Dent slid his arm around Shawn's shoulders, smiling over at him. He had not had any trouble finishing his meal, and, though Shawn had loosened up a bit around him during the course of the date, he was still being shy and somewhat awkward, as his usual. Dent had no idea what he could possibly do to get the younger man out of his shell, especially when he had such extravagant plans for the night to come. He checked his watch, then looked back at Shawn.

"That was certainly good, wasn't it?" he asked, grinning. "I suppose it wasn't as good as it could've been, but… there's not much to be done about that, now is there?" He let his fingers play onto Shawn's shoulder, then looked away, taking a deep breath. "Now, about your earlier question," he said, picking up his drink in his free hand and taking a sip. "Os and I go way back. We're old friends, knew each other long before I was Gotham's DA and he started up this nightclub… in fact," Dent said, indicating Shawn with the drink, "I helped him start up this place."

He looked around at the Lounge, letting his hand rest on Shawn's shoulder, and he moved a little closer to the younger man. He was getting quite comfortable, even if it was only a façade. If he did not think about Shawn being male, then it did not really bother him. Dent was good at warming up to people, since he had been elected to such a prestigious office, and he was turning on all his charms with this Shawn Palmer.

He looked up when he heard shouting over by the bar, and frowned at the sight. "Looks like a lover's quarrel," he said, setting down his drink. He grinned over at Shawn. "We won't be having any of those, will we?" he said, resting his forehead against Shawn's temple. He turned away again, picking up his drink and taking a sip. "Well, Shawn, I must say," he said with a satisfied sigh, "this has been the most enjoyable evening I've had in a while. And I think it's safe to say the same for you, too."

He smiled contentedly, letting his arm rest around Shawn's shoulders, then turned back to him. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable in any way, Shawn," he told him in a low voice. "But if you're willing, my place is just around the corner, and… I could call Garcia tomorrow and get him to give you a little leeway for coming in late to work." He grinned at Shawn. "But only if you want to," he told him. "Don't feel like I'm pressuring you in any - way."

Shawn was starting to get used to Dent's touchy-feeliness. In fact, he devoted himself to just enjoying those little moments, leaning his head against Dent's and letting him move closer without a second thought. He sighed as he realized their dinner was over, and slowly, carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin.

Then he frowned, confused. It was great that Dent wanted to spend more time with him, and at a more private place than this club. As appreciative as Shawn was about the reservations, the place was a bit too...sketchy for him to be perfectly comfortable. What he didn't understand, though, was why it'd be necessary to call Garcia so that he could come in late to work.

Then something clicked in his naive brain, and he blushed flaming scarlet.

"O-oh." He looked down at his drink, rubbing his neck with a hand. That's what he meant. It was true, Shawn had always imagined something like this happening, in his wildest, wildest dreams. But they were just dreams; he'd never bothered to think what he'd do in the situation. He should probably think this through. What the hell sort of consequences would there be?

He finally smiled boldly at Harvey. Screw consequences, this was something he wanted. And it wasn't often that he got the opportunity to do something he wanted. "O-okay."

Dent grinned at Shawn's hesitation, running his fingers through the younger man's hair. "Wonderful," he said. He looked away, raising his hand for the check. Then he turned back to Shawn. "Garcia isn't exactly my biggest fan at the moment, but I've got some dirty stuff on him that will make him back off with his tail between his legs, believe me," he told Shawn with a chuckle. "You could probably get the whole of tomorrow off, if you wanted… or you could go back to work." He leaned nearer to Shawn's ear and said in a low voice, "As for me, I always enjoy having breakfast in bed."

He grinned at Shawn, letting the implication sink in, then turned back as Maggie came over to their table and presented them with the tab. He took a look at it, exhaled, then handed it back to Maggie. "Give that to Os," he said. Maggie nodded, a little confused, and started to turn away. Then Dent added, "Oh, actually, tell him…" Maggie leaned down so her ear was next to Dent's lips, and he whispered something to her. She stood straight, looking slightly taken aback, then turned and walked away.

Dent glanced back at Shawn with a wry smile. "We should probably be going," he said, sliding his arm away from around Shawn's shoulders. "We've got a lot to do, and so little time to do it in." He checked his watch. "So, my place?" he said. Then he held up a hand. "Wait," he said, "let's leave it to chance." He pulled his lucky coin from his back pocket and showed it to Shawn. "Heads, we head back to my place," he said with a grin. "Tails, we part ways at the door." He flipped the coin, caught it, turned it over onto the back of his hand, then looked up at Shawn with a knowing smile. Then he removed his hand to reveal the coin. Heads.

