Chapter Text
I've heard allegations 'bout your reputation
I'll show you my shadows if you show yours
Cat Pierce—You Belong To Me
In life, there were a limited amount of things of which Jerome felt absolutely assured: One: that his brother deserved to die in the worst way imaginable. Two: that all police were idiots. Three: that, given the choice, a person should always pick chocolate ice cream over vanilla. And four: that girl billionaire Bruce Wayne was a sanctimonious little bitch.
Five was that he looked amazing in white, but that was hardly relevant.
So, imagine his surprise upon hearing that dearest Brucie had not only procured the club a mere three blocks from where he was pulling a heist, but word was she could be found there regularly. Nightly, even! And from what he could gather, the girl knew how to party.
All this had him wondering if there might be another billionaire philanthropist brat named Bruce Wayne running around Gotham unbeknownst to him. It seemed entirely more plausible than the dear Saint Bruce Wayne he had previously encountered…
Sure, he knew that under the well-maintained coat of paint that was her immaculate persona, there was something faded, broken, something with a capacity for great darkness… He’d seen as much in the mirror house.
But witnessing that delightfully unhinged side in private, having pushed her to the brink and beyond, and her displaying it openly for all of Gotham to see, were two entirely different matters…
Jerome’s eyes grew distant as his men finished packing up the last of the research center’s lab supplies required for his newest idea. It would be a month, minimum, before anything exciting could come to fruition; the young man, however, could be patient… when he wished.
His gaze locked on the door. Damn it, he wanted to see it for himself: the new, never before seen Bruce Wayne he’d heard tell of from one of his lackeys who resided locally. How could he miss out on such an opportunity? Jerome was fairly sure he didn’t believe it at all… he wasn’t even entirely certain what exactly he desired the truth to be.
He unequivocally needed to witness it, though. Right now.
He could send his followers on their way and just mosey on over for a quick look-see. Wouldn’t take long. Making a show of things wasn’t this particular evening’s aim; the girl needn’t know he’d even been there.
He decided his men would not be privy to his intentions. Such knowledge would simply raise unwanted questions, not to mention, some of his more overzealous disciples would want to do away with Bruce on the spot. Now, he certainly shared in that sentiment, but they could rest assured, when he intended to eliminate Bruce Wayne, it would be spectacular. One for the history books. Not some average, plebeian club shooting, devoid of all creativity. All flair! He had his standards, after all.
How many nights in a row had it been like this? Five? Perhaps more. Perhaps less… her weekly binges all began to blend like muddy watercolors in her mind. Go out. Have a drink. Dance. Revel. Drink again. Laugh too loud, too long. Drink. Kiss a stranger. Drink. Stumble into bed with them. Drink.
Somewhere between all this, she’d stagger home, then pass out, not necessarily in that order. Midafternoon she’d awaken, encounter and correspondingly ignore a visibly disappointed Alfred, and eventually find herself right back at the same club by early evening to begin anew. This was something she did with increased frequency and abandon as of firing her butler. No sense in undue occupation of a house entirely too empty…
And she was happy. Of course she was! She’d finally let go. Let go of Alfred. Let go of responsibilities, of memories and failures and unlocked potentialities that used to suspend themselves forebodingly above her head like the proverbial sword of Damocles.
But no more. Now she was happy. Now she was free. Free to be the obscenely wealthy, debauched teenager Gotham expected her to be. And why not? Had she not suffered enough? Did she not deserve a respite? Albeit, a permanent one. After all, she was happy. So so happy…
Happy. Of course she was…
Or was it numb? Funny… Bruce found if one imbibed enough alcohol, it became a pleasantly challenging distinguishment. Ah well, they both achieved essentially the same end, did they not?
And so, she found herself practically tripping out the club’s back-alley entrance, another nameless young man pulled behind her. They’d both abandoned their drinks (for Bruce, gin, for her partner, a cheap beer, still in the bottle) on the ground, that the young man might press her up against the wall. Sloppy kisses. Wandering hands.
And she was happy.
This was enjoyable. Of course it was. The way his hands grabbed at anything they could reach. Too hard. Too brazen. It was fine. It was all fine. The way his knee shoved its way uncomfortably between her legs. The way he attempted to tug down the strap of her satiny gray dress. She wanted this. Yes. She—she…
“That’s enough,” Bruce growled, elated mood plummeting like a crashing plane, the high previously experienced from the alcohol making a sickening transition to nausea. She wiped a hand at her mouth. Enough. Back inside was what she needed. Let this boy find some other drunken mess with whom to have his fun (there was certainly a surplus of the type within). She shoved the inebriated young man off of her before turning back towards the club entrance.
