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When Bernard’s team got called out to an apartment fire, it was pretty much exactly what he’d expected to find.
The still-burning complex, of course. That was typically the case. It took a little while for the firefighters to put out the fires, especially if it was started with chemicals, which was all too common in Gotham.
The people sprawled on the front lawn and the sidewalks were a given. That was why the ambulances were there, to help those folks.
Even the shouts about a Bat still being inside were familiar, to the point where Bernard would’ve been more surprised if there weren’t any. He did a little bit of mental detective-work of his own and figured it must be either Cass, Tim, or Jason.
They were close enough to Crime Alley for it to be Jason, there were kids involved, and burning buildings was kinda one of his things, both hating them and setting them himself.
Cass, well, he didn’t even know where she patrolled most nights. He just knew she tended to show up and throw herself into incredibly dangerous situations with little regard to her own health in order to save even one more person. Blood-related or not, she was definitely Batman’s daughter.
And Tim, Bernard knew he’d been in the area for the night, working on a case involving a restaurant only about fifteen minutes away. Something about it being a front. He’d explained it all to Bernard, but it’d been after one of Bernard’s twelve hour shifts. They both knew that anything Tim said then was probably going in one ear and out the other.
It was how he’d proposed the first time, the idiot.
Just whispered it right over their pillows, fingers entwined with Bernard’s, Berns, will you marry me?
That’d been the fastest Bernard had ever gone from a zombie to a fully functioning person in his entire life, sitting up so fast it’d startled one of their cats.
A trial run, Tim had sheepishly called it.
Like he needed to test it. Like they hadn’t been talking about it for months by then.
But that was one of the reasons Bernard had married him, right? For that dorky little smile, the way he blushed when he muttered, you were supposed to be asleep, baby. How relieved he’d looked when Bernard said yes and how scared he’d been when Bernard started crying.
Good crying. Really, really good crying, because the love of his life had just asked him to marry him, and it was nothing like what Bernard expected in the best possible way.
So Tim knew exactly how tired Bernard was after his long shifts and what would and wouldn’t get his attention.
As much as Bernard loved Tim and loved listening to him talk about cases, a bunch of word-salad about drugs wasn’t gonna do it.
But the part of the scene that Bernard wasn’t prepared for was the sound of a shattering window, followed by a deep boom.
He turned his head away from scanning the injured civilians just in time to see one of the apartment complex’s highest windows finish exploding outwards.
It was gorgeous in that specific way that things typically were in Gotham. Glittering glass, fire licking at a black and red cape, one of the Bats’ symbols displayed proudly on someone’s chest. So violent, so pretty.
The Bat spread their cape and began to descend much slower, what looked like a little girl clinging to their neck and waist. Bernard couldn’t fight his grin.
Tim was always such a show-off.
But it faded quickly as he watched Tim’s arm twitch. The cape sagged, just enough to let some of the air out of its hold, and he lost altitude.
Just before they hit the ground, Tim rolled the girl tight to his chest, taking the rough pavement to his shoulder with a garbled noise. He came up into a crouch, faltering a little at the end.
Firefighters were shouting, civilians were calling to ask if the girl was alright. EMT’s had all paused what they were doing to stare.
Tim moved one arm wide, letting the cape fall away to reveal the— thank God —unscathed little girl. He looked wobbly, there was blood running down from the side of his head, and his skin was pink and irritated on the right side of his face, but the girl was alright.
She looked around shakily. Took in the fire and the people staring at her, and between one abrupt second and the next, burst into tears. One of the paramedics rushed to grab her.
Only once she was safely in the paramedic’s arms and bustling towards an ambulance did Tim move to pull out his grappling hook.
And from there, Bernard saw the world in slow motion. He imagined it was how the Flashes’ viewed everything.
Tim unclipping the grapple.
It slipping through his sluggish fingers and clattering to the ground.
The flutter of his cape as he followed it down to his knees.
And then he was sprawled on the pavement.
Another round of gasps went out.
Tim’s cape was spread in tatters over him, his back was heaving, and his gloves were clenching and unclenching like he needed something to grasp
As quickly as he could without being too obvious, Bernard started towards Tim. He cast a glance around at the stunned looking paramedics and EMT’s, who’d all just watched a Bat collapse to the floor.
