Chapter Three

As he had promised Bruce drove the car into a shadowed part of the Manor, where Alfred would not see them. She was hoping to come upon the old butler, though. He would know what to do. Bruce clearly wasn't thinking straight. He'd taken on . . . what was it? Four guys? Or five? And even as she saw him open the door to the car, she could see he was shaky on his feet.

It was the entrance by the greenhouse he led her to. She knew from experience that Alfred's quarters were well on the other side of the manor. What hope did she have that he would have another one of those notions that conveniently seemed to cross him just as Bruce was headed for trouble? It would be absolute betrayal if she "accidentally" bumped her elbow into one of the house's installed intercoms and set it off as she and Bruce were walking inside. Even if Bruce never found out, it would be unforgivable. Now she just had to determine what was more important—whether she should let Bruce ignore his injuries and face whatever consequences came with that, or inform on him to Alfred before it was too late.

As he walked her in she noticed that he'd dripped blood on the carpet. She didn't say anything, knowing his response would yet again be something along the lines of "It's fine," except in a more aggravated manner this time.

"Where are we . . . ?"

He'd led her to a part of the mansion she hadn't seen before: his parents' room.

It was grand and spacious, the walls a comforting ivory and the ceilings high as a cathedral's. Maybe she had been in here before. It felt like being swallowed, walking through the double doors. She remembered following Bruce in here as a little girl, giggling over a game of hide and seek. She'd lost, of course. The walls were too distracting. There were two pictures posted up on either side of the room—one of Thomas and Martha Wayne on their wedding day. Martha was soft and angelic in an old-fashioned white dress, staring away from the lens to smile up at her husband . . . but it was quite another thing to look at Thomas. When he stared back at Martha she saw Bruce, staring at her in the car. Thomas's eyes held that same intense, passionate depth to them and his mouth curled into that same bemused grin. It was a pretty picture then; it was like staring back at Bruce now.

When she was little she'd been struck with awe at the beauty of it all, and she'd stood there drinking it all in, etching it into her memory. Then Bruce had caught her, taunting her for her inability to hide.

Sometime in the years between that initial hide-and-seek game and his parents' deaths, another picture had been fixed on the other side of the room. She felt furtive, stealing a glance at it as Bruce led her through. It was nowhere near as large as the wedding shot, but it was in a way much sweeter and more noticeable. It was of Bruce and his mother, jumping around in the waves at a beach. Rachel couldn't tell who had taken the picture, but the pair of them were haloed by a rising sun, jumping into a dawn of light purples, yellows, and blues. A sunspot blocked a corner of the picture, but it only made it more touching.

Bruce purposefully did not look over at it. Instead he led her over to the closet—the place she'd intended to hide all those years ago, before the picture had caught her by surprise.

When he opened the closet she flinched. It was like intruding on hallowed ground. She had never been one for ghost stories, but it was as if she could feel the presence of the late Waynes ebbing at the dark corners of the room, circling around them. She was about to protest his opening the door, but she couldn't justify saying anything. In all fairness, it did belong to him.

He picked out one of his mother's dresses. The red one she'd worn to a benefit they'd held at the manor. Rachel remembered it well, because she and Bruce had spent the night sneaking around the edges of the party, thinking they were clever and naughty when in fact Alfred had been trailing behind them the entire time. How sparkly and grown up the red dress had seemed then.

Now she was afraid to touch it.

"Take it," Bruce insisted.

It was so light she was afraid it might slip through her hands. "I can't just . . ."

When she looked up, Bruce had already left the room. Surprised, she twisted around to try to find him, but she saw that the door had been left slightly ajar from where he'd exited. She sighed. Even after nine years he was doing all that was in his power to forget.

Slipping on the dress felt surreal. The room was cold—clearly they didn't waste energy by heating up this side of the mansion. But the frosty feeling of the room only left her feeling more unnerved and bare. As if Martha Wayne could see her donning her old benefit dress from one of those many lonely, empty corners. No wonder Bruce had left. No doubt he felt her too.

She knew she looked beautiful in it. Anyone would. The dress fit her better than any article of clothing had, adjusting itself to her forgivingly, clinging and letting loose in all the right places.

When a few minutes past and she heard no word from Bruce, she wandered out of the massive room, carefully shutting the door behind her. She walked lightly through the hallway, hoping to wake Alfred and hoping not to at the same time. Some distance away she saw a door with a crack of light escaping in a thin line underneath it—she approached it with every intention of knocking softly and finding Bruce, but she heard hushed voices speaking from within.

