Kryptonian Chains

The soldering iron hissed against the circuit board, a thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling fan that did nothing but stir the August heat around her apartment. Skye had her hair tied back with a rubber band she'd found on the floor, which was gross if she thought about it, so she didn't. The motherboard in front of her belonged to a sixty-year-old man named Harold who'd spilled coffee on his gaming rig and then cried about it on the phone for fifteen minutes. She'd quoted him a hundred and twenty bucks. She'd finish in forty.

The fan clicked. Three blades. Off-balance. She'd been meaning to fix it for six months.

Her phone buzzed against the workbench, vibrating against a stray screw that sent it skittering into a pile of resistors. She didn't look. Whoever it was could wait. The solder needed to set clean or Harold's rig would be back on her bench by Thursday, and she didn't do repeat customers. Not because she was bad at her job. Because she was good at it, and people who broke things twice didn't deserve the discount she'd inevitably give them.

The buzz came again. And again.

Skye set the iron down, flexed her fingers. The tremor was barely there now, just a ghost of nerve damage that flared when she worked too long. Fitz's handiwork. She'd stopped blaming him years ago, mostly, but her hands still remembered the surgery even if her brain had moved on.

She picked up the phone.

Three messages from an unknown number. No area code she recognized. The first was a photo. Grainy, taken from a security camera or maybe a satellite, she couldn't tell. A woman in a black coat walking through what looked like an airport terminal. Blonde hair. Shoulders that belonged on a soldier.

Skye's stomach dropped.

The second message was text. *She's asking about you.*

The third was another photo. Closer this time. The woman was looking directly at the camera, which meant she knew it was there, which meant she wanted to be seen. Her eyes were blue even in the washed-out image. Blue like the inside of a glacier. Blue like something that had been cold for a very long time.

Skye put the phone face-down on the workbench.

She stared at Harold's motherboard for a full minute without seeing it. The solder joint she'd been working on had cooled into a dull gray blob. She'd have to redo it. Fine. Whatever. She picked up the iron again, but her hand wasn't steady anymore, and she knew better than to try.

The apartment was small. One bedroom, a kitchen that was really just a counter and a hot plate, a bathroom with a shower that ran cold if you used the sink at the same time. She'd chosen it because it was cheap and because the landlord didn't ask questions and because it was eleven hundred miles from anyone who'd ever called her Daisy.

That name felt like a scar she'd stopped picking at. Daisy Johnson. Quake. The girl who'd shaken a mountain and walked away from the rubble. She'd been Skye first, before everything, before the mist and the Terrigen and the thing that had crawled into her bones and rewired her DNA. Skye was the name she'd chosen for herself when she was still figuring out who she wanted to be. Daisy was the name other people gave her when they needed her to be something.

She'd gone back to Skye three years ago, after the last mission, after the last funeral, after the last time she'd stood in a room full of people who looked at her like she was either a weapon or a savior and never just a person. She'd packed a bag, left her badge on Coulson's desk, and driven until the ocean stopped her.

Los Angeles. Not the glamorous part. The part where you could rent a one-bedroom for eighteen hundred a month and hear your neighbors fight through the walls. She fixed computers. She ate takeout. She went to the beach on Sundays and let the salt air sting her eyes and pretended it was the wind.

It was a life. Not a big one. But it was hers.

And now Kara Zor-El was walking through an airport with her name in her mouth.

Skye had known it would happen eventually. You don't love someone like Kara and expect to stay hidden forever. The woman could hear a heartbeat from orbit. She could probably hear Skye's right now, eleven hundred miles away, beating too fast against her ribs. That was the thing about Kryptonians. They didn't forget. They didn't let go. They held on with both hands and a strength that could crush diamonds, and they called it love, and maybe it was, but it was also a cage if you weren't careful.

Skye had been careful. She'd been so careful.

