"Love is the one thing we're capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space."
-Interstellar
Happy Valentine's Day!
"All of his security appears to be internal, so you're going to wait when I drop you. Do you understand?"
"Sir, yes, Sir!" Jo saluted him…and even behind his cowl she could tell he was rolling his eyes.
"Just don't do anything stupid," was Damian's final request.
Jo placed her hand on her chest, offended. "Who? Me?! Stupid? Never! Everything I do is with calculated precision."
"You planning to do something stupid doesn't make it not stupid, it just makes it premeditated," Damian intoned as the Batplane neared the drop site.
"Well fine then," Jo leaned over and gave him a kiss as the hatch opened.
"What was that for?" He asked.
She grinned as her mask closed over her face. "For incase I do something stupid." She stood up as the plane slowed to a hover for a moment, and jumped over the side, employing her wings to help her glide safely to the ground.
Once her feet hit, she started at a sprint towards the viewing point they'd scouted, and skidded to a stop once she'd arrived, her heart beating fast in her chest.
Switching her vision to infrared, she scanned the front room of the house, registering two bodies—men by the size of them—and then another one on the stairs. Carrie and Damian had reviewed the blueprints of the house and decided that production of the Slappers was likely taking place in the warehouse at the back of the main house, but because the goal was to end the entire operation, they'd start in the main house and work their way through.
"What are we looking at?" Damian was suddenly beside her, mirroring her crouched position.
"I don't get props for waiting?"
"Congratulations," Damian granted. "You can follow basic instructions."
"Thank you," Jo smiled beneath her mask. "Two on the ground level, one on the stairs…that's as far as I can see."
"Do you think you can handle them?" Damian asked. "If I start around back?"
"Sure. You take the back, I'll take the front…which reminds me, if we ever do a three-way, we'll be asking another girl as I have absolutely no interest in taking it—,"
"Jo!"
"Oh, right, yeah," Jo nodded ardently. "Catch'ya on the flippidy."
She skirted around the underbrush, at first considering just trying the front door before she noticed the drainpipe on the side of the house that happened to lead directly up to a second story window.
"Damn, it's like the architect wanted somebody to break in," Jo mumbled as she began to climb, slipping the point of a batarang between the window and the sill and quickly wrenching it upwards, feeding the batarang back into her suit and then pulling herself inside.
Jo found herself in an empty bedroom; one of four on the second level. The only light source was spilling in from the hallway through the open sliver of the door. The stairs and the first guard would be to her right once she opened the door fully, and then below him would be the other two.
Best to be prepared now.
With that in mind, she reached for her smoke grenades. Or…where her smoke grenades were usually kept. This particular one was a gift from her Mother, and man were there some perks to being Poison Ivy's kid.
…besides having a genetic predisposition for hotness, although that one is not to be understated.
Pushing the door open, she tore the pin off the grenade and rifled it at the man on the stairs, conking him on the side of the head and sending him toppling downwards.
That got the attention of the two guards on the ground level, but it was too little too late as a green mist began to discharge from the grenade.
3…2…1…poof.
Right on cue, the grenade burst open, enveloping all three men in a thick cloud of verdant smog.
Jo poked her head around the corner to watch them cough and choke, falling to their knees and painfully writhing on the ground as they seized.
"Ha, well fuck…" she murmured before calling out: "Sorry, I couldn't think of a quip. That's usually the best part of being murdered by me." And starting down the hallway.
She checked each bedroom, popping her head in and quickly glancing around before continuing. Her pace slowed and her ears pricked up as she approached the master bedroom, though. Unlike the others, this door was closed, but Jo thought she could make out the sound of machinery running inside.
Preparing a batarang and taking a deep breath, she grabbed the handle and slowly twisted it, pushing the door open to find…
Huh?
An old man in a wheelchair…hooked up to noisy, hulking breathing machine.
He was looking straight at her, hunched over in his chair, his eyes bloodshot and his head bobbing lazily with each forced breath.
Fuck. Of course. If Jason couldn't even go a month on venom, Jo could only imagine what a guy that lived off of it for a half a century would look like.
And now she didn't have to imagine it. He was sitting right there in front of her.
"Uh, Batman?"
"Yeah?" Damian grunted, clearly in the middle of something.
"I found Bane. And…somehow I don't think he's the brains behind this operation."
"Yeah—mmph," she was pretty sure he'd just punched someone. "I'm starting to get that too."
"Use your grenade," Jo told him, not breaking eye contact with Bane. "You're immune."
"To what? Since when?"
"You sleep a lot," she answered plainly, her mask shutting off their communication as it pulled back from her face.
