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I was afraid to leave you on your own
Bruce wasn’t aware of what was true fear at the time. Jerome was though. He had the bruises, and burns, and scars to show him what fear felt like. Looked like. Tasted Like. Scarred like. Jerome didn’t need the concept of fear explained to him during their first meeting. He didn’t need time to ponder what his worst fear could be. He knew. His family. His family that
left him vulnerable and alone. His family that left him cold and unwanted. His family that left him battered and bruised.
Bruce needed time. His family was strong and loving. His family was supportive and present. His family was still alive. But then they weren’t; it was his meeting with fear. True fear. Not the fear that drove them to leave the theatre, to walk into the alley, to get them killed. No, that was childish fear that didn’t compare to his blood running cold, trying to wake his parents as their bodies grew cold, and his hands became bloody.
No, fear was a new concept to Bruce and it drove him to seek warmth. To seek life. To his only friend. The fear led to the only place he knew the reporters couldn’t find him. Where the ghosts of his parents couldn’t haunt him, asking why he stood still. Where the ghosts’ had no hold over him. Where his blood wasn’t cold, and his heart could still beat.
Bruce found himself standing at a trailer with a snake slithering in a cage by the door. His tears had stopped falling, but his body shook with sobs, and he weakly knocked on the door. He wasn’t sure if he ran, or if Alfred drove him, or maybe he got a cab? Bruce didn’t know how his body had come to stand there, but it was, and he couldn’t imagine a better place to hide, than with his fiery friend, who made him laugh, who made him happy, who made him feel alive.
“Bruce?” Jerome’s hands were on his shoulders. They were rough and grounding, and Bruce couldn’t breathe between his sobs, but with Jerome there, he knew it was okay. It would be okay. Because maybe this was a dream, and he’d wake up, with Jerome shaking him awake after he dozed off in the woods, or in the empty circus tent.
Jerome’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. His voice sounded too far away, and Bruce couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he’s pretty sure it’s directed at him, but he didn’t want to answer him, and even if he wanted to, Bruce wasn’t sure he would be able to. His legs followed the pull of Jerome, chasing the heat he emitted, needing it to stay alive. He was close enough to his chest to feel it rise and fall, to feel the faint beating of his heart.
They stopped. They were safe. They were hidden. They were warm.
“They’re dead.” Was all he could choke out around the sobs once they stopped. They were somewhere isolated, with Jerome’s arm around his body, and his face buried in his neck. He could feel his pulse. He was alive. They were both alive. They were somewhere safe. Jerome was safe. He knew this, and Jerome reassured him of this. They would always be there for the other.
“I know.”
“I should’ve-”
“No,” Jerome interrupted before Bruce could finish. Jerome’s hands were warm, and tighten their grip, “You did what you did, and it’s okay.” Jerome reassured Bruce head shook, weakly trying to argue, “It’s okay.” He was so warm, and safe. His warmth chased away the ghosts’ cold grasp on his heart and mind. His warmth reminded him that he was still alive, that he had made it out of the alley. That he had survived. The warmth reminded him that the fear wasn’t forever. The fear was not the end. Nor, would it be the beginning. The fear was but a small problem that will soon leave.
It was later, once Bruce’s tears had dried and he was left clutching onto Jerome hiccuping, that Bruce saw where Jerome had taken them. It wasn’t far. It was a small hill that looked down on the fairgrounds. They didn’t say anything. Jerome would occasionally nuzzle into Bruce's cheek, silently asking him how he was doing. Bruce would push back for a second and then mold himself back into Jerome's neck to breathe him in. Jerome didn’t always smell nice. Sometimes he was sweating and gross and smelt like the animals, or he’d smell like burnt soup and alcohol, but he always had this underlying scent of cotton candy and something that Bruce was never able to perfectly pinpoint.
Bruce needed Jerome. And Jerome would always be there for him… right?
I said I'd catch you if you fall
The fire that enveloped Jerome so wholly, ate him from the inside out, kept him warm in the coldest night had originated somewhere. Somewhere dark and painful. That’s why when the chance was there, he moved in. Bruce’s home had been opened to the hungry flame, constantly looking for more top devour. But for a singular moment didn’t.
Bruce, for a moment, was all he needed. As his broken ribs screamed in agony, and his blood soaked into dark curls. The cold breath of Bruce Wayne was enough, and he needed nothing else, as his mother laid dead, poisoned by her own alcohol, and his uncle’s leftover bruises told of the blame he had been forced to carry. The circus didn’t see the need to keep him, so they didn’t. They allowed his uncle to put an end to him, until a particularly stubborn rich boy came bounding to the trailer, unsuspecting of what he was walking into. Expecting any other normal Wednesday where he came to take Jerome to the arcade and dinner. Where the two could pretend to be normal boys in a city that didn’t have crime crawling and lurking in each shadow. That didn’t have the fate of the city resting on his shoulders, or the pain of a missing twin and bruises of alcoholics on his back.
