Bruce lay awake all night.
His sheets felt too soft against his skin, his bed too smooth, and he couldn't stop thinking about Jerome.
There had been something strange in his friend's eyes eyes when their day was cut short, something not entirely sane as he held his mother away from Bruce. He tossed around the mattress, kicking his covers off in frustration. It just didn't fit in! Jerome was a hero!
Bruce turned to face the other way. Maybe it had just been the adrenaline that put that look in Jerome's eyes, or the anger. Jerome wasn't a bad person.
That slap had been hard. It'd left a harsh red mark across one side of Jerome's face, and Bruce felt a squirm of guilt low in his gut. He's been so insistent, even when Jerome clearly didn't want him inside. Obviously for good reason.
It had been his fault.
Bruce clenched his hands, he'd go back tomorrow, he decided. He'd apologise to Jerome and everything would be okay, and Jerome would go back to teaching him how to be tough.
•
Bruce waited by the stump all day, staring down at the circus lights. He did the same the next day, and the next. By noon on the fourth day, he'd had enough. Scrambling off the stump, eyes drawn close, Bruce began to march down the hill, his smart trousers and jacket tightening with the exaggerated movement.
Halfway down he stopped, looking down at his clothes. They were custom made, a Canali jacket and brown knee length shorts. He didn't look like he was meant to be wandering round a circus in the daytime, he looked like Bruce Wayne.
It had rained last night, and a few muddy puddles still patched the way down, broken up by a couple of areas with dry ground.
Bruce grimaced. Alfred was going to kill him.
He undid the tie first, Ralph Lauren, it had been a gift from the board at Wayne enterprises on his twelfth birthday, and it ended up garnishing the small gorse bush a few feet away. The jacket was next. Bruce glanced down at his shirt, before unbuttoning it. It was green tartan, again Ralph Lauren, but too formal done up, and the white t-shirt beneath it too clean. He leant down and scooped up a handful of the dry dirt from beneath a tree, and wiped it down his front.
That was more like it.
By the time Bruce was done, he looked far more street urchin than billionaire. His Ralph Lauren shirt was torn and muddy, the breast pocket hanging limply by a few stitches, and his brown shorts were ripped in three places, the button torn off, now being held up only by a belt. Bruce grinned, now for Lesson Two.
Nobody gave him any trouble as he walked through the circus, maybe because it looked like he hasn't washed in weeks, but that suited his needs perfectly. When he got to the small caravan, instead of knocking on the door, he glanced round, swallowed, and tiptoed up to one of the windows. He wasn't quite tall enough to see on flat feet, so balancing on his toes, Bruce squinted into the poorly lit interior. The caravan seemed empty, and Bruce was about to slink off to look elsewhere when the curtain around Jerome's bed rippled slightly.
Bruce's eyes widened, and he scrambled around the caravan to the door before pausing. His hand was inches away from the handle, but he was shaking. What if Jerome didn't want to see him? What if he was avoiding him? If that was the case, Bruce decided, he'd just leave; at least he'd know. Hardening his gaze, Bruce firmly gripped the handle and pulled the door open.
It was too hot, too stuffy inside the caravan. No windows were open and it smelt like peppermint and stale air. There was silence apart from laboured breathing and a quiet groan. "Jerome?", Bruce breathed, slowly padding towards the curtain. There was no answer. Bruce slowly pulled back the curtain, revealing the curled up figure facing the wall inside.
Bruce's eyes widened, mouth hanging open as he saw his friend. There were yellow bruises along his right cheekbone, and his lower lip was split. Part of the blanket was hard with dried blood.
Jerome was awake, he just wasn't looking anywhere but the wall, Bruce tried again, "Jerome, w-what happened?", he whispered. A cold smile lifted the corners of Jerome's mouth slightly, but he didn't look away from the plaster, "Mother and her lovers don't like me bringing people back here", his voice was too slow, gritty, and Bruce was really getting worried. "Jerome, I think we need to go to a hospital", he said, high pitched and afraid. The older boy laughed, but it too was broken with illness, "We can't afford hospital, Brucie. Jus' let me sleep".
