It was raining. How perfectly cliché. How perfectly, absurdly fitting.
The sky was sweltering, buzzing around him with an impatient and blistering wind. The sun had been settling into the horizon when he'd arrived, but now it was completely dark, save for the faint light emanating from the school parking lot. It made him itch. His fingers were trembling—he needed to be jumping, dodging, defying all leaps and bounds. He needed it like a drug. It was night already and here he was standing outside of some school without a car or any legitimate reason for leaving—
He realized he was gulping for air and he stopped. The beauty of being constantly self-aware was that he could turn off his own panic.
But he couldn't stop his heart from pounding. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Taunting him. Who the hell was that woman? Was he so far off the deep end that he was honestly mistaking complete strangers for his dead best friend?
Now he'd stopped breathing. Shit. Breathe in, breathe out. Bruce Wayne wasn't a pansy. Bruce Wayne didn't get the heebie-jeebies over something so stupid and nonsensical. Bruce Wayne didn't run away when something startled him, damn it. He was stronger than that.
Reasonable thinking. That's what he needed. First off, he needed to think of some alibi, some reason for being outside and barreling through about fifty people in a crowd to get out. "To get some fresh air" was clearly out of the question, because that was billionaire playboy speak for "I thought that teacher was hot and I was hoping she'd leave with me . . . aw, crap, how'd that get printed in every paper between here and Metropolis?"
Bruce wasn't in the mood.
He could say his phone had rang and he wanted to take the call outside. Since talking inside the gym full of people would have been rude. But since when did Bruce Wayne ever care what other people thought of his manners?
The door opened behind him and he stepped into the shadows. Instinctively he knew it was her. That freak of a woman who defied the laws of nature with her uncanny resemblance. She clicked her high heels like Rachel did. He could hear her—he pretended he couldn't, he wished he couldn't, but she was there, click-clacking shoes and all.
"Bruce?"
He forgot to breath again. He stared at into the openness of the school's meager soccer field. Past the basketball court and through the thick clump of trees. Staring without seeing, too afraid to tear his eyes away from the scene.
She stepped forward again. Bruce had never felt so unprepared in his life. For all of his extensive training and technique, for all the life of him, he could only stand like a deer in headlights. A sitting duck. So absolutely petrified that he couldn't even tell if he was at all within her sightline or not.
"Bruce," she said again. Her voice cracked like Rachel's did and he felt as if his chest had suddenly collapsed on him. As if that tiny break in her voice had squeezed his heart to stop it from beating.
His head was swimming. Take control. He gritted his teeth. He was better than this. Batman could . . . Batman would just jump up onto that ledge, silent as the whiz of a muffled bullet passing. Disappear into the night like no more than fine dust.
A hand touched his shoulder and he just about leaped out of his own skin. Every muscle in his body tensed to compensate for the sudden shiver that spiraled up his body. His legs felt as if they might just cave in from underneath him, but he could trust himself. At least he could five minutes ago. Had it even been five minutes? It might have been an hour. He had no concept of time, no concept of anything anymore . . .
Maybe Rachel had never been dead. Yes. He'd dreamed the entire thing up, this last year had been a terrible nightmare. All the late, fruitless nights, the unfulfilled goals, the dead ends and hopelessness. Waking up every morning on two hours of sleep with absolutely nothing to look forward to. Leaping at any opportunity to punish wrongdoing, but never feeling the satisfaction of a job well done.
Let it be a nightmare.
The hand didn't move. It might have been the lightest touch, but it felt so heavy resting there on his shoulder.
Her voice was lower, a whisper and a plea. "Bruce . . ."
Bruce what? What the hell did she want from him? What was there left of him to take? Nothing. Bruce Wayne was absolutely nothing, he had nothing. How dare she come back from the dead to haunt him like this when there was nothing more of him left.
"Just look at me," she begged.
Look at me. He remembered those words. The Joker, taunting his videotaped victim. Taunting Rachel Look. At. Me!
"Why," he muttered. Not so much a question as it was a groan. She tried to step in front of him but he jerked his head away, spurning her.
"It's me. It's—"
"No, it's not," Bruce managed through gritted teeth. He had to cut her off before she said the name. The unspeakable name. "You're . . . she's dead."
"Would you just listen to me?" Impatient, as always. For all of her goodwill toward mankind, Rachel could be one incredibly impatient woman. All the more proof that it was her.
His throat was thick as he swallowed. "I shouldn't." There was always the possibility that he was hallucinating this. Not even the amazing Bruce Wayne could write that one off if he were caught.
"I didn't die, Bruce. I'm alive. Last year—"
"Last year you were blown into smithereens." His voice was so cold that it was almost unrecognizable, even to himself. He sounded callous. He had to—it was the only way he could speak without letting the emotion creep into his voice. "Last year an entire building imploded around you and burned you to death."
