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The call came about ten minutes after Bernard got home from his shift. Tim’s name flashing across the screen, an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone—a scene that’d plagued the worst of his dreams, come to life.
Fear gas. All things considered, it could’ve been worse. Tim was stable, Dick had made sure to say. They just needed to wait for the toxin to leave his system. But he was asking for you, he’d added. And he, uh. He said you knew about—y’know. Our night jobs. I know this isn’t exactly an ideal way to meet, but do you think you could maybe…?
I’m on my way, Bernard had said, and then he’d driven across the city like an absolute maniac in twenty minutes flat.
And now here he was, standing inside the absolute monolith of a house that was Wayne Manor. Dick had been the one to let him in, analyzing him from head to toe, probably cataloging all the ways he could be taken down if necessary. It wouldn’t be noticeable if Bernard didn’t know to look for it. But there was no time to dwell on what conclusions Dick might have drawn about who he was, what he was to Tim.
“Can I see him?” Bernard asked.
Dick jolted. “Yes, sorry,” he said. “He’s in his old bedroom. This way.”
***
“You’re dead,” was the first thing Tim said. Numbly, no emotion in it. A stating of fact.
Bernard shivered. Moved closer. Sat on the bed and reached for Tim’s hand. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m here.”
“No, I saw—you died, Berns, I watched you bleed out on that altar and I couldn’t save you—“
“You did save me,” Bernard said. “You did, you got to me in time, we got out of there, remember?”
Tim shook his head, eyes tightly shut. “It was my fault. I couldn’t—I failed.”
Bernard could still feel the weight of Dick’s gaze on them. Judging, maybe, or just observing.
“Hey,” he said softly, leaning down to lightly knock their foreheads together. “You didn’t fail, Tim.” He squeezed his hand. “You feel that? I’m right here.”
He’d seen fear gas in action before—you couldn’t go far in emergency medicine before running into one of Scarecrow’s victims. His second week on the job, he’d had to strap a kid down in the back of the ambulance to stop him from thrashing and hurting himself. Hardest thing with those cases was not being able to administer an antidote until they knew what strain it was.
Tim didn’t seem to be registering his words. The heart monitor started to beep faster. Bernard looked back over his shoulder, a silent request for help.
Dick stepped forward and knelt down next to Bernard, taking hold of Tim’s other hand. “Hey, Timmy.”
“Dick,” Tim said, his voice sounding wrecked. “Bernard, I lost Bernard.”
“You didn’t lose him,” Dick said, reaching to pull Tim closer, but Tim shook him off.
“I swear I’m here,” Bernard said, tightening his grip on Tim’s fingers. “I’m okay, Tim. The cult was nearly six months ago.”
“Lying,” Tim said. “You’re—stop.” His voice was so full of anguish that Bernard froze. “Don’t do that, don’t give me hope.”
“I’m not lying,” Bernard insisted. “We finished our date. Or re-did it, anyway. And—and last night, we went out to that diner you like, do you remember that?”
A pause, a breath held in apprehension. “You—I don’t—you hate that place.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s a shithole,” Bernard said, the beginnings of hope blooming in his chest. “But you like it.”
Tim shook his head. “But—but no, that was—that’s not real, it’s not real—“
“It is, Tim—“
“Get out,” Tim said. “Get out, get out, get out.”
“Tim,” Dick tried again.
“No!” Tim put his hands over his ears. “Please, you’re just making it hurt more, get out—“
Tim’s shoulders were curled in now, and his breathing was coming in short, quick gasps. Bernard recognized the act—it was how Tim always sounded right before he started crying, a last-ditch effort to stop the tears.
Bernard couldn’t—he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t watch Tim grieve him when he was right there, alive and absolutely useless.
You’re just making it hurt more—
He stood up, maybe too abruptly by the way Dick looked at him, and took a step back, and then another, and then he mumbled something about getting some air before rushing for the door.
***
“You’re new,” an unfamiliar voice said. Bernard lifted his head from where it was resting on his knees, frowning when he saw who had spoken. Freakishly tall, huge muscles, white streak in dark hair—there was only one person this could be, even if they’d never formally met.
“You’re Jason Todd,” Bernard said.
“Who’s that?” Jason asked. “Never heard of him.”
“Y’know, Tim warned me you’d say that,” Bernard said, and then he didn’t feel much like talking anymore, not when Tim wasn’t here to introduce him to the second Robin, not when Bernard had practically run out of the room like the coward he was, when Tim had specifically asked for him—
“Oh,” Jason said. “You’re here for Tim?”
