Disclaimer: I have no rights to Batman or its characters.

Guilty

She'd never really stopped caring. Unconsciously she would scan newspaper headlines, searching for his name. Whenever she'd stumble upon mention of the infamous Bruce Wayne or the even more infamous Batman, she felt herself flinch. Oh. There she would be, sipping her morning coffee, and there he would be—surrounded by scantily clad women, or blurring by in a flash of blackness, too fast for the shutters of any lens.

Then Rachel's eyes would linger on the page a moment more. Gage the context of the article—another editor's letter speculating on Batman's true colors? Or a report on Wayne Enterprises' drastic uprising on the stock market? Either way, she'd flip the paper over immediately. She didn't want to see him and be reminded of him, because for the life of her, she could not get over this gnawing feeling of . . . guilt.

Guilty. Yes, Rachel Dawes felt guilty whenever her mind wandered to Bruce Wayne, which was more often than she'd like to admit. She remembered when she was a little girl and she'd felt this same sinking feeling swelling beneath her heart, after Bruce had fallen into the old well when they'd been playing. For months she'd fixated on the event, so much that she felt she could not look at him with any sincerity in her eyes so long as his arm was still in that sling. It wasn't her fault. She knew that. But even so she felt accountable, because his arm was broken and there was absolutely nothing she could do.

Since that first incident in the well, Rachel had spent the better part of her life feeling responsible for Bruce. Looking back on all the moments she'd spent with him, fighting her strange, foreign attraction to him and at the same time giving in, and wondering if there was just one thing that she could have said . . .

But how could she change anything about Bruce? What could she pinpoint, what flaw was it that irked her so? At what point had something snapped in that little boy head of his, and turned him into the man-creature he played today?

She didn't know. Maybe she didn't want to change anything about Bruce at all. Maybe she . . . loved him, just the way he was.

If she could call whatever it was she felt for him love. She'd made a promise to wait for him, but what did it really mean? To Bruce Wayne, it might mean a bed buddy. To Batman, it might mean a lifetime of worrying by the phone, hoping to never receive that fateful phone call that delivered news of his demise. To Rachel Dawes, it meant an uncertainty that left a wavering, unsettled feeling in her gut. Did her promise mean that she was bound to him eternally? Did it mean that she should sit here like a plastic doll, ignore her other yearnings for the comfort of another body beside her own, and wait for him to make up his mind?

Which begged the question: could she love somebody who was not Bruce?

Ever since she was five she pictured herself marrying him. It was so simple then—at least to her, it was. Didn't everyone always marry their best friend? Even when his parents had died and he'd seemed so far away, she'd known it was her responsibility to fix him. He was her project, her diamond in the rough. No matter how he tried to ignore her or cast her aside, she always came back, as he'd known she would.

But this was an entirely different matter. This wasn't an afternoon sitting on his window seat while he stared vacantly out at the sky. This was commitment. This was asking too much.

And so Rachel Dawes felt guilty. Because every night Bruce Wayne—no, Batman—was out saving Gotham, risking his life. Taking absolutely no credit and never asking for anything in return. Didn't he deserve something good? Shouldn't he deserve to be happy?

Rachel would make him happy. Rachel knew it was all he'd ever asked of her, and all she could give, was her love. But now it was a matter of how willing she would be to give it, when the time came. When Batman was no longer needed. And her insides churned at this thought, wondering if Bruce would ever have what he deserved, wondering if Bruce even wanted any of it. Maybe he enjoyed being a martyr. Being beyond mortality, feeling invincible. Maybe he had no interest in happiness at all.

Empty lies she told herself to hold the guilt at bay, if only for an hour or so. Intuitively she knew what Bruce wanted. She'd been conditioned to know since she was a toddler.

Bruce wanted more than anything to live up to the standards his father had set. The same way religious fanatics practiced to raise themselves closer to God, Bruce compulsively pushed himself to every limit he could possible endure to bring himself closer to the father he never truly knew. It was an intangible, indefinable goal that was constantly changing, conforming to each situation and its terms. What would my father do? She saw it in his eyes even if he never would admit it. It was all that was on his mind. It was what fueled him, it was what drove him to muster the strength to fight that extra battle when everybody else was ready to quit.

