maelstrom

When she wakes, all her senses go on high alert. For one thing, she does not own clothing that feels like fabricated water. She has never seen the point of luxury clothing, but in the back of her mind she makes note of the fabric and decides to get herself some. She also is sure her bed does not feel so cloud-like. She lies still, talking stock of any pain or discomfort. Nothing. She hears breathing, though, so someone else is in the room with her. Presumably, if she were caught on a mission, she wouldn’t be held in a prison of warmth and comfort.

Having reached her conclusion, she tentatively opens her eyes. The room is dark. Still, her eyes immediately find and seek out the dark mass sitting next to the bed. Of course. Diana’s perfume. She doesn’t read too much into why even the smell of Diana makes her feel warm and comfortable.

“Barbara Ann?” Diana’s whisper is soft as she turns a lamp on the bedside table. They are both basked in warm light. The lighting doesn’t hide the dark circles painted under Diana’s eyes, though, and her voice is ragged when she asks, “Are you awake?”

“No, I’m asleep.” She answers sardonically, not bothering to keep her voice down. “Why am I here?”

Diana is annoyingly unruffled by her snark. “Would you have preferred I left you in the Dark Room?” There is no sarcasm in her words; she sounds as though she is asking a sincere question.

Barbara hasn’t received sincerity in a long time. She’s out of practice, so she doesn’t answer. Instead, she sits up. Some part of her is laughing at the irony. She is lying on Diana’s bed, sick and weak, and just days ago she was nearly assigned to kill her. For the most part, though, she is just tired. Tired of mind games and implications, and whatever happened at the Gala drained her more than she thought possible. She wants to lay down, close her eyes, and never wake up again. She doesn’t. She opens her mouth to speak, instead: “What happened?”

“You were hurt, so I brought you here.” Diana is concise, her voice soft and firm. “You should rest now.”

She thinks she might appreciate what Diana tries to do for her. But she is a husk of a human now, and she wants the truth. “Tell me what happened, Diana. I don’t remember.” She demands, too tired to be hard.

Diana’s eyes watch her carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Her nod is resigned.

“Alright.” Diana’s chocolate brown eyes find hers. They are hard, as though she needs to shield herself from what she divulges next. “Last night, Bella Raeid, known alternatively as ‘the Bear’ in certain circles, was found dead on the floor of a room known as the ‘Dark Room’. She was choked to death.”

Barbara closes her eyes. She doesn’t need Diana to say anything else. Her mind fills in the rest of the blanks for her. The Bear’s death wouldn’t have been pretty.

“Splendid.” She mumbles. The Bear was a strict mentor, but they (she, apparently) were nothing to Barbara personally. The Bear made sure of that. She feels a low annoyance at having lost control, but other than that, nothing.

“Are you okay?” Diana moves closer, laying a timid hand on Barbara’s arm.

“Oh please. Drop the freakin’ act. You know perfectly well what I do for a living. Do you think I would feel bad about killing her?” She scoffs and rolls her eyes, instinctually believing that Diana knows more about the Agency than she let on. Diana always has an uncanny way of knowing everything about Barbara when she wants to.

The silence stretches on for long enough after she says her piece that Barbara begins to wonder if she was too blunt with Diana. The warm hand, though, remains on her arm, and reassures her. scared Diana off with her bluntness if it weren’t for the warm hand that still lay on her arm. Then Diana sighs, long and drawn out. “I do know.” She says, still gentle. “I hate to think that I may have had something to do with you choosing this path.”

She scoffs again. “Well, don’t you have an inflated sense of self-import.”

Diana doesn’t defend herself. She withdraws her hand and makes to stand up. “Are you hungry?”

Barbara blinks at the non-sequitur and the simple silk wrap dress Diana wears. It softens her regality, so she resembles a lounging, peaceful goddess. The fabric looks soft. Barbara crushes the urge to reach out and stroke it. “No, I’m fine.” She throws the covers back to stand up as well. Diana watches her silently. “I need to find the a-hole who spiked my drink.”

“What do you mean?” Diana’s hand touches her elbow, steading her. She doesn’t wretch away from the touch. Diana moves her hand away when it’s obvious Barbara can stand alone.

