Chapter Text
It all started with Tim.
Which wasn’t his fault - without his spleen, he was significantly more prone to infections and sickness than the other members of the Wayne family. It was part of the reason why Alfred kept the manor in almost sterile condition. Sure, Tim had his prescription of antibiotics to help compensate for his immune system, but he wasn’t the best with looking after himself. Keeping as many germs out of the house as possible was Alfred’s way of creating a safe home for him.
But still, when Bruce walked past his boys’ rooms that morning and heard the coughing from Tim’s room, he knew that they would be down a Red Robin for the next few days.
He poked his head into Tim’s room, his eyes falling on where his teenager huddled under his blankets. “Tim?”
Tim peeked out from under the blankets and blinked blearily at him. “B? What time’s it?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Bruce said, crossing the room to the window and shutting the blinds, then pulling the curtains closed for good measure. The room slipped into darkness, and Tim hummed in appreciation. Bruce moved to Tim’s side and pulled the covers straight. “You’re going to go back to sleep, anyway. Want me to get you anything?”
“Coffee.”
“No.”
“Espresso.”
“No.”
“Decaf.”
“I’ll consider it,” Bruce acquiesced. He pushed Tim’s sweaty bangs back off of his forehead, making a mental note of how feverish he was. “So long as you stay in bed today and try to get some sleep.”
Tim frowned. “But- I was working on that case with Penguin-”
“Which is probably what got you sick in the first place.”
“Doesn’t matter. I was close, B, this close to figuring out what code they were using.”
“Fight with me all you want,” Bruce said, standing up, “but you’re going to be spending the day in bed, sleeping this off. Okay?”
“But-”
“Father, what is taking so long?”
Bruce looked up and saw his youngest, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. Damian frowned. “Is something wrong with Drake?”
“He’s just feeling a little under the weather,” Bruce said. “You’re not to disturb him today, am I understood?”
Damian made a face. “In the interest of everyone’s health and safety, you should have him moved out of the manor. I am sure Todd can give up one of his safe houses.”
Bruce rubbed his eyes. It was much too early for this already. “If you’re so worried of catching what he has, then wash your hands and leave him alone, and you won’t get sick.”
“He is going to touch everything in the manor!” Damian insisted. “Between him and Grayson, the entire family will be infected-”
Bruce’s head snapped up, annoyance forgotten. “What do you mean, ‘between him and Grayson’? What’s wrong with Dick?”
Damian crossed his arms tighter across his body, almost hugging himself. “Grayson had a selection of…choice words for me, this morning. I asked him - in a perfectly reasonable tone - if he would be against turning off the television so that I could complete my studies in peace, and he proceeded to yell at me. I made the perfectly obvious conclusion that he was ill and came to report to you, when it became clear that you were going to be late for breakfast.”
Bruce took a second to sigh to himself. He’d been hoping to enjoy this weekend - the first weekend that all four of his Robins were under one roof for something non-mission-related in a long time. Cassandra was staying with Stephanie and Barbara for what they dubbed “Girls Weekend,” so it would just be him and his sons. Instead, it looked like two of the five Wayne men would be down for the count.
And both of them were a handful when they were sick.
Well, he supposed it could have been worse. He and Alfred could handle two sick Waynes.
Bruce pointed a stern finger at Tim. “Stay. Put. Damian, watch him.”
“What-?! No, B-”
“Father-! I refuse to play babysitter-”
Bruce knew better than to argue with them. And so, trusting that they still respected his authority (which, in hindsight, was misplaced trust), he ran away hurried out of the room and down the hall. Then, down the stairs and to the right, where the living room was.
As soon as he set foot in the room, a mound of blankets turned to look at him. “Go ‘way.”
“You feeling okay, chum?” Bruce asked, warily taking another few steps into the room.
In lieu of a reply, Dick grunted and pulled a soft brown blanket tighter around himself.
Bruce had lived with Dick long enough to know that he should keep his distance. Whenever he was sick, he was irritable and extremely touch-averse - a complete one-eighty from how he usually behaved. “Have you eaten anything yet?”
Dick grunted again. It was neither an affirmative, nor a negative answer. If he wanted answers, he would need to go to the man infamous for keeping track of the kitchen inventory. “Where’s Alfred?”
“In the kitchen, yelling at Jason.” Dick leaned his head back and let out a loud sigh. “I’m too hot.”
“Then take off the blanket.” Bruce reached for the edge of the fleece-
Dick pulled it away with a yelp. “No! What if I get cold?”
