You were stubborn. Stubborn as a mule - Dick had noticed your growing sickness since the day he mentioned how rundown you seemed, how you had lost some of the colour in your cheeks. You had brushed it off as feeling tired, and he'd believed you. But that had swiftly become a glaringly obvious lie when your condition worsened. He had confronted you about it, but you brushed him off in a way that sort of ticked him off. There was no reason for you to work yourself to death, nor let an illness get even worse.

Dick pushed you back onto the bed by your shoulders, keeping you firmly pinned there as the fourth, deep sigh escaped his lips that night from your blatant stubbornness. You were so red in the cheeks now, and he suspected you had a fever with the way you were shaking with cold sweats. A deep furrow lined his brow.

"You aren't well," he repeated firmly once more, tucking you gently into the blankets and making sure you were comfortable. "You need rest. Don't make me strap you to the bed, alright? The quicker you take your medicine, the quicker you'll get better."

He ignored your protests, planting himself down on the edge of his bed where he began to rummage through the bag of supplies he'd bought from the drug store around the corner. He had panicked and grabbed everything he could, but started with some pills, water, and medicine for your chest. He eyed you wearily, concern stabbing at his gut. Dick cared about you too much to let you stay like this. He had a duty of care, and he would fulfill it.