Work Text:
Damian’s temperature is 99.6.
He stares at the thermometer in his brother’s hand, dumbfounded. One degree. One measly degree above normal cannot possibly account for the utter misery he feels. His sinuses ache, his ears feel clogged, his throat screams at him with every swallow, and he’d nearly nodded off at the dinner table. Despite wearing a turtleneck, sweater, and hoodie, he can’t seem to stop shivering.
“Probably just a cold,” Richard diagnoses cheerfully, as if Damian should be grateful for this nonsense. Give him a proper infection any day—let him die with some dignity.
99.6.
Pathetic.
