Author's Note: We're mixing things up a little with this chapter. This is based off a request from msubabe (thanks for the prompt!), and is actually a Bruce/Dick piece, although Dick and Alfred's tea ritual is at the heart of it. Happy reading!


"…Dick," Bruce knocked lightly on his door as he pushed it open. "Are you awake?"

"…No," came back grumpily.

That clears it right up, the billionaire gave a mental chuckle. Oh, kiddo, you look pathetic, he lamented as he moved towards where the teen lay under about a half dozen quilts. Two days earlier he'd begun experiencing body aches, dry coughing, extreme exhaustion, and an eye-popping headache, all symptoms of the cruel flu variant that had been terrorizing both the Justice League and their junior cohort for several weeks. Robin wasn't the first member of Young Justice to fall prey to it; it had ravaged Artemis and Kid Flash before jumping to their leader, who had naturally been trying to help nurse his teammates when they started feeling ill. His charity hadn't won him any points with the virus, however, and looking at him now, all tired eyes, sinus strips, and unhappy pout, Bruce wished it was possible to punch something that was microscopic. Since that option closed to him, he broached a rhetorical question. "…Still feel like crap?"

"No, it's shit now," the fifteen year old replied hoarsely. "I don't even care if Alfred heard that. Everything hurts."

"He's not here anyway," the man reminded him as he sat down on the edge of the bed and handed over a glass of water and a pill. "…He left this morning, remember?" I practically had to force him out the door with you up here like this, but I think my threat to drug him and ship him FedEx finally got through, because he went.

"Ugh, I forgot," Dick moaned as he sat up to swallow his medicine. "I didn't even know butlers had reunions. Unless…" he twitched an eyebrow north, "it wasn't a butler reunion?"

"I'd wager money that you're right."

"…So Alfred's at some ex-secret agent get together, I'm sick in bed, and you're…what?"

"Taking care of you, obviously."

"…I'm a little scared of that idea."

"Hey, now, I've been sick before," he defended himself. "I remember what Alfred did in those instances." Sort of, he didn't add.

"…What about patrol?"

"I'll break it into two parts so I can come back and check on you."

"That's stupid," Dick mumbled.

"It can't be helped," he sighed.

"…Sorry."

"It's not your fault, chum. Don't worry about it."

"…You know you're next, right?"

"Don't remind me," he ordered. I don't have time to be as sick as you look. "I just hope-"

The boy's watch beeped loudly on the nightstand, drawing a wretched groan from its owner. "Shut uuuuup," he protested, fumbling for it. It flopped onto the rug, and Bruce retrieved it, stopping the piercing tones with the push of a button. "Why did I set that? Why?" Dick asked his own knees as he bent forward, pounding head cradled in his palms.

"What was it for?" the billionaire asked as he put it back in its spot beside the bed. "Medicine?"

"Tea."

"…You set your alarm for tea time?"

"Yeah. That way if I get caught up in school work I don't force Alfred to troop all the way up here to let me know it's ready." Catching the man's incredulous look, he bore up under his sore throat and tried to explain. "There's this prime window of flavor, right, and we miss it when he has to tell me to come down. I actually came up with an equation for math class designed to calculate how many minutes you should steep relative to water temperature, type of tea, altitude, and a couple of other factors. It's completely subjective, of course, since I was the one who decided when the tea tasted best and named that the optimum, but it was still fun. My teacher liked it, at least," he sighed as he dropped back into his pillows. "But yeah, my watch is set to go off at tea time. It's okay," he smiled vaguely at the lack of understanding on his guardian's face. "I don't expect you to get our tea…thing."

"Good. You'd have been disappointed." Tea is disgusting. You normally have fairly good taste, so I don't know what happened there…I get you and Alfred wanting to have something you do together regularly, but tea?

"Yup." His face pinched suddenly as his larynx protested his soliloquy. "Oooowww…"

"What?"