Don’t anybody touch him, his brain yelled.
Where the fuck is Bruce? He wanted to ask.
That’s my husband, he didn’t sob.
Instead, he pushed forwards and barked, “get everybody situated. Red Robin didn’t save these people just for us to let them sit around in pain on the sidewalk.”
That at least spurred the other EMTs into action, but when one started towards Tim, he threw out an arm.
“Let me handle him,” Bernard said. He studied the other EMT’s face, noticed it was one of the guys who’d recently transferred from Metropolis, and hid the relief in his voice as he warned, “trust me, you don’t wanna risk something going wrong. Batman’s not very forgiving about his Robins.”
Spooked, the guy backed off.
Bernard went right over to Tim and rolled him onto his back. He fought the cape to get a clear view of Tim’s injuries.
“Hi.” Tim mumbled, domino scrunching.
“Shh,” Bernard said, “it’s alright, sir. I’ve got you.”
Successfully settled, Tim didn’t protest when Bernard began looking him over.
The blood on Tim’s head was from a superficial cut. The burns were bad, but not dangerous, just painful. They’d be alright if he left them for last.
Then there was a jagged cut across the kevlar on Tim’s abdomen, blood oozing out. Bernard subtly checked to make sure the emergency beacon on Tim’s suit was activated and clicked his own, a special upgrade to his EMT uniform from Alfred, before pulling a batarang from one of Tim’s belt pockets to slice through his kevlar.
It was a good thing Tim didn’t booby trap his belt as much as Dick or Jason did, because it would be hard to explain how civilian EMT Bernard Dowd knew how to undo that kind of Bat tech.
But he needed the Batarang, nothing he had would cut through Tim’s armor well enough to give him clear access to the wound.
“Sorry about the suit.” He muttered, pinching the kevlar together to make a cleaner cut.
“S’ okay. Penny One said I needed a new one anyway,” Tim said quietly.
He dropped his head back against the ground with a groan as Bernard began poking at the stab wound.
Thankfully, it didn’t look too bad. Somewhat deep, enough that he’d bleed out if untreated, and Bernard waved for someone to bring him a kit. But it should be easily fixed with a quick clean and some stitches.
“Red Robin,” Bernard said.
“Mm?”
“You with me?”
Tim nodded slowly. “A’ways.”
With a fond roll of his eyes, Bernard said, “I meant, are you awake? I need to keep an eye on you and make sure you haven’t lost too much blood.”
There was honestly so much more he ought to be doing, but with a Bat, the bare minimum was best. Just enough to stop them from dying until help arrived. Anything more was unanimously and silently voted as a bad idea.
Even the EMT’s who weren’t transfers from Metropolis didn’t wanna get on Batman’s bad side by accidentally poisoning a Robin or something. It wasn’t like their allergies were common knowledge, so it was easier to just keep them alive until the Batmobile roared onto the scene.
Sure, Bernard knew Tim’s allergies—dogs, pickles, pollen—but he couldn’t exactly admit that.
“It’s not that bad of a wound,” Tim said breathily.
“Any stab wound is bad, but sure. I still need you to stay awake regardless.”
“M’ awake.”
“Good.”
Tim fumbled, one hand reaching for Bernard’s knee. He found it and squeezed weakly. “You worry t’ much.”
“You collapsed.” Bernard reminded him. “I think that’s enough of a reason to worry.”
When he didn’t get a response, just a small huff of air, Bernard poked Tim in the stomach. He was still waiting on the kit, so he settled on using Tim’s cape to staunch the bleeding for now.
Still no reply.
As much as he hated to ask, hated trying to pry any information out of Tim while he looked this wrecked, Bernard had to. He was desperate for anything that would help keep Tim awake and there was nothing that did that quite like asking him for a report.
“How’d you get stabbed, anyway? Don’t tell me there are sentient fires now.” Bernard said.
He bunched part of the cape up and pressed it firmly to Tim’s abdomen.
Tim made an awful rasping sound, blinking sluggishly, and managed, “arson. Guy who…who set the fires. Didn’t like me trying to put ‘em out.”
“Did he get arrested?”
