Disclaimer - I own nothing. -_-'

Four o-clock in the morning was the time Batman punched in his timecard and went home. It took him another hour of research and half a crystal glass of scotch underground before he actually wavered through the streets and back to his penthouse.

Bruce lay back with a groan. Four months, five, six – maybe his mansion would be finished soon and he could take only one elevator before collapsing. The engineers had promised it would be finished as quickly as possible and he was paying them quite a bit up front, but still – hiding the bat cave was harder then it seemed, especially from nosy construction men and foundation plotters.

It didn't help the stress that the Joker was loose. Again. Not even a month into the start of a lengthy, nearly infinite asylum term, the man had weaselled his way out – probably with help. There was talk of a mass riot inside the asylum days before, but from the lack of information he was receiving, he doubted it. Besides, the news would be all over the story – if it was possible to get any more over it. With the Joker free, mass rioting had only occurred inside the tabloids and newsprints, every new reporter trying to become the next writing star.

He rolled over and winced. Four men holding sawed-off shotguns had managed formed a perfect cross with him in the middle, so now he had four massive bruises encircling his torso. Reluctant to have them shoot each other no matter how accidental their deaths may have been, while relying solely on the makeshift, pieced-together body suit Lucius had – arguing all the way – made for him turned out to be a painful wakeup call as four bullets from the sound of one extremely lout blast collided with him.

He had barely managed to knock them all out before calling in an early night.

New scars, lesions, stitches, bruises – all in the name of justice. Yet justice shunned the Batman, running him down into the dregs at night while his playboy persona appeared flawlessly bright and cocky as always.

Yet his flawlessness and cockiness was slipping with every passing day, now that he knew he would never glimpse Rachel; all because of the one errant variable in a calculation that would have eventually led itself out of chaos.

The Joker said before that opposites complete each other. Bruce nearly laughed before clutching his sore ribs. No. Opposites only make the variable equal zero, not the positives he was hoping for.

Alfred was his researcher, always looking up new women, new 'distractions,' new ways to explain to the public's eye about his ever-present wounds. They must think him either a dare-devil or a failure at every extreme sport possible.

For the love of god, it was even getting difficult with the life insurance company.

Three hours later, Bruce was dead asleep when Alfred walked in with a tray loaded with protein drinks and fruit. "Now Master Bruce," he said chidingly to the sprawled figure, "don't you know by now that sleeping in your day clothes makes them difficult to iron in the morning?"

The man rolled off his king-size bed, landing with a thud on his back. "Well, it saves me the nuisance of changing."

"But then we'd have some interesting burns to explain to Madam –" Alfred shifted a card on the tray before setting it down, "- Cremi Screlleta."

Bruce cringed, forcing himself to do his daily push-ups. One. Two. Three. "Why her, Alfred?" he muttered between breathes, wincing every time his stomach flexed.

Prim, the butler replied, "Because she was the only woman available that was of your status."

"How many times do I have to say that I don't care about that?" Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty-one – twenty one?

"About one hundred, but even then I wouldn't listen."

Onehundredandfour? Bruce hit the ground with a thud, tired arms giving way. One hundred was his usual, but then again, usually he didn't lose track. Alfred sighed, one hand drifting down with a green-filled cup. "Maybe after this you can go back to torturing yourself," he said disapprovingly as the man snatched at it. "Provided it does not ruin the day plan."

Bruce went through the rest of the tray in quick succession. Finished, he asked tiredly, "So where am I taking the woman, Alfred?"

There was a distinct twinkle in the butler's eyes as he answered – and Bruce had long since learned that the man was up to no good when that happened. "Actually, I believe that it will be she who takes you around," he grinned, gathering up the empty dishes. "I suggest you enjoy your torture-free day."

"Torture free," he snorted. "Right."

The day went just as badly as he had thought. Straight away, Cremi had insisted on being called Ms. Screlleta, immediately after which he was introduced to her bodyguard. Six-foot four and more ripped then even the strongest, steroid-taking muscle man, the way Ms. Screlleta kept looking coyly at the man made it evident exactly whom she would rather be spending the day with – and where.

Then they went to a shooting gallery.

Peering through the shotgun sights, Bruce couldn't help but be reminded of the bruises decorating his torso. The same weapon was about to kill his shoulder if he shot at the miniscule red rings, ruining his chances of ever recovering at a decent rate. He was already beaten up enough by his nightly excursions; one more bruise from playboy and he was going to scream.

"C'mon, Brucie! You can do it!" Ms. Screlleta yelled from behind, his protective earmuffs doing nothing to block out her shrill voice. Bruce could almost feel her bodyguard, left unnamed, glowering in his direction.

'She's all yours, buddy,' he thought, reluctantly lining up the shot before firing. Four inches to the left of the bulls-eye, exactly aligned with his first shot.

The bodyguard decided to slam him on the opposite shoulder in mock regret. "Sorry, mate," he grumbled before taking his own, dead-centre shot.

Bruce was left wincing; stitches running across his neck had just torn open at the rough treatment. "Ms. Screlleta, I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you for the rest of the day," he started, dropping the shotgun while sneaking a hand up to clutch at the wound. "My recent scuba diving excursion left me with a rather nasty cut and I've just re-opened it."

