Not Done Yet

A/N: Hello dear readers, I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday!! I hope I haven't left you hanging too long, it was crazy around here...please leave a review, I don't mind if they're unsigned--consider it a good deed for the end of the year!! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy this chapter...

Seditionary

* * *

It was a gloomy September morning. Rachel Dawes was already holed up in her office, busily typing up her case notes when Harvey Dent tapped on her door. "Come in," she called. Looking up, she saw his face and immediately knew that he was upset.

"Harvey, what's wrong?"

"Rachel, haven't you heard? The Joker's escaped from Arkham."

Rachel was stunned. All of the craziness, all of the confusion attached to that name suddenly came washing over her, as fresh as the day she first learned of his existence.

"Oh, Harvey, are you sure?"

"Of course, it's all over the news. There's a manhunt going on, but apparently he got out hours before anyone noticed. He could be three states away by now."

"My God...was anyone...hurt?" Rachel asked hesitantly. The Joker tended to leave a few bodies behind him wherever he went....

"Uh, no, not that I know of. There was nothing in the news report, anyway. I'll see if I can find out for sure..."

"Harvey, this is terrible. Poor Bruce. He put so much on the line to help that psychopathic maniac, and never gave a thought to how dangerous he really is. I just knew something like this was going to happen...." Rachel face had tensed into an expression of worry and concern.

As soon as Harvey left, Rachel dialed the phone. She needed to talk to Bruce Wayne, and she needed to talk to him now.

* * *

The Batman had returned to his underground lair in the wee hours of the morning, already feeling the effects of a strenuous night of patrolling, followed by a skirmish involving a drug deal gone wrong on the lower east side. As he shed his costume, Bruce Wayne emerged, and it was with eternal gratitude that he was able to quietly head upstairs to throw himself onto his bed where he could stretch out flat and let the throbbing in his back and shoulder ease up with the aid of a prescription strength dose of ibuprofen.

It was the jangling clatter of the telephone that wrested Bruce from a sound sleep a mere three hours later; he blindly groped for the infernal device and muttered a choked "Hello" into the receiver.

"Bruce, have you heard? The Joker's escaped." Rachel's voice was harsh, accusatory. The words sounded foreign to Bruce's sleep deprived ear.

"What? What did you say, Rachel?"

"You heard me, Bruce. Your little charity project has escaped and will no doubt be wreaking havoc on this already disaster-prone city of ours in no time. What are you going to do about it?"

"My God, when? Was anyone hurt?" When he said hurt, he meant "killed", of course....

"No, no one was hurt, apparently. Amazingly. And they're not sure when it happened, but it must have been yesterday evening."

Yesterday...Bruce had meant to make a visit to Arkham yesterday, but he got wind of that damned drug deal...damn it. Was this his fault? Batman's fault? Was this Jack's way of punishing him for not paying him enough attention?

"Bruce, do you have any idea where that lunatic might go? The police have been on the case for hours, and no luck."

"No, Rachel, it's not like he has any family or friends that would take him in. I don't have a clue where he could be."

"If people die because of him, it's blood on your hands, too, Bruce. You're the one who was pulling the strings, getting him special treatment in the asylum. I just hope no one decides to point that out in the news," Rachel direly commented.

"Thanks for your support, Rachel," answered Bruce sarcastically. "I'm not going to argue with you about this. I did what I believed was right--I made sure he got competent, caring therapy, not 'special treatment'. Everything that happened was under a doctor's care, based on Ja--the Joker's progress. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Well, maybe not, but something did go wrong, and my fear is that it's going to come back to haunt you, whether that's fair or not."

"If so, I'll handle it. I'd just like to know that my best friend is behind me--if indeed you are behind me on this."

"Of course, Bruce. You know you have my total support. Even if I do think you're an idiot."

"Wonderful. Those are words of great comfort to me."

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I know...I know your philosophy is based on humanitarian principles. But I'm afraid the Joker's the wrong man to practice them on." Rachel tried to sound conciliatory.

"Rachel...I'm going to do everything in my power to find him and get him safely back to Arkham before anything bad happens. And I mean everything," he said meaningfully, letting her know that Batman would be involved.

"Ok, Bruce. Just be careful. Who knows what his mental state is like now?"

"Don't worry, Rachel. I got to know him...pretty well. I think I can take care of myself."

"I hope so, Bruce. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Me, too, Rachel, me too."

