Chapter Text
Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are
I had to find you
Tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart
Tell me your secrets
And ask me your questions
Oh, let's go back to the start
- Coldplay, "The Scientist"
If it had been anyone but Gordon asking him to do this, and for anyone other than Jeremiah Valeska, Bruce would have bristled and told them that he wasn’t a man to be ordered about. But this oddly timed and mysterious request certainly had his attention. With the unexplained distance Jeremiah had recently put between them, and Jim's urgent phone call, Bruce needed answers.
Going to the bunker was the last thing he wanted to do after the way they'd left things on Sunday. But he'd agreed to help Jim, and that's what mattered, not his silly broken heart. When he arrived, he was buzzed in with no sign of Ecco.
Jeremiah was standing at his monitor bank with his back to the door, having watched Bruce’s progression through the maze. Immediately Bruce sensed something different in Jeremiah’s posture.
Bruce had known Jeremiah initially as an uncomfortable genius, awkward body language with hard-to-read facial expressions. Over the span of just nine days, Jeremiah went from shy, reserved and bookish to passionate, caring and tender to suspicious, aggressive and distant. It was enough to make Bruce's head spin.
But here, in this moment, Jeremiah stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, arms at his sides and eerily still. Like a soldier.
“Jeremiah,” Bruce started, impatient. “Why did Captain Gordon call and ask me to come here? Couldn't you ask me yourself?”
“Bruce,” the other man replied in a calm, even tone. “Thank you for coming.” He slowly turned around and Bruce gasped in dismay.
Jeremiah was dressed in a dark purple double-breasted suit, quite obviously bespoke as neither its style nor color was a common fashion look in Gotham (except maybe for someone like Oswald Cobblepot). His crisp white dress shirt was paired up with a green and purple paisley tie, a little garish for some tastes, but well-coordinated to the suit. He wore a black brimmed hat and black leather gloves.
While his choice of clothing made an attractive but completely out-of-character package, that wasn’t what had stunned Bruce.
It was the man’s face.
Already fair-skinned as a redhead, albeit his hair had been more dark auburn than flame like his brother, his skin tone now could only be described as a stark, paper white with an ethereal radiance. His lips were cherry red, but not from lipstick – at least it didn’t look like lipstick to Bruce – and without his horn-rimmed glasses it was easy to see his eyes…his irises, no longer hazel but a piercing, sea green; clear as glass marbles but for the sharp contrast of the black pupils.
If his otherworldly look wasn’t so unsettling, Bruce might have described it as breathtaking. Even beautiful.
“What…w-what is this?” Bruce stammered, feeling weak in the knees.
“Have a seat, please.” Bruce hesitated but then slid onto one of the metal barstools that served as a chair. “I’m sorry to have startled you with my…appearance, but I thought it best to get it out of the way before getting to business.”
“Jeremiah, I…what happened to you?” The other man didn’t answer but leaned back on his desk and casually crossed his ankles. “And what business would we have after the last time we met?”
Jeremiah quirked his red lips into a tiny smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Funny story, that,” he replied, so unnaturally still he might as well be a statue. “Not sure we have the time to go through it start to finish. Suffice it to say there was an incident. An accident, if you will. Well, an accidentally-on-purpose incident,” he laughed, and it was a short, dark, cackle that raised the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck. “Or is that an incidentally-on-purpose accident?” He waved a gloved hand. “No matter.”
Bruce stared at him; there was nothing about this man that resembled the Jeremiah Valeska he knew.
“When I asked about the makeup you were wearing the other day for Jerome’s funeral? It was to hide the results of this …incident?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m surprised you believed me to be so vain as to cover some dark circles with foundation.”
“People do and say strange things when they’re grieving,” Bruce muttered.
“I suppose they do.” Jeremiah absently adjusted his cufflinks, as one might when they weren’t used to wearing such accessories. Glancing quickly to the man’s wrist, Bruce caught a glint of silver and the shape of a playing card.
“Why didn’t you call me,” Bruce asked stubbornly, “when this incident occurred? Why would you go through something like this on your own?”
“Fair question. I really hadn’t a chance to think things through at the time. Even now, things get a little muddy when I try and go back over the…um…” He blinked hard, blanking out for a moment. He shook his head, seemingly annoyed at the pause he’d taken in his speech. “…event. Anyway, let’s talk about why you’re here.”
For Bruce, the pause was the only thing that sounded like Jeremiah in this whole conversation. It gave him hope that whatever the hell was going on, he might still be able to reach him.
“I’ll bite. Why am I here?”
“The reasons are two-fold. First, well…you’re Bruce Wayne and that makes you the obvious choice for any demands that one would make in the course of committing any number of criminal atrocities.”
“What?” His brow furrowed. “That doesn't even make any sense."
