Work Text:
The space was so much bigger than Kara had imagined. As she stumbled past the front desk, her gaze rose to the ceiling: thin strands of sunlight filtered through the frosted glass domes of the roof, painting everything—the white plaster walls of the exhibition space and the giant canvases that hung there—in a soft, grey ethereal glow.
"So what do you think?" Astra beamed at her.
She wore a bright, oversized suit jacket and boxy linen pants. Large, bold frames rested on her nose, accentuating her buzz cut. The whole ensemble made her look like a spindly puppet in a costume two sizes too big. Kara stuffed her hands deeper into the pockets of her overalls. The denim felt coarse against her hands, in a comforting, familiar way—it was the reason she had chosen to wear it in the first place, but now, compared to Astra's sleek outfit, it felt childish and out of place.
Shoulders hunched forward, she risked another look at the space. "I don't know…" she said, a barely audible mumble.
It was all very professional, it had to be said, if a little hard to believe. After years of Astra's mumbled apologies as she relegated her landscapes into corner spots at group shows, after watching other artists' work showered with praise, fly off the shelves while hers gathered dust, unsold—finally her art was getting the attention it deserved.
Astra had done a fantastic job taking the stack of paintings piled against the wall of her studio and turning them into an exhibition, her very own solo show! She had long stopped believing this would happen for her. The space, the tower-high ceilings, the brushed concrete floor, genuinely did them justice. And the way the canvases were arranged in little groups, separated by thin, flowing veils of transparent chiffon, all fell together just so, as if telling a story.
Clark had been right: her nature work, though technically flawless, felt empty. Hollow. And he might have an idea or two about it. The Daily Planet hadn't called him "the brightest star of his generation of artists" for no reason. So when she begged her cousin for advice, for the secret to his success, he smiled that famous smile of his and said, simply: "Find your Lois. Find what makes your heart race and your hands tremble and paint that, no matter the cost." She'd rolled her eyes at the time—he could be so obnoxious—but now, staring at the canvases in front of her that practically hummed with life, the knot of dread in her stomach pulled tighter and tighter.
The paintings were massive, lush expanses of colour and shade. Each of them twelve by ten feet, each a hyper-real snapshot of her indelible obsession.
Kara had tried painting literally anything else. Her hands may have held the brush, but they moved as if by their own will, and, as she stood in front of a blank canvas, all she could ever summon from the thick mists of memory was Cat. Her hands, elegantly clasped around a whisky glass. The arch of her spine in a tight dress. The sharp glint of a smile after a particularly cruel joke. The nape of her neck or the smooth curve of a calf as she kicked her heels under the table. Her lips, elegant and perfect as she sucked on a pen, engrossed in concentration.
The dynamic was clear: she spent her days trailing after this woman, this powerful, charismatic, whirlwind of a woman… she was bound to fall prey to her glamour, right? To admire her so intensely that images of her burned themselves into her retinas.
The only saving grace was that—well—the paintings weren't really her. In spite of her perfect, stubborn memory, Kara had never found the courage to paint her face—a self-protection mechanism maybe, and an effective one at that.
It just seemed absurd that it should dawn on her only now just how intimate the pictures were. Not just because of the subject matter, but rather for how clearly they spoke about their author. Kara's soul hung there, bare for everyone to see, her awe and obsession transparent.
Or… was it? She stepped back, her gaze darting quickly from one canvas to the next. Could a casual observer recognise Cat from these extremely specific details?
"Listen, the opening is tomorrow, and judging from the RSVPs I got, it's going to be a hit. If you don't care about being famous, then mark my words, I will make you rich."
Face still twisted in a grimace of discomfort, Kara looked up at Astra and was met with an encouraging smile. She couldn't fault her for trying to cheer her up. Astra's unwavering optimism was the comfort she needed to finally unclench her jaw and take a deep breath.
As the tight knot in Kara's stomach loosened just a little she thought that maybe, just maybe, Astra was right: her life was about to change forever, and she should try to at least enjoy the ride a little.
***
The first time Cat heard about 'Brushstrokes: portraits of a Mystery', she rolled her eyes at the title in mocking contempt and scrolled past it so quickly it was a surprise she retained any memory of the experience.
The second time her eye fell briefly on the detail of a painting shown in the promo poster—there was something about it that felt quite familiar, but the detail refused to coalesce in her mind. No matter, she thought, with a title like that, it couldn't be any good.
Now, the third time felt harder to ignore: during one of their beloved Pilates sessions together, Kamala mentioned that she had just returned from a private showing. Had Cat seen the exhibition yet? It really seemed like something that would be right up her alley.
