A Road Paved In Gold

by Nadin4400

Steve Trevor doesn't die in the sky in Belgium, but survival comes with the price he couldn't ever imagine. Angst. Wondertrev, Post-movie

10. Chapter 10

Author's note: This chapter is 25k. Don't tell me I don't love you, guys :)

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Gotham, 2017

"So, how does this work? Is there a blood oath or something?" Steve asked when he found Bruce Wayne in his study, rearranging his collection of books, a half-full glass of scotch sitting on the massive mahogany desk behind him. "A secret handshake?"

Bruce glanced at him, neither surprised, nor particularly thrilled by the question. He scanned the shelf critically before turning to Steve. "That depends. What do you think you can bring to the team?"

Steve stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and arched an eyebrow at him, somewhat caught off-guard. "You brought me here. And you're asking that now?"

"I'm not asking for myself, Captain Trevor. What do you think you can bring to the team?"

"Why do you think Amanda Waller wanted me here?" Steve shot back, curious.

Bruce's expression darkened at the mention of Waller, his mouth twisted as if he bit into a lemon. And then it was gone as fast as it came, his face a mask of detachment.

The man was hard to read. Not impossible – no one was impossible, and Steve certainly met people who knew the intricacies of putting a wall between themselves in the other much better than Bruce Wayne could ever imagine – but he was generally used to an easier audience. Even so, the Batman remained quite an enigma. Their personal matters aside, Steve was beyond compelled to find out what pushed the richest man in Gotham to run around in a bat costume when it wasn't even his personal comfort that was disturbed by the people he was bringing to justice, seeing as how he was more used to people doing the exact opposite.

Guilt, he knew for a fact, was the strongest catalyst of all. Steve had read the reports, of course. He knew about Bruce's parents, about the robbery and how he was robbed, too – of his childhood and innocence and believing, like many kids did, that nothing could hurt them. That there wasn't a thing his parents couldn't fix. Steve knew all that, and now he was wondering if saving the rest of the world was Bruce's way of forgiving himself for not saving the two people who he wanted to protect the most but never managed to.

And that, he realized with a jolt of surprise, was something he could understand. Not in the same sense. Not in the same way. But they all started somewhere, idealistic enough to keep trying. That was what pushed him into the sky. That was what made Diana step into the boat that took her away from the one home she'd ever known. And that was, most likely, what chased Bruce out of the comfort of his house even though he probably knew better than anyone that he didn't owe anything to this world.

However, no one said that doing the right thing was supposed to come with a pleasant personality.

Bruce's lips curled into a humorless smirk. He gave Steve a pointed look and reached for his glass, taking a small sip. His eyes darted toward the liquor cart in the corner and then to Steve, a silent offer, but Steve shook his head. Someone had to keep a clear head here, perhaps.

"I would assume that Agent Waller found the fact that you're quite possibly immortal worthy of my interest," he mused, looking at Steve over the rim of his glass. Waiting.

"Is it?" Steve inquired.

Bruce shrugged. "If only all of us could look the way you do at… what is it, 136? Your birthday cakes must be crowded." He paused. "Did you know that you're the last surviving veteran of the Great War, Captain?"

Steve did, but he never thought much about it. It felt wrong somehow. A title he didn't earn. And maybe didn't deserve.

"So, you know who I am," he said evenly. "Did—ah, did Diana tell you that?"

He almost didn't care that his voice broke a little bit when the words tumbled out of his mouth.

The question tasted bitter on his tongue and he tried to push away an image of her having a heart-to-heart with Bruce Wayne, and the possible circumstances of that conversation. The one that made him remember the times when she was telling him of Themyscira on the nights when neither one of them felt like sleeping, clinging to fragile wakefulness for fear of missing a moment of shard time, her fingers carding lazily through his hair, or tracing the lines between his freckles like she way playing connect-the-dot, mapping the images on his skin.

This, Steve thought, was what he missed the most. The moments when he could feel the fabric of her very soul, wrapped around him tighter than her embrace.

Bruce pursed his lips into a thin line. "She was holding you very close to her heart for a very long time," he said, which wasn't an answer, and which somehow made Steve sick to his stomach – both the past tense of the statement, and a steady assuredness in his voice, an implication that she'd opened said heart to someone else.

He should be happy, Steve thought. He should be happy if she was happy. That was the point of leaving, wasn't it? To give Diana a chance to be what she was meant to be.

Yet, what he felt was bitter disappointment and a dull ache deep inside him, in a place where happiness used to live.

His father once told him that a love didn't have to be great to count, but it had to count to be great. Which made Steve wonder how exactly he was going to survive the next God-only-knew-how-many years when his heart was beating in another person's chest, and he had nothing but himself to blame for losing her.

Still, he nodded as if it meant nothing. And then he swept the room was with a studious glance, taking in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and comfortable, expensive furniture, a selection of fine alcohol on the cart and half a dozen crystal glasses – everything he'd seen before but never had a chance to truly pay attention to. It was all so tasteful and dignified that it almost looked like this was a museum, and if it wasn't for a few pens and sheets of paper scattered haphazardly over the desk that threw this perfect picture off-balance, he'd think that the place was about to be photographed for a catalogue or something.

It probably was, knowing Bruce Wayne. The vanity of the man sure preceded him. Or at least as much of it as he wanted the world to see. There was certain advantage, Steve figured, to being knows as someone who only cared about himself for someone who wanted to hide the side of himself that actually cared. He doubted there was a person in Gotham who would ever suspect Bruce of being someone who was bringing peace to the city.

Hiding in plain sight.

They were all good at that, he thought absently. Just close enough to their true selves to remember who they were, but still out of reach. No wonder the League found comfort in numbers – they didn't need each other to survive, but being different must have been lonely for all of them.

Maybe that was why Victor only slept in his father's apartment a few nights a week. And why Arthur was stalling with his return home. And why Barry felt more himself arguing with Alfred about something or other than trying to navigate the outside world on his own.

And why Diana found someone to be happy with.

Steve wondered if a little half-heartedly where that put him. Was he still here instead of starting a new life because he knew that he could no longer hurt Diana, what with their emotional bond not being an issue anymore, or because he dreaded being a nameless face in the sea of millions other nameless faces? Was he standing here because he thought he could be useful or because he was tired of being useless? It wasn't Waller's games that he feared but perhaps becoming an invisible man once again.

He walked over to the bookshelf closest to him and scanned the spines pressed tightly to one another.

"You like classics?"

Bruce followed his gaze. "I do," he said. "My father started the collection. Thankfully, most of it survived the fire."

Right. The Wayne mansion. He's seen the skeleton of it, gaping black holes of shattered windows glaring at the world disapprovingly.

"No one is immortal, by the way," Steve added after a long moment. "Not even gods, let alone me."

Bruce let out a choked sound, something between a chuckle and a snort. "I'm guessing it's all about moisturising then," he said rather flatly. "Mind sharing your skin care routine, Captain? Is that how it works?"

"I'd start with not dying and go from there," Steve suggested evenly, earning a displeased look in return. "And to answer your question, Mr. Wayne-"

"Bruce," he offered.

"—I can fly."

"I can fly, too," Bruce countered.

"You can fly your fancy high tech toys that, let's be honest, don't even need you to do whatever it is they're doing," Steve shrugged, turning to him at last. "I can fly anything."

Bruce's eyebrow cocked, not quite impressed but getting there for certain. "Do you think we might need to fly a Cessna in any foreseeable future?"

"I think you've seen enough not to dismiss the possibility," a corner of Steve's mouth curled into a smirk. "Also, your security system could use an upgrade."

"So I've heard," Bruce muttered. "Are you an expert?"

"Picked up a thing or two," Steve responded vaguely.

Bruce gave him along assertive look as if he wasn't sure if Steve was kidding or being serious. Steve wouldn't have pegged him for a trusting guy to begin with – one wouldn't build a multi-billion conglomerate and keep it running like a well-oiled machine if he wasn't taking the world with a grain of salt, and a shot of tequila, for good measure – but this was different. This was personal.

Admittedly, he was only half-joking about a blood oath.

Bruce studied him for a long moment, as if trying to see the real Steve Trevor under a dozen layers of everything that Steve wore like armour for fear of losing himself completely. "Is there a word of truth in the dossier that Waller collected on you?" He asked.

Steve shrugged, not surprised that there was a dossier to begin with. "I have no idea, I've never seen it."

Bruce pulled a thin folder out of the drawer and tossed it on the desk before walking over to the window as Steve picked it up and flipped through several pages that offered little to no information.

"Well, they got my year of birth wrong," he muttered. "Shockingly, the name is correct."

"Yeah, I figured you weren't born in 1980," Bruce noted, observing the dull October landscape on the other side of reinforced glass. "Just like Diana wasn't born in 1985, but sometimes you have to work with what you've got."

Her name in Bruce's mouth made Steve's hackles stand on end. The way it sounded, so personal and possessive. A knee-jerk reflex. It might take he him a few lifetimes to stop thinking of her as his, Steve thought. If ever, all things considered. He itched to know what Bruce knew about her, about them, about what had happened a hundred years ago, and afterwards; wanted to know what she kept to herself, what she deemed too intimate to share. If there was anything she'd kept to herself at all.

Did he know what her favourite colour was? Or her favourite smell? Or her favourite time of the day? Did they talk late at night when neither could sleep, their voices hushed, as if rising them could chase away the magic?

Steve pushed the image out of his mind and put the folder that contain nothing but lies that he'd created himself back on the desk. It wasn't about the past, after all, but about the future, and it was about damn time that he did something about it. Even if that something didn't feel like the brightest plan of all at the moment.

Yet, while he didn't entirely mind the idea of joining the League, there was still something that kept rubbing him the wrong way. "If you don't want me here, which you quite obviously don't, I know where the door is. I can show myself out."

Bruce turned around. "What about Waller?"

"What about her?"

"The deal you've made-"

"Has nothing to do with you or anyone else here," Steve interjected firmly. "Just like whatever she's asked of you is between the two of you. I believe it's got nothing to do with me, either. Per se."

Bruce looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly. "Nothing personal then," he said in a voice that implied that he didn't believe it.

A stubborn determination to flee reared its head inside Steve. Did he really want to let this man play power games with the government at his expense? He might not have had expensive cars or a house the cost of which could probably feed a small country for a month, but that was the thing with the people who had nothing to lose – they didn't really care. There was comfort to being that person, even if deep inside Steve hated the feeling.

"None of this is, isn't it?" He offered, almost a dare.

Bruce nodded and set his glass on the desk. Empty. "I never said I didn't want you here, Captain Trevor." He paused, as if waiting for Steve to return a favour and offer to move to the first-name basis. He didn't. "With your experience and expertise… At this point, we can use as much help as we can get."

"A sentiment not everyone shares, I'm sure," Steve countered, desperately grasping for an excuse to leave, something that would make him reconsider his decision without feeling wholly responsible for it.

If he found it, he'd simply tell Waller that none of this worked out, which wouldn't be entirely his fault either way. And maybe then they could renegotiate their agreement.

"How did you survive that explosion? The gas alone would have killed you, even without the fire."

"Just got lucky, I guess," Steve responded evenly. "Why are you doing this?" He asked when Bruce didn't say anything.

"For the greater good," Bruce shrugged. "And because I don't like being manipulated, by the US government or anyone else."

"So, it's about a payback?"

"It's about defying expectations, Captain." Bruce Wayne's lips curled ever so slightly, the humour not reaching his eyes. "Welcome to Justice League."

xoox

People always said that leaving was the hardest thing in the world. Perhaps it was, or at least it could be. Making the decision. Taking the first step from the familiar and toward the unknown. A twinge in the gut. A hitch in one's breath. But those were momentary things, and once said decision was made, once you took that step, leaving was the easiest thing ever, exhilarating and intoxicating with possibilities. There was freedom to it, to the endlessness of what the world had to offer once you left your comfort zone behind.

Steve knew all of this first-hand; he had revelled in the sensation of starting anew more times than he could count, mindful of walking out of his old life before anyone would question the fact that he seemed to be frozen in time. Leaving was the price he had to pay for being alive.

He should have left, he was thinking now. It would've been so easy to walk out of Bruce Wayne's house and never look back, to keep on pretending that nothing had changed and that Amanda Waller's phone call hadn't derailed his entire life; that seeing Diana again hadn't knocked the ground from under his feet. He was good at that, at locking his feelings away where no one could ever find them. He'd had enough time to finesse that skill. At times, Steve felt like it was the only one he ever needed to survive.

He didn't owe them anything. He knew it, and so did Bruce Wayne. And so did Amanda Waller, and thus it looked to Steve like they were all playing an elaborate game of poker, bluffing with abandon to see who would blink first, and who would fold their cards for fear of losing everything. He wasn't sure what the stakes were, but he had a distinct suspicion that they were high. He had nothing in terms of power, no influence and no money that could make any difference that counted, but he'd lived long enough to learn to make the best of his odds, and more often than not, it was comforting enough.

He knew that he didn't want to be a pawn in their games.

Day after day, year after year, he watched the world move forward, listening to the newspapers and the TV scream about the progress, and all the while he wanted to laugh in their faces. The world hadn't changed as much as it thought it did, not in the hundred years that Steve walked the earth. Sure, the technology evolved, the weapons became more elaborate, and the focus of the society shifted toward comfort rather than mere survival. Yet, the wars remained the same – cruel and messy and destructive, and at the core, all everyone really wanted was to be happy. They were simple species, after all, despite their flair for complexity and not being able to see their needs for what they truly were.

He knew this because he hadn't forgotten anything, and that, Steve had learned, was his greatest power of all, for history forgotten was history repeated – he'd seen it with his own eyes, more times than anyone should have to. The least he could do was not make the same mistakes time and time again the way mankind did.

Leaving would have been the easiest thing to do, but somehow he couldn't bear the thought of doing it.

