Adult-FanFiction.org : Comics

The Real You	By : darkamazon Category: DC Verse Comics > Justice League Views: 19339 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
thank you to everyone who has e-mailed me and/or reviewed this story -- I appreciate the kind words and comments. Special thanks to Mick, for giving me a lot of help when I was stuck, and for an important contribution to the story that will show up in the second portion of this Part III, which should be posted within a week or so. thanks for your patience, everyone.
Part III -- Agreements (Part I)

She wouldn't look at him.
Even as they spoke to each other, she focused on a point past him, or watched Clark as he entered and left the warehouse. Whenever her gaze met his, by her accident or his design, she quickly glanced away, her hands trembling.
Superman cleared the ceiling rubble away at superspeed, until Batman and Diana could enter what remained of the warehouse. Clark entered seconds after them and they stood for a moment, staring at the chair in the center of the main room. It bore the marks of the fire, but otherwise stood undamaged.
"It's anchored to the floor by a metal shaft that leads to a machinery filled room under the warehouse," Superman said, examining it with his x-ray vision. "Most of the machinery looks as if it is some kind of generator."
"We'll go down there in a few minutes," Batman said. He watched Diana out of the corner of his eye, but her face remained composed as she observed the scene of her rape, the chair which had prevented her from moving, escaping.
She walked toward the chair, ran her hand over one of the arms, then gripped the seat and pulled it suddenly out of the floor.
Instead of throwing it, or destroying it as Batman expected her to, she simply frowned, looking thoughtfully down at the device. "I didn't think I'd be able to do that. I couldn't move it at all while I was tied to it." She glanced around, turned to Superman, setting the chair back down on the floor. It toppled over, unbalanced by the several feet of metal anchoring rod that stuck out from the center of the bottom. "Have you seen any sign of my lasso?"
Clark shook his head, looked at Batman. "Would one of the officers or firefighters have picked it up if they saw it?"
"Perhaps." Batman bent over the chair, collected samples of the broken concrete in the floor where it had stood. Diana backed an extra two feet from him. Bruce ignored the clenching in his gut and added, "But more likely the rapist took it -- either as a souvenir, or to use its power in the future." He stood, and indicated the chair. "I'll want you to bring this back to the Batcave. My scan didn't reveal any traces of homing devices; do you see anything?"
Superman examined it at a microscopic scale, and shook his head. "It looks like the fire burned away any trace evidence, as well. I don't see signs of sweat, hair, or any other human secretions."
Secretions like Diana's blood, Batman thought, but didn't look to see her expression.
And he knew she wasn't looking at him.
He bit back a sigh, made his voice as emotionless as possible. This was just another crime that needed to be solved, Diana was just another victim who needed her attacker brought to justice. "Let's take a look at that machinery underground," he said.
**************
"As of this evening, most of the news media corporations on the East Coast have received a copy of this disturbing video. I have instructed my networks not to run footage of the crime, and I hope that the other networks choose the same path. This is not asking for a gag order on this story, but instead compassion for America's greatest heroine." Bruce paused, staring sadly at the cameras as he delivered the final part of his message. "Wonder Woman has helped save all of us countless times, and Wonder Woman deserves the same compassion and understanding as any woman who has been the victim of such a terrible crime. Just because she is a celebrity shouldn't give the media free rein to show this video, and I implore the media outlets to send their copies to the Gotham PD as evidence to help them in their investigation, and eventually, of the conviction of this heartless criminal. Thank you."
The cameras powered down, and Bruce stepped away from the desk, joining the small group of officers who were part of the investigation.
Gordon clapped Bruce on the back. "I don't know how to thank you for doing that. We've been trying to keep that video off the airwaves as much as possible, but that message coming from you instead of the police department will have the networks listening. They don't fear the police as much as they do Wayne money."
Bruce adopted the vapid, concerned look that Bruce Wayne wore when faced with tragedy. "It was the least I could do." He turned to Diana, who had come with Gordon to the police conference room after giving her statement to the investigators, but had not yet faced the news cameras herself. That would come soon enough. "If there's anything else I can do, Wonder Woman, please let me know."
