A/N: Standard disclaimer applies. Title from Neon Trees – Everybody Talks

on AO3: ao3/works/27713594

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This fandom's in desperate need of more fluff and funny shenanigans so that's exactly what I'm bringing you! Premise is simple: Jerome didn't die, bridges didn't fall and Jeremiah's in Arkham for now. Bruce left and came back and everybody's fine and dandy. We're starting like 4~ish years after what would've been One (Not So)Bad Day. Part 1 of the series.

Enjoy! ^^


#1: take over their workplace

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It's a sunny Wednesday morning when Bruce gets stuck giving a presentation to his board. The future projects he envisions for Wayne Enterprises are crucial to implement as fast as possible, and Bruce can't wait to get all hands on deck. The company has been running without his direct input long enough, and now that he's back in town and more than ever committed to making Gotham a better place, Bruce fully intends to use all means at his disposal to make sure his family's resources are utilized efficiently.

His plan involves meeting with the board regularly — starting right now — and systematically weeding out any and all signs of corruption and shady dealings that come to his attention. But more importantly, Bruce is determined to prove that change can be made when people with enough power are set on the right course.

Bruce has power.

Both financial and individual, and he will use them, now that no legalities are holding him back.

Most of all, it just feels right, to finally be able to do something of real value here in Gotham, after years and years of traveling and training. Of course, those were valuable too, and Bruce would never go out at night to fight crime, nice and personal, if he didn't believe it makes change, too, but there is just something intrinsically satisfying about working the systems from the inside. And he can do both.

So Bruce is in the middle of explaining why focusing on clean energy is crucial in reducing Gotham's air pollution when the first gunshots ring across the hall.

Ah.

Of course. He should've predicted that.

Ever since Bruce returned to Gotham, he kept his own presence carefully hidden. Successfully establishing Batman required absolutely no connection to Bruce Wayne, and while he's already met most of the prominent criminals as his new, shiny alter-ego, they still didn't see him, Bruce. And Bruce knew it was a matter of time before one of them got impatient enough to come kicking at this door — literally — to claim their favorite hostage anew.

Especially now, as Bruce imagines, when being an actual player in the game makes him a much more valuable bargaining card than when he was a child.

The only thing Bruce didn't account for, but certainly should have, apparently, is that it would be Jerome coming after him.

Because of course it is.

Bruce can hear that obnoxious, unmistakable laughter even before he can see him. Even before a bunch of Maniax, armed to the teeth, flood his conference room and take aim at every single one of his board members. Bruce has to fight the urge to shake his head disapprovingly. It's a nice display of power, he'll admit that, but from the resident clown menace he expected something… more. Something classy.

"Bruuuce Waaaayne~!"

Speak of the devil.

Jerome saunters into the room like he owns it, battle rifle casually swung over his shoulder like a very grotesque umbrella, shiny suit and eternal smile equally dazzling in the artificial lights. It's all very on brand.

Bruce did see him before. Since he got back. It's hard not to run into one of his ever-going schemes even if one doesn't actively search for them — which Batman very much does — but it's not just the same.

Facing Jerome in Kevlar and a cowl, on a completely fresh slate and without history to weight them down is just different. Of course, there's mocking and threats and violence — Jerome always gives back as good as he gets, that hasn't changed — but the sort of playful attitude Bruce got so used to before he left is nowhere to be seen.

Because Jerome might've wanted to kill kid Bruce Wayne before, but after that memorable first time it was always a game. Batman, though? Ever since Batman single-handedly dismantled his mass-hypnosis plot at the very beginning of his tenure, as a blatant self-advertisement no less, Jerome wants to absolutely destroy him.

There is nothing playful about that.

So maybe it is a bit weird, but seeing Jerome in his office like that, just as deadly as in the field but with his frisky mirth intact, Bruce is just a little relieved. He can deal with homicidal tendencies and pure, unadulterated rage just as well, but for Bruce Wayne there will undoubtedly be a show. And that's always easier to twist to his advantage.

Bruce will also never admit that he has missed this, the rush of adrenaline when faced with a threat as himself, but he allows his business face to break just enough for his lips to curl. Just a fraction.

Jerome doesn't seem to be concerned by much, though, and already managed to drape himself on the chair directly opposite of Bruce: boots on the table and crookedly pleased smirk firmly in place, clearly waiting for a response.

Only he doesn't get one.

Bruce blinks once and promptly ignores all of this nonsense, continuing with his presentation as if nothing out of ordinary ever happened. If Jerome wants something from him, he will have to take it himself. And Bruce does not plan to yield easily.

Predictably, Jerome doesn't appreciate being ignored. He doesn't at all.

Good.

Bruce wouldn't want to get boring this fast.

He moves on to talking about plans on redesigning Jeremiah's batteries so that they're safe to use without a threat of overloading, and how it could revolutionize living conditions for the poorest parts of the city. He brushes on the potential profits the world-wide distribution could produce to sway the opinion more in his favor when the glass wall behind him explodes in a rain of shards.

Bruce flinches. He's grateful Jerome didn't shoot the laptop that's much closer to him, even though he's no longer smiling when Bruce lifts his gaze to meet Jerome's across the room. Game on.

"Yes?" Bruce asks with as much listless politeness as he can muster. He's certain that his board members must be much more shaken by all of this than he is, but given who Bruce is and who he tends to dance with on a regular basis, this won't be the last incident of such kind in the foreseeable future.

Better for everyone to be prepared.

