#vic treats him 'well' or at least gently so it's confusing

[befuddled-calico-whump]

IS Vic purposely making The serial Sahotas younger? Does that mean He created Kiv to look 30-something because he wants people to think he is younger?

Since Vic is trying to fly under the radar, he doesn't use an industrial clone manufacturer to create his own clones, instead going with a private business that's easier to bribe into silence

Most private cloneries work with families who want children, or people who want a personal caregiver or assistant, so their technology works to chronologically rebuild a person in order to give them a better sense of self (and shadows of memory)

Because of this, the age range they work with is usually 1-20. Their tech isn't powerful enough to get much older than that, since that's layering even more muscle memory and neural pathways on

With Kiv, Vic wanted a carbon copy of himself at his actual age, but the most the company could do was 30 or so. Vic was a little pissed, but since he was more concerned about dna and bioscans than appearance, he rolled with it

But yeah, for Ander/Sahota he would've gotten him at 20 whether he had the choice or not, so he's still a creep lol

[hauntedelation]

𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐖𝐒!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭: 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 — Bucky was never told what Netflix and Chill meant.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — Black Female Reader x Bucky Barnes

𝐀/𝐍 — It’s been a while since I’ve seen the films Bucky is in. I watched some clips from the new show and fell in love with how he was presented. I hope that he and Sam don’t sound too ooc. This is a bulleted format, something that I've thought about lately w/ TFATWS!Bucky.

A friend of mine (here's their Tumblr! Thanks Vic <3) was expanding on this with me last night and their additions are marked in bold. No beta, really, I apologize for any errors! 

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 2.1k

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — minor descriptions of smut, Buck’s got a praise kink, unspecified age difference (the man is 106 y’all), fluff, warm feelings and anxiety, Sam is his literal wingman.

Here is a link back to my masterlist, please enjoy!

──────✧──────

Bucky Barnes meets you on a dating app. And of course, Sam had done a large part in helping him set it up. The man’s profile appeared a little different. There were nicely taken photos, but many he didn’t smile much in.

You were drawn, despite his rigid nature. You figure it was something about the energy put out. But you had no real explanation. 

Upon meeting, and after much encouragement on Sam’s part (including his therapist), Bucky realizes that he can’t outright explain everything to you. At least, not so soon.

Those words are a full stop on his tongue, and he found a way to change his story into something that isn’t a total lie. He wasn’t sure when he would be comfortable.

All that mattered was that with you he had all the time he needed.

He remembers stiffening one day when you reached out to gently touch his left hand, you were lost in speaking about your day then.

Knowing he can’t feel a thing, he was inaudible when he watched your thumb brush over his gloved fingers.

You appeared completely perceptive as if all you needed to do was look at him. There hadn’t been once where you pressed him on any topic.

The message he tried to put out is more than well-received. He is reserved, distant, but he inches just close enough for you to spend longer dates with him.

Close enough to where he learns to text you, starting out rather confusing for him. Eventually, the man calls, preferring to hear your voice.

In the beginning, you had the idea that he intended for both of you to take your time. So, you treated this bond as a friendship during the first few months.

You would coax him out of his own head, gradually showing him your favorite things and asking him about his. You noted a fair amount about Barnes.

His excuse (lie) to you of why he hasn’t seen any films or other media seemingly ever, was that his lifestyle kept him busy.

You didn’t question him when most of his music choices were from the forties. He remembers you complimenting him, “I like it, Buck. Your taste seems to be for the more meaningful things. You’re like an old soul.”

He found himself smiling at you, adoration spilling into his lungs watching you look over his favorite books, Billie Holiday playing on the speaker.

Around you, he could feel his nerves stand on end but it was not as if he was overwhelmed.

He was losing himself in you, everything about you who you were, and what made you happy. He tried to hold all of that back and keep it to himself. What if she found it was too much?

The man didn’t want to ruin what he had begun building with you. Unknowingly, Buck didn’t see that the feelings were very much mutual.

So you show him things he may have missed, you watch his reactions. You couldn’t get enough of the softness in his eyes when he finds something he likes, or his pensive reflections on another piece of media.

──────✧──────

One day, nearly a year after meeting you, Bucky brings you up casually in a conversation with Sam.

He sits back, using a rag to wipe at his hands and he thinks back to the time he spoke to you last.

You mentioned something about “Netflix” and he thinks he’s heard it before only he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Not ready to admit he didn’t, he agreed to the proposition.

Buck had recalled how you seemed to coyly play with a loose string on your shirt, your body language open.

“She’s showing me what ah…Netflix is the next time that I see her. Isn’t it a television channel?”

Sam stops tightening a bolt on a screw and he sets the tool down. His brows pinch together for a split second however Bucky witnesses a simper grow over his face.

“Man...you do know what that means right?” Sam tilts his head and leans against an object when he looks at him. The man had a twinkle in his eye.

Bucky frowns at Sam, he doesn’t particularly like the way Sam says that, but he says no. 

His friend shakes his head and breaks it down for him, “Bucky, you’re going to get some ass.”

Bucky’s face hardens straight away. He counters, “Don’t talk about her like that–” The younger man peers down at that vibranium hand clenching around the dirty rag, and he sighs.

Sam has to hold in a laugh. That’s not what he was insinuating.

Eventually, Bucky gets it. He tries to wrap his head around the idea, but in a way, it made sense to him. Buck remembers back to those nights at the drive-in, a pretty girl on his arm with fire in her eyes.

He’s thinking about it with you, how you would look at him, touch him or what you would sound like. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel dizzy. You had him on clouds even during the occasions he would kiss you.

He knows he’s rusty. And, even though you seemed to understand, it had to have been far longer than he realized since he’s felt all of that. Much longer since he could comprehend that degree of touch. He’s been deprived.

Anxiety fogs his mind, thinking about “what if” or any possible negatives.

Sam remains there for him, he places a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye closely, “Just be real with her. From what you’ve told me about her, she will be understanding.”

What follows has to be one of the most embarrassing trips to the drugstore that he’s ever taken, Sam insisting that he was present just to give Bucky advice.

Really the man was looking to tease light-heartedly. How couldn’t he be happy for his friend?

Inside, Buck isn’t entirely calm. He mentally prepares for meeting you once again, speaking with his therapist hesitantly.

‘Do you feel ready for her to see you, James? Intimacy is trust, and the experience can be a lot of not thought over tenderly.’

Buck waited a long time, allowing the woman’s words to sleep into his mind before he placidly said his answer.

──────✧──────

He finds himself at your house the next day, dressed in his normal dark clothing. His dog tags hung under his shirt, bushing against his pounding heart.

You invite him in with the most beguiling outfit the man had ever seen. Under your shorts, your tank top, more of your smooth skin had been exposed to him. He felt like a leper for taking you all in.

Soon you catch him staring midway through a movie, those blue eyes soaking you up. You carefully made a move.

Your soft hands glided over his body, focusing on his hair, his chest, stomach. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut the lower you went.

He pulled you over him, letting your thighs surround his being and his erection press against your heat.

It took a long time for Bucky to convince himself to remove his shirt. You had already worked yourself down to almost nothing, your breasts exposed to him and pressing so close to his body.

He gazed up at you and knew that all wanted was to feel you.

The scar tissue embedded in his shoulder rubbed against the fabric uncomfortably. He shifted, and he could feel your hands start to wander under the hem of his shirt.

“Wait-Wait, Doll, hold on—“ Bucky pants.

Your angelic face contorted to somewhat cautious, aware. “What’s wrong?” His hands settled on your hips, held you there to him.

“Nothing, nothing. I just…I haven’t exactly…done this in a few decades,” he professed.

Your dark eyes flash with something unreadable within, a perplexing look or maybe amusement. Within a few seconds, he feels you lax against him, untangling your fingers from his hair.

He swears you had to be reflecting on how crazy he sounded. Why did he say a few decades?

“Oh…so you…don’t want this?”

Buck’s hands fall on your thighs perched over his. You’d begun to place more distance between you both, following his uncertainty.

However, when your body moved away, your hips dragged against his, against him. He breathed out a curse and shook his head.

“No, no! I mean—yes! I mean—Fuck, I want this, I want you, Doll…I’m just sayin’ that…I might not be any…y’know, good.”

You find it difficult to believe, but your hand reached up to cradle his stubbly cheek. You let his arms pull you closer to him, placing short kisses on his mouth. “I understand. I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

When you worked him up to where he couldn’t take it anymore, where he was pulling that shirt over his head before any realization.

The air in your home prickled his exposed skin, and he looked away once your eyes fell to his shoulder.

He was sure he was close to passing out then, everything building and the dark feelings surrounding his arm not aiding. Bucky was frozen.

Yet as the seconds ticked on by, your face was amorous. You didn’t try to touch the mangled bunches of tissue or ask any questions about it.

You brushed your palms against his chest and guided him back into the couch. Your full lips left trails all over his neck and jaw.

He watched you pause, how you met his eye before placing feather-light kisses where his body met his arm. You moved over the whirring metal, shutting your eyes as the coolness of its surface felt pleasant on your lips.

Buck's heart pounded against his ribcage, almost painfully and he swore that you could hear it. He held in the surge of emotions that entered his body after beholding that.

“You’re so handsome, Buck. I can’t believe I was lucky enough to meet you." Your breath warmed over his skin as you whispered to him. “Look how wet you’ve got me.’

The man’s cheeks flushed and surely the color bled down his neck. You let him take a deep breath into his lungs, but then your words continued. Every syllable blanketed him.

“Are you alright with...moving forward?”

He fights himself to not answer too eagerly.

──────✧──────

Bucky doesn’t return home until the next morning. He found it difficult to pull away from you after a long night.

He knew that he had to, he cursed to himself recalling that he told Sam he would be back before the end of the night.

There is a glow to Bucky that you had never seen before that early morning. The man had been up all night with you, falling asleep for a few short hours before he woke again and repeated everything.

He felt drunk in bliss, overcome with everything that was you. And you felt it, in his bones, watching it drip off his body. 

You couldn’t help your shy smile when you saw the relaxed expression on his face. You said to him, “Feel free to call me when you want to hang out again. I…really enjoyed my time with you.”

He graciously accepted, kissing you lazily at your front doorstep before he dragged himself away.

Bucky knew he was in for it the moment he unlocked the door and there Sam was cooking breakfast in the kitchen.

He bit back a grimace when Sam turned around, eyes taking in the man’s current state.

His hair was a mess, clothes wrinkled, and a warm aura surrounding his body. Bucky feigned a nonchalant expression on his face, sometimes clenching his jaw to avoid all eye contact.

Sam turned the fire on the stove-top down and crossed his arms over his chest, examining his old friend playfully.

“I can’t believe it, man.”

Buck went to the other side of the kitchen looking for a glass, he filled the cup with water and took a few sips. “What do you mean, Samuel?”

His hand rubbed at his stubbled cheek and Sam laughed heartily. “Told you that you were gonna get some ass.”

Bucky had gone to say something but was caught up in his words. 

“Sam I—" His face burned dark crimson.

He shook his head and quickly excused himself for a shower, ignoring Sam's exuberant voice as he sauntered down the hall.

His friend returned to cooking. The smirk on his face was not going to leave anytime soon.

Sam knew he would ask Buck after his shower when the man was planning on introducing you.

──────✧──────

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — @missyellowbirdie @emyearns @brandycranby  (Tagged who I thought would be interested)

──────✧──────

[darkmystress00]

Baby Sitter’s Club - Ch 18

A/N: Hello again! I know it has been a while (though not as long as previously.) But I am *trying* to write the rest of this story as quickly as I can. I appreciate all the patience and understanding. 

Trigger warnings: none that I can think of…

Pairing: Misha x Reader

Catch up here!

It was two days after telling West and Maison about your new relationship with Misha before they started to act differently. Nothing bad, thank goodness, but you noticed that they watched you and Misha more when all four of you were together. They would move seats at the table to have you and Misha sitting next to each other, or they asked for more activities that involved all four of you. The first time Misha had shown any overt affection in front of them had sent them into a fit of giggles. 

All four of you had cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. It was after the time you would normally leave, but you didn’t mind. The kids had begged you to stay and tuck them into bed after the movie. It was an easy ‘yes.’ 

You sat next to Misha, your legs curled up on the couch, with West between you and him, and Maison in his lap. You hadn’t noticed as Misha’s arm had gone up to rest along the back of the couch until it slunk to rest around your shoulders, pulling you in to rest your head on his shoulder. It was a simple gesture and you smiled at how easy it was. You were also surprised at how comfortable you were with it in front of the kids (not that it was a huge display, but it was more than you’d ever done before.) Oh sure, there had been kisses, more like pecks, here and there when you would arrive or before you would leave. A couple hugs had been thrown in the mix as well, but somehow the kids had either never noticed or been in another room. 

West had let out a little giggle as you noticed him watching you and his dad cuddling. You’d resisted the urge to move away. Not because you disliked it or were uncomfortable, just because it was new. You weren’t used to it. You felt Misha’s fingers trail over your arm and shoulder in comforting caress and smiled as you relaxed and gave West a little wink. 

The movie and gone quickly and as the credits rolled you noticed that both West and Maison were sound asleep in your laps. With a soft smile and a sigh you and Misha each picked up a sleeping body and carried them to their room. 

“I should be heading home, it’s late.” You said softly as Misha closed the kids’ bedroom door. He looked up at you and you already knew what he was going to ask. 

“You could stay?” He offered. You smiled at him.

“You have no idea how badly I want to say yes…”

“Then say yes.” He offered, his voice low and husky as he slid his hands around you to clasp behind your back.

“Misha, I can’t.” You stretched up to gently kiss his lips. “I want to, believe me, but I’m not at the comfort level of having a sleep over with the kids here.” He nodded and then rested his forehead against yours. “Soon, just give me a little more time.”

“Of course, Y/N.” He gently kissed the tip of your nose. “I’m not trying to push. It’s just hard when you leave. I like having you around. I like spending time with you.” 

“I know. I like spending time with you.” Misha’s arms went slack around you before he reached out and took your hand and started walking for the door. 

“Y/N, the kids asked to spend tomorrow night with Vic.” You looked at him, his eyes seeming to glitter at the idea currently bouncing around his head. “Would you want to come over and spend some time-just the two of us-after they leave?” It only took a heartbeat for your answer to come to your lips. 

“Absolutely.” The smile that lit up Misha’s face made your heart jump in doubletime. He leaned down and kissed you, his warm lips sliding along yours, begging to taste you completely. You sucked his lip into your mouth, gently nibbling on it before soothing it with your tongue. Misha let out a growl and you stifled a giggle. 

“I am ten seconds away from hauling you over my shoulder and carrying you to my room caveman-style.” He growled.

“Mmmm, promises.” You teased and he narrowed his eyes at you. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.” He kissed you one last time before stepping back. 

“I planned to take the kids to the park and then Vicki was going to pick them up from here just before lunch time.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, “If you wanted, you could come with us to the park and then just stay after they leave.” 

“As much as I would love to go to the park with you guys, I have to go into the office tomorrow and submit travel receipts and do some routine eval papers.” You pouted a little. “I wont be able to get out of there until at least one, maybe two if my current job has left any negative reviews on my evaluation forms.” You grinned at him. 

“Oh no.” He feigned concern. “I heard they left the worst review. Half a star. Terrible service. Late with the food. You name it.” You rolled your eyes and swatted his arm lightly. 

“I can be here right after.” Your hopeful eyes met his. “Should I have an overnight bag packed?” The heat that filled his eyes threatened to burn you alive. 

“Yes, although, I don’t know that you will actually be using anything inside it.” 

“Mmm, promises, promises.” You breathed before stretching up to kiss him one last time. “Alright. I need to go before we get into a situation like the kitchen in Vancouver.” The memory of West almost catching you two was still very fresh and strong in your mind. Misha let out a groan but gently released you. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way over?”

