“I didn’t fall anywhere. The government sent me and you–you don’t have a lap worth landing in anymore.”
Just a few minutes with him again, going back and forth, though, had felt as if a shaft of sunlight had fell on him again, warmed him back up in an instant. To have his hate, his dislike, isn't like having his love but it means there is something there.
So he writes, in the soft glow of his lamp in his open cell, doesn't consider that he will ever send the letter he's writing. It's simply him pouring his initial thoughts onto paper, folding them, and putting them away. Knowing, then that there's no way that Joe will ever read it, that he doesn't have anything close to his love or care, and that there never would be a future where Joe can be with him the way he wants.
Or at least until his fingers had gripped his chin, brought Michael to him in a kiss that had Michael questioning for a moment, if he was hallucinating, if maybe he'd gone for so long without sleep he was dreaming on his feet.
Only no dream could replicate Joe's smile like that or the feeling of his fingers in his hair or the sound of him saying Michael's name like a sacred, wonderful thing.
The first letter is what he sends the day that Joseph is meant to go back into war. It's all in Sicilian, thicker than any other letter he will send. The cologne is maybe too much, maybe it could give them away a little.
But it's all he has at the moment, to give to Joseph. At least memories, thoughts of what he'd been feeling, the happiness when he'd seen him again.
Maybe that could help Joseph along, could help him keep centered.
That's a clear enough reason for Michael to not do what he's doing. It's deeply clear how Joseph feels for him now, the feelings that he's more than earned over the yawning gap of twelve years between them.
That had been the point of it, after all. That he walk way from him, keep awy from the only Warren heir who was expected to be the one who went to higher parts of society, the one who would be taking the reins of an empire that was only growing.
He couldn't have predicted war would come nor would he have predicted that he would've wound up being in prison for years to come. At least, not this soon. That was what Carmine had told him, that one day they all might have to fall under the thumb of prison.
But he'd accepted the future that he knew was coming for him, coming for him both. They'd both had boyhoods full of expectations, wealth beyond measure, and an understanding of what their families required of them, blood or not. A future for the Wayne heir in public and the Falone one in private was even more specific than most.
And for a Warren? Even on days when he felt like the secret had been trapped in his throat, near to coming up, Michael knew his future as surely as his.
He'd grown into it, against his will, after he'd never shown up to that diner. Had understood the ache of the road he taking was without Joseph, only catching his names in newspapers over the radio when he'd given a charismatic interview or two. That was all he thought he could ever afford to have, and it was a hole he'd tried to fill twice. Once with Andrea, and then with Selina.
Just a few minutes with him again, going back and forth, though, had felt as if a shaft of sunlight had fell on him again, warmed him back up in an instant. To have his hate, his dislike, isn't like having his love but it means there is something there.
So he writes, in the soft glow of his lamp in his open cell, doesn't consider that he will ever send the letter he's writing. It's simply him pouring his initial thoughts onto paper, folding them, and putting them away. Knowing, then that there's no way that Joe will ever read it, that he doesn't have anything close to his love or care, and that there never would be a future where Joe can be with him the way he wants.
Or at least until his fingers had gripped his chin, brought Michael to him in a kiss that had Michael questioning for a moment, if he was hallucinating, if maybe he'd gone for so long without sleep he was dreaming on his feet.
Only no dream could replicate Joe's smile like that or the feeling of his fingers in his hair or the sound of him saying Michael's name like a sacred, wonderful thing.
The first letter is what he sends the day that Joseph is meant to go back into war. It's all in Sicilian, thicker than any other letter he will send. The cologne is maybe too much, maybe it could give them away a little.
But it's all he has at the moment, to give to Joseph. At least memories, thoughts of what he'd been feeling, the happiness when he'd seen him again.
Maybe that could help Joseph along, could help him keep centered.
I knew about the wings after that summer. I never said, when we were at Blackgate. I know you wanted to know, when I told you that I didn't want you to hide them. Your father was stomping around the house, so I went around back to the shortcut you showed me and the tree you used to climb. When you told me the story of them panicking about you climbing so many tall trees, I thought they were being too simple.
Being up in that tree even for a minute or two? Joseph, you could've broken your neck. Twice.
I almost did, trying to get into your room. You didn't hear me, which is why I guess you didn't move and I saw your wings.
They're a lot bigger now, and back then I just knew what you were. I should've stolen one of the stray feathers but I didn't. Just backed out, ran to a payphone and called you, woke you up.
Being up in that tree even for a minute or two? Joseph, you could've broken your neck. Twice.
I almost did, trying to get into your room. You didn't hear me, which is why I guess you didn't move and I saw your wings.
They're a lot bigger now, and back then I just knew what you were. I should've stolen one of the stray feathers but I didn't. Just backed out, ran to a payphone and called you, woke you up.
