just like that, cameron is left behind. bruce thinks he can see a shape of a person left, made of flowers and twigs. that maybe it shifts, as if it's gotten in contact with the green he remembered hearing about. there's still life there, and that's what matters to him—that cameron hodge might keep on living, but he won't be able to hurt anything more than a gillyweed anymore. that he didn't force joseph to be as wretched as him in the end, even if things are still hard.

when joe lifts him into the air, the hopes that joe understands that he meant what he'd said. all of it.

sometimes, dreams crisscross each other during the week. wires get crossed, between the sound of his mother's television on, the feeling of joseph's hand on his knee as they watch episodes of columbo with the fan going, his aches subsiding, head lolling and rolling until he's dreaming. dreaming of the wayne manor, spread out before him in familiar dark patterns, halls emptied of any other human being. the floor creaks and moans as he walks, a bowl of water in his hand, towels over his shoulder.

there's a fire burning in the main room, and when he opens the doors, he can see that joe is propped up on pillows, his form slumped over so that his back is to him. the fire bathes him in a warm glow as he approaches, making sure that his footsteps can be heard.

he gets down on his knees, and slowly reaches up to adjust joseph's form, able to see that the bandages are bloody again, and are in need of cleaning and changing.

beneath him, joe twitches as he takes his tools, cuts the bandages away slowly to see surgery incisions that haven't fully healed, halfway decent stubs for where his wings used to be.

sometimes as he works, joe sniffles in pain, and he's careful as he cleans him, the fire burning. when joe whimpers or hisses, he tries to be gentler, kinder.

"when are you going to let me go?" joe asks him.

he doesn't answer.

there is a man sitting across from him at this diner. he looks like him, and yet he isn't him: he's too young to be bruce, with a different kind of hauntedness that occupies his face when he looks back at him. he knows himself like any book he's read a thousand times over, like any movie he's seen more than once.

he's not him. and at the same time, he sees himself in the other's face, in the wrinkle of his face, in the sharp teeth he has, the iron will facing him.

he offers his hands. "welcome to my world."

"yeah? welcome to mine too, old man."

the first thing to go was his back. that had been the place that had lost sensation for bruce first, after all those years whether it was from selina's claws digging into him or bane breaking it or ivy's plants ripping through. all of it could only do so much before the feeling had started to leave him, for the scars to really leave their mark. that he can feel the shirt he has on, the feeling of a cabinet beneath him, the tips of joe's fingers, the little insistent tiptoes of jarro is almost a miracle to him.

for a long time, he hadn't wanted to admit he'd been breaking down, that everything was fine up until that awful moment with the gun. but always, the first sign had been that, not realizing the damage until he'd missed a spot and someone had gasped at the bloodstain.

bruce wonders, in time, how he can better protect it, how he can tell michael to look out there first.

it's when he feels that psychic brush against his mind and he closes up that he remembers some of his old training, and even though he doesn't want to cut his time short with joe, he retreats to his room for quiet, to concentrate. to try and build something in his mind, safe enough to have them communicate.

dreams slide. dreams bend. it's winter in gotham again, and his parents have finally let him come home. they believed his letter, took him home. he wishes he could've talked to them before he'd seen his friend's head in that trash can, before he felt the overwhelming terror in his throat. wishes that he could've done something, anything to save him.

there just isn't anything he can do now, can't even tell his mama what he'd seen. but they want to take him out tonight, to celebrate. they're going to see zorro together and he'll never have to go to that boarding school ever again.

as they line up, he can hear some of the kids chant a rhyme, one that he can almost remember. one that he wishes he could, but as always, this dream will always end in the alley, always wind up with his mother's pearls mixing with her blood on the snow.

in gotham, owls are always watching.

beware, take care.

how... are you feeling?

did he throw himself off of the empire state building face first

no, unfortunately not. someone tried to open a portal into mutant hell which he helped close, fought some demons to do it, and some mean guys in metal power suits.

oh. mutant hell. that's good.

...did he fight them. at the same time.

no, the suits came first. the demons a last ditch escape attempt by a couple of assholes.

ffuuucckkkk

that explains. a lot. not everything.

uh... if there are some others, that was me and him.

oh so he gets a fun hot ender and i don't?!

the watch is something precious, clearly. bruce can tell that, when joseph tosses it to him. it's aged, well kept for and it's also clearly an elegant piece of technology. he's careful as he tinkers with it in the last few hours he has left with joe, on and off. no one's paying attention to jack shaw right now, and any slight improvement, he thinks, will be fine.

when michael wakes up with the watch on his wrist, he has other things on his mind. by friday, though, he begins to get curious about it, from the aged face to the band. when he presses it against his ear, he can tell that there's a lot more going on under the surface.

"you two don't have to go back to new york," mama's voice is soft, even if the idea behind her words is firm as she puts food on their plates. "you can stay here a little longer, let the other staff get all of that together. it's easter weekend, you all can take the time."

even if michael wanted to argue with her—and he didn't want to, given that the house is pleasantly warm, given that the food is delicious, given that his mama's smile is sweet—he wouldn't. she's got a good point, and with all of the memories in his mind now, he doesn't want to be too far from her, doesn't want to remember the sound of a gun. just wants to stay here, happy and warm.

tbd.

tbd.