"I will, Mr. Wayne, and thank you." Diana held out her hand; Bruce considered simply shaking it, but drew it up to his mouth instead, brushed a kiss across the knuckles. For Gordon's benefit he added a tiny leer.
A smile tugged at Diana's lips at his antics; she knew he had a role to play, but it was difficult not to savor the brief contact, pretend or not. She pulled her hand away after a moment, turned to go, then paused, looked back at him.
"Actually, Mr. Wayne, there is something I'd like to speak to you about."
Bruce forced a smile; he hadn't expected her to continue their short public association past a quick 'thank you', and he didn't like surprises. "Yes?"
"An alliance between the Wayne Foundation and the Wonder Woman Foundation, aimed at helping rape victims build their cases against the perpetrators. Money for lawyers, private investigators -- I know I'm in the minority when it comes to the type of support I've gotten from Gotham PD." She turned to Gordon, added, "Not that you don't try to help the other women, Commissioner. But resources are most likely stretched very thin for the average rape victim, and not everyone has a best friend with x-ray vision who can examine a crime scene down to the atomic level. Not to mention another co-worker whose mission right now is to find my attacker." She faced Bruce again. "We could work in conjunction with Gotham PD at first, then expand nationwide as a rape support network."
Clark was a friend, but Batman was a co-worker? Was that how she thought of them, or was it said for Gordon's benefit? He decided not to dwell on the question, but to finish the conversation as quickly as possible, then get back to the cave so he could work.
Bruce nodded, slipped her a business card. "I'll have my people talk to your people." He noted Gordon's look of surprise, swore internally. Of course Bruce Wayne wouldn't pass up this opportunity. "Or," he added quickly, "we could discuss it over dinner sometime soon. If you feel up to it, of course." He tacked on the last, hoping that she would take the out. The last thing he needed was a public dinner with Wonder Woman, even if they dined with a legitimate excuse of setting up her support network.
"I'd like that," she replied.
He felt like his smile would crack his face. "Great! Give me a call when you want to set it up," he said cheerfully. He made his goodbyes as quickly as possible, left Diana and Commissioner Gordon discussing possible aspects of the support network.
Dinner with Diana. That was exactly what he didn't need, especially now. If he dined with her as Bruce Wayne in public, he'd be obligated to make it romantic, seductive -- that was what Bruce Wayne did with all the women he dined with.
Romantic. Seductive. With Diana.
He'd either end up offending her, or lusting after her; and he didn't relish the idea of either.
***********************
He almost ignored the computer alert, but his paranoia eventually forced him to lay down his instruments, check the video feed from the Watchtower. He'd built a monitoring system into the holographic chamber in the satellite designed to let him know when somebody used his image in a simulation. He knew that the others wouldn't approve of his ability to override the privacy locks in the chamber, but he considered it a necessary precaution, not unlike his protocols: if someone was using the room to better learn to fight against him, it was important that he knew they were practicing against a computer simulation of him, and their progress in doing so.
Most of the time, the simulation involved Batman only as a team member, not as a method of examining his possible weaknesses. Arthur had fought against his simulacrum several times, usually after meetings where Batman had squashed one of the sea king's plans. Kyle, the Green Lantern, had used the room to discover how to know when Batman was sneaking up on him. And Diana, on occasion, ran through a program that emulated their workouts together. In those cases, she chose sparring matches where she had lost, and practiced until she had corrected any mistakes she'd made that had allowed him to win the match.
When he saw that Diana had initiated the program, he started to disconnect the monitor, then paused. She had won their last two sparring matches with flawless martial arts techniques -- and since the rape she could barely stand to be around him when he was in costume. What was she doing?
She'd programmed a simple white room; she and his simulacrum were the only two figures in the chamber. Batman noted that her eyes were closed, her hands clenched into fists. Her chest rose and fell quickly.
"Computer, give me Wonder Woman's vitals." The system in the holo room was designed to monitor the occupants in case they were in danger. A digital readout showed her blood pressure, pulse and temperature: all above normal. Her adrenaline levels were high, as well.
She was frightened, and she was fighting it.
He watched as she opened her eyes, forced herself to breathe regularly, slowly. She stared at Batman's image, unclenched her fists.
