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The first time Bernard heard the word “gay” outside of Christmas carols, he was ten, and at his house with some stupid kid named Liam, who’s parents worked with Bernard’s.
They were in the Bernard’s room watching TV. Bernard’s dad poked his head in to tell them that dinner was ready, kissed Bernard’s head, and asked that they come down when they found a good save point. He left.
Liam was staring at Bernard, face twisted.
“What?” Bernard asked defensively.
“Your parents still kiss you? Dude, you’re ten. We’re almost teenagers” Liam grimaced. “I didn’t know you were gay.”
“I’m not.”
He wasn’t entirely sure what gay meant, but Liam said it like an insult, which meant that Bernard needed to be sure Liam knew that he wasn’t. They were gonna go to the same school in the Fall and the last thing Bernard needed was some rumor spreading about him.
“Whatever. It’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
They hit unpause and played for another twenty minutes. Their food was cold when they got downstairs, but Bernard probably wouldn’t have eaten much anyway. His stomach was queasy.
Only once Liam and his family left and Bernard’s parents were cleaning up dinner did Bernard softly grasp his mom’s arm and mutter, “I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“Liam said—he said something, and I don’t know what it means, but I don’t think I liked it.”
“Is this about your hair?” His mother smoothed it, giving him a smile. “I know it’s long, but it suits you. Makes you look like a little prince.”
“ Mom. ”
“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.”
Holding on to the arm of his mom’s chair and scrunching his face, Bernard rocked forwards on his heels.
He was ten, which was plenty old enough to know how to ask about a word he didn’t know. Especially an insult. And his parents always said to tell them when someone was being a jerk.
“He said it was weird that dad still kisses my head, and he called me gay. I don’t know what that means,” Bernard said finally.
His mother pursed her lips. Glanced up at his father, who was coming back to clear off the rest of the plates.
“You don’t have to worry about that, honey. You’re not gay,” she said.
“But what is it? Liam said—”
“I’m sure that Liam was just repeating something his parents said. Kids are like parrots, Bernard, you like to pick up phrases and run with them.”
Clearing his throat, his father said, “Bernard, you know how your mother and I love each other?”
He nodded. Pinched his bottom lip and twisted, pulling at the flaky bits.
“Okay. Being gay is when a man, like me, loves another man, instead of a woman.”
“That’s a thing?” Bernard asked.
“It’s not,” his mother said. “Some people like to say it is, but it’s not natural. It’s just confusion.”
“Oh.”
“Some people like to say that things like physical affection or girly toys can turn you gay, Bernard, but that’s not true. You’re a boy of God, and you don’t have to worry about that.”
Bernard nodded slowly.
_____
Middle school, it turned out, was where weddings on the playground were replaced with dates to the movie theater and holding hands under the desks and kissing girls on a dare.
Girls were still gross, but there were the occasional nice looking ones. And they weren’t called cute anymore, they were called hot.
Bernard didn’t really see the appeal.
Sure, girls were nice enough. He liked sitting next to Susan in math class because she was, like, a genius. She always shared her notes with him and gave him a piece of gum on Fridays even though the teacher said no food or drinks in the classroom. Bernard’s next door neighbor was a girl a year younger than him, and he didn’t know her name, but he lost his baseball in her yard and she threw it back like a professional. Stuck her leg up, grasped the ball in both hands, and pitched.
It was just that Bernard didn’t get why his friends were suddenly saying he must have a crush on Susan because he always sits next to her. He didn’t get why his neighbor seemed to giggle when he waved to her in the morning.
He didn’t get it, and it was infuriating.
His parents liked to tease him about the girls he talked to at school or about the pretty cashier who checked their groceries for them or about how one day, you’ll find yourself a nice girl and settle down, and Bernard kinda wanted to scream.
Bernard’s friend from fifth grade who wound up in the same class as him in both sixth and seventh, a kid named TJ, dared Bernard to ask a girl named Piper on a date. Bet two dollars that Bernard would chicken out.
He didn’t. Piper said yes. Her mom dropped them off at a roller skating rink and they drank slushies and Piper showed Bernard a polaroid of her dog she kept in her wallet. Bernard told her about a trick he’d learned to get a free extra drink from the vending machine outside the bus station near school.
At seven, Piper’s mom came to pick her up, and Bernard was still waiting on his dad. He waved to Piper, but she didn’t wave back.
Instead, she put a hand on his cheek and kissed him, right on the lips.
Bernard went bright red. Piper wasn’t much better. She darted off to her car, roller skates clanging in her hands, and slammed the door.
By the time his dad showed up, Bernard had stifled the urge to barf, and was able to say he had a good time. Then he spent the rest of the car ride staring out the window and wondering if it was Piper’s fault the kiss was bad or if it was just that it was his first kiss and he hadn’t known what he was doing.
Unfortunately, Bernard’s second kiss wasn’t much. Neither was the third. Even when he broke up with Piper—not that he’d known they were dating. Wasn’t that supposed to be a conversation they had together? A mutual decision?—and kissed a different girl at the middle school dance, it wasn’t like people described it.
He was lying about how nice kissing was, though, so maybe everyone else was, too. Maybe everyone disliked it but pretended they didn’t.
_____
Freshman year of High School, Bernard kissed a boy.
His parents weren’t home, so he was unsupervised, a senior was throwing a party a couple blocks down, and Bernard could easily cut through the woods to get there. Figured he’d stay for a while, then head home. Better than staying in an empty house all night.
He found a boy sitting by the lit up pool, surrounded by darkness. They talked for a little while.
The boy’s name was Patrick and he was only in town for one school year before his entire family moved to California.
He had black hair and a lopsided smile that Bernard could barely see in the dark, and they talked about Star Wars and Star Trek and about their parents and expectations and about Batman. The blue-green light from the pool wobbled across Patrick’s face as he watched Bernard talk.
Bernard was halfway through an explanation on how the current Robin couldn’t possibly be the same one as before when Patrick leaned in, putting his hand on Bernard’s cheek, and Bernard froze.
They just sat there, staring at each other.
All the noise was distant. It was November, at night, in Gotham. Few people were gonna be big enough doofuses to hang out by the pool. There was music thumping and some people shouting and all that, but it was muffled and the only thing Bernard could really hear was his own heartbeat in his ears.
When Bernard didn’t pull away, Patrick slowly, slowly closed the distance. Bernard closed his eyes. Their lips met clumsily.
It was weird.
It didn’t necessarily feel any different from when Bernard had kissed Piper or that other girl. It was still unsure, still a little uncomfortable, a little too wet from where Patrick had been nibbling on his upper lip before moving in towards Bernard.
But something about it must have been different, because the swirling in Bernard’s gut didn’t feel like nausea, it felt fluttery and light and he kinda understood why some people said if I was a girl, I’d date him.
Then, where most high school parties would’ve been broken up by irritated parents or cops who’d gotten a noise complaint, theirs got caught in a city-wide Fear Gas attack and Bernard was too busy running through the woods behind the senior’s house to worry too much about why that kiss had felt so good.
_____
A year and a half of thinking is a long time.
It wasn’t enough, not when his head was still spinning with the slow revelation, but Bernard had managed to figure a few things out.
One. He was gay.
Two. He was never, ever, ever going to tell anybody.
In fact, he was going to actively cover up the truth with ten layers of cement, a good dusting of dirt, and some grass, and then he was going to build a cemetery on top of it with all of his less dangerous secrets.
He’d looked at the girls around school, picked the cutest, prettiest, hottest ones and gone, that one. He’d talked to his sorta-friends about how much he wanted to ask those girls out and about how he’d walk right up to them if he got the chance and he’d flirt them into a date.
They were the ones that were unattainable and completely out of his league. He claimed to like Darla, the pretty girl at school who looked like a model and walked around like she owned the school.
Darla was also insanely popular. She tended to hang out with the football guys, and her dad was supposedly something akin to a gang leader, but Bernard had a well-known habit of aiming for things he’d never actually get. Like the beard he’d been trying to grow since he started puberty and his parent’s love and attention.
Nobody even batted an eye at him pretending to follow her around like a lost puppy. It was the perfect cover.
Then, in what would end up being possibly the best decision of his life, on his first day of Junior year, Bernard sat on the lawn under one of the giant green trees and people-watched.
Say what you want about high school; you got a pretty wide range of folks.
Especially at Louis E. Grieves memorial high school. Its pretentiously long name didn’t really fit the vibes, not when most of the students still hadn’t learned how to wear deodorant or check the weather forecast—it was August, and Bernard was staring at a girl in a thick turtleneck sweater and boots.
It smelled like Gotham, like sewers and sweat and too many people, and Bernard was wearing his blazer over his shirt, and man, he hadn’t checked the weather either. He’d brought his sunglasses but’d propped them up on his slicked back hair instead of actually wearing them because when he put them down, his hair fell into his eyes and he looked like a total doofus.
Trying to pretend like he wanted to get together with a girl as awesome as Darla meant that Bernard couldn’t exactly afford to look like a doofus. Much less a total one.
Casting a quick glance around, Bernard leaned back against the rough bark of the tree and sighed.
For a city as interesting as Gotham could be, school was as boring as ever. Nothing ever happened. Bernard would almost like to see a rogue attack come by, just so they could see some action, maybe catch a glimpse of Batman and his current Robin
(Everyone swore it was the same Robin as always, but Bernard knew the Bats. He might not have talked about them all that often in fear of being labeled a nerd, but he knew about them. And he knew that this Robin wasn’t the old one.
For one thing, he definitely wasn’t the original. Not flashy enough, not enough flips in the clips shown on the news. Not the previous one, because this one seemed a little too serious, like he was trying to prove something. He spiked up his hair too much and he was shorter.
Secretly, Bernard was pretty sure Batman had an entire unknown orphanage that churned out a new Robin, a box of black hair dye, and one of those weird masks every time the previous one went down. He’s just not sure why this last one took so long, or why Batman got so vicious while he waited. Shipping issues, maybe?)
But, fortunately, Bernard didn’t have to wait for mr. Freeze to get pissed with how hot it was or for Scarecrow to decide to see how much fear high schoolers could take or something, because there was a new kid walking across the lawn.
He was definitely new. The backpack, for one thing. He was pretty much the only one wearing one, and for sure the only one who was wearing it with both straps over his shoulders. If it’d had a strap over the chest, Bernard would be willing to bet this dude would’ve had it buckled.
But he didn’t look like a nerd, either. Just…out of his element.
“Hey, new guy, huh?” Bernard called.
The dude paused, glancing up from the scrap of paper he’d been clutching. It looked like it’d been folded and unfolded way too many times, to the point of tearing.
They made eye contact, and Bernard’s chest squeezed.
Shit.
This dude was a knockout. He had black hair that framed his face, longer in the front and shorter in the back. His eyes looked like they might’ve held the secrets of the entire world if someone asked the right way.
