Work Text:
Bruce is not expecting a phone call at 4am. He’s only been back from his night job for around an hour and he desperately wants to go back to sleep.
Bruce is not expecting a phone call, but the Caller ID says it’s Dick, who he hasn’t seen since the last time the boy stormed out of the manor. He is suddenly very awake.
He accepts the call. “Dick?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”
Bruce does not allow himself to think of all the things that could have gone wrong. Dick is an adult, but barely, and Bludhaven is a dangerous city.
“Bruce,” Dick coughs, a horrible sound that goes on for far too long. “Can you come pick me up? I think I’m sick.”
Bruce throws on some clothes. He doesn’t bother waking Alfred. He manages to shave the hour long drive down to forty-five minutes.
It still takes him far too long to get to Dick.
He lets himself into the apartment with the key he’d made Dick give him, just in case. That had been a fight. Most things were fights, nowadays.
He finds Dick collapsed on the couch in a t-shirt and sweats, a ring of empty water bottles on the floor surrounding him.
“Hey chum,” he whispers, unconsciously reverting back to the childhood nickname. “You have to get up.”
Dick buries his face in the pillow. “No” he grumbles.
Bruce steps carefully over the trash on the floor. He pulls Dick until the boy is sitting up, then maneuvers so he can support Dick’s weight.
His boy is feverish, hair soaked with sweat. Bruce slings Dick’s arm around his shoulder and wraps an arm around the boy’s waist. Dick pushes his (snotty, sweaty) face into Bruce’s shoulder.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” Dick mumbles.
“Of course I did,” Bruce says. He runs a hand through Dick’s hair. “Have you taken any medicine?”
“Uh huh,” Dick nods into Bruce’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Bruce says. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”
Once they get to the car, Dick presses his forehead against the cold glass of the window. On the way out of Bludhaven, Bruce stops at a Wawa, grabs a ginger ale, and passes it off to Dick.
For a while, the pop of the soda tap and the soft crackling of the soda are the only sounds in the car. That’s fine, except for the fact that Bruce has to pay attention to the road when all he wants to do is make sure Dick is okay.
Soon, though, he can hear Dick snoring in a congested, can’t-breath-out-of-your-nose way.
He’s loathe to wake Dick up when they get to the manor, but needs must. He shakes Dick awake and helps him into the manor. His old bedroom is unchanged from the whirlwind that was Dick moving out, slamming doors and throwing things into boxes and a screaming match that lasted days.
Bruce guides Dick to the bed. Dick flops into it face first, flare for the dramatics unhindered even by the flu.
“Bruce,” he mumbles into the sheets. “I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Bruce promises, brushing Dick’s hair back. “Not on my watch.”
Bruce’s son flops around until he’s on his back. Bruce keeps running his fingers through Dick’s hair. Dick leans into the touch, like he did when he was little. Where did all the time go, what did Bruce do wrong.
When Dick stop moving, eyes fluttering shut and breathing smoothing out, Bruce turns to go.
“Thanks Bruce,” Dick murmurs sleepily. “I love you.”
Bruce’s chest is tight. “Love you too, chum”