Reminder

It was a reminder. To make him proud. The calendar that had come with the orderly black handwritten card "Master Richard, to help keep your studies in line..." or something like that. Sitting under the desk lamp with red ink circling the date next to Thanksgiving (Cnd). Hadn't some of those students from abroad mentioned supper with their families this week, or long phone calls home? He didn't make long phone calls. But he did think of Alfred's cooking. On Thanksgiving they would have...but it's not Thanksgiving. Not here, or now at least. Only October. He didn't make long phone calls home. The abandoned touch tone telephone next to Alfred's gift. One of them. Room 261 (They had found Penguin in an apartment by that number once). Professor Brown. It was a reminder. To make him proud. To prove himself. Textbooks surrounding Thanksgiving in Canada like a fortress. Alfred was kind of Canadian. Or British. English? Alfred was something. Good cook. Damn did he miss those holiday dinners. The highlight of fall. Highlighters and the dancing image of mid-term transcripts. Not a detective, but still the need to prove he could survive State U. The red circle around the date. He would be on the honour roll. The red circle lacking green. Lacking yellow. He didn't have those anymore. Didn't have anything left anymore. Didn't have him. He had instead, history tests. And Alfred's calendar to remind him...

"I'm sick."

Though not a detective, Dick could still state the obvious with the best of them. He said it to himself, alone in a room where his sheets had been thrown off and the familiar outlines of his things kept him company in the dark. He had cold weather as the likely suspect to blame. It didn't seem so logical though, to the young student that State University, only an hour beyond the sights of Gotham, got frost and crappy weather half a month sooner. The streets of Gotham City should still be muggy and warm come mid-October. But State U had skeleton trees and layers of decaying leaves smothering dying grass. It was here, where the sudden seasonal change mixed with the first wave of unit exams preceded a population of students now overrun with fevers and head colds. And as a student, Dick Grayson was not excluded.

Admitting to it though had no effect for Dick, aside from the painful feel of words grating along a swelling throat. It was difficult breathing and still infernally hot in the room. His head felt heavy as he sat up. Furniture and possessions spinning slightly with him. But Dick, exhaustion or weakness flooding his limbs, was not yet comfortable with making immediate attempts to return back to sleep.

Incoherent visions and half dreams were still fresh on his mind as he stood up carefully. Unsettling combinations of memories and commitments would find him if he dreamed. It was always like this when he had a fever. Thankfully though, Dick had rarely been allowed to grow feverish because Alfred had always been there.

Alfred. He used to be able to enter the room and repeatedly ask when it was ok to set the table. And there would only be annoyance or reprimand if he left his gauntlets on while clutching the polished silver. 'May I remind you that masks are not to be worn while eating...' No masks. None because they were taken away. He didn't have anything. 'Master Richard, you really must stop feeling sorry for yourself and tell me why Montezuma lost his empire to Cortes.' And those familiar hands held out a platter with a calendar. Red ink naked without the green. Without yellow. A reminder. To make him proud. Don't let him forget...

Alfred had always been there to chase away the fever delusions that seemed now to come even as Dick was awake. Thinking of Alfred. Thinking of home. Never before did Dick want to banish thoughts of Alfred's cooking. Nausea coiled within him and thinking of food only made it more vicious. Nevertheless, he arose on unsteady feet and made towards the kitchen. Above the stove was where the medication was kept. He had to be awake in five brief hours. Make it to at least his history exam. Surely one of the girls in his other classes would be willing to share their notes with him. They willingly shared their smiles. Would willingly share their lives. They had already shared their colds.

A handful of that Acetaminosomething would easily knock him out. Dick could sleep without spectres of costumes and European conquerors haunting him. And if he stripped down, maybe he would feel less like combusting.

His State U shirt peeled off with little difficulty, emblem folding in on itself as Dick left it unceremoniously on his bedroom floor. The path to the kitchen is just as dark as his room. Able to navigate by familiar outlines of the walls, door, fan, stereo and other crap, Dick also noted how everything spun slightly, mocking his balance. He saved himself on the cool wall and vaguely remembered a time when he didn't need walls or nets. He remembered a time when he didn't need arms to hold him either.

It seemed like a very long time ago.

The kitchen, being a product of a single occupancy apartment was not very large. Few items cluttered the counters, but Dick had to guess their presence by memory. He had already padded lightly several steps onto the linoleum floor of the room when he felt it. His sensitive skin noticed the unnaturally chill draft that shouldn't have filled the room. The nightly stove light had died weeks ago and Dick had never felt the need to replace it. He wished now that he had taken the time to change the bulb. Pausing in the dark, the student believed that he wasn't alone anymore. A presence, felt more than seen, filled the shadows.