With his arm wrapped around the cold body of Bruce Wayne, he knew that there would never be enough, if this wasn’t. He knew if even having Bruce in his arms, the cool body pressed against him in reassuring promises of protection, wasn’t enough, then nothing ever could be. He would always be thirsty for more. Mouth salivating for more blood, and pain. For more to remind him of this reality, not the one screaming in his head. The one where blood and pain were by his hands.
The burns of too-hot soup scalding his throat, unable to do anything but attempt to scream, something that he was still unable to do. Even with the cold breath of Bruce buried against his neck as his arms encircled him, blunt fingers gently pressed at his back as reassurance that they are here, that they are real, that he wasn’t alone again. He still needed more. It was more than simple wants, it was carnal desires. Fire didn’t need cool bodies pressed against there’s quelling the house fair to that of a candle. It needed hot stifling oxygen.
“We know it was you!” The words were hissed into his ear. His uncle had a hand buried in his hair, as his knee was digging into his back, and pulled it. The hair pulled loose from the root, his back cracking since he wasn’t used to bending that way, a cool blade biting into the skin of his throat, “You killed Lila, just like you attempted to kill-”
His words were cut short by a dark haired angel. His dark haired angel. Already Jerome’s vision was blurry and dark at the edges. His ribs were probably broken from the repeated exposure to Zach’s steel-toed boots. He back had more than a few beer bottles slammed, and shattered against it. Tearing the shirt and flesh. He knew he had blacked out at least once because there was definitely a cut, a deep cut, from a knife along his exposed arms that he had no memory receiving.
“Keep moving, kid, this isn’t your fight.” Jerome knew that voice. It was a bluff. Zach knew who this was. Everyone knew who Bruce fucking Wayne was, and they knew that he could bring down Gotham City on whoever dared go against their darling prince.
The blood was warm in Jerome's mouth, and his head felt like it had been pumped full of helium, and he sent a bloody smile towards his uncle. The drool and blood pouring down his chin staining his shirt. Bright red and glistening the warm coppery blood lines down his neck, and oozing from the lines Uncle Zach had carved into his face. Stretching his smile far wider than it’s ever been.
“This is my fight, and I suggest you stand down.” Bruce's voice was cold and apathetic, like he really might just kill Zach where he stood. Jerome couldn’t see the blade in Bruce’s hand. Couldn’t see the steely resolve that had settled in his eyes. But he knew Bruce wouldn’t back down, and he could hear Zach walking away saying, “good riddance” and promising to “gut the devil’s spawn” the next time he saw him. He could see his dark angel killing for him, and it sent his mind into a frenzy.
Bruce was quick to kneel on the ground next to him, promising to make everything better. Promising to keep him safe. Proming. Promising. His arms were so cold, to Jerome roaring fire beneath his skin. Jerome pressed his face against Bruce’s hair. The dark curls bathing in his blood, but Bruce didn’t seem to care. His cool lips pressing promises of safety, of a home, into his neck.
Why couldn’t this be enough? He wondered at the fire beneath his skin ached to be let loose and burn Bruce to the ground and bathe in his ashes. But he was starting to form an idea of what would be enough. And the bloody hand of Bruce Wayne became the star of his dreams.
And if they laugh, then fuck 'em all
People weren’t sure what to think when the red headed man showed up with a plaid three-piece suit with yellow accents, hanging off of Bruce Wayne. They certainly weren’t sure why he had scars stretching from the corners of his mouth in a gruesome smile. The words quietly whispered at each event. Then echoed in gossip magazines, but neither ever commented. The most they got was a name, Jerome Valeska. No one knew who the mysterious name belonged to. Never has he been seen before, and with the way he behaved people suspect that he had been some sort of deranged child raised by wolves the Wayne’s had found on their land one day. There were plenty of outlandish stories, and while Bruce tolerated them, Jerome Valeska basked in them. Occasionally barking at politicians who tried to speak to him while he ate. Or making strange comments about his “human suit.”
Without the wild stories, maybe Jerome would’ve been a better guest. Maybe if they hadn’t attempted to pry into his private life. Or if he hadn’t seen first hand, during the time his parents died, Bruce had been affected by their words. There were many possibilities as to why Jerome was such a troublesome guest. The real reason was quite simple: Bruce Wayne. He loved Bruce in his own twisted and fiery way. Bruce had helped him when his uncle attempted to beat him to death after his mother died. He had helped Bruce when he had nowhere else to go when his parents were murdered. Somehow the two boys, from such different worlds, had found solace in each other.
Jerome Valeska was the one person at any event, young billionaire Bruce Wayne attended that could receive a smile. A hesitant, guarded smile. But a smile nonetheless. Bruce Wayne was the only one at any event Jerome Valeska found himself in that let him speak comfortably. Not throwing on a showman’s mask forced him to think of how each word he said would be taken, and how to find the best way to deliver a line. It was simply the two of them, and the press went wild trying to find their connecting point, and how to exploit it in the best way possible.
