fic: One equal temper of heroic hearts (DCU, Diana/Bruce; adult)
One equal temper of heroic hearts
DCU; Batman/Wonder Woman; adult; 1,580 words
Bruce and Diana reconcile at Nanda Parbat.
Thanks so much to
snacky for looking it over!
~*~
One equal temper of heroic hearts
Aside from her name neatly typed in the center, the envelope has no marks on it, no postage and no return address. The card inside is handwritten, a set of coordinates and a date, the signature a strong, slanting B.
Diana purses her lips and turns it over, wondering if there is some other, secret message encoded in it somehow. She tests it in all the usual ways--sunlight, black light, candlelight--because nothing Bruce says or does ever has only one layer or meaning. This summons, if that's what it is, must be more than it appears to be.
Still, no other letters appear beneath or in place of the message. Taking the note at face value, she looks up the location. She's going to need cold weather gear.
*
Diana has known Bruce for years, but familiarity hasn't rendered him predictable. She doesn't know who is going to be waiting for her when she arrives at Nanda Parbat--her friend and occasional confidant, or the disappointed vigilante who couldn't even bear to look at her the last time she'd seen him.
There's another note waiting for her when she arrives. It says, γνῶθι σεαυτόν. She frowns. She'd expected more from him than stale aphorisms. Still, the monks are kind and the change of scenery is nice. She had perhaps gotten too used to her own company during her year away.
She waits. Sometimes other pilgrims join her, sitting on stone benches in companionable silence, or, on occasion, pointed conversation. Their breath mists in the air like clouds, wreathing everything in ephemeral softness.
A third note is delivered to her as she sits drinking a cup of tea after her audience with Rama Kushna. This one says, what's past is prologue; what to come, / In yours and my discharge.
When she looks up from the crisp white paper, Bruce is standing in front of her.
"You look well," he says.
"As do you." She gestures with the note. "I presume you mean the spirit of the quote, not the context."
He grimaces. "Yes. The context is unfortunate." He doesn't say anything more, letting the silence grow between them.
"If this is all you had to tell me, you could have sent an email," she says when he stays quiet. She laughs softly. "You could have sent me a copy of Bartlett's Quotations." She reaches out and takes his hand. He lets her. "Why am I here, Bruce?"
"Come with me." Instead of pulling away as she expects, he twines their fingers together and leads her to the room he's staying in. When they're both inside and the door closed behind them, he says, "Last year, we all said and did things that we regret."
"Are you going to scold me again, like a naughty child instead of a colleague?" Once, she would have said friend, but she doesn't want to give him the chance to repudiate that interpretation of their relationship. She jerks her hand free but he recaptures it, rubs his thumb over her knuckles gently.
"Dammit, Princess, I'm trying to apologize."
That makes her laugh again, this time in genuine good humor. "You've finally found something at which you don't excel. I'm so glad I got to witness it."
"You might want to mark this day down," he says. "It'll probably never happen again." He tugs on her hand, and she lets him reel her in. "I should have been a better friend," he says, and his mouth is very close to hers now. He slips an arm around her waist. "Can you ever forgive me?" His tone is playful but his eyes are sincere. He's one of the best liars she's ever met, but she was the goddess of truth, and over the years she's learned to read him as well as anyone ever could.
"I'm considering it," she answers, "though you might work on your humility." She smiles when she says it, though, and closes the small gap between them. She presses her mouth to his, and sighs when he opens to her.
He kisses the way he does everything--forcefully and with intent, but she never feels like he's trying to overpower her. Not that he could, but sometimes men feel like they have something to prove. He doesn't.
His hands tangle in her hair, loosening her braid. She moans low in her throat and presses against him. She licks at the pulse fluttering on the side of his neck, and he bites her lower lip hard enough to sting. She likes that he's not shy about using his teeth. It's almost familiar but still rare enough to be new.
This hasn't happened often between them, and it hasn't happened in a long time. When it has, it's always been during some liminal period, one of them reaching out to the other, for reasons they keep to themselves. When Diana starts unbuttoning his shirt, he doesn't stop her. They undress quickly and silently, the only sound in the room the harsh rasp of their breathing. She traces her fingers over the crosshatching of scars that cover his torso, a testament to all the battles he's fought, and he shivers. She wants to run her tongue over each smooth, silvery mark, proof that no matter what has brought him low, he's always gotten up again, stronger at the broken places. She knows he only sees the losses, but the fact that he's here with her now is a victory, the only one that matters. She tries to tell him that with fingers and lips, and chooses to take the small sounds of pleasure he makes as confirmation that he understands.
She lets him guide her to the bed. His hands are eager, warm and sure on her skin, which is aching to be touched, though not, she tells herself, for his touch specifically. It would be so easy to fall in love with him, she thinks, especially when his mouth is fierce and hot against her breast and his eyes are unguarded and full of something that might be wonder as his hands skim down her body and then curl into the hot ache between her legs.
She long ago stopped trying to figure out how he feels about her. They are friends; she knows he'll never be able to give her anything else, despite how good--how right-- it feels when he slides inside her, the two of them moving in concert here as they do in battle.