Bruce yanked the cover off his friends still form, and blanched when he registered the unnatural angle his wrist was bent to, "Jerome, we're going to Gotham general", he growled, determination colouring his actions as he reached to pull Jerome up. As soon as he'd touched his friends side, Jerome winced, and Bruce recoiled as if he'd been burnt. Broken ribs too then.
"Jerome, please get up", Bruce whispered, eyes wide, "We need to go now". Jerome's eyes fluttered with exhaustion, "Where can I go?", he muttered. Bruce was shaking again, "Don't worry, just get up", Jerome was clearly delirious, his eyes were rolling in their sockets, but he obeyed. Bruce pulled one of Jerome's arms around his shoulder, and began a painfully slow limp towards the door.
The way out of the circus wasn't as easy. Whenever an older circus member caught sight of Jerome, instead of offering help, they just shook their heads. Bruce had to just grit his teeth and stumble past them, but the worst were the teenagers. Boys barely older than Bruce jeered as he pulled Jerome past, banging whatever they were sitting on and laughing.
"Served the freak right!", one yelled,
"Someone had to give him a good whacking". Bruce felt sick, others joined in, they were relentless, even as he got away from one group, another would start shouting insults,
"Fag! Hope he dies!",
"Just drop him kid! We'll finish the job!".
Just as Bruce thought he would get to the end of the circus strip without being stopped, three older boys walked into the middle of the path a few meters away.
"Where are you going with the freak, Rat?", one of them yelled, arms crossed over his chest,
"Tell me who did that, I wanna go kiss 'em", another called out. Jerome weakly turned his head towards Bruce's ear, "They won't let me leave", he whispered, lips brushing the shell and making the younger boy shiver.
Bruce glanced at his friend; he looked even worse in the light. There were black circles underneath each half-lidded eye, and a slightly yellow tinge to Jerome's too-pale, sweaty skin. Bruce's stomach hardened, he couldn't do anything like this. Bruce carefully sat Jerome down against a barrel, broken arm clutched to his chest. The younger boy tried to ignore the way his head lolled slightly before straightening. Jerome smiled as he was being propped up, "Get out of here quickly, when they finish with me they might come after you", he muttered, smile not leaving as Bruce got back up.
"Lesson two", Bruce murmured, walking towards the older boys with his fists clenched. He stared straight at the ringleader, eyes cold and face expressionless, "Let us past". The older boy blinked, before bursting into laughter, "What, you gonna make us?", he cackled. Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly, pupils cold as arctic water, "If I have to", he ground out. The boy who hadn't spoken took a step back, "Hey, Dan, let's just get out of here", he muttered, eyes on Bruce's, "He looks like him". The leader turned on his friend, "Fine, you get out of here, then. Pussy. We'll beat this squirt to a pulp, then start on the freak without you".
Bruce stared the cowardly one down, "See you guys later", he uttered before turning on his heel and stumbling away. Bruce fixed his eyes back on the leader, "Your friend's smart. Smarter than you", Bruce paused again, "Get out of here".
"You're a cocky little shit, aren't you? Disrespecting me. Now you've made me angry", the leader said calmly, "You couldn't leave now if you tried, rude brats like you need to be taught a lesson", he started to roll up his sleeves as he prowled towards Bruce.
Bruce stood straight and still, allowing the ringleader to advance. When he was a few feet from him, the older boy lunged, fist raised, and Bruce neatly sidestepped, grabbed a handful of the ringleader's hair, yanked it back and kneed him hard in the stomach. The older boy let out a wounded sound as the air whooshed out of his lungs, and he fell to the floor, gasping.
The other bully lunged then, trying to get a good punch in whilst Bruce wasn't concentrating, but Bruce stepped out the way and pushed, the momentum sending the boy straight into a pile of wooded boxes beside a stand.
Bruce wasn't paying attention, and to his horror, the boy on the floor grabbed his ankle and pulled. Before he knew it, Bruce was lying on the floor with the ringleader's hands closing around his throat. It was too tight. Every futile attempt to pull the hands from his windpipe just made the corners of his eyes fuzzier.
