A/N: The next update may come a little slower, as I'm going to be unexpectedly in Mexico for the next week. On a darker note...

This chapter was one of the first things I wrote for this story; as soon as Joker and Batman met as something other than enemies, I knew this would happen, and it's been a long time in coming. As such, there's only one gap in this one, that I just never got around to filling in. The rest of it is continuous. I would also like to apologize in advance.

Happy reading.

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"It's not hard to own something. Or everything. You just have to know that it's yours, and then be willing to let it go."

~ Neil Gaiman

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

~The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T. S. Eliot

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To say it began as a night like any other would have been a disservice to the old cliché, as well as a bald-faced lie; no night of theirs was ever typical, or ever alike. However, it did start off somewhat pleasantly, which was in itself quite enough to set it apart.

Batman and the Joker were watching a movie.

Movies, as it happened, were a bit of a problem. Bruce found comedies, both screwball and slapstick, more or less pointless, though he would occassionally tolerate the Marx brothers. Dramas just spawned arguments. And Bruce found Jack's enthusiasm for horror movies more than a little off-putting. They eventually found some common ground in action, old classic comedies, and B-class zombie movies. Jurassic Park turned out to be a favorite; action-packed enough to appeal to both of them, violent and complex enough to keep Jack entertained, and implausible enough that Bruce didn't constantly worry that it was giving Jack new ideas. Even the Joker would have some trouble acquiring a dinosaur, after all. They'd caught the first two last week, when the SciFi channel did an all-weekend marathon, but had been interrupted before they could watch the third. So Bruce had bought it.

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Joker had no problem mapping out his plots. The trick to it was to stop caring, about anything; about Batman, about success or failure, about pain, or hunger, or even his own life or death. When he didn't care, when he gave up every tie to himself and the world, he could slip out of being and see every delicately interwoven string of effects and consequences and decisions, stretching through time and woven around him, and see his own role in it, each possible pathway and branching opportunity and where they led, farther and farther into the future: an outsider's perspective, taken to the extreme.

Jack closed his eyes, stopped caring, and allowed his mind to drift into non-being, losing himself in the ebb and flow of cause and effect, encompassing every facet of possibility, every potential outcome, and analyzing the results, picking through them for the ones he wanted, finding the sequence of occurrences, like the set of keystrokes on a computer, that would get him there.

Except...

Except that wasn't happening now. When he tried to detach his mind and lose himself in the delicate interplay of cause and consequence, some part of him stayed here, like a bird trying to fly with a rock tied to its leg.

Something was anchoring him, tying him to the here and now, keeping him from drifting away as he usually did. Something wasn't allowing him to stop caring.

This would have to be dealt with.

He cautiously prodded the small corner of his mind set aside for any stray feelings that happened to come wandering through. Normally he avoided feelings, and did a good job of it. Nasty messy things, and annoying as hell. With Bruce though, they were becoming oddly unavoidable.

Hmm. Obsession. That one he'd known about. A disproportionate amount of affection, more than he had ever felt for anything or anyone else. That was no surprise either, though it still annoyed him. Concern made a brief appearance; he certainly didn't want anything or anyone to happen to Bruce before he did. Competitiveness and pleasure were here too, just where he'd expected them to be, mixed up with some lingering annoyance over Batboy's ridiculous morals.

It was more than that though. He looked a little closer, struggling to analyze the mixed signals he was getting, and realized, with no little surprise, that he cared more about Bruce's life now than his own. It was a bizarre feeling, as though the world had tilted on its axis, tipping him out of his spot in the center and putting Bruce in his place.

He cared about Bruce. Not just Batman anymore, no; though the Dark Knight was still the center of his world, this had gone beyond his obsession with his old enemy, far beyond. He cared about Bruce himself, and wanted him to be happy.

He cared about Bruce.

He cared.

That couldn't be countenanced.

He struggled to push himself away, to regain the same detached, amused distance he always kept with the rest of the world, only to find that he couldn't slip away the way he usually did. Just as before, something tied him here, forcing him to stay engaged, to care.

Instantly, he rebelled against that idea, throwing himself at the walls that had been built in his mind without his permission. He didn't care, he wouldn't care, this wasn't anything permanent, this was for fun, he wouldn't be trapped here…but he already was.

If it had been Harley or anyone else, he would have killed them rather than risk caring for them. Maybe it wasn't too late for that…? But at the mere thought of harming Bruce in any way, he felt physically sick, his stomach clenching and trying to force its way out through his throat, and knew that if he tried to pursue that avenue of thinking, it would only get worse. He couldn't get himself out of this that way.

