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After nearly a year of dating Tim, there was a lot that Bernard was used to.
He was used to showing up at Tim’s boat at odd times of night and seeing his shadow flutter past the window as Tim moved around inside.
He was used to trudging down the stairs to find Tim wide-awake, even when it was long past midnight.
He was even used to seeing little glimpses of Robin around the boat, the barest signs that Bernard wouldn’t have ever noticed if he didn’t already know, like how Tim’s wardrobe didn’t go as far back as it should’ve.
But something he wasn’t used to, that hadn’t happened before, was Bernard getting to the boat and finding the wrong person waiting there.
Robin, instead of Tim.
Bernard’s first thought was to turn around and leave. He was still on the stairs, and based on the fact that Robin was still slumped over at the table where he’d been before Bernard got there, not turning around to stare at him in horror, he hadn’t noticed Bernard was there yet.
But he only made it one slow, creeping step up before he paused, his heart sinking.
He’d come here because he hadn’t been able to sleep. Had wasted an hour staring at his apartment’s ceiling and the inside of his eyelids before getting up to come over by his own choice. Tim hadn’t texted him anything since that afternoon, much less said anything that made Bernard think that he’d be busy tonight.
And while Bernard was on the bus on the way over, he’d looked at the news; there hadn’t been any sign of a rogue attack.
So why was Tim suited up? And why was he sitting all alone in silence like this, especially so distractedly? It was almost impossible to sneak up on him, but Bernard was less than a few yards away, and Tim wasn’t acknowledging him at all.
Letting his foot sink back down, Bernard’s chest tightened.
“Hello?” He asked quietly, and flinched back when Tim’s knee slammed into the table.
With a jagged groan that was too pained to be from someone with that thick of a knee-pad, Tim half-stood, his head jerking towards Bernard.
They stared at each other for a moment, Bernard holding one hand in front of him and Tim with his pressed to his side. The seconds ticked by as Bernard scanned him over with his breath caught in his throat.
By the time he’d recognized the slowly spreading stain under Robin’s glove as blood, Tim was already slumping back down.
“You,” Tim said, his voice heavy. “My luck’s…I dunno if it’s great or terrible.”
Bernard’s heart was thrumming in his fingers as he crossed the space between them, not even thinking it through before he was holding Tim’s shoulder, face pinched. “What is that?”
“Mh. Blood, I think.”
“That’s not funny.” Bernard squeezed his arm. “We’ve got a first aid kit, I’ll help you. Just go lay down.”
Flicking his tongue over his lips, Tim tried to push himself up. When he faltered, Bernard just barely managed to help him steady himself, and it wrenched a jagged breath from Tim.
Bernard’s stomach twisted as he pulled Tim close and hefted him towards the bed, each little groan making him feel sick, but he managed to get Tim perched on the edge after a long moment.
From there, Tim slumped backwards, his chest heaving as his head lolled to the side. He struggled through a few breaths before they evened out enough for him to say, “M’sorry about this, Bernard. I was nearby, and I remembered you had supplies from when you brought me here.”
“My boyfriend does,” Bernard said, staring down at him. It was taking everything he had not to break and cradle his face. To not admit how worried he was about the slowly spreading red spot under Tim’s Robin armor.“You really don’t look good, Robin.”
“Wow. Double—a double-shutdown. A boyfriend and I’m ugly.”
“You’d have to be flirting with me first for that. I’m gonna get the kit, okay? Just try to put pressure on that wound.”
With a muddled breath, Tim nodded. “Mhm.”
His heart in his throat, Bernard squeezed Tim’s arm once, then moved to the cabinet where they kept the kit. It swung easily open, but when he reached in, there was nothing there. Only spare towels.
Just to be sure, he checked the cabinet beside it. Rechecked the first one. Took the towels out and let them fall to the floor as he scanned the shelves.
“What?” He mumbled, shoving himself back up.
