#t/imber college au

[sleptwithinthesun]

d/c fic, because i am nothing if not obsessive. featuring t/im d/rake, b/ernard d/owd, and d/ick g/rayson. the longest fic i've written yet, clocking in at 10K words. i've actually been working on this fic for just about two months, so i'm really excited you all finally get to see the fruit of my labors :D

tw: mention of emeto about halfway in, starting with "But, again, it's Tim and it’s Bernard..." and ending with "'This is anxiety?'"

(just so you know, this is That Fic™ from the t/imber college au. hope you like it)

Tim's talking quietly on the phone when Bernard wakes up, blinking blearily across the room. His knees are pulled up to his chest with the blanket still covering them, and he has a hand as the back of his neck, spine pressed against the wall in a way that can't be comfortable. His side of the conversation is soft enough that Bernard, still half-asleep, can't quite make out what Tim is saying, but he can see his roommate's hands shaking.

That's not a good sign.

He's taking deep, shuddering breaths, like he's trying not to cry, and worry crawls into Bernard's chest. In the three months that've passed since he first met Tim, one of the few things that he's learned about him is that he's always almost perfectly composed, never admitting to stress or struggle and waving off any concerns about him with practiced grace, as if it's rational to stay awake for four days straight. Bernard isn't sure why Tim is the way that he is, but he's making consistent efforts to break him out of his shell. It hasn't produced any results so far, but he's hoping something will happen. Maybe.

Eventually.

That's the goal, at least.

One of Tim's hands comes up to tug at a strand of his hair and he hisses, with Bernard finally picking it up in his semi-lucid state, "Dick. I can't."

The person on the other end— Dick, presumably —says the wrong thing, as displayed by Tim's reaction. "It is. Don't even pretend it isn't, you know it is, but it's not like I want to go around advertising it." There's a brief pause, and then Tim deflates, like a puppet with its strings cut. "No, I know it's important. I'm just— fuck." The phone switches hands, his newly-freed fingers suddenly occupied with a rubber band. "I think I might be doing too much and semester finals are next week and Bernard keeps trying to, like, check in on me and I don't know how to do that with him because he's not you or Jay and now this is hanging over my head and I feel like I'm suffocating."

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

"Yeah, okay. That sounds… that should be manageable." His voice drops slightly in volume, and Tim just sounds resigned. "Love you. Bye."

The phone slips from his shoulder, landing on the blanket as Tim curls in on himself, both hands moving towards the back of his neck and stroking at the hair on the nape of his neck in an attempt to self-soothe. It feels uncomfortably private, and Bernard closes his eyes again and shifts slightly, not wanting to intrude but also needing to get up soon.

He hears Tim pull himself together, taking deep breaths until they even out, then tossing the blanket aside and standing. Bernard waits until he hears one of the drawers open before shifting again and doing what he hopes is a believable impression of someone walking up, stretching slightly before he straightens.

Tim's only in a T-shirt and boxers, likely his sleep clothes, but it takes Bernard a minute to register it as Tim. He's never actually seen Tim change clothes, the realization just now hitting him, in the moment where it sinks in that it's actually about to happen.

Bernard's about to speak up when Tim takes off his shirt. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal; every other pair of roommates have seen each other's bodies and neither of them care about it.

The difference with them, as per usual, is that Bernard's never seen Tim in anything less than a T-shirt and shorts.

Tim's back is a mess of scars, all twisted pink lines and angry marks curving around his shoulder blades, along his spine, across the small of his back. There's one that might be a from a bullet on his side, and another that looks like a stab wound below his shoulder and to the left. Bernard can't hold back the gasp that escapes from him, clapping his hands over his mouth as Tim whirls around, his eyes wide and scared.

They're both silent for a second, staring at each other, and then Tim yanks his shirt back on and wraps his arms around his abdomen, like if he can hide it, Bernard will forget he ever saw it. He still looks like a deer in the headlights, spooked and unsure and waiting for the blow.

"I—" he starts, hesitant, before falling silent once again.

Bernard glances at the thread of one scar, visible on the side of his neck, only now noticeable because he knows what to look for, and swallows nervously. "Tim, what..."

"I don't want to talk about it," Tim says, suddenly hoarse and speaking barely louder than a whisper. "Please, Bernard, just drop it."

He holds Tim's gaze, mind racing to come up with reasons, any explanation for what he just saw, but he's left drawing a blank. There's no logical explanation for the amount of scars that Tim has unless he had a really shitty upbringing—

Oh, fuck.

"Okay," Bernard manages, still steadily staring at his roommate. "But if you do want to talk about it, I'm here, alright?"

Tim nods, then asks quietly, "Could you, uh…"

"'Course," Bernard replies hurriedly, turning on his bed so his back is facing Tim. He can hear him changing, his movements quick, like he doesn't trust Bernard not to turn around and look again. It's not as if Bernard can blame him, though, so he leaves it until Tim's soft "okay" drags through the tension, sticking in the grooves.

He's staring right at Bernard when he turns around again to face him, eyes guarded and wary. "You're not…" he starts, biting at his lip and looking away as he trails off. "You're not going to... talk about this, are you?" he asks, the implications clear as day in his emphasis.

"Not if you don't want me to," Bernard replies, trying to play it off as if this is a normal, everyday occurrence. "I can keep a secret, Tim."

Tim nods in apparent relief, slumping the slightest amount as Bernard moves to stand up, looking at his watch as he does so. "Don't you have classes soon?"

He takes the change in topics easily, shaking his head. "First lecture's at ten-thirty; I was going to head to the library for a bit." Tim gives him a tight smile, one that doesn't fully reach his eyes, and Bernard decides he's off his game as he starts grabbing notebooks from his desk and shoving them into his bag.

It must have been the phone call. Bernard has never heard that amount of emotion, much less frustration and distress, out of Tim. He's very careful about how he expresses himself around Bernard, something that shouldn't bother him as much as it does, and if he's being honest, it's off-putting to see Tim like this.

"See you later," Tim murmurs, nodding once at him and exiting the dorm, leaving Bernard alone with nothing but his thoughts and a barely-there tickle in his throat, easily resolved by clearing it once. He'll deal with Tim later, as the other said. Right now, he needs to focus on his finals.

-

As it turns out, the barley-there tickle from that morning has morphed into a full-on sore throat by the next morning, coupled with a slight headache and the beginnings of congestion. Bernard knows what this is. Everyone does. The entire campus is stressed and the winter chill is already dawning, resulting in a cold that's being passed around from dorm to dorm. Bernard's assuming that he's caught it, though thankfully not in the middle of finals week. He's got about three days to kick this before it actually becomes a problem, and he's confident in his ability to do so. His immune system's always been strong; he almost never got sick as a kid or in his adolescence, and the few times that he did were so mild he didn't even have to stay home from school. Plus, it's Friday, meaning he has no classes tomorrow and therefore the entire weekend to recover and study.

He's got this.

Bernard still groans in displeasure as he rolls over in bed, though. Just because he can handle it doesn't mean he has to like it, and since Tim's already out of the dorm, presumably at the library again, Bernard doesn't have to worry about any of the awkwardness that tends to come with their interactions. Meaning, he gets to be vocal with his complaints as he gets ready in the morning.

…Maybe 'vocal' is a bit of a stretch; it hurts to talk, so Bernard's keeping up more of an internal rant rather than actually expressing it. He hates being sick, no matter how minimal the affliction is. Plus, he's at college now, so it's not like he has either of his parents to help him out. Not that he doesn't know how to deal with a cold, it's just easier when he has someone else to look out for him.

