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There's something off about Dick tonight.
But for some reason, he couldn't put a finger on it.
Normally Dick’s chatters would fill their comm lines, doing unnecessary flips across the rooftops with endless energy, quipping at any moment given.
Tonight, though, the boy is quieter, sluggish in a way Bruce has never seen him before. He’s always been so full of energy, even when tired— and tonight proved that something is wrong.
Maybe he hasn't been getting enough sleep lately? Bruce knows how much the nightmares have been keeping the kid awake, leaving him tossing and restless most nights, which he can relate to.
He glances to the side at his ward, who had slumped against the door of the Batmobile like all his energy had been drained out, and a flash of worry courses through him.
Yeah, maybe he’s just tired. It’s been a long night of fighting crime and it’s past his bedtime. Nothing to worry about…
…Right?
“Dick?” Bruce calls out softly, gloved hand reaching out to the boy, gently shaking him awake. “We’re home.”
Dick only made a soft, quiet sound, a little whimper that barely registered as a response.
Bruce’s eyes softened behind the cowl, climbing out of the car to walk over to the passenger side, carefully opening the door.
As expected, Dick nearly fell out of the car but Bruce manages to catch him in time before he could faceplant the floor, carrying him over to the locker rooms to change out of their suits.
“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s calm voice echoed through the Cave, a hint of concern lacing his voice. “Is the young master alright?”
Is he?
Bruce doesn't really know.
“He’s just tired,” he replies instead, though his tone indicates his uncertainty.
The old butler hums, sharp, gentle eyes scanning over the small boy’s figure. “I suspect he might be coming down with something. He hasn't had much of an appetite earlier and appears to be flushed,” Alfred points out— and only then did Bruce notice the redness on the boy’s cheeks. “Perhaps some bed rest would suffice.”
Bruce freezes.
Down with something? With what? Did he get hit by some kind of toxin or poison during patrol and Bruce didn't know? The kid tends to touch things he isn't supposed to. Or… is Dick dying and Bruce is too late to save him like how he couldn't save—
“He is not poisoned or hurt, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupts with that same calm voice, like he was reading Bruce’s mind. “I mean that he most likely has fallen ill. A simple fever that can be cured with enough rest and medication.”
“Oh,” Bruce says dumbly, blinking down at the small, flushed, sleeping boy in his arms. “A fever? He’s not— he’ll be okay, then?”
“Just a fever, sir,” Alfred confirms patiently.
Bruce swallows, still staring at Dick like the boy might vanish in his arms if he looks away. “Just… a fever,” he repeats, mostly to himself, like the concept is foreign.
Technically speaking, taking care of a sick child is a foreign concept to him. He’s also only twenty-two with an eight year old under his care for a few months now— everything is new to him. You can’t blame him.
“Do we need a hospital?” Bruce blurts, voice dropping into something dangerously close to panic, eyes snapping up to Alfred. “We need a hospital. What if it gets worse? What if he stops breathing? Should I call in Leslie? Or maybe Clark—”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred cuts in again, stopping him with a polite, raised hand. “This is not a League-level emergency. It is a child with an oncoming fever.”
Bruce hesitates, still clutching Dick a little too tightly. “Right— right. A fever.”
Alfred’s expression softens. “Children tend to get sick every once a while. He will recover in no time, Master Bruce,” he assures. “Now, what you need to do now is to bring the boy up to his room and change him out of his suit. I shall be with you with some warm tea and a thermometer.”
Bruce nods mutely, carrying Dick up the stairs as if his ward was made of glass. He’s been shot at, stabbed, poisoned in the last few years— but this is different. He can’t punch his way out of this one.
The manor feels unnervingly quiet as he pushes open Dick’s bedroom door with this shoulder. He lays the small boy— God, he looks so tiny, he’s only a kid— down carefully on the bed.
How do parents do this? Are there rules? What is he supposed to do next?
Right— get Dick out of his suit.
He flicks open one of the compartments of his belt, pulling out a small tube of glue solvent to remove Dick’s domino mask.
Bruce was careful, pulling it off the boy’s face as gently as he could without waking him up. But yet, Dick stirs weakly, hazy eyes blinking open.
