#head cold

And right on cue, as if his body was out to prove otherwise, Ilya began to cough. He tucked his face into the duvet, curling forward and muffling the hoarse barks with the thick blanket. 

Smoothie abandoned on the counter, Shane went to sit next to Ilya.

“Hey,” he said softly. “That sounds pretty painful.”

“It will pass,” Ilya replied hoarsely as the coughs died down. He rubbed at his nose wearily. “I am fine, Shane.”

“I would feel better if you took something. You're not going to get any rest with a cough like that. There's some DayQuil tablets in the medicine cabinet and -”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted. “I said I'm fine. You can make me better without stupid whatever you call it orange gel pills.”

He flopped sideways into Shane's lap, nestling his head against Shane's thigh. Shane's fingers went automatically to Ilya's curls, tracing gentle circles against his scalp.

“If I got some cough syrup, would you take that?” Shane asked.

“No, I'm comfy. Don't move.”

“Ilya...”

Hehhh...ehh'TSGHHHT!

Shane flinched as the man in his lap sneezed damply against his thigh and then snorted back a thick sniffle.

“Ilya, we have practice early tomorrow and there's no way I'm sleeping in the same bed as you if you're keeping me awake coughing all night,” Shane said. 

Ilya turned his head and glared up at Shane from under the shelter of the duvet.

“You wouldn't.”

“Oh I absolutely would. I'll sleep in the guest room.”

Ilya cleared his throat with a cough, nuzzling his head against Shane's leg.

“Fine. I will drink your stupid syrup. Why is this country so obsessed with syrup?”

Shane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple.

“Good. I'm going to get a truly Canadian cough syrup. It'll be a cultural experience for you.” 

“Will you also get ice cream if you're going out?” Ilya asked.

“Ice cream is bad for you when you have a cold. Makes more mucus.”

“That is why I will drink syrup – so that I can have ice cream after,” Ilya retorted.

Shane rolled his eyes as he gently transferred Ilya's head from his thigh to a throw pillow. 

“I will get ice cream. Any other requests?”

“No. Come back quick.”

---

Shane returned with shopping bag in hand to find Ilya still bundled up on the couch, but now with the tissue box resting on his lap and several discarded tissues scattered around the coffee table and floor.

He deposited the bag on the kitchen counter and went into the powder room, grabbing the trash can and passing it over the back of the couch to Ilya.

“I swear, if you get me sick with your gross tissues all over the place, I will exact my revenge when you least expect it.”

“We share a bed, Hollander,” Ilya rasped. “Too late to worry about tissues. I will cough on your pillow.”

“Not after you drink this,” Shane replied, removing a small plastic bottle from the shopping bag. 

Ilya squinted at the label.

“Buckley's?”

“Uniquely Canadian, since 1919,” Shane said as he broke the seal on the bottle cap and dug in the kitchen drawer for a teaspoon. “You can mix it with honey, if you want.”

“I can just drink it,” Ilya said. “Can't be worse than Russian mix of vodka with garlic juice. Should've told you to just buy some garlic.”

Shane quirked an eyebrow but didn't say anything as he handed the spoonful of liquid to Ilya.

“I recommend you drink it like a shot,” he advised.

Ilya tipped the spoon into his mouth and swallowed. And then gagged.

“What the fuck is that, Hollander?” he choked out, his eyes starting to water. “Oh my god. Tastes like a rotten pine tree. But also spicy?”

He coughed harshly and reached for a tissue, spitting in to it.

“I hope you bought good ice cream. I will need it to forgot that taste.”

Shane laughed and leaned over, kissing the top of Ilya's head.

“They had an ad campaign for a while that said it tastes like a hockey puck.”

“No,” Ilya replied, still making faces from the taste. “Have tasted a puck. That stuff is worse.”

“But it works,” Shane said. “You already sound less stuffed up.”

“Shane. Focus. Ice cream, please.”

Shane took out the pint of ice cream and grabbed a spoon from the drawer, passing both to Ilya.

“Your reward.”

Ilya reached out and grabbed Shane's hand.

“You’re sick.” The voice from earlier pipes up again.   

“Yes, thank you detective. Where would I be without your amazing skills of deduction.” Jason grumbles into his arms. Letting out a breath he feels how his nose has blocked up again and lifts his head to blow it. He pulls a face as the tissue is no good to use anymore and looks around to where he could put it, finding the bin in the corner of the room too far away he places it on the table next to him instead to be dealt with later. “How does one person produce this much crap? Seriously it’s disgusting.”   

“You’re disgusting.”   

Huffing Jason turns to the person sitting beside him. “No one asked you, brat.”   

Over the top of his coffee mug, Tim scowls at him. “I was here first asshole. And stay away from me, I don’t want your germs.”   

“Shouldn't have lost ya spleen then should ya.”   

Tim throws up his free hand. “Like that was my choice!”   

Now feeling his head starting to pound Jason groans and rests his head back on his arms. “I hate everything.”   

“How long have you been sick?” Tim asks. Jason hears his chair move and then some cupboards opening and closing but he pays him no attention.   

“I woke up with it. Went to bed fine, maybe a bit sniffly, then woke up to a completely blocked, yet somehow runny nose and a head feeling like an atlas stone.” He groans again. “I hate this.”   

“So you’ve said.” Tim comments, his voice sounding closer, “here.”   

Jason manages to lift his head and finds a glass of water, pain killers, and some new tissues on the table in front of him. His brother sits back down in his chair but noticeably shuffles further away from Jason.   

Muttering his thanks, Jason takes the medicine and drinks half of the water before dropping his head down again. He really should go to bed, it’d be much more comfortable than the kitchen table, but it’s just so much effort to move.   

