A continuation of Chapter 199 of The Girls We Wanna Kiss by queercapwriting , in which Alex and Maggie discuss race and privilege. Adrian is their creation, but Maggie's brother Eddy is referenced in my backstory fic Joyride. Tw for mentions of police brutality, racism, homophobia.

The only good thing about that night at the gay bar was that Maggie miraculously hadn't run into a single ex - because even National City only feels huge until you start fucking people here.

No - the club had well and truly been full of strangers, and Maggie had felt their eyes on her just as sharply as the burn of overpriced vodka at the back of her throat, as thickly as the tacky pop music she couldn't shake off. Because almost everyone in there was male, and absolutely everyone was white, and before she realised it she was drifting closer to James than Alex, shadowing him when he went to get drinks and she couldn't fake the enthusiasm of her dancing any longer. Thankfully it was him who commented on the specificity of the crowd, what lengthy list of hip hop music they'd both rather be listening to, and it was these conversations away from Alex that had gotten her through the night. She hadn't wanted her girlfriend – still in her shiny new world – to sense her discomfort, to pick up on the sideways looks she and James got hugging the wall together. But James had to mention it, and Maggie's face had flushed as Alex rambled an apology, saying she didn't realise, she didn't know, but Maggie had been too exhausted to explain that that was part of the problem.

When they'd gotten home, they'd had a tough conversation about race, about privilege, about how Maggie can't help but notice her difference in almost every room she's ever been in. Yet whenever Alex tried to bring it up later, tried to learn, her throat went tight as Maggie interrupted her - "Just forget it Danvers, I'm used to it, it's not your problem to fix."

Because Alex knew Maggie was a woman running from her own shadow, that she was all broken glass – beautiful, but sharp. She didn't like to talk about herself, and everything was "whatever", but Alex needed her to believe that she would love her through anything she was too scared to say.

It did come up, in bits and pieces over the following weeks – and each time, Alex internally scolded herself for her unintentional but vast blindness from the shelter she'd grown up in. When Alex teasingly called her "Margaret" while making dinner, Maggie had told her that her name was actually Magdalena, how the white kids at school would never forgive her for it. When Alex overheard a snippet of a phone call with her Aunt and said afterwards, "I didn't know you spoke Spanish", Maggie had corrected her by saying that it was Portuguese – that only her Dad's side spoke Spanish – and Alex felt too embarrassed by her error to ask where each of her parents were from. When she'd drop food to Maggie at the station and find her comforting a dark-skinned teenager in holding, Alex's stomach always clenched at how they'd sob in relief seeing Maggie at the door. When guys at the pinball bar would come up to ask Maggie in 100 ways where she was really from, because she just looked too beautifully exotic not to ask, Maggie would send them away with a snarky "What, do you need an address? Get outta here", before Alex could blink.

Then, about a week after her big brother – who Alex didn't know she had ("It's complicated, Danvers") – mailed her a box of home-made brigadeiros for her birthday, they were cuddling on the couch, Maggie tensing in her arms as the newsreader announced the shooting death of another Latino man by police, and Alex hadn't known what to say while Maggie pulled out her phone to text Eddy with shaking hands.

It wasn't until after she received his reply that Alex saw her bite her trembling lip, trying to make it "whatever", and held her close, close, close. And finally, Alex asked – about growing up Latina in Blue Springs, about what it felt like to be Latina now - all the while knowing she wasn't prepared to hear the answers. I may not understand, but I'm here to help you heal, she'd reminded her, and Maggie had bowed her head, squeezed her hand tight while she tried to find the courage to speak aloud the thoughts she'd been too scared to tell her exes.

Finally she said, barely audibly, "I don't…really know what that means, anymore."

"What?"

"To be Latina. To feel Latina."

Alex had nodded, but Alex didn't understand. So she held, she waited, trusting that Maggie would go on.

"You know what's messed up?" Maggie muttered after a while, her eyes bleary with unshed tears. "When I was a kid, I was so embarrassed by my family, by my skin, my name, our food, our language. But now, I wish I could have that back. Even just to taste my mom's cooking again."

"Maggie…"

"It was a long time ago," she said dismissively. "But when I was outed, I lost that culture. My parents… they told me I was turning my back on my heritage. That they made a mistake raising me here."