He freezes, hand hovering like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't.
Just stay calm. Stay calm. Don't panic or you’ll scare the kid.
“B…?” Dick mumbles, voice scratchy and thin.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” Bruce says immediately, crouching down beside the bed so they’re eye level. “You’re okay. Just… just go back to sleep.”
Dick tries to shake his head, but it’s a weak, sluggish motion. “‘M not tired,” he protests, even as his eyelids droop.
Bruce almost laughs— almost. “You could’ve fooled me, little one.” His voice softens without him meaning to. “Hold still a second, okay? Gotta get you out of this suit.”
The boy makes a quiet noise of complaint as Bruce carefully peels off the mask. Normally Dick would try to run away, unwilling to remove his suit— that’s how much he loved being Robin— but tonight, Dick barely resisted as Bruce pulled off the cape, clearly exhausted to even fight back.
The gloves, suit and pixie boots slowly come off next, and Bruce stands up to grab Dick’s favourite Superman pyjamas from his dresser.
“Okay, partner. Arms up,” Bruce murmurs, keeping his voice soft as he makes the boy sit up to slide the pyjama top over Dick’s head.
His kid barely twitches, half-asleep already, head lolling against Bruce’s shoulder as he carefully threaded each arm through and then tucked the pyjama bottom over his small feet, before lifting him gently to settle him under the covers.
“‘M cold,” Dick mumbled, barely audible.
Bruce freezes.
Shit.
Cold. That isn’t good. Is it? What did “cold” mean? Low body temperature? Hypothermia? Is Dick already crashing? Should he just fuck it and call Leslie? God, why isn’t there a handbook for this?
“Uh— hang on, chum,” Bruce mutters, already scanning the room like it was a crime scene. “We’ll uh… fix this.”
Blanket. Yes. More blankets. He snags the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, unfolding it so fast it nearly tangled around his boots. He piles it on top of Dick, tucking it too tight in his panic, and the boy makes a faint, grumbling sound of protest.
“Too much?” Bruce whispers urgently like Dick could provide feedback in his sleep. “Okay, not too much. Just… enough.”
Still uneasy, Bruce reaches for the thermostat on the wall and turns it up several degrees— then immediately worries. What if the room gets too hot? Could a kid overheat from a fever? Is that how heatstroke works? Fuck, he knows a hundred ways to disarm a bomb but not make an eight-year-old comfortable in bed.
“B…” Dick mumbles again, slightly slurred, squirming weakly under the piles of blankets. “‘M fine.”
Bruce crouches beside the bed, voice softening instinctively. “Yeah? You sure, little one?”
Dick gives the world’s tiniest nod before slumping back into sleep.
Bruce stays crouched there for a long moment, studying every breath, every twitch, the faint pink flush to the boy’s cheeks. He brushes his gloved fingers over Dick’s hair, listening to the way the kid sighed softly in his sleep.
“Ah, I see you have decided to drown the boy in blankets,” Alfred’s dry voice came from the doorway, making Bruce startled slightly. The butler steps inside, balancing a tray with a thermometer, a steaming cup of tea— as promised— and a glass of water.
“He said he was cold,” Bruce defends weakly, never moving from his crouch beside the bed.
He watches as Alfred sets the tray down on the nightstand and the older man glances over at Bruce’s hunched posture. “Quite understandable, sir. Though I suspect the child would prefer to breathe while staying warm.”
Bruce didn't even crack a smile. His gaze moves to Dick’s small, still form again, every rise and fall of his chest catalogued like evidence.
A thermometer is handed to him and he blinks at it like it was some kind of foreign, alien technology that he didn't quite understand.
“You put it under his tongue, Master Bruce,” Alfred informs, tone as if he was a clueless child doing something for the first time.
Hm…
“What if he chokes on it?” Bruce asks immediately, voice sharp with real fear.
Alfred lifts a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “I assure you, sir, children have survived this procedure for generations.”
