A Place to Sleep and Empty Promises

Fortunately, Bruce woke up at his normal time of 6:30, otherwise, someone else may have had to answer the determined ring of the doorbell. And that could have been disastrous. He carefully detangled himself from Jerome and quickly left the room, trying not to wake him. The ringing got louder, and was just as persistent, when he reached the foyer. He unlocked the elaborate doors to see the person he was least expecting to appear on his doorstep.

"May I come in, Mr. Wayne?" asked Oswald Cobblepot, holding his hands together nervously.

Bruce was taken aback but said, "Of course, Mr. Cobblepot. Can I get you a cup of tea?"

As he led the ex-mayor to the nearest parlor, Alfred came rushing through the kitchen from his bedroom, buttoning his jacket. "Mr. Cobblepot! What brings you here at this...bright hour?"

Oswald looked abashedly at his feet, still wringing his hands. "I'm sorry to come here so early in the morning. Truly, I wouldn't have come at all if I believed I could handle the situation myself." They sat in the parlor, Bruce taking the armchair and Oswald sitting on the sofa awkwardly. Alfred hurried back to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"What sort of situation, sir?"

"You must know that I was recently incarcerated in Arkham," he began.

"Yes, I recall that. You broke out with Jerome and his 'Legion of Horribles', as they've been coined."

"Mr. Valeska gave me little choice, Bruce. However, that isn't the point of my little visit." Oswald paused dramatically, as if he was waiting for him to ask exactly what the point was then. But Bruce knew Oswald well, and figured he received enough indulgence from his cronies. So, he just waited for the man to continue. Upon realizing he wasn't going to inquire further, Oswald resumed speaking. "Ahem. I'm here because I need your help."

"With what?"

"I was framed." Another expectant pause, which he received nothing for. "They arrested me for the murder of a young boy. But I didn't kill him, Bruce."

Alfred entered with a tea tray and set it down delicately on the table. He poured them two cups and set them on small dishes, bowing slightly before leaving the room. Oswald clung to his plate and cup as he waited for Bruce's response.

He sighed. "Can you forgive me if I find that difficult to believe? You've killed plenty of people before."

"I don't murder children. Not in cold blood at least. And I happened to like this child."

"So, it's alright to murder children if you have a purpose?"

A bit of tea splashed out of Oswald's cup as he jerked his hands. "I didn't come here to justify my work to you, Mr. Wayne. And please don't get righteous with me; let's not forget, you have blood on your hands as well."

"I thought you wanted my help," Bruce said coldly.

The man sitting across from him took a sip from his cup. "You're right, my apologies. I want you to help me find the child who I supposedly murdered and bring him back to the GCPD. Then, they'll lift the search on me. I can't conduct any business with so many bids for my head out on the street."

"Why are you asking for my help? Don't you have people who do this sort of thing for you?" Bruce placed his cup down next to the tray, folding his hands in his lap.

Another shake from Oswald. He seemed to be exceptionally skittish today. "I was going to ask for Edward's help, but he's apparently busy in the Narrows. And, well...I'll let you in on a bit of a secret. Most of my people have either been evacuated or have turned their backs on me. I don't have someone I can turn to."

"That seems to be a running theme for you, sir."

"Very funny, Bruce. It seems you've been spending too much time with your ginger toy." Oswald smirked in satisfaction at the shock on Bruce's face.

"Excuse me, I'm not quite sure what you mean," he said in a quiet voice.

He took another long drink, savoring Bruce's agitation before replying in an equally hushed tone, "I may be short on reliable help, but I still have eyes everywhere. And I happen to know that you're not just harboring him, but his psychotic brother as well."

"Who told you about Jeremiah? Was it Detective Gordon?"

Oswald glared off to the side. "No, he's not speaking to me right now. Even though I'm the only reason this city isn't brimming with lunatics. Anyway, it doesn't matter who told me. The fact is, you're keeping two deranged teenagers in your home without the consent of your guardian. That's a dangerous game to be playing, Bruce."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

He shrugged. "If you'd like to put it bluntly."

"I'm going to ask you again why you thought I'd be the best person for the job." Bruce was speaking at a normal volume again as the situation abated.