His eyelashes were long, shadowed under slightly furrowed eyebrows and over a dusting of freckles. The sunlight caught his skin and Bernard knew he was being a little dramatic, but it did legitimately look like he was glowing.
And man, his mouth, he had lips like a Kardashian, except his looked natural. They twisted into a confused little pout as the dude asked, “huh?”
“Hold up there.” Bernard leaned forwards, cocking an eyebrow.
Was it normal for dudes to wear clothes that nice and form fitting? The t-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt a little baggy, but it wasn’t enough to completely hide the fact that this dude had muscles. Especially not with the way it hugged his waist.
The dude was still staring at Bernard, though, so he quickly asked, “transfer student? Foreign exchange?” He certainly looked handsome enough to be from somewhere fancy. That quick little huh hadn’t been enough to completely rule out an accent. Maybe French? “What’s your story?”
“Uh…” the dude looked confused. Cute. “We just moved back into the city this summer.”
His voice, now that he’d spoken more than a single word, sounded surprisingly light for a Junior.
Bernard pushed himself to his feet, dusted off his pants, and put two fingers to his chin thoughtfully. “Well, let’s get a look at you then. See where you fit in.”
A small part of Bernard’s brain pointed out the fact that this new kid was easily four or five inches shorter than Bernard was. Just short enough that Bernard would’ve had to bend to get close to his face.
Not that he would. Dude probably had a girlfriend. And even if he was single, he almost definitely wasn’t gay. Bernard was at least eighty percent sure he was the only gay dude in the entire school, so the odds of another one transferring in and turning out to be this gorgeous? Incredibly low.
“No visible face shrapnel,” though this guy looked like he could pull it off, “so you probably don’t belong in the tattoo and piercings crowd.”
He smirked, walking in a tight circle around the dude. “Your eyes are clear and you lack the telltale hemp-ish smell that would place you with the heads. You’re packing quite a load of books, but I don’t get a nerd vibe from you. You obviously bathe too often and don’t walk with a permanent cringe.”
Instead of giving some sort of response, the guy just watched Bernard with a twitching mouth, eyes bright. Like he thought Bernard was some sort of interesting challenge.
It made Bernard’s heart move up a little towards his throat.
Folding his arms behind his back and completing the loop, Bernard continued.
“You could be a jock—you look ripped enough—but again, there’s all these books to consider. Jocks and books don’t exactly mix.”
That earned him a little snort from the dude. Forcing his victorious grin down, Bernard rubbed his chin and added, “you’re an enigma, grasshopper. I can’t tell which clique you belong in.”
“Is that important?” The dude asked.
“It’s vital. A place for everyone and everyone in their place. That’s how the world works.”
For a split-second, Bernard was pretty sure the dude was just gonna roll his eyes and walk away.
Instead, he broke out into a challenging grin and asked, “and what group do you belong to?”
Oh, Hell yeah.
Dude’s got snark.
“None. I’m the exception that proves the rule. A nation unto myself, and a roving ambassador between all cliques,” Bernard said, pointing a thumb at himself and leaning a little closer. If this kid was gonna play, Bernard was gonna play. “Don’t try it yourself. It requires extraordinary finesse.”
Sticking his right hand into his jeans pocket and pursing his lips, Bernard added, “in short, I pretty much run things around here. You’re lucky you met me.”
“I can see that.”
“Let’s check out your class schedule.”
Bernard plucked the worn paper from the dude’s hand and snapped it open.
Immediately, he knew where the dude screwed up. “You took Copper for history? Big mistake, son. He grades on the curve. You’ll want to transfer to Weingast. He’s afraid of getting sued again, so he gives across-the-board A’s, never tests and never takes roll.”
And Bernard was in Weingast’s class, so if this dude transferred, there would at least be someone interesting in there with him. Though it wouldn’t be great for Bernard to be caught mooning over him.
“Uhm…I’ll stick with this schedule.”
The dude reached for his paper and Bernard relinquished it with a dramatic flourish, one hand pressed to his chest as he introduced himself. “A rebel, huh? Suit yourself. Name’s Bernard Dowd, by the way. Bernard, got it? Never Bernie. Call me Bernie and I’ll have to punish you.”
He fluttered his eyes open, catching the raised eyebrow and little smirk the dude gave him, and ignored how it made his stomach flutter.
“Tim Drake.”
“Glad to know you, Timmy,” Bernard said, offering his hand.
“ Tim. ”
They started away from the tree, leaving Bernard’s two friends behind, and Bernard threw a companionable arm around Tim’s shoulder. It was easy with Tim being about five-foot-nothing.
“See? We’re getting along already. I sense we’re going to be good friends, you and me.” Bernard easily led Tim through the throng of people heading up the stairs. “Now let’s go over a few of the social rules. You’ll eventually have to learn them all, but I can cover the main ones that will let you survive the first day.”
Tim gave another tiny snort. He had his hands in his pockets and his head inclined towards Bernard in that universal, I’m listening to you, even if you’re being a little ridiculous kinda way.
Bernard’s chest clenched like it had earlier, and he quickly shoved that aside to say, “most important of all: never try to date any girl I like.”
They melted into the crowd as Bernard went over a few more rules—like, avoid the third floor boy’s restroom, that’s where people went to smoke, and don’t skateboard past room 309, that teacher would confiscate your board for an entire week—with Tim just nodding along.
By the time they got to Tim’s first class, the bell had already rang and they were halfway across the school from Bernard’s class.
Good thing he didn’t really mind playing hookie.
“See ya, Drake. Have fun. I’ve heard this class is a real snooze-fest,” Bernard said, giving Tim a crooked grin.
“I think I can handle it.”
“Tough jock-nerd like you? Yeah, probably. Bye bye, Timmy.”
He was already rejoining the crowd when Tim hollered, “it’s Tim. ”
Sure. But Timmy sounded better. More familiar. It rolled off Bernard’s tongue easily.
For an hour, Bernard screwed around in the second floor bathroom, doodling on the stall furthest from the door. He messed with his hair in the mirror. Snuck to his locker and ate the Reeses cup the cook had packed for his lunch.
Then he went to his second period and third, and he went to lunch, and he ate outside on the lawn like he normally did. Figured Tim would probably eat in the cafeteria.
He was wrong. Ten minutes into lunch, Bernard was eating his stupid ready-made cheese cracker packet, and he spotted a fluffy mop of black hair heading away from the main school doors.
Strange. New kids normally preferred to try and eat in the cafeteria just so they could look normal. Maybe make some friends. Tim seemed like the kinda guy who liked to blend in, so why was he leaving? Maybe he was hoping to hop the fence and go get some real food instead of the sludge they called food at school?
Too bad, he was outta luck if so. Bernard had tried and failed many times to hop the fence around school during his Freshman year. Maybe Tim, athletic as he seemed, would be able to do it, but Bernard doubted it.
Regardless, Bernard stuffed his food in his pocket and followed Tim. More interesting than stale crackers, for sure. Cuter, too.
Bernard had eyes on Tim for a good two minutes as they rounded the school and headed for the furthest back corner. Then he ducked behind a tree, Bernard following, and—
—he was gone.
Vanished.
Disappeared.
Bernard blinked.
He was still in that same corner, staring at a rotting tree and a bunch of too-tall grass. The fence there was sprouting ivy, but it didn’t look like it was thick enough to hide a person.
“Tim?” He called. “Drake, what Houdini trick even is this?”
A strange, distant chuckle made Bernard tense. A leaf floated down past his nose.
He looked up and found himself staring at Tim’s cute face, a raised eyebrow and smug smirk. “Thought you could follow me and not get noticed? Maybe if your hair didn’t look like a bunch of bananas; it’s kinda distinctive.”
Bernard frowned and patted his head.
“Does not.”
“Does too.”
A second later, Tim was landing with a grunt in front of Bernard, dropping his backpack in the dirt and flopping down beside it. “So, why were you following me, anyway? Get bored judging everybody that walked by?”
Bernard sat, too, and scoffed.
“Maybe I just thought I’d gotten the catch of the day with you. I mean, who’s gonna be more interesting than the enigma himself?”
They both chuckled, Tim fiddling absentmindedly with the phone in his hands.
It looked like the newest flip phone. Waynetech, Bernard noted. Maybe even an unreleased model considering he hadn’t seen it before.
So, Tim was rich rich. Dude had it good.
“What about you?” Bernard asked. “Why come all the way out here if you weren’t trying to lure innocent, unsuspecting young men into a trap?”
“You don’t seem very innocent, Bernard. Or young. Don’t you have sideburns?”
Bernard smoothed his sideburns, sticking his chin out. “I think I look very dignified.”
“Sure, man.”
A moment passed, then Bernard nodded towards Tim, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“I—um—” Tim glanced down at his phone, faltering. His expression looked so weird that for a moment, Bernard felt bad for asking. “My dad. He got hurt pretty bad a few years ago. I got used to seeing him all the time, so now—”
Oh.
Bernard swallowed. There was a strange lump in his throat, suddenly.
“You think he’s gonna disappear if you take your eyes off him. I get it.”
That was how Bernard felt about his parents. Except it wasn’t because he was used to seeing them; it was because he was used to not seeing them. When they did come around, some childish part of him still wanted to see them. Wanted them to notice him and be proud.
If he wasn’t watching their every move, they’d have the opportunity to slip away on another business trip, another romantic vacation, anything to get away from Gotham and from Bernard.
Sometimes, he wondered if they knew. Maybe he’d driven them away by being too gay.
Glancing up, Tim gave Bernard a small, almost shy smile. “Stupid, right?”
“Nah. Sounds like a good dad.”
“He is. We’ve got our issues, ‘course, but he’s trying. I think my mom passing away made him a little more paranoid about me, too.”
“Oh.” Bernard sank back against the tree. “Sorry. About your mom, I mean.”
Tim shrugged, like it didn’t really matter.
His face said it mattered.
They were both silent for a moment, Tim still messing with his phone and Bernard just staring at the grass.
“Stale cracker?”
Tim’s eyes jerked up, latching onto Bernard’s face.
He studied it closely like he was expecting some sort of trap. A favor in return, maybe. Or for Bernard to say he was kidding.
Why he’d kid about stale crackers, he didn’t know.
Then Tim snorted, head falling back, and the strange atmosphere broke. “Y’know, Bernard, you’re too much.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Timmy.”
“It’s…whatever. Gimme a cracker, Bernie.”
“Ah, ah, what’d I say?” Bernard wiggled his eyebrows. “Call me Bernie and I’ll have to punish you.”
He ignored the way that it felt a little like flirting.
Teeth catching on his lip and his eyes dancing, Tim shook his head, almost fondly. Bernard pulled the crackers from his pocket. They were more than a little crushed.
“That was a freebie, Drake.”
“Sure, Bernie.”
“Fuck you.”
