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) 2004 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG.
Superheroes
by Djinn
The night is deathly quiet. Another
villain vanquished, another world saved.
She looks over at him, the
last one to leave but for her as usual. "She's waiting for you."
"Yes."
She's always waiting for him.
That other woman who loves him so.
"Go."
"I don't...I don't want
to."
It isn't like him to
hesitate. He's a champion, a hero. A superhero. Perhaps the mold upon which all
of the rest of them are judged. And he doesn't want to go home. To her. To
Lois.
"Do you love her?"
"You know I do."
"Then go. I'll finish up
here."
She turns and walks away,
back toward the city. They're only watching, there's really nothing to finish
up. The others all left because the danger is over; she and Superman are only
here to make sure that the planet's government doesn't fall apart in the
crucial hours after the crisis.
"You go, Diana," he
says. His voice is deep—she always forgets how deep until she hears it again
next to her ear like now.
When they're alone, he always
stands too close.
"I don't want to,"
she says.
"Don't you have anyone
to go home to?"
He knows she doesn't; she's
unsure why he asks. Except that they don't talk the way they used to, not
unless it's after some crisis like this, where they've stayed behind like they
always do. The very essence of a superhero, the others think. Dedicated to the
last drop.
They stay for each other. To
ask inane questions like "Don't you have anyone to go home to." When
has that ever mattered? When has that not been everything that mattered?
She won't tell him the truth.
That she has him, although she's never had him and she never expects to.
Because it does matter to her that he isn't alone. It does mean something that
he's with Lois. It means everything that he's with her.
"Go on, Kal. I'm fine." When she reverts to his Kryptonian name, it isn't fair. He loves it when she calls
him that.
Well, love might be
overstating it. Or just not stating enough. He loves it; he hates it. He loves
her and sometimes he hates her.
But he's never had her.
Lois thinks he has. Diana
knows this. Has seen it in the way the other woman looks at her, the way she
subtly pushes Superman away from her at the Justice League gatherings, toward
some less dangerous group of heroes.
She thinks Lois hates her.
She knows she hates Lois. If
a superhero hates. Which, of course, she doesn't. So maybe...resents. Or
envies. Those are better words but still not good words. Not heroic words.
Superman's sitting close
enough that if she were to move just the slightest bit their arms would touch. A
whole planet to watch over and he sits so close.
She doesn't move. He doesn't
either. They've never moved, have sat like this time after time and never
moved, their arms have never touched.
"I think about it,"
she says. "Sometimes."
He doesn't ask her what she
means. It's a dangerous moment and she can feel her heart beating faster. It's
always a dangerous moment, every time she says it, every time he answers.
"I do too." He's
careful not to say it too loudly, not to move, not to gesture with a hand or
shift his body.
To touch her now would be to
change everything. They both know this.
"You should go,"
she says.
"Yes."
He doesn't move. He never
does. They say this—this ritual of acknowledgment and release—every single
time.
He continues the ritual. "I
wish..."
Wishes are useless. He will
wish this until he leaves and then he'll forget this moment, won't revisit it
until the next time they sit on alien soil and watch over a nearly destroyed
world together.
Wishes are useless, and still
she says, "I know. I wish it too. Sometimes."
She'll force him from his
mind as soon as she's home. Will survive lonely days and sleepless nights
without letting herself think of him. It's only when she's with him, fighting
on the frontline as they always end up doing, that she'll look over at him and
think, "This is my mate."
And she'll look in his eyes,
just as she's doing now, and know that he too is thinking it.
"You should go." He
says it now. He will stay, she can go.
"No. It's fitting that I
stay."
It is fitting for no good
reason except that she's a superhero, and she won't take another woman's man.
Superman knows it. He leans
away from her, ready to push to his feet. "I'll go then."
"Yes."
His hand touches her, and she
sighs. It's a lie to say that she doesn't let thoughts of him in on some of
those sleepless nights. But for the most part, she fights to keep him locked
out, locked down, locked in—locked deep within her heart.
"I lov—"
"Don't." Her voice
is fierce.
He tries to say it every
time. She stops him every time.
"I'll see you
soon." It's a lie. He won't see her soon, not until some terrible,
earth-shattering crisis begins and they're thrust together again.
"Yes. I'll see
you." It sounds as if she's letting him go, but her hand turns under his,
her fingers seek his out. "You should go."
Their hands hold tight but
only for a moment. Then he lets her go and flies away so fast it looks as if he
was launched by one of man's rockets.
"Safe journey, my
love," she says, knowing he can hear her even from so far away. It's the
only time she'll say it, when she can pretend—and so can he—that he never heard
it.
It is a trespass, but only a
little one. They won't hurt another.
They're superheroes.
FIN