"Shall we?" he said, smiling away and offering Shawn his arm. "My car's parked just outside."

Shawn couldn't help but grin at the thought of the mayor running scared. He really didn't like his boss; he knew that Garcia took advantage of him on a regular basis, but he was too much of a wuss to actually do anything about it. Dent's offer was very kind. And, from the look on the face of the woman who'd given them their check, he'd be able to follow through. There were definitely benefits with having power in this city.

He then watched the coin flip warily. He wasn't sure how seriously to take this game of Harvey's; he was inclined to be serious about it, though, because if it came out tails...Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with his possibility. He silently thanked whatever had made this situation possible, and hesitantly interlocked his arm with Dent's. He was willing to take this plunge, and God only knew how it was going to turn out.

. . .

Crane and Kitty stared at one another. Neither said a word. Crane grinned. Kitty did not.

"You've changed clothes, I see," Crane commented. "You look nice." He looked around at the warehouse he had taken her to, rubbing his hands slowly together, and exhaled. "I apologize for the bleak ambience," he said, no trace of actual apology in his voice.

"What do you want with me?" Kitty asked frankly.

Crane looked back at her and his eyebrows lowered slightly, but the smile remained on his face. "You've become rather bolder since I last saw you," he said. His eyes strayed as he thought about it. Then he looked back at her. "New clothes seem to have given you a false sense of importance," he told her with a sigh.

"Why do you keep coming after me?" Kitty asked, slower, firmly. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Is this still about Jack Napier?"

"No," said Crane stiffly, the smile fading from his face, "it's not about Jack Napier. And you know it." Kitty was silent, her eyes straying. She bit her lip, taking hold of the edge of the new dress she wore. Crane stared at her, his eyes boring into her. "You know exactly what this is about," he told her quietly.

She paused, then shook her head. "You're wrong," she said. "You're wrong…"

"I'm not wrong. I know it, and you know it," he told her. "That nauseous feeling you've been having in the morning, those sudden pains… you know what it means as much as I do."

"You're wrong!" she exclaimed, looking up at him, her expression angry. "I'm just… unwell. It's happened before…"

"Five years ago?" Crane asked knowingly. Kitty looked away, silent. Crane stared at her for a long moment, the calculating grin frozen on his face. "Malachy," he finally said.

Kitty looked up at him then, frowning slightly. "What?" she asked.

"You heard me," Crane replied. "His name will be Malachy. Malachy Jonathan Crane."

"You think I'm going to keep it?" she asked, incredulous. "You're crazy."

Crane got up from his seat and instantly grabbed her throat with one hand, glaring down at her, his expression dark and hateful. Kitty stared up at him with wide, scared eyes. "I," he said slowly, his breath staggered, "am not crazy. And you," he brought his face closer to hers, "are going to keep that child, whether you like it… or not." He glared at her for a moment longer, then let go of her throat and turned away from her.

Kitty coughed, putting a hand to her throat, trying to catch her breath. "You're so convinced that it's going to be a boy," she said. She looked up at him, panting, her eyes slightly red. "What will you do if it's a girl?" she asked quietly, breathless.

Crane stopped, paused, and then turned to face her. "We'll just have to try again," he answered, deadpan.

"You can't do this, Crane, you can't keep me here," Kitty told him. "They're going to come looking for me, you'll see. They'll come!"

"Who?" Crane answered. "You're dead to the world, Kitty. Nobody knows you're still alive except for that Jeanette girl, and what can she do?" He moved back to his seat, sat down, and leaned forward, staring into her eyes. "No one is going to look for you, Kitty," he told her. "For all certifiable purposes… you belong to me now." He grinned at her, a terrible, mocking grin.

"Peachy?" he asked.

. . .

Bruce Wayne pulled into the driveway of Wayne Manor, and realized something was wrong when Alfred did not come to the door. He opened the door of Wayne Manor and let himself in, frowning, and hung his coat over his arm, looking around for Alfred. The manor was unusually quiet; unnaturally quiet, when he thought about it, and the silence made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He wondered if something had happened… He felt a slight chill run through his body, and pushed the thought from his mind.

Everyone was fine. He was just overreacting.

"Alfred?" he called. No response came. Wayne's frown deepened. Perhaps the butler had already gone to bed. He checked his Rolex. It was only eight-thirty, and Alfred was usually a night person. He swallowed, nervous, and started towards the bedroom he had designated for Jessica. Perhaps she would know if Alfred had gone out, or if something was wrong…

As soon as he entered the room, he knew that something was wrong.