The older boy was smiling, Bruce registered slowly, as his efforts got weaker. Just as Bruce thought he was going to pass out, the hands were gone.
Blessed, crisp air flooded his lungs, and Bruce lay there for a moment, gasping, before he rolled over, gagging and hacking as he threw up. The fuzziness slowly receded, and as soon as Bruce thought he could sit up without emptying what was left of his breakfast, he saw Jerome. His friend was swaying unsteadily on his feet, and the piece of crimson wood from the boxes clenched in his unhurt hand dropped to the floor.
Bruce felt like he was watching from above as he slowly registered the still body of the ringleader on the floor, red starting to seep out of the gash in his head where he lay. Bruce looked back to Jerome as his friend's legs crumpled, and just managed to catch him against his chest before he hit the floor.
Jerome lay against Bruce, head on his left shoulder, breath puffing softly against Bruce's neck. His arms hung limp down Bruce's sides, and the younger boy clutched desperately onto the sleep shirt to keep Jerome upwards.
Jerome's eyelashes fluttered against his neck as he spoke, "Are you okay?". Bruce laughed, a high, unsteady laugh, "Me? You're the one who just knocked a guy out with a broken arm, broken ribs, a fever and what I think is a concussion!". Bruce felt Jerome smile, "I told you I was badass". Bruce laughed harder, and Jerome joined in. They leant against each other as their relief flooded out.
When Jerome felt well enough to grit his teeth and stumble along using Bruce's shoulder, they began the trek to the nearest pay phone. Bruce was still worried, and the fight had sucked out the last of Jerome's energy. The older boy's eyes were barely open, and his feet were less walking, and more dragging along the floor as Brice pulled him along.
By the time they reached the phone, both boys were exhausted. Jerome slumped down the wall next to the phone as Bruce rooted through his pockets for change. The dial tone for 911 was almost non existent, to Bruce's relief, and two minutes later, with the promise of an air ambulance as fast as possible for the Wayne Billionaire, Bruce slid down the wall to sit next to Jerome.
Jerome's split lip was bleeding again, and looking paler than ever as a bead of sweat dropped down his cheek, but at least he appeared to be mostly conscious. Jerome was staring at his feet when he spoke, "I can't afford this". Bruce chuckled, eyes fixed on an nearing black blob in the air, "That's not going to be an issue". The air around them began to thrum as an approaching helicopter neared.
Newspaper pages and trash blew around the street as the helicopter descended into the park, and as soon as its feet were on the ground, paramedics began to run towards the boys.
"Everything's going to be okay", Bruce whispered, and Jerome lay his head down on the younger boy's shoulder. His eyes fixed on an old newspaper article stuck around a bollard as he began to loose consciousness; there was a picture of two adults and a little boy on the front, he registered slowly, they looked happy. There was another photo, just beneath, of the same boy, but this time, he wasn't smiling. Owen's taunting words whilst he beat Jerome's head against the side of his caravan swam back into his head.
Jerome closed his eyes.
•
Bruce didn't mind hospitals. They were clean and white, and he liked the sharp smell of disinfectant.
He didn't, however, approve of the food.
When the nurse brought the still unconscious Jerome a hospital tray with his lunch, Bruce examined it to make sure it was safe for his friend's consumption. Although it may have been safe, it looked disgusting. He pulled out a brand new mobile, "Alfred? Yes, I'm fine, I need you to bring me something though", he glanced down at Jerome's sleeping form, "Two ham sandwiches with coke and crisps. Yes, two, thank you Alfred", when Bruce looked back up, Jerome was watching him.
Bruce smiled tightly, "Look who's back from the dead", Jerome blinked and lifted his throbbing head to look down at himself, then groaned, "I feel like it". Jerome's eyes widened as he caught sight of Bruce's neck, "I'm going to kill him", he breathed. Bruce glanced down, fingering the purple hand-shaped bruises along his windpipe, "It's fine, no permanent damage". Bruce pushed himself off the chair and walked down to the clipboard on the end of the bed, "You, however, had a mild concussion, two broken ribs, a shallow knife wound to your abdomen, mild pneumonia and a broken wrist", he fixed Jerome with a glare, "Who did this to you? That Owen guy?".
