Chapter Text
"Red Robin," Oracle's voice said over the comms. "Are you heading for that chili dog stand on your way home?"
Tim adjusted his next swing to let him land in a crouch on the ledge of the Salesforce Tower, scanning the area for evidence of chili dogs. "I could be. Why?"
"I took Hood off the schedule for tonight," Oracle replied. "His tracker hasn't moved from his apartment in two days and he sent me that meme of a screaming goat a few minutes before patrol started. He left me on read after that, so I figured he was calling in sick. But I think someone should go check on him."
"...I mean yeah, I guess that checks out," Tim sighed. "Sure, I can bring him the healing power of chili dogs, why not. How many do you prescribe for Screaming Goat Memes?"
"Six?"
"Only six? What if the goat's there with him? What if he was trying to tell you he's being held hostage by a goat? Did you even check for local goat break-outs, O?"
"It was definitely a standard-issue meme, Tim. But bring him more if you want to. And don't forget your mask."
Tim aimed, shot, swung. "On it. Do you think B would notice if I used his card to buy the whole stand? Nothing says 'get well soon' like your own chili dog cart."
"No plotting theft over comms," Batman said sternly.
"B. This is the most secure line in the city," Tim argued.
"The country," Oracle objected. "Hopefully the world."
"Yeah, the world! Where else are you gonna plot theft? Are you actually suggesting we scheme insecurely?" Tim gasped. "What kind of mentor--"
He could hear Batman pinching the bridge of his nose through the cowl. It made a very distinctive, smooth, subtle tap. Almost the opposite of noise. It was Tim's favorite un-noise. "Please," his ill-advising mentor continued, "Let me know when you've put eyes on Red Hood. It's not like him not to show up."
"It's extremely like him not to show up," Oracle and Tim chorused.
"It's not like him not to show up for no apparent reason," Batman corrected himself.
"True," Tim said, a little ruefully. "Usually, we all know what you did to piss him off."
"Hey," Batman said. Oracle, overlapping with him, added: "Sometimes it's Dick."
"You two owe me a chili dog for every name over comms tonight," Batman's deep voice growled seriously. "That's three so far." He paused. "And it's usually Dick."
Oracle laughed. "Maybe you really should just bring the cart home."
Tim failed, three times, to correctly enter the unnecessarily-secure 20-digit code to disengage Jason's front door security bar and brace locks.
He didn't feel like trying to get in the window while carrying five steaming sacks of chili dogs. But maybe it would have been less of a hassle.
He let his forehead bang lightly into the foot of steel that Jason called "the minimum reasonable amount of security, Tim, what the fuck, how can you even live behind WOOD," while he breathed deeply -- yes, through his KN94 mask, Babs -- and tried to muster the willingness to do it again. The foot-thick steel effectively muffled any sound inside.
But the shitty apartment walls around it didn't. Tim could hear deep, dry coughing from within.
He moved over a little and put his ear directly against the wall for a moment. Then he abruptly straightened up and pounded the 20 digits in with lightning speed, shoving the door open so hard it bashed into the opposite wall. Hopefully Jason owned the building, or at least wasn't planning on getting his cleaning deposit back.
Tim didn't even hear it hit the wall, or the bags of chili dogs hitting the floor. All of his attention was on his brother's intense, unceasing coughs.
He could hear Jason's wheezing gasps between each bout. It didn't sound like he was getting a single clear breath.
Tim desperately wanted to find an inhaler, but Jason didn't have asthma. The Pit would have fixed it if he had, right? Maybe he'd been hit with some toxic dust or - a building had collapsed on him, and he hadn't mentioned it, again, or -
Jason was half-leaning against the bathtub, half-sprawled across the bathroom floor, his back to Tim. He was pressing his inner elbow against his mouth to block his coughs. He held his other hand up in the air, struggling to catch his breath long enough to say something.
Tim waited, nearly vibrating.
Jason took a slow, raspy breath. A short, tight cough. Another slow, raspy breath.
"'M. Fine." His outstretched arm fell heavily back down over the side of the tub.
Tim took a slow, deep breath of his own. Then another. Slower. Slow, calming breaths, Tim. Good. Nice and calm, now.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"
Jason startled, jerking slightly where he lay. "N--" He took a longer, wheezing breath. "No?"
Tim waited.
"It's just. A cough." Jason took a deep, slow breath of his own to demonstrate. It sounded like the air was scraping along rough corduroy the whole way.
"Oh, okay," Tim said. He took a step back. "So, you're just resting in here."
"Ye." Jason leaned his face against the cool bathtub again. "'M comf' here."
"So, you just have a cough, and you're just resting comfortably on the bathroom floor, like a normal person," Tim summed up.
