The storm dragged its flashing and roaring anger away from the city to grumble and groan ever farther, the distant rumble of thunder and the pouring rain the only thing it left behind.

No, not the only thing, Rachel thought as she took a deep breath of fresh, clean air, filling her lungs with the smell of ozone and renewal. She strolled slowly through the deserted park, a wry smile creasing her face as she noted in passing a frowning policeman that eyed her warily, probably wondering why anyone would want to be out in such foul weather without dire need or obligation.

She was well-insulated against the rain in a bright yellow slicker, her head hidden deep under its hood, the rubber boots splashing unafraid and unaffected through puddles and rivulets. Just because she loved the rain it didn't mean she liked to get wet.

Her legs took her to the pond with unhurried, certain strides. She needed time alone to think and to sort out her feelings. She needed time away from everyone, including her friends. As affectionate as their concern for her was, it was also becoming confining and smothering. This was her problem, and she was going to deal with it on her own.

Stopping at the edge of the pond, she took another deep breath. She stood motionless for a minute, the monotonous melody of falling droplets soothing her thoughts and caressing her soul. Her hand poked out from the slicker to throw a dry bread crust into the water. Ducks and geese and swans approached quickly, their squabble over the small, sodden morsels flaring up immediately. Rachel watched them with a smile, throwing crumbs and small pieces of hard bread to whichever bird she saw was losing the battle for food.

Droplets gathered and thickened on the rim of her hood before they fell down to merge with the ones falling from the sky. Her hand went to her eyes, wiping away the moisture in them.

It's just the rain, she thought with a sudden rush of pointless anger. She sighed and forced it down, allowing the soft song of the rain around her to lull her again into peacefulness. Time ticked away, counted not by clocks or watches, not by breaths and heartbeats, but by the endless impacts of the drops on the ground.

The pervasive hum of the rain and the hood over her head made his approach soundless and unseen, but she was aware of him. She threw the last crust to the birds before her hand retreated to hide back beneath the slicker. Just as she didn't have to turn her head to notice his presence, he didn't have to look under the hood to see if it was really her.

They stood silently for a while, their hearts overwhelmed by the calming sounds, refreshing smells and conflicting emotions that streamed through them in an irresistible tide.

"Didn't expect to find you here," he said finally, still looking over the pond.

"It's a beautiful place."

She couldn't see him but she could feel him as he nodded, his eyes following the birds.

Droplets drummed heavily on his umbrella. A few loud honks from the bickering fowl were almost smothered by the steady drone of the rain.

"I wanted to be alone," she said and turned her head to look at him. "But I'm glad you're here."

He shifted closer and moved the umbrella to cover them both. His hand went up and pushed the hood gently away from her head. His thumb traced her eyebrow, the other fingers touching featherlike her cheek. They were cold and wet, leaving behind a burning ache in their wake.

His hand dropped to his side and his eyes turned to gaze over the pond again. She did the same, both now watching the birds slowly drifting away after having eaten all the food and concluding that there will be no more forthcoming.

Her slicker rustled as her hand searched for a way to emerge from under it and then closed, warm and soft, around his. His hand relaxed and allowed her fingers to lace between his own, squeezing them gently once they were nestled in comfortably. The rain pattered incessantly on the umbrella, the ground and the surface of the water.

"I love you, too," she barely whispered.

"I know."

She bowed her head. She shouldn't have said that. She was leading him on and giving him hope, while at the same time being uncertain of herself. She took a deep breath and looked at him.

"Gar…"

He turned to her, his eyes serious and affectionate. She fought off the sudden desire to look away.

"I'm… still not sure, Gar. I know what I feel, but I don't know what I want. I don't want to hurt myself, and I don't want to hurt you either. I'm just… I can't trust myself right now."

Her eyes looked down again. "I won't be able to see you for a while," she forced the words through her throat. The dense curtain of falling water blocked all sights and sounds around them leaving them standing on an island of reality disconnected from the rest of the universe, populated only by the two of them and by the rain.

"Why?" came the quiet question.

"I was offered to play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major almost immediately after Paris," she said in as neutral a tone as she could muster, still avoiding his gaze. "I will be practicing and preparing myself the next few weeks."

Again his fingers squeezed tenderly.

"I'll wait."