“Whoa whoa, baby, where you going?” What had his name been? Adam? Aiden? It didn’t matter; he sounded none too happy… A vise grip hooked around her upper arm. “Come back, I thought we were having fun!” Bruce shook off the offending appendage. Asshole…
“I’m going back inside. I should check on things,” she hedged, stumbling forward somewhat shakily, ignoring her companion’s garbled protests. Protests that quickly devolved from pleading to downright vicious.
“What? So just like that?” His voice rose. “Shoulda known you’d be a stuck-up bitch.” She heard slurred behind her, and a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, nearly bruising. The billionaire was of every mind to turn around and deliver a punch designed to relieve the little upstart of a few teeth, when the harsh sound of glass shattering and a body dropping stopped her in her tracks.
Despite her condition, Bruce assumed a fighting stance, spinning to address the new sound, years of training not easily forgotten, even amidst a gin-induced haze.
“Well hello, gorgeous.”
Bruce’s whole body recoiled, taking three solid (if not tipsy) steps back from the hooded figure before her. That voice… I know that voice, her mind screamed, though her eyes remained bewilderedly focused on the newcomer, confusion obvious. Seemed her brain was taking a few more seconds to put two and two together than her body, even if her subconscious had the good sense to warn her of the danger.
The man dropped the jagged, stumped remnants of the beer bottle he’d used to knock out her unfortunate young friend. Gloved hands pulled back the hood of his burgundy jacket, unveiling a shock of red hair. The shadows yielded to the neon light, lifting from his features to reveal the ridges of healed scars circling the perimeter of his face, framing a too wide, flashing grin pinned in place like a butterfly’s wings.
You. The sensation of a bucket of ice water being dumped on her head overtook Bruce. But… no. No no no. Jerome was locked up. Jerome was in Arkham. Jerome—
“Jerome Valeska.” Bruce heard herself say; it sounded so distant, like listening from under the surface of a pool. Distant, but collected, something for which she felt congratulations were in order, all things considered.
“The very same,” he preened, inclining into a sort of mock bow, hand raising to graze the top of his head before circling down to his chest as one might doff a cap. “Quick on yer feet, that’s you, Brucie.”
Every one of Bruce’s better instincts drained out of her like a dead battery. Choices and possibilities vied for dominance in her mind, a hellish, panicked cacophony: run! Fight! Talk! Slap herself awake, as this was surely all a dream. Take her drink and ignore the problem until it went away or killed her. At this point, she wasn’t partial as to which.
A profound sense of illness coiled in the pit of her stomach, heavy like a brick.
The people, a niggling voice prompted somewhere at the edge of her mind. She had to think of the people in the club; vigilante or not, an impression of perpetual obligation clung to her. Talk. Think. Stall, at the least. “Whatever it is you want, Jerome, no one else needs to get hurt. Leave them out of it.” Bruce wouldn’t care to admit it at the best of times, but even she knew she was a far cry from sobriety at that moment, but perhaps that might be forgiven in view of what she regarded a perfectly reasonable and concise delivery. Having the likes of Jerome Valeska determine she was drunk would not benefit her situation in the least.
“Well hello to you too.” The young man appeared far more put out than he had any right to be. “Still got that attitude, I see,” he said, stepping forward a pace, to which Bruce (albeit in reverse), hastily but with discipline responded in turn, a sort of tango of predator and prey commencing betwixt them. “Takes me back. I still remember that stubborn kid at the carnival with a death wish she couldn't seem to satisfy.” Bruce’s face grew wary at the way his eyes glazed over at that, memories, gruesome and depraved, swimming behind his vision. He looked entirely too pleased. “And get you now!” he snapped jovially. “All grown up, milkin’ the fancy rich kid life to the fullest!”
“You can’t expect me to believe you simply”—her hand gestured vaguely outward, words coming a touch slower, and certainly more muddled, than she’d intended—“came here to talk,” she finished dumbly but not without merit. This was Jerome Valeska, after all, when were things ever that transparent? Conversely, this was Jerome Valeska: he was predictable only in his unpredictability. A clandestine glance was cast beyond his shoulder, the open maw of the alley entrance presenting her with an opportunity for redirection. Whatever Jerome was planning, and there must be something, there always was, she could at least draw him away from her club and the people therein. Better she bear the brunt of his mania than dozens of innocents. They’d done nothing to warrant such a fate, free of any wrongdoing. She could not say the same…
If she might just slip around him to the other side, within the pretense of conversation, she could manage a break for the street. Perhaps she could flag down some passing driver. At the very least, attain a head start on the maniac and simultaneously avert his unwanted machinations on her club. Her attire—heels and a rather unforgiving dress whose fabric yielded little maneuverability—merited some endeavorment on her part to inconvenience the redhead long enough to aid her escape. She couldn’t exactly remove her shoes so surreptitiously as to not alert him of her intentions. And even Bruce, in all her pride, knew better than to attempt an all-out fight in her condition. Adrenaline only carried intoxication so far… A bid at running was her best option.
