Hello, everyone!
First of all, to the two people who read and commented on the first chapter: Thank you both. You guys are literally the only reason this chapter got done today. I appreciate your words and your ideas. Thank you dearly.
I forgot to add some notes and warnings to this in the first chapter. I intend to get darker with this fic. This fic will include torture, beatings, and mind games. It could possibly involve some dark, manipulative Jerome x Bruce. Undecided. It's a possibility, though.
This story can also be found on Tumblr via prince-ofgotham.
Please enjoy. xoxo
Bruce did his best to avoid eye contact with everyone in the van. He stared at his knuckles instead. His knuckles were slightly cut from accidentally tearing along Jerome's staples when he was punching him. Alfred had made sure they had been disinfected and cleaned up. Now it was just an obvious sign that he had been in a fight with somebody.
Now and then, his eyes would flicker up and meet the demented gaze of the older boy across from him. Jerome was watching him like a hawk, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He hadn't stopped staring since he had sat down, and that annoyed and unnerved Bruce, who never liked being stared at. Bruce clenched his jaw and tried his best to ignore it.
They drove down the long driveway that would let them exit the Wayne family's estate, and Jerome seemed to gain a thoughtful expression. He hummed. "Y'know," he rasped, "I think something's missing. Don't you guys?" He looked around at his followers who were eyeing him curiously. He looked at Bruce and his eyes narrowed as he tried to think. Suddenly, it was like a lightbulb had went off in his head. "Oh! I know what it is!"
He snatched the sack that had once held the spray paint and turned it upside down, dumping the contents on the floor. Two more cans, a few knives, a gun, and a handful of darts fell out of the bag and onto the floor. Bruce's eyebrows furrowed and he watched curiously as Jerome shook it. "What are you- Hey!" Bruce yelped as Jerome threw the sack over his head, covering his face.
"It's not a proper kidnapping if I don't bag your head," Jerome reasoned, securing it over Bruce's face and then leaning back. "Can't have you seeing where we're going." Bruce growled from within the bag and reached up to remove it. Jerome reached out and swatted his hand away. "Ah ah ah! Don't touch."
Bruce made a small surprised noise and yanked his hand back with a huff. He balled his hand into a fist but made no move to swing.
Jerome saw this and watched with delight. "Just sit tight, Brucie." When the boy didn't relax in the slightest, he snickered.
The ride was long and annoying, as far as Bruce was concerned. He kept his head ducked, tried to ignore the feeling of eyes on him, and tried to keep his fists from trembling in anger. Breathing was difficult in the bag, and he found himself having to focus on his breaths.
Suddenly, after what felt like far too long a ride, the van screeched to a stop and everyone went still for a moment. Bruce heard the doors open and the van moved with the weight of people getting off it. Two hands reached out and grabbed his arms, hauling him up. "Up ya go," Jerome growled, and Bruce realized it was he who had pulled him up. Bruce immediately tensed as he felt himself being led forward in pushes and tugs.
Bruce stumbled and gave a groan. He couldn't see where he was going. Jerome wasn't exactly being gentle or taking care of the younger boy's steps, and Bruce scrambled blindly. He growled in frustration and reached up to take off the sack once more.
He felt a sharp smack to his hand and yelped softly. "Didn't I tell you not to touch?" Jerome asked, sounding amused. Bruce could feel him holding onto him from behind. His back was pressed against the older boy's chest.
"I can't see," Bruce growled in response.
"That's the point," Jerome replied. "Now, hold still."
One of Jerome's hands released Bruce's arms only to reappear snaking around Bruce's knees. Beneath the sack, the younger boy's eyes widened. "W-Wait. Wait, Jerome, don- Ah!" The young billionaire yelped as he was hefted up into the air. Jerome's arm looped around Bruce's chest, carrying him stomach down. Bruce groaned, feeling very much like a battering ram. "Put me down!" He could feel Jerome moving inside the van. "Jerome, put me down!"
"As you wish, Prince of Gotham," the older boy muttered in an almost annoyed tone.