Alfred sat on one side of the bed, facing the door, and he looked up as soon as Wayne appeared in the doorway. He said nothing, but his eyes were hollow, shocked, and his tears were stained with tears. In the chair opposite him sat Lucius Fox, his face in his hands. Wayne looked at Fox, then at Alfred again. Alfred sighed and looked at Fox.

"Lucius," he said quietly.

Fox looked up, and Alfred indicated towards Wayne. Fox hesitated, then turned to look at Wayne. Wayne stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back. Then Fox asked in a low, dangerous voice that he was trying to keep from shaking, "Where the hell were you?"

Wayne was taken aback. "I went to visit Olivia," he said, indicating behind him. "I told Alfred I was going out –"

"You left the house under Alfred's care?" Fox demanded, his voice rising. "You left my sister under the protection of one person, who didn't know what kind of horrors were out there, all day long?"

"Wait a minute," Wayne said, raising his hand, his brow furrowing. "What's going on?"

"What's going on?!" Fox shouted, getting up from his chair. "You want to know what's going on?! Alfred had no idea what was out there, and because you weren't here to protect my sister, she's now dead!" His hands were shaking with rage.

Wayne stared at him, shaken. "What?!" he asked.

"Did you not hear me?!" Fox demanded. "My sister is dead because of you!"

Alfred looked up then, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "He didn't know, Lucius," he said quietly. "He had no idea the Joker was on the loose."

"Wait, the Joker?!" Wayne asked, looking up at Alfred. He was numb with shock by now. He looked back at Fox's dark, furious expression, then at Alfred, then back at Fox. "The Joker…" He looked down, his thoughts spinning too fast to comprehend. Then he looked back up at Fox. "We have to get him," he said firmly.

"We have to think about Jessica's funeral first," Alfred said, getting to his feet as well. "It's only right. We should respect her, and all she's done for us, and for Gotham."

Wayne nodded, looking at Alfred, and then looked back at Fox, whose expression had softened slightly. "I'll pay for her funeral," he said quietly. "I want the best for her. Anything you think she would have wanted, I'll pay for it."

"No," said Fox, shaking his head, his expression darkening once more. "No, Mister Wayne, I am through with you, and I am through with this company." He looked up at Wayne, his breathing staggered, his jaw locked. "And if you intend for Batman to go on, you're going to have to do it without me." He glanced back at Jessica, still lying on the bed, looking peaceful, almost as if she had fallen asleep, then back at Wayne. "I don't want any more of your help," he told Wayne. "I'm sorry, Mister Wayne. But I'm getting out before I'm killed, too." And with that, he pushed past Wayne, out of the room. Wayne heard him slam the door behind him as he left. Then he looked up at Alfred.

"I had no idea this would happen," he said quietly.

Alfred stared at him, then looked back at Jessica, wringing his hands. Then he looked back up at Wayne. "I hate to say it, Sir," he said, "but you should have." He stared at Wayne for another long moment, then, his eyes returning to the floor, he passed Wayne, going out the door as well, leaving Wayne alone in the room with Jessica.

Wayne sighed, then looked up at Jessica, lying on the bed. He moved towards the bed, pausing by the side of it, then sat down in the chair Fox had been sitting in. He stared at Jessica for a long moment, then rested his arm on the armrest, then put his forehead in his palm.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

. . .

Dent took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke with a satisfied grin. "Wow," he sighed, chuckling slightly, "that was good." He looked over at Shawn, then reached an arm around him, taking his shoulder, and pulled him closer to his chest. "That was…" He took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. "Great." He brought the cigarette back to his mouth and took a long drag of it, paused, and then breathed out the smoke in a deep exhale, closing his eyes and leaning back against the pillow. A contented grin crossed his face. "Wow," he said quietly.

Just then, his cell phone, sitting on the table beside the bed, began to ring. Dent opened his eyes and looked up, frowning slightly, and picked up the phone, looking at the number on the Caller ID. "Shit," he whispered. Then he glanced over at Shawn. "It's work," he said, sighing with a deep frown. "I gotta take this, I'm sorry. It'll only be a minute, I promise." He pushed the covers off his naked form and swung his legs out of bed, frowning down at the Caller ID on the phone. "I'll be right back," he assured Shawn, going into the next room and closing the door behind him.

Once he was in the room, he glanced down at the phone again, sighed, then opened it. "Rachel?" he asked, a bit of annoyance in his voice. "What is it?"