“Sounds perfect.” He agreed with a nod. 

“Alright, Mish. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” He rumbled as you stepped out the front door. You felt him watch you until you were safely in your car (not that his neighborhood was unsafe by any means.) The butterflies in your stomach calmed a touch as you turned the key in the ignition and made your way home. 

~~~

“Hey, Sylv.” You said as you entered the front office. Your friend beamed up at you. 

“Hey, Y/N! God it’s been forever!” She stood up and wrapped you in a big hug. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been great. Glad the traveling is done for at least right now.” She nodded. 

“I can imagine. Must be nice to have some off time coming up. Got any plans?” 

“Not really. Misha invited me to an award thing with the cast.” Sylvia’s face morphed a little and it made you pause. “What?”

“He invited you as like a friend?” She asked, a suspicious note in her voice. “Because it’s your off time and you’re not supposed to be working. And he signed that NDA and your privacy clause.”

“It wouldn’t be a working thing.” You answered truthfully. 

“Is it like a date?” The tone of her voice made you pause. “Please say it’s not a date, Y/N.” When you didn’t answer she sucked in a breath and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Y/N, I’m not going to rat on you, but if something is going on with Mr. Hot-Single-Dad-Collins, you need to keep it very quiet. It is an extreme breach in protocol to start anything romantic with a client, and you could get fired.” You blinked a few times letting everything sink in. 

“So, theoretically,” you started and gave her a look that told her it definitely wasn’t theoretical at all, “if I were to start a romantic relationship with Misha, I would have to either quit working or keep it completely hidden?”

“Well, theoretically, you wouldn’t have to stop working, just stop working with him.” You gave her a very confused look not understanding. 

“Why?”

“Because, again this is all theoretical, think about what that looks like...a woman is sleeping with someone who is paying her...what does that sound like?” Horror dawned on your face. “It may not be exactly like being a call girl, but it’s dangerous nonetheless. What is to stop a girl from entering a romantic relationship and then when things go sour she turns around and accuses him of pressuring her into it because he is paying her salary? What’s to stop clients from expecting that kind of added service.”

“But you know I’m not like that…” 

“I know, but Y/N,” her voice dropped low so that only you could hear, “you need to be very careful. I wont say anything because I am your friend, but he is a public figure too. He’s got paparazzi around him all the time. If anything happens...keep it behind closed doors until you have decided to end your contract with him. If the higher ups hear about anything...it will cost you your job.” You nodded vigorously and she stared at you. “Does he make you happy?”

“Like you can’t imagine Sylvia.” You breathed. “He’s so good with his kids, and he treats me like I am his top priority. He’s always made me feel like I’m part of the family. He is so amazing and when I’m with him my stomach is filled with butterflies and my heart is in overtime.” 

“Good. You deserve to be happy. I will do everything I can to field and screen social media and stories.” 

“Thank you Sylv. You really are the best.” You hugged her again. “Alright, I gotta sit down for my eval paperwork and submit my last round of travel receipts. Do I go to the back conference room?”

“Yeah, Trish should be back there soon. She just got back from maternity last week.” You gave her a nod. 

“Thank you Sylvia.” When she waved you off you caught her eye. “No, I mean it. Thank you.” 

“Of course, Y/N. You deserve the best.” You smiled at her and she winked before you turned and made your way back to the conference room. 

~~~

You sat in your car, in Misha’s driveway, staring at the little bag of clothes in your passenger seat. You were an adult, and knew very well what adults did, but staring at the little bag felt a touch like you were doing something naughty. It was taking your relationship to the next level and it was a heady moment. With one deep breath you grabbed the little bag and exited your car. Misha opened the door and smiled at you as you made your way up to the front door and you couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey,” you said as he watched you approach. 

“Hey.” He leaned in to kiss you but you dodged. He cast you a confused and slightly hurt look before shutting the door. “Everything ok?” 

“Uhm, yeah. Just got some news at my eval. Nothing to worry about though.” You answered before gently stretching up to give him the kiss he wanted. You felt his hands land on your hips before sliding up and around your back. 

“Well, good. I have it on good authority that your employer left a glowing review.” He teased before kissing you and you smiled into the kiss. 

“Since I’m amazing at my job I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He let out an agreeing noise before sealing your lips in another kiss. His tongue traced your lips before entering your mouth and tangling with your own. You melted into the kiss, your body going languid and hot in his arms. Somehow without you noticing he’d pressed you back a step or two and you felt the solid wood of his front door behind you. You could feel his hardness pressed against you and it sent a zing of excitement through you. You wanted him so bad. 

One of his hands slid down your back to gently grab your thigh and haul it up over his hip, pressing his arousal right where you both wanted it most. You let out a whimper as he ground into you. His lips trailed away from your mouth, down your jaw to the spot where your neck met your shoulder. “I made a reservation for us at that little Italian restaurant down the way that you like.” he rumbled into your skin before nipping and kissing you again. 

“Oh, Misha,” you panted, “that sounds…” you froze as his words penetrated the thick fog of want you were in. “Wait - no!” you cried. Misha jumped in your arms, freezing and looking at you. “We can’t go out in public.” you pleaded. 

“What? Y/N, why?” Concern flicked over his face and you sighed. 

“I learned something at my eval meeting today.” His hands gently fell away from you as the mood was thoroughly broken. You sighed. “Before you think anything crazy, I want you to know, I want to go out with you in public. I don’t want to hide this. I mean I’m nervous about what others are going to say, but I want this.” you grabbed his hand gently. “If we go public right now I will lose my job.” Misha jerked back and looked at you. 

“What?” He stared at you completely and utterly confused. You let out another heavy sigh and tugged on his hand to move away from the door. You wanted to at least sit down while you explained. You sat on his couch and pulled him to sit next to you. 

“So, Sylvia, my friend, and I were talking,” you started, “and she knows about ‘us.’ Or rather she knows you and I are leaning towards there being and ‘us.’” He gave a small, slow nod. “And she told me about a company policy that I’d never heard of before. I’d never considered company policy on the matter before, honestly. You’re the only...I’ve never...this isn’t…” you trailed off and watched as a smile touched his eyes, realizing you were admitting that you’d never developed feelings for or started a relationship with a client before. You were so cute when you were flustered. “Anyway, she told me that company policy is that if a nanny and a client are found in this sort of situation the nanny is fired. No warning. No second chances. Done, and basically blacklisted.” You took a steadying breath, “If we want to go public, we need to terminate our contract.”

“Ok,” he started slowly, “so we do that.” he said it so matter of factly it made you want to laugh. 

“Misha, that means I wont be able to be here all the time. That means I wont be going to Vancouver with you anymore. I wont get to see and spend time with the kids, or you, like I do now.”

“Why not?”

“I still need to work.” Realization started to dawn in his eyes. “I don’t want to stop working, but if we’re in a relationship that means I can’t work for you. So I would have to be hired on as a nanny with another family, and while I can opt out of traveling, it would still take up a bunch of my time. We told West and Maison that nothing would change right away.” He paused to think about it. 

“No, we need you here.” He agreed. “Couldn’t you leave the agency and just work for me while being with me?” Before the sentence even left his mouth he knew that wasn’t going to work.

“Misha, we are so new, and that is basically asking me to be your live-in girlfriend.” You gave him an awkward smile, “Actually it’s more like being a kept woman.” You shrugged a little, trying to keep your emotions in check. “Imagine if we don’t work out. I’m left with nothing. No job. No support. Nothing to fall back on.” A look of hurt crossed Misha’s face. 

“You really don’t think we’re going to work out?” You touched his cheek, “Or that I’d leave you ass out like that if we didn’t?”

“No, I don’t think you’d do that.” You had to give him credit. He and Vicki had ended amicably and had made sure each other were taken care of so no one was hurting at the end. It wasn’t bitter, and you had no doubts he’d make sure you were steady on your own two feet rather than leave you out in the cold. “But I’m a planner. I have to plan for the worst and hope for the best. I jump to the worst case scenario so that I’m prepared for everything. It’s part of what makes me so good at my job.” He gave a nod and then let out a slow sigh. 

“Alright. So we don’t go public right now.” You nodded. “But we are going to have to figure out what to do about this. I don’t want to have to hide forever.” You nodded again. 

“I don’t either. I know it’s going to be an adjustment with you being famous, but I want that. I just have to figure out what to do with my job.” He nodded and then hugged you. 

“Alright.” His hands came up to clasp your jaw in his palms and he looked into your eyes. “You’re right. We need to be smart about this. Slow and steady with the public stuff. When we’re both ready we’ll figure it out.” You smiled at him. “I just…” he let out a pent up breath. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding sappy, but you make me happy Y/N and I want to show that off to the world. It’s hard to pretend like there isn’t anything between us when we’re in public. But I will do my best to keep my hands to myself.” He grinned mischievously, “At least in public...at least for now.” You grinned back at him. 

“Good.” He pulled you to him to kiss you. 