He guesses that's what roommates are supposed to be for, but to be honest, he doesn't see Tim as the mother hen type. Bernard can probably ask Nessa, one of his sophomore friends, if she has cough drops or something else that can help. She's usually pretty prepared; if anyone he knows could help him, it'd be her. He heads over to her dorm with fifteen minutes before class starts with all intentions of asking her for a travel pack of tissues and cough drops, or maybe shot of cough syrup if she doesn't have the former.

Or, at least, that's the plan, until Bernard's actually standing in front of the door to her dorm and she holds out a bottle of Nyquil apologetically, saying, "This is all I have, Bernard, I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Bernard tells her, sniffling against the congestion he can feel surfacing. "I'll figure something else out; I'm sure a bunch of other people will have supplies, considering."

"Or," a voice interjects from further inside the room, "you take the Nyquil and drink a Red Bull and they cancel each other out while still helping you."

"Gwen, I don't think that's how it works," Nessa says, a wrinkle of concern appearing between her eyebrows as she turns back to Bernard, who's genuinely considering the offer.

In response to the incredulous, dumbstruck look she's giving him, Bernard just shrugs. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"

Nessa throws up her hands in defeat, reluctantly retreating into the dorm after a beat and re-emerging with a can of Red Bull as well as a plastic cup with a dose of Nyquil in it. "Don't die," she warns him, placing them both in his hands.

"I won't," he says, downing the Nyquil the second she closes the door and wrinkling his lip at the Red Bull. He's not really the biggest fan of energy drinks, but he needs something to negate the sedative effects of the Nyquil. So, with a quick and simple prayer to whatever deities may exist, Bernard pops the tab and chugs the can.

It's about as awful as he expected, but he's not feeling any immediate effects from either substance, which is probably a good thing. He still has about ten minutes to get to his morning class, though, so he hopes whatever potion he just drank kicks in soon.

Bernard blinks once.

And then he's back in the dorm, standing there like an NPC waiting for someone to tap on him. He has absolutely no memory past visiting Nessa's dorm, but even that's a bit fuzzy around the edges.

The only thing he's sure of is that he's never doing that again.

"Are you high?"

He tunes back into reality to see Tim, who's setting his bag down on the floor next to his desk, staring at him with something adjacent to concern painted on his features. "Maybe?"

"What'd you take?" he asks, moving a bit closer and looking directly into his eyes. "Your pupils are huge."

"Nyquil and Red Bull," Bernard replies, moving to sit down on his bed. "Think I caught that cold that's going around; didn't have anything and my friend only had Nyquil. Took Red Bull to try and cancel it out." He shoves a hand into his eye, pressing at it slightly before his hand shifts to rub at his sinuses.

Across from him, Tim literally facepalms, the sleeve of his sweatshirt riding up the slightest bit to expose a sliver glint of metal on his wrist, obscured again a second later. A bracelet, if Bernard had to guess, but not one he's seen before. Although, in his defense, his brain is still coming down from whatever kind of high that was, so maybe Tim's had it the entire time and he just never noticed. "How could you possibly think that was a good idea?"

"Only option available. Plus, I hate being sick."

"That's not a valid reason," Tim says, throwing him a box of tissues that clearly just materialized out of nowhere. A pack of cough drops joins it a second later, and he warns, "Don't even think about leaving that stuff all over the room; I'm putting the trash can right next to your bed so it's easier for you. Sleep it off."

Bernard smirks. "Wow, Drake, didn't know you cared so much."

"Don't get used to it," he replies, completely deadpan. "Just stay away from me while you're sick and we'll be fine."

"Deal," Bernard responds, lying down and closing his eyes. He falls asleep while Tim's still flipping through his notes and textbook, distantly aware that he should be studying as well but already feeling bad enough that it's drowned out by the need to rest.

-

When he wakes up again, it's the middle of the night and to the sound of Tim falling out of his bed.

"You okay?" he rasps, regretting speaking the second the words come out of his mouth. His throat feels like someone dragged a cheese grater down it, raw and fiery with pain. "Fuck," he hisses, immediately fumbling around for the cough drops Tim tossed at him earlier and ripping open the package.

No response from Tim.

Bernard's tossed the wrapper in the trash and set the bag of cough drops and tissue box on the ground by the time Tim makes so much as a sound, and even then, it's only one of those sleepy sighs people make when they're readjusting their position. There's a small shuffle among the tangle between Tim's sheet and blanket on the floor, and then near-complete silence, the only sound being Bernard sucking on his cherry-flavored cough drop.

A minute passes. Then two. And Tim's still on the floor, breathing relaxed and even, as if he hadn't woken up.

He's too tired to deal with this. Bernard rolls over the second his cough drop is gone and goes back to sleep.

-

Tim locks eyes with Bernard, glaring at him from across the room. "What do you think you're doing?"

"...Moving to my desk?" He really doesn't mean for it to come out at a question, but six words from Tim make him rethink his actions.

The glare intensifies until Bernard's genuinely worried that lasers are going to start shooting out of Tim's eyes, which isn't exactly an illegitimate concern. While he doesn't know any aliens or metahumans personally, that doesn't mean there isn't the possibility of him meeting one. Besides, if anyone he knows turns out to have superpowers, he'd place bets on Tim.

He raises his hands to surrender, retreating back onto his mattress until Tim backs off, his hackles smoothing back down. There's not really any use in trying to move over to his desk to study; Tim restricted him to his bed first thing in the morning. While it's definitely not an ideal place to study, he's been managing between coughing jags and an undulating headache he's had since he woke up. Thankfully, his cold isn't any worse than that, but it's still annoying as hell.

Tim was actually nice in the morning (despite spending half the night on the floor) and had brought him his studying materials and laptop, along with a paper cup with green tea from the dining hall. However, five hours later, that behavior has long since passed. He almost seems resentful of Bernard doing so much as sniffling, and keeps his headphones one like he's trying to prove a point. Not that Bernard can blame him, he hasn't exactly been silent with his symptoms, but it still stings. He thought he'd at least get a little bit of sympathy, but Tim's adamantly avoiding him.

"Seriously, dude, don't you think this is a little bit excessive?"

Tim shakes his head in a staunch refusal. "Absolutely not. I'm not taking any risks that might result in me catching this off you."

"Are you a germaphobe or something?" Bernard questions, brows furrowing. There's literally no other reason he can think of for him to be acting like this.

"Or something," Tim replies cryptically, not looking up from whatever he's typing on his laptop. Probably a study guide. God, this would be so much easier if he wasn't sick.

Bernard's about to reply again when a breath snags in his throat and he starts coughing for the umpteenth time, deep and grating into his elbow. The fit goes on for nearly a minute, and by the time it ends, his lungs are begging for air. "Holy fuck," he wheezes, wiping at the involuntary tears pricking in his eyes.

"It's good that you're moving air," Tim comments, completely nonchalant. "It'd be more concerning if you weren't coughing."

"Thanks," he responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. Tim merely hums in acknowledgment, throwing another cough drop at him and angling his torso away from Bernard, signaling that he's done with the conversation.

Bernard can take a hint. He unwraps the lozenge, drops the paper into the trash, and goes back to poring over his own notes.

-

"Timb."

"What do you need now?"

"...Cand you get andother cup of tea? Please?"

"Fine."

"Thangk you. Seriously. I know I'mb a paind to deal with right ndow, but. Thangks. For helping me. And for staying."

