— three batarangs (mini, small, medium)

— earring studs with transmission to the batcave [includes biometric monitoring and feedback]

— three pairs of advanced contact lenses [includes biometric monitoring and hidden cameras, includes audiovisual feedback to the batcave[

— burner phone, including easily chargable battery

— basic anti venom

— tracking device

cup of joe.

It's his tenth day here, in Sedona. In that time Michael has noticed a few things: that the centers they have are surprisingly well kept and clean; that like he suspected, Joseph isn't the type to take advantage of his followers the way he's witnesed many other cults do; that there's a hum to the air that tells him that someone is watching besides him whether it be superntaural or not; and that inexplicably, he can always find Joseph's eyes on him, can always feel him leaning closer or being drawn to him in ways that he can't help but to return.

There are times where they find snatches of each other, where lips touch lips and hands find shirts and bodies are pressed against bodies. Never for long, and they exist in between moments of desert heat and coffee and cigarette smoke.

He thinks sometimes, that Joseph can see through the layers of Matches to Michael and Bruce. Other times, he thinks Joseph is searching for something else, someone else when he lays eyes on him, and sometimes, he thinks that Joseph is just pleased that there is someone among him who is willing to lift their eyes to his, someone willing to not back down or truly see him as an equal, not a follower. And perhaps, something else, that word that is still about a select few in the world, the few who know that there's more than one identity with them.

That's what the email had said. That he was a shifter, like Michael. Like Connor.

That isn't the focus though. The focus is crafting a blend of lie and reality into a performance, one that looks and feels real. To let the little things he's learned to control loose: allowing himself the chain smoking, to let the Jersey accent keep flowing from his mouth, to sip cups of coffee, to sit closer to Joseph. Allowing himself to lean closer to him, talking about the sunlight, about the things in life that were and were not real.

There are other people who've come with him: ex-cons who seem to actually sink into the loose peace; a girl who seems to always look at the maps of scars on Joseph's back whenever she gets a peak; a man who seems to weep whenever the subject of the wings are brought up; a squirrely guy who Michael suspects isn't nearly as clean as he's trying to pretend to be.

He doesn't suspect that one of them has been dosing the coffee. Not when he sips it, bit by bit, trying to wake up. Not perking up until he sees Joseph come down, seeing the tattoos he has, and offering him a cheerful smile, not knowing that in just in an hour or two, his vitals are going to start to go haywire.

In this moment, he just says, "Mornin' Joseph. You have a good sleep?" And gives Joseph a smile that he knows disarms him just so.

little talks

He doesn't think Joseph is used to be caught by someone else, the same way he's not used to wanting someone or something else. Even with their stolen moments together, he can tell that it knocks him off of his axis, can tell that it's pressing against the person he's built himself up to be.

Seeing him disarmed, caught off guard though is something that Michael loves to see, knowing that no one else can on this compound.

One thing about Bruce and Michael that's consistent even without the abilities, the training: they both learned how to walk silently in their own homes at young ages. Bruce, because home was a tomb that he didn't want to disturb and then because it aided him in the streets. Michael, because being caught in places he wasn't supposed to be at home lead to his foster father shouting at him at best and at worst going to school with a bloodied lip and a swollen eye.

It's one little amusement they can keep though, the ability to startle people, to not let them know he's been watching the whole time. With Joseph, here in this compound, it's different to use that around him. The morning has been quiet, the afternoon lazy and for the past ten minutes, Joseph hasn't realized that Matches has followed him into one of the smaller corners of the compound. If he has any idea that he's there, there's no indication given how he's been observing the new people who've filtered into the compound, his roving eyes looking at them one by one, the things he says to himself, and the way his fingers twitch and skitter.

He only moves deliberately once, letting Joseph startle at the sound of a lighter, looking away as he concentrates on the cigarette. He pretends not to see Joseph turning in surprise, even though when he looks up, their eyes catch as they always seem to now in crowded rooms or otherwise. "Oh, hey. Sorry, came up here 'cause the desert wasn't agreein' with me t'day. You want one?"