“Well, since dinner plans are changing, lets go see what we have that we can make…” you both stood, “or,” he started his eyes trailing over your body, “we could order in and I could eat take out off your body in my bed.” A laugh escaped your throat. “You’re right, that’s a tad messy.” He wrinkled his nose. “Let’s go scour the kitchen then.” 

~~~

Misha’s eyes watched you from across the room. No matter how many times he told you not to, there you were, standing at his sink loading his dishwasher while he packed away the leftovers from dinner. To say your earlier conversation had thrown him a curveball would have been an understatement, but honestly it was just enough of a wake up call to keep his head on straight. Yes you’d both decided to be more than just employer and nanny, but he did lead a very public life and you needed to ease into that. This little hiccup would help him to ease you into the public and see if it was something you even liked. If you decided you wanted to stay behind the scenes he’d gladly do that too, so long as he got to have you. Now that he let himself feel the feelings he’d been trying to push away and hide, he wasn’t going to let you get away. 

He was telling the truth when he said you made him happy. Having you around made him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time. You were easy going and everyone loved having you around. Just a look from you could have his heart thumping and his blood heating. Keeping his hands to himself was tough, but now did he really need to anymore?

With that thought he moved quickly and quietly behind you. As you straightened from loading the last dish into the dishwasher you felt Misha behind you and spun around to look at him. The heat and hunger in his eyes had your blood racing and without a second thought you stretched up to kiss him. Your lips met, and parted, as if in a primal dance for dominance but neither of you really cared who would win. You felt his hands grip your legs and lift you up onto the counter, and you pulled him closer to you, circling and trapping him with your legs. 

Gently his fingers traced the skin of your stomach before dragging your shirt up off your body and dropping it to the floor. His lips trailed from yours down your neck to your collar bones before settling on the swell of your breast. His deft hands found the clasp of your bra and soon it was laying in a heap on the floor in his kitchen along with your shirt. Electric shocks shot through you as his tongue swirled around first one then the other nipple. You gripped his shoulders, a soft sigh slipping from your mouth as he explored your body. You felt him shift as he moved lower, dragging his tongue along the hem of your pants. “Misha…” you whined as the button popped and the zipper lowered. He stood, his lips going to yours as his fingers dipped into your pants to touch and tease at your clit. The electricity that flowed through your body at his touch had you weak in the knees and your back arched as you gripped the edge of the counter behind you. 

He watched your face as he touched you, mesmerized by the way your features morphed and changed as the pleasure moved through you. You were so beautiful. He wanted you. He wanted to taste you, and hear you, and feel you as you took all the pleasure he could give you until neither of you could move any more.  His lips captured yours as his fingers circled the tender, swollen bundle of nerves, swallowing your groan. “Y/N…” he groaned as he teased you and rocked his body into yours. He slid his hand under your leg, gripping the rim of the sink with his hand, and hiked it up higher as your breath caught in your throat. He slid his hand lower, his longest finger entering you while his thumb rubbed insistent circles. 

Your head was foggy and you felt almost drunk of the pleasure assaulting your senses. You weren’t going to last much longer and you wrenched your lips away, sucking in air as you panted towards the sky. “Yes, Misha.” You whimpered. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” You practically begged as you felt your body cresting the mountain of pleasure before you. You leaned back, bracing one hand on the counter and gripping his shirt and shoulder with the other. You watched his hand move in and out of you, the skin of his wrist flexing as the cloth of your panties moved with his hand. You dragged your eyes up to his and the heat and hunger in his eyes was enough to have you falling over the edge. Your back arched as you froze and held your breath through the first waves of pleasure. 

“Let me hear you, Y/N.” Misha’s gravelly voice begged into your ear. With the next pulse a moan slipped from your lips and you felt Misha shutter while watching you. Your eyes fluttered closed as your body hummed before relaxing against his chest. 

“Misha,” you took a breath, “that was...oh my god.” You looked up at him and marveled at the satisfied grin on his face. You could feel him still hard and insistent, pressed up against you. He pulled his hand from your pants, hungry eyes examining the wet glistening on his fingers. You watched with lust filled eyes as he stuck his finger in his mouth and licked it clean. “My turn…” you panted as you reached for the button on his jeans. 

“Wait,” Misha stilled your hands with his, “if you touch me right now I wont be able to last, and I want to be inside you when I finish.  This is not where I want our first time to be.” He took a steadying breath before letting your leg drop down and scooping you close to him again. You captured his lips with yours before gently pushing him away from the counter and hopping down yourself. Your eyes met his and you took his hand before slowly leading him down the hall to his room. There was so much more you wanted to explore...this was only the beginning. 

Taglist:

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If you would like to be added to my taglist please send me an ask (otherwise I might lose the request/forget.) Thank you!!

[hood-ex]

Dude, I love reading everybody's fan works, but I myself cannot write for my life. I have so many ideas but it just seems impossible to actually put any of them on paper past a couple of notes. Do you have any tips for getting any stories done, even if it's just a really short one? (Also, Happy New Year!!)

Happy New Year! 

Sure, yeah! I’ll list a few tips for ya! 

If you haven’t written a lot/at all then consider starting off with either a drabble (100 words) or a one-shot (typically 1000+ words). The action here is supposed to be fast. You won’t have to worry about super descriptive details and things like that. You can just get out the main points of the story. 

I’ll give you an example of something I’ve written that’s only about 200 words or so. This fic is very short but it still manages to tell a story because it follows a very basic plot structure. 

The paragraph that builds up to the action is very short, and this paragraph is the entire exposition of the story. It introduces the main character (Dick), and it tells us what Dick is doing. This sets the scene so the reader can now picture Dick sitting on a couch with his pizza.

The rising action is Dick describing the pizza he got, and the reader getting a sense that something about the pizza is wrong based on the way Dick freezes at the sight of it. 

The climax is Dick realizing he ordered the wrong pizza. He got Damian’s pizza order, and this is where the reader realizes that Damian is dead.

The falling action is Dick putting the pizza away in the fridge next to all his other untouched meals. This is the effect from the climax, and it lets the reader know that Dick is still grieving over Damian. 

The resolution is Dick going to the shower to cry. The fact that Dick is going to the shower to cry tells the reader something about his character and gives him a little more depth. 

Notice how I stick to the very basics. There is no long, descriptive introduction that builds up the scene like you might see in other stories that start off by describing the gray clouds, the pouring rain, all the Gotham residents bundled away in their homes, etc. There are no lengthy descriptions about what Dick’s apartment looks like or what he’s initially feeling. Nope. It’s just Dick sitting on his couch to eat his pizza because he’s hungry. Super basic, right?

This is kind of what I mean when I say that sometimes I just jump into a scene and write. It’s the same as starting a story with dialogue rather than a descriptive paragraph. Dialogue immediately throws you into a character’s conversation, and dialogue is much easier and faster to write than wordy paragraphs. 

This fic of mine is an example of a story that is essentially just dialogue. Sure, there are a few descriptive sentences here and there to help the reader visualize the scene better, but most of the action is the dialogue. And we can apply the same basic plot structure to this story as well. 

Exposition: The Titans are in the car. Dick is tired. 

Rising Action: The Titans think Dick is going to fall asleep during the movie they’re going to watch. Dick says he’ll be fine, and he asks what movie they’re going to watch. 

Climax: Gar complains about the movie Kory picked for them to watch. Vic suggests watching another chick flick. Gar is not happy about it. 

Falling Action: Dick confuses Dinah with Diana. Donna gives him shit for it. 

Resolution: Gar thinks Dick is adorable and asks if he can be like this more often. Dick says something to make Vic and Donna laugh, and then Dick finally falls asleep. 

The plot structure is something we learn in school that we usually associate with novel length stories, but you can see in my examples that the plot structure can also be used for very short fics. Personally, the rising action and falling action are things that I don’t really plan out. They kind of just occur naturally when I’m writing. The exposition, climax, and resolution are usually the things that stick out in my mind the most (and it’s totally normal to just picture one or two of the three before you start writing). 

As a beginner, filling out the plot structure with the few notes you have will help you turn your notes into full sentences and dialogue. Let’s test this out just by filling in the plot structure starting with very little information.  

For example, let’s say I want to write a fic and all the notes I have for it consists of:

Jason (as Red Hood) is crying

Dick (as Nightwing) comforts him

Alright, well now I need to build a scene around those two notes. So now let me fill in some information for the plot structure. When I’m filling it out, I want to keep things like the characters and setting in mind. 

What I end up with is: 

Exposition: Dick and Jason are being held as prisoners on an alien planet. Dick and Jason are in a cell together. The cell is small and cold. They don’t know why they’ve been taken in as prisoners. They can’t understand the alien’s language. All they have is each other to rely on. Dick is keeping watch while Jason leans against him, asleep. 

Rising Action: Guards come to Dick and Jason’s cell. They are really fucking big. Way bigger than humans. Jason wakes up, startled and disoriented. He sits up. The guards start speaking. Dick has no idea what they’re saying. He tenses in anticipation.

Climax: All hell breaks loose. The guards make a grab for Jason. Jason defends himself. Dick attacks the guards to protect Jason. The small cell makes it hard to fight. The guards crowd Jason and harshly restrain him, making Jason cry out. Dick tries to free Jason. One guard uses a device to shock Dick in the head. This causes Dick to have a seizure. Dick can hear Jason going ballistic. Jason’s screaming for him and cussing at the guards. But then Jason’s voice gets further away, and Dick is left to ride out the seizure on his own. 

Falling Action: Dick’s seizure passes. His head is foggy, he’s got a horrific headache, and his body feels sore. The more time passes, the more tired Dick feels. He’s in and out of sleep, his anxiety for Jason’s safety keeping him from sleeping fully. At some point, the guards return with Jason slumped between them. He’s still conscious. The guards dump Jason on the ground. Once they leave, Dick crawls to him. He starts to ask what happened, having a vague idea that torture was involved based on Jason’s demeanor. He stops after noticing that there are tears on Jason’s cheeks. Jason looks away and his shoulders are shaking. 

Resolution: Jason hisses through his teeth when Dick tries to gently sit Jason up against the wall. Jason mumbles that he’s too sore for sitting and he just wants to lie down. Jason uses Dick’s thigh as a pillow and curls up into himself. His shoulders are still shaking, and Dick hears him sniffle. Dick tries to comfort him by rubbing small circles into Jason’s back. Jason lets out a shaky breath and falls quiet. Dick keeps doing it until he starts to nod off, completely drained from the seizure. They both fall asleep in pain, but with the knowledge that at least they’re together. 

Okay so see how I was able to flesh out the two original notes into something more in-depth that turned into actual sentences? That’s something you can do with the notes for your stories. Put all your ideas for each part of the scene into quick, short sentences. 

Filling in the plot structure like this helps you flesh out those brief notes into an actual scene that you can build off of. And if you look at what I wrote, you’ll notice that there are sentences I came up with that I can actually use in the story when I’m writing it.

Does that make sense? Basically what I’m saying is just come up with short sentences to describe each part of the plot structure. These short sentences will form the bigger picture of your story. Then you want to use those sentences you wrote to help you build the beginning, middle, and end of your story. 

I think that part of what makes writing a story so hard is simply just starting the scene. For me, it’s usually always the hardest part. You can make it easier for yourself by jumping into a more action filled part of a scene or by starting the story off with dialogue. For example, if I want to start off the Dick and Jason prisoner story then I can be like:

“You made my arm fall asleep,” Dick mutters under his breath. 

Jason, who’s currently treating Dick’s right side like a damn body pillow, answers with a soft snore. Between the cold floor of the prison cell and Jason’s body weight slowly crushing him, the snoring is just the cherry on top of this whole shitty situation.

The dialogue allows me to introduce the characters and the setting. Just from the first line, I know that Dick is in this story, he’s uncomfortable, and someone else is with him because he said the word “you.” This gives me the perfect chance to introduce Jason as the person Dick is with. It also gives me the chance to explain the setting by letting the reader know that Dick and Jason are in a cell. Now are prison cells usually pleasant? No. So I made sure to mention that the cell is cold. Now the reader knows Dick is uncomfortable, cold, and he’s stuck in a terrible situation. 

And the story just keeps building and building from there. 

Tbh, a big part of this is just having the will to start writing. You just have to make yourself type something even if it’s shit. And it’s totally fine to play around with sentences! Just try it out by writing maybe three sentences. Don’t like it? Erase. Tackle the scene from a different angle. Change the dialogue. Start the story from a different location or with different characters. Don’t like it? Erase.

Keep practicing. You’ll eventually come up with something that’ll just click in your brain, and before you know it, you’ll have typed a paragraph of two. And your brain and your hands will work together, and you won’t have to think so hard about what you’re writing. Your hands will just go once you’re in a groove.

But yeah, dude, that’s all I got for you right now! I hope that was somewhat helpful to you! Lemme know if you have any other questions!  

[victim-on-main]

Hey Vic, could you please do a drabble with a yandere Steve Rogers or Wanda Maximoff? Whichever you prefer? But make it super dark and angsty???

Hey anon! Sorry it took me so long to respond, I kept re-writing and going back over these before I posted them- I wanted to get it just right. I wound up writing a little for both of them. i’m still not entirely sure how I feel about them, but I hope you like them!

Wanda Maximoff:

You live a perfect life.

It wasn’t always that way- up until recently, a few months ago, you’d guess, you’d lived a normal life. Not necessarily a bad life, but not exactly a great one either. More like, an equal mix of good things and bad.

If you’d been asked, you couldn’t tell anyone exactly what caused the changes in your life to happen. Some of it seemed purely random- for example, you’d gotten an amazing job offer, a once in a lifetime chance kind of offer, and one that paid excellently. Which was fantastic! But you never even applied for it, and you still don’t know how exactly they chose you- if you ever asked, you only got vague, non-answers in return. Some of it was more unsettling- like the way everyone else treats you. They’re all so nice, which is great, but they’re just a bit too nice- it’s just enough to make you feel a bit- odd- but small enough that if you tried telling anyone about it, you’d most likely be written off as paranoid.

You suppose that maybe it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s been another good day today, which doesn’t surprise you anymore. The sun is setting by the time you head home- you’d had to stay late for work, but you hardly minded. You love your job.

There’s no traffic on your way home- you make it home quickly, as usual. You’d recently moved into a new apartment, too, one closer to your work, which was a big help. It was nicer than your old apartment, too.

Your girlfriend looks up when you walk in from where she sits on the couch, and beams when she sees you. She stands, and scoots her way around the couch to get to you, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.

“How was your day, zvezda moya?”

She beams while you tell her all about your day, guiding you back to the couch and running her fingers through your hair gently.

Of course, she already knows everything you’re telling her. It had taken her a long time to make everything just right- strike the right balance of convincing but still suitably perfect just for you, but it was all worth it to see you happy. A perfect person like you deserved an equally perfect world to live in.

So what if it was just an illusion? As long as you’re in the dream that she’s made just for you, you’re hers and only hers, and as long as you’re happy, it doesn’t matter. Even if you’ll never see real sunlight again, even if your family is on the TV begging for your safe return.

She smiles, stroking your hair. Everything is perfect.

Steve Rogers:

It’s early in the morning, or maybe it’s late at night, or somewhere in between- you’re not sure. There are no windows here, and no clocks- you think that’s deliberate, something to disorient you. Take away your sense of time and further confuse any escape attempts. You don’t even know how long you’ve been here, or where exactly here is. A basement, most likely, going on the lack of windows, cold, stone walls, and the staircase leading up to the room’s only door.

It’s not that it’s a bad place to live- just the opposite, in fact. It’s a bit small, but someone went to great lengths to convert the space into a cozy apartment-like space, fully furnished and decorated exactly to your taste. It would be absolutely perfect, actually, were it not for the door- a thick, metal door, that locked from the other side. It was always locked, and you would know, because you checked everyday- it was one of your last remaining acts of rebellion.

