Chapter Text
Admittedly, it’s not the most honest thing Tim’s ever done.
It took nearly two full weeks of planning, but as soon as Gotham’s own WXYZ Radio announced its upcoming giveaway of three free tickets to the completely sold-out one day only showing of the off-Broadway cult classic—Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (The Musical)—Tim knew he had to do whatever it took to get those tickets for Jason. The guy had been so torn up over Tim’s whole birthday debacle last month, and the fact that the show was coming to Gotham the very same weekend as Jason’s latest revolution around the sun felt like a sign from the universe itself that this was meant to be.
In honor of the Nation’s Great Emancipator, the radio station declared that the tickets would be going to the sixteenth caller. And Tim?
Well, Tim wasn’t leaving that up to chance.
He’d hacked WXYZ’s phone lines and written a program to auto-dial the station from his own number the moment fifteen other calls had gone through, thus ensuring that he alone would be lucky number sixteen.
(And he’d only felt the tiniest bit bad about it.)
Any lingering moral qualms completely evaporated when he saw the look on Jason’s face upon opening Tim’s present and seeing the tickets. The dude was ecstatic. And really, who could possibly deserve this more than Robin, the guy who’s dedicated the last four years of his life to looking out for others and protecting their city from harm? Frankly, Tim thinks it’s about time Gotham threw him a bone.
Even with all of Bruce’s money and connections, they couldn’t get any additional tickets to the totally packed-out show, so it was quickly decided they’d make a boys’ night of it. After all, Dick had been almost as excited as Jason—the two of them are both major theater nerds—and while Tim isn’t nearly as into the whole musical scene as they are, he was pretty curious to see how a presidential rampage of the undead was going to translate into a couple dozen catchy song and dance numbers.
He felt a little bad that Alfred wouldn’t be able to attend, what with the butler’s former career as a thespian and all, but Alfred assured him that he didn’t mind.
“I think this is one for the youths,” he’d told Tim as he’d brushed a few muffin crumbs off the boy’s jacket collar. Alfred would fight him over tickets to Les Mis or Phantom any day, but for this, he was quite adamant that the boys should have their fun.
And by god was it fun. Pints of stage blood shot from the necks of each beheaded vamp, actors were sent flying through the air on aerial stunt harnesses, and Tim counted at least six separate fog machines to complete the ambiance. Lincoln himself was majestic; there was simply no other word for it. The stovepipe-hat-topped actor wielded his ax throughout each choreographed fight scene, belting out refrains from ‘Rail-Splitter, Brain-Splitter’ and ‘Only the Living Can Kill the Dead’ while congressmen line danced in the background. Tim had to stop himself from repeatedly glancing over at Jason to see how much his brother’s eyes were shining with glee.
Tim was so caught up in the show that he’d barely taken notice when Dick slipped out of his seat with only one song left before the finale. He’d mumbled something about being right back, receiving grunts of acknowledgement from Tim and Jason as they’d tucked their legs in to let him pass by, their eyes glued to the stage so as not to miss a single beheading.
It’s only now as the actors all troop out across the stage for their final bows that Tim realizes Dick never actually made it back.
He voices his concern to Jason, but apart from firing off a quick ‘u good bro?’ text to Dick’s phone, Jason doesn’t seem too bothered.
“He downed that whole cappuccino at intermission,” he reminds Tim with a shrug as the audience starts shouting for an encore. “Maybe the barista used real milk by mistake.”
(Tim grimaces. If Jason’s right, the last thing Dick will want right now is company.)
Besides, between the ridiculously drawn out process of curtain call (during which the ensemble finally gives in to the crowd’s demands and performs another round of ‘Honest Abe’), and Jason gushing to Tim about Lincoln’s absolutely iconic ax-gun (“Like I knew it was coming, obviously, but the second he cocked the handle, it was a total fucking game changer. Chills, man. I got chills…”), there’s plenty to keep them occupied while they kill time. It’s not until the house lights come up and the audience members begin to file out that Tim officially starts getting worried. The text hasn’t even changed to ‘read.’
“Should we look for him?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction of the restrooms.