Assuming confidence she didn’t currently possess and fueled by no small amount of unadulterated aggravation, Bruce took a step towards Jerome.
“After all”—distract, get close, overpower, these were her goals, she had to be cautious—“every other time we’ve met, you’ve consistently had some grand overarching scheme.” Bruce allowed a tad more gesticulation than was her usual wont, anything to aid her venture to misdirect his focus. With such ends in mind, she allowed the pale strap covering her right shoulder to slip down a few inches, having already been dislodged by her tiresome (but conveniently unconscious) companion. She decided she would ponder later as to whether her complete lack of concern, indeed, near satisfaction, at Adam’s—Aiden’s (Andrew’s?) state of distress was incentive to call herself even more of a bad person… Probably not… After all, he was still breathing, and in the presence of Jerome, that should be considered a minor miracle. Besides, left to her own devices, she may well have left the obtuse young man in a similar order.
Not that Jerome would ever receive her thanks for such a thing… She would still prefer any number of drunkards to a dangerous criminal.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, darlin’,” he rasped out, looking like a contented cat, and blooms of equal triumph and perturbation grew in the brunette’s chest at the way his eyes locked on her exposed shoulder. The dank alley suddenly felt degrees colder. “But really,” he continued, even as Bruce slowly, painstakingly, came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and began to inch subtly around, “I’m a little insulted. I just wanted to… observe. Can’t a guy check up on a treasured acquaintance without the third degree? I mean, I heard tell you knew how to party—but damn!” His eyes snapped from her shoulder up to her face, glee (entirely unwarranted) possessing each aspect of his features. “This is somethin’ else, kid!”
Bruce flinched at the penetrative gaze directed so exclusively on her. Stoicism had long been a staple of her character, but half intoxicated and alone, a creeping dread that her strategy was being laid bare before him overtook her. She wasn’t about to wait for some debilitating move on his part: she had to run.
The brunette’s fist shot out, knocking Jerome directly in the stomach. The redhead doubled over, half gasping, half coughing in pain, and she had her chance. Breaking into the best run she could muster under the circumstances, Bruce bolted past Jerome, the alley entrance in her sights.
It wasn’t enough.
Vise-like hands wrapped around her waist, jerking her back forcefully enough to send her tumbling to the dirty ground. A jarring thud reverberated throughout her body, and it took a few disorienting moments to register she’d hit her head. The need to retch washed over her, the damp ground chilled and rough beneath her skin. A scratched sound of discomfort escaped her as she pushed her way to her elbows. The alley’s edges had grown blurrier than before, but she reasoned that was probably just her vision… and really, what was a bit more dizziness at this point? Jerome Valeska was here to kill her and honestly, at the moment, that didn’t sound so terrible. Perhaps it might even be called poetic, for her life to end in an alley, just like her parents.
She could see him, slightly hunched, steadying his breaths whilst leaning partially against the bricks with a propped arm. Rusty chuckles scraped their way from his throat, his other arm still clutching his stomach.
“Gotta hand it to you, Brucie, you can throw a punch with the best of ‘em!”
“Enough, Valeska,” Bruce said, and she sounded so tired; she hadn’t meant to sound that tired… “Just—just enough.” The walls were becoming particularly uncooperative: shifting sideways every time she’d just managed to get them pinned in place. A drink right now would be a godsend, anything to dull the dim ache beginning to throb in her skull. “If you want t’kill me, then just please get on with it.”
“Sheesh, darlin’. How am I supposed to execute all my future plans if this is the kind of reception I’m gonna get? I mean, c’mon! What happened to that old Bruce-Wayne-fighting-spirit? I can’t have you dropping the ball when comes hero time, y’know?” Somehow, true to form, the redhead managed to turn slouching painfully against the wall into a portrait of insouciance, hooded gaze appraising her seated figure with lackadaisical disdain.
