Chapter Text
Clark Kent sat in the central chair of the newly repaired Fortress of Solitude, the restored sunbeam mechanism pouring a steady column of golden light down from the crystalline ceiling. The air hummed faintly with the quiet industry of the Superman robots as they moved through the vast chamber, sealing fractures in the walls, recalibrating consoles, and restoring order to a place that had been brutally violated only days before.
Four, the robot closest to him, administered repairs to Clark’s damaged suit, while Clark inspected the patchwork repairs on its damaged plating. The welds were rough, functional, but they gave the otherwise pristine machine an unexpected humanity.
“Got this place cleaned up pretty good,” Clark said, his voice soft, almost wondering. He tilted his head, studying the robot’s head injury, “cleaned yourself up pretty good, too.”
Four reached up with mechanical fingers, touching the scar self-consciously, if such a thing were possible for a robot, “you think so?”
“Yeah,” Clark replied, a small, tired smile touching his lips, “I think it gives you character.”
Four paused, processing the compliment in its own quiet way, “maybe, one day, you’ll give me a name.”
Clark frowned, genuinely puzzled, “well, Four’s a name.”
Four’s voice remained perfectly deadpan, “so is Gary.”
Clark opened his mouth to respond, some gentle rebuttal already forming, when a sudden, violent crash echoed from deep within one of the side corridors. Metal screeched against crystal. Something heavy toppled. Then another crash, followed by a cascade of smaller impacts.
“Aw, shoot,” a familiar voice muttered, muffled but unmistakable.
Four turned its head toward the sound, “sir, I think your cousin has returned.”
Clark exhaled slowly, the weariness settling deeper into his bones, “yup.”
He stayed seated, hands resting on the arms of the chair, watching the hallway entrance. The robots continued their work without pause, but the chamber felt suddenly smaller, as though the air itself were bracing for impact.
Then she appeared.
Kara Zor-El stumbled out of the shadowed corridor and into the central chamber, swaying slightly as she caught her balance. Soot streaked her face in uneven smears, clinging to her cheekbones and forehead like war paint. Her costume—similar to Clark’s but distinctly hers, with the shorter skirt and taller boots—was half-hidden beneath a tattered, grimy brown coat that looked like it had been dragged through something disgusting. The coat hung open, flapping as she moved. Her blonde hair, although you couldn’t tell it was blonde, due to the amount of muck that coated it, was tangled, strands stuck to her soot-dusted skin. Her eyes were bloodshot, the pupils a little too wide, the lids heavy with exhaustion and something stronger.
She raised both arms in an exaggerated, unsteady wave.
“What the hell, dude?” Kara’s voice was hoarse, slurred at the edges. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the hallway she’d just demolished, “why did you move the door?”
Clark lifted one hand and pointed, calm and precise, toward the actual entrance on the opposite side of the chamber—the one that had always been there.
“I didn’t move the door.”
Kara squinted in the direction he indicated, blinked slowly, then shrugged as if the entire Fortress had personally conspired against her. She wiped a hand across her mouth, smearing more soot.
“Hey,” she said, scanning the room with unfocused urgency, “where is my dog?”
Before Clark could answer, a white streak shot across the ceiling. Krypto launched himself from his bed with unrestrained joy, barreling straight into Kara’s chest with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber like a gunshot. The impact would have shattered a human ribcage, but Kara only fell back, arms instinctively wrapping around the dog as he seized the scruff of her filthy coat in his teeth
Krypto dragged her forward, then down. Kara hit the floor hard enough to send spiderweb cracks radiating outward. The stone dented beneath her with a sharp crack. Dust and crystal shards puffed into the air. Yet she laughed—high, breathless, giddy laughter that rang off the walls as Krypto pinned her, tail wagging furiously, licking soot from her face with enthusiastic slobber.
Clark watched the chaos unfold, one hand rubbing slow circles over his temple, “okay,” he sighed, voice heavy with resignation, “well, this is why he has behavioral issues.”
Four tilted its head, observing the scene with mechanical detachment, “no boundaries,” it said, shaking its head in mild disapproval, “it’s not healthy, is it?”
Clark only hummed in response, his gaze never leaving Kara.
She finally managed to push herself up to a sitting position, still giggling as she wrestled Krypto into a rough hug. The dog’s entire body vibrated with happiness, paws scrabbling against her coat. Kara ruffled his ears, planted a kiss on his head, then hauled herself unsteadily to her feet. Crystal dust cascaded from her shoulders.