"Harvey?" She sounded tired. "Hey, Harvey. I'm glad I got you. Are you in the middle of something?"

"Kind-of," he said, glancing over his shoulder. He put a hand to his head, pushing his bangs from his eyes, and sighed, crossing his arm across his ribcage and resting his other elbow on it, holding the phone to his ear. "What do you need?"

There was a silence on the other end. "You sound so business-like, Harvey," she finally said, quietly. "You aren't still mad at me, are you? You know I didn't mean it."

"Yeah?" Dent asked, scoffing. "Well, you sure as hell could've fooled me."

"Harvey." She sounded exasperated now. "Don't do this."

Dent let out a long breath, looking down at the cigarette in his hand, then brought it to his mouth, taking a drag. "Okay," he said, exhaling the smoke, irritated. "What is it?"

"I've just been worried about you," Rachel told him. "I mean, you were so upset, after the whole incident with the Joker… and you never called me after you got out of prison."

"Yeah, well, I've been busy, Rachel," he said curtly, taking a quick drag of the cigarette in his hand. "And, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly my biggest fan when it came to my liberation efforts."

"Harvey, I wasn't thinking, okay?" she said with a goaded sigh. "You trying to save me… that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. And I really, really appreciate it. In fact, I think it was very… romantic."

Dent exhaled smoke, frowning. "Really?" he asked, thinking about it. He looked away for a moment. "I, um…" He flicked ashes from the end of his cigarette, thrown off. Then he looked up, an enthused expression on his face. "Hey, Rachel…" he said. "There's no chance we could… you know…" He shrugged, looking down at his cigarette. "…Get back together, is there?"

There was a silence from Rachel's end of the line. Then she exhaled. Dent waited, letting the cigarette smoulder in his hand in anticipation. "I don't see why not," Rachel finally said.

Dent smiled, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "Rachel," he said, exhaling the smoke with a satisfied sigh, "you've just made my day."

"Glad I could help." Rachel's voice had a slight, laughing lilt to it. "So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Sounds good to me," Dent replied with a smile. "All right then. See you soon. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and stared at it for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned back, opened the door, and walked back into the bedroom. "Well," he sighed, grinning at Shawn and setting the phone back on the nightstand by his side of the bed, "now that's over with…"

He got back into the bed, pulling the covers over himself and looking over at Shawn, stroking his face gently with the back of his hand. "We can get down to really important things."

. . .

Charles was irritated out of his skull.

He'd spent the first few hours of the night in quiet isolation; he had to go outside to get away from the incessant chatter of that girl called Flicker, who seemed to have gotten over her mood swing from that morning. He ground his teeth in frustration at the thought of her. She had to die. He'd realized that by now. No one that irritating, and that heathenistic (making fun of his ring, for God's sake, was where he drew the line!), deserved to live. It was God's plan to get rid of the unholy people in this world.

Charles was just an messenger. An angel, you might say. He smiled loftily at the thought.

After a while of pacing, however, his prayers for patience had run out. He needed to go somewhere; the thought of the three people inside made his blood boil with a murderous rage. If he didn't leave soon, he might end up killing one of them. And that just wouldn't do, at least until he found Maria.

So he went for a walk, pacing through the dark streets without a destination in mind. He'd be able to find his way back; if not, he figured, Crane wouldn't particularly care that he'd gone missing. He certainly wouldn't be worried. Goodhart let out his breath in a hiss, then noticed jerky movement from across the street and focused in on it sharply.

Aidan had slipped. He knew it, and he burned with shame from the idea. He'd promised himself no more drinks, ever. He was going clean, because maybe if he did, Maria would come back.

He shook his head, and discovered too late that the movement was too violent for his unsteady gait; he tipped to the side and barely managed to right himself in time to avoid a street light. He rubbed his head and continued his stumbling way down the street.

Charles frowned in irritation. He could smell the alcohol on the boy's breath, even from across the street. His patience had reached its limit. Drinking is a sin, he reminded himself as he carefully crossed the street, stopping squarely in front of the drunk.

Aidan came to a halt in time to avoid bumping into the stranger. "H-ey, sorry..." he slurred, waving a hand in apology. He tried to move around the other man, but he blocked Aidan's path. Aidan finally looked up into Charles' dark eyes, confused. "S'rry, do I...know you?"

Charles responded by bringing out the gun he'd taken from the bar, and putting a bullet into Aidan's stomach.

