Summary: Could a man dedicated to the night have it all?

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Rating: T

Chapter XX

"Jesus Christ…another dead body…in less than four days that's new…for Gotham," an officer said to a comrade whilst standing in the midst of crime scene that had shaken Gotham County Hospital in an uproar. Cracking a number of crude jokes about the city's infamous reputation, they quickly cut their antics short just as Lt. Gordon arrived on the scene.

He quietly surveyed the dead body of a slain nurse still lying on the bathroom floor. Her discovery, mortifying revelation to a fellow co-worker. Her throat was slashed from ear to ear and her body stripped of her uniform.

"I'm guessing this was his handiwork," he remarked, glancing at the rumpled sheets, layers of bloody gauze, and tangled IV cords on the bed.

He could only imagine what was going through the mind of Jack Napier. He cringed. The memory of two orderlies restringing him as a doctor administered a sedative flashed in his mind.

He should have waited.

Waited until the man was in some state of recovery before unveiling the grim details about his late wife and unborn child. He'd delivered bad news before; families of slain victims always took it hard, but he didn't imagine it would lead to another's murder. Now, days later, a woman was dead, and a hospital was in lock down.

Gordon threw his eyes behind his shoulder when the door to the room banged open and two members of his units entered followed by Detective Ramirez. "Anything?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "As far as we know he's all but disappeared."

"Check the train stations, buses, and airports, but keep a low profile. I don't want one word of this leaking to the press. Last thing we need is those wolves nipping at our feet. Also, it might alarm him…poor bastard…he's clearly at the breaking point."

"I think he's more than crossed the breaking point sir."

The lieutenant gave the female officer a hard look, "I'm aware of that Ramirez, now get moving."

Ramirez nodded then tipped her head at two members of MCU. They matched her earnest steps as she walked down the hall to the elevators. Gordon wandered outside, the stench of alcohol and blood, an unwelcome mixture, made his head spine. He saw the nurse who found the victim, crumpled, face white, sitting in a chair next to a uniformed officer. She had given her name as Linda Waters. With a curt nod, the cop rose.

Easing out a sigh, he sank into a hard, grey chair. "Miss. Waters, I'm Lt. James Gordon of the Major Crimes Unit. I know this is difficult, but, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Mrs. …please…!" She blurted out, flashing a gold wedding ring in his face. "I've been married twenty-three years, far too long to be addressed as Miss." She sniffed and mopped her face with the back of her hand.

Gordon corrected himself. "Mrs. Waters, I'm sorry, this must be traumatic."

"I've known Jane for five years, sweet girl, always on time, never complained." She clapped her hands over her face and started to weep. "How could I have left her alone?"

"This wasn't you're fault. There wasn't anything anyone could have done. But I swear I'll do everything in my power to bring whoever did this to justice."

"We know who did this," Linda cried, outraged by Gordon's insinuation that he had no clue as to who was responsible for Jane's death. "HE DID IT! The man in that room KILLED her! And God I help treat him!"

Gordon shifted back in his seat not the least bit startled by the woman's accusation and temperament. What she had walked into would torture the mind of any person. Years of experience in the Police force had trained him to set his nerves. He could look at a dead person in the most abominable state and not even blink twice.

"I know this is hard," he began again, "but I need you to think. Was there ever a moment, in you're close proximity to the suspect, you might have seen his face?"

"His face?" Linda gagged and started quivering, "Oh god! His face!"

Pressing his lips tight, Gordon realized he wasn't going to reach anywhere with the distraught woman. He turned his eyes to the running of footsteps, spying a man in his mid-fifties coming to them, his expression one of distress. Gordon knew immediately he was Linda's husband. He grasp his wife, pulling her to a stand, and swallowing her plump frame in huge hug. She cried harder as he whispered words of devotion, comfort and thanks in her ears.

The lieutenant rose and addressed a few members of his squad then went to speak to the Director of Hospital. Frank and earnest to be rid of the police, Wilbert Elis, provided the necessary information and asked bluntly if he and rest of his officers would be so kind as to keep the name of the hospital out of the media's ears. His hospital was already greatly underfunded and couldn't afford anymore setbacks.

"I'll see what I can do," Gordon said, perturbed by the man's cold indifference to a incident that left one woman dead and a patient, obviously driven insane by grief, loose on the streets of Gotham.