“Come on,” she said to Krypto, voice lighter now, almost affectionate beneath the slur. She turned toward the hallway she’d entered through—still the wrong one—and gestured for the dog to follow. Krypto bounded ahead, pausing to look back at her expectantly. Kara flicked a lazy, two-fingered salute in Clark’s direction without fully turning around, “thanks for watching him, bitch!”
Kara’s voice echoed off the crystalline walls, light and careless, as she turned fully toward the hallway. Krypto bounded ahead of her, tail whipping the air, already eager to leave the Fortress behind. She took one step, then another, the dented floor crunching faintly under her boots.
“Kara.”
Clark’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something immovable. She stopped mid-stride, shoulders stiffening. Krypto paused too, glancing back with a soft whine. Kara didn’t turn around right away. She let out a slow breath that fogged in the cold air, then pivoted on her heel, one eyebrow arched in exaggerated patience.
“What now? I’ve got a shuttle to catch.”
Clark rose from the central chair. The sunlight pouring through the restored mechanism painted him in gold, but his face was shadowed, eyes fixed on her with an intensity she hadn’t seen directed at her before. Four and the other robots continued their work in silence, discreetly moving to the edges of the chamber as if sensing the shift in atmosphere.
“I need to ask you something,” Clark said. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it—something raw trying to stay contained, “and for once, I just need you to be serious. No jokes. I need you to look at me and be honest.”
Kara’s smirk faltered. She crossed her arms over her grimy coat, shifting her weight, “okay… that’s ominous. Shoot.”
Clark took a slow step forward, “I finally heard the complete message. The one my… my parents recorded for me. The part that was corrupted, the part I never heard before… I finally heard it all.”
He watched her face carefully. Kara’s expression didn’t change much, but something flickered behind her eyes—recognition, maybe dread.
“I know what they really said,” he continued, “what they really intended for me to do when I grew up. And I need to know… did you know?”
The chamber went utterly still. Even the faint hum of the robots seemed to fade.
Kara’s gaze dropped to the floor for a long second. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence stretched, heavy and damning.
Clark’s breath caught, “you did, didn’t you?”
Kara lifted her eyes again, jaw tight. Still no words.
“How long?” he asked, voice cracking on the question, “how long have you known?”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, “long enough.”
“Before the end?” he pressed, “before Krypton—”
“Yes,” she cut in, voice low, “before Krypton died. I knew.”
Clark stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, “you knew? You knew my parents wanted me to… to conquer this planet? To subjugate humanity. To… breed a new master race,” the words tasted like ash in his mouth, “and you never said anything?”
Kara shrugged, but the motion was stiff, defensive, “I mean, they were always a little nuts, Kal. Even by Kryptonian standards. Everyone knew Jor-El had… ideas. Extreme ideas, on how to survive. But you were raised here. By decent people. So I figured you’d never listen to that garbage anyway.”
“That’s not your call to make!” Clark’s voice rose, echoing sharply. Krypto whimpered and slunk behind Kara, “you decided for me what I could handle. You let me build my entire life—my entire identity—around a lie!”
“I was trying to protect you!” Kara shot back, heat entering her tone for the first time, “you were just a baby when you left. You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t watch people you love die, screaming on a chunk of rock drifting through space. You didn’t have to grow up knowing your entire world was gone because the adults in charge were too arrogant to listen! So why would I dump their insane manifesto on you when it wouldn’t change anything?”
“It changed everything!” Clark shouted. He took another step toward her, hands clenched at his sides, “I stood in front of the entire world and told them my family sent me here to protect them. That Krypton believed in humanity. That they sent me here because they thought this planet was worth saving. And the whole time—the whole damn time—it was the opposite!”
Kara flinched.
“And I had to learn the truth from Lex Luthor,” Clark continued, voice shaking with fury and hurt, “from him. He broke in here, took the video, repaired it, and broadcast it to everyone on Earth. People felt betrayed, Kara. They were terrified of me. They locked me in a pocket dimension because they were scared I was finally going to do what my parents told me to do.”
He laughed once, bitter and broken.
“And while I was trapped, while Lois and Michael risked their lives to get me out… where were you? Off getting drunk in some dive bar.”
Kara’s face flushed dark with anger, “don’t you dare judge me, Kal-El. You don’t get to judge how I cope. You got the fairy-tale version—loving parents, a normal childhood, a perfect life. I got the end of everything I love. I watched everyone I knew die slowly. So yeah, sometimes I drink until I can’t feel it anymore. Sue me.”