She couldn't get back to the office fast enough. She googled the name and found the gallery's website, proudly proclaiming that the mystery was double: nobody knew the true identity of the artist—who had quickly become a small sensation in National City—and equally unknowable was her muse, the subject of all her paintings. Part of the charm, in fact, was the ethereal and dreamlike quality of the fifty-two exclusive pieces, portraits of sorts, that were the subject of this first solo exhibition by Ava K.R. Sander.
Cat snickered at the screen—what a ridiculous name! But mirth left her fast, as she dug for more information. She cross-referenced the gallery info with local news about the art events, examined the web of artistic networks and sprinkled in some personal knowledge about the market and found that a particular name kept popping up: Clark Kent. The connection to Metropolis' golden boy was tenuous but there for those who really looked—shared representation for one, and an eerily similar brushwork technique. If Kent knew the artist somehow, opened some doors for her, that would certainly explain the meteoric rise of Ava K.R. Sander.
This was much bigger than a simple art beat. Why hadn't CatCo covered her before? Why had they missed the gallery opening, if it was such a big and successful event? And more importantly, who was hiding behind that obvious pseudonym? A flush crept up to her cheeks. Her city. Nothing angered her more than feeling out of the loop when something major happened in her city.
There was only one way for CatCo to take back control of the narrative: uncovering the artist's true identity. A scoop that would put them right at the centre of the conversation, where they belonged.
"Keira?" she yelled across the room, and waited, pen tapping against her bottom lip, while her assistant scrambled off her desk and into Cat's office.
Cat wasn't ashamed to admit she had hired her, from a pool of nearly identical bumbling millennials, mostly for her looks. Kara was handsome in an unblemished way, with the vitality of someone still uncorrupted by years of meaningless work, unbroken by life's inevitable tragedies.
In her weakest moments, Cat liked to imagine her kneeling in front of her, picking up a pen that had fallen off her desk. The girl would look up at her with those big eyes, full of wonder and awe, and Cat would reach out towards her, run her thumb over those gorgeous, full lips, parted slightly in surprise. This vision had caught her unaware more than once, presenting itself unbidden and leaving a dash of thrill at the illicit (and ill-advised) fantasy. Absurd, impossible of course. She had no intention of dealing with the HR nightmare that would ensue, and besides, Kara was more than twenty years her junior…
"Yes, Miss Grant?" The girl was struggling to keep her back straight, as if fighting the urge to drop eye contact and prostrate herself, to beg forgiveness for whatever mistake she was surely about to make.
"Get me Mr. Olsen—you're going to watch me eviscerate him."
"Uh, I hate to ask but—" Kara cleared her throat and continued, stammering— "What did he do?"
"Get this. A new major artist shows up in my city and not even a word about it in CatCo? I want to hear what he has to say about completely missing Ava K.R. Sander!"
Kara flinched, visibly, perhaps feeling the heat of the upcoming dressing down already, empathising with the next victim of Cat's boiling wrath.
"Of course, Miss Grant. Right away." She quickly retreated to the safety of her desk. It was a small and neatly organised surface right outside the room, and Cat could almost see her sweating as she scrolled through the staff schedule and prepared to summon her dear friend Jimmy to the castigation of his life.
The shame and frustration of missing a big story had done plenty to sour her morning, and yet, as unpleasant as the whole affair had been so far, she was about to enjoy herself greatly. A slow, predatory smile touched Cat's lips. This was what she lived for: the fight to get back on top. Nothing pleased her more, especially when the road was littered with bodies to trample over.
***
Kara's hands wouldn't stop shaking, even after the receiver clicked back into its casing and she could, in theory, consider her task done. Her heart beat furiously, as if trying to break out of her chest, and it didn't show any sign of slowing down. After all, why would it? She was this close to being discovered! Her life was over. Her career? Finished.
And it was all her own damn fault! She could still see her sister's face when she'd accidentally walked in on Cat's paintings spread out on the studio floor. "Holy shit," she said, eyes wide with shock, "When did you paint these? They are not like your other work at all." The way Alex's gaze kept shifting from canvas to canvas, taking in each detail, each lovingly rendered curve and shadow… Kara just knew she wouldn't let it go. "Your landscapes are beautiful but this stuff, God, Kara, it's alive."
She had tried to brush it off, she had begged Alex to forget what she'd seen, let her keep her private obsession private, but Alex pressed her harder. "You've been hiding your talent for too long Kara, hiding what you're truly capable of! These paintings… they're meant to be out there, for everyone to see you're every bit as talented as Clark, hell, maybe even more."
The comment stung more than Kara was willing to admit. Maybe it was the comparison to her illustrious cousin, maybe it was staring at her dusty portfolio of (technically perfect) landscapes gathering dust in the corner, but in that moment Kara had made the choice that now threatened to destroy everything. "Call Astra," she'd said, "Before I lose my nerve."