Jerome clicks his tongue and stares at him with unreadable intent for a short moment, before he seems to catch on on Bruce's play. The smirk returns.

"Look at you, Brucie! All grown up!" he croons, shifting in his chair. There is an audible gasp from one of the women but Bruce ignores her. Thankfully, none of the Maniax move.

"Time tends to do that." Bruce hikes his eyebrow. Alfred would be so proud.

Jerome's eyes narrow.

"You know why I'm here." It's a threat. Or, as good as one; as good as anything Jerome ever says. Bruce cocks his head slightly to the side, trying to radiate as much tired confidence as humanly possible.

"No idea, actually."

It's enough.

Jerome inhales sharply, theatrics practiced and layered on thick, and presses one gloved hand to his chest in a dramatic gesture.

"Awww, all this time and you're so cold to me. I'm wounded, darling. Wounded!" And he really does sound like it! Bruce kind of wants to chuckle. He doesn't, though. He has to play this right if he wants Jerome to leave without too much damage (and death). But he shrugs, barely noticeable, and picks up his speech.

The idea that maybe Jerome also missed having his favorite volunteer, the perfect bait for his big, nefarious spectacles flickers in the back of Bruce's mind but he dismisses it on the spot. He suspected that once he let Jerome grab his attention, he would not back down again, but it's just that — a performance. It used to be… typical, for him, when it came to Bruce. Before. Good to know not much has changed in his absence.

Only Jerome is not having it.

As soon as Bruce moves closer to his slides trying to push the meeting forward despite the odds, a loud bang echoes through the room, followed by an even louder scream.

Figures.

Jerome shot the woman sitting to Bruce's left in the arm, but well. She's alive, thank god.

It doesn't matter, though. Bruce can already feel indignation raise its ugly head in his gut — a familiar feeling he hasn't experienced with this much force since the last time he had faced Jerome as a civilian. It's been some time.

He does want Jerome to play along with his diversion, but wasting innocent lives is never a worthy price. Bruce grits his teeth but doesn't let himself visibly react otherwise.

"Jerome," he says warningly.

Jerome only examines his nails — or he would have, but he's still wearing gloves — and doesn't look Bruce in the eye.

"You can't ignore me, Bruce," he says matter-of-factly, "or I'll have all your little friends here killed."

Oh, Bruce knows he would. In a heartbeat. But that's not what he says at all.

"You won't." And there's conviction there. Bruce played Jerome's games before. He knows Jerome; knows how he ticks. And Bruce is not afraid to use that knowledge to his advantage. "If you want my cooperation in whatever you've planned for after kidnapping me, you won't."

And that finally does it, because Jerome looks at him. Really looks, for the first time since he entered the room. Bruce can't fathom what he possibly sees, but it must be enough to snatch his attention. There is no mocking curve in Jerome's eternal smile nor a trace of levity in his gaze as he takes Bruce in, all of him — only sharp, unyielding focus.

It's… captivating, in a way. Being under such scrutiny of a madman, when innocent lives depend on the outcome. Bruce can't say he's comfortable under the depths of the attention he's suddenly getting — used to Jerome continuously underestimating him, both in the past and during their nightly encounters now — but he also can't say that he isn't. This is what he wanted, after all: to get Jerome off track.

But it's slightly terrifying how much less disturbed than he probably should be Bruce feels. As if playing Russian roulette with Jerome's moods is a completely casual occurrence that Bruce deals with on the daily. It's not. Hopefully would never be. But well. It's certainly an observation to dissect at a later notice — right now he has the Clown Prince of Crime at hand to deal with, still.

What a ridiculous nickname, though, really. There is nothing 'princely' about Jerome. There never has.

It's that moment Jerome chooses to snap out of this strange fixation both of them got trapped in. He leans back in his chair, undoubtedly lifting its front legs off the floor and winks.

And just like that, the magic is broken.

"Ya got ballsy, kid. I approve," he says smugly and tips his hat.

I always was, Bruce doesn't reply.

"If you let me finish my meeting, I'll go without protest," he offers instead, explicitly not looking at the other people in the room. He might lose his nerve if he acknowledges how close to fainting and/or panic some of his board members are. "You can even stay. If you like."

And Bruce really wouldn't mind him to. At least, Jerome in the room is a Jerome that doesn't go on a rampage where Bruce can't see him. Jerome, on his part, seems to actually consider the offer for a moment. It involves tapping fingers against his scarred lips, jutting his chin and rolling his eyes skyward. And humming. For at least a full minute.

It's enough for Bruce to almost lose his patience and say something excessive. Almost. But when Jerome finally drops his act (just a little) and meets Bruce's eyes again, there is a thirst there that wasn't before.

"You'd volunteer for poor ol' Jimbo's sake?" Jerome asks curiously. There was no mention of Gordon before, but Bruce doesn't dig. He takes notice that Jerome's voice rings somewhat deeper than his usual screech now, though. Interesting.

"Yes."

"And I can do to you whatever I want?"

Hell no.

"Yes."

Jerome lights up and claps enthusiastically.

"Allrighty, then!" He waves his hands at Bruce, impatient, as if it's Bruce's fault that they have a setback.

"Go on," he urges, "I'm getting old over here, Brucie!"

Bruce sighs. It's probably as good as he's going to get.

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It's only much later, when he's zip-tied to a chair with a Maniax's knife digging painfully into his throat and Jerome's gleeful voice boasts on hijacked TV about getting his hands on Bruce Wayne yet again, freshly from the exile, ladies and gents! that Bruce starts to feel, strangely, that he's finally home.