Work Text:
7:14 a.m.
The photos hit the internet at 7:14 in the morning.
By 7:16, every screen in National City was on fire.
They were sharp. High-resolution. Taken from an angle that should have been impossible: no drone signature, no window reflection, nothing the L-Corp security grid should have missed in its ten-block radius of buildings, rooftops, and airspace. And yet there they were, in a row of four, posted to every platform at once by an account with no name and no history.
Photo one: Supergirl, descending in absolute silence behind Lena Luthor on the private balcony of L-Corp's top floor, cape drifting, boots an inch off the tile.
Photo two: Gloved hands settling on Lena's hips. Then, a split second later, lower.
Photo three: Lena turning, her eyes wide, her mouth open in the shape of a startled oh.
Photo four: The kiss.
No video. Just stills. A perfect, damning, four-frame sequence that left the worst possible amount to the imagination.
The internet did what the internet does.
7:30 a.m.
"...and we're getting breaking reports," said the morning anchor, with the grim delight of a woman who has just been handed a gift, "of a series of photographs showing the hero known as Supergirl in what can only be described as a deeply inappropriate encounter with CEO Lena Luthor."
"We want to be clear," added her co-host, "that these images are unverified."
"We want to be clear that they're extremely verified-looking."
"Absolutely."
On the other side of the city, in a small apartment with a very good couch, Alex Danvers dropped a bowl of cereal.
It hit the floor and shattered, and she did not notice. She was staring at her phone. She stood very still for about four seconds, and then she said, in a voice of perfect, peaceful calm:
"I'm going to kill her."
8:00 a.m.
By eight, the hashtags had formed their armies.
#HandsOffLena was trending in first place, driven by a furious wave of posts demanding an investigation, a statement, and a formal apology from the "so-called hero."
#SupergirlDidNothingWrong was in second, driven by a wave of posts in all capital letters that began LOOK AT HER FACE.
#LenaWasCheating was in third, a thin, mean little cluster of accounts that had all been created within the past hour.
#ThroupleTheory was in fourth, and was, to the surprise of everyone, extremely well-organized. Someone had made a spreadsheet. Someone had made a flowchart. Someone had pulled every article Kara Danvers had written in the past three years, and highlighted every sentence in which she praised Lena Luthor or Supergirl, in alternating yellow and blue.
#WhoTookThePhoto was in fifth.
#IWouldLikeToFileAComplaint was in sixth, and nobody knew what it was about.
By nine, the fan edits began.
9:12 a.m.
Kara Danvers was in the CatCo bullpen, hiding under her desk.
It was not a very good hiding place. It was a standard-issue, slightly wobbly, open-front desk, and every person in the room could see her ankles. But she had decided, after the third co-worker had walked past and made a very specific, very pointed cough, that it was the only available option.
"Kara," said James Olsen, crouching beside the desk.
"No."
"I'm just..."
"I'm not here."
"You're literally under the..."
"I'm out. I'm out of office. I've been abducted by aliens."
"They're not going to abduct you. You're one of them."
"James."
"Sorry." He held up his hands. "Sorry. It's a bad time for jokes. I just came to say that Snapper wants a statement, and Cat wants to see you, and, uh..." He glanced at his phone. "There's a fan edit of you and Lena set to a song by Celine Dion."
A long pause.
"Which one?" came a muffled voice from under the desk.
"The one about the... the heart going on."
"Oh no."
"It's, uh, honestly pretty good."
Kara put her face in her hands.
She had not planned for this. She had planned for a great many things in her life, apocalypses and alien invasions and the occasional rogue cult, and she had a contingency for all of them. But she had never once planned for this, for the single stupid, joyful, impulsive moment in which she had flown up behind the woman she loved, and kissed her, and been photographed.
It had been a good day.
That was the infuriating part. It had been the best day. Lena had closed the clean-energy deal, the one she had been working on for fourteen months, and had stepped out onto the balcony to catch her breath, with the whole shining city at her feet. And Kara, who had been waiting on a nearby rooftop, bursting out of her skin with pride, had thought: I just have to.
She had come in low and fast and silent, intending to wrap her arms around Lena's waist and spin her around. She had misjudged the angle by about two inches. Her hands had landed a little lower than intended. She had apologized immediately, and Lena, laughing, had said, I don't mind, and then Kara had kissed her.
It had been perfect.
And somebody, somewhere, had been watching.
On the screen of her phone, in the little notification bar at the top, a new message blinked.