It was all Gotham needed another nutcase on the loose.

Forsaking the office, Gordon called it a night and headed on home.

He scaled the rotting wood staircase leading to his apartment and stood before a moldy door where he stuck his key into a tarnished, brass knob. The door jammed as he pushed it open causing him to thrust his shoulder against the wood.

The wood was swelling; one of many faults in the apartment holding his family. He looked about the tiny household as he closed the door, which was another effort, and dropped his keys on the side table beside the front door.

"You're home," a soft voice floated down the dim hallway said.

Gordon paused just as he was removing his coat, marking a lithe form dressed in a cream colored nightgown approaching him. "Yeah, it's my day off tomorrow, so I thought I might leave work early to catch up on some sleep," he told his wife Barbara, a woman he'd loved the moment he'd set eyes on her thirteen years ago.

Barbara Gordon embraced her husband, resting her head on his shoulder. He clung to her with every inch of his life, breathing in the wondrous scent of French vanilla and jasmine; a fragrance that managed to wipe away the gritty truth of life and the world he faced each day.

"Are you hungry?" she asked as they parted and started walking towards their bedroom.

"No, just tired," he replied. "How are the kids?"

"They're good," she said, "James got an A on a spelling test and Little Barbara got the lead in her classes' recital."

"Wonderful."

"It's two weeks from Friday," she said, reclining against the closed door to their bedroom, observing her husband as he undressed and prepared for bed. "It would be nice if you could come. Take photos, laugh, be a father, even for brief moment."

"I'm trying Barbara," he sighed, sensing an argument brewing. "I'm trying."

"Not hard enough."

Gordon glanced at his wife; her expression was sullen and her eyes heavy with a tired spirit that emanated from deep within. He sighed as he reclined on the bed, pulling the quilt over his body. "I didn't come home to fight with you Barbara," he patted the empty space beside him. "Please, not now, not tonight."

"Quarter past 3. Take a hike pal we're closed!" A bartender grunted when he heard the footsteps echo in the darkened dancehall of the Blue Bayou. Six long weeks had passed since a car bomb outside the nightclub had chased most of the decent paying customers out. All that was left were the rejects and two-bit hoods. Not that the Blue Bayou was a classy establishment.

A door slammed shut.

Figuring the customer had left; he took inventory, cleaned the surface of the bar with a white dish towel, and then turned to the wash the cloth out in the sink. But as he shifted to wipe down the place further, he was immediately taken off guard by a tapping sound not too far from him.

He rotated and beheld a vagrant seated before him, hunch forward, and monotonously twirling a pencil with pale, callused hand. He could see dirt beneath the fingernails and strings of greasy hair fell in his face. His clothing was matted and torn and radiated a foul, detestable smell as though it had been plucked from a garbage heap.

The bartender darkened. "Did y' hear me pal," he leaned close in case this fool was hard of hearing. "I said bar's closed."

He gained no response nor did the endless play with the wood instrument cease. Snarling, the bartender slapped the dish towel into the sink, and hollered, "Hey Clark! Chino! We got ourselves a real joker out 'ere."

Thunderous footsteps pounded across the ceiling before a blast of bright yellow light and music pierced the dark bar as two men entered through a backdoor discreetly tucked at the rear of the bar.

"What's dah matter Frankie?" one of them called out adjusting the front of his pants.

"Deaf and stupid over 'ere. Keeps play wit' his goddamn pencil like it's his freakin' Johnson."

The two men bum rushed the hapless tramp seemingly lost in the hypnotic twirl of pencil spinning on the bar surface. "Hey," Chino bellowed. "GET LOST!"

Clark came up behind and shoved hard. "What're yah deaf?"

"It's like I done said," remarked Frankie, shaking his head.

"Maybe we should take this guy outside and teach him some manners." Chino said. His blood was boiling. He was itching for a fight and the run in with the Chechen's men two nights back left him oddly unsatisfied.

"Take his moldy ass out back," Frankie snorted as he started to dry the wine and shot glasses. "I'll be there in a sec."

Clark dropped his hands on the vagrant's shoulder. "Okay, let's go beautiful."

His eyes burst open as a violent pain raced down his throat. His windpipe flooded as blood began to gush out his mouth and nose. Bulging eyes dropped downwards to stare wildly at a slender yellow object protruding from his neck.

