"I know you hate it," Pam said from the closet. "But I thought since I don't have to report to The Watchtower until 2, we could maybe check out that garden show downtown? I was supposed to make a speech—Ivy, I mean…so…if you wanted to accompany me, perhaps I could bring civilian clothes to change into and we could enjoy it together? Or—I'd enjoy it enough for the both of us?"

Harley swung her legs over the side of the bed, testing them again by slowly putting her weight on one foot and then the other. "Umm…I don't—uh—I don't know, Babe. I'm not feeling too hot."

"Oh...well, alright," Harley could hear the disappointment in her wife's voice. "Is it a stomach ache? Because I can fix that—probably, but I'll need a moment in the lab." Pam poked her head out of the closet to raise an expectant eyebrow her.

"Nope," Harley shook her head. "Thanks—I just…I don't feel like walking around all day, is all."

"Well it's not 'all day'," Pam chuckled. "Were you not listening?" she buttoned her flamingo pink blouse all the way up to the top button, threading her polka dotted ascot through the collar (the one that made her look every bit the wealthy country club member she was). "I have to catch the 2pm shuttle to The Watchtower. It's 10 now, I'm not due to give my speech until noon…are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I could eat," Harley forced a smile.

"Great," Pam smiled sweetly back at her. "We could try that café down the road? I saw they had squash quiche on the menu, and although that seems like a conflict of interest, being that the texture of cooked squash is soft, much like the texture of cooked egg—what?" she stopped her thought in reaction to Harley's expression.

…which Harley just realized had melted into a pile of goo. "You're really pretty."

"Oh," Pam blushed through her already paled skin, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Thank you—I mean, yes, I know."

Harley grinned. "Quiche sounds alright, but how bout'cha cook me something instead?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Harley affirmed. "I would offer to cook for you…but I feel like that might be more punishment than anything."

Pam laughed. "You're making positive strides, at least. But yes, no need to fix what isn't broken. Any preferences?"

"Surprise me."

"By which you mean 'fruit salad', of course."

Harley rolled her eyes. "Please go make me a waffle."

"Fine," Pam sighed, leaning down to give her a slow kiss. "I'll be back," she whispered, giving Harley a quick peck on the forehead as well before sashaying out of the room.

Harley waited until she was sure Pam was down the stairs before making another attempt to get up. She grabbed onto the bedside table and locked her elbows, using her upper body strength to push herself out of bed.

Her legs wobbled under her as she held fast to the table, but eventually they stilled, and she felt comfortable enough to let go.

"Fuck—remind me to quit getting old." She said aloud, making her way to the closet to pull on a pair of jeans and (since she was being dragged to a gardening show), the t-shirt Jo had gifted her that said "I've taken a Lichen to Moss" in big letters across the front.

Pam was humming over the heating waffle maker when Harley arrived downstairs, immediately taking a seat at the kitchen bar.

"You know what I just realized?" Harley prompted.

"Seeing as you're not a plant…no, I don't know what you just realized." Pam poured an evenly measured scoop of batter and closed the lid.

"I just realized that today is February 13th." Harley told her. "And we haven't planned anything for tomorrow."

"Right, yes…well…how awful," Pam nodded, washing her hands in the sink and grabbing a plate from the cupboard.

"Oh my God," Harley laughed. "Are you for real right now? Tomorrow is Valentine's Day! How can you live on this planet for like 105-fricken-years and still forget that?"

"Damn it," Pam cursed, spinning the waffle maker. "I swear, before this is all said and done, I will remember a Valentine's Day."

Harley scoffed. "Fat chance."

"Oh, come now," Pam began…

"What? Just spontaneously?" Harley crossed her arms. "Nice try, Lady. I require a little romance."

Pam sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, and Harley just had to laugh. "If you're lookin' for someone to blame, blame yourself."

"It's just—I saw the shirt at the same time. It all hit me at once." Pam massaged her temples.

"And I totally contributed genetic material to your children," Harley cackled. "You can't escape me!"

"Yes, congratulations. Truly," Pam clapped for her before the timer dinged on the waffle maker and she opened the lid. "I simply refuse to pile it with the sheer volume of sugar you seem to require, so you'll have to do that yourself."

Harley wrinkled her nose haughtily as she pulled herself up…but stumbled after only a few feet, grabbing onto the counter to keep herself from falling.

Pam looked at her strangely. "Are you OK?"

"Ha! Yeah—that wine must still be sloshing around in my system," Harley chuckled, trying not to sound too nervous.

"You think you're stumbling around 12 hours later thanks to two glasses of wine?" The redhead narrowed her eyes. "Where'd you get that medical degree from again?"

"Or maybe I'm just getting my sea legs, my darling Mera," Harley laughed, regaining her composure and taking the whip cream out of the fridge, noticing Pam had already put the syrup out on the counter.