Jason snorts. “Nose goes.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “You can’t do nose goes with only two people,” he complains—though he can’t say he’s any more eager than Jason is to find out exactly what brand of gastrointestinal distress has been keeping their eldest brother occupied for over half an hour now.
Jason chews his lower lip thoughtfully. “We could thumb wrestle?”
They settle on rock-paper-scissors. Jason loses (the dumbass always starts with rock), so he heads off to track down Dick while Tim stays at their seats flipping idly through the playbill.
A few minutes later Jason returns to the auditorium, and he’s frowning. “He’s not in the bathroom, and I don’t see him anywhere in the lobby.”
“Do you think he went out to the car?” Tim asks doubtfully. They’d had to park in a public garage a good two blocks from the theater.
Jason shakes his head. “No way. He wouldn’t just leave without telling us.”
They check outside anyway on the off chance that Dick might have just stepped out for some air. The first thing Tim notices is that the weather has changed dramatically since they arrived. The dark gray clouds that have been rolling in all afternoon have brought along a cold front; the temperature has dropped by at least twenty degrees. It’s not chilly by any means, but it’s a far cry from the sticky August heat they’ve grown accustomed to this summer.
There are plenty of people milling about, chattering about the show as they attempt to hail taxis and pass around at least three different forms of marijuana (apparently this particular show is most popular amongst a… certain demographic), but Dick isn’t anywhere among them.
Puzzled, they try calling his phone next. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Want me to track it?” Tim offers, only half joking.
Jason doesn’t so much as smirk. “Do it,” he says seriously. “This is weird as hell.”
It takes all of thirty seconds to track the signal, and then another few minutes for him and Jason to follow the blinking red dot on the screen back through the crowded lobby, around the back of the auditorium, all the way to a gray, industrial-looking set of double doors clearly marked ‘Maintenance Only.’ Neither of them pay the sign any mind as they duck inside.
And there, sitting on the floor of a dimly-lit hallway between a storage closet and one of those gigantic rideable floor polishing machines, is Dick Grayson. His knees are pulled up in front of him, elbows resting on top and palms pressing against his eyes.
He isn’t moving.
“Uh, Dick?” Jason asks cautiously, which causes the older boy to startle a bit. That’s not right, Tim thinks. Dick doesn’t startle. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dick says, quickly getting his feet under him and using the wall to push himself up to standing. He blinks a few times once he’s up, like he’s trying to clear his vision. “Sorry, yeah. I’m good.”
“You sure?” Jason asks skeptically. “‘Cus you kinda look like crap.”
Dick’s face is pale and he’s squinting despite the dim lighting. “Got a migraine,” he mumbles, digging the pad of his thumb against the inside corner of his right eye. “The cannons weren’t really helping…”
“Shit,” Jason breathes out, echoing Tim’s thoughts exactly. “Did you bring your meds?”
Dick hums in vague affirmation. “Took something at intermission. Still waiting for it to kick in.”
Jason blinks at him. “What the fuck, Dick,” he demands. “You’ve had a migraine since before intermission?”
“No, not—” Dick presses against his eye frustratedly. “It wasn’t bad the whole time. The pill was supposed to help, it just…”
He trails off, but Tim still gets the picture. Between all the smoke machines, flashing lights, and the cacophony of heavy artillery sound effects during the Civil War scenes, Dick’s decision to ditch before the last number is suddenly making a lot more sense.
“You still should’ve said something,” Jason adds in a grumble. “Then we could have left before everybody and their mother was trying to get out of this fricken’ theater…” He glances back over his shoulder down the hall; Tim can tell that he’s more worried than he is actually annoyed.
Dick concedes the point with a half-hearted shrug. Then he fishes his car keys out of his pocket and holds them out to Jason, looking a little sheepish. “Wanna drive?”
Jason takes the keys, but he doesn’t look happy about it.
In the short time since the show let out, the lobby has transformed into a sensory hellscape. They weave their way through groups of college students reminiscing about their own high school productions, stressed out patrons inching along the line for the restroom, vendors selling merch, and children running circles around the whole lot of them as they burn off three hours worth of pent-up energy. Dick’s moving slowly, his jaw set, squinting against the light.
