Tim Drake had always been good at noticing things.

Patterns. Silences. The slight tremble in someone’s voice when they said they were “fine.” It was part of what made him… him. Observant. Steady. The kind of person people trusted without really knowing why.

It was also how he noticed Bernard.

Not the way most people did—the weird kid, the one who talked a little too fast when he got nervous, who laughed at the wrong times, who didn’t quite fit anywhere. No, Tim noticed the way Bernard’s fingers tapped against his notebook when he was thinking. The way his eyes lit up when someone actually listened. The way he tried—really tried—even when the world didn’t make it easy.

They’d been together for four months.

Four quiet, careful, stolen months.

It wasn’t loud or obvious. No dramatic hallway confessions or hand-holding in public. It lived in smaller things—late-night texts, shared looks across classrooms, the way Bernard would ramble and Tim would listen like every word mattered. Because to him, it did.

And at Wayne Manor… it wasn’t hidden at all.

Bernard had been terrified the first time Tim invited him over, expecting judgment, questions—something. Instead, he got Alfred offering him tea like he belonged there, Dick throwing an arm around Tim with a knowing grin, and Bruce simply nodding at him with quiet understanding.

They didn’t make it a big deal.

They just… made space for him.

Which somehow meant everything.

Because at home, Bernard had none of that.

Home was careful. Measured. A place where he watched what he said, how he acted, how long he lingered on certain topics. His parents’ beliefs weren’t subtle, and Bernard had learned early what not to be.

So he didn’t tell them.

He couldn’t.

And for a while… it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Tim was in the study, leaning against Bruce’s desk, half-focused on a conversation about patrol routes, half-distracted by the quiet buzz of his phone in his hand.

Bruce noticed, of course. He always did.

“Go ahead,” Bruce said simply.

Tim didn’t argue. He glanced at the screen—Bernard—and answered immediately.

“Hey,” Tim said, his voice softening without him meaning it to.

There was no rambling greeting on the other end. No nervous joke.

Just breathing.

Uneven. Shaky.

Tim straightened. “Bernard?”

“I—” Bernard’s voice cracked, and he stopped, like the words physically wouldn’t come out.

Something cold settled in Tim’s chest.

“What happened?” he asked, calm but sharp now, already moving for his jacket.

A pause. Then, quieter—small in a way Bernard never let himself sound—

“They found out.”

Tim didn’t need to ask what that meant.

He could hear it. In the silence. In the way Bernard’s voice seemed to fold in on itself.

“How?” Tim asked, already halfway out the door.

“My phone. I—I left it downstairs and they—there was a picture and—” His breath hitched. “They were so mad, Tim.”

The words rushed out now, messy and unfiltered.

“They said it was wrong and I tried to explain but it just made it worse and they—” another sharp inhale, like he was trying not to cry, “they told me to leave.”

Tim stopped for exactly half a second.

Then he kept moving.

“Where are you?”

“Outside. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You don’t have to,” Tim said immediately. “I’m coming to get you.”

There was a small, fragile pause on the other end.

“…Okay.”

Bernard was sitting on the curb when Tim pulled up.

A single backpack at his feet. Shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to disappear. His shaggy blonde hair fell into his face, and under the streetlight, he looked even thinner than usual—small in a way that made something in Tim’s chest tighten.

For a second, Bernard didn’t move.

Like he wasn’t sure this was real.

Then Tim stepped out of the car.

“Hey,” he said gently.

And that was all it took.