They both knew Bruce could not be his father. By now he was too tainted; there was too much blood on his hands, even if it had all been for some greater good. But damn it all, he still tried. And Rachel could love him for that even if she hated him for everything else.

Throughout the span of too many years it seemed that no matter how she troubled herself with the process of growing away from him, immersing herself in her work and acting casual whenever the subject of Batman graced an unwitting conversation, she could not escape the allure of Bruce Wayne. She loved him, she spurned him, and she didn't dare fathom a world without him.

So naturally she could not help herself. Every morning, against her better judgment, she would flip that newspaper open and search for him.

Some mornings were more jolting than others.

"Miss Dawes, I've scheduled you for lunch with Mr. Laurence at two."

Rachel smiled wearily up at her assistant. The younger girl didn't know any better, but aforementioned Mr. Laurence was not half as much interested in innovative ways to prevent crime in Gotham as he was interested in trying to convince her to stay the night in his undoubtedly spotless high rise apartment. Trying not to roll her eyes, Rachel fished in her purse for the keys to her office.

That's when she noticed that there was no newspaper at the foot of the door.

"Where's the paper?" she muttered, mostly to herself.

Her assistant, ever eager to please, scrambled to say, "Miss Dawes, would you like for me to grab you one from downstairs? I could get you a coffee—"

"Oh, no, that's alright." Rachel suddenly felt uneasy. As if the absence paper spoke multitudes. Had she ever arrived to work before the paper had been delivered? She checked her watch. Eight-thirty, on the dot. Something was wrong. "I'll go get it myself."

"Are you sure? It's what I'm here for, after—"

"I'm sure." Rachel set her briefcase down on her desk and paused a moment. She needed to be the one who got the paper. It was her ritual, to touch the morning paper, flip through its pages and discard it ten minutes later. If her assistant brought the paper up, who knows what horrors it would hold? "I'll be right back."

On her way down the elevator her heart was racing. She realized how irrational she was feeling and tried to calm down, but her fingers were already twitching, longing to hold the paper in her hands. Something was wrong.

"Oh, Miss Dawes, I received your report—Miss Dawes?"

She blew past him. Later she'd lie and say she hadn't heard him over the dull bustling of the lobby. Now she was more concerned with . . .

THE END OF BATMAN? Details, A2.

A picture. Unmistakably Bruce. Even in the suit she could tell him apart from any imposters. He was laying on the ledge of someone's fire escape, completely limp. She wrenched the paper up from the shelf. The picture had been snapped in the dark, and it was altogether too fuzzy and dimmed to truly determine anything for certain, but she thought she saw the slightest glimmer of blood.

Stop panicking. She always panicked when she saw these headlines. At least once every week some convoluted story came out predicting Batman's untimely end or revealing his "true identity." Rachel was level-headed enough to breeze past most of it.

But today felt different. She flipped to A2, walking back up the stairs without paying. Nobody noticed.

In the Narrows of Gotham at approximately three this morning, Gotham's own "Batman" was allegedly struck down by a straight-shot sniper. Witnesses to the scene claim that the masked man was in pursuit of the leader of a drug chain and scaling a building when the incident occurred. According to witnesses the sniper, who is still at large with no leads or suspects, may have released a toxin in the form of gas which weakened the Batman.

"I was thinking to myself, (expletive), man, is that the Bat crawling up that wall?" says witness Shayne Carmichael, 54. "I couldn't really see nothing, but I see some sorta shadow stepping out and I'm thinking, the Bat's 

gonna get him, right? And then it got kinda smoky up there and I see the Bat falling and I'm thinking, oh my God, that can't be Batman. But it had to be, right?"

Says Shayne of the alleged shooting, "I hear them shots. I hear them and I see the Bat falling down and he hits with this thud, and he's out, man. That's when I whip out my cell and take the picture." Shayne claims to have left the Narrows in search of help. There is no current report on the whereabouts of Batman after the incident.

The two other witnesses to the scene wished to remain anonymous. Says one, "When I looked up after the shot I saw him lying there, and I saw blood dripping from the stairwell of the fire escape. I left the alley to get cell phone service, but when I came back he the Batman was gone."

