Work Text:
Gotham was quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
Tim Drake was used to Gotham’s noise, the constant hum of sirens, the crack of gunshots in the distance, the occasional gut-sinking wail of someone who crossed the wrong alley. Tonight, though? Nothing. No alarms, no break-ins, not even the faint echo of sirens. The criminals of Gotham seemed to have, by unspoken agreement, taken the night off.
Tim knew better than to question it.
Tonight his patrol had felt… particularly aimless. His thoughts kept circling back, the way they always did when the city grew still. Bernard with his messy blonde hair, his terrible taste in energy drinks, and his insistence that Gotham’s biggest unsolved mystery was not “who keeps funding Joker’s escapes?” but “what if the Batfamily is actually one guy with excellent wigs?”
Tim smirked despite himself. He’d heard Bernard rant about that particular theory for almost an hour once, pacing with wild hand gestures in front of his bulletin board. Tim had pretended to be bored at the time. Secretly, he’d been charmed out of his mind.
“Drake,” Oracle’s voice broke through his reverie, crisp and calm.
Tim blinked. “Come in, Oracle.”
“It’s a slow night. No chatter from the GCPD. You should rest now.”
Rest. The word felt foreign. What would he even do with it? He had learned to fill his hours with missions, patrols, data collection, and projects. Stillness left too much space for doubts. And lately, those doubts carried Bernard’s face.
“Copy that,” he said, but instead of heading back to the Batcave, his legs carried him forward. One rooftop, then the next. His mind wandered, and his body followed.
On the other side of the city, Bernard Dowd stared at the glow of his laptop screen like it had personally insulted him. His most recent conspiracy vlog sat open on the editing timeline, the paused frame freezing him mid-gesture, eyes too wide, hair sticking up from where he’d tugged it in frustration.
“God, I look insane,” he muttered.
With a dramatic sigh, he slammed the laptop shut. The small apartment went dim, the only light now spilling from the crooked desk lamp angled toward the wall. The bulletin board above it was covered in overlapping printouts, newspaper clippings, and scribbled notes—lines of red thread crisscrossing like a spiderweb. At the center, in bold marker: WHO IS BATMAN?
A knock on the window brought him out of his thoughts.
Bernard opened the window with a flourish. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite nocturnal visitor. You here to finally confirm all my theories?”
Tim blinked. “What theories?”
Bernard gestured dramatically to the cluttered corkboard on his wall. It was covered in red string, scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, and blurry photos. “The truth, Tim. The people of Gotham deserve to know that Batman is—” He squinted at the board. “—probably a billionaire with control issues. And Red Robin?” He pointed at a blurry shot of Tim mid-leap. “Clearly has insomnia and trust issues. Coincidence? I think not.”
Tim groaned, pulling his mask off. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re here.” Bernard smirked, moving aside so Tim could step in.
“Red Robin, visiting me past midnight? Should I be flattered or worried?”
Tim rolled his eyes, stepping inside. “Neither. Just… needed somewhere quiet.”
Bernard raised a brow but didn’t push. He never did, not when Tim’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion like that.
The night blurred after that—Tim sitting on the couch, mask tossed aside, Bernard venting about how no one took his conspiracy vlogs seriously (“My subscriber count is literally twelve, Tim. Twelve. One of them is my aunt.”) Tim listening, offering dry comments, secretly soothed just by hearing Bernard ramble.
Bernard pointed at his corkboard mid-rant. “Tell me this doesn’t scream ‘ancient secret society.’”
Tim deadpanned, “It screams you need more sleep.”
It was domestic in a way Tim wasn’t used to. Too normal, too gentle for Gotham.
Eventually, conversation turned into yawns. Yawns into leaning shoulders. And somehow, impossibly, both of them ended up in Bernard’s bed.
The last thing Tim remembered hearing was Bernard’s voice rambling about the “Court of Owls definitely being real” until it blurred into white noise. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
But he remembered waking up.
Tim stirred first, blinking at the soft gray light spilling in through the curtains. Something heavy was pressed against him. Correction: someone.
Bernard.
He should probably wake him up. Or escape. Or do literally anything other than lie here staring at the ceiling while his brain short-circuited.
Instead, he stayed. Because it was warm. Because Bernard smelled faintly like coffee grounds and laundry detergent. Because Tim was tired of running from things that felt good.
Minutes passed before Bernard stirred. His lashes fluttered, his voice still thick with sleep. “Mornin’.”
“Morning,” Tim said quietly.
Bernard groaned, tightening his grip. “You’re comfy. Don’t move.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “You’re literally clinging to me.”
“Yeah, and? You make a good shield against alien mind control waves.”
Tim raised a brow. “What?”
Bernard cracked one eye open, grin already forming. “Oh, you didn’t hear? The government’s been testing brainwave manipulation through Gotham’s radio towers. That’s why you’re always so tired.”
Tim stared at him. “…You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious.” Bernard smirked, pressing his face back into Tim’s chest. His voice muffled. “Besides, you talk in your sleep.”
Tim froze. “No I don’t.”
“Oh, you do,” Bernard said smugly, finally sitting up just enough to meet Tim’s horrified expression. “You muttered, and I quote: ‘Bernard, that’s a terrible idea, stay put.’ Care to explain why you’re bossing me around in your dreams?”
Tim covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god.”
Bernard gasped dramatically, grabbing a notebook from his nightstand. “Wait. This is evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Tim groaned.
“That you’re secretly Red Robin.” Bernard scribbled furiously. “Talking in your sleep? Mentioning rooftops? Telling me to stay put? Classic sidekick behavior.”
Tim peeked through his fingers, deadpan. “You think I’m a sidekick?”
“Relax, you’re like… Batman’s overachieving intern.” Bernard grinned. “Which means I’m onto something. And once I have enough footage—”
“You’re not putting this on your vlog.”
Bernard’s grin widened. “Oh, so you admit it?”
Tim flopped back against the pillow, glaring at the ceiling. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” Bernard said, poking Tim’s side.
Tim caught his hand, holding it still. “Debatable.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
Tim huffed a laugh despite himself. “You’re so annoying.”
“Annoying and right.” Bernard tucked his head back against Tim’s shoulder, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Honestly, it’s only a matter of time before my subscribers catch on. The corkboard doesn’t lie.”
Tim glanced at the chaotic board across the room, strings connecting “Red Robin?” to “sleep deprivation??” and “mysterious boy visiting my apartment.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize if anyone else saw that, they’d think you were insane.”
“They already do,” Bernard said cheerfully. “But that’s the price of truth, babe.”
Tim’s stomach did a small, traitorous flip at the casual babe. He pretended not to notice, muttering, “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
“Probably,” Bernard agreed, squeezing him tighter. “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me out of it.”
Tim turned his head, watching Bernard grin up at him like he’d just won something. And maybe he had. Because despite the chaos, despite the teasing and the ridiculous theories, Tim felt—lighter. Like he wasn’t lost at all.
Bernard yawned, flopping back down. “Okay, but seriously. Do you dream about me often? Because if so, that’s, like, extremely flattering.”
Tim smirked faintly, eyes closing. “Go back to sleep.”
Bernard mumbled something about “Red Robin confirmed” before drifting off again, still clinging tight.
Tim sighed, resigning himself. Just another normal morning in Gotham—where justice never sleeps, but sometimes, heroes do.