She spoke. "Computer, have Batman walk toward me, stopping fifty centimeters in front of me." Immediately Batman strode at her. She took an involuntary step back, then firmed her lips, planted her feet. The replica stopped, facing her.
The remained like that for several moments: the unbelievably beautiful woman in the bright uniform, and the man in the dark suit. In tave,ave, Batman noted that Diana's vitals were slowly returning to normal as she relaxed. Batman relaxed as well. He hadn't wanted to admit to himself how much the idea of Diana fearing him had bothered him -- and it had bothered him more than just as an impediment to them working together as teammates.
His relief was shortlived, however, as she gave her next command to the holographic replica. "Batman, I want you to touch my arm." Her vitals rose again as the gauntleted hand slowly reached for her. Just before contact she jerked away, stumbling backward, breathing rapidly.
"Damn it!" she cried out. "I know you aren't him. Why am I reacting like this?"
"I don't know," the replica replied in Batman's voice. Unless there was a script programmed, the computer couldn't have a real dialogue with Diana through the holographic image.
The Batman's reply made her stop, though, and brought a tiny smile to her face. "The real Batman would know," she said. Taking a deep breath, she faced him once more. "Let's try this again."
It took several tries, but eventually she allowed the hologram to touch her without reacting, without a severe impact upon her vital signs. Batman returned to his work, but left the video feed playing so that he could keep an eye on her progress.
His investigation was not going as smoothly as he would have liked; he had loads of information, but no thread to connect the pieces together. The motive seemed clear, at first: finding out Batman’s identity, and exact some sort of revenge on him. However, whoever had done this had spent an awful lot of money and time, taken a huge chance by choosing Wonder Woman as his victim.
It wasn’t simply revenge – this was much, much more, whether the rapist knew it or not. And, worst of all, either the rapist or someone else had been very careful covering his financial and electronic tracks. Even Oracle hadn’t been able to find a connection to a person or corporation, except for Wayne Corp.
And he felt as if he were failing Diana.
Looking up at the screen, he watched as she and his double moved into fighting position. She’d apparently conquered the majority of the demons that plagued her whenever the man in the batsuit touched her, and he hoped that it was true when she was faced with the reality, not just the hologram. The two began to spar, running through a familiar routine she and Batman had both performed many times.
But something was different; it took him a few moments to realize what it was, took him a few moments to read the stiffness in her movements, the determined set of her face: she wanted to tear the hologram apart, was practically screaming in internal rage but was holding back through sheer force of will.
Three minutes later, she forced herself to stop, breathing heavily. Her hands were clenched into fists, the sleek muscles of her arms and legs flexing as she controlled the emotions tearing through her.
Batman knew what she was feeling. He knew the rage that pounded through her, the grief. He’d felt the same after Jason had died, had wanted nothing more than to beat the Joker senseless, beat him to death with his own hands.
He didn’t stop to analyze his next action; he simply gave a few commands to the computer, loaded the image of the rapist, watched as his hologram transformed into the man Diana really wanted to destroy.
She started in surprise as she noted the change in the body type and jawline, then gave a wry glance toward the security camera. Her lips curved, and she shook her head in wonderment, her dark hair waving across her back like a black flag – the flag opposite of surrender. “I’m not sure whether hankhank you, Bruce, or to skin you alive for spying on me, then making me think for a moment that I’m hallucinating that image,” she said as she gestured to the new hologram.
“Think of it as a present,” he said into a microphone, and his voice echoed through the holo room. “Except that my feelings won’t be hurt if you break it.”
“As long as I don’t break the real one?”
He knew she wasn’t referring to him, the real Batman, but rather her rapist. “I’ll trust you not to kill him when we catch him,” he said.
Her voice darkened, became like midnight. “I won’t guarantee anything.” She turned her back to the camera, straightened her shoulders. “If you’ll increase the strength levels of this hologram to match mine, I’d appreciate it. And you’ll not want to watch if you are squeamish,” she added.
He watched, despite himself. The hologram’s blood was fake, but Diana’s was not. The hologram had her strength and nearly Batman’s martial arts ability, and the computer didn’t tire as a real man would have.