Rachel stopped reading and her heartbeat gradually started to slow. With a twinge of surprise she realized she was perched at her desk, her knuckles white from clutching to the flimsy paper. She took a deep breath and forced herself to set the paper down. Bruce was fine. Well, he probably wasn't fine on mortal standards, but Bruce considered himself a god. If he'd managed to escape before somebody had unmasked him, then he'd live to break up another drug ring.

"Miss Dawes?" her assistant asked timidly.

"Yes." Rachel felt a hundred years older. The relief was so instantaneous that she felt she couldn't possibly swallow it down all at once.

"There's a call for you on line one."

"Ah. Thank you."

At lunch she still couldn't seem to put her mind at ease. She'd ordered a sandwich, she couldn't remember what kind, but she'd only eaten a bite or so before she'd seen the news broadcast. More speculation, of course. Could Batman really be dead? Was it the real Batman, or somebody else? Where had he disappeared to? Kidnapped, or did he escape with a bleeding gunshot wound?

Rachel buried her head in her hands. It was always too difficult to separate herself from him.

"And now to Brenda, with eyewitness Shayne Carmichael near the scene of the . . ."

That was it. Rachel sighed, wrapping up her sandwich and shoving it into her bag. She'd never get any work finished today unless she knew for a fact that Bruce was alright, even if it annoyed her more than anything. She didn't want Bruce thinking that she really cared about him that way; she didn't want to give him that satisfaction. She still had no idea why she wanted to deny him. Perhaps to secure the distance she'd tried to set between them. The line she'd set up that he inevitably would cross whenever he was anywhere within range of her. The line that she would let him cross, because whenever he was near she lost whatever common sense she had possibly ever possessed.

There were only moments with Bruce. She never thought long-term. In a way she still thought like a child, who spent fleeting moments jumping between waves without ever thinking of the storm to come. Bruce made her forget the future she had planned. She was like putty in his hands.

He didn't know it. He probably had an inkling of her feelings for him, or else he wouldn't fixate on her so much. But he'd left her alone, given her the freedom to do whatever she wanted to do with her life. So although she wanted to be furious with him for his undeniable effect on her, she really could not justify the feeling. Bruce hadn't sucked her in with him.

Which made her feel guiltier. As always.

She whipped out her cell and called her assistant.

"Miss Dawes?"

"Penny," Rachel greeted. "I'm taking lunch out. Tell Mr. Laurence I won't be able to meet him—something's come up." Besides, if the old pervert was already ten minutes late, she had no obligation to stay.

"Uh, wh-what do I tell him?"

"Tell him I'm . . . meeting with a client. I really can't afford to stay miss him, he's leaving the country tomorrow," she lied through her teeth. The doors swung open with a gust of cold air and she was thankful she'd had the forethought to wear her coat. Maybe she'd subconsciously planned to leave the building as soon as she'd walked down to lunch.

"Alright, Miss Dawes, I'll let him know."

"Thank you. Sorry for the trouble." Rachel hung up before her assistant could say anything else. She knew she was blustering past everyone today, but she figured they'd chalk it up to stress and forgive her. There were more than enough cases she was managing that would excuse her behavior.

First she tried the coffee shop near Wayne Tower. She knew from experience that he spent most of his lunch hours meeting with people in the little Old Coffee Co. shop (which was why she had spent most of her lunches avoiding it). But she didn't see him at his usual spot by the window—instead there was some grade-school child clinging to his mother, his face full of pastry. Maybe Bruce was in back of the shop . . . she crossed the street to check.

There was something unusually awkward about entering a place for the sole purpose of looking for someone. She had a strong sense of not belonging, knowing that she didn't intend to buy anything or sit down. A few people glanced up at her and she felt herself reddening. For a moment she almost wished she'd run into Bruce so it would look like she had a reason to be here, self-consciously stealing glances at every corner of the eatery. But there was no sign of him. She laughed a tiny, compulsive laugh, probably confirming everyone's fears that she wasn't quite right in the head, and then exited the shop.

She took a deep breath when the cold air rushed up to her again. For a moment she only stood there, contemplating her next reckless move and watching her breath form itself into puffs of fog. "Oh," she grumbled, knowing there wasn't another solution. Hastily she grabbed her cell phone and punched in the numbers before her resolve disintegrated.

It was Bruce's work number. Rachel had a distinct feeling that she was among the very few who were given this one, so she knew that if he were there, he'd answer.

"Bruce Wayne's office?" a woman asked on the other line, like it was a question.