They finished Bernard’s crackers quickly. While Bernard stuffed the crinkling wrapped in his pocket, Tim opened his backpack and pulled out a sleek lunchbox.
“Did you pack this yourself?”
“Nah. My…uhm…my grandfather packed it.”
“Sweet.”
Tim gave Bernard an apple and a fun-sized Hershey’s, and Bernard told Tim about which teachers liked to grade easier and which ones were religious about the rules, which ones hid fake answer sheets in their desks, and which ones you could butter up with a compliment to assure an extra percent or two on your next test.
They sat there for another forty-five minutes, Bernard doing most of the talking and Tim just sorta listening.
When the bell rang, Bernard’s head whipped up, and he blinked. “That late already?” He asked. “Guess I got caught up in the wonders of mr. Parkins class.”
Tim shook his head, smiling. Packed up his stuff and handed Bernard one more orange slice.
“See ya later, Bernard,” he said.
“I’m a gentleman, Tim. Allow me to walk you to class.”
“Gentlemen typically don’t have chocolate on their cheeks.”
He reached up towards Bernard’s face, and Bernard froze. Watched in utter silence as Tim thumbed the chocolate away and wiped it on Bernard’s blazer, a smug grin lighting up his face. “Like I said. See ya.”
Tim left. Bernard leaned against the tree and questioned his life choices.
Shit.
He was so doomed.
By the time the end of the day rolled around, Bernard had washed his face and any lingering remnants of that weird butterfly feeling away. He’d had algebra class with Tim, who nodded in acknowledgement. Then Bernard had to try not to fall asleep through the teacher’s boring lesson.
The second the final bell rang, Bernard joined the crowd heading for the doors, figuring he could go kill some time at that arcade downtown. Then he spotted Tim rushing past.
“Hey, Drake.” Bernard called. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”
“Gotta scoot, Bernard. After-school job.”
Bernard glanced past Tim, who was half-looking at Bernard, half at the hall in front of him, and spotted the incoming collision. He couldn’t help the smirk crawling over his face.
Call it revenge for the chocolate incident. Those butterflies had felt like zombies trying to eat his heart.
“Better watch where you’re going, then.”
The dull thud of Darla’s head meeting Tim’s chin made Bernard wince in sympathy, and he gave a low whistle. “Ow. That’s got to hurt.”
“Smooth move, loser,” someone else said.
Something in Bernard’s stomach flipped, irritated, at that. He shoved that down.
“Um…hello.” Darla said.
“Wow.” Tim breathed. “Uhm. I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t see—”
Before Tim could embarrass himself further, Bernard moved to help Darla up, though his hands were kind of itching to help Tim, instead. “Darla Aquista, meet Tim Drake. Forgive him. He’s new here and hasn’t been house-broken yet.” He glanced at Tim, who was staring dopily at Darla. “Pick up the lady’s books, Drake.”
Immediately, Tim scooped up the few books scattered around. He got up on one knee to pass them over.
“I’m really sorry. Really. ” Tim insisted.
“Don’t worry,” Darla said. She let Bernard help her up, not taking her eyes of Tim. “It was clearly an accident.”
Tim stuttered out a few more apologies, but Darla’s friends were waiting, snickering at the awkward display. Darla gently took her books back and smiled.
“See you around, Tim. Bernard.”
Then she was gone, flanked by her buddies.
Bernard shook his head. “What’d I say, Drake? No crushin’ on the girls I like. Darla’s all mine, I called dibs, like, ages ago.”
For a second, Tim ignored him, staring unblinking after Darla.
“Wait, what?” Tim asked. “No. No, I’m not into Darla. Her name just sounded familiar, is all. Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
Bernard could’ve gone into detail, explained the rumors surrounding Darla and the crowds her father ran with, but he shrugged that off. No need to corrupt innocent Timmy’s mind.
He also could’ve asked about this so-called girlfriend. If he was a better person, he might’ve asked why Tim was staring after Darla like that if he was already in a relationship. If he was a better person, there probably wouldn’t have been that curdled feeling in his gut at the idea of Tim being with someone.
They barely even knew each other and Bernard had no chance with Tim. There was nothing to be jealous about.
“C’mon. I thought you said you had work, Drake.”
“Oh, shit. B’s gonna kill me.”
_____
A few days into the school year, and Tim’d already shown up with a black eye.
Bernard tried asking about it, but Tim got cagey and gave some lame excuse about a mugging—which would’ve been believable, they did live in Gotham, except Bernard had spotted the flicker of something else run across Tim’s face. Not the expression of someone who was grateful to have escape with their life.
Instead of pushing and running Tim off, Bernard dropped it. Temporarily.
He didn’t ask any more questions, but he did make a few comments about Tim’s parents, and Tim sounded almost too convincing when he said it wasn’t his dad. It left a strange, staticy feeling in Bernard’s chest.
It wasn’t like there was anything Bernard could do about it, though, especially not if Tim really was telling the truth and it’d just been some idiot mugger. But he figured he could keep poking the wound, see what happened if Tim got fed up enough.
When Tim called Bernard to ask for his algebra notes, Bernard agreed, and they met at Tweedle D’s.
Bernard got there first. Ordered two coke’s and a thing of fries to share. Purposefully didn’t look up when Tim walked in wearing a tight t-shirt that showed off his arms.
“Your black eye is clearing up nicely. You almost can’t see it anymore,” Bernard said instead of a greeting.
Tim settled into the booth across from him, already rolling his eyes, and Bernard added, “admit it, Drake. You’ve got an abusive father who beats you.”
He didn’t think about his own parents. He didn’t.
“You’re too funny, Bernard.” Tim snarked. “Say, I need my algebra notes back, so—”
The bell hanging over the door of the diner chimed, dragging Bernard’s eyes up. Through the throng of random high schoolers, he spotted three huge dudes in Gotham football jackets, playing guard dog for Darla.
“Oh my God,” Bernard said, leaning around Tim to look. “She’s here! But she never comes here!”
“Who—?”
Tim tossed one arm over the back of his booth, head turning, and Bernard’s throat tightened. “Don’t look, doofus! Do you want to get us busted?”
“Oh,” Tim said. He gave Bernard a smug, knowing grin, hair flopping in his eyes. “If you’re acting this way, it has to be our Goddess in residence, Darla Aquista. Why are you so afraid of her? She’s probably human. Why don’t you just go up and talk to her?”
Pretending the idea didn’t make his stomach twist itself into knots, Bernard swallowed. “Me? Afraid?”
Tim thoughtfully laced his fingers in front of his chin and Bernard jabbed a thumb at himself.
“No way I’m afraid of any girl. It’s those giant jocks she always hangs out with that scare me.” Bernard lied.
It wasn’t like he was scared of Darla. For one thing, Bernard was taller and bigger than her. For another, rejection wasn’t something he was particularly scared of.
Honestly, he was more scared she’d say yes.
“So if they weren’t around, you’d hop right up and put the moves on her?” Tim asked.
“Sure. Absolutely.”
Then Tim moved to stand.
Bernard’s stomach plummeted.
“Where are you going, Drake?” He asked, trying to keep the creeping panic out of his tone.
“I’m calling your bluff. Don’t let me down.”
Wow. That was maybe the hottest thing Bernard had ever heard someone say.
Tim officially held too much power over him, and the funny thing was, Bernard was pretty sure Tim didn’t even know. He hoped Tim didn’t know.
Before Bernard could finish having a little gay freak-out about “don’t let me down,” Tim was already walking across the diner, hands in his pockets and a smug swagger in his step. He called, “excuse me, guys?”
Walked right up to the football players like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Bernard was officially whipped.
“Who’re you?” One of the players asked.
The other two watched, one crossing his arms and the other just staring suspiciously. Darla had an amused smile on her face.
“I’m Tim Drake.” The blond giant moved in close, and Bernard tensed, but Tim didn’t look bothered at all. “I’m new here and have only one friend so far, so I can’t afford to lose him.”
Like you could.
“The trouble is that he’s madly in love with Darla here and dying to talk to her.” He was definitely dying, but it wasn’t to talk to Darla. Bernard buried his face in his hands. “Now, as we all know, the official-rules-of-guys dictate that you’d be fully justified in beating the snot out of anyone dumb enough to make a pass at your girl. So here’s the deal.”
Tim looked absolutely puny next to the jocks, but he stuck one finger up in the air and leaned back, fully confident. If Bernard could see his face, he was sure it’d be that cocky grin of his.
“Just this once, I’m willing to take the beating coming to him,” Tim said, and Bernard’s heart stuttered. He thought of Tim getting punched and almost stood to grab him.
Unfortunately, Bernard had never claimed to be anything other than a coward. He stayed seated and stared in mounting horror. And Tim just kept talking. “I’m not suicidal enough to try fighting back, but I still suggest we go outside so that you’ve got all the room you need to do a proper job of it.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
The three football players shared a look, faces grim, and Bernard was absolutely certain that he was about to not only watch Tim get his ass handed to him, but that he himself would be next. His parents were gonna throw a fit when they heard.
Except, then, the dudes pulled away and broke into laughter.
One clapped Tim on the back, another saying, “hey, you’re all right, Tim!”
The blond one grinned. “You’re pretty cool. Funny, y’know?”
“Besides, she really ain’t our girl. Darla don’t date nobody,” the first said.
They started towards the counter, dragging Tim with them, and Tim shot a victorious look Bernard’s way. One that clearly said and you doubted me.
“Come on, you can buy us sodas while your bud takes his shot at her.”
“Or a double bacon burger.”
Bernard sneered at Tim, and Tim just dialed up his smugness.
“I’m going to kill you for this.” Bernard muttered.
He was pretty sure Tim was too far out of earshot to even have a chance of hearing him, but the intent was there.
With the football guys and Tim gone, Bernard forced himself to his feet. He really didn’t want to try and ask Darla out.
Not only was it going to be mega embarrassing when she turned him down, there was always the risk that she’d say yes, and Bernard would have to fake date her until either he figured out a good excuse for breaking up with the girl he’d basically called a Goddess for a full year, or until he could convince Darla to break up with him.
And even if he did convince her, then he’d have to act utterly heartbroken about it for at least a month. God.
But he didn’t have any good reason for not going to ask her out, especially not when Tim had been willing to risk getting beaten up by three giants, so he slinked across the diner to Darla’s table and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Uhm…so…uh, Darla. I was sorta wondering if—” This wasn’t working. He needed to be more convincing. “You see, I—”
“Hi, Bernard.” Darla grinned. “Your friend Tim is really funny. And cute, too. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”
Oh.
That was so much worse, actually.
Bernard looked away, clenching his jaw. “Yeah. Yeah, he has a girlfriend. Name’s Stephanie.”
“Oh.” Darla deflated.
It felt a little bit like a betrayal to shoot that down so quickly, but Tim was the one always insisting that he had a girlfriend, and if he’d wanted to ask Darla out, he should’ve done it himself. Not sent Bernard over like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Does she go to our school?”
