I think somehow I lost a chapter. But everything seems to be reading smoothly, so maybe it's just my imagination.

Disclaimer: Once again I own the Lees, and now I own the crappy chess board and random crazy guy #11

Chapter Eleven: "Errands, Eavesdropping, and Evictions"

SATURDAY OF THE FIRST WEEK.

Even though it was a weekend, Elizabeth could not find it in herself to sleep in. Maybe it was the horror looming just two weeks away. Maybe it was the hopeless task of getting Jonathan to help her. Maybe it was unwelcome dreams due to repressed thoughts.

Elizabeth stepped out through the front door to grasp a breath of fresh air from the balcony. She leaned her arms on the iron banister, and it was freezing against her skin, but she didn't pull away. Her bare toes curled in on themselves under the thin fabric of her pajama pants as they tackled the cold.

When this had begun, Elizabeth had refused to let herself think about what would happen should she fail, focusing only on the task at hand, and her goal. But it didn't matter how hard she tried not to think about it; she just couldn't keep herself from worrying. She felt it might drag her down, but alas, it was inescapable.

But there were other calamities that flooded her mind as well. Like how, despite the fact that their sessions were hopelessly useless, Elizabeth enjoyed being there with Jonathan. She was beginning to think of him as less of a patient and as more of a person. This terrified her for many reasons: Who he was, what she was going through and needed to accomplish, and what he had done. Why, of all times, did a romantic need have to bubble up now, with him?

For what seemed like a moment she had long been waiting for, Elizabeth sunk down, bracing her shoulder into the metal railing, arms wrapped securely around her knees, and allowed herself to cry.

Carrie woke up at 9:30 with the impression that she was chewing on bacon. She had been dreaming about it, oddly, and now she had a perfectly real craving for the greasy sticks of meat. She went directly into the kitchen, figuring the smell would wake everyone else up, and what a perfect way to start the day. She opened the freezer and peered into the vastly diminishing supply of food, turning a few things over here and there to look for the bacon strips, but found nothing. Sighing, she stood up straight and closed the door. So much for breakfast.

Elizabeth entered from the front door, still in her pajamas, and Carrie gave her a quizzical look before pointing out her dilemma.

"We need food."

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to give the quizzical look, "What do you mean? We have plenty of food. And what do you mean "we," you freeloader?"

"There's no bacon," Carrie replied, ignoring her. "There's really not much of anything," she stated as she opened both doors to display what they had left. Elizabeth just stared at the contents, and Carolina couldn't really make out the look on her face, but figured it was nothing pleasant. Slowly, she closed the doors again and stepped back.

Elizabeth looked at Carolina, her lips pressed tight together. It was a look Carolina was rather familiar with, so she knew she was trying hard not to yell.

Very softly Elizabeth said, "You are buying the next load of groceries, of course?"

"I, uh... I really don't have any money. I'm not the only one eating this food, you know, so don't make me buy the whole damn lot."

"Carrie, it was full three days ago!"

"What are you saying? You don't eat?"

"Not that much! Look, the fact is, now that you're here, things have been disappearing twice as fast and I'm not exactly wealthy."

"You wanted me to come here, will you make up your mind?" Carrie sighed and looked away, "Obviously I'm a terrible burden. You want me to pack my stuff?"

"Don't go to the extremes. Just... I don't know, get a job. It would be really helpful."

"Yeah. Whatever." Carolina muttered as she huffed out of the room. Elizabeth watched her go. The girl was twenty four, and still acted like a teenager sometimes. Ate like one too. She sat down at the kitchen table and laid her head in her arms. Maybe she hadn't dealt with that situation as best she could. It didn't have to end like that. It really was unfair to Carrie that she had been so quick to snap at her, for she had no idea what lay just beneath the surface of her newly acquired family life. She pondered telling her about it; after all it was her daughter, so she had a right to know, but Elizabeth couldn't possibly predict how she would react to the news, and she couldn't risk setting something terribly awry even by the simplest and innocent chain of events. When this was over, maybe she could show off her battle scars, but for right now she needed to make sure she won first.