"Oh Maggie, that's not true."

"I know. But for so long, it felt like they were right. The only Latin people I knew were my extended family, and they cut me off. My parents cancelled my quincenera, I couldn't go to church anymore, my Aunt and I spent every holiday alone. The only time I felt Latina after that was when the white kids at school would give me hell. Or when my cousins would take me dancing."

"Dancing?" Alex probed, noticing Maggie's first hint of a smile since they'd started the conversation.

"Yeah," she chuckled dryly. "When I was 17, we'd sneak out and drive a few towns over to my oldest cousin's college. He and his friends would get a bunch of tequila and pump Spanish pop music all through the dorms and just go crazy. I'd never seen that many Latin kids ever in my life. But even when I got to college, part of me felt like I didn't belong with them. I was embarrassed to speak Spanish because I was so rusty. When I'd watch them go home to spend holidays with their families, or hear them joking about their crazy superstitious abuelas, it hurt. And after what my parents said, I was so scared to tell them I was gay. But then I'd go over to the LGBT centre on campus and nobody looked like me. Nobody understood me. Some people straight up didn't want me there. The white girls I dated didn't get it. I always thought the community would be more mixed, more accepting – but it almost felt like school again. And it's kind of just always been that way – since I moved up here I've drifted away from both of those communities. It's just easier not to try."

"Maggie, I'm so sorry -"

"Look, it is what it is. I've just got to do my own thing. Lucky I've got someone cute to do it all with, Danvers," she quipped, tilting her head in a dry smirk and swigging her beer.

Alex had let it go at the time, sensing that Maggie wanted to move on, but it felt as if Maggie had been told so many times that the world wasn't built for women like her – that she couldn't be Latina and lesbian, that she didn't deserve to have either let alone both – that part of her had accepted it as truth.

From then on, Alex tried to let Maggie know she didn't have to stifle herself like she had with other white women she'd dated. She started keeping tubs of dolce de leche in the fridge after she noticed stockpiles of it in Maggie's, made more of an effort to invite Vasquez to Kara's game nights, went to court with her on days off to support the wrongfully arrested kids of colour Maggie volunteered with at the National City Youth Legal Centre. There were endless internet visits for questions Alex was too embarrassed to ask, and Google Maps searches for where on earth her parents' home towns were (Brazil and Argentina, apparently), and weekly checks of the new "QPOC in NatCity" Facebook page. It was there that Alex first heard that QBar was hosting its first ever Latin Night in a couple of weeks to raise funds for the Sylvia Rivera Law Project.

She'd told Maggie to keep the night free, to dress sexy, that she'd pick her up and take her somewhere special. But now, heading over in the Uber, Alex's palms sweat against the leather as she wonders if this will all backfire, if she'll cause Maggie to clam up just when she was starting to let herself breathe. Because God, she'll never forgive herself if this turns into Valentine's Day: The Sequel.

Any thoughts of this – any thoughts at all, for that matter – vanish as soon as she reaches her door, Maggie grinning cheekily knowing that she's the reason Alex wore a skirt tonight. "Damn," Maggie breathes, taking her in. "You really brought your A game, Danvers."

Alex laughs, shrugs. "I try."

When she kisses her, Maggie smiles against her mouth. "No more till your tell me where we're going."

"Come on," Alex groans, leaning into a giggling but evasive Maggie.

"Just tell me."

"Not happening," Alex asserts, pulling away with a smirk and starting to head down the steps. "You're not that irresistible anyway. What, do you think you're God's gift to women or something?"

"Wait, wait," Maggie laughs, catching up to her to hold her hand on the way down, tugging Alex close for a deeper, sweeter kiss than their first. "And I am, by the way."

"What?"

"God's gift to women. Should know that by now, Danvers."

"Think you're head's gonna fit through the door tonight, Sawyer?" she jokes, giving her a playful nudge as they head for the car. But soon enough the nerves start creeping back, and she barely breathes the whole way to the club.

When they step out, Alex feels Maggie still as she sees that the line is halfway down the block, and all she can hear is the crowd's loud, vibrant bubble of Spanish and Portuguese and English over the Oi Oi Ois of 'Danza Kuduro' pumping out the door. "Alex…"

"Maggie…" she teases back, grinning.

