Chapter Text
Zatanna Zatara is heading home after a show when her phone starts playing one of the jaunty, tinny ringtones it came with. She fumbles taking it out of her purse, fingers slipping on the smooth case. It’s been a long night. A long day before that. If this is a spam call, she’s going to turn her phone to wood and call it done.
“Zatanna here,” she says, trying to sound chipper and perky and not like her feet are killing her and her back is probably a chiropractor’s worst nightmare.
The voice is smooth, deep, with a resonant quality that makes Zatanna think of smoky speakeasies and red velvet and heavy curtains, a voice best described as ‘classic.’ The words, less so. “Do you think you could magically extract kryptonite from Superman’s body without harming him?”
“Uh,” Zatanna says. “Hi, Dinah.”
“Hi,” says Dinah Lance, Black Canary and founding member of the Justice League. “Can you do it?”
“Maybe?” Zatanna says carefully. She can almost hear her frazzled mind giving off sparks as she tries to make it work. “I’ve never actually tied to do magic on kryptonite. Or Superman. I probably couldn’t fuck him up any worse, though.” She hopes. That’s just what she needs, headlines that say ‘Superman dead after a stunning miscalculation by amateur magician.’ “Is this related to that whole bomb threat in Metropolis?” It’s been on the news. The whole thing seemed weird and suspect as hell, which is the only reason Zatanna noticed it. She’s kind of terrible at paying attention to current events.
“Yes,” Dinah says shortly. She sounds, all of a sudden, more exhausted than Zatanna feels, which is saying something.. “Teleport to me - I’m on the Watchtower, and we can use all the help we can get.”
“On my way,” Zatanna says. She pockets her phone and takes a deep breath. “ekaT em ot haniD!”
The farther away she tries to teleport herself, the more power it takes, and the less pleasant the process is. The Watchtower is very far away. The process of getting there is not pleasant. Still, Zatanna trusts her spells more than she trusts the weird technological Frankenstein’s monster the Justice League calls the Watchtower. At least her spells are under her control, and she knows how they work and where they came from. The teleportation system the Watchtower uses has none of those comforts.
A semi-familiar scene pools in around her like maple syrup dripping off a table. Zatanna’s only been to the Watchtower a handful of times. Every time she comes back, there’s new stuff, ranging from updated monitor systems and building material to updated furniture. The Flash is apparently hell on rugs. But they try to keep to a certain scheme every time they update - smooth panels, reflective surfaces, modernist sensibilities. Zatanna might have been in this room before, or she might not have been. She doesn’t really know.
“Sorry for not greeting you better, but I should get you to Superman right away,” Dinah says. Her face is grim, lines of worry and anger and frustration standing out hard in her soft brown skin.
“I understand,” Zatanna says, and follows Dinah through halls and doors that have the same eerie familiar-and-not feel of every other part of the Watchtower. The place gives her the creeps. She doesn’t know how Dinah can stand it.
Well.
Probably because she doesn’t fixate on the architecture to try to suppress mounting panic about using magic as medicine on Superman. Healing isn’t really Zatanna’s specialty. Like all forms of magic, it requires either precise knowledge or raw power to work, and while Zatanna’s got the raw power to spare, healing is still tricky. Delicate. Always works better if you have some kind of knowledge foundation to work off of. Zatanna knows some basics about human anatomy, but Superman isn’t human. Looks human on the outside, sure, but the inside… And kryptonite, what does she know about that? Green space rock that fucks up Superman, that’s it. Oh, she’s going to screw this up. She’s going to screw this up so bad.
“Breathe, Zee,” says Dinah. “And brace yourself.”
She opens a door.
It’s some kind of observation deck, hanging over a medical bay with three empty beds and one full one. Superman is laying on the bed that’s second to the right, all kinds of tubes and wires and hookups threading over and through his body. Zatanna covers her mouth. He looks… really, really bad. There are two people in chairs beside him, their heads bowed. Zatanna doesn’t recognize them. She doesn’t ask. It’s not her business.
“In addition to being held for over a day in the presence of large quantities of kryptonite, he was also stabbed through the hands and chest with kryptonite-coated spikes and made to inhale powdered kryptonite,” Dinah says. She has her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers digging deep into the black leather of her jacket. “It’s probably in his bloodstream, definitely in his lungs, and as long as it’s there he’s not going to be able to get better.”