The pleasurable tension rises inside her, her body taut as a bowstring, ready to be plucked. He draws her legs up around his hips, thrusting relentlessly; he grins the smug grin of a man who has a surprise up his sleeve, and moves his hand between them, thumb flicking over her clitoris.
Diana's release breaks over her like a wave, carrying her away with it. She clenches tight around him, and he follows her into bliss, his body stiffening above her and then going slack. He rolls away and lies next to her, but his smile is soft and secret. That he lets her see him this way, in his rare moments of contentment, is heady, and she ruthlessly suppresses the wish to be allowed to give him this satisfaction always, to convince him that contentment doesn't necessarily breed complacency, but if he did, he wouldn't be who he is. She accepts that.
They lie quietly for a timeless while. After sex, he is more tactile and pliant than anyone would believe of him; he peppers her neck and shoulder with soft kisses and her body with languid caresses, bringing her to orgasm once more before he distances himself from her, even though they are still in the same bed.
"So what did Rama Kushna have to say?" he asks.
"I need to live among humans as a human," she answers. "I need a civilian identity."
He nods. "That can be arranged."
"You think it's a good idea?"
He makes a small huffing sound that might be a laugh. "I think you're determined to try it. And since it will be easier for me to provide you with the documentation you need, you should let me do so."
There's no doubt that the sound she makes is a laugh. "Of course. It would be churlish to say no, especially after that splendid apology."
His mouth quirks in a half-grin. "I guess I finally got the hang of it."
"I'm available should you feel the need to practice more," she says before she can think better of it.
"I'll keep that in mind, Princess." He presses a hard, surprising kiss to her lips and gets up. She makes to do the same--it's his room, after all--and he shakes his head. "I have work to do. You can have the room."
She nestles down into the pillows and watches him gather his clothes and disappear into the bathroom. She dozes, and when she wakes, he's gone. There's a note on the pillow, in the same strong handwriting as all the others. It says, One equal temper of heroic hearts, / Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
She folds it carefully and puts it in her pocket after she dresses. What's past is gone, and she's learned to live with it. It's time to return to the stage and embark upon the next act, whatever it might bring.
end
~*~
Notes: This is set towards the end of 52, though I think it works regardless of canon context.
Bruce's notes:
1. γνῶθι σεαυτόν -> gnōthi seauton - > know thyself
2. what's past is prologue; what to come, / In yours and my discharge
The Tempest, Act 2, scene 1, 253-254
3. One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Ulysses, Tennyson
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/365567.html.
people have commented there.
DCU; Batman/Wonder Woman; adult; 1,580 words
Bruce and Diana reconcile at Nanda Parbat.
Thanks so much to
snacky for looking it over!
~*~
One equal temper of heroic hearts
Aside from her name neatly typed in the center, the envelope has no marks on it, no postage and no return address. The card inside is handwritten, a set of coordinates and a date, the signature a strong, slanting B.
Diana purses her lips and turns it over, wondering if there is some other, secret message encoded in it somehow. She tests it in all the usual ways--sunlight, black light, candlelight--because nothing Bruce says or does ever has only one layer or meaning. This summons, if that's what it is, must be more than it appears to be.
Still, no other letters appear beneath or in place of the message. Taking the note at face value, she looks up the location. She's going to need cold weather gear.
*
Diana has known Bruce for years, but familiarity hasn't rendered him predictable. She doesn't know who is going to be waiting for her when she arrives at Nanda Parbat--her friend and occasional confidant, or the disappointed vigilante who couldn't even bear to look at her the last time she'd seen him.
There's another note waiting for her when she arrives. It says, γνῶθι σεαυτόν. She frowns. She'd expected more from him than stale aphorisms. Still, the monks are kind and the change of scenery is nice. She had perhaps gotten too used to her own company during her year away.
She waits. Sometimes other pilgrims join her, sitting on stone benches in companionable silence, or, on occasion, pointed conversation. Their breath mists in the air like clouds, wreathing everything in ephemeral softness.
A third note is delivered to her as she sits drinking a cup of tea after her audience with Rama Kushna. This one says, what's past is prologue; what to come, / In yours and my discharge.
When she looks up from the crisp white paper, Bruce is standing in front of her.
"You look well," he says.
"As do you." She gestures with the note. "I presume you mean the spirit of the quote, not the context."
He grimaces. "Yes. The context is unfortunate." He doesn't say anything more, letting the silence grow between them.
"If this is all you had to tell me, you could have sent an email," she says when he stays quiet. She laughs softly. "You could have sent me a copy of Bartlett's Quotations." She reaches out and takes his hand. He lets her. "Why am I here, Bruce?"
"Come with me." Instead of pulling away as she expects, he twines their fingers together and leads her to the room he's staying in. When they're both inside and the door closed behind them, he says, "Last year, we all said and did things that we regret."
"Are you going to scold me again, like a naughty child instead of a colleague?" Once, she would have said friend, but she doesn't want to give him the chance to repudiate that interpretation of their relationship. She jerks her hand free but he recaptures it, rubs his thumb over her knuckles gently.
