Seeing that I'm suffering with a nasty head cold, I decided to put up some cute Birdflash bromance fluff. I've had this idea for a while, but I've never been... happy enough to write it, I guess. I don't suppose I'm happy enough now even, but I'm too sick to really care. Sick of feeling useless. I'll have the new chapter of The Ward up before too long. Happy New Year.
Disclaimer: anything you recognize below, I do not own.
Although being a hero certainly has its glamour, it comes with its downsides. One of the steepest downsides, according to Dick Grayson at least, is getting sick.
Nearly all living things can get sick. It's natural, no matter how nasty and unfair it can be. This in mind, why would it be one of the worst aspects of life to a person who takes on bullets and thugs three times their size daily?
To answer this, one must think like a hero does; or, for that matter, how a Dick Grayson does. Heroes are depended on and looked to for stability in the final throes of the storm, praised as the undefeated and the powerful. The world needs its heroes to be strong for the sake of the many, and after all- nothing screams strong like a sniffling and hacking miserable mess buried beneath three sets of quilts and six boxes of tissues.
Dramatics aside, Dick really, really hated being sick.
More than anything in the world.
Yes, everything, Alfred.
"You're being dramatic, Master Richard," the ashen-haired man gave a warm chuckle, refilling the teen's cup of hot tea just short of the brim, "It's not that bad. Would you like some more chicken noodle soup?"
The ebony gave a stubborn huff, or maybe just a breath seeing that his nose was out for the count, before sinking down farther into his quilts.
"No," he pouted, folding his arms over his chest and squirming in distaste as some of his tissues touched him.
The butler shook his head, biting back another laugh as he picked up his tray and made his way to the door. He hadn't made it a few steps before Dick sat up, looking as miserable as ever.
"Wait- yes please," he feebly begged, catching the man's smile before he erupted into a stream of throaty coughs that left him groaning in pain. "Thank you!"
He gave a little sniffle and another huff, probably more so a breath after the coughing fit, sinking back into his mess. The TV was playing its fifth rerun of Smokey and the Bandit in the distance, the audio a bit warped in his congested ears no matter how hard he tried to pop them. His patience was running thin.
Bruce was off with the rest of the League in some publicity stunt as far as he was concerned to ensure the public stayed on their side after the whole Lantern fiasco last month. Oklahoma was still recovering, not quite having gotten over the tornado that hit Moore earlier in May. The younger Leaguers, as Bruce liked to call them, weren't allowed on scene quite yet, but it still hurt Dick's feelings. As Batman's sidekick, he all but had a VIP pass to everything like that, and instead he had to lay here and suffer.
When his throat felt too blocked off for him to breathe, he sat up and blew his nose, effectively popping his ears. A little victory groan left his lips and he managed to crack a grin, a little sniffle following.
"Yay," he half-heartedly murmured, leaning back onto his headboard and trying to watch his movie.
Just as Bandit took the Firebird Trans Am over the broken bridge, the door to his room cracked itself open. There was a pause, Alfred balancing his platter, before it opened the rest of the way and the man made his way inside.
"Oh! See? You're already looking better," Alfred walked over, giving a little nod of approval.
Dick gave a pathetic glare, lolling his head to the side to follow the man's path. His grandfather-figure gave a little cackle and offered him a steaming bowl.
"Put those daggers away before you poke your eyes out," he teased, tapping the ward's nose lightly, "If you need anything, holler."
The ebony managed out a weak thanks, tilting his head away to cough, offering a smile.
"Better turn up your hearing aids then," he croaked out with a little snicker at the mock glare that was shot his way.
He raised the bowl to his grin and took a sip as the man walked away, having to time it between his breathing, giving a happy sigh into the broth at the wonder that was Alfred's cooking.
"Oh, before I forget- are you available for company?"
Dick lowered his bowl and raised an eyebrow. The butler offered nothing more than a pleasant smile.
"That's what I thought you'd say. I'll send him up."
Him? Who on earth would be visiting right now? Bruce had all but put the house in a quarantine bubble when he'd heard the first sniffle out of his ward. It was amazing that Alfred was allowed to stay.
Despite, the ebony raised the bowl back and continued sipping between breaths, laboring his breathing against the noodles the best he could. By the time he got down to noodles, a quick patter of footsteps flickered his eyes to the door. A sigh left his lips. He should've figured.
Before the company came in, he set his bowl to the side and blew his nose, hoping he didn't look too pathetic.
"Hey, man. You look terrible," Wally greeted him with a little laugh.
Dick gave a little groan and chucked the nearest tissue box at his friend, unable to hide a grin as it was caught and chucked to the side before a chair was pulled up beside his bed.
"Thanks; I was imitating you," he shot back, his m sounding like a b and his th more d-sounding.
The redhead cracked a grin, licking his lower lip with a shake of his head, "Glad to see you're still in the game, buddy."
The ebony managed to hold his grin a few seconds longer before turning away and breaking into another coughing fit that left him gasping for air. He apologized the best he could, blowing his nose again.
"What part of 'under quarantine' don't you get?" he managed out when he could breathe again.
Wally kicked back with a little shrug, crossing his ankles on his friend's thigh, putting his hands behind his head.
"The under part. Get over it. We have plans."
The fourteen year old let out a little laugh, followed by a sniffle. When Wally made a weak grab for his soup, he snatched it back and held it defensively in his lap.
"Wally, I'm sick," Dick emphasized, taking another sip of the broth after a breath.
The redhead fell back with a little huff.
"And I'm ginger. Tell me something I don't know," he folded his arms over his chest.
When his friend's lips opened, he raised a hand.
"Actually, don't tell me. I'm not sure I want to know."
Dick gave a little laugh, quickly breaking into a cough. Emerald eyes watched on sadly.
"Your immune system sucks," he pouted, hiding his eyes in his palm.
The ebony gave a weak little nod of agreement, a sniffle following. His grin gave a sore flicker.
"We'll have to reschedule," he pointed out quietly.
Wally took the idea in serious consideration for a moment, shoulders slumping before he got suddenly to his feet. He kicked back the chair he had occupied, giving a jump when he remembered it didn't have wheels and instead just toppled. Using the little jump that had overcome his friend, he snatched the bowl from Dick's lap and put it on the dresser, dumping the top quilt's tissue content into the trashcan at the side of the bed.
"Or you could just scoot over," the redhead took to impatiently hitting his friend's hip.
Dick stared at him incredulously, shaking his head with an open-mouthed grin, before he shrugged it off and scooted over, bringing his tissue boxes with him.
"Whatever," he sighed with a sniffle, coughing into the bow of his arm not long after.
Wally all but threw himself onto the bed, sprawling out happily beside his friend, snatching up the remote. Just like that, a few days later, the two were over quarantine together, sniffling and coughing between their joined laughter.
-F.J. III