Chapter Ten
Bruce knew Jerome had left before he opened his eyes.
It wasn't just the distinct emptiness in his arms, or that the room only held the sounds of one set of lungs, it was just the fact that the spark of life that seemed to follow Jerome around, and the warmth Bruce bathed in when in his presence, was gone.
Bruce slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position, his pants were crisping uncomfortably around his genitals, and he was pretty sure his lips were bruised. He sat there for a moment, trying not to think of the connotations behind Jerome's departure.
Bruce felt like an idiot. What had he thought was going to happen? That Jerome would still be there when he woke up, that they'd go upstairs and have breakfast? Exchange phone numbers? The man was the most wanted criminal in half the city. Well, what was left of it.
Swinging his legs off the bed, Bruce got up and walked towards the stone staircase. He climbed to the top, and out of the fireplace, but as he turned with the remote to close the entrance, Bruce caught sight of his face in the mirror above the hearth.
Smeared across his cheeks and up his face was red greasepaint, in a poor mockery of a smile. Bruce's hand darted up to frantically rub a hand over his cheeks. The makeup just smeared further, and it along with his black eyes, was a painful reminder of what he'd done.
Stumbling up the stairs to his bathroom, Bruce silently thanked anyone who was listening that Alfred didn't appear to be in that wing of the house. Hands shaking, he turned on the taps, and splashed too-hot water across his face. After frenetically lathering soap over his face, and scrubbing the smeared paint from his skin, Bruce met the eyes of his reflection.
He should feel disgusted with himself, he should feel angry and violated, but he didn't. He was terrified because he'd loved every single second of it. It didn't matter though. None of it mattered, because Jerome hadn't done it out of any desire towards Bruce, it had all been a game to Jerome, the Joker, whatever. Bruce hadn't even resisted, he'd just melted into Jerome's hands.
His hands gripped onto the sink as his cheeks coloured in embarrassment. His masochistic brain conjured up the moments just before Jerome had plunged over the edge of the Wayne Enterprises building, when the look he'd given Batman was the most Jerome-like one he'd seen on the man for eight years. And his words, it had all been talk except for the last one, Evil. Jerome had been telling the truth as he'd disfigured the last few letters of the word into a lower vowel sound, but somehow, he wasn't telling all of it. There was something Bruce was missing! Something that connected his hero when he was twelve with the clever, sad man who had kissed him so forcefully last night.
Evil.
Something caught Bruce's attention, a flash of red out the corner of his eye. His eyes widened. The letters, in the mirror. Bruce turned, reading what had been written across his bathroom wall in red capitols.
EVOL.
The first and last letter were written backwards. He turned back to the mirror, reading the word through the glass. It spelt out LOVE.
Bruce needed to find the Joker. He needed to find him before he did anything stupider than usual.
•
As predicted, the money was gone. Jerome barely spared the empty floor a glance though, as he walked through the warehouse to the office, and collapsed into the chair. It was almost ludicrous to think that barely two nights ago, he'd been sitting in this chair, glowing with confidence about his plans. So pleased with his silly little ideas, and over-estimating his self importance.
He'd screwed everything up so, so badly. Now Bruce wouldn't get his perfect story, and Jerome wouldn't get his place immortalised in it, or what he really wanted; Bruce. He'd royally, royally screwed everything up. As he leant back, a silver flash caught his attention. A switchblade.
Picking up the knife, Jerome flicked it open, admiring the way the blade caught the light. He caught sight of his mouth in the metal, the curling scars up to his ears almost naked now. Most of the red was gone now, transferred.
God, even just thinking of the stain across Bruce's mouth made his cock twitch. The way those hooded eyes had stared up at him like he was the only thing tying Bruce down to reality. Stop it. Jerome closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, and rested his forehead against the hand holding the blade. It didn't cut him, but the hard handle digging into his skull grounded him. Jerome needed to do something. Go somewhere.
The police would be here soon, Christ, he needed to move. Somehow, he couldn't will his body to even tense. He'd lived so long with a purpose, with a goal in mind, that without it, Jerome felt lost. A red light on the console in front of him pulsed. It was the perimeter alarm.
So, the police were finally here to take him away, to lock him up in Arkham deeper than he'd been before. They could. It didn't matter. He wouldn't even struggle.
"Jerome", a familiar voice that sent a lurch of longing to his very core called out from behind him, and the Joker turned. As soon as Jerome had swivelled the chair halfway, Batman was darting towards him. Jerome dos nothing as the switchblade was snatched from his hands, and he was dragged to his feet. Bruce looked horrified, and Jerome caught up, "Wha- No, uh, I wasn't about to slit my wrists or anything, Batsy. Jeez, a bit melodramatic today are we?".
