She stared vacantly up at the chalkboard, her mind someplace else entirely.

"Miss Jameson?"

More often than not she would think of Bruce when she let her mind wander. It was odd, knowing that he was literally only a phone call and four blocks away, and yet she hadn't contacted him in over a year. After she left him that letter she figured there was nothing left to say. He'd read it. He'd seen her choice, and she knew that if she revealed herself to him it would only pull him into another world of pain.

"Miss Jameson?"

"Yes, dear." She snapped out of her reverie, turning to meet the eyes of a cherubic little first grade boy.

"I finished my noodle drawing." The boy beamed up at her, displaying his work of art with pride.

"Oh, wow, Michael. It's magnificent," she encouraged him, taking the noodle drawing from him. "I'm sure your mother will love it."

"She'll get it tonight?" he asked hopefully.

She nodded. "Tonight at the benefit all the parents will see your portfolios," she promised him.

Which was the current predicament on her mind. Since she had started working at this somewhat rundown elementary school, she hadn't encountered any real problems. Aside from the occasional kid unleashing a temper tantrum or a potential overbearing parent, Rachel would dare to say her job was easy in comparison to the D.A.'s office. She certainly wasn't making as much as she had before, but she had plenty of money saved for rent and other necessities.

It was only now that the issue had reared its ugly head: what to do about Bruce Wayne.

Rumor had it that Mr. Wayne himself was attending their school's benefit tonight, an event she couldn't rightfully skip out on as the only first grade teacher on staff. Not that he'd be likely to recognize her—her hair was an artfully dyed honey blonde, her contact lenses green, her skin tan from too many afternoons policing the playground at recess. She looked nothing like Rachel Dawes. And if that weren't enough to separate her completely from her past identity, she was now sporting the god-awful name of Fisher Jameson.

Ramirez's idea, not hers. Last year when Ramirez had plucked her out of the Joker's clutches, she'd made the incredibly sneaky move of creating an alternate identity for Rachel, and somehow came up with the crackpot name Fisher. Before Rachel could so much as protest, Ramirez had forged up a driver's license, insurance card, and degree in Education under the unsuited name.

It was supposed to be temporary. Wait six months or so for all the mayhem to simmer down, and then she could return to her usual life. Her boss down at the D.A. knew she was still alive and was keeping her position open; he and Ramirez were the only people in Gotham City who knew she hadn't really burned to death. Besides that she'd told her parents and her sister, but they were so far away that they hadn't heard of all the horror in Gotham in the first place.

The six months had passed. A whole year had passed, and Rachel knew she was living a lie. But it was easier to live this lie and hide in it like a bubble than it was to face the fact that one day her fake license would expire and she'd have no other choice but to reveal herself once more.

She wasn't ready. For months she hadn't been. It was absurd—she had absolutely nothing to lose, now that the Joker was in Arkham and very few people harbored fervent desires to see her murdered. For awhile she thought she was too afraid to delve back into her life because she'd have to come to terms with Harvey's death. But she'd accepted it, after a long while of sleepless nights wondering how and why, after he was supposed to have survived. Still no one would provide her with answers—when she brought it up, the subject of Harvey's mysterious death, Ramirez flinched and refused to say anything. Holding back.

After a year, though, she wasn't so much heartbroken as she was curious. Harvey didn't "fall off a building" in a struggle with Batman. She knew Bruce well enough to know that he'd never pick a fight with Gotham's white knight and she knew Harvey well enough to know he wouldn't pick a fight with anyone.

Rachel learned to let it go. Over the months she'd let a lot of her life go, because it was easier to be Fisher Jameson when she wasn't constantly fixated on Rachel Dawes.

After that she thought her worst fear would be all the media attention her return would undoubtedly spark, but if Rachel hadn't had a high tolerance for pandemonium and irritating reporters she wouldn't have worked in the D.A.'s Office in the first place. Not to mention her talent for being discrete. With her quiet nature it would be all too easy to slip back into her normal routine.

Finally, her last and final worry was that maybe she liked being Fisher Jameson. Maybe she didn't mind being a teacher in this rundown little school, living in a tiny apartment, touching up her dark roots every two weeks to maintain her persona. Maybe she enjoyed the couple of friends she'd made down at the corner store, the monthly faculty get-togethers, the toothless little children who so willingly put their hearts in her hands.

Yes. It was true. She loved being Fisher Jameson.

But she would do anything to be Rachel Dawes again.

So why not? What was holding her back? There was no danger, no reluctance, no anxiety. It would only take a phone call or two. Ramirez had been bothering her about it for weeks—the detective would probably leap at the chance to put Operation Rachel Dawes into effect so fast it would make her head spin.

It took this new circumstance to finally understand what it was that made her spine tingle at the very thought of revealing herself: Bruce Wayne.

The bell rang. "Remember to tell you parents—the benefit starts at seven o'clock tonight. Be safe crossing streets!" Rachel—no, Fisher, or someone, she didn't want to dwell on it anymore—called out to the students as they shuffled out of the rooms.

