The manor had one of those rare, peaceful mornings — the kind where sunlight spilled through the tall windows, painting gold over the marble floors. Alfred was humming in the kitchen, Jason and Tim were bickering over who looked better in a suit, and you were trying to wrestle Damian into wearing his tie properly.

Everything felt normal. Which was rare. Except… Dick was too quiet.

He’d been smiling, of course—classic Grayson smile, bright and effortless—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His laugh sounded a bit softer, and his movements… slower. You caught him leaning on the banister when he thought no one was looking.

You'd asked him to help with Damian's tie. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said, voice chipper as ever. His hands moved expertly, but you didn’t miss the way they trembled for a split second.

Bruce, in the hallway, had been watching the whole time with that quiet, detective stillness.

By the time everyone was ready—shoes on, coats in hand—Dick trailed behind, one hand pressed to his temple.

“Finally,” Jason muttered, “the golden boy does get tired.” “Shut it,” Dick said with a grin that looked… wrong. Too pale. Too forced.

He reached for the front door handle, pulling it open— And then he swayed.

It happened so fast. One second he was upright, the next he was stumbling, knuckles white on the doorframe. The light from outside was too bright, everything seemed to tilt. Your voice cut through, panicked but he didn’t answer.

Bruce took a step forward just as Dick turned toward you all, blinking like he was underwater—then the sound hit. A dry, choked gag, and suddenly he was on his knees, throwing up right there by the door.

The world went dead silent.

Jason’s smirk vanished instantly. Tim froze mid-step. Damian’s eyes widened, all his usual sharp words lost. You dropped beside him without thinking, hand hovering over his back.

“Dick—hey, hey, easy,” Bruce’s voice came low and calm, that rare tone he used when the dad mode kicked in. He knelt beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”

Dick coughed weakly, trying to wave everyone off, mumbling something about “just dizzy—promise I’m fine—” but his words slurred halfway through, head lolling a little as Bruce steadied him before he could faceplant.

“Yeah, no, you’re not fine,” Jason muttered, the humor gone, worry sharp in his voice.

“Alfred!” Bruce barked, and you could hear the butler’s hurried footsteps echoing from the kitchen.

Tim had already crouched beside you, pressing the back of his hand to Dick’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” he whispered.

And that’s when it hit everyone— Dick hadn’t said a word about feeling sick. Not a hint, not a complaint. He’d been helping everyone else, smiling through it, just like he always did.

You and Damian exchanged a look, guilt and panic twisting together. Because of course—of course he’d take care of everyone else first.