Disclaimer: I don't own anything of Batman.

Chapter One

Rachel stood in front of the mirror, carefully primping. She wished her mother had let her use make-up sooner. She wished her mother had let her use make-up at all. Now she was crouching in front of a mirror with a clumped mascara wand and a container of some sort of face powder that was probably older than she was without any idea of what to do with them. To make matters worse, her mother was out schmoozing with some coworkers of hers, leaving Rachel on her own to straighten herself out for the Homecoming dance.

On a brighter note, this meant that her mom could not chaperone the affair. Her parents were both teachers at the Pinebrook Academy of Gotham, an embarrassing angst-worthy situation if there ever were one for a high school junior. At least it meant she could attend private school for free. Otherwise she and Bruce would have been separated, like they had been in middle school.

The third time the useless stick of mascara slipped and marred her otherwise clear face with black inky gunk, she finally just set it down and buried her head in her hands. She didn't want to go to the stupid Homecoming dance. It was more for freshmen and sophomores, anyway—it was lame and supervised by half the teachers in the academy. Not to mention that her date wasn't exactly all she'd hoped for.

Admittedly it wasn't as if Rachel had had much of a choice, only accepting someone's offer to the dance the day before. Gary Steinmoor, who was generally thought to be good-looking and suave, was the lucky bidder. Rachel knew he was too dim-witted for her tastes. Bruce knew it even better than she did.

Which was why she was going to the dance with Gary in the first place: to make Bruce mad.

It was a juvenile idea that she knew was far beneath her level of maturity. She hadn't done something this silly and impulsive since the third grade. But she was just so furious with him that it seemed like there was no other outlet for her passion but to throw it right back in Bruce's face. And what better way than to cling herself to one of the boys Bruce had no respect for?

So she'd specially borrowed one of her mother's cocktail dresses and had her friend pull her hair up in a fancy bun. Normally Rachel didn't care all that much about what she looked like—she knew she was a pretty girl, and so she often decided not to worry—but tonight she needed to be beautiful. Anything that would dig at him. More than anything she wanted to get a rise out of Bruce, however dirty and deceptive it felt.

Rachel knew she shouldn't want to hurt him so much. Bruce was the best friend she'd ever had. They understood each other more deeply than they understood anyone. She would go so far as to say that she was the only one he'd ever trusted to tell his innermost thoughts, and she was proud to be his confidant. Not because he was Bruce Wayne, heir to Gotham's most impressive riches, but because he was just Bruce, who she'd always secretly longed to be just like since she was a child.

When they were younger it was always Bruce who sought adventure. She couldn't remember when he became such a daredevil and she, in turn, a nervous nelly, but they'd soon conformed into their roles like an old, comfortable mattress conforms to a sleeping body. Maybe it was sometime after his parents' funeral that their temperaments had shifted so drastically. But since then they'd been living their same pattern of life: Bruce, high on his own adrenaline, would taunt her by doing something dangerous and potentially harmful right in front of her, and she'd look on and fret impossibly.

Then he'd do it. Whatever it was. Bruce would scale the vines alongside the manor and make it to the roof, or he'd mock the neighbors' attack dogs and jump back over the fence just in the nick of time, or he'd lie in the middle of the road at night and pretend to fall asleep while she stood on the sidewalk nearly suffering from a mini-stroke as she looked on.

Bruce loved the shock factor. Every time she was amazed at the stupid, menial tasks that he would set himself to, because they seemed so reckless and unfeasible. And yes, she did worry. Terribly. With every stunt he performed her anxiety grew worse and worse, and she feared that one day he'd go too far—but seventeen years had passed and Bruce still had skirted through life, however narrowly.

Rachel's secret, though, was that she wished she could be like Bruce. He was brave, even if it were for all the wrong reasons. Although he might have been dumb and compulsive about his feats, she longed to be as bold as he was. Usually being with him was enough to quell that desire, though. She was the practical one. It was her responsibility to keep Bruce under control.

But not tonight. She smiled at her clown-like self in the mirror, trying to puff out her lip or do whatever it took to make herself look more appealing. Tonight she had every intention of making Bruce fret and worry. She'd had enough of it herself. It was time to make him squirm and regret everything he'd said to her the day before.

It was rare that Rachel and Bruce fought. Their relationship was mostly platonic, but never shallow. So of course they occasionally dug up matters that stung. They talked about everything. They were bound to bring up a sore subject after awhile.

