Most Gothamites assume that the Bat and his flock are fearless.
They see the swift, sharp blows being thrown by the vigilantes. The see the lack of hesitation when Robin sprints into a burning building to pull civilians out. They watch in both awe and horror as the Red Hood puts down drug lords in the streets, and their jaws drop when they watch a visiting Nightwing jump and dive between rooftops- like that’s where he was born to be.
But, they’re wrong.
The fact of the matter is that they’re not fearless.
They’re just determined- no, desperate- enough to see a positive change in Gotham that they’ve learned to ignore the anxiety that pounds through their heads and brings nausea to their bellies. They’re kept up all night, not only by the caffeine that they guzzle, but also by the nightmares that plague their unconscious hours.
They train and they train and they train, just so they can destroy themselves some more.
The first night that Clark slept over at the Manor, he was horrified. Lying in Bruce’s bed, curled around his lover with his face between Bruce’s shoulder blades and his hands resting on his belly, his super hearing let him pick up the sounds of the Manor.
The sound of Tim mumbling about an investigation to himself. The sound of Jason (who was reluctantly visiting for the week while he healed from some wounds) pacing downstairs, half conscious and anxious. The sound of Alfred in the kitchen, preparing tea to soothe Jason’s insomnia, adding a sprinkle of crushed up sleeping pills. He could hear Cass and Damian in the Batcave’s gym, training intensely.
The only one sleeping soundly was Bruce, his heart rate slow and pleasant- but Clark was highly aware of the fact that Bruce’s peaceful state was only because of his presence.
Needless to say, Clark didn’t sleep that night. He spent the hours until morning just holding Bruce, grateful to provide some temporary relief.
He only wished that the rest of them could feel the same comfort.
