Archive of Our Own

Dick looked horrible.

That was the first thought that crossed Wally's mind—as well as everyone else’s—when Dick walked into Titan’s Tower common area.

He was sick. There was no denying it anymore. A hacking cough rattled through his chest with every breath, his usually vibrant eyes dull and glassy.

He’d been sick for weeks, actually. Everyone had noticed, and everyone had asked about it, but Dick being Dick had brushed it off with his usual grin and a dismissive “just allergies.” But now? Now he looked ten times worse than he had yesterday. And yet here he was, walking into the Tower like he wasn’t on the verge of collapse.

It didn’t help that the past week, just yesterday had been hell. They’d spent it on Gliese-581d, a hostile exoplanet overrun with acidic storms and relentless gravity that had made every step feel like dragging a lead weight. The mission had been urgent—rescuing a stranded colony of diplomats before the planet’s ecosystem fully destabilized. Even for those in peak health, it had been brutal. For someone sick? It should’ve been impossible.

Looking back, Wally realized Dick had been unusually quiet during the mission. His movements had been precise but not fluid, and there’d been moments when he’d lagged behind, claiming it was just the gravity. They’d all bought it at the time, it was believable.

Now, though, Wally could see the truth. The dark circles under Dick’s eyes, the sweat clinging to his pale skin, the way he hunched like his body could no longer hold itself upright.

"Morning," He croaked and Wally realized that not only did he look horrible but he sounded even worse. Dick’s voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping against stone, each word a struggle to get out.

He had a mug of coffee--the last thing he needed in his hand, fingers trembling as he brought it to his lips. The irony wasn’t lost on Wally. Dick was already running on fumes, and caffeine was only going to make things worse.

“Seriously?” Wally said, nodding toward the mug. “That’s not exactly what your body needs right now.”

Dick gave a weak chuckle, his voice rasping painfully. “It’s fine, Wally. I need the boost.”

“No, you need sleep,” Wally shot back, crossing his arms. “And maybe a thermometer, because I’m pretty sure you’re burning up.”

Dick didn’t respond immediately, instead taking a slow sip of the coffee as if to prove a point. But his hand shook so badly that some of it sloshed over the rim, staining the sleeve of his hoodie. He winced, the effort clearly taxing him more than he wanted to admit.

"It's just allergies," 

This excuse again...

"Okay, no," Wally said, zipping to Dick’s side in a blur. "Allergies don’t make you look that awful.

Dick frowned, clearly not appreciating the bluntness, falling face forward into the couch with a groan. 

Kori immediately floated over, concern etched on her face. She crouched beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Richard, this is not normal. You need to be in bed,"

"I’m fine," Dick mumbled into the couch cushions, his voice muffled and weak. "Just getting some breakfast before getting started on the mission reports and heading back to Gotham," 

"Yeah, well please go back to your room and don't touch anything ," Roy said, crossing his arms as he approached. "You look like a walking plague. I don’t want whatever you’ve got, man."

"Helpful as always, Roy," Donna muttered, rolling her eyes. 

Dick huffed, sitting up, "I'm not sick it's just--" 

"Dude you are in denial, and not even a convincing denial," Wally shot back, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Dick rolled his eyes—or he tried to, but the effect was ruined by the fact that his eyelids seemed to move at half-speed. "It’s allergies. The air is dry. Maybe I’m a little dehydrated. You’re all overreacting."

"Right," Donna said, tilting her head with mock seriousness. "So the hacking cough, the fever, and the fact that you can’t sit upright without swaying like a bad karaoke singer are all... what? Pollen?"

"Exactly." Dick sniffled, though it sounded suspiciously like someone trying to clear their lungs with no success. 

"Newsflash, Grayson," Roy drawled, grabbing a tissue box from the coffee table and tossing it at him, "it’s December. There’s no pollen. Unless you’ve developed an allergy to snow or good judgment, you’re definitely sick."

Dick caught the box—barely—and gave Roy a glare that was far less effective when paired with his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. "I am not sick." 

Garth walked in, probably after hearing all of that commotion, and immediately stopped in his tracks, surveying the scene. His gaze settled on Dick, who was slumped on the couch, looking like a tragic Renaissance painting of a dying knight. Garth frowned, his brow furrowing in concern.

"What happened to him?" he asked, pointing at Dick.

"He’s in denial," Wally said, arms crossed, looking every bit the exasperated friend. " He's sick. Thinks it’s allergies."

"Allergies," Garth repeated flatly, as though the word offended him. "In December?"

"Exactly," Roy said, gesturing wildly. "That’s what I’ve been saying! But apparently, logic and facts don’t apply to Dick Grayson."

"I’m right here," Dick muttered hoarsely, waving a hand weakly.

"If only Rachel was here" Garth muttered, ignoring Dick

"Why? So she could do an exorcism and banish whatever plague demon he’s harboring?" Roy quipped, earning a glare from Donna.

"Rachel could use her powers to heal him," Garth said pointedly, crossing his arms. 

"I don't need to be healed," Dick said standing up, dusting himself off.

"Because I'm not sick," Dick took one step forward, wobbled dramatically, before straighting with a huff. 

Lilith then walked in, pausing mid-step as her gaze landed on the scene. Her eyes immediately locked onto Dick, her brows knitting in alarm. “What in the world is going on here?”

Wally turned to her, gesturing dramatically toward Dick. “Exhibit A: Our fearless leader thinks he’s not sick while simultaneously looking like he’s auditioning for The Walking Dead.”

Lilith sighed, crossing the room to stand directly in front of Dick, who, despite his best efforts, was swaying on his feet like a poorly balanced top. “Dick, sit down before you fall down,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument but Dick being the acrobat he is of course always found a way out.

"Can't. I have some mission reports to finish," Dick's voice, raspy and thick with congestion, was clearly aiming for authority but landed squarely in the realm of pathetic.

"Mission reports?" Donna deadpanned, stepping in front of him like a wall of logic and common sense. "You can’t even walk straight, Dick. Unless you plan on writing those reports in hieroglyphs while faceplanting on the keyboard, I suggest you sit back down." 

"Bruce taught me how to write and read in hieroglyphics when I was ten," Dick called back walking and stumbling out of sight. 

Wally shook his head, exasperated. "That’s a new one," he muttered, but his concern outweighed the annoyance.

Roy groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "I can’t tell if he’s delirious or just being himself at this point."

"He’s definitely both," Garth muttered.

Donna groaned, rubbing her temples. "We’re wasting time debating his ridiculousness when he’s one misstep away from breaking his nose on the floor."

"He'll crash... eventually" Roy said, shaking a can of Lysol that appeared out of thin air.

"What? Just because you guys have your super immune system and can't catch whatever the hell he has does not mean I want to get sick!" Roy gestured with the Lysol can like it was some sacred weapon, punctuating his point with another spritz.

Donna rolled her eyes. “Roy, you’re acting like he’s got the plague. It’s a fever. Not a biohazard.”

“Hey, you don’t know that!” Roy shot back, mock-serious but clearly using his snark as a shield for his worry. “The dude’s been off-world and exposed to who-knows-what alien germs." 

Garth sighed, "He was sick before that, and we all were off world with him,"

Roy narrowed his eyes, "I don't care, I just don't want it," 

Wally smirked, crossing his arms. "Roy, for someone who willingly jumps into burning buildings and faces down supervillains, you’re surprisingly scared of a little fever."

"It’s not fear, it’s self-preservation," Roy countered, waving the Lysol can dramatically. "Unlike you meta types, I don’t have a supercharged immune system. I get sick, I’m out of commission for days. Rob here is going to be the death of me and what I mean by that is that he's gonna sneeze on me, and that’s how I’ll go down."

They had tried reasoning with him. They had tried guilt-tripping him. They had even tried subtle (and not-so-subtle) threats, but nothing worked. So, they let Dick be, begrudgingly stepping back with the unspoken hope that he’d eventually come to his senses and admit he was sick. 

But of course, that was wishful thinking.

Instead of resting like a normal person, Dick doubled down. Wrapped in a lopsided cocoon of blankets that dragged behind him like a royal robe, he perched himself in front of the team’s oversized computer. A steaming mug of tea was clutched in his trembling hands, his grip so tight it seemed he feared the mug might betray him and make a run for it. His complexion was a mess—a blotchy mix of pale and fevered red, and the dark circles under his eyes only added to the picture of misery he stubbornly refused to acknowledge. 

Despite looking like death warmed over, he was typing. One hand sluggishly clicked away at the keys, while the other maintained its death grip on his tea, as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. Every few keystrokes, he paused to squint at the screen, his brows furrowing in frustration. The sheer determination on his face would have been admirable if it weren’t so utterly ridiculously pitiful.

“Are those—are those hieroglyphics?” Wally’s voice broke the silence, his head poking around the corner. His expression teetered between disbelief and barely contained amusement as his eyes scanned the document on the screen. “Seriously, Dick? You wrote the mission report in ancient Egyptian just to spite us?” 

Dick didn’t look up. “It’s not Egyptian,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice thick with congestion. “It’s a cipher. Learn it.” His tone lacked its usual sharpness.

