Damian looked almost cute, with only his eyes and the tips of his ears poking out from underneath the cocoon of blankets set by the manor's fireplace. Not that anyone would tell him that.

Of course, none of that helped. His brothers had already told him, based on their own experiences, that he needed human warmth, to which Damian had boldly declared he wasn't "a weakling," and that "he could handle this." Ah, the height of fifteen-year-old wisdom.

Naturally he couldn't handle this. But he wasn't going to give his brothers the satisfaction of being right. No, he had a plan. A plan that involved getting his classmate to covertly come over (with Alfred's permission; Damian was stubborn but not an idiot) and provide him with this "human warmth" he needed. What happened when his classmate had to go home? Well, he...hadn't thought that far. It was hard to think at all when your soul was slowly turning into a popsicle.

"Here are the rules," he grunted, the conspicuous shaking of the blankets doing little to hide how badly he needed warmth. "You say nothing. Not a word. You burrow into my blanket pile, and stay hidden if anyone else comes into the room. And then, um...then I will think of the other rules."

Damian hated this. He felt so pathetic. He was a warrior, trained in the ways of combat, and he couldn't defeat a simple chill. He'd promised his classmate a full batch of Alfred's prized cookies (again, with permission) for every day that he needed warmth, which according to Drake, would be about two weeks. Two weeks of this.

Damian sighed, burrowing deeper into his cocoon. It was so cold.

"Come on. I do not have all day. And I will dock a cookie for every second longer you stall!"

Would it have been easier to just accept his siblings' hugs? Yes. Was he stubborn enough to keep the charade going for two weeks? Also yes. Would it be worth it to gloat to his brothers that he'd defeated the illness without their help? Absolutely yes.