Author's Notes: This story takes both its title and its inspiration from the 1984 RomCom All of Me with Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin. If you've seen it, you'll know more or less what to expect, but it shouldn't spoil it too much. If you haven't seen it, maybe you should!

Disclaimer: I don't even own the bed that I sleep in, let alone the Teen Titans.

-=oOo=-

The wall that separated the estate from the side road that ran alongside it unrolled endlessly.

How much space does a man need to live? Rachel grumbled pointlessly to herself while she drove down the narrow side path, searching for the gate.

She glanced at the GPS on her dash, but it offered no help. The estate was private property and its owner made sure it was represented on the map only as a large and roughly rectangular grey emptiness.

The sixth-richest man in the world. No wonder he lives with his family on an estate the size of a smallish European country. Again she frowned as she thought about it. Unnecessary opulence irritated her, but a life was in the balance here. A life that apparently not even Dayton's billions could save.

She forced her face to clear and her annoyance to cool. She was here to heal and to try to accomplish what neither modern medicine nor alternative quackery could do. For that she needed to be calm and relaxed. Steve Dayton's lifestyle, as much as it rubbed her the wrong way, was none of her business.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. She was fifteen minutes early, but unless the damn gate appeared on the horizon soon, she would be late. As fashionable as it was for them, rich people did not appreciate others being late. She frowned again, her full lips compressing into a thin, hard line as she dismissed the thought. Too bad. Dayton should've given her the warning ahead of time.

At last the entrance hove into view. She slowed down and turned onto the access path, towards the wrought-iron gate flanked by two tall posts overgrown with ivy and lichen. The never-ending wall extended away from either side until it was lost in the perspective.

A modern-looking, glass-and-plastic guard shack was located to the left, incongruous against the backdrop of the towering gate. An apparently bored guard sauntered out, but there was nothing boring about the sight of his hand on the holster of his handgun. She lifted an eyebrow. Either Dayton was paranoid or the world of high finance was indeed a jungle. She powered the window down and smiled at the guard.

"Rachel Roth," she introduced herself. "I have an appointment with Mr. Dayton."

The guard studied her, his face expressionless and his eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

"I'll need to see a picture ID," he drawled finally, his hand never leaving the holster. The implied threat made her more angry than afraid. Her eyes narrowed.

"No, you don't," she replied coldly. "I sent Mr. Dayton my picture and the license plate of my car. Both are probably displayed on the monitor inside your shack."

The guard's mouth twitched a little. "Can't let you in without seein' one, ma'am!"

"Yes, you can!" she snapped, losing her patience. "Or if you prefer, you can chase me away and explain your action later to Mr. Dayton when his son dies."

The mouth twitched again. Rachel made a show of shrugging and shifting into reverse, turning to look back over her shoulder, as if she was getting ready to back away and leave. The guard turned around and stepped over to the shack, his arm going through the opening in the counter window to punch the button that opened the gate. It swung inwards slowly and silently.

"Go ahead!" he growled and retreated back inside.

Still fuming even after her small victory, she pushed the stick into drive and advanced through the gate. She glanced in the mirror, but the guard was nowhere to be seen. He was probably on the phone, letting the other security guards know that she had entered the premises.

She chuckled, wondering if they had to pay roaming charges. The estate was certainly large enough. She studied the fuel gauge with some concern. I hope there's a gas station half-way to the manor.

Her thoughts drifted back to the call Dayton made demanding her help. Her brow furrowed again. His demeanor was quite cold, almost dismissive, and at first she put it down to the all-too-common attitude of powerful men towards hired help. But now she realized that the failure to give her full instructions was a subtle hint, and the incident with the guard outside was definitely unsubtle. She sighed. It was not the first time that she ran into disbelief, rejection and ridicule.

A faith healer. That's what they called her. A nicer name for a con artist.

No matter that faith had nothing to do with it. No matter that she had proven over and over again that it worked. No matter the dozens – hundreds of patients that she had already cured and that recovered completely, able now to lead normal, healthy lives. No matter that she demonstrated it three times in front of doctors and scientists and under controlled conditions. They couldn't figure out how it worked – and, to be fair, neither could she – therefore it meant that it was all an elaborate hoax.

It also meant that someone was making Dayton do it against his will. Most probably his wife. Trust a woman to show common sense where men can't, she snickered.

