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#7: break into their home

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Bruce wakes up to the sweet smell of coffee and fried batter slowly filling his bedroom, that unmistakably means Alfred is making pancakes for breakfast. It makes Bruce very nearly spring out of bed despite quite a few bruised ribs and the late night he's had. But Alfred's divine goods are not exactly a common occurrence since Bruce returned to Gotham and took his mission to another level, and a little indulgence gets his blood running faster than a good rooftop chase.

Alfred's just that good. There's no shame in admitting that.

Bruce almost floats to the kitchen, carried on delicious aroma alone, not really paying much attention to the state of his attire. There is no one else in the house, and Bruce is more than certain Selina is not going to surprisingly pop up this early in the morning — she made it a point of honor as of late to not stumble on Bruce directly post-patrol. To avoid catching his crazy vibes, as she explained it.

Which, Bruce can't really begrudge her.

But he should've maybe put on something more than just pajama bottoms and a silk dressing-gown, because what welcomes him once he steps into the kitchen is nothing of the ordinary.

There is Alfred, just like Bruce expected him to be. Only not at the stove, working his pancake magic, but tied to a chair with what looks like an entire roll of duck tape.

And there is someone else.

Someone Bruce probably should've expected to break in at some point but for some reason didn't.

Jerome Valeska, the very bane of Bruce's existence, is seating at the counter by the sink with a wet cloth pressed to his temple, chatting idly, legs in full swing. There's a gun by his thigh and another sticking out of his pocket, and for a hot second Bruce thinks, still half-asleep, that he's walked into the wrong fairytale.

But no.

The kitchen is in enough disarray to have witnessed at least some semblance of a fight, with flour dust spilled everywhere and pancake batter dripping from the ceiling. Alfred has a nasty gash on the back of his head that's slowly oozing blood and looks like he took a hit from something blunt. Jerome, on pair with a soon-to-be black eye, sports a split lip and a bloody nose — no doubt Alfred's handiwork. It all looks rather gruesome.

The thing is, though, as Bruce takes it all in, the mess and the damage and the blood, none of them look all that hostile.

Surely, being taken as Jerome's hostage should constitute at least some level of aggression and defiance — Bruce would know! — but it's… not really the case.

What he can make out of Jerome's blabbering has nothing to do with threatening violence — the usual — and sounds a lot like retelling of culinary adventures. And Alfred's… nodding along?

Huh.

Maybe Tetch is also lurking here somewhere and Bruce simply hasn't spotted him yet. That would explain everything, really. It would also mean the trick's not up until all of Jerome's freaky minions are found and incapacitated. Well, damn. What a way to start the day.

Bruce makes a move to sidestep the door and flee the kitchen to go looking for other potential trespassers, but the floorboard under his slipper creaks and Jerome turns, facing him.

"Brucie!" he coos, instantly lighting up.

Wet cloth Jerome was holding to his head hits the wall with a loud splat as he throws his hands outwards in a dramatic welcome, his smile brilliant and threatening to split his face. It's a little uncanny. And not because of the scars.

"So nice of you to finally join us!"

Yeah. Sure.

"Jerome," Bruce greets stiffly.

He tries to maneuver his body out of the direct hit line just in case Jerome tries to shoot him — unlikely, but still, with Jerome one can never know — and gives Alfred a little secret nod. Alfred doesn't nod back. Yeah, there's definitely Tetch in here somewhere. The question is: who else?

Well, that's certainly not how Bruce imagined his morning to go.

He does his best not to sigh as he steps further into the room and thinks of the possible ways to handle this mess. One: he can't go full Batman on Jerome without risking his secret to his hiding minions, but two: Jerome knows first-hand that Bruce can fight, too. And then there's three. Bruce would be a fool to think this is a social visit in any shape or form, but he doesn't know what Jerome actually wants from him this time. And the truth is, as bizarre as it may seem, that Jerome did tone down on the killing intent the last few times he crashed loudly into Bruce's life. Just a little.

So maybe it's not so much of an outright threat as just yet another of the stupid games Bruce's self-proclaimed absolute clown of a nemesis was so fond of lately.

Bruce really hopes it is.

Even if making his life miserable in new and creative ways is Jerome's new favorite hobby — aside from turning his city upside down with madness — Bruce will take it. He will take it any day if it means less violence and less death. On either side.

"To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?" Bruce asks, looking Jerome straight in the face.

"I'm making breakfast!"

That's not an answer. Still, it's not like Bruce expected Jerome to actually reveal his master plan just because he asked. Always worth a shot, though.

"Yes, I can see that."

If he squints, maybe. Judging by the artful splashes of batter on his suit and a smudge of flour on his brow, Bruce is sure Jerome at least tried. Most likely after Alfred was already down. It would've been hilarious, really, if Bruce weren't so dumbfounded by the whole situation.

"Jerome."

"Yes, precious?"

"Why are you making breakfast in my kitchen?"

