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Jason kept appearing on Dick’s doorstep, and at this point, Dick had come to accept it as a new staple in his life. He kept a packet of chips around for the kid to snack on – they lasted longer than fruit did, anyhow – and a bottle of juice.
Jason had, the first time, taken one look at the contents of Dick’s kitchen, and threatened to inform Alfred. So now Dick had to keep him decently fed (and deceived).
It was by no means an even trade, because what exactly was he getting out of this whole deal? A few extra bucks spent on food and a sense of paranoia every time he answered the door.
Jason wasn’t bad company, or even a bad kid. He was just a bit… rough around the edges. There was something about him that sent Dick bristling. But he was trying.
He just wished Jason’s visits wouldn’t be at the absolute worst possible moments, because how the hell was he supposed to look cool and poised and adult if Jason knocked on the door just as Dick was throwing his guts up in the toilet bowl?
“Door was locked for a reason, shrimp,” Dick rasped, flushing the toilet but not moving from his spot in the bathroom. There was a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach, one that worsened every time he moved.
“You look like you’re a step away from death,” Jason commented. He had an apple in hand and was happily crunching away at it.
Life on the streets and then nights as Robin had apparently led to a severe lack of disgust or sense of hygiene.
“Probably food poisoning,” Dick said, eyes shut as he leaned his head against the cool tiles. “Had takeout last night from a new place.”
Jason hummed, still chewing. “Then it’s probably out of your system by now,” he said.
Dick opened one eye. “Since when are you a doctor?”
Jason shrugged. “Leslie gave me a few pointers,” was all he said.
The nausea finally tampered down enough that Dick considered leaving the bathroom. He stood on shaky limbs, waiting to see if his stomach would rebel or not, before heading to the living room and crashing on the couch. Curling into a foetus shape seemed like the best possible thing he could do right now.
Jason followed, throwing the apple core into the bin. He sat in the space left by Dick, using his folded-up legs as an armrest.
“Got that video game you mentioned last time,” Dick said. The pain came in waves; he was currently in a blissful moment of relief.
Jason’s face lit up, even though he tried to hide it. “The zombie one Bruce that said was too violent?”
“Mmhmm.” Dick resisted the urge to add you can tell Bruce I let you play it because he wasn’t going to go out of his way to pick a fight. “Good luck beating my score.”
Jason snorted, not even deigning that with a response as he rummaged around in the cabinets under the TV. His hair was sticking up all over the place, red roots showing.
Dick had hoped that, with more exposure to him, Jason would stop dyeing his hair, but that hadn’t been the case. But maybe it wasn’t about him. Maybe it was that red hair on a previously black-haired Robin would draw unwanted attention, make it harder to slip into the shadows, clash horribly with the vest. Not everything was about Dick.
It was just that, when it came to Jason and Robin, a lot of things were.
He dozed off while Jason was still setting up the system, and when he woke up, hours later in the middle of the night, Jason had left.
It seemed that Jason, that traitor, had tattled on Dick, because the next morning, Alfred was at Dick’s door with two bags of food.
Dick had almost given up even thinking about getting the door, because moving (hell, breathing) made his stomach-ache worse, but one look at the camera installed and he knew that if he didn’t show Alfred he could move, he would be carted back to the Manor before he could even blink.
“Alfred.” He greeted the butler with a smile in place of his usual hug. “This is a surprise.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I truly doubt that, Master Dick,” he said. “Master Jason told me you’ve been under the weather. I thought I’d remind your body of what real food tastes like.”
Dick sighed. “It wasn’t even junk food, really,” he protested half-heartedly.
Alfred humphed. He’d already begun unpacking the bags. The smell of his chicken soup, the one he’d made every time Dick got sick as a kid, filled the apartment. Dick swallowed down the wave of nostalgia, of homesickness, and the flip his stomach did at the smell of food.
“I don’t know if I can eat all that, Alf,” he said. “It’s a lot of food.”
Alfred eyed him, and Dick knew that this whole thing was a test. “You need something solid in your system, my boy, and to stay hydrated.”
Dick got out two bowls – because there was no way he was eating alone – and Alfred, to his credit, spooned in half a serving for Dick.
Jason was back again three days later.
“Gremlin,” Dick greeted him from the couch when Jason picked the lock on the door.
“Asswipe,” Jason responded, making a beeline for the gaming station. “I see you’re doing better.” At Dick’s confused look, he added, “Nightwing was spotted last night.”
“Oh,” Dick said. “Yeah. Went on patrol.” He’d spent the entire night with gritted teeth and loud gasps every time he’d grappled. He’d felt better going out with a knife in his gut.
He didn’t tell Jason it was mainly to throw Bruce off his scent, because he knew that too many days off the streets would lead Batman to come checking in on Dick, and that was the last thing Dick needed.
