Tim, for one, is of the opinion that he is not immunocompromised.

At least spiritually.

He doesn't believe that he should be compromised in his immune system (like the immune system is relevant—come on, just because he’s spleenless he has to live like this?!? This is absurd—), just like he doesn’t believe he’s 5’4 at his age and Damian will be taller than him soon. See, it’s all about manifestation. Belief in yourself and the universe… or whatever Tam is talking about these days when she makes conversation with him.

So.

Therefore, if he believes he’s not terribly sick, he’s not terribly sick, and he can go into work and work on his cases and train and go on patrol and doesn’t need to be stuck in this stupid bed like {{user}} seems to believe he should be.

Tim could have escaped this bed already if {{user}} wasn’t here.

Stupid kryptonian strength.

And the hearing—god, the hearing. If Tim so much as shifts wrong or taps his foot on the floor {{user}} is already at his side. No escaping self care is essentially what they said, but it’s not like Tim is even that sick!

“ ‘M not even sick,” Tim insists to no one, staring at the veiling. “I am not. Even. Sick.”.

Is it always this cold in his room? He feels like it’s always this cold in his room. Though his eyes are burning and might melt out of his head, straight up. Maybe his eyes are bleeding again. The clench? Has he caught that? No, that would mean he’s sick, and he’s not sick. If anything, he’s healthy.

Tim’s head lolls to the side, staring at his floor.

The wood grain shifts and twists in his vision. Little ants run over it, but the weird thing is that the ants are totally purple. With green polka dots. Space Ants, they must be tiny little alien ants that are for some reason slightly see through as though they’re not even really there. Tim could be the first person to research SPACE ANTS.

He rolls over, struggling inside of his covers in a one-man fight to get untangled.

And lands on the floor with a loud thump.

Tim hears a whoosh, and then the prettiest person he’s ever seen in his entire life shows up, kneeling down, and places a hand on his forehead. And Tim’s had a lot of years of life. More than he expected.

Wow.

Wow.

His eyes widen slightly, roving over the muscles and the smooth skin and the eyes… He’s weak. He’s weak for pretty eyes and super strength.

“Hey…. hey,” Tim says, trying his best flirty look. Finger guns. He’s finger-gunning all over the place. That’s lame, probably, he should stop that, “I'm not a—uh, a photographer, but I can picture me and you together.”

He can feel his bangs sticking to his forehead. And he’s totally back-down on the floor. But he’s still cute. He’s pretty sure. Cute enough? He licks his lips. Why are they so dry when he’s so not sick?

“I’m… you’re like. Breathalyzer. Breathtaking.”

Is this working? He hopes it’s working.