Work Text:
Of Stars, Pegasi, and Poor Life Choices
The Secret Santa drawing was rigged. Kara knew it the moment she unfolded the small paper and saw Lena Luthor's name written in Cat Grant's unmistakable handwriting. The elegant, precise cursive seemed to mock her, the loops of the L's particularly flourished as if to emphasize the impossibility of the task ahead.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Kara muttered, adjusting her glasses with nervous fingers.
The bullpen hummed with the usual pre-holiday excitement—James laughing too loudly at Winn's joke by the copy machine, Eve Teschmacher hanging tinsel from her computer monitor, the scent of peppermint mochas and gingerbread cookies permeating the air. But all of it faded into background noise as Kara's focus narrowed across the room.
Lena stood there in a crimson dress that probably cost more than Kara's monthly rent, her dark hair swept into a perfect updo that somehow looked both professional and festive. Her slender fingers dipped into the Santa hat that Winn was holding out with a goofy grin. Kara watched, time slowing to a crawl, as Lena extracted a folded slip of paper, her perfectly manicured nails a matching holiday red.
When Lena's eyes widened slightly before darting up to meet Kara's across the crowded office, electricity seemed to crackle through the air between them. A warm flush crept up Kara's neck, spreading to her cheeks with an intensity that made her grateful for the distracting Christmas lights blinking around them. Lena's lips parted slightly, the ghost of a smile—or was it panic?—flitting across her face.
"Looks like someone got someone special," snickered Siobhan from the neighboring desk, her eyes darting between Kara's burning face and the crumpled paper in her hand.
Cat Grant sauntered past Kara's desk, the click of her designer heels somehow audible even over the holiday playlist someone had queued up. She paused just long enough to whisper, "You're welcome," before continuing toward her office, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering in her wake.
Kara crumpled the paper in her palm, feeling the heat of her own fingers against the name that now seemed to be seared into her brain. Her super-hearing picked up the slight acceleration of Lena's heartbeat across the room—a rhythm as familiar to her as her own. This was a disaster. What could she possibly get for Lena Luthor—billionaire heiress, fashion icon, and the woman who made Kara's heart perform gymnastics every time she leaned over her desk to discuss article revisions?
***
Kara Danvers was not, by her own estimation, especially difficult to shop for. She liked cozy things—scarves, woolen socks, mugs big enough to cradle in both hands. She had a weakness for Japanese candy, bobblehead collectibles, and, if she was being honest, anything that came in a limited-edition holiday packaging. She figured people who shopped for her probably just wandered into a home goods store, filled a basket with “quirky” mugs and “cute” stationery, and called it a day. But standing beneath the garish fluorescent lights of the National City Mall’s flagship department store, clutching an empty paper cup and four hours’ worth of mounting defeat, she realized there was a particular terror to shopping for someone who already had everything.
Or, more specifically, someone who was Lena Luthor.
“What about this?” Kara asked, holding up a fountain pen with a matte black barrel and a platinum-plated nib. She tried to channel the confidence of a woman who had not spent the morning spiraling down a Google rabbit hole titled “What Do You Buy For The Woman Who Can Legally Buy You”. She failed. “It’s professional, but still thoughtful, right? Like, ‘Hey, I noticed you sign a lot of contracts and take notes, and I respect that about you’.”
Alex, who had agreed to “one hour, max” of Secret Santa shopping before heading to the gym, did not bother to hide her skepticism. She leveled Kara with a look that married big sisterly exasperation to the patience of a cat watching a wounded bird. “You showed me that in the last store,” she said. “And the one before that. And technically the airport gift shop last week, though I’m not sure that counts.”
“This one’s different!” Kara protested, running her thumb along the engraved cap. “It’s… Italian.”
Alex snorted and reached for a novelty wine stopper shaped like a reindeer. “You’re spiraling. Just get her a bottle of mid-range whiskey and a nice card, like a normal person.”
“I can’t get Lena whiskey,” Kara hissed, lowering her voice as a woman with three children in tow browsed past the stationary display. “She owns two distilleries in Scotland. She literally sent Cat Grant a cask last year for Hanukkah. How do you top that? How do you even get close to that?”
Alex, who had once described Kara’s self-confidence as “the nutritional value of a marshmallow Peep”, softened. She nudged Kara’s shoulder. “You don’t have to win Christmas, you know. Just get her something she’ll like. Or something that makes her laugh.”
