Chapter 2: World's Greatest Detective
One month later
Despite being the textbook definition of a 'morning person,' Diana disliked sunrise lectures. Especially on Fridays. Especially on this Friday. It was the students, in her experience. With undergraduates, it was either plain old fatigue or a hangover. They didn't raise their hands, didn't answer questions, didn't laugh at the obligatory opening jokes. She was lucky if they bothered to remove the little white earbuds while she spoke.
The first collegiate lecture she ever delivered was at Howard University in Washington D.C., 1976. Enthusiastic, activist-minded students who'd hung on every word as she discussed the feminist archetypes of Greco-Roman myth and literature. She could still remember the unseasonably hot weather that spring. And the flags - so many flags. '76 had been The Bicentennial, the 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, and D.C. was awash in parades and flags and silly Uncle Sam hats.
She was not in America now, though. She was in the middle of delivering a presentation to a crowd of students at the King's College in London. It was a favor for a friend hers on faculty in the Classics department, and her mandate was to simply occupy ninety minutes of time. That was all she'd been able to beg off from her museum job, where a tornado of scandal was already brewing.
She'd worry about that later.
She was the most formally-dressed person in the room, with a tailored blue skirt suit over a creamy cotton blouse. Her considerable volume of hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon and she wore thick-framed, non-prescription glasses to complete the look. She looked like a strikingly attractive librarian and nothing like Wonder Woman, which was the point.
She'd chosen a lecture based on a piece she'd recently acquired as a curator for the Louvre in Paris. Diana and Endymion was widely considered an early masterpiece of the legendary painter Jean-Honoré Fragonard. Though she was not partial to the muted, gauzy rococo style that dominated French art of the period, she had a keen interest in the subject matter. The trick, as always, was sparking that same interest in the students.
The projector that displayed her presentation had more in common with the technology in a modern cinema than the typical setup of a university lecture hall. Perfect clarity, down to the smallest detail. The class was looking at an ultra-high resolution reproduction of Fragonard's masterpiece. The shepherd boy, Endymion, sleeping in the shelter of a cave under the adoring gaze of the goddess Diana, herself accompanied by the cherubic Cupid aiming his famed bow at the unaware mortal. Diana stepped from behind the offset lecturer's podium to stand front and center. She gestured grandly at the overhead display.
"What's going on here?" she asked, her voice projecting loudly over the entire room. "What's happening in this painting? Any takers?"
It was a good question. She wondered what it would even look like to a bored nineteen-year-old. Not much, apparently. Though she was gratified to see that some of them were at least looking up from their assorted screens.
She walked slowly as she talked, covering the breadth of the lecture theatre. When possible, she tried to make eye contact with the students. "It's okay, I'll start. The first thing I notice about this piece is the use of color. You might recognize the clash of warm and cool hues. Endymion and his sheep bear the reddish-yellow tones of earth and mortality. The goddess Diana, by contrast, is painted in the pale blues of the moonlit sky, a splash of red on her cheeks. This juxtaposition is a tried and true formula for visual impact- and if you've ever wondered why all movie posters look the same, this technique is largely responsible.
"I could talk about the other aesthetic virtues demonstrated here, but this is not an art lecture per se. I'm. . . more interested in the myth behind this piece, and not just because I happen to share a name with the goddess Diana."
This earned her a smattering of chuckles, a success in her book.
"In this interpretation of the myth, the goddess falls in love with the beautiful Endymion when she spies him sleeping in a cave one night. Zeus, or Jupiter, was certainly not the only god with an affinity for mortals. For Diana, though, this is not mere eros. She is actually a chaste goddess, condemned to unrequited love. Pure, platonic love. She places a kiss on the closed eyes of Endymion and with this, he is cast into eternal sleep and eternally unconsummated adoration. Like Zeus, Diana could be a bit of an ass."
She earned a lot more laughs at this line. Score another one. She was surveying the room, happy to wait for the laughter to subside when she saw him.
What?
Unless her false lenses deceived her, that was Bruce Wayne seated in the back row. The billionaire was alone, No phone, no laptop. In his black turtleneck, chinos, and dress boots, he could have passed as a particularly attractive professor. He was looking right at her, a knowing smile on his face despite his relaxed posture. Gods he looks good.
"Umm." Diana lost her train of thought for a moment. What is he doing here? "It. . .strikes me that this might be an opportune moment to take questions."
A smattering of hands shot up. Diana immediately picked the first one she saw. "Yes, in front?"
The girl she'd called on said, "I'm confused- if she loves him so much, why doesn't she just. . ." the girl turned red as she struggled to finish the question.
"Why doesn't she just act on her desires?" Diana finished. "Why doesn't she just make her way into that cave and give him a proper introduction?"
The girl gave a self-conscious laugh. "Well, yeah. Sorry, it's if that's a stupid question."