Bruce still hesitates, looking between the thermometer and the little boy’s half-asleep face like it’s a hostage negotiation. “He’s so out of it— what if he bites down? Break it? Inhale it? Maybe—”
The butler sighs, cutting him off politely. “If you are afraid that young Master Dick might choke on the thermometer in his sleep, I have a few other thermometers that will not cause choking.”
Bruce blinks up at him. “Other thermometers?”
“Yes, sir,” Alfred says with infinite patience. “Ones that go in his ears. Or—” his mouth quirks in faint amusement, “—in less dignified places.”
Bruce’s face scrunches up. “...We’re not doing the last one.”
“In the ear, it is,” Alfred replies smoothly, a new thermometer appears in his hand out of nowhere— when did he get that?— and hands it over to him.
Bruce takes the ear thermometer like it might explode. “Okay. This I can handle.”
“Do be gentle, sir. It is his ear, not a lock you are picking,” Alfred advises dryly.
Bruce moves to sit on the edge of the bed, brushing Dick’s hair aside. The boy stirs faintly at the touch but doesn't wake, making a soft, unhappy sound when the cool plastic slips into his ear.
“Sorry, little one. It’ll just take a while,” he whispers to the sleeping boy, placing his favourite elephant plushie— Zitka— under his arm in an attempt to comfort him.
Finally, a quiet beep indicates the thermometer has finished after what felt like hours. Bruce yanks it out, checking the tiny screen. “37.7.”
“As I suspected,” Alfred says, taking it from him and peering at it. “A mild fever. Nothing alarming.”
“Mild?” Bruce echoes, voice tight as he stares down at his ward— asleep, breathing steady though his cheeks are pink and lips slightly chapped. “What if it spikes overnight?”
“Then we’ll give him medicine and monitor him,” Alfred replies easily.
Bruce doesn't look convinced. His gloved fingers hover over Dick’s hair like he’s afraid to touch. “He’s so small.”
Alfred’s expression softens. “They do tend to come that way at eight years old.”
Bruce huffs a faint laugh despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He stands, and shifts his weight from feet to feet awkwardly, glancing over at Alfred. “Okay— now what?”
“Now, Master Bruce, you should change out of your suit and head to bed. It is getting late,” Alfred instructs, raising a perfect eyebrow.
“I can—”
“Absolutely not, Master Bruce,” the butler chastises. “I do not wish to see Batman roaming around the Manor and scaring the ghosts of his ancestors away.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Alfred tuts, passing him Dick’s Robin suit and shooing him out of his ward’s bedroom. “Let the boy rest. I will keep watch of his temperature and inform you if there is any significant change.”
Bruce’s shoulders sagged forward. There is no point in arguing with Alfred.
With a sigh and a final glance to Dick’s sleeping form, he reluctantly turns to leave. The boy looked impossibly small under the pile of blankets, wavy hair sticking out in odd angles.
He had faced aliens, monsters, and even the Head Demon without blinking— but walking out of Dick’s room felt like the hardest thing he’d done all night.
Bruce trudges back toward his study, Robin’s small suit folded neatly in his hands, and then down to the BatCave to return both their uniforms to its rightful place.
By the time he reaches his bedroom, dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats now, there is a cup of warm tea waiting on his nightstand— Alfred must've placed it there while he went to change.
Bruce allows himself to sink onto his bed, shoulders slumping in exhaustion, taking a careful sip of his tea as he tries his very best not to panic or worry too much about the sick child in the room next to his.
It’s just a mild fever, he reminds himself. Nothing to worry about.
Except… what if Dick gets colder?
What if it isn't just a fever? What if Alfred missed something— what if Bruce missed something? Batman doesn't miss things. He’s called the World’s Greatest Detective for a reason.
“Fuck,” Bruce whispers to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face before downing his tea and standing from his bed, pacing around his room.
He needs to trust Alfred— the butler has done this a thousand times because Bruce tended to get sick a lot when he was younger. So Alfred obviously knew what he was doing.
But yet, an hour later, he can’t help himself from walking down the hallway and pushing Dick’s ajar door open with two fingers, peeking his head inside.
The room is dim, only the faint light from the hallway spilling across the floorboards. Bruce stands there silently, listening.