“Think so.” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, dragging down the top of his domino. “I…told someone. Cop. One of Gordon’s.”
“Okay, good. Good. And did he take out the knife or did you?”
“Him.”
Racking his brain, Bernard put a bit more pressure on the wound. “And jumping out the window? Why’d you do that?”
Tim grimaced.
“The girl. She was…hiding. Took me a minute to find her. By the time I did…‘splosion.”
“Splosion.” Bernard echoed.
“Gas in the apartment, I think? Dunno. Didn’t—ow—have time to check, just had to get out.”
One of the other EMT’s finally arrived with a medkit, and when he made a move to linger, Bernard nodded up at him. He left with a small nod back.
“This is gonna burn,” Bernard said, pulling out an antiseptic. “Grip your cape and count to three with me.”
“Y’ don’t have to baby me.”
Without replying, Bernard put a tiny bit on. Tim jolted and hissed, but didn’t make any move to punch, kick, or otherwise react badly towards Bernard, so he took it as a win and applied more. “Okay, mr. Red Robin. We’ll keep this strictly professional.”
That earned him a pained snort.
“You suck, Berns,” Tim said under his breath.
“Sorry, we frown upon the patients insulting us.”
Tim made a face, sticking out his tongue weakly, and Bernard finished up with disinfecting the wound. He moved to get out the supplies for the stitches.
Since it was Tim, he didn’t even bother asking if he wanted anything to numb the pain. He knew what Tim would say. What he always said. No, I need to stay aware. No, I’m fine without. No, even the localized numbing is risky, I need to know if a stitch pops or anything under the armor.
It was easier to work in silence during that part. Watching the needle dip through skin, the thread moving smoothly.
Tim stayed tense, letting out little hisses, but didn’t react anymore than that. And no matter how impressive it was, it was more terrifying. It was just proof of how many years Tim had spent getting ripped to shreds and sewn back up again.
Knowing that made Bernard work a little slower, a little more gently, but it still didn’t take too long to get him secured.
“Alright. Stitches are done. How do you feel?” Bernard asked.
“Mmm…fine, I guess.”
“Good, then lemme check out your burns.”
“M’kay.”
Tim tilted his face so Bernard had easier access to the burns on the right side of his face, and thankfully, they really didn’t look too bad. Hardly worse than a sunburn.
Just to be safe, he gently tilted Tim’s head this way and that, studying the burns closely, inches away from each other. That meant that Bernard saw the second that Tim’s face changed, as he blinked, face squishing in Bernard’s touch.
“Bear?” Tim croaked.
“Shh, names, Red,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”
“My...uh…m’ head hur’s.”
Bernard’s stomach dropped.
Carefully, as softly as he possibly as he could, Bernard reached up to nudge at Tim’s head. He got about halfway around before Tim let out a strangled cry, arching his back like he’d been shot.
It took everything Bernard had not to jolt and drop Tim’s head.
The cut on the side of Tim’s head had looked shallow. It’d looked like just a normal little slice, like a piece of glass had hit him when he jumped, but the giant bump Bernard had just felt was not normal.
Head lolling in Bernard’s grasp, Tim sobbed.
“Red, look at me,” Bernard said urgently.
“Hur’s—”
“I know, but I need you to look at me. I think you have a concussion, I need you to stay awake for me, honey. C’mon.”
He knew he was beginning to get a little too familiar for a vigilante and an EMT who’d supposedly just met, but he couldn’t help it. Tim looked like he was about a breath away from passing out, and for him to be showing that much pain, it had to be really, really bad.
God, what was Bernard supposed to do with this?
Just sit around and fucking wait for another Bat to show up? Get Tim to the ambulance and hope they had everything they needed? Take him to the hospital, risk them taking off his mask? Somehow convince his team to take Tim to Leslie Thompkins’ clinic, and then bribe—threaten?—them into not telling anybody? Was it even a secret that Leslie worked with the Bats anymore?
He didn’t even know if Tim really had a concussion or not. Tim wasn’t conscious enough to do the right tests and he could be like that because of the head wound, because of the blood loss, or something else. It was possible there was some sort of gas in the apartment like he’d said, and he’d inhaled some before it had blown up. In Gotham, anything was possible.
