Cherry slushees are the only reason to wake from the dead
Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466426
Ship: Valeyne with hints of Wayleska
word count : 3591
Warning: Jerome.... uses a gun at one point and t’s kind of manipulative
Weekly visits to the graveyard were almost as constant as weekly threats on Bruce’s life. They were tedious and usually not very exciting. The most action anyone could get was if Jerome’s Maniax were trying to cause trouble again. Bruce should have been thankful for the lack of trouble (he wasn’t). After all, as much as he would never admit it, Jerome wasn’t ever boring
It was unusually cold for September, Bruce noted while wrapping his jacket tighter around himself. The cold seeping out of his breath, little vapors. Bruce could faintly remember a time when his mother had called it “the last remembering blood of the dragons”. There were no dragons anymore, no time for playing games of fantasy and fairy tales. Though he wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up again this was Gotham after all.
It would almost make him laugh, dragons flying over the perpetually gray skies, lighting them up with fire.
Maybe if there were dragons it would be the reason today felt different. Something being decidedly off. It had started with Bruce missing his alarm. Though it almost seemed a primary to most people Bruce never missed his alarm, whether it be the clock in his head or the phone on his phone, he was always up at 5:30 in the morning. But today he slept in, waking up only when Alfred had come to look for him (Alfred seldom woke up when Bruce did, sighing about old age and needing rest. Bruce could almost agree with him).
So after his entire schedule had been thrown off, he had to deal with the unfortunate circumstances of one Selina Kyle, turning up, high as a kite. It wasn’t often that she smoked but when she did, she went all out. Bruce could surmise that she did most things that way.
After laying her down to sleep and answering a few questions that no one would ask unless you were high as a kite (Bruce had almost burst out laughing when she asked him if he slept upside down, like a bat) and bidding Alfred a warm farewell he’d slipped into the cold Gotham air.
Weekly visits could have seemed risky, the routine of it all making it easy to find him, but in Bruce’s heart, he didn’t care. If nothing else he had to make sure that Jerome was dead.
He didn’t see Jerome die. He could only assume what laughter he went out on (if he was laughing). But he did see the body before they put it in a cheap coffin and a small service that only the other twin attended. Bruce certainly didn’t think about how he stood there, hiding behind a tree, listening to the empty words of a hired priest. No, he really didn’t think about that. He also didn’t think about the stab of a bad feeling when he heard about Jerome’s death. The sickly way that tears almost surfaced. Because why wouldn’t they? Jerome was someone that Bruce had never claimed to know well but from a few choice words at the diner, he understood enough
“No one helped me… ever” it was said with almost disbelief, and barely disclosed humor. Though it did mean something to Bruce. What makes someone like Jerome happen. Cause it really wasn’t care and help.
Bruce shook off the thought, reminding himself of what Jerome had done. It was no matter who made him like this, he still did terrible things. Things that kept Bruce up at night.
Like spraying Jeremiah. Oh, Jeremiah. Burce almost grimaced at the thought of the man before the gas. A good man. Someone hurt by their own twin brother and left one last trap after it was all over. What would Jeremiah say if he knew who Bruce was reminiscing about?
He didn’t feel like answering that question today, with all of the feelings that went along with it. Why would he be mad? It's not like…. Like anything. It’s nothing Bruce thought as deftly made his way through cleanly cut grass and pale grey headstones.
It was, unfortunately, familiar; the feeling that dropped to the pit of Bruce’s stomach as he froze taking in his surroundings.
Something was wrong, terribly fucking wrong. Displaced earth the color of late-night coffee and a shovel lay next to an open grave.
Jerome’s open grave.
Bruce instantly whipped around, almost expecting Jerome’s Maniax to come falling down from the sky like flying monkeys. His breathing becomes sharp but quiet, ears straining to hear anything that might give him a clue. Bruce knew that he should be calling Jim or Alfred or hell, even Jeremiah but something made him digress. Something made him want to stay here and fight. To fight like the dragons that didn’t exist anymore. The incredible itch to fight and win wasn’t something new theta Bruce had expected but it was something that he largely never dealt with. Never dealt with who caused it. Later he could deny the almost giddy feeling of finally something happening. Later maybe he wouldn’t need to. But now he just stood his ground, digging expensive boots into the soft late-night coffee dirt.