A few beats of silence later she spoke again. "I'll explain if you'll listen."
Bruce didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, still facing away from her. He was just so tired of this. Let the hallucination speak. Dreaming of Rachel was better than no Rachel at all. For however long she was here he could make himself believe that maybe he hadn't killed her. That maybe she was okay and he didn't have to have her death constantly weighing on his conscience. Ripping apart the one link to a normal life, to love, to happiness, that he'd ever had.
He knew he was selfish to think of her that way, but how could he help it? How could anyone? He'd been in love with her since middle school. He knew her better than he knew anyone in the world.
Which made the hallucination all the more unnerving. She was Rachel, down to every last detail.
"That night when the Joker had me kidnapped, he'd infiltrated the police force. Specifically Ramirez, from Gordon's unit."
Bruce had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. He knew this, of course. This whole year he had only spared her out of an inhuman sense of self-control that seemed ready to give way at any moment.
"But she didn't betray us. She tampered with the explosives—"
"Ramirez is a traitor," Bruce spat, unable to stop himself.
"No. No, no, she saved me. Only part of a building blew and she got me out. I was gone by the time the rest of the—"
"Harvey's coin." Bruce's protest was pathetic. He heard the waver in his voice and cursed himself, but he couldn't stop the shaking. The disbelief, the grief that had become such a part of him. "The coin, it was burned, you had . . ."
"Planted. Ramirez planted it as evidence."
"But I saw that coin . . ." Bruce shuddered. He felt her step forward, parallel to him now. She draped an arm around his shoulder. It was vaguely unsettling how simple and familiar it seemed to have the crook of her arm so casually draped around him. Still he didn't move.
"I know this is a lot to take in. I was planning on telling you—"
"When?" Bruce asked softly. He'd meant to scream it to high heaven, echo it into the uncaring sky, but it came out little more than a hoarse whisper.
He must have shocked her into silence. After a moment he finally turned his head, his eyes edging cautiously toward her. Her eyes were filled with tears. Green eyes. They weren't hers, but they were the same as ever.
"It's been a year."
She searched his eyes imploringly. "I'm sorry."
Now that she was so close to him she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. She'd never seen Bruce cry before. She'd never seen him look so vacant, so far away, not even when his parents had died. Not even when she'd left him on the curb after the trial. Never.
He reminded her of an animal now. There was something primitive about the openness of his expression, as if he could hide nothing after she herself had hidden for so long. His eyes seemed sunken and wandering, like a sick dog's. They were bruised around the edges. His cheekbones seemed sharper, almost feral. Her heart fluttered. She hated to think that she'd done this to him. That she'd been too self-involved to tell him that she was alive, that she was okay.
She'd comforted herself by saying that Bruce was a big boy. Bruce would shake it off. He wouldn't blame himself because he was rational and clear-headed, and had his priorities straight, the first of which was Gotham City and its citizens.
Clearly she had been wrong. She'd known, of course, that she was lying to herself, but here was the evidence. Bruce was barely able to look at her. She hadn't anticipated their reunion would be so devastating—then again, she hadn't really anticipated a reunion at all.
Why was that? Had she planned to never say anything to Bruce as long as she still lived? She felt so deceitful, looking at his shaken form, his twisted expression. How cruel she had been, living this idle new life of hers while he suffered.
She waited until he had blinked a few times and regained some sort of control. She had never thought she'd have this much power over Bruce. In his whole life she'd never met anyone who did. And she was abusing it—it hit her in full force, the reality that she and Alfred were the only real family he had ever known, and she'd gone and thrown it in his face. The letter. Surely Alfred had given him that damned letter by now. She regretted it now, but what could she say to make it any different?
Once he seemed calmer she said quietly, "Can I explain?"
Bruce pursed his lips in thought. "I—I have to go soon. I mean that I have to . . ."
"Of course," she assured him, knowing he needed an out. "I understand. You're busy. Of course." She cleared her throat. "But just hear me out."
He looked away from her and she took the opportunity to speak.
"Ramirez tampered with the explosive that was supposed to blow up the building," she repeated. "I escaped before the entire building collapsed."
She waited for him to absorb this a second time, then continued gently. "I couldn't just tell everyone I was alive, not while the Joker was still on the loose. It would be suicide. There are still plenty of people who would like nothing more than to see me dead." Her throat was thick, recounting her actions. How numb she had been after the news of Harvey's death, how perfectly willing and accepting she had been of the situation. Fisher Jameson was a pushover. Rachel Dawes was not. With every word she felt like she was regaining a tiny part of herself, however miniscule, however desperate.
"So Ramirez set me up an identity. She'd had it ready for awhile. She'd been in league with them." She paused. "In the end she had to decide whether to save Harvey or save me . . . she made the choice." Her eyes burned, but she smiled a little. "And you saved Harvey."
