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All things considered, it’s not a bad landing.
THUMP!
“Ow…”
Okay—so, maybe it’s more bad than good. In Kara’s defense, not only is she still pretty drunk, but her hangover is already setting in. Don’t fly drunk, yada-yada. It doesn’t even actually hurt—saying “ow” is just another one of those Earth reflexes Kara’s developed against her will. She’s confident she picked it up from Kal—who has the habit of saying “ow,” “sorry!” and “gosh I didn't see you there!” every time he so much as bumps into a fucking doorway.
Well—let’s just say Kara’s own reflexes are a bit more… creative than “gosh I am so sorry!”
Kara blinks, lifting her face up from where it’s carved a huge crater in the pavement. A breeze whips by, dragging her hair and coat with it, and she sighs as she pushes herself up.
If she’s being entirely honest, she has no clue where she is right now. In her drunken plummet away from her crashing ship—she’d mostly been aiming for the general area of Metropolis, and not anywhere really… specific.
For a moment everything spins. Then it settles. Ah, Earth’s yellow sun is already working its magic—she can feel her drunkenness melting away by the second. The hangover? That’s another story. It lingers longer, heavier—but it’ll be gone by tomorrow. It always is.
Even when Kara wishes she could suffer in the tug of it longer. Maybe then she’d feel the slightest bit as human as Kal claims to be. But Kara doesn’t really want that, not deep down. She’s pretty damn content being Kryptonian—even if Kal isn’t. Besides, why else does she spend most of her time getting off this damn planet?
This is just a pit stop. Like always.
This is Kara’s game plan:
Step One: Grab some Earth snacks—because credit, where it’s due, humans know their fucking food. Better than most planets she hops between, anyway.
Step Two: Pick up Krypto—and Kara would say she hopes he hasn’t caused too much trouble whilst she was gone. You know, if she were a responsible pet owner.
…But Kara hopes he caused as much chaos as possible and more. She wonders if he finally chewed up Kal’s fancy chair like she’d been goading him too last time she was here, dropping him off.
Oh—and of course…
Step Three: Spend some time with her dear cousin. Not because she wants to, but because Kal gets this sad look every time she jets off again. It’s just easier after giving him some of her time, makes her departure easier on her or something. You know—like a dog.
It has nothing to do with the fact she’s missed him.
Because Kara hasn’t!
Truthfully…
He’s just a big baby who can’t go an Earth week without her. Which, frankly, is really embarrassing considering Earth weeks are super fucking short in the grand scheme of things. Big baby Kal.
That’s all.
It’s still dark—the sky cluttered with dying stars—and that means Kara’s going to stay on the tilting edge of being drunk a little while longer. She stumbles through the empty streets, blinking at the quiet closing in around her.
It’s probably for the best that no one is around to see her.
She highly doubts Kal would be thrilled if Metropolis' next big news story was: New Super in town, found drunk off her ass and smashing giant holes into the sidewalk downtown—with her face!
Though… that does sound kind of fun.
No! Nope. She came here to execute a plan. A very good plan that involves spending as little time on this planet as possible. Getting caught up in a news story is the last thing she needs.
Besides, she might actually puke if Clark Kent—which, by the way, she still thinks is a dumb name; like, is Kal-El not good enough for him? Psh—wrote some puff piece about her. Kara can handle her own reputation, thank you very much!
Anyway—dog. She came here for her dog.
PHEWITTT!
Hm. Kara lowers her fingers from her mouth. The whistle echoes down the street, but no bounding footsteps, no reckless flying, no excited barking. Yeah, looks like neither Krypto nor Kal is anywhere nearby. Which… fine. She did just land in some random-ass street. Maybe she could’ve guessed that.
“Hey!” A window in one of the surrounding high-rises slams open. THUD. “Keep it down! I’m trying to sleep here!”
Kara rolls her eyes, tilting her head back to meet the stranger’s glare.
“I’m sure yelling at me is really helping keep the damn street quiet!” she shouts back, already spinning on her heel to stumble onward.
“You’re rude!” the person yells. “You know that?”
Kara lifts a middle finger behind her. “You’re about the fiftieth person to say that today, asshole!” she shouts over her shoulder.
With a sigh, she pushes off the ground. No use fucking around any longer. As she shoots off in what she hopes is the general direction of Kal’s apartment—or at least what her foggy memory tells her is that direction—a distant “What the fuck?” echoes behind her.
Kara has to suppress a snicker.
Ah, humans. So simple.
No wonder they’re so dazzled by her cousin.
“Kal!” Kara calls out as she stumbles into the apartment—only just avoiding ripping the door off its hinges. She winces, gently setting it back, pretending not to see the slight crack in the wood.
Eh—it’s fine.
“I’m baack—”
WHOOSH!
Kara ducks, narrowly avoiding the swing of a bat. She catches it easily, the metal warping beneath her grip, and she pins her assailant to the wall. Not hard enough to hurt—don’t worry, Kara knows humans are terribly fragile—but the woman still yelps, clawing at her arm.
“Who are you?” Kara asks, brow raised as she surveys her attacker.
She doesn’t recognize her. Kara’s confident she’d remember someone so… foolhardy. Yeah, that’s a nice word for it.
“Let go of me!” the woman demands, still tugging at Kara’s coat sleeve.
It takes no effort to hold her—just one arm pressed lightly across her collarbone. Still, judging by the crack in the wall behind her, maybe Kara hit harder than she meant to. Shit. Damn drunken uselessness. This is why it’s probably a good thing Kara can only get drunk off-planet.
“Not until you tell me who you are,” Kara says, leaning back a bit to meet the woman’s gaze. She doesn’t seem all that scared—which is new, Kara has to admit. “And what are you doing loitering in my cousin’s apartment,” she adds, eyeing the dented bat as it lands with a rattle on the floor. “With a bat?”
“Cousin?” the woman chokes out, the fight draining from her. She doesn’t let go of Kara’s sleeve, but she stops pulling, brows furrowed. “I didn’t know Clark had a cousin…”
Kara sighs and releases her. Figures. Another one of Kal’s human friends. Probably someone he’s tried to introduce her to before, and she staunchly rejected. Kara doesn’t need friends—especially not the sleazy journalist types Kal surrounds himself with. Kara’s got all the sleaze she needs bar-hopping across the galaxy—way more than Kal and his little Earth-boy brain could imagine.
“I wasn’t aware the Kent’s had any family besides Clark left,” the woman says. Yep, definitely a journalist. Kara can feel a headache brewing—or maybe that’s just the hangover. “Why hasn’t he mentioned you before?”
“I’m too cool. He’s embarrassed ’cause everyone compares him to me,” Kara says with a shrug, spinning into the kitchen.
She rummages through the cupboards, muttering to herself as boxes, cans, and jars rattle under her careless hands. Her boots lift off the ground as she hovers lazily in place, stretching toward the higher shelves.
Damn Kal and his stupid long legs. Why does he always put the good stuff on the top shelf like he’s trying to hide it from her? As if that’s ever worked. She could reach the moon if she wanted to—height's never been her problem. Still, it’s annoying. Like every little thing in this apartment is calibrated for someone else.
She pushes aside a bag of rice, an unopened box of protein bars (gross), and what looks suspiciously like one of his mom’s jams. She makes a face and tosses it aside. Then her hand pauses on a familiar jar near the back.
Her body stills.
She freezes in place, hovering mid-air, fingers hovering just above the glass.
Shit—Kal has a secret identity. How’d she forget about that?
“Wait… Did Kal tell you about—?”
“The Superman thing?” the woman interrupts, already sitting at one of the kitchen stools. “Yeah—I know. So, I guess you’re a Kryptonian relative and not—?”
“Enough with the questions,” Kara groans, yanking a half-empty jar of chunky peanut butter from the back of a cabinet. “Ah-hah—there you are!”
Next she sets her sights on a spoon. Mainly because the last time she licked it out the jar, Kal threatened to ban her from his place—which he never would, by the way. Too much of a softie. A flicker of memory cuts through the haze of hangover and hunger—Kal’s voice, laughing, fake-stern:
“What the hay, Kara? Only dogs eat like that!”
And that didn’t make much sense to Kara. Krypto’s never been a fan of peanut butter, and he definitely doesn’t lick it out the jar. Still, she can adhere to Kal’s rules sometimes. But only sometimes—alright?
