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Clark was enjoying a quiet afternoon.
Lois, being on-call for the weekend, was currently out on a case. So, Clark had taken the opportunity to spend some quality time with Conner. He'd taken his son to the park followed by lunch and ice cream. Now, the six-year-old was playing in his room, leaving his dad with some alone time in the breakfast nook.
Suddenly, he heard a thump outside the apartment. Frowning, Clark put down his book and got up to investigate.
Through the peephole, he saw a familiar mop of curly black hair.
He swung the door open immediately. "Dick?"
The fourteen-year-old was slumped over against the wall, his forearm crutches laying uselessly beside him. His skin was pale with sweat cementing his bangs to his forehead. He looked up at Clark, blinking slowly. His brows furrowed, as if his brain couldn't quite register his surroundings.
Because of residual damage to his brain from the trapeze accident, Dick sometimes had episodes of confusion. Over the years, they'd gotten blessedly rare; now, the boy only had one or two a year, usually after an intense emotional or physical trigger.
Clark crouched next to his godson. "Dick, sweetheart, are you hurt?"
"M-muro šero…dukhavel. Totul doare.” {My head... it hurts. Everything hurts.}
Okay, so he wasn't speaking English. From what Bruce had told him, that was pretty typical during these episodes. Dick could likely still understand English, but he wouldn't be able to speak it until his brain caught back up with reality.
"Dick, I'm going to pick you up and bring you inside. You're safe now. Everything's going to be okay."
Clark gently lifted Dick off of the ground and carried him into the apartment. The boy didn't say anything, but he didn't fight the embrace, either. He simply melted against his godfather's chest. That’s when Clark noticed the intense heat radiating off of the teenager. Fever, perhaps?
He laid Dick down on the couch and draped one of Ma’s quilts over his body. Then, Clark turned off all of the lights in the apartment and drew the curtains. It likely wouldn’t keep Dick from getting a migraine, but hopefully it would make him less overwhelmed. His next action was to text both Bruce and Alfred that Dick was there. They were probably worried sick.
While he waited for a response, he retrieved Dick’s backpack and crutches from the hallway. Then, he grabbed the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and filled up a glass of water. On a whim, he added one of Lois’s electrolyte packets to the liquid (they always kept them on hand now that she was pregnant again; morning sickness was a real witch).
“I’m going to take your temperature now, Dick,” he explained gently before placing the thermometer into his godson’s ear. Dick’s only response was a weak moan.
101.3.
Well, that explained what had triggered the episode.
“You’ve got a fever, honey. Can you try to drink some of this for me?”
Dick wrinkled his nose at the offered liquid. “Na truśalo.” {Not thirsty.}
Clark had no idea what his godson was saying, but he could infer a lot based on the tone and body language. “Please, bud. You’re probably dehydrated.”
The teen huffed but accepted the straw this time. Clark took it as a win. Once the cup was empty, he sat down next to the boy. Dick immediately curled into his godfather’s side. Clark adjusted his position so Dick could fully lay on his chest then began carding his hand through the teen's thick hair.
Physical touch was very important to Dick. Not only was it deeply ingrained into his culture, but it also grounded him and helped him feel safe. Clark remembered how much of an adjustment it had been for Bruce, who was very much not a touchy-feely guy.
His phone beeped.
“Speak of the Devil,” he chuckled to himself as he read the text. “Dick, your dad will be here soon. He just has to handoff his patients to another doctor before he can leave the hospital.”
“Papin,” Dick murmured. Clark recognized the nickname.
“Yes, exactly. You’re doing great, bud.”
“Daddy?”
Conner stood in the doorway, staring at Dick with wide, concerned eyes. The commotion must have disturbed him.
“Hey, honey, it’s okay,” Clark assured the six-year-old, keeping his voice soft. “Dick’s just not feeling well right now, so I’m going to stay with him until his dad gets here.”
“Oh. Do you need help?”
He smiled at his son. “Well, it’s really important we stay quiet so we don’t hurt his head more. Can you do that?”
Conner nodded. “I promise to be super quiet.”
“Thanks, honey. How about you go back to your room and color him a picture? I bet that would help him feel better.”
“Okay!”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Dick gradually became more alert. The fog in his gaze lifted, and he eventually pushed himself to sit up.
He looked at Clark. “Why am I here?”
His accent was much thicker than normal, but at least he was speaking English.
“You just showed up,” Clark explained gently. “You must have walked here from school.”
