(A/N): Whew! Thank God for vacation, or else college would be unbearable, and I never would have been able to come back to this story. Happy Holidays everyone, and have a wonderful New Year!
What's in store for this chapter: a confrontation, a kidnapping, a patch-up, and a celebration. Enjoy!
Thirty-Seven: Father
The stage was silent but taut with shame. The two of them stood on opposite sides of the railing: Bruce shrouded in the obscurity of the curtains, John Zatara christened by the spotlight on an elevated platform that decades later his daughter would perform on. The bright, striking light cast sharp shadows upon the usual cheerful amiability of his mentor's face, and revealed how truly old and weary he was in that moment.
"For God's sake, Bruce," Zatara said, expression quietly pained, "She's only a child. She turned eighteen a few weeks ago."
Bruce was silent, the severity of Zatara's proclamation damning him, damning his emotions, yet he was not permitted to speak yet. It was his teacher's court, and he was both witness and defendant.
"I know my own daughter." a pause. "And...I thought I knew you. But this is beyond anything that I would have expected."
Rather than step forward to advocate his case, Bruce seemed to almost retreat into the shadows, his face swallowed up in darkness. "Her decisions are her own, John. She'll love who she chooses."
"'Love?'" Zatara whispered the word, framed by light as he tried to grasp absurdity of his statement. "She's too young to know what it is. She should find it with someone her own age, someone who is as inexperienced as she is, who'll give her puppy love or break her heart the way teenagers do—"
"—But not in the way that I could?" his student's voice was sleek from the darkness, eyes down to ice-blue slits. The audacity of the statement made a flash of unexpected anger bloom in the magician, and if he had not articulated it, it was indicative by the hot silver-white glow that his eyes took. In the darkness, he saw the silhouette of a chin jut up, coolly appraising the situation, but to his credit, Bruce did not blanch or abstain from this battle. At the very least, his courage was commendable.
It still wasn't enough.
"I love her." Bruce said.
"She is not yours to have."
"She's not your possession. Or are you so afraid to let her go?" he quickly retorted; he bowed into the light so that his face could be discerned by the welcoming light of the stage, but he moved no farther into its embrace.
"Can you blame a father for protecting their child?" Zatara snapped. "Or has it been so long since you remembered yours that you don't know how one would act?"
A low blow; Bruce's eyes narrowed, forehead bowing in what other circumstances might have classified as deference. He returned back to the darkness, rescinding his corporeal presence, and exchanged it for delineated specter. Zatara felt a stab of guilt, tempered by reason and a need to protect what was important to him; he spoke sotto voce, persuasive and entreating.
"Bruce, you may care for Zatanna, love her even. But the path you're going down, this consuming, irredeemable path—"—at this, he paused, holding out an imploring hand as if he could beckon his wayward student from his irretrievable descent—"—how could I let you take my daughter with you?"
His student was many things; enigmatic, stubborn, capable, talented, devoted. In another life, in another time, who knew what kind of person he would have been, what kind of man he could have chosen to be, if it hadn't been that all but one path was offered to him. In another life, Zatara might have eventually said yes. But right now, all Zatara could pray was that his student chose the path that was wise.
He thumbed for the lid of his top hat, and lowered it to make one last exhorting question.
"Would you have her be happy, or would you have her be safe?"
Silence took supremacy over the room, extending into several seconds that lasted an eternity. Just as Zatara feared that he had lost whatever common ground he might have established, Bruce spoke into the darkness, voice glacial, but ultimately final.
"What would you have me do?"
Zatara exhaled silently and gave his ex-student a grim smile, donning his hat once more.
"Oh, Bruce. I would have you do what is right."
Thirty-Eight: Insurance
If anything, Harley Quinn was the one who most excited about the whole debacle. Ivy was thoroughly indifferent, and Zatanna was, at the very least, mildly nettled about the situation.
"Oh my God, Red! Look who we captured!" she practically squealed to her girlfriend as the Rolls-Royce burned rubber out of the driveway, devouring the distance between the charity ball and freedom. There was a quick, breath-catching jolt as the car hit a speed-bump and surged forward in an unexpected burst of speed, making an impromptu traffic change that left cars honking in their wake.
"Who is it, Harley?" Poison Ivy asked placatingly; Zatanna noted that she sounded similar to a parent that had been dragged around an amusement park all day by their kid that had just hit the third level of their sugar high. However, before she could continue the thought, Ivy jerked the steering wheel around a corner, nearly clipping a streetlight. The turn also conveniently forced Harley to push the revolver into Zatanna's pulse.
