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Drake looks especially sickly today. Face opaque, eyes shifty. So sick, he hasn’t seen Damien, hiding in the rafters of Drake’s so called “nest”
Damien has been observing Drake for the last hour, having found nothing to entertain himself with at the manor while it's desolated.
Besides, he clearly needs supervision.
A yawn brings him out of his thoughts, he looks back just in time to see Drake take another sip of the “Blue Blast Super Rad” energy drink he’d been nursing for the hour.
Disgusting. Damien doesn't require such filth to stay awake. Yet another of Drake's failures.
Drake clearly doesn’t agree and takes another swig, arms shaky, fingers curled concerningly loosely around the neon blue can, obscuring the words so it reads “Blast ad”
The imbecile needs rest.
Drake disagrees a second time, and puts his usually nimble fingers back on the keyboard.
As much as Damien knows the need to complete something, this is ridiculous!
Does Father really let him get so… out of hand?
Father isn't here.
Right.
…
That only means Drake needs another caretaker! Obviously.
And who better for that job than Damien Wayne?
Certainly not Todd.
And Richard is in blüdhaven, a recent breakthrough with a exotic animal trafficking case keeps him there.
With his resolve appropriately steeled, he leaps gracefully onto the floor.
The first order of business is to assess the severity.
He walks briskly towards Drake, spins the chair, and presses his hand onto his forehead.
Drake jerks back an appropriate amount , considering how this must look.
Damien here, in Drake’s “Nest” with a hand on his forehead and a not so friendly scowl on his face?
Said scowl only deepens when it registers the burning that is Drake’s forehead.
He pulls back immediately, gearing up to yell something insulting, and most definitely not “mother henly” like Richard would insist, he planned to say something about “taking care of himself” and “what if a real enemy was here?!”
Until he realised Drake is simply staring, paling even more if possible.
Drake seems rather.. Shaken by this. Much more shaken than he would be usually.
He blinks, before opening his mouth tentatively.
“You’re..real?”
Has this mere fever made him completely brain dead? Although at least he had noticed Damien. Impressive.
Well, for someone with a fever of 103.
Damien nodded, putting his hand back onto Drake’s forehead. If only to confirm he is, in fact, real.
And Drake leans, like genuinely leans, into the touch, full body shifting forward.
It's a near thing, not stabbing Drake.
He doubts that would help recovery.
—
How he had become the sole caretaker for this incompetent fool he couldn't tell you.
Drake has been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last hour and a half, and when he does wake he might as well be unconscious with how little he makes sense. Softly mumbling about the “birds” and requesting he put on music.
He agrees to, on the condition he stops talking.
This works, surprisingly. The soft guitar and even softer voice echo around the dreary room, and Drake seems content to simply listen.
—
Damian takes the wet towel that was laid on Drake’s forehead, the music following him even as he retreats to the kitchen to wet it again.
The canned chicken broth he put on the stove is heating steadily. He could have done better if Drake had more in his fridge then energy drinks and the odd half eaten take out container.
As he fills a glass with water (it is important to stay hydrated when sick.) he stirred the stemming broth, the golden colour reminding him sharply of his mothers his eyes.
He stares, perhaps for too long as the glass begins to overflow, at the broth. It is only till water is wetting his sleeves, does he come back to reality and away from his mothers kind smiles.
He swiftly moves the broth of the burner, and the glass away from the spout of water, and finally wets the towel, wringing it out.
Once back in Drake's room, he places the towel on his forehead, the glass on the messy bedtable beside him.
He turns to retrieve the “soup”, before a hand catches onto his wrist, and he nearly snaps it, whirling around only to see Drake, half out his bed face faintly pink from the exertion.
“Stay?..” was the only explanation Drake had for him.
It took a lot of self restraint to not immediately shake him off
“Drake. I am getting your soup. I am not leaving.” a subpar job of comfort but apparently more than enough with how Drake slumps, eyes returning to their spot on the ceiling.
Damian took that as his cue, and trotted briskly to the kitchen. He prepared the broth with as much nutrients as he could with the limited supplies.
Which was to say he had none except for the broth which he suspected was left here by previous owners…
Drake didn’t complain when Damian set it in front of him, hands shaking as he ate.