Even just using a light to check Tim’s pupils wouldn’t work without unmasking him.
The funny little secret people didn’t know about the Bats’ masks was that, if you get close enough, they’re not entirely opaque. They had to be see-through enough that the Bats’ could see from the other side.
It was enough that if Bernard and Tim stood nose to nose, Bernard could trace his eyes over Tim’s long lashes, see the little freckle off to the side that Bernard loved to press kisses to.
But it wasn’t enough for a concussion check.
Bernard pressed his face close to Tim’s anyway.
Tim’s eyes were fluttering, sinking closed behind the white lenses.
“Red,” Bernard said desperately, shaking him just a little. It wasn’t proper procedure, but this wasn’t a proper patient, and he wasn’t willing to let his husband die for the sake of avoiding a dressing down from one of his high-ups. He’d quit and go work for the Justice League if it came down to it: he had a standing invitation. “Red, please, open your eyes.”
“M’ awake.” Tim slurred.
“Red.”
Tim’s hand slipped off Bernard’s knee.
“Red, c’mon, baby. I need you to stay with me, just a few more minutes.”
Was it his imagination, or was Tim’s heartbeat slowing down?
Cradling Tim’s head, Bernard pleaded, “please, Robin.”
It wasn’t until Tim’s head began to tilt to the side that he caught sight of the comm link. The comm link he’d taught Bernard how to use, that he’d had Babs explain to him, that’d taken nearly an hour to understand.
Quickly, he slipped the comm out of Tim’s ear and put it in his own, giving a cursory glance around to make sure no one saw. But most everyone was occupied with what they were doing. Gotham wasn’t a nosy city, not anymore: nosy got you killed.
“Oracle?” Bernard asked quietly. “Oracle, this is Red Robin’s comm.”
Silence.
“Oracle, c’mon, Red’s in bad shape.”
More silence, and this time, Bernard smashed his fist into his own leg, frantically racking his brain for what to do.
Babs wasn’t responding. Neither were any of the other Bats. Tim had passed out and had suffered head trauma, he needed a hospital, the Nest, something.
This was hardly the first time Bernard had been in a bad situation with Tim, but God, it always felt like the first nerve-wracking time. He always trembled the same.
Illnesses, injuries, wounds, it all sucked and he always just wished a solution would present itself.
And this time, it did.
The roar of the Batmobile’s engine had never sounded so fucking sweet.
“Get him over here!” Bernard shouted harshly at the nearest paramedic. “Wave Batman this way, Red Robin needs immediate medical attention, and it’s more than we can give!”
His chest tightened when the paramedic just stared for a second, but then she took off sprinting towards the glittering headlights approaching from down the dark street at what had to be eighty or ninety miles per hour.
Every second between hearing the car’s approach and watching it slide into park a couple dozen yards away was agony. Tim had begun to tremble, or maybe it was Bernard, and the shadows seemed to be inching closer. It felt like a horror movie where the victim thinks they’re safe, only to be jumped at the last second.
Then Bruce got out of the car, banishing about half of Bernard’s fears.
Deep down, he never really had gotten rid of that hero-worship, even if Batman was his father-in-law now.
“Batman!” Bernard yelled, waving one arm. “Over here!”
He cradled Tim a bit closer as Bruce bolted from the Batmobile’s open door towards them, and as subtly as possible, Bernard wiped Tim’s cheek. “It’s gonna be alright, Timmy.” He murmured.
Before he even reached them, Bruce was holding out his arms, ready to take Tim away. Bernard reluctantly passed his upper half over. Bruce did a careful once-over before lifting his legs, too.
“Report,” Bruce said.
Almost as automatically as Tim always said he reacted, Bernard said, “I wasn’t able to properly treat him without unmasking him, but I believe he has a concussion, and there are burns on the right side of his face. The stab wound isn’t particularly deep but combined with the concussion and the fact that he keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, it looks bad.”
There were more official words he was supposed to use, to make everything he was saying clearer, but God, it felt like all of his training had flown out the window. He didn’t even know if Tim was going to be okay anymore.
“I’ll take it from here.” Standing, Bruce carefully swaddled Tim against his chest, like Tim wasn’t a full grown man. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Bernard croaked.