Dick is curled on his side, breathing slow and even, hair half in his eyes. One tiny hand fisted in the blanket like he’s holding on for dear life while the other wrapped around his elephant. He doesn't stir when Bruce steps inside.
Alfred’s voice echoes in his head— let the boy rest.
Bruce crouches next to the bed anyway, just to be sure. He presses two fingers lightly against Dick’s wrist, counting the pulse. Strong. Steady. But… maybe a little fast?
“Damn it,” Bruce mutters under his breath, unsure if he’s imagining it or not.
Should he call Alfred?
Hm… maybe not.
He brushes the back of his hand over Dick’s forehead. A little warm. Fever hasn't spiked yet— and Bruce really hopes that it doesn't because he realises he misses Dick’s uncontrollable energy more than he expected.
Dick shifts in his sleep, mumbling something in Romani that Bruce didn't quite catch. His nose wrinkles as if even in his sleep Dick Grayson can tell his guardian is hovering like an anxious hawk.
Bruce freezes, holding still until Dick relaxes again. Then, with infinite care, he tucks the blanket closer around him and turns to leave, closing the door silently behind him.
He makes it three whole minutes in his own room before giving up and heading for the kitchen. Alfred is there, unsurprisingly, already steeping another pot of tea like he knew Bruce was going to be there.
“Couldn't sleep, sir?” Alfred asks without looking up.
Bruce crosses his arms, scowling like a man caught breaking curfew. “He feels… warm.”
“Indeed. That is what a fever is, sir. Quite common among folks like you and I.”
Bruce opens his mouth, shuts it again, then drags a hand over his face. “...You’re sure it’s mild?”
Alfred slides him a second cup of tea with that maddening calm of his. “If it eases your mind, I shall check on the young lad every half-hour. You, on the other hand, will go to bed and remain there unless the Manor is on fire or Gotham falls into the sea. Am I clear?”
Bruce exhales through his nose, staring at the steam curling around the tea. “...Half-hour?”
“Half-hour,” Alfred confirms, firm.
Bruce nods reluctantly. “Wake me if—”
“If his temperature rises, you’ll be the first to know immediately,” Alfred cuts in smoothly, patting Bruce’s shoulder as he walks past him. “Now drink your tea before it gets cold.”
Bruce grunts, not quite agreeing, but not arguing either.
There’s something warm beside him.
Not really warm but… burning hot.
Bruce frowns, shifting slightly in his sleep. He didn't really want to wake up yet— it’s too early, still too bright for him to get up anyway. He reaches out, more on instinct than thought, and his hand brushes against soft hair, then a damp forehead.
His eyes snap open.
“...Dickie?” His voice is rough from sleep, barely a whisper.
The boy stirs but doesn't wake, cheek pressed into Bruce’s side where he’d probably crawled in sometime in the middle of the night. Bruce sits up fast enough to make himself dizzy, pressing his palm fully to Dick’s forehead now— too hot, far too hot for comfort.
Bruce’s mind, sharp and ruthless in a fight, trips over itself now. He knows fevers. He knows infections. He knows statistics about how high temperatures are in kids this age. What he doesn't know is how to not feel his heart clawing up into his throat.
“Alf—”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is calm but firm as he appears in the doorway. “Ah, I see the young lad has made himself comfortable in your bed.”
Bruce doesn't even glance up. “He’s burning up,” he says quickly, too quickly, like saying it faster will make Alfred move faster. He’s already gathering Dick against his chest, which only makes the boy whine faintly and burrow closer.
“Mm— warm…” Dick sniffs, half-asleep, voice thick with congestion.
Bruce swallows hard. Not warm. Not warm at all. He’s on fire. “Alfred, we need— uh— an ice bath. And a doctor— call Barry to get him to a hospital—”
“Master Bruce.” Alfred is across the room now, somehow both brisk and unhurried, like a man who has seen this a million times. “The young master is fine. I have taken his temperature and given him some medicine to clear up his fever while you were asleep.”
Bruce freezes, still clutching the way too hot child in his arms, his voice somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “You— why didn't you wake me?”
“Because, sir,” Alfred says with the calm of someone who’s raised a stubborn child before. “You looked like you needed that rest.”