"Hello," she greeted Bane, once he got a look at her actual face. "I'm Jolene. It's a pleasure to meet you." He—of course—couldn't speak thanks to the tube that had been implanted in his trachea, but she smiled at him anyway. "Do you remember Poison Ivy?" she asked. "Red hair, has a lady boner for flowers…both in the botanical sense and…you know…the Georgia O'Keefe sense…" Jo trailed off as he nodded. "Cool, cool. Was she your friend?"
He shook his head rather definitively.
"Yeah, I heard that 'honor among thieves' thing was probably bullshit," she tapped her foot on the ground a few times, narrowing her eyes as she sized him up. "So I'm her daughter…Ivy's, I mean."
Bane nodded again.
"Aww, you can tell?" Jo grinned. "Do I look like her?"
He slowly blinked his eyes.
"Ah, green. Got'cha." She winked. "You're very sweet, but I'm actually here to kill you."
His reaction came slower this time, but when it did it was…another nod.
"You know that or you'd like me to?" Jo questioned.
Bane's response was simply to nod again.
"Oh," her shoulders fell in slight disappointment. "Well…alright. I've never killed anyone that wanted to die before…do you—umm—have anything in mind? Any particular method?"
To the best of his ability, Bane jerked his head in the direction of his breathing machine and Jo's gaze slowly followed.
"So just…pull the plug?" she crossed the room to examine the machine. "Well that's sort of anticlimactic, isn't it? I was sorta on this revenge arc and…Oh, here it is." She pressed a button and the machine instantly powered down.
/
"When I said you should plan something for Valentine's Day, I meant—like—a nice dinner out or something. Not a walk in the park in freezing-ass-February." Harley complained.
Pam rolled her eyes. "Can you have a little faith, please?"
"But I'm coooolllldddd, Pammy," Harley whined.
"Ugh," the redhead groaned, taking off her scarf and wrapping it around her wife's neck instead. "Did I not instruct you to bring a warmer jacket?"
"Yeesh, alright, Mom," Harley mocked, nuzzling in closer to Pam's side as they walked. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Patience," Pam exhaled, pulling Harley with her off the trail.
The air was crisp and yes, cold, certainly, with a bite to it that only the tail-end of winter could offer. After Woodrue and before Harley, this park was where Ivy would spend her winters, holed up deep in the thickest part of the woods, mourning the deaths of her children as the frost wiped them away, ending their nonconformity and shrouding the once diverse landscape into one uniform winter wasteland.
Of course, winters were different now that she had her human family. She didn't get so lonely anymore or so sad, and when she did they were there to remind her that spring would come again and that new seeds would soon manifest themselves.
Harley grinned as the underbrush cleared out of the way for them, creating a path just as blatant as the main trail, and then covering itself once more as they passed. "That never won't be awesome."
Pam smirked as she led them to the hanging branches of a weeping willow tree. Stopping there and taking a deep breath, she said: "Alright. Even though you had to remind me…I did my best," and with that, she pulled back the branches in front of them, revealing a sheltered alcove lit with candles. The trunk of the willow tree had split off into two distinct bodies, the second one low and flat enough that it resembled a table, on top of which were placed two covered dinner plates.
"Wha…how did you…in the forest," Harley's words stumbled out as she remained slack jawed.
Pam chuckled. "Being married to Poison Ivy would seem to have its perks."
"But the…" Harley took a few steps forward, then turned back around to look at her. "Is there food in there? Did you—how'd you get it all the way out here?"
"OK, don't make fun of me, please," Pam let her skin shift back to its natural green, at home in her surroundings. "But it's takeout. And by take-out, I mean hotdogs from the vendor at the entrance."
Harley's eyes began to fill up with tears. "You bought me a hotdog?"
"I bought you two hotdogs," Pam corrected. "And myself one that I won't like, but that I'll eat anyway because I love you."
"Pammy," Harley wiped a tear away from her eye. "You'd eat a hotdog for me?"
"In the ultimate test of devotion," Pam sighed. "Yes. Happy Valentine's Day."
The blonde flew into her arms, wrapping her into a tight embrace and peppering her face with kisses.
/
Sometimes Damian wondered what it felt like to kiss Poison Ivy.
Just to compare it to how it felt kissing Jolene.
And not because Ivy was her Mother, either…but because he always felt a bit…drunk when he was with Jo in that way…under the influence of something he couldn't quite explain. But it certainly felt nefarious…and perplexing…but mostly just frustrating.
The first time they'd kissed, it'd just felt so right to Damian that he'd panicked briefly, thinking Ivy must have passed down some version of her pheromones to her daughter because it was too perfect to be anything but his last.
But no. He'd lived to kiss her again.
And to fight with her again.
And to yell at her.
And to scold her.
And to smile at her, and to see her smile…
And to kiss her again.