And so he stayed, a little tired, a little curious, somewhat unnerved by Waller's ability to unearth something he'd been after for several decades, and adamant to find the answers to his questions.

He stayed, and he learned about the League, from the files and the members themselves. They reminded him, in a way, of the people he'd worked with before, the memories of whom had started to fray at the edges, but never went away. They were the ones that he cherished the most.

He wanted to ask Diana if she remembered them, too. If she remembered the nights by the campfire, and Charlie's signing, and Sameer telling him to shut up only to get Charlie to start singing louder, and the pungent smell of Chief's pipe, the smoke puffing from between his lips, his voice often the softest, making the rest of them fall silent the moment he spoke. If the new people she was fighting alongside for the good things in the world gave her the same sense of déjà vu that was jolting through Steve whenever he saw Victor Stone argue with Barry over something or other while Arthur watched them with mild amusement, neither involved in, nor bothered by their bickering. Wanted to ask her if this was why she joined them, chose them.

Yet, in the three days that had passed since she'd told him that she was leaving and since Bruce Wayne welcomed him to his exclusive secret club, her presence was fleeting, and each morning Steve woke up certain that she was gone, too used to the idea of watching her slip away, by her choice or his. It didn't matter anymore - a loss was a loss. And even if they did manage to say a word or two to one another, he didn't think he even knew how to ask her about the times that felt so different from the lives they had now that they might have as well been a figment of his imagination.

The memories made Steve ache for the days long gone, when everything was simpler, safer, happier somehow, in part because he hadn't seen the worst of the world yet, and in part because he had another person to share his life with. He was trying to find a way to fit with the League now, even though he wasn't sure yet that he belonged with them. Bruce's question was running through his mind now and then, and Steve seemed unable to push it away, a nagging reminder of everything that made him less. What was he good at, really? Except survival, perhaps, but that was what they all excelled at, apparently.

But that was the thought for later, for after he'd spoken to Waller who seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth. He had time. Maybe all of it.

He stayed. And he bought a motorcycle because he was tired of asking someone to give him a lift every time he wanted to get out of the house, being dependent on the others never sitting well with him – a character trait as old as time that he never managed to get rid of.

At first, Steve had his eyes on a sleek BMW, not unlike the fancy cars lined up in Bruce Wayne's garage. The decision was a no-brainer, really. It would've been a nice car. A reliable car. A good choice, all things considered. And then he saw that bike, a black Honda, a little worn-out and in need for a few touch-ups, not unlike Steve himself. It was a match made in heaven. And all the while, he tried not to think of it as an anchor of sorts, like he needed to prove to himself more than anyone that he was doing this.

His father used to have a motorcycle once, one of the earliest models ever made. To Steve's memory, its most definitive feature was breaking down when they least expected it, much to his father's frustration and Steve's delight – taking the old thing apart and putting it back together was the best treat a boy could have asked for. He inherited it when he turned 21 – one of the fondest memories Steve had of his youth. He hadn't had anything of that kind since. Hadn't realized how much he missed it.

"Couldn't you at least pick up something from this century?" Bruce asked when Steve rolled his new mode of transportation up the lake house driveway.

"It is from this century," Steve responded, unfazed, still too exhilarated by the purchase to be bothered by the opinion of a man who was so concerned about the appearances that he probably picked his cereal based on the colour of the box rather than the flavour. "It just wasn't made five minutes ago."

Barry snorted, and coughed to cover it when Bruce shot him a look. "It looks sick, man," he breathed out in awe, patting the leather seat with affection.

Even Victor left the confinement of the loft, drawn to the commotion – an almost unheard-of event.

"You might need to keep an eye on the oil," he said, studying the motorcycle with an expert eye, which was, perhaps, more words than he'd said to Steve since they met.

"An X-ray vision?" Steve asked, impressed, a lopsided smile gracing his face.

Victor grinned. "Experience. Those babies are neat but they eat through oil like no big deal." And added, "I had wheels like that my freshman year in college."

Before the accident, Steve thought. It was easy sometimes to think of what they gained with their abilities, and so hard to remember what they were robbed of. Normalcy. Maybe Victor could look right through them now, quite literally so, and maybe he could hack into any system in existence without even trying, but he could never ride a motorcycle again, most likely, or do other things that the ordinary people took for granted. Steve wondered then what Vic would have chosen if he had a say in his fate.

He looked up then, noticing Diana watching them from the front door, her arms folded over her chest, either curious or on the way out and now caught up in the excitement that she never anticipated as a bunch of boys fawn over a new toy, her lips curved into a tiny smile. She caught him looking at her, and Steve saw her take a breath as if she was going to say something, but then her phone started to ring, breaking the spell, and she stepped back into the house to answer it.

In that moment, Steve thought that he'd never wanted anything more than to know what it was that he never got to hear.

"This is the coolest shit," Arthur's voice snapped him out of his daze, and when Steve turned around, the Aquaman was checking the gears and the handlebars like the bike was the finest thing ever to exist.

And was there anyone in a five mile radius who couldn't feel Bruce roll his eyes? Steve could practically hear him think – Really? I have Knightcrawler! I have two jets! If nothing else, it was amusing that no one seemed to care.

"If you drip the oil on the carpets, you're cleaning it yourself, Captain," Alfred said mildly.

Steve merely shook his head, chuckling under his breath. The bike was a small thing, but it was nice to have something of his own. Something that he had control over. It felt like a start – of what, he wasn't sure yet, but he couldn't wait to find out.

In the meanwhile, he was adamant to learn more about the mysterious ARGUS that Bruce mentioned during their audience with Waller and that she brushed off with deliberate nonchalance that set off Steve's inner alarms. There were some things that his life had taught him, and being prepared was perhaps the most valued of the lessons. He had a rather strong suspicion that she wouldn't tell him the truth even if he knew what to ask.

He could have talked to Bruce, of course, and the thought did cross Steve's mind, but there was stubborn determination in him to save that option for after all else failed. After all, a trick to learning secrets was pretending that you already knew them, and allowing the people to fill in the gaps. Hence, his desperate need for something.

"You should try Bruce's password," Barry suggested, sitting next to Steve in the Batcave as he munched on potato chips, watching the other man type away with abandon, digging deeper and deeper into the system like his very life depended on it.

Come to think, maybe it did.

Steve paused and looked up from the screen. "Which is?"

His had only gained proper access to this place yesterday, and even though he tried to pretend that there was nothing special about computers – he'd seen the becoming of them, after all, and everything else that followed was hardly as impressive as what the first IBMs felt like, those that were the size of a room – or a Batmobile, or another dozen high tech gadgets lying around, his attention kept scattering, his gaze roaming all over the place. He couldn't help but feel a little bit like a 5-year old in a candy-shop-slash-Disneyland, it was so fascinating and intriguing beyond measure. Not to mention the car-slash-jet that he had yet to get his hands on.

It was almost a shame that he was too preoccupied with other things to actually allow himself to enjoy something that the majority of people weren't and would never be privy to.

Barry eagerly rattled off a string of letters and numbers, and Steve chose not to ask him how he knew this undoubtedly valuable and well-guarded information. This was the time to be grateful without questions.

"Thanks," he nodded with a small smile.

However Bruce Wayne gained access to the deep web… well, Steve didn't really need to know that, either. He was a spy, after all, he appreciated a good intel of any form and kind, wherever it came from. And it wasn't like he was hacking into a Pentagon in search of nuclear codes. Steve reasoned with himself that right now, the ends justified the means.

"So, you're the Steve, then," Barry said all of sudden after he stopped gushing about something gross and gruesome he saw at work – not for real, of course. Just the photographs. The last time Barry wandered into the coroner's office – by mistake – he had nearly passed out. (Something that he was oddly proud of.)

Steve was still wondering how much the police knew about him when they offered him a job, if anything at all.

"The one and only," he muttered, distracted, his eyes scanning the screen, not quite certain what he was looking for just yet, which seemed to be the main issue.

It would've helped perhaps if he knew what ARGUS stood for.

"No, I mean… The Steve Trevor," Barry pressed persistently. In a blink of a moment, he was straddling his chair, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his studied Steve's profile. "Diana's… How'd you meet? Are you… like her?"

Her name made Steve's pulse trip over itself. He cleared his throat and reminded himself to… well, breathe. "I don't think anyone is like her."

Barry's mouth curled into a small smile. "Well, duh…. But she wouldn't have… I mean… She almost ripped Bruce's head off when he took your name in vain that one time. Therefore, it stands to reason…" He trailed off, allowing the pregnant pause to wedge itself between them.

That got Steve's attention alright. He let go of the mouse and straightened up in his chair, turning to Barry, acutely aware of his heartbeat that escalated by the second, and grateful that super-hearing wasn't one of the Flash's gifts.

"She almost… Why?"

Barry blinked, and then shook his head, chuckling. "They say that wisdom comes with age, but apparently sometimes age comes alone."

"I'm sure there was a veiled insult in there somewhere," Steve hummed, more amused than offended, as he rolled his stiff neck from side to side.

It was, he had to admit, quite nice not to have to filter every word he was saying. To be himself for once, without raising any suspicion or judgement. That was the one thing he missed more than anything.

"I'm sorry, man, it wasn't meant to be veiled." Barry threw another chip into his mouth. "I know you're him, I saw you when-"

"Mr. Allen, we spoke about not eating here," Alfred's voice cut him off as he descended down the stairs, heading toward the two of them.

"They're just chips, Alfred."

"Yes, I'm aware," Alfred noted flatly. "As in – crumbs."

The first time Steve saw lightning zip along Diana's gauntlets, the sight of it stole his breath away. It was like a revelation, and he knew right there and then that this was something that he would never take for granted, something that he would never get used to, or treat like it was ordinary. Something that he would never forget.

The sheer force behind it was enough to send his mind reeling. A hundred years later, and he was still completely transfixed by the magnitude of her power. No, he knew that she was strong, that she could toss a goddamn tank into the air like it was nearly as light as a feather, but it was one thing to know, and another – to see physical manifestation of her strength, the one that would literally make his skin prickle with electric static.

There wasn't and would never be anything as magnificent.

And that was how Steve knew that he would most likely never get used to Barry moving faster than the speed of light. One second he was pouting at Alfred, and the next, he had an empty bag from potato chips crumpled in his hand, looking no less smug than the Cheshire Cat, still savouring the last bits of his treat.

"Isn't using super speed to eat kind of negates the point of eating?" Steve inquired, amused.

Barry only grinned in response.

Unfazed, or way too accustomed to the circus that the house had turned into lately, Alfred turned to Steve. "Master Wayne instructed me to provide you with the security codes, Captain." He handed Steve a printout with two neat columns of numbers.

Steve blinked, surprised. "That's… very generous of him," he replied.

"Well, he can always change them," Alfred shrugged, struggling not to smile.

Bruce Wayne might have had many flaws, Steve decided after a couple of days of living here, but his butler certainly wasn't one of them.

"Never stopped Diana," Barry muttered.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Ms. Prince is a woman of… many talents," he said not without affection, and the corners of Steve's mouth lifted on the will of their own.

He might have not ever be able to understand the man's fondness for Bruce Wayne – god knew, it went way beyond his comprehension – but this? This was something he could relate to. Even if he wasn't allowed to anymore.

"You going somewhere?" Barry asked, giving Alfred a curious once-over, taking in is jacket and shoes polished to perfection.

"Wayne Enterprises, if it still exists," Alfred replied. "Master Wayne forgot the papers he needs for the meeting that starts in-" he checked his watch, "—fifteen minutes. Great." He pursed his lips together. "Well, it'll teach him to come prepared the next time." A pause. "Then again, maybe not."

Barry perked up, "Would you mind picking up something to eat on the way back?"

Alfred looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "Sure, why don't I, in addition to being a messenger, become a delivery-boy a well?"

"Or we can order it," Barry backtracked eagerly.

"You know how the phone works, Mr. Allen."

He trailed off when the elevator doors slid open behind them with a soft whoosh, all three turning around to see Diana hesitate for a moment before stepping out of it and into the Batcave, the sound of her footsteps on the grated bridge echoing under the ceiling.

Her gaze fixed on Steve as she walked over to him, all beauty and power and unstoppable determination.

"Knew I'd find you here," she said in lieu of a greeting, nodding to Alfred and Barry.

"I thought you were leaving," he replied, for lack of better ideas, losing his ability to think coherently in an instant.

"I was." She stopped near him and dropped a morning newspaper on the desk before him, flat across the keyboard.

Steve glanced at it – a bold headline that meant nothing to him running across the top, right under The Daily Planet, a few images splattered here and there – and then raised his eyes, meeting Diana's gaze again.

"What am I looking at, exactly?" He asked. It wasn't even a Gotham paper, as far as he was aware.

"The painting," pointed at the photo under the headline, depicting the one Darrell Quinn, an art benefactor from Metropolis, according to the caption underneath it, beaming at the camera. And behind him in what appeared to be an office of sorts was—

Steve's eyes narrowed as he tried to take in a grainy image, somewhat disbelieving.

"But that's-" He started as he looked up at Diana's again.

"Yes, it is," she nodded, her brows creased and her mouth a flat, displeased line.

He picked up the newspaper, "It can't be—are you sure?"

"The signature," she jerked her chin toward the photo. "Bottom right corner."

"It's been so long," Steve muttered, nearly poking his nose into the photograph to see what she was seeing. "Could it be a forgery?"

"Not impossible," Diana admitted after a short hesitation. "But I would like to make sure."

"Wow," Barry breathed out, his eyes darting between Steve and Diana when they fell silent. "It's like you guys share one mind or something," he said. "How do you even, like, finish each other's sentences every time?"

"Is everything okay?" Alfred asked, watching them with growing concern.

