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It starts with a touch.
A soft, warm palm against the curve of her cheek, while Matilda unlocks the psychic blocker (saw trap) around her head. To keep her still, as if her seagreen gaze isn’t doing that just fine.
It lasts less than a minute.
One minute, while the lights around them flash red-blue-red-blue and Im- Matilda’s eyes flash along, seaglass-smooth to pinewood-deep.
One minute - less even and then her fingers slide away and the contraption with them, immediately followed by a tidal wave of power so strong it drowns out any potential sense of loss.
Psi lets out an involuntary gasp ah the rush. Of power, of freedom, of being her whole damn self again,
“See?” She drawls, tongue heavy with the taste of being complete, raising her head to be captured by seadeep green once more.
“Don’t be afraid, Matilda.”
But Matilda (Imra) does not look afraid, does not look anything Psi has the words for - and isn’t that something? - except directly at her.
And neither, strangely enough, is Psi. Despite being well aware of what it means to go up against Reign, of what it may entail.
And yet -
Somewhere Supergirl and her sparky companion are still fighting for their lives and here the alarms are still blaring as the lights continue to flash and Matilda (Imra Imra Imra) is still looking at her.
And the absence of her touch burns like an open wound.
So Psi tears her eyes away and steps past her, heading for potential death with her head held high.
It was just a touch.
*
(Psi lives, which is what matters.
So do Supergirl and Matilda which is all good and well.
Livewire -
Psi lives, which is what matters.)
*
And it was just a touch.
Except.
Except Psi made the fears of others her sword and shield and she wielded them well. Believed herself untouchable, undefeatable until Supergirl went and, well, defeated her.
Untouchable though, untouchable she has been for far longer and remained so even after her defeat.
When you made your reputation by dragging forth your opponents worst nightmares and then trapping them within, that rarely led to people approaching you with open arms.
Even with her powers disabled by that bothersome device the impavid agents of the D.E.O. are hesitant to near her, preferring pointed guns and equally pointed frowns over physical manhandling.
Not that Psi minds.
On the contrary, she likes her space, could appreciate how easily it is granted her here.
She always has.
Except.
Except Matilda (Imra Imra Imra) - except she had not been afraid.
Had not hesitated half as long as she reasonably should have, knowing what she did - what she experienced - of Psi and her powers.
Had instead placed a soft warm palm on her cheek and held it there.
It was just a touch.
Except no one has touched Psi this gently in a long, long time.
Except there is nothing just about it.
*
That night, once she was back in her cell - her old cell, because Supergirl’s orders or not, the D.E.O. liked to at least pretend to be a functioning government agency, which meant that no change came about without mountains of paperwork and subsequent processing time - Psi dreamt.
In her dream she was back on the Legion ship, flashing lights and all, with Imra standing across from her, springleaf eyes as intently focused on her as they had been earlier that same day.
But unlike before there was no undercurrent of dread thrumming in her veins, no urgency leading Imra’s hand when she once again raised it to rest against Psi’s cheek.
There was also no crown of metal pressing down on her head, no force to lock her power inside her skull like water behind a dam longing to break.
Which left Imra’s palm against her skin without purpose, simply resting there, warm and gentle.
Then her other hand rose to join it, fingers softly brushing her other cheek before moving on to curl around her neck.
Psi could feel her breath catch.
Could hear it past the rush of blood in her ears.
Could see Imra’s eyes (deep dark green - up from the jet-backed, Mirror of water, And while the air’s clear-!¹) track the faintest tremble of her lips.
And then all thought left her - all though but Imra Imra Imra - as the woman in question began to pull her closer, dark, dark eyes still fixed on her mouth, her intent perfectly clear.
Psi was powerless to do anything but bow to it.
And then she woke up.
Breathless and sweaty and with her heart thundering like she had just run a marathon.
From a dream even the most uptight of puritans could have labeled slightly suggestive at most, if not perfectly innocent.
Like some hormonal teenage boy.
Fuck.
Not that she was complaining about the lack of explicit imagery.
A D.E.O. holding cell would be low on anyone's list of ‘Favorite spots to have a wet dream at’, she’d imagine.
It definitely did not feature on hers.
With one more shuddering exhale Psi shoved that thought as well as any other related to it (and soft, warm skin and plushpink lips and seadeep eyes) out of her head.
It wasn’t like she would ever see her again.
(‘Not ever’ turned out to be ‘next tuesday’ but how was Psi supposed to know that? She wasn’t that kind of psychic.)
*
The next morning after the (ever delightful) guards have escorted her back to her cell from the showers (the ones at the other end of the building, with hard installed psychic suppressors because of course they had shit like that just in case) she finds that someone left a small stack of books on her cot.
The cover of the top reads ‘Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book’ in sprawling font.
Further inspection reveals more children’s literature - Kippling’s Jungle Book, Wind in the Willows,The Little Prince and the Neverending Story. The thickest tome, odd one out and sitting at the bottom of the stack was a collection of poems by William Blake.
No note to tell her whom to thank (read: offer a curt nod of reluctant gratitude to) or any other indication of their origin.
How curious.
If the focus on children’s classics is meant to be taken as a slight, the it missed its mark.
Psi can appreciate a classic, always could.
And these days she can appreciate anything offering to distract her from the monotone existence of a caged bird.
Even the newest issue of CatCo Magazine. Maybe.
*
Two days later Psi and her few possessions are relocated to a new cell.
It looks much the same as her previous one, safe for a window above the cot providing sparse sunlight during the morning hours, as well as the exhilarating view of a seedy back alley (Which should not come as a surprise, what would a secret government agency be without at least one shadowy backstreet?).