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. Even when he repulsed her he continued to be the most complicated matter in her life—Did she love him? Was it just the old childhood friendship clouding her eyes? Or the persona of Batman forcing her to see clearly? It was all so muddled that she didn't know whether or not she could picture herself with Bruce, marrying him and raising a family one day. Because with Bruce, it seemed, it was all or nothing. Friends, or married with three kids.

It was too dangerous a decision to make. It was her whole life.

Then there was the other little issue of Bruce still thinking she was dead. No doubt over the past year he'd pushed her to the back of his mind the same way she'd stifled her thoughts of Harvey. How would she feel if Harvey were to come back from the dead? She couldn't do that to Bruce. It wouldn't be fair to him.

And even worse was the letter she'd left for him, telling him that she'd chosen Harvey. It had probably broken his heart. How flighty and disloyal she would seem if she were to burst back into his life without any warning, then convince him that she loved him and not a long dead D.A.

Assuming, of course, that she loved him. She still couldn't tell. It was so vexing, reading fairy tales to the kids in class. The heroines were always so infallibly, undeniably in love; it was always the other little pieces of the story that threw them off, but in the end they were still in love and happy as clams. Rachel knew she would eventually have that happy ending. But would it be with Bruce? How could she be so certain she loved him? How could anyone be certain if they loved another person? No wonder they were fairy tales. That sort of love, so simple and unquestionable, could not be real.

Her cell phone rang. The caller ID read RAMIREZ, ANNA.

She ignored it again.

Bruce was stalling. The tie was halfway adjusted on his neck but he'd paused as if lost in an unfamiliar room . . . he knew it was dangerous, considering his line of work, but lately he'd been doing just this. Blinking and freezing in place, as if he couldn't remember what he was doing, why he was doing it. What for? It was a tie, he'd been tying it. He let his arms fall to his sides uselessly. Tonight he was going somewhere, but he couldn't quite remember. A moment ago he'd had a plan of exactly how the night was going to happen, a schedule, and idea of what car he was driving, when he was going to duck out of the party, what section of the Narrows he was going to patrol tonight.

Now it was all a blank.

A minute might have passed. Or an hour. This sort of thing only happened once every few days, and Bruce had learned to relish it to some degree. At least when his mind felt so flushed out and empty he didn't have to remember anything. It was relieving, in a way.

"Master Wayne?"

Damn it all. "Alfred." Just like that he was hyperaware again. He was going to a benefit at Central Gotham 12 Elementary School. The car was coming for him at 7:30 and coming back at 9:00. He was planning to donate upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, smile a little, shake a few hands, and get out of there before his mask had the opportunity to crumble apart.

Then, like all nights without fail, he would take off his mask and don another. He would go to the docks tonight—rumors hinted of unaccounted for shipments under Wayne Enterprises name. Something to keep him busy until something more exciting happened, although most of the nights were dull now that the streets were nearly devoid of all criminals. Bruce had certainly made sure of that. In the months after . . . the event, Bruce had painstakingly spent every available hour in pursuit of the escaped criminals, a feat which proved taxing beyond belief and yet satisfying. He'd needed it to distract him.

Now that there was nothing pressing enough to distract him, Bruce spent most of his nights patrolling. Maybe Gotham didn't need a Batman anymore—God knew he'd been too thorough to let any petty criminal slip through the cracks, and anyone he hadn't caught was too terrified to step foot outside their front door at night. But without anything to keep him occupied, Bruce had taken to this unfortunate habit of spacing out without any notice.

Thinking of her. Wondering what he could have possibly done to stop it from happening. Knowing that he brought this on her himself. How his conscience felt like a rock on his chest that steadily increased in weight with every passing day . . . she could have saved Gotham. Rachel Dawes could have saved them, using her own name and face. She wasn't a coward who hid in the night under the guise of a bat.

He knew he was being a tad irrational. Rachel probably wouldn't have saved Gotham, but at least she was one of the few trying. And he'd let her die . . .

"The car is waiting outside." Alfred's voice snapped him back into the present, the sitting room of the newly-constructed manor, where his tie was still hanging limp on his neck.

"Ah. Yes. Of course," Bruce muttered, in action in less than a second. The tie was fixed, his shoes were impeccably shiny, and he was as ready as he was every going to be. "See you later tonight, then."

Alfred stared long and hard at him. He'd been doing that lately—Bruce wished he wouldn't. The old butler looked at him as though searching for something he could never quite find. Bruce was afraid he was worrying his mentor, despite all his effort to keep up appearances.

"I may turn in early tonight," Alfred warned him.

"By all means, don't stay up," Bruce assured him. "It may run late."

Alfred took a tentative breath, about to say something. Bruce walked swiftly toward his escape, taking long, purposeful strides toward the front door to try to deter the butler from saying anything more, but he wasn't fast enough. "Master Wayne?"

Bruce looked back.

"Remember your limits," Alfred said lowly, with a warning smile.

Trying to keep it light, Bruce rolled his eyes. "You worry too much. Take a day off, would you? Go . . . find a hot date, or something. Yeesh." Then he left before Alfred could reply.