Bernard frowned. He didn’t know how much Jason knew—only the little Tim had told him (yes, he was responsible for the thin scar on Tim’s neck; no, he wasn’t still trying to kill Tim; yes, they considered each other brothers now). “I am,” he decided to say. “Why are you here?”
Jason shrugged. “I live here.”
“No, you don’t,” Bernard said.
“No, I don’t,” Jason conceded.
Bernard narrowed his eyes. “Are you here to check on Tim?”
Jason scowled. “No. Why the fuck would I care what happens to the brat?”
Bernard raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. He pointed his thumb to the closed door he had his back to. “He’s in there.”
Jason’s gaze flickered to the door before returning to Bernard. “And yet you’re out here,” he said.
Bernard bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing.
Jason sighed and lowered himself down to sit on the plush carpet across from Bernard. “He’s really okay?”
“Physically, yeah,” Bernard said. “But he thinks I’m dead, and I only made it worse when I tried to convince him otherwise, so.”
“So instead you’re sitting right outside the door.”
Bernard glared at him. “It was that or go find Scarecrow and beat the shit out of him. I’m not one of you. I don’t know how to deal with these things.”
Jason jerked a little, like he wasn’t expecting that. “He told you.”
“About Batman? No,” Bernard said. “I figured it out. I’m not an idiot. And Tim’s a horrible liar if you know his tells.”
“Tim doesn’t have a tell,” Jason said.
Bernard laughed. “Trust me, he does. I’d know; he used to lie to me a lot more than he probably ever has to you. He does this thing with his eyebrows—y’know what, why am I telling you this? You’ll just use it against him.”
Jason acknowledged that with a half-shrug.
“You’re not gonna go check on him?” Bernard asked after a moment.
“Dickie’s with him, isn’t he?”
Bernard nodded.
“There you go, then,” said Jason. “It was one of my bullets that ruptured the gas tank tonight, anyway. Probably best I keep my distance.”
“Maybe so,” Bernard said, “but I think he’d still appreciate you being here.”
“Take your own advice, blondie,” Jason threw back. “You knew this shit wouldn’t be easy, right?”
Bernard kept his gaze fixed on the carpet. “What shit?”
“Being with him,” Jason said, in a kind of duh tone. “Dating a vigilante.”
Oh. “I—we’re not—“
“Save it,” Jason cut in. “Don’t worry, you didn’t out him. I figured it out. I’m not an idiot.”
Bernard scowled over the stolen wording. “Fine,” he said. “Yeah, I knew it wasn’t gonna be easy. I just—I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to fix this.”
Jason groaned. “I am really not the best person to be having this conversation.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t know how much Tim told you about Bruce,” he started.
“Not much,” Bernard said, leaning his head back against the door. “I know he’s Batman. And sort of an emotionally constipated asshole. And the closest thing Tim has to a parent.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Three for three. He’d rather deal with an Arkham breakout than talk about his feelings.”
“Sounds like a great father figure,” Bernard said.
“Ha,” said Jason. “Yeah. He and I have our issues.”
“Is this supposed to be a pep-talk?” Bernard asked. “Because it doesn’t feel very relevant.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “But,” he said pointedly, “one thing about Bruce is that if you need him, he’s there. He’ll drop everything to make sure he can be next to you when you’re sick, or injured, or—or whatever. He’s there. It doesn’t fix anything, but it makes a difference.”
Bernard swallowed. “I need to get back in there,” he said, both a question and a statement.
“Probably,” Jason said. “Bernard, was it?”
Bernard frowned. “I don’t think I ever mentioned my name.”
“Huh,” said Jason. “How strange, I could’ve sworn you had.”
“No,” Bernard said, “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“Maybe you’re experiencing memory loss. You should look into that.”
“Hold on,“ Bernard said, but Jason was already back on his feet, dusting himself off.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jason said. “You know who I am, right?”
Bernard‘s brow furrowed. “Red Hood?”
Jason grinned, razor-sharp. “Then I’m sure the shovel talk is unnecessary, right?”
“Ah,” Bernard said. “Yep. You’ll kill me if I hurt him. Got it.”
“Perfect,” Jason said, tapping the wall twice before pivoting on his heel. “I’m heading off. Tell Timmy I said hi.”