“Okay,” says Zatanna. Deep breaths. Think about what she’s trying to do. Extract the kryptonite - but what is she trying to do with it? She can’t just pull it out of him - that would cause all kinds of damage. Her best option is to teleport it, but teleport it where? Not into the same room, that won’t help. Into her hat, and microparticles will definitely remain, and she might well make her hat permanently toxic to Superman.
She wants to keep the spell simple. Travel along the path of least resistance. Which would be…
“I think I’ve got it,” Zatanna tells Dinah.
“Go for it,” Dinah says. She pulls a device that looks a little like a cross between a radio, a cellphone, and a praying mantis, and says something into it.
Zatanna doesn’t hear her. She’s already somewhere else, somewhere beyond and somewhere within. Her power. The source and the endpoint. Zatanna feels magic hum through her veins, rushing to her palms and dancing along her fingertips. She takes one more deep breath, and says “etinotpyrK nruter ot ecaps!”
Something yanks, several solar systems away, on the radioactive fragments in Superman’s body. Zatanna feels the pull, and feels the moment when her spell slips into the resonance of like calling to like and the kryptonite vanishes.
Superman begins to glow.
“Uh,” Zatanna says. “I didn’t do that.”
The device in Dinah’s hand chirps. “No negative change observed in Superman’s condition,” says a fluid voice. “Scans indicated decrease in radioactivity.”
“Fucking shit,” Dinah says, in a great exhale. “You did it, Zee.”
“Yay,” Zatanna says. “But, not to be a downer, I mean, but shouldn’t he be getting better? And, also, why is he glowing? I didn’t do that.” Zatanna thinks it’s very important that all parties involved know that she is not responsible for Superman’s fluorescent state.
Dinah pats Zatanna’s shoulder reassuringly. “He does that. It’s a Kryptonian thing,” she says. “And he’s not going to just get better right away. Taking the Kryptonite out is just going to make it less likely that he’ll get worse.”
“Oh. Okay.” That mostly makes sense. Zatanna’s very tired. Possibly she shouldn’t have tried to move herself and a bunch of radioactive alien particles through space immediately after finishing her show for the day. “I’m gonna sit,” she says, and her legs fold underneath her.
Dinah catches her, strong hands beneath Zatanna’s arms. “There you go,” Dinah says. “Maybe you should spend the night here.”
“Oh, sure,” Zatanna says. “Sure. Why not.”
~x~
Bruce doesn’t like being a step behind. He’s not even comfortable being a mere step ahead. Three steps ahead, at least, is his preference. So he is significantly more unhappy than the situation would seem to warrant when Commissioner Gordon calls to tell him that the Joker was found dead in his room at Arkham.
“We haven’t had an autopsy yet,” Gordon says, “but something tells me the cause of death was the bullets that splattered his brains all over the walls.”
“Hrm,” Bruce says. He’s wearing a decadently soft shirt and plaid pajama pants, because Alfred made him change out of the Batsuit when he got back to the manor. Still, it’s easy to slip into the mindset that comes with the armor. It’s less like putting on a costume and more like coming home. “Is there enough left to match dental records?”
“Dental records, fingerprints, and blood,” says Gordon.
“The bullets could be a cover for true cause of death.” He slept fittishly for about an hour, not long after he was kicked out of the Watchtower. Diana said that he would do no good hovering, and apparently he was projecting stress and fear so loudly it was making J’onn feel ill. Bruce’s adrenaline rush was starting to fade and going for over a day without so much as a five-minute nap was catching up with him, so there wasn’t much he could do besides try to get some rest.
But his sleep was far from restful, and the fourth time he jerked awake after dreaming about being trapped in an elevator that was plummeting into the sea, he decided to give up on that. He’s been reviewing all the files he has on Clark’s biology, looking for things they might have missed, things that could save or damn him. Commissioner Gordon’s call would almost be a welcome distraction, except that Bruce doesn’t typically welcome distractions, and especially not distractions based around the knowledge that someone had been stalking the Joker with the intent to kill and Bruce hadn’t known about it.
He focuses on that mystery rather than the swirling maelstrom of feelings surrounding the Joker’s death and the present circumstances. He knows mysteries. He can lose himself and everything else in them.