“This isn’t about coping!” Clark roared, “this is about trust! You’re the only biological family I have left. The only one who shares my blood, my history. And yet you kept this from me. You let me walk into that betrayal blind.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever have to hear it!” she yelled back, defensively, “I thought it would stay buried with the rest of the wreckage!”
“Well it didn’t!” His voice cracked like thunder in the chamber, “and now the whole world knows what monsters our people were—and by extension, what I might have been. And the one person who could have prepared me, warned me, helped me process it… said nothing.”
Kara opened her mouth, closed it again. For once, she had no comeback.
Clark’s chest heaved. He stared at her—at the soot, the tattered coat, the bloodshot eyes—and felt something inside him fracture. He shook his head before turning away.
“I… I think it’s best if you leave, Kara,” he said quietly.
The words hung in the air, soft but final.
Kara blinked, “what?”
He met her gaze, steady and unwavering, “I don’t want to see you right now. Not if I can’t trust you.”
She stared at him, genuinely stunned, “wait, you’re… serious?”
“Completely.”
Kara’s mouth twisted, half anger, half disbelief, “what about Krypto? When I’m off-world, who’s going to—”
Clark let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head, looking at her with open disappointment, “that’s it? That’s all you have to say? I just told you that you betrayed me—betrayed everything I’ve tried to stand for—and the only thing you worry about is who’s going to dogsit when it’s convenient for you.”
Kara’s eyes flashed, “that’s not—”
“You still don’t get it,” he said, turning away from her, “just go.”
Krypto whined again, looking between them, confused and anxious. Kara stood frozen for a long moment, the silence stretching until it felt unbearable. Finally, she reached down and scratched the dog’s ears once, roughly. Then she straightened, coat flapping as she turned toward the exit—the correct one this time.
She didn’t look back as she walked away, boots echoing against the crystal floor until the sound faded into nothing.
Clark sank back into the central chair, the golden sunlight suddenly feeling cold against his skin. Four approached hesitantly, but he raised a hand, asking for solitude.
The Fortress, for the first time in years, felt truly empty.
Lois Lane stood at the window of the Daily Planet bullpen, coffee long gone cold in her hand, watching the cranes swing against a gray December sky. Four months had passed since Lex Luthor tore open that dimensional rift and very nearly split Metropolis in two. The scar was still there—literally. A jagged fissure ran through the city, cordoned off with orange barriers and warning signs, while construction crews worked around the clock to get things back to the way it used to be. The mayor had been blunt in his last press conference: full repairs would take at least two more years, even with the flood of money and materials from Wayne Enterprises and the tireless labor of the Justice Gang.
Metropolis was healing, but slowly, like a bone that had been set wrong and needed to be re-broken first. Entire blocks along the riverfront were still wrapped in scaffolding. The historic Hobbs Bay Bridge had a temporary replacement that groaned every time a truck crossed it. And every so often, on quiet nights, people swore they could hear the city shifting.
But life, stubborn as ever, kept moving forward.
The Planet had finally stopped running daily updates on Lex’s imprisonment to Belle Reve or the latest congressional hearing about “The Incident.” Perry had declared an unofficial moratorium on the word “rift” unless it was accompanied by fresh, verifiable reporting. Instead, the front page that morning carried a photo of Hawkgirl outside the United Nations, while diplomats argued over whether her execution of Boravian dictator Vasil Ghurkos was an act of war. Below the fold: a lighter piece about Superman preventing a runaway train from plunging into the Suicide Slum ravine.
Normal superhero chaos, in other words.
Lois turned from the window and walked back to her desk, weaving through the familiar controlled pandemonium of the newsroom. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, someone shouted for a copy editor. Jimmy was hunched over his desk, cropping photos from yesterday’s toy drive at the children’s hospital. Perry’s door was closed—he was on a call with the Gotham Gazette about shared coverage of the upcoming inter-city charity gala Bruce Wayne was hosting.
She dropped into her chair and stared at the blank document open on her screen. She was supposed to be writing a follow-up on public trust in metahuman responders, but the cursor just blinked at her, patient and accusing.
Four months.
Four months since Clark had come back from that pocket dimension pale and quiet, the weight of the world—literally—on his shoulders. Four months since the broadcast of Jor-El’s restored message had turned Superman from beacon of hope into potential conqueror in the eyes of half the planet. Four months since governments had panicked, and Lois had watched the man she loved be treated like the very threat he spent his life stopping.
And four months since she’d seen or heard anything about Kara Zor-El.
