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“Sorry you had to deal with Penguin again,” Gordon says, writing something down on his notepad. “You did take him down in record time, though. Less than ten minutes. That’s impressive even for you, Batman.”
Batman shrugs. (He’s never been good at taking compliments.) “I had help,” he responds, gesturing over his shoulder to where Robin is standing. “Would’ve taken longer, if I was on my own.”
Gordon nods. “He seems tired. Past his bedtime?”
Batman laughs a little at that. “I suppose.”
“He looks a little sick, actually. Been sniffling for a few minutes, there.”
Batman whips his head around, and sure enough, there’s Robin, sniffling and blowing his nose into a tissue. Batman turns back to the commissioner. “I’m taking him home now. I’ll see you next time someone breaks out of Arkham.”
“Soon, then,” Gordon jokes, “They never seem to stay in there for long.”
Batman takes Robin by the hand and leads him to the Batmobile. Once inside, he starts it up and begins driving through the streets of Gotham, headed straight for home.
“You’re sick,” Batman says, breaking the silence, “Do you have a fever, or is it just the runny nose? Sore throat? Headache? Nausea?”
Robin coughs into his elbow. “‘M not that sick.” He sounds slightly congested. Batman kicks himself for not noticing it sooner. “I’m jus’ tired, mostly.”
“Robin,” Batman chides, frowning, “When did this start?”
Robin looks out the window at the city whizzing past them. “I’m okay, Bruce. Really.”
Bruce frowns deeper. “I don’t know, Dick. You sound congested.”
Dick crosses his arms, still staring out the window. “It’s just allergies.”
“Okay. I believe you,” Bruce replies. (He does not, in fact, believe him.) “But I’m still taking your temperature when we get back.” Dick groans, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
A few short minutes pass, and they arrive home. Bruce takes Dick’s temperature, frowning at the thermometer. He’s only checking to confirm what he already knows. There’s heat radiating off of Dick. “You have a fever, chum.” He’s trying not to freak out about it. The fever’s pretty high, too. Dick must feel awful. “You’re staying home from school tomorrow to rest. And no more crime-fighting until you’re better.”
Dick looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “No,” he whines, “I feel fine, really!” He sniffles again. Bruce pats his head.
“Sorry, kid.”
“Ughhhh,” Dick groans, “This is the worst.”
“I know,” Bruce consoles, sitting next to Dick and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “I’m worried about you. And I’m not sure if I’m…prepared to take care of you, while you’re sick. This has never come up before.”
Dick smiles despite himself. “Wasn’t it in your parenting handbooks?”
Bruce smiles back. “No, Parenting for Dummies didn’t cover this one.”
“I’m sleepy, Bruce. Is it bedtime?”
Bruce checks the time. It’s late. Too late. Good thing Dick’s already staying home from school tomorrow. No need to worry about him falling asleep in class or being sleep-deprived all day. “Yes,” Bruce nods, “Bedtime. Do you need me to carry you to your room, or are you awake enough to walk yourself?”
Dick rolls his eyes. (He’s been doing that a lot lately.) “I’m not a baby, Bruce. I don’t need you to carry me.”
Bruce pats his shoulder. “I know, kid. But do you want me to anyway?”
Dick pauses for a second before nodding slightly. “...Yeah.” Bruce doesn’t respond, he just picks Dick up, holding him in his arms, careful not to drop him. He swaddles Dick up in blankets, propping up a few pillows behind him. Dick curls up into a little ball, making himself as small as possible. Bruce frowns.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Bruce promises, “Just rest. I’ll call Alfred tomorrow to ask for his help.”
Dick shakes his head sleepily. “Don’t bother him while he’s on vacation,” he mumbles, burrowing further into the blankets, “We can figure it out on our own.”
Bruce has been silently panicking this whole time. There’s no way he can do this alone. What if Dick is sick with something worse than just the common cold? What if Bruce isn’t cut out to take care of someone who’s sick? Hell, he can barely take care of himself when he’s sick. He can barely take care of himself in general . “So you want to just…make it up as we go?”
Dick looks up at him. “Scared, Batman?” He giggles a little, but it leads to a coughing fit. Bruce waits until it’s over to speak again.
“You’re the boss,” he shrugs, “If you think that I can do it alone, I will.”
Dick thinks about this for a second. “...do you know how to make chicken noodle soup?”
“I can, but it won’t be very good.” Bruce considers himself to be a good cook, but for some reason, he just can’t master the art of soup. God forbid he make it from a can. No, no canned soup would be to his standards. He’s not pretentious, he just has strong soup-related opinions.
“Ask Clark for help. He’ll know what to do. But you can’t just let him do everything for you.”
Bruce pats Dick on the head before pressing a kiss to his temple. “Alright. Goodnight, Dick.”
“Night, Bruce. Don’t stay up too late.”
Bruce laughs.
“‘M serious. It’s bedtime, buddy.”
“Reprimanded about bedtime by my nine-year-old,” mutters Bruce as he leaves the room, “Never thought my life would lead to this.”
Dick looks even worse the next morning. Bruce’s panic has increased by a million times. Dick won’t even sit up to take cough medicine.
“I’m calling Alfred.” Bruce is sure he won’t mind his vacation being interrupted.
“No,” Dick says, with an air of finality, “Let him relax.”
Bruce sighs. “Fine. I’m calling Clark, then.”
Dick doesn’t respond, already falling back asleep. Bruce pulls out his phone, dialing Clark’s number.