“You’ll still have it,” Bruce said. “Just put it back on-”
“But I don’t want to be cold.”
“Do you want to be hot, instead?”
Dick pulled the blanket over his head and whined. “Noooo.”
Bruce held back another sigh. This was going to be a long weekend.
“It’s Jason’s fault,” Dick grumbled. “I got up last night and saw him poking around the fridge. I bet he drank from the juice carton again. Fucker.”
“Language,” Bruce chided. He gently brushed away Dick’s mussed hair and laid a hand against the young man’s forehead.
Dick glared at him.
“I know, I know,” Bruce said, pulling his hand away. “I was just checking for a fever. No need to bite my hand off.”
“I’m tired,” Dick complained. “And I’m hungry. And I’m cold.”
“I’ll go get you some food,” Bruce said, standing up. “You stay where you are.”
Dick mumbled something in reply, but Bruce didn’t quite catch it. Rather than asking him to repeat himself, likely just inviting more ire from his oldest, he left the living room and quickly made his way into the kitchen-
Whereupon entering, he realized that his weekend was about to get a whole lot worse.
Jason sat atop the refrigerator, holding a carton of orange juice close to his chest. An empty carton lay on the island countertop, carelessly discarded. Alfred stood with his arms crossed, glaring at Jason with a level of fury that even Bruce wasn’t willing to test.
“…Should I even ask?” Bruce looked between the two of them, but he didn’t dare venture any further into the kitchen.
“I believe the young sir was just returning to his room,” Alfred said, a disapproving and harsh warning look on his face. “Without the last bottle of orange juice in the manor.” Alfred turned his attention to Bruce. “Sir, I woke up this morning and came in here to cook breakfast, when, lo and behold, I discovered a teenager, sleeping atop my refrigerator.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked at Jason, who looked…really awful, actually. His eye bags were dark and deep, and his hair stuck up every which way. Combined with the streak of white hair along his hairline, he looked like some sort of undead Frankenstein.
“Alright, come on,” Bruce said, holding out a hand. “I’ll let you keep the orange juice, so long as you promise to take a hot shower and go to sleep, alright?”
“In your bed, this time,” Alfred added.
Jason frowned. “But you’re out of orange juice.”
“Then what-”
Jason tipped the carton he held upside down (eliciting an alarmed shout from Alfred), but nothing came out. Empty, as he’d said. Still, he pulled the empty carton close to his chest.
Alfred gawked. “You drank four cartons in one night?!”
“I’m sick,” Jason said, leaning forward and almost losing his balance. “You’re supposed to drink fluids, so I did. If it’s any consolation, it didn’t work. I still feel like shit.”
“Let’s try a shower and a nap, okay?” Bruce repeated, his hands out, ready to catch Jason should he sway and fall. “I’ll restock on orange juice today. In the meantime, drink water instead. That’ll help.”
Jason eyed him in distrust. “Can I have hot chocolate instead?”
Bruce looked over to Alfred, who gave in quickly. “Of course. After a shower and a nap of at least two hours, in a proper bed.”
“Sound good, Jay-lad?” Bruce asked, looking up at Jason for confirmation.
Jason scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child…” He trailed off as a yawn took over his speech.
Bruce saw what was going to happen seconds before it took place.
Batman’s Robin was supposed to be one of the most agile people in the entire city, capable of keeping up with Batman himself and mimicking the grace and skill of the legendary Flying Grayson acrobats. Robin was supposed to be fast, light on his feet, and capable of advanced stunts.
But a sick Robin was another story.
The yawn threw off Jason’s awareness just long enough for him to lose his balance. His arms flailed as he tried to save himself, dropping the empty orange juice carton to free up his hands, but it was too late. He toppled from atop the refrigerator with an undignified squawk.
Already anticipating such a disaster, Bruce was in the right place to catch Jason before he could hit the tiled floor of the kitchen (though he received a stray elbow to the face for his troubles).
“Alright, that’s it. No more sleeping on top of the fridge,” Bruce said decidedly, shifting Jason in his arms and putting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry instead.
Jason slurred a reply, but the words were indistinguishable from each other. He settled for a lazy swat at the back of Bruce’s head to get his indignation across.
Bruce looked back to Alfred. “Can you handle Dick while I take care of this one and check back in on Tim? Make sure he eats something?”
Alfred nodded. “Of course, sir. Hot chocolate for him, as well?”
