DISCLAIMER: The Justice League of America
characters are the property of DC Comics. The story contents are the creation
and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2005 by Djinn. This story is Rated
PG-13.
Reflecting on Forgiveness
by Djinn
The war was over. The OMACs had been buried or lay recovering
in the med centers that had been set up to remove the tech from their
systems. So many had died on both
sides--more metas than Bruce liked to think about had been lost in this war. Their deaths were on his hands. This was his fault, ultimately.
His...and Diana's. She'd committed the act that had launched
Armageddon.
She'd killed Max Lord.
She'd...she'd changed. She never smiled anymore. Her stark gray eyes never sparkled. She was cold death handing out retribution to
the creatures that humans became when the OMAC tech took control. She was Ares' right hand woman--how
convenient that he was now both the god of war and of death. Diana could worship him twice. If she worshipped him--or anything, at all--anymore.
Bruce wasn't sure what was
going on inside her. She'd become a
master of hiding her feelings. A master
at hiding that she even had feelings.
But she was, he thought, lonely.
He could see her standing by
the window of the watchtower, staring out at the hulking ruin that was his
satellite. John had dragged it in--an
emerald net lighting Brother Eye's path.
Bruce's legacy--death in the form of the ultimate preemptive
strike. Kill the metas before those who
would protect mankind could become so powerful they were uncontrollable.
He'd never intended
this. But then, he'd found long ago it
was true that good intentions paved the road to Hell. He'd lived too long in that particular
destination not to recognize what the thoroughfares were made of.
He thought Diana also lived
in her own Hell, now. A Hell where she
was utterly alone. To keep them safe,
she'd pushed everyone she loved away.
And now that the war was over, she was making no attempt to prompt a
reunion. She'd been up in the watchtower
for days, helping with repairs, keeping to herself.
Alone. Isolated.
Lonely?
Pushing his chair back, Bruce
rose and walked out to her. He could see
her shoulders tensing as he got closer, could imagine that the hairs were
standing up on the back of her neck. He
wasn't the enemy, but he wasn't a friend, either. Not anymore.
He'd hurt her. He and Clark together
had hurt her worse than any of the OMACs had.
Hurt her possibly more than she'd ever been hurt in her life. They'd judged her and sentenced her to
solitary confinement. When she'd needed
them--when they'd needed her--they'd pushed her away.
If she had no heart now, it
was because they'd torn it out of her.
She started to move away, not
glancing his way, apparently unwilling or unable to look at him.
"Don't go," he
said, the words coming out loud and rough.
Commander to soldier.
"Is that an
order?" Her voice was harsher than
he remembered. He might be the
commander, but she was putting him on notice that she was far from an ordinary
soldier.
How long had it been since she'd
talked to him in more than the battlefield shorthand of orders given and
information relayed? Had it been since
that day she'd come to the Batcave and told him what she'd done to Lord? She'd wanted him to hear it from her. He'd heard it--but he hadn't wanted to
listen. He'd ordered her to get out. That had been all he'd said: "Get
out."
Sighing, she took a step, as
if giving up on him answering her.
"Diana, please don't
go."
She stopped, turned slowly,
tired eyes fixing on his. She looked
haggard. Beautiful, still. He didn't think anything could change that. But dead, somehow. Lifeless.
"I'm sorry," he
said, this time the words coming out too soft.
Too weak.
"For what?" Her expression did not change as she studied
him.
"For many things."
She laughed, and her smile
was twisted and bitter. "For what,
exactly?" She was going to force
this, going to make him choose what he would and would not forgive her
for. What he would and would not
apologize for.
Anger filled him. Anger that he knew was primarily directed at
himself. But it was easier to say,
"Forget it," than to admit that to her. Easier to walk away from her.
"You pompous ass."
He stopped, waited to see if
there was more invective to follow. But
he heard her turn away, her boots making almost no sound on the watchtower
floor.
"You think I'm
pompous?" As rejoinders went, it
sucked. But he heard her stop. Turning slowly, he took a step toward her.
She didn't turn around. "You don't care what I think,
Bruce. You don't care about me at
all."
"Not true." He knew she cared about him, too. She'd protected him enough times on the
battlefield with the OMACs to know she'd been looking out for him. Closing the gap between them, he put his hands
on her shoulders. "We need to
talk."
"No, we needed to talk
months ago. You told me to get
out."
"I know."
"Is that what you're
sorry for?"
He took a deep breath,
exhaled just as carefully. "Yes."
"Liar." She jerked away from him.
"I can see you're in no
mood to forgive."
Her laugh was even more
bitter than before. "What do I have
to forgive you for, Bruce? After all, my
crime is so much greater than anything you could have done." She walked away, heading in the direction of
her quarters.
He went the other way and,
once he was out of earshot, ran down the corridor to cut her off. By the time she rounded the corner, he was
leaning casually against her door. She
looked surprised, and he had to bite back a smile.
She made as if to plow past
him, but he didn't move. Pulling up
short, she said, "Bruce, I'm tired."
