Summary: In the aftermath of the Joker and Rachel Dawes's death, Bruce Wayne seeks therapy in hopes of healing his mind and body. But will he risk losing his heart again? And what secrets tie her to the infamous terrorist Bane?

Timeline: Pre-The Dark Knight Rises

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/OC or Bane/OC

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rating: T (To be safe)

Author's Note: Re-facing an old archived story in light of the new Batman film.

THE SHRINK

"Are you sleeping at all Bruce?"

The poignant question silenced the myriad of thoughts buzzing inside the billionaire's brain all at once. Heavy set eyebrows rising, Bruce glanced at his therapist.

Dr. Stephanie Broadchester sat before him. Her long legs crossed. Her back straight, a large yellow legal notepad on her lap, and a black fountain pen curled in her slender fingers. She was a striking woman of thirty-four with chestnut blond hair, soft green eyes, rosy skin, and a brilliant smile.

She regarded him in a calm repose. One that often suggested she was listening more than contemplating, deducing textbook analyses on whether he was a typical rich boy bored with life or completely off the deep end. Amazingly enough, after eight months of sharing feelings and divulging anxieties, he was still declared sane.

A little eccentric. But seemingly every wealthy person in the world was regarded as such.

Bruce pursed his lips as though deep in thought, tilting his head he exchanged the same look Stephanie graced him. "When does one ever have the time?"

Stephanie's calculative front softened. A chuckle swelled in her chest as her pink, pliant lips eased into a becoming smile. "You're right." She shifted the note pad on her lap , lightly tapping the end of her pen on it. "In this microwave generation everything is go, go, go."

Mouth curling into a dashing grin, he laughed, nodding his head in agreement. "Why do you ask?" he said after a momentary quiet.

"You look tired." Stephanie answered eyes mellow with concern.

Indeed, he did, much to her worry. His hazel-green eyes were cloudy and the whites of his eyes were colored red. His handsome face was drawn and the hearty robust to his skin was all but gone. He was pale and had lost a significant amount of weight. His cheek bones were more pronounced alerting to her to the fact that he had not been eating.

"The life of an affluent playboy has me on a busy schedule." Bruce said playing off her inquisitiveness, while tapping his finger on the velvet sofa chair. "I can sleep when I'm dead."

"You look close to it." Stephanie remarked and saw his eyes glint for a fleeting second then cool to a somber haze. She made a mental note of this and resisted the urge to scribble in her notepad. Bruce always appeared to shutdown whenever she scratched a thought or two in her notepad.

Death was a sensitive subject for him. Nevertheless, it was one he seemed almost too anxious to embrace. She recalled his latest exploits that ended in a car accident at an intersection and DUI. She understood clearly the damaging effects his parent's murder had on him. His constant party life, the swirl of beautiful women surrounding him, the extreme sport he participated in was a testimony to that fact. Still, she sensed there was something hidden behind his soiree escapades, and wild nights.

Something was driving this man to do the unspeakable at times. If she could find out what it was, then she would be able to finally unmask Bruce Wayne, and reveal the true man underneath.

"Do you want to talk about Rachel?" she asked letting her thought return to the situation at hand.

Bruce darkened; an angry shadow falling on his face. He shifted uneasily in his chair, a mind numbing pain stabbing his into his chest like a blade. "What about Rachel?" he said dryly, twisting his perfect lips.

"She was the love of your life."

He snorted rudely. "What's makes you so sure?"

"Childhood friends eventually blossom to such a state." She watched him critically, but his expression was like a blank piece of paper. He simply gazed at her with endearing eyes that made her move nervously in her chair. "We have yet to talk about her."

"I told you enough."

"Only the basics," remarked Stephanie. She moved again in her chair, uncrossing her legs. "I'd like to touch on the subject of her death if that's okay."

Bruce rolled his eyes in aggravation, his entire head moving in the effort. "What about it? It's been eight months."

"Exactly. Eight months. How do you feel, Bruce?"

