Chapter Text
David’s life never had much direction to speak of. Even from a young age chaos shaped and formed his mind, his way of living. Nothing was ever stable, nothing ever went as planned, the moment he was first tossed into Arkham only solidified that fact. Life was chaos. HE was chaos. His sister desperately tried to reign in the speeding carriage that was their livelihood but David, he was just along for the ride. It’s probably what first made him notice, among all the wailing and bickering patients, he stood out to him. Everyone else fought to maintain a sense of control over their lives, no matter how fake, a sense that there was order in life. Things like going to a job every day, going to bed at a specific time, organizing your planner for the day. But these things were never stable; you got fired, you overslept, you got mugged in an alley making you completely miss your hot yoga class. No, no, David liked to roll with the punches, revel in the chaos and just have fun with it.
Jerome liked that, someone who understood him and his loony mind in a way no one else could.
But now his life lacked that chaos, all the vibrancy and wild vitality bled away with his friend on that cursed charity stage. For the first time ever, he had fallen into a routine - and one that he couldn’t escape from. He craved the adrenaline rush of running from the cops or lighting a senior citizen home on fire, he missed the rush of energy as things went wrong and he was left laughing, watching one of his accomplices cry over the bullet in his arm. But most of all he missed his friend.
He couldn’t talk to his sister about it; there was an unspoken rule between them, like he was a ghost she was afraid to summon. Maybe he was, he’d certainly haunt the shit out of them. Half for shits and giggles and half for letting her pretend like she forgot him. They didn’t talk much about his sister before… that… but he could tell there was something brewing between them, something heavy and intense. One of the rare times Jerome ever looked serious was when he was staring at her -usually when she wasn’t even aware. And clearly, she had felt some sort of connection to him; she still had that stuffed clown on her, slept with it every night. But in spite of this, it was like she was willing to just place him firmly in the past or like he never existed… but David wasn’t willing to. Jerome was the first and only person to truly see him for what he was and accept him, embrace his chaos and helped him thrive. He couldn’t just forget him, he couldn’t let go. And especially not for fucking Barry. What you saw in him David would never understand. The man was bland and boring, everything you two weren’t and yet you tried to pretend like you were, that you liked the domestic life; watching "Jeopardy" at night and talking about the weather. He was the equivalent of drying plaster and yet he heard Barry mention marriage several times already, he was pretty sure he carried around a ring in his pocket but was too chickenshit to ask you- thank god.
He caught word of a cult starting in the Narrows not long back. It started off small, only a handful of people, but quickly grew to a full blown church. Dozens of people gathered in face paint and leather outfits to party and celebrate the life of Jerome Valeska. None of them knew, not like he did -fuck, not at all - but they knew the legacy of madness he left. Of embracing the chaos.
Every Saturday night he slipped away, blending into the crowds as he crept along the walls. Images and clips of Jerome flashed overhead on a massive screen, his laughing echoing off the walls over the sound of a thumping bass line. This was his way of grieving, of pretending like his friend was still here. Oh, if he could see the followers he gathered he would be hooting and hollering with laughter. He always loved the theatrics, making a grand mark on the world, like scorched earth. Well he certainly accomplished that dream.
Maybe too well, he wondered, thinking of the man with the... convincing face mask. Where would he even get a mask of Jerome’s face? Was he just sorely dedicated enough to make it himself? And wasn’t it a bit sacrilegious to wear his face? Like a priest dressing up as Jesus Christ for his sermon (though that image did make him giggle). And the slogan, “We are Jerome”? Was this some wacky election campaign? He guess it worked, chaos was spreading all across the town and the crowd in “holy” warehouse was more packed than ever. He was almost to the stage when the clips overhead faltered and flickered and a new shot came over.
“Am I live? Can anybody hear me?”
David froze, heart in his throat, his fingers twitching at his side. This isn’t a normal video, he’s never heard this before. And his voice… it sounded familiar yet different. Rough, gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in a year.
“Ah fuck it, I’ll start anyway.”
Dead, dead, dead. He was dead. Was he was having a mental breakdown? Had his noggin finally cracked and he was just seeing Jerome everywhere? A look around though, dozens and dozens of people gawking up at the screen, told him that this wasn’t a dream or vision. He was real. He was really back. David was laughing, he was crying, he seemed stuck somewhere between shock and relief and couldn't process the overwhelming emotions. Somehow, the ginger fucker found his way back. The video ended in fire before the power blew, the roar of the crowd deafening as he screamed along. He was back.
Their king had returned.
**
Across Gotham, tucked safely in your apartment, you stood frozen in the living room, arms wrapped around yourself. Wave after wave of emotion slammed into, making your knees wobble and tears prick your eyes. You were shocked, terrified, confused, happy, even angry and each one rushed at you like a bullet train leaving you dizzy and overwhelmed. Jerome Valeska was alive, albeit it with a new look - your eyes soaked in every cut and stable on his face like studying a mask, and you were at a loss for what that meant for you, for Gotham. Clearly death had not quelled his thirst for mania and violence, nor his flair for the dramatic, he even had to make coming back from the dead some great announcement.
A loud explosion echoed through the city, you could see the flames over the buildings not far away, and you jumped with a scream as your apartment and all of Gotham was plunged into darkness. You held yourself tighter as if to keep yourself together as you stumbled back, trying to feel your way through the dark to the door. You had invested in a metal bat to keep by the entrance after David moved back, a sense of protection and at least a time buyer if the GCPD ever showed up. Now it would be your quickest protection from any lunatic looters spurred on by Jerome’s returning speech until you found a light source to get to your gun in the bedroom.
Your fingers slid along the wall, wrapping around the familiar cold metal when you heard the window creak open. You prayed to every god you knew that it was just David, bat braced in front of you as you waited for a word, a noise, anything.
“David?” You held your breath.
Silence.
Deep breath. “Who’s there?” Your voice wobbled slightly as you raised the bat higher, knuckles white and your body sprung so tight you might snap.
A soft sigh was all the warning you had before the bat was ripped from your hands and you were thrown suddenly back against the wall, a tall warm body trapping you against it. Somewhere in the apartment the baseball bat clattered to the floor as they tossed it, large warm hands instead occupying themselves with cupping your face.
“What?” they purred. “I can’t visit my favorite girl? I’m sorry I haven’t called, I lost my phone.” A cackle, rough and garbled. Even after dying he was still the same. He leaned close, his lips rubbing against your ear as he blew hot air. “Miss me?”
Even in death you couldn’t escape Jerome Valeska.