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Dick had told Bruce that it was just a cough.
Keyword: was.
It wasn’t like it was a rare occasion for him to get a cough or a sniffle every now and then, especially since he interacted with a lot more people than anyone else in the household, so naturally everyone accepted that explanation.
Aside from Bruce, of course. Between him being a detective, having great knowledge with medical and health issues, and being Dick’s legal guardian long enough to know when he lies, it’s safe to assume he typically knows when something else is up.
Everyone— sometimes including Bruce!— chalks Bruce’s worry up to paranoia and anxiety over his children, which is what Dick had told Bruce when the older insisted on taking his temperature, giving a quick look at his throat, and eventually asked to do a full checkup, to which Dick still refused, despite Bruce’s pleas.
But right now? Dick wished he would’ve listened and let Bruce do something earlier. Maybe he could’ve prevented it, or at least lessen the impact the sickness has on him right now. His head throbs like an ice pick hammered at his temples and the base of his neck. He couldn’t breathe through his clogged nose, but blowing his nose into a tissue didn’t solve anything either. His chest is heavy with a weight on his lungs, and his arms just ache with a similar weight, leaving him unable to lift his shaky arms just enough to grab a tissue.
The worst part is the brain fog, in his humble opinion. The feeling that you’re not fully coherent and understanding, like you’re deprived from sleep even though he got plenty last night. (Nine hours is plenty of sleep, even if it is on and off! And he is more than willing to argue on that when he’s more awake!)
He felt miserable, but miserable felt like a downplay on what his body was experiencing.
He blinked out of his thoughts— If you could even call it that, more like zoning out.— when there was a soft knock at his door, followed by the sound of the handle turning and opening. Turning his hazy attention over to the source, he sees Bruce walking over with a tea tray filled with something Dick could really care less about at the moment.
“Hey bud, I’m sorry you feel bad.” Bruce says with the gentlest tone Dick’s heard in awhile, the same gentleness that he used when he was younger or— “‘M not small” Dick speaks into his pillows, his eye sharpening as much as it can through the sickly haze that covers his brain. He may be very out of it, but he’s certainly not regressed, he knows he isn’t.
Knowing is a loose term to him.
“I never said you were.” Bruce hums out in response, a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips at the unprovoked comment, grabbing a translucent cap from the tea tray and offering it to Dick, who squints at the two white capsules inside, before whining with a displeased expression and burrowing his face into his pillow.
“C’mon chum, you and I both know that you don’t like the liquid medicine more than the pills.” Bruce says calmly, a voice Dick only heard when he was trying to be convinced into something, but he won’t fall for the tricks of taking medicine this time!
“Hm,” Bruce sighs out. “I guess the ice cream I got will go to waste.”
Dick turns his head a bit at that, peeking an eye out from where his face is buried into the soft white plush. “Ice cream..?” He murmurs, his gaze latched onto Bruce’s somber expression with wide eyes.
“Mmhm. Mint chocolate chip, too.” He says, a frown on his face as he shakes his head solemnly with a click of his tongue. A sniffle and he looks at Dick, who’s turned his attention towards Bruce entirely, his head raised from the pillow slightly. “But, I don’t like mint chocolate chip. I also know that the others don’t like mint chocolate chip, so why would I have gotten it?” He says, looking up in thought as he taps his chin in theatrical confusion, to which Dick’s eyes crease with a silent smile at.
“I like it!” Dick says as he sits up, a few stray coughs escaping his lungs at his sudden excitement, gaining a reminder at the scratchiness in his throat.
Bruce raises his eyebrows as he turns to Dick. “ It is? Wow! How could I forget?!” He says, a smile as equally big as his sons, before he feigns a deep thought for a moment. “How about we do a trade? You take these two pills, and I’ll give you a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, hm?”
Well, obviously, Dick can’t deny any offer involving mint chocolate chip ice cream, so he nods rapidly, a toothy grin plastered on his face. He quickly stops the motion with a whine when his head begins to throb again, Bruce placing a comforting hand on the back of Dick’s head and tucking it below his chin, rubbing his thumb soothingly.
“Okay, okay, bud. Let’s take this medicine and get you some ice cream to make you feel better.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of Dick’s head, who hums in agreement.
Pulling back, he takes the pills separately with sips of his— now lukewarm— lemon tea that Alfred had made earlier, and swallows them with a few moments of struggle, to which Bruce just rubs reassuring circles on his back when he catches a glimpse of discontent on Dick’s face.
Maybe medicine isn’t as big of a deal if mint chocolate chip ice cream is involved, and just maybe listening to Bruce isn’t as big of a deal if mint chocolate chip is involved either.