She stood up, walked to the window, looked out at the street below. Cars. Palm trees. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of cans. Normal things. Safe things. The world she'd built for herself, brick by brick, solder joint by solder joint.

The phone buzzed again.

She didn't want to look. She looked.

*She knows where you live.*

Of course she did. Kara always knew. That was the problem with loving someone who could see through walls. You never really had a door you could close.

Skye typed back, her thumbs moving before her brain caught up. *Who is this?*

The reply came fast. *Someone who owes you a warning. She's not the same. Something happened. Something bad.*

Skye stared at the words until they blurred. Something bad. In Kara's world, something bad could mean a lot of things. A solar flare. A red kryptonite exposure. A loss that cracked something fundamental. Skye had seen Kara break before. She'd held her through it, kissed the tears off her cheeks, told her it would be okay even when she wasn't sure it would be. That was what you did when you loved someone. You lied to them gently until the truth caught up.

But she'd also seen what Kara became when the breaking went too deep. The coldness. The calculation. The way her eyes would go flat and distant, like she was looking at you from the other side of a galaxy.

Skye had left before that version of Kara could turn on her. She'd told herself it was self-preservation. She'd told herself it was because she couldn't be what Kara needed anymore, not after Hive, not after the surgery, not after she'd spent six months learning how to hold a fork again without her hands shaking. She'd told herself a lot of things.

The truth was simpler. She'd been afraid.

Not of Kara. Of what she felt when Kara looked at her. That total, consuming, terrifying devotion. Kara didn't love like other people. She loved like a sun. She burned. And Skye had already been burned enough.

She put the phone in her pocket and went back to the workbench. Harold's motherboard wasn't going to fix itself. She picked up the iron, waited for it to heat, and touched it to the solder joint. The metal flowed, silver and clean. She added a tiny bit more, just enough, and pulled back.

Her hand was steady now. Funny how fear could do that. Steady your hands, clear your mind, narrow your focus to the thing right in front of you. She'd learned that in the field. She'd learned a lot of things in the field.

The knock on her door came at 7:43 PM.

Skye knew the time because she'd been staring at the clock, counting the minutes since the last text, telling herself she wasn't waiting. She'd finished Harold's motherboard. She'd eaten a sandwich standing up over the sink. She'd taken a shower and changed into jeans and a t-shirt that said WORLD'S OKAYEST TECHNICIAN, which had been a gift from a client who didn't understand irony.

She didn't answer the knock.

It came again. Three raps, firm, patient. The kind of knock that said I know you're in there and I'm not leaving.

Skye walked to the door. She didn't look through the peephole. She already knew who it was. She could feel it, that familiar pressure in the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Kryptonian presence had a weight to it. Not physical. Something deeper. Something that made the hairs on her arms stand up and her heart beat a little faster.

She opened the door.

Kara stood in the hallway, backlit by the flickering fluorescent light. She was wearing black, a long coat over a fitted shirt, dark jeans, boots that looked like they could kick through a bank vault. Her hair was longer than Skye remembered, falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the light. She looked older. Harder. The softness around her eyes was gone, replaced by something sharp and watchful.

But her smile was the same. That crooked, almost shy smile that had always made Skye's chest ache.

"Hey," Kara said.

Skye didn't move. "No."

Kara's smile flickered, but didn't die. "No?"

"No way. I'm not getting involved with you again, Zor-El."

The name landed like a slap. Kara's jaw tightened, just for a second, then relaxed. She tilted her head, studying Skye the way she used to study crime scenes, looking for clues, for weaknesses, for the thing that would let her in.

"You look good," Kara said. "Different. But good."

"I look like someone who fixes computers for a living and doesn't want to be found."

"You're not hard to find."

"I know." Skye leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "That's the problem."

They stood there for a long moment, two women who'd once known each other's bodies better than their own, now separated by a threshold and three years of silence. Skye could smell Kara's perfume, something floral and faint, and underneath it the ozone scent that always clung to her skin. It made her want to step closer. She didn't.

