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Bernard could pinpoint the exact moment his Wednesday really went to shit.
His day had started relatively normal, with Tim rolling through his bedroom window at 5:00am.
He was making a lot of noise for a vigilante. Like seriously, wasn’t half the job of a vigilante being quiet?
His boyfriend had shrugged himself half out of his Red Robin suit, mumbled something incoherent about Damian and kittens, and then immediately passed out right on top of him, his arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish as he snored into Bernard’s chest.
Bernard blinked blearily.
Just make yourself at home, why don’t you Tim? Don’t mind me, just sleeping here.
By the time Bernard had managed to shift his boyfriend off of him without waking him up, it was 5:15 am and he was now completely awake.
He yawned loudly and stretched, feeling all his joints pop and crack as he did so. He wriggled over to his nightstand to grab his phone.
Tim made a sleepy noise of displeasure as Bernard’s wiggling rocked the bed slightly and disturbed him.
Bernard fondly rolled his eyes at him as he checked his phone.
He had one message and it was from Amani, one of his coworkers, asking if he could switch shifts with her.
Bernard replied that he could and dragged himself out of the comfort of his warm bed and the discomfort of proximity to a post-patrol Tim Drake. Seriously, that man was stinky after being done leaping around Gotham rooftops.
Bernard made a mental note to remind Tim of the Post-Patrol-Shower-Before-Cuddles rule later.
He trudged into the kitchen and poured himself some cereal, scrolling through social media on his phone as he did so.
Amani’s shift started at 6:30am. He had roughly an hour and fifteen minutes to get there… easy. He could make that on time.
An hour and seventeen minutes later, Bernard was pushing open the glass door of the diner he worked at.
Emma, another one of his coworkers, was sat on the counter playing Geometry Dash on her phone at full volume. She looked up at the sound of the door opening and the bell trilling through the air, loudly announcing his presence.
She raised an unimpressed, manicured eyebrow at him, and flicked her bright pink hair over her shoulder, “Amani texted me that you’re covering her shift. You’re late.”
“By two minutes!” Bernard defended himself, throwing his hands in the air in mock exasperation.
The old box TV in the corner of the diner that played roughly three channels (four if they were really lucky and the weather was good) was already on. Right now it was playing reruns of Friends on mute without the subtitles, which Bernard felt was mildly impractical. The remote was nowhere to be seen though, so there was nothing he could do about that.
She grinned and threw an apron at him, “Slacker.”
The apron hit him square in the face.
Seven hours later found Bernard dead on his feet and one hour away from finishing his shift.
He was sweaty, tired, and really regretting watching that two hour long YouTube video last night on why Batman is actually a group hallucination that the entirety of Gotham is experiencing due to major pollution in the city’s water supply.
(Has Bernard met Batman? Yes, yes he has. Does that stop him from enjoying conspiracy theories about him? No, of course not. Plus, the video had actually made some really interesting and convincing points!)
Bernard was never going to switch shifts with Amani ever again.
This was literally hell.
What on earth had he done to deserve this?
He honestly thought he might die before it reached 2:30pm.
Bernard grabbed table seven’s order, passing Emma as he did so.
She was adding another tally to the daily “Creeps in Jeeps” scoreboard they kept for, as the name would suggest, creeps who came through the drive-thru section of the diner. Today it was drawn on the back of Emma’s old Spanish homework and had only just reached seven, which Bernard felt was a surprisingly low number (compared to usual).
He approached a small booth in the back of the diner with three college students currently crowded in it surrounded by laptops and piles of textbooks. They all looked a little dead inside. Bernard could relate.
He carefully balanced the tray on the edge of the table, part of it hanging over the edge, so he could easily transfer the drinks without spilling them, “One strawberry milkshake and two chocolate milksh—”
It was at that moment that Bernard noticed the TV out of the corner of his eye.
This is when his Wednesday really took that dive from abysmal into rock-bottom-literally-could-not-get-any-worse territory.