Far too late for that, the half of him that was Joker informed him moodily. You got yourself in too deep. You care about Bruce now, really care, more about him than yourself. You can't hurt him. It would destroy you. This is serious.

Too late to hit the eject button. The escape he always left for himself had closed behind him, catching him unawares and leaving him with no way out.

He felt himself reach some kind of a crossroads that had come up without his knowledge or consent. He could choose to keep what he had, be happy, be normal, live knowing he cared and was cared for, live in the fluffy, softened world most people inhabited. Or he could force a change in this relationship, prove to himself - himself, no one else, why did he need to prove anything to himself? - that he wasn't trapped and helpless, that caring didn't make you brain-dead…and risk losing everything he had only just (irony of ironies, I thought jokes were supposed to be funny) realized he did in fact care about.

This has been coming for a while now. She's been there, what, four months, Joker informed him. You know you can't keep her on ice forever, sooner or later Kane will snap, or she'll get sick, or some other shit will happen. Moment of truth. Time to nut up or shut up. Tie up loose all the last little loose ends and stay here for good, or else tell Bruce exactly what you got up to that night?

Jack had no doubt that honesty would bring change. He wasn't sure he wanted change. Part of him screamed for a way out, any way out, escape right now, but part was perfectly happy to sit back at Bruce's side and accept life as it came to him. His two sides, human and monster, had come into play and were fighting for control.

Bruce felt Jack tense slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, confused. Jack glanced at him, and there was genuine concern there. He's worried about me. A moment later, he was considering, for perhaps the first time in years, not how the situation related to him, but how someone else might gain or lose. The focus of his mental conundrum had shifted instantly from him to Bruce, exactly the way the rest of his world had.

Maybe that's love, he thought ironically, his mind still warring. He could tell Bruce the truth, destroy this relationship but give him what he wanted. Or he could keep lying, keep what he had, stay stuck. Be loved. Be happy.

He chose.

"Your, uh, your girl Rachel," he finally whispered. "That's what's wrong." Repeating in his mind, don't change, don't change, even as he knew it was too late, he'd made his choice. Beside him, Bruce might as well have turned to stone. He turned around, hesitant, for once, lightly touching his friend's sleeve. If only there was some way to know how he would react…

"Bruce?"

"What do you mean?" came the strangled reply. "What about Rachel?"

"She's…she's not really…dead, per se," Jack muttered. This was going all wrong. "In, uh, every literal sense of the word."

"She's not dead," Bruce repeated blankly, but Jack could hear the undercurrent of some powerful emotion beneath the surface. Whether it was rage or delight, he couldn't have said.

"Well, not exactly. I didn't wanna tell you…before," he muttered, not meeting his friend's eyes.

"You didn't tell me," came the flat, parroted reply. Bruce jumped up and began pacing the perimeter of the room.

"Well, no," Jack prattled uneasily, "'cause I knew you'd, uh, you'd get like this, get all angsty and annoyed again, like you always do, and 'cause I was havin' too much fun an' I didn't…I didn't want..."

His voice trailed off, anything to change hanging unsaid in the air. How stupid, to think that nothing would ever change. Everything changed. That was what he did, wasn't it, brought about change? He had set himself against entropy itself this time, of course he would fail. How could he have allowed himself to let down his defenses like that, to think that things would work out? Things never worked out.

"I mean, I dunno why, uh, why you liked her so much anyway," he chattered nervously, truly wishing he could listen to the little voice telling him to shut up, right now. "She wasn't that great-lookin', an' she talked too much, could be a real bitch, an' I mean, she was datin' Harvey-boy anyways, it wasn't like you two had any real chance…" He stopped short at the look on his friend's face. Stupid, stupid.

Bruce turned to face him, hands balled into fists. "Where is she?" he whispered. His voice quivered with barely suppressed rage. How could he talk about her like that? What did he know, she'd said she would wait for him, him, not Harvey. He couldn't believe that Jack had kept this from him for all this time, hadn't told him even though he knew how important it was, how much he missed Rachel, how much he loved her. Wasn't Jack supposed to be his friend? Some friend, pretending to care about him and all the while keeping his true friend locked away, away from him. All those months we might have had together…spent with Joker instead. He was furious with himself for falling for it. What an idiot, to think the Joker might truly like him, might not just be using him…

Jack gave no sign of having heard.

