Title: Chubby Cheeks
Summary: Nothing's really worse than being stuck on assignment with your big brother and then getting sick. Not even a bullet. Especially when he's so chipper about getting to take care of you. Drabble one-shot, answer to a forum challenge.
Disclaimer: Yeah, heh, good one. I really own Batman and live in this dump of a duplex. HAH!
Warnings: Super fluff that Clark Kent would choke on.

Okay, weird that I'm actually doing anything for the forums, but at least I actually finished it. That's something, I suppose…even if I was lazy.


It was for the mission. Damian just had to keep repeating that over and over in his head. It was for the mission that Father had assigned him and circus freak to finish—and by God they were going to finish it gloriously!

Even if the situation was somewhat compromised by the little ex-assassin being completely bed ridden (in a crappy hotel bed on the third floor of a red brick, three-hundred a week condemned firetrap that had a draft coming from the bathroom) with a fever of one hundred…well, that morning Grayson had said four.

The door opened, insidious little keycard causing the lock to chirpand the former Robin/Batman came bouncing in on the heels and balls of his feet, grinning merrily with groceries both hands.

"I hate you so much sometimes…" Damian sort of growled. Or moaned. It was hard to tell as he burrowed further into the extra blankets Dick had left him; breathing in air and holding it a moment—long enough to cause both cheeks to go crimson—before the countdown in his head reached ten and he let it out.

The nausea passed.

But the throb in the back of his head grew worse.

He almost—almost—squeaked indignantly as Grayson sat on his bed, one hand finding the end of Damian's foot and then ran his hand up the clumping of blankets before finding his brother's shoulder.

He tapped Damian gently before saying, "Hey baby bird, I need to give you more fluids and some aspirin now, okay? I don't want you to burn out on me."

The gentleness in the elder's voice was the only thing that kept the present Robin from administering a kick to where he figured the idiot was sitting with the glass—an unsightly thing that looked like it should be a planter for a hippie—with the said fluids and hand clutching the medication. Equally awful, as all the tiny pills looked like Brown and Gordon's birth control; pink and tasting like Pepto Bismol.

Without a word, eyes still scrunched together in discomfort, Damian slithered his arm through the bedding and—like a zombie from the grave—held palm open for the medication.

Grayson gave a nice little chuckle and deposited the pills in the clammy palm. When the hand disappeared backwards and then came back for the drink, Dick was a little worried Damian would spill, but he had enough faith that that wouldn't happen and handed it over.

After half a minute, the hand and glass returned, contents empty, and Dick laughed again, leaning over and patting the tap of the sweaty pillow Damian's head was under.

"And now, I'm gonna make you some soup. Nice and hot, m'kay?"

"…Without the tofu cubes?"

"Scouts honor."

Something like a whispered, "Thanks," came upon Dick's ears at that, but he wouldn't mention it as the lump of bedding enlarged and then flattened out. Damian was content for the time being and the acrobat wasn't one to spoil a good thing.