Bruce wasn't thinking straight.
In all honesty, when was he ever? The night air was rushing around him, buildings rushing past in so many blurs. He was cutting through the wind like a knife, letting the roar of his speed deafen him. His thoughts were just as erratic and clipped as his vision. Between the cuts and breaks of jumping from rooftop to rooftop images of Rachel flashed through his head, sudden and unwelcome. It was too distracting. He couldn't focus.
Rachel. Rachel Dawes was alive. Speaking to him, standing there with her wide, sympathetic eyes, her gentle touch. As if she knew him at all.
She couldn't know him now. She couldn't understand what he'd become in this past year, because even Bruce didn't understand. It wasn't a simple shift from Bruce Wayne to Batman—it was something deeper, something that rattled his core so intensely that he doubted he could ever be the same. The ultimate identity crisis. He was lost within his two personas. He'd muddled himself so completely that he'd taken on a third identity, the man he was when his mind became a blank chalkboard of nothingness, when he was so utterly and completely alone in his thoughts and his conscience that he wanted nothing more than to tear himself to bits. Do something crazy, something to make his blood pump so hard through his head that he would have no chance at remembering everything he'd done and seen.
Something like dressing up as a bat and masquerading through the streets of the most crime-ridden city in the world.
He couldn't face her now. How could he possibly face her when he'd changed so much? He knew she was going to leave Harvey for him. But she was expecting the Bruce Wayne from a year ago, and that was a Bruce Wayne who no longer existed. That was a Bruce Wayne who had hope of someday settling down and having that white-picket-fence life that he'd sworn he'd never want.
He blinked furiously. No. He would not think of this. Tonight he owed his full attention to Gotham. Without Harvey around to prosecute someone had to repair all the damage to these streets.
It was easy to forget all the stress of the day when he was flying like this. Patrolling, he liked to call it, but in actuality he felt the slightest thrill in the moments between his scuffles, when he silently skulked and slipped through Gotham as silent as a ghost. When he was free and untied like this it seemed that the past was only a faint memory of a distasteful television show. It wasn't his life, it was somebody else's. Bruce Wayne. The Prince of Gotham. But not him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a struggle below him. He turned his sharp gaze toward the men and instantly assessed the situation. Probably a drug deal gone wrong—he saw thugs circling around a pathetic form like sharks, steadily boxing in what appeared to be a skinny twerp in his early twenties.
Annoying action was better than no action. At least he'd have something to distract himself with. He swooped down and instantly incapacitated three of the men with what might have been a single blow; he almost smirked to himself, but Bruce was never one to dwell on his tiny successes. Instead he whipped around and nailed two more of them, then with a finesse and grace he had mastered so flawlessly he sent the last three sprawling to the ground.
They were starting to get back up again. He hadn't aimed to knock them out, but he had aimed to scare the shit out of them. Apparently these thugs were not particularly impressed; in another minute or two he had knocked the four troublesome ones unconscious and left the cowards where they sat or lay shaking in the alleyway.
He turned to the squirrely-looking college student he'd just saved, just to see if he was alright. He didn't expect any acknowledgment. He had planned to give the boy a quick glance, a stern look, maybe a warning. Then dart off before he had to listen to any sort of response.
Instead he felt the cold nuzzle of a gun against his chest. Just as the unholy noise of the bullet rang through the night, Lucius's warning resonated in his mind: Only a straight shot . . .
It went off three times. Three times, tearing through the Kevlar and into his body. For a moment he remained standing, staring at the pimply punk in shock. Who are you? Why would you do this to me? Blood was leaking out of his mouth. In horror he stared down at his front, at the redness seeping through his fingers.
"Why," he managed to gasp out.
The boy's face contorted disgustingly. "It's because of you my father's in a fucking asylum. You ruined my life."