Still, an improvement is an improvement and so Psi allows herself a moment of disgruntled appreciation for National Cities spandexed Savior.
(At least there is some natural light and a couple of swallows nesting under a window sill across the street to keep her company.)
And then it’s tuesday.
Psi has neither dreamt of nor otherwise come across Imra again and if Reign is taking the fight to the D.E.O. she is kind enough to leave her out of it.
(So, really, she is overdue for some kind of mishap.)
She is leafing through the copy of Blake, enjoying the drops of sunlight falling onto her back while she gets stuck on random phrases (-As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal-²) when the sound of a knock against the glass front of her cell draws her attention off the page. As was likely the intent behind the noise.
She turns her head and is promptly drowning in woodpond green.
“Hello”, Imra says.
Her expression is neutral, yet at the same time she exudes an air of amusement so palpable it almost has the effect of a smile.
“Matilda”, Psi greets her, carefully closing the book. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Not going to raid another fortress, are we?”
Imra simply tilts her head, regarding Psi - and somehow awakening in her an uncharacteristic, barely suppressible urge to fidget - before offering a shrug in response.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing. How you like the fresh view.”
Psi forces herself to sneer. “Come to gape at the beast in its cage, is it, little sparrow?”
But her visitor only huffs out half a laugh. “I don’t think you pass for a beast. A bit feral maybe, but not a beast.”
And Psi would like to seethe at that, to snap her teeth and show just how much of a monster she can be when pushed.
But Imra isn’t pushing, is only standing there, looking heroically earnest and bleeding-heart-honestly curious and almost - amusedly - fond.
And suddenly her usual bite is hard to come by.
What would she do anyway, with this thing still on her head and a wall of reinforced glass between them?
So she swallows down the mess of defensive vitriol clawing up her throat and acquiesces to blink first.
“I’m fine, Matilda, and the view-” She allows herself a crooked grin while holding the brunette's gaze, a miniscule victory. “- is exquisite.”
With that she puts the book aside and rises to move right in front of her guest, both in hopes of regaining some footing in this - what? Game? Test? Social call? - and to be able to better examine the glint the comment had sparked in her eyes.
“Now, was there something else you wanted?”
Imra gives her nothing but the soft steel of her gaze, entirely indecipherable.
She should be afraid - had been afraid, not long ago, in the fort, on the ship.
So where did that go?
What was this look in her eyes now, this -
‘Don’t be afraid, Matilda.
With no warning whatsoever she asks: “Do you like the books?”
Psi blankes.
(Oh shit)
“I - what?”, she eventually says, ever the picture of eloquence.
“The books.” Imra repeats as though Psi might not have heard her standing where she is, a whole foot away.
And then the conversation takes a turn for the weird. Weirder. Whatever.
Because Imra starts to ramble.
“The books I - we left for you? Are they alright? I mean, do you like them? Because nobody could tell me what you might, you know, like but then Kara suggested poetry or rhymes because she recalled you quoting nursery rhymes a lot? Like the one about a blackbird, back on the ship, at Fort Rozz?”
‘Sing A Song Of Sixpence’, Psi’s mind provides immediately - since it could not be bothered to do something useful right now - and her eyes flit over to the booklet containing said rhyme.
It is being about as helpful as her brain, however. That is, not at all.
So she can do nothing but stare in confusion as Imra goes on.
“Brainy helped me look it up and find the book it came from as well as some other - classics, I guess? And Alex said you might like William Blake. Well - her exact words were ‘she will love the fire and brimstone bullshit’, which - uh - “
She’s nervous, Psi realizes.
She is rambling, her strange (endearing) accent thicker than usual, and wringing her hands and - god forbid -blushing a little because this is what makes her nervous?!
Not standing in front of the creature that, less than a week ago, rifled through her subconscious like a sock drawer, plucked out the darkest, most painful of her fears and used them to choke the breath from her lungs.
No, it is the belief that said creature might not enjoy the gift she brought that has her tripping over her own tongue.
What the fuck.
And, fuck, she is still talking.
And Psi is still gaping at her like an idiot.
“Im- Matilda!” She finally manages.
The woman snaps her mouth shut at once, grateful to be interrupted.
Unfortunately, this also puts all her attention back on Psi.
“I like them.” She has to force the words past a sudden lump in her throat. “They’re (wonderful, amazing, perfect, more than I could ever deserve-) great. The books are great.
And then - because apparently the world is ending, no worldkillers required, you’re welcome, Reign - she adds a quiet “Thank you.”
The smile blossoming on Imra’s face upon hearing it almost makes the impending apocalypse worth it. Almost.
She looks relaxed now. well back in her comfort zone and glowing with it.
“Good.” She says. “I’m glad.”
Psi can only nod mechanically, unsettled and way out of her depth.
Imra getting over her fear she can understand.
Her attack on Fort Rozz had been uncoordinated, unintentional, sloppy - and thus weak, easier to get through than what she usually doled out.
She had not even taken in the images it had flashed through her mind.
And now, with her powers locked away and a wall between them, she doesn’t exactly present a threat to be feared, loathe as she was to admit it.
Yet the Girl of Steel herself still grows tense when she has to approach Psi for any reason, body clearly recalling the terror her mind had eventually found a way to push past.
And most of the D.E.O. staff follows her lead, handling her with varying degrees of fear and distaste (Save for the rare, bothersome exception).
So why doesn’t Imra? What makes her different?
Makes her want to treat Psi with - what? Kindness? Mercy? Genuine human (Ha!) interest?
And how is Psi supposed to handle that?
