Not Done Yet

A/N: I love seeing the number of hits this story has been getting—maybe a few more reviews could happen? Thank you, regardless!

Bruce Wayne arrived at the hotel bar in time to join up with some business associates for cocktails. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored Italian suit; the figure he cut was far superior to that of any of the men in the upscale night spot, even the younger ones—a fact not lost on a single one of the women in the place.

He accepted a drink from one of his new acquaintances, and began the tedious process of making light conversation with these men—conversation which would reveal much more than they meant to, under the expert manipulation of a high-powered businessman like Bruce Wayne.

Bruce was intent on making a positive connection with men from a munitions firm; as a representative of Wayne Enterprises, he saw a huge potential for future dealings with them; but as Batman, he had serious concerns about the ethics behind some of their recent work….

In time, he was able to extract phone numbers and a date for a future meeting with the key players; he skillfully managed to shake hands and bid farewell as quickly as possible; he was definitely ready to get out of there by now…

However, his escape was thwarted by the arrival of a tall, voluptuous blonde. She sashayed up to him; her deep green eyes set off by long dark lashes. Her face featured full red lips and perfect alabaster skin; her body, long legs, full hips and a slender waist leading the eye to an even fuller cleavage…a woman with a confident stride, an unashamed flirt….

“Mr. Wayne, I’ve been waiting all evening for your cronies to give me a chance with you….” Her voice was a rich, steamy cocktail of sex and promises.

Bruce eyed her up and down; she was just his type, just the kind of distraction a billionaire could knuckle down to, and knuckle under with…he graced her with a charming smile, and the scent of her light, delicate perfume wafted into his senses…he felt her cool hand on his, fingertips lightly stroking him. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment; then Bruce said simply….

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I have a date.” With that, Bruce gracefully made his exit and had the valet parking attendant bring his Lamborghini around; he tipped him well, hopped in, and took off for the sordid side of town. Bruce was heading to Arkham.

* * *

The director of Arkham Asylum had had several conversations with Bruce Wayne; under normal circumstances, an inmate like the Joker would be denied visitors for any reason, at least until he was stabilized enough to join the general population; that was still difficult to imagine. They’d barely been able to subdue him long enough to fit him for a straight jacket.

But Mr. Wayne had some very interesting things to say about grants and research fellowships; Arkham had fallen on hard times, following the unexplained deaths of several inmates over the course of the last few years, and its reputation was in shreds. Any help of a monetary nature was welcome, and to have an influential man like Bruce Wayne show an interest in improving the hospital’s image was…exciting. It was his business if he wanted to rubberneck on their dealings with a creature like the Joker.

Bruce was escorted by a male nurse and an armed security guard; they got into a creaky elevator that took them deep into the bowels of the old facility; down to the most secure floor, the floor that was reserved for only the most hardcore cases, psychotics and sociopaths that posed such an imminent threat to everyone around them that they were basically treated like animals.

Bruce felt his breath hitch as they got off the elevator; the surroundings were beyond grim, with dingy gray concrete walls, harsh artificial light, merciless white linoleum floors with drain holes every so many feet. The smell of harsh disinfectant only served to mask nastier, more human odors….

The cells—they couldn’t be called “rooms”—were cold steel, solid except for a vent that allowed a tray to be inserted. Bruce couldn’t tell if all, or any, of them were occupied; he only heard noises coming from a few. He followed his guides down the long hallway to the last cell; the nurse punched in a code on the number lock, and he and the security guard turned to Bruce. The nurse kept his hand securely on the door and then spoke up.

“Mr. Wayne—the patient is, uh, highly unpredictable. Very unstable. He’s been secured, but…I would keep my distance. We’ll be right out here if you should need us, but…”

He and the security guard glanced at each other apprehensively before continuing.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, yes, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Bruce answered impatiently, then added:

“I’ll be fine. I’m very interested in this…patient’s condition, and his treatment. I’ll let you know if I need any help.”

Bruce motioned for them to step aside and he opened the door slowly, half expecting something like a vicious tiger to attack him. Nothing. He went ahead and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

It was a padded cell with not a single piece of moveable furniture, nothing but an iron cot bolted to the floor with a thin mattress and flat pillow. There was a single, dim light bulb in the high ceiling, affording little comfort and no warmth. Bruce thought it was rather chilly in there….

The Joker sat in the corner, his head slumped against the padded wall. The straight jacket was tightly secured; he appeared to be unconscious, but after a moment Bruce heard a low voice saying “Bruce…do come in…welcome to my humble abode.” Then, a deep, grim laugh spilled from the Joker’s throat.

Bruce went over to him and knelt in front of him. The Joker moved his head into an upright position and licked his dry lips. They hadn’t bothered to clean him up; his greasepaint still clung to his skin in some places, but was mostly smeared thin, the colors mixed together, and it was gone entirely in many places. The Joker’s eyes were dilated, and he seemed to have trouble focusing on Bruce’s face.

Bruce noticed bruising and swelling under one eye and around his mouth. These were recent abuses, not what Batman had doled out to him two weeks ago. The Joker’s hair was greasy and matted with blood; Bruce reached out his hand and gently pushed a lank strand away from his face. The Joker turned his face to follow the touch, then lay back against the wall.

“Sorry I couldn’t present a better appearance for you, Brucie…still want to fuck me?” The Joker was smiling teasingly now, offering a seductively raised eyebrow in a sick mockery of romance. The wretched truth was that, yes, Bruce did still want to fuck him…although, in the name of decency, he didn’t think taking a semi-conscious man in a straight jacket was entirely ethical. Instead, he took a seat on the floor next to the Joker, and put his arm around him, pulling him close.

“I never meant for you to be treated like this…” he said softly.

The Joker knit his brows and scrunched up his mouth painfully; then asked,

“What did you think was going to happen to me?”

“You’re supposed to receive psychological and medical treatment…not just be locked away like an animal.”

“Hmm…well, Arkham’s not exactly on the cutting edge of either one of those things…” The Joker tiredly let his head drop onto Bruce’s shoulder. He had really thought he’d be dead by now. And he really didn’t expect Bruce to come to see him…

“It doesn’t matter anyway…I’ll be here for the rest of my life, what difference does it make if I’m down here or up there?” He raised his eyes and gestured to indicate the upper floors, reserved for the less troublesome patients.

“It matters to me. I’m going to make sure you’re treated properly. I promise you that.” Bruce put his hand under the Joker’s chin and gently raised his battered face; he carefully kissed him, trying not to hurt him where he had been beaten, and then sat back and smiled at him.

The Joker looked at him in surprise; he returned an awkward smile.

“You’d save yourself a lot of trouble, and the taxpayers a lot of money, if you’d just smuggle me in some cyanide…I hear it’s quick…” said the Joker, only half kidding.

“No way. You’ve kept your part of the bargain—you’re keeping my identity a secret, and you cooperated when I took you in—and I’m going to keep mine. I’m going to help you get your life back.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that….”

The Joker turned back to the wall and in a few moments, Bruce realized he had passed into an unconscious state. He placed one hand on the Joker’s forehead, checking for fever—he didn’t look well—then rose to his feet, knocked on the locked door, and made his exit.