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“Like, I hate complaining,” Bernard complains. “But really it’s a really simple drink and honestly, I’m astounded she messed it up.” He laughs. It’s trivial, like most things in his life. Tim isn’t really listening anyway, the soft clacks of his keyboard the primary noise coming through the loudspeaker as Bernard pulls out the ingredients for dinner. He doesn’t mind because if Tim started talking about his day, Bernard too would only be half-listening, more focused on the comfort quesadillas he deserves after a long shift.
Company without interaction, is what he deems it privately. They’re both busy, Tim busier than most anyone, so unless it’s a date night, there’s an assumption of multi-tasking.
Except, Tim stops typing. “Was it a new barista?” he asks very casually.
Bernard scans the fiesta cheese blend for an expiration date. “Um, maybe? I’m not a regular regular, but she didn’t seem super familiar.” The cheese is still good.
“Any identifying- I mean, what did she look like?”
“Like a barista?” The question makes his voice go high. He melts some butter in the pan. “I don’t know, hair, eyes, body?” He tries a little harder because Tim still isn’t typing which means this is somehow Important. “She… had dark hair. I don’t think it was curly or anything. She was skinny, maybe my height. Skin tone somewhere between Dick and Damian?”
She was largely unremarkable except that she somehow turned an americano into a pumpkin spice latte.
“Okay,” Tim says quietly.
“Why-”
“Did you see that they’re making another season of Big Brother?”
Bernard goes very, very still. Shallow breaths puff out his lung and he feels eyes on the back of his neck. He doesn’t turn around.
His boyfriend continues speaking like he didn’t just say that. “Steph’s probably stoked. I think they just started filming, so it’ll probably be a bit before it comes out.”
He picks his phone off the counter and clicks it off loudspeaker. He clenches his fist around it so that his hand doesn’t shake.
“Are they-” He clears his throat like that’ll shove his heart back down. “Did- Celebrity or normal?”
“You know,” Tim says lightly. “I’m not actually sure.”
The obvious result of Tim’s paranoia and Bernard’s conspiracism is a series of code words. Fairly standard practice for anyone in the cape community and probably detectable by anyone tearing down the capes themselves.
What makes Tim and Bernard so special is that they have a veritable language of code phrases, made up of the reality TV shows hate watched by one Stephanie Brown.
It came together a late night in the Nest, after Tim checked, double checked, and tripled checked for bugs and shut down all his own recording devices. Nothing had happened, nothing had triggered the want for a private form of communication. But Bernard’s been following heroes for longer than he’s known Tim and he knows now what it means when Lois Lane goes missing and Superman’s eyes go red.
Tim memorized it as fast as they spun titles into meanings and Bernard stayed up all night until he could spit out that RuPaul’s Drag Race meant going undercover soon and Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives meant low risk stake out scheduled.
Big Brother, Tim said. You’re being watched.
From then out, Bernard remains on guard. Tim doesn’t know if it’s Red Robin or Timothy Drake-Wayne related, so he becomes very careful. No staring at the burner phone that appeared on his coffee table a few months back and only has one number saved. RH, the contact says.
No turning up the scanner in his rig when a vigilante is referenced. Shrugging at Clarissa’s raised eyebrow at his lack of interest.
No leaving his bathroom window unlocked in case an injured Bat needs treatment. He doesn’t even quadruple check that his home med kit is stocked.
It doesn’t matter. None of Tim’s siblings come by, even though it’s been nearly a month since Spoiler sprawled out on his linoleum with a slash of what could’ve been claws down her right arm. He’s due for another drop in, but word must’ve gotten out to the other Bats.
Not even Red Robin crashes anymore.
“I love Jamie, don’t get me wrong, but the entire Hobbit trilogy in one weekend is pushing it,” Clarissa huffs. Their rig is parked outside a Taco Bell. There isn’t much to do but chat as they wait for dispatch to direct them to the next emergency. “Anyway, enough about me,” Clarissa says, which is a lie. His partner loves nothing more than to blab about her spouse and she will get back to it the moment Bernard hands the conversational reins over. “How are you? How’s Tim?”
