The Coin Flip - An Elseworld Story

The Batcave opens up to meet the rumbling engine and sleek black carapace of the Batmobile, cavernous and familiar. It is here that Bernard has spent the better part of a year training to be Robin, and it will be here that he has his first debriefing as Robin.

As Robin!

Bernard is practically vibrating out of his skin. His bruised skin and the elbow that got a little banged up when he got thrown into a wall by a giant vine. He surreptitiously presses it against the armrest every once in a while, pain blooming once more and reminding him how real it is, that he's Robin now, and he's here and that plant monstrosity isn't.

"That went well," Bernard says, breaking a ride's worth of silence as they glide into the Batmobile's devoted parking lot. "I think that went well. Don't you think that went well?"

The top opens, and Batman jumps out with a practiced vault, cape swooshing behind him. Bernard follows behind after opening the side door.

"Someone tried to kill us," Batman says, instead of good job, Robin.

"Ivy wasn't that into it," Bernard says, slowing his gait and frowning. He feels a stab of something unpleasant, but bites the inside of his mouth hard and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I mean, that attack was obviously a cover for the break-in at Gotham Botanical."

"Yes," Batman says, and then, finishing the short trek to the Batcomputer, lowers his cowl. He's Bruce now, and his eyes are stormy. "I suspect that the specific chemicals she took will tell us how her latest aerosol work is progressing."

"Okay, then -"

"I meant the explosives."

Bernard's stomach drops. "The explosives?"

Bruce taps a hidden button on his gauntlet and pictures start to flash on the Batcomputer's main screen, multiple angles of explosive charges hidden behind pillars or other supports. Bernard draws closer and pales as Bruce flips through three, four, five, six of them.

"I took these before we left," Bruce says, sitting down and steepling his fingers.

"Enough to take the building down," Bernard says, doing some calculations in his head. A year ago, he would have thought damn, that sure looks like a bomb alright. Now, the bat-training that lives in his head is supplying some horrifying information about structural weak points and explosive yields. "More than enough. How'd we miss this kind of cargo getting moved?"

"That's a good question," Bruce says. "More importantly, why ar- am I still alive?"

Bernard's eyes slide down from the information on the screen and over to Bruce. He looks - blank. Carefully, perfectly composed, an actor of rationality in the sea of chaos and corruption that is Gotham City. It's not too far behind him that a case with an empty suit and a placard loom.

"You think it was a trap," Bernard says, carefully.

"I think I don't have enough information yet to understand what happened tonight," Bruce says, leaning forward and gripping one armrest a little too hard.

He's not going to do it. He can't seriously be thinking of -

"Until I do, you're to help Alfred here."

A flash of anger hits Bernard, white-hot.

"Are you serious?!" he says, rounding on Bruce. "This was my first mission! How about a 'wow, thank you Robin, I sure appreciated the backup, and good job handling the plant people from planet cooch!'"

Bruce stands up. Even without the cowl on, his full size comes to bear. Bernard sets his jaw.

"Robin needs to know when to take orders," Bruce says, a deep and dark emotion finally colouring his voice. Disapproval. Bernard clenches his fist until the strain sends waves of pain shooting down his arm from his elbow. "Robins that don't follow orders put themselves in danger."

Bruce turns and stares hard at the Jason Todd memorial, and Bernard bites the inside of his mouth again as the moment drags on like nails on a chalkboard.

"I've told you about Jason," he says. It's impossible to gauge his tone. "You have to remain above emotion, Bernard, think rationally. All of the preparation in the world can't help you if you don't listen to me when I'm making a decision for your own safety."

Bernard looks away sharply.

Roughly seven thousand possible responses flash across his mind's eye (I'm fine, this isn't the same, I'm not even your son, I thought we were past the tests, yes of course I've heard about Jason it's kind of hard not to around here, you almost got blown up too anyway, can you lock the fuck in, are you going to take this from me after all I -)

"The Joker is in Arkham," Bernard says, instead. "And this isn't Ivy's M.O., is it? So that's two down. So is our mystery explosives supplier also the bomber?"

Bruce blinks, something of the darkness that had fallen over his expression lifting. After a moment, he sighs through his nose and turns back to the Batcomputer. The bomb slideshow is minimized in favour of a research folder that quickly unfolds into a very large well of documents. Behind them, the lift from the Manor dings.

"I've been tracking a new mover and shaker in the Gotham underworld," Bruce says.

"Oh my, is it Tuesday already?" Alfred says, brandishing a platter as he descends to the work area. Bruce takes one without even looking, eyes glued to the screen as what look like financial records are opened and prepared for whatever explanation he's about to grace them with.

"Hey, Alfred," Bernard says, some animal part of his body calculating the fastest way to get the little sandwiches into his mouth as he belatedly realizes just how hungry he is. "May I please have some? A little crumb? Just a crumb for a growing boy?"

"I see that manners are not a dying art among the youth," Alfred says, somehow at Bruce, while looking at Bernard and handing him a plate.

"Thn'k yff," Bernard says, through his first bite.

"Quite."

"Whoever they are, they're careful," Bruce says. He sounds almost, faintly, impressed. "There are rumours that they've worked with several criminal organizations as a consultant, but their main role is mastermind. Highly illegal supplies, connections, information, cash, all provided without a trace to pursue the job at hand, with each person or team entirely siloed. Their involvement remains secret until after the job is done as a condition of their services, and even then, they operate under several aliases."

"Unusual for such a thing to escape your notice, sir," Alfred says. He doesn't say: Perhaps one might imagine that the previous year or so of Batman activity has been rather subpar overall.

Bruce grunts, clicking around. To Bernard's eye, the records are very nearly clean. He never would have noticed the discrepancies if it weren't for Bruce's annotations.

"Spooky," Bernard says. "Maybe it's the Court of O-"

"It's not the Court of Owls," Bruce says. "If the Court of Owls was real and operating in my city, I'd know. My sources say they're not League, either."

"One day," Bernard mutters. "So what are we calling them? Mx. Mystery? Ghost Protocol?"

"Funny you should say that," Bruce says, and with a swift set of keystrokes, a headline flashes upon the screen. "They have taken credit for one crime, against their usual Modus Operandi: the theft of the Oracle's Eye, a magical artifact dating back to ancient Mesopotamia. Using the name of -"

"Moriarty," Anarky says, in a very careful and deliberate tone. "What exactly happened back there."

"The situation has changed," Tim says, relegating his current partner in crime to the top-left monitor. Split-screening on the other three monitors are far more important fare than Anarky's opinion: accounts he's been looking at for Drake Industries, the company email, his math homework (carefully curated to receive only a slightly above average grade, which is a fun little diversion in and of itself), the stock exchange, an aggregated news feed, one of his burner emails, and Darla's group chat. The conversation they'd had yesterday night sits undisturbed.

SeeyaL8erboi: new mega ability leaks :0
Sk8erboi: Multiscale is... okay
Sk8erboi: Snow Warning is expected for Frosslass
Seeyal8erboi: they're saying that they got rid of IVs in this
Sk8erboi: The loss of IVs is going to really affect Trick Room meta
Darla: what is this
Darla: is this pokemon
SeeyaL8erboi: I can endure any pain as long as Mega Pod loses Emergency Exit
Darla: you guys are huge nerds
SeeyaL8erboi: rude
Sk8erboi: Not untrue
SeeyaL8erboi: and unwarranted. And dare I say it slander against gamers
Darla: play me in mortal kombat pussy
SeeyaL8erboi: no
Darla: why
SeeyaL8erboi: you know why
Darla: friendly match come on :)
Sk8erboi: It's just a friendly match Bern smh

"Oh? I got the impression it was personal. Do you have some kind of history with Robin?" Anarky asks.

Tim frowns. Lonnie is sometimes more trouble than he's worth. He's already made Tim break enough of his rules to regret it, and now this.

"You're not exactly the type to relish a kill," he says, scanning some meeting minutes as he talks. Trying to buy out the Clayface experiments? Like Tim can't put two and two together? Phil Marin is getting a little too big for his britches. That's annoying, because he's very good at running things on the ground and Tim has so far successfully avoided showing his face as Timothy Drake in public. "What's the push-back, Lonnie?"

"You lost your head," Anarky says. "Even before Robin showed up, actually. That's not like you."

"You're the one that lost your head," Tim responds, typing rapidly as he speaks. "You do not want to only half-kill Batman. That's your second ticket to juvie, if you want it."

While Lonnie fumes, he finishes up the email and hits send a little harder than necessary.

From: timothyjacksondrake@drakeindustriesdc.com
Subject: RE: Board Meeting Minutes [Nov 12]
To: philmarin@drakeindustriesdc.com

Phil,

As per my last email, acquisition of Daggett Industries is an ill-advised idea. Their financials are questionable at best (see my previous attachment) and there are better ways to acquire their patents, assuming we would like a repeat of Hagen. I was moving under the assumption we do not, but feel free to correct me if you do. I want to make sure we're all on the same page.

I expect to stop seeing this subject in the board minutes. Next time you have a question, feel free to CC me. I have no problems resolving the issue directly.

Best Regards,

Timothy Drake
Owner, Drake Industries
555-435-6234

"I guess what I'm really wondering is if I can trust you to take the shot next time you have it," Anarky says. "I saw you. That wasn't just caution. You insisted on personally taking out Batman and then froze up. I don't think you can do it, especially now that Robin is in the mix."

Tim's jaw clenches. And a good thing that he wore a hood and face mask, too. How much did Anarky see from his unknown vantage? It really was a stupid idea, but it had been irresistible at the time. Ending it with his own hands. Stupid.

As though to punctuate the idiocy of the moment, Bernard suddenly comes online and starts rapid-fire sending messages to the group chat.

SeeyaL8erboi: ugh sorry for no news i got home fine
SeeyaL8erboi: my mom overreacted really bad like
SeeyaL8erboi: yes mom I'm fine not lost any limbs. it's just poison ivy, i didn't even get hit by weird sex pollen
SeeyaL8erboi: still louis grieve's most eligible bachelor btw
Darla: you said that to your mom?
SeeyaL8erboi: I did not say that to my mom. let the record be clear, I did not in fact say that to my mom

Tim wrenches his attention away from Bernard and weird sex pollen (that's not even a remotely accurate description of what Ivy does, anyway, Bernard) and refocuses on the much more pressing issue at hand.

"If the issue is whether I'll hold up my end of the deal -" he starts.

"The issue is I don't like getting told what to do without a reason," Lonnie says, and by the lilt in his voice, Tim gets the impression that he is enjoying this. "I'm famously not good with hierarchy, Mr. Moriarty. You've been very evasive about why exactly you want the Bat gone, and I'm going to pull out if I don't get an answer that satisfies me right now."

"Batman failed."

The answer comes quick and honest. It wells up from his chest where he's held it for four long years of planning and building and preparing.

"He failed me, and he's failed Gotham. You wouldn't be working with me if he hadn't. Years of heroics and chasing down bad guys and a trail of broken bones and lives and a dead Robin to show for it." At some point, Tim thinks, he's stood up from his chair, sneering at the little icon that represents Anarky on the screen. "Yes, Lonnie, since you asked, it's fucking personal."

"… So it's about Robin," Anarky says, after a pause. Tim briefly considers throwing him to the mercy of GCPD. The memory of Jack and Janet Drake, as captured by the security cams, is indelible. The blood…

Focus. It's not not about Robin, and as anger recedes, the opportunity presents itself for what it is. This was the right thing to say.

"Are you satisfied?" he asks, dripping with disdain. He's shaking. "I'd ask you to open up as well, but I already have a copy of Das Kapital."

"Funny," Anarky says. "Alright. So what's the plan, then?"

"Batman is going to have discovered the bombs," Tim says, clamping down a hand and holding it to the desk until he's steady. In the corner of his vision, Darla is talking about how her family's reservation got cancelled. They're wondering where he is. If he made it home safely. If they only knew. "We need to lay low and take our time. I also need to find information on the new Robin. That's going to complicate matters."

"You better not forget my target," Anarky warns.

Tim grins despite himself. He has to work very, very hard to keep the laughter from his voice.

"Yes," he says. "I remember our deal. You help me kill Batman, and I help you put an end to Bruce Wayne."

Tim's footsteps echo down the empty, concrete-and-metal hallway of an abandoned set of storage units that have been exceedingly convenient in the past and are exceedingly convenient now. The dull roar of the ocean spills in from a boarded window, the Atlantic as ever looming at Gotham's shores. Cracks and rust have claimed the interior and made it derelict, and the smell of salt and mildew hangs over it all.

He fingers the object in his pocket. Smooth and cold against his thumb.

The footsteps stop as he stops by the last doorway. The stress of work, cover, and the duties of Moriarty fall away like a heavy coat. He gives himself a moment to savour it, letting out a long sigh.

So what if we didn't get Batman. The night isn't over.

He opens the door. As arranged for, a coffin sits alone in the centre of the derelict room. Off in a corner, water drips from a leak in the ceiling.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

Tim walks over, trailing a hand over the intricate runework carved into the wood. Not his specialty, but it matches the documents he studied perfectly. Worth the significant dip in the slush fund to get a professional.

"I'm trapped! Let me out! Blast it!"

It could be a ruse. Tim hangs back and waits for a little while. Just in case. But no ghostly figure emerges, and after a litany of curses that wind down into mumbles, he finally speaks.

"Hello, Craddock," Tim says. The effect is instantaneous.

"There is someone out there!" Gentleman Ghost hisses from inside his prison. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with? I am Gentlema-"

"Gentleman Ghost," Tim says. "I know. In fact, this coffin was specially made for you. A spell that can hold any spirit indefinitely."

There is a pregnant pause. Craddock is starting to realize exactly how much trouble he's in.

"You sound too young to be going around throwing chaps in coffins," Craddock says. "Let me give you some advice, boy. I have a long memory."

Or maybe not. Tim stretches languidly.

"So do I," he says. "And don't worry, I did my homework. You're immortal, functionally. Minus the living part. Your spirit can never rest, cursed to forever wander the world, never to pass on."

"What do you want." There. Now it's setting in.

"I want you to suffer," Tim says. "Since you can't die."

"I've wronged you, I see."

"Yes," Tim says. "Yes, you have."

"Let's not get hasty, then," Craddock says, pivoting to wheedle with an impressive alacrity. "My skills are second to none. Surely there's something I could -"

"You don't want to know what it is you did?"

"I have a feeling I'm about to find out," Craddock says, as though through gritted teeth.

Tim stares at the coffin. The sea is roaring.

Four years ago, you targeted the most important archaeological auction in London. Batman came to stop you.

His fists are clenched. He had prepared this speech. This moment has played over and over again in his head for a very long time.

You took Janet and Jack Drake hostage and dragged them to the rooftop overlooking the courtyard. Negotiation went south, and you let them fall to ensure your escape. You probably assumed Batman would catch them. But he was working alone that day, and he was too slow, and they fell three stories onto a marble landing.

They died instantly.

He doesn't give the speech.

"You don't get to know," Tim says, instead. "You don't get to know who you robbed, killed, or ruined. You don't get to know who I am. In fact, I want you to wonder. You're going to have a lot of time to."

"Let me out, you psychopathic brat!" Craddock spits. Maybe he finally understands that he's not getting out of here. He doesn't understand everything, though. Tim pulls out a golden orb from his pocket.

The detailing really is impressive for a false eye so old. It looks like it's staring. It feels like it's staring. That's probably the magic talking. Tim keeps it pointed carefully away from himself.

"Have you ever heard of the Oracle's Eye?" he asks. Craddock goes dead silent. "Oh, you have. Interesting. So you know that it was used to seal a great demon into an otherworldly prison."

"Wait -"

"The good news is you'll have a roommate."

"No, wait, please -"

"I've spent a lot of time wishing I could send you to hell," Tim says, raising the eye to put the coffin square in its sights. "But in a pinch, homemade will do."

"Wait," Craddock says. "Wait, wait, no, don't - I can - I'm sorry - no - no! NO!"

Tim begins to chant.

The room becomes heavy, Craddock's pleas drowning under the age and the power of the spell. The ocean speaks in crashing waves against the levee walls. On the second verse, the walls shudder. On the third, the room is plunged into darkness. On the fourth…

The coffin is gone.

Reality has snapped back into place. In Tim's hands rest a golden eye. He stares at it for an amount of time that might be minutes and feels like hours.

Then he walks outside and throws it into the ocean.

Five months pass.

Life is a grey blur that starts and stops in bursts of colour.

Batman takes Bernard off of Bat-monitor duty after three agonizing weeks. Patrols are established. Bernard gets a lot of bruises and cuts and loses a lot of sleep. The papers say Robin is back, and make theories not too far off of the ones he used to concoct to explain why he's obviously not the same kid as the last one. Sometimes Bernard sits up at night pressing a firm finger into a cut to feel it burn (anything more and Bruce would surely notice, but it's so easy to scratch the itch when you're Robin and every ne'er-do-well in the city has it out for you).

First semester ends. Bernard passes exams by the skin of his teeth. This only enhances his reputation as a slacker. The holidays come and go. Bruce leaves, wrapped on his coffee table in his lair, a new set of game consoles. He's somehow replaced all of the games Bernard left behind when he left home. Bernard stares at it until, forty minutes later, he realizes he's cried himself dry. They don't say a word about it on the next patrol.

Tim and Darla both seem preoccupied lately, but they still spend almost every day at school together. They also grab time after school sometimes, but that tends to be dicey, as it is today, because -

"Robin. Head in the game."

Bernard ducks. The fist of his attacker, a man who looks like he bench presses other criminals for fun, hits the brick wall behind where Bernard's head was. He yowls in pain, and Bernard sweeps him off his feet. They probably see the resulting landing on the earthquake instruments in Gotham U.

"I'm good, I'm good," Bernard says, performing a front-flip to pop up in front of goon number two. Well, maybe goon number five. Batman's taking on three of them at once. Goon number five is a woman with a flinty gaze and a quick knife. (Bernard hates fighting women. They always have to minion twice as hard as the guys to be there, so they're usually twice as tough and twice as mean.)

They dance, back and forth, Bernard ducking and weaving as the knife shears the air around him. One dodge is a hair too close, and the blade tugs through the fabric of his sleeve, leaving a stinging cut.

"Knife to see you too," he says, and then, seizing the moment, pops up and socks her one in the jaw. Not his best zinger, but she goes down. A hurried glance around says that Batman has taken out his share of goons, and hey where did the big guy go.

Batman appears beside him and punches; Bernard drops on well-oiled reflex and it isn't half a second later that he hears another ground-shaking thump as the humongous mook goes down behind him.

"You're distracted," Batman says.

Bernard pulls himself to standing, looking around one last time for hidden adversaries before sighing and starting the least fun part of what he's mentally dubbed Warehouse Time: restraining an entire room of people before they wake up and run it back.

"People trying to kill you tends to do that," Bernard says, starting on Knife Lady. They finish up quickly and in silence. Batman's already got a guy strung to the rafters, so that's one down.

It smells like sweat and fish in here.

"You know that's not what I mean," Batman says, finally.

"What are we missing?" Bernard says, looking around at the crates they'd been investigating. The cut is bleeding a little and twinges with the movement of his tunic-fabric. "Weapons shipment to the Falcones, lots of muscle, not amateurs… but it's off, isn't it? They're not showing any other signs of gearing up for a war."

Batman grunts. Liberating a crowbar, he pries one of the crates open. He stands over a case of automatic rifles, staring down like it's an occupied coffin.

"So -" Bernard starts, and Batman shakes his head, turning away to look to the skylight they dropped in on and producing his grapple gun.

"We're heading back," he says. "I have something I want to investigate."

Bernard doesn't argue. After all, he's late.

"About time you showed up," Darla says, greeting Bernard with a punch to the arm. He winces, breathing heavily through his teeth as she catches a forming bruise from earlier.

Tim picked the meetup spot today, so they're at the skate park. It's a pretty ritzy place, one of those indoor affairs that has a ton of different configurations (one of them must be called a half-pipe, but some of this shit is straight out from Sonic the Hedgehog; is that a loop-de-loop?) and whose dividers aren't made of cheap plywood.

This hasn't stopped the intrepid spirit of the Gotham youth from claiming it for their own. Graffiti has made its way to the walls, gang tags and amateur art projects side-by-side for those who know how to read them, and the general lack of safety standards that make their proud city the highest in workplace accidents even after you subtract fatalities from chemical-themed supervillains is evident everywhere. Very few railings, zero supervision, and damned if there isn't a group of freshmen sitting on top of the loop-de-loop where they must have free-climbed fifteen feet passing around a joint.

"Sorry," Bernard says, leaning on his knees and huffing and puffing. "My mom needed me to help clean out the storage, and it got a little messy. Have I mentioned you look lovely today?"

Darla does, in fact, look lovely. She's got a loose T-shirt and jeans on in deference to the skater aesthetic, red hoodie artfully tied around her waist to give the ensemble a splash of colour along with the red rose studs she picked up last month at the mall. Bernard feels under-coordinated in comparison, his own outfit thrown together with nothing more in mind than whatever would hide the bandages on his arm best.

"Doesn't she have someone else to pawn off the chores to?" Darla asks instead of taking the bait, pursing her lips. "Your dad could stand to raise a finger every once in a while."

Bernard laughs bitterly. He can't help it.

"Easy for you to say. Have you ever even touched a dirty dish?" he says, and the look Darla gives him in return is sharper than usual. Hm. "Okay, okay. Where's Tim?"

The back of Bernard's neck prickles. Someone's approaching from the back, and Tim isn't down in the skate area. He's right behind them.

"He's right behind you," Tim says, sounding proud of himself. Bernard turns around to see him hefting a bag of equipment. He's wearing an oversized Beck T-shirt and jeans, already kitted up with knee and elbow pads. "Hey, Bern. Miss another bus?"

"Nah, just chores," Bernard says. "But I would never miss a chance to eat shit on the pavement in front of my two bestest friends in the whole world."

"I'll hold you to that," Darla says, elbowing him. "Tim, can you get him up to speed? I'm fucking starving and now that he's here we can finally eat."

"Sure," Tim says, and then Darla is off.

"She didn't ask me what I wanted," Bernard says, and Tim smirks as he hands him a full set of pads that overflows a matching helmet. They drift to a spot that overlooks a good portion of the park but is a little out of the way.

"She knows what you want," he says. "Okay, rule number one: wear protection."

Bernard casts a glance out at the sea of bare-headed teens currently doing ollies or whatever the tricks are called on the half-pipe or whatever it's called. Tim rolls his eyes.

"They're stupid," he says, reaching out and tapping the helmet pointedly. "Don't be stupid, Bern."

"Sorry, I'm just flustered," Bernard says, grinning as he splays a hand over his heart. "It's my f-first time, Mr. Draper, and in the heat of the moment… I wasn't really thinking about protection."

Tim's face twists into a perplexed scowl for a solid two seconds before he gels on and turns red as a tomato. Bernard can't help it; he laughs, attracting another, cuter scowl. An echoing but probably unrelated round of giggles comes from those kids on top of the loop-de-loop not too far away.

"Be serious," Tim says, pushing the helmet Bernard is holding into his chest.

"I'm always serious," Bernard says, taking the hint and starting to actually buckle in. It's bulkier and less well-fitted than Batgear, naturally. "As a heart attack."

It's a real shame that Tim doesn't realize he's into men. It's an even greater one that Bernard has too much to lose to take the gamble and show him. There's a whole slideshow back in the cave on why it's a bad idea to date when you're a mask, and some of it isn't Bruce's copium, even.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Okay, Casanova. Rule number two -"

It isn't a scream, but a sort of startled half-yelp. Bernard is on his feet before conscious thought registers, propelling himself across the park just in time to dive for it.

He catches him. He's a freshman, probably, not too much younger than Bernard, and he's gaping up at him from where Bernard just saved him from a headfirst drop off of the loop-de-loop and onto hard concrete. He's stunned, and probably very high, and gapes at Bernard like a goldfish.

As the adrenaline pumps in his veins, Bernard lets out a rasping little laugh. He feels the collective eyes of the skate park fall on him, the kid's buddies peering over the same drop that almost broke their friend's neck.

"Hey, uh…" he says. Robin has a quip ready for this, but Bernard Dowd is just a normal kid. "Holy shit, dude?"

As the freshman continues to struggle to get his bearings, if he ever will, Bernard glances back to see Tim staring at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"Bernard?!" Darla has both hands planted on the table and she's leaned forward. "I can't believe it. I leave for ten minutes and you get a Purple Heart."

"Oh my God," Bernard says, trying to melt into his taco. It's a really, really good taco, so that helps. He should learn how to make tacos this good. He should pick up ground beef on the way back home. And possibly spy on the proprietors of this food truck for prep tips, because holy shit. Is that an abuse of Bat-skills? "It wasn't that impressive, I swear. I just saw them reaching planet Jupiter up there and figured one of them was gonna fall sooner or later."

"It was pretty impressive," Tim says. His expression has been unnervingly thoughtful. "I'd barely even realized what was happening by the time he was halfway there."

Usually, that face is kind of cute, like he's off playing a chess game in his head or something. Now, he's looking right at Bernard with piercing blue eyes, and Bernard gets the feeling that if he's not careful, he'll see right through him.

"That was because of my wiles," Bernard says, wiggling his eyebrows. "You were otherwise engaged. Captivated, even."

Tim is turning red again, but those baby blues are not losing their target. Uh oh.

"Can gay people ever be normal," Darla says.

As she swats him, Bernard's thought processes grind to a shrieking halt. "Uh -"

"We're not -" Tim sputters, and Bernard wants to look at him and maybe gauge exactly what his reaction is but he can't concentrate because his heart has suddenly decided that Knife Lady is coming for round two. Darla slowly raises her eyebrows as both of them fail to rally.

"You're not-?" she starts, but Tim's phone goes off. There's the sound of him scrambling to grab it and then he says a soft little fuck under his breath before shifting to stand.

"I'm really sorry," Tim says. He grabs his bag and shoulders it. "I have to go, like, now."

"But we just got started," Darla says.

"I'm sorry," Tim repeats, and then he's off, his footsteps retreating at a jog.

Darla and Bernard are left at the table in the third most awkward silence of Bernard's life. Darla slowly sits down and studies her taco. Bernard.exe finishes rebooting.

"… I'm sorry," he says. "I know you were looking forward to this. I totally - we totally -"

"It's fine," she says, and then picks up a plastic fork and stabs her taco. Then she stabs it again. "Shit, Bernard. I didn't think - did I like, out you?"

Okay. They're having this conversation instead. Bernard looks down at his own takeout container numbly.

"Yeah," he says. His neck is prickling uncomfortably. He feels like he needs to punch someone, or maybe be punched. He tries to stay away from that thought, grasping the cut from earlier and squeezing just a little bit. "Was it really that obvious?"

"Yes," Darla says without hesitation, because she's honest and that's why Bernard likes her. "You've been helping me pick out clothes at the mall since fall. Not a single boner. Therefore: gay."

"Jesus, Darla, you can't say that," Bernard mumbles, burying his face in his hands. "That's stereotyping."

"Because I'm hot, not because you know what a camisole is," she says.

"This conversation is painful to me spiritually," Bernard says. "Can we please talk about something else. Anything. I hear the Knights are having a great season."

"Football season is over."

"The Guardsmen. Great season."

Darla stabs her taco again.

"I just -" she starts, and then stops. "I don't think we have forever. For this. You know?"

Bernard lets out a breath. There's a lot of things that could mean. But he's tired, and numb, and -

- and maybe all he can focus on right now is the fact that she knows and she didn't leave.

"… You wanna watch me fall on my ass?" Bernard says, willing his heartbeat to even out. "Tim told me rule number one. I'm sure none of the rest were important or anything."

Darla snorts. "Okay. I'm recording it."

"I'd expect nothing less."

Bernard gets home a few hours later. He's got a bag of groceries, a sore ass, and a bunch of skate equipment that Tim left behind in his haste shoved into his backpack as well as it'll fit. It made the trip down into the tunnels a bitch, but at least ground beef was on sale.

What he refers to in his head as The Lair opens up with a biometric scan behind a hidden panel. It's one of what he can only imagine is several backup bat-centres, something a little more than one of the safehouses that dot the city and less than the Batcave itself. It's fitted into what might have been a subway tunnel at some point, and Bruce gets exasperated whenever he calls it a Ninja Turtle arrangement, so Bernard does that whenever possible. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, it's Bernard's home. Signs of his residence, like a shelf full of games, unsorted laundry, and various side-projects on the go in the lab space, mark it his.

(He's really getting good at bio. He wonders if he should thank Ivy in his graduation speech. That would give Bruce a heart attack, which would be really funny, but might draw a response from Ivy, which would be considerably less funny.)

He throws the ingredients in the fridge and hits the couch face-first.

"What a fucking day," he says, into the couch. It comes out like wha'afckndy.

"It's not over," Batman says.

"Jesus!" Bernard jumps three feet in the air. He turns to see Batman standing slightly to the side of his laundry basket. "Oh, God."

"If I'd been an assassin -" Bruce starts, and Bernard throws a balled-up sock at him.

"I'd be dead. I get it," he says, as the sock bounces harmlessly off of Bruce's cowl. The thin line of his resting bat-face remains unchanged. Bernard takes a breath and lets out a sigh. "You came here to see me, but you didn't text or call while I was out. So… not urgent?"

Batman looks around the lair, gaze sticking on the lab. It's very stained.

"I'm gonna clean that up," Bernard says, automatically.

Batman doesn't say anything for a second, but then he moves to the computer in the back, bringing up the image of a document on the screen. It's a 2D scan of a 3D image, actually - there's a puzzle piece that might be the corner of a truck taped above a carefully collaged set of letters from various sources.

How did summer jump out of bed?

"It sprang," Bernard says, automatically. "The Sprang River. But judging by the truck, that's the Sprang Bridge. Right? That seems too easy."

"This was sent to Commissioner Gordon's office earlier this afternoon," Batman says. "I have a pressing lead on the Falcone case, and so I -" he hesitates, just a little bit. "I'm leaving reconnaissance on this clue to you."

Bernard sits up straighter. Batman is saying something else, stressing non-engagement, but Bernard is stuck on 'leaving it to you'.

It's happening. His very first solo mission.

Sprang Bridge is a little disappointing, as bridges go. Everyone knows about the New Trigate Bridge, which cuts an imposing figure with its suspension and looming gate, giving visitors a taste of what it's going to be like in Gotham by putting them in a traffic jam on the way in while they're menaced by stonework. In comparison, Sprang Bridge is small-time.

It does one simple thing: connects two lanes to the East side of Gotham, the area just north of the arena, with Old Gotham and Robbinsville. Its arches are altogether unintimidating, though you can grapple off them in a pinch. It only has one gang named after it, and nobody knows they exist outside of Batman's endless files and a few of their unlucky victims.

There aren't any explosives set on it. Bernard's been up and down the thing for an hour checking, having gotten to it first thing after the sun went down on a new night, and yes, he even used the bat-sensors. Even the graffiti is clean of any suspicion. If something's going down on this bridge, it's not tonight, and if someone was going to spring a trap, he figures it would have happened already. So, he's sitting atop a three-story brick building looking at the mouth of the bridge and willing it to give up its secrets.

It's not like dead ends are new or anything. It's just that he can't put into words how little he wants to come back to Batman empty-handed tonight. Bernard sighs, stooping over and gripping the parapet like a lifeline. It hits him that he's brooding. This is brooding, what he's doing, and very Batman type behaviour.

(Though, the thought that maybe Batman feels like this sometimes too is… comforting.)

Okay. So we get an anonymous riddle pointing us to the Sprang Bridge, he thinks. It's sent to Commissioner Gordon's office. Attached, a puzzle piece from a standard dollar store jigsaw puzzle that you could get anywhere. Made up with clippings to avoid showing off handwriting, and whoever did it was careful enough to avoid not only getting fingerprints on it, but also DNA.

That eliminates the Riddler, who, in Bernard's limited experience, would rather die than not take credit for being clever. It's not the Joker, who alternatively would have put a lamer joke in or killed someone while delivering the thing. He's in Arkham right now besides, churning out unsettling paintings in the art therapy program. Batman keeps a copy of every one of them in case they're a clue to a future case. Bernard asked once if Batman thinks that the Joker knows that and makes them just for Batman, and Batman said that he needed to concentrate on driving right now and then changed the subject.

The real problem is that one would think that this would narrow it down considerably, but there are no less than three other known supervillains with the "sending in clues" gimmick, and arresting them just seems to spawn in more on the map. It could be a copycat, it could be a serial killer, or Bernard could be overthinking it and it could actually be Nygma showing a heroic amount of restraint this time. Without any headway on the clue, it -

A whisper-quiet padded step nearby. Someone's behind him.

Bernard whirls around to see a figure who's surprisingly tall winding up to attack. He reacts more than acts, jumping up onto the parapet and pushing off of it to do a backflip and land on his attacker's other side. The figure whirls, and Bernard finally gets a good look at their face. A golden mask frozen in a judgemental expression with a broad, almost musketeer-like hat, looming impossibly tall.

"I have some notes on your costume," he says, dropping to execute a sweep. They're surprisingly agile, though; Bernard's kick whiffs as he meets nothing but fabric.

"Pot to kettle, birdbrain," a modulated, masculine voice comes from somewhere in the figure's apparent lower neck.

Bernard backs up and away from the edge of the roof, adrenaline starting to set in. Some backburnered part of his brain that's been working while he was trying not to get merced finally supplies him with a name.

"Anarky," he says, snapping his fingers. "Also known as Lonnie Machin, also known as the last guy on Earth who thinks going out in a Guy Fawkes mask is cool. What brings you here?"

"It's hardly my fault that his likeness got co-opted by -" Anarky starts, and then stops. "- nice try. Maybe I'm just saying hello."

"Then I have some more notes," Bernard says. His nerves are electric. "And questions. Like why your idea of saying hello involves aggravated assault."

What happens next surprises him.

"Okay," Anarky says, halting his advance. He holds up both hands. "You got me. I was going to knock you out, use you to get information from Batman."

"Wow, you're a real gentleman," Bernard says. "I can see why people like you so much."

"I wasn't actually going to hurt you," Anarky says. "Much. If you've read my file, you know I'm not stupid. What's the point of riling up the Bat more than necessary?"

Slowly, carefully, Bernard lowers his fists. But not his guard.

"Aaaaand you just happened to be here?"

"I was in the neighborhood and saw you flying solo. I'm an opportunist. Sue me." Anarky shrugs, and then tilts his head. His entire giraffe-neck head. "Why? Something going on?"

Bernard purses his lips, and glances back towards the bridge. He's got a bad idea.

It's a really, really bad idea…

But it would mean not coming back empty-handed.

"So you need some kind of information from Batman." he asks. "Maybe we can rub each other's backs. Are you any good at puzzles?"

"So do you ever pull the 'my eyes are down here' bit?"

"No. I'm trying to be taken seriously, here."

"Dude."

"I mean it," says Lonnie, gesturing with a fry. "It's about being larger than life. A symbol. I thought you'd understand that, of all people. The Batman is a symbol. Robin is a symbol. Ideology can be dense and nuanced, but pair the right praxis with the right aesthetic and your message can reach the masses."

Bernard unwraps a burger that smells like an apology from God for the way his night is going.

They're situated on hastily-chosen neutral ground, the roof of a Batburger two blocks West of the Bridge. There's a security camera whose feed is on a dead man's switch to be sent to the Batcave in case anything happens to Robin, Anarky has taken off his god-awful giraffe neck, and Bernard is having the second most surreal conversation of his life as they dance around the topic at hand.

"So that's why you wear a mask even though you're not fugly?" he says. Lonnie (it's hard to think of the kid his age as Anarky when he's mask-off) sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, Robin, that's why I wear a mask even though I'm not fugly." He scoffs. "Batman is really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days."

"I just don't see how you expect Gotham City of all places to buy anarchy," Bernard says. "Who cares what kind of mask you put on it? At the end of the day, everyone knows that you can't even trust the residents of our fine city not to steal from a tip jar. Even the scales and another Falcone happens tomorrow when the dust clears."

Something in Lonnie's eyes spark with interest.

"That's an odd opinion coming from Robin," he says, taking another fry and languidly wolfing it down. "Hero of the downtrodden, talking about the proletariat that way."

"Hey, I'm an equal opportunity pessimist," Bernard says. "Maybe I think all humans love stealing equally."

"You don't think that."

Like a knife between the ribs. Sudden and precise. Bernard swallows a careful bite of his burger. He avoids Lonnie's gaze, and the amused tilt at the edge of his mouth.

"I never said that people had to be perfect to be saved," he says, finally.

"We can agree on that," Lonnie says. They chew in silence for a while; Bernard makes it most of the way through his burger.

"So," Bernard says. "Say Commissioner Gordon gets a riddle in the mail. Someone like you know anything about that?"

"I'm a straightforward kind of guy," Lonnie says. "Riddles aren't my style - I do manifestos and direct action."

"Like kidnapping people for intel."

"Yeah."

"And you haven't heard anything in your circle of acquaintances?"

"I guess that depends on how much you can tell me," Lonnie says, with a shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, I thought so," Bernard says, and stretches. "Alright, hit me with it."

"What's the true identity of the Batman?"

"Actually, there is no Batman," Bernard says, stonefaced. "He's just Martian Manhunter's night job. You only see them in the same place sometimes because he can multiply and split like an amoeba."

"I had to try." Lonnie clicks his tongue. "Okay, so I'm after a real bad guy. A power behind the throne type, very reclusive."

"The Court of Owls," Bernard says, nodding along. Lonnie rolls his eyes.

"No, someone real," he says. "Whoever this guy is, he's rich. He's got his tendrils into everything. Most major companies, network communications, intelligence. Maybe up to the military level, even. No one seems to be able to figure out how much he knows or how he knows what he knows. He's a ghost. I've only caught sight of him once, but I know he's playing the underworld like a fiddle."

"Okay…" Bernard says, crumpling up his burger wrapper. "And you want to know how much Batman knows about him."

"I'm actually very curious to know what you and yours know about… Moriarty."

Bernard stares at him.

"Uh… nothing?" he says. "I've heard the name, like, twice. I think Batman knows he exists."

Lonnie's eyebrows raise. Whatever he'd been expecting to hear, that wasn't it. And he was clearly expecting a reaction. He smooths over that expression quickly, though.

"That's really very interesting," he says, and before Bernard can get a word in edgewise, continues speaking. "Okay, let it not be said that I'm not true to my word. No, I haven't heard a word about anyone sending clues to the good Commissioner." The venom he puts on 'good Commissioner' could kill an elephant. "Whoever it is isn't talkative in my cir- mmngh."

Lonnie winces, and puts a hand to his ear.

"Damn second-hand hardware," he hisses, and then stands, readying to jump to the next roof over with his headgear in one hand. "Well, Robin, I think we're done here, so I'll let you get back to your thing with the bridge."

"Wait," Bernard says, and tosses an emergency communicator Lonnie's way. Lonnie catches it, sending an incredulous look Bernard's way. "For those times we can agree."

Slowly, Lonnie smiles.

"I think I like you," he says, and takes off.

"That was a stupid risk," says Batman, later.

"Yeah, but now he thinks I'm stupid, so it evens out," Bernard says. "He's definitely more involved than he wants us to think. The question is how, and how he knew about an anonymous note sent to the police."

They're back in the cave, watching the footage of his and Anarky's little meeting. Batman grunts.

"You shouldn't underestimate Machin, either," he says. "While he has more restraint than most criminals, he's not above killing if it furthers his ends. No matter what he wants you to think. Giving him a communicator is just opening yourself up to -"

Bernard coughs into his sleeve in a way that sounds a lot like "Selina". Batman stares at him and does that thing where he narrows his eyes real slow. Then, he turns back to the screen.

"There may be a reason you didn't find anything at the bridge," he says, bringing up another image on screen. "Twenty minutes ago, Commissioner Gordon received another clue in the mail."

It's another puzzle piece, this time the edge of some kind of concrete building against blue skies. Rounded.

Sirs and I swear the same allegiance.

"Oh," Bernard says, feeling stupid. "So the reason I couldn't find anything is that it's a set."

"I ran a search cross-referencing with major jigsaw puzzle brands and got a hit," Batman says, making a few quick keystrokes. The puzzle piece isolates itself from the image and zooms out, only to rejoin an image of a familiar dome.

"The Guardsmen," Bernard says, leaning against what he's tempted to call the Bat-chair to look over Batman's shoulder. "Easy. They swear the same allegiances as 'sirs', the Knights, to a king. Both sport teams, alike in dignity and disappointment, and both play in the Knightsdome Sporting Complex."

"Exactly," Batman says. "I've patched you in to the feed from the police's offices. You'll know immediately when the next clue arrives."

A few red flags shoot up in Bernard's mind. The first of which is -

"Why wasn't I patched in before?" he asks. "It's not like you to forget that kind of thing."

Batman stills. Eventually, though, he steeples his fingers. Habit picked up from Alfred, maybe, Bernard thinks offhandedly.

"The guns we found in the Falcone bust were real, but I recognized their serial numbers," Batman says. "They slipped through my fingers two years ago while being trafficked to the Sullivans."

"But the Sullivans are a subsidiary branch of the Falcones," Bernard says. It doesn't surprise him at this point that Batman was able to recall such a small and obscure detail while looking at a crate in the field. "It doesn't make sense to move the weapons like that, like it's a big sale, to your allies. Right?"

"It doesn't," Batman grunts. "At the same time, there was a break-in at Stagg Industries. Someone stole a number of industrial explosives meant for mining from storage, and cleared out all of the security logs after the fact. In fact, no one noticed they were gone for several days, until they were scheduled to be shipped to a client."

"A distraction for us, then," Bernard surmises. "But by who?"

Batman doesn't say anything. He just takes off his cowl and stares at the Batcomputer like it's personally wronged him.

"Someone dangerous," he says, finally.

He's a ghost. I've only caught sight of him once, but I know he's playing the underworld like a fiddle…

Like a bucket of cold water, it hits Bernard. It's Moriarty. He's after Moriarty.

He put me on the letters because he wants me out of the way of the Moriarty investigation. Even after hearing that Anarky thinks we're connected somehow, he's not bringing attention to that. Doesn't want me thinking about it. He…

Bernard's fists clench. His arm twinges where the cut from before is healing.

"Well," he says. "I'll let you figure that out."

I'm going to solve the shit out of this case, he thinks. And then I'm going to find out what Lonnie Machin knows about Moriarty.

Tim waits until he's absolutely sure that Batman has been thrown off the trail and that Lonnie is back in his little lair before putting his finger down hard on the open comms button.

"What. The fuck. Do you think you're doing, Lonnie."

"Why hellooooo, Mr. Moriarty," Anarky says, grin audible. "I'm doing research on our unknown variable."

Tim seethes. In front of him, on the one screen that isn't taken up by covering his tracks from the world's greatest detective, Lonnie's meeting with Robin is undergoing an automated lip-reading analysis. He's irritated to see that Lonnie was facing away from the camera for the vast majority of the conversation.

"You're supposed to be making sure that Brown doesn't blow it early," he says, through his teeth.

"Robin gave me his number," Anarky says.

"That's wonderful," Tim says, keystrokes getting a little louder as he erases his presence from several security logs that Batman won't be long getting to. "Do you have any idea how risky that stunt was?"

"Trust me," Anarky says. "It was worth it."

Tim rubs his temples. Wills his professionalism back into place with a crowbar.

"This is your plan we're gearing up for, so if you blow it, don't expect me to bail you out," he says, once his voice is level again and he only wants to kill Lonnie the normal, background amount he normally does. "Forget Robin. The unknown variable you should be focused on is finding whoever sent that note to the police."

A gloved hand pens a note.

"Hi, I'm Arthur Brown," the writer mutters, brushing her hair out of her eyes and pressing the pen a little too hard into the paper. "I'm a massive tool and a loser and I plan on hitting the illegal betting center next door to the sports dome on game night. Here's my exact escape route and the traffic cutoffs I'll be arranging. Please get off your lazy asses, lay off the donuts, and arrest me. Did I mention I got mad when a Youtuber ranked me below the Riddler on a tier list that one time?"

She leans back and pulls up the paper up to view her handiwork. Then, with a long sigh, she tears it up and lets the shreds fall into the wastebin.

Pulling her hair back, the figure picks up a puzzle piece and continues her work.

[MEGATHREAD] Joker discussion. Do not post Joker discourse elsewhere on the sub (self.GothamMasks) (Stickied)
Posted by u/savethebatmanz 2 years ago. 542 upvotes. 1,345 comments.

Batman sighting on East End? (i.redd.it)
Posted by u/sproing_boing_zoing 13 hours ago. 12 upvotes. 7 comments.

I found a batarang on my roof!! (i.redd.it)
Posted by u/gotham4lyfe4death 34 minutes ago. 19 upvotes. 2 comments.

Why do so many people hate on the new Robin? (self.GothamMasks)
Posted by u/pisstaker9000 4 days ago. 80 upvotes. 43 comments.

New Batman article from Vicki Vale (gothamcitygazette.com)
Posted by u/gorgeousgargoylette 2 days ago. 83 upvotes. 32 comments.

Robin at Sprang Bridge. What's he doing lol (v.redd.it)
Posted by u/SuperSaladWitchOne 7 hours ago. 21 upvotes. 9 comments.

ID request: Henchmen-looking guys at the docks last night. no apparent gimmick (i.redd.it)
Posted by u/Sob_Story_3554 11 hours ago. 3 upvotes. 4 comments.

Sigh. Click.

ID request: Henchmen-looking guys at the docks last night. no apparent gimmick (i.redd.it)
Submitted 11 hours ago by Sob_Story_3554 · 41% upvoted
Saw these guys moving suspicious looking cargo at the docks last night. I didn't see any costumes or insignia anywhere. Could be the mob or a plainclothes operation?

batboiled · 7 hours ago
That may be because they're… dockworkers.
13 upvotes.

TheRikerSit · 9 hours ago
You think this could be the mob and you're posting about it on Reddit?
8 upvotes.

Sob_Story_3554 (OP) · 9 hours ago
Ok I'll just stay inside and wait to be gassed then. I can die karma farming or I can die to Batman and Harvey Dent's latest homoerotic standoff so whatever man
12 upvotes.

Chewwing · 7 hours ago
This guy Gothams
7 upvotes.

Bernard leans back in his chair and stretches. That's a dead end. A lot of the posts here are dead ends, and vulnerable to astroturfing besides, which is why Batman tends not to rely on them. But Bernard grew up on these sites, collecting precious glimpses of his heroes in between homework assignments and amassing a truly prodigious collection of pirated media, and he likes to think that it's given him an intuition of sorts.

He has the group chat open on a side screen.

Darla: so basically I tell this guy I'm not doing the group project with him if he uses the ai
Sk8erboi: I know the feeling.
Darla: like. I'm not going down with that ship when the teacher catches you?? fuckkkk off
Sk8erboi: Just fuck right off
Sk8erboi: My uncle works in corporate and he's had to talk down people in like unimaginably important management positions from investing in it
Darla: wow and they actually listened?
Sk8erboi: He's pretty well respected in the company haha
Sk8erboi: Seniority. And his dad worked there. You know how it is

Bernard doesn't know how it is, but he does know that his head is spinning with useless information and it's always fun to inflict a little bit of psychic damage on one's friends to clear one's mind.

SeeyaL8erboi: Ive cracked the case. batman's secret identity has been laid bare to me
Darla: christ nevermind i'll take the bot
Sk8erboi: He's going to say Batman is Bruce Wayne

Bernard's heart skips a beat or three. He sits there blanking for a moment as the notification shows Darla typing.

Darla: HAHAHAHAHAHA
Darla: get to the crime scene and batman takes off his mask. it's beyonce
Sk8erboi: No, see, it makes sense. It's the last person you'd ever think would be Batman. The perfect disguise.
SeeyaL8erboi: sincerely more fucked up and twisted than anything i could think of
SeeyaL8erboi: didn't that guy ask if they ever found the pink panther last month. Like if he was still at large
Darla (Admin) changed SeeyaL8erboi's name to Buzzfeed!
Darla (Admin) changed Sk8erboi's name to Unsolved!
Buzzfeed: OH HEY NOW
Buzzfeed: RUDE????
Darla: you guys are so lame lmfao
Unsolved: I kind of like this one.

Bernard lets out a breath. Saved by the Darla.

… Wait.

He opens DMs.

Bernard: have you been changing our names to match all semester because i'm gay
Darla: you're fucking hopeless
Bernard: this is homophobic???
Darla: it's literally actually the opposite of that
Bernard: I don't get it though
Bernard: you're signing up to be third wheel……… willingly?
Bernard: I know for a fact you die if you do not get attention for 1 single day

Darla doesn't answer right away. Bernard frowns.

He backburners the feeling, letting it simmer in the back of his head while he browses.

AITA for thinking Poison Ivy has a point? (self.GothamMasks)
Posted by u/GothHammingItUp 1 day ago. 56 upvotes. 78 comments.

Batman ??? (v.redd.it)
Posted by u/i_buy_gamer_water 5 hours ago. 27 upvotes. 12 comments.

ID Request: these two large gentlemen in mime attire (i.redd.it)
Posted by u/ryan234251 44 minutes ago. 14 upvotes. 3 comments.

current arkham roster leaked!!! (twitter.com)
Posted by u/thewokeleftme 1 day ago. 74 upvotes. 37 comments.

[Podcast] Gotham Capes Weekly episode 37 (wordpress.com)
Posted by u/swampcursed_xx 16 minutes ago. 19 upvotes. 3 comments.

[Meta] An appeal to the mods: please remove the no discussion of child endangerment rule (self.GothamMasks)
Posted by u/TheRealAsuka15 5 minutes ago. 3 upvotes. 15 comments.

Nothing, nothing, and nothing. A quick canned bat-program scanning the podcast file doesn't even get any hits.

It's a pretty slim night. Other sites aren't showing much fruit, either. In one of his many lectures about people that he's previously worked with, Bruce had once said that Batgirl had had a talent for casting a wide net on stuff like this. Must have been nice when she was around.

A notification sound rings out. Tim's DMing him. He blanches at the content.

Tim: I've figured you out.

He couldn't have. Right? Bernard stares dumbly at the screen, feeling a rising sense of panic. Bruce is going to - he's going to -

Tim: Quicksling has a thing for Sir Gulley, right?
Tim: I didn't think about it until Darla said what she said the other day.

Bernard lets out a breath. Oh, thank god. It's just about their D&D campaign. (The one he's missed more often than not lately thanks to Bat Business, but hey.)

Bernard: tim
Bernard: Timothy.
Bernard: is this your way of asking if I'm actually into guys
Tim: ? No
Tim: I figured out that much after it was pointed out
Bernard: so you asked if my rogue has the hots for your gmpc. that was your first go-to
Tim: I'm trying to be supportive. If you wanted some kind of arc with those two it wouldn't be out of the question
Bernard: your mind is beautiful
Bernard: #ally

Bernard is squeezing a bruise on his wrist, trying to quell the fight-or-flight rising in him. He knows that Tim is safe, intellectually. He wouldn't be acting this way if he wasn't, the dork. But…

Bernard: gonna be real i'm kinda pissed i didn't get to do it myself though
Bernard: come out that is
Bernard: i don't hold it against darla but now you've gone through in your head and combed over everything we've ever done or said looking for it and it's just
Bernard: shit
Tim: I'm sorry.
Tim: If anything, I feel like I wasn't paying close enough attention if I missed something so big. You guys are really my only friends, and I admit I sometimes just… tuned you out a bit when I thought you weren't being serious.
Tim: Or when you were talking about Batman.

It was by design. Before Robin, acting hyper-cool and imparting lofty insider info from the depths of the internet had been his genuine attempt at faking it until he made it. Then, it was a useful cover. And yet, the admission hits a complicated nerve. It hurts.

Wait, no, that's his wrist. Bernard is squeezing it way too hard all of a sudden. The sharp pain grounds him, though, and he lets out a breath.

Bernard: what's wrong with batman :|
Tim: Nevermind, forget it
Bernard: no man come on if i'm doing something wrong tell me
Tim: …
Tim: Okay. I know you're a big fan, but I just don't like him.

Bernard goes to type a response, but, stopped by some gut instinct he's picked up as Robin, he hesitates with his fingers over the keys as the little 'Tim is typing…' pops up. (Bruce's advice plays in his head like a bastardized Professor Oak: Let people talk. They'll tell you what you want to know if you let them fill the silence.)

Tim: It's just. This isn't a game. Batman is real and he hurts people
Tim: I think you're just joking around half the time, and I didn't want to bring down the mood, so I didn't say anything.
Bernard: did batman hurt someone you know, or
Tim: I'd rather not say.
Bernard: sorry.
Tim: It's cool
Bernard: Okay, cross my heart. Full capital letters so you know I'm serious. I, Bernard Dowd, solemnly swear I will stop continually bringing up allegedly crackpot theories pertaining to 'the dynamic duo' known as Batman and Robin
Tim: I never said I hated Robin

Tim's response arrives so quickly that it feels like whiplash.

Bernard: ???? okay?
Tim: He's literally a kid. And if anything, he's stabilizing Batman. Making him less destructive, with someone to watch his back and question his calls
Tim: Batman needs a Robin.
Tim: If the new Robin hadn't shown up, who knows what would have happened
Bernard: i just want it on the record that i'm getting real mixed messages here
Bernard: Robin good, Batman bad?

Bernard is palpably aware of how precarious this line of questioning is, but his heart is fluttering a little and he's maybe not thinking entirely straight right now. He feels like Tim is simultaneously dangerously close to the truth and seventeen miles north of it; he feels an almost hysterical giggle bubbling up in particular at the thought of Bruce taking constructive feedback normally. From Bernard.

Tim: Robin is… Batman lurks in the dark. A symbol of fear, turned on criminals. Ideally.
Tim: Robin stands for something else.
Tim: Robin stands for… hope, I guess. The counterpoint to Batman's darkness.
Bernard: yeah
Tim: Even after I couldn't believe in Batman anymore, I couldn't stop believing in Robin.
Tim: I think if I did,
Tim: … I don't even know how to end that sentence
Bernard: i guess it would just still mean a lot to see Batman show up at Pride or something
Bernard: to a lot of people
Bernard: maybe when they need it. you know
Bernard: I don't know about you but if I heard Batman was on my side that would mean a hell of a lot. might change a lot of things

Bernard's crying. He doesn't remember feeling the first tear tracking down his cheek, but a silent stream of them is soaking his face.

Tim: Shit.
Tim: I'm sorry. I get that.
Tim: Nevermind all this. I've just been frustrated about it lately. It's personal stuff.
Bernard: i hear you loud and clear. ixnay on the atmanbay
Tim: Bernard.
Bernard: I know now my mission is to tell you about the secret government robin factory where they clone the robins
Tim: Oh my God.

Bernard laughs wetly and tabs away from the conversation. He hopes to God that Batman doesn't choose right now to come in and check on him. He probably looks like a mess. Speaking of messes…

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… he clicks a link. And then watches a video.

And then he's out the door like a shot, pulling on his costume as he goes.

Old Gotham is gripped by a particular character. While the financial districts always seem to be brimming with gleaming excess, their modern exteriors mirrorlike with smooth glass, Old Gotham is stone. Stuck in a perpetual loop of trying to reinvigorate itself as it falls into decay, every new addition to the old city succumbs to wear and tear within a few years, gaining a sort of oldness in spirit that sticks like mud. The gargoyles watch it all come and go with stone eyes as runoff pours from their visages into the gutters below.

