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John’s apartment—she supposed it was a flat, here in England—in Liverpool was nicer than Zatanna had expected it to be. “A parting gift from Commander Waller,” he explained as he walked in behind her, setting her valise down on the floor. He put his hands lightly on her hips from behind and kissed her cheek. “Home sweet home, if you like it.”There were two bedrooms. One was theirs, to be shared; the other would be where Rachel would live, once she came home from the hospital. Her injuries, both physical and psychological, were more than any of them could treat in a domestic setting. She would just need a bit of time to patch herself up, was all.It was hard to believe that the war was over—she’d spent the last decade hiding in plain sight, being used and abused by Duela Dent, trying to escape from and defeat the Third Reich. In the end, the long arm of history extended toward some sense of justice, and the Allied Powers were victorious. But Zatanna didn’t feel like she had much to celebrate.On the kitchen table was a brown envelope tied with a string and stamped “CLASSIFIED,” no doubt courtesy of Amanda Waller. She and John approached it together, and he made the first move to open it. Inside the envelope were papers—birth certificates and medical records and educational transcripts and passports. A marriage registration and adoption papers. John Constantine, Anna Constantine, Rachel Constantine. According to the paperwork, they were all British citizens. Her new name was Anna, she supposed, because her true given name was far too conspicuous; they had expressed a desire for something approaching a normal life, after all. Still, it seemed strange to be taking on an entirely new identity.John must have seen the uncertainty on her face, for he took her hand and kissed it. “A rose by any other name, love,” he murmured. “It’s just a name.”“It’s just a name,” she echoed, her English still just a bit too accented to be convincing. She’d been fluent for years, but if you listened closely—as far too many people might—you could tell she was a foreigner. The very idea of being stateless, nationless, adrift in a sea of people who would sell her out for a few coins terrified her. Being a Jew, being Roma… the war was over, yes, but that didn’t mean an end to what they’d done to her and her people.“I don’t think I know how to live a normal life, John,” she whispered suddenly, holding back the tears that were catching in the back of her throat. “I can’t remember it.”He moved toward her, enveloping her in his arms and kissing her hair. “The two of us, Zee, we ain’t normal. Neither is Rachel, no matter how hard any of us might want it. So let’s not have a normal life, yeah? Let’s just have a good one.”She buried her face into his chest and let the tears begin to fall in silence, taking a deep breath in. His shirt, his coat, his skin—they all smelled like his signature Silk Cuts, and she inexplicably started laughing to herself.John pulled back and cocked an eyebrow, brushing away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t tell me you’re losing it now, sweetheart.”Zatanna shook her head and smiled sadly. “I was just remembering when you came to the club. It was like you thought I wouldn’t recognize you.”He shrugged, playing it cool. “Nah. Just hoped none of chorus girls would. And maybe a couple of the boys in the band, as well.”She chuckled. “You’re horrible.”He leaned forward to kiss her forehand. “Never to you, though.”She closed her eyes and breathed in the Silk Cut scent again. “No,” she admitted. “Never to me.”He once again snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Can you believe, though—we missed our own wedding?”“What?”Nodding over to the papers on the table, he whispered a quick incantation that she couldn’t quite make out, and the radio in the corner started playing a slow, instrumental standard. “The marriage certificate was signed quite a while ago. After Paris was liberated, I believe.”Zatanna furrowed her brow. “We weren’t even in Paris during the liberation. Diana led that mission.”John shrugged. “Well, who are we to get caught up in the details? It’s just a shame we missed the wedding. And the honeymoon, of course. But I figure, now that it’s all said and done, we ought to have our first dance. I know it’s not so traditional, and it’s not anything grand, but—”Whatever it was that came over her, she couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but she cut him off without warning, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Slowly, they began to kiss and sway in time to the melody, the sweet, warm sounds of the bass and the clarinet surrounding them, filling the room.He was right—it wasn’t traditional. There was no white gown; it was likely they couldn’t afford it. There were no family and friends; their families were long gone, and their friends had affairs of their own to take care of. There was no chuppah; the idea of having one, as much as it warmed her heart to imagine John and herself standing beneath one, making unbreakable, holy vows, still made her think about the risks of being caught, even though the risks were nonexistent now. And there was no stomping on glass, though she supposed that could be arranged at any point. So no, it wasn’t traditional. And yes, they were in a solidly middling quality flat in Liverpool. But it was, if she had to describe it, singularly precious to her.They hardly moved once they finally broke apart, choosing instead to touch foreheads while they attempted to catch their breath. “I think it smells too fresh in here,” she said suddenly, clearly surprising him.“Oh?” he asked, uncertain but ever so curious. After all, neither of them would have actually described the smell as fresh.Zatanna nodded, allowing her hand to drift to his chest and worry at his shirt collar. “Yes. I think it should smell like something else.”His fingers played with the waistband of her skirt. “And just what did you have in mind, wife of mine?”She undid the first few buttons on his shirt, exposing a triangle of hair on his firm, surprisingly well-muscled chest. “Bashert,” she replied, and his eyes danced at the use of the term of endearment, “I think we both know that it should smell like English tobacco.”