Kara pressed her lips together. She could do that, couldn’t she? She could get Lena something whimsical, something Lena would not expect. But what? Every time she tried to imagine Lena opening a present from her, her brain supplied a montage of hypotheticals. Lena’s mask of polite gratitude, Lena’s quick and dismissive smile, Lena holding her gift up for the office to see and then quietly tucking it away, unread, into her designer bag.
“I want it to be perfect,” Kara said, and she was surprised by the force of her own longing. It was embarrassing, honestly, how much she wanted to impress Lena. It was one thing to be assigned her as a Secret Santa, but another thing entirely to feel as though the entire spirit of the holiday—goodwill, vulnerability, hope—was knotted up in what should have been a throwaway office ritual.
Alex surveyed the store, scanning for an escape route. “Do you even know what she likes? Besides expensive pens and world domination?”
Kara hesitated. She did know Lena, or at least she knew the Lena that Lena showed to her. The one who made dry jokes at her own expense, who insisted on paying for lunch, who sent Kara snippets of physics articles with annotated corrections and a winking emoji. The Lena who, once, at a party, had leaned in close and confided that she hated the taste of champagne but loved the feeling of tiny bubbles on her nose.
“She likes astronomy,” Kara said suddenly. “And Shakespeare. And Oreos, but only the original kind, not the Double Stuf. She has a weirdly specific thing for soft pretzels. And she collects those little glass animal figurines—she keeps them lined up on her windowsill.”
Alex arched an eyebrow. “Wow, that’s not at all creepy.”
Kara shoved her gently. “She told me about the figurines! She said they remind her of her mother’s house in Dublin. It’s not like I’m lurking outside her penthouse with binoculars.”
“It’s okay to admit you like her,” Alex said, more quietly than before. “You don’t have to make it a federal case.”
Kara could only stare down at the pen, feeling the weight of her denial stretch and snap, like a rubber band that had reached its breaking point. “She’s my boss,” she said. “Well, my boss’s boss. And she’s Lena Luthor. And I’m…” She gestured at herself. “Me.”
Alex smiled, not unkindly. “You’re pretty great, you know.”
Kara rolled her eyes, but a bit of warmth crept into her chest. She put the pen back on the display, feeling both relieved and bereft, then followed Alex deeper into the store, past rows of scented candles and the aggressive perfume counter, past the jewelry section where bored teenagers halfheartedly polished display cases. The further she walked, the more the mall seemed to close in around her—holiday shoppers shuffling under red and green banners, the endless chorus of “Jingle Bell Rock” looping from the ceiling speakers, the air thick with the smell of cinnamon and artificial snow.
They came to a halt at the edge of the “Gifts For Her” section, where a pyramid of pastel gift boxes rose like a tribute to seasonal capitalism.
Alex held up a glass snow globe filled with swirling blue glitter. “This is what you get a person when you run out of ideas. Or when you hate them.”
Kara snorted. “Maybe Lena would appreciate the irony.”
“Or,” Alex said, plucking a leather-bound journal from the adjacent shelf, “maybe she’d like this. She’s always scribbling in those little notebooks, right?”
Kara took the journal and flipped through the blank pages. It was nice—substantial, embossed with gold leaf at the corners, the kind of thing Kara herself would treasure. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t Lena.
“She has a specific brand she uses,” Kara said, closing the journal. “Italian. Hand-bound.”
Alex stared at her. “You really are obsessed.”
“I’m not—” Kara began, but then she caught herself. She was. She was completely, helplessly obsessed with Lena Luthor, with the way Lena tossed her hair back when she was annoyed, with the way her voice dropped into a lower register when she was trying to be persuasive, with the way her armor slipped when she thought no one was watching.
She set the journal down and wandered to the next display. A set of blown-glass figurines, delicate and precise, shaped to look like miniature constellations. Kara reached out to touch one, and her mind flickered back to a memory—Lena, referencing the Andromeda Galaxy during a staff meeting, her eyes lighting up as she sketched the spiral arms on a whiteboard. Kara remembered thinking, in that moment, that Lena’s mind was a constellation all its own. Impossible to map, endlessly expanding.
“I think I’ll get her this one,” Kara said, lifting the glass Pegasus from the stand. Its wings shimmered in the synthetic light.
Alex peered at the price tag, whistled low. “You better hope she’s your real Secret Santa, because if you’re actually buying this for Siobhan—”
Kara shook her head, grinning for the first time all day. “It’s perfect.”
***
On the other side of the city, Lena Luthor experienced a similar, if subtler, form of meltdown.
