The song "Come Away With Me" was written by Norah Jones for the album of the same name and released in December 2002 under the label Blue Note. It is listed under Pop/Jazz, and one of the songs that inspired me when I first began developing Elle's character. Pull it up and listen to it when you get to that part of the chapter and imagine her singing this to Dick . . . (Nope, I don't own the song either. Although I can write poetry, song writing itself still eludes me.)

Warning: Some Language . . .

Elle stood just inside of ICU, her eyes scanning the numerous rooms that surrounded the centralized nurses' station. The silence was only disturbed by the beeping of monitors, the hushed sound of respirators, the low moans of pain, and quiet weeping of helpless family members. She found it deeply unsettling. She understood that quiet was needed so that patients could rest, but the muted sounds of others suffering could hardly be conducive to healing.

Sympathetic tears blurred her vision, and she blinked. These poor people didn't need to hear the sounds of her weeping. She was beginning to understand a little of the power her voice carried. She would do more harm than good if she didn't control her own emotions ruthlessly. Moreover, Dick was here. He would certainly feel her distress and become upset.

Elle shoved her own pain down deep and focused on the comfort and care of others to distract herself.

She was met by a nurse as she stepped further into the unit.

"I'm sorry," the woman, Suzanne her tag read, told her. "Only family members are allowed in here." She drew Elle to the station, recognizing her as another patient. "Are you lost? I can have someone escort you back to your own room."

One could see into each room from the circular station. Elle searched the beds for a familiar figure. He was here. She could feel him. He was in pain, despite the drugs that kept him quiet and his thoughts disorganized.

"My husband is here," she whispered; using Bruce's lie to her advantage. They might have allowed her to remain as a mere fiancée, but Elle preferred to err on the side of safety.

"Oh?" Suzanne was immediately solicitous. Her eyes widened as she connected patient information in her mind. Only one patient had a wife who had also been admitted recently. "Are you Mrs. Grayson-Wayne?"

There was a twinge in the vicinity of her heart at the title.

"I am," she confirmed softly.

The sounds of the unit were bothering her on a level that defied explanation. The unit was dedicated to the care and welfare of its patients, but the sounds were becoming increasingly distressing. Dick could hardly be expected to heal in this environment.

"Please, I need to see him," she said so quietly that the nurse had to lean in to hear her.

"Of course," Suzanne led her to the left, and there he was.

Elle's breath caught at the sight of so many tube and wires. He was on a respirator? Oh, God . . . But she supposed that made sense as memories of his injury slammed into her. She stumbled, and the nurse caught her arm.

"Perhaps you should return to your room until you are a little stronger," the nurse suggested.

Elle shook head. She steeled her spine and entered the room. There were no doors to any of the rooms, just the half wall with its glass partitions. There was a chair near the corner. She pulled it to the bedside, wincing at the scrape it made. She quickly sat; her knees no longer feeling capable of supporting her.

Her fingers slipped into Dick's and a tension that hadn't been noticeable before now eased away. Dick's blood pressure lowered by several points. A small smile lifted her lips. He felt it, too, even if his eyes didn't open.

Suzanne made a note of Dick's BP. "You're better than the pain medication," she remarked. "He's only allowed visitors for fifteen minutes at a time. I'll come back later to remind you."

Elle nodded, but didn't answer. Her grief was threatening to overwhelm her once more now that she could see him. He didn't know about their loss, and as far as she was concerned, it was better if he never did. But Bruce was right that he would be aware that something was upsetting her.

She watched as Dick's blood pressure began to creep upwards again in response.

As she usually did when life became too much to bear, Elle turned to music. She began humming. The numbers stopped rising and hovered. After a minute or so, they began to sink again. His heart rate slowed as well as the sound of her voice relaxed him.

So Elle opened her mouth and sang softly to him.

"Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song

Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us
With their lies

I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come

Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you

And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me . . ."

Bruce entered the Intensive Care Unit. He had spent the last hour waiting to see his son in the cafeteria. Leslie had texted him to let him know that Dick was now settled in and would be allowed one or two visitors for about fifteen minutes.