Diana won finally, brutally, and at a high cost to herself. The computer listed her injuries as she stood over her kill: three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and severe contusions to the face and legs. Her expression was not that of a triumphant Amazon as she gave the command to erase the program; there had been no joy in the battle or the death for her. It had been both too unreal, and at the same time far too real to attain any kind of catharsis.
“Bruce, are you still watching?”
“I’m here.”
She tried to wipe some of the blood from the ruin of her uniform, then gave up. She didn’t look at the camera as she said, “I’ll do it your way, I won’t kill him.”
He’d known she wouldn’t; Diana was one of the few Justice Leaguers who would kill, but she wouldn’t do it out of revenge, or anger. She only killed out of necessity, when the lives of others depended upon it – and even then, she would do everything within her power to keep from using lethal force.
“But I will make sure that he suffers a great deal,” she added.
In the darkness of the cave, he smiled. He wouldn’t have expected anything less.
*******************************
Wine classes clinked, and expensive conversations flitted across the expanse of the room, only slightly muffled by the plush carpet and intimate table settings. Versailles was the newest five star restaurant in Gotham—Bruce Wayne owned it, but although he currently dined there he was not the celebrity on the tips of the other patrons’ tongues. Diana was.
--horrifying—
--saw part of the video before the recall—
--forced to enjoy it—
--out with him, and so soon after?—
--some victim helpline they are developing—
--brutally raped, tortured—
--forced to enjoy it—
She could hear them, of course mat matter how softly they whispered. Bruce could, too, courtesy of the small amplifier tucked into his ear.
But they both pretended not to hear.
“—and so I told him what I thought of his sand wedge, and where he could stick it.”
Bruce grinned at Diana’s golf story, thinking how ironic it was that this time it was she who felt the need to play the lighthearted, carefree celebrity. “Not very diplomatic of you, Princess."

“Diplomacy has a time and place; obviously, that ambassador didn’t think the time or place was the eighteenth hole.” Diana sighed, spooned up the last of a cream sauce, spread it over a small piece of bread. “The worst part was that he didn’t reveal himself earlier – I wasted nearly four hours on that golf course.”
Bruce leaned his elbow on the table, pushed his plate aside. Since she’d done most of the talking he’d finished much earlier than she. “But your score is still a course record. Seventeen holes in one.”
“It would have been eighteen, but he caught me off guard with that sand wedge,” she said, then added, “I think he was upset that I didn’t try to play at his level.”
“Or that a woman was beating him." Bruce glanced to his right, where the head of his foundation was in earnest conversation with the head of Diana's. He looked back at Diana, and arched an eyebrow toward the table's other occupants. "I think they are far ahead of us; they've already got the victims' help network going nationwide."
Diana smiled. "They aren't even pretending to listen to our conversation," she said a little loudly.
Susan, who ran the Wonder Woman Foundation, paused and looked slightly abashed. "Sorry, Diana – I guess I've heard too many golf stories to be entertained by them anymore."
Derek, the Wayne Foundation head, nodded in agreement. "If you don't mind, Bruce, we'd like to get started on this project right away. Will you excuse us? The night is young, and work can be done."
Bruce looked shocked at the idea of working into the night, then waved them away. "Fine," he grinned. "I don't mind being left alone with the Princess."
They sat quietly for a few moments after the other couple had left; the waiter came and cleared their table, refilling their wine glasses. Diana took a deep drink of hers when he moved away.
"You're tense," Bruce observed, dropping the pretense of the society fop. They were tucked into a private corner; although they could be seen by the other diners, no one had a direct view without being obvious or rude.
Diana sighed, set her glass down, running her fingers around the rim. "I'm tired," she admitted. "I haven't been sleeping well."
Bruce nodded; he knew from J'onn, the Martian Manhunter, that she'd been experiencing nightmares. The telepath had said the traces of her horror lingered in her dreams, and she'd been unwittingly projecting some of that fear throughout the Watchtower as she'd slept.
Which was just another reason why Bruce never slept at the Watchtower – he would never knowingly force his nightmares on someone. J'onn hadn't told Diana that he picked up her dreams; if she found out that she was projecting, she would have begun spending nights at her embassy – Bruce, Clark and J'onn agreed that it was better she stay at the Watchtower, where her safety was more certain.
