#ALFRED GOING ALL STIFF WHEN HENRY HUGS HIM?

[mikimeiko]

Bodies | 06. The World is Yours

[starspatter]

Saving Today

Title: Saving Today

Fandom/Universe: Wonder Woman/Justice League (DCEU)

Summary: For two people, the time that froze slowly starts to move again.

Rating: PG

Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Friendship/Romance

Word Count: 2,519

AO3 and ff.net links. I read in an interview that Henry Cavill thought Superman's answer to the kids' question at the beginning of the movie would be "Love", which fits well with the theme of WW. (Personally I expected there to be a bookend of Superman's response at the end of the film, and to be something along the lines of "anyone can be a hero/take his place", but I accept that it was left open to interpretation and so did the same here.)

“What’s the best thing about planet earth?”

Superman pauses, taken aback.  Deliberating deep, he meditates off to the distance, squinting at the sky. Into infinite blue space, the place where he once came from.  The sun and source of all of his strength, of life and warmth and cheer.  Soaking it in as he ponders, selecting his words carefully, then smiles.

-

Diana switches off the recording, leaning back from her laptop as she peers towards the photo propped on her desk.  Her fingers extend out, ghosting over the glass, running faint along the gray and grainy faces of ghosts long gone from this world.  Longingly.

“What do you think, Steve? Is he right?”

In lieu of an answer, her phone starts to ring.  Glancing at the Caller ID, she sighs at such inconvenient timing.

It’s true what they say about little boys: Once you share with them, they won’t ever leave you alone.

-

“I want to show you something.”

She trails behind as Wayne guides her through the entry hall of the old, abandoned building.  A cathedral-esque monument, stone worn and sagging with the weight of age on its foundations, yet still standing proud as a testament to time.  Her echoing heels click across the concrete, littered with dust and doves taken roost amongst shattered chandeliers, sent aflutter as soon as the grand doors fling open wide to its central atrium.  Feathers float down from the few decorative hangers still suspended above, dangling crystal shards and stars overhead as they refract shafts of light streaming through the curtains, filtered red and white and gold.

“Must be 100… 150 feet.”

Her host declares with gusto, gazing eagerly around the empty room like a child opening his presents on Christmas day.  An artist before his blank canvas, envisioning masterful brush strokes of an image yet to come into being.

“Must be.”

The butler beside resounds the obvious, with all the clearly learned patience of humoring his master’s many whims.

“Big round table – six chairs – right there.”

Bruce indicates vaguely before him, as Alfred sports an unsurprised smirk, merely grunting softly in acknowledgment.  She struts between the two, chiming in with the words on all their minds:

“…But room for more.”

-

Later, by the lake. Where they walked before, and she spoke of the Motherboxes, of the history of mankind, and their ancestors’ alliance with Amazons and merfolk – and more.  Where he told her not to count on the “tribes of men”, but instead to ask people they didn’t know to risk their lives, and battle beside them for the fate of the world.  To place her faith in the hands of total strangers. To lead again, after what happened to…

“Did you want one?”

“What?”

Diana startles out of her reverie.  She sees Bruce pointing at an ice cream cart by the park path, predictably surrounded by a crowd of kids clamoring for their parents to purchase them frozen treats. Compared to the peaceful environs of their prior private conversation, a part of her prefers the bustling scene during peak hours, as an energetic jogger sprints past, followed by a couple happily holding hands…

“Probably because they’re together.”

“You were staring at it for a long while.  I’ll buy you one if you want.”

Diana shakes her head.

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.”

“Please, allow me,” he insists, reaching for his (no doubt overflowing) wallet.  “As an apology, for the things I said before…”  He hesitates.  “About Steve Trevor.”

She gives him a sidelong glimpse, gauging sincerity.

“You already apologized, Bruce.  You don’t need to do anything more.  Besides,” she breathes a low exhale.  “You were right.  I’ve been using Steve’s memory as a crutch, preventing me from doing the thing I came here to do: Make the world a better place.  Even now,” she confesses quietly, “I have my doubts about returning to be a part of a ‘team’ again.  To step back into the spotlight after all these years…”

She looks out over the still surface of the lake, hugging arms to her breasts in conflict as Bruce heeds her air uncertainties (understanding perhaps all too well).

“You know, I bet an ice cream will make you feel better,” he quirks a grin, coaxing gently.  “C’mon, my treat.”

Admittedly, she can’t help but be amused by his persistence.  Thus despite her reservations, she relents.

