Prompt: Rogue Organ

I didn't want to do appendix, I couldn't get a pacemaker to work out and I surprisingly couldn't find much information on gallbladder stuff so here's another old faithful

Dick was no stranger to tonsilitis. He'd been plagued with it since he was a little kid and multiple doctors had told him they needed to be removed with how frequently he was getting sick. His parents did intend on getting him in for surgery but with how often the circus moved from place to place, how much money they made and how much it would cost, they never got the time. Then they died and he lived with Bruce. He could play off the first dealing of tonsilitis with him as an illness brought on by stress. At the time, Bruce didn't have access to any of his medical documents prior so he didn't know this wasn't the first time. 

When Bruce did catch on to this being a commonplace, he said that if it happened again then surgery would be back on the table. Unlike his parents, Bruce had all the money and time in the world to make it happen so Dick was sure that he would be halfway to hospital the moment he got a sore throat.

The thing is, he didn't want to get them removed. He knew it would help in the future and he wouldn't have to suffer through every meal for a week a couple of times a year but he couldn't bring himself to want it. He hated hospitals. He hated doctors. He hated the thought of someone digging around his mouth and waking up missing a piece of himself that he wouldn't have noticed otherwise. He knew tonsils were useless but that didn't make surgery any more appealing. 

Not only that but he had Robin now and the team. He trusted them as far as he could throw them to handle missions without causing a million dollars in damages. He'd seen Bruce's finances and cringed when he noticed a good chunk went to the team purely to pay for the explosions they frequently caused. They didn't exactly have smooth missions whenever Robin was around but it was certainly less damage. That and he didn't want them to worry. For the half that weren't well informed on humans would think he was dying and those who were would inevitably ask him what it really was because the great Robin wouldn't be defeated by his own tonsils. 

At the beginning of the week, Dick knew he was getting sick but willed himself to believe it wasn't tonsillitis. He'd done the rodeo enough times to know there was a certain sore throat that came with tonsilitis that didn't come from a common cold or cough. There was also no common illness he knew of that caused the familiar white speckling on his tonsils. Still, he told himself it wasn't tonsilitis. Although he could convince himself well enough, he knew he couldn't convince Bruce as easily. He could only mention his throat feeling a little rough and he'd be packed in a car on the way to see Leslie who definitely wouldn't be convinced with the lying attempts of a thirteen-year-old no matter how many years of training he had. She'd already heard it all with Bruce. 

Due to this, Dick didn't tell his mentor that he was feeling sick. He said he was tired and not very talkative. He was aware that saying he was tired all the time was just as suspicious but hopefully Bruce would assume it was bullying or something. He'd take the billionaire awkwardly trying to talk about anything remotely related to mental health over surgery. Bruce would give him concerned looks when it came time for him to make a joke that only his teammates would laugh at and he didn't make it.

His teammates were no better. He couldn't tell them he had tonsilitis because they'd tell Dinah, and she would tell Bruce then make him go through a therapy session where she tried to weed out the reason he hid it in the first place. She would be trying to get him to open up and come to the conclusion that he was doing more damage hiding the damage that was already there and he would have to go along with it because saying he was scared of the surgery was stupid when he'd already been under the knife plenty of times. They did ask why he wasn't speaking and why when he did, he sounded crackly so he said it was a rough night and they assumed whatever horrible thing they could come up with. 

Two days in, he lost his appetite. Everything he ate and drank felt like swallowing knives with a side of rubbing alcohol. He longed to down a glass of ice water, the very thought taunted him whenever he reached to sip from the lukewarm cup he kept on the nightstand. He was smart enough to try and treat it in secret. He had some painkillers in his cabinet, granted they were only over the counter and not really worth the pain of taking them, and he did his best to clear his plate knowing Bruce would immediately find it suspicious if he skipped meals. 

The team were getting suspicious too. He could push his luck a little more with them so he stopped drinking coffee around them knowing it irritated his throat. They acted like he was possessed or otherwise dying when he refused a cup from M'gann. He said he already had some and they followed that up by asking when that ever stopped him. He argued he was cutting down because he didn't like the heart palpitations. Artemis called him old and M'gann asked if he was having a heart attack often. He decided to not give explanations anymore especially when he noticed Dinah mimicking the funny looks Bruce was giving him. 

He had to admit that it probably would've been easier to just say he was sick and go through the surgery. He could be having some ice chips satisfied in the knowledge he wouldn't get tonsilitis again and just regular sore throats but that would require being put under and he couldn't do that. 

The breaking point was when he woke up in the middle of the night, his stomach on the ropes and his skin clammy to the touch. Dick knew he should've been on antibiotics the moment he got his sore throat. His body was reminding him of that fact now. His neck was as stiff as a board and he couldn't sleep no matter how many times he fussed with having the sheets on or off.  He knew that he'd have to tell someone soon. He didn't know how much longer he could go on with a throat being burned by the mere activity of breathing and a nausea that never went away. He was terrified of vomiting, knowing the acid would only hurt his already aching throat further. 

He'd struggled through patrol knowing that if he didn't go out, Bruce would immediately run tests on him. He hoped it would exhaust him enough to sleep but it hadn't. He was stuck perpetually hot and cold hoping it would just go away if he hoped enough. 

In the early hours of the morning, he went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and when he saw himself in the mirror he knew the jig was up. His face whilst drained of colour had put all of it into two rosy cheeks. The sleepless nights were getting to him. Deep dark circles hollowed out his eyes. He reached to his throat, already knowing he would find swollen lymph nodes. Paracetamol and ibrophen would do nothing to fix this. Not even the expensive throat sprays meant to numb the pain would be useless in fighting it. He had to face the music and all the consequences that came with it. 

Bruce was still awake working in the cave when Dick decided he couldn't take it anymore. He raised an eyebrow when he saw his ward trail down the stairs in his sweat-soaked pyjamas. 

"Dick? You're supposed to be in bed," he said. 

"I'm sick," Dick stated before he went running back upstairs. "It's tonsilitis."

"I know," his mentor replied. "I booked the surgery." It took a moment for the information to sink in. He was already booked in for the surgery. "As good as you are at hiding things, you learned from me. I know your tells because I taught you to hide them," Bruce explained when he saw the confusion. "I figured you'd hit a breaking point soon enough."

"Can't sleep."

"I'm not surprised. No matter how much honey and ginger Alfred puts in your tea, it can't cure tonsilitis." That would explain the steady supply of tea the butler had been giving him. He wrongly assumed it was to curb his caffeine addiction. The headaches from the lack of caffeine definitely hadn't been helping him feel any better. "I hope this has taught you a lesson in hiding things from me being that you can't."

"Does that mean no story?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"No, you're suffering enough. Go back to bed and I'll be up in a minute."

"When's the surgery?"

"Tomorrow morning." He sighed, knowing it was for the best and headed back to bed. At least he wouldn't have to worry about tonsilitis anymore. Besides, he wasn't going to miss his tonsils after this week.