“Just uh– hang on for a sec,” Dick murmurs as they pass by a large metal trash can near the concession area. The other boys stop walking while Dick leans his back against the wall, eyes shut. His adam’s apple bobs a few times as he swallows.
“Are you gonna be sick?” Tim whispers.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs.
Tim exchanges a nervous glance with Jason. “Maybe you should bring the car around?”
Jason’s expression is grim. “I can try, but I have no clue how long it’ll take. Traffic’s gonna be a nightmare and it’s all one-way streets back from the garage.”
It’s hard to know which would be worse: making Dick walk two blocks through downtown Gotham, half-blind from a migraine, or having him wait twenty plus minutes in a crowded theater trying not to puke in the lobby. It’s kind of a no-win situation here.
“Dick?” he asks quietly.
“...Hm?” Dick’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing carefully.
“What do you think?”
“About what.”
“Do you want to wait here for Jason to bring the car around, or do you want to walk to the parking garage?”
“Oh. I, uh…” Dick’s brow is furrowed, like it’s taking all his mental energy to compute the question. He swallows hard before he gets out a weak, “I can walk.”
They make it as far as the vestibule by the main entrance before Dick stumbles, seeming to trip over thin air. He shoots a hand out for balance, gripping Tim’s upper arm.
Tim flinches. Hard.
Dick releases him instantly, a look of guilt on his face. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no it’s fine,” Tim says quickly, silently cursing his stupid reflexes. After all, it’s not like his parents even used to hurt him when they’d pull him aside and hiss reproachful words in his ear. It’s ridiculous to still be this jumpy about it.
To prove it, he takes Dick’s hand and puts it back on his arm. “You can hold on if you want, I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Jason’s a few paces ahead, holding the door open for them. He shoots Dick a concerned look. “You’re dizzy?”
Dick hums, pressing the meaty part of his palm against his eye. “Kinda, yeah. I think it’s– uh. Leslie gave me something new.”
Jason’s eyes narrow. “What’d she give you?”
“Rizatriptan,” he mutters. “Don’t think I’m a fan.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t doing anything,” Tim points out as he helps him through the door.
“Yeah.” Dick exhales an empty, bitter laugh. “Nothing helpful, anyway…”
(Jason takes his other arm.)
Outside the wind is picking up, bringing the first droplets of what’s shaping up to be a summer storm. Lightning flashes in the distance, car horns blare, and gusts of wind send trash skittering through the streets like urban tumbleweeds. Dick moves stiffly, jaw tight and eyes squinting, stumbling occasionally over cracks in the uneven sidewalk as his brothers hurry him along.
They finally make it to the garage. There’s a short elevator ride up to the third floor (during which Dick swallows a few times and takes shallow breaths), and then at last they’re at the car. Jason takes the driver’s seat while Dick fumbles with the rear door handle.
“You don’t wanna sit up front?” Tim asks, figuring that if Dick’s nausea gets any worse, a window that can actually roll down might be helpful.
“Bright,” is all Dick says, and oh. Right. Headlights. Tim feels stupid. He helps Dick get himself buckled in before quickly climbing into the front.
As bad as the trek to the garage had been, navigating downtown Gotham during a storm is a whole new level of hell. It’s not long before the rain is coming down so hard that they can barely make out the taillights of the cars in front of them, let alone any street signs. Jason has to crank the windshield wipers to full speed, the rubber edge squeaking against the glass with every swipe.
“You need to get over a lane,” Tim directs, pointing across the dash with one hand as he stares down at the Gotham City traffic app he has pulled up on his phone. “You’re gonna wanna make a left on Van Buren.”
“You can’t make a left on Van Buren, it’s a one-way,” Jason argues.
Tim glances up, frowning. “No it’s not. You’re thinking of Vanderbilt.”
“I am thinking of Van Buren,” Jason grits out, his fingers tight around the wheel.
“Van Buren doesn’t turn into a one-way until it crosses 87th.”