“I-I haven’t the foggiest what you’re referring to…” muttered Bruce, preoccupied by the tantalizing opportunity her previously forgotten drink presented a meager two feet away. At least it hadn’t been kicked over in all this… One good thing to come out of the night, she supposed. Decidedly ignoring him, she reached for her glass, bringing it to her lips shakily—only for it to be snatched unceremoniously from her hand.
“Ah ah,” came a tsk, “when Her Most Royal Highness starts ending her sentences in prepositions, you know it’s time she be cut off.”
Bruce elected to ignore her alternately rising nausea and dizziness in favor of an icy glare cast his way. At least, she hoped it was sufficiently icy; things were all a bit lopsided… “Give me my drink, Jerome, ‘m’not in the mood.” Three beats before her glower grew exponentially. “And you just ended yours the same way!”
“Shh,” he admonished, “don’t be a grammar nazi, Bruce, it’s rude. It’s also rude not to offer a drink to an honored guest.” At this, he took a healthy swig of her gin, ignoring entirely, the newly murderous scowl piercing his being. “Damn, perks of being loaded is you don’t have to skimp on the good stuff, I guess.” He nodded appreciatively.
“But seriously,” he continued, “I’ve got stuff in the works, and you’ll be pleased to learn your involvement will be required, mandatory in fact, so I’m going to need you to get your head in the game, doll. Nihilism ain’t your speed anyway.” He polished off the last of her coveted gin, tossing the glass blithely behind him, entirely disregarding the shatter.
Bruce’s ire, already stoked, raged to the boiling point. Just when she thought the night couldn’t spiral further into the realm of—of surrealism, and now this!
Her sense of self-preservation discarded, the girl rose shakily to her feet, though, not without using the cold building as support. “How dare you?” she seethed lowly. “Y-you have the audacity to come here, to—to my club, and tell me how to live my life! Because what— because you ‘Have plans’? I’d sooner die than be used as leverage for your insanity! And let me tell you”—here she stepped dangerously within the crazed young man’s personal space (though his currently growing grin seemed to indicate enjoyment, however mercurial)—“you think you know me…” Her palm came to jab antagonistically at his shoulder. “Well, you don’t. You’ve no right to presume to judge me! You don’t know what I’ve been through, you—you absolute—”
“Temper temper, darlin’.” He bent down to be at eye level with the young billionaire, visibly entertained by her discomfort at the movement. “I wouldn’t want to have to take out the consequences of your bad manners on all those lovely folks inside… It’d be a shame to get this new jacket dirty.” He gestured to himself theatrically. “I mean, look at me! Drop-dead gorgeous, or what?”
At the mention of the club goers, every ounce of Bruce’s fighting spirit drained from her body in a shiver. She was left empty. Defeated and so, so damn tired… And frustrated beyond belief. The sounds of the city reached her ears, a whole nocturnal world, alive and thriving, paying no heed to her current predicament. Much the same as the night of her parents’ death… Alone… Chastened, she leaned her back fully against the refreshingly cold brick, staring up at the sky. No stars were visible through the clouds and pollution, the night one dark, heavy blanket.
“Why is it, exactly, that you need me so badly for—for whatever it is you’re planning?” Against her best attempts, she couldn’t discourage the pure annoyance lacing her words.
Jerome smiled gleefully. He would never reveal it, but the little brat’s ability to adapt so easily to the threats he presented, albeit, always with a great deal of obstinance, entertained him to no end. There was a spitfire under that adamantine exterior. “Well in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re kinda a big deal in these parts.” He indicated the city around them. “You wanna get the people’s attention, who better than Gotham’s sweetheart herself?”
“No”—she shook her head, half repudiation, half to clear the fog—“there are plenty’ve socialites who’d fit that bill, this is something more.”
“Well duh,” he giggled dementedly, and it sounded entirely incongruous to Bruce’s ears. He leaned down, stopping a mere handful of inches from her face. “You and me, babe, we’ve got history.” That last word was said like it should be so very exciting… “Hell, I’ve tried and not quite succeeded in killing you on multiple occasions!”
The word you’re looking for is “failed,” she thought spitefully.
“How many people can say that, eh? You’re somethin’ special, Brucie. You deserve a death to remember!”
A stabbing pain began thudding in Bruce’s skull. “You say that like it’s a privilege,” she ground out.
“Oh, it is. The filth on these streets, they’re a dime a dozen. You think their deaths mean anything? Think anyone looks twice when they disappear?” His voice dropped to a growl, expression piercing, “They don’t.”