"Um." Rachel was thrown off by a woman answering. But it figured—she would be worried sick about him and he'd be screwing some beautiful Italian model in his office atop Wayne Tower, letting her answer his phone calls. "Hello, I was hoping to speak to Br—Mr. Wayne."

"I'm sorry, he's not in right now." The woman paused a moment and Rachel was about to hang up. "This is his secretary, Amelia." She laughed to herself. "I didn't know there was another line in Mr. Wayne's desk. I apologize if I sounded unprofessional."

"No, not at all," Rachel assured her. Suspicions confirmed, though. Bruce was definitely screening for her calls by giving her access to some phone line no one else knew of. For some reason it made her want to smile. "Could you possibly tell me where Mr. Wayne has gone?"

The woman clicked her tongue a few times. "Actually, I'm not sure. He never called me to say." After a brief pause she added, "It must be important, though. Usually he calls if he can't make it in. Would you like me to take a message for you, miss?"

"No, that's alright. Thanks anyway."

After she hung up she checked her watch. She only had five minutes left for her lunch break. There was no way she'd make it back halfway across Gotham to get back to work in time, she'd already blown it. And she was only about ten minutes away . . .

No. She turned away from the coffee shop. She would arrive late to work, apologize if anyone noticed, and get along with her day. There were cases to research, there were reports to look over and revise, there were clients to meet! If she'd had any free time she'd be using it on a spa day or whatever it was girls did when they didn't have to go to work. She couldn't quite remember anymore.

But girls definitely did not trek across town to Wayne Manor to stalk the prince of Gotham if they had any time on their hands. Not professional girls with any ounce of self-respect, at least, and Rachel had plenty of that.

Oh, she was too far gone. It was fifteen minutes to work and ten minutes to the Manor.

Bruce won again.

By the time she'd reached the manor, a pit of dread was swelling in her stomach. Rachel knew she wouldn't like what she saw. There were, as she saw it, four plausible options: one, he was away on business. 

Which, actually, would be the preferable circumstance. It was the other three that made her insides squeeze. Option two, he'd bailed on work and was screwing around doing whatever Wayne boys do when they're not battling crime on the streets. Option three, he was only resting after the night before.

Option four . . .

But Bruce was immortal. It was a fanciful, thoughtless, and borderline stupid idea, but Rachel had grown used to it. Bruce had made her promise to wait for him, so she had. Under the assumption that there would be, one day, someone there to wait for. Bruce Wayne. And if that promise were to be broken, she'd be damned if she weren't the one breaking it. She'd never forgive him if he died and broke the promise first.

Yes, that was why she'd be upset. That's what she tried to convince herself throughout her walk. It would be one more strike against him of the many she'd already called.

But her heart started pounding again as she saw the imposing gates of Wayne Manor, and she felt herself swallowing compulsively, her throat suddenly dry as a desert. What if he really were . . . dead? Why was she even letting herself think like this?

And as she reached the door she thought to herself, Why on earth am I even here?

She didn't want Bruce to see her. She never did, but especially not now. From past experience Rachel knew how she looked when she worried, and it wasn't pretty. Her face was blotchy, her eyes were squinty, her eyebrows furrowed over them. Her hands twitched and she walked so brusquely that it was a miracle she hadn't tripped already.

How vain of her, to be worried about her appearance when Bruce might be –

Oh, god. She couldn't ring the doorbell. Her brain kept commanding her to, but her hand was limp at her side, inattentive and stubborn. She decided that if he turned out to be perfectly fine after she put herself through all this hell, she'd be too furious to ever speak to him again. She also decided that if he actually was hurt, she'd be even angrier.

"Miss Dawes?"

If she hadn't been violently chewing her gum like a madwoman, she would have screamed. Instead she jumped back in alarm. Of course she knew the voice—Alfred Pennyworth's voice was unmistakable. She had gone years without hearing it and still knew instinctively who he was. He was more a grandfather to her than either of her two had been.

The butler was speaking from an intercom beside her. She should've known that Bruce would install cameras and alert systems. In Gotham you could never be too careful. Especially if you were a multi-billionaire whose ransom would pay a thousand lifetimes of luxury. And especially if you were masquerading as Batman all night and every night.

"Alfred," she breathed, still trying to compose herself.