He had left the boys and Alfred in the waiting room. He would only stay a few minutes in order to allow Alfred and Tim the chance to see him. Damian was still angry that his young age prevented him from going in, but was grudgingly appeased with the knowledge that he would be able to see his older brother as soon as he was stable enough to be given a regular room.

He hesitated, alarmed, at the sight of several nurses surrounding the entrance to his son's room. But then he heard it . . . Singing.

Sweet, soft, and gentle.

Elle had found her way up here.

Reassured that if something was wrong, she wouldn't be singing, he moved toward the crowd. One of the nurses spotted him and moved to intercept him.

"I'm here to see my son," he told her. "I believe that is my daughter-in-law that I hear singing."

Suzanne smiled at him. "It is amazing," she said. "Just her presence alone seemed help his vitals to improve, but when she began singing to him . . ."

He raised an eyebrow, curious. Arthur had suggested that her voice still had power, muted though it was.

"What?"

She shook her head. "Not just your son's vitals began to improve."

Suzanne waved her hand and Bruce noted that one or two family members were standing in the doorways of their loved ones' rooms and others were smiling even as they sat near the beds of those they visited.

"Everyone's vitals have reflected improvement over the last thirty minutes or so. Even people in too much pain to be easily controlled have relaxed enough to fall asleep," she confided. "It is amazing."

"Thirty minutes? Does that mean he won't be allowed any more visitors?" Bruce asked.

Suzanne frowned. "That rule is put into place so that the patients can rest, but . . . it appears that they've gotten more rest in the last half hour than in their entire stay. I see no reason you cannot stay a little bit. His wife has overstayed her own time limit, but I don't think anyone here will insist on her leaving if she chooses to stay. Not if she continues to serenade everyone."

"She does have that effect on people," Bruce agreed.

"If they could bottle that . . ." the nurse smiled. "You know, we haven't had one request for more pain medication since she began."

He made his way over and the nurses dispersed. Elle's voice faltered when she saw him. She started to stand, but Bruce waved her back into the chair and she continued the song she was singing.

Dick looked better, he thought. His eyes were closed, and if he wasn't actually sleeping, at least he was no longer fighting the breathing tube or trying to climb out of bed.

Another chair was brought in. No one thought to ask Elle to leave. Bruce or Tim brought her water to ease her throat. It wasn't until hours later that one of the nurses suggested she go back to her own room to rest. It was a testament to her own exhaustion that she did so without argument.

Leslie walked out and discovered Bruce still in the waiting room at five that evening.

"I hope I don't feel as tired as you look," she told him.

Bruce stood to meet her, but she waved him back into his chair and sat down next to him. She imitated his posture, leaning forward with elbows on her knees. He held out his cup of coffee.

"It's a new cup," he told her. "Black."

"Like the night?" Leslie smirked. It was a running joke between them

"Is there any other way?" He smiled as he handed it to her.

"Mm," she moaned in appreciation. "That hits the spot. It's nothing like Alfred's ambrosia, but the caffeine does what it's supposed to do." She looked at him. "You need to go home."

"You're still here," he pointed out.

"I've left and came back," she said. "And I plan to go home after this."

Bruce grimaced. "I'm sorry, Leslie. I should have provided you with transportation at least. I wasn't thinking."

"You had enough on your mind, I'm certain," she bumped his shoulder lightly.

He nodded. "Once the tube is removed I plan to go back out. There is evidence waiting to lead me to the person who hired our nameless assassin. I just have to find it."

"Will he be receiving a visitor tonight?" She wondered aloud.

"Likely," he acknowledged.

"Should I be worried?"

"He's a patient here. If it makes you feel better, I'll hit his call light before I leave," Bruce growled.

"What would make me feel better is if you went home and got some sleep tonight," she reminded him. "And the tube is out, by the way. I just removed it an hour ago."

Bruce frowned at that information. "I thought you said he would need it twelve hours at least."

"I did, and that would have been valid in any other case," Leslie told him. "It was amazing what I found, Bruce."

"Don't keep me in suspense. What is it," he coaxed, although some might have described it as demanded, if they didn't know him as well as the elder woman sitting beside him.

