Truce By Artemis

Rated: PG-13 (itty-bitty edit. . . see for R version)

Summary: Batman and Wonder Woman "discuss" her use of convicted felons for sparring practice on the Watchtower. Missing scene from Patton Oswalt's "JLA: Welcome to the Working Week." Plas's second line at the end of this story, and WW's reply are taken from this comic.

A/N: WW's line "We already . . . spoke" tingled my shippy-sense. ;) Thanks to UglyGirl for the beta, and to Marcelo for FB on WW's strength.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.



There was a slight movement under the black cape, before a bright yellow utility belt slid nearly soundlessly to the floor. The wearer of said belt gave a curt nod. "Yours too."

She shrugged and slid her hands behind her waist. A thud followed as the golden metal hit the padded floor.


"Bracelets," he rebutted, already tugging off his gloves. Those were tossed to the side, and sparkling silver soon landed on top.

She caught his glance at the offending bracelets and grinned. "Territorial, aren't we? Cape and cowl."

"Tiara. And that was two items."

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged; her voice innocence. "They're attached."

His smirk lingered on a corner of his lips when he spied her frustrated scowl; his cape removed and mask still in place.

She rested her fists on her hips, one hand holding her tiara, and glared at his still-covered face. "Since when?" she demanded.

"Tiara," he reminded her.

Muttering a very un-princesslike word, she tossed the tiara aside. "Fine. Mask."

His bare hands slid the mask off in a fluid motion. Two cool blue eyes studied her a moment before commanding, "Earrings."

She tilted her head slightly, and her brow furrowed in some confusion, as she removed the red stars that adorned each ear.

"They have points," he explained.

Shaking her head, she couldn't help asking, "Do you really think I would stab you with an earring?"

"I would."

"Of course you would," she muttered, then louder, "Your boots. Hera knows what you've got in there."

Another smirk crossed his face, but now she could see the amusement briefly flicker in his eyes. Glancing at his feet, she teased, "Your socks don't match."

He wouldn't be baited into looking, so she clarified, still smiling. "One's black and one's a dark blue."


She was still chuckling as her fingers undid the catches and the metal eagle fell away from the red top. "I still have my lasso, and you're out of—"

He didn't wait for her to finish. A crumpled up shirt of Kevlar and spandex was tossed to her feet just as he said simply, "Lasso."

With an eyebrow raised, she glanced at his bare chest before meeting his gaze. "What if I had said 'pants?'"

He didn't answer, instead beckoning her with a crooked finger and a small smirk. She tossed the lasso aside and charged; her lips spread in a broad smile.


Forty-three minutes later . . .

Diana grinned, despite the fact that the right side of her face was pressed hard into the mat. In fact, her face was growing a little itchy, as her sweat and body heat created a sticky friction with the vinyl.

With her legs bent at the knees and raised behind and over her, contortioned against Batman's waist and squeezing, she couldn't help but grin. Victory was nearing with each ragged gasp for air from the Dark Knight.

Both her arms were twisted and pinned to her back, and despite the deprivation of oxygen, his single-handed grip on her wrists never ceased. Why won't this man yield? She pressed back harder, bucking her hips slightly as she maneuvered for leverage. Her head came off the mat, and she winced as the new position put pressure on her lower back.

But the pain was pushed aside as she got the height she needed and locked her ankles, positioning her legs completely around his waist. She ignored the pull in her thighs and focused her energy on forcing the air from his lungs. Not the best position to use this move, but he had her pinned for over ten minutes and she refused to remain in this position.

Especially with him. That smug, arrogant . . .

"Still not a fair fight," he rasped out.

"You never said I couldn't use my strength," she growled, "Just not my super strength as long as you didn't use the Watchtower's defense system . . . again."

"I meant," he paused to draw in a quick breath of air, "Not fair to you."

She could almost hear the smirk. Her reflexes caught the abrupt movement of his free hand, which until then, had been grabbing at her legs, in a poor attempt to pry away the vice-like grip. But she was in no position to block him. In fact, with her last repositioning, she had arched her back, giving him better access to her neck.

Damn him.


The jab with his fingertips to her carotid worked as expected. A slumbering Princess lay beneath him.

But he still couldn't get up.

Acknowledging his severe underestimation of Diana's tenacity, Batman shifted his weight to one arm and reassessed. In spite of her present state, her legs were still an iron grip around his midsection. He released his hold on her wrists—those were limp as expected—and reached behind him, shoving where her ankles locked.

No. Her legs wouldn't move.

Never one to dwell on "rules" during combat, Batman glanced for a quick inventory of his uniform. He had noted, almost proudly if he dare admit, how Diana kicked it away whenever their sparring came close to the discarded utility belt. And with their last tumble, she had sent it clear across the room.