"Shall I buzz you in, Miss Dawes?"

It took a moment for the question to register. "Uh-h, yes," she managed. Oh, god. Now what have you done? She couldn't justify turning back now. The damage was done. With a flutter of fear and anticipation in her chest, she stepped forward through the parting gates. During the long walk up the driveway she realized just how little she'd thought this through. What was going to be her excuse?

Hiya, Alfred. Just stopping by . . . No, no one would ever believe that.

So. I heard Bruce bought that cute little restaurant on sixty-fourth and Georges. I just had some ideas about . . . Oh, like she'd ever given half a notice of the interior design of her own apartment, let alone a swanky Gotham hot spot.

Holy crap, was Bruce really shot? Is he alright? Can I see him?

Not in a million years.

"Miss Dawes." Alfred nodded toward her affectionately and took her arm. "It certainly has been awhile since I've seen your face."

"Ah, well." She fumbled for an excuse. "Work . . ." she uttered pathetically, letting him lead her up the steps to the manor.

"Yes, I'm sure. It must be very stressful." Alfred still had that same twinkle in his eye when he talked to her. She was glad at least that something here had stayed the same. Everything else—the too-new look of the recreated house, the granite in the kitchen that could never really be matched back to the old one, the bags under Bruce's weary eyes—everything else seemed too different. She knew Bruce had tried his best to replace the manor "brick-by-brick," but it could never be the same. Where were the scuff marks on the walls that they had left when they were children? And that hole Bruce had punched in the wall of his room when she'd dared him to? And that hole in the floorboard of the attic they hid their notes to each other in?

Burned. She ached for the old Wayne Manor in much the same way Bruce did. It wasn't a house; it was too full of secrets and memories to be just a house. But now it was gone.

Rachel nodded.

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Oh, you don't have to—"

As usual, though, Alfred ignored her protests and set to the kitchen. She followed him for a lack of anything else to do. The house seemed bigger than it had when she was a little girl, and even though she knew every inch of the halls and rooms the way she knew every expression that had ever crossed Bruce's face, she felt that she might be swallowed by it. Lost in its vastness.

She was put at ease for the moment, though. Certainly if something dire had happened to Bruce, Alfred wouldn't be so cordial and misleading. He would be honest with her, however brutal it was. If Bruce were really dead, Alfred would immediately see to it that she knew.

After all, she was his best friend. She couldn't decide who was more pathetic in this relationship. Bruce had so few friends that the woman who never called him and avoided him at all cost was his best friend. But on the other hand, Rachel was so in denial that she would sooner jump from Wayne Tower than admit she was best friends with the Gotham's so-called prince.

Some friendship.

"Your orange juice," Alfred announced, raising a knowing eyebrow at her.

She grinned despite herself. "You remembered," she said. For some reason she was put-off by lemonade, so Bruce had always made a big deal about having orange juice in the house for her. She never knew he didn't like orange juice himself until he was twelve and she caught him spitting it back out into his glass.

So maybe he wasn't that terrible all the time. Looking back she could remember moments when he'd actually been, well, sweet. He never had bought her a birthday present. He'd made them himself, every year, even if he'd created disasters out of glue and sewing scissors. And before they were old enough to feel the tension between them, he used to play with her hair and say it was pretty for a girl's. And he'd listened to her cry on the phone every time stupid guys broke her heart in high school . . .

It was hard to believe sometimes, but she wanted believe that the Bruce Wayne she'd once known was still there. She didn't want to think that Bruce was only a mask for Batman. She wanted to think that they were one in the same . . . that Bruce Wayne himself could drop the façade and be everything he was before. It was Bruce she wanted, not Batman. Why was it that she only saw her Bruce when he was behind that silly mask?

"Of course, Miss Dawes." He'd poured himself a glass, too. They stood by the counter for a moment and Rachel braced herself for the inevitable. Of course Alfred would know why she was here. "You came to see Mr. Wayne, I presume."

"I . . . well, yes." Now to think of some excuse. Alfred was looking up at her expectantly, so she took another gulp of orange juice to try and scrape up some pathetic reason. "I was in the neighborhood," she muttered, resorting to the oldest cliché in the book.

"Unfortunately Mr. Wayne is resting at the moment."

