maculategiraffe

Title: A Matter For the Goddess, OR, Babysitter of Themyscira!
Fandom: JLA/Teen Titans
Summary: Alternate universe. After the events of Infinite Crisis, Wonder Woman took Wonder Girl (Cassie Sandsmark) back to Themyscira to recover from the Crisis and from the death of Superboy (Conner Kent). Four years later, Cassie has built a life for herself on Themyscira. When Diana, still acting as Wonder Woman, brings back a homeless waif to Cassie's adopted home, Cassie is furious, until drastic action by Queen Hippolyta forces her into a closer understanding of her visitor's demons.
Rating: R for language and concepts.

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

"Cassie?" he said softly, as I came towards the table with a pan full of eggs that were only a little burned. I really was trying. He was so damn skinny. Unfortunately, for me, trying is usually a mistake. I only ever seem to produce decent meals by accident. I did make Conner some really good eggs one time, but I was so tired and worried at the time that I can never remember what I actually did, although I gladly took credit at the time for knowing how to cook.

"What?" I said distractedly, trying to chop off the blacker parts with the spatula before I served Ian. I made a mental note to get one of the neighbors to contribute something filling for the poor starving male. Too bad he couldn't order me to be a better cook-- though I wasn't sure if that was, as Hippolyta had said, well within the capacity of my normal brain.

Ian looked up at me, ignoring the mostly-yellow mess I was shoveling onto his plate. His eyes didn't look like he'd slept much, his impromptu nap just now aside. "I was thinking. This spell thing. Maybe I can learn to– fight it."

"Oh, Ian." I dumped the rest of the eggs, black bits included, onto my own plate, and turned to put the pan to soak, feeling like shit. I didn't know what to say. Not after the way he'd dropped at the word sleep.

I had a strange, fleeting urge to take him in my arms and hug him again, but random cuddles from relative strangers were probably low on his list of comforting phenomena, at least when he was just depressed and not actually writhing in pain from sadistic spell backlash.

"It's just–" he was saying. "Cassie, what if you lose your temper with me? I mean, not just telling me to sleep-- but you could tell me to–" He swallowed. "Maybe you wouldn't mean to hurt me, but wouldn't it be better for us both if I could at least... delay, until you could realize and... and let me off?"

He was begging, and it made me feel sick. And even if I didn't think he could learn to fight the spell-- he had to understand the order to obey it. Maybe if we just got to know each other better. If he understood that I didn't-- well, that I didn't always mean things the way they sounded.

"I-- okay," I said hesitantly, sitting down at the table across from him. I tried to think of an innocuous command. "Run your fingers through your hair."

He reached up immediately and sifted his fingers through his fine black hair. He must have washed it with my shampoo. I could smell it, faintly, almonds mixed with boy.

"See," I said.

He grimaced. "Too easy. It's got to be something I wouldn't do otherwise, or I won't be able to..."

"What then? Tell me what to tell you."

"Tell me to kneel," he suggested. "Like before."

"Kneel," I said, and he slid to his knees in front of me. Much more gracefully than he had in the Amazons' hall. He looked up at me, his green eyes bright and alert under heavy lids.

"Kiss my feet," I blurted, and he bowed down and did it, pressed warm soft lips to one foot and then the other between the straps of my sandals, then glanced up at me, raising an eyebrow. I was a little wide-eyed myself. Where had that come from? And why– given that I had never believed myself to be a sick freak– was I so turned on?

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, pulling my feet back slightly. "It's just, you said to tell you to do things you wouldn't otherwise–"

"Who says I wouldn't?" he said softly, and did it again.

"Hey," I whispered.

"You have nice feet, Cassie," he said, and kissed my toes, with a little tongue this time. I couldn't believed how good it felt. "Nice shoes. Very classical."

"Ian," I said weakly. "Don't feel like you–"

"Don't tell me how to feel!" he said sharply.

"Sorry!" I covered my mouth briefly, hating myself. "Sorry. I mean, I hope you don't feel like you– uh– have to do this."

"There's not much I don't have to do for you if you want it, Cassie," he said matter-of-factly. "I'd kill myself if you told me to."

"Um," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "that's not--"

"True?" said Ian, looking up at me with those eyes, half seductive, half dead. "You think I really believe I can fight this? I'm not a fighter. I do as I'm told. When I can't fucking stand it any more, I run away. And here I can't even do that."

"You got off smack," I said quietly, meeting that awful, free-fall stare. "You won that fight. So I'm guessing you're a hell of a fighter, actually. But you don't have to fight me, Ian."

"I'm not fighting," he said. "I'm too fucking tired. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything you like," he said. "Anything you want. Tell me and I will."