"I was coming after you," he said fervently, his eyebrows creasing into a dark frown. "It was supposed to be you in that building, damn it, not Harvey."
The words pierced her like an arrow had flown straight through her chest. "What?" she breathed.
He laughed darkly. "The Joker made me choose, too. You or Harvey." He looked up at her bitterly, his nostrils flaring. "You didn't honestly think I'd choose anyone over you, did you?"
"I thought . . . I thought you were being practical. Doing what was best for Gotham. I respect that."
"Jesus Christ, Rachel. I would trade this whole city for you."
"Don't say that," she scolded.
"It's true."
She felt his shoulders tense, her arm still slung over him. She believed him. Instantly she felt like a fool. Of course Bruce would choose her. She knew that, didn't she?
Then why had she worked so hard to convince herself otherwise?
"So?" Bruce prompted her. For the first time in a while he moved, his arms gesturing out at the rundown school.
"So," Rachel continued, "I became Fisher Jameson. Elementary school teacher. PTA coordinator. Picnic thrower." It all seemed so trivial. This had all been some contrived little vacation from herself. How convenient. "And I've been here ever since."
Then she took a step away from him, facing him. He was going to have questions, but it was high time she stood up and answered them. She was accountable for his grief. She owed him this much.
His next words surprised her. "Does Gordon know?"
Rachel frowned. "Commissioner Gordon?" she clarified. Bruce gave her a sharp nod. "No. No, he didn't. Why?"
Bruce didn't answer. "How long were you going to keep this up? How many people even know you're alive?"
She swallowed thickly. "Ramirez. And my boss at the D.A. He's . . . holding my position open for me," she admitted sheepishly.
"Your boss knows you're alive," he hissed, "but you never thought to tell me?" His voice was laced with pain, his expression a mixture of horror, remorse, and fury.
"I didn't think that—"
"No!" Bruce spat, absolutely livid. "No, you clearly didn't think, did you? Didn't think that I've spent this entire year thinking you've been dead, didn't think that maybe I was just trustworthy enough to let in on this stupid secret life of yours, didn't think that I . . . that I would . . ." He was starting to wind down, just gaping at her in shock. "You . . . how could you do this to me?"
Tears started slipping uncontrollably down her cheeks. "Bruce, Bruce, I didn't meant to hurt you, I really didn't," she pleaded, but she knew it was pointless. If she hadn't meant to hurt him then she would have said something. He was right. Bruce was always right, even if she hated to admit it.
"Of course you meant to hurt me." A shadow had crossed over his face. "At least that would explain why you . . . why you let me think I'd killed you."
"No," she gasped, "no, never. It was my fault. It was Harvey's. It was the Joker's fault for doing this to us in the first place—God, Bruce, blame anyone, but don't blame yourself. Please. It had nothing to do with you."
"He made me choose. Me. He did it to get to me, and me alone. Don't pretend you don't know that."
"That's a lie. There was no choice. He tried to kill us both, and if we hadn't gotten lucky then I would be dead now." She bit her tongue before she could say anything more about Harvey. The odd circumstances behind his death that no one would admit to. She had a feeling Bruce knew, though, because his eyes flickered for a mere millisecond, untraceable to anyone who hadn't known his face better than their own.
"Lucky?" Bruce repeated.
"Not lucky," she corrected herself, stammering. "Just . . . I'm really, really sorry, Bruce. I should have told you."
"Yeah. You should have."
She flinched.
"You'd better get back inside," he finally said.
"Wh-what?"
"They'll be looking for you."
She stepped away from him. "I'm not . . . I mean, I'm not, I don't have to. Go back inside, I mean. We should talk. We should sort this out."
"No, it's very clear to me." He suddenly sounded empty and drained. As if the conversation were more than he could bear. "You wanted a new life. A fresh start. And now you finally had your chance."
She was so shocked by this that she had nothing to say. Maybe he was right. This had been her game, her chance to be whoever she wanted to be without feeling judged. But now the cost seemed much too high for all of her ease in this act she'd been playing at.
"Are you happy?"
She didn't answer at first. "Are we ever?"
He nodded. "I loved you, Rachel. You were everything to me." He looked up at her and held her gaze for the first time since they'd been inside the gym. "I don't understand why you never felt the same way."
She shook her head. It wasn't like that. She did love him, she did, but that infernal letter—that rash, compulsively-written letter declaring her love for Harvey—if it weren't for that, she could say it. I love you. I love you, please, you have to understand—
"I love you!" she screamed.
He was gone. He'd been gone for awhile, and she'd still stood here as if she could stop time, freeze him in front of her, never let him go.
She was sobbing now. "I love you," she whispered. He hadn't heard. She could only hope that he knew.