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It had started, as many things in Gotham do, in an alleyway.
And as many things also did, it involved a mugging.
“Give me the money, kid.” The man in front of him snarled. Bernard bit down his snark, only leveling a glare at the man. He just wanted to get to the city bus. The mugger kept raving about something or other, probably the money he had wanted? Bernard really didn’t have time for this. He had a bus to catch.
A bullet shot hit the pipe behind him, causing a spray of water to shoot out, spraying the mugger in a moment of hilarious karma. Bernard winced at the bang- gunshots were so much louder than they were on TV. But the distraction was all that Bernard needed to shrug off his backpack and wham it into the mugger’s side.
Never attack a high school student with a backpack that weighed a very literal thirty pounds.
He kept slamming his textbook-carrying shoulder-torture-machine against the mugger until he had the sense to run off.
It took a minute for Bernard to register that his arm was, in a word, red.
The shot that had fired had grazed Bernard’s arm.
He was bleeding.
The realization caused the stinging and the pain and the everything to come in, full-force. Dropping his backpack, he slumped against the wall as the world started to fade in the corners of his sight, only seeing the wound.
Clasping his hand over the wound, he let out a whimper and begged any god that could read his mind to let him wake up . Let him wake up, safe at home, and he would be okay. He would be okay.
It took him a minute to realize that his arm had stopped hurting.
Confused, Bernard took off his hand. His arm was still slick with blood, but the wound was missing. His hand was cramped from holding the graze and undoubtedly bloody, but he was okay.
Bernard’s first reaction, was, of course, what the fuck ?
His second reaction was now, we don’t have enough time to unpack all of that .
Taking a deep breath, Bernard used the gurgle of water still coming from the pipe to wash the blood off his hand and arm. He looked again and yes, there wasn’t even a trace of the wound left.
Shaking his head, Bernard wiped off the water on his pants and grabbed his backpack. He might be magic or something, but that wouldn’t make the bus wait for him.
Bernard caught the bus. And he didn’t think about the blood or the gun or the way he could see a light beneath his bloody hand when the image flared in his vision.
-
Bernard always bounced back easily.
Colds only lasted a day or two. Fevers broke hours before they normally should. His parents called him “very healthy”.
Bernard called himself damn lucky. Or he did before he was shot.
Now, he didn’t know what he was.
He was just a human as far as he knew, just a normal guy who went to high school and met a guy and fell in love with him and pretended to like the most popular girl in school who ended up falling for the guy he was in love with! Perfectly normal.
But, looking back on his normal, average life, there were always weird things.
The way that when he got bloody noses they always healed quickly. The way he never had a serious fracture, even when he fell directly on his arm from several feet. The little lucky things that there was no non-magical explanation for, looking back on it.
But the luckiest thing in his life?
Tim.
Despite the years, despite the struggles (and kidnappings), the cults and the criminals, Bernard had Tim again. In his arms, in his life, in his world. Now the only thing that stood in their way was Bernard choosing what to wear to their date.
-
Bernard took off the sunglasses. Then put them on again. Pursing his lips, he looked at the mirror as though it would suddenly change.
He groaned as he looked at the clock- he had to get to his car if he wanted to get there on time. There were always interruptions, from EMT business to vigilante shit that Bernard definitely wasn’t supposed to know about, to just normal scheduling conflicts that only added to the pile of other reasons dates typically didn’t go as planned.
But this one would go right. Bernard knew it.
Bernard was still staring at the mirror as the “you’re gonna be late, idiot” alarm sounded from his phone. Struck by a lightbulb moment, he folded the sunglasses and tucked them onto his collar. He nodded at his reflection, grinning. He then grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys before dashing out the door to get there on time.
He didn’t stop smiling though.
-
Tim was sitting at their regular table already, lips pressed into a line as he stared at the news playing on the TV in the corner. He visibly brightened at the sight of Bernard, sitting up straight and waving. Bernard slid into the seat opposite him, extending a hand across the table. Tim took it, his calluses familiar against Bernard’s knuckles.
“Hey, bear. I’ve already ordered our drinks,” Tim said as he rubbed his thumb against Bernard’s hand.
"A man after my own heart," Bernard sighed. "The car almost broke down on the way here. I tried to get here on time, I swear."
