In which Damian has a cold and refuses to admit he's sick, and the whole bat brood has to come together to take care of him. For identityconstellations, I hope this is distracting enough!
Sniffles and SnufflesIt started out as an odd chill.
Damian dismissed it as part of the acclimation process to living in Gotham. He'd endured far colder, of course, but there was something about Gotham's winters that were oppressingly dreary. Even in the most remote corners of Nepal, in the farthest reaches of the Himalayas where Prēta Hēḍa was tucked in the steep mountainside, they had been above the clouds. Gotham was forever trapped underneath the smog and relentlessly gray sky.
But then it sank into his bones.
He tried to fight the ruthless cold, but he couldn't seem to shake the aching that settled deep within him. To his eternal horror, he had even tripped on a loose shingle and was only saved from an embarrassing fall by the large, steady hand of Batman.
"Robin, are you alright?"
Damian jerked his shoulder from his grip. "Fine, Batman."
He could feel Batman's watchful gaze on his back, and his shoulders tensed. "Come along, Fath-Batman." He wanted to pretend his voice was hoarse in an imitation of his Father's voice-modifying Batman tech, but it was getting hard to ignore the scratchiness in his throat.
The effort it cost Damian to return to the Cave in the same amount of time as he would normally was herculean. The air felt soupy in his lungs, gravity was annoyingly out of sorts, and his head was pounding. Despite that, he arrived within 15 seconds of the average time it took him to reach the Cave from the Wayne Botanical Garden.
Sweat beaded his forehead, and he hastily wiped his face and removed his domino. Bruce was still watching him intently. Damian could feel his dark eyes following him around he room.
"Damian, are you hurt?"
"I said I was fine, Father."
A pause.
"Alright then. Hit the showers."
It took a large portion of his conscious and a great deal of willpower to fight the tickle in his throat. But with sheer determination, he made his way to the shower and turned the water to scalding. It took him longer than he would care to admit to undress, but he peeled away his sweaty uniform and stumbled under the blistering heat.
He was aware that the water was too hot, that his skin was becoming the flushed pink it did whenever he burned, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It felt good.
"Damian?"
The knock at the door made him jump. He'd been in the shower for close to fifteen minutes. Damian cursed under his breath. He never took showers that were longer than necessary.
"Damian, you okay, buddy?"
"Grayson, if you are incapable of leaving me to bathe in peace we are going to have-" he was doing fine, damnit. But in the middle of the sentence, it just came from nowhere. It caught him by surprise, there's no way he could have stopped it really.
He was cut off mid-scolding by a fit of coughs. Well, two to be exact, before he physically stopped himself through sheer force of will. But the damage was already done.
"You don't sound okay. Come see me when you're done. I want to give you a checkup."
"-tt-"
"If you don't come see me, I'm sure I can get Alfred to give you a-"
"Fine."
Damian didn't realize how tense he'd been, but each step Dick took away from the door released some tension from his shoulders until all he wanted to was curl up on the floor an let the scathing water melt away the aching in his bones.
But Damian was a Wayne and an Al Ghul and would not give into any weakness. So he quickly finished his shower, and marched to his room, fully prepared to get dressed and prove to Grayson that he was indeed fine. But he wasn't too proud to admit he was a little fatigued after a long day. A... small break wouldn't be remiss. He sat carefully on his bed, trying to ease the stiffness from his joints.
Five minutes later, Dick burst into Damian's room, prepared to give an Alfred-level lecture on taking care of yourself. It was a lecture he didn't even have to rehearse―it was one he gave to Tim too often to be comfortable.
Dick bit his tongue, trying desperately to hold back his rehearsed lecture at the sight of his youngest brother curled up and fast asleep on his bed. Dick walked silently over to the bed, and picked up Damian, unfolding the covers to tuck him in. Dick swooped down to peck a kiss on Damian's adorable little cheek, much softer and less stern in sleep. But he frowned. Damian's face was far too warm. Placing a gentle hand on his forehead, Dick checked his temperature. He was definitely running a fever.
Frowning, Dick tucked Damian under the covers, and quietly snuck out of the room. The thought of waking Damian up when he was passed out like that was simply unbearable to Dick, so he left a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand before whispering a soft "goodnight" and silently closing the door.
Damian felt absolutely horrible, and as hard as he was trying to hide it, he knew it was starting to show. But he would not let one puny little cold keep him from being Robin. He'd spent the entire day avoiding everybody, convinced that overprotective Grayson might insist he'd stay home. Besides, even Drake was out on a mission with his pack of idiot school children. And today was important. Today was Thomas' first official patrol as Robin.
No, Damian would not miss it. Not because of some silly little cold.
So he hid all day, avoiding everyone, especially Alfred. And he was successful, now standing in his Robin uniform, eyeing up Duke, who was shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.
"-tt- There's no need to be nervous, Thomas. Father won't let you near any real danger for some time."
"Shut it, pipsqueak," Duke responded in the playful banter that had become routine for them. "Don't be getting nervous on me now. It'll take a few patrols for everyone to realize I'm better than you..."
Duke trailed off, waiting for Damian to chime in, with his usual speech about being raised by assassins, and being the blood son of Batman, but nothing came. Damian was making a funny face, and Duke's heart dropped.
"Oh, wait. Damian, you know I'm kidding, right? I mean to be honest, I don't know if I'll ever be on your level, so just... don't freak out on me, okay?"
Damian had hunched over, desperately trying to keep a rattling cough deep in his lungs, but it was a struggle and he was losing.