There is only one thing the news knows about their relationship, and that is that Jerome and Bruce had a deeper connection than brothers. Bruce could be standing in the middle of the room, completely surrounded by the board members of Wayne Enterprise, but after one reporter finds Jerome lurking on the edge of the room, could be there in a flash, hand on a wrist, politely excusing the two. It’s always far more intriguing when Jerome is the one to intervene. The one who was pulling Bruce aside, and saving him from the others. It took a moment for people to realise, but when Jerome was the one to lead the young billionaire away the rest of the night for the one who had prompted the intervention left with no wallet, and damaged clothing, if not worse.
“You’re quite young.” Words Bruce has heard too many times. Words Bruce will probably never stop hearing until they were long dead and gone. Until they are dust under his feet. He could see Bruce’s lips tighten to line, as the man continued speaking rudely. Continued with his harsh comments, inconsiderate comments. Of how Martha and Thomas Wayne would forever be missed, and how no one could ever measure up to their impact on Gotham City. Bruce’s hands curled into fist, gripping his pant legs. No, this would not stand. With quick steps from across the room, not bothering to excuse himself from his previous conversation, with whoever. Jerome would be sure his next few nights out would be very unpleasant. The older men and women at these events always belittled Bruce. Despite his young age Bruce was far more empathetic and intelligent than they could ever hope to be. He may not be much in age, but in mind he is vastly more creative and witty. While Jerome left situations with shouted threats and fists, Bruce talked his way out of situations calmly. He could speak circles around anyone there. Bruce kept the reporters distracted, carefully hiding Jerome’s past, and Jerome protected Bruce, standing up for him when he noticed the looks he received. Read the underlying tones of their sweet words.
“And you’re quite old.” Jerome responded, his hand trailing down Bruce’s arm to let him know that he was there, that he would always be there. He would have Bruce’s back as Bruce has always had his. With a slight tug of hand they were walking away. His fingers wrapped protectively around Bruce in a way he couldn’t right there in a room full of people. A small pressure added as a way of asking if he would be alright, and tug on his hand in return promising that if Jerome was there he would be okay. Bruce steps quicken as he leads the way to a side room of the large banquet room. A moment alone. A moment to breathe. A moment to remember that everything would be okay as long as they had each other’s backs.
“You are more than they will ever be able to understand.” The heat of the hissed words did little to warm the cold apathetic wonderings of if they were right. On if he would ever be half the man his father was. If he would ever be able to help people the way his mother had. If he would ever be able to live up to the legends that his parents had left behind. Martha and Thomas Wayne were people who had made such a positive difference in Gotham, Bruce sometimes wondered why he even tried.
Jerome didn’t mind that his shoulder was slowly becoming wetter and wetter as Bruce cried silently. Jerome knew the weight of silent tears, and he knew that for now, there was nothing for him to say to help Bruce, all he could do was be there. Wrap the sad orphan in his arms, and lend his warmth. To allow his hand to rub small circles on his back and squeeze him lightly to remind him he was alive. That he was there, and that he could do anything. Bruce fingers clawed at his back seeking to be closer. His delicate fingers traced long the scars no longer needing to feel the raised skin to trace them, already having their location memorised. He just needed to know that someone was there with him. That someone was alive with him.
There always was. Jerome was always there for Bruce, just as Bruce was always there for Jerome.
And then I got you off your knees
Put you right back on your feet
Just so you could take advantage of me
No one expected it. To find Bruce show up to the charity alone. It hasn’t happened in two years, yet there he stood. Alone. No Jerome at his hip, with a wide smile, broadened by white scars. Instead there was nothing. Just a sad boy following society’s rule and attending the event. The far away look in his eyes as he wondered when this had happened. When everything had turned into a nightmare.? When his dreams were shattered by reality? When did his hopes for the future change into bleak darkness, vanishing from sight? Was there anything he could’ve done? Any signs he should’ve seen?
When he walked into his office that morning he wasn’t looking for Jerome. He wasn’t looking for a fight, to find a way to escape what he thought had become his dream life. No, when he awoke that morning, he had walked into the office simply to retrieve a jacket that he had left on the couch, from when Jerome had shaken him awake to remind him to go back into his room. He hadn’t expected to find anything of note. Hadn’t expected to find Jerome rummaging through his files with several stacked. He hadn’t expected to watch Jerome take pictures of their contents and slot them back into where they were stored. He hadn’t expected to be betrayed by his best friend.
No, when he woke up that morning he expected to walk into his office, grab his jacket, and walk into his kitchen to find Alfred where he would request for him to wake up Jerome who would then proceed to groan and roll himself further into the comforters of his bed. Not only had he expected it when he woke up, but as the night came to an end he craved it. He craved to feel Jerome bumping his shoulder with his own while making a short joke. Crave to hear Jerome laugh a little too loudly at inappropriate times while at a charity event. No, now he craved to be simple, and clueless, and to not know what had happened.