Her face must have visibly relaxed, because then Alfred smiled at her sadly. "I could take you to see him, if you'd like."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to . . . disturb him, Alfred. I'm sure he's tired enough without my barging in on him." She grabbed her purse, fully set on leaving.

Alfred cleared his throat. "I think it might do him some good, actually," he said, his eyes slightly downcast. "To see a familiar face, I mean. He's . . . not quite himself right now, as you can imagine."

It figured he'd see right through her. People like Bruce could hide their emotions behind Kevlar mask shields, but her barrier was paper thin and always betraying her thoughts. So Alfred knew she'd seen the news and read the reports about the infamous shooting of Batman. He knew that she'd compulsively traveled the five miles out of her way to hunt Bruce down.

She should have guessed that the all-knowing Alfred would see the aim of her game. But as usual, she hadn't planned at all. Sometimes she wondered who was the more compulsive—she or Bruce?

"I really should get back," she started to say. But Alfred still hadn't looked away, and she felt she owed him after all these years of exchanging letters, even if she didn't owe Bruce. So she put the purse back down on the counter and nodded her assent.

They took the stairs. Alfred had never been a fan of the elevator system, and she doubted Bruce used it very much, either. Like many aspects of the Wayne Manor and family, it only existed to maintain appearances.

When Alfred creaked open the bedroom door Rachel was struck by how bare the room was. A bed and a dresser. Two windows overlooking the lawn. A telephone and a clock by the bed. She'd never seen it so empty. When they were children it had been filled with toys, when they were preteens it had been filled with all sorts of sports paraphernalia, and even when they were teenagers Bruce managed to make a mess of it with his studies. This was just one more blow of unfamiliarity.

Then she saw him laying there and the blow became a punch.

His face was so pristine and unspoiled in the light of the afternoon sun. For a moment she could look past everything he'd ever done to her, every time he'd ever let her down. She'd say he looked like an angel, his face devoid of all cockiness and grandeur, but something was wrong. His eyebrows were furrowed and his breaths were short and hitched. He was so pale that if she hadn't known any better she might have thought he was dead.

It was an alarming idea, but not when she hadn't experienced before. During that period of six or seven years when Bruce hadn't given so much a hint of where he was, they'd all eventually come to terms with what seemed like the only plausible explanation. Alfred and Rachel had always exchanged letters, and somewhere around year four they'd started referring to Bruce in the past tense. It was a gradual, accepting sort of grief. She hadn't seen him since he'd left Princeton and she was so busy with law school that he became more of a dull ache in her heart more than he was a missing piece. She was so absorbed that it never occurred to her to wonder what happened to him.

Looking back it seemed so selfish of her. For years she'd thought he was dead and she'd never even slowed down to try and think the whole matter through. And here he was only inches away from her, and as usual, all she could feel was guilty.

Bruce blurred and she realized her eyes were watery. She blinked and brought the room back to focus in an instant.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"He was hit with some sort of toxin. Otherwise I'm certain . . ." Alfred seemed to consider something for a moment. "It was a straight shot."
Alfred was implying that Bruce would not otherwise be susceptible to this bullet. She understood. He thought he was invincible and it made her feel even worse, knowing that to some degree she'd contributed to his hardheaded manner of thinking (or not thinking at all).

"Should he . . . I mean, shouldn't he see a doctor?"

At this Alfred rolled his eyes wearily. "But of course."

"Oh."

A phone rang down the hall and Alfred excused himself. "Probably Mr. Fox," he assumed, "working on an antidote for whatever this new toxin is . . ." He wandered off, leaving her alone in the room with Bruce.

For a few seconds she only stared at the door Alfred had exited through. She knew he hadn't meant for her to follow, and to some degree she knew he meant to leave her alone. But how long was he going to be gone? She heard a clock ticking. Would it be a minute? Or ten? Would she have enough time to—

Time to do what, exactly?

Bruce stirred. A sigh escaped him, his voice too hoarse for anything more.

She watched her small hand raise, reaching over to clutch his much larger one. Instantly his fingers wrapped around hers, so familiar and rough. As he gripped her she felt her muscles start to relax, losing herself in the comfort of letting someone else take control for once. He shuddered. But his frown neutralized and his features smoothed over, at once soothed by her touch.