Imra gives her nothing, only continuing to watch her.
Contemplate her and gently so.
Always so gentle with her.
And no hint as to why.
“My name is Imra. You know that, right?”
Psi hmms distractedly.
“But you never use it.”
Another humm.
“Will you tell me yours?”
And here it is, no such thing as ‘no ulterior motive’. Thank god.
“You’ve heard it, I’m sure.”
“I have heard people call you Psi but that isn’t your name, is it?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
mra heaves a sigh, rolling her seaglass eyes. (But still smiling.)
There is something disconcertingly fond about it.
“Alright then, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
Followed by a gentle (why why why?) - “I have to go now. But - I’d like to come by again, it that’s alright with you?”
And Psi - Psi is done with trying to understand what game they are playing right now,
So she merely shrugs, let Imra make of that what she wants (what does she want?).
Imra decides to take it as an affirmative - and, well, it was no refusal, was it? - and gifts Psi with one last (soft warm gentle) smile before turning to leave.
“See you soon, Psi.”
And then she’s gone.
Leaving behind Psi, confused and rattled and vibrating with an energy she can neither comprehend nor find an outlet for.
“See you, sparrow.”
(It’s not anticipation. It is. not.)
From the window the swallows are laughing at her. She can hear it.
*
If Imra wants to find out Psi’s name - her given name, her civilian name, whichever and for whatever reason - there is really no need to pester her for it.
Indeed, asking Psi herself may just be the least convenient way available.
An easier one would be to check the file the D.E.O. surely has on her or, should Imra lack the necessary security clearance for that - improbable but not impossible - to ask one of the agents always fluttering around the halls like overeager chicken, give them something to do for a change.
The easiest one would be asking Supergirl, of course.
They appeared to be familiar enough, first name basis and such.
So why even bother with bothering Psi about it?
Is it a test? Some strange trial based on whether or not she is willing to give up this piece of herself?
Does Imra already know her name and is only waiting to see whether Psi will lie to her?
Psi scowls. Maybe she is completely overthinking this.
Maybe that hit to her head did more damage than she realized and the full effect is only setting in now.
Maybe she is going mad from being stuck in this rattrap for so long, seeing things and reading intent where there is nothing to be seen or read.
Maybe it is time to stop wasting her time on this.
*
That night Psi does not dream.
Mostly because she can’t fall asleep.
*
(Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul -³ )
*
The following morning Imra shows up early if not quite bright, instead carrying a sense of worry, a tension, in the line of her shoulders.
Psi opts to focus on that rather than the fact that she made good on her promise so quickly (or at all) or how that fact makes her feel.
“Good morning, starshine.” She says, sauntering up to the glass with demonstrative nonchalance. “Why so glum?”
“Another nickname?” It brings a teeny tiny quirk to her lips, lifts a drop of that weight off her shoulders.
Psi can feel it prickle down her spine.
“As many as you’d like.” She purrs, earning herself a huff of amusement.
“I think I’d like to stick with Matilda, if you don’t mind.”
Psi tilts her head, curiosity peaked and unable to keep it to herself. “And why would that be, Matilda?”
She shrugs. “I like the story. It’s - sweet, I guess, touching. I can’t even say. But I like the story. And I like Matilda.”
“I didn’t think that one would still be around where - or rather when you’re from.”
Imra shakes her head. “It isn’t. It came up while Brainy and I were deciding on books and - I recognised the title. Got curious, I suppose.”
There is a full smile on her face now, albeit with a hint of self-consciousness.
It traps Psi just as easily as her eyes. Willing prey.
“I can’t say I see too many similarities besides the telekinesis and the hair colour, however.”
Psi scoffs, tears her gaze away and begins to pace her cell ( -there seem to be a thousand bars, and back behind those thousand bars no world.- ⁴) suddenly itching for distance, for movement.
She can feel Imra’s attention focused on her like a physical thing.
It sends another prickle along her back, flashing Danger! in bright, bold letters.
“Not an avid reader?” She says more to the empty air beside her than to Imra. In response the woman just laughs, light and airy and non threatening and Psi’s heart echoes Danger Danger Danger!
“That’s not it at all.” Imra says. “But - I have a good family. Had a good family. Good people. So that angle doesn’t match, for one.”
Psi can’t look at her.
She also can’t not look at her.
She swallows thickly. “Why are you telling me that, sparrow?”
Give me mercy and lie.
But Imra doesn’t, she only blinks her seagreen eyes and smiles, a little sad and so very soft.
Like her voice when she says. “I don’t know.”
(Oh god.)
“I’m not about to trade my name for your tragic past.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know.”
(Oh god, Oh no.)
And Psi has to do something to stop this conversation, to at least figure out how to stop responding to anything Imra says and does and implies.
Because (DangerDangerDanger!) otherwise she might just start to believe that Imra is sincere.
That she is here to talk to her for the sake of talking to her. That she is here because she wants to be.
No tests, no deceit, no hidden agenda.
Just genuine kindness -
like the books, she doesn’t think.
If she allows such thoughts to take root it can - no, it will ruin her.
So she takes one more step towards Imra, nearly flush with the glass now, breath fogging against it and aks. “What do you want from me?”
And if it comes out like she is begging for mercy. then that’s because she is.
A please please lie just this once.
But Imra doesn’t.
Doesn’t get to, because the moment she opens her mouth to break Psi’s heart either way, someone calls her name from down the hall, the voice followed by fast approaching footsteps.
And Psi watches as Imra’s face shutters, her entire body closing off before she turns to face the newcomer now entering Psi’s field of vision as well.