"You're not going to invite me in?" Kara asked.

"Not even a little."

"I came a long way."

"I didn't ask you to."

Kara's eyes flickered, that blue going darker, and Skye felt a shiver run down her spine. There it was. The thing the texts had warned her about. Something bad. Something different. Kara had always been able to go cold, but this was different. This was cold with intent.

"I need to talk to you," Kara said. "About something important."

"Everything with you is important. That's the problem. You don't do small talk. You don't do casual. You show up at my door after three years and I'm supposed to what, make you tea and listen to your problems?"

"I made you tea once. You said it was terrible."

"It was terrible. You used too many leaves."

"I was nervous." Kara's voice softened, just a fraction. "I wanted to impress you."

Skye closed her eyes. This was the trap. This was always the trap. Kara would be soft and vulnerable and remind her of the good parts, the parts that had made her stay for five years, the parts that had made her think maybe she could have a normal life with a woman who could bench-press a building. And then something would happen. Something would remind Skye why she'd left.

"I can't do this," Skye said. "Whatever you need, find someone else. There are plenty of people who'd love to help Supergirl save the world."

"I'm not here as Supergirl."

"Then who are you here as?"

Kara stepped forward, one foot crossing the threshold, and Skye didn't stop her. She should have. She knew she should have. But Kara was close now, close enough that Skye could see the tiny scar above her eyebrow, the one she'd gotten in a fight with a rogue Kryptonian three years ago. Close enough that Skye could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched at her sides.

"I'm here as someone who loves you," Kara said. "Someone who never stopped."

"Love isn't enough."

"It was enough before."

"Before I watched you kill someone."

The words hung in the air between them. Kara didn't flinch. She didn't look away. She just stood there, that cold blue gaze fixed on Skye's face, and Skye felt the floor drop out from under her.

"He was going to destroy the city," Kara said. "He was going to kill thousands of people. I made a choice."

"You enjoyed it."

Silence. Long and heavy.

"I enjoyed stopping him," Kara said finally. "I didn't enjoy the killing. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Kara's eyes narrowed. "You've killed people, Daisy. Don't pretend you haven't."

The name hit Skye like a punch to the chest. She hadn't been Daisy in three years. She'd buried that name, buried the person who'd answered to it, buried the weight of everything Daisy Johnson had done. And Kara had just dug it up and thrown it in her face.

"Get out," Skye said.

"No."

"I said get out."

"I heard you." Kara stepped fully into the apartment, and the door swung shut behind her, closing with a click that sounded like a lock. "But I'm not leaving. Not until you hear me out."

Skye's hands curled into fists. She could feel the vibration building in her palms, that familiar hum of power she'd spent years learning to control. She could shake this whole building if she wanted to. She could shake Kara, throw her through a wall, send her flying into the street. It wouldn't hurt her, not really, but it would send a message.

She didn't do it. She wasn't sure why.

"Fine," Skye said. "Talk."

Kara looked around the apartment, taking in the workbench, the pile of computer parts, the single chair and the mattress on the floor that served as a bed. Her expression didn't change, but Skye could feel the judgment radiating off her.

"You live like this?"

"I live like someone who doesn't need much."

"You used to have a penthouse."

"I used to have a lot of things. Most of them were taken from me."

Kara's face softened, just a fraction. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't." Skye held up a hand. "Don't apologize. Don't do that thing where you pretend to understand. You don't. You never did."

"I tried."

"You tried to fix me. There's a difference."

Kara was quiet for a moment. Then she walked to the workbench, picked up Harold's motherboard, turned it over in her hands. "You're good at this."

"I'm good at a lot of things."

"You always were." Kara set the motherboard down, carefully, like it mattered. "That's why I need you."

Skye laughed. It came out bitter, sharp. "There it is. The real reason you're here. Not love. Not nostalgia. You need something."

"I need you."

"Same thing."

