A/N: So I went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie with one of my friends. As we were watching, she turned to me and muttered, "Two brilliant guys, one a nutcase, the other comparatively sane, dealing with an evil genius who had a hand in a gas-based attack using uber-epic technology. Victorian Batman much?" At which point I noticed that Sherlock Holmes in drag looks disturbingly like a cross-dressing Joker, right down to the smear of lipstick. I swear to god that was intentional...

Why yes, we do have one-track minds, why do you ask?

On that note...finally, a Dark Knight Rises trailer that isn't pure BB & TDK recap!

This chapter is mostly pure plot, but it sets up some fairly necessary elements for later. Next chapter will feature more of our favorite odd couple. Anyways, read review, and most of all, enjoy!

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He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.

~ Neil Gaiman

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December swept into Gotham City, bringing with it freezing rain, biting wind, and a new worry for Bruce, to add to his growing stack. This concern, while not as potentially life-threatening as Beatrix and Harley Quinn, was no easier to solve.

His problem was Christmas shopping.

His latest, non-mob related girlfriend (some model... Candy Walker, that was her name...) wouldn't be at all difficult. He could just get her some designer perfume or jewelry. Alfred wasn't terribly hard either; Bruce had already tracked down a bottle of the vintage wine he was fond of and had booked a first-class flight to London for him, so that he could visit his niece in January, as he always did. None the others on his list presented any problem. But what on earth was he supposed to get Jack?

Deciding what to get someone you'd been dating for just about a month was awkward anyway. And it wasn't exactly as though he could write in to Miss Manners and ask for advice, Bruce thought wryly. He somehow doubted that she'd have any experience in the proper protocol as far as shopping for a deranged clown with a passion for explosives.

It would have to be something practical, Bruce decided. Jack wasn't at all one to keep something that didn't have a definite use. The problem though was that anything the infuriating man needed, he already had. So what to get him?

Another purple suit? Bruce considered it briefly before deciding against it. Too boring, and besides, he didn't know what size it would have to be…or where to get one, for that matter. More paint? Way too boring. Knives would definitely be a very bad idea. Music? But he never seemed to want for that either, and he wouldn't know what type…

Bruce scowled. If only he had some way of getting in touch with Jack besides the times the grinning clown suddenly decided to show up. A Joker signal was looking like a better and better idea. It had been four days since his last, disastrous talk with Beatrix, and during that time, the Joker would appear for a few minutes at a time throughout the day, only to vanish again as soon as soon as Bruce tried to actually talk to him. And there was plenty to talk about. Beatrix had been oddly quiet, and Batman had been able to avoid Harley Quinn thus far, but that couldn't last forever, and Max Shreck was rapidly becoming almost as pressing a problem.

Bruce didn't like Shreck at the best of times; quite apart from how unpleasant the man himself was, his business practices were appalling. Bruce knew that he had deals with the mob, even if Shreck was careful to cover his tracks, and Batman suspected but couldn't prove that he owned half the firetraps and tenements in the Narrows. Not to mention that a number of Shreck's manufacturing projects had the unpleasant habit of dumping toxic chemicals into the Gotham River...

The feeling, Bruce knew, was mutual. Shreck considered him nothing so much as a nosy little do-gooder of a rich brat, and during meetings, made a point of talking about how much better off Wayne Enterprises had been under William Earle. Thankfully, that was as far as he'd ever gone; he'd never seemed to suspect the reason for the rich brat act. Which was why his sudden interest made Bruce so nervous. Deplorable as the man might be, he was by no means stupid, and Bruce knew that if Max Shreck ever found out about the Batman connection, he was sunk.

For better or for worse, their two companies were stuck together; during Bruce's seven-year absence, Earle had signed a deal guaranteeing Shreck the right to sell Wayne Enterprise technology, much to the anger of Wayne himself. The connection had, at times, been useful - Lucius was using it to get a closer look at Shreck's records, for one - but Bruce's life had rather too much moral grey in it already, and he'd have been thrilled to have the chance to rid himself of Shreck for good.

Which was why he and Candy Walker were currently attending a fundraiser for a local art museum, a cause Bruce knew Shreck had championed in the past. Unfortunately, it was, he was told on arriving, an entirely wasted effort; Shreck had left after only an hour, claiming he had something at the office that needed finishing up.