"Joker, where is she?" he asked again, hands clenching tighter. This had become an interrogation, and he could feel Batman, so much more capable in this than the bubble-headed Bruce Wayne who was foolish enough to fall for the Joker, rising to the forefront of his mind, urging him to do anything he had to do to find her. He pushed it back down with difficulty. Stay in control. But he wasn't sure how much longer that would last…

Jack didn't even look at him. Give me a minute Brucey, just a minute, and I'll tell you. Just give me a minute.

"Where. Is. She?"

Jack glanced up at him, then down again, making no move whatsoever to answer. In an instant, they were no longer Jack and Bruce; Batman had forcibly taken control, and he would do whatever he had to in order to get answers out of the Joker. Something in him snapped.

"I ASKED WHERE SHE WAS, YOU FREAK!"

The first blow caught Jack unawares, and before he could register what was happening, he was spinning across the room, landing painfully on his back, his shoulder jarring against the coffee table, and Bruce was standing over him, his face etched with rage. When he still didn't answer, the taller man let out a snarl of fury. Seizing him by his shirt, he dragged him upright and smashed his face into the wall again and again, harder each time. All the rage and fury and hatred and pain and disgust that had been strangely absent for the past month and a half was pouring out now, in one great tidal wave of murderous intent all the stronger for having been so long in coming. Even when fighting the Joker on the Prewitt building, Batman had never felt rage like this before. He couldn't hit the Joker hard enough.

Jack was laughing. The twisted thing he'd come to think of as a heart, for want of a better term, was cracking like ice, but he was laughing hysterically all the same. He could tell that it was infuriating Bruce, and he tried to stop, but the gales of mad laughter just kept ripping out of his throat, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back, racking his body even as he was being shaken like a rat in the mouth of a terrier. For once, he was in no way in control of the situation. It was not a good feeling.

He could feel Bruce's powerful hand gripping the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp punctuated by the brief, staccato bursts of pain and purple-grey that appeared every time his head connected with the wall. He felt his forehead hit a picture frame, and the sharp corner sheared open a long, deep cut above his eyebrow. Blood was trickling into his eyes, but he just kept laughing. Something shattered. Probably his nose. Another stomach-twisting crunch.

Finally, Bruce spun him around.

"Where is she?" he asked again. Jack licked his lips and tasted blood.

"In an old apartment…in the Narrows," he breathed, still giggling insanely. "Pas' the old Arkham building. There's a… alley, to the left, with a door a' the end. Beyond the door…" he stopped to draw breath. Bruce shook him roughly.

"Beyond the door, then what?" he shouted. Jack went limp in his arms, slumping like a ragdoll. Even when he was hating him, hurting him, Bruce was intoxicating. He focused on the sensation of the hands holding him up, savoring the newly-inflicted pain that told him Bruce was still here, wasn't gone just yet, as his head snapped back with every new punch. His mind, already hazy, drifted backwards to the police interrogation. How similar the two scenes were, but how different too: Batman and Joker in one, Bruce and Jack in the other. In both, Bruce had lost control. What an honor, really, that he was the only one who could push Batman truly over the edge. Even when he wasn't trying to. With a cold stab of something he could only label sorrow, he realized this would be the last time he would ever be this physically close to Bruce, the last time he would ever touch him like this…

He returned to the present only when his head cracked against the wall once again. Bruce was still glaring at him.

"Then what?" Bruce growled, tightening his grip, fingers digging into Jack's bony shoulders. He was using the Batman voice, Jack realized suddenly. He had it wrong. Batman was present in both scenes; the Joker was the variable. The Joker would've shrugged this off as routine; just another fight between friends, enemies, whatever you wanted to call 'em, didn't change the fact that they would always be doing this, always. For Jack, it was different. Jack was used to being human, to verbal sparring and play fights with Bruce. Jack wasn't used to the brutally physical presence of the Batman, who, for all his speeches about human dignity and justice, had no problem beating those he considered scum to a bloody mess. And try as he might, he couldn't make the switch. The Joker could've handled it, would've even enjoyed it, but he was locked securely in a corner of Jack's mind, leaving him to deal with this on his own. And like a normal human (pathetic, weak, how'd you let yourself fall this far?), he wanted it to end.

"Pas' the door there's stairs," he whispered, struggling to draw breath. He pressed down with his toes, and realized Bruce was holding him off the ground. A sudden ripple of unaccustomed alarm spasmed through him. It was one thing to know, academically, that Bruce was much, much stronger than him, to be playfully pinned down or manhandled when he knew the other man would relent at the first sign of real anxiety. It was quite another to be dangling here, Bruce pinning him against the wall with no apparent effort, his fingers grinding painfully into his shoulder blades, knowing, knowing that struggle as he might, he would not be able to escape unless Bruce allowed him to. It was not a good feeling, not at all. The collar of his shirt was twisted too tight against his neck, pressing into the soft skin as he breathed, "Apar'men's… a' the top of the stairs. Thir' floor. You'll need… to ge' through the double doors."