Bruce felt himself being swung forward and back in the air. Suddenly, Jerome threw him forward. Bruce let out a cry as he was thrown face first out of the van, only to feel more hands grabbing and catching him. Jerome had thrown him to some of his followers. The ginger psychopath could be heard cackling behind him. Bruce groaned. "Tell them to put me down."
Jerome's cackling came to an abrupt halt. "You heard him, boys. Let him go."
The cultists gave little giggles and suddenly let Bruce go. The young billionaire hit the ground with a grunt. He scrambled on his stomach, trying to get back to his feet, when he heard Jerome jump from the van. Hands grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him back up. "This way," Jerome instructed, and once more went to leading him forward.
Bruce struggled to keep up with Jerome's quick pace. He stumbled, and Jerome's tight grip on him caused him to stagger and struggle to walk. He couldn't see, but he knew it when they had walked inside of a building, and he knew it when Jerome pushed him in a different direction than the other cultists.
He felt Jerome reach in front of them and heard the loud screech of a door. They came into an area with an echo and Bruce thought it must have been a stairwell. He found he was right when Jerome said, "Going up!" and pushed him forward, giggling when Bruce stumbled and had to reach for the floor to keep himself from face planting.
The climb was a struggle within itself, and when they reached the top, Jerome pulled him through another door and down another hall, before finally entering a room. Bruce felt the boy shove him forward hard, and stumbled to the ground. He fell in a heap and gave a groan.
Bruce sat up just as he felt a hand grasp onto the top of the sack. Jerome yanked it off, and Bruce found the older boy crouched down in front of him with a wicked grin on his face. "There! Wasn't that fun?"
"Where are we?" Bruce hissed. The room was cold and barren. The window which was letting in the morning light was dusty and broken. The walls had once been painted a gray/blue color but were peeling and revealing their cement shade underneath. The floor was cement and felt like ice beneath Bruce's hands. It looked as if it had been abandoned for a very long time.
Jerome watched the boy with cruel amusement glittering in his eyes. "What, you don't like it?" Jerome asked, feigning hurt. "I know it ain't Wayne Manor, but really!"
"Stop it with the games," Bruce snapped. "I've had enough games."
"Sheesh. Remind me not to keep you out late again. You get cranky." Jerome giggled and stood up from the ground, brushing himself off. Bruce watched him with fury brimming in his eyes. Jerome tilted his head. "See?" He gestured to Bruce.
Bruce smacked the hand away and climbed to his feet. Jerome eyed him the entire time rather like a cat watching a mouse. For a moment, the two merely stood and stared at one another as if waiting for something. Neither moved. Bruce was tense, waiting for Jerome to attack like some animal. Jerome was motionless, his expression unreadable.
Bruce could hear dripping like from a leaky faucet from somewhere. He heard the distant sounds of people walking halls down below them. Now and then he heard a slamming door or a gunshot.
"Wow," Jerome finally said, sounding impressed, "You're real good at staring contests."
"Where are we?" Bruce growled.
Jerome rolled his eyes. He looked around with an agitated look and waved his hands around as he said in a dramatic voice, "Home!"
Bruce glared at him. "This isn't home!" he snapped. "Tell me where we are, Jerome!"
The ginger maniac gave a sound of exasperation. "The outskirts of Gotham. That's all you need to know."
The young billionaire's eyes widened to the size of saucers, much to the delight of the criminal who gave a low, broken and drawn out laugh that made him sound like a smoker. Bruce dashed to the window and peered out. They were at some sort of old facility across the water. This building seemed to be the only one around. It was surrounded by tall, iron gates not unlike Arkham's, and it looked entirely abandoned save for the few vans parked below. Bruce felt his pulse rising. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest. He would've thought he was having a panic attack if he thought himself capable of such. As it was, his breathing became ragged.
Jerome snickered as he heard the quickened breaths. "Aw," he cooed, giving a fake pout. "What's the matter, Brucie?"