It's in one such once-new building that Bernard finds his target. It's all concrete, lacking the decorative flair of its surroundings, but it has a skylight, and slipping into that skylight as he watches from the shadows is the mystery mask.

'Purple guy' wasn't too far off. They're hooded, which flares into a cape, and while it's hard to tell from this angle, they might have a full-face mask going on. The ensemble is pretty simple otherwise, a tunic or maybe a bodysuit that leaves them fully purple with knee-high black boots and matching gloves. They're wearing a few different belts. One on the thigh. Probably hiding some kind of tricks along with tools of the trade, if Bernard's own utility belt is any example.

He fires his grapple and follows them. The skylight isn't locked behind them.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Bernard mutters to himself, securing his own hood over his hair for maximum stealth before making the leap down, silent as a cat.

It's abandoned. That much is clear. This room in particular must have been storage. Bernard looks again, with a bat's eye. Moonlight and the city lights illuminate little, but just enough. Dust, but only on the fringes. Footsteps and scuffs about a table at the centre. Conspicuous gaps in the dust and boxes littered around.

Someone had a base of operations here, but cleared out. Very recently, Bernard thinks, as he tiptoes around. The purple figure isn't in this room - they've likely moved ahead, but he takes a second to get his bearings and avoid overlooking any obvious clues. Some kind of translucent residue stuck to the floor, no signs of a recent struggle to go with their hasty exit, and a new, lone mask is poking around. Part of the group? Left something behind? Or -

There's a sharp, audible gasp from nearby. Maybe a room down the hall. Shit. Bernard scrapes a very hasty sample of the resin before moving on, and as he peers into the next room, he sees the source of the gasp.

A man sits dead.

It's grisly. There's a flashlight, held by the purple figure, who's occupied at the other end of the room with some shelves (albeit with an obvious shake to their grip), but the main light source is a stripe of orange-tinted light from the window. And that falls over…

A man, who looks as worn-down as the buildings outside and just as sharp. He'd been wearing simple jeans and a ratty shirt when he died. He'd had a short and poorly trimmed beard, but that's now encased in what is probably the same resin that Bernard found traces of in the other room. It covers the whole lower half of his face, and his lips are parted slightly as though he died gasping. His lifeless, clouded eyes stare at the opposite wall. Rigor mortis has well and truly set in, stiffening the remains so that they create a twisted pantomime of sitting to attention.

It's only months of experience patrolling in Gotham that allow Bernard to master his breathing and not gasp as well. His stomach turns, but he resists the urge to throw up. And a little detached process that is always running in the back of his mind these days tells him:

Victim less than a day old. The interloper reacted, but not too much. That's weird. The killer, or…

Well, there's one easy way to figure out what happened.

"Hey," Bernard gets out, and the mask whirls on him. There's a moment where they just stare at him, frozen with flashlight in hand. "You here for this guy or -"

The purple figure bull-rushes him. Bernard was ready for that. He wasn't quite ready for the feint. His attacker ducks into an uppercut, which taps Bernard on the chin and smarts like a bitch.

Adrenaline surges in, and they settle into blows. Back and forth, tit for tat, moving further into the room and into the dead man's orbit with each exchange.

The purple one is aggressive, vicious, and unpolished, sending punches and kicks in quick succession and soon enough pushing Bernard to the defensive. He's forced up against the wall, and then along it, sidling uncomfortably closer to the window with each block and juke.

Finally, an opening. He lands a solid kick to the gut. They grunt, and he has a moment to think, huh, that sounded young, didn't it, before they growl and catch his leg. He lashes out in return to cuff their face, but they dodge cleanly with a tilt of the head, and then they're twisting him with all their weight, and glass is shattering as Bernard is tumbling out of the window.

Training takes over, but not as fast as spite. He grabs the fabric of their mantle with a death grip and takes them down with him.

The next few seconds are a blur. There's a scream, and the sound of the grapple gun firing, and the tinkling of glass and a tumbling weightlessness followed by a wrenching force on Bernard's arm. They land, tumbling out of a mutual cling, on a nearby roof, the asphalt grinding into his cheek and blinding him with white-hot pain. His whole head jars painfully.

Bernard lies there stunned as they roll to a stop, and judging by the lack of noise, purple mask does too.

"Holy shit," he says. "I'm alive."

Part of him didn't think he would be. His heart is roaring in his ears. Purple mask sputters.

"Are you fucking crazy?"

It's a girl's voice. Girl, pointedly - his earlier impression was right.

"Oh my God. How old are you?" he asks, dazed. He's struggling to his feet. She is, too, but she must have taken the fall worse, because she's doing a worse job of it. They've landed on what appears to be an abandoned remodelling project, scant inches from a rusted-out barrel of something or other, a wheelbarrow, and a pile of bricks. The masked girl is rolling away from the pile and onto her knees - oh, wait. She isn't masked anymore.

She's objectively very pretty, which is admittedly surprising. Blonde hair is spilling out of her hood, and her bright blue eyes are fixing him with a level of animosity usually reserved for Greek legends.

"I'm not answering that, Boy Wonder," she spits. He staggers closer, and she rights herself just enough to get back on guard. She's favouring her right leg, teeth gritted but not taking her eyes off of him or faltering in the slightest. Wow, her pain tolerance must be amazing. That's concerning. Wait, has he seen her somewhere before? "And I didn't kill that guy."

"I didn't think you did." Not much, anyway.

"Not much?" she says, indignant, and Bernard realizes that he said that out loud.

"I think I have, maybe, a concussion coming on?" he says, and holds up his palms in the universally accepted gesture for peace, approaching slowly. "Christ. Okay. Look. I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I'm looking for -"

The girl swings out a brick from behind her back and it collides with his face.

Whunk.

Bernard goes down, ironically, like a sack of bricks. He hears himself swearing, distantly, as the girl makes a run for it, and though he struggles to pull himself up again, she's already long gone over the side of the parapet and down a fire escape. Or something. He can't see from this angle.

"Fffffdamnit," he slurs into the roof, slumping down to meet its surface.

After about thirty seconds of letting his body throb, he switches on his comms.

"Robin here," he says. "Just had a run-in with an unknown."

"Sounds like it was an eventful meeting," Alfred says.

"It was, Agent A," he says. "Look, I know B is busy, but we've got a dead body, um, here, so -"

"Where are you," Batman's voice interrupts. "Report."

"Rooftop three, no, two blocks south of the Cathedral," Bernard says. "I knew the street name before. I aaaaammmmmight be slightly concussed."

"Nn." Batman grunts an affirmative. "On my way."

"That's awesome," Bernard says, rolling over to look at the window they'd busted out of. "Because yyyou're gonnawanna see -"

The floor they'd fallen from explodes in a bright fireball.

"The good news is, the concussion is mild," Bruce says, packing away a penlight that Bernard wants destroyed at all costs for its crimes against his poor eyeball. "Complete rest for a few days at least. Leslie will likely advise me to advise you to extend that for longer."

Bernard is sitting shirtless and well-wrapped on the table in Bat-medical, which is really just a nook off to the side of the main cave, Alfred busying himself packing away the gauze as Bruce finishes up the cognitive test.

"The bad news is you're mad," Bernard intones, bringing up a hand to ghost over where they'd reset his dislocated shoulder.

Bruce doesn't reply right away. That's a little weird, because usually the next words out of his mouth would be asking for a report. Things are a little foggy at the moment, but Bernard thinks his usual expression is more drawn than usual. Eyebrows pinched, eyes dark. Oh boy.

"Bernard -" he starts, and then stops. Rubs his temples. "I should have known better than to send you out solo this early. That was a bad judgement call on my part."

Bernard sees red.

"You can't be serious," he says. "This is part of the job. You know it is."

"It is," Bruce says, grim. "But you're still too reckless."

"Of course," Bernard says, clenching his fists. "I'm still not good enough."

"Robin should -"

"Robin should chase down leads and try and solve the case he was assigned to solve," Bernard snaps. Bruce doesn't outwardly react beyond a twitch downwards at the side of the mouth. "I know you cut me out of the Moriarty investigation on purpose, too, Bruce. I'm not stupid."

There's a pause.

"Moriarty is dangerous," Bruce says.

"Everyone we fight is dangerous," Bernard says, throwing his hands up. He winces as his bruised ribs express their displeasure at the motion. "Poison Ivy is dangerous. Two-Face is dangerous. We're Batman and Robin. I thought we might finally be over this, but -"

"Bernard," Bruce says, sharply. He leans forward and grabs Bernard's wrist. "You could have died."

Bernard rips his hand away from Bruce's grip faster than he can register it. There's one awkward horrible moment where Bruce is still up in his face, blinking in surprise and something else, before he clearly thinks better of it and pulls back. Closes off.

"You're benched," he says, finally. "For a week. Longer, if necessary."

"We're supposed to be partners," Bernard says.

Do not look at the memorial, he thinks. Do not look at the memorial. Don't you dare look at the memorial -

Bruce is looking at the God damned memorial.

The counterpoint to Batman's darkness, Tim had said. Something snaps.

"You can't do this every fucking time," Bernard says, and Bruce swings his head back to him in disbelief. "I'm really, truly, sorry about Jason, okay? But Robin doesn't just exist for you to get sad about, so stop trying to get me to quit!"

There's a terrible silence as Bruce flips through a series of micro-expressions. There's a moment where his fists clench, and Bernard tenses in return. But then there's a set of hands on his shoulders.

"Master Dowd," Alfred says. "Master Bruce. Perhaps we should finish this conversation when we're having rather less of a spot of head trauma."

Bruce stares for another long, hard moment, his expression flattening out to false-neutral, before standing.

"Of course," he says, and then, just before leaving: "I expect a report once you've recovered."

Bernard hardly waits a second after he hears the elevator doors to the manor shut before wrenching himself away from Alfred's grip to let his feet carry him literally anywhere else.

He only gets a restless lap of the cave in before realizing that he's not getting anywhere tonight. He collapses to a sitting position without really thinking about where when he starts getting dizzy, closing his eyes and letting his head, where it isn't tender, rest back against a metal railing. He's starting to feel a bad headache coming on.

Right. Some of that benching was going to happen anyway. He really does need to rest this off. Which probably means that tomorrow morning he'll have to call in sick from school, put on the voice modulator to impersonate his dad. What a pain.

Alfred seems to have gone after Bruce, so the cave is as quiet as it ever gets. The shifting and chittering of bats keeps him company until, an indeterminate amount of time later, he opens his eyes to a familiar plaque.

Bernard narrowly stops himself from hitting his head back against the railing. Of course this is where he's parked himself - not ten feet from the memorial. He glowers up at it, at Jason's old suit.

Usually, he avoids it. Bruce's heavy looks in its direction and constant comparisons are reminder enough. Jason Todd, a good soldier. If it wouldn't make Bruce throw him out for good, Bernard would add some corrections. Jason Todd, a son that Bruce Wayne painfully, obviously loved. Jason Todd, whose ghost haunts every corner of the Batcave and the people in it. Jason Todd, probably not even that cool.

Bernard imagines, for a moment, capturing a fraction of that obsession. Imagines a placard and a Robin suit with his name on it. His name brought up to warn some other poor kid. Being longed for. For a second, he allows himself to be jealous of a dead boy.

"Oh my," sighs Alfred. "That expression never bodes well."

Bernard snaps out of his reverie to find Alfred approaching. How long has he been sitting here brooding?

"Hey," he says, grabbing ahold of the railing and hoisting himself up. "… I'm, uh. Sorry. I know Jason was, you probably, uh…"

"The apology is very much appreciated, Master Dowd," Alfred says, and then pauses, glancing at the memorial. There is a spark of grief there, but then it's gone as Alfred moves to offer him a hand. "I assure you, Master Dick has had much harsher words for Master Bruce on the matter in the past."

"I bet," Bernard says. He lets himself be guided back to the the medical beds in silence. Only when Alfred is bustling about finishing the last of the cleanup does he speak up again. "Does Bruce always fight with his Robins this badly, or does he just hate me? When Dick came and… I assumed they just grew apart, but..."

"That is a complicated question," Alfred says, folding a blanket with neat motions. "The Dynamic Duo, as I believe it goes, has always had its ups and downs."

"Feels like it's been mostly downs."

Alfred tuts, moving to organize Bernard's hastily retrieved personal effects.

"Yes, well, you came at a… rather hard time," he says, and before Bernard can open his mouth, he continues. "One that we are just now beginning to see the veil lift from. I had worried that Master Bruce would work himself into the grave, before your arrival. Had you not intervened, that night, he most certainly would have..."

Bernard looks down at his hands.

"… But no, to answer your question, I am quite certain Master Bruce does not hate you," Alfred says.

Then why's he always trying to get rid of me, Bernard thinks, dully. The pain in his head throbs as if in agreement.

"Why's he like this," he says, instead.

"Why indeed," Alfred says.

Bernard gets some sleep.

"Oh my God, Bernard, what happened?"

He tries to cover it up with makeup, but the brick-sized bruise on his face is too big and dark to conceal completely. So, predictably, when Darla sees him in the hall two days later, she freaks out.

"I got mugged," Bernard says. "I told you, didn't I?"

"You said you got mugged, not beaten to hell," Darla says, pulling him in by his arm. He squawks and awkwardly ragdolls himself forward with her grasp before she notices that he's stronger than he should be. "Jesus, this is bad. Should I put out a hit?"

"Darla." He laughs nervously. "We can't be making those jokes, girlypop. You might actually be able to do that."

"We can find out," she says, expression stormy. "Who did this? Height? Hair colour? Address?"

"Nobody," Bernard says. He thinks back to the mystery girl and her striking appearance. There's something niggling at the back of his brain about it, but he's been advised not to try casework while he's recovering. "I don't really remember. I -"

"Bernard?"

Tim has appeared from the crowd. His eyes are wide and he's scanning Bernard's face with increasing horror.

"Oh, hey, Tim," Bernard greets him weakly. He's still being held by the wrist by Darla.

"It's worse than it looks," Tim says. Bernard isn't sure if he's talking to Bernard, Darla, or just voicing a train of thought. "You covered it up."

"Oh my God, you're right," Darla says, squinting at Bernard's face. Bernard grimaces at her.

"Yeah, I, uh… I just thought people'd freak out if they saw, so…"

"Who did this."

Bernard stops his halfhearted mumble as a chill runs down his spine, casting his eyes back to Tim. Tim, who's just grabbed his sleeve.

He looks furious. Madder than Bernard's ever seen him. His mouth is set in a cold, flat line, and his knuckles are white where they grip the fabric. His eyes are icy.

"You look ready to kill someone, dude," Bernard says, and it's not a lie.

Just like that, Tim blinks, and the moment is gone. He lets go of Bernard's sleeve in a robotic motion.

"I," he starts, and then stops. "You're my friend. If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"No, no, bring back the murder face," Darla says, slapping Tim on the back. "You and me need to team up and find this guy, Draper."

"Nobody is killing anyone for me!" Bernard says, stepping between them. "I very explicitly, may the good members of the Jury note, do not want that!"

"Okay, well, what do you want?" Darla huffs. She's crossing her arms, but he sees the real worry in her eyes.

He wants Batman to stop being an asshole.

"I want to sleep through every class and then delve into the forbidden tomb of the Ichor-lord," he says.

"We can do that," Tim says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Okay, I need to end it here," Tim says, snapping the DMG shut and massaging the bridge of his nose. "Apparently, I have some research to do."

"Or you could just trust my numbers," Darla says, waving a page of equations at him. "The energy output would easily -"

"I'm not letting you nuke the dragon with a high-yield explosion from the inside," Tim says. "And if I'd known that was what you intended to use that spell for, I'd have asked you to take another one. Or… something. That isn't this."

"This isn't fair. I joined your nerd hobby," Darla says. "But when I use basic physics to play the game, suddenly it's OP."

"The game just isn't really designed for this," Tim says, flipping through another book. "It's not like there's a Joules-to-dice-of-damage table."

"So? Extrapolate it from fall damage."

There's a pause. It goes on a beat too long.

"Did you by chance already do that and find that it would likely one-hit-KO a young adult dragon?"

"Nnnnno."

"I'm on her side," Bernard says, from his sleeves-cocoon. He's splayed out on top of his character sheet where it sits on top of the cafeteria table, and he's got his phone angled so he can see it through a little gap. If he moves it, he can see Tim's expression. Currently, he looks the part of the long-suffering DM.

"Of course you're on her side," Tim says, sighing. "You don't want to lose to the dragon."

"No, it's for righteous and noble reasons," Bernard says, shifting a bit so that his mouth isn't covered by the cocoon. "Like supporting women."

"The dragon is also a woman!"

"Real women, Tim." He grins. "But yes, also in-character. Do you know how hard it is for a sorceress to be taken seriously in STEM?"

Darla snorts, and Tim rolls his eyes.

"I'm not letting you guys shortcut out of the adventure," he says. "But just give me a week and I'll think of some way that your idea can help without breaking everything. Okay?"

Darla sighs but relents, and the table around him is soon filled with the sound of after-game cleanup. Admittedly, like a lot of his classes today, things blur by. Darla touches his shoulder on her way out, he thinks, muttering something about not getting himself killed before tomorrow at his muffled goodbye. It isn't for another few minutes that he realizes that Tim hasn't left or made a move to leave.

"Uh," Bernard says, finally pulling himself upright. Tim is sitting a few feet away on the bench, straddling it and fidgeting with the zippers on his bag as he stares at Bernard. "Hey."

"Did it help?" Tim asks. "You asked to play, but you looked zoned out for most of that."

Bernard sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

"Just tired," he says. "I did enjoy it, Tim. Thanks for running to make me feel better. Means a lot."

Tim nods, his eyes lowering to examine his bag. He looks thoughtful.

"I also knew Darla was gonna do that and I wanted to see your reaction," he says, summoning up a grin. Tim's eyes jump back up to his face, a scandalized expression blooming on his features.

"She told you!" he says, accusatory. Bernard can't help it; he laughs, collapsing back onto folded arms on the table. "You think this is funny. I have to translate that mess into game mechanics and decide if it would break the game and you're laughing."

"You could try being less adorable about it," Bernard says, before his filter can quite catch up with him. Tim makes a face like Tim.exe has stopped working before he rallies and rolls his eyes. Bernard doesn't miss the pink dusting his cheeks.

They sit in silence for a little while longer. Tim still isn't making any move to leave, which is unusual, because he usually splits pretty quickly when social obligations are over, no matter how much fun he seems to be having.

"Don't have anywhere to be?" Bernard asks, and Tim blinks.

"I could," he says. The fidgeting increases in severity; the poor zipper is holding on for its life as Tim unconsciously pulls on it. "It's. Uh… you just scared me, I guess."

Bernard hisses in a breath through his teeth.

"You should see the other guy," he jokes, forcing a smile for some levity. This only gets him narrowed eyes.

"You fought the mugger?" Tim asks. "Is that how it happened?"

Bernard closes his eyes. He was really hoping to not have to deliver this particular cover story today, but that was clearly never not going to happen.

"Yeah, it's, it's stupid," he says. "It was my fault, I guess. I've been taking self defense classes and I thought I could take one stupid mugger. My mom was furious."

Surprisingly, Tim doesn't call him stupid or ask for more details. He doesn't even look like earlier, with that cold, startling anger. Instead, he sort of curls up, back against the table as he brings up his knees. Stares at the cafeteria wall.

"… I don't know what I'd do if I found out you'd died," he says. Something about his tone makes Bernard sit up a little straighter.

"Whoa," he says. "Tim, I'm okay."

"Yeah," Tim says. "But you could have not been. And you'd be gone. Just like that. Walking out the door one day and never coming back."

"Tim…"

"And then I'd have found out too late to do anything about it," he says. He's gripping his bag tightly.

Bernard sits up straight. Forces himself to look.

"Has that… happened before?" he asks, and Tim stiffens. His gaze swivels back around to meet Bernard's, and it looks haunted.

"It's," Tim starts, and then stalls out. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Right," Bernard says. An uncomfortable amount of silence elapses. "Well, uh... thanks. For caring about if I live or die and stuff. That's pretty cool of you."

"Seems pretty basic," Tim mutters.

Bernard doesn't know how to say: I really needed to hear that right now. You guys are seriously the reason I keep going some days.

He reaches out to put a hand on Tim's shoulder.

"That's pretty gamer of you, actually," he says. Tim raises an eyebrow. "Very cash money."

"Oh my God," Tim says, reaching over to elbow him. Bernard catches it in the bruised rib and barely contains a flinch. "If that's how you respond to a serious heart-to-heart, I think I know why the muggers beat you up."

"Timothy. That's offensive," Bernard says. "Victim-blaming a minority."

"Uh, shit," Tim says, straightening. "Did they know you were gay, or -"

"A gamer. The most oppressed of all minorities."

That earns him a flat glare. "This is going to happen again. I should put a tracker on you."

Bernard bursts out laughing. It hurts his side.

"Buy me dinner first?!" he says, and Tim sputters. He's saved from Bernard's (many) follow-up questions by a specific vibration as Bernard gets a text - Beep-beep-beep. Just off of his normal text tone. It's some kind of Bat-business. He glances down at the screen and makes a face as an entirely unexpected sender leaves him a novel: the communicator he'd given Anarky.

RC-E1: Pardon the intrusion, but I'd very much like to pick our previous conversation back up sometime. You seem like you stand a chance of listening to reason, unlike your cowled companion. I have a reading list I like to give out that covers some basics, but if that's too dry, I can always run you through it personally. We could start with the hypocrisies of Tocqueville!

"Oh my God," Bernard mutters, typing a reply. I regret routing this through my phone.

R: This line is for emergencies. And crime fighting.
RC-E1: No, see, this is what I'm talking about. Crime is a byproduct of the failures of society. Can you truly claim to fight crime if you're unwilling to put in the work to understand the underpinnings of class warfare?

"Who is it?" Tim says, craning his neck to look. Bernard pulls the phone away at the last second, and his eyebrows furrow. "Is someone bothering you?"

"Just a guy I've been locked in combat with on Reddit," he says. "He sucks."

Tim makes a face.

"Just block him, then," he says. Bernard sighs and shakes his head. Careful to keep the screen tilted away from Tim, he clears the bat-communicator applet away and tabs over to his browser.

Man, he needs to be more cautious about doing research on his phone. It's still open to the Gotham's most wanted list from when he'd been wracking his brain over all of the known criminals that like to send in clues to taunt the authorities. Riddler, Joker, guy from out of town, Cluemaster, other guy from out of town…

Hold on.

Bernard scrolls back, something that's been hovering in the back of his brain for days finally clicking into place. Cluemaster's mugshot looks back at him, blond-haired and blue-eyed and looking at the camera with a now-very-familiar stormy expression.

He shoots to his feet. (His headache pounds in response, but he doesn't care.)

"Sorry, just remembered something I need to take care of," he says to a bewildered Tim, collecting his bag and shoving his D&D binder into it in a hurry. "Don't worry, learned my lesson, not about to get mugged again, see you soon, good luck with the dragon!"

As he beelines out of the school cafeteria, he chances one last look back before the door closes behind him.

Tim watches him go with an inscrutable expression, still gripping his bag tightly to his chest.

"… So, despite our little staffing problem, Brown is going to make the date," Anarky says.

"Good," Tim says, leaning back in his chair as he stares unseeing at the screens in front of him. He's playing back the events of Friday in his head, thoughts dominated by Bernard and his bruises.

(He'd been walking with a limp, and the way he'd covered the bruise on his face; it had been skilled. Like he'd done it before, was practiced at it. How many times had Tim missed this?)

"I can't say I like playing at being a middle manager," Anarky complains. Tim privately rolls his eyes and leans forward to clean up his windows as he responds.

(He'd been sure that Bernard would have mentioned something about self defense classes before now, too, but maybe that explains his heroic dive at the skate park. Something isn't sitting right, but it's Bernard…)

"You're playing middle manager because Brown can't be trusted to clean up after himself," he says. "Speaking of which, I forgot to ask. Did he ever catch the mole? The tip situation with the police seems to have stopped."

Everything that was up on his display was resolved anyway, evidence trails curtailed and red herrings deployed. The Bat will be off of their backs for a little longer. And they don't need much longer.

(It seems absurd that he could have missed something big about Bernard. Bernard, one of his best friends. Bernard, who's normally all smiles. Bernard, who's sort of a buffoon. Bernard, who likes to put his arm around Tim and talk a big game about complete nonsense because he thinks it's funny. Buy me dinner first.)

"Oh, yeah. Contained blast, the body's charcoal along with the rest of the evidence -"

(And then there's that, the unspoken acknowledgement that Bernard has been flirting with him for months and - is he serious? Did he mean that? How is he supposed to go about finding out how much he meant that? What would Tim do if he meant that? He's not into boys. Surely Tim would know if he was into boys. Right?)

"- and you'll be glad to know that Robin wasn't caught in it, so no reason for Batman to come for our lives."

Tim's brain forcibly removes itself from a track called Bernard and lands back on a much more sensible track called Robin.

"Anarky," he says, slowly. "What do you mean by Robin wasn't caught in it."

"Exactly what I said," Anarky says, and Tim hears the smirk in his voice. "The little bird came snooping around, with a friend I can only assume was Brown's actual spy. But worry you not, we're extra-casualty-free and both of them should be thoroughly thrown off the trail."

Tim massages his temples.

"Congratulations for managing not to bungle it," Tim says. "Tell me more about the 'friend'. I assume you didn't manage to find out who they were."

"Unfortunately, no," Anarky says. "They're slick, managed to give me the slip even though I could see they took a real beating. I don't suppose you've made any progress on the Robin problem? Our unknown vigilante count seems to be multiplying."

While he's glad that Lonnie hasn't questioned Tim's patience about getting back around to killing Batman, he's getting annoyingly persistent about his lack of progress on finding out who Robin is. The annoying thing is, Tim has tried. There are simply no leads. Bruce Wayne has not publicly made a suspicious adoption or foster of a blond boy (or girl!) around Robin's age, hired any assistants… Tim's been over the intern roster at Wayne Corp, monitored the Manor as closely as he can for signs of a new inhabitant, even delved further than he should have into the Wayne financials to see if an apartment has been purposed for housing a teenager. Nothing. It's like the new Robin is completely off the grid.

"I would tell you if I had," he says. "Unfortunately, the Bats can be relied upon to cover their tracks."

"That's a shame," Anarky says. He doesn't sound too bothered. "I'll just have to keep working my angle, then. He agreed to meet me, you know."

Tim grits his teeth.

"I'm sure he would agree to meet me, too, if I was enough of an idiot to make social calls with Robin while plotting a major crime," he says. "Speaking of, are we ready to move?"

"Assuming Brown keeps his schedule, yes," Anarky says, snapping back to his serious voice. "And he'd better, since we don't have another good window to get that into position before the gala."

"I doubt we'll miss it," Tim says, relaxing a tiny bit. "After all, it doesn't matter if he fails or succeeds. We just have to rely on Arthur Brown to do it loudly."

And while he does that, Tim thinks, Moriarty will have plenty of time to keep ahead of Batman, set up the chessboard for the grand finale, and maybe even finally figure out who Robin is.

(He just hopes Bernard can keep himself out of trouble in the meantime.)

"Mrs. Brown, these biscuits are simply divine," Bernard says, through a mouthful of biscuits that are kind of so-so.

Crystal Brown laughs, and the bags under her eyes ease somewhat under the crinkle of a well-needed smile. She's not as blonde as her erstwhile husband or her daughter, sporting a short crop of straw-coloured hair that is very sensible for her job as a nurse, but her eyes are just as blue.

"I just keep those around for something easy to grab after shiftwork," she says. She sounds tired, and there's something about her movements that seems a little sluggish even considering that. Floaty. "And Crystal is fine."

On some kind of drug, the bat-training says. More than a normal dose. She's a nurse, so she has ample opportunity to sneak out pharmaceuticals? Maybe just abusing a normal prescription? Reluctant to answer to the same name as her husband, house looks like it's in disrepair, and biscuit mix is a staple of the Gotham Food Bank. Cluemaster either isn't sending money back, or it's all going into drugs. Starting to get a picture here.

"That's a very pretty name," Bernard says. She laughs again, just a little too loud.

"What a charmer," she says. "Should I be worried about Stephanie, young man?"

"No ma'am," he says, folding his hands and posing the picture of innocence. "I would never be so uncouth, and she is a strong and independent woman who, um, kind of scares the hell out of me."

The front door opens and shuts.

"Mom! I'm home!" the girl who Bernard now knows to be Stephanie Brown calls out.

"I'm in the kitchen!" Crystal calls back. "You friend from school is here!"

"My what?" Footsteps approach, and Bernard gets up to meet them. "Mom, who -"

"Stephanie!" he says, holding out his arms in that ill-fated gesture of peace once again as Stephanie enters the room and stops, giving him a blank, confused stare. "Hey, it's me, Robert. Remember?"

"What?" she asks, again, eyes scanning his face. "I don't know -"

"We kinda had an argument in class the other day, you know the project about the guy and the roof?" he says, and keeps talking as her eyes widen in recognition and then narrow into a troublingly murderous expression. "Wow, putting it like that it sounds real rough. I just wanted to swing by and say I am so, so sorry about that, and hey, your mom was here and isn't she lovely? Her biscuits are lovely."

Stephanie walks over and punches him in the gut. It's hard, too, with a proper follow-through. If he hadn't been wearing his suit under his clothes today, that one might have knocked him down. As it is, it winds him.

"Stephanie!" Her mom gasps, as Bernard reels back.

"I deserved that," he croaks, holding up a hand.

"Mom, you can't just let random people into the house!" Stephanie says, rounding on her mom.

"This nice young man has been nothing but polite -"

"That's not my point!"

"Don't raise your voice at me after fighting in the house!"

"I wouldn't if you would just listen to me!"

"Hey, if we could just -" Bernard dodges another punch. "Okay."

"Stephanie!"

"What?!"

"Room! Now!"

"Mom!"

"Wait, please don't, Mrs- er, Crystal," Bernard protests, and Stephanie whirls on him again, fist raised. "This is obviously my fault. I'll just leave."

"Damn right you will," Stephanie mutters, and her mother sighs.

"I'm too tired for this…" she says, and she sounds it. Bone-deep tired. The first crack in Stephanie's mask of rage appears as she glances guiltily towards her, and she steps back. "I'm sorry, Robert, it might be for the best."

"Right," Bernard says, picking up his bag. "Uh, just - Stephanie? If you want help with the project… I'd still like to. Y'know. If you want. Yeah. Bye."

He shows himself out, hearing a faint "Are you behind on a project?" from the kitchen before the door closes behind him. He lets himself lean back against the front door for one breath, and then two, and then starts down the suburban road. He'll have to take the bus back to central Gotham.

He gets two blocks before he hears hard pedaling behind him, and when he looks back, it's to find Stephanie Brown pulling up beside him on a bike.

"I should kick your ass," she says, planting down the kickstand and marching over to him. She gets right up in his face, pointer finger digging into his cheek. "Bringing my mom into it. That's scummy."

"Okay, well, you already did that," Bernard says, grimacing. "So how about I hear out your side of the story instead?"

She scowls.

"The thing you have to understand about my dad is that he's a grade-A psycho and a loser," Steph (and it is Steph, not Stephanie, she's made clear) says, throwing a rock at a tree trunk. "And he's delusional and sucks."

Bernard nods. They're sitting on a swing set in a currently-deserted playground, away from the road and what little semblance of life there is at this time of day in the suburbs.

"That all checks," he says. "He's also unoriginal, and his costume? I'm gonna be frank. I have notes."

Steph snorts, tilting her head away to hide what Bernard suspects is a grudging smile. It quickly passes, though.

"How'd you find me?" she asks. "I know his identity isn't public."

"I'd been staring at mugshots trying to crack what criminal was sending clues to the police for days," Bernard says, pushing himself to swing just a little bit as he talks. "Then I saw your face, and it took a bit, but I recognized the resemblance."

"Ugh," Steph says, groaning and hitting her head against the swing chain. It sort of bounces.

"So I thought, okay, Cluemaster clearly has a family, so it's just a matter of running them down. Then I ran a few tests on a sample I scooped before you threw me out a window, found a few rare chemicals he would have needed for an ultra-fast-setting resin, and wouldn't you know it, only one of the IDs he used to buy his supplies was connected to a family with a daughter. Arthur Brown."

"God, he's so incompetent," Steph mutters. "And you pulled me out with you!"

"After you attacked me."

"You found me with a dead body," she says. Bernard peers at her from the side. Her face is drawn and she's gripping the chains hard with both hands, looking at the ground.

There is no world where she expected anyone to give her the benefit of the doubt on that, he realizes.

"You sent the clues in to bust your dad," Bernard says. "We're on the same side, so… what's the deal here? Why risk him finding out what you were doing?"

Steph looks at him with hard, searching eyes. Eventually, she lets out a huge, sagging sigh.

"Living with him was hell," she says, and curls in on herself just a little bit. For the first time, she seems small. "He had his boys over all the time, and they treated me and mom like shit. And that's barely even getting into it. Like, page one of two hundred. Mom tried, she really did, but…"

Bernard swallows. His chest feels tight all of a sudden.

"… she couldn't really do anything until he got thrown in jail," Steph continues, after a moment. "But things were good for a while. You know?"

"And then he broke out of jail," Bernard says.

"Yeah," Steph says. "He came right home and tried to go back to business as usual, too. Mom and him had a huge fight. She threw him out at knifepoint, told him never to talk to me or her ever again. It was awesome."

The tightness in Bernard's chest becomes an ache. In his mind's eye he sees doorways and eyes that never stop watching and never come closer and never intervene.

"But then he said his name's still on the property, and he promised he'd be back as soon as he had a big score, and the doctors got rid of his stupid compulsion to send in clues, so it'd be soon," Steph continues, not privy to the fact that Bernard feels his palms starting to sweat. "We can't afford to move. The house is paid off, it's the only reason our heads are still above water without him."

"So you decided to stop him," Bernard feels himself saying. His voice sounds normal. He wants to laugh at how good he is at this.

"Yeah," she says. "So I started spying on him and his gang, figured out his plan, and started sending in clues. Except I made sure they weren't quite his style, so he wouldn't think it was someone who knew him that well. I hoped he'd blame the Riddler and they'd kill each other. Or at least it'd get out that he still sends clues to the cops and he'd be blacklisted. I guess he thought his second in command did it, though, because that was the guy we found dead."

"Wait," Bernard says, taking a deep breath and letting The Case take the reins. He can't afford to fall apart right now. "You know his whole plan? Like, all of it?"

"I knew his plan," Steph says, pursing her lips. "I also know that after I started sending in clues, his crew wanted him to change it, but he refused. He was really particular on date and time."

Bernard taps his finger against the swing where it meets his hip.

"Don't you think it's weird," he says, "That they killed that guy thinking that he was the mole and then still bothered to blow their hideout? And that it happened so soon after you broke in?"

Steph's lips twist into a thoughtful frown.

"That does make more sense to do if they knew it was a spy," she says. "Definitely up my dad's alley to leave a bomb as a message."

Something seems suspicious about this, but Bernard can't put his finger on it. He sighs and shakes his head, standing up and stretching. Ow, his stomach still hurts.

"Well, if you give me what you have, I can take it from here," he says. "If he doesn't suspect you yet, he - uh."

He stops because Steph is rapidly in his face again.

"Take it from here? No way," she says. "I'm not leaving this to Batman's sidekick. It's too important."

"Okay, first of all, ouch -"

"Second, if you think I'm backing down from getting my dad back for everything he did to me, you don't understand anything."

Bernard pauses, stepping back. The tightness in his chest, which never really left, is coming back in force.

"No, I -" he starts, and then fumbles. "I get it. I get having a shit dad. I do."

"No you don't," she says, and the way she says it. There's something about the way she says it. Bernard looks inward, forcibly packs his own baggage into a tiny little corner, and then looks at her again.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he says. "Then we do it your way. You ran him down once, so I'm sure we can do it again. How long do we have?"

Steph gives him a long, hard look.

"If this comes back to me and my mom," she starts. "If anyone finds out, she… she's going through a hard time. I don't know what Batman could do, if he stuck his nose in."

It seems an absurd notion, but…

I know Bruce. Steph doesn't. All she knows is that there's a scary vigilante that goes around busting criminals, and her dad is a supervillain, and her mom is an addict.

"I get that," Bernard says, after a quick mental check to make sure no one's snuck up on them since they started talking, "But I'm not the cops and I'm not Batman. I'm Robin. This is what I do. It's what I'm supposed to do. You and your mom need help. Please let me help."

Steph punches him again, hard, right in the shoulder.

"Ow!" He reels back. "What the hell!"

"That was for making my mom think I lied to her about my schoolwork," Steph says. She holds out a hand. "Okay, Boy Wonder. You can call me Spoiler. Let's go kick my dad's ass."

Bernard can't feel the ache in his chest over the throb in his shoulder. He's grinning as he shakes Steph's hand.

Despite a promising start, they don't get started for another few days as Bernard waits to be officially un-benched. He does what he can on the Batcomputer in the meantime, but no more leads present themselves. Cluemaster doesn't appear to need to stock up on his chemical weapons, because the few labs that sell the reagents don't pop up with any unusual activity, and he's otherwise laying low.

"So how did you find him the first time?" Bernard asks, legs dangling off of the side of the roof that he and Spoiler are parked on after an evening of fruitless legwork. They've both got hot dogs courtesy of one of Gotham's many food carts. The one Bernard is nursing is latticed with relish, mustard, and ketchup in equal amounts; Spoiler loaded hers with onions and mustard, which smells faintly like a chemical attack.

"One of his socials he thought I don't know about," she says, after a big swallow. He feels a little bad for her; it must be uncomfortable to push a full-face mask up over her nose for as long as it takes to eat. "He has this account that he uses mostly to argue with people in the comments, right? But he posted a picture with one of his boys at a bar, so I figured he'd hired him. Then it was just stalking that guy until he led me to the crew."

"I'm guessing that won't work again," Bernard sighs.

"Nah, he's gone dark." Spoiler takes another big bite and chews ravenously before continuing. "Actually, the account's completely gone. I guess he must've put two and two together, or maybe he's just being more careful."

"Another point for knowing that there's a spy after him," Bernard muses. He chews another mouthful of hot dog alongside his thoughts before adding: "Do we think he suspects you? You have everything to gain from him going back to jail."

"He doesn't suspect me," Steph says, flatly. "I also have everything to lose if he finds out it's me and goes free, but even aside from that? He'd never suspect me. He's delusional."

Bernard waits for her to elaborate. She doesn't. They fall into silence, finishing up their respective hot dogs.

"Well," he says. "If all else fails, we know one place he'll definitely -"

His comm beeps, which is all the warning he gets before Batman's gravelly voice is in his ear.

"Robin," he says. "Moriarty's machinations have destabilized a treaty between the Italian Mafia and the Odessa Mob."

Bernard feels himself get to his feet in a flash, fingers to his ear.

"How bad is it?" he asks. "I'll be right over."

"Bad," Batman says. "And you won't. I'm telling you to steer clear. They're heavily armed and unpredictable."

Bernard snarls.

"Are you serious? You need backup."

"I'll be fine," Batman says. "Report to Agent A if anything happens."

"You -"

"Going dark. Over and out."

Bernard counts to ten, and then counts backwards to one. He can't get rid of a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The Italian Mafia… Darla's father is one of their bosses. He just hopes that she's okay. Maybe he'll text her on the way to his next engagement.

"Was that Batman?" Spoiler asks, stretching as she stands.

"Yeah."

"Sounded like he blew you off," she says.

"Yeah."

"What's his problem?"

Something that Bernard is quickly coming to appreciate about Spoiler is that she speaks her mind, instantly, no matter what.

"Now that's a can of worms," he grumbles. "… But, well, we didn't find anything tonight. Tomorrow we should try some more of Cluemaster's old contacts, see if any more of them have been in touch with him. You can make a list if you have the time before then."

"Sure," Spoiler says. "Call me Creeps-R-Us. It's really early, though. If you're not off backing up Batman, what are you doing?"

"Taking one for the team," Bernard says. "If I don't make it back, Spoiler… remember me as I was."

"… What?"

"… Plato, however, along with the rest of the elites, preached dependency on authority," Anarky says, pointing with a flourish to the diagram on the board. The chalkboard. The honest-to-God chalkboard that he's set up on the abandoned rooftop where Bernard had agreed to rendezvous. "Their self-interested systems were always designed to interfere with the right to self-determination, but not only to rule it - they and those like them have always sought to stymie man's very ability to think for himself."

"Right," Bernard says, leaning forward and squinting. "And that's why, uh, Plato equals Death and Aristotle equals Life."

"It's shorthand," Anarky says. It's impossible to tell what his face looks like, behind the frozen grotesque of his mask, but he sounds like that might have hit a nerve. "I'm not writing out every point word for word."

"Okay," Bernard says. He leans back. "I'll admit it: Plato does sound like kind of a punk."

"He is," Anarky says, throwing up his cane, which as far as Bernard can tell, he brought solely to use as a pointer. His file says that he likes to put gadgets in there, which is unoriginal as far as Gotham rogues go but does have a certain pragmatism to it.

"But like, okay," Bernard says. He pauses to rub his temple and massage his tone to diplomatic. "You make a lot of good points…"

He hesitates for a beat too long. Anarky sighs impatiently.

"You don't get it at all," he says. Unspoken: No one ever does. "I would have thought that someone like you surely would, though. Batman and Robin, upholding their version of justice in Gotham City. Symbols of fear to those who fear nothing. Supposedly."

Bernard crosses his legs and bats his eyelashes.

"You say the nicest things," he says. This gets him the tip of Anarky's cane in front of his nose.

"When you get past the gothic window dressing," Anarky says, and then pulls away in a flourish. "what is subversive about the Bat? Really? There's use in representing the extrajudicial desire to make those in power pay, but what does it do to actually change things? After all, the truly powerful hardly have to commit crimes to parasitize the common man. Does Batman lock up Bruce Wayne?"

Bernard genuinely can't help but bark out a laugh.

"Okay," he says, biting down on the inside of his cheek before things can explode into the full, suspicious laughing fit that this one deserves. "You have to have a better example than Wayne. Didn't he ask Lex Luthor on Twitter if he didn't understand how paying employees worked when he was in the middle of that one anti-union scandal?"

"Must I?" Anarky tuts. He begins to pace. "I think Wayne is the perfect example. Simply because of the circumstances of his birth, he's paid so disproportionately for his work - which, may I remind you, he doesn't have to do, he could easily retire for the rest of his life - to such an obscene degree that even his remarkable charity work could not possibly give it all away faster than he amasses it."

"Okay, but -"

"Even the most ethical billionaire imaginable cannot help siphoning the hard work of uncountable workers to his pockets," Anarky interrupts him. "He represents an unnatural order that must fall. You'll sit here and laugh at me and argue with me, but I represent a future where people think for themselves and things that matter like war and oppression change, really change, and you -"

"I'm going to Pride."

In a miracle of miracles, Anarky shuts up. His cane, which was wildly gesticulating, pauses its movements. Bernard continues, not giving him a chance to interrupt again.

"Maybe you're right about Bruce Wayne, or Batman, or whoever else. Maybe Bruce Wayne sucks and everyone should throw tomatoes at him or something and he'd deserve it," he says, fists curling in his lap. "But Robin is going to Pride this year. Robin is coming out as gay and it's going to be a whole thing."

"I -"

"And you know what?" Bernard sticks a finger in Anarky's chest. Actually, maybe that's his real neck. His costume makes it hard to tell. "That's going to matter to people, because Robin saves people from muggers and Anarky won't give you the time of day if you're not a hundred percent on board with tearing down the banks."

Anarky twitches. For a moment, Bernard thinks, he's going to attack. But he doesn't. After a few seconds, he takes off his mask and throws it to the side. He's smiling, though it seems strained. Half a grimace.

"Just ask me about Moriarty already," he says. "I know that's what you really came to do, so let's stop pretending. If you really are making a stand for something, then maybe you've earned it."

Bernard takes a deep breath in and then lets it out in a sigh.

"Fine," he says. "You're after Moriarty -"

"And you haven't told Batman as much," Anarky says. When Bernard straightens, he laughs. "I haven't had a midnight visit from him about it, which means you neglected to mention it to him. Am I right?"

"Think you could see your way into sharing what you know?" Bernard asks, rolling his eyes. "Like why you thought I would know anything about them. That would be a great start."

"Well, that's the thing," Anarky says. "I've been observing him for a while, as closely as anyone can. And, well, I don't know much more than the basics, even after all this time. He's ruthless, and cunning, and resourceful, and paranoid. And so it's very interesting that the only time I've ever seen him truly hesitate was because you showed up."

Bernard doesn't absorb much of math and science the next day. Instead, he ruminates on what Anarky told him.

Moriarty failed to set off a bomb to kill Batman because of me.

What could it mean?

It might be time to loop in Batman. No matter how displeased he's likely to be that Bernard didn't tell him everything. But Batman is still radio silent, and the longer that stretches, the more worried Bernard gets. (Though even that isn't enough to keep him awake through first period. He's bone-tired.)

At least Darla is okay. She seems nervous, though, eyes constantly flitting to the windows and doors during their shared science period. He doesn't find out why until lunchtime.

"Darla?" Tim says, spotting her before Bernard does.

"Why are you in the janitor's closet?" Bernard asks, because the obvious question presents itself.

"Shhh! Dumbasses, they're probably tailing you!"

That's how Bernard and Tim end up squatting in the closet next to an irate Darla. She doesn't waste much time filling them in, Tim's phone screen illuminating all of their faces from below with a faint pallor.

"I wasn't supposed to come to school today," she says. "Did you hear about last night?"

"No?" Bernard lies. "What's going on?"

"I heard there was a mob shootout on the West end," Tim says, voice tight. "Are you in danger?"

"Ugh, no, my dad is just being neurotic." She rolls her eyes. "Nobody's actually targeting family right now. He just didn't want me coming 'just in case'."

"Aaaaand you turned down a free day off of school?" Bernard says. "Just think: you could be playing video games right now."

"Not everyone's a slacker," she says, elbowing him. "… Besides, we had plans. Remember?"

Bernard had totally forgotten. He opens his mouth to reply, but as he's hesitating over what exactly to say, Tim cuts in.

"Your dad is right," he says. "This is serious, Darla. What if someone came to hurt you at school? Do you think we want you to risk your life? What if you died?"

His tone is harsh, and while Bernard blinks at the sudden vehemence, Darla is already on the attack.

"Well, sorry wanting to spend time with you," she says, leaning in front of Bernard in the cramped space to get closer to Tim. "We don't have forever to screw around after school doing whatever, okay?"

Something that's been simmering in the back of Bernard's head for a while now clicks.

"Darla," he says. "Is something, like… happening? Soon?"

She stops, and then withdraws. Her fingers dig in where she clutches at her jeans. In the dim light of Tim's screen, it's hard to read her face, but she's looking at the floor.

"I," she says, and then bites her lip. "My dad thinks -"

Light from the hall floods the closet as the door opens. It frames a very large man with sunglasses, who Bernard takes in instinctively as a threat. He's seen this guy before, usually hanging back when him and Darla go to the mall. He's got a gun, and a guy behind him, and Bernard could probably take him, if he were Robin right now. But he's not, so he edges closer to Tim and tries as hard as he can to (truthfully) look like he's not considering making out with Henry Aquista's daughter.

Darla just looks resigned.

"Darla," the man says, voice dripping with as much exasperation as he's probably allowed to show.

"Antonio," Darla intones back. She's looking behind him, where kids in the hall are rubbernecking. Whispers are already starting up.

"Your father is waiting," Antonio says. "He wants to have a word with you."

Darla scoffs before pushing off the wall.

"Fine," she says, and with one miserable glance back, slams the door on Tim and Bernard.

Bernard waits with bated breath, but no one opens the door to check on them. When he finally lets it out in a deep sigh and fishes out his phone, he flicks it on to light up Tim's face.

Tim… really doesn't look good. He's staring at the door with eyes that aren't all there and he's actually shaking a bit.

"Tim?" Bernard asks, gently, and Tim flinches. "Hey, uh… you okay?"

Tim doesn't answer for a second.

"Not really," he says, shifting until his hands are in his pockets and he's hunched over, staring at the floor. His backpack dwarfs him like this. "What was she about to say, do you think."

"I dunno," Bernard says. He'd like to know too.

"I missed it," Tim says, dully. "I didn't think about Darla at all. I was so busy… I…"

"Don't beat yourself up," Bernard says. "She's been dodgy about whatever this is."

This doesn't seem to improve Tim's mood. Instead, he drags his gaze up to meet Bernard's with an anguished expression.

"You noticed?" he asks, and Bernard feels a stab of - well. He schools it quickly. It's not fair to Tim to expect him to have Bernard figured out when he's intentionally playing dense.

It's just.

Yeah.

"Who's the grasshopper here," he chides, instead, and takes Tim by the shoulder. "… Speaking of, your wise Sensei thinks that we should skip and get pizza. For morale. What do you say?"

"… Pizza sounds good," Tim says, in a mumble. "Then I'll… yeah. Pizza sounds good."

They take the subway to the park, after some brief deliberation, and grab the first and cheapest pizza they see. Tim tries to pay, but Bernard is faster, and, owing to the nature of his living situation, only ever carries cash, so he's already slammed a twenty down on the counter while Tim is pulling out a card and looking for the machine.

Getting Tim's goat is literally always fun, but right now he'd take anything, so Bernard enjoys that trademark 'you'll-rue-the-day' glower even more than usual and hands Tim his pizza with a flourish.

They end up on a bench in the park, deeper in where there are less people. Ivy is locked up in Arkham at the moment, but the population at large is still generally leery to go too deep into areas she's been "gardening" in. It means that there's some semblance of privacy to be had, if you're crazy enough or Robin enough. Between Tim and Bernard, they're both.

"… It was magical," Bernard is saying, around his last bite of crust. "Skill Swap Mega Starmie into scarfed EQ Garchomp. Horrifying. Fascinating. I want to study their criminal mind. How'd they get to Ultra Ball?"

"Seems vulnerable to interruption," Tim agrees. "That would also go well with Rock Slide, though. I bet that was on its set."

"You're evil," Bernard says, poking Tim's shoulder. "In the Charizard Y meta, too. Brutal."

Tim smiles slyly, then looks down at his hands. He's barely touched his own pizza, the cheese starting to fully solidify. It's ragged at the edges where it's being slowly nibbled into oblivion.

"I don't know how you can do this," Tim says. When Bernard makes a questioning noise in his throat, he looks up to meet his eyes. "Enjoy yourself. When so much is happening."

"We live in Gotham." Bernard snorts. "Something is always happening. It's the swamp curse."

"But how can you be okay?" Tim presses.

Bernard lets out a big sigh and slumps back into the bench.

"Who said I'm okay?" he says, releasing a tiny, tiny fraction of the crushing weight of everything into his voice. It must still be a lot, because he sees Tim sit up a little straighter. "Man, I dunno. I'm just taking things one at a time. I can't do anything about Darla until she talks to us about it, but I can take you out for pizza." And I can patrol as Robin later. And I can help Steph shut down her shitty dad. And I can figure out what Anarky knows, if I keep picking at it. "What's the alternative?" Ending it all?

Bernard only barely keeps the thought out of his mouth. He squeezes his arm, one of his many bruises responding with dull, grounding pain.

"One issue at a time, huh," Tim says, oblivious to all of that. He takes another halfhearted nibble of pizza. "That's easier said than done."

"Something weighing on you?" Bernard shifts, bumping shoulders with him. It might be his imagination, but Tim stiffens a bit. "You can tell me, dude."

"I…" Tim starts, and then stops, lips parted just slightly.

He watches Tim's face take on a fascinating journey. He flicks through several emotions - hesitation, guilt, anguish, a deep, ruminating thoughtful stare - before suddenly averting his eyes and blurting:

"How did you know you like boys?"

Bernard is suddenly gripped by the realization that his entire life has been building up to this opportunity.

"That's easy," he says, not missing a beat. "I just imagined kissing Robin."

Tim's eyes widen as he looks back up, and then, as if eye contact would burn him, he jerks his gaze all the way off to the shrubbery opposite the bench, cheeks rapidly turning scarlet.

Bernard turns just far enough that Tim can't possibly see him out of the corner of his eyes and grins until his face hurts.

"… Okay," Tim says, faintly, after a very long moment. "Alright."

"I think he uses tongue," Bernard says, and Tim makes a choking noise.

"Okay!" Tim says, sitting up straighter. His voice cracks on the last syllable. "Alright!"

Bernard finally loses it. He throws his head back and laughs until he gasps for air, only peripherally aware of Tim sputtering next to him. He only stops wheezing when Tim finally loses patience and elbows him in the ribs, which hurts a lot because even a week on he's still nursing a healing bruise.

"Ow," he hisses, and then breathes in deeply, and then makes an unpleasant utterance somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

"Oh, shit," Tim says, pulling back. "I didn't actually - are you - wait, are you hurt?"

"I'm - hey!" Bernard grabs Tim's wrist where he is, deadass, reaching to lift up Bernard's shirt. "Timothy! You hussy. What would Robin think?"

Tim looks up at him, red-faced and scandalized.

"Bernard," he says. "You can't - you're not letting this go ever, are you?"

"Tim," Bernard says, and then grins. "I am, literally, never ever letting this go. You're the kissing Robin guy to me now."

"Bernard," Tim groans. The tips of his ears are red now. He's looking at the back of the bench like he's considering bashing his head against it. "Oh my God."

"It's okay," Bernard continues. "I've been there. I know he catches a lot of hate for being the new guy, but personally? I'd hit that in a heartbeat. Total dreamboat. I wouldn't hold it against you if you - um. Hi."

Tim's looking him right in the eye. He's sharp, Bernard remembers. Far, far too sharp.

"You'd really be okay with that?" he asks, and Bernard's mouth is suddenly dry.

Tim is sort of close to his face, he's just now realizing. And Bernard still has ahold of his wrist. He is suddenly acutely aware of every square atom of skin to skin contact that is happening at this exact moment.

This is dangerous. He's playing a dangerous game.

"I, uh," Bernard says. Or, rather, fails to say. Tim's eyes are so blue, and so striking, and kind of hypnotic. He feels like his soul is being laid bare.

"I've meant to ask," Tim says, slowly. "You've said a lot of things, and…"

Bernard's cheeks are burning.

"…I don't always know when you're joking about things…"

Tim's eyes flick down to Bernard's lips.

"And I think that… you, um…"

This is dangerous, he thinks, over and over, but Killer Croc couldn't pry him from where he is right now with a crowbar, scant inches from Tim's face. Something's building, taut as a wire between them. He wants to lean forward and kiss him. He wants to tell him everything. He wants Tim to figure him out. He wants -

Beep-beep-beep.

The spell is broken. Bernard shoots backwards, fumbling for his phone. Tim doesn't move, hand hovering midair where Bernard relinquished his grip.

Bernard glances at the text, from Agent A, and his blood runs cold.

"Shit," he says, scrambling for his bag. "Tim, I have to - I'm sorry, family emergency. I have to go. Now."

"Family emergency?" Tim says, eyes widening. "Do you need me to -"

"No," Bernard says, and regrets his tone immediately. Tim looks like he's been slapped. Bernard pauses for a second, frozen in indecision and breathing hard.

