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Despite all appearances, Bernard isn’t actually an idiot. Sure he puts up a good facade, one of innocent cluelessness and overzealous conspiracy. He cultivates the vibe of ‘I’ve connected the dots — you didn’t connect shit,” to the peak of its usefulness and then beyond. It’s— easier, when people underestimate you.
For one thing if expectations are lowered, then failure to live up to them will be punished less. His parents' expectations for him have been in the trash since middle school, which is exactly the way he likes it. His friends generally treat him more like a friendly yapping stray dog than someone worth paying attention to, but that’s better too. The last time he had close friends — real friends— well. It hadn’t gone too great, is all he can say. Bernard maybe probably has some PTSD about that whole thing in highschool but— whatever. It’s fine he’s fine everyone’s fine. Not Darla, says the voice in his head, which he promptly pushes down.
But anyway— he’s always at least in part played up the parts of himself that are easiest to digest. The class clown, the conspiracy theorist, the gamer kid who never studied.
He just wishes he hadn’t played it up quite so hard, when it comes to Tim, is all. Bernard doesn’t know how much he can show. Doesn’t know what he can get away with, doesn’t know how to put his suspicions and his fears and his anxieties together in a way that doesn’t make him seem either crazy or like a pathetic traumatized mess.
He doesn’t know how to tell Tim that he knows. He doesn’t even know what he knows, honestly. He knows that getting pulled into a stupid cult because he was a thrill seeking dumbass should have been the end of him, he knows that Tim Drake has a freckle right above the top of his lip, because he’d spent half of their conversation over dinner trying not to stare at it. He knows (does he know?) that Robin had pulled him up from that altar with a concentrated desperation that Bernard has never had directed at him in his life, and he thinks he saw — did he see? — that same freckle on Robin’s mouth, above that determined frown — so different from Tim Drake-(Wayne?)’s easy (fake, fake fake) smile.
But, but, but — it was dark, lots of people have freckles, Robin saves people, of course he does, it’s just a coincidence that Robin showed up just in time to save Bernard. He’s probably been trying to solve the case the whole time, he definitely wouldn’t have had time to go to dinner with Bernard of all people.
But his mind keeps catching on the thought. Pressing at it with his tongue like a missing tooth. It’s nothing logical. Nothing real, just gut instinct and a freckle in the dark and the smell of kevlar and blood and a panicked confession when it felt like the world was ending. And when Tim had showed up at his door a week later, all shy smiles and earnest requests, he couldn’t help but wonder — had he really just happened to get lucky, that Tim remembered him, that Tim cared enough to finish their date, or had it been — something else — that had pushed Tim to his front door.
It’s a confusing tangle in his mind — mostly he ignores it, but sometimes it’s harder. Like now, when Bernard has to play the ‘Is Tim a superhero or just a shitty boyfriend’ game.
“I’m sorry Bernard, I’m just really caught up in, uh, family stuff, right now,” Tim says.
Tim always says family stuff. It’s a good excuse, is the thing, with Wayne Enterprises constantly in the news, and a seemingly rotating cast of siblings who all seem their own brands of standoffish and intimidating, it makes sense that family drama would pull him away — except he never explains the family drama. If Bernard were in Tim’s position he’d probably spend sixty percent of the time complaining about his stupid complicated family and their stupid complicated relationships. The most he ever gets from Tim is a vague “Oh, you know how it is.” Bernard does not know how it is! He would like to, though, if Tim would ever talk about it.
Bernard’s bullshit meter is pinging at 100 mph but he keeps his voice as neutral as he can, “Oh uh, that sucks, I was just really looking forward to seeing you today.” If a whine happens to phase into his voice around the end of the sentence, well, Bernard can only control himself so much.
There’s a sound on Tim’s end that’s fuzzy enough over the phone that it could be a car backfiring or a gunshot. Even if it is a gunshot, that doesn’t prove anything other than that Tim does, in fact, live in Gotham, so Bernard can’t take it as hard proof that Tim really is a crime fighting vigilante.
He really hopes Tim is a crime fighting vigilante, because otherwise being stood up twice a week is going to start to feel really pathetic real fast.
“I know Bernard, and I’m sorry, I was looking forward to seeing you too,” and Tim does sound genuinely guilty, is the thing, so Bernard feels really bad for actually feeling kinda pissy about it.