Bernard tears his gaze away from where he sullenly stares out at the passing traffic, wondering if his stalker (stalkers?) are among the zipping cars. He smiles because he’s supposed to. “He’s good.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but thinks better of it. Jamie had surgery a few months back that didn’t get covered by insurance because they live in a shitty country where top surgery is considered elective. He can envision it so perfectly, Clarissa—up to her ears in bills, drowning in collection calls, picking up extra shifts—being approached by a faceless stranger. I can make your worries disappear, the figure says. All you need to do is pass on any information Bernard Dowd provides about his boyfriend.
His jaw snaps shut. His nails dig into the split gray plastic of his seat. “Jamie didn’t make you watch Lord of the Rings too?”
Clarissa laughs and he can’t detect any disappointment-apprehension-deceit in her soft wrinkles. But he’s no Cass. He’s no Tim.
For all he doesn’t see the Bats, he suddenly sees a lot of the Waynes.
Dick re-ups his CPR training at the 172 and always hangs around after to chat with Bernard’s co-workers.
Steph is studying at his preferred coffee shop, bobbing her head to a BTS song and waving for him to join her before his shift.
Cass tries out a Zumba class at the YMCA on the same block as his favorite deli.
Jason goes thrifting at the Goodwill Bernard finds weird artworks to gift Tim.
Duke goes on a run past Bernard’s fire station while they’re hosing off their rig.
Even Damian, who by all accounts hates Tim, takes Titus on a walk in the park near Bernard’s apartment.
Bernard always says hi and gives them meaningful looks that glance off their features. He expects… Well, he read a lot of spy books as a kid. He expects ciphered notes slid across tables and flower arrangements with grander meanings and futuristic technology to dampen their voices.
But no one ever says anything. When he asks about Tim, they all say he’s busy-good-annoying-as-usual.
No one mentions any reality shows, except Steph who is currently binging Survivor. Out of country mission, medium risk.
He’s pretty sure she is in fact binging Survivor, especially since Tim has been at WE, nine to five, no exceptions. He’s made both of their recent date nights on time and didn’t swing away early. It’s too perfect. It’s like they’re not seeing each other at all.
He keeps his locker clean. No receipts tumbled out of pockets to be mined for information. No cologne that can be swapped with chloroform.
Aabria, his captain, rolls her eyes when she catches him staying late to Lysol it down. She threatens him about not paying overtime. He can almost pretend that he isn’t swiping away his fingerprints when she grumbles about weird ass Gothamite habits.
In the seconds-minutes-hours before he’s able to cast into a fitful sleep, he ponders if it’s safer to go to the grocery store or eat out.
He knows that he shouldn’t change his habits too much. That tipping them off by UberEatsing in every dinner for the next month would just about kill him with guilt. Not to mention the hit his savings account will take.
But you’re being watched has started to take on a life of its own. It’s morphing, surging, clamoring into
you’re next
they’re coming for you
it’ll be too late soon
Eating becomes difficult. There’s a store of protein bars that Bart left after a Smash Bros session and Bernard’s taken to eating half of one for breakfast. He tells himself it’s to clean up the evidence, but really it’s to sustain him through another day of eye-watering nausea. Slow releases of energy meant to sustain a speedster through multiverse altering sprints.
Once, Jason drops off some pastries. Says he’s ‘in the neighborhood.’
Bernard tears apart every crumb looking for a message and he sobs when they are just croissants and buns and danishes.
On the nights he can’t sleep at all, he creeps up to his roof. Waits for the Bat Signal to flick on, a hum coming over the city. He pretends that he can hear the comm chatter Batman abhors. Imagines swinging over deserted streets and being caught by the man he loves.
“You look like shit,” Clarissa comments, passing Bernard a coffee that he won’t be able to bring himself to drink. “Your boy been treating you right?”