Bruce sucked in air, sagging slightly as he dropped Jerome back into the chair. Jerome didn't know what to say. He'd cut and run for this very reason. After a second, Bruce broke the silence, "Why'd you leave?". Jerome barked out a self-depreciative laugh, "Brucie, I'd just pushed you down and molested you. The billionaire Bruce Wayne and the Batman at the same time. Didn't particularly want that conversation".
Bruce sighed, staring down at the Joker with something strangely akin to exasperation, before looking away, "When I was twelve, you were my hero", he stated calmly, "Yeah I liked all the vigilantes in other cities, but you, Jerome, you were the flesh and blood representation of everything I wanted to be". Jerome twitched, "What a great role model I turned out to be". Bruce ignored the cut it, "I was just a kid. Kids see in black and white, and I'd never had a friend before, I didn't know what to do with those unknown feelings".
"I hadn't ever loved anyone either, not like that. I'd loved my parents, of course, but at twelve, attraction was a completely foreign concept. I didn't recognise it when it happened". Jerome frowned, not sure where this conversation was going. Bruce finally turned to him, "Why'd you really do all this? You said something when I asked you last time, Evil, but then you wrote it on my bathroom wall. Love. You wrote Love backwards, and it spelt out Evol".
Jerome avoided Bruce's eyes as the vigilante continued, "Jerome, please. Just tell me the truth, what have we got to lose? Why did you do all this?".
Jerome rolled his shoulders, and stared at the ceiling. Bruce preferred him without all the makeup, "You want all the gory details, right from the beginning?", he said quietly then, and Bruce nodded.
"Okay".
•
When Jerome finally finished, he didn't look at the other man. He stared at the ceiling, layers peeled away and stripped bare. He'd never felt so exposed in his life. All his reasoning, every single thought process spread out for Bruce's scrutinisation.
The masked man finally spoke, "Do you know what I told you about my views of you as a child? Because even then, a small part of me wouldn't let go of Jerome Valeska. Through the years, even when I went away to train, I couldn't let you go. When you killed your mother and came to me, I-". Bruce broke off, before clearing his throat to continue, "I couldn't understand why you would do that. I couldn't understand why everyone I cared about ended up worse off after I got involved with them. You were this pinnacle of intelligence and strength, then I got mixed up with you, and you ended up beaten up, in trouble with your family and then killed your mother. Then you told me you did it for me! You told a twelve year old boy who thought the world revolved around you that you'd murdered your mother to protect me".
Jerome didn't say anything, "I blamed myself. Pulled away and tried to give you the best shot without me". Bruce huffed out a strained laugh, "Look how that ended up. Anyway, my point is you never stopped to ask me what I wanted. You made all these stupid assumptions about what was best for me, what I needed, but you never asked". Bruce turned to look at Jerome, "Did it really never occur to you that the enamoured little rich boy maybe just wanted you?".
Jerome's chest tightened, "You don't mean that". He muttered quietly, trying to crush the stuttering in his veins. Bruce sighed, "I'm not in love with you, Jerome. I was too scared to even place the connotations to you after what you did to all those people. But you were just stupid. Trying to fight the same battle as me but in your own, misguided way. But that's not me saying I can't".
"It's going to be difficult. It's going to be messy and secret and hard, but we could do this", Bruce said seriously. Jerome didn't know what he was hearing, but he felt lighter, better than he had in eight years. Like he had a new purpose. A teasing, soft grin carded through his cheeks, "My favourite kind of difficult", he said roughly.
•
"Hey, Brucey baby, do you like the black one or the purple one?", Jerome called out from his place in front of the mirror in the master bedroom of Wayne Manor.
Bruce was stood beside the sink in the master bathroom, carefully drawing a razor up the line of his throat, "Uh, I don't know. The black one?", he yelled back. Jerome strolled into the bathroom, draping himself across Bruce's broad shoulders with a sigh, watching them both in the mirror. "You always pick the black one", he grumbled mildly.
Bruce smiled, turning his head to nuzzle into Jerome's hair. It was shorter now, and back to its gorgeous red colour, and along with the distinct lack of any makeup on the older man's face, Bruce thought he was perfect.
It had been three months. Three months since Gotham City had read, seen and heard about the Batman stealing the Joker out from within police gunfire, and whisked him off to God knows where. Two months later, Bruce Wayne had announced his scandalous homosexual love affair with a male lover he'd met whilst on one of his extravagant cruises abroad.
Unsurprisingly, the press had no idea. They drank in the spun tale of Jerome's tragic scarring, and after some judging assurances that the scars were disturbingly common in urban gangs in England and a promise of an interview from Jerome, they ran off to write highly complimentary articles on the couple's disreputable private lives.
Jerome had loved it.
"Did you hear?", Jerome muttered into Bruce's ear, his lips brushing the shell as he locked their gaze in the mirror, making the other man shudder, "People are saying that the Batman talked the Joker down on the night with all the fires. That he managed to negotiate with the criminal". Bruce raised an eyebrow, "Hmm. What do you think", Jerome licked his lips lavicioisly, "I think the Joker got the better deal".
