Chapter Eight: In Our Image
This chapter is rated M for mature.
-rosa lunae
Bruce couldn't sleep.
This wasn't especially unusual-his body was used to a violent nocturnal lifestyle with random sleep cycles erratically crammed in between catching criminals, staggering into board meetings, and gloating his way through a charity function until he could sneak out. And two nights in a row-one in Paris and then tonight, on Mount Olympus- he has done precious little battling and it felt weird. Had he even had two nights in a row recently where he didn't patrol? He couldn't think of the last time. Even when the signal didn't light, he patrolled.
Now Bruce found himself in a private room in the goddess Hestia's home-which, he'd noted with annoyance, was impossibly larger on the inside than its quaint cottage exterior suggested. And he hated magic.
"You look like you're sucking a lemon, man." Dick Grayson smirked at him through his tablet screen, arms crossed. Bruce saw that Dick was in the Cave, swore he could hear Alfred chuckling from somewhere. At least in the magical home of a goddess in the mystical realm of the Greek Pantheon he could somehow still transmit a secure video feed. Why and how was that possible? Why was there a WiFi network in some mirror dimension on a magical mountain, and why was it called, "Home Sweet Home?" These were the questions.
Bruce stared back at Nightwing. Dick snorted, pulled his mask down, and said, "I'm just saying, I've seen pictures of this Princess-"
"What pictures?!" Bruce demanded. He had no pictures of her, he realized, and it bothered him, which of course, bothered him more.
Dick rolled his eyes. "Please. Like you're the only one who can do a background check, old man? Please. Besides, I didn't have to, you already did one on her."
"Stop hacking into my shit," Bruce said, feeling proud.
"And," his son continued as if Bruce hadn't spoken, "Alfred talks about Her Highness as if she is the Holy Virgin Mother come to save us all."
There was a dignified and distinctly British sound in the background.
"Okay, Mary is probably not the most accurate metaphor," Dick mused, "considering what Alfred has in mind."
"Master Dick!" scolded Alfred's voice, truly scandalized and, Bruce thought, possibly legitimately offended on Diana's behalf.
"Not like that!" Dick cried frantically. "I mean, not you, I meant but for Bruce, you know?" he stammered, floundering. "I mean... anyway, what I'm saying is, maybe you could relax a little and enjoy yourself. Like a vacation. Oracle and I got this covered." Dick glanced off screen, looking chastened, and when the camera moved, Bruce admired the disappointed stare Alfred was leveling at his son at this moment, feeling some sympathy for the young man.
"Okay, hang on a sec, Alfred would like a word. We're good here, though, so stop obsessing. Later!"
A moment later, Alfred's placid face appeared, taking in far more than Bruce wanted anyone to see. He could never hide anything from his surrogate father and accomplice.
"Good to see you in one piece, sir," he said, and barely a trace of his chastisement of Dick remained in his cultured voice. Bruce, a martial arts master and literal genius, could have sagged in relief.
"I can see," Alfred continued, "that your trip to Greece hasn't been shall we say, relaxing."
Bruce searched for innuendo in the butler's tone, and found none. (Thank God.) He studied the tiny square on his screen where his own face, minus the cowl, stared back. He found his reflection uninteresting and unchanged, as ever, to his own eyes. Hadn't that gray over his ears been there for years?
"I'm fine, as you can see," he told Alfred. "This is the Princess's mission, and I am nearly irrelevant."
Before Alfred started to shake his head, Bruce knew it to be a lie, even as his heart believed it. Yet, even if he could not conceive of Diana having any need of him, he had no intention of leaving, not yet. Not with Dick and Barbara practically bored since he'd trained them so well. Not with Zeus and Hera (who had stated her intention to kill Diana) along with Demeter and Athena still waiting. Not with the dullness in Diana's eyes as she'd stared at the chase trees when the light faded. She'd gripped his hand so hard it still ached; he'd not made a sound.
"I'm sure you'd have already left if you presence wasn't needed, sir. If you can call us, surely you can leave."
He could leave, Bruce knew; Hermes had reminded him of it when Bruce had needed some target upon which to unleash his considerable rage when Diana had surprised them all and shot into the air with no warning, flying off to God knew where, to find solitude in the skies.