Tim opens his mouth again, and something in Bernard gives. He dives forward and kisses Tim.

It's quick, just a hard pressing of lips, and Tim doesn't have the time to react. Maybe Bernard does that on purpose, doesn't give him time to react. When he pulls back, Tim is fully, completely stunned, eyes blown wide.

"For the record -" Bernard says, already starting to spin on his heel, "- I was never joking about that."

He turns and takes off, starting at a run and then speeding up to a loping sprint.

AA: B has returned. He's been shot.
AA: He's in surgery now.

Tim wakes to a scrabbling sound at his window.

His apartment, the one he uses for his cover as Tim Draper and where he carries out the majority of his business, is situated in an older building that borders Robinson Park. He owns the building, of course, under another name, which is useful for the division between his living space and Moriarty's setup. The actor he paid to act as his uncle doesn't know about the entrance to the sealed-up unit next door that is only accessible from Tim's room through the bookcase.

His faux-uncle isn't here now, though. It's the middle of the night, Gotham's normal soundscape threadbare. The hum of traffic receded to a soft undertone. The occasional passing car individually discernible from the din. A car alarm, very far away. The sound of someone fumbling with the window from the fire escape outside stands in stark contrast, taking up Tim's entire focus and nailing it on that point. His eyes glaze over the alarm clock on their way to the more pressing issue at hand.

Tim's on his feet before he knows it, the taser he keeps on the bedside table firmly in hand as he approaches. If it's a burglar, they're about to regret their choice of target. If it's just some kid, hopefully it'll be enough to scare them off.

It's neither of those things. It's a hood pulled over a mop of blond hair, red-and-green flashing from under a black-and-gold cape leaned up against his window and pawing at the window-sill.

"Robin." Tim drops the taser and lurches forward to open the window. Robin tumbles into the floor of his room in a tangle of limbs. Oddly uncoordinated.

Robin struggles to his feet. In the light spilling from the window, and seeing it close up, Tim is suddenly aware that the Robin suit leaves little to the imagination. There's obviously body armour, on critical areas, but it's tight-fitting and Robin is very well toned and Tim can't stop looking at his biceps.

(Tim is suddenly wondering if taking pictures of Robin had ever been one hundred percent just appreciation of a swell guy who fights crime.)

"Hi," Robin says. Tim snaps out of his reverie just in time for Robin to fall on top of him. There's a floral scent up in his nostrils all of a sudden, but under that is a metallic twinge. Blood? Oh, Robin's hands are very strong and firm on his shoulders. That's distracting. "Citizen. Hi. Um. Sorry about this."

"No problem," Tim says, faintly. "You're hurt."

"Am I?" Robin says, and then looks down. Tim must have missed it before, but there's a cut on Robin's leg. "Oh, shit."

"We - we should take care of that," Tim says. At some point, the taser seems to have fallen from his grasp, because his hands are full dragging Robin over to the bed. "I have a first aid kit. I just have to - oof."

The good news is, Robin is now laying down. The bad news is, Tim has been taken down with him, an iron grip bunching up the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder.

"I, uh." Robin is staring at where he's holding Tim. "I didn't exactly mean to. Do that."

Tim blinks. Okay. He's actually quite close to Robin's face. And everything. "Are you drugged right now?"

"Just had a run-in with Poison Ivy," Robin says. "She kind of - whammied me."

"She whammied you."

"With sex pollen," Robin says, dead serious.

"Okay," Tim says. He's stuck between wanting to scream, and laugh, and it's going to have to be one of those two, because the third contender is a tension that is rising the longer he looks at Robin's lips. He ends up letting out a disbelieving, high-pitched giggle. "Okay? That doesn't - what?"

"I need your help," Robin says, and he's closer now, nose an inch from Tim's. This feels familiar, but Tim can't place it. He smells like flowers. He smells like Gotham's rooftops. He smells like someone's arm over his shoulder.

"How?" Tim asks, mouth on autopilot. He has truly lost the ability to formulate higher thought. His leg is touching Robin's. He feels vaguely guilty. He feels heat collecting below his belly.

Robin is kissing him. Gotham's sounds don't reach his ears anymore. It's all touch - a press of lips, strong hands grabbing his shoulders, blankets shifting around them. Hands snaking into the crook of Robin's hips and meeting spandex and Kevlar. Sensation upon sensation, heat rising and building, a tongue in his mouth eagerly returned, and -

"Bernard," he says, pulling away.

- a stab of realization. He can't be doing this. This isn't right. Memories crash in in a jumble. A bench on the park, a press of lips, unfinished business.

"Robin," he says, and his body is throbbing with need, but it's confused, now. He feels weird, like he's here and somewhere else. Forgetting something. Right on the tip of his tongue. "I can't. I - Bernard."

I like Bernard? Bernard kissed me? I want to kiss him back? Bernard and I are… something? He can't formulate which one to say.

"Tim," Robin says, and the way he says it sends a shudder down Tim's spine. "It's fine."

"How could it be fine?" Tim sputters. That's wrong. Robin wouldn't be okay with that. Right? He opens his mouth to say so, but Robin is already moving to - to -

- remove his mask.

Bernard is looking back at him.

"It's fine," Bernard says, and leans forward again, capturing Tim's lips in his once more. He uses tongue.

Distantly, and then louder and louder, Tim's alarm goes off. Which is weird, because it's the middle of the night. He's having trouble thinking too hard about it, with Bernard's hands all over him.

Tim -

Tim wakes up. His alarm is going off. It's seven o'clock in the morning.

He's breathing hard, and sweating, and his heart is hammering, and he's going to need to take care of something, but he daren't right now. Robin and Bernard and the phantom sensations from his dream are still playing over and over in his head and mingling with a growing feeling of guilt.

Tim pulls his pillow over his head and makes a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan.

Tim: Hey, Bernard
Tim: When you get a chance, please message, okay?
Tim: I hope everyone is okay.
Tim: I mean, they're probably not
Tim: but you know what I mean. I hope everything turns out okay.
Tim: Let me know how it goes.
Tim: No rush, haha

Tim: I think I'm bisexual
Darla: I'm doing fine thanks for asking
Darla: actually i'm not, i'm fucking grounded
Darla: THANKS FOR ASKING
Tim: Shit
Tim: I'm sorry.
Tim: I meant to ask what you were about to say when they pulled you out, but it slipped my mind since other things happened. It sounded important
Darla: SIGH
Darla: I'll tell you when dad lets me out of here ok? i want to tell you guys in person
Darla: and i don't want to repeat myself
Tim: Okay. I'm sorry about your dad, and all of... this.
Tim: I really am.
Tim: Stay safe out there
Darla: he's just being paranoid I'll literally be fine
Darla: BUT
Darla: what brought this on. did dowd finally stop fumbling
Tim: Hard to say
Darla: what does that mean
Tim: We were hanging out and the topic came up. Then he kissed me. Then he had to leave because of a family emergency
Tim: We really didn't get a chance to talk about it
Tim: Do you think that was a date??

This user (Darla) has blocked you!

Tim groans and massages his temples. She'll probably unblock him in a few hours. On another screen, Anarky is hailing him. Slowly but surely, Tim lets out a long sigh, sips his cup of tea, and forcibly shifts his mind to where it needs to be. To Moriarty.

He's got to stop thinking about Bernard. It's going to start getting in the way of dealing with the real Robin, at this rate.

"This is Moriarty," Tim says, as he activates the voice channel.

"Finally," Anarky says. He sounds impatient, like he's been waiting a while; it's only seven-forty, so he probably pulled an all-nighter. "Your magic-minded contact came through. I've put the finishing touches on the device, so all I need now is the artifact. How is your end going?"

"It's been difficult tunneling below the Drake manor without them noticing," Tim lies, "but you have your entrance. I've forwarded you the plan detailing where to set the charges."

A scoff. "As though I couldn't do that myself."

"Feel free to ignore them and do your own thing," Tim says. "That's your brand, after all. But I think you'll find that my way minimizes the risk of structural collapse, if you bother to read it. I know how you abhor violence without purpose or finesse."

Anarky tuts. Tim smiles to himself; he doesn't think Lonnie meant to let that one slip into the mic.

"I'll make that decision on the ground," he says, clearly reluctant to cede any ground on the point. He's going to be so petulant when he gets there and discovers that Tim was right.

"Speaking of decisions and brands," Tim says, "I hope you'll also maneuver yourself into a test run for that artifact. I don't entirely believe your modifications will play nice with it. Magic has a mind of its own."

(Sometimes, he still dreams about a golden eye, and the bottom of the ocean. It's always staring at him, gleaming half-covered in the murk. It's a problem for Future Tim. It would also have been preferable to whatever happened last night, come to think of it.)

"I will handle that, thank you," Anarky says. Tim can hear the eye roll. "Oh, and speaking of handling. You're sure Batman is out of commission for now?"

"As much as he can ever be," Tim says, grim-faced. "I urge you not to underestimate him."

"Bruce," Bernard says, exasperated. "There is no way Alfred cleared this."

"I did not," Alfred says, primly. He's putting bloody bandages away in a bio-waste container and giving Bruce the world's most disapproving side-eye. Bruce - cowl down, on a hospital bed with wheels and an IV, leg cocooned in bandages, and parked next to the Batcomputer with one arm reached out to the keyboard to queue up a news report - doesn't meet the butler's eyes. Instead, he grunts.

"It's imperative that I don't miss anything. The blood loss is being handled," he says. "I'll be fine enough to work again within the hour."

"You most certainly will not, Master Bruce," Alfred says, closing the lid of the box more harshly than is strictly necessary. "Rest and recuperation is key in circumstances such as these."

"That's very wise, Alfred," Bernard says.

"Thank you, my boy." Alfred takes off his gloves. They snap audibly as they come free from of his fingers. Bruce grimaces.

"I'm gonna say it," Bernard says, leaning back on the Batcomputer's desktop with his arms crossed.

"Don't," Bruce says, but he mostly sounds tired.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd taken me with you."

Bruce sighs, bringing up a hand to wipe over his face. He's pale. Very pale. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow that smears with the motion of his hand.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this," he says, finally.

"Good," Bernard says. "Because it looks like you'd pass out."

"Very true, Master Dowd," Alfred says. "Master Bruce has had more than enough of that for today, I'd wager."

Bruce grunts again. His hand drops to his side. The news report is playing in the background, but the audio is so quiet as to be incomprehensible. Bernard sees Bruce's eyes following the ticker.

GANG SHOOTOUT ON THE WEST END KILLS FIVE, BATMAN INVOLVED • WAYNE FOUNDATION WILL MAKE SHOWING AT CONTROVERSIAL FUNDRAISER GALA • GUARDSMEN COACH RESPONDS TO ACCUSATIONS OF STEROID USE: "I'VE NEVER EVEN MET BANE"

Bernard sighs heavily.

"You scared the hell out of us," he says. "What happened?"

"While I was pursuing a lead on Moriarty's underworld contacts, the Odessa mob showed up in Aquista territory," Bruce says. He lifts his arm up once more to the keyboard, inputting in a simple set of keystrokes one-handed to bring up a map of Gotham. "Diplomacy fell through, and I took a shot to the leg while evacuating civilians. Moriarty managed to intercept my emergency signal, so I was forced to go to ground, perform emergency first aid on myself, and evacuate manually through the sewers."

"Meaning you walked back home on a busted, bleeding leg," Bernard says. "Through Gotham's finest bio-hazard."

"Nn."

"And came back empty-handed on Moriarty," Bernard adds.

"The alternative was asking you to walk into a trap," Bruce says. "Comms were thoroughly compromised. That wasn't an acceptable risk."

"Oh, so it's not acceptable for me to risk catching a bullet, but you can go off and almost bleed to death whenever!"

"I'm Batman," Bruce says, stone-faced.

"I'm Batman," Bernard mutters, into his hand. "Well, I'm glad you're not dead."

A silence stretches between them. Eventually, they both start speaking at the same time.

"Bernard -"

"I think -"

Bernard shuts his mouth. There's an awkward little eye-dance they do, until Bruce sighs. "You first."

"… I think that Anarky thinks that Moriarty and I are connected somehow," Bernard says, and Bruce's eyes immediately sharpen.

"Explain."

"He's apparently gunning for him himself," Bernard says, picking a random point in the Batcave to focus on as he speaks. Ah, the giant penny. A classic. "He claims that he's seen Moriarty hesitate where I'm involved. Whatever he has, it's enough that he sees me as a lead."

Bruce drums his off-hand's fingers against the metal frame of the bed.

"He almost certainly knows something we don't, then," Bruce says. "Anarky is an ideological actor. He wouldn't go after any run-of-the-mill criminal, even one with a broad network and resources. His schemes all target concrete political goals and agendas, and they're usually public. Very public."

"So… he must figure that Moriarty's true identity is someone that will cause a stir," Bernard reasons. "But I don't know anyone like that, even indirectly. Unless you count Henry Aquista. Or you."

"Bruce Wayne? Some sort of secret detective?" Alfred muses. "Perish the thought."

"It's not Aquista," Bruce says, over Bernard's snort. He does not see fit to share his thought process on that one.

"Well, we're out of luck, then," Bernard says, throwing up his hands. "It's just my parents, and we can barely call them connected at this point. Unless he somehow thinks I'm Moriarty."

"You're not," Bruce says, as matter-of-factly as he'd dismissed Darla's dad. "… Anyone at school? A counselor? A teacher?"

"No-go. I ran background checks on everyone I talk to at school," Bernard says, holding back even though I thought that was stupid and invasive, and I don't believe for a second that it really was just practice like you said it was.

He'd felt pretty bad when he'd learned Tim lived alone with his uncle, too. Tim had never once brought it up himself, and never invited them back to his place. Bernard makes a guilty little mental note to pretend to be surprised when Tim…

When Tim…

Man, he'd really just left him there. And he'd really kissed him.

(They'd kissed! Some part of him is just now catching up with that fact. His chest feels fluttery and tight and warm just thinking about it.)

Bernard hasn't checked his phone at all, too busy booking it to the Batcave and then with all this. He'll have to leave it on Busy until at least tomorrow morning, to really sell the emergency thing, too. Tim's really keen, and he's (dangerously, dangerously) invested in Bernard now, which means Bernard's usual tactic of being forgettable just isn't going to cut it. He's going to have to come up with something airtight to -

"Bernard," Bruce says, and Bernard snaps out of his Tim-related reverie with a jolt.

"Huh," he says. "Right, uh, no. It's… yeah."

Bruce is looking at him strangely.

"What?" he says.

"I know that look," says Bruce.

"What look," Bernard says. He's never had a look. No one's ever looked at him in his life, and if they did, they would not have seen a look of any kind. If he thinks this hard enough, he can psychically implant it in Bruce's brain to save him from -

"You're distracted," Bruce says, and not for nothing do they call him the world's greatest detective. "By someone at school."

"Someone kill me," Bernard says. Bruce's only reaction is a wince, but Alfred turns from where he's cleaning the nearby lab tables and tuts.

"Master Dowd," Alfred says, disapprovingly. Bernard feels like he could wither into a corn cob. "As mortifying as matters of the heart may be, perhaps we may consider some jokes in poor taste."

"Sorry, Alfred."

"Who is it?" Bruce asks.

"I'm not telling you," Bernard says. "You're going to stalk them."

"Tail him," Bruce corrects. "It's a him. Statistically."

"Oh my God," Bernard says, burying his face in his hands. He kind of wants to throw up. "I am surrounded by the weirdest - the weirdest allies…"

He's shaking, he realizes. He's shaking and he wants to throw up and his heartbeat is gearing up to go a mile a minute.

"Master Bruce," he hears, and Alfred is moving past him to where he belatedly realizes there's a rustle of blankets.

"… Bernard," Bruce says, and Bernard finally regains enough of his composure to look over. Bruce is being pushed back down onto the bed by Alfred. "I'm sure you remember that any kind of romantic entanglement with a civilian is… difficult, in our position."

Bernard looks away sharply. "I know."

"I also know that this is important to you," Bruce says. Bernard still doesn't look back to see his face. "I can't say it doesn't concern me, but I have enough experience to know that attempting to talk a teenager out of this sort of thing is… futile."

It's surprisingly wry. And a little fond, if Bernard cares to read into it. He must be thinking about Dick, or Jason again. Probably Dick.

"Okay," Bernard says. His body does not seem to have caught the message that it's not in an active combat situation. It's a good thing that he's basically been doing nothing but learning how to stay calm in active combat situations for the last year. Breathe in, and out. Regular rhythm.

"I do care, Bernard." Bruce says, after a moment. That finally drags Bernard's gaze back over to him. He looks even more tired than he had when Bernard arrived. His forehead is once again shining with the subtle sheen of sweat, and he's still very pale. Alfred is hovering.

Bernard doesn't know what to do with that. He feels like he should feel something, like this is what he wanted, but instead he just feels queasy and a little distant, like there's an invisible force repelling everything but the feeling of his chest tightening.

It's just too much right now. He probably just needs some time to process.

(He wishes Darla were here. He wishes Tim were here.)

"Can we talk about something else? Please?" he says, finally. A pregnant pause goes on a beat too long.

"Right," Bruce says, slipping back into his customary near-monotone. "… In that case, let's catch up. You haven't reported back on the puzzle piece case."

"Ah," Bernard says, grimacing. "… So, the good news is, I found our cluester, and she's on our side."

"And the bad news?"

"Welllll." Bernard hisses through his teeth. "Remember when you said I was benched and not to do Robin business?"

True to the name of Robin, Bernard soars over Gotham. His cape spreads out behind him on the wind, creating the distinctive wing-shaped silhouette that once captivated a smaller Bernard, kept him up on late nights surfing online speculation about Gotham's capes. Tracing that silhouette with a finger, daring to dream of being there.

The reality is a little more complicated. Travelling with the grappling gun requires a level of finesse that demands constant attention or he'll fall to the concrete surface below, and there's never a time when Bernard isn't healing off some injury or another, meaning that every swing compounds some existing soreness. Then there's the fact that Batman is kind of a killjoy when he's running comms.

"There's a possibility that Stephanie is working for her father," Batman says. (This is roughly item number seven he's come up with so far, spanning the trip; previously, it had been "She's not trained like we are", "relying on a civilian risks them putting together our secret identities", "her father might have bugged her house and found out about your appearance there", "she can't be trusted" with no further context, "her equipment and capabilities are unknown and might be a liability in the field"… Bernard forgets the others. He's starting to tune them out at this point.)

Bernard lands on a grotesque's shoulders, shoots for a nearby building corner, and takes off again, the evening wind whipping over his face. For one glorious moment, at the peak of that arc, he's flying.

"She's not," he says, before gravity takes over and he starts a controlled plummet. "And if she is, she's a really good actor. There's enough bad blood there to fill a blood bank."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Batman says. He does not clarify which of those things he means.

Just trust me comes to mind, but Bernard knows better than that, so he just lands at his destination with a quick tuck and roll. He's met by an appreciative whistle.

"You gotta get me one of those things," Spoiler says, striding up.

"Sure," Bernard says, at the same time that Batman says "absolutely not" in his ear. "But you have to get certified."

"Certified?" she snorts. "You're not serious."

"Robin," Batman says.

"Batman takes safety very seriously," Bernard says. "Maybe a little too seriously. Maybe he could stand to chill a little."

"Robin."

"But this thing will for sure kill you if you miss a ledge, so y'know," Bernard finishes. "That's a later issue. How goes our order at Creeps-R-Us?"

Spoiler leans against an air conditioning unit. Thankfully, the Batcave frequency goes quiet as she speaks.

"Easier than I thought," she says. "I had an idea: Everyone loves to bitch about working with my dad, right? And his socials are down, but what about the other guys? So I just tailed whoever on his usual rotation of goons was vagueposting the most, and there was their hideout."

"I never thought being annoying would be that bad for OpSec," Bernard muses. "That's good. Maybe we can actually stop them before they make their move. You weren't seen?"

Steph shakes her head.

"I don't think so," she says. "I didn't stay long. Didn't want to tip my dad off before you got here."

"Could be leading you into a trap," Bruce mumbles, on comms. Bernard resists the temptation to roll his eyes.

"Well," Bernard says, "Let's get going."

They head out right away, leaping from roof to roof and occasionally pulling a sort of swing-assist maneuver or hitting ground level when the buildings don't line up. Spoiler had picked a spot to meet up that was a respectable distance away from Cluemaster's hideout, which was smart, but it does mean there's more ground to cover to get there.

There is a problem.

"Oh, come on," Spoiler says, as Bernard's head whips over to the sound of a scream. "Right now? Seriously?"

"That's Gotham for you," Bernard says, and begins to veer off to the left.

He makes a leap to a lower building, and for a second, he doesn't think Spoiler will follow, but then there's a soft thump beside him as she lands. They both creep up to the edge of the roof and peer down. Bernard hisses inwards through gritted teeth.

"Shut up," a woman with a gun is saying. She's brandishing a gun at what's probably two college kids. She is, in a phrase, hench material - big, burly, and obviously seasoned at sticking people up. "Shut up! No more screaming or - if I hear a peep out of you it's goodnight. Phones and wallets. Now."

The kids - a guy and a girl, probably - are visibly shaken. The girl is clutching her purse, and both of them are hesitating. Probably in shock. The woman with the gun lurches forward, sneering, and they both backpedal a few steps. This might go badly.

Thankfully, Batman (presumably) trusts Bernard with a simple mugging, so he's being spared the backseating on this one.

Okay, so I'll get her attention, Bernard reasons. I'll ask Spoiler to go around while I'm making a show of it, get her gun trained on me, and then we'll ambush -

"Hey, dirtbag! Back off!" Spoiler shouts, rising to loom over the scene from next to him.

"Oh, dear," Alfred's voice comes over the comms, in the instant before Bernard moves.

He's throwing his bulletproof cape out to shield her, but Spoiler is already moving. A gunshot rings out, impacting the cape harmlessly where she was moments before, and Spoiler is sprinting off in the opposite direction of the college kids. The mugger swears and swings her aim around.

"Spoiler!" Bernard calls out, as bullets ring out and ricochet against the stone around her. He curses. Batman's saying something or other, asking what's happening, but he doesn't have time for that.

Instead, he flips over the lip of the roof and lands on the mugger. She gets off one more shot thrown high, glass shattering somewhere above, and then she's down on the ground, Bernard twisting her arm until she cries out and the gun clatters to the ground.

Out of the periphery of his field of vision, Bernard sees the two kids have already hit the deck and stayed there, probably when the bullets started flying. Gotham fosters that kind of reflex, in a Darwinian sort of way.

"Great," Spoiler says, dropping next to him from the fire escape. Bernard flinches as her fist comes sailing past his head to knock the goon out cold with a blow to the face. "You got the idea. Great teamwork!"

"We might need to work on saying the plan out loud with our words," Bernard says. The silence from comms says more than any Bat-grunt ever could.

"It worked, didn't it?" Steph says, as Bernard takes out a pair of cuffs and starts straining his ears for sirens. The response time around here is about five minutes, give or take, but there's always the chance that there happened to be a nearby patrol. "And now we're clear to -"

"Thank you so much."

The college kids are up, and the boy has made his way over while the two of them have been talking. Steph jumps and takes a half-step back.

"All in a night's work," Bernard says. "You guys okay?"

"We'll be okay," the girl says. "I-I really thought we were done for. Thank you, Robin. And, um…"

"I'm, uh." Steph sounds stunned. "I'm Spoiler."

"Spoiler." The girl steps forward and clasps Spoiler's gloved hands. She looks very uncomfortable. Bernard doesn't hear sirens yet, but -

"If you guys want to get out of here before the cops get here, you might want to move," he says, in his Robin Voice. The two civilians straighten. In Bernard's experience, barely anyone wants to be there when the GCPD get there.

"Right," says the boy, and he takes the girl's hand and they start to speed-walk away. In barely any time at all, Bernard and Spoiler are alone in an alleyway with a cuffed-up criminal. Spoiler looks down at her hand where it had been held a moment before, very still.

Bernard remembers his first save. A man in his forties with kind eyes and a threadbare jacket, who might have ended up being fished out of the river after a run-in with some two-bit gang. After months and months of gruelling training, Bernard had thought: He's alive. I'm worth it. I'm worth it.

It had been the first time he'd really felt like Robin.

"This is the part where we get to the rooftops and make sure no one steals the mugger's wallet until the police get here," he says, eventually.

"They're en route," Batman says. Bernard spares a moment to be unnerved that he's stayed this quiet.

"Oh," Spoiler says, snapping out of it. "Yeah. I guess. Wow, that's boring."

"A lot of it is," Bernard admits. "But, uh… it's worth it. You know?"

He looks down the alleyway to where it opens up to the street. Where, moments ago, a girl and a boy made it out okay. Spoiler follows his gaze.

"Yeah," she says. "I guess it is."

"Batman?"

Bernard keeps an eye on Spoiler as she makes her way across the rooftops around their target. She'll only be busy for another half a minute or so on that errand, just long enough to check in. It's Alfred's voice, though, not Batman's, that answers him.

"My apologies, Robin," Alfred says. Agent A. Bernard's gotten very good at switching between names for cowl-up-and-down, but he's always encountered a bit of trouble doing that with Alfred. Probably because he doesn't wear a mask. "Batman has finally retired for the evening."

"He passed out?" Bernard asks. He drags a hand across his face. Great.

"I believe he 'overdid it', as the saying goes," Alfred says. His disappointment is palpable. "His condition is stable, but I've elected not to wake him."

"He's gonna be upset about that."

"Quite," Alfred says. He doesn't sound remotely sorry. "Forwarding you the building's blueprints now."

Spoiler chooses that moment to return, touching down on the roof's asphalt next to him.

"Who're you talking to?" she asks.

"The Batcave," Bernard says.

"Is that a real thing?" she asks, and while he can't see her face, she does sound skeptical. "Like an actual cave, or?"

"The Batcave actually exists in a pocket dimension," Bernard explains, grinning. "Batman can go into it through his cape. It was created by a wizard called -"

"Okay," Spoiler says. "Forget I asked. Looks like there are two guys on the North entrance and one on the West entrance, and one guy free-roaming. Looks like they learned from last time, too. No skylight, no windows. Everything's boarded up tight."

Bernard refocuses on the ground below. There's a pile of wood and various building materials next to a dumpster, and… yup, there's the patrol. A certified Big Guy, the type who might have a significantly longer health bar than normal and would be resistant to knockdown moves. As a treat.

"I don't like that," Bernard says.

"Me neither," she agrees.

"Okay," he says, going to his utility belt. "I came prepared, so let's take this from the top."

A couple of rooftops away, hidden in the shadow of a roof access exit, a golden mask, frozen in an arched smile, watches them leap down.

"So I tell you, I've got my vegetable soup."

"Yeah."

"And I've had this soup for years, and I'm thinking, you know, it's good for my health. That's what the wife says. Vegetables, they're good for my health."

"I hear you, Kev."

"But then one day I get on the Youtube, you know, and -"

"'The' Youtube? Are you seventy?"

"Shuttup. I get on Youtube and I'm introduced to a world of soup. Soup mania."

"Soup mania."

"And all these guys are using oils, you know, and I sneak some butter in, and, holy smokes. Soup can taste good. I'm having a soup awakening, George."

"A soupwakening."

"Yeah. A soupwakening. So there's just one problem, right."

"Yeah."

"I'm having the soup in the first place for my fucking health, remember. So dumping all this butter in. It's - it's counter-productive. But the soup is so good. I can't go back."

"That's rough, Kev."

"Actually," Bernard says, "A lot of important nutrients are fat-soluble. It's making the soup better for you. Butter away."

"Wait, really? That's -" A beat. "Wait -"

There's a crack, and a thump, and a muffled yell. Then Bernard slowly lowers the guy he has a sleeper hold on to the ground.

He wonders how Spoiler is doing for about three seconds before he hears a thunk, psssssh, grunt, half-exclaimed yelp, and then a much meatier thud. Then there's a grunt, a little bit of a scrape, and then a muttered "fuck it" before Spoiler jogs around the corner. Part of her outfit is dripping with some oddly tinted liquid, and one of her utility belt pockets is hanging open.

"Uh," Bernard starts.

"He's alive," she says. That wasn't going to be Bernard's question, but he's relieved anyway. "But we're just gonna have to hope that no one finds him, because he's heavy. We ready?"

She's keyed up, shoulders tense, rolling a little on the balls of her heels as her head turns toward the door.

Bruce in the back of his head is saying: Cluemaster uses a variety of premixed chemical canisters as weapons, making him a dangerous and unpredictable opponent. Spoiler seems to have picked up some of his tricks, which would be hard without being directly instructed in making them or having them provided by another source.

It could be a trap.

It could be a trap.

"Yeah," Bernard says, flipping his hood back up. "Let's go."

The interior is dark. It's quickly apparent that the blueprints Alfred sent aren't up to date. It's one of those buildings that has probably been three entirely different things over the course of its existence, brick walls starting and stopping, ceding to more finished walls and late-addition doorways as previous owners demanded. Half renovated, too - lots of debris and tools laying around. A dark CRT display that might once have been used to broadcast sports sits over a bar up on a wall. They move quickly and stealthily until - there.

Voices.

He glances at Spoiler, and she nods. They speed up. In through a room that might have, at some point, been some kind of dining room, a high ceiling above and a door on each end. Chairs are stacked up to the side along with scrap wood and bricks, and while it might have had a great view at some point, the windows are solidly slabbed off with sheets of plywood. But through the other side, he can almost hear the shape of the words.

He's craning so hard to hear, in fact, that when his comms screech harsh static in his ear, he jumps a foot in the air.

A lot of things happen all at once.

Bernard swears ("Shit!") and rips the bead out of his ear before it can deafen him.

The door they came in from slams shut.

The lights turn on, stark fluorescent blinding after their trip through the darkness.

A lot of guys - eight of them - pile in from the door in front of them, and then part like the Red Sea to admit Cluemaster.

It was a trap.

Cluemaster is a man whose appearance is held together by a thread. He has, like his daughter, long and luscious locks of blond, in his case held back into a low ponytail. He's got piercing blue eyes and a handsome face that's totally ruined by a smug sneer. Equally ruinous is his outfit, a horribly bright orange jumpsuit with lighter orange boots and gloves. He's got a belt connected to suspenders, all lined with various capsules, and yellow bandana around his neck that Bernard knows from the files is concealing a respirator. His mooks are likewise equipped with similar bandannas.

"I expected the caped crusader, but to think he'd send Robin and some nobody to ruin my plans," Cluemaster sneers. "I feel like I overprepared."

Spoiler scoffs next to him, lowering into a fighting stance.

But it wasn't Spoiler's trap!

"You could've stood to prepare a little more," Bernard says, squaring up as well. The mooks are moving to surround them. "Like in front of the mirror. God, at least add a vest or something to break it up. Orange isn't even your colour."

Cluemaster's mouth snaps shut with an audible clack of teeth.

"You brat," he says, pulling out a gun. Uh oh. "I was going to capture you and let you have a VIP seat to watch the crime of the century, but maybe I'll just end you here and now. Maybe we'll see if the so-called world's greatest detective gets the clue not to meddle in my affairs."

Bernard tenses, a hand drifting to clutch the edge of his cape. No one has moved just yet.

One of the goons speaks up. "… A vest would really help break up your profile a little."

Bang. Bernard and Spoiler both flinch as the body hits the ground.

"Anyone else want to give me fashion advice?!" Cluemaster says, a manic look in his eyes. "Or are we going to finish the job and get filthy rich, gentlemen?"

The assembled crew is rippling with uncertainty. There are a lot of eyes on that body, and the blood pouring out of its neck. A lot of grim expressions and a lot of glaring at Cluemaster.

They really REALLY don't like working with this guy, Bernard thinks. Maybe if I play the crowd we can -

Spoiler leaps forward towards Cluemaster and kicks a guy in the face.

A fight erupts at once. Bernard is immediately beset by six guys piling on him, ducking and weaving and striking in a perilous dance as blows rain in from all sides. He can't see Spoiler, but he does hear a crunch as someone steps on and crushes his commbead. Great.

There is one upside: No more gunshots. Cluemaster isn't stupid enough to fire into a moving crowd, it seems, though that's not going to hold for chemical weapons. Bernard vaults over one man's shoulders to see Spoiler slugging her way towards Cluemaster's position. He sees her elbow one assailant right in the throat, taking him down easily, but another is closing in fast.

"Spoiler! Behind you!" he calls, and rolls between the legs of his own dogpile. He reaches into his belt and slaps on a respirator before tossing tear gas pellets behind him.

Spoiler whirls, catching the would-be ambusher in the gut with a wicked right hook. As she does, yelling and coughing erupts behind Bernard.

"You idiots! Your masks!" Cluemaster says. His bandanna is already up, probably pulled into position while Bernard was busy fighting. He pulls a capsule off of his belt. "Well, if gas won't work -"

"Not a chance!" Spoiler's disguising her voice, dropping it to a rough baritone, but there's no disguising her anger. She flies at Cluemaster, fists flying, and -

- Bernard takes a kick to the back, cartwheeling several steps forward to catch himself as the force winds him, and -

- the capsule looses from Cluemaster's grip as he throws it, straight into Spoiler's face, and -

- she reels back as a pinkish goop explodes into her face, covering it. Drops patter to the ground with the clatter of solid beads. She's bringing her hands up to claw at it, but it's already a semi-solid mask over her face. The fast-setting resin! In front of her, Cluemaster is grabbing another capsule off of his belt.

Bernard lurches forward, heart pumping, the air swishing against his cheek from a near-miss as he all but throws himself towards Spoiler. (The goons are spreading out and backing off - maybe to get a better angle? He's too focused on no, no, she has to live.) His hand is going to his utility belt -

"We're done here, kids," Cluemaster says. He flips open a capsule to reveal a button. "Have fun watching your friend die, Robin."

A trapdoor opens under them, and Bernard and Spoiler tumble into darkness.

Tim: Hey, I don't mean to leave you 40 messages in a row, but I hope you're okay
Tim: Do you have your phone? Wherever you are?
Tim: Probably not haha
Tim: I haven't told Darla yet since it seemed personal, but I might have to soon. She's really riled up, apparently she's been spamming you all night
Tim: I might have told her about what happened at the park
Tim: With us, not the emergency
Tim: Sorry
Tim: See you tomorrow I hope. Be safe

"I just got word from Brown. Robin and our spy are under wraps."

"Good," says Tim. If his words are more clipped than usual, that's his business. "Now let's get moving. With Batman and Robin out of the way, there's no excuse for failure."

The actual fall isn't that far. A story at most. But Bernard gasps as he catches on something, and, with the full weight of his body behind it, the Robin suit gives with an awful tear before he's dropped the rest of the way with a hot and long flash of pain along his back.

Adrenaline suffocates the pain and the feeling of blood oozing and seeping along the fabric on his back. Spoiler. Spoiler. Spoiler. She has seconds left. It's dark, but it's not going to be hard to pinpoint her, because she's making a lot of noise.

Spoiler is rolling on the ground, frantically trying to get her mask and hood off and blindly reaching for something in her pockets, but to no avail. Bat-training says: Cluemaster's resin bonds to flesh and it seeped in through the pores in the fabric. There's no way it'll come off. But it hasn't set all the way - it's still deforming slightly under her hands.

He came prepared. If he can just - if he can just -

There! On his belt. The counteragent. Bernard half-staggers and half-rolls to Spoiler's side, and, with shaking hands, uncaps a spray-bottle. Pssshh, it goes, and then again, and again, until…

… with a great, wrenching motion, and the distinct sound of several seams popping, Spoiler tears off her mantle and takes a deep, gasping breath. The would-be resin is liquefying away, pooling on the floor. She coughs, and then gasps again and again, until she lies flat on the ground, breathing quick but even.

Then she pounds the ground with her fist.

"Damn it," she says. "Damn it!"

Relief floods Bernard and mingles with adrenaline to create an almost euphoric high. Which is awkward, because they're trapped and he's bleeding pretty badly. That's going to need stitches.

"So," Bernard says. "Is now a bad time to mention Batman can't bail us out?"

"Yes," she says, sitting up abruptly on her elbows, "this is a very bad time to mention that."

"Then I won't."

"Ugh!" Spoiler staggers to her feet. "We don't need him. My dad didn't have that long to build this, it can't be inescapable."

"You're welcome," Bernard says, pulling out a flashlight from his utility belt.

Spoiler doesn't say anything right away. Bernard flicks the light around to get a sense for their surroundings.

It certainly looks haphazard. They're in what appears to be an unfinished room with a lot of freshly-laid, smooth brick. It's coated on all surfaces with something shiny. Dubious. Probably slippery. Maybe corrosive or deadly. The area around the trapdoor, which appears to have been installed well away from the walls, is rimmed by jagged, unfinished edges and sharp nails. Well, that accounts for the slice on his back. The floor below them is hard cement. This was probably a basement, then. Spoiler is looking around and likely coming to the same conclusions. When she turns back to Bernard, her eyes are flinty.

"I'll pay you back by getting us out of here," she says, and then starts digging around in her pockets. "That weird coating is glue, by the way. He expects us to try climbing, we get stuck, and when he checks in, he doesn't have to worry about us taking a swing at him. Asshole."

"How do you know that?" Bernard asks, faintly. He can feel blood soaking into his suit. "Actually, no, explain later. Escape now."

"Do you still have the blueprints?" she asks, and he quickly unlocks and hands over the palm-sized Bat-communicator. She takes it with one hand while pulling out a (sort of crude-looking, compared to her father's) cylinder with the other. Bernard looks over her shoulder.

"It's on the - no, that icon. That one there. No, that's messages."

"Is that Nightwing's - five unread texts?" Spoiler raises an eyebrow. "Are you ignoring Nightwing?"

"I'm bleeding," Bernard says.

"Shit," Spoiler says. She starts navigating the UI a lot faster. "You could have said something!"

"I didn't know we'd be slowing down to snoop in my texts!"

"I didn't go in there on purpose, I was looking for -" she starts, and then stops. "- okay, I've got them. See, look, there's the room we were in, and that means we're in the basement. There should be two walls against dirt, one's against concrete, but that one -" she points to their left "- should be against an open area. That's where we bust out."

She punctuates this by throwing the capsule. It bursts against the wall, and Bernard pulls up his cape reflexively. All that happens, though, is a splash and a sizzle. The slick sheen dulls and beads with some kind of chemical moisture. Spoiler pulls another capsule out and grimaces.

"Okay, now that we're not making mustard gas or whatever… let's see how strong this acid is. You might wanna stand back."

They stumble into the safehouse through the fire escape window, and the first thing Bernard does is direct Spoiler - Steph right now, he supposes - to the first aid kit. The second thing he does is close the blackout curtains. The third thing he does is check to see his communicator is working, and it definitely is, because he's missed a call from Agent A.

He doesn't feel like answering to Alfred's patented disappointed voice right now, and he's feeling the beginning effects of blood loss after the short trek from Cluemaster's hideout, so he shoots off a secured text instead -

- strips off the top of his suit, and flops facedown onto the couch.

"Okay, I - yeesh, you weren't kidding about the bleeding," Steph says, first aid kit in hand as she returns. "I hope you have a Bat-dry-cleaner."

"We do," Bernard says, without thinking. Luckily, Steph seems to take that as a joke, snorting before coming over and beginning to work. He bites down on his arm as she cleans the wound.

She's in the middle of the second stitch when she speaks again.

"I really fucked that up," she says. There's a lot carried there in her voice. Bitterness. Disappointment. A hint of, if Bernard's experience is to be trusted, self-loathing. Bernard closes his eyes and sighs, letting the stinging, muted agony of the needle and thread become a singular point in his awareness. She'd used numbing cream. Damn.

"Yeah," he says. "I feel like there are some things we could talk about."

Poke. Tug. Pull. Steph doesn't volunteer anything, so Bernard starts.

"Okay. Like let's start with the fact that your dad obviously trained you? What's up with that."

Steph's hands still.

"That's true," she says. It's guarded. "He did."

"And you didn't bring this up why?"

"I - I didn't -" she starts, and then sucks in a breath, and then pushes it out through her nose. "You know how that looks. You would have thought I was his sidekick or something."

"Batman thought that anyway!"

"Well, see!" she says. The stitches start again, maybe more forcefully than necessary. Good. "Just great. It came out anyway. Fuck my life."

Bernard hisses, gripping a throw pillow white-knuckled and pressing it into his forehead.

"Well, I trusted you," he says. "So can you please talk to me?"

Steph doesn't answer right away. Another three stitches go in.

"Okay. Fine. Page two of a hundred," she says, finally. This time her hands keep going as she speaks. "My dad got the idea in his head that I would be his sidekick one day. He put me through all sorts of 'training'. Escape artistry, fighting, making and disarming bombs, you know. Some of his weapons tech, but I guess I was too stupid to hold onto that. I mostly just learned what most of his formulas do, the antidotes and counters and stuff. I never wanted any of it, but sometimes it'd stop him from doing something worse, so I'd go along with it."

Something worse could be a lot of things. Bernard isn't sure he wants to wonder. He feels a little queasy, suddenly.

"I'm sorry that happened," he says. "That's bullshit."

Steph scoffs.

"I don't want pity," she says. "I also never wanted to tell anyone this, ever. It's not fair that you know everything about me and I know nothing about you, you know."

Bernard opens his mouth to say something like, sorry, I can't tell you about me. If you find out who I am, you're one step closer to Batman, and he's going to be mad enough at me for this as it is. Now let's talk about how you keep charging ahead without a plan.

"I ran away from home," he says, instead. "My dad found out I was gay."

The needle once again stops, this time midway through his skin.

"I was so careful, or at least I thought I was. I acted the part all the time, you know? But one day he found my phone unlocked, and he - well. It's nothing compared to what your dad did. I get that." Mom had just watched, he doesn't say. "But I hit him back. That was when I knew I was fucked. So I ran out the door without a plan or a bag or - anything."

"Oh," Steph says.

Bernard laughs into the pillow. He can't help it. "And I would've gone back if the Batmobile hadn't, like, exploded in front of me."

She's doing the stitches again. Listening. The rest of the story is spilling out whether he likes it or not, at this point.

"I saved Batman's life, probably. Definitely. I think I asked him if he was the Chupacabra or something at some point."

(He'd been terrified. Alfred had guided them through the subterranean tunnels to the Batcave, where Bruce had pulled through. Bernard had never felt important before, but in that moment, he'd been the boy who'd saved Batman.)

"They gave me a place to stay. Kind of. I kind of squatted in the tunnels until they took pity on me."

"What, and you had to be Robin to earn your keep?" Steph asks, terse. There's something about - oh, she's mad. Mad on Bernard's behalf. That feels nice, even if it's unwarranted.

"No, I begged to be Robin," he says. "Batman really didn't want me to be Robin. He kept offering to just sponsor me or something. The last Robin died. Like, horribly."

"And you decided to become Robin," she says. She's tying up the stitches, now, somewhere around the small of his back. "After hearing that."

Bernard laughs again. He doesn't move to flip over onto his side, and he doesn't think he can look up to see Steph's face right now. So he stares at the pillow.

"I guess that sounds crazy. It's just, you know. My life was over. I couldn't picture going back, and I couldn't bear the idea of living alone on Batman's charity. I thought one day I'd just never get out of bed. So I begged and I begged and eventually Batman let me train to be Robin, and he told me that by the time we were done, I'd want to quit."

"Jesus, dude."

Bernard lets out a shuddered breath.

"It was like, I dunno. I couldn't deal with feeling that way. I knew that if I didn't become Robin, I'd have to live like that, with that... feeling, every day. For the rest of my life. I thought about that and I just wanted to kill myself. I couldn't even imagine a universe where I didn't."

Steph sucks in a breath. He's oversharing, but his mouth just won't stop now that it's started.

"So it was really like, every day I showed up to training and said 'I want to be Robin', and if I quit, I was gonna die. Every day, Batman pushed me harder and harder to quit, and I got up in the morning and I didn't wanna die, so I didn't quit. It got to the point where I was glad when it hurt! Right. Because if it hurt, I was Robin and I was alive."

He's breathing a little bit harder than he thought he was. He's trembling. His back burns, but not enough. It's numbed. He wishes it wasn't numbed.

There's a hand on his shoulder.

"You really are crazy," Steph says. "Wow."

Bernard laughs.

"Yeah," he says. "I am. And I've never told anyone any of that."

"I can't believe you're gay," she says. "I thought for sure you were helping me because you had a crush on me or something."

"That's your takeaway?"

"No," she sighs. "Look, I'm not good at feelings, okay? Don't kill yourself."

He salutes sloppily. She screws up her face and flicks him on the forehead.

"Your, um." She says, sinking down to rest on front of the couch. "Your dad does suck. And also Batman sounds like he sucks, too, if I'm being real."

"It's complicated," Bernard says. The energy which had propelled him to speak is draining away rapidly. He's so, so tired. How much of that is the blood loss has yet to be seen. "… Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We need to lock in," he says. It prompts a snort. "We need to not Leeroy Jenkins this. Stop to plan for real before jumping in. Okay?"

"Okay," Steph says, and then gives him a sidelong glance. "What's Leeroy Jenkins."

Bernard sighs. "There's a tablet on the bookshelf. Can you grab it?"

"Can you put on a shirt first?"

"Oh, yeah, let me show you where we keep the spare Robin gear."

"Am I allowed to know that?"

"Just don't tell Batman."

"Deal."

Bernard: I'm okay!
Bernard: oh wow you were not kidding she really is spamming me
Bernard: sorry for running off. my mom was in hospital. it's something that flares up every once in while it was just really bad this time
Bernard: I couldn't get signal in there either it sucked. and they charged like a million dollars for wifi
Bernard: she's ok now
Tim: I'm glad. I was worried
Tim: Well. I guess you can gather that much
Bernard: okay well mmm. don't be mad
Tim: :|
Bernard: i kinda ate shit on the subway and sliced up my back a bit
Tim: HOW??
Bernard: gotham maintenance special! the railing wasn't rounded off and i snagged on it when I tripped
Bernard: the good news is I was already on my way to the hospital ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
Tim: oh my god.
Bernard: It's fine I got stitches
Tim: I'm going to put you on a leash.
Bernard: promise?
Tim: .
Tim: :|
Bernard: gtg but i'll be at school tomorrow
Tim: We should talk. About what happened at the park
Bernard: yeah. we will
Bernard: promise

Bernard: darla you know there's nothing i love more than to come back to no less than 12 threats on my life and straight up defamatory remarks about my rizz
Bernard: it's how i know you really care <3
Darla: I'm going to feed you to stray dogs
Bernard: I love you too <3 <3 <3

Steph leaves before Bernard does. Bernard takes another twenty minutes to catch up with Tim and Darla and write a short report for Batman so that he can get away with swinging by the cave to get lectured tomorrow instead of tonight. He's bone-tired and sore all over.

Tonight, Bernard has a date with his bed.

Which is why, as he's making his way out the fire escape, he makes a noise somewhere between a deflated balloon and a growl when he sees Anarky waiting for him on the rooftop next door.

"I didn't expect to see you and your friend around," Anarky says, maskless again, over his fries. He seems to prefer getting a pile of fries over a burger, maybe a vegetarian or something. Bernard has no such compunctions. He's chowing down into a classic Batburger. One of the great ironies of his life is that the Robin burger just doesn't compare. Maybe he can write them a letter or something. "Word on the street was that Cluemaster was setting up some kind of ambush."

"Thanks for the warning," Bernard says, after swallowing. "A little late, though."

"I had faith in my favourite Robin," Lonnie says. He flashes Bernard a grin. "Seems like it was a mutual loss, though. And his daughter…"

Bernard tenses. He tries to stop it, he really does. But he's tired, and he's sore, and Lonnie's caught him on the back foot. Judging by the smug look on his face, he knows it, too.

Steph is going to kill me.

"She should really know better than to get on the only bus in the city that runs to his house this late at night."

Lonnie is watching him for his reaction. Bernard can feel his eyes burning a hole somewhere around his temple. He swallows and then turns to look Lonnie in the eye.

"That's interesting," Bernard says. "Why do you have his address memorized?"

The grin drops off of Lonnie's face. He's realized the severity of his slip. This is why it pays to let people think you're stupid.

"It's really interesting how you found me at Sprang Bridge after the first clue pointed there, too," he says, faux-pleasantly. "In fact, if I didn't know better, Lonnie, I'd say you tailed me tonight because I'm not where you expected me to be. Because you expected me to be in a glue trap. But you wouldn't do that to your favourite Robin."

"You've made your point," Lonnie says. He rallies quickly, affecting nonchalance, but Bernard isn't done.

"And if you know about Cluemaster's daughter, then you understand her situation," he says. "Do you? Did you give that any thought?"

Lonnie's mouth becomes a hard line. He didn't. But he's thinking it through now.

"That's unfortunate," he says. He almost looks like he's going to say something else, but they lapse into silence. Eating.

"You can't tell anyone who she really is," Bernard says, eventually. Lonnie scoffs.

"You really think I'm a bad guy."

"You know what will happen if Cluemaster gets his score and decides to get even."

It's not Steph he'll strike at first, Bernard thinks, with chilling certainty. He remembers so-so biscuits and a tired but warm smile. Lonnie doesn't know these things, but he seems to know enough, because he shifts uncomfortably.

"Fine," he says. "Your friend's secret is safe with me. And I'm a man of my word, despite what you've been told."

"A liar, though," Bernard grumbles. "You're working close enough to Cluemaster to crack his identity, but you're not bothering to recapture me. What gives?"

He's being more direct than he would prefer to be, but his pillow is waiting and it should be a war crime to subject someone to Anarky and Cluemaster within a twenty-four hour period. At least he has his burger.

"I could capture you if you want," Lonnie says, grinning wickedly.

"Oooh, pass. This seems like it's doing it for you, and I'm -" Bernard pauses on taken. Is he taken? Can he say that? The sensation of Tim's lips ghosts over his. "- not looking for that right now."

"That's not what I -" Lonnie clears his throat. Bernard feels a grim amusement in the fact that he's elicited what looks like a blush. "Alright. I'll be frank with you. I'm supplying Brown in exchange for a favour I needed from him. The truth is, I don't care if you stop his operation at this point. I got what I needed already."

There's a hole in that story that Bernard can't quite put his finger on right now, but he nods.

"In fact," Lonnie says, pausing to chew on a fry, "I hope you catch him. He's one of the singularly worst people I've ever met. Evil in its basest, most shameless form. Society would be better if he was removed from it."

"Then why did you work with him?" Bernard asks. "That doesn't sound like praxis. See, I was paying attention in class. Do I get an 'A'?"

Lonnie barks out a laugh. He's looking at Bernard considerably more warmly now.

Lonnie, Bernard thinks, is a very lonely guy.

"You know," Lonnie says. His face begins to sober. "This whole situation with Brown and his erstwhile family. Isn't it telling that they have no recourse but to defend themselves? I can only imagine what he's done to them, but if the world were fair… if people like him weren't compelled to take advantage of others… there would be no need for Batman and Robin. Or Anarky, for that matter."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"I just want to make a world where the system doesn't kill people, or enslave them," Lonnie says. He's looking at the ground below them, now. "I make as few compromises as I can, and I'm still called a terrorist. Because I aim to change big things, and aiming to change big things isn't pretty, or easy, and comes at a cost. It doesn't look as glamorous as putting a band-aid on a wound that will never close. Because the people I'm looking to stop hate that kind of thinking, because it's the only thing that can hurt them, someone striking at the cause of all of it. Them."

"Who'd you lose?" Bernard asks.

Lonnie startles. He looks at Bernard with piercing eyes. Bernard stares back.

"A friend," Lonnie says, finally. He doesn't break his gaze. "She lived in another country, but we talked every day. My government - our government killed her. For living in a country rich in rare earth minerals. They're just a little easier to mine there."

"I'm sorry."

Lonnie scoffs.

"I saw clearly for the first time in my life," he says. His words are sharp and bitter. "The people in charge, who had constructed every aspect of every moment of my life, were evil. Fundamentally self-interested. And no one was standing up to them, because they had built a system around them that filtered out good people before they ever got near the top. It wasn't about my friend. It was about everyone like her. A sea of tortured souls trampled under the boots of those who would sell their souls to the machine that crushes us all."

Bernard finishes his burger. He crumples the wrapper up into a ball and sets it off to the side next to fries that are going cold in the early spring chill.

"You're not wrong," he says. "So why would you do that to Crystal Brown."

Lonnie finally looks away.

"Because countless Crystal Browns will never happen, if I succeed," he says. "Because I was confident you or your bat-mentor would stop Cluemaster in the end."

"And if I can't?"

"Can't?"

"Stop him."

"Sure you can." Lonnie picks up his cold fries and starts nibbling.

"I could fail," Bernard says. "I'm injured. My partner is new to this. Batman is busy. Cluemaster is… like that, but his whole thing is planning heists."

Bernard feels grim enough listing it out loud, but when he sees Lonnie's face drop to a thoughtful frown, it hits him, too. How stacked the odds are against him.

But he won't quit.

"Anarky," he says. "I could really use your help."

Lonnie stills as Bernard continues.

"If you really care about people like them, you could put your money where your mouth is and help me stop Cluemaster."

"I can't," Lonnie says, putting his fries back down. He's not meeting Bernard's eyes now. "And believe me when I say I'm sorry that I can't. But what I'm doing right now is more important."

Bernard sighs. He scoops up his trash and squishes it into one of his costume's many pockets. He'll throw it away later.

"Alright," he says, turning to leave. "Then we're done here."

"If it makes you feel better," Anarky says. He's still sitting on the edge of the roof, looking out on the city lights. "I believe you'll stop him. I'm counting on it. I was right to like you, you know."

Bernard leaves him there. Tomorrow is waiting for him.

Tim can't even describe how relieved he is to see Bernard show up in class the next day. It's like all the messages they exchanged last night don't become real until the other boy is there in front of him, giving him a tired smile and a hug (!!) before they're whisked off to math.

And he does look tired, Tim thinks, as he watches him from two desks away. It's to be expected after a visit to the hospital, but Bernard's got big bags under his eyes and the foundation he's been using to cover up the now-fading bruise on his face is poorly applied. He's clearly not paying attention to the lecture on quadratics, frowning and alternating between brooding and nodding off.

Tim doesn't think he'd be doing much better if it had been his mother. The thought makes his heart hurt. It feels a little better when Bernard catches his eye and smiles. A lot better, actually. Wow.

Tim walks out of first period having memorized the way Bernard's hoodie sleeve folds around his bicep, the specific shade of brown of his eyes, the way the light shimmers off of the top of his hair in a dancing ring of highlights, and the way he chews on his eraser when he's lost in thought.

It's a good thing that he doesn't actually need to learn math.

Darla is at school, too. She shows up to science looking chagrined but otherwise fine, and Tim knows from their messages last night that she's allowed to go to school but still grounded outside of it. Tough break. Tim wonders what it's like to be grounded, but he doesn't wonder too long, because in this class, he sits directly behind Bernard.

From here, while the teacher drones on about chemical formulas that Tim already knows, he can make a study of Bernard's back. On closer inspection, he's avoiding moving or stretching too much, especially his left arm. So the cut must have been on that side. If only he could take off the shirt and hoodie and get a closer look. And - get a closer look. Hm. Tim feels his cheeks heat up as his brain starts to feed him an appealing image. Actually, he needs to get that hoodie anyway, for -

He's being poked. Looking right, where Darla sits beside him, she's giving him an unimpressed look while wielding a pencil. It's holo-foiled and has a lot of dolphins on it. Tim blinks at her, trying to get across the word "what" with his eyes, and her arched eyebrow lowers and is joined by its twin to form a scowl. She looks back down at her desk and starts aggressively taking notes.