He gagged.

His lungs burned as oxygen dissipated and the need for air became peril. He dropped to his knees, ripping the pencil out his throat, producing more blood in the action.

A slew of curses spilled out of Chino as he struggled to pluck his Glock which was holstered behind his back.

"Mother-"

The last two syllables escaped his mouth in a deathly gasp. Clark watched with haunted eyes as the vagrant raked a knife across Chino's throat, before succumbing to oxygen deprivation that now squeezed his lungs in a deathlike vice.

Frankie staggered backwards in panic, rattling glass shelves, and breaking glasses in an attempt to rip out a gun hidden underneath the bar. He turned white as the vagrant scrambled over the bar top, kicking him hard in the chest. Frankie smashed into the glass mirror behind him, shattering items and bottles.

"N-now…all…I wanted…was a glass of…water-rah" the tramp said in a grating voiced as he traced the gory blade along the bartender's face.

"H-hey…b-buddy. Y' didn't say…and me and the boys…w-we weren't gonna kill y'. W-we were just going rough y' up a bit. Nobody wanted y' dead."

"I-I've been dead once. It's v-very liber-rating. You can call it instant ther-rapy."

"L-listen jack…I'll give you w-whatever you…you want…j-just don't…kill me."

The vagrant cocked his head to one side. "Jack? Jack is dead-dah. But what I am is a JOKER." The tramp thrust his head back to allow the light to spill on his face. Frankie cringed in horror upon sight of jagged swollen scars and crazed eyes emphasized by bleach white paint, haunting shadows and blood red paint smeared on his lips.

"As you can see," Joker cackled. "I'm a-a lot happier-r!" Sadistic bouts of laughter spilled from his painted lips. "NOW…Let's put a smile on that FA-CE!"

"The soup's good." Bruce commented, spooning the rich Manhattan clam chowder into his mouth, watching Karen as he ate.

"Hmmm?"

"The soup…it's good."

"Oh…" Karen blushed and swirled her spoon in the hearty soup then angled the sterling silver spoon into her mouth. "I'm glad you like it."

Smiling, Bruce brushed his fingers lightly across her cheek, tucking a dark, wavy, strand behind her ear. He chuckled inwardly. He liked her ears; they were kind a man could nibble on all night long.

"Sorry we couldn't stay at the mansion as planned. Warren Holden, my contractor, thought it was brilliant to level and uproot the entire area. All that's left is bricks, mud, and mortar."

Karen pulled her gaze away from the roaring fire in front of her to look at the man to her left. Upon giving Alfred the night off, they isolated themselves in a rather large study of a brownstone Bruce owned in the affluent part of city. It was here she spent many a night; a means to escape not only the press, which had tracked her down to Rebecca's apartment, but Bob's self righteous tirades.

She knew he meant well and cared about her dear friend, but she could hardly call the now scratch on Rebecca's knee her fault. Eventually, he apologized. Either way, she beginning to like staying overnight with Bruce, and enjoyed waking up most mornings in his arms.

"I'm sure he rationalized the importance of having the entire mansion's infrastructure on a solid foundation. Any weakness could be detrimental to the construction of the house."

"You're probably right."

Kicking out his right leg, Bruce adjusted for a comfortable seat, pulling the bowl of soup closer to him. He took a saltine cracker and dipped it into the white brew. "Tell me about your day?"

"There's nothing to report. Bob hates my guts. Half of Gotham's thinks I'm this pathetic gold digger and many executives at Wayne Enterprises believe I slept my way to the top."

"Tell me their names so that I can fire them," Bruce demanded.

Karen merrily laughed. "Thanks," she said crawling over to him, moving his bowl out of reach so she could take his place between his legs. "But I'm a big girl. A little name calling is not going to bother me. Believe me, I've endured worst." She reclined against him and exhaled as he started to rub her shoulders.

"It just bothers me to know they think that of you."

She patted his leg. "I'll be alright. So, Oohh," she moaned, his hands kneading deep into the taut muscles of her shoulder, creating a wonderful sensation. "How was your day compared to mine?"

"The press are handful, a few boring meetings, but other than that I spent most of my time looking forward to spending the evening with you."

