Congratulations, I've had more time than I expected today so voila, another chapter. Read, review, and enjoy.

Gotham City, Charlie's Coffee Corner, 0700

Barbara Gordon bit her lip, her mind already churning from the memories he brought up of his life. She had little pity for criminals, with only a few mild exceptions, Victor Fries and Pamela Isley being among them, but now she may have to put Waylon Jones on that list of villains she held pity for. Watching your best friend lost his legs and then to die before your very eyes when he could have been saved…it was a miracle he had not been driven into deeper into madness comparable to other infamous figures. It made her give an internal shudder thinking of Croc…no, Waylon being driven as mad as the Joker.

Resting a hand on his, she whispered, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Retracting his hand, Croc muttered, "It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago, come to think of it."

Getting out of his seat he dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table, saying, "That should cover the coffee." Before heading for the front door.

Gordon stayed in her seat, watching him get up to head for the door. Looking down at the coffee for a moment, she could've sworn he had heard him whisper in a barely perceptible voice "Thank you" before she looked up. But he was already gone.

Reluctantly she picked up the bill and finished her coffee before heading for the door herself.

Getting outside she looked around and was mildly surprised that he was already lost from sight.

Turning to head back to her apartment, her mind pondered her surroundings, and so it came as no surprise to her when a figure fell in step next to her and started to speak.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." The mysterious figure told her.

"I am fully aware of what I am doing, and I actually see a possibility of redemption for him, so long as he's willing to take it." The commissioner's daughter replied curtly.

"He's a criminal. A career one at that. Locked up in Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Penitentiary for enough time that there's little chance of redemption for him. There's a reason he's on the Rogue's List."

Stopping in her tracks, she turned to the figure under the wet trenchcoat and fedora and pointed her finger at him.

"And all I hear is a stuck-up billionaire who's jealous that I may just be attempting to do something you could never do; have a criminal go straight."

Her voice sweetly laced with anger, she added "And I'm sure you still don't think it's over, but it is. You can never hang up the cape, whereas I can. That alone is enough to know we'll never be able to stick together in the long run. So stop following me expecting that to change."

Turning away, she sharply said "Goodbye, Bruce." Before continuing down the street, her mind a mixture of feelings, though her instincts were on high alert, her poise and perception clearly signaling to any hoodlum on the street that she was far from easy prey.

Gotham City, Iceberg Lounge, 0800 hours

Waylon Jones slipped into the lounge quietly, his large feet making barely a noise. Police tape was prevalent towards the back of the restaurant, but thankfully the police had not decided to cordon the stairs to the living quarters of the lounge.

Reaching his room the large man sighed, talking off his clothes before slipping into the shower, letting the warm water cleanse and refresh him, relieving his muscles of the tension of the day. He leaned against a shower wall, resisting the urge to just slide down it and rest under the water.

Finally getting up after a few more minutes, he dried himself off with a towel and went back to his bedroom. Groggily he picked up a CD and slipped it into the music player that he was acquired at a thrift shop while scouting downtown. Immediately "La vie en rose" began to play, and he gladly laid down on his bed as Louis Armstrong lulled him to sleep, the soft jazz soothing his mind from his long day.

He ran, faster and further than he had possibly expected to run in an alleyway, the exit still so far away. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure chasing after him; the only thing he could gleam that whoever it was was certainly human.

Starting to slow from the strain of the running a chill crept down his spine as he saw a shadow start to surround him, a familiar silhouette that gave him the adrenaline to run even harder. He refused to let the Batman get the drop on him, and would rather get busted by that bastard Bullock than the Bat.

But the shadow descended, becoming larger and larger, urging him on faster and faster, but inevitably he grew slower and slower, the exit becoming a pinprick of light in the distance. The shadow was almost upon him, when another shadow rushed over him and slammed into the first one. That's when he felt something heavy land on him and everything went black.

Waylon Jones shot up, panting and sweating from the bed, only for the soothing sounds of Louis Armstrong's saxophone to relax him, making him recognize the reality of being in a bed in the Lounge rather than on the street.

Shaking his head, the reptile man got out of bed, pausing to stare at the clock. It read 1852 hours, which made him do a double take. He had been asleep for over nine hours?

Snarling he got back into his vest and worn blue jeans and set about getting ready for work. Heading to his dresser he undid his holster for his now police-held M1911 and set in inside the dresser. Until he waited a few days to get it back, so that Bullock wouldn't pull some charge on him for being overly eager for his gun back, he'd have to make do with his back-up.

Swinging open the cylinder for the Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver to check that it was loaded, he was satisfied as he counted six .357 Magnum rounds inside before he closed the cylinder. Strapping the revolver holster to his shoulder, he holstered the fairly large weapon before heading for the door, ready for another day on the job.