“All right,” she agrees at last with a laugh.  “But only if you join me.”

Bruce blanches a bit at the reverse requisite, backpedaling.

“Oh, I uh-” he coughs, belatedly recognizing his own hypocrisy.  “I don’t really eat sweets.”

She doesn’t need to ask to know the answer why.  She can tell just by looking: From the beginning, it was evident that this was a man who’s denied himself the simple joys in life for so long, ostensibly as part of his dedicated crusade for “justice”.  But even underneath that strict self-disciplining façade, a pristine pretense of devotion to one’s trade – the “mission”, as he calls it – it’s easy to discern the raw regret buried deep down; no Lasso of Truth necessary to reveal that much.

“To be honest,” he muses, marveling as if in awe at his own self-realization, “I don’t think I’ve eaten ice cream since I was eight years old.”

“And I haven’t had it in over 100 years,” she rejoins, teasingly rolling her eyes.  “Your point being?”

Bruce rubs the back of his neck, unable to argue with such effective (if extreme) logic being thrown back at him.

“Guess this’ll be a renewed experience for both of us then,” he chuckles, conceding defeat.

They take two scoops: vanilla for her and chocolate for him.  As promised, he pays for her fare.

Etta would be proud, Diana thinks to herself as she tentatively ventures her tongue to taste the delicacy, daring but a delicate dab at first. If only she were here to see as well.  Bold and ever-buoyant despite the loss of her own beloved employer, the bubbly redhead had unabashedly invited her many times to partake in parfaits (no doubt as a benevolent effort to brighten her spirits, albeit framed as but an affable gesture between friends), but she’d always declined, feeling such indulgent fluff forbidden while the wound in her heart was still fresh. Perhaps now, after all this time, she could stand to stomach the superficial associations and permit herself pleasure for once instead of sorrow.

As soon as she bites into the savory snow-white sweetness, rich and airy as a cloud of cream, the dizzying memories melt in her mouth.  Of swaying under a flurry of flakes as people laughed and sang around them, safe and sound after their town had been liberated by a band of heroes.  Of hands grazing tender across her cheek, his lips on hers like the heat of a match spark, kindling tinder in their hearts.  Of a pinned paper princess, watching her steadfast tin soldier go up in flames, wishing to dance with him just once more…

She stops, swallows sugar mixed with salt.  Peeking over at her partner, she observes his own hand halted, cone hovering far from his feeding orifice as dark brown droplets drip down the sides.

“You haven’t touched yours.”

“Huh?”  He blinks.  “Oh…  Sorry, guess I got distracted.”

She traces the direction of his sight, sensing it focused on a particular familial pair nearby: a small boy and his father, as the former tugs on the taller’s sleeve, begging for his favorite flavor.  The man obliges, ruffling his son’s scalp as he gleefully laps up the goodie.  Diana notes Bruce’s grip tighten on his own confectionary, contemplative wrinkles written on his countenance.  A visage veiled with wistful mist.  His eyes are remote, ruminating; like black moons eclipsed by smoke, seemingly somewhere else.

Diana knows that look. She’s seen it in tears of Lois Lane as she cradled her lost love in her limbs (reflecting her own when she witnessed the explosion that took Steve Trevor away from her), crying and kissing his cold skin repeatedly as if it could somehow bring him back to life.  In Martha Kent’s grief at Clark’s – not Superman’s – funeral. …In the mourning of mothers and fathers whose sons never came home from the war.

She knows, he’s lost someone dear to him as well.  It’s forecast in his features, the heavy hunch of his shoulders, bearing an invisible burden on his back.  In the way he watches the two amble away, reuniting with a waiting woman by the water, who welcomes her young with open arms.

It’s no wonder who it was. She saw the suit in the cave, tailored to fit someone of slighter stature.  A costume further customized to fulfill some clown’s sick idea of a joke, defaced with gratuitous graffiti to taunt its presumed maker.  Memorialized in its case (or perhaps more accurately a casket, in this case) like an artifact in a museum.  Doesn’t take much guesswork to connect the gaps, and she deals with historical analysis of such findings on a daily basis.  She doesn’t know the details (nor does she desire to pry), but she can conclude there was another presence there to fill it, once.  …And then there wasn’t.

And yet…  He continues to fight.  For Gotham, for the world, and for his fellow comrades – fallen though they may be.  While a part of her was paralyzed stiff by the all too painful parallels of Superman’s heroic sacrifice, he didn’t let that deter him either, spurring to action instead. To honor his memory by stubbornly seeking out and recruiting those that could take his place.  (…Granted, guilt got to him eventually, to the point of attempting something so implausible that she could hardly believe it even worked.)