“Bruce, where is your usual plus one?” Which would be changed to ‘red headed devil,’ a reporter asked as he quietly slipped his non alcoholic drink. Maybe the numbness of alcohol would be greatly appreciated. As much as Jerome liked to act like some he was sort of a bad boy, he always made sure Bruce was safe. That if he went out to the club that he would come home safe. Jerome didn’t feel comfortable around alcohol, and Bruce understood that, and he respected that, but sometimes he understood the desire to be numb for a moment. To not have his mind racing out of control. The alcohol allowed him to have a sort of break from his mind.
The night was over too soon, Bruce realised when he got home. If he could call it that. It no longer had the heavy presence of Jerome. The sharp smelling cologne had gone stale, and the empty house was cold. It was so cold. Chills ran up his spine, his hair stood on end. He was alone. The ghosts in his home held his hand in the cold night as he looked for any trace of Jerome's presence. There was nothing. Any trace of Jerome that might have lingered was gone; Alfred had cleared the house of him.
“I can explain!” His voice still echoed in his head. Begging to be trusted, forgiven. Bruce is pretty sure he would give anything to go back in time. To try again. To be forgiving. To listen to whatever Jerome had to say.
“There’s nothing to explain.” It was said far too calmly, as if he knew this would happen. Maybe he did. It was only a matter of time. Bruce Wayne the child born to be alone. Alfred may be there, but after the death of his parents, he drifted away. Thomas and Martha Wayne held Bruce’s life together. They kept the reporters away, hid him away from the harsh light of the camera. Kept him being average in schools, and kept Alfred around. After their death he wasn’t alone because he had Jerome, but he wasn’t around all the time. Now, he wouldn’t be around any of the time. The loneliness was the worst. He thought it would be the feeling of betrayal, but it’s not. He wanted Jerome back.
“Bruce, please.” He sounded young again. He sounded like he did when he found him the smile carved into his lips. An attack from his uncle at his happy nature, or so it was explained to him. Bruce sometimes wondered if he remembered sobbing into his hair whispering his name over and over again like a prayer. Jerome may not have disclosed a majority of the abuse he suffered at the hands of his birth family, but the amount he told to Bruce was far more than anyone else would ever receive. He wished that instead of abandoning him, he had waited. He had listened, that he had done anything other than walk away, but he didn’t. He turned his back on Jerome. On his best friend.
“Leave, Jerome. I don’t want to see you again.” The words felt robotic, like they weren’t his. But Bruce didn’t feel in control. He felt like he was drifting off in space, watching someone else’s life from afar. He wished it wasn’t his life. He wanted his life to have Jerome in it forever. He wanted Jerome to never leave. But he did. Jerome left, at his request. At his demand. This was his fault. The anger was gone, the hurt was gone. Now there was just regret and sadness. There was no more Bruce Wayne, the billionaire boy; now he was just Bruce, the lost boy. He wondered if he would ever see Jerome again. Would they recognize each other? Would they speak, or just pass one another silently.
He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He wanted Jerome back, he didn’t care about anything else.
Tell me, how's it feel sittin' up there?
Feelin' so high, but too far away to hold me
Five years aren’t that many, but so much can change in that time period. Bruce Wayne can turn nineteen, Jerome Valeska can turn twenty two. Bruce Wayne can start the inevitable transition to completely turn around Wayne Enterprise for the better. Jerome Valeska can become one of Gotham City’s greatest burden. Not that they had a name. Not until tonight. The night when everything was going flawlessly, until his dark haired friend made an appearance, and things went sideways. Well, technically, the plan was intact, Jerome just got distracted.
How he had missed the stage. Theo Galavan had allowed a few bit of showmanship, but this was a stage and an audience, applauding for him. He lived for things like this. To be in the spotlight, even with a mask on. For a brief moment he wondered what it would be like if Bruce hadn’t kicked him out, if he had stayed. Would he be in this crowd watching some other criminal pretend to be a magician? No, he decided, Galavan could never find someone like him, no matter how much he’d try. He eyed the crowd, giving wide smiles, looking for the perfect person to be his volunteer. Galavan wanted someone who would be easy to sympathize with, someone who was conventionally attractive. He had suggested a pretty woman. He had suggested Trish Leevy, a woman he didn’t quite know, but could easily call out for, but when Jerome saw him, the target changed. No matter what Galavan had said. He no longer cared about pleasing his temporary boss. No, nothing mattered but him. To be close to him again. He may not be in the same position; he would no longer be the one protecting him, but the one endangering him. Sure, in the plan Galavan would save the hostage, and Jerome would flee in ‘fear,’ but the sentiment remained.
He would be near Bruce Wayne again.
He pointed directly at Bruce, as he waited for his volunteer. He had to wait to start the true reason for him being on stage that night, and why not have a bit of fun. He had worked on the perfect voice for his magician, Rudolfo. He was a chainsmoker, who only ever stopped smoking for the few minutes he was on stage, and was often dosed in cologne to prevent the smell. A thing that Bruce was never very fond of, so he couldn’t help the slight upturn of his mouth as Bruce’s nose twitched with slight annoyance, but he gracefully recovered with a small hesitant smile.
He led him to a small box. Bruce’s feet slid into the secret compartment under the table that would protect his body from the sharp metal that would pierce through the box. There were two peice of metal to block the audience view from inside as he would slide the pieces apart to prove that the young billionaire had, in fact, been cut in two yet remained perfectly okay.