“Tim, I’m telling you, it’s a fucking one—”
A silver Hyundai pulls out into traffic, cutting them off. Jason slams on the brakes, sending all three of them ramming against their seatbelts and Tim’s phone tumbling out of his hand, slipping down into the narrow gap between the center console and his seat.
Tim swears. Jason honks. Dick whimpers.
(They miss Van Buren.)
As Tim fishes his phone out, he glances back over his shoulder at Dick. The older boy is holding himself eerily still, posture straight and breathing shallow.
“Are you gonna throw up?” Tim asks him.
“I don’t know,” Dick mutters. His lips barely move.
Tim frowns. “Well, do we need to pull ov—”
“I don’t know.”
So Tim lets it drop. They’re entering a construction zone anyway; he’s not sure that Jason could pull over if he tried.
The longer they drive through the stop-and-go traffic, the more Tim has to bite his tongue to keep from offering up unsolicited advice. Thanks to last month’s rogue attacks, Gotham’s a mess of lane closures, construction projects, and traffic pattern rerouting. Jason’s doing his best, clearly, but Tim’s been navigating his way around this city since he was nine, and it’s killing him trying to keep from backseat driving.
“Are you taking Magnolia or Jefferson to the bridge?” he asks.
“Jefferson,” Jason replies without glancing at him.
“Magnolia’s faster,” Tim points out.
“Yeah, which is why everyone is going to be taking Magnolia,” Jason argues. “We’re taking Jefferson.”
“Not with the con—”
“We’re taking Jefferson,” Jason snaps, and Tim crosses his arms and sits back against the headrest with a huff.
Five minutes later, it’s clear that Jason’s miscalculated. The traffic along Jefferson is bumper to bumper as they inch their way towards the bridge. Tim might have been more tempted to say ‘I told you so’ if not for the look of absolute misery on Dick’s face and the way Jason keeps swearing under his breath.
The final blow comes in the form of a push notification from the GCPD’s twitter account. Tim opens the alert, and cold dread instantly pools in his stomach.
“The bridge is out,” he reads off the screen, in genuine disbelief.
“Huh?” Jason’s eyes are glued to the road, his turn signal click-click-clicking as he attempts to wedge himself into a gap between a truck and an SUV.
“Robert Kane Memorial Bridge is out,” Tim repeats, still staring at his phone. “There was some kind of accident. GCPD’s rerouting all traffic to Trigate instead.”
“Oh fuck no,” Jason hisses. “That is not happening.”
Tim huffs, his irritation from earlier back. “Yeah, well it is, so you’re gonna need to take—”
“No. No, that’s gonna add another fucking hour to this bullshit. It’s not happening. We’re not doing this.”
“Then what do you—”
But Jason has already thrown his blinker on. Without a single word of warning, he whips the car into a highly illegal U-turn, driving right over the grass median separating their lane from the oncoming one. Tim yelps, at least three cars blare their horns, and Dick groans miserably.
“What are you doing?” Tim demands. “We have to get to—”
“Shut up, Tim.”
It’s a command: tight and controlled. Tim turns to look at his brother only to find that it’s no longer Jason sitting in the driver’s seat—it’s Robin. And Robin is fucking concentrating.
Tim shuts up.
At first, he doesn’t have any idea what Jason is doing. He’s taking side streets, winding his way back through the city, getting farther and farther from the very river they need to cross in order to make it back to Bristol. It’s not until he sees a familiar intersection that it suddenly clicks.
“We’re going to Wayne Tower, aren’t we?”
Jason nods grimly, making a right onto Arnett. “We’re gonna hole up in the penthouse till either the bridge reopens or the storm passes.”
Tim’s never actually been inside the penthouse before, but he knows Bruce crashes there a couple times a month when his business (W.E. or otherwise) keeps him downtown overnight, and Bruce is anal enough that he no doubt keeps a substantial stockpile of first aid supplies inside. They can probably find at least something to lessen Dick’s misery while they wait for the weather to let up. It sure as hell beats sitting in traffic, anyway.