A bland bearded man she faintly recalls seeing in the command room before embarking on their mission. She had immediately dismissed him as neither important nor interesting.
Judging by the look he shoots her before returning his focus to Imra the feeling is mutual.
“Mon-El.” Imra greets him, with a smile like porcelain.
The man appears unperturbed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Brainy says we’re about ready to-”
There he stops himself, eyes flickering to Psi. He doesn’t trust her, as he well shouldn’t.
She gives him her sharpest grin in return, noting the furrow of his brows, the crackling tension in the air.
“I was just about to head back.” Imra says and proves her words by turning to leave without sparing Psi another glance.
Beardy looks from her retreating form to Psi and back before following her without comment.
And Psi is left behind, alone at last and just as rattled as she was after their previous interaction.
“See you soon, Matilda.” She says to the empty hallway.
Maybe now she’ll be left alone for good.
Hopefully.
( & so what if my feathers are burning.
I never asked for flight.⁵)
*
Imra does not return, neither this day nor the next.
This is fine, because Psi is not waiting for her.
Is not bothered by the lack of information about where Imra went off to, about what she is doing.
Imra does not return.
It’s exactly what Psi wanted.
Still wants.
She wonders if getting what she wants has always tasted this bitter.
But then, it’s been a while.
*
It starts to rain sometime during the evening.
There is no way for its sound to penetrate the walls, but she can see the flickering of it past the window, in the shadows on the opposite wall once the lights get shut off.
Lying on her cot, back to the wall she watches the endless cascade while sleep continues to elude her.
(Ease, of all good gifts the best, war and wave at last decree, Love alone denies us rest-⁶)
There is movement in the low light of the hallway.
Psi struggles upright, squinting at the darkness in front of her.
Part of it moves closer, shifts into an increasingly familiar shape.
“Matilda?”
There is a breath of silence before she answers and Psi wishes the light was strong enough to make out her expression.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
And Psi must have been closer to sleep than she realized because she blurts “Are you alright?” before she can remind herself that she does not care.
Immediately forgets it again when Imra does not answer.
She tosses the thin blanket fully off and gets up, moving as close to Imra as the glass will allow. Even then there is barely enough light to see her properly.
No missing limbs or other obvious wounds, but that’s about it.
“What brings you back here (to me), Matilda?” She settles on when it becomes evident that she is not going to get an answer to her previous question - that although unharmed Imra is not alright.
“Would you like to get out of there for a bit? Join me for a walk?”
“Sure”, Psi replies easily because she will get through one conversation with this woman without constantly being three steps behind, goddamnit.
(Even if they’re already entering confusing terrain.)
And then Imra unlocks the door to her cell.
Just like that.
The short beep of an electric lock disengaging and the door slides open, leaving Psi to gape at the brunette with nothing to separate them. Struck dumb and unmoving.
God fucking damn it.
“Psi?” She asks, like Psi should know what the hell is going on, like her remaining frozen to the spot is the weird part about this situation.
Maybe Imra is trying to confuse her into submission.
Maybe she did fall asleep and this is simply another dream.
Maybe she should take what she is being offered and not overthink it. Not let herself be consumed by the why.
(Why come back, why do this, why care?)
A change in scenery would be nice anyway.
So she braces herself - and does not think about why she feels the need to do so - and steps out into the hall.
The world does not end.
No one pops out of the shadows, gloating about how she fell for their trap.
Supergirl does not come barreling through the wall to punch her into oblivion.
Nothing happens. At all.
So Psi takes another - careful - step until she is right in front of - far too close to - Imra and thereby finally able to muster her properly.
She appears to indeed be unharmed - physically, at least - her posture relaxed and loose and gleaming with amusement.
A glaring contrast to the last time Psi has seen her - after the arrival of Beardy.
(She tucks that observation away for another day.)
Once she is satisfied with her examination she meets Imra’s eyes, wordlessly prompting her to go ahead with whatever she has planned.
She catches the slight quiver of her lips, a beginning smile, before Imra turns and heads down the hall, clearly expecting Psi to follow.
And so she does.
*
“We have to stay on D.E.O. grounds and keep our distance to anything classified, of course, but otherwise we’re free to move.” Imra explains while they make their way towards wherever she intends to take them.
Psi scoffs.
“You want me to believe that there is a single thing in these buildings that isn’t considered classified?”
“Most of the chairs should be fine, actually.” Imra shoots back and Psi can push down the grin but not the amusement that caused it. The unwelcome awareness that she is enjoying this.
So far.
“And your incredibly time sensitive mission?” She asks to ruin the developing mood.
Imra doesn’t even flinch.
“We were investigating a possible lead on Reign and her allies.”
“And?” Psi prompts. Not ‘Reign has allies?’.
Certainly not ‘Are you okay?’.
Imra gives her a look she can’t decipher.
The closer they get to the heart of the complex the brighter the halls become and the harsh glare of the neon lights turns her eyes crystalline.
Psi swallows her heart back down from where it has leapt into her throat.
“And nothing - our lead was a dead end, nothing to do with Reign.”
With the increasing light comes an increasing number of agents hurrying about looking terribly busy.
A few of them falter in their step when they spot her - she can’t quite tell if it’s shock or disdain on their faces, most likely both - but no one makes a move to stop the two of them.
They trust that Imra is authorized to take her along, that she will keep her in line like a disobedient dog, Psi realizes and makes sure to return their frowns with a smile.
They may be right but in line is still a long way from nice - or even civil.
“I’m sorry to hear that you have wasted your time.”
The jab doesn’t land - or maybe it does, if a knowing grin was her intention.