Bruce didn’t seem to notice the curling of his fists, the rosey fingertips still numb from the cold, and looked up and the bright gray sky. It was the kind of gray you’d find on harsh winter days, the stark blue’s and harsh whites of snow simulating the city. You’d never see the sun, but it always loomed. Loomed wasn’t the word most people would call the sun, that being reserved for fear and clowns at children’s birthday parties. Bruce thought the word made sense, as Gotham seldom was like everywhere else.
Bruce resided to urge to call out for Jerome’s cult, knowing that they had to be here somewhere, somehow. Calling them out would only make them hide more. It was an aspect the Bruce never got, seeing how taunting Jerome only made it easier to find him. Though it may be because the Maniax were only cheap imitations, not the real thing. Bruce should stop thinking like that shouldn't he, the almost fond smile he got when talking about the late face stapler sleeping back into practiced apathy.
Sighing, Bruce walked over to the grave, crouching down to talk about the cold soil in his fingers.
It was fresh, as only dirt used to cover your worst (best) enemy could be. Likely dig less than a day or so. Why hasn't anybody noticed?
Maybe there wasn’t anybody left to notice the sickly part of him answered, referring to the king night guard that had always let them in. Bruce happened he wasn’t dead. Strike that, Bruce knew he wasn’t dead. After all, what good was hope if he didn’t know it (that’s all hope’s good for). The shovel was interesting, placed haphazardly on the ground as someone had just thrown it there. Maybe they had. Maybe they were running and hiding, though Bruce doubted that they could run carrying a casket, seeing how it was missing.
Must have been more than one person then. That at least narrowed the list done to basically everyone.
“This is getting nowhere,” Bruce muttered, still rubbing dirt in between his fingers. Only now had it donned on him that he should call Alfred. Even though calling Alfred was likely the first thing that anyone else would have done (either that or they didn’t know the man well enough). But Bruce did, barely bothering to wipe the dirt off of his hands before reaching into his coat. The black coat almost seems to envelop him, like the night sky lacking stars. There weren’t ever any stars in Gotham, cloud cover, and light pollution getting in the way. After all the first time Bruce had seen stars, real stars were in Switzerland. When he was 12. Someone might call it sad, or as the missing dead man would say, absolutely fucking hilarious.
Bruce could see it as funny too, only seeing the stars after the passing of his parents. Passing was such a kind and soft word for murdered in an alley, used by stuffy old people paying their respects (and apparently 19-year-old billionaire vigilantes).
Shuffling around Bruce finally realized something. He left his phone at home. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Bruce could almost laugh. Of course, this was the day he left his phone at home. It only served as evidence that something had it out for the poor boy, something with a cruel sense of humor.
He did a final pass over, making sure that at least he had some weapons; that being his chain, a Batarang, and what could only be described as the shock pen (a name given by a very high Selina). I was basically a mini taser that was sure to be illegal everywhere but this was Gotham after all.
The silence in the graveyard almost froze like it was waiting for a cue. And cue it did get, in the form of familiar laughter. Jarring, hysterical laughter that Bruce had only heard from one man.
Bruce whipped around coming face to face with a smiling man holding a slushie.
Fuck.
“Heya Bruice,” The familiar nickname and the smiling face of Jerome Valeska couldn’t be mistaken for anyone other than a man coming back from the dead. And of course, he’s back. It’d only fit for what fluid rules mortality in Gotham ran on. Because the old lady that had passed away a month ago didn’t get to come back but of course, the psycho clown gets too.
“How?!... How the fuck are you alive,” The words came out shakily, the resolve Bruce had been building after Jerome’s death less steady than he thought. But I suppose seeing a dead man can do that.
“Such language,” Jerome gasped, the words scratchy. He paused coughing once before taking another slurp of the slushie. Where’d he get that and who he had killed to get it Bruce didn't want to know, instead reaching in his coat to pull out a Batarang. But something stopped him.
That being the sharp click of a gun and metal being pointed in his direction. Because why wouldn't Jerome have a gun?
“Whatever you’re going to pull out of that very expensive coat of yours, I suggest you don’t," he was smiling, a sickly kind of smile that was almost fond (bruce almost wondered if Jeremiah got it from him). He was dressed in what Bruce could only assume he was buried in, a cheap tux that lacked any source of flair and panache. Almost like the one he’d been wearing at the gala when Bruce got the little white scar that seems to burn against his neck now.
