Chapter Text
It’d been two weeks since the attack at the police station -- two weeks since that redhead had started haunting your dreams and two weeks since he promised he would see you again. You found yourself losing sleep at night. Cold sweats woke you as his laugh echoed in your mind. It didn’t help that you’d originally gone to the police station to report a break-in and robbery at your apartment. It had been bothering you, thinking you might get robbed again; whoever broke in had done it with ease. The lock on the door to your rundown studio had never been very sturdy. At this point, though, another robbery was the least of your concerns. Every night you wondered whether you would wake up again in the morning. It made getting a good night’s sleep difficult, to say the least.
“See you again,” he said. “See you again,” he might. You find yourself terrified yet tantalized by this prospect. Every time you thought of his smile, his laugh, the crazed, fiery look in his eyes, a strange thrill ran up your spine. This is a new kind of fear for you; one that makes you look twice in the mirror each morning, checking that it’s still you staring back from the polished glass.
You get caught up in self-pity and anger, wondering why bad things happen to the wrong people, and you decide to take advantage of the time you’re given off from work after the ordeal. It would be nice to never leave your living room again, to just lay immobilized on your couch (like you’ve been doing for the past week), but you needed to fix that lock if you ever hoped to feel safe again. Your thoughts drift to your window and your fire escape, right next to your bed, and you conclude that you might need some shutters too.
There’s a call on your cellphone, and you debate for a second whether you should answer it or not. It’s the GCPD. They need to talk to you about what happened again. Something about possible leads. Something about how you’re one of the only survivors. Something about he talked to you, the way he talked to you, the way he smiled at you. They say they’re sorry to intrude, but make it quite obvious they don’t really care about the way you might feel. You’re just a source of information to them. Some police. Some city.
Well, at least you finally have a reason to leave your couch. The fridge is empty and you’re seriously craving some Rocky Road. Plus, you need to fix that damn lock. You think of Jerome climbing up your fire escape, climbing through your window, hovering over your bed while you sleep. The thought makes you shudder and you wrap yourself in your arms, hoping the makeshift hug will make you feel better. It doesn’t. That cold, sick feeling is still in the back of your throat as you lock your door and trudge into the hall.
As you step outside of your house, you shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself. He doesn’t know where you live. The GCPD is at least a thirty minute walk from your house so you wave down a taxi, looking in the front window of the cab before getting in. The driver is small, smaller than you, and has a friendly, open face. You get in and gulp down your unease, feeling your pocket to make sure your switchblade is there. A girl can never be too careful around strangers. Telling the driver where to head, you check your pockets yet again out of habit. Your knife is, of course, exactly where you left it, but you’re mildly alarmed to have forgotten your phone. It probably isn’t worth going back to get it, you decide. It’s not like many people are trying to reach you anyway.
The officers at the GCPD aren’t exactly known for being friendly. In fact, you swear you can see a cop in the back sticking his tongue out at another, professionalism be damned. There’s a woman staring at you and as you make eye contact she beckons you into an office. You tell her exactly what you said after it happened: lots of it hurtful but none of it useful. The cop talking to you looks disappointed and you apologize to her. The apology is genuine; it would be nice if you could do something, anything, about this whole situation. Maybe if you thought the cops were close to finding those criminals you’d stop having those horrible nightmares. Maybe you’d stop thinking about that red hair.
You leave the police station and look around. It’s not often you visit this part of town so it’s hard to say whether it’s safer than the area you live in. Some of the restaurants look nicer, at least. Much nicer. Your stomach growls. Getting someone to fix your shaky lock was supposed to be your task for the day and you feel immensely guilty abandoning the task. On the other hand, though... you dig through your pockets, checking your wallet for a few spare dollars. Deliberation occurs for a few moments before you sigh and give in. Maybe it will help get your mind off of all this craziness. As you enter a nearby restaurant you check behind you one last time, feeling someone’s eyes on your back. There’s still no one behind you -- of course.
Grabbing your food, you take it to go. The idea of staying in a small, enclosed building for very long is an unpleasant one, especially one as public as this. Besides, some fresh air and sunshine would be nice. Especially considering that you’ve spent the last several weeks holed up in your apartment with only junk food and a small TV to keep you company. That, and you used the last of your taxi fare for the food currently in your hands.
Oh well. The walk wasn’t too grueling. You would manage.
The weather is pleasant outside, warm but with a steady breeze. Gotham could be a beautiful city if it ever decided to be. The modern and Gothic architecture should clash, but it feels just right to you. You take a bite of your food. Slowly, bits of that old anxiety start to flake off. This city is where you’ve spent your whole life, and you can’t help but feel a familiar, aching fondness for it. This place will always be your home, plain and simple.
