Sorry it's so late in the day/evening/right/whatever...

Enjoy!


Chapter Forty-Nine

She saw her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from her, astonished that she could see her so clearly.

"Rachel?" Dusty's voice sounded echoic in the large front hall of Wayne Manor. "What are you doing here?" Rachel wasn't looking at her. Her gaze was directed down at her hands, a frown resting of what Dusty could see of her face. She didn't respond for a long time. Finally after a pregnant pause, Rachel looked up at Dusty, her eyes angry.

"What are you doing here, Dusty?" She hissed. Dusty was confused.

"Rachel, I don't know what you mean…"

Rachel scoffed, "You're dead, Dusty. You died along with me at Watson's hand." Then she narrowed her eyes, "You died before me. I watched you die!"

Dusty couldn't get what was going on. "Rachel, I don't know what you're saying. I'm alive. I lived. I held your hand as you were dying! What are you saying?" Rachel's gaze hardened.

"Your soul is dead. You watched as three of your friends died and did nothing."

"NO!"

"Murderer!"

Dusty grew frantic. "No, Rachel, that wasn't me. Watson did those things! He did those things!"

"Murderer! Who was the one person who could have stopped it? Who could have surrendered. One life is better to lose than many!" Rachel was advancing, her eyes cold and dark, the light around her dimming as she took slow steps toward her. Dusty scrambled back as fast as she could, but only gained a few inches as the air thickened so it felt like she was swimming in pudding

"NO, RACHEL, IT WASN'T ME!" Dusty tried to cover her ears, but her hands wouldn't move. She tried to turn away, but it felt as if invisible hands held her firmly in place. She was trapped.

"MURDERER!" Rachel screamed, reaching her hands out, snaking her cold, dead limbs around Dusty's neck, then she looked into Dusty's eyes and whispered, "Murderer."

"NO!" Dusty jolted awake and upright, sweat trickling down her face, her back twanging a bit in discomfort. She sat there in silence a moment, breathing hard. Suddenly, her door opened. She jumped, reflexively grabbing her sheet up around her. It was just Bruce, his face and voice concerned.

"Dusty, are you all right?" he asked, his hand still on the doorknob. She swallowed before speaking, smothering most of the feelings of disturbance as best she could.

"Yes. It was just a nightmare," She said, her voice quiet, but disturbed. Bruce walked over and sat down on her bed.

"But are you all right?" He asked again. She looked up at him. It occurred to her how distant he had been since Rachel had died. This seemed to be the first time since he'd really… reached out since her death.

"I guess." She replied, shoving her thoughts aside. "I mean, it's not my favorite thing to have a nightmare, particularly when it…well, never mind." She stopped herself. She and Bruce had not discussed Rachel's death except the night she died. And that night…she felt things change. She felt him suddenly grow distant. It seemed to her, whether he knew it or not, that he blamed Dusty for Rachel's death. He just didn't grieve this long. She was so sure of it.

"Particularly when it does what, Dusty?" he asked, leaning forward to catch her gaze.

"When…" She looked down and away, "Oh, Bruce. Rachel was in it. She…kept calling me a murderer and saying I killed her." She couldn't look up into Bruce's face, afraid that he would agree. His silence was most definitely not reassuring. She sighed, "I know that I am responsible for their deaths, but…" She closed her eyes, "I didn't kill her." Trying to take in a steady breath, but failing, her breath hitched, and a sob wrenched out of her throat. "I didn't kill her!" She said, putting her face in her hands and tried to hold the tears back.

Bruce just sat there. He didn't know what to think. The anger and hurt that he'd felt over the past few weeks had been almost unbearable. He hadn't really stopped to think about what Dusty, the instigator of this whole chain of events might feel. He, well, he hadn't stopped to think about what anyone had been feeling lately.

But she was responsible. And she needed to pay for what she'd done. He had to tell her that. He had to tell her that she needed to pay for the things she'd done. "Dusty," He whispered, she looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, "You need to go through this. You are responsible," He said, his eyes showing nothing. No pity, no apology. Just emptiness and the unrepentant, smoldering antipathy. "Good night," He said shortly, and then stood.

Dusty just watched him leave. As soon as the door closed, she knew she'd lost him.

And that was worse than any nightmare.


She felt empty. Any consolation that she had convinced herself up in the terms of Rachel's death was gone now. She was glad she wasn't allowed to go to work for another week. The next morning, she just lay in her bed staring up at the canopy, trying not to cry. As she lay there, cushioned and supported by fluffy white down pillows, her red covers pulled up around her, as if to protect her, she started to remember.

The day they met. How he caught her after he'd knocked her 'off balance' and had proceeded to charm her. How he seemed so familiar then… The day he took her home, which ended up with her meeting Rick for the first time in eight years. She closed her eyes, and let a tear leak out of the corner of her eye, her bottom lip trembling. Then there was shopping with Bruce, him doting on her, buying her costumes for the charade she was playing. Then the dances, the parties, the Salsa, Rick's birthday, their engagement, Dorothy, Judy, her marriage, Rick, Watson, Selina, Tibet, Oscar, Batman, Rachel, lies, lies, lies. She lay in bed, sobbing, until she heard the door open and then a soft hand on her shoulder.