She looked up, meeting his gaze. Tiny wet jewels sparkled in her eyes; raindrops or tears, he couldn't be certain.

Helmuth Eisenmann never liked wunderkinder. They were as a rule unpredictable, emotional and undisciplined, something that the old-school German conductor simply could not tolerate. He scowled again at the young girl, respecting her obvious talent and considerable skill, but wishing she could be more consistent.

"Nein, nein, Fräulein! Make up your mind! Ve cannot follow you through ze entire spectrum of human emotions!"

Rachel stared at the floor, blushing. As difficult as old Iron Man – the nickname whispered behind Eisenmann's back not only because of his name, but also because of his iron-grey hair and hard, grey eyes, and mostly because of the almost militaristic way he directed the entrusted orchestras – as difficult and demanding as he was, she knew she could meet and exceed those demands. Tchaikovsky's Concerto was well-known for being technically daunting, but she was making good progress in mastering it so far. No, it was not the skill in her fingers that was causing problems; it was the passion of the old master's music that was churning up her soul, uncovering and bringing up all her doubts and insecurities, tearing off the restraints over all the emotions and feelings that were whirling in her, from love to sorrow to hope to fear to joy to despair, all flashing through her too quickly and blindingly for any attempt to control them, sneaking through her hands and fingers to take shape in the music she made, correctly performed but emotionally a jumble of half-finished and semi-expressed sensations, a muddy, jarring, senseless, bewildering patchwork that left the conductor, the orchestra and any listener uncertain, unsatisfied and lost.

It was a good image of the chaos in her soul. She swallowed and nodded.

"Gut. Let us try zis part again."

They began again and for a few minutes she was at her best, following Eisenmann's baton and the collection of frowns and scowls he used to direct – 'intimidate', many snickered behind his back – the musicians into doing what he wanted them to do.

Then her eyes closed and her thoughts began wandering again.

Am I ready for this? Can I trust him? Can I trust myself?

What if he does it again? Breaks my heart again? Maybe I should wait…

Would he understand? Would he be patient and wait? How long? A month, a year? A lifetime?

No, I can't demand such a sacrifice from him. I must come to terms with myself and decide what is it that I want.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid that he could hurt me…

An icy feeling swept through her.

What if I hurt him?

The memory of the pain she saw in his eyes when she snarled those ugly words at him stabbed into her chest. The violin screeched.

Her eyes flew open and her face burned. She withered beneath Eisenmann's furious glare.

The grey-haired conductor lowered the baton slowly and placed it gently on the stand.

"Folge mir, bitte," he said frostily and strode to the small office on the side of the auditorium, opening the door and waiting for her.

She followed him on wooden legs. The First and Second Violinists exchanged concerned glances, careful not to be seen by the enraged German. They have all heard the stories. Those who Eisenmann singled out for a "conversation" in his office usually came out in tears soon afterwards.

She stepped into the office. He walked in after her and closed the door, then went to his desk and sat behind it, easing back into the chair and observing her carefully behind a scowl. She stared at the floor, her face a furious red, her hands clenched tightly around the instrument and the bow.

Eisenmann was nonplussed. This was a strange young woman, graced with obvious talent and skill, yet emotionally fragile. Her youth, her innocence and her beauty reminded him so much of… His jaw set and he chased those thoughts away from his mind.

The anger had drained out of him, but he managed to keep his scowl on. As much as he wanted to vent and scold her for her indiscipline, he found it impossible to do so. He took a deep breath.

"Persönliche Probleme?" he asked, then shook his head and switched to English. "Personal problems?"

She stood quiet and motionless, but he couldn't miss the deepening of her blush.

Ich bin ein alter Idiot, he sighed to himself. I'm an old idiot.

"Is it a… Ein Jung – a young man?"

Her nod was almost imperceptible. He grunted his understanding.

"Do you vish to have… a few days off?"

She looked at him, surprised. She shook her head.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Are you certain?"

Again the small nod.

"Very vell. But you must… konzentrieren!" he grumbled, then rose from the desk.

She finally found her voice. "Thank you, Herr Eisenmann. I will."

He opened the door for her. "Komm. Zere is much vork!"

There is much work to be done and little time to do it, Garfield mused as he poured all his skill and all his feelings into the instrument. But his schedule held; the violin was already taking shape, and he couldn't but feel proud of how it was turning out. He would be able to finish just in time.