In the soft damp light, Diana is ethereal. The light rolls off her curls, her features, and the wrap dress clings to her body. Barbara rolls her eyes again, feeling defensive against the image. “I saw the bear mask laughing and I didn’t notice you come up to me. I can’t believe I let my guard down.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes tiredly as her brain starts up again. “I can’t believe they got in to the Gala.” Diana doesn’t offer anything.

She continues when it’s obvious Diana isn’t going to say anything. “Thanks for wrapping my arm. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

In one swift move, Barbara pulls the nightgown off her body and lays it on the wide bed. Completely naked, she finds her dress (tattered and bloodied, but decent nonetheless) hanging on the back of the armchair Diana wears. Diana is a silent presence watching her, shifting to move out of Barbara’s way, but if she’s shocked by Barbara’s comfort with nudity she says nothing. There was a time when Barbara would have been embarrassed to bare herself in front of anyone, but she hasn’t seen her body as anything other than a tool for a long time.

She’s turned away from Diana to tug on her dress when she hears the soft swish of fabric moving behind her. She doesn’t move. Diana’s cool fingers, hesitant, trace the scars that cover her back. Her fingers are light, gentle. “Will you tell me where you got these?”

“Training, missions… Who knows. Here and there.” She can feel her body reacting, flame licking her cheeks, and she’s determined not to turn back to Diana until she gets herself under control. She hopes the dim lamplight isn’t enough for Diana to see the back of her neck turn red.

She can feel Diana’s eyes roaming down her naked back. Hands continue to trace scars, but Diana says nothing then. After a moment, her hands fall to Barbara’s waist. “Do you hate me?” Diana’s voice is so quiet Barbara nearly misses it.

Barbara doesn’t trust her voice to be steady. She has to answer, though. “Yes.” Diana’s hands, tracing her hipbone, abruptly withdraw.

Barbara whines. She can’t help it. The flames inside her lick at her.

“I’m sorry you hate me.” Diana’s voice is close to her ears. Barbara moans, arousal not quenched but enflamed.

She leans back, unconsciously. Diana’s hands, even more hesitant this time, return to her hot skin. She doesn’t turn around, not yet. She’s sure if she does, nothing will hide the blush spread across her chest and cheeks. “Are you still in pain?”

Pain? She’s in agony. She has been, since the moment Diana slid next to her in the booth. “No,” she grits out.

Diana’s hands still, and she stands so quiet that for a heartbeat Barbara thinks she left. The moment is so tightly strung that Barbara wonders when the string will snap. Suddenly, Diana’s lips, soft and full, touch themselves on Barbara’s bare back. Barbara gasps, the sound choked. Each scar is caressed, gentle kisses layered over the aftermath of violence. Her knees go weak, and the heat inside her is so unbearable in that moment that she moans, leaning into Diana’s kisses. Strong hands come up to encircle Barbara, and Barbara forgets her inhibitions, her defenses, her name.

“Are you sure?” Diana whispers into her neck. Barbara shivers as Diana’s warm breath bring goosebumps to her skin. “Will you let me?”

Diana muzzles against the sensitive skin on her neck, and Barbara can do nothing but whimper hopelessly. Hands turn her until she faces Diana, warm brown eyes hazy with desire. Her whisper is still gentle. “May I?”

Barbara thinks distantly this is a bad idea. She leans in, anyway. “Fuck you,” she whispers against Diana’s plump lips, biting down hard enough to draw blood. A moan rips out, one of theirs, and Barbara is incensed.

Diana pulls away after a moment, gently leading Barbara back to the bed. Her chuckle is low and deep in her chest. “Not tonight. It’s my turn.”

Barbara gives herself permission to drown.

When she gets up afterward, lingering euphoria tickling her legs, she feels a soft touch on her arm. “Stay for the night. Please?” Diana sighs sleepily into her ear, her eyes already nearly closed. Her olive skin is tantalizing in the dark of night, her hair spread against the crips white of the pillows. The idea is bad. Diana is still a target, and Barbara is still an assassin. Barbara doesn’t do overnights. Overnights are a promise, and she makes none of those. But Diana looks so soft, vulnerable in the white sheets. Something shifts inside Barbara. She can’t bring herself to wretch her arm away.