“I thought all the Kryptonian’s died when the planet was destroyed,” the woman says then, clearly having zero ability to read the room. And Kara’s not gonna start claiming she’s ever been particularly good at that—but come on lady… “How can I be sure you’re who you say you are?”
Kara sighs and turns.
She switches the jar to her other hand and tugs free the buttons of her coat, revealing her suit underneath. And the House of El family crest, too. Though, Kara’s sure this woman knows it as the Superman logo.
Which annoys Kara to no end.
Humans…
“Oh.” The woman blinks. But of course, more questions follow. “So you’re… Superwoman, then?”
“Supergirl, I guess,” Kara answers, finally finding a spoon. She yanks several out in one go, dropping the rest across the counter. It’s fine—she’ll clean it up later. Probably. Maybe… “But my real name is Kara Zor-El,” she says, sitting down beside the woman and digging into the jar.
“I’m Lois,” the woman says, holding out a hand. Kara eyes it, spoon in her mouth, then raises a brow. Lois quickly withdraws her hand as Kara scoops another wad from the jar. “I’m Clark’s…” she trails off for a moment, grimacing at Kara’s spoon-licking. “Partner?”
“I didn’t know Kal had a girlfriend,” Kara says with a laugh, licking the spoon clean and peering back into the jar. Damn—empty. She’ll have to stock up on some more snacks after all… “You’re pretty, though. Good to know his brain isn’t completely broken.”
“I’m not his girlfriend. That word seems… immature,” Lois says, then adding, “and thank you? I think?”
“Look, Lana—”
“Lois.”
“Whatever.” Kara groans, rising from her seat. “Where’s Kal? I’m just here to pick up my dog. Seen him? White, adorable—”
“And refuses to follow commands?” Lois finishes.
“Ah, so you have met him!”
“You could say that,” she says, still eyeing Kara with an edge of suspicion. “So, Krypto’s your dog?”
Kara hums, rummaging again. She’s really hoping Kal has more snacks—she’s not in the mood for another stop. Plans await. Busy, busy, you know?
“I have a lot of faith in Kal as a babysitter,” she says. “I hope he didn’t get Krypto, like, in massive danger?”
“Uh, well…”
“I’m sure Krypto got himself into enough trouble by himself,” she continues with a laugh—grabbing a bag of chips from another cupboard. Flaming Hot. Eh, might be good. “Man, I love that dog.”
“Why do you call Clark that?” Lois asks suddenly. Kara rips open the bag. POP! A wave of artificial flavor hits her. Just what she needs. “Kal,” she clarifies, “is it a nickname of some sort?”
“It’s his name, dude,” Kara says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She stuffs a chip into her mouth. It’s not as crunchy as she expects, melting on her tongue. Weird. Still, she grabs another handful. “You call him Clark, I call him Kal.” She rolls her eyes mid-chew, spraying crumbs across the kitchen tiles. So much for her cleanup promises. “Whatever. Can we not get into the whole family history thing right now?”
“You’re defensive,” Lois notes.
“What an astute observation,” Kara says dryly, flicking her eyes toward Lois with a grin that’s somewhere between amused and annoyed.
She swallows the last of the chips in her mouth—barely—and tries to round the corner into the living room like a person who hasn’t had three too many shots of alien tequila. It goes… poorly. Her foot catches on the edge of the rug—or maybe the floor shifted, she’ll blame gravity later—and she stumbles forward, arms flailing out like a drunk bird trying to take flight.
“Whoa—holy shit!” she yelps, windmilling slightly before slamming her palm against the wall to stop herself from fully face-planting.
The bag of chips goes flying, bouncing off a chair and hitting the floor with a sad crunch. Kara blinks, then starts laughing—quiet at first, then full-bodied.
“That was almost majestic,” she wheezes, resting her forehead against the wall and giving it a fond pat like it just saved her life. “Thank you, wall. You’re the real hero here.”
Behind her, Lois mutters something under her breath, and Kara hears the unmistakable sound of someone trying not to laugh but also deeply judging her life choices.
“Relax,” Kara adds, not looking back. “I do all my best work mildly concussed.”
“Are you… drunk?” Lois asks, still trailing her.
“Little bit,” Kara replies, holding up her fingers with the tiniest gap. Wait—is she doing the gap right? “Tiny… itsy bit.”
“I thought Kryptonians couldn’t get drunk?”
“Ah, you’ve been studying! Kal picked a smart one—that’s also surprising.” Kara rests her chin on her shoulder to meet Lois’s gaze. “We can get drunk on planets with red suns—our power goes boop.”
“Boop?” Lois repeats, on her heels as they fully step into the living room for real now. “Wait—so that’s where you’ve been all week? On a red sun planet?”
“Yep!” she says—popping the ‘P.’
“So that’s why Clark said it was a fostering situation,” Lois mutters to herself. “Krypto’s an unruly dog… like his owner, I presume?”
“Oof.” Kara collapses onto the sofa.“Hah, understatement. The real trick is most of his commands are in Kryptonian—and Kal can’t speak any of it.”
Lois stands over Kara, peering down at where she’s melting into the sofa, brows knitted. “Seems like he doesn’t respond no matter the language,” she says. “You don’t really seem like the tough love type.”
“I can be tough!” Kara protests, flexing her arm. It doesn’t show off much—her coat sleeve is too flowy and oversized to let any definition flare. “Eh, trust me, I’m all muscle under here.”
“I’m sure…”
Kara slouches deeper into the couch, letting her head lull back and her limbs sprawl —like she’s trying to merge in with the furniture. Kal might be a sucker, but damn, he can pick out a good sofa.
“‘M just gonna…” she sighs, foot landing on the deflated chip bag on the floor. It rustles beneath her, half-crushed and probably half-empty too. Kara’s still starving, but the pounding in her skull is making sleep sound better than food right now. “Have a little… yeah…”
Lois stays standing—arms crossed, the picture of disapproval. At least, that’s the energy Kara’s picking up on, as she cracks an eye back open. Her presence is just… distracting. How’s a girl supposed to fall into a hangover nap with all that judgment hovering nearby?
Except, maybe it’s not judgment at all. Maybe something closer to concern. Not exactly like Kal’s concern—less coddling, more observant. Still, there's something familiar in it.
“Y’know,” Lois says carefully, stepping just a little closer.
Kara catches the way her shoulders relax—her chest heaving with each steady breath. It’s so human it makes her sick—the beat of her heart, everything about this whole planet. It’s why she can hardly stand to spend so much time here.
“For someone with superpowers, you fall into a lot of furniture.”
Kara smirks, eyelids fluttering closed again. “Yeah, well… Gravity’s a bitch, especially when I’ve got a blood-alcohol level higher than your yellow sun can manage quickly.”
“So you’re hungover,” Lois deduces, stepping closer still. “Not drunk-drunk.”
It falls silent then—or as silent as it can be. Still, Kara’s ears twitch, picking up even the smallest of noises. The city is never quiet. Not really. Not even now. The soft scrape of Lois’s sneakers, the buzz of neon outside, the far-off murmur of a couple arguing two floors down. A cat yowls somewhere in the dark.
She misses the silence. There’s never been a quiet like Krypton’s. She doubts she’ll ever hear anything close to it again.
“Is that why you’ve been gone?” Lois asks. “You needed to get drunk on a red sun and vanish for a week?”
“Wow.” Kara snorts, reluctantly peeling her eyes back open. Lois hasn’t moved. And somehow, her looming presence is less annoying than Kara wants it to be. “The investigative journalist just cracked the case—congrats, dude.”
Another pause. Softer this time, almost purposeful. Kara can hear the shudder of Lois’ words before she speaks them. Or maybe that's just her imagination.
“Clark was worried,” Lois adds. “He never said it out loud, but… it’s obvious now. The way he talked about Krypto. It was about you.”
Kara’s smirk falters, just slightly. The sentimental shift makes her uncomfortable, and she shuffles on the sofa. She sits up slightly, pressing her hands down to the couch cushions beneath her. She lets her fingers curl into it a little, feeling the fabric fray under even the most delicate of touches.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “He’s always worried.”
Lois tilts her head—like she’s studying Kara. Looking for answers beneath her words. Kara stares back, unflinching.
“And you always run off anyway.”
