Not Allowed to Die
by NoStoryLeftUntold
Of all the people in the Gotham City, it had to be her. And it was all his fault. BrucexRachel, spoilers for The Dark Knight.
When her body is recovered from the smoldering ashes, it is barely recognizable. What is left of her skin is black and blotchy, stinking of burning flesh, and her hair is singed and coated in ashes. Bits of her are missing, and it seems like there should be more; the blast was so big, but no. She is almost fully intact. Bruce watches as she is carried away on a stretcher, feeling as though someone had taken a knife and stuck it even deeper into the wound left by his parents' death. He can't believe it, because it can't be true. It's not possible—not Rachel. Rachel can't die. Rachel is—was—different, he insisted in his mind. They were going to have a life together. Gotham was going to no longer need Batman and he would be able to put the suit away, let it gather dust, and live the sort of life he'd given up having all those years ago. He'd had it all planned out, in his head, adding new little details every chance he got. He'd no longer be Bruce Wayne, billionaire airhead, or Batman, Gotham City's resident vigilante. He would be the kind of man Rachel deserved.
But now Rachel is dead. Bruce has to resist the utter rage, the fury, the unbearable sadness that weighs down inside his chest and is slowly killing him. He can't stop, he can't sink deep into another depression, no matter how much he wants to, because if he did and let the Joker get away then Rachel's death would be for absolutely nothing at all. Rachel is dead, as dead as his parents, long gone and buried deep beneath the ground.
And it's all your fault.
Bruce can hear the Joker's maniacal laughter in his ears, taunting him, and no matter how hard he tries to pin her death on him he just can't, because he knows it's really all his own. Rachel is dead because of him, and the more he thinks about it the more he's beginning to realize the person stabbing the knife is himself. He leaves the scene as soon as soon as he possibly can after the police say it's good to go, returning to the penthouse and longing desperately for a shower. He doesn't speak, not to anyone, even Alfred, and sits in his room alone. In his hand is the old arrowhead, still smelling like Rachel's perfume because he refused to handle it enough to erase the scent, and the wound digs a little deeper. He can't cry, because he's already used up all his tears, but on the inside he's never felt worse. He'd give anything to see her smile, or hear her laugh (damn it, even hearing her debate over court cases would be enough), but it just…can't happen. It's impossible, and for some reason his mind won't accept that. He keeps thinking he'll see her again tomorrow, even when he knows he won't. He puts the arrow away, and heads off to fight for Gotham another night.
Her headstone is put up a few weeks later, after this whole mess is over and the Joker is wheeled off to Arkham. It's raining at her funeral. He stands under an umbrella with Alfred, not really listening to Rachel's mother giving a eulogy, half-sobbing between sentences. Bruce never imagined this day would come. If anything, it would have been his funeral that she'd be coming to attend. Soon the service is over, and he and Alfred are the only ones left. He kneels down by her grave, making a shallow hole in the soft and squishy mud. He takes the arrowhead out of his pocket, drops it in, and covers the it back up.
"It's yours," He insists softly, as if Rachel were really there telling him otherwise. Bruce stands up, and walks away, not because he's finished saying goodbye but because he needs to. He can only hope she'll understand.