Fast forward to now: Cat was hell-bent on unmasking the Ava K.R. Sander. What a dumb idea, the pseudonym. God. An anagram of her own fucking name? And she knew Cat, she was not going to rest until she reached her goal, chew on it until there was nothing but bone left. This was the side of her that Kara admired the most: her relentless drive and insatiable hunger for excellence, for the next big story. How she dreamed of the day when she'd become such a dedicated journalist like her!
But now her side gig was about to destroy her chances at that forever. Soon Cat would find her out and, well, compared to what Jimmy was about to go through… her humiliation would be broadcast to all of CatCo's readers as front-page news. She could already see herself on the cover, a candid snapshot of her hiding her face in her arms, a headline proudly proclaiming CatCo's exclusive backstory…
Kara flinched again and took a sip from the water bottle on her desk to try to quench the devastating thirst that gripped her throat like a vice, When that failed, she decided to scurry away to the stairwell, where she could call Alex and break down in peace.
***
Right in the middle of an art gallery was not the place Cat imagined she would have her first panic attack in ten years. This was particularly bad timing, given that she knew the staff had recognised her, that they must have alerted the owners to her presence, and it stood to reason they were all observing from a polite distance. They were trying to guess if Cat Grant, noted art collector and deep-pocketed local celebrity, would buy any of the pieces in show.
She tried to harness her panic as she glanced around for a chair, something to sit on, as her vision blurred and her eyes filled with unwelcome tears. God fucking damn it.
After several solid minutes of focusing, eyes closed, on the rise and fall of her chest; when her breathing began to slow, she gradually felt herself returning to the room.
The music, subtle but bass-heavy, drew her back first, then the gentle breeze from an open window or a deliberately placed fan. Her gaze flicked up to the corner of a canvas, only a few feet away, and, as soon as she focused on the subject, bile started rising in her all over again.
Fuck.
More box breathing, more time wasted. More looking like a fool! Hopefully she'd appear like a deeply moved Stendhal syndrome type? The thought that she might yet take advantage of this situation emboldened her enough to open her eyes and look at the painting in full now.
It showed a hand, outstretched, pointing in an unseen direction. To a casual observer simply a well-executed composition: the contrast of light and shadow, the blurry background, how everything seemed to float, eerie and weightless, except the stark and lovely subject at the centre. But to her this was so much more, because she could see a thin line, almost invisible, near the delicate blue veins on the inside of the wrist. It was a scar. Her scar. The scar she had gotten in a car accident when she was fourteen years old.
In retrospect, it was all so obvious it hurt. The faint pattern of freckles on her shoulders. The lines of her neck that she was so used to seeing reversed in mirrors she almost didn't recognise. One canvas after another, she saw herself captured, chopped into parts and put on display. Whoever did this must've been spying on her for months, maybe years? Were all these people in on it? Were they all laughing at her now? A wave of nausea added to the boiling anger, rocking her off-kilter once again. But she was stronger than this. Bigger and stronger. She was Cat fucking Grant.
She smoothed her dress and fixed her lipstick, then stood and marched back to the entrance, repeating to herself that whoever was behind this, she would drag them out of the shadows and make them pay for this sick joke.
***
When Kara got out of the shower, her phone showed eight missed calls, sixteen Message notifications and one new email, all from Astra. Hair still wet and dripping on her screen she tapped on the email notification.
Say goodbye to your old life! — it read — I told you I would make you rich, didn't I? I have a buyer interested in the WHOLE collection. One condition: they want to meet you in person. I've already set a meeting for tonight and I don't want to hear excuses! You are COMING if I have to drag you here myself!!! — and then something else she couldn't read because she started shaking so hard her phone slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a crack.
Twenty minutes later she was in a taxi with her sister, still fully in shock, but dressed as sharply as she could muster, given the time constraint, and being subjected to the summary application of makeup by another person, who kept yelling at her to stay still.
Thirty minutes later she was being handed a vodka (neat) by Astra, whom by the looks of her, must've been at her third or so. Astra's energy was manic and contagious, she kept trying to give her tips on how to talk to the buyer but her words didn't find solid purchase in her head, empty as it was and numb of all feeling. Astra finally realised that Kara wasn't listening and gripped her by the shoulders.
"Ready or not, go in there and close this!" One theatrical forehead kiss later, she stumbled towards the conference room, where the buyer had been waiting for her to grace her with her presence.
Kara felt like she hadn't spoken in one hundred years. She cleared her throat and prepared to introduce herself. Using the last few seconds before she opened the door, hand hovering over the metal handle, to psych herself up.
And then, all at once, the door was open, and her dream shattered. The cheer drained from her face, replaced by the flaming heat of shame, as she came face to face with her boss: Director and CEO of CatCo Magazine, the Queen of all Media, Cat Grant.