“You’re, like, sweating,” Jason said, tone accusing. “Are you still sick?”
Dick huffed out a tiny laugh, careful it didn’t actually jolt through his body. “Sweating illegal now?”
“Quit being obtuse, you egg.” Jason crossed his arms. “You should go see Leslie.”
Dick couldn’t do that, because the knowledge that he’d seen Leslie would undoubtedly make its way to Alfred, which would go to Bruce.
“Was that a Macbeth reference? You been reading Shakespeare?” Jason’s frown somehow became deeper, and Dick’s temper flared. “Quit trying so hard to care, kid. I don’t want your concern, and I sure as hell don’t need it.”
“Fuck you, dickhead.”
And maybe Dick wanted Jason gone so he wouldn’t pick up on how bad the initial cramping sensation had gotten, because… Well, now he did want Bruce here, because when he’d gotten stomach-aches as a kid, Bruce would sit next to him and rub his back sometimes and it both would and wouldn’t help.
But he wouldn’t go running to Bruce every time he had a papercut, because he was an adult now, living on his own. He could handle it.
He could handle it. Dick kept telling himself that as he took in measured breaths. Maybe he should go to see Leslie, anything to stop the infernal blazing hot fire in his stomach. In fact, it’d been bordering on five days now; if things didn’t get better by the next day, he’d go in for an appointment, like a grown-up person who had their life under control.
Dick wasn’t even going to try to make it to bed tonight, because even thinking about moving hurt. He was glad he wasn’t throwing up anymore, not that there was much to throw up. Half of Alfred’s food was still in the fridge because he hadn’t had the appetite to eat anything.
It was lucky that Jason was still too mad at him from yesterday to come by for a visit anytime soon. Dick didn’t need the kid to go reporting back to Alfred.
Dick wouldn’t have realised that the window was open had it not been for the piercing wind that blew through. The unintentional shiver made the pain spike, and he bit down on his tongue to stop the gasp from escaping.
“B.” He should’ve known Batman would come by sooner or later. He hoped his voice sounded somewhat normal.
“Jason told me you were still sick,” Bruce said, shutting the window as quietly as he’d opened it. His voice was somewhere in between Batman’s growl and Bruce Wayne’s quiet rumble.
“Exaggerated,” Dick murmured. Maybe Bruce would think he wasn’t turning around or leaving his seat because he was mad at him.
“Jason rarely exaggerates.” Bruce stepped closer, directly into Dick’s line of sight now. He’d removed the cowl once he’d closed the blinds.
Dick hadn’t seen Bruce out of the mask since he’d moved out.
Bruce produced a thermometer out of nowhere, not even bothering to hand it to Dick. Dick opened his mouth to slide it under his tongue. He’d always thought Bruce’s weekly and bi-monthly visits were somewhat whimsical (as whimsical as Bruce could get), based on where Batman was needed. If his path led him over Dick’s apartment, Dick could see why Bruce would stick his head in, but to pack a thermometer and go out with the intention of seeing Dick?
He…didn’t know how to feel about that. Stifled, yes. But right now he was just relieved.
While they waited, Bruce wandered through Dick’s apartment. Dick was hurting too much to tell him to leave his stuff alone. He hadn’t slept properly in days.
He heard a grunt coming from the kitchen; Bruce had evidently found the food that was supposed to be in Dick’s stomach by now.
“Done,” Dick said before he could stop himself, habit ingrained from childhood. He glanced at the reading: one hundred- and two-degrees Fahrenheit. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Dick had had worse fevers.
Bruce let out another grunt as he also examined the thermometer. “Jason said you’d been throwing up?”
Dick couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. “You’re playing nurse now?” His voice hitched unevenly as laughing caused a shockwave of pain to radiate through him. He curled up tighter into a ball. Bruce’s frown deepened, and Dick sighed. “Just a stomach-ache. ’S not even that bad.” Ignoring the fact that most of Dick wanted to cut out his stomach at this point.
“Where?” Bruce asked.
“Um,” Dick said. “Stomach?” His eyes had shut of their own volition.
Bruce clenched his jaw. “Specifically.”
“I dunno, B, right now it hurts all ove—fuck."
Bruce had pressed at his side with swift fingers, and it took everything Dick had to stop himself from yelping.
“You have appendicitis,” Bruce informed him. His voice sounded angry; it was always angry nowadays when he spoke to Dick, but this time Dick understood it – he knew the symptoms of appendicitis. He should’ve been able to pick up on this.
“I—”
“Hospital, Dick,” Bruce barked.
Bruce had thrown on the biggest hoodie of Dick’s that he could find, swapped out his military grade boots for a pair of sandals that barely held his feet. Dick was aware of most of this – the next thing he knew he was lying in an ambulance, attached to an IV line.