Surveying what little option he had left, Bruce decided on just sighing and putting his hands up. He’d hoped that Jerome was still a little stiff form y’ know coming back from the dead and that he would be a little easier to take down. One could only hope as Jerome laughed a bitter laugh, eyes trained on Bruce’s face. He was looking for something, whether it be a sign of what Bruce was going to do or just a plain crazy that sent a chill down Bruce's spine.
“How are you here?” The words came out steadier this time, as the surprise of a dead man walking began to diminish. Another day, another psycho clown twin brother of your sort off boyd=friend rising from the grave.
“Well funny story-,” Jerome said scratching the back of his head with the gun. The safety wasn't on “- I woke up, tired and in real need on a slushie and y' know the place on 4th and Baker street sooooo….” he paused, letting false tension build. Still the showman as always.
“You came back from the dead for a goddamn slushie," Bruce interrupted anger and disbelief coating his voice. It was in character though for the red-haired man to take death like it was only a nap between classes at the rich school’s bruce used to attend. It should have frightened him more. A lot more, but Bruce could only focus on the almost giddy smile of a man happy.
“Oh, and by the way, how is my little…. Fuck he’s older than me now!” It didn't take a genius to figure out who he talking about.
Nor did it take a genius to see the slight flush on Bruce’s cheeks. Jerome paused slightly, scattered thoughts flashing through his head. Did something happen? Did they happen? It almost made Jerome cringe before he remembered the gas. The little trap for a little brother.
“Your damn trap worked if that’s what you're wondering,” Bruce answered the question unsaid. It could be easily forgotten how good the dark knight was at reading people, years of charity balls and betrayal would do that. But that still didn’t answer the flush. If the cold (was it cold? it’s hard to tell when you’ve been dead) was to blame or something else entirely. Jerome hoped for the cold. He wasn’t ever a liar, or blind, Bruce was cute and interesting, almost more interesting than anyone in Gotham and to think that his brother, infected by the same insanity as Jerome had snatched him up made him sick to his stomach. Though that could be whatever bugs he hadn't thrown up yet.
“Are you blushing over dear old Jeremiah Brucie boy,” Barely contained anger made Bruce freeze. What was Jerome getting at? Though Bruce knew that an answer might only anger him more if it is a true one at that.
“Why should you care, Jerome?” Bruce was overwhelmingly aware of the flush on his face, reconsidering if it would be best to try and fight him now. After all the last time Jerome saw Jeremiah he was still sane (maybe he never was a little voice whispered). It would have been cute if it didn’t mean that Jeremiah had won.
And Jerome never lost, but when he did he was one hell of a sore loser.
“Because I want to know if that bitch went to the cute billionaire before I did,” It was said casually, obviously feigned but still casual. The words took about five seconds to register in Bruce's head before he choked on his own breath.
"You’re not funny Jerome,” He hissed through his teeth, wrapping the coat further around him before asking another question.
“How the hell aren’t you cold,” He pointedly looked down at Jerome’s bare feet, stained blue and covered in dirt. Jerome didn’t answer, instead picking up another slush from the ground. Why hadn’t Bruce seen that?
Again, though it might have just been the shock of a very cold and odd day, it took a few seconds for Bruce to realize what Jerome was offering.
“How do I know that you didn't do something to it,”
“I’ve only been alive for one day and you really I’d kill you like this, with no one watching,” So It was just them. But it did bring back sick remembrance of dead butlers and staples. Of the Carnival where Bruce had bargained for his life and almost ended up taking Jerome's. Bruce nearly shook his head, trying to dislodge frozen memories and focus on what’s in front of him.
“Just give me the goddamn slushee you fuck,”
“The mouth on this kid,” Jerome handed him the plastic cup, only ⅔ full. Bruce pointedly ignored that Jerome had likely drunk from the straw that he would before talking again.
“First of all I’m older than you and second, how exactly are you planning on making my life a living hell this time,” He was tired, and it almost offended Jerome, that someone was taking more of Bruce’s energy then he was. So he did what every good performer does when something isn’t going their way… try to seduce the audience.
“Y’know I was going to shoot you,” a glare was sent his way, form tightening “but I decided no I’m just going to have some fun with my favorite volunteer~,” He purred the last words, relishing in the momentary shock spreading over Bruce’s face. Sadly it was smothered over by priced apathy and feigned emotionless. Jerome knew better, saw the little cracks in the mask Bruce seldom took off.