"This suuucks, Bruce…" If my head would just stop hurting, he whined. A rough cough scraped his already-dry throat even rawer. …And that crud can stop, too, he added. I'd feel so much better if just those two things would go away.

"Well, go to sleep, then."

"I can't." I'm tired physically, but I'm wide awake, he stared at him.

Bruce glanced around the room. "I could hand you your computer," he suggested.

He shook his head. No, the screen makes my brain feel like it's going to run out my ears.

"No? Okay…a book?"

Another shake; he'd already tried that, but he had such a hard time concentrating on the words that it wasn't worth the effort.

"Television?"

"Screen hurts," he insisted.

"What would make you feel better, then?" the billionaire inquired a bit exasperatedly. I want to help, Dick, but it doesn't seem like any of the things you usually distract yourself with are options right now. Physical activity is out. Another harsh bray made him wince. …Although, maybe you've been lying in bed long enough. You haven't gone any further than the bathroom since you came home sick from the mountain, and the last thing we need is for you to develop pneumonia. "Can you handle a walk, do you think?"

"Huh-uh," he shook his head. "I don't know. Sorry. 'M just miserable." He sniffed. "…I won't be upset if you don't want to be around me right now, Bruce. Honest. I know I'm bad company."

"You aren't bad company, you're just sick," he negated. There has to be something. Maybe… An idea glimmered in the back of his mind. …No, that's ridiculous. I don't even know where half the stuff is for it. Still, though…it means enough to him that he sets his alarm for it every day. The only other thing he does that for is patrol. He grimaced. Well, shit. He's sure as hell not going out on patrol, so tea it is, I guess. "…What if I helped you downstairs, and we had tea?" he suggested hesitantly.

Dick started. …What? "You loathe tea."

"That's not the point," he shook his head. "Will doing whatever it is you two do when you have tea make you feel better?"

"…Bruce, I don't want you to do something you hate."

"That isn't what I asked you, chum. Will it help, or won't it? And don't just say no because you think I'll be happier if you do. I'd rather see you feel a little better than get out of choking down a cup of herb water."

"I…well, yeah, it would," he realized. If nothing else, the steam might help my head. "But-"

"Stop," the billionaire overrode him quietly. "If I was that opposed to the idea, I wouldn't have suggested it."

"Yeah, but-"

"But nothing. Quit arguing and save your strength. You're going to need it to tell me how exactly I do all this tea stuff."

"It's not rocket science," the teen said in a gravelly voice, rolling his eyes. "Figures. If it was, you might be okay at it," he pushed out just to see his guardian look amused for a moment. Stop feeling bad because I feel bad, Bruce. It just makes me feel worse.

In the kitchen a short while later, he collapsed into his usual chair, what few strength reserves he'd had having been utterly drained by their ride down in the elevator and the short walk through the halls. "Meeeehh…"

"Do you want a throat drop or something?" his guardian dropped a hand onto his shoulder with a frown.

"Uh-uh. Messes with flavor," he gestured towards the stove. "Blech."

"…Okay." All right, Bruce thought determinedly, moving behind the counter with far more confidence in his step than he actually felt. If tea will make him feel better, then I'm making him tea. The kettle was obvious enough, sitting on the stove. Lifting it, he found it empty, and proceeded to run it under the faucet. Some heat, he flipped on a burner. …Something to put it in, he faltered slightly before turning to the cabinets behind him. He had no idea where the actual tea sets were kept – he knew there were several around, but since they'd had absolutely no bearing on his life up until this afternoon he'd never bothered to think about their location - but he'd watched Alfred pour him coffee often enough to locate a shelf full of thick ceramic mugs. And…I guess the tea, but where the hell is that? "…Dick, where are the tea bags?"

Oh, boy, the boy dragged himself to his feet. Tea bags, in this house? Alfred would have your tongue for that.