LENA: Are you hiding under your desk?
KARA: No.
LENA: Kara.
KARA: ...Maybe.
LENA: Come out. Take a breath. We're going to be fine.
KARA: How do you KNOW?
LENA: Because I'm a Luthor. Scandal is practically a hobby.
Kara laughed. It was a small, wobbly, grateful sound, and it was the first time all morning that she had felt like she could breathe.
10:00 a.m.
In the corner office of L-Corp, Lena Luthor sat at her desk with a cup of tea, and read the comments.
She read them slowly. She read them in order. She did not skip any, not the worst ones, not the ones that used words she had to look up, not the ones that called her a home-wrecker or a sellout or a Luthor, in that special, spitting way that people did when they were hoping to hurt.
She sipped her tea.
"Ms. Luthor?" said Jess, from the doorway.
"Yes?"
"Would you like me to draft a statement?"
"Not yet."
"The board has called twice."
"Let them."
"The head of security says..." Jess hesitated. "He says it's impossible. He says there was no breach. He's been through the footage four times. He says nobody, nobody, could have taken those pictures without tripping at least eleven alarms."
"And yet."
"And yet."
Lena set down her cup.
She was calm. She had always been good at being calm. It was a talent she had developed early, in a house where the only way to survive a storm was to give it nothing to feed on. She had a perfectly steady face. She had a perfectly level voice. She was a woman who had faced down boards, and journalists, and her own brother, and she did not intend to crumble before a hashtag.
But there were things in those comments that hurt.
Lena was cheating on Kara.
That one stung, more than she wanted to admit. Not because it was true, but because it was exactly the kind of thing people would believe about a Luthor. Of course she was cheating. Of course she was lying. What did you expect from that family? A thousand strangers had looked at the best moment of her month and found, in it, the thing they had always assumed.
She read it again.
And then, slowly, she smiled.
It was a small, wry, thoroughly un-Luthorlike smile, and Jess stared.
"Ms. Luthor?"
"I just realized something," said Lena. "I'm being accused of cheating on my girlfriend... with my girlfriend."
"I'm sorry?"
"They don't know. About Supergirl. About Kara." She spread her hands. "As far as the entire world is concerned, I kissed one person while dating another. When in fact, I kissed the same person, who also happens to be the other person, and has been the entire time."
Jess blinked.
"That's," she said, carefully, "a lot to hold in your head."
"I know. It's the most beautiful, ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
She started to laugh.
It began as a little hiccup, and grew, and turned into a real, full-throated, helpless laugh, the kind she almost never allowed herself, and she put one hand over her mouth and doubled over her desk. Tears ran down her face. Jess, who had never in three years seen her boss laugh like that, took a very small, very cautious step backward.
"Are you... all right, Ms. Luthor?"
"I'm wonderful." She wiped her eyes. "I'm wonderful. Could you send someone to find out who took those photographs? Quietly. I don't want them harmed. I just want to know how they did it."
"Of course."
"And Jess?"
"Yes?"
"Find out how Kara's doing."
Jess smiled. It was the small, secret, knowing smile of a woman who had kept a spreadsheet for years.
"I have a feeling," she said, "that she's under her desk."
11:30 a.m.
By the time the late-morning shows came on, the scandal had developed branches.
On one channel, a panel of four commentators sat around a glass table, shouting over each other about boundaries. On another, a retired judge with a very serious mustache explained, at length, that the statute of limitations on flying-based misdemeanors had yet to be tested in court. On a third, a woman in a pink pantsuit held up a printed copy of the photographs, with the most interesting parts blurred, and asked in a hushed, breathless voice: Is this the end of the Supergirl brand?
On the internet, there were polls.
Did Supergirl commit assault? YES 31% NO 64% I'M NOT SURE BUT I'M HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME 5%.
Is Lena Luthor cheating? YES 12% NO 41% IT'S A THROUPLE 47%.
Who took the photographs? THE GOVERNMENT 33% A SECRET ADMIRER 24% ALIENS 22% LEX LUTHOR (FROM PRISON) 21%.
There was a hashtag called #SupergirlSignificantOther. There was a hashtag called #WhatAboutKaraDanvers. There was a hashtag called #IUnderstandNothingButIAmDeeplyInvested.
There was a dramatic reading.
There was a slideshow.
There was, inexplicably, a musical.
