Work Text:
The manor is never quiet.
The noise levels ebb and flow depending on any number of factors, from the time of day, to the number of people coming and going, to which of the fifty-six or so recurring petty squabbles are currently underway, but there’s just far too much happening in the place for it to ever be truly still.
Usually, Duke takes this all in stride. He’s a pretty chaotic individual himself, so it’s easy to throw himself headfirst into the constant barrage of activity and arguments and the occasional all-out war (like what happened last week, when Jason ate the leftover kebab that Dick had been looking forward to finishing off all day and Duke got to witness an entirely new side of his eldest brother). He likes the stupid fights and the inside jokes—likes how they can make these old walls brim with life.
Today, however, Duke could really do with some peace.
It started towards the end of eighth period—blurry spots in his vision, a queasy feeling in his stomach, a building pressure just behind his right eye. He tried sipping water and telling himself it was just the fumes from the chem lab getting to him, but that was wishful thinking and he knew it.
Duke was never a sickly child growing up, but he’s been prone to headaches for as long as he can remember. His dad used to say it was because that giant brain of his was growing too big for his skull, which depending on Duke’s level of suffering at the time would either elicit an amused scoff, or an annoyed groan and a pillow chucked in the man’s general direction. His mom, meanwhile, would sigh and whisper apologies as she used her fingertips to brush his hair back away from his eyes. Migraines tended to run in families, and though she’d never gotten them herself, her own mother had. Duke always thought it was funny how she blamed herself for something so entirely outside of her control. Even as a kid he could understand that not all pain is somebody’s fault.
Sometimes, you just hurt.
By the time Duke gets home from school that afternoon, the headache is already setting in like a tiny drill behind his eye. It’s all he can do to keep the discomfort off his face as he trudges up the stairs, his school bag slung over one shoulder, and collapses down, fully dressed, onto his bed. The few scraps of energy that remain he uses to loosen his tie and tug it free of his collar before tossing it to the floor.
He stays like that for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness while the sounds of the manor filter through his haze of pain. He can make out Jason and Alfred’s muffled voices in the kitchen below, the soft classical music that accompanies Cassandra’s afternoon dance sessions, the unmistakable clack-clack-clack of Titus’ nails as he trots down the hall. At night, Duke usually sleeps with a white noise machine to drown out the sounds of his eccentric family, but twelve hours of box fan noises are the last thing his aching brain wants right now.
At some point, he registers a knock on his bedroom door.
“...Yeah?” Duke answers groggily.
The door opens, revealing Tim standing just outside. “Hey. Alfred said to tell you dinner’s almost ready.”
Duke grimaces at the thought. Besides the mild nausea, the idea of sitting up in the manor’s sunny dining room surrounded by the entire family does not sound even remotely appealing at the moment.
“You guys can go ahead,” he murmurs, his words coming out slow and a bit slurred. “’M not very hungry.”
Tim’s brow furrows. “You alright?”
“Mm,” Duke hums in vague affirmation. Curled up on his bed with his eyes half-closed, still dressed in his blazer and khakis, he’s sure he’s a sorry sight to behold, but he doesn’t quite have it in him to sit up and put on an act at the moment. He might have, if it were Damian, or Jason, or even Cass coming to get him. Any of them would be liable to go get Bruce and make a whole thing out of this, but he trusts Tim a little more than he trusts the others not to overreact.
Hesitating for a moment, Tim quietly asks, “Do you have a headache?”
Duke gives him another small hum. It’s not the pain so much as it’s the everything else. The weird flashes of light behind his eyelids, the tingling numbness in his fingers, the way every thought and action feels like he’s dragging it through a pool of molasses. He doesn’t want to do anything but lie there.
Silently, Tim slips into the room and closes the door behind him. He moves around the bed to the window and adjusts the blinds, causing Duke to exhale in relief as the room darkens further. He should have done that earlier.
“Did you take anything?” Tim asks.
Duke shakes his head slightly, and Tim nods in response. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
“Can you— the others. I don’t want...” Duke flaps a hand languidly, but he can’t quite figure out how to articulate his request. His brain knows what he wants to say, but he’s having a hard time finding the words. They slip away before he can grasp them, like sand through his fingers.
Miraculously, Tim understands him anyway. His expression softens. “Don’t worry, I’ll only let Alfred know.”