"Well, my first choice had been to talk directly to the GCPD. But I wasn't getting very far with them. They like to pull out their guns and get all antsy. When I explained to Captain Gordon that you and I had a special friendship, he realized you might be a better person to, how did he put it? 'Deal with me' So," he spread his arms out, "here we are."
Bruce sniffed. "Special friendship? How do you figure? Doesn't feel like there's anything between us at this point." He bristled with resentment. "What’s the second reason?”
Jeremiah’s response was swift and cold. “Let’s deal with number one, first.”
The man pushed off the desktop and walked to the nearest wall blackboard. “You’ll recall this blueprint that you and I discussed on Saturday.”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Don’t pout, Bruce, it’s unbecoming.”
Bruce glared at Jeremiah. “Get on with it.”
“Eager. I do like that about you,” he smirked. “Fine. Undoubtedly, you’ve seen the news, and are aware of recent strikes in the downtown area. In the for…”
“Wait,” Bruce interrupted, “are you telling me that you’re involved with the terrorist attacks in the Narrows?”
“Bruce, you’re jumping ahead. That’s spoiling the story.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bruce leapt to his feet. “There have been explosions all over Gotham, killing dozens of people, and you want me to sit still and listen to a story? It wasn’t the Clown Cult? What have you done, Jeremiah?”
“Steady, Brucie boy,” Jeremiah said menacingly, holding his palm up. “You might want to sit back down.” When Bruce made no move to do so, Jeremiah produced a gun from his pocket. “Sit. Now."
Bruce obeyed and put his head in his hands, shoulders quaking with emotion. Jeremiah tucked the gun back in his pocket and crossed his arms. “Oh, what is it now?” he asked snappishly.
“The Jeremiah I know would never point a loaded pistol at me,” he ground out through tightly clenched teeth, barely repressing his rage.
“Now, now. Who said it was loaded?” Jeremiah smirked. “May I continue?”
“Is this funny to you?”
Jeremiah ignored him. “There were eighteen targets selected, ranging from the Village,” he picked up a piece of chalk and drew lines, “to West Side Park, Gotham Square, the Theater District…oh, let’s just say, significant coverage of the most populated parts of the city.” He tossed the chalk back down and checked to make sure Bruce was paying attention. “You have probably guessed by now, since you like to jump ahead, these incendiary devices are powered by my, our, recently developed generators. Three of the targets have been hit. That leaves fifteen more strikes set to occur over the next seventy-two hours.”
“Why?”
Jeremiah blinked. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why not?”
Bruce stared at the man, uncomprehending how anyone could do something so destructive, but more so, how Jeremiah could be the one doing it.
“What do you want from me?” Bruce asked resignedly, as he pondered what tactic to take to get to the real Jeremiah that he knew was still in there.
“So glad you asked!” Jeremiah smiled, finally showing his teeth, and although his smile was still as beautiful as it had been before, it looked cruel and evil with those red lips. “First, you need to reinstate that grant that you so hastily put on hold due to my, what was it again? My unstable personality? Right. Actually, if you could double it, that would be ideal. Second, I want your help in identifying some chemical components that I recently stumbled upon which were created at Wayne Labs. It’s, uh…” Jeremiah again hesitated, this time screwing up his face in pain and gripping the side of his head. He shook it off and continued. “Uh, strictly for identification purposes, nothing to be concerned about.”
"You won't create chemical weapons with these components?"
Jeremiah tilted his head. "Hmm. Hadn't thought that far ahead. You have good ideas. But no. Merely to study their composition. I want full access to the labs."
“Fine. Done.”
“Done?” Jeremiah looked puzzled. “It was that easy? I guess we could have done this by phone after all. I should have asked for a pony while I was at it.” He stepped behind the desk and tossed back a couple of white pills with a sip of water.
“Headaches worse?” Bruce asked, real concern on his face.
“No, just…” Jeremiah looked at Bruce and then looked away. Without missing a beat, he quickly got back to business. “So, when can you secure access to the labs and the grant money?” He walked back to the blackboard.
“That depends on you. I have a few requests myself.”
“Oh, Brucie, I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands.”
Bruce balled his fists. “Don’t patronize me. You’ll do two things for me.”
Jeremiah put a gloved finger to his lips and listened.
“One, you’ll give me the location of some, if not all, of the targets so I can at least give the GCPD a fighting chance of evacuating the affected areas. Don’t make them evacuate the whole city… unless that’s part of your grand scheme here.” Bruce paused to see if Jeremiah had a question. The other man said nothing.
“Second, you’ll talk to me. Man to man. Tell me everything. Tell me about the incident. Tell me why,” he waved his hand, “you’re dressed like a 1970s pimp. Why you suddenly seem to have become public enemy number one when just last week you were a brilliant engineer. Why you’ve treated me like a complete stranger after we shared th…”
“These demands of yours,” Jeremiah interrupted with that weird cackle, “are quite the reach, don’t you think? Why would I give up my leverage and let the GCPD evacuate all the targets? Then they’d just become empty shells. It’s the threat against Gotham's citizenry, the potential casualties and collateral damage that makes any of this a real consequence.”
