Clowns
Author's note: My very first Gotham fanfiction, and I'm terrified that everything is wrong and Jerome is extremely out of character, so just be gentle and don't stab me in the neck. Enjoy!
Jerome always knew Theo Galavan was manipulating him. Of course, he didn't know getting stabbed in the neck was in order-at least so early, but he did know Galavan never intended for him to get a higher status than himself. Jerome didn't trust most adults anyway. Adults were dirty, they were liars. Sure, Jerome was a cold-blooded killer, but he was honest about it.
Now here he was, in the Gotham city morgue. Very soon someone would be sent to cut him open, take him apart. Moving around with a gaping, bleeding neck wound was not easy, and being quiet in a room full of mostly metal was even trickier, and to top it off he was naked.
There was a single lab coat hanging on an open door that appeared to lead to a washroom of sorts, so Jerome wrapped himself in it. He also found a pair of thick glasses sitting on the counter of the washroom-one of the lens had popped out, but oh well, so he put those on as well. His hair. That was going to be a problem. Not only was his face easily recognizable from the latest commotion and what he assumed after rousing in a drawer-his apparent death, but he had distinguishable, bright copper hair. And he was in a police station.
He found a white towel and wrapped it around his head, and moved to the door that led out-he hoped. It had to be late because the station only had a handful of staff moving around, and none of them seemed to be rushing. One officer bumped into him and muttered, "Sorry, Ma'am" before scurrying off.
Ma'am? Jerome was not a ma'am, but he figured hunched over in the too-big coat and head wrap that one could mistake him for an old woman, especially with the glasses.
He couldn't believe he made it out of the station, but when the crisp night air hit his face, he stood a little taller. The station, unfortunately, was located in the heart of the city, so the nightlife outside the building was a bit more active. Some stared at him, especially his bare feet, so he started spouting things like "Open your eyes! The end is near!" like so many of Gotham's mentally ill and homeless did, and that made people turn away.
Jerome knew he had to find somewhere to hide, gather his strength and make a plan. He could feel his neck leaking more blood, and his legs were chilly. Not to mention he couldn't keep mentally reminding himself that he wasn't wearing underwear and the lab coat didn't zip or button.
He wandered about two blocks, occasionally screaming about Nazis or the apocalypse to make gawkers look away and mind their own business. It was then that he came across the first home he saw, and to his luck, no cars parked in the large driveway.
It was a luxurious, two-story home with a well-groomed yard and decorative statues out front. It was the kind of place Jerome always wondered had he grew up in a decent home, not a traveling band of drug addicts, alcoholics and rapists, if he would be different.
He broke the window on the left side of the bottom story, not facing the street and partially hidden by large hedges, and climbed inside, saying "ooowwwwww..." as he did so because of his wound.
He rolled over the ledge and fell onto the tile floor of what appeared to be a kitchen, and lay on his back for a few seconds to catch his breath. He realized he was not alone.
"Yeah, I'm here for the next few days," someone said-not too far away. "I was thinking of throwing a killer party-do you think Garret would come? I know! Right?"
Jerome got to his feet, a bit unsteadily and moved around the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers until he found what he was looking for. Leaning against the granite counter top, he waited patiently for whoever was talking to enter-noting the voice getting closer.
A young woman, possibly a teenage girl walked in, holding a phone to her ear. She was definitely the kind of girl who would never have dated a train-wreck traveling circus monkey like Jerome. Her wavy black hair and heavy makeup was enough evidence, but she was wearing a top that was too snug, and cotton shorts that were too loose. She looked like his whorish mother-always ready to attract some man into her sanctuary-Jerome's sanctuary too- who would eventually beat her, or worse, get drunk or high with her and beat him.
Looking at her made the hairs on his arm stand up, and when she saw him, she dropped her flip-phone and it shattered into big pieces on the floor.
"Hi, do you have a moment to hear about our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?" Jerome greeted with fake innocence.
"Who are you?" The girl asked, sounding more disgusted than shocked. "How did you get in here?"
Jerome gave her a 'really?' kind of look and purposely moved one of his bare feet around in the broken glass.
"Are you going to rape me?" The girl gasped out, suddenly aware of her cleavage and long legs. She took a step back.
Jerome moved forward, pulling the knife from behind his back.