Reaching over, he palmed open
her door. "Don't let me stop
you."
She didn't. The door closed behind her. He waited, but it didn't open back up. Sighing, he ran his palm over the controller
again.
She was sitting on the bed,
staring at the floor. "Why are you
doing this?"
"Because we need to
talk."
"So you said." Without looking at him, she lay down,
rolling to her side, her back to him.
He moved to the bed and
stared down at her. He almost expected
to see her body shake, then wondered if he wanted her to cry. Crying would probably be a reassuring sign
that she could still act in some way he could understand.
He sat down on the bed, was
about to lie down next to her when she said, "Do it and die."
"I know you're a killer,
but I doubt you'll kill me for this."
He lay down, his arm stealing around her.
A second later, he was across
the room, panting with pain and surprise from having been tossed into the
wall. Forcing himself to his feet, he
tried to make his voice sound normal.
"Hardly a killing blow."
He walked back to the bed and lay down next to her.
He hit the wall even harder
the second time. Trying not to wince as
he got up, he walked back.
She turned over. "Don't do it again."
"What are you afraid of?" But he didn't try a third time. There was something in her expression that
said not to push her.
"Afraid?" She closed her eyes, as if his words gave her
pain. "Have I appeared to be afraid
of anything?"
"You've always been good
at fighting. You seem to have perfected
your killing skills." He saw her
eyes fly open, but he kept going.
"It's living I think you're not doing so well at."
"Oh, and you're the
expert on that." Her tone was more
caustic than he remembered. She'd never
tended to use sarcasm this bitter. Her
teasing had always been gentle before.
But then she'd never lived in
Hell before. She'd probably had to
develop some survival skills.
"Scoot over," he
said gently, using as casual a tone as he could. To his surprise, she obeyed, and he lay down
next to her before she could change her mind.
His shoulder touching hers, he took a deep breath as he stared at the
ceiling. "Neither of us appears
very good at living, right now."
He felt her shoulder move,
knew she was going to get up. He wanted
to roll, to pin her down and kiss her and never let her get away from him. But she was too strong to pin, and he wasn't
in the mood to have another close encounter with the wall.
"Diana, please don't run
from me." He could hear something
helpless in his voice. Something he
hadn't meant to creep in.
She stopped moving, and he
felt her relax, her shoulder again pressing against his. They lay like that for some time, not
talking. He could hear her
breathing--easy, soft. Then it changed,
turned deeper. Glancing at her, he saw
that she'd fallen asleep. A few minutes
later, she shifted, curling against him, her arm snaking over his abdomen. Her sleep was calm. She didn't appear to dream.
Why had he expected her to
have nightmares? Did he want her to have
them? Did he want her to pay for her
crime?
Had it even been a crime?
He rested his hand on her
arm, taking solace in the warmth of her, the solid strength that lay at ease
next to him. As she slept, he replayed
the moments that had led up to this one.
He tried to imagine alternate conversations, other actions that would
not have led to her being hurt and him feeling so damn guilty.
He hated that this life they
were trying to live was still the most likely outcome. Given who she was, who Clark was, who Bruce
was, this was how it would play out.
He hated that he couldn't
bend.
She moaned softly, then
seemed to stiffen. "I'm sorry,"
she said, trying to pull away, her voice scratchy with sleep.
This time he did try to hold
her. "Diana, it's all right."
"It's not all
right. It'll never be all
right." She didn't fight him,
though.
Curling in against him, she finally
seemed to give up--she finally cried.
And the more she wept, the more empty he felt inside. He'd thought it would be good for her to get
it out, but, instead, it was tearing him apart.
"Diana. Shhh. It's
all right. I promise it's going to be
all right."
She tried to squirm
away. He imagined she hated him seeing
her in what she would perceive as a weakened state.
"Let me go," she
said between sobs.
"I did that already. I lived the past few months without you. I hated it."
She stopped struggling.
"I hate myself. I hate Clark.
I hate Max Lord. I hate this
world, and this life, and everything in it.
And I hate that it was you that I had to walk away from. I hate that you could do what you did, even
if it was what you had to do." He
had to take a breath and stared down at her, stunned that he had just said so
much that he'd never meant to share. He
saw her eyes, red from crying, and sad beyond any expression he'd ever seen her
wear. "I hate what this has done to
you. I hate what I've done to you."
"Do you hate
me?" Her voice was so soft he could
barely make out the words.
"I love you." He hadn't meant to say that either. Just as he didn't mean to roll her to her
back, to follow her over, to kiss her gently, then not so gently.
He had a feeling she didn't
mean to kiss him back, to wrap her arms around him, to push her body against
his.
He pulled her uniform off,
his mind screaming at him to think, plan, forecast. His heart told his mind to shut the hell
up. Diana was staring up at him with a
helpless look, as if she thought she should stop him, but would die if she
tried.
"I love you," he
said again, before he kissed her, his hands roaming down her body, memorizing
curves he'd only dreamed of before.
"Bruce, I..." She closed her eyes.
"Say it," he
murmured into her ear as he nuzzled her lobe.