“Uh…depends on what kind of mood you catch him in. You know how he gets.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re a life-saver, Alfred,” Bruce said, then he hurried out of the room. Sure, he was in good shape - he had to be, for his occupation - but that didn’t mean Jason wasn’t still heavy. The sooner he made it upstairs, the sooner he could put him down.
They had almost made it to the stairs without incident, but Dick caught sight of Jason and Bruce as they passed the doorway to the living room. “Asshole!”
Jason perked his head up and caught sight of Dick. “Bitch!”
“You got me sick!”
“You brought it home first-”
“Knock it off!” Bruce barked, not slowing his pace and taking the stairs two at a time. Hopefully, the more distance he put between the two of them, the less conflict there would be.
It was a nice thought.
“I saw you with the OJ-”
“Not my fault I know how to properly take care of myself when I’m sick-”
“You got your germs on all the food, you jerk!”
“Oh, I’m sorry for breathing. Let me just go die again, if that would make you happy.”
Bruce sputtered. “Jason!”
“I’ll take it back when it’s not funny anymore.”
Bruce was about to reply when the creak of a floorboard pulled his attention back to the top of the stairs, where Tim stood frozen, a deer in headlights.
A second passed.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
“Fine,” Tim groaned, turning around and heading back in the direction of the bedrooms. “I’m going, I’m going.”
“If I see you out of bed again, I’m shutting off your Internet,” Bruce called after him.
Tim’s door shut with a sharp BANG.
Bruce shook his head, knowing that Alfred would be having words with him later about letting the boys slam their doors shut. It was a familiar conversation, to say the least.
“Come on, Jay-lad,” Bruce said, continuing his trek up the stairs. “If you stay in your room today, I’ll buy you all the orange juice you want. Deal?”
Jason scoffed. “You trying to buy me off, old man?”
Bruce said nothing as he reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway, heading straight towards Jason’s room.
Sighing dramatically, Jason took Bruce’s silence as an answer and said, “Fine. Make it Alfred’s hot chocolate and we’ve got a deal.”
“All week long, whenever you want it,” Bruce promised. He pushed Jason’s door open and tossed the teenager onto the bed.
Jason sat up and pointed at Bruce in warning. “With the cinnamon. No cutting corners.”
Bruce made a face. “Would it really be Alfred’s hot chocolate without the cinnamon?”
“Thank you,” Jason said, as if he had just proven a point. “Go tell your demon spawn that he’s forbidden from asking Alfred to keep the cinnamon out.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
Bruce took one of the pillows on Jason’s bed and playfully whacked him over the head with it. “Shower, then sleep, then hot chocolate. Understood?”
“Alright, alright,” Jason said, pushing himself off of the bed and heading over toward the bathroom he shared with Dick. “Cinnamon. Don’t forget.”
Bruce rolled his eyes, but a note of fond warmth settled in his chest. It had been a long road, but Jason finally seemed to be relaxed at Wayne Manor. Back when he had first reappeared in Gotham as the Red Hood, he had refused to even take off his helmet around them for very long, using it as a sort of shield.
As if he had needed it to protect himself around them.
From them.
But, given enough time (plus Alfred’s strict “No Costumes in the Manor” rule), Jason had started to just wear the domino mask - until that, too, was removed whenever he stopped by. Bruce had to admit, he had missed seeing the way his second eldest son's eyes softened as he read a classic novel in the library, or the way that his brow crinkled in concentration whenever he started talking passionately about something.
It was too bad that their first weekend together as a family was turning out to be such a mess.
With Jason taken care of (likely for the rest of the day - Sick-Jason always tended to sleep off any illness or grave injury and not cause trouble, compared to his brothers), Bruce headed back into the hall to check and make sure Tim hadn’t left his room.
He knocked on Tim’s door. “Tim?”
“I’m sleeping!” Tim yelled back.
Bruce crossed his arms. “Really?”
“Well I would be if you’d go away.”
“So you’re saying that if I open this door…”
“No no no no no-”
Bruce pushed open the door to reveal Tim’s empty bedroom. His laptop was open on his desk, angled toward the door so that the camera could watch, and in the split second before Tim could turn off his own camera feed, Bruce saw the panicked face of his third son in the Bat Cave.
Because of course he had used the five seconds Bruce was distracted in order to sneak out.
Good grief.
“Damian!” Bruce barked, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairs.
Perhaps putting on his suit - or at least his utility belt - wasn’t such a bad idea. Especially it he had to keep going up and down these stairs all day.