Dick had mathelte practice on Saturday afternoons, and the Kents lived not too far from Gotham Academy. It was the only thing that made any sense.
The boy furrowed his brows. “I think… I remember not feeling good. The lights were too bright. People too loud.”
Clark sighed. “You’ve got a fever, bud. How are you feeling now? Is your head hurting?”
With a trembling lip, Dick nodded. He looked like he was about to cry, which broke Clark’s heart.
He reached over and squeezed the teen’s hand. “Okay, buddy. Do you have any of your headache meds in your backpack?”
“No. The nurse keeps it at school.”
He moved to get up. “Well, I’ve got some Tylenol and Motrin in the cabinet. I can go get–”
Dick shook his head. “Stay with me. Please.”
Well, there was no way Clark could say “no” to that.
“Of course, kiddo. Whatever you need.”
That’s when Dick finally started to cry.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he assured, pulling his godson against his chest. “I’ve got you.”
“I hate this, Uncle Clark. I’m so broken.”
“You’re not broken, Dick.”
“But I am! I can’t join the gymnastics team because my stupid legs don’t work half the time, so joining the mathletes was my only way to be somewhat normal. Now, I’ve probably lost that, too.”
Clark frowned. “What makes you say that?”
The boy sniffled. “Because Bruce is probably gonna make me quit. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll probably get kicked out because apparently I can’t handle a cold without wandering off like a freaking dementia patient.”
“Dick, sweetheart, this is your first episode in what? Over a year? They’re getting less and less frequent. I don’t see any reason for that to stop you from participating in the activities you love. And I think your dad will agree. He won’t make you quit; though, he’ll probably want to come up with some guidelines to keep you safe. It’s scary to think of you walking here all by yourself when you were in that state.”
Dick rubbed his face with his sleeve. “I barely remember it. It was like my body was on auto-pilot.”
He held his godson a little tighter. “I’m so thankful you ended up here. I know Bruce is, too. He’ll be here any minute.”
“God, I’ll bet he totally freaked,” he lamented. “He’s such a mother hen.”
Clark chuckled. “Well, I think in this case, it’s justified. Don’t you think?”
“Traitor.”
Bruce arrived a few minutes later. His best friend walked through the Kent’s apartment door with a deep, concerned frown on his face.
“Before you freak out, I’m fine,” Dick grumbled, his face red. He had stopped crying, but Clark could tell his godson was still embarrassed and upset about the day’s events.
Bruce came around and knelt down in front of his son. “Clark said you have a fever. You didn’t mention feeling sick this morning.”
Dick kept his gaze fixed in his lap. “I didn’t think anything of it. My back was flaring up last night, so I didn’t sleep much. Guess I thought I was just feeling off ‘cause of that.”
Clark winced. Chronic pain was another thing Dick often struggled with. Just another way the accident had scarred him.
Bruce’s face fell. “Dickie, Dragule, why didn’t you tell me? I want to know if you’re sick or hurting.”
“I didn’t wanna miss practice,” the boy admitted, looking miserable. “The competition’s coming up, and I already feel like the weakest link with all the accommodations I have to have. I thought I could push through it.”
The doctor reached up and pushed his son’s bangs out of his face. “Chum, you have to give yourself more grace than that. Getting sick increases the inflammation in your body, which is probably why you had a pain flare last night. And lack of sleep and fevers are two of your biggest neurological triggers, as we both know you know. It’s important to take care of yourself and go easy when you’re not feeling up to snuff.”
“I just want to be normal, Papin.”
“You’re better than normal, Dickie,” Bruce assured, squeezing his son’s knee. “You’re one of the brightest, most joyful people I’ve ever met. I know you have your struggles, and I wish more than anything that I could take them away from you, but they don’t define you.”
“Your dad’s right,” Clark added. “Besides, you grew up in the circus, kiddo. Normal was never in the cards for you.”
That earned him a small smile. “I guess.”
“Let’s get you home and into bed,” Bruce suggested.
Dick lifted his hands up. “Carry me?”
To Clark’s amusement, Bruce didn’t even blink. He simply stood up and scooped his son into his arms. The guy was such a softie for his boy. Not that Clark had any room to talk.
“Thank you for taking care of him, Clark,” his best friend said sincerely.
He smiled. “Anytime. Family’s family, remember? I hope you feel better soon, bud.”
Dick, who had settled happily against his father’s chest, let his eyes drift closed. “Thanks, Uncle Clark.”