Victor visited him daily, making sure his friend was well. As happy as he was that Garfield appeared much better, he couldn't avoid a sense of unease. Gar never mentioned Rachel any more, and he ignored the topic every time Vic brought it up. And yet today it was especially disquieting.

"Rachel's playing Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto next month," he told his friend, trying to bait him out.

"I know," Garfield said, not lifting his eyes from his work. "She told me."

"Told you?" Victor's eyebrow shot up. "I see."

"I wonder if you do," Gar said back, still keeping his eyes and hands busy with the instrument.

The large youth cleared his throat. "I've… got a couple of tickets for it. I mean, if y'all wanna –"

"No," came the curt reply. Garfield finally lifted his eyes and looked at his friend. "I'll be busy that evening. Take Sarah."

A heavy weight pressed down on Victor's chest. Gar turned his attention back to the instrument, indicating that the conversation was over for him. Victor rose, mumbled a goodbye and left the shop.

He took in a deep breath and looked at the sky.

I tried. God knows, I tried.

He shook his head sorrowfully and went home.

Gar waved to the theater security guard stationed at the service entrance. The man nodded, acknowledging him. He had received no specific instructions, but he was well acquainted with Garfield Logan; it was not the first time the luthier was called up for an emergency repair or some last-minute servicing. The lack of a heads-up was probably due to the urgency of the problem and the usual short-circuits between Maintenance, Operations and Security. He rolled his eyes and buzzed Garfield in with a smile. Gar returned the smile, walked in and looked at his watch. Twenty more minutes. He'll be there on time.

He had kept his answer to Victor obscure on purpose. There was no way he would miss Rachel's performance, but he didn't want to do it in the company of anyone. It was way too personal and private for him. And there was another reason.

He wound around backstage, knowing his way well, nodding his greetings to the staff that recognized him, heading for the dressing rooms. Sounds of musical scales and short melodies came from everywhere; the musicians were already preparing themselves, warming up and loosening their fingers and getting into the proper state of mind. He finally got to the door that had Rachel's name on it. As soloist, she was assigned a private dressing room. It made what he wanted to do so much easier.

He knocked, hearing the sounds of a scale drift from inside. The door opened and he found himself staring into the frowning face of Richard Grayson.

"Yes?"

He knew Grayson had nothing with Rachel, but still a sharp pang of the old jealousy stabbed into his guts when he saw that Rachel was in his company.

"I… have something for Miss Roth," he said, fighting not to swallow, his throat dry for some reason.

"Give it to me, then. She's getting ready and I don't think it's a good idea to interrupt her."

Garfield's fluster mounted. He had to see Rachel, but this Cerberus was not allowing him in. His confusion and anxiety combined with the still-smoldering traces of jealousy and became anger.

"No. I have to present it to her personally. I must see her –"

Richard's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "A journalist, aren't you? You can't see her now. Forget about any exclusives. We may hold a quick conference after the concert, but –"

"I said, I have to see her! NOW!" Gar snarled and pushed the door open, taking Grayson by surprise. Enraged, Richard was just about ready to shout for Security and have this impudent piece of journalistic slime kicked out of the theater when Rachel's voice made them both freeze.

"Gar? Is that you?"

Both heads turned to her. She came over and placed a hand on Richard's arm. "Why don't you give us a few minutes? You could fetch Kori and have her help me with the makeup. Please?"

Richard nodded, sent a final, suspicious glance at Garfield and left the dressing room. Rachel closed the door, placed the violin in its case and turned to Garfield, straining to her utmost to keep her eyes calm and her face composed. She lifted a querying eyebrow and waited.

Everything that Garfield wanted to say, everything he essayed over in his head, everything he practiced in front of the mirror so many times the last few days just for this occasion was wiped from his mind, catching fire and burning away to smoke and impalpable ash. All he could was to stand there and stare into her eyes, speechless and breathless.

She realized her outward coldness confused and hurt him. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, ashamed and pained. Is this what it's going to be like between us always? Can I dare to even try?

He shook himself off, no longer a prisoner in violet shackles. He cleared his throat and lifted a hand holding a violin case.

"I… brought you this. It's for you."