The fan art started to arrive around noon. There was a painting, in oils, of the kiss, with the city skyline blazing behind them. There was a comic strip, five panels long, in which a tiny cartoon Supergirl tripped over a tiny cartoon Lena and landed in a fountain. There was a cross-stitch. Someone had stitched the balcony scene onto a pillow and was selling it for forty dollars.
Kara saw all of it.
She had given up hiding at ten-thirty. She was now sitting in the break room, on the floor, with her back against the refrigerator, eating a very large sandwich in silence. Winn sat across from her, scrolling through his tablet. Every few seconds, he would make a small, strangled noise, and turn the screen away.
"Don't," said Kara.
"I'm not."
"I can see you scrolling."
"There's a very detailed analysis of your landing technique."
"Winn."
"It's rated four stars."
She put her head back against the fridge and shut her eyes.
12:45 p.m.
Alex burst into the break room at a dead run.
She was in her DEO jacket. Her hair was a mess. She skidded to a stop in the doorway, panting, and stared at her sister for several seconds, with an expression Kara had last seen when she'd accidentally set fire to the Danvers kitchen at the age of fourteen.
"Okay," said Alex.
"I know."
"Okay. Okay. I've talked to J'onn. I've talked to the Director. We have a plan."
"Alex..."
"It's a deepfake," said Alex, rapidly. "It's AI-generated. Somebody built it out of old footage and a good rendering engine. We put out a statement. We call in a technical expert. We say it's a hoax, and the internet moves on to the next thing, and nobody ever finds out..."
"I don't want to say it's a hoax."
Alex stopped.
Kara was looking at her, very steadily. The sandwich lay forgotten in her lap. There was something quiet in her eyes, something that had settled and clarified, like silt sinking in a glass of water.
"It's not a hoax," she said. "I did it. It's real."
"Kara, if you say that, you're going to have to say..."
"I know."
"They'll know who you are."
"I know."
"Everyone you love," said Alex, her voice cracking, "is going to be a target. Mom. Me. Lena. Everything you've spent your whole life protecting..."
"I know, Alex."
"Then why?"
"Because I'm tired."
It was very quiet in the break room.
"I'm tired of hiding," said Kara. "I'm tired of flinching every time somebody says her name. I'm tired of living in two halves, one half that's allowed to love her out loud and one half that has to do it in the dark. I've been Supergirl for a long time. I've been Kara for longer. And I'd like, just once, to be both of them in the same room."
Alex stared at her.
She opened her mouth. She shut it. She made a small, strangled, furious sound, and sat down on the floor beside her sister with a thump.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"I know."
"A complete and total idiot."
"I know."
"You're also very brave."
"...Thanks."
"Don't thank me. I'm still mad." Alex leaned her head against her sister's shoulder. "Where do we start?"
Kara smiled, a little wobbly.
"Cat Grant," she said.
1:30 p.m.
The phone on Kara's desk rang at exactly the moment she sat down.
She stared at it.
It was a landline, an old, black, ridiculous object that nobody had used in at least six years, and it was ringing with a loud, imperious trill. She picked up the receiver, slowly, as if it might bite.
"Danvers," said a voice.
It was a voice she would have known anywhere. It was dry, and cool, and perfectly modulated, the voice of a woman who had never once in her life been interrupted.
"Ms. Grant," said Kara.
"I have been looking at my screens for six hours," said Cat Grant, "and what I want to know, Kiera, is why my reporter is not in my chair giving me an exclusive."
"I... I wasn't sure..."
"Don't be. It's unbecoming." A pause. "I have spoken to the network. I have cleared the schedule. I will give you the opening slot of the evening show, live, no edits, no censors, no handlers. Seven o'clock. My studio."
"Ms. Grant, I..."
"You may say whatever you like. You may say nothing at all. You may weep, or rage, or deny. I don't care." Her voice softened, very slightly, by about a quarter of a degree. "But I think you have something to say, Kara. And I think you should say it to me."
Kara closed her eyes.
On her desk, in the corner of the monitor, a tiny window was still open. It showed a stack of messages from the woman she loved, a column of little gray bubbles, the most recent of which was a single line:
LENA: Whatever you decide, I'm with you.
She smiled.
"Seven o'clock," she said.
"Wear something blue," said Cat. "The color photographs."
The line went dead.
Kara put the receiver down, very gently, and sat for a long moment, watching the light move across her desk.
Then she stood, and took a breath, and went to find a better outfit.
6:41 p.m.
Kara Danvers was wearing blue.