Okay.

The noise of her pencil cutting a groove into the page seems to alert Bernard, who turns (carefully, Tim notes, not too fast and not too far) to look over at Darla, too. She shoots him the bird, and his face twists up into confusion before catching Tim's eyes in a questioning glance. Tim shrugs. The edge of Bernard's lips pull up into a fond smile as he shrugs back, and Tim feels his chest flutter as Bernard turns back to the whiteboard.

They'll talk soon, right? And then… will they kiss? Will they date? Bernard had never been on Tim's radar that way before this. But it's like something has clicked into place, like he'd simply never tried running the pre-loaded ilikeboys.exe, and now that he has it's installed itself and put down roots in the registry. Or maybe more like he'd had a whole extra computer there the whole time and he'd never bothered plugging it in.

Two thirds of a school years' worth of interactions are chugging away on a new processor, and he's sort of - he's always liked Bernard, but he's starting to think that he underestimated him. He's funny, and yes, he's sort of an idiot sometimes, but maybe that's something he's affecting, because now that Tim is thinking about it, he's so… responsible. Always there doing or saying something goofy to smooth over Darla and Tim's disagreements, always helping his (apparently chronically ill) mom around the house when she calls for him, diving to save kids at the skate park and taking secret self defense classes. And his crackpot theories, viewed under the lens of being stupid on purpose, a grand running joke…

No wonder his subconscious had put Bernard in the role of Robin. Maybe that dream (which he's never, ever telling another living soul about) was trying to tell him something he already knew. Maybe Tim wants to take pictures of Bernard and figure out his secret identity, peel back all of his layers and find the real Bernard that's hiding under the disarming facade.

Darla sighs audibly next to him as her pencil lead snaps under the pressure of how hard she's writing. Tim mentally catalogues it and puts it off to the side as he plots to separate Bernard from his hoodie.

Lunch cannot come soon enough.

Lunch is going poorly.

"No, I mean, I want to hang out," Bernard is saying, over a sandwich that looks really good. (Bernard's bagged lunches always look borderline professionally made and taste amazing. Much better than Tim's mediocre school lunches from the cafeteria, today's poison being a Sloppy Joe that has sloppied its way right through the bun. The things he does to keep his cover.) "I just can't commit the next few days. Like, actually this time. I have, um, a lot of stuff going on, and -"

"I bet," Darla says, curt. She's glowering at Bernard from over her own lavish lunch, some kind of pasta that she'd had to muscle her way to the front of the microwave line to heat up. One minor perk of being the daughter of a mafia boss: an abundance of catering. "Not even one afternoon, though? You said your mom was in the clear and back home today."

Tim wonders if Bernard's mom made his lunch and packed it ahead of time. Before everything that had gone down yesterday. Had she placed it in the fridge, lovingly prepared, only to collapse minutes later? The thought makes him feel a little ill.

"No, you're right, I just - I just need to talk to Tim about something first," Bernard says, and Tim's attention snaps to him like a rubber band. There's an exasperated edge to his voice.

"Yeah, something, I'm sure," Darla says, and then - slam. She's smacking her lunch container shut as she rises. Before either of them can react, she's already picking it up and sweeping her bag onto her back. "Okay, I fucking get it! I'll get out of your way."

Bernard looks stunned as she stalks off without another word.

"Wait - Darla!" he calls after her, but it's too late. She's already disappeared into the crowd near the kitchen line. He smears a palm over his forehead, gritting his teeth. Tim's eyes slide over to the crowd where Darla had disappeared.

For a brief, selfish second, the thought occurs to him: He's been waiting all day, and stressing over this since yesterday. If she's going to be weird about this, we can figure ourselves out and chase her down later. Then Bernard speaks again.

"She's been acting so weird…" he says, faintly, and Tim snaps out of it and looks at him.

He's transfixed on the same spot that Tim had been until a moment ago. Despite the fact that he'd been frustrated a moment before, he looks tired, and worried, and there's an undeniable, sharp thoughtfulness in his eyes and the set of his mouth. Like he's running back the conversation in his head from every angle.

Right. Tim is being stupid. There's only one right thing to do here.

He pushes his lunch tray aside and picks up his bag. "Come on. We can still catch up."

Bernard startles, blinking up at him, and then nods, moving to collect his things too.

They find her out back. It's a spot that the resident stoners like to use, right between a grove of emaciated trees and the wall of the school. Every kid knows about it, but it would be the perfect place to give, say, a bodyguard who's been assigned to watch from a distance the slip.

(Or so Tim reasons out loud. In reality, they split up to look for her, Tim slides into an unused classroom and hacks the school's camera footage, and tracks her there before rejoining Bernard with his 'bright idea'.)

Tim is shivering in his very thin long sleeves. In this shadowed spot in the chill of early spring, spots of dirty snow that have compacted into grey pucks of ice still cling to the damp ground. Where the grass outside is starting to perk up and turn green, what little grows here is still yellowed and pressed to the ground.

"Go away," Darla says, into her sleeve. She's curled up into a ball against the wall, not even looking up as they approach. "I told you losers to beat it."

"Wrong losers," Bernard says, and her head flies up. She looks away and tuts sharply.

"I told you to beat it too," she says.

"You sort of beat it from us," Tim says.

"Thanks, that's exactly what I need right now," she says. "Captain Timmy's pedantry hour. Fuck off."

"Darla…" Bernard is the one that steps forward first. He's swallowed by the shadow of the school building as he enters the nook. "Why are you upset? I thought you were rooting for us. You said you were rooting for us."

As Tim thinks what, huh, since when, Darla unfolds and stands up, bringing her full presence to bear.

"Well maybe I changed my mind!" she says, fists clenched. Bernard flinches back like he's been struck.

"You can't mean that," he says. "Over, like, not having my schedule totally open for you? Seriously?!"

Tim is dimly aware of everything around them. Behind him, there are only a few groups of students on this side of the building. One of them has fallen silent, clearly catching wind of something interesting to witness, but the others haven't noticed anything truly awry yet. Darla's tail isn't here yet. That's good.

Something in his head is tumbling over and over, a puzzle piece that's been looking for its place.

"You two can gay date and take as long as you want shoving your tongue in each others' throats -"

"Don't shout that!" Bernard snaps. He looks over his shoulder, eyes a brief snapshot of panic.

Darla has been acting weird. But not exclusively about this.

"- just keep me out of it! I don't care! I don't care! Do what you want!" She's up in Bernard's face now, and his shoulders are hunched. "You're shitty friends and I never want to see you again!"

The atmosphere drops several degrees.

"Do you like me or something? Or Tim?" Bernard asks, slowly. Even before Darla answers, Tim discards that possibility.

"No!" Darla snarls. Tears are beginning to shine in her eyes. Bernard finally snaps, his stance shifting in an instant.

"Then what is your problem?!" he shouts, slamming a fist against a nearby trunk. Darla flinches. Tim does, too. He's never seen Bernard this mad.

We don't have forever. The puzzle piece slides into place.

"She's leaving," Tim says. "Aren't you."

Everything sort of… stops. Bernard looks back at him, mouth parting in surprise, and Darla just stares. Tears are starting to roll down her cheeks.

All of the anger bleeds out of Bernard's posture instantly as he turns back to her.

"Is," he says. "Is that true?"

She sniffles.

"It was supposed to be at the end of the year," she says, and she's shaking now. "He wants me to go some - some stupid rich person school."

"Darla…"

"He's trying to clean up our image," she continues. Her fists are clenched. "Get us in with high society. So he wants me to go to private school and make friends with important people and stop associating with those types and go to parties and - and - and all this stupid bullshit!"

She turns and kicks the wall, volume rising. Her mascara is streaking down her face.

"I just want to be normal! I just want to go to the stupid mall and play stupid nerd games with the only stupid fucking friends I ever made who didn't just see me as my dad's stupid fucking daughter! But instead the stupid fucking Russians had to attack us and my dad is flipping the fuck out and he's going to just - he's pulling me out next week, and my stupid gay idiot friends chose yesterday of all days to get their shit together -"

Tim feels his stomach drop. His fault. This is his fault.

"Darla, I'm -" Bernard reaches out. Darla slaps it away with a sound somewhere between a shriek and a sob.

"- and now you're going to be so happy without me!" she says. "I-I wanted - I wanted you guys to be happy without m-me when I left, and now it's happening and I-I hate it. You're going to be happy w-without me and I hate it! I hate watching it a-and I hate this and I hate my dad and I hate everything and - and I'm a t-terrible friend and - I can't ever do anything I w-want and it's not fucking fair!"

She crouches into a ball, hands clawing and grasping at her hair.

Tim stands numbly at threshold. My fault. My fault. My fault. He hadn't stopped to think through how the Odessas intruding on mob territory would go beyond a single firefight. He'd been so focused on Batman, on staying ahead of Batman…

Bernard is stooping down.

"Darla," he says, gently. He puts a hand on her shoulder. This time, she doesn't smack it away.

"What," she says, sniffling.

"That's bullshit," he says. "This is bullshit."

"It is." She laughs wetly. It comes out as half a sniffle. "I - I don't. Actually. I didn't m-mean it."

"I know."

Tim wants to - he wants to run and never show his face again. He wants to personally ruin Henry Aquista. He wants to set up a fund that is devoted just to letting Darla do whatever she wants, forever. His brain brushes all of those unrealistic goals aside and proposes the obvious plan: simply discard his Draper persona and show up at Darla's new school as Tim Drake. But Bernard…

… Bernard has one arm slung over Darla, and he's looking up at Tim, inclining his head towards Darla. Beckoning him.

Tim steps forward. One foot in front and then another, and he's kneeling, now, in the damp half-mud half-dirt, putting his own arm around Darla's other side. From here, he can hear the hitches in her breath, the residual, half-sobs. He can feel the motion of Bernard's wrist as he rubs her back.

"We're not going to leave you," Tim says. "I promise."

"You can't promise that," Darla sniffs.

"We so can," Bernard says. "The law means nothing to me."

Darla shakes with a sudden laugh.

"You moron," she says. "What do you mean by that."

"We'll do anything it takes," Tim agrees, though of course it's different for him than Bernard. He means it. "… Is murder on the table?"

She reaches up and punches him weakly from below. Probably not, then.

"Grand theft? Arson?" Bernard asks, and Darla lets out a big sigh. "Themed costumes?"

"Alright, alright…" she grumbles, and shifts, and now they're in a sort of group hug situation. "… I get it."

"Seriously," Bernard says. "You're our best friend. I know… there's nothing we can do. It's gonna suck that we're not in classes together. But we'll figure something out."

Darla nods.

They stay that way for a while.

After a little bit longer, though, Darla starts to squirm her way out. She stands up and runs a hand through her hair.

"I'm gonna go and fix my makeup," she says. Then she gives them a sharp look and a pointer finger. "If you two haven't sorted your shit out by the time I'm back, I'll kill you for real."

"Your blessing is received and noted," Bernard says. He's getting to his feet as well, and Tim is momentarily transfixed by how easily he pulls Tim up with him.

"I'm leaving," Darla says, and she does. Tim and Bernard sort of look at each other.

"Um," Bernard says, and then smiles faintly. "I guess we better talk, then."

Tim had several possible speeches prepared for this moment, but in the aftermath of everything with Darla, he just can't find it in him to pull one out right away. Maybe Bernard feels the same way, because they lapse into a short silence, leaning against the school wall side by side. The concrete facade is coarse; Tim can feel it against his skin through his sleeves and back. He's really cold, actually. Kneeling in the mud has created a damp patch that's soaked through his jeans, and the cold wetness bites against his knees.

"So," Bernard says, recovering before Tim. He's looking at Tim sidelong, a coy smile curling up at the sides of his lips. "Sir Gulley and Quicksling, huh?"

Tim should have known better than to try and prepare for any conversation involving Bernard. He groans, pulling up an arm to hide in his elbow as his face gets hot.

"That wasn't - I didn't -" he starts. "I didn't mean that as a come-on. They're just characters."

Bernard is laughing. Which, frankly, is rude.

"That's what makes it funny," Bernard says. He's grinning now, like the cat that got the cream. Tim rolls his eyes.

"I, um." Tim shifts. "I did some thinking after you kissed me."

"Yeah?" Bernard says. He's still grinning, but it falters a little. A crack in the facade. Tim feels a little stupid for not thinking about it until now, but of course he would be nervous too. It's reassuring somehow. It compels the next words from his mouth, harder to voice out loud than type into a screen.

"I think I'm bisexual," he says, looking down. Unconsciously, he's started rubbing his fingers together.

"I know," Bernard says. Tim's eyes jerk up.

"Wh- how could you know?" he asks. "I didn't know."

"It's, uh, how do I put this," Bernard says, scratching his chin. He's still smiling, but it feels a little apologetic. "It's obvious if you know what to look for."

"And you never told me?" Tim asks. Demands, really. Bernard stares at him for a second and then bursts out into laughter. "What?"

"Tim," he gasps, and he's stepping into Tim's space now, cupping his cheeks. Those same cheeks are burning all of a sudden. "What do you call this? I am telling you. This is me telling you."

"Stop laughing," Tim mutters, pulling up his hands to rest on Bernard's wrists. "Oh my God."

"You asked me how to tell - Tim. You asked me how to tell if you liked boys and I answered you," Bernard says. His face is so close. "Would you have liked it if I'd just told you out of the blue or something? Day one. 'Tim, I'm duty-bound to inform you that you like boys. I've decided.' That would go over great."

"Okay, okay," Tim says, and now he's laughing. He should really feel stupid or something, but that's hard when Bernard is smiling at him and holding his face (!!) and it feels more like being let in on a joke. "I get it."

There's a pause.

"Um," Bernard says, some of his amusement bleeding away. "Does that mean you like me? Though?"

"I…" It's terrifying. It's a yes, so why is it terrifying? Tim's stomach feels like it's in his throat, and his brain supplies:

I can keep a friend at arm's length, keep them from coming over to my apartment, minimize the risks of knowing people. I can't do that if we're dating. Not forever.

I've killed people. Sent them to fates worse than death. I'm not a good person. How long can I pretend to be a good person?

What if he gets caught up in something Moriarty has done, like Darla did? What if…

What if I'm just a bad boyfriend? As Tim?

The longer the silence of Tim's indecision goes on, the more Bernard's expression falls. Tim sees the moment that his eyes flick away from Tim's face, a bitter frown twitching at his lips.

Tim's grip on Bernard's wrists redoubles.

"I do," Tim says. Bernard's eyes are back on him. The overcast, dim light casts everything as pale, but they're such a rich brown that they still hold colour. "I like you. I've just never… done this before? I don't know how to do this."

Bernard lets out a little chuckle. His hands slide down to Tim's shoulders.

"Yeah," he says. "Movies make this look a lot easier."

"They really do," Tim says. He feels a smile crooking up at the side of his face. "Darla's going to be mad at us."

"She really is." Bernard groans, leaning in until his forehead is resting on Tim's shoulder (!!). The next bit is muffled. "I want to kiss you."

Tim is suddenly quite sure he has never heard a better idea in his entire life.

"Please," he says, and though it comes out of his mouth sounding embarrassingly desperate, Bernard stiffens and pulls back to come nose to nose with him, lips parted and eyes staring with an intensity of desire that makes Tim's skin tingle.

Then Bernard moves forward and they're kissing.

It is nothing like the brief press of lips at the park. It's lips coming together and staying together with a soft warmth that Tim has only ever imagined before. It's Bernard's arms snaking downwards and holding him at the waist with firm hands. It's Tim's overactive senses narrowing down to one singular point and drinking in every touch. It's teeth clacking. It's noses fumbling against each other to deepen the kiss without bumping. It's hot breath against his face. It's the back of Tim's head coming to rest against the coarse concrete wall, a splash of cold that is soon forgotten as Bernard makes a little half-moan into Tim's lips and his tongue presses against Tim's teeth, begging entrance. It's electric sensation as Bernard is using tongue, exploring his mouth and intertwining with Tim's tongue, and the little part of Tim's mind that is always running in the background finally surrenders and is consumed by the kiss as well.

Moriarty and all of his machinations fall away, and for a long, blissful moment, it's just Bernard, Bernard, Bernard and a kiss that feels like it will never end.

It does, of course. When Bernard finally pulls away, he looks like Tim feels. He's flushed, and his eyes are blown wide, and he's blushing a deep crimson.

Tim is thinking about ways to do that again. And again, and again, and again. Possibly with the addition of a soft bed, and less outerwear. He stops himself before he considers the possibility of less clothes in general, but only barely.

"I just, um," Bernard says. "I'd be called away a lot. You know, to deal with mom stuff. It's kind of important. I might - dates might go like it did at the park. A lot."

"Uh-huh," Tim says. He's suddenly hypnotized by Bernard's clavicle. His hoodie is just barely unzipped at the top. The less clothes thought is making a traitorous and immediate comeback. Focus. "I mean - I get that. I - dates? Sorry?"

Bernard huffs out a laugh.

"Do you need a second?" he asks.

"Yes," Tim says. He thinks about baseball. When that fails, he thinks about Anarky. That has much better results. "Okay. Okay. That's fine, Bernard. I'm not - I'm not going to be mad because you're a good son?"

The smile drops right off of Bernard's face. Tim doesn't understand why. It makes him feel like he's made some kind of huge misstep. But then it's back again, if only by half, and Bernard is hugging him, burying his face in Tim's shoulder.

"Thanks," he says, voice heavy with an emotion that Tim couldn't possibly begin to unravel.

Tim hugs him back, gingerly. His hands start to travel along Bernard's back, gently, conscious of the wound that lies underneath the fabric.

"Jesus," Bernard mumbles. "You're freezing."

"So we're going out?" Tim asks.

"That was what I was working up to ask when I kissed you, yeah," Bernard says. Tim can feel him smile against his neck. This is going in a list of sensations that need to be studied. "Think you can put up with me?"

"If you can put up with me," Tim says, and for a moment his mind's eye is caught on a dark nest of computer screens. He shakes it off and luxuriates in the feeling of Bernard pressed up against him.

"The lady next to us straight up wanted to kill you," Bernard says, grinning widely as they exit the theatre. Tim has the decency to look embarrassed, a flush reddening his face as he looks away.

"But they didn't even hide it," Tim says, a little defensive. "Was I not supposed to notice that the murder weapon was sewn into his robes? It wasn't exactly a twist."

To Bernard's great amusement, a couple on their way into the next showing turn their heads and glare at Tim.

"Maybe," says Bernard, throwing an arm around Tim and steering him away from the crowd. "But people don't really appreciate an act one solve in the theatre."

(Truthfully, he'd also figured out the murderer by that point, more or less, but that's because the motive was obvious and he hasn't yet reached the point where bat-training shuts off in the back of his head, if it ever will.)

Tim makes a noise that could be an acknowledgement or an inability to form words because of sudden contact or both. Bernard chooses to believe both. He leaves his arm there over Tim's shoulders as they make their way out of the theatre and into the bright lights of the mall it's connected to.

With Darla's availability decidedly nil for today, they'd decided to go on their first date right after school. It's an advantageous arrangement in many ways - Darla might wear her dad down to let them hang out one last time before next week, Tim is busy the next few days, and Bernard is uncertain how unscathed he's going to be after facing off with Cluemaster.

Bernard had been in such a hurry to squeeze this in, in fact, that he'd forgotten that going out with a guy means going out with a guy. Bat-training has left his already good senses for this sharper, and he sees a man in his forties giving them the stink-eye from one of the padded benches in the middle of the aisle. His stomach swoops. He's suddenly aware that he's too close, he's been hanging on too long and too affectionately to have plausible deniability.

"Bern?" Tim asks, and he's back down to Earth. "You okay?"

"Huh?"

"I said do you want to go to the arcade," Tim says. He's tilting his head ever so slightly, eyebrows furrowed. Oh, Bernard is too stiff, isn't he. He forces himself to relax. "You zoned out there."

"It's nothing," Bernard says, out of habit. Tim is giving him a look, one part skepticism and one part concern, and he's suddenly sure, with a burst of fondness and nerves in equal measure, that he's not going to get away without sharing with the class. "No, it's - it's stupid. I'm so used to hiding. I can't turn it off."

Tim stares blankly at him for a second before realization lights up his face, followed by a deep frown.

"Oh," he says, glancing around. "Do you not want to -"

"No," Bernard says, quickly. "I want to. I just - have you ever kept a secret for so long that it feels weird not to keep it? Like it's fighting you on it?"

"I've never not kept a secret," Tim says, straight faced. Bernard chokes out a laugh.

"Ominous phrasing," he says. "What do you know, Tim?"

"Lots." A smile plays at the edge of Tim's mouth. His eyes are sparkling with some hidden mischief, and Bernard is suddenly sure that he does have one over on Bernard. Somehow, it just makes him like Tim more. "I guess you'll never find out."

"Okay," Bernard says. The people around them seem more distant, now. Unimportant, in the wake of Tim's smile. "Well, Mr. Draper, as it so happens, I do want to go to the arcade. And maybe buy you dinner."

"I'd like that," Tim says, reddening again. Bernard doesn't think he'd ever fully returned back to his normal baseline, which he counts as a win. "Except I'm paying this time."

"So we agree that the park was a date?"

"I - n- I mean - yes but -" Tim sputters, "- we never - hey, where are you going?"

"Look, there's a bank right next door!" Bernard says, beginning to power walk over. "I'll just go hit the ATM -"

Tim makes a strangled noise and grabs his arm, steering them into the arcade instead. Bernard laughs the whole way in.

"C'mon," Bernard says, mindful of his back as he leans in. "Tim. Please. Tim. You're killing me."

"Stop jumping," Tim says, gleefully.

Bernard jumps right into an anti-air, again, and watches as his character is knocked back into a projectile follow-up.

"You and Darla have been on Fightcade again," he says, accusingly.

"I mean, yeah. It's not our fault you're always busy after dinner," Tim says. "Block low."

Bernard blocks low and watches in utter despair as Tim jumps over him and delivers a heavy kick to his character's face before he can switch blocking directions. "You lie to Miette? You cross Miette up like the criminal?"

Tim bursts out into laughter. Bernard should really capitalize on that, but instead his eyes are glued to Tim's face. Cheeks dimpled as he laughs, hair a little out of place since he's been too busy with the controls to smooth it, light and unburdened in a way that he seldom comes across at school, where it always seems like he's so focused on fitting in that he forgets to be Tim.

Bernard loses the match. And then several more after that, picking up only a round here or there by sheer persistence.

"I think I'm ready to play a different game now," he says, after loss number four. "If we keep going I'm actually going to get salty."

"That wouldn't be so bad," Tim says, leaning back against the cabinet. He looks very smug and Bernard is experiencing an interesting crossing of wires where he wants to shut him up and kiss him at the same time. As he wrestles with the inappropriate urge to do both at the same time, which would be very efficient but also very public, Tim is already moving to look around.

"There's a VR escape room?" he says, pointing to a display they'd passed on the way in that connects to the arcade. He ambles over, and Bernard follows him. The room's entrance is located right by the arcade's entrance, the mall's bright flourescent mingling with the arcade's throwback blacklighting from outside. "That's new. Looks like they're using some of that new holo-tech that's coming out of Metropolis these days. Immersive environment. No headset required."

"Huh," Bernard says, and squints at a laminated page pinned to the entrance. "Appointment only aaaaand it doesn't open until next week. That's a bust."

The arch around the entrance does leave a little nook out of sight, though, backed up right against a set of tall cabinets. Bernard is pondering the many uses of such a space when he sees Tim go for the door.

"They left it unlocked," Tim says, trying the knob and peering in.

"Definitely from Metropolis," Bernard muses, gently reaching out to shut the door. There's a soft click. Huh. "They're getting robbed blind before they open. Calling it."

"Aw," Tim says. Bernard slides an arm around his waist.

"Besides, that would definitely get in the way of dinner," he says, watching Tim look down at his arm in wonderment. "Don't those things take hours?'

(The high of all of this had sort of dropped off a little after the first hour of giddiness, but it comes back in full force as Bernard imagines this becoming normal.)

"We could beat it faster than that," Tim says, with such complete confidence that Bernard has to chuckle.

"If you wanted to be stuck in a room alone with me, you only had to ask," he says. "We can find one that doesn't involve someone watching us. As their job."

"Oh, do I finally get to come over to your place?" Tim asks, even as he's clearly fighting another tomato face, and Bernard feels a spike of panic.

Oh, shit. Deflect, deflect!

"Do I get to see yours?" he asks, and Tim's eyes widen. They kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

"Maybe, uh," Tim starts. "I need to prep my uncle for that. It might be a while."

"Same," Bernard says. He's unable to keep some of the bitterness out of his voice. "God knows how my dad would take it."

Tim's expression darkens. There's a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"You've never mentioned your dad," he says.

"Haven't I?" Bernard says, smooth as anything. "Hey, you know, if I'm careful about the seat I think we could play one of the driving ga-"

"Everybody say cheese for Mr. Camera!"

There's a shriek, and suddenly it's chaos in the mall as the lights go out. Flashes strobe, and the crowd parts; a man with a giant camera head and a tuxedo-and-cape combo is making his way to the entrance of the bank, laughing maniacally. People are starting to scramble, running into nearby shops, freezing (on their own or with the help of a flash from Mr. Camera's direction), or finding cover behind the benches.

Reflexively, Bernard assesses the situation. No immediate casualties. A simple bank robbery. Mr. Camera, identity unknown, capable of stunning victims with a hypnotic flash and able to access and process footage from all recording devices in a radius around him. Not that dangerous by himself, but if the situation escalates -

Bernard doesn't think further, because Tim is dragging him around his middle with a strength that Bernard didn't know he had in him. Before he can protest, he's pulled into the dark as the escape room door shuts behind them and locks with an audible click.

As soon as the door closes, the sounds and lights of the mall outside might as well be on another planet. It's pitch black in the would-be escape room, which means that the only thing Tim can sense is Bernard's body against his. As a result, he's hyperaware that he's pressed up to his back and every sensation that comes with it - the warmth that radiates off of the other boy's body, the texture of the hoodie fabric where it touches his cheek, the way he's heaving out a great big sigh.

"Oh my God," Bernard says, making no move to extricate himself from Tim's grasp. "You really can't have shit in Gotham."

"We should be safe here," Tim says. It's only after he says that that he realizes that he's gripping the fabric around Bernard's middle tightly enough to strain. Bernard seems to notice, too, because he pauses and then his hand drifts up to rest over Tim's.

"Hey," he says, more softly. "Yeah, we're - we're gonna be alright. That was pretty quick thinking."

"I wasn't thinking at all," Tim grouses. It's true, though. They're out of the line of fire, and while he'd been possessed only by the need to remove Bernard from danger in the moment, other trains of thought are arriving in the station. For instance: he wonders if he's straining Bernard's stitches the way he's holding on. He forces himself to loosen his grasp. Also: "We're locked in here, aren't we?"

"Yup," Bernard says, popping the 'P' aggressively. He moves, and Tim hears the doorknob being tried. "Escape room. One way lock. That checks."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

They stand there for an awkward moment. There's another muted scream from outside, and Tim feels Bernard tense.

"Normally I'd be thanking God for locking me in a dark room with you," he says, "but this is not it."

Tim is very glad that Bernard can't see his face right now. All good things must come to an end, though, because Bernard is moving for his pocket, and with a rustle, out comes his phone. The screen, so bright as to be nearly blinding in the absence of any other light source, illuminates his face from below. Then it swivels around, giving them their first real glimpse of the space.

If Tim was pressed to describe it in a word, he'd say "Holodeck." The walls are mostly black, broken up and dotted by the reflective shine of numerous projector nodes. There's also a bulbous security camera installed in one corner, obviously positioned for the best wide view of the room.

"The lock must be electronic," Tim surmises. "The players engage in the game and solve a set number of puzzles in the generated environments, then the game master disengages the lock from the other side when they're done. Or maybe it's automated and tied to completion of the game."

"Problem," Bernard says. "It's not open yet. No game and no poor schmuck getting minimum wage to let us out."

"That's not a problem," Tim says. He lets go of Bernard, finally, and starts rummaging through his backpack.

"It's, uh, not?" Bernard says. He turns and focuses his phone on Tim just in time for Tim to produce a toolkit. He stoops down next to the door where he swears he saw - there. The edges of an access panel, just off-black in this light but marked by a label for employees.

"The law means nothing to you, right?" Tim says, and Bernard lets out a choked laugh.

"Tim?"

"Flashlight, please."

"Tim??" There's a moment of darkness as the phone turns around and then a much brighter, more concentrated beam hits Tim's hands. He starts to make quick work of unscrewing the panel. Bernard's voice is - unquantifiable. Somewhere between disbelief and giddy and something else. "Do you always carry those to school? I feel like I'm finding out you're Ba- Robin right now."

Tim can't help it. He laughs. It must be infectious, because Bernard is laughing too.

"Is that it?" Bernard asks, breathless. "Are you secretly Robin? Is that why I've never seen the two of you in the same room before? Is that why you can't stand to hear my brilliant theories? Am I putting your secret identity at - oh wow you are really going to town on that thing."

Tim is really going to town on that thing. He's got the panel open and he's fished out his laptop and a connecting cable from where his bag is now sitting at his side.

"I'll eat my shorts if this is secured," he mutters, plugging it in. Bernard kneels next to him.

"I knew you set up the group chat, but Tim? Tim. What the hell," he says. The awe in his voice is apparent enough that Tim thinks to slow down and pretend he's having significant issues getting into the mall's network.

"I just -" Tim pauses. He's never had to deploy this particular cover. "Okay, so my uncle brings his work home with him a lot?" (That's good, lots of room for interpretation on what his uncle's work entails.) "And he sort of always liked to use me as a rubber duck, but it was annoying that I didn't get it. So I started teaching myself." (That's good too, because Bernard is well aware that Tim likes to be on top of things.) "And, uh, I got really into it. I like to poke around and test things." (Technically true, if omitting a few load-bearing details.)

"There's something in the water in this city," Bernard says, grinning. "Hey, you're in."

"Uh huh," Tim says, bringing up something else. It's a little risky, maybe showing his hand too much, but he needs to know. What if things spin out of control when he's not looking? "And, oh, look, the camera is connected to the mall's security network. That's atrocious."

The bank next door is similarly sloppy, because Tim has their cameras onscreen shortly. There's a bank robbery in progress, alright. Mr. Camera is in a stance that can only mean some kind of monologue. Tim turns to Bernard just in time to catch his lips.

He's being kissed, suddenly, breathlessly, Bernard's hands steady on his shoulders as their teeth clack together with the force of it. When Bernard pulls away, he's looking at Tim with a smile so bright it could blind.

"You're amazing," he says, breathless.

"Bwuh," Tim says. He feels a little like he's been rebooted.

"Any chance we can get audio?" Bernard's peering down at the screen again all of a sudden. He's biting his lip, eyes sharp and intent on Mr. Camera's overblown gestures.

"Not without hacking someone's phone mic," Tim says, tracing the contours of his chin, and then belatedly adds: "Which I can't do. Obviously."

That would be a little too competent for a fifteen-year-old hobbyist.

"Obviously," Bernard echoes. He breathes in sharply, and Tim tears his eyes away from Bernard's jawline to see a security guard rising from behind Mr. Camera with a pistol brandished.

"No, don't do it," Bernard hisses. "If we can see you, then…"

Mr. Camera stills, and then turns to face the guard. There's a flash, and the man freezes halfway to firing position. There's a tense moment as the villain walks up and grabs the gun out of the guard's now-frozen arm… and then he simply throws it aside, whirling and throwing his hands up to deliver some unheard gloat. Tim is grateful; he could probably handle it, but Bernard shouldn't have to find out what it's like to watch someone die through security footage.

"… he can see you through the camera," Bernard finishes. "Damn it."

"He can?" Tim frowns. "How do you know that?"

Bernard blinks.

"Oh, uh, I'm on all the cape forums," he says. "They powerscale these guys like crazy."

"Of course you are," Tim says, and then, with another look at Mr. Camera menacing the clerks, sighs. "I wouldn't even be upset if Batman showed up at this point."

He'd ask where are the cops, but the answer is probably outside, setting up a perimeter to catch Mr. Camera on the escape. GCPD can always be depended on to be window dressing to any serious attempt at supervillainy. Or anything else that they don't collect ticket or drug money from, really, of which Moriarty is keenly aware of and benefits greatly from in his operations.

"I think if he was going to, he'd have shown up by now," Bernard says, after a pause. "Ditto Robin."

Tim's eyes drift back to him. The tiredness that had looked so apparent on him this morning is back. He's staring down at the screen with furrowed brows.

"Tim," he says, slowly. He's pulling out his phone. "You're patched into the hologram thingie in here?"

"Yes," Tim says. It's not hard to locate the control program through the panel's connection to the network. Installing it will take a second, but - "Why?"

"And this is an escape room, so the camera probably sends audio so that the game master can respond if there's an issue…" Bernard is musing. Without thinking, Tim checks, a set of deft keystrokes bringing up the feed from the room they occupy. Sure enough, Bernard is correct. Their likenesses on the screen look small and close, kneeling and curling around Tim's laptop next to the panel.

"Do you have a video editor on there?" Bernard asks. There's a smile playing at the edge of his lips. The footage echoes his voice distantly and inaudibly a moment later. Looks like they're too quiet for the mic to pick up from across the room. "Like, something that can splice an audio file into existing footage?"

Tim does, actually. Specifically to create security footage loops, not that Bernard needs to know that. Speaking of which.

"You sound like you're planning something," Tim says, frowning. "You can't seriously be thinking of trying something stupid."

"Tim," Bernard says, throwing his arm around Tim's shoulders. "You wound me. With your help, it'll be at least moderately smart. C+ at worst."

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but his ability to do so short circuits as Bernard leans in to whisper in his ear, hot breath on earlobe causing an electric frisson down his spine.

"Bernard," Tim says, when he's finished. "That's crazy. We can - we can just wait it out."

"If the robbery was going smoothly, he'd have been out of there by now," Bernard says. They're face to face now. He can feel Bernard's breath against his nose. "The longer it goes on, the more chances there are for someone to get hurt."

Tim searches Bernard's face. He's not grinning like he was before, but there's something about the set of his shoulders and the way he's got a ghost of a smile. It's not bold, just confident. And he's looking at Tim with warm eyes, sparkling with a little bit of mischief. Like they're both in on something funny, though Tim couldn't imagine what.

A thought occurs: maybe, just maybe, this is the Real Bernard.

It's kind of making the inside of Tim's chest do somersaults. He should be scared. He should not be considering leaving a perfectly safe room with his perfectly safe date (!!) to stop a two-bit Z-list supervillain. He should not want to pull Bernard in for a giddy kiss, because this is dangerous.

And yet.

"Okay," Tim says, his hands already moving to the keyboard to cut the room's audio feed. "Start recording."

Mr. Camera is all-seeing. Mr. Camera is omnipotent, if he wants to be. He can see through any camera at any time, and he's reminded the good tellers of this Gotham Bank branch of that ad nauseam. They are aware of this, and the fact that the police are not coming to save them, nor is Batman, Robin, or, just to be extra clear, any other superhero. The fact that this is not speeding things along is of great concern. They need to get the picture.

He has used that pun three times already. This one is really dragging.

Bank robberies are supposed to go a certain way. If the bank knows what's good for them, they'll stop stuttering about "automated lockouts" and "higher ups put in a new policy because of all the losses" and "we don't have any control over it, I swear, please, let that guy go, I think his glucose is crashing".

It is because Mr. Camera is so all-knowing, in fact, that he hears Batman coming. A voice, coming from a camera nearby, one of dozens that had been under his watch but out of focus until something of note happened.

"Don't worry, Robin," a deep, gravelly voice says. "That antagonistic aperture Mr. Camera will never see this one coming. By the time he realizes what's going on, his whole operation will be shuttered."

There. Not too far away. Batman stands in some sort of maintenance area, standing over and fiddling with what seems to be some sort of machine. His other hand is resting on his ear. Some sort of comm?

"Oh, very clever, Batman," Mr. Camera mutters. Out of the corner of his eye he sees two of his hostages shoot each other a look. An EMP to knock out my eyes and ears, hm?

He swivels around and raises his arms.

"Good ladies and gentlemen of the Gotham Bank!" There's a bright flash, and everyone is stuck in place. Perfect! "Please, hold that pose. I'll be right back after taking care of a developing situation."

The door swings open. Mr. Camera enters with a flourish of his cape, one hand flung out.

"Batman! Get ready for action, because the camera is rolling!" he says.

"Don't worry, Robin," Batman says, not lifting his head up. Actually, he looks sort of odd. Sort of flat. "That antagonistic aperture Mr. Camera will never see this one coming. By the time he realizes what's going on, his whole operation will be shuttered."

"Huh?" Mr. Camera says, losing a bit of steam. "I said -"

Shut. Click.

Batman, and the rest of the maintenance area, disappear in a fizzle. It's dark for a moment. Then, a room full of knickknacks and - and - this is a hologram!

"What is the meaning of this?!"

"Welcome to LuthorRooms, the immersive escape room experience."

"No! My picture-perfect plans!"

"You have selected level eleven: Superman!"

"NOOOOO!!"

"Now put it on hard mode," Bernard says, grinning ear to ear from where he's got both palms flat on the door.

"Way ahead of you."

Tim is emerging from behind the entrance arch where until moments ago they'd both been laying in wait. He's in the motions of stowing his laptop, and when he looks up to meet Bernard's eye, he's nearly shaking. Bernard knows the feeling very well. Adrenaline, relief, a dose of 'holy-shit-that-happened', and the sweet, sweet rush of having saved the day.

He crosses the distance, crushing Tim in a hug.

"We did it," he says, and it's true. Robin didn't do it, though of course the bits of Robin that lurk under Bernard helped. Civilians Bernard Dowd and certifiably insane Tim Draper saved everyone this time.

"We did," Tim says, muffled. "Um. Maybe we should get out of here before the cops get here, though. Since I did hack the mall's security. And maybe wiped some recordings. Which is illegal."

"Okay," Bernard says, taking Tim's hand and starting off. "I shouldn't be, but I'm kinda into that."

Sputtering, Tim doesn't get an intelligible word out until they're halfway to the food court exit, blending into the crowds in the shops along the way as the police and EMTs pass them by on their way to the bank.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Don't worry so much. See?"

"It's still not a good idea to - your stitches."

"Stitches nothing, where'd you learn to climb a fire escape?"

"I, uh, used to do urban exploration. Kind of."

"I'm learning so much about you today."

"Me too. Like how you have no idea what Batman sounds like."

"Excuse me? Who found the video on Reddit? Who is the batleaks expert here?"

"And who needed to be walked through the voice modulator?"

A hand reaches over the railing on the rooftop, and Bernard, pouting despite himself, emerges to crest it. He helps Tim over as well, though Tim needs surprisingly little help to heave himself over the barrier. There's nothing up here but asphalt and a good view of the mall and the surrounding area.

"I've never used that one before," Bernard says, settling down with his legs danging over the edge. and leaning his crossed arms on the bars. Not something he'd do out of costume normally, but the fire escape is only ten feet below. "You have some weird Linux shit I've never heard of."

Tim sits beside him, opting not to do the same. Instead, he crosses his legs, and the two of them look out on the Gotham skyline. It's pretty, this time of night. Dusk is waning into night, the last vestiges of the sun's light giving way to an upside-down universe of window-lights and shimmering lines of headlights along the major roads.

The temperature is also taking a drop, but at least the snow is gone. Bernard can't believe Tim didn't bring a proper jacket.

"You know," Tim says, after a little while. "It's funny. I used to be into photography."

"Oh yeah?" Bernard says. "What kind?"

Tim hesitates. He looks pensive, all of a sudden. Maybe it's a sore spot? But he's brought it up, so Bernard lets him take his time.

"The city at night, mostly," he says. "I would sneak out every night when I was like, eight or nine, just shoot photos for hours."

"How are you alive?" Bernard asks, eyebrows raising. "We're talking in Gotham, right?"

Tim laughs.

"Somehow, the bad guys were never where I was," he says. "Plus, I was really good at sneaking around and climbing buildings and fences and stuff. I - what?"

Bernard is putting an arm around him, pulling him in for a one-armed hug.

"I blew 'how are you alive' too early," he says. "That's on me. Why'd you drop it?"

Tim, who had initially tensed up against him, lets his weight drop into Bernard's side.

"Some… things happened," he says. "Personal things. It just felt tainted after that, so… I guess I just put it down and never picked it back up."

Living alone with his uncle. Unsupervised nightly outings before hitting double digits. Bernard is looking at two puzzle pieces and he's already not liking the picture they're painting.

"That sucks," he says. "Do you still have any of them?"

"No," Tim says. The way he says it… hollow. It sets Bernard a little on edge. "I didn't keep most of them."

The mood is plummeting. This is not getting a good grade in date. Bernard's stitches are complaining, too, strained from the climb up no matter how careful he'd been.

"Well…" Bernard trails off. Then, an idea. He fishes around in his pocket and produces his phone, holding it up in front of them. "Can I say 'say cheese'? Or is it too soon?"

"Uh," Tim says, clearly caught off-guard. That expression is priceless, so Bernard snaps the picture at that moment, capturing the two of them pressed against each other, Tim's hair sticking up on one side against Bernard's shoulder. "Hey - Bernard!"

Bernard lowers the phone to his lap and starts the process of sending it off to Tim's DMs.

"There," he says. "That's not tainted. I hope."

Tim doesn't say anything right away. Instead, he just sort of presses into Bernard harder, gripping at Bernard's hoodie until the back is pulled taut from how he's bunching it up. For a second, he thinks he's overstepped, but then Tim mumbles into his shoulder, voice heavy with emotion.

"Thanks."

The moment sits between them. Eventually, Bernard speaks up.

"Hey, Tim?"

"Yeah."

"You know what you've got there?"

Tim raises his head to look at Bernard in confusion. The gears turn.

"In your hand," Bernard says. He feels himself start to grin. Tim seems to catch on, giving him a flat look as he glances down at where he's got a fistful of hoodie.

"Don't," he says.

"Boyfriend material," Bernard says, and then cracks up as Tim groans. He slips out of his sleeves (ow, ow, ow, that's not easy right now) and drapes his hoodie over Tim's shoulders. "There, there. The cold can't touch you now. For I, your white knight -"

"Oh my God." Tim cuts him off with a finger to the lips. He's bright red. "Okay, actually, no, let's address this. Since when do you go around hatching plots to foil bank robberies? That was crazy. Tell me you're not running around - running around -"

"Chill," Bernard says, though he's doing anything but. He takes Tim's finger and daintily removes it from his face. Luckily, very little of what he's about to say is actually a lie. "It's - okay, plotting to yes. Doing no."

"What does that mean?"

"I…" Bernard trails off. Tim is watching him expectantly. He's suddenly hit with a wave of embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've been into capes stuff since forever. Like, forever forever. Since I was a little kid. I used to fantasize about helping out my heroes. Being Robin and getting to stop bad guys, or just getting to be Robin's friend, or being… uh, you know. I'm trying not to say the B-word here, but you know."

Tim isn't meeting his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "I know exactly what you mean."

His voice is so bitter. Bernard's chest clenches a little. What happened there?

But he's in the middle of a story.

"So when I got old enough to use the internet, I got way into the capes community," he says. "And yeah, into the deep lore too. Swamp curses, the many Earths, the Court of Owls… I felt like I was training up. Like one day I'd be called on, and someone would need to know all of that stuff I'd learned, and it would totally save the day and my heroes would congratulate me and invite me into their bat-lair. And I'd be… special."

He realizes only at the end that he sounds far too raw. Tim is looking at him with an inscrutable expression.

"I know now it's… it was all stupid conspiracy stuff, right. None of it is actually true," Bernard says. He draws in his legs, leaning as far against the railing as his back will allow. "But I guess even if it's not what I thought it was all about, part of me can't give up wanting that. To help. To be worth it."

"That's why you took self-defense classes," Tim says. There's a hand on Bernard's shoulder.

"Yeah, and a bunch of other assorted stuff," Bernard says. It's more or less true, and it'll probably excuse some other Robin training around Tim in the future. "I can pick a lock pretty quick, too. As long as it's not an escape room."

Tim snorts.

"Well, uh…" he squeezes Bernard's shoulder. "Don't go and get hurt. But that was really cool. Actually."

"Yeah?" Bernard turns to Tim, who's smiling up at him. "It ended up being a pretty crummy date, though."

"I think… yeah, that could have gone better. But… we made a good team?" Tim says, and then licks his lips and sort of hovers. Aw, he's shy. "And it's not over yet. We haven't gotten dinner."

Bernard laughs and leans over to kiss him.

"Yeah," he says. "You're right."

And as he's sitting in the bathroom stall just off of a hole-in-the-wall Pho place, some forty minutes and one soundly stolen bill later, with a threaded needle held clenched between his lips and a seam ripper working at the hoodie lining, Tim remembers that kiss fondly. He would have liked a picture of that, too. To preserve that exact, perfect moment in time forever. He'd forgotten why he'd liked taking pictures.

There, a big enough hole. He fishes the combination tracker and bug out of his pocket and drops it into the lining, then squints at his phone screen where it's balanced on his knee. He'd watched the tutorial for this stitch a few times, but this isn't his forte and he doesn't want to leave a trace.

It's a good thing he'd come prepared to watch over Bernard already. Now, with his concerning knack for getting into trouble revealed to be a personality trait, Tim will feel a lot better with a set of eyes on his boyfriend.

His boyfriend. Can he call him that? Was that just a joke? Will holding hands be okay, or was that only for running from the police? Tim's head spins trying to figure it out.

It's been a stressful few months, but soon, that will be all Tim has to worry about figuring out. The thought makes him smile.

Things are looking up.

"You look happy," Bruce says, as Bernard practically skips into the Batcave that evening. Most people would deliver this line with an amused, knowing lilt, or perhaps a teasing singsong. Bruce says it in the same detached, deductive tone that he would say "the perpetrators left behind footprints" or "the blood spatter indicates that the attack came from above".

It doesn't bring down Bernard's mood, though, because -

"I had a date," he says, sashaying over to rest his elbows on the back of the Batcomputer chair. Bruce is in his civilian attire, which is a rarity in the Batcave, but then, it makes sense that he wouldn't bother to change into the suit when his leg is still bandaged up. Bernard is in his Robin costume already, having changed back at his own lair.

"Congratulations are in order, then, Master Dowd," Alfred says. He's at another console, annotating what looks like a police report. "Might I pray some of your good fortune rubs off on Master Bruce?"

Bernard guffaws. Bruce only gives Alfred a long-suffering glance before swiveling the chair out from under Bernard, which he was ready for. He only wobbles a little bit before he catches his balance.

(Jesus, he's tired. He's going to have to skip school tomorrow to ensure he gets enough sleep not to bungle this whole operation. His back is throbbing in protest for all he's put it through, though thankfully he managed not to pop any stitches. The pain is grounding, taking him down from planet date and back to the mindset he needs - Robin.)

Bernard expects Bruce to ask about Tim again, or maybe even about the arrest of one Mr. Camera. Bruce does tend to know things like that. Instead, the man goes on a micro-expression face journey. Bernard wouldn't have caught it if he weren't used to reading Bruce, but something is going through his head, and at the end of it, he merely turns back to the Batcomputer.

He's flipping through a number of files that Bernard recognizes as Moriarty-adjacent. Including - "Is that Anarky's file? Got anything on him?"

"Yes and no," Bruce says, bringing Lonnie's file into focus. "Tracking him has been illuminating. He's never been sloppy, but recently, his tracks have been covered almost completely. It's as though he's getting outside help from an extremely skilled hacker. One even more skilled than Lonnie himself, covering his movements."

"There are only so many people that fit that profile," Bernard says, something cold dawning on him. "But, no, that doesn't make sense. It couldn't be Moriarty. He said he was working against him."

"Machin is hardly an unskilled liar," Bruce says.

"But that doesn't make sense," Bernard insists. "Think about his M.O., right? Lonnie hates rich and powerful movers and shakers on principle, and Moriarty fits that to a T."

"Nn." Bruce grunts. "Moriarty… the famous nemesis of Sherlock Holmes. A rich and influential professor, part of London's high society, who orchestrated grand crimes from behind the scenes. I've pondered the meaning of the alias for quite some time now. It could be a misdirect. I've investigated countless men and women in positions of power in Gotham and come up empty."

"Maybe Lonnie is trying to find out the same thing," Bernard says. "Working with Moriarty to try and figure out his secrets. He's not above stepping on the victims they'd make along the way, if he thought the payoff would be a big enough deal."

The last part comes out more bitter than he'd intended to let slip. Bruce looks at him sidelong before returning his eyes to the screen.

"That's a sound theory," he says. "But more immediately concerning is that his movements are being shrouded in the first place. He's planning something, no matter who is helping him, and preparations are well underway for something to happen soon. I'm following up on several leads."

"Perhaps the young Machin will give us some time to rest and recuperate from our bullet wounds, sir?" Alfred says. "If only for Dr. Thompkins' rare peace of mind. And it would not do to miss the Gala."

Bernard admires the way Alfred can say things without saying things, like you're gonna sit your ass down and rest, right, Master Bruce? Bruce doesn't seem to have quite the same appreciation, his eyes narrowing at the screen where footage of Anarky from a traffic cam loops before disappearing.

"What Gala?" Bernard asks.

"The Raise Up Our Community Gala," Bruce says. "I won't miss it."

"Okay, and that is…"

Bruce sighs. He's got a pained look in his eyes not dissimilar to the Jason Memorial Look, but he doesn't make any move to turn around and moon at it.

"It's a fundraising event," he says. "In about a week and a half from now, anyone willing to contribute a certain amount to charities that benefit Gotham is invited to attend a gala at Drake manor. It's already garnered a significant amount of press for allowing several controversial persons to attend. I'll be there representing the Wayne Foundation."

"Drake manor," Bernard says. "Sounds familiar."

"It's not too far from here," Bruce says. "As next door as manors can be, in fact."

"So, a few acres out."

"Quite," Alfred puts in. "Master Bruce would not pass up the opportunity to check in on the young Drake, either. Poor boy."

"Drake?" Bernard asks.

"Timothy Drake," Bruce says, and that look returns. He laces his fingers and leans over the keyboard. It's almost a slump. The closest Bruce ever comes to one. "He was orphaned several years ago. It was… my fault."

Bernard blinks. "Your fault?"

"I failed to save them," Bruce says. "A hostage situation gone south. It… it happens in this line of work, Bernard. You'll carry the weight of it with you forever."

Bernard doesn't respond to that. He imagines Tim or Darla being held at gunpoint, and a bang, and his stomach turns. Bruce is still talking.

"Drake retreated after the incident," Bruce says. "He's been completely isolated from the public eye since he was ten years old, refusing any and all visitors and condolences."

"Oh," Bernard says. "That's where I heard the name. He's that child prodigy who took over his father's company by email a few years ago, right?"

"He is," Bruce says, and then smiles wryly. "I wish I could get away with that, though rumours abound that his board is always one step away from mutiny over it. More importantly, the gala is to be his first public appearance in nearly five years."

"You want to be there for him," Bernard says.

"Yes, I suppose so," Bruce says. "That, and I suspect that something is going to happen there one way or another. I don't intend to fail him twice."

Bernard rubs the back of his neck, looking at the rocky floor of the Batcave through the metal grated platforms that hold most of its usable space.

He shouldn't feel jealous. But he does, an ugly, painful twist forming in his chest.

"There's something else," Bruce says, and Bernard's eyes snap back up to see Bruce looking especially grim.

"What is it?" Bernard asks.

"I read your report on Cluemaster," Bruce says. "I'm concerned about Stephanie's intentions."

Bernard has to take a moment to compose himself, taking in a deep breath. He forces a rueful grin.

"Woooow," he says. He walks over and leans on the console. "We're still on this? If Spoiler wanted to betray me, that would have been the time."

"It's not that," Bruce says. With a tip-tap-tip of the keys, Cluemaster's file pops up. "Cluemaster is a serial re-offender. He's been in and out of prison and rehabilitative programs no less than five times, and each time he goes straight back to his old ways. His daughter doubtless knows this, and with your reports of her behaviour during the raid last night, there is a possibility that she believes sending him back to jail would be insufficient to protect herself and her mother."

"You think she wants to murder him?" Bernard stands a little straighter. "I mean, maybe. But wanting and doing are two different things."

"She's shown a concerning predilection towards impulsivity in the field," Bruce says. He's doing the finger pyramid thing again. "Can you guarantee she wouldn't?"

Bernard can't guarantee it, that's the thing. His mouth presses together into a thin line.

"You need to have a little faith in people," he says.

"You need to prepare for the worst case scenario," Bruce says. "That's what we do in our line of work, Bernard. We prepare for the worst and hope for the best."

"This is a little more than preparing for the worst case scenario," Bernard presses, crossing his arms. "I swear to God you trust Talia Al Ghul more than you trust Spoiler, and at some point I have to wonder if you think evil is genetic, because I can't figure out what gives here."

Bruce doesn't speak immediately. Instead, his chair swivels a few degrees shy of a quarter turn and his eyes edge towards the Jason memorial.

Everything clicks into place with a terrible certainty.

"No," Bernard says, feeling anger rise in his throat. "No way. This is because she's a vigilante, isn't it."

"She's not one of ours," Bruce says. If Bernard's tone bothers him, he doesn't let it show. Instead, he holds steady, flat eye contact. "There's nothing I can do to stop her from running to her ruin, or to her death, if she decides to."

"That's her choice!" Bernard snaps. "And her life, Bruce!"

"She's not experienced or trained enough to make that call with a sound mind," Bruce says, and Bernard glares daggers at him. "She's fifteen."

"I'm fifteen."

"You are. And you're not approaching this with a level head, either," Bruce says. He looks weary. Not the sweat-sheened weary of blood loss, but a bone-deep tiredness. Something Batman always carries with him. "I don't ask you to follow orders for no reason. I need you to listen in order to protect you. I've failed enough children for a lifetime, Bernard."

Bernard is vaguely aware that he's shaking. He shifts, and his back protests. Sharp daggers of stinging pain focus him.

If I scream at him now, he thinks, he'll take me off the case for real.

"Do you understand?" Bruce says. His eyes are boring into Bernard's. There's something very grave behind those eyes.

(Do you understand? This is for your own good. You'll follow my rules in my house. I expected more from you. When are you going to shape up?)

"I understand," Bernard says, looking away with a scowl. There's a stab of something cold in his heart that won't dislodge. He wishes he was back with Tim on that rooftop. Just hours ago, things were simple for a little while.

"Good," Bruce says. His sharp gaze softens, and he searches Bernard's face for a moment before turning back to the computer.

Alfred clears his throat.

"Would you care for snacks before your engagement with Ms. Brown, Master Dowd?" he asks. He's giving Bruce a dour look from where he stands, just now turned away from the other console, but none of it comes through in his words.

"Yes, please, Alfred," Bernard says, in a half-mumble. "Thank you."

"It is no trouble at all," Alfred says. "It wouldn't do to neglect the needs of the youth, after all."

"Hn." Bruce grunts.

"After all," he says, primly, as he's turning towards the lift, "all sorts of things can pass below our notice when we are not focused on the present."