Wally folded his arms, leaning against the doorway with a bemused shake of his head. “You know, for someone who claims they’re not sick, you’re doing a great impression of someone who’s about two sneezes away from falling flat on their face.”

Dick’s fingers froze for a fraction of a second before resuming their sluggish pace. “I’m fine,” he croaked, his voice rough and rasping, betraying the unconvincing lie.  

“Just a few more sentences, and it’s done,” he added quickly, before turning his head to cough into his elbow, a sound that seemed to echo with every ounce of his lingering denial.  

Wally tilted his head, his expression morphing from concern to incredulous suspicion. “Let me guess. Still not sick, huh?”  

“Not sick,” Dick muttered, his words thick with congestion as his fingers resumed their slow march across the keyboard. The effort seemed monumental, each keystroke a battle he was barely managing to win. His eyelids drooped, and his entire posture sagged, as though even sitting upright was demanding too much of him.  

Wally crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his unimpressed gaze locked onto the pitiful sight before him. “Uh-huh. Sure, buddy. You look like a walking corpse, but yeah, totally not sick.”  

Dick mustered the strength to glare, but the result was laughably feeble, more like a tired pout than anything intimidating. “I told you. Allergies,” he insisted, the word mangled by his scratchy voice and stuffy nose. It was a valiant attempt to sound convincing, but all it did was make Wally raise a skeptical eyebrow.  

“Allergies.” Wally repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Right. And I’m the poster boy for subtlety.”  

Ignoring the jab, Dick shut the computer down with exaggerated care, as if moving too fast might shatter his fragile composure. Roy appeared from somewhere behind Wally, armed with his trusty can of Lysol, which he brandished like a sword.  

As soon as Dick stood up, blanket slipping off one shoulder and swaying slightly from the effort, Roy was on him. He zeroed in on the keyboard first, spritzing it liberally with Lysol before casting a critical glance Dick’s way.  

“You look awful,” Roy declared, shaking the can for emphasis. “And don’t start with the ‘allergies’ crap. I’ve had allergies. They don’t make you look like you’ve been hit by a truck, reversed over, and hit again.”  

Dick didn’t dignify him with a response, though the faint twitch of his eye suggested he was tempted. Instead, he shuffled toward the door, his movements stiff and deliberate as if he were holding himself together through sheer willpower alone. (Which he was)

Wally zipped into his path before he could take another step, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “Okay, I have to ask—where exactly are you planning to go? Because unless it’s to bed, I’m going to have to veto this whole situation.” 

“My room," He said with a cough. 

"I'm going to get a nap in, before heading home," 

Wally shot him a pointed look, crossing his arms with disbelief. “A nap? Not because you’re sick or anything?" 

"Nope allergies,"

Dick shuffled out, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 

"He's still in denial," Roy sighed. 

"Well at least he's in denial and getting sleep," Wally replied. 

Not ideal but progress

_~~_ 

Dick really did think it was allergies... 

Okay he didn't but he wanted to finish the report first, now with that done a nap sounded so, so nice. 

He collapsed on the bed, not bothering to take his shoes off, he has been sick for the last three weeks so he figured another nap wouldn’t hurt. His body ached with exhaustion, and his head throbbed in a dull, persistent rhythm that made focusing on anything nearly impossible. The symptoms had started off mild—a little congestion, some headaches—but they’d progressively worsened, creeping into strange, more concerning territories: fever, dizziness, and now, this strange tingling sensation in his limbs that he couldn’t shake.

But Dick didn’t want to admit how bad it had gotten. He hated the feeling of being vulnerable, of needing help, so he’d pushed through. He kept his head down, kept working, and kept telling everyone it was allergies. He just needed to rest for a while, right? The flu had been going around. No the flu was to generous, just a really bad cold...or he's just tired. Maybe it was that, maybe just exhaustion from everything.

As his body hit the bed, his shoes still on, he buried his face in the pillow, trying to block out the world. It wasn’t like he could sleep through the whole thing. He had responsibilities. But, just for a moment, he’d close his eyes and rest.

He woke up to his shoes being pulled off his feet, the gentle tug barely registering through the fog of sleep. Dick blinked groggily, trying to make sense of the blurry figure standing at the edge of his bed.

“Don’t move,” Donna’s voice came soft but firm.

Dick grunted something incoherent, his limbs too heavy to protest as Donna set his shoes neatly on the floor.

"I heard you go into a coughing fit," She said, opening a bottle of cough syrup it looked like, he didn't keep his eyes open long enough to see clearly, but the faint smell of menthol and something herbal filled the air. His head throbbed, the dull ache intensifying as his body threatened to collapse back into the comforting oblivion of sleep.

"Hey don't go back to sleep yet, take this first,"

Donna’s voice pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness, her tone insistent but still gentle. Dick groaned softly, his head tilting toward her, though his eyes remained stubbornly closed.

“Come on, Dick,” she coaxed. “Just a quick sip, and then you can crash.”

He forced his eyes open, the effort monumental, and saw her crouched beside him, holding out a small cup of cough syrup. Her expression was calm but firm, the kind of look that brooked no argument.

"What's the flavor?"

Dick’s voice was barely more than a rasp, but the question still managed to sound mildly petulant. He squinted at the cup in Donna’s hand like it was some kind of weapon.

“Does it matter?” Donna shot back, one eyebrow arched in amusement. “You’re taking it either way.”

“It matters,” he croaked. “If it’s cherry, I’m not doing it.”

Donna rolled her eyes but didn’t lose her composure. “It’s honey-lemon. Non-negotiable. Now stop stalling.”

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to summon the energy for another protest. But one look at her determined expression told him it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. “But if it tastes like death, I’m blaming you.”

“Duly noted,” Donna replied, hiding a small smirk as she handed him the cup.

The syrup was thick and syrupy-sweet, with just enough of a herbal kick to make him wrinkle his nose. He swallowed it quickly, grimacing.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “Still awful.”

“But effective,” Donna countered, taking the empty cup and setting it aside. “Now lie back and let it do its job.”

Dick didn’t need any further prompting. His head hit the pillow, his eyelids already drooping, as Donna adjusted the blanket over him. As the syrup’s warmth began to settle in his chest, easing his cough, he muttered one last thing before slipping back into sleep.

“Honey-lemon’s still gross.”

Donna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Goodnight, Grayson.”

"Wake me up in a few hours," He requested.

"I need to head back to Gotham tonight,"

"Sure," She said absently.

(She's not going to do that, but worth the try,)

Dick hummed, his response barely audible as sleep began to reclaim him.

Dick’s nap hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made him feel worse. He sat up gingerly, shivering despite the layers of the blanket wrapped around him. The room seemed to tilt and sway as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and he had to brace himself with one hand to keep from toppling over. His head felt impossibly heavy, his limbs weighed down as if by lead, and every breath rattled in his chest like a rusty chain. The faint relief from the cough syrup Donna had forced on him earlier was long gone, replaced by a sharper, more insistent ache that gnawed at his body.

He didn’t want to move—his bed, his soft warm bed, seemed like the safest option. But his throat burned, dry and raw, the kind of pain that made swallowing feel like dragging sandpaper over open wounds. All he could think about was something cold, anything to soothe the relentless ache. 

Still wrapped in his comforter, Dick pushed himself to his feet. The movement was slow and deliberate, his muscles protesting every step as he shuffled toward the door. He knew he’d have to pass through the Titans’ common area to reach the kitchen, but he hoped—prayed, really—that they’d be too distracted to notice him. 

His luck didn’t hold. 

As soon as he entered the room, he was greeted by an abrupt silence. Whatever conversation Roy, Garth, Donna, Kori, Lilith, and Wally had been having died the instant they spotted him. Five sets of eyes turned toward him, their expressions shifting from curiosity to alarm in a heartbeat. Dick froze mid-step, his stomach sinking. He hadn’t thought he looked that bad, but judging by their faces, he might as well have been a walking corpse. 

“Hi, guys,” he croaked, trying to sound casual. The effort was wasted; his voice was scratchy, barely audible, and before he could say anything else, he sneezed. 

The sneeze caught him off guard. It wasn’t the normal kind of sneeze that brought momentary relief. This one burned—sharp and hot, like something was tearing at the inside of his throat and nose. He winced, one hand clutching the blanket tighter around him as if that could somehow lessen the discomfort. 

"I'm going back to bed, just need some water," 

God he sounded terrible, he sneezed again and it hurt, ugh. 

"You better," Roy mumbled, "I do not want to catch that," 

"Allergies," Dick retorted tiredly. He's just lying to himself at this point. 

Roy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Allergies. You’re sounding real convincing, buddy.” He folded his arms, his tone a mix of disbelief and concern.

“I’m fine,” Dick muttered, though his wavering stance and the way he clung to the blanket like a lifeline said otherwise. “Just need some water, and maybe some Benadryl. Clears it right up.”

"Dick, buddy hate to break it to you but it sounds like you have the flu," Wally chimed in, leaning back in his seat with a sympathetic but skeptical look. “I don’t think Benadryl’s going to cut it this time.”

“It’s not the flu,” Dick insisted, his voice scratchy and uneven. “I’d know if it was the flu. It’s allergies. They’ve been bad all week.” 