Psi isn’t all that sure what her own intentions are anymore.
She continues to follow Imra down another corridor, up a flight of stairs and through a set of heavy glass doors.
And then they’re outside.
The cool night air hits her like a kick in the chest.
She gasps in a breath, allowing it to settle in her lungs like an open wound. It tastes of exhaust fumes and smells like wet pavement.
How in the world could she miss this? (How is she supposed to go without it again?)
The two of them are standing on a small, secluded balcony with no shelter from the pouring rain. Imra keeps close to the wall, a feeble attempt to stay dry.
Psi does not.
She lets the freezing rain soak through the gray cotton of her clothes, stain them liquid dark, lets the cool breeze raise goosebumps along her skin.
Marvels at her own delight at such a small sliver of the freedom still so far out of her reach.
(If she leaps for the railing now, will Imra manage to catch her? Will she survive if not?)
“Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, and thanks for this effectual close and cure of every ill.⁷” She hums to herself.
She is beginning to get used to the feel of Imra’s gaze on her, soft as her touch but far more inquisitive.
“Ask.” Psi says eventually. “I answer yours, you answer mine.”
The view out here isn’t much better than the one from her window, a side street between towering constructs of glass and concrete beneath a patch of steelclouded sky.
But she is grateful to see it unobstructed, to hear the sound of rain and feel it soak into her skin.
Grateful enough to offer something in return.
When Imra doesn’t respond she moves to face her and finds herself being intently contemplated.
Imra is leaning back against the wall only marginally less drenched than Psi has become in the past minutes yet apparently not about to complain or cut their little outing short.
There must be something she is dying to get from her.
If only Psi could figure out what.
Then Imra bites her lip, seemingly deep in thought, and Psi whips her head back around so fast she nearly breaks her own neck.
“Alright, then I’ll start. Why ask me for my name? You could have just looked it up.”
Unlocking the cell meant she has more than the necessary security clearance.
Imra chuckles, it would fit nicely with the raindrops if it weren’t so warm.
“It’s not about finding out your name, that's not the point. It’s about you letting me know your name. It’s about you wanting me to know your name.”
And Psi has to close her eyes at that, glad Imra can not see her face right now, because of all the reasons-.
“Why sparrow?” Imras voice rings through her thoughts before they can drown her.
(Don’t think about the why.)
“There is no bird half so harmless, nor so sweetly rude as you, None so common and so charmless, None of virtues nude as you.⁸”
A beat of silence and then Imra is laughing - not chuckling but full on laughing - a lively burst of joy. It knocks every remaining thought right out of Psi’s head, has her turning until she is once more facing the other woman.
She is still giggling, rain soaked and radiant and devastatingly beautiful.
Oh fuck.
“I really should have guessed something like that.” Imra says once she manages to catch herself. “But either way, thank you.”
She does not elaborate what for. Psi wishes she knew how to ask.
“Any time, Matilda.”
Imra’s expression turns soft and fond.
It makes the first shock of fresh air feel like a gentle shove in comparison.
Somewhere in the distance a car alarm starts to blare.
“So, Brainy and Beardy, they’re part of your team?”
What an inane question. But at the mention of Bland Man Imra’s smile dims.
Which is a good thing and absolutely what Psi wants.
“Brainy and Mon-El are my team. And my … my friends.”
“You don’t sound too confident about that last one, Matilda.”
Her face darkens further.
“It’s a bit messy at the moment.”
Before Psi can poke at this bruise some more sea green eyes catch her own. It has the same effect as every time before.
“And I was actually hoping you would distract me from that. You’re good at it.”
She is so open, so provokingly trusting and Psi just can’t figure out why.
(Why come to her? Why shut out her friends but open up to Psi? Why talk to her and care about her and why why why?)
Was it an odd case of Stockholm Syndrome?
She must have been quiet for too long because Imra sighs and pushes off the wall.
“Come on, let’s get back inside before we both catch pneumonia.”
Psi nods mutely, feeling as though she just missed something important.
*
It is the middle of the night, so the D.E.O. is comparatively empty. The D.E.O. is also a government agency so comparatively empty still means a constant stream of people scurrying about like headless chickens.
And for a bunch of secret agents they sure suck at pretending not to stare.
Or maybe they get a free pass on subtlety when the object of their attention has already been captured. Who knows.
Certainly not Psi, who can feel the steady weight of dozens of eyes on her almost as heavily as Imra’s ongoing silence as they drip their way back to the cells.
“Do you even have something dry to change into?” She suddenly asks, likely recalling Psi’s general lack of personal possessions and frowning in concern.
Shaking her head no Psi discreetly tugs at the soaked shirt clinging to her torso.
“We get a fresh change of clothes every three days, next one is - tomorrow?”
The furrow between Imra’s brows deepens. It’s not endearing at all.
“Change of plans, let’s get you something to wear.”
And then she grabs Psi’s wrist and pulls her in a different direction.
The first thing Psi notices is that Imra is surprisingly strong.
The second thing she notices is that despite spending the same amount of time in the freezing rain her hand is blazing warm.
“You’re not allowed to have more than one set of clothes?” Imra asks while dragging her - and is that really necessary? - up another flight of stairs.
“Potential weapon.”
At least that is the reason she has been told. Imra looks rather unimpressed with it.
“Do you even know how to fight with anything but your powers?”
And if Psi could concentrate right now she might object to two questions in a row. But as is she simply tries for a one shouldered shrug without tripping over her own feet.
“Never had to.”
Imra comes to a stop in front of a metal door hardly standing out against the walls around it and Psi prides herself in only almost stumbling into her. She has no idea where in the building they are but she’ll wager a guess at this being the living quarters and the room beyond this door belonging to Imra for the time being.