"Has the holo room been helping?" He knew she'd continued to use the holo room to fight the rapist's simulacrum; each battle was succeedingly more difficult for Diana, as she programmed additional powers into the holograph.
"No." She finished off her wine, leaned back in her chair. The candlelight from the centerpiece flickered over the smooth column of her throat. Not for the first time that night, Bruce admired the elegant line of her black dress, the fall of her hair.
Not for the first time that night, he berated himself for noticing.
"I've finally realized the problem," she continued. "Beating him in the holo room would be the perfect therapy for me if my fears originated in my inability to defend myself."
"But you know your strength and skill were never in question," Bruce said. "He drugged you, and used a device that you couldn't have prepared yourself for. Under any other circumstance, you'd have had him defeated before—" Before he'd raped her. Before he'd tortured her.
"Exactly," Diana agreed when Bruce broke off. "So, as gratifying as the carnage in the holo room has been, it hasn't addressed the root of the problem."
"Which is?" Bruce asked, although he thought he knew. It would never have been a question of power, or strength; Diana could, and did, accept that there were more powerful beings on the planet, worked with them every day. It was not the physical defeat that she needed to disprove, but the mental one.
"My ability to choose," she confirmed his thoughts. "Knowing that I was drugged doesn't make the experience any less real – and so in my memories, I wanted him: the man who raped and tortured me. And I enjoyed it at first, welcomed him, told him that I wanted him. And in my mind, I chose what happened."
"But you didn't want him, Diana. You didn't choose it."
"I know," she murmured. "That's what makes it more difficult. Although I tell myself now that it wasn't y…Batman, at the time I thought it was. And I wanted Batman, the real one. And I was hurt by a man who I still feel, despite all of my knowledge of the truth, was the real one."
He held her gaze with his own, his expression intense. "I would never—"
"I know." She reached forward, touched his hand with her fingertips. "In fact, I feel guilty that some part of me still believes it was you, that I can't force the truth into my memories, into my nightmares."
He turned his hand, his palm sliding under hers. "I was going to say, 'I would never expect you to immediately recover from your experience, Diana.' You have no reason to feel guilty."
She smiled sadly. "And yet I do." Pausing as the waiter returned to refill her wine glass, she savored the sensation of his hand under hers, remembered how they had felt during that surreal, brief encounter in his bedroom. So different from…She stopped, forced herself not to think about the other. The waiter moved away, and she continued, "J'onn assures me that the memories will fade with time."
"You won't ever forget, Diana; but happier, more immediate memories will begin to assert themselves over the traumatic ones."
She raised her eyes to his, true humor sparkling in hers. "And you speak of this from experience?"
The corner of his mouth tilted. "Let's just say that I'm a special case."
"You're determined to keep the unhappy memories more immediate," she said.
"They serve a purpose" was his reply. He began to slide his hand from hers, but she tightened her grip slightly.
"You helped me, that morning in your bedroom," she said suddenly. "You made some very pleasant memories the more immediate, and the memory of that has been a place that I can revisit when the other memories threaten to overwhelm me."
He opened his mouth to respond, then noticed in his peripheral vision the characteristic slink of a tabloid journalist. "The Tattler," he said, barely audibly, but he knew that Diana would hear. Then, louder, "Well, if you want me to offer my…services…to help you forget, I'll be more than happy to volunteer," he leered.
An emotion that he couldn't place flittered across her features; then her eyes warmed with laughter as she noted his change of personality, but her voice was cold. "I don't think that will be necessary, Mr. Wayne." She pulled her hand from his as if his touch offended her superheroine sensibilities.
He caught her hand again, pressed it to his chest dramatically. "Then at least do me the honor of a dance."
She looked around, one eyebrow raised. He saw her glance at the reporter in her mock survey of the restaurant; her expression took on one he was familiar with her wearing in battle. Her face had been plastered across the tabloids for the past two weeks; not an unusual circumstance for her, but the wild speculation about the video circulating the internet and the censored published pictures in the magazines glamorized the rape, making the rapist an instant celebrity. "There's no dance floor."