“Not always.” Kara shifts, tossing an arm over her eyes—pressing the bridge of her nose to the crook of her elbow. “Just… most of the time. I guess.”
Lois doesn’t press, but there’s something about her silence that feels… expectant. It’s definitely a journalist thing—which pisses Kara off even more. But it’s like she’s giving Kara the space to speak, instead of pushing for answers. It’s disarming—and she doesn’t like it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kara mumbles into her sleeve. “Like you’re waiting for me to break into some emotional monologue. I’m not about to cry on your shoulder, if that’s what you’re angling for.”
Lois stays quiet.
“You’re the word kind of journalist,” Kara adds, groaning as she shifts again, restless. “The kind that doesn’t ask the question—you just… hover. It’s creepy.”
Still, Lois says nothing.
Kara exhales sharply, only half-annoyed. “Fuck, you’re good at this.”
Her fingers twitch against the arm of the couch. She almost makes another joke—something biting, that’ll perfectly deflect from whatever answer Lois is looking for. But… When she opens her mouth, she doesn’t find one. Her voice comes out quiet instead.
“He means well,” she admits, exhaling slowly, like that might help her at all. “Kal just doesn’t get it.”
“Get it?” Lois asks softly, lifting a brow.
“What it’s like,” Kara mutters. “To remember where you came from—what we both left behind… For him it’s so easy to smile for cameras and wave, saving the day as Earth’s fancy, shiny mascot. He belongs here, he has for a long time. And I…”
She shudders at that—the thought of having the whole world’s eyes on her… It’s why, unlike Kal and his bombastic presence, Kara likes to keep to herself. Keep away from Earth at all. The quiet hangs between them, and Kara can’t stand it. She does her best to tune out the overwhelming noise.
“Kal’s lucky,” she mutters. “He was too young to remember. For me? It’s…”
Kara stops, forces herself to. No. She’s not doing this. That grief lives in a box, locked away. She’s not opening it. These days the wound feels as fresh as the day she landed, and she hates it.
Fuck.
“It’s a weird world,” Kara says at last, lifting her arm off her face and blinking up at the ceiling. It’s cast in strange shadows, light from the city outside Kal’s giant windows dancing across the white. She sighs, puffing out her cheeks. “I’m just trying to live in it, I guess.”
Lois moves to sit on the edge of the coffee table. Opposite Kara—but not close, not too far either.
“I think I can understand that,” she says softly.
Kara turns her head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. “What—are you telling me you lost your home planet too?”
“No,” Lois says with a laugh, shaking her head—hair falling slightly in front of her face. She smiles at Kara like maybe she could get it. Or maybe it’s that journalistic charm, the type of smile she’ll know will get Kara to give her the answers she wants. “But I did fall in love with Superman. He’s got this way of believing in people—even when they don’t deserve it. Drives me nuts.”
For a moment Kara stares, then snorts.
“Rao to that,” she murmurs, easing back into the couch like she could vanish into it.
Her eyes track the skyline—glass towers and endless lights, a city that’s never quite made room for her.
“It’s my birthday today, you know?” she says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the hum of the fridge.
“I... I didn’t know that,” Lois says, surprise bleeding into her voice.
Kara doesn’t have to look to picture the expression—eyes wide, brows lifted, maybe even a blink of guilt.
“Happy birthday, Kara,” Lois adds, softer this time. “How old are you?”
Kara doesn’t respond at first. Her eyes drift shut, a quiet breath leaving her lips as sleep starts to pull. Her shoulders relax against the cushions beneath her.
“Twenty-one,” she murmurs. “On paper.”
A longer pause follows—thick, stretched. Not empty, but weighted.
Kara’s fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the cushion beneath her, as if grounding herself. She almost leaves it there, almost letting silence be the answer, but something aches in her throat.
“Technically?” she adds, voice quieter. “I don’t know anymore. I’ve outlived everything I was meant to become.”
Her brows twitch together, barely. A flicker of something—fatigue, confusion, maybe even grief. The kind that creeps in when you’re too tired to hold it off.
She waits. For the obvious follow-up. The “What do you mean?” or the “How old, exactly?” Because that’s always what comes next. Humans need things to make sense. Numbers. Labels. Timelines.
But Lois doesn’t ask.
“You’re not what I expected,” Lois says after a beat, her voice low—not judging, just... honest. “Superman’s cousin—I thought you’d be…”
Kara cracks one eye open, mouth tilting into a tired smirk.
“The world’s backup boy scout—but this time in a skirt?”
“Yeah.” Lois lets out a soft breath that might be a laugh “Something like that.”
Kara hums in response, but it’s not amused this time. Not even close. Her gaze drifts toward the ceiling. The shadows up there shift and ripple in rhythm with the city’s pulse outside—streetlights blinking, traffic crawling, life going on without her.
“They had so many plans for me,” she says, more to herself than to Lois. “Back home. Back on Krypton. I was supposed to grow into something... important.”
She swallows hard.
“And now I’m here. I’m twenty-one, and I’m just...” She trails off. Her voice sounds smaller than it should, for someone with a history as big as hers. “Not that. Not important at all.”
Lois doesn’t say anything. Maybe she knows there’s nothing to say.
“Everyone looks at me and sees some legacy. Some extension of him.” Her voice curls, bitter at the edge. “But I was never meant to be Superman’s cousin. I was supposed to be... Kara.” She exhales, shaky, the sound of it rippling through her throat. “And I don’t know who that is.”
Another pause. The imperfect quiet presses in—not heavy, but close.
“I’m not what I expected either,” Kara admits with some finality, voice trailing off.
Lois still doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She just sits there, watching Kara start to doze off.
“Still not gonna cry on your shoulder,” Kara mutters sleepily, almost an after-thought.
“Didn’t ask you to,” Lois replies softly, her voice more a breath than anything else.
And then, Kara sinks toward sleep, even as the city refuses to go quiet.
She hears everything—Lois’s steady heartbeat. Laughter through the walls. A cat somewhere down the block. The groan of a truck, the flickering kitchen light, the hum of the fridge. A door creaking open seven—or maybe six—floors below.
The sounds never stop. They never have.
But this time, she doesn’t fight them. This time, she lets them blur.
And somehow, sleep follows.
Kara wakes up the way she usually does.
With a dog’s tongue dragging across her face.
“Dude—” she chokes out, jerking upright on the sofa as a wet nose presses to her cheek. “Krypto!”
He’s all over her—tail wagging like a whip, tongue flailing with enthusiasm, weight pressed against her like he thinks he’s still the size of a puppy. Kara flails back, half-laughing, half-protesting as she tries to shield her face.
“Okay, okay—cut it out!” she laughs, finally catching hold of him.
She pulls him close, cradling him like a too-big, too-hyper baby. Krypto resists, of course—he always does—but she manages to hold him steady, even with the sluggish ache of sleep still in her limbs and the dull pulse of a hangover throbbing somewhere behind her eyes.
She presses her forehead to his and sighs. “Missed you, too.”
After a moment, she lets go, and Krypto immediately flings himself off the couch with a THUD, slamming into the living room window with all the grace of a cannonball. Thankfully, not hard enough to break it—Kal would freak out otherwise.
The dog zips out of the room like a blur.
A quiet throat-clear pulls her attention up.
Kara blinks. Kal stands in the doorway, dressed in his human clothes—jeans, soft white T-shirt—but the red and blue of his suit is still visible at the collar. He doesn’t say anything right away, just smiles like he’s trying not to.The kind of smile Kara recognizes.
“Morning,” he says, stepping into the room, clearly doing his best to keep the excitement out of his voice. He’s just like Krypto, that way. If Kal had a tail, it’d be wagging nonstop. “You sleep okay?”
Kara hums, stretching. A blanket slides off her shoulders. She blinks down at it, then kicks a small plastic bucket at her feet.
She squints. “Was this for me?”
Kal grins sheepishly. “Lois thought you might need it.”
Figures.
“You’ve got a good couch,” Kara offers with a shrug, pulling the blanket tighter for a second before dropping it onto the cushions beside her.
She glances back up and raises a brow when Kal takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Same spot Lois sat last night. Kara has to bite back a smirk. Matching body language. Cute. Weird. Creepy.
“Was the blanket you?” she asks, flicking the edge of it with her fingers.
