The Sea Of Tranquility

By Arlene

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, blah, blah . . .

Rating: PG-ish

Archive: *snorts* Well, if you want, let me know.

The Sea of Tranquility
By Arlene

I hate sleeping.

Well, not sleeping per se, but what follows when you fall asleep. Or at least when I fall asleep. The dreams, nightmares, memories. You'd think that with all the extensive mind exercises I've acquired, all that mental discipline, I would've learned to somehow suppress them by now. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

But once, for a brief (too brief) time, I had peace. I had actually looked forward to going to bed, to sliding in between those silk sheets. Nightmares were held at bay and couldn't touch me as long as I had an anchor. Then, idiot that I am, I let my fears cut the ties to my anchor, and my anchor drifted off to find a different port.

I must be more tired than I thought. I'm getting maudlin. An anchor drifting off. I'm getting stupid too.

I set my alarm since Alfred isn't around anymore to wake me. I slip into bed (alone, dammit) and try to relax, try to get some rest.

I can feel the lassitude wash over me, and I give in, not having much of a choice. There's that familiar sensation where I'm floating just at the edge of sleep, then that sinking feeling as my memories pull at my already lowered defenses. In a moment of clarity, I know it's going to be a bad night, but it's too late to fight it, and I leave the waking world behind.

I hate sleeping.

***

It's early when morning patrol ends, and I finally slip back into my apartment. I check my schedule--yeah, I actually have a schedule--to see what time I've got to get up. And glory hallelujah! It's the weekend! I love little surprises like that; it's so easy to lose track of time living the way I do. But in the midst of my mental Dance of Victory, there's this little niggling thing I'm supposed to remember. So I pause and look at the calendar again. At the date. And it hits me. I'm out of my apartment again cuz I'm going to be needed, and that big lug never admits he's gonna need help, of course not, oh no, big stoic dumbass, and I jump on my bike and try to get back before he falls asleep, before it starts.

It's Jason's anniversary. It's going to be a bad night.

***

At first, there's joy, lulling me into a false sense of security. I see my parents again, and it's like nothing happened, I'm safe, we're all safe. Then, there's a flash, then it's red, it's all red, it's red everywhere, it's red on my hands, on me, and I can't rub it off, can't wash it off, I can never wash it off because it's my fault, my fault they're dead because I was selfish and should've been me, not them, it should've been me . . .

Then I see Jason, smiling, laughing, dancing in the air, and I feel love, joy, pride in my boy, my son, but I shouldn't have allowed myself to feel because pride goes before the fall, and then he's falling, and it's red again, but it shouldn't be red, not for him, I should've protected him, just like Mom and Dad, I tried to warn him/them, tried to reach for them/him, but that tire iron comes down again and again . . .

***

I skid to a stop outside that huge front door that cowed me the first time I ever set foot here. I'm through it, up the stairs, and I'm too late, it's happening already.

I'm stripping while making my way to that huge bed with that huge man thrashing around on it. He's mumbling, pleading, crying, begging, and I think I'm crying too because it's so wrong that such a strong man should be reduced to that. But no matter how much I want to be with him and hold him, I've gotta be careful.

Once when I was a kid, I saw Alfred try to cover up a shiner with stage makeup. Being in show biz long enough, I knew a cover up when I saw one. He brushed aside my questions, but fledging detective that I was, I put two and two together and damned if I didn't come up with Cleveland. It took my little brain a while to wrap around the fact that Bruce actually *hit* Alfred, even if unintentionally during a nightmare, but I never brought it up again. It would've killed Bruce to figure out he was the one who laid a hand on the old guy, so we kept quiet about it, for Bruce's sake.

When the thrashing slows down, I see my opening and carefully get into bed, no sudden movements that could be construed as an attack in that crazy dreamworld of his. I wrap my arms around that massive chest, hug him close to me, reach up to stroke his stubbled cheek and speak to him, reassuring him that I love him and that I'd never leave him. And I won't, not ever again.

I hold him and rock his hot, sweaty, trembling body, and I feel something deep inside of me twist at that. Years ago, I had been the cause of his heat and sweat and trembling, and I'd been feeling all those things right along with him. Then I'd let him push me away, not seeing his brusqueness for what it really was--fear of love and fear of losing that love and fear of losing himself in that loss. Yeah, those psych courses really paid off.

But this time, I'm not leaving.

***

All around me is despair, loss, sorrow, fear, and I'm drowning in it, and there's no one here to save me because I've driven everyone away from me, again my fault, and why would anyone want to stay with me anyway? I'm lost, a lost cause, they're all better off without me, my love, what the hell good is my love when all it does is get people hurt, wounded, killed, and oh god, it's all red again . . .

But there's something that holds me back from drowning, and it's gentle, tender, and it's the most beautiful music I've ever heard. I want it, want to be with it because it actually wants to be with me despite all the terrible things I've done, will do, and I feel it washing over me, I break through the quagmire of cold, doubt, shame, pain, I can breath again, and it's sunlight and warmth, and I know this, I felt it before and I want it to stay with me always because it's okay to feel here, love here, be loved here . . .

***

His breathing's more calm now, thank god. I trace my finger over those soft lips, and they curve into a smile, totally transforming that face, and once again I see why so many women (and a lot of men, though they won't admit it) want him. As I rest my finger on the bottom curve of that smile, his lips part in a soft sigh, and I have to resist slipping my finger into his mouth to let his tongue play with it. I know we both need time to rest, to heal, and as much as I want it, whatever follows the tongue thing will probably keep me up for the rest of the night, uh, morning. I tell the part of me that's already up to go to sleep, cuz I'm not going to let it loose tonight. Damn shame, though.

"love you, dick." It's a whisper, but it's enough, and I treasure it because I know it's not going to happen when he's awake. I move around until I'm spooning him, and his body melts right into mine. Telling my nether regions to quit poking Bruce in the back, I move my hand to rest over his heart, and I let the gentle pulse lull me to sleep.

I'm home.

End