You didn’t have much to do, which wasn’t surprising. Your whole life was confined to this one room. Most days now, you hardly get out of bed. What’s the point?

He’s not here right now- he’s been gone a few days. It doesn’t concern you, much- it happens sometimes. His work takes him away for days at a time, and you’re left alone in the basement, with no one. It’s enough to drive you crazy. Enough to almost make you happy to see him when he comes back through the door. Any human contact is better than nothing, right?

He’s breaking you down, breaking down your resolve, slowly. No one was ever going to come looking for you. Who would ever believe that Captain America, the nation’s ultimate boy scout, was keeping someone locked in his basement? You try to stay motivated despite this, even in small ways, by making little routines for yourself. It keeps you going, if nothing else. For example, you always try to cook something for yourself, at least once a day.

That’s what you’re doing when you hear the telling grinding of the door opening. You think it’s morning, so eggs it is- something simple enough to cook.

You purposely avoid looking at stairs as you hear him coming down, keeping your eyes fixed on the stove.

Arms twine around your waist tightly, and you jump- somehow, he’d managed to move across the room almost silently. His head rests on your shoulder, and you struggle to fight back a shudder.

Showing your revulsion never ended well.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs. So it is morning, after all- at least you still have some grasp on time. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

You swallow hard, biting back a retort that not long ago would have bubbled to the surface instantly. Making him angry never did you any good- he just treated you like a misbehaving child, scolding you, I’m not mad, just disappointed, taking away ‘privileges,’ like your TV, or your books, or, in the worst case, when you made him angrier than you’d ever seen him before, your food.

If that weren’t enough to discourage you, the cold, metal shock collar that bites into your neck just tight enough for you to feel it is.

“It’s fine,” you mutter, because that seems like the safe thing to say.

These days, safe is all you can hope for.

[pulitzerpanther]

Time Drift (4/?)

/At anon request. Well, kind of. The fic I was not asked to update that’s 2 years old but that I did, anyways. Maybe next time Anon will be more specific.

Chapter Title: And Now You’re Mine

Fic Description:

Cat Grant, a young journalist desperately trying to crawl her way up at the Daily Planet and start her own brand, becomes delightfully sidetracked by an unassuming, friendly lounge singer in a nearby bar. The only problem being that said lounge singer happens to be from the future...and doesn’t remember it. Supercat!Fic/AU *kind of. (With some Alex Danvers/Lois Lane for good measure. Yep. You read that right.)

Chapter Description:

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide."  Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago.

This chapter’s song-- Put A Spell On You Performed By: Samantha Fish

Chapter 1: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 2: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 3: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 4 (Current): AO3 | Tumblr - Below.

Wood scrapes along gravel, the faintest hiss piercing through the night air, lost underneath an even louder grunt from the heavy, sagging weight of someone being jostled from the motion.

“Come on, Nightwing.” Flamebird’s voice is exasperated even through the distorted, robotic twang of a helmet, underlined by the crisp hint of frustration through Alex’s earpiece, “I thought we didn’t do the tie up and torture thing.”

“No time like the present.” It’s a near chirp as treated leather creaks underneath trained knees, bending down in front of the squirming form tied to a chair, kneeling, robotic voice reverberating through the empty, rusted walls of a warehouse on the docks. The wood of the chair is chipped, but they made do with what they could find.

“Nightwing.” It’s snapped but Alex’s gloves curl in the tattered, bloody fabric of a sweat-stained shirt, bringing a trembling man’s face up to the mirror of faceless mask.  

“My partner hasn’t perfected good-cop, bad-cop, yet. So let me just go ahead and promise that I have no problems killing you.”

“Go to hell.” Spit spatters against the dark sheen of a helmet.

The blue wings of a bird glisten underneath flickering warehouse lights as an arm soundlessly swooshes upwards to swing downwards—a little dramatic, kind of like a 90’s soap opera slap—and before a blink or a lazy, knowing smile might tuck up cracked lips, that arm is gently caught underneath a red-lined black glove in a practiced, easy motion.

Good cop, bad cop was actually pretty easy between the two of them.

“Step back, soldier.”

The distortion keeps the smile from reaching Kara’s stern tone and Alex can only dream up how many ways she can tease her sister for it with a scrunching nose and stuck out tongue, later.

It’s the only hint of levity they have after days like these.

"Soldier?" Alex asks through their radio, instead. 

"What? It adds flair, right?"

Eyes roll. Boots skid along the dirtied, bloodied warehouse floor as the soldier does dutifully step back, arms thoughtlessly falling behind hips, at ease.

Old habits, watching as red swoops down like a phoenix, offering up tattered remains of a burned branch in a way only Kara ever can.

“Hey, we’re trying to help you, Vic. I promise, we’re really not the tie-up kind.” Flamebird kneels down in front of him and when his mouth opens—tutts, the noise staccato through the garbled, sharp notes of a voice modulator, finger raising up to wag. “And before you spit again, see this?” A decidedly less professional gesture of waving in front of her helmet, Nightwing’s chuckle hidden underneath the mute of her mask but undeniably heard in a sister’s ever-attentive ear. “Very effective at the spit-repelling. You’ll just be hitting yourself in the face with it. Not that people tend to listen to that, I mean—you guys like to shoot people even when you know they’re bulletproof. Well, you will like to. You're currently not. But that's besides the point.”

A beat.

Kara adds, after muting herself:

“I think.” Her crouch doesn’t ease up from the floor, forearms hanging on knees for a moment, “Alex, I think I hear a hiss. Do you want me to—”

“No, no, I’ve got it. Grease him.” Arms stay crossed, their conversation staying where it should—their helmets.

“So,” Kara continues and Alex’s eyes bop upwards towards their surroundings, taking in those ever vaulted, rusted ceilings of Metropolis’ finest shit hole of a dock. It's amazing, really--crimes always happen in the docks and all of the buildings always look the same. “I’d spend less time spitting, more time talking. Vic.”

Vic's mouth snaps shut, a sneer contorting bloodied features as Alex’s itching fingers roll over the blunt edge of a baton, stance casual but always ready to have her partner’s back, lingering for a few moments. Just in case, the hiss momentarily forgotten.

“Fuck you.” Vic might not muster up saliva, this time, but he sure as hell musters up enough ire, wrestling against restraints with a rattling, pained breath. His sweat pools on his brow—in the crevices of the lines of his face—drips down a dirtied neck before settling in the thirsty, swelling wood of his rickety chair.

A thin line of red raises slowly, casually, as Kara pops the first button on her visor, barely sliding black up enough to reveal a chin—lips—the smallest hint of a nose as her smile spreads.

Vic the thug freezes, visibly stunned from the effortless manipulation of Kara Danvers and that thousand watt smile. Alex is sure of many things about her sister, but one of them? That smile could convince an agnostic to have a little bit of faith. Sometimes it’s pretty infuriating and...sometimes? It’s just downright useful.

“I’m good, thanks. Not really interested. But, hey, really, you don’t have to be rude.”

“W-why are you—” A hint of confused fear curls up his throat, now, sweat-lined eyes widening at the sight of something close to an identity. Never a good sign, from masked vigilantes. Usually it means their captors are as good as dead, from Metropolis to Gotham. 

It's the company standard.

“Because,” Kara’s hand stretches over to loosen the small vat at hip, metal sliding underneath the popping belt of leather, “I told you, we’re not the bad guys. I’m not going to hurt you, Vic. We just have a few questions so…excuse my partner, they’re a little annoyed we had to fight with you to tie you back up.”

Annoyed is an understatement but used to it would also kind of apply and Nightwing doesn’t bother hiding her grunt of acknowledgement from either her vigilante-in-arms or their current captive, the note sounding out like the thumping start of Daft Punk intro thanks to the voice modulator.

Kara had called her a few hours ago from a payphone about an attempt on Cat Grant’s life and the men she’d managed to corral and tie up near a wall before asking Alex to make another call, entirely (her sister, apparently, had other places to be—

It’s a little hard for me to chase him down, right now, Alex. Secretly, I mean. I have to get back to Cat, I left her by herself up on the—

She’s still tailing you?

What? Tailing me? What is-- this isn't a buddy cop movie—

I don’t know, Cagney—

Okay, I know I’m blonde, but I’m pretty sure you’re Cagney—

You think you're Lacey? Only if you settle down and have Cat Grant’s babies. Okay, what the hell is that noise?

I’m looking for heels in the—Okay, first off, that’s so—anatomically impossible. I'm not--who said anything about having Cat's--you know what? I know you're just trying to...rattle me, so I'm ignoring you now. And—and, secondly, you know all those memory-recall studies we read are so right. Re-enaction is something. I’m suddenly having flashbacks of running through the city looking for Cat Grant’s heels before--like at least five different times--but—wow, I miss cell phones, this cord is not helping me look ar—

Okay, even without memories, how whipped you are is depressing.

Alex!

After an ambulance arrived earlier that evening to tend to apparent injuries sustained, Jim Harper from the MCPD had only managed to detain two of the men tied up for charges they were wanted for, but Vic? He scrambled free before arrest and Alex had managed to track him down through the depths of Suicide Slum’s darkest streets, the heat settling in puddles of piss and alcohol wafting in through her senses, sticking to her boots.

Kara had joined her halfway through with apologies and dodged questions and a voice that trailed a little too high at the edges to be normal, filing it away for later before a quick survey of the warehouse lead to a tactical slip-in.

It wasn’t hard to neutralize one scared, messy goon, but it was hard to neutralize him without hurting him and eventually Kara just literally sighed, made a show of very human-like tackling him to the ground, and sat on him with a bored elbow resting on her knee—chin falling to a palm—while Alex rustled through the warehouse to find a chair and some rope.

The good news about working in the shadows was that they didn’t always have to look professional. Usually, they just had to get the job done.

They don’t really look professional, now, but Kara always—always—gets the job done. Alex trusts her with that--trusts her with her life--but she’s still not sure why Victor Martin came here of all places, it was a dead end if either of them ever saw one and it's difficult to ignore the nerves curling knots out of her stomach. Nothing about the call in on his record gave them any clue.

Victor Martin, divorced. In and out of jail since a drug addiction revoked his visitation rights to his son, though he apparently had been trying to contest after being clean for five year. A few petty thefts. One assault. Two arson charges for insurance scams. Otherwise clean.

(There's a voice, sometimes, in the back of her ear--something that sounds so familiar, someone reading off victim's taglines with so much ease).

“Hey,” Kara’s voice is gentle, unfiltered as she tucks up that small little vial, “It’s just water, I promise. You have to be thirsty. Come on.” Dark eyes flick up from the cracked cement of the floor, watching Kara carefully tip up the water to their captor’s lips like he hadn’t just tried to assault Cat Grant, a masculine throat bobbing in a rough, dry swallow before he blinks, searching the line of an easy, genuine smile. It takes only a few seconds before he nods, eagerly drinking from it like a man in the desert.

“Rough day, huh?”

“You’ve got,” He gasps—coughs a little—

“Woah, woah, easy. Take it easy. I’m not going anywhere, and, hey—” She knocks the wood with an endearing chuckle that, surprisingly, makes Vic laugh, low and rumbling, “Neither are you, huh?”

“Fuck you.” But it unravels a little around the edges like fraying ropes by his wrists--a little more at ease--water dribbling down a grimy chin, rolling what’s likely a weary neck on shoulders. It’s amazing what a little kindness will do to someone in desperate straits. “What do you care.”

“I care about why you tried to kill Cat Grant, today. Why would you do a thing like that, Vic?” Kara’s voice is casual and Alex sighs, idly thinking maybe she should stick to the interrogating because his spine tightens like a pole as red hands gingerly set down the water. “From what I read up on you, you used to be a good guy, before everything happened with your wife.” His sharp inhale is palpable and it’s something, really, to watch. Because if Alex had said that, he would have spit a second time, but he seems to sag a little underneath the sincerity in Kara’s tone. It almost makes her remember—almost makes her imagine— “Look, I’m not after you. The truth is—and you probably already know this—is that the guy you’re working for, Vic, is kidnapping children.”

Surprisingly, his frame tenses more, but there’s something different in his eyes—something lasting. Something that might taste like copper, or the Suicide Slums, or ash—and his jaw rolls in a way that must sound like a tight roll of pennies scattering on the floor after the seal’s been ripped open to her sister’s ears.

“Did you know that, Vic?” Alex finally intervenes, distorted voice causing the grinding of his teeth to halt for a moment, “That they’re taking kids? That how you get your rocks off—”

“No!” The anger licks his tongue like a flame eating up oxygen and shadows composed of leather and blue stalks forward, “No, look, I’ve got nothing to do with that, I just—”

“You just what, Vic?” Nightwing presses, boot kicking away the small little canteen her partner had settled on the ground, “Smuggle in shipments for Luthor on the docks and pretend like none of it’s happening?”

“I…”

“What’s the shipment?”

“Fuck if I know, we don’t even get to see the containers--”

“So then where are the kid—”

“Look, I know shit, a’ight, so unless you wanna bring your cop buddy back in—”

Alex’s hand snaps forward with precision, landing right next to his jaw against the rickety wood of that splintering, dusty chair, that idle threat dying in a quick suck of air against barely-wet lips. Kara doesn’t flinch from where she’s crouched, lips staying in a thin line, visible underneath the Metropolis moonlight sifting through the broken windows above them.

For a moment, Alex wonders if Kara can smell this building—smell his sweat—his blood.

There were some perks to the mask. Alex can't smell much of anything, at all.

“Where are the kids, Vic?” Her sister’s lips part, unburdened, voice gentle—soothing—like a lullaby over orphan’s heads, fingers fanning out in the air around her knees, knuckles flexing. “Killing a defenseless woman is unconscionable--being responsible for children’s deaths is unforgivable.”

“Cat Grant is a bitch.” It's spit and Alex watches normally-kind fingers spread with restraint out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow raising behind the mask. “She shoved her nose where it didn’t belong. I would’ve done the world a favor if I—”

In one fluid motion, the visor snaps shut and that flexing hand is curved around Vic’s chin, snapping it upwards.

“That’s not very nice.” Just like that, Kara disappears in a sea full of obscured black and red, smile gone, replaced with something faceless. Victor's face, horrified, is reflected to himself.

“What happened to no torture?” It’s gasped, rough, from the jostle of her closing his mouth, teeth clenching underneath force.

“Who said I was going to torture you?” Flamebird innocently husks and wordlessly lifts the chair into the air and human muscles scramble against the tight curl of rope, a faint yelp of a startled scream starting in a bobbing throat that’s cut off by a rush of air when the vigilante hefts him up further up, holding him up only by her finger, curling underneath the wood. “You clearly don't want to tell us anything, I think I’m just going to drop you off at the police station—”

“Oh, God. Oh, God—What—What the fuck are y—”

“Don’t make me gag you again, Vic.” Nightwing calls up, humming from her casual stand, elbow leaning against the baton. “Can’t have you causing a commotion in the—”

"Tell us, or the cops."

Just like that, he breaks. Frantic.

“If I go to the cops, Luthor knows. Luthor knows and I’m dead—my kid—please! Please. You gotta—”

Well there’s a surprise, Vic the family man back in full force. Maybe the police report was a little useful, after all.

The chair settles back down on the cement with a clattering thunk, a sagging, nervous body absorbing the impact like a sack of meat dropped from the top of the Daily Planet onto the street below and Alex’s helmet perks up, then, the faint sound of hissing meeting her ears with a little more insistence, head whirling around to locate the noise. It’s getting louder. 

Did something get damaged in the fight, earlier? Was something damaged before they ever even came?

“What about your kids, Vic?” The visor is popped back open, now, voice unhinged by tempered glass but Alex doesn’t look over at her sister's attempt at bridging the gap, too busy trying to locate the sound of the small disturbance, walking across the warehouse where they’d first tangled with the wannabe-killer, Alex tackling him into what’s now a dusty, toppled pile of containers.

“Oh, God, he’s going to know. Fuck, they’re—the other guys, they’re gonna tell that cop and Luthor—you’re right, it’s gotta be Luthor—he has my—he has—” The voice is frantic now and Alex doesn’t really register Kara trying to placate it with soothing explanations as her own footfalls squelch against the dirtied cement floor. Each step is a squeaking, heavy noise and she pops open her own helmet—huffs into the slit of her visor and inhales and—

Brows knit.

It smells familiar, swelling lungs.

“Vic. Vic, calm down. Focus. Who does he—”

“He has my kid, you don’t understand. He's been watching them. Mary. Sam--” Vic’s voice seems far away, now—frantic—and Alex’s nose turns up, the faintest hint of something in the air catching on her tongue. "Look, I found these files, once. Nothing--nothing big, or anything, but he's--there's these...these experiments--that--that--"

Realization, the sound of a frantic voice and Kara's pressing, calm one lost underneath that hiss, because she knows that smell--

"What experiments, Vic--"

It’s a marked odor. A marked odo—

The hiss is louder.