"Mrs. Wayne, what's wrong? Do you need your medication?" Dusty shook her head, burying her head in her pillow, her body racked with sobs, trying to ignore Alfred as best she could. He wasn't having any of it. "Mrs. Wayne, I need to know what's wrong so I can help you." She tried to choke out the words, the thing that had been digging away at her for so long.

"I want to be me again, Alfred." She sobbed, "I don't want to be Justine Wayne, I don't want to be Watson's right-hand student, I don't want to be Manager of Applied Sciences, I just want to be me. Old, shallow Dusty Grayson who didn't see her parents murdered, didn't have her brother taken from her custody, didn't become apprentice to one of the most malicious vipers that ever lived, and didn't lose the only man she ever loved to a person that she killed."

"You didn't kill Ms. Dawes."

"I might as well have!" She shouted, sobbing so hard, her breath was ragged and the words were stuttering through her lips. "Watson abducted her so he could get at me, resulting in her death, and now Bruce won't even talk to me, and when he does I can hear it in his voice that he blames me, and would rather that I had died than she did," She said, still crying and shouting so hard her breath was hiccupping. Alfred touched her back soothingly.

"Nonsense. Master Bruce is grieving. He lashes out at those he loves because he can't let himself show it any other way. He'll come around." Dusty shook her head, still sobbing. After a few minutes, however, her tears calmed.

"But what if he doesn't? It's already been so long," She said slowly, sitting up in the bed, wiping her eyes, and taking the proffered Kleenex.

"Then he is different from the man I know," Alfred said, "He grieves differently than anyone else I've ever met, but he'll come around." Touching her hand, he stood. "I see that you would probably rather have your breakfast in your room this morning. As Mr. Grayson is already off to school, it seems little purpose in making the trip in any case." Dusty nodded, looking down. Alfred's eyebrows rose, "You mean you wish to put yourself in a position of discomfort and antagonism?"

Dusty sighed. "No…but… I don't know. I just still, well, like him." She said, resting her chin on her palm, smiling a little sheepishly. Alfred smiled.

"Keeping holding onto that, Mrs. Wayne, and you will be surprised how much you will be able to withstand," He said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go prepare your breakfast."


There was much to withstand. Bruce said nothing derogatory or hurtful, and was still kind and natural to Rick, but Dusty was on the other side of a closed door. Dusty's only consolation was that in public nothing changed. Two weeks after she was released from the hospital, they were back to their old routine of training, work and (on Dusty's part) uncovering the links in Watson's chain of command.

Training was hard. Bruce, in his distant fashion, was still one of the best teachers around, but seemed to have lost the empathetic touch that had seemed to dominate his teaching methods. She felt bruised after every lesson, his brutal quickness and her sudden lack of agility playing against her. But she was gaining it all back. By March thirty-first, after almost a month and a half of hard training, it was all back. That was the day Bruce picked up the rod.

"You're kidding," Dusty gave him a slightly scathing and very incredulous look that matched her tone to a tee. Bruce lifted his eyebrows.

"Try me. Now take your stance," he directed. Instead of that, Dusty leapt to her feet from where she'd been stretching.

"Bruce, this is insane. I am sick and tired of you taking your anger out on me. You're more brutal than Ra's was on a bad day." This, apparently, was not the best thing to say. Bruce lost it, swinging the pole at her. Dusty ducked, rotated, and then grabbed the bamboo pole firmly, almost wrenching it free. "THINK!" She bellowed. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "I. Have. Had. ENOUGH!" She bit out, "CAN YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT? I DIDN'T KILL RACHEL! I DO NOT DESERVE THE ABUSE YOU'VE BEEN GIVING ME FOR THE PAST MONTH! GET OVER YOURSELF! THERE ARE MORE PEOPLE IN THIS WORLD THAN JUST YOU! IF YOU ARE GOING TO PUNISH ME, DO IT FOR SOMETHING I'VE ACTUALLY DONE!" Her lungs heaved for breath, every muscle in her body taut. When the attack came, it was completely justified and expected. Bruce lunged at her tearing the bamboo pole away from her grip. Twirling the pole, he came around and thrashed it against her back. Dusty fell to the floor, but turned and threw a punch to his solar plexus. It didn't connect completely, but glanced off, just a bit, and left Dusty's fist feeling a little limp. Confound, the man was harder than a granite wall.

Recovering from the blow that left him a little breathless, Bruce was on his feet. Dusty jumped to her feet, and turned to look at Bruce. It wasn't Bruce anymore. The monster that usually hidden behind the mask was suddenly exposed and it shook her to her center. She was in big trouble. He lunged for her again. Dusty, thinking fast, grabbed the pole as it was thrust at her abdomen, levered herself up and flipped over Bruce's head, landing on her feet behind him. She was going to have to take away the pole if she wanted to walk away from this alive. So she moved, and took the offense. She drew on everything she'd ever learned. Punches, kicks, blocks: she used them all. But in the end it wasn't enough.

