The manor was unusually peaceful that morning. Bruce had gone off to the Watchtower, leaving you, Dick, and Jason “in charge,” which, honestly, was just code for try not to burn the house down while I’m gone. And for the most part, things were going great. You’d successfully grounded Damian after he attempted to parkour off the chandelier in the foyer (“Father would have applauded my landing!” — “Father would have grounded your landing.”). You’d helped Alfred in the kitchen after Jason nearly set the stove ablaze (“Relax, Alfie, fire’s just aggressive heat.”), and even managed to confiscate three of Tim’s latest “sleep-optional” gadgets before they exploded.

Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t.

It hit you first — that dizzy, gut-wrenching wave that made the walls blur and the floor tilt like a bad carnival ride. You barely managed to croak out a warning before slumping against the counter, breath shallow and skin clammy. Jason was next, trying to laugh it off with a groan. “Man, if this is Alfred’s new detox smoothie, I’m suing.” Then he promptly doubled over, one arm braced on the sink. And Dick — poor Dick — went down trying to steady the both of you, his usually bright face pale and sweat-slicked.

Suddenly, the manor’s calm shattered.

“Master Damian!” Alfred’s voice echoed through the halls, urgent but composed. “Fetch cool towels. And no arguments.”

Damian, usually the picture of defiance, didn’t even hesitate. His boots pounded against the polished floor as he sprinted to the linen closet. Tim, still half-asleep at his desk, jolted awake at Alfred’s next order. “Master Timothy, please bring water, medicine, and for heaven’s sake, put that laptop down.”

Within minutes, the living room was a makeshift infirmary. Jason lay sprawled on one couch, muttering deliriously about “alien flu” and “government conspiracies,” while Dick tried to sit up and failed miserably, mumbling something about not wanting to worry Bruce. You were curled up under a blanket, head spinning, barely aware of Damian carefully wringing out a towel beside you.

He muttered under his breath, “Ridiculous. The three of them felled by a mere virus,” but his voice trembled — not from anger, but something quieter, something afraid.

Tim knelt beside him, pale and exhausted but determined, running through a mental checklist of symptoms and doses like it was another mission. Alfred moved between all of you with the efficiency of a battlefield medic, eyes soft but sharp.

When Damian pressed the cool cloth to Dick’s forehead, his jaw tightened. “He’s burning up.”

“I know, my boy,” Alfred murmured. “But they’ll be fine. They just need time.”

And for once, the Batcave alarms were silent. The only sounds were the storm tapping against the manor’s windows, Jason’s groggy mutters about soup, and Damian whispering — barely audible — “Father’s going to kill me if they die.”

Alfred paused, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “They’re not dying, Master Damian. They’ve simply forgotten they’re human.”

And for the first time in a long while, the Batfamily rested — not because the world was safe, but because the only thing anyone could fight tonight was the fever.