“Hi, Bruce,” Clark sounds surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be awake this early in the day!”
“Dick has a cold,” Bruce says, not bothering with a hello, “Alfred’s out of town. Do you think you could come over and help out for a little while?”
“Does he have a fever?” Clark doesn’t sound panicked at all, just concerned.
“Yes. It feels like he’s emanating heat.”
Clark exhales. “How high is it?”
“Hundred and three.”
“I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up.
A few minutes later, Clark’s beside the bed, talking in a soft tone. “Just sit up for me for a second, okay? You have to sit up to take your medicine.”
“Nn,” Dick says (sounding alarmingly like Bruce), “I don’t wanna.”
“I know it tastes bad, but it’ll make you feel better. I promise.” Dick pushes himself up with shaky arms, and Clark rushes to help him. “Okay, okay, here, let me help you.” He pours a bit of cough medicine into the little measuring cup, handing it to Dick. “Here you go.”
Dick swallows the medicine, instantly grimacing once he’s done. “Bleh. It’s so yucky.”
Clark laughs. “I know, I know. But you’ll feel better, now.” He presses his hand against Dick’s forehead, and Bruce watches fondly as Dick presses into the touch. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s freezing.”
Clark laughs again. “Do you need more blankets?”
Dick shakes his head. “‘M okay.”
“Alright. Go back to sleep, okay? Bruce and I will be here if you need anything.”
Dick smiles weakly at him. “Thanks, Clark.”
“No problem, kid.”
Clark and Bruce retreat to the kitchen, Clark chopping up vegetables to make soup while Bruce sits at the counter. “He sounds awful.”
Bruce scrubs his face with his hands. “I know. I’m…really worried about him.”
Clark shoots him a sympathetic look. “You don’t need to stress out about it. It’s just a cold. A bad one, but he’ll be alright. I swear.”
“What if it’s more than that? And even if it isn’t, he’s so small. He’s not prepared to handle being this sick.”
Clark smiles softly. “He’s a tough kid, Bruce. He kicks major Arkham ass pretty much every night. I’m sure one cold isn’t enough to wipe him out.”
Bruce hums. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
They sit in comfortable silence. Clark finishes making the soup, putting a few cups of it into a bowl (Bruce didn’t even know that Clark knew where the bowls were. Maybe Clark’s become more familiar with the manor than Bruce thought. He supposes he has been coming over a lot, lately) and puts the rest into the fridge.
“I’ll bring this to him,” Clark says, picking up the bowl and retrieving a spoon from one of the drawers, “You just sit here and relax-”
Dick scurries into the kitchen, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes are wide. “I had a nightmare. I’m sorry for getting out of bed, but-”
Bruce cuts him off. “It’s okay. Clark was just about to bring you soup, anyway. Let’s get you back to bed.”
Once the three of them are back in Dick’s room and Dick is back in bed once again, he points to his backpack. “I have to finish the book that’s in there before the end of the week,” he says, sniffling, “I have a book report on Monday.”
“You can barely sit up,” Bruce notes, “How are you supposed to read?”
Dick sighs, laying back down. “Ughhhh.”
Clark cleverly disguises his laugh as a cough. “Lean up against your pillow. I’ll feed you your soup and Bruce can read to you.”
“You’re kidding.” Dick sits up anyway, back against his pillow. “I’m almost ten. I don’t need you to feed me.”
Clark raises an eyebrow. “I guess you don’t want this delicious chicken noodle soup, then. You’re too shaky to eat it on your own, you’ll get it all over your nice sheets. Don’t you think so, Bruce?”
Bruce nods solemnly. “Far too shaky. It’s being fed or nothing, kid.”
“Fine,” Dick coughs, “Only because I’m shaky.”
“I’m bored,” Dick complains a few hours later. “Let’s do something.”
Clark and Bruce share a look. “You’re still sick,” Bruce reminds him. “You can’t do anything too physically exerting.”
“At least I’m not shaking anymore!”
“That’s the medicine working.”
“Can we watch a movie or something?”
Clark laughs. “We’ve already watched five episodes of cartoons. That’s a lot of TV, kid.”
“Boring!”
Bruce hums. “I was thinking of designing a colder weather suit for you. Do you want to draft some ideas?”
“ Yes. ” Dick sounds more excited than Bruce has heard him all day. “There’s crayons and paper on my desk, could you grab them for me?”
Bruce obliges, handing Dick the crayons, paper, and a book to prop them up on. “Here you go.”
Dick immediately starts scribbling away, and both Bruce and Clark smile. “This is gonna be so awesome,” Dick states, wiping his nose on his sleeve (why do children do that, Bruce wonders. Do they have a personal vendetta against tissues?). “Get excited.”
“Are you feeling better?” asks Clark.
Dick nods, too focused on his drawing to answer.
“He’s super focused,” Bruce mutters, “I wish he’d apply the same method to his history homework.” Clark chuckles.
They sit quietly, Bruce and Clark talking amongst themselves as Dick colors. It’s nice. Domestic, even. Bruce feels a lot less panicked. Dick’s condition is visibly improving, and the sickness doesn’t even seem to be bothering him, anymore. Bruce interrupts his coloring for a brief moment to check his temperature. The fever is going down. Bruce smiles to himself. Dick’s going to be okay.
What started as an awful, terrifying day ended up being not that bad. Bruce won’t worry about it anymore. He’s sure that he’s probably going to freak out the next time Dick gets sick, though. But that’s a problem for another time. Today, he’ll just sit back, relax, and let himself be happy.