"Dick you have been sick for almost the whole week we were in space and a little bit before that. You're sick, and it's not getting better because you're not resting," 

Dick sneezed again, his head feeling like it was split in two. "Allergies," 

Wally shook his head. 

"You are stubborn," He said exasperated, patting the spot next to him on the couch. 

Dick shuffled over begrudgingly, his blanket dragging behind him like a defeated cape. He collapsed onto the couch beside Wally with a soft groan, pulling the comforter tighter around his shoulders. The cushions felt slightly firmer than he remembered, but at least they didn’t sway like his bed had.

Roy raised an eyebrow at him from across the room. “You planning to pass out there, or should we start taking bets on how long it’ll take?”

“I’m just sitting,” Dick mumbled, though his body already felt like it was sinking deeper into the cushions. His eyelids were alarmingly heavy, and the warmth of the comforter was lulling him into an involuntary doze. “Just need a minute,"

A minute turned into Roy turning on the TV, Wally putting a pillow under his head, Donna tucking the blanket around him and Garth and Kori getting him water when he asked for it and Lilith grabbing a pillow. Originally, he was going to go back to his room and sleep this...err bug allergies off but he couldn’t seem to muster the energy to get up. The couch was too inviting, the gentle hum of the television too soothing, and the comfort of his friends around him too overwhelming. Even though his body ached, the constant barrage of symptoms—sore throat, pounding headache, chills—had dulled his usual sense of responsibility. His teammates had already taken over, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight them on it anymore.

“Just a minute,” he muttered again, but the words were already slurring as his eyes drifted closed. The pillow under his head was soft, a stark contrast to the tension in his body, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead, heavy and unwilling to move.

“Uh-huh,” Wally said, his voice a gentle tease. “Sure, a minute. How many minutes has it been now?”

Dick didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not when he felt like the ground beneath him was so warm and comforting. His breathing deepened as the pain in his throat and chest intensified, and before he knew it, the world around him began to blur, edges softening as his mind slipped into not quite sleep but not awake either, just a weird in-between haze that only Benadryl could provide.

_~~_

Sharp, pulsing pain tore through Dick’s body the moment his eyes fluttered open. It began in his chest, a deep, fiery ache that spread like wildfire down his arms and legs, each nerve alight with stinging, electric tingles. It felt as though fire ants were crawling beneath his skin, biting and clawing with relentless fervor. A strangled gasp escaped his lips, unbidden, as the agony intensified. His whole body burned—too hot, far too hot.

The blankets felt suffocating, pressing down on him like a leaden weight, trapping the heat and leaving him gasping for air. He tried to kick them off, but his limbs refused to cooperate, trembling violently with each feeble attempt. His hands quaked uncontrollably, the prickling sensation creeping down to his fingertips, as though his body was unraveling from the inside.

Then it hit him—a wave of nausea so intense it knocked the breath from his lungs. It crashed over him in violent waves, his stomach churning painfully. He attempted to sit up, to do anything to quell the sickening lurch, but his body betrayed him, every muscle leaden and unresponsive. His vision swam, a sickly greenish haze clouding his sight. His throat constricted as his stomach convulsed, and he barely had time to turn to the edge of the couch before he retched violently.

Thick, glowing blue liquid spewed from his mouth, splattering onto the pristine white rug beneath him. The sight was surreal, otherworldly—a luminous shade of blue that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. His breath hitched, his heart pounding erratically in his chest.

What the hell is happening to me?

The dizziness struck again, harder this time, and his body trembled as though caught in an unrelenting storm. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but his pride wrestled with his growing fear. He didn’t want to call for help—not yet—but he couldn’t deny that whatever was happening to him was beyond his control.

With a guttural groan, Dick forced himself to move, his shaky hands pressing against the couch for leverage. The simple act of standing felt insurmountable, his legs buckling beneath him as the world tilted and spun. Each step was a battle, his body screaming in protest, and he stumbled blindly, unsure of his destination.

His knees gave out, and he crashed to the floor with a heavy thud. The impact jarred him, sending a fresh wave of pain rippling through his body. Ragged gasps escaped his lips as he clung to consciousness, his trembling fingers clawing weakly at the rug. The glowing blue bile still lingered in the corner of his vision, a haunting reminder of his deteriorating condition.

“Damn it,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. He dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, the effort nearly unbearable. The hallway loomed ahead of him, an impossible distance away. His head throbbed, each pulse of pain driving a wedge deeper into his skull. His skin felt alive, crawling with an unbearable heat that made every breath an effort.

“Guys…” he croaked weakly, the word barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing. His vision darkened, the edges of the world closing in as his body began to shut down. His limbs gave out beneath him, leaving him sprawled on his back, coughing up another sickening wave of glowing blue liquid.

His mind raced, fragments of thoughts slipping through the haze of pain. Gliese-581d. The name flickered like a dying ember in his consciousness. This…this had to be connected to the mission, to whatever they’d encountered on that forsaken planet. But he’d been sick before that—just the flu, he’d thought. Had his compromised immune system left him vulnerable?

His breath hitched, his chest heaving with the effort to draw air. His fingers scraped against the carpet, desperate to find some anchor in the swirling chaos. But his strength was gone, his body betraying him completely.

“Dick?!” A voice shattered the oppressive silence, sharp with panic. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder, closer.

Lilith. Her name surfaced in his mind like a lifeline, though he lacked the strength to respond.

She skidded to a stop beside him, her breath hitching as she took in his pale, sweat-slicked face and the glowing blue liquid staining the rug. “Oh my god, Dick,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. Her hands hovered uncertainly before finally settling on his shoulder, her touch gentle but urgent.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. But he was so tired, his body sinking deeper into the floor, the world around him fading into a muted haze.

“Grayson, stay awake!” Lilith’s voice cracked with desperation, but her words barely registered. He fought, he truly did, but his body was done fighting. His head lolled to the side, and the last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was her frantic voice calling his name.

_~~_

Lilith woke with a jolt, her heart hammering in her chest. A sharp, unrelenting panic surged through her, too vivid to dismiss as a bad dream. Something was wrong—deeply, horribly wrong, her heightened senses confirmed it. The pulse of distress, almost tangible, radiated through her mind, sharp and oppressive.

“Dick,” she whispered, already scrambling out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor.

The common area had been cleared hours ago to give him a chance to rest. They shouldn’t have left him alone. She cursed herself as she bolted down the hall, every instinct screaming at her to hurry. The air felt thick, oppressive, charged with an ominous energy that made her breath catch in her throat.

As she rounded the corner into the hallway, her stomach dropped.

Dick was crumpled on the floor, sprawled just shy of the common area. His body was too still, his face pale and slick with sweat that gave his skin an unnatural sheen. Beneath him, the rug was stained with a sickly, glowing blue liquid. It glimmered faintly, casting an eerie light in the dimness. His breaths came shallow and uneven, a faint, wheezing rasp escaping with each labored inhale.

“Dick!” she gasped, rushing to his side, her mind racing through every terrible possibility.

She dropped to her knees, her hands hovering uncertainly before pressing against his neck, searching for a pulse. Relief flooded her when she found it, weak but there. But it was fleeting. She could feel the sickness radiating off him, an oppressive heat that made her own skin crawl.

“Dick, please,” she murmured, her voice shaking as she gently shook him. He didn’t respond. His head lolled to the side, lips slightly parted, struggling for air.

Her eyes darted to the glowing blue fluid on the floor, her mind reeling. The color was unmistakable. It was from Gliese-581d. But he’d been sick before that—had the flu made him vulnerable to whatever this was? Her hands trembled as she wiped the sweat from his forehead, her voice firm despite her rising panic.

“Dick, stay awake,” she urged.

A groan escaped his throat, faint and pained, but his eyes didn’t open. His body felt unnaturally heavy, lifeless under her touch. The glow in the liquid seemed brighter now, almost pulsing, as if mocking her helplessness.

“Guys!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the tower.

Before the words had fully left her lips, Wally was at her side, his super-speed delivering him in a blur. He dropped to a crouch, his eyes wide with alarm as he took in the scene.

“Lilith, what—” He froze when he saw the blue liquid and Dick’s state. His usual humor was nowhere to be found. “Crap. Okay. I’ve got him.”

He gently but swiftly lifted Dick into his arms, cradling him as though he might break. Dick’s head lolled against his shoulder, his body limp. The sound of another retch tore through the tense silence, and more glowing blue bile splattered onto Wally’s arm. He didn’t flinch, his focus entirely on his friend.

“Medbay. Now,” Wally said grimly, already moving.

Garth appeared next, skidding to a halt. His sharp intake of breath was audible as he took in the scene. “I’ll alert the others,” he said, his voice tight.

By the time Wally reached the medbay, the rest of the team was assembled, their expressions a mix of horror and urgency.

“What’s happening to him?” Donna demanded, her eyes darting to the glowing liquid streaked on Wally’s arms and the faint blue glow pulsing beneath Dick’s skin.

“It’s from Gliese-581d,” Lilith said, her voice hollow. “It has to be.”

Roy ran a hand through his hair, looking pale. “We need Rachel. Now.”

“She’s off-world,” Donna said sharply. “She's on a mission in the Farpoint Nebula. Won’t be back for three weeks.”

