Lucius had not so much as budged in two hours. The others were downstairs—as far as he was aware Alfred and Gordon had arrived, and suddenly the long-assumed dead Rachel Dawes had emerged from nowhere. He'd processed this information dully, letting it slowly seep through his skin. It was as if there were some barrier buffering him from the rest of the world. Nothing could shock him now.

He was starting to nod off when the door opened slowly. Carol, leaving the operating room, trying not to wake him. If he hadn't so instantly perked his ears to the reassuringly constant beep of the heart monitor inside, he would have shot up the second she walked through the door.

"I've done all I can do," Carol said, grimacing at her own words.

"You're certain . . . ?"

She scowled at him. "You think I ever do less than the best I can?" she asked crossly.

"No," said Lucius with a sigh.

"Then don't give me that look," she snapped. A quizzical expression must have crossed his face then and she blurted, "Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Like I'm just supposed to fix everything for you. Well let me tell you, Lucius—"

"I understand," he said lowly. She was overreacting, but she was stressed. He knew how worked up Carol was in surgeries. Whether it were a simple case of appendicitis or as nerve-racking as multiple bypasses, she focused with such an intensity that at times Lucius wondered how she could possibly have anything left in her system. And this couldn't have been easy, dealing with the Batman on top of it all.

She huffed. "I'm going . . . I'll be right back, I need a glass of water. Keep an eye on him until I get back."

As his sister was leaving he had a fleeting desire to say something to her, but he didn't know what he could say that would make her understand how grateful he was for this. He supposed she already knew, or she wouldn't have done this for him in the first place. She was always picking up after him.

Quietly he entered the room, his heart sinking a little in his chest when he saw the remnants of blood in the room. Bruce was laying so still on the pallet he might have been made of wax, were it not for the slight falling and rising of his chest as he breathed. Lucius eyed his sister's handiwork, neat stitches that would inevitably scar and join the grotesque display of gashes already marring his chest and shoulders.

Lucius thought it bizarre how peaceful the man looked. It was rare that Lucius ever saw him without a cocky smile plastered on his face or a black mask obscuring his features. Now he just seemed so strikingly young that Lucius had to struggle to assign him an age. How old was Gotham's faceless hero? Barely out of his twenties, if even. At that age Lucius had still been puttering around wondering what he was going to do with his life, and here was Bruce, already a hero in his own right.

Bruce winced in his sleep. Obviously she'd given him something to knock him out, escape the pain. Lucius fiddled with his coat button, fidgeting and restless, knowing how much Bruce hated being unconscious. It was one of his glitches, one of his odd quirks that allowed him to be Batman—he hated sleeping, he hated the idea of being unaware of what was happening. There was no man on earth as constantly alert as he was. Lucius knew that it scared him more than anything, being powerless. Not that Bruce had ever told him so, but Lucius had known Bruce for years. Long enough to know the man's weaknesses and strengths.

It was enough to make him wonder how all this had happened. A nagging doubt had been pestering him this whole night—Bruce was never caught off-guard. Often he knew another person's intentions long before they did, instantly able to gage a complete stranger the moment he met their eyes. Yet somehow he'd gotten close enough for someone to do this to him.

Somehow it didn't add up.

Carol was in the doorway, staring listlessly.

"You should get some sleep," said Lucius, seeing how spent she appeared.

She shook her head, swallowing a gulp of cold water. "Like anyone could sleep in this dump. Besides, someone's gotta watch him." Lucius was about to protest but she cut him off. "Go downstairs and tell the fan club he's okay."

Lucius nodded. "You're right." He should have thought of that himself—he just wasn't quite thinking of the present so much as he was dwelling on the past.

He thought it would take awhile to find what floor they were all staying on. He was hoping they would try to remain inconspicuous—the police commissioner and the ghost of a blonde Rachel Dawes were by no means commonplace in a hospital—but he should have known better, because he found the three of them in an otherwise empty waiting room right beside the elevator on the fourth floor, poised to get up at any moment when the elevator doors opened.

All three sets of eyebrows raised when he entered the room. Rachel shot up at once, her eyes stained and her cheeks flaming. Lucius didn't have the heart to look at Alfred or Gordon.

"Is he alright?" Rachel burst.

Lucius tried to smile. "For now."

At once the images lightened—the distant faces and dark flashes of memories dissolved. It felt as if he had been in the shadows for years, trying to fight his way out, gasping for breath. He'd been reaching into the abyss and trying to grab a handhold to stop himself from spinning for so long that he'd begun to think he was trapped in a tunnel that would never end. He'd stopped fighting, he was too tired, he was too fed up with watching the images assaulting his consciousness . . . he was giving up.

And there was a sudden unexplainable calm. The scene was so pristine and clear that he might have actually been living it. He knew these walls, he knew that table, and oh, God, did he know that woman standing there at the counter.

