Tim Drake rarely let being sick slow him down. Fever? Push through it. Headache? That’s what caffeine was for. He’d worked through the flu, cracked ribs, and even strep throat—because Gotham never slept, and neither did he.

But now?

Now, he had a crush. And suddenly, being sick was the most tragic thing in the world.

Tim had his phone pressed dramatically to his ear, coughing like he was auditioning for a Victorian-era consumption patient.

“Cough—hack—cough …I don’t think I can—make it… through the day,” he rasped. “I’m all alone… no one cares if I live or die…” He let his voice trail off pathetically, clutching his blanket tighter.

“Tim, I’m coming over!” his crush’s panicked voice answered, worry thick in their tone.

Tim’s lips curved into a smug, feverish little smile. Perfect.

In the kitchen, Dick, Jason, and Damian were already watching this unfold like it was a sitcom.

“Is he seriously calling his school crush over because he has the sniffles?” Jason asked, arms crossed, clearly amused.

“Correction,” Dick said, grinning as he leaned against the counter, “he’s faking half those coughs. I’ve seen him do all-nighters with pneumonia and still hack into the Pentagon. Now he suddenly can’t function?”

Damian snorted. “Pathetic. If Drake were dying, he would simply keel over at his desk, not… beg for affection.”

Jason chuckled. “Kid’s learning how to milk it. Can’t even be mad.”

Minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Tim’s crush rushed inside, still in their school uniform, holding a tote bag stuffed with snacks and medicine. “Tim! Are you okay?”

Tim perked up instantly, pulling the blanket tighter around him, arranging himself in the most pitiful way possible before they rounded the corner. He coughed weakly, voice raspy and soft.

“I’m—surviving,” he whispered, eyes big and glassy. “But it’s… so hard. The fever. The chills. No one understands…”

His crush gasped and hurried to his side, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Oh my god, you’re burning up!”

Tim let his head fall dramatically into their lap. “Only you can save me…” he mumbled.

From the kitchen doorway, Jason actually choked on his laughter, while Dick tried—and failed—to keep a straight face. Even Damian’s lips twitched, fighting a smirk.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jason muttered.

Dick whispered back, “I’m proud of him. He’s finally being a normal seventeen-year-old.”

Damian crossed his arms. “Normal? He looks like a dying sea cow.”

Back on the couch, Tim made a pained little groan, basking in the attention as his crush stroked his hair. “Don’t leave me,” he said softly. “Not when I’m so weak…”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jason muttered—but the brothers didn’t move to interfere. Watching Tim practically beg to be pampered was far too entertaining.

And for once, Tim wasn’t running himself into the ground. He was letting himself be cared for—pathetically, shamelessly, and maybe even happily.