Through Flames and Desire

(Jerome's P.O.V. the next morning)

Jerome hadn't slept in days. How could he when cops and criminals alike were gawking at him through the bars of his cell all damn day? He was pretty sure that the cells had been intentionally placed in the center of the department to give full mocking privileges to anyone that walked by. It was simply too much effort to try and scare them all off, so instead he sat in passive-aggressive silence, his trademark grin remaining on his face the entire time. Until nobody was looking, of course. Although he'd never admit it, it hurt to keep his face that way for so long.

A citizen, presumably reporting some sort of crime (as one typically does in police departments, wow Jerome, you really used your deductive reasoning skills there) was inching past his little prison. She looked terrified. Okay, there's no way Jerome was going to pass this one up. In a flash he was up against the bars, smiling madly. "Hiya, gorgeous! You look like you wanna come in here and have a little fun! Don't worry, all of my weapons are in a liiiittle box up there." He pointed to Jim's office. "Except for my incredibly pleasant demeanor that is. Although I must warn you, I do bite." He laughed maniacally as she scurried by, terrified, until an officer yelled at him to shut up. "I'd be careful, Davidson. We all know I still have some help on the outside. I wouldn't want you to...say...find your shoes filled with hydrofluoric acid." Jerome knew he'd be checking his shoes for weeks now. The thought made him laugh again. One of the cops sitting at a desk near his cell stood up and slapped him.

"Well, that wasn't very nice." He sat back down.

Jerome was used to this sort of treatment. It's how he was raised. And this past week, all the police had done was bring up memories of his childhood with how often they dragged him to the locker room and beat the shit out of him while he was cuffed and chained. He'd developed a plethora of cuts and bruises, but the long sleeved shirts they gave him each morning hid them from view. It didn't really bother him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

He grinned. Now, if the violence came from a different situation, he'd like it a hell of a lot more. Sure, he was a bit masochistic. But in his mind, he was also sadistic enough to balance it out. A very healthy combination, indeed.

But there was simply nothing fun about being hit by a corrupt old man who just wanted to feel better about his own daddy issues or whatever. This is how Jerome viewed most police officers. At least, the ones who beat kids. Unfortunately, Mr. Bigshot Police Captain either didn't notice or didn't care. Knowing how nauseatingly moral Jim was, it was more likely that he had no idea what was going within his own department. At least Jerome could hold that over him if the occasion arose. At this moment, James himself came racing by, barking incoherent directions at Detective Bullock. Jerome watched as he tore out the front door, and briefly wondered where he was going in such a hurry.

He spent the next few hours imagining the various ways in which he could bring James Gordon to his lowest point. For some reason, the ideas didn't bring him as much joy as they used to. Jerome figured that he just needed a new target. Jim was old news anyway. He sat there thinking of new candidates until he heard shouts coming from the entry way. This wasn't extremely concerning to him. New perps tended to make an annoying fuss every time they got dragged in. It wasn't until he saw Harvey hurry towards the door that he became intrigued. He sat up to see the wide front doors thrown open. He couldn't see everything very clearly from this distance, but he could make out the detective talking to a very pale man. In fact, if Jerome turned his head, the man looked awfully familiar. He stood up to get a closer view.

Once he was pressed against the bars to his cell, there was no mistaking the person talking with Harvey. Sure, he'd clearly undergone some cosmetic alterations, but it was definitely Jeremiah. And he was holding something else that Jerome recognized. A dead man's switch. His invention. At least his brother knew a brilliant design when he saw one. But he had no idea why he'd be out there holding a trigger and having a less-than-friendly discussion with the second ranking officer. Unless he'd gotten his present.

Jerome grinned widely. This what about to turn into the best soap opera he'd ever seen. Very suddenly, however, the crowd outside went quiet. There was a twitch of his brother's finger. And the clocktower on the next block erupted into fire and rubble. Jerome's eyes widened. That seemed a bit drastic. Especially considering the last crime he'd committed was setting a few teensy fires. And that was like...yesterday.

Jeremiah was now walking into the building. He strode purposefully towards Jerome's cell. Obviously, Jerome was going to remain seated. There was no way in hell he'd be standing up to greet the little prick like a puppy. And he definitely didn't want the close up view of his new makeover, but he got it as Jeremiah crossed his wrists behind his back, now in front of his cell.