"Say it, Diana." He
could feel her hands on his uniform, pulling it off a bit roughly. Making him pay? He could live with that. "Say it, dammit."
She pushed him to his back,
was astride him in one graceful and possessive move. "I hate you." But she was crying as she rode him well past
his point of control, well past her own.
And her mouth on his as they lay together afterward was anything but an
enemy. When she finally pulled away, she
whispered, "I love you."
He pulled her back to him,
kissing her all the ways he'd ever wanted to.
She moaned and called out his name, her hands never still on him, giving
him pleasure in the simplest touch because it was her fingers landing so gently
on his skin, her nails scratching lightly over his back.
"Diana." He was on her again, covering her this time,
closing his eyes as her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. "My god." It wasn't a prayer, unless it was a prayer to
her. His goddess. Now his dark goddess.
They finally lay quietly, and
she curled in his arms. He wondered if
she didn't want him to see her face.
"You hurt me," she
said.
He knew she didn't mean just
now. "I know."
"I came to you. I wanted to tell you myself." She stopped, cleared her throat as if truth
and pain were clogging it. "I
needed you."
"I know." He kissed her forehead, felt her fingers
tighten on his side. "I'm
sorry. I was just..." He sighed.
The act still repelled him. She
was a killer, and he should hate that.
"You still don't think I
did the right thing?"
He'd had ample time to
consider this. He didn't think she'd
done the right thing, or the wise thing.
But...she might have done the only thing. And if that were the case, how could it be
the wrong thing? "I'm not sure
anymore."
She pulled away, staring at
him. "Uncertainty? From you?"
"It can happen. Occasionally." He shrugged, running his finger from between
her eyebrows, down her nose, lingering at her lips. Then running off her chin, to between her
breasts.
She caught up his hand before
he could go any farther south. "I
started the war by killing him."
"No, you didn't. You were a pawn. As was I, although I should have known better
than to build more protocols." He
could see in her eyes that she agreed.
"Lord started all of this.
He was the villain."
"The
chessmaster."
"Yes. The chessmaster. He played.
He died. He lost. End of story." He leaned in, kissing her as tenderly as he
knew how. "Hopefully not the end of
our story?"
She took a deep breath. He waited, but she didn't answer.
Pulling away a bit, he said,
"We haven't talked about Clark."
"What is there to talk
about? He loves Lois. He nearly killed you for her. He nearly killed me for her."
"They're not doing well,
you know?"
She looked away. "I didn't know. He doesn't talk to me the way he used to--he
doesn't talk to me at all." She
made a strange huffing noise. "He
watched me kill Lord. Maybe if you'd
done that, you wouldn't be talking about our future."
"Maybe." He pulled her back to him. "Maybe not. I'm not Clark." A stupid thing to say. The differences were obvious. But he wanted to say it. Needed to say it. He used
to be able to recognize the shades of gray between white and black, right and
wrong. Clark never had. "Give me another chance?"
"You don't need me,
Bruce. You have your little
cat." She pulled away, and he was
surprised to see jealousy in her eyes.
"She's not you."
"No. She's a thief, not a killer."
"She is who she
is." He nuzzled her, running his
hand through her lush hair. "Just
as you are who you are. Only..."
"Only what?"
"Only I think both Clark
and I wanted to dictate who you were. It
all fell apart when you went your own way.
Our view of you was wrong. It
shattered, and we didn't know what to do with all the shards."
"You made me into
something inhuman. You made me into some
sort of goddess."
He nodded. They had done that. Their beautiful, sexy, giving--and
forgiving--goddess of truth. They'd forgotten
what she'd been from the start: a
warrior.
"I'm not holding a
goddess in my arms right now. I'm
holding the woman I love."
He saw the corners of her
mouth turn up. A smile. Incomplete and tentative. But finally, a real smile.
"The woman you
love. It sounds nice." She pressed closer to him. "It feels nice."
"It can be nice. If we want it to be?"
"Can it?" She took a deep breath, the sound still
ragged from her crying. "Will we
make it this time?"
"This time is our only
time. Those other opportunities, we
never took them. We haven't failed,
Diana. We haven't even tried."
She glanced up at him,
another half-smile playing at her lips.
"That's important to you, isn't it?
That we haven't failed, yet?"
"You know me. You know it is."
Her look was cautionary. "We still might fail."
"We might." He saw her trying to hide a yawn. "We won't fail tonight, however. I can see that you're exhausted. Go to sleep." He smiled as she pulled a throw over them,
hiding them from the world. Making them
warm. "Go to sleep, my
love." He was indulging himself,
letting himself say the things he'd only dreamt of saying to her before.
"My love," she
echoed, as her leg stole over his and she rubbed his stomach softly. "I'll watch over you."
"You did that. All through the war. Don't think I wasn't aware of how often you
kept me safe." He found her
lips. They kissed for a very long
time. "How about we'll watch over
each other from here on out?"
This time, her smile was a
complete one. Still full of remembered
pain and horror, but real. And for him. Only for him.
He'd take it.
FIN