A/N: tiny re-edit done simply to make it more stream lined. Thanks for reading and dont forget to review!
"Hey," Jazz greets Bruce when she walks into the kitchen, arms full of grocery bags.
"You're early," he replies, glancing at a wall clock.
"You're complaining?"
"No; just making an observation."
"Mhm," she replies, unloading the groceries. "Do you need me to run any errands today before patrol?"
"Check on McGinnis."
"Cause he's late? He's always late," she replies, her head in the fridge as she stuffs the vegetable drawers with produce.
"No, I sent him home," he explains, preparing a cup of tea.
"Why?"
"Not feeling well."
"He gets to go home because of the sniffles?" She asks, closing the fridge door and leaning against it.
"They come in threes for him," he replies, straining the hot water over the tealeaves in his mug.
"What?" She asks, raising a brow.
"Check on him and you'll understand," he says, leaving the enigma unsolved and taking his mug with him.
With a packed lunchbox slung on her shoulder, Jazz steps off the elevator and heads towards Terry's apartment door. She knocks a few times and waits for an answer, but the door doesn't open. Knocking again, she leans against the doorframe and waits a few more minutes before taking the liberty to turn the knob herself. She finds it unlocked, so she steps into an unexpectedly darkened apartment.
"Ter?" She calls out as she turns on the lights.
"Off! Turn it off!" His voice suddenly yells, startling her into flipping the switch again.
"What the hell's your problem?" She scolds.
"Shhhhh," he replies.
She follows the hushed voice to the couch, and with eyes adjusted to the darkness, she finds him lying with face buried in the back of the couch and blanket pulled over his face.
"Are you okay?" She whispers, taking a seat on the coffee table.
"I'm doing cartwheels," he irritably replies.
"No need to be sarcastic," she scowls.
"Why are you here?"
"Bruce asked me to check on you."
"Go away," he groans.
"He said they come in threes for you," she continues anyway, making it clear she has no intentions to leave. "I don't know what that means."
"Go away, Douglas," he repeats, his voice muffled as he pushes his face deeper into the cushion.
"No," she defiantly replies as she reaches for the lunch box.
"Are you shittin' me right now?" He growls. "Please leave."
"Why?" She asks as she pulls out a container of soup and a thermos of hot tea, setting them on the table.
"Because I don't need you here."
"Well, tough, cause I'm not leaving. Now will you please tell me what's wrong so I can help?"
"Holy shit, Jazz!" Terry suddenly snaps. "Look, it takes a lot of energy to deal with your irrational need to help every living microorganism on this planet, and I don't have that right now. So do me a freaking favor and go away."
Jazz sighs as she rises to her feet with the container of soup in hand. He hears her walk away, but the expectant sound of the door opening and closing never follows. Instead, he hears utensils clinking from the kitchen, bringing him to pull his head out from under the blanket with an irritable sigh. With a quiet moan, he achingly gets to his feet, wraps the blanket around his shoulders and shuffles to the kitchen.
"What the hell are you doing?" He asks, wincing under the florescent light.
"Heating up the chicken soup," she replies, emptying the contents into a pot sitting on the stove.
Groaning again, he leans against the kitchen doorframe. "What'll it take to get rid of you?"
"Dealing with me; too bad you don't have the energy to do that, though," she grins, making him roll his bloodshot eyes. "So you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
"No," he grunts, turning away and moving back to the couch.
Although she scowls at his thankless attitude, she continues stirring the soup anyway, waiting for it to warm up. Once ready, she ladles some into a bowl and brings it back out to the living room, where she finds Terry lying on his back this time. He gives her an annoyed side-glace before turning to face the cushions.
"You need to eat something," Jazz orders, setting the bowl down on the coffee table and sitting beside it. He doesn't move or say anything. "You're a horrible patient," she sighs, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands.
"I'm not your patient."
"You're someone's patient," she replies, shrugging.
"You're not leaving."
"Nope."
Letting out a very irritated sigh, Terry slowly flips to his back again and closes his eyes. "Migraine, stomach bug, and ear infection. Every year I only get sick once, but it's always three things at a time. Last year it was pink eye, bronchitis, and shingles; the year before, pneumonia, migraine again and tonsillitis. Hence, they come in threes and make me feel like death."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
He lifts his arm to point at the side table behind him where several bottles of prescribed medications sit. Getting up, she reaches for the bottles, picking them up to read the inscription for the eardrops, antibiotics and pain pills.
"He said the ear infection isn't that serious, so the migraine meds should take care of the pain."
"Have you taken any yet?"