Evening in the Narrows was like complete nightfall, since there weren't the big business building lights that seemed to rain down on the center of Gotham, and there were many neglected or dismantled streetlights lining the road, a perfect place for deeply dishonorable intentions to hide in. Perhaps Bruce should think about investing in a charity event to make these grimy streets a little cleaner, while Batman cleaned up the alleyways using his own methods.

It was here that Batman hoped to gain a leg up on his search for the Joker by listening in on conversations as mob members updated each other or just ranted about someone they wouldn't mind getting rid of. It was a hard task, as a lot of them were meticulously selective on who they talked about anywhere at anytime. But there were other's who didn't bother with such indiscretion, either because they were above it, or were just stupid, and he was counting on them.

He was at the restaurant where he had first met the crime lord Valconi, and it seemed darker somehow, even with Valconi in prison. Gordon's term came to him then, escalation, and he had to wonder, who had he been replaced by? It was vastly inevitable, people were always searching for power, and it didn't always matter how it fell into their laps. They didn't know the meaning of repercussions, but by God he would show them.

There were two men sitting next to the window he crouched under, there voices magnified in his mask like it were a megaphone. But nothing useful, another dead end. Was he so feared, then, that the topic of him was carefully avoided, or was there simply nothing behind his name but questionable silence?

He heard another voice then, carrying momentarily over the others with anger from where it resided, further into the bar.

"Who does that clown think he is? Where the hell did he come from, anyways?"

Batman tried to focus the microphone towards the man's voice, but could only pick it out when he yelled. He must have been in the middle of the room. Others were talking to him, consoling him, maybe, but he wouldn't be able to tell for sure.

"I won't tolerate it!" he continued to yell, "This is my city now, and I won't have some freak show traipsing in like he owns the place, acting like he's above me." It hit him like that outraged voice formed a corporeal fist and knocked him right in the face. This was the man who had taken over after Valconi. He edged his face slowly over the window ledge, peering into the smoky room, gazing through the suffocating haze of cigar and cigarette smoke to find body of the voice.

And there he was, a large, commanding man, as easy to pick out of the crowd as a single pearl nested in a pool of crimson petals; not so much because of his size, but because of the way he carried himself, like he demanded others attention and respect. He was definitely one for center stage. His hair was grey, but thick and full, like his bottom lip, which hung in a perpetual pout that somehow did not take away from his apparent power. The hands that pulled angrily on the lapels of his white Armani suit jacket were adorned with gaudy rings wedged on several chubby fingers.

Batman looked at the lips of the men that were placating him, agreeing with him, or whatever they were doing. He watched as they twisted and puckered to form words, and despite the fact that they were talking too softly for his microphone to pick up he could follow the conversation fairly well. Practice will do that for you. And among the silent words were the ones he needed the most. A name: Mr. Thorn.

The television droned on from its perch high up on the recreation room's wall. Jarvis' distracted gaze twitched back and forth from the screen to his white pawns, scattered meticulously across the checkered board. Jonathan watched patiently, his chin resting against his clasped hands. His friend's shredded attention was not bothering him in the least, he had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Besides, he was winning because of it, not that the task was difficult for himself.

Jarvis finally reached out to move, his long fingers curling around the bishop's smooth form. His hand shook slightly as it hovered over the board, thoughtfully hesitant. It sank down, contemplative until the final thunk of thick plastic colliding with more plastic. No glass or metal for these occupants, oh no, just the cheap stuff.

Jonathan countered the move swiftly and assertively, his deep voice soft and slightly bored, "Check."

Jarvis cursed and rubbed his forehead, wondering how he had let Jonathan grasp the lead yet again. An abrupt sound from the television stole his attention and he instantly momentarily forgot his impending doom.

Jonathan chuckled softly into his hands, no more audible than a faint whisper. He did wish partially that the television did not demand his companions attention so aptly, because he was starting to miss a real challenge. But maybe, as he wasted his time with feeble attempts, his note was being read, she was turning down that road, knocking on the door, his name being spoken by those soft, pale lips, and his freedom in motion to linger ever closer.

And if she didn't find it? What would happen if she simply dumped the bag with great relief on the floor beside the door, happily forgetting her tasks in favor of a restful weekend?

He was not, however, incapable of trying again.

