He wasn't burning hot at least, but there was a little warmth. It was depressing. He rarely had to deal with illness. He wasn't entirely sure how except to sit and keep his eyes closed. When she offered him tea he looked up at her with a strained frown that looked more childish then anything. Substance didn't seem like the best idea, His stomach was queasy. He took the cup though with out argument. Dick for once didn't have the energy to complain or be stubborn. Carefully and slowly he sipped at it. His hand was having difficulty holding onto the cup. After a few sips he put it down and rested his forehead on the back of the chair heavily. His eyes were barely open, but it was comforting to have Babs there. Her hand on his arm made him look up curiously. "No dinner or movie first?" He asked her with a lopsided smirk, attempting to be his cocky self.
He wished Alfred was there, the man had always been kinda like his father, more so then Bruce ever had anyway. When Alfred was near by he knew things weren't all bad. In this city sometimes he lost sight of that. In the middle of his sick delusions he had again. Everything was so overwhelming. Jason blamed him for his death, the apocalypse was breathing down their necks, and Clark still didn't believe a man could fly. He had too much on his plate. That was just the way he worked best though. Under pressure. This time unfortunately the pressure overpowered him in the end.
"When was the last time we were alone like this? " He couldn't help but think aloud. His brain wasn't separating things like it normally did of appropriate and inappropriate. It was in a fog.