Dick's high fever results in a strange mission.

. . .

Dick knew something was wrong with him as he stumbled around in the dark of his apartment but he just didn't know how to fix it. The young vigilante could feel every muscle trembling, the dry heat of his body, the unnatural chill aggravating his skin and deep within his bones, a mechanical buzzing assaulting his ears. This wasn't the way he usually felt but what was wrong with him? Suddenly, like a bolt of mythical lightning from the gods, the solution was made clear. Timmy! If he was able to find his little brother's turtle everything would be fine. Pleased with his new revelation, the former Boy Wonder scrambled to locate his computer, working through the wet, heaving cough that tore his chest into pieces.

He worked on his project for hours until the morning sun shone through filtered plastic slats that cast prison bars across his floor. Sleep pulled at his eyes and hands but still he persisted. The buzzing did too. In fits and starts like some dying robotic animal. If he could find the amphibian he would feel better. He knew it. That turtle was the key. A sharp knocking managed to pierce through his determined haze and he started slightly, casting his eyes about in confusion. Knocking? What did that mean? As the sound continued, growing in volume, the thoughts began to sink in. Knocking. Someone was here in the Cave.

'No,' he amended as he pulled himself to his feet. 'This isn't the Cave.' The notion confused him. It was cold like the Cave bit it clearly wasn't the Cave. If he wasn't in the Batcave then where was he? Questions were pushed aside as he realised he had made it to the door. As if moving through water, the young man reached out his hand and, undoing the lock, turned the brass handle. Tim all but fell through the doorway.

    "Timmy!" exclaimed Dick as he enveloped the child in a floppy hug. "Timmy, it's so good to see you. Have you found him yet? I'm so sorry. I've been trying really, really hard but I just can't seem to find him. I know he means so much to you so don't worry. We can do it!" Pressed against his older brother's chest, Tim wore a muddled and anxious expression.

    "What?" he managed to squeak through his surprise, blushing a little at his voice crack. "Dick, who on Earth are you talking about? And what have you been doing? Babs spent all night trying to get a hold of you." The older vigilante pushed his visitor out to arms length and stared incredulously.

    "I've been searching for Harry Potter, of course Timmy." He was met with a blank look. Hauling the boy inside by one elbow, Dick led him to the computer.

    "See! I really have been trying," he informed, sweeping his arm across the room. Tim observed the room with a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. Covering every wall of the little study were various pictures of turtles all circling around the largest printout; a blown up version of a photograph Dick had taken on Tim's birthday one year with him and his new present, usually kept on the fridge. The facts aligned.

    "Dick," he prodded softly, mildly nervous as to the reaction the news might receive in his brother's clearly delusional state. "That turtle, Harry Potter, he's ... well, he's been dead for nearly two years." The older boy whirled around eyes wide, mouth falling open in shock and despair.

    "No. No way," came the muttered reply. "Gosh, two years. Incredible. It was Two Face, wasn't it? Or did Penguin strap him to a bomb? Oh Timmy. I'm so sorry." Without warning, Dick broke down into tearful sobs and crumpled to the floor. The boy stared at his big brother in shock. Had he been dosed with some kind of weird fear toxin? What was going on?

The mechanical sound of a phone vibrating on silent drew his attention to the paper waste basket. A second of fishing revealed his brother's phone and a call from Barbara. Naturally, he answered.

    "Barbara? It's Tim." He was met with a sound of relief.

    "You managed to get in? Perfect," the girl fired. "Is Dick there? He okay, isn't he? Do you need me to call an ambulance?" Tim spared a glance at the still weeping boy, crumpled on the floor.

    "Yeah, he had enough sense to unlock the door," the boy informed her, "but he's a little bit of a mess." He explained Dick's strange actions and current state. "I'm going to bring him back to Gotham. Maybe Alfred will be able to set him straight." Barbara agreed and the pair hung up. Tim immediately set about consoling the older boy, convincing him to come down into the car with him. On unsteady, robotic feet, he complied, seemingly unable to think for himself. Five minutes into their drive, Dick had collapsed into a fitful doze.

Upon arrival at the manor, Alfred was not pleased with his less than stellar state. Dick was settled in his own room and carefully examined.

    "The boy has accumulated a raging fever, Master Bruce," the butler summarised, "to the point at which he is delusional and strong signs of dehydration and malnutrition. He does not, however, have any wounds worse than the occasional papercut." A damp cloth was lain across the burning forehead.

    "So the fever?" Bruce prompted. The bedroom was dully lit in a muted yellow. The man smoothed a few stray strands of his eldest's dark, unwashed hair. More than a week without a wash, he guessed.

    "Is not born of infection, of which we can be exceptionally glad. Instead, we must now determine what it is that has brought young Master Dick into such a poor state of health."

    "Overworked?"

    "This is a likely possibility given the young man's tendencies." A frown.

    "It seems a little severe."

    "He has most likely been declining at an exponential rate as his fever reduced his ability for selfcare, a department in which he is already sorely lacking." A raised eyebrow caused Bruce to blush slightly and avert his gaze. "We can discuss this elsewhere," continued the butler. "Master Timothy has offered his services in looking after his brother today." The billionaire noticed the boy hovering in the doorway. "Shall we leave him to it then?"

. . .

1067 words. 

I'd love to know what you thought of this one. This is mildly based on one of my experiences with a high fever where I attempted to defeat the Romans in order to feel better. That was a weird night. What did you think of my use of repetitive though around the Batcave? Did it show Dick's unsteady state of mind? His confusion and so forth? Or was it just annoying? I personally like it but I'm writing for your entertainment as well. So please tell me what you thought. Also, if you think of better chapter titles; have at me. XD

Until we meet again.

~SpanishFox