Jarvis turned at last back to the game, looking delightedly surprised at the set up in front of him. "Who's winning?" He asked, his tone apologetic for his forgetfulness.

Jonathan sighed and figured, to hell with it, "You are."

SUNDAY OF THE FIRST WEEK.

Elizabeth sunk down in front of her computer late afternoon on Sunday. Her shoulder bag leaned frumpily on the edge of the desk, the straps hanging haphazardly close to the leg chairs. She laid her head on folded arms, boredom and exhaustion working in lieu to send her consciousness plummeting to sleep. Carrie had taken Katie out earlier that day and hadn't yet returned, which was fine with her. Even when they were there she felt like she was just passing through, or they were perfect strangers sharing an apartment. It was an odd sensation when you felt like you weren't included in your own family.

Then again, maybe she was pushing them away. Maybe her subconscious was afraid of losing them, so was slowly extracting her feelings from them so it wouldn't hurt so much if she really did lose them. Such disturbing thoughts plaguing her mind. If this continued, she would lose them either way, and how did you fight the habits of your own mind without losing a little bit of it? That was something she felt she ought to know, but she was learning more and more, recently, that there were many things she did not know or could not do.

She began playing with the dangling bag strap as she thought, and suddenly a crumpled wad of paper tumbled out of the front pocket when she jerked too hard on it. Elizabeth detached her foot from the strap and leaned down to retrieve it, planning on throwing it int the trash before she realized she couldn't remember crumpling anything up. She certainly didn't want to toss it if it contained anything important.

She smoothed the creases with her palm so the words lay, still slightly illegible but less clumped together in scribbled fury. It was nothing much, to her, a simple address and a note beneath that stating, "He owes me a favor." It was not her handwriting, but it wasn't hard to figure out who's it was. She remembered the cards scattering over her, and over him, and of course, that's why he wanted to carry her bag. One small act of kindness had to have a greater purpose behind it in order for him to perform it or it was just a waste of his time.

And would she follow Jonathan's cryptic advice? Certainly. Such vague propositions were not beneath her, especially when she needed all the help she could get.

Elizabeth bit down on the wrinkled note, leaning forward and searching adamantly for the street she was supposed to turn down. Once spotting it, she rotated the wheel gripped tight under her hands, and found the number on the duplex door she was looking for. She parallel-parked as close as she could, and jogged across the street and down the way.

She stopped in front of the door, wondering what she was going to say. The situation was odd, to say the least. She didn't have much time for thought, however, as the door was yanked open, as if her appearance had been expected.

"Thought I heard someone come up." The man had dirty blond hair, and bags under his eyes almost as dark as his irises.

"Um. Hi, I'm here... on behalf of Jonathan Crane." She still had the note in her hand, and held it out as the only explanation she had.

"Oh. Oh dear," he said after glancing at the writing, and with that, he shut the door in her face.

Elizabeth froze, relatively shocked. Biting her lip, she overcame the odd experience, and knocked on the door again. The man opened the door again, looking at her and impatiently huffing, "Yes?"

"Um..." Elizabeth furrowed her brow. Why was this man acting like she had not knocked previously just a few moments ago? "Hi... remember me?"

"Yes..." Now he was looking at her as if he was not the crazier of the two, but she was.

"Wh... why did you..."

"Look," he muttered, cutting her off, "I'll take care of it, okay?" Not needing a reply, he shut the door again.

"Ok..." Elizabeth answered, still confused. But she couldn't help it, she knocked on the door again.

He opened it immediately, no more but no less agitated than before. "Yes?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but... what exactly do you plan on doing?"

He sighed like a cheeky teenage cashier being asked a question he had already been asked fifty times that same day, five times by the same customer. "You want him out, right?"

"You can do that?"

"Of course not!" he spat. "But I can loosen the chains."

"Anything you can do will be greatly appreciated."

"Ch-yeah." He muttered, moving to close the door again, but stopping short, as if he remembered something he had forgotten. "Do you need anything else?"

"No," she sighed, "I'm sorry to have bothered you." Elizabeth turned and took her leave, walking back to her car, still confused and suddenly overcome with weariness. Monday she would ask Jonathan what all that had been about, and what he was planning. How, with their conversations recorded, she wasn't yet sure, but something was bound to arise.