"Master Wayne—"

"For the love of God, Alfred, my name is Bruce."

"Nonetheless, I feel I must impress upon you the importance of nonviolent solutions to your problems."

She heard Bruce chuckle. "Let me assure you that there wasn't one."

"Forgive me for sounding too bold in saying that I do believe you are wrong in saying that, Master Wayne. It worries me that you seem to be under the delusion that you are invincible—"

"Hardly," Bruce muttered.

"Obviously," Alfred corrected, his words more clipped than usual. There was a momentary pause in the conversation, at which point she backed away from the door, afraid that it might unexpectedly swivel open and reveal her. But Alfred continued: "Do you intend to share how you inflicted this upon yourself? It doesn't look like a one man job, sir."

"No, sir, it wasn't," Bruce drawled sarcastically. "Now if you'll excuse me."

"Where do you think you are going, bleeding like some sort of—"

It was the first time Rachel had ever heard Alfred try to raise his voice at Bruce. Instinct told her to dash back down the hallway and pretend she was only just leaving his parents' room, but curiosity claimed her. She wondered how Bruce would react.

"I have to take Rachel home," Bruce said softly.

So Bruce was not beyond being disciplined. She had feared he might lash out at the butler, but she knew Bruce better. Alfred was the only family he knew.

"Are you saying that you dragged Miss Dawes into your conflict as well?" Alfred demanded.

"No."

"Then how on earth can you explain—"

"It was my fault," Rachel admitted, swinging the door open.

Neither of them reacted at first—Rachel knew from experience that Bruce and Alfred were two people who were barely ever surprised, considering all the mayhem they'd encountered. After the initial confusion had past she saw Bruce blow air out of his mouth, irritated at her for busting in. She didn't meet his eyes, knowing she'd probably see something along the lines of Way to go, princess. By averting her gaze she met Alfred's instead.

He was staring at the dress. Just for a fleeting moment, and not in a judgmental way. He seemed a bit stricken by it, but he smiled a bit and looked away, all in a second that passed by so quickly that Rachel couldn't have been sure it happened. Feeling like an intruder, she self-consciously backed away, not quite sure who was the more safe to look at.

"Miss Dawes," said Alfred gruffly.

"Alfred."

Dead silence. She took a bold step forward into what could only be described as enemy territory and said again, "Bruce was just trying to—"

"You don't have to tell him," Bruce interrupted with a stern look.

She shot him a frustrated glare. "I don't want him thinking you were up to something, that's not fair."

"I'll explain to Alfred."

Alfred made a disbelieving noise from the other side of the room, and Rachel looked over at him earnestly and said, "Really, Alfred, I was being a complete idiot and if Bruce hadn't shown up when he did then God only knows where I'd be right now." Before she'd even managed to spit out the entire sentence she'd shuddered in revulsion at the idea of what Gary had been planning to do. In all the commotion she hadn't much dwelled on it, but now it made her sick to think that she'd been so blithe and unaware about following him around.

Bruce was standing beside her silently. Alfred studied each of their faces in turn, as if determining which of them held the most truth in their statements. When he sighed to himself resignedly, Rachel knew that Alfred had leaned toward her.

"All right. I will drive Miss Dawes home, but you, Master Wayne, are to remain here."

"If I don't come along her parents will ask questions."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, giving him another once-over. "Believe me, sir, they will ask questions whether or not you accompany us."

"Bruce." Rachel stood her ground to the best of her ability. It was so easy to think of hurting Bruce when she was sitting idly in front of her bedroom mirror primping for the dance, but now that she was right in front of him she felt her insides churning with regret. He stared at her for a moment with an injured look on his face. How could you take his side? he was demanding of her. She had to be practical, though. He really was hurt. She was afraid that, yet again, Bruce would grossly underestimate his own limits. And she couldn't take that risk tonight, with him in that state.

He deflated, sinking into a chair.

"I trust you have everything you need with you," Alfred said to her kindly.

She gave him a curt nod. Alfred studied Bruce a moment more, determining, no doubt, whether or not it was safe to leave him by himself. But Bruce was seventeen by now and Alfred knew as well as Rachel that any jurisdiction Alfred may have over him was already running thin. Alfred left the room, intending for Rachel to follow.