Jerome stiffened, but shrugged, "Fell down some stairs", he slurred, Bruce glowered, "and how did these stairs manage to stab you?", the older boy fixed him a look, "Drop it Bruce".
Sighing, Bruce retreated to his chair, "I will find out", he warned. Jerome's eyes hardened, "No you won't", he growled, his words still slightly jumbled. A tense silence fell between the two for a few minutes, before Bruce spoke again, "Those kids, at the fairgrounds, why wouldn't they let us leave? Why wouldn't anyone help you?". Jerome licked his lips, "What? Me? I'm Mr Popularity", his smirk was sardonic, Bruce just waited.
Jerome sighed, "At first, people didn't like me because of my mother, so I had to figure out how to look after myself. People also don't like a kid who can look after himself", he looked at the bedsheets, "So when that kid gets put on his arse, they feel like they've won".
Bruce nodded, before shuffling his feet, "Why'd they call you a fag?", he asked curiously.
Jerome stiffened, curling in like an angry cat, "You should stay out of other people's business", he spat, and Bruce recoiled in shock. A heavy silence fell on the room again, only broken when Bruce's phone rang.
"Master Bruce, I understand you clearly care for this person very much, but the two security guards you have posted on the door are refusing to allow me and your sandwiches past", Jerome glared at the white ceiling, unable to hear the conversation. Bruce got up from his chair again, before walking over to the door, "Alfred can come in, with the sandwiches", he stated calmly.
Jerome watched curiously as a middle-aged man shuffled into the room, a plastic bag in his hand. As soon as Alfred spotted Jerome, his eyebrows tightened slightly, and Jerome felt ill. Here came the, 'Who have you been spending time with, son?', speech.
Alfred nodded towards the bed occupant, "So you're who Master Bruce has been spending most his days with recently then?", Jerome shrugged, trying not to wince as it jolted his ribs, "Yeah, I'm Jerome". Alfred looked between the two boys for a moment, before beginning to unpack the bags, "I hope you like mayo on your ham, Jerome, Master Bruce doesn't eat them otherwise", he turned to Bruce, "They're from that bakery you like down on fourth street".
Jerome was watching Bruce funnily, and he didn't like it, it was the look he got whenever he walked into the public school. The rich boy look. Unable to stand it any longer, Bruce jumped to his feet, "Alfred, can you keep an eye on Jerome for a few moments? I need the toilet". He didn't even wait for a reply before he was out the door.
Passing Jerome a sandwich, Alfred sat down, "Someone sure gave you a beating, Jerome", he said casually. Jerome was still looking at the door Bruce had left from, "Stairs", he muttered. Alfred nodded, "Yes, stairs. It's common to see six foot four stairs with a ring on the fourth finger of their left hand running around beating people up these days". Jerome whipped around, dropping the sandwich into the covers, eyes wide, and Alfred continued, "Don't worry, Master Bruce hasn't noticed the slight difference in the colouring of the bruises on your face yet".
"Don't tell him", Jerome said as he stared at the door. Alfred watched the young adult quietly for a while, "I won't, but he cares about you, and he isn't just going to give up, you know. Your just prolonging the inevitable". Jerome sighed, "That's the idea".
Bruce opened the door, walking back into the room, "I saw the doctor", he said to the floor, "He says you can leave in a day as long as your head's okay, and you have to take a prescription for your concussion with you, he says it's crucial. You've been unconscious for three days". Jerome watched him sadly, before nodding, "Thanks, I'll take it from here, I'm sure the circus will pay".
Alfred cut in, "I'm afraid that's already been taken care of, Master Bruce sorted it out when you arrived", Bruce nodded, still not meeting Jerome's eyes, "I'll see you around then", Jerome muttered, staring at the same place on the floor as Bruce. He nodded, and walked out the door, Alfred sent Jerome a smile, before leaving.