"Yeah... want to fill us in on the other half of the conversation?" Barry chimed in. "The one that happened telepathically, I'm assuming."

Diana glanced at Steve who offered her a 'go ahead' shrug, and then let out a breath. She leaned against the desk and folded her arms over her chest. "During the Second World War, there were military units, primarily German, that specialized in stealing everything of value," she started. "Mostly gold and gemstones, but also art and items of cultural significance. Books. Religious artefacts."

"Most of them were returned eventually," Steve added. "There are several organizations all over the world that do just that – track down the known missing pieces through private auctions and such. The statute of limitations on most of those cases had expired a long time ago, which make it both easier to track the stolen items because people no longer fear facing the consequences, and harder because it's almost impossible to retrieve them legally."

"We came across a few in the years following the war," Diana continued. "But it was mostly by accident. The people who took them knew how to keep them hidden, knew their real value."

"And those things… they required special knowledge," Steve peered at the photograph one more time and shook his head. "Anyone can tell an old book from a new one, but with art… there are ways to make a painting look newer than it is, or that technique when they put a new coat over the original work without damaging it to remove it later on."

"That, and the people used to be very careful about who they share those things with," Diana said. "It's very rare these days what you come across something like this," he pointed at the newspaper, "by chance."

In the silence that fell, she turned to Steve again, an unasked question in her gaze. Do you remember this? Do you remember? He did. In that moment, he felt like he was pulled into a wormhole of time and dragged nearly 80 years into the past so familiar this felt.

"I knew it," Barry blurted out, startling him, his eyes wide and shifting between them. "I knew it!" He repeated, practically leaping from his chair and almost falling in the process. "You," he pointed at Steve, "and you," his finger moved to Diana, "you two… I knew that you knew each other!" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You guys! Unbelievable…"

"What's going on?" Diana asked, a little puzzled, watching Barry with mild concern.

"Nothing," Steve muttered and rubbed his eyes. "Barry needs to leave the house every now and then, is all."

"I can't believe it," Barry breathed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as if trying to come up with the words but finding none. "Also, I need to-" he cut off, a grin spreading over his face, so bright it all but set the whole place ablaze. "Arthur owes me 20 bucks."

With that, he disappeared in a flicker of light, leaving behind nothing but a faint whiff of ozone and the kind of static that made the fine hairs of Steve's arms stand on end.

He groaned with exasperation.

"Do I want to know?" Diana asked him, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"God, no," he shook his head.

There was no way in hell he would ever want to voluntarily explain to Diana how exactly Barry just won his lunch money. If nothing else, the mighty superheroes betting on them was so embarrassing.

"Ms. Prince, you'll be late for your flight," Alfred spoke, and thank god for that because Steve was starting to feel the heat creep up his face.

Diana straightened up. "I'm not going."

"Of course, you're not," he muttered, not surprised. "Would you like me to cancel it and see if we can get a refund? It might be a bit last-minute-"

She shook her head; offered him a small smile. "Thank you, Alfred, I'll take care of it."

"Well, in that case…" he fished the car keys from the pocket of his coat and started toward the elevator with a parting, "You're welcome to use Master Wayne's art references. Try the bookshelf near the window."

"Thank you, Alfred," Steve called after him and looked up, his eyes locking with Diana's. "We're going to need more information."

Her smile grew softer, making him forget how to function properly. God, how was he supposed not to stare?

She nodded, "We're going to need more information."

xoox

The first time they came across the stolen paintings and other pieces of art was when they returned to Paris for a cleanup after Steve was discharged from the hospital in London, a couple of months before they left for Themyscira.

The city was half in ruins, and compared to London that managed to avoid major damage, it looked like the war was still raging on here, the destruction so startling, so devastating around them that Steve couldn't help but wait to see German patrols on the streets. Yet, there was excitement in the air, the pure, unadulterated happiness. Like freedom was something physical, something palpable to the touch, and the contrast between loss and hope sent his mind reeling.

It was the basement of one of the hotels in central Paris used as headquarters for the German high command that housed numerous works of art stolen from the Louvre as well as a few smaller museums and private collections over the course of the past few years, and even a few things brought from Italy and Switzerland. Everything that the Germans deemed even remotely valuable was meant to become a part of Hitler's private collection after the war or to be donated or gifted to the high-ranking officers, upon the decision of the Fuhrer.

All of the items were piled haphazardly in the dark room without any regard for proper handling, and it was a miracle that none of them were damaged beyond repair. A few chipped frames and one broken vase – they still deserved better treatment, but it could've been worse, all things considered. Much worse.

However, this spot was the first of many, and numerous items disappeared without a trace, either taken elsewhere from the beginning, or grabbed when the army fled France and other occupied territories, adamant to snag at least a consolation prize after losing the war.

Everyone knew about the looting, or, at the very least, had an idea. However, the problem was that the war left a large number of cities in several countries nearly wiped off the face of the earth, the population homeless, injured. At the time, cultural heritage was hardly a matter of primary concern – with the cut-off power, damaged water supply and near-starvation, no one cared about spiritual values. People simply wanted to have something to eat. The whole world seemed to be at a complete disarray, recuperating slowly from the wounds so severe that it was impossible to see the whole picture then. People needed to heal first.

It wasn't until the matter resurfaced world-wide a few years later when several pieces of art and quite a few paintings were spotted at auctions and in private collections that it became possible to address it properly. The countries decided that they wanted to get back what was rightfully theirs, the degree of loss finally estimated as it should have been. And it was too great to let those items simply slip away without a fight.

In the time that he and Diana had spent bringing Hitler's faithful supporters who escaped the first wave of arrests to justice, they came across quite a few more pieces of value. Highly educated in history, literature, and art, she could easily distinguish an original from a copy, leaving even the experts of that time period baffled. He'd watch her sort through the books and statuettes, the carved artifacts and canvases, her fingers that could crush the stone impossibly gentle, and pride would swell in his chest. She kept saving them even then, probably without knowing that she was doing it, allowing them to hold on to something that the war stripped so many people of – identity, belonging.

He wondered if this was how she ended up in the Louvre in the first place.

A few nights ago, Steve finally opened her file, which was surprisingly scant, considering that she was the one who'd lived the longest of them all. It merely stated her very much fake date of birth and that she was employed as a Curator of Antiques at the Louvre. There wasn't even a list of hobbies like in the other files. Concise and efficient, it said nothing of who Diana really was. Of how kind she was to children and strangers. How kind she was, period. How her smile could light up the room and make everyone feel at ease. Nothing that really mattered was in that folder, and Steve felt both profoundly cheated, hungry for scraps of information about her life without him, and relieved to know that Waller never got her hands on what truly mattered.

He glanced surreptitiously at Diana who was sitting in front of him on the other side of Bruce Wayne's massive desk, her head bent over a book, a slight frown creasing her forehead. And then once again, when she appeared to be too engrossed in her reading to notice, just to make sure he wasn't making her up. They had been cooped up here long enough for the darkness to fall outside, and for the stiffness to creep into his body. Diana turned the page, her gaze scanning the words. His eyes darted up from his own volume once more.

The fun thing about trying to dig up some information on something that disappeared before the era of mass digitalization was doing it the old-fashioned way, and if Steve was completely honest with himself, he preferred it to getting stranded in the world wide web, even if it meant slower progress.

He looked up at her again-

"Is there something on your mind, Steve?" Diana asked evenly, catching him off-guard and making his face grow hot to the tips of his ears. Apparently he wasn't as discreet as he tried to be. So much for being a spy…

Slowly, he raised his gaze just in time to catch a small smile playing on her lips as her eyes continued to move along the page, the line of her shoulders relaxed. If his blatant staring bothered her, he could see no sign of it.

A hundred years, and she was still making him feel like a never-been-kissed blushing schoolboy, which was ironic, really, because he remembered oh so clearly what it was like to kiss her.

Steve cleared his throat.

"I was just—I was wondering if this is what you do. In Paris." He stared very deliberately at the book in front of him, the words swimming before his eyes; tried to keep his voice as nonchalant as he could muster. Her file didn't go into her day job in great detail – Waller obviously wasn't overly interested in it, and he couldn't help feeling his curiosity bubble up to the surface. "Looking for stolen art?"

"Actually, no," Diana responded, and when he looked up, their eyes met. "I curate a few exhibitions and take care of the Roman-Greek collection. Also, I do appraisals and take care of acquisition of new items, and I supervise cataloguing. Among other things." She paused, studying him from across the desk. "Although yes, I did come across a few pieces in the past that were procured through… questionable channels."

"No need to be so modest, Ms. Prince," Alfred chuckled from behind Steve's back where he was flipping through Bruce Wayne's collection of antique books, looking for something that could be of use to them. He glanced at Steve over his shoulder, his eyes that glinted with amusement darted toward Diana. "She's so much more than that. She runs a whole department."

"You're making it sound bigger than it actually is, Alfred," Diana argued, tucking a strand of hair around her ear, flustered.

Alfred snorted. "Yes, because you're just pushing paper around your office all day," he deadpanned, and Steve smile against his will at the sound of infinite pride in the older man's voice. He put another volume on the desk. "Never mind the benefits and the functions and god only knows what else." She only shook her head, I swear it's not a big deal, her expression reading when she turned to Steve, and even rolled her eyes a little, and the moment almost felt like something personal between the two of them. "And don't forget about your extracurriculars," Alfred finished.

"I would argue that the Louvre is Di's extracurricular," Barry chimed in from across the room where he was sprawled in an old armchair, his legs dangling over the armrest. For the past hour or so, he was entertaining himself by playing catch with the wall by tossing a stress ball against it, a pile of books left forgotten on the floor near him after he'd gone through them in under five minutes. "I mean, if we judge by the impact on the world-"

"Did that wall personally offend you, Mr. Allen?" Alfred inquired, interrupting him.

Barry caught the ball and held onto it this time and beamed, choosing not to see the irony of how a stress ball was stressing out Alfred.

"You found anything?" Diana asked Steve, rolling her neck.

She let out a long breath and rubbed the corners of her eyes, undoubtedly as exhausted by the daunting task as he was, and no less frustrated by the lack of results than the rest of them.

They already had Victor dig deep for possible matches, but it had been nearly 80 years since the painting was seen last, the mentions of it bearing no information on the possible owner since then. They were merely a confirmation of its still missing status.

He shook his head. "Maybe in the British Museum catalogues-" Steve started and cut off, a frown creasing his brows as he turned the page, his eyes fixing on a black-and-white image before him. He scanned it once again, more carefully now, taking in the details before turning the book upside down and pushing it toward Diana. "Look at this."

She pulled it toward her, ignoring a plate of sandwiches that Arthur lowered on the desk between them, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, so engrossed they were. He glanced at the photograph over Diana shoulder, his expression a dumbfounded - Is this what the whole fuss is about? Steve was certain he was wearing it ever since they filled the rest of the League in on what was happening – of them all, Bruce was the only one who appeared to be even remotely interested, if only because his own investment in art sort of called for a certain degree of knowledge on the subject.

Not that Steve blamed them – a painting stolen almost eighty years ago was hardly a matter of life and death, all of them having much more pressing issues on their hands more often than not. And, all things considered, this had nothing to do with the League. Only with Diana.

He kept waiting for them all to disappear one by one, find something else to occupy themselves with, and yet here they still were, hours later and bored, but still trying. Because it mattered to her.

If he looked around the room right now, he would see all eyes trained on her, a leader even where there was no battle to lead them into, all of them drawn to her like the cautious springs flowers were drawn to the sun. Bruce Wayne might have started this. The League, for all intents and purposes, might have been his idea, but it was her they were looking up to, her encouragement they sought out in the times of distress. If it wasn't for Diana, Steve thought, none of them would be as eager to be here as they were.

Bruce walked in then with another book retrieved from his bedroom in his hand and paused at her other side.

"Van Huysum," he murmured under his breath.

"Looks like it's the one," she echoed softly after a few moments, her finger tracing the line of a picture so old it was hard to make out the details.

Yet, it matched.

'Vase of Flowers' painted by Jan van Huysum, an artist from the Netherlands, in the late 18th century was one of a number of works that he did of flowers, many of which had similar names, which made it particularly hard for the historians and collectors to keep proper track of them after van Huysym's death, and after his finished pieces scattered over a number of museums and private owners.

According to the art reference encyclopedia that Diana was studying carefully now, this particular painting was stolen by German soldiers during the war from the Palatine Gallery in Florence, Italy. Its last confirmed location was Italy where it was being stored in 1944, although after that, it seemed to have disappeared from the records. Since the early 50's, it had been believed that the piece ended up in the hands of a private collector who was careful enough to keep this treasured information under wraps.

Until now.

"It could be a duplicate," Steve offered, still sceptical.

It was odd that the painting resurfaced now, after all this time, and so randomly, too. An art expert like Darrell Quinn, as the paper described him, would certainly know what it was, thus becoming an accomplice in theft. The statute of limitation on this particular case might have been over, but there were ethical repercussions as well as international relations and a number of other things that could be dragged into the mix should someone decide to pursue this issue.

"There's only one way to find out," Diana said, thoughtful.

"Yeah, because you can just walk into some rich man's office and ask to have a look at his collection of – possibly – stolen goods," Arthur deadpanned, folding his arms over his chest.

"Well, to be fair, you probably could, Di," Barry shrugged, snatching a sandwich from the plate and digging into it with gusto.

Alfred hummed in agreement, all of them now huddled around the desk, seven heads bent over a three-by-four inch photograph.

"Or, you could go to that reception or dinner or whatever he's throwing," Barry added, chewing with purpose and determination, and six pairs of eyes raised to peer at him. "What?" He asked around a mouthful of food.

"What 'reception or dinner or whatever'?" Bruce asked.

Barry shrugged. "It was in the paper. Some end of year… something or other. The boring stuff." He sighed with pointed exasperation, and rolled his eye for good measure. "Have you even read it?"

