Disclaimer: All the characters used in this fic belong to DC Comics and are based on the characters in The Dark Knight. I own nothing but the plot. Dedicated to Heath Ledger and based on his Joker.

Chapter 11: Sanguine

A/N: I'd like to thank Silential for helping me with this chapter.

Song: S.O.S (Anything But Love) by Apocalyptica and Cristina Scabbia

Once Bruce reached Wayne Manor, he removed his armor and quickly changed into some jeans and a t-shirt, ignoring the many suits he had hanging in his walk-in closet. He hurried down the stairs into the large garage, hopped into the Lamborghini, and sped off to Gotham General Hospital, which had been reconstructed during the Joker's absense, to see Alfred. Taking precautions, he called Alfred's cell phone, which was answered by one of the nurses who was tending to the man's injuries. She relayed the butler's condition to Bruce, and informed him that he would be allowed to visit for a few minutes.

Bruce pulled into the parking lot, tossing his keys to a nurse outside, and ran through the hospital doors straight to the elevator. From what the nurse on the phone had told him, Alfred had been placed in the ICU on the fifth floor. The elevator doors opened to the fifth floor, and Bruce rushed down the white hallway to the door that led to the ER unit. He pushed the doors open and approached the desk, where a worried young nurse was making a call.

She glanced at him in surprise and hung up, giving him the impression that she had been trying to contact him, and led him to Alfred's room. She pulled back the curtains and watched solemnly as he entered. Bruce stood silently over the butler's bed, horrified at the injuries that covered his feeble body. The old butler was covered by a single white sheet, probably to avoid putting pressure on the wounds, and practically coated in gauze, blood seeping through the thin sheet, leaving dark sanguine blotches in several places.

Bruce eased himself onto the stool beside the bed, and rested his head on the bed's railing. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen to Alfred? He couldn't help feeling responsible for the injuries that had been sustained on his old friend. He glanced at Alfred's quiet expression, and felt as though his parents had died all over again.

Lucius Fox and several of Bruce's late-working employees had almost lost their lives during the fire at Wayne Enterprises just a few nights prior. And he had failed to protect them then, just as he had failed Alfred now. He hadn't been able to anticipate the Joker's actions, and that simple mistake could cost Alfred his life.

His eyes began filling with tears. Alfred had been in his life for as long as he could remember. The old butler had been with him for years, through anything and everything. He had raised Bruce after the deaths of his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. And since that tragic point in Bruce's life, he and Alfred had developed a powerful bond, much like the one Bruce had shared with his late father.

But now, seeing his old friend in such a terrible state, broke his heart. He wanted so much to take Alfred's fragile hand in his own, and tell him that everything would be fine. All he wanted at this very painful moment, was to ensure that Alfred would make a full recovery.

It was his only desire.

6 - 7 - 6 - 7

The spontaneous plot to capture Bruce Wayne's butler had gone smoothly, and, as a result, had left the Joker in a damn good mood. As Harley patiently waited in the room for him to show up, she decided to use said change in his disposition to her own advantage. Irritant and bored out of her skull, Harley fell backwards onto the couch, smacking her head against something on the end table. Rubbing her head, she sat up, spotting a small pile of worn books on the table.

Shifting her position, she began sifting through the books, examining the titles. Crime and Punishment, The Aenid, The Descent, Inferno, Pergatorio, Paradiso, Theogony, and various texts on demoliton and ballistics. One of the texts was bound in a white cover with gold letters on the front and spine: Paradise Lost. The cover was worn, and even burned, in some places. Harley cautiously opened it and began flipping the pages, noting that several pages had been marked; some of which had writing in the margins that she couldn't have read to save her life.

Within moments, she was engrossed in the text, wondering what purpose this held. The door opened sometime later, and Jack tossed his coat over the back of the couch and sat down. Flipping through the channels, he glanced at Harley, wondering what the hell she was doing.