Lois rubbed her temples. She hadn’t asked Clark about his cousin directly—not after the first few weeks, when any mention of Krypton seemed to shut him down. But the absence was noticeable. Krypto still came occasionally, but he always arrived alone now, rocketing in from wherever Kara had left him. No hungover Supergirl stumbling through. No sarcastic quips. Just the dog, and Clark’s careful silence whenever Lois tried to nudge the subject.
She understood why he was angry. God, she did. Learning that your parents—your mythic, perfect, dead parents—had sent you to Earth not to save it but to rule it… that would break anyone. And learning it from Lex Luthor, of all people, after the entire world had heard it too? That was salt ground deep into the wound.
But Kara…
Lois had only met her a handful of times, usually in the middle of some crisis that required two Kryptonians and left no time for small talk. What she remembered was a young woman who carried her grief like armor—sharp, spiked, designed to keep everyone at a distance. Kara laughed loudest when things were worst, drank hardest when memories crept too close, and disappeared for weeks at a time without warning. Lois had seen the pain underneath it all, the kind that didn’t heal neatly.
Clark, raised with love and stability, had become the best of them. Kara had become something harder to define.
Lois sighed and finally started typing.
Public opinion polls showed a steady climb in Superman’s favorability ratings. After the rift, people had started to remember why they’d trusted him in the first place. The toy drive photos were gold—Clark in the suit, kneeling to hand a little girl a stuffed bear while she stared up at him like he’d hung the moon. Social media was flooded with #ThankYouSuperman again. Even the talking heads on cable had moved on to fresher outrage.
He was earning it back, one rescued cat and one saved city block at a time.
But Lois knew him better than anyone. She saw the new lines around his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She heard the way his laugh didn’t quite reach full volume anymore. And she noticed how, on the nights when the apartment felt too quiet, he’d look out the window and stare up at the stars like he was searching for something that wasn’t there.
She saved the draft. It was almost lunch, and Clark had promised to meet her on the roof. These days he flew in as himself more often than in the cape, just to remind people he was still Clark Kent, reporter, too.
Lois grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator. The city hummed below her as the elevator ascended, construction noise and traffic and life going on, resilient as ever.
Metropolis would heal. The scars would fade, eventually.
Later that evening, the temperature had dropped sharply. December 16th, just over a week until Christmas. Lois trudged up the exterior stairs to her apartment building, grocery bag in one arm, keys already in her gloved hand. Snow flurries danced in the cones of light cast by the old-fashioned lamps along the railing, melting the moment they touched the ground. The streets were quieter than usual—holiday parties starting early, people already fleeing to family in warmer states.
Clark wasn’t with her.
He’d called—or rather, shouted—earlier that afternoon, the voicemail crackling with wind rush and the unmistakable roar of supersonic flight.
“Hey, Lois—it’s me. Something’s come up in Gotham. Batman… again. The GCPD thinks they’ve finally gothim, and they’re… well, they’re not asking nicely. I’ve gotta go make sure nobody does anything stupid. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Love you.”
She’d played it three times on the cab ride home, half amused, half exasperated.
Batman.
Honestly. She still wasn’t convinced the guy was real. Despite being around for four years, there were no credible photos, no reliable eyewitness accounts beyond “pointy ears” and “disappears like smoke.” The Gotham City Police Department flip-flopped weekly between insisting he was nothing more than an urban legend and blaming him for every unsolved crime in the city. Half the reporters at the Planet had a running betting pool on whether he was a hoax, a government psy-op, or just a very committed performance artist.
Either way, it meant Clark was spending the night in Gotham trying to keep a myth from getting shot by overzealous cops, and Lois was spending it alone.
She let herself into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind her with one heel. The place was dark except for the multicolored glow of the small Christmas tree she’d put up in the corner last weekend—Clark had helped string the lights, laughing when she’d insisted on the mismatched ornaments she’d collected over years of lonely holidays. The apartment smelled faintly of pine and the cinnamon candle she’d burned the night before.
She flicked on the kitchen light, set the grocery bag on the counter, and shrugged out of her coat. She was halfway through pulling out a skillet to heat up leftover chili when the prickle started at the back of her neck—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
Lois froze, hand still on the cupboard door.
Slowly, she turned.
The living room was dim, lit only by the tree’s soft, shifting colors—red, green, blue, gold—washing over the furniture in gentle waves. And there, on the sofa, sat a figure.
Smaller than Clark. Slouched forward, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped. Head bowed slightly, blonde hair falling across her face like a curtain. She wore a dark hoodie pulled up, jeans, heavy boots. The multicolored lights played across her profile, catching on the sharp line of her cheekbone.