"You have practically unlimited resources, as well as a keen mind. If anyone can find Martin, it's you."

"And how exactly did he vanish?"

Oswald laughed nervously. "It's a funny story, really. I was, incidentally, being blackmailed by a woman holding the name of Sofia Falcone. She discovered that Martin and I were close, and attempted to use him against me. To stop him from being a pawn in her twisted games, I faked his death. I had Zsasz take him to a safe house of which I was unaware of the location, so they couldn't torture it out of me. That aspect backfired, however, when Zsasz turned on me out of loyalty to the Falcone family. He acted as if he'd never hidden the child in order to put me behind bars."

His reasoning surprised Bruce. "That's rather benevolent of you. I'll do what I can. I have to ask though, what if he's outside of Gotham?"

"Do your capabilities end outside of city limits?"

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "I suppose not. Am I allowed to enlist the help of others?"

The crime boss thought about it for a moment. "That should be fine. Anyone except for James."

"Why couldn't I ask him? He has the might of the entire police force at his command."

"I want it to be a surprise."

"It's a wonder you haven't asked him to marry you yet."

"There's no need to be cheeky, Bruce. And besides, Ed would kill me...again."

Bruce chuckled. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"Yes. Tell Jerome to call Scarecrow. He's wandering around like a lost puppy. Tetch has had to watch him, and we can all imagine how poorly that might turn out. Not to mention the cost in property damage those two might cause."

"I thought they were apprehended."

"They were...temporarily."

"Alright, I'll let him know. May I walk you to the door?" Bruce stood.

"Certainly, thank you." They left the parlor and made their way to the door, Alfred rejoining them. "I'll contact you sometime next week to receive an update on your progress."

They were standing in front of the front door now. Alfred held it open with a pointed look. "Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. If you could perhaps schedule a meeting with Master Bruce, next time," he suggested.

"That I'll do, sir," Oswald said modestly. "Thank you for your hospitality at such an inhospitable hour. It will not be forgotten."

"Great, it's been a pleasure. Have a good rest of your morning, mate." Alfred shut the door on the blubbering Penguin, turning to Bruce. "What did that old bird want?"

"He wants me to track down an orphaned child and return the boy to him so he can clear his name with the police."

"And did you agree to this, Master B?"

He nodded. "Of course. The child is an orphan. I need no other incentive to find him." Bruce decided to leave out the little part about Oswald leaving him deprived of different choices.

"Very well then. Did he at least tell you what the boy's name is? And what orphanage he came from?"

"His name is Martin. And based on the information Oswald gave me surrounding his relationship to the child, he must have come from the newly instated Falcone Home and School for Orphans."

"The one that was attacked by the Pyg who forced the dinner guests to partake in cannibalism?"

"Yes, that orphanage."

Alfred straightened his jacket. "Excellent. And how exactly does he expect you to find this boy?"

Bruce rubbed his forehead in stress. "With my 'unlimited resources' and 'keen mind' apparently."

"Well, there will be plenty of time for you to worry about that later. For now, breakfast, sir. Miss Kyle may want to join us." Alfred started towards the kitchen.

"I'm not sure if it's worth losing my eyes over." Nonetheless, Bruce ending up gathering a very disgruntled Selina and dragging her downstairs to the kitchen counter.

"The birds aren't even awake yet," she grumbled, rubbing her eyes.

He sat down next to her. "It's seven. This is the hour that most people go to work at."

"Do I look like I have a job?"

"No, but perhaps we can fix that sometime, Miss Kyle," Alfred interjected.

"Find me a job where I get to steal nice things from wealthy pricks and I'll sign myself up."

"Language, Miss," Alfred reminded as he placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. She happily kept quiet for the opportunity of stuffing her mouth. Bruce just smiled as he ate. Meals with Selina were always entertaining.

…

What Bruce didn't know was that upstairs in the east wing of his manor, a red-haired man was experiencing a rather painful and disorienting headache. Jeremiah could barely see, and he certainly couldn't think. He felt burning and freezing all at once. The sleeve of the shirt he'd placed in his mouth muffled his schizophrenic laughing and crying bouts. He sat in the far corner of the room, rocking back and forth, waiting for it to end. These severe breaks had begun with his brother's toxin and had become more and more common since his "institutionalization".