She opened her eyes and looked uncomprehendingly at the case. Her gaze went up, then down again. She swallowed.

"Is that…"

He nodded. "Yep. It's the violin I was working on. I wanted to… It's yours, Rachel."

Her fists balled up. "I'm… That's too much, Gar. I can't accept –"

"Rachel," his voice was soft but irresistible. She made herself be silent and look again into his eyes. They were clear and affectionate, the way she best remembered them, the way she most loved them, the way they hurt the hardest.

"From the moment you asked me to watch as this violin was made, I knew two things. First, that it would be my masterpiece. Second, that it would be yours."

He offered the cased instrument, his eyes imploring. She forced herself to take it, her hands shaking.

"Good luck tonight!" he said hoarsely, turned and almost ran away from her dressing room.

There were five minutes left before she had to be ready. Kori was brushing Rachel's hair, not because it needed it, but because she knew it calmed her friend down and helped her prepare mentally for what was waiting for her.

"Did Richard send Gar's violin back to the Manor?" Rachel asked Kori, her eyes closed, the redhead's gentle but strong hands in her hair subduing her inner turmoil. "I don't want to leave it here while I play. It could get stolen, or damaged, or…"

"There is nothing for you to have the worry about, friend Rachel. Dear Dick has made all the required arrangements."

Rachel sighed deeply. "Good. I should go, it's time."

Kori beamed at her. "Indeed it is."

Rachel got up and went to the violin case. Her hands moved to the clasps and froze.

"Kori…"

"Yes?"

The clasps sprung open. She lifted the lid of the case. Her eyes closed.

"Kori, this is not my violin. Richard sent the wrong instrument to the Manor. This is Gar's violin."

The redhead shrugged. "Oh. I suppose he had the confusion, since both cases are identical. They come from the same of the shops, yes?"

"Kori, this is serious! I can't play a concert with an unknown instrument!" Rachel shouted, feeling the panic rise and threaten to overwhelm her.

"Friend Rachel, I fail to see –"

"NO! I can't play this! We have to delay it, or call it off! It's not my violin, I don't know it, I can't –"

"Yes, you can, Fräulein!" a cold voice rang from the door, cutting through her panic. "You are an artist! Verstehen Sie?"

"Maestro Eisenmann, I'm sorry, but –"

"Kein Wort mehr! Take ze instrument and come viz me!"

She hesitated, but Eisenmann's eyes were merciless. She picked up the violin and the bow in unsteady hands. He took her firmly under her arm and guided her out of the dressing room and to the stage.

She was still uneasy, but the orchestral introduction did a good job of soothing her into focusing on the composition. The first phrases of her solo were almost hesitant, perfectly dovetailing with the music. She played them with just the right amount of expectant apprehension, earning a quick nod from an eternally-frowning Eisenmann.

But as soon as her bow brought up the music from the strings, she became aware of the feelings buried in the wood singing out their harmony, a product as much of Garfield's hands as of his heart. There was no way she could've been deaf to it. The emotions imprisoned in the instrument flooded out and mingled with her own, the love, the sorrow, the pain; the hope and joy and despair. They rushed at her and lanced with sweet agony through her soul, wrapping around her heart and making it beat wildly, numbing the rationality of her mind and releasing her deepest desires. And yet it was not an overwhelming flood of confused sentiments; it was a resonance with her own feelings, a pillar around which they could wind like vines and climb towards the sun before blossoming out in any color she wanted; the coal that kept the fire of her passion burning bright; the tiny water droplets in the air that broke up the light shining from her heart into a glorious rainbow that spanned the entire sky. It was a meeting of skills and loves, of knowledges and hopes, one that she could mold and sculpt and express through her own art, bursting from her fingers in an irresistible explosion that could leave no soul untouched.

In a blinding flash of realization her mind understood that he had given her more than just an instrument, however skillfully constructed, no matter how masterfully crafted. What he had given her was more even than his mind, heart and soul; it was his deepest identity, the uncovered and uncensored fullness of his desires and wishes and hopes; all his feelings for her, all that he suffered and treasured, all that he feared and yearned for. She lost herself in his real gift, finally giving in, at last coming to terms with herself, soaring to ultimate heights where she could use everything she ever learned and knew and experienced and felt to shout out her love for him to the entire world, not caring or fearing or doubting any more.