He leaned forward, his face hard like granite. His mouth pressed in a flat line. "How do I feel about my friend dying in a senseless act of violence? How do I feel that there is still body parts left unaccounted for? That I couldn't give her a proper funeral? That I couldn't save her?"

Stephanie's ears perched upwards at his words. 'I couldn't save her'. Her interest peeked to an unfathomable new level and she couldn't resist the urge to jot down a few notes down on her legal pad. Taking a bold step, she decided to push just a bit. "You mean, the way you couldn't save your parents. Do you think you failed her too?"

Retreating, he plopped back against the chair, chewing on his bottom lips. Fighting the anger and frustration that churned inside him like a turbulent storm. "That's hitting below the belt doc, try to keep the gloves up," he grinned, forcing himself to let her words wash over him.

She wasn't fooled. Humor. It was a defensive maneuver. A tactic she herself often used when faced with undesirable questions. She clutched her pen, angling her head, teeth gleaming in a brilliant white. "We're not boxing Bruce."

"Aren't we. You throw a question my way and I try to dodge it. That's how the game goes am I right? "

"Not unless you're playing dodge ball, but we're not in a gymnasium." She thought a second. "Do you plan to dodge Rachel's death forever?"

Letting out a deep sigh, he dropped his head on the chair back, a deep guttural sound emerging from his chest. "So," he muttered. "We're back to that."

"Yes," she said gently. "That." She eased to the edge of her seat. Her heart galloping in her chest. This next question would either be the beginning or the end of a new chapter in their session. "Bruce, would you like to talk about when and how you found out Rachel was dead?"

He shot out of his chair. The surge in motion was so startling she literally gasped in alarm. He paced her office like a sentinel, which (like most psychiatrists' offices) looked more like a living room so that patients would be comfortable. He stood in front of a window, hands resting on his hips. It gave an amazing view of the city.

Bruce felt the heat of his blood pulsing through his veins. Anger and pain…his old allies.

He remembered all right. He could pinpoint exactly where he was on that fateful night and the memory was still a savaged blow to his conscious.

Harvey was screaming. Burning to Hell. His face was half gone. The building behind them was ravaged by a raging inferno and Rachel was in a thousand pieces somewhere on the other side of Gotham City. His chest tightened. He placed two fingers to his temple. His eyes hurt as did his head as he reflected on the painful memory. His efforts to make Gotham safe had cost him Rachel. Cost him a hope and a future with a woman who truly mattered to him. It cost him an ally in Harvey Dent.

"I don't want to talk about it," he spat in manner that meant an end to the conversation.

Stephanie's face fell like winds in a sail and she tapped her pen once more on her legal pad. They were back to square one. It had taken roughly four months for a level of trust to be established and four more to get him to talk about his parents. She went out on a limb this morning to try a new chapter. Rachel. Now, she realized she'd made a terrible mistake.

"How's your love life?" She inquired, opting for a different change in conversation.

He threw a hard look her way, before his mouth curved into a wicked grin. "The same. A life devoted to the chase."

"Any prospective future Mrs. Wayne's soon to grace the society section?"

"None I can think of."

"And how does that make you feel?"

He sighed. "Back again with feelings. What is with you and feelings today?"

"I am a psychiatrist, Bruce," she implied, her voice cheery. "Feelings are a part of the curriculum."

"Not mine."

"Why is that?"

"I'm a man. We're not supposed to feel anything."

"And that's probably the reason why heart attacks and strokes are the number one killer of men. Suppressing your feelings can lead to all manner of physical as well as mental ailments."

Bruce gave her a comical look. "If you're trying to scare me into expressing myself, it's not working."

She smiled and nodded. "Well, I tried." A twinkle flashed in her green eyes as she laughed then watched him walk over to the mantle built right above a fireplace.

"A new picture."

"Oh, the portrait, yes. You have a good eye." She said impressed. She had dozens of pictures in place. Of family and friends. She watched him pick up the newest member to her quaint little collection and stare at it. "Family reunion."

"Nice family," he said.

"A large family," she said. "Everywhere I turned there was a cousin saying a 'hello'. It took quite a while to gather everyone together for that portrait."

