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Maelstrom

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Honestly, she wasn’t surprised to find herself, half dunk, definitely tipsy, at Diana’s door, having searched it up on the records at the museum after the “battle,” or whatever you want to call it. She called it nothing, because that is what happened. Nothing. She lost the power she felt surging through her limbs gone. But she kept her first wish. So she didn’t really lose anything, but she didn’t win anything either. Maybe it was that boldness that persuaded her to show up at Diana’s door.

She wasn’t surprised to see Diana open the door, her eyes tired and bloodshot without the thin layer of makeup she usually wore to work, her dark curls cascading down her back, yet still managing to look graceful and elegant, everything she doesn’t think she is. She wasn’t surprised to see Diana’s eyes widen in surprise, and after a moment of hesitation, motion for her to come inside, and shut the door gently behind her. She surveyed the room, and saw that it matched who Diana was perfectly: cool, elegant, classic, and one hundred percent distant. It felt like a vacation home, where you certainly keep mementos but you don’t put your whole body and soul into.

She turned back around, and faced Diana, who seemed about to open her mouth and say something, likely about to ask her why she was here, what did she want, or if she was OK, because she knew she looked terrible, with her blond curls flying everywhere and her movements languid and obviously drunk. It hit her then, that even after all of that, Diana was probably still going to ask her if she was OK, and still show her that same kindness that she had the very first day she started working at the museum. So she wasn’t surprised when, instead of choking her long, graceful neck with the anger that she felt for loosing her feline grace, she pounced on Diana, and crushed her full lips beneath her own, everything forgotten as she growled, animal-like, and drank in the sweet taste of Diana’s lips.

Honestly, looking back, the only thing that did surprise her was Diana’s hands, which didn’t remain frozen like she had thought they would, in some part of her muddled brain, and instead came up to grab her hair; her lips, which didn’t freeze, but instead, after a stunned moment, started moving against hers with almost the same intensity that she moved with; her body, which hadn’t moved away from her with all of its agility and her fast reflexes, and instead remained still, even arching towards her. Maybe Diana was too trusting.

Diana had ended up on the floor, and she had kissed her lips until she was sure that the both of them would have swollen lips the next day. She made quick work of Diana’s silky grey nightgown, and felt Diana whimper, already wet and warm and so ready for her. The very anticipation almost made her come. She teased and withheld, almost instinctively knowing what to do, and Diana could only moan, helpless under her fingers. It was only when she had stopped again, for the third time, before Diana could come, that Diana gave up and whispered “please.” The sound of Wonder Woman, begging for release underneath her, made her almost giddy, and she crushed Diana’s lips with her own once again, and twisted her fingers in a quick, calculated move.

Diana had made a muffled scream underneath her hands, and though she had imagined this scenario over and over in her own bed, late at night when the only thing next to her was a pillow and cool sheets and loneliness overwhelmed her, nothing compared to the elation she felt when Diana came, trying to remember every detail and wrinkle and freckle on Diana’s face as she said her name, undone and yet put together, strong yet vulnerable under her hands.

She stroked her hair, almost tenderly, before remembering that this woman, the woman that she had just pleasured underneath her, was the woman who made her lose everything she had worked for with Max, before recalling her wrath and anger, her revenge. But she couldn’t bear to hurt her, not tonight, when Diana’s beautiful brown eyes were closed and so uncharacteristically vulnerable, so she got up from the floor, wiped her fingers on her skirt, and stared down at the woman with cold, unyielding eyes. Diana had looked up, and for the first time, said nothing as she tugged on her shoes, and watched her leave, closing the door behind her with a sharp “click.”

……
She turned in her resignation from the Smithsonian, and packed her stuff up the very next day. It wasn’t like the museum still wanted her very much, honestly, though for some reason her participation in the near destruction of civilization had remained a secret, much like Diana’s had as well. Still, she had missed quite a few days of work unannounced and had been very much the person to blame for a missing artefact, though it wasn’t as though anyone else knew it was the wish stone. No one would miss her loss too much.

……
“This is your new target, Athena.” The Boss’s voice resonated in her bones, which was probably the way they intended it to be in the first place, since they insisted on wearing a stupid mask and keeping everything about themselves a secret. Come to think of it, she had never seen the Boss’s face, and the few people who knew what she really does not, one or two other agents and a few tech guys, had never either. The Boss was a mysterious person. The way they said her chosen name though, never failed to make her mind slip back to another person she knew named after a Roman goddess. But the name Athena was Greek, and better than Minerva, who was Roman, and brought back too many unnecessary memories.

She really should send Diana a thank you note, for her name and her prized abilities. Thank her for the power that still did surge through her veins. She probably would not have become the prized killer she was now without Diana. Her first wish had done good.

A picture came up on the large screen in front of her, and the mask she had cultivated in the past decade almost slipped as she very, very nearly choked on air at the face that now stared at her, in all her glory, on the eight foot screen. As it happens, she was unable to keep from cocking an eyebrow at the masked person sitting in front of her after tearing her eyes away from the screen, where Diana Prince was smiling in her tight way, her brown curls still long and lush, her brown eyes still kind. She hadn’t changed at all, though if she were being honest with herself, neither had Barbara.

Warning bells started ringing in her head as she watched the masked person in front of her carefully.

“You know her?”

The question was phrased carelessly, but Barbara knew the calm cruelty of the person in the mask well, and knew that the question, while it seemed casual, was much, much more. She also knew that if they wanted to, they could order her to kill her parents, if they were still alive, and she would have no choice to do it. The cheetah on her shoulder was a constant reminder of the contract she had signed, the lifelong allegiance she had pledged, though with her wish, she would probably outlive the Agency itself. The Boss don’t tolerate weakness of any kind, and even though Barbara was in no respect weak physically, they had eliminated any possibility of a mental weakness as well.

She had asked one of the Terminators what they were going to do when she handed them a list of her friends and past partners, though for some reason, a feline instinct perhaps, she had not included Diana’s name, and they had stared at her, like the name itself hadn’t been self-explanatory. She hadn’t believed that the name was real, but it was. The true meaning behind the job that Barbara had signed up for had revealed itself to her, and while she should have been scared of its implications, she was drawn to the darkness and the solo shadow in the night. So she had done nothing to stop them, even after she began to receive invitation after invitation to funerals. She had ignored them all. She also stopped developing any kind of human bond with anyone, besides the very, very, very casual intercourse she would have after every mission. That was OK. That was tolerated. The Boss had to acknowledge that the killers are adults, and had needs.

So Barbara Minerva grinned in what she hoped was an arrogant and careless way, and shrugged: “Fucked her.”