Pam scoffed. "In a plot twist, as a reaction to these extraordinarily stupid jokes you all like to make, Mera and I will be running away together to have fish-plant hybrid children who look exactly like us. We'll establish a colony comprised solely of gorgeous, super-powered redheads that will eventually rival the Amazonians and Atlanteens. We'll pit them against each other and lay in weight as they destroy their once great civilizations…then all that will be left are the humans, and we'll make short work of them. Of that I can assure you." She stopped herself, looking stunned. "Oh, my…"

Harley bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Did you finally crack the code on world domination?"

"It's—I mean—," Pam was reeling. "It would take some convincing, but her stand on pollution is nearly as rigid as mine!"

"Red, hey," Harley grabbed her face. "Fish are friends, not food."

With a far off look in her eye, the corner of Pam's mouth turned up into a smirk. "I suppose she could be both."

Harley laughed out loud, dropping her hands. "Only in my fantasies, Babe."

Pam blinked. "Your fantasy is me cheating on you with a woman who looks almost exactly like me?"

"Mmm," Harley closed her eyes. "So much red."

/

"There are only four islands in the bay with inhabitable structures. What's-his-fuck told me Bane bought out an estate." Jo whispered. "The Batplane has infrared scanning capabilities…we're fine. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"No, you got trigger happy, and as a result, we have to push back our raid another night so we can actually find the fucking compound," Damian hissed.

"Trigger happy?" Jo scoffed. "You can't shoot someone with a grappling gun, and that's all I took with me last night."

"You killed him," Damian intoned. "The method is irrelevant."

"Nonsense," Jo muttered, checking her watch. "It was wet. The poor man slipped. Roof-running isn't for everyone. He learned his lesson the hard way."

"God, you sound just like your Mother…and I don't mean Harleen." Damian mumbled.

"Yeah, well, you're doing a bang-up impression of your Dad too, Asshlole."

Jo had just finished her sentence when the nurse appeared in the hallway. "They're ready," she smiled warmly. "As is the photographer."

"Fantastic," Jo grinned, grabbing Damian's hand and pulling him up to his feet.

"Ya'll are so sweet for doing this," the nurse told them. "Really, the kids love it."

And…here…we…go…"Well, it's a cause near to our hearts, obviously," Damian dropped Jo's hand to wrap an arm around her waist for a better show of intimacy. "The Wayne Foundation is proud to support the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital, and willing to help wherever and whenever we can."

"Yeah, I think that's implied, Babe," Jo smiled, though not at him.

Damian managed to fight his nature and control his eye roll as Jo led the way into the children's cancer ward…which was pretty much the last place Damian wanted to spend his afternoon. He should have been in the cave with Carrie doing what he could to track Bane in the daylight.

But no.

No, Damian was at his family's hospital representing his family's charity foundation because Damian was now the public face of his family. Damian and...ugh…Jo.

People liked Jo. Well—to be more specific, people who didn't know Jo liked Jo. The public knew her as a beautiful, charming, former elite athlete turned cancer survivor who'd returned to her old gym to teach young girls the skills she never got a chance to use on the international stage.

Of course that was all a lie. Well…most of it, anyway. She was attractive, certainly. Damian acknowledged that. Technically she had been—and still was, obviously—an elite athlete…and she was a coach now, imparting her wisdom to the next generation of gymnasts…

Alright, fine. But the cancer stuff was bullshit, and that's why they were here, anyway.

Damian and Jo were similar in a lot of ways. He'd been aware of that for some time. Perhaps that's why they "worked", perhaps that's why they didn't…but despite all their personal and temperamental similitudes, there were many ways in which they differed. One of them being that, if this performance was any indication, Jo was by far the more talented actor of the two.

"Did you ever have to shave your head?" a girl in a beanie cap was asking her.

"I did, yeah," Jo nodded. "But it was sorta perfect timing because I'd just seen Mad Max."

Lie.

"I've never seen it," the girl mumbled, starring down into her lap.

"Ah, no, I guess you wouldn't have," Jo chuckled, likely realizing for the first time that Mad Max might not be appropriate for the 10-year-old she was talking to. "Well…Mad Max is the story of a woman named Furiosa who's kidnapped as a young girl and taken to an evil place far far away where everyone is hooked up to machines and nobody has hair."

"So…sorta like here," the girl acknowledged. "Cept for it's not really evil here, just sad sometimes."

"That's right," Jo nodded. "And so this girl has to shave her head to fit in."

"Did she still look pretty?"

"Oh, yeah," Jo assured her. "Definitely. And she looked way more badass, too—don't tell your doctor I cursed."

The girl giggled. "OK."

"So anyway, the little girl grows up into this strong, beautiful butt-kicker and finds some other people like her, people who've had their lives stolen away from them," Jo told her. "And they band together and fight back. Kinda like you and all your friends here are fighting your cancer."

Picking at her pajama pants, the girl asked: "Does she win in the end?"