"Kara? What are you doing here?" Cat was as surprised as she was, apparently.
"I— eh, well." She stammered. She tried smiling, and could swear that she had managed, but Cat's expression kept getting darker and darker.
"It's you, isn't it?" Cat said, eyes wide in surprise. Her words drenched in disbelief.
"Of course it's you." She continued. She was now standing, crossing the room towards her, one index finger raised and jabbing menacingly in the direction of her chest "How could I be so stupid! How could I not see it before?"
"Wait, hold on," Kara tried to interject, to no avail.
"Coming to me all dewy eyed and innocent. Please miss Grant, I only want to be helpful." The mockery hurt more than she expected. Every word a deeper and stab. "All you ever wanted was to get close to me. How did you do it? Did you hide cameras in my office? Do you sneak into my house at night to tape me while I shower?"
Cat's voiced quivered with anger, but it wasn't any less terrifying. Kara staggered backwards and her shoulders hit the door. Would that she could melt right into the wood frame and disappear. But no, she had to suffer this in full.
"No photos, nothing. I only… I painted from memory."
Cat seemed to consider that for a moment, then raised an eyebrow and resumed her offensive. "Bullshit! I want to see those pictures and I want them erased now! Is that what you're after? Blackmail? Or do you just get off on making millions off my body? I will sue you into oblivion. I will take everything that you own, and then come back for more!"
Something hot and red and overwhelming rose in Kara's chest. It had happened only once or twice in her life, but when it did there was no stopping it. She straightened her back, hands clenched into fists.
"How dare you?" The words came out low and fierce, stained with the tears that still sparkled in the corners of her eyes. The vehemence of it surprised them both. "Do you really think I'm some sort of predator?"
Cat's eyes widened in shock but Kara kept going.
"These paintings—" Kara gestured wildly, pointing to the wall to wall windows that offered a view of the exhibition space downstairs "—you think I spent all my free time, weekends and sleepless night working so that I could take advantage of you?" Her voice cracked as she pressed on. "If you can't see the love I put into my art, then…"
Kara never finished the sentence. She just stood there, panting, evidently out of steam. The room was silent, save for Kara's ragged breaths.
This was so much worse than she could've imagined. The pressure of Cat's accusations, her own angry outburst. It was impossible to bear any longer. She finally broke down and fell to her knees as the consequences of her momentary defiance dawned on her like a dark curtain.
"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—" Tears now streamed freely down her cheeks "I— just, don't fire me. Please. I can't lose this job. Working with you is all I've ever wanted."
It really felt like the whole world had shrunk to this one room, to the woman standing over her, enormous and awesome, a lioness ready to put her out of her misery in one swift motion.
"I haven't—" she continued as she wiped at her face, desperately. Coughed. "I don't care about the money. Whatever it is, I'll give it all to you, I'll donate it. Please. I'll burn the paintings, please. Please, Cat."
Kara stared, frozen, into Cat's steely burning eyes, and waited for the coup de grâce.
***
Well, fuck. Just when she finally thought she understood what was going on, that little freak pulled the rug from right under her again.
When she looked at Kara, really looked, she didn't see a sly manipulator, someone who lied and schemed to profit off of her. Either she was secretly the best actress this side of the Atlantic, or this whole performance was genuine. And worst of all, the more that she considered this thought, the more she rolled the idea around in her head, the more her anger simmered down and seeped off her chest, dissipating into into heat and shivers down her spine.
She considered, for a moment, the question: why would Kara care about her job? What was going on here?
"Answer me this," Cat said, after a long pause. "And be honest. Or so help me god… why me?"
Kara blinked, evidently surprised that her head was still attached to her body.
"I guess I… admire you." she said, eventually. She cleared her throat and her gaze fell to the floor, too embarrassed to look up at her now that the tension had fallen. "I always have, even before I applied to work at CatCo. I used to read about you and dream that we would meet one day. And then being with you all day every day… it's such a gift."
The words hit like a blow to the stomach. Kara's voice was tinny and broken by crying but it felt honest, raw, like a confession— it twisted something inside of her, filled with a warmth that, for once, had nothing to do with rage.
"I painted you the way I see you." Kara whispered, after a beat.
The tears that had stopped flowing, started rolling off her cheeks again. Cat found herself stepping forward without a conscious decision to do so, her anger now morphed into a magnetic sort of pull. She was close enough to smell Kara's perfume, something light and clean that she had never noticed before. Close enough to see the way her eyelashes fluttered as she cried, the way her chest rose and fell in quick gasps.