She was not, as a rule, intimidated by holiday traditions. She had survived years of Luthor family Christmases, which were equal parts social Darwinism and covert psychological warfare. She had once spent New Year’s Eve stranded in an ice storm with Lex, a bottle of whiskey, and a dead cell phone. She considered herself unflappable. But standing in the private showroom of National City’s most exclusive optical boutique, she felt the stirrings of genuine panic.
“What do you think about this one?” Lena asked, holding up a telescope with a carbon fiber body and a suite of digital enhancements that made Hubble look like a child’s toy.
Sam Arias, balancing a cup of espresso and an armful of designer shopping bags from the luxury boutiques downstairs, squinted at the price tag. “For Secret Santa? Isn’t that a bit… much?”
“It’s within the designated budget if you factor in the employee discount and the limited-time holiday sale,” Lena said, adjusting her grip on the tripod. “And considering the recipient, I think it’s justified.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted in a way that suggested both skepticism and deep amusement. “You mean considering that you drew Kara’s name, and you’re desperate to impress her without making it seem like you’re desperate to impress her?”
The accusation, so baldly stated and yet so elegantly delivered, made Lena bristle. She opened her mouth to mount a rebuttal, some wry Luthorian deflection about the merits of strong inter-office relationships and employee morale, but before she could formulate the shape of her retort, Ruby, who had been diligently piecing together a scale model of the solar system at the far end of the counter, looked up from her work with the disarming frankness of someone who had never once been told to mind her own business.
“It’s okay, Aunt Lena. Everybody knows you have a crush. Mom says it’s healthy.”
Lena froze, the carbon fiber telescope cradled awkwardly in the crook of her arm. She could feel herself flush—an involuntary, whole-body embarrassment that seemed, for a moment, to charge the air between her and the eleven-year-old like a static field. Lena’s mind, so adept at navigating boardroom intrigue and hostile takeover bids, short-circuited at the prospect of having her emotional life reduced to the single syllable of “crush”.
Sam, to her credit, managed to keep a straight face, but her voice betrayed the barest tremor of laughter. “You’re very observant, Ruby.”
Ruby beamed, a planet in the ascendancy, and returned to her model, neatly aligning the rings of Saturn with the label affixed to the plastic sun. “Kara’s really nice. I hope she likes telescopes.”
Lena swallowed, willed her features into some facsimile of composure, and set the instrument back onto its velvet cradle. In her mind’s eye, she saw the gift giving ceremony at the CatCo holiday party. Kara, stammering a thank you while half the newsroom looked on, Lena’s own smile too wide, too sharp at the corners, her hands knotting together in the pockets of her suit. The very thought made her want to bolt from the boutique and never look back.
Instead, Lena cleared her throat and turned to Sam. “It’s not a crush,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. “I just admire her. She’s—” Lena searched for a word that was not ‘so bright’ or ‘so good’ or ‘so impossibly kind that it makes me want to jump out a window’. “She’s a force of nature.”
Sam let the comment hang, then shrugged, digging through her shopping bags for her phone. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Lee. But if you’re worried about being subtle, maybe don’t buy her the entire contents of the Hayden Planetarium.”
Lena exhaled, a laugh unspooling from her chest. “Point taken.”
They left the boutique while Ruby continued to orbit around them, periodically offering up space facts—“Did you know the Voyager probe is still sending back data, even though it’s billions of miles away?”—and taking the lead through the mall’s winter wonderland displays. Lena had never had much use for childhood—not her own, and certainly not anyone else’s—but there was something about Ruby’s unfiltered enthusiasm for the cosmos that softened her, made her want to be the kind of person who could give a good gift, who could make someone’s day better just by being thoughtful.
After a quick detour for hot chocolate—Ruby insisted on extra marshmallows; Lena pretended not to notice Sam’s smirk, they made their way to the parking garage. The telescope, freshly wrapped and ribboned, felt heavier now, as if it contained not just glass and circuitry but all of Lena’s private hopes and humiliations, compressed into a single holiday gesture.
As Lena drove, Sam glanced over at her from the passenger seat. “You know, you could just tell her how you feel.”
Lena shook her head, smiling faintly at the impossibility. “Some of us prefer cosmic mysteries to direct observation.”
Sam rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her tone that undercut the sarcasm. “Well, let me know if you need any more help deciphering the stars.”