Jason has to enter his access codes three separate times—once for the underground parking garage, once for the private elevator up to the 78th floor, and then a retinal scan to enter the penthouse itself. As soon as the apartment door opens, Dick makes a beeline for the bathroom. He doesn’t even get the chance to shut the door behind him before he’s dropping to his knees in front of the toilet and bringing up the remains of the cappuccino.
Tim and Jason both stand awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of how to help.
“Does he normally get them this bad?” Tim whispers.
Jason shakes his head grimly. “Not this bad. He doesn’t usually puke or anything.”
“Do you think it’s the meds? Like a reaction?”
“No clue,” Jason says while Dick groans and slumps back against the tub. “Dick? What was that thing you said you took called?”
“I don’t know,” Dick murmurs. His eyes are closed.
Jason frowns at him. “Yes you do. You said it before. It started with an R. What was it called?”
“I don’t know.”
Tim can’t remember the name either—just that it didn’t sound much like the nasal spray stuff his mother always took. He pulls out his phone and starts looking up prescription migraine medications.
“Rizatriptan?” That sounds familiar.
“Yeah, that was it,” Jason confirms. “What are the side effects?”
“Uh..." Tim scrolls down. “It says, dry mouth, dizziness, fatigue, headache, blurred vision, nausea, vomiting—”
“So the side effects of migraine meds are fucking migraines?” Jason demands in an incredulous whisper. “Then how the hell do you know if it’s doing anything?”
Tim reads on. “Less common side effects include chest pain, hallucinations, heart palpitations, trouble breathing, and bloody diarrhea.” Closing the tab, he glances up. “But yeah, mostly migraines.”
“Great.” Jason heaves out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Fantastic. Who wouldn’t slap an FDA approval on that?”
Dick moans a little, pulling their attention back to him. He’s pale and sweaty, and there’s a grayish tinge to his skin. It makes Tim wince in sympathy.
“Do you want to try ice?” he offers. “Or like, heat?”
“I don’t know,” Dick mumbles automatically, like he hasn’t even processed the question.
“Do you want to lay down?” Jason asks.
“I don’t know.” Dick’s voice is small. He presses against his eye again. “I don’t fucking know.”
Tim feels utterly helpless. “Can’t we give him something else?” he asks, opening the medicine cabinet over the sink. “B’s got Vicodin here.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “That’s a narcotic. You can’t just go mixing that shit with other drugs. That’s how you OD.”
“You can mix some drugs,” Tim points out, opening a new search tab on his phone. “You just gotta know which ones.”
They spend the next few minutes googling medication interactions. The general consensus of the internet seems to be, definitely don’t mix rizatriptan with narcotics without medical supervision, but OTC stuff is pretty much fair game. They shake two Tylenol and two ibuprofen into Dick’s open palm and make him swallow them down with a few sips of water.
Not even five minutes later, Dick’s throwing the pills up again, and by the time the heaving tapers off, he’s actually whimpering.
“Dick.” Jason crouches down to eye level. His voice is low, but there’s an edge of desperation bleeding through. “How bad? Give me a number.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes you do. Think, Dick. Give me a number.”
Dick hesitates for a long moment before finally rasping out, “Nine.”
Jason stands up again. “Fuck this,” he mutters, more to himself than to Tim. “He got stabbed once and he called it ‘about a three-point-five.’”
“Well, he was probably in shock then,” Tim points out helpfully. “It doesn’t hurt super bad right after.”
That is evidently the wrong thing to say because Jason now looks like he’s about to be sick.
“Nope. Fuck this. Fuck all of this,” he declares adamantly.
And with that he grabs his phone and steps out into the hall.
Dick is no stranger to migraines.
He got them more often when he was younger, peaking at around twice a month during his teenage years, but apart from one memorable occasion when Alfred had to take him to the ER (as he’d also happened to whack his head on patrol two nights before and they were fifty-fifty on which event was causing his sudden spike in pain), they were never anything particularly severe. He was lucky enough that he could usually sleep them off after a few hours in a dark room with a bottle of water and a couple Excedrin.