"Victor?" Kory suggested, "I know he is normally caught up with League business but--" 

It's worth a shot," Garth finished.

He doesn't know what Kory told him but within little as five minutes, there was a zeta beam's flash of light, and Victor Stone materialized in the center of the room, already scanning the situation. His mechanical eye flickered as it assessed the environment, his gaze locking onto Dick’s unconscious form.

“What’s the situation?” Victor asked immediately, his voice calm but urgent. He stepped forward, taking in the tension etched into everyone’s faces.

"Dick’s sick," Garth said, his voice steady but full of concern. There was no time to waste. "It started as a fever, but now... there’s blue fluid coming out of his mouth, his veins are glowing, and we can’t stabilize him. We think it’s something he picked up on Gliese-581d."

Victor’s expression stiffened, his face tightening with disbelief. “Off-world contamination? You've got to be kidding me." He didn’t waste another moment, striding to Dick’s bedside with purpose. As he approached, his body seemed to move effortlessly, each movement precise and practiced, while his cybernetic eye scanned the room, processing the crisis unfolding before him. Without hesitation, he extended a diagnostic tool from his forearm, its sleek design pulsing as it activated. “Let me take a look.”

Wally, standing off to the side, added quickly, his voice laced with guilt. "He was sick before the mission, but it wasn’t a big deal—just a bad cold, maybe a mild flu. But he didn’t rest like he should have. Pushed through it, like always."

Victor didn’t spare Wally a glance, though the brief shift in his mechanical eye told of his silent judgment. Instead, he focused intently on the diagnostic tool in his hand, his systems buzzing as data began flooding his vision. The readouts flashed and shifted as his cybernetic enhancements meticulously analyzed Dick’s condition. His lips tightened, and his voice took on a clinical edge. “His immune system was already compromised before this hit..”

Victor’s gaze darkened, his synthetic eye flickering rapidly as it sifted through the data streaming across his vision. His shoulders tensed as he ran his fingers over the holographic controls, adjusting the scans with practiced precision. His voice was steady but carried an undertone of unease. “It’s the flu—but not like anything you’d recognize. This is a strain native to Gliese-581d. A mutated, alien variant. Dick’s immune system isn’t equipped to combat something so foreign. That’s why his body is responding so violently."

He paused for a moment, his fingers tapping quickly across the console. The scans whirred as more data rushed in. "The blue fluid he's coughing up? It’s not just mucus—it’s excess cytokines. His immune system is in overdrive, releasing too many inflammatory proteins in an attempt to purge the virus. The fluid is toxic to him, but it’s also part of his body’s natural defense, fighting back in the only way it knows how.”

Victor turned slightly, gesturing to the faint blue glow pulsing beneath Dick’s skin, the light filtering through the surface in eerie waves. “He contracted this the same way humans catch the flu—through airborne particles. The inhabitants of Gliese-581d are genetically similar enough to us that their viruses can cross species. But since this strain is alien, his immune system has no reference for it."

Garth, who had been standing quietly at the edge of the group, frowned and leaned closer, his Atlantean physiology giving him a unique perspective. But even he could sense how out of his depth this was. “So… you’re saying this is an alien flu? A virus?”

Victor exhaled sharply, his mechanical components emitting a soft hum as he continued to process the data. “Exactly. It’s a flu virus, but it’s been mutated by the unique conditions on Gliese-581d. It’s far more aggressive than anything we’ve encountered on Earth.” He hesitated, eyes scanning the readouts with a focus so intense it was as if he could will the data to provide more answers. “But… there’s some good news. Despite its alien origin, it still behaves like a flu in many ways. If we manage the symptoms and support his body properly, there’s a chance he can recover.”

Wally, standing near Dick’s bedside, looked doubtful. His brow furrowed as he stared at his unconscious friend. “So… we just treat it like a regular flu? That doesn’t sound right. This thing’s alien—it should be way more complicated than that.”

Victor turned toward Wally, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. “It’s not that simple, Wally. This isn’t just a bad flu. This strain is pushing Dick’s body to its absolute breaking point. His fever’s dangerously high, his oxygen levels are plummeting, and that blue fluid?” He motioned again toward Dick, whose face was ghostly pale and veins faintly pulsing with an eerie glow. “That’s not just waste—it’s toxic. His body’s poisoning itself while it tries to expel the virus. If we don’t act fast, his systems are going to shut down.”

Victor’s stance was firm, his mechanical arm adjusting a few controls with quick, precise movements. “We need to lower his fever, keep him hydrated, and support his system as much as we can. If we can manage that, his body might take over and fight it off on its own.”

Roy clapped his hands together in a forced display of enthusiasm. “Got it. So, we treat it like the flu? Tylenol, fluids, blankets?”

Donna shot him a sharp look. “He’s burning up already, Roy. Blankets aren’t going to do anything but make it worse.”

Garth was already setting up an IV line, while Wally worked on getting Dick out of his damp sweatshirt, the fabric clinging to his fevered body. Dick groaned weakly as Wally tugged at the material, his eyelids flickering open to reveal glassy, unfocused eyes. “Wha… what’re you doing?” His voice was faint, cracked with the strain of fever, and his head lolled to the side as Garth held him steady.

“Sorry, buddy,” Wally murmured, moving on to Dick’s jeans. The belt was a nightmare—unnecessarily complicated, a mix of tactical and fashion disaster that made him curse under his breath. 

After a few frustrated moments, Wally finally freed the belt and slid the jeans off, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as he worked. Meanwhile, Garth carefully inserted the IV needle. Dick flinched, a weak whimper escaping him as the needle pierced his skin. His body twitched in response, but he couldn’t muster enough strength to fight back. His hand drifted weakly toward the IV line, a half-hearted attempt to pull it out, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated. His eyes blinked, trying to focus on something, anything.

“It’s okay, Dick,” Garth said softly, his voice steady and calming as he adjusted the IV. “We’re just keeping you hydrated, alright?”

Dick’s eyelids fluttered again, and for a moment, his eyes focused on Garth’s face, a faint, wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alien flu, huh?” His voice was raspy, almost inaudible. A cough interrupted him, weak and dry. “Figures.”

Garth forced a small smile. “Yeah, because normal problems are too boring for you.”

Dick chuckled, but it only triggered another fit of coughing, his body wracked with tremors. A faint trail of the glowing blue fluid seeped from the corner of his mouth. Garth’s smile vanished as he caught Dick’s trembling body, steadying him against the bed.

“Easy, buddy,” Garth murmured, his voice soothing as he tightened his hold. The blue fluid pooled on the towel beneath Dick, and Garth’s stomach churned at the sight. “Victor, is this normal?”

Victor glanced up from his console, his cybernetic eye narrowing as it processed the data in real-time. “Unfortunately, yes. If it stops, then we should be worried.”

Dick’s body convulsed violently, and more glowing blue fluid spilled from his lips. Garth tightened his grip, keeping Dick upright as his body swayed dangerously. His breaths were shallow, ragged.

Victor didn’t flinch. His cybernetic eye analyzed the data on his screen. “This is actually a good sign,” he muttered, fingers flying over the controls. “His body is still fighting. It’s trying to purge the alien toxins. Better out than in.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dick rasped, his voice little more than a whisper. He didn’t lift his head, his dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “I’m the one doing all the purging.”

“Focus on your breathing,” Garth said gently, brushing a cold, wet cloth over Dick’s clammy face. “You’re doing fine, Dick. Just stay with us.”

“Yeah, fine,” Dick mumbled, his lips twitching in a humorless smile. “Define fine. Glowing puke? Fine. A fever that could boil water? Totally fine.”

Wally reentered the room with another stack of towels, his expression tight with worry. He didn’t smile, the lines of concern etched deeply into his face. “Shouldn’t you be too sick to be sarcastic?” he remarked, though his tone was softening as he wiped the sweat from Dick’s forehead.

“Never too sick for sarcasm,” Dick rasped, but his words dissolved into a violent coughing fit that shook his entire body. Garth held him tighter, murmuring reassurances, while Donna hurried over with another cold compress.

“Could we try antiviral meds?” Donna suggested, concern clear in her voice.

Victor glanced at the monitor, his tone edged with frustration. “They're in his IV, but it’s barely making a dent. This isn’t a normal fever. It’s his body’s way of trying to burn out the alien virus, but it’s breaking him down in the process.”

Donna frowned, her hand resting gently on Dick’s forehead. “He’s scorching. If this keeps up…”

Victor sighed, rubbing his face in exasperation. “His temperature is holding at 104.9 right now. If it creeps up to 106, I’ll prep for cold immersion.”

“Cold immersion?” Wally asked, eyebrows raised. “You mean an ice bath?”

Victor nodded grimly. “It’s not ideal, but if his temperature spikes higher, we won’t have any other choice.”

Roy, who had been pacing nearby, stopped and glanced at Cyborg. “Just to clarify, is he contagious?”

Cyborg’s gaze flicked up from the data stream, his brow furrowing as he processed the question. “Yes,” he said firmly. “The virus is airborne. It can spread. It’s not as contagious as some other strains, but if anyone breathes in the same air…”

“Great,” Roy muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed. “So not only do we have to keep him alive, but now we’re supposed to avoid catching this thing ourselves.”