Dammit, Bruce thought, face arranged into a charming smile. Either Shreck knew he would be there (he hadn't been particularly discrete in buying tickets) and was avoiding him, or Max Shreck really did have something, probably an unpleasant something, he needed to attend to. Both options sucked.

At least I don't have to host this one, he thought, accepting a delicate crystal flute of champagne that he had no intention of drinking. After what had happened at his fundraiser for Harvey Dent, Bruce wasn't sure he ever wanted to hold another party again; quite apart from the Joker showing up and dropping Rachel out a window, finding Williams and his latest girlfriend in his bed was enough to make him resolve to lock his bedroom door from now on. Not to mention that the party before that, his house had burned down...

Raising the glass to his lips without actually drinking anything, Bruce glanced around the museum. He'd never been here before, and was pleasantly surprised; instead of marble everywhere, which he'd always found a bit pretentious, the galleries were edged and floored in softly gleaming cherry or walnut, with comfortably overstuffed leather chairs every few feet. He wasn't remotely qualified to judge the artwork itself, but the decor put him in mind of a particularly tasteful living room. This was the kind of place his mother would have liked, he decided; Martha Wayne had been a great supporter of the arts. He made a mental note to make a large, anonymous donation.

"So are you going to stand in the corner all night, or actually talk to people?" Candy asked, dragging him out of his thoughts. Bruce gave her credit for being patient this far; she'd been fidgeting and tapping her foot since they arrived, clearly eager to be off socializing.

"Probably stand here all night," he admitted with a wry smile. Candy gave him an exasperated look and flounced off to find someone a little more socially inclined. Bruce couldn't blame her. He knew perfectly well that he wasn't the best of company; for every ex-girlfriend telling the tabloids how charming and attentive he was, there were at least two grumbling about how he would ignore them all evening. Which wasn't true - he made it a point to at least be as polite as possible - but he had absolutely no sense of romance, and very little patience for acquiring one. Add in the fact that he couldn't exactly tell them what he really did with his time, and it was no wonder he came across as distant.

Eventually deciding he couldn't really stay in the corner all evening, appealing as the prospect was, he ventured into the crowd...and regretted it almost immediately, after being pulled into a conversation from which he only extricated himself, with difficulty, a quarter of an hour later. Guess I forgot how stubborn the upper crust can be, he thought sardonically, ducking behind a large marble statue to avoid yet another wanted tête-à-tête. He'd hoped Vicki might be there, but unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case. Even more unfortunately, Martins was, and proceeded to spend a good chunk of the evening tailing Bruce around like an unwanted puppy. Which Bruce probably could have dealt with, except that every time he asked Martins, in a tone of increasing irritation, what he wanted, his old college roommate would give a very fake laugh and insist, "Nothing, nothing," in a tone that ground at Bruce's remaining shreds of sanity.

It wasn't until the young billionaire's fourth glass of undrunk champagne that he finally found out why.

"Hey, Bruce..." Howard inquired, as the unmasked Batman pretended to take a sip of the gold fizz. Wayne turned around, trying hard not to let his exasperation show.

"Yes?"

"Since you and Jaclyn obviously aren't going out anymore," Howard asked hopefully, gesturing at Candy, who was chatting animatedly to some sports star, "do you, uh... d'you think I could have 'er?"

It took Bruce a long moment to respond.

"If you can find her," he finally ground out, his voice sardonic, "be my guest." Martins's face fell. Bruce couldn't bring himself to feel bad.

Gonna kill that clown.

The evening failed to improve, creeping by in a haze of booze he had no intention of drinking, invitations he didn't mean to accept, and conversations he wanted no part of. After three more hours of increasingly torturous social interaction and sulky looks from Candy, Bruce finally decided he'd had enough.

Feeling remarkably unsatisfied by the entire evening, he made his excuses to the hostess and ducked out the door. With any luck, he could be home before nightfall and get in a decent night's work as Batman.

It was only when he got down to the street that he realized he'd forgotten to let Candy know he was leaving.

