A/N: This was written for the Gotham Idol competition on Live Journal. Each chapter is a response to a prompt, this first one was "Action." This chaper is told from the Joker's POV; that will vary from chapter to chapter. This is Nolanverse, but not particularly relevant to the events of TDK. Also--I do not own Nolanverse or DC Comics anything, and no money is made from this, it's just for fun.

FYI, the story will eventually feature Jonathan Crane in a supporting role; later chapters will have m/m sex and bad language throughout.

Please review and let me know what you think!!

01/27/2010: Fanfic author Ididntdoit07 pointed out that the device of having the Joker use the hypodermic on the orderly in order to escape coincidentally appeared in her earlier-posted story, "Moonstruck". So, I toddled off to read it, and it's awesome, check it out! Thanks.

*****

Mentally, the Joker was ready for action. Oh, yeah, his stint in Arkham had been too long. Too long, too boring, and too damn depressing. There was no way he could wait another minute for something exciting to happen. He missed his Bat, and he missed his mind--he felt like the Arkham pill jockeys had sent it off on a long vacation somewhere nice, but without leaving a forwarding address--and enough was enough. When the opportunity came, you better believe he seized it.

Although, to be honest, being laid up in the infirmary had been a welcome change of pace. There were windows! And sharp things....

But, no action.

Well, other than the fun of stabbing the hypodermic loaded with his sedative into the lone orderly's neck when he came to give him his sponge bath. It was regrettable--the Joker reeeally liked his sponge baths--but he'd been hazily observing the situation ever since he regained consciousness and he knew--that was the golden moment. One hand was free, the orderly was too slow and too stupid to realize what was happening, and it was all over in a split second. Yeah, that dose would stop a normal-sized horse, although, for him it was just a nice buzz--but for the stooge with the tray and washcloths? It put him in la-la-land before he could punch the red "fuck, I'm in trouble" button on the intercom.

Hilarious.

He absently ran his bare fingers over the swollen needle marks on his arm--he'd gotten excited and jerked the freakin' IVs out too quick--and now his skin was bruised and irritated. Same story on his wrists and ankles, but for different reasons--goddamn straps they used to hold him down rubbed him raw every time he had a coughing fit, which was only ALL THE FUCKING TIME--they said it was pneumonia.

The illness had taken its toll, that was for sure. He felt like crap. Cheap Arkham doctors, what'd they do, troll for veterinary school drop-outs? Physically, he was barely a step above the walking dead, but his mind was buzzing as usual.

It had been pathetically easy; he'd lifted the keys from the idiot's belt, unlocked the grate on a window, scrambled outside, and scuttled along out of range of the security cams to the gate where the employees parked; he'd used the guy's keycard, and voila! Freedom.

It would have been perfect, except this particular doofus didn't own a car, so he'd had to hoof it down to the Narrows--slowly, painfully, he was terribly out of shape and not breathing so good--but here he was, and now it was time to move forward. Although, he was a little tired. And drowsy. Maybe he should find a safe place to crash for a bit....

He stifled a deep cough and fiddled with the lock on the window of an old warehouse. Shit, did he have a fever? It was cold and rainy, and he was clad only in his Arkham whites. He'd have to wait until he felt better and was suitably armed before returning to retrieve his own clothing from the asylum storeroom. He disregarded the chill, although it occurred to him that people actually died from pneumonia, and here he was, just asking for a relapse--a wracking cough forced its way up from his lungs, and he coughed so hard he saw black spots before his eyes.

Damn it. He didn't like being sick. And, what a crummy way to die, drowning in your own fluids....

He popped the lock open and crawled inside; it was a long-abandoned building on the waterfront and there was nothing inside except some frozen old machinery, empty boxes, and the smell of rust and stale motor oil. He didn't care, all he wanted was a place to hole up while he figured things out. That, and the Bat. He wanted his Bat and he wanted him now, but in his current condition he knew he couldn't attract his attention. Batman was attracted to chaos, and the Joker couldn't drum up a crowd at a hanging the way he felt now.

Although, the groundwork had been laid. If he could just remember where he'd left the damn detonator....

Too much inactivity for too long. He had to gather his strength. Enough strength to find some action, which this place definitely DIDN'T HAVE ANY OF, but that was ok. For now.

The Joker made a makeshift bed of some flattened cardboard and old newspapers he found in a corner. He rested his head on his arm and drifted off.

His body would be out of commission for a little while longer; but his dreams took him high above the city, flying over rooftops, dropping into alleys, running, running, chasing and being chased, always the Bat, always a step ahead or a step behind, it didn't matter as long as they were together, or nearly so, as long as HE was thinking about him, his enemy, that was good enough, good enough for now, good enough to keep him going until....

Until the Bat was ready for some real action.