There was no denying she had an effect on him. She'd always been justifying her ignorance of him by convincing herself that he truly didn't care, but here, when he was at his most vulnerable, she knew that she'd been feeding herself lies.

It was terrifying, to think that she had a hold on him. That she was the only one with any influence or control. Did it hold her responsible for what he had become?

Did she want to be responsible for what he'd become?

She still couldn't decide whether or not she would like the idea of Batman. He was Gotham's miracle, but he was Bruce's inner demons come to life. Did she want to know she'd played a part in creating their savior, their dark knight? And then know that at the same time, she'd played a part in deepening the grave Bruce had been digging for himself since he was eight years old?

"Rachel?"

His eyes were still closed, his voice barely over a rasp. He was probably still delusional. Probably terrified. She knew from firsthand experience what toxins were capable of. She stroked the top of his hand with her thumb.

"Yes, Bruce, it's me." Her voice sounded like it was underwater. A wet splotch hit the otherwise immaculate bedspread and she realized her eyes were leaking. "I'm here."

"Rachel," he said again in relief, and his head sank lower into the pillow. "You came back."

Back from where? She chalked it up to whatever hallucinations the toxins were producing and said shakily, "I wouldn't leave you." A lie if she'd ever uttered one, may God strike her on the spot. She made sport out of leaving him, pushing him behind her. It was one of the only things she'd ever thought she was good at.

And now she was thinking she might fail at that, too.

His hand fell limp in her own and his breathing evened out. "Oh," she managed. Then she gently unhinged her fingers from his, letting him sleep in peace.

This is what she'd come here to do. Not to force an old, broken relationship. Not to express her worries and grievances and berate him for his doings. But to comfort him. Let him know that he still had a friend, even if she was too much a coward to give him her whole self.

She wiped the stray tear trickling down her face, knowing that her mascara was probably running and she looked more a mess than ever. She'd like to say she didn't care. Life was so much simpler when she was young enough to cry and kick and scream and release every emotional whim. Now it just seemed like there were too many rules about crying.

A few minutes later Alfred entered.

"Mr. Fox," he explained apologetically. "He'll be over soon with an antidote."

She nodded. "I don't know how long this will last without it," she said, gesturing to the now somewhat peaceful looking young man.

Alfred marveled at the pair of them for a moment. "I'm not certain of what you did," he chuckled, "but it would be quite a bit handier to inject him with that, instead."

Rachel only gave a strained laugh. "I didn't really do anything," she admitted.

"He misses you."

The words pierced her with a fierceness she hadn't ever imagined they would. For a moment she was too stricken to reply. "Well," she said curtly. Her fingers fiddled with her skirt, now feeling out of place without Bruce's hand entwined with hers. She wanted to say that Alfred was wrong. Bruce shouldn't have a right to weigh on her conscience the way he did. It wasn't fair.

"I should be headed back to work," Rachel said with some reluctance.

"Ah, yes. I understand."

"It was good to see you again, Alfred."

He nodded affably. "Always a pleasure to see you as well, Miss Dawes."

She stole a last glance at Bruce, who was already flinching. Before she could feel too horrible about leaving him she resolutely left the room, Alfred in tow. Her hands were shaking. Her entire body seemed rattled by what she'd seen, and already it seemed such a foreign scene to her. When had she ever seen Bruce look like that?

His parents' funeral. When she'd held his hand and he'd cried silently between her and Alfred all through the service. When she'd followed him out while they were lowering the caskets . . . he'd run away. He was too afraid to watch, and she was too afraid to let him leave alone. That was the last time she'd seen him in so much pain. And this time she wasn't chasing him.

She'd already overstayed her welcome. On her way to the door she grabbed her purse from the table and forced a smile at Alfred.

"Shall I tell Master Wayne you dropped by?" Alfred asked with a knowing look.

Rachel cleared her throat. "Sure," she said as graciously as she could.

"Should we expect you back anytime soon?" Alfred asked hopefully.

She pursed her lips. "I . . . I'm always pretty busy." The door opened and the sound of the rain drowned her out, preventing the need for further awkward exchanges. She opened her umbrella and bid him good-bye.

Thank God for the rain. The entire way home nobody looked up at her. Nobody could see what a mess she had become . . . all at the fault of Bruce Wayne.