He smiles. His teeth ache. “Yeah, yeah,” he assures. It’s true, even. Tim took him on a walk near the Harbor at sunset yesterday. They held hands and wrinkled their noses at the fish-soaked pollution. He leaned his head on Tim’s shoulder and Tim swiped his hands over Bernard’s trembling fingers.
“I’m pretty behind on Wipeout,” he muttered when Bernard asked if he needed to be going soon.
Wipeout
Patrol
It didn’t make Bernard feel any better to know Red Robin has been staying in.
“He’s been taking it easy,” Bernard admits. It doesn’t feel like too much of a betrayal. He shoves his shaking hands into his pockets.
“Well he should be taking care of you,” Clarissa sniffs, affronted. “What’s the point of his million dollar apartment if he’s not coddling you in it?”
She’s the only member of the 172 that knows that his Tim is Timothy Drake-Wayne. Regret is heavy in his lungs.
A medical call comes in before he has to answer.
His morning workout is filled with visions of nondescript assailants. He runs on the treadmill and hears gaining footfalls. He counts his pull ups and feels fire-escape dirt under his palms. He lifts weights and imagines bludgeoning an empty face to get away.
Dispatch is in one ear out the other.
He starts sipping sealed water bottles that the captain keeps stocked in the station kitchen. Waiting thirty minutes with his eyes on the drink before downing the rest.
Even some of the firefighters at Station 172 have started giving him weird looks, but as the weeks go on without any signal from Tim that they’re safe, he can only feel his trembling paranoia grow.
Every person he passes on the street is a suspect. The teller at the bank. The teenager wrapping his sandwich. The janitor pressing the call button for the elevator.
He catches an Uber after a long shift and keeps his fingers clenched around the pepper spray Cass gifted him thirty-six hours into his relationship with Tim.
His nerves jumble and tangle and stick.
Eyedrops to keep the crazed bloodshot look at bay.
Perfectly ironed uniforms to cover his pale, gaunt skin.
Checking his phone in perfectly planned, unpanicked intervals.
Keeping up appearances has become vital.
Showers twice a day in case some slow-acting substance has made it on his skin.
Random number generators to determine which pants to wear in case his favorites have trackers sewn into them.
Trading snacks with anyone willing at the 172 to make poisoning a last resort.
Staying unpredictable without raising suspicion is the one thing soothing his frayed nerves.
He catches Steph at his coffee shop and she draws him near with a battle-hardened smile.
“Could you do me a favor?” she asks, half-glancing up from her laptop. It’s nearing finals. When this all began, the semester hadn’t started yet.
“Yes,” Bernard answers, too eager. He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t slow his pounding heart.
Distractedly, she digs through her bag. From the depths, she retrieves a hard cover of some memoir. “Could you return this? It needs to go back to central collections and I’m-” She waves at her stack of textbooks. “-busy.”
He agrees with a touch less mania. He doesn’t remember sleeping last night, but his eyes were crusted when his alarm startled him into awareness.
He doesn’t allow his hopes up. It’s clear that Tim’s family is not around to pass messages. He’s not actually convinced Steph is meant to keep an eye on him, with how little attention she pays him.
But on the tiny, off chance that his mangled hope proves true, he clutches the book close to his chest.
He has the next two days off, contractually required but a miracle in their understaffed station. He leaves the coffee shop with its suspect staff turnover and heads directly to the library.
The train ride would be pleasant for anyone not living with
you’re being watched
crawling under their skin.
He googles the book Steph asked him to return once a seat in the far corner of his car opens up.
The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating.
Written by Carol Radziwill. A Real Housewife of New York.
RHONY
FUBAR incoming
He wills himself to believe that it means nothing.
He races up the library steps, ducking around a bicyclist struggling with their lock and a mother carrying a screaming toddler away from story time.
He’s out of breath when he reaches the central collection’s returns desk. He hands it to the red headed woman at the computer.
