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You think about her, sometimes. Well, you think about them all the time. You think about her only sometimes, late at night, staring at the ceiling. Or maybe not her, not the her she used most of the time with you, the white lady she thought you'd be more comfortable with.
No, you close your eyes and think about her, the real her. The one she'd shown you for just a second: the grey-blue face, the pale hair, the eyes brighter than the diamond she'd held in her hand. The way she'd loomed like a mountain, something impossibly out of reach and yet so very close.
It was only for a second, just long enough for you to consider what would happen if you did reach. If you stepped forward to touch her, to run your fingers across her impossible skin, say: I am not afraid. Repeat over and over, until it was believable.
She'd slid back into her white skin and you wanted to tell her to change back. Of course, you didn't. After all, the human skin is what you were supposed to prefer, right? And it didn't really matter, either way, blue didn't give a shit about you anymore than white did.
But blue had given you something white never had. Something bigger than the diamond, or the proof that your husband wasn't crazy after all. She'd given you a new start, a victory that you could snatch from the jaws of defeat. All you had to do, all you've ever had to do, is reach.
Formidable, she called you, and it didn't feel like condescension or an excuse to pile you with more like you could bear. It felt like she saw something impressive, something capable of doing great things. It felt like she'd laid out a map for you, trusting you had the guts and brains to follow it.
Of course, it's not that simple, and she knew that. She may not have known exactly what she set in motion when she visited your house, but she knew she'd done something. She must know, wherever she is. There's no way she's missing your transmissions, even if she closes to keep her mouth shut.
Sometimes, you find yourself eyeing the birds, even after you tell your son the truth. Maybe she heard what you said to him and started wearing feathers just to fuck with you. Maybe she was never there at all, an invention of your mind like your husband invented the green light. Folie à deux.
That's what your husband tells you, late at night, nursing a beer while you wrestle with the transmitter. "Crazy bitch," he mumbles. "Goddamn madhouse you've built for us." It's late; John is asleep, the other boys are gone. When Marcus and Aaron have children, they won't let you near them.
"Wasting your life on this bullshit." His thumb taps staccato on the side of his bottle. "Waiting for that fucking blue bitch to come back and lick your--"
You snatch his pistol from the drawer and aim it at his head, finger steady on the trigger. He stares at it for a second, then sighs and sets his beer down, flopping against the bed.
"Sorry," he whispers as his eyes drift shut. "Sorry, baby."
You keep the gun aimed at him, even as his chest rises and falls in sleep. You think about pulling the trigger on him, your son, yourself. You think about pulling the trigger on her, demon bitch from outer space, filling her with bullets. Water the ground with her blood, grow apple trees for your boy.
Instead, you put the gun down and go back to work. You back until you fall asleep over the transmitter and wake up from a dream of chasing her between stars, her robe flickering in and out of sight, one jeweled eye catching yourself as she glances over her shoulders. Feathers scorching your skin, white-hot.
When Sinestro gets on the news, carving yellow across the sky, you wonder if you've got space in his new order for the fearful little humans like you and your husband. Then you shut your thoughts down and switch to the feeds on Jordan, trying to figure out if he's gotten himself killed yet, if this is the opportunity John needs.
He wins. There's something about a Guardian killed, and you wonder if it's her, not that you give a shit. She's a means to an end, just like your husband, just like you. All bit players in the searing heat of your boy's destiny--and that, that's so close you can fucking taste it, Jordan or no Jordan.
Knowing it's close is one thing, seeing it is another. You open the door and see Hal Fucking Jordan standing there, looking almost shy. "Mrs. Stewart?" he asks.
The moment you see him, you have a single wrenching moment where you wonder if you've fucked everything up, you've doomed your baby to an endless war on the stars based on the word of some sickly blue freak. The moment after is like a blade of pure, slicing straight through your heart and out your back like wings.
She comes once Jordan's gone, once your son's gone, once your husband is snoring and your other boys have steadily ignored your calls. You're sitting out by the steps when you hear the scratch of feet on the pavement.
"Mrs. Stewart?" she asks. You rise to your feet slowly, watch her warily. Unlike you, she hasn't aged a day.
"You took your time," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Forgive me," she says. "It's been...a very busy few decades."
"'Course it was." You change the subject to something more important. "He said he had an interview. "Was that you?"
"Yes." She comes to a halt in front of you, the reflected streetlight lingering in her eyes for a second too long. "You've raised a very admirable young man, Mrs. Stewart."
"Bernadette," you say, before you can stop yourself. She frowns slightly, no doubt confused by the distinction, then nods.
"Bernadette," she says, rolling the syllables slowly over her tongue. "Yes." She shifts her feet slightly, looking in your eye with a practiced deliberation. "While John's new career path might be dangerous in some regards, the Corps offers you our full assurance that--"
"Is he happy?" Again, you can't stop yourself. You could hold yourself together with your baby pointing a gun at your head, but with her, you are glass shards spilling out into the night air. Painful and uncontained, light flashing off every inch of you.
"He is exactly what we need. You've done well."
"That's not an answer." Except, of course, it is.
Lilianna rubs her eyes, blinking slowly. You half-expect her face to distort under her touch, makeup to smear or rubber to wrinkle, even though you know intellectually it's not that simple.
"We wanted to give you something better here," she says. "To help you, all of you, recover from our, our mistakes. To bring hope where there had only been pain, to help you."
"We did heal. Didn't need no charity." You step closer to her, close enough you could faint faint reek of step on her skin. "Didn't need to wear somebody else like a fur coat, either."
Silence, and then she starts to blur. You crane your neck back, muscles throbbing as she rises taller and taller. Her eyes are somehow brighter than you remember, her skin a deeper blue. There's a faint scar on her cheek that you don't remember, gleaming in the silver light.
She's beautiful. You can admit that now, seeing her in this skin. She's beautiful and if you had your gun now you'd fill her with bullets, show her what her hope did to you.
"Look after him," you tell her. "'Cause if you don't, I'll fucking kill you."
She nods slowly, the light in her eyes distant. Her fingers flex ever so slightly, as if curving towards your face. "We should have given you the ring first," she says, sounding almost to yourself. "You would have been remarkable.
Your knuckles itch, your spine trembling. You jerk back away from her, bracing yourself against a wall. She frowns, reaching out, and you hold up one hand to ward off.
"Get the fuck out," you manage, voice trembling. She hesitates, then slowly turns away, walking away from her house. You watch her go, watch her robes flutter like bird wings as she takes off. She doesn't shift back, just let you watch as she climbs higher and higher, until one of a hundred different stars in the sky.
You stagger away from her, away from the house. You go to the backyard and prop your forehead against the bullet-scarred wall, your nose filled with the sound of rotten apples and your ears ringing with bullet ghosts. Your lungs contort as if you're in the atmosphere with her, slowly dying in the frozen grip of space.