Diana leaned forward on her podium. "Thank you for getting the conversational ball rolling. I think it's the exact opposite of a stupid question. I don't know that the interpretation of myth has a single correct answer, but I can tell you what speaks to me." She paused to collect her thoughts. "The answer to your question, in my mind, is a bit of a paradox. On the one hand, gods and mortals are distinct. This is what dooms Diana's love. She's fallen for a mortal man-".
She couldn't resist back toward her surprise visitor. Though unintentional, the discussion had taken an eerily relevant path. His body language was relaxed but she could feel his eyes on her from across the lecture hall.
"The goddess has. . .fallen for a mortal," she continued, flushing despite the cool air. "But such a union could never enjoy the blessing of gods or men. She would lose him. Inevitably. Frozen in time while he aged and died. Her heart would break for eternity, a wound that time itself could not heal. The risk is too great. So rather than risk that loss, she immortalizes his beauty with a kiss. A selfish act. And, paradoxically, a very human act. I think that for the Greeks and Romans, the gods' differences are illusory. They are vulnerable to the same passions and vices as humans." Her smile saddened as she thought of Steve Trevor. "And sometimes, humans can possess virtues equal to the gods themselves."
The girl was positively enraptured. "Wow," she breathed. "That's so deep."
"Of course it's just my interpretation," Diana said, breaking the rapt silence that had descended over the hall. "What do all of you think? What meaning does Fragonard take from this myth? What meaning do you take from it?"
A dozen more hands shot up. Class was finally in session.
By the end of a spirited round of student-led discussion, Diana was practically prying the undergrads out of their seats. All in all, the lecture had gone much better than she expected. She should be enjoying that. Reveling in it.
Instead, she was a bundle of nerves. In the two weeks since seeing Bruce in Gotham, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. They'd parted on amiable but undeniably charged terms, and a part of her ached from the lack of closure. It was crazy that half a world away he'd had such a profound effect on her. They'd never so much as kissed. She'd imagined a return to Gotham the next time her schedule permitted. Maybe even dinner with Bruce in the downtown restaurant district.
And now he'd shown up out of the blue here in London.
Both of their eyes followed the last student's exit in tandem, the theatre door closing with a soft whoosh of displaced air. They were alone.
She cleared her throat. Busied herself packing up her laptop and notes into a leather portfolio briefcase as Bruce rose, made his way to the center aisle, and began to walk toward her.
Go on then, Bruce. I'll be damned if I speak first.
He trotted down the last few steps to her level, ocean-blue eyes dancing playfully. At that moment it was impossible to imagine him as the caped crusader. Without Alfred by his side, he didn't even look like Bruce Wayne. Though it occurred to her that perhaps he looked the same as he always did and she was just seeing him in a different light.
"Hi professor, I just wanted to know if this was going to be on the final exam."
She gawked at him. "Are you serious?"
"It's just-I really need this class to graduate and-"
"Bruce!" He was having far too much fun for a man who hadn't called her in a month. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He thought for a moment. "Here as in this room, or 'here' as in London?"
"Both. Either, I don't. . ." She tried to calm her racing mind. "I'm just surprised to see you out of the blue is all. Do you have some business in Europe or something?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Bruce Wayne business or, you know. . ." She made matching bat ears with her fingers.
He laughed so hard he had to put a fist to his mouth. "Wow, Diana. No, this is strictly Bruce Wayne business, with any luck."
She came around the podium. There were very few women in the world who could look Bruce Wayne squarely in the eye, but she was one of them. "You've barely messaged me since Gotham. Then you have a trip planned across the pond and you don't even let me know?"
He had the decency to look somewhat chagrined. "I've been pretty busy-and I'm sorry about that. Yesterday I called for you at the Louvre, but they said you were currently working out of the British Museum. So I called their Antiquities department and was told you were delivering a guest lecture at King's College. Which I obviously had to see for myself." He paused. "I have to say I never could have imagined that side of you. It was a great presentation, professor."
"I am not a professor," she said. "Just a guest lecturer. But thank you for the compliment."
He checked his watch, a classic Omega brand timepiece rather than one of the screen-based fitness tracker gizmos his company was known for. "So what does the rest of your Friday look like?"
She smiled inwardly. "I have a lightspeed lunch if I'm lucky. Then meetings all afternoon. Work troubles."
A nod of commiseration. "My sympathies. And the evening?"
"No standing plans."
"And here I was looking for someone to show me around the city."
She tingled at the words but wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook. "It sounds like you're in need of a tour guide. I can recommend several good ones in the area."
"Ouch. And just so I'm clear: in the logic of this joke you have personal contact information for not one, but several, tour guides in your own city?"
"You are the world's greatest detective," she said as they walked out onto the quad. It was a gorgeous day, somewhere in the seventeen or eighteen Celsius range. The late morning sky over London was the perfect mix of cloud and clear-the perfect antidote to artificial auditorium lighting.