As Dick got older, he figured out some of the things that trigger him—lack of sleep, dehydration, and eye strain, mainly—and started doing what he could to eliminate those. Other triggers (like drastic weather changes) were pretty much unavoidable, but by his late teens he’d managed to get his migraine days down to maybe once every other month, which was a remarkable improvement. He could usually even head those off before they got too bad, as long as he remembered to take painkillers early enough. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but it was certainly manageable.
Then, sometime this past year, Excedrin stopped working for him.
He’s had a few episodes since then, including his first ever multi-day migraine, which is what finally prompted him to go and see Leslie. She ran some tests to rule out other issues before eventually deciding that given the sheer quantity of NSAIDs and analgesics he’s taken throughout the years for various injuries, he’s probably just built up a tolerance.
She ended up prescribing him rizatriptan with instructions to take it at the first signs of a migraine coming on. Dick’s been carrying a single wrapped pill around in his wallet ever since.
Tonight was his first time actually trying the new medication out, and he’s gotta say: he’s not very impressed.
Somewhere beneath the migrainey haze, Dick’s aware of his brothers’ hushed conversation, but he can’t focus on the words long enough to give them any meaning. It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language—something similar to one he knows, but different enough that if he’s not focusing a hundred percent of his effort on understanding them, the words wash right over him. His vision is obscured by a fuzzy, pulsing blob, half of his face has gone numb, and he can taste blood from where he keeps biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep it together.
They give him water and painkillers, and he throws them up. They give him ginger ale and crackers, and he throws those up too. They turn the already dim lights out completely and argue in hushed voices about dosages and cold showers and caffeine, and Dick can’t follow any of it long enough to voice an opinion.
He’s never had a migraine like this before.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there in limbo, a white hot fire poker repeatedly stabbing his brain through his right eye, only that at some point there’s a third figure lurking in the doorway.
“—never seen him this bad before. He can’t even answer a freaking question. I don’t know if it’s the meds or what, but he was all off-balance and he’s puked like, four times, and—”
“It’s okay, Jay.” Bruce’s voice is quiet and steady, and Dick didn’t know how desperate he’d been to hear it until it was there. “I’m here now, I’ll handle it. Why don’t you and Tim head out to the living room?”
“He said it was a nine, B, he’s never—”
“I’ll handle it.”
If there are more words exchanged between the two of them, they’re too muffled for Dick to make them out. The next thing he registers is the door shutting softly, followed by a slight change in the room’s pressure as Bruce approaches. The only sound he makes is the ‘click’ of his knees as he crouches down to eye level.
“Hey chum,” he murmurs. “How’re we doing?”
We. Anytime Dick’s pain level is above a seven, it’s always ‘we.’ Like it’s hurting Bruce too.
“Bad,” is all Dick can manage. It comes out as a rasp.
Bruce hums a little. “I called Leslie on the drive over. She says we can’t mix medications, but we can try a second dose of rizatriptan since it’s been over two hours since your first.”
“It won’t help,” Dick whispers miserably. “It doesn’t work.”
“Sometimes with drugs like these, it just takes a second dose,” Bruce explains patiently. “Leslie thinks it’s worth a try, so we’re going to try, okay?”
Dick’s eyes sting. “I– I don’t– But what if—”
What if nothing works?
“We’re going to try, Dick,” he repeats, the words low and steady. “If it doesn’t help, then there are some other options we can explore, but we’re going to try this first. All you need to do is trust me.”
The calm decisiveness is such a stark contrast to Tim and Jason’s anxious questioning that it pulls a choked-off sob from Dick’s throat from pure relief. Bruce shushes him, and Dick can hear the tiny crinkle of foil as he pops a pill out of a blister pack.
“Small sips,” Bruce reminds him, pressing a cup of water into Dick’s hand to wash the second pill down. “Then we’re going to get you lying down.”
A low, vague whine of protest escapes Dick’s throat at the thought of moving, but Bruce is already taking his arms and levering him gently up to his feet. He keeps his eyes shut for the short walk to the bedroom, trusting his dad to keep him from bumping into anything.
“M’ so dizzy,” Dick complains as Bruce lowers him down onto the mattress. “Everything’s tilting.”