There’s more noise on the line and then Tim suddenly snaps, voice muffled like he’s pulled away from the mic, “Yes, I know, I’m working on it.” He sounds exhausted. There’s some brief tapping sounds before his voice floats back up to the speaker, “Look Bernard I’m sorry it’s really not a good time.
Bernard’s annoyance spikes, “Tim, you called me.” Honestly it seems like no time is a good time for Tim, but Bernard would rather be ghosted than treated like a chore. He tries not to be a dick about it anyway, “Look Tim, is everything okay right now? It’s okay if it’s not, but I’d rather know. Are you okay?”
There’s a pause over the line, like Tim is deliberating over what to say. He finally breaks out, “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me okay?” Maybe he means for it to be reassuring but it’s so clearly a lie that Bernard reaches the end of his rope.
“God, whatever, sorry for trying. We’ll talk later, I guess, okay?” Bernard’s annoyance finally spikes through in his voice, and he only hears Tim’s startled, “Wait— shit,” before he hangs up. Petty? Yes, but Bernard is tired and he’s had a long day and he’d fought with his parents over college again and he’s tired and he wanted to see his stupid fucking maybe-a-vigilante boyfriend and maybe they could make out a little while some shitty horror movie played on Bernards laptop. Instead he’s just going to sit in his room idly blowing up bokoblins in Breath of the Wild and convincing himself that he’s not upset, really, it was just a bad day and he’ll see Tim some other time and there’s no reason to be a petty bitch and sabotage his relationship over one (or five) missed dates.
There’s a part of him that always hopes that one of these days Tim is going to show up anyway. That he’ll knock on Bernard's door ten minutes from now saying “Oh, I just really wanted to see you so I found the time.” It hasn’t happened yet, but Bernard still always spends the next thirty minutes after one of these types of phone calls doing the mental equivalent of pressing his nose against the front window.
It hasn’t panned out yet, but Bernard is good at pretending that things might turn out okay.
—
Bernard is not actually entirely sure where Tim is currently living. He thinks Tim might have his own apartment, but he’s never actually gotten confirmation of this. He knows Wayne Manor is kinda destroyed, but surely Bruce Wayne has another house somewhere, so Tim could easily be living there. Tim always meets Bernard for date night, or he comes over to Bernard's parent’s house and they hole up in Bernard's room just like they did in highschool. Since Bernard is nineteen now, and not fourteen, it’s easier to shrug off his parents disapproving stares, but he still wishes they had somewhere private to go. If he finds out in a month that Tim has been hiding an apartment from him he’s fully prepared to be annoyed about it.
This seems like information Bernard should have, given that he’s been dating Tim for about two months, but Tim is really, really good at redirecting the conversation away from direct questions about his personal life. Yet another thing to add to Bernard's list of fights he’s not picking.
When Bernard looks at it in these small moments, the calls when Tim ends up missing a date, the cagey look he gets when Bernard asks a question a smidge too personal, it seems like it should be cut and dry. Tim is a shitty boyfriend who refuses to be emotionally vulnerable or even physically available, Bernard should cut his losses and break up with him, embarrassing high school crush wish fulfillment notwithstanding.
That’s hard to do, though, when he’s sitting with Tim in a movie theater listening to Tim’s biting commentary, spoken smoothly despite the harsh rasp that always seems to be present in the back of his throat. Bernard isn’t even looking at the screen, he’s watching the way the colored film lights highlight Tim’s cheekbones, he’s looking at the freckles scattered across his face, he’s watching Tim’s lips move and thinking god I really want to kiss him and so he does.
Tim is actually a really good kisser. It’s something that annoyed Bernard at first, because Bernard has kissed one other person in his life and she immediately decided she was a lesbian. Tim, clearly, has had practice. Which is fine, not everyone can be a weird lonely virgin like Bernard, but it disgruntles him nonetheless. Bernard acknowledges that jealousy is an ugly emotion, and being bitter that Tim still talks to his ex-girlfriend is kind of ridiculous, but that doesn’t really stop the way he feels about it.
But anyway — kissing Tim, it’s nice, great even. It’s easy for Bernard to turn off his thoughts in the face of Tim’s warm breath, the feel of Tim’s slender fingers winding up through his hair. Easy for him to forget the frustrations of trying to date someone who probably is really not that into you as a person. Easy to just exist within his own physicality.
Bernard doesn’t need a perfect relationship right now, he just wants to exist. To date and to have petty fights and to make up and to kiss and maybe have sex and maybe get his heart broken. It’s not about Tim. Well, it’s a little about Tim, but mostly it’s about the ways that Tim seems to need all the things that Bernard needs.