"Are you gonna be able to get home?" Tim asked, tilting his head, evidently not minding his boyfriend’s tardiness.
"I doubt the car will make it another trip. I'll have to get it towed back,” groaned Bernard, thudding his head onto the table. Tim hummed sympathetically, thumb still gliding rhythmically against Bernard’s skin before pressing it into his hand to get his attention. Bernard looked up at him, a faint imprint of the arms of the sunglasses pressed into his collarbone. Tim flicked a finger on his free hand up, gesturing to the waitress who had come by with their milkshakes. Bernard nodded at her gratefully.
“Thanks,” Bernard said, and the waitress walked off to another table, tin tray in hand. Bernard pushed himself up on his arms, pulling the milkshake closer while Tim did the same, gazing at him. Bernard idly scratched his neck where the plastic of the glasses bore into it, the weight dipping his shirt. He smirked briefly as he saw Tim’s face redden and his gaze flick away.
“Wow Timmy, you-”
A sharp, shrill beep cut him off midword. His gaze snapped down to his bag that, for reasons clearly unknown, the rest of the cafe was also looking at.
“EMT pager?” Tim asked simply, standing up and putting on his coat.
“Yep.” Bernard affirmed, sucking air through his teeth. “I’m really sorry Tim, I wanted this date to work out.”
Tim sidestepped the table to give Bernard a quick hug.
“It’s alright, Bernard. Go do your thing.”
The news turned on in the corner- the weekly emergency alert.
Attention Gotham citizens-
He broke off the hug to hand Bernard’s bag to him, along with the keys to his car.
-I repeat, supervillain attack in the-
“I could just-”
“Ah.” Tim said, cutting him off. “Get out of here. I’ll call a taxi, or something.” Bernard nodded at him, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
-this is a Level Three, all who are able are highly encouraged to evacuate and those-
Tim placed a hand on his shoulder, tilting his head slightly as one of his special real smiles slipped onto his face.
“Go save the day, bear.”
-ensure that your family and pets are safe. I repeat, Gotham citizens-
Bernard whirled around, jogging out of the cafe as the emergency alert repeated itself, as Bernard ran- or drove- into the danger of the current attack.
Bernard pointedly didn’t think about how Tim was no doubt doing the same thing.
-
Bernard ran up to the scene just as the bats cleared it. Their efficiency was truly a force of nature.
But there were still people to save, and still people to resist the urge to Heal.
Bernard helped one man walk to a stretcher for another EMT to take care of, pointedly ignoring how he was now poignantly aware of the bruises he couldn’t see he couldn’t heal, the cut of glass that a bandage could take a week to fix but for him only a moment.
That was the curse of his “blessing”- the awareness.
He couldn’t Heal. But he could See. And his boyfriend had no clue that whenever Bernard held his hand, whenever Tim leaned in for a kiss, that every touch only let Bernard see more of the secrets he kept from him, the bruises and the cuts and the scars and the blood in his mouth as he bit his cheek to hide the truth that Bernard could See anyways.
But with every person he helped, he couldn’t help but feel like he could help them more. In a way he never really could, if he valued his bones.
(Everyone knows Batman steals goon bones! It’s a proven fact!)
But still, as he helped the next woman, and the next woman, and the next man, and there were no other people left that they could still save, Bernard wished he could let loose and let the subtle thrum that pounded through his muscles and buzzed in his hands every time he grazed a hand over another scar, another burn, another wound, another hurt to soothe. But he couldn’t, so he forced his mind to keep track of his boyfriend as he dodged in and out and above buildings, scouting the area. Bernard had nobody else to take care of. He hadn’t come in an official car this time, only being needed for the evac. And sue him, he wanted to spend time with his boyfriend and if he couldn’t get that then his boyfriend’s alter ego would do.
So, while Red Robin was lost in thought crouched on the nearest peak, Bernard scaled the fire escape and walked up behind him, purposefully scuffing his boots on the loose gravel. Red Robin didn’t turn to see him, clearly taking the action as a sign of peace.
“I said I didn’t want to talk, Spoiler.” Red Robin huffed out, not as annoyed as the words implied.
“I know she’s blonde too, but you’d think there’s some key differences between us.” Bernard replied easily. Red Robin whirled around at that, clearly off guard to someone who knew his tells.