Kal shakes his head. “That was all Lois,” he says, and yep—he’s smitten. Gross. “She said you two had a good talk.”
“Ugh. I hate journalists,” Kara mutters, dragging both palms down her face. “Where is she? Gone home?”
Kal shakes his head again, thumbing over his shoulder. “Still asleep. I just got up.”
“You two share a bed?” Kara asks, grimacing. “Double gross.”
“You’re gross,” Kal fires back, nudging her shoulder with the palm of his hand. “You smell like ten kinds of alien liquor, your jacket’s half-destroyed, and there’s a mystery stain on your suit I really don’t want to ask about.”
Kara rolls her eyes and shoves him—harder than he did, obviously. He rocks back on the coffee table with a startled grunt, heels smacking against the wood.
“Wow. Bullying your fragile, hungover younger cousin?” she says. “Shame on you. What would the humans think, Kal?”
“You’re older than me, Kara.”
“Only when it suits me,” she says with a grin. “Like, say I need to order you around? Then I’m older.”
Kal laughs, brushing invisible dust off his shirt. He glances around the room, spotting the crumpled chip bag by the couch. He picks it up, lifts a brow.
“Were you eating Lois’s chips?”
Kara squints at the bag like she’s never seen it before. “Those were hers?”
“I don’t eat junk food,” Kal says with a shrug. “Most of the snacks here are for Lois. Or you.”
That tracks. The apartment’s too clean, too undecorated. Kal’s name might be on the lease, but it feels more like a hideout than a home. Kara’s lived in enough borrowed spaces to recognize the pattern.
“I saw the peanut butter jar,” he adds cautiously. “Please tell me you didn’t—”
“No jar-licking,” Kara says with mock solemnity, leaning back against the cushions. “I’ve been very well-behaved, Kal. You’d be proud.”
Kal hums, eyes scanning the living room. A silence stretches around them. Kara shifts uncomfortably, fiddling with one of the buttons on her coat. She’s never liked quiet—not this kind. Too expectant. Too close.
Thankfully, Kal speaks before it can last too long.
Unfortunately, he picks the one subject she really doesn’t want to deal with hungover, starving, and half-conscious.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he says gently, his gaze locking onto hers. He’s doing that thing again—soft eyes, warm voice, full emotional ambush. He’s way too good at it.
It makes her want to punch something.
“Fell asleep before I could ditch,” Kara mutters with a shrug. It’s a bad excuse. They both know it. “Also Krypto didn’t answer any of my whistles.”
“We were at the Fortress,” Kal says. “Probably too far to hear you.”
Kara nods, already sensing the direction this is going. Might as well jump off the cliff herself.
“Soooo… “ she says, already grimacing. “I may have, um, crashed my ship. Kind of.”
“What?” Kal’s voice spikes as he bolts to his feet, pacing the room in immediate, anxious loops.
Kara groans, reaching for the crumpled chip bag from the coffee table again. “Relax—I ejected before it hit. I’m fine.” She crunches a mouthful between words. “This is me, fine.”
“That’s not the point,” he snaps, voice rising before he reins it back. “I’m just slightly alarmed that a spacecraft crashed somewhere out there and you don’t know where. Kara—what if someone saw it? What if it hit something?”
She shrugs again, licking chip dust off her thumb. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“We—” He cuts himself off, exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose.
He takes a deep breath and walks back over, the tension in his shoulders softening. He sits beside her on the couch, a hand landing gently on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I’m just… Are you okay?”
Kara considers brushing him off. But the concern in his voice—real, heavy—makes something twist behind her ribs.
“I’m really fine,” she says, softer than she intends. Then she immediately makes a face. “Hungover. I feel gross, but fine.”
Her stomach churns like it heard her lying. Suddenly, Kara bolts forward, grabbing the bucket near her feet just in time to puke into it. The mixture of neon-hot chips, peanut butter, and alien booze burns like hell on the way up. It's the chunky mess of last night’s intergalactic buffet.
Kal’s hand rubs slow, steady circles on her back. Kara leans into it. Just a little. It’s fine. She’s allowed to have one moment of pathetic vulnerability. It’s just cousin stuff. She won’t get too mushy about it.
Bzzz. Bzzz. BZZZZ.
Kara groans, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her coat. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and squints at the screen.
“I think my phone finally hooked up to… what’s it called again?”
“The Wi-Fi?”
“Yeah. That.” Notifications flood the screen—messages, headlines, Earth noise returning all at once. She scrolls absently, then stops. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Holy shit.”
Kal tilts his head. “What?”
Kara laughs—a wild, delighted sound. “So, when am I getting my secret harem? Seems only fair.”
His face flushes so fast it’s honestly impressive. “That was a misunderstanding, Kara, give me the phone!”
She leans away, holding it out of reach. “Nuh-uh. This is gold.”
He tries to grab it. She kicks him lightly in the stomach. He tugs at her arm. She swats him back.
“Come on!”
“You had three women listed in the same article!” Kara wheezes with laughter. “Kal, what is this?”
“Give me the phone!”
“Nope. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Kal gives up and drops back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “You missed a lot this week.”
“I’m sensing that.” Kara grins, stretching like a cat, bones popping. Her stomach grumbles aggressively. “Buy me breakfast, and you can tell me everything. My hangover is demanding grease.”
Kal shakes his head, already getting up. “This isn’t healthy, you know.”
“Healthy-shmealthy.” Kara buttons up her coat. “Pancakes. Now.”
Turns out Kara did, in fact, miss a lot while she was off-planet.
Kal lays it all out—carefully, deliberately—like he’s trying to avoid setting off a landmine. He talks, and Kara eats, aggressively cutting her pancakes into lopsided triangles and shoveling them into her mouth. It gives her something to focus on. Something to chew besides her own thoughts.
By the time she’s halfway through her second plate, he’s finished catching her up. Including the part she already knew was coming—her arrival. Her crash. Her mess.
She wipes at her plate with her fork again, scooping a bite dripping with syrup.
“Wow,” she says flatly. “Rough week, huh?”
“That’s it?” Kal narrows his eyes. “Just—’wow’?”
“I mean, it’s not my fault all that shit went down,” she replies, chewing lazily. The syrup’s too sweet—and she chases it down with a gulp of coffee. Ew… “And by the way,” she adds, gesturing with her fork, “you look really dumb in those glasses.”
Kal huffs, glancing around the small diner like someone might be eavesdropping. They’re not—but he’s paranoid. Kara can’t blame him, she’s a bit of a loose canon. The bell over the door jingles as a couple exits, the cold outside air cutting through the warmth of the booth for a brief moment.
“They’re a part of my disguise,” he mutters. “You’re seriously not going to say anything about the message?”
Kara shrugs. She doesn’t answer right away. The syrup bottle sticks to her fingers when she sets it down, the glass catching on her skin. She wipes her hand on a napkin that’s already soaked through and smeared with crumbs.
Her humor's half-hearted. She doesn’t need to say it out loud to know she isn’t surprised by anything he’s told her. Krypto chewing half the furniture. Humans turning on Kal overnight. The headlines, the spin, the spotlight. None of it shocks her anymore. Earth’s affection is fickle—she learned that long before Kal ever noticed it.
Kara’s used to being a footnote. Kal’s still learning that lesson.
And maybe a small, bitter part of her thinks he should’ve seen it coming.
Still, she doesn’t say any of that. Not because she’s protecting him, exactly—but because it would feel like kicking someone already bleeding. And she’s not that heartless.
“I’ve got something to say,” she murmurs eventually. “Can I see the second part?”
Kal pauses, studying her face. Like he’s trying to read what she’s really asking. He must not find an answer there, because he just nods and pulls his phone from his pocket. He unlocks it with a quick swipe.
“Everyone’s saying the translation’s accurate,” he says as he scrolls. “Unless… you’re hoping it’s not?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because that’s exactly what he’s hoping. That she’ll shake her head and say it’s all wrong. That the words didn’t mean what they sounded like. That it was just a bad recording. A corrupted file. A misunderstanding.
She doesn’t have that kind of comfort to offer.
Kara’s not checking for accuracy. Not really. She just wants to hear it—something—in Kryptonian again. Something more than her own voice. She translated the first half of the message years ago—sweet words, promises, hopes. Not meant for her. Meant for baby Kal. The miracle child. The chosen one.