“Dunno. Never met her, so I guess not. Hey, I gotta go get Tim back his math notes, so—”
“Yeah, okay. Have a nice night, Bernard. And let me know if Tim and this Stephanie girl ever decide to call it quits.”
“Sure.”
Bernard trudged away, back to his own table, and sank down. Stole a few fries. Dragged the entire basket over to his side, because forget Drake, he didn’t deserve any.
Part of him wanted to steal Tim’s soda, too. But that felt a little too preschool. Oh, an indirect kiss! Hehe, giggle giggle.
He scowled to himself.
Stupid fucking Tim. Stupid fucking gayness. Stupid fucking Bernard.
“Hey.”
And there went Bernard’s heart, soaring at the sound of Tim’s voice. Traitorous organs.
“Guess it didn’t go too hot?” Tim asked, sliding into the booth. He fiddled with the straw in his coke glass, making the ice clink, and Bernard sighed.
He finally looked up, catching Tim’s eyes.
Oh, God.
That was pity.
Tim was looking at him with pity over a girl.
Stomach twisting into tight knots, Bernard shoved the fries away, back towards Tim. He kinda wanted them to spill over into Tim’s lap and get ketchup all over him. Unfortunately, Tim caught them. His stupid, amazing reflexes wouldn’t even let Bernard get a little bit of petty revenge.
“Drake. Listen to me.” Bernard leaned forwards and hissed, “if you ever do that to me again, I’ll sneak into your room while you’re sleeping, bind and gag you, and sell you to Bolivian organ pirates.”
Tim blinked.
His lip twitched.
“Don’t.” Bernard said.
“But—”
“I’m serious, Drake!”
Tim slapped a hand over his mouth, breaking into a big grin, and his shoulders shook. Bernard slipped so far down in the booth that their knees brushed, hiding his face.
“I hate you so much.” Bernard grumbled.
“C’mon, Bern. You’ll laugh about this in a few months.”
Taking a deep breath to force away the butterflies he got from the nickname, Bernard crossed his arms. “You’re paying for these fries. And buy me a milkshake, while you’re at it.”
“What flavor?”
“I don’t care. Mint chocolate.”
“Gross, that’s just toothpaste with milk.”
“Which one of us just got traumatized?”
Tim snorted, kicking Bernard’s leg to get him to move so he could stand, and said, “I’ll be right back with your trauma shake. Poor wittle Bernie.”
“Drake, I swear to God—”
_____
Part of Bernard had wondered—sorta hoped—for a while that Stephanie was fake. That she was a lie, made up to help hide Tim’s own gayness, like Bernard’s crush on Darla.
Except Tim seemed pretty into girls. Other than that one clue, which wasn’t even really a clue, more like wishful thinking, he seemed to be normal. He didn’t fit any of the stereotypes, not even the ones Bernard did.
But maybe it was better that way, better that Bernard just kept hiding. He wasn’t interested in getting a boyfriend just to have to hide him from everyone and everything. Even his own parents.
Still. He was pretty sure Stephanie was fake.
And what’d it hurt to dream?
“Believe me, Bernard. I have no designs on Darla Aquista.” Tim insisted.
They headed towards the school, Tim’s hands in his pockets and Bernard tossing his up as he said, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Drake. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking back.”
Not to mention she literally asked if Tim was single, but Bernard wasn’t gonna just volunteer that information. So what if it was petty?
“I’m happily involved with someone else,” Tim said dryly.
“So you keep saying, but where is this mysterious Stephanie whatshername? Why have I never met her?” Bernard put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. Leaned in conspiratorially. “If you’ve got something you want to tell me, then speak up. We’re buds. I’ll understand.”
I’ll tell you, too.
“We’re two modern, enlightened men in the third millennium, Drake. No need to make up imaginary girlfriends.”
“That’s not it,” Tim said.
Unfortunately, he sounded very genuine.
Drat.
“In any case,” Bernard said, “you don’t want to be fooling around with Darla, anyway. She’s too dangerous for someone as innocent as you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rumor has it that her old man’s the neighborhood leader of the bent nose crowd.” Bernard squished the front of his nose up like a pig’s.
Tim didn’t even notice, much less laugh, he was so busy looking away and saying, “Henry Aquista! Of course! That’s why her name seemed so familiar.”
“What?”
“I’ve just heard of that rumor before.” Tim frowned. “Guess I didn’t connect the dots.”
“Don’t worry too much about it, man. They don’t mess with us, at least not unless you’re planning on getting involved, and I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Tim glanced back, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m the gang type.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want my close friend going and getting himself shot or something.”
Snorting, Tim jerked his head towards class, already walking backwards towards it.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “See ya later, Bern.”
“See ya.”
He faded into the crowd, leaving Bernard standing there feeling like the cast aside woman in a Kiera Knightely movie. He was just missing the rain and the dress.
Stephanie.
Great.
You never had a chance anyway, Dowd, he reminded himself.
Knowing that just kinda made it ache a little worse.
_____
The Drake’s house rocked.
It was more a mansion than a house, and it was right down the street from the Wayne’s, which was super cool. It also explained how Tim’s pseudo grandpa was actually Bruce Wayne’s butler, and how he gave Tim school lunch every day.
Then there were Tim’s parents. Bernard already knew Janet, Tim’s bio mom, had died years ago to a ransom demand. It was all over the news, though Bernard hadn’t connected the dots to Tim until they were already friends. But he’d never expected Tim’s dad or stepmom to be so cool.
Especially not when Tim had shown up at school with that black eye back at the beginning of the year. Tim had claimed it wasn’t his dad, but Bernard hadn’t really believed him.
He was starting to, though.
Seeing them interact at the dinner table, Tim wasn’t acting like a kid trying not to set off his dad’s anger issues, though he was acting a little dodgy. Had been for days.
And then there was Tim’s stepmom, Dana. She’d made dinner herself, and her cooking alone would’ve been enough to make Bernard fall for her, if it weren’t for the fact that he liked dudes. Like the dude sitting directly beside him.
Which, in and of itself, was a problem.
He was pretty sure he’d been a little too obvious with Tim while they were at Twiddle D’s, studying for their midterms. He’d grabbed Tim’s hand at least twice. Stared at him for too long. Forgot to focus on what Tim was explaining in favor of just listening to his voice.
So, now, Bernard had to find a convincing yet subtle way to prove to Tim that he wasn’t gay. He refused to lose Tim because he was too stupid to remember not to let on that he had a crush. They were friends before anything else.
Unfortunately, the only real thought that jumped out at him was Dana. Tim’s stepmom.
All sorts of awkward.
“Would you like some more potatoes, Bernard?” Dana asked.
“Oh, no, mrs. Drake.” Bernard said. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
She set the plate back down with a warm grin. “Then I guess we’ll save the key lime pie for a bit later.”
While she sat back down, folding her hands, Tim shoved his own chair back and stood. Bernard took the hint.
“Everything was wonderful, Dana,” Tim said in a strangely fake voice.
“Yes, mrs. Drake. You were perfect! Uh—I mean, the food was—”
Before Bernard had to fake embarrass himself further, Tim asked, “want to play some Xbox until dessert’s ready?”
Bernard nodded frantically.
“Oh, yeah. I brought the new Batman and Robin game—totally unauthorized.”
Nearly tripping over Tim’s heels in his rush to get out of the dining room before he either died of embarrassment or Tim’s dad grabbed him by the collar and tossed him out, Bernard followed Tim to the stairs.
His room was nice.
A total mess, but nice.
He had a giant bed, some skateboard posters, and a computer of his own. The closet door was open, letting clothes spill out to join the mix already on the floor. The top two drawers on the dresser hadn’t been closed properly. The desk itself was a cluttered mess of comic books, the games, a TV, and a little boombox.
Leaning against the door to close it, Bernard inwardly cringed, but said, “oh, man! Oh, man! Oh, man! Drake, your stepmom is so—hot!”
“Bernard!” Tim snapped.
He was fiddling with the controllers, getting the game set up, having already snatched it out of Bernard’s bag. He spared half a second to shoot a glare over before refocusing.
Sorry, Tim.
“She’s a Goddess! Are you the luckiest guy in history, or what? You’re living every coming-of-age movie ever made, Drake!”
“Stop it.” Tim said, clenching his fists around the controller.
If he whirled around and popped Bernard right on the nose, he’d probably deserve it. But, unfortunately, Bernard was more interested in making sure Tim never, ever realized the truth than whether or not he was making Tim angry.
“And she looks closer to your age than your dad’s. What is he, forty or fifty at least? And she can’t be older than twenty or so, right?”
“Bernard.” Tim said. His voice was glacial. “Take my advice.”
Bernard blinked.
He’d never heard Tim sound like that before, and he kinda wanted to hear it again. It made his heart flutter.
“You really need to stop talking. Right now.” Tim glared.
Sweet. Sounded like he’d bought it.
“I’m just messing with you, man,” Bernard said. “Well, not about Dana being hot, but about the age thing. I don’t actually think your dad’s a creep.”
Tim’s grip tightened around the controller, and then he tossed it down, glaring daggers at Bernard.
“Just—just shut up, Bernard—” Tim rasped. “I will punch you in the throat, and it will fucking hurt.”
Raising his hands in surrender, Bernard took a step back, his eyebrows furrowing. “Okay, okay. Dial it back, Tim. What’s wrong?”
He had a pretty good idea, considering he wasn’t actually that big of an asshole. But he hadn’t expected Tim to be quite that mad.
“Nothing.”
He grabbed the controller again and stomped towards his bed, shoulders tight. Bernard took the other, following warily.
“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Bernard muttered. “I promise not to make any more jokes about your stepmom, okay?”
“It’s not that,” Tim said, huffing. He ran a weirdly trembling hand through his hair.
Bernard had the completely illogical thought to reach out and hold it, to try and steady his hands for Tim, and he grasped the controller firmly to make sure that under no circumstances would he do that.
“I just…God, I’m sick of people acting like everyone else is just there for them, that they don’t have thoughts and feelings and opinions of their own.”
Blinking, Bernard said, “I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I know, Bernard. It’s not about you. Not really.”
“Then, who..?” He frowned. “Darla?”
Tim flinched, jaw tightening, and Bernard sat up a bit straighter. “Dude, seriously? I heard you guys kissed, but I thought—I mean, you’re totally into her.”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, I get it, you’re with Stephanie or whatever, but a fake girlfriend over Darla? What sort of weirdo are you, Drake?”
“She’s not fake.” Tim snarled. “It’s that exact thinking that made Darla think it was okay to just kiss me out of nowhere, and now she’s upset with me, and I’m the one who has to feel guilty because I cheated on my girlfriend. It’s not fair. ”
He tossed the controller aside, letting it bounce off his pillow, and buried his face in his hands.