"I thought you would head out tonight beat up some thugs, scare the crap out of a few drug dealers."

"They are not my priority tonight," his breath hitched when he felt her hand reach behind to unzip his pants and slither under the material. He released a heavy sigh when he felt her take hold of him and his eyes slid close.

The blare of a telephone ringing in the late morning stirred a wearied James Gordon to life. Swinging his arm out from beneath the quilt, the seasoned cop slammed his hand on the receiver and plucked it from the base.

"What?" he murmured in a groggy voice and grimaced as his wife stirred to life and rise to a sit. Barbara frowned at her husband and pushed out the bed. Gordon then clamped his hand over the mouth piece. "Where are you going?"

"To make you some eggs and bacon," she sighed, slipping into her robe and putting on her slippers.

"Uh, you don't have to…huh, what?" he said, thrown off by the voice rising out the phone.

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you," the officer spoke, "but we have a situation down at the Blue Bayou."

"The Blue Bayou?"

"Yes sir, it's a nightclub down on…"

"I know what and where it is," Gordon said growing agitated. "Six weeks ago CSI had to scrape the remains man by the name of Steven McGrath burned to a crisp when his car exploded not too far from the club. What seems to be the problem?"

"We have a triple homicide down here, sir," said the officer. "Frankie Maroni is dead along with another compatriot."

"Yeah, I know him; real scumbag like his uncle, drug ringer, knee-deep in prostitution…won't be shedding a tear for him. And the other men?"

"Frankie's heavy, Chino Alvarez, half black half Hispanic, a low level enforcer and…"

"Spare me the details. Who's the other guy?" Gordon demanded, hearing the nervousness in the officer's tone.

"And t-the other man is…is Agent Clark Davis."

Gordon shot up straight in bed. His hand gripping the phone. "Davis, Clark Davis from the FBI!"

"Yes sir. We need you down here right away. The press is going crazy as are the FBI. They're demanding answers and a head in the investigation."

Gordon rippled the quilt off, and got to his feet. "No one says or does anything until I get down there is that understood!"

"B-but sir, the FBI!"

"I don't give a damn about the FBI! If one of their men is dirty then they got some explaining to do to us!"

Consistently throwing up for the last three days, Karen had to be sure. Sure that it wasn't just a bad case of Tai Food or an upset set. Sure that it wasn't her imagination play tricks with her head.

She left the Brownstone and Bruce under the delusion that she was going to pick up some files from her office and bring them back to the house. Instead, she headed to the nearest drug store and snatched up several pregnancy tests, then went to the one person she could trust with her most intimate secrets.

"Bob's not here if that's what…" Rebecca began, but her mouth fell open as Karen charged inside."

"I'm not worried about Bob," Karen cried. She literally bouncing off the walls, the purchases from the drugstore clutched tightly in her hands. She stared with frightened eyes at her best friend. "I-I think I'm in trouble."

"Trouble? God, what more could you possibly be in?"

"The worst kind."

"What's worst than having the mob trying to kill you?"

Karen looked away, trembling, unsure. "I-I…I think I'm…pregnant…I…"

Rebecca went immediately to her side. "What? Is it Mr. Wayne's? Are you sure?"

"I don't know," Karen gasped turning away. "I'm not sure about anything!"

"How could you not be sure? I-I mean damn it Karen! Are you or aren't you?"

"I don't know! I've been feeling sick…throwing up…I don't know!"

Unable to stand much longer, the older woman sank into the nearby sofa. "Well," she tread softly. "When was you're last period."

"After all that's happened I don't even remember. That's why I rushed to the nearest drugstore and bought these," Karen lifted the bag for Barbara to see.

"And you came here…"

Karen scoffed. "I didn't want to do it there…and have Bruce or Alfred walk in and…it's…look let's just get this over with. I need to know!"

Dusting herself off, Rebecca rose to her feet waved her frantic friend onwards to the bathroom. "Are you going to tell him?" she asked forty-five minutes later, watching Karen discard the last pregnancy test into a wastebasket. All five had turned out positive. "Karen," Rebecca spoke more earnestly, catching a distraught look from her. "Are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know how?" she whimpered out in response.

"I'm pregnant could be a start," Rebecca suggested.

Eyes pooling with tears, Karen slowly shook her head. "It's not that simple. Not anymore."