somniphobia

slept through the entire night

Bruce could count the number of times he’d woken up slowly on one hand. He was sure there were more when he was younger, simpler times when he was safe and unafraid that he could hardly remember anymore. 

But ever since that gunshot in the alleyway, waking up was something that came suddenly, bringing a wave of panic and adrenaline when he gasped awake, distant screams from whatever nightmare that had been plaguing him following him into the conscious world before everything swam back into focus, plunging him right back into a familiar state of racing paranoia and uneasiness. 

Today was no different. 

He’d dreamt of the League, of a losing battle, of the stench of blood and the faces of dying friends. He’d dreamt of being useless, weak, trapped on the sidelines, forced to watch his team fall. He’d dreamt of his safehouse soaked in blood, trashed and demolished from the attack they hadn’t been ready for. 

It was a dream he’d had countless times before, just another nightmare he’d added to the list after the Justice League had become something important to him. 

The only difference this time was that Bruce didn’t wake up in his own bed. Or anywhere in the manor, for that matter. 

He jolted upright, tangled in unfamiliar blankets, heart beating so hard in his chest it was painful, gasping for air as he fought to piece reality back together, the nightmare still seared into his mind, lingering screams drowning out his own ragged breathing. 

He was in his safehouse. He recognized it, gradually, the dark wood floors, the bare walls, the tan comforter strewn across the bed, the flimsy curtains parted just enough to let the first rays of the dawn’s light seep into the room. 

Bruce froze, breath catching in his throat. 

It was dawn. The sun had just barely set when he’d closed his eyes. They hadn’t woken him up. Nobody had woken him up. 

What if there was no one left to wake him? 

He was out of bed in the blink of an eye, the room spinning dangerously the second he was on his feet, body still fighting to adjust to the waking world. He’d slept through the night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to do that. 

The house was empty. The house was covered in blood. He’d slept through the battle. There was no one left to scream for him. 

He grabbed for what the armor he’d allowed to be removed, suiting up in record time despite his shaky hands and tunneling vision, foregoing the gauntlets and utility belt as he yanked on his gloves and fastened the weighted cape over his shoulders, already running for the door in a panic. 

There wasn’t time. There wasn’t time, everyone was dead and he needed to… he needed to assess the damage, save who he could, and find a way to protect himself. He’d have to run. He’d have to be on the run alone again, lost in guilt and grief with nothing to pull him out again, and he couldn’t–

Batman practically crashed into the adjacent wall as he flung the door open and burst into the hallway, shaking so badly he almost couldn’t get a proper grip on the door handle. His legs were unsteady, nearly sending him tripping over his own boots as he stumbled into the main room, eyes watering at the overwhelming stench of blood–

All eyes turned to him when he screeched to a halt in the doorway. 

There was no blood, no broken dying faces, no sign of a struggle. The team was staring at him, all of them awake and alert, albeit a little confused. Clark and Diana were at the dining room table, Barry and Arthur were on the couch, and Hal was slumped across the armchair in the corner, clearly having been woken up from his doze by Batman’s uncoordinated entrance.