Eventually, Jeremiah calmed down and regained control of his mind. Or, what he believed to be control. He could hear someone trekking up and down the hallways. He assumed it was Bruce's butler, cleaning the guest rooms. Wait...cleaning the guest rooms.

He made it just in time. The boy unlocked the door and was tucked behind the armoire as Alfred entered with a duster. The caretaker didn't bother to close the door, making Jeremiah's escape that much simpler. He slipped out from behind the oaken furniture and retreated farther down the hall. A quick duck into another guest bedroom granted him the perfect opportunity. An open window rested just above a section of roof belonging to the ground floor sunroom. It wasn't that high up; he estimated three feet. Jeremiah perched on the open windowsill and stepped down onto the roof. Thank goodness they opted to forgo the gables on the lower level, it made skittering/sliding down the rooftop the most effortless task yet. Soon, he was on solid ground.

Jeremiah contemplated the pros and cons of stealing one of their various vehicles, and decided the pros of speed (and Bruce's attention) outweighed the cons tremendously. Plates were easy to change. Besides, the only one who would come looking for Jeremiah would be Bruce. His manservant knew nothing about the twins being kept in his master's house. That, at least, ensured a clean getaway.

So, without wasting any more time, he found the side entrance to the garage. He knew that Bruce was wealthy, but he hadn't expected such a plethora of cars. Choosing a simple 1980 Maserati, a swift break to the driver's side window gave him access to unlock it. Fortunately, they seemed to have a taste for older models without such advanced security measures. The last thing he needed was a blaring car alarm to tell the entire city that he was escaping. Jeremiah sat in the driver's seat, not bothering with the complication and danger of hotwiring. He'd already grabbed a drill and a screwdriver from the workbench. Soon enough, the car hummed to life. The press of a button hanging from the visor opened the garage doors rather silently. How nice it must be to have someone whose only purpose is to oil your garage door hinges, he mused.

He almost felt bad for leaving so suddenly as Bruce had been trying his very best to "fix" him. Jeremiah didn't need fixing. What they deemed madness was simply ignorance. And proving that was his purpose. He saw things much more clearly when he was away from the boy. Which was exactly why he needed to go. This is what he kept repeating to himself as he raced back into the heart of Gotham.

…

"I don't want to alarm you, Master Bruce, but your little refugee just took off in the Maserati," Alfred stated through Bruce's door. Jerome stirred slightly in his sleep as Bruce rushed out of the room.

Shutting the door behind him, he frantically asked, "What do you mean?"

"Jeremiah. He's gone. Snuck out while I was dusting. A rather underhanded move if you ask me. Any dusting man should be a respected man."

"Wait a minute. You knew Jeremiah was staying here?"

"I'm a butler, sir. I know everything that goes on in this house."

"Everything?" Bruce asked hesitantly.

"I assume you're referring to the other ginger snap you've stashed in your room."

He was at a loss for words. "Y-you know Jerome is here too?"

"Actually, I wasn't sure about that one until just now. The confirmation is most welcome, however."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Well, you can start by explaining why you wanted to hide psychotic twins in your house. And then you can give me the entire slideshow pertaining as to why you didn't think to tell me about it."

"It's my house. I don't have to run every little thing I do past you."

"Certainly, sir. But this isn't such a little thing now, is it?"

"I-he needed somewhere to stay."

"So clearly your bedroom was the logical choice."

Bruce blushed. He didn't have much in his defense there, but he was certainly going to try. "It's the room he entered the house through. I didn't want to risk moving him, but obviously that would have been a futile effort regardless."

Alfred crossed his arms. "The markings littering your neck suggest a different story, sir. You know I'd never involve myself in things that are clearly your business, but I believe this is the line where I, as your guardian, should intervene."

"He's not the terrible person that the world makes him out to be. And no one else has ever given him a chance before. His own mother abused him. All Jerome needs is for someone to actually care about him as a human being, as he never saw that during his childhood. Can't you see that I'm trying to help him?"