Just as he’s starting to relax another person enters the kitchen.   

“Good morning!” Dick’s energetic voice calls out.

As Tim mumbles his greeting Jason feels Dick step up to him. A gentle hand lands on his shoulder. “You okay Jaybird?”   

“He’s sick.” Tim immediately tattles on him, not that Jason would be able to hide how he’s feeling but still.   

Dick’s hand rubs his back soothingly. “Aw man, that sucks. I can see you’ve taken some medicine, hopefully that’ll kick in soon. Oh, hey Alfred! Jason’s sick, is there anything you can make him that may help him feel better?”   

As Dick was speaking Alfred had entered the kitchen.  

“Oh dear. Master Jason how are you feeling? Do you have any nausea?”  

Jason lifts his head so he can look at the older man. “I feel like shit Alfie. And no, no nausea at the moment, although I’m not feeling particularly hungry.”  

The man nods understandingly. “We’ll keep an eye on it. Perhaps I can make some soup, and you can have it as an early lunch in a few hours then?”   

Sighing Jason nods and drops his head back down. “Sounds good Alf, like usual you’re amazing.”   

"Why don’t you go back to bed Jaybird? You may as well rest.”  

Jason groans, not moving. “That’s too far. I can’t be bothered to move.”  

Those in the kitchen fall silent as they go about their tasks and Jason breathes heavily. His stupid blocked nose is making it impossible to breathe properly. Funny how you don’t appreciate normal breathing habits until you don't have them anymore. Hands landing on his shoulders startle him, however he doesn't have the energy to react to whoever it is. His head is still killing him and it’s making his body ache like he’s worked out for over six hours solid.  

“C’mon Jaybird, I'll help you up.”  

As he speaks Dick’s hands disappear from his shoulders only to reappear under his arms forcing him to sit up properly. While Jason doesn’t have the energy to fight him off, he also doesn’t have the energy to help make the job easier. Dick somehow manages to get Jason to his feet and throws one of his arms around his neck.  

“Timmy, can you help please?” Dick asks looking at their younger brother who hasn't moved an inch from his seat this whole time.  

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. You can deal with that on your own, I don't want to get sick. Speaking of which, I’m gonna go crash with Kon for the next few days to get away from mister disgusting there.”  

“So helpful Timmy,” Dick mutters as he maneuverers them out of the kitchen. It’s slow progress but eventually they get up the stairs and to the bedrooms after having to stop several times so Jason could sneeze and blow his nose.  

When they get to Jason’s bedroom door he puts a stop to Dick’s advancements. “That’s enough goldie, I can handle it from here.”  

Dick sends him a concerned glance. “Are you sure? You can barely stand up right.”  

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Jason snaps, he leans on his bedroom door and grabs the handle, “thanks for the help I’ll see you later.” Without further conversation he opens the door and lets himself inside and slams it shut. He winces as the bang vibrates through his skull causing the pounding to increase.  

For a moment he stands in his room staring at the bed but not actually seeing anything. His headache is still there as is his nose is blocked and overall he feels like shit. As well as the crappy feeling, there’s something else that doesn’t feel right. His bed looks oh so inviting but yet there’s something that doesn’t feel right about it. Jason hasn’t got a clue what it is.  

At some point his mind must have made a decision because the next thing Jason knows is that a blanket from his bed is wrapped around his shoulders and he’s stood outside of Bruce’s study. He blinks in disbelief and wonders if it’s too late to turn around. As he stands there nothing happens so he figures during his short amnesia moment he hadn’t knocked yet.  

Why the fuck has he chosen to come here of all places? He’s a grown ass man, he doesn’t need to go seeking out comfort from his adoptive father like a child. Not even Damian would do that. This is ridiculous!  

Maybe there’s something more wrong with him than just a cold? Because as he stands there, wrapped in his blanket, he can’t help but think of the couch he knows Bruce has in the study and the thought of lying on it while Bruce works really appeals to him. What was wrong with him?  

As he stares at the door, it suddenly opens and reveals Bruce on the other side. Jason blinks confused, he didn’t open it or knock so how did Bruce know he was there?  

“Jason. Is everything okay?” The man asks looking at him with a frown.  

No. Yes. Maybe. Jason has no idea what he’s doing. Before he could come up with an answer Bruce steps forward and presses a hand to his forehead. “You don’t look well, son. Are you sick? You don’t feel warm to touch.”  

A sneeze erupts from Jason before he could say anything. A second follows in quick concession. “I have a cold that’s all.” He tells the man, his voice coming out nasally as he sniffs through a blocked nose.  

Bruce pulls a face. “I can see that.”  

There’s a pregnant pause between them as they stare at one another. Bruce is clearly waiting for Jason for tell him what’s up but Jason’s mind is a grey fog. Nothing to see or make out, not a clear thought within reaching distance.  

 “Come here Jaylad.” Bruce says after a while, the silence between having long grown awkward.  

Jason shuffles into Bruce’s study and lets himself be guided to the couch he had earlier thought about. Without any prompting he lies down, tucks a cushion under his head and clings onto his blanket. When he tries to breathe through his nose, he’s quickly forced to breathe out through his mouth instead and he groans.  

“I hate this,” he grumbles, using the blanket to wipe his nose.  

Bruce chuckles and crouches in front of him and runs his fingers through his hair. “You’ve never coped well when you’ve had a cold. It’s always the end of the world with you. Run on a broken leg, insisting you go on missions after being badly wounded, but give you a cold then that’s it.”  

“Story of my life. I’m tired.”  

“Get some sleep then. I’ll wake you up in a few hours to take some more medicine. Alfred’s already informed me of your condition and how he’ll make you some soup for lunch.”