Eyes snap upwards, heart hammering, glove swiping over one of the containers' mussed labels, not quite years of dust coming off of the peeled surface of peeling paper. Like these were brought in recently, the wording of a container catching eyes, its valve clearly opened before they got here. Acetylene.

Ethyne. The simplest alyne—hydrocarbon—and the formation pops into a scientist's mind out of habit as knowing legs stumble backwards, away from the canister, gut sinking even as the hair on arms stands up straight.

“I can’t let you. I won’t let you—”

One spark. One small ignition, and this place will blow.

“Shit, Kara—” The name tumbles out unbidden because there’s a chance she’ll never have a chance to say it, again. Head snapping up to meet exposed lips and a back that immediately turns to steel in response, the sound of Alex's heartbeat and the scent likely finally registering. Alex doesn’t even have time to run towards her. Warn her. Do anything but suck in a sharp inhale of breath as she snaps the visor closed--

They didn’t check him before they tied him up. It’s the nineties. Everyone fucking smokes.

“Wha—” The t cuts off with a sharp noise when that rickety, half-broken chair snaps backwards, wood splintering against unforgiving cement, Vic's grunt of pain underlined by the crack.

It's a judgment call that will linger as long as all of them do--longer than Kara will likely ever mention--those visible lips parting as Kara moves towards Alex, instead of Victor, the split second of reaction allowing the calloused, blood brunt of his thumb ample reaction time to flick the wheel of a lighter in his pocket.

A spark.

The ethyne ignites in a fell swoop of a backdraft, the heat of it not noticeable at first, but one ignition is enough and it’s almost like slow-motion, watching the flame crawl across the air, feeding it, filling the room with a hiss and a roar, and the boom of the second canister right next to it, leaning precariously against the wall, sounds like a dropping thud. 

Alex doesn’t have to have x-ray vision to imagine the widening of Kara’s eyes and there's not enough time for features to crumble or for blood to run hot or for the world to still before it’s all turned into a whirlwind in front of flames, wind knocked out of gasping lungs from an impact her heart understands, but brain somehow never expects. Another second ticks by and fingers curl into the bunched leather of her sister’s shoulder, one second flying underneath overwhelming heat, and the next second she’s on the ground outside, stumbling. Gasp spattering air and heat and spit against the newly-cracked visor of a helmet, falling to knees—

Gasping.

And then Kara’s gone in a blur of black and red and all Alex can do is weakly scramble after her before Flamebird bursts back through the door, stronger than the incoming explosion that might knock them both off of their feet if she wasn’t prepared for it, all of the oxygen in the room sucked up into a blast of fire, igniting, and Alex knows, knows--

Kara's trying to get the fire out of the building--away from Victor. Away from the canisters. Away from Alex.

But it's too late.

There’s something familiar about the way that Kara throws herself into an explosion—how she’s been throwing herself at explosions in front of Alex one way or another for three years now and maybe a lifetime before that—that makes knees tremble above cement that can't hold her before instinct and training take over, falling to a kneeling crouch behind her sister’s indomitable form, absorbing heat and flame for the both of them.

The unmarked odor burns the back of a clenching throat and Kara whirls around to check on her the moment the air crackles with the hint of heat dissipating from the backdraft.

Alex lets in a singular, quaking breath before she nods.

She can't speak, not yet. But she nods, gingerly bringing the burned flesh of her knuckles, barely caught in the fire, up to her chest.

Flamebird disappears into the warehouse a moment later and Alex stumbles backwards until her weary back meets with the adjoining building in the alley, helmet thudding when a heavy--heavy--head falls back to rest against its rough surface, the entire heart currently lodged in an aching throat likely the reason she doesn’t feel like she can breathe, at all.

And, yeah, okay. She needs a moment, hands shaking as they lower back to knees, the hint of adrenaline settling in a gasp as she shakes her head, again, not risking reaching a hand up to pop the visor before weak, trembling knees stagger forward at the sound of Kara’s faded, angry voice meeting her ears, tipping her head to activate the comms.

“Talk to me.” It's a wheeze, pushing through the adrenaline—the lingering fear—the sweat and fire eating at the back of her throat—

Get up, soldier. Get up—

“Flamebird.” It’s louder, more insistent, moving towards the front of the building where the flames have barred any form of passage, but she'll have no problem digging through the rubble if she has to, whether her sister is made of steel, or not, wounded knuckles flexing in preparation. “K—”

A frightened noise of a syllable doesn’t even break the stuffy air of her helmet before that silhouette appears in front of the rubble.

Flamebird looks like a paragon of her namesake, fire roaring at the spread wings of shoulders, highlighting the black, glistening flame of shining, treated leather like a painting of reds and yellows smeared along a night sky. Arms hoist up the burnt flesh of a sacrificial lamb—cradling a villain of choice against her chest as she takes the slow walk through the door, no need for haste, now.

Alex's stomach clenches from far more than nerves, now, ultimately--seflishly--grateful for the mask still tucked over her nose. They both know what burning flesh smells like, now, and it's something that lingers far longer than fire ever could. He was likely dead not long after the ignition, the doctor might have informed her sister years ago, but Kara walks like a soldier, now and Alex knows—she knows—there's no need to tell Kara anything, anymore.

(When did that happen? When did this city make soldiers out of symbols?)

But there’s no soldier in the way fingers gingerly ease the charred flesh that a few moments before had contained a trembling, frantic voice—there’s no soldier in the way Kara lays a dead man on the sidewalk like a mother who's lost a child, even when that man had tried to kill someone else she cares about like a phantom a few hours before, fingers sliding down eyelids that stick with a crisp snap against the thin remains of what he could have been.

How many times has Alex watched this, now? Watched Kara gently close eyelids so that a soul taken by a God from a planet He let fade might be able to look at the stars? How many times has Kara quietly helped people ascend up into the air even without flight, eyes no longer seeing what the rest of them do? Heroes. Criminals. Bystanders. Children.

Without a word, gloved hands raise to untuck a helmet, blonde locks flowing in the wind as Kara’s head bows, a look of determination settling on hardening features.

“He wanted us...” Kara's voice sounds even, unmoving, in the space between them, "To find his son."

A small piece of black tucks up in her sister's fingers that Alex hadn’t noticed before—a picture burnt from the explosion, melted in potholes of ash along its small 4x4 gloss. It’s indistinguishable, especially in the night, city lights drowning out the stars and any hope of recognition that might have been reliable in the keepsake. The only thing Alex can see is the barest hint of a boyish before it's peeled away and brought up to the stars, too.

“His name is Sam.” Fingers gently tuck the picture in the man’s chest by his heart, fabric crisping to ash underneath unyielding steel and Alex doesn’t move, baton ready at her hip so that her sister’s doesn’t have to be. “They took his son. It doesn't--it doesn't excuse what he--”

The wind whips through Kara’s hair before she slowly stands, shoulders rolling back and a bird spreading its wings from the motion, the edges of it glowing from the faint light of the fire. Alex's hand curves over her shoulder, knowing--halting any further argument. A moment later, a helmet covers any hint of blonde remaining, both of them looking up towards the stars, the sound of sirens bouncing off the brick of the alley.

Alex steps behind that symbol of a shining bird, arm moving to wrap around a waist, hold firm as she taps her baton against her boot twice before kicking it up into the air with the back of her heel, firm voice drowned out by the sound of the sirens and the air cracking as Flamebird launches them up into the sky, one arm wrapped around a Nightwing and the other wrapped around a baton.

“And we’re going to find him.” Alex promises, throat still tight from the impact.

This guy tried to kill Cat Grant, a few hours ago. Kara stopped him. And they couldn’t stop him from doing this.

It doesn’t matter, anymore. It doesn’t matter what criminals do—it doesn’t matter who they were, or became; their choices, their decisions—it doesn’t matter who they are, what the fire might have burnt into the leather surrounding their bones. Photographs are always gray after they burn, even if they started black and white. Everything's so...gray, now.

All of Metropolis seems so gray.

It doesn’t matter.

The Sams of the world, on behalf of the Vic's or not--

They’re going to find all of them.

--

“She’s not here--never came in for her shift the other night.” It’s so stereotypical—like a shot out of a low-budget Noir film, sideway angles and a mussed, non-descript white rag curled around masculine fingers as they dip in and out glass, cleaning its scuffed, dirtied surface. But The Sam sounds so non-plussed about it that Cat wants to wrap that rag around that annoyingly rugged, hair-dappled neck, instead, “Haven’t seen her in a few nights, actually.”

“Is that normal?” It’s pressed before Cat can remind herself that she shouldn’t care—that it’s none of her business—but it’s completely normal to worry about a girl who’s obviously ill-equipped for the city to not be heard from in a couple of days. 

Well, maybe not as ill-equipped as Cat had initially thought.

After all, the last time the unassuming, karate-kicking, guitar-playing, orphan-soothing Kara Danvers had mysteriously appeared in the night, it had been after she’d saved Cat's life from people who would clearly kill her, if they discovered who she was. Cat has a paper to hide behind. Kara?

Well, she has this guy. 

And her sneer is palpable to reflect that little unfortunate fact. Scotty’s lips barely twitch upwards and long-manicured nails drum along the sticky edge of a bar so that they don’t slap the glass out of his hand.

“Depends on who’s asking me questions. Normally, I don’t like journalists sniffing around, even if Kara’s got a soft spot for you. Must be the Gotham in me.” That rag is thrown over a broad shoulder before stacking the glass on top of his little drink tower, the bright light of the city settling into the dingy, dust-filled air of the bar between them, reflecting off its smooth surface. “You’re not the first journalist who’s tried to get her number.”

Eyes slit and, oh, she doesn’t have time for this, today.

“Fine. Tell her I came by.” A notepad is elegantly flicked out, elegant script gliding along the page, writing down a number of her own. “And don’t,” She waves the paper underneath his nose like a fine perfume before slapping it on the bar, “Let her get a big head about it. I just want to thank her.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Plenty of people try to get her number for that, too.” His hand wisely raises to stem her before she can cut that little smirk of his down a size. “Alright. Fine. She called. Told me she had a few loose ends to tie up, and would be back playing in a few days.”

“Loose ends?” An eyebrow arches over the rim of sunglasses.

“This is why I don’t do journalists. Yeah, a few days.” There’s a long pause as he moves back towards the bottles tossing over his shoulder, “But you know, we’re not the only place she plays. Give it to her, yourself.”

The eyebrow lowers, slow smile curving up lips, instead, as she slides that number into her pocket. He doesn’t give her the name, but it’s a lead, and Cat knows what to do with leads.

Unlike Perry White, it’s not bury them.

“Hah. Hah. Oh, you’re hilarious,” It’s drawled, huffing through nostrils a few hours later, the sound of ringing phones and idle chatter a constant backdrop of any conversation at the Daily Planet, “Look, Chloe, I’m not turning into the paparazzi. I’m just trying to find someone who might be in a bit of trouble after fishing me out of a hmm…tight.” Fingers wave in the air as she scribbles the address down on a small scrap of paper. “Spot. The other ni—

The dull thud of a heavy paper sounds on the hollowed, chipped wood of Cat’s cheap pressboard desk, a singular eyebrow hiking up into blonde. The phone hangs against the rock of her shoulder and chin for a moment before she realizes it’s their paper, obituaries facing upwards.

Fingers curl a little tighter around the phone, a quick goodbye lost underneath the sound of the receiver slamming downwards, righting itself in its holster.

The date is from a few nights ago.

“Did you chase this?” Perry’s voice is gruff—the sort of sound Cat imagines Ernest Hemingway makes over the rim of a glass of whiskey, brutish and misogynistic with every breath. Then again, maybe that’s just how everything sounds when it’s filtered through a salt and pepper mustache.

Cat’s fingers skim along the name, brows knitting. Victor Martin.

Breath catches against teeth like the sound of a heel breaking in the sidewalk—sharp. Quick. Stifling. But when her chin tips upwards, features are impassive, a low hum sounding out between them.

Whether Perry knows her better, or not.

“Perry, I really don’t understand why I should care about...Greta Donalin from 6th st—”

“Don’t.” Perry slaps the desk, palm smothering the name of her final (useless) lead. Her final, useless, murderous lead who is now apparently useless and dead. “Did you chase this? After I very clearly told you to keep your shit-sniffing nose out of it? Of course you did. Because you don’t know when to quit unless it’s a good fuckin’ thing, Grant.” The gruff is a thin veil for fury, voice ticking upwards and upwards and that hum buried in her chest turns into a sharp hiss of an inhale through teeth, now, her own palms flattening on this cheap desk like the hill she's very, very ready to sacrifice her career upon.

“Well, no one else here is going to do any—”

“A good friend of mine,” The paper is snatched from under curling nails, “At the MCPD called me this morning to tell me that an anonymous tip from a payphone in the slums listed three tied up men on the street. Two of them wouldn’t talk. The third mentioned a blonde who loved shoving her nose in their business, and Victor Martin. By name. Victo Martin. Who’s dea—”

“Oh, so your substantiated evidence of my involvement in a murder is based on the fact that I’m not a bottle blo—”

“This is the last straw, Grant.” It drops from the yell to the simmering roll of a boil, "Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tell them you were the last one to see him alive, because we both know that you’re pulling my final string, Kitt—”

“Other than the fact that it would be political suicide to throw me under the bus?”

“No, chasing down Lex Luthor is political suicide. Because, in case you didn’t look into this, you were chasing down a company that specializes in medical supplies for children with cancer, Grant.”

“Oh, no, Perry, I just shoved my nose up in the air, sniffed around, smelled you fifty floors up and decided it would be a wonderful day to ruin children’s lives. Yes, of course I looked int—”

“Then you know.” The paper is thrown from the room, its pages scattering in front of them--behind them--like everything else has, these past years-- “That you shouldn’t be looking into this, Cat.”

“What do they have on you, Perry?” Her voice is serious—borderline treasonous—but she’s one foot out of the door, anyways. Maybe further, if Perry keeps pushing her out of it. “Because the man I know wouldn’t bury a lead like this.”

“Kill it, Cat.” Perry’s finger lingers, pointed, but there’s something so deep in his eyes that her shoulders barely slacken. Quieter, grating and conflicted and so fucking furious that it hopefully covers the worry—

“Perry—”

“Kill it.” The finger lowers, hand lingering on the trim in his furious departure, head hanging, and for a moment he...looks like the Atlas outside of the door she’s walked into every day for the past ten years, shoulders hunched, the pale ring of skin along his hairy knuckle catching the too-bright sunlight of Metropolis. So much has changed for everyone here, hasn't it? A lot can, in ten years. She used to have a son, and Perry used to be happy, and Lois-- “Before it kills you. That’s not a threat. That’s someone who—” A sharp, gruff breath through that mustache, sinking a little further towards the hell he's dragging them to before he stands straighter than a phone booth. “Kill it. Some stories? They’re not worth the collateral damage.”

Lips part, watching the space where he left, for a long moment, before she picks back up the phone to listen to the long, drawn out dial tone on the other side, lingering before she hangs up, grabbing her coat on the way out, an address tucking safely inside her pocket, next to her own number.

Some collateral damage is worth the story. 

--

The heavy fabric of a mask clings to skin as aching fingers slowly peel it up and off, sweat soaking the hair that falls and hangs like wet rope along the flexing muscles of her neck the moment skin is free of the weight, sucking in a deep breath of stagnant apartment air.

Their dingy little apartment is still better than the stifling weight of a mask, after all.  

“Nothing.” The frustration curls up her tongue, tossing the mask across the distance of their room with a wet slap, starting to peel off gloves, next--ginger around her left, the wrap around her burn still fresh--both of them hitting the wall before falling into a small, toppled over basket.

God, the heat in this city never lets up. As if to mock her, the air conditioner rattles in greeting for two seconds before it peters out, Lois’ whistle of greeting from the corner met with a roll of eyes as Alex starts to peel off the long sleeves of a black athletic shirt, next.

“The docks. The slums.”

“Okay, eww—” Kara points towards Lois’ hunched form in their corner (reading through a magazine from last year, casually propped up on their linoleum counter), “And hey!” Her sister’s smiling face appears from the bathroom and Alex can see it—can see how it doesn’t reach eyes—but it almost does, and somedays that’s enough. Like today, when Alex is so tired she’ll take almosts in stride.

Hell, today she’d even take a kind of close-ish over anything else. It's good enough.

“What, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Oh, wow,” Lois deadpans, holding up the magazine to a flash-filled perp shot of Paul Reubens, “Peewee was arrested.” She tosses the magazine back onto the floor from where she got it.

Okay, so maybe the magazine is more than a couple of months old.

“Double eww.” Kara points towards Lois, again, nose scrunching up in a way that really makes it difficult for Alex not to push into it just for a little bit of relief on this hellish day. A fact Kara clearly picks up on, whirling around to point towards Alex, instead, “Don’t want to know. Nothing?”

“Nothing. Dead lead.”

“Hey, I just provide them,” Lois hops up, hands raised, and Alex pointedly ignores eyes lingering on the flexing shoulders visible around a camisole, starting to unravel the tactical belt around her waist, kicking off boots, “Something I’m going to tap out on soon. Seriously, you guys are burning a lot of bridg—”