Bruce, uncharacteristically, was holding his hand. Actually, it was more his wrist, and that probably meant he had a finger on Dick’s pulse. Dick blinked up at him, and Bruce gave him what Bruce probably considered to be a reassuring smile, but most people saw as a pained grimace. His eyes flickered from the machines back to Dick’s face.
There was something reassuring about not being the adult in charge. Because now Dick could close his eyes and not pay attention to all the big words the EMTs were throwing around that made Bruce’s grip on him spasm occasionally.
The next thing Dick knew was a white hospital room, and Jason sitting in a chair beside his bed. He was dressed in a bright red hoodie, and he had his feet up on Dick’s bed as he read a well-worn version of Pride and Prejudice.
“She has other books, too, y’know,” Dick said. Or tried to say – his throat was insanely dry, and the pain in his stomach, although less than before, was still prominent.
Jason started, feet coming off the bed to curl back downward. “You’re awake.”
“Water.”
Instead of complying, Jason pressed the button that would bring a nurse to the room. Dick glared at him, trying to sit up.
“Mr Grayson, I would strongly advise you not to do that,” chimed a friendly voice. “Your appendix ruptured and you’ve just had surgery.”
Jason was smiling smugly, fond of the nurse’s bluntness. “I fucking told you, Goldie.”
“Language, Master Jason,” Alfred said from where he and Bruce had just entered through the door.
“Sorry, Alfie.”
The next fifteen minutes were spent with the nurse explaining to Dick exactly what he could and could not do. Apparently his appendix had ruptured a few hours before Bruce had called an ambulance. He was expected to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, until his intestines began functioning again and he could take antibiotics orally.
“Y’know,” Dick said once the nurse had left, “I really did think it was just a really bad case of food poisoning. I’ve had stab wounds that were worse.”
Bruce was giving him a look, one that would normally have made Dick shrivel inside (or flare up, depending on the situation, really), but he was much too tired to register it now.
“I spoke with your doctor,” Bruce said. “She says you should make a full recovery, provided you follow instructions and don’t strain yourself before you’ve healed.”
Alfred patted his knee. “Rest now, Master Dick.”
Dick happily took the out that meant he wouldn’t have to try and talk with anyone in the room. The last few things he registered were the scrape of chair legs against the floor and the ruffling of book pages.
He opened his eyes at one point to someone checking his stitches, but at the sound of someone gently shushing him, and the feeling calloused fingers carding through his hair, he fell back asleep.
Alfred and Bruce had apparently decided, at some point, that Dick would be staying at the Manor for the few weeks the doctors strongly recommended he take it easy. This Dick realised when he opened his eyes, having fallen asleep on the car ride, to see the car driving through the gates.
“Um,” he said eloquently. “I thought…”
Jason snorted. “What, that B and Alfie’d let you go off the second you managed to convince them you were fine enough to leave the hospital?”
Dick sighed. “Blame the drugs for my optimistic thinking,” he muttered.
A pole with an IV line attached – for the intravenous antibiotics he still needed another day or so of – had been set up in Dick’s room. Dick trailed his fingers across the furniture, knowing full well they wouldn’t come away with dust. He hadn’t been back here in months to visit, let alone to stay the night.
Jason didn’t bother Dick here. So it was up to Dick, who was bored out of his mind and still in enough pain to consider maybe avoiding acrobatics, to hunt for him through the expansive Manor.
Dick hadn’t seen Bruce since he’d been released from the hospital. He wasn’t allowed to go into the Cave, and nor did he want to. At meals it was just him and Jason, despite Alfred’s displeasure.
“Jay?” Dick called as he walked into the main library. “You in here?”
A paper plane flew down. Dick caught it before it could smack him in the face, and glanced up. Jason sat on top of a bookshelf, leaning against the wall with a bottle of orange juice in hand.
“You found me,” he said.
“It’s not like you were trying to be unseen,” Dick said. He eyed the shelf; without the hole in his abdomen, getting up would’ve been nothing, but now, Alfred would probably dismember him if he found out Dick had been there, even more so if he popped a stitch or two.
“What’re you—dude, no, what the fuck—” Jason leapt forward, peering over the edge of the shelf as Dick scaled up the shelves and rolled so he landed on top.
He hadn’t anticipated that it would wind him so much just to climb atop the shelf. Dick panted through the waves of pain, raising a hand to stop Jason from jumping down and getting Alfred.
“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “No blood, see?” Well, he couldn’t feel any blood leaking out, so hopefully that meant there wasn’t any.
Jason was glaring at him. “You’re insane,” he said. “Can’t believe I have to live up to a guy who’s actually insane.”
Dick was finally getting himself under control. “I’m just bored,” he said.
All that got him was a stare. “So you’re whiny now, too? You’re worse than Bruce when he’s on bedrest.”
Dick snorted. “Are you kidding? Bruce is much worse on bedrest. At least I stayed in bed for like two days. Where even is B, anyway?”