“Chaos for chaos sake?”
“Not chaos, exactly,” Jeremiah mused. “I’d call it remodeling the city. A simple cleansing, Mr. Wayne.”
“A cleansing fire,” Bruce whispered, dread filling him as he recalled Ra’s Al Ghul’s prediction.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. And why would I give you anything, Mr. Valeska,” Bruce sniped, “if you’re just going ahead with the attacks?”
“Why, for the suspense, of course. It’s called negotiation. I’d consider – consider, mind you – deactivating a handful of the targets in return for what you’d be giving up – not all of them, and I’m certainly not divulging all the locations. Don't be naive, Bruce.”
Bruce had slowly been advancing and now stood toe to toe with Jeremiah. The other man had allowed it, anxious to bait him further. Bruce was so cute when filled with righteous indignation. There was no real threat from Bruce after all; the gun was still in his pocket and indeed was loaded, despite implying otherwise to the young man.
“Good point. I've already been naive enough to last me the rest of my life. Fine. What about my second request?”
“Which was what, again? You and me bonding over a glass of scotch, hmm?”
“You know what I think?” Bruce continued, not breaking eye contact (no matter how freaky) with Jeremiah. “I think you’re scared.”
“Scared? Of you?” He clapped his gloved hands once and let out a peal of laughter that reverberated off the metal sheeting covering the cement walls.
“Of what we started. Of us.” Bruce crossed his arms and stood stubbornly in front of Jeremiah. “If there ever was an us, that is. You won’t tell me what happened to you? Fine. How about this one? I dare you to kiss me.”
“Bruce, do you really think this is the time for a stroll down memory lane?” Jeremiah giggled, shaking his head.
“I think it’s exactly the time, considering the memory is pretty damn fresh.”
“Well, I’m a little busy to indulge in extracurricular pursuits right now, including this little Truth or Dare moment. But I appreciate the offer. Maybe we can revisit it sometime.”
Bruce thought back to the start of the conversation. “Wait. You never did give the second reason you had me brought here. Remember? ‘Two-fold’?”
Jeremiah stared at Bruce for a long moment, trying to remember what the second reason was.
“Oh, yes. The second reason was silly. Some sentimental thing that no longer seems appropriate.”
“Tell me,” Bruce growled, running out of patience.
“Alright," Jeremiah sighed. "You get so testy. I'd wanted to show you this,” he pointed to his face and took a step back from Bruce, “so you would understand why I...why he,” he turned away and coughed a few times against the back of his glove, then paused to catch his breath. It was clear that whatever happened to Jeremiah had some lingering consequences for his health. “…why there was distance put between you…um, us. It wouldn’t have translated over the phone - you needed the visual for full effect.” He shrugged.
“So,” Bruce laughed, “this is your way of giving me, what? An excuse? An explanation? Or is this supposed to be closure?” Jeremiah cocked his head to the side and watched the flush color Bruce’s cheeks.
“You can be so pretty when you’re mad. Go ahead, Bruce. Get angry. Angry people make mistakes.”
“The Jeremiah I knew…”
“Stop. You never knew me!” the other man snapped, bringing his gloved hand down on the drafting table at his side. “We knew each other exactly ten hours, Bruce. Ten hours. Throw in a few hours of sleep in the same bed and a few working hours over a couple weeks, it was barely a blip. How can you be so twisted up over a one-night stand with a virtual stranger?”
Dismayed, Bruce pressed on. “Virtual stranger? You’re asking me why I’m twisted up over someone who experienced a hostage situation with me, spent hours with me discussing hopes and dreams, and then – right here – in this very bunker – spent the night with me making lo…”
“Must we rehash the specific details?” Jeremiah brushed past Bruce to pour himself a drink. He had really hoped to end this conversation civilly without having to shoot the boy.
“Stop.” Bruce snatched Jeremiah’s arm by the wrist and slid his hand just above the glove. The skin was so warm. Bruce didn’t know what he’d expected; something cold, maybe, like death. But Jeremiah was warm and alive just like he had always been. The other man hissed through his teeth as if burned and stood still as a statue.
“You shouldn’t touch me,” Jeremiah murmured after a moment of tense silence.
“Why, are you contagious?” Bruce asked in all sincerity.
The other man scoffed.
Bruce boldly drew the glove off of Jeremiah’s right hand. The skin was as paper white as the man’s face, as far up the arm as Bruce could see, blue-green veins easily visible.
“Has this t-transformation happened everywhere?” Jeremiah nodded, looking down at his hand in Bruce’s as if seeing its color for the first time. “Are the headaches worse?” After hesitating, the other man shook his head.