But Alex's smile falters, because Maggie still hasn't moved – she can only look past Alex to scan the crowd again, again, as if they'll disappear if she blinks, and God, there almost isn't a single person who doesn't look like her. "Alex, what is this?"

Alex comes directly to her and takes her hand. Her touch is warm and smooth, and the tips of her fingers trace a light circle on Maggie's palm. "The gay bar decided to hold a Latin Night. Apparently people have been asking them to start one for a while."

"There's so many," Maggie breathes, her lip trembles, and Alex squeezes her hand, wondering if she's made a mistake. Alex has never seen her face like this. Not even when Eddy calls. She's all soft.

"I'm sorry, Maggie – I didn't mean to put you on the spot. We don't have to go in, I just thought -"

"No, Alex, I just…" she starts to say, but she notices a dark-skinned butch woman in the crowd lovingly run a hand through her girlfriend's hair right before she kisses her, and it snatches her by the lungs. Because Maggie realises she's never seen queer Latina girls so openly in love before. Girls who could be both.

Her head drops, her shoulders curl inward, and Alex brings her straight into her arms to press a kiss into her hair. Alex's warm autumn jacket smells like rain, and Maggie swallows tears, but she doesn't have to say anything. Because Alex knows – Alex can feel in the subtle tremble of her skin – that Maggie has never had a girlfriend think to research this before, never been in a crowd where she isn't the only woman of colour or the only queer woman, never seen so many people who look like her and speak like her and dance like her and love like her.

When she's ready, she lifts her head to kiss Alex in equal measures of soft and hard, needing to show her how grateful she is, how loved Alex makes her feel, even when she doesn't always understand. Alex's hands anchor her, and Maggie clasps her neck, and leans into her heat, and just for a moment, the hurt is easy.

"Thank you," she breathes, and a tear tumbles down her cheek without permission, into Alex's hand.

"You deserve it, beautiful. You all do," Alex responds, glancing around the crowd. And even though she catches herself feeling unusual being the odd one out – something she realises now that Maggie must feel every day – she too can't help but smile at the groups of black and brown queer kids who are already dancing like crazy in the line, because clearly they've needed this just as much as Maggie. "Do you feel like going in?"

"With a girl like you? How could I resist, Danvers?" Maggie teases, kissing her again before taking her hand to go wait in line. Finally, Alex starts to see her ease, shifting impatiently on her feet and trembling into every kiss. Alex tries to warm her in her arms as they wait, shielding her from the autumn air. But when they finally reach the door, Alex notices Maggie lower her eyes as security pat her down, as a burly man waves a metal detector over her clothes, because Orlando might be on the other side of the country but it's never felt closer than it has this last year. Especially on Latin Night.

But in the set of Maggie's jaw, Alex sees determination, because she deserves to be here. She deserves to exist. And she's going to dance – inviolable and free.

It's soon in the back of her mind as the music and crowd hit them in one rush, and instantly, without knowing anyone in the room, Maggie feels held. Safe. Home.

Alex can't take her eyes off the woman she loves – the way Maggie looks like she almost wants to cry again when the older drag queen scanning tickets calls her "mija", how her eyes go wide when she recognises a classic she and her cousins danced to as teenagers, the way she beams the first time the bartender asks her - in Spanish - what she'd like. Maggie orders them caipirinhas, the first cocktail Alex has ever seen her drink. Her eyes roll back at the taste as she groans, "Thank God, I can never find places that make these right", and all night through the sweat of the crowd, Alex savours the cool lime and sugarcane liquor on Maggie's lips.

The music has the packed club roaring with energetic, rolling beats and an echo of dancers singing along to every chorus – the Thursday night crowd putting Saturdays to shame. There are a few artists Alex recognises – her dancing coming a little easier when she hears some JLo or Daddy Yankee or Shakira from her pre-J'onn party girl days – but for the most part, this is Maggie's world. When Alex doesn't recognise half the English music, Maggie rattles off a list of QPOC rappers who Adrian's obsessed with – Mykki Blanko, Le1f, Cakes da Killa, Angel Haze – and notes that as soon as he's 21 she has to bring him to one of these.