Dick wanted to kick himself, having let his guard down. Inwardly, he felt a bitter grin, noting that whoever was with him could likely be kicking him around soon anyways. Considering that nice friendly people didn't usually break into people's apartments at night. Though it was also unlikely that any fool would break into the abode of the previous Boy Wonder.

That's right. Previous.

Dick was sick. But this presence warranted him to find clarity. Years of training helped. And though Dick wasn't a detective, he wasn't stupid either. He was already favouring two options towards the identity of this uncalled for visitor. The first theory was that Dick shared his space with a very dangerous person.

Careful delicate leaves dropped down and he thought briefly of a poem Mrs. Riehider had quoted about loneliness. And the poet in question had something right because the red shades were once green and some were yellow. And he was once green. Yellow. But he wasn't anymore. And it was indeed a lonely thing. This would change though. That transcript. In a month he'd have it. Circle the numbers and send it home. He would make him proud. That was what the reminder was for. If he just quizzed himself. 'Riddle me this...Robin.' There. On his desk. Playing with his calendar, Riddler watched him. 'I'm not Robin.' anymore. Nevermore. Mrs. Riehider, for a professor teaching short stories, she seemed to like poems a lot. 'Not impressed with riddles? Then perhaps a joke!' Joker. He couldn't do this. He wasn't anything anymore! 'Oh little unbird. You running away now? You must know such things don't make him proud.' No. If he could just take the test and do good. 'But you're not Robin. You'll never make him proud.' And the text snapped shut. Snapping. The sound he would never forget. He couldn't do this.

He refused to accept the idea. And therefore, Dick was left with one other possibility.

"Bruce?"

As the scratched sounds escaped him, Dick recalled one of the rules. He was not to refer to Batman as Bruce while the mask was on. And given the circumstances, he hoped severely that it was Batman. If so, Dick noted that his lapse in 'the rules' would be forgiven, if only on the terms of being sick at the time. He could get away with nearly anything with Batman. He really hoped severely that it was Batman.

Ignoring the echoes of maniacal laughter and Edward Nygaz, Dick Grayson watched as Batman stepped from the darkest of the shadows.

"Dick." He greeted, the warning subtle, but one the student caught clearly.

There was a silence between them. In it, Dick could hear the faint rattle of the dorm heating system. It only served to remind him of the stifling temperature cooking the air. He also imagined the silence strong enough to pick up the sounds of germs overtaking blood cells and his calendar, just rooms away, screaming that he had a test in five hours. A test that would determine everything. Fortunately, Bruce nor Batman could hear fever induced delusions and for that, Dick was thankful. He looked across critically at his former mentor.

"Whatever happened to letting me live on my own and making my own choices without your intervention?" he asked. Oh, the things Dick would have given to have his normal voice back.

As expected, Batman responded unphased. "As my ward, I reserve the right to drop in on you now and again."

'Ward'. Dick turned the word over in his mind. He witnessed the absence of 'partner'. Of 'Robin'.

"Quiet night then, or is my replacement running the streets already?"

Dick repressed the urge to flinch. He really had not wanted the bitterness to be so obvious in the sentence. His head ached.

To his credit, Batman didn't cease his impersonation of living stone. "Jason still has a lot to learn." A pause. "I came to see how you were doing."

Dick shifted his weight, uncertain of what to say. Batman took that as a sign to continue. "It would seem that you're sick."

"Contagious too." Dick humoured. "You better watch out because I could cough on you with little warning..."

Ignoring the feeble joke, Batman closed the distance between them by half. "And you're hot."

"That's what the girls in trig say when they think I'm not listening." answered Dick with a smug grin. He dropped the grin when he received a disapproving look from the Bat. "Look." he began anew. "I'm fine BruceI'll take some Acetomiphen. With a little sleep, I'll be myself in the morning."

"Don't push yourself Dick. Your professors will understand if you are not well enough for class."

Dick suppressed a bitter laugh. 'Don't press yourself?' This coming from Bruce "freaking" Batman of all people! Dick had full intentions of being in Brown's class by morning, filling in those studied terms. The World's Greatest Detective would be proud of him yet. His head really hurt.

"Why the hell are you here Bruce?" Dick knew that he was successfully pulling off the tired but dead serious 'don't-beat-around-the-bush-right-now-with-me' look. Perhaps he really had learned a few tricks from the best. "Why now? It'd be perfectly logical to have Bruce Wayne grace the State U with his presence during lunch hour tomorrow with all the usual pomp and circumstance. It's the middle of the damned night and I'm not Robin anymore and real students don't entertain costumed crime fighters who use windows over doors!" His shouts died down with a slight cough that threatened to undermine his demand for an answer.