Bruce huffed a laugh, "I don't know about that", Jerome pulled on a facade of utmost sincerity, "Oh, well, clearly you haven't heard what they've been saying about the Batman's physique. All that Lycra, it doesn't leave much to the imagination".
Bruce turned around, "You know what? I think it would be a bad idea to turn up to this dinner on time. Too out of character for Bruce Wayne". Jerome nodded sincerely, "Ooh, yes. Don't want anyone to realise that the disreputable Bruce Wayne might not be as lowly as he pretends". Bruce pushed Jerome out into the bedroom, and down onto the still-mussed sheets.
Jerome spread his legs, letting Bruce settle into his contours. Bruce leant up on his elbows, surveying the body spread out beneath him, "Look at you", he rumbled, "All wrapped up nicely for me". Jerome lifted an eyebrow, "So that's how this is going to be? Fine, I'll roll over this time. Don't get used to it". Bruce leant down to suck along Jerome's pulse, enjoying the hitch of breath it coaxed from him. "Don't worry about that, I don't think that's possible", he murmured against Jerome's neck.
Bruce undid the buttons down Jerome's shirt as he moved southwards, letting his mouth trail a wet stripe down the other man's chest after his hands. Jerome groaned as Bruce lathered open mouthed kisses into his navel, letting his hands sink into dark locks as the man above him deftly undid his fly, and sank down on his heavy cock.
Jerome sighed blissfully as Bruce swirled his tongue around the organ, whimpering when teeth scraped over the head. God, he would never get used to this. Bruce begun to bob his head, and Jerome's abs curled. He leant over Bruce, holding on for dear life as the talented mouth wiped all thoughts other than, more and please from his mind.
He felt Bruce's lips curl smugly around his cock when one of those words escaped his mouth. Jerome couldn't have that now, could he? Jerome pulled Bruce off him by his hair, cock twitching when his lover slurped as he was dragged off. A trail of spit linked those perfectly full, red lips to the plump head of Jerome's erection, and Bruce's hooded eyes stared up at him, and it was almost too much. Jerome dragged those lips up so he could bite and suck them into his mouth, tasting himself on Bruce's tongue.
Blindly, Jerome searched out the plain bottle they kept on the nightstand with one hand, whilst battling to undo Bruce's shirt as quickly as possible with the other. The smooth plastic bumped into his palm, and Jerome thrust the bottle at his lover, " Hurry up", he ground out, "Unless you want me to come when you're not inside me".
Bruce groaned, grabbing the bottle and slicking up his fingers on one hand, slowly stroking Jerome's cock with the other. Jerome shook his head, "No, I'm still loose from last night. Just, ugh, just do it, please", Bruce let out another desperate, low moan, as Jerome writhed. "You are going to be the death of me", he said as he rapidly slicked up his cock, and rubbed it against Jerome's entrance.
Jerome pressed back desperately. He needed Bruce to fuck him before he came, he wanted it with every cell in his body. Before he could voice his concerns, Bruce shoved inside him with one hard thrust. Jerome's hands shot up to grasp the headboard. Not as loose as he'd thought then. He didn't mind though, especially not when Bruce began to move.
He felt so full, every single thrust was hard enough to push him up the bed whilst simultaneously pummelling his prostate, and low moans ripped their way from his throat. Bruce shoved his hands beneath Jerome's shoulders, using it as extra leverage to plow harder and further into Jerome's body.
Bruce was grunting with the effort, pressing their slick chests together and trapping Jerome's leaking cock between their stomachs to rub almost too deliciously in the hot friction.
Jerome was close, "B-Bruce", he gasped breathlessly, unable to manage any more through his pleasure-wreaked brain. He didn't need to, Bruce simply sped up his thrusts, muscles tensing headily against the pliant body beneath him, and Jerome choked desperately as his orgasm hit him like a freight train.
Hot, thick cum shot up their chests, and Jerome tightened sporadically. Bruce let out a low curse, and gave one last thrust with all his strength, before he shot deep into his lover. The feeling of the shooting hot cum inside had Jerome crying out and setting off one last weak pulse of cum, before Bruce collapsed on top of him.
Heavy pants filled the room for a few minutes as the two men settled into their afterglow. Bruce found the strength to roll sideways, landing on his back next to Jerome. They lay there, panting at the ceiling, until Jerome curled onto his side and nuzzles into the firm body beside him, "How late can we be", he murmured huskily, dragging his fingers through the cum across Bruce's chest.
Bruce grasped his wrist, pulling the dripping fingers up to his mouth and sucking them clean, "I think we have time for round two", he rumbled from around the long digits, and Jerome smirked.
FIN