"I can see it, yes. My question is why are you so eager to help him? He's threatened your life on multiple occasions, not to mention the fact that he's a mass murderer. Does he feel remorseful for his actions? Does he even feel at all?"

Bruce stared at him. "Of course he does. He wouldn't be able to create the ideas and perspective that drive him if he didn't have emotions. Jerome deserves a second chance."

"And what has you all of a sudden convinced he's a saint? Because he doesn't bloody look like one, I'll tell you that."

"His face was repaired. They removed the scars and sporadic stitching. It's well attached now and it appears as though nothing happened. That's beside the point though. I never said he was the best person. I won't defend the idea, either. Not by textbook definition anyway. He hates strongly and loves even more intensely. That's what sets him apart from the psychopath he's always deemed to be."

"Alright. Then what would you have me do from here?"

He took a deep breath, thinking. "Are you angry with me for keeping this from you?"

His butler gazed at him warmly, although the disapproving expression still lingered on his face. "Angry isn't the correct word, Master B. A bit perplexed, perhaps. And a tad critical. But not angry."

"Is he allowed to stay?"

"Well I'd rather you just get a puppy, sir, but if you believe you're making the right choice, then it's certainly not my place to stop you. It is your house, after all. We'll have a separate conversation about Jeremiah later. Jerome seems almost easier to manage. Although, he is definitely moving out of your bedroom until you find him a permanent place to live. Outside of Gotham, maybe."

Bruce figured this was the best outcome he was going to get, so he didn't argue with the latter statement. There would be time for that later. For now, he just opened his bedroom door wide, revealing a still-snoring Jerome hugging a pillow.

"That is not the face or demeanor I recall from past events," Alfred commented quietly.

"He's got three settings. Adorable, content, or murderous. There's not much of an in-between."

"Fascinating. You should probably wake him, sir, before the entire day goes by."

"That's easier said than done." However, Bruce crept over to the bed and shook Jerome gently. He knew that the boy had been feigning sleep because he didn't try to attack him. He just rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes.

"Mm, can I help you?" he mumbled.

"C'mon, you're getting your own room." He grabbed Jerome's arm and dragged him into a sitting position.

Jerome was instantly alert but he didn't seem pleased. He was skeptical, if anything. "Quick question: am I allowed to greet your butler? I can't imagine he's happy with me and it's way too early in the morning to get in a fight with that guy; he knows how to throw a punch." Jerome winced as he recalled his little excursion to Wayne Manor last year, in which he, and his group of followers, had brought Bruce to the carnival. One might say it wasn't the smoothest sailing date.

"I see Bruce wasn't lying about your face. It's certainly come a long way from lying in a murky puddle 'bout a year ago." Alfred was standing in the doorway, his arms still crossed tightly.

"Ah, what a fond memory. The best punches I'd received since leaving the circus. I'm just hoping that I don't forget it's actually intact now and accidentally try to staple it back into shape."

Alfred looked mildly impressed. "You stapled your own face back on?"

"We were out of scotch tape."

"That's...rather intense, mate."

Jerome stood up. "Why thank you. I strive to be nothing less than high-maintenance. Now, where are you taking me?"

"Down the hall. Your brother-" Bruce elbowed Alfred's back. "-stayed here once. You can use that room."

The teenager looked even more displeased at the idea of being in a room once occupied by his twin, but to his credit, he didn't complain. He simply shrugged and said, "A bed is a bed. Take me to this fabled room, oh great butler."

The three of them traipsed down the hall in awkward silence. Once Jerome was settled in his new space, Alfred (somewhat reluctantly) invited him to join them for lunch in a of couple hours, after making him promise to only use a spoon. After his butler had finally left, Bruce sat cross-legged on Jerome's bed, waiting for him to say something. It was odd to be in this room with him so recently after Jeremiah had departed it. All he could think about was how he needed to find him, and quickly.

"I imagined that scenario one hundred different ways, but none of them looked anything like that. The old chap went way too easy on me. Especially after I tried to have him killed." Jerome sat in the desk chair, picking at indents in the wood.