“Who?-”
“Bernard Dowd, EMT.” Bernard said easily. Red Robin knew who he was, Bernard knew he knew. Didn’t change that neither of them said anything. “Are the bats alright, medical wise?
“We’ll be fine,” Red Robin said as a field wrapping on his arm visibly peeled back.
“Sure.” Bernard said. He slung his first-aid bag off his shoulder, approaching easily. “Look, at least let me patch that up before it gets worse.”
Red Robin hesitated, gaze flicking back and forth behind his domino, before he caved. “Fine.”
Bernard closed the distance with little issue, pulling out the bandage scissors from the bag, cutting through the wrap easily. He worked without talking, dressing the wound and rewrapping it.
And he ignored every injury that he knew wasn’t there before, and ignored the temptation to disregard his handiwork, tear it off, and Heal him.
Red Robin hummed when he was finished, blinking appreciatively. “Thank you, uh... Bernard, you said?”
Bernard nodded. “Was that the worst of it?”
No it wasn’t.
“Just about. Watch yourself getting home,” Red Robin said with a wave, stepping backward off the ledge as he fired a grapple. Bernard watched as he zipped off, feeling the littlest bit lonelier afterward.
His hands started buzzing.
He clenched his fists, and started down the fire escape once more.
His hands held a heartbeat the whole drive home.
-
Bernard entered his apartment to the sound of screams.
“Bear? That you?” Tim called.
“Yep. Give me a second to set my stuff down,” Bernard said as he hung up his keys and kicked off his shoes. He made his way over to the small living room, where the TV was playing an episode of a familiar show. A woman was pounding her hands against a window.
“Criminal Minds?” Bernard guessed, leaning against the back of the loveseat. Tim hummed an affirmation.
“Why doesn’t she just break the glass?” Bernard asked, squinting at the woman as the camera panned out to include a passing mailman.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Tim nodded vehemently. “There’s someone right there, I’m pretty sure he’d notice glass breaking!”
Bernard hummed, moving around to sit next to his boyfriend. The episode cut back to the BAU, and Tim turned down the volume, opting to lean his head on Bernard’s shoulder. Bernard forced down the familiar shudder of being able to See all the injuries on Tim.
“How was the scene?” Tim murmured as the episode played quietly.
Bernard hummed as he put his arm around Tim’s shoulder. “The bats cleared it already. I just helped survivors back.”
“That’s all they needed you for?” Bernard once again found himself wishing his boyfriend would just confess to vigilantism at this point.
“Well, I may have followed Red Robin onto a rooftop?” Bernard feigned bashfulness. He knew, his boyfriend knew, his boyfriend’s alter ego knew, when could they all agree on that?
Evidently not. “You went after a bat?” Tim asked, doing a very good job at pretending to be shocked.
“With determination and a first-aid kit, yeah,” Bernard said, shrugging sheepishly. “His idea of treating wounds was kinda sad. I fixed up his arm, and he walked off. I hope the dude’s doing alright now.”
The dude in question was doing pretty well by a “normal” night’s standards. The injury had started healing nicely after Bernard’s treatment, and the others seemed to be healing as well. The worse wounds- because yes, Bernard could still see how much of a liar Tim was- had also started recovering. Batman had to have some sort of top-line medical gear for his family to be able to sustain these injuries and turn out fine within the night.
But still, Bernard mused as Tim started scolding the stupid woman on the screen, it was easier if a- what did they call them, metahumans? Yeah, metahuman- were to take care of the injuries for them. Bernard rubbed his thumb across Tim’s shoulder, faintly aware of the years-old scar hidden beneath the soft cloth of the shirt.
Tim was hurt. Bernard’s hands thrummed. Neither of them moved.
The episode finished. Tim craned his neck up to meet Bernard’s lips. Bernard blinked at the touch.
“You split your lip.”
Tim’s eyes flew open, widening for only a moment before he regained control over his face. “Walked right into a door frame earlier,” he lied easily.
Liar , Bernard thought. Out loud he only hummed.
“Lay off the coffee, try out some sleep.” Bernard teased, messing with Tim’s hair. Tim grumbled lightheartedly at the jab.
“I will after another episode,” Tim said. Bernard wrinkled his nose, scooting his arms to hoist Tim in the air as Bernard rose from the couch. Tim spluttered at the lift, only to be met with unapologetic laughs from Bernard.