"Dammit, Princess, I'm trying to apologize."
That makes her laugh again, this time in genuine good humor. "You've finally found something at which you don't excel. I'm so glad I got to witness it."
"You might want to mark this day down," he says. "It'll probably never happen again." He tugs on her hand, and she lets him reel her in. "I should have been a better friend," he says, and his mouth is very close to hers now. He slips an arm around her waist. "Can you ever forgive me?" His tone is playful but his eyes are sincere. He's one of the best liars she's ever met, but she was the goddess of truth, and over the years she's learned to read him as well as anyone ever could.
"I'm considering it," she answers, "though you might work on your humility." She smiles when she says it, though, and closes the small gap between them. She presses her mouth to his, and sighs when he opens to her.
He kisses the way he does everything--forcefully and with intent, but she never feels like he's trying to overpower her. Not that he could, but sometimes men feel like they have something to prove. He doesn't.
His hands tangle in her hair, loosening her braid. She moans low in her throat and presses against him. She licks at the pulse fluttering on the side of his neck, and he bites her lower lip hard enough to sting. She likes that he's not shy about using his teeth. It's almost familiar but still rare enough to be new.
This hasn't happened often between them, and it hasn't happened in a long time. When it has, it's always been during some liminal period, one of them reaching out to the other, for reasons they keep to themselves. When Diana starts unbuttoning his shirt, he doesn't stop her. They undress quickly and silently, the only sound in the room the harsh rasp of their breathing. She traces her fingers over the crosshatching of scars that cover his torso, a testament to all the battles he's fought, and he shivers. She wants to run her tongue over each smooth, silvery mark, proof that no matter what has brought him low, he's always gotten up again, stronger at the broken places. She knows he only sees the losses, but the fact that he's here with her now is a victory, the only one that matters. She tries to tell him that with fingers and lips, and chooses to take the small sounds of pleasure he makes as confirmation that he understands.
She lets him guide her to the bed. His hands are eager, warm and sure on her skin, which is aching to be touched, though not, she tells herself, for his touch specifically. It would be so easy to fall in love with him, she thinks, especially when his mouth is fierce and hot against her breast and his eyes are unguarded and full of something that might be wonder as his hands skim down her body and then curl into the hot ache between her legs.
She long ago stopped trying to figure out how he feels about her. They are friends; she knows he'll never be able to give her anything else, despite how good--how right-- it feels when he slides inside her, the two of them moving in concert here as they do in battle.
The pleasurable tension rises inside her, her body taut as a bowstring, ready to be plucked. He draws her legs up around his hips, thrusting relentlessly; he grins the smug grin of a man who has a surprise up his sleeve, and moves his hand between them, thumb flicking over her clitoris.
Diana's release breaks over her like a wave, carrying her away with it. She clenches tight around him, and he follows her into bliss, his body stiffening above her and then going slack. He rolls away and lies next to her, but his smile is soft and secret. That he lets her see him this way, in his rare moments of contentment, is heady, and she ruthlessly suppresses the wish to be allowed to give him this satisfaction always, to convince him that contentment doesn't necessarily breed complacency, but if he did, he wouldn't be who he is. She accepts that.
They lie quietly for a timeless while. After sex, he is more tactile and pliant than anyone would believe of him; he peppers her neck and shoulder with soft kisses and her body with languid caresses, bringing her to orgasm once more before he distances himself from her, even though they are still in the same bed.
"So what did Rama Kushna have to say?" he asks.
"I need to live among humans as a human," she answers. "I need a civilian identity."
He nods. "That can be arranged."
"You think it's a good idea?"
He makes a small huffing sound that might be a laugh. "I think you're determined to try it. And since it will be easier for me to provide you with the documentation you need, you should let me do so."
There's no doubt that the sound she makes is a laugh. "Of course. It would be churlish to say no, especially after that splendid apology."
His mouth quirks in a half-grin. "I guess I finally got the hang of it."
"I'm available should you feel the need to practice more," she says before she can think better of it.
"I'll keep that in mind, Princess." He presses a hard, surprising kiss to her lips and gets up. She makes to do the same--it's his room, after all--and he shakes his head. "I have work to do. You can have the room."
She nestles down into the pillows and watches him gather his clothes and disappear into the bathroom. She dozes, and when she wakes, he's gone. There's a note on the pillow, in the same strong handwriting as all the others. It says, One equal temper of heroic hearts, / Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
She folds it carefully and puts it in her pocket after she dresses. What's past is gone, and she's learned to live with it. It's time to return to the stage and embark upon the next act, whatever it might bring.
end
~*~
Notes: This is set towards the end of 52, though I think it works regardless of canon context.
Bruce's notes:
1. γνῶθι σεαυτόν -> gnōthi seauton - > know thyself
2. what's past is prologue; what to come, / In yours and my discharge
The Tempest, Act 2, scene 1, 253-254
3. One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Ulysses, Tennyson
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/365567.html.
people have commented there.