"We caught Zatanna, Red! Y'know, the magician?" Harley practically squawked when the ensuing silence showed Ivy either had no clue, or didn't care (Zatanna assumed it was the latter, but the gag in her mouth prevented her from voicing it). "Reeeed! Come on, you know! The magician with the cute fishnets?"
Silence. Harley tried again. "The magician that speaks backwards?" Still nothing; Harley sighed and rolled her eyes. "The magician on the Justice League?"
Poison Ivy made a solemn "mmm" of disinterest, so Harley refocused her attention on the object of her excitement; she turned her head so dizzyingly quick that one of her pom-poms popped Zatanna right in the eye. The unrecognized magician blinked away a tear and looked straight into the physical representation of hyperactivity, who was practically caging her into her corner of the backseat with her sheer elation.
"I'm sorry, Miz Zatanna," Harley said, readjusting the barrel to ease the pressure on her jugular, "But we needed a hostage for our getaway, we didn't know you were actually performing there or anything."
Zatanna arched a dubious brow at the Rogue, looked down to her very-clearly-not civilian attire, and then back up to Harley Quinn. She shrugged, lifting up her free hand in a casual "what can you do" gesture.
"Okay, well maybe the outfit shoulda been a giveaway, tomayto tomahto," Harley conceded, "But hey! You ain't a true Gotham citizen until you've been kidnapped at least once or twice. I nearly got shot by Red before I got into the crime business myself."
Poison Ivy muttered something in the front about 'lucky miss' and made a quick U-turn, weaving through the maze of cars; the Gotham Bridge began to draw near on the horizon. Harley took the opportunity to lean on the car cushion and jingle Zatanna's earring with the revolver.
"I dunno about you, but you should have seen the look on Wayne's face when we got you." Harley grinned (Ivy called out a casual "forest-burning chauvinist pig"). The car sidled onto the sidewalk, making pedestrians jump out of the way and stare dumbly in their combustive wake. "Oooh, boy did he look pissed! Guess it sure made that stick fall right outta his ass!"
That was as good as an explanation as Harley was going to get, while Zatanna had the gag in her mouth; she shrugged in response as her captor leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile.
"So, what is he to you? You guys seeing each other on the side?" Harley winked, nudging her ribs with a rather pointy elbow.
Oh, Harley, you have no idea. Zatanna thought, but made a nonchalant "eh" noise through her gag and shrugged again, a quick bob of the shoulders. Harley nodded knowingly, and giggled coquettishly.
"Before Ivy and I got together, I used to think he was pretty cute too. Just be careful, y'know?" her face was expressively sympathetic. "There're a lotta girls that're goin' for him."
"Don't give the nice hostage love advice, Harl," Ivy admonished from the front as she careened through the toll booth, "She knows what she's doing. And please—"—at this, Poison Ivy made what Zatanna recognized as a long-suffering sigh—"—please tell me that's not the Batmobile behind us."
At this, both Harley and Zatanna turned around; Zatanna made sure to oblige and press her neck a little more carefully into the gun. After a few seconds of careful observation through the sea of cars, Harley was the first to see the familiar car storm the lanes, engine revving and high beams blazing through the fog of the night.
Oh boy.
"Tear ass, Red!" she crowed, snapping the magician out of her reverie; Ivy obliged by gunning the engine and veered through a tight carpool lane; Zatanna was distracted from the harrowing escape by Harley's manic grin of glee aimed dead-straight at her.
"C'mon, Miz Zee, y'aint through with us yet! Let's give you a girl's night on the town!" she shrieked with excitement.
She didn't have much of a choice, did she? The Rolls-Royce zoomed forward with a quick pulse of speed, and the night truly began.
Thirty-Nine: Balm
"Swiss cheese," Zatanna tsked matter-of-factly, "That's what you are."
She admired with a combination of disgust and unbridled curiosity at the scars that ran rampant on his back, tracing a criss-crossed shock of mottled flesh that ran the length of his spine. He shifted on the metal cot, instinctively leaning into her touch, and made a subtle noise in the back of his throat. She ran a finger through a particularly long scar that sliced through the small of his back, and shook her head. There was a dripping noise, somewhere far off in the cave, and she ignored it for the moment.
"Yeesh. With all these holes in you, I'm surprised that you can't just glide on the winds when you lift your arms. Sure would save you a lot on those grappling hooks."