How could I not have noticed this?

Tim is sitting back in his chair, numbly watching the footage again for the third time. He reaches out with a limp hand and plays it back again. And then again.

On one screen, Bernard's path through the city after their date is drawn on a map that terminates at a seemingly random juncture. Triangulation calculates depth offset from ground level. On another, the video of Bernard disappearing into an unremarkable alleyway and not coming out the other side plays over and over again, Tim's patched interface to Gotham's network of traffic and street cams fruitlessly searching for another angle.

He leans forward, eyes not leaving the screen, and rapid, uninterrupted keystrokes ring out in Moriarty's lair as Tim starts to dig.

"Okay, so run me through it again," Bernard says, dipping a chip in hummus. It's good - he wishes he could ask the street vendors for their recipes, but he's pretty sure that Gotham vendors guard their secrets like banks guard their vaults. Except better, because banks get robbed by supervillains all the time, but he thinks Mr. Hassan would tell the Joker to take a long walk off of a short cliff before giving up his shawarma seasonings.

He and Spoiler are perched up on another rooftop. Bernard is thanking Alfred and Mr. Hassan for double-teaming his mood - it's hard to feel too shitty about fighting with Batman with a stomach full of delicious homemade cookies and hummus chips. Which is good, because Spoiler doesn't need that right now. They need to focus.

"He's definitely changed something," Spoiler grumbles. She's already worked through three-quarters of her wrap. "He'd have to after hearing there was a spy, right?"

"Yeah, but he'll only be able to change so much," Bernard points out. "You said he was weirdly fixated on the date and time, so. Tomorrow night it is."

"Yeah." Spoiler sighs. She brings up a map on her phone and lets it rest between them. "Okay. This is the target. Right next to the Knights Dome Sporting Complex is this place owned by the Penguin. It's a villain bar in some basement, kind of a shithole, but every few months they have betting events, right."

"They're betting on the Guardsmen game?" Bernard guesses, peering at the tiny screen. He misses the Batcomputer.

"Right," Spoiler says. "And after a bunch of incidents happened, they started requiring people to bring their buy-ins in cash. It's all tucked in a safe until the payout happens at the end of the night."

"Not that secure," Bernard notes. "But you'd have to be an idiot to turn all the other betters in the pool against your outfit. It'd be declaring war."

"Exactly," Spoiler says. "Normally, even my dad wouldn't touch something like this. Like, he's delusional, but not about jobs. He's good at planning jobs. But he kept going on and on about his super-powerful sponsor and how they'd protect them from the backlash."

"Moriarty," Bernard mutters. "That clinches it."

"Moriarty?" He can't tell from under the mask, but she's probably raising an eyebrow right now. "Like the guy from Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, that's the idea, we think," Bernard says. "He's some kind of mastermind with crazy hacking skills and infinite money. Batman's been going crazy trying to pin him down. His M.O. is getting other people to do his dirty work, so this is right up his alley."

"Wow," Spoiler snorts, "talk about source-accurate. If it was me I wouldn't name myself after some guy who fell to his death over a waterfall, but hey. I guess it beats 'Cluemaster'."

"That bar is underground," Bernard says, and then straightens. "Oh, shit. Spoiler, I forgot. I meant to tell you - Anarky ID'd you."

Spoiler freezes.

"God damn it," she hisses. "You couldn't have texted me that sooner or something?"

"That would have been a good idea," Bernard agrees. "But, uh. Blood loss."

Spoiler groans. "How fucked am I?"

"Assuming he can keep his word, not very," Bernard says. "I made him promise not to leak it. Seems like he was just wrapping up working with your dad, but he hates him, so. I doubt he'll tell him, at least."

"Okay," she says. "Okay. I can work with that. Why the hell was Anarky in on this? Isn't he some kind of 4chanpilled weirdo?"

Bernard scrubs his palm over his face and sighs.

"Being real?" he says. "We think he's working with Moriarty. Or close to him. Somehow. He seems to know way more about the guy than anyone else. So it'd fit if Moriarty was your dad's sponsor and Anarky was checking up in person, probably."

"What do they get out of it, though?" Spoiler's voice says that she's making a face behind that mask. "Picking a fight with Penguin and every crook in the city for my dad? For a cash payout? No way."

"That's what I'd like to know," Bernard says. He shakes his head. "Anarky mentioned that he'd already gotten what he came for, but that could be anything."

"He told you that?" Spoiler asks. "He seems awfully chummy with you. Sounds like a trap."

"You ever heard of mansplaining?" Bernard asks.

"No," she deadpans. "Tell me all about it."

"Hah. Yeah, fair," Bernard grins. "But uh. Maybe we should lock in. The heist?"

"Right," Spoiler says, giving her head a little shake and refocusing on the phone. She flicks the screen back into gear clumsily. "So here's how I heard it. First, he buys all of his guys into the betting area. And I hate to hand it to him, but this is the clever part…"

Bernard: how're you doing?
Darla: like shit
Darla: better though
Bernard: that's good
Bernard: just thought I'd check in before bed
Darla: sap
Darla: look, I'm sorry for shouting all that shit at you.
Darla: I wasn't even thinking, I was just
Darla: yeah
Bernard: thanks for apologizing. I appreciate that
Bernard: do we think our next fight can be less outing me though
Bernard: seriously not cool. that can't happen again
Darla: yeah I think I can manage that
Darla: not that you guys aren't gonna be public knowledge by next week anyway but it won't be my fault
Bernard: are you insinuating that we are unsubtle
Darla: how'd your date go
Darla: your public date you had in public
Bernard: ok well first off it went great. we trapped a supervillain in an escape room together and it was very romantic
Darla: lol
Bernard: second off yeah ok fair
Bernard: I really didn't think any of this through dude I never thought I'd get this far
Darla: youre a hopeless moron
Bernard: i'm YOUR hopeless moron
Darla: ugh. true. gross
Bernard: and i owe you the wingmanning of a lifetime
Darla: better >:)
Darla: speaking of hanging out with you losers
Darla: I had to sign up for some unbelievably boring bullshit for this
Darla: but i'm ungrounded
Darla: one last hangout?
Bernard: yeah
Bernard: i can't make tomorrow though
Darla: tim couldn't either so you're in the clear
Darla: it's kinda funny how often you guys are busy on the same day lmao
Darla: for a while i thought you were secret dating. until i realized you didn't have enough game
Bernard: man
Bernard: okay day after tomorrow after school then.
Bernard: as long as things are stable with my mom i'll be there
Darla: good
Bernard: alright seeya then. goodnight
Darla: gnight

Nothing makes any sense anymore.

Bernard's school file sits next to everything Tim could gather on the Dowds. The address doesn't match. The phone number the school has is likely connected to a burner. School documents are riddled with faked signatures. There's no record of Nina Dowd having ever been to the hospital, or even in ill health. (Why would he lie about that?) She's real, as is her husband, but nothing matches.

It would have fooled someone less diligent than Tim. Someone with less experience than Moriarty. The faked documents are pretty good, but there are inconsistencies and data trails that give them away. And what he can say for sure is that:

Bernard Dowd's presence in the Dowd household disappears a year and a half ago. A paper trail of school registrations, checkups, family photos, and online presence follows a normal trajectory and then abruptly ends, replaced by a patchwork of faked documentation and the cessation of things that can't be faked, like the photos. Despite that, there's no missing persons report ever filed.

His parents would have noticed if he'd gone missing. Right?

(An email titled Gala Guest List - Final Check (+ Plus Ones) pops up in Tim's inbox. He shoots off a mindless affirmative and closes his email client to stare at Bernard's photo for a little longer.)

And then Bernard just shows up for the tenth grade with the falsified documents and… he has funding. He's not living at home, but never shown any signs of needing for clothing or shelter, never failed to pay for himself during hangouts. He has lunches packed for him, and clearly not by his mother. He can afford a current generation console, for God's sake. He…

He lied to Tim.

Tim feels numb. He feels sick to his stomach. He feels his chest ache. He feels like he's going to wake up and it's all going to have been a dream, because this doesn't make any sense.

What reason could Bernard have had to lie to Tim for the entire school year? Has he figured out who Tim really is? If he did, or if someone else figured it out and sent him, is he doing this of his own will? There are just too many variables. He doesn't want to believe that Bernard could… could…

What happened to you, Bernard?

There's only one place to start, if he wants to find out the truth.

Tim opens his maps application up and feeds in an address.

The diner is largely empty at this time of day. They've arrived before the dinner rush, and so what noises do exist are intelligible to their source.

Silverware clacks against a plate three booths down as a man with a high-vis vest on eats some bacon and toast. Probably on break from the site down the road, which just opened up last week as part of Gotham's annual season change from winter to construction. Behind the counter, a waitress is putting away glasses, which tinkle against each other with every move. In the back, the grill is going, wafting the scent of bacon throughout the whole establishment as they work on what must be a delivery order. The whir of the fans runs under everything else.

Across from Tim, plastic-coated fabric rustles as Nina Dowd shifts uncomfortably in the booth bench.

"Please, tell me what you know about Bernard," she says.

Bernard didn't come to school today, Tim doesn't say. That would tip his hand. He's busy making observations.

It's obvious that they're related. Bernard's bright blond hair shares a hue with hers, though she's starting to grey in places. She's prim and put together, even now, carefully applied contours implying a makeup routine similar to Darla's. Her hair is recently cut and styled. Her clothes are well chosen and coordinated but not brand name, though the purse is mall brand and worn a bit at the edges. The type of person aspiring to meet appearances but without the means to show off true wealth. Tim's mother had had a lot to say about that kind of person, but there's something fragile in the way she clutches her purse in her lap and the lines of worry around her eyes that gives him pause on that line of thought.

"There's no missing persons report that I could find," he says. It's a question that isn't a question. "Why don't you go first."

She averts her eyes. Her posture slumps. She knows she has no leg to stand on, but she followed Tim out here when he showed up at her doorstep asking questions, so she must be at the point where pride is breaking down.

"We thought he'd come back," she says, softly. She reaches forward and takes the water that the waitress had left for them, rubbing one finger across the surface of the glass absently. "It was just a little fight. He didn't take anything with him. I thought he was just going to get some air."

"A little fight," he says. She's averting her eyes again.

"His father found some things on his phone," she says. "They fought terribly over it, and things got out of control."

"Some things."

Mrs. Dowd's eyes take a trip around the diner, lips thinning.

"Pornography," she says, gravely. She sounds a little bit like a drug PSA. "Not the normal kind."

Tim grits his teeth. A lot of things are starting to fall into place, but over and above that, he feels… something complicated in his chest. Something painful. Something protective. Something vulnerable. He'll unpack that later.

"He's gay," Tim says, flatly. Mrs. Dowd stills. "They fought over it. Did he hit him?"

"They fought," she says. "It did come to blows. I was shocked. Bernard has never been violent…"

That ill-defined feeling blooms into white-hot rage in Tim's chest. Self-defense classes. Flirting couched in jokes, plausible deniability built in so deep that Tim had never taken it seriously. Intense fear of being outed.

"You watched his father beat him," Tim says, very slowly, "and then you didn't follow him when he ran, and then you didn't report him missing when he didn't come back. Why."

That gets a full-body wince. She's not meeting Tim's eyes.

"You're right," she says. "No, you're right. I should have - I didn't - I - I've been looking for him. I swear. On my own. I just want to know if he's okay. If he'll come back, so we can forget this ever happened. He's still my son."

Bernard had specifically requested that Tim not kill anyone on his behalf. He's almost eighty percent certain that that hadn't been a joke. He shoves down that feeling and thinks. Luckily, years of being Moriarty has honed his ability to think clearly through simmering, vengeful rage. There is something here he is not getting.

"Who are you to him?" Mrs. Dowd asks, when the seconds stretch by and Tim continues to ruminate. "Where is he now?"

"He's my boyfriend," Tim says. He wonders if Bernard will be mad at him for saying so prematurely, but it's aimed to hurt. It's a bullseye, too. Her eyes widen. She didn't even consider the possibility, maybe. Hoped that Bernard hadn't really been committed to this, that they could smooth it over as an experimental phase. Tim has complicated this for her.

"And he's - he's fine," he says. "He's got somewhere else to stay. A roof above his head. I've never seen him go hungry. He never talks about you. But he talks about whoever he's staying with a lot. I only found out about you by accident, and he doesn't know I'm here. But he knows where to find you, so I assume he's fine with leaving behind a coward who'd protect their shitty husband over sticking up for him."

Huh. Tim's hand is shaking as he grips his own glass. When had that started.

"I don't even know why you agreed to talk to me," he finishes, staring a hole in his water. If physics obeyed feelings, it would be boiling.

A long silence stretches between them. The waitress hasn't looked over once since she took their order. Maybe she can sense the vibe of the conversation.

"What's your name?" Mrs. Dowd asks, finally.

Tim considers lying. Ultimately, though, there's very little someone could do to find him based only on his first name. Especially someone that failed to find Bernard when he was literally attending school under his own name.

"Tim," he says.

He's surprised when she reaches out and curls her hands around his where they're gripping the glass. His eyes shoot up to meet hers. Her expression is sad, but otherwise inscrutable to him.

"You care about him a lot," she says. "I - I'm glad. That he has someone like you."

That's not in the script. At least, not after everything else she's said. She keeps talking while Tim tries and fails to fit the pieces together.

"I don't understand it," Mrs. Dowd says. She squeezes his hand once more and lets go. "But if he's safe…"

Tim kind of wishes she'd just gotten mad at him. That would have been easier to deal with. Instead, he's looking down at his hand where it had been held a moment ago by a motherly hand, feeling an outpouring of complicated emotions.

He's not safe, though, Tim thinks. That half-truth had been more or less what he'd believed until late last night. He's caught up in something. Something big. Something that even I don't know about, and that should be impossible, because I'm fucking Moriarty.

"… but please, tell him I want to talk to him…" Mrs. Dowd still talking. Tim is dimly aware that he's tuning her out.

He's not lying to me about his feelings. The timeline doesn't make sense for seduction. He never intended to be outed, Darla did it. The kiss at the park was impulsive. It brought attention to his cover. If he was hiding something this big, continuing to let me think that he was unremarkable would have been the correct way to go about it. I thought he was normal. I never would have known.

"… made mistakes, and I can admit…"

Who in the underworld could possibly have the resources to hide a runaway, only to feed, house, and clothe them? To create fake paperwork trails for them? To allow them to attend normal school? To fund self-defense courses for them? To be talked about like a mother, even as they pull him away for who knows what? Enough that I didn't question it? What is Bernard giving them in return? Who fits the timeline? Who would have the motive?

"… always in his room looking up strange things about Batman on the internet…"

Tim's blood runs cold.

"Batman?" he says.

Mrs. Dowd seems startled.

"Yes, Batman," she says. "He's been obsessed with him since he was a child. That and that sidekick of his."

"Robin," Tim says, automatically.

No, he thinks. No, it couldn't be.

"Yes, Robin." She's eyeing him. Not for long, though, because he stands up, pulling out his phone and typing. There, the search result he was looking for. A ding goes off from her purse.

"I've texted you the number of a very good divorce lawyer," he says, and doesn't stop talking as she opens her mouth to respond to that. "By tonight he'll be ready to take your case on for no charge. Think about it."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Dowd says, but Tim is already on his way out the door as, behind him, their meals are finally delivered to the table.

The cab ride back to Tim's apartment is a blur. Synapses are firing that feel like they've been on the edge of something for quite some time.

The reflexes to dive and save the falling teen at the skate park.

Showing up to school injured. Knowing how to cover it up.

"Self-defense classes."

Bernard is always blowing off plans in the evening, or getting pulled away at odd times. During supervillain attacks? I need to cross-reference with the days I remember.

The ability to blend into the background. The intelligence hiding under a carefully-crafted mask of normalcy.

Handing a kid a stack of cash every so often would be trivial for Bruce Wayne, and giving a kid a hideout off the grid would be trivial for Batman. If the new Robin were a runaway, one that wanted to avoid his parents, it would explain why Bruce Wayne wouldn't associate with him publicly.

Diving right into a crazy plan to stop a supervillain robbing a bank. Zero hesitation.

The new Robin is blond. The new Robin came onto the scene a little less than a year after Bernard's disappearance from his parents' house. Enough time to undergo the training he would need to fight alongside the Caped Crusader.

He told me to imagine kissing Robin?!

As Tim passes his bed on his way into his computer room, he remembers and curses himself.

I fucking dreamed about it!

But of course, that had only thrown him off the trail. He hadn't had the facts. What would the odds be? How could he conceive of the irony that Moriarty could somehow unwittingly end up dating -

Tim stops cold in his tracks, one hand on the back of his chair.

Tim is Moriarty.

If Bernard is Robin, then…

Then…

He needs proof. He's sitting down and firing up every screen he has and filling them with everything he has on Robin. He's texting Bernard (to no response). He's double checking the tracker, which has made its way to a building close to the Sports Complex, though the bug on it is only picking up muffled background noise. Tim pales. No, no, no. It could still be a coincidence. He needs to disprove this. This can't be right. It can't be. Bernard cannot be Robin. If he is, then everything -

Ding!

"Not now, Lonnie," Tim growls, shutting down a notification from his least favourite teammate. He's asking some bullshit about security codes for this evening that they've been over a hundred times.

… Wait. Lonnie has talked to Robin, hasn't he?

The idea of Lonnie getting close to Bernard spikes panic in Tim's chest. But it's not true. It can't be. He's pulling up the video. He'd had a transcript compiling at some point from a mouth-reading program, hadn't he? There it is. He pulls it up and starts skimming, ignoring Anarky's pointed refusal to face the camera at specific intervals (which he'd almost certainly done just to piss Tim off) this time in favour of Robin.

It's familiar. It could be Bernard, that speech pattern. It's certainly irreverent enough. But there's just no saying for sure.

… Is what Tim thinks, until he scrolls a little more and blanches.

> What's the true identity of the Batman?
> Actually, there is no Batman. He's just Martian Manhunter's night job. You only see them in the same place sometimes because he can multiply and split like an amoeba.
> [Indistinct] ... A power behind the throne type, very reclusive.
> The Court of Owls.
> No... [Indistinct].

Tim leans back in his chair, numb.

"Bernard," he says, to no one. "It's Bernard."

Bernard is Robin.

The titular dome of the Knightsdome Sporting Complex is impossible to miss from the vantage that they chose for this, a lower rooftop than Bernard would prefer owing to his injury. Four stories up and waiting in the receding daylight is Spoiler, who is dwarfed by the top of the dome behind her. She's somehow giving Bernard a pointed look through a full face mask as he heaves himself carefully over the fire escape and jogs across the roof to meet her.

"You're still pretty busted up," she says. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"We've got some fancy liquid stitch reinforcement," Bernard says, waving off her concern. "I'm bat-sealed. It'll be fine."

It's not exactly foolproof, and his back is still complaining a little about the climb, but Batman uses this stuff all the time and he only gets screamed at by his doctor sometimes. It'll hold. It'll have to.

"Alright," Spoiler says, turning to look past the dome and down the street. "I'll take your word for it. I've been watching the betting entrance all afternoon and no sign of them, so I guess things are going pretty much to schedule."

Despite her casual tone, Spoiler's body is coiled like a spring. The tension is rolling off of her in waves. She'd been so proactive, so confident, that Bernard had almost forgotten that this is her first big operation. With high stakes, too. He doubts she'd appreciate him pointing that out, though, so he digs in his utility belt for the equipment he'd packed.

"Here," he says. "Rebreather, a commbead - you put this one in your ear, there's the button to transmit right there - and the resin counteragent. Cluemaster survival kit."

"I had the counteragent," she mutters, taking the offered items even so. She begins to hook them up to her own utility-belt-like setup. "I just couldn't find it. In the moment."

"Well, now you have two," Bernard shrugs. "I think that Batman would say something like -"

"It always pays to be prepared." Batman's gravelly voice crackles to life on the comms. Spoiler jumps.

"Is that Batman?" she asks. Despite the anger she'd held at him during their stitch-up session, on Bernard's behalf, her voice carries an unmistakable undertone of awe. Bernard remembers that feeling.

"It is," Batman says. He doesn't say anything else, because of course he doesn't. Bernard supposes this is a step up from openly theorizing that Spoiler can't be trusted.

"He's on another case, but he's looped in in case of trouble," Bernard says. "More trouble, anyway. Speaking of which, how's our timetable?"

"Nothing yet. In the original plan, they'd be cutting the traffic to the bridge soon by causing a huge accident," Spoiler says.

"Right," Bernard says. "We already let the police know to block it off. No bridge traffic to cut. Hey, maybe they'll take the hint and give up."

"If only," Spoiler grumbles. She pulls out a pair of binoculars that looks like it's seen better days. "The part I can't figure out is how they're going to change the getaway. The subway plan was good, and the place is swarming with cops now. How're they planning on managing it?"

It's a good question. Bernard scans around the dome. No big crowd. Looks like the audience is already in the stands, ready for the game to start. Which means -

"There they are," Steph says, reaching out to tug on Bernard's cape. He leans to look, and yeah, there's Cluemaster and his posse. Even without binoculars, it's easy to spot Cluemaster's distinctive blond ponytail. "They're going in."

"Shame we can't follow them," Bernard grumbles.

"If we'd tipped off Penguin, we wouldn't need to," Spoiler grumbles right back. "Remind me why we didn't do that again?"

"Because we want your dad arrested, not killed," Bernard says.

"Ugh," Spoiler says. She sounds unconvinced. "Right."

Bernard wills Batman not to comment on this, and surprisingly, he doesn't. This only makes Bernard more uneasy.

"Agent A," Bernard says into the comm, "any headway on the underground map?"

"My apologies, Robin," Alfred's voice comes on. "Gotham's subway network has any number of undocumented twists and turns. I'm afraid you'll have to stay on Cluemaster's tail to find his route of egress."

"Who's the British guy?" Spoiler asks. "Does Batman have another, more British sidekick? What?"

"Wot wot," Alfred says, dryly. Spoiler erupts into surprised laughter.

Bernard can't bring himself to laugh. His eyes are on the clock.

"Okay," he says. "One minute."

Steph sobers up quickly.

"Right," she says, and the coil is back. She's got her eyes on the front of Penguin's building. As does Bernard.

"Forty-five seconds…" Bernard counts down. "Thirty."

He's about to say 'twenty' when Batman's voice cuts through the line.

"There. I've cracked Anarky's plans," he says, and contrary to his usual flat affect, he's biting out every syllable. "Cluemaster is a distraction. He's about to -"

There's a massive BOOM in the distance and the rooftop shakes beneath their feet as Sprang Bridge explodes.

"That should keep the Bats busy," Anarky says, over the call. "Call Brown what you want, but he doesn't lack adaptability. Or showmanship."

Tim is hearing him, but he's not really listening. The Bats. Robin, Robin, Robin. Bernard.

"Just get going already," Tim says, staring straight ahead as his chest does its best to tear itself apart. He doesn't remember putting on his headset, pulling up the security systems around the compound. It feels like someone else is piloting his hands. "You have your window."

The inside of The Cocktail Umbrella feels the shockwave like anyone else in a five block radius. Maybe more, owing to its location under street level. The attention of the patrons, of which there are many, turn to screens as the news report hits. Sprang Bridge, isn't that just North of here? Shit, what's happening, who's behind this, are they gonna cancel the game, and other such questions flood the air.

As eleven guys from Cluemaster's crew drop their cufflinks into their drinks, that's not all that floods the air. Shouts follow, and then thumps, and then silence.

"A knockout gas that catalyzes from a solid into a gas in contact with alcohol," he says, to himself. He nudges a goon with his foot. "I am a genius. Enjoy your nap, gentlemen. I expect you'll need the rest to keep Penguin's men busy for me."

There's a wheeze, and a man in Cluemaster's colours staggers to his feet.

"You sonofa," the grunt wheezes. "You… hhh… said we was… immune…"

"And you said you weren't planning to betray me," Cluemaster says, raising up his gun to aim between the man's eyes. "But I think we've both told lies to each other. Don't you?"

Bang. The man tries to dodge sideways at the last moment, but his reflexes are too slow. Eroded by the gas.

"You have to understand," Cluemaster says, stepping over his body, blithely walking through the puddle of gore and brains blasted out behind him with the exit wound. "I have a family to get back to. Now where oh where is that safe."

"The bridge!" Bernard grips the roof's parapet from where he'd staggered backwards. "They blew it, B. Oh my God."

"Holy shit," Spoiler says. She's fumbled the binoculars, but catches them just in time. "That's not what they planned!"

"Never mind that," Batman says. "Anarky's making his move on a highly secure warehouse across town. His target is an extremely powerful magical artifact, an amulet that -"

"The hell do you mean never mind that," Spoiler says, voice tight. She's watching the exit like a hawk. Which is good, because Bernard's leaning hard against the brickwork as it hits him.

"That's what they got out of this," Bernard says. "It was a distraction."

I believe you'll stop him. I'm counting on it.

"He refused to help us because he was going to be busy! Because he was keeping me busy cleaning up his mess!"

"You were played," Batman says. "It happens. Focus."

"No one is coming out yet," Spoiler says, under her breath. "How long can a safe take to crack, old man?"

"Right," Bernard says. One hand comes up to squeeze a bruise on his upper arm. "Right. We'll -"

"I'm sending the Batmobile," Batman says. "Anarky is the priority."

"What?" Bernard and Spoiler say at once. "- the fuck?" Spoiler appends.

"Did Robin not tell you my mom is in danger if dad gets away with this?" Spoiler says.

"We know Arthur will return to your house eventually," Batman says. He's got the same tone as always, and Bernard can see Spoiler's outrage slowly growing. She's gripping the binoculars with white knuckles. "We'll monitor and catch him before he can cause any more trouble. Machin is going to disappear with a highly volatile artifact we can't trace, to unknown ends."

"That's bullshit," Spoiler says. "You can't be fucking serious right now! I thought you were - you're supposed to be-!"

"Batman," Bernard protests. He's squeezing his arm harder, now. It's wailing under his grip. "We're already here. We can't even guarantee -"

"I won't let harm come to Brown's wife. Cluemaster has already changed his plan once," Batman says. "You're walking into a trap."

"Is that what this is really about?" Bernard grits his teeth, and Spoiler grabs his shoulder, jolting him back into situational awareness.

"There he is!" she says. "He's headed for the subway. He's alone. What the hell?"

"Robin," Batman says. There's a warning tone in there. Danger, danger, danger. Bernard, don't disobey your father. "Retreat."

"We have -" Steph tugs on him. Hard. "Fuck Batman. We can still catch him."

"I can't - Spoiler - she…" Bernard's tongue catches.

"Robin," Bruce repeats. "Do not follow Cluemaster. That's an order."

Steph rips her commbead out of her ear and shoves it in her pocket with a snarl.

"Robin," she says. Pleads. "He's going to get away."

Bernard moves forward, one foot stumbling after the other.

"Batman," he says. Before he can say I'm sorry, Bruce's voice cuts in. Darker and deeper than he's ever heard it, not since those very early days when he'd said, you'll want to quit. Deceptively level.

"I can't have a Robin that disobeys orders," Bruce says, and Bernard freezes. His whole body feels like it's been splashed in ice water.

If I do this, he's going to take away Robin. He doesn't think it. He just knows it.

Steph notices him stop. She whirls, and for the span of a few seconds, as Cluemaster runs for the subway entrance, she waits.

The world holds its breath.

"Spoiler," Bernard says, weakly. "Maybe he's… maybe we shouldn't…"

He detects the exact moment she realizes it. The moment that she realizes he's not on her side.

Her shoulders slump.

"Fine," she says, voice so, so tight. This is how it was always going to go, wasn't it. "I'll do it without you."

Then she's disappeared, down the fire escape.

Bernard is hyperventilating.

Batman is saying something in his ear, but he couldn't say what. He hears the distant squealing of the tires of the Batmobile, taking some corner at absurd speed.

He stands there for all of ten seconds, motionless, before ripping his commbead out and throwing it to the ground. He starts moving, pulling out his grapple gun and beginning to swing on a long arc down to ground level.

His back is burning.

The chaos in the streets above dulls to a distant roar as Bernard flies through the subway entrance. Down the stairs, over the turnstiles, and further down to the yellow line he runs.

People are panicking. A lot of people have their phones out, more than one of which turn to capture Bernard's progress as he darts around and through and in some cases above the crowd. In true Gotham fashion, a busker is still playing his corner; Bernard catches a few long, melancholic notes as he passes by.

He can't slow down, even for a moment. If he does, he'll lose them.

Cluemaster has left bloody footprints, which is good, because Bernard would have lost him otherwise. The fresh trail takes him to the base of the staircase that opens up to the platform, and then it's too thin, he doesn't know where they've -

"Robin!" a middle-aged woman from the crowd shouts in a thick Bowery accent, cupping one hand around her mouth. She's pointing behind him and to the side, where - there! A maintenance door has been left ajar. "They went that way!"

"Thanks!" he shouts back, feet moving. Sleek tiling gives way to bare beams and wiring as he descends into the maintenance corridors, and he hears a distant get those fuckin' freaks behind him.

The trail is easier to follow down here. A scrap of torn purple cape on a valve here, where Spoiler must have made a too-tight turn, a spill of now-inert chemicals there. Bernard barely avoids bracing his hands on acid that is so fresh it's still in the process of eating through a handrail. Following the signs and avoiding the aftermath of Spoiler's chase takes up all of Bernard's concentration, which is good, because he thinks that if he slows down for a moment -

- even a moment -

- there.

Another door, one that looks more hastily and newly constructed, left ajar just as the one above at the platform had been. Bernard runs in and yelps as he hits the deck, landing hard on his back as two flamethrowers on either side of the corridor blast the air where he'd been not a second before.

As the cut on his back screams at him (okay, maybe he can pop a stitch through the bat-seal), Bernard looks down the corridor. Rows and rows of traps await, a veritable obstacle course, with two forking paths at the end of the gauntlet. Deadly sawblades are embedded in the wall already.

"Fuck my life," Bernard says, pulling himself up and starting to move forward.

"Isn't there any way you can disable the traps?" Anarky says, over comms. He barely dodges a dart trap, no doubt tipped with deadly poison.

"They're analog. I can't touch them," Tim says. "Just muscle through. I've delayed their backup at the surface where they use electronic locks."

Tim may not feel entirely himself right now, but he's accomplished more through worse. He's got the compound's whole security network up on his array of screens, and Anarky is making good time through it. The response from the Hand of the Inheritors has been hampered by a combination of plots, starting at a power failure and ending at an untimely visit from Black Mask's enforcers.

Tim isn't thinking about Robin.

"How many people do you think died here before ever seeing their precious amulet?" Anarky says, as he jams a metal rod from another trap into the gears of a scythe-swinging monstrosity.

"I don't care," Tim says. He's not thinking about Bernard. He's watching the Hand's footsoldiers argue with Black Mask's forces, far above the centuries-old catacombs where Lonnie is re-enacting an Indiana Jones flick. He's watching the first shot get fired. He's watching a woman in robes crumple as chaos erupts, blood beginning to pool around her on the carpet. Nobody moves to save her.

"It's typical, you know," Lonnie says, heedless of Tim's response. "All that power, and what do they do? Build a cage around it. Gatekeep it from the common man."

This is good. Tim had been fortunate to discover that the Hand of the Inheritors had been recruiting on Mask's territory. Tim did this. What would Bernard think of him? The woman is bleeding out. If not suffocating in her own blood. That shot probably punctured a lung. This is not the first time that Tim has pulled a trigger through a computer screen. The strings all lead back to Moriarty. What would Robin think of him?

"It kills anyone it deems unworthy," Tim says. Engaging Lonnie is easier than thinking about that, which says something.

"Places them in an unending nightmare from which they will never wake," Anarky corrects, with the unmistakable cadence of a direct quote. He steps deftly to the side of a crushing trap.

Tim vaguely remembers okaying expenses for Cluemaster that looked very similar to this. Some kind of refurbished death maze for Batman, building on some design that had already, in typical Gotham style, been laying down in the sewers. He'd pushed through the funds with barely a thought at the time. Robin might be there now, Tim realizes, with a jolt.

But Cluemaster wouldn't be stupid enough to go against the direct condition not to kill Robin… right?

"Which it has unfailingly done to every hopeful inheritor for a hundred years," Tim says, fighting to keep his voice level. "If they'd cared about the common man they'd had sealed it up completely. But then you wouldn't have your little invention for your little stage play."

Anarky clicks his tongue.

"The fool carries on the legacy of a broken system," he says. "But I'm no fool. I'll turn their shackles and their axes against them, and those craven, power-hungry elites will look into a mirror and see their unmaking."

God, he's pretentious, Tim thinks, gritting his teeth. Even so, as Lonnie somersaults over a pit of spikes, Tim's heart rate quickens.

Because he's thinking about Robin.

Bernard narrowly avoids a splash of acid from above as the console in front of him buzzes and turns red. Fuck, he thinks, hands shaking with adrenaline as he gets back to solving the puzzle on the screen. The door will only open if he completes the puzzle, and there's a timer, of course, even if Bernard hadn't been in a rush already. Spoiler apparently hasn't been slowed down much, because he's been through four elaborate deathtraps already and there's been no sign of her.

"Well, if it isn't the Boy Wonder," Cluemaster's voice says, and Bernard jumps. He looks around and - ah. A speaker, set in the wall. "Still no Batman? I'm beginning to feel unimportant. I don't like feeling unimportant."

Bernard grits his teeth and ignores him. His fingers fly over the controls. Solve it. Solve it and press on.

Don't stop moving.

"Your sidekick tried valiantly, but you've lost me," Cluemaster says. Static is layered over his voice. It's echoing around the walls of the maze. "And that will be your final mistake."

Don't slow down for even a moment.

The panel goes green, and the door in front of Bernard slides open. He starts forward, at a half-lope, checking every nook and cranny for signs of another trap as he goes.

Tim needs every screen he has to keep an eye on the security footage. It would be trivial to crack Cluemaster's operation normally, but he can't afford to lose something in the chaos.

The Black Mask are mowing through cultists, and the cultists are giving right back. Light and runes flare to life, tentacles and otherworldly mouths with too many teeth grab mobsters and pull them apart. There's so much screaming. While Anarky closes on the amulet, with a speed and alacrity that reminds Tim that he is much more athletic and competent than Tim likes to give him credit for, the few cultists that hadn't been locked out are coming out of hidden panels in the trial labyrinth that hadn't been on any maps.

"They have shortcuts," Tim hears himself say. "They'll be on you any second. Look alive."

Anarky curses.

As Tim watches a man in a suit get dragged into a portal on the security cams, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the floor and cursing as he goes, Tim can't stop the thought that he's been putting off. It flows over him like a bucket of cold water, leaving him numb.

If Bernard is Robin, then Tim and Moriarty can't coexist.

Tim Draper is a fake thing. A mask that Moriarty wears to go out into the world, so as not to lose touch and join the likes of Mr. Camera in Gotham's menagerie of themed lunatics. A glove to put on over bloodstained hands. It had worked out for a while. Maybe it would have worked longer if he hadn't had the misfortune to meet Robin. To know Bernard.

But Bernard is never, ever going to forgive Moriarty. If Bernard is a good person, and Tim knows that he is, he…

… Timothy Draper needs to disappear.

Clarity washes over him. He's going to stop showing up at school. Tim Draper going to disappear without a trace. His friends will be sad for a while. Maybe even a long time. Darla will be so, so mad, but it will really be because she's hurt, and it will still be better than whatever fate knowing Moriarty would visit on her. Bernard will take it harder, when he looks closer and realizes that Tim Draper was never real in the first place, that it was all an elaborate facade. He won't put the pieces together in time, before Tim Drake shows up at the gala, and by then it'll be too late. Maybe he'll even be heartbroken when he figures out who Moriarty is. If he ever does.

But they only ever went on one date. Better to end it now.

Before Moriarty kills Batman.

Tim forces his attention back to the security cams, where Anarky is grabbing a cultist and using her as a human shield as he runs through a hall of flamethrowers.

Moriarty needs to focus on the task at hand. He can't think about Robin anymore, or -

He can't. Not even for a moment.

Maybe if Bernard had stopped for a moment to think, he would have seen this coming.

Instead, he rushes into the next leg of the maze, eyes out for traps. It isn't until he remains unmolested for twelve whole feet and thinks, that's weird, did he run out of them, or… that the doors, big bulkhead affairs, shut ahead of and behind him at once. Kthunk, click.

There's a hissing noise. He doesn't like that. Bernard slaps his rebreather on just in time to see a fine, oddly-coloured mist bloom out from the vents on either side of the hallway-like room.

Shit! As Bernard casts his eyes about to the featureless walls and an ominously reinforced-looking floor and ceiling, a speaker crackles to life.

"Well well well, looks like we've caught a little bird," Cluemaster says. Bernard grimaces, starting to run his hands along the walls. "About now, you'll be looking for a way out, but guess what? There isn't one, Robin."

The floors. Maybe the floors are thin enough to blast through with an exploding Birdarang.

Bang.

"See, I've been cured. The good doctors at Blackgate told me I have a loser's mindset, and they were right. Every schmuck in Gotham City has to taunt the Bat, has to prove themselves better than the Bat with their ridiculous gimmicks. And I was one of them! But not anymore."

Nothing. The ceiling looks like concrete, but…

"I'm my own man. A genius. I don't need to prove myself to anyone. You expected this to be fair? You expected besting some minigames would get you out of there? Well, guess what. The game's over. And I've done some math."

Climbing the wall is difficult, sheer as it is, but at least it's not too high. Knocking on it proves that it's rock-solid, though. Either reinforced with blocks of concrete or simply the actual tunnel ceiling behind a smoothed facade.

Bernard starts to feel a bubbling panic rise in his breast.

The gas is getting thicker.

"See, I don't know how your little gas mask works precisely, but I figure - and I figure correctly - it's either a filter or a small oxygen tank. And the thing about either of those is that they run out."

The walls themselves are solid. The doors are solid. No way to open them from this side. Too seamless to wedge anything in the cracks. The hinges are on the other side.

Bernard feels numb. He's sliding down the side of the door. His back protests the whole way down.

"Highly concentrated toxic gas should do nicely either way," Cluemaster says, with a vicious delight. "You and your friend are - are -"

Batman would have had to call the Batmobile back, get suited up, and then there's travel time. Then he would have to find them, which would usually be easy, but Bernard is in the middle of a maze.

He's not sure his rebreather is going to last that long.

"Where's the other one," Cluemaster growls, and the speaker goes dead with one last static burst.

Bernard takes out his bat-communicator. There are like thirty missed calls from Batman. Willing himself to stop breathing so fast, he opens the text function and types up as much of a report as he can muster. He'll be found, at least. Maybe Bruce will make it to help Spoiler. Another call comes in and he rejects it.

He can't - he just can't.

To Alfred, he just sends a sorry.

Bernard sits there looking at the screen for a good thirty seconds, ignoring the incoming calls, before it sets in.

He's going to die here.

He's going to die here.

His hand comes up to grip his arm, pressing into a bruise with an iron grip until it screams at him, pulsing, blinding pain shooting up his forearm and into his shoulder.

He didn't realize how often he'd wished for it to be over until, staring down the barrel, it's ripped away like a veil. He doesn't want to end up like Jason. His mind summons the picture of a second memorial, next to the first, and Bruce's dead-eyed stare as he stands in front of both of them. He wants to retch. The false comfort, the thought of being longed for, shatters under a parade of truths.

Bruce had feared this over all else. Steph is going to blame herself. Alfred is going to mourn, just like Bruce but quieter. Darla is going to be alone at her new school, and then she's going to find out, a devastating one-two punch. Tim. That had just been beginning, but it had been... Bernard had thought they'd had more time…

He doesn't want to die. He wants to live. He wants to live.

Just how little time he has is now on the forefront of his mind. His fingers are moving on their own. Shaking. He's gripped by the need to - something. Something. They deserve something.

Dick first. His messages, which Bernard hadn't ever had the heart to read, fill the screen.

Sent 10 months ago

NW: Hey, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for all that happened back then.
NW: The truth is, I was mad at B. I'm mad at him a lot, lately. You got caught in something that's been going on for a long time.
NW: It was pretty shitty what you said, but I was also out of line.

Sent 3 months ago

NW: You've been doing a good job as Robin. I see you on the news sometimes.
NW: Teamup maybe? We can grab after-patrol treats.

Fuck.

RC-1: sorry we never worked this out
RC-1: i was kind of being an asshole

He doesn't check to see if Dick replies. He's in Australia or space or something right now anyway. Bernard feels a stab of guilt for doing this to Dick again before forcing himself to open Darla's DMs.

Bernard: hey um. i'm sorry, i don't think i'm making it tomorrow
Bernard: maybe ever actually
Bernard: shit.
Bernard: i'm sorry. you're my best friend. i'm really sorry for everything

This user (Darla) has blocked you!

Bernard can't help but laugh, wetly. It's not funny. Shit, when had he started crying? It's running down his domino mask and it's wet and warm and cold and - and -

- he has to control his breathing. He was taught better than this. Conserve air.

He needs to talk to Tim. There's not much time left.

The moment his phone goes off, Tim dives for it. Every other logistical thought about the heist-in-progress leaves him as he fumbles to unlock his screen and sees a message from Bernard.

Bernard: hey
Bernard: i don't know how to put this

He switches to desktop, a knot developing in his chest. One screen on bottom centre, showing Bernard typing. Anarky's escapades are still prominently to his left. The security cams are still giving Tim a bird's-eye view of the situation. Lonnie will be fine.

Tim had wanted Bernard to answer, had sent several generic worried messages, but to get an answer now? Robin should be busy. Very busy.

Was Tim wrong after all? What's happening?

Bernard: remember when we talked about robin

Tim's stomach sinks like lead. Some instinct wells up and he brings up a console - he can spare a screen for this. Cluemaster's setup shouldn't be too hard to find. He starts typing.

Tim: I do remember that.
Tim: Why?
Bernard: i guess i just um. idk
Bernard: i was going through some bad stuff at the time. i never exactly told you or anyone about it
Bernard: but robin has always meant a lot to me

Me too, Tim thinks. He's in. On the left, Lonnie is grunting and rolling his way through swinging scythes in an impressive display of acrobatics. On the right, Cluemaster's network is laid out before Tim in dense chunks of text, numbered addresses and nodes. God, it's disorganized. Borderline incomprehensible network design. Another reason to find Arthur Brown irritating.

Tim: What were you going through?
Bernard: lots of stuff with my mom. it's complicated

His mom. Batman. Of course, Tim realizes. Every time that Bernard had been called away, it had been by Batman. A truth rolled up in a lie - Batman had taken him in, clearly. He'd been called away from the park because Batman had been shot, because Tim had arranged for him to be shot.

Tim wants to bash his head against a wall. Bernard is still typing.

Bernard: bottom line is that robin got me through it
Bernard: but it was getting really bad and uh
Bernard: you reminded me what robin is supposed to be

Tim's fingers stop midway through cracking into Cluemaster's cameras.

Bernard: i needed it
Bernard: i think if you hadn't said that i'd have a lot more regrets right now
Tim: What are you talking about? Are you okay?

They're going again, at a blur. Tim is shifting through cam after cam. He's expanded the search over another screen to speed it up. Rooms and hallways riddled with traps that have gone off, Cluemaster's main security hub, more traps, more hallways, there's the purple one, where is Robin -

- There.

Tim almost misses it. The footage is blurry, because the room is filled with some kind of gas (Tim could only begin to guess at what it is). Robin - Bernard - is slumped against the door, with a communicator out, typing intently. His shoulders are slumped.

He's trapped, Tim realizes. His blood runs cold.

But Cluemaster -

But Batman was supposed to be -

The other one! Why did they split up - where did they go, he brings up another feed, swallowing another screen -

Bernard: like, robin is
Bernard: robin doesn't let people be alone when they need someone
Bernard: sorry. i know this is probably freaking you out

He thinks he's going to die. Tim is watching through the camera as - as -

Tim is watching Jack and Janet Drake hit the marble landing. There's so much blood. There's so much blood. It's not like in the movies. It's shattered skulls, necks twisted to an impossible angle. Black pools of blood, grainy footage, Batman standing over them, Batman, Batman, Batman.

Bernard: i just wanted to say like
Bernard: it's so corny but you kept me going
Bernard: you and darla
Bernard: i'm sorry it took so long for me to get over myself and ask you out

It's happening now. You can stop it.

The door controls. Where are the door controls? Tim is shaking. It's messing up his keystrokes.

"Moriarty, if I could have a moment of your time," Lonnie cuts in, sharp. It hits Tim's focus like a sledgehammer. "I could use your help here."

Bernard: i'm sorry

Something in Tim snaps.

"You can handle the rest yourself," Tim says. "There's been a development."

He cuts the comm line. Anarky disappears behind another window as Tim brings up another piece of software and his hands begin to move faster.

"Batman," Agent A's voice comes through the comms, faintly shocked. "I've detected another intruder in Cluemaster's network. They're faring better against his security than my own attempts."

"What are they doing?" The response is perfectly flat. The Batmobile's tires are screeching as it takes another corner at breakneck speed. Calling Robin. Calling Robin. No response.

"That's the strange thing, sir."

At less than a minute of air left, the door opens.

Bernard falls backward and just barely catches himself on his palm, almost losing the communicator in the tumble. For a second, he just gapes. Then, as he's picking himself up, the lights flicker and the door - the distant door, another one past the room he'd been stuck in - gives one of a cacophony of clicks and swings open.

Alfred or Bruce must have come through and hacked the security, he realizes, giddy. The gas is seeping into the new room from behind him, but in the whole maze's worth of volume, it will dissipate.

He starts walking, and then running, as the traps he expected fail to go off to stop him.

He's got a straight shot to Cluemaster.

Which is good, because as he rounds another corner, pulling off his rebreather, he hears the sound of fighting, and a shrill, piercing scream.

Spoiler!

As Bernard rushes into Cluemaster's control room, he has to juke to the left of the doorway to dodge the source of the scream, a large man dressed in black-and-white who's clutching his eye and stumbling backwards. Pressed up against the doorframe, he takes in the situation in a flash.

This might have been a cistern, once. The space is cavernous, rusty metal catwalks precariously placed above what looks like a newer metal grate floor. Not that far off from the situation in the Batcave - Bernard can't see the bottom. It's got a large computer with an array of screens tucked away in one corner. The maze controls, Bernard would bet. There's the money, two duffel bags no doubt full of cash resting on top of the desk next to the keyboard. An archway, opposite the maze, seems to be gated off and locked, and finally there's an acid-eaten hole in the wall ten feet to Bernard's left that must have been Spoiler's exit from the maze.

There's another grunt in the same costume as the first, some kind of mime getup, standing by at the sidelines of the main event: Spoiler and Cluemaster duking it out. He's obviously looking for an opening, clutching a nailed bat and glancing back at his partner who had probably done the same thing seconds ago only to meet the same wrath that had, more than a week ago now, earned Bernard a thorough defenestration.

Steph and Cluemaster are both missing capsules from their respective belts, and another acid splash appears to be eating a hole through the grating floor nearby their duel.

Bernard doesn't waste any time with quips, springing forward and sweeping the second grunt off balance with a kick to the back of the knees.

"Robin!" Spoiler says, pausing to jerk her head over to him, only to be forced to refocus as Cluemaster comes in with an overhead swing. She brings up her arm to block it and snarls.

"Your little friend won't change a thing, brat!" he says. In Bernard's estimation, he looks like shit. His hair is fraying and long strands are falling out of his ponytail, his face is red with anger and exertion, and judging by the empty holster at his hip, Spoiler has managed to get his gun away from him. He reaches forward to grab Spoiler's elbow with his free arm, and they tumble to their sides in the effort to come out on top.

As they begin to grapple, Bernard contends with guy number two. He's recovered from the knee kick and he's coming around with that bat. Bernard throws himself backward just in time to let it sail in front of him.

Swing after swing comes, and Bernard matches each swing with a step backwards. He can feel the air whiff in front of him with each near-miss. Further and further he draw him, until his back is almost to -

- there. A prickling intuition, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he senses the incoming strike. He ducks, this time, as the goon that was hanging back in the doorway lunges forward to grab him from behind. Instead, he barely misses getting a nasty, barbed blow to the face, and they stumble as Bernard rolls behind them, springs up and pushes with all his might and momentum.

Okay, there goes another stitch. Maybe two.

Bernard doesn't have time to dwell on it (can barely feel it, for all the adrenaline pouring through his system right now). They fall into the maze hallway and he only has a second to grab the door and slam it shut, listening to it click into place and taking a moment to lean against it and catch his breath as he turns to check on -

"Stephanie?" Cluemaster says, with muted horror.

Cluemaster has wrestled his way to a pin, and he's clutching Spoiler's mask with one hand. Steph's blonde hair is spilling out of her hood, and even from this far away, Bernard can read pure venom as she glares up at him.

"Call me Spoiler," she spits out. "Dad."

Bernard's feet start to move.

Cluemaster is quick on the draw. He pulls out a capsule and throws it, arcing high above Bernard's head. For a moment, Bernard thinks, he missed, but then there's an explosion above him, and Spoiler yells, and he's not actually quite sure how it happens but there's a lot of pain and moments later he's on the ground and there's a burning pain in his left arm and moving isn't working.

Oh, he thinks, belatedly. The catwalk.

He's looking out through a crumpled railing, pinned in place, as Spoiler takes the opportunity to free her arm and slug her father in the face. He staggers, and that's enough time for her to roll out from under the pin and gain her footing.

Cluemaster stands up to face her, wiping blood from where it trickles from a split lip.

"Well, look at you," he says. He almost sounds proud, and Steph obviously catches that too, because her lips curl back to show teeth. "Finally joining the family business."

"Fuck you," she says, beginning to circle him. "I would never. I'm here to stop you. For good."

He moves as well, and they're circling each other, fists up, eyeing each other's movements. Bernard is reaching for his utility belt, but one arm is pinned (thankfully not broken, but caught between two struts like a vice) and the other is blocked by the angle of the grating where it presses up against his side.

"Look," Cluemaster says. Compared to his maniacal rantings in the death trap, he sounds damnably calm. "This doesn't need to go this way. I've got two bags of cash, Stephanie. We split the take fifty-fifty, ditch these guys and this bird and get out of here with four hundred thousand each."

"Are you serious right now?!" Steph is the first one to strike, moving forward to close the space. Cluemaster deflects her fist with his own strike. Bernard's breath is quickening. "After everything you've done to mom and me -"

"Oh, and does she know where you are? That you're dressed up in a costume playing at being Batman?" Cluemaster snarls. Steph just lowers her stance and glares. "That's what I thought. You're here because that woman is fundamentally fucking unreliable. I gave up everything for my family, kept food on the table -"

"You invited over your goons and let them do whatever they wanted!" Steph goes in for another punch. Another. But Cluemaster is on the defensive, this time, and he's blocking or deflecting or dodging each blow.

"I never let them touch a hair on your head -"

"Yeah, because shooting someone in front of your seven-year-old is such great fucking parenting! And you let him in in the first place, don't act like you swooped in to save the day!"

Bernard feels ill. He's tugging at his left arm and it's responding with waves of jagged pain. Not broken, but oh, that's a dislocated shoulder. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Look, I only ever wanted you to join me as my partner," Cluemaster says. "And you've come so far. You're so tough, Stephanie, and you're using it for this. We're not so different, just stop being stubborn -"

Spoiler rushes him.

Bernard can only watch as they descend back into melee, fists flying. Spoiler is carried by an incandescent rage, making up for unpolished form as she pushes Cluemaster back further and further.

Back and forth they go, Steph pushing the offensive with ferocious strikes. Cluemaster, initially defensive, starts to give more and more back as his patience obviously frays. Bernard grits his teeth as he catches Steph with a square blow to the jaw, only letting out his breath as she shoulder-checks him, sprawling him backwards towards -

- the hole in the grating!

The acid-eaten hole, under which lays a fall into an indeterminable darkness, waits for Cluemaster as he tumbles. At the last moment, he grabs Spoiler's cape. Bernard's breath catches, but she kicks him in the face, and his feet slip, and in a flash he's dangling over a deadly fall, Steph holding up the cape on her end with one trembling hand.

She begins to undo the clasp with the other.

"Stephanie -" Cluemaster chokes out.

Oh, God, she really is going to kill him.

"Spoiler!" Bernard calls out. She stops, hands frozen mid-motion. "Don't do it!"

The look she's giving him is anguished, furious, betrayed. Cluemaster's trying and failing to climb up the makeshift rope he's dangling from, clawing at the grate where it rests above his grasp.

"Don't tell me what to do, Boy Wonder!" she says. "This isn't your problem. Batman made that crystal clear, okay?"

"It's my problem," he says. He knows it's futile, but he tries to move forward anyway. His shoulder screams at him. His back, too. He wonders dimly if he's bleeding again, through all those precautions. "I'm sorry. I'm here now. You - you don't have to deal with him alone."

Spoiler stares at him, a pained look passing across her features, and then turns her head away sharply. To look down at Cluemaster.

"What's it look like I'm doing right now," she says.

"Stephanie, please," Cluemaster says.

"He's not going to let up," she says. "He's - incapable? I wish. He just doesn't want to. You can't protect us twenty-four-seven, Batman can't, Blackgate can't, my mom can't, I can't. I am sick and fucking tired of living like this, okay?"

There are tears in her eyes. She looks - cornered.

"So you'll become a murderer?" Bernard asks. "Is that what you want?"

"You'd blame me?" she bites out. Her hand is starting to tremble with the effort of holding Cluemaster up. Bernard doesn't want to think about how much longer Cluemaster can hold on. He's stopped scrabbling for height, holding on with both hands in a death grip, swaying above the pit. "It's not like it was ever in the cards for me to be like you. But if this is some I'll be just like him thing, you can fuck off with -"

"I wouldn't blame you," he says, and swallows as Steph shoots him a skeptical glare. Batman would, but he's not going to say that. "He's - Jesus, he's awful. But you'd have to live with - you'd have to live with it."

She's breathing hard. Maybe she's thinking about what Bernard is thinking about. That she'd be wanted. That she may never be able to return to her mom's house. Maybe she's thinking about her first save. It's impossible to know what's going through her head. The adrenaline from the fight is starting to bleed out of him, and he's not getting out of this pile of scrap himself.

It's in Steph's hands.

"Is he worth it?" he asks.

She looks away.

"Stephanie," Cluemaster asks, again. His voice is a tremor. Her gaze sharpens as she refocuses on him.

Bernard holds his breath.

One terrible moment passes in silence. Then -

"Fuck!" She says, and then plants her feet, and yanks on the cape. Cluemaster makes a strangled, relieved groan as he's pulled up to the edge and past it, climbing up for dear life and catching ragged breaths on his hands and knees. He laughs, breathless, rolling to put distance between himself and the hole that had almost killed him. He staggers to his feet.

"I knew you'd -"

Steph punches him hard across the jaw, and he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

By the time Batman arrives, Cluemaster is tied up with a bundle of wires and Bernard is finally wiggling his way carefully out from under the catwalk as Steph pries up the metal bars. He strides over without a word or a glance at Cluemaster or Spoiler, and lifts up grating of the catwalk in one smooth motion.

"Pull him out," he orders Spoiler, who in the interim has recovered her mask. And it is an order, delivered in a low, flat growl. Steph, who looked like she'd been ready to say something, body coiled up like a spring, flinches and goes to pull Bernard out. He staggers to standing, arm over Spoiler's shoulder.

