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Kiran Devabhaktuni wasn’t surprised to find Timothy Drake-Wayne in the den of Wayne Manor, but he hadn’t expected to find Bruce there with him.
He was leaned back in the recliner next to Tim, under a heavy throw blanket and wearing a faded sweatshirt that did nothing to brighten his complexion. He looked barely awake, pale under a couple days’ worth of scruff, and his eyes were bloodshot and shadowed as he watched Tim's game on the screen in front of them.
"You all right to be out of bed, mate?" Dev asked, setting down his bag just inside the door.
Bruce just grunted, then coughed a bit and grimaced.
"Jason helped get him downstairs," Tim said, glancing over at Dev. "Alfred wanted to air the room."
"There's at least a dozen other bedrooms," Dev pointed out, but didn't push. He headed over to the recliner and felt Bruce’s forehead. Sweat-damp and too warm, but less concerning than the utter lack of resistance or irritation. "You're still in a bloody state," Dev told him, not quite able to summon his usual cheerful tone. Bruce huffed, then broke into a cough again. He wasn’t quite shivering, but looked like he could start at any moment, so Dev hunted about for another blanket to give him.
When he’d rung Alfred last week to let him know that he’d been brought back to Gotham early, pulled out of his visit with Rani in Minnesota for a consultation-turned-emergency-surgery, he’d expected to be invited ‘round the Manor for tea, not for a long silence to be followed by a quiet request that he come ‘round for another reason entirely.
“I’m afraid he’s not responding as he ought,” Alfie had said in a low voice. “Dr. Thompkins has started him on another antibiotic, but Kiran—”
“Bloody hell, Alfie,” Dev had told him, already pulling his coat back on, “of course I’ll come.” And he had.
Fortunately, it had turned out to be one of the rare occasions on which Alfred’s assessment was incorrect: Bruce was struggling, yes, but not giving ground. The cephalosporin gave him the edge he needed, and within a few days he’d dragged himself through the worst of it and out the other side. A full recovery was all but guaranteed, but he wouldn’t be able to rush it. He needed rest, more rest, and – apparently – at least one pair of eyes on him at all times.
Dev found a crocheted afghan bundled behind a pillow on another couch and tucked it around Bruce's shoulders, covering his arms and chest. Bruce closed his eyes, some of the tension bleeding out of him, and Dev couldn’t stop himself from feeling first his cheek and then his forehead again. "How's the fever been today?" he asked Tim, who'd by then paused the game in order to watch him and Bruce with undisguised concern.
"Pretty steady," Tim said quietly. "It was a bit lower yesterday, about 101, but it’s back up to 102. Cough’s also pretty much the same," he went on, before Dev could ask. "I think it’s a little less frequent, but that could just be the codeine."
"Stop talking," Bruce muttered, eyes still closed.
"Not bloody likely," Dev retorted, sitting on the arm of the recliner. "Have you met me or Timothy?"
"About me," Bruce clarified, then coughed harshly, deeper than before. The wet, grating rattle in his chest didn’t sound any different than it had done the past several days, which meant it still sounded painful and more than a bit worrisome.
Dev winced. "Speaking of codeine.”
"He had some about an hour ago," Tim told him. "I think that's why he's so out of it."
Dev hummed. Up close, he didn’t like the sound of Bruce’s breathing, and he doubted that the codeine was entirely responsible for the glassiness of his eyes and the listlessness of his general being. "He still on oxygen when he’s in his room?"
"Not always,” Tim said. “Lately he’s just been taking it off.”
"I said stop," Bruce said hoarsely.
"Do you want to answer my questions then, sweetheart?" Dev asked. "Because if you say yes then I'll sodding grill you until you've coughed yourself sick, and I don't think either of us wants that."
Bruce glared at him, then pulled his right arm out from under the second blanket, held up his fist, and nodded it like a head without breaking eye contact.