She forgot about the public, forgot about the orchestra and about Eisenmann. She played for him, to tell him of all her love and all her longing and all her passion, to call him and bring him and be close to him, forever and wherever, to let him know that she heard and understood and accepted his real gift, and that she was gifting herself to him in return.

Everyone that heard her was entranced, the sheer fervor of her interpretation spearing straight into the core of the listener's being, beyond and below any rationality and consciousness. Eisenmann frowned and focused on making the orchestra follow her, knowing that she was beyond any of his attempts of guiding and controlling her.

Garfield was listening behind the curtain, completely dazed. He heard immediately that she was playing his violin, and it astonished him, but his surprise was soon drowned by what he was hearing. Just like she recognized what his real gift to her was, he understood what she was giving him in return. All of the joy and hope and exultation he felt in that moment; her music took it all and lifted it up and numbed his mind as it sent his heart soaring into the sky, raw and open and laid bare for her love to mingle with his own feelings and fill it again, and flood it and burn it and tear at it and make it whole again, his hands trembling and his knees weak but his eyes glowing with the primeval, feral joy that was crushing his soul under its impossible weight.

She played on for the almost forty minutes that the Concerto lasted. Tears were shining in the corners of her eyes, squeezed shut tight; her brow dotted with sweat, her face flushed with the feelings she was pouring out. The bow trembled slightly with barely controlled eagerness through the periods where the orchestra took over for a few seconds to allow the soloist to rest the fingers, but she didn't want or need rest; she needed to get it out, to shatter all restraints and to wrench her own heart out and shout it to the whole Universe and make everyone aware of it, to make him aware of it. Sheer joy and love was bursting from her, now in counterpoint with the orchestra, now together; she carried them all with the inexorable power of her music. The finale came at last and swept them all away with it, until she ended it, breathing heavily, disoriented and not really certain of where she was or what she was doing.

There was no reaction from a stunned audience for a couple of seconds, then the entire theater shook with applause and cheering. The Second Violinist nudged the First and gestured with his bow towards Eisenmann. The dour man who was widely rumored never to have smiled even at his own mother now had a wide smile on his face as he stepped towards Rachel and embraced her warmly, then turned to the audience and bowed together with her.

The cheering and applause lasted for quite a while. Richard and Kori showed up on stage with armfuls of flowers, followed by Victor and another girl, probably his girlfriend. They all hugged her and congratulated her, and she answered to everybody with a somewhat forced smile. As happy as she was for them being with her, she needed someone else. Her performance exhausted her and right now the only thing she wanted to do was to find Garfield and speak to him. She suspected he was nearby, but she couldn't see him in the audience.

He was suddenly in front of her, his eyes shining, taking her into his arms and kissing her deeply. She closed her eyes and let herself go, melting into his kiss, drowning herself in his love.

"Ahem!" someone coughed. "As much as we're all happy for ya, y'all should really get a room, y'know?" Victor grumbled. They parted, gazing into each other's eyes, a sudden playful spark jumping between them like an electric arc.

She placed the bow under her arm and gripped his hand, pulling him away. Her friends looked at each other, some surprised, some smirking, and followed. Dragging a starry-eyed Garfield behind her, she went into her dressing room and busied herself with placing the violin carefully into its case. The sound of a throat clearing came from the door. She looked up to see Richard standing there, the others clustered behind him.

"I was, uh, thinking of taking all of you to a celebratory dinner, you know, so…"

She glanced at Garfield and noticed the edge of his lips curl up.

"I don't think so. Gar and I'll take a rain check on that. But you can do me a big favor!" she said with a glint in her eye.

Richard smirked. "Oh?"

"Please ensure we are not disturbed for the next two…" she looked quickly at Gar again. "Make that the next four hours."

Richard chuckled and closed the door. Gar moved nearer and embraced her.

"Just one question," he said, slightly hoarse. "How can he…"

"He owns the theater!" she said and kissed him.

Author's Note:

And that's how this story finishes. It was really a blast to write and I thank all of you for the support you showed while I was doing it. It turned out a bit angstier and quite a bit longer than I envisioned, but I hope it was still enjoyable. Another shoutout to my friend bearhow, who helped me tremendously. Thanks!