He wanted to keep Bruce on stage with him, but with the looks Galavan was sending him, as he tried to draw out the moments made him instead allow Bruce to walk away from the stage. From him.
Now, he just had to get on with the previously scheduled programming of all hell breaking loose and people running scared. He would watch unaffected from the stage, the chaos is what he thrived in now. Finally how he felt on the inside was reflected on the outside. He tried to keep an eye on Bruce, but he was already trying to find a way to lead people towards the exits, but there wasn’t much for him to do. He peeled off the fake beard and rearranged his hat allowing for his face to be on full show.
Once the room calmed down, Bruce stood there, in the middle of the room. Most of the people were crotched on the floor of cowering beneath tables, but not Bruce. No, Brucie stood, looking for any way to save everyone. Why does he even want to save these people? Has he magically forgotten what they used to be like? How they had treated him? He should want revenge!
“Brucie, my favorite volunteer,” He purred, Bruce's icy glare landing on him. Even in anger it felt lovely to be seen by him. “Why don’t you come back to the stage?” despite it being phrased as a question, everyone knew it was a demand, and if he didn’t comply it wouldn’t be good. For most people a simple gun pointed in their direction would be enough for them to become compliant, but not his Bruce. Bruce would need a gun pointed at someone else. His life on the line would mean nothing if he thought other people would be safe.
“Why are you doing this, Jerome?” This wasn’t Bruce’s voice. It was void of all emotion. Nothing for him to savour. No quaking of fear, drop of remorse, hardness of anger. Nothing! It was plain, and simple, and not Bruce. Bruce was emotional and this was not his voice. This was the voice of a stranger. What all had happened in their missing years?
“No!” Theo’s Galavan voice echoed. He did not need to project that much. Could he be any worse at this? Now he was taking steps forward, as if he knew Jerome wouldn’t harm him. He was terrible at this, “He’s young, has his life ahead of him. Leave him be.” Now that was an order. He shouldn’t have been worrying about Jerome’s acting when this was his.
“Why would I do that Mr…” he trailed off, like a good actor, allowing for him to fill in the blanks. Jerome wasn’t quite sure on how he expected the police to think he wasn’t involved if he was acting like this.
“Theo Galavan,” Now he’s looking at the camera.
“Yes, well, Mr. Galavan, step on up if you think yourself so brave.” The plan didn’t go accordingly. He didn’t turn his back to Galavan, and Galvan didn’t save the day, yet. Jerome wanted to do something else, so he pistol whipped him. He’d be fine. He’d wake up, pretend to turn Jerome over to the authorities, then Jerome would make a miraculous escape using the magician’s toys.
“Well, now that distraction is out of the way,” He gave him a light kick to double check he was down for the count. He was, so he turned back to Bruce, whose face was still a cold glare, “Now, Bruce, if you’ll continue your way on stage; the show must go on!” He gave him a large smile, but Bruce didn’t return it, not that Jerome had expected him to. He held out his hand to assist Bruce on stage, like a gentleman. He hadn’t expected Bruce to take it. He did though. He was as unpredictable as he was predictable. He was a perfect paradox. His hands had roughened over the years. Jerome had to admit they felt nice, He had missed Bruce touch more than he’d like to share. He led him over to a target board. It was a large circle that had been painted bright pink with splatters of purple with thick circles, like one would expect to find on a target, painted in a bright blue. It was an eyesore, but Jerome loved it.
Bruce obeyed, and stood against the giant target as Jerome stepped forward, “Now to make sure you don’t run away.” He started to pull at a belt that had been added, wrapping it tightly around Bruce’s stomach. Jerome tried not to take notice of the fact that Bruce had lost weight, an unhealthy amount. He leaned his mouth close to his ear, and whispered, so only Bruce would be able to hear, “I’ve missed you even if you hate me.”
“I never hated you, Jerome, don’t put words in my mouth,” He hissed. He seemed even angrier by the accusation of being hated than the whole being taken up on stage. Jerome grabbed his arm and raised them to the pegs that stuck out of the wheel, instructing him to hold on, and then tying them there. Not tight enough if he was honest, but he didn’t want to actually hurt Bruce.
“Why are you doing this? If you needed money I would’ve-”
“No, you wouldn’t have, Bruce.” He cut him short. He pulled a red and white spotted handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapped it around his eyes. He didn’t want to tie it too tightly. He knew what would happen if he had approached Bruce, “You shouldn’t lie, it’s unbecoming.” Maybe Bruce was going to say something, maybe he wasn’t but it was too late, Jerome was walking away with a couple knives in hand, and addressing the crowd.
“Now, folks, while my partners are dealing with their end of this little event, I will be providing the night’s entertainment.” Jerome made a little bow and tossed one of his knives and caught it by the blade. He then turned to the board, his back to Theo Galavan. The body slowly stirring and waking up, he hadn’t been out long, but it had been enough time for Jerome to get a taste of who Bruce had become. He needs more, but he didn’t fully notice Theo. He hadn’t seen his true intent. A fatal mistake.