Bruce barely even registered that he'd hit the cement until he'd noticed how his view of the street had drastically been altered. He was laying halfway into the mouth of the alley, barely visible from the street. He closed his eyes and heard the moronic kid running away and thanked whatever uncompromising god that at least his odds of being found were pretty much nil. At least he had a chance of getting out of here unscathed—which would mean getting out of here without his identity being revealed.
His head felt so airy and light all of a sudden. He blinked, his vision blurring, his entire body frozen. A vague thought floated through his head: Alfred . . .
He thought he said it aloud. He thought he'd muttered it into his cowl, tipped off the butler that something was wrong, that he was a fool and he was paying the price for it now.
It was all in his head. There was no cry for help. Instead his form slackened against the brick wall of the alley, his hand releasing the bat-a-rang he'd been clutching, his eyes slipping closed.
Someone will come. Alfred will come. I just have to get up and get out of . . .
Wayne Manor. God, she never thought she'd be here again.
When she'd woken up this morning—yesterday morning—she would never have believed that at four o'clock in the morning the next day she would be standing in front of this massive building, walking up its imposing steps. She noticed that the garden was overgrown and spilling over itself. If she closed her eyes and breathed in its scent then she could pretend that she was back here as a child, darting through the greenhouse and slurping honeysuckle from the bushes, carefree and compact. The whole world had been so small then. So simple.
But then she opened her eyes again and saw that untended garden growing wildly and out of control and she found herself again. Rachel Dawes who wore heels and had a purpose in life. Not Rachel who stomped around in the dirt with light-up sneakers and thought nothing of wrestling Bruce for the last cookie Alfred had set out on the ledge.
It was the rose bush that upset her the most. It had been her favorite, and now she could barely recognize it. Some impulse made her wish she had a pair of garden scissors—she wanted to clip it back into place, mow it down. Make it the same. But she knew it wouldn't be so easy. She and Bruce would still be at odds, her life would still be a haphazard jumble of the stranger that was Fisher Jameson and the loveless lawyer that was Rachel.
A thought gripped her so suddenly that she stopped mid-step. She'd been so constantly burdened by this double identity of hers, wallowing in the difficulty of it all, and not once in all the time Bruce had been back in her life had she thought of how hard it must be for him. Every night, taking on the guise of the Batman, a symbol both loathed and revered. Fighting for a city who wanted nothing more than to see him incarcerated, only to wake up in the morning and be Bruce Wayne, who was considered a selfish, slapdash playboy. Either way Gotham scoffed at him.
Bruce was so far across the dividing line of identity that she doubted even he knew who he really was. Rachel, for all her hiding under the name of Fisher, had never really ceased being herself. She laughed the same way. She cared about people the same way. Her only difference was that she now exercised her different qualities into different outlets, at the school instead of the D.A.'s Office, with watching little league games instead of attending expensive benefits.
Bruce, on the other hand, was so completely changed as both man and . . . bat . . . that there was no distinguishing the slightest similarity between his two personas. Except that no matter who he was, it seemed that Alfred aside, he was very much alone.
Her heart panged for him and she took another resolute step forward. This was where she needed to be. Wayne Manor. Even if it had been rebuilt and newly-made it was still her second home, her one safety net in this unpredictable, crazy city.
And Bruce needed her.
It had taken a long night of doubts and deliberation before she'd finally headed toward the Manor. When she'd talked to Bruce he'd seemed so distant, so apart. But she realized that she had to make some allowances for him. She'd shocked him. Even the impenetrable Bruce Wayne must have the same human reactions to people coming from the dead. He'd spent the last year thinking she was gone forever—she would be altogether too demanding if she expected that he could just fit her back into his life.
She didn't want him to think, though, that she intended to just pop into his life like this and then ignore him. The distance between them had been so pronounced, even the in years before her alleged death, and she was through with it. Bruce was her best friend. A year was too long to go without seeing him, and she could prove to him just how much she regretted it, how much she wanted to remain a part of his life.
