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The thing is. The thing is. Bernard had heard Batman speak before. You don’t live your whole life in Gotham without being rescued by the Bat at least a dozen times. So of course, Bernard knew what Batman’s voice sounded like.
The thing is, usually, seeing Batman in all his dark and brooding glory gave that voice context. When you hear a deep rumbling voice emanating from something that seems more shadow than man you don’t question who is speaking. That’s obviously Batman.
The thing is , this time, Bernard couldn’t actually see Batman. This time, one of his eyes had swollen shut and the other was full of sweat, blood and more than a few tears. He was not ashamed to say that after the third hit, he’d started bawling like a baby. It’s whatever, he had managed to get off a few quips and one sarcastic question about the short thug’s parentage before they started wailing on him.
So to recap, Bernard knew what Batman sounded like, but without the gift of sight his brain had to do that thing where it searched recent memories to find a face to match the voice to.
The thing is, for some reason, his brain returned the face of Bruce Wayne.
Which was obviously wrong.
Right?
Okay. Hold on. Clearly, he needed to do some system diagnostics. He was probably concussed, that was a thing. Right? Head trauma could cause wires to get crossed. Pressure building in his skull could cause him to hallucinate an eccentric billionaire (hopefully-future-father-in-law) rescuing him from a mugging.
Luckily, this wasn’t his first rodeo with blunt forces and head injuries, he had a checklist for this.
Nausea? No.
Dizziness? Not really, just some mild disorientation that could easily be chalked up to adrenaline and the fact that he'd recently been thrown into a stagnant puddle of alley water.
Headache? Sure, but not in the ‘ everything is spinning and my brain is trying to crawl out through my ear canal ’ way. More like someone had stuck a tuning fork behind his temple and given it a polite tap.
So.
Probably not concussed.
As a final ditch effort to straighten out his brain, he pictured the Wayne family portrait and started overlaying the rest of Gotham’s protectors. Unfortunately, he had a startling amount of success. To be completely honest, he’d entertained more than a few naughty fantasies about Red Robin in his time but this was a bit much, Bern.
“Are you alright?”
Bernard’s one good eye was starting to clear, just enough to make out the shape crouched beside him; cape, cowl, bat ears and all. Definitely Batman.
But the voice?
He knew that voice from the Wayne family dinner table. From movie nights in their private theater. From the time Bruce let himself into Tim’s apartment without knocking and proceeded to give a twenty-minute lecture on the importance of lubrication to two boys who were already, frankly, well-versed in the subject.
It was Bruce Wayne.
Which meant Bruce Wayne was Batman.
“Sure. Yeah. That tracks. Why the fuck not?”
The thing is. Tim was more than a little obsessed with Bernard’s face.
He was more than a little obsessed with his boyfriend as a whole really. From an outside perspective it probably didn’t look like the healthiest relationship, what with the location tracking and invasive background checks (that Bernard didn’t actually know about).
He liked every aspect of his boyfriend's body really, but there was something particularly captivating about those blue eyes and faint freckles. Tim liked to spend hours watching Bernard smile and laugh in the middle of his college classes (through the lens of a spotter’s scope). He liked seeing Bernard’s customer-service smile soften into something more genuine when he joked with a coworker at the café (through the pinhole camera he had wired into the coffee machine).
The thing is , tonight Bernard’s face was unrecognisable.
Tim dropped into the alley without breaking stride, cape snapping once before settling against his armor. Two hostiles down. One more still groaning under Bruce’s gauntlet while he awkwardly steadied a battered civilian slumped against the wall.
“Red Robin.” Bruce’s voice was clipped. “Take him.”
Tim shifted in instantly, letting the injured man’s weight collapse into him. The civilian settled easily with a sigh, resting his forehead on Tim’s shoulder.
Odd.
Victims usually shook, or clung, or cried. They didn’t… settle.
“Possible concussion,” Bruce reported as he wrenched a zip tie tight around the groaning thug’s wrists. “Ambulance en route.”
The civilian’s head lolled against Tim’s shoulder. “What, no bat-hospital? You guys must have one, right?” His voice rasping but clearer than Tim expected, not panicked, almost conversational. “What happens when one of you gets hurt? Do you have a bat-doctor? Or do you just forge all the antibiotic prescriptions? There’s no way your spleenless ass isn’t risking a serious infection nearly every night.”
Everything was suddenly very still. Bruce’s gaze snapped to the man in Tim’s arms. Civilians sometimes tried to talk through head injuries, but they didn’t accurately identify missing organs.
Tim pulled back to analyse the man’s face.
His swollen eye cracked open, a flash of blue beneath the bruising.
Blood streaked across pale skin, but not enough to hide the scatter of faint freckles along the cheekbone.
The air punched out of Tim’s lungs. This weight in his arms wasn’t a stranger to log and assess. It was Bernard, his Bernard, broken and bleeding all over him.
The careful, clinical detachment shattered in an instant.
“Oh god.” His voice cracked with emotion, his hands moving jerkily, desperate and too careful all at once, brushing back blood-matted hair, checking the sluggish rise of his chest. “Bern—”
He was frantic, trying to trace the bruises without pressing too hard, checking for broken ribs and flinching at every hitch of breath.
“Stay with me, please,” he muttered, words tumbling out uneven and too fast. “Just—just stay awake, you’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re fine—”
A shaky hand lifted, dragging clumsily down the length of Tim’s arm. His split lips tried to curve into a grin.
“So…” his voice rasped, low and teasing, “Think there’s a chance this outfit makes it into the bedroom?”
Tim let out a startled, incredulous laugh, shaking his head, somewhere between horrified and impressed. “Unbelievable.”
Bernard tried to laugh with him but immediately grimaced, spitting blood onto the cracked pavement at Tim’s feet.
“About that ambulance?”
Bruce’s shadow loomed beside them, his voice soft and even. “I’ve cancelled it. We’re taking you to Leslie, who definitely does not answer to bat-doctor.”
Tim tightened his hold, forcing his voice steady even as it cracked. “Congrats, Bern,” he said softly, almost like a secret. “You get to see the bat-cave.”
Bernard blinked up at him, dazed but grinning wider. “Kinda grateful for the blood loss right now,” he muttered, voice catching, “Because that might be the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
The thing is, tonight, Bernard’s face was unrecognisable. But Tim would know that voice, and that reckless, infuriating sense of humour, anywhere.