"Bruce," Tim cut in, reaching over and putting a hand on Bruce's. "Not now, okay? Please? You know he means it, and I for one don't want a repeat of this morning."
"Oi, what happened this morning?" Dev asked, but Bruce was already signing curtly, gesturing to Dev and Tim in between signs.
"It's not good cop bad cop, it's just true," Tim said. "Dev's a sadist and I'm the only thing standing between you and an NG tube. If you let him goad you into puking up the meal shake it took two hours to get you to drink, I'm going to stay with Dick and leaving you alone with him and Alfred."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. Even dulled by fever, exhaustion, and probable hypoxia, his gaze was intense, and Dev recalled all too easily the first time he'd seen that look and realised what it meant. The stare-off dragged on a few seconds, neither Bruce nor Timothy relenting, then Bruce sighed and softened a bit. "Terrorist," he muttered, but it was entirely lacking in heat.
"Concerned third party," Tim countered, but dropped his head to Bruce's shoulder all the same. "You need to get better, Bruce," he said tiredly. "Which means you need to not fight us at every single turn. I know you hate it, but you have to let us help.”
Bruce sighed again and put an arm around Tim, pulling him closer and closing his eyes as Tim snugged up against him. “Fine,” he rasped. “Tell him all my secrets.”
“He hates asparagus,” Tim said seriously, looking up at Dev. “One time Alfred put some on his plate and he hissed at it like a cat.”
“Concussion,” Bruce defended. “Can’t prove anything.”
“And he keeps taking off the oxygen mask when he’s in bed because he wants to sleep face-down like a maniac.”
“Still too congested for the cannula?” Dev asked.
“Yeah, not even snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” Bruce grumbled.
“Not now you don’t,” Tim agreed, and Bruce growled half-heartedly.
“Thought you were on my side.”
“He’s been working for me all along,” Dev told him. “Timothy, mate, will you bring me my bag and then go up and fetch the oxygen? I’ll make sure your da doesn’t do a runner.”
“Sure.” Tim eeled out of Bruce’s hold and off the sofa, and trotted across the room to heft Dev’s bag. “Ugh, Dev, did you add more bricks to this?”
“Nah, just a couple of lead blankets. Thanks, mate.” Dev unzipped it and started rummaging through it while Tim jogged out again.
“It’s not that bad,” Bruce said, once he was gone, but the fact that he’d waited until Timothy left only weakened his case.
“If you’ve an oxygen saturation higher than 90 right now, I’ll be bloody shocked.” He found the pulse oximeter and pulled it out. “Hand.” Bruce held out a hand, and Dev clipped the device to his finger. “And the fact that you’re not trying harder to lie to me is either mildly offensive or deeply concerning, depending on how I choose to interpret it.”
Bruce huffed again and had to stifle a cough. “Not a sign of trust and respect?”
“Not at all.”
“Hn.”
The monitor beeped and the reading blinked on the little screen still in Dev’s hand – 88. “I bloody well told you,” Dev muttered. “Wayne, you idiot, you should’ve said something.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Dev sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “All right, here’s what’s going to happen. Timothy’s going to bring down the oxygen, you’re going to sodding wear it until you’re back up to 95 at least, and in the meantime you can either sleep or keep pretending to watch Timothy play…” He twisted around to look at the screen behind him. “I don’t rightly know what that is,” he admitted.
“Crossout,” Bruce said. “Something with cars.” He coughed, hard, into a handful of tissues. “Tim’s trying to make the Batmobile,” he rasped after, nearly setting himself off again.
“Brilliant. I think I’ll stay and watch, myself, then. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Juice?” Bruce made a face. “Just water, then,” Dev interpreted, and ignored his grumbled protests as he left the room.
By the time he returned from the kitchen with a cup of water and a tub of ice cream, Timothy had made it back down with the tank and was setting it up next to the recliner Bruce was glowering in. It still wasn’t much of a glower, but the fact that he was trying was perversely reassuring.
