The Difference Between Adoration and Addiction

Lunch was a very unique affair. Between Selina's ongoing dialogue about the redundancy of toaster ovens, Jerome trying to eat salad with a spoon, and Alfred clearly questioning why he kept his job, Bruce wasn't sure what he should pay attention to.

"I just don't get it. Toasters, ovens, and microwaves already exist. Combining them into one device doesn't make them better. And the wattage is garbage! I'd be surprised if one of those things toasted a marshmallow, let alone made meat edible. The one in the kitchen couldn't even cook my waffle all the way through."

"I think I may have a solution," Jerome offered as he scooped up a piece of lettuce. "Have you tried setting the toaster oven on fire while your food is in it?"

"Wow, you're a genius! I've just been doing it wrong this entire time." The sarcasm was dripping from her tone, but she was smiling.

"At least you'll never have to worry about your food being undercooked."

Alfred pulled his attention away from the joking pair, asking "Master Bruce, are you alright? You've been awfully quiet this whole meal."

"Yes, I'm fine, Alfred. There are just some things I'd like to get done today, and I haven't had a chance to complete them yet. This salad is very good, though. Thank you for lunch." Bruce was itching to get to the guest bedroom and find whatever Jeremiah had left him. He picked at a crouton, waiting for everyone to finish their meal.

The second that his butler began clearing plates, Bruce bolted up the stairs to Jerome's room, its occupant watching him go with a concerned expression. Fortunately, he remained seated.

"Desk drawer, top left," he repeated to himself as he opened the described drawer. He was expecting the note that was lying in there. What he wasn't expecting was the white rose and the bottle of purple ink. Bruce pulled out the rose first, smelling it. The scent wasn't floral. It had a sickly-sweet smell that was almost completely masked by the strong odor of chemicals coating it. Bewildered, he set it gently on the desk, and reached for the note next. Jeremiah's handwriting had returned to its normal elegant script. At least, until the last few lines. The note read:

Dear Bruce,

I'm sorry to depart on such an abrupt notice. I can understand how furious you must be with me. My phone call certainly didn't explain much. You must understand, however, that this is all premeditated. It was meant to occur from the very beginning. There is no need to feel lost or confused. Humans are conceited creatures. We often make being in control our utmost priority. That is why things had to occur this way. If I had not gone along with you originally, you wouldn't have felt nearly as empowered, nor would we be able to fully enjoy the adventure I have prepared for us. Staying here was essential. Not only did it raise the stakes of your inevitable search for me immensely, it also instilled a new connection between us. I believe that aspect of my visit is even more important. Humans may be self-centered, but they also desperately crave the company of others. I find it...frustrating, to say the least, that I cannot function on my own any longer. Introducing yourself to me was the one variable I could never expect. After all, who would have thought that any period of absence from Bruce Wayne would have created an inexplicably large void of loneliness inside my mind and heart? And even so, a different part of me does more than desire your attention; it survives on it. This is the part that demands I leave, only to coax you after me. It's a cruel game to play with you, but I cannot stop myself.

The handwriting suddenly reverted back to the unsettling scrawling writing he recognized from the note Jerome received a few days ago.

Come find me, Bruce. You know as well as I do that you can't help it, either. I've been told that I'm sick, but I'm nothing in comparison to you. All you do is seek out pain and disappointment. You surround yourself with it. So, let me help you. Come to me. Use the ink. Beware, though. This rose isn't a peace offering. It's the start of something new. A pact between you and I. Don't take it lightly. Each petal holds a clue. I hope you find it useful.

I'll see you soon,

Jeremiah

Bruce had no idea what to make of the note. It made him feel sick, messed up, curious, and exhilarated all at once. Which was sort of reminiscent of its writer. Jeremiah was like a fascinating and incredibly addictive drug. And he was right. There was absolutely no way Bruce wasn't going to search for him. As he had so bluntly put it, he couldn't help it. And Jeremiah knew that. A cruel game indeed, but not one he was going to pass on playing. He heard footsteps echoing up the stairs, and realized Jerome was most likely returning to his room. Gripping the drawer's contents tightly, he raced out into the hallway and back up the side staircase to the study. He wasn't ready to share this with him. Not yet.

The study door was locked and he was in the desk chair before he even realized he'd left the most crucial thing. The note. If Jerome found it, he'd be beyond furious. Bruce had no desire to be caught in his anger. So, he very quickly executed the directions he had been given. He began to peel each petal off of the rose, laying them down gently on the oaken desk. When he'd stripped it down to the stem, he set that aside. Next, he grabbed the ink bottle. It seemed to possess a similarly sweet chemical scent. A drop of purple liquid was distributed to each petal. Bruce stared in fascination as they began to fill dips and rivets he hadn't been able to see on their clean white surfaces. Soon, he was facing a jumble of lines, letters, and numbers. They must fit together in some way, he thought. But I can't even begin to imagine how. Certain ones were covered in just a straight line and a combination of numbers and letters. These petals seemed important. There was a single petal that contained a star, the letter M, and the letter J. He could spend all day speculating about acronyms, but the point was, this petal appeared to signify his goal.