Kara visible stills and looks away and Alex shoots Lois a look.

Journalists.

“Okay, burning was a poor word choice,” Said journalist gently admits and Kara is only quiet for a moment before coming forward, any hint of that smile in her eyes receding enough for Alex’s mouth to open, cut off by her sister's nothing but business voice.

And Kara likes to claim Alex is the one that retreats. 

“Well, then it’s a good thing that the guy who hired Victor Martin is coming to the club, tonight.”  

“What?” Alex pushes hands through damp hair, peeling off socks, next, hopping a little as she does. “You know, maybe you,” A grunt, whirling around to smirk towards Lois, “Should be a journalist, you’re giving Lo’ a run for her money.”

“Kara always gives me a run.” There’s a hint of pride in that smile and it looks like they can agree on something, for once, “Which I’m so grateful for, since Cat is snooping, too, and there's only so many things I can do to keep her off the track. She's like a bloodhound. Both because she's a bit of a bitch, and because--" A sharp look from Kara, surprisingly, causes Lois to raise hands in acquiescence and continue, "Okay, sorry. How’d you manage to track him down?”

“What can I say? Sometimes lonely people just need a smile and an ear.” Kara shrugs, the sound of water running from their half-operational sink not too far away reverberating through the small, cramped confines of the apartment. The pipes whistle like a songbird in response—a sharp, high-pitched noise above them that causes Alex to look up for just a moment to sympathetically take in her sister’s wince.

A few years and Kara still isn't used to the overwhelming sounds of Metropolis, their pipes being one of them, Alex knows.

“Speaking of Cat, she must be missing you.” It’s a tease, following after the retreating blonde into the bathroom.

“Oh, come on, I’m sure she hasn’t even come by,” A squirt of toothpaste, Lois leaning up against the door frame. They’re probably violating the fire marshall’s code, right now, for occupancy in the broom closet of a bathroom.

“Oh, she’s definitely come by.” Lois winks towards Kara’s suddenly-shifting form when Alex twists a squeaking knob on the shower, peeling off pants with a little more ginger effort, given the bruises.

"You okay?" There's those concerned blue eyes and Alex pointedly ignores both pairs as she waves them off. 

"I heard her asking someone about you, today. Well, before Perry bit her head off and she stormed out." Lois isn't deterred and Alex wonders if the eldest Lane sister is as determined to set up everyone to their happiest of endings as Kara usually is. Only Lois is fittingly more sarcastic about it, "I'm telling you, Kara, she likes you likes you--"

“Oh, God,” It’s murmured like a prayer as Alex peels off the rest of her tank, next, tossing it towards Lois, who catches it, pulling off underwear once she’s actually in the shower, for her sister’s sake more than anything. Not that it really matters, anymore, ignoring them both for a moment. “For once I am so glad we’re broke and this shower is always so fucking cold.”

She's far more ginger taking off the bandage about knuckles.

“What?” Kara’s laughter is too nervous, perking up into her hairline like a choir boy’s falsetto. “Come on, she’s just—she wouldn’t—why would you—” Seriously, a moment later, feverishly whispering, “Wait, did she say anything to you?”

“I can still hear you.” Alex calls over the shower. And then groans at the cold water, feeling it wash away a few layers of dirt and blood and sweat that this city has sunk into her bones over the years. No matter how much she scrubs, there’s always a nice little undertone of it beneath her, now.

“You need some alone time in there, Lexi?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, did you both miss my eww, earlier?”

“No.” Alex and Lois both supply and she’s glad the faintest flicker of a smile pressing upwards on features is hidden by their curtain.

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.” Is the once more uniform response but Alex leans out of the shower to raise eyebrows at Lois, all the same. “So." A smirk. "Did Kara’s crush say anything?”

She was going to ask for a washcloth, anyways, so it's really only convenient when Kara throws one at her face.

“Alex.”

“Maybe.” Lois' sly smirk is only doing Alex any favors.

“I get it, okay? It’s not a crush, Cat’s just—wait, what? Really? What did she—not that I am expecting her to—" Kara looks between both of their smiling faces before she huffs. Blushes.

It’s nice, really. So much of the city has sunk into both of their bones, Kara’s included—blue has seeped into black in a muddied mess between them—and Alex’s look turns a little softer. Enough noticeably that Kara leans forward to wipe a hint of sud from her brow before it can get into darker eyes with a mutter.

“Anyways.” A cleared throat, leaning forward to pluck back up the abandoned toothbrush near the sink. “Moving on from my failure of a love life, he’s going to be at the club later today. Let’s…focus on that, and not my definitely not a crush. Tag-team at the club?” Alex nods before once more disappearing into the shower.

"Bait and switch sounds good, unless you can actually get anything from him." 

“Speaking of getting something. Am I ever going to actually get any of this on the record anytime soon? You know, anything I can actually publish and pay for my rent with.” Alex can hear it—can hear the way Lane leans so casually up against the doorframe and weary muscles lean a little further into the stream, the chill of it causing a shiver down a curving spine. Tightening muscles and flexing fingers along tile that never cleans no matter how much either one of them scrub it.

It's always easier to focus on work.

“How do you feel about your red-k days?” Alex asks through the stream, thoughtful, giving herself a few more moments of scrubbing before Kara must hear her heartbeat calm, tossing a towel over the sliding rings of a cheap white curtain, knuckles puckered with torn, but cleaned skin wrapping it around and tucking it in after shutting off the water.

The pipes whistle in gratitude.

 “M’ wh--t?” A confused voice is muffled around the hanging handle of a toothbrush, popping it out through a mouth full of foam before Kara spits. “Red K? What are you—oh.” Kara sighs—groans, a little, chin tipping backwards as eyes skim along the pilling popcorn of their ceiling when Alex disappears into the bedroom—careful not to brush against any part of Lane as she goes—leaning over into the actual closet to grab soft silk, shoving a dress into sister’s hands. “Okay, what I remember of those are…not good days.”

A black, very tight, very intentionally slutty dress that is absolutely Kara’s size, not her own.

“Payback is a bitch.” It’s sing-song because she told Kara she would get her back for last year when she had to play the eye-candy at a party.

Kara pouts.

“Did you get his name?” Lois pecks Kara’s brow as she plucks up Alex’s sunglasses from the table, burying their arms in dark hair.

“All I have is Bloom. Alex, I am not wearing—”

“Bloom.” Lois repeats, memorizing it, letting out a second whistle of the day when Kara holds the dress up. “Yeah, it’s a shame Cat won’t be there to see this.”

“Okay, if Cat did see me in this, I am almost…nearly one-hundred percent positive that she would just—”

“Drool?” Suddenly Lois' smirk isn't endearing.

“Yeah, now it’s my turn to say eww.” Alex shrugs on a t-shirt, thankfully something not form-fitting or sagging from sweat. “Besides, it’s a good thing that you haven’t seen Cat. Right?” It’s pointed, looking up towards Kara, whose fingers curl in the thin fabric of the dress for a moment before she lets out such a quiet sigh that Alex almost feels guilty.

It’s the day for almosts.

“So, Bloom’s a lead.” Lois offers to break the silence, sliding those sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose. “Time to go digging. Both of you try not to get into too much trouble, tonight, alright?”

The Danvers sisters meet eyes before innocently smiling towards Lois.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

A moment later, to a closing door, Alex yells as she shimmies up shorts:

"You better bring those back, Lane!"

--

If she thought Clark’s was full of smoke, this place is a living Bonnie Tyler music video in comparison, Halloween parody levels of fog filling the room from its slick floors to its high ceilings. Dark wood clings to every corner of the place, lights bright and stage even brighter, the place packed with more bodies than Cat would have expected for a Saturday, let alone a Thursday.

And there’s no surprise as to why, when fevered whispers mention who’s supposedly playing, tonight, like some kind of underground return-tour.

The journalist in her is aware of confirmation bias—now that she knows Kara Danvers exists, she seems to feel her everywhere in the city; see her in flashes around corners and in hanging signs; in bars and clubs and on colleagues’ tongues—but it’s still a little out of place, like something tucked away and secret has been put on display.

Then again, it seems Kara has that effect on people.

Especially--Cat realizes around a half hour after arriving--while wearing that.

The lights swamp the stage in a basking glow and when Kara gracefully walks onto it with that charming, spreading, thousand-watt smile, she seems to absorb them—like every inch of the girl’s skin is filled with light, alone—and Cat is caught by the sight of it for only a moment, noticing a lack of glasses (contacts?) before eyes skim downwards to take in the flowing lines of a particularly tight dress.

It’s not something she would have pegged the girl for wearing, but it’s not something she’s particularly unsatisfied with, either, watching the way it hugs curves as heels click. But, oh, there’s not a piano on stage, tonight.

No, apparently, it’s the girl who a recent memory had claimed to be sheepish about playing the guitar, tucking an electric one up on her body to a series of calls and whistles.

There's obviously nothing to be sheepish about and if Kara wasn't so unnervingly sincere all of the time, Cat might even feel played.

The guitar rings out skillfully into the club with such an overwhelming, hanging presence that the room is smothered to silence by it, the weight of it just as captivating as that smile—that dress—those eyes—

I put a spell on you—

There’s no smile on Kara’s face as she plays, tonight, and Cat wonders why. Wonders where the weight of her voice has come from—wonders how much more there is to her other than that smile and ever-listening ear, band slowly coming to play in the background alongside her.

Cat orders whiskey, tonight, swallowing the whole glass as she watches those fingers skim along frets with such ease and grace that the song might as well be true. Drowns her throat with clenching thighs and a tight stomach and playing Perry's words about collateral damage in her head like an athem.

And now you're mine--

A sharp breath, eyes closing, letting herself, for a moment, just listen. 

An hour later, Kara is far from the stage and hasn’t seemed to have found her, yet, and Cat wonders why each second curls her stomach tighter and tighter, the noise in this place too loud—suffocating—

A laugh warms up Cat’s spine like trilling fingers—like fingers dancing up ivory keys—but it’s far away and, oh, why is it that she immediately recognizes it, now? Kara's laugh.

“—Sam?” Cat hears at the edge of her ears over the loud din of the bar, leaning over on the stool to take in the sight of Kara leaning…comfortably close to someone around the corner. Her hand so familiarly skimming along a man’s shoulder as that laugh lights up the dark corner between them, eyes flicking down to his hip before settling on his eyes with a bright, bright smile.

But it looks a little…different, somehow. Forced. And suddenly Kara looks so out of place in this bar laughing with that dress clinging to her like a second skin and curiously, Cat’s fingers dip along the rim of her glass, eyebrow arching. Leans a little closer to listen—

“Look, he trusted me to look after Sam. All I want to know is that he’s okay. He told me you have…kids, right? A…boy and a girl—oh, gosh, sorry, are you—”

There’s a commotion as someone jostles into the pair when Kara leans up, both of them bumping into the man. A woman raises her hand with a scoff—a brunette, leather jacket wrapped comfortably around shoulders like she had just hopped off a motorcycle.

“Hey, whatever, just watch it, blondie.”

The brunette looks…familiar, slipping out of the bar door the moment she’s passed them and Cat’s eyes linger on her exit, watching smoke seep up into the night air in tendrils, and, oh, there’s that feeling in her stomach. That clenching, twisting feeling of anticipation—a gut feeling of—

Wasn't that—

Brows knit, turning back to the bar.

Blondie?

“You stalking me, Ms. Secret?” It’s quiet and smiling and low and skims right up the base of Cat’s fingers like fingers could, but Kara Danvers isn’t skimming her fingers along anything but a bar as she leans next to her, comfortably. Always so comfortably. Leaning a little close, maybe, to be heard over the noise of the club, even as her voice isn’t much of a yell, at all, and Cat’s eyes skim up the long lines of bare arms to bare shoulders to a bare neck before settling on a familiar, too comfortable smile. Always so comfortable.

Maybe it's just Cat's ever-present ego that assuages itself with the fact that Kara does look far more at place here than she had up against the wall with John Doe, or maybe it's something else, entirely.

Either way, Cat isn't comfortable with it.

“Hardly.”

“Because if you wanted to say thank you, you could’ve just showed up at the bar and—”

“Funnily, I did.” Cat turns on the barstool and it doesn’t creak, here—not like it does across the city. “And you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” Kara looks surprised and her smile quiets into something other than comfortable—something more than just familiar—and Cat waves her hand with a discarding notion, not wanting her to linger on it.

“You know where I work, now, too.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Just like you’re not supposed to know my name?”

“The only reason I know where you work is because of Lois Lane.” Kara, surprisingly, supplies, but Cat shouldn’t be surprised, should she? The girl is nothing if not honest. It doesn’t appear like duplicitous is in her nature and Cat is thrown by it, given the fact that she hasn’t heard anyone outside of newsprint be honest for years, Lois Lane included. “If you wanted me to know where you worked, least of all wanted me to show up there, you would’ve told me, Cat. This isn’t a creepy romcom.”

“It’s not?” Lips perk up at the edges.

“Maybe a romcom,” Kara shrugs that bare shoulder and leans on the bar, fingertips skimming up the wood by Cat’s wrist, not touching. But so close to touching that the hairs on her wrist might ache upwards to greet her. “But not the creepy kind. We did have a nice meet-cute, didn’t we?”

“Maybe.” A hum, lost underneath clinking glasses and music.

“Maybe.” That smile just spreads. “So, yes, I do know where you work, but so far that hasn’t been how this works. You come to me, not the other way, around. Unless…you’d like me to say hi, sometime?”

Cat’s chin barely ducks, thumb dipping along the rim of her glass. She wonders if it’s as clean or cleaner than the ones that Sam Malone was buffing at Clark’s, earlier.

“So…” It’s humming, tipping the glass back instead of offering anything else other than just conversation, “You do do blues. Lois mentioned that—mentioned jazz, too—but I was starting to think it was a myth.”

“I told you I had a couple of places I play around town which, you know—” Kara’s fingers come up to gently wave down the bartender with that charming, easy smile, “Club soda, please? This,” Eyes settle on Cat’s, “This seems a little out of your range, Cat.”

“Mmm, yes, well, maybe I was just lured here by that siren voice of yours.” It’s smirking.

“If that’s the logic, I’d think you would have come here, before. And trust me, if you did, I would have remembered.” And Kara’s eyes linger like her fingers had on the bar, Cat sees it—sees the way her eyes skim down from the line of her face to her chin—and dark eyes skim up that curving neck in retaliation, noting where sweat has pooled in the dips of it, highlighting the faint flex of Kara's swallow. This is the first time, Cat realizes, that she’s seen the girl sweat, at all, “You’re doing something that’s likely going to get you chased by a bunch of people in an alley, again, aren’t you?”

“Why? You fight one little Bruce Lee battle and suddenly you think you’ve got a job as my personal security guard? Is that a lust for danger I'm hearing?”

“If that’s the excuse that works.” Kara offers and, oh, Cat’s lips shouldn't twitch. “Although I’m not sure how I would do in security, but I could follow you around. Sing a theme song for you, or something.”

“That won’t alert people to my presence, at all, when I’m trying to be covert.”

“I can sing quietly behind you. In your ear.”

“Ah.” Cat’s tongue darts out over lips to cover her smile, turning around fully on the stool, their knees faintly brushing, “Isn’t that disturbing.”

“And here I was going for romantic.”

“If that’s what you’re going for, go again.” Cat advises, smiling through the murky amber of her drink.

“How about the fact that I was hoping it was you who would be walking through the door? The fact that I was singing because I was hoping you would hear it? Is that…a little more romantic?” Kara’s teeth are biting at her lip. There’s too much sincerity there. Enough that Cat searches her face, thumb slackening on the glass. "Or is that too much?"

"Hmm..." A small breath. “That’s a start.”

“So are you...following a lead?”

“Maybe. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”

“Positive. I can't even get my names on checks, let alone on an article. Anything I can help with? A girl hears a lot more than just herself up on that stage…”

“Actually…”

“As long as you promise it won’t lead to anymore guns.”

Cat laughs.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Cat.” Suddenly that charming voice hardens into something surprisingly serious—like there’s a hint of steel in those shoulders, after all—and a nail that's finally been manicured this week trails down the ridge of the glass anchored on the edge of the bar between them.

Well, Kara can't be the only one bold. 

 “Would you be so surprised if I told you that you were the lead?”

“What?” All that smooth black dress bunches upwards into a straight, straight line as Kara sits up straighter, fingers falling away from the motion of it.

“What if I told you I was tracking you down?” Cat presses, further, and she can’t tell if Kara looks relieved or nervous. Offering: “To thank you. You weren’t…entirely off the mark, earlier.”

“Oh.” A breath, shoulders visibly easing, and there those tactile fingers go, raising up to skim familiarity along a slim wrist, heartbeat pressing up against the skin between them, which is suddenly...far less space, at all. “I was kidding. I told you before, Cat, you don’t have to thank me, right place—”

“Right time. Yes, yes. How noble. My hero.”

Kara’s lips part—that smile falters—and she looks like she might say something before her head snaps upwards, leaning forward to catch someone before they can roughly jostle into Cat with a surprisingly quick motion, catching their drink before it can spill all over her blouse.