A day passed. The incident with Bruce left her with a stale taste in her mouth. Maybe she shouldn't have bothered. All she'd done was reopened old wounds, created new expectations. Alfred would tell Bruce she'd been there. Bruce would think . . .

Bruce would know, though, that she hadn't meant anything by it. He knew the painful truth. That they could never be together until Batman had retired, if they could ever be together at all.

The next day passed in a blur of insignificance. She felt like she was going through the motions, only drifting along. Waiting. For what?

She knew what she was waiting for, of course. News—news of any kind, some sort of report on Batman that wasn't speculating an untimely death. His disappearance had surprisingly spurred chaos that knew no bounds. But it seemed that even Gotham's most hardened criminals were too disbelieving to make a move. The city was quiet, at least for now, and every would-be investigator of the incident had reached the same hopeless dead ends as everyone else.

What she wanted was a report that Batman was back. That he was fighting crime, or whatever it was they thought he was doing. She just wanted some ultimate validation that he was alright and that he was still in the game.

Of course she could just go ask him herself. But she already considered herself lucky to leave Wayne Manor as unscathed as she had. She'd only be pushing her luck if she returned—this time, Bruce would actually be conscious.

She'd left work later than she'd intended to. It was dark and the streets were menacing in their own way, but she hadn't been afraid to be alone for a long time. A part of her grudgingly accepted that Batman was always watching out for her. If any harm came, she knew she'd be safe.

Except now he may not be anywhere in range. She should be more cautious. What was she thinking, leaving this late? So much for being level-headed and thinking things through. If she were kidnapped or stolen from at this point, it was only what she rightfully deserved for being so careless about the streets of Gotham at night.

As if to fuel her rapidly expanding paranoia, she thought she heard a rasping breath behind her. She gasped impulsively, whipping around. No one was there.

God, she was already losing her composure. She should go back a block to work and ask a coworker to walk her home. Any of them would understand. Usually she was too proud to ask for this sort of help, but who could blame her? It was only—

When she turned back around she nearly screamed, but the creature put a light finger on her lips to stop her first.

"God damn it," she muttered, feeling her face burn uncontrollably. A heated shiver ran all the way up her spine. She couldn't decide if she was more relieved or furious. Furious, she decided. "What the hell was that for?"

Batman smirked from under his mask. "Miss Dawes," he said huskily.

She slapped his hand away, futile as it was. "What's your problem? You scared me half to death." He was still smiling at her. "You think that's funny? Terrifying vulnerable women in the middle of the night?"

"You can hardly call yourself vulnerable," he replied. His voice was softer. She knew he wasn't mocking her this time.

She crossed her arms across her chest. "What do you want?"

His eyes glimmered. Had he flinched? She couldn't tell behind the dark mask, but she had a feeling she'd stung him. And for a moment it felt good to know that she had.

"To say thank you." He ran his hand along her jawbone and she tensed, willing herself to ignore the tingle it sent through her.

She looked at her shoes, purposefully snubbing him. "What for?"

He didn't answer. She thought that maybe he'd left after a few seconds had passed, but she didn't want to look up just yet, in case he was still there.

"All I could see while I was under that toxin . . . was that they had you, Rachel. And it was terrifying."

Her blood ran cold.

"I needed you then." A beat. "So thanks."

She finally looked back up to face him. But he was already gone, no doubt catapulting himself in the shadows to stop some gunfight or drug operation. A hiccup escaped her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks . . . she left the glow of the streetlamp and let herself sob. She cursed him for what he was doing to her. All the time, making her doubt who she was and what she truly wanted.

Rachel loved him. And that was the worst curse of them all. Was this her fate? To pine after a man she reviled all her life? She hugged her briefcase to her chest and tried to quell the tears. How pathetic of her. Crying like a little girl again.

As she wiped the last remnants of the episode from her face with her sleeve, she realized just how unclear everything was. She wondered who had made it so complicated. It was easy to blame Bruce, who had taken on this warped persona, whose identity she knew but could never really define. It was easier to blame herself, for loving the man she hated everything about.

Was it Bruce who needed her?

Or was it she who needed Bruce?

Rachel was tired. She blinked hard and adjusted her eyes to the night around her. Batman was back, and now Gotham was safe. She could walk home without any fear tonight.

She decided she'd rather have Bruce.

End.

running in circles