"I swallowed them if that's what you're asking. Threw up a few minutes later; couldn't keep it down," he explains, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. "Now that you got what you wanted, can you leave? My head's starting to implode."
To his relief, Jazz sets the medication down, picks up the bowl of soup and returns it to the kitchen before she quietly walks out the apartment door. Relieved to be alone again, he curls up on his side and tries to get some much-needed sleep.
A painful side effect of migraines is sensitivity to light and sound; a side-effect to being Batman is having senses trained to pick up the faintest light and sound. When the two combine, however, it leaves Terry waking up to every noise imaginable from creaking floors to humming appliances. A few hours of this and he's ready to bash his head in with a hammer. But the sound of his window sliding open breaks the monotony that has left him sleepless for hours. Curious, he lifts the blanket off his face to spot a shadow sneaking in through the window before turning to close it. The red bat on her chest seems to glow in the darkness, but he frowns when he sees the shadow of a bag slung on her shoulder.
Before he can say anything, a sudden wave of nausea overpowers him; he quickly stumbles off the couch and rushes to the bathroom to throw up what little contents his stomach holds. Once finished, he flushes the toilet and sits back on his haunches as he rubs his throbbing temples, praying the intense pain brought on by the sudden movement will ebb soon. The feeling of a bare hand suddenly covering his forehead though, encourages him to open squinting eyes just enough to find Batgirl's worried face studying him.
"You're burning up," she states before helping him up. Still too weak to stand on his own, he doesn't object when she wraps his arm around her shoulders. Leaning against her, he allows her to lead him out the bathroom.
"No, not the bedroom," he says when he realizes where she's taking him. "Neighbors are noisy." Moving him back to the couch, she watches him gently lower himself onto it and lean forward, his head cradled in his hands.
"You think you might throw up again?" She asks crouching down so she can face him.
"No, I'm fine now," he replies, but his answer doesn't reassure her when his body begins shuddering from the fever.
"Lie down and let me take care of you," she pleads, pulling her mask off.
"I don't need you; I'll be fine by tomorrow."
"Or dead at this rate. Just trust me; lie down."
Looking up, he meets her gray eyes muddled with worry, their effect finally forcing him to concede. With a defeated sigh, he slowly rests his head back against his pillow and nods. With permission granted, she quickly picks up the bag she dropped earlier and makes her way to the kitchen before he can change his mind. Terry hears pots clink, water run, and a knife chop. He tried to doze off, but the discomfort of fever keeps him restless and awake. Jazz emerges a half hour later with a bowl of tomato soup in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.
She sets them down on the coffee table and kneels in front of Terry. "You hungry?"
"No," is the curt reply.
"You think you could at least try a spoonful?"
"No."
"You sure?" She patiently asks, resting a hand on his shoulder. The light touch seems to comfort him some, making him change his mind. He carefully sits up and takes the bowl.
"What is it?" He asks when he sniffs it.
"Supercharged tomato soup." He raises a skeptical brow at her. "It's got a lot of ginger and crushed garlic so it's going to taste a bit weird, but it'll break your fever in an hour and ease the nausea. Try a spoonful first and see how it sits with you." Looking back down at the red soup with slices of ginger mixed in, he bravely picks up the spoon and slurps it down.
"Holy crap that's a lot of ginger," he winces, holding the bowl away.
"I did warn you," she replies, getting up. "Give it a few minutes and you'll start to feel your appetite come back."
She heads back to the kitchen leaving Terry to rub his stomach as he waits for this strange remedy to make him feel better. Just before he's given a good reason to be skeptical, Terry suddenly feels stronger, less dizzy, and… hungry.
"Well?" Jazz asks as she walks back into the room, holding a bowl of water and a heat pack. "You think you can finish it?"
"I can try," he replies, picking up the spoon again.
He takes a few more sips while Jazz retakes her seat on the coffee table, setting her load down beside her before reaching for his medication. Reaching his limit for the moment, he sets the soup aside and leans back.
"Here," Jazz starts, shaking out a few of his pills into her palm and holding it out. "That's chamomile tea sweetened with a bit of honey," she says, the mug in her other hand.
"Thanks," Terry sighs, taking both the medication and swallowing them with the tea. He sets the mug aside and lies back down, closing his eyes to wait for the medication to stay down long enough to run its course.
"You okay?" Jazz asks.
"Headache," he replies, as a new wave of pain seems to push the sides of his skull together.
A moment later, though, something cold and wet covers his forehead. Opening his eyes, he finds Jazz leaning over him as she straightens a wet towel on his face.
"Close your eyes," she orders before she covers them with the towel.