And then they were heading for the Batmobile, away from him, and one of the paramedics was calling him over. Hurrying him onto the next waiting victim.
Right.
He stood on shaky legs, taking a deep breath.
There were still people to help.
Still innocent civilians, aching and in pain, who’d been caught in some arsonist’s path. Tim didn’t need Bernard right now, but those people did, the ones whose entire lives had just gone up in smoke. They needed someone to tend to their burns and promise them it’d be alright.
That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to walk away, wiping Tim’s drying blood on his uniform.
_____
After five agonizing hours, Bernard drove to Wayne manor, only bothering to waste time changing out of his uniform because it was splattered in blood.
He told himself that the fact that he had no phone calls was a good thing. That no texts meant there had been no complications.
But when he keyed in the passcode to the manor’s giant, wrought-iron gates, his stomach was twisting itself into knots.
In maybe five minutes, he’d find out if whatever he did for Tim outside that burning apartment complex had been enough to save his life.
He wasn’t sure what he’d do if it wasn’t.
If the stitches weren’t done right, or he’d missed something with Tim’s head, or the burns were worse than he’d thought, then he might as well call and book himself a room at Blackgate, because he’d track down whatever arsonist had done this and do things Tim would be horrified over.
When he’d said ‘till death to we part, he hadn’t expected that to mean parting with his moral compass, too.
Bernard drove up towards the manor and parked in the round-a-bout out front, ignoring the phantom feeling of Tim’s head lolling in his grip.
If he had to, he’d come back out and move it to the garage once he knew Tim was safe, but for now, he just needed to get inside and down to the cave. See Tim. Get an actual injury report from Alfred.
Maybe once he knew Tim was gonna be okay, he’d be able to understand it all instead of thinking it’s gibberish. He’d spent the last several hours of his—thankfully quiet—shift half-going over Tim’s injuries in his mind and he was still no closer to being able to guess if Tim would make it or not. It was the worst murder mystery ever.
Taking a deep, nervous breath, Bernard tapped the steering wheel.
Before he could talk himself into some sort of breakdown, the front doors of the manor creaked open. Alfred stood on the threshold.
Bernard couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but he knew it was there. Knew it was sympathetic and gently judgemental.
Pull yourself together, Bernard.
One more breath, and Bernard climbed out of the safety of his car.
It felt like an insult that the wind immediately cut through the jacket Bernard had stolen from Tim’s closet.
Everything about this whole situation felt like an insult, honestly. The sun was just barely rising over the horizon, turning everything gold and red and he wanted to scream for it to go back to being dark. Tim thrived in the dark. He wanted to ignore the leaves fluttering through the air because Tim loved watching them fall.
Even the open blinds he could see in the den’s windows jabbed painfully at his heart. How many holidays had he spent at Wayne manor now, curled up with Tim on the floor in a sunbeam because there just weren’t enough chairs for all of them?
It took everything Bernard had to put one foot in front of the other and climb the steps to Alfred.
“Master Bernard,” Alfred said quietly, kind as ever. There was a hint of something in his expression that made Bernard’s stomach churn. It looked like worry. “The young master is downstairs. Would you like me to accompany you?”
Bernard’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “No thanks, Alf. I know the way by now.”
He nearly teared up at the understanding look Alfred gave him for that, but instead, he headed for Bruce’s study. He couldn’t start bawling until he’d at least seen Tim. That was his new rule.
It was a really hard one to follow.
But through the clock he went, down the stairs, into the cave, not once shedding a single tear. His footsteps echoed as he neared the medbay.
The door slid open.
“Bernard,” Leslie Thompkins said with a tired smile.
“Dr. Thompkins.” He swallowed hard. “How’s it lookin’?”
“At the moment?”
When she paused, bile rose in Bernard’s throat.
Then, she said, “he’s stable. I don’t want to make any promises—I suppose you know how it is, now—but Tim should make a full recovery.”
The world tilted on its axis.
“Oh, thank God.” Bernard breathed.
He grasped at the medbay’s exterior wall, bracing himself against it as he choked on his own spit, and she patted his other shoulder.
“You saved his life,” she said seriously. “Bruce never would’ve gotten there in time without your intervention.”