Damian's head was resting on her chest now, between her breasts, basking in the afterglow of…well, he was so happy with the sex they'd just had that he had yet to roll off of her…but he was pretty sure she was still thinking about the satisfaction that came with killing Bane and ending the production of Slappers in Gotham City. Either way, she'd made no move to push him off like usual, and he liked the feeling of her fingers as they absently carded through his hair.
"This? Right here, what you're doing?" Jo broke the silence. "It's called cuddling. You're cuddling me."
Yeah, I know. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," he scoffed, still not moving. "Maybe if you'd heard me when I called for backup, and actually—you know—come to back me up, I wouldn't be so tired."
"Oh, poor baby," Jo mocked, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. "You seemed fine to me when you were starting round two…and finishing it, actually."
"It's a cumulative exhaustion," Damian explained. He felt rather than heard her responding chuckle…and it was some time before she spoke again.
"What's wrong with me, do you think?" she asked.
Damian snorted, propping his chin on her sternum to look up at her. "How much time do you have?"
Jo rolled her eyes before laying her head back on the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. "The first thing I remember my Mom saying to me is that she loved me. That's my earliest memory of her. I love you, Jolene…"
Damian tried to think of his first memory with his Mother…probably her handing him a switchblade and telling him to go work on his close-quarter knife skills. His first image of Selina would forever be emblazoned in his memory, though. His Father had gone outside to speak with his Mother when she'd first dropped him off, and Selina had taken him inside and sat him down at the dining room table before narrowing her eyes at him and asking: "so what's your deal?"
"Vindictive…" Jo was saying. "Her, me, all of us…cuz', see—I knew that the only thing that could hurt them worse than not knowing whether or not I felt loved, was thinking I didn't love myself. Because you know what sort of 15-year-old hooks up with a down on their luck 22-year-old? One with low self-esteem. One who doesn't think they're worth anything better, or one who thinks they don't need a fucking childhood because life is all garbage anyway. I was done being a kid at 15. I knew Jason had taken that away from me, and you know what I thought? Good. That'll teach them."
"Teach who? Your parents?"
"Yeah," Jo confirmed, looking reflective. He supposed this did end a rather significant chapter for her.
Damian cleared his throat, moving off of her to lay on the pillow beside her. "You said you were—triggered when Jason—you know…but you've never been…"
"Raped?" Jo guessed. "Yeah, no. Not directly, at least. But…you know when you're in your VR simulations, and a guy charges at you, and just for a second, you forget that it's not real?"
"I do…"
"OK, well…I've been…VR raped a lot of times," she told him. "And I learned to remind myself it wasn't real a long time ago…but that time—with Jason—I couldn't wake up. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't make-believe…so I panicked…and I hit him. I hit him so many times, Damian. And who's fault is that?"
Damian didn't answer, both because he didn't have an answer and because he'd moved his hand to rest on her stomach, and him talking would more than likely remind them both that their behavior and body positions were atypical and…ugh…affectionate.
"Is it his fault? No, he was high as a fucking kite," Jo continued, working through her own question. "Is it my fault? Is it my Mom's fault? Do I blame the murder of my boyfriend on the fact that my Mom was raped in 1966? No, that doesn't make any fucking sense. But I gotta blame somebody," She exhaled. "Because I'm angry, Damian. I'm really fucking angry. And I have been for so long." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm 19 years old and already so tired. I've lived too much goddamn life already."
"So have I," he murmured.
It was only when she turned to look at him that he realized he'd said that out loud. "What's wrong with me that I would choose someone who blatantly didn't love me over people that always have and always will?"
"I don't see what the big deal is," Damian said, brushing that off. "If you want to be with someone, you want to be with them. That's love. Finding a person that you can tolerate…that's love."
Jo frowned, propping herself up on her elbow. "You don't see what the big deal about love is?"
Damian shrugged. "I have parents that provided for me. That care about me. That's all I need. Just because they've never said they love me doesn't mean I'm at some radical disadvantage."
Jo looked confused. "I'm sorry—what?"
"That's all I need." Damian reiterated. "Someone to tolerate who tolerates me."
"Damian…" Jo began, sounding cautious. "Has no one ever told you they loved you? Not your Dad? not…Selina?"
"No," he intoned. "But I know they respect me. That's what's important."
"Umm…no," Jo sat up a little higher. "I mean—yeah, that's nice. Respect is good, respect is…part of it, but Damian—that word does matter."
"Sure," he shrugged again, this one with a bit more subtlety, a bit less assuredness. "I said it to you, didn't I?"
Jo shook her head. "No, Dude, I don't think you understand." She grabbed his arms and pulled him up to a sitting position, tenderly running her hands up his wrists, his arms, his shoulders…until she was cupping his jaw.