After one more unimpressed look the brunette places her hand - the one not currently holding onto Psi, which, she would just like to note, is still happening - on the panel next to said door, causing it to slide open.
Behind it lies a very functional room - functional in as home-y as Psi’s cell.
The lights flicker on, her only warning before she is pulled inside and the door slides shut again behind them.
As with apparently everything relating to the D.E.O. the room is held in cheerful gray, from the wallpaper to the sheets on the neatly made bed. There is a spartan workspace set up in one corner, a desk with a chair and a laptop and nothing else, between the wall and a small dresser.
She wishes there was more to take in, to give her something to focus on besides the starfire radiating from her wrist through her whole body.
But Imra still has not let go and she is standing so close and that crease between her brows has returned because she is rifling through her dresser one handed - because she still has not let go - and there is one particular raindrop sliding down the column of her throat and what exactly did Psi do to deserve this?
(Robbing some banks can’t merit this kind of punishment, surely. Money isn’t even real.)
“Psi? Are you okay?”
Imra is offering her a fresh set of D.E.O. issue clothing (dark gray, how delightfully unexpected) and a look of concern.
She swallows.
“Yes. I’m fine.” It comes out shamefully croaky. “You - you can let go now.”
And Imra does, with a soft ‘Oh’ like she hadn’t even noticed. And Psi is just not going to go there. Instead she simply takes the offered clothing with an equally low ‘Thank you’.
For the first time it is Imra who can not look at her.
“Don’t mention it. Bathroom is through there, towels under the sink.”
She points at the door opposite the entry - and equally covert - and Psi slinks away gratefully.
The bathroom is just as impersonal as the main room - and just as gray. Did their budget not include color? Who comes up with this shit?
With a door between them Psi’s heartbeat is able to return to a normal rhythm at last. She grabs a - light gray, for real?- towel and struggles both out of her shirt and for some of her usual bravado. What used to be her usual bravado. Ugh.
“Some might call it unwise, letting a prisoner out of your sight like this. They might be tempted to escape.”
Ah, there it is.
“Well, please resist the call of freedom through the vents.” Imra’s voice is muffled, accompanied by the faint sound of rustling fabric. “Or would you prefer I come in there and keep an eye on you?”
And there it goes again, Psi thinks. “I would not dream of leaving you, little sparrow,”
(She can feel Imra’s answering eye roll - through the door, no psychic powers required.)
The fresh clothes don’t just look like what she is used to, they also smell the same. Something about that fact is disappointing, but she won’t linger on it. There is nothing to linger on, just as there is nothing to be disappointed by.
She dries her hair as best she can - a shame the blocker is waterproof - and half heartedly combs through it with her fingers (to underwhelming success).
She resists checking the mirror in case it looks worse than it feels, straightens her posture so she’ll at least look like a confident drowned rat and steps back out to Imra.
Who is already waiting, similarly dressed, with a sweater added for warmth.
There are still remnants of rain dripping from the wild, dark mess of her hair and slipping into the loose collar of the sweater that’s a little to big for her and her nose and cheeks have turned a bit red from the change in temperature and she is the most beautiful thing Psi has ever seen.
“Good to go?” She asks and Psi is really, really not.
She nods anyway.
*
The walk back to her cell passes by in a haze that does not lift until the door locks behind her again.
(So she still has no idea where the hell the living quarters are located. Not that she would have any use for the knowledge, it’s just frustrating.)
Imra hovers in front of the glass, obviously worried by Psi’s ongoing silence (and thoroughly distracted from her beardy troubles. So maybe Psi is good at that).
“Thank you for coming along.” She says eventually, gifting Psi one more smile (always so much more than she deserves). “Sleep well, Psi. And see you soon.”
Imra turns to leave.
“Gayle.”
She stops in her tracks.
(Why do you care? Psi does not ask
Because I do. Imra answers nonetheless. Because I want to.)
“My name is Gayle.”
*
The name Gayle is a variant spelling of Gail and stems from Abigail.
Hebrew in origin it reached the height of its popularity in the US during the fifties but has been a well liked name independent of gender before and after that point.
Its meaning can be read as ‘father’s joy’ or ‘source of joy’.
When her parents had chosen it, they had not done it for the meaning.
They had named her Gayle because her mother had liked the sound of it and her father had agreed with her - he had agreed to anything back then if it pleased his wife, heavily pregnant with their first (and only) child.
They had chosen the name Gayle because they considered it something nice, something precious, to gift their daughter for life.
And that was how she, how Gayle, held it even today. (Even with everything that had happened since.)
A precious gift to be handled with care and carried close to the chest.
A proof that at one point in her life Gayle Marsh was loved.
*
After this, after handing part of herself over on a silver platter and hating herself for it before her mouth had fully shut again, Psi did not expect to get any more sleep that night.
Imra had not said anything in return at first, had only stared at her in wide eyed wonder until it melted into a soft (and why did everything about her strike Psi as soft?) mercilessly beautiful smile.
“Sweet dreams, Gayle.”
And then she was gone.
And Psi was left to deal with her raging mind and thunderous heartbeat.
And the knots in her hair.
So she had hoped to at least be safe from any more awkward dreams. Small mercies and such.
That, of course, meant the second her head hit her pillow she was out like a light.
*
In her dream they’re back in Imra’s room.
Psi can feel the rain soaked shirt stick to her skin, is excruciatingly aware of the droplets sliding down Imra’s throat and into her collar,
Of the warmth of her fingers around her wrist, shooting sparks up her veins.