He lay there in silence for a while, staring at the ceiling fan. A pile on the side table caught his eye, there was a baguette, packet of crisps and coke sitting there, the packet advertising some bakery uptown. Jerome lashed out, sending the food flying, before he rolled over, trying to pretend the way his eyes prickled was because of the pain in his ribs.
•
After dismissing the security guards, the young billionaire slunk into the passenger seat of the Rolls Royce. Bruce was silent the whole way back, staring straight through the windscreen. Clearing his throat, Alfred glanced at his charge, "Master Bruce, not to sound rude, but our exit back there was a bit bloody cruel", he flicked the indicator, turning the car towards Wayne Manor.
Bruce just stared out the window, trying to forget that look on Jerome's face.
•
It was 3.20 when a nurse came into Jerome's room to change his IV.
Whilst she was writing something on the clipboard at the end of his bed, Jerome spoke, "Hey, do you know who Bruce Wayne is?". She blushed, glancing round the room,
"Is that a trick question? He payed for your treatments", Jerome held his hand out, "No, I mean is he well known round here?". She laughed, "Maybe that concussion is more serious than we thought, you're not from round here, are you? Bruce Wayne is the owner of Wayne Corporations, the biggest company in the whole of Gotham", she said this like Jerome should know, as if he kept tracks on the wealthy elite, "He owns half this hospital, amongst many other things", Jerome stared at his blanket, "So his dad is rich?". The nurse gave him a pitying look, "He doesn't have any parents. They died in a mugging gone wrong earlier this year, it was huge, coverage was shown all over the world. And if by rich, you mean billionaire? Yes, he's rich". Jerome turned over, eyes tight with resignation.
The doctor came in at about seven, he picked up Jerome's clipboard and examined it, "Yes, you're the one who had a serious concussion, right?", Jerome frowned, "Serious? The nurse earlier said it wasn't that bad". The doctor stopped turning the pages of the clipboard, "Nurse earlier?", he said, "The one who brought you lunch?". Jerome frowned, "No, the one who came to change my IV, we talked".
The doctor looked at him for a moment, before walking out the room with a stern, "Wait here".
Jerome'd always had a little problem with authority. He flexed his legs, and examined the tubes going into the veins of his arms. Jerome ripped them off in one fluid motion, wincing as one tore slightly on exit. Bruce said four days, that didn't give him much time at all. Swinging his feet off the bed, he noticed a wrapped sandwich squished between his covers. Jerome glanced down the hall, there was nobody there, but an odd, flapping noise echoed down the walls. Jerome winced and held his head, it was too loud.
He stumbled down the hall and out the door, only registering that he was just wearing a hospital robe when his feet touched grass. That was fast, Jerome thought to himself idly; he was already back at the circus. Whatever they had given him at the hospital was wearing off. Everything was spinning slightly, taunting him, "Stop it", he growled softly, holding his hands out for balance.
His legs weren't obeying him properly, it was like he was wading through mud. A black shape sped in front of him, but it didn't run, it sort of shot, like a bullet. Jerome whirled, trying to find it again, but it had disappeared.
"Fucking bird, it's fucking night time, 'should be ASLEEP!", he yelled. The flapping noise that had followed him from the hospital now nearly unbearable. His relief when he reached their cold, mouldy caravan was ignored in favour of navigating the huge steps, when had these steps gotten so big?
The caravan was empty. Jerome laughed, a high pitched, unstable laugh, his mother was probably off whoring herself out to whichever of the two family members she fancied on the particular night.
He collapsed onto his bed, vision swimming, pulling a pillow over his head to try and cut out the infernal flapping. It wasn't working. Jerome flipped over, angrily searching the caravan for whatever it was.
Bats.
There were bats everywhere.
His vision was going dark, there were so many bats. Jerome fell backwards the bats pressing in on him, he couldn't see, and all he could hear was the endless flapping. Finally, the darkness swallowed him, and it was quiet.
•
Despite himself, Bruce went back to the hill the next night. It was a battle between whatever mixture of resentment and pity had lurked in Jerome's eyes when he said goodbye a day ago, and his desire to see his friend, but eventually, his desires won out. It was late, and no one was there.