“I don't need sleep, Alfred—” Bruce starts, only to be cut off by a wet little cough against his chest. He looks down and sees Dick’s eyelids flutter open, blue eyes hazy and unfocused.
“Bruce?” The boy mumbles, cheek still pressed into his shirt. “‘s too loud.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Bruce apologises immediately, running his fingers through Dick’s damp hair soothingly. The boy leans into his touch, falling back to sleep almost instantly.
“If you're still worried about the young master being too hot,” Alfred said evenly, “I shall bring a cool towel for him. Will that lessen your worry?”
“I— I guess,” Bruce mumbles, not quite meeting the butler’s eyes.
“Very well, then,” Alfred hums, turning around to leave. “While I fetch whatever is needed, I suggest you call Master Dick’s school to inform them that he’ll be absent for a few days.”
He then pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder. “And perhaps give Master Clark a call to help out with patrol if he’s available.”
Bruce looks at the butler like he’d just suggested he hand Gotham’s keys to the Joker. “I can handle patrol,” he mutters automatically.
Alfred only raised an eyebrow. “And leave the young master’s side while he’s sick?”
Bruce opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again when Dick makes a small, miserable sound against his chest like he didn't want Bruce to leave. Alfred’s eyebrow stays arched, as if daring him to try.
It’s not that Bruce wanted to leave Dick’s side— it's just that he isn't fond of anyone else patrolling his city, even Clark, as helpful as he is.
“I’ll… call Clark,” Bruce says finally, voice low and grudging, like admitting defeat to an opponent he never had a chance of beating.
“Excellent choice, sir,” Alfred says smoothly. “I’ll return with that towel.”
When Alfred slips out, Bruce stays sitting on the edge of his bed, one large hand cupped around the back of Dick’s head. He can feel how hot the kid is, damp hair sticking to his forehead, and it makes his stomach twist. How do other parents stay calm during this? Or do they just fake it better than he can?
Dick stirs again, face scrunching. “Don’t feel good,” he whispers, voice scratchy.
Bruce softens instantly. “I bet. You have a high fever, chum.”
“Don’t wanna be sick,” Dick mumbles, and the little frown on his face is so fierce it almost had Bruce cooing at him. “Wanna go on patrol. Promise won’t slow you down.”
“Nice try,” Bruce murmurs, smoothing the boy’s hair back. “But you’re staying in bed until you’re better. Doctor Batman’s orders.”
That earns the tiniest huff of laughter, followed by a wet sniffle. Bruce reaches for the box of tissues on his nightstand and holds it against Dick’s nose, letting the boy blow into it before throwing it in a trash can.
Only then did he grab his phone to call the necessary people— Dick’s teacher and Clark. By the time he hung up, Alfred appeared with a cool towel and a tray of a glass of water, coffee, a plate of sandwiches and some warm soup.
“Try to encourage him to drink some soup,” Alfred instructs gently, placing the tray on the nightstand before laying a damp cloth across Dick’s forehead. “Even a small amount will help.”
Bruce nods quickly, like he’s being briefed on a high-stake mission. He ignores the way Alfred eyes him with the faintest twitch of amusement as he leaves. “Dickie? Think you can drink some soup for me?”
“Don’t want it,” Dick mutters into his shoulder.
“Please? Just a little bit to fill your tummy?” Bruce coaxes again— soft, patient, nothing like the growl of Batman— and smiles when Dick finally nods.
He shifts Dick slightly so the boy would be sitting on his lap and picks up the bowl, dipping the spoon in the soup and blowing on it to make sure it isn't too hot before holding it near Dick’s mouth. “Open up.”
Dick makes a face but parts his lips anyway, letting Bruce feed him. “Tastes weird.”
“It’s mushroom soup,” Bruce murmurs, offering another spoon as his other hand tucks the blanket around them. “You like mushroom soup.”
“Not when I’m sick,” Dick grumbles, but he swallows it down obediently.
It is only after the third spoonful did Bruce’s door open again— only this time, it wasn't the butler but rather a friend of his.
Clark.