"Please, don't take too much time to admire your handiwork brother. The look is about the only thing that gas succeeded in."

"Interestingly enough, it wasn't supposed to make you look like a ginger snowman. Even more so than usual, I mean." Jerome began to pick at his nails, not sparing his brother another glance. This seemed to aggravate him.

"So you couldn't have even come up with that simple bit of chemistry. I'm not surprised. You were never the smart one in the family."

"On the contrary, I believe in my own brand of genius. Your boring old way of thinking just couldn't understand, much less compare. Such is the tragedy of society. One guy with slightly outlandish ideas comes along and all of a sudden he's in prison. My intelligence and charm are a curse, truly." He continued to scratch for dirt under his nails, but days of doing this left him with nothing. Oh well, it's the gesture that was important anyhow.

Jeremiah's hands twitched a bit. "You mean your psychopathic tendencies? Yes. They are a curse. And that's exactly why I'm here."

"I don't remember your degree being in psychiatry but sure. I think it all stemmed from when daddy left me and mommy hit me and-"

His twin was now gripping the bars tightly. "Quiet, fool. I'm here to show you how a truly sane person handles Gotham, instead of succumbing to your primitive nonsense."

"By giving me therapy?" Jerome asked with innocent curiosity.

"No!" Jeremiah lost his composure for a second. "No," he said again more calmly. "By carrying out the threat that lingered within the note I sent. I'm burning Gotham to the ground. I just ordered an evacuation of the city."

Jerome rolled his eyes. "You took my advice on blowtorching the mess but you're letting all of the people get to safety first? What's the fucking point then?"

Jeremiah was smiling a delicate, cruel smile. Jerome had to admit that it suited him. "And that's exactly where you and I differ, dear brother. Whereas you'd dance around in the flames and anarchy, I've decided to rebuild Gotham in my image. A sane, organized city, devoid of maniacs like you. We all know that the people on the streets won't make it out in time, which is statistically beneficial for the city."

"One would imagine with all of that boasting you do about your brains, you'd think a little. Don't you get it, Jeremiah? Those people living on the streets are the very surface of what's wrong with Gotham. And it's not even their fault. You want to build a perfect utopia? You murder every last politician, CEO, judge, lawyer, and police officer. That's the only way to make progress here. You've been living in a dark cave for too long, you can't even see what the actual problem is."

Bright green-grey eyes met his. "A compelling argument, but one my calculations disagree with. But don't worry, you'll get to watch the whole thing unfold from this cell right here. Until, you can't see anything at all anymore, that is. Enjoy the show, Jerome. These will be the last fireworks you'll ever see, and I know how much you love them." Jeremiah turned on his heel promptly and strode back out the doors.

Every officer on duty had left the station. Presumably, they were all scurrying around like rats, searching every nook and cranny for Jeremiah's bombs. The image didn't amuse Jerome, oddly enough.

He lay there, thinking, alone except for a couple of other lunatics in cages. Jerome wasn't afraid of dying. He'd already done it before. What scared him was the idea of leaving the world with so many of his dreams unfulfilled. For some reason, an image of Bruce Wayne popped in his mind. He figured that the billionaire was already out of the city, via the privileges of being Jeremiah's "best friend". Jerome had no idea why, but he felt...sad. That wasn't an emotion he'd felt for a long time. It was weird to see it back again. He decided to ignore it, rolling over on his side. He eventually fell into an uneasy sleep as he waited on the end of his world.

…

(Bruce's P.O.V.)

Bruce was sitting at the kitchen counter when a report came over the radio. The clocktower by the police station had exploded and been reduced to dust. Jeremiah Valeska was behind the bombing. There were more to come. He had requested that the entirety of Gotham city be evacuated in six hours. Otherwise, citizens would be caught in the demolition. His request was non negotiable. Furious, Bruce threw the radio across the kitchen. It broke into several pieces.

Alfred came racing into the room. "Master B., have you seen the news?"

"Yes, Alfred."

His butler stopped next to him, eyeing the shattered radio. "I'm not going to ask you if you're alright, because you're clearly not. If it's any consolation, I thought he was a good lad too. I've already begun to pack your things. We'll take the jet to avoid getting stuck in traffic."