Of her fathomless eyes holding her like the axis of the earth runs along her spine.
When Imra pulls her in she goes without thought.
There are words swirling around her brain like drunk butterflies, snippets of poetry and prayers she believed were long shed, a flutter of incoherent praise.
None of them make it to her tongue, dissolving into a mix of rainwater and bumbling adoration.
Once she is close enough Imra lets go of her wrist to sling her arms around her shoulders, draws Psi into her body as if to drown her (and she goes willing, willing, willing.). Imra is blazing heat, lighting her up like a bonfire,
Her own arms settle around the brunette's waist and she feels a contented sigh ghost the base of her neck where Imra is resting her head.
She tightens her hold, presses them flush together, hands fisted in the back of her shirt. There is not enough space for a breath between them.
And neither is there in her lungs, her chest brimming with a honeyglowing ache.
Psi would not mind staying in this moment for the rest of her life.
But nothing gold can stay and thus she wakes . with her eyes burning and her chest caving in and feeling thoroughly wrecked.
Ruined.
No, there really was never anything ‘just’ about it.
(Her heart is fit for home—
I—a Sparrow—build there
Sweet of twigs and twine
My perennial nest.)
*
The rain persists through the next day and the one after that.
It fits well with Psi’s equally enduring somber mood. Which has nothing to do with the also persisting absence of Imra. Nothing at all.
She should be glad for it.
Pull out the knife, give the wound a chance to scar.
But Psi has always excelled at self sabotage above all else (there are a lot of cities in the US, with full bank vaults and without superpowered vigilantes to spoil your fun and yet - once she left hometurf she went directly here) so despite her physical absence Imra retains center stage in her mind.
At night she flickers through her dreams, nothing concrete now - flashes of dark hair and bright eyes fading into a scenery of looming woods and flowing meadows before she has the chance to fully grasp them.
During the day she appears in random phrases tumbling from the pages of her books like drunk bumblebees and turning her thoughts into buzzing cotton (-felt a great Awe fall upon him, an Awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head and rooted his feet to the ground-)
The realization that follows isn’t surprising, but it isn’t pleasant either.
She did hand over her name after all. Of her own volition.
She wants Imra to know it, to know her, even if-
Even when she is going to leave.
Because while Psi will only be left in pieces, at least Imra will keep one to remember her by.
*
On the third day the sky finally clears, allowing watery rays of sunlight to stray across the floor of her cage, to lay a gentle warmth across her cheeks.
Psi watches one of the swallows stick its dark little head out of their nest and finds herself yearning to hear whatever it chirps to its companion.
Instead she hears a familiar footfall, quickly growing closer.
It sates her all the same.
It should be no surprise that Imra continues to keep her promise, continues to return, yet that is what Psi feels - like a spark in her chest, flint striking steel - when she turns from one pane of glass to another and finds her standing there.
The morning sun having risen solely to herald her appearance.
“Good morning, Gayle.”
It’s no summon, yet has just the same effect, drawing her closer to the glass separating them.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.”
She looks tired, Psi notes. Fresh from a fight.
The blonde does not bother denying the worry this observation causes her, but keeps it out of her voice as best she can.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, sparrow. I -” dreamt of you, longed for you, missed you missed you missed you “- was not expecting another visit this soon. It’s only been three days, after all.”
Imra smiles - like she caught the lie but decided to let it slide.
She is radiant, despite the visible exhaustion, the defeat clinging to her shoulders.
The clinical light from the hallway adds a halo around her dark hair and no one should look this ethereal in lighting this shitty.
Psi could not look away if she wanted to.
“Maybe I’m sorry for myself, after all I had to go without your charm for three entire days.”
No one should feel this delighted by being sassed either.
Psi takes one more step forward, now nearly flush with the glass.
“What kept you away from me, then?” She all but purrs.
It masks her concern well enough, earns her an almost laugh, until the meaning of her words breaches their tone. Dark brows draw together and she leans heavily against the door with one shoulder, exhaling a heavier sigh.
It fogs up the glass, she is so close.
Blurs Psis view of her for as long as it takes to draw another breath. Calls forth dreamed up memories.
The urge to fidget, to run, is back at the base of her spine.
“Alex was not happy. That I let you out of this cell, that I keep coming here at all. Kara isn’t either, I think, but she hasn’t said anything yet.”
And Alex has, apparently.
Alex has said a lot, if the drop of Imra’s shoulders is any indication, and that definitely does not come as a surprise - at least not to Psi.
The pout she is now being faced with suggests that Imra expected a different outcome. Expected better.
“Yet here you are.”
“Yet here I am.”
Yet here she is, looking at Psi like she is worth it.
The knife twists deeper.
And she does not ask why because she already knows.
Worse, she is beginning to believe it.
“What did you expect?” She asks instead, tilting her head with honest curiosity. “For all of Knossos to cheer as you lead the beast from its labyrinth?”
Another huff of air.
When the fog recedes Imras expression lies somewhere in the strange territory between fondness and exasperation.
“Why do you insist on calling yourself a monster?”
“Why do you insist on seeing me as anything else?” Psi fires back without missing a beat.
Pure exasperation, now.
And then it hardens into steel.
It sends her heart jackhammering against her ribs, makes the buzzing in her spine spread to every nerve in her body.
It makes her want to run.
(Worse, it makes her want to stay.)
“Answer mine, I’ll answer yours.”
Psi huffs out a laugh, surprised again. She could refuse - Imra can make steel seem so gentle - but -
But-
(But why do you care?
But why would you want to?)
But she has always excelled at self sabotage, so she nods.