Somehow they'd gotten on the subject of Gary Steinmoor and his "pathetic little crush" on her.

"What do you mean, pathetic?" She laughed a little once she'd asked, but there was a strain to the question. Did he mean to imply that only a pathetic person would have a crush on her?

Bruce only shrugged in his usual manner. Never bothering to make eye contact, smirking that smirk. "I just can't believe he'd have a thing for you, I guess," he'd said lightly.

Rachel's eyes widened at him. How dare he say that so casually! As if she were not worthy of Gary Steinmoor's attention. "And what do you mean by that?" she said in a low voice. She didn't want to fight about this. It seemed trivial. But Bruce had to learn that he couldn't just throw words in the air like that and insult people, and this time she really felt hurt by what he'd said.

For a change he looked over at her, surprised. "Oh, come on, Rachel. You dating a guy like Gary Steinmoor—"

Now she was certainly miffed. She leapt to her feet. "I could if I wanted to," she hissed in a voice that didn't even sound like her own. She knew she was overacting. But it wasn't the first time he'd made this sort of insinuation, and she was fed up. She was seventeen years old now, and perfectly dateable. Not to sound like an egomaniac, but she knew she was good-looking and smart and sometimes even a bit quirky. Who was Bruce Wayne to say Gary would never date her?

"You'd want to?" Bruce asked, looking astonished.

"Well," she said brashly, "yes. Maybe I do. Is that a problem?"

She waited for his face to show some hint of emotion. Anything to know she'd hurt him, so for once in the past year he'd know she'd eked any sort of reaction out of him. But he remained just as stoic and composed as ever. It made her want to hit him with something. Did he care so little for her that he would never even give her half a glance? Who did he think he was, trying to dictate who would and who would not date her, as if he had some claim on her?

And yes, to some degree, they'd had some sort of unspoken claim on each other since they both wore pull-ups. They always went to school dances together, but nothing more. They were friends, but even as friends there was always the faint idea that they were only biding their time, taking it slow.

Now she was enraged. She'd never even been kissed, and she suddenly laid the blame on Bruce. If they hadn't been play-acting boyfriend and girlfriend at all the dances, maybe she would have a normal boyfriend who would smile and compliment her and notice when she wore perfume to impress him.

Of course Bruce only stared straight ahead. For the life of her she could never figure out what was more engaging off in the distance than whatever conversations they were having. "In fact," she said unsteadily, "Gary already asked to the Homecoming dance."

"Oh?" Bruce deadpanned.

"Yes. He did. And you know what? I'm going with him. So you can just find a date all on your own, because I'm sure as heck not going anywhere with you tomorrow night."

Then she stalked out of the manor. This time she didn't even bother to look back at Bruce's face; it wasn't worth it, when she already knew he'd be staring after her blankly without a clue of what he did. Typical. He never noticed when he irked her.

So she'd find a way to make him notice. It only took her a minute to get Gary Steinmoor on the phone to say "yes."

Now she was the bold one, and Bruce was the one she was leaving to watch from the sidelines. It gave her an odd sort of pleasure, to think that she might have some power over him. With every different splash of make-up or little beauty trick she used to make herself glamorous she yearned even more for the satisfaction of knowing that she'd hurt him, so for once it would be him and not her. Rachel felt as though she were planning to squish an unwitting bug tonight. Bruce deserved it, after all these years of taking her for granted. He couldn't rightly assume she'd always be there if he didn't pay attention to her once in awhile.

Rachel hoped she wasn't demanding too much of him. She was by no means the type of girl who fished for compliments. She never openly sought attention or embellished to make herself seem savvier. Despite that, even she needed acknowledgment every now and then. A saint would be annoyed by Bruce's constantly serious, unaffected manner.

Thus she justified her current misgivings toward the boy. The doorbell rang then, jolting her out of her thoughts. Quickly she dabbed on some lip gloss and wiped away the last tale-tell mascara smudge by her eye. Then she leapt down the stairs of the little house she and her parents shared to answer the door.

Gary whistled appreciatively and she felt herself blush.

"Whoa, Dawes. You're smokin'," he said with a lopsided grin.

She shrank giddily in delight. "Aw, thanks, Gary. You look quite handsome yourself," she shot back.