The way he seems so achingly, desperately lonely.
His fingers are clenched in Bernard's hair now, tighter than is really comfortable, but Bernard doesn’t complain, he leans into it, into the pain, the sting, and lets the gasp sitting in the back of his throat bubble to the surface. He watches in real time as Tim’s eyes, wide and dark in the low light, flutter shut with something like relief.
And Bernard is an adrenaline junkie, at heart, so the thrill of doing this, in the back of a mostly empty theater, is enough to get the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pumping fluttery and frantic in his chest. One of Tim’s hands slides down the side of Bernard’s neck, right over his shuddering chest. He pulls back and looks Bernard in the eye and whatever he sees in Bernard's hopeless pathetically horny gaze makes him grin that crooked smug little grin he gets when he thinks he’s solved something.
It makes something in Bernard’s chest ache, seeing that look directed at him.
—
“It’s not that they don’t love me, I guess,” Bernard says, “It’s that I don’t really think they particularly like me.”
Tim nods, something unreadable crossing over his face. He’s seated on Bernard's bed while Bernard lays on the floor bitching about his parents. They’re out of town for the weekend and Bernard is taking the opportunity to have Tim over without feeling hyper aware of everything he says about them.
“I think— I used to feel like that too. When it was my—” Tim cuts himself off, grief flashing in his eyes. He inspects the sheets far more zealously than is warranted. “Now I have Bruce and— everyone else. I don’t doubt that they love me. I know Bruce is— proud of me. Hell, he chose me, but—” He cuts himself off again. “Bruce has his own issues, you know.”
Bernard has kind of been getting that vibe, yeah. “Is it weird, going from an only child to having like six siblings?” he asks.
Tim laughs, “I mean, yes but also no? They were already like, all up in my business way before the official adoption went through.” He pauses, thinking for a moment, “It’s weird to call them my brothers. My sister. All that. Sometimes it’s hard to think of them that way, sometimes it’s hard to think of them any way else.” There’s a conflicted kind of fondness in his expression.
Bernard hazards pushing just a little bit further. This is probably the most he’s gotten Tim to talk about his family in months, “What are they like? Do you like them?”
Tim cuts him an assessing look. Bernard emotionally prepares for the conversation to dead end.
Tim surprises him by actually answering the question. “Most of them, yes. Damian is a little shit, but he’s growing out of it. Cass is great. Dick is— we get along— really well usually, until we don’t and then everything sucks.”
“God, is it really only three? I could swear there were more than that,” Bernard jokes.
Tim cuts him an amused look, “Well there’s also Duke, who Bruce fostered for a while but didn’t adopt, so I guess he counts too. He’s also pretty cool. And— you know, Jason.”
Ah, oops. Jason. The dead one. Real good job making it awkward now Bernard.
Tim stops talking. There’s a look on his face like he doesn’t quite know what to say. They sit in awkward silence for far too long.
It’s weird, because Tim has avoided talking about himself and his family for months, but the moment he starts Bernard can’t even think of anything to say. Does he really want to know? How likely is it that Tim’s baggage is far more than Bernard, who can barely even acknowledge and handle his own glaring emotional damage, can handle.
Bernard’s mind is still stuttered to a halt when Tim changes the conversation, awkwardly, “Do you still do the — you know— conspiracy thing?” There’s a false casualness to his voice that belies actual investment. Bernard remembers being in highschool and raving about how Jason Todd’s death was actually a government conspiracy, a coverup to hide that he’d been abducted by aliens or some other ridiculous shit. In retrospect he feels like a jackass. Jason Todd had been fifteen when he’d died. At fourteen that had felt ancient. Now Bernard thinks about it and feels sick to his stomach. He tries not to think about Darla, bleeding out in front of his eyes.
Bernard chooses his words carefully, “Well you know, now and then, it’s a little less ridiculous than when I was a kid. I still think there were a bunch of Robins. I mean basically every one agrees at his point, especially cause of— you know— the girl one. And also the fact that the one we’ve had for like three years has been very clearly not white like the rest of them. And also like, way more violent.” He pauses, “And the current one is also different, the one that’s been around these past couple of months. You remember I met him right? When I got…” he trails off awkwardly.
Tim gives him an awkward half smile, “So what’s your final count then? That a nix on the clone theory?”