Barbara stays.

She sleeps peacefully for the first time in a long time.

When she wakes again, sunlight streams through the windows. The bed is empty besides her, sheets rumpled, and she pulls on a nightgown discarded on the armchair Diana must have sat in last night. In the light of day, the room no longer seems so vulnerable, so fragile.

She wanders down to the kitchen. Diana sits at the table, food in front of her. She’s holding a newspaper, but she looks up at the soft pad of Barbara’s bare feet. In the sunlight, her smile is blinding. Or maybe it’s her hair, messy and pulled back. Or maybe it’s the small imperfections that Diana hides from the rest of the world. Barbara’s heart pounds something tender.

Diana sets her newspaper down. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Good morning.” Barbara sits down across from her, still cautious, still tense. “Is that for me?” The food on the table looks delicious. She hasn’t eaten since before the Gala, she realizes with a start.

“Yes.” Diana pushes a plate of chocolate cake towards her, and stands to retrieve an egg from the microwave. “I hope you like your eggs scrambled.” The cake throws Barbara, so she nods and takes the eggs with a quiet note of thanks. She chews, and wonders absently if Diana knows she’s always thought of warm brown eyes as as honeyed chocolate.

Diana nods and returns to her newspaper. Barbara takes the chance to appraise the apartment. It hasn’t changed much in the last decade, like its owner. It is still minimal, pale and distant. The only signs this is a home is the line of pictures hanging next to the kitchen cabinet, so Barbara’s eyes are immediately drawn to it.

Some of the photos are tinged with age, black and white. Others look more recent, and are spotted in bright colors. The pictures seem to have been organized by year, labeled neatly in Diana’s graceful, slender handwriting on the bottom. From 1911 to 1984, Diana’s smile beams out, surrounded by strangers who hold her and are held with familiarity. A man accompanies her often, both of them dressed as though they had come straight out of a World War I museum. Barbara lingers on the smile for a moment. Diana doesn’t smile like that often anymore. Her smile now often takes on a tinge of melancholy and age that doesn’t reflect on her person.

The photos of Diana stop at 1984. The rest of the photos on the wall are more generic, photos of traveled places and strangers. The gallery of memories becomes less personal, Diana missing from all of them.

She swallows another forkful of chocolate cake, and realizes with a start they were of places she recognized. The island where they last fought, a restaurant near her apartment, an alleyway covered in graffiti that Barbara really liked. The last photo on the wall is the annual group photo the Smithsonian takes. The same photo is framed on her nightstand. She and Diana were standing together in the back row, her smile wide, and Diana’s skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes. She remembers she had said something funny right before they clicked the camera. The camera captured the moment they were both laughing.

She didn’t notice she had stood up to stand in front of the photos until Diana’s perfume surrounds her. Diana stands close enough to touch though she doesn’t, and she probes with gentle curiosity, “Barbara Ann?”

She looks up at Diana, taller because Barbara is barefoot. “Why do you call me that? You never did before.”

Diana contemplates the question for a moment, her eyes faraway. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ve just always thought of you that way for the past decade.” Then, with a tilt of her head, “Would you prefer I stop?”

Barbara ignores her question. “How do you know my middle name?”

“Did you not tell me?” Barbara shakes her head. “Perhaps I saw it in the Smithsonian records. Or a lucky guess.” Diana smiles, and lays a gentle hand on her elbow. “Come back to eat.” She lets Diana lead her back to the table.

They chew quietly for a moment, only Diana’s newspaper ruffling breaking the silence. “You know,” Barbara says, suddenly remembering. “The armor you wore back then. In 1984. What animal was it?”

Diana’s spine stiffens almost imperceptibly before quickly relaxing. She lays her newspaper down and lifts her mug to her lips. “What do you ask that for?”

Barbara’s voice is quiet, still nonchalant for now. “Curiosity.” She shrugs, and spears another piece of egg.

Diana is quiet, and then she sighs, a dejected sound. “An eagle.”