Well, by popular demand, here is another installment in this little fic. I was overjoyed by the good reviews, and decided to take the advice given and expand it a little.

And I've also realized (rather sheepishly, I might add) that my characterization of Croc is a little... out of character. To be fair, later in the comics, Croc does become desperate for a cure for his accelerated disease, so I decided to twist it this way. Meh. (And to be honest, I've always liked the look of the Killer Croc in The Batman series, not his lumpy gray appearance from the original series of Batman. But's that's in the cartoons, so...)

I'm rambling. Anyways, please enjoy!

I don't believe in fate, or destiny, or pre-destination. And coincidences? Please. Things just are. We're born, we live, we die. We are.

But I do believe in the human ability to change things for the better. That's something that's in all of us – even those who might seem to be intent on doing evil.

Maybe it comes from spending time with Killer Croc.

He's changed, he really has. He used to be a full-time crook, stealing just to keep himself sane. And then something changed; I don't know what it was, but he's different now. He wants to be normal, and while I don't know if it's possible, I've helped him out in any way I can. And one of those ways is my weekly visits.

I duck past the guard with a smile, tapping into the stream of time and cutting it off gently. This will give me a few hours before damage to time becomes a serious problem.

Inside his cell, Croc is waiting. His time has stalled, as well, until I prod his stream and let it flow again. He blinks as he adjusts to the change, and then he grins toothily.

"Hello, Croc," I say, returning the smile.

"Hey. How've ya been?" he asks as he emerges from the water. His cell looks like it should really belong in a zoo more than a prison, and I try not to let the thought irk me. Croc likes it, and I stay out of the issue.

I arrange myself outside his cell, pulling the sack lunch from my bag along with several of his favorite books. "Good. I brought your favorites – Emerson and Mark Twain."

Croc's eyes light up eagerly as he approaches the barred walls. "That's great! But what's in the bag?" he motions towards it with his snout, curiosity clear on his reptilian features.

I laugh and pull the sandwiches from the paper sack. "Tuna." I laugh again at the delight in his face, and slide them through the bars. I've brought enough even for Croc's monstrous appetite – something he apologizes every now and then for, but I always shrug off. Tuna is one of the few things that both he and I can eat, and sharing a meal makes Croc feel normal again, and that's something I'm not going to deny him.

While he tries to eat his pile of sandwiches slowly, I tell him about the week and what's been happening on the outside. He listens as I talk about Joker and Harley's latest fight, about the most recent alien invasion attempt, about the most shocking political scandals. He listens intently as I recall my latest encounter with the Justice League, and nods as I try to remember everything that happened in the most recent episode of his favorite television show.

Eventually he ends up curled against the cage wall, and I with my back to him, sharing warmth through the cell bars as I read to him from Tom Sawyer and The Over-Soul. And slowly the feeling of full-bellies and warmth overtake the both of us, and we slip into an easy slumber.

It's a refreshing nap, but I'm easily shaken out of it by a gentle gloved hand. Blinking, I gaze up at the cowled shadow, my breath shuddering a little with disappointment. I turn and spot Croc, who's back in the water and watching the Dark Knight of Gotham silently. I smile and wave and get a nod in return before I gather up my things and follow Batman out the door. I listen to it click shut before I turn to the Caped Crusader.

"Sorry."

He just looks at me. "You shouldn't have fallen asleep."

"I know." I have the decency to look sheepish. Me falling asleep means that any control I have over the time stream falters, and time flows on again.

"The guards found you asleep in there. You're lucky they decided to call it into the domestic police on an open channel."

I nod, but can't help adding, "There's no such thing as luck."

"Mm."

And we fall into silence, and I interpret his last words as an agreement. Because, really, there is no such thing as luck. If there was, then a child named Waylon James wouldn't have been born with a disfiguring mutation, and a man wouldn't have emerged from a chemical fall murderously insane, and a little boy's parents wouldn't have been shot to death in an alleyway.

There's no such thing as luck.

Things just are.