It wasn’t in the bathroom cabinet either. Bernard tore what felt like an entire store aisle’s worth of cleaning supplies out before accepting that the first aid kit wasn’t there, then turned on his heel, heart beginning to thrum painfully.
What was he supposed to do if he didn’t find it? Did he have to call Darcy? Stephanie? Alfred?
Would one of the neighbors have one, and could he even risk asking? What if they pressed to know what it was for? He couldn’t just admit that Robin was on Tim’s boat, hurt and bleeding.
Bernard moved to go back to the cabinets beneath the boat’s small sink before he could begin panicking, swallowing hard. His eyes scanned over every surface around him.
Where would Tim have left it? If it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, then why?
Had he gotten hurt more recently than Bernard had known about?
It wasn’t like Tim ever told Bernard he’d been hurt, but there were always signs. Always a limp to his step or a flinch with his movements or a hitch in his breath when they were kissing and Bernard put his hand on the wrong spot.
Sometimes it was even just that Bernard watched the news and some channel managed to catch a clip of Robin being slung around like a ragdoll, or that Tim’s face looked a little too cakey, like he’d put makeup over a bruise.
The fact that Bernard knew when Tim got hurt was one of the only things that kept his sanity intact when he thought about what Tim did every night. Tim being able to sneak something like that past him made his chest ache like someone was stepping on his windpipe.
By the time he finally did find the first aid kit on the floor by the cubed bookshelves beside Tim’s bed, Bernard was on the brink of screaming.
He grabbed it and practically threw it onto the bed before reaching for Tim’s arm.
“Robin.” He forced himself to say. “You need to let me get to the wound.”
It earned him a little noise, Tim’s head rolling towards him. Sluggish eyes blinked and focused on his face.
“Your shirt. I can’t cut through it, and I don’t know what traps you’ve got set,” Bernard said.
Tim mumbled something incoherent, shifting in place, and for a few stretching seconds, Bernard was sure he was going to ignore him.
Instead, one arm slipped up to tug at his gloves and make room for his suit to come off.
It was clumsy and slow moving, Tim letting out little hisses as he worked his way up his arms to free himself. The longer he struggled, the more it seemed to hurt, and the more he seemed to blink himself back to awareness.
By the time he managed to sit up and get the suit far enough up to slip his head out, Bernard could see the wound. He had to hold in a surprised noise at the wet squelch and the amount of blood smeared over Tim’s skin.
The top half of the suit came off. Tim dropped it to the side with his gloves and the rest of his upper body armor before slumping back down.
If it weren’t for the mask covering his eyes and the amount of red now trickling down Tim's side to stain the bedsheets, Bernard would almost be able to believe this was just Tim in running pants or leggings. That he was taking a moment to catch his breath after exercising.
As it was, he opened the first aid kit and got it set up. Then he dashed back to the kitchen, grabbed a hand towel that hadn’t touched the floor, and soaked it in water.
He figured Tim probably wouldn’t mind one towel getting ruined if it was for the sake of mopping up blood.
When he went back, Tim had tossed an arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly. Bernard gently put his hand on Tim’s stomach to let him know that he was there, pretending he couldn’t feel the way Tim’s skin was rippled and uneven from scars.
The one under his pinkie was long and silvery. The one closer to his thumb dipped into Tim’s skin, a channel where something had cut across his side and taken a bit of him with it.
Bernard took a deep breath before he put the towel up to Tim’s new wound, and Tim pressed his shoulders back into the mattress. He waited a second before he began gently wiping some of the blood away.
Even with the silent warning, Tim jerked up into the towel, letting out a pained wheeze.
“I’m sorry.” Bernard mumbled, pressing the towel down to try and stop more blood from spurting out. “I’m sorry, Robin.”
“S’okay.” Tim managed.
A second later, he gripped Bernard’s shoulder with a half-choked off yell, Bernard freezing where he’d begun to clean the wound again.