"I agree, although I'm glad he didn't beat the crap out of you. I prefer this outcome over having to get your face reattached again."

"You and me both, Brucie. Hand-to-hand combat isn't really my forte." For the first time, he looked over at Bruce and noticed his brooding expression. "What's on your mind? You look pissed."

"Nothing. I'm fine."

He rolled his eyes. "Did you hear that ding? That was my bullshit detector going off. Tell me what's wrong."

"Oswald Cobblepot payed me a visit earlier today."

"Damn, how much earlier? It's already an ungodly hour."

"Jerome, it's 8:00. He stopped by around 6:30, if that gives you any perspective on when the rest of the world begin their days."

He looked offended by the thought of seeing the sunrise and asked, "So what did Ozzy want?"

"He wants us to track down the child he supposedly murdered so he can clear his name with the police. Oh, and he also wants you to call Scarecrow."

"No, Tetch can handle Jonathan. He's fine. A bit distraught at the loss of all of that crazy gas, but fine. And why does Penguin want you to find the kid?"

"He believes I have the best chance, I guess. And who's Jonathan?"

Jerome stared at him as if he were missing something crucial. "Jonathan Crane. Scarecrow. Freaky kid with the daddy-complex and field-protector phobia. Not to mention rather nice hair."

"I've never seen him without his mask on. Nor did I know his name. And why do you care about his hair?"

The boy in the chair across from him smirked as he spun slowly on it. "Johnny and I were good friends in Arkham. It's hard to find a reliable nut job, but I could always count on the guy. Probably because he had a terrible anxiety surrounding the idea of disappointing people who needed him. Now, I'm not saying I used that anxiety to my advantage. I just...told him I'd be very upset with him if he didn't deliver on his end of the deal. And funnily enough, he did. It was Oswald who screwed me over in the end. Go figure, am I right? Only in Gotham is the sociopathic phobiaphile more trustworthy than an old mayor."

Bruce was struggling with something. "Define 'good friends'."

"Aww, Brucie. No need to be jealous. I don't like him nearly as much as I like you. He was no fun. Always had to be serious and pessimistic." He paused to think. "Actually, maybe you two have more in common than I realized."

He leaned over and punched him in the arm. "I'm not jealous. And I'm not a pessimist."

"You keep telling yourself both of those things, darling. In the meantime, what else is worrying that pretty little head of yours? Because I know having to track down a kid isn't enough to make you look so grumpy."

"You're going to be angry."

"I'm always angry. But never with you. C'mere." He opened his arms and patted his knee.

"You're kidding."

"For once, no. Get that tiny ass over here."

He opened his mouth to defend himself but decided against it, eventually walking over to Jerome with a sigh. "I'm way too big for this," he grumbled.

"Don't give yourself that much credit, midget. Sit down." Once Bruce was within his reach, Jerome wrapped his arms around him and pulled him against his chest, allowing Bruce to settle himself on his lap. "What do you weigh, eight pounds?"

"I'm 5'9''. And I guarantee I weigh more than eight pounds. Now, be quiet for a minute." He buried his head in Jerome's shirt, breathing deeply. He must have showered recently because he smelled like Bruce's soap. Oddly enough, he sort of missed the scent of cinnamon and gunpowder that always seemed to surround the boy.

Jerome gave him a few minutes, occasionally stroking his hair. The compassion seemed to take a while to register as an option for him, but once it did, he was very comforting. After a while he asked, "Are you ready to tell me what's bothering you now?"

Another sigh. He lifted his head. "Do you remember Alfred mentioning your brother's stay here?"

He stiffened a bit. "Yes."

"It was much more recent than he let on."

"Don't play word games with me, Bruce. Spit it out."

"Fine." He leaned back from Jerome a bit. "He disappeared this morning."

Jerome took a deep breath. Fire had lit in his eyes the second Bruce had mentioned Jeremiah, and it seemed as though he was trying to quench it before speaking. "He was here? Damn, the little weasel can even hide from me when we're staying in the same fucking house. Pretty impressive for him." He was laughing, but it was cold. He avoided Bruce's gaze. "I hope he at least made the bed before he left. Otherwise that's just poor manners."

