Bernard Dowd wasn’t supposed to be at school.
Objectively, logically, medically—he shouldn’t have even been out of bed.
But logic didn’t really matter in the Dowd household.
The house had been empty for three days now. Too quiet. Too still. His parents had left for a week-long “spiritual retreat”—no invitation extended, no discussion, just a brief, offhand, “You’ll be fine here.” Bernard hadn’t argued. He never did. There wasn’t much point.
By the second night alone, the fever had started.
At first, it was manageable. A little dizziness. A headache. He’d curled up under too many blankets, shivering despite the Gotham heat, telling himself it would pass. But it didn’t. It got worse. Hotter. Heavier. Like his body was burning from the inside out.
104°F
He’d checked three times just to be sure.
Bernard had stared at the thermometer for a long time after that, brain foggy, thoughts slow and sticky.
He didn’t know what medicine to take.
His parents didn’t really do medicine unless it was absolutely necessary. Prayer, rest, endurance—that was usually the answer. So he just… didn’t take anything.
And by morning, when the alarm went off, he dragged himself out of bed anyway.
Because if he stayed home and it wasn’t serious enough—if he wasn’t, in their words, “actually dying”—they’d be mad.
So he went.
By lunch, everything hurt.
The cafeteria noise was too loud, too sharp, every voice blending into something overwhelming. Bernard sat at the far end of a table, shoulders hunched, hood up despite the warmth. His tray sat mostly untouched in front of him.
His head rested against his arms.
He couldn’t really focus on anything. The world felt distant, like he was looking at it through fogged glass. His skin was flushed, but he still felt cold, a faint tremor running through him every so often.
No one bothered him.
They usually didn’t.
Bernard wasn’t exactly… liked. Or noticed, really. He was the quiet kid. The weird one. Too pale, too thin, too awkward in conversations that never seemed to last long enough for him to figure out what to say.
Except—
“Bernard?”
The voice cut through everything.
Bernard blinked slowly, lifting his head just enough to see Tim Drake standing there, tray in hand, brows drawn tight in concern.
Tim wasn’t supposed to be part of his life.
Not really.
Tim was… Tim. Smart—scarily smart. The kind of person teachers relied on, the kind of student people noticed. A senior, technically. Even if he was supposed to be a junior before skipping ahead like it was nothing.
And somehow—
He was also Bernard’s boyfriend.
Bernard tried to sit up a little straighter. “Hey,” he mumbled, voice rough.
Tim didn’t sit.
Instead, he stepped closer, setting his tray down quickly before reaching out without hesitation, pressing the back of his hand against Bernard’s forehead.
The contact was cool.
Grounding.
Tim’s expression changed instantly.
“Oh my god—you’re burning up.”
Bernard let out a weak breath. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Tim’s voice sharpened, eyes scanning him—his flushed face, unfocused gaze, the way he was swaying slightly even sitting down. “How long have you felt like this?”
“Just… today.”
Tim gave him a look.
Bernard looked away.
“…Couple days.”
“Bernard.”
There was something different in Tim’s tone now. Firmer. Not panicked—but not soft either.
“You have a fever,” Tim continued, lower but more serious. “A bad one. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“I can’t go home,” Bernard muttered, fingers tightening weakly around the edge of the table. “My parents—”
“I don’t care about your parents right now.”
Tim never cut him off like that.
“I care about you,” Tim said, quieter but somehow more intense. “And right now, you’re sick enough that this isn’t optional.”
Bernard shook his head slightly. “I’ll be okay. I just need to—”
“No.”
It was gentle—but final.
Tim crouched slightly so he was level with him, eyes steady, unwavering.
“You’re going home,” he said. “Or I’m taking you to the nurse and telling them everything, and they’ll send you home. Those are your options.”