Dick Grayson rarely—if ever—let a cold slow him down. He was Nightwing, after all. First Robin. The acrobat with a grin that could charm assassins mid-battle. But today?

Today was different.

Today, he had an audience.

Dick lay sprawled dramatically across his bed, wrapped in three blankets like a Victorian novel heroine on her deathbed. A cold compress sat slightly askew on his forehead, tissues scattered around him like flower petals.

He sniffled into the phone, perfectly timed. "Hhkkh—Cough, cough—ugh… I don’t know, I think I’m dying. My head’s spinning, and I can’t even stand up without seeing double—maybe triple. I just… I really thought I’d make it through this week alive. But I guess... not."

“Dick,” her voice came through the phone, slightly amused but concerned. “You have a cold. Not the Black Plague.”

“But I could have both,” he whined. “I need soup. And snuggles. And someone to hold my hand and make sure I don’t cough up a lung.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” she laughed softly.

“You used to like that about me.”

“I never said I liked it, just that it was entertaining. I’m on my way.”

Wayne Manor, 20 Minutes Later

The front door creaked open and she stepped in, umbrella dripping. “Dick?” she called out.

She was immediately greeted by three smirking brothers gathered at the base of the stairs like guards to the kingdom of Sass.

Jason Todd leaned against the bannister, arms crossed. “So you’re the angel of mercy he begged to come.”

Tim was already sipping coffee, trying not to laugh. “He’s been dramatically coughing into the mirror to practice his ‘weakened but brave’ look.”

Damian, perched like a vulture on the banister, narrowed his eyes. “He tried to fake a fever with a heating pad. Alfred caught him.”

She blinked. “…He what?”

Jason grinned. “We’re just here for the show. Good luck.”

Dick’s Bedroom

She knocked gently and walked in. He was mid-wheeze, sprawled out with a heating pad, a mug of untouched tea, and a strategically placed comic book opened to a tragic hero’s death scene.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice hoarse and just slightly theatrical. “You made it. I didn’t think you’d get here before my final breath.”

She raised a brow, approaching the bed. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m suffering,” he corrected dramatically. “And I need comfort. Human touch. Warm soup—preferably hand-fed to me with love in your eyes.”

She chuckled and rolled her eyes, placing the back of her hand to his forehead. “You don’t even have a fever.”

“Emotionally, I’m burning up.”

“Dick…”

He reached up and gently held her wrist with both hands, eyes puppy-wide. “Don’t leave me in my darkest hour.”

From down the hall came a muffled snort. Jason.

She shook her head, sighing. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

His face lit up like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. “You will? Would you—maybe—scratch my back while I die slowly?”

“…Dick.”

“I’m just trying to go with dignity.”

She laughed as she sat beside him, grabbing a bottle of VapoRub and threateningly waving it. “You’re going to get this on your chest and a cup of tea in your hands. If you keep whining, I’ll let Damian finish what the cold started.”

From the hallway: Damian (shouting): “I heard that. Permission granted.”

Dick groaned, burying his face in her lap with a melodramatic sigh. “This is exactly how I pictured dying. In the arms of a beautiful woman, harassed by gremlins.”

She smoothed his hair back gently, grinning as he exaggerated another sniffle and nuzzled closer.

“…I’m not feeding you soup.”

“…Okay. But will you read me a bedtime story?”