“I’d like to return this,” he informs uselessly. He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans.
She gives him a kind smile. He thinks he recognizes her but he can’t figure out from where. Could she be his stalker? But why would Steph send him here? Is he meant to confront her? Is he-
“Of course,” she agrees, quiet.
He realizes he should probably lower his voice.
The librarian scans the book and pokes at her mouse. “You have a book to pick up,” she informs him.
Bernard does not have a city library card. His limbs lock up. “Um.” Steph’s book, he reminds himself. Steph has a book to pick up. It’s not- there’s no-
He lets out a breath.
“Oh, um, that’s not- I’m dropping this off for a friend.”
The way she looks at him is unraveling. He wants to confess, he wants to be released. “The hold’s going to end soon. You should check it out for them.” She points a calloused finger at the shelves of requested items. A little slip of paper is passed to him with the location of the book.
He stumbles over, half confused, half hopeful. Steph’s book and Steph’s friends with Tim so maybe…
It takes longer than expected to find it, even though all the books are sorted alphabetically by last name. It’s not under Brown or Dowd.
His heart squeezes when he’s finally upon it. Draper, Alvin, the little tag reads.
His body is numb. The librarian offers to check it out for him, but he refuses to let it go. His finger joints are locked as she instructs him on the self-checkout. He clutches the plastic-covered hardback to his empty chest as stiff fingers type out the twelve-digit ID number. The prompt for the pin blinks at him.
He hesitates a moment.
0824
Enter
Accepted
Their anniversary.
“Then you’ll scan the barcode,” she tells him as he stares at the screen. “Make sure to keep it on the gray mat for a couple seconds, otherwise the detectors at the doors will go off.”
“Okay,” Bernard agrees, unclenching his body just enough to jerk the book under the red scanner. It beeps quietly.
The librarian smiles gently. “You’re all set.”
He nods.
Clutches Your Body, Your Home by Mehmet C. Oz, M.D. to his chest.
The Dr. Oz Show
Are you okay?
He pushes it deep in his backpack.
He stands on the train, clutching a pole, unable to relax enough to slump in a sticky seat.
There are mirrors and cameras in the corners of the car and he flips between staring them down and ducking his head. He usually gets a haircut around this length, but he hasn’t convinced himself to pop into the Great Clips since
you’re being watched
The hairs poke at his ears, at the base of his neck. He hugs his backpack to his chest. And doesn’t close his eyes and doesn’t sit down and doesn’t breathe.
Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you
His apartment is empty when he gets home. He double checks that all the windows are locked and crawls under his comforter-weighted blanket combo with a flashlight that he fishes out from the emergency kit he keeps under the sink. His dad made it for him. He hasn’t talked to his parents in weeks, not since the first time Jason was in line behind him at the Vietnamese food truck that parks on the corner.
He can’t be responsible for their safety. For their lives.
It takes two whacks on the side of the flashlight for it to click on properly. His breath has made the pocket of air humid. His body shakes. His toes poke out of the blankets and he fights to cover them up again.
There really could be monsters under his bed.
Where the slip of paper noting check-outs from the seventies should be is a notecard with Tim’s clipped handwriting. Bernard feels faint for a moment, just looking at it. He ran out of speedster bars yesterday. His eyes water, and he squeezes them shut.
All he wants is for Tim’s strong arms to wrap around him and tell him it’s over. That they’re safe.
They see each other, they cuddle on the couch. But it’s not enough. The threat looms.
The unknown is half the terror. And it’s not that Bernard doesn’t know. That he could handle. But Tim doesn’t know.
Tim, with the Batcomputer and six Battectives at his disposal. Favors from some of the most powerful people on the planet, both meta ability ranking and tax bracket wise. It’s been months and Tim still doesn’t know which version of Big Brother they’re making another season of.
He lets out a shuddering breath.
Maybe. Maybe this is it.