Damn it. He might act like a chauvinistic pig as a way of maintaining his disguise, but he hated actually being one, and forgetting about your girlfriend was definitely not something nice guys did.

Biting back a groan, Bruce flipped open his cell phone and found her number in his address book. It took her almost a full minute to pick up.

"Hey, uh, Candy?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I don't feel great. Little too much to drink, I guess. Think I might head home. D'you wanna leave now, or...?"

"Oh, no no no," she laughed, sugar-candy voice made tinny by the phone's speaker. "Go on home, Bruce, and get some rest, I'll be fine. I'll see you tomorrow, kay?"

Well, she didn't seem too bothered, he thought wryly, stowing the phone back in his pocket and accepting his car keys from the valet. At least he no longer felt bad about leaving without her.

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Night was just falling when he arrived back at the penthouse. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, but that not's unusual, Bruce thought, moving to the window. God, but it was beautiful. The forty-foot windows afforded an unparalleled view over Gotham - which, really, had been a big part of the reason he'd chosen this building, Bruce reflected, watching the glowing tangerine rim of sun sink over the jagged edges of the city.

As sunsets went, this one was spectacular, crisp and cold and glowing. It gilded every high-rise and skyscraper with a Renaissance master's touch, finding bejeweled colors in the dull grey steel that Bruce knew Gotham architecture had never seen; delicate, rose-colored pinks, miasmous green soft as sunlight through a feather, startling oranges and blues like the skin of a poisonous frog. For a few brief moments, the filthy, crime-ridden city was lit up like a fireworks display.

The last, lingering fingers of daylight withdrew over the horizon, and Bruce felt the familiar stir of excitement in the pit of his stomach, something dark and heady and immutable waking up and unfurling its wings. Almost time to put aside this foolish mask and become himself. Only an hour more. Even the thought of Harley Quinn out waiting for him in the streets couldn't dampen the thrill of the hunt.

Turning away from the window, he noticed something out of place on the otherwise immaculate glass coffee table: a rather dog-eared little book that he definitely didn't remember putting there. A quick glance at the cover told him that it was a book of Aristotle's quotes and philosophy, and a second glance at the page it had been left open to informed him that, to his surprise, one of the quotes was highlighted.

"For as the eyes of bats are to the blaze of day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all," he read aloud.

Huh. Odd choice.

The rather foxed - and possibly badgered and racooned, it was really quite beat up - little book puzzled him for a moment, but he shrugged it off. Probably Jack's, he thought, remembering the Jonathan Swift essay he'd found stacked messily on his dresser. Greek philosophy seemed a little out of character for him...but then, so is knowing how to sew, and liking platypi, Bruce thought wryly. Anyway, it must have been his; who else would know that a passage mentioning bats would be oh-so-very appropriate for Bruce Wayne?

The peculiarity of the book was driven out of his head by the arrival of the clown himself, strolling through the front door with a new Batman T-shirt and the usual red scarf covering his scars.

"Hiya, Bats," he grinned. "Miss me?"

Bruce did not reply, instead opting to give Jack a distinctly chilly look.

Now he decides to show up...

It was not a good sign, Jack thought, when Bat-boy didn't even comment on his freshly dyed 'What Would Batman Do?' shirt.

"Well, uh, what's wrong, Battycakes?" he drawled, dark eyes trained on his sometime-nemesis's pokerfaced features. Not responding to Battycakes. Even worse sign. "Why the long face?"

The unmasked Batman stared at him as though he'd just lapsed into a different language.

"What's wrong? You mean apart from the fact that I was dating a mobster, and your psychotic little henchgirl is still hanging around, and there's ruthless, mob-related company owner who's just dying to know who you are? Where have you been for the past four days?" he snarled.

"Oh, out n' about," Jack told him airily, waving a purple gloved hand. No need to elaborate, Brucey would probably find out about the rest soon enough. "Now, what, uh, what was that bit 'bout the sleazy corporate exec?"

"Now Shreck is becoming a major problem too," Bruce groaned. "He noticed us talking at that stupid party, and when we got caught in the hold-up last week he got really suspicious. Now he's trying to figure out who you are. If I could just tie him to the Falcones and get him out of the way..."

Really, that's all we need? Easy-peasy. And here you had me thinking it was something serious.