At first he didn't speak. He was afraid she'd disappear again, spiraling away from him uncontrollably.

So she spoke first. "Did Tommy brush his teeth?" she asked, without looking up.

What an illogical thing to say. Bruce frowned in confusion. Rachel was standing with her back to him in his kitchen, her hair perfectly coiffed, her calves long and appealing in the highest set of heels he'd ever seen her wear. He could only tell it was her because of the birthmark on her back—he'd only seen it a few times in his life but he would never forget it. Now it was exposed, a slinky halter dress flowing down to her knees.

He looked down at his shoes and saw that he, too, was well-dressed. In a suit and tie. But he knew this wasn't real, this wasn't where he was supposed to be . . .

"Rachel," he rasped.

She was adjusting her earrings. "I was hoping he'd go to bed without a fuss with that new nightlight in his room," she said offhandedly.

"I . . ."

When she turned around he took an astonished step back. Was she . . . pregnant?

Oh, God. This was awkward. Who the hell had done that to her?

"You promise we'll be back before eleven? I hate leaving him . . ." she fretted, biting her lip. She gave a nervous little laugh. "But Alfred's here. I'm being silly."

Then suddenly Alfred was in the room, coming up from behind. Looking a bit more weathered than Bruce remembered, but still the same. "Rachel," he chuckled, "believe me, I can handle a sleeping two-year-old for a few hours. You forget that I once had to deal with a young Master Bruce."

She laughed. Oh, that laugh. Bruce had thought he'd never hear it again.

"I pulled the car up front," said Alfred, gesturing toward the foyer. He gave Rachel a doubtful once-over. "And you're certain you can manage in those heels in your . . . condition?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Do you two hear yourselves? Honestly, you'd think I was carrying around a six hundred pound dumbbell. For your information, Bruce has already compulsively loaded the car with the most hideous pair of loafers, lest my heels break under the strain of my enormity—" She broke off laughing again, and Bruce found himself joining her. It hurt his chest, but it felt so relieving to laugh . . . as if there were absolutely nothing wrong with the world.

Why had he been so upset earlier? Whatever it was didn't even matter now. Rachel was safe, she was here. Standing right beside him, her cheeks full and smiling. Her hair . . . brown. What a relief.

She cocked her head at him curiously. "What's the matter?"

His voice was choked with emotion. "Nothing. Rachel . . ."

"We don't have to go tonight. I know it's our first time leaving Tommy on his own . . . we can just stay home. Gordon will cover for us, like he always does."

"Rachel."

She was disappearing again. No. No.

Her eyes searched his, glinting happily in the dim light of the kitchen. She patted his arm lightly and took his hand and he felt its softness in his palm. Yet she was fading, blurring away from him. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't have all of this right here, right now, and then lose it all again.

"Bruce. Bruce?"

Rachel hadn't anticipated she'd be alone in the room with Bruce when he'd started to stir. It had been two days and he'd shown no signs so far of waking—Rachel had barely slept, despite Carol's many assurances that Bruce was doing considerably well, especially under the circumstances.

The past few days Bruce had been under constant surveillance by at least one member of their frantic circle—between Gordon, Lucius, Alfred, and Carol, there was no chance of anything happening without one of them catching it. But for the first time Rachel was completely by herself in the room with him. She had finally convinced all of the equally stubborn men to leave, for God's sake, because they hadn't slept at all. At least Rachel could easily sneak in naps in the chairs (all her life she'd marveled at her ability to instantly and heavily fall asleep). The rest of them were starting to nod off in standing positions. She'd booted them out in concern, although in all honestly they might have fled because they were too exhausted to put up with her nagging for another second.

But for all her concern about their exhaustion she wished she'd had the forethought to keep at least one other person in the room with her. Honestly, what the hell was she supposed to do? Call a nurse?

He flinched again and she stood, hovering over him uselessly.

"Bruce?" Her voice was barely audible.

She stood there for a few endless minutes, still as a frightened animal. If he woke she would have no idea what she should do. What if he saw her and flipped out? What if he couldn't remember she was alive and he hurt himself by jumping up or something? Should she hide? No, of course he would figure out there was someone in the room, he was Bruce Wayne. Should she leave the room completely? But then he'd be alone!

"Rachel."

She hiccupped in surprise. He couldn't have just said her name.

Could he?

Tentatively she stepped forward, staring as his face contorted. She could hear his breathing quicken, but she didn't think it was any cause for alarm. His fingers twitched and she reached for them, clasping his hand in hers.

"Rachel . . ."

Suddenly she was staring into shock of his swimming brown eyes. He was staring right up at her.

"Well, hello," she said wryly, her voice more choked up than she thought it would be.

"Rachel." He closed his eyes again and a smile tugged at his lips. He sighed deeply and said in a breath, "Please don't leave again."

She squeezed his hand meaningfully. "Never."