Gotham imagines/Preferences ~❤~

The Change

Requested by nikkianddeanambrose

You’ve known Jeremiah for as long as you can remember. You had both grown up at Haly’s Circus, the two of you and his twin Jerome. The three of you were as thick as thieves, spending almost every waking moment together. After your mother died, you became practically part of the family. Not that it was a perfect family. Lila was a less than loving mother; in fact, she was cruel, heartless at times. And Jerome took the brunt of it. You could never figure out why, whether he was just in the way more, or louder. But it made him angry. And when Jerome got angry, he hurt things. First animals. You would dispose of the evidence, hide it from people who would ask questions. But then it got worse. He would try to hurt people. Namely, Jeremiah. You were lucky. You managed to escape his wrath most of the time. But you saw what he did to Jeremiah, saw the results. Burns, cuts, scars. The fear in his eyes. But he held strong through it all. Until Jerome came for you. A blade in the night, screaming, blood, a nightmare come true. By the end of the next day, you were gone from the circus. Barely ten years old.

Jeremiah’s uncle Zach helped you stay together, made sure the same family took you in, set you up with everything you need to start over. Jeremiah became Xander Wilde, and you became Jay Parsons. Through the years you never separated – if anything, what happened with Jerome only brought the two of you closer. When you were fifteen, Jeremiah kissed you for the first time. It was clumsy, awkward, inelegant. But perfect.

After that, you just fell together. It was inevitable really. You shared every part of your lives. And when Jerome returned, you suffered him together. You knew he would be angry – it was his nature – but the seething hate in his eyes, whenever he looked at you, burned into your very soul. Sitting on that stage, waiting to die… It was indescribable. But then it was over. In an instant Jerome was dead. You were free of him. Free of the fear, free of the danger, free of the constant threat hanging over your heads, poisoning your relationship. It was just the two of you. For the first time in fifteen years.

Or so you thought. But you couldn’t escape Jerome. You were foolish to think you could. His last gift to Jeremiah was the spray, poisoning his mind and body. You were terrified. But Jeremiah assured you that he would never hurt you. That you were safe with him. That he would burn the city down to protect you. And you believed him. For a while.

And then you saw his plans. Left alone in the maze for a day you were exploring his office, as you had done, with Jeremiah’s blessing, hundreds of times before. But what you found was nothing like you had ever seen. Blueprints, to turn the generators into bombs. A map of the city, points for destruction. He was going to do it. He was going to burn the city down.

You couldn’t let him do it. You wanted to, you wanted to believe that no matter what, as long as you were together, everything would be okay. But you knew you had to stop him. So you went to the GCPD. They were oblivious to the change Jeremiah had gone through; he had hidden it well. You went straight to Jim Gordon. He listened as you explained everything, showed him photos of what you’d found. When you finished, he had one question:

“Why?”
“Why what?” You were confused.
“Why betray him now, and not after Jerome died?” You struggled for the words, reasoning spinning around your head.
“I hoped… I guess I hoped that he would be okay.” You shrugged, and Jim nodded. “But he’s not. And I can’t let him do this.”

And so, you worked with the GCPD. You knew the only way you could stop Jeremiah for good was by curing whatever Jerome had done to him. You helped by getting samples, samples of skin, hair, saliva. Anything you could get. And they did experiments. Tested it. Tried to piece out everything Jerome had done. It took them months, months that you spent trying to delay Jeremiah without him figuring out what you were doing. It was difficult, so difficult, to lie to the man you love. But it was for his own good.

And then the day came. Lucius Fox had developed an antidote. And it was up to you to administer it. Your hands shook as you made two mugs of coffee. Jeremiah was working, as usual, which made it too easy to pour the vial into his cup. It disappeared. It was clear, scentless, and hopefully tasteless. This had to work. It had to.

You brought it to him in his office. When he heard you arrive, he quickly hid away his papers underneath a folder – he still thought you were oblivious to what he was doing, what he was planning to do.