"You can repay me by not getting me sick."

"Fair enough."

-

Bernard is starting to get the sense that there's something Tim isn't telling him. 

The constant insistence on keeping distance between them was sort of amusing at first, in a weird way, but with the arrival of Monday and their first finals, he's just annoyed with the whole thing. Bernard never asked to get sick in the first place. Sure, he understands that Tim doesn't want to catch this cold off of him, but at the rate the others in their dormitory are getting sick, there's no way he'll make it through the week. Easier for him to catch it now than later. Still, Tim is unwilling to be within arm's length of Bernard at any given moment, which is understandable. Sort of.

It's just… 

He doesn't want to say it's suspicious, because he can't, but since Tim won't talk about it, Bernard's thoughts are left to fester unbidden and without any hope of resolution. All he wants is one answer, one that he wishes were simple, but getting anything out of Tim that he doesn't want to share is like pulling teeth.

"—just saying, you're still showing symptoms," Tim argues, flipping a piece of paper over and quickly scribbling out a chemical formula on the back of it. "I don't want to be too close to you until you're no longer contagious."

"Do you even know how ridiculous you sound right now? Do you?" Bernard snipes back, close to his limit. They've been going back and forth ever since Bernard crossed over to Tim's side of the dorm to try and grab the tissue box, and he can't hide his irritation anymore. "What the fuck is your deal, Tim? I mean, we live in the exact same room; there's no way you're not going to catch this. Why do you care so much, anyway? It's not the end of the world, and besides, you're smart enough to pass your finals even with a cold."

Tim scoffs, but still fails to look away from his studying material. "You don't und—" He cuts himself off, blowing out a breath before picking up again, "Look, I just don't want to get sick, okay? I'm really not in the mood for it." 

"Well, tough, because as I just told you, there's no way you're going to be able to avoid this. Just get over yourself!" 

He knows he's being rude, but it's not like Tim is being fair either. There's another factor at play here, something Bernard can't quite get a grip on, but he's too tired and spent to try and figure it out. Besides, if Tim doesn't want to give him any hints, if he's not willing to make any effort to help him understand, why should he try?

"Fine," Tim whispers, shutting his chemistry textbook purposefully, the pages smacking against each other. "If this is what you want, then so be it." He picks up the box of tissues Bernard was trying to get earlier, crosses the room, and places them on Bernard’s desk. When he speaks, his tone is pure ice, eyes hard and unforgiving as he glares down at Bernard. "I hope this is worth it to you."

-

It's Wednesday when Tim finally becomes the campus cold's next victim, and frankly, Bernard's relieved. No more tiptoeing around the issue and each other, no more of him muffling the lasting coughs at night, no more wary glances from Tim every time he breathes too loud. Once this passes through Tim, they'll be at winter break and then it's back to normal after that. 

But, again, it's Tim and it’s Bernard, so nothing can go as simply as it should. The first thing Tim does when he wakes up, at the ungodly hour of four in the morning, is stumble down the darkened hall to the bathroom, where he promptly throws up while Bernard lags behind him, guilt swimming throughout his body as he listens to his roommate retch. Something that sounds suspiciously like a sob slips out, but when Tim returns, he's dry-eyed, albeit pale and shaky.

Bernard can feel himself swallowing sympathetically, the movements of his throat almost perfectly timed with Tim's own. "Is this what... did you catch...?" He's hesitant to say it, unsure if this is why Tim didn't want to get sick or if it's something else entirely.

His roommate shakes his head slowly, evidently trying not to stir up any more nausea. "That was anxiety. This," he's quick to demonstrate with a deep cough, reminiscent of Bernard's own, "is your doing."

"Hey, you were going to catch it regardless," Bernard defends. "Everyone's been getting sick. I'm not the sole person to blame."

Tim shrugs, sniffling into the back of his hand and holding onto the edge of the row of sinks with the other to steady himself. "If you say so, Bernard." He takes in a breath like he's about to say more, but suddenly closes his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. Shit.

Bernard barely manages to drag him back into the stall before he's shuddering forward with dry heaves again, nothing else coming up but saliva and stomach acid. Still, he's heaving hard, and if Bernard remembers correctly, he has a final first thing in the morning. "Tim," he says weakly, hands held helplessly an inch away from his roommate's shoulders. "Talk to me."

He gives a final gag, practically collapsing against the stall door and pressing down on the handle to flush it as Bernard crouches at his side. "Fuck," he mutters, tilting his head back until it hits the metal of the stall wall, then closes his eyes and just sits there for a second.

"This is anxiety?" Bernard asks after a beat of silence, Tim's ragged breaths filling the space between them. The kid nods, color leached from his cheeks and forehead beading with sweat, hair flopping limply over his face.

"Told you... wasn't in the mood to get sick," he says, an attempt at a smile ghosting across his face for a second before he groans. "This isn't a symptom of the cold, just a side effect."

Bernard moves to sit down next to him before asking, "What does that mean?" His eyes roam across Tim's face, trying to look for any hints there, but he's almost completely blank, energy focused on drawing in breaths as deep as he dares.

"I hate getting sick," Tim states simply, then leans forward fast enough Bernard's almost certain he's fighting against a head rush to stand up. "So much so that, well... you know." He gestures towards the toilet. "I actually get sick."

"Why didn't you explain this earlier? I could've tried a little bit harder to help you avoid this," Bernard tells him, frustrated that he's finally figuring out why Tim was so insistent days after it mattered.

"You said it yourself, I was going to get sick no matter what. It was merely a question of when." Tim pauses to struggle to his feet, waving off the hand Bernard holds out to help him. "I'm sorry I was such an ass, though. You didn't— don't —deserve that."

He sways a second later, and Bernard ends up draping one of his arms around his shoulders anyway. "Hey, don't worry about it, dude. Just, let's go back to the room and you can try to rest for a little while longer, okay?"

"I actually feel fine," Tim tells him, ignoring the way Bernard's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I mean, aside from the fact that I'm still a bit nauseous and the room's spinning around and it feels like someone's poking at my lungs, I'm good."

"...You just described the exact opposite of good, Tim."

Tim turns on the faucet to one of the sinks, stepping out from under Bernard's arm so that he can put his mouth under, swish some water around, and spit it back into the sink. "Did you forget we have finals today? And that there's literally no way to reschedule them now?"

He slips back under his arm, and Bernard pulls him a bit closer as they exit the bathroom, making sure to speak more quietly at the risk of waking anyone else up. "You're sick, though."

"Doesn't matter. I've passed finals before with nothing more than a crayon, Cheetos, and rage." The last part is whispered, almost to himself, and Bernard chooses not to address it since Tim looks like he's about to pass out. He definitely isn't fully aware of what he's saying.

They make it back to their dorm without further incident, and Bernard lets Tim down onto his bed, suspended for a second to make sure he doesn't collapse or anything. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine," Tim says, teeth glinting in the dark, exposed by a rueful smile. "Just wait until Friday."

There's no way to tell if that's supposed to be good or bad, a threat or a promise, and Bernard just says, "Get some sleep," before following his own instructions and crawling into his own bed.

He can't sleep, though. Tim's breathing eventually evens out on the other side of the room, a distinct high note carrying through, signs of the onsetting cold. If he'd just been warned that Tim had anxiety over being ill, he would've tried harder to help him avoid it. If he'd just been a bit more understanding of the situation. If, if, if.