For a moment he stared straight into her eyes. They were soft and blue, as far from Bruce's cold and vacant brown eyes as humanly possible. Gary really looked at her. Noticed her.

"May I?" he asked. There was a corsage in his hand. Oh, how thoughtful of him. She doubted Bruce would ever go out of his way like that and it made her all the more determined to go through with this.

"Of course," she said somewhat breathlessly, letting him adjust the creamy-white corsage on her wrist. "It's gorgeous."

"Well, so are you."

She reddened further. A part of her was fully aware of how corny he sounded, but she was too tickled to care. Nobody had ever paid this much attention to her all throughout high school.

"The car's out in the street still. We'd better go," he said, peering in the doorway.

"Oh, no one's home," she explained, rolling her eyes. "You may have escaped an epic camera attack."

His eyebrows raised. "Where are your parents at?"

"Business meeting." She reached for her shawl and much to her delight, he stepped forward to help her slip it on her shoulders. She shot him a wide smile. "Saves some embarrassment at least."

He took her hand. "Now parents, I can deal with. Impressing a girl like you . . ." he joked.

"Don't be stupid," she giggled, letting him lead her to his car. It occurred to her that she sounded like an airhead, but she felt too light and carefree to pay it much mind. Her blood was pumping and tingling from her toes to her fingers. So this was what it felt like to be daring. To be like Bruce.

He even opened the door for her. "Your carriage, m'lady," he said in a fake British accent. He slid into the driver's seat and rubbed her shoulder as he started up the car. "We're gonna have the night of our lives."

Oh, if only he knew, she thought, hiding her smile with her newly-manicured hand.

Rachel remembered why she'd thought Homecoming was lame the moment she arrived. The childish plastic string lights hung up everywhere, her French teacher giving her a thumbs-up from the corner, the dance floor teeming with underclassmen. Not to mention that the academy's tiny gym was near suffocating when packed with its thousand-person student body.

It occurred to her as she smiled forcedly at the staff of Gotham's Pinebrook Academy that Bruce had absolutely no reason to show up. Her heart fell. How stupid of her, to think she could pull this off. Bruce would know that she was using Gary as bait to irk him. Bruce knew her so well that he probably was aware of her ill-planned scheme before she was. He was so calculating and aware. Here she was thinking she could catch him off guard when he was probably just patiently waiting this through in that intolerable way he always did.

Bruce was cocky and acted like he knew everything. What was more annoying, though, was that he was rightfully superior. He was a step ahead of her and everyone else, always.

She felt like a fool for thinking she would actually run into him here. Not that Bruce would have any trouble getting a replacement date, but it just wasn't something he'd do.

Rachel bit her lip. So she wasn't being like Bruce at all.

But there was still Gary. Even if she'd brought him here with the wrong intentions, it didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the experience. So her English teachers were serving Hawaiian Punch and Sprite. So a flabby decoration from the sixties-inspired dance floor had nearly fell on top of her. So a freshman had tried to grind with her before she scooted away. So what? She had Gary who, quite frankly, was not too shabby on the eyes, and actually liked her and thought she was pretty in her navy blue cocktail dress. Just because the night wouldn't be all that she'd hoped for didn't mean that she couldn't savor it while it lasted.

The first slow song played an hour and a half into the dance. A perfect gentleman, Gary took her waist with ease and escorted her to the middle of the gym. Never once did he break eye contact, his eyes set on her warmly. She rested her head on her shoulder. This was everything she'd ever wanted out of a boyfriend, let alone a dance.

But she'd wanted it to be Bruce. It wasn't the same with Gary, and no matter how hard she tried to force it, she couldn't make herself believe that he was anything compared to the Bruce she knew and loved.

It made her feel sick to her stomach. There was no legitimate reason to defend her stupidity this time. Thank God Bruce was merciful enough to avoid the dance. Now he wouldn't see her being this immature and irrational, clinging to a guy she barely knew for the sake of making him . . . jealous.

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes as the song faded out. It wasn't just that she wanted Bruce to regret what he'd said. A part of her wanted him to notice her, as more than a friend for once. Maybe she was just sick of being his tag-along friend. Sick of being his excuse to all the girls who asked him out—"No, I have a girlfriend already. Rachel Dawes," he'd say to avoid any hard feelings to his adoring fan club—when she was anything but his girlfriend. She probably couldn't have wooed him if she tried.