Cat's own breath was coming shorter and shorter. She cupped Kara's cheeks in her hands and wipe her tears away. Her skin was soft and warm, and Kara leaned into her touch like she was starved for it.
"I know I fucked up but, please, all I care about now is fixing our relationship. I will do anything. Exclusive interviews, whatever you need. I never meant to hurt you."
She couldn't stop staring at the face in her hands, this gorgeous, young face that she saw every day without ever really looking. She thought of the paintings that hung silently in the space downstairs, how seen she had felt looking at them, exposed in a way that terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure.
No-one had ever looked at her like that. None of her ex-husbands and certainly none of her lovers since then. No-one had ever paid that much attention and then channelled that devotion, that — it was undeniable at this point — love right into something so maddeningly beautiful.
She could feel a thought rising from the ashes of her certainty. Something she had considered and dismissed too many times to count. All those little fantasies she'd played around with in her head— she told herself it was her goddamn ego, the thrill of being in charge, but now with those deep blue eyes looking up at her like she hung the moon and stars…
Bending down to kiss her seemed like the only possible answer. And when their lips met the kiss was soft, breathless and urgent. It was an apology for all the hurt she had hurled at Kara the last few minutes. For misunderstanding all that she had tried to say with her art. It was an embrace that welcomed her into her arms, held her tight and said: I see you, finally, I see you and, oh, what the hell, maybe I even love you too.
So it came as quite a shock when Kara stiffened and writhed out of her grasp. An even bigger shock when she stood up, wiped her mouth and said "I'm sorry. I— this is not what I meant. I'm so, so sorry." before running out, faster than you could say gay panic.
***
Kara didn't stop until her lungs were burning and her legs finally gave out at the door to her studio. Her head throbbed, partly from the run and the drinking, partly from the crushing anxiety of her entire life imploding in front of her. Fumbling with her keys, her hands shook so badly she dropped them twice before she finally managed to make it inside.
The space that had felt like a sanctuary, an island of safety and respite up until now, was now littered with reminders of everything that she fucked up. Canvases lined the walls, thick stacks of them, and piles of unfinished sketches—all of them, always Cat. Her "real" portfolio, three years' worth of perfectly competent pieces, sat covered in a thick layer of dust, forgotten the minute she discovered what it felt like to paint something that moved her. All those drawing classes, all the precious time spent with Clark, all the professional models she'd sketched with clinical detachment—none of it had prepared her for the way her hands would move once they knew what to do.
Out of pure frustration she grabbed a fresh canvas and slammed it onto the easel. She would paint anything, anything else. A flock of birds, the ocean, a still life, even. Her arms drew wide arches in the air as line after line appeared in front of her, but try as she might to think of anything other than Cat Grant, her hands betrayed her.
The curve of a wing became a the familiar arch of a brow. A sunset's last light transformed in the exact shade of Cat's eyes, that one time, when they were alone in the office late at night, and she dozed off right against her shoulder. She tried again with charcoal, furious sketches, fingers pressing hard against the paper but her hands once again refused to obey.
"Fuck!" She cursed, hurling the charcoal across the room, watching it shatter on the wall and leave a small, dark, stain on the bricks.
All at once she was out of steam and she slumped forward, spent, to cradle her head in her hands. She had hurt the only person whose approval had ever mattered to her. Betrayed her trust, pushed her to heights of anger never before seen.
And then Cat kissed her. It was… well, no, it was not what she wanted. Because she wasn't gay. But when Cat kissed her it felt like that moment right at the top of a rollercoaster, before the descent starts: you're almost floating, nothing in the world can touch you, and then gravity yanks at you a hundredfold and you just want to scream. No other kiss had ever felt like that—were they supposed to?
She couldn't have meant it, right? It must've been some sort of trick, some ploy to get revenge.
But as soon as she thought it she knew it wasn't true. She would never forget Cat's eyes in that moment, when she broke it off, right before bolting for the door: she looked so shocked, so vulnerable, and with a hint of longing so sharp and real that made Kara's chest tighten with the implications.
It made no sense. She loved Cat, of course, just not that way. She admired her, had incredible respect for her as a boss and as a powerful, frankly bad-ass woman. She wanted nothing more than to be her, to have her guts and her courage, to be half as elegant and have even a pinch of her humour and sharp wit. The way Cat walked in the world made crowds part and make way for her. She was larger than life and that was why she painted her over and over. She was spellbound by her beauty and her grace. She was—
Kara felt a chill running down her spine, a sudden shiver at the realisation that, maybe, it wasn't such a crazy idea that—
Her traitorous mind brought her back to when her body was pressed against Cat's, melting into the embrace as the ember of her desire sank straight into her core, warmed her chest and spread like a fever down to her stomach and lower, lower, lower.