Bernard rolls over to his side, trying to comfort himself by watching the rhythm of Tim's breaths, hoping it'll help him the same way counting sheep does for other people. However, he's still awake ten minutes into the cycle, stuck in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions all centered around Tim that he doesn't have time to focus on. He has two finals once the sun rises, and three more left for the rest of the week. He needs his brain in other places.

And so, it's at six in the morning when Bernard officially gets up, unfortunately sleepless and ultimately feeling nothing but worry.

-

Bernard looks up from his calculus textbook on Thursday afternoon to watch Tim quite literally stagger through the doorway, backpack falling off his shoulder and onto the floor barely three seconds later. "Woah, hey," he comments, watching his roommate flop onto his bed and curl up into a miserable ball. "What happened? You weren't great, but you were at least okay this morning..."

The only response he gets is a grunt from Tim, muffled by his pillow. He makes no effort to get up, to move back to his desk and study for his last two finals tomorrow, and that's when Bernard knows it's bad.

Since Wednesday, Tim's been pushing through everything his cold's been throwing at him; the cough, the congestion, the fatigue, the headaches, all of it, and he hasn't slowed down for a moment. It's commendable, really, if a bit concerning, but Bernard hasn't seen him even give a hint of surrendering to it. He came back yesterday with a tissue pressed fiercely against his nose and managed to get in two hours of studying amidst the steady progression of symptoms and a handful of fierce coughing fits, but it seems like today might have been the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Tim?" he asks hesitantly, peering at the pile of blankets he's shoved himself behind, face still pressed into his pillow. "Do you need anything? Water, tissues?"

"Jus' wanna sleep..." Tim mumbles, glancing towards Bernard for a split second before putting his head down again. "Lights off?"

Bernard has to stifle his surprise at Tim's appearance, doing his best to just nod and go along with him. He looks like he's dying, and Bernard's certain he doesn't feel much better. Dark rings hang under his eyes, skin pale and flushed, eyes glazed over with exhaustion. He was okay this morning, he swears, lethargic and sniffly but nowhere close to where he is now. Whatever happened in the five hours since he left for his chemistry final and came back, Bernard almost doesn't want to know.

"Sure, Tim, whatever you want," he whispers, standing and flicking off the lights. There's still enough coming through the windows that he'll be fine to study for another few hours, if he needs that long.

If he can focus for that long.

He spares Tim's prone form another glance, wishing there was more he could do for his roommate, but there's nothing else he knows that would help. All Bernard can do is wait, it seems, for him to recover.

"Just wait until Friday," Tim's voice echoes, bouncing around his mind.

The pit of worry in Bernard's chest gets a little bit deeper, but seeing as that’s the only reassurance he currently has, he tucks it into the pit, gaining back the ground he's lost. He just needs to hold onto it for a little bit longer. 

-

"Keep that in your mouth until it beeps," Bernard instructs, never more thankful for Tim's eccentricities in his life. As it turns out, his roommate keeps a fully stocked first-aid kit in his closet, complete with band-aids, gauze pads, what looked like a stitching kit, and, most importantly, a thermometer. When it does beep, only about ten seconds later, Bernard's there in an instant to check the reading. "Shit, Tim."

Tim croaks, his throat thoroughly shredded by the events of last night, "'S fine. Two more finals, and then I'm Gucci. Like that one pasta shape…"

"Gnocci?" Bernard asks, before shaking his head and refocusing. "Tim, you have a fever of 102.4 degrees. You're literally boiling."

"That's water. 'M a person," he corrects, pushing his hair out of his face. How he's even standing right now, Bernard doesn't know because Tim's small. Like, a good three inches shorter than Bernard and at least twenty-five pounds lighter kind of small; a fever that high would have Bernard hiding in bed.

Tim sways dangerously, regaining his balance at the last possible second while Bernard panics at his side. "Tim. Dude. There's no way you're going to be able to take a final like this, much less pass it," he says, gripping Tim's shoulders to steady him.

"Done a lot more while feeling a lot worse," Tim tells him, like that statement isn’t concerning at all. "I've got this, Bernard. Seriously. 'S only two more, and then 'm done."

And as much as Bernard wants to stop him, Tim has that look in his eye, hazy and exhausted as they are, that means he's not going to stop until he gets his way. Bernard knows this is an awful idea, knows he should at least try to stop Tim, but at the same time, it's not like he's Tim's mother. They're both legally adults; if Tim wants to ignore the fact that he's obviously sick, it's not up to Bernard to stop him. He's done what he can in warning Tim and telling him to go back to bed, and if Tim's not going to listen, then, in his words, so be it.

"Alright, dude," he says, taking his hands off the kid and backing away, testing to see if he can even stand on his own. Miracles upon miracles, Tim stays upright and actually manages to take a couple steps forward without losing any more color, not that he has much left to lose in the first place, and starts rifling through the kit. "If you're sure."

Tim nods determinedly, grabbing a bottle and popping two Aspirin. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. 'S just a cold, right?"

"Right," Bernard whispers, and his heart sinks. "Let me walk you to your first final, at least, so that you don't pass out in the middle of the hallway."

He breathes out his amusement at that, humming assent as he gathers his stuff together. Bernard follows suit, albeit moving a bit slower so that he can keep an eye on Tim. Anxiety is thrumming through his veins, and he knows how badly this can go, the ways that this can end, but he still has one more final to take before they're done and he's trying to fill a role he doesn't have time for. Bernard's...

Bernard's not sure if he can do this.

"Hey," Tim says, tone suddenly soft and sounding almost sympathetic, like he understands exactly how everything he's choosing to do is affecting Bernard. "I'll be done with my last final before you, so I'll be back at the dorm when you come back. You can yell at me then for being irresponsible, okay?"

Bernard laughs, the sound a little wet and choked with the tears clogging his throat. Finals week is nothing if not stressful, and the emotions of the past week and a half haven't done much to help him. "Alright," Bernard concedes, meeting Tim's eyes. "I'll hold you to that."

The corner of Tim's lips angle upward in a smirk. "Why would I expect anything else?"

-

"911, what's your emergency?"

This is really happening. Bernard can feel his heart pounding and pumping blood down to his very fingertips, where they hover nervously over Tim's body. The edges of his phone case are biting into the side of his face, pressed between his cheek and shoulder. "My— my roommate, he's unconscious."

"Okay, sir, I need the name of both you, your roommate, and the address you are currently at. Then I need you to describe the situation. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm Bernard Dowd, my roommate is Tim Drake. We're at—" he scans his brain desperately, trying to remember their address and dorm number, finally coming up with it. There's static in his mind, sheeting over his thoughts, and he almost misses the operator's next words. He has to hang on, though, since Tim is burning up on the floor and Bernard has no idea what he's doing.

"Alright, you're doing great, Bernard. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I'm not totally sure, he's been— he's sick, I thought it was just a cold, but he must've collapsed. I just got back to our dorm. I don't... I don't know how long he's been here," Bernard admits, pressing two of his fingers to Tim's neck and feeling for his pulse. "He had a fever earlier, insisted he could take his finals, but. Fuck." It's there, he thinks, pounding against his fingers, but it feels fast and faint.

"Take a deep breath, sir; help is on the way. Did he go to his finals?"

Bernard breathes out wetly, trying to stay calm. "He, yeah, he went. I walked him to his first one, was worried, but he took some Aspirin and insisted he was fine. Seemed okay by the time we got there, too, but he's just... on the floor now, unconscious. I think he came back after his second final and— Oh, god."

"Can you check for his breathing and pulse, if you know how to?"

"Pulse is there, but it feels fast. A bit weak. He's definitely breathing, though it's shallow."

