A/N: Thank you for all the reviews!
Delirious
"How long ago was he poisoned?"
Bruce knows the voice, but doesn't know who it belongs to. A friend. But he's not safe. The voice was peaked with worry. Something is wrong with him. He needs to know what, but his mouth won't respond to his thoughts. The noise he emits is not recognisable as speech at all.
"Don't try to talk, Batman."
Batman? Who's Batman? Oh right...I'm Batman...
The thought is hazy, unsure. He feels like he's swimming through gel. He's shivering as though he's been plunged into a snowdrift, but he's hot — too hot, the sweat's pouring off him, each drop rolling from his body and forming a lake all around him, and he can't swim in it, and he's sinking to the bottom, and he can't stop himself from drowning, and-
"V-tach! Get me the crash cart!"
There's a sharp, painful jolt racing through his body, and it's meant to do something, but for the life of him, he can't remember what. It all goes black anyway then.
The next thing he hears is the tweeting of birds. High-pitched, rhythmic. Unusual birdsong though...Beeping birdsong. A beeping bird. The thought is funny.
He's warm now - not the searing heat of a fever, just...warm...light...
His left hand is numb. He flexes his fingers slightly...and hears the voice of an angel. "Bruce?"
His eyes won't open all the way, and through the screen of his eyelashes he sees a woman's shape, leaning over him. The angel utters a prayer of thanks to God. But not his god, another – Hera? Why is that familiar?
She lifts his hand to her face and kisses it. "You were poisoned, but the fever's broken now."
Poison? Broken? Yes, he did feel broken earlier. He wonders if the angel healed him. Why can't he remember her name?
A cool hand descends on his brow, then moves to stroke his cheek. "You're strong," she whispers. "My dark knight."
Knight...knights in shining armour, slaying dragons, noble steeds, rescuing princesses-
The corner of his mouth quirks very slightly in what would be a smile if his muscles were obeying him. This time, at least, he does manage to get the word out, slurred as it is. "Princess..."
When she speaks, her voice trembles. She's crying. He doesn't want her to cry. His fingers, still by her face, touch her skin tentatively. She doesn't melt away – she's real. Relief floods him. She's real.
"My princess..."
He's floating now, and he's tiny - on a leaf drifting on the sea, and it's a wonderful sensation. He wants to tell her that, to have her lie down next to him and hold him in her strong arms. But the darkness is coming back again like a warm blanket, and he only has time to whisper her name again, then surrender to the gentle delirium.
"My Diana."
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A/N: Review please!