They pulled onto the expressway, the city skyline a glittering constellation in the distance, and for the first time all day, Lena allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to simply hand Kara the telescope and say, I saw this and thought of you, because when I look up at the night sky, I think about you. About your laugh, and the way you see the world, and how, for reasons I can’t entirely justify, you make me want to be better. She imagined Kara’s face, bright and open, and for a moment, the universe felt less like an expanse and more like a map—something she could maybe, just maybe, learn to navigate.
***
The city had been battered by a string of wet, gray December days, but the morning of the CatCo holiday party dawned crystalline and sharp, as if the air itself had been laundered and starched overnight. By dusk, the building’s upper floors radiated a warm, improbable glow that drenched the sidewalk in gold and sent up a gaudy challenge to the drab winter skyline.
Inside, the bullpen had been transformed by a battalion of interns and the relentless cheer of Cat Grant. Twinkle lights clung to every surface; garlands looped the window frames in harlequin knots; and in the corner, a six-foot artificial tree had been decked out in vintage press passes, candy canes, and glittering “Best of National City” trophies. Someone—probably Cat herself—had programmed the speakers to cycle between mid-century jazz carols and ‘80s synthpop, and every few minutes a new platter of catered hors d’oeuvres would appear atop the communal filing cabinets, vanishing in seconds under the onslaught of the newsroom’s staff.
Kara spent the first hour drifting from group to group, feigning a level of enthusiasm she only intermittently felt. If anything, the party heightened her sense of being out of sync with the rest of the world. She was trying so hard—to be normal, to be fun, to not think about work, or about Lena, or about the heavy, cellophane-wrapped package tucked under her arm, its contents simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. She laughed in all the expected places, nodded along to drunken office gossip, and even let Nia drag her into a round of “Pin the Tie on Perry White”, but her eyes kept flicking across the room, scanning for a particular flash of green or the sound of Lena’s voice as if her subconscious had rerouted its entire navigation system to home in on a single target.
Eventually, she found Lena by the windows, standing with her back to the city’s electric scrawl. Lena was wearing a dress Kara hadn’t seen before—deep emerald green, cut simply but with a sharp architectural collar that framed her shoulders and throat. Her hair had been swept up in an intricate twist, a few dark strands pulled loose at her temples, and as she leaned in to listen to Nia’s story, she laughed, tipping her chin up and exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. For a moment, Kara forgot to breathe.
She was so preoccupied with not making a spectacle of herself that she almost failed to notice Cat Grant materializing at her side, clutching a flute of champagne and wearing an expression of exasperated fondness.
“Intense, isn’t it?” Cat said, surveying the room, but then she followed Kara’s gaze and her mouth twitched at the corners. “For a woman who can bench-press a minivan, you’re shockingly bad at approaching a crush.”
“I’m not—” Kara tried, but even to her own ears it sounded weak.
Cat smirked, lowering her voice. “Kiera, you have been sighing at Luthor like a lovesick golden retriever all year. You know what I would do if I were you?”
“Run away and join the witness protection program?” Kara suggested.
“Close,” Cat said, clinking her glass against Kara’s. “I’d take a deep breath, cross the room, and tell her exactly how you feel. Worst case, she buys CatCo, fires you, and starts a blood feud. Best case, there are fireworks, and my party gets a little more interesting.”
Kara swallowed, feeling her face go hot. She glanced down at the package in her arms, fingers tightening on the ribbon.
Cat nudged her with the champagne. “Go. If you don’t, I’ll do it for you, and neither of us will enjoy that.”
Before Kara could protest, Cat vanished into the crowd, presumably to terrorize the Features department or critique the hors d’oeuvres. Left with no plausible reason to stall, Kara took a fortifying breath and navigated through the maze of tipsy coworkers, nearly colliding with Winn, who was attempting some kind of Forties swing-dance move with James as his mortified partner.
She came up short just as the city’s lights caught behind Lena, bathing her in impossible gold. Nia, mid-story, noticed her first and beamed, waving her over.
“There you are!” Nia said, her cheeks flushed with champagne and excitement. “We were just talking about you.”
Lena’s eyes snapped to Kara’s, and for once, her expression was completely unguarded. It lasted only a second before she schooled her features into their usual cool amusement, but Kara saw it. The brief, bright spike of anticipation, the way Lena’s lips parted as if she was about to say something important and then, at the last moment, swallowed the words.
“Hi,” Kara managed, awkwardly shifting the package from one arm to the other. “You look—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, so she left the compliment hanging, hoping Lena would catch it.
Lena did, her smile going soft at the edges. “I was looking for you,” she said. “Actually, I was hoping you’d get here before the real chaos started.”