"A dinner," Steve muttered, already running his eyes over the article. No, he never bothered to check it, either.

"…followed by an auction," Victor finished, reading over his shoulder. "Held at the hotel that belongs to this dude, apparently." He looked up. "How rich is he, again?"

"You could probably just walk in there," Barry offered. "If it's a public thing."

"No, for something like this, you'll need an invitation," Steve tapped his finger against the page, fighting the mother of all headaches that started to build behind his eyes from the onslaught of information.

"Not the press," Victor offered.

"No one here is the press, though," Alfred pointed out.

Diana considered it for a moment. "Lois might be able to get me a pass," she said. "She works in The Daily Planet. I could… maybe I could talk to whoever wrote this."

"Are you really doing this?" Steve asked.

"Of course," she responded without hesitation. Her eyes locked with his, her gaze determined. "I can't not to—After all we've seen, all the pain and destruction, the people have the right to get back what's theirs, no?"

He wondered now and then how she could so easily strip those years off them without even trying. A few words, the tone of her voice – and he was back in the trenches, running after her through the mud, his fingers so cold on the rifle he didn't know how he kept holding it, slipping on the uneven ground but never pausing, not even for one moment. Not even because he believed in the great cause after having seen and done what the war had put him through, but because she did, and Steve wanted so desperately for her to prove him wrong. Wanted so fiercely to give her hope.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Because the world deserved better than what it had, and she could fix it, and she would. She would keep on doing it for as long as she lived, perhaps. And maybe this small thing wasn't going to shift the axis of the earth, but it was still worth the try.

Because this was Diana.

He'd stopped being surprised by that a long time ago.

Bruce cleared his throat. "If you need someone to come with you, I'd be happy to-" He started, but Steve's huff cut him off. "A problem, Captain?" He asked coolly.

"Yeah, well… no offence, Mr. Wayne," Steve rubbed his forehead, "but you're the opposite of conspicuous," he pointed out. "There isn't a person in Gotham or Metropolis who doesn't know your face."

"That's true," Barry nodded.

"He kinda has a point," Arthur agreed.

"If Diana is to go," Steve continued, "the last thing she needs is to draw even more attention to herself." He paused. "He's right though," he added, jerking his chin to Bruce.

"He is?"

"I am?" Bruce blinked, caught momentarily off-guard by the fact that Steve, of all people, went along with him.

"You are, actually," Steve agreed, earning a raised eyebrow of his own – from everyone around him. He could have sworn that Barry even whistled under his breath. Shockingly, though, the universe didn't collapse around him when the words fell out of his mouth. Maybe there were stranger things in this world than his agreeing with the Batman after all. "Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't go alone, but… What if there is security? You know, from the practical standpoint…"

Bruce drew in a breath, composing himself. "Whether this painting is just a copy he purchased for $20 on a flea market, or the original that he keeps locked up, it never hurts to have a backup," he said diplomatically, in the voice that Steve imagined him using on his investors.

"That man doesn't look like a flea market type," Alfred noted.

"You know what I mean," Bruce said and turned to Diana again. "Don't look at me like that, you know I'm right."

Diana was drumming her fingers on the desk. "It's in four days…" She looked up and scanned the men around her before her eyes fixed on Barry whose eyes grew wide with panic in under that brief moment – it would've been comical had he not started to practically shake.

"Me?" He sputtered. "Yeah, no. Formal wear and small talk – I don't think so." He shook his head with such vigour Steve thought he'd get a concussion. "Sorry, Di, but that's a hard pass. Not even for a very good cause."

Her eyes moved to Arthur, which made Victor snort.

"What?" Arthur demanded even though he didn't look particularly excited by the idea of a suit and small talk not a second ago, either.

"You don't exactly look like the press, Mr. Curry," Arthur responded tactfully before Victor had chance to offer a far less generous jab.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not bookish and boring, man," Barry interjected. "Think Clark, and take it as a compliment."

"Charming," Diana said flatly.

"Take Clark," Bruce offered just as Arthur said,

"Take Steve."

Steve snapped his head up. His pulse stuttered. He had to have heard it wrong.

The room fell silent and so still it that felt like something had sucked all air out of it as all eyes turned to him, and for a brief second, the time stopped completely.

He was certain that he could hear his own blood flowing in his veins.

"Probably not the best-"

Idea.

"Done," Victor cut him off, drawing everyone's attention to himself and a hologram hanging right before him, a glowing list of names and number scrolling so fast that it was dizzying, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration and his fingers moving slightly conjuring one image after another like magic.

"Wow…" Barry breathed out.

"What do you mean – done?" Bruce growled. "Done what?"

"Their firewall is shit," Victor chuckled and closed the fist, making the hologram disappear. "It was a no brainer to add your names to the guest list," he added, his gaze shifting to Diana and then Steve, and then back to her. "No that press nonsense." He paused and sighed, "Let's be real, you two don't look like no reporters, either."

"Victor…" Diana started not without reproach.

"We agreed I will stop hacking his systems," Victor pointed at Bruce, who rolled his eyes. "What else am I supposed to do? This is the one thing I'm actually good at."

Well, you could have asked, Steve thought, uncertain if he was thrilled or unnerved by this sudden turn of events. It was one thing to flip through a pile of encyclopedias that were published before Alfred was even born, but the idea of going on a mission—he really needed to come up with another word for the field work because it wasn't like they had missiles whistling over their heads—send his mind reeling. He was awfully out of practice, for one thing. And also Diana—

Shit.

He turned to her, about to protest because surely she understood that this was a bad plan. Her boyfriend looked pissed as hell, and while it was mildly entertaining, the last thing he wanted was to—Okay, if he was honest with himself, there was smug satisfaction to all of this. Something he didn't want to dwell on. He still didn't want to cause any trouble, though. Not for some petty reasons. Not to her.

But before he could open his mouth, Diana's lips quirked, forming into a small private smile that never failed to render him speechless, and now was hardly an exception, all the much puzzling in present circumstances.

"Just like the good old times," she said softly.

No, not at all, Steve thought.

In the good old times, he would wake up every morning next to her, with the weight of her arm draped over him and her face tucked into his shoulder. In the good old times, he would slip out of the bed and she would roll over to claim the warm spot without waking up, which inevitably made him want to climb right back under the covers for another hour, or five. It would mean having Diana reach for his hand without even realizing she was doing it until he'd lift the knot of their fingers to his lips to kiss her knuckles. It would be drawing a map of pleasure on her body with his hands and feel his blood boil at the sound of his name falling from her lips in soft whisper. It would meant to be on the receiving end of her smile, and to never hold back if he wanted to touch her, saying the words of love whenever he pleased.

This… this was like having a treat dangle before his face and knowing that he could never get it, and that alone was making him want to refuse steadfastly to be a part of this.

Instead, Steve nodded, not trusting himself not to say something utterly ridiculous. God only knew how many times he was going to end up with his big foot in his even bigger mouth between now and the next week.

"Four days."

xoox

There were many an instance in Diana's life when she found herself standing adjacent to the people around her, separated from them by one thing or another, a few feet of distance that she couldn't cross. A daughter of the Queen, raised accordingly; the only child on the island full of adults; the only one not only discouraged but downright forbidden from learning the art of battle comprising the essence of her people, a lack of proper explanation for it making her feel even more alien to them all.

She was different, and this profound realization was the first one that managed to anchor itself in her mind a long time ago, back when the old gods still rules the Earth. A feeling all the more intensified when she came to live in man's world where every step felt like walking through a minefield.

An observer more often than a participant, she watched people move in and out of her life as though she was not a part of that process. At times, it made her feel proud and independent, even though there were moments when her soul ached with wistful loneliness and longing for more. Other times, she felt like letting anyone get too close to her would make her disintegrate when they left. Even now, after all those years, she still wasn't sure if she wanted to blend in or to stand out, her set of mind alternating between one and the other at the oddest of moments.

Like now when she was watching the fog creep from the forest surrounding the lake from the deck outside the lounge while the house behind her was so quiet that it made her feel like she was the only person left alive. The silence would be pressing had it not been for a slight rusting of the trees in the evening breeze, and she tried to decide whether she welcomed or dreaded the sudden tranquility, so different from the usual noise permeating the place.

The air was cold enough for her breath to be puffing out in small white clouds. The sun, half-hidden behind the trees, hanging low over the horizon, offered no warmth. It would be dark in less than half an hour, and her leather jacket provided little comfort against the damp chill of the late autumn.

Arthur was leaving soon, she thought absently, although not without a promise to come back whenever they needed him, and Victor had moved back to stay with his father, craving his own kind of normalcy. So far, Barry was the only one keen on sticking around for no reason other than the company, and she couldn't blame him. Gods knew, she was well aware of how heavy the burden of carrying a whole different person within oneself could be, the comfort of being able to share it with someone else, for however brief a time, almost overwhelming.

Her own life was waiting as well, the routine that made loss and destruction bearable.

And yet here she was, stalling, relieved beyond anything to have an excuse to postpone her return to France. All because—

Because Steve was the only person who had ever made her feel like one of his people, a part of the world where she didn't belong for the reasons that went beyond the fact that she was more than the rest of them. Because for the first time in her life, to Diana's memory, he made her feel like she belonged, period. Because she could finally stop looking for his face in the crowds – a habit not the time, nor other relationships in her life had killed.

Because there was a warm feeling unfurling in her chest, never absent but dormant for decades. Alive again. And there was solace to it, if bittersweet and fragile.

She still loved him.

She always had.

She always would.

With him, she was truly at peace. Even after all this time. Even if Steve didn't feel the same way anymore.

It scared her, the lack of control, the absence of any pattern. Being used to constant change was different from being thrown into it against her will. And yet, she was going to stay even if heartbreak was the price.

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps behind her, and Diana recognized them as Barry's even before he paused beside her without a word, his gaze sweeping over the expanse of the water, his shoulders slouched against the chill. She took in a shuddered breath and exhaled slowly.

"It's awfully quiet," she said after a moment.

"Vic went home," Barry shrugged. "Arthur asked him for a lift to town because Bruce forbade him to so much as look at his cars." There was a smile in his voice that bubbled up into a chuckle under his breath. "After Arthur almost totaled his Volvo, that is."

The corners of Diana's mouth tugged upward. "So I've heard."

As had the rest of Gotham, quite likely. Bruce was very fond of his cars and didn't condone any recklessness, unless it was his own. Hence, the ban on Arthur looking, touching, or breathing anywhere near his prized collection of vehicles.

Diana couldn't remember the house being so empty and silent before. Not in her time, at least. She thought she would enjoy it, a moment of break – she loved the League dearly, but after all the time when she'd had only herself for a company, this sudden clamour around her felt overbearing now and then – but instead it felt sad. Like something was missing. She wanted them back. And the funny thing was that she knew for a fact that Bruce wouldn't want to have it any other way, either.

Loneliness was addictive, there was safety to it, and she, of all people, knew it all too well. But so was companionship and openness, and however unaccustomed Bruce was to those feeling, he was in too deep to go back to his old ways now. And he knew it, too, which, Diana assumed, was the main source of his frustration these days.

"It was epic," Barry added not without fascination that made her smile widen a tiny bit.

"Well, it'll serve Arthur right," she commented, more amused than reproachful.

"Don't tell him that," Barry blurted out, mortified. "I tried to, but thank god, I run fast."

Diana chuckled and shook he head. "Noted."

Arthur loved being told what to do about as much as Bruce loved other people messing with his toys.

"You okay, Di?" Barry asked after a moment of hesitation.

She turned to him and offered him a small, reassuring nod.

"Are you?" She asked. "We all have different reasons for doing what we're doing here. But I wouldn't want any one of you feel like you're obligated to help."

Barry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked down at the wooden floor of the deck before glancing up at her. "Are we talking about me, or Steve?"

"You," Diana pressed.

If he didn't believe her, he chose not to push the subject.

"'Course I am." He turned to look at the water. The porch light came on behind them, timed to switch on at quarter to six. "You know, up until recently I couldn't even imagine that my life might amount to anything. Anything at all, let alone something meaningful." He looked at his shoes with a small rueful smile before raising his gaze again. "I didn't quite fit even before I became a freak—"

"You're not a freak, Barry," she objected gently.

"—but now," he continued, "the world doesn't seem like such a lonely place. And if we get to save a life or two in the process…" He shrugged. "I say, it could be worse." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Besides, the view here is nice. When it's not creepy, that is. Which is almost never, but still."

Diana laughed at that. "Well, so long as the view is nice."

"Look, I'm sorry about… about yesterday. That gala thing-"

"Auction," she corrected.

Barry scrunched his nose. "How are they different?"

She shrugged. "They sell things at the auction."

"Regardless." He cleared his throat. "If you really don't want to go with Steve. Like, really don't wanna—I'd be happy to—I know the things are complicated between the two of you…" He left the rest of the sentence hang between them, his cheeks turning pink, but didn't look away from her, his gaze almost daring.

"Is that so?"

He let out a huff. "Come on, you gotta see the way he looks at you." And added under his breath, "Which, of course, you don't."

"He doesn't-" Diana started.

"Okay, here's the deal," Barry stopped her. "We know that there's some big bad story between you two, so we can skip you denying it and me trying to convince you because we… Well, first of all, because we spent the whole afternoon yesterday listening to you talk about the Second World War like you were there. Which you were," he trailed off under her unmasked scrutiny. "But also because you do this insane dance thing around one another. Like, you keep that three-foot distance between each other at all times as if the world might implode if you, god forbid, came any closer. You move, he moves… I swear it looks choreographed." He shook his head and rubbed his forehead, then glanced over his shoulder at the glass door and at Diana again. "Oh boy… We looked him up, okay? Vic and I, when he first came here, because… well, because you were weird, and you're – generally – the most normal of us all."