It was a soft, deep, midnight blue, a simple dress with a high neckline and a pair of sensible flats, chosen at a quarter past four after a ten-minute argument with her closet. Her hair was down. Her glasses were on. She sat on the famous white couch in the CatCo interview studio with her hands clasped in her lap, and tried very hard not to look at the clock.
"You're fidgeting," said Cat Grant.
"I'm not."
"You're doing it with your thumbs."
Kara looked down. Her thumbs were, in fact, circling each other in a fast, anxious spiral. She sat on them.
Cat was in the chair opposite, in a tailored white suit, her legs crossed, her hands folded on her knee. She was being powdered by a makeup artist who looked like she was trying very hard not to make eye contact. Behind her, a bank of monitors flickered with the day's wreckage: anchors, panelists, fan edits, a freeze-frame of the kiss on a loop.
"Do you know," said Cat, conversationally, "what the single most underrated skill in journalism is?"
"Um. Accuracy?"
"Timing." Cat waved the makeup artist away. "You can have the best story in the world, Kiera, and if you release it at the wrong moment, it dies on the table. If you release it at the right one, it changes the weather."
"I thought you said I'd be fine."
"I said you'd be interesting. That is much more valuable." Cat studied her for a moment, with one sharp, level eyebrow. "You are not obligated to say anything."
"I know."
"You could deny it. I would let you. I'd even help. We could claim a prank, or a trick of the light, or a particularly aggressive impersonator. I know a man who does very good impersonators."
"I know."
"And?"
Kara took a breath.
"I don't want to," she said.
Cat's face did something complicated. It was a very small movement, a flicker around the corners of her mouth, there and gone before anyone could catch it. If Kara had not been looking, she would have missed it.
"Good," said Cat. "I'd have been disappointed."
6:52 p.m.
At the top of the L-Corp building, in a corner office with a view of the entire city, a very large screen had been wheeled in.
Lena Luthor sat in front of it, in her chair, with her legs tucked under her and a blanket over her knees. She had changed out of her work clothes. She was wearing a soft gray sweater and a pair of leggings, and she had a cup of tea cooling at her elbow, and a bowl of popcorn in her lap that she had not touched.
The door opened.
Jess came in, carrying a folder. She walked three steps across the carpet, paused, turned sharply to face the tall glass doors that led out onto the balcony, raised one hand, and held up her middle finger.
She held it there for a count of three.
Then she lowered it, nodded to herself, and walked to the desk.
Lena stared at her.
"...Jess."
"Yes, Ms. Luthor?"
"What was that?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The gesture. Just now. At the balcony."
"Oh." Jess set the folder down. "That was in the direction of the angle the photographs were taken from. I've triangulated it as best I can. It's roughly northeast, three hundred feet up." She adjusted her glasses. "I do it every time I come into the office, in case they're still watching."
Lena opened her mouth. Closed it.
"That's..." she began.
"A courtesy."
"...a very sensible policy."
"Thank you, Ms. Luthor."
"Do you do it often?"
"Eleven times today. I did it in the elevator, too, but I wasn't sure about the angle."
Lena put her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook.
"You're a treasure," she managed.
"I know," said Jess, with great dignity, and sat in the chair beside her.
7:00 p.m.
The red light blinked on.
"Good evening, America," said Cat Grant, into the camera, in a voice like silk drawn over a blade. "Tonight, we address the photographs that have set the nation on fire."
Behind her, on a massive screen, the four images appeared: the descent, the hands, the turn, the kiss.
"By now, you've seen them. You've seen the analysis, and the outrage, and the memes. You've seen a thirty-two-minute video essay on the aerodynamic implications of the landing. You may even have sent a strongly worded letter to your congressman." A thin, merciless smile. "I am here to tell you that all of those were premature."
She turned.
"Sitting with me is Kara Danvers, a Pulitzer-winning reporter for this company, and the girlfriend of Lena Luthor. She is also, according to approximately nine thousand commenters, the third point in an extremely elaborate triangle. Kara."
"Hi, Ms. Grant," said Kara, very small.
"Would you care to explain why Supergirl appears to be groping and kissing your girlfriend on a private balcony?"
Silence.
It was not a long silence. It lasted perhaps two seconds. But in the control room, forty people stopped breathing, and in a corner office at the top of a black glass tower, a woman in a gray sweater went very still, with a hand halfway to her mouth.
Kara's fingers twisted together in her lap.
She looked straight into the lens.
"Because I'm Supergirl."
Somewhere in the control room, a producer dropped a coffee.