Aidan immediately buckled over in pain, hitting the ground as his vision flickered. He moaned in agony, twisting and turning pathetically on the ground. Charles turned him onto his back with the toe of his boot, and just watched him for a moment with a proud gleam in his eye. Aidan stared back in horror.

"You have sinned." The words came out in a low murmur, fueled by built-up frustration and said with absolute conviction. "And 'the Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom all who do evil'." The quote slipped from his lips without him realizing it; he smiled. The words were quite fitting. Aidan sputtered a muted protest, but Goodhart kicked him in the side. The boy turned to his side and coughed up some blood.

Goodhart watched him for a moment more before leaning down. "It's your time," he instructed the other man, who shook his head weakly.

"No...no..." He reached for the first thought he could focus on. "Iwuzz...Iwuzz g'nna...she was going to...Maria..." Charles' smug grin froze on his face, and his eyes widened. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed the front of Aidan's jacket.

"Who is Maria?" he said slowly. Aidan simply stared in horrified confusion, and Goodhart shook him hard.

Aidan relented. "A...a friend." The answer didn't seem good enough for the other man; he shook him again. "Maria Goodhart! She's juss' a frien' of mine!" Aidan sputtered out, coughing up more blood. The dull burning pain was spreading from the bullet wound in his stomach; his vision was going slowly. But Goodhart smiled crazily and patted the boy's head.

He nodded to Aidan, then dropped him carelessly; he hit the pavement with a sickening thud. "That's good." Very good. This boy had known Maria. But it was too late to ask him any more questions; Aidan's face was twisted with pain, his eyes were half-shut, and his breathing was growing more shallow by the second. Goodhart stared at him for a moment, then figured the least he could do was end his suffering more quickly.

He cocked the gun and fired a second shot into Aidan's chest. The boy jerked up, then didn't move.

Goodhart tucked the gun back into his pocket with a grin, cracking his knuckles. He turned to leave, then looked back at Aidan's body with a considering look on his face. He looked down at his ring, up at the body, then back at the ring again. Finally, he shrugged, and pulled a lighter out of his pocket.

He carefully held the ring above the flame for a minute, ignoring the scalding heat on his own fingers. Then, when it was ready, he leaned down and pressed the hot metal sharply into Aidan's skin. It hissed and sizzled, and he pulled it away after a moment to reveal a cross in the middle of the boy's forehead.

He smiled and, making sure to take Aidan's cell phone out of his pocket, headed back towards the warehouse, flexing his burnt fingers. It was time for a family reunion.

. . .

"Gordon, I swear to god, pick up your damn phone..."

Maria heard the answering machine kick on, and slammed her own phone back into its carrier. It was far too late for her to think he would still be at work, anyways, the reasonable part of her mind told her. But she didn't want to be reasonable. Not after what he'd told her. And he hadn't even bothered to talk to her face; he'd informed her that the Joker had, once again, escaped the police via answering machine.

She kicked the chair at the kitchen table, and it clattered to the floor with a very unsatisfying thud.

Finally, she grabbed the phone once more and dialed Gordon's work number. He'd left her a message; she'd just return the favor. When the beep finally came, indicating the start of the message, she took a deep breath.

"Gordon. It's Maria." She paused, staring blankly at the wall, lost for words. She decided to be frank, if more than a bit rude. "I don't want to hear your excuses for how Napier got away. He did. And now you want me to get involved again?" Her voice had risen in volume; she took a few deep breaths. "I don't think you understand what I've been through. You can just sit there happily, knowing that you've got a nice family to go home to. Hell, you've got a home." She laughed bitterly, looking around the hotel room.

She turned and paced towards the window. "I'll help for a while longer, but that's it." She paused, ready to hang up, but added spitefully, "The GCPD should learn to rely on their own power, not innocent civilians. If they can't get the job done, then this city really has gone to hell." With that, she clicked the off button on the phone.

. . .

Thomas somehow managed to stumble home, where he finally pulled out his cell phone and listened to the four missed calls. They were all from work, of course; even through the drunken haze settled over his brain, he knew this was bad news. Maybe they hadn't fired him. Maybe...they wanted to congratulate him for trying so hard.

He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Not a fucking chance. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the card the stranger at the Iceberg Lounge had given him. He'd probably be needing it soon. He turned it the dim light of the hanging lamp, and sighed heavily. Suddenly, however, he noticed that it was no business card he was holding.

A lazy grin stretched across his face, and a crazily excited gleam lit his eyes. It was a Joker card. Maybe his career was still safe.