At that, Duke lets himself relax a little. Unlike Bruce, Alfred knows how to be discreet. He won’t come barging into Duke’s room and force him to rate his pain on a scale, or test his coordination by making him touch his fingertips to his nose, or make him answer a bunch of questions about unreported head injuries on patrol. While Bruce trusts only his own judgment when it comes to matters of his children’s health, Alfred is pretty good about giving them the benefit of the doubt.
Tim’s gone for a few minutes before he slips back into the room just as silently as he’d left. This time, he’s carrying a pill bottle with a green cap, a glass of water, and a couple of reusable gel cold packs. He sets these all down on the nightstand, then moves over to Duke’s dresser to pull out some sweats and a t-shirt.
As Tim approaches the bed with the clothes, Duke waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t— it’s not…” he mumbles, trying to say that it isn’t worth it to change out of his uniform, but Tim just gives him an apologetic half-smile.
“It’ll help, I promise,” he insists, so Duke begrudgingly sits up long enough to change out of his uniform. His fingers fumble stupidly with the shirt buttons, but Tim is patient as he waits for Duke to undo them all himself, which he appreciates. He might be a little impaired right now, but he’s not a complete invalid. He can still do this.
Pulling on the sweats, Duke wonders, dimly, how much of Tim’s caretaking approach comes from his own history of health issues; given how frequently his crappy immune system fails him, the running joke around the manor is that he’s their resident Victorian child, but Duke always found that depiction a little flawed. Tim’s anything but dramatic when he’s not feeling well. He usually just wants to be left alone.
(Honestly, Duke can relate.)
As Duke pulls on the shirt, Tim grabs the bottle of Excedrin and twists off the child-proof cap. “You can swallow a pill, right?” he asks.
Sluggishly, Duke raises an eyebrow at him. “Who can’t swallow a pill?”
Tim huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “Damian. He has to take them with a spoonful of applesauce or else they make him gag. It pisses him off that he can’t. One time Alfred got all exasperated and tried suggesting he just take the children’s liquid stuff instead. I don’t think Damian spoke to him for a week.”
Duke can’t help but snort a little as Tim doles out the meds, shaking two white pills into his open palm. He tosses them back dry, just to make a point.
Tim looks unimpressed.
“Damian’s not watching,” he reminds Duke as he passes him the water glass to wash them down. “And for the record, my personal best is twenty-two in one gulp.”
Duke just blinks at him. “Dude.”
“Not like that,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “Alfred went through a hardcore nutritional supplement phase last year. It was like he thought if he just pumped me full enough of B-12 and garlic, he could grow me a new spleen.” He scoffs humorously. “All it actually did was make my breath stink and turn my piss green.”
A sharp bark of laughter bursts from Duke’s mouth before he can stifle it, followed immediately by a low groan as the drill behind his eye burrows deeper. He presses the meaty part of his palm against the stabbing pain, moaning, “Don’t make me laugh…”
“Sorry. I’ll try to stop being so hilarious.”
“Yeah. You do that,” Duke mutters as he sinks back down onto the pillows. Tim hands him one of the gel packs, which Duke immediately presses against his pulsing right eye. The second one he slides under his neck.
“Need anything else?” Tim offers. “Gatorade? Crackers? A ten-hour loop of ambient rain sounds?”
“Nah,” Duke sighs, closing his eyes under the gel pack. “Think I jus’ need to sleep it off.”
“Alright,” Tim agrees. “I’m gonna head down to dinner, then.”
“‘Kay,” Duke murmurs tiredly, then as an afterthought, adds, “What’d Alfred make?”
“Uh”—Tim sniffs the air, frowning—“lamb stew, I think.”
“Hm,” Duke hums vaguely. That’s one of his favorites, not that it sounds very good at the moment.
“We’ll save you some,” Tim says easily. “I’ll make sure Jason doesn’t eat it all.”
Duke cracks an eyelid open at him. “...Promise?”
“‘Course.” He grins. “Even if I have to fight him for it.”
“Jus’ don’t break any more china cabinets,” Duke murmurs, recalling Dick and Jason’s spat over the kebab last week. “‘S too loud.”
“Now that I can’t guarantee…”
Duke sighs. He supposes he should just enjoy the peace while it lasts.