She's watched him for a long time. Waiting, wondering. But she's never approached him, it's not in her to be the instigator. So when he comes to her late one evening she's only a little surprised, after all they are the same, aren't they.
His cape billows around him and his profile against the backdrop of the night sky nearly takes her breath away. His voice is low and deep, as if he's telling her a secret.
"I need dance lessons."
The question surprises her, but she smiles a response and agrees. Where she is from, the mating ritual is less about courting and more about necessity, but she figures she'll allow herself to be wooed by him.
So when he steps on her toe as she leads him through a slow waltz she can't help but laugh and say, "This is going to take a lot more than one lesson to make you graceful."
He blushes and she thinks it is the most adorable thing she's ever seen.
"As many as it will take," is his curt reply.
And so it begins. Not every night, but at least twice a week, usually three or four times he is standing on her balcony, or on a mountaintop or in the jungle and she is teaching him how to foxtrot, how to salsa, how to do a tango.
She feels herself slowly falling. Slowly, oh so painfully slow, like the fall right before you die. But he is shy, and besides a hand on her waist and another clutching her hand in his, there is little contact.
One evening, nearly three months after their first dance lesson he is leading her through a samba and his breath is on her neck and his chest is massive in front of her and when he turns his head she kisses him, full on the lips. It takes her a moment to realize that everything has stood still and so has he. He is not responding, and there is a shattering and a rush of wind that comes in to sweep away all the pieces.
When she finally pulls back his whole body has gone tense, but he is still holding her hand when he says, "Oh, Diana."
Part of her wants to cry, or at least show how hurt she is; but the part of her that is a princess, the part of her that is a warrior smiles and says, "There are just some things you have to do once before you die," she shrugs her shoulders helplessly, "Kiss Superman is one of them."
His smile is relieved and he looks away and says, "I think this is the last dance."
She nods her head, he has been a quick learner and if she'd been willing she could have told him that weeks ago.
"Thank you," he says, slowly, before he turns and flies away. She watches him leave, and she looks at the sky until he is no more than a tiny dot and even then she does not stop looking.
It isn't until two weeks later. She is in a ridiculous dress that allows little room for movement, her hair is swept up and there is a beautiful gem stone necklace at her throat. She sees him. But he does not see her. He is walking across the floor, but not towards her. His eyes are riveted and he is determined. It is a look that she rarely sees when Kal-El is in his alternate persona. He is content to play the weak, simple Clark Kent; but right now in his tuxedo and walking straight he is more Superman than Clark.
Her breath holds for a moment when she sees the brunette he is walking towards. The reporter. The one he is always saving. She'd never considered her before, never thought much about her, except to admire the fight that she was part of.
But in a hip hugging red dress and a sly smile on her face she thinks that Lois Lane is indeed a beautiful woman, and she is not surprised when Kal-El approaches her. The reporter is startled, as though weighing his audacity against the broad shoulders that fill out his suit jacket. He says something low that makes her laugh and she shrugs her shoulders and nods.
But as Kal-El leads her to the dance floor Diana overhears her say, "But if you step on my foot again I'll deck you."