An askfic for Cr1mson5thestranger on Tumblr

Tim hated being sick, it wasn't just the perpetual tiredness and the sickening dishonest that consumed him every time he stood up, it was the fact that he couldn't get any work done. How was he supposed to be of help to anyone if he couldn't work. It had been getting better; he had been able to stand up, to make some proper food, to get a couple of reports written.

He almost felt well enough to go out on patrol again. Almost. But then he couldn't. He couldn't move, he found it hard to breathe, his lungs felt as though they were on fire, everything was spinning. But he really had to eat; he had tried not doing that once... the stomach pains had been enough to put him off it again, let alone the lecture he got from Alfred.

Tim doesn't think he'll make it to the kitchen.

He would be quick, in get the file, and out. Not because he particularly wanted to be quick, but because Tim didn't need him barging in on him completely unannounced and ruining his day. Tim was his own man now, he didn't need him anymore. Not that Tim really ever needed him in the first place; which was why he panics when he finds Tim passed out in the doorway to his bedroom.

Tim was the responsible one, why, when he had been feeling ill, he didn't come home to get himself checked out, Bruce didn't know.

He had no spleen for goodness sake, his body can't fight off infection as well as it used to, especially one of Poison Ivy's concoctions, and now he's lying as white as the multiple sheets he's wrapped in hooked up to an IV in the cave as medicine is injected into his system.

Bruce couldn't do it, he couldn't keep his ill, frail, young son in the cave. It was far too cold and drafty for Tim, he would get worse... They had only just got him breathing on his own again, he couldn't see what would happen if Tim caught something else... they'd lose him. He as just got back, because of Tim, he couldn't lose him; so he scooped him up into his arms and carried him upstairs. Pausing briefly at Tim's door before heading to his own and lying his son on the bed.

He had to be there, to make sure Tim was there in the morning.

Tim was dreaming... He had to be dreaming; because he was sick and he could smell Bruce. It surrounded him, filled his nostrils, his lungs, his entire being. It was nice. More than nice it was safe and warm and love... It was something he hadn't experienced in a long time, so he had to be dreaming. Especially as he felt the safe strong callused hand gently stroke his hair, caress his cheek, and cup his head softly. Especially as he heard the rough, gentle voice lull him to sleep.

He had to be dreaming.

Which was why, when he woke up in the morning, in the familiar soft silky bed he thought he was still asleep. But the sweet pain of the bright sunlight hitting his eyes told him differently. Squinting he could just make out Bruce watching him from the other side of the bed, still dressed concern filling his eyes;

"Hey" his voice, barely a whisper, was rough and croaky.

"Tim, please, promise me something. Never do that again, ever." It was a beg more than an order "We almost lost you. I... I can't lose you, so just please" Tim could just make out the small glisten of tear filled eyes before he was enveloped completely in a hug.