Someone must have changed the channel at some point because it was now playing the Gotham News Network. On screen, shaky footage was playing. There was a caption stating that it was live and the ‘Breaking News’ banner was rolling across the bottom of the screen. The ‘Warning: Content may be upsetting or distressing to some viewers’ sticker was also displayed.
It was difficult to make out what was happening at first but eventually the camera stilled as the person filming ducked half behind a post for protection.
What had to be Gotham’s entire vigilante population was gathered outside of a warehouse. A few were fighting and subduing some unseen threat, the rest were doing damage and crowd control.
If Bernard had been watching from the beginning, he’s sure The News would have explained what was happening. As it was, all he knew was that there were a lot of vigilantes there, which meant nothing good considering it was daytime.
The only vigilante regularly sighted in the daytime was The Signal.
(Who was worryingly absent).
The camera zoomed in on a figure and focused just long enough for Bernard to realise that it was Tim, again dressed in his Red Robin suit, sprinting into an old factory that looked like it should have been demolished several years ago.
There were streams of exhausted and terrified factory workers stumbling out of the building. Signal was among them, for some reason. All of them looked rather worse for wear.
The camera shook violently.
The entire building seemed to slump inwards slightly.
Nightwing catapulted into the frame, swinging down from somewhere off camera with impressive speed, moving so fast he was barely a blur of black and blue. He was on a trajectory towards the door Red Robin had sprinted through.
His lips were moving, a panicked expression on his masked face. Bernard knew, even without being there, that Nightwing was screaming Red Robin’s name.
He was trying to get to him, warn him, maybe.
He was too slow.
A wave of pressure rocked the ground again, more violently than the previous one.
Fire exploded out of the windows, sending shattered glass raining down on the shaken workers, the final few of which had been blown away from the building by the force of the explosion.
The factory seemed to pause, taking a deep breath in.
Nightwing picked himself up from where he’d been thrown back by the force of the explosion, staggering towards the factory and preparing to sprint into the collapsing building in search of Red Robin.
For a minute, Bernard almost allowed himself to hope. To pray that Tim would be okay. That he would walk out any second now, completely unharmed by the explosion or the imminent collapse.
And then the building came crashing down.
Tim was still inside.
The TV was still muted, but Bernard didn’t need the volume on to hear the heart-wrenching scream Nightwing let out as he stumbled towards the pile of rumble, falling to his knees. It most likely echoed his own.
On screen, Orphan landed next to her fellow vigilante and put a calming hand on his shoulder, sinking to her knees next to him and holding him as he sagged into her arms.
In the diner, the people nearest to Bernard jumped and turned to stare at him with wide eyes.
Bernard dropped the tray he was holding, fingers suddenly numb. A broken keening noise forced its way out of his mouth.
Tim.
Distantly, he was aware of the college girls he’d been serving staring at him like he’d lost his mind.
Maybe he had.
Maybe he was insane.
Maybe he’d made this all up and it wasn’t actually happening.
Yes. Yes that was right.
He’d made it up. He hadn’t got enough sleep. He was seeing things. Hallucinating.
The tray clattered loudly as it hit the ground and the smashing of glass immediately silenced any remaining noise in the diner.
Bernard didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear any of it.
His ears were ringing like he had been the one inside the factory, not Tim.
Oh God. Tim.
”Bernard?” Emma was next to him, a concerned expression on her face as she tentatively placed a hand on his arm. “Bernard? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Bernard was suddenly hit with the intense urge to laugh.
What’s wrong? Everything.
Everything was wrong.
Because there was no way. No way Tim was dead. Not from a building falling on him, of all things. Because he was Tim, he always had a backup plan. He didn’t do stupid things like running into collapsing buildings. He didn’t do the stupid self-sacrifice shtick, because he’d promised Bernard —he’d promised— that he wouldn’t.
He promised.
His eyes found the TV again.