“Damian!” he repeated.
“I’m coming!” Damian yelled from somewhere on the first floor. As soon as Bruce reached the main level of the manor, Damian hurried over to him, carrying a steaming mug in one hand.
“Why weren’t you at your post?” Bruce demanded.
“Drake informed me that you said he could have a warm caffeinated beverage. It’s supposed to help eradicate illness and boost the immune system,” Damian said - with the tone he used when he thought the person he was speaking to was of low intelligence or inferior in some way.
It was a tone he used often.
Bruce finally caught the aroma coming from the mug, and he raised an eyebrow. “Coffee?”
“Yes, sir. With a shot of espresso, just as you directed.”
“Tim needs sleep, not caffeine,” Bruce said, taking the mug and setting it on a nearby table.
Damian’s confidence visibly faltered. “But he said-”
“Tim took advantage of your pride and your fear of sickness, and now he is out of bed, in the Batcave, working on a case when he should be resting. You know how susceptible he is to illness.”
Damian’s countenance soured. “I apologize, Father. It will not happen again.”
Something in Bruce’s chest twinged uncomfortably. Tim’s escape wasn’t Damian’s fault - Tim was the one that had chosen to leave, and he’d taken advantage of his younger brother in the process. But it wasn’t as if saying so would help fix Damian’s sudden change in mood. He would likely blame himself anyway. Ra’s and Talia were to blame for that, he was sure.
“Don’t apologize,” Bruce said, turning away and heading for the Batcave entrance. “Just…go see if Alfred needs any help.”
“I would not insult his ability by asking to assist,” Damian scoffed. “I have full confidence in Pennyworth’s skills-”
“Alright, fine,” Bruce interrupted, waving a hand to end Damian’s soliloquy. “Come on. We’ll corner him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bruce ducked into his study without another word, trusting that his youngest son and current sidekick was following close behind. Going straight for the grandfather clock, he moved the hands on its face to 10:48 and unlocked the hidden entrance, causing the clock to swing out and reveal an elevator.
The two of them descended into the Batcave in silence.
After a few moments of the quiet, Bruce put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He wasn’t the best with emotion at the best of times, but then again, neither was Damian. (Or Jason. Or Dick. Or Tim.)
Bruce gently squeezed Damian’s shoulder. I’m sorry. I’m not mad.
Damian glanced up at him and nodded once. Apology accepted.
The elevator stopped and Bruce instantly started moving again, this time making a beeline for the platform where the supercomputer was kept.
Sure enough, Tim sat in the high-backed chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as he brought up file after file on the large screen, trying to get as much work done as he could before Bruce made it over to him.
“Drake!” Damian yelled. “Step away from the computer!”
“You don’t give me orders, brat,” Tim called over his shoulder, eyes still locked on the screen.
Damian looked about ready to protest in righteous indignation (and use some of the fowl language he learned from his brothers, Bruce was sure), so Bruce spoke quickly to cut him off. “Come on, power it down.”
Tim didn’t look away for even a moment. “Not your sidekick anymore, B.”
Bruce fought to keep his expression neutral, but ouch. That one stung a little.
“I’ll give you five seconds before you’re locked out of the system,” Bruce warned. “Five…”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Four…”
“I’m not a child. That’s not gonna work-”
“Three…”
Finally, Tim looked away from the computer, fingers halting above the keypad. “You’re not really-”
“Two…”
“Bruce-”
“Two-and-a-half-”
“Okay!” Tim gave in, pushing himself away from the computer desk. “Okay, okay. Happy?”
“Very,” Bruce said, deadpan. “Computer, shutdown and lock all points of entry. Protocol Blackout.”
The computer screen cut to black in response and Tim yelped. “Bruce! I was working on that-”
“Don’t talk to Father that way!” Damian snapped. “He deserves your respect. Besides, it is his computer. He is allowed to use it as he sees fit.”
“Stay out of this, devil child.”
“Devil-?!”
“Alright, alright, enough,” Bruce snapped. “Tim, you’re going upstairs right this instant. You’re going straight to your room, and you are not leaving for the rest of today, unless I say otherwise. Understood?”
Tim gave the supercomputer a long look. “But…I was really close…”
“If it would make you feel better, I will work on the Penguin case,” Bruce said, moving closer to Tim and tilting the boy's face back towards him. Tim's cheeks were flushed red, and sweat still glistened across his brow. He needed to be in bed, sequestered away from the other members of the house to avoid any unnecessary complications with what was hopefully going to be a smooth and simple recovery. They had a contingency plan in place in case Tim ever became sick - he just needed to stick to the plan.
