Wonder Woman Fan Fiction

October 2, 1946

Etta and Charlie got married at Christmas. Her whole family came up, even her uncle from Texas I'd always thought was a myth. I took Carol- -we'd been going out for about three months at that point. Charlie Niles looked like the happiest guy in the world, I remember. He just lit up when Etta's dad walked her down the aisle. General Blankenship was there too--I think Phil had always kinda of thought of Etta as a surrogate daughter, since he had never settled down. Charlie's brother Sam was best man, and one of Etta's cousins was maid of honor. But when we danced at the reception, Etta told me she still wished Diana could have stood up at her wedding. We'd had a bit of champagne, and she asked me right out if I she was crazy for thinking it, but Diana had been Wonder Woman, hadn't she? Just flat out asked me, and I didn't even try and deny it, and we just kept on dancing.

It was three of us, then, that knew. One that loved her, one that missed her, and one that had never even known her--just given her a name.

Etta's wedding was really the beginning, I think. Before, I'd just thought of Carol as a swell gal to go out with, but after, I realized I was looking forward to talking with her every night. Telling her about my day, and listening to her tell me about hers. It had been a long time since I'd had that. She was just so easy to talk to, to be with. We doubled with Matt sometimes, but most of the time, it was just us. She was a terrible cook--I remember the first time she tried to make us a candle lit dinner for two. If the Italian place down the street hadn't been open, we would have starved. I didn't care that she couldn't cook--that fact that she'd tried was enough. She went out with Phil and Etta and Charlie and I a few times, and I think Phil was impressed with her grasp of politics. I was just impressed by her, period.

But best of all, she made me laugh. I loved her for that most, I think.

October 15, 1946

I don't remember when the dreams started. I've had them, off and on, since she left. I always figured that it was my subconscious trying to tell me what I already knew. I know that sounds like head shrinker nonsense, but it's the only thing that makes sense to me. In the dream, we're surrounded by cherry trees. Except I think they might be apple trees. But the white and pink petals are the same, so I'm never sure. They're falling down all around us like snow. Her hair is loose, down--even thought I never saw her wear it that way, not once. Except I had, hadn't I? I had and I've never thought about it, but I dream about it. She's dancing in the blossoms, and she's not wearing any shoes. She's dancing barefoot, and smiling, and we're together. But then I wake up alone. And every night, I tried to hang on to the dream, go back to sleep and slip back in. But it never worked.

I don't wake up alone any longer. The first time, I remember there was a terrible storm and the rain was half frozen. I worried it would be like one of those ice storms I remembered from when I was a kid. Where you'd hear the branches snapping like gunshots under the weight of the ice. It was just miserable and bleak and Carol and I got caught out in it on our way back from some fancy shindig out in Maryland. The car just wasn't going to make it back to town. We found a bed and breakfast, and pretended we were newlyweds. It felt like it, actually. I offered to take the chair, but I think we both knew that wasn't going to happen. But it would have, if she'd wanted me to. And I would have. Because I was crazy about her. I really was.

When I woke up from the dream, it was pitch black outside--and for a minute I couldn't tell where I was. I know that most of the time, you wake up from a dream and it just slips right out of your mind. Gone, just like that. But I can still remember that night. The dream that night had been different. It had started out the same, but then it had changed. Maybe it was the storm--for some reason, I always seem to think about her more when it rains. Or maybe it was just being with Carol. But I dreamt that we'd made love. And when I woke up, it was as if I'd lost her all over again. I felt like I was going to die- -just for a second there, I really did. And then Carol rolled over, and whispered in my ear, asking me what was wrong.

People do stupid things, in the dark, in the middle of the night. I was just damned lucky. I asked her to tell me about the man she'd loved, and how'd she'd been able to go on. She was silent for a long minute--probably trying to suss out why I was asking. Then she told me about her fiancé who'd died. She and Mike--that was her fiancé's name, Mike--she and Mike had been together since they were sweet sixteen and it had just about killed her when she'd got the news his transport had crashed. I remember asking questions, and she answered them. Sometimes her voice would get rough, and I couldn't see in the dark, but I can guess that she was getting misty.

I told her about Diana. Told her just about everything, everything that I could tell her. As we lay there, side by side, only our arms and shoulders touching underneath the blanket, I told her all about realizing too late that I'd loved her. She listened to the whole story and the only thing she asked me was why I hadn't gone after her, to tell her how I'd felt. I told her the truth, then. I would have. I'd have been on a plane in a minute, except that I couldn't. Diana was gone, and she wasn't coming back, and I couldn't go after her because I didn't know where she'd gone.

