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“Does it bother you?” she asks. Bruce eyes her, unflinching. Diana stares ahead, past the wheat fields of Wayne Manor’s ruins: the destruction of a clown, the remains of a relic, and the symbolic tomb of someone she never knew. She prays he will understand her. She prays he won’t freeze on the very mention of referring such things aloud. She prays he will use the faith he had in the League and Kal-El in himself— in her— to allow a moment of compromise and vulnerability. To let his cowl finally fall and his guard drop.
“If this” — Bruce motions his head towards the scorched, cracked stone and the overgrown weeds sprouting from them — “is what you mean… then, yes.” He swallows dryly, abandoning whatever he planned to say next. “It bothers me every day. That I… that I let this happen. That I allowed—”
“Stop.” Diana places a hand on his shoulder. The gesture stills Bruce and, for a few moments, there is little else but silence and a gentle wind. Fall leaves, dead and colorless, whip throughout the wheat field. Bruce slowly removes her hand, fingers calloused yet tender, from his shoulder. She’s far from offended by the action; if anything, she’s relieved. His blank stare into the fields ahead only reaffirms why she stayed here after Alfred returned to the lakehouse. She’s almost there— almost able to share with him and him with her. Friends, she thinks. Friends confide in friends. Aren’t we friends now? “Blaming yourself for what happened here… it will only hurt you, Bruce.”
“And you?” he questions, something deeply raw in his hushed words. “You’ve saved the world more than once, and you have no demons in your closet?” His tone is accusatory— defensive. Diana should have expected as much. Bruce’s resistance to sharing is as predictable as it is illuminating. He still hurts. The pain of what happened here hasn’t left him; she suspects it never truly will. That kind of scar lingers through endless days and endless nights. She’s felt it for her sisters and for her mother. The Amazons slain she can never bury… as per their final request of her— as per tradition.
“Steppenwolf… he told me what he did to my people to obtain the Mother Box.” Diana cannot step foot upon the sands of Themyscira lest she wished to violate their legacies. To cast aside Asteria’s golden armor into the ocean— to deem everything they’ve ever done as a people worthless and void. Diana would never cast aside her roots or the traditions she has upheld for so many decades— centuries. They will live through her… and they have to. “They’re all gone, Bruce. They’re gone.”
“You take his word for it?” Her head perks up, dwindling hope fawning in her heart. It’s the first time she has considered this. A detective after all. But that hope dwindles away into nothing with her next realization.
“He used my anger against me— channeled it to disarm me. Anything is possible,— my sisters could be alive— but I will never know it.” Bruce quirks an eyebrow, lips parted. Their eyes meet amongst the storm building above. Gray clouds splotch the blue sky above.
“Why? Can’t you just—”
“No … I can’t.” She inhales deeply, a sinking feeling in her gut and tightening in her chest. “The Amazons forbid it. I can never go back there. The moment I made the decision to travel to Man’s World to find Ares, I could never return.” Bruce hums quietly, a small sound that echoes through the gossiping wheat.
“I’m— I’m sorry, Diana. I didn’t know that.”
“There is nothing for you to be sorry for. It was my own decision, and I don’t regret it for a minute.” A shallow smile disappears before she can stop it. “I just wish… I knew which it was.”
“Alive or dead?” he asks humorlessly.
“Yes,” Diana whispers. “I wish I knew I honored them. Their loss, their battle…in life or death.” Her voice trails off into silence as thunder rumbles above them. Gotham’s tears never fall lightly and certainly not upon their most sacred knight. She looks to the clouds; screwed shut eyes and shuddering breaths. “I won’t— I will never bury my sisters. I will never truly honor their sacrifice.” Her face grows hot, and her vision blurs with it. Diana barely holds back the tears. Bruce nods and takes to the sky above with familiarity, unafraid of the incoming downpour drawing nearer.
“I used to wonder how I could let a monster like Joker walk free after everything— after what he did to my son,” he begins. Tell me, Bruce, Diana thinks. Let me help you. “I gave it up. I put up the cape and let it fester inside of me. I let it warp me— turn me from sense and reason. I allowed it to consume me. I couldn’t see what was right or what was complicated. All I could see were the wrongs. It’s no way to live, Diana. I know that— I just… couldn’t let go of him. I still can’t.”
“You don’t have to,” she says. “I will never forget my sisters… my mother. They will live through me— through my virtues and my mistakes. I know your son would be proud of you, Bruce. Your parents… they’d be proud of you, too. You saved the world. We all did.” His eyes remain locked and lost in the shades of gray above.
“How did it feel, Diana?” His cadence feels aimless among the clouds. “How did it feel to take his life? To avenge them?” She struggles to find the right words to cohesively answer such a question. As of late, Steppenwolf’s death has popped into her mind unbidden. The satisfying slice of flesh and bone against her blade does little to ail her waking nightmares: her sisters begging for mercy or her mother’s head being touted as a trophy. It keeps her wandering and awake, searching desperately for some sign to alleviate the uncertainty in finding joy in death. To sour in her enemy’s utter defeat while her sisters’ bodies lay rotting. To find guilt in the murder of an underling— a mindless servant. Grasping at nothing, Diana reluctantly answers.
“I feel guilty… and I feel guilty for feeling so.” He nods quietly at her.
“I tried to kill Joker when I found him,” mutters Bruce. “I had my hands around his neck, and I could feel his pulse against my fingers. I could’ve done it. Some days, I wish I had done it. Then, at least, I could—”
“Honor him?” Diana asks. He mutters a confirmation under his breath. Above, the thunder provides the first drops of rain. The pitter-patter against the desolate manor brings her a small comfort— akin to a shield, protecting in her moment of need. I understand why you love it here, Bruce. I can see it, now. “We live to honor them, Bruce. It’s all we can do. It’s all we’re allowed to.”
The rain falls hard and heavy on them. The pitter-patter becomes a roar of lightning and smacking rain. The gentle breeze has crispened into a freezing chill. Bruce and Diana stand unmoving in the sharpening weather. And, with the rain, their tears are unseen and unheard but shared all the same. Behind them, where the envisioned long table resides and six chairs, she hopes there will always be at least two for the both of them.