He never says yes, including now with that flash of want across his face. "I still don't like the taste." Joseph keeps his eyes fixed on him, gaze softening as he leans against the wall, as if they hadn't been attached at the hip hours before, as if they wouldn't be meeting again in the corridor that night. "What didn't agree with you, Matches?"

He pretends to mull it over, and chooses as ever, a mix of things to say—while skirting over some of the obvious reasons why he might be a bit tired given Joseph knew well enough. "Didn't sleep too good last night. Sometimes beds get too soft after being in the pen for so long." The cigarette glows as he takes a drag. "Dreamin' about my Ma again. Never goes well."

Joseph's eyes fully catch his in that moment. "Your mother? Is she alright?"

It hangs in the air. What he knows and what he doesn't know. "No. Died when I was eight. Someone wanted her jewelry, went wrong in front of me." Michael decides not to play it off, keeping his voice soft, exhausted. "I, uh. Y'know, always thinking about why her. Why not me. Why not both."

In Joseph's face, something flickers. Recognition.

checking in.

"It took me awhile to find a good spot," Michael says over the phone, knowing he has exactly three minutes to make contact. "I'm still trying what I can here—how's our client?"

Terry gives a small sound over the phone. "He's not as frail as you thought he'd be." That had always been the worry for him; that for all the time it was taking to be here, that the older man might pass away. The more time that Michael, that Matches spends out here, he knows he needs a reminder. That there's a bit of a time limit on here, that there is someone out there waiting for him to bring Joseph home. Someone outside of himself that cares for the man here, drapped by his own grief and demons.

As the days have gone on, it's become a challenge to remember that. That the evenings he has here out in the desert, the days spent at the pool, at Joseph's side aren't just for nothing. That it's not just about him waking up to have a cup of coffee and cigarette with him, that it's not just about trying to assure him that he doesn't have to hurt himself, that it's not just about how good it feels to eck out a true smile from him, or enjoy him at his side.

It would be selfish to not remember that. And at the same time, he finds himself concentrating more on gently pushing against Joseph's words, finds his body turning closer to his, finds himself reaching out to touch him, finds that he says more truths than lies.

And leave it Terry to remark, "And you're not as far away from this as you think you are, old man."

dose.

Someone is holding him, pressed against their body as much as they can. Cradling him, like how his mother used to cradle him in her arms when he was sick and she was scared he might die in the night even though they had good doctors, even though Pops is a doctor. Stroking his hair the way she used to, only their hand is bigger, palm rougher and it feels as if it's touching a part of him that hasn't been touched in a long, long time and all he can do is try to press closer to the body, press closer to the warmth, try to stop the sensations rioting in his brain, making his body twitch, the labored breathing.

I didn't want this to happen again. I didn't want this to happen again. He's talking and the words don't make sense and of course they do.

The voice that replies to him is soothing, deep. It's okay. I'm here, I'm right here. No one's going to hurt you. Signals flare, criss cross in his brain. Is he in a hotel, and Halia is there, holding a flute of champagne, and his vision is blurring? Is he in the house of his foster parents, holding his sides while they look for him in the house, angry that the state check has come late? Is he in the alley way, his mother dead, his father's eyes staring up at the sky? Is he in the Batcave, the Joker venom in his veins, Terry yelling for help? Is he Michael? Is he Bruce? Is he Matches?

He doesn't know that his coffee cup is being inspected or that it's Joseph talking to him softly or that he's saying things he wouldn't normally say, talking about things he's told no one before. Doesn't know that he's gripping onto Joseph so tightly that it's making other people angry, suspicious, doesn't now that when tears track down his face, it's Joseph wiping them away.

Only knows that when he's cradled closer, it's all not so terrifying anymore.

jerry.

He knows what mercy looks like, what interest looks like. He waits until they've left, that second nervous system, those watchful eyes and says, "You want the truth?"