"I know you will, I– oh–"

"Tell me to stop," he said softly, between kisses to my insteps. "If you want me to stop."

"Stop!" I said breathlessly, and he pulled away, looking more miserable than ever. "Ian, listen. Not that you're not extremely attractive, okay– but I don't want this. Not like this. Not when you're only doing it because– well, because you're tired. I get it, you're– manipulating me, to try to get me on your side. You don't have to. I'm already on your side. I swear."

He examined me thoughtfully, sitting back on his heels, but still on his knees.

"Why?" he asked. "Why are you on my side?"

I shrugged. "Because I'm not evil?"

He shook his head, still staring at me. "I really thought you'd– You've been all over me, hugging me and petting me, and dragging me all up in your lap--"

"What? For fuck's sake–- you asked me-–!"

He cringed from my anger. I'd been hot with embarrassment and annoyance, but his fear was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. "Sorry. I'm sorry I yelled. But you did-- you said me holding you made it better. And this morning, you would have fallen if I hadn't caught you."

"I know," he said quietly, looking at the floor. "I guess I just– I didn't think you were doing it just to be nice. I mean, I didn't know you were. And I thought– last night–"

"What?" I asked when he hesitated.

He swallowed. "Don't be mad."

"I might get mad, but I won't tell you to get me a left-handed monkey wrench. What?"

He didn't smile. "I thought– when you told me to take the bed– I thought you'd, um. Be joining me."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I'm a fucking whore," he said, his eyes bright again, but not with happiness, "and you know it, and people don't put whores in their beds and just-- sleep on the floor. You told me to get cleaned up and all. I thought you wanted me. I don't know why else you've been acting so– protective."

"Maybe because I want to fucking protect you," I snapped without thinking, and he gave me such a strange look that I started to babble. "Ian, I'm not– look, decent people don't act like that, okay? Decent people do give their guests their bed. Just because I tell you you can take a shower doesn't mean--" I shook my head. Ian was watching me, still on his knees. "Do you mind getting up from there?"

He stared up at me for a minute before he said, "I can't. Unless you tell me. You told me to kneel."

"Oh." I suddenly wanted to put my head between my own knees. The first hour after I wake up on Themyscira usually doesn't involve anything more upsetting than eating my own cooking; I wasn't used to this kind of strain. "Move-- move freely."

"Thanks, Cassie," he said quietly, getting to his feet and moving back to his chair.

"Thanks?" I said incredulously. "For what? For not keeping you on your knees all day? For not raping you?"

"Basically," Ian said, with a pale ghost of a smile. "And for-- for being so nice to me. I know you didn't want me staying here in the first place, and if you don't want– my– my services– I don't know why you're being so nice. But, well, thanks."

"It's-- no problem," I said, viciously suppressing another random but ridiculously strong urge to take him in my arms and stroke his hair comfortingly. "Um, look, I have to go to work. Do you want to-- come with me?"

"Don't I have to?" he asked. "You're not supposed to leave me alone, are you?"

"I guess not." I hadn't really been thinking about that. "Anthea'll be there, though, the girl who wants to see you naked."

"That's okay," he said. "I mean, not being naked, but I assume you're still not going to make me do that. I don't mind seeing her. She's just a kid."

I smiled. "Well, yeah." I was sort of impressed that he'd registered that-- most men, when confronted by a muscular six-foot Amazon female demanding in Greek to see him stripped naked, probably wouldn't have noticed how young she was. "She can get really annoying, though. And I can't order her to shut up, unfortunately. I mean, I can, but she so won't."

"Well, it's not like I'll understand her," he said resignedly. "And you can always lie in translation. Like if she asks how much you're charging per grope of my junk, you can tell me she asked for my phone number and if she could take me out for a root beer float."

It wasn't much of a joke, but at least he was making the attempt.

"You could use a root beer float," I said. "I'm sorry about my shitty cooking, Ian. I'm going to get the neighbors to contribute some seriously fattening meals for the rest of the week."

"Oh, thank God," he said. "I didn't want to say anything in case you told me to piss off and die."

That was even less funny, considering, but I tried to smile.

"Well, bring-- you should probably bring a book," I said, getting up from the table. "To the studio."

"The male can read?" was the first thing Anthea demanded when she bounced in.

"No, Anthea," I said, putting a once-fired casserole dish down in front of her on the glazing table, "the penis makes you illiterate."

"What's a penis?" she asked. "Is that the male sex organ? Why is he pretending to read?"

"Anthea, for heaven's sake, men can read." Ian had looked up from his book-- Somerset Maugham, The Razor's Edge. "Sorry, Ian. Get to work, Anthea."

She did, but she kept staring at Ian, who fidgeted with his book, trying not to stare back at her.

"What's Greek for 'take a picture, it'll last longer'?" he asked me finally, without looking up.