Bruce heard Jerome's laughter and felt goosebumps rise on his arms. It was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. It gave him a desperate desire to spin around and break the red haired boy's jaw, but he refrained as he remembered the house of mirrors. He would not lose control of himself.
"Why am I here?" he asked instead, his voice trembling.
Jerome scoffed. "We've been through this," he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. "I remembered what we talked about on our little date and decided that it would be for the best if we remedy those childish delusions-"
"It's a difference in opinion," Bruce said haughtily.
"It's a prison in your mind," Jerome replied.
"You can't change my beliefs," Bruce snapped. He gave a rather exasperated growl and ran his hand over his dark locks. "This city has good people in it. People to stop people like you." The words came out in a low growl and Bruce stepped forward suddenly, his earlier apprehensions thrown to the mind. He stood face to face with Jerome Valeska and narrowed his eyes. "You're wrong about Gotham."
Jerome narrowed his eyes in a serious way and then suddenly began to laugh again. "Oh, Brucie," he said, shaking his head, "You may have gotten taller but you're still the little kid I dragged up on stage at that benefit. Childish, naïve, kinda bratty." He shook his head and smiled a wide, demented smile. "It's going to be fun breaking that faith."
"You're going to fail. You're going to get caught. Alfred will go to the GCPD. Detective Gordon will find me. You'll be locked up in Arkham." Bruce smiled smugly. "You'll be dropped back in a cage like the rabid animal you are."
He wasn't expecting Jerome to hit him, so when the back of the ginger's hand connected sharply with Bruce's cheek, the boy yelped and fell to the floor. He looked up, eyes wide and mouth gaping, to see the psychopath looking over him with clenched teeth and wide, wild eyes. Jerome wasn't smiling as much as he was baring his teeth like a growling dog. "I'm not going back to Arkham," he said slowly.
Bruce winced, feeling a bruise appearing on his cheek. Jerome cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as if regaining his composure. He lifted his chin at Bruce. "Now, I'm going to go take care of a few things. I'll be back in a few minutes, and when I get back I expect a major attitude change." His words were feigning a stern tone, but Jerome's eyes were dark and filled with cruel intent. He spun on his heel and strode to the exit, slamming the door shut behind him.
Bruce flinched at the loud clash the door made.
"What do ya mean, he's gone?" Harvey Bullock stared in shock at a somewhat ruffled and bloody Alfred Pennyworth. The butler was leaned on a desk, holding a bag of ice to his head.
"Well, it's exactly what I said, isn't it?" Alfred snapped, "I was cleaning up the kitchen when Jerome Valeska and a few of his goons came in. One of them knocked me in the head a few times with a rolling pin. Valeska didn't even bother to stop and say hello, just walked right through the damned kitchen." He scowled. "When I came to, Bruce was gone. Only thing they left behind was that spray painted smile."
Harvey put his hands on his hips and cursed, turning and pacing around the room in frustration. Jim Gordon folded his arms. He didn't like the sound of this. How had Jerome gotten away so quickly? Why had he went straight back to Bruce? It was an almost obsessive move.
It was chilling, to say the least. And now they had to not only deal with Jerome's men loose on the city, but the fact that Jerome had once again taken Bruce Wayne. Was the boy even alive? How long did they have until Jerome decided to kill him? Surely, that was what the psychopath intended to do. It had been the end goal last time, so why should this time be any different?
"We have to find him," he muttered. "Alfred, was there anything else? Anything that might've given a hint as to where they were?"
"No," the butler responded bitterly, "Nothing but that damned face."
Jim closed his eyes. That was practically nothing to go on. "Okay," he said slowly. "We need to put out a search. Have everyone in a uniform looking for signs of either of them." He turned and left the office abruptly. Harvey cursed and followed after him.
"This'll be like finding a needle in a haystack," Harvey said, following after the brisk paced detective. "We need a better plan."
"We'll get one. For now, we need to start searching. Get them going, Harvey."
Harvey stopped for a moment and then sighed. He nodded and turned his attention to the officers at work at desks. "All right, listen up!" he began.