Damian's heart beat faster in his chest as he watched her, the sincerity of her gaze almost difficult to reciprocate.
Jo gently brushed his cheek with her thumb, lightly clearing her throat before saying: "You is smart, you is kind, you is imp—,"
"Oh, fuck you, Jo," Damian smacked her hands away and grabbed the blankets, laying back down and pulling them up to his neck. "You're such a bitch."
Jo was laughing, "oh—no, c'mon," she burrowed under the covers, crawling over him and pressing kisses up his chest and neck until her lips pressed against his ear. "Happy Valentine's Day," she whispered.
"Can you just…say it?" he mumbled.
"Mmm…" he felt her hum against his skin as she came to hover over him, their lips nearly touching. "I love you, Batman." She murmured, letting her lips brush languidly against his. "I love you, Robin." She nipped playfully at his bottom lip. "I love you Damian Wayne." And skimmed her tongue across it afterwards to soothe it. "I love you, داميان الغول."
He made a fist in her hair when he pulled her down into an actual kiss, done with her teasing as he wrapped his other arm around her back and held her tight against him, suddenly wanting desperately to be closer to her. Wanting to feel every inch of her soft skin against his.
It was messy and Damian felt dumb, but he needed it. He would never admit to needing her, but this…seemed somehow essential.
/
Pam's eyes opened slowly to a dark room.
Well…nearly dark. There was light spilling out from the bathroom.
With a small groan of annoyance at having woken up hours before the sun had even graced them with its presence, she turned over onto her other side, meaning to cuddle up next to Harley in hopes that her wife's breathing would lull her back to sleep.
Except for Harley wasn't there. And as Pam's senses came into focus, she found that light wasn't the only thing emanating from the open bathroom door.
She registered a sniffle…a muffled sob…
"Harleen?" Pam called out, sitting up in bed. "Are you OK?"
Harley didn't answer, just sniffed again, louder this time now that she knew Pam was awake.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, the redhead pulled back the blankets and gingerly stepped out of bed, crossing the darkened bedroom towards the light of the bathroom.
"Harl?" she asked again as she pushed the door open wider, revealing her wife sitting on the floor with her back against the toilet, her face stained with tears.
"Honey, what—," Pam yawned. "What's the matter?"
"I—I sat down and I—they don't—I can't," she stammered nonsensically, her throat full from crying. "I can't get up."
Pam's brain was already only functioning at about 50% capacity given the ridiculous hour, and Harley certainly wasn't making it easy on her with her sentence fragments. So, confused, she asked: "why did you sit down?" which really wasn't the right question, but it was the only one that made sense in her head and out her mouth.
"I felt shaky," Harley wiped her eyes. "So I—I thought I'd sit down to let it pass, but it…it didn't…it got worse and I—I can't feel 'em anymore. They're gone."
"What are?"
"I can't feel 'em," Harley repeated. "I can't—they're gone."
And then it clicked. "Harleen, can you not feel your legs?"
Pam took the new tears spilling down her wife's face as confirmation. "I had to sit down—I was shaky…I—I didn't make it. I couldn't make it."
That one decoded itself when Pam kneeled down next to her and the smell of urine hit her nostrils. "Oh—Harl, that's—it's fine, Daffodil." She tried to give her a reassuring look, but her mind was reeling. Harley had been fine and walking around only a few hours ago. She objectively didn't look any older than 55 (despite actually being a decade older), she exercised, she took care of herself…her legs spontaneously failing her didn't make any sense.
"I think the s—s—pell w—w—ore off," Harley was sobbing now, her face red from embarrassment.
Zatanna, you fucking bitch…
"Maybe," Pam gently brushed the hair away from Harley's face and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"
"I didn't want you to s—see."
"Mm," Pam kissed her cheek now and then her lips. "Sweetpea, you're fine. Really. There's no need to be embarrassed. I'm your wife, I'm supposed to be here for you when you need help."
Harley's hands fisted in the fabric of Pam's shirt as she hung her head. "I'm sorry."
"Nonsense," Pam shook her head. "I'm going to draw you a bath, we're going to get you cleaned up, and then I'm going to go speak with Zatanna and try and get to the bottom of this. How does that sound?"
"Don't—leave," Harley pleaded.
Pam shook her head once more, smiling reassuringly. "I happen to have her number in my cellphone. I won't even leave the bathroom if you don't want me to."
"OK," Harley whispered.
Nodding, Pam stood up and turned on the warm water. It would be a moment before the tub was ready, but she didn't exactly want Harley waiting in her urine-soaked pajamas any longer, so she grabbed one of their robes from the back of the door and knelt down next to her once more. "Do you remember how to do this?"
Harley dropped her gaze again, starring at the tile below her. "Yeah."