Bernard's whole body hurts. His back is going to need to be completely restitched, his shoulder is throbbing, he's sporting bruises from head to toe, he's sure at least one deathtrap slashed through the Kevlar lining of his suit, and he feels a wetness on his head that can only mean he's got a bleeding head wound somewhere on his scalp.

Squaring up with Batman, it's still not enough. It doesn't distract in the least from the next blow:

"Batmobile. Now."

Bernard is intimately familiar with that tone of voice. He knows what's coming.

"Hey," Spoiler starts. "You can't blame him for -"

"Help him walk," Batman says, and starts off. He only pauses to retrieve the bags of money in one arm and Cluemaster in the other, balancing both effortlessly. Steph sucks in a breath, but Bernard squeezes her shoulder.

"Just… do what he says," he says. He can hear the bone-tired exhaustion bleed through into his own voice. He makes an effort to soften it for the most important part: "He's not gonna hurt me. He's not like that."

Maybe that is what she needed to hear, because she doesn't say anything else as they leave the old cistern behind.

Tim is slumped back in his chair. He feels numb. He can't actually tell anymore if he's still shaking.

So you'll become a murderer?

Robin is alive. Bernard is alive. It had been close. Way, way too close. Tim had watched in heart-wrenching terror as the hunk of twisted metal had fallen right on top of Bernard, but it hadn't killed him. Hadn't stopped him from talking Brown down from killing her father.

For the first time, the picture of Robin and the picture of Bernard slide seamlessly together in Tim's mind. Robin is the same boy that crouched down with Darla in the mud and comforted her when she needed it the most, said the words she needed to hear, beckoned Tim over and shown him the right thing to do. Of course he is. How had he doubted it for a second?

So you'll become a murderer?

He needed to doubt it. Because Tim likes Bernard, first as a friend and then as someone more than that. And he has always, always admired Robin. If they're the same person… his chest clenches with some unknowable force. Feelings twisted on feelings. Fear and something he doesn't dare name, because if he does, there's no coming back.

He's hyperventilating.

Lonnie is calling him. Repeatedly opening and closing the line to get his attention. But Tim - Tim can't. He can't, right now. He's glued to the back of his chair, unable to move, barely able to control ragged breaths. He feels dizzy.

So you'll become a murderer?

Bernard will never understand. What is there to understand? Nothing that Moriarty has done is right, or good. Tim hasn't kept perfect track of the lives he's ruined, but he knows the scale, and he is good at math. Scores of people have died because of his actions. So what if he never pulled a trigger, save for Craddock? He'd decided they were acceptable casualties in his grand quest for revenge. In his quest to kill the Batman. Most of them had been criminals, and he'd never gone out of his way to kill, but Robin would - Robin will -

When Bernard finds out, he's never going to forgive him. Robin will look at him with rightful betrayal in his eyes and he will blast off every layer of deception and lies and he will see Tim for what he really is and he will hate him.

Tim should leave. He should leave right now. He should disappear Tim Draper now, this instant, wipe everything like he'd planned, scorch the Earth, leave Gotham and probably the country, and never face Bernard/Robin/both ever again.

His phone is going off.

Tim doesn't even register picking it up. He finds himself staring at his lock screen.

Bernard, hugging Tim to his side with a soft smile. Tim, pressed up against him, hair sticking up, caught in the moment unprepared. He spends so long staring at the picture that his phone screen goes dark and he fumbles to turn it back on again and actually receive the message.

It's Darla.

Darla: I can't fucking believe this what is this
Darla sent screen_capture_924.jpeg
Darla: why would he do this
Darla: did I do something? Is he mad at me? did he tell you something

Tim feels dizzy again. He's breathing hard. He lets the phone rest against his chest.

Lonnie's communicator switches on and off again several times. Finally, Tim answers. His body moves of its own accord, hands replacing the labyrinthian shithole that is Cluemaster's network and restoring his view of the heist he's supposed to be operating.

He unmutes Lonnie.

"- backstabbing son of a bitch, are you listening -"

"I'm here," Tim hears himself say. "What's going on."

"Well, good of you to finally show up," Lonnie says. It's bitten out. It's half a scoff. "No thanks to you, I've got the amulet. Were you trying to get me killed? Finally coming out and doing it, are we, Moriarty?"

Tim is skimming the security footage while he rants. In his absence, Anarky has cut a bloody swathe through the rest of the traps, and many of the cult have fallen victim to his ingress. There are a lot of bodies in traps. In the room where the amulet had been stored, a man twitches on the ground, alive but seemingly in agony, tossing and turning. Tim's stomach churns.

He finds himself telling the truth.

"Cluemaster reneged on his side of the deal," Tim says. The modulator will smooth out the hollowness of his tone. "If I hadn't intervened, Robin would have died."

He finds Anarky on the monitors. He's on his way up. Nearly at the surface, now, clutching a ray-gun-looking device that Tim knows the make of. They'd pored over the blueprints together, though Tim had always been foggy on the magical details. Whatever else there is to say about Anarky, one cannot deny that he's one of the few people on Earth with the mind to meld technology and magic.

It's because he has eyes on Lonnie that he notices when the boy takes pause at the news.

"… I see," he says. It's uncharacteristically pensive. Tim remembers with a jolt that Anarky had been bragging about talking to Robin. Getting his number.

Just a guy I've been locked in combat with on Reddit. He sucks.

No fucking way.

As Tim is beating back a momentary simmering, murderous impulse, Lonnie speaks again.

"You really do have a soft spot for Robin," he says. Tim can't read his tone. On the screens, he begins to move again.

"If you want to deal with Batman coming after us for a dead Robin, be my guest," Tim says.

His heart isn't in it. He can imagine the trail of destruction Batman would leave in his wake if that had happened, but it doesn't even matter. All he can think of is Bernard, trapped in that gas chamber. Bernard, crushed under heaps of rusted metal. Bernard, never knowing that it was Tim's fault all of this had ever happened, the light leaving his eyes. Seeing it through a camera. Watching Batman stoop over the body.

"Route B is open and your ride is waiting," Tim says. His voice is shaking. "You can handle it from here, can't you?"

He watches Lonnie fire the ray again. One of Black Mask's men go down like a sack of potatoes. From Lonnie's comm he can hear the man's pained moans as he meets the same fate as the cultist in the amulet room.

"I most certainly can," Anarky says. "We'll meet again soon… Moriarty."

Tim closes the connection. He slumps back, boneless, eyes forward but unseeing.

Eventually, he picks up his phone again. Stares at the lock screen, and then unlocks it.

Tim: I don't know. He sent me something worrying too
Darla: I can't take this shit right now
Darla: I worked so hard to get ungrounded, my dad is so pissed at me and he just bails like
Darla: "maybe ever"? what the fuck?
Tim: Maybe it isn't up to him.
Darla: what like his mom said something? why would she suddenly do that
Darla: why would he just
Darla: leave
Darla: after everything he said

Tim can't answer that. His thumbs go to type, but they're frozen over the screen. Eventually, it goes dark again.

In his mind's eye, he sees Darla in her room. Curled up into a ball on her bed, shaking with the force of how hard she's crying. Sees Bernard, staring at the same picture that Tim is, numb, covered in cuts and bruises, taking another blow -

He can't.

He can't do this. Tim Draper can't disappear. He can't live with that.

"Fuck," Tim says, reaching up to scrub his eyes. He's started crying himself, which he didn't notice until this moment. His hands come away wet and with a warmth that rapidly chills against the air.

It's funny. He can't see through the tears, but everything is clear now.

Batman needed a Robin.

Bernard is Robin.

Tim doesn't believe in Batman, but some primordial part of him believes in Bernard.

He'll tell Bernard everything. He'll compile all of the evidence of his crimes, package up his empire, and tell them everything.

(Feeling outside of himself, Tim blinks away his tears and starts to type.)

He'll turn on Anarky, which will be the easiest part of all of this, and stop his plan to kill Bruce Wayne before he's ever in the same room as him.

(File folders begin to compress into archives. Black books are sorted and put away for review.)

He'll undo all the damage he can, leave Batman to clean up the rest. He'll take whatever punishment he deserves.

Bernard is definitely going to break up with him. But he can live with that. He has to live with that. This is the right thing to do.

(The bug he'd put on the hoodie is registering noise. Rustling, the sound of a zipper. Absently, he throws the feed up alongside his other work.)

In a way that Tim hasn't known in years, he knows down to his bones: this is what Robin would do.

"You can't do this," Bernard's voice says over the connection, clear as crystal.

Tim freezes.

"You can't take away Robin."

"I can," Bruce says, clipped, as Bernard tugs on his hoodie against the chill, damp air of the Batcave. Alfred is cleaning up the medical supplies next to them. He hasn't said a word since he started fixing Bernard's stitches after setting his shoulder.

The ride back home had been excruciating. Batman had been quiet the whole time, stopping only to grab the bag of civilian things that Bernard had left on a rooftop nearby to change into after the op. Bernard thinks he might not have done that if Bernard hadn't left his phone in there. He tries not to think about how Bruce might only have done that because he plans to take away the grapple gun.

"You disobeyed a direct order," Bruce continues. "Walked directly into a trap."

Bernard finally finds it in him to look up. Bruce has a naturally flat affect and a bad case of resting bitch face, but even if you didn't know him, it would be easy to read him right now. He's fucking furious. Eyes stormy, drawn up to full height, looking down at Bernard like his gaze alone could pin him to the table. Bernard looks back down at the floor, clasping his hands together.

"And Anarky probably got away, too," he says. "I know."

"He did," Bruce says. "He walked away with a dangerous artifact. The Amulet of Ascension. Eleven people died. Eight more are in hospital. There was a firefight in the cult's upper chambers between their members and Black Mask's men."

Bernard's whole body is one exposed nerve. It hurts. But there's another emotion welling up: anger.

"You did everything you could to keep me out of that case," he says. "Now it's my fault that it went bad? Seriously?"

"We prioritize based on the situation," Bruce says, flat.

"Well, Spoiler was also walking into a trap, in case you forgot."

"I said no harm would come to her mother," Bruce says, in that patented of-course-I'm-right-this-should-be-obvious voice. "We would have gone and picked her up, brought her to a safe location long before Cluemaster had a chance to arrive."

"People can't read your mind, Bruce!" Bernard snaps, looking up again. He nearly regrets it. Bruce is still standing over him. Still as stone. He keeps going anyway. "You didn't say that! You just said 'trust me, bro', and he was right there, getting away. Of course she didn't take your word for it. You're scary, you're Batman, that's the point. Sometimes that works against you."

Something flickers over Bruce's expression. It's difficult to sort out from everything else going on.

"You should have trusted me," he says.

"I did trust you," Bernard says. His heart is pounding in his ears. "I know you better than that. But you put her in a corner, you know? Made her think you weren't on her side. If I hadn't gone after her, she really would have figured the only way to make sure she and her mom were safe was to kill her dad. Like it was her only option."

Bruce doesn't reply.

"She needed someone on her side," Bernard says. "She needed Robin. I don't regret it."

Bruce still doesn't reply.

"And I'm sure she's going to trust you even more when she finds out you fired me for it. Good going."

There are hands on his shoulder. He flinches.

"Bernard," Bruce says, grave. "You almost died today. Do you understand? You walked into a trap, and it almost killed you. It would have killed you."

"But I didn't," Bernard says. He wrenches his eyes down to study his knees. "You guys managed to hack the door in time."

"That wasn't us, my boy," Alfred says, speaking up for the first time since the start of this conversation.

Bernard's mind goes blank.

"What?" he asks.

"I was en route at the time," Bruce says. Factually. Like he's giving a report. Even through that, there's a tremor in his voice. Barely detectable. A tightness to his shoulders. "Alfred was encountering difficulties penetrating the network to find the controls. An unknown hacker entered the network and freed you at the last minute."

"But," Bernard starts, and then stops. "… Who? Why?"

"There's only one hacker we know of who would have had reason to know where you were and what you were doing," Bruce says, grim. "Someone who Anarky hinted has an interest in you."

"… Moriarty?" Bernard says. He feels like he's going insane. The hands on his shoulders are heavy as lead. "Why would - that doesn't make sense. Why would Moriarty save me?"

"I don't know," Bruce says. His lips are pressed thin. It's clearly eating at him, too. An unaccounted for variable. A critical, missing puzzle piece. "There's a possibility he's fixated on you in the same way that the Joker is fixated on Batman. Building up to a grand design."

"You don't know that," Bernard says. He watches Bruce's head turn.

Inching.

Towards.

The god damned -

"Do not."

Bruce's eyes snap back to Bernard.

"I hate it," Bernard says. "I hate when you look at that thing when you're talking to me."

"He was my son," Bruce says. He looks kind of like he's been slapped. Good, Part of Bernard thinks, even as another part of him knows he's about to be so fucked.

"You never wanted me to be Robin," Bernard says. Words that have been building up for so, so long are breaking the dam and spilling out. "You always hoped I would quit, didn't you? You tried to make me quit and it was never about me, it was always about fucking Jason."

The hands on Bernard's shoulder are gripping harder. It hurts. Does Bruce remember that a railing hit him there, that there's a rapidly forming bruise that stretches across his entire shoulder? Does he realize he's hurting him?

Part of him welcomes the pain.

"Because if you'd driven Jason to quit then maybe he'd still be alive, right?" Bernard says. Bruce flinches. It gives him a grim, vicious satisfaction. "It was always about that, wasn't it?"

"Bernard," Bruce says.

Alfred is just watching. That's the worst part. He's just watching.

"I'm not giving it to you!" Bernard says. His whole body is electrified, he's shaking, he's ready to fight. He's felt like this before. "I'm not giving you Robin! You can't take it. It's not fair. You can't."

I need it, he can't say. I was useful, I meant something. I was worth it.

"Bernard," Bruce says again. "I - you're right. I haven't been fair to you."

Bernard dares to feel a glimmer of hope.

"I never should have put this on you," Bruce says. "When you came to us, I was unstable. Grieving. I wanted nothing more than to prove that if I had been harder on Jason, if he had never taken up the mantle, that my son would still be here. You took the brunt of that. I can never make that up to you."

Bernard has started crying. He doesn't remember when, is the thing. When had his eyes started swimming?

"But I can end it here," Bruce says.

Bernard feels that spark of hope snuff out under a black boot.

"Don't," he says.

"You'll thank me one day," Bruce says. "Or maybe you'll hate me. But you'll live."

"Fuck you," Bernard says. Bruce is finally letting go. He wishes he wouldn't. His shoulder hurts so, so much. Bruce steps back and his face settles into a mask of flat passivity.

Bernard stands up abruptly. His back protests at the sudden movement, even under Alfred's expert wound care and another round of bat-sealant. He grabs his bag, starts walking.

He can't be here right now.

"Bernard," Bruce says, moving to stand in front of him. All at once, the last of what little remained of Bernard's patience evaporates. Before he can even register it, his fist is hitting something. A palm. Right. Of course. Batman blocked it. Of course he blocked it. "We're not finished -"

"You're not my dad, Bruce," Bernard snaps. "So stop fucking acting like him."

Bruce's mask slips. Horror and something else are writ there. Bernard can't be bothered to decipher it right now. Because -

"It," Bernard corrects, tired. God, he's so, so tired. "Stop… acting like it."

Alfred's hand lands on Bruce's shoulder. He says something, but Bernard doesn't even register it, because he's already walking again, and then picking up speed to a sprint as he makes his way towards the exit that leads into the vast tunnel system under Gotham City.

His bag is lighter without the Robin costume in it, but the straps still dig into his shoulders.

Everything hurts.

Tim listens, still, as heavy footfalls slow to a long walk.

He listens as the first punch hits the thick skin of what could only be a punching bag. Listens as Bernard punches again, and again, and again. Listens as he lets out a sound indescribable, a hoarse cry that bottoms out into a ragged sob and then picks up into a scream, fists beating the bag's surface in a rising crescendo.

He listens as the fabric shifts and the sounds become more distant. As the hoodie is cast off and the bug loses its proximity to the wearer.

He listens as the punches slow. As a soft tmp rings out in the ensuing silence. As hard breaths turn into wracked sobs.

Tim cuts the feed.

Bernard…

He stares up at the ceiling. Shock has long run its course. On its tail, numb disbelief. Pain, anguish, felt in unison with every strike and exclamation.

The next emotion is as predictable and familiar as the tide. Welling up from the depths, anger rises with an ice-cold grip.

It washes away everything else.

Tim sits up. His hands propel themselves to the keyboard. He's bringing up schematics, blueprints, itineraries. At least the guest list is sorted. One less thing to worry about.

He opens the comm channel with Anarky again. Hears a surprised inhale. Lonnie probably hadn't expected to be contacted again so soon.

"Have you made it back?" he asks.

"Your concern is as surprising as it is unwarranted," Anarky says. "I made it out. No thanks to you. I'm currently en route back to the hideout."

"Good," says Tim.

Batman needs a Robin.

Something slips back into place in his mind. A mask.

An old friend.

But maybe Robin doesn't need a Batman.

"When you get back, I have the specs from GNN to go over," Moriarty says, cool as ice. "Gotham won't be allowed to look away when you kill Bruce Wayne. I'm going to make sure of it."

Bernard knocks on the Browns' door. It takes a while for someone to answer - long enough that he's psyching himself up to the impossible task of knocking again, and louder this time - but eventually the handle jiggles and the door opens inwards, leaving only a screen door between him and the inside of the Brown residence.

Steph looks tired and surprised to see him in equal measure. She's holding a baseball bat.

"You look like shit," she says. "What happened? Is - did dad escape or something?"

"No, it's -" he starts, and then stops, chewing his bottom lip. Eventually he sighs and drags a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. Shit. I should go, you're already going through enough, I just didn't - I just didn't want to be at home right now."

Steph's eyes narrow. Bernard feels like he's being put under a microscope. He's suddenly self-conscious of the bandaged cut on his face, of the frazzled state of his hair, of a face he forgot to rinse the tear stains off of in his haste to pack and get out the door.

"He didn't hit me," he blurts out, because it's true. The idea of someone thinking that about Bruce, about Batman, doesn't sit right. For all of his faults. "… I can cook."

"Dude," Steph says, reaching out to take his arm. She starts herding him inside. "Just come in."

"Okay," Bernard says. He lets himself be guided inside, the door closing behind him with a soft creak.

"Mom, Robert's staying over," Steph says, as they pass the doorway to the living room.

"If that's okay," Bernard adds, because not asking is incomprehensible to him.

Crystal Brown doesn't look very good. She'd been showing subtle signs before, but she's laying on the couch with more than one bottle on the go and pills at arm's reach. The news is playing softly in the background on a CRT that might be older than Bernard is, casting the room in a bluish, shifting glow.

"Robert?" she says, voice a little slurred. "Are you kids using protection?"

"Uh -" Bernard says.

"Mom," Steph sighs. "He's just having some trouble at home."

"Oh," she says, and with a little wobble, rises. Bernard feels rooted in place as Crystal Brown comes over, notes the bandage on his face, and pulls him into a hug. She smells like a distillery, but her arms are warm and she's not too firm and she only leans on him for support a little. Which is good, because he thinks his knees might buckle as she pats his shoulder. "Stay s'long as you need, Robert."

"Okay," he chokes out. "Thanks, M- er. Crystal."

She does not let go.

"I can cook," he adds, faintly.

"Okay, mom, why don't we let him get set up?" Steph cuts in. He watches as she herds her mom back to the couch. When she returns, she's rubbing her temple. "Sorry," she says, in a lower voice. "It's - dad was on the news. It gets worse when she remembers he exists."

Bernard can't fathom what she could be apologizing for, but he nods anyway and lets himself be guided upstairs.

"He took Robin?" Steph sounds horrified.

"It's not your fault," Bernard says, because he can see it written on her face. "No, really, like… it's been coming for a while. He never wanted me. Not really."

She gets up and starts pacing.

They're in Steph's room. It's cleaner and tidier than the rest of the house, though not by much. There are several sections of conspicuously patched drywall that mar the lilac paint job, but otherwise, it looks surprisingly mundane. The Spoiler likes teddy bears, or is at least too sentimental to throw out childhood toys, and old dollar store stickers that are half faded or ripped dot every wooden furniture surface in the room at hip-height or lower. There's a sewing machine set up in the corner and fabric spilling out of several shoeboxes.

"Are you gonna kill yourself?" she asks, snapping Bernard out of his dissociative observations.

"I - No," he says. "Jesus? No?"

"Okay, good," she says. She keeps pacing.

"I can't kill myself," he says. "I have a boyfriend now."

She graces him with a flat look.

"The boyfriend is unrelated to vigilanteism," he clarifies. "Also, uh, that was a joke."

"It wasn't funny," Steph says.

"If I can't be unfunny, I really will kill myself," Bernard mutters. Steph flicks him. "Ow!"

He looks up at her with his mouth open to say something else, but then he sees her face. There's something in her eyes. Fear? Anger? Both? The quip he'd had ready to go dies in his throat.

"Sorry," he says, instead, eyes dropping to look down at his socks where they're touching the worn carpet. "I didn't - sorry. Fuck. Steph, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to - I would've - if I had anywhere else to go, I - I didn't want to make you - my boyfriend hasn't - we haven't -"

"Oh my God," Steph groans. "Let's just get you some blankets or something and you tell me in the morning how to find Batman so I can kill him. Okay?"

"Don't kill Batman," Bernard mutters, but he feels another wave of fatigue hit him, so he just nods. His body hurts so much that it's just become a generalized background wail.

"It's always not killing dads with you," she sighs, going for the door. "Sit tight. I think we have some futons from when dad's goons stayed over."

The night and the next morning pass by in a haze. Bernard can't even begin to try to go to school, so he doesn't. He doesn't think about the fact that he's already missed a lot of days and that this might have consequences. He certainly doesn't think about the fact that his friends will miss him.

Steph does go to school, leaving him alone with his phone and his thoughts on a mattress on the floor of her bedroom. He's not hungry, so he doesn't bother to get up and bother Crystal.

It's always been in the background, but he feels like his head is full of static now. Grey, heavy, cloying. He stares up at the ceiling and blinks, only to find that three hours have passed.

It occurs to him at some point that Robin isn't going to Pride after all. The thought has him pressing down on his shoulder until it shrieks at him, but even that twisted comfort is diminished. He's alive, but he's not Robin.

That's the thought that drives him to actually check his texts. There are a lot of them. Looks like Bruce still hasn't unlinked his phone from the communicator, too, because some of them are routed through that connection.

Alfred has left two messages.

AA: I am sorry for Master Bruce's conduct last night, my boy. We have all had a rough night, and ordeals such as these, which remind us of troubles past, tend to bring out the worst in us all. Regardless of the status of Robin, I want you to know that neither I nor he would ever dream of taking your current lodgings away. They are, as always, yours if you have need of them, and our support in that area is not conditional. I would be happy to see you again when you have had the space you need.
AA: Stay safe, Master Dowd.

He really wants to be mad at Alfred, is the thing. Rather than examine that feeling, he decides to get Dick out of the way.

NW: did something happen??
NW: What did Bruce do now
NW: I'm in space with the Titans right now but lets talk soon
NW: Bruce isn't answering me either and all AA will say is to wait until I get back and you're alive
NW: What is *happening*

Bernard grimaces. He can't handle all that right now, so he sends a quick 'don't worry' and resolves to ignore him until he can't anymore. That leaves two conversations, one of which is going to be very unpleasant.

But it's Darla, so he grits his teeth and opens up their DMs. She's already been messaging him on and off since last night.

Darla: okay seriously what the fuck Dowd
Darla: ever???? Maybe ever??? Tim said you were messaging him weird shit too
Darla: okay so now you're not at school again. cool
Darla: is it your mom? did she die or something?
Darla: shit how do you delete a message on this godforsaken app. im gonna kill draper how'd he forget to put that in
Darla: like if something happeend you'd tell us right
Darla: i'm flipping out
Bernard: I'm here.

Bernard briefly wonders: he knows hell is real, thanks to Batman. But is he going there? Lying to Darla about this feels cruel. But it might be the last Robin-related lie he has to tell for a long time.

He tries not to think about that and types.

Bernard: I'm sorry, I was near the bridge last night when it went off. I totally thought I was gonna die
Darla: oh my god
Darla: jesus couldn't you have led with that
Darla: are you in hospital???
Bernard: not anymore
Bernard: im sorry i panicked and then you blocked me and then a lot was happening
Darla: I'm so sorry Bernard i never would have blocked you if I knew that
Bernard: I died as I lived. Disappointing women
Bernard: this time it wasn't because i'm off the market at least
Darla: ok so you're fine
Darla: can you make it today or not then mr. exploded

Bernard manages a soft laugh. A spark of affection makes it past the static. Good old Darla.

Bernard: I'll be there

He's still waiting for Tim to come online when Steph returns, entering without knocking. It makes sense - it's her room, after all - but he still jumps a bit as the door opens.

"Hey," she says. The room goes from no Steph to all Steph in moments; she bustles to and fro, hanging up her backpack, letting down her hair, and stepping over him to reach for a brush. "I cut after lunch. Couldn't concentrate anyway. Have you been in here the whole time?"

"Yeah," Bernard says. "Sorry. Is that creepy?"

"Just depressing," she hums. Blonde hair is tamed under the careful ministrations of the brush. "You probably should go out, though. I think mom's gonna sober up enough to go to work tonight. If that's the problem."

Ding!

"It's not," Bernard says, picking up his phone. As he's pondering how to describe losing hours to that sticky, oozy haze, he notices who's messaged this time. Tim. He's finally responded to Bernard's scattered hails -

Bernard: hey sorry to scare you, i'm okay. i was just near the bridge when it went up.
Bernard: thought I was a goner for a bit there haha
Bernard: sorry that's not funny
Bernard: you've been offline for a while, you okay?
Bernard: i'm sorry for freaking you out
Bernard: I talked to darla, she's still game to hang out today. i'm gonna go even though i'm totally a walking bruise rn
Bernard: please message when you can

- which, reading back, Bernard wishes he'd thought twice before sending. Clingy. Tim doesn't mention it, though.

Tim: I'm glad you're okay. I'm sorry I wasn't on earlier.
Tim: I caught the flu or something and napped all morning
Tim: I'm a mess
Tim: Just breaking the news to Darla now

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," Steph says, from where she's settled to perch on her bed. She's rummaging through her schoolbag, emptying out textbooks and folders in some arcane pattern. Prepping for homework, maybe? She hadn't struck him as a diligent student, but there's clearly a method here. "Like, more than before."

"My boyfriend's not gonna make it to the thing we had today," Bernard says. He sighs, dragging his hand down his face and scrubbing at his cheek. "You know, on top of everything else."

"That sucks," Steph says. "… You were planning on making a date, though? Seriously? You look like you got in a fight with a bulldozer."

Tim: She blocked me.

"It's not a date, it's just… my one friend… it's a lot of personal stuff…" Bernard grimaces down at the screen. When he looks up, Steph is making a strange face.

"Secret identity stuff," she says, stiffly. "Right."

Bernard blinks.

Oh.

"Here," he says, extending a hand. "Your phone?"

She raises an eyebrow, but the heft of her phone - an older model with a well-worn and well-loved purple case - hits his palm shortly thereafter. He doesn't need long to plug in his contact info. When she reads the screen, the other eyebrow shoots up to join the first.

"Bernard?" she asks. "Like the dog?"

"Really?"

"Right," she snorts. "Sorry. It's just - is this your real name? Won't Batman be mad?"

"I don't care about that," Bernard says, and finds it to be true. He stares down at his DMs as he talks. "And if he is, it's my problem. I owe you. If I'd caught Anarky when I had the chance, gotten to Moriarty, dried up your dad's funding…"

Tim: It's stupid, but I might be out of school for a while. My uncle totally got pulled into a business trip, so I have to go with him.
Tim: I'll be online, though.

He grimaces. Steph stows her phone, then shuffles off the bed to settle next to Bernard where he's sitting on the futon.

"Did he end up getting that stupid - magic thing? That Batman was afraid he'd get?" she asks. "Anarky, I mean."

"Yeah," Bernard says.

Bernard: okay

Steph doesn't respond. Bernard's too focused on the screen to raise his eyes to try and guess at what she's thinking. They end up sitting there for a while in wordless company. Bernard idly pinches at his arm just out of Steph's sight.

"I just think if you could make it looking like you went a round with Batman, maybe he could've tried to come too."

Darla stops to take a big, aggressive bite out of her gyro. She's laying into it like it's her mortal enemy. Bernard sighs, looking down at his own serving. He's not hungry. Maybe he'll stow most of it and save it for Steph.

They're at Robinson Park, which is experiencing an uncharacteristic bout of sunshine and fair weather for the season. As a result, everyone and their mother are milling around and taking advantage of the chance to stretch their legs. Darla's leaning one elbow heavily on the anti-homeless rail that's been bolted on to a segment of a bench that looks like it was made during the Victorian era.

"Have you ever tried going somewhere with the flu?" Bernard says. He does not say: I did, one time, during Robin training, and I passed out and woke up back in my room tucked into bed. I still don't know what to think about that. "'Sides. Sprains aren't contagious."

"If I got the flu I could probably drag it out and weasel out of that stupid party," Darla sighs.

"Was that the blood price?" Bernard asks. He nibbles at the edge of the gyro. "You mentioned your dad wanted you to go to more fancy stuff."

"Yeah," Darla says, after chewing and swallowing again. "Some charity thing. I think Bruce Wayne is going to be there."

Bernard pauses mid-nibble.

"The, uh -" he starts. "The Raise Up Our Community Gala?"

"Yeah," she says. "That's the one. How do you know?"

"It's, like, infamous right now," he says. He doesn't even have to think through the lie. It comes out fully formed. "People on Reddit are betting on what supervillain's going to attack it."

Darla scoffs.

"People on Reddit are jorking it to the Riddler."

"Present company excluded, right?" Bernard asks.

"Anyway, ugh, it's stupid. I love my dad, but then he just goes and - he's been so shitty lately."

There's a retort right on the edge of his tongue, but it dies on the way out of his throat. Lost to the static. Bernard just looks down at his lap.

"Yeah," he says. "Dads are like that."

There's a beat.

"You never talk about your dad," Darla says. "Like, ever."

"I don't," he says.

Another beat. Darla isn't one to initiate feelings talks, Bernard thinks. She'll probably let this drop.

"Bernard," Darla says. "Did something, like. Happen?"

Okay. Maybe not.

"I, uh," Bernard says. How to begin explaining this? The cover from before had come so easily, but when it comes to this, it's like it's stuck in the ooze. When he looks up, Darla is gracing him with a worried look. "… I had a fight with my dad. Yesterday."

"In the hospital?"

"Yeah," he says, for lack of a better explanation. "I, uh… it's a long story. I got hurt because I tried to save someone when the bridge went up."

"Not beating the Purple Heart allegations, Dowd."

He snorts.

"He, uh. He thought I should have saved myself, I guess," he says, letting his eyes go skyward. "There was other stuff going on, too… but it was important. Like, I think someone would have died. I mean, maybe it could have gone better if everyone was like, not panicking, and maybe no one needed to almost die, but…"

He trails off.

"I kind of get it," Darla says. She's stopped eating at some point, Bernard observes. "I mean, no offense, but if I found out you died for some random schmuck, I'd be mad. It's your dad's job to love you."

Bernard feels that one like a knife between the ribs.

"It's not really his call to make," he says, harsher than he means to. "Or yours. It's my life."

"Man, what's with you?" Darla grumbles.

Bernard presses his lips shut. He won't yell at her. He won't. That's not how their last hangout ever is going to go.

She takes a deep breath, and he feels a hand on his knee.

"Okay, like…" she pauses. "I kinda also get you, though. My dad's always telling me what's good for me. It's fucking exhausting. And I guess it was pretty shitty to pull that crap when you were in the hospital and already beat to hell."

"He took away -" Bernard stops. He can't say 'Robin'. He can't think of anything equivalent to Robin that could be taken away. "He's - He's so good in some ways and then he just like, he's so my way or the highway on other things. I feel like it'd be better if I'd never - like, he doesn't want me. I'm wrong. I'm just wrong, I'm not the son he wanted, it'd be better if I never was, and nothing I ever do will make me good enough."

Darla's arm is around his shoulders.

"And like," she says, swallowing thickly. "And like, he'd do anything for me except what I actually want."

"Yeah," Bernard says. He doesn't bother to inform Darla that the weight on his shoulders hurts. It's too welcome. "And it's just impossible to like, talk about it. He's like a brick wall."

"Jesus, Dowd, do we have the same dad?"

Bernard can't help but laugh when the picture of Darla shouting down Batman comes to him unbidden. It tapers off quickly when Batman becomes Mr. Dowd. The two figures flicker back and forth as if in superposition in his mind's eye.

"Nah," he says, sobered. "Just a lot of… dads out there. I guess."

"Bad dads?"

"I dunno," Bernard says. His whole body feels heavy, now. Kind of like this morning, when he couldn't bring himself to get up. "I guess I've seen worse."

"Dads that kind of suck," Darla amends. "But are mostly like super frustrating and need to learn how to say 'I'm sorry' like it's not a foreign fuckin' language."

"Yeah," Bernard says. "It's complicated."

(He can't fathom his father saying "I'm sorry". It simply does not compute. A mathematical impossibility. And yet…)

"Would you forgive your dad?" he asks. "If he apologized for taking you out of Louis Grieves?"

(And yet…)

Darla lets out a harsh breath between her teeth.

"Not unless he put me back," she says. She pulls out of the hug to look at her hands. Her gyro is off to the side, now. That happened at some point.

(The truth is that, even now…)

"And if it was like… way too late to fix it?" Bernard asks.

"I'd probably be mad about it forever," Darla says. She doesn't even skip a beat.

"Yeah," Bernard lies. "Me too."

(… it's all he's ever wanted.)

In the rain, Gotham is muted and iridescent all at once; light from all angles shimmers off of the roadways and window-lights are reflected and refracted in rivulets even as a grey pallor comes over the stonework. The usually well-travelled streets gain a quiet air as the crowds thin out, those who brave the storm dotted here and there under umbrellas.

The rooftops of Gotham are slick with that rain tonight, which is no deterrent to the vigilante population. The unmistakable and disproportionate crimson figure that Anarky strikes in his cloak and stupid hat as he makes his way across the city is even harder to miss on a night like this.

Which is good, because Steph has been freezing her ass off in the Spoiler costume for hours looking for a trace of this guy, and fruitless in her search for almost a week.

(A week of Robin crashing at her place. A week of surprisingly decent home-cooked meals and reassurances that this wasn't her fault, as if she doesn't know better than that.)

"Alright, you slippery bastard," she mutters to herself, vaulting over to the next roof. "What are you up to?"

The sound of her boots is lost in the rain as she touches down, and she sprints after her target in the cover of darkness.

"How could you?" Bernard asks.

"I didn't want to do this," Tim says, from the phone's tinny speakers. He sounds genuinely regretful, at least. For what little it means now. "It was just the only way to win."

"I thought I knew you."

"You did know me," Tim says. "Just… maybe not as well as you thought."

Bernard lets his grip go lax. The Switch falls over onto the couch cushion with a soft tmp.

"Mega Glalie with Explosion? Feint to break Protect? Focus Sash?" he groans. "You twisted psychopath."

"Are you letting it time out?" Tim asks, voice tinged with amusement. "Bernard."

"Sportsmanship is over."

Tim laughs, the phone line distorting the sound into soft static at the edges. Bernard sighs and sets the console on the coffee table, pulling the phone closer in its stead. GCN is playing silently on the TV across from the couch; he's not Robin anymore, but he hasn't been able to shake the compulsion to follow current events. The ticker rolls lazily across the screen.

MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS IN PORT STREET CULT INCIDENT AS CASE DEVELOPS, POLICE SAY • CHARITY GALA TO BE HELD TONIGHT DESPITE CONTROVERSY; COBBLEPOT SPEAKS OUT ON SOCIAL MEDIA • CITY DECLARES SPRANG BRIDGE BEYOND REPAIR, COMMITTEE TO BE FORMED TO COMMISSION REPLACEMENT

He'll have to remember to hide the Switch later before Crystal comes home. Steph had been very adamant that he not let on that he has anything that can be sold right now. She'd taken most of the stack of cash he'd brought and bought a ton of groceries at once, too, rather than leave it where it could be purloined in his bag.

He'd thought it overcautious until Crystal had asked, a little forcefully and frazzled at the edges, if he could afford to pick her up some pills the next day.

Bernard wonders if there isn't a parent on Earth that doesn't come with some kind of huge caveat. But Crystal is kind, generally speaking, and she says nice things about his cooking, and she's let him stay so far without complaint or an interrogation. He finds a vicious sort of satisfaction in sticking her above Bruce in his mental tier list, at least for the moment.

Oh, Tim is talking.

"So, uh, while you lose…" he says. "How are things going?"

Bernard doesn't say: Bruce still hasn't contacted me, because of course he hasn't. He doesn't say: Steph's been gone a lot, taking the Spoiler gear with her, and she won't tell me what she's doing. He doesn't say: Darla is gone, whisked away to Gotham Academy, but it doesn't make any difference right now because I haven't been back to school anyway. He doesn't say: WebMD says I have clinical depression.

"I miss you," he says. It's true.

The pause he gets in return is a beat too long.

"I miss you, too," Tim says. Something about the way he says it makes Bernard sit up a little straighter. The half-healed cut on his back protests at the motion.

"When are you guys getting back?" he asks.

"You guys?" Tim says. "Oh. Right. Uh… by tomorrow, for sure."

He sounds… distracted?

"Late plane?" Bernard asks. Keeps his voice casual. Bat-training is never going to leave him, is it? Then again, he'd always had a knack for this.

"No, I'm just, uh..." Tim says. "I'm just busy tonight."

"Busy?"

Tim doesn't answer right away.

"Bernard," he says, finally. "You're a really good person."

"Uh," Bernard says. His brow furrows. "Not really, but thanks?"

"You are," Tim says. Like he's correcting him on water being wet, or the sky being blue. "Which is why, after tonight, you're… definitely not going to forgive me."

The hair at the back of Bernard's neck is sticking up.

"What?" he asks. The next question is automatic: "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No," Tim says. "What? No. I just… I'm not. A good person. I'm actually a really really bad person, which is why you're not going to want anything to do with me."

At some point, Bernard has gotten to his feet. It's like his heart stayed behind, because it feels like it's dropped like lead down the length of his whole body.

"Tim," he says. "Is something happening? Are you okay?"

He gets a helpless laugh in return. It sends a chill down his spine.

"Bernard," Tim says. "I shouldn't be saying anything, but I can't let you think -"

Tim takes a deep, ragged breath.

"I didn't know," Tim says. "I didn't know you were Robin."

Bernard's blood runs cold.

"What?" he hears himself ask.

"I swear I didn't know," Tim says. "Not until midway through - until last week, with Cluemaster."

Am I dreaming?

"What the fuck?" Bernard says. "What the fuck?"

"I just didn't want you to think I got close to you because of that," Tim says. "It was a complete coincidence. Please believe that. Okay?"

"Tim," Bernard says.

"I really -"

"How - what -"

"I really liked going out with you. I'm sorry."

"Tim -"

The line goes dead.

Bernard stares down at his phone. His hand is shaking.

His fingers move without conscious input. He's calling Tim back.

"We're sorry," a woman's voice says, over the tinny speakers, "but the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service."

Steph gets back. He hears the front door open and close in a hurry, and swift footsteps enter the living room where Bernard is still sitting, dazed, moments later.

He's pressing one of his bruises on and off. He doesn't know how long he's been doing that.

"Bernard," she says, hand clutching the doorframe. "I found him."

"What?" Bernard says, jolting to attention. "Tim?"

"Tim?" Steph crinkles her nose. "No? Why would I be after your boyfriend?"

"I -" he pauses. Checks the clock on his phone. It's five-thirty. He just lost a whole hour. Barely noticed the minutes going by. He thinks that at one point he must have tried to DM Tim, to no avail. "- I don't know. Steph, this is - this is a bad time."

"Okay, well, we don't have time to be having a bad time," she says, coming in and getting all up in his space. "I found Anarky's hideout. He moved out a bunch of equipment and left. We're not going to have a better shot at figuring out what he's doing than now."

Bernard opens his mouth to say, no, I don't care about that right now, I just got maybe-broken-up-with and I have no idea what's going on and Tim knows my secret identity and everything is fucked forever. If I have to deal with Lonnie Machin on top of this I'm not sure what I'll do.

Then he remembers something. Bat-training refuses to let him push it down. Or maybe just him, because -

"He moved a bunch of equipment?" he says, slowly.

"Yeah," Steph says. She's gathering up his bag, which is presumptuous, but maybe they both know he's not winning this one. "Come on, dude. You can tell me why you look like hell on the way over. We need to move."

- because the gala is tonight.

Bernard takes his bag and follows Steph out the door at a jog.

"He figured out you were Robin?" Steph - now Spoiler - asks, crowbar in hand as she pries at the skylight. "That's crazy. I guess if it was gonna be anyone, it was gonna be your boyfriend."

"I'm not sure if he's still my boyfriend," Bernard says, subdued. "He said a lot of - worrying things. And then apologized. And then hung up."

He's had a lot of time to think about it on the cab ride over. Gone over and over it in his head as they climbed up the side of the building that Anarky's apparently set up shop in. It's only now, though, that they've had time to catch their breath and talk about it away from prying ears.

Spoiler is kneeling among the remains of Anarky's security. Lucky for Bernard, no cameras just yet. Unluckily for Bernard, Anarky appears to be a believer in the Old Gotham school of booby trap security. He's still thankful that burst of flame didn't take his eyebrows off.

"Do you think he's gonna… do something drastic?" Steph asks, carefully. She's looking at him oddly.

It takes Bernard a second to parse what she actually means.

"Like kill himself?" he says. "No. Jesus. I hope not. I would have thought that if he hadn't dropped the Robin bomb, to be honest, but… no. It's… I don't know what. It was totally out of nowhere. We were - we were playing Pokémon. Pokémon."

He's babbling, he thinks. Spoiler is letting him, still working at that window. He's barely resisting squeezing some bruises again. She would definitely notice.

"Something is wrong," he says. "I don't know what, but something is going down tonight, and for some reason my boyfriend is connected to it somehow, he's got to be, why else would he drop that ominous - and the gala is tonight, and, and now Anarky is on the move. I don't like this."

There's a crack, and a splintering, and the skylight pops open. Or rather, the frame breaks and there is now, technically, a way in. It's no more dangerous than busting through and landing on broken glass, Bernard guesses.

There's barking from down below.

As Spoiler is putting the crowbar back in her bag - an old, ratty gym bag - it hits Bernard.

"I should call Batman," Bernard says, faintly. "What am I doing here?"

"We're solving the case," Steph says. She's still rummaging in there. "Your case. The one helping me totally screwed over?"

"Is that what this is about?" Bernard says. "St- Spoiler. You don't have to do this for me. I told you it wasn't your fault."

"It's not -" she starts, and then sighs. She's got a rope out, now, and is tying it off on the window frame. "Look, I'm not gonna force you. Go home if you want. But I'm doing this."

Bernard stares. He can't seem to formulate a response. When the rope is done being tied, she tosses the loop down and it unravels into the darkness.

Something is wrong with Tim, he thinks. Uneasiness propels him forward.

Bernard's back has healed enough that the wound is no longer in danger of reopening from something like this, but it's not exactly pleasant shimmying down a rope with just his upper body strength and a dream. Well within his abilities. But not pleasant.

The barking continues unabated, and as his eyes adjust from the harsh light from outside, the source comes into focus.

"Oh my God," he says. "He has a dog."

Said dog is waiting at the bottom of the rope on two legs, cartwheeling its front paws in the air in a futile effort to get closer to them. It's a smallish, white thing of indeterminate breed and floppy ears, with a brown spot smack over one eye.

Spoiler, who's ahead of him, stops where she's almost at the floor. The dog jumps for her, missing by a few scant inches, and starts barking again, running around her in circles.

"He put his logo on the collar," she says, sounding as wilded out as Bernard feels. She jumps down, and it barks even more, somehow, jumping at her ankles and wagging its tail furiously.

"Aw," Bernard says, dropping another few feet. He's almost at the ground, now, too. "Hey little buddy, what's it like being the charmer of the household?"

Spoiler snorts.

"That's the truth," she says, looking down at the creature as it jumps up and scratches at her boots. "Uh, good dog? Hey, I'm not here to hurt you."

"I wish I had my utility belt," Bernard grumbles, as he touches down. "I want to give it one of the bat-dog-treats."

"Shut the fuck up," Spoiler says. "Bat-dog-treats?"

For a second Bernard thinks that might be a bad slip, but then he remembers that Lonnie is paranoid and maybe working with Moriarty and thus the chances of his inner sanctum being bugged are basically zero.

"Do you have any idea how useful it is to be on the good side of a guard dog in this line of business?" Bernard says, looking around at said sanctum.

It certainly fits Lonnie. This must have been industrial, once. An imposingly tall ceiling stretches above them, the guts of the building bared, and the space is taken up by patchworks of flags, tags, loose books, and scientific equipment. The Anarchy symbol is everywhere, a repeating motif in all colours, spray-painted in places that would be very difficult to get to without a feat of athleticism on par with the Bats.

The lab, complete with an old-timey blackboard, takes up most of the space. Batman's labs are clean and orderly; Anarky's are a hodgepodge of tech, only some of which Bernard recognizes. Workstations sit with half-finished projects, and sleek machines that would look more at home in a mad scientist's lab in Metropolis lay side-by-side with jury-rigged contraptions made from junk. There's a small gym, a kitchenette with just a microwave, and a very messy floor mattress bed all packed in one corner, dwarfed by the rest of the setup.

"But why does everything start with 'bat'?" Spoiler asks.

"They're shaped like little bats, too."

"No way."

"Everything is like that," Bernard says. The dog is making its way to him, now, snuffling at him curiously. He closes a fist and offers it. It is examined and then soundly licked. "I'm serious."

"This town breeds nutjobs," Spoiler mutters, and then scans around. She settles on the computer station. It has like eleven screens, none of which are at an ergonomic angle and all of which are mounted on an unholy scaffold of PVC.

Bernard pets the dog. He gets a look at the nametag - Yap. Yap is a boy, on closer inspection. He's pushing his head into Bernard's palm.

"Hey, Yap," he mumbles, as Steph approaches the console. "You're kind of the glue holding me together right now. I'm seriously at my limit. Good boy."

"What'd you say?" Spoiler says, from where she appears to be checking the computer desk and chair for more booby traps.

"I said any luck with the computer?"

"Well, it's not trapped," she says, sitting down at the desk chair. Bernard wanders over to look over her shoulder, Yap at his heel. "But: password. Who knows how many tries before lockout?"

Bernard squints at the login screen. It's some kind of DOS prompt.

Enter password to continue.

│

"Any bat-hacking know-how?" Spoiler says, drumming her fingers on the desk next to the keyboard. "This isn't exactly my field."

"Slide over?" Bernard says, and she obliges. He hunches over the keys and types eight swift strokes. He taps enter, and…

"I'm in," he says, drawing back. Spoiler is staring at him.

"Was that what I think it was," she says.

"'Password'?" he says. "Yeah."

"Seriously?"

Bernard shrugs.

"I just figured he thinks he's clever," he says, stooping down to pet Yap again.

"I guess if it's stupid and it works it's not stupid," Steph says, and lets out a big sigh, and then starts clicking around. "Ugh, give me a minute. He's got like a million folders on his desktop."

"I guess file organization is for the Bourgeois," Bernard says. He can't see the screen anymore from where he's kneeled down to continue petting Yap. He wasn't kidding about the glue thing - the oozing static that is creeping in at the edges is little match for a wagging tail and a lolling tongue, at least for the moment.

Steph doesn't respond, absorbed in her task. Bernard thinks she might be better at this kind of thing than he is - one wouldn't expect it from her personality, but she's methodical and dedicated when it comes to studying.

It still takes a good ten minutes before he hears a sharp intake of breath from above his shoulder, and he jostles Yap from where he's settled in his lap to haul himself up to desk level.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I found it," she says. "He's gonna hit the gala with - this is crazy. Even my dad wouldn't -"

"Darla is at the gala," Bernard cuts in, a spike of adrenaline hitting him all at once. "Spoiler, my friend is there. What's he doing?"

"He wants to kill Bruce Wayne on live TV," Spoiler says. Bernard pales. She's scrolling and reading through a connected set of documents, tabbing back and forth. "There's all kinds of stuff here about it. He's got floor plans, some kind of showy magic gun - doesn't matter. That's not even his main target. He's figured out Moriarty's identity."

"He was telling the truth," Bernard breathes. "Moriarty's going to be at the gala? Who is he?"

"Get this," Spoiler says, clicking another file. It opens up to dominate the main screen. "Tim Drake. Mysterious child CEO of Drake Industries."

Except it's wrong.

"That's not Tim Drake," Bernard says, staring uncomprehendingly at the picture on the screen.

"What?"

Tim Draper stares back at him.

"That's not -" Bernard starts again. "That's my boyfriend."

"What?" Spoiler swivels the chair to face him.

"Tim Draper," he says, and then fumbles with his phone. "That's Tim Draper. He goes to my high school."

"That's like two letters off Tim Drake, are you serious right now?" Spoiler says. He can't tell what face she's making. He can't be bothered to guess. He's busy pulling up his lock screen, where he'd put the picture he'd taken on their date, and turning it to her. "Oh my God. You're right. That's the same guy."

Bernard thinks she's saying something else, now, but he's not hearing it. Gears are turning. It's like stepping out from total darkness into the full light of day, everything flooding in at once.

Did Batman hurt someone you know, or…

I'd rather not say.

I failed to save them. A hostage situation gone south.

This isn't a game. Batman is real and he hurts people.

… Explosives. Enough to take the building down…

If the new Robin hadn't shown up, who knows what would have happened.

… And so it's very interesting that the only time I've ever seen him truly hesitate was because you showed up…

Do you always carry those to school?

… My uncle works in corporate and he's had to talk down people in like unimaginably important management positions from investing in it…

I'm actually a really really bad person, which is why you're not going to want anything to do with me.

"It makes sense," Bernard whispers. "Oh my God."

"He was right under your nose the whole time?" Spoiler asks, and then pauses. "Okay. Okay. This is… a lot. He knew who you were, right? That's seriously messed up."

There's only one hacker we know of who would have had reason to know where you were and what you were doing.

I swear I didn't know. Not until midway through - until last week, with Cluemaster.

"I don't think he did," Bernard says, numb. He's dimly aware that he's pressing down on his bruise again. "He… it was him. He saved me from your dad's trap."

"After sending you into it?!"

It was a complete coincidence. Please believe that. Okay?

"I think that's when he found out it was me," Bernard says. It's half under his breath. Months of interactions are replaying in his head. There's no space left to have a breakdown about it. Bat-compartmentalization is kicking in, finally. He's pacing. "Okay. Okay. He's Tim Drake. And Moriarty. His gala is going to be attacked. They planned this together. Anarky is about to stab him in the back. Bruce Wayne is - it's seven. He's already there. Darla is there - does he know? He has to? But why would he-? It doesn't matter. We need to get a hold of Agent -"

He turns around and almost runs into Steph's outstretched hand.

Bunched up in it, with the domino mask resting on top and wrapped in a utility belt, is the Robin costume.

Every single thought process screeches to a halt.

"Spoiler," he says. "Where did-?"

"The safehouse, remember?" she says.

"I -" he does remember. That's not important right now. "I can't. I'm not Robin anymore."

"What, because Batman says so?" she says.

"Yeah, actually," he says. "Because Batman says so. He'll - he's -"

"Look," Spoiler says, cutting in. Despite that, her voice is… there's steel behind it, because it's Steph, but she's clearly making an effort to be gentle. That shuts him up. "I get it. I always looked up to Batman. He was the guy who put my dad away for the first time. I always wanted to be just like him. Getting snubbed hurts."

Bernard's eyes flick between her masked face and the red and green of the Robin costume in her hand.

"I want to," he says. "It's just."

He's gripping his wrist. It hurts.

"I'm not good enough," he says. "I'm not really Robin."

He was just a point that Bruce wanted to make.

"I never was."

He's a liability. He's reckless.

"I'll just get in Batman's way."

He's no Dick Grayson. He's no Jason Todd.

Unskilled. Masochistic. Flawed. Broken.

"I'll get Darla and - and everyone killed. I'll -"

Spoiler growls, and pushes the bunched-up costume into his chest. He blinks down at it.

"I never thought I'd ever get to help anyone," Steph says. "I thought being like Batman was a stupid fantasy for a stupid little girl. Me? A hero? But Robin believed I could. Robin said I don't have to be like my dad. Robin was there when I needed him. Even if he was late. Who gives a flying fuck what Batman thinks."

"You would've gotten there on your own," Bernard mutters.

"I know what this means to you, and I know it's killing you," she presses, and her fist balls up the fabric of the cape. It's still pressing into his chest. "Is he worth it?"

Bernard stares at the mask.

Then, slowly, moving through that sticky, oozing haze, he looks to the screens. A picture of Tim sits below a title in large, bold font: Moriarty.

Even after I couldn't believe in Batman anymore, I couldn't stop believing in Robin.

With a shaking hand, he reaches inward and clutches the Robin suit. Spoiler's hands drop, and for a second they just stare at each other.

Then he reaches into the utility belt and pulls out a commbead.

He slides it into his ear.

"Agent A," he says, and watches Spoiler's shoulders relax as he speaks. "B's in trouble. Spoiler and I need to get to the gala ASAP."

"As you say," Alfred says, warmly. "The Batmobile is headed to your location. Welcome back, Robin."

Truthfully, before the gala preparations, Tim hadn't been back to Drake Manor in more than two years. It's as large as it is normally empty; three stories, most of which hadn't been in use even when his parents had been home. And they hadn't been, for a lot of it - Tim had grown up in a cavernous, empty home under the eye of his nanny while his parents jet-setted around the globe to dig up archaeological wonders. Unaware of how little time they had left with their son.

Tim had left as soon as he'd had the chance to make other arrangements. His apartment in the city is much more comfortable, even lacking certain luxuries. Access to the subway is nice. Appearances matter to the Gotham elite more than anything, though, and he can't begrudge the utility of the space.

Case in point: the foyer, where people are filtering in right now, is largely where the gala will take place. It's dominated in part by the Victorian-style staircase that had remained in vogue in Gotham for much longer than the rest of the world, but more so by the array of large windows that span the front of the house and reach up to the open second story. Outside, Tim knows, strong lights shine up from below, showing off the filigree in each pane and rendering the front of the manor photogenic well into the night. The adjoining dining room has been kitted as the buffet area, but the cameras will be pointing at the balcony landing, from where some of the richest in Gotham will be bragging about how much money they got a tax break on this year, and criminals will be seeking good press.

They don't know that Anarky is lurking below, about to give them some very bad press indeed.

Moriarty presses a key idly and flips between a couple of different cameras around the estate. He's situated with a laptop in an office on the second floor, watching each new guest arrive, though he's admittedly not been paying much attention beyond checking to see if Wayne has arrived yet. He's been distracted with other things, like an uncharacteristic anxiety about going out into the crowd that's settled in his gut. Tim will have to show up at some point, at the minimum to round off the speeches.