Kara Zor-El.
She didn’t move when Lois saw her. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, staring at the Christmas tree as though the blinking lights held answers to questions Lois couldn’t begin to guess.
Lois let out a slow breath, “you know… most people knock.”
Kara’s shoulders lifted in the barest shrug. Her voice, when it came, was rough, “door was locked. Window wasn’t.”
Lois glanced toward the living room window. It was closed now, latched. Not a mark on it. Of course.
She set the skillet down quietly and walked into the living room, stopping a few feet from the sofa. Up close, Kara looked worse than Lois had feared. The hoodie was oversized, sleeves frayed. Her face was thinner, cheekbones sharper, eyes ringed with exhaustion that went deeper than sleepless nights. There was a faint tremor in her fingers, quickly hidden when she noticed Lois looking.
“How long have you been here?” Lois asked.
Kara’s gaze stayed on the tree. A blue light flickered across her face, then red, “couple hours. Maybe more. Lost track.”
Lois studied her for a long moment, then moved to the armchair opposite and sat down.
“You hungry?” Lois tried.
Kara shook her head once.
“Thirsty?”
Another shake.
Lois leaned forward, elbows on her knees, mirroring Kara’s posture without thinking, “Clark’s not here. He’s in Gotham. Something about—”
“I know,” Kara interrupted quietly, “I heard the message.”
Of course she had. Super-hearing. She probably heard it from orbit.
Silence settled again, thick and uncomfortable. The tree lights blinked on, cycle complete, starting over.
Lois tried again, “Kara… are you okay?”
Kara let out a sound—half laugh, half scoff—that held no humor at all, “define okay.”
She finally lifted her head and looked at Lois. Her eyes were bloodshot, but dry. Too dry, like she’d run out of tears a long time ago.
“I didn’t come here to talk to him,” Kara said, “I just… didn’t have anywhere else to go tonight.”
Lois’s heart twisted. She kept her voice steady, “you’re welcome here. Always. You know that.”
Kara’s mouth twisted, bitter, “pretty sure Clark would disagree.”
“He’s hurt,” Lois said carefully, “he’s processing a lot. But he doesn’t hate you. And besides, last time I checked, this was my apartment, not his.”
Kara looked away again, back to the lights, “doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
“Not tonight it doesn’t.”
The words hung between them. Outside, snow tapped gently against the window.
Lois stood up slowly. “I’m heating up chili. There’s plenty. And I’ve got hot chocolate—the good kind, with the little marshmallows Ma Kent sent. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. But you’re staying.”
Kara didn’t answer, but she didn’t leave either.
Lois went back to the kitchen, moving quietly, giving the younger woman space. She stirred the chili, set out two bowls just in case, started the milk for cocoa. Every so often she glanced into the living room. Kara hadn’t moved. She just sat there, bathed in the soft glow of the tree, watching the lights shift and change like she was trying to memorize them.
When the cocoa was ready—steaming, topped with a small mountain of miniature marshmallows—Lois ladled chili into one bowl for herself and carried the mug and the second bowl into the living room anyway. She wasn’t going to force food on Kara, but she’d be damned if she let the girl sit there with nothing warm in her hands.
She rounded the corner and stopped.
Kara’s shoulders were shaking.
Not the dramatic, heaving sobs Lois might have expected. These were small, almost silent, as if Kara were trying to keep them inside and failing. Her face was turned down, hidden behind the fall of her hair, but tears tracked silver paths through the lingering soot on her cheeks, catching the Christmas lights like tiny prisms. One drop fell from her chin and landed on the knee of her jeans, darkening the fabric.
Lois set the bowl and mug carefully on the coffee table and sat on the ottoman directly in front of her, close enough to reach but not crowding.
“Kara,” she said softly.
Kara didn’t answer at first. Then a ragged breath escaped her, and the dam broke.
“I miss them,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice, “I miss them so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. I miss the sky and the markets and the way the twin moons looked at night. I miss my friends. I miss being a kid who thought the world was never going to end.”
Another tear fell. Then another.
“And I hate them,” she went on, the words tumbling faster now, “I hate them for what they turned into. For what they wanted us to become. I hate that every time I close my eyes I see Argo cracking apart, and I couldn’t save them. I hate that I’m still here and they’re not. I hate that Clark got the perfect family and I got… nothing. Just orders. Just duty.”
She lifted her head at last. Her eyes were red-rimmed, raw, but the tears kept coming.