He waited in tense silence for Tim to relax even a little before continuing. The last thing they needed was for Tim to instinctively hit or kick at Bernard and for them both to be hurt.
But eventually, Bernard managed to get most of the blood mopped away, and Tim sank back into the bed as the towel was set aside and Bernard finally got a good look at the problem.
It was worse than he’d been expecting, which was saying something, but wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. A long, jagged line across his abdomen, but one that thankfully didn’t look deep. Just painful and scary, at least for Bernard.
Tim had probably seen so many wounds worse than this that he wouldn’t have flinched even if he could see it.
Bernard swallowed hard before pulling out the supplies for stitches.
How Tim didn’t expect him to know about Robin when that was in his first aid kit, he didn’t know, but right now, he was glad that Tim had ignored the risk of exposure. Even if it meant that he had to figure out how to do this, it was better than trying to put Tim back together with Tim’s stash of Crocky the Crocodile bandaids.
The thread didn’t look too freaky, at least, and Bernard told himself that the needle wasn’t that bad. It was just a needle.
Just because it had to go through Tim’s skin like Frankenstein’s monster didn’t make it something to be scared of, right?
He could handle chopping giant things of meat. He could handle prepping fish. He could handle any of the grossest, rawest, most disgusting parts of cooking.
This wasn’t really that different when he thought about it. It was a needle instead of a knife, and his boyfriend instead of a slab of already dead meat, but—same thing.
Close enough.
Right?
When Tim’s hand landed on his, Bernard let out a hitched breath.
“I can do this part,” Tim said hoarsely, and Bernard instinctively pulled back, but even exhausted, Tim was stronger. “It’s safer if I do it.”
“Robin—”
“Just help me keep my hand steady, and I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, forcing himself to sit up while Bernard watched in hesitant silence. When he was upright, another spurt of blood trailed down towards his leg, but he didn’t seem to mind.
As Tim readied the needle and the thread with trembling hands, Bernard tried to recenter his thoughts. Tried to pull himself together.
“Ready?” Tim asked as he put the needle to his skin.
Bernard mustered up a nod, putting his hand on Tim’s. It was as warm as normal, even warmer in the spots where Tim’s blood pressed between their skin, and something about the familiarity was steadying enough that Bernard was able to gently squeeze Tim’s hand as Tim mumbled out instructions.
For a moment, the boat was quiet, just Tim’s purposefully steady breaths and Bernard’s heartbeat in his ears.
The needle slid in. It slid out. There was blood under Tim’s nails and in the space between his fingers.
He lifted the hand he wasn’t using to hold the needle and brushed it over his forehead, leaving behind a little smear of red. Bernard wanted to reach up to brush it away, but he forced his eyes to slip down to Tim’s shoulder.
This wasn’t Tim, he reminded himself. This was Robin, and he had to act like it, or Tim would realize he knew.
Another few stretching moments of Tim running the needle passed before he got to the end of the wound. When he did finally finish, Bernard let go of his hand, reaching over for the towel. He refolded it so that the blood wasn’t going to just get on Tim all over again, then gently wiped over the stitches as Tim held his breath.
Then Bernard sat back on his heels with the closest thing he could manage to a smile that wouldn't look like he'd been stabbed. “Well?”
“Good,” Tim said. He set the needle and remaining thread back into the kit with a little clatter. “Thanks.”
As he sank back onto one elbow, hissing the whole way down, Bernard gathered the kit and the towel. He held them close and stared at Tim’s mostly-cleaned stitches with a sickly feeling crawling between his ribs.
Quietly, hesitantly, he asked, “What happened?”
“Ivy.” Tim’s own voice was low.
Bernard bit the inside of his cheek, scanning him over like he hadn’t already inspected Tim completely.
Poison Ivy was one of the rogues that freaked Bernard out the most. She and Scarecrow both. They had all of those toxins and pollen and whatever that made people lose control, falling into hallucinations and delusions.