“You’re the only one at risk for symptoms,” Cyborg responded, his voice factual. “Most of us are metas, but we can still carry it.”

Roy grumbled under his breath, “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

Dick’s voice cut through the tension, barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing. “I… cough… I forgot. I was supposed to meet Bruce and Damian at the manor tonight… patrol with them. They must be mad that I bailed…”

Wally paused, incredulity written all over his face as he wiped the fresh layer of sweat from Dick’s forehead. “Oh my God, Dick. Seriously?! That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” His voice softened as he glanced at Dick, the reality of the situation sinking in. “You’re lying here with an alien flu that’s trying to kill you, and you’re worried about being late for patrol? Really?”

Dick blinked at Wally, his fevered eyes blurry but still trying to focus. His lips quirked, a weak attempt at a smile. “S’important,” he slurred, voice fragile. “It was planned weeks ago. Quality time is important.”

Wally stared at him, his expression one of disbelief and exasperation. “Quality time? You’re glowing like a radioactive nightlight and coughing up alien goo, and you’re worried about quality time?”

Dick’s lips twitched again, his face pale and drenched in sweat, but his tone remained insistent. “Family’s important,” he mumbled, slurring his words. “I promised… breaking promises is bad… really bad.”

There was a hint of a pout, reminiscent of his Robin days. Despite being the oldest in the Batfamily, Dick had always been their youngest sibling, and they had always been fiercely protective of him. To watch him suffer like this, unable to protect him, was almost unbearable.

Garth sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know if you’ve got impossible expectations on yourself or if you’re just delirious.”

Victor, monitoring the readouts on his console, glanced up with a grim expression. “His fever’s spiked again. 105.2 now. Definitely delirous”

Fuck you Vic," Dick mumbled

Victor raised an eyebrow, "He cursed. Definitely delirious,"

"Didn't he always curse?" Wally noted, putting an ice pack on his forehead.

"When he was younger. He mellowed out when he got those siblings of his," Victor replied, not taking his eyes off the glowing readouts on his arm. “Guess he figured someone had to set a better example.”

“Better example?” Wally laughed, carefully adjusting the ice pack on Dick’s forehead. "Last week he  swore at a vending machine for eating his dollar.”

“That is justified,” Victor shot back.

“...shut... up..." Dick slurred, his head lolling to the side. His lips twitched as if he wanted to say more, and then he did, stringing together a nonsensical series of words that were intended to voice his displeasure and insult but were just so nonsensical.

“I feel like I should be offended,” Victor said dryly, though his lips quirked upward in amusement. “But that was so incoherent it barely qualifies.”

Dick’s glassy eyes cracked open just enough to glare weakly at Victor. “... tinhead.”

“Okay, now I am offended,” Victor deadpanned, crossing his arms. “That’s just lazy.”

Dick huffed in annoyance, lifting his head as he noticed his arm, the glowing vein that the IV was attached to, and his brow furrowed deeply as he tried to process it. "What? ..'m glowing,"

He turned to Roy, holding his arm out, the archer close to the door because Dick is contagious and he didn't want to catch that alien flu, (Knowing that wouldn't help, he was already exposed.)

"Yeah," Victor said, checking his IV for a moment. "You'll stop when all that blue stuff gets out of you,"

Dick blinked opening and closing his hand as if that would change anything.

"It's hot," Dick flexed his glowing fingers, his brow furrowing deeply. "Hot… too hot… burning," he muttered, his voice rising slightly. His agitation grew as he blinked rapidly, his eyes darting between his hand and the IV. He spit up more of the blue vomit into the silver trash bin, shaking violently as his body struggled against the virus raging inside him. The tremors spread through his limbs, his muscles twitching uncontrollably.

"105.5," Victor cursed as he turned to Garth,

"Okay, I need you to draw the bath," Victor said, his tone clipped but steady. "Regulate the temperature to just above freezing—about 50 to 55 degrees. We need it cold but not enough to cause shock."

Garth nodded as Vic detached Dick's IV from his trembling arm, and gathered him into his arms.

Dick opened his eyes, shuddering as he looked up at Victor with a weak, feverish gaze. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but all that came out was a strained, incoherent murmur. “...V-Vic, don't feel good...hot,"

Victor softened for a fraction of a second, though his focus remained unshaken. "I know, Dick. I’m sorry, but we’re gonna fix it. Just hang on." He adjusted his grip, his movements careful but efficient as he carried Dick toward the bathroom where Garth had prepared the ice bath.

The cold air from the room hit Dick first, and he flinched, his body shivering before he even saw the tub. "N-no," he whimpered, weakly trying to push against Victor’s chest. "Cold... don’t... Vic, please..."

Wally stepped in, his voice low and calming as he crouched near Dick’s head. "Hey, it’s okay. We’re just cooling you down, buddy. It’s not gonna feel great, but it’s what you need right now."

Dick's glassy eyes darted between Wally and the tub, panic flickering in his fever-addled gaze. "Don’t...cold’s bad..." His words were slurred, his voice trembling as his body wracked with another violent shiver.

Victor sighed heavily, setting Dick down at the edge of the tub and steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "I know it’s not what you want, but it’s not up for debate, Grayson." His voice was firm but not unkind. "We’ve gotta get your fever down, and this is how we do it."

Garth tested the water temperature once more, nodding to confirm it was ready. "It’s good. Just steady him; the shock won’t last long."

Victor and Wally eased Dick into the icy water, his body stiffening immediately at the contact. He gasped sharply, his muscles locking as he tried to recoil. "Cold! Too cold!" he cried out, his voice breaking as he struggled weakly against their hold.

Wally leaned in closer, brushing his hand lightly over Dick’s hair in a soothing motion. "I know, I know. It sucks. But you’re strong, okay? Just breathe through it. You can yell at Vic all you want after this."

Dick’s trembling began to slow after a few agonizing moments, though his breaths came in shallow, erratic gasps. The glowing veins in his arm dimmed slightly, and the feverish flush in his face began to ease, but his exhaustion was evident.

"Temperature’s dropping," Victor announced, glancing at his arm’s display. "104.7 and falling. Another couple of minutes should stabilize him."

Dick’s eyes fluttered closed, his head lolling weakly against Wally’s arm. "Hate...you guys... all of you...jerks," he muttered, though the venom was completely absent from his tone.

Wally grinned, ruffling Dick’s damp hair. "We’ll take that as a compliment. Just keep hanging in there, okay?"

By dawn, his temperature was at 102.2, way better than earlier. He was still coughing up blue goo but he wasn't on the brink of death. The flu, on earth normally takes days to recover so it probably was the same here. 

"Okay, I think we're out of the woods for now," Cyborg said, his tone tinged with exhaustion as he adjusted the settings on the monitor tracking Dick's vitals. "But he’s not out of the clear yet. His immune system is still fighting hard, and that alien virus doesn’t play by normal rules. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him," He said settling in the chair beside the cot.

"Wait you're staying?" Roy asked, his brows furrowing in surprise.

"I was exposed to the virus just like you were so yes," He sighed. 

"I'm going to be stuck in here with you for a while,"

"Great, we're all quarantined and at risk of catching whatever alien superflu this is," Roy muttered, just as Dick coughed and spit up another glob of glowing blue fluid into the basin beside his bed making Roy grimace. 

"You probably will catch it Roy but since we know what this is, you won't get nearly as sick as him." 

Roy’s face twisted into a look of pure dread, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, that’s so comforting, Vic. ‘You’ll only be half-dead instead of fully.’ Really putting my mind at ease here.”

Victor didn't reply to that, slumping against the head of the chair.

"I'll watch him, you guys go get some rest," 

"Are you sure?" Kory asked. 

Cyborg nodded, "He's stable, the only thing we can do is wait for the fever to go down and for him to expel the rest of the alien pathogen from his system. The worst of it is over, and I’ve got the monitoring covered.”

None of them left though, sitting on the chair's or the empty cots just watching Dick sleep. 

Donna crossed her arms, her expression set. “We’ll rest here. We’re not going far, Vic.”

Wally slumped into one of the empty cots, his usual energy subdued by exhaustion. “Yeah, not like I’m going to sleep soundly anywhere else knowing he’s still like this.” And the others nodded in agreement. 

_~~_ 

Dick didn’t open his eyes right away when he woke up. He was too tired, and a deep ache settled in every fiber of his body, urging him to stay still. But it was impossible to ignore how uncomfortable he was. His skin was cold, and without a blanket to fend off the chill, it seeped into his bones and it didn't help that he was wearing a hospital gown, probably the reason why he was so cold in the first place.

His throat was raw, a burning sensation making each breath feel like sandpaper and acid....

And come to think of it, he had to pee. 
Desperately.  

Dick lay still for another moment, trying to will the need away. His body felt like lead, every joint stiff and sore, and the thought of moving—even to alleviate his discomfort—seemed impossible. But the persistent ache in his bladder was growing unbearable, clawing its way to the forefront of his consciousness.

He cracked his eyes open, squinting against the faint fluorescent glow of the medbay lights. His head throbbed at the intrusion, his vision swimming for a moment before settling. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines monitoring his vitals, their steady beeping a strange comfort in his haze.

