a Justice League Unlimited story
by Merlin Missy
Copyright 2005
PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine. For xffan2000 in the HG/GL Ficathon.
I don't know if Batman knows what I'm doing right now. Hell, what am I saying? He knows. That's what he's like, what he does. He analyzes people like pieces of evidence. Maybe they're the same to him, people and things. Wouldn't surprise me.
He's got my number. He knows I'm spending tonight reading this report, going through it sentence by sentence. If he was anyone else, Clark maybe, or Wally, he'd have changed the words, softened them. Act of observation changing the thing being observed and all. Not Bruce. Not intentionally, anyway, not to make me feel better, or worse, or anything. That's not how he operates.
Simple, terse words on the screen: Shadow Thief, stranded Thanagarians, Carter Hall. (I grit my teeth.)
I want to call her stupid. I want to call her a lot of things, but we're barely at the point where we can talk to each other right now, because I had to shoot my mouth off when I found out how that creep Hall has been following her. As the report flows by on the screen, I wonder, would she have gone to Egypt with him yesterday if I hadn't protested the night before? She wasn't hurt, and that's not the point anyway. She could have been, she would have been, all because she's got a stubborn streak a mile wide and she wants to spite me.
I remember when we acted like adults around each other. I'd give a lot to have that back.
Something catches my eye, a link to a sound file. Normally, Batman would just transcribe anything relevant. Maybe he ran out of time. I click on the link, but now there's a password box; secret identity stuff, right. I know Batman's secret, and Shayera doesn't have one. I type in my password.
It's conversation, Shayera and Hall. Talking about the Javelin's telemetry, positioning, and now Hall's telling her about the background of his dig. I wonder if she's bored and pretending to listen. And of course, now I'm wondering if she ever just pretended to listen when I was yammering at her about something.
Probably not. After all, she was collecting information.
My stomach does that little twist, the one that's been happening less and less but still pops up sometime when I think about how much she screwed us over. I'd like to say I'm getting past it, but I suck at lying to myself.
And now they're moving — Bruce must have bugged her, I wonder where? — and they're still talking and Hall mentions her dress.
Oh yes. And for a moment, I'm thinking about that dress too, and now I'm wondering what she would have done if Batman hadn't stopped the elevator that night. If I'd leaned in to her. If she would have shoved me away or kissed me back, slow and deep and wet. If she had anything on under that short little skirt or if I would have just felt silky and still-familiar skin when I slid my hands up her legs.
Wondering what would have happened if either of us was just a little crazier or stupider or braver. If I wasn't with Mari.
I almost miss Shayera's comeback to Hall's remark.
I rewind and listen again.
No, that's not what she meant. She could've meant anything. She probably meant he was just really attentive to what she was wearing when they went out, and ...
I really really wish I was better at lying to myself.
I turn off the recording. I know why Bruce locked it and I know I won't hear anything useful, that he's already transcribed what we need to know. I skim through the rest of the file, not really reading, absorbing enough to reaffirm that Hall is a whacko who thinks he's some dead Thanagarian and he ...
I pause on his picture, and it's an effort to get my fist to relax. It's a greater effort to keep myself from wondering if they went back to his place, if they even made it to a motel room, if he had to sweet-talk her into it or if she let him just to get back at me. (I didn't push. I only pushed a little. She tried to say "no" but she never said "stop" and if she'd told me about Talak I would have never tried and I can't keep thinking about this.)
Stupid file. Stupid Batman writing the file, keeping the audio he didn't need, knowing I'd listen anyway. Stupid Shayera, screwing the first guy who asked her out. Stupid me for caring.
John's thinking about her again. I can tell. He gets this distant look, like he's paying attention to what I'm saying the same way he would in a meeting, and when I lean over the table to touch him, his muscles tense and he gets frown lines in his forehead.
I'm coming off-shift and he's about to start his, so it's just a quick and not especially cozy dinner together in the mess for us. We've got a corner table, and no one's giving us more than a casual glance, and anyway, there aren't nearly as many people in this Tower to gawk.