“We’ll check in the official autopsy. It was quick, whatever killed him. The killer was in and out in a matter of minutes, and there’s no sign of a struggle.” Gordon exhales heavily. “I’m going to have to ask you not to touch this one.”
Bruce can almost hear the sound of a record scratching as his investigation plans screech to a halt. “What,” he says.
“You and the Joker are too linked in the public eye. There’s going to be people who think you killed him. I know you didn’t,” Gordon says quickly, as if he thought he’d need to cut off Batman’s protestations, “but if you get involved, it won’t go well for anyone.”
Bruce can see the logic of Gordon’s request.
That does not make him like it. “Unofficially,” he begins.
“No,” Gordon says. “I want this done as clean and official as possible. I’m sorry, Batman, but I won’t help you, and if you try to investigate on your own, you might very well make things worse.”
He should be on this. The Joker was his problem. He made the Joker what he was, in many ways, providing an image for the Joker to reverse. The Joker has been hurting people with the intent to get to Batman for years. To step back from his death, to deny him the kind of investigation Batman would undertake for anyone else killed under these circumstances…
It would almost be like…
(Like he wants the killer to get away with it because Bruce wanted the Joker to be dead.)
“Understood,” Bruce says. He hangs up.
Organize steps. Figure out a course of action. Do not process emotions. Do not acknowledge emotions.
He needs to contact Diana. Tell her the Joker is no longer an issue. Have her pass the information on to Harley and Ivy. Then he should tell Selina. He’s not sure why, but he feels that she should know. And then…
A step at a time. Keep moving.
~x~
“But he’s really gone,” Harley says. It’s not the first time she’s asked. Not even the fourth. He’s haunted her for so long, been around every corner and hidden on the backs of her eyelids. She’s only known him a few years. It feels like he’s always been there. Like he was inevitable. Waiting for her to fall into him.
And now he’s dead.
“He has perished,” confirms Diana. She’s being so patient. Not getting mad that Harley’s just saying the same thing over and over. She tilts her head, birdlike, a mannerism that Aella shares. It means she’s trying to think of how to appropriately phrase something. “Would it grant you closure to see his remains?”
Ivy is holding tight to Harley’s right hand. It’s the only thing keeping Harley from feeling like she’s left her body completely. She thinks about Diana’s words, maybe for a minute, maybe for an eternity. The scene doesn’t change. No one moves or tries to rush her. “Not closure,” Harley says finally. “I dunno where I could get that from. If it’s even real. But… I think I gotta. Or I’ll regret it, yanno? Always wonder if he’s really gone.”
She’s going to wonder that no matter what. Seeing the Joker’s body will just give her something to fight the doubts with.
“I understand,” Diana says. “I will speak with Batman and arrange for you to see the body.”
“Thank you,” Harley blurts. “For everything. For the clothes and the counselling and lettin’ us stay and all the things you’ve done for us even though you don’t hardly know me.” She wants to keep going, but stops herself, holds her tongue in case in thanking Diana she’s made her realize just what a bad decision she made letting Harley onto the island in the first place.
“These actions are not deserving of gratitude,” Diana says. “To provide for women in need is a sacred Amazon obligation.” The way she says the word reminds Harley not of begrudging vows and unhappily owed debts, but of mitzvot. Commandments accepted in faith. Hallowed duty.
Harley ducks her head and sort-of shrugs. “Well, I want you to know I appreciate it, ‘s all,” she says, much quieter than before.
“I would place my hand on your shoulder, if you would allow it,” Diana says.
“Go for it,” Harley says.
Diana rests a broad, callused palm on Harley’s shoulder. It’s like being touched by a statue or a pillow or a statue covered in a pillow - Diana does not give off body heat, but there is a solid reassurance to her. “Your time here does not have to be at a close simply because the man who pursued you has died. You are welcome to stay for the rest of your life, if you so desire. And the same is true for you, Ivy,” Diana says, inclining her head.
“Oh,” Ivy says. She squeezes Harley a little tighter. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Harley says. She feels dizzy. Giddy, too. “I dunno if I wanna take you up on living here forever, but… It’s real good to know I got options.”
“Of course,” Diana says. “There is no rush for you to choose, nor need for any decision you make to be final. Themyscira’s shores will always be open to you.”
And the thing is, Harley thinks she’s starting to believe it.