Kara never got a message. Not one she could keep. Not one that would be safe from the erosion of her own memory.
Her father never had time to record anything like that.
She was lucky to make it off Krypton at all—lucky to make it off Argo City too. Lucky. That’s what they all say. What she told herself. But sometimes survival doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like a punishment.
She was never supposed to survive.
She takes the phone and leans back in the booth. The vinyl seat creaks beneath her. She turns the screen sideways, taps the play icon, and stares. The screen lights her face and the message begins—soft Kryptonian filtering through the tinny speak of Kal’s phone.
Around her, the diner hums with quiet noise—forks clinking, coffee being poured, distant chatter. But all of it fades as she zeros in. The voice on the screen isn’t meant for her—but the cadence, the sound of home… It rattles something loose in her chest anyway.
And it hurts.
There are a couple words with no English equivalents—concepts too deeply embedded in Kryptonian culture to translate. And yet the captions try, and they’re close enough, they’re not wrong.
But Kara doesn’t need those captions, she knows every word. Knows them as well as the backs of her hands, the sound of her own voice, as Krypto’s bark.
When it ends, she doesn’t hand the phone back. She simply sets it down on the table. Her fingers tips linger for a beat, as if reluctant to break contact with it entirely.
Kal stares at her. That expectant look in his eyes again—the one that says please tell me this isn’t real, like she might have the magic answer that makes it all okay.
“So?” he says. “Was it…? Did you know?”
Kara doesn’t respond at first. She picks up her fork, stabs at the syrup-drenched remains of her second plate. Pushes them around.
Did she know?
No. Not exactly. She didn’t know the words, and didn't hear the message before now. But the sentiment?
Yeah. She knew.
She’d seen it in the way her father spoke about his brother. Quiet. Guarded. Never unkind—but never close. Her uncle had always been the idealist, the visionary. And her father? He was the realist. The survivor. And their philosophies rarely aligned.
“No,” she says eventually, exhaling through her nose—slow and shallow. “I didn’t know.”
But he hears it in her tone. She can tell. He knows she’s leaving something out. Kal lets out a breath. He nods—but he’s still watching her. The laminate tabletop is sticky under Kara’s forearm.
“But you’re not surprised.”
Kara sighs and leans back. She looks out the window. It’s fogged slightly with condensation—and she stares out the streaks cut through with water, sees her own reflection distorted in front of her.
“Kal… our parents weren’t close. I’ve already told you that,” she says. “The last time I saw your mother was at your first birthday party. I was, what—fourteen?”
The diner door opens again and wind scrapes down the back of her neck—stops abruptly, as the door swings shut.
She doesn't say the rest.
That she remembers the exact shade of the sky as their world tore apart. That she watched the planet split open from above. That she was old enough to understand what she lost and young enough to hope it might still be waiting when she landed.
Kal doesn’t remember any of that. She envies him for it more than she’ll ever admit.
He mourns a mythology. She mourns a reality. And that gap between them is something they’ve never been able to close.
“I’m not surprised,” she repeats, softer this time. “And I don’t… I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Kal’s jaw flexes, his hand curling slightly on the table. “Well maybe if you ever did talk about it, I wouldn’t have been blindsided.”
She stiffens. Blinks. Her voice drops, low and dangerous. “What did you just say?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kal rushes out, already regretting it. “I’m just—frustrated.”
She drops her fork with a sharp clatter. The sound makes nearby heads turn. Her hands curl into fists atop the table.
“Frustrated?” she echoes, her voice doesn’t rise—but her tone cuts sharp. “You think you’re frustrated?”
“Kara—” Kal looks stricken, but she doesn’t stop.
“Every day I wake up and debate whether it’s even worth dragging myself out of bed,” she says, quiet but sharp. “Do you know how much it hurts to hear that language and know I’m the only one left who understands it? To remember every damn second of what we lost while you… smile for cameras?”
Kal opens his mouth, but doesn’t speak. She doesn’t really give him the chance.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she says.
Kal reaches across the table, but she’s already standing. Her legs sting with the chill of air rushing beneath the table.
“I didn’t ask to survive,” she finishes. “But I did. And you know what? That means I get to leave this booth, and not pretend everything’s fine.”
“Kara, wait—”
“I have a ship to find,” she says coldly, already halfway to the door. “Don’t talk to me again until you’ve calmed down.”
The bell above it jingles again as she pushes it open. Cold air rushes in, stirring napkins and silverware on nearby tables.
She doesn't look back.
It’s quiet out on the street as she steps out—or as quiet as it can be, her ears still twitch with each and every sound. Kal is considerate like that. She’s never said it to him, but he must have figured out that overall she preferred the quiet.
Either quiet, or sound so overwhelming she couldn’t hear anything else. Either works, really.
For a while she walks without destination, jacket pulled tight around her and hair slightly ruffled in the wind. She must look a mess—but Kara doesn’t really care. The pancakes have settled oddly in her gut, leaving her feeling… all twisted up inside.
Or maybe that was from what Kal said.
He just doesn’t get it.
That’s what Kara is always telling herself. Some justification for why she keeps so much held tight to her chest.
She finds her way to a rooftop. Away from the rush of Metropolis, and away from the possibility someone might figure out who she is. That’s the last thing she needs right now. Not when she’s moments away from tearing off the head of whoever tries to talk to her next.
Grrrr.
A soft growl pulls her from her thoughts.
Kara blinks, eyes darting across the empty rooftop. She tilts her head slightly—a small smile spreading across her lips.
“Krypto,” she scolds lightly—spotting him hovering on the other side of the rooftop. He’s cornering a poor squirrel, terrorizing it likely half to death.
Kara brings her fingers to her lips. PHEWITT!
“Come here,” she calls out with a click, jolting her head slightly. “Krypto, leave the squirrel alone!”
With a soft whine, he listens for once. He drops down onto the rooftop and trots over, letting his head fall into her lap. His white hairs flutter around, getting caught in her skirt, and Kara brings a hand down. Krypto nuzzles into her touch, leaning into her as she drags fingers gently through the thick hair atop his head.
“How’d you even find me?” she muses softly, kicking her legs out slightly over the edge of the building.
Her gaze drifts across the afternoon city skyline, not a single sense of familiarity settling over her. It’s just another city—just another place that’s nothing like home.
“Did you just… know I was in one of my moods again?”
Krypto doesn’t respond—too busy wiggling to get comfortable, pressing harder into the stroking of her hand. Kara keeps going anyway. She’s never known a better listener than Krypto. The best companion she could ask for, really.
“You always do. You find me. Like some part of you knows when I’m about to go dark. Better than Kal, better than any of them.” She lets her fingers drag through his fur, breath catching slightly on the next words. “I don’t know how he expects me to tell him this stuff. I can’t even think about half of it without feeling like I’m cracking open.”
She pauses. Her eyes narrow on the city—it suddenly seems harsher, more distant.
“For every thing I remember about home, there’s a thousand more I’ve lost. Slipping through my fingers like... dust. Or light. I don't know. And it’s not even the big stuff I miss. It’s the smell of our kitchen. The way my father's voice used to sound when he was proud of me. The weight of silence back home—before it all fell apart.” Her voice thins slightly. She blinks, but doesn’t tear up. “I can’t even remember his face anymore, Krypto.”
For a moment Kara goes silent again. Like she might get a response. She knows she won’t—she doesn’t expect one, not really. Still, the words are heavy. A confession she can hardly stand.
“That’s what kills me. That’s the part I hate the most. My father’s face—it was the last thing I saw. Right before he sent me away. Right before everything burned. And now it’s just… blank. That’s all I’ve got.”
Krypto noses closer, and she leans into him slightly.
“Kal got a video,” she sighs, something rougher in her voice now. “A whole fucking message from his parents, fringe Kryptonian ideologies and all. But at least they tried. At least he has something.”
Her throat tightens. Still, she doesn’t let herself shed any tears.
“I’d give anything for something like that. Just a sliver of it. Something to prove they were real. That I didn’t just make them up.” She swallows hard, then sighs—long and slow. She finally glances down at Krypto, half-smiling through the weight. “You’re lucky you’re just a dog. No one expects you to remember the past. Or explain it. Or carry it.”
Another silence—this one gentler. The wind picks up, and her hair carries in it. Golden in the sunlight—greasy, dirty, a marker of the wild partying she’s had out there.