"What the hell are you doing with that?" he said, staring at the book in her hands.

She shrugged and snapped the book shut, placing it back on the table. It didn't take long before she became bored again. The lights were off and it was already dark outside. The only light in the room, except the television, came from the moon, which sent rivulets of silver light streaming through the window. She gave Jack a sideways glance, noticing his bored glance resting on Gotham's pathetic police force as they searched the streets for him. The police hit the target dead on when it came to finding that Jack was behind something, but apprehending him was a different area in which they failed altogether.

Harley suddenly found herself playing with the switchblade; listening to the click as the blade shot from the handle. She glanced at him again, finding that he wasn't paying any attention to anything but his own thoughts. Seeing her chance, she grabbed his collar, pushing him down and sitting on his chest. She had always been a bit extroverted at heart; always afraid to show it out of fear of being judged by others. But now, she couldn't be seen by anyone other than an utterly confused Jack, and for that, she was grateful.

Her mind screamed, begging her to make a move instead of thinking about it so damn much. Her absolute truth surrounded her now. The truth she had been too blind to see for years was now perfectly clear. She was destined to create chaos and anarchy; to prove to all the foolish people that inhabited the world that the civilization mankind had dreamt of for centuries was, in the end, unattainable.

Civilization would, one day, cease to exist and come to a screeching halt.

She refocused herself on the task at hand; knowing that she had to act quickly, before something in his head snapped, or she'd lose what might be her only chance. Her thoughts faded and she let her feelings take control, finding that her incentive to have her way was overwhelming. She lowered her head, resting it on his chest, listening to the heavy beating of his heart, as her thoughts and feelings fell silent. She wanted to be so much closer to her murderous hostage; unable to help that she was madly in love with a cold-blooded killer.

The silence in which she found herself didn't last long at all. In an instant, she was on her back on the floor, her hands, which still held the knife, pinned above her head in a deathly grip. Dread filled her, and thoughts of her death flooded her mind, drowning her desires in an enveloping darkness. Instinct broke free, willing her to escape the approach of death's dark embrace. Fearfully envisioning every painful moment of her imminent descent into the jaws of Hell, she shut her eyes, and let it fly.

6 - 7 - 6 - 7

A familiar voice rang through his head, and he knew that someone was there beside him. The voice was trembling, shaken, distraught. But he knew that voice better than anyone. He didn't need to see his visitor's face to know who it was. And if nobody was there, then he'd know that his mind was playing tricks on him. His eyes opened, and he saw the younger man seated beside the bed, resting his head in his hands, muttering to himself. A pain shot through his body; his wounds were taking their toll at last. He glanced at the gauze that covered his charred flesh, noticing the dark patches that decorated the white material.

He moved his left hand, ignoring the throbbing pain that shot up his arm. He reached for the younger man's arm, closing his hand slowly around his wrist. Bruce lifted his head, and Alfred saw that his cold blue eyes were blood-shot.

"Alfred..."

He smiled at Bruce, watching the sorrow leave the young master's features. Bruce took Alfred's hand in his own, clasping it as gently as possible to avoid further damaging it.

"Thank God... you're alive..."

6 - 7 - 6 - 7

Seconds passed, seeming longer than they should have. Harley felt her heart pounding in her chest, her eyes still shut. She found that her arms were free, and stretched in front of her. Her cyanosis blue eyes opened, and what she saw made her wish she had died. Her hand was tightly closed around the handle of the knife which was embedded in Jack's shoulder. She dropped her hands, staring in horror as the ichor stained the fabric of his shirt. The insouciant expression on his face only made her stomach sink as she inched away.

She jumped when she felt her back hit the wall, and she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

"Harley..." Jack's fingers wrapped around the hilt of the blade, fire taking root in his dark eyes that belied the severity of the wound. Wrenching it free, he appeared oblivious to the blood that trailed down his chest.

"Never did know when to play nice, did you?"