…Meanwhile, what has she been doing?  Hiding away in the shadows for a century?  As much as she correctly pointed out Bruce’s personal agenda to absolve himself of blame, he’d retorted right back at her how she’d been holding herself back out of remorse.  …And he was right.  Loathe as she was to announce it aloud, if there was one thing they apparently shared in common, it was their mutual inability to move on.

Maybe it was time to change all that.

She taps his elbow to draw his attention, smiling as she suggests:

“Why don’t we bring some back for Barry?”

Bruce bats his lids in confusion, then seems to light up at the proposal.

“That’s a good idea.  Kid’s like a trash compactor.  I swear he ate almost everything in the manor when he was there.  Alfred complained about having to order more food when he just went grocery shopping.  Speaking of which, remind me to install a fridge at the site.  We’ll need to have supplies handy in order to keep up with his metabolism.”

He approaches the snack stand again, and while its vendor is somewhat stunned by the volume of the request, nevertheless can’t say no to the number of bills being waved in his face and hands over a whole carton.  Bruce beams in satisfaction as he carries it in the crook of one limb, the other still occupied with his original serving, leaving the delighted peddler to count the (many times over) earnings from his secondary sale.  They resume their stroll along the promenade, enjoying their well-deserved desserts whilst Diana listens to her companion carry on about his plans for the “Justice League”, as they’d decided to dub themselves.  There’s a fevered enthusiasm to his tone that she’s sure must have been absent for a long time, and while he’s still a man of many mysteries to her, she finds she doesn’t mind being in the close company of a “stranger” again.  …No, not a stranger.  A teammate.  Someone she’s stood beside in combat (against a conqueror of planets no less), whom she can trust to have her back – and vice-versa.

Who knows.  Perhaps someday he’ll even tell her his story.

And maybe one day she’ll tell him hers.

-

Morning.  Across the pond.  She wakes up. Has breakfast.  Reads the paper.  There’s a major front page headline that catches her eye, about a recent string of museum robberies all across Europe, having now just hit the Louvre. Hitting home.  Before, she wouldn’t have bothered a second thought, believing it none of her business.  (Or rather, not worth garnering too much awareness from the public eye over.)  It was only petty theft after all.  Nothing the Paris police couldn’t handle.  …But then again, priceless antiques were her business, weren’t they?  She had a duty to protect the precious works of art she and others had worked so hard to preserve and maintain.  Besides, as a man once chided her when she temporarily “borrowed” one of his toys: “Stealing’s not polite.”

She places the parchment down, and pupils slide pensively towards the framed picture once again.  Her lips spread as she presses her palm to them, passing fondness on to his behind the pane.

“We saved the world, Steve.  And now I’m going out to save the day.”  With a wink, she turns to fetch her sword and shield.

“Wish me luck.”

-

“Look, it’s Wonder Woman!”

The warrior rotates as a group of youngsters gather excitedly around her, expression widening warmly as she gingerly restores the carved effigy back to its box.  Behind her, uniformed authorities diligently jot down dictation of the already apprehended culprits as they recount exactly how they stole the statuette – amongst numerous other rare and exotic items.  Coming completely clean to every single unresolved crime their gang was behind, courtesy of the compulsion of the radiant rope binding them – even up to and including the minor sin of pinching biscuits from grandmother’s jar at age nine.

Meanwhile, the animated adolescents similarly interrogate their idol, keen interest abundant as they bombard her with an assortment of rapid questions.

“Can I please have your autograph?”

“Is it true you come from an island of all girls?”

“Are you really over 100 years old?”

“Have you ever fought a dinosaur?”

“Um, what’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

At the last inquiry, the lady’s eyes lower to meet those of the auburn-haired lass, shining up at her with cat-like curiosity.  Her crest is crowned with a black band like a tiara, and a pair of cute kitten ears aptly poke out from her curls, ringlets reminiscent of someone from long ago.

The hero mulls over the query for a moment, considering it with as much momentous import as any other.  It was a tough decision after all, what with so many options to pick from.  (But then “variety is the spice of life”, as they say.  Who would she even be if she stayed the same always, and never tried something new?  To see the beauty of this planet and everything it had to offer with her own eyes, meet and get to know its inhabitants?  Strive to both inspire and learn from their forever changing society, love and cherish and defend – no matter how scared she was of losing them in the end.)

…Finally, she makes her choice – and smiles.