"Entertain?" Batman answered, putting a smirk into his voice. Behind the mask, Dick could guess that there probably was a raised brow accompanying said smirk. But Bruce's amusement didn't answer Dick's question.

"Dammit Bruce! Two in the mornin-"

If his cold afflicted weary mind had not yet caught on, Batman's cool gauntleted fingers on his face and the sudden bind of lips answered any and all of Dick's questions.

"Bruce!" he attempted to say after a moment, smuggling the words with half the effort he could have gathered. He was being crowded into the counter. "I'm sick..."

Batman pulled back. "I thought you told me you were fine."

Dick matched his stare, wondering if he was up for playing the 'politically correct' game. He conceded the point to his mentor. If Bruce wished to share germs, it was fine by Dick. Batman never got sick, and even if he did, he would most likely push himself harder. It was amusing to know that if this were the path Bruce was about to choose, he would get more than enough hell from Alfred.

"I'm not replacing you." Batman took the moment to express. His hands slid down from their place on Dick's face until they gripped the boy by his shoulders, holding him fast. He had said this as if it were unarguable. That if Dick were to challenge it, he would risk being beaten senseless.

Dick matched the stare, wishing desperately that his eyes weren't so honest. "Shut up." he said, not sure of what else to say. He wanted to grab something for emphasis. Bruce's sleeve, the top of a tie or the fabric of a shirt. But the batsuit was form fitting and tight on his mentor. He was grateful when Batman leaned in for a second kiss, solving his problem.

Dick closed his eyes and allowed for their tongue play, musing over the implications of what Batman had last said. His thoughts spiralled and he couldn't be entirely sure if this was due to his sickness or too much Bruce. Dick found that he really didn't care. All concerns seemed to become less important with the cold touch of gauntlets holding his arms and the smell of Bruce Wayne taking Dick back to memories of the manor. Memories that did not involve the Spanish conquest of the Americas or the issue of whether he deserved the Robin suit or even that damned red circle explaining the time to prove himself. Nothing mattered now except that Batman was here and that Dick was about to sneeze.

He snapped his head unexpectedly to the side and did so. Sniffing and mumbling an apology of sorts.

Bruce's voice was soft in his ear. "Bed."

Dick was not a detective but he did understand that with Bruce, he could get away with anything. "Make me."

A fit of coughs brought Dick around to consciousness enough to roll onto his side and curl up, letting the deep guttural sounds escape his body. Once he was free to inhale normally again, Dick opened his eyes to blink back the all too bright sunlight seeping into his room. On the desk opposite the calendar Alfred had given him, the small Superman clock indicated that it was ten minutes until noon. Dick Grayson frowned, comparing the current time to the 8:30 penned in the red circle. He had slept through his history exam. He rolled over again and winced. It would seem that had he awoken in time, Dick probably wouldn't have been able to sit comfortably during the exam either. The irony cracked a grin across his features as he tugged his bedspread up to his chin.

There would be no point in arguing with Professor Brown. He would demand a detailed explanation as to why Dick deserved a rewrite and some things were better left unexplained. He had failed. 'I'm not replacing you.' The memory in his head repeated.

Bruce Wayne didn't need reminding.

Author's Notes

This is my first Batfic. One not related to the Titans. I'm most proud about it too. It was written for Starlit Galaxy, who is my newest friend from livejournal. I had a problem a while ago locating the name of a computer game I used to love playing. I asked for help and Starlit found me the title and everything else under the sun for me. She's like Oracle. I offered to write her some fics in thanx and I hope that this is acceptable! She's also got a Robin III coming.

Like Dick, I'm in my first year of University and I'm also still sick (and was somewhat feverish) when the idea was concieved. I threw in a few hints in the story. I myself have to write an essay on why Cortes was able to beat Montezuma. And the poem Dick thinks about in one vision is by E. E. Cummings. I have to write an essay about that too. Also, if I were prowling around Dicks apartment (and what good fangirl wouldn't?) I'd probably just settle for stealing his Superman clock from his room. I bet Bruce could keep him distracted.

Lastly, I don't recommend that anyone, be they of Dicks size or physical stature, ever down a handful of acetaminophen. Even if they're really really sick. Don't be a Dick and please read the instructions on your medications. Batman probably would have smacked Dick upside the head for trying. Overdosing on drugs is not good for you. Nu-uh!

Thank you for reading. Suggestions are always welcome. I need to thank my sister Kathy for reading this for me. I also need to thank Starlit for when I totally get my hands on Starflight. glomps

Stacy-Greysnyper