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Bernard came over after patrol. I had missed our planned date night. Again. It was supposed to be a routine patrol. I even had permission from Bruce to leave a bit early since Dick is in town this week and could pick up my slack.
But the rogues don’t give a shit about me and my boyfriend’s date night. By the time all the Arkham escapees were back in their cells Bernard had already texted me saying that it was far too late for our dinner reservations and that he would pick up some take out for us on his way over to my place to wait for me.
And he did. By the time I sat through a debrief at the Batcave, got out of my suit, and stumbled my way back to the marina, Bernard had arranged my small living space into a cozy nest of pillows and blankets. With the lights turned low, a movie on in the background, and the promised takeout waiting for us in the fridge.
And now, later, when the leftovers have been packed back up into the fridge, the first movie finished and a second one started, Bernard falls slowly against my chest, asleep. I shift us slowly and gently so that he can be comfortable.
And while I gaze down at him, his face so relaxed in sleep. I wonder.
I don’t know how he’s so chill about all this. I’ve missed so many dates and been late to even more. I keep waiting for him to get mad. To yell. To leave.
But he doesn’t.
He’s patient and endlessly understanding. It doesn’t make sense. The only decent explanation that I can think of is one that I refuse to accept. Bernard must have figure it out. He must know that I am Red Robin.
I should talk to him. But. I can’t. There is a deep and coiled fear that’s taking up residence in my stomach. What if I’m wrong. What if Bernard doesn’t know and me revealing the secret is the final straw. What if he leaves. What if he becomes a target for the rogues……
What if he stays.
And if he does know. Will he be mad? When I finally confirm his theory will he be upset that I’ve waited too long? What if he holds me to too high a standard. I wouldn’t be able to take it if he thought I was a failure as Robin.
I can’t. I can’t think about that. I can’t worry about what might happen later between Bernard and I. I need to just savor what we have now. While it still lasts. Before he realizes that I am broken and that there is no fix. I run my hand slowly down his spine. Grounding myself in his presence and the soft feel of his sleep shirt as I smooth it across his back
The second movie ended a while ago and I don’t bother to start a new one. I had hardly noticed when the last one ended. I wasn’t paying much attention to it. I don’t really know what it was about. I was too caught up in the blonde head of wavy hair that was rising up and down softly with my breaths as it rested on my chest. So peaceful. For once.
Bernard doesn’t get much uninterrupted sleep. Not with the nightmares. So when he does sleep I make it my job to keep him comfortable and safe. In an attempt to help him get the rest he so desperately needs. Even at the expense of my own sleep and comfort.
Bernard stirs slightly in his sleep, slipping slightly off of my chest. Gently I shift us so that he’s re-centered on my chest and held more securely in my arms. It works. Because Bernard hums softly in his sleep and wraps his arms back around my sides. His arms feel like an iron band settling around my middle. He’s found one of my several injuries. But. He’s comfortable. So I don’t move him. I breath deeply and do my best to relax into his touch
It hurts but the waves of pain my ribs send are quickly swallowed and lost amidst the ocean that is my injuries from the last few nights of patrol.
Nothing major, nothing scary, nothing worth bothering Alfred with. Nothing worth the judgement of the Bat for. And there would be judgement.
I’ve been sloppy. I’ve been slow. I haven’t lived up to what I’m supposed to be. I can’t help but feel that I failed as Robin (Dick keeps telling me he’s sorry and that I did nothing wrong. I don’t believe him). If I couldn’t be a good Robin I don’t know why I thought tacking “Red” onto my name and putting together a snazzy new outfit would change anything. I can’t help but think that I deserve to feel the pain. To be reminded of all the ways that I Need to Do Better.
