Standard disclaimers apply. This is a fanfic.
Erato
The twenty-sixth of June. Eleven has struck.
The Batman is standing before the graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne, a statue of black marble before the headstones.
But to be immobile does not mean to be unaware. Keen senses pick up the sound of billowing cloth; his crossed arms fall to his sides surreptitiously, hidden under the folds of his cape in readiness.
The crunch of sandals on the gravel path behind him, then the muted sound of grass under leather, then from the right the voice of the woman who has come to stand beside him.
"Bruce."
He says nothing, but he knows that she can tell he is no longer at battle-readiness. There is no need for him to be braced for combat; a trusted colleague is she, a teammate and a valued friend.
She is Diana of Themyscira. Wonder Woman.
The most beautiful woman in the world.
xxx
This is the first time Bruce has seen her dressed in this way, instead of the armor she wears in battle against those who would do the world evil, in defense of Truth, Justice, Peace, and Love.
A white peplos belted with a gold zone, made to fit to her athletic body closely by a gold strophion. A gold fibula holds two edges of a large white chlamys together, forming a hood that barely conceals the tiara of the Themysciran princess, the rest of the chlamys a cloak falling down to her ankles. On her arms are the steel Bracelets of Submission, on her left hip is the coiled Lasso of Truth; instead of her boots, she is wearing leather kothurnos, fastened up her shapely calves.
She is even more radiant than he likes to admit, even to himself. His annoyance vanishes the second he realizes that she is dressed in the mourning clothes of the Amazons, when the proud race of warrior women come together to remember the fallen.
Or, to stand together with comrades-in-arms when they remember their own.
The respect humbles Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha.
He who is the Batman.
xxx
A heartbeat passes by. A moment. A moment more.
The wind picks up, throwing back Diana's hood, and her cloak lifts slightly to expose her bare shoulders.
There are two small wreaths in her hands.
Diana kneels gracefully, and she takes a while to brush her fingers against each stone, murmuring soft words to her gods. She lays a wreath atop the stem of the red rose on each headstone.
Each wreath is a complex weave of cypress and olive, in which is entwined rosemary, cedar, mistletoe, crowned with a lily braided with juniper, boxwood, and spruce. The intricacy impresses the master detective; the thoughtfulness behind the meaning of the wreaths staggers the man.
With him I mourn you, may you be at peace. Your memory gives him strength against adversity, and his protection of the innocent is a beacon of hope to us all.
Bruce is touched to the heart; the stoic bearing of the Batman becomes even more imposing.
Diana steps back to stand beside Bruce once more. The breeze freshens and the couple are bathed in the brilliance of moonlight; white cloak and black cape dance forward like fumbling fingers, like hands hesitating to clasp each other.
An Amazon does not hesitate.
With her left hand she takes Bruce's right to hold gently between them; Diana leans on his shoulder, her touch offering respect, sympathy, understanding.
Perhaps even love.
The Batman eases his hand away, not meeting Diana's questioning - disappointed? - gaze. Firmly, but with great care, his arm goes over her shoulders, a gloved hand holding her close. The white cloak seemingly disappears as the black cape covers them both.
Diana is warm against him; even through his armor Bruce can feel her. She is strong and gentle; he cannot resist, and holds her tenderly in return. Her breathing is even; he cannot resist, and he breathes her in.
The Batman breaks the silence. "I have to go."
"I know. Patrol. The city needs you." Diana knows this is not the time for her to speak of her need for him.
She also knows he knows it. Still, Diana waits until his arm lets go of her shoulders, and waits for Bruce to step away.
"Come with me." Diana is surprised. A rush of warmth goes through her body. "Of course."
Together they walk out of the cemetery, towards the black beast of a car that seemed to arrive from out of nowhere. The canopy slides open noiselessly, and from opposite sides of the Batmobile, Diana and Bruce lock eyes, blue eyes to white lenses.
"Thank you."
Sequel to "Coronach" (but can also stand apart from it), and also inspired by Kipling-Bunny's "Fade Together."
Go read them.