"Damian?" Duke took a hesitant step forward. "You okay, kid? You're not looking so good."
"Shut up, Thomas," Damian croaked. His eyes were watering with the effort, but he was holding it back. "It's time to go."
Damian scrambled to the Batmobile, decidedly avoiding Dick, and Duke watched him with narrowed eyes. Something was up with Damian. He'd best keep an eye on him.
Duke's first patrol was going smoothly. He and Bruce were still working out the kinks, but they were beginning to act as a fluid team. Duke had improved exponentially since his time as a wannabe, no doubt due to their training regimen, Damian noted with some satisfaction. He and Nightwing were shadowing their patrol, making sure they didn't encounter anything a rookie couldn't handle, but Damian suspected Grayson had just agreed to his plan to shadow them simply because his little brother wanted to, and hadn't actually listened to the well parsed argument he'd prepared.
"So, how are you feeling, Robin?"
"Shut up, Nightwing, we're on patrol."
"You never came to see me last night."
Damian shifted uncomfortably. "I fell asleep. It's necessary for people my age to have enough sleep, due to―"
"I tucked you in."
"Nightwing―"
"You were really warm. Running a fever."
"Nightwing―"
"I know you hate being sick, but if you're not feeling well you need to tell me, or at least Alf―"
"Grayson, shut up!"
Dick was startled by the breach in protocol, but it got him to notice what Damian had spotted.
As Bruce and Duke were talking about their tandem efforts and cuffing the band of thieves, a fifth member was sneaking up behind them with a wicked looking knife and a sixth waiting around the corner with a gun. Duke was blocking Bruce's view, and Duke was too engrossed in their conversation to notice.
Somebody was going to get hurt if they didn't act now. Damian's cape slipped through his fingers before Dick could stop him, so he did the only thing he could: he launched himself off the roof.
God, it had practically taken Thomas' murder for Grayson to finally shut up. Damian smirked as he crept up behind the man approaching Duke with the knife. He was so intent on his target, he didn't even notice Damian's less-than-perfect approach. Damian gritted his teeth and cursed his lungs as they made another rattly noise just from breathing. He knew Grayson should have apprehended the gunman by now, so he figured it was okay to let his presence be known.
"Did you really think you could sneak up on Batman?" Damian rasped. His hoarse voice added a particularly threatening tone to his voice, and the thief started, eyes widening, and swung.
Damian grinned. That was exactly what he wanted, to show Thomas how a real Robin fought.
The thief's knifework was loose and sloppy. It should have been an easy takedown. But Damian's punches weren't having the brutal effect they usually did, and he was tired. He was about to make the incapacitating blow when gravity suddenly failed him. For a moment Damian couldn't tell which way was down, and he stumbled.
It all happened so quickly. By now, Duke had caught on to Damian's distress, and locked the thief's shoulder joint, forcing him to drop the knife, before flipping him over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Instantly, Duke's eyes were looking for Damian, and when they finally found what they were searching for, his heart sank. The kid was sweating profusely, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, and he was swaying dangerously.
"Nightwing, come here quick, it's Robin―" was all he got into his comms before Damian's eyes went dark, and he tumbled backwards, off the roof.
Duke didn't give the criminal a second thought, and sprinted to the edge, launching himself into the night.
Damian's return to consciousness was slower than he'd like to admit. First to return was his sense of touch, and he knew from the crisp sheets and damp air that he was in the cave. The ache in his bones was still there, and he rasped every time he breathed in a way that was embarrassingly childish, but he was too exhausted to care. He smelled sweat and antiseptic and the harsh scent of pure oxygen from the line in his nose. Sound was the last to return to him.
"I saw him before patrol. He looked terrible. I should've said something. Anything."
"Duke, this is not your fault," it was Grayson and he sounded shaken. "Damian should know better than to go on patrol when he's sick. And if you hadn't been there, hadn't caught him..."
There was a heavy silence in the room as they all saw for a moment the terrible, unthinkable alternative.
"Thank you, Duke." Bruce's voice was deep and gravelly with emotion.
The damn EKG gave away his return to consciousness, as his pulse began to race with the fear he felt when he was falling...
"Damian?"
He managed to peel open his eyes to see a worried Dick crowding his bedside, with Duke peering over his shoulder and Bruce at the foot of the gurney.
"What hap―" Damian was cut off from his question by a series of wet, rattling coughs.
"You passed out," Duke said, watching him closely. Damian ignored the worry in his face. He could barely stand Grayson's overbearing overprotectiveness, and would no longer be able to tolerate Thomas if he was going down the same path.
"Damian, don't roll your eyes. You fell off a roof."
Now that made him stiffen.
Leslie's sharp voice cut through their worry and the faint buzzing in his ears to deliver unwelcome news. "Young man, you have bronchitis and the flu. You must have been feeling bad for days. Why didn't you say anything?" The question hung heavy in the air, and Damian could feel all eyes on him, and he usually would have said something, anything, but he was just so tired.
"You're on bedrest until further notice. Alfred will be keeping a close eye on you. You will not leave this bed until you have been cleared to do so. Do you understand?"
Normally, Damian would have fought it, fought her harsh sentencing, insisted not to be treated like a child or coddled, demanded to return to patrol and continue with Batman.
But he was so, so tired.
So he mumbled the only thing that made sense.
"Yes, ma'am."
Damian was unconscious, so he never saw the looks of astonishment, concern, and downright fear shared by all present. How sick did the little bird have to be to agree with Leslie Thompkins?