“Bern...” Tim whined as Bernard walked them towards their bed.
“Shhh,” Bernard hushed, “sleep time.”
Bernard piloted the two of them into their bed, (gently) forcing Tim under the covers. Bernard pinned Tim beneath his arm, forcing him to stay there until they both fell asleep.
Things would be okay, lies and miscommunication and villains aside.
Yeah. They’d be okay.
-
Or they would be, if things were normal. But they weren’t, and Tim hasn’t been sleeping.
Ever since that interrupted date a week ago, Tim hasn’t been sleeping. Which means it’s probably a case from that attack keeping him up. Especially since he’s been eating less, drinking coffee more, and he’s been staying at the manor. Which also means that Bernard is next to useless in this scenario. He’s been busy too, don’t get him wrong- he’s had loads more EMT work to do since. He’s taken to keeping his pager on him at all times, rather than in his bag. He’s taken to ignoring the chill of the apartment when he gets back.
Tim’s clearly burning himself at both ends, and Bernard’s struggling to hope for the best in this situation.
-
The first thing Bernard felt when he woke up from his sleep was disorientation. Then dread.
Having just crashed after a 24 hour shift running from place to place, he was debating whether or not to go back to bed. But he should probably eat some real food and keep his mind off whatever danger Tim was getting into, so out of bed it was.
He slipped on the shoes he had haphazardly flung off when he got home as he smoothed out the wrinkles on the uniform he had passed out in, stumbling into the small kitchen.
He found some noodles in the pantry, grabbed some soy sauce from the fridge and some chilis off the counter. The dish was easy enough to make, and so provided a very weak distraction from the images of Tim getting tossed around, bruised, and beaten.
He sat on the couch where he had just last week, the empty spot next to him cold compared to the warmth of the memory.
He stirred the noodles idly as he gazed out the window. Tim was out there somewhere, dashing across rooftops and swinging from crumbling buildings. Bernard often found himself squinting like he was now, looking for a thin shape racing across the city.
The city was still. Bernard was still alone in his apartment. Nothing changed from two minutes ago, but he felt a little colder.
He settled back into the couch. He took a bite of the noodles, reveling in the flavor. It was a peaceful moment, loneliness aside.
He heard the quiet hum of the kitchen machinery, the light of the lamp he forgot to turn off when he got home the only thing illuminating the room.
Bernard felt the crash right before he heard it, right before he saw it.
His brain replayed it over and over again in a sole second, looping like a cheap movie’s fight scene. A monstrous arm thirty meters from the window, a red-and-black humanoid shape crashing through it. Glass breaking, glass breaking.
His eyes focused. The window was broken. Red Robin was on the floor.
Tim was on the floor.
Oh shit.
Assess the damage, go from there , Bernard repeated his training to himself. A massive gash was across Tim’s guts, minor wounds elsewhere. Blood everywhere.
He could hear a tinny screaming coming from a comm nestled in Tim’s ear. Someone calling for Red Robin to report.
Nobody knew where he was. Red Robin, Tim , was bleeding out. And nobody was coming.
Bernard steeled himself, and linked his pinky with Tim’s.
At first Seeing everything on Tim was overwhelming, a sudden sight of everything Bernard had tried to ignore, but Bernard kept his eyes open. He Saw everything on Tim, every scar, every bleeding wound, every nick and scrape. He Saw everything.
Bernard gasped as he focused on the gash.
Tim wasn’t just bleeding out. Tim was dying, fast.
Tim was dying.
Bernard was buzzing.
A light flickered from his hands. Bernard needed no further instruction from the universe.
Bernard’s hands hovered over the wound, a bleached-blonde light erupting. The shine was intense, and Bernard instinctively ripped his hands away to cover his eyes.
Tim coughed, blood staining his teeth. Bernard put his hands back, but no light came.
“No,” Bernard breathed. “No, no, no no nononono.”
He repeated the denial like a prayer. He clenched and unclenched his hands, flexed and unflexed them, but no more light shone from his hands. He shook them out, tears beginning to pour. Tim was dying and he was breaking, and why had the buzz betrayed him when he needed it most?
“Bear?” Tim whispered, hoarse.
“Shut up,” Bernard growled. He didn’t want to hear Tim dying. He wanted to heal him.