Taking a moment for a quick debate as to whether he should drag both their bodies to that corner, or perhaps try standing and carrying her with him, he soon rolled over with one arm slung around her waist.

His lips pressed tightly in a wince as the pressure was suddenly taken off his knees, replaced with pain as blood and sensation returned. The position was barely becoming a strain on his back, when her legs suddenly fell away and she flipped herself in his arms, pinning him with her body.



Diana pushed herself up, so she was straddling his belly. Her arms were stretched out, as she gripped his forearms and pushed them into the mat. Her feet were hooked behind her, on his thighs, using her strength to keep him from gaining any leverage. But Batman wasn't struggling, just scowling.

She smiled at his petulant features. "Oh your technique was fine. But Lady Shiva taught me that little trick—where to turn my neck at the last second."

When his posture relaxed, she knew she had won. Her fingers eased out of his flesh slightly, but she still kept his arms firmly pinned and waited for him to make it official. The frown stayed on his lips, his eyes narrowed. Even he would have to admit her sparring matches with three felons had a payoff.

But he stared back, his now smug features betraying nothing.

She was as patient as the next divinely graced princess of clay, but this wait was getting ridiculous. Her uniform was soaked through with sweat, and the heat radiating from his body was hardly helping. After a solid minute of staring into his indifferent eyes, she relaxed her legs, and dropped her arms to his chest, folding them and leaning close to his face.

"Well, Bruce?"

If he was capable of an innocent demeanor, his current expression was as close to it as she would ever see.

"Yield." Her face was inches from his, but he was unfazed. The close proximity grew unnerving and her impatience was making her heart pound faster. She searched his face for an answer, a clue as to why he wouldn't just admit it—she won.

She won.

Didn't she?


Her eyes shut involuntarily as her back slammed against the mat.


She couldn't believe she fell for it. Without a word he had baited her into letting down her guard. His weight was now pressing down on her abdomen, as he sat on her, his powerful arms stretched along either side of her head, keeping her wrists to the mat.

"You get Shiva, Princess," he finally conceded, albeit with a smirk. He leaned close, his breath hot against her face. "But I won this one."

She didn't want to show her discomfort by squirming and tried to reflect the same cool as he a moment earlier. "Who?"

He pulled back, his expression the Bat once more. "Croc. He shouldn't be up here—too dangerous, unpredictable."

A sigh was her only audible agreement. He was right . . . of course . . . but it frustrated her to admit it. That was careless on her part to bring Croc up to the Watchtower. Her self-berating stopped, when she realized his eyes were still on her, probably somehow completely aware of everything she had been thinking.

But where Kal would have attempted some patronizing, but forgivable, platitude about "these things" happening; Batman would not.

As she met his intense stare, a small smile curved her lips. She definitely respected the latter.

He leapt off her before she could throw him off. Soon she was on her feet as well, and she arched a dark brow.

"For Cheetah?"

"For Cheetah," he agreed.


"No fair!"

Plastic Man's head morphed into a fairly accurate rendition of Croc, as his hands became the likenesses of Shiva and Cheetah. From his seat on the middle of the table, he chastised Batman.

"Don't see you busting on Wonder Woman for having her playmates on board, Bats-N-Jammer."

Diana leaned back in her seat; her crossed legs and relaxed tone were in opposition to the intense stare she gave a teammate across the table. "We already . . . spoke."

Batman met her gaze and held it, as the rest of the League discussed Plastic Man's party and what policies should be established in the future.

After the meeting finally let out, with a sulking Plastic Man pleading with Superman out the door, the two heroes still seated continue to stare at each other.

After a moment, Batman broke the silence.

"That wasn't a complete truth, Diana."

Humor sparkled in her eyes. "How so?"

"We never reached a decision on your third 'playmate.'"

Suddenly she was once again seeing the man behind the mask. The scent of him, the feel of his skin. . . The weight of his body pressed against her, pinning her to the wall . . . her legs wrapped tightly around him once more, but with a different desperation . . . their breaths intermingling with each pant . . . his hands firm on her hips, pulling her to him--

The small change in his expression suggested he was recalling the same "match." With color in her cheeks, she nodded a quick assent.

"No. No, I don't suppose we did."

They remained where they were, still staring openly at one another. Finally, Diana licked her lips and found some words. "I think that's another . . . talk . . . worth having."

It was his turn to nod. "Twenty-two hundred hours?"

"My quarters."

He rose and soon disappeared from the room. Left alone with only her thoughts, she settled back into her seat. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to pick up where his body had left off.

And, this evening, where he would resume.
the end . . .