After his time with the Children of Dionysus, being manipulated until he wasn’t sure what he believed, the idea of someone being able to wrench his hands away from the wheel of his own mind made his lungs feel tight.
At least Tim didn’t look like he was under any sort of mind control, or nothing that was visible from the last twenty or so minutes, anyway.
“I didn’t see anything about a fight on the news,” Bernard said.
Robin’s whited out mask lenses made it hard to see Tim’s expression, but Bernard knew the rest of his face well enough to see that his eyes had slipped shut. “It was in the botanical gardens. Nobody but the GPCD will know about it until tomorrow when they see the damage.”
With a little grimace, Bernard let his gaze slide over Tim one more time, lingering on the stitches before moving to the other large scars scattered across his skin.
How many fights had there been like that since they’d begun dating? Ones where Bernard had no idea that Tim was out there somewhere, fighting for his life and so many others’?
Had he been asleep while Tim nearly died? Had he been in class?
If Tim died in a fight that no one knew about, how long would it take for the Bats to tell him about it?
Would they even let him know? Or would it be swept under the rug while Tim just vanished from his life like he’d never even been there?
Bernard’s skin prickled. The space behind his eyes burned.
He blinked, but by then, Tim was already leaning forwards. “You okay, Bernard? What’s wrong?”
It felt like a kick to the lungs, how it was Tim’s voice with none of the softness. The careful distance Tim was keeping between them was enough to make Bernard’s heart bristle and crack.
Mustering up a little smile, Bernard gestured to Tim’s midsection.
“My boyfriend has an identical scar here,” He said, the first thing he thought of slipping off his tongue, and something in his chest tightening when Tim’s face dropped.
His skin prickled at the way Tim was obviously searching for some sort of a lie.
“Bernard—” Tim faltered. Stopped and restarted helplessly. “Bernard.”
There was a part of Bernard that wanted to push it. That wanted to press Robin on why his scars were a constellation map of Tim’s. Ask about the times that he was hurt and Bernard didn’t know.
But he knew what this meant to him.
Not completely. He couldn’t when Tim hadn’t been able to explain it yet, since he still thought Bernard was in the dark.
But he knew the basics, had spent too long making his stupid theories and scouring the internet for information on the Bats to not have at least an idea of what secret identities were for and the damage they could do, and it was enough to make any pettiness he might’ve clung to dissolve.
“A splenectomy, right?” Bernard asked with a forced amount of casualness to his tone, and Tim’s expression swooped.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Your boyfriend’s had—?”
“Mhm. It burst when he was seventeen. It’s not something he likes to talk about, but I know the scar.”
Leaning back, Tim huffed a breath. “Wow, I guess it’s not as uncommon as I thought. Maybe I can convince Batman to let me go for that cropped suit, after all.”
Bernard’s lips twitched up against his will. “Yeah, maybe.”
They looked at each other for a second, Bernard just trying to keep himself from reaching out to let his fingers drift over Tim’s scar, before he managed to stand up with the kit and the towel in hand.
As he moved towards the kitchen to put them on the counter, he heard the quiet flop of Tim letting himself lay back down.
When Bernard looked back, he was laying flat, his legs still over the side. There was blood beneath him on the bed that Bernard knew would have to be picked up. The top half of his suit and his gloves were discarded off to the side. He was laying on his belt, which couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t seem to care.
Even though all he wanted to do was go crawl into bed beside Tim and lay with him, Bernard forced himself to head for the stairs.
“I have to go,” Bernard said quietly. “Do me a favor and clean up before you leave.”
Tim let out an affirmative noise, his eyes flickering shut.
Any other time, Bernard would’ve gone over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He would’ve hugged Tim close and murmured into his warm neck how much he loved him. He would’ve stayed, curling up beside Tim regardless of the blood.
But this wasn’t Tim, it was Robin, and Bernard couldn’t let those two streams cross. Not until Tim wanted them to.
With a little sigh, he flicked off the light and started up the stairs.