468. Chapter 468

The first time she sees the girl with the affinity for scotch and playing pool alone, it’s the day after one of those nightmares.

One of those nightmares that’s more like a memory.

And the memories are worse than anything her imagination could ever conjure.

She’s still shaky, but she reports to work.

At the bar.

At the bar, because it gives her a semblance of normalcy. It gives her routine.

It gives her a hodgepodge and a mess and vomit from across the galaxy in the bathrooms, but it gives her something like a community.

The girl with the leather jacket and lined up shot glasses and terrible pool shot has agony radiating off of her subconscious and alcohol lightly on her breath, and M’gann approaches with a glass of water and a slight frown, wondering how a human wound up so comfortable in this bar.

“If you adjust your grip on the cue, you’ll get a cleaner shot,” she offers mildly, and Maggie grunts something unintelligible before sinking the six ball.

She grins victoriously as she looks up.

“Thanks,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly clear, considering the number of empty shot glasses and beer bottles littered around the pool table.

She holds out a steady hand, and M’gann flushes at the revelation of the girl’s dimples. “Maggie Sawyer. Good to meet you.”

“M’gann M’orzz,” M’gann shakes. “And same.”

They talk most nights.

Usually about nothing in particular.

Usually in monosyllables.

Usually in between the lulls in M’gann’s bartending needs.

Maggie offers to help out, and M’gann will always wave her off and laugh.

“Not unless you’re getting paid for it,” she’ll tell her, and Maggie will sigh and watch her concoct drink after drink after elaborate drink.

She never tries anything but beer and her scotch herself, though.

But she always tips nearly bigger than her bill.

Sometimes she comes in limping.

“Fire on the job,” she’ll murmur, and M’gann will comp most of her drinks.

Sometimes she comes in with red eyes.

“Got dumped,” she’ll shrug, and M’gann will hear the remnants of women screaming and calling her awful names, accusing her of untrue things, ableist slurs, shouting through Maggie’s thoughts.

M’gann won’t comp her drinks, those nights – Maggie doesn’t need more fuel in the fire, those nights – but she’ll sit with her as long as she can, as often as she can.

She’ll sit with her, and she’ll listen.

She’ll listen, and eventually, she’ll talk.

Talk about her people. Her planet. Her genocide.

“Surviving can be awful. But it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to,” Maggie will tell her, and M’gann will relish the warmth, the gentleness, of Maggie’s hand on hers, of Maggie’s soft eyes, of Maggie’s low, empathetic voice. Not justifying the things M’gann has done. Not ignoring them.

But somehow, not hating her, either.

M’gann figures she knows why: Maggie can’t hate her when she spends so much energy hating herself.

Sometimes Maggie asks about her home.

Sometimes M’gann asks about Maggie’s.

Maggie’s stories are bloody.

M’gann’s stories are bloodier.

Maggie lets her see into her mind, and M’gann gently floods some images – just beautiful ones, just her planet, just the stars – into Maggie’s soul.

Maggie’s breath will hitch, and her body will be warm, and M’gann will gulp, and Maggie will lick her lips.

Those are the nights Maggie is completely sober – the nights she needs company rather than alcohol, warmth on her skin instead of warmth in her liver – and those are the night’s M’gann will kiss her.

Those are the nights Maggie will kiss her back, hard and gentle somehow all at once, in the back room of the bar, against walls and against doors and against crates of scotch and against nothing but air, nothing but M’gann’s body and her own desperation to feel, to be felt, to hear, to be heard.

Maggie will never make any sounds louder than a harsh exhale or two, and whenever she wants scrape her teeth across M’gann’s neck, she asks. She asks, because M’gann might be a superpowerful Martian, but she’s her friend, dammit, and even if she weren’t, Maggie always, always, always asks.

Much to the irritation of some of the ex girlfriends who’ve called her boring, who’ve called her too distant, who’ve called her passionate, but only about the wrong things.

But she’s never stopped asking. Every time.

But she never asks for anything more, and M’gann will never offer.

She’ll never offer because she likes this – their friendship, their talking, their emotional intimacy, their sometimes physical intimacy – but she also never gets jealous when Maggie’s smile returns, when Maggie’s found herself a new girl to try and love.

Because M’gann’s spent enough of her life lonely. She’s spent enough of her life without family.

And Maggie feels, a little bit, like that.

She doesn’t need it to be more than the occasional we’re-both-lonely-and-I-trust-you-and-damn-your-lips-are-soft make out in the back room of the bar.

And sure enough, they switch back seamlessly – from friends with occasional benefits to just friends – each time Maggie starts dating someone.

The switch back forever when Maggie meets Alex Danvers.

M’gann watches them bond, watches Alex fall in love without knowing it, watches Maggie fall in love while fighting against it tooth and nail, and it warms her heart.

It warms her heart because Maggie is smiling like she’s never seen, and she’s laughing louder than she’s ever heard, and she’s gushing like she’s never experienced.

M’gann smiles because maybe – with J’onn, with Alex’s connection to him, with Maggie’s growing connection to Alex – just maybe her little could-be-family-feeling can start to grow into actual… family.