Not a person here is going to know my boyfriend is sitting with me thinking about his ex again. So I suppose that's something.
Things were getting easier. Between us, I mean. Sure, Shayera and I had our little "declaration of intent" a while back, but since then, especially after the whole Luthor and Brainiac thing, well, it seemed like she was backing off. Something went down between them, I think, though John hasn't been clear with me what it was. I think they just turned a corner and I figured that was finally that. John spent more time with me, and less time with those frown lines on his face, and Shayera spent her time trying to rebuild her friendships with everybody else, and they were polite to each other.
And then Hall showed up.
There's nothing quite like another dog let loose in the kennel, sniffing around, to make some men start growling. I never pegged John for that type, and now I'm wondering how on Earth I possibly missed it.
Of course he was fine with seeing me instead of her. She was still standing there the whole time, just waiting for him, and they both knew it. But if another man starts moving on her ...
I'm not second prize. I have to remind myself of that sometimes, and nights like this, it's hard. Part of me wants to take him home with me, or go back to his place with him, and remind both of us that I chose him over every other man who ever saw my picture and wanted me. The rest of me, the smarter part, doesn't want to be with him on a night when he's obviously thinking about someone else; I have limits and I have standards and I hate silver medals.
It's hard to look at him just now, when it feels like he's gone while he's sitting right there, so I glance at his tray instead. "Still hungry?"
"Not really," he says. "I've got to get to the Control Room." He flexes to stand, but I place my hand on his arm. There's that tensing again.
"You've got a few minutes." I don't think it sounds like pleading, and anyway, like I said, no one's listening.
He opens his mouth, probably to contradict me, and then he just says, "Sure."
"We're still on for this weekend, right?" I ask, nibbling at the last of my yogurt.
He nods, and he smiles. "Can't wait."
It's that smile, dammit. If he didn't smile at me like that, I'd probably have walked a while ago. If he wasn't as kind as the day is long, and brave to a fault, and gentle too, I never would have picked him out from the whole superhero crowd. If he didn't look fantastic on my arm wearing the clothes I pick out for him, and even more fantastic out of them, I wouldn't put up with losing his attention whenever Shayera's in danger.
Something's wrong. I can feel it, itching in my bones. It's about Shayera and about Hall. I can sit here and pretend I don't notice, or I can try to be patient and understanding. Again.
"John, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says, and the lie doesn't even hide in his voice, much less his face.
"Because saying 'nothing' always ends an argument," I tease.
"I didn't know we were arguing." There's just enough defensiveness there to make me want to start really shouting, but I don't. That won't solve anything.
"We're not," I say as mildly as I can, sipping my water. "But you're obviously pissed about something and I think it'd be better if you told me than kept it bottled up inside."
"I'm fine," he says, flatly, and he stands up. "Anyway, I need to get going."
"So she's sleeping with Hall, hm?" I keep my voice neutral, calm, quiet. I play with the cap to my water bottle, moving it between my fingers like a lucky charm, try not to pay attention to how my boyfriend is one taut line standing beside our table.
I wonder who's watching now.
"I forgot that you two talk," he says unpleasantly. It used to scare him, I think. Now it just annoys him, and anyway, it's not my fault I'm a good judge of human behavior.
Guess I can't say the same of Shayera, though. You sleep with them on the first date and they either dump you immediately, or else they follow you around until you get a restraining order. Hall seems like the "restraining order" type to me.
But I don't suppose it was really about Hall.
I don't suppose if John did come home with me tonight that it would be about me, either.
I'm suddenly very glad he's got watch.
"Get over it," I tell him in a low voice. "You knew this was going to happen eventually. Nobody's gonna pine after you forever, Boo. You're just not that pretty."
I pick up both trays, give him a quick kiss on the cheek before he can pull away — gotta leave something for the audience — and take our dishes back to the tray return.
When I get back, he's already gone and everyone is pretending not to notice as I gather my purse and head out for home wearing the best smile I can fake.
I've got morning watch, so I need to get relaxed and get to sleep. I didn't sleep at all last night, though I tried. I ended up taking the second half of the midnight watch so Shining Knight could get some rest. I didn't know John was going to be on duty and he spent the time ignoring me anyway.