"This is your protection?!" he'd shouted at Hermes, feeling the throbbing of his fingers where Diana had nearly crushed his hand, where he was now opening and closing a fist to get the blood flowing again. "This is how you protect her as she travels, by letting the rest of your family make her flay open her own heart?!"
Hestia, the real target, had merely watched the skies in sorrow. Hermes had borne Bruce's anger stoically, his own affection for Diana reeling in sympathy. "If you don't wish to watch, you need not stay. I will convey you back to the other side of the veil anytime you wish, that was my solemn vow."
Bruce glared.
Hermes, unperturbed, continued. "And you, Bruce Wayne? Will you flay her heart too?"
Bruce had offered no answer, remembering her words. "I will remember again that I am feeling very vulnerable next to you," she'd said, "very on edge as I wait for you to decide what to do with the heart I placed in your hands."
"I can't leave," Bruce told the screen absently. When Alfred's eyebrows rose, he amended. "I can, physically, I am free to do so, but it would be the wrong thing to do. This mission has been... difficult. For the Princess." And for Bruce too; he hurt watching her continue to prove her goodness by sacrificing her own deepest longings on the altar of Zeus's whims.
"I hope she is alright," Alfred said, and the sincerity practically pouring from his surrogate father almost put a lump in Bruce's throat.
"Physically, yes," Bruce said. Rather than relieved, Alfred looked even more concerned. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce.
"I won't tell you to take care of her," he said, "because it's laughable that she'd need you to."
"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce drawled.
"But, Bruce..." Alfred's gaze pinned his would-be son, who, after all, had patented his own trademark Bat glare trying to put a malevolent spin on Alfred's own implacable stare. "Bruce, try not to hurt her more, if you can bear not to sabotage yourself. And be assured; we will contact you should anything even approach getting out of hand. Go find Her Highness and be useful."
When the screen clicked black, Bruce stared at it for some time. He'd been trying to be useful this whole time, hadn't he? But Diana hadn't needed his help hunting the stag or resisting the Styx. She'd not needed his help to figure out Hestia's challenge, but hadn't she nearly ground his fingers together after Menalippe vanished? Hadn't she been able to turn her back on the illusion of Steve Trevor because of him?
But that train of thought brought no peace; Bruce had never been able to abide anyone being in love with him and had ruthlessly chased Talia and Selina away when they got too close, when he knew they could not fit into his mission. What business did Diana have, thinking she could love him, when his darkness was opaque and sticky like so much tar, and her light completely contagious and fragile, like laughter? It was madness, and he wanted to tell her that, so he found himself making his way to the door that led into the garden where the chaste trees reached for one another.
She was there, as he knew she would be, sitting in the grass in her fine white gown and her crown of gold laurels, staring at the door that would have taken her home. The house was quiet; the garden was quiet. He had time, as he walked across the small yard, to appreciate the lines of her back and then chastise himself for noticing, before he sat next to her, saying nothing. His cape rustled, disturbing the cowl that hung from the back of his neck; of course he'd stripped out of that tuxedo at the first moment.
"I have done right, Bruce" Diana said, leaning briefly against him and straightening again, "and I can't decide if I regret it."
Well, Bruce had precious little to say to that, as he can't fathom that Diana could do anything BUT the right thing and also, that it would be completely inhuman NOT to regret it on some level. "I'll remember again how terribly alone I feel in this world," she'd said, and that with Menalippe sitting across the table, scowling comfortably at the God of Travelers. So, he said nothing, merely made himself comfortable on the grass next to her, lying on his back to stare at the sky. He's glad for the bright moonlight, for the glowing torches of firelight around Hestia's yard; Bruce hated the dark.
Minutes pass, and Diana leaned back and stretched on the ground next to him, white gown and all. She set the laurel crown on the ground next to her, and for a moment, Bruce was tempted to steal it. She relaxed into the earth with a sigh that broke his heart.
"There," she says, and points to the moon. "Can you see her, can you make out Artemis in her chariot pulling the moon across the sky?"
His mind rejected the entire idea outright, but when Bruce squinted at the moon, the shimmery image of Artemis in her deer-drawn chariot glittered into existence.
"I'll be damned," he breathed.
Diana laid her hand over his. "No you won't," she said.