Joseph's eyes keep on his. Michael turns on the phone, letting the screen come back up. On it, comes over what he and Terry had agreed on as the back up plan, a photo popping up and he lets Joseph see the screen: the photo of Jarro, only it's of him in his pet form. The cat with huge eyes and huge ears. "His name's Jerry. Had a program in the pen to take care of strays. Didn't feel right dragging him out here, so I gave him to a neighbor to look after him." He allows Joseph to take the phone, to flick through the photos of the not-quite-a-cat. Ones of him curled up with Jerry on the couch, another of him in a sweater staring petulantly at the camera, another one of him scratching his belly. "I just wanted to see if the kid was okay."

smiles

More and more, it's easier to smile around Joseph when they're alone. They aren't the practiced smiles of Bruce Wayne done for the press or the smiles that Michael has worn in his life for different times, different reasons. They're real smiles that he's shown to Connor and Terry, the ones his parents used to get out of him when they watched Columbo together, the kind that very few previous lovers have ever gotten out of him.

Joseph doesn't seem to be able to get enough of them whenever they show up on his face, can't ever seem to pull his eyes aware or really can't seem to look more relaxed when they show up. It makes all of this easier and harder all at once, Matches starting to chip away at the edges, as performance begins to drop and the true version of himself starts to come out. He tells him about what the old house had been like, about his father operating on gangsters at the dinner table, about his mother keeping the books in order. Shows him where he fell off of his bike at six and scarred his knee and shows him the scar on his arm from when he'd protected one of his foster siblings.

The more they talk, the more they steal time with each other, the more that he can feel a sense of guilt creep in, a need to tell Joseph the truth, lest this all be thrown away, for him to feel betrayed.

caught.

I’m also aware of who you are, Michael Terranova.

He takes a steadying breath. No use in playing now, no use in pretending. Matches falls off of him, leaves Michael who shifts, more steady, more confident. Less of an ex-con and more of a kid born into a legacy that he's still trying to wrestle with, who used what he could do be good. One who's just as much a Wayne as a Terranova, even if the tremor is still there. "I'm just glad he didn't hurt anyone else. Including you."

In his head, Bruce turns, tries to figure out what to do as much as Michael tries to. "I didn't — What do you want to know first, then? Why I'm here?" He'd set out to say the truth, to tell him and still, Michael feels hesitant, almost ill.

epilogue.

It's hard to wait for any sort of sign that things have gone well, to wait for any kind of moment that means that things are actually settled, that there's no going back. There is an email, of course, and payment. That's one thing.

It's not enough to keep him sleeping well, not enough to not compulsively check to see if anything has been said in the media, not enough to really settle things. Michael just has to wait and wait, still smoking, but no longer relying on coffee, no longer having to pretend to be Matches. He shaves his beard, removes his earrings—but at least replaces them with small hoops that Jarro likes to paw at as he works. Connor shoots him looks and he lets him, given all he's put him through.

Life starts to go on, and then one night, half asleep as he smokes his last cigarette of the day, he thinks he hears the sound of wings.

He knows he does, when he hears a familiar, missed voice say, "You shouldn't smoke so much."

leaving

In the plane, he can hear explosions, can hear things getting wrecked, rearranged. They're just growing quieter and quieter as Connor pilots the Batplane away from Sedona. Jarro is in his star form, curled up in his hands and Michael wonders if he could purr.

It distracts from the worry he's feeling, that things won't work out. Trying to know if he'd read Joseph correctly, if he really did know him the way he thought he did.

He tries not to let it burn a hole in his gut, saying, "Thanks, Connor. Jarro. You guys came at just the right time."

Connor grunts. "This isn't over, and you know I have things to say."

"Say it after the Kiddo has some earmuffs on. I'll give you five minutes."

"Seven."

"Three," Michael says.

"Three," Connor agrees.

matches malone, in sedona

everything in it's right place — radiohead

holy dread — clint mansell

the dull flame of desire — björk & antony

carlos — Abel Korzeniowski & Shigeru Umebayashi

overjoyed — bastille

icarus — bastille

signs — bloc party

this is a trick — ††† (Crosses)

ritual — ellie goulding