"Don't get up, just tell me," the man began to come around to him. This was a bad idea. You're too pale after the trip down…I should have left you in bed and brought it up to you. Don't ask me how I would have done that, since I don't even know where the damn tea is, but at least then maybe you wouldn't look like you're about to pass out. "…Dick, stop," he insisted, grabbing his elbow.

But the teen shook his head and led him into the pantry. He peered around for a moment, unable to quite recall which cabinet it was that he needed, then reached out finally and pulled open what Bruce would have taken for an unusually wide broom closet. The heavy door swung outwards, revealing a well-appointed collection of all the materials the butler used to blend, prepare, and serve his beverage of choice.

"…Ta-da," Dick whispered croupily.

Whoa. He could serve tea to the queen herself with all of that, and I had no idea…God, what else is Alfred hiding in here? the billionaire wondered as he craned his neck towards the other cabinets, his expression suspicious.

"Heh."

His attention returned to his son. "…What're you grinning at?" his lip twitched upwards. Nice to see you happy for a second, kiddo.

"You," was replied simply. It's fun to see you get caught off guard, at least when it doesn't put our lives in danger for once. After all, it happens to rarely…

"Quit laughing at me and show me what we need out of here, would you?" His voice was terse, but his eyes were soft as they met their match.

Back in the kitchen, they spread their tools out on the countertop. Dick gave the mugs a funny look, then shrugged and picked up the large container of loose leaf lapsang souchong he'd snagged. Bruce might actually like this, he'd decided when he chose it. It's heavy enough in flavor that he doesn't have to think about it too hard. His mouth pulled on a scowl as his fingers proved unworthy to pry the lid off of the tin. …Stupid flu. This isn't even on that tight, I should be able to get it.

"Here," his guardian reached over and took the bin from him, popping it open easily. "How much?" he then asked, picking up one of the tea cages. Seeing the boy's eyebrows go up at his sudden prowess, he scoffed. "Don't get any ideas. This part is pretty self-explanatory."

"Oh?" he challenged.

"The tea goes in these, these go in the cups, and the cups get filled with hot water." …Yes?

That was a half-guess at best. "…It's funny how you're so helpless in the kitchen."

"I can make pancakes perfectly well, you know that. You've eaten plenty of them."

"And I've always been amazed I was able to digest them," he mumbled unintelligibly, taking the mesh enclosure from the man's hands and scooping leaves into it.

"What?"

"…Nothing," he bit back a smirk.

"I heard that."

No you didn't, Dick's knowing glance relayed. But I was just teasing you, anyway.

The kettle began to whistle a moment later, and Bruce leapt for it when the teen gave an uncomfortable hiss at the sound. "Pour?" Seeing a nod, he filled both mugs.

"…Now we wait," the younger male advised, leaning against the counter in an effort to make his swaying less obvious. Tired, and not tired, he complained silently. This is ridiculous. But at least I'm making tea with Bruce. That's ridiculous, too, but in the 'I can't believe this is happening' way, not the 'make this stop because it's miserable' way.

I can't believe I'm going to drink this, the billionaire groused as he watched thin tendrils escape the immersed cages and unfurl in the open water, slowly darkening it. …Although it doesn't smell the way I think of tea smelling, he couldn't help but note. A heady, tar- and tobacco-laced scent filled his nostrils, almost managing to be enticing despite his best efforts at disdain. You're acting as bad as they do, he chastised himself, straightening from where he'd begun to lean over a mug. "…Dick?" he asked sharply when he caught sight of the boy's face.

"'M all right," he promised weakly, struggling to keep his knees from giving out.

"Don't lie to me, I know that look," Bruce lectured as he pulled him away from the steaming hot liquids. If you weren't so damn stubborn you'd have already hit the floor. "We're going back upstairs, right now." This was stupid. What was I thinking, bringing him downstairs in his condition?

"But…"

The single word was so piteous that he paused. "…But what?"