“I know, chum. It’s just the meds,” Bruce reassures. He sets a small trash can by the edge of the bed. “But it’s okay. We’re not going anywhere else.”
Bruce moves to the thermostat and lowers the temperature by a few degrees before helping Dick change into a pair of Bruce’s pajamas from the dresser. He slips out of the room and returns with two ice packs, one of which he slides under Dick’s neck and the other he makes him press against the throbbing spot by his eye.
“Is this helping?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” Dick whines.
“Hm.” Bruce straightens the blanket, pulling it up around Dick’s chin. “That’s alright. Just tell me if it’s making it worse.”
He circles the bed and climbs up onto the other side, sitting with his back to the headboard and Dick’s head pressed against his thigh. Gently, he runs his fingers through Dick’s hair—exactly like he used to whenever Dick got migraines as a teenager. Tears well up in Dick’s eyes, partly from pain and partly from the pang of nostalgia.
“Go to sleep, chum,” Bruce orders, more a rumble than a murmur.
“I can’t,” Dick grits out. Everything from his neck up is thrumming, even his teeth. “I can’t, B.”
“You can,” Bruce tells him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Just close your eyes.”
It takes the better part of an hour before Dick finally manages to drift off, only to wake again thirty minutes later to more of the same hell.
“What if it never stops,” Dick whispers as Bruce changes out the ice pack over his eye for a fresh one, in too much pain to even whine.
“It’ll stop,” Bruce promises, leaning down to plant a kiss on his aching forehead. “We just have to get through tonight first.”
Dick slips away again.
The next time Dick wakes, he’s disoriented, unsure of where he is or why he’s there. His head is spinning, he feels miserably sick, and he’s so overwhelmed he might have started crying if he wasn’t a thousand percent sure that it would wreak havoc on his head.
Bruce runs his hand up and down Dick’s back and promises him he’s exactly where he needs to be.
Dick lets the medication pull him under once more.
“Jason,” Dick gasps when he wakes for the third time to find the room still dark and Bruce still sitting next to him on the bed. “Where’s Jason, it’s his birthday, I was supposed to take him, I—”
“Shhh,” Bruce soothes. “Jason’s fine. He’s sleeping out in the living room with Tim.”
“Is he mad?” Dick’s voice is small, even to his own ears.
“No, he’s not mad. No one is mad. You just need to sleep, Dick.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because… I was supposed to take him,” Dick mumbles. “For his birthday.”
“You did take him,” Bruce reminds him, even though Dick’s pretty sure the few hazy memories he has of a theater and a car ride in the rain had all been a strange dream. “You took both of them to the show, but then you got a migraine, so Jason brought you here and called me.”
“He’s not mad?”
“He’s not mad. He’s worried, that’s all.”
“...He’s worried?” Dick rubs a hand over his face, trying to see past the blur. “Why’s he worried?”
“He’s just worried about you.”
“Oh.” Nothing’s making sense, but he gets the vague feeling that he’s being silly. “‘M sorry,” he murmurs. “I feel weird.”
“I know, chum. That’s why you need to sleep.”
He hums a little. Sleep sounds good, only—
“You’re sure he’s okay?”
It must have been the final straw for Bruce because instead of answering, he just lets out a quiet sigh. He’s vaguely aware of the mattress dipping and lifting as Bruce gets up and slips out of the room, leaving Dick surrounded by nothing but darkness.
Before Dick can really even process what’s just happened, Bruce is back again, and this time he has Jason in tow. The younger boy wastes no time climbing up onto the bed.
“...You okay?” Dick mumbles. He can’t explain why, but it feels important to ask.
“I’m peachy,” Jason promises as he lies down next to Dick. “Now go to sleep, ya big boob.”
So he does.
Jason’s known something was up with Dick ever since intermission.
He hadn’t wanted it to be true, so he’d told himself he was being paranoid. Sure, Dick was squinting a little more than usual, but maybe he’d just lost a contact lens. And yeah, Dick may have shelled out twelve entire dollars for a double shot cappuccino—the item with the single highest caffeine content of the concession stand’s pitiful selection—but a) the dude’s far less stingy with his finances than Jason is, and b) for all he knows, Dick just had a long night. Ducking out before the final number of what is objectively the pinnacle of musical theater had definitely been odd, but hey—if you gotta go, you gotta go.
