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Christmas at Wayne Manor, first year of college
“The idea is that we kiss, I believe,” Zatanna says, to an expressionless Bruce Wayne, standing in front of her, examining the mistletoe above them with a certain distrust.
“Alfred usually puts this thing in the opposite wing of the mansion,” Bruce says. “Near the pool table.”
“Oh,” Zatanna raises her eyebrows, shaking the ice cubes in her drink a little bit. “As far as turndowns go, that wasn’t too bad, I guess.”
Bruce looks upset all of a sudden. “I wasn’t—”
“Bruce Wayne, it’s all right,” she lifts a gloved hand up and laughs. “You’ve probably got a girl or two waiting for you somewhere in these walls, and I’d rather not incur their wrath. We’ll catch up later, like we always do.”
She pinches his chin between her fingers and places a gentle kiss on his cheek, brushing past without turning back. He smells like traces of cloves and soft pine, summers worth of teenage memories and a sadness that’s ice-permanent. Zatanna knows who Bruce is. He’s never going to change, and she’s okay with that, really.
At the bar, Alfred serves her another sparkling punch and asks her how her father’s been recently.
Christmas at a Gotham members club, after Zatanna Zatara’s first solo show
Zatanna isn’t sure how many drinks she’s had, but she sure as hell is glad that Dad's gone back to Shadowcrest at this point, with the car-full of flowers, congratulatory cards, champagne bottles that’ll last them until next Christmas.
She’s always been aware of the fact that her father was by all accounts famous, but she’s never equated the fact that his circle of acquaintances would amount to a massive outpouring of support for, well—her.
It’s certainly past midnight at this point, when she bumps into someone in a black suit and a black turtleneck under the dim lights of the club.
Black on black. Cloves and pine. Ice-still silence. She looks up, unsurprised by who’s looking back.
“Hey, you,” she says, awkwardly patting the collar of Bruce’s turtleneck.
He smiles, uncharacteristically easily. Maybe she’s not the only one who’s had one too many tonight.
“I tried looking for you after your show, but you were swarmed with fans.”
“Oh, you did?” Zatanna asks, slightly more surprised than she intended.
Bruce is still smiling, which is—the longer it stays on, the more it seems genuine, which is another thing she’s not ready to unpack just yet. “Yeah. I really wanted to congratulate you. Great show, Zee. Your father must’ve been proud.”
She rolls her eyes, brushing a hand through her hair. “Can everyone stop talking about Dad?”
He laughs, nodding. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t think you’d come, actually,” she says, immediately regretting it as she’s met with a frown. Why did she say that?
Bruce goes quiet for a moment, but seems to swallow whatever retort was about to come out, and instead points at the mistletoe dangling above them. Oh. Zatanna didn’t see that.
“Are you trying to drag me into the front pages of Gotham’s tabloids?” Zatanna folds her arms, with little resolve.
He shrugs, adjusting his cufflinks before stepping forward. “It does get a little lonely being the only regular there. I miss the company. I miss yours, Zee.”
Zatanna doesn’t know what in god’s name Bruce has been up to for the past three years or so. He seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet, before re-materializing out of thin air this year without so much as a call or a text to her.
So no, Bruce doesn’t get to walk up to her and tell her that he’s missed her, but it doesn’t stop her from kissing him, anyway, teeth-and-all.
Christmas with the Justice League, year one
“Woah, wait! You two know each other? Like, behind the mask and everything?” Flash asks, speeding towards the two of them, wearing a Santa hat with a little bell on the end that jingles as it moves.
Zatanna nods, smiling. Meanwhile, Batman doesn’t so much as move a muscle. “We do, indeed. We’re good friends, aren’t we?”
Bruce still doesn’t respond. Joining the Justice League has tested out the limits of their friendship in a lot of ways, as Zatanna’s learned that the two of them don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on a lot of things when it comes to making judgment calls.
It’s definitely been a learning curve, but also a pretty exciting one. Bruce turns into a completely different person under the cowl, yet remains that steadfast, kind boy, she’s always known, with unwavering morals and that colour of sadness that won’t ever wash away.
In the end, this new thing has brought them closer than a lifetime of blissful summer memories will ever bring them. Zatanna also doesn’t take lightly the fact that she’s the only one privy to the man behind the mask.
Come on, Bruce, you know I won’t tell, she said. I connected the dots when I found out that you were at Nanda Parbat all those years ago, when you left Gotham. It all made sense then, why we had a new vigilante in town, why Alfred’s lies kept on getting worse every time I called asking whether you were in.
Zatanna, I—
Full name? Wow. Way to make a girl feel like she’s in trouble. You need to stop treating me like a kid, Bruce.
You do it, too.
What? Treat you like a kid?
Yes, Bruce replied. It’s why I’m vulnerable when I’m around you.