"My poor dear," she cooed, turning to face her apparently Australian bodyguard. "Have a lovely evening."

Eyebrows raised but too glad to be gone, Bruce turned out of the driving range and headed for his temporary bat-cave to stitch up.

The Joker was rather disgusted. No minions, no money, no mischief, no murder. And no Batman, either. He was seriously regretting breaking out of Arkham; it was more fun teasing the guards and psychiatrists in there then wandering around through the alleys.

At least he had a knife. One. Single. Lonely. Knife.

It was a bad day when the Joker only had one knife. Knives were his life, and though he lived by the blade, he didn't really expect to die by it – he was rather hoping the Batman would break before someone knifed him or, as the police were probably out in full force, shot him. Or ran him over. The Joker winced at that, idly scratching his knife along the grime covering his hands. One day out of Arkham and some little old lady behind the wheel decides to play hit and run, knocking him out of the street and into the alley he currently haunted.

Sighing, the Joker regarded the man at his feet. Alone and harried, the man had stopped at the edge of the alley to take a call on the Clown Prince of Crime's new cell phone.

Who to call? Who indeed, since most of the mob was either in jail or dead. Twenty days wasn't much time to settle mob hierarchy, though it was long enough that prominent members casually disappeared. Purely by chance, of course.

Back to the cell. Who could he call that would get him what he needed? Guns, knives, potato peelers – those things, the last one aside, didn't come cheap. Select few people could steal guns without them, but unfortunately the man he was thinking of was forty feet below an unobtrusive sidewalk square, probably dead by now. That was what you got, if not a bullet in the back, if you crossed the Joker.

Joker started dialling numbers, area code somewhere in China. Maybe if he was lucky he could convince the guy not to hang up on him this time, and from the wallet he had lifted from the unconscious man's pockets, make him ship something over. It was time for mayhem and mischief. Mayhem and mischief and mayhem and mischief and mayhemandmischiefandmayhemandmischief and murder and –

Kting. A sharp little metal bat flew by his outstretched arm and embedded itself into the sooty brick beneath, razor edges nicking through his new black, sadly not purple, overcoat, again thanks to the man who so kindly donated the cell phone. Kting. Great, there went that as well, his ear welling with drops of blood.

– And Batman. The Joker grinned and dropped the ruined phone, hearing it hit the ground with a short click. "So nice of you to join us, Bats. How've you, ah, been?"

Sadly, the cowled vigilante refused to answer, gliding down instead from the fire stairs. Joker always wondered how the man managed to sneak around on such noisy, clanging objects. Whenever he used them as exits, they gave him away.

Badly. As in little-old-lady-screaming badly.

"No answer? I, ah, can't say I'm surprised. How did you find me?" The vigilante had made one mistake, coming down like that. He had landed at the back of the alleyway, all the better to hide in. Joker kept his back to the well-lit entrance, toying with his one knife.

Should he stay or should he run for it? Even without his makeup, people could recognize the scars and start pointing, though it would be easy enough to cover his face with the overcoat's collar. Black cotton trench coats were the norm in Gotham's winter, so he could probably get away with it.

That settled, he chose the hard way. "Come on, Bats. Spill."

Batman paused. The Joker knew that ever since the Harvey Dent fiasco, his fiasco, the vigilante had been hunted more than ever; well, what would you expect after taking the blame for a couple of dead cops and the murder of Gotham's White Knight? Judging by the way the bat stood, coming out in near twilight instead of night was difficult for him, especially with the police force actually actively searching for him. Bat signal busted, the bat either had a police tuner or literally was a bat.

Hopefully not the latter. Breaking him was hard enough, but if there was an animal under there, it was going to be a difficult task to finish without a lot of meat. Bats ate meat, right?

Hell, if it worked for dogs, it'd work for bats. Besides, there were so many types of meat, and not all of them were on the tasteful side.

For the bat, that is.

"Spill or I'll leave and, ah, disappear into the big, stumbling, unknowing crowd and knife someone, just to, aha, see how you'll take the blow." Joker grinned, scars tearing the muscles in his face into a mask just as useful as the makeup he wore.

"Police radar." The gravelly voice was literally music to his ears. Being locked away from stupid, blind civilization had given the man a new sense of being, and he was planning to enjoy every moment of torment he could wrench out of the vigilante before him.

Especially since he was cooperating and talking, albeit shortly. "Good, good. Now how's the kids? Fine? That's great. Wouldn't do for them to have any untimely, ah, accidents."

The Joker could have sworn a smirk had made its way onto the other man's lips, but the deep shadows in the alley made it hard to tell. "Threatening me won't work, Joker. Arkham's missed you, and I'm dragging you back to your cell."

"Not, ah, tonight you won't."

Batman's voice managed to drop to a near rumble, making the Joker, who was now edging away from the bat, struggle to hear his next words. "No, not tonight. But I'll hunt you down and stalk you, never giving you a moment's rest, making you look over your shoulder until your neck hurts. I'll find you, madman, and you better pray I'm in a good mood when I do."

The Clown Prince of Crime merely smiled and turned up his collar, waving a jaunty goodbye as he slipped into the crowd. It would appear that breaking the bat would be easier then he thought.

Much, much easier.