Loud banging on the locked door and rapid shaking of the handle caused him to jump in his seat. He gathered up the deconstructed rose, put the stopper back on the bottle of ink, and tossed them in the bottom drawer of the desk. Running to the door, he rapped his knuckles against it. He already knew who was on the other side.

"Stop moving the handle and I'll open it, calm down."

Silence. The door stopped shaking. Bruce unlocked and opened it, stepping back.

Jerome was, expectedly, standing in the doorway, visibly angry. The note clamped in his fist had been crumpled and torn. His voice didn't betray the tremble of his body, though. "I've thought of a million ways to put this eloquently. What the fuck is this?"

"That wasn't exactly eloquent but that's okay," Bruce replied calmly. "Would you like to sit down and I'll explain?"

"No, I don't want to fucking sit down, your highness." A stony look from Bruce caused him to recant. "Fine, I'll sit down." Jerome crossed over to the sofa and very slowly lowered himself into a sitting position. It was clear that this was not the way he wanted this conversation to go.

Bruce sat across from him. He purposely waited a long time before speaking, deciding it was good for Jerome to squirm a bit as he waited. Finally, he said, "I told you that he departed this morning."

"Sure. You didn't tell me that he'd left you a love letter, too. And directions to his secret hideout."

"It's not a love letter. It's his way of taunting me."

Jerome snorted. "Sounded like a love letter. And it feels more like he's taunting me."

"Maybe he is."

He stared at Bruce. "It's almost like you're trying to start a fight with me."

"I'm not trying to start anything. But, if you're going to yell at me, then do it."

"I don't get it. Sure, I can figure out why he wrote it. He's a bastard and wants to lure you away. And, like the sympathetic masochist that you are, you probably want to go looking for him. But what I don't understand is why the hell would you leave it on the desk for me to find?"

"I'm not a sympathetic masochist. I just know that he needs help. And no one else is willing to give it to him. As for the note, I didn't mean to leave it in there. I'm not that much of a douchebag."

"No, you're just a sneaky little bitch. Although, I can't believe you have the nerve to even claim that much. Because, what I'm learning, is that in your mind this isn't a problem if I don't see it. Like most things. Everything is totally okay if Bruce decides to keep a bunch of secrets from everyone because I guess that's just normal. Apparently I never got the memo. Do you ever get sick of being a pathological liar? Or, sorry. Giving out the truth selectively, as I'm sure you'd put it."

His words stung. Bruce wasn't prepared for the venom in everything he said. Perhaps that's why he lost his temper. "Coming from a sociopath. At least I'm not an attention whore. I don't go out of my way to beg for validation in my life. You only try and pull such ridiculous stunts because maybe then you'll get someone to actually care about what you're doing. And when you're not out panhandling for pity, you just whine about how nobody loves you. Well no wonder! You love yourself so much, there's not room for anybody else, even if they're trying so fucking hard!"

Silence again. Shocked green eyes met teary brown ones. Without a word, Bruce stood up, raced over to the desk drawer, and left the room, slamming the study door behind him.

…

(Jerome's P.O.V.)

Two broken lamps and a floor covered in knocked over books later, Jerome sat back down on the sofa. A mix of emotions ran through him and he couldn't properly handle a single one of them. He had no idea what to do. Jerome had never seen Bruce that angry before. At least, not with him. In fact, his almost ceaseless tolerance had been strange. He figured that Bruce was bound to snap sometime; everyone always did. Maybe it was because he had crossed a line. It was hard to tell; lines were pretty blurry to Jerome. He must have gone too far. He'd forgotten how fragile the kid was.

He should probably go after Bruce. But a part of him didn't want to. It wanted to stay here until the little brunette came crying back. Wanted to hear him spouting endless apologies. Wanted to hurt him for running away, and teach him to never do it again. This twisted part of him liked the way his dark eyes had looked brimming with tears, the pretty pink blush his anger had painted his cheeks with. The way he bit his bottom lip until it bled when he tried to stop the tears from flowing.

He slapped himself. "You need to stop doing one thing right now and start doing two other things. Stop being an absolute asshole and a pervert. Yes, I know you're good at both of those things. But neither of them are acceptable mindsets. It doesn't matter how fun they are, dumbass. In their place, you need to go be a decent human being and comfort him. So what if you've been doing that a lot lately? He's clearly emotionally unstable and he needs some support. No, it doesn't matter if you're even more unstable and completely unqualified to give that support. It has to happen." Jerome finished the conversation with himself and stood up with a sigh.

