Diana tucked the hotel blanket closer around Drusilla, brushing her little sister's hair back to press a kiss to her forehead before she closed the door to the adjoining room. "She's out like a light," Diana said with a smile as she sat down next to her mother on the hotel suite's sofa.

After dessert, they had had coffee and drinks in the hotel bar, while the General had arranged for a suite for Hippolyte and her youngest daughter. Etta and Charlie had left to go dancing—while the night was still young—and Diana had accompanied her mother and sister upstairs to the handsomely appointed suite. Despite a grown up cup of coffee (with rather a lot of milk and sugar), Drusilla's eyes hadn't stayed open more than a minute, and she'd fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

"It has been a very long, and eventful day for us both," Hippolyte said as she removed her hat, setting the hatpins side by side on the low coffee table. She slipped off her shoes, and absently massaged the arch of one foot. "I don't know how you can abide these shoes. They seem nothing more than instruments of torture!"

"I'm so glad you came," Diana said, tears springing to her eyes, and she impulsively hugged her mother. The emotional roller coaster of the days events were finally wearing her out.

"I am pleased to see you as well, my dear," she said as she patted her daughter's shoulder affectionately. Then she pulled back, a stern expression on her timelessly beautiful features. "However, I must tell you, it disturbs me to see how accomplished you have become at deception, my daughter. You lie to your Major Trevor with the ease of long time practice."

Diana flushed, but raised her chin a fraction, feeling the need to defend herself. "It's important for me to maintain the secret of my identity, Mother. By working in the War Department, I can know exactly where I am needed the most," she tried to explain, hoping that her mother could understand how different this world was from the paradise of her homeland. "It's what the Americans call 'a little white lie.' A lie told not to harm, but to help."

Hippolyte was not to be moved. "A lie is a lie, daughter. No matter what excuses these Americans might make."

Ashamed, she stared at her folded hands on her lap just as she had when she was a girl and her mother was cross with her. She couldn't bear the Queen's disappointment. "I know, Mother. And if I could tell Steve the truth, I would."

"Because you are, what did Ms. Candy say? Awfully sweet on him?" Hippolyte asked, all innocence, and Diana flushed again.

"Mother, regardless of my... feelings for Major Trevor," she could feel her cheeks flaming, but continued on, steadfast and sincere, "I would never betray the secret of Paradise Island. Never."

"I believe you believe that, daughter. But love is a very powerful emotion. It can warp even the most earnest of intentions." Hippolyte's expression went slightly blank, as if she were suddenly very far away. Or perhaps, remembering something from very, very long ago. Then she snapped out of it, and smiled again at her eldest daughter. "But it is late, and you are tired. Go home, daughter. Sleep well, and dream of home."

"Yes, Mother." She leaned over and gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek before she collected her purse. She glanced at her wristwatch as the elevator doors closed—it was almost eleven. She had to be up and at work in the morning at 0700, if she was going to get in as much work as she could before she—that is, before Wonder Woman had to be at the White House for the citation.

She'd never had much use for medals—the three she had been awarded thus far were tucked away in a tin in the back of her closet—but she knew that ceremonies like tomorrow's were as important to morale as the bond rallies she periodically participated in. It seemed almost surreal that the war was ending. She had never been in America before the War, and wasn't sure what it would be like once the Nazis and their allies had been defeated. Would she still be able to work at the War Department? After all, the E in WAVES stood for "Emergency", and once the war was over, General Blankenship might expect her to go back to civilian life... Not that she had ever actually had a civilian life.

The idea of it troubled her. What she had told her mother was the truth—Military Intelligence was the perfect place for Wonder Woman to be. But the fact of the matter was, she was reluctant to imagine a time would come where she wouldn't see Major Steve Trevor every day. As torturous as it was to be so close to the one you love, and not have those feelings reciprocated, at least she was close to him. And perhaps, someday... she let that thought trail off, only to have it return full force as the elevator doors slid open on the lobby.

Perhaps someday those feelings would be reciprocated. That tiny spark of hope was what kept her going, she realized with no small amount of chagrin. Not particularly Amazonian, but wasn't part of a woman's strength her immense capacity to love?

It had been a very long day indeed, she sighed as she pulled her coat check stub out of her purse and stepped up to the lighted window to give the scrap of colored paper to the young girl on the other side. A hand tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, surprised to find Major Trevor at her elbow.

"Steve! I thought you were going dancing with Etta and Charlie!" she exclaimed, accepting the heavy blue serge uniform coat from the check girl.

"And leave you stranded? Now, what kind of gentleman would that make me?" he asked as he helped her into her coat, and before she could tip the girl a penny, Steve had handed her a shiny new nickel.

"You didn't have to stay. I was just going to take a taxi back to my apartment."

"Hacks in this town are made of sugar—they melt when it rains. And I was your ride, remember?"

"It's raining?"

"A little—" he said as he offered her his arm. "You know what they say, April showers bring May flowers."

"They say that?" she asked, delighted.

"They do, indeed."

The rain, which had started as a drizzle, was coming down in sheets by the time they got into the car and pulled away from the curb and into the light late-night traffic. Diana wiped at her glasses—which had misted up as soon as they'd stepped outside—with a handkerchief ineffectually, and then sighed.

"You know, it would probably work better if you took them off," Steve suggested.

"Then I wouldn't be able to see to put them back on," she laughed.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

"I had a wonderful time."

As Steve navigated the slick streets, he remembered his very first impression of Diana.

A sweet smile in a pale face, quite tall for a girl, and a bit on the thin side. She hadn't even been wearing lipstick, and her eyes were completely hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. He had been joking with the general, saying he'd "had it up to here with pretty girls" and the General had said his new secretary was no danger, being dull and uninteresting. But he'd been wrong—Diana may not be Betty Grable, but she was definitely a lovely girl.

"Diana, about what I said earlier..." he began, keeping his eyes on the road so he wouldn't lose his nerve. "I just wanted you to know that I meant it. You mean the world to me, and I hate to think that I treated you like... well, that I showed you any disrespect."

The smile she gave him was a little wavery, and he reached out and gave her hand a squeeze as he pulled the big Studebaker Champion up to the curb in front of her three story walk-up. The only sounds in the car were the scrape and squeak of the windshield wipers as they flipped back and forth, the street ahead going from hazy and dreamlike to sharp and clear with each pass.

"I understand, Steve," she said slowly, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "You mean the world to me, too."

She opened her door and dashed out into the night. He realized, with an unexpected pang of regret, that he had wanted to kiss her good-night.

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.