"Excellent work, Bernard. I need you to stay on the line with me until the paramedics arrive, okay?"

"Okay." He takes another deep breath, trying to clear the fog. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Can you tell me, does your roommate have a medical bracelet or any preexisting conditions you're aware of?"

"I— I don't know, let me check." Bernard reaches for Tim's skinny wrist, lifting it like it could break in his hand. There's nothing there, but when he takes the other, the silver glint he saw the other day suddenly makes sense. TIM DRAKE is engraved into the metal bracelet in capital letters, with the word ASPLENIA right below it. "Uh, he has a medical bracelet; it says asp— asplenia?"

"Do you know what happened to his spleen?"

His throat goes dry, and when he tries to talk, all that comes out is a wheeze of air. He's spiraling. The implications of that sentence cannot mean anything else than what he's assuming, but Bernard still has to ask. "Are you saying that— that my roommate is missing his spleen?"

"Were you uninformed of that fact?" For the first time, the operator actually sounds a little bit surprised. Which makes sense; Bernard's pretty sure knowing that your roommate is missing his goddamn spleen is pretty essential information to have.

"He hadn't told me, no," he whispers, clearing his throat. He can hear sirens approaching. "I think the ambulance might be here."

"Okay. Stay on the line until you can see them, and if you're in a position where you can, alert your dormmates so that they aren't panicking or in the way."

Bernard is still reeling from the information he's just been afforded, and moves on numb legs to the door. Opening it reveals someone standing outside, turning when he hears Bernard. "Hey, dude!" he says, grinning at him. "Me and a couple of the other freshmen were planning on— hey, wait, what's wrong?"

"There're, uh, paramedics coming," Bernard tells him, ignoring the look of shock that passes over his face. "My roommate's unconscious, they're coming for him. Can you—?"

"'Course," he says, and it hits Bernard that he doesn't even know the person he's talking to right now. God. Fuck. "Get back with him, do whatever you need to do. I'll keep people out of the way."

Bernard gives him a sharp nod. "Thank you," he manages, leaving the door open as he retreats back inside. The phone is still presses against his cheek, his shoulder cramping slightly, but pain means absolutely nothing to him right now. "I..."

"You did a great job," the operator assures. "Just hang on, kid."

A sob tears its way out of his chest as he hears the entrance to the dorms open, sirens becoming louder for split second. "They're here."

"Alright. Do you feel comfortable hanging up now?"

"I— yeah, I think so. They're here," he repeats.

"Whenever you're ready. You can wait as long as you need."

"Thank you," Bernard whispers, jumping when one of the paramedics enters his dorm, eyes wide. He can see the situation being assessed, the paramedic unflinching as he scans the two of them, and then he says something to be met with a flood of people joining him, crowding into the tiny dorm room. Bernard is swept up in it, one paramedic asking him questions about Tim's age and the specifics of his asplenia as not revealed on the medical bracelet while another says things like "Seventeen-year-old white male," and "stable blood pressure" and "weakening pulse" before they're all outside and Tim's being loaded into the ambulance on a gurney.

"Can I ride with him?" he asks desperately, and the paramedic nods at him, her eyes sympathetic. Bernard wastes no time climbing in and getting out of the way, one of his hands clutching Tim's like he's dying. Which he isn't. He'll be fine.

"Bernard?"

It's the operator. She's still there, on the phone line, waiting for Bernard's word. A rush of exhaustion pulses through his entire body and Bernard buckles from the crouch he's currently in, the adrenaline fading just as quickly as it kicked in. "I'm here," he whispers. "We're on our way to the hospital."

"Good. Are you okay?"

He hangs up without another word.

-

"Where is he?"

Bernard looks up from the tiled floor of the hospital waiting room and into the eyes of someone who has to be related to Tim; he has the same blue eyes and black hair, although his skin tone is a bit darker. Mostly, though, he has the same determination in his gait and the set of his shoulders that Tim has while working on assignments.

"My brother, Tim," the man stresses. "Where is he?"

"They're not letting visitors in yet," Bernard tells him. "I'm Bernard. His roommate."

The man slumps into the chair next to Bernard, eyes scanning the mostly-empty room before he turns to look at him barely a second later. "You're the one who called the ambulance for him, right?"

"Yeah." Bernard bobs his head a bit in a nod, taking note of the sympathetic wince Tim's brother gives him. "He was, uh. He was unconscious on the floor, when I walked into the dorm." There's a wobble in his voice as he talks, and he clears his throat to try to excuse it as well as dislodge the lump stuck there.

"I'm sorry," he says, leaning slightly over the chair arms between them and sticking out his hand. "I'm Dick, by the way. Tim's older brother."

"He was talking to you the other day," Bernard realizes, and Dick nods. "Was he okay? He sounded… upset. In part because of me, I think."

Dick's quick to reassure him, holding out his hands and shaking his head. "No, no, you're totally fine, Bernard. Thank you for trying to check on him in the first place; I know Tim's a bit difficult to deal with. But no, he was just frustrated. Overwhelmed. It's not your fault at all."

"Good to know," Bernard responds. Before he can say anything else, however, a nurse walks into the waiting room.

"Family of Tim Drake?" she asks, eyes landing on him and Dick. "He can see you now," she tells them, and Dick all but shoots up from his seat to get to her. Bernard follows behind, of course, but lets Dick go farther ahead. He hasn't seen Tim in three months; while Bernard doesn't have any siblings, he can understand his eagerness.

She brings them down the hall and to a door, where she pauses before opening it. "He's asleep, still, so try not to disturb him," she instructs, and Dick gives a firm nod before stepping inside, Bernard doing the same before going in as well.

Tim looks absolutely tiny in the hospital bed, legs covered with a blanket that's halfway to the floor and wearing a medical gown that's just a little bit too big for him. His position exposes the scars on his back yet again, given that he's curled in on himself with an IV tube sticking out of his right arm, and as the nurse said, he's fast asleep. Dick lets out a soft noise as they walk in, immediately moving to his side and carding his hands through his brother's hair. He whispers something Bernard can't quite make out, then places a palm on Tim's forehead despite the fact that there's a monitor right next to the bed with his body temperature.

Bernard can't help but let his attention be drawn to the scars on Tim's back. He didn't really get a good look the other day, and upon closer inspection, he can see it's even worse than his initial glance determined. Almost none of them are solitary, constantly overlapping and blending into each other. He's not an expert on scar tissue or anything, but most of them don't even look like they're from his childhood, only a couple years old at most. Even the one that's definitely from a bullet looks relatively new, and the stab wound can only be from a handful of months ago; it's still pink and raised.

He catches Dick's eye as the other turns slightly towards him. "I'm sorry. I just, I saw them the other day and—"

"It's alright," he says, quiet, bringing his gaze back down to Tim and continues stroking his head gently, as if he was a cat. "I get it. It's scary, seeing them for the first time." Dick sounds like he's speaking from experience there, and he really doesn't want to know how that conversation went.

"If you don't mind me asking…" Bernard trails off, biting his lip as Dick looks back to him with piqued interest. "Why does he have so many scars? Was he, like… Tim wasn't abused, right?"

"We're from Gotham," Dick says, smiling ruefully yet sounding fond as his eyes trace down Tim's form. Whether it's from seeing his brother for the first time in three months or the memories of growing up in Gotham, Bernard can't tell, but he's willing to bet on the former. "It's left it's mark."