"…Our tea?" He seemed to be almost on the edge of tears at the thought of abandoning their project, and Bruce had to look away to keep from caving immediately.

Damn it, Dick…you need to rest. "I'll bring it to your room. We can drink it there. All right?" He got a smile for that suggestion, followed by a short nod. Then the teen stumbled and nearly dropped to the tile. "Not a good idea, little bird," he crooned as he caught him and held him steady. "Marble's a bitch on knees."

"…'Kay."

Oh, yeah, straight to bed. Don't even think about arguing, he grimaced as he bent and scooped him into a cradle hold. I hope part of this is the medicine kicking in, because I'm going to feel like shit if coming to the kitchen wiped you out this much.

For his part, Dick tucked his head against his guardian's shoulder and let himself be carted back to his room. He could feel the worry and guilt rolling off of the man holding him, but he didn't open his eyes as he was lowered onto the mattress and the blankets were once again tucked tightly around him. "…Bruce?" he rasped as a gentle hand brushed across his forehead.

"What is it, chum?"

All the talking he'd done over the past half hour left him feeling as if he'd attempted fire eating, only to learn that he had no talent for the art. "...Thirsty. Tea?"

"I'm going, kiddo. Do not try to get up, do you understand?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good." He's not going anywhere, he tried to reassure himself, glancing back from the doorway. With any luck he'll go right to sleep and I won't even have to drink mine...

Dick finally dragged his eyes open when he heard Bruce returning. Strong arms pulled him upright and propped him against the headboard before pressing a warm mug into his hands. …It smells about right, he mused before taking a tiny sip. The liquid vanished at the back of his mouth, and a sad sigh slipped through his lips.

"…What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, grinning slightly at the man's completely unsurprised tone. Yeah, we both know you're hopeless in the kitchen, no matter how proud you are of those half-cooked Frisbees you call pancakes. "We just missed the window, that's all."

"…Oh." We'd have hit it if we stayed in the kitchen, I'd bet, but…god, Dick, you were about to collapse. I couldn't let you stay down there. Although I guess I could have just moved you into the den, but…well, I shouldn't have suggested the trip to start with. Frustrated, he glared into his own dark beverage, then allowed a minuscule portion of it to roll over his tongue. …Oh. I mean…this isn't that bad, actually, his taste buds decided with a shock.

"D'you like it?"

"…You know something? It's, ah…it's pretty good," he admitted. "…What did you spike it with to make me think that, is my question."

"Dunno," the teen responded. "Maybe it's just because we made it together."

"…Yeah. Maybe it is." He took a longer drink. Not too disgusting at all.

"Did I convert you?" Dick inquired a little while later when the level in both mugs had decreased substantially and the raging inferno in his throat had calmed.

"To tea?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"…Oh." Wishful thinking.

"But," the billionaire disclosed, "I'd be willing to have a cup of this kind every once in a while."

"Really?!"

"Really." Seeing his son's eyelids droop even as a happy grin spread across his lips, Bruce leaned forward and rescued his mostly-empty cup before it could be dropped by accident. Setting it aside with his own mug, he bent over and helped the sick teen reposition himself. Fingers stayed locked around his wrist when he tried to pull back, allowing him to sit on the mattress but restricting his range beyond that. He was about to ask for his hand back so that he could go get some work done when he realized that the boy had already drifted off. …A nap doesn't sound half-bad, he relented. Not that you're giving me a whole lot of other options here, but…what the hell. The paperwork won't go anywhere. Climbing over the unconscious figure to lie behind him, he froze. …I must already be getting sick, he frowned. 'The paperwork won't go anywhere?' Jesus, what's wrong with me?

And yet he still lay down, slipping his free arm under the boy's head as he did so. You might not have switched me over to tea today, Dicky, he thought as he gave him a final once-over and closed his eyes, but I don't see myself turning down the occasional cup in the future. Provided, of course, the billionaire's mouth curved up contentedly, that I can share it with you.