You let your inner sightseer out, observing the curves of your city like it was something new. From the tallest glass and steel skyscrapers to the hunching yet elegant municipal buildings, you drink up every inch with your eyes. This new pastime occupied much of your mind. In fact, you almost forgot your current situation until you looked around and realized you were lost.
High up in one of those shining towers, unbeknownst to you, stands a figure staring out at the city in a way that almost mirrors yours. There’s a sort of lethargy to the way he observes, apathetic and inattentive, like a child bored of their new toy. He slumped against the pristine glass and sighed. He was bored -- bored, bored, bored. There was nothing fun to do in this stupid building and Theo was keeping him and the others cooped up like fugitives. Well, they were fugitives, but that was besides the point. He turned his attention downwards, methodical and slow, slicing the skyline open with his eyes and watching the contents spill out, unfolding under his gaze. The people on the sidewalk weren't quite ants, though they were something just as insignificant. They moved through the city like blood through veins. Amongst these drones, marching towards their corporate jobs, a single someone stood out. He shifted to adjust his angle of view, gazing down with a spark of interest at the stopped figure below.
She was obviously lost. Hesitation marked her every movement. She glanced around as if the city changed whilst she was looking away. He counted the number of times she tried to stop someone for directions. One, two, three, four times before someone bothered to stop and listen. Even then, it took her two more tries before someone actually gave her those directions. He watched as she moved to the edges of the sidewalk, a single bit of flotsam beating against the tide, looking for someplace sheltered to find her bearings and continue. A smile crept across his face. He’d recognize her anywhere, even when he was hundreds of feet above her, even when she wasn't shaking and covered in blood.
Jerome stood from his place at the window, yawning once and stretching. He had all the time in the world as far as he was concerned. What’s taking a few moments to help make sure a girl walks home safe? He really was nothing if not chivalrous at heart.
///
So stupid, how the hell did you end up here?
All of your immediate surroundings are rundown tenements, once new but now beleaguered and busted. The buildings? Courtesy of the Wayne family. The vines on them? Courtesy of their untimely deaths. If you were being honest, this area kind of spooked you. It was like a ghost-town but not at all whimsically Western. It was just scary.
The setting sun illuminates rusting swings and merry-go-rounds as you round a corner: a modest playground, clearly long abandoned and vacant. Turning and facing it is like turning the corner and finding an old friend. The swings remind you of childhood and you gravitate towards them. Lopsided as the swings and slides are, there’s something comforting in their appearance. Life was so different now -- nothing as morally black or white as it used to seem. The cracking rubber of the swing’s seat felt so familiar, and the fact you were still hopelessly lost seemed to dissipate amongst the childhood memories that still lingered here.
Well... a few seconds couldn’t hurt, right? Just a little exercise to release some stress. Then you’d find your way back home.
Swinging back and forth, you accumulate speed. It’s easy to lose yourself in this moment and lose track of time. It’s starting to get dark out so early now -- dusk approaches darkness at a demanding rate and the sun is almost behind the skyscrapers before your senses return. You return to swinging, telling yourself not to care. The rush of air against your skin is all you know, all you need to know -- you’re so absorbed that you almost don’t hear the person talking behind you until it’s too late.
“You know, I like your style. This is all very...” he paused, twirling his wrists, searching for the words he had yet to find. “...Manic Pixie Dream Girl of you.”
You would’ve frozen in place if it weren’t for the fact that you were on a swingset, midair. With a start you scramble to stop the swing, dragging your heels in the dirt and gravel until you’re stationary enough to hop off. Instantly you’re looking for somewhere to run, anywhere but here, but you suspect you wouldn't be fast enough to get away. The sickening void in your pocket reminds you of the fact that you have no phone -- no crutch, no safety, no escape. There's no one around to hear you scream in a neighborhood like this. Not anyone who cares, at least.
Something heavy in your jeans jostles you from your panic, and as fingertips brush against cool steel you remember it -- your switchblade. Of course. You draw it from your pocket but draw it too quickly. It falls from your grasp to the ground; dejected, useless. You practically trip over yourself in your rush to pick it up, as you begin to rise you see legs heading towards you. Holding the blade as steadily as your shaking hands can muster, you stab blindly at the approaching form.