Bruce looked at him in surprise. "We're not leaving, Alfred. Someone has to be here to help out in the aftermath. And besides, the manor is outside of the blast radius. We'll be safe until it's over. If we can though, I'd like to start shuttling people from the street out. I'll buy another jet, if necessary."

"Bruce, I really think we should go. I don't want you getting hurt."

"That's an order, Alfred."

His guardian appeared frustrated but unsurprised. He was expecting Bruce to act like this. "Fine, Master B. We'll stay here. But I refuse to go pick up addicts from the street to fly them out of Gotham."

Bruce sighed. "I meant people like Selina and Ivy. Maybe even Bridgit if you can track her down, I know it would make Selina happy. Find them and get them to safety. You could even just shelter them here."

"And where will you be while I go on the world's largest wild goose chase?"

"I need to stop by the GCPD and check on some things."

He heard Alfred mutter, "Check on someone more like."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Master Bruce. Will I be giving you a ride there?" He was looking at Bruce with a bit of humor in his eyes.

"No," Bruce decided. "I'll drive myself."

Alfred looked pleased. "Very well then. I'll see you tonight. Be safe, Bruce." He pulled him into a warm hug before letting him go.

Bruce made his way to the giant garage around the side of the house. Opening the door that connected to the laundry room, he flicked on a lightswitch. There sat his sixteenth birthday present from Alfred. A sleek, matte-black Mustang. He could honestly say it was one of his favorite and most thoughtful birthday presents in the world. And despite the prospect of Gotham going up in flames around him, he was pretty excited at getting the chance to really try it out. He got in the leather driver's seat and put the key in the ignition. It hummed quietly to life. Bruce pressed a button to open the garage door, and soon he was racing down the streets of Gotham city.

…

By the time that Bruce arrived at the police department, the street was vacant. It seemed every officer and citizen had more important business somewhere else in town. Bruce couldn't blame them. He just hoped that not everyone had been evacuated yet. He didn't bother with the parking garage and instead just parked along the sidewalk, getting out and locking the car carefully. He'd rather not have it stolen on its maiden voyage. Bruce took the steps up to the front doors two at a time.

The second he opened the doors, he saw who he was looking for. Jerome was lying on the bench in his cell. There were two other cells that were also occupied. Bruce quickly walked over to these. The woman in the first cell looked up at him with curiosity, her pointed teeth shining. "Whaddya doin', kid?' she asked with a thick accent. In response, he dug around the drawers of the nearest officer's desk until he found a set of keys. After trying a few on the lock, it eventually clicked open. She just stood there staring at him in surprise.

"Well, go! Get out of the city," he told her, before turning to release the pink-haired man in the cell next to hers. Jerome hadn't stirred during this ordeal. Once he was sure that the building was empty, he began to unlock his cell. He slipped inside, and bent to wake the snoring teenager.

A slap in the face caused Bruce to jump back in shock. "What the hell, Jerome?"

Jerome sat up, blinked a few times, and smiled. "Oh, Brucie! Sorry, didn't imagine you'd waltz in here and kiss me from my hundred year slumber. I figured it was just one of those filthy cops trying to take advantage of the chaos."

"I hate to break it to you, but I didn't kiss you awake. I tapped your shoulder. Those are two very different actions."

"Shh, Bruce. It's my last day on earth. Let me pretend a bit."

Bruce sat on the bench next to Jerome. "It won't be your last day if you come back to the manor with me."

Jerome arched an eyebrow. Bruce had always been jealous of people who could do that. "Oh, you really are my knight in shining armor. So, I take it you and my brother didn't really work out. I would've never seen that coming."

"It's not like that Jerome."

"So do you agree with what he's doing then?"

Bruce was shocked. "Absolutely not! But he's convinced that he's making the right choices. I can't fault him for that."

Jerome rolled his eyes. "Yes, because it would be absolutely horrendous to hold your little angel responsible for murdering hundreds of people and, y'know, exploding your city and everything."

Bruce stood up. "I have every belief that Detective Gordon will stop Jeremiah before his plans are executed. I heard on the radio that he was headed to his bunker. And he's not my angel, he just...doesn't seem to be himself."