“Right,” Bernard told the empty air in front of him. Vigilantes. He’d better get used to that, huh.
***
“Well, this is nauseating,” a voice said, pulling Bernard out of his sleep.
“Damian!” another voice protested. This one Bernard could recognize as Dick’s, though he didn’t open his eyes quite yet. “They’re adorable, and you know it.”
“Tt. I do not see how Drake’s boyfriend has managed to fall asleep when Drake himself is in such a state.”
Oh, shit. Bernard hadn’t meant to fall asleep. After he’d gone back into the room, Dick had stepped out to give them some time alone, and the only thing that seemed to help Tim was when Bernard climbed into the bed next to him so that they were pressed together, and then Tim had drifted off on Bernard’s shoulder, listening to his heartbeat. Bernard had resolved to stay awake in case Tim needed him.
Evidently, he’d failed.
“He came here straight from a twelve-hour shift,” Dick said. Bernard appreciated the defense, even if he didn’t deserve it. “He’s probably exhausted.”
“Drake’s health is more important,” Damian insisted.
“Awww,” a third, sleep-raspy voice chimed in—this one far more familiar and significantly closer to Bernard. “You were worried about me, weren’t you, Dami?”
Bernard’s eyes snapped open.
Beside him, Tim slowly sat up. Next to the bed, a kid—Damian, presumably—looked affronted. “I can assure you, Drake, that I was not concerned in the slightest—“
“You care about me,” Tim said with a devilish grin. “You want the best for me.”
Damian’s face, if possible, grew more red. “I—that is incorrect—"
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dick said. It was clear he was barely holding back a laugh. “You can admit it. You were worried.”
“I was not!”
“C’mon, gimme a hug,” said Tim. “You know you missed me.”
Damian made an enraged sound and stormed out of the room. Tim snorted in amusement.
“You’re feeling better,” Dick said to Tim.
Tim nodded. “I don’t feel the toxin in my system anymore. Think this strain has a shorter half-life. More vivid hallucinations, though. I’ll add the details to my report.”
“Okay,” Dick said. “But you’re not allowed to work on the report until tomorrow.”
“What? That’s a horrible idea, Dick. I need to write down the details while they’re still fresh—“
“What you need to do,” Dick said, pushing Tim back down into the bed despite his protests, “is rest.”
“I’ve rested enough—“
“Toxin-induced sleep doesn’t count,” Dick interrupted. “Look, Bernard’s still out, just join him.”
Bernard, who had shut his eyes as soon as they’d looked over at him, tried his best to feign sleep.
“No, he’s not,” Tim said, crushing that plan fast. “You can stop faking, Bernie. You’re not very good at it.”
Bernard conceded defeat and sat up. “I’m sorry that not all of us are stealth experts,” he said.
“You didn’t even bother to slow your breathing,” Tim said.
Dick clapped his hands together, drawing their attention. “You,” he said, pointing at Tim, “rest.”
Tim rolled his eyes.
“And you,” Dick shifted his focus to Bernard. “Bruce is coming back soon, and he’ll want to meet you.”
Bernard‘s eyes went wide.
“Dick,” Tim said. “Please stop trying to scare him away.”
“No, it’s okay,” Bernard said. “I’ve already gotten a shovel talk from one member of your family. What’s another, right?”
“You—what?” Tim turned to face him. “From who? ”
“On a totally unrelated note,” Bernard continued, “I met Jason.”
Tim paused. “Oh, I’m gonna kill him,” he growled.
Dick laughed. “I’ll distract Bruce for a couple hours if you promise to get some sleep.”
Tim didn’t appear to hear. “I’m gonna sneak into his safe houses and leave a message on the walls—gonna steal every single one of his cases and solve them before him—I’m gonna—“
“Tim,” Bernard said.
Tim stopped. He was putting a valiant effort into staying awake, but it was clear exhaustion was tugging him down at the edges, in the slight tremble of his fingers and the shadows under his eyes.
Bernard was fairly sure he knew why. He reached for Tim’s hand, letting their fingers intertwine. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be right next to you. Sleep.”
And the muscles in Tim’s shoulders uncoiled, just barely. “Okay,” he said, voice quiet. His eyelids were drooping. Bernard was so in love with him it hurt.
When Bernard looked over, Dick nodded at him, an acknowledgement or an approval or something in between. It wasn’t necessary, but it was appreciated. He closed the door on his way out.
Bernard curled back up around Tim. They slept.