He threw the first knife. A soft thud made Bruce flinch, and his hands tightened around the pegs, his fingers blanching. Jerome smirked at the sight of him. He was proud of himself in a sick sadistic way. He wanted Bruce to feel as scared as he was when he turned his back on him. He wanted to be Bruce’s only fear. He wanted Bruce to wake from nightmares of him, like he woke from nightmares of Bruce. He wanted him scared and panting checking to make sure his heart was still beating. He wanted him to see him in the dark corners of the rooms. Jerome wanted his eyes to naturally search him out.
May if he hadn’t gotten cocky. If he had kept an eye on Theo Galavan he might’ve succeeded. If he hadn’t placed so much trust in the man. Maybe he wouldn’t be on the ground.
He was on the ground? His mind was lagging behind his body. His body was on the floor, slowly losing blood with a knife in his neck. His body was sending white blood cells, or whatever they were, in hopes of surviving, but it was too late. There was no going back from this. No surviving a knife in the neck. He didn’t have enough time. He didn’t get to… to do something he wanted to do… something, that's why he was here. In this room, on a stage. He had to tell him something. His thoughts were scattered, and hard to decipher, but he still remembered a name.
Bruce Wayne.
He meant something. Who was he? He could see him in his head. He was beautiful. Jerome felt nice around him; he couldn’t pin down the feeling. It was like when Bruce was around he was floating on a cloud and drowning in the ocean at once. Like his body was on fire while simultaneously being frozen whenever he smiled. He was something special. Something to be cherished. Something to be loved.
Baby, I'm the one who put you up there
I don't know why
Thinkin' you could live without me
His wrists burned from where Galavan had untied them. They still did. The same hands that had taken Jerome from him had touched him and he hated it. His blood boiled at the thought. As Jerome fell he could remember every moment they’ve ever shared so clearly. It made him hurt. For some reason the most prevalent memory was stupid, and wasn’t even a memory he called upon often. It was Christmas eve, both boys all too aware that there was no christmas magic. No Santa Claus to come flying in and making their lives better. Instead they laid in front of the fire on a makeshift bed of blankets while eating a loaf of freshly baked bread and eggnog that Alfred had made for them.
“You know, Brucie, you’d make an excellent villain.” Jerome spoke up. Bruce's gaze had been far away and watched the fire in a trance.
“Oh really?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, “And why is that?”
“You have the money,” that had earned a roll of his eyes, but Jerome kept going unperturbed, “The clothes, and the oh-so-tragic background. When you go dark it would be a truly magnificent ascension.” Jerome hadn’t said it in any particular way that made Bruce suspect him Jerome himself ‘going dark.’ It just seemed like one of Jerome's strange conversation topics that he had brought, like at the one banquet when he felt it necessary to push Bruce's neck from behind and when asked about it later he just shrugged and he didn’t see a reason not to. That was a big thought process for Jerome, he didn’t look for a reason to do things, but a reason NOT to do things.
“I think there’s more to being a villain, like a super power, or perhaps a catchy name?”
“Then what would your power be?” Jerome had rolled coser to Bruce so that Bruce, who was on his stomach, rested his head on his hands, and Jerome was on his back with his hands beneath his head. He looked gentle in the light. Some of his scars had an almost shininess to them and Bruce had the strong urge to trace them, to see what they felt like. But he, unlike Jerome, thought of why he SHOULD do things instead of why he shouldn’t. An important distinction.
“I don’t know.” Bruce sighed and looked into the fire. They both knew what it was. In the corner of his eye he could faintly see the shadow of regret cross over his features. Bruce had cried into his arms too many times wishing to bring back his parents. To undo what he has done. To beg to free them from their eternal slumber.
As Bruce stared into the fire, thinking of yet another person he’s lost he starts to wonder. He is so often the harbinger of death. And yet, everytime he just stands by doing nothing. Somehow he kept going day to day. Reporter shoving microphones in his face asking if he knew Jerome was like this the whole time? Why he cared so much for a murderer? Why? Why? Why? All of them birds looking for scraps of a story to twist into their own narratives. It was disgusting and he could figure out how he had survived this before.
Three days after the event Bruce Wayne was the headline, “Wayne Orphan punches reporter! Why does he defend a known murderer?”
After that he stayed in his manor. He never left, obsessively working out, and studying, and doing everything he could to distract himself from freezing anger that made him want to go out and find Theo Galavan and destroy him. He couldn’t he knew he couldn’t yet he so much of his time was filled with bloody images of Theo’s body. Of a neck at a too-sharp angle, a body with its flesh frozen with the cold ice. He didn’t
With Zach at least Bruce could pacify the icy fury with Jerome being safe, but this time there was nothing to pacify him. Nothing to keep him from falling over the edge. A twisted part of him made him truly want to kill Theo Galavan. Not just to destroy who he is, but to rip him from the Earth, to show him the terror Jerome felt. That part knew how easy it would be for him to get away with it. Knew how simple murder could be in Gotham.
