𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐫𝐲𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.💫
Though Gotham herself was a troubled city, he had come to love it for its glitz and glamour. The soothing hum of the urban landscape's reliance on neon and fluorescence, the way the people moved along the asphalt and along sidewalks, everything about the city was charming. A noir-esque film seemed to permeate the entire town, contrasting Metropolis so starkly in its differences.
At one point, Clark had been one of the many people who had looked at Gotham with more than a critical eye - but Wayne had changed that for him, had shown him that the people of Gotham were so deserving of the care Batman (and Bruce Wayne) did his best to show them.
No Bat Signal tonight. The light usually sticks in the air like honey upon the fingers. Even destroying it cannot stop the threat of it staying. How many times had the Joker or another one of B's rogues gallery attempted to ruin it? Many. And it never stopped Batman.
But with it off, there's some peace for a change.
It means Bruce can attempt a modicum of rest. Good, he thinks, the breeze whipping his hair and yet not pulling it out of shape. The Kryptonian poises himself in a slow descent, arms at the ready to lift.
Kent is silent, an impish grin revealing his sharp caninies dancing on his features as he sneaks into Wayne Manor through Bruce's window. Thrown over his arm is a spare cape that can no longer be used, its stitching lovingly turned into a blanket by his mother. Bathed in the light of the moon, he descends onto the sleeping figure in bed, feet not touching the floor; his bright red boots lift above the expensive flooring. Kent doesn't make a sound, breath caught at the sight before him. Bruce Wayne. The Batman. His B. Fast asleep. The strain of life that usually drew his mouth down into a stern line is gone. Just relaxed. How rare a treat to witness while B's chest rises and falls, as he takes breaths in that slow, measured way that sleep begets. Clark's heart warms for the man who looks so serene in bed, though he knows that the man's dreams are often nightmares. Facing many of the individuals in his rogues gallery, or even dreams of his parents. Things that Clark knew he would only keep to himself, too, as long as the detective lived.
B doesn't like to rest, he knows, because it means he can't do what he needs to do to protect Gotham, and by extension, the world.
Clark's held it for Atlas, and he thinks that @gothamsaved does it perfectly with all he's got. But him resting is sweet, and well-deserved. And yet, Kent allows himself a moment to be selfish, to get close and wake him.
The farmboy lays the cape over his sleeping form, and gently runs his fingers through dark locks. Clark presses a kiss to his forehead, and whispers his affection to try and rouse the other from rest. "Babe, wake up," he whispers, kissing along his hairline, "'m here. I have something for you."
