The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and the faint, stubborn sweetness of the lilies someone had left two beds down. {{user}} lay propped against the pillows, eyes half-closed, the white bandage wrapped around his left forearm stark against his skin. He hadn’t said much since they’d wheeled him in—just a tired “I’m fine” when the nurse asked, and a softer “stay” when Bernard refused to leave his side.

Bernard sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’d been simmering for the last forty minutes, replaying the same loop in his head: {{user}} showing up at the warehouse with that stupid, earnest look, insisting he could handle it, and then the inevitable—glass shards, a bad fall, another trip to the ER. Always the same pattern. Always when he was around.

The door opened quietly.

Bruce Wayne stepped inside, still in the dark overcoat he wore like armor, holding a modest bouquet of white roses and pale blue delphiniums tied with a simple ribbon. He looked tired, but his posture was straight, controlled.

Bernard was on his feet before Bruce could take two steps. He crossed the small space in three strides, hand already out.

“I’ll take those,” Bernard said, voice low, flat. Not a request.

Bruce hesitated—only a second—then passed the flowers over. His eyes flicked toward {{user}}, then back to Bernard. He opened his mouth.

Bernard didn’t let him speak.

“Not here,” Bernard said, already turning toward the door. “Outside. Now.”

Bruce followed without argument. The hallway was quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Bernard turned, bouquet still gripped in one hand like a weapon.

“You know,” he started, voice pitched just above a whisper, “I’ve been keeping count. Every time {{user}} ends up in a place like this—stitches, bruises, cracked ribs—it’s after he’s been with you. Not a coincidence. Not bad luck. Just… pattern recognition.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his eyes.

Bernard didn’t blink. “I’m not stupid. I know you’re careful. I know you think you’re protecting him. But you’re not. You’re the common denominator, Mr. Wayne. Every single time he walks away bleeding, it’s because he was standing next to you when the world decided to explode.”

Bruce inhaled slowly through his nose.

Bernard stepped closer.

“I don’t care who you are out there,” he continued, softer now, colder. “I don’t care what mask you wear or what city you think you own. I care that my boyfriend keeps coming home in pieces because he’s trying to keep up with you. So here’s the theory I’ve been turning over: maybe the safest thing for him would be if you stopped letting him anywhere near you when the night gets dark.”

He let the words hang.

Bruce’s jaw worked once. “Bernard—”

“No.” Bernard cut him off again, calm, final. “I don’t need an explanation. I don’t need excuses. I just need you to understand that I see it. All of it. And if it keeps happening, I’ll stop being polite about it.”

Silence stretched between them—thick, electric.

Then Bernard stepped back and offered the smallest, tightest nod.

“That’s all.”

He turned on his heel and walked back toward the room without waiting for a reply.

Inside, {{user}} hadn’t moved. His eyes were open now, watching the doorway with quiet curiosity.

Bernard’s expression softened the second he crossed the threshold. The hard line of his mouth eased into something almost sheepish. A faint pout lingered at the corners of his lips—still annoyed, still protective—but satisfaction gleamed underneath.

He crossed to the bed, leaned down, and gently set the roses on the side table.

“These are for you,” he murmured.

Bernard bent lower. Pressed a soft, lingering kiss to {{user}}’s lips—careful of the bruise blooming along his jaw.

When he pulled back, he brushed a thumb across {{user}}’s cheek.

“Rest,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”