The knife makes contact (much to your surprise) but when you finally look up, Jerome is smiling -- the blade is gripped in his palm. Blood drips down his wrist, but it’s as if he doesn’t feel it. He looks at you with a grin and you feel your stomach churn. Slowly you remove your hand from the handle of the knife, deciding this is a battle you have lost -- someone who could just grab a blade like that wasn’t someone who responded to reason. Impossibly, his grin expands further as you withdraw your hand in shaky resignation. He’s insane. He’s insane and you can’t get away and there’s no one, no one to hear you scream and you are so so screwed.
The redhead gently unclasped his hand from the knife, pinching the edge with his opposite hand and letting it dangle. He frowned, gave the blade a once-over and then looked to you, raising his eyebrows as if the two of you had some sort of inside joke he expected you to remember.
“I didn’t think I’d be meeting any friends of yours tonight,” he says, gesturing toward your faithless switchblade. He leans forward, mockingly conspiratorial. “If I’d known I would’ve changed my underwear.”
It was too late now to run, wasn’t it? He had you, here and now, and his eyes seemed to rip you apart and drink you in at the same time. Maybe it was better to risk it, to make a run for safety and freedom. Better to have a knife in your back than his eyes slicing into your body.
You shift and twist, like a butterfly stuck through with a pin. Wriggling under his gaze is useless, though, a fact you admit bitterly to yourself. Every shred of control over this situation you might’ve had dissipated as soon as he said those first words to you.
Sensing your rather obvious discomfort, or perhaps entirely ignoring it, Jerome continued to speak. “Well, in the interest of being honest -- I probably wouldn’t have done that.” He flipped the knife in his hand, fidgeting with the blade, opening and closing it. It was almost as if the knife had taken on a life of its own, performing a choreographed dance to the soundless night air.
He’s been trained in this, you’re sure of it. You watch his hand twist and turn--or is that the knife? It’s hard to tell at this point; you’re too caught up in watching, too mesmerized. Suddenly something glints and your trance lifts momentarily. You look up to the sky; it’s just the moon reminding you how late it is. As you glance back down to his wrist, a breeze passes your ears, cold and swift. The knife isn’t in his hand.
Your face contorts in a mixture of confusion and disappointment. There’s nothing to watch… and nothing to distract you. There’s a murderer in front of you. How could you forget? There’s a murderer in front of you and he had a knife but now he doesn’t and now is your chance to do -- what exactly? You scan for the knife on the ground frantically, hoping that this time your aim will be better. It’s not in front of you, no problem. You’ll turn around. You just need that knife, that’s it, that’s all. If you could just find that knife, you’re focused now and surely -- it’s behind you. It’s behind you about five inches from where you stand. Five inches from your head and five inches from your death.
“Don’t worry, I meant to miss. I think.” He laughs and waves his bloody hand noncommittally. “Well the important thing is that I did miss. So, you’re welcome.”
You mean to say this under your breath, but it comes out just a bit too loud.
“Should I really be thanking you?”
“Who’s to say, really. Maybe. But you don’t have to do anything. Besides, my kindness usually goes… unrecognized.” He looks wistful in his pretend sort of way.
Making that last comment has inspired some boldness in you, whatever’s left of it and hasn’t been smothered by fear.
“Kindness, right. Since you’re a murderer, anyone you don’t kill is a testament to your goodwill and benevolent mercy.”
“Exactly.”
He’s not an idiot. He knows sarcasm. He just chooses to ignore it, to hear what he wants to hear in your tone of voice. It’s frustrating, but if he didn’t do it, you suspect that knife would be about five inches closer to your head right about now.
He approaches you and the fear sets in again, a stone dropped unforgivingly into your stomach. You lean away, shoulders curling in on yourself protectively.
Again, he pretends not to notice.
He extends his hand and smile to you in what would have been an innocuous gesture of friendship on anyone else. “I’m Jerome.”
You say nothing and his eyes darken with anticipation and impatience. He’s more terrifying then you remember, then you wanted to remember. You tell him your name. He smiles.
“Well, it’s not Jerome, but I like it.”
You shift under his glare, knowing now what he expects you to say.
“Thank you.”
He drinks up your compliance like it’s champagne, your resistance the fleeting tingle of bubbles that have run out all too soon. You’re not the first person he’s done this to. He seems to have experience, sure, but you can also tell it’s what sustains him. This game is the only one he finds worth playing and eventually he’ll get tired of playing it with you. If only that were to your benefit.
His fingertips graze your chin as he raises your eyes to meet his. He cocks his head, inspecting you for a moment before he turns away.
“See you again,” he calls, blowing his words over his shoulder like a kiss he expects you to catch and raise graciously to your lips.
See you again. This time you know he means it.