The live footage was gone now, instead replaced with a shaken looking reporter in a studio.
He needed to find Tim. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. He’d know if he was.
He promised.
“Okay Bernard, it’s okay. Breathe with me. You’re okay.”
Oh. He was in the alleyway behind the diner now.
How had that happened?
Emma was crouched down in front of him holding one of his hands with both of her own.
He stared at her hands.
Her nails were manicured. They were the same bright pink as her hair.
I’m on the floor.
“There you go, you’re alright Bernard. You’re safe.” Emma repeated, when she noticed he was looking at her.
Bernard sucked in a deep breath, “Wha— huh?”
“Just concentrate on breathing. You’re safe.” Emma repeated. One of her fingers was tapping his hand in an odd pattern.
He focused on that.
Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause.
Repeat.
“Breathe in with me for four… hold for seven…” She muttered, squeezing his hand gently when she noticed his attention slipping again.
Eventually, Bernard no longer felt like he was floating, or like his chest was being compressed by a metal band and that his lungs might burst if he breathed too heavily.
“I– I have to go.” Bernard stood quickly, blinking away the spots that appeared in his vision.
Emma frowned, “Are you sure that’s a good idea in your current state?”
“I need to go.” Bernard said again, forcefully.
She stared at him, brow furrowed, “Okay. Okay that’s fine, but you’re not driving yourself anywhere like that. Stay here. I’ll get Danny to drive you wherever you need to go.”
She disappeared into the diner to get Danny, the dishwasher, to drive Bernard.
Naturally, Bernard didn’t wait.
Sorry Emma.
As soon as the back door swung closed behind her, Bernard was sprinting in the direction of his motorcycle.
Ten minutes later, after breaking many speeding laws and running many red lights, Bernard screeched to a halt by the crowd of people that had formed next to the barrier of parked police cars holding them back.
He pushed his way through the crowd, not caring about the dirty looks he received when he stood on toes or knocked people a little roughly.
He caught snippets of conversation as he went.
“The Riddler—”
“Saw Superman moving the rubble—”
“Signal—hostage—bombs—”
“—bombs all over Gotham disabled—”
“—Red Hood—”
“—Batman—”
”My mum was in there! Where is she—“
By the time he reached the front of the crowd, Bernard had gathered enough information to piece together a general image of what happened.
Signal had been patrolling. He’d gotten mixed up in a Riddler plot. Something happened with bombs and the factory workers and Signal being taken as hostages. Signal had managed to get word to the Bats. Tim had figured out where all the bombs were. They’d disabled all but one, which was rigged in the factory. The factory that Tim had run into on live TV. The factory that had then blown up on live TV.
He promised.
He ducked under the police tape, ignoring the officers that tried to grab him and shouted after him, and ran towards the large pile of rubble and the assorted heroes gathered picking through it.
A gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Oh no you don’t.”
Bernard flinched on instinct, almost throwing an elbow back into his attacker's stomach before he registered the voice.
Seriously. This guy? Right now?
He turned to find Red Hood stood behind him.
“Let me go.” Bernard demanded.
Red Hood removed his arm, opting to cross them over his chest instead. He seemed tense.
“You don’t want to go over there Bernard. You don’t know what they might find.” Red Hood said, voice grim.
”He is my boyfriend.” Bernard hissed, conscious of the fact that there were large crowds of people only metres away. “I have to be there. He needs me.”
“And he is my broth— partner.” Red Hood sniped back, posture tensing up even more. “And I’m telling you, Bernard, that you shouldn’t be there. If they find,” He paused and took a deep breath, as if steadying himself, “...we don’t know if Red Robin is alive, Bernard. If he is, he can’t contact us. We’ve had no response through comms. If… if he isn’t and they find his body, you don’t want to see it. Trust me.”