Bruce brushed his thumb across the surface of the glass. An odd sensation rose up inside of him. A longing so strong he narrowly gripped the picture in fervor. Fearful he might shatter the glass he replaced it on the mantle and swung around to catch a look on his therapist's face.

What was she thinking at this moment?

Was she making another mental notation? Did she pity him? God…he prayed she didn't. The last thing he wanted was her sympathy. Besides, she wasn't being paid $300 an hour to impart any words of comfort. She was there to listen and dole out medication that helped him sleep or his alleviate pain.

A wave curiosity came over him as he stared at the picture; a question forging in his mouth. He turned to eye a good looking older man with a large smile, grey to white hair, medium build, square shoulders, and an arm wrapped about her. No doubt he was her father.

"What does your father do for a living?"

"He owns his own auto mechanic shop," she replied.

"And you're mother?"

Stephanie jostled in her chair. She was not use to being on the receiving end of questions. Normally, she was the one pulling out inquires; making assumptions and formulating enquiries. While hoping and praying she could give her clients the long desired cure they wanted. But it wasn't always a success.

"She's a principal working at West Morton Highschool for twenty years and going on strong."

"Must have made your school days delightful."

"On the contrary, it left me dateless and extremely unpopular with everyone, especially boys. Which is exactly the way she and dad like it."

"I was being ironic," he said with a smile that kicked her heart rate up an extra beat. "But I couldn't imagine you staying home on Friday nights."

Astounded, she looked away, blushing, her rosy complexion deepening before realizing he, Bruce Wayne, had actually made a pass at her. She paled and her green eyes went as wide as golf balls. Patient doctor flirtation. It was completely in appropriate and against every rule and conduct she lived by. She had to make amends.

"Bruce, I want you to…"

The alarm on his wristwatch went off. "Yikes!" he cried, reading the time. "Times up."

Stephanie eased back into the soft cushion and grinned. "That's usually my line." Placing her pen and legal pad on the coffee table, she rose dusting the taupe pencil skirt, and escorted him to the door.

He paused soundlessly and turned to look at her. "Same time next week?"

"Of course," she said, and had to literally push against the beam of the doorway, in order for him to pass. Despite his waned physique, he filled the door leading out of her office to the lobby by a good measure. She went still when the sleeve of his suit brushed her hand and she squeezed her palm.

Where was this coming from?

She watched Claire, her secretary, send a vibrant smile in Bruce's direction and goo-goo eyes at him as he walked smoothly out her office, and shook her head. She'd already spoken to her about maintaining a professional atmosphere. Apparently, they were due for another talk.

A stern look sent Claire's head deep into the open appointment book.

Returning to her desk, schedule free for an hour, Stephanie began to probe their session inside out. More importantly, the words Bruce had spoken. Ones that stood out from all the rest.

I couldn't save her.

How Bruce? What more could you have done, she thought, biting the end of her pen. She thumbed through the resources of other well accredited psychiatrist. It was clear Bruce was suffering from depression, but thankfully he wasn't suicidal. He was emotionally defensive, yet that was expected from people reeling from a tragic lost, and Rachel Dawes' death was as horrifying as they could come.

None as shocking as the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

In a move completely unorthodox, she secured files from that particular crime scene, all due to a buddy at the Gotham Police Department. The crippled buildings. The garbage infested alley. A lone boy seated among his dead parents. The scene was a grueling one. She could only imagine his fear and the reality his entire world had been tragically upended forever.

Sighing, she slapped the files closed and tucked them into the safety of her file cabinet, locking it with the click of a key.

Two tragedies.

One from his past and this present horror conjured by a sick, twisted mind. A diabolical one.

The Joker.

Graciously enough, Stephanie wasn't in the city when the mayhem struck. She'd been in Ohio enjoying her family reunion, and was nearly imprisoned in her old room when the news came on loud and clear on the television in the den. Her entire family begged her, accosted her, and even threatened to cut off all ties if she returned to Gotham City.

But her work, her life, was here in a city previously ravaged by fear.

How much more can the people of Gotham city take?