“Still. I’m glad you’re here. I needed someone.”
A part of her knows it’s probably shitty to leave Kal in the dark. She should go find him—let him get his apology out the way. It’d be easier to play happy families again.
Superman’s cousin.
Right…
When has Kara ever gone with the easy option?
Honestly, she’s not sure she could even look at him right now. Not after what he said. “Well maybe if you ever did talk about it, I wouldn’t have been blindsided.” It’s still echoing in her chest. Lodged behind her ribs like a bruise that won’t fade.
Kara doesn’t trust herself not to punch him the second she sees him.
…not hard. A friendly, cousin-ly punch. The kind they do when sparring. Still, it’d be therapeutic. And Kal would really deserve it.
But she doesn’t want to punch him. Kara doesn’t want to punch anyone. Not right now, anyway.
Thankfully, Kal’s isn’t the only place she can crash in Metropolis.
“C’mon,” she says, flicking her fingers to get Krypto moving. Her voice doesn’t sound as bitter as she feels, and she hates that. “We’ve got a… friend to pay a visit.”
"Knock knock!"
Kara raps her knuckles lightly against the glass, leaning in until her forehead presses against the cold windowpane. The chill is welcome—briefly numbing the dull ache of her hangover still lodged behind her eyes. Just enough to ground her.
She's mostly healed and fixed up by the yellow sun, but she still feels like shit. It's awesome. Kara's just happy to feel anything at all.
"C'mon," she murmurs. Her breath fogs against the glass as she peers inside. "I know you're in there."
All she gets in response is silence.
For a moment, Kara wonders if this is a bad idea. She shifts her weight awkwardly on the window ledge, legs dangling over the edge. Her knees are beginning to lock up in this this position. Not that it really bothers her—Kara hardly feels it at all. Realistically, she could withstand this uncomfortable position for days, but… Still. She may not like to whine about being in pain, but there's a nice bed and warm shower right through that window.
And fuck, either of those—both of them—sounds divine right now.
Then, finally, there's movement.
The apartment's interior glows brighter as a light flicks on, and a second later, a familiar silhouette stalks into a view. A second later, Kendra marches up to the window, looking equal parts confused and irritated.
"What—" she begins, voice still muffled behind the glass. Her fingers curl around the base of the window frame as she pushes it up with a groan, letting in the cool city air. THUD. "—are you doing here?"
"I'm here to see you," Kara says, flashing the most charming grin she can manage. "Obviously."
Kendra lifts an eyebrow, definitely unconvinced.
"And maybe…" Kara gestures vaguely to herself. "Get a shower?"
Kendra groans, arms braced against the frame, still half-blocking the opening.
"You're unbelievable," Kendra groans, planting herself firmer in the window's path. "Somehow, I don't believe a shower is the only reason you're here."
"Aw, don't be mean. I feel like that's a pretty valid reason to drop by," Kara says, lifting one leg over the ledge.
Kendra catches her by the ankle—lightly. It's more a symbolic gesture than anything else. If Kara wanted to, she could fly through the glass, tear open the window, and do whatever she damn well pleased. But she doesn't—she doesn't even consider that a possibility.
Instead, she lets the touch anchor her, even if it sends a strange flutter through her chest. A small, involuntary noise escapes Kara's throat—barely more than a breath. Her eyes flick down to Kendra's hand, watching Kendra’s fingers press gently into her boot.
"I'm still mad at you," Kendra says flatly. "By the way."
"That was like—a month ago, dude."
"Twenty-six days," she corrects. "And you're not coming in."
Kara sighs and slumps slightly against the windowsill, resting her head beneath the lifted frame. Her eyes widen, as soft and pleading as she can manage, playing up her best guilty look. It's a little manipulative, sure. But it's also mostly sincere. And she's tired—in ways beyond physical exhaustion. Everything is tired inside her.
"I'm sorry," Kara says quietly, rolling her shoulder.
Kendra doesn't let up, doesn’t budge. "Sorry about what?"
The pause is just long enough to prove her point. A smug little smirk curves across Kendra's mouth when Kara fails to answer right away.
"Exactly," Kendra says. "You don't even remember what you’re apologizing for."
"If I don't remember, it can't be that bad."
"Oh, fuck you."
"You wish," Kara shoots back, a grin tugging at her lips. "Come on—just let me in, babe. Please?"
"You don't get to 'babe' me," Kendra says with a point of her finger, jabbing Kara lightly in the chest. "You left, Kara. No text, no call, not even a note. That's shitty. You know it's shitty."
"We both agreed this isn't anything serious!"
"That doesn't mean I don't worry about you," Kendra fires back, and her voice cracks, just slightly. "You disappear for days. Weeks. You show up at my window like nothing even happened."
Kara falters, the weight of those words landing harder than she expects. She hadn't thought Kendra would care. They were still in that undefined gray area, where emotions didn't really matter.
But here's Kendra, proving her wrong.
"I'm Supergirl," Kara offers lamely, giving a small shrug. "You don't need to worry. I'm fine."
"You stink, you look like hell, and there's literal soot on your jacket," Kendra replies, deadpan. "That's not what I'd call fine."
"Wow," Kara mutters. "You're so nice to me."
Kendra sighs, staring at her for a long moment.
Then, finally, she steps aside.
"Alright," she says. "You can come in."
Kara perks up. "Yay!"
She knows, deep down, she doesn't deserve the welcome—or the kindness. She doesn't even deserve Kendra's initial cold shoulder. But something about being here—about Kendra being the one she always comes back to—settles the chaos in her ribs just enough to make her linger.
“But—” Kendra holds up a finger. "Only if you promise it's just to shower. No sex. No kisses. No—"
Kara leans in through the window, too close—close enough to blur lines. For a split second she hesitates, her hand brushing the edge of Kendra's sleeve. Not even gripping, just making contact. Her breath is slow, measured.
She leaves long enough for Kendra to stop her. If she wants.
Kendra doesn't—and Kara kisses her.
Quick, just a brush of lips, catching the corner of her mouth. A moment of silence passes, it more meant as an apology than anything dramatic.
When she pulls back, she's already grinning, because… Well, Kara can't resist defying the rules.
Kendra's lips part slightly—whether to say something or lean in again, Kara can't tell. Her brows furrow, like she's trying to stay mad, but her eyes are softer now. Softer in a confused way, like she wasn't ready to feel this yet.
Kara knows the feeling well.
"What did I just say?" she gets out, slightly choked, not hitting as hard as likely means it to.
"I heard you. I snuck it in before the agreement was finalized. Legal loophole," Kara says, sliding through the window with exaggerate innocence. "Hands to myself from now on. Very best behavior. I promise."
"You’re so annoying…" Kendra mutters under her breath.
“You love it.”
Kendra huffs, shaking her head and trying to hide the way her lips twitch at the corners despite herself.
Kara's feet hit the floor, and she takes a second to breathe the space in. It's… familiar. But still distance in the way all Earth places are. Kara has missed this, though. Has missed Kendra, even if she won't admit she's here for any reason beyond a shower and a place to crash.
"Kara?"
"Hm?"
"Bathroom's that way," she says, pointing her thumb to the still open door jutting off the main room.
"Right, right." Kara nods, taking a step forward. "Thanks—I won't be long."
She starts towards the door, then pauses—one hand lingering on the edge of the wall. She glances back, and hesitates for just a moment.
"And, uh… thank you. Really."
Kendra folds her arms over her chest, but the edge in her voice softens. "It's nothing," she says. "Just don't use all my shampoo, 'kay?"
Kara offers her a small smile—completely and wholly genuine this time—and nods.
"I'll try to leave you some conditioner," she jokes.
Kendra shakes her head at that, letting out a barely there laugh, and turns towards the window. She slides it shut—cutting off the light breeze whipping in.
"I'll grab you some clothes," she says as Kara steps into the bathroom—her voice carrying as the door squeaks closed.
For just a moment, Kara pauses, hand on the door knob.
"Much appreciated."
Kara slips through the doorway, her voice light—too light—as if she’s not carrying the weight of the day on her shoulders. But before the bathroom door shuts behind her, her eyes catch on the mirror.