He turned his head slightly, spotting the others sprawled across chairs and cots nearby. Wally was snoring softly, one arm draped over his face, while Donna sat in a chair with her arms crossed, her chin resting against her chest as she dozed, Lilith was on the floor, leaning on Donna, and Roy in a cot of his own. Even Victor, who rarely seemed to tire, was slouched in his chair, his systems dimmed as though in a low-power state.

It was comforting, knowing they’d stayed. But it also meant he couldn’t exactly get up and stumble to the bathroom without drawing attention. Not that he could manage it anyway, given how weak he felt.

Dick let out a soft groan, shifting slightly on the cot. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his body, his muscles protesting the strain.

"Okay," he muttered hoarsely, his voice rough and cracked from dehydration. "Just a quick trip. I can do this."

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, wincing as the IV pulled again. His bare feet met the cold floor, and the chill shot up his spine, making him shiver. He gritted his teeth and gripped the edge of the cot tightly, preparing himself to stand.

"One... two... three," he whispered, pushing himself upright.

The moment he did, his head spun violently, and he swayed on unsteady legs. His vision blurred, and his knees threatened to buckle under his weight. He grabbed the IV pole for support, the cool metal grounding him just enough to stay upright.

"Bad idea," he muttered, pausing to let the dizziness subside.

Step by step, he shuffled toward the door, dragging the IV pole along with him. Each step was an effort, his muscles screaming in protest. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. By the time he reached the bathroom door, he was trembling, every ounce of energy drained from his body.

He pushed the door open and leaned heavily against the sink for support. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye, and he barely recognized the pale, gaunt figure staring back at him. Dark circles framed his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. 

"Great look," he mumbled dryly, his lips cracking into a faint, humorless smile.

Dick managed to handle his business, though it took longer than he’d like. His movements were sluggish, his body protesting every action. By the time he was finished, his legs were shaking so badly he thought they might give out. He leaned against the sink, gripping the edge with both hands as he tried to steady himself.

He stumbled out, spotting Vic who looked exasperated by his empty cot before turning to find him leaning on his IV line and the bathroom door. 

He scoffed, "Of course as soon as you're awake you're up and about," 

Dick grunted, "Honestly I didn't want to get up, or bother anyone. I don't remember much but you guys were probably up all night," 

"Yeah of course we were idiot. You were on the brink of death last night from an alien flu,"

Dick turned, finding Roy, a bit pale and he sounded congested.

“He caught it too,” Vic explained. “But we knew what we were dealing with, he's alright. Mainly cold symptoms now,"

“Cold symptoms my ass,” Roy muttered, not even bothering to lift his head. “My mucus is fucking blue. ”  

Victor shot him a sharp look. “Well, it’s better than a fever above 103,” he retorted, clearly unimpressed by Roy’s dramatics.  

“Fair point,” Roy muttered begrudgingly, shifting before going back to sleep.

Victor helped him back to bed, giving him another round of IV fluids, and checked his vitals.

 “You still have a fever,” he said matter-of-factly, “and probably a—”  

Dick didn’t let him finish. A sudden, harsh cough erupted from his chest, shaking his entire body. His vision blurred as he leaned over instinctively, spitting blue fluid into the small basin someone had left by his bed. The sharp burn in his throat flared, and another fit followed, leaving him breathless and grimacing.  

“—cough like that,” Victor finished, unfazed as he grabbed a towel and wiped the splatter from Dick’s chin.

Victor's calm demeanor as he tended to Dick was almost unnerving. He placed the towel aside and handed Dick a cup of water, watching as his patient tried to catch his breath.

"That... wasn’t fun," Dick rasped, his voice raw as he sipped the water. The cool liquid soothed his burning throat but did little to erase the metallic tang lingering on his tongue. He slumped back against the pillows, exhausted from the effort. "Please tell me that’s normal for... whatever this alien flu is."

Victor sighed, "Yes unfortunately,"

"Great," Dick muttered, his eyes fluttering shut as the fatigue from the coughing fit dragged at him. "At least it’s not green. That’d be too cliché."

 Victor gave a small, reluctant smirk, shaking his head. He stepped closer, adjusting the IV line with a practiced ease and then turning to check the monitors at Dick’s bedside. The faint, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the space between them as Victor scanned the readings, his eyes narrowing slightly in concentration.

"You should be back to normal in about a week, give or take," he said finally, his tone softening. "Maybe a little longer than a regular flu, but now that your fever’s down and the antiviral meds are working, you’re over the worst of it."

Dick nodded faintly, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "Thank you, Vic," he said, his voice sincere despite its raspiness. "For coming in at such short notice and... you know, saving my life."

Victor shook his head, his expression softening as he uncrossed his arms and rested a hand lightly on the edge of the cot. "You’d do the same for any of us, Grayson. No thanks necessary." His gaze lingered on Dick for a moment, as if silently assessing just how far his friend had been pushed before finally breaking eye contact. "Now," he added, his tone shifting to something lighter, "is there anything else you need? Water? Food?"

Dick’s smile grew faintly, and he tilted his head slightly toward the bed’s edge. "I’ve got some case files in my room that I was looking at--" 

Victor cut him off with a groan, his hand running over his face.

“Grayson, no. Absolutely not. You’re not looking at files, reports, missions, or anything else remotely work-related until you’re 100% better. And I mean my definition of better, not yours.”

Dick’s brows furrowed slightly, and he opened his mouth to argue, but Victor gently dropped a TV remote on the table next to the bed, it was just in his reach. 

“There,” Victor said, crossing his arms with a smirk. “That’s the only thing you’re allowed to do other than sleep. I advise the latter, you bats don't do nearly enough of that. 

"But--" 

Dick’s sentence dissolved into a violent coughing fit, the sound harsh and grating as his body convulsed under the strain. A garish blue fluid surged up his throat, and his hand shot out instinctively, gripping the edge of the cot in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. His breath hitched, a sharp, shallow gasp that only made the coughing worse. 

Victor moved instantly, steadying Dick with a firm hand pressed to the middle of his back. His voice was calm but edged with urgency. “Deep breaths, Dick. Slow and steady.” He reached for the nearby waste bin and slid it closer, just in time to catch the blue liquid as it was expelled. “Let it pass, okay? Just let it pass.” 

Dick leaned forward, his shoulders hunched and trembling as he rode out the fit. His face had turned an alarming shade of pale, beads of sweat dotting his brow. The convulsions finally began to subside, though each lingering cough left him weaker. He spat into the bin one last time before sagging back, his chest rising and falling heavily as he fought to catch his breath. 

Victor wasted no time. He grabbed the cup of water from the bedside table and crouched slightly to meet Dick’s hazy, unfocused gaze. “Here,” he said firmly, holding the cup out. “Sip. Small ones.” 

Dick blinked sluggishly, his hand shaking as he reached for the cup. Victor’s grip remained steady, guiding it to his lips. He followed the instructions, taking slow, tentative sips. The cool water was a welcome relief against his raw, aching throat, though each swallow felt like sandpaper. When he was done, Dick handed the cup back with trembling fingers and let his hand fall to his lap. 

Victor placed the cup back on the table and straightened, his eyes sharp as they scanned Dick’s pale, drawn features. “See this?” he asked, gesturing pointedly at the waste bin and Dick’s exhausted state. “This is why you’re not working on case files. Rest isn’t a suggestion. It’s non-negotiable.” 

Dick exhaled weakly, his frustration flickering in the faint crease of his brow. “But—” 

“But nothing.” Victor cut him off with a wave of his hand. “The only case file you’re allowed to work on is a crossword puzzle. Maybe Sudoku if you’re feeling adventurous, but that’s as far as I’m willing to bend.” 

Dick let out a soft, weary groan as his head sank back against the pillow. His eyes fluttered shut, the battle to continue arguing sapping what little energy remained in his fever-ridden body. The faint crease in his brow betrayed his frustration, but his protest died on his lips as he gave in to the overwhelming fatigue. Victor, clearly satisfied that his point had landed, pulled a chair closer to the bedside and settled into it, his posture both casual and commanding.

“Alright,” Victor began, “here’s the situation. You’ve got a mutated strain of the flu, courtesy of your recent off-world adventure. And since you were already fighting off something when you were out there, your immune system was running on fumes. That made it a lot easier for this thing to take hold.” He gestured loosely toward the nearby medical equipment monitoring Dick’s condition.

Victor continued, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern. “It took hours of cooling measures to get your fever down, and we’ve been using antiviral meds we’d typically use for a normal flu. They’ve helped some, but this thing’s unpredictable, and it’s highly contagious. So, we’re in lockdown. Two weeks, no exceptions. You and Roy are the only ones showing symptoms , but the rest of us could still be carriers, and we’re not taking any chances.”

Victor’s words barely hung in the air before Roy’s groan echoed from across the room. The archer was perched awkwardly in his own makeshift sickbed, his expression a mix of annoyance and dread. “Two weeks?” Roy blurted out, his voice cracking with incredulity. “Are you kidding me? I already left Lian with Ollie for a whole week, and we all know how that’s going to end! The last time she spent a single day with him, she learned how to pick a lock. A day! And now we’re talking two extra weeks?”