Jack made a snap decision.

"Wait here."

He took a few steps, glanced back to make sure that Batman wasn't moving, then darted out the door he'd just come in through. Bruce stared after him. I swear, he just gets weirder and weirder.

He was back in a surprisingly short time, vaulting over the balcony rail (one of these days, Bruce was going to have to figure out how he did that) with something bulky tucked under one arm.

"Looks like a good time to give you your, ah, Christmas present early," Jack told him, stepping lightly through the door and tossing a bulging manila folder in his general direction. Bruce caught it easily and flicked it open. A moment later, his jaw was on its way to the floor.

"Where did you find this? I've been looking for proof of his mob dealings for months!"

It was all here. Receipts, records, signed documents…everything he needed to pin Shreck solidly to the Falcones and get him, if not imprisoned, at the very least investigated, convicted, fined, and completely distracted.

"The next time," Jack informed him, grinning too widely, "ya need mob records, try checking the basement of their, uh, secret hidey-hole on Sixth. It's where they keep all the stuff they can use as blackmail."

Bruce barely nodded, too busy shuffling through the stack of documents. Then an idea struck. If we could use this to deal with that little complication too...

"D'you think," he asked, glancing up at Jack, "that there's anything there we could use to get rid of Beatrix?" The clown grinned in response.

"Only, uh, one way to find out!"

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It was less than ten minutes later when Bruce was ready to set out, but he felt completely different. That was nothing unusual. Being Batman was not like being Bruce Wayne; as soon as he put on the cowl, he could feel himself shifting into a world devoid of nuance, a world stripped down to fight or be killed, guilty or innocent, friend or enemy. There was no room for subtlety as Batman.

That didn't surprise him, he thought, checking over his equipment while he waited for Joker to finish getting ready. No, what surprised him was his own reaction when the Joker stepped through the bathroom door, eyes ringed with black and painted scars curved into what passed for a friendly smile.

Hatred.

The sheer force of the emotion stunned him. Bruce Wayne might reluctantly enjoy Jack's company, but Batman still loathed the Joker, and persisted in viewing the relationship as a case of keeping friends close and enemies closer.

It had been days, he realized, since Batman and the Joker had last taken to the streets together. They'd been Jack and Bruce for so long now, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be fighting the clown.

Batman had not.

Suddenly, every little quirk and habit of the Joker's that Bruce had grown accustomed to - the nasally twang, the lip-licking, the way he had of tilting his head or quirking his eyebrows - grated at his nerves and set his teeth on edge. This was the Joker, who had blown his city half to hell and destroyed Gotham's chance at rebuilding itself. This was the Joker, who'd killed his oldest and dearest friend just to prove a point. Batman should not be out patrolling with him, mob records be damned; he should be beating him unconscious and leaving him cuffed to a pipe outside the MCU!

"Something, uh, wrong, Bat-brat?" Joker drawled, seeing the way his sometime-boyfriend's hands had balled into fists. Batman shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak; it was taking all of his self-control not to start throwing punches.

"Well, c'mon then!"

Batman nodded stiffly, and allowed the Joker to lead the way over the edge of the balcony and into the night.

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Loathing.
Unadulterated loathing.
For your face,
Your voice,
Your clothing;
Let's just say - I loathe it all.
Every little trait, however small,
Makes my very flesh begin to crawl,
With simple utter loathing.

~ What Is This Feeling?, Wicked

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A/N: Batman really doesn't like the Joker.

Candy Walker is borrowed from the 1989 Batman movie - she's one of the models the Joker kills with the chemical Smilex.

Bruce's rant on Max Shreck is borrowed mostly from the Tim Burton Batman movies.

In TDK, the couple in Bruce's bed when the Joker showed up kind of freaked me out. I mean, talk about invasion of personal space.

The art museum Bruce is at is based on my campus art museum, just larger. I really lucked out; my university has two portraits by one of my very favorite artists, Ivan Albright, and an artist-made bronze miniature of my second-favorite sculpture ever. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time there.

Those who are familiar with Aristotle in the Batverse should be getting an idea of where this will eventually be headed - it's hinted at in chapter 9.

Thanks for reading!