The circus lights were just starting to turn on, and the whole park stopped being just an area of green amidst the towering skyscrapers, it became a different place all together. The moonlight gave the trees a silvery sheen, their golding leaves bleached and pearlescent.
Bruce couldn't see Jerome's caravan from here, it was all lost in the glaze of honey light from the circus that didn't quite reach him. People were milling around the stalls, and for a moment Bruce considered walking down and into the fray, searching out the shabby caravan and walking in to apologise for ever pushing his way into Jerome's home. For getting him hurt so badly he had lost almost a week to unconsciousness. Bruce thought about what he would do in Jerome's position, before standing up, and walking home.
•
Alfred watched with narrowed eyes as his young master stirred his uneaten breakfast cereal forlornly.
He'd been like this for the last two days, ever since they'd left the hospital. Bruce was moping around the house, refusing to even go out and see Selina, and Alfred'd had enough. "Master Bruce, excuse me saying this, but don't you think you should get off your bloody arse and go see the young man if you're so upset over how you left things", he placed a cup of juice in front of the untouched cereal.
Bruce raised his eyes slowly, before dropping them again, "He doesn't want to see me, Alfred", Alfred hummed, "And you know this without speaking to him? Pray tell, is this boy teaching you to be psychic as well as to fight?". Bruce dropped his spoon on the side of his bowl with a soft clink, "He doesn't want to see the person that did that to him Alfred. All I've done is take up his time, get him hurt and in trouble with his family".
Pulling a chair round to the opposite side of the kitchen counter, Alfred spoke, "Are you sure? The way I see it, you took him away from the person that did that to him, protected him and offered friendship", Bruce glanced up at him, "Take it from me, that's not nothing". Alfred fixed Bruce a serious look, "Not going to see him is cowardly. What if he's been trying to see you this whole time? Does he even know where you live?".
Bruce's eyes widened, and he frantically slid off his chair, "Alfred, get the the Rolls, I'm going to need to be taken to Gotham carnival in five minutes!", he yelled as he ran to his room. Alfred shook his head, picking up the abandoned cereal and placing it in the sink, he'd have time for that later, Master Bruce had more pressing issues to attend to.
The whole way there, Bruce was straining against his seatbelt, leaning forward to look round every corner, biting the inside of his cheek. Alfred sped up a bit, rounding the corner a block away from the park almost too quickly. Speeding tickets weren't going to be a problem.
As soon as the Rolls Royce pulled up, Bruce was out the car and running.
Alfred cursed, "Bruce!", but he was gone. The butler ran into the trees after him.
Bruce was sprinting through the trees towards the Circus, afraid and excited about what Jerome would say. He would laugh, make up some rude, funny statement and ask where Bruce had been this whole time. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.
The Wayne billionaire broke through the trees into the clearing, skidding to a sudden halt. He whirled around, confusion written across his features, "No-", he choked, scrambling back into a run. Up the hill he went, stumbling and tripping as he raced, pulling himself towards their spot as quickly as he could.
Alfred broke into the clearing, holding his legs as he breathed heavily. Sadness clouded his features as his eyes travelled across the empty grass. He glanced up, watching the small figure of Bruce tripping as he ran up the hill. He started to walk up after him, empathy drawing his mouth small.
Bruce clawed himself up to the stump, "No", he scaled the dead wood; nothing. He fell to his knees ripping up grass and scrabbling through the dirt and stones, "There's got to be something, he couldn't have just left!".
When Alfred reached the pinnacle of the hill, he found Bruce curled up in a ball on the floor next to the stump. He crouched down next to him, resting a hand on his head, "Master Bruce", he whispered, "I'm so sorry, they've moved on".
Suddenly, Alfred's arms were full of a sobbing Bruce Wayne, "Why? Alfred, Why didn't he tell me?", Alfred sat down on the dirt, thinking back to their conversation in the hospital.
"Maybe he always knew there was going to be a time limit, and thought you did too", Bruce's sobs rocked his small form, "But he didn't even say goodbye". Alfred closed his eyes, burying his face into Bruce's hair as the boy moaned.
"He didn't even say goodbye".