That… actually makes a lot of sense. Bernard's never been to Gotham, but he did live in Blüdhaven for a couple years in his teens, right around when Nightwing was starting out, maybe a bit earlier. They didn't have anyone as insane as Two-Face or the Joker, but it wasn't like people moved to Blüdhaven because it seemed promising. His parents only went for work, and had left the second his mom's contract had ended.

"Shit, man," Bernard breathes. Somehow, in the span of seven minutes, he's learned more about his roommate than he has in their three months together, and it's taking him some time to process all of the information that’s just been dumped on him. "I mean, shit. Gotham's…"

Dick nods, one of the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly in a mockery of a smile. "Yeah. It's pretty fucked up. We've all been threatened, mugged, kidnapped; you name it, we've been through it."

Bernard blanches. "I'm sorry, kidnapped?"

He waves it off casually, as if it's not a big deal. "Yeah. Held for ransom, and all that jazz. It's probably happened to Tim more than any of us, to be honest, considering who his parents were even before he got adopted."

"I don't even want to begin dissecting that, but what do you mean," he asks, making air quotes, "'any of us?' Does Tim have more siblings?"

"He hasn't told you about us?" Dick asks, looking partially offended and partially concerned. At Bernard's following head shake, he just sighs and looks back to his brother. Well, that's not entirely accurate. Dick's been looking at Tim the entire time, he's just refocusing on him now. "What has he told you?"

Bernard shrugs. "Not much. Introduced himself as Tim Drake, but he's said almost nothing else about himself besides that. We've mostly just talked about classes and assignments. He'll follow me to my study groups a lot, but most of his time otherwise is spent in the library or at lectures. He's… impersonal, for lack of a better term. I want to know him, though."

Dick has a pained look on his face. "He introduced himself as Tim Drake?" he repeats, tone soft in a different way than it was before when he was talking about Tim. This sounds less comforting, more hurt. More raw.

"Is that not his name?" Bernard asks, confused.

"It is, but…" Dick trails off, shaking his head after a beat and blinking. "It's a long story. Short side of it is that Tim's adopted, as are most of our siblings, including myself, but he was legally emancipated last year before he turned eighteen and changed his name to Tim Drake-Wayne, instead of going back to Tim Drake or remaining Tim Wayne."

"And you were adopted by…?"

Dick positively beams, his excitement practically lighting up the room and Bernard feels like he may have asked the wrong question. "We're Bruce Wayne's kids. As in, the billionaire."

"As in, the guy who tripped on the steps to that one gala in California and had a bunch of raw shrimp spill out of his pockets?"

"That's the one," Dick confirms, laughing. "I forgot we did that to him." He's interrupted by his phone buzzing, and picks it up. "Speak of the devil. I'll be back in a couple minutes. Keep an eye on him?" His head tilts towards Tim, as though it wasn't obvious who he meant.

"Of course," Bernard promises, nodding. Dick shoots him a smile before answering his phone and leaving the room, leaving Bernard alone in the room with no one else but an unconscious Tim.

When he looks back over at the hospital bed, his roommate's twitching, limbs jerking slightly and fingers curling into loose fists as tiny, near-inaudible whimpers escape from his throat. Clearly, he and Dick were overlapping him with their conversation earlier, but now that Bernard can hear Tim, it's impossible to tune him back out, so he stands and walks over to the side of the bed. Dick was carding his fingers through Tim's hair earlier; is it really so different if Bernard does it as well?

They're barely friends, if Bernard's being honest. Tim's been nothing but avoidant and aloof the entire time Bernard's known him, and while three and a half months really isn't a lot of time, it's enough for almost any other pair of roommates to, at the very least, become acquaintances. He doesn't even outright hate Tim, he's just frustrated with him. He wants to be friends with him, wants to know him beyond his name and behavioral patterns.

Bernard's never heard Tim laugh.

With careful deliberation, he places his fingers in Tim's hair and gently pushes back. It's sweaty, of course, but surprisingly soft. Kind of like a baby's hair, to tell the truth. Definitely not as thin, but the resemblance is there. It's tangled, too, and he keeps carding his fingers through until it becomes a pattern and he stops processing the action, moving on autopilot as he examines Tim's face.

It's still full of tension, but underneath it, Tim actually looks relaxed, which is nothing short of a miracle for him. Bernard's never seen him with anything other than the weight of the world on his shoulders and bags under his eyes, so seeing his face slack and unregulated is a bit of a shock. While he can't say that Tim looks innocent, per se, there's a new type of youth to his features, one that looks like it actually belongs on him rather than the borrowed stresses of other people. He's not sure if he can add this to the number of times he's seen Tim asleep, considering he started out unconscious and is now on sedatives, but Bernard would like to because it finally looks real.

"He's a good person, I promise," Dick whispers at his side, and Bernard startles. "Sorry. But he is, really. It's just, he needs some time to get close to people. Tim's lost a lot. It makes you wary."

Before Bernard can figure out how to respond to that, Dick’s changing the subject. "I'm going to give you both mine and my brother Jason's numbers, in case you need help dealing with Tim, or just want to talk." He smiles at Bernard, soft and genuine. "Jason's my immediate younger brother, and Tim's other older brother. We know how to wrangle him."

Bernard finds himself smiling back as Dick takes his phone. "Thanks. Could you, uh, also put Tim's number in there?"

"He didn't give it to you?"

"No, not really," Bernard says, and Dick uses his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in a very parent-like gesture. Which is weird, seeing as Bernard is eighteen and nothing more than Dick's brother's roommate and Dick looks to be only in his mid-twenties.

"I'm going to throw that kid out a window when he wakes up," he mutters, handing Bernard’s phone back to him a second later. "Here, we're all saved under the surname 'Wayne', whether or not Timmy likes it." That last part is accompanied by a glance back at the hospital bed, and Dick’s gaze slips into something heartbroken for a second before he covers it back up again.

He'd probably benefit from some time alone with his little brother, Bernard realizes, and he puts his phone back into his pocket. "I'm going to get some coffee, if you want anything."

Dick's smile, for the fist time, is tight, likely with anticipation. "I'm okay, but thank you, Bernard. For helping him, and for staying."

He nods once, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, and slips out of the room into the hallway. The air is cooler and somehow harder to breathe, and Bernard takes in a ragged gasp as a tear slips down his cheek.

It doesn't mean anything.

-

Bernard's quietly debating with Dick over the number of Robins Batman's had— Bernard's convinced that there's more than eight, whereas Dick is insistent that it's five —when Tim's voice cuts through the tension in the room like his evidence through Dick's argument. Let it be known that the conspiracy theorist in him never backs down. "Dick?"

"I'm here," he says, at his brother's side in less than an instant. "What do you need, baby bird?"

Tim stares at him, pupils dilated, like he's hung all the stars in the sky and the moon for good measure, then practically flings himself into his older brother's arms, gripping tightly enough that his fingers turn white with the force. "Dick," he whispers, the name spoken reverently. It seems like more than just the typical sibling relationship, from what Bernard's seen in his classmates, but Tim is unlike anyone else he's ever met. Maybe this is just how it is, or maybe it's because they're adopted. Or maybe Tim's just high on medication. Either way, he's not in a position to judge.

"You scared me," Dick whispers back, speaking into his hair. One hand is wrapped around Tim's small frame while the other clutches at the back of his head, bringing him even closer to Dick's chest. "Why didn't you...?"