Which is good, given the fact that it's new. And, oh, Cat can't even be too angry at the drunken idiot behind them, regardless of whether or not her latest acquisition was almost tarnished, Kara's quick gesture bringing long plains of open skin close enough that Cat can feel the heat radiating from her like a tall space heater, a sharp inhale of breath visibly tightening Kara’s shoulders. Kara, who must realize how close she is and moves to pull away—probably to do something ridiculous and…noble, like apologize—before Cat’s fingers wrap around that apparent boulder of a bicep, halting her.

Smiling, an inch away from that warm jaw. And that warm chin. And that warm smile--

“You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Right place, right time. Save my life. Save my blouse.”

So close that Cat can almost taste that sheepish grin and anything the girl might think of saying seems to be forgotten in favor of something else, entirely.

“Would you like to…go somewhere? Quieter. Not like—I didn’t mean like—” A cleared throat and, oh, Cat shouldn’t find it so endearing. “I just meant that it’s loud in here. The park, or—Clark’s isn’t far. I’m not working, tonight, and…anything I was going to do earlier doesn’t seem nearly as important, right now?”

“Why did you say that like a question?” Cat laughs, a little low, sheltered away from the rising smoke in this building underneath the awning of Kara's jaw.

"Because I wasn't sure you would like to go, at all." It's murmured, any of that bravado fluttering away like a little bird and Cat's glad they're close enough that she doesn’t have to yell over the rest of the noise in the bar. "Or maybe...I'm a little surprised at how much I want you to say yes."

“Hmm…I could use a little air. And a drink.”

“Clark’s it is.”

Kara leans up and away from her and the bar, the space between them suddenly cool, offering a palm to help Cat up, eyes lingering on lips instead of legs.

If Cat doesn’t drop the hand as they make their way into the city, well—

Whatever. Kara’s probably too polite to mention it, anyways.

--

“I’m so glad that I’m not the one that has to be doing the illegal things, anymore.” It's an easy, familiar snipe from Lois as Alex holds up the wallet, eyebrows raising when a journalist's excitement plucks it away, immediately rifling through the contents.

“I don't know what you're talking about, he dropped it.”

“Oh, really?” Lois laughs, leaning up against the brick of a nearby building, heel coming to rest by her knee. Idly, Alex thinks it’s the sort of thing that could be in a poster.

She wouldn’t remember, but it seems like the sort of thing that could be, anyways.

“It just happened to drop into my hand.” An easy smile, leaning up next to her, relaxing, just for a moment, letting the cooler city air sink into weary lungs.

Even smelling like smog and cigarettes, the air out here feels much better than the fire that’s been clinging to her lungs this week. The faint heat that’s sizzled up her spine.

“He has kids?”

“Two of them, a boy and a girl. Kara asked me to give her back the picture so that she could get it back to him.”

“Of course she did. Only your sister would help you steal a guy’s wallet and then—”

There’s enough of a pause for Alex’s eyes to open from where she’d rested against the wall, taking in the city-highlighted profile next to her.

She knows that look.

“What?” Lois quietly slips out a business card. It’s nameless, but there’s the faint emboss of a non-descript number on it. “Lois, what—”

Lois shoves the wallet in her hands, voice even and chin dipping as she sighs.

“This…” A sharp suck of a breath and when Lois looks back up at her, it feels like years ago when she last saw her truly laugh, because it probably was, “This is my father’s number.”

Alex wordlessly tucks the card back in the wallet along with the picture, sliding the whole undone pandora’s box into the back pocket of jeans, leaning forward to wrap the woman in a rare hug.

It’s a little more telling that Lois actually lets her.

“Don’t tell them.” Lois murmurs against her neck and Alex’s breath rattles as it spreads out her shoulders. “Not yet.”

Clark. Kara.

It’s a long second before Alex closes her eyes, fingers curling a little tight into Lois’ shoulder, and nods.

--

“It’s been...a particularly tough week at work.” Cat admits before she can wonder why, thumb running along the rim of a glass, unsurprised when Kara slides just a little closer--when that girl’s hand slides up the bar to settle right next to her own like she wants to remind her of her constant presence--chin tipping back as she searches those eyes, clearer underneath the smoke here than the smoke anywhere else.

Maybe even clearer than they had been, in the city. 

“Well, most people go to bars for that reason. If it was a good week at work, I would think you would have invited people from those...fancy business meetings of yours to bury in that bottle along with you, instead of…finding me somewhere, in a club.” 

“I doubt anyone in the office would celebrate with me, right now. They’re not exactly getting t-shirts printed with my face on them.” Cat grouses, tipping back a glass and looking up at Sam Malone, who is giving them a more than knowing look that’s easy to ignore through a martini. “I’m going to need something stronger if we’re going to keep talking about my job.”

“No Ms. Secret fanclub?” Kara turns towards that ever-knowing bartender with a resolute look, “Scotty, get us both a straight whiskey.” Tipping a little over as if to share with her out of the corner of her mouth: “It’s the nicest thing we have that doesn’t get watered down.” 

Cat blinks, “I thought you didn’t drink?” 

“I don’t. But I can’t let you go on thinking no one in the world will drink with you. I, for one, am happy to be here for your successes and failures and--oh, God, this is disgusting.” Kara’s nose wrinkles the moment she tips back the glass and Cat can’t help the faint laugh that rumbles on the edge of lips. Because Kara’s normally happy face looks like a cat who’s hacked on the edge of a hairball, features screwing tight before she turns around on the stool, offering up a glass with that same, determined smile, handing Cat hers.

Well, there's another new little fact to add to the steadily-growing list in Cat's mind:

Kara Danvers isn't a quitter

Fingers curve around the tumbler, amusement coating lips just as well as moisture does when her tongue runs over them, “You realize you consistently lose whatever I tip you on the drinks you buy me, don’t you?” 

“I’m not working tonight—well, here—and we have different definitions of lose.” It’s a little brazen and the girl seems to realize it, clearing her throat but not backing down as she tips the glass in a toast, “To...whatever it is you think is going wrong in your life?” 

“Ah,” Cat shrugs, “To everything, then.” 

“To everything, then.”

A beat, lingering on Kara and despite her better judgment, admits, “Well…maybe not everything.”

And there’s that fucking smile.

Their glasses clink and Kara somehow schools features into something stoic as she downs the glass in one long sip, an impressed whistle from the bartender resulting in a flourish of a bow from their resident musician.

“You’re supposed to sip it, you know. Not do shots like a college frat party.”   

“No way was I sipping that. Gross.” Her nose wrinkles underneath a small little laugh, Cat's amused chuckle creating a perfect harmony alongside it. “I told you, I don’t drink. But, um...you know. Solidarity? I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Of course it did.” A shake of the head before downing her own because, honestly, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Solidarity, even, seems like a wonderfully novel concept. It’s warm and cutting and Kara beams at her, fingers raising up to curl around her shoulder like an old friend and suddenly that warmth spreads from Cat’s throat down to curling toes, stockings bunching beneath the calloused pads of feet. "They always do." Cat's swallow is dusty, lashes fluttering as Kara's eyes flick down to lips--that endless smile skipping a beat like a syncopated rhythm--and blonde ringlets shake between them as the other woman pulls just enough away from her to raise those curled fingers around a dipped shoulder to shuffle glasses that...aren’t there.

A small little laugh at herself.

Sheepish. Annoyingly charming. 

“You know, not everyone in the world is out to get you. Lois Lane speaks the world of you, not that I told you that, and I just had a drink with you so...at least two people would rock your face on a t-shirt.” Kara offers and the laughter settles gently between them--as faint as the night-time wind rattling the bar's window panes.

“I wasn’t aware you and Lois were close. Outside of telling you where I work.” A breath of a noise, wishing that hand was back on her shoulder, but glad that Kara leans against the bar near her. Equally glad for the hint of space between them. What a contradiction. “She’s who recommended I come here.” 

“I know.” Kara admits and the surprise grows when the girl just smiles, a hint of something almost impish in those eyes--intoxicating--and Cat has the strongest, strangest urge to reach up to close the distance between them. “I asked.” 

“Did you, now?” That’s more intriguing than the drink. Kara hums but leaves it at that when eyes flick over Cat's shoulder to settle on stage.

“You know…when I go on, there’s always some point in the night that you love doing a disappearing act. But, you—” A hint of a nervous laugh, surprised—like Kara can’t believe she’s saying it, herself, teeth tucking a lower lip behind the gates of a nervous smile, “Why don’t you ever stay? After. I would share another drink. Club soda counts. You could tell me all about your journalism blues—I would always even pretend to understand half of what you say.”

“Somehow, I doubt you’ll have any difficulty understanding.” Cat murmurs, eyes barely slitting as she weighs the offer. Weighs the soft din of this smoky little hole-in-the-wall that does nothing to mute the hopeful light of blue above her. “Is this the piano-player version of a confessional? I thought the bartender was supposed to offer to hear all my worldly woes, not you.” 

“Scott’s got a full schedule on his plate with Rick.” Kara jokes, leaning just a little closer, “And...while I feel like saying this out loud might actually hurt my chances, I like to think that I could…be a friend to you, during the rough weeks. If you’d let me. Or...a stranger that looks a lot like a friend that would love nothing more than to be here for you. More than just--more than just what we already do.” 

“Why?” Cat asks before she can help herself--looking for this girl’s angle. For her motive. But that smile doesn’t dim underneath the faint lights and that hand slides a little closer and Kara just keeps smiling. Keeps biting her lip. Keeps shuffling like she doesn’t know how to do anything but ask, in the first place, and Cat can’t understand why. 

“I don’t know.” Kara seems to admit, humming, “It just...it’s something...it's something about you. I mean, it's something I want to do. Be here for you. If not, that’s okay. I know this is...new for you." A beat, almost rushing to add, "Us. New for us. I'm not trying to--” Another rap of knuckles along wood, leaning up to whisper something in the Sam’s ear before stepping away, “I’ll be right back. Before I shove my foot further in my mouth, like I'm currently doing a really, really good job at.”

And she slides away from the bar like she was never there in the first place, leaving Cat staring after her. It’s a little easier to watch her go in that dress, admittedly.

Oh, good, Cat  suddenly turns to objectification in her darkest hour.

“She does this for everyone, doesn’t she?” Cat asks even though she has a sinking suspicion that that’s not the case, at all. 

“Make friends with everyone? Yep. Listen to their problems? Sure. Drink with them? Nope.” Scotty hums, cleaning out a glass before setting down a singular martini in front of her and a glass of water that, undeniably, was also requested a moment before. Breath sucks through teeth. “Usually she’s actually kind of a recluse. She told me she doesn't want to get involved with anyone. Which is fine, we're all running from something, here.”

A hum of response, curious and lingering and thoughtful, gaze settled on the place where the girl just slipped away. 

What is Kara Danvers running from, then, if it's not from her? This. Whatever this...little tryst is, fizzled and barely under the surface.

And how big would Kara Danvers’ beam be, if she stayed the entire night? If they were left with more than just a few moments at the bar, even if Cat came here nightly? A few moments—minutes—an hour or two, maybe. What would it be, if they had more nights away from the smoke and the din and the quiet, drunken ramblings of the patrons that apparently fund an orphanage down the street as much as Cat’s apparent tab, here.

How warm would Kara’s skin be—her smile—Cat’s chest; how would the edges of fingers feel like the tips of fireworks when Kara settles next to her at the end of the night, where Cat would be a little drunker than she was when the singer left? What would it be like, for Kara to say something cheesily succinct like—

So tell me about your day, Ms. Secret—

And for Cat to unhinge her jaw—

Apparently, she has the gift of premonition.

“Sorry,” Those fireworks light match tips along Cat’s shoulders as fingers skim along skin, Kara settling next to her, “I had to check in with my sister, anyways, and that seemed like a really good time to go away and splash some water on my face before I babbled my way onto the street. So...”

The sister.

It clicks, Cat’s eyes flicking up to linger on Kara’s jaw, question pursing lips before Kara leans forward, shaking her head.

"Tell me about your day, Ms. Secret.”

Cat almost laughs at the knowing whisper in her ear and against every single fucking shred of logic in her brain…

Cat does. 

She tells her everything. 

Again.

She talks about her week and doesn’t stop and Kara just listens to every single word until she’s finished before reaching across the distance, squeezing her shoulder, leaning up and Cat’s certain she’ll disown ever knowing her--throw a drink in her face or finally inform her she doesn’t care or, worse, insist that she very, very much does--she’s certain she’ll say something idiotic or stupid, like it will all be alright or maybe next time? Or, worse, You're doing the right thing without any idea of how harsh the right thing can be.

Because she tells Kara about work, about the argument with Lane about the article—about the missing girls—about Perry. She tells Kara about how her business is falling through and she’s unsure how to get sponsorship, now. She tells Kara about how Perry White was threatening to pull her byline if she didn’t find something objective to focus on, about Vic Martin winding up dead, to a somber, haunted look on Kara's features than ever expected.

She tells Kara more than just words--she becomes more than just a lonely person sitting on the edge of a barstool, mysterious and enigmatic. She becomes a full-fledged person with secrets and anger and vitriol and mistakes (and, oh, she hates the mistakes). She becomes Cat Grant, a web of twisted mistakes and pointed career-hunting and passion, and she’s certain that’s far too much for this regular, happy piano player who wandered into a city that she apparently hides herself from in the tucked away corner of a stage.

Instead, Cat just blinks, because Kara whispers something like it’s the most natural follow-up to such a weighted confessional--

“Hey, do you like tacos?” A talented thumb points towards the door, “Because there’s a place around here that sells them until 2 AM and you probably need something on your stomach and I’m starving.” 

Like Cat hadn’t just bared her soul--like nothing had changed between them, at all--no expectations weighing down that raised smile. 

Cat just blinks--stares at her, lips a little agape--and nods.

--

It's nice, at least, to feel what air conditioning might be like, again. Alex sprawls out on the mattress, greeting the cool of it like an old friend with an arching spine, biting back a groan at the bruises that ache up her spine like a beaten tapestry, sinking back onto the couch with a huff. And she feels Lois' eyes on her, watching her stomach, her hips, and there's something to be said, at least, for honesty, because Lois doesn't look away when their eyes meet.

"We're not going through this again, Lois. It's moved past bad idea territory into dangerous." 

"Yeah, yeah." Lois sighs and Alex stupidly reaches up to skim fingers up her cheek--hesitating for only a moment before that finger skims down the curling rope of brunette hair that pools in her palm, fingers gently cupping the back of her skull, the glint of a ring catching off of Alex's neck underneath the apartment's lights before she tugs Lois back, once more. Closer.

There's no rules against sharing a metaphorical bed platonically, right? Because Alex, the idiot she is, had immediately acquiesced the moment Lane murmured something close to please in her--you can come over, if you want, and help me go through his files that I do have access to--

"You know, there's no guarantee your father had anything to do with this." Alex tries and Lois settles on top of her like a bag of rocks, sagging into the mattress with a sigh.

"Yeah, right. When the hell did you become an optimist? Let Kara stick with her strengths. I depend on you for your brood-y...over-pessimistic realist take."

"Hey, I'm not broody." It's grumbled, tired eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, feeling Lois shift to settle a little further on top of her and this couch feels better than their small little springboard of a bed ever has. "Clark would have come here, you know." It's quiet after a long moment of silence, the faintest quiver underneath burnt fingertips before they bury themselves in that dark hair, gently sifting through. Letting a slow, guilty breath seep out of her as Lois' nose slots against the pulse in her neck.

For the first time, she wonders if this is how Kara feels, every time her eyes linger a little too long on Cat Grant. She wonders if Kara would be doing this, right now, if they had the option. If the pull of it is just too much for weary shoulders, where her sister's have always been made of steel. Resolute. 

"He has other things he should be focusing on, right now. Stop talking about him like he's supposed to be here, instead."

A faint hiss from Alex's lips--are all journalists this annoyingly astute?

"He could have been. He's not. So just...shut up and be a pillow while I brood for a change, because we both know I'm going to have to go on a hunt after my dad and ugh--god, what if I have to tell Kitty she's right, I'm never going to hear the end of it, and this all--" 

"Hey. Lane." Alex sighs, fingers raking gently against her skull until she follows her own advice and shuts up, sagging further into Alex on the couch, the air conditioner cooling both of them with its faint little unfamiliar rumble. "We'll figure it all out tomorrow." Lois gently untucks Alex's hand and she's so glad she can't see the look on her face as a thumb gently smooths underneath burnt flesh.

It's healing.

A lot of things are, whether they want them to, or not.

"Until then, I'm going to enjoy this wonderful air conditioning, and pretty nice company, and you can stop thinking for a little while. If you're capable of that." 

Breath breaks against Alex's knuckles before Lois wordlessly brushes lips right above them.  

"I can try." Lois murmurs, cuddling into her side in a way they'll both likely deny in the morning. 

It's easier to ignore the guilt when she's too exhausted to care.

--

The tacos, surprisingly, aren’t the kind of corner-expectations that land a girl in the hospital with E. Coli.