"Dick looks like he's been healing for longer than a mere six hours from his surgery. I'm seeing the kind of recovery that normally takes more than a day to achieve. It is . . . astounding, and completely illogical. I've done this sort of surgery before . . . On you, in fact, and he has already bypassed all expectations." She shook her head. "It is beyond any explanation than I can give you."

"Not any explanation," he murmured.

Leslie sat up and stared at him. "You know something."

Bruce sat up next. "Maybe."

"I've been taking care of the two of you for years, and although the two of you seem to plow through normal recoveries faster than the average Joe, this is still beyond anything I would have expected to find with either of you." Leslie handed back an empty cup.

Bruce took it and tossed it at the trashcan across the room. It hit the top of the rotating lid and was dumped in as neat as a pin.

"Show off," she muttered; leaning back and crossing her arms. "Do you have something you would like to share with me, perhaps?"

"It's only a theory at this point," he admitted.

"Really. Anything to do with a certain Mrs. Grayson-Wayne, whom I'm told spend hours up here singing to Dick and the rest of the ICU ward?"

Bruce pursed his lips, but remained closed-mouthed.

"I would have laid into the staff had I not seen with my own eyes that every patient in there had shown distinct signs of improvement," She narrowed her eyes at him. "What don't I know about this young woman?"

"What have you been told?" Bruce avoided answering her question with a question of his own.

She knew what he was doing, but decided to allow it this time.

"I was told that her voice seemed to soothe the patients. That while she was there, there had been no requests for painkillers; that blood pressure and heartrates dropped or rose into the normal range; that many patients who had been unable to rest properly because of the level of discomfort they were in had fallen asleep without a sleep aid." Leslie frowned. "Are you telling me that this young woman has the ability to heal people with her voice?"

"Has anyone gotten out of bed and walked out of the unit?" Bruce countered.

"Well, no, of course not," Leslie scoffed. "But they are definitely none the worse off for being serenaded. All of them are better than they were, but other than Dick, there has been no miraculous signs of recovery."

"Is Dick ready to be moved out of ICU, then?"

Leslie sighed and relaxed. "Not tonight as much as I might like to do so. But first thing tomorrow for certain."

"Wasn't that your plan, anyway," Bruce asked her.

She threw her hands up in defeat. "Yes, that was the plan."

"And your point is?"

"My point is that I could move him out of ICU tonight if I wanted to," she told him succinctly. "He is that much improved. But I don't trust miracles as much as the next person without a scientific explanation."

Bruce laughed. "Isn't that the definition of a miracle, Leslie? That it defies scientific explanation?"

"You know exactly what I mean, mister," she stood up. "You are the same way that I am. We just need to understand the mechanism behind it is all."

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Bruce said softly, kneading her shoulders.

Leslie's head dropped to the side, and she groaned. "That is heavenly," she sighed. "All right. All right. In lieu of my getting an explanation, I will settle for you having it instead, but don't think for a moment that this conversation is over."

"Fine," Bruce crooned soothingly. "We'll discuss it over lunch sometime . . . After Dick is released."

"From ICU?"

"From the hospital," he clarified.

"Hm," she hummed. "I want an introduction to the wife as well."

"I think that can be arranged," he said.

"Well, that is that, then," Leslie shrugged off Bruce's hands reluctantly. She was stiff and sore today. "I'm heading back to Gotham." She held up a hand. "I will drive myself, thank you."

"No," Bruce countered. "Thank you, Leslie, for pulling his ass out of the fire once again."

"I'd just as soon he, and you for that matter, stop jumping into every blaze you see," she replied. "And you're welcome. Now, you should take your own advice and call for someone to drive you home. You look exhausted and you won't be doing that young man any good if you land yourself in here beside him."

"Consider your advice taken, doctor," Bruce assured her.

Leslie looked unconvinced, but left anyway. She learned a long time ago that Bruce Wayne did whatever Bruce Wayne wanted and the rest of the world be damned.

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Today will be a two-fer. The next chapter is out now. I worked on these two chapters together and as such, they were finished together. So, reward me with some reviews, all right?