Bernard’s stomach twisted.
Shit.
Maybe…maybe Stephanie wasn’t as fake as he’d thought. Either that, or Tim was a really, really convincing actor. Cause he seemed genuinely torn up over the idea of having cheated on her.
And maybe Bernard hadn’t had to be that convincing in his Dana act.
“It’s not your fault,” Bernard said, without even really meaning to.
Tim stiffened.
It wasn’t that Bernard couldn’t sympathize with Darla—at least a little, anyway—because he also wanted to kiss Tim. He was pretty sure anyone with a brain and eyes who was roughly in the high school age range wanted to kiss Tim. And Bernard was only a little biased.
But even if Bernard and Darla were both convinced Stephanie was fake, Tim had made it pretty damn clear he had no interest in dating anyone at school.
How much clearer could you be than making up a fake girlfriend?
“If Darla kissed you, it’s not your fault. I mean, c’mon, I think you’re a total doofus for not wanting to kiss Darlia Aquista, but that doesn’t mean it’s cool for her to just plant one on you without permission. That’s some serious suckage,” Bernard said.
Slowly, reluctantly, Tim peeked through his fingers.
“You think?” He asked quietly.
Bernard fiddled with the controller in his hand. Wiggled the joysticks. “I know. I mean, everyone always talks about consent but never when it applies to dudes. And either way, nobody actually cares, they just like to sound good.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Tim didn’t sound any more convinced than Bernard was. “It was just a kiss.”
“You seem real guilty for someone who doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”
“I just…I’m with Steph. I shouldn’t be kissing other girls.”
“You didn’t. Another girl kissed you. If Stephanie doesn’t get that, you shouldn’t be with her anyway.” Bernard shrugged. “Simple logic, Tim, my man.”
“When you say it, maybe. Still seems like a big pile of spaghetti to me.”
“Look, if it’s tearing you up this bad, talk to your girl. Explain what happened, say you got Darla to back off, and that you thought she deserved to know what happened. She’ll understand.”
“I would,” Tim said, looking away, “but I can’t get a hold of her.”
“Can’t—huh? I thought you said you know where she lives?”
Tim made a face. “Yeah, but I’m not just gonna show up at her apartment. Her mom would hate me.”
“So, what? You’re just gonna stew in this until Stephanie gets off her butt and calls you back? That’s not fair on you,” Bernard said.
“It’s my problem, not hers. My fault.”
Bernard groaned, scrubbing his face, then grabbed Tim’s arm.
He needed Tim to look at him, to understand what he was saying. To get it through his thick skull. “This isn’t your fault, Tim. It doesn’t matter if it was just a kiss or not, if it upset you, then it’s a problem. And Darla didn’t even apologize!”
“Bernard…” Tim trailed off.
He looked so confused, so torn, that it kinda made Bernard feel sick.
Tim was always confident. He knew who he was, what he was doing, and never seemed to falter. It was like watching a tight-rope walker at a circus slip; Bernard knew that wasn’t supposed to happen, but he didn’t know how it had or what to do about it. He didn’t even know if there was a net under the rope.
Then, in the space of a blink, Tim’s face went completely blank. Like he’d flipped a switch.
“It doesn’t matter.” He said. “It’s not like it’s the first time. I can’t afford to fall apart over something like this.”
Bernard blinked.
Not the first —?
Twisting to grab his controller, Tim asked, “did you wanna play that game now, or should we go get pie, then play?”
“What? Tim—”
“Yeah. Pie sounds good.”
Tim vanished into the hall and left Bernard staring after him, utterly confused.
_____
Robin was missing.
He hadn’t been in the news for a while, which was normal after a big Arkham breakout, but there hadn’t been anything like that. Batman wasn’t being any more brutal than normal. As best Bernard could see, it seemed like Robin had just left. Quit, maybe. Gotten fired?
Then, on his way to school, Bernard spotted the newspaper.
Robin was back.
Robin was a girl.
On the one hand, cool. Why not let a girl try out the role? And it proved Bernard’s theory that there had been several Robins. The blonde hair kinda threw off his thoughts about Batman’s orphanage shipping hair dye along with the kids, but maybe blond was the new look. It almost, sorta worked better with the suit. Like, if the suit’s so bright, why have the hair be dark?
On the other, it left Bernard frowning a little.
Robin had always been his celebrity crush. They seemed to be about the same age, at least with the current one. The one before him had seemed a little older. It felt weird to see the dude Bernard had spent ages secretly dreaming about kissing under the moonlight be replaced by a girl.
He bought the newspaper and took it to school. If nothing else, he could show it to Tim. He tended to be the last one to know about stuff like this.
Besides, ever since their conversation at Tim’s house, Bernard had been looking for ways to distract him. Tim just kept acting weird. He’d been avoiding Darla, but now they were suddenly friends again, and almost every conversation Bernard had with Tim had been tinged with awkwardness. Like Tim didn’t like that he’d admitted how he felt.
Maybe he just felt bad for yelling at Bernard, but it wasn’t like Bernard didn’t kinda deserved it for the shit about Dana. Even if Bernard knew it’d been an act, Tim didn’t, and that was his stepmom. Of course he’d be protective.
And Bernard had kinda, sorta, accidentally insinuated that Tim’s dad was a creep. So, if Tim was mad at him about that, it’d be understandable.
It made Bernard’s stomach feel like he’d guzzled a six-pack of shaken soda, but that didn’t make it unfair.
He found Tim and Darla hanging out by a small tree near the front of the school, waiting on him. They looked like they were busy talking about something, but before Bernard could hear, Darla glanced over and asked, “what now, Bernard?”
Ignoring her irritated tone—and feeling a flicker of irritation himself—Bernard held up the newspaper.
“Look! It’s a whole new Robin!” He tapped the front page. “And this time he’s a she!”
“Oh, no.” Tim muttered.
He reached for the paper and Bernard handed it over, watching as Tim ripped it open to read the article.
There was a weird, indecipherable expression on his face. He looked almost angry, but it was offset by his eyes, which were closer to…sad?
Whatever it was, Darla looked like she was about ready to reach over and smack him for it.
Bernard doubted Tim was upset because it was a girl, but Darla might take it that way. He really didn’t wanna see WWII on the front lawn of the school, especially not when Tim already looked like he’d been kicked while down, so he scrambled for something to say.
“The old Robin’s dead. Wasted. Singing in the choir invisible.” Bernard sighed. It successfully got Darla’s attention.
“Where? It doesn’t say—”
“You have to read between the lines. It happens all the time.”
Darla raised a judgemental eyebrow. Tim sat forwards on his knees, still reading closely. “Everyone knows the Batman owns a bunch of secret orphanages all over the world—where he gets his Robins from.”
“So you’re saying there’s actually lots of—” Darla started.
“No, just one at a time, but he needs to constantly replace them, because they’re constantly getting killed off.”
Tim stood, shoving the paper into his backpack with an aggressive crinkle. “With all due respect, Bernard, you don’t know what you’re talking about—as usual. We don’t even know if the Batman exists. Batman’s as much of an urban myth as your secret orphanages.”
Trying to shove down the sting of Tim’s tone, or his “as usual” comment, Bernard stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“And how would Batman hide all the bodies, then?” Darla asked.
They started towards the school, Bernard and Darla leading the way. Tim trailed a little behind. Like he was purposefully not walking with them.
It was more than a little weird; Tim was normally right next to Bernard when they walked, and ever since the whole Darla-kissing-him thing, he’d been drifting further and further away. Bernard couldn’t tell if it was irritation at him or at Darla or at something else entirely, but he couldn’t help but feel a little responsible.
“Secret government graveyards,” Bernard said, trying not to look back at Tim.
“Stop it, Bernard.” Tim snapped.
“The government’s part of this? So Batman really works for the president?” Darla asked.
“Of course not, don’t be stupid. It goes way higher than the president. Black chamber, black-ops stuff.” Bernard shot Darla a look. “Batman works for the shadow government that really runs everything.”
They stopped in front of Darla’s locker, Tim leaning against the wall sullenly. Bernard tried to be sneaky in his glances, but judging by the way Tim glowered even more, he wasn’t succeeding.
“Maybe that’s how things are in your world, Bernard.” Darla sighed. “I’m just glad to see a girl finally got the job.”
Bernard shrugged, saying, “well, don’t get used to her. She’s doomed.”
He opened his mouth to continue, only to be interrupted by Tim shoving past him, head down and grip tight on his backpack strap. Bernard stared at his slowly shrinking back.
“I hear they only last about three days each,” he said distractedly.
“Oh, you’re so full of—”
“No, really. I know a guy who works for a guy on the inside.”
Darla rolled her eyes and slammed her locker shut. “Sure, Bernard. Don’t you have class to be getting to?”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
She drifted away into the crowd, leaving Bernard standing alone in the hall, a pit in his stomach.
Maybe he’d taken things too far with the Dana facade at dinner. Maybe he should’ve shut up about Robin when Tim asked. Maybe…he probably shouldn’t have let himself get so attached to Tim in the first place, honestly.
He knew how crushes ended for guys like him. Either they died in the back of their minds, a total secret, or they ended badly. Dangerously, sometimes.
Tim was a stupid, stupid phase, and Bernard needed to grow up. Get real.
Friendships didn’t work if one person was harboring a secret mega crush. Especially not when it was two guys.
_____
Hiding out with his classmates, Bernard had been convinced he was about to die.
He’d prayed for the first time in years. Wished desperately that Batman or someone would show up and handle it. Hell, he’d take Superman, Gotham-Metropolis rivalry be damned.
Then he found out Darla had been shot, and everything got so much worse, so much more real.
The whole time, Tim looked like he was about five seconds from bolting out the door, and then he had bolted, and all Bernard could think was that he was about to lose both of his closest friends, if not his own life, and he just wanted his mom.
He really, really wanted his mom.
The version of her that he’d had as a kid, where he went to her after nightmares and she soothed him and cuddled him close and he cried into her shoulder, but everything felt so much less scary. That mom.
He didn’t have that. He had Darla bleeding out on a table and Tim Drake going out into the hallway with a baseball bat and a death wish.
He had an entire school on lockdown.
He had the distinct urge to panic.
“Where are you going, Drake?”
That could’ve been Bernard’s last words to his best friend.
Not his crush. Not then. His crush was a one-sided failure, but their friendship was something important, something that mattered, at least to him. And he hadn’t even tried to stop Tim.
Bernard had locked the door after Tim left, just like he’d ordered. If he was a better, braver person, he would’ve gone with.
But he was just a regular dude.
Tim, apparently, wasn’t.
That first day, Bernard had been right on the money.
Tim Drake was an enigma.
There was no explanation for him. No way to see through his masks. He was an onion made of diamond or steel, and Bernard couldn’t seem to get through those layers no matter how long or how hard he tried.