Diana was staring at him, too dumbfounded to speak.

"And he doesn't exist," Barry added hastily, misreading her silence. "I mean, of course, he does. He's holed up in the Batcave right now, and he also ate the last of peanut butter this morning, which was a bit of a dick move, if you ask me. But he doesn't exist in the way that would make the mean government lady want to push him on us, you know." He swallowed. "What we did find was a photo from, like, before the Great War of a dude at some airbase or something who looks remarkably like the guy downstairs. So it got us thinking… And that time when Bruce mentioned someone named Steve Trevor…" His voice dropped. "We sort of figured out that you guys knew each other before. That he was someone like you."

"Like me?" Diana echoed, frowning in confusion. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost the train of this conversation completely.

"You know," Barry pointed up to the sky, which didn't exactly clarify anything. "Like, strong and bulletproof and such. Is he?"

She blinked. "No," she shook her head. "No, he's not."

"But he's old," he pressed.

She bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Not that old."

"Okay, well…" Barry blinked. "Case in point…" he rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain if he should proceed, but then clenched his jaw and went on, "case in point – and it's none of my business, of course, and it's probably gonna sound stupid coming from someone, like, five hundred times younger than you – but if someone was looking at me the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you, I'd probably want to… to do something about it, I guess."

He shrugged again, and before Diana could respond, there was commotion in the hallway, the voices bouncing off the walls and spilling onto the deck through the open window. She could smell takeaway food, hear bursts of laughter, and her chest squeezed tight with fondness.

The electrified tension hanging between her and Barry, the words that prickled her skin like needles, dissipated into nothing.

"I hope they got Chinese," Barry muttered, starting toward the door.

"Barry," Diana called after him. He paused and turned to her. "Thank you. For the offer." She smiled. "And, between us, I think you'd look dashing in a suit."

xoox

Steve loved Bruce Springsteen.

He wasn't sure when and how exactly it happened, but one day a couple of decades ago, he found himself humming along with one of the songs when it came up on the radio, unaware of even knowing the words until then. And yet there he was, in his tiny kitchen, waiting for the percolator to brew enough coffee to wake him up and drumming his fingers on the counter to the chorus. Old man never failed to lift his spirits, somehow. Over time, he got used to clinging to the familiar. There was consolation in how music could never really die.

Now, the same song was filling Bruce Wayne's car, black and slick and so otherworldly-looking Steve all but expected it to lift off the road and soar into the sky, and it struck him how wistfully comical the combination was, how much the music clashed with the technology exuding it. How much they didn't belong with one another.

Yet, when he was fiddling with the controls earlier, filled with the nervous energy and out of other ideas, and the song popped up on one of the stations, he couldn't bring himself to switch it to something else. Techno maybe. It was hard to imagine Bruce Wayne being a fan of folk rock. And so he allowed the sound of Springsteen's voice to fill the space between him and Diana whose right wrist was draped with ease over the steering wheel as her gaze remained glued to the road, distilling the thick tension between them, somewhat. An intangible buffer.

Steve wondered if she could sense the contrast as well, and whether she minded it if she did.

He wasn't sure how to ask searching for words, struggling to get his thoughts together, desperate to break the silence, and scared of doing.

Of all the things, possible and impossible, that could have happened in his life, he was thinking now, ending up here, in the place, in this moment of time was something he couldn't have possibly imagined even if he had a thousand years to think it up.

They were driving to Metropolis accompanied by a steady patter of rain against the roof and tinted windows, a rhythmic dance of windshield wipers almost hypnotic. There were only two types of weather in Gotham, he had learned in the past few weeks – overcast and rainy, one merging seamlessly into another. Endless metamorphosis.

Yesterday, Alfred asked him if he needed a suit for the auction, and Steve assured him that he had one. He had a suit. And an apartment, too. In London. The one he hadn't set his foot in for decades, but it was still in his name nonetheless. He had money as well. Not Bruce Wayne's money, and not even Diana's, but there were certain perks to being alive almost as long as the stock market. He'd always been good at figuring out the odds.

Well, most of the time.

He glanced at Diana out of the corner of his eyes, at her fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the music, and chose not to think about the odds.

Earlier, after they picked up his suit from the drycleaner's where Alfred sent it the night before, Steve thought they'd be going back to the lake house, but Diana took the road leading out of town instead. He figured she knew a place where they could change, and hoped that that place wasn't the back of a two-door vehicle. Now, that would be the kind of excitement he was perfectly fine living without. Either that, or the black jeans and tight jacket she was wearing were her black-tie attire.

Frankly, she could pull it off.

Springsteen's song ended and a commercial took its place.

Steve turned down the volume but chose not to turn it off completely. The idea of having to endure the company of his own mind and the silence hanging between them, the kind that made him hear himself think, was unbearable.

Aside from that, though, there was comfort to her presence, to the smell of her perfume clinging to his skin, to the small, kind smile that she offered to him when he happened to glance her way. Lately, Steve was starting to wonder if grief and pain could ever break a person into pieces so small that they would be impossible to put back together without losing something in the process. It felt that way sometimes, when his chest was so heavy, almost like someone stepped on it.

Sitting next to Diana now, soaking up every smallest detail he'd missed about her, was the closest thing to healing he'd felt in decades. For a moment, he even almost forgot about Bruce Wayne and his nearly palpable presence that seemed to hover behind Steve more often than not.

"Can I ask you something?" He spoke after half an hour of trying to ignore the fact that his very skin was all but tingling from her proximity.

Diana glanced at him. "Of course."

Did you miss me?

Are you happy?

Do you love him?

He swallowed, his throat tight. Had to clench his jaw lest the words spill out of his mouth on the will of their own.

Do you still carry my darkness within you?

"What do you know about Amanda Waller?"

Diana hesitated, a frown wedging itself between her eyebrows. "Not much," she admitted. "I've heard about her, but never met her before the day when… when you came back." She pushed her fingers through her hair, her other hand flexing on the steering wheel. "A while ago, she wanted to have a group of people with special abilities work for her, clean up the messes she can't take care of herself."

"A league of her own," Steve muttered, not quite certain what it was that unsettled him so much all of a sudden, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and a revelation that kept slipping away from him.

"A league of her own," Diana echoed. "This was before my time, but I'm aware that her plan had failed, essentially. Although not before she managed to gather dossiers on something like a dozen people who were labeled as meta-humans."

"Barry?" Steve asked.

"Barry. And Victor," she confirmed. "And Arthur, too."

"Why do you think she failed?"

He could see why Waller would want to try – he was surprised no one did it sooner, at least to his knowledge. This was why he was so adamant to protect his own identity, to make sure he never ended up being a lab rat. Why the rest of the League was desperate to do so as well.

"She wanted to force them into being something that they were not," Diana breathed. "You know full well that doing what we do must be a choice, not an obligation. It doesn't—it doesn't work that way."

He nodded. "What happened then?"

"She gave the files to Bruce in exchange for help with one of her charges who turned on her. That's all I know."

"You don't like her." A statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't like her…" Diana trailed off. "I don't trust her." She paused. "How did she find you?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted with a shake of his head. "I asked, but she never told me." The world outside his window was nothing but a flurried smudge of grey. "She was the first one."

"Amanda Waller had information on me, Steve." Her voice cracked ever so slightly, although whether it was worry or frustration Steve wasn't sure. He hated it nonetheless. "It's how Bruce found out who I was. She, or someone else, had been watching me for I don't even know how long." Diana turned to find him studying her, his brows pulled together. "I help because I want to; because it's what I do. But I don't appreciate other people meddling with my personal business."

"Is she?" Steve asked. "Meddling with your personal business?"

"I think she knows more than she lets on, about all of us," she responded after a moment.

And if that wasn't unsettling, Steve didn't know what was.

He didn't see Amanda Waller as a threat, per se, but she definitely had a card or a few up her sleeve, and that was enough to leave him feeling helpless and out of control. Steve hated that feeling.

xoox

Metropolis, 2017

The door swung open the moment Diana raised her fist to knock, revealing a tall man who seemingly filled the height and the width of it without much effort. A second of hesitation, and he broke into the brightest and the most excited grin at the sight of her, white teeth flashing.

"Clark," Diana smiled back, stepping closer to kiss him on the cheek.

"Glad you've made it," Clark chuckled and pulled her into an embrace.

Clark Kent, Steve noted mentally, taking the other man in.

Superman.

Another, less obvious, member of the League, so to speak, who had his own domain and, apparently, a rather low tolerance for Bruce Wayne's rich-man's bullshit. Steve decided that he liked him for that aspect alone, although it was his easy way with Diana that truly anchored this opinion. He had an open face and an infectious smile, admiration pooling in his blue eyes. The photographs Steve had seen didn't do Clark Kent justice, never capturing the lightness that radiated off him, which Steve realized with a start, reminded him of Diana.

As if on cue, Clark's gaze shifted from her and locked on Steve, making him remember skimming his dossier and reading something about his X-ray vision (which, god, was the most insane thing he'd ever heard of). He doubted, though, that with the gaze this piercing he even needed it. Maybe his decoy glasses weren't that bad an idea after all, lest he incinerate everyone in his wake without even trying. (And he could that too, literally.)

"You must be Steve," Clark said, and offered him his hand. Steve perked up, curious. It was one thing that he'd heard about Superman, but the other way around? Interesting.

"Yes. Trevor." He shook the other man's hand, noting that Diana already stepped into the apartment that was meant to be their pit stop for the next hour or so.

Half an hour ago, when they pulled into Metropolis and Steve finally asked her what the plan was, she told him that they were going to visit a friend, although right now he wasn't so sure if he meant Clark, or the red-haired woman who had her in a tight hug in the middle of the hallway. Possibly, both.

At last, the woman let go of Diana and stepped around her, her eyes narrowed a little as they took Steve in with apprehension and zero subtlety, making him feel like he was an exhibit in a freak show.

"Steve, this is Lois. Lois Lane," Diana offered after a moment or two, the sound of her voice nudging her friend to also extend her hand to him. "She and Clark are… together."

Yeah, he figured that much.

"Hi," he clasped her hand, still not quite certain what he did to deserve the kind of scrutiny he was under. His gaze darted toward Diana who had to purse her lips together to hold back a smile, slightly more amused than the situation warranted, perhaps. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Lois said, and Steve didn't believe it for a second. Not with the way she was trying to dissect him with her eyes, her head tilted quizzically to her shoulder. "I've heard… almost nothing about you."

He cleared his throat and shifted his suit, still in the clear drycleaner's bag, into another hand. "That's probably a good thing," he muttered, earning a chuckle from Clark in response.

"Well, welcome." Clark patted him on the shoulder and squeezed past the women and into the living room where he picked up the remote and turned the TV off before tossing it back on the couch. He glanced around, "The place is all yours."

"Thank you."

Diana draped her dress bag over the back of the couch, her expression softening until there was nothing but gratitude left, the sharp edges smoothed out into nothing.

Lois opened her mouth as if to comment, her gaze shifting from Steve to Diana, and he could have sworn he could hear the gears in her head work.

He braced himself for an onslaught of questions.

"Well, we better get going," Lois said instead, checking her watch. She reached for her purse and hesitated. "Are you sure… Clark could probably…" Her gaze darted between Diana and her boyfriend. "Come with you, maybe?"

"I thought you were on a deadline," Diana reminded her, an eyebrow arched.

"We are," Clark nodded, picking up his coat. "And Terry's going to kill us if we don't meet it." With his hand on the small on Lois's back, he steered her toward the door, grabbing her jacket from the peg on the way.

"It's just a dinner," Diana added, watching them with so much affection it threatened to spill over the rim, never bothering to hide it.

"Well, if you need something, call…" Lois started, glancing over her shoulder, not panicked, per se, but probably very much aware of about a million things that could go wrong in Diana's line of… well, work. So to speak. "Or text."

"Honey," Clark nudged her into the hallway before tossing a quick goodbye. "Have fun, guys." He paused for a brief moment, his expression sobering. His gaze lingered on Diana, a thousand thoughts passing between them, none very pleasant. Experience rather than overreaction. "And yes, call."

Steve offered him a small wave in return.

"Wow, your friend really doesn't like me," he muttered when the door closed, the lock clicking into place, and the silence settling over the two of them, interrupted only by the hum of the fridge and soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Diana shook her head with a small smile. She folded her arms over her chest. "It's not that," she said. "Lois is… curious. And protective, I guess."

Steve flinched a little, unable to stop himself. "What did you tell her?"

"Almost nothing," she repeated Lois's statement. "Never thought that that could be a problem."

"Well, it's very nice of them to let us use their home," he said, looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, a few magazines on the coffee table, a worn-out couch with soft quilt draped over the armrest, and pale sky outside the large window overlooking an endless sea of rooftops of Metropolis. "It's good to have friends who care about you." He looked around, taking note of a slight smell of the lemon furniture polish hanging in the air. "What did you tell them? About tonight."

"The truth."

Of course.

Diana's fingers flexed a little on her elbows. "Clark died six months ago," she said when Steve turned to her again.

"You were there," he muttered, remembering that particular report, supplied with half a dozen articles that featured grainy images, nearly unrecognizable but unmistakable nonetheless.

He imagined that they were taken by helicopters, or droids. A black shadow of Batman's suit, blending into the night; the red cape of Superman caught in the wind as he flew across the port to meet Doomsday halfway; a glint of Diana's blade reflecting the flashes of light. He could see her charging at the monster without thinking twice, lithe form and power incarnate rolled into one. He'd recognize her even if he didn't know to look for her.

(Sometimes Steve thought that there was his photograph in the dictionary as a definition of 'pathetic'.)

God knew it took Waller and her team quite a bit of effort to clean up Lex Luthor's mess. If it wasn't for Diana, though, they would all get exterminated, so maybe that wasn't that big a price, after all.