She looked at her hands, black with stains and up at the canvas she had been working on. How Cat's silhouette emerged from what was supposed to be the outline of a tree. Wherever she looked, there she was. And God, she was tired of fighting it. Tired of lying to herself. Tired of the knots in her stomach every time Cat walked past her desk in the morning. Tired of blaming the way her breath caught and her pulse quickened to nerves and insecurity.
There, undeniable, was the last piece of a puzzle that she'd stubbornly ignored this whole time. Only she had fucked that up too by running away. Whatever possibility had existed for a brief and fragile moment Kara had crushed it with her foot on her way out the door.
Then, her thigh was vibrating. Mechanically, she fished out her phone and looked at the top notification. "SHE BOUGHT THE WHOLE COLLECTION 🍾" Astra's message said. Kara's eyes welled with tears.
***
The third whisky burned a little less, going down, than the first two had. Curled in her favourite leather chair, legs tucked underneath her, Cat watched the lights of National City blurred by rain against her penthouse windows.
After the emotional rollercoaster that the last twenty four hours had been, she felt strangely calm. Maybe it was the shock of having done something so daring. Maybe it was the whiplash of being rejected by a woman she could have sworn had feelings for her.
Maybe it was that she finally caught a glimpse of something real, in Kara, something raw and vulnerable and very fucking hot.
She sighed and took another sip from her glass. As much as she needed a clear mind to sort through this mess, well, she needed the whisky more. It wasn't like being sober had led to anything good, anyway.
She replayed the moment in her head for the hundredth time: Kara, on her knees, tears streaming down her face, begging not to be fired, and Cat's response had been to… kiss her? Christ. Pathetic. She shook her head in an effort to physically wipe the memory away, but all she accomplished was giving herself a slight headache.
The thing was, each time that she relived the ordeal, every time she summoned the memory and went through it again, some part of the shame and shock and anger fell away, gradually uncovering the bare truth of what happened: the facts. She would look at the facts, then. Examine the evidence as she would any story worth investigating.
One: Kara's first and biggest worry was losing her job at CatCo. She didn't seem to care about getting sued or whatever would happen to her artistic career—her job. With Cat.
Two: She offered to give her whatever money she made from the sale, or even burn the paintings. She said she would do anything to make it right. Assuming the offers were genuine—and they certainly looked it—that meant she wasn't motivated by greed or fame.
Three, and this was the most damning: the paintings themselves. The subjects weren't lewd or objectifying, trying to exploit her body or create scandal. They may have showed naked skin but they were lovingly chosen, intimate portraits. The scar on her wrist, the unique pattern of freckles on her shoulders—they were the choices of someone trying to capture her beauty and strength. Someone who cared.
Cat downed the last of her drink in a single gulp and sat with these facts she had gathered. Kara wasn't a blackmailer, a shrewd manipulator. She was just a young woman who had spent months (maybe even years?) turning her devotion into art, one brushstroke at a time, with an innocence that never ceased to mystify.
Which brought her to the real meat of the question: why reject her?
Her instinct kept nagging at her with the feeling that she missed an important detail. Some secret nuance lost in the heat of the moment, that, once uncovered, would explain everything.
Cat touched her mouth reflexively, as if to summon the ghost of Kara's lips on hers. For a split second Kara had melted right into her—she was sure, she felt it! Her body had yielded to the embrace, hands rising up to find her neck… and the way she opened her mouth, as if to drink her in, seeking relief after a lifetime of thirst…
And then, burned by an invisible electric shock, she stiffened and pushed her away. Was it fear? Fear of Cat? Of herself? Cat had kissed a lot of straight women in her time, and she could say with some degree of certainty that Kara wasn't one of them.
What if Kara hadn't rejected her? What if she'd rejected the situation? The timing. The ever more crushing power imbalance. The way Cat had taken advantage of her in a moment of deep vulnerability—she had been literally on her knees, after all, begging her to let her keep her job.
That kiss felt to Cat like the culmination of a long journey of yearning. Not just a moment's weakness, but something that had built up over months of watching Kara move through her office with purpose and grace, stealing glances at her long legs, admiring her arms in a particularly tight shirt, and smiling at the funny remarks she left scribbled on her notes and transcriptions. To Kara this all must've been something else entirely.
Cat could hear the rain pick up, drumming harder against the windows and the open door to her balcony. A steady breeze came in, fresh and cold and a welcome balm against the hot July night. Catching sight of her empty glass, she had to fight the urge to refill it, but she knew that any more whisky would loosen the strings of self control to the point where she wouldn't be able to stop herself from reaching for Kara's number on speed dial. What would she even say? Would Kara even pick up? No, no, no more drinking, no calls.
She had tried being aggressive and that backfired spectacularly. Middle of the night phone calls weren't going to mend the frayed bond of their trust. But she was starting to get an an idea for something that might.