Donna, who was now awake, they all were now stifled a laugh. “Well, on the bright side, she’s gaining valuable life skills,” she teased.

“Not funny, Donna,” Roy shot back, his face a mix of exasperation and worry. “The kid’s a sponge. Who knows what other life skills she’ll pick up?"

"You'll just find out in two weeks," Victor shot back, his tone dry as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Dick hummed faintly, the sound barely audible over the steady beeping of the medical equipment. His head lolled slightly to the side, his body sinking deeper into the mattress as sleep finally began to claim him. The tension in his face eased, though a faint flush remained on his cheeks, betraying the lingering fever.

Victor glanced over, his expression softening. "Finally," he muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair.

"His fever should break by the end of today," Garth started, his tone calm but edged with concern. He stood by the small sink in the corner, carefully wringing out a cloth before walking over to place it gently on Dick's forehead. His movements were precise, almost reverent, as though the simple act of caregiving could ease the burden they all carried.

"It should," Victor agreed, finally at ease that Dick was going to be just fine. No one moved, just watching as Dick's chest went up and down because last night had been a nightmare. The fever, the chills, the restless thrashing—none of them had gotten much sleep, too worried about their youngest. Every cough, every shallow breath had been enough to set their nerves on edge. Now, though, the room was quieter, the worst of the storm seemingly behind them.

Donna was the first to break the silence. She shifted from her spot near the foot of Dick’s bed and gently pulled the blanket higher up his chest, tucking it around him with the kind of care reserved for someone precious. "He looks better," she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. "Still too pale, though."

Victor snorted softly. "He’s always pale. Kid spends half his time in shadows."

Roy stood up, he was well enough to move around a bit, probably going to the kitchen to refill his tea.

“I swear, next time he even sniffs, I’m wearing a hazmat suit. You guys were making it like I had no reason to worry, but look now we're quarantined for two weeks because he brought back an alien variant of the flu,"

Donna let out a soft laugh at Roy’s grumbling, shaking her head. "It’s not like he did it on purpose," she reminded him, though the amusement in her voice was evident. "

"I did," Dick mumbled with a smirk, "Wanted to share the experience,"

"Shut up, Grayson," Roy snapped, though there was no real heat in his voice. He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Of course you did. Just had to bring back an alien flu to make it memorable, huh?”

Dick’s smirk deepened, his head tilting slightly as his eyes fluttered open for a moment, still hazy from the fever. “What can I say? I’m a giver.” He coughed weakly afterward, the sound more of a dry rasp than anything else, but he was still smiling, somehow managing to look more like his usual self despite the exhaustion weighing him down.

Roy gave a long, drawn-out sigh, just as Wally took his cup, refilled his tea and got Dick a cup before any of them could blink.

"Thanks, Wally,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a careful sip, feeling the warmth spread through him, though the exhaustion was still deep in his bones. He would have dropped the cup Wally hadn't caught it and steadied it for him before placing on the table beside him where Lilith and Kori were sitting, their eyes soft with concern as they kept watch over him. The room felt warm, a comfort in the midst of his exhaustion, and Dick let out a slow breath, grateful for their presence even as he struggled to stay awake.

_~~_

Hours later, donned in his favorite oversized grey hoodie (He stole it from Bruce,), hair damp from his recent shower and finally off of the IV, Dick sat, legs crossed on the medbay cot. He still has a fever and was coughing up blue fluid but he felt a little more like himself—tired, but stable. The fog of exhaustion hadn’t completely cleared from his mind, but the pain in his muscles had lessened, and the overwhelming sensation of being lost in fever dreams had finally dissipated.

He went to his room, got a couple of case files and his phone was prompt in front of him as he was waiting for Bruce to join his video call.

His team had let him know about him falling ill since he didn't show up at the manor that day, but Dick knew that Bruce was still worrying, especially since he couldn't come and see him.

Dick shifted on the edge of his bed, adjusting the camera on his phone so Bruce wouldn’t notice the exhaustion still etched into his features. The grey hoodie hung loosely around his shoulders, a bit too big but comforting all the same. He glanced at the glowing blue liquid he’d coughed into a tissue moments before, shoving it discreetly into the trash before the call connected.

The screen blinked to life, and there was Bruce, his expression as controlled as ever. But Dick could see the tension in his jaw, the faint crease of worry in his brow.

“Dick,” Bruce greeted, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made Dick sit up a little straighter.

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick said, his tone casual, though it took more effort than usual to keep it that way. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of pacing a hole into the Batcave floor and give you an update.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t waver, though his eyes softened slightly. “You’re still coughing.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, alien flu’s no joke,” Dick admitted, clearing his throat and leaning back against the pillows. “But I’m fine. The fever’s down, the meds are working, and the team’s making sure I don’t keel over. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m your father. Worrying is non-negotiable,” Bruce said, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. “You’ve been coughing up blue fluid, Dick. That’s not exactly in the ‘nothing to worry about’ category.”

'So they told him that part,'

"Sorry, that was a pretty stupid thing to say," Dick admitted,

"I didn’t mean to downplay it. It’s just… y’know me. I figure if I make light of it, it’s easier for everyone to worry less."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that almost resembled a disapproving smirk. "You’ve always been good at making light of things you shouldn’t. It doesn’t mean I’ll worry any less."

Dick sighed, leaning back against the pillows again. "Fair point. Guess I should work on that, huh?"

Bruce gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on Dick’s pale face and the hoodie he recognized as his own. "I was looking for that jacket, thought Jason took that,"

Dick blinked, glancing down at the oversized hoodie draped around his shoulders. His lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Jason tried to take it. But you know me—I’m faster."

Bruce’s mouth curved ever so slightly at the edges, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through his usual stoicism. "I’m sure he didn’t take that well."

"Not even a little," Dick said, chuckling softly, though the sound quickly turned into a cough. He reached for a tissue, pressing it to his mouth and grimacing at the faint blue streaks before tossing it aside. When he looked back at the screen, Bruce’s subtle amusement had faded back into concern.

"Dick," Bruce said, his voice firm but gentle, "are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look like you’re getting enough rest...Those better not be case files--"

"Would you believe me if I said they were crossword puzzles?"

Bruce’s eyebrow arched, his unimpressed expression enough to make Dick grin despite himself. "No," Bruce replied flatly. "I wouldn’t."

Dick shrugged, trying to maintain his casual demeanor. "Worth a shot."

Bruce leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze zeroing in on the scattered papers visible on Dick’s bed. "Richard," he said, his voice dropping into that familiar no-nonsense tone. "You’re supposed to be resting, not working. What part of ‘alien flu’ makes you think it’s the right time to dive into case files?"

"It's not like I'm patrolling or anything," Dick said quickly.

"You're not even laying down,"

Dick sighed, leaning back against the headboard but refusing to fully recline. "Bruce, I’ve been stuck in bed all day. If I don’t do something to keep my brain active, I’ll lose my mind."

"Better to lose your mind from boredom than your health from overexertion," Bruce countered. His eyes softened slightly, though the concern behind them remained sharp.

Dick let out a small, sheepish laugh. "I guess I can’t really argue with that, can I?" He pushed the files aside with a resigned gesture, though he left them within arm’s reach.

"Good," Bruce said, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

"I'll let you rest. Please rest Dick, and keep me posted,"

"Will do," Dick coughed again as he gave Bruce a faint, reassuring smile. "Promise I won’t go pulling an all-nighter with these case files or anything. Cross my heart."

Bruce’s gaze lingered on the screen for a moment longer, as though he wasn’t entirely ready to let the conversation end. There was a flicker of something softer in his expression, a rare vulnerability peeking through the stoic exterior.

The call ended, the screen going dark as Dick set his phone down beside him. He stared at it for a moment, and went back on his promise and picked up the case files. (He just wanted to get at least half of the work done okay?)

Despite the exhaustion and the coughing, he put a dent in his workload, not by much but enough to feel like he wasn’t completely wasting the day. He flipped through the files methodically, reading over reports and scribbling down notes where necessary, though the haze of fever still clouded his thoughts. It was hard to focus, the words blurring together after a while, and the coughs were persistent, each one rattling his chest painfully.

By the time the light outside his window began to dim, Dick had barely made a dent in his work. His head felt heavy, and his eyes burned with the strain of trying to stay awake. He finally gave in, tossing the papers aside, letting them fall messily across his bed.

The automatic doors of the medbay slid open at that moment and Victor sputtered as he took in the scene.

"This whole time you were working?! You were supposed to be resting, man!" Victor exclaimed, crossing his arms as he strode into the room. His mechanical eye blinked rhythmically, emphasizing his exasperation.

Dick glanced up, caught red-handed. "I wasn’t...working the whole time," he defended weakly, coughing into a tissue and avoiding Victor’s pointed glare.

Victor snorted, unimpressed. "Right, because those scattered case files just magically appeared on your bed while you were napping, huh?"

"...Yes?"

Victor leveled Dick with a deadpan stare that conveyed just how done he was. His posture was one of pure determination, arms crossed firmly over his chest as he declared, "That’s it. You’re done." Without waiting for a reply, he strode over to Dick’s bedside, his steps purposeful and unrelenting. Grabbing Dick’s arm with careful but unyielding strength, he hoisted the younger man upright in one effortless motion.

