Of course, after five days of dead ends, physics projects, bitingly cold patrols, and a lingering cough, it was inevitable that the young hero would crash hard and fast when the Mountain Dew and adrenaline finally wore off.
He manages to wait until Bruce is occupied in a distant part of the cave (running a test on a mysterious fiber from the latest crime scene or something like that – his tired brain doesn't care) to sneak – can one who is weaving on their feet sneak? – off to the musty couch crammed between two seldom-used workstations near the 'mobile.
With a martyred sigh, he stretches out on the atrocious polyester plaid cushions. The damp nature of a cave makes the utilitarian furniture theme appropriate – anything upholstered grew moist and moldy. Eyeball-searing fabric aside, there really is no reason for this overstuffed monstrosity to have survived any of Alfred's spring cleaning jags (do not get in that man's way unless you want to be forcibly dusted) or any of Bruce's impromptu training sessions (I will never eat if I have to spar for a single slice of pizza). However, he has long since stopped pondering why the couch remained and simply appreciated that it remained.
Curling into a miserable ball, he pulls his cape closer in a vain attempt to ward off a sudden bout of chills. He doesn't remember the cave being this drafty. The new insulated fabric must not be up to scratch. They'd have to work on the design. Later. When he had the energy.
He's sick enough to absolutely dread the remaining hours of patrol, but not quite sick enough to swallow his pride – and some cold medication – and beg off duty tonight. He's sick enough to have drawn a few concerned glances from Alfred and maybe, maybe, a considering look from the Bat, but he's not sick enough to totally circumvent any attempt at a healthy facade, however draining it may be.
Just a few minutes and I'll be good to go.
His eyes flutter closed and he drifts off to sleep, slow breaths occasionally interrupted by a congested snuffle.
He doesn't wake when Alfred, supposedly tidying up the perpetual clutter of the cave but in actuality casually ensuring Gotham's knight and squire weren't starving or bleeding out on the rocky floor, finds him ten minutes later.
He doesn't see the older man's eyes soften as he takes in the dirtied uniform, pallid complexion, and darkly-shadowed eyes, doesn't feel a gentle hand press against his forehead and pull back in shock at the heat it encounters.
He definitely doesn't notice a warmed blue blanket (secretly his favorite – he'd never admit to liking something so fluffy but Alfred always knows) being carefully tucked in around him.
Later, when he wakes – boots and mask removed, orange juice and medication waiting – sweltering under no less than three blankets, he blearily sits up wonders why one has scalloped edges.