He feinted, and then punched her with full force in the stomach, sending her reeling to the floor. Dusty skidded, feeling her shirt rubbing a rug burn into her back. Then, kneeling across her legs, Bruce thrust the bamboo rod horizontally toward her neck. Panicking, Dusty grabbed it, trying to push it away. For the moment she was safe, but with every second, it inched toward her. On one hand, she was frightened, very frightened, and on the other, she was incredibly frustrated. She was back at full strength! She knew this, and yet he still was moving it forward almost steadily. She was starting to feel that this was probably the worst idea that she'd ever had. She was faster than the League members, and when technique was applied, she could keep ahead easily. But in a one on one match with a man who outweighed her by at least seventy-five pounds? No chance. The rod was barely two inches from her neck. In the next five seconds, it touched her neck almost softly, before it started to constrict.

Momma… Dusty thought, I'm going to die.

"Why?" She choked out, staring into Bruce's eyes, her pain and fear clearly apparent in her face and voice. "What did I do?"

Bruce's voice and eyes were cold, "She's dead, Dusty, and you're responsible. You're the reason Watson went after her. If he wasn't after you, then she would still be alive." His voice was a growl now. Dusty's breath hitched, and she started to see black spots in front of her eyes.

"Watson's only after me…because I chose…the right…thing…" She choked out, "Did…you…want me…to be…a…murder…" She couldn't finish the word, there was no more air, the black threatened to swallow her. Her eyes were closing, but she couldn't look away from Bruce's expression. It seemed to be softening…then her eyes closed, and she blacked out, her air completely gone.

The next thing she knew was some sort of shouting. She tried to lift her eyelids, which had some point in time turned to lead and saw someone in a suit yelling at someone Bruce-shaped. She took in a breath. It hurt, but it gave her enough energy to open her eyes.

It was Alfred. Sweet, helpful, respectful Alfred, who would only consider hurting someone if they were threatening someone else's life was shouting at the top of his voice at Bruce. And apparently he was considering hurting him. They weren't in the dance room anymore. She tried to sit up. Bruce and Alfred noticed.

"I told you she was fine!" Bruce said, sounding distinctly huffy.

"She is not fine, she has a bruise the size of a bloomin' grapefruit on her throat from where you decided to kill her!" Alfred shouted and crossed the room to grab an ice pack beside where Dusty lay. He sat down beside her and held it to her throat. "Don't try to talk, Mrs. Wayne. It won't help anything. And you, sir, should not expect any dinner this evening, and if I see any hide or hair of you in the bottom two floors of this house until tomorrow morning, I will personally beat you over the head with my nine iron. Now get out of here!" It was a definite dismissal, and Alfred turned his back on the younger man.

Bruce turned, unmistakably displeased and marched out of the room. Alfred turned to Dusty, "Lie back down and try to get your breath back. You've only been unconscious about seven minutes." Dusty nodded and leaned back against the mound of pillows that had been piled behind her. She could breathe, which was an exceptional blessing, but it was hard to take in a lot without the bruise start throbbing.

Finally, she couldn't take it any longer, "How bad is it?" Her voice was quiet and raspy. He sighed.

"Not very. It will be black and blue for a while, but not bad enough that we need to take you to the hospital. But it's better that you don't talk. We don't want to take the chance of you hurting your vocal chords. What possessed Master Wayne to-"

"It was me, Alfred," Dusty said, louder than she meant to, and she painfully put her hand to her throat. "I provoked him. I was sick and tired of him treating me like I didn't have feelings, and I was just some sort of punching bag, and so I thought if I made him just take all his anger out at once…" She paused, working back her breath. She saw Alfred's somewhat incredulous look, "Well, I'm faster than him, but not stronger." She said, closing her eyes. Alfred sighed.

"Could you two ever consider having a normal conversation?" He asked. Dusty laughed softly, trying not to include her vocal cords in the action. It didn't work too well and Dusty grimaced. Alfred patted her on the knee, "At any rate, you are going to be laying down for the next day and a half drinking cool liquids and watching television. Come, I'll help you to your room." He helped her stand up, still holding the ice pack to her throat, and helped her upstairs.


Just as an author's note: there are two reasons for this chapter. One, of course, is to develop Dusty and Bruce's character a bit more, but it has always bothered me that in Fan Fiction, a lot of times, a whole bunch of absolute horrible stuff happens to Bruce, or the OC and they both basically pick themselves up and walk away like they didn't even register what happened. With this chapter, especially with Rachel (a *life long* friend of Bruce's) dying, and Dusty being at least partially responsible, I couldn't in good conscience let him walk away from that. To me, that is not Bruce. He feels really deeply, I think, and he's not the type of person to just let it go without anything happening.

I don't know why I needed to say that, but...yeah. It's one in the morning, and I needed to say that.

Anyway...

Thanks to Were-girl19, suchicken, and klutzyphoenix for reviewing.

Also, Thanks to Bryt for her awesome timing on Thursday, demanding where the document was. THANK YOU! Considering my busy day today... well, let's just put it at... it might not have been here in this quality.

Everyone give a round of writer's applause for Bryt.

Anyway, until next week!

~Sabre