"Indeed I am. In fact, I am detecting right now that you would love nothing more than to meet an old friend at a splendid little jazz spot in Camden Town. Say, 7 pm?"
She stole a glance from the corner of her eye as they strolled side by side down the broad walkway. What did that mean? The invitation sounded very much like a date. It felt like one too, walking side by side, her arm brushing his every other stride. On the other hand, he hadn't called for an entire month after she'd rejected his invitation to consult on a new permanent headquarters for the team. And that 'old friend' bit stuck in her mind like a pebble in a tennis shoe.
She went the noncommittal route. Camden Town? "Now Bruce, I thought you didn't know London."
"Never said that." He slowed his pace as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. "Though I don't know this campus at all. Where are we going, by the way?"
"I'm going to the parking lot to find and operate my vehicle."
Bruce's eyebrow went up. "Isn't the museum less than a mile away?"
She laughed as they entered the visitor lot on the other side of the quad. "Sometimes we non-billionaires have to worry about these things called parking meters. They're these little machines that charge you-"
"Alright, alright." His hands went up in mock surrender. "Didn't know they taught verbal combat on Themyscira too." He looked around the crowded lot. "Which one of these cars is yours anyway?"
"Shouldn't the world's greatest detective be able to figure that out?" She was already running late enough to bury her chances of a sit-down lunch, but the tradeoff was worth it. Fun like this was rare.
"Oh, but I don't work for free."
There were at least sixty cars in the parking lot and they weren't particularly close to hers. She rocked back on her heels. "Okay. You get one guess to pick my car. If you're right, then I'll meet you wherever you want"
His expression removed any doubt that was the right answer. He stretched his neck to both sides, like a gymnast preparing for a routine. Clasped his hands inside and cracked his knuckles. "The game is afoot," he declared.
"You are ridiculous, do you know that?"
"And you are a five-thousand-year-old immortal Amazon. But you have the appearance, credentials, and lifestyle of a thirty-five-year-old Londoner named Diana Prince. You're an intellectual with an environmentalist streak a mile long. So I can start by ruling out luxury vehicles and gas guzzlers." He smirked. "I can't picture Diana Prince driving a Hummer. You rarely drive at all-bad for the environment and all that. Plus you spend half your time in Paris. Ergo, minimal wear on the treads. It's going to be a Japanese or German import. An Audi or a Honda, something like that. The car will be functional and maintained for appearances. You don't really need it so there won't be the usual vanity accouterments. No bumper stickers. No decorations dangling from the rearview. No weird colors-something on the grayscale. . ."
He pointed to an unadorned, pearl white Audi two-seater coupe parked on the edge of the lot. "That's your car."
"Oh come on!" She stared at him in disbelief. "That was- that was psychobabble, start to finish. Just a load of conjecture and stereotypes and-"
"Let's test that theory." Her keys appeared in his hand like a magic trick. Better than a magic trick-the last time she'd seen them they were safely nestled in her zipped wallet inside her bound shoulder bag. Before she could object, he pressed the 'unlock' button on the key fob remote.
The Audi's telltale double click in response was all the confirmation Bruce needed. He speared her with a satisfied grin.
"I don't care," she insisted. "You got lucky or you. . .you-"
"Are the world's greatest detective," he finished for her, tossing her keys underhand as she circled to the driver's seat. She caught them with Amazon reflexes fast enough to send a ruffle of wind through his hair. His smug grin didn't waver but it did dim by a few watts.
"It's the only convertible in the lot," he said. "That's what clinched it. You, Diana, are a top-down, hair-in-the-wind woman if I ever met one."
She rolled her eyes. Started the car and immediately engaged the roof retraction mechanism. "Whatever you say, Detective."
"So I'll see you at 7 then?" he said.
She looked up at him from the driver's seat. Slid on a pair of reflective Oakley sunglasses. "You're going to be bored," she said. "Fair warning, my life is pretty dull most of the time. What would we even have to talk about?"
"Eighteenth-century art?" he suggested.
Diana shook her head, laughing. "Goodbye, Detective. Text me the details." She smoothly reversed out of the parking spot. Bruce receded in her mirror, hands in his pockets, watching her as she left the lot and merged in traffic.
Top-down, hair in the wind huh? Damn right. Closest I can get flying as a civilian.
She checked her watch. Just enough time to run into Boots for yogurt and something caffeinated before the day's real business began.
And after? Who knew?
Author's Note: Apologies for any typos, geographical errors, and the like. I always thought it would be cool for Diana Prince to have these academic connections as part of her work and expertise in Greco-Roman history. Even though she lives a solitary life, it's one way she could communicate her passion for the world and culture she was forced to leave behind in time and space.
As always, your feedback is appreciated.