“No. They’re the same,” he shrugged, reverting somewhat into his “former” personality. Understanding dawned – it seemed to Bruce that when they were touching like this, skin to skin, bits of Jeremiah’s former self broke through.
In a moment of desperation, Bruce let go of his hand and without warning, threw a punch at Jeremiah, landing a perfect right hook square on his jaw. Taken by surprise, the man slammed back into the blackboard and hit the floor.
For the few moments Jeremiah was out cold, Bruce hunted around for something, anything, he could use to restrain the man. He found a couple of electrical cords and, after dragging Jeremiah away from the wall, tied his ankles together and restrained his right arm around the fixed leg of the drafting table. After disarming him, he grabbed a cold bottle of water from the portable fridge, sat cross-legged on the floor holding Jeremiah’s now also uncovered left hand and waited.
“Where’s my hat,” Jeremiah groused when he came to.
“On the desk. With your gloves. And your switchblade. And your gun. Unloaded now.”
“Hmmph.” He stared off into the distance. “Did you have to hit me so damn hard?”
Bruce held the bottle of water out against the side of Jeremiah’s face where his fist had made contact.
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” He waited for Bruce to take the bottle away before speaking again. “You planning to hold my hand hostage all day or something?”
“Or something. As long as it takes for me to get my answers.”
“Such a clever boy,” Jeremiah mumbled.
“This new white skin of yours doesn’t seem to bruise very easily.”
“You don’t say. At least you haven’t marred my beauty.” He tried to sit up and Bruce assisted, careful to not pinion his restrained arm. "Thanks for not tying me up on my left side. Those bruises my brother gave me are still a bitch."
Bruce felt his heart twist a little at the memory.
“Start talking, Jeremiah. You’re stalling.”
“You’ll need to be more specific, Bruce. I didn’t get gifted with super special mind-reading powers or anything.”
“Okay, go back to that Wednesday morning. What time did I leave here?”
Jeremiah sighed and gestured with his chin for Bruce to press the bottle against his jaw again. “If I remember right, and there's no guarantee because things are a little scrambled now, it was about 10 am. And before you ask, yes, I remember you stayed the night. I remember every...well, most of it." Bruce closed his eyes and fought the emotion that threatened to choke him.
“What was the last thing you said to me?” he bit out, trying not to show how badly he hurt.
“Au revoir?”
“Not even close.”
“I don’t want to play twenty questions.” Jeremiah pushed back against the bottle and Bruce removed it again.
“If you talk, I won’t have to ask the full twenty,” Bruce smiled sadly.
“Fine. I believe I said ‘I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, beautiful.’” Bruce’s breath caught and hope rose within him, until Jeremiah shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“Sort of? It…it just happens. All sorts of different contraindications. Symptoms. If you hang around long enough, you’ll probably see a few more.”
Bruce rubbed Jeremiah’s hand between his palms to warm him up, and then clutched it tightly.
“Don’t cut off the circulation, hmm? I know it's white, but there’s still blood flowing,” he joked, chuckling weakly, nothing like the evil cackle Bruce heard earlier.
“Talk to me,” Bruce whispered. “I want to understand.”
Jeremiah turned his head, finally making eye contact with Bruce. His eyes had darkened slightly from earlier, appearing more opaque. “Okay.” He sighed. “Okay. So, I said I’d call you, we kissed goodbye and I watched the monitors to make sure you got out of the maze alright. And I sort of picked up around here a bit, you know, stuff we’d left out that I wanted to put back, like the scale model and the…the, was there a schematic out, too?” Bruce nodded. “That. And when I gave another look around the lab, I noticed the package on my desk.”
Bruce put the cold bottle on Jeremiah’s jaw again, and the other man looked away.
“Package?”
“Yes. I hadn’t seen it earlier but Ecco had put it there. She’d checked the delivery guy out and apparently he’d had a valid Wayne Enterprises ID.” Bruce froze.
“What did you just say?”
“The package. On my desk. It was from Wayne Enterprises. Well, I mean, it wasn’t really from Wayne Enterprises, but…” his speaking cadence was now almost fully back to the awkward Jeremiah that Bruce remembered. “I thought it was from Wayne Enterprises. It had a Wayne Enterprises gift tag on it. So, I thought you...I thought you sent me a gift.”
“But I didn’t send you anything from Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce put the bottle down and turned Jeremiah’s face toward him. “Jeremiah. I didn’t send you anything,” he whispered. "I didn't have a chance to send you anything. We'd just met, remember?"
“I know,” Jeremiah choked out a laugh that ended on a sob and Bruce died a little inside. “But see, I didn’t know. I didn’t know because I didn’t think. I didn't think because I was just...all caught up in you. In us. All I could think about was you. And I made a mistake.
And then it was too late.”