I expected her to be upset, or angry, or accuse me of using her . . . It would have been fair, though not true. But fair. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but there was something about her--something that made me want to tell her everything flat out, brass tacks. But I held that one thing back, because it wasn't my secret to tell.

I know it sounds nuts. But losing the first woman I think I'd ever really loved made me realize how precious love is. I'd be a fool to throw it away again. The worst kind of fool. I loved Carol. I never would have gone to bed with her if I hadn't. I think, maybe, once it wouldn't have mattered to me. But it mattered. Whatever else that had happened, that much had changed.

October 31, 1946

We moved into the house in Maywood a few weeks ago. Carol's mother helped out--she insisted on setting up the baby's room herself. She's staying in the guestroom downstairs until the baby is born. I'm sitting in my "office", the tiny corner bedroom that faces the garden. I've got a brand new desk--a wedding present from Phil. And Carol got my medals framed and they're hanging on the wall.

We've asked Etta and Charlie to be the godparents. It was funny-- before the wedding, Etta'd always called me "Sir" but after that, it; always just been "Steve." Even though I'd always said that there was no rank around the office, I never called Private Williams "Sherry." But from then on, Etta is just Etta, and I'm just Steve. And no one else really understands the secret that was between us. I don't think Etta has even told Charlie--I don't know if I could tell Carol. I mean, I told her about Wonder Woman. Hell, she even gave me a scrapbook to put all the newspaper clippings into for my birthday. One of those big leather bound jobs, and we actually spent an afternoon puttering around the apartment with a pot of glue, putting it together. She had a million questions--who in Washington didn't? After all, Wonder Woman was fast approaching mythic status, especially now that she'd disappeared.

I think Carol wondered for a while, but she understands. I think that's part of the reason I fell in love with her. She wasn't jealous of a memory. She didn't try to pry it out of me, or eclipse it. She said once she understood that it was a part of me, and how could she not love every part of me? How could I not a love a woman who said something like that and meant it? Really meant it--not just saying it. That's Carol. She's bold as brass, and says just what she means, and I wouldn't have her any other way. I really wouldn't.

November 19, 1946

It just seems amazing to me that Carol and I could create anything so amazing as this little pink, wrinkled guy we've named Steven Leonard Trevor, Jr. Actually, that was my fault. I was so distracted when I filled out the paperwork, I put my name in the wrong blank. I'm sure Mrs. Nelson thinks I did it on purpose--Carol's playing peacemaker now. The delivery was hard--for a while there, I was afraid I'd lose them both, and that scared the hell out of me.

My God, he's perfect, from the tiny fingernails to the wisps of blond hair on top his head. His eyes are blue, like his mother's--though the Doctor said they might change. He said all babies eyes are blue. I'd never known that before. I get the feeling that this little guy's going to teach me a heck of a lot of stuff I didn't know before.

I've lost so many things. But I've gained so much. I hope that wherever Diana is, she understands. I think she would. I think that's maybe part of why she left--but I guess I'll never know for sure. But I wish I could share my happiness with her, let her know how profound an impact knowing her has had on my life. I think that's maybe why Etta suggested I start this thing in the first place. To get it all down on paper, and straight in my own head. Because this way I can let go of the sorrows, and only keep the joy.

The phone rang, waking her out of a sound sleep. She fumbled in the dark until her hand closed on the receiver and raised it to her ear.

"Why did she leave?" the voice on the other end asked, and Etta rubbed sleep from her eyes and peered at the clock radio. The LED display read 1:17am.

Steve glanced at the scribbled directions as he turned the rental car onto the tree-lined street. It had taken him longer than he'd expected to get to Sherman Oaks, even on a Saturday with next to no traffic. He hadn't had to deal with the LA freeways in a long time, and he'd forgotten how hard it could be to find his way out of the airport.

He'd called the field office only to learn that she'd left the IADC six months earlier to take a job with Interpol. That surprised him— none of his friends at Interpol had ever let on his former associate was now one of their top field agents. He supposed she must work undercover a great deal. He also wondered if IRAC had had a hand in it—the Cray handled all the personnel records, and he realized with a start that she must have tampered with the computer to falsify her records. It wasn't as easy in this day and age to get a government job when you were nothing but an elaborate fiction.