"I should've." Tim sniffles. "But Bernard was there the whole time, and he didn't know—"

Dick suddenly pulls back, looking Tim directly in the eyes and holding his hands up, as if he's surrendering. "Hang on, Timbo, did you just say that Bernard didn't know?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"After I told you to tell him that you're missing your spleen? You could have died, Tim, does that not mean anything to you?"

He shrugs. "I mean, I've almost died over twenty times, it starts losing its shine after the seventh instance. Stop worrying so much." The last bit is accompanied with a lazy wave of his hand, the IV sticking out of the crook of his elbow preventing him from bending it too much. Dick splutters next to him, and Bernard decides it's the perfect time to make his presence known.

"Wow, Gotham sounds like hell," he says, almost completely nonchalant. He manages to fight back the grin that threatens to spread when Tim finally looks over at him, shock written on his features before it relaxes into a loopy grin. Now that he's actually looking at Bernard, it's so much easier to see how out of it he still is. He doesn't look stressed yet, and the bags under his eyes have started fading slightly.

"Heyyy," he slurs, leaning into the hand Dick places on his shoulder, his moods changing quicker than the Flash can run. "It really is; I was hanging out in my office this one time and some immortal dude kicked me out a window once. It was pretty cool. Aside from the fact that I almost splatted on the sidewalk like a flesh pancake."

There's... there's so much to unpack from that sentence, more than Bernard had previously thought was possible. He doesn't realize his jaw is dropped until his tongue goes dry and stiff in his mouth, while Dick just sighs, disappointment pushing through his breath. "Where do I even start with that?" he mutters.

"Don't even try," Dick advises, turning back to his little brother. "Kiddo, could you try to tone back the chaos? Just a bit?"

Of course, Tim shakes his head, the same loopy grin etched onto his face. "Can't, Dick. I need it to survive. I'm like a succulent, except my power's drawn from chaos instead of sex."

Dick turns to look at Bernard, a completely dead expression on his face. "He means succubus. I apologize for everything you already have and will proceed to witness."

"Hey, I'm entertained," Bernard says, shrugging. "Finals week is hell."

"Oh my god," Dick mutters, immediately looking back at Tim. "You... you took finals like this. Holy— Jason is going to kill you when we get back home, you know that?"

"He's tried before, and he's failed before." Tim pulls his legs up to his chest, still covered by the hospital blanket, in a complete contradiction of his next statement. "'M not scared of him."

"Alright, then Bruce is going to kill you," he's informed, Dick's tone completely matter-of-fact.

Tim scoffs. "Emancipated minor. He can't tell me what to do."

"Yeah, uh, I'm just going to—" Bernard makes finger guns at the door, slowly backing away, "—leave, if you're okay with that." He doesn't wait for an answer before heading out, shaking his head in disbelief.

At what point, he wonders, did he piss off some unholy deity to bring him to this exact moment in his life, where it's revealed that his roommate is actually made of nothing but chaos and spite and all Bernard can do it bear witness to it?

(Somewhere, not too far back in his mind, he is deeply, painfully aware that Tim is only acting like this because he's actually comfortable for once. Because he feels safe. Because Dick is there as a calming, grounding presence for him, being something that Bernard can barely even dream of acting as. Still, he knows that it's his endgame, that if he wants to be friends with Tim, he has to make him feel secure. He has to be trustworthy.

If there was something he could have done earlier to bring this side of Tim out, he would have, this is a gift, but...)

"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers to himself.

Well.

The second semester just got a lot more interesting.

#d/c sickfic #sickfic #d/c #t/im d/rake #b/ernard d/owd #d/ick g/rayson #t/imber college au #swts fic

[sleptwithinthesun]

here's a little set-up for a series i'm planning on working on for a while, since it makes me happy :) accept the 2.3K words of self-indulgent fluff i wrote because i am not doing well *finger guns*

(also, quick note, this is the start of a t/imber college au i've been working on for a while and will have another fic for relatively soon. please enjoy.)

Bernard barely glances up from his textbook reading when Tim stumbles into their dorm room, used to the near-constant state of sleep deprivation his roommate is in. He'd given up on trying to get Tim to go the fuck to sleep three weeks into their first semester, which he should have taken as a warning, because they're now two months into their spring semester and he's only seen Tim willingly go to sleep twice, a number that obviously excludes the amount of times he's passed out from exhaustion. Frankly, Bernard's surprised his roommate is even alive half the time, considering his lack of sleep and the five courses he's taken on in freshman year.

"How'd your presentation go?" he asks, grinning as Tim groans and dumps his bag on the floor, the sound followed by two thunks as he kicks off his shoes. "That bad?"

"No, just boring as shit," Tim counters, and for a second, Bernard's taken aback at how raspy his voice sounds before he chalks it up to the aforementioned sleep deprivation. Kid really needs a nap. And yeah, he might only be ten months older than Tim, but there's something about him that just makes him seem a lot younger than eighteen. "Half the class had no idea what they were talking about, and the other half somehow overanalyzed their cases to make them seem a lot more important than they actually were." He coughs quietly into his fist, the bedsprings squeaking underneath him.

Bernard hums in acknowledgement, highlighting one last line in his textbook before closing it and twisting in his seat to look at Tim, who's lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He looks alright, not like he's about to pass out, which is something Bernard never thought he'd have to check for. The signs of exhaustion are still there, though, in the edges of his red-rimmed eyes and the deep bags underneath that he's never bothered to hide, but he doesn't look sick, which. Well. Bernard is thankful for that, because he absolutely does not need a repeat of last semester.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by the buzz of his cell phone on the wooden desktop and moves to unlock it, scrolling through the various Instagram, Discord, and other notifications before landing on the text from one of his classmates. "Hey, do you want to come to a study session with me?" Bernard asks, fingers hovering over the keyboard and waiting for Tim's response.

His roommate shrugs. "Which class?"

"Communications."

"Yeah, sure," Tim says, dragging himself upwards and rubbing a hand against his cheekbone as he blinks. He doesn't actually take communications, but last semester, he'd developed a habit of following Bernard to random meetings so that he could listen in on the discussions to the point where now, Bernard just invites him to tag along. It's oddly endearing, if Bernard's being honest. "When are we leaving?"

Bernard checks the time on his phone, compares it to the text message, and takes a second to judge how far the location is from their dorm. "Uh, probably in about fifteen minutes? Does that work for you?" Tim nods, his hand migrating to his eye as he presses his palm into it. "You okay?"

"Fine," he says, voice soft and barely audible, his hand still held firmly against his eye. "Just need a second."

And, after nearly seven months of Tim, he knows what that tone means. Bernard turns around to give his roommate as much privacy as can be afforded in a dorm room of these proportions and starts gathering his notes together. Communications is a fascinating class, currently focused on reading and understanding body language, and has spawned a small, bi-weekly study group among the freshmen who take it. Bernard likes most of them well enough, they're all pretty nice, but he's almost positive that this is going to dissolve into chaos.

-

He called it.

Bernard can't tamp back his amusement, a smile threatening to split across his face as he watches the game of Pictionary currently taking place at the whiteboards. The drawing looks like some kind of mangled insect, with six legs and horns and a wide flat tail that's confusing the fuck out of everyone until one voice rises above the rest to shout, "APPA", and then the whole room erupts into screaming as the artist, some kid named Bryan Howard, he thinks, points excitedly at whoever guessed it.

God, he loves college.

"Bernard! Hey!" Gretchen, the friend who'd texted him about the study session in the first place, joins him at the table and pushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. Concern bleeds into her features as she says, "Tim Drake. He's your roommate, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Might want to get him out of here." Gretchen tilts her head towards one of the corners of the room, where Tim's curled up in a ball of what appears to be abject misery, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms crossed over with his head buried in them. Bernard's not sure when that happened, exactly, but it's obvious that he's been over there for a while.