It hit the floor with a long, loud, shattering crash. Nobody looked. Every face in the room was turned to the monitor, every pair of eyes wide, every mouth open. A technician in the back row had slowly slid down in his chair until only the top of his head was visible.
Cat Grant's eyebrow rose. It rose very high, higher than Kara had ever seen it go. But she did not interrupt.
"Those photos are real," said Kara.
Her voice was steady. It was surprising, how steady it was. Her face was scarlet, and her hands were shaking, but the words came out clear and level, as if they had been waiting a long time to be said.
"I flew in behind her. I put my hands on her. And I'll be honest, they landed about two inches lower than I intended." A tiny, embarrassed wince. "I apologized, immediately. And she said she didn't mind. Then I turned her around, and I kissed her."
"I see," said Cat.
"I did it because I love her."
Her voice caught, just slightly, on the last word.
"I've been in love with Lena Luthor for a very long time. And I'm tired. I'm tired of pretending that the two halves of my life don't belong to the same person. I'm tired of making her carry the cost of that, of every headline, and every theory, and every time somebody looks at her and decides she must be lying."
On the big screen in the corner office, Lena had her hand pressed flat against her sternum.
"So here's the truth," said Kara. "Lena isn't cheating. She's never cheated, on anyone. There is no throuple. There is no assault. There is no secret, scandalous triangle." A breathless little laugh. "There's just me. Kara Danvers. Supergirl. Kissing the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with."
"I want to marry her."
The studio was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.
"I want every morning, and every balcony, and every ridiculous scandal that comes with loving her in public. I want it all. I want forever."
She took a long, shaky breath.
"That's it. That's all of it. That's the story."
For one perfect second, nobody moved.
Then Cat Grant, who had been interviewing presidents since before Kara was born, who had once made a sitting senator cry on live television by asking him what his mother would think, recovered.
She did it slowly. She did it with great elegance. She uncrossed her legs, and turned toward the camera, and her face, her whole famous, formidable, unreadable face, melted, very briefly, into something that looked remarkably like joy.
"Well," said Cat. "That settles that."
She smiled into the lens.
"You heard it here first, America. Supergirl is Kara Danvers. She is very much in love with Lena Luthor. And she has just proposed, on national television, in a blue dress."
"Ms. Grant," said Kara, weakly. "I didn't..."
"You did."
"I wasn't planning to..."
"You did, Kiera." Cat's eyes were sparkling. "And, for the record, I should like it known that I worked it out in the first week."
"You did not."
"I have excellent instincts."
"You called me 'Kiera' for two years."
"A decoy," said Cat, serenely. "We'll be right back. If the internet survives."
The red light clicked off.
7:09 p.m.
In the corner office at the top of the L-Corp building, a very long silence filled the room.
Lena was standing.
She had no memory of getting up. The blanket lay in a heap on the floor. The popcorn had spilled across the carpet, a wide, buttery spray of white. Her tea had gone over. A cold brown stain was soaking through the corner of a stack of papers.
She did not notice any of it.
She was staring at the screen, where Cat Grant's face, frozen, was smiling in a soft, studio glow. One of her hands was pressed over her mouth. The other was clutching the edge of the desk.
Her eyes were full.
"Ms. Luthor?" said Jess, very quietly, from behind her. "Would you like a tissue?"
Lena nodded.
Jess handed her one. It was an old-fashioned, plain white paper tissue, from a little pocket pack. She had been carrying it since four o'clock. She had been carrying it, Lena realized, just in case.
"Thank you," said Lena, thickly.
"You're welcome."
"She said," Lena began.
"I heard."
"She said she wants to marry me."
"I did hear that."
"On live television."
"In a blue dress," said Jess, solemnly.
Lena made a sound. It was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and it came out of her in a long, shaking breath. She pressed the tissue to her eyes. She stood very still for a moment, with her shoulders trembling, and let it all go.
Her phone buzzed.
It was on the desk, beside the cold tea. A small bright rectangle of light in the dim room. She picked it up, with a hand that was not very steady, and thumbed it open.
KARA: Was that okay?
KARA: I should have asked.
KARA: I'm so sorry. I didn't plan the marriage part. It just kind of fell out.
KARA: Lena?
KARA: Please say something.
Lena looked at the screen, and she laughed, helplessly, with tears running down her cheeks.
Then she typed, with both thumbs, as fast as she could:
LENA: Come home. Now.
LENA: I'm going to kiss you until you