If it's even possible, Jerome's smile only gets wider as he hops off the counter and strolls to Bruce over broken eggshells and spilled oil. He doesn't say anything until they're at eye-level, almost nose to nose. Bruce can see the faint freckles dusting Jerome's eyelids beneath the scars and the mischievous twinkle in his glare. It's disconcerting a little, how used to being in his presence Bruce has become.

How standing face to face with what he often thought would be his doom lost its thrill enough to be almost familiar.

If Bruce didn't know any better, he'd think he was slowly going soft on a criminal, and that was truly unacceptable. He's Batman. He's not allowed to fraternize with his enemies.

Jerome obviously doesn't care about that.

He places his arms on Bruce's shoulders and slumps his weight on him, giggling lightly as if Bruce's confusion is the best joke he's heard in days. Maybe it is; deciphering what Jerome finds funny is a case for more than one psychiatric thesis and certainly not a challenge Bruce is willing (or capable) to face before coffee. So he doesn't. He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And thinks that maybe Jerome's waiting for him to ask the right question. Start the game.

"What can I help you with on this beautiful Monday morning, Jerome," he finally tries, flatly, refusing to muster even a bit of faux cheerfulness and enthusiasm before breakfast. Which Jerome has ruined.

Surprisingly, it does the trick.

"I'm glad you asked!" Jerome pats him on the cheek and pivots on his heel with more flair than anyone at seven-thirty in the goddamn morning should ever be allowed to possess. "It's showtime, Brucie!"

With Jerome, it always is.

And it never lasts.

When Jerome turns to him again, he has a gun pointed straight between Bruce's eyes and his expression is more that of a hungry predator than a mellow jester. There is a card in his other hand that he's waving for Bruce to take, all the playful demeanor from just a second ago gone without a trace. Down to business it is.

Bruce gives in and sighs loudly, reaching for the paper.

It's a sketched layout of a W.E. facility, one of those not exactly official few that are hidden and unsealed only on Bruce's explicit orders. Big, red X in the corner marks a spot Jerome should absolutely NOT know about, and yet. Bruce is not all that surprised.

It explains the alarms that went off seemingly unprompted in the last couple of weeks, along with slightly increased sick-leave rotation. Other than that, Jerome has been uncharacteristically quiet lately, save for his signature broadcast-and-kidnapping of the week.

Which, all of those things Bruce probably should've put together, but didn't. Despite what Jerome likes to believe, he isn't the only criminal Bruce has to keep an eye on. It's all very tiresome.

"No."

Jerome's stern expression melts into confusion. It's almost comical, really, how fast his demeanor can change.

"No?" he asks Bruce quizzically, as if he doesn't understand. He should. It's not like Bruce agrees to his crazy ploys without protest all that often.

"Absolutely not. I am not handing you access to those batteries, Jerome." Not unless you make me, goes unsaid.

Jerome blinks at him twice, visibly mystified, and Bruce genuinely hopes he won't exercise the power to do so. Because even if the unspoken (but ironclad) rule of all their encounters says that Bruce is untouchable to anyone but Jerome himself, as long as Alfred remains hypnotized and vulnerable, Jerome can, in fact, make him do a lot of things Bruce would rather avoid.

Handing over Jeremiah's only remaining — recreated — battery-bombs included.

Bruce doesn't break eye-contact when Jerome moves to scratch at his head, his posture slightly flopping. It's not a good sign.

"What? Naaaaah. I already stole those," Jerome brags nonchalantly, looking at him with unnerving glee.

Called it!

But also.

What?!

Very suddenly Bruce feels like there's a joke going on around here that he's very obviously not a part of. With Jerome, it's never a good feeling. Seriously, Bruce is too tired for all of this.

"Then what do you want?" he demands, very done with this ridiculous morning. Maybe if he'll let Jerome talk, he'll just go away. Yeah, in his dreams, maybe.

As if on cue, Jerome collects himself into his best showman persona, eyes glinting and fingers to his forehead. Bruce has seen it before; it was just as silly.

"Showtime, Brucie, I told you," Jerome grins, all excited. "You need to see the KABOOM!"

Ah. Of course, that's what this is about. Destroying the last of Jeremiah's legacy, how typical.

Bruce stares. And blinks.

He must look a bit owlish, even, because Jerome's façade cracks a little at the lack of immediate response. Whatever. Bruce really wants coffee. And breakfast. He deserves some delicious carbs if he's going to be dealing with Jerome's version of a field day. A very, very long, very tiring field day, because this is his life now, apparently.

Instead, he sighs again, miserable and longsuffering, and lets Jerome walk him out. Hopefully they'll get to stop and grab his pants, at least. Gotham mornings can get quite chilly..

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CODA

Jerome: *strolling in* Hiya, Jeeves! Remember me?
Alfred: *trademark Glacial Alfred Glare*
Jerome: Relax, I come in peace.

Alfred does not, in fact, relax.

…

After a fumble that Jerome surprisingly wins with only a minor dent on his dignity:

Jerome: *licking raw batter off a spoon* So. Will ya teach me how to make grade-A pancakes now or what?
Alfred: *expertly concealed surprised pikachu face*