"Shit. Thanks," Bernard says, standing up and weaving through the group of people near the end of the table to get to Tim. It's rare for him to show this kind of vulnerability around just Bernard, much less in a room full of people, and that just ramps his concern up a couple more levels.

He ends up crouched next to Tim, hands hovering around his shoulders as he does his best to case the kid in front of him. He doesn't appear to be in distress, and Bernard's pretty sure that nothing's happened, so why—?

Bernard takes in the even rise and fall of his back, the steady pattern of breathing, and it hits him.

Tim's asleep.

Probably for the first time in a couple days, if the fact that he somehow managed to fall asleep in the middle of what's pretty much become a party says anything. Bernard shakes his head in bewilderment, reaching out a hand and gently shaking his roommate's shoulder to wake him up. It takes a second, but Tim blinks awake and meets Bernard's eyes. "Hey, man."

"Wh' time 's it?" Tim slurs, wincing as a particularly excited shout rings through the room. He's got to be exhausted, if he's willing to actually behave like a normal college student rather than like the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, like Wayne Enterprises.

"I hate to break it to you, but it's only six-thirty," Bernard says, grinning a little bit when Tim groans. "Seriously, how long have you been awake?"

He ponders the question for a bit, then asks, "What day is it?"

The following facepalm from Bernard is loud enough that it attracts a couple of turned heads and he hisses, "it's Thursday. Please don't tell me you've been awake since Monday."

"I haven't."

"Oh thank go—"

"I've been awake since Saturday."

"What the fuck," Bernard asks blankly and without hesitation. That statement almost feels like a reflex, at this point, in dealing with Tim's constant mentions of his ridiculous sleep schedule (or lack thereof). "That's it; we're going back to the dorms."

Tim doesn't even try to argue with him, which is probably most telling of his exhaustion. Bernard's seen him push himself to his absolute limit, going so far as to literally fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, and not stop or hesitate for even a single second while doing so. The fact that he's going with him easily right now is concerning.

"You're not getting sick, are you?" he asks warily, grabbing one of Tim's hands as he leads them out of the room and checking to make sure he's wearing his medical bracelet. The glint of it on his wrist is comforting, as well as the shake of his head that Tim gives him for the previous statement. "Just sleep deprived?" He gets a nod for that one.

They make it to the hallway before Tim stops, coughing lightly into his elbow for a couple seconds. "Sorry. Back to the dorms?"

"Yeah," Bernard says, taking his hand again before continuing on their way, "and then you're going to bed."

"For once, I think 'm not going to argue with that," Tim murmurs, grip on Bernard's hand strong despite the fact that he looks ready to pass out.

He's silent after that, leaning against Bernard and following him as they walk. It's cute, really, the little shuffle to his step when he forgets to properly pick up his feet and the way he keeps squeezing Bernard's hand, applying just a bit more pressure that demands his attention. Bernard makes sure to squeeze back, smiling as Tim does the same and pulling out his keycard as they approach their dorm building.

"Are you going to make it upstairs?" Bernard asks, skeptical. Tim just presses his face into Bernard's shoulder and mumbles something incoherent, so he just wrangles Tim into a piggyback and sets off towards their dorm room, which sounds harder than it is. Tim weighs almost nothing, is probably barely over a hundred and forty pounds, if that. "Dude. What are you made of, bags of potato chips?"

Tim's face is still pressed into his shoulder, but he says something that sounds suspiciously like "fuck you" and Bernard laughs quietly, pressing the button for the elevator and waiting patiently for it to arrive. "Not made of potato chips. I'm like... twenty percent water."

"Pretty sure it's more than that," Bernard says, stepping inside and pressing the third floor button. "People are about seventy percent water."

"Yeah, if they're cowards," Tim says, turning his head so his face isn't smashed directly into Bernard's shoulder blade. "'M not a coward."

"...I still don't think that's how it works." Sleep-deprived Tim is a blessing, really. As bad as it is for him, he's also Bernard's favorite source of entertainment, and it's the same for his family. At least once a month, he'll send a random video of Tim saying or doing something stupid because he hasn't slept in days (the last one was him sobbing over a Cheeto he'd dropped) to Dick, who never fails to respond with a text to both Bernard and Tim. The former, of course, thanks Bernard for sending the video, while the latter is just him yelling at Tim to go to sleep again. So far, Dick's efforts have been fruitless, and not for lack of trying.

"Shut up, yes it is. I'm a genesis, Bernard, know what 'm talking about."

"A genesis."

"Yes."

He's standing at the door of their dorm now, paused in his actions to attempt to process the gibberish spilling out of Tim's mouth right now. That's the other thing; when Tim's operating on three hours of sleep a week, his intellect is the first to go. Sure, he'll still be smart, but he doesn't show it like he normally does. Instead, he says shit like the conversation currently happening.

"You sure about that?" Bernard asks, unlocking the door and stepping inside with Tim still on his back, though beginning to slide off now that they're in their room. "'Cause I'm pretty sure that's a car brand."

Tim blanks and falls silent as Bernard gently drops him on his bed, laughing quietly as Tim curls around one of his pillows and shoves himself backwards and into the corner. "You know what I meant," he eventually mutters, hitting the wall roughly with his hip without so much as a hiss of pain. "Good luck sleeping tonight. Gonna need it."

And then he's out.

"What the fuck," Bernard whispers quietly to himself, shaking his head in utter confusion before sitting down at his desk and opening his laptop to his French assignment, intent on completing it.

-

Bernard's playing Minecraft when Tim groans and rolls over, staring directly at Bernard until he takes off his headphones. "What's up?"

"Wh' time’s it?" Tim murmurs, his default question, as he brings up a hand up to scrub at his eyes.

He checks the clock on his laptop. "One-thirteen," Bernard reports. Just because Tim's sleep habits are awful doesn't mean his aren't as well; they're just objectively better by comparison. "That's only six and a half hours of sleep, dude, shouldn't you still be passed out?"

"Wish I was," he mumbles, walking over to him and placing his forehead on Bernard's shoulder. "Even took Benadryl..."

"Wait, hang on," Bernard says, pausing the game and turning his full attention to Tim. "Why'd you take Benadryl?"

He shrugs. "Felt like it." Before Bernard can even begin to talk about why that's an awful idea, Tim follows it up with, "Spring's beginning. Wanted to get a head start."

"…On the pollen?"

Tim hums his assent, lifting his head and glancing at his screen. "You need snowballs."

"Stop switching topics."

Instead of settling on either the proper method to defeat the Ender Dragon or how to properly prepare one's body against springtime allergens, Tim falls silent, pressing his face into Bernard's shoulder again. "Hey, man," Bernard says softly, unsure of exactly what's happening here, but not unaware of how to deal with it. "Do you need me to call Dick or Jason for you?"

"Nah," he says, closing his eyes again while Bernard tries to ignore how goddamn warm he feels, sitting in the pitch dark of their dorm room with only the light of his computer illuminating Tim's features, his roommate relaxed in a way he's rarely seen. "I'm okay with you."

"Just me?" Bernard whispers, barely daring to breathe for fear the moment and the sentiment will slip away.

"All of you," Tim whispers back, and that's the last thing either of them say until the morning.

#d/c fic #d/c #t/im d/rake #b/ernard d/owd #t/imber college au #swts fic