“Does every night always end with food, with you?" A delicate lick of fingers.

"Most nights." Kara beams, "Okay, all nights."

"Hmm...so I just spilled my life story, piano player--”

“Actually, you just told me about your day.” Kara cuts her off, hastily adding before swallowing another impressively large bite of that bursting corner-street taco, “Which I was very, very happy to hear. But it’s not really a life story.” 

“Okay,” Cat drawls, heels clicking along the streets, steam from the grates not warming her heels as much as the faint heat radiating off of Kara’s…surprisingly muscular calves, “I was born in downtown Metropolis to a bitch of a writer, Katherine Grant--”

“Oh, wow, the Katherine Gr--” At Cat’s look, Kara seems to stutter and shut up. Wisely, “Um, right, well there’s obviously a sore subject, moving on.” 

“Went to college pursuing journalism--became editor--and had my hopes and dreams dashed when I interviewed with Perry White, only to become his assistant. And then...well, you know the rest, don’t you?” 

“Worked your way up through the fashion section to the gossip section. A tale you told me with no detail whatsoever, so I don’t know about know the rest, but--”

“You’re very nosey for a piano player.” 

“Ah, not just for a piano player. I am told,” Kara looks practically shit-eating around her next bite, swallowing, “That I am nosey for anyone. Particularly nosey. I’m proud of it.”

“It’s like your superpower.” 

“Hah! Right.” Kara gently bumps her shoulder, laugh high enough that Cat’s eyebrow raises despite that faint alcohol in her system because this girl is just...she must be psycho, or something. No one can be this wholesome. It’s like walking with an attractive neighbor in Leave it to Beaver. “Heh, like...people have super powers, right. Pfft.” 

Cat just stares at her, deciding when the girl moves onto her fifth taco: “They need to study you. I mean like an actual scientific study. With doctors.”

“I’m okay with that, you get paid for those.” It’s a tease. “You and Lois are friends, aren’t you. She tells me that at least weekly. Talk about similar strokes.” Kara huffs through her nose, but there’s a lightness in her eyes as she chomps down, happily swallowing before bumping Cat’s shoulder. Again. Tone bright and fingers curling, protective, along a shell. Cat can’t help but notice, even through leather, that the other woman is warm. And maybe Kara intentionally misunderstands where Cat's eyes linger, “If you want another taco, I can get you one, but stop eyeing this one, it’s mine.” 

A laugh scoffs through her own nose, shaking her head as she wipes her hands, full and unfortunately sober. “No. I have no idea how you're still eating, there's no way I'm going to finish this second one. So, what’s your story?” 

“My story?” Kara takes care wiping her mouth, making good use of a napkin before depositing it in a nearby trashcan, making a gesture for Cat’s, as well, who hesitantly hands it over, confused because the city is still steel in her bones. “You didn’t finish telling me yours.” 

“There has to be some quid pro quo, here, Carole King. It’s my job to know about people, and I know virtually next to nothing about you.” And there the girl goes, happily depositing trash in the nearby bin before trotting the small distance back over to catch up, like she wouldn’t want to burden Cat with waiting for even a second longer than she would need to. Of course. Because she's so chivalrous it's nearly insufferable. 

Cat quietly thanks her, regardless.

“Maybe I’m an enigma. That’s what keeps people coming back to the bar.” Fidgeting, tactile hands shove into the pockets of a jacket she apparently keeps behind the bar for nights like these. Cat wouldn't have pegged the girl for leather, either--maybe tweed, or something softer like cotton or bamboo weave--but she's struck, for a moment, by the image of that brunette jostling against Kara in the bar. The way the leather spread out over shoulders like an emblem--a ready, protective shrug--and it's how Kara wears it, now. The faint heat rises up off of the cooling concrete and now that the overwhelming heat of the city has tempered like anger beneath the bones of Metropolis, she feels far too comfortable for her own good.

“Drinks keep people coming back to a bar. You’re the reason they stay.” Cat hums and the city’s sprawling skyscrapers cast a beam of light over the faintest blush, despite the night. “Oh, so you’re not always suave.” 

“You thought I was suave?” A rumbling, quiet laugh that draws Cat just a step closer, both of them stopping their walk for a moment, “I’ve never heard that before. No one--and I mean no one--has called me suave without being sarcastic.” 

“First for everything.” Lips bat upwards, “Hey, stop stalling Myra Hess--”

“Myra Hess? There’s an unexpected ref--” Amusement twinkles like stars in those bright eyes but Cat doesn’t let go--why would she?

“Life story.” It’s a short demand and they start walking, again, those hands unravelling from pockets to raise in submission.

“You drop a lot of references, don’t you? There’s not much to tell, really.” 

“Everyone has a story.” Cat shakes her head, dusting off the remains of her taco from palms, “Where were you born? What do you want to do with your life? Why do you play? Why are you interested in music?”

“I didn’t ask you why you write,” Kara points out, “Do you want to know the reason I tell people to get tips, or the real, depressing reason?” 

“Hmm...both.” Cat decides, picking off a small bite of her taco and popping it into her mouth now that they have some forward momentum with more than just the faint shuffle of their feet. 

“Well, the reason I tell people is because music is a living thing--it’s impossible not to play it, when it’s got your claws in you. Usually I try to be, um...charming, or something. When I say it. Tips. I’m not very good at being charming, though.”

Cat begs to differ and the look she gives her seems to be enough to creep a blush up a long neck for a second time, Kara clearing her throat. 

“Moving on from that, the real reason I play…” Intriguingly, Kara hesitates--pauses--and there’s this faraway look in her eyes when hands shove back into pockets and this is the moment that Cat learns that pianists have the same nervous ticks smokers do, because she can’t seem to sit still. What else does she do to keep her hands occupied? From all of those protests, is there a stack of papers somewhere with unfinished stories littering the pages--half-composed sonatas or piano concertos?--does she tend to drinks or tuck up people’s cheeks with kind hands? Or does she just spend all of her idle, fidgeting time sprawling fingers out to relieve muscles before they curl tightly in fists? 

It’s still a little difficult to reconcile the image of the girl the other night--her unexpected savior--with the nervous tick next to her, eyes slitting over when Kara shifts a little closer to Cat’s side like it might ward off some kind of invisible chill. Which would be impossible, given the heat. But then the girl shakes, just a little, and brows knit, scanning over her and ignoring the ridiculous urge to untuck her own jacket and wrap it around a wide frame.

“It helps me...remember. I lost my parents when I was young and the older I get, the...less I remember them. Or anything, really. Anything about my life--” Something catches in that bobbing, slender throat and Kara emphasizes, “That life. I don’t have many memories of my childhood.” 

“Oh.” Cat murmurs, not surprised but...illuminated, an apology dying on lips because there's nothing more infuriating than murmured, half-consolations of I'm sorry against an ear. Instead, she notes, “That explains why you play so well. Art and loss do tend to go hand and hand. Or, at least a desire to perfect it.” 

The way the guitar hung in the air, tonight, suddenly makes sense. The space in Cat’s lungs where air should be that’s been lost in the notes that breathe off of Kara’s lips suddenly make sense.

Kara, suddenly, makes a little more sense and there's a breathless kind of twisting ache curling in her chest.

“Or preserve it.” There’s a hint of smile from the girl, then, almost timid as she shrugs, hands still firmly stowed in pockets, but she leans closer to her, still, and Cat lets her, because the warmth isn’t unwanted. “When I play…” Her chin tips up, like she’s reading a treble cleft in the stars like a measure with which to tempo the major key of her voice, “Music is something that you can’t forget. It’s intrinsic and my mother...she had a beautiful voice. So did my aunt. They both used to sing me to sleep, and I always that. Music. I always had music. No matter where I was, or who I was, or...when I am. Even when I had…nothing, I always had music. Or it…it always had me. Found me. And I told you, I was a singer in another life,” A breathless hum--a laugh--and Cat rolls her eyes so that she doesn’t laugh with her, “It just seemed like a good fit. I don’t need much, but it’s nice to connect with...my memories, sometimes. What I have of them.” 

“And you want to share that with the world? A young hopeful finding her way to Metropolis to--”

“No.” Kara’s surprisingly adamant and Cat pauses, turning up to look at her. “No, I’m fine just the way I am. I don’t need much, I have my sister and the bar--a couple of jobs, sure--but the music is for me. Everything else...well, I guess that’s for everyone else.”

Everyone's running from something, Scotty had said.

“And what’s that? That everything else?” 

“The Metropolis Orphanage.” Kara shrugs and then continues on, “So that’s about all there is to me. I moved here with my sister--to stay close to her--I play music, and volunteer.” 

“And...you’re okay with that. No big plans, no ulterior motives, no grand schemes--” And Cat is surprised, because she’s surrounded herself with people filled with that ever-chomping motivation for so long she had thought it was impossible for someone not to have it, at all. Even Clark Kent has a fire in his eyes, somewhere, and it’s surprising for a woman whose skin burns fire and eyes burn something deeper than a fire could ever be not to have an ounce of it. Cat looks into Kara and sees oxygen igniting underneath a fire, and she doesn't understand where heat rises to, if it's not up.

“Nope.” Kara holds out her hands, smiling, “I’m a simple woman.” 

“You realize simple can mean stupid, right?” Cat smirks and Kara shrugs, hands still stretched out. 

“Did I mention that I was raised in the country?” A little quieter, “I think.” 

“You think? Maybe you are simple.” The laugh is bright--unburdened--from Cat's lips and, oh, Kara’s smile is almost lopsided and eyes bright and...suddenly widening in surprise as the girl reaches forward to tug her close, a second before the whirring of a bicycle passes by Cat's ears. She's too surprised by the warmth of the body pressed up against her to think much of the action--of Kara saving her yet again from the most mundane of tragedies. Palm flattening over a bare shoulder and that sloping column of Kara's clavicle that's no longer lined with sweat. Husking, “Or a lot smarter than you look.”

“Sorry, there was—um a—I mean, a—” Kara clears her throat but doesn’t pull away as she helplessly whispers: “Bicycle?” 

Those blue eyes flick down to lips and Cat leans a little upwards, feeling the way Kara’s muscles flex beneath that fabric, that hold just a little tighter. Feeling the way her arms wrap so tightly around her waist like an anchor.  

“My hero.” 

She’s close, very close--so close that Cat can smell a hint of earlier whiskey on the girl’s breath when it dances along her lower lip, cautiously venturing, the sound of the city fading into a soft murmur around them so that all she can hear is the way Kara breathes against her lips. 

Since she’s not pulling away like her brain insists, body betraying her with a quiver of breath, it’s best to get it out of the way.

“So that...woman who was in the bar with you the other day--” Barely a murmur. “In the club with you, earlier—” 

“My sister.” Kara immediately supplies. “Alex.”

“That boy from—”

“A, um...orphan. From the orphanage.” Kara shakes her head, leaning a little closer, “You saw him--Winn--I didn’t steal him, he just likes the piano—”

“You offering to listen to me, tonight—”

“Was a genuine offer and something I would do every night you le—” 

“And...you,” A murmur, but somehow Kara still hears her, “Leaning in so close to me right now…” 

“Very,” Kara breathes, “Very intentional. Did I miss filling out a waiver somewhere, because if you need paperwork or something, I’ll fill it in a heartbeat. I can wait if you need a moment. I’m all about consent and I’m told,” Oh her breath curls up in that smile like the smoke in a bar, “That I interview very, very well.” 

Cat laughs and Kara beams and, God, she shouldn’t find that quite so charming, body relaxing into Kara's arms. 

“You don’t even know me.” 

“You just told me your whole life story, remember?" Kara argues.

"I told you the story about my day. Oh, are you just picking and choosing, now?"

"Maybe that's why you think I'm a journalist." Oh her wit is sharp and Cat just leans further up into her, thumb swiping along the ridge of a collarbone, smoothing up to a swallowing throat. Kara sounds a little breathless. “I happen to think we know everything there is to know about one another, Ms. Grant, and everything else, I’d love to learn.”

“Alright. Fine. Then let's stop beating around the bush--"

"You do seem like the tackle head-on type." Kara doesn't pull away and maybe that's the most damning of all.

"I’m difficult and work-driven and have very, very little time for anything outside of—” 

“Used to it. You really have not met my sister.” Kara leans closer, still and Cat can taste her breath. Can curl fingers in the lapels of that leather jacket and feel a delicious warmth radiating from her and—and, oh, damn. Damn, because she can’t remember the last time she wanted to kiss someone so badly—

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide." Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago. “Please give me all of your concerns so I can shoot them down. Bring it on. Stop beating around the bush, like you said.” Lust was one thing, sure, but Cat’s never wanted to kiss someone so very, very badly. 

She’s never been so curious if someone sings in the shower or if her lips would move like a song or if her fingers could dance melodies up Cat’s spine like a concerto—

"Fine, if you want a challenge. I'm stubborn and have lingering commitment issues--" 

"I'm stubborn and have more than just lingering abandonment issues, we'll have plenty to talk about." 

"My mother is unbearable--insufferable--"

"My sister will try to arrest you. We have also shared a bed for three years because we're broke and alone."  

"Well that sounds unhealthily co-dependent." 

"Well, I am." Kara's fingers skim along the dip of Cat's back and that flattened palm pushes up to curve around Kara's cheek and, oh, she leans into it like she's been waiting to mold the clay of her cheek in hands her entire life and suddenly, this little banter feels a little too serious. "But it also comes with a very loyal drive to protect the people who are closest to me. Sometimes, as my sister will readily point out, to my detriment."

"Well you're obviously a giver. I'm a taker. I'll always choose my job." Cat husks. "I usually can't even go an entire dinner without having to leave to find a lead--"

"I've never finished a single date without something coming up."

A huff.

"We're women." Cat tries the last weak excuse she has. 

"I definitely picked up on that. So did you. And I saw your interview, last week, you're one of the few openly bisexual reporters in the business." 

"That doesn't mean it will make me starting my company easier." 

"So we'll be discreet. I can be discreet."

"I'm not giving you a promise ring, Kara--"

Surprisingly, Kara leans down, nose brushing along Cat's. 

"Someone told me to dive, once. I don't swim, I dive. I'm not a casual date, Cat."

Cat licks her lips. 

"I'm divorced." It's swallowed. "And a mother." 

Kara pauses and victory shouldn't feel so hollow but any breath Cat could have had is stolen by the look of something untouchable on Kara's face, as her hand raises up to curve so gently around the one cupping her cheek, stepping impossibly closer.

"I don't have something for that." Kara admits, quiet, leaning a little closer, "Other than I'd like to learn more about who you are, because you definitely left out some of that life story."

And Cat decides to fuck it--or, more hopefully, fuck Kara—leaning up to close the distance between them when a noise sounds around the corner, a loud crash of a thing followed by a yell and she lets out a gasp when she’s immediately tugged forward and pressed against the wall, Kara’s body easing over her and pinning her there like some kind of human shield.

Just like she had on that fire escape.

She’s close enough to feel the that entire long, warm body tighten like steel—to watch that jaw straighten and her head snap up to attention like some kind of guard dog. 

Someone screams and Kara, phenomenally, apologizes—

Like it has anything to do with her—

“I am so sorry, I think--I think someone’s in trouble, I should go--” And backs away with raised hands, eyes apologetic. And it’s then that Cat realizes why the fuck she’s apologizing in the first place. “I should go check and—can you call 911? I’m going to go check on them and...and can we, um...can we pick this up—”

“Are you crazy?” Cat hisses, because her mind’s still reeling from the 180 of going from kiss her to watch her back-pedal towards a scream. She hates rollercoasters--the emotional kind being the obvious worst. “What do you think you’re going to—” 

“I have to make sure I can’t help! I’m so sorry! 9-11 and...and raincheck? Please say raincheck! I—I would come after whatever…this is, so that we could talk, or--not talk, but I don’t—I don’t know where you live and—I’m so sorry—” Kara might whimper. Might let out a frustrated grunt of a noise before running towards the scream and Cat, who’s officially lost her mind, races after her, stumbling down the street, skidding around the corner on hopping heel clicks to give Kara a piece of her mind when--

Empty. No one there. 

Kara disappears into the night and that’s that—no more screaming or explosions (gunshot?) or...anything and Cat’s eyes frantically take in the street with a quiet curse before she rushes over to the payphone on the corner, heart sinking down into her stomach and slamming down the receiver the moment someone’s dispatched. 

There goes any chance of her lips being warm and…the quarter in change she got from that last taco.

Dive, she'd said, before diving off the fucking deep end, heartbeat frantic and--

“Great.” Cat husks to the very, very empty street, hands raising towards the heavens because she just drank whiskey and ate tacos for a ghost, more than a little frustrated with how this week is going with the big fucking man upstairs, “I’m officially falling for an idiot. Seriously? No, I mean it, seriously?” It's a plead case to the Coco Chanel up in those big bright heavens, “No goals? No drive? No future, and now you throw a hero complex on top, oh, this is a cruel joke.” She waves a finger towards the night sky, “Even for you, big guy. Girl. Whatever the hell you--oh, I'm losing my mind.” 

Losing her goddamn mind because all Cat can think about is tracking Kara down to kiss her, fingers angrily crumpling up the phone number in her pocket before tossing it in the nearby trashcan. 

No one is on the street to answer her and Cat kicks a nearby piece of wayward, pulled up asphalt before stalking back towards her apartment, ignoring the sound of sirens and the worry in her chest that gets louder and louder with each and every step.