He smiled a little turning his hand so he could lace his fingers with hers. Yes, this- touching her had always felt natural, like their bodies leaned towards one another. Maybe it was mutual, and he wasn't just a sunflower, stuck on the ground, following the sun as she arced across the sky.
He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how his throat burned when he remembered these last two challenges. The image of her on her knees, gripping the golden lasso she'd draped over her neck, howling in grief before the phantom of Steve Trevor... the image was imprinted on him, possibly forever, like the most terrible things.
Yet, even that had been easier for Bruce to bear than the dull blankness that had bled her features when Menalippe and Themyscira vanished before her eyes. He wanted to tell her he'd fix it, he'd find another way, that he had magicians in his city-Zatanna, surely, she'd know a way to the island-but Bruce said none of these things while he traced circles of her palm.
He remembered how useless those condolences and attempts to help had been when he'd grieved his parents, when he'd grieved Jason, when he'd had to face Gordon again after Barbara's legs stopped moving.
There was nothing he could do in this moment, nothing that would fix any of it, so he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, much gentler this time.
"This is not what I expected," she said. He hoped she didn't mean him. Hoped like hell she did. He said nothing.
"I imagined feats of strength," she continued, "or tests of speed or cunning. I pictured facing a Cyclops or a Scylla, something to prove I am half-divine. Not this." She put her free hand on her chest, fingers reaching like she would pull out her heart. He had the ridiculous impulse to stop her.
Did she not see, truly? Finally, Bruce thought, he could be of use.
"Perhaps they are not testing your divine gifts, Diana. Perhaps they are testing your human ones."
She turned to watch him as he sat up, putting him in mind of the sunflower watching the sun. He wondered at that, wondered how she could watch him so attentively. What did she see?
"A goddess," he ventured, "would test the Styx, see if she could journey to the Underworld and return. A goddess-other than Artemis herself-might not cherish the life of a deer, even the Silver Stag. A goddess might demand her own passage home, not sacrifice it for someone else."
He swallowed, for the last was the hardest.
"A goddess might take little notice of a mortal man. A goddess might get over his death quickly. A goddess might be tempted to never notice a second mortal man. If she did...love a second one, she certainly might avoid giving him any choice in the matter."
She was quiet, still lying on the grass and looking up at him with an expression he couldn't read. He watched as a single tear slid into her hair, unimpeded.
"'What is man that you are mindful of him? And the son of man that you care for him?'" Bruce quoted the Psalms absently.
Diana breathed a laugh.
"Blasphemer," she said, making it an affectionate nickname. She sat up, criss-crossing her legs. She returned a quote to him from Genesis. "'Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness...and God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.'" She grinned suddenly and said, "And who could forget? 'It is not good that the one should be alone.'"
He smiled.
"Bruce," Diana said. She pulled his hand to her mouth, looked to him for something-consent perhaps. When he inclined his head, she kissed his knuckles. When he couldn't stop himself from shivering, when he sat up and reached for her face, running a thumb over her cheekbone, she closed her eyes and sighed.
"Diana," he whispered. "I cannot take the way out that you offered me. I want to run, but I never want to escape you."
"I could be your friend," she said, pressing his palm to her cheek with her own, closing her eyes. "I could do only this, if you asked me to. As long as I could be with you, I could be only your friend."
Bruce said, "Please don't," then pulled her into a kiss. There was a thrill as he tasted her, knowing he couldn't move her, couldn't overpower her unless she allowed it. And she did, taking her own plunder with her fingers in his hair and holding him tighter than anyone ever had. And there was another thrill, knowing he could never force her let go, and yet that she would, if he asked.
She let him push her, gently, back to the grass; she let him kiss her neck and run his hands up the length of her leg, and higher. He grinned when she bit at his lips, when she tired of letting him lead and rolled on top of him. His hand wasn't fooled, following her thighs.
"May I touch you, Diana?" he breathed in her ears. And Diana, who was not from a nation of prudes-and nor had she been a prude in the last one hundred years, since pleasure was comfort, and humans, lovely- thought this moment was perhaps the most erotic of her long life.