The expression on Jerome's face was one of pure disgust. "Because you know him oh-so-well, do ya? The Jeremiah I know wouldn't give half a shit about anyone, and he sure as hell wouldn't care about exterminating a bunch of people he didn't know to fit his image of what a perfect Gotham would be."

"That might be true but I don't want to stand here arguing about it. Can we go now?"

"I want you to admit that he's a monster before you take me anywhere."

Bruce couldn't believe how stubborn Jerome was being. "It's not my place to decide who he is."

Jerome was suddenly standing directly in front of Bruce. He looked livid. There was a loud crash somewhere distant, the floor shook, and they were plunged into darkness. The red emergency lights came on, but they were dimming.

"Have you looked at him?" Jerome snarled. "You thought I looked like a monster last year, but you don't give a fuck what that sociopath looks like? Why? Is it because he's just oh-so-damn-perfect that you want to see past everything that's disgusting on the outside?" Jerome had pushed Bruce up against the bars of his cell and was gripping the fabric of his sweater roughly. "No wonder you can't see how much of a lunatic he's become. You refuse to even stare at him that closely. And yet when I make one fucking mistake you're somehow there to ensure it gets broadcast to the entire world. 'Oh no, poor little billionaire Bruce Wayne is being held hostage by that ginger maniac with the fucked-up face again! I hope big ol' police captain James Gordon comes to that sweet baby boy's rescue!'" Jerome spat, looking more furious than Bruce had ever seen him.

"I'm not a child," he said quietly.

Jerome was incredulous. "What have you ever done to suggest otherwise?" he whispered through clenched teeth, still holding Bruce tightly by his collar.

"You keep talking about how weak and defenseless I am and yet I've kicked your ass before. You let go of me now, or I'll do it again." Bruce looked up to meet his gaze.

The fire in the red-haired teen's eyes was terrifying. His voice had gone deathly quiet. "Oh? Are you going to hurt me, Bruce? Is that what you're going to do?" His tone was now challenging. "Do it, then. Make me regret saying what I've said. Because I sure as hell don't ye-" His words were cut off by a swift and powerful punch to his jaw. Jerome didn't release Bruce but he met his eyes, and spit some blood from his mouth to the side. There was a knuckle shaped dent in his sewn-on skin.

"Do it again." Jerome taunted him. He was laughing. "I'm not sorry. My brother's still an unpredictable monster and you're just a child. That barely stung."

Bruce punched Jerome again, this time in the stomach. He couldn't tell if he wanted to yell, scream, or cry. More blood came up from the boy in front of him, but it didn't seem to phase him in the slightest. His hold was still ironclad on Bruce.

"Did you hit me just then? Sorry, I didn't even notice." The blood was now bubbling onto Jerome's lips, painting them a vivid crimson, reminiscent of Jeremiah's but much darker. He was panting now, but his laughter had eased, and he would no longer meet Bruce's eyes.

The lights were getting dimmer still in the evacuated police department. Bruce didn't want to keep hurting Jerome. He knew that it wouldn't make any difference. He hated causing him even more pain. All he came here to do was help him. So instead, he reached his own arms up and gripped both sides of Jerome's face, forcing him to look at him. "Jerome, please! Please! I hate this! I don't want this. And you don't either. Please just...stop. For me, please, stop." Bruce was almost crying. He couldn't help it, no matter how hard he was trying to hold it in.

The burning look didn't die from Jerome's eyes, but the violence did. The second he saw tears in Bruce's eyes, he whispered, "I-I'm so sorry, Bruce. I just...I'm such a fucking mess. I can't control myself."

Instead of answering him with words, Bruce tightened his grip on Jerome's face and leaned forward. The blood from Jerome's lips and his own still-falling tears intermingled to make a scarlet salt-flavored kiss. His lips were softer than Bruce would've expected, and his breath had an odd but intoxicating flavor of spearmint gum and cinnamon. The fire from Jerome's temper changed to something else as he continued to support Bruce's weight, but trailed his hands farther down to his waist, holding him up against the iron bars. In response, Bruce moved his now blood-streaked hands from Jerome's face to his hair, wrapping the red curls around his fingers and clinging on tightly. This caused Jerome to open his mouth slightly, which Bruce took advantage of.