It was too difficult to leave him. He was staring at his loafers, his face in his hands, probably assuming she'd already left. It felt like she was invading his privacy by remaining here. She wished she could say something, but all the words sounded jumbled and unconnected in her head. What would she say? How should she start? I love you. What would I ever do without you? Please don't be upset, this was entirely my fault. I don't want to leave. If you weren't hurt, if I didn't have a curfew, if we had all the time in the world then maybe I'd kiss you again and it would feel like it had really happened when we woke up in the morning . . . I don't want to wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened. I want to always know that you care, not just when I'm in trouble. I want us to always be there for each other, forever. Why is everything so complicated when it comes to me and you?

Instead she swallowed hard and left the room, resolutely not looking back at him. They were too young. Maybe there would be a time she could say all she'd been itching to say . . . but now was not that time.

She followed Alfred out the door.

The drive home was silent. Her thoughts were still reeling, the events of the past few hours flashing haphazardly in and out of her vision. It seemed like she had only blinked a few times when Alfred finally pulled onto her street and slowed to accommodate the speed limit.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Miss Dawes?" he asked protectively.

She smiled. Alfred was, perhaps, as protective of her as her own father. "Yes, I'm sure."

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "What exactly . . ."

Alfred could always count on her to tell the truth. She sighed, staring down at her hands and her midnight blue fingernails. How odd, that her nails were painted, she thought idly. It had matched her dress before she'd changed. Now it seemed so childish and unsuited.

"I was being stupid. I guess I was trying to . . . get a rise out of Bruce," she admitted, wincing, "and I went to the dance with some other boy. He, uh, tried to take advantage of me." She swallowed. "I mean, it was pretty bad. But Bruce—" She had to crack a grin, wondering at the absurdity of it all— "he'd followed me out of the dance, and fought, like, probably four guys so I could get out of there." Without much thought behind it she laughed. "How many guys would actually follow a girl out of a dance like that?"

Alfred seemed to find some humor in the situation, too. His lips curled in appreciation with the story, but his eyes still seemed sad. There was some unspeakable weight to his stare, even as he was scanning the road ahead. "At least it ended well enough," he muttered. But she saw that perhaps he'd said this more to reassure himself than to reassure her.

"Well," she said briskly. "Sort of."

The sad eyes of the butler met her own again, and he finally said aloud what had been on her mind for so many years. "I have always respected Master Wayne's fearlessness," he said slowly. "But I fear at times that the boy thinks himself invincible."

Rachel nodded, but she knew he wasn't invincible, even if Bruce thought he was. And not because she'd seen him bleed. But because she'd seen the way he'd looked at her, so torn and afraid, at the very notion of someone hurting her. Bruce was not beyond pain.

Sometimes she just needed a reminder. Sometimes she, too, thought that Bruce was invincible. She had just come to expect it over the years.

Alfred pulled into her driveway. "Take care, Miss Dawes," he bid her.

"You too, Alfred." She smiled at him. "Thanks so much for the ride."

He nodded at her, only pulling away once she'd opened the door to the house. She stood there for a moment, surveying her surroundings, the comfort of being home. It seemed like Gary had picked her up here in another lifetime. A completely different dimension. She'd been so excited, so high with the rush of anticipation and guilt and giddiness. She'd practically left this house with wings attached. Now she stood here in a completely different dress with a completely different posture, slumped and tired, deflated and confused.

"How was the dance, honey?"

It was her dad. Good. Her mother would know instantly that this red dress was not the one they'd shopped for earlier that week, and she'd rather not answer any more questions tonight.

"It was . . . different," she said with a dark chuckle.

Her father misinterpreted this. "Oh," he said, raising an eyebrow. "So you and Bruce had . . . fun, then?" he asked in that token over-protective-father tone.

She rolled her eyes. "Not exactly."

He frowned at her then. "What happened?"

"We ate food, we danced, we came home," she said lightly. After we nearly got date-raped and rescued me, that is. "It was fun."

"But?"

"But what?" she asked, exasperated.

"But something," her dad prompted her expectantly.

"I'm tired, is all. We had a great time. Bruce was quite the gentleman, as usual." More so than she would tell her father, of course. "And he obeyed all the traffic laws this time and even got me home before twelve-thirty."

Her dad finally loosened up. "How very heedful of him," he said with a slight mockery toward her. For a moment they were both silent, and she was about to leap up the stairs to her room to change, but he continued. "You know, I really don't mind that Bruce kid. I don't worry about you when you're with him."

A lump grew in her throat and she felt ashamed for never telling her parents she went with Gary. It was too late now, though. So she nodded at her father on her way up the stairs and said, "Yeah, you're right. He just makes me feel . . . safe."

Not because he was strong. Not because of his courage or determination. But because she knew that Bruce would stop at nothing to protect the people he loved.