"And so was Lois." She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "It's… interesting how you can bond with someone over the loss of a loved one."

Steve's mouth went dry.

Interesting was one way to put it. Devastating would probably be his choice of word. The loneliness and longing behind her words, an echo of the time long gone - they landing on him like a blow, making it hard to breathe. He'd done that to her twice, made her watch him die. Whatever happened between them, however much it hurt him to lose her, at least he never got to see her body drained of life, desperate for a chance to turn the time back and get those precious moments back.

He remembered—

He remembered everything about them. Every word, every moment like a pearl on a string, dear in its own way, unique and beautiful. But what he remembered better than anything else, with striking clarity almost, was how she touched him sometimes like she was scared that he might slip between her fingers, how she looked at him like she strived to memorize him on the off-chance that he might dissipate before her eyes.

Had the tables been reversed, had he been the one to see her die, Steve had no idea how he'd be able to live afterwards. How he'd be able to close his eyes without losing her time and time again.

"Well, he's back now," he muttered, not sure if he was talking about Clark or himself. Not sure if she knew it, either.

Diana nodded. Her voice carried none of the wistfulness when she spoke again. "We should get dressed."

xoox

The air smelled faintly of a vanilla-scented candle and floral bath salt sitting on the lip of a bathtub.

Steve stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink in a small bathroom cluttered with the things that people tended to accumulate when they felt secure, safe, at home - the most-lived in place he'd been to in over twenty years, perhaps. A stranger whose expression Steve could barely recognize stared back at him, seemingly just as surprised by the encounter.

By an unspoken agreement, Diana wound up with the bedroom while he ended up here, and now he wished that they could switch, if only so he could avoid dealing with the eyes of a man he could no longer see himself in and the silent questions to which he had no answers. He wanted to ask Diana if she felt that way too sometimes, if the familiarity of something unchanged was starting to wear thin on her as well. It was an odd feeling, he had to admit. Like knowing that the inside wasn't matching the outside. Not that there was anything Steve could do about it.

He pushed back from the sink and looked away, reaching for his tie resting on top of the pile of clothes draped over the back of the chair. His hands moved on autopilot affixing it around his neck without effort as Steve tried not to think of anything beyond the next few hours, summoning the plans for the upcoming night as best he could instead. It was easier that way, easier to think of a mission ahead of him, a task that needed to be accomplished.

That was the best thing about the military, he thought absently. Clear goals, his body knowing what to do long before his mind caught up. There was no semblance of routine in his life lately, and even though Steve deeply cherished being his own master, he couldn't help but crave structure and order now and then. Old habits…

The only difference was that he didn't need to wear a suit back then. It already felt uncomfortably stiff on his body, like a second skin that didn't quite fit. What a damn shame it was that it didn't come with a whole different personality to match the new look as well. Yet, ironically enough, it was a good distraction to focus on to avoid pondering the fact that Diana was somewhere close by, separated from him by two doors and fifteen feet and an abyss of life and memories that belonged to neither of them.

He wanted to be here, however. Instead of Bruce Wayne. Or anyone else, for that matter. With her, after all this time. Even if it didn't really count. Even if he had no right to feel that way.

Steve checked his watch and glanced at the other guy in the mirror – an involuntary gesture that he regretted immediately. A century of regrets looked back at him. Even after all this time, he still wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"Diana?"

Half a minute later, Steve rapped his knuckle on the door leading to the bedroom. If they were planning to make it before the auction began, they needed to get moving. It was one thing to be fashionably late, and something else entirely to be too late and draw unnecessary attention to themselves – the last thing they needed tonight.

"Come in, it's open," she called back, her voice muffled.

Steve turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"You know, I was thinking about that case in Austria in 1949—" he started and cut off abruptly when he found her standing in front of a vanity table in nothing but black lingerie, putting on her earrings that winked at him in the light of the fading sun that chose to make an appearance after several hours of a heavy downpour and was now flooding the room, colouring it golden. He could have sworn that she was glowing. "Oh… I'm sorry." Steve looked away, feeling the colour rise up his cheeks and his heartbeat escalate by the moment. Heaven help him… He cleared his throat. "I thought you were…" Dressed. "I'm sorry, I'll wait-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause. "You saw me like this, Steve."

God, no, I did not. Not like this. Never like this.

Not when black lace was clinging close to her olive skin, thin as a whisper, making him want to trace its patterns with his fingers, see if it was as soft and delicate as it looked.

And now the image was seared into his mind for as long as he breathed.

Crap.

"Yes, but that was when—" Steve stumbled over the words that jammed in his throat. "We're not-"

"Together?" He could feel her watch him for a few moments before she asked quietly, "What difference does it make? You can't unsee something."

Shit.

He swallowed, hard, his jaw working as he tried to come up with something to say. Anything. Anything to stop thinking about her-

Maybe unseeing wasn't the problem, he thought. Unseeing wasn't an issue. Maybe the problem was wanting more. More than he could have.

He dropped his gaze, suddenly very interested in his very polished shoes while trying to debate whether or not it was okay to simply bolt out the door without another word, never mind that he wasn't fifteen years old and it was just stupid. Never mind that they'd slept together, for years. Okay, maybe he needed to stop thinking about that, too.

Funny how it didn't really matter whether it was Diana who walked in on him naked, or the other way around – he was always the one with frantic pulse and hot cheeks. Some things never changed, apparently.

Steve looked up, doing his damned best to keep from staring at anything below her neck. He met her eyes in the mirror, half grateful for that buffer to intensity of her gaze, half hating it.

"It's just how it is," he breathed out.

"I see," she murmured, tearing her eyes away from his, and Steve turned away, choosing to look out the window instead, at the flat roof of the building across the street where someone forgot a football that used to be orange but turned into pale yellow from staying in the sun long enough for it to burn away the colour.

Somehow, it felt like a better alternative to marching out of the room. Or disintegrating on the spot.

"You know, sometimes I feel like I have mankind figured out," Diana spoke behind him, the plastic of her dress bag rustling as she unzipped it. "And other times, I think that I don't understand it at all."

"Welcome to the club," Steve muttered.

The problem was, he wasn't all that sure if the world really was worth the effort. Personally, he'd given up on trying to make sense of it a long time ago. Then again, maybe they were not meant to be understood. Maybe they were meant to be saved now and then, and the rest was only a matter of luck. That, at least, he was semi-good at.

"Steve?"

He snapped his head up to find Diana stand with her back to him, her head half-turned and the hair that was spilling over her shoulders a few minutes ago pinned up, twisted into an elegant up-do. The zipper of her black cocktail dress was undone, running from just below her shoulder blades to her waist.

"Could you…" she started.

"Of course."

He cleared his throat and moved toward her, crossing the room in two hasty strides, surprised that he managed to avoid tripping over his own feet in the process. The sooner they were done and over with this, the sooner he'd stop feeling like someone tossed him into a food-processor, so violent his insides were churning, the intimacy of this situation making his head swim.

His hands were trembling slightly when he reached for the zipper, careful to touch only the shimmering material but not her skin, mostly for fear of combusting right there and then. The elusive pull tab slipped out of his grasp twice before he managed to grip it properly and slide it up with a soft whoosh.

From this close, he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the floral notes of her shampoo and her presume, and ocean, and sunshine. Everything that was Diana for as long as he remembered. The very same smell that lingered on every single thing that he owned for months after he'd left. At first, it kept driving him insane, making him reach for her in the night, her presence so palpable that his heart kept skipping a beat every time he thought he'd heard her move about his tiny apartment. And then it started to fade, and Steve's much anticipated relief turned into dread – he wasn't ready to lose her completely, not when every other part of her was already gone.

Diana turned around slowly, her face mere inches away in front of his, inquisitive eyes darting between his. His gaze dropped to the ruby-red bow of her lips. She reached for his necktie, adjusting it a little. A familiar gesture that made something tender ache inside him.

"You look good," she said softly, her lips curved into a small, gentle smile.

"You look…" ethereal, divine, breathtaking. Steve faded off, his heart pounding in his ribcage, threatening to burst. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then uttered, "We need to go, we're already late."

Diana hesitated, a shadow of something akin disappointment passing over his features. And then her hands fell from his chest. She turned away from him and reached for her clutch. Steve watched her slip on her black pumps and check her reflection one last time.

"Diana?"

She paused, her hand frozen near her face, and glanced at him.

Steve swallowed, "You look beautiful."

xoox

Déjà vécu.

A moment lived.

It wasn't the practicality of speaking every language known to humankind that never ceased to truly amaze Diana, but the ability to find a word for nearly every feeling a person might experience – something that gave her comfort. Understanding of herself that she treasured beyond everything.

The French were good at that, she had to admit; at finding the right combination of syllables to glimpse into one's soul.

And this was exactly what she felt, standing in the entrance to the ballroom of the Grand Metropolis Hotel that sparkled like Christmas tree and feeling like she was transported to the past.

There was a beginning to everything, and Diana's life as it was today started nearly four decades ago in a room much like this one, where the light was trapped in massive crystal chandeliers and intricate jewelry – the prisms bending it into infinity spectrum, and spilling it around in sparks and rainbows.

It was then, in 1979 in Vienna, that she was invited to an event much like this one, and despite all the reasons that she had to decline the invitation, Diana chose to accept it, still not quite certain as to why. It was there and then, during the cocktail hour, that she met the curator of the British Museum who was so profoundly impressed by hew knowledge of art and the history of its becoming that he offered her a position of an Exhibitions Assistant. It was there and then that she finally saw that there was nothing holding her in Paris anymore; that it was nothing but loneliness that kept her there in the first place. That Steve wasn't coming back – something that she knew all along but wasn't willing to admit even to herself.

She accepted the proposal on the spot, despite her distaste for London with its dreadful weather and the memories she wasn't particularly fond of, and the nervous flutter in her stomach at the change that was yet to come.

Diana wondered sometimes what would have happened of her had she not been in Vienna on that fateful day. Had she not taken a leap of faith and put blind trust in the gods of fate to lead her where she was meant to be.

The irony of being back to where she had started, at least in the proverbial sense, wasn't lost on her.

"Wow," Steve whistled softly under his breath, following Diana into the ballroom, converted for the occasion into an auditorium with rows of seats and a podium to display the bids. "It's almost like they're trying too hard."

Heavy drapes on the windows and original artwork on the walls, servers in impeccable black uniforms and the glimmer of silver and gold made the place look like the finest of palaces.

Her lips curved almost imperceptibly, his reassuring presence anchoring her in this moment. She wondered if he was even aware of his hand on the small of her back – a gesture so easy and natural she'd miss it herself had it not been for the warmth of his touch that spread up her body.

Diana turned to him. "They need to sell the atmosphere before they can sell anything else," she explained, not without mild amusement.

The corner of Steve's mouth lifted, making something warm unfold in her chest momentarily. "Okay, Ms. Prince, you're the boss. Lead the way."

It was a relief to be back in her element again, albeit the one slightly less familiar than the battlefield but no less comfortable regardless. She knew those people, or at least their type. She knew how to navigate these waters, and the right words she needed to say. If nothing else, she'd long learned to appreciate the solace of belonging.

Close your eyes and imagine, Hippolyta would tell her when Diana was a little girl and the world was far too vast and wondrous to waste any time on sleep, the night seemingly holding as many adventures as her days. Close your eyes, Diana, and look into the darkness, her mother would repeat, stroking her hair, her voice soft and loving, a safe place in and of itself. Let your mind take you beyond your wildest dreams. And Diana would do that, glimpse into the void of endless possibilities, see herself on the wings of the wind, dancing with the stars.

She'd imagined this, too. Imagined Steve return to her like he'd done before, the past and the present colliding on the nights when nothing else could lull her to sleep and she craved to hear the sound of his voice so badly that it made her chest hurt. Daydreams were hardly the way to fix the world, but they sure knew how to make it more bearable.

And she was wondering now if perhaps she was dreaming again as he followed her across the room, looking as sure and confident as if he'd spent the last century doing just this, day in and day out. A few times she even caught herself reaching for his hand, and had to stop herself from twining their fingers together, so easy it was to forget about the abyss of hurt between them.

"They will have cocktails first," Diana explained softly. The program came with their invitations, courtesy of Victor, but she didn't need it - these events never deviated from the established pattern. "To allow the latecomers to arrive, and everyone else to meet, should they feel like it." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve nod. "The dinner will follow, and then the auction. It will close with the formal arrangements for the purchased items."

She'd picked up a list of the pieces to be auctioned off when they first arrived, skimming it briefly, not surprised but still mildly disappointed not to find the painting she was looking for on it. It had to be Quinn's personal item then.

He nodded again. "Do you know anyone here?"

"A few people, yes." Diana looked around, spotting familiar faces. An appraiser from Zurich she'd worked with a few times before; a collector from New York known for being more that a little snobbish; a Curator of the Modern Art Collection from the Museum of San Francisco. This auction wasn't major enough of an event to draw a big crowd, but even so… "The world of art is smaller than it might seem."

"That probably works for the world in general, too," Steve noted under his breath, his gaze scanning the room sharp and assertive. Diana barely resisted the urge to smooth out a crease between his brows with her fingers. "So, what's the plan?"

"I believe we should start with—Mr. Quinn!" Her gaze shifted past Steve's shoulder toward the man walking toward them, a broad smile spreading over her face.

Darrell Quinn paused before them, taking them in with apprehension. His mouth opened and closed, his brows pulling together as he tried to place them in his mind.

"I'm sorry-"

"It's Diana," she offered her hand to him, and he grasped it automatically. "Diana Prince."

A flash of recognition passed over Quinn's face as she spoke, softening his features. "Of course, Ms. Prince, how could I-" He shook her hand again, with more enthusiasm. "A dinner, several weeks ago. I remember you. I'm sorry, this is… not like me."