So here she was. At the manor. Not quite sure what she was doing, but then again she wasn't really sure of anything these past months.
She made it past the imposing gates; she'd known the security access code was Alfred's mother's birthday since she was five. Tentatively she stepped up to the front door and knocked on the door.
It only occurred to her then that Alfred was not nearly as young and spry as he used to be. Perhaps he would take the shock of her unexpected revival much harder than Bruce. She fidgeted, taking a step back away from the Victorian doors. This was a bad idea. She should have called Bruce first, but what if he hadn't answered? She didn't want to take that sort of a chance, that he might screen her calls and ignore them. Or worst, the chance that she'd call and distract him in a moment of crisis. God only knew what he was doing out at night.
The door creaked open. It was too late to turn around now. She took a shaky breath, trying to think of some explanation. Maybe he wouldn't recognize her—there was that. She was blonde, after all. But then what would her excuse be? She could always pass herself off as one of Bruce's infamous would-be bed buddies, but then she couldn't possibly explain how she'd made it past the security system in one piece. Oh, god.
And if he did recognize her . . .
Alfred. His expression was completely blank for a fleeting few moments. She could tell he'd been sleeping. He was alert as ever, but there was the faint crease of a pillowcase etched on his cheek. In any other circumstance she might have grinned at him, but now she felt so suddenly scrutinized that she almost shrank back.
Then he frowned, calculating as ever. She breathed a sigh of relief. Alfred was the same as ever—either out of fear for Bruce or extreme endurance, he'd managed to grow older but just as sharp.
"Miss Dawes?" he whispered. As if someone could hear them on the expanse of the mansion grounds, when they both knew very well that they were probably the only people within a mile radius of the doorstep.
Her eyes welled with tears, the regret hitting her in full force once more. She thought of Alfred as a second father. They'd exchanged letters since she'd left for college, even after Bruce had disappeared for so many years. How could she do this to him, too? The poor man had spent seven years already thinking Bruce was dead, after the deaths of his parents. He'd already suffered unimaginable grief. Now Rachel had caused him pain, too.
She was more than a little surprised when the ghost of a smirk snuck onto the corners of the butler's lips. "It seems that everyone is rising from the dead as of late."
"Alfred." Her voice was choked. He held his arms open to her before she'd even stepped forward, and she hugged him fiercely. "I'm so sorry. I . . . I never meant to . . ."
He patted her back, comforting her. She felt guilty for coming here. Taking more from them both. Who was she to be comforted, after what she'd done to them?
She sobbed quietly, swiping her sleeve across her eyes to get rid of the tears. Pulling away from him, she looked up at the old man's creasing eyes and blubbered, "I shouldn't have come here so late, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I wasn't . . . I—"
"Miss Dawes, I certainly do not mind in the least." Alfred was smiling at her now, his eyes a bit teary as well. "I'm overjoyed to see you well."
"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," she said sincerely. "I've missed you so much."
Alfred's features seemed to darken for a moment. Not on her account, she was sure. But on Bruce's. "Does Master Wayne . . . ?"
Rachel willed her face not to crumple again, but she feared her efforts were futile. She nodded, letting Alfred lead her into one of the many sitting rooms. She remembered this one. She and Bruce had punched a hole in the wall behind the painting of the fairy woman at the lake . . . oh, but that house had burned down, there was no hole now, was there?
"He knows." She shuddered. "I didn't mean for him to find out . . . quite yet. Quite like he did."
Alfred raised an eyebrow at her. "He seemed distraught earlier but would not speak of it," he said, prompting her to explain what had happened. Alfred was too polite to ask too many questions, but she could see in his anxious eyes what it was he wanted to know. Where she had been all this time. Why she hadn't said anything. What she had said to Bruce.
"Bruce isn't home," she deduced.
Alfred nodded, checking the clock. "It may be awhile."
She bit her lip. "It's a long story."
The old butler sighed, still smiling his grandfatherly smile. "I'll make us some tea."