Bernard takes a moment to think. It’s not that he hasn’t already thought about it quite a lot, but with Tim there, staring at him with a fascinated curiosity, he can’t help but overthink it. Keeping track of all the vigilantes in Gotham is like playing chess with half the pieces missing. Gotham has one of the highest concentrations of vigilante activity in North America. Keeping track of anyone with a bat symbol on their chest is enough work, nevermind that there are far more than just bats in Gotham. Bernard used to have an incredibly over the top pinboard, but now he keeps everything on his phone after one too many snide comments from his dad.
“Like, six I think? Or seven. Honestly I think the most recent one might be one of the old ones. The ages match, and he— seems like he’s been doing it for a while. Seems familiar.” I think it’s you, he doesn’t say, very carefully.
Tim looks surprised. “That’s a conservative guess for you, from what I remember,” he says carefully.
“Well, I guess I’ve gotten a bit more observant over the years, sometimes things right in front of your nose are hard to miss” Bernard flippantly quips back. It feels loaded anyway, like a warning.
Tim stills. “Are they now,” a statement, not a question.
“I’d like to think so,” and the air is deadly still in a way Bernard can’t even quantify.
He swallows, a dry click in his tight throat. He hadn’t meant for that to be a threat but Tim is giving him a hard, searching look and suddenly he’s a bug under a microscope.
Bernard might be really bad at this whole subtlety thing, actually.
The thing is, he realizes at that moment, he doesn’t care if Tim is Robin. He doesn’t need Tim to come out to him, or whatever the vigilante equivalent is. He knows intimately, what it’s like to hide part of who you are. He knows that vigilantes don’t just have their own safety riding on their identities. He doesn’t need the cold hard truth.
Some emotional honesty, however, might be nice.
Tim’s eyes are so, so blue, hard and cold like ice chips. Bernard looks into them and feels like a mouse hypnotized by a cobra.
It is, horribly, kind of doing it for him.
He slowly, gingerly, reaches for Tim’s hand where it’s white knuckled into the sheets.
“You know I’ve gotten into some messed up shit, Tim, It’s not like I don’t pay attention to all the crap that goes down in this city. And like, I’ve met Robin. And, and— he’s a person, just like the rest of us. I didn’t really see that in highschool, but I do now.”
Tim’s voice is distant when he responds, “I see.”
Bernard gets up on his knees, pulls Tim down to his level. It’s awkward, Bernard leaning up towards the bed, Tim hunched over, but Bernard doesn’t think to readjust, too focused on attempting to wipe that far away gaze off of Tim’s delicate features. The kiss is more— something— than it usually is. Careful and guarded and Bernard is trying— so hard, to say something without having to say everything, and he doesn’t know if it’s working but Tim’s mouth is moving carefully against his, his ice chip eyes melting into something like relief as Bernard pulls back.
Tim sits up, posture still wary, “I didn’t think you would understand.”
And ostensibly they’re still having a conversation about Bernard being shit at conspiracy theories in highschool, but Bernard isn’t stupid, he know’s it’s so, so much more than that. “I don’t think I do, really. I don’t think anyone can, but I— I’m trying. I’m trying to understand what I couldn’t before.”
Tim opens his mouth, looking determined and like he’s about to say something very, very stupid, “Bernard I’m—”
And this is the moment Bernard has been waiting for, confirmation of his gut suspicion. A reason for all those missed dates, dropped phone calls. When Tim doesn’t text him for a week, and then drops by his house like nothing has changed. A reason why Tim never talks about his problems beyond the vague and generic. A reason for Bernard not to feel pathetic and ignored, when measured up against the struggles of an entire city.
And maybe Bernard is a coward, maybe he doesn’t want to hear the truth, maybe he just wants to spend the rest of however long this whole relationship lasts pretending that everything’s going to turn out okay. Pretending that Tim’s “family emergencies” don’t always happen to line up with whatever crisis Gotham is going through that week. Pretending he doesn’t see Robin on the television getting smacked into walls. Pretending he doesn’t see the bruises that lace up Tim’s arms. Pretending that Tim’s careful avoidance of ever having his shirt off in front of Bernard is shyness and not secrecy.
Pretending, pretending, pretending, cause maybe if Bernard keeps pretending he won’t have to think about the fact that maybe someday Tim won’t come back. Won’t have to wrangle with the idea that behind a missed phone call could be a deadly injury, or a corpse. Doesn’t have to picture in his mind Tim lying broken and bleeding, yellow and green and red, red, red.
Bernard yanks Tim down and kisses him before the words can come out of his mouth.
They don’t talk about it.