I don't think Batman told him about me and Carter. Not his kind of thing to do.
I don't like dwelling on things. I spent months cooped up in Fate's Tower doing that, and it took me a while to get my head out of brooding space, and I just don't want to go back. Forward's tough enough.
It was fun, with Carter. Not the high point of my life, but as my old friend Matuia used to say, better than chewing live slugs.
I throw off my blankets and go to my mirror and start brushing my hair vigorously. Sometimes the motion relaxes me. Of course, so does drinking, but we've got rules about mind and mood altering substances on the Watchtowers. It's fine for the people who don't live here, but I don't have another home anymore, and I can't go to the bars around here without causing trouble. Sometimes living in a place where the rules were made by a prudish Boy Scout and an Ice Princess, not to mention Mr. Stoic Bat, well, it's not nearly as much fun as it used to be.
I sound like an adolescent. I feel about fifty times older, though.
That takes me down a bad line of thought: maybe the reason I keep screwing up is because of some lingering problems from that first Shayera Hol's lifetime. Because what I really need at this point is to take all of my mistakes and then pile on the fuckups of someone I might possibly have been thousands of years ago.
There isn't actually a scanner when we come into the Tower. I could slip a couple of bottles of tequila in my coat.
I continue brushing my hair.
Why did Carter have to be a freakjob? He was nice! He liked me! Still does. It's been a long time since someone said nice things to me and made me feel wanted. Hro's dead — I can even have that thought now without a little part of my chest twinging — and John's doing a pretty good impression of being happy with Mari.
I squeeze the brush too hard, and I make myself set it down before I hurt it or me.
She doesn't show him off, not exactly, except when she does. I've seen his closet; he didn't own any of that stuff two years ago, and anyway, I think the real reason he spends so much time in uniform is so he doesn't have to worry about his clothes matching. But Mari always has him in something nice for the shows she does, the parties she goes to, the premieres.
I don't read tabloids, too many lies about me in them, but I flip through the pictures. John's even usually smiling, or else wearing that gruff "Don't mess with me" look that's a lot less imposing when I've seen him practicing it in his bathroom mirror while he thought I was still asleep.
I wonder if she's ever caught him practicing, the gruff face or the smiling one. I wonder if she makes him coordinate his clothes to match his eyes when he does and doesn't wear his ring. I wonder if she laughed the first time she saw his comic books in the plastic covers, if she sat still long enough for him to explain the convoluted life stories of inked superheroes, or if she made him throw them out already.
Music starts on my nightstand, a waltz Inza likes, and I grab my cellphone.
"Yes?" I answer. I don't use my name. I've had to change the number twice after I started getting obscene calls twelve times a day. Stupid websites.
"It's Carter."
I think about hanging up. I'm not some long-dead Egyptian princess, from Thanagar or anywhere else. I've got enough problems of my own.
But again, it's been a long time.
"Hi."
"You probably don't want to talk to me right now."
"I can talk," I say. It's not an "I want" statement.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
I sigh. "Carter, I don't ... " Absorbacron technology never really improved, sad to say. We never care much what our technology does to anyone else. "I don't know what to think. You'd be happier if you got some help."
"I'd be happier with you."
The earnestness in his voice reminds me of Wally, back when he flirted with me at every opportunity. The passion, well, that doesn't make me think about Wally at all.
I expected Carter's apartment to be decorated in artifacts and ancient kitsch, but bookshelves cover his walls instead, stuffed from floor to ceiling, with more books piled neatly in stacks on every horizontal space. I'd like to go back and run my hands over the spines, see what makes him tick, but I'm a little afraid of the answers. I didn't have much of a chance to look that night, and I left as soon as I woke up.
"I want another chance," he says.
"As second dates go, getting trapped in ancient tombs with incorporeal psychopaths isn't high on my list. Just so you know."
He laughs, and it's a nice laugh. He laughed just like that with his lips against the skin at my ribs and then over my belly, and oh, it was so much nicer than chewing live slugs ...