"Hey, look at me. Detective Gordon decided this was the best place for his rehabilitation, so this is where they sent him."

"And how many pretty lies did my dear brother have to whisper in your's and Jimbo's ears before you two decided that?"

He couldn't believe his attitude. "Why are you so drawn to the idea that he's a terrible person?"

"Because I grew up with him! He's a manipulative little shit who will do anything to get his way. Including wrapping poor Bruce Wayne around his finger."

Bruce pushed himself off of Jerome and leaned against the desk. "He needs help, Jerome. He's sick. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I want to help you both?"

The boy sitting in the chair was cackling now. "So is this your latest charity venture? 'Oh, I know! We should round up the two most fucked up guys in the city and see if we can stitch up their weird mental scars! After all, a place to sleep and empty promises go a long way!' Right? We're both just psychological experiments to you. I get it. This is the punchline to the joke that was your unwarranted compassion. Well, there's no need to fake it anymore, Brucie." The nickname suddenly sounded menacing. "Seems like ya played us both for fools. Maybe my brother dearest had the right idea when he took off." He stood up.

"Jerome, don't. Sit back down. You've got everything wrong."

"Save it. You've distracted me for way too long. Y'know those old stories about sirens luring sailors to their deaths with songs and shit? You're like that. Just infuriatingly better looking. And without gills." Jerome moved towards the door.

Bruce stepped in front of him, pushing him back into the chair. "I told you to sit down."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and when did you become so dominant? The last time I remember you being this firm with me was when I took ya to the carnival. For some reason, you had this idea that you were in charge the whole time. It was amusing to watch."

The memories from that evening were ones that he tried very hard to suppress. He didn't want to think about it right now. So, he decided to move on from that topic. "Well, I am in charge right now. So shut up and listen to what I have to say, because I'm not going to repeat myself."

Both eyebrows were up now, but Jerome's frightening grin had changed to a curious side smile. He said nothing, obeying the directions he was given.

"First of all, I told you that you'd be angry with me. However, I should have also told you the second I brought Jeremiah here. I just assumed that you wouldn't want to hear it. You two aren't exactly on the best terms...ever. So there wasn't really a good time to bring it up. And, maybe it's possible that I thought I could just manage you both without you ever having to hear about each other. Clearly, that didn't work out. I'm not trying to distract you from anything, either. And yes, you're not exactly an angel, but you aren't the monster you try so hard to be. Despite your firm beliefs, I don't think either of you are broken. And you certainly don't need fixing. In fact, if your crimes weren't so publicly broadcasted, you could blend into society relatively well. But Jeremiah isn't a functional person right now. I can't see him being able to take care of himself with his mental state and the incapacitation of his assistant. Let alone surviving in prison. He's very book-smart, but he knows nothing about how the real world works. He may preach a tortured life, but even I can tell that he grew up sheltered. And Jim made it very clear that he's my responsibility. The bottom line is, now I have to track down your brother and a mute orphan, and I have no idea where to start."

Jerome looked at him expectantly.

"What?" Bruce realized he was waiting to be allowed to speak again. "Oh. I'm done. You can talk now."

"Okay I have several things I want to say so I'm going to say them very quickly. First of all, I can't tell if I should be offended by the idea that I could fit into society. Secondly, you're way too concerned about my brother's well-being. But, I'm going to help you find him. Even if it's just because it's clearly very important to you. I still despise him. Thirdly, I apologize for calling you a distraction. Even I understand that it was uncalled for, and I have the social skills of a polar bear. Now, two questions. Número uno: Why do you have to find the kid?"

"Well...Oswald knew Jeremiah was staying here and used that knowledge to blackmail me into doing this for him. Obviously, that bit doesn't matter anymore. What he didn't know was that all he had to do was tell me the job was finding an orphaned child. That struck a little too close to home."

"Valid reasoning. Orphans are sort of your expertise. Numéro deux: How do you know he's mute?"

"Oswald said he was. Is it really that important?"