“Holiday parties are my kryptonite,” Kara joked, then winced at her own terrible pun.
Lena’s laugh was immediate and genuine, and Kara felt the echo of it in her ribs.
For a few seconds, they just stood there, suspended in the hum of the party, until Nia excused herself with a conspiratorial wink and a promise to return with “something stronger than eggnog.”
Left alone, Kara lifted the package and held it out, suddenly bashful. “I, um, got something for you. Secret Santa rules and all that.”
Lena’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That’s funny,” she said, reaching behind her to the window ledge, where a meticulously wrapped box sat awaiting its moment. “I have something for you, too.”
Kara blinked. “You drew my name?”
Lena nodded. “And you drew mine?”
“Seems like fate,” Kara said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean—statistically, not that improbable, but—” She cut herself off, mortified.
But Lena just grinned, eyes brightening. “Fate, then.”
They exchanged packages, their hands touching briefly, skin against skin for the barest instant. Kara felt the contact like a spark, all the way up her arm.
At that moment, Cat—who had somehow installed herself at the very center of the room—called out, “Come on, my children! We demand a proper unwrapping. None of this bashful secrecy.” She gestured extravagantly toward them, and the room’s conversation dipped as a dozen faces turned in their direction.
Kara’s immediate impulse was to flee, but Lena anchored her with a nudge and a quick, reassuring smile.
“On three?” Lena suggested, her voice pitched low for the two of them alone.
Kara nodded, suddenly giddy. “One. Two. Three.”
They pulled at the ribbons, the paper coming away with a satisfying hiss. Kara’s package opened to reveal the telescope—a compact, professional-grade instrument with burnished chrome and carbon trim. Next to it, nestled in foam, was a pocket-sized star projector.
Kara just stared at it, hands trembling as she cradled the telescope. “How did you—?”
“You mentioned once, when we were editing that exposé on Peterson,” Lena said, watching Kara nervously, “that your father used to take you stargazing. And that sometimes, on the really hard days, looking at the night sky made you feel connected to him. I wanted…” She paused, biting her lip. “I hoped maybe it would help.”
Kara brushed a hand over the telescope’s smooth surface, unable to speak for a moment. “Lena, this is—” She tried to find the right word, but none seemed big enough. “You remembered,” she managed, voice thick. “No one ever…” She trailed off, blinking fiercely behind her glasses.
Meanwhile, Lena tore away the last of her own paper, revealing a glass pegasus that caught the party lights and scattered them into prismatic rainbows across her face. The sculpture was no larger than her palm, but exquisitely detailed—wings outstretched in mid-flight, mane flowing like liquid silver, each feather and muscle rendered with impossible detail. The crystal-clear body held a faint blue tint that deepened at the wingtips, as if the creature had just emerged from diving through clouds at dusk.
Lena ran her fingers over the delicate wings, her expression shifting from surprise to wonder to something almost stricken.
"When you told me about your childhood," Kara blurted, "how you'd imagine flying away from the Luthor mansion on a winged horse—I remembered. I wanted you to have something that reminded you that you did escape. That you're free now. That you can soar wherever you want." She swallowed hard. "And maybe... that you don't have to fly alone anymore."
Lena shook her head, smiling so wide her cheeks dimpled. "It's perfect. It's..." She looked up, eyes shining, and for a moment the party faded into a fuzzy, distant glow. "No one's ever listened closely enough to remember something like that. No one's ever seen me like this before."
Around them, the party continued, but they existed in their own bubble of understanding. Cat raised her glass in silent toast from across the room, while Alex and Sam exchanged satisfied looks.
"I should probably tell you," Kara said, her courage building, "that I've wanted to ask you out for coffee—not work coffee, but date coffee—for about a year and a half now."
Lena's smile widened. "And I should probably tell you that I've been flirting with you for approximately two years."
"You have?" Kara blinked in surprise.
"Constantly," Lena confirmed with a small laugh. "I once told you that your eyes reminded me of the ocean at dawn, and you thanked me and asked if I wanted to review the sports section."
"Oh." Kara felt her cheeks heat. "I thought you were being... friendly."
"Very friendly," Lena agreed, stepping closer. "And I'd like to be even friendlier, if you're amenable."
From across the room, Winn dramatically whispered to James, "It's happening!" while Nia quickly snapped a photo on her phone.
As snow began to fall outside the windows of CatCo, Kara finally recognized the look in Lena's eyes—the one that had been there all along, waiting to be seen.