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Dick woke up feeling like he was dead.
Not literally, of course, but he may as well have been. He hurt practically from head to toe—the combination of a throbbing pressure within his skull, a dull nausea in his stomach, and a resonating ache deep inside his bones made him sure he never wanted to move again. Not that he had the energy as fatigued as he was, anyway. His nose was doing its best impression of a faucet, he was freezing, he coughed up phlegm every thirty seconds, and when he rolled over to grab another box of tissues it sent a shockwave of regret through his miserable body.
There was zero chance of him doing anything productive at the current moment. So instead, Dick lay on his side and tried his very best to fall back asleep. It was at once the most alluring thing in the world and, frustratingly, hindered by the physical reminders of his condition. It was hard to drift off when he kept having to wipe his nose. Somewhere next to him, on his bedside table, Dick's phone buzzed, and he willed it to stop. He needed rest. He needed quiet. Was that so hard?
It did mercifully stop its incessant buzzing soon enough, and Dick took advantage of the peace to sink deeper into his mattress. Sleep was the best thing in the world. Why on earth did he patrol nights?
He must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing Dick knew, someone was pounding on the door to his apartment. Ugh. He tried to will them to stop, too, just like he had with his phone, but it seemed like his auditory assailant was somewhat more persistent. And every single knock felt like it was beating directly into his temples.
Maybe he could just ignore them. It had to stop eventually. Dick certainly wasn't about to go answer the door—hell, he wasn't even sure if he was able—so if the mailman wanted him to sign for something, he could come back tomorrow.
When the knocking finally ceased, Dick was more than ready to fall back asleep. Except… instead of blissful silence, his apartment door now sounded like someone was trying to pick the lock. Wasn't that fantastic.
He groaned and covered his head with his blankets. Maybe he was getting robbed. It was fine, if he was. Well, not fine, but hardly the end of the world. He could track down whoever had done it and get his stuff back whenever he was feeling better. No way was he about to try to stop them like this. The only bad possibility was if the robber just killed him instead of worrying about a witness, but even then, at least his head would stop hurting.
Killing was unlikely, though. Dick wouldn't even be able to see their face. Or call 911, for that matter, because his arms felt like lead and his phone was several miles away on his nightstand. So they might take his TV and cash. Whatever. As long as they let him sleep afterwards.
The front door swung open, and a voice called through the apartment. "Dick?" he heard, slightly muffled by the walls.
Huh. Jason was robbing him? Weird. He definitely hadn't expected that. At least he could be more sure he wouldn't die now. And he'd know where to go to fetch everything back.
Jason made his way into the bedroom. "Dick?" he asked, the sound of his voice shifting closer to the bed. "That you under there?"
Dick groaned and poked his head out. "Just steal my TV and leave, Jay."
"What? I don't want your fucking TV, moron. B sent me to check if you were alive. You ignored his text inviting you to dinner tonight."
"Ugh. Yes, I am alive."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, I'm still not sure about that. Can you sit up?"
Dick was regretting not pretending to be asleep when Jason entered. "No. Go away."
"Then how do I know you're not bleeding out under all those blankets?"
"I have the flu, Jason." He coughed into the crook of his arm. "Tell Alfred I'm sorry that I'm gonna miss dinner. Bruce can send Steph or someone to cover Blüdhaven if he wants."
"Damn." Jason crossed his arms. "Have you eaten anything today?"
"Swallowed a lot of my own snot."
"Gross. That doesn't count and you know it. I'm guessing you haven't had any water, either?" Jason sighed. "I guess we're both missing Alfred's beef Wellington."
Wait. Both? No, that couldn't—Dick halfheartedly tried to sit up. He leaned against the cool wood of the headboard, supported by his pillows. "No, Jason. You should go." He paused to sneeze. "I'll be fine."
Jason scoffed. "Yeah, right. Like hell I'm leaving you in this state, Dickhead. Besides, Bruce would probably send me right back to make sure you don't die anyway. Or send Alfred here and then nobody gets beef Wellington." He turned and slapped the doorframe with a hand. "I'll go cook you something so you don't starve. Got any soup?"
Dick's head felt fuzzy. This was all happening so fast. Jason was offering to make him food now? "I got a can of minestrone in the cupboard, I think."
"Perfect."
He left, and Dick savored the quiet for a moment. Everything still ached, and he still wanted to fall back asleep. He tossed another tissue onto the floor by his bed, making a mental note to disinfect his room when he was feeling better. Damn his immune system. Maybe he could doze for a bit… He closed his eyes.
And then immediately opened them as Jason returned. "Is the soup done already?" Dick managed to ask, groggy with fatigue and the stolen promise of rest. Surely it hadn't been that long.
"Ha. No. Brought you orange juice." Jason lifted a tall cylindrical glass filled almost to the brim. He waited for Dick to sit halfway up again, then handed it to him. There was even a straw so that Dick didn't have to tilt it to drink.
The glass was cold in his hands, which wasn't exactly enjoyable in his fever-freezing state, but Dick took a sip anyway. And… surprisingly enough, it did help. Perhaps it was the vitamin C, or hydration, or even just having someone there who cared enough to bring it to him, but Dick already felt slightly more alive.
Still awful. But better. "…Thanks, Jason. You're a good brother."
Jason grinned. "I know. Soup will be ready in ten. You want garlic bread with it?"