A small, affectionate smile from him, and she sighed quietly, sparing a quick reproving glare at the back of his head before dipping her fingers into the open jar of balm beside him. Not even the menacing Dark Knight could resist a (albeit small) groan of relief as she began to apply the salve, and he closed his eyes in relaxation. A brief reprieve, exchanged for years of physical torture. It hardly seemed fair to her.
"You know, if you wanted, I could get rid of this," she said, making a gesture that encompassed the entirety of his back, "Just three words; 'Erase Bruce's scars.' What'cha think?"
She knew the answer before he shook his head, an imperceptible motion that she noticed after many years of being near him. He always said the same thing.
"I need them to remind me." he replied, his words trailing into a sigh as she worked a particular knot beside his shoulder blade. "They keep me honest."
"And they keep my hairs turning gray." she replied tartly, flicking a rare, small patch of untouched skin. Anyone else would've flinched; he didn't. She grimaced, wondering how many nerves had been fried, and continued to gently apply the balm. Her voice was soft as she palmed a striking curve beneath a rib.
"It's getting harder and harder to tell where all of these came from." she said, edging gently around the pink freshness of it; this one was new, and looked as if it had been literally carved into his skin. There was a brief tightening as she carefully nosed in the salve, before he eventually relaxed; she bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to say anything. Five seconds passed before she succumbed to the notion.
"What's it going to take, Bruce? You gonna have to be covered in these until you're happy?" she asked, and her voice was cheerful, but a forced cheerfulness. She waited for his reply, looking at the back of his head with a force that would make someone else's head explode. She almost hoped it might happen, and spare them all the trouble. No such luck.
He pretended to think about it, for her sake. She knew this answer too, but didn't say anything. "Maybe."
She made a quiet, irritable noise; he cocked his head to see that the small jar, full at the beginning of their session, was now entirely depleted. They shared a glance, and she offered him a lopsided smile.
"I don't think I have enough balm for that."
At the very least, he chuckled.
Forty: New Year
It was a night that was unexpected, but overwhelmingly appreciated. All the roaming criminals had been put in their padded cages, a familiar spotlight used year-round had been covered and pulled into a practically-unused shed, and for once, a black and white fifties rerun played on the TV rather than a panicked news report of global cataclysm. It was a night of relaxation, if possible, and celebration, even more unthinkable, but it was a night that they would take nevertheless.
The rest of the group had chosen to exploit it as best they could. Dick and Barbara had escaped the bullet train to Metropolis, Tim had hopped into his dad's car to celebrate their yearly exchange; even Alfred had humbly requested the night off, to which Bruce had been all-too-happy to oblige. It left the two of them there to their thoughts and each other; a little too good to be true, but an unanticipated gift they wouldn't pass up for anything.
"Make any resolutions?" she asked, leaning into his embrace. By the window-light of the evening sky, the champagne in her glass was bright amber and spun around its confines as she lazily rolled her wrist.
"Not any worth keeping." he admitted, running an absentminded hand through her long, curly hair. He leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head, and she smiled at the gesture; when he put a warm, calloused hand on her shoulder, she put her own over it.
"Figures. Feel like telling one?" she asked taking a sip of the bubbly drink, tickling her tongue.
"'Try to control my temper.'" he replied with an unsubtle wry tone of voice. She scoffed, trying not to make the drink come out of her nose.
"Nice try. Why don't you tell me what you were actually gonna do this year?" she asked with a smirk. The hand on her shoulder gave her a gentle, teasing squeeze, and she leaned back onto his chest (a most comfortable cushion if she ever had one, not that she'd admit it to him).
"Funny. How about you, Ms. Zatara?" he asked, invoking quid pro quo. She rolled her eyes as he took a sip of champagne.
"Mmm. I get the feeling I'll stick to it as much as you will yours." she leaned her head back to look up at him. "'Limit crime-fighting.'"
He gave her a smile that was wistful and dubious at once. "Good luck with that one."
"I know, right? Especially with the kind of company that I hang out with. May as well have made a resolution to live on the moon."
"I think that's more believable than your other one." was the dry reply. She snorted, lifting her glass in agreement.
"Hear hear. To another year of not listening to resolutions." she grinned; the glasses chimed together with a pure, prolonged note, and then the two of them sat back to usher in another year together.
(A/N): Hope you all enjoyed! Feeling free to review and subscribe, and I'll see you guys around for the next chapter!