But the best songs are the ones Alex can't understand. Because even though she's forgotten all of her elementary school Spanish, and doesn't understand a word of Portuguese, she can always tell when the lyrics of a song are getting particularly racy – because Maggie's smile is slyer, her hips sway that extra few degrees further, her hands pray their way down Alex's chest a little slower. And she can't help but laugh along whenever Maggie throws her head back in a heady rush of laughter and exclaims, "God, this song is dirty" but refuses to tell Alex what the words mean.

She's never seen Maggie giggle into their kisses quite this much, look so giddy, so light, and Alex gets the sense that after all this time Maggie's been making her feel like a kid again, she's only just now getting to return the favour.

But as the night goes on, and they're dancing back to chest to a remix of Rihanna's 'Te Amo', there's nothing childish about what they do. With every drink, Maggie's kisses taste of cool lime and white heat, every sway of her hips back into Alex's making her think of all the unholiest things. And maybe wearing a skirt tonight was Alex's best and worst idea ever, because soon enough they've gone from being that couple who takes yoga classes on Sundays to that couple making out against the wall of the club, Alex's hands under Maggie's halter top, nails dragging over her back. Maggie's hand sneaking up her thigh in one breathless slide, stopping just shy of where Alex wants her most. Maggie smirking, living for the heat of her, for the rush of Alex's whimper against her neck as she tries to arch off the wall into her hand.

It's a good thing that they call last drinks then, because neither woman knows how much longer they can keep themselves away from the other. They say goodbye to their new favourite bartender, Simón – a bright Venezuelan exchange student not much older than Adrian, glitter all through his hair - with one last round of caipirinhas and kisses on each cheek. Maggie leaves some scrawled Portuguese on a napkin for the staff – "Obrigada, QBar - este local é lindo! Um beijo!" – followed by a messy string of x's and o's. "God, I'm drunk," she giggles, feeling her hand slide across the paper faster than her head. Then she turns to Alex, a breath away from her lips. "You should get me out of here."

Alex smirks, keeps herself at a teasing distance. "I should, should I?"

Maggie's only response is to tug her closer, to begin building a staircase of open-mouthed kisses up her neck, and Alex loses focus, finds herself weak. Behind them, Simón groans in feigned frustration, "Ay, porque no buscan una habitación?", causing Maggie to break from the kiss in a swell of laughter. Alex marvels at the way that she's moved between three languages in thirty seconds, how young and free she looks when she laughs here, and feels her heart swell with a pride as intense as pain.

For Maggie, stepping back onto the street feels like smashing a fist into an old wound, the heat of the club draining from her in a rush of blood to the toes. She clenches Alex's hand in the Uber home, but finds she can't look at her, focusing on the city lights skimming past the window. But Alex knows her, and she presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, whispers It's OK darling, we'll come back, I promise.

Maggie nods, swallows tears, knows they'll have to talk about this in the morning, but tonight – tonight – she just wants to love her. At the door of Alex's apartment, Maggie's hands do tender violence to her clothes, slowly tugging her to the bedroom, kissing her so fiercely and sweetly that Alex's heart is left thundering in her chest, her belly, her bones. Every part of Alex surges to meet her, longing to be encased in the warmth and the smell and the taste of her. But she denies herself, laying Maggie down and telling her that this night is for her, all for her. Maggie can't help but weep each time she comes, whimpering Alex's name in a wet choke, not knowing how she found someone to love her this hard or why she deserved it. But Alex cradles her through it – peppers her cheeks with kisses and murmurs how much she loves her, loves her, loves her – her arms around her steady and unwavering.

Afterwards, when Alex returns from the bathroom, Maggie is already asleep, naked and spent and tangled adorably in the sheets like she's been rolling in them trying to find her. Alex runs a hand through her love's hair – gently enough so she won't wake up – wondering with her own wrecked past, with all her killings and unforgivable failures, what the hell she ever did to up so god damn lucky.

Smiling a little to herself, Alex digs one of their ticket stubs out of her jacket on the floor and writes Te amo, princesa xxoo in the blank space. Tacks it to the wall by Maggie's head, so it'll be the first – well, maybe the second – thing she sees in the morning. So she'll wake, and remember how it felt to dance surrounded by a love, a family, she's always longed for but never found - that she'd never believed she deserved. So she'll wake, and know it hadn't been a dream.

Thanks for reading! I'm newly on tumblr so if you're around, come say hi : ) jiemba