“I hate that he hates me now. I know he does. And I don’t blame him. I should’ve told him. I know I should’ve. But I was so tired of being the one who carried all the ugly parts. I wanted him to keep the good memories a little longer. I wanted Krypton to still be good.”
Lois reached out slowly and laid a hand on Kara’s knee. Kara didn’t pull away.
“Sometimes,” Kara said, voice dropping to almost nothing, “I don’t see the point anymore. What’s the point of being strong if everyone you love is gone? What’s the point of saving a world that isn’t yours when the one that was yours is dust? I fly out there, past the moon, past everything, and it’s just… empty. And I think maybe it would be easier if I just kept going.”
Lois’s heart seized. She kept her face calm, but inside she was cataloging every crisis hotline. She squeezed Kara’s knee gently.
“You are not alone,” she said firmly, “you hear me? You are not alone.”
Kara gave a wet, bitter laugh, “feels like it.”
They sat in silence for a long minute, the tree lights blinking on, oblivious.
Then Kara wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie and looked at Lois with something new in her eyes—dread, maybe. Resignation.
“There’s something else,” she said, “something Clark doesn’t know.”
Lois waited.
“It wasn’t just his parents,” Kara said, “mine… mine were just as bad. Worse, maybe. But they weren’t always like that, and that’s what makes it hurt the most. When I was little, they were normal. My dad and I built robots, my mom painted. We had dinners together, laughed at stupid things. But when the council kept ignoring the warnings, when the core started failing and no one would listen… they got desperate. And desperate people do insane things.”
She swallowed hard.
“I overheard them once—my father talking to Uncle Jor. They were finalizing the plans for Kal’s rocket. And they weren’t just sending him away to save him. They were sending him to conquer. To seed a new empire. My father said it like it was noble. Like it was the only way Krypton could survive.”
Lois stayed silent, letting her speak.
Kara’s voice grew quieter, almost ashamed.
“You want to know the worst part?”
Lois wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded anyway.
“My mother… the last time I ever saw her, she pulled me aside. The city was falling apart around us. The ground was shaking. Everyone was dying. And she looked me in the eye and told me that if I made it to Earth—if I found Kal—I had to raise him right. Teach him who he really was. Make sure he fulfilled his purpose.”
Kara’s hands twisted together in her lap, knuckles white.
“And if the bloodline of El was at risk… if there weren’t enough compatible partners… she told me I had to be the one to continue it. With him. Because we were the last pure Kryptonians. Because it was my duty.”
Lois felt the air leave her lungs in a rush.
“She said it like it was nothing,” Kara whispered, “‘Breed with him if you must, Kara. Ensure our people live on.’ Not ‘I love you.’ Not ‘I’m proud of you.’ Not ‘Be happy.’ Just… that. And then the ceiling collapsed and I never saw her again.”
The tears were falling freely now, silent and unstoppable.
“They were about to die. And the last thing they could think to tell me was to sleep with my cousin. That’s what Krypton came down to in the end. That’s all I was to them—a vessel for Krypton’s survival.”
Lois moved without thinking, sliding from the ottoman to the floor in front of Kara and pulling the younger woman into her arms. Kara stiffened for a heartbeat, then folded, burying her face in Lois’s shoulder as the sobs finally broke loose—deep, wrenching, the kind that came from somewhere far below the surface.
Lois held her tightly, one hand stroking her hair, the Christmas lights still blinking softly around them.
“You are so much more than that,” Lois murmured into her hair, “you are not what they tried to make you. You’re Kara. You’re the girl who still saves people even when it hurts. And you are loved—by Clark, by Ma and Pa Kent, by me, by every life you’ve touched. You are enough exactly as you are.”
Kara clung to her like a lifeline, crying until there was nothing left but shaky breaths and the quiet hum of the tree.
The crying eventually ebbed into quiet hiccups, then into the kind of exhausted stillness that comes after a storm. Kara stayed curled against Lois’s shoulder, her breathing uneven, fingers loosely clutching the fabric of Lois’s sweater as if letting go might send her drifting into the void again. Lois didn’t move, didn’t rush her. She just held on, one hand steadily rubbing slow circles between Kara’s shoulder blades, the Christmas lights still painting soft colors across them both.
When Kara finally pulled back, it was only far enough to wipe her face with both sleeves, leaving fresh streaks through the old soot. She wouldn’t meet Lois’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I didn’t mean to… unload all that on you.”
“Don’t,” Lois said gently, “don’t apologize. Not ever. Not with me.”
Kara gave a tiny nod, but it was mechanical, like she didn’t quite believe it.