"Y' g't it," Jason mumbled.
"Great. So you feel fine."
"Mmhm."
Tim's verbal trap swung shut. "And you can get up and close the front door real quick while I find a plate for these chili dogs."
There was a pause.
Tim wouldn't even characterize it as an uncomfortable pause. He was perfectly comfortable waiting for Jason's reply. And he wasn't totally sure Jason was conscious enough to feel uncomfortable right now. In fact, he was preparing for the possibility that he'd have to give his brother a little shove to wake him up and ask again. He might be safer shoving the guy's legs with his foot than going in for the shoulder. On the other hand (foot), Jason's reflexes were probably total shit right now. He was probably safe to lean in and shake Jason as much as he wanted.
"...T'rd," Jason offered.
"You're. Just tired," Tim said flatly.
"Mmph."
"Okay. You are full of shit, and I'm going to close the door myself. And then I'm telling Babs what's up." Tim exited the room, ignoring Jason's wordless, protesting whine. He slammed the door shut and re-armed it with one hand, slapping his comm with the other. "Hey, so, Jason is on the floor of the bathroom and he says he's fine. He says he's just tired and has a cough. Like a normal person."
"Like a normal person," Barbara echoed. "You mean like Bruce?"
"That's two more chili dogs," Bruce reminded them.
"And if you were on the bathroom floor coughing and wheezing uncontrollably," Tim said with annoyance, "you would...."
"Be fine, yes," his venerable mentor agreed.
"And fine would mean that you should be in the medbay getting your lungs x-rayed, correct?" Tim responded, moving all the bags of chili dogs to the coffee table.
"Uh, in all likelihood, yes, that is correct. What's his temperature like?"
Tim groaned. "I haven't even gotten that far yet. But he looked like shit, if that's any help."
Twin sighs echoed down the comm lines. Barbara asked, "Ambulance shit, or...?"
Tim began to pace rapidly back and forth across the stained beige living room carpet. Five steps, pivot; five steps, pivot. "What exactly is on our triage shit list? Ambulance shit? Leslie shit? Med bay shit? Is there a shit flow chart I should be following here?"
"We can take better care of him in the med bay than the hospital can," Bruce said. "But only if we can get him here."
"Are you saying we need a bat-bulance?" Tim said, suppressing a half-hysterical half-giggle. "Look, I think I need to at least take his vitals. I'm getting off comms for a sec." He silenced the comm over their protests, took it out of his ear, and dropped it next to the chili dogs for good measure.
He returned to the open bathroom door, leaning casually against it in the manner of a casual younger brother just hanging out with his absolutely and totally fine older brother. In the bathroom. As you do.
It wasn't a very big bathroom. But he still shouldn't be able to hear the deep rattle in his very healthy older brother's lungs from the doorway.
Straining to get a deeper breath, Jason emphatically said, "'M fine!" And began coughing again.
Tim was preparing a snarky response when he realized that the deep, ragged breaths between coughs were sobs. He dropped to his knees next to his brother and carefully placed a hand on Jason's back. "Are you fine?" he asked gently.
"N- no," Jason closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the tub harder. "Shit."
"You feel like shit?"
"'M shit," Jason said argumentatively. He managed a clearer breath. Creasing his brow in concentration, he rasped out, "C'n't - even - breathe - right," and shuddered, rubbing his face against his sleeve.
Tim clenched his fists, then forced himself to release them, and turned so he was sitting alongside Jason. "Skill issue," he agreed.
Jason let out an incredulous bark of a laugh. Encouraged, Tim added, "Can't even control your unconscious bodily functions. Couldn't be me. I trained under the master of bronchial tube control in Hanoi. I've named each alveolus, and I make sure to fill them with air in alphabetical order." He saw Jason's shoulders shake, and hoped it was with laughter. He put a hopefully comforting hand on Jason's upper back.
Not laughter, then, or not only laughter. Jason's white undershirt was unpleasantly hot and damp with sweat.
Obeying a deep, confusing instinct, Tim laid his face against Jason's back, wrapping one arm around his waist in a half-hug.
It was a wildly uncomfortable position. But like this, he could hear the near-silent sobs Jason was suppressing, and the nasty scrape of each shallow breath. He could feel Jason hold his breath for a moment, stilling, as if suddenly catching sight of a wild creature. And he could feel the minute fevered tremors continuing across Jason's body, like waves in the stillness.
Tim tightened his hug, just a tiny bit.
Jason heaved out a surprisingly deep sigh, and shivered harder. He wiped his face with the back of one shaking hand.