Usually, Bernard would be quaking in his boots at Red Hood’s tone—the crime-lord-turned-mostly-vigilante-but-still-sometimes-crime-lord still scared him shitless on a good day—but today, Bernard couldn’t find it within himself to be scared. Not when Tim was somewhere under that rubble, only metres away from him.
Not when Tim needed him.
He promised.
He promised he promised he promised he promis—
“I have to help.” Bernard whispered, tears finally starting to well up in his eyes as the grief sank in. “Let me help. Let me help.”
“I’m sorry Bernard.” Red Hood muttered. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you past.”
He sounded distraught.
”Let me help.” Bernard rasped again, voice cracking half way through his demand in desperation. He went to turn away from the man only for him to put a hand on his shoulder again, stopping him from leaving.
Red Hood shook his head, “No.”
“Let me go! I have to help!”
He wrenched himself out of the older man’s grip and spun to the rubble again, only to find his view blocked by Nightwing, who had noticed the confrontation and made his way over to them while Bernard’s back was turned.
Red Hood removed his hands from Bernard’s shoulder now that his teammate was here to help him stop Bernard from reaching the rubble.
“Bernard.” Nightwing said, voice reflecting the deep grief that was seeping into Bernard’s heart. Into his soul. He rested his hands gently on Bernard’s shoulders, not to stop him like Red Hood, instead seemingly using the touch to ground himself. “I’m sorry. I tried. I tried to get to him. I—”
He cut himself off, an odd sound breaking out of him, like a half sob he’d cut off before he showed too much emotion.
It broke the crumbling wall that had been holding back Bernard’s own grief.
He collapsed forwards into Nightwing’s arms, not caring about how odd this interaction must look to the onlookers behind the police cars.
Two vigilantes— no wait. One vigilante, one crime lord (sometimes vigilante?), and a random blond guy in a diner uniform.
”He’s not gone.” Bernard refused through his sobs. “He’s not. Not like that.”
Nightwing squeezed him tighter.
”I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Bernard gasped out in shuddering breaths. “Didn't— goodbye— He promised!“
”We should… we should get him out of here.” Red Hood said to Nightwing over his head, voice sounding oddly rough even through his voice modulator.
“Yeah. Yeah you’re right.” Nightwing replied after a few seconds. He sounded as wrecked as the boy in his arms looked. “Before too many people notice him.”
Bernard could hear Nightwing’s heartbeat. It was irregular, rabbiting with every shuddering breath he sucked in. Or maybe that was his own. He couldn’t tell.
He was guided out of the view of the onlookers to a car parked over to the side. Nightwing opened the back door for him as Red Hood gracefully slid into the driver's seat.
As Nightwing went to climb into the seat next to Bernard, a chorus of shouts rose up, “We found him!”
Bernard spun to the sound, heart in his throat as he watched Superboy lift a large piece of rubble.
Batman and Signal disappeared under it.
Everyone was frozen. Silence reigned for the first time.
The tension in the air was palpable.
Time seemed to warp.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
Minutes stretched into hours.
(Ok, well, not actually, but it felt like they did).
Bernard’s throat was tight.
He could barely breathe.
Tim had to be okay. He had to be.
Bernard couldn’t do this without him.
Tim had promised.
Ever so slowly, four figures emerged from the dust.
Batman, Red Robin, Signal, and a small child.
Tim was limping and leaning heavily on Batman and Signal who were both steadying him. The entire right half of his suit was shredded to pieces and he was bleeding profusely from his chest. Despite all of this, he was still clutching the hand of a young kid, who apart from a few small cuts and being covered head to toe in dust, seemed unharmed.
Nightwing’s shoulders slumped in relief. Red Hood let out a loud breath of air.
Bernard made a broken noise not dissimilar to the one he’d made when the building had collapsed on Tim.
“Tim.” He breathed, relief flooding him.
And then Nightwing climbed into the car next to him and slammed the door. Red Hood smashed his foot down on the accelerator. The car screeched away from the disaster site.
Bernard froze for a second, watching Tim’s figure disappear in the distance.
