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Tim Drake is pretty sure that he’s dying.
He jerks himself awake as a vicious cough tears free from his lungs, and he stumbles out of his bed to spit phlegm into the toilet. His head swims as he kneels on the bathroom tile, and he’s gasping for breath in between hacking coughs. His throat is scarily tight.
His antibiotics are carefully stored in the medicine cabinet above the sink, but before he can stand to reach for them, saliva begins to gather in his mouth. He hadn’t eaten enough last night to throw up anything but bile, and it stings his already aching throat.
“Fuck,” Tim whimpers as he leans his forehead against the porcelain of the toilet seat. “Fuck.”
It’s the height of flu season, and Wayne Enterprises board members have been dropping like flies around him. Tim knew it was only a matter of time before he, too, succumbed to the illness tearing through the company, and it’s a small miracle that he’s fallen ill on a Saturday.
If he’s lucky, he’ll be well enough to go to work on Monday. Tim is aware of his unhealthy work-life balance, but if he calls out, that will bring his entire family to his door. He has no desire to be fussed over like a helpless child, especially not over something as trivial. So what if he’s sick? He’s been through far worse alone and come out on the other side relatively unscathed, and this shall be no different.
With a groan, Tim pulls himself to his feet and rummages around in the medicine cabinet. He washes the pills down with a swig of water from the sink, then heads right back to bed. He’s sweating beneath the covers, and his pajamas grow damp and cling to his clammy skin. It’s a little past ten, and Tim knows he should probably eat something, but the idea of getting up and going to the kitchen makes him want to cry, so he just brings the covers up over his head and goes back to sleep.
It’s almost two in the afternoon when another coughing fit drags him out of a restless sleep, and Tim curls in on himself as his entire body jerks with the force of his hacking coughs. His lungs burn, and the pain leaves tears in his eyes. There’s a half-empty cup of water on his bedside table, and even though it’s days old, Tim downs it in desperate gulps.
When he stands, the pounding in his head almost brings him to his knees, and it is only the thought of lemon and ginger teabags in the kitchen that makes him put one foot in front of the other.
As the kettle boils, Tim closes his eyes and slumps over onto the countertop.
He knows that if he called, any one of his family members would come to help him. They would bring him food, massage the aches in his lower back, rub his temples to chase away the blinding headache building behind his eyes. Tim knows this.
He doesn’t call.
The first time he’d gotten sick when his parents had been away, Tim had rung them over and over again until they’d finally picked up.
“Honestly, Timothy, what on earth could be so important that you would feel the need to call eight times in a row?” his mother had huffed when she’d answered the phone.
“I don’t feel well,” Tim had sniffled. “I think I’m sick, Mom.”
There had been a long moment of silence before his mother had sighed. “Well, Timothy, I really don’t know what you want me to do about that from Italy. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I think you’re more than old enough to take care of yourself, hmm? There’s some medicine in your father’s medicine cabinet. Take a half dose, alright? And order yourself some nice soup with your father’s card. Feel better soon, sweetheart.”
And then she had hung up the phone.
Tim hadn’t called them again, and he had spent the rest of his childhood taking care of himself. He learned how to make chicken noodle soup from scratch, went out and bought kid’s cold medicine so he didn’t accidentally overdose on his father’s, and wrapped blankets around himself so tightly that he could almost pretend that his parents were holding him in their arms.
Because his mother had been right. He had been perfectly capable of taking care of himself at eight years old; there was absolutely no reason to bother anyone at the ripe age of eighteen.
So Tim doesn’t call, no matter how much he desperately wants to, because he will not be a bother. He can make his own tea, heat up his own soup, and monitor his own fever. He will not be a bother.
The tea soothes most of the ache in his throat, but the relief is short lived. By the time he’s washed the mug clean, his throat has tightened again, and he sighs as he sets the kettle to boil once more.
Alfred would have kittens if he could see the ingredients of the instant ramen packet Tim pulls out of his cabinet, but Tim’s out of soup, and this is the next best thing. He downs the second cup of tea while he waits for the ramen to cook, then carries it back to bed. Soup sloshes out of the cup and other the covers, but Tim is too delirious to care. When he finishes, he tosses the cup to the floor and buries himself back under the covers.
Tim Drake is used to being alone. It doesn’t make him upset, no matter what his family might think whenever he brings up his childhood. His parents had been busy, and so Tim had found ways to entertain himself. He had gotten used to living in a large, empty house, and he knows how to take care of himself. He does not need to be coddled.
So what if he’s pretty certain his lungs are one bad cough away from collapsing in on themselves? So what if every time he tries to lift his head the entire room tilts? So what if he can barely make out the number on the thermometer when he tries to read his temperature?
He is more than old enough to take care of himself.
There’s a youtube video pulled up on his laptop, and Tim presses play with trembling fingers. The screen hurts his eyes, but the background noise is nice enough. He doesn’t bother listening to whatever the person is saying, just focuses on the gentle cadence of their words as he hides beneath the covers.
The bedsheets begin to smell as Tim sweats through his clothes, and he feels disgusting as he trembles in bed. He wants a shower, but standing for so long feels impossible, so he resigns himself to staying put.
It would be so easy to call Alfred. The man would be at Tim’s apartment in a heartbeat, and Tim aches with longing. He wants someone to smooth back his hair and wipe off his clammy forehead. He wants someone to bring him soup and another cup of tea. He wants someone to come and tell him that he’s not actually dying, and that he’s going to be just fine.
His finger hovers over the call button, but all he can hear is his mother’s voice. He is too old to be crying for help like a child. He is more than capable of riding out this illness. He has suffered far worse, and there is no need to make this into a big deal.
The worst part is that he knows that the others call for far less. He’s seen Bruce walk shamelessly out of a board meeting because Dick had a case of food poisoning, has seen Alfred prep bone broth from scratch when Jason had been unable to keep down anything else, has seen all of his siblings be doted on for the smallest scrapes and mildest fevers. He knows he could ask for help.
Instead, Tim tosses his phone onto the bedside table so he won’t be tempted to call and turns the volume up on his laptop. His chest aches, his throat is raw, and his head is still pounding, but there is just no need to call attention to himself. He can take care of himself.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of his mother.