"Isn't that a little forward?" He asked. "And no, because you're really not my type."
The girl's eyes were stuck on the knife. Jerome was becoming woozy with blood loss, so he wasted no time in ending her. It hurt to follow her to the floor to get those last few blows, and when he stood back up, he felt a sharp pain in his neck.
Stomping over her body, he made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room where he collapsed onto the wrap around and sofa.
He didn't know how long he'd been passed out, or if he'd even really lost consciousness, but the next thing he knew, he awoke to see a figure standing between the living room and kitchen. He sat up and realized that it was a child. A little girl with blonde hair wearing a sweater, jeans, two different colored socks. She looked at him after staring into the kitchen.
"She was mean to me," she said.
Jerome pulled the coat more tightly around himself. He may have been a serial murderer, but he was not about to perv himself onto some little kid. He liked kids. They had reasons to be little assholes, unlike adults. Kids didn't know enough about anything yet to really have accountability.
"She burned me with a match," the girl said, raising up her sweater sleeve to show him. "See? And she hit me, and screamed at me, and called me names."
Jerome awkwardly shrugged his good shoulder and scoffed. "Mothers, huh?"
"She's not my mother," the little girl said. "She's my nanny."
This made Jerome wary. Would her parents be home soon? He still wasn't up to par and he was still barefoot and in a flimsy lab coat. Killing two more adults in his condition wouldn't be easy.
"Why did you kill her?" The little girl asked, sitting cross legged on the floor, playing with some lint on her red sock.
"I didn't like the way she looked," Jerome answered truthfully.
"You're bleeding," the girl said. "We have a first aid kit in the bathroom."
"When do your parents get home from work?" Jerome asked.
"They're in England," She replied simply. "For a week. Lydia was supposed to take care of me."
England. A week. This didn't sound so bad, not bad at all.
"I'm going to turn seven in two days," the little girl said. "It's my birthday on Monday."
"Happy birthday," Jerome deadpanned, collapsing again. If this kid wasn't freaking out, he didn't have to kill her just yet.
She disappeared and reappeared with a large, bulky first aid kit. Jerome watched her with one eye open as she dumped it out on the floor and began to look through the contents.
"A Band Aid would be too small," she mused. "There's gauze and tape, though."
Jerome wordlessly stuck out his arm and wriggled his fingers. The little girl put these items in his hand.
"Maybe you can wear some of Daddy's clothes," she said. "They might fit you."
"Right now, Tinkerbell," Jerome said. "I just need a nap. Could you be a big girl for me and not call the cops and tell them about Mary Poppins in the kitchen?"
The little girl nodded and said, "I'll get you a blanket."
Before Jerome could say anything, she disappeared again and reappeared with a large quilt and clumsily threw it on top of him.
"What's your name anyway, Doc?" Jerome asked, feeling his voice starting to slur from sleep.
"Harleen," the girl said. "What's yours?"
"...Jerome..."
He awoke again some time later and felt an uncomfortable stiffness in his neck. He reached to touch his wound only to find it was covered with much more gauze and tape than necessary. Also, on the floor near the couch, was a box of cereal, a bowl, a spoon, and a carton of milk. On top of the quilt near his feet was a tshirt, and a pair of sweat pants that both looked like they'd be a little too big, but he stood up and changed into them anyway.
Harleen was nowhere in sight, and he went into the kitchen since he knew that's where she'd gotten the food. The nanny was gone. A side door that led to what he assumed was the garage, was partially open and there was a thick blood trail leading from where the corpse had been into it.
"I moved her," Harleen said, making him almost jump. "I kept tripping over her."
Was this kid really that messed up? Her nanny was dead on the floor and some weird guy was on her couch bleeding to death and she simply drug a corpse into the garage and fixed him a bowl of cereal? Jerome thought that he was the only one like that.
"She tried to drown me one time," she said, as if she were reading his mind. "In the pool. She did that because I wouldn't stop crying because I wanted to go inside, but she didn't. She threw me in the deep end and told me if I drowned she would tell my parents it was an accident."
Jerome never felt anything for anybody. He never had, not since he was very young and used to pretend that his mother would love him-really love him- if he tried hard enough. At what he didn't know, but that was closest he'd ever gotten to it. A wave of empathy, however, washed through him, and he decided that he would not kill Harleen if he didn't have to.