“Well, if you guys are such good friends, then you won’t have a problem with this,” Flash says, before zipping away and back in the blink of an eye with mistletoe over them. “I kind of made a bet with the rest of the team that I’d be able to get Batsy to kiss someone under the mistletoe. Hope you don’t mind, they’re all betting against me.”
“Well, we can’t have you losing, now,” Zatanna says, patting Flash on the shoulder. “Batman?”
Zatanna thinks for a moment that Bruce is going to do one of those Bruce Wayne things and go ice-cold with no warning, whatsoever. She’s pleasantly surprised, then, when he turns his cheek to the side, inviting her in for a quick kiss on his cowl.
She shouldn’t be as turned on by this as she is. It’s embarrassing, but then Bruce does that Batman thing and disappears into thin air the second they look away.
Zatanna turns to Flash and says, “I taught him that.”
Christmas at a vague basement lair about to explode, with the Joker
Bruce leans in from the chair across from Zatanna; both of them bound with their mouths taped shut. He’s managed to push the tape off his lips partly, enough that he’s able to rip off hers with his teeth.
“Sepor dnibnu,” she says, as they both stand up, finally free.
“Time to defuse the bomb,” Bruce says, looking up at the mysterious, giant gift-wrapped box descending from the ceiling.
“How do you know that’s a bomb?” Zatanna asks, nervously. “I mean, it could be just a giant present.”
Joker’s laughter starts echoing through the crevices of these basement tunnels. “Oh, it’s a bomb!”
After a beat, the wrapping on it pops open to reveal a fully lit-up, definitely-a-bomb shaped like a giant mistletoe, staring down at them.
“Really,” Bruce growls.
“I feel like this is getting a little bit cruel,” Zatanna says, as Bruce is already scanning the bomb for its schematics and she tries to think of the best spells to contain this explosion in the event of an apocalyptic Christmas.
Christmas at Shadowcrest mansion, the week of Giovanni Zatara’s death
“Zee,” Bruce says on the doorstep of Shadowcrest, with a bouquet of white roses and a black suit that looks even darker than usual. “I came as soon as I found out.”
She falls into his arms and melts like snow; for once, Bruce’s ice-still resolve is what saves her, keeps her from losing it entirely. She sobs into Bruce’s chest, steady and warm, and feels his big, heavy hands, stroking her hair gently.
Eventually, she lifts her head, held very gently in between his hands, as they look at each other in a way they haven’t done in years, since they both decided that it was a bad idea.
And this could be—a very bad idea, but it’s the only one she knows and trusts.
She kisses Bruce Wayne, desperate and certain, until it’s too cold for them to stay outside for the rest of the evening.
*
Bruce stays put for rest of the week, keeping Zatanna warm through the deathly blizzards and the relentless snow. On Christmas morning, she wakes up to the rustling sounds of a coat at the door and footsteps approaching the bedside. She smells the pine and cloves, this time coated with the sweet scent of mocha and toasted marshmallows.
“Good morning,” Bruce says, leaning over the bed.
She peels her eyes open, rubbing her face. “You know, most people who successfully sneak out of bed undetected don’t typically come back saying ‘Good morning’.”
“I bought you a marshmallow mocha. Your favourite,” Bruce says, pointing at the steaming cup decorated with white stars.
“We do have a coffee maker downstairs,” Zatanna smiles, trying not to sound unappreciative as she sits up to pick it up.
“It’s ancient,” Bruce points out. “Also, I wouldn’t have been able to get you a present on the way.”
“Spontaneous and thoughtful,” she says. “You’re on a winning streak. One more and I'd say you're trying to make up for something.”
Bruce places a beautifully ornate gift box on the table, with glittering blue bows and deep purple wrapping paper, flecked with streaks of gold. Zatanna opens it with a whisper of a spell as it unwraps itself, revealing a beautifully decorated wooden box, with their family crest etched onto it, and the letters ‘Zatanna Zatara’ written in fine black ink at the bottom.
Inside the box, she finds Dad’s old deck of cards, sitting inside the gorgeous velvet interior, where it fits like a glove.
“I remember when Giovanni taught me my first card trick—the first of many lessons over the years. He was a brilliant man, Zee, who loved you so much. He told me that this deck has been in the family for hundreds of years, so now it’s yours. He also said that if anyone could make an old deck of cards reveal new tricks, it’s you.”
Zatanna’s crying again now, reaches for Bruce’s hand on the edge of the bed and starts “I—”
“For once, allow me to interrupt you instead. You’ve always been there for me. You’re my best friend. I may not always show you how much you mean to me, so this is me trying to make sure you know.”
Zatanna finds a warmth in this moment, which she thought she’s lost forever; that warmth is in this coffee cup; in the glow of this ancient deck, brimming with magic; in Bruce Wayne’s eyes, which soak up the world’s burdens like a sponge, including now, hers.
It’s no longer entirely sad, she realizes. She finds a depth there, which she’s curious and excited to explore, so she seals this new promise with a kiss before it goes away.
“I know,” she says. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”
“Merry Christmas, Zee.”