He tried to bury his anger, but it had accompanied him all through the long flight. He wasn't sure who he was really angry with.: Diana, for lying to both of them, himself for letting her go, or his father for loving any woman other than his mother. He figured it was probably all three. But that didn't change the way he felt. He pulled up to a parking spot, and killed the engine, staring at the ranch house across the street. The blinds were drawn, so he couldn't tell if she was inside. He supposed the only way to find out was to get out of the car and ring the bell.

The journal sat on the passenger seat. He picked it up, not sure why he was taking it with him. He'd stayed up half the night, reading and rereading the handwritten entries, trying to understand. Trying to put himself in his dad's shoes, and imagine what he would have done. If he'd have done anything different.

It always startled him, when he saw a photo of his dad from back then. How much he took after him. It was as if there was no trace of his mother in him—although his dad has always said he got his temperament from her, that and he'd inherited her strength. Even at the end, when he was in the hospital, his father had told him with tears in his eyes that the best part of him had come alive when he'd met his mother, and would live on in him.

Diana Prince had spent three years by his side, just as she'd spent two years by his, looking out for him, saving his life countless times. Did she see his father when she looked at him? Did she really see him at all? For that matter, had he ever really seen her? He was just as bad as his dad had been—blind, and stupid. Stupid and careless and they'd both lost her, in the end. But if Major General Steve Trevor hadn't, then Steve Trevor Jr. wouldn't be here today.

He got out of the car, journal in hand, and jogged across the shady street to the front door. The house was small and comfortable, with a Spanish tile roof, and a compact car sat in the driveway, a straw sun hat sitting on the dash. He could have called ahead. He probably should have. But he didn't know what to say, so instead, he'd just gone on instinct. Flying by the seat of his pants, as his dad would say. He pressed the bell, and heard an answering buzzer inside. He waited, finger poised to press it again, when he heard footsteps and the door swung inwards.

Her light eyes widened when she saw him. She wasn't wearing her glasses—truth was, she hadn't worn them much back in Washington, either. But her dark hair was loose and fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She was wearing slacks and a blouse that looked like it might have been silk, and she looked all of maybe twenty four years old.

She recovered first, smiling broadly and opening the door she drew him into a hug. "It's good to see you! I wasn't expecting—"

"Did you love him?" he blurted out, and when she drew back she looked puzzled and confused. He fumbled with the journal, and drew out the picture, which he handed to her and asked her again, "Did you love my father?"

Time ground to a halt. As they stood in the entryway of her house, sounds of birds and cars and neighborhood kids filtering in through the open door, she stared at the photo, her lips parted in surprise and unshed tears shining in her eyes.

"Steve, I—" she began and then stopped again, wiping at one eye impatiently. "Yes," she said. "I loved him."

There. It was said. Time started up again, and he stepped the rest of the way inside and closed the door. She stared down at the photo and then handed it back to him.

She went to the hall closet. Reaching up on tip-toe, she took down a biscuit tin from the back of the shelf. Steve blinked. It wasn't the same as the one his father had had, but he was struck by a similar feeling of d�j� vu as he followed her to the couch and sat down beside her as she removed the lid. Nestled inside were letters and newspaper clippings, and she reached beneath them and took out a photo in a simple silver frame. Behind the glass, his father smiled, his arm around her, with Etta on the other side.

"Etta gave this to me," she said softly. "It was her copy. Charlie— her husband Charlie, though they weren't married then. Not yet— Charlie got three copies made, she told me. One for Steve, one for her, and one for me. This was her copy. She said she didn't know what had happened to the other two."

Steve opened up the journal, and took out the creased and faded photo and an envelope stuff with cardboard liner. The address on the front was in Akron Ohio, and the phrase "Return to Sender" was scribbled across it in red pen. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a photograph. He handed it to her, and he saw her hands were shaking as she unwrapped it and held it side by side with his father's worn copy.

"It's Dad's," he said, handing her the journal. "I didn't even know about it until yesterday. I think . . . " he took a deep breath, "I think he'd want you to read it. I think I want you to read it. To know . . . To know how he felt. To understand. And then, maybe, I dunno . . . we could talk? About him?"

"I'd like that," she said, and reached out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. "I'd like that very much."

Author's Note: Please, if there's anything that doesn't work for you, or is factually or grammatically incorrect, don't hesitate to tell me! Constructive criticism is the greatest gift you can give an author. I'm not a delicate flower who will curl up and die at the first sign of criticism. I want to make this story the very best I can, so please let me know what works for you, and more importantly, what doesn't.