* * *

The Joker was exploring an old abandoned warehouse on the east side of town, considering its possibilities as a temporary residence until he could get his bearings on the outside again. It was getting dark and chilly, and of course there was no electricity or any other utility available; still, it was the best he could do, for now. He had to lay low--very low--for a while. Let the Arkham bloodhounds lose the scent. He needed to drop off the face of the earth, as far as the cops were concerned. He had to...disappear.

He found an old office with a locking door. That suited him. He'd been penned up in a small room for so long, there was something comforting about it now. Even in pitch dark. He curled up in a corner, and settled in for some sleep. He'd been awake for almost 48 hours and, with the meds still in his system, that was no small feat.

Getting out had been a piece of cake. Hell, he could of done it months ago; once they moved him out of the high security area, once he had the use of his hands again, and once they eliminated one of the more stupefying drugs from his regimen, yeah, getting out wasn't that much of a challenge. Oh, he'd thought about it before, he'd thought about it plenty. But...he had been curious. What were they going to do with him? Would it help? Didn't seem possible, and yet...here he was, poof! fucking magic trick, all suicidal urges gone, leaving him a new man, heh heh...

And then there was Bruce...poor, sweet, trusting Bruce. Damn, he was dynamite in the sack. Such a hot body, a hell of a nice, big thick cock on 'im too, and, man, did he know what to do with it. Well, he did now, after the Joker had clued him in...that had taken a while. He was so damn innocent at first. So hesitant to just shove it up his ass, right where it would do the most good...oh, that was priceless. The Joker had to get him over that nonsense in a hurry.

But, Bruce...ya know, it was funny how gentle he was with him. Which was nice for a change, but hell, the Joker was used to rough, hard-core, no-nonsense fucking when he did it with a guy, and maybe he'd killed off some nerve endings or something. He could only put up with juust so much of that sweetie-pie "Are you ok? Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop?" crap. Bruce knew better now, knew to just get down to business, and it was fantastic....

Kind of made it all worthwhile, you know? And, besides, Bruce was, um...adorable. In a high-tone, expensive shoes, champagne-not-beer, classy kind of way, not the Joker's style AT ALL, normally, but...hey, who knows why two people end up in bed together? Bruce was a sweetheart, all right. Oh, he was wound too tight, no doubt about that, but yeah. A total sweetheart.

But now...things had changed. Bruce was coming by less and less...too busy for his favorite loony-tunes science project, the Joker supposed. Bruce had a life--ha, he had a double life--and the Joker couldn't rely on him for his amusement anymore. No. The time had come. He had to get out and...start living again. Oh...and, he had to find Batman. Batman was definitely more his style....

* * *

Harvey Dent left Rachel's office in a foul mood. He found Rachel's concern for Bruce Wayne to be exceedingly annoying. He knew they were friends--had been since childhood--but Harvey knew they had been more than that at one time. Rachel refused to talk about it; acted like it was sometime in the far distant past, but, looking back through some newspaper archives on line--they always showed up together in the society pages--it didn't appear to have been that long ago.

Harvey liked Bruce all right, but there was something about him...he couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't entirely trust him. He seemed to have something to hide, and Harvey didn't like Rachel to be so wrapped up in the life of a guy that he couldn't trust. Anyway, he didn't believe men and women could be "just friends", not really. There was more to their relationship than what either Rachel or Bruce chose to reveal. He just knew it. And, if he was going to get Rachel to fall in love with him for real, he would have to figure it out.

* * *

Driving to his office at Wayne Enterprises, blearily negotiating early morning traffic, Bruce felt as if he were going out of his mind. Days had passed, and there was still no sign of the Joker, no leads, no chatter on the Internet, nothing. In a way, he knew that was a good thing; at least he wasn't rampaging around the city, robbing or murdering innocent people. Not yet, anyway.

However, the silence was deafening. It left too many dreadful possibilities for Bruce to obsess over. Had the Joker finally decided to carry out his long-ago threat of killing himself? Had all the work Jack had done to get well, all the effort Bruce had put into finding him proper care, been for nothing? If his decomposing body was ever found, what would it reveal? Poison? Throat sliced open and bled out? Shot by his own hand? It wouldn't matter--Bruce knew it would have been his fault and that he could never forgive himself.

Or, had something else happened? Was Jack lying beaten and bloodied, dead in an alley somewhere, a victim of some random crime? Had he lost the ability to protect himself, like a rescued animal released back into the wild?