Lois reached for the mug of cocoa on the table and pressed it into Kara’s hands, “drink. Slowly.”
Kara obeyed, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic as though the heat was the only real thing in the room. She took a small sip, marshmallows bumping against her lips, and stared into the liquid like it might show her the future.
Lois watched her for a long moment, weighing words she knew would hurt before they could ever help.
“Kara,” she began carefully, “you need to talk to Clark.”
Kara’s head snapped up, “no.”
“Hear me out—”
“I can’t,” Kara’s voice cracked again, sharper this time, “you didn’t see his face, Lois. You weren’t there. He told me to leave. He said he didn’t want to see me again. And after what I kept from him—what my parents wanted from both of us—how could he ever look at me without seeing that?”
“He’s hurt,” Lois said, “he’s furious. But he’s also carrying the exact same poison you just poured out to me, and he’s carrying it alone. He thinks his parents were monsters. He doesn’t know yours were too. He doesn’t know how deep the rot went.”
Kara shook her head stubbornly, “he doesn’t want to hear it from me.”
“Maybe not right now,” Lois conceded, “but he will. Because he’s Clark. Because underneath all the anger and the betrayal, he loves you. You’re his family—the only person left who remembers Krypton the way he wishes he could.”
Kara’s eyes filled again, but she blinked hard, refusing to let more tears fall.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, so quietly Lois almost missed it, “I’m scared that if I tell him the rest—if I tell him what my mother said—he’ll look at me like I’m… tainted. Like I’m part of their plan. Like I could ever—” Her voice broke completely, “what if he believes I might have?”
Lois’s expression softened, but her gaze was steady, “would you? If things had gone differently—if you’d landed first, raised him—would you have done it?”
Kara recoiled as if Lois had slapped her. “No,” she spat, fierce and immediate, “I’d die first. I’d rather fly into the sun than become that. They were wrong—sick, twisted—and I hated them for even thinking it. I hated them for putting that on me.”
Lois took Kara’s free hand in both of hers, “then you tell him exactly that. You tell him what you just told me. You tell him because he deserves to know he wasn’t the only one they tried to twist. And because you deserve to stop carrying this alone.”
Kara stared at their joined hands, thumb tracing absently over Lois’s knuckles.
“He’s in Gotham tonight,” Lois continued softly, “he’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. Come here. Or go to the Fortress. Or just wait for him on the roof of the Planet like you used to when you needed him. But don’t let this sit between you any longer. It’s eating you alive.”
Kara was quiet for so long Lois thought she wouldn’t answer at all.
Finally, she whispered, “but what if he turns me away again?”
“Then I’ll be there,” Lois said without hesitation, “and I’ll drag his sorry ass by the ear until he listens. I’ve done it before; I can do it again. But I don’t think it’ll come to that. He’s had four months to stew. Four months to realize that losing you hurts worse than being angry at you.”
Kara let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh or another sob—maybe both.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” she said.
“You are,” Lois replied, “you’re the strongest person I know. You survived Krypton dying. You survived Argo. You survived every day since. You can survive one conversation with your cousin.”
Kara closed her eyes, leaning forward until her forehead rested lightly against Lois’s.
“Thank you,” she said, voice raw, “for… for not treating me like I’m broken beyond repair.”
“You’re not broken,” Lois told her fiercely, “you’re bent pretty far, yeah. But bent isn’t broken. And you don’t have to straighten out alone.”
They stayed like that for a while, foreheads touching, the cocoa cooling between Kara’s palms, the tree lights blinking on and off like a slow heartbeat.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady.
Lois woke to pale winter light filtering through the half-open blinds and the faint smell of chilli. For a moment she lay still, listening to the hush of fresh snow muffling the city outside. Then memory returned: Kara on the sofa, the tears, the cocoa, the terrible confession. She sat up quickly, heart already racing.
The living room was empty.
The Christmas tree lights were off—Kara must have unplugged them before leaving. The blanket Lois had draped over her sometime after midnight was neatly folded on the ottoman. On the coffee table sat the second bowl of chili, scraped clean, and the cocoa mug, empty except for a thin ring of dried whipped cream clinging to the bottom like frost.
No note. No goodbye. Just gone.
Lois exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and worry settling in her chest. At least Kara had eaten. At least she’d stayed long enough to sleep a little. But the silence felt heavier now.
She padded to the kitchen, started coffee, and was halfway through pulling on her work clothes—dark slacks, purple blouse, boots for the snow—when the doorbell rang.