She knew little about Rita Dayton, neé Farr, except her name. She kept herself and the rest of her family successfully hidden from the prying eyes of the media. So successfully, in fact, that Rachel didn't even know they had a son, let alone his name.

The road she followed curved around a small hill. As she navigated it she received the first impression of her ultimate goal.

Holy… Wow.

She forced her attention back on the road. The sheer size of the manor was intimidating, and it was probably done on purpose. To be sure, the 'oooh' factor was not targeted at her or any other insignificant worker ant; it was Dayton's business partners that had to be impressed, overwhelmed and awed. And the freaking place delivered in spades.

She shook her head slowly as she approached and turned off the access road to the parking lot in front of the entrance. Crushed white rock crunched under the tires. She chuckled. Figures.

A large man in an impeccably tailored business suit waited for her at a portcullis-sized door. She parked, left the car and walked over to meet him. As she got closer she noticed that describing him as 'large' was wrong, an impression caused by the enormous door looming behind him. He was huge, at least six feet four, and his shoulders were proportionally wide. His skin was a handsomely deep bronze, his grin was relaxed and sincere and his eyes soft and surprisingly affectionate. She couldn't avoid smiling at him.

"Miss Roth? I'm Cliff, Cliff Steele," he said in a pleasant baritone, extending a paw the size of a snow shovel. "Pleased to meet you!"

Rachel's smile widened and her own small, pale hand disappeared in the man's strong but gentle grip. "Rachel Roth. Nice to meet you too, Cliff!"

He opened the door and held it for her, taking a step back to allow her through. "I'm one of Steve's junior partners," he explained. "He and Rita are waiting for you. Please follow me."

She nodded and stepped inside. He joined her and gestured towards the grand staircase that rose from the back of the cavernous entry hall, splitting into halves that coiled elegantly as they climbed up to reach the second floor landings. She rolled her eyes in amused vexation; it was so cliché that it was almost comical.

"Did you have any problems getting here?" he asked off-hand while he led her, as if trying to make small talk. But Rachel saw immediately that there was a definite undercurrent of purpose under the levity.

It couldn't have been common practice to have a junior partner wait for you at the door and receive you with pleasant chit-chat. No, the usual guest would have to knock and wait for a butler or some other servant to open and inquire about their identity and business, after, of course, an appropriately extended period of time that would allow the visitor to be thoroughly impressed with the door, the building and the estate, ramming in with a haughty absence of delicacy their obvious lack of importance when compared to the regal stature of the manor's owner.

It could mean only one of two things. Either Dayton was sending some seriously mixed-up signals, or someone else – guess who – was offering her silent apologies for her husband's behavior.

"It was easy enough," Rachel answered warmly. "I just didn't realize the place was so big. The gate turned out to be much farther than I expected." Steele glanced at her and both their smiles widened a little. They understood each other perfectly.

"Here we are," he said as he opened a door and again stepped back to let her pass. "Steve and Rita are inside."

She lifted an eyebrow and he smiled in response. He would remain outside; this was a personal matter. She nodded, returned his smile and stepped into the room.

-=oOo=-

"Ah, Miss Roth!" Steve Dayton grumbled with the minimum amount of courtesy possible and waved a hand at an armchair in front of the coffee table beside which he was sitting. "Please, be so kind to join us."

It didn't escape her attention that he never got up from his own armchair to welcome her, let alone extend a greeting hand. She hid a smirk; she was not one to be easily intimidated. She decided she would show Dayton that two could play that game.

Rita was a different story. She rose and approached Rachel immediately. "Thank you so much for coming," she said quietly, offering her hand in greeting. Rachel took it and shook it. "We were just having coffee. Can I tempt you with anything?"

"Just some herbal tea, if possible!" Rachel replied with a small smile as she sat down, ignoring Dayton. "How is your son? I was told the situation was urgent."

Dayton frowned. He was very keenly aware of Rachel's dismissive attitude. His behavior was, after all, calculated partly to evoke such kind of reaction so he could study her better. Hearing her mention their previous conversation as if he wasn't present in the room was, however, irritating. He was not a man that suffered being irritated.

"Before we get to that, I need to clear a few things!" he growled, ignoring Rita's warning glance. "I have no idea what your fee is. I have no idea of what you do, how you do it or why!" He leaned towards Rachel, his brows knitting together. "I don't trust you, girl. I have been assured –" he glanced at his wife, "– that your… intervention… even if unsuccessful, won't cause any unwelcome consequences. This is the only reason I've agreed to it in the first place."