The affair was an all-smiles one. It made his face ache, greeting so many people, acting so casual and suave. He knew he was good at it. May he be struck by lightning if he was not the best damn actor in this whole school cafeteria, in the whole city of Gotham. It was so easy to crack a joke and slick back his hair showily. So easy to nod at some nameless faces, to whip out a checkbook and buy something he didn't need to keep up appearances, to raise his eyebrows at a pretty girl.

His entire life as Bruce Wayne now seemed an out-of-body experience. He'd given himself a makeover since the event, tweaking his own persona so that he was more actively involved in charity work and reform. Nothing drastic, but just enough so if—when—Batman was no longer needed, he could still help Gotham without being completely out of character.

Sometimes it irked him that Bruce was the character in this sick little play, but he kept it to himself continued to act with all the others.

A small child slammed into him, then gawked up, astonished. Bruce, of course, hadn't even flinched—he made a mental note to be more believably shoved backward the next time he was greeted with such anomaly—but every person in the room immediately turned their attention toward him. Which was irritating to say in the least.

"Whoa, there, bud," Bruce laughed, tousling the kid's hair. "Careful."

The kid's cheeks flamed up like strawberries and he ran to his mom. Bruce surveyed the room and saw that people were gradually starting to turn their attention away from him. He sighed and headed resignedly toward the drink table, where they were serving water and some cheese-and-cracker variations. Might as well grab some dinner.

On his way to the table he grew uncomfortably aware of someone staring at him. He didn't turn around, hoping that they pair of eyes would eventually divert away from him, but as usual he was not quite so lucky.

A few more handshakes and a visit from the principal, vice principal, and several of the counselors and teachers later, Bruce was still feeling the restless itch of someone staring. Out of habit he didn't look up. Better to let the enemy believe that they hadn't been spotted. A rule that by no means applied to this situation, but still reigned out of habit.

Against his better judgment he turned around to face whoever was so boldly staring him down. It took a moment, but finally he saw her.

His first instinct was to recoil from the sight. It was her, it had to be. What other girl stood that way, with one foot tentatively placed in front of the other, with her hands clasping at her waist? What other girl bit her lip, looking so sure and unsure at the same time, or let her hair fall in a curtain in front of her before idly snapping it back behind her ear?

She was blonde. That much he could see from this distance, and it was the only reason he didn't immediately jump back. That, and he was so damn good at this whole charade that he could keep it up even under circumstances as heart-wrenching as this.

Maybe someone was playing a joke on him. But who would know enough about him, enough about Rachel, to do that sort of thing? Who would even want to?

"Rachel," he muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

The woman reacted. The Rachel-who-could-not-possibly-be-Rachel jumped a bit, as if their sudden eye contact sent a pulse through her entire body. She looked away self-consciously.

It wasn't Rachel. It couldn't be.

Rachel was dead.

"Excuse me," Bruce managed. Someone had started talking to him, but being Bruce Wayne was far from his priority list right now. He needed to get out of here before he lost composure. It had been years since he'd let himself physically shake and he couldn't stop himself. If he didn't get out now he was sure he would regret it.

"Sir?"

Bruce blew past the sycophantic vice principal, headed straight for the door.

Rachel shouldn't have stared at him the way she had. She'd only set herself up for disaster.

But Bruce was a wreck. Now she couldn't blame the sallow, hollowed-out way about him on bad camera lighting in the newspaper. His expressions seemed to stretch out painfully on his face. It was as if someone had taken a nail file to him and gritted him into nothingness.

Of course outwardly he seemed the same. Only someone as close as she was with Bruce could tell that his cheeks looked sunken, that his eyes looked dull, that he seemed to walk in a fretting, clipped way. Otherwise he was just Bruce Wayne, smiling and 

easygoing and suave. These people here knew nothing. They all swarmed around him and tittered about what an honor it was, but they didn't see him as a person. They couldn't tell he was suffering. They didn't do anything.

And neither did she, hypocrite she was. The real Rachel Dawes would have flown to his side at once. She would have waited patiently for days, even, until he finally confessed his troubles to her. She wouldn't have silently hid herself and lived a lie.

It seemed that Fisher Jameson hated to see Bruce in such pain, but was too cowardly to do anything about it.

Inevitably he turned around. The guy was practically inhuman--of course he'd notice her gaping over at him like a half-drowned fish.

When he found her she looked away quickly. He wouldn't recognize her. Nobody had, not in months. Besides, she was a clear fifty feet away from him, nothing more than a figure with blonde hair.

But even from this distance she could see the pain ripple across his face. He looked winded, his lips parting in surprise, his expression blank. She saw him mouth the word and she knew she had lost: "Rachel."

Then he left. Just like that, he was gone, tearing his way through the crowd and out the back door.

"No," she whispered. Without thinking she left her booth. Someone would take care of it. She pushed her way through the sea of warm bodies, with one persistent and clear thought in her mind: Find Bruce. Find him before it's too late.