The Way We Fall | Bruce Wayne

CHAPTER 34 - Sentiment

One would think that after being unconscious for almost three days, Sara would've been well rested. But as she laid in the bed, staring at the ceiling, at some point she drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke again, the autumn sky just outside the window was a soft shade of orange and pink as the sun began to set below the horizon. Feeling that the pain in her head had been reduced to a dull ache, she decided to get out of bed.

Her whole body felt stiff and she cringed at the momentary pins-and-needles sensation in her feet. She figured it wasn't unusual, considering she'd been lying there for nearly twenty-four hours, what she assumed to have been since the previous night.

Sara looked at her disheveled self in the mirror. Unkempt hair and bags under her eyes. She had been wearing a loose t-shirt and pajama pants, and beneath was the tank-top and shorts she kept with her suit to be worn underneath.

So she had been wearing the suit. But why couldn't she remember putting it on? And more importantly, what did she do with it?

She tried to convince herself that it was unimportant. After all, if she had supposedly been around for dinner last night, then nothing serious had transpired. Maybe she had only considered putting the suit on, and had decided against it. Maybe she had thought that she could drink away the guilt instead. Another fleeting attempt.

Yet she still felt unsettled by it all. The lock box should still be beneath the bed. It wouldn't be difficult to take a look, just to ease her thoughts.

Sara slowly dropped to her knees beside the bed and reached out beneath it. Grasping the cold metal, she pulled the box toward her.

As she worked on the lock, an interrupting knock sounded at the door. In an instant, she shoved the box back underneath. Standing to her feet, she straightened her shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. "Come in," she said.

The door opened to reveal Alfred holding a tray with a glass of carbonated water and plain toast. "I was hoping you'd be awake by now." He entered and placed the silver platter on the nightstand. "How do you feel?"

"Better." She looked at the toast. Feeling hungry but unwilling to risk nausea, she'd have to satisfied with it for now. As she took it from the plate, she looked up at the butler. "Please tell me I didn't make a fool of myself last night."

Alfred smiled sympathetically. "Don't you worry about that."

Taking a bite from the slice of toast, she couldn't just not worry. "You can be honest with me, Alfred. I've made enough of a mess." Her words carried a heavier weight than he could know.

"Nonsense." He picked up the glass of water and passed it into her free hand. "You're not the first to get roaring drunk, and I can assure you won't be the last."

"Thanks," she said halfheartedly with sarcasm before taking a sip of the fizzling water. "I'm really sorry, for all of this. You and Bruce have been more than generous and—"

"And we will continue to be so. I shall be honest with you after all, Ms. Carter. The manor doesn't feel quite so lifeless anymore." He smiled softly, adding, "And I also haven't seen such life in Master Wayne in a long time."

Sara was supposed to feel comforted, not grieved. But she choked on her guilt. "Alfred, I—" She couldn't gather the words on her tongue. To tell him any of the truth proved to be impossible. She felt undeserving of all the credit he tried to give her. And to think of Bruce. Oh, she felt all the worse.

"I'm sure he would share the same sentiment." He turned to retrieve the empty tray. "Now then, why don't you take a nice refreshing shower and afterwards join us in the parlor?"

Swallowing the last bite of toast along with her pride, she nodded.

After he left, she stood and reconsidered the metal box. She needed some sort of peace of mind.

Returning to her knees, she dragged the box out again. Working with the electronic lock, she felt her stomach drop when it clicked open. She opened the lid and the concoction of fear within her reawakened upon seeing an empty container.

It was there before, the furthest she could remember was opening the box after Sergeant Gordon had delivered it. But it was gone now. Either she had worn it, and discarded it elsewhere, or someone else had it. Both scenarios made her dizzy.

Sara pushed the box back underneath the bed and then stood on shaky legs.

A hot shower didn't do much to relax her. She shivered even after she had gotten redressed in a warm sweater and sweatpants.

She went downstairs and found Bruce sitting on a couch in the parlor, buried in a newspaper. "People still read those?"

His head snapped up to look at her, he hadn't noticed nor heard her enter the room. He hastily folded the paper and tossed it aside. "Well, when you're always on the front page, you gotta know what's being said."

Sara sat on the couch, a good distance away from him. "I doubt there's anything ever really new to say about Gotham's famous billionaire."

The forced smirk on his face tilted into a frown as he searched her expression. "Are you feeling better? You look pale."

"After lying in a bed for almost twenty-four hours, I don't expect myself to have a tan."

He didn't react to her joke, his face instead riddled with concern. She shifted uncomfortably, hoping he wouldn't question her any further.

"Have you eaten anything? You're likely dehydrated—"

"Alfred gave me some water and toast." She hated his fussing and wondered briefly if he'd have the same concern if she told him her truth. "I'm feeling much better, really."

He mustered a sad smile, then looked away, just as he had done earlier.