"But there is music, and plenty of room next to our table," he challenged her, carrying his Bruce Wayne persona as far as possible.
Expecting her to refuse, he was unprepared for her "Very well, then. One dance, then I would like to leave." He covered his surprise easily, however, and stood smoothly, pulling her up with him.
Guiding her into his arms with his palm pressed to the small of his back, he noted the glee that crossed the reporter's face. "You've just given him something to write about," Bruce murmured.
"He would have written something anyway," Diana replied softly. She held herself a few inches from him, settling into the steps with ease. Feeling the stares of the other diners, she added, "But now he'll write about something other than the rehashing of the rape. Instead, there will be speculation about a romance, which both of our publicists will quickly squash."
"There would have been romantic speculation regardless." He turned her, quirked an eyebrow at the quartet of musicians over her shoulder. The violinist caught his look, saw Diana in Bruce's arms, and nodded in understanding. Almost immediately, the tempo of the music changed to a tango.
"Yes, but this also gives me the opportunity to accept Bruce Wayne's offer," Diana said.
Feeling satisfied that the musician had caught on so quickly, he pulled her closer against his body, began leading her into the sensual dance. "His offer to dance?" he asked, barely noting that he referred to himself in the third person. Their dance was creating a stir among the diners, and the reporter was practically drooling over himself at witnessing such a scoop firsthand. Yes, he was going to give them quite a show, one that would send their tongues wagging hard enough to distract the reporter from the conversation Bruce and Diana had as they danced. It would give Bra cha chance to update Diana on the progress—or rather lack of it—of the investigation.
"No, his offer to help me create more immediate, pleasurable sexual memories." To his credit, she thought, he didn't stumble at her admittedly outrageous statement, or miss a step. She could feel his surprise, though, in the slight tightening of his muscles.
She wondered if he could feel her embarrassment, her determination.
His eyes darkened, held hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "I was playing a part when I said that, Diana," he finally responded, his voice low, rough. His Batman voice.
"I know," she said. "But that doesn't make the concept behind it any less true." She moved with him as he spun her around within the circle of his arms, his hands sliding down her sides before taking her hands again, turning her, resuming the classic tango pose. "Every time I look at that mask, I see him again. Feel him touching me." Feeling bold, and not stopping to consider whether her boldness was born of desperation or confidence, she pressed forward.
He leaned back automatically, his weight shifting until he bore most of it on his back leg, the leg bent and poised. In an elegant move, she slid over his thigh, bringing her right leg up and her knee against his hip; he could feel her feminine heat pressing against the muscles of his thigh.
Her mouth was inches from his, her warm breath caressing his lips. He imagined kissing her; she'd taste like wine and pure, unadulterated female.
"I want to feel something else, to think of something else," she said softly.
His mind raced even as he became semi-erect at her words, her actions. He unthinkingly completed the dance maneuver she'd begun, sliding back, her shoe dragging lightly across the floor, all the while trying to form a reply.
She was asking him to have sex with her so that she might be able to defeat the demons that continued to plague her. Part of him rebelled at the idea of such a clinical description of her suggestion: it made it sound cold, impersonal – as if she was simply another one of the victims of a crime case he was working, and sex was another way of helping fix a wrong.
Cold and impersonal: the way Batman should want it. She was asking him to complicate a working relationship that was, at the best of times, somewhat strained; but, thinking of it as therapy, or a medical procedure, should have made his decision easier. He could say 'yes,' help her while at the same time purging his system of the desire that he had for her. It was a rational, efficient idea, and any complications arising from such intimate contact could be dealt with beforehand by making sure they both knew it was just a clinical procedure.
Except Bruce knew that it would never be clinical, never be cold and impersonal.
He also had to acknowledge that her request might stem from the amount of wine she had drunk; although she processed chemicals in her bloodstream quickly, the alcohol probably had some effect.
The closing strains of the piece sounded, and he set her back on her feet, trying to ignore the heated, expectant look in her eyes. "I don't think it would be a good idea, Diana," he said.
And found himself disappointed when she didn't try to convince him.
To Be Continued
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Real You