This is insane, and they both know it.
He's older and more jaded - isn't he also supposed to be wiser and more careful too
It started as all bad things do: meaninglessly. They met earlier, she seemed upset and he was reminded that it was on this day, all those ten years ago, that her father succumbed to the Helmet and its fate. He invited her for dinner, and they gladly rememorated Zatara's stories from when she was a girl or when he first met Gothan's resident vigilante.
He knows it shouldn't be this easy, but it is. She knows who he is – both in and out of the costume – and it makes it so much easier to have a casual conversation over futile subjects without having to worry whether or not she notices him checking his monitoring device every two minutes while sharing a couple of bottles of wine. It also helps that she has an easy smile and an even easier humor, and that her piercing blue eyes don't fleet from his whenever they meet.
It's also because of those eyes – because of the memories, and the voice, and the face that come with another pair of piercing blue eyes – that he caves.
They go into a five-stars hotel suite – he invites her for a coupe of champagne before the night ends – and the moment he shuts the door, he knows it's all lost. And she's in his arms, softer than anything he remembers, and he forces himself to hold her by her shoulder a few inches always.
"You don't want to do this."
It's not a question, but she offers him an answer anyway. She's tugging at his tie and taking off the jacket of his suit and he lets her because, against his better judgment, he wants this.
"I've seen the way you look at her, Bruce," she says, her mouth so close to his ear that it actually tickles. "Have you ever told her?" And he shakes his head, because he hasn't. He can't. He won't. "You really should," she presses on. Her lips are on his throat, her agile fingers unbuttoning his crispy white shirt.
Once he's out of the shirt, her hands run through his upper body, as if each and every scar is of personal interest. This is another thing he can't do. He promised Giovanni he would take care of his daughter, and this is not how he had in mind.
He musters all of his now weak will and pushes her away once again.
"You don't want to do this," he repeats, almost to himself. He knows it's not the wine that's making him flustered.
"I think I'm old enough to decide how to deal with my problems," she half spits and half whispers, trying to fight the strength of his arms to come closer again. She reaches her hand and touches his face, and a soft smile curves her lips. "You have such beautiful eyes. It's a shame you keep hiding them."
Realization dawns on Bruce like a knife to his ribs.
"I'm not Dick, Zatanna," he says as firm as he can, his fingers almost biting in her shoulders, and her resolution falters for a moment. "You're kidding yourself if you think..."
She kisses him again, harder, more defiant, pressing him against the wall before he can move. He knows he's better than this – his surviving through all sorts of ordeals only proves that – but it's almost as if he wants his senses to be numb and his reflexes to be dormant. Prudence is suddenly out of his system when he hears her moan, and she's so pliant in his arms that not a single word he says to himself seems to get him away from her. The little instinct that is still awake on him sends his hands to her hips, pulling her closer now instead of fighting against her.
"I'm far too tired of thinking," she says, when his lips roamed to her pulse under her left ear. "And you should be far too tired of pretending."
She's young. She's allowed to be fool, to be reckless, to be ardent without worrying. He's the one who needs to put an end to this, but he can't.
"It's a two-way bargain, really," she presses on, her hands going to the front of her own shirt and unbuttoning it. She sounds almost practical, but he can see what lies beneath that surface – frustration, loneliness, even sheer anger. And he can relate to that.
His own guts betray him, and sooner than he realizes, he's taking her to the bedroom, his hands almost trembling and his skin burning.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers in her ear, picturing in his mind that the black hair he sees belongs to another. "Tell me to go away."
She chuckles and holds his face with both of her hands, making sure that both pair of blue eyes meet.
"Not tonight," she answers on the same tone, lying on the bed, her jet black hair spreading on the white sheets and her blue eyes sparkling. "Tonight, we're shaking these demons off. Both of us."
He goes to her, his hands going up and down arms that would never hold a car above her head, and she kisses lips that would never laugh at a joke, and he lets go of himself.
Nobody is wining tonight and she's wrong. This is not a two-way bargain. This is a double-edged sword, and they're both coming out of this worse than before.
And when morning comes – and it comes much too fast – he pretends he's still asleep when she wakes up, dresses up and kisses him on the forehead before leaving the hotel suite. It seems easier this way.