Bruce’s brows furrows. “I thought I told you to come by tonight.”
The Kryptonian only shrugs sheepishly, grin wide and unbothered as he steps inside. “Sorry. I couldn't help myself— had to see how Dick was doing.”
Bruce only grunts as he moves closer, gaze softening as he sees the small, fever-flushed boy nestled against Bruce. “Hi darlin’,” Clark coos, bending down to nose affectionately at Dick’s hair. “Is B taking care of you well?”
“Mmhmmm.” The kid nods, then turns his face stubbornly away from the spoon. “Don' wan’ anymore soup.”
“Alright, little one,” Bruce agrees easily, worried about pushing too hard. “You did great, chum.” He places the bowl back on the tray, then takes the glass of water, passing it to Dick.
After a few sips, Dick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand— only for Bruce to immediately catch it. “Uh-uh. Napkin, kiddo.”
Clark, bless him, decides to help out by plucking the glass out of Dick’s hand and dabs his chin with a napkin, making the boy whine softly about getting babied despite being Robin.
“Even vigilantes need to be babied every once a while,” Clark says with amusement, brushing a stray lock of damp hair off Dick’s forehead. “Right, Bruce?”
Bruce raises a sharp eyebrow, laying Dick back down onto the bed gently. “Are you implying that I need to be babied every once in a while?”
Clark grins, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “I’m not implying anything.”
Dick giggles softly from where he lay, eyes already drooping. “B does need to be babied too,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, he absolutely does,” Clark agrees with a laugh.
Bruce rolls his eyes fondly with an exasperated sigh, tucking the boy in and presses a kiss to his temple. “Get some sleep, chum.”
Only after the boy fell asleep did Clark speak up, redirecting his gaze from Dick to his friend. “You should eat,” he says, holding out the plate of sandwiches with a small smile. “Alfred didn't make these for decorations.”
“I’m not hungry,” Bruce declines automatically despite his stomach growling at the sight of food. Curse his metabolism. Of course Clark noticed— he always noticed.
“Uh-huh,” Clark says, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly gentle way of his. “Y’know, if you don't wanna eat it, it’s fine too.” He shrugs, placing the plate between them. “I’ll just let you deal with Alfred.”
Bruce glares at him, but Clakr just smirks, leaning back like he’s perfectly at ease in the Wayne Manor bedroom of Gotham’s most feared man.
“I’m not scared of Alfred,” Bruce mutters, even though they both know that’s a lie.
Clark chuckles under his breath. “Sure, B. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Bruce pointedly ignores him, adjusting the blanket over Dick again even though it doesn't need adjusting. The boy’s feverish breathing has evened out, soft puffs against the pillow. His cheeks are still pink, hair plastered to his forehead, but he looks peaceful— safe.
“You’re good with him,” he hears Clark saying quietly, the teasing edge softening into something fond. “You know that, right?”
He deserves better, Bruce wants to say. Someone better than me.
But he just hums noncommittally, still brushing Dick’s hair away from his face. “I guess.”
If Clark notices the hesitation in his voice, he doesn't mention it. He just leans forward, nudges the plate a little closer. “Eat, Bruce. That’s an order.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” Bruce grumbles— but he takes one anyway, muttering under his breath about Kryptonians being insufferable, knowing Clark could hear him.
He only smiles, content. “See? Ain’t that hard.”
They sit in silence for a while, a rare reward for a place like Gotham. Bruce eats in small, distracted bites while Clark quietly watches him.
When Dick stirs again, Bruce is already there— hand on his head, voice gentle. “You’re okay, chum. Go back to sleep.”
“You ever think,” Clark murmurs, voice low as to not wake the boy, “you might actually be good at this dad thing?”
Bruce gives him a flat look. “Don't even start.”
Clark raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’. The kid adores you,” he points out. “And you clearly adore him back. I think that's what matters most.”
Bruce’s throat works. He glances at Dick, half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand. “Adoration doesn't keep him safe.”
Clark hums. “No, but it gives him something to come back to.”
Bruce doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
Because in his study, sitting in a drawer of his desk, are adoption papers— waiting for the right moment to be signed.