Bruce finally let go of his shirt, and he slid to the floor. Both men considered each other for a long moment. Jack's thin chest rose and fell almost as rapidly as Bruce's as he stood, glaring down at the man who had been his friend and villain and lover. Jack's shirt was torn, and his nose was definitely broken. It was crooked and dripping dark blood that pooled at the corner of his mouth. One arm was held at a funny angle, and he seemed to have trouble breathing. Livid bruises were already beginning to bloom around his eyes and throat.

He wanted to kill him.

At that moment, he wanted, more than anything, more than he ever had before, to break his one rule. He wanted to feel his hands close around the Clown Prince's neck, crushing his fragile, hollow windpipe, snapping the bony spine like a dry stick. He wanted to see his chest heaving uselessly, trying vainly to draw in air, see his mouth gaping as those brown eyes lost their sparkle, feel his hands scrabbling and clawing frantically against him, seeking something, anything, to draw air back into his ruined lungs and stop his world going dark. He wanted to feel the hot, bitter satisfaction of destroying another person's life dilute the freezing hatred that pounded through his veins. He wanted to kill.

He'd stood silently by for too long, being naïve enough to believe in second chances, hoping that maybe, with his influence, the Joker would change. Mad dogs didn't get better. This just proved it. If Joker claimed to be his friend, why did he lie to Bruce about Rachel? He knew, all too well, how much Bruce missed her, loved her, wanted her back, if he cared about Bruce at all, why had he kept an innocent woman captive for so long? Probably keeping her as insurance, in case I came to my senses, he thought savagely, glaring at the man on the floor. No, that wasn't right. He wasn't a man. He wasn't human at all. Humans didn't keep their friend's sweethearts locked away, or maim for fun, or casually blow up boats full of families. He was nothing but a monster, a freak, as Batman had always known and Bruce had refused to recognize. There was no cure for mad dogs, and nothing to do but put down the threat before it attacked even more people. He was stupid, naive, weak not to have recognized that before.

For a long moment he stood, staring down. Jack gazed back at him, his dark eyes unfathomable. Finally he drew a long, rattling breath.

"Brucey," he gasped through split, bleeding, scarred lips. Bruce's face twitched in fury.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" he snarled, moving as if to hit him again. How dare this monster address him so familiarly? How dare he talk about Rachel?

Jack closed his eyes and waited for the blow to fall. It wasn't the pain he minded; it was who was causing it.

"Master Wayne."

It was Alfred who had spoken, whose calm, imploring voice had broken the spell. His eyes flicked from Bruce, trembling with rage, to Jack, crumpled and bleeding at his feet. He took a step into the room.

"Master Wayne…stop this."

Still breathing heavily, Bruce glanced from him to Jack and back again. Finally he stepped back, though his face was twisting itself into an ugly snarl.

"Get out," he growled. Jack didn't move. There was more he wanted to say; how he hoped Bruce would be all right, that he would find Rachel, that she would want him (how could she not? his Bruce…), that he would be happy…

"Get OUT!" Bruce shouted again. He didn't move as Jack dragged himself upright, or as he stumbled across the room with painful, awkward slowness.

At the door, he turned back. He couldn't help himself, even though he knew, knew it would be a mistake. It was. He could read, as easily as a book, the promise written in Bruce's face. If I ever see you again, I will see to it that you die. Not a threat. A guarantee. And Batman was a man of his word, just as the Joker was. Nothing to do but follow instructions and get out. So he did, head bowed and blood still dripping from his mouth and nose.

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When you're not wanted, there's not much you can do except leave.

~ Dexter

"Never mind. There. For good or bad. It's done."

~ Neil Gaiman

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A/N: Just for the record, I don't think either of them is totally in the wrong, or thinking completely rationally. Or, for that matter, completely sane.

Before I start getting "OMG, Bruce is a jerk!" messages, do me a favor. Go back and read only the dialogue of this chapter, without any of the stream of consciousness or explanations. Bruce, after all, can't see what's going on in Joker's head (thank god, it's a scary place). And then go back and watch the interrogation scene in The Dark Knight. I did my damndest to keep this in character and in context for both of them. I'll leave it up to you as to how well I succeeded.

...please don't kill me.

Thanks for reading! (?)