The thought of it made her sink further into her already cavernous hole of self-pity. How miserable she felt, admitting to herself the true reasons behind this silly game of hers. Rachel was just as pathetic as the brainless girls who followed Bruce in hallways and memorized his schedule to effectively stalk him. Only she didn't have to watch from the sidelines like they did. She had full access, all the time.

Which made it all the more frustrating. If she were to admit how she felt, would he cast her aside in the same way he had all those other wannabes? Bruce depended on her to be his friend. He needed her for that, and he'd never hinted at wanting anything more. And how pitiful would it seem if she were the one to bring up the idea and he said no?

It was terrifying to think over. Rachel felt like such a coward. Instead of taking a chance on Bruce, she'd tricked herself into thinking she was taking a chance with Gary.

The song ended and they parted. She grinned up at him, hoping it didn't look too forced. Who would know, under the dim florescent lighting?

"I'm going to grab a drink," she excused herself.

"Oh, I'll get it for you," Gary offered.

Rachel bit her lip. The tables had suddenly reversed in her mind, and she was annoyed at him for being so considerate. Bruce would knew her better than this. When she said she wanted a drink, she really was leaving so she could catch a moment alone. Something she figured only Bruce would have been able to detect from the small shift of her eyebrows.

"No, no. Really. I'll get it. I'll only be a second," she said with an awkward little laugh. Then she tore away from him and headed toward the cafeteria before he could follow.

Once she was out of the gym and into the hallway she tried to relax. All in all she had caused little damage. Bruce, as usual, would charitably ignore this little episode of hers. Gary would have three different girls asking him out the second the dance was over and wouldn't miss Rachel all that much. The only task to complete was the rest of the evening. The instant she returned home she could change into her pajamas, pull down this constricting hairdo and sink into the mattress. Sleep. That's what she wanted to do now. Sleep this whole ordeal away until it became nothing more than a vaguely bad dream.

Her friend Samantha caught her arm on her way to the beverage line. "You look stunning, my dear," she said appreciatively.

Rachel smiled up at her to the best of her ability. "Thanks," she said graciously. "If it weren't for this hair you managed to tame—"

Samantha waved her off. "No problem, girl. I love doing hair." She was about to turn the hallway into the gym again, but she stopped in front of Rachel again. Her head swiveled back to the cafeteria, her lips parting in confusion. "Why aren't you with Bruce?"

At the mention of his name Rachel couldn't help but swallow compulsively. She did that whenever she was nervous, and now it seemed that every inch of her body was quaking with regret. "Oh. Well, he couldn't make it tonight."

Samantha frowned. "But he's in the cafeteria."

It felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. Like someone had punched her in the chest. "What?"

Her friend cocked her head back to the cafeteria doors. "He's in there sitting at one of the tables." She frowned in concern. "Is there something wrong, honey? Usually it takes a mallet to pry the two of you apart."

"I, uh." Shit. She had grown so used to the idea of Bruce missing the dance that she hadn't considered he would actually show. "Oh, we're fine. I just thought he was out of town." She laughed unnaturally. "Typical Bruce, forgetting to call. Oh, well. I'll see you later, Sam."

"Yeah, see you." Samantha's eyes lingered on her for a moment, like she couldn't quite believe Rachel's half-assed explanation, but she was understanding enough to let sleeping dogs lie and leave Rachel alone.

Breathlessly she entered the gym. For a moment she ducked her head, not wanting him to see her but wanting more than anything for him to see at the same time. It was the two seconds she needed to gage where he was. Without looking she could tell he was sitting at the table by the window, and it seemed he was alone. She only knew where he was so instantaneously because she could feel his stare tracing her every step across the room.

All at once she felt so gawky. As if she were under a microscope lens. Her heels seemed to click too loudly, her lips felt too glossy, her hair felt too tight. Did he notice? The tips of her ears were burning. Did he notice that, too?

Thoughtlessly she waited through the drink line, grabbing a Hawaiian Punch with a little umbrella sticking out of it. She took a sip and looked up, accidentally locking eyes with Bruce. Now there was no avoiding him. She'd already been thick enough to pretend she hadn't seen him the first time she'd walked through the room, and it would only make her seem even more immature if she turned her back on him now.