***
Lying on the floor of the studio, her head next to a can of turpentine, Kara listened, numb and exhausted, to the way rain hit the roof and ran down the side of the building in thick rivulets. She was done crying. She was all cried out. She had cried into her pillow as she fell asleep. She cried in the shower this morning and then she cried all the way through making the mug of tea that lay at her feet, untouched, and now she was done crying.
She thought drawing would take her mind off things. Which, yeah, a stupid idea in retrospect. Because guess what, right now apparently wasn't the time to magically outgrow the habit of drawing the woman who ruined her life.
All she could do was lie on the floor and stare up at the ceiling. Every time she caught a glimpse of all the art in the studio, she felt panic and grief and confusion slither up her legs once again, coil deep into her stomach, making her sick.
Before she had a chance to wallow in her misery any longer, like a thunder shaking the angry sky, she heard the distant sound of a doorbell ringing. Kara lay perfectly still on the floor, paralysed. A practised thief caught shoplifting a pack of candy. Minutes passed in tense silence.
Then the second ring came. It kicked her out of torpor just enough that she could stand up, shake apathy like dust off her limbs, and slowly work on reaching the door.
It felt like a déjà vu, because who else could it be but Cat? And then she opened the door of her home and when she saw that it was Cat, Kara's nose prickled with the familiar urge to cry and she hurried her face into a frown in an effort to stop.
"If you've come to fire me in person. I quit." She said, surprising herself with how deadpan it sounded.
"May I come in?" Cat replied, ignoring her.
Kara signalled assent and was immediately gripped by self-consciousness for the space she led her into. The floor was covered in paint stains, and every other surface was littered with used rags, paintbrushes soaking in glass jars or drying on improvised racks. Kara moved the empty easel back to the wall to make space and kept looking around, desperate for something else to occupy her hands while she waited for her rational mind to crawl back inside her skull.
"Kara…" Cat said, finally, sitting down on a stool, newly cleared of junk. Her voice was smooth, gentle. A far cry from the vitriol hurled at her just a few hours ago. It felt like a thousand years ago.
Kara lifted her gaze just enough to sneak a look at her: Cat's hair was wet, mussed up from the wind and rain, she looked like she hadn't slept more than two hours that night. Compared to her usual spotless look she seemed somewhat crooked, on edge. She took off her coat, which dripped steadily, and folded it across her left arm.
"I owe you an apology."
"I should be the one to—" Kara scoffed, pure impulse.
"No." Cat interrupted, firm. "Hear me out. I… misinterpreted your actions. More than once. I owe it to you to listen to your side of the story."
They were silent for a long time. Kara kept searching for something to say, but the words would die right there on her tongue before they ever made it out. Everything she thought of seemed petty and stupid. Inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things.
"I never meant to hurt you, you know?" she managed, eventually.
"I know."
For a long moment, neither of them said anything else.
"You really painted me from memory?"
Kara's gaze fell to her feet in embarrassment, because yes, yes she did. As if it was the easiest thing in the world. "Yes." She said, finally. "I mean, not everything of course. I guess I filled in the blanks with imagination."
"Am I really that interesting to you?"
Kara's mouth stretched into a rueful smile, but she still didn't dare looking up. "You have no idea," she said.
Even if Cat hadn't come here to put her out of her mystery she still didn't see a way out. She had crossed one line and then another, right up until the point where both of them had twisted and torn their relationship so badly she hardly knew what to make of the leftover scraps.
"I still shouldn't have painted you without your consent. Or knowledge." Kara added. What she didn't say was that she was starting to see how Cat could have interpreted her obsession as feelings. How all that care and attention could feed a certain expectation.
"You did. And I won't lie that… hurt. But that's exactly why I'm here now." Cat stood up from where she rested and took a step towards Kara. She was careful, a stranger approaching wild game.
"When I saw those paintings… and then I learned that it was you, I kept thinking: is this what I look like to her? It scared me, you know, seeing myself through your eyes."
Then, with the calm and confidence of someone who practised this moment in her head over and over until perfection, she said the words that tore Kara's newly licked wounds right open: "How do you feel about drawing me from life for once?"
It took Kara a few seconds to parse what Cat had said, as all the air rushed out of her lungs. She kept trying to grasp at the words but found no purchase. When she lifted her gaze she saw that Cat was smiling at her, and kicking her feet out of her heels. She placed her coat on the stool and padded, carefully, towards her. She was wearing that dress. The dress with the full length zipper in the back that— oh.
