Chapter Text
You wake up to the familiar dimness of your Arkham cell, a soft, oppressive gray that filters through the narrow window high above. The air is damp and heavy, carrying the scent of stone and something metallic that lingers in your throat. It’s the kind of night that makes you question whether the sun has risen or if it ever will.
The mattress beneath you is thin, offering little comfort against the unyielding steel frame of the bed. You shift slightly, the coarse blanket scratching against your skin. The chill of the room seeps into your bones, a constant reminder of where you are. The walls around you are bare, save for the deep scratches and etchings that map the tortured minds of those who have come before you. You can still hear the freaks scream their hearts out. You shudder.
Your eyes drift to the other side of the room, to the figure lying still in the opposite bed. Jerome. Even in sleep, there is an unsettling energy that clings to him, a quiet chaos that radiates from his very being. His face, partially illuminated by the weak light, is a mask of eerie calm. The red hair that frames his face is wild, contrasting sharply with the pallor of his skin. You can almost see the shadows of his madness dancing across his closed eyelids. You sigh and make your way over.
"Jerome," You speak, biting your tongue. You seem afraid of your own voice, grabbing onto his shoulders to gently shake him awake. "Get up. I think there's a rat in our cell."
You watch him as he stirs, movements choppy, slow, and deliberate, like a reanimated puppet. Before you know it, his eyes are fluttering open. He sits up abruptly, scaring you out of your wits, with a mask of forced cheerfulness.
"Mornin' Sunshine," He gives an exaggerated stretch, and you let out a breath. You witness his body convulsing with involuntary twitches, a malformed dance of sinew and bone. You call them his spasmodic jazz hands. Apparently being resurrected isn't all sunshine and rainbows.
You feel a surge of irritation at his unpredictable movements. Of course, he wouldn't just move quietly.
"Scooch." Is all you manage to say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the anxiety gnawing at you. His response is immediate, exaggerated, a mockery wrapped in courtly tones.
"As you wish, Your Highness," he says, his grin widening as he shifts over, that involuntarily gag making another appearance from him. A pang of something bubbles up inside your chest, and you brush it off as disgust. Every stupid interaction with him is a reminder of the chaotic undercurrent in this shit hole. You don't belong here.
You slide yourself next to him, eyes still heavy with sleep. He slumps hard against the headboard, shuffling into place. It's an awkward position, but not entirely uncomfortable. You used to hate curling up next to him like this. You really wished for it to be anybody else. You weren't sure why you even did it.
You stand at the edge of the cafeteria, the din of mealtime chatter filling the air, when a collective hush falls over the room. Your gaze is drawn to the center, where Jerome has climbed onto one of the tables, arms outstretched like some demented messiah. His voice rings out, clear and commanding, each word dripping with an infuriating charisma that captivates the room. You used to think Jervis would be the only showman you'd ever meet. You were wrong.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today's feature presentation!" he announces, his eyes gleaming with manic delight. "Watch as I, the great Jerome Valeska, perform some...miracles of madness." He punctuates his words with a bone-chilling smirk, that makes you sick to your stomach. The other inmates cheer, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear, feeding off his chaotic energy. You remain at the back, arms crossed, anger simmering beneath your skin. Why does he have this effect on them?
He begins to spout a series of ramblings, each more nonsensical than the last, but somehow it all makes sense in the warped reality of Arkham. "You see, my friends...we're all just puppets on strings," He pauses, teeth glinting under the light. "But don't you worry, I've got the scissors!" He mimics cutting strings with his fingers. You feel your fists clench. You don't belong here. But he does. You feel like an intruder.
Despite the loathing that coils in your stomach every time you look at him, there's something grounding about his presence. In truth, you're afraid. You don't know how he isn't. He basks in it all.
He wraps an arm around you, half-asleep. You watch him smack his lips, rather annoyingly, but beside yourself, you feel warmth in your stomach.
You don't belong here. But he does. And he's clinging onto you, out of everyone.
You briefly thank whatever god is up in the sky, for pairing you with the one person whose a real reflection of your surroundings. It's not a friendship, not really. And even if it was, you wouldn't acknowledge it. Not even as his hands tighten against your waist and softly snores into the nape of your neck.
You feel yourself sink back into sleep similarly. You feel you fear and adrenaline calming down at the prospect of someone who knows this place inside and out, being right beside you, a person who knows virtually nothing.
He is a grotesque extension of this place, and in a perverse way, of you too.