Tim sat up slowly, sliding his arm up so it was lying across his brother's back. "Any chance I could see how bad you fucked up controlling your own body temp?"
Jason responded with a sort of half-laugh, half-sob, and (like a true theater kid) cheated his face outward, eyes closed, sliding his forehead against the edge of the tub as he turned so that his profile was visible. The effort made new beads of sweat break out among the old ones. He wrapped his arms around his torso, cramming his hands into his armpits, in a mute and ineffectual effort to contain the chills.
Tim's free hand came to rest briefly against his cheek, then disappeared. Cool, dry terrycloth appeared in its place, blotting at hours of sweat. The surprisingly cool back of Tim's hand returned, lingering for a moment against his cheek, his forehead, and -- more blotting -- then the back of his neck.
"Pretty fucking bad, bro," Tim informed him. His voice dopplered away to be joined by the sound of small wooden drawers being briskly swept open and closed, one after another. "And do you even have a fucking thermometer in here? Sorry. Sorry. I meant that as a funny funny joke, but it sounded mean. I'll find something. I don't need one probably. I get it. You have--" He ran out of breath and paused. "A pretty high fever, I think."
"Second... down, right," Jason managed to say over Tim's barely-controlled freakout. The back of a drawer slammed into its stops. Tim's knees hit the floor beside him. A red light swept across his eyelids: beep, beep, beep, then a warning staccato, beep-eep-eep-eep-eep-eep. The drawer slammed shut again.
He heard Tim breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again. "One oh four point five," his brother informed him tightly.
"Yeah."
"Did you already know that?!"
"No." Jason felt like he was floating somewhere very warm. He could feel the scratchiness inside his lungs if he paid attention, but he was going to make sure not to pay any more attention. It seemed like Tim deserved a better answer than that. It was probably still answering time. He could do it. "Felt bad, though. Hot," he offered. That was almost a speech! That was so good. So much better than when he couldn't even do breathing right. Surely Tim would see how much better he was doing. And leave him alone? Jason wasn't sure that was what he wanted anymore. "Feel... bad," he added.
His body suddenly buckled into another coughing spasm, hauling him back down into the shocking cold of the bathroom, and slamming his head against the tub. He tried to untangle his arms from his torso, and managed to free just one hand, gripping the bathtub with all his strength to prevent himself from bucking into it again while he coughed. His eyes watered from coughing. "I... maybe... hospital," he managed to say in between coughs.
His eyes must be open again now, because he saw Tim's eyes widen before his brother turned and fled the room. Oh well; Jason was probably going to cough himself to death now anyway. He slid down to the bath mat, coughing and shaking too hard to complete another thought.
In one fluid gesture, Tim slammed the comm in while activating it. "He wants to go to the hospital," he blurted urgently.
He was met by silence.
"Are you guys even still there?! BATMAN. REPORT," Tim yelled.
"He's there. We're here. We were just - thrown," Oracle said. "What's going on?"
"He has a fever of 104.5, his lungs sound like garbage, I think we're going to see them soon because he sounds like he's coughing at least one of them up right now, um, oh, and he said he felt bad and that maybe he should go to the hospital?!" Tim ended on what may have been a shriek.
Batman intervened. "He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine. We should probably have him checked for sepsis."
"SEPSIS?!" Oracle and Tim both shrieked.
"It sounds like pneumonia. It's just good practice to check for sepsis. He's at very low risk," Bruce protested.
Tim face-palmed. "I thought the reason you weren't a doctor was because you dropped out to become Batman, not because your bedside manner got you fired from medical school!"
"You cannot be fired from medical school," Bruce said. "It's - I mean, you could probably be fired from your rotation-"
Barbara cut them both off. "How are we getting Jason checked for sepsis and treated for probable pneumonia? You have thirty seconds. Go."
"The obvious solution is an ambulance to the hospital," Tim said.
"The obvious solution is the med bay," Bruce argued.
"The ambulance won't take him to your med bay. I don't care how rich you are," Tim said.
"I could come pick him up," Bruce said.
"It's already morning rush hour and you don't have sirens," Barbara said. "No - B. Do not. I don't care what you're thinking. The amount of attention you'd get for racing the Batmobile across Gotham and back just after dawn is not worth it."
"The obvious solution is Superman," Bruce grumbled.
"The obvious solution is Kon," Tim retorted.
"The obvious solution is Superman, who's big enough to carry Jason Todd without difficulty," Bruce said.
"Kon can carry Jason! He's just as strong as Superman now!"
"But he's smaller. Jason is a lot to maneuver."
"You guys," Barbara said. Something pounded on the front door so loudly that the walls shook and the door began to buckle. "You'll have them both there in a second if you keep saying their names like that."