I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Yet I'm still hoping for reviews. Oh well... Enjoy?

TRIGGER WARNING: implied violence, minor injuries, suicidal thoughts

Disclaimer: None of this is mine except the plot, because even the BBC aren't that cruel.

Bertrand could wake up every day with Robin nibbling at his ear, he really could. In fact, he often did, and today was no exception. What did make this particular awakening unusual was the fact that they were both sitting upright on a mattress on their coffin-room floor.
"Wha-?"
"We must have dozed off," Robin told him, "I thought you might want to move back to the coffin."
"I- what time is it? Why were we sleeping?" He was more than a little disorientated, though he was also keenly aware that Robin's hand on his side was just a little further round towards his back than he usually liked. "...Why am I still tired?"
"Don't know. Stress wearing you out, I expect. I could sleep a little longer, come on."

Robin untangled his legs from Bertrand's and stood, reaching down to help him up, and Bertrand allowed himself to be pulled up and led back to the coffin. As he lay down, he smiled to himself, and Robin raised an eyebrow, smiling back.
"Hey, happy. What're you smiling about?"
"You touched my back. It felt nice, I liked it." Robin beamed proudly at him.
"I did. You did. Well done, B." Bertrand reached out for Robin's hand, pulling it around himself to rest at the small of his back again-

"No, please, let me go. I won't tell anyone what you are, please don't do this-"
"Stay still and be quiet."
"Let me go, let me-"
"B!" There were hands on his face, and he clawed at them instinctively, trying to push his assailant away. "B, Bertrand, B, please, it's me. It's Robin. Please, just stop fighting, you're going to hurt yourself-"
"I won't- please- please let me go-"
"Bertrand!" Hands caught at his wrists, trying to pull his own away from his face, and Bertrand tried to pull away, to kick- the hands disappeared again and he braced himself for the next assault, curling himself into a tight ball. "Bertrand... love, you're safe. I promise you're safe."

Nobody touched him for a full minute, and the only voice he heard was a soothing litany of promises Bertrand wanted so desperately to believe.
"You're safe, you're with me, your Robin, just your Robin, we're alright. It doesn't matter, love, well, I mean, of course it matters but I mean I'm not upset, and you shouldn't be either, you're doing so well, just come back to me, just your Robin, your Bran, I'm here for you, love, it's just us..."
"Robin," he managed at last, allowing the word to settle into his bones, anchoring him. Robin hadn't been born when his sire had- he shied away from the thought. Robin... if Robin was here, then his sire couldn't be. He was safe. He was loved.
"Yes, love. Just me. Just me and you." Slowly, embarrassed, Bertrand uncurled and looked his lover in the eyes, searching for the warmth he hoped he'd still find there after his latest pathetic display.
"Robin." He repeated, and then allowed himself to take in the rest of the room. Their room, in their house, where they were safe and where Bertrand's sire had never set foot. This was the future, then – the present, he reminded himself crossly, he wasn't in the seventeenth century now – and they were safe. His eyes fell back onto Robin and he was forced to amend that statement.

The boy was rubbing absent-mindedly at one reddened shoulder and collarbone, and the way his legs were positioned suggested that there were some pains there too that might yet bruise. Bertrand could feel little stinging wounds on his own face to match the ones visible on Robin's chest, and he realised with horror that they might not be safe after all. There were other dangers out there besides his long-dusted sire. But Robin caught him looking at the marks and spoke to reassure him before he could even think of double-checking the perimeter.
"It's OK, B, I'm not upset."

It took a moment for the words to make sense, and then he was scrambling backwards, almost falling over the edge of the coffin in his haste to get over it, to get away from Robin and what he suddenly knew, with an awful certainty, to be the truth.
"I did this." He held up his hands to keep Robin from following him. "I did this. I did this to you."
"Bertrand, please. Calm down. I just... you need to calm down, alright?"
"How am I supposed to calm down-?"
"You're not doing any good panicking. B, I'm fine!" But he was already rifling through drawers, clutching at a pair of trousers, a shirt, and all the other things he needed to take with him.
"I have to go. Stay here, you'll be safer without me. I'll ask Vlad to come to you later – I-" His voice broke. "I love you, Robin, I... I do. But it's not enough, not if I can still- Bran, I'm sorry, and I love you, but I have to-" He fled downstairs with his bundle of possessions clutched to his chest.