A moment of curiosity caused him to wonder what Bruce had ran to get from the desk before he took off. One look at it revealed nothing but empty drawers. Odd, but not as important right now. Thinking about it too much would be a waste of time. Jerome left the study, roaming down the stairs towards Bruce's room. Not there. Okay, so where would I run off to if I'm sad and angsty? He took a second to think. He'd want someone or something to reassure him. He wants to feel important and loved. Where would he go for that? To Selina?

"Knock knock," he said, rapping his knuckles on Selina's bedroom door.

"What do you want?" she opened it, her wide green eyes staring at him.

"Is Bruce in here?"

She looked behind her. "No, why?"

"That's all I needed. Thanks." He turned to leave but she grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait! Why are you looking for him?"

"He ran off. I thought he might have come here."

She put a hand on her hip and looked at him with scrutiny. "Why'd he run off?"

"It's none of your business, kid," he snapped.

"My best friend is dating a sociopath. That makes it my damn business. And I'm the same age as you, kid."

"We're not dating."

"Really? Would you be fine then if someone else made a move on him?"

"I...no. No I wouldn't be."

She looked satisfied. "And he'd be pissed if someone tried to move in on you. That means you're dating."

"I don't date."

"Well you clearly aren't just fucking around because you seem pretty emotionally invested. Whatever you want to call it, the premise is the same."

"Forget it. I need to find him."

"You still haven't told me what's wrong," she reminded him.

Jerome sighed. "If I tell ya, would ya stop bein' a pain in my ass?"

"Nope. But we'll both feel better."

"We got in a fight. Some interesting words and accusations were thrown around and he started to cry. Which he didn't like. So he ran away. Happy?"

"No, I'm not happy. But he'll be okay. He's tougher than you think."

"Do you have any idea where he might have went?"

A minute of deliberation and then, "You aren't gonna like this."

"I don't like a lot of things, sweetheart. Try me."

She glared at the nickname but continued to speak, "He probably went to see your brother."

"That'd be a stupid move on his part. Jeremiah has the compassion of a walnut."

She shrugged. "Not towards Bruce."

That didn't make him feel better. "You haven't even met him. He might hurt Bruce even more. I need to get to him before that asshole does."

"Maybe he didn't go there. Check the garage before you flip out."

He took her advice, closing the door behind him as he went. An angry huff and the opening of the door told him she decided to follow. Jerome hurried past a vacuuming Alfred who gave them resentful looks as they passed.

Selina caught up to him and opened the door leading to the garage. Several cars were parked there. None of them were Bruce's black Mustang. So he really had left. In a burst of anger, he grabbed a hammer from the workbench and flung it across the room. A crack from the windshield of an old Volkswagen told him that he'd hit home. Later Jerome would feel guilty. Not right now though. Right now, he was just pissed. He reached for another tool. A small arm hovered in front of his, blocking the bench.

"Jerome, stop. You're not helping anything by breaking Bruce's shit."

Her presence was starting to irritate him even more. He grabbed her arm. "Don't tell me what's helpful and what isn't, sweetheart."

She jerked her arm out of his grip and slapped him. "First rule: Don't touch me. Second rule: Don't call me 'sweetheart' again."

For some reason, and he couldn't imagine why, her statement and actions just pissed him off more. This time when he grabbed her wrist, it wasn't so light. A snap and a brief cry of pain from her. Her eyes flashed and her other fist connected with his jaw. Really, a poor move on her part. That just gave him access to her other arm, which he yanked across her neck and behind her back in one smooth movement. Soon she was essentially choking herself while Jerome just laughed. It was hysterical, after all. She was choking herself! What wasn't funny about that? Selina's own sleeve muffled her screams and kicking did nothing to help. His laughter eventually began to regain the manic edge the drug of Bruce Wayne had stolen. Her breathing became shallower. It was only when her eyes started to dim did Jerome realize exactly what he was doing.

The cackling ceased. He released her with a start, backing away. Selina didn't move. She just layed there. He was afraid to check for a pulse, but he hesitantly walked back towards her. She was alive. Her wrist was definitely broken and her throat was bruised, but she was alive. He moved her into a sitting position against the wall.

Jerome already knew that Bruce and his butler would never forgive him. And maybe that was for the best. He didn't deserve their forgiveness, especially not after this.

It was there, kneeling on the garage floor, that Jerome decided he wouldn't go after Bruce. He'd caused the boy enough pain. Besides, he just wasn't cut out for the sort of compassion he wanted from him. It wasn't in his genetic makeup. So, he'd disappear. His parting gift was stopping himself from stealing one of their many cars. Instead, he took one last grateful look at the manor, and sauntered down the road, whistling a melancholy tune to himself.