#slalc

Even though it had been three years since that fateful election night, in your dreams you still felt the cruel push and pull of the thick crowd around you, still heard the harsh pops of gunfire, still had phantom visions of water knocking you over and dragging you under, of hands holding you beneath the water until you couldn’t breathe anymore, the sea filling your lungs. 

You knew that Bruce thought it was a lingering side effect of being slowly and steadily exposed to fear toxin for months on end. He never said as much, but you could see it in his eyes when you talked about the anxiety, the fear, the nightmares. 

So you stopped talking about it.  

(You hated worrying Bruce, hated the crease that appeared between his eyebrows when you said something that betrayed too much of your own mental distress… You never wanted to be the reason he was worried. You were meant to be his comfort, his relief from the horrors of Gotham. He had enough to be concerned about without you adding onto it.)

Even though you’d been having similar nightmares since you’d first escaped Gotham Square Garden, part of you knew he was right to be worried. There were elements to the nightmares that had only worsened over time, new images that had only appeared after you’d met Jonathan. They were uncharacteristically horrifying, images you were positive your mind wouldn’t be able to create by itself without outside help. 

And what was better (or worse) for your already fractured psyche than a drug designed to pinpoint your worst fears and bring them into horrifying unreality?  

You would wake, too often for comfort, gasping for air and clutching your chest like you would claw your lungs out just for a chance to catch your breath. Sometimes, Bruce was beside you, ready to comfort you and remind you that you were safe, that the Flood never happened and your mind was just playing tricks on you. But most of the time, he wasn’t. You’d push the thick comforter back and shakily approach the window before blankly staring down at the city he was fighting so hard to save. Then you’d grab a cardigan and wait for him in the so-called Batcave, eating whatever snack he had down there (you’re pretty sure he only started doing that once you’d waited up for him a few times) as you tried not to shiver from the ever present chill in the cavernous room.

You’d stare at the wall of the abandoned train station beneath Wayne Tower, trying to push away the remnants of your nightmare. It was difficult to not overanalyze them, not to pinpoint every detail of the dream and where it came from. Instead, as you stared at the wall, you practiced the breathing exercises your therapist taught you and listened for Bruce. 

He’d arrive a few hours later, unsurprised by your presence. Some nights he would go about his normal post-patrol business, taking his single eye contact out and starting to document what had happened that night, knowing that you just wanted his company more than anything. But there were other nights, ones where you must have seemed more shaken up by the nightmares, he would take you to the couch and sit with you in silence for a few minutes, before quietly asking if you wanted to talk about it.

You never did.