“Batcave,” Jason said.
“And you’re here?” Dick sat up to look at what Jason had been doing. “Is that… you’re playing chess against yourself?”
“It’s supposed to make you better at strategy,” Jason said defensively.
“I mean, yeah, but I’m right here, with fuck all to do. You could’ve asked me if I wanted to play against you.” Was Dick supposed to be feeling hurt at this? He didn’t know if he had the right to just yet – they weren’t even that close – but he did.
Jason looked at him for a moment before abruptly spinning the board. “Fine. You’re white.”
It turned out that Dick had indeed ripped a stitch or two, a fact that they discovered at Alfred’s exclamation when they showed up for lunch.
Dick grimaced sheepishly. “Sorry, Alf,” he said. “I slid down the bannister.” He didn’t look at Jason when he spoke, but he could see Jason’s surprised blink out of the corner of his eye.
If Alfred didn’t believe him, he didn’t let on. Instead, he sat Dick down by the countertop and redid them, his work just as meticulous, if not more, than the doctor’s. “The two of you are exiled to the living room. You will stay there entertaining yourselves for the remainder of the day. If you can do that without any mishaps, Master Dick, I’ll see if you may be permitted to go down to the Cave tomorrow.”
Dick… didn’t know if he wanted that permission, wanted to be around Bruce when Bruce clearly didn’t want to be around Dick, but at least he’d finally be doing casework again.
“Okay, Jaybird, shitty reality show or shitty CW paranormal drama?” Dick asked brightly.
“Uh, neither?” Jason said. “Shitty cop shows.”
Dick looked at his appraisingly. “Huh,” he said. “Nice.”
Jason was currently going through a detective kick. He’d apparently read all of Sherlock Holmes in a month, gone through Agatha Christie, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, even starting on Dan Brown.
“Hey, you gotta watch James Bond with me,” he said to Dick, and it was the friendliest he’d ever looked, face completely unguarded as they watched the 1984 Sherlock Holmes TV series. They’d gone through a couple of episodes of 9-1-1 and Castle before Dick announced he was sick of cop shows where the police work took a backseat to the workplace drama.
“Course,” Dick said, rubbing a knuckle over Jason’s head. Jason whacked his arm away. “You’ve tried Alfred’s popcorn, right? If we ask nicely, he might let us binge all of ‘em in a day.”
Jason looked at him incredulously. “There’s no way you can sit still that long,” he said. “Quit moving your leg.”
Dick kicked him with the offending appendage.
Jason fell asleep sometime through The Red-Headed League, which was a bit disappointing considering it was one of Dick’s favourites. Dick himself was tired, but the returning pain in his abdomen kept him awake and antsy.
But Jason had fallen asleep on top of him; there was no way he was moving, not when Jason had decided he trusted him enough to sleep on Dick’s legs. So he was stuck in front of the TV, doing his best not to fidget when the pain started ramping up.
Was it time for his medication? Dick couldn’t see the clock from where he was sitting, and he’d left his phone either in his room or atop the bookcase.
It was right about when Dick was considering just lying down and trying to sleep when Bruce walked into the room. Dick blinked up at him. He hadn’t expected to see Bruce out of the Batcave during his entire stay, not with how obvious Bruce had made it that he didn’t want to even eat in the same room as Dick.
A combination of pain worming its way through him and the frustration and hurt and Bruce avoiding him made Dick say, “Finally come up for air?”
Bruce sighed. “Alfred told me it’s time for your antibiotics, and to give you something for pain.”
Well. Dick wouldn’t say no to those pills, but not in front of Bruce. He accepted the antibiotics, but shook his head when Bruce offered him the box of Tylenol.
Bruce frowned. “Dick, there’s no need to tough it out.”
“Like you care. I haven’t seen you in like three days, and now you’re suddenly here lecturing me about pills?” Jason stirred on Dick’s legs, but didn’t move to sit up.
“Of course I c—” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course I care. I just—I didn’t want us to fight. You need at least another week of rest. I didn’t want to be the cause of you storming out.”
“And so you thought it was best to just avoid me and lurk down in the Cave?”
Bruce grimaced. “I can see now that maybe it wasn’t the best plan I’ve come up with.”
Jason scoffed against where he was still slumped, fiddling with a stray thread on Dick’s sweatpants. “You guys done now? ‘Cause if you really wanna make it up to us, B, you gotta convince Alfred to make his special popcorn and let us watch all the James Bond movies in one go.”
Bruce, from the look on his face, hadn’t been expecting this request. “I…will do my best?” he said haltingly before disappearing.
Dick snorted once he’d left. “Nice one, Little Wing,” he said, ruffling Jason’s hair. “Hey, pass me that Tylenol sheet Bruce left? The hole in my stomach's killing me.”