The full weight of Cat's offer hit her: this wasn't just forgiveness, it was participation. Cat just posing for her, she was saying what you did, is okay, she was saying do it again, do it with my permission, do it with me. Let me be an active participant in this beautiful thing you do. It was trust in its purest form: Cat was offering up her own body, vulnerable and exposed, as an act of faith in Kara's art, in Kara herself.
Kara watched, mouth dry as a desert, as Cat turned around on her heels and lifted those slender arms she knew by heart, pulled her dress down an inch or so, gesturing for Kara to continue.
"Give me a hand?"
***
Kara's fingers shook as she reached for the dress, hesitation numbing her fingertips. In one way or another she had been scared all her life, she had hidden all her life, and the thought of containing herself in space so small for one more second felt unbearable. She knew that once this door opened, there was no closing it anymore. She looked around the studio, the place where she had nursed her unrequited obsession this whole time and decided it was time to take a leap of faith.
"Okay" she said, simply, fingers closing over the zipper pull.
She drew it all the way down in one smooth motion, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent studio. Cat let the dress pool at her feet and stepped out of it without fuss, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The body she had seen countless times in her dreams stood, naked and exposed, only a few inches away and still Kara didn't feel like she had earned the right to touch it. She waited, spellbound, as Cat turned around to face her, gaze fixed to a point somewhere between her collarbone and chin as her chest felt impossibly tight and her ears filled with the thundering drum of her own heartbeat.
"Where do you want me?" Cat asked, and the simple question could've killed her right there.
"Lie there, by the window." Kara managed, her voice rougher than normal, as she dove straight into preparing the materials: charcoal, paper, moving the easel into place and wiping her hands of sweat. This should be routine. Professional. She'd drawn dozens of nude models over the years—beautiful women, young men and old, all sizes and ages. At the end of the day it was just anatomy. It was light and shadow and a decent technical challenge but she was used to capturing the human form. She'd done it a hundred times.
But when she looked up and saw Cat positioned on the chaise by the window, something inside her shifted. She wasn't just another model. This wasn't a cold artistic exercise. This was Cat, offering herself as a muse, an active partner in the artistic journey. Kara's breath caught in her throat, every nerve ending raw and screaming.
This was nothing like her previous paintings. She was real, right there, alive. The way Cat's skin gleamed in the afternoon light, the way her chest rose with every breath, and her perfume in the air, mixed with rain, mixed with sweat.
The only part of her that knew what to do, her hand, moved across the paper with clarity and purpose. For the first time she wasn't fighting against her desire, instead she gave into it, fully, without reserve. She let herself look—really look— at the curve of Cat's waist, at the lines of her collarbones and how light cast rich shadows on the hollow of her throat.
"What are you thinking about?" Cat surprised her, asking.
Kara's hand froze, mid-arc. For a moment their eyes met. Cat watched her with an expression somewhere between curiosity and concern.
"I just— this is nothing like I imagined."
"Yeah? Tell me about it."
Kara's charcoal traced the line of Cat's shoulder, her hip, the round arc of her cheek, places she'd dreamed of tracing with her fingers but never quite let herself imagine what it would feel like, until now.
But as her hand moved lower, following the curve of cat's stomach, something shifted in her. A hunger, an animal instinct spreading, syrup thick, in her veins. She found herself lingering on the shadows between Cat's legs, the soft line of her breasts.
"I haven't been honest with myself," she said, emboldened by the thrum of her desire. "But having you here, now, I don't know— I can't hide from you, Cat. Not anymore."
Her breathing growing ever more shallow, charcoal smudged under her fingers, Kara kept drawing Cat the way she wanted to touch her, with reverent, obsessive care, mapping every curve and hollow, every inch of skin she would've never dreamed of claiming for herself.
When she finally looked up, Cat's eyes were dark, pupils dilated. She'd been watching her work, no doubt reading every flicker of desire as it crossed her features.
"Good." Cat shifted her weight, uncrossed her legs. "No more hiding."
The piece of charcoal Kara was holding fell to the floor with a dull thunk. The drawing before her blurred as Kara's field of vision shrank momentarily, dimmed into black. She pressed her palms against her thighs and tried to steady herself, breathe, but her chest was so tight and she couldn't quite get past a shallow gasp.
She couldn't look at Cat anymore. Her head bent forward, she wished she could just fold into herself and disappear. Burst into flame and die right there.
Cat's arms wrapped around her from behind, soft and warm and surprisingly strong, pulling Kara tight against her bare chest. Kara's breath steadied as she felt Cat rest her chin against her shoulder, their bodies fitting together as if used to each other's measures.
"It's okay." Cat whispered. Her voice had never been this close, vibrating right into her. "We can take it as slow as you need."
Outside, the rain had broken into a gentle patter against the glass. In the quiet studio, surrounded by a lifetime's worth of longing, they held each other for a long time, and waited for the storm to pass.