Kara turned to face her. The fluorescent light from the hallway was still flickering, casting strange shadows across her face. She looked tired, Skye realized. Tired in a way that went deeper than sleepless nights. Tired in a way that spoke of years of fighting, of losing, of carrying weight that should have crushed her.

"There's a war coming," Kara said. "Bigger than anything we've faced before. Bigger than the Kryptonians, bigger than the Inhumans, bigger than anything. And I can't fight it alone."

"You have an army. You have the Justice League. You have a whole planet of people who worship you."

"I have people who fear me. That's not the same."

"So you came to me because I don't fear you?"

Kara's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You've never feared me. That's why I love you."

Skye felt her chest tighten. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that Kara was still the woman she'd fallen in love with, the woman who'd held her through nightmares, who'd kissed her scars and told her they were beautiful, who'd promised to protect her from anything that tried to hurt her. But she'd seen the other side of Kara. The side that didn't hesitate. The side that made decisions with the cold precision of a surgeon.

"I'm not the same person I was," Skye said. "I don't have the fight in me anymore. I retired for a reason."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you're standing in my apartment asking me to go back to a life I barely survived."

"I'm asking you to come back to me."

The words hit harder than they should have. Skye felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of Kara. Not after everything.

"I can't," she said.

"You can."

"I won't."

Kara crossed the room in three steps, faster than Skye could track, and suddenly she was there, close enough to touch, close enough that Skye could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Kryptonian body temperature ran higher than human. Skye had always loved that, the way Kara felt like a furnace in bed, the way she could warm Skye's cold feet with a touch.

"Look at me," Kara said.

Skye looked.

"I'm not asking you to be Quake," Kara said. "I'm not asking you to be Daisy. I'm asking you to be Skye. The woman who chose her own name. The woman who built a life out of nothing. The woman who survived."

"Surviving isn't the same as living."

"No. It's not." Kara reached out, slowly, giving Skye time to pull away. She didn't. Kara's fingers brushed against Skye's cheek, feather-light, and Skye felt the tremor run through her whole body. "I want to give you a life. Not a mission. Not a war. A life."

"With you?"

"With me."

Skye closed her eyes. She could feel Kara's hand on her face, warm and solid, and she could feel the vibration humming in her own chest, a warning and a promise. She'd spent three years building walls. Three years telling herself she didn't need anyone. Three years pretending that the hole in her heart was something she could live with.

And now Kara was here, and the walls were crumbling, and Skye didn't know if she had the strength to rebuild them.

"I don't trust you," Skye said.

"I know."

"I don't trust myself around you."

"I know that too."

"So what makes you think this will work?"

Kara leaned in, her lips brushing against Skye's ear, her breath warm and steady. "Because you're still here. You haven't thrown me out. You haven't shaken me through a wall. You're standing here, letting me touch you, and we both know you could stop me if you wanted to."

Skye's breath caught in her throat.

"You want this," Kara whispered. "You want me. You've always wanted me. And I've always wanted you. That's not a weakness, Skye. That's the only thing that's ever been real."

Skye opened her eyes. Kara was so close that she could see the flecks of gold in her irises, the tiny imperfections that made her human despite everything. She could see the need in Kara's face, raw and unguarded, and she could feel her own need rising up to meet it.

"One night," Skye said. "One night, and then you leave."

Kara's smile was slow, dangerous. "One night," she agreed. "And then we'll see."

Skye knew it was a lie. She knew Kara had no intention of leaving, that one night would become two, that two would become a week, that a week would become forever. She knew she was walking into a trap, the same trap she'd escaped three years ago. But she was tired of running. She was tired of being alone. She was tired of pretending that she didn't still love the woman who'd broken her heart.

She reached up, grabbed Kara by the collar of her coat, and pulled her close.

"You're going to regret this," Skye said.

"Probably," Kara said. "But I've regretted worse."

Their lips met, and the world fell away.