Maybe this notecard is the answer and all his worries will be assuaged and Tim will knock on his door and swoop him somewhere safe.
He cracks his eyes open, furiously wiping away the blurry tears.
He swallows. It’s not a disappointment that there aren’t any words on the paper. It’s exactly as expected. It’s protocol for these sorts of things.
Tim’s paranoia and Bernard’s conspiracism demand that meaningful communication be coded after
you’re being watched
Bernard clumsily retrieves a notepad and pen from his bedside table and gets to work.
15.16.12 273.1.6.1 273.2.1.1 273.1.3.1 273.1.14.2 15.16.12 209.3.13 49.12.3 177.24.2 3.18.7 257.10.9. 15.16.12 295.24.9 345.25.11 236.6.12 104.14.1 140.19.10 61.7.16 315.16.3 135.15.8 210.16.1 273.17.8 9.1.11.3 9.1.1.2 9.1.2.3 9.3.8.1 15.16.12 176.5.5 345.25.11 200.4.7 298.6.10 345.18.2 3.18.7 118.10.1 246.11.14 338.7.15 15.16.12 10.12.5 15.16.8 140.4.1 245.18.6 71.17.3 100.1.3 15.16.8 230.24.4 131.8.6 15.16.12 340.1.7.5 340.1.1.8 340.1.4.1 340.1.5.1 209.14.6 15.16.8 97.3.1 184.1.3.1 184.1.3.3 184.1.4.4 184.1.4.4 184.1.4.1 95.3.4 32.18.4 10.12.5 169.16.1 75.1.5.3 75.1.6.8 75.1.5.2 75.1.5.6 75.1.2.3 75.1.1.7 75.6.1.3 75.1.2.3 75.1.5.6 137.1.1 90.4.5 15.16.8 77.1.10 135.1.4 113.1.11 273.17.8 59.22.1 15.16.8 77.1.10 187.5.4 169.5.6 145.13.8 338.7.15 236.1.3.2 236.1.3.7 236.1.5.3 236.2.2.3 236.1.4.1 140.7.8 154.2.10 88.22.5 269.5.8 309.3.8 2.27.10 32.10.10 237.25.13 268.24.6 222.11.10 66.23.10 88.22.7 50.23.2 6.23.5 230.4.4 95.2.3.1 95.1.1.4 95.1.1.6 95.1.1.2 95.1.4.9 95.1.3.1 211.8.3 14.15.14 70.1.12 273.17.8 59.22.1. 15.16.12 107.1.11.1 107.1.11.2 107.1.11.3 107.2.6.1 107.1.2.2 107.1.3.3 107.1.2.2 15.16.12 66.15.1 141.9.4
Once he translates it, counting each word from the end of the line rather than the beginning, that final trick only they know, he clutches the paper, the book, the flashlight to his chest and sobs.
I wish I had more to tell you. I want nothing more than to take you away from this city. I want nothing more than to tell you you’re safe. I can’t. I’m still looking for answers. I’m getting close. I miss you. I’m so sorry that we can’t be ourselves right now. I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to make it safe again. Until then, continue as you are. Live life how it would be if our lives weren’t complicated. I’ll figure this out. I promise. I love you.
He wants to shove the book in Tim’s hands. He wants to bribe Bart to spin back time so that he never goes to the library. He wants this to end.
But the days keep spinning and spinning and spinning.
And they’re no closer to a conclusion.
Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?
Aabria sends him home when he shows up to his next shift with nothing but energy drinks in his body. Tells him to get some sleep with that worn mother of three loving exasperation.
He doesn’t argue.
He puts on Great British Bakeoff (all clear) and lets his eyes glaze over. A holiday special is droning on when he hears a knock on his door.
It startles him out of his sick listlessness.
His soul feels sucked dry. His insides have been pounded with anxiety for months. He physically cannot handle anything else.
But he peels himself from the couch with the manic hope that this will be the end of the haunting.
On his dollar store door mat stand three people.