Bruce’s eyes flashed differently than before, expostulative and righteous, relaying something buried within her, if only for a moment. Her fingernails dug deeply enough into her palms to leave crescents. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to respond with vehement rebuttals, put Jerome in his place, even if it was guaranteed to end unfortunately. Every fiber, that is, except that last small sliver of common sense that knew a bait when it saw one. She wasn’t that gullible.
Irate, the brunette turned her head towards the back of the alley, not dignifying a response.
Jerome knew nothing. She cared. Cared about anyone who’d ever known the pain this city could inflict. Or… at least, she had… But that was behind her, wasn’t it?
Jerome assessed her unblinkingly, nearly reptilian. That was the spark. The one he’d come searching for… The one he needed in order to proceed. There for one fleeting moment, and gone in the next, but there, nonetheless. A warm thrill of excitement blossomed in his chest, like seeing an old friend. Or at least, he assumed that’s what that would feel like, he didn’t exactly have friends.
The realization that he’d missed it, that fire of hers, hit him like a train.
...Well, that was not something on which he intended to dwell, thank you very much. Not now anyway…
Her indignation, on the other hand, was serviceable. Keep pulling on the proverbial thread until the entire cloth unraveled.
Jerome put on an air of mock thoughtfulness, circling her, shark-like. “Well damn, come to think of it, even your parents with all their money, barely got a second glance from this city in their moment of need.” He meandered inside her line of vision like a cat vying for attention. “Seems like maybe this place is actually pretty good at judging two pieces of shit not worth their time—”
Bruce’s fist collided with Jerome’s jaw in a satisfying thwack. He stumbled, began turning back, but not before the girl’s foot connected with the back of his knee and he went tumbling. The ground rose to meet him, as did the overwhelming urge to laugh. And he did: breathless little giggles that blended into dizzying guffaws and from there into near-silent hysterics. Ah Brucie, Brucie, Brucie…He knew that would do the trick. Such a sore spot, those parents of hers.
He vaguely registered Bruce being on the ground as well. She must have fallen. He’d seen in her demeanor that she believed she was doing just a swell job of hiding exactly how drunk she was. But Jerome knew drunk when he saw it. Looked like Bruce wasn’t quite as good of a little actress as she hoped. No wonder she’d lost her balance.
What he probably should’ve anticipated, but currently found himself too preoccupied to really give a deep-fried hell about, was Bruce practically flinging herself at his form for a further throttling. She was straddling him, fists striking at his face, his shoulders, his ribs, all wild movements, lacking finesse. She seemed to be losing focus.
Before, there was that glorious spark in her eyes, the one that made his heart leap excitedly in his chest. Mesmerizing. Now, it was like the switch had been flipped off again. Bruce’s body was there. Her fists were certainly there (hey, she might be weakening but the punches still hurt). But her mind… her mind was miles away.
He’d stopped laughing. When had he stopped? He’d been so happy a moment ago. Why—why was she ignoring him? What was so damnably important to draw away that coveted focus he had very much earned?
His eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched. In a movement too quick for Bruce to process, he’d flipped them, slamming Bruce on the concrete beneath him. Surely that would elicit a reaction from the young heiress.
She certainly looked at him, quite literally shaken from her onsetting reverie, but her stare held no malice. No fight.
Bruce had always carried an aura of otherness about her, eyes too old and entirely too knowledgeable for so young a face. She retained a certain quiet, if beleaguered, dignity about her at all times.
Presently… the only applicable word he could fathom was… haunted. Like her greatest regret had dragged itself from the grave to torment her. He’d be flattered, were it not for the recognition that this wasn’t about him… Not directly, at least. And why was her face slowly growing guilty? Why stop fighting? She wouldn’t have hesitated once upon a time. He’d liked that about her: stubborn like a mule, even in the face of sure defeat. For a moment there, he thought he was getting that Bruce back.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, darlin’.” He moved in close, virescent eyes gauging her hawkishly.
Bruce met his gaze, so tired, so conflicted. “I promised…” she murmured, and Jerome could tell once again, very aggravatingly, that it wasn't directed at him. What was she on about? Why the culpability? When did Gotham’s own poster child for justice give way to—to this?