"How about a real second date?"
"I'll get back to you on that," I tell him, and I hang up before he can protest.
I'm not getting to sleep tonight, not like this. I put down the phone and pull on my work clothes. An early half-shift should do it, and then I can crash hard and not have to think about anything until my watch in the morning.
Elongated Man is on tonight, with Gypsy and ... Not John again! Doesn't he ever go home at night anymore?
"Evening," I say to Ralph and Gypsy. I don't exactly ignore John, and I don't exactly include him in the greeting. It's just what we do.
"Hello," says Gypsy, smiling at me. "What's got you up so late?"
I shrug. "Figured I'd get a little work done. Anyone want a break?"
"Me!" shouts Ralph before anyone else can speak up, and also extending his arm ten feet up over his head. I can't help but grin.
"Okay, but be back in four hours. I have watch in the morning and I need to get a little sleep tonight."
I can almost hear the air pop into the place where he used to be standing. Gypsy covers her laugh with her hand, and for a reason I'd rather not think about, she makes an excuse to go into the other room.
"You need to stop changing the schedule on your own," John says to me. "We don't do that anymore, remember?"
"I'm giving the first taker a few hours of shut-eye, not reassigning someone to the Orion Nebula. Relax."
He glares at me and I glare right back. I'm trying to be nice, which isn't the easiest thing in the world, and I don't need him to tell me off.
I wonder if it'd be better if I said that out loud, and I realize it wouldn't, that we'll just end up fighting again. I sit at the side table with the smaller monitor. He can have the big chair if he wants.
We watch the world.
On the one hand, I'd like an excuse to go out and beat up something right now. On the other, a quiet night would mean I don't have to talk with him again until I leave.
After about ten minutes of stewing, John asks, "Is there a reason you keep hopping on shifts with me?"
"Ego much? I didn't even know you were going to be here. When I can't sleep, I'd rather be doing something useful." And I don't dwell. Really I don't. Because if I did, I'd be thinking that picking up extra shifts would be one more small way for me to make up for hurting people. If I did that sort of thing. Make up for it, I mean. Which I don't.
"Most people go work it off in the gym."
"No, most people go 'work it off' at home."
"Stalker too busy tonight?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." He turns back to the big monitor. I stare at the back of his head for a while. Batman's not a gossip. But he wouldn't lie if John's asked him, either.
"What exactly did Batman say to you?"
"He didn't tell me anything."
"Right."
He turns around again. "Look. If you want to get involved with some psycho who thinks you're his destiny because a computer downloaded funny in his brain, go right ahead. God knows I couldn't stand in your way if I tried."
"As long as we're clear on that," I say.
Gypsy comes back in, and then it's too awkward. He can't give me the rest of whatever speech he's prepared in his head, surely full of the words "safety" and "teammates" and "your own good." I can't yell back anything about minding his own business.
In a way it's kind of nice. We already know what the other's going to say, so we can have the argument without talking. Flash was right; we are like an old married couple, except we're not a couple anymore, and we're probably going to marry other people. The thought puts a lump in my throat that makes it hard for me to swallow for a long time.
The four hours creep by without supervillains interrupting, and when Ralph comes back, yawning and rubbing his eyes, it's not soon enough.
Back in my quarters, I pick up my cell. Carter has left three messages. I call him back without listening to them.
"It's me," I say when he picks up, sleepy.
"Hey," he says, and his voice goes from tired to warm and rich.
"This weekend. You and me. There's a spot in the mountains I think you'll like. Pack a sleeping bag if you've got one."
There's a long pause on the other end, and I wonder if his calls have been to tell me he doesn't want to see me anymore. It would figure.
Then: "I just dug out the sleeping bag from the closet. Let's go now."
"I have watch in the morning," I say.
"Oh."
When I think, I trip myself up. I make mistakes. That isn't to say I don't make them when I don't think, but at least then I have an excuse.
I don't think about what I say next. "I can come over right now. For a few hours."
I hear the smile in his voice. "Great!"
Sleep is for losers anyway.
The End