Puzzled at the relative calm in his voice, she parted her fingers, peeking through at him. He snickered at his own joke, balancing the fresh blood on the flat of the knife.

"Lucky for you..." His gaze met hers as he moved towards her, seizing her hands and forcing them above her head once more. He pried her knees from her chest, straddling her, and pinning her body to the floor. "I don't make those mistakes," he said, leaning towards her.

She gasped, a thrill running down her spine as the breath was knocked from her body. His build shocked her, and her frequent attempts to free herself were rendered useless by his position. His expression of grim amusement didn't change, but she knew that what he saw was pleasing. The pain in his shoulder being fused with the desiring flame alight in his eyes.

He leaned towards her, resting his head on her shoulder. "See, a guy like me... I know what I want. Do you know what it is you want... Harley?"

His lips brushed her ear, coaxing an eager breath from her throat. She felt the sharp edge of the blade kiss the flesh of her collarbone, being drawn slowly across, the pressure somewhere on the line between pain and pleasure.

"Do you know. What. You. Want?" Each word was punctuated with a controlled nick across her collarbone, the steel biting her flesh as she left bloodied half-moons in the palms of her hands.

A gasp left her mouth before she could stop it, but when she thought about it, she realized that she was where she wanted to be. She was with him; she needn't think, but live in the moment and take the pleasure as it came. She shook her head, waiting painfully for the pleasure that was soon to come. A dull heat built at her core, her breath becoming shallower as she reveled in his touch.

She didn't need to hear the laughter, for she could already feel the tremors running through him as he fought to contain it. He relaxed his grip on her hands, murmuring to himself strings of phrases and words that didn't make sense, but she had a hunch that they were connected to her somehow.

His hand fell from her wrists, and she took the opportunity to reverse their positions, forcing herself on top once again. She stared into his eyes, watching as the fire steadily died down. She had him where she wanted him, yet she felt empty still. Gazing into his dark eyes, she found the answer that would fill the empty void in her mind. She wanted to see him, not as the Joker, but as himself. She had fallen madly for the man behind the mask, a man that hadn't been seen for years. His face had been hidden from the world by a foolish act inflicted upon him.

He had buried himself with a horrid past, adopting a new life, a new identity, anything to hide from the world that scorned him. She knew what she wanted now, and she would have it at any cost. She let her trembling fingers graze his face, wanting more than anything to wipe that painted grin away. She rested her head on his shoulder, and whispered, "I know what I want."

But the look in his eyes told her that she wouldn't be getting that from him. At least not now.

She knew better than to argue. She'd already seen the hell he'd created in Gotham, sending the city's pathetic denizen's scattering like ants. She'd bide her time and wait. Wait for the right time. For the opportune moment. It always came around sometime, he'd said so. The cold point of the knife against her throat sent a chill down her spine. The blade slid down her neck towards the collar of her shirt; the material split as the blade slid further, and she sighed as her mind became numb to everything but pain and pleasure.

A cry of pleasure escaped her lips as the sleeves were pulled from her arms, revealing her bare skin. Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra, fully exposing her bare chest. She reached down and wriggled out of her pants before repositioning herself over him. She moaned with delight as she felt his hand pass over her opening, and her hips stole towards the eager touch, wanting more.

Her own hands made their way down his chest until they went past his belt. Ignoring it, she went straight for her desire, freeing him and positioning herself over him. She slid down, gasping with pleasure as he entered her. She ground her hips against him, her mind screaming that she was almost at her limit.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out, feeling the flame within her growing with every passing moment. Light flashed behind her eyes, and distantly, she heard herself moaning. Unable to contain herself any more, she reached her limit, and collapsed, resting her head on his shoulder. She ran her hands across his face, reveling in the feel of his marred flesh beneath her fingers, knowing that someday soon, she would see with her own eyes.

Her eyes began to close and her mind began to spin with thoughts of him.

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