He considered her a moment, the way a scientist might examine a rat in a cage, before coming to some decided conclusion giving a brusque nod of his head. “This new you is no fun…” he said with the matter of fact mien of an expert. “Mostly because you’re too fun. I mean, the partying! The booze?” A thumb pointed at the unconscious boy behind them. “That guy.” He threw his head back, a cackle reverberating off the alley’s walls. “Who ARE you?” Just as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished, replaced by steely appraisal, his voice beginning almost amicably and devolving to a low growl. “What happened to that holier than thou, prissy, sanctimonious, absolutely aggravating little brat I used to know and detest, huh Brucie? The one who’d never back down from a fight.” He eyed her up and down disparagingly. “Whatever’s going on here”—he jerked a hand towards her general person—“is all kinds of screwed up. Hilarious, but screwed up.”
Dark blue eyes bore up into him, perhaps even straight through him, like he was little more than an inconvenience or a gnat buzzing around her head. “If you truly came here to observe, then I think your task is more than fulfilled. I hope I’ve provided you with ample entertainment, Valeska... Now… I’ll thank you kindly to vacate the premises of my club.”
Sheesh, this girl’s moods were like a yo-yo. Thank goodness he was never so volatile… “Hold up, sweetheart. I mean, I’m more than happy to go, I sure as hell got better things to do than gawp at your boring mug all night, but it feels like we’re not quite simpatico yet on the whole you-getting-your-life-together-‘cause-I-say-so, thing.”
When the time came, he was so looking forward to the young billionaire’s attempts to thwart him. At this point, it was practically their thing… an inside joke hurtling towards a punch line neither of them knew, ever since her taunts the night of the carnival. The anticipation made his blood run faster. That fighting spirit of hers held such merit. What better to bring smiles to the faces of his followers and tears to the people of Gotham than to see the city’s princess broken and dead by his hands, her courage failing to save her?
But. That. Couldn’t. Happen. If this was all she was providing! Did the girl’s selfishness know no bounds?
Her gazing up at him with so little animosity, only emptiness, would have made a lesser man uncomfortable. Not Jerome though, no. Jerome was fine… at best… mildly perturbed. Mildly.
And so, for entirely unrelated reasons that had nothing to do with mounting disappointment and a million forming questions, he stood. “Think very carefully about this, Bruce. Wouldn’t want to have to pay you another reminder.” A quiet menace laced the edges of his saccharine smile.
Bruce, having righted herself, slid despondent eyes his way; hair tousled, makeup smudged, she looked dead on her feet. A horrible, deathly calm clarity sustained her tone. “Valeska, there’s little you can do to me that's not thoroughly deserved. I’m not, nor have I ever been, your pawn. I refuse t’start acting like one.”
Sick frustration built in Jerome’s gut, spilling into rage. Why. Was. She. So. Difficult?
“Listen,” he snarled, voice like rusty knives scraping together, smile growing impossibly wider, “you’re gonna do as I say, dollface, or so help me, I will take great pleasure in—”
A groan, not his, and not Bruce’s, resounded off the alley walls. Both heads turned towards the unconscious young man sprawled most ungracefully on the ground. He stirred.
Great. Just peachy. Guess there’s nothing for it; in which pocket exactly had he put that knife?
“Shit!” He heard Bruce hiss out beside him, and could only imagine her purely distraught face.
Bruce eyed him up and down like some positive change would present in his demeanor if she simply sought it hard enough. She was not about to be privy to another murder in another fucking alley! “Jerome, so help me, leave now! He’s going to wake up and no way in hell will I allow you to hurt him. You said yourself you’re just here to observe. I’m going back inside, and you’re going to walk away this instant or I swear…” She forcibly manhandled his shoulders, backing him away from the boy, personal safety be damned! “You and I have nothing more to say to each other.” The growled register of her voice could nearly have matched his own. “Go home.”
The body continued to shift, a pained keening noise mounting.
Jerome appeared in deep contemplation a moment, almost like he was… genuinely pondering her words? A sunny verdict illuminated his features. “Home huh?” He cocked his head like an overly attentive bird. “Good thinkin’, Brucie!”
Bruce’s last fragment of awareness before everything went black was the explosion of pain when Jerome viciously slammed his head into hers.
Jerome watched Bruce tumble to the ground, waifish, quiescent, all her bones seemingly dissolved. He really was too much of a genius for his own good sometimes. Shoulda thought of that ages ago.
Well, dilly-dallying wasn’t an option at present.
The unconscious girl was flung unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of flour, all to the accompaniment of a cheery whistle.
She wouldn’t hear it from him, but the brat did have a point about the low profile bit… No sense in drawing undue attention upon himself. Not now, at least.
Begrudgingly, he deemed the boy would retain all bodily fluids and organs for tonight. And if he happened to trip (kick) into the young man’s ribs on his rather jaunty way out, well, what could he say? His balance was off.