I cackled.

"Anthea, he wants you to put your eyes back in your head, please," I told her. "Ian, I can't really kick her out, but if she's bugging you, I'll take you home. I don't have to be here. I'll take a week's vacation. We can hang out, I'll show you around."

"I don't want to take you away from your job," he said, looking up with a smile that said he appreciated me offering, anyway. "I'm fine. She'll get tired of staring at me eventually. Or so I would assume."

"You'd think." I felt bad, though; it was obviously hard for him to concentrate on his book. "Hey-- you want to try? Making something, I mean?"

He looked intrigued. "Can I?"

"Sure. Here, I'll get you some clay." I showed him how to dip his hands in the slip, got him kicking rhythmically at the wheel-- he had a good sense of rhythm-- and put his hands on the clay. They were-- definitely boy hands. It's hard to explain the difference, but it's not just about size; Anthea's hands are twice the size of mine, but they're just big-girl hands, Amazon hands, not boy hands.

"It's just about getting a feel for the clay," I said as the clay slid under my fingers, between his fingers. "Just touch it for a while, feel how it moves– before--" I took my hands away, a little breathless, for absolutely no good reason I could think of.

"I am not allowed even to look," said Anthea sulkily, "but you are allowed to touch?"

"Shut your mouth," I said without looking at her.

Ian's hands had started shaking. The clay went wild.

"Relax," I said softly, peeling the clay off the wheel and dumping it into the slip bucket, and he calmed immediately, looking back at me with a strange expression. "Oops, sorry. Didn't mean to make that a command."

"It's okay," he said. "Can I try again?"

His hands stayed steady this time.

"Good," I said, watching. "Use your– I mean, you can use your thumbs, to– shape it– yeah, you were watching me, weren't you? Hey, you're pretty good at this. You haven't done this before?"

"No." He kept his gaze on the wheel. "Cassie? Can you-- tell me to relax, again?"

"Relax," I said, curiously, and he got a tiny smile on his face as he kept kicking. He pushed too hard, though, and fucked up the clay again; I went and got him some more. Small price to pay for the fact that he actually seemed to be enjoying himself, even if Anthea was still looking daggers.

"Do you think I could learn to make something?" he asked, concentrating on shaping the wall of his creation as he kicked steadily at the wheel. "Something to take home with me, when I go?"

My heart gave a bit of a lurch.

"You think a week is long enough?" he went on, without looking at me. "Maybe a cup. You could help me. With the handle."

"Handles aren't hard," I said. "I'll show you if you want... Ian?"

He looked up quickly, taking his hands off the clay.

"You–" I swallowed. "Do you want to leave here? Do you want to go back to America?"

"Not like I have a choice, Cassie," he said, looking back down at the wheel and putting his hands on it carefully. "Your goddess won't want me here any more than any of the rest of you do."

He sounded so lost that I had to say, "I don't mind having you here."

He smiled again, a little. "I think I pretty well fucked up your morning, Cassie."

"No you didn't," I said, and it was true; the weirdness had been my fault and Hippolyta's, not his. "And anyway-- I like the Amazons, but it's nice to have someone sort of– normal– around. And you're smart-- and a smartass. Fun." And decorative. I shrugged uncomfortably. "I guess I'm being selfish. This must all be a real head trip for you."

"Yeah," he said quietly, ruining the clay in front of him again. I reached down to peel and dump, the increasingly familiar urge to stroke him and hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay not even phased by the fact that my hands were slimy with mud. I twisted off another hunk of clay and slammed it down on the wheel in front of him, making him jump.

"My turn," I said briskly, and he got up obediently. I dipped my hands and started kicking the wheel, relaxing into the soothing, familiar sensation of clay taking shape under my hands. "Let me make you something, Ian. A souvenir of Themyscira. What do you want? A cup? A casserole dish? A vase to bash in Rob's skull if he comes looking for you?"

He laughed. "I think Rob's skull is harder than your stuff."

"You'd be surprised," I said, and the vase started to take shape under my hands. "Fire this baby twice, with a good thick glaze, there aren't many skulls it wouldn't crack."

"If you were swinging it, maybe," said Ian, looking at his feet. "That I'd believe."

I raised an eyebrow. "You might not have noticed, but I'm kind of a midget."

"So you'd stand on a chair," he said, looking up at me with another tiny grin. "Or-- didn't you say something about a lasso?"

I grinned back and started to answer, and then concentrated instead on the vase, making the clay walls thick, the base fat and sharp-edged, the stem ridged and easy to grasp. Out of the corner of my eye, Ian sat back down, still watching me.

Anthea's voice echoed in my head: What will he do among the Amazons?

What will he do, I thought in Greek, in the world of men?