He shrugged. "It's always good to confirm these sorts of things. It's sort of like, 'Well is there still a heartbeat?' but on a smaller scale, y'know?"

"Is it cruel of me to keep reminding you of your extreme ADHD?"

"If I said yes, would you find a different diagnosis? Something a bit more entertaining?"

"Sure. How about golden retriever syndrome?"

"Oooh I like dogs. Sounds fun. Explain."

"You're excited by the slightest movement. You shift topics at the speed of light. And, you come when called. It's really that simple."

"That last reason was kind of kinky."

"Jerome, you're just proving my point."

"Shut up. Moving on, I want to help you find the possibly mute orphan boy as well as my brother."

Bruce sat down on the bed once more. "Good, I was going to ask for your help anyway. Although, not with Jeremiah. I can handle that on my own. Why the sudden interest though?"

He batted his eyelashes at Bruce. "Because I care about the things you care about, Brucie!"

"Nice try. Your actual reason?"

Jerome sighed. "I couldn't care less about where Jeremiah is. But clearly, you do. And I don't want Jimbo sticking his obtrusive nose in your business. Also, I'm curious why the kid is so important to Ozzy. Usually, he'd just wait until the cops find something else to care about. So, I don't get why he's making such a big fuss over it. I want to figure it out."

A logical Jerome was both an interesting and frightening thing to Bruce. "Based on what he told me, they must have bonded before Zsasz hid him away."

"Oh, bonding. Sort of like bonda-"

"Jerome, I swear to god. The kink references with you are out of control today." He stared at Bruce, pressing his lips together as if he was trying not to say something. "No, you're in timeout until you can have a serious conversation with me." His eyes were now very wide and he'd placed his hands over his mouth as well. "You stay here. I'm going to go see if I can gather some leads on where both of them are. I'll see you for lunch."

Bruce smiled as he left, letting Jerome know that he wasn't actually mad at him. I guess he has four settings: adorable, content, murderous, and kinky, he thought to himself as he took the side staircase up to the third-floor study.

…

He'd been flicking through maps, the news, and police reports for three hours. There wasn't a single sign of Jeremiah. How he could disappear off the face of the planet in a stolen car, Bruce had no idea. Then his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Bruce," a cold voice drawled through the phone.

"Jeremiah? Where the hell are you?"

"Well, telling you that now would take the fun out of the little game you and I are about to play. And I don't want to ruin it. This should be the best one yet."

"Jeremiah, please. Come back. We can work on this, I just need you here."

"You're sweet, but I don't think you're getting it. I left because I couldn't stand you feeling like you needed to fix me. You were poisoning my mind, Bruce. I don't fault you for it. In fact, I doubt you even knew the effect you were having on my mental stability. But being locked in a room by yourself all day isn't exactly my idea of rehabilitation."

"I'm sorry, some things came up."

"I hate it when you lie to me," he said sharply. "Don't you miss when we were honest with each other? I promised that I'd never lie to you, and yet you continue to present me with falsities."

"Telling me that you're holding Alfred hostage just to watch me run a maze like a lab rat constitutes as lying," he reminded him.

"Now now, that was different. You wouldn't have shown up otherwise, and I don't like to gamble."

"I don't feel like arguing with you. Did you call me just to gloat?"

Jeremiah sighed in annoyance. "You've never been one for small talk. Fine. I left you a set of instructions in the room you kept me in. Desk drawer. Top left. Follow them exactly as they're written. Otherwise, you could end up in some very inconvenient situations."

"What if I don't want to find you?"

"Oh, trust me, Bruce. Once you see what I have, you'll want to find me. And we both know you couldn't stay away even if you wanted to. I thought my brother was the most intense masochist I'd ever come by, but you seem to be overtaking him. Interesting. I'll see you in a few days. And, you're always welcome to call. I do love hearing your voice. Have a nice lunch." And with that, he hung up, leaving a gaping Bruce staring at his phone in shock.

Alfred knocked lightly on the doorframe. "You can gather your...friends, Master B. Lunch is ready."

He set the phone down on the desk. "Great, thank you Alfred." Bruce took one last long look at the files, radio, and phone all scattered about his desk, and walked out the door of the study.