The most concerning thing is he hasn't objected once to being in Damian's care. Either Drake is so sick he isn't capable of identifying him, or, he trusts Damian.
He hopes, naively, it's the latter.
—
Damian only leaves for 30 minutes he swears.
Just 30 minutes! He needed to retrieve actual supplies from the manor, seeing as Drake hasn't even got cough medicine.
Lord knows that was a mistake.
Drake is on the bathroom floor, covered generously in his own vomit which smells so bad he's tempted to leave him there.
Instead he carefully picks him up, uncurling him from his ball position and sets him in the bathtub.
Most of the vomit is water, but that makes it no less revolting, especially since he is the one cleaning it up.
…
He could off load this to Todd…
He shakes his head stubbornly. He has cleaned worse than measly vomit.
He starts removing Drake's clothing, most of it wet with vomit, hence why it needs to go.
Drake is rich. He won't mind Damian throwing out this vomit stained clothing.
He removes the red t-shirt, tossing it to the side as he removes the bottoms. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, they haven't much use for privacy.
He considers simply housing him down with the shower head but decides that would be too familiar to waterboarding.
He leaves to fetch a blanket and cleaning supplies.
—
It's been 5 minutes since he awoke from his vomiting stunt, covered in a grey blanket from the manor sleeping in a bathtub that smelled strongly of bleach.
This was all dandy except for the 14 year old sitting vigil on the floor.
Either he was hallucinating as he though or Damian fucking Wayne just cleaned up his vomit.
He was never going to live this down.
“Tt, good morning Drake. I'm sure you had a pleasant sleep?” the brat snarked, rising from the floor and offering a bundle of clothes.
He very much did not. His back ached and his headache was slowly evolving to migraine territory. (a great improvement from how absolutely terrible he was feeling before but none the less shitty)
He took the clothes anyway, not wanting to entertain their usual banter. Slowly dressing himself as Damian stood nearby, probably making sure he didn't fall.
He was going to kill himself, he swears to god.
After another 10 minutes of struggling with the buttons on his stupid shirt, he attempted to get up and leave the bathroom.
Then promptly fell right back over.
Or he would have, if not for Damian grabbing his arm and holding him upright.
“Drake” Damian stresses, saying nothing but that and somehow conveying “you mind numbing fool, stop falling over!” and “are you Okay?” at the same time.
It was impressive, definitely something he got from Bruce.
“S’rry” he slurs, mouth suddenly dry
Damian tsk’s, rolling his eyes, pulling him towards the door.
Brat.
—
If Damian takes his temperature one more time he's going to implode. (if only because every damn time he leans into it, and he knows Damian notices.)
He's half convinced he's only doing it to show off how he knows temperature by touch
But he can see worry swim behind his eyes, a frown that hasn't left his face since he woke up.
“You need to eat something Drake.” Damian demands, sticking the soup Alfred made and delivered 10 minutes ago under his nose.
“I did-”
“Energy drinks do not count, you insufferable fool!” Damian cut him off swiftly.
He knew he was only refusing to be difficult, but also because the demon brat could've totally poisoned it.
Damian's scowl deepened, as if reading his mind he shoved the spoon into his mouth, swallows it angrily, and then thrusts the soup at him again.
“Fine! Fine..” he relents, taking the soup, the ceramic warm on his hands, he nearly misses the hurt on Damian's face as he turns away.
“...” Damian opens his mouth but closes it, mind working as he debates what to say.
Tim motions with his hand to continue, now fully shoving the soup into his mouth.
Damian scowls but continues all the same
“What do you need to recover.” he says it as a statement, arms crossing defensively over his chest.
“Course” he thinks, bitterly, “of course he's never gotten sick”
He shrugs, snickering when damian “tt’s”
—
In the end Damian wasn't a half bad caretaker.
Which maybe should've been obvious considering he cleaned up Tim's literal vomit and hasn't teased him once about it but
Tim threw him out earlier this morning, convincing him that Gotham needed Robin more than Tim did with his stupid cold.
He only succeeds because Tim promises to call Alfred is it gets worse (he wont)
Who knew the brat was such a mother hen? Maybe he was spending too much time with dick.
Maybe it just runs in the family
He laughs, taking another bite of his bagel, wondering if Damian would be down for a movie night tonight.