It’s nothing much. A slight twist of an ankle from chasing Catwoman over the rooftops. A bruised rib maybe two from the Riddler’s reinforced cane. Weeks worth of fresh and healing cuts, bruises, and bumps. I’ve stopped looking at myself in the mirror. The canvas of fading yellows, deep purples, and sickly greens covering my body isn’t a pleasant sight. My face isn’t much better. I haven’t been sleeping and I’ve struggled with eating. There’s no time. I can’t afford to take care of myself when I could be doing more. More for the citizens of Gotham, more for Bruce, more for Bernard. The bags under my eyes are fighting a battle with my slowly protruding cheekbones to see which will betray me first. And when they do there’s really only two ways it’ll go. Either Alfred or Bernard will notice and they’ll force food into my hands and my body into a bed. Or I’ll die of exhaustion or hunger. Sometimes I don’t think I care much either way. I don’t want to die. It really. I’m just so tired. And I don’t think it’ll come to that. I give it another week tops before my Judas of a body betrays me and someone notices. If I had the energy and the mental health for it I’d think about what all that means. That I refuse to take care of myself until someone else notices. That I don’t seem to care about my health until someone I love is concerned for me. But oh well. Whatever. That’s for a different day.
I’m pulled from my morose musings as Bernard twitches in his sleep. The ghost of a frown appearing before he pulls his arms from around my middle. Opting instead to wrap them up and around my shoulder. Pulling himself down and into me. The line between his brow softens and he settles like a dead weight further into me.
Sometimes it feels like he’s trying to get closer. Closer than physically possible. I wish that I could let him.
Sometimes I wish that I could reach down and split my own chest open. Dig my hands in, shattering my own sternum. Just to grab each half of my rib cage and tear. Tear body and bone open in a display of love and affection. Revealing a warm, soft, dark place within my own chest that he could finally find a safety in. A safety that cannot be found in the embrace of arms alone. But one that comes with knowing that you are fully surrounded, encased, in someone you trust. That they want you there. That they care. They care so deeply that they want to protect you and shield you from the world with their own flesh and bone. That they will tear themselves apart, exposing their most raw and vulnerable parts, just to make sure that you are held, and safe, and loved.
And Bernard needs that assurance. God knows he needs it. The last few years have been so shit for him. The whole deal with the chaos monster. The disapproval of his parents. And his aweful boyfriend missing a million dates and keeping massive decreases from him. It has to be a lot. I wish I didn’t need to lie to him. I wish I could just protect him
Because I’d do it. If I could. I’d rip each rib up individually. Propping them into the perfect tent like structure. I’d pull and rip and arrange the scraps of my skin until they created a canopy. Blocking any strong light from hitting his face, but letting a warm red glow through the intricate web of skin and muscles and bone that I have woven together for his benefit.
My insides can be scooped out and re-arranged or tossed aside. I’d have no use of them. All I need is for him to be protected and know that he is loved. Organs can be used as pillows and pads. Keeping him comfortable and warm.
But to fully protect him I need to be honest with him. To fully protect him I need to be at my very best. To fully protect him I need to let him in.
Our relationship won”t- hell, Can’t progress much further if I’m still keeping such a huge part of my life a secret. I need to tell him because I need him to know that I trust him. And because if he figures it out by himself he won’t want me anymore. He’ll know that I’ve been lying and he’ll think that I planned to continue to lie of I don’t get the chance to tell him myself before he figures it out. Because he’s smart and one day he WILL figure it out whether I tell him or not.
But
I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he was harmed because I’m Robin.
So
I
can’t
tell
him
not yet.
So, I can’t rip open my own chest. There is. No warm cavity behind these ribs. Just flesh, bone and viscera. And my own heart. My love, feelings… fears. Things that I am unable to lay bare. Things that have to be revealed, exposed, if I am ever going to let someone get that close to me. In order to let someone in and protect and cradle them, i must allow them access to those most secret and shameful parts of myself.
It means allowing someone past the ironclad gates that I have built as my ribs. Years of hurt, abandonment and tragedy have made those defenses strong. And they will not easily fall away under my hands
So.
In lieu of splitting myself open. I just squeeze him that much tighter, and burry my face that much further in his shoulder. Bringing my hand up to the back of his neck. In an attempt to cradle and protect him as much as I possibly can. Without having to open myself up. It will have to suffice. Because it’s all that I can do.