Imra, always the hero, begins.
“What I expected, was for Supergirl and her allies to practice what they preach, especially when it come to forgiveness and redemption”
Psi snorts. That little cheat.
And Imra smirks back at her, well aware of what she just did, before she sobers at once. “Why do you believe you’re a monster, Gayle?”
Such gentle, gentle steel. (Such a gentle, gentle knife.)
She can take the easy way out, tell Imra that she is a convicted criminal, a thief and a murderer (no one ever bothered to inform her whether her attack in National City came with a body count, but if she had to guess - well, she has to guess and so she does guess) and to most people that alone might be enough.
It would not be lying.
They would both know it’s not the truth either.
Instead she asks “Why do you need a distraction from your friends?” Two can cheat at this game.
And Imra wavers for less than a minute - but she does waver - before soldiering on.
“Mon-El - before he was forced to leave earth and ended up in the future - in my present - by accident, he and Kara were dating.” Her eyes flick away as she braces herself for what’s to follow and Psi feels herself tense in response. “But after he - when we met-”
Another pause, a breath, her gaze returns to Psi. Catches. Holds.
“We were married. A political marriage, a calculated move, at first, but -”
But you fell for him.
But who wouldn’t fall for you?
“But he never stopped loving Kara. And now that we’re here-” She laughs and it comes out pained. “I know it’s for the best, for both of us, to go our separate ways, it’s just - awkward, right now. For everyone.”
Psi says nothing, can say nothing, because what is there to say?
I’m sorry your bland boyfriend is dumber than he looks?
I was hoping you’d have better taste in men?”
Do you want me to make him regret it, regret the day he was born, trap him in the worst nightmare his exiguous mind can come up with, to lay him broken at your feet?
Do you need a hug?
“I was so certain that I loved him.” She continues, so softly Psi would have missed it were she one step further away. “But when he told me he still loved her, when I noticed the way he looks at her even before that - It hurt, yes, but-”
She shrugs.
“It did not break my heart.”
It claws at Psi, has her bite her tongue just so she won’t give voice to the treacherous thoughts crowding her mind.
(He is not worthy of your pain, no one is -
(Blest as the immortal gods is he)
( - Imra please, don’t look at me like that -)
(The man whose eyes may look on thee¹¹)
(- please please don’t look at me like that)
“Why do you think of yourself as a monster, Gayle?”
Her voice is so soft, so gentle, the first rays of sun after a storm. It’s gutting.
And Psi finds that she wants to answer.
Because there is nothing else she can give.Because if she doesn’t, if she shuts down no, Imra will let her, might not even begrudge her for it.
Because Imra just bared a part of herself like Psi has done a single thing to make her deserving of it.
(Because she holds her name on her tongue like something precious)
(Because Psi wants to be deserving.)
“I do not believe myself to be a monster, sparrow. I know that I am one.”
It’s darling, the way her mouth pulls into a scowl of displeasure, like she truly disagrees. Like she thinks Psi something worthy of protection, even from herself.
Fucking heroes.
“I have to be a monster.” She barrels on, before Imra decides to voice the thoughts plain visible on her face. “And I have to embrace it, to revel in it, even. To believe that what makes me different from normal humans - an anomaly, an other - puts me above rather than merely apart from them.”
Here Psi has to close her eyes, because Imra’s expression is quickly changing into something worse than displeasure and she isn’t certain she can watch that and still go on talking.
“I have to be a monster, because I can’t be anything else and if I don’t embrace that, if I don’t treat it as a privilege rather than a curse the grief is going to eat me alive.”
And then it is done, her insides spilled for all the world - oh, worse, for Imra - to see, raw and bloodied.
She keeps her eyes shut to spare herself from Imra’s reaction when she realizes what Psi is beneath her armor of bravado and sarcasm.
A broken child, controlled by the very fear it claims to command.
To spare herself from having to watch her leave.
The knife, it seems, is no knife at all but a hook, sunk so deep into her flesh that tearing it out will only serve to tear her apart.
One minute more, then she will open her eyes and begin to pick up her pieces.
There is a sharp, high pitched beep - the lock on her cell door announcing a change in state.
Psi is not provided a chance to puzzle out its meaning or even open her eyes to take a clarifying look. Or to brace for the impact of a body with her own, of arms wrapping around her, holding her upright so tight it hurts - beautifully so - and trying to pull her closer still.
Soft hair tickles her cheek and warm air ghosts over the skin at the crook of her neck.
“Oh, Gayle.” Says Imra,
Imra, who has not left.
Imra, who is still here.
Imra, who is holding her.
No one has held her since she was a child.
Nonetheless, her own arms come to style around the woman's waist, instinct overriding years of denial.
Imra is warm and solid and Psi can’t quite help sinking into her, breathing in the soothing scent of her hair. Her dreams had neglected this detail.
Not that the rest could compare to the reality if being held like this.
A murmur against her shoulder, so loew she barely catches it.
“You’re not a monster, Gayle.”
She draws back, only far enough to add the force of those sea green eyes to her next words. (But still farther than Psi wants her to be.)
“A bit of an arse, sure, but not a monster.”
Psi has been a monster to long to ever be anything else, to ever be deserving of such kindness, but-
But Imra talks to her, looks at her, touches her like she is.
And maybe the first step to becoming worthy of this trust is to return it.
Let kindness be kindness.
Let a touch be a touch.
The arms around her, the knife in her ribs, the tear stains on her shoulder.
It’s just a touch.
It’s just a touch.
It’s just -
(It was a mistake to keep this single knife in my heart for so long. But it is my knife. And my heart, too.¹²)