“Ooh, crazy straw,” Tim said, noticing the pink cactus that rose from the cup, the edge of one arm extending invitingly. “Nice.”
“This is a high-end establishment,” Dev reminded him. “Nothing but the best for our patients, here. Have a sip before we get the mask on, Wayne, or I’ll break out the IV as well.”
Bruce glared, but complied, first with the water and then with the mask. Dev opened the valve on the tank to the lowest setting, checked the fit of the mask again, and tossed Timothy the ice cream before dropping into the club chair next to the recliner. “All right, then, Timothy, what’s today’s entertainment?”
Tim caught the tub easily but blinked at it once he had it. “Uh. One-handed Crossout, apparently. Oh shoot, this is Bruce’s,” he added, taking a closer look at the label. “Double fudge cookie dough? Since when do they even make that?”
“I have my ways,” Bruce muttered, voice thin through the plastic of the mask, but his eyes were already closed and his breathing was slower and deeper.
“Can I have some?”
“Sure.”
Dev produced the two spoons he’d pocketed and held them up. “Doctor tax,” he said sternly. “And then you’re going to build the most beautiful bloody Batmobile the world has ever seen.”
“I could do that,” Tim agreed, leaning over Bruce to take one of the spoons. “Or I could get you a controller and we can both build really shitty cars and shoot the heck out of each other.” He held out the opened tub of ice cream, and Dev dug his own spoon into it.
“How loud would the shooting be, do you think?” Dev asked. He sat back, stuck the spoon in his mouth, and almost moaned around a mouthful of decadent chocolate sin. Bloody hell, this had to be the best ice cream he’d ever had.
On Bruce’s other side, Tim actually did moan. Between them, Bruce lay limp as a wet newspaper, the sound of the oxygen clicking and hissing almost enough to drown out the persistent wheeze in his chest.
“Probably too loud,” Tim agreed once he’d recovered himself. “We should let him sleep. Man, this slaps. Do you think I can marry an ice cream?”
“Too young,” Bruce mumbled, and Tim nearly choked on his next bite.
“Go to sleep, Wayne,” Dev told him. “I’ll keep Timothy from making any ill-advised matrimonial choices.”
“Uncle Dev,” Tim whined. “You’re no fun. See if I give you any more of my future ice-cream-in-law. Wait, no, that’s the wrong thing. My future ice cream spouse. My fiancice. Wife cream? Fuck, kill me. I hate everything I just said, but especially wife cream.”
“When’s the last time you slept, mate?” Dev asked calmly.
“I’m not even sleep-deprived,” Tim said in disgust, “I’m just like this.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Dev told him. “I’m sure you’ll find an ice cream who'll love you back someday.”
“I’m really sorry I said wife cream.”
“I know. Now. How’ve you been sleeping?”
Tim flopped back into the recliner and picked up his controller. “Like shit, but that’s pretty much my baseline. I’ve had worse.” He exited the pause screen and tabbed back to what looked like a garage, where a half-assembled car hovered above the floor.
Dev leaned over again, spoon out, and Tim held out the tub in one hand without looking away from the screen. “How bad are the nightmares?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Nothing crazy. I think I should use a different chassis.” Tim started flicking the controller, and the car began to deconstruct itself in highlighted segments.
“Timothy,” Dev said firmly. “Either tell me the truth or tell me to back off, but I don’t need another Olympic-level deflector showing off at me right now. There’s not room on that couch for the both of you.”
Tim sighed, staring down at the controller. “Ugh. I just...” He looked over at Bruce and was silent for a long few moments. “Let’s talk about it later,” he finally said. “Not—” he gestured between himself and Dev, raising a significant eyebrow at Bruce in between them. He’d remained silent since his last comment, hadn’t so much as twitched, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still listening, and even in this state he’d likely recall everything he heard.
“Yeah, all right, that’s fair.” Dev settled back with his hands behind his head. “Tell me after you’ve built your terrifying machine. I’ll be here.”