“Jeremiah,” You greeted him, forcing a smile onto your face. He turned, his smile genuine, and took the mug from you.

“Thank you, (Y/N).” He pulled you to him gently and kissed you softly. It was moments like these that you began to doubt yourself, to doubt what you were doing. This was your Jeremiah. This was the Jeremiah you remembered. The Jeremiah you wanted back. You steeled your resolve and pushed back the tears in your throat. You had to do this. You drank a sip of your own mug, standing back slightly as he did the same. He sighed in satisfaction at the taste and took another sip. But as the rim of the mug touched his lips he froze. The mug fell from his hands, shattering on the floor and spilling hot coffee across the wood. You yelped and jumped back, your own mug falling and joining his on the floor. Jeremiah’s hands were shaking. He pulled at his hair, at his collar, stumbled to lean on his desk, chest heaving. “What have you done?” He rasped. His nails dug into the desk, scraping against the wood.
“I’m sorry, J,” You sobbed. You couldn’t watch him suffer like this. He span around, hand gripping your throat and pushing you against the wall.
“You will be,” He growled. You whined at the pressure as you quickly started to get lightheaded. His pale green eyes seemed to glow with anger. Just as black spots began to appear in your vision he collapsed to the floor, taking you with him. He convulsed violently, screaming. You could hear footsteps, shouting, as you slipped into unconsciousness. Saw people running in, someone bent over you.

“It’ll be okay, (Y/N). It’ll be okay.”

You wake up in a hospital bed. Your head hurts, but not as much as your throat. It feels tight and swollen at the same time, and every breath hurts. As far as you could tell you were alone. Wait. Not completely. Looking to your side, there was a window looking into another room. And there was Jeremiah. Sleeping peacefully, handcuffed to bars that penned him in. His hair was still dark – of course, the antidote couldn’t cure hair dye – but his skin was less pale. Paler than it used to be, but you thought you could see some of the freckles you had loved so much. And his lips weren’t that ghastly red anymore. But that was all superficial. What mattered was his mind. And whether it was healed. A door opened behind you and you turned your head to see Jim Gordon.
“I’m glad to see you’re okay, (Y/N).” He sat down in a chair beside you.
“Am I?” Your throat ached as you asked the question. He passed you a glass of water which you gratefully took, letting it cool your throat. “Thank you.” You glanced back at the window, at Jeremiah’s motionless form. “Did it work?”
“We think so. We’re keeping observation on him. But it seems that the effects of the spray have been reversed.”
“I should be there when he wakes up.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, (Y/N).” Jim shook his head, but you insisted.
“I have to, Jim. He needs to see me.” He sighed but could tell that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Okay. Can you stand?” You nod, shifting to sit up and ignoring the stab of pain in your head. Jim passes you a robe which you wrap around yourself. He helps you to your feet and leads you out of the room. You struggle slightly, your body sluggish, but force yourself to keep going. You had to see him. Jim sat you down next to Jeremiah’s bed. “We’re right outside. If anything goes wrong we’ll be here straight away.” He left you alone to wait.

You were sat there for an hour watching him sleep. You were almost dozing off yourself when he mumbled.
“J?” You leaned towards him and took his hand.
“(Y/N),” The word was almost trapped in his mouth, quiet and muffled, but you could still understand him.
“I’m here, J.” As you gripped his hand you prayed to whoever might be listening that the antidote had worked.
“(Y/N),” It was louder this time, a groan. You squeezed his hand and his eyes fluttered open. Blue. Plain, ordinary, average blue. You contained the cry of joy, knowing that you couldn’t know for sure. His eyes fixed on yours, taking in your face, the bruises on your neck. Tears immediately welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You cradled his face with your free hand, shaking your head.
“It’s not your fault, J.”
“But -”
“No. It is not your fault.” He was crying, and so were you. “I’m just glad I’ve got you back.”
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”