The cooling effect of the cold compress relieves the painful throbbing and elicits a quiet but grateful sigh. He remains motionless for a few minutes, hoping the compress will absorb the nasty illnesses he's procured.
"How's your ear?" Jazz asks, her soothing voice sounding like it's right next to him.
"Uncomfortable," he replies, turning slightly toward her.
"Which one?"
"Left."
"Here?" Jazz whispers, her arm leaning across his chest to hold the heat pack against the base of his ear.
Terry takes the liberty to adjust her hand a little higher before replying, "there." He takes his hand off hers while she keeps the pack steady and watches his frame relax.
"How do you feel?" She asks a few silent moments later.
"Better," he whispers almost smilingly. "What time is it?"
"Three AM."
"Don't you have an hour of patrolling left to go?"
She shrugs. "Bruce let me off early when I asked to check on you again."
"I see," he sighs, not willing to reveal his gratitude yet. "How was your night?"
"Oh, you know, same old, same old. I freaked out a store clerk, though," Jazz grins. "I needed ginger and happened to come across a 24-hour Chinese corner store – gotta love the city life. Old guy almost had an aneurysm. I bet the security footage is already up on YouTube: 'Batgirl nibbles on gingers' or some other stupid caption," she jokes making him smile. "So how come I've never seen you sick before."
"Last year I got sick while you were on hiatus."
"Eye infection, bronchitis, and shingles, right?" He nods once. "Shingles? Really?"
"Apparently stress causes flare ups."
"You trying to lay more guilt on me for leaving?"
He smirks. "Wasn't entirely your fault, I guess."
"Very reassuring, McGinnis," she replies, playfully scowling at him.
He feels her arm lift away before the cold compress is lifted off his brow and dipped into its bowl. As she wrings it out, Terry notices a large tear in the arm of her suit, revealing the intricate red circuitry underneath.
"What happened?" He asks nodding at it.
"Nothing; you know dealers are keeping guard tigers now?" She explains before returning the cold towel to his forehead.
"That so," Terry replies with a chuckle. "And you didn't have your ball of yarn to distract them?" He jokes, making Jazz laugh along when she realizes how ridiculous the situation is.
"I'll try to remember it for next time," she quips.
They settle into silence where Terry, relieved the pain has subsided for the first time in a day, finally dozes off to get some rejuvenating sleep. Hours pass before his eyes flutter open again to find the cold compress gone and the morning light trying to shine through the closed blinds. When he tries to sit up, he suddenly notices the arm with the torn sleeve resting across his chest. He turns his head to the left and finds the heat pack, now gone cold, still in Jazz's grasp but no longer pressed against his ear. Turning to the right, however, makes him smile when his face comes barely an inch away from touching the top of the raven head. Tilting forward, he realizes Jazz, kneeling beside him, must have fallen asleep against his shoulder while she was keeping his infected ear warm.
"Hey," he whispers, trying to wake her.
He brushes her long bangs away from her eyes and rests his hand against her cheek. The gesture makes her lids twitch for a few seconds before they slowly slide open to reveal bloodshot, gray eyes. Coming to her senses, she lifts her head and arm away and leans back against the coffee table.
"What time is it?" She groggily asks as she stretches her legs out and rubs her eyes.
"Not sure," Terry replies, carefully sitting up.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better," he says with a relieved smile.
"Good," she yawns, getting to her feet. She starts gathering the bowls around her, setting them on top of each other, before bringing them to the kitchen sink.
"Thanks, Jazz," Terry starts after following her.
"No big deal," she shrugs with a smile as she pulls her gloves on.
"It kinda is, though. I'm not exactly pleasant company when I'm sick; even mom learned to stay away during the worst of it."
"Ease up on the self-praise. You weren't that scary."
"This coming from a woman who tussled with a tiger last night," Terry quips, making her grin grow wider.
"Anyway, now that you look and sound a lot better, I'll finally give you what you want and get out of your hair," she says, straightening up and slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"That's not…" He stammers before clearing his throat and shaking his head. "You can sleep here if you want," he offers, remembering how red her eyes were when she first opened them.
"No, I'll be fine," she declines, suddenly remembering Henry must be worried about her not coming back last night. "I can check on you later today."
"No need; I'm fine. I'll see you at Wayne's."
Nodding in agreement, she pulls her mask back on and heads to the window she came in from earlier. "If you start to feel queasy again, just heat up that soup I made and have a bowl."
It's his turn to nod before he watches the woman who has been brave enough to stay by his side through the worst of it leap out of the window, smiling at her silhouette looking unusual in the bright, morning light.
END