Alfred watched in terror as Bruce turned to drugs to find ways to see Jerome. Nothing he did stopped him. Bruce needed a way to see him. Sometimes the drugs didn’t work as expected, he would stay up for all hours of the night sobbing for him, other nights he would scream at ghosts. Alfred was terrified one day Bruce wouldn’t be able to control the drug usage, like he’s trying to now, and one day Alfred will awaken with another note from him telling him he’s gone, but this time he wouldn’t come back.
So tell me, how's it feel?
Bruce didn’t know what happened. It all happened at once and he couldn’t see something. He heard a loud gasp and some gurgled sounds, but he didn’t know what they were. What they meant until it was too late. Until Alfred was pulling the handkerchief from his eyes, and Jerome was staring at him. And his eyes were lifeless. The most lively person he ever knew has been drained to an empty shell. His fire extinguished. This isn't right. He was numb and angry. Hot and cold. He was both at once. Each fighting to react appropriately. At first he just stood there waiting for Jerome to get back up and for him to laugh it off. Everything would’ve been forgiven. They would be happy and complete again.
He didn’t.
He just stayed there, still, in a puddle of his own blood. Why wouldn’t he move?! He wanted to scream at him, telling him to wake up! Maybe, he did. He wasn’t sure.
When his anger took over he was kneeling in his blood, with tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t exploded yet. There was so much anger it felt like he couldn’t contain it. His hands were surprisingly steady as they reached out to close his eyes. He couldn’t stand to see him looking at him. Bruce knew this smile. This smile isn't genuine. This is the same smile he found on him when he was close to being beat to death. He died terrified, and that made him even angrier. He pulled Jerome to lay in his lap. He was clutching on to his shirt, just sobbing. Or screaming? He couldn’t hear anything, like cotton had been shoved in his ear, unable to hear anything clear, just a garbled mess of sounds. He felt his hands on his shoulder trying to gently usher him away, but he didn’t want to. The only one allowed to touch him is Jerome. Even in his last moments Jerome didn’t hurt him, and he never would. Bruce knew it.
Jerome had always protected him, and he always will. No! No that’s wrong, because Jerome doesn’t have a future anymore, someone stole that from him. Who stole that from him? He understood that they were afraid, but murder is murder. They were wrong. They should pay. They would pay. His blood froze in his veins as he let the anger freeze him in place as he swore to Jerome that he would repay him. That he would make this better. There was no way to make this better. Jerome was dead. Dead and cold, and Bruce wasn’t sure how he would survive with this knowledge. Before he could at least wonder what Jerome was up to. Wonder how his life had gone, how he had changed. Not anymore. Now he’s dead. Now he’s going to be in the ground, maggots will be eating him from the inside out until he is unrecognizable.
The hands were pulling on him, trying to tear him away from Jerome, but they couldn’t. He wouldn’t let them. He held Jerome to his chest. Tear washing over his terrified smile. Claiming them in the name of love, because that’s what Bruce felt. He wasn’t sure what type of love it was, but he didn’t care. All Bruce cared about is that he loved him, and someone stole him away. Someone had taken his life, and a part of Bruce’s along with it. He had imagined their reunion so many times. No one of them were quite like this, but he couldn’t imagine a world where Jerome wasn’t alive. Where he no longer had the ability to apologize. To try and listen to his explanation. Anything to try and rekindle their friendship. He would’ve paid whatever price to bring Jerome back to life even if that meant he could never contact him again. Never see him again. Just the knowledge of him being alive would’ve been enough for him. He didn’t want to live in a world where Jerome wasn’t. He wanted to follow after him into the afterlife. He couldn’t. No, he was frozen in this moment his anger etched into him. They will pay for doing this to him. Bruce swore that.
“Master Bruce.” He could faintly hear Alfred's voice. He was speaking gently as if he was a wild animal. Was he? He couldn’t tell anymore. Weren’t all people who have lost a person who they love a little wild? He has lost both his parents, and now Jerome. He should be allowed to go feral. Allow him to clutch his decaying body to his chest until they are both skeletons to be found years later. Let him cry tears of lost love and anger until he has run dry and left screaming with a bloody throat, leaving a trail of red blood where his lips pressed confessions of love in Jerome’s skin. Allow him to be. He begged whatever would listen to him to bring back Jerome, mumbling promises, and confessions of love, anything to bring back the redhead boy he had loved.
But he couldn’t, slowly the tears dried. His hands and clothes are bloody with his love. His eyes were red and swollen, but he schooled his features into a mask of eerie calm. This wouldn’t be the end of it. He walked away from the body with a new goal. Destroy Theo Galavan. There were worse things with death and he will meet them.