His eyes were locked on her for once. They were not at all judgmental as she feared. In fact, they were just as unreadable as they always were. Rachel had never used his eyes to determine his mood, but rather his nervous ticks, because his eyes always remained so hard and fixed. When he was angry he would tap a foot. When he was anxious he would crack his knuckles. When he was melancholy he would clench and unclench his fists repeatedly. It was a code so secret and sacred to her that she doubted Bruce even realized it himself.

Now Bruce was not moving at all. Merely sitting there, watching her as she pulled out a chair and sat beside him without a word. She searched his eyes, wondering if she could detect any subtle differences, but there were none.

"You came," she said lightly.

He nodded. His gaze strayed back over to the tabletop, away from her. He looked . . . haggard. Tired. Unlike himself.

"So?" she asked. His brow furrowed questioningly, so she elaborated. "Who did you come with?"

"I came alone," he said simply.

It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. He hadn't sunk as low as she had by finding another date to fill the void. Her tongue felt dry as sandpaper, and she wanted to fall at his feet and say she was sorry for being so thoughtless and trying to hurt him. She would never do it again, she'd promise.

Rachel cleared her throat and stared up at him. Damn it all, why did he always seem so handsome, even when she was furious with him? She paused a moment. What was she even furious with him for? A stupid little fight. It hadn't even meant anything, and she'd taken it too far.

But she couldn't admit that. Not to his face.

"I came with Gary," Rachel said before she could stop herself. She had heard the term "word vomit" before and now she understood what it meant.

"I know."

"We've been dancing. I just stopped to grab something to drink." God, why couldn't she just shut the hell up? This was only making matters worse. Bruce already knew what she was doing here. And now in her attempt to make awkward conversation, she was only rubbing salt on the wound.

Bruce's lips curved slightly into a smirk. "Yeah, I can see that."

In a near desperate manner Rachel forced herself to chug the rest of her drink, if only to escape this table and the looming cloud of dread that seemed to be hovering over the pair of them. She finished and stood from the table. "I suppose I'll see you later."

He let her take a few steps away first. Then she heard him murmur, "You're beautiful."

She stopped in her tracks. "What?" she said, turning around to face him.

His expression was enough to make her knees weak. It was as if the stony ridges that were holding his stoic face together, or had cracked, if only for a moment, and unveiled a hint of the storm brewing beneath. She couldn't suspect that he was mocking her. He looked so sincere, sitting there with his hands held together and his mouth tensed in a hard, determined line.

After a moment or two he asked, "Isn't that what you wanted me to say?"

How could she respond to that? Yes. I've waited years to hear you say that. All this time of hanging on your every word, hoping you would notice me . . . it felt so dirty and selfish of her now. She'd gotten what she wanted, but look what she'd done to him in order to get it.

"I . . ."

"You should get back to Gary." If there were any bitterness in his voice, he was adept at hiding it. He sounded more weary of her than anything. "He's probably wondering where you are."

She felt the heat rushing up in her face, threatening to spill out of her eyes with thick tears as she walked away. But not in the middle of the school. She was too proud to make a scene in front of everyone, or at least too afraid to handle the repercussions of it. Finally she left the cafeteria, holding her head as high as she could, knowing that Bruce's eyes were no longer trailing her but instead staring at nothingness as they usually did. He was letting her go. He was sending her off to do whatever she pleased.

It made her furious. It made her doubt what she really wanted. She wanted Bruce to recognize that she deserved freedom from being "Bruce's girl" when she was nothing of the sort. That he should not be able to dictate her life all the time. But she wanted Bruce to recognize how much she needed him to take control at the same time! She knew she loved him. She'd always known, even if she'd never say anything. So why hadn't Bruce come forward and said anything?

Rachel was aware that she was being fickle and asking for too much of him. She just couldn't help herself. It was the culmination of years worth of mixed feelings toward Bruce that were slowly ebbing at their so solidified and intricate friendship. Either they ignored these feelings forever and let their friendship dwindle into a phone call every month or so, or they took a chance on each other. Now, not later. She may have sounded rash but she had always been the type to have plans and be wary of the future, and if some defining event did not take place soon and distinguish them between friends-with-benefits and friends-who-fell-in-love, they would never . . .

Never what? End up with a nice house with a white picket fence, three kids and a dog? Like that would ever happen with Bruce Wayne. Yet another fantasy he could not fulfill. Why, then, did she insist on doing this to herself? Dreaming of a life with a man who could never give her all she wanted?