Kendra’s reflection is there, half-hidden in the glass. She’s hunched over a drawer, rifling through its contents, her back turned but the tension in her shoulders unmistakable. Tight, her movements a little too deliberate—like she’s trying very hard to not look back. To not say something.
Kara lingers for a second longer than necessary.
Then the door closes between them with a soft click.
Instantly, the heat of the shower washes away most of the dread stewing in Kara’s gut—temporarily, at least.
She replays her conversation with Kal—pulling it apart, piece by painful piece.
And the worst part? He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Kara can’t blame him for thinking her silence is some kind of cruelty. He wants to understand a world he never knew. She’s sure, if the situation were reversed, she’d be needled by the exact same curiosity. He wants to know her. But Kara… she just can’t give that to him.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Its too complicated. Too painful.
She’s not doing to lie to him. She won’t sugar-coat what Krypton was.
It was beautiful.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she finds herself there again—bare feet padding over cool, marbled pathways, golden towers glinting beneath Krypton’s twin moons. The air is thin and crisp, laced with the scent of ionized stone and the tang of wet moss. The aroma of the food she longs to taste just one more time…
Her favorite of her father’s dishes—the one he always made on special nights, the one Kara begged for constantly. She swore back then she could smell it before he even started cooking—it would curl through their home, something like a promise.
She remembers the clothes too: rich silks and weighted collars that shimmered when she moved. The delicate embroidery that tickled at her throat. The feel of woven crests under her fingers—a lineage stitched into fabric like a memory made tangible.
Most of all, she remembers the feeling of being anchored. Of belonging to a place. Of knowing, without question, where she came from.
Kara would always be the last daughter of Krypton—no matter where she was, no matter how much Kal tried to integrate her into his life on Earth.
The closest physical link to home she has left is that wrinkled, dust-caked suit draped over the bathroom counter. The cape is crumpled, its once-weightless flow reduced to a limp heap of red. The House of El crest—her family’s legacy—dulled beneath grime.
Still, it’s something. A symbol. A thread connecting her to a world that no longer exists.
Even if the suit itself is a lie—stitched on Earth, designed to mimic an identity no one but Kara could understand. Fabric pretending to carry the weight of heritage.
But… Krypton wasn’t perfect. Not even in memory.
Kara knows that now—maybe she always did, in the vague, uncertain way a teenage girl picks up on things she’s too young to fully understand. She remembers scraps of her history classes: ideological divides, the political fragmentation, how the Science Council refused to act even as the planet trembled at their feet.
And she remembers the quiet tension in her home—moments when her father would close a door, send her away, before raising his voice. The hushed arguments, concern threaded into her mother’s voice like fine silk.
She didn’t understand it then, but the pieces come together now. The fear. The desperation. The fringe doctrines—the belief held by Kryptonians, Kal’s parents included, that their bloodline, their culture, their name, was something… Something worth preserving at any cost.
Maybe they were right about that. Just not the way they thought.
Kara’s not surprised by the lengths Kal’s parents went in their final hours. Not surprised by the message they left him—how warped and rigid it sounds now, how cloaked it is in superiority and unspoken prejudice.
It makes her stomach turn.
And, of course, she can’t hold Kal’s heartbreak against him.
Of course he’s shaken. Of course he wants to believe they were better than that. Kara wants that, too. Wants to remember a Krypton full of color and life and purpose.
And it was.
But it was also deeply flawed—crumbling from the inside long before the planet cracked apart. Long before Kal escaped. Long before Kara said goodbye to her father.
That’s the part Kal never knew, though.
And maybe that’s why Kara can’t give him what he wants. Why it hurts to talk about it at all.
Earth just… isn’t hers. Not the way it is for Kal—she can’t just full that hole with another, the way he can with his life here. No matter how many languages she learns or how many cities she flies over, it’ll never feel like home.
This sun will never be hers. This world will never feel right.
To call it that—to call it home—would feel like betrayal. Like trying to plant down roots in someone else’s soil, and pretending those roots will take all the same.
Like pretending she deserves to be here at all.
Kara sighs, flicking open the shampoo with her thumbnail. A rush of vanilla fills the steamy air. She scrubs it into her tangled hair, watching the foam gather in suds at her feet before circling the drain.
The water hits her back with steady pressure, forcing the breath from her lungs in a way that feels almost good.
The bathroom door creaks open with a soft click.
“I got you those clothes,” Kendra calls out—her voice neutral. Carefully so. Like she’s put effort into making it sound like nothing. Like she’s not trying.
Kara blinks, pulled out her thoughts. The door shuts again quickly—and Kara catches the barest glimpse of Kendra around the edge of the spotty shower curtain. She’s gone before she’s even really there, like she’s giving Kara space or something.
Buzzkill, Kara thinks, half-fondly.
Seriously though, since when did Kendra start enforcing no-nonsense boundaries?
Admittedly, Kara kinda deserves it after ghosting for a month.
Twenty-six days, apparently. Kendra hadn’t forgotten the number. Of course she hadn’t.
In Kara’s defense, communication is a little difficult when you’re light-years away in a debris field, half-drunk—okay, maybe a little more than half—and avoiding emotional fallout.
And, really, Kara doesn’t demand updates when Kendra disappears on Justice Gang missions—or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves now—or when Kendra vanishes in one of her “don’t ask” moods. They’re both capable. Kara can take care of herself—and honestly, she’d appreciate a little vote of confidence from the people around her.
Kara isn’t made of glass, and she isn’t fucking fragile either. Temperamental, maybe, but she’s working on it.
Kal hovers enough with the whole concerned biologically older but technically younger cousin act. She doesn’t need shit like that from Kendra too.
Especially when they’re supposed to be…
Well. Casual.
That’s what they agreed on. No strings.
So what’s the use in getting all mushy now?
There is no use—that’s the answer.
Kara steps out the shower, her wet feet slapping against the tile. She sheds off most the water like a dog, moving quick enough that it spritzes off her skin and the ends of her hair—splashing against the tiles.
Hopefully Kendra won’t be too mad about that… She knows what she signed up for when she agreed to let Kara take a shower at all, really.
She stands in front of the fogged mirror just a little too long, dragging a towel across her hair. She swallows, reaching a hand out to run across her still dirty suit. Her fingers ghost over the crest, picking up dirt where it clings to the folds.
The clothes Kendra picked out for her are…. Slightly off. Shirt snug around the shoulders, but too loose around the waist, pants a little short. A combination of their height differences, and the fact Kendra has giant fucking muscles for some reason. Not that Kara’s complaining about that—but it does mean the shirt she’s borrowing fits a little weird.
But they work. Comfortable and soft. They smell like laundry detergent and hawk feathers. Not bad, honestly.
Kara steps out the bathroom and pads barefoot across the floorboards, still toweling the last of the water from her hair. She takes a moment to look around. Kendra’s place isn’t big—more like a cube with rooms stapled to each other—but it’s really her.
Weights stacked with obsessive neatness in the corner. A heavy old mace leans against the window frame—chipped handle, cracked head. Kara suspects it’s seen a lot more action than either of them are willing to talk about sober.
Books are everywhere. Seriously, everywhere. Piles of them—on the nightstand, stacked into a teetering tower by the wall, one claiming squatters’ rights on the kitchen stool. Some have cracked spines and folded pages. Others are lined with sticky notes.
Earth literature…
Kara will never get the appeal, but the whole place smells of aged paper—and, yeah okay, it’s kinda nice.
A desk sits against the wall with a burned-down candle beside a scratched-up pair of flight goggles. There's even a photo thumb-tacked above it—an off-guard Justice Gang snapshot. Everyone’s caught mid-motion, blurry and messy. Kendra’s in the back, barely smiling. Her arms crossed and chin up. Looking like she doesn’t care but she so clearly does.
And then there’s the helmet.
It sits on top of the dresser, lit like a spotlight found it. Polished but dented. The wings curve up like blades, sharp and stubborn. Kara knows better than to touch it—it’s not just gear. It’s armor. It's memory. It's war.
It's Kendra.
She exhales, slow. The room’s quiet. Cozy in a way that makes her itch, just a little, because she’s not used to places feeling… kept. Kara runs a hand through her hair, damp strands sticking to her temple, and tries to ignore the weird feeling tugging at her ribs.
It’s not home. But maybe it’s close enough for tonight.