"The fundraiser, yes," she confirmed with a nod. They barely said two words to one another then, and she was more concerned about not being dragged into a conversation that would be impossible to escape than anything else, but it was a good starting point nonetheless.

"You were there with Bruce Wayne, if I'm not mistaken," Quinn added, visibly relieved to have remembered that.

Beside her, Steve tensed. His hand fell from the spot on her back, and her body was already missing it desperately.

"You are, I'm afraid," Diana countered without missing a beat, her voice even and mild. "Bruce and I merely happened to be there at the same time."

"My apologies, Ms. Prince," Quinn corrected himself. "I didn't mean to…" His gaze darted toward Steve.

"Oh, I'm sorry… Mr. Quinn, this is Steve Trevor," Diana introduced him smoothly. "My-"

She faltered, grasping for a word, and was saved by a server that walked by them with a tray of champagne flutes.

Quinn gestured to him to come over, passing the glasses to Diana and Steve before picking up his own.

"Well, to you and… yours, Ms. Prince," he clinked his flute against Diana's. "I hope you will find what you're looking for tonight," he looked at her over the rim of the glass before drinking half of it in one gulp. "Always a pleasure to see you. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

You and yours, she thought, watching him cross the room.

"So, that's him, huh? The infamous art thief?" Steve muttered beside her, following Quinn with his gaze. Being slightly shorter than Diana, he didn't have a problem disappearing in the gathering crowd.

"We'll see," Diana responded vaguely.

Darrell Quinn didn't look like the type, and he had a reputation to uphold, but then again, she knew better that to trust appearances.

Steve put his glass down on the nearest table without taking so much as a sip. Diana placed hers next to his. And then his hand was on her hip, drawing her to him, his head dipping close to her hers and his breath warm on her cheek, making her forget the world.

"There is a door right behind you," he said softly into her ear. "His office is on this floor at the end of the corridor behind the reception. It could be a good place to start."

Her hand curled around his wrist before Steve had a change to pull away. She turned her face to him. The impossible blue of his eyes was all she could see and his heart was beating so close to her that she could barely tell it apart from her own. Diana's pulse stuttered when his gaze dropped to her lips before Steve dragged it back up.

"Steve…" she started and faltered, for the second time in five minutes.

It occurred to her for a brief moment that to any outsider, this probably looked like an intimate moment between two lovers, and the thought made her throat go dry.

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling lightheaded from the smell of her aftershave and the warmth radiating from his body. "For doing this For… for coming with me."

"Like the good old times," he echoed.

xoox

Gotham, 2017

All mistakes had a price attached to them, and Amanda Waller knew that better than anyone. Be it a life or a million of them, or a deadly disease spread in a blink of an eye, or chaos caused by those who foolishly assumed that they were above justice – there was always someone who had to pay for it.

Her job, quite literally, was to learn to use the words cannon fodder and collateral damage like it was nothing, as freely as talking about the weather. Two and a half decades and a dozen career leaps later, and she had finally mastered that skill. After all, there was no one else to do clean up the messes left by the criminals and the superheroes alike.

The one thing she still didn't have was control.

Gotham wasn't perfect – if she had to make a list, it wouldn't even make the top hundred. However, it was her city, her home, her choice, and feeling like she was a marionette while someone else was pulling the strings more often than not was getting under her skin. Hence Suicide Squad – she hated the name, but they needed one. Until it leaked into the press, and her life turned into an honest-to-god nightmare of dodging the questions that shouldn't have come to exist in the first place.

Hence the itch to get her hands on Justice League and stop feeling like she was being tossed around by a tornado of people who thought that they knew what they were doing when it clearly wasn't the case at all. She knew that eventually Bruce Wayne would get tired of leaping from roof to roof in a silly suit, and that Clark Kent preferred the farm life to the constant fight for justice, and that the rest of them would fall apart because there was nothing holding them together. Or at least that was the case until Wonder Woman came along.

A curse and a blessing all at once, and a massive kink in Waller's plans. No one was going to listen to her when they had a worthy leader to follow. Bruce Wayne could fool himself all he pleased, and maybe bringing them together was his idea, but everyone knew who the League would follow if they got divided.

Diana Prince was all but made of virtue and goodness. Who could ever beat that? They were all a little bit in love with her, too - you could see it in the battle, in the easy way they trusted her without thinking twice. Waller had studied every morsel of the footage she'd managed to acquire, CCTV and personal cameras, blurred photographs and accidental evidence, equally fascinated and frustrated by it.

Diana Prince didn't need the world, but the world needed her. The League needed her.

Hence the bloody agreement with the Batman when it was the last thing she wanted to be roped into. He was insufferable and impossible to work with, too unpredictable and lacking any respect for authority, but with him, she had leverage to offer. With Wonder Woman, there was nothing. The only problem here was, as it turned out, that she was fresh out of leverage. With the members of Suicide Squad safely locked away, and the files on the known meta-humans given to Bruce, she had no negotiation points.

And then suddenly Steve Trevor fell into her lap like a bloody Christmas present – another thing that came with a price that she was starting to regret. However, she wouldn't be Amanda Waller if she passed up an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone – to finally reach some sort of flimsy truce with the League and to shake Diana Prince's world just enough to remind her that nothing was ever as constant and steady as they all wished it could be.

Frankly, she didn't expect Steve to cooperate after her small ambush, but it didn't matter now. Not really. She was going to hold up her end of the bargain, eventually, however she doubted that by then, he would still care.

The door to her private dining room she always used if she wanted to dine in peace opened with a bang, giving Waller a start. It hit the wall, swaying slightly, the chatter from the restaurant wafting in through it – the exact thing she was trying to avoid.

She looked up from her Japanese salted salmon, more surprised than alarmed at the sudden disturbance only to find Bruce Wayne standing in the door, looking more disheveled than Waller had ever seen him.

"A word?" He asked in a tone that implied that it was hardly a suggestion so much as a command.

"Madam Waller, I'm sorry-" a panicked maître'd started, trying to squeeze past Wayne into the room.

Waller shook her head. "It's okay. I'll take it from here." The last thing she needed was an audience.

Maître'd glanced at Bruce without conviction, and it was then that Waller noticed another man that Wayne was holding by the collar of his jacket, his nose bloodied, red droplets staining the front of his shirt.

Interesting.

Waller nodded again, and the woman finally disappeared, although not without hesitation, closing the door behind her. She knew better than to intervene, thank heavens.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Bruce said flatly, and the man he was holding glared at him – without trying to get free though, Waller noted, having given up by now apparently.

"Not at all," she responded in kind, watching the colourful pair impassively. "Anything I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?"

"I thought we had a deal," Bruce all but growled.

She leaned back in her seat, hands clenched together on the table, thinking how the glass of wine sitting by her plate was practically begging to be finished in one gulp. This was the first time in weeks that she didn't have to stay in the office until midnight, and, of course, none other than this man had to find a way to ruin her evening.

"We still do," she responded, more curious than confused now.

"Then what is this?" Bruce demanded, all but shaking a stranger in Waller's face.

"I don't understand-"

"I don't care if you're hiding from Trevor, but if you want someone to spy on me, maybe try to get something more… skilful next time?"

"I appreciate your determination to think the worst of me-"

"I wonder where it came from," Bruce snorted.

"—but I have never seen this man in my life." She paused, holding Bruce's gaze steadily, unwavering. The other man could have been another face in the endless corridors outside her office, she never bothered to get personally acquainted with everyone working for her, directly or indirectly, but the last time she checked, she knew better than to involve an amateur to do a job meant for a professional. "And trust me, if I decided to arrange a surveillance, you wouldn't find out. Not easily, at least."

Bruce frowned, glaring at her for a moment or two before turning to the man who didn't seem particularly impressed or interested, save for the death stare that he returned to Bruce.

"Then who the hell is this?"

xoox

Metropolis, 2017

They had ten minutes, Steve thought, leading Diana across the lavish foyer and past the reception desk with massive granite countertop and several people having drinking in the lounge outside of the restaurant. Squared shoulders, steady footsteps - the key to not being caught, in his experience, was being good at pretending that he knew what he was doing. Fifteen tops. Anything longer than that, and someone was bound to get suspicious.

"Here," he steered her toward the last door on the left, their footsteps soundless on a thick Persian carpet that was so soft he kept thinking that they might drown in it.

Diana raised a curious eyebrow at him.

"Victor," Steve explained quietly. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved that no one was paying any attention to them, and turned the knob, pushing the door open. It gave in easily. "He showed me the plan of the building."

She followed him and closed the door behind them, just as soundlessly. "That was nice of him."

Steve pulled the heavy drapes on the windows closed lest someone notice the light and turned on the reading lamp, grinning at her from across the room. "I asked nicely."

But Diana wasn't listening anymore. She was looking past him, at the two by three feet canvas on the wall behind him, half hidden and out of the circle of light. Delicate lines and a heavy frame. As stunning as she imagined it would be. The photographs in old books didn't do it justice, not in the slightest. She walked around the desk to have a better look, her hand reaching to trace the carvings on the frame, assertive eyes taking in the details, looking for clues.

Steve straightened up and stepped closer to her, curious now, too.

It did look right. Very familiar in the way he couldn't quite explain, save for maybe dealing with a few other works that had that special air to them. Like they were something holy.

"What do you think?"

Diana leaned in closed, her fingertips carefully tracing the delicate strokes of the paintbrush as though it was a book written in braille and she was desperate to uncover its secrets.

"It's the original," she said softly at last, her eyes skimming the canvas nearly in awe.

"Are you sure?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust her. It was that the stakes were so much higher if she was right.

"Yes. There's a definite technique that Jan van Huysum used that you can imitate but can't copy exactly as it was…" She trailed off, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I'm sure."

Steve nodded. And then again for good measure, suddenly uncertain how the words worked.

"That's… great. I guess." His gaze darted toward the canvas again. "So, what now?"

Diana pursed her lips together. "It doesn't belong to this man."

"It doesn't," he agreed. "But you can't just walk out of here with it." He looked around Quinn's office, the corners of which were drowning in deep shadows. "Besides, you don't know-" Steve cut off when something across the room caught his attention. "Diana."

"I don't know what?" She turned after him as he skirted around the desk, walking over to the mantelpiece.

"Look."

There, on the marble shelf, between a framed license and a bronze bust sat a picture of Darrell Quinn shaking hands with—

"Lex Luthor."

She appeared beside him, silent as a shadow.

"But isn't he…" Steve started.

"Far more responsible for Clark's death than Bruce, yes," she offered helpfully, her tone ice-cold. "Despite what Bruce thinks."

"I was going to say in prison."

She looked curiously at him.

"What? I did my homework," he muttered.

And there it was again, a small smile that Steve couldn't quite place. The one that had no business existing in the version of reality where nothing seemed right and the only person he'd ever belonged to belonged to someone else.

"I'm sure you did," Diana said with a shake of her head, and then a shadow of doubt passed over her face. "Perhaps, it makes sense… Lex Luthor," she added when Steve frowned in confusion, "made quite a few sizable donations to the Museum of Gotham. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to assume that he and Mr. Quinn were familiar through, ah, art channels."

"Maybe so," Steve shrugged, then glanced around one more time, his face lighting up at the sight of a laptop sitting on the desk. "But we could try to find out for sure."

"How?"

Diana followed him, watching him lift the lid and boot the computer. It was password protected, but as soon as the screen came to life, he plucked a flash drive from the pocket, sticking it into the USB slot, his fingers dancing swiftly over the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" Diana asked, pausing behind his shoulder while Steve put in the necessary codes, bent over the desk.

"Alfred gave me this," he replied easily. "Something to bypass the installed firewall." He glanced at her when the progress bar appeared in the centre of the screen. "If we're lucky, I'll be able to have a look at Mr. Quinn's registered assets, and maybe even his finances. See if he'd purchased anything he shouldn't have in the recent past."

His eyes were glued to the laptop, willing it the hurry up. They were already pushing the time limits. Soon, someone might actually pay attention to someone missing, and he would very much prefer to avoid having to deal with that. Diana, however paid no mind to his manipulations. Her gaze was locked on him, Steve could feel it in the pinpricking of the skin on his neck, a swarm of questions running through her mind almost loud enough for him to hear.

"I'm going to copy it, save it," Steve added, think out loud. "So you could have a look later."

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the mahogany desktop.

"Alfred gave you this," she repeated softly, ignoring his comment.

"Yeah, I mean…" he shrugged, "we were talking… He thought it could be useful, I guess."

She stayed quiet, watching him silently, her eyes full of what he could only describe as wonder.

"What?" Steve blinked.

"You know, every time Barry messes with the computers, he gets kicked out of the Batcave. After the one time when Victor trespassed, Alfred personally reinforced the security system. Arthur is not allowed anywhere near the kitchen, most of the time. There was a small fire once," Diana bit back a smile. "… and you got an encryption program, without asking?"

Bloody hell, she needed to stop looking at him like this. She needed to stop looking at him, period.

"Well, technically, it's more of a decryption program," he corrected her before he could stop himself because it really wasn't the point. Christ… "He didn't do it for me, Diana."

"Steve…" she started.

The progress bar finally reached a 100% mark, and the screen lit up, revealing an image of sloping hills of Quinn's desktop, snagging his attention.

"Look, I'm not trying to-"

"No." Her hand landed on his arm, and it took him a second to register an alarm in her voice. To look up and notice her gaze locked on the door.

He pushed up from the desk, and by the time he straightened up, the adrenaline rush was already making his heart beat so fast that it all but threatened to leap out of his throat.

"Someone's coming," she whispered.

Shit.

Steve could hear it now, too – a thin hum of someone's voice, muffled by the door and too quiet to recognize it, but still there nonetheless.

Approaching.

Fast.

"Goddammit," he muttered, his eyes darting around, his mind on fire. There was nowhere to go, not even a balcony to slip out on. Unless they jimmied themselves between the books on the already packed shelves, there was nothing. That, or crawling up the fireplace chimney.