“Wait—Vic!” Dick rasped, the word barely forming between his dry throat and the sheer weight of his fatigue. He squirmed weakly, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best. His limbs, heavy with exhaustion, refused to cooperate, leaving him completely at Victor’s mercy.

Victor didn’t so much as pause. His voice was as firm as his actions. “You had your chance to rest like a normal person,” he said, scooping Dick into his arms with the same ease one might use to pick up a feather pillow. Cradled in a bridal carry, Dick shot him a look of pure incredulity as Victor strode toward the door. “Now, we’re doing this my way.”

Dick tugged at the oversized hood of his sweatshirt, yanking it over his face as he muttered, “Your way involves public humiliation?”

Victor’s lips twitched into a smile, the first crack in his stern demeanor. “Yep,” he replied with deliberate cheer, his tone making it clear he wasn’t remotely sorry.

The door to the medbay swished open, and Victor marched out, his steps sure and steady. By the time they reached the common area, the rest of the team was sprawled across the room in various states of relaxation. Roy sat slumped on one end of the couch, sniffling into a tissue with a blanket haphazardly draped over his legs. Wally had claimed a beanbag chair, his legs stretched out and a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his lap. Donna and Lilith shared the loveseat, while Garth and Kori sat cross-legged on the floor, engaged in quiet conversation. The coffee table between them was cluttered with half-empty bowls of snacks and abandoned drinks.

Conversation died as every head turned toward the spectacle entering the room. Victor carried Dick as if he weighed nothing, his expression as neutral as if he were delivering a package. Dick, on the other hand, looked positively mortified, his hood pulled so low that it obscured most of his face.

“Knew he wasn’t asleep,” Roy said with a congested snicker, his voice still scratchy and congested.

“Shut up, Roy,” Dick muttered from beneath the hood, coughing weakly into his sleeve. His voice was rough, but it lacked the bite of true irritation. He sounded more resigned than anything else, clearly too tired to put up a proper fight.

Victor ignored the commentary entirely, striding to the largest, comfiest couch in the room. Without preamble, he gently deposited Dick onto the cushions, making sure he was lying back comfortably before reaching for a thick, fleece-lined blanket. He draped it over Dick with the precision of someone tucking in a stubborn toddler, ensuring no part of him was left uncovered.

“Movie night,” Victor announced with a tone of finality, as if daring anyone to object. “You stay put. I’ll even pick the most boring movie possible so you’ll fall asleep.”

Wally perked up from his beanbag, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Oh, this I gotta see. What’s the selection, Vic? A three-hour nature documentary? One of those black-and-white silent films?”

Victor smirked as he navigated through the streaming options. “Close. The History of Algebra: The Extended Cut.”

A collective groan echoed through the room.

“You’re a monster,” Donna said, shaking her head in mock dismay, though her amused smile betrayed her.

“Not to worry,” Victor added, his smirk growing. “Once Harper and Grayson are down for the count, we’ll switch to Hercules.”

Dick, half-buried under a blanket, cracked an unimpressed eye open. “So let me get this straight. You’re going to bore me to sleep with the most painfully dull movie ever created, then reward yourselves with a feel-good Disney singalong?” He coughed weakly, his voice rough from exhaustion. “That’s… villain behavior.”

Victor turned to him with an air of smug triumph. “Call it what you want, but it’s gonna work.”

Roy, curled at the opposite end of the couch, let out a pitiful groan. “If you think I’m passing out to some algebra snorefest, you’re delusional.”

Victor’s grin turned predatory as he clicked “Play.” “Oh, but you will. Because this isn’t just any algebra documentary—it’s a Tubi original.”

Roy groaned louder, clutching his blanket like it might shield him. “No.”

“Yes,” Victor replied, his tone dripping with mock villainy. “Cheaply made, horribly animated, AI-generated narration, a script nobody bothered to proofread, actors who’ve clearly regretted every life choice that led them here. And pacing so slow you could time it with a sundial. Trust me, you won’t even make it to the first poorly rendered graph before you’re out cold.”

Roy grumbled louder, clutching his blanket like a shield. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Victor’s amused gaze shifted to Dick. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you two didn’t insist on being so stubborn. Harper was trying to shoot arrows earlier, and Grayson here had paperwork spread all over his cot like he was running a Fortune 500 company.”

Dick muttered defensively, “It wasn’t that much paperwork.” His hoarse voice did little to help his argument.

Victor crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Grayson, you had three case files, a tablet, and a sticky note flowchart. Organized or not, you’re supposed to be resting. You scared the hell out of us last night and your cheeks are still flushed with fever.

With that the screen flickered to life, revealing a crudely animated sequence that looked like it had been rendered by a beginner’s 3D modeling software. The narration was even worse—an emotionless monotone that somehow managed to sound both robotic and unenthusiastic.

Dick had to give it to Vic, this was the most soul sucking thing put to film. The narration didn't change in tone or pace, he's pretty sure that he has heard whatever background music this is on some mobile game.

Roy sniffled again, dragging his blanket with him as he slid off the couch onto the floor in slow, exaggerated movements. He let out a low, pitiful groan as he sprawled across the carpet, his head landing unceremoniously on Lilith’s lap. Without even looking up from the book she was reading, she adjusted her position slightly to accommodate him.

Garth, seated cross-legged nearby, didn’t so much as blink when Roy’s legs draped over his lap like he was an expensive ottoman. “Comfortable?” Garth asked dryly, not bothering to look up.

Roy coughed, a wet, hacking cough in response, making Garth grimace in a bit of disgust but made no comment as he grabbed another blanket and draped it over Roy's legs.

With more space on the couch Donna reached over to rub soothing circles on Dick’s back. His tense shoulders relaxed under her touch, a soft hum escaping him as his eyelids drooped. Despite himself, he leaned into her comfort. He hated how terrible he felt, but as much as he resisted resting, he knew his team meant well. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dick shook his head, clearly for their two weeks in quarantine, he is not going to get anything done except for resting and considering that he almost died like a night ago he shouldn't be bothered by that fact.

But of course he was.

When they thought he was out cold, Dick heard them change the TV like they said they would, he could hear Roy's soft, congested snores and Wally quietly singing along as he did with every musical.

"Shh," Dick heard Kori whispered, though her voice still carried a gentle playfulness. “You’re going to wake them up.”

"I don't think so," Garth said, "Roy is out," And for a moment it was silent, Dick feeling eyes on him as someone lifted the blanket that was covering his face, studying him. Dick is excellent at faking sleep, but he could feel the subtle shift in the room, the way the temperature of the air seemed to change with the attention now focused on him. He kept his breathing slow, steady, and just shallow enough to pass for unconscious, though a part of him couldn't help but wonder who it was exactly that had decided to watch him so closely.

He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, then the faint rustling of fabric. The blanket lifted off his face, and Dick felt the cool air brush against his skin. Despite his efforts to maintain the illusion of sleep, his senses heightened. He could tell someone was hovering just a bit too close.

A quiet, familiar voice broke through the calm. “Hey, Grayson, you still with us?”

It was Victor, no surprise there. Dick could almost feel his presence—unwavering, careful, yet distinctly Victor.

Dick’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t let it show. His pulse was still erratic from the fever, his body clammy under the blanket. He had almost managed to drift off when the persistent tug of his own discomfort stirred him awake again.

Victor’s hand hovered over his forehead, a warm, yet steady touch that Dick knew so well from the countless times he’d been looked after by his teammate. He heard the soft sound of the temperature gun being pressed to his skin.

"100.3," Victor muttered under his breath. “Better, but not good enough.”

Dick answered him with a cough, thankfully no blue fluid this time but his nose was running with it, had been for a while.

He didn't know who wiped that away, honestly didn't want to open his eyes and find out.

He  did feel a little unproductive; He has worked in worse conditions, he could use the night to solve a couple cases, send them to Bruce or Tim to handle but he simply didn't.

There is plenty of time in the two week quarantine to do that ...

Ok there isn't, they had made it clear that he was on a two week hiatus from everything. No patrols, no casework, no emails, just Disney movies, soup, and sleep. Lots of sleep.

He honestly doesn't know how he is not only going to be cooped up in this tower, but have nothing productive done for two whole weeks, yet it was hard to argue with the logic behind it when his body felt like it was held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.

Victor’s steady voice cut through his musings. “You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?”

Dick cracked an eye open, meeting Victor’s knowing gaze. He looked a little smug, but mostly concerned, like a big brother who knew exactly what you were about to say before you even opened your mouth.

“I can’t help it,” Dick admitted, his voice rough and tired. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Garth arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, like sleeping, hydrating, and letting us pamper you. Real grueling schedule, Grayson.”

Dick huffed, making it obvious that he hated that this break was forced upon him but he appreciated them so much.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the couch and Donna's touch; she still was rubbing his back and the motion was starting to make him drowsy.

He’d argue later, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d push back against their smothering. But for tonight, for this moment, he let himself relax in the warmth of his mismatched family.

The world would still be there tomorrow. And, as his friends had insisted, it could wait two weeks for him.