Tim. Shoulders back, eyes narrowed.
Steph. Jaw tight, fists clenched.
Aabria. Eyebrows quirked, stance wide.
Bernard…
you’re being watched
Bernard…
Are you okay?
Bernard…
“Can we come in?”
Steph bustles through his kitchen, making tea he didn’t know he owned. She microwaves the water because she hasn’t had the patience for a kettle as long as he’s known her. She shoves the mug in his hands and shoves Tim onto the couch next to him.
Aabria, Aabria, leans against his wall, inches from his TV.
The host is critiquing someone’s gingerbread.
Bernard thinks he might have gone into shock.
There’s a physical world, where things are occurring and words are echoing. And then there’s inside Bernard’s body, where the only things that can reach him are Tim’s breath on his cheek and projections of every conversation he’s had with his captain since she transferred in from Metropolis.
“Get it over with,” Aabria, his captain, orders. She doesn’t… She doesn’t sound like this. Her voice is warm, inviting, understanding. There- All the trust-inviting bits have been petrified, crushed to dust. Disposed of.
Because they weren’t real.
Tim gently pries one of Bernard’s hands from where it’s reflexively wrapped around the mug. He intertwines their fingers and squeezes three times.
I love you.
Bernard doesn’t have enough control of his body to send the message back.
“Bernard,” Tim starts, slowly coaxing him to look into his endless blue eyes. “You’re in a hostage situation.”
He stares. He- But Tim said, I’ll figure this out. Tim said, I promise. Tim said, I love you.
This doesn’t feel like any of those things.
He’s lucky, at least, that he already cried his eyes out last night. “Okay,” he acknowledges hoarsely.
Aabria scoffs. You’re being watched. Someone’s muted his TV, but the Christmas glow still catches her cheekbones. You’re being watched.
His fingers clench around the burning mug. He refuses. He refuses for this to be it.
Tim and Steph have to do one little job, Bernard kept as insurance. Because Tim cares about Bernard and Steph cares about Tim. Aabria has Bernard, so she has the both of them.
Some BBC Sherlock leverage bullshit.
God, Bernard refuses for his life have become the worst season of BBC Sherlock. That’s a low to which he won’t fall.
“No,” Bernard interrupts. There’s been some… negotiation, he thinks. Timeframe, maybe. Or equipment access. Aabria is just an operative. Did Bernard not even rank the shadowy Big Bad Evil Guy? Is his hostage taker going to make a phone call?
He sets down the scalding tea.
For months, he’s adhered to a sporadic routine, undetectable in its caution. His heart can’t seem to jackhammer after week long bouts of heart palpitations.
The world is on the outside and Bernard is on the inside. There is a wall of apathy in between, quickly eroding from anger. His life has been nothing but a tangled cord of anxiety and he is so, so tired.
He leans into Tim’s space. Their shoulders press together and he summons the amount of crazy it took to join a death cult. “Tim,” he whispers as Aabria and Steph snipe about stealth jets. “I want to watch Master Chef.”
His boyfriend sends a wild look with just the corner of his eye. “What?”
Surging with reckless trust, he murmurs. “Let’s watch Master Chef. Please.”
Tim stiffens. He opens his mouth as if to check again. His teeth click shut.
He. He shakes his head. “RHONY’s on, remember?” he answers, voice carrying the same sickness Bernard has felt all this time. “I can’t- I’m sorry.”
Steph glances over with a sadness in her eyes. “We need to get moving,” she reports. “We’ll be back quicker than a tribunal voting a smart woman off of Survivor.”
“Tim,” Bernard tries again, watery, shaking. He thought- I’m going to figure this out. Tim said- I’m going to make it safe again. “Please don’t leave.”
“I love you,” Tim promises. The chaste kiss against his forehead doesn’t reach his crumbling trust.
Soon, he’s alone in his living room with Aabria’s disdainful gaze wondering if he will ever leave the walls of his own suspicion.