"Did you eat your cereal?" She asked him.
"I'm hungry for something more solid than cereal," Jerome said, examining the contents of the fridge. A lot of takeout. A lot of booze. Not much else. He took a random carton of Chinese food and sniffed inside the box curiously. He then plunked it into the microwave above the stove and waited for it to heat.
"Where did you come from?" Harleen asked, sitting down at the table.
"The circus," Jerome answered, truthfully enough. "Most recently, a magic show. I was the magician."
"A magician?" Harleen smiled for the first time since he'd met her. "You can do magic?"
Jerome took a dish cloth hanging from a rack above the sink and a fake flower from a vase on the table. He performed the trick he'd learned for the Children's Hospital event, and Harleen laughed.
"Wow," she said. "That's so neat."
Jerome couldn't help but smile back, and he raised his eyebrows at her and gave her a wink. He removed the takeout box from the microwave and sat down at the table to eat. Harleen watched him.
"You hungry?" He asked.
"I ate cereal," she said.
"You like shrimp?" He held up a shrimp between two chopsticks.
Harleen shrugged.
"You don't know?" Jerome scoffed softly.
Harleen shook her head.
"Open," Jerome commanded, leaning across the table with his chopsticks. Harleen complied and he popped it into her mouth, making a funny noise. She laughed again, covering her mouth so the shrimp would not fall out.
"Good?" He asked.
"Yeah," she said. "It's good."
After he ate, Jerome asked Harleen where the shower was. By this time, he was not worried at all about her calling the police. He took a shower and correctly doctored himself in the bathroom and then changed back into the tshirt and sweats. Harleen was downstairs on the couch, just sitting. Not watching television, not playing with any toys. She seemed delighted to see him.
"Tell me about the circus," she asked.
"What do you know about the circus?" Jerome asked her teasingly.
"The clowns," she said. "I like clowns."
"Most people are scared of clowns," Jerome pointed out.
Harleen shrugged and said, "It' okay to like scary things."
Jerome told her about the circus-leaving out all of the brutal behind-the-scenes parts, and Harleen laughed and asked questions and clapped like she was really there, watching all of it happen before her eyes. Even if the nanny was the violent one, Jerome knew her parents could have not been that much better because she had failed to say anything about them aside from the fact that they were in England.
"Maybe your parents will take you someday," he said.
"I don't see them much," Harleen told him. "Mostly just nannies."
Jerome stared into space, wondering if it was more bizarre that he'd woken up in a morgue or that he was spending time with a six year old talking about the circus.
"You said your birthday was in two days?" He asked.
"Yeah." Harleen nodded.
"We should make a cake," Jerome said, grinning. He was starting to feel like his old self, only without the desire to kill. Just be spontaneous.
"I don't know how to make a cake," Harleen said, but followed him into the kitchen anyway.
They didn't actually make a cake, but unwrapped almost the whole box of Hostess cupcakes and fashioned them into a tower on a plate and then covered that with whipped cream from a spray can. They took turns spraying whipped cream all over the place, and then dug into the 'cake' while Jerome sang her 'Happy Birthday' through a mouthful of cupcake and whipped cream.
After that, he found an old record player in the living room and put on a snazzy record that one could dance to. Or two.
He and Harleen began dancing, and then he picked her up and began dancing her all over the house, making her squeal with laughter. He dramatically dipped her, spun her around, and swayed side to side, despite the agonizing pain in his shoulder.
After the record screeched to a stop, he collapsed on the floor, panting, Harleen on top of him.
"This was the best birthday I've ever had," she told him.
They fell asleep like that, and it was a few hours later when Jerome sneaked away, back through the window he came. He left Harleen on the floor, but covered her with the quilt. He still didn't think he could ever love, but maybe he could say he had positive feelings about the strange little host he'd met this evening. He wondered if he'd ever see her again, which was unlikely, but if he'd woken up in a morgue and just happened to break into her home of all places, maybe he would. Of course, not under the identity of Jerome. Jerome Valeska was dead. He'd have to come up with a new identity. As he walked down the sidewalk, knife concealed of the jacket he'd taken from the house, he remembered how excited Harleen had gotten when he told her about the clowns.