Given that he isn't the one who can ever be legally tied to Joseph, he never recieves the letter about his plane going down. It goes to Candy Southern—or it would have, except that Cameron Kessler did.
He's a shadow's shadow, Kessler, as far as Michael can gather on the little he can hear about him. He's also someone who's got am abitious look to him that Michael can find a mile off, a hunger to be someone's tool, to be recognized for his accomplishments no matter how dark they are. That Michael dislikes him the moment Candy tells him the news only makes what little he can find that much more eranging for the man as he tries to deal with the information he's been given.
Joseph is Missing in Action—but he's sure if there wouldn't lead to suspicion, they'd have said Killing in Action early. Even though he knows he shouldn't cling to that distinction, as thin as it is, he does. Tries to think of Joe as alive, just struggling or trying to get back to him. Tries to not let the nightmares eat him up the way they eat him up about his parents yet they come snapping at his heels anyway.
At least some sort of reassurance, some kind of warmth could be offered to him. But in this, he's alone with the secret of who Joe really was.
Is.
It makes for a hollow victory when he's finally allowed to go back to the Manor, when he's finally able to be Michael Wayne again, Prince of Gotham.
He's a shadow's shadow, Kessler, as far as Michael can gather on the little he can hear about him. He's also someone who's got am abitious look to him that Michael can find a mile off, a hunger to be someone's tool, to be recognized for his accomplishments no matter how dark they are. That Michael dislikes him the moment Candy tells him the news only makes what little he can find that much more eranging for the man as he tries to deal with the information he's been given.
Joseph is Missing in Action—but he's sure if there wouldn't lead to suspicion, they'd have said Killing in Action early. Even though he knows he shouldn't cling to that distinction, as thin as it is, he does. Tries to think of Joe as alive, just struggling or trying to get back to him. Tries to not let the nightmares eat him up the way they eat him up about his parents yet they come snapping at his heels anyway.
At least some sort of reassurance, some kind of warmth could be offered to him. But in this, he's alone with the secret of who Joe really was.
Is.
It makes for a hollow victory when he's finally allowed to go back to the Manor, when he's finally able to be Michael Wayne again, Prince of Gotham.
I didn't tell you this because, well. Walls have ears. The rosary I gave you, belonged to my mother. It was given to me after she died, and for years I couldn't touch it. I know she'd want you to have it, I know she would've liked you.
Christmas is never an easy time for Michael.
His parents used to savor the time, going out to charities, celebrating the Christmas tree lightings in Gotham together, having the kind of fun any child could wish for. Without Joe this year—after how good it had been together in the gymnaisum years before, slow dancing—this year is bleak as ever. Even with the friends, the small social circle, and La Famiglia around, it isn't the same for him.
Some of it's because of the returning soldiers, none of whom are ever Joseph. Some of it is that he knows that he has to start forcing a part of him to accept that Joseph is gone, that he truly is dead. And a lot of it is a stubborn refusal, in the midst of tears that catch him sometimes, that Joe is dead. There would be a sign—a dove fallen to the ground, the sound of a shot, a dream, a bat crashing through the windows. Things he would accept.
There's just nothing else.
After the last party on Christmas Eve, after the last of everyone has gone home, he chooses to sit alone in his living room, the fire crackling. It keeps the place warm as he sits, thinking about Joe, about the sure touch of his fingers, the baritone of his voice as his eyes drift lower and lower.
It means he misses the sound of the click of nails on the floor until something small, soft is burrowing against his side. It forces him awake, blinking down at the dark little mutt of a dog who's been coming to the Manor for weeks now.
Michael smiles down at him, feeling the draft of cold air, the clock showing it's fully Christmas. "Giving yourself your own Christmas present then?" He smiles, the mutt giving a little squeak and nuzzling further. "I don't want you to catch cold. Hold on, and I've got some food for you."
Michael stands up, making his way towards the back door where it's been left open. He goes to close it, when he sees a dark shape in front of him, one that stands taller for a moment, feet away.
For a moment, he stands there, confused given the cold out. It could be anyone, including another family or—
The man moves, beneath the moonlight, and then Michael finds his heart drops to his stomach for a moment in recognition, before he's running in the cold snow, running until he has Joseph in his arms.
Nothing matters in that moment other than the press of Joseph's mouth against his, even if he can tell that he's holding on as if his fingers are talons, even though he can tell that Joseph is swaying awkwardly, and that he's all too thin beneath his grip despite the huge jacket they've throw on him.
All that matters is that he came back home.
His parents used to savor the time, going out to charities, celebrating the Christmas tree lightings in Gotham together, having the kind of fun any child could wish for. Without Joe this year—after how good it had been together in the gymnaisum years before, slow dancing—this year is bleak as ever. Even with the friends, the small social circle, and La Famiglia around, it isn't the same for him.