Gave love 'bout a hundred tries
Just runnin' from the demons in your mind
Then I took yours and made 'em mine
I didn't notice 'cause my love was blind
Jerome woke up alone. Cold and alone. He had spent so long in darkness, or was it only a second? He couldn’t remember. The only thing he could remember was Bruce. Bruce was there. Bruce had held him. He was so cold to the touch and Jerome loved it, but now he was cold. He never felt cold. But he was so cold. His body shivered within his body. His fingers were numb and had no feeling. He remembered how Bruce’s tears felt against his skin, it was a faint memory, but he could never truly forget anything involving bruce. He could imagine how the blood of whoever made bruce cry warmed his hands. He would serve their head to Bruce on a silver platter. Bruce may not appreciate the action but it was the only way Jerome knew how to show his devotion.
The more he awoken the more the pain grew. A searing hot mixed with a terrible sharp iciness created a wretched combination that raced over the exposed nerves of his face. He had made the mistake of touching it. A mad laughing bubbling up at the pain. Why was it his how things went for him? Pain, it’s what he was born into and reborn into. He had been brought back to life only to suffer more. What else should he have expected though.
It didn’t matter how he felt. He had to find Bruce. He wanted him back and he will get him back, no matter what. He had almost missed his own face on the screen in front of him in his rush to find Bruce, but there it was. He could hear the people upstairs scrambling around to find the man, but Jerome didn’t care for that shit at all. HE went out the back, he just needed his face then he could see Bruce.
The police should really lock up the weapons... better. He had got away with a pretty good load of what he needed, and a few extras for shits and giggles. All it took to find his face was a dead cop and a threatened driver, one would expect it to be easier to kill a suspect.
“Jer-” Jerome hushed him before he finished his name. The idiot nodded reverently and whispered, “you’re alive! You’re back! We’ve missed you so much! You’re not mad are you?” He sounded so pathetic. He was almost as pathetic as his showmanship, but he didn’t believe anything could be as pathetic as that.
“Oh, for stealing my face?” He asked edging closer, acting as if it really is no big deal, “Of course not, why would ever,” He dragged the knife across his throat, “be upset that a pathetic worm stole my face?” He took back his face and walked away leaving behind two dead bodies. In the back of his mind he thought of how proud Bruce would be for the minimal amount of lives lost.
Jerome hummed Toxic by Brittany Spears four times before he was finally able to reach the manor, careful not to rip his face anymore than it had been previously.
He could see Bruce inside of his office. He was sitting on the couch, he was sitting on the one with his back to the window and his head thrown back against the back of the couch. Jerome knew he should technically go knock on his door, but it’s just too tempting to go in through the office windows.
“Oh, Brucie, did you miss me?” He added the perfect amount of flourish to give a hint of nonchalance, but he couldn’t hide it that well, and Bruce had to have been able to hear it in his voice, but he didn’t seem surprised. Didn’t even turn to look at him.
“I always do.” His voice sounds so hollow. Jerome hadn’t expected that and it made his heart ache. Was he wrong. He hadn’t thought of that. Whenever he tried to think of if Bruce might now want to see him he remembered the broken sounds of Bruce sobbing, “Remember how I told you about the meeting with Strange? He still refuses to help me. I already promised all the money I have, and yet he won’t even look at your body.”
Jerome froze in place, he had been making his way towards Bruce's desk looking for a stapler for his face, but- He couldn’t. Has Bruce- He couldn’t even piece the words together mentally. He refused to believe that Bruce didn't actually care about him. He was finally able to forgive him, or well... Maybe that wasn't the best choice of words, because he was still angry about how Bruce turned his back on him, and he still wanted him to suffer because of it, but now he also just how much he's missed Bruce, and how he wants him back as a permanent fixture in his life.
“I’m really here, Brucie.” Bruce let out a dry chuckle and opened his eyes in the direction of the voice, not expecting to have found anything. His brain was able to conjure Jerome’s voice, but it’s never able to show him his body. He stood off the couch that he had been lounging on so quickly that he nearly fell over, but he didn’t take any extra steps. Jerome walked halfway, letting Bruce close the gap. It was slow at first, a few steps, fingers brushing his arms, then it was all at once. Fast steps and flinging himself on Jerome and pushing his face into the crook of his neck. Bruce felt different. He was so warm. He was scalding touch. It seems that they will always adjust to fit perfectly with one another. But Jerome wasn’t sure how to hold this new Bruce, yet he loved him so much so he wouldn’t let that stop him.
“I’ve missed you so much. S-so much! Don’t leave me again, never leave me, please, don’t leave me again.” He was sobbing. Alfred, having been alerted by the sounds, walked into the room expecting to find Bruce on the floor holding himself, as he has done before, but he hadn’t.
“He’s back, Alfred. He’s finally back.” Alfred was frozen as he and Jerome made eye contact. Alfred not wanting to upset Bruce by turning Jerome in, but also not wanting to just let Jerome back into their lives as if nothing had happened. He was a killer. He had tried to kill Bruce. Jerome ran his finger through Bruce's hair as silent tears fell down his face. He wanted to nuzzle into Bruce’s hair, but he didn’t want to get blood in it. Bruce with blood in his hair was an enchanting sight that Jerome had never truly forgotten, but this isn’t for him, for once. Right now was for Bruce, just as it would be if the roles were reversed.