed. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I never moved out.”

That was when Dick’s stomach turned once more, and he grimaced, both at the sensation, and the fact that he was going to throw up in front of Bruce.

“Gonna be sick,” he said, already struggling out of the blanket as he sat up.

Bruce whipped it off in an instant, and before Dick could blink, the bin was in front of him, placed right in front of his head. His body shook as it convulsed, fingers tight around the rim of the bin.

Dick spat into it when he was done, breathing through his mouth to avoid smelling it. Bruce had gotten up to grab him a glass of water, which Dick accepted gratefully, swirling a mouthful around and spitting it out.

And then Bruce got a look at the contents. “What’ve you eaten recently?” he asked, voice tense as he tied up the bag to dispose of it.

“Uh, nothing much,” Dick said, leaning his head against the back of the couch. "Bread, mostly. Alfred's jam."

The thermometer had slipped out of his armpit at some point, and he couldn’t really be bothered to look for it right now. Just as he had fought through the haze of blurry vision, there was a freezing wind as his shirt was yanked upwards.

“B, what the fuck,” Dick yelped, shivers starting anew.

“Dick, you’ve been throwing up blood,” Bruce said to him, voice steely. “You’re freezing to the touch. And your torso looks like this?”

Dick glanced down and winced at how much worse his stomach looked now, about a day or so since being injured.

“Come on, we’re heading to the hospital,” Bruce said, already heading to Dick’s bedroom.

Dick clambered into a vertical position, swaying a little as he stood. “No hospital,” he protested. “Cave.”

Bruce glared at him. “Fine,” he said, seeing the stubborn set of Dick’s jaw.

Dick was getting sick of waking up feeling disoriented. “What happened?” he asked. He brought up a hand to rub his eyes with, but paused when he noticed an IV line attached to his vein.

“Master Dick.” Alfred’s voice had never sounded more wonderful to Dick’s ears. “It seems that the blows you took damaged your intestines. You’d gone into septic shock when Master Bruce saw you.”

“Oh,” Dick said faintly. “That’s… I didn’t realise it was that bad.”

He finally opened his eyes properly, looking to Alfred in the dim glow of his bedroom in the Manor. Alfred was watching him with careful eyes.

“I should hope not,” Alfred said, “but next time you feel you have even the mildest cases of the flu, I expect to receive a phone call.”

Dick twisted the sheets between his fingers. “Yeah. I will,” he said. “Is everything good now? I can’t feel any stitches, so…”

Alfred nodded, about to say something when the door opened, and Bruce entered. He glanced at Bruce before saying, “You’re very lucky. The infection was brought down with antibiotics, which you’ll need to take intravenously until your intestines recover.”

Dick wrinkled his nose. “Does that mean I’m confined to this room for like the next week?” he asked, testing the boundaries.

Bruce sighed. “We know better than that,” he said wearily. “You’re allowed in the living room. The one that’s on this floor.”

“I’ll return in an hour with lunch,” Alfred said. “For Master Bruce, that is. Yours is a little more of the liquid variety.”

Dick slumped back into the pillow with all the petulance of a teenager undergoing a crisis. “This sucks,” he said to Bruce, who only raised an eyebrow as he settled into a chair.

“It would’ve sucked less if you’d called one of us sooner, and we’d checked you out,” he said. Up close, Dick could spot the signs of a sleepless night on Bruce’s face.

“What day is it?” he asked, glancing towards his clock.

“It’s Tuesday,” Bruce told him. “You’ve been out for almost a day. Actually, you should sleep now. Your body needs to recover. And you’ll need some energy after Tim’s school lets out.”

Dick’s mood brightened instantly at the thought of Tim being here, though he hated that the younger boy would have to see him in this condition.

“Dick,” Bruce began. “I meant what I said to you. I never moved out. Every night, when I come home, I have Alfred here waiting for me. I have Robin, too. You don’t. There’s nothing stopping you from—”

Dick interrupted before Bruce could say something like die in a pool of your own blood, a few centimetres away from your phone because neither of them needed that right now. “I know,” he said instead. “And I will. But this time I really did just—”

“That’s the thing,” Bruce cut in, leaning forward, eyes intense. “This time you thought it was just food poisoning. What if it’d been a more severe internal injury? What if you tried patching yourself up but didn’t realise you were bleeding internally?”

Dick sighed. “What do you expect me to do, then?” he asked. “It’s not like I’m the only one in our community who works alone.”

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. “Check in every night after patrol?” he asked. “With a complete catalogue of all injuries received, no matter how small. And heat cameras.”

Dick exhaled. “I’ll do the check ins,” he said. “But I can’t do cameras in the entire apartment.”

“Bathrooms and living room,” Bruce said.

“Just the living room, and heat only,” Dick said. When Bruce’s mouth thinned at that, he let out a loose laugh. “What, would you tolerate cameras in your bathroom?”

After a moment, Bruce sighed. “Fine. Just the living room for now.”

Dick snorted. “It’s never over with you, is it,” he said.

Instead of responding, Bruce leaned back in the armchair. “Sleep, Dick,” he said. “You can argue once you’ve woken up.”

“Fine,” Dick said, stifling a yawn as he sunk back into the bed.