It was amazing to finally get to hold him like this. He'd always thought that it would feel wrong somehow, but Bruce had never felt more like he'd made the right decision. He could tell that Jerome was holding back a bit, and for that he was both resentful and grateful. Although this wasn't how he'd imagined his first kiss with him, he knew he wasn't ready for anything more. Yet. For now, he was just enjoying the sensation of having the boy wrapped around him, as well as the taste of his kiss on his tongue.

Eventually, they broke apart. Bruce was breathing much more heavily than Jerome, although they were both flushed. To ease the tension that had filled the room, Bruce said, "I think you did a rather excellent job of controlling yourself there."

Jerome was leaning against the far bars of the cell, looking like he was struggling with something. Finally, he turned back to Bruce. "Well, that was easier. Not easy, mind you, but easier."

"Why?"

His green-blue eyes met Bruce's brown ones. "Because I don't want to hurt you. I'm terrified of hurting you. Unlike pretty much everyone else in this fucked up world."

Bruce was confused. "And yet you wanted me to hurt you so desperately just a few minutes ago."

Jerome stared at him as if he were missing something. "That's completely different. I deserved it. Still do, honestly. Making out with Bruce Wayne in a prison cell in the middle of the police department doesn't make me less of a prick. Now, if we'd done it on Jimbo's desk, maybe I'd feel better." He grinned at his own joke and stared wistfully up at the captain's office.

Bruce laughed and said, "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

That look of disbelief had re-appeared on Jerome's face. "Oh no, there will not be a 'next time'. Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Bruce asked angrily.

"Because I refuse to be seen with a goody-two-shoes midget."

"I don't believe you. What's your actual reasoning, Jerome?"

The red-haired man sighed, and turned his back to Bruce, gazing at the far side of the room. "Because...I don't want to fuck up everything you have going for you. The last thing perfect Bruce Wayne needs is to be seen with me anywhere. Much less in a relationship."

"Jerome, Gotham is about to go to hell, and you're worried about screwing up my reputation?" He couldn't believe him.

"Yes, I'm worried about that. And like I said, I don't want to hurt you. Exposing you to me in any way has got to cause some sort of contact poisoning." He laughed at his joke but it didn't feel like he was kidding.

"Well, we'll have plenty of time to analyze the toxins you think are coating your skin when we get back to the manor." Bruce held out his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Jerome took it. Bruce led them through the almost pitch-black police department, counting on Jerome's occasional comments about where desks and potted plants were placed. They went out the doors to be greeted by a chaotic scene. The bridges were backed up by miles with cars trying to flee the city. Based on the rising moon, they had very little time before Jeremiah detonated his bombs.

Bruce pulled Jerome down the steps and over to his car. Jerome whistled in appreciation. "I should've known you'd have the sweetest ride. Honestly Bruce, if you just lead with this, you'll be able to take anyone home, if ya know what I mean." Jerome was grinning as he got into the passenger seat.

As he pulled the driver's side door open, Bruce noticed a lavender envelope sitting on his seat. He picked it up and tore it open, taking out a light green sheet of paper. The paper read:

Dear Bruce,

By now, I'm sure you're with my brother and on your way back to the safety of your home. I didn't expect you to leave Gotham like I had advised, but I'm disappointed to see that you didn't accept my offer. Your rejection hasn't sat well with me, so I decided to give you a bit of incentive to come here. I have your butler, Bruce. I want you to find him. 71 Welling Avenue. If that car can drive quickly enough, he may even be in one piece, physically and mentally, when you do. After all, it just takes one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. You can ask Jerome about that little saying. Hopefully, today is not that day for poor Alfred. But I'd hurry. Give Jerome my regards, and the most sincere middle-finger. And Bruce, watch your back around him. Stay safe.

With love,

Jeremiah

Bruce barely noted how much messier the handwriting was than he was used to from Jeremiah before reading Alfred's name on the note. That bastard. This...this was beyond low. Bruce's hands were shaking. Gently, Jerome placed a hand on his shoulder and asked to read the letter. He handed it over rigidly.

After Jerome finished reading, he said "Well, you know what we have to do right? We need to go to that address and rescue your butler."

Bruce nodded. "You know it's a trap, right?"

"Of course it's a trap, but what other choice do we have?"

He liked the way that Jerome said "we". It made him feel less alone. So, he switched the car into drive and let his companion navigate him to the address, holding his hand across the middle console.