"Yes," she whispered, and her fingers tightened around his biceps, just enough to send his blood soaring, but not enough to hurt. Incensed, burning even-was he not?- Bruce kissed her, conquering her lips, while one hand caressed her hair, traced her waist, touching as much of her as he could with all the awe he felt; all this as his other hand explored the deepest of Diana.
He felt aware of everything- the moonlight's glow on Diana's face; the still-healing wound on her arm that he kissed with gratitude; the way she refused to close her eyes even as ecstasy took her; the feel of her hands gripping his bicep and his hair; the way her body wept and seized for him. And the look in her eyes, that sated look filled with hope and desire, that look that filled him with fear- that look in her eyes made him feel powerful. And more frightening, more thrilling, was the affection and the awe and the desperate, heart-pounding need he had for her to be happy.
When she made to roll off of him to the grass, he caught her with his right arm, pulled her to his side, and they fit, somehow; impossibly, equally, matched.
XXX
When dawn broke, Diana's eyes opened. If she squinted, she could see Apollo pulling the sun from the horizon, spilling the tiniest beginnings of pink and yellow into the lightening blue sky. She was still on the grass, she realized, and because Hestia's magic is one of comfort, she was not cold or sore or bitten by bugs. She whispered a prayer of thanks that became longer when she realized Bruce was still beside her and miraculously, he was asleep.
She used the gift of Hermes to float up silently, attempting not to disturb him. He muttered and adjusted his position on the ground, but remained asleep. Unusual, she thought, and looked around. She saw Hestia on the deck, still dressed in her finery, watching them with a sad smile. She waved; Diana lifted a hand in return. But when Hestia's eyes widened and her wave turned to a frantic pointing, Diana whirled and saw Hera, Queen of the Gods, approaching them.
"Bruce," she whispered, urgency in her breath. She did not reach for her sword, or shield, which were suddenly at her back as her armor coated her once more.
Bruce's eyes popped open and he was standing beside her, cowl over his face and a batarang in his hand. He took in Diana's tense stance at his right and the crowned woman approaching them. On his left, he sensed Hestia and Hermes before they appeared. The other two deities held themselves rigid; Diana offered a bow.
"Queen Mother," Diana called, when Hera stopped her approach with fifteen feet between her and their line of defense. "You honor us."
Hera smiled; it was not a kind expression.
"My lady Hera," Hermes ventured. "Two challenges remain for Diana, from Demeter and Athena. She is to prove herself before she approaches the throne."
"Who's throne?" Hera wondered. "Mine? Or the throne of Zeus? And to what end? Are we to allow this Amazon free reign through Olympus until she ascends a throne of her own making, built on our fallen bodies?"
Diana shuddered; Bruce didn't take her hand. To draw attention to himself would be to become a target, a tool to manipulate her. He tried to imagine what it would be like for Jesus himself to accuse a devout Christian of blasphemy and betrayal, to get a sense of how Hera's words stung Diana.
"Honored Sister," Hestia said, rebuke in her tone. "Diana has no such ambition. The lasso tells me this truth."
Hera waved that off. "Not now, perhaps. But one day, she may." She crossed her arms, causing the green of her gown to shimmer in the dawn's light. "I will have my test, Daughter of Hippolyta. You may prove your devotion then, and perhaps I will kill you quickly; for now, I believe, it is my sister's turn."
Hera blinked out of existence, and the ground began to shake. Up ahead, a creature hidden by trees and dim light, roared and the earth shook again when a large foot hit the ground.
"Go Diana!" Hestia cried, and the three took off, Hermes flying and Diana and Bruce running side by side.
"Didn't you say something about a how you expected to fight a giant monster?" Bruce quipped, inwardly gawking at himself. He never quipped.
But the joy from last night would not ebb, and he clung to it.
"Spoke too soon, it seems," Diana shot back, the thrill of battle warming her veins. She snatched her shield from its place on her back, checked for the lasso where it rested, as ever, at her hips. "Thank you, Hestia!" she called, without looking back. When they saw a gigantic tree crash to the ground, Bruce and Diana both grinned and ran straight towards it. Finally, they both thought. Something easy.
XXXXXX
You're welcome for the lemons. .
Now let's get to smashing some stuff, battling mythical creatures, and pissing off the gods. Thanks for going on this ride with me! I appreciate your comments!
-rosa