Shit, shit, shit!

Steve crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked the curtains open the way they were when they first came in as Diana closed the laptop shut and turned off the light.

The footsteps were a few feet outside the door now, more a reverberation in the floor than a sound.

He took an involuntary step back, wishing that they could blend into the shadows.

Diana turned to him, her face nothing but a pale spot in the dark to which his eyes were yet to adjust. Steve felt her fingers curl over the sleeve of his jacket, slipping down toward his wrist where his pulse was hammering in a frantic staccato for more than one reason.

"Berlin," she whispered almost soundlessly, a whoosh of breath on his cheek.

Huh?

Her palm cupped over his cheek, her eyes dark and wide and uncertain. Steve heard her swallow, felt her eyes drop to his mouth. And then she bridged the distance between them, pressing her lips to his.

Berlin….

She tasted sweet, of chocolate and wine, which made little sense because she'd had none of them, to his memory, but what was left of his conscious thinking was washed away in an instant when after a moment of hesitation, her arm slipped under his jacket and around his waist, pulling him closer to her. And just like that, Steve no longer cared about whoever was on the other side of that door. About the rest of the world either, for that matter. He kissed her back, desperate and greedy, feeling like a man lost in a desert who had found the water just as he started to think that he was going to die.

His hands slid up her arms, a low growl forming in the back of his throat when a slight shiver ran down her body at his touch. He stumbled backwards, taking a step and then another until his thigh bumped against the desk and he finally had enough leverage to gather Diana to him, hands splayed on her back, curling over the delicate fabric of her dress, the image of what was underneath it so vivid that it took him all of half a second to summon it.

Jesus Christ, now it was all he could think of.

Her fingers pushed into his hair, gripping a fistful of it on the back of his head, and Steve thought that there wasn't a sweeter way to lose the remnants of one's sanity than being kissed like that.

It took him a moment too long to register a sudden brightness around them as the light was turned on – an overhead lamp, too harsh and too merciless. Someone cleared their throat very pointedly.

After another moment, Diana pulled away from him, her breathing ragged and her gaze glazed over. One fist stiff clutched over the lapel of his jacket, she turned to the source of the sound, and Steve did, too, to find Darrell Quinn standing in the doorway, about as surprised to find them where they didn't belong as Steve was by the interruption.

Twenty seconds, as it turned out, was what it took to make one completely derail their reality.

"Ms. Prince?" His brows pulled together in confusion and disapproval. "This area is off limits for the guests."

"Oh," Diana breathed.

"Told you we should have turned left," Steve muttered, tucking a wisp of hair around her ear – an indulgence he couldn't deny himself, and the one he knew he was going to regret for he was already craving more.

Her breath hitched just enough for him to forget about the man standing in the doorway.

"My apologies, Mr. Quinn," Diana smiled, stepping away from Steve, his hands feeling awfully empty without her. "We didn't mean to… Perhaps we should…"

"You should," Quinn nodded. Having shaken off the stupor, he walked over to the desk, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled a ledger out of it. His eyes darted from Diana to Steve. "You're missing all the excitement."

No kidding, Steve thought, his lips still burning with the taste of her.

"That would be a shame," Diana agreed with a polite smile. She paused – a flicker of hesitation across her features replaced by determination – and went for the kill. "This is a very interesting piece you have here."

He glanced over his shoulder at the painting, his brief puzzlement replaced by recognition.

"A gift from a dear friend," he said vaguely, locking the desk again and gesturing toward to the door with his ledger. "If you would... Ms. Prince. Mr. Trevor."

A brush of her fingers to his hand, and Steve was following her out of the room with Quinn close behind them, locking the door this time.

"Must be some friend," he offered.

"The one with appreciation for beauty," Quinn nodded.

"Surely you're familiar with its history," Diana noted.

"The original – of course, but this is merely a copy. A good one, at that, but…"

"Is that so?" She mused, and gave Steve the tiniest shake of her head when he darted a quizzical look at her. "Would you be willing to part with it, then?" Diana asked, her tone measured, intentionally mild.

"Why would you want a reproduction, Ms. Prince? The Louvre doesn't have much appreciation for them."

"Personal interest," Diana responded. "I've always liked van Huysym's works."

Still, Quinn shook his head. "This one is not for sale, I'm afraid."

Well, there was no surprise there. Steve wasn't sure that he believed Quinn's ignorance, but maybe he really had no idea; maybe whoever convinced him of the nature of the painting did a fine enough job for him not to be bothered by displaying it in his office where anyone could see it. He was primarily a businessman after all, the one with certain fondness for all things beautiful, but there were many a professional there fooled by the skillful forgeries before. Why not the other way around?

Frankly, at this point all Steve could think of was that Quinn didn't call anyone on them. It would hardly be an issue, but he didn't want to stir the trouble and draw any more attention to them.

And that was then Steve realized with stunned clarity that something was missing, something he completely forgot about. He remembered in that moment that the security was the least of their problems, if only because the flash drive with custom-made crack program was still plugged in Quinn's laptop, and that he was going to find it eventually. And once he did, he'd know exactly who left it there, and their attempt to cover it up wouldn't be worth a dime.

Steve whipped his head around, panic rising inside him in hot waves.

If he didn't get it, he was going to compromise not only them, but also Bruce Wayne, seeing as how that stuff had his name all over it. Literally. The man's obsession with having his goddamned logo on everything that he owned was going to get them all killed one day.

The noise of the foyer grew louder.

He needed an excuse to go back. Something. Anything. Maybe he could tell that he dropped something, forgot something-

He felt Diana's hand slip into his, something cold pressing into his palm. A keychain.

"The car," she murmured soundlessly, leaning close to his ear.

Steve met her gaze, and she gave him a small nod, and he wondered if she did, in fact, read his thoughts. He opened his mouth to ask her something, say something, make sure that they were on the same page. Maybe he could jimmy the window open and sneak in that way, if there was no other choice.

She gave his fingers a quick squeeze, and then they reached the lobby, and she was excusing herself and turning toward the bathrooms behind the reception. Quinn paused as if to say something but reconsidered, following Diana with his gaze instead, not suspicious, exactly, but rather concerned nonetheless even though he was doing a damn fine job trying to bite it back. Steve couldn't fault him for it, his own mind also abuzz with the questions, half-formed and chaotic.

Still, the older man smiled when Steve caught up with him, choosing to try and carry on with this show.

"That's a nice lipstick you have, Mr. Trevor," he noted with a chuckle.

Steve's cheeks grew hot as he wiped his lips hastily with the back of his hand.

He mustered a grin. "Still trying to find my colour."

Quinn let out a soft laugh, the tension broken at last. "Well, that shade of crimson is definitely yours."

They parted their ways in the ballroom where Quinn headed for the makeshift podium and Steve paused near the last row of chairs as if looking for a seat before making a beeline for the lobby the moment Quinn turned his back to him, walking briskly past the servers that had left the main room and the security guards in sharp suits hired for the even on the account of the value of the presented objects, their postures so rigid their backs were probably killing them.

His hand gripped the keychain tighter. He glanced once over his shoulder, toward the side corridor that remained empty, praying and hoping against all hope that Diana knew to get the flash drive, that she didn't misunderstand him.

There was a time, a lifetime and a half ago, when he wouldn't doubt her for a second, when there was the kind of understanding between them that made the words all but unnecessary. It was what made them a good team in the first place, a blind trust they were willing to put into one another from the get go. A perfect union, in every sense. And that was why losing her felt like losing a limb, or something even more vital. At times, it felt like he'd lost his heart.

The air was chilly and damp outside, clinging to his skin and crawling under his shirt when he stepped out the doors, making him shiver involuntarily, and the sky was dark and starless above his head. Steve was halfway across the crowded parking lot, trying to spot Bruce's sleek Jaguar among rows and rows of other cars that looked exactly the same – like someone stuffed one into a 3D printer and it spat out a few dozen of them – when the sound that was disturbingly out of place in the night made him pause. Made his heart sink.

Police sirens were wailing in the distance, growing louder with every passing moment.

He stopped short, his eyes glued to the blinking of red lights, fading in and out of sight, undoubtedly heading their way.

There was nothing wrong at the hotel half a minute ago when he left, nothing—

Diana.

He turned on his heel and ran back, nearly slipping on the gravel that kept rolling from beneath his feet.

Steve stopped at the foot of the staircase leading to the entrance, his mind racing.

He needed to get her out of there, and he needed to do it fast, and it also needed to be discreet.

There was another door around the corner that led directly to the kitchen. The knob turned easily when Steve twisted it and yanked it open, sleeping inside. He was greeted by a few puzzled looks of the cooks and servers, however, hey made no attempt to stop him, or ask any questions for that matter.

One of a few valuable lessons that the war had taught him – aside from that people seldom were who they appeared to be – was that the best way to fight chaos was with more chaos.

He rushed into the lobby, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of a fire alarm mounted on the wall, small and inconspicuous, and so very useful.

He crossed fifteen feet separating him from it in a few quick strides, reaching for it—

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" A sharp demand made Steve snap his head around to see one of the security guards head his way, a wall of determination.

Bloody hell.

"Dammit," Steve muttered under his breath, his fingers closing over the small lever.

"Get away from there!" The man ordered, his bark making several heads turn their way, which was a bad, bad thing.

His hand landed on Steve shoulder, but instead of pulling him back, he pushed him face first into the wall, making the stars explode before Steve's eyes. His disorientation was short-lived though, and the next second he span around, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the dull ache in his cheekbone that was spreading up his skull and making the walls sway around him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and he really and truly was, but when his fist rammed into the guard's face there was a flicker of satisfaction to it. A small payback. The man blinked at him in surprise, and then slid quietly to the floor.

His breath laboured – more from adrenaline than exertion, Steve watched him collapse to the thick carpet. And then he pulled the lever.

The siren broke out, so loud it was like something cut through his eardrums, making him wince, his hands reaching instinctively to cover his ears, and his head all but exploding.

One moment, and then a concerned murmur of voices added to it, growing louder and more frantic. Questions and fears were spilling out, hanging heavily in the air. Another moment, and the people started to trickle toward the door, hurried steps and loud whispers, looking around in search of the source of danger while the staff tried to nip the outbreak of panic in the bud, their alarmed expressions fueling the confusion.

Steve pushed through the crowd, moving like a salmon up the stream, his shoulders bumping against the shoulders of those who were trying to get out into the street. His knees nearly buckled when he finally spotted Diana, her gaze skimming over the mass of bodies as she moved with them. It stilled when it locked with Steve's.

His hand closed around hers when she reached him, more for the sake of not getting separated that anything else, and he tugged her toward the exit.

"What's going on?" She asked. "The alarm-"

"It was me," Steve mouthed, careful not to be overheard. "Come on." Once outside, he didn't pause to join on the puzzled conversations and led her straight toward the car near the rear exit instead.

"What's going on?" Diana looked around, searching for the source of distress. "The police…"

He let go of her hand and passed the key back to her. A flash drive landed on his palm in return.

"Thank you," he murmured. "There must've been some kind of protection on Quinn's laptop. It triggered the distress signal when I tried to breach it." He let out a breath, his chest still heaving. "I think."

The police car came to a screeching halt near the entrance, escalating the growing distress of the lodgers, some of them in bathing robes, murmuring animatedly as they waited to see the resolution. For a brief second, Steve thought that he saw a mop of Darrell Quinn's white hair swimming among the spectators on the sidewalk, but this was not something he had time to ponder.

"What happened to your face?" Diana frowned. She lifted her hand, reaching for his cheekbone, but paused with her fingers an inch away from his skin, and lowered it again.

Steve winced. "Collateral damage. Let's get out of here." He glanced around them, but they hardly stood out among nearly a hundred people hurrying toward their vehicles. "Is the painting really a copy?"

"No, it is the original," she shook her head. "I'm sure."

He nodded. "So, what's now?"

"I'll buy it."

The gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked. He finally remembered to stuff the flash drive into the pocket of his pants, anxious to know what was on it now. There was something about Quinn's voice that bothered him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, turning their brief conversation this way and that in his head like it was a puzzle and maybe the picture would fall into place if only he looked at in at a different angle.

"But Quinn said it wasn't for sale," he reminded her, thinking out loud more than anything.

Diana rounded someone's silver BMW. "Everything is for sale if you offer the right price."

Steve quirked an eyebrow at her.

"I could contact one of the organizations taking care of the stolen art, here in the States or in Europe, and start an investigation," she explained. "Or I could do it faster and simply return it where it belongs."

Her felt his mouth tug up at the corners. This was here right here, everything she ever stood for. Everything that made this world a better place. Everything that used to make him want to be a better person.

"You do know that no one else in this whole world would ever do that, right?" Steve asked quietly.

"I could name a person or two," she countered with a small smile, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the street lamps lining the parking lot, and he smiled back. Because—

Because even after all this time, she still believe in him even though he stopped believing in himself a long time ago.

Would she still feel the same way if she knew the whole truth about him? If she knew about the things that Steve chose to keep to himself for fear of losing her? A liar, a murderer… If only she knew how close her words hit to home that day in the port, how often he wished he wasn't a damn coward, too scared of admitting the truth even to himself. All he ever wanted was to give her the world, and in the end, it turned out that the best thing he could do was give her the world without him in it.

That was the one thing that she deserved more than anything.

Steve looked away from her.

He wondered how long he was going to remember the way her hand fit in his, his skin missing her touch already.

Diana pressed the button to unlock the car, the headlights blinked at them in impassive greeting.

And the next thing he remembered was being pushed in the chest by a wall of heat. His fingers curled around her wrist. One moment, all he could see was impossible brightness of the explosion before them. And then everything went black.

To be continued...

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A/N: Thoughts?