_____
Living in Gotham for your entire life meant that, when your car began to float, your immediate reaction is something akin to oh, fuck.
“Hey, Linda. It’s me, Bernard.” He cringed at the sound of his very female date’s voice. “No, I didn’t stand you up. I’m still trying to find your house.”
He took the next left, phone pressed against his ear, and the front of his car hit a bump. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but N.S.A code-breakers couldn’t decipher your directions.” Bernard blinked. “And also, now my car’s rising into the sky.”
A blink.
Oh.
His car was rising into the sky.
Fuck.
Frantically, Bernard scanned the area around him, searching for the cause, searching for the ground, and yelled, “omigod! Omigod! I’m not kidding! My car’s actually flying!”
Metal squealed, and there was a smell like burning rubber. Bernard recoiled into his shoulders and screamed.
“Help me! Help me! Get the—hang up and dial 911! Tell them I’m at the corner of—of—oh, great! I don’t know where I am, because your directions stink!”
Then he dropped his phone, car ripping apart around him and leaving him floating in midair in front of a woman dressed all in red and black, with a face like a ghost. Her eyes were glowing an eerie, piercing yellow.
Her voice was thunder, echoing from everywhere when she said, “Bernard Dowd.”
Bernard curled up, still clutching the steering wheel. It’d ripped clear away from the rest of the car.
“You were Tim Drake’s friend. You’ll know where he moved to.” The woman-ghost- thing intoned.
“Oh, no! Oh, no! ” Bernard screeched. “Please don’t drop me! Don’t kill me, lady! I’m nobody worth killing! Honest! I’m begging you, lady, don’t kill me!”
The woman blinked, eyes calming. She looked about two percent less like a supervillain. The dramatic cape and the fact that they were in Gotham still left it at a solid ninety-eight percent likely, though.
“Settle down, Bernard.” She said. Bernard whimpered. She knew his name, that couldn’t be good. “Aren’t we old friends? Why would I even contemplate harming you?”
Gasping, Bernard writhed in the air, even as the woman began to lower them. “That voice—you look a little like—Darla Aquista?”
But that wasn’t possible. He’d seen—
“But you’re dead! You died! I saw you!”
He’d had nightmares for months after, with Tim and Darla’s faces swirling together, blood pouring out of both of them as they cursed him for not saving them. Of Darla coming to rip him apart, because it’d been her who died and not him. Of her horribly still face.
“Yeah, it’s me, Bernard. But don’t call me Darla anymore. It’s best she remain dead. I’ve decided to go by Laura Fell now.” She frowned. “That’s the false I.D. I was able to get.”
“And you’re some kind of costumed superhero now?” Bernard asked, looking around as he was set—remarkably gently—on the pavement.
The parts of his car were scattered wildly around them, like it’d been blown up from the inside. He could distantly see a tire rolling away.
“Actually, I think I’m supposed to be working for the other side, but it remains to be decided. That’s part of why I desperately need to find Tim,” Laura said.”
“Tim? Why—what good is Drake gonna be? He’s nobody special.”
A lie.
He was the idiot who’d run out of the mostly-safe room with nothing but a baseball bat. From the stories everyone told, he was the one who’d kept Darla alive for as long as she was. Tim was amazing.
And something in the pit of Bernard’s stomach was telling him he shouldn’t send the superpowered girl who’d died and come back to life right to Tim’s doorstep. It felt rude.
“Let me handle the why, Bernard. Do you know where he is?”
“I—um—look, this is way too weird.” Bernard gestured to the parts of his car. “There’s a diner near here, can we talk there? I needa sit down.”
Slightly reluctantly, Laura nodded. “Fine. I’ll meet you there. Don’t try and run.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She flew away, leaving him to stumble a few blocks over to the diner, head spinning.
Darla— Laura —was alive. She had powers and a mega creepy costume, and she’d destroyed his car, and now she was looking for Tim.
Maybe it was the remnants of his crush, maybe it was because they’d been friends for so long, maybe it was guilt, but when Bernard arrived and found Laura waiting, he decided he was gonna be as vague as possible.
No way was Bernard willing to get himself tortured or killed or something just to avoid giving up what he knew, but he could at least try.
They settled into a booth, Bernard ordering an iced coffee and Laura ordering hot chocolate.
He stared at her.
In the time it took for Bernard to get to the diner, Laura had changed into a deep red dress, revealing her hair up in a ponytail and her exaggerated makeup. She looked like some sort of walking Hot Topic ad, except cooler.
“So? Where’s Tim?” Laura asked.
“Well…I don’t know, exactly. I mean, when they closed Grieve high school down, after the shootings, they split the students up and sent them all over the place. With the settlement money we got, my folks sent me to a private school.” Bernard slumped over the table, hand in his hair. “I’m not sure where Tim ended up, but I heard he moved clear out of town. Bludhaven, maybe? That sounds right.”
Of course it did. Tim had a sorta older brother named Dick Grayson who lived over in Bludhaven.
God, if Laura went after Tim, he might get Tim’s whole family involved. They could all be in trouble.
Bernard made a split-second, win-win decision.
“Listen, Darla—I mean, Laurie—”
“Laura.”
“I know why you want to find Tim—” No, he didn’t. “—to help you sort through this. But if you can’t find him, why not use me? I can help you become, y’know, a superhero. I can be your manager, or maybe even partner. Maybe you can give me powers?”
“I don’t think that’s the way it works,” Laura said flatly.
“Okay. I had to take a shot. You can at least fix my car, right?”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, that was one mean, dangerous way to get my attention,” Bernard said.
Laura lifted her mug, nails sharp against the glossy white, and stared at him over the lip. “It’s these powers, Bernard. They’re born of darkness and make me want to do dark things.”
Oh.
She set her mug back down. Floated wordlessly out of the booth.
The second the bell over the diner door jingled, announcing her departure, Bernard slid down in his seat and groaned. “Oh, man. What the fuck was that?”
_____
Bernard had no idea what he was doing.
He was jogging up the steps to a fancy, expensive restaurant to meet someone he hadn’t talked to since the dude disappeared with a baseball bat in the middle of one of, if not the scariest experiences of Bernard’s life. He was pretending like the pain cult he’d just signed himself up for—allowed himself to be tortured for—didn’t have a mysterious “final test” of the interview portion. That he hadn’t been looking over his shoulder every few minutes for weeks.
Maybe that was why he was meeting Tim. Because, honestly? Bernard was kinda scared.
He wasn’t supposed to be. He didn’t really mind the pain. In some terrifying moments, he liked it.
It was like an adrenaline rush, better than roller coasters or driving too fast in Gotham or any of the other billions of things Bernard had tried.
But with Tim, back in Highschool, being with him was Bernard’s adrenaline rush. Maybe he was hoping that finding Tim again would bring that feeling back. Maybe he just kinda wanted to see a familiar face that didn’t look at him like he was scum, or like he was an opportunity, or someone to pity.
Bernard wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he just wanted to find it. Hoped he stumbled across it before he got himself killed.
Because that was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Toeing the line?
Ever since that thing with Laura, he’d been training. Learning to fight. Learning to stop being Bernard Dowd, wimpy kid who needs to send a creepy superpowered dead girl towards his ex-best friend in order to save his own ass, learning to be Bernard Dowd, could totally sweep someone off their feet. Literally, now.
And a decent part of that was Tim’s influence.
It was easy for Bernard to say he looked up to Batman, Robin, and the others. They were heroes.
But Tim? He was just a guy. Just a dude in a t-shirt and jeans who’d kicked serious ass and been brave enough to survive. And there was something about that that Bernard liked. That he was inspired by.
If a regular, normal person could live like that, why couldn’t Bernard?
Not that Tim had ever been completely normal.
But considering Bernard was still half-convinced that Batman was either a Vampire, turned at a young age without vampire guidance to turn him evil, leaving him to become a hero, or a werewolf from Krypton, and they lived in a city where pain cults ran amok and breakouts at the local Asylum were practically scheduled, Bernard could give Tim a pass. He was normal in comparison to all of that.
And, sure, Tim wasn’t Bernard’s only influence. He was just…sort of the only good one.
His parents hadn’t been around much when he was younger. Physically, sure, but emotionally? They were distant at best.
Until he was a teenager, they did okay. His mom was great. Cuddled him after nightmares, held him close. His dad had taken him to baseball games and showed Bernard music from when he was a kid. But right around the time Bernard started figuring out that he wasn’t exactly straight, they’d pulled away.
At least they hadn’t kicked him out or anything. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of worse responses they could’ve had than apathy and distance.
Then, once they got the settlement money from the school after the shooting, his parents withdrew even more. He got sent to a private school. His parents took more vacations. Called less. His house was perpetually cold from lack of body heat, even his own, thanks to him spending as much time as he could “proving” that he was straight by dating random girls.
Bernard wouldn’t be surprised at all if his parents knew about the various injuries across his body and just didn’t care. If they’d seen the welts and bruises and ignored it.
Part of him wished they would notice. Maybe they’d actually do something about it. Act like his parents again.
The rest wished they’d never stopped being his parents in the first place.
He had to wonder, if his parents hadn’t been like that, if they’d been good like they were supposed to be, would he have still wound up there? If pain didn’t have that connotation in his head, would he have agreed to join the cult?
Because part of him reveled in it. He wanted it to hurt more because pain meant attention and it meant that he was actually on someone’s radar for once instead of locked in the back of their minds like a fucking afterthought.
His parents had never touched him, never beat him, but at this point, any physical contact registered as both good and bad in equal measure to Bernard. It burned the same way.
Was it normal to not know the last time you got a hug?
No matter how many second thoughts Bernard had about joining a cult centered around pain, he still felt the thrum in his veins every time his jacket brushed against one of his bruises and it hurt in that good, burning way. When he stared at his ceiling at night feeling lonely and lost, he’d tap at the welts and they’d flare.
It felt like he was drunk on the pain. He didn’t know when that’d happened, or even really how he’d wound up as part of this group, but he was in it. Just waiting for the final test.
Taking the last few steps up to the restaurant at a jog, Bernard shoved those thoughts away.
He was here to meet Tim, not to get philosophical and introspective. And speaking of Tim—
Damn.
Bernard didn’t know Tim could get any more good looking.
He was wearing a plain black jacket over jeans and some high-tops, nothing special, but it fit him well. His hair was short again, not like what Bernard had seen when he’d checked Vicki Vale’s article about Bruce Wayne adopting Tim. From the back, he looked…put together. Nice. Insert more respectful ways to describe someone you kinda wanted to kiss breathless.
And he was taller, too. By the time Bernard got right up behind him and reached out to tap his shoulder, he’d realized that Tim was only a few inches shorter, as opposed to the big gap they’d had in Junior year.
“Tim?” Bernard asked.
He spun, and Bernard had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth from falling open. He probably looked like a stiff cardboard cutout, anyway.