Bruce had vivid, delicious memories of their very first hand-to-hand battle, how feral the Joker had appeared, how swift and clever he was. His strength was quite amazing for a man of his size, but even so, he had been no match for Batman on that count; still, he more than made up for it with his untamed agility and dirty fighting techniques...Batman had lost him in the rooftops, and had to slink back to his lair unsatisfied. Fortunately, there had been a next time, and a next time...until, that last time, when they had kissed and ended up in the Joker's bed, putting a sweet end to the battles...Bruce sighed.

The gut-wrenching uncertainty was bad enough, the guilt was staggering, but the pain of losing Jack...that was unbearable. Bruce missed him. He hadn't realized how deeply the guy had gotten under his skin. Hadn't realized how much he counted on seeing him to get him through the boredom of his days, the terror of his nights.

Bruce missed his lover's wicked grin, his laughing eyes...Jack's electric touch on his body, whether it was his hands or his mouth he chose to use to drive Bruce into ecstasy. Bruce missed touching him...kissing, licking, tasting his mouth, his neck, his cock....Jack lying under him, raw sex mixed with sweet lovemaking. And then the warm, delicious intimacy of holding one another afterwards, even though they were never permitted the simple pleasure of drifting off to sleep in each other's arms.

Yes, it was just a cheap, wonton coupling at first. A savage, bratty clown taking corrupt pleasure in the debasement of a noble, heroic knight. But somehow...they weren't those symbols. Dark and light, bad and good. They were two desperate men, each with their own emptiness and sorrows, and if they found some comfort in each other's arms, who was to say it was wrong?

The truth was, Bruce was...addicted. The sheer excitement of his visits with Jack was an addiction. Never knowing if he would leave with deep, burning scratches on his back and bite marks on his shoulders, filthy obscenities and feral yowls of pleasure still echoing in his ears; or with memories of tender fingers brushing through his hair, tracing their way down his chest; warm, moist lips sliding unhurriedly over his, a loving tongue slipping over the hollow of his neck in an eager expression of affection.

He should have talked to him more. Made him understand that he didn't mean to neglect him, that it was just that he was on a big case right now, that there was a lot at stake, and when it was over, he'd be able to come to see him as often as he used to, even if not as often as he wanted him to. Why didn't he talk to him?

The Joker--Jack--had to still be alive, he just had to be. Bruce had to find him. Before something horrible really did happen. Before it was too late.

* * *

Bruce knew he had to let go of his worries and concentrate on the business at hand. As he dressed in his Bat suit, he forced himself to push thoughts of his missing lover out of his mind and focus on a situation he could do something about.

Batman was on the trail of the man he had identified as the main contact between the munitions manufacturer and the mob. He was determined to find evidence that he could provide to the FBI to show that there was an illegal arrangement between the two entities and that they were, in fact, facilitating arms deals with a third world country. As Bruce Wayne, he had been nurturing his sources for a long time. As Batman, he had been doing a lot of legwork.

Tonight, it looked like everything just might come to a head.

He followed the man to the rendezvous spot, a balcony on an old office building in the warehouse district. Two other men, mob guys, met him and they chatted amiably for a while. Batman had a video recorder going, and he needed a better angle. He was perched on a ledge above and catty-corner to their location, and he silently slipped around the corner, intent on monitoring the sound and visual integrity to make sure the footage would be usable.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. Two more men had arrived and they were clearly intent on interrupting the deal. More shots. One of the mob boys was down. The Batman recognized Jim Gordon's men, and, using his cape, he swooped down to the source of the action; he pushed the terrified contact out of range--once he came to his senses, he quickly took flight. One of the plainclothes detectives was injured; Batman pulled him into a place of relative safety behind a condenser unit. A shot took out the second detective, and then it was just the second mobster and Batman.

Batman struggled to take the gun from his opponent, but just as he was gaining the upper hand, the severely injured goon on the ground rallied long enough to shake his head and take aim from his floor-level position. He fired, hitting Batman in the chest. The Kevlar prevented penetration, but the impact threw Batman off balance and a wrenching pain in his chest caused him to lose concentration. He stumbled backward, flailing to support himself against the wall.

The standing gunman took aim and was just about to deliver a point-blank shot from his own weapon directly into the Batman's belly, when the Joker bound out from the shadows and wrapped a purple-clad arm around his neck. Simultaneously, he sliced through the would-be shooter's arm with a stiletto blade, making him drop the gun and shriek in pain.

"Hey, asshole, stop tryin' to kill my damn boyfriend..." the Joker hissed into the man's ear, just before he plunged his knife into the assailant's throat.

* * *