And then she was gone, probably off to sleep like a normal person would be at sunrise. The medbay swished open again in her absence and he half-staggered inside.
The noise he made upon seeing Tim, rigged up to a dozen beeping machines and wires that he couldn’t name, medical training or no, was inhuman. He held on until he reached one of the plush seats at Tim’s bedside, then collapsed. His knees were trembling.
Tim looked so small.
Pale, wrapped in bandages, face partly covered for the burns. His shoulders didn’t come anywhere close to the sides of the bed. With it reclined most of the way, he was a good two feet from the end.
“Tim.” Bernard murmured, gently taking the hand nearest him and running his thumb over calloused, scarred skin. “Oh, Tim.”
He was still just sitting there, religiously brushing at Tim’s fingers, when a handful of Bats filed in.
“You’re here,” Bruce said.
The others didn’t bother announcing themselves. Bernard didn’t even know how many of them there were.
Once upon a time, that might’ve scared him. Now, it just felt like a warm blanket being wrapped safely around him. His father and siblings-in-law were there. Tim was gonna be okay.
Everything was alright.
“Alfred let me in,” Bernard said. “Dr. Thompkins said—she said he’s—?”
He couldn’t quite manage to say it in fear of jinxing it, but Damian piped up, “he’s stable. The concussion wasn’t nearly as bad as it appeared.”
Bernard shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to Tim’s hand. Mumbled a silent prayer to a God he hadn’t really thought of in years.
When he pulled away, Dick gently asked, “what happened out there?”
Such a simple question, and it made Bernard’s chest squeeze like a lemon.
“I don’t know. It was all…everything happened before I got there.”
“His trackers went offline,” Bruce said. “Until his emergency beacon went off, then yours, Oracle was trying to search for him. She believes the heat got to them.”
“Makes sense. His comm didn’t work either,” Bernard said miserably. “I had no idea if you guys were coming or not, or if our emergency beacons had been shut off by whatever took down the comm, or—”
A firm hand landed on his shoulder, cutting him off. Peeking upwards, he found Bruce, a kind look on his face. “You did fine, Bernard. Thank you.”
Bernard looked away.
“I got lucky. Fuck, I didn’t even check for a concussion at first. It’s the most basic thing to do and I didn’t.”
He should’ve. It should’ve been his first thought, or maybe even his second after the stab wound, but it shouldn’t have taken Tim saying it for him to realize.
Warm tears prickled at Bernard’s eyes, and he didn’t bother to try and get rid of them. He just stared at Tim’s limp body.
Bruce sighed.
“Do you know how many times I’ve made mistakes like that because my children were in danger?”
“Tim’s—”
“Anytime,” Bruce said loudly, “a loved one is hurt, it is a big enough distraction. A good enough excuse.”
“I could’ve killed him.”
“You saved his life.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, putting the palms of his hands against them, Bernard strangled a wet shudder.
He felt nineteen years old again, sitting in this cave for the first time and being told his boyfriend was injured. He felt twenty-one, sharing a row of uncomfortable seats with Cass and Duke as they waited on updates. He felt his actual age and five and ten and fifteen all at once.
Mostly, he felt like a Junior watching the boy he’d had a stupid, immature crush on all year charge into the hallway with a baseball bat, knowing he couldn’t do anything to stop it. To save him.
“I’m so sorry.” Bernard choked. “Bruce, I'm so sorry.”
The hand on his shoulder slipped over, pulling him against Bruce for a hug. He buried his face in the cashmere turtleneck Bruce had changed into at some point after getting Tim to the cave, took a shuddering breath, and let it back out as a sob.
“It’s alright, son. He’s gonna be fine,” Bruce said softly.
Bernard desperately curled his fingers in Bruce’s turtleneck. “He almost wasn’t.”
“But he is. And it’s because of you. Even if he could’ve held on until I arrived, there’s no telling if he would’ve been okay when we got him to the cave. Because of you, Tim is home for another day.”
“I don’t—”
He cut himself off before his sobbing could. Fat tears rolled down his face and Bruce wiped them away with the corner of his turtleneck.
A warm hand rubbed at Bernard’s back. “You did fine, Bernard.”