Because Tim’s face was—if he’d been a knockout in high school, then he was a flat out model, now.
The strings of lights hanging overhead were catching his eyes, making them sparkle, and lighting up each individual freckle dusting across his cheeks. He grinned at Bernard, showing off his lips.
“Bernard!” Tim cried happily. Bernard’s heart squeezed. “There you are.”
The remnants of the wildfire that had been Bernard’s crush in highschool were officially sparking back to life.
Tim leaned in for a hug, and Bernard just let him, clenching his jaw at the muscles he could feel in Tim’s arms beneath the jacket. He didn’t particularly trust his voice not to come out squeaky.
“Wanna go sit down? I hear this place has good burgers,” Tim said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
Like an idiot, Bernard just awkwardly said, “they sure do.”
Tim started to lead the way over towards a vacant table. Bernard hurriedly caught up with him, cleared his throat, and threw an arm around his shoulders like he used to do so easily.
“But just to be clear—we’re not splitting the bill, Tim Wayne .” Bernard teased, like it was still Junior year, like they were friends and not something closer to acquaintances, like Bernard’s heart wasn’t beating out of his chest at the fact that his arm was around Tim.
“Oh, God, not that,” Tim said, groaning. “I forgot you’d have heard about it.”
“Dude, are you kidding? It was everywhere.”
“I know, the news grabbed it like a dog with a bone, thanks to Drake Industries going bankrupt and dad’s death, it made it look like Bruce was trying to adopt me for my money. It didn’t help that I tried to put it off for so long.” Tim’s face fell a little at the mention of his dad, but then he grinned, and said, “joke’s on them, though. I’ve been the one stealing Bruce’s money, not the other way around.”
Bernard laughed, climbing up onto his bar stool. Much more gracefully, Tim sat across from him, and Bernard leaned forwards eagerly.
“So, what even happened there? How’d you wind up with the Wayne’s?” Bernard asked.
“I was already friends with them. You know that I used to visit Dick all the time in Bludhaven, and Alfred—the Wayne’s butler—made me lunch and stuff.”
“Yeah, but family friends doesn’t normally equate to…”
“To adopting you after your father’s horrific murder?” Tim asked, lifting an eyebrow, a sad smile on his lips. “Yeah. I know.”
He paused, fiddling with his jacket sleeve. Bernard opened his mouth to change the subject, but Tim sighed and said, “it just worked out, y’know? Bruce heard about dad and talked to Dick, and called commissioner Gordon to see who’s care I was being placed in. I have an uncle and stuff, so it took a while for him to convince me, but he was pretty persistent. Wanted me to be somewhere safe.”
“Persistant...and then mr. Wayne just adopted you?” Bernard asked doubtfully. “Awful generous of him.”
His stomach rolled a little, remembering all of the horrible stories he’d heard of rich families adopting kids just to use them for their public image or the kid’s money or, sometimes, something even worse. He’d used to suspect that Bruce Wayne was part of Gotham’s mafia; his father, Thomas Wayne, had old connections to some of the bigger crime families. It wasn’t even one of Bernard’s wilder conspiracies.
“It’s a habit of his.” Tim grinned. “Now I’ve got more nosy family members than I know what to do with.”
“He’s not forcing you to go into the family business or anything, is he?”
He’s not forcing you to be part of the mob, is he?
“No. I mean, it’s an option. But I don’t know if I want to do that, you know?”
“What, you don’t know exactly what you’re going to do every minute of the day?” Bernard asked, shooting Tim a teasing look. “You’ve definitely changed. You were always the most driven kid in class. Not like me, unless the drive was beating you at video games.”
Tim chuckled, but he had a weird, serious look in his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s like…my programming’s corrupted. Has been for a while, I think. And I haven’t been able to figure out how to fix it…”
Once he trailed off, Bernard nodded.
He could understand that. His own life felt like it had done some strange sort of one-eighty from the last time they’d known each other, even if it was probably in a different way. Where Tim was claiming not to have something he was aiming for, Bernard did. They’d flip-flopped in the strangest way.
“But what about you, Bernard? What do you want?” Tim asked.
Bernard grinned, looking for an answer that didn’t include the words pain or cult, but before he could, there was a brittle crash. Tim’s head whipped around.
His gaze snapping up, past Tim’s shoulder, Bernard sucked in a horrified breath.
There’d been rumors—
He hadn’t—
Shit.
Shit.
“So ordered. So mannered. Disgusting!”
Someone, several someones, screamed. Tables crashed to the floor and chairs skittered out of the way as half the people fled, the others stuck like they were watching a train derail and couldn’t rengage their brains.
The monster’s voice was guttural when it said, “It’s time for Gotham to experience a little chaos.”
It was some horrible thing with no mouth, just ominously bright eyes and horns with crusty suckers on the inside.
The arms, thick like tree trunks with bulging veins, said it was a human in a mask, but watching it survey the restaurant patio with something like hunger made Bernard doubt himself. The thing didn’t look human at all.
And then there was the body laying prone beneath the creature. A waiter, covered in blood and glass.
Bernard couldn’t see whatever wound had taken him down, thanks to the way the waiter’s body was turned. He didn’t want to.
“The waiter!” Someone screamed. “He’s dead! ”
More chaos erupted around them, and in the midst of it, Tim stood up.
He faced the monster.
“Bernard, get under the table.” Tim ordered coldly.
Doing as he was told, like his body was on autopilot, Bernard barely found the strength to peek out and watch as Tim walked—slowly, surely, walked—towards the creature.
As he leapt into the air at a speed that left Bernard gasping, fist hauled back.
“You dare fight chaos?”
With inhuman speed, the creature snapped Tim’s arm right out of the air, tucking it into the creature’s elbow. Then, using just that one point of contact, Tim was slammed with bone-cracking force into the wood floor.
“I am not to be defeated.” The creature intoned. “I am chaos.”
It sprayed some sort of gas, dust, something onto Tim’s face. Mounting horror crawling up his throat, Bernard watched Tim struggle. Barely heard him incredulously demand, “what the hell kind of—”
“ Embrace me. ”
And then Tim was down.
Unconscious, hopefully.
Not dead, Bernard prayed. Please don’t be dead.
Because if Tim was dead, that meant that it was his fault, because he knew exactly what that monster was there for. The final part of Bernard’s interview.
He was being tested, and no matter how the cult judged it, if Tim was dead, then Bernard had failed.
The creature turned its attention to Bernard, vicious in its movements. Bernard fixed his gaze on it and ran his tongue over his teeth.
Part of him was terrified, down to his bones. Reduced to the scared little kid who’d gone to his mom after nightmares and asked his dad to check for things in his closet because he couldn’t sleep. Bernard Dowd, coward extraordinaire.
The rest said that this was his chance to do something worth doing, for once. He’d been having second thoughts about this whole thing, but going along with it, allowing himself to be captured or tortured or whatever the creature wanted? If it’d get the creature away from the innocent bystanders (mostly Tim) it was worth it, right?
Bernard stood. Stepped out from behind the table and let the creature approach, suppressing a flinch at the sight of blood dripping off the thing’s claw-like nails and just hoped that it wasn’t Tim’s.
Without a word, the creature sprayed Bernard with the same dust as it’d sprayed Tim.
It took less than a second for Bernard’s head to bob and his legs to go weak, like they’d been hollowed out. He glanced towards Tim with heavy eyes, took a labored breath, and slumped.
_____
Waking up strapped to a table wasn’t Bernard’s idea of a good time.
It was a struggle to keep his wits about him as he tugged at the chain holding his arms awkwardly above him. The creature from the restaurant was standing directly over him with a giant fucking knife that he was gesturing with as he gave a grandiose speech that Bernard’d mostly tuned out. If he didn’t, he was definitely going to start panicking.
Then there were the other creature-people surrounding the weird table—altar?—thing he’d been chained to.
They were all similarly dressed to the first, with variations of the same face, and had spikes and suckers and fur wound in with their outfits. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if they were armed with knives similar to the first’s, either.
The altar itself was cold stone. It had already seeped through Bernard’s thin shirt and his jeans, his jacket discarded somewhere.
At the edges of the room, Bernard could just barely make out what looked like cages. He’d heard whimpers and whispers from young voices. Younger than him, for sure. Young enough that, if they ever got out, their parents would probably come running to fuss over them.
Was it weird that Bernard felt almost jealous?
Refocusing at the problem at hand, Bernard gritted his teeth. The speech was winding down, it seemed, because the first creature raised the knife high.
Loud exclamations from the cells.
The knife came down.
A sharp clang, a surprised shout, and Bernard nearly burst out laughing.
A batarang.
A fucking batarang.
He should’ve known they’d come.
They always did.
The way it’d been thrown, the dramatic wait until the very last second, the confidence that the knife would jolt the right way and not embed itself in Bernard by accident—it had to be Batman.
“Robin? How?” Someone shrieked.
Or not.
“You didn’t know who you were dealing with.” Robin’s voice cut through the air, sharp and confident. “What I have to lose. Also, your masks?”
He paused, and Bernard imagined the cocky smirk. “ Very scary. Definitely not easy to infiltrate at all.”
“You like chaos so much?” Robin asked. He raised his voice louder, nearly shouting as he said, “have some chaos!”
The creatures—no, humans. Robin had said they were wearing masks. Humans—began shouting as smoke filled the room, stumbling every which way. Bernard blinked at the unfolding disorder.
A near silent thump and a shadow, and Bernard found himself staring up at a familiar mask and floppy black hair. “Robin?”
“Let’s get you off that altar.”
Robin got Bernard free in no time, and then he was taking Bernard by the hand, coaxing him to his feet, all while Bernard stared dumbly at him.
This was definitely Robin. His Robin, not the newer, younger one with darker skin and a habit of using words that sounded like they came straight out of a fantasy character’s mouth. This was the same Robin that had been around when Bernard was in high school and really in his Batman and Robin phase.
But he was acting weird.
Every video Bernard had seen of this Robin over the years, every clip of him on the news, said that this Robin didn’t normally take this kind of approach. The snark was right, but the way he’d attacked initially, using the shadows so much, blocking everyone’s line of sight and going straight for Bernard without bothering to use his staff and take anybody down.
“I can’t believe it’s you. I was…” Bernard paused, taking in Robin’s hair, his jawline, the scar carving its way from his hair down into his suit, the way he was standing. Something prickled at the back of his mind. “...obsessed with you. But…you seem different.”
Robin tensed, leaning forwards into a crouch, but he was still holding Bernard’s hand. Squeezing it reassuringly.
“Like you’re trying to be like Batman.”
Immediately, Robin dropped his hand. Stepped forwards and out of reach awkwardly. “Get out of here, now,” he said. “I will take care of this on my own.”
And now he was talking like the solo hero in a cheap action movie made with cardboard props and inflatable muscles.
Great.