“Wait! What are you doing!” Bernard shrieked. He tried to slide across the seat to open the car door, tugging fruitlessly at the handle.
Child lock was on.
”I’m sorry Bernard. You can see him at the Batcave, not here. There’s too many people.” Nightwing reached out a hand to him, trying to comfort him. He winced when Bernard flinched away from him.
He’d removed his mask. Now it was now Dick Grayson staring at him with exhausted red-rimmed eyes, not Nightwing.
”S’not fair.” Bernard whispered, slumping in his seat, arms crossed. He was too exhausted to argue anymore.
”I know. I’m sorry.” Dick said. He reached across and buckled Bernard’s seatbelt for him.
Bernard wished he would stop apologising.
When they reached the cave, Alfred was waiting for them.
He handed Bernard a large mug of hot chocolate (with cream and marshmallows, just how he liked it) and a large blanket with Bruce’s deadpan face printed on it several times over.
Despite Bernard’s current state, he still managed to spare a few seconds to wonder where that monstrosity of a blanket had come from as he wrapped it around himself.
And then the waiting began.
It felt like hours but it was probably only thirty minutes, maybe forty (max).
The Batmobile screeched into the cave.
Batman, Robin, Orphan, Spoiler, Signal, Batwoman and Red Robin tumbled out.
Immediately, Duke was helped by Cass and Steph to a chair to receive medical attention from Alfred. He tugged off his helmet, revealing a nasty scrape on his cheek.
But Bernard’s attention was focused on the slim figure stood by the Batmobile, staring at him with wide eyes and gently holding their side with one hand, as if subconsciously trying to hide their wound from view.
He was across the cave in seconds, abandoning his (now cold) untouched hot chocolate and blanket in a pile where he’d been sat on the stone floor in a corner, ignoring the concerned glances he’d been getting from Dick, Jason, and Alfred.
”Tim!”
He threw himself at him.
Tim caught him, arms wrapping around his waist and chin resting on his shoulder.
It was a testimony to Tim’s strength that they only wobbled slightly and didn’t topple over backwards with how much force they’d collided with.
”Bernard.” He breathed.
For a long moment, the two stayed like that, wrapped in each other's embrace, soaking up the fact that they were both there and alive, and ignoring their audience.
Eventually, Bernard pulled back from the hug, his relief flooding him.
He held Tim at arm’s length as he gave him a once over, checking how severe his injuries were.
He had one large gash running down the right side of his body from his chest to his stomach. It had been cleaned and stitched up already. Tim’s ankle was swollen. Sprained? Broken maybe?
Tim followed his eyes down to his gash, and then foot. He grimaced and gave Bernard a sheepish look, “It’s not as bad as it looks?”
Bernard went rigid, relief being replaced by anger now that he knew Tim was okay.
Distantly, he registered Duke muttering, “Oh shit.”
”Not as bad as it looks?!” He repeated, voice shrill. “Tim! You ran into a collapsing building! It collapsed on you on live TV. I thought you’d been crushed. I thought you were dead, Tim.”
Tim’s face was pained, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. There was a kid and— well. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry Bernard.”
He reached a hand out to Bernard but he smacked it away.
”I thought you were dead. Tim. Dead! And I wasn’t there, and there was nothing I could do other than watch it happen.” He gasped a shuddering breath, the grief of it all returning to him again. He repeated again, softer this time, “I thought you were dead.”
”I’m sorry.” Tim reached for him, pulling him into his arms again.
This time Bernard let him.
Tim stank.
Bernard didn’t care.
“You scared the shit out of me, asshole.” Bernard muttered, resting his arms over Tim’s shoulders and resting his head against Tim’s forehead, closing his eyes. “Never do that ever again or I swear to God I’ll finish the job myself.”
Tim huffed out a weak laugh, and Bernard savoured how it made his body shake in his arms, because Tim was here and he was alive, “Duly noted.”