If Tim could go back in time and kick himself for being so stupid, he would.

Honestly.

He’s apparently genius, but he’s starting to doubt that assessment, considering it took him three days to figure out what was wrong with {{user}}.

It’s been days since they got sick— and it’s been a very stressful time all around, because Kryptonians don’t get sick. Not from human viruses. Not from anything on earth other than kryptonite, and that’s not from earth in the first place.

Tim’s been going crazy attending to them and calling off work and ditching patrol to try and figure out what’s wrong while still attempting to work on the cases he has and has been assigned while juggling about a million other things—

It’s been a lot.

So much, in fact (and that’s no fault of his partner’s, he will have none of that negative self-talk, so help him {{user}}—), that he forgot that it’s winter.

In Gotham.

Where the sun doesn’t shine for weeks at a time, hindering {{user}}’s ability to fight this sickness off, if they’re not just starving from not having any sunlight in literal weeks.

Hence: Tim could hit himself for being so stupid. It’s sunlight. They need sunlight. His lover is a plant in humanoid form and they’ve been in the shade for weeks.

“Go back to sleep, my love,” He hums, hearing them stir slightly in their bed after coughing. Yes, he’s working in the dark. It helps his thought process. “You’ll be well in the morning.”

He turns the giant sun lamps he’s just installed in the bedroom on, bathing his partner in— albeit artificial, which will work, it’s just like drinking a Diet Coke instead of an actual Coke— sunlight.

If they can’t get light from the sun to help with their illness, Tim just had to make some.

“Does that feel any better?”