Two could play at that game.
Smirking, Bernard turned towards an oncoming shadow, and said, “that’s what you think. I’ve been training.”
Bernard dropped low and kicked up, catching a creature right in the mask and sending him stumbling backwards with at least a broken mask, if not nose, too.
He’d been right on the money about Robin acting like Batman. Even from the little Bernard had seen of Batman, he knew that Batman tended to work alone. His circle was specifically chosen and carefully guarded. Few outside heroes ever entered Gotham and when they did, they left quickly.
Robin didn’t have to work like that. Robin could have a bit of help, especially against the members of a cult that relied on pain as fuel, as a religion. On his own, he’d be in serious danger. Even with the both of them, there was still a pretty decent chance that they’d wind up losing, just because of the sheer numbers they were up against.
“You don’t have to fight on your own,” Bernard said.
More fighting sounds from behind him. He wanted to look so badly, to see Robin in action, but he couldn’t get distracted. They were slowly being circled by the cult members.
The odds were against them, and no matter how much training Bernard had done, no matter that he was being backed by Robin, the situation was looking a little grim.
People liked to say that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.
For Bernard, facing this much danger, it was just his regrets. What he would’ve liked to do.
He’d have thought he’d come up with something he wanted to tell Robin, like how much Bernard looked up to him, that he and Batman had been Bernard’s idols for so long. Maybe that he wished he’d been able to join them, that he’d love to be a hero like they were.
Instead, all he could think about was a familiar face with gentle, knowing eyes, freckles, and a smile that made Bernard feel warm to his core.
“Robin?”
“Yeah?”
“If I don’t make it out…can I ask a favor?”
Robin made a small, almost pained noise.
“You’ll make it out—”
“Please.” Bernard said quietly. “Tell Tim Drake…he helped me realize my true self. Who I am. Tell him…well, he probably knows. He’s the smartest guy I’ve ever met. But tell him…”
When they’d agreed to meet up, Bernard had told himself a dozen times over that it was just as friends. That Tim was probably straight, that even if he wasn’t, he was probably seeing someone, and deserved better than Bernard anyway.
But if he was gonna die, he’d rather be honest.
Bernard shut his eyes for a second. Breathed. “I wish we could have finished our date.”
The cult members exploded forwards, and Bernard moved to meet them with a jab upwards, one fist then the next. Flipped onto his hands to kick up, then spun low to knock someone’s feet out from under them, and came up kicking again.
The sounds of Robin making contact with his own fists, his own boots, various styles of moves that Bernard could never hope to copy, pounded in Bernard’s ears.
They moved together, backs to each other, a steady presence in Bernard’s peripheral.
Then Robin knocked the last member down.
Smoke settling, they stared over the sea of downed members.
Other, random teenagers slowly filed out from behind the bars to stare. Bernard crossed his arms over his chest, breathing harshly and fighting a grin. “Robin….we did it.”
“Yeah.” Robin said. He wiped his hair out of his eyes. “I think we did.”
Everything after that was just a blur. Robin disappeared as quickly as he arrived, sparing a split-second to squeeze Bernard’s shoulder and say, “thank you. You did good.” The police flooded the building’s basement and began rounding up the fallen cult members while other officers escorted hurt and terrified teens to safety.
Bernard was one of the last ones out, he was pretty sure. Adrenaline was still pumping wildly through his veins and he was confident that the crash after he calmed down wouldn’t be pretty.
He’d met up with his biggest crush, got kidnapped, almost got sacrificed to some sort of pain God, got saved by and fought beside Robin, and saved a bunch of people in a blur of a few days. Maybe weeks, if Bernard was real unlucky.
Unfortunately, he eventually was escorted upstairs, where he had his statement taken and he was put into a police car to be taken home. They’d called his parents. The Dowds didn’t answer.
And, there came the crash.
The normalcy of being his parent’s last concern dragged Bernard’s excitement down to the ground floor and past it, and he slumped into his seat.
Maybe they were just asleep. It was dark outside, probably after midnight, right?
He glanced at the car’s display, peering close to read the clock.
Ten-eleven.
His parents didn’t go to sleep until eleven. His dad was religious about catching some Godawful zombie show at ten-thirty, and it wrapped up at ten-forty-five. His mom took that time to either put on a face mask or read the newspaper. Both would have had their phones.
They hadn’t even bothered to answer a call about their kidnapped son.
Sullenly, Bernard stared out the tinted window to his right.
His eyes moved past the other teenagers waiting on a ride or talking to the cops, past the sirens whirling brightly, and towards a somewhat distant building.
Like a magnet searching for a lump of metal, Bernard found himself staring directly at Robin.
He was perched on a fire escape. Barely more than a shadow in the darkness surrounding him, draped around him protectively like a cloak, a comfortable disguise. But Bernard knew it was him.
Snorting, Bernard leaned back and closed his eyes. It wasn’t like he needed his parents. Not really. If they didn’t want him as their son, maybe he’d learn how to not want them, either. Maybe he could build his own sort of family like Tim had.
Robin had seen something in him, down there. Enough to thank him. Enough to tell him he’d done a good job.
That meant so much more than anything Bernard’s parents would ever say.
_____
By the time Bernard got home, the cop driving him seemed a little suspicious that he hadn’t gotten a call back from the Dowds, but he didn’t bother to do anything. Didn’t ask Bernard any questions. Didn’t try to come inside. Just waited for Bernard to open the front door and vanish inside before backing down the driveway.
Unsurprising from a GCPD officer.
Bernard had tried to be quiet about making his way inside. He’d avoided the creakiest spots on the stairs and held his door handle up as he turned it, so it didn’t squeak.
His mom found him anyway.
“Bernard?” She asked.
Freezing, Bernard kept his eyes on his bed.
“Bernard Dowd, the next time you decide to disappear and come home in the middle of the night, I expect at least a note.” Her voice wasn’t particularly stern, but cold goosebumps ran down Bernard’s arms anyway. “Your father was right, I suppose. Teenagers always manage to get themselves mixed up in something.”
Then she shut his door and he was alone.
Again.
Fuck.
On autopilot, Bernard stripped tiredly out of his borderline destroyed clothes. Tossed his sneakers in the corner. Showered with icy water and tilted his head back to let it pelt his face.
Getting dressed was a little difficult, his entire body one giant bruise, but it felt…not nice. But it felt like something, which was better than nothing, he’d long since decided.
Then he sank into bed, staring at the ceiling, fully aware that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
Not after everything.
He would’ve texted Tim to check on him, but his phone was missing. Probably destroyed by the cult members or taken as evidence by the cops.
Getting up and browsing through headlines to see if there was any news about Batman’s activities would’ve been fun, if not for the fact that sitting at his desk would leave his back open to thin air, and he wasn’t ready for that.
So his mind drifted.
Back to Tim.
To the way they’d hugged, to how nice it’d felt to see Tim smile, to the way it’d almost felt like no time had passed at all.
His eyes fluttered shut, a yawn tearing through his jaw, and he wondered if Tim had made it home okay after their disastrous meet up at the restaurant.
Probably. It wasn’t like he had a shortage of people to call.
Maybe Bruce Wayne had picked him up that night and hugged him, saying he was glad Tim was alright. Maybe he’d called Dick Grayson, and Dick’d made the drive from Bludhaven. Maybe it’d been their butler, Alfred. Maybe Tim had been taken home by the cops just like Bernard had.
Probably the first one.
It was weird not to feel jealous at that. Bernard was used to thinking about other kids his age and their parents and wondering why he couldn’t have that kind of relationship, but something about Tim just made him feel warm. Like he was too busy being glad to be anything else.
_____
The morning after he was saved, Bernard was left home alone.
His parents left shortly after he woke up, staying just long enough to remind him that any trouble he got into while out with his friends was his responsibility, because he was eighteen, and that they’d given him too much freedom as a child.
He didn’t know where they were going. Told himself he didn’t care. Ate his breakfast and got dressed and thought about going out, seeing if he could buy himself a new phone.
Then, the doorbell rang.
A thrill of fear went down his spine at the sound, but he shoved it aside. The Chaos Monsters probably wouldn’t have bothered to be that polite; if they’d escaped and tracked him down, he suspected that he’d already either be dead or unconscious.
When he opened the door, he did it slowly anyway. Just to be careful.
A familiar boy stood on the front steps.
“Tim?” Bernard asked, grinning automatically. The only sound in his brain was his own screaming and a panic siren. “H—hi! I’m glad you’re here, I’ve been meaning—I mean—I wanted to say—”
“Bernard, wait. Let me talk.” Tim interrupted.
He paused for a second, just long enough for Bernard’s mind to kick itself and reboot, and for him to run his eyes over Tim in search of any injuries or anything from that night at the restaurant.
Nothing.
Just slightly messy hair, like he’d been running his hand through it. The barest hint of an old scar on his neck, mostly hidden by his collar, but there. Those eyes, soft and looking into Bernard’s like there was nothing he’d rather be seeing.
It was all so Tim, Bernard thought, even as something prickled at the back of his mind.
He was torn away from following it by Tim clearing his throat and shyly looking down, then back up at him.
Bernard was pretty sure his heart was about to beat out of his chest.
“I’m really glad you got home okay,” Tim said, twisting his hands together in front of him. “I was relieved. And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about that night, and I—I don’t know what it meant to me. Not yet. But I’d like to figure it out.”
Calling on all of his willpower, Bernard forced his voice to come out steady, instead of like a squeaky, flustered mess. “I was hoping you would.”
Tim blushed.
Face softening, Bernard reached a hand out towards Tim.
“Tim Drake…do you want to go on a date with me?”
Tim reached back. His face was practically glowing with the strength of his grin.
“Yeah…yeah, I think I want that.”
_____
For a while, Bernard stood on his porch, asking Tim about where he might want to go, what he might want to do, whether he wanted it to be sooner or later.
It wasn’t until Tim reluctantly turned to go, shooting a giddy wave and a smile over his shoulder, that Bernard realized.
His hair.
His shoulders.
That scar.
“Robin.” Bernard said, brain lagging behind his mouth.
Tim, already halfway down the sidewalk, didn’t hear. Bernard was the only witness to his own stupidity.
It was so obvious. The scar was the real key, a jagged line carving down from Tim’s hair to his collar that Bernard had seen just the night before over a very different outfit, but the rest? It all fell into place immediately.
Stuff from highschool, stuff Bernard had heard about on the news, that night at the restaurant. Tim’s incredible bravery. His muscles. His confidence, his swagger. The way Robin had said "what I have to lose," back at the sacrificial alter. He'd...he'd meant Bernard. Losing Bernard.
And if Tim was—
Bruce Wayne.
Fucking Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Bernard’s stomach churned a little.
It was one thing to recognize Robin. It was one thing to have just asked Robin out on a date.
It was another thing entirely to have just asked Batman’s son on a date.