"She sure does," Jo grinned. "And she does it all with a shaved head. Oh! Uh—hold up," she grabbed one of the makeup kits they were delivering and pulled out the black eyeshadow. "Can I?" she asked.

The girl nodded quickly and Jo leaned forward, gently pulling the girl's beanie off and applying the dark makeup around her eyes, "see, in the movie she drives this big ole' semi-truck across the desert," and up onto her forehead, "and uses a whole bunch of grease for her war paint. But dang!" Jo grinned, sitting back to admire her work. "Step aside, Charlize Theron! There's a new Furiosa in town."

She talked to every single kid that way—telling a unique anecdote each time. Her personal stories were all made up, of course, as Jo's cancer was made up to explain her sudden disappearance from the world of gymnastics…but the kids enjoyed them.

"Yeah, I didn't go to my prom either," Jo was saying.

"Why?" the boy she was talking to asked. "Were you too sick?"

"Well…I certainly didn't feel well," Jo admitted. "But I was also dating this guy at the time who was a lot older than me…and who I was sorta embarrassed of, to be honest. So I stayed home."

"Do you regret it?" he inquired.

"Mm…" Jo narrowed her eyes. "A little bit. Damian takes me to all sorts of fancy parties now that I get to dress up for, though, and those are pretty fun, so…honestly, I think it all depends on your dance partner. You've gotta bring someone that entertains you both on and off the dance floor."

"Is he a good dance partner?" the boy asked, nodding up at Damian.

"Totally," Jo grinned. "His hips don't lie."

The boy laughed and Damian let a smirk slip before Jo continued: "I'll tell you what…I know Prom isn't for a little while, and who knows, between now and then you could totally meet your perfect dance partner and everything could be fantastic. But if that doesn't happen, I'd be more than happy to hang out with you for the night. Like I said, I've got a lot of fancy dresses to choose from, so it wouldn't be a problem. Plus, you're a total catch. Anyone with eyes or ears should be able to see that."

"Are you—asking me to prom?" the ghost of his laughter still lingered in the boy's features.

"If you swing that way." Jo told him. "If not—I happen to know an exceedingly handsome gentleman who'd be honored to accompany you instead." She waggled her eyebrows in Damian's direction. "And man oh man does he know how to wear a tux, lemme tell ya."

Her demeanor changed a bit when she reached the last girl in their rounds…who happened to be wearing a Batgirl shirt with a bright green logo over her hospital gown.

"I like your shirt," Jo grinned. "Is that Batgirl your favorite?"

"Yeah," the girl smiled back just as wide. "I have a doll of her too, see?" she reached over to her bedside table and pulled an action figure out of the top drawer, holding it out for Jo to examine.

The doll was dressed in the new suit, complete with the smiling cowl and extendable wings. "Wow…" Jo said, seemingly in legitimate awe. "That's—I can see why she's your favorite."

"Yeah," the girl repeated, taking it back from her and smoothing her hand reverently down its face.

"Why is she your favorite?" Damian asked…definitely not upset she didn't have his action figure instead. That would be stupid.

The girl shrugged. "I like that she's happy. Because…sometimes I get really sad, but see—," the pulled the doll's mask back. "She's really smiling. Sometimes I only smile on the outside but not the inside…but she smiles with both."

Jo and Damian took a closer look now. The Doll's face was fairly generic, with bright red lips (Damian nearly scoffed out loud at the notion that Jo would wear makeup under her mask), bright green eyes (OK, so at least that was accurate—although unknowingly, on the part of the toy company), and yes—a wide, happy smile.

"Mm," was Jo's only verbal response.

Her final goodbye to the children was somewhat muted in its enthusiasm, and she stared silently out the window of the town car as they pulled away, heading in the direction of Wayne Manor.

"Do you…need to take a nap or something?" Damian asked, attempting to be considerate. He'd certainly found that experience oddly draining...though not the complete waste of time he'd expected.

"What if I'm not Jolene?"

"Come again?"

"What if I'm Tricky Nicky? Or Annie from Sublime's Wrong Way?" there was a surprising degree of panic in her tone as she turned to him.

"I'm not—totally following," Damian furrowed his brow. "But if you're wishing to compare yourself to the fictional subjects of once popular songs…I'm pretty sure both of those women were crack whores. You're a lot of things, Jolene, but you're not that."

"So what am I, then?" Jo asked, a bit desperately. "And don't say 'Roxanne', please. Am I Cecilia?"

OK…maybe I shouldn't have dismissed drugs so quickly. "Miss Jackson," Damian answered, finally.

Jo was clearly confused by his choice. "Outkast?"

"No, Panic! At The Disco."

Jo narrowed her eyes, possibly trying to recall the lyrics as she sunk back into the plush leather seats. "OK," was the response she came up with after a long moment of silence. "I want Bane," she told him, her voice quieter than usual. "He'll be my last mistake. But I have to finish this."