Robin was flying around the room, trying to collect his own clothing so that he could give chase, but his legs hurt from being kicked and his shoulder wasn't cooperating properly – Bertrand had used it to shove his husband away from him in his initial panic and now it felt sore and useless. It would heal. Bertrand was his first priority. Still, he heard the front door slam before he could get downstairs, and as he reached the door himself he could barely see Bertrand at the end of one of the tunnels. At least he's not in the sunlight, he told himself, but the worry didn't disappear. With his lover out of sight, however, he found himself sinking to the floor, barely remembering to kick the door shut before he burst into tears, shaking and sobbing.
"You can't do this to me again, Bertrand," he mumbled, though there was no way he could possibly hear him. "You scare me, I think- I worry that you're going to hurt yourself-" His own voice rang in his ears, though the argument he was remembering had taken place years ago, before he was turned.
"Take your sorries and go and sit in the sunlight-"

He'd never been so scared of losing Bertrand as he had been that day – until now. Now terror gripped at him like an icy fist around his throat. He tried to get to the phone, but the distance along the hall seemed impossibly long and Bertrand was gone. He hadn't meant to hurt him, Robin knew he hadn't – but he had – and Robin didn't know how to feel. He was sure he should be angry – or should he not be angry at all, because Bertrand was clearly suffering and hadn't meant any of it – but all he knew was that he loved Bertrand and he wanted him back, he didn't want him to leave. He wanted to be held and cuddled and made better, and the minor wounds of their scuffle would heal soon enough but if Bertrand left him... He couldn't, he couldn't deal with that.

He dragged himself to the phone at last and dialled for the main house, but the line was engaged. Still sobbing brokenly, he tried Ingrid's and a male voice answered.
"Can- I need Ingrid-"
"Robin?" It was Malik. Of course it had to be Malik.
"I need to talk to Ingrid-"
"She's on her mobile at the moment, sounds like a family crisis or something. If you need someone, I can-"
"Please. Please, someone has to come." He couldn't tell Malik about Bertrand's problems, but he needed not to be alone.
"It's getting dark now; as soon as it does, I'm on my way." The line went dead and Robin collapsed in on himself again, trying desperately to process what had happened and failing at every turn.

Bertrand had never been so glad of the daylight, because if it hadn't still – barely – been afternoon then he'd never have been able to get the stake past Vlad's guards. As it was, they waved him through, and nobody even so much as saw the stake until he and Vlad were alone.

He dropped to his knees and held it out to his ruler.
"Please. I need you to do this for me, I can't do it myself." He knew he should; he knew this was cowardly, but he couldn't- his self-preservation instincts were so deeply ingrained that he couldn't bring himself to step into the sunlight or turn the stake upon himself. But equally ingrained was the knowledge that he mustn't fight Vlad, that he owed him every obedience. Vlad could compel him to stay still. Vlad could do this for him.
"What-?" But Vlad reached out and took the weapon all the same, and Bertrand bowed his head, waiting for the fatal blow.
"Just... tell him I'm sorry."
"Bertrand, what the blood and garlic do you think you're doing?"
"I need... he'll be safer, if I'm not- please, just do it."
"Bertrand, you're going to explain what's going on the minute I get back, and I don't expect you to have moved in the meantime." That was the Chosen One's most commanding voice, and Bertrand could no more argue than he could turn himself into a penguin on a whim. "Think about what you need to tell me."
"I hurt Robin," he blurted, and scrunched his eyes shut against the shame of it. "I hurt Robin."

Vlad's eyes widened, but he regarded him silently for a moment and then nodded.
"Two minutes. Wait here." Then he turned and walked out, leaving Bertrand with two minutes to prepare himself for the end. He chose to fix his mind on his husband; the memory of his face when they'd been announced bloodbound, his hands when they moved through his curls, his lips as they pressed against Bertrand's... he didn't deserve such beautiful memories, but he wanted to take them with him. Maybe, if he was lucky, Robin would be the last thought to cross his mind.