He wanted Tim to live.
He wanted Tim to live .
He needed Tim to live .
Forcing any idea of energy into his hands, he let out a cry and pressed down on the wound with trembling palms.
Bernard’s head fell onto his forearms as tears fell, Blood staining his face as his pressing hands shook against Tim’s bleeding, broken body.
“Bear,” Tim repeated. “What th’ fuck is th’t light?”
Bernard’s head snapped up. Light was spilling out beneath his hands. He didn’t feel anything, no buzzing or beating, just his hands doing the most natural thing in the world to them.
It was now pouring out like a heavy ichor, soaking into Tim’s armor, pooling around the blood.
Tim’s hand weakly tried to rise to his forehead, but Bernard slapped it to the floor. “Stop moving.”
“Bernard,” Tim’s voice seemed to echo. “You’re shaking.”
Bernard huffed out a half laugh. “I think that’s the blood loss, babe.”
“No,” Tim protested. “It’s the magic.”
Bernard’s vision swam, and okay, maybe it wasn’t the blood loss, babe.
Through the fog he saw Tim’s hand move to apply pressure to the wound, but all he would feel was still-drying blood against the large crack in the armor of his suit.
He blinked as if to process, okay, he wasn’t dead. He could manage that. Sure.
Bernard found himself sitting properly now. His right hand was touched to his forehead as though to steady himself, his left flickering with winding tendrils of pale yellow light around his fingers. He tried to stop the light by clenching his fist, but it persisted in its flickering weakness
Tim blinked again, eyes zeroing in on the light. He heaved himself upward, finding no resistance from his previously-airing-out organs.
“Bear?” Tim’s voice was so hesitant, so sweet.
Bernard’s hand moved to cup Tim’s cheek.
Then, it slipped as Bernard did, as the world spun around and he felt a dull thud as his vision blackened.
-
Bernard woke up to the sound of a desperate voice and his body being rattled around in an acutely uncomfortable way.
“Bear, bear you gotta wake up.” The voice cursed. “Fuck! Bern, Bernie, please.”
“F’ve more minutes,” Bernard mumbled. Trembling nails bit into his arm as he was shaken again. Groaning, Bernard blinked open his eyes.
Tim was above him, clutching him, exposed eyes tear filled. His Red Robin outfit was, as far as Bernard could see, ripped up worse than he remembered from whatever he just forgot.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Bernard said as he shifted to raise his hand to cup Tim’s cheek. “It’s ‘bout time you showed me, huh?”
“What?” Tim blinked, head leaning back. Bernard’s fingers trailed his cheek as the vigilante moved, hand drooping and dropping.
“Careful, babe. People might think you’re the one learning a big secret here.”
“Bear, I kind of am.”
“Wha’?” Bernard blinked sluggishly. To be honest, he kind of felt like a big slug at the moment. Very... sluggish.
A wise slug at that, because a glance at his hand- blood-stained, grimy, and notably not buzzing, normal-feeling hand brought back the evening to his tired mind.
Well, holy shit.
“Holy shit,” Bernard mumbled. Tim squeezed him, propping him up more as Bernard stared at him, fully conscious now.
Bernard’s hand rose up to tap the top of Tim’s nose bridge- markedly uncovered by a domino mask.
“You were cuter with the mask on,” Bernard said, wrinkling his nose.
“Little shit,” Tim groaned as Bernard laughed. “How long did you know?”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “That you were a hero? Oh, Timmy, you were never-”
“Not that, Bernard.” Tim corrected softly. “How long have you known you were a meta?”
“Funny story about that one. I might have gotten shot-”
“You got shot?!” Tim interjected.
“Years ago. Anyways, I was in an alley-”
“What is with Gotham and alleyways?”
“I know!”
-
It took a while to tell the whole story, from the shot to the cult to the present, but Tim was a good listener. Whenever Bernard needed a moment, Tim filled him in on the whole cavalry of vigilantes in his family.
( “Wait, Steph died?”
“She got better. So did Jason, Cass, Damian-”
“Okay, okay, I get the jist.” )
When the story was done, tears dried, and covers pulled over, Bernard breathed freely, rolling over to wrap his arms around Tim.
And the hands he held his boyfriend with didn’t buzz or beat all night .