Tim looked uncertain. “I… Well, I wasn’t… I mean…”
“Do you think there’s something here?”
“Yes.”
“Then I trust your instinct,” Bruce said plainly. “I’ll keep working, pick up where you left off."
“I will assist you,” Damian said, taking a step forward, but Bruce was already shaking his head.
“No. You’re the only one Dick refuses to snap at when he’s sick,” Bruce said. “You go make sure Tim, Dick, and Jason stay in their rooms and see if Alfred needs your assistance.”
Bruce expected his youngest to fight against his orders, but he did no such thing. “Understood.” Damian straightened like a soldier at attention. “I promise, I will not fail you a second time, Father. Come on, Drake.”
Damian turned on his heel and strode back towards the elevator without another word, leaving a stunned Tim and Bruce behind him.
Tim leaned over to Bruce. “You were expecting…”
“A different response? Yes. But I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.” Bruce nudged Tim forward. “Now go. Sleep.”
Tim made a face.
“You don’t have to spend time with him if you don’t leave your room,” Bruce pointed out.
“Or I could avoid him entirely and stay down here."
Bruce pushed him towards the elevator. “Get moving. I don’t want to see you until dinner, got it?”
“Yes sir,” Tim grumbled, but he obeyed the order and moved to join his waiting brother in the lift.
Bruce waited until the elevator doors shut before turning back to the computer and disabling the Blackout Protocol.
For the next few hours, he let himself drift, getting lost in his work. It was easy to push the problems of Wayne Manor out of his mind and dedicate his processing power to his work as the Dark Knight of Gotham. It was cathartic. It would consume him, if he wasn't careful.
He quickly realized that Tim’s anxiety regarding the Penguin’s plans was not unfounded. He had been keeping tabs on a weapons raid from Metropolis to see where those weapons turned up. It looked like whoever had stolen the weapons was planning to sell them to Penguin. Though Penguin was a familiar adversary, this deal had been a long time in the making, so there would be an impressive amount of security. He would need to begin planning immediately. Using Tim’s research and his own leads, he pieced together the time and place of a scheduled weapons handoff and worked from there.
Actually, it was fairly impressive, what Tim had managed to accomplish. He would have to remember to tell him.
Later. When the praise wouldn’t be turned around to be used as evidence as to why Tim should be allowed to keep working even when sick.
Thankfully, it seemed like Penguin’s handoff wasn’t scheduled for another week. The Batman would be able to handle fighting crime on his own until then, and by the time he would need the backup, the rest of his team would be ready for action once again.
He sat back and looked over the map of Gotham Harbor's port warehouses once more, backup plans already forming in his mind, but he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the elevator doors sliding open.
Damian stepped out. “Father, Pennyworth has requested that you take dinner in the manor tonight, so he can better manage the household.”
“They’re all still sick, I assume?” Bruce asked, turning off the computer and standing.
Ow. Maybe he shouldn’t have spent the day sitting in one place.
Damian nodded. “Yes, sir. Drake has attempted to escape four times, Grayson has yet to move from the couch, and Todd fell asleep in the shower earlier.”
Bruce hummed. “How did you and Pennyworth manage?”
“Adequately. Pennyworth tells me that you were, to use his words, ‘more than a handful’ when you were ill in your adolescence, and that he has had ample practice with 'caring for sick Wayne children'.”
“So not too much trouble?”
“No.”
“Small miracles,” Bruce said, almost to himself. Tim, Dick, and Jason were each difficult to take care of when they were sick, in different ways, but the worst part about a Wayne sick day was that the sick member of the family seemed to lose all sense of personality. It was as if someone had flipped a switch.
Sweet, cheerful Dick grew irritable and prickly.
The confident, hot-headed Jason became sluggish and sloppy.
Tim… Well, Tim was Tim. Overworked and slightly mischievous - just with a tendency to suddenly become dizzy or need an emergency visit to the hospital.
Still, three sick Waynes out of five wasn’t the worst-case-scenario.
“Achoo!” Damian sneezed - a high-pitched squeak, almost like a kitten. The sound echoed around the Batcave, and Damian curled in on himself, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Father. I have a second development to report. It seems that my immune system has been compromised as well- achoo!”
Make that four sick Waynes.
This was going to be nothing short of a nightmare.