Lois frowned; she wasn’t expecting anyone. She crossed to the door and opened it to find Clark standing in the hallway, looking rumpled and exhausted in the same navy suit he’d worn yesterday, tie loosened, top button undone, faint stubble shadowing his jaw. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair. In one hand he held a brown paper bag that smelled of warm yeast and toasted sesame.
“Morning,” he said, offering a tired half-smile as he stepped inside, “front door this time. Figured I’d act like a normal human for once.”
Lois closed the door behind him and watched as he shrugged out of his overcoat, hanging it on the rack, “you look like you didn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted, moving to the kitchen counter. He set the bag down—Kane’s Bagels, Gotham’s best—and started unpacking it, “but I got a story out of it, so hopefully Perry won’t kill me. Exclusive interview with a Gotham detective, some guy named Gordon, who’s starting to question the department’s stance on the Batman.”
He laid out the waxed paper parcels: bagels heavy with seeds and cream cheese. The normalcy of it felt almost jarring after the night she’d had. Clark glanced around the apartment as he worked, gaze lingering on the folded blanket, the two empty dishes in the drying rack, the faint second indentation on the sofa cushion.
“Lois,” he said quietly, pausing with a bagel halfway out of its wrapper, “was someone here?”
She leaned against the counter opposite him, arms crossed. Might as well get it over with, “Kara.”
Clark froze. The easy morning warmth drained from his face in an instant.
“She came by last night,” Lois continued, “stayed the night. We talked.”
Clark set a bagel down carefully, “what did she say?”
“A lot.” Lois hesitated, then decided gentleness could wait, “she’s hurting, Clark. Worse than we realized.”
He looked away, jaw tight, “I’m sure she is.”
The dismissive edge in his tone—cool, clipped, almost sarcastic—lit a spark in Lois’s chest. After everything Kara had poured out last night, after the raw, bleeding grief she’d witnessed, that single sentence felt like a slap.
“Don’t,” Lois said sharply, “don’t you dare do that.”
Clark’s eyes snapped back to her, startled, “do what?”
“Act like her pain is some inconvenience you can brush off. You didn’t see her last night, Clark. You didn’t hold her while she cried. She’s been carrying this for years, and she’s been carrying it alone.”
Clark’s expression shuttered, “I’m not the one who kept secrets—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me about secrets, Smallville,” Lois scoffed, “your whole life is a secret. No, you’re the one who told her to leave and never come back,” Lois cut in, voice rising, “you’re the one who cut her off when she needed you the most. And now she’s out there somewhere, terrified you’ll never forgive her, convinced she’s tainted because of what her mother ordered her to do.”
Clark flinched at that, confusion flickering across his face, “what her mother—?”
“You need to hear it from her,” Lois stopped him.
He stared at her, shock replacing the defensiveness.
“She’s been alone with this for months,” Lois went on, quieter now but no less intense, “years, really. And last night she finally broke. She’s scared you’ll look at her and see what they tried to make her. She’s scared you’ll hate her forever.”
Clark’s throat worked as he swallowed. He didn’t speak.
Lois stepped closer, “she has no one, Clark. No one. You have Ma and Pa waiting in Smallville with open arms. You have me. You have Jimmy, Lombard and, hell, even Perry. Kara has... a dog and, as of last night, apparently me. That’s it.”
Clark closed his eyes, shoulders sagging under the weight of her words.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he whispered.
Lois’s heart twisted, but she didn’t soften, “I’m sorry but I don’t care. Get ready, Clark. Because she needs you right now. She needs her family. She needs to know she’s not the monster her parents tried to create. And you need to hear the full truth from her.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally Clark opened his eyes. They were glassy, but steady, “she left before you woke up?”
Lois nodded.
Clark looked at the empty mug on the counter. After a long moment, he said, voice rough, “I don’t know where to start.”
“You start by being there,” Lois said, “and you listen. Really listen. Because if you turn her away again, you’ll lose her for good. And I know you don’t want that.”
Clark’s jaw trembled for a fraction of a second before he got it under control.
“No,” he said at last, “I don’t.”
He reached for the poppy-seed bagel, handed it to her without a word, then started spreading cream cheese on a bagel for himself. His movements were slow, deliberate.
Lois took the bagel, watching him. The anger had ebbed, leaving only ache behind.
“Thank you,” Clark said quietly, not looking up, “for being there for her when I wasn’t.”
Lois gave him a small, sad smile, “that’s what family does, Smallville.”
They ate in silence for a while, the morning light growing brighter around them, snow still drifting past the windows.