The original plan had been to mingle as Tim Drake until the moment of truth. He'd even appeared briefly before the serving staff so they'd recognize him if he needed to order them out of harm's way. but it's too risky now. Bruce Wayne will have almost certainly seen Tim Draper's face. He'll recognize Tim on sight, and from there he's certain to figure out enough to throw a wrench in things. No sense giving him enough time to retire to the restroom and change into Batman.

Speaking of.

"Anarky," he says. "Wayne is on premises, arriving now. What's your status."

"'Twas Gunpowder Treason Day," Anarky replies, in a half-mumbled recitation. "I let off my gun, and made'em all run. And Stole all their Bonfire away."

"That's great," says Moriarty. "Can I get an equipment check."

Anarky tuts.

"It's all green here," he says. "The charges are set, the ray is operational, and the drones are in position. How many of these swine are carrying?"

"Surprisingly few," Moriarty says, skimming the footage. Looks like the condition not to bring bodyguards has bred some paranoia, because there are plenty of guns. There, a clumsy attempt to stuff a pistol into a suit jacket. There, a mobster with a holster openly shown. They must have refused when told to disarm at the door. Typical, and they'll shortly regret it. There, another one. Henry Aquista is -

Aquista is -

"I have to go," Tim says, and doesn't wait for answer before slamming down his headset and rushing for the door.

"I'm so fucking mad at him," Bernard says, apropos of nothing, several minutes into a very quiet ride in the Batmobile.

Spoiler glances over at him from shotgun. She's been too busy gaping at the interior of the car to say much of anything (a familiar feeling - Bernard had done it too, his first time out), and Alfred's been busy trying to get ahold of Bruce, after receiving a brief filling-in, so Bernard has had a rare opportunity to process.

Tim is Tim Drake is Moriarty.

He's been lying to Bernard this whole time.

Bernard has, too, but his secret is that he's Robin. He wouldn't be surprised if Darla or Tim would be upset to find out that he's been throwing himself in front of every armed maniac in Gotham, but -

But Tim? Moriarty?

He's been trying to kill Batman. He's been catching civilians in the crossfire, he's been stoking the flames of gang violence, he funded Cluemaster, he's coming up with some crackpot plan with Anarky to off Bruce Wayne. He's the reason Darla has to transfer schools, he puts together, just now.

He'd looked Bernard in the eyes and he told him he'd had lots of secrets. Smiled about it.

He'd joked about Batman being Bruce Wayne. He's plotting to kill Bruce Wayne, after plotting to kill Batman. Somehow, some way, he knows. Had completely outmaneuvered them. Had done it while sharing a kiss on a rooftop.

Bernard is furious. There's a roiling, hot rage building in his gut, pressing in on his temples. He wants to punch something. He settles for pinching himself, hard, but that's nothing against the tide.

"Yeah," Spoiler says, after a second. "That's, uh - that's normal."

"How could he do this," Bernard hisses. "I knew he was smart, and he's sometimes a bit of a jackass, but running a criminal empire?"

"I don't think anyone blames you for not noticing," Spoiler says. "I could barely fit in my history paper this week. When did he find the time?"

Easily. One part of Bernard, the detective, is working overtime. Yes, it all makes sense. Tim was frequently too busy for in-person hangouts at the same time that Batman was, he's always been eerily observant, he often mentioned his "uncle" and his business activities, which were obviously just him in retrospect. He hadn't hesitated to put his hacking skills to use when Mr. Camera had required it of him.

The other part can't reconcile it. How could Tim, his Tim, who told his friends very seriously to wear helmets at the skate park and who had become a blushing mess when his hand had been held - that Tim? Planning stone-cold murder? Batman's murder? Tim Drake's parents hadn't been saved by Batman, which is the only possible motive Bernard can think of, but surely -

"My apologies, Robin," Alfred says, cutting off that introspection. "I'm afraid that I'm encountering difficulty establishing communications with Batman. We appear to have been jammed."

"That's not good," Spoiler says.

"It's not," Bernard says. He glances down at his phone, where he'd already tried texting Darla earlier. Still no response.

There's a round of silence.

"I'm going to say it," Spoiler says. "What are you going to do, dude?"

"I'm going to get there and we're going to fight?" he says. "I don't know."

She's just looking at him. After spending the last week with Steph, he can picture it vividly even though her face is completely covered. A hard-edged look of concern.

It crumples him. The anger drains out of him, for the moment. It's replaced by a buzzing, sticky, bone-deep wave of tiredness.

"… I don't know," he repeats. "I just… want to talk to him. But I have a feeling that's not going to happen."

To himself, he thinks, It never does. No one ever apologizes and no one ever sticks around. Why would they? It's only a matter of time until he does to Steph whatever he does to everyone else to make them leave him, too.

At least she gave him back Robin before that happened.

"Robin," Alfred's voice crackles over comms. There's care in his tone. It reminds Bernard of the talk they'd had in front of the memorial. "While communications are down, I have been monitoring the news feed from the gala. Mr. Wayne is about to speak."

"Throw it on screen," Bernard says, numb. He looks down at his lap. "Please."

There's nothing, at first. The sounds of a party. Tapping on a mic. Then, Bruce's voice.

"I am intimately familiar with grief," he starts, slow and steady, over the broadcast. "If I may speak on it frankly... when I was a boy, I lost my parents. This is public knowledge, of course. Yet it cannot be overstated the depths, the insurmountable toll taken on the mind and the body by such a tragedy. It could only ever be matched by the pain of losing a child. Grief is a funny thing, and I know it very well. How to live with it, how to manage it, how to use it as a lens to see and ease the pain in others... or so I thought."

Bernard sighs. Grasps his arm. Finds a bruise. He knows what's coming.

"I have been asked for a statement many times, but until now, I have not had the fortitude or the words. In the time after my second son's death, I stopped seeing a way forward. I could simply not imagine a time when things would ever be right again."

Jason again. He doesn't know what he expected. Dull, throbbing pain is the only thing keeping him from dissociating. He considers asking Alfred to shut it off. He doesn't know if he can take this right now.

"And were it not for a chance encounter with a very exceptional young man, I do not know that I would be standing here today."

Huh?

"This young man, who I now think of as a son, regardless of what any piece of paper will ever say, taught me about new kinds of grief."

Bernard's head is snapping up. He's watching, now, in shocked, rapt attention.

"Reminded me that some grieve in ways I could never comprehend. Grieving the life that was stolen from them, grieving the love that parents should have given freely but which was taken away based on who they were and who they loved. Grieving the life you thought you were supposed to have."

He swallows. Hard. Bruce's image blurs in Bernard's vision along with everything else.

"I learned about these boys and girls, and everything in between and outside of those things. I have learned - or perhaps remembered - that many children right now feel just as alone as I did those many years ago, and that they are, as is everyone, deserving of support and love from the adults in their lives. Children should feel safe being themselves, something that they cannot help being and something which should be celebrated and not reviled."

Tears are spilling over. Hot tears that roll over his mask and fall one after another until they're streaming down his face.

Why is he like this.

"No one should have to deal with the darkness alone. To that young man: Thank you for reminding me of that."

He doesn't let Bruce's name pass his lips. That would be giving the game away. But as he glances over to see Spoiler's reaction, he sees her head tilt to look between him and the broadcast on the dashboard. Watching a speech by Bruce Wayne bring him to tears.

She's not stupid. She's figuring it out.

"I want to formally introduce the Martha Wayne Foundation's Queer Youth Support Initiative, partnering with existing aid networks on the ground..."

"Complicated guy, huh," Spoiler says. It's carefully neutral.

"Yeah," Bernard croaks. He takes a moment to compose himself before adding: "… Agent A, what's our ETA?"

"Three minutes and counting," Alfred responds. "If you may trust an old man's intuition, I would be ready to hit the ground running when you arrive. Anarky is sure to strike soon."

Anarky is going to strike soon.

There's no time to waste; Tim leaves his office on the first floor at a swift jog and takes only a moment to smooth his hair down on the way. It's not perfect, but it will keep him off the radar of Gotham's infamously judgemental elite for the minute it should take to get in, grab Darla, and get out.

On the way, he berates himself.

How did I miss this? he thinks, and it takes only a moment for his mind, his greatest asset, to pull out the answer: the final RSVP email. I was so preoccupied with Bernard and everything that I didn't read it over. Darla must have decided to go last minute.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Darla had mentioned needing to do her dad a favour. She'd mentioned his desire to make her go to parties, and Tim had known Henry Aquista was coming to this gala. Tim, who has kept ahead of the fucking Batman for more than a year while going to high school and running Drake Industries, has finally dropped a spinning plate.

He's at the threshold of the foyer, peering from behind a cracked door. Bruce Wayne is still giving his speech on the particulars of whatever his pet project this month is. Tim is tuning that out right now. He has a great view from his elevated position near the balcony level, so he's definitely going to spot Tim. Unfortunate. Darla is…

Tim lets out an involuntary sigh of relief when he spots her. She's close, milling around against one wall in a resplendent and fashionable red dress with a tray of hors d'oeuvres all to herself that she could only have picked up straight from the buffet table or stolen from one of the servers. She's giving anyone and everyone who looks in her direction a venomous glare.

This includes Tim, for a moment, until her expression slackens to shock as he approaches.

"Tim?" she hisses, thankfully at a low enough volume that Tim is sure it will be subsumed by the ongoing speech before it lands in anyone's ear. Bruce Wayne is a notorious font of celebrity gossip, but the moment someone puts together that Tim Drake is here in the flesh, they'll descend like vultures.

"Darla," he says. "We need to leave. Now."

"What?" Her brow is furrowing. "Dude, I can't. My dad will ground me forever. How are you here?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up as Wayne's voice stumbles nearly imperceptibly mid-sentence. Furtively, he glances back to see Batman's eyes on him. Shit.

"Uh, yes, dumbass, it absolutely does matter," Darla says, putting down the tray on a nearby counter and then putting both hands on her hips.

"It's - I don't have time to -" Tim starts. One of the servers, apparently keen to restore order, cuts in politely with an eye on the discarded tray.

"Can I take that off your hands, Mr. Drake?"

Tim freezes. Darla freezes. No one else around them freezes, so they probably didn't hear that. If they sense a standoff, though…

"Yes, go ahead," he says, before Darla crowds him.

"Drake?" she says. "Tim Drake?"

"Voice down," he says, in a sharp whisper. "Please. Darla. Trust me. We need to leave! Now!"

"You weren't sick at all," she says. Her lips are curling into a snarl. "You were preparing for this, weren't you?"

Tim flinches.

"What the hell," she says. "What the hell, Tim. Does Bernard know? Am I the only one not in on this?"

"He doesn't!" Tim says. People are starting to notice their argument. Wayne's speech can't be going on much longer. They're running out of time.

"Oh, so you've been hiding this from both of us?!"

"Okay, so you're just mad either way?" Tim hisses, and then shakes himself. Not the time. Not the time! "Okay look you can be mad at me later just pleaseweneedtogorightnow."

There's no time. Tim grabs her wrist and pulls her along as fast as he can. They only need to make it a few meters, to the door, no one will follow them because they'll be too busy with -

Tim is yanked backwards, hard. When he looks back, he just sees a blur before he's staggering back from a punch to the face.

He's vaguely aware that Wayne is no longer speaking. Everyone is turning to view the drama unfolding.

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, Draper, I'm not going anywhere until you explain what the hell is going on -"

"Darla!" That's Henry Aquista. This is bad. "What the hell is - did you touch my little girl, you creep?"

"Daddy, buzz off!" Darla says. "I don't need you white knighting for me, I can handle myself!"

"I didn't - I wasn't -" Tim stutters.

He thought he was good at handling this kind of thing, but out of the chair, away from the screens, it's like he's unable to process all of this at once. The threat of the crowd, his brain trying to catalogue each individual glare, look of shock, raised eyebrow, Wayne's reaction, his face drawn and obviously puzzling out that something has gone horribly wrong, but what, what piece is he missing, Aquista reaching for his gun, the camera crew from GNN gawking, Darla's face, red now, her chest heaving with anger as she turns her ire on her father. Total overwhelm. Tim just sits there, wide-eyed, stunned, until -

- BOOM.

The situation changes in an instant.

Just as planned, the centre of the room explodes in a ring of detonations from below. There are screams, the crowd is moving and pressing against them in their hurry to get out of the way. Someone is howling in pain. Tim grabs Darla's shoulder and they brace each other, instinctively, as Aquista turns around with his gun drawn to see a dais raise from the floor alongside booming, maniacal laughter and a swarm of armed drones ascend to hover in formation above the heads of the party-goers.

(The cameras from GNN swing over to catch the entrance in all of its glory, terrified techs directed by one steel-backed reporter who doubtless has their ratings in mind.)

Anarky looms above them all. Tim had thought the long, unnatural neck of his costume goofy, but the proportions and the height strike a terrifying figure here, with one arm raising his staff and the other hidden in his robes.

"Gotham!" Anarky says, his voice, vicious and almost maniacally gleeful, booming through the speakers just as Tim had built them to do. "I've come here today to conduct a social experiment. I do hope you'll stay to see it to the very end!"

Tim catches Darla's wide eyes as they look to each other and as red laser-sights cover all of the entrances.

They're out of time.

Everyone is stunned silent for a moment by Anarky's entrance.

Predictably, The very first thing that happens after that is the sound of several guns being drawn and pointed at him. The second thing that happens after that is Anarky tutting and pressing a button on his cane. The third thing that happens is all of the guns in the room explode in the hands of their wielders.

There are screams. Someone goes for the front door and stops cold as one of the drones fires a warning shot, a bullet hole punching through the floor in front of them.

"Daddy!" Darla rips herself away from Tim as she turns to Mr. Aquista, who's clutching his mangled hand and swearing up a storm.

"Ah ah ah," Anarky says, wagging his finger. "Nice try. You know, Mao once said political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. I have my quibbles with the man, but he knew some important truths."

"That would make you a tyrant," Wayne says. "Wouldn't it?"

Tim curses under his breath. He'd lost track of Wayne, his normally excellent situational awareness narrowed down to the most dangerous things happening in the room.

He's standing straight-backed and with a glint of steel about him at the podium. He's effectively pinned, like everyone else, drones having circled around him to prevent egress up to the second floor. Those watching the news will likely attribute his calm demeanor to the sheer number of hostage situations he's endured, but Tim knows better. Tim knows he's looking at Batman right now.

"An interesting proposition, Mr. Wayne!" Anarky replies, swinging around to face him. But not completely - just enough so that the cameras catch his side, boldly holding out his staff as if in challenge. "Before I engage your point, let me be clear to everyone watching: I have rigged this entire manor with high-grade explosives. If any police or military approach, if I catch a whiff of any your many private security forces, I will not hesitate to make the ultimate sacrifice and take down Gotham's greatest parasites with me. I don't recommend testing me on this."

Tim pales.

That wasn't the plan.

(The plan was to take several key hostages and rig them up to a dead man's switch at a third location. It had taken all of Tim's patience to find a way to plausibly convince Lonnie not to target Barbara Gordon.)

"You're insane!" someone shouts from the crowd.

"No," Anarky says, with a flourish. "I'm the only sane one in a world of maniacs. But let's test that, shall we?"

Is he bluffing?

Anarky reveals his invention with a flourish. It's a ray gun or sorts, the kind that one sees in the newspapers coming out of the Daily Planet in Metropolis. The amulet that powers it is held in suspension, glowing inside a bulbous chamber on its top. Accoutrements of mad science surround it; vacuum tubes on either side, a battery with runes written along it along the bottom of the barrel, and many other unrecognizable touches stamp it as one of Anarky's unique hybrid inventions.

"Behold!" he says, swinging it wide for everyone to see. "The Amulet of Ascension. Said to imbue the worthy with vast magical powers, it has slept under Gotham for untold hundreds of years. In all of those centuries, not a single hopeful has ever passed its test or come back to tell of its criteria. A sham, if you ask me! How typical for power to be presented as attainable to all who strive for it, when in reality it is a false promise! Stymieing the voices calling for real change! Who exactly does such a thing benefit, hm?"

Why would he change that leg of the plan out of nowhere? Surely he knows this is riskier? What if they call his bluff?

"But I've made an alteration, you see. I, Anarky, have hacked the magics that govern this artifact! And instead of taking it for myself, I'm going to offer its unlimited power to you! You who gather here to crow about your charity, to bargain for social capital on the back of your tax breaks. All you have to do is pass one little test."

The gun fires. A woman cries out. Veronica Vreeland, Tim's brain supplies him with. Old money, a diverse and successful portfolio built on the back of her grandfather's military connections.

He can't see her now; the crowd is too thick. But he can hear her agonized moans as she slips into the eternal coma that the amulet visits upon all of its victims. Can picture her eyes, open but unseeing, limbs twitching and thrashing in agony. The crowd is gasping, moaning, screaming along with her. The fear of being shot is all that's keeping them in place, but sooner or later someone is going to start a stampede.

There's some reason he switched plans, but what changed?

"Tim," Darla says, voice low and scared. She's gripping his arm. "Did you know this was going to happen?"

"I -" He swallows. The lie won't form. Everything is happening so quickly, and Anarky is still speaking.

"Our first failure of the Parasite Test!" Anarky says. "Now, the amulet asks one very easy question! Are you okay with harming society more than you benefit it to satisfy your own ends? Are you in your heart of hearts evil, one who seeks to dominate others for your own gain? You can't lie to the amulet! Its magic will draw some honesty out of your wretched existences for once and display it for the world to see. Starting with…"

He levels the gun at Bruce Wayne.

Okay, this should buy Tim some time, he thinks. He's very, very fast at thinking.

The amulet ray will do nothing, or maybe give Batman superpowers, and then Lonnie will trigger the plan B that Tim had insisted he put in place and shoot him with every drone they have until they run out of bullets.

In the back of his mind, he's running through his options. Get Darla to the door while Anarky is distracted doing that, probably drag Henry Aquista along with them or she won't move. From there, they can get out through the back and try to make it clear before Anarky makes good on his threats.

But it's still bothering him, that question - what changed? What did Anarky gain from rigging up the whole house?

"… Timothy Jackson Drake."

Tim's head jerks up in surprise.

Anarky is pointing the gun at him. Every single head in the house has followed its lead.

"Poor little Tim Drake," he says. "Orphan, reluctant saviour of his parent's company. How pitiable!"

Of course, Tim thinks, realization setting in with a cold sweat. The thing that changed is me. I was set to be in the foyer when we made the original plan, and then I changed my position to somewhere else in the house. Explosives on the whole place would guarantee a kill. His real target was always, maybe even from the very beginning…

"Now everyone will see exactly who you really are," Anarky sneers.

… me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tim says. His voice is quavering. Part of him thinks: It's a fitting end, isn't it?

(Another part of him, seeing the end coming, thinks: This was all a mistake.)

Anarky fires.

Tim's eyes screw closed as the light leaves the gun's barrel -

"Tim!"

- and so he's surprised when he's pushed, hard.

He tumbles to the floor, eyes flying open to see the light of the amulet's judgement envelop Darla. Her hands are splayed out where she pushed him out of the way. Her eyes, locked with his, are desperate, and then blank. She collapses limply to the floor next to him, eyes wide open but unseeing.

Tim stares. Everyone stares. There's a moment where the crowd holds its breath. Even Anarky seems thrown by this development. He's saying something, uncharacteristically pensive, but Tim's perception is rapidly narrowing down to one point.

"No," he says, scrambling to his knees. He grabs her shoulder and shakes. "Darla!"

He thinks Aquista is yelling something.

"Darla," Tim repeats. He can feel the tremors of small convulsions rock her body. "No. No, no, no."

He thinks Wayne is saying something.

"Please wake up," he says. None of the amulet's victims have ever woken up. But Darla is fierce and willful and his best friend and she saved him and she has to wake up. Her head has lolled to the side, eyes gazing sightlessly out the front windows. "Please."

He thinks he hears Anarky's voice, shaken but defensive, booming out something or other in response.

"Please -" he chokes out, and then hears his name.

Tim raises his gaze. Oh. He's staring down the barrel of the ray gun again. He can't bring himself to feel anything at all about that.

He deserves it, after all.

And just as he's bracing himself to die -

- there's a blur of motion and Anarky cries out. The weapon clatters to the ground, and there's a thunk as something sharp embeds itself in the wood next to it. Something Tim could identify in his sleep.

A birdarang!

Sound comes rushing back in as Tim regains his senses. The crowd gasps and someone yells, "up there!" as a caped and hooded figure falls like a comet to land in front of Anarky.

Robin doesn't waste time with words. He springs out of a roll to attack Anarky with a vicious rising punch, which clips the mask and rips off his headwear. Exposed, Anarky's blond-red locks spill out to frame a wide-eyed snarl, and he goes to wave his staff only for Robin to shoot forward and grab it, beginning a struggle on the makeshift dais.

Tim is rooted in place, like he's watching everything unfold from somewhere else. He's still gripping Darla's shoulder, her voice audible but incomprehensible over the reactions of the crowd. Robin - Bernard - is moving like a man possessed. Anarky is a martial arts prodigy, but Robin's strikes are brutal, calculated, graceful, and he's not letting him get out of melee for even a moment.

There's a reason for that, Tim thinks, in alarm. The drones are still covering the exits, but many of them are circling above Anarky's stage. They're looking for a shot, but they won't fire until Anarky's out of their sights! And as soon as he is…

Robin is going to die. Bernard is going to die, and it will have been Tim's fault, just like Darla was his fault, just like this whole thing is his fault. They'll have both died knowing Tim betrayed them, too.

And he can't do a thing about it now. It's too late. It's -

He almost misses the moment when Robin stumbles. Anarky pulls out of the grapple with his staff in hand and roars - past his lectures, past pithy quotes, his real face now a mask of pure, animal rage.

He winds up and kicks Robin, hard, Bernard taking it in the chest and staggering back to the edge of the stage, away from the stairs. He catches his footing, but it takes a fatal second to adjust. Fearful cries ring out. Three drones line up to fire, Tim's perception of time slowing as the unthinkable happens -

- only for the drones to swivel as Anarky cries out.

Bruce Wayne has grabbed the staff from behind, and is trying to wrestle it away from Anarky with the sort of desperation that's having him move too fast, too smooth for a billionaire playboy. His eyes are blown wide, and Robin freezes at the sight.

That's what allows Anarky the opening to hit the man with a vicious headbutt from below, battering his chin and sending him staggered.

"Fuck it!" Anarky snarls. "If you're so eager to skip the test, Mr. Wayne -"

Robin takes the opening. He flies at Anarky at the same moment that Anarky makes a gesture with his staff, and a gunshot rings out. The staff clatters out of Anarky's hands and into the crowd below. Wayne is clutching at his shoulder

"Lonnie!" Bernard roars, and throws himself at Anarky again. They begin to exchange blows.

The sound of the gunshot reverberates throughout Tim's entire being like a thunderclap. Something unsticks. He finds himself standing up. He is so, so close to the door.

I have to -

(Wayne has noticed him. He can't bear to think about if Bernard has, too.)

There are two drones covering the door that leads to the East hallway, but Tim's entrance earlier had left it slightly ajar. Probably autonomous - none of the drones covering the exists have moved at all while Anarky and Bernard duke it out.

I have to -

Tim doesn't have the time to do more risk assessment than that. He bolts, and prays.

There isn't a force in the universe that could stop Tim from flinching as two shots erupt from the drones, so close by. Someone screams again, but as he slides into the safety of the hallway, landing on his stomach with a jarring thump, he's shocked to discover that he's still alive. His ears are ringing, but he's alive.

He has only a moment to keep it that way.

Tim staggers to his feet and throws his weight onto the door to slam it closed just as a thunk collides with the other side, a drone that had been midway through trying to follow him through. He steps back and to the side and looks around wildly.

I have to -

Then, he stops.

He could run.

It hits him. The voice of Moriarty, the one that has kept him ahead of the game, ahead of Batman for years now, whispers in his ear. He could run. He had fallbacks for this plan going South, if not in this particular way. He could run, and run, and trust Batman and Robin to save the day. Hadn't he once believed in them? They've gotten through worse scrapes than this. He's not being rational. He has to think ahead.

He will never be forgiven for what he's done to Darla. Bernard will hate him. Bernard will be right to hate him. Tim is going to go to jail and he's going to disgrace his parents' memories, and Darla will be left in a hospital ward, like a Joker gas victim, forever waiting for a cure that isn't coming. But maybe - maybe if Tim leaves now, he can use his resources to find that cure.

It's the smart thing to do. Right?

He goes to take a step. His body won't move.

His heart is telling him something else.

An image comes to him unbidden. Darla is writhing, eyes still open, fixed on the sky outside the windows. Bernard is in superposition; kneeling next to her, head in hands. Laying next to her, riddled with bullet holes, eyes closed forever.

… Tim is just making excuses, isn't he?

Robin wouldn't leave them behind. Bernard would never dream of leaving Darla, or Tim, no matter what the reason. He would fling himself - is flinging himself into danger, right now, to save his loved ones.

To save Bruce Wayne. To save Darla. Maybe even to save Tim, who doesn't deserve it, who never deserved it.

Tim lifts one foot -

- and then another -

- and he's dashing back down the hall the way he'd come.

I have to fix this.

The office. The office. His equipment is in -

"Hey! You!"

- someone else is here.

He's up against the wall with a gloved hand to his throat before he can even think. A hooded and masked figure is staring him down.

"You're Moriarty," they say. Tim blanks for a moment as several facts rearrange themselves him his mind, which is running like molasses even as his heart pounds in his ears.

"You're Brown's daughter," he rasps.

That was the wrong thing to say. Her grip gets tighter.

"You have a lot to answer for," she says. "We can start with -"

There's no time. There's no time for this.

"Robin," Tim says, reaching up to grasp at Spoiler's wrist. "The drones. I need to get them off him. Let me go."

"You expect me to believe that you're running off to help?" she says, and she only sounds angrier. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"

She doesn't believe him. Why would she?

The exit is the other way, he should say. If he'd been trying to run, he would have been going the other way.

"Please," he says, instead. Words are spilling out of his mouth without conscious input. "I didn't want him to be here. I - this was a mistake. Darla. She's hurt."

Spoiler's grip stays firm.

"I can hack the drones," Tim pleads. "Cut the TV feed. I need to stop it. Please. I can't - I can't let B- Robin get shot too. Please."

"We already cut the broadcast," Spoiler says, and then tuts. "… You're serious?"

A few tense seconds pass - then, gunfire. She winces and turns her head, before whipping it back to Tim.

"You're lucky," she says, digging her pointer finger into his chest so hard it hurts, "that I'm busy. Go!"

With that, she lets him go, and she's off like a shot down the hall. To where, Tim doesn't know and doesn't have time to find out.

The office is exactly as he left it, laptop open on an otherwise barren desktop. Tim crosses the room in bounds and unlocks it with shaking hands. The drones will be controlled by a wireless frequency, so all he has to do is break the encryption and take over, sending a shutdown order. The cameras in the foyer have been shot out, so he'll have to get close enough to get a line of sight. Otherwise, in theory, child's play.

He just has to do it against the clock.

And there's one more thing.

As he waits for his tools to load up, Tim pulls open a drawer and takes what's inside, tucking it into his belt and covering it with his shirt before picking up the laptop and setting off at a sprint.

Bernard has never felt so angry in his life. It starts in his chest and it courses through his veins like fire, fueling every movement, every strike, channeled through nearly a year of martial arts training into a cold and efficient exchange of blows.

He'd arrived moments too late to save Darla.

If his opponent were anyone but Anarky, a certified prodigy, he'd have certainly prevailed by now. But it is Anarky, and Anarky has shed his outer robes to reveal a much more sensible and maneuverable costume underneath. The same red fabric but a bodysuit now, arms and shins wrapped, broken up with a utility belt of his own, looser at the joints to evoke some historical aesthetic that Bernard doesn't care about right now and probably also to allow for maneuverability.

Bernard notices the latter mostly because it's a weakness. He grabs at it and pulls Anarky down into his waiting knee, scoring a hit that sends the other boy bouncing back into a momentary stumble. He blocks Bernard's follow-up, though, sneering at Bernard with a mouth that's now bloody around the edges.

"Don't you think you're -" he starts, and Bernard brings the other arm around to grab at him again. Anarky takes the opening that creates to drop and sweep his legs, sending Bernard tumbling. He catches himself, but only just, rolling out of the way as Anarky tries to follow up with a pin.

"Shut up," Bernard says. He barely recognizes his own voice. It's a growl. It feels like it could crack open and release something uglier.

Peripherally, he's aware that other things are happening. Bruce has had to move away to give a man who'd taken a shot when Tim dived out of the room first aid. The camera crew have gotten over their fit of boldness and dragged their last reluctant member to cover. Most of the guests are cowering behind some kind of cover, now, except those who can't or won't move injured loved ones. Near where Bruce is putting pressure on that gunshot wound, Darla's father is sitting behind her and holding her hand and rocking back and forth as he begs her to wake.

The drones continue to hover. Until they're taken care of, nobody will be able to leave. So it's up to Bernard to take out the guy controlling them.

It's harder than it sounds, though, because even though they've both taken some hits, Anarky is still moving. And he's standing, now, gracing Bernard with a furious glare.

He won't actually try to blow the place with him still inside, Bernard had bet, mere minutes ago. It's a bluff.

The way Lonnie Machin is looking at him right now, he's not so sure.

Bernard snarls right back and lunges.

They roll into a tumble of limbs. Sharp stabs of pain ring out as Anarky gives as good as he gets - digging into Bernard's stomach, his side, a stripe of white-hot pain as Anarky claws down his face, probably drawing blood and narrowly missing his eye. Bernard is aiming to hurt, too, and he hears gasps between the utterances of rage as he hits similar soft spots. He's trying to rally to maneuver into a pin, to finally wrench that damned staff away.

The pain that bursts from his forehead as Anarky scores a vicious headbutt on him is as bright as it is disorienting. When he comes back to his senses, he's rolling off the side of the stage.

It's only a five foot drop, but he lands on his back and gasps sharply as the barely-recovered cut from last week bursts into a flare of agony.

"Okay," Anarky says, raising his staff. "No more playing around."

The drones that were circling their engagement are bunching up on this side of the stage, guns armed. Anarky is no longer in their line of fire, Bernard thinks. His cape can't stop everything. He is about to eat lead.

The thought is enough to get him up, and scrambling for purchase, but laser sights are settling on him and -

- Bruce is crying out Robin, and -

- Bernard screws his eyes shut and braces to die, and -

Nothing happens.

A few seconds pass, and Bernard cracks open one eye just in time to see the first drone hit the floor with a deceptively quiet thunk.

"What?" Anarky asks, voicing what Bernard is thinking. What everyone must be thinking.

More of them start to fall, then, dropping to the ground to sit inert among the stunned crowd.

"No," Anarky says, taking a step backwards. "No, no, no, NO, you son of a BITCH!"

Moriarty, Bernard thinks, hauling himself up. That could only have been-!

Anarky must know something he doesn't, though, because he's leaping off the podium and towards the door that Tim had dove through a minute ago. Bernard catches a glimpse of someone behind it as it slams shut, only to be thrown open again as Anarky chases down his betrayer.

Bernard's feet start moving on their own.

Bruce is yelling something. Probably ordering everyone to evacuate while they have the chance. Bernard barely perceives it as he dashes past Bruce, dashes past Darla and her father, chooses not to think, lets out the cry that bubbles up in his throat as he clears the threshold into the rest of the house.

"Tim!"

Bernard is calling Drake's name.

Darla Aquista's form, previously wracked by convulsions, stills. Her brow remains pinched. Her eyes remain open, head resting against her shoulder as her unseeing gaze watches the sky out the windows.

"Darla? Darla," her father says, cupping her hand in both of his. "Darla, baby, please. Stay with me. You're all I have. Please."

Bruce takes pause to witness it. Phantoms from a warehouse, years ago, dance across his vision.

I've lost him. He's already getting cold to the touch. Gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

"Get her out of here," he says, to Aquista. Aquista barely seems to register that he's there.

Bruce doesn't have time to stay and coax him out, nor does he have time to recover the artifact where it lays halfway across the room, wedged between Anarky's stage and the stairs just out of sight. Most of the guests have been evacuated outside, but even that small distance from the house won't matter if Anarky's bombs are as potent as promised. He grabs his bag from the coat check and slips out of a side door from the dining room, already working at the hidden compartment inside to pull out a spare cowl.

Robin needs Batman.

Bernard's injuries slow him down, which is why he doesn't catch up to Anarky until he's already picked up Tim.

The evidence of the struggle reaches him in pieces. A laptop, discarded on its edge against the wall, droplets of blood on an otherwise pristine carpet, and then, as Bernard rounds the corner, Tim's panicked yelps as he struggles against Anarky's hold. He's slung over one shoulder around the middle and there's something odd about how he's contorting as he tries to escape, but it all leaves Bernard's head the moment they make eye contact and Tim cries out to him.

"Robin!"

Anarky is headed for the back door, passing a more modest stairway than the one in the foyer as he does so. With how injured Bernard is, and how ridiculously well Anarky is holding up despite everything, Bernard realizes with a chill that there's a real chance he'll lose him if he gets clear of the house.

Not happening! Bernard puts his all into a sprint and rolls, gritting his teeth as the pain flares up in his back. It works, though. He slides to a stop in front of Anarky, who grimaces for only a moment before changing direction and bounding up the stairs.

Bernard pursues. His body protests every step, like it wants to fall apart around his bones, but flashes of Tim's pale, wide-eyed face keep him going. Up one flight and then another, to the third floor.

Where does he think he's going? Bernard wonders, gritting his teeth, but the answer comes soon enough. Moving as smoothly as if he knows the place like the back of his hand, Anarky ducks into a side room lit by natural daylight. Glass shatters and falls across the floor in shards as Bernard barrels into the doorway behind him, just in time to see him climb through a shattered skylight.

Bernard's heart is sinking to his stomach as he climbs out after them. He's not careful enough; one jagged edge pierces his gloves and he hisses, recoiling, looking for another handhold.

The sky opens up above Bernard as he makes it up to the roof tiles, looking frantically until - there.

Bernard's breath catches in his throat. A scream rings out from below.

Anarky is close to the edge. So, so close to the edge. In the time it took Bernard to follow him, he's already made it to the front of the building, the very edge of the gables that overlook a drop to the landing at the entrance. More importantly, he's holding Tim by the shirt, dangling him over the drop as Tim's feet balance perilously on the edge.

The landing below is hard concrete.

Tim is as white as a sheet. He won't break eye contact with Bernard. Bernard's heart is hammering its way out of his chest.

I failed to save them. A hostage situation gone south.

That's how the Drakes had died.

"You know," Anarky says, as Bernard approaches. Slowly, hands out and visible in front of him, no sudden moves. "I was telling the truth back then, Robin. I really was after a very bad man. He may not look it, but this boy is actually -"

"He's Moriarty," Bernard says. He wills his voice to stay calm. "I know."

Both Anarky and Tim seem taken aback by this. Tim's lips part, fear giving way to something between pain and horror. Bernard doesn't spend too long thinking about that, because Anarky rallies quickly.

"If you know that," he says, "then you know what he's done. Or you can at least grasp the scale of his crimes against society."

"I can," Bernard says. He's still looking at Tim. Tim, who won't break eye contact, whose expression has crumpled into increasingly naked guilt. It turns Bernard's stomach. Until this moment, had he had the chance to even try to reconcile his vision of Tim, his Tim, with the crimes of Moriarty? The truth of it is written plain on his face. He did it. He did all of it. Maybe more. Darla. "And don't get me wrong. I'm not okay with it. But we don't throw people off of rooftops, Lonnie."

Anarky narrows his eyes as Tim finally looks away.

"You know," he says. There's a forced leisureliness to his tone, as though he would really like everyone to forget that he's holding a hostage over a deadly fall, but he can't quite mask the venom in it. "I really imagined I would get it by now, but this odd connection that you two have continues to elude me. He's a monster, Robin. Plain and simple. I've worked with him for quite some time, and I can tell you what he would do to kill the Bat. Just another rich bastard who thinks he can get away with anything. He'd tell you otherwise, but oh, poor Mr. Craddock."

Tim pales further, if that was possible. Bernard's mouth twists into a grimace.

"Lonnie," Bernard says, inching forward. He stops as Anarky's eyes flick down to his feet and his hand pointedly twitches where it grasps Tim's shirt. Bernard wills his voice to stay even. "Just give it up. We stopped the broadcast ages ago, your artifact caught an innocent girl in the crossfire…"

His voice almost breaks there, but he continues.

"… and I want Moriarty alive. For everything he's done, I don't want him dead. He saved my life, twice. I believe," he says, looking at Tim with an unwavering gaze, "that he can be better than this. I know he can."

"Were you listening to a word I said?! He is incapable of being better. He's -" Anarky starts, and then stops abruptly. His eyes widen. He looks between the two of them rapidly, mouth parting.

"I'm sorry," Tim croaks.

"You're shitting me," Anarky says, and a hysterical little giggle bursts its way out of his throat, but he looks, if anything, even madder than before. "Oh, I cannot believe it. This is - wow. I have a lot of questions, Boy Wonder!"

"I -" Bernard starts, but he stops cold as Tim draws a gun.

Bernard and Anarky both freeze. Anarky's eyes flick down to the barrel of the gun, pressed against his ribs, and then back up to Tim, who is looking him in the eyes now with an expression that Bernard has never - no, that's wrong. He has seen this expression on Tim's face once before, when he'd thought Bernard had been mugged.

"You're stalling for time," Tim says. His voice is jarringly, suddenly, cold and even.

It sends a chill down Bernard's spine. Is this Moriarty?

"Which means that your explosives are on a dead man's switch," Tim continues. "You're going to drop me moments before they go off, deploy whatever fallback you have to get away, and leave Robin and whoever else is left in the blast radius to die. Am I right?"

The air between the two is indescribable. Lonnie is glaring at Tim with an animosity that surpasses any sneer he'd sent Robin as they fought, a barely repressed animal hostility. Tim's deceptive calm is cracking at the edges of his lips as they curl to show teeth. His eyes are flinty. He's breathing hard.

"Tim," Bernard says. "Don't do this."

It breaks the spell. Tim looks at him and he's Tim again. The barrel of the gun is still pressed up against Anarky's chest.

"Robin," he says, swallowing. "I'm - I never knew she was coming. I would have called it all off if I knew she was going to get hurt. Please… believe that."

If Tim pulls that trigger, wounds Anarky, he'll almost certainly fall. He knows this. Judging by his silence, Anarky knows it, too. Knows that he's unlikely to get away with a flesh wound at the angle Tim has. Knows that aside from that glance, Tim's gaze has held steady on him, that he's not likely to find an opening before Tim pulls the trigger.

"Of course I -" Bernard swallows. "- just don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"I've already done unforgivable things," Tim says. Now he looks resigned. "When you uncover all of it, you'll see. At least this way, I stop him. You can turn back and - and help Batman with the bombs. You can save everyone."

"Everyone but you," Bernard says. He's reaching a hand out, but of course he's still too far to reach either of them. His heart is pounding in his ears. "And him. We don't kill people. Not even Anarky."

A tight, shaky smile pulls across Tim's face, but he still doesn't take his eyes from Anarky.

"Who's 'we'?"

"Tim," Bernard says, slowly. "Do you still believe in me?"

There's a sharp intake of breath from Tim. He still won't take his eyes off of Anarky. Anarky, whose eyes are flicking around. He's getting impatient. He's going to find his moment soon, Bernard can feel it.

"Drop the gun," Bernard says. "Trust me."

A second passes, and then another.

Bernard sees Tim waver. There's a war going on in there as he stares Anarky down, whatever animosity that has driven them to this moment still tangible in the air. The allure of mutually assured destruction.

But he's hesitating. Hanging over the edge, he still hasn't pulled the trigger.

Bernard sucks in a breath.

Then Tim looks at him, finally, and the cold stare of Moriarty is replaced by terror as the mask slips. No, something more than terror. Something Bernard recognizes.

I want to live after all.

Tim's grip loosens, his finger drifting from the trigger.

He drops the gun. It clatters down the roof and out of sight.

"Well," Anarky says. "That was stupid."

He pulls his cane from where he'd stashed it on his belt, and Bernard's breath catches.

"Did you really think I wouldn't do it?" he says, and thumbs open what could only the the cover of a detonation switch on the top. Bernard starts to rush forward, but Lonnie lets go of Tim for one heart-stopping moment before grabbing him again and wrenching him back up. Bernard freezes, still paces away from arm's reach. Tim makes a gasping, half-scream, cut short. "As though I would leave it to just a dead man's switch. If I can take you and those parasites with me, then we'll burn together."

He doesn't hesitate as he presses the switch down. If anything, his face is a mask of grim satisfaction. Tim screws his eyes shut.

Click.

…

Nothing happens.

"… What?" Anarky stares at it.

Bernard grins, heart still hammering. It's relief, now, pushing through his veins.

"You forgot about Spoiler," he says. Behind Lonnie, Tim's eyes go wide with understanding.

"What the fuck is a Spoiler," Anarky spits out.

"Robin!" Spoiler calls, right on cue, leaping up through the skylight. She freezes as she takes in the situation, Tim still precariously dangling. "Oh, shit."

Anarky's face contorts into bafflement and then realization and then teeth-gritted rage.

"No," he says. "Brown's - no."

"Did you think I came alone?" Bernard says. He feels Batman's presence more than sees it, glancing back and catching sight of a black cowl who has appeared behind Spoiler. "While I kept you busy, she - and Batman - disarmed every single one of the bombs you set. All I had to do was trust that they could handle it in time."

Lonnie is breathing hard. His eyes are flicking between Bernard and the others behind him.

"It's over, Lonnie," Bernard says. "Just… come quietly."

He can see it on Lonnie's face. His complete and utter defeat is sinking in and he's flipping through every response before -

- Tim. He's looking at Tim.

Bernard senses the decision maybe even before Anarky makes it.

He's just a hair too far away, not in time to catch Tim -

- before Anarky pushes him, hard, over the edge.

Everything feels like it's going in slow motion.

Tim falls.

Bernard jumps after him.

Steph screams Robin, in time with Bruce.

Tim is falling, falling, falling, hand reaching up for Bernard.

Robin flies down to meet him, curling around him, twisting around to get a grip around his middle.

Someone from down below is screaming.

He's firing the grapple gun up at the gables, and -

- he misses.

No!

Bernard has just enough time to think: Batman was too far across the roof to catch us in time.

Two figures fall like a comet, framed against the sky through the windows of the foyer.

Sightless eyes take in their descent.

Twenty feet away, the amulet shatters in an explosion of power.

There's a bright light and a sudden feeling of weightlessness. It doesn't feel like falling. It feels familiar - like the arc of a perfectly-timed swing on the grapple. It feels like flying.

Bernard had curled in to hold Tim for dear life. Had closed his eyes for impact.

Instead, he cracks them open, and they're suspended in midair, a red glow surrounding them. Tim is staring at him owlishly, like he can't believe it either.

Magic? He casts about for the source, but even as he does, he feels the tug of gravity again. The aura weakens, guttering like a faulty light bulb. Oh, shit. He scrambles for his belt, for anything, but whatever was keeping them aloft more than a story up sputters out and dies, and they're falling again, and -

- there's the rustle of a cape, a shadow that blots out the sky, and the sound of a grapple pulling taut. Suddenly, they're in Batman's arms.

The landing isn't clean. Bernard's back screams at him as they touch down and collectively roll. He's probably reopened the wound. But it's nothing, because as soon as he lets go of Tim where they've landed on the steps, starts to stagger to his feet and look the other boy over, he finds himself swept into a tight hug.

"You're alive," Bruce says, holding Bernard like he'll never let go. "I thought I'd lost you. Robin."

And what can he do. His arms awkwardly come up to wrap around Bruce's back, and then he's swallowing back a lump that's rapidly forming in his throat to return the first hug Bruce has ever given him.

When they finally pull apart, Tim is nowhere to be found. He's vanished.

Bernard is in so much pain.

They regroup at the Batcave. Well, Batman and Bernard regroup at the Batcave, after trying and failing to find Tim. They'd only had a short window to search before the police arrived in force, and a significant portion of that had been spent getting Anarky secured for the authorities.

(If he'd had a few more bruises than Bernard had expected him to, that might just be something that happens when one is left to be dealt with by Spoiler after personally pissing her off. She'd given Bernard a big, spine-breaking hug, too, before they'd dropped her off out of the danger zone. He'd successfully managed not to scream as it aggravated his many injuries, but she'd noticed and apologized. It's shaping up to be a weird day.)

"… And there are no side effects?" Bernard asks, wincing as Alfred finishes off a new round of stitches on his back. It hurts, but it's hardly the only thing that hurts. There's no part of his body untouched, it feels like. A full-on agony. Bernard can't bring himself to find it reassuring or grounding, this time. It just hurts. "They're all okay?"

"As okay as could be expected," Bruce reports. He's on a laptop that's remoting into the Batcomputer, typing away. Hovering, Bernard thinks. He usually doesn't bother straying from the main console. "Psychologically, not so much. Many of the victims who have been comatose since Anarky's initial theft are showing signs of extreme trauma and dissociation. But to the targets from the gala, it may as well have been a bad dream."

"So, Darla…" Bernard starts, and Bruce nods.

"Your friend will be okay," he says. He doesn't smile, in typical Bruce fashion, but his voice is reassuring. He reaches out and lays a hand on Bernard's shoulder.

Bernard lets out a breath that takes with it all the tension in his body. It still hurts, but… Darla is safe. Tim is a work in progress, but Darla is safe.

They lapse into silence, Bruce tapping away on the laptop with his usual laser-focus. Bernard recognizes this as a heroic amount of restraint on his part; he must be dying to debrief, after so many revelations one after another. Bernard decides to take advantage of this and paws for his phone, which is luckily still in his civilian clothes where he'd carried them in from the Batmobile to the medical station.

"Please do sit still, Master Dowd," Alfred says, working on a nasty but skin-deep cut on his leg, now. His technique is softer than usual. "Master Bruce is not to be emulated in this particular circumstance."

"And many others, I'm sure," Bruce says, offhandedly.

"Best if you avoid his entire approach to healthcare," Alfred sighs. Bernard snorts, pulling up his messages.

His notifications are legion. There's nothing from Darla yet, but he doubts that she's getting away from her father for a while. Dick has sent like ten more messages, which Bernard decides to deal with when he's less… everything. Steph's, though, he checks instantly.

Steph: Okay so what do we do about the dog
Steph: His owner got arrested and something tells me he didn't hire a dog walker
Steph: fuck it. heading over to grab it. Do you think they'll let it in the uber

Bernard smiles down at the screen.

Bernard: our dog now
Steph: My mom is going to be so pissed lol
Bernard: i'll buy dog stuff later though. maybe that'll help
Bernard: like worst case scenario i'll take yap if she won't let him stay
Steph: hell no dude
Steph: he jusrt licked my hand
Steph: We bonded in the uber
Bernard: you're breaking my heart. Yap is for the people. The people's dog ;(
Steph: ok but for real are you okay
Bernard: no
Bernard: but ill keep you posted

Bernard sighs, stowing his phone. Looks like Alfred is more or less done; Bernard had sort of tuned him out while replying to Steph, and now he's stowing the medical supplies. Bruce is staring at him.

"We're gonna talk about this, huh?" Bernard says.

"I'd like to," Bruce says. "Though I'd understand if you need some time."

"You're really trying today, huh," Bernard says. It comes out a little meaner than he'd meant to let it. Bruce almost flinches, lips twitching downward.

"I do believe I have some pressing chores upstairs," Alfred says, primly.

"Thanks, Alfred," Bernard says, belatedly, and he receives a simple nod in return as Alfred leaves to give them some space.

Maybe it's a sign of the kind of day everyone has had that Alfred doesn't respond to that before disappearing up the elevator. The silence stretches on in his wake, and it's Bernard that breaks it.

"… Like a son to you?" he says, finally. Bruce shuts the laptop and sighs, steepling his fingers as he hunches over like this is the most difficult conversation in the world.

"Yes," he says. To his credit, his voice is even and sincere. "I realize that things have been difficult between us, lately, but it's something I've needed to say for quite some time."

"Things have always been difficult between us," Bernard says. Bruce does another almost-flinch.

"I know," he says, straightening somewhat. "It's true, though. If you caught my speech -"

"I did."

"- then I want you to know that everything I said was true. Even if you never feel like I'm a father to you, I will always view you as family. Just like Dick. Just like Jason."

Bernard takes a ragged breath. Swallows down a lump in his throat.

"I didn't want a speech, Bruce," he says. "And I know you must have been cooking this for longer than taking me off Robin, because I'm not stupid. I know how long it takes to put together a major charity effort. I believe that you care about me. But I wanted, like -"

He gesticulates with one hand, grasping at the air. He can't find the words even though he knows them. Maybe it's just that they don't want to come out of his mouth. Bruce waits for a polite amount of time before speaking.

"There is something wrong with me," Bruce says. He says it like a simple statement of fact. Inflectionless. "Every person I ever care about ends up…"

There, he pauses, face screwing up into something anguished. Bernard huffs a breath in and out.

"Okay, first off: not true. Alfred is still here." He puts up a hand to stop the reply Bruce is about to give, one eyebrow raised. "The benefits aren't that good, Bruce. He's here because he cares about you. Second, you're not fundamentally unlovable, you need to lock the fuck in."

Bernard belatedly notices that his heart rate is through the roof. But Bruce's lips are parted in surprise, and Bernard is carried by momentum, so he keeps talking.

"You really could have fooled me, because you never, like -" he growls softly, running a hand through his hair. "- today is the first time you ever said any of that out loud. You never said you were proud of me, you never called me a son, never apologized for anything, I don't have a room in the manor like Dick or Jason, just this Ninja Turtle arrangement -"

Bruce makes a face.

"- and I don't know, maybe the fact that you only ever do these things in big gestures where you don't have to look the other person in the eye has something to do with the fact that nobody thinks you actually care about them? Maybe?"

There's a very long pause as Bruce frowns. He's studying Bernard's face.

"You never mentioned - well, some, you did. But some of those things…" Bruce says. "I had no idea it was bothering you not to have a room."

Bernard grips the fabric of the Robin cape, staring at his knees.

And isn't that the part that sucks the most, he thinks, dully. It's come out of his mouth fully formed, but had he ever allowed himself to think it until now? But now that he is thinking about it, it's painfully clear that yes, he'd wanted that. And he'd wanted… he'd wanted…

"I -" he starts, and then pauses. He has to say this. He hates that he has to say this. "I wanted you to figure it out. If you cared."

Bruce's hand is on his shoulder.

"I do care," he says. His baritone is gentle. Gentler, maybe, than Bernard has ever heard, directed at him. It's an alien sensation. "Bernard, you're right. I am… not very good, at showing that. I may be the world's greatest detective, but when it comes to people I'm close to, I often seem to miss some very important things. And I'm… sorry, that I've made you feel this way. I will get you a room in the manor if that's what you want. It was always an option."

Oh, God. Bernard's going to cry. His vision is blurring at the edges and his eyes are hot, pressure building up behind them and down his throat to his Adam's apple. He swallows thickly.

"Okay," he croaks.

They don't do another hug. It's Bruce, after all. But Bruce does keep a steady hand on Bernard's shoulder as he sits there and forces down tears that probably won't stop if he really gets going.

He still can't quite feel comfortable crying around…

"You really want to talk about Tim," he says, eventually, once he's got it under control.

"Yes," Bruce says, withdrawing his hand. "I do."

"It's," Bernard starts, and then blanks. Where on Earth to start. It's all so complicated. "I guess I should give you credit for not stalking him after all."

"I would have likely uncovered his true identity sooner if I had," Bruce says. Bernard rolls his eyes.

"But you didn't," he says. "And that was very cool of you."

Bruce's mouth quirks up into a wry smile. He seems to get the hint.

"And, about Robin…" Bernard adds.

"Yes," Bruce says, expression sobering instantly. "We need to talk about that."

"I'm not letting you take it away," Bernard says, gripping the cape again. Bruce opens his mouth, but Bernard shakes his head. "I'm serious. If you try, I'm going independent. You can take away the mask, you can take away the costume, the bulletproof cape, the utility belt. Equipment or no equipment, I still have the training. And I'll figure it out."

"I -"

"I want to work with you," Bernard continues. "But only if you'll work with me. And you especially aren't going to stop me right now, because I'm going to go out there and I'm - I'm going to find Tim, Bruce."

Bruce sighs, rubbing his temple.

"Bernard," he says. "What I was going to say is -"

"Sirs?" Alfred's voice cuts in, as the elevator to the Batcave opens. "There is someone here you may want to speak to."

"Who is it?" Bruce says, rising and flipping on his cowl. Bernard turns to look at the elevator, and so he sees when a figure steps out from behind Alfred.

It's Tim.

"It appears that Mr. Drake knows quite a bit more than we had estimated, sir," Alfred says. Bernard is too stunned to move or say anything as Tim crosses the threshold into the Batcave, each step hesitant.

He looks like hell. He's sweaty, and his hair is a mess, and he's clearly changed quickly into rumpled casual clothes. He's got a backpack on his back that appears to be full to bursting with a lot of little things with hard edges. He's looking at Bernard like Batman doesn't exist, eyes set in a determined glint even as every other aspect of his body language screams that he wants to bolt.

"Tim?" Bernard hears himself say, as Batman stands up behind him. "How did-?"

"Sorry for disappearing on you," Tim says, avoiding Bernard's eyes as he walks forward. He finds a workbench and swings the backpack off of his back, letting it rest on the metal surface with a gentle clatter. "I needed to make sure it was you that caught me and not the police. Evidence like this has a habit of disappearing from the GCPD lockers. I think you'll find it a… comprehensive log of Moriarty's activities."

Bernard gapes.

"You knew to come here," Bruce says. He's tense, but he hasn't moved to stop Tim. Maybe it's because he's obviously unarmed; as Bernard's brain comes back online from a forced reboot, his bat-training says that Tim isn't concealing any weapons, his hands not hovering ready to draw anything. A complete non-threat.

"I've known your secret identity since I was eight," Tim says, and this is the thing that finally snaps Bernard out of it.

"What?" he asks, springing up and crossing the room to take Tim by the shoulders. Startled, Tim looks up at him with wide eyes. "Tim. Explain. Now."

"I -" Tim searches his face, and then something in his expression shutters. "Yeah. Of course. You… might want to sit down for this."

"So let me get this straight," Bernard says. "When you said you were out taking urban photography as a kid, what you actually meant was you were out stalking Batman."

"Yes."

"And then Batman let you down. Your parents."

"Yes."

"And then you decided to kill him for it."

"I… not immediately," Tim says, breaking eye contact. "That first year was… I was cracking files, fabricating an uncle to avoid being put in the system. Some light blackmail, for that. Building up resources. I found the footage of their death. I watched it… more times than I can count."

Bernard sucks in a breath. Someone who didn't know Bruce might mistake the way he goes perfectly still at that to be stoicism; Bernard knows better.

They've moved to the Batcomputer, now. Tim spills his secrets cross-legged from a rolling office chair that usually goes in the labs. Batman is uploading all of Tim's files to a partition, each and every drive and file being meticulously swept for sabotage that Bernard knows isn't coming. Bernard is sitting up on the console. His back hates him for it, but he wants to be next to Bruce for this.

"I burned most of my photos, I guess, but back then I mostly blamed Craddock," Tim says. "I mean… I still do."

"Gentleman Ghost hasn't been sighted for months," Batman says. It's pointed.