Who’s Jason to judge?
He’d seen the signs, but he’d also seen what he wanted to see. And what he’d wanted to see was certainly not his older brother having a fucking migraine in the middle of a vampiric Civil War reenactment.
So he hadn’t. And that’s on him.
He’s lying flat on his back next to Dick, who keeps drifting in and out of a restless sleep as the medication he took does… god knows what. According to Tim—who’d spent the majority of the time since Bruce arrived sitting in the living room, anxiously scouring WebMD and Mayo Clinic articles—rizatriptan is widely considered a safe and effective abortive pain medication for over seventy percent of migraine sufferers. It’s just hard to tell at this point whether Dick’s just having a particularly bad episode, or if he’s in that lucky thirty.
It’s after two a.m. now. Tim had dropped off on the sofa sometime around midnight, the open laptop he’d commandeered from Bruce’s office still balanced on his stomach. Jason had taken the liberty of closing it for him.
He’d still been awake when Bruce slipped out of the bedroom to quietly inform him that Dick was asking about him, and he’s still awake now, staring up at the ceiling while he watches the steady rise and fall of Dick’s chest in his peripheral.
There’s a quiet buzzing sound to his left. Bruce checks his phone, careful to keep the screen tilted away from Dick.
“They reopened the bridge,” he says quietly. “You and Tim can take my car if you want to head home. I’ll stay with your brother.”
Jason lets out a quiet, breathy huff. “We’re not leaving, B.”
“Are you sure?” Bruce raises an eyebrow. “It’s not going to be a very fun night.”
“We’re staying,” Jason says firmly.
Bruce just hums.
Sometime around four, Tim wanders in with fresh ice packs and ends up crawling up onto the bed too. Dick’s awake by then, but he’s barely conscious and mumbling something incoherent about silver bullets. Bruce shushes him and changes out the ice packs while Jason wraps one arm around Tim, pulling him closer into his side.
By five, it seems Dick is finally out for good, so he and Tim migrate back into the living room. They claim adjacent sides of the massive sectional sofa and curl up under throw blankets.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Tim whispers.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Jason whispers back, much more certain than he feels. “He’s gonna be just fine.”
“That’s good,” Tim mumbles sleepily.
They both drift off to the steady hum of the air conditioner and the sounds of the city below.
When Tim opens his eyes the next morning, sunlight is streaming in through the penthouse’s massive floor to ceiling windows. Jason is conked out on the other end of the sofa, snoring lightly, Bruce is sitting at the table behind them dressed in a suit and tie and sipping coffee from a mug, and Tim can faintly hear the sounds of water running through the pipes.
“Good morning, Tim,” Bruce greets softly.
“Morning,” Tim whispers back. He sits up, tugging the loose woven throw blanket with him. “How’s Dick?”
“Much better,” Bruce says, and Tim immediately sighs with relief; it’d been awful to see his brother in that kind of pain. “The migraine’s gone. He’s just taking a shower now. He should be out any minute.”
“Good,” Tim says, then, frowning, “What’s with the suit?”
“I need to run down to the office for a bit,” Bruce explains, glancing down at his watch. “I’ve got a shareholders’ meeting at 9:00.”
“What time is it now?”
“9:07.”
Tim snorts lightly. “Majority shareholder perks?”
“Majority shareholder perks,” Bruce confirms with a nod, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. He stands and moves over to plant a quick kiss on Tim’s forehead. “I left my Mastercard on the table. When Jason wakes up, tell him to order some breakfast for all of you.”
“‘M awake,” Jason mumbles sleepily into the sofa pillow, and Bruce chuckles lightly. He steps around Tim to plant a kiss on Jason’s forehead too.
“Ugh, get off,” Jason complains. “You have coffee breath.”
Bruce pops a mint from his breast pocket. “Get Dick something with protein,” he instructs. “You can all stay here as long as you like. Take care of each other, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah…” Jason flaps a hand dismissively. “We always do.”