Fireside
A clap of thunder rumbled over the dark landscape, rattling the chandeliers of Wayne Manor. A winter storm pounded the large mansion, unleashing its fury before making its way into Gotham City. All in all, Bruce Wayne was grateful to be indoors. He gazed absently out the window, watching as the rain ran in slanted streaks across the glass. He wore a comfortable blue sweater and a pair of sweatpants; nothing else would do on a night like this. He had just finished a steaming mug of cocoa, brewed generously by his elderly butler and friend, Alfred. He remembered the rich liquid sliding down his throat, warming him from head to toe. Upon further thought, he paused in his reverie to look at the silver tray on the small mahogany table. A lone mug rested there, cold and forgotten. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Rachel all evening. In a gracious gesture, he had invited her to occupy one of the many furnished rooms while work was being done on her flat downtown. She had a slight cough when she arrived, but she assured him it was nothing more than that. He cursed himself an idiot. Without thinking, he had given her a room that resided in the coldest wing in the manor, where a bitter cold draft swept through the long corridor. Bruce's eyes snapped to Alfred as he entered, his anxiety rising.
"Alfred, did you happen to see Rachel at all tonight?"
The elderly gentleman thought a moment. "As a matter of fact I haven't. She went up to her room to rest just before the storm came up, but she didn't come back down for dinner."
Bruce didn't need to hear any more. In a flash he walked briskly from the room and up the marble staircase, leaving Alfred bewildered. The temperature changed dramatically as he entered the east wing, the draft causing a shiver to ripple through his body. This was no place for any living creature, let alone a woman trying to get over a winter cold. He rapped urgently on Rachel's door, concern furrowing his normally smooth brow.
"Rachel?" he called.
No answer.
When there was no response a second time, he eased the door open, afraid of what he would see. The light from the hallway sent a shaft into the dark room; it was as he feared. Rachel was under a heap of blankets, a series of harsh coughs racking her slender form. His heart broke for her. She was strong, one of the strongest women he had ever met; he hated to see her reduced to this. He approached the bed just as Alfred reached the doorway, pity writing new lines on his withered face. Miss Dawes was a dear friend of the family, and, if he allowed himself to think it, something much more to his young master. Bruce caressed her forehead, feeling the heat that radiated from it with a pang of guilt.
"My God, Rachel, you're burning up," he breathed. "We have to get you out of this room."
She stirred, trying in vain to shrug him away. "No it's ok," she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue.
"Nonsense," Alfred said sternly, helping Bruce move the bedcovers aside. "We're bringing you downstairs where it's warmer."
When he saw that the young man had the task in hand, Alfred disappeared back into the hallway.
"I don't want to make a fuss," she said weakly.
"You're not," he assured her, and it was true. He considered it a privilege to protect her; he would take a bullet for her without a second thought. He coaxed her arms around his neck and lifted her with ease. He remembered the last time he carried her like this, after the Scarecrow had poisoned her and left her for dead. He had almost lost her that night, and it had shaken him to the core. Both Batman and Bruce Wayne needed her, for without her beautiful presence, the darkness would surely swallow him.
With Rachel safely in his arms, Bruce left the ghastly corridor and entered the glorious warmth of the foyer. A turn took them down a dim hall and into a lavish sitting room. Alfred, God bless him, had made a makeshift bed in front of the blazing fire, ensuring that Ms. Dawes would be as comfortable as possible. Bruce knelt on the carpeted floor, gently laying his love amongst the blankets. She was stirring now, the heat from her fever becoming harder to bear.
"Shh, Rachel," he soothed her. "It's ok, you're alright."
As he continued to comfort her, Alfred appeared once again, this time with a bowl of ice water, a white rag draped within it. Bruce mumbled his thanks as his friend laid it beside him and wrung it out, promptly stroking her forehead. Rachel was barely aware of his caresses, so strong was the fever's power over her. Helpless tears fell from her closed eyes; Bruce's heart broke a little more. This was his beloved, though he was too proud to admit it. He was a hero in the eyes of the people, a warrior that caused his enemies to tremble, but he could do little for the one he loved most. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried once more to reach out to her.
"I'm here, Rachel," he told her, brushing her hair away from her face. "I've always been here. It may not look like it now, you're going to be ok."
Somewhere in her feverish storm, Rachel seemed to hear him, for she sought his hand with hers, the yearning to be comforted touching his heart once again. He grasped her slender hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. With the other, he continued to stroke her brow with the rag, occasionally wringing it anew with cold water. To his immense relief, her restlessness quieted and the lines of tension on her forehead began to smooth out. And even as sleep overcame her, she never once let go of his hand.
The storm had calmed, and the fire that was once a blistering roar had settled to a content flicker. The flames seemed to whisper her name, a young woman sleeping in a low bed at the foot of the hearth. Her fever had cooled somewhat, and her body, no longer enflamed, relaxed. Content with the sleep that was given her, her eyes fluttered open and she was able to finally gaze at her savior. He was staring intently into the flames, his eyes glittering in the firelight. Her ordeal had clearly worried him, for lines she had not seen before touched his handsome face. Still, though the city labeled him as a dark avenger, she saw him as an angel, sent specifically to bless her life. She was caught in her musings when his eyes flickered to her, no doubt a vigil he had kept all this time. She flushed with embarrassment.
"Hey," he said with a watery smile. "I'm glad you're awake. You had us worried."
"Us?" she whispered
Bruce cocked his head in the direction of one of the armchairs, where Alfred had fallen asleep long ago.
"I'm sorry," she said upon seeing her exhausted friend.
Bruce was quick to reassure her. "No, don't say that. If anyone should apologize, it's me. I wasn't thinking."
She smiled at him. Bruce was always the one to take the fall for her, even when they were kids. She had knocked over one of his mother's prized china cats, and yet it had been Bruce who took the blunt of the punishment. But there had to come a time where the mouse had to become the lion. Regardless of her growing independence, she loved to be looked after, especially when her guardian was a knight in both word and deed. At that moment, a feeling she had long suppressed bubbled in her throat, begging to be said. She loved this man, every single part of him. She had not known it as a child, but now it was as plain as the stars now being revealed in the night sky. Was it simply wishful thinking, or had she seen the same emotion playing in his eyes?
"Bruce," she began, the words she longed with everything she had to say resting on her tongue.
"Yeah?" he whispered, the childish hope that she would declare her affection for him making his heart skip a beat.
Rachel exhaled, her courage failing her for the umpteenth time. Now was not the right time.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Bruce tried not to let the disappointment show on his face, but despite his longing to share his feelings with her, he knew she wasn't ready. He needed her, desired to be with her forever, but for a glorious treasure such as this, he was willing to wait.