A serving maid entered and placed a tray with a cup of steaming tea and a tiny jar of honey in front of Rachel, then disappeared as swiftly and quietly as she came. Rachel busied herself scooping up a little honey and mixing it into the tea, casting a quick glance at Rita. She was glaring at her husband, but the annoyance in her eyes was tempered by a generous dose of affection. It surprised Rachel somewhat; Rita obviously loved this dour man, Heavens knew why. From what Rachel could see, he had locked away and hidden any endearing traits he might have had, then buried them deep in an unmarked spot and placed minefields and barbed wire around.

She lifted the tea cup daintily and took a delicate sip. She smiled widely and turned to Rita. "By Azar, this tea is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Dayton!" she complimented her hostess, watching carefully the rising flush on Steve Dayton's face out of the corner of her eye.

Rita's eyes turned to her with a spark of amusement shining inside. She knew what Rachel was doing and she was perfectly fine with it. "Thank you! But please, just call me Rita," she smiled.

"As long as you call me Rachel." Apparently Rita agreed that her husband needed to be taken down a few pegs and she was happy about the way Rachel was playing it.

Still, a life was hanging from a thread. As much as she enjoyed putting Dayton down, she should never lose sight of what brought her here in the first place. She sighed, laid the cup and saucer on the coffee table and relaxed back into her armchair.

"Mr. Dayton, you are – or at least you're rumored to be – a capable, intelligent man," she began, meeting Dayton's angry gaze with a frosty look. "Don't tell me you haven't done your research on me."

"I am still doing it," he replied coldly. His eyes were still hostile, but a small spark of respect glimmered under it all. "Let us talk about the price."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "If you did your homework, you'd know I don't have a price list!" she stated, allowing the anger slowly building in her to harden her voice. "I receive donations for my work. If I am successful and when your son is cured, you are free to donate as much as you feel my efforts were worth."

Dayton snorted. "I will try not to judge you by your business sense," he grumbled, pretending not to notice that Rachel's gaze went from cold to gelid. "Let's get to the important stuff. How does this mumbo-jumbo of yours work?"

Keep cool. Count to ten. Don't let him bait you. Her hand went for the cup again and she sipped slowly, giving herself time to simmer down. As much as she felt the urge to throw the tea in Dayton's face, get up and leave, she knew she couldn't do it. As long as there was a chance that she could save a life, she would endure it all. Even Steve Dayton.

"I don't know how the mumbo-jumbo works, Mr. Dayton. Nobody does," she replied in a cool, controlled voice. "I wasted a lot of time being tested, poked and prodded and no one ever discovered anything. But everyone agrees that it does work."

Rachel frowned and her gaze dropped to the tea cup as she focused on the answer. "What I can tell you is how it works," she said, casting a quick glance at Rita. "I seem to be able to connect to the other person and influence their natural defenses. I can mobilize their immune system, give it guidance and purpose, show it where the priorities and needs are."

She looked up, meeting Dayton's gaze defiantly. "I have cured people with terminal cancer and Ebola fever; I've helped those with autoimmune diseases like lupus or patients in anaphylaxis. I've even cured three cases of symptomatic rabies. As long as the immune system is still working, even if it's misdirected, I have a good chance of success."

Dayton scowled. "What you're saying is well documented, but in every case I've seen many plausible alternative explanations. I'm still not convinced, and I suspect I won't ever be. And yet the situation is critical, and I'm…" he also glanced at his wife. "…we are grasping at straws."

"You did mention it was urgent, and that the patient is your son," Rachel said calmly, accepting the olive branch. "What is the problem?"

"Sakutia."

Rachel placed the tea cup back on its saucer slowly and delicately, then eased back and stared at Dayton for a few seconds.

"When was he bitten?" she asked quietly.

"Two days ago, in the lab." Dayton's face was stony.

Her mouth felt dry. She swallowed and pulled herself together. "How come he's still alive?"

Dayton rubbed his forehead, as if he was suddenly tired. "Everything modern medicine can do has been done. Interferon, immunoglobulin, protease inhibitors, ribozymes, you name it, we've pumped him full of it," he said, his voice getting hoarse. "It has slowed down the infection, but he's got no more than two days left."

Rachel got up. There was no time to waste. "Take me to him."