"That's because he's in a magic prison on the seafloor," Tim says. He doesn't sound sorry at all, but then he looks up and catches Bernard's eye, and suddenly he's frowning and folding in on himself again. "I put him there."

"Jesus, Tim…" Bernard runs a hand over his face.

It's really hitting him now. He'd had no time to process it earlier, but a whole semester of interactions with Tim, who has always been a little antisocial but who cares so strongly for his friends, is squaring with… this. Tim seems to sense this, because he's watching Bernard now.

"I knew you'd hate me when you found out," Tim says, dully.

"Don't," Bernard says, and Tim flinches. "Things changed at some point. What was it?"

"When Jason died," Tim says, and Batman has gone very still indeed, hands frozen mid-keystroke. "Up until that point, it was… ideation. I was accruing resources and connections, but I don't think I would have ever had the guts to go through with it if Batman hadn't gotten Robin killed."

Bernard finds himself laughing. He can't help it, even as Tim looks up at him with wide eyes, and Bruce's head whips over to turn to him.

"Of course," he says, slamming a fist down next to him on the console. His laughing fit terminates just as abruptly as it came on. "When is it not about Jason? How could I have ever, for even five seconds, thought that this was not going to be about Jason Todd?"

"Um…" Tim is looking at Bernard with wide eyes.

"Go on," Batman says, his tone brooking no argument. To his massive and eternal credit, he doesn't look at the memorial.

"I, uh… right," Tim says, swallowing. "After that… Batman became someone I didn't recognize anymore. His methods became brutal. Injuries skyrocketed. Lives were ruined. Some people even died. I figured that… Batman needed a Robin. That losing Robin had revealed what had always been there. Someone dangerous masquerading as a hero. Someone who ruined everything he touched. I was already… angry."

Bernard doesn't bother looking at Bruce. He's not taking his eyes off Tim.

"You know that's bullshit," he says. Tim smiles a tight smile that isn't much of a smile at all.

"Yeah," he says. "I do now."

"You killed people, Tim," Bernard says, quietly.

"Yeah," Tim says. They lapse into silence for a moment before he continues. "I always justified it to myself as… minimal casualties. But when I realized who you were, and I imagined telling you..."

"Okay, actually," Bernard cuts him off, straightening. "This is getting me: You figured out I was Robin before the gala. You knew, and you let Anarky go ahead with it anyway. You knew Bruce Wayne was there, and you knew he was Batman, and you knew I was Robin, and you went ahead with it anyway. Why would you do that? How could you do that? To me, if no one else?"

Tim is looking at him straight on, now. There's a flicker of anger in his eyes.

"He took Robin away from you."

Bernard feels his eyes widen and his blood run cold.

"How do you know about that?" Batman asks.

"I put a tracker in your hoodie," Tim says. "It was also a bug. I heard it happen."

"You were stalking me," Bernard says, slowly. "Tim. What the fuck."

"I was… keeping an eye on you," Tim says, breaking eye contact to study the giant penny. "You kept coming to school beaten up. I was scared something was going to happen to you."

Batman makes a noise from next to Bernard. He is going to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt and assume that he is not currently thinking about how he would have done the same, the paranoid bastard, because if he doesn't, he's going to scream.

"Besides," Tim says. "Tell me you didn't look into me. You're Robin. I'm surprised you didn't notice my cover."

"That's -" Bernard strangles the air. "That's not comparable. And also I wouldn't have if Batman hadn't asked me to!"

"I did technically tell you -" Tim starts, and then stops when Bernard puts out a hand.

"Tim," he says. "You knew that he took away Robin and you - pretended to be out of state. You heard how I took it," and Bernard gets angrier the more he thinks about that, "and you went off to plan killing Batman instead of being there. I needed you, and you left. To kill my - someone I care about, even though he is extremely, super frustrating a lot of the time! Without asking me how I felt about it!"

He's hopping off of the console now, taking Tim by the shoulders, pressing him back until the chair reclines.

"If you had bothered to ask me," he says, almost laughing, now, again, "how I wanted to get revenge on Batman? Walking in the day after being fired from Robin with a reformed Moriarty would have been way, way up there, Tim! You don't know Bruce. It would have been worse than waterboarding him, actually!"

"Bernard," Bruce says, voice dripping with disapproval. Bernard doesn't care. Tim's expression, eyes blown wide, is gradually folding into regret.

"But you didn't," he says, quieter. "You just took over and did whatever you already wanted to do. Used me to justify it. It's so much worse, because I know you care about me, but you never trusted me enough to let me in, until… and you even decided how I'd feel about it. That I'd hate you."

"I'm sorry," Tim says. "Bernard, I - Moriarty is over. I'm - I can't take it back, and I know you'll never forgive me for… what happened to Darla. But I'm sorry."

Bernard lets out a slow breath, leaning back and withdrawing his grip.

"Right," he says. "You wouldn't know."

Tim just blinks, the obvious question going unvoiced.

"Darla is okay," Bernard says. "All of the victims of the amulet woke up."

"She's -" Tim sits up. Now he has Bernard by the shoulders. Desperately, as though he's clinging to the very idea. "Really? She's okay?"

"Yeah," Bernard says. "She's going to be okay."

Tim leans back, letting go of him, and sort of collapses back into the chair. For a second, Bernard thinks he's fainted, but it's just a release so extreme that he looks like a ragdoll, staring at the stalactites above.

"I thought I'd killed her," he says, faintly, and he just sounds so miserable that Bernard can't help but feel his heartstrings pull. "I missed her on the guest list. I was so… I'd just found out you were Robin, and…"

God, Bernard is so angry. And so everything. It's all a maelstrom with Tim at its centre. Maybe it has been for a while.

"The evidence checks out," Batman says, while Bernard sits there and tries futilely to process. At some point, he'd half-turned back to the screen. "He really did bring us everything."

He sounds… something. The usual amount of Batman skepticism, but there's something else there. Grudging, or maybe brooding. Maybe he's thinking about the Drakes.

"You can take me to the police, now," Tim says, quietly.

Bernard sighs.

Forces himself to speedrun feeling some things.

Makes a decision.

"What makes you think I'm doing that," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knows that's not what Batman was thinking, because he's getting shot a look.

"I, uh…" This seems to throw Tim considerably. "I'm turning myself in."

"You decided that, too?" Bernard says. "No. You're not doing that, Tim. You're staying."

"Robin," Batman says, and Bernard holds up a hand to shush him. He hears a muttered "oh, my" from Alfred. Tim is stunned.

"I know you," Bernard says. "You're not dangerous anymore, and you're just going to spend the whole sentence feeling sorry for yourself while we clean up your mess."

"I - that's not -" Tim swallows.

"And your whole life will be ruined, right?" Bernard throws up both hands. "Everybody will know that Tim Drake was a supervillain all along, and Robin will hate you? Your best friends will hate you? And you'll deserve it, because of all the things you did? That's how you want this to go, right? So you can feel punished enough?"

Tim's just staring at him wide-eyed, now.

"No, Tim," Bernard says. "You're staying. You're going to apologize to Steph and help her and her mom recover from this. And all the other people in this giant pile of evidence, you're going to help them too. I'm going to make sure you do."

"Robin," Batman puts in, again. "You're not thinking about this objectively. You're too close to this."

"I'm exactly close enough to this," Bernard says, "to know this is worse to him than arresting him."

"That's not how we operate," Batman says.

"Okay, well," Bernard says, flatly, "that's awesome. Let's go arrest Selina. And Helena. And Talia. I guess we're going to be busy, huh?"

Batman shuts up, mouth pressed into a thin line. To Bernard's immense satisfaction, he hears Alfred suppress a snort. He turns to see Tim looking at him like he's never seen him before.

"Or I guess you could do what Batman wants and go to jail," Bernard says. "Your choice."

Tim swallows. His hands are fidgeting, rolling the fabric of his jeans hard under his fingers.

"… You want me to stay?" he asks, and there's a universe contained in that question. Meaning upon meaning. You. Robin. Bernard.

"Yeah," Bernard says, thickly. "I do."

Tim averts his gaze. Looks down at his hands. Thinks, for longer than Bernard can stand. For the first time since Tim arrived, he feels the aches and pains of the day again.

Finally, Tim answers.

"It's -" he says. "It's the right thing to do."

Bernard kind of wants to cry, again. For a different reason. He won't. But it's close.

"It's what Robin would do," Tim adds, sounding a little surer.

"Yeah," Bernard says, "it is."

It takes a full hour of mind-numbing, supervised busywork at the Moriarty files before Batman seems convinced that Tim isn't going to suddenly change his mind. He's needed at the police station, to help with booking Anarky, something that Bernard not-so-gently encourages him to do. To leave them alone to do. Please. Thank you.

Eventually, Bruce gives in. (With a pointed good job today, Robin that makes Bernard think he knows what Bruce had been about to say before Tim had interrupted them.) Not so long after that, Alfred declares that there are some chores he'd been interrupted doing upstairs. Chores that need doing quite urgently, so if Master Dowd needs him he shall be available over the intercom.

Alfred is currently topping the tier list.

That leaves Bernard and Tim alone in the glow of the Batcomputer. Tim has his laptop out (he's not going to have Batcomputer privileges, they're not stupid), and he's been working dutifully this whole time. Bernard finds it in him to be impressed at the stamina; he himself is only being kept going after the day he's had by a combination of bat-training, caffeine, and sheer willpower.

This had come very close to not happening. He lets himself feel that, now.

"You almost died," Bernard says. Tim looks up from what he was doing.

"You almost died, too," he says. His eyes are even bluer in the screen-glow. He's clearly feeling it as well, looking at Bernard like he might disappear. "You saved me."

"You saved me, too."

Bernard doesn't know who moves first. Maybe both of them. But they meet in the middle in a ferocious, sudden hug, a mutual cling that feels like he's curling himself around a falling Tim one more time. Except - Bernard hisses as his temporarily-forgotten injuries make themselves loudly known, and Tim freezes and then adjusts, and it hurts less. Tim buries his face in Bernard's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, and he's breathing hard, and he's gripping at the fabric of Bernard's hoodie. "I never - I hurt you - I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry. Bernard."

And maybe it's the fact that Bernard has been waiting to hear those words, in that way. Maybe it's that Tim stayed, when it would have been easier to leave. Maybe it's that he's here, in Bernard's arms, and he almost wasn't. Maybe it's the fact that he can tell Tim means it with all of his heart. Maybe there's something fundamentally wrong with Bernard, because he shouldn't, but he -

he knows he's going to -

"It's," he mumbles, into Tim's hair as Tim begins to cry into his shoulder. "It's gonna be okay."

Eventually.

They stay like that for a while, Tim sobbing into his shoulder and then slowly but surely quieting down into hiccups and then strangely comfortable silence.

Bernard is listening to the approaching rumble of the Batmobile down the tunnels, contemplating if he can bring himself to pull away for Batman's arrival, when Tim's phone goes off ringing. Tim gropes blindly for it and brings it up behind Bernard's back to read the screen over his shoulder, and so Bernard is keenly aware when he suddenly tenses and then pulls away from the embrace to fumble for the answer button.

"It's Darla," he says, by way of explanation, and Bernard's world narrows down to a single point.

"Answer it!"

"I am!" Tim says, pulling the phone up to his face. "Hell- ow," he winces, as Darla yelling at him comes through loudly enough that Bernard can almost make out she's saying. "Okay, I can hear you. Yes. I'm - I'm okay. Are you?"

Bernard leans heavily against the Batcomputer console. The rumbling gets louder. Well, that solves that, he supposes.

"No, I - it's a long story," Tim says, throwing a sidelong glance at Bernard. "Yes, it's - I swear. Yes. I will tell you everything."

Bernard mouths Robin? and points to himself.

"No, not that. I mean everything I - no, sorry, that was at Bernard." There's a pause. "Yeah, I'm with - yes, he's okay too. You're - sorry, what? What?"

Two things happen in quick succession. First, the Batmobile rolls into the Batcave. Except it's not the Batmobile, Bernard realizes with a start. It's the blue-and-black hood of the Nightbird.

Before Bernard can begin to react to that, Tim grabs the arm of his hoodie like a lifeline.

"You have magic powers?!" Tim exclaims, at the same time that the Nightbird's top opens and practically ejects Nightwing, who looks harried and sleep deprived and is power-walking towards Bernard and Tim, whipping his head back and forth between Bernard and the obvious interloper.

"Who is this? What is happening?" he says. Tim's arm has gone lax, the phone falling away from his face, as he stares at Nightwing with wide eyes. "Why won't anyone tell me what the hell is happening?"

"You're Dick Grayson," Tim says, in the unmistakable cadence of a fanboy in awe, and Nightwing freezes, then full-body pivots to turn to Bernard.

"What the fuck is happening?!"

Bernard buries his face in his hands and tries, desperately, not to laugh. He fails. And as Dick sputters and Tim goes red in the face and Darla's increasingly angry voice comes from his phone's speakers, Bernard thinks that it's kind of weird, but…

It doesn't seem to hurt as much as it did before.

It's foggy.

It's normal for it to be foggy, this early in the morning, the first light of the coming dawn obscured by the banks rolling in from the Atlantic. The electric lights of the docks shine like beacons, hanging in the air like motes with their poles fading into the ether. The air is familiar, the bite of salt and the gently roaring wind reminding Tim of another time he was here, months and months ago.

It's why he's here now.

"I'm so tired," Bernard mutters, from where he's stooped over an elaborate set of chalk glyphs. "Why do we have to do this so early in the morning?"

"The book was very specific about when the ritual needed to be cast," Tim says, looking down at the book in his hands and scanning the circle they've created for any inconsistencies. "If I had to guess, there's some broader magical significance to the time just before sunrise."

"Magic is homophobic," Bernard says, and then pulls himself up, dusting off his cape. He's here as Robin, today. There are multiple reasons for that. Tim won't ever get used to it, he thinks; some things change, like Bernard's posture straightens out and the way he moves becomes alternatively fluid and still. Complete mastery of the body, nothing less than Batman demands of his protégés. Other things remain the same; Bernard's signature humour is as identifying now as it was when Tim first put the pieces together.

"Don't let Darla hear you say that," Tim says, turning the page and staring at an incantation that he's had memorized for days now.

Bernard just smiles wryly. He folds his arms, studying their work.

"I think we're good. You're sure this will work?"

They are good. Tim's most paranoid quadruple-check finds no error in the runes. He carefully closes the tome and shifts to stow it in his bag.

"No," Tim says, letting his eyes linger on the bag's zipper as he does it up. "But it's - I have to do it."

Bernard's hand is on his shoulder.

Tim looks up to meet his gaze. He hates doing that, these days. He's come to the disquieting realization that he never really knows what Bernard's thinking, and that is only made worse by the whited-out lenses that come with the Robin mask. Bernard's brow is pinched.

"You don't want to," he says.

"Not really," Tim admits.

Disassembling Moriarty has involved facing a lot of collateral damage that Tim didn't think to consider, when he was younger and stupider and had his sights set on revenge over everything else. Robin - Bernard - has seen all of it.

Tim has never been brave enough to ask what he thinks of Tim now, where they stand. He's stayed up late at night countless times thinking about it, though.

"I feel bad about a lot of things," he says, and then looks away, out over the ocean. Or what little of it can be seen in the fog, an unfathomably dark pool of water that stretches into a cessation of anything at all as it's enveloped by the mist. "But I don't - I don't feel bad about Craddock. I should. But I don't."

The hand on Tim's shoulder gives him a squeeze.

"He did kill your parents," Bernard says. Tim's unable to parse his tone.

"It felt good." Tim waits for the recoil. It doesn't come. He still doesn't look Bernard in the eye. "Like it was over, I guess."

"But it's not over," Bernard says. "Anymore."

"Yeah," Tim says, feeling incredibly tired. And not just because they got up at three in the morning for this, on a patrol night. "… We'd better get going. It's almost time."

"Right," Bernard says. His hand stays on Tim's shoulder a little longer than necessary before pulling away. No, Tim's probably imagining that.

Tim pulls out a knife.

Summoning Craddock goes surprisingly smoothly. It's the part afterwards that's dicey, but then, Tim predicted as much.

"YOU," Craddock snarls.

His voice precedes his form; the wind around them whips into a frenzy, blowing the fog away into a milky-white wall around them. Like the eye of a hurricane. The monocle comes first, and then the hat, and then wisps of Gentleman Ghost swirl in from the fog like they'd always existed there to come together into a misshapen, roiling form that only barely resembles a human.

The hairs on the back of Tim's neck stand up, but Robin is in front of him in an instant, shielding his body with his own.

Tim had a speech for this one, too, but it leaves him. Bernard's voice is the one that cuts through the maelstrom, instead. Sure and steady and brave.

"You're free, Craddock," he says. "Now get out of here."

"When you were kind enough to bring the brat right to me?" Craddock's voice booms. He recognizes Tim. Of course he does. One of the prices of the spell. "I don't think so. Do you have any idea what I've been through at this little monster's hands?"

"You'll kill him," Bernard says, flatly. "I won't let you do that. Last warning."

Craddock just throws his head back and laughs. And laughs, and laughs. He hasn't formed back into a human shape, yet, so his jaw opens wide, snakelike. Tim's had nightmares like this. He'd almost forgotten them - the same ghostly figure laughing and laughing as Jack and Janet Drake fall to their deaths, over and over.

It's only when Bernard grabs Tim's hand that he realizes he's shaking like a leaf.

The laughing ends abruptly as the entire force of the storm around them compresses to a point and then shoots forward.

Craacksshh!

The air changes, and the light around them is cloaked with red. There's a loud, eldritch sound, and the cloud that is Craddock bounces off of a wall of magical power.

"He warned you, dumbass," Darla says, stepping out from the fog with red-gloved hands cloaked in a glow that rivals the streetlights.

Darla stands tall, one hand on her hip and the other raised to cast. She's framed by a crimson cloak, hood down, hair loose and weightless as though she were underwater under the power she's radiating. The sheer white of the skull-shaped ghost mask that covers her forehead down to her nose and terminates with a stylized set of fangs stands out starkly against the raven of her hair and the mostly-black under-armor that the cloak is set over. Three more skulls complement it, one on her belt and two more capping knee-high red leather boots.

(Tim had never seen Darla happier than the day she'd been asked to design her own superhero costume.)

"Now who is this," Craddock says. His cape - which is starting to become discernible, now - whips around as he pivots to face her.

"Warlock," Robin says. "Our insurance, in case you decided to do something you'd regret. Say hi."

"Never heard of her," Craddock spits.

"Uh, never heard of you," Warlock says, and then strides forward with a mean smile. "You wanna try it? I'm ready, tea and crumpets."

For one terrible moment, Tim thinks that Craddock will actually attack. But then he looks back and forth between them. His form is nearly stable, now, and Tim can almost see him calculating the possibility that they have even more backup, that Batman is waiting somewhere out of sight.

Tim breaks out into a cold sweat as Gentleman Ghost howls his disapproval. For a terrible moment, he thinks that he's going to charge forward, but instead the ghost takes off like a shot. A static that had coated the air lifts, suddenly, and Tim lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Darla powers down, her hair returning to Earth as normal gravity takes over. The world has started to go orange with the approaching sunrise, the fog beginning to thin around them.

Darla stumbles forward. Bernard dives to catch her, and Tim lets go and just sort of stands there as he does.

"Shit," she says, taking his hand up. "Good thing he didn't call that bluff. Who made magic so stupid and cringe?"

"You mean tiring?" Bernard asks.

"I said what I meant." Darla scoffs, and, wobbling, pushes off of him to stand on her own.

"I think it just kind of is," Bernard says, straightening. "I think Batman also thinks that magic is stupid and cringe. If it makes you feel better."

"Uh, no, it doesn't," Darla says. "Like I'd be happy to agree with some - neurotic furry?"

Bernard laughs.

Tim doesn't laugh. He's staring at the magic circle they'd drawn. It's been smeared to incoherence, sigils melted like wax to a flame. Coated in blood. More than there should be.

He's uncertain if that's meant to happen. He hadn't researched much farther than what it would take to summon Craddock back out of the artifact without taking the demon with him. His palm still stings where he'd drawn his own blood to spill it on the docks. Will dreams of an eye staring out from the seafloor cease, he wonders.

"-rth to Tim?"

Tim's eyes snap up to see both of them looking at him.

"It's not like he was wrong," Tim says, dully. "What I did to him… I'd want to kill me, too."

"Okay, but I don't care about that guy," Darla says, punching him on the shoulder. "So fuck him."

"Warlock," Bernard says.

"What?" Darla scoffs. "He's also definitely gonna be back. I could, like, feel the strength of his hatred and shit."

"Your powers are so weird," Tim mumbles.

What worries him, he doesn't say, isn't that he has no idea what form of magic the amulet bestowed on his best friend. The problem is that Tim's been over every book on the subject that he could get his hands on and then through Batman's collection, and he doesn't like what he's found.

Maybe something of this concern comes through in the look he gives her, because Darla seems to shrink back a bit from her usual bluster.

"We'll be ready for him," Bernard says. "Batman has some ideas. He's been dealing with the guy for years, so."

"Yeah," Tim says, rubbing his arm. Belatedly, he wonders when he started hugging himself. That's embarrassing. He lets his arms drop. Bernard and Darla are both watching him.

"Hey." Darla is the one to break the silence. "He's wrong."

"Hm?" Tim blinks.

"He'd be wrong to kill you," Darla says, putting her hands on her hips. "If he does that, you can't carry my bags forever for throwing the world's worst party. You're not getting off that easy, Drake."

"Is that my sentence?" Tim feels the ghost - heh - of a smile coming on despite himself. "Lifetime imprisonment at Hot Topic?"

"Helping Batman is kind of like that already," Bernard says, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

The ghost of a smile turns into something dangerously close to a real smile.

"Thanks," Tim says. He finds himself sitting down, dangling his legs off the docks. He doesn't say: I didn't deserve it when you saved me.

There's a shuffle, and, suddenly, there they are. On either side of him.

"Look, I, um." Darla says, uncharacteristically taciturn. "… I might have lied to Batman a little bit. When he asked what happened in my head."

Tim doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't that. He expects Bernard to say something - he senses a shift in the air as Robin tenses next to him - but no one interjects before Darla speaks again.

"I didn't pass any test," she says. "I just killed her. The… person in there. Ghost or spirit or whatever."

There's a sharp intake of breath.

"What?" Bernard asks. "You said you just… passed the test the amulet gave you."

"Well," Darla says, "I didn't. Sorry I didn't want Batman to know I murdered someone."

"You could've told me," he says.

"Look, I was fucked up about it, okay?" Darla snaps. "Tim was getting community service and I'd just found out you were hiding being a superhero? Like, I guess it wasn't even murder, it was some kind of spirit, and I just… I had this feeling like something terrible was going to happen if I didn't wake up right then, and maybe it was a mercy kill, 'cause whatever Anarky did, it fucked up something in there big time. And maybe I never would have gotten magic freakin' powers if anyone was actually judging me fairly 'cause I'm just a piece of shit."

Tim finds his hand on her shoulder. She turns to glance at him, grimacing.

"That's bullshit," he says, "This whole thing is bullshit."

She lets out a big sigh, then casts her gaze back out to the ocean.

"Yeah," she says. "It is."

There's a pregnant pause between the three of them. Then, Bernard reaches over and places his own hand over Tim's, reaching around Tim's shoulders to do so. Probably the best he can do from that angle.

"I won't tell Batman," Bernard says. Tim looks over at him, surprised. He gives them a wry smile. "I mean… self defense. What else could you have done? Plus, you could have called yourself The Murderess and gone out and robbed a bank, with that backstory. You let us off easy."

"Fuck off," Darla says, reaching over Tim's head to shove him. "Fuck. God damn it. I could've been The Murderess. Where was this when I was picking names?"

"I thought you didn't want to advertise that," Bernard says, and sighs. "Look, I'm not saying this isn't a lot, but the fact that you're here, doing hero stuff, with us? I'm not gonna tell Batman. You should consider telling him, though. Seems like the kind of thing that could bite you in the ass."

"I'm only doing hero stuff because you guys are going to eat shit and die without me," she says. "I'm not a good person."

"Neither am I," Tim says. "I think you're a better person than me."

Bernard just sighs.

"Are we still gonna hang out?" Darla asks, very quietly. "Like, if Batman exiles me or whatever."

Oh. The thought hadn't occurred to Tim. Maybe it hadn't to Bernard, either, because he shifts again.

"Darla," Bernard says, leaning forward to get a better look at her. "Batman can eat my shorts. You're not shaking us that easily."

That gets a laugh from her.

"We do have a campaign to finish," Tim adds.

He doesn't mention his tenuous plan to show up at Gotham Academy this upcoming semester, because that's a surprise, but it is nice imagining her face for now.

"Oh, yeah, and nerd shit," she says, punching his shoulder lightly. As if she isn't the more engaged player of the two. "Can't forget that."

Nobody says anything for a bit. The fog is starting to clear, rows and rows of warehouses emerging slowly from the haze. The skyline of Gotham proper is no doubt filling in behind them, but Tim can't bring himself to turn entirely away from the water.

"I'm gonna go," Darla says, eventually. She stands up and stretches. "I need to get some actual sleep."

"Seeya," Bernard says. He makes no move to go. Much like Tim, he's still focused on the water.

They stay there for a few minutes, watching the sun begin to rise. Tim wonders offhandedly if any dock workers are going to spot them and think it odd that Robin is sitting with a random civilian, but no, the particular part of the waterfront they're sitting on isn't well-trafficked.

"You know," Bernard says, interrupting his train of thought. "I don't usually feel like a good person either."

That's an absurd statement. Tim's head swings over to see Bernard looking out at the water with an inscrutable look.

"You're Robin," Tim says.

"Yeah, I am." He sighs. "But that doesn't mean I automatically know what the right thing to do is."

"You're worried about Warlock?"

Bernard sort of hunches.

"Maybe," he says. "You know how you're always saying 'Robin would do this' or 'Robin would do that'?"

"Yeah," Tim says.

"Me too," Bernard says. "I keep thinking about it. Lonnie said it, too."

"Lonnie?" Tim bristles.

"I mean, he sucks, don't get me wrong," Bernard says. "But he was right about that one thing. God, maybe a lot of things. Makes you wonder how someone could go so wrong about it. But no, like, he was right about symbols. That Robin is, like, a thing you're supposed to… strive for. I guess. And that people get a message from it."

"He said that?" Tim says, frowning.

"He was way more annoying about it."

"Of course he was," Tim says, rolling his eyes. "Lonnie…"

"But, like, I'm just me," Bernard says. "Even after all this time, even after Spoiler, even after Batman agreed to give it back, there's this part of me that thinks I'm just someone pretending to be a good person, that everyone will realize I'm not, that they'll see who I really am, and… yeah."

"That's crazy," Tim says. Bernard looks over to meet his eyes, lips parting slightly. Tim tries not to look at them as he continues. "First off, Spoiler's a good judge of character. She still hates me -"

"She's been kinda coming around," Bernard protests. "Your Cluemaster Surveillance System didn't hurt."

"- and I know you, too. It wasn't Robin that noticed I was totally out of my depth on the first day of school. Was it?"

Bernard's giving him another look he can't decipher.

"I was going somewhere with this," he says.

"Right," Tim says. He realizes he was leaning in towards Bernard. That's no good. He retreats back into his own space, stiffly.

"What I was saying is," he says. "I don't think there's such a thing as being a bad person. Or a good person. I think if you decide to be Robin, and you do Robin things, you're Robin. Even if you feel like you're faking it."

"And what if you did a lot of bad things before you decided to do good things?" Tim asks.

"Then it's complicated and it sucks," Bernard says, shrugging. "But you decided to do good things. You decided to stay. That meant something."

This isn't about Darla anymore.

"So, for instance," Bernard continues. "I'm trying really hard to convince myself that I'm not a bad person because out of everything you did, and there's, like, so much, I'm still the most mad about you going to see my mom without me."

"Oh," Tim says, blood running cold.

"I shouldn't be," he says, running a hand over his face. "I feel like finding out you hired Felix Faust more than once should be worse."

"I'm sorry," Tim says. He looks down at the water. It's catching the light of the rising sun, but not in the shining peaks of full sunlight. The fog is still receding slowly.

Bernard takes his hand.

It's completely unexpected. Tim watches, stunned, as Bernard flips it over to look at the cut on his palm. He makes a little noise through his nose, and reaches into his utility belt.

"What will you do next?" he says, as he bandages Tim up. It's tender. Tim tries not to look into that.

"Next?"

"Like… don't get me wrong. There's still a lot of Moriarty to clean up," he says. "But you've been. You know. I've seen the work. You put in ten hour days. You're helping me on my cases. You're actually better than me at solving cold cases, by the way, it's kind of driving Batman crazy. Freeing Craddock? That's a big milestone, too. So… what next? Aside from school, I guess."

Tim stares at him blankly.

"I didn't think that far ahead," he says.

"I'm starting to see a concerning pattern," Bernard mutters.

"I mean," Tim says, rallying. "I guess my original plan was get revenge and then…"

He trails off. Live the rest of his life sounds vaguely right, but there'd always been a sort of void there.

"… and then nothing in particular. Until you came along. Then it was get revenge and, um. Be with you."

Bernard stills, midway through wrapping gauze.

"Which," Tim stumbles, "is, sorry, I didn't mean to. Bring it up. I know I… yeah."

"Yeah," Bernard says, and resumes applying the bandages. Slower this time. "I kind of needed some time."

Tim had figured he would. He'd thought about it often, even as he willed himself not to. Not to dwell on it, not to think about it, not to agonize over things being over before they'd even started. They'd never once talked about it, and Tim didn't push. It had been the least he could do.

That future Tim hadn't thought - won't think about - isn't magically materializing in front of his eyes. But there is one thing that he's sure of. Down to his bones.

"For what's next," Tim says. "I want to help you. For as long as you'll let me. If you want me to go, I'll go. But all my skills, all my resources, my connections, everything. I'm yours, Robin."

Bernard stops again, even more suddenly this time, and graces Tim with a wide-eyed look.

"Okay, um," he says. Is he turning red, or is that just the reds and oranges of the dawn? "Wow? Hitting me with that?"

"I mean it," Tim says. "But if you want me to go -"

Bernard is covering Tim's mouth with his hand.

"Stop putting words in my mouth," he says. "Seriously. Tim…"

He looks like he's struggling, a frown twitching at the edge of his mouth.

"… I'm mad about my mom because I wanted to be there," he says. "I didn't get the chance to think about it, but if I had, I'd have wanted to rub you in her face. Look at me. I'm happy. Here's proof that you were wrong about me. Face it."

The hand slowly withdraws. Tim swallows.

"I gave her the number of a divorce lawyer," he admits. Bernard chokes. "And offered to pay for it."

"Tim?!" he gasps out, in between guffaws.

"It seemed like the only way I could hurt your dad," Tim says. "Since I was pretty sure you didn't want me to order a hit or something."

He's being swept into a crushing hug. Bernard is shaking with mirth. Okay, this is happening.

"That's not fair," he says. "You can't be this funny. I - where was this restraint on Batman?! Tim?"

"I made mistakes!" Tim protests. "I'm sorry! Also, Batman's not married!"

Bernard is fully buried in his shoulder, now, muffling hysterical laughter. Tim is slowly bringing his hands up to rest on his back. The material the cape is made of is unpleasant to the touch, but it doesn't stop him. Nothing could.

When Bernard finally finishes his laughing fit, a process that has a lot of false starts, he doesn't let go of Tim, either.

"So this is Tim Drake, huh," he says.

"Yeah," Tim says. "That's me."

"I guess I'll be teaming up with him from now on."

A spark of hope alights in Tim's chest. We make a good team, he'd said, all that time ago.

"You want to?" he asks. Bernard pulls away from him, his eyes boring into Tim's.

"No more trackers or bugs," he says. It's very firm. "No more going behind my back, either."

"I understand," Tim says. Not entirely true. He actually has a lot of questions about Bernard's opinion on other forms of surveillance and where the boundary lies on traffic cam footage. He just has the feeling that voicing that right now will break this tenuous moment. "But… you're serious?"

"I…" Bernard says, and lets out a big sigh. "You hurt me a lot. But you stepped back from the edge when you didn't have to. For me. And then you stayed. For me. I guess I always knew I was going to forgive you. And…"

He's holding Tim's hand again. Which is odd, because it's not like it needs bandaging again.

"… Even after all that, I'm still kind of into it. How much of a freak you are, that is. Who offers someone they just met a divorce? What's wrong with you?"

He says it in such an affectionate way. Tim swallows.

"Into it?" he repeats. He feels his cheeks warming up.

"What, don't tell me you weren't thinking about that," Bernard says. "You're the kissing Robin guy. No way this hasn't been eating at you."

"Oh my God. I - you -" Tim stammers, searching his face. Had Tim really been that obvious? He's gaping. No, maybe Bernard is just that perceptive. Far better at solving cases than he would ever give himself credit for.

He wants to say, I'm not worth it. What about Batman? What about Spoiler? Nightwing? Won't everyone think you're crazy? Compromised?

But then he sees it. A familiar waver in Bernard's smile. Nervousness. It seems absurd that he could be nervous that Tim would turn him down, given everything, but maybe this has been a long time coming. Maybe Bernard made this decision a while ago.

Tim just has to trust him.

"You're sure," Tim says. It's not a question.

"I'm sure," Bernard says. "I had a whole spiel. Like, Tim Drake, do you want to go on a date with me? That kind of thing."

"I do," Tim says, quickly. "I - more than anything. I want that."

"Then…" Bernard leans in.

It's a different kind of kiss than the ones before. There's something close to but not quite hesitance in the way their lips come together. It's tenderness. It's something fragile they're both afraid to break. There's no tongue, no clack of teeth, no driving force to deepen it into something passionate. Just a soft press of lips and a breathless moment where they look into each other's eyes. Even so, everything falls away, just as before.

It's a promise.

Tim and Bernard hold hands and watch the sun rise over Gotham together.

Texting with 555-807-3453 (SMS/MMS)

555-807-3453: Hi, mom. It's me
555-807-3453: Tim said you wanted to talk

"You know, I think I was wrong about this," Bernard says. "This was not Killer Croc."

Bernard - Robin - is crouched over a manhole cover in the shadow of a building in the Narrows. He's only barely visible to the traffic cam on the street, feet from the alley's mouth. Darla was in frame a second ago, but now she's enveloped in shadows as Robin works.

"Who else would it be?" Warlock asks. "The fucking Ninja Turtles?"

"That's NYC, not Gotham," Batgirl says. She's high above, keeping watch from the rooftops. The footage from the private security cam that's got her likeness will need to be wiped later, just like the traffic cam below. Steph is visually sweeping the streets for signs of - anything. Something unexpected. Their adversary has remained unseen thus far, so everyone is tense.

"God bless New Jersey," Bernard mumbles. He takes a picture. It's in the Batcomputer's feed in moments, and with a few swift keystrokes, it's undergoing analysis. Bernard speaks before the computer is done, but they come to the same conclusion. "Then again, mutants aaaaare not off the table. The marks are too close together and not the right shape to be Croc, but something definitely clawed right into the cement here."

"Don't like that," Batgirl says. "Man-bat's not a sewer guy, so probably not him, right?"

"This is Gotham," Bernard says, pulling out a tablet. "Anyone can be a sewer guy, if they believe in themselves."

"Even you," Warlock says.

"Excuse you," he says, fiddling with some forensic equipment as he speaks. Contrary to his light tone, he's gathering a lot of information about the crime scene. His notes are already popping up in the feed. "Having a lair era is a normal step in a growing boy's development -"

"Okay, so what turtle are you, then?" Batgirl asks.

"I'm Mikey," Bernard answers. Onscreen, he's making a note about soil traces. "What kind of question is that?"

"Dude, you're way too sad to be Mikey," Warlock says. Batgirl snorts into her comm.

"Brutal."

"Besides," Warlock says, and the eyeroll is audible, "I'm Mikey."

"You are not Mikey," Bernard says. "You're Raph."

"What? Come on," Warlock says. "Raph is always bitching about not being in charge."

"No, you're definitely Raph," Batgirl agrees. "It's the red. And the property damage. And you do bitch whenever we tell you not to -"

"This is bullshit," Warlock groans, cutting her off. "Watcher, tell them I'm not Raph."

Tim's hands pause over the keyboard where he'd been running a search on known clawed supervillains.

"I think I have Donatello on lock," Tim says, carefully. "So that's taken."

"That goes without saying," Bernard says, a smile in his voice. He's gathering a soil sample, stashing it in his utility belt. Good. "Who's Leo, then?"

"D's kind of like a mini-Leo," Batgirl hums. "Hey, speaking of which, do they know about this?"

"Batman and Robin are currently staking out the Penguin's operations at the marina," Tim says. "Oracle definitely knows, but they're all busy making sure the city doesn't get hit with, um. A giant, umbrella-shaped missile." He pauses. "Also, if we're extending this to everyone, Hood is definitely Raph. No contest."

"Hah," Warlock says.

"He's out of town, right?" Bernard mutters. "And Black Bat is…"

"She's doing some kind of hush-hush thing," Batgirl says. "For Oracle."

"So zero backup expected for the disappearing sewer mutants today," Bernard sighs, straightening and stowing his equipment. "Awesome."

"Disappearing kidnapping sewer mutants," Batgirl adds.

"No, the way I did it goes with the - you know, the turtles song," Bernard says, and then the manhole cover moves.

The reaction is instant; Bernard backs away from the cover and drops into a combat stance, and while Tim doesn't have a direct angle to see Darla, the alleyway lights up with the magic she's no doubt collected around her hands, ready to strike. Up on the rooftops, Batgirl is readying batarangs. Tim curses as he flips his attention to Bernard's mask cam and sees a familiar figure emerge.

"It's called tetrameter," Anarky says. "Why am I not surprised to see your little Scooby gang wasting time arguing over inanities while a monster is on the loose?"

"Lonnie," Bernard says. He, and only he, relaxes, scrubbing a hand over his face and letting out a long sigh.

"Anyone up for whack-a-mole?" Warlock says.

"So it's a monster?" Batgirl says, touching down next to them after an elegant descent. "Sounds like you know something we don't. Talk."

Lonnie holds up his hands in a disarming gesture, leaning back against the edge of the manhole. Darla sighs, put-upon, and the magic glow disappears from more than one of Tim's screens.

"So they say," Anarky says, voice calmer than the angry face of his mask, creating a dissonance as usual. His newer costume is a lot different than his older ones, having discarded the Fawkes iconography for something more urban somewhere along the way. His mask is painted, now, with rough and jagged lines that form a red-eyed, toothed snarl instead of the sculpted haughty judgement from before. He's got a thinner red windbreaker over a larger, dark green hoodie which hits his mid-thigh over black cargo joggers. The whole thing is done up with spray paint, the anarchy symbol predictably front and centre, and - and -

"Why the fuck is he wearing that," Tim says, eyes catching on a button he's got pinned to his outer jacket.

"Oh, this?" Lonnie thumbs the Robin symbol. "Haven't you heard? I'm Robin -"

"Dude, is he on our comms?" Batgirl says, at the same time that Tim says, "You are not Robin!"

"- as is anyone who wants to be," Lonnie continues, heedless of both of their interjections. "That's kind of the whole point of We Are Robin."

Bernard makes a thoughtful noise as Tim seethes and considers, not for the first time, throwing away his entire rehabilitation to kill Lonnie.

"So you're working with those guys?" Bernard says. "That's a surprise. I didn't take you for a team player."

"I'm always for a democratization of power," Lonnie says, crossing his arms. "Frankly, they need the help. The spirit is willing, but aside from a few standout talents, they're a motley crew. Just my type, lucky for them."

"So what I'm hearing is in a few months we're going to be dealing with some kind of Robin civil war," Darla says. "When you tell them they've gotta take out the real Robin or some stupid shit like that."

"Seizing the means of Robin?" Bernard mutters.

"Perish the thought." Anarky's lips quirk up. "As entertaining as that sounds, I'm not in charge. Not even a full member."

"Wow, there might actually be hope for them, then," Batgirl says, flatly. "Tell me we're not doing the alliance thing today."

"We're not," Tim says. "Robin -"

"There are seven missing people," Bernard says, and the air changes over comms as that sinks in. "Let's not make it eight. If Lonnie knows something and he can keep himself from backstabbing us for one night, we should hear him out."

"There's my third-favourite Robin," Lonnie says, smug as ever. The bastard.

"I don't care about your tier list," Bernard says. "Talk. It's your favourite thing to do."

"Fine," Lonnie says. "We've been investigating the disappearances. You've probably come to the same conclusions we did, initially. Attacks in low-income neighborhoods, targeting activists and those vocally against the removal of the encampment on the empty lot near the Marina. We didn't have our boots on the ground long before we poked our noses somewhere they didn't belong. Lo and behold, a monstrous -"

"Do you guys feel something?" Warlock asks.

There's a beat of silence, before -

Anarky screams as he's pulled downwards into the manhole.

"Oh, there's eight," Tim says. "Too bad."

"Shit!" Batgirl dives after him, and then Bernard does, too. Tim presumes that Warlock is after them, but he's busy looking for any other feed down there. He's tapped into the mask cams, but it's dark. He's only catching flashes of light in the darkness of Gotham's sewers, Warlock's magic illuminating figures in bursts as she fires off blasts of magic and throws up force fields to shield the others. Two huge, glowing eyes are the only thing that hangs in the dark shots.

"What the hell is this thing?!" Batgirl shouts, as she rolls out of the way of a cruel, clawed blow that rakes into the stonework behind her. Actually, that looked like - no, it couldn't be. Tim's mind must be playing tricks on him.

"I don't - know-!" Lonnie's voice comes through, distantly.

"Don't let it escape," Bernard says, and based on the rapid movement of his mask footage, he's probably ducking and rolling to get behind it. "We don't know if it'll kill him!"

"Perish the fucking thought!" Warlock says, but she shows no signs of belaying the order. This time, as her magical darts light up the space, Tim takes some freeze frames.

He stares at them.

"It's -" he starts. "Oh my God."

"What?!" Batgirl says. "What now?!"

"Flashbang it!" Tim says, standing up at the console.

"Cover your ears!" Bernard responds instantly, and the footage whites out. There's an inhuman screech, and then a monstrous scrabbling sound, and a splash, and Tim's view through Bernard's mask comes online just in time to watch the beast retreating through the sewers.

Anarky groans, pulling himself up from the water.

"Well," he says. "I suppose I should thank you."

Bernard's point of view shifts. He's probably slumping against the wall.

"Good call, Birdwatcher," Bernard says. "How'd you know what to do?"

"I don't know if I want to say," Tim says, slumping back into his own seat to match. Bernard makes a questioning noise with his throat.

"Dude," Warlock says. "What do you mean by that."

"It was," Tim says, "A giant, mutant… owl."

There's a pause.

"No way," Bernard says. Tim can practically hear his eyes lighting up.

"No way," Warlock echoes. "Oh, God, why did you tell him that?"

"I can't exactly not," Tim protests.

"What the hell are you guys -" Batgirl pauses. "No. Oh, no, come on, don't do this to me."

"Care to share with the class?" Anarky says, shaking himself off. "It's not like there are lives hanging in the balance or anything."

"Lonnie," Bernard says, shit-eating grin audible. "Old buddy old pal. Have you ever heard of a little something called the Court of Owls?"

Everyone groans.

"- I'm just saying if I hypothetically were to never let it go, it would be reasonable on my part," Bernard says, walking out of one of the Nest's changing stalls. "Since I, oh, what was it that I did? Oh yeah. I told you so."

Darla throws a pillow from the couch at him. He lets it hit him in the face. It doesn't dampen his mood at all. Judging by the scowl she's leveling at him, it's showing on his face.

"You're dead to me, Dowd," she says. She's already changed - natural, since she doesn't need a changing room to do it, just a snap of the fingers. Her tastes have run more and more alternative over the years, and she's currently sporting a corset-and-chains look with ripped sleeves and some truly precarious looking platforms. "Brown, get off your phone and back me up."

"Kind of busy here," Steph says, biting her lip and furrowing her brow as she texts. She's a huge contrast to Darla, her outfit clearly chosen for athletic considerations today, but Bernard admires that Steph always manages to look put-together in anything.

"How goes the custody dispute?" Bernard asks, wandering over to the computer area as he speaks.

"He picked up Yap the last time he broke out, we're good," Steph says, rolling her eyes. "I'm texting Cass. I think she's the chosen one or something. Trying to find out for what."

"Yeah, sure, that would happen." Bernard says. "So it's my turn next, then? Unless I fall victim to the very real Court of Owls, that is -"

Steph lobs another pillow at him. He ducks this one, laughing all the way to Tim's chair.

Tim is so absorbed in his work that he doesn't react until Bernard puts a hand on his shoulder. When he does, he jumps, startled, blinking up at Bernard - heh - owlishly.

"Hey," Bernard says. "Earth to Tim."

"Hey," Tim says, giving him a lopsided smile. "Good job out there today."

"Back at you," Bernard says, planting a quick peck on Tim's forehead. "Quick thinking with the flashbang."

"Well, once I knew it had nocturnal senses, it wasn't that much of a stretch," Tim says, looking away. For a moment, Bernard thinks he's flustered, but he's actually looking sidelong at a truly impressive array of research up on the many monitors.

Like every other part of Bernard's hideout, the local Batcomputer station has been tightly intertwined with Tim's presence. He's added more monitors, customized the headsets, brought in his own chair, there's a charging station and a snack drawer. Several mugs sit off to the side that he's hoarded, waiting to be washed.

The whole place is both Tim's and Bernard's in a way that neither of them has ever fully addressed. Bernard's shelf of games and DVDs is mixed with items Tim brought in over time. The labs are a lot cleaner than they ever were when just Bernard was using them, and have also crept into adjoining rooms as Tim added tinkering stations. The hamper near the sleeping area has a roughly fifty-fifty split on ownership of any given item, and that line has blurred over time. Tim has added a chemical analyzer to the microwave; Bernard dragged in a bigger mattress.

At some point it had stopped being the lair and started being Robin's Nest. (Or Goldfinch's nest, now, he supposes, but Bernard rarely uses the callsign unless he doesn't want to be mixed up with Damian, so he - and Tim - cling to the first one in private.)

Which is why it's concerning that Tim has a map of Gotham's known underground up on one of his monitors.

"Are we safe here?" Bernard asks. "If they're using the tunnels…"

"I'm trying to figure that out," Tim says, and then sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Lonnie forwarded his intel. It pains me to say, but I think you're right. This smells like old money. I just don't know how all of us could have missed something supposedly so old and far-reaching. Batman, Oracle, me…"

"It's Gotham." Bernard shrugs, leaning against the side of the chair, holding the back to keep it steady. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that she always has another surprise in store."

Tim hums, turning back to stare at his notes. One finger taps lightly against they keyboard.

"Plus, it didn't get past all of us," Bernard says, lightening his tone. "I don't know if you were paying attention, but someone totally -"

"I get it," Tim says, reaching out a hand to cover Bernard's mouth. He grins and kisses Tim's palm. Tim shoots him a flustered look, reddening, and Bernard wiggles his eyebrows.

"Get a room," Darla says, from the living room.

"This is my room," Bernard says, extricating himself from Tim's hold easily.

"Okay," she says, getting up. "Then I'm leaving before you guys go at it sloppy style or something."

"We're not going to do anything here right now -" Tim starts.

"Yeah, I'd have left the suit on," Bernard finishes, grinning widely.

The reaction is immediate. Tim chokes, Darla shrieks and throws the last pillow at Bernard with magic behind it this time, beaning him solidly in the stomach. Steph laughs until she snorts, burying her face in her sleeve. Darla throws them the bird and teleports out with a blink.

"Aw," Bernard says, a little out of breath. "She left before we could schedule D&D night."

"Okay, well, I'm going to go too," Steph says, getting up and gathering her duffel bag. "Man, I have a paper due Wednesday. I'm so cooked. Why can't these secret societies ever slow down around midterms?"

"Godspeed," Bernard says, saluting. "And, uh… careful on the way out. Owl mutants and stuff."

"Will do, Boy Wonder," Steph says, waving as she leaves.

Then, it's just Tim and Bernard. They sit in silence for a few seconds.

"So," Bernard says. "You want me to go get the suit or -"

Beep-beep! Bernard's phone goes off, and he pauses to check it.

"- nevermind," he says. "Thaaat's my mom. Dinner at my place?"

"Yeah," Tim says. It's really cute the way he tries not to look disappointed as he nods, still red as a tomato. Even so, his voice is warm. "Of course."

Dinner comes and goes. Bernard can feel his mom side-eyeing a scrape he picked up in the fight earlier, but as is usual nowadays, she says nothing. She knows, he knows she knows, and she knows he knows she knows. There's no point in rehashing old arguments. Instead, they eat pretty good roast chicken and slightly under-seasoned mashed potatoes (which still taste like home), his mom asks about school plans (which neither Tim nor Bernard have locked down yet, with everything going on), and retire to the fire escape near the roof overlooking Robinson Park (but not before a hug, which, several years on, Bernard is still getting used to).

There's another thing Bernard is still getting used to.

BM: I saw your team's progress on the Marina disappearances. Good job.
GF: Thanks. court of owls real not clickbait
BM: I hope for everyone's sake that you're wrong about that.

Smiling to himself, Bernard stows his phone, letting his head tilt back and relax where he's resting his head on Tim's lap. Tim is moving above him; periodically, the shutter from his camera breaks the comfortable silence.

"You should go for photography," he says. From his vantage, Tim's figure looms over him, the folds of flannel eventually making way to his chin and a soft frown of concentration. The lens is pointed down, today, and he's fiddling a lot with the zoom, so maybe he's doing crowd shots. Bernard is reminded, either way, of the stone-cold and frankly unjust fact that Tim is taller than him now.

"Hm?" Tim removes his face from the viewfinder and looks down.

"To school," Bernard clarifies.

"It's just a hobby," Tim says, simply. Then he gnaws at his lip, looking at the preview screen a little too hard. "Besides. Too much work to do."

"… Something eating you?" Bernard asks, drawing up one knee and looping his arms around it. "You've got your thinking cap on."

"Do you think we should try and check on those kids?" Tim asks. He puts the camera down gingerly on his other side. "I don't like the idea of leaving Lonnie with them unsupervised."

Bernard hums.

"You with Darla on the Robin war thing?" he asks, voice light. "That does sound like it would suck."

"Something like that," Tim says. "He's up to no good, right?"

"I don't know about that," Bernard says, tapping a finger against his knee. "Did you notice? He seemed a little different than usual. I think he knows one of the victims."

Tim frowns, taking this in. He looks down at Bernard, searching his face.

"… I guess. That would make sense," he says. "That would require me to believe that he's capable of making friends with another human being, though."

Bernard snorts.

"Maybe he's finally met his manic pixie dream girl," he says, and Tim chuckles. "Or guy. He'll learn a lesson about self-worth and start organizing mutual aid instead of holding bridges hostage. For real this time. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Yeah, that's never happening," Tim says, smiling down at Bernard nonetheless. "… You really don't give up on anyone, do you."

Bernard sighs and lets his leg go slack, fiddling with his hands where they rest on his stomach, now.

"If I did, I'd have given up on you," he says, and doesn't say maybe me, too. "I can't do that."

It feels a little unfair, sometimes. That even in moments like these, when the dark should be banished by Tim's smile, that it's always there. Right under the surface. Waiting to pull him down, drag at his limbs and envelop him in its depths.

Tim moves, taking his hand and moving it gently up and away from his wrist. Oh, he'd been pressing at a bruise. He hadn't even noticed his hand creeping up his sleeve to his arm.

Bernard meets his eyes and then looks away.

"What do you think we'll do after Robin?" he asks. Tim blinks.

"After… Robin?" he says, after a moment. He's frowning. "I never thought about it."

"Me neither," Bernard says.

He'd never really thought he'd live to see it, he doesn't say. Maybe Tim feels the same, maybe he doesn't. It's staring them both in the face now either way.

They both seem content to let that one sit for a while. Bernard shifts, sitting up to lean against Tim's shoulder, and Tim picks his camera back up, snapping candids. Bernard watches the photos as they're captured on the display. An old man on a bench, resting with his groceries. A group of high school kids, out late, peering into the park through the outer bars of the gate. A couple, holding hands, caught as one woman turns her head to the other. The warmth of the moment leaps out of the frame. Tim seems to feel the same way, his fingers resting still on the buttons of his camera until the screen goes dark.

"It's funny how you can tell," he says. "Even from up here."

"Think they'd feel the same way if they looked up?" Bernard mumbles into his shoulder.

"I hope so," Tim says. He sounds thoughtful.

That would be nice, Bernard thinks, letting himself relax against Tim's side.

"I think," he says, "I want to go to culinary school."

Tim straightens.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"That makes sense," Tim says. "Here in Gotham, or…?"

The unvoiced question: What about Robin? (Or maybe: What about me?)

"They're going to have to pry me out of this town with a crowbar," Bernard says, smiling into the fabric of Tim's sleeve. "Might be nice to get a place closer to Gotham U, though. What do you think?"

"I think… that makes sense?" Tim says, hesitantly. Bernard snorts and finally raises his head up to look Tim in the eye.

"What do you think about getting a place, Tim?" he asks, again, and Tim looks at him blankly for a few seconds before he catches on. His lips part and his eyes widen a little as he starts to blush, to Bernard's great satisfaction.

"Wh- like, together?"

"Yeah, unless you want me to ask if Steph wants to rehash the roomie situation," Bernard says, and Tim shakes his head.

"No," he says, quickly. "That's fine. I'll find us a place."

"You'll find us a place?" Bernard's eyebrows shoot up. "Sugar daddy much?"

Tim makes a choked noise and elbows him. Bernard grins.

"You have Wayne backing," he says. "You're paying your half of rent. There's just, you know. Security concerns, I have to set up internet, cooling… a clandestine sublevel or three…"

"Secret bookcase doors," Bernard teases, and Tim snorts.

"Yes, actually," he says. "Unless you want guests wandering into mission control."

"Tim, that is the number one place I would look for a secret door," Bernard says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Scooby Doo could find your mission control, man."

"It's negotiable," Tim grumbles. "If I put it behind a fridge, then there's heating issues."

"I need the fridge."

"It would still be usable. What about…"

They drift off into half-formed plans, their words swallowed by the background noise of the Gotham streets before it reaches the ears of anyone else.

It's also sounding a bit more permanent than just an apartment for school, but Bernard doesn't feel like touching that right now. Maybe Tim doesn't, either, because even as Bernard lays his head back down on his lap and intertwines his fingers with Tim's, as they go back and forth on this and that thing that they'll need, or maybe that they just want, neither of them mention that no one is renting that kind of real estate. Nor do they mention that they're leaving a sort of room between the lines. That goes beyond lairs, beyond rooms at the manor, beyond shared hours in one another's bedrooms.

Maybe even beyond Robin. The thought squeezes Bernard's heart, but -

(Tim's camera lays forgotten on the fire escape next to them, its memory filled with normal people doing normal things. Shot with the same reverence that Tim once held for Batman and Robin, glimpsed from alleyways and shadowed rooftops.)

- maybe that's okay. Maybe they can be Tim and Bernard. Maybe Robin will always tie them together, but for the first time in a long time, for Bernard, the future is coming into focus.

When they go back inside, it's to a warm bed with tangled limbs and phones pointedly left on silent.