Kendra is lying on the bed, propped up on her side—a novel in hand, thumbing through a dog-eared page. She doesn’t look up when Kara steps in. Just shifts slightly to make space on the mattress.
The light outside slants across the room, tipping over from afternoon into evening, casting long shadows. Kara’s a little surprised how quickly today has passed—despite feeling like a crawl. It’s still early, but the day already feels like it’s winding down.
Kara’s body feels the same. She moves forward like someone half-drowned, weary to her bones. Not physically tired—no, she’s still Kryptonian. But emotionally? Kara’s sure she could sleep for days.
“Hey,” she greets softly. It slips out meeker than she intends.
Kendra’s eyes flick up—just for a second.
“Hi,” she replies with the hint of a smile, and goes to back to her book.
Kara flops down on the edge of the bed, and lets herself lean forward just enough to pluck the book straight from Kendra’s hands.
“Hey—!” Kendra objects, sitting up and already grabbing after it. “I’m reading that.”
“Don’t care,” Kara says with a smirk, dangling it just out of reach. “Pay attention to me instead.”
Kara tosses the book onto the night stand. It lands perfectly on the cover side, slamming shut. THUMP.
“Dude, I didn’t even get to put my bookmark in,” Kendra complains, but she doesn’t make a move to retrieve the book. She doesn’t move away, either. “You suck.”
“That’s not all I can do,” Kara says with a wink.
She shuffles closer, tucking her legs beneath herself, and settling into the soft dip of the bed beside Kendra. The comfort is tempting—maybe too tempting. Her gaze lingers, just a little too long, on Kendra’s lips. She shouldn’t. She promised. Still…
Kara leans forward. Just enough.
And Kendra raises a brow. “Kara…”
“Just one.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Kara leans in—soft, sure, and gentle—and presses her lips to the corner of Kendra’s mouth again. It’s warm. Brief. Barely enough pressure to smudge lips against skin, like the ghost of something Kara can’t commit to.
It doesn’t linger—but it definitely lands for the both of them.
Kendra exhales sharply through her nose. Kara feels the flutter of it brush her cheek.
“I said no kisses,” Kendra mutters, tone flat—but not cold. Her voice softens the way it always does when she’s already forgiven her. “And that one definitely counted.”
Kara shrugs, feigning innocence as she leans back just enough to make the distance noticeable.
“Corner doesn’t count,” she says. “Its adjacent. I don’t make the rules.”
Kendra doesn’t reply to that. She just flips back against the bed with a dramatic groan, eyes fixed to the ceiling. The intensity of her stare makes Kara snicker just a little.
“Still mad at you,” she grumbles.
“It was a month ago.”
“Twenty-six days,” Kendra corrects again.
“And you’re actually keeping count?”
“Yeah. So what?” she shoots back. Then, quieter, she adds, “you fucking ghosted me, Kara.”
Kara doesn't have a good response to that. Not one that doesn’t sound like an excuse or a deflection. So she shifts, her fingers curling in the rumpled blanket beneath her, eyes tracking the faint freckles along Kendra’s shoulder instead.
“So. What are you actually doing here?” Kendra asks, subtly leaning into the touch, curling just a little closer. “You know—besides stealing my shower, my hot water, and my last ounce of patience?”
“I needed a place to crash.”
“Not buying it.”
“I wanted to see you?”
Kendra tilts her head. “Nope—try again.”
Kara exhales, fingers knotting in the hem of her borrowed shirt. “I…” she hesitates for a split second, forcing her gaze away, “I didn’t want to deal with Kal.”
“Bingo.”
Kendra is quiet for a moment—letting the silence hang, but not unkindly. Just giving her some space. And it’s irritating. And comforting.
And irritating.
Did Kara mention irritating?
“I said some things,” Kara mutters, “and so did he. We both sucked, but… he kinda hit a nerve.”
Still, Kendra watches her, head still tilted, patient but expectant.
“I’m tired of everyone assuming I owe them some big, emotional unpacking of Krypton,” Kara says finally, low and sharp. “Like I’m some kind of archive just because I remember it. I was a kid when I left. I know scraps. I put pieces together. And the parts I do know… They’re not all sunshine and Rao-worship. There were ugly things too, you know?”
Kendra nods once, but doesn’t press. She just listens.
“And Kal… he has that message, right? That loving send-off. Even if it’s flawed—it’s something. Me? I don’t have that. And somehow I’m supposed to explain all that without it tearing me open? Sorry, I’m not there yet.”
There’s a long pause then. Kara thinks that might be the end of it. But then—
“I’m not asking you to be,” Kendra says gently.
Kara blinks. She hadn’t expected that.
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” Kendra continues—and Kara swallows, the pressure behind her eyes unexpected and harsh. “Just… Well, maybe you owe me a text at least, next time? But otherwise—fuck everyone else.”
Kara laughs, giving a small nod.
“Yeah,” she agrees, more a murmur than words. “Okay.”
They fall back into silence for a moment.
Then, Kara says, “I think I used up all your shampoo.”
“Kara!” Kendra groans. “I knew I should’ve hidden the good kind from you… I give you three simple rules and—”
As Kendra continues her rant—something about boundaries and rules Kara definitely hadn’t agreed to—her jacket buzzes against the floorboards. Kara groans quietly, reaching down beside the bed where she’d dumped the thing a while ago. The phone’s screen lights up in her hand, casting a faint glow across her lap.
Kal: Kara can you text me back and let me know you’re okay?
Kal: I’m sorry for what I said. It was out of line.
Kal: Where are you?
Kal: Kara?
She stares at the messages for a long moment. They’re not surprising. She knew he’d reach out eventually—he always does. Kal is relentless in the way only the truly stubborn and painfully hopeful can be.
Still… it softens something in her. Just a little.
Kara exhales, thumbs hovering above the keyboard before she finally types.
Kara: I’m fine. Sorry I left. I’ll see you soon, but not tonight.
A pause. The dots appear almost instantly.
Kal: Are you safe?
Kara: Yes. I’m safe. We’ll talk soon. Promise.
Kal: Okay. Thank you.
Kal: Goodnight, Kara. I love you.
Her thumb lingers over the screen again. It’s stupid how something so small can carry so much weight. But then she types—
Kara: Night, Kal.
She locks the screen before he can respond again. Before the conversation pulls her in any deeper. Before she has to explain what safe even means anymore.
“That him?” Kendra asks.
Kara blinks, gently tossing her phone onto the mattress between them.
“Yeah,” she says. “Typical Kal—doing the whole concerned cousin checking-in thing.”
“Big softie,” Kendra muses with a hum, leaning in enough to nudge Kara’s shoulder with a light bump of her fist. “Just like you. Must run in the family.”
Kara scoffs, lifting her head to look at her with an exaggerated look of offense. “Excuse me?”
“You hide it well, Kara Zor-El,” Kendra says, smiling now, all smug and knowing. “But I see it. You love humanity. You care about people. You just ache to save everyone.”
“I do not,” Kara insists, even as her cheeks warm up just a little. “I’m literally the most emotionally distant person I know.”
Kendra raises a brow. “Uh-huh,” she agrees lightly with a nod. “Remind me again who saved my life the night we met? Who stuck around to make sure I was okay afterwards?”
“That was… purely practical,” Kara says, crossing her arms. “Strategic.”
“Right. And totally not heroic at all,” Kendra teases, her eyes glinting. “Definitely not the actions of the soft-hearted alien who pretends to be all snark and zero feelings—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Kara cuts her off, and leans forward before either of them can second-guess it.
The kiss starts simple—lips catching, warm, familiar—but it deepens fast. Kendra’s hand slides into her damp hair, fingers tangling. Kara shifts closer, into the heat of her. It’s not desperate exactly—but something tangled pulses beneath the surface. A need for contact, for reassurance, for actually quiet in the middle of everything Kara’s still figuring out.
Kendra tugs her closer, and Kara lets herself be pulled.
There’s a brief pause—the space only filled by the sound of their breaths catching—where Kendra mumbles, “still mad at you…”
Kara smiles against her mouth, fingers dancing across the hem of her t-shirt. “Sure. you are.”
They both know she forgave Kara the second she opened the window.
The kiss turns greedy, then slow again, then greedier still—until words fade. They’re replaced by touch, by mingling breaths. The kind of comfort Kara usually doesn’t let herself want.
Everything else melts away.