Butterfly Pins
The first time had been by a devilishly handsome baldie on the verge of becoming a psychotic megalomaniac. He had pinned her onto soft velvet, labeled her name underneath her trapped form and stuck her in a glass case. He turned her this way and that as she lay helpless, trying to find the best way to dissect her. To pull her apart, figure out how she ticked. She didn't know why, to this day did not know what had spurred his interest. Sometimes it was tender inspection, others just gross violations. But he got bigger dreams and got bored, leaving her to struggle free from bonds he had tied her down with.
The second time happened without her even realizing it. Clark Kent had managed to thread her with pins and capture her with a smile that had distracted her. Why in the world this mild mannered farm boy wanted to keep her boxed up? But then when she discovered he was not really just a farm boy, she had stopped struggling so hard for her freedom. He had other friends, he didn't have to pick her, but she's who he chose to keep caged up tight. He, unlike Lex, actually let her come out and play from time to time, fanning that hope of something more. But some other bright new shiny thing caught his eye and he left her, expecting her to stay where she was, a favored toy that would be there when he came back.
And for a long time she waited, wilting under the lack of care, the sheer audacity of total abandonment. But somehow, without event trying, she was suddenly free of that prison. And while he tries to catch her again, setting his net with his easy grin and contrite apologies, she keeps her guard up, she knows to be wary.
The third time was someone she allowed to capture her. The harmless photog that was utterly devoted to her. Really, she thought she'd be in control this time. That while he may think he had her, she was the one with the reigns. But no, he was the same as the others. Only he put her on display for all the world to see, a pedestal of impossible heights where one bump would send her tumbling a long way down. And down she did fall.
The fourth time had immediately followed the third, had precipitated the end of the third. Davis, Doomsday, whatever the hell you wanted to call him. He had ripped her from that pedestal and gently laid her in a steel box where no one could see her. He was the worst kind of collector, so possessive and obsessive over his prize. Sometimes she wondered if it was even her that he treasured, maybe he just coveted everything.
And now, now, if she was pinned, she didn't know it. Her arms felt no strain from the constant need to fly free. He was patient and gentle and did not suffocate her. She was entirely bewildered by his behavior. It would be easy for him to hold her down, with obligations to the JLA, to him, to the mission. But he stays a distance far enough away to make her feel safe, room to breathe and savor the wind in her hair. And when he wants to be close, he takes to the wind with her, following whatever course she picks. They laugh together at everyone trapped below, caught up in their own misery of who are and what they should be. And he loves watching how high she can fly.