Some of it's because of the returning soldiers, none of whom are ever Joseph. Some of it is that he knows that he has to start forcing a part of him to accept that Joseph is gone, that he truly is dead. And a lot of it is a stubborn refusal, in the midst of tears that catch him sometimes, that Joe is dead. There would be a sign—a dove fallen to the ground, the sound of a shot, a dream, a bat crashing through the windows. Things he would accept.
There's just nothing else.
After the last party on Christmas Eve, after the last of everyone has gone home, he chooses to sit alone in his living room, the fire crackling. It keeps the place warm as he sits, thinking about Joe, about the sure touch of his fingers, the baritone of his voice as his eyes drift lower and lower.
It means he misses the sound of the click of nails on the floor until something small, soft is burrowing against his side. It forces him awake, blinking down at the dark little mutt of a dog who's been coming to the Manor for weeks now.
Michael smiles down at him, feeling the draft of cold air, the clock showing it's fully Christmas. "Giving yourself your own Christmas present then?" He smiles, the mutt giving a little squeak and nuzzling further. "I don't want you to catch cold. Hold on, and I've got some food for you."
Michael stands up, making his way towards the back door where it's been left open. He goes to close it, when he sees a dark shape in front of him, one that stands taller for a moment, feet away.
For a moment, he stands there, confused given the cold out. It could be anyone, including another family or—
The man moves, beneath the moonlight, and then Michael finds his heart drops to his stomach for a moment in recognition, before he's running in the cold snow, running until he has Joseph in his arms.
Nothing matters in that moment other than the press of Joseph's mouth against his, even if he can tell that he's holding on as if his fingers are talons, even though he can tell that Joseph is swaying awkwardly, and that he's all too thin beneath his grip despite the huge jacket they've throw on him.
All that matters is that he came back home.
Three months after Joseph is returned to him, Michael sends out an order. It takes two more additional months for it to be fulfilled, Michael never mentioning it to Joseph. They've settled into their routine, Michael tending to his back daily, slowly feeding him more and more food until Joe is able to eat without fear of his body rejecting it, helping him walk around the Manor on his own or simply being tangled up together into one bold line beneath the roof of the Manor.
Still, it arrives all the same to him, an address of one Cameron Kessler.
Even then, he lets Joe believe that he's going on an errand, lets him wrap himself around the pillow that isn't quite good enough of a replacement for Michael.
It is worth the way to see Kessler's bruised, angry face, the terror that lies there when Michael stands over him and looks into the face of a man who is nothing but a coward, a bigot.
He waits, voice low as he speaks: You didn't mean for him to come back—yet he is here, with me. You failed to turn him into a weapon or an experiment or to simply degrade him. But I want to thank you—if you hadn't meddled with him, if you hadn't been such a weasel, we never would've known the extent of our relationship with each other.
Michael grips his hair in his hand as the man tries to speak around his gag.That's why I'll let them at least leave your face in tact for a burial.
When he gets home, Joseph is still asleep. Michael washes his hands, just in case, climbs into bed, and makes sure that Joseph's head is in his lap where it belongs.
Still, it arrives all the same to him, an address of one Cameron Kessler.
Even then, he lets Joe believe that he's going on an errand, lets him wrap himself around the pillow that isn't quite good enough of a replacement for Michael.
It is worth the way to see Kessler's bruised, angry face, the terror that lies there when Michael stands over him and looks into the face of a man who is nothing but a coward, a bigot.
He waits, voice low as he speaks: You didn't mean for him to come back—yet he is here, with me. You failed to turn him into a weapon or an experiment or to simply degrade him. But I want to thank you—if you hadn't meddled with him, if you hadn't been such a weasel, we never would've known the extent of our relationship with each other.
Michael grips his hair in his hand as the man tries to speak around his gag.That's why I'll let them at least leave your face in tact for a burial.
When he gets home, Joseph is still asleep. Michael washes his hands, just in case, climbs into bed, and makes sure that Joseph's head is in his lap where it belongs.
Everything has a consquence to it. Joseph becoming Michael's shadow sends a message to many people in Gotham, for good and for ill. Michael knows that it might reveal certain things that he can come back to bite him, that it might even rebound on Joseph, in the end.
Thing is, he's done letting the future choose the present for him. He's making his own future, whether it's finally taking Gotham fully for his own or if it's kissing Joseph gently when he comes home and telling him he's brought him dinner or if it's teaching Ace how to be a good guard dog or if it's slowly getting all of his former cellmates jobs and homes.
If he has to choose, it'll be on his own terms now.
Thing is, he's done letting the future choose the present for him. He's making his own future, whether it's finally taking Gotham fully for his own or if it's kissing Joseph gently when he comes home and telling him he's brought him dinner or if it's teaching Ace how to be a good guard dog or if it's slowly getting all of his former cellmates jobs and homes.
If he has to choose, it'll be on his own terms now.