“But I could always just… try to kill your butler again,” It was a cheap shot, both of them knew that but it worked, as Bruce lunged forward with new fury in his eyes.
Jerome slid left only to be tripped by Bruce’s longer legs (when had he gotten so fucking tall?). The newly found breath was knocked out of him and a punch landed to his face. Familiar pain bloomed, with the slight tearing of skin. It had been sewed on better this time before he was put in the ground.
Bruce could see the giddy surprise when he easily took down Jerome, practicing moves against dead men. Getting the gun was easy, one strike to a fragile wrist and it was flying to the other side of somewhere. Jerome’s skin was cold though, even more like Jeremiah. Or maybe Jeremiah's was like Jerome’s. It was uncanny, the familiar of their positions. NO smeared face paint or mirror shards this time. Bruce loomed over Jerome, tired fury burning in his eyes.
Bruce looked older, Jerome noted, remembering the offhand comment Bruce had made. That meant that Bruce had to be 19 at least. Less boyish charm and more hard angles. Still the same smell of rich person perfume. Seriously, if Jerome could count on one thing from the otherwise surprising boy (Jerome still refused to call him a man) it was that the rich floated off of him.
“This… feels familiar. I can’t put my finger on it though,” Bruce glared at him again before noting how he stood. Oh.
“Shut up or I will make you shut up,” It should have come out harsh and grim like the “bat growl” Selena had nicknamed it. But instead, it sounded breathless, like this had been the fight he was searching for.
] “I’d like to see that Brucie~” Again with the flirting. Jerome wasn’t even thinking about the knife in his pocket, only focused on the very angry man on top of him.
Bruce found it hard to think as well, acting on instinct. That seemed to happen a lot around Jerome. Case in point smashing his lips against Jerome’s.
Fuck.
His lips unsurprisingly were smiling. But they tasted like dirt and ort and cinnamon. Why did they taste like cinnamon? Bruce could hardly compare it to the few kisses he shared with Jeremiah. They were different, Jeremiah being like mint, a lemon, cold and sharp.
Oh, and Jerome was kissing back, like really kissing back. Through giggles and muffled words, Bruce didn’t want him to say. Jerome was like kissing gasoline. Like poison and fire and crescendos in crappy club music. It made Bruce want to laugh.
On the other hand, Jerome Was laughing, kissing someone who felt like the beating sun on burnt skin and ducking your head in ice water. Jerome would swear that something had zapped him every time Bruce moved his lips. But then it ended, Bruce pulling away with wide eyes.
“What the fuck did I just do?” He whispered, not getting up from the familiar position on Jerome. What the fuck indeed. And Jerome was still laughing, before looking up with eyes filled with danger. Danger that Bruce had seen in his own.
“Well I’m pretty sure you just made out with a mur-” he was cut off by bruce’s hands shoving themselves over his mouth. Half tempted to lick them before he looked up and saw the most emotion he’d ever seen on Bruce Wayne’s face.
Shock and a faraway look were the easiest to spot, but the remaining anger and guilt came pouring out of him like oil. His lips were bruised, and his hands shaking. Jerome could watch him like this for hours.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said sheepishly, lifting his hands from Jerome’s face.
“What’s there to be sorry for darling, except for pulling away,” Jerome on the other hand felt like he was flying. He hadn’t lost after all. And y’ know he got to kiss a very pretty boy who almost killed him once. That seems to let Bruce finally come to what little sense he must have had left and lifted himself off of Jerome.
Only now, after Bruce had gotten up did Jerome notice the cold. It almost made reach to pull Bruce back down. But he didn’t, instead opting to watch the dark-haired man with happy eyes. Bruce wasn’t running like he should have done. He didn’t seem to be doing a lot of things he should be doing today wasn't he? Instead, he just picked up the slush and sat back down next to Jerome.
“So I’m guessing nobody’s going to know about this,” Jerome spoke, breaking what surprisingly wasn’t an awkward silence.
And Bruce was laughing. Laughing quietly but still laughing. Holy shit Jerome was in love. It was sweet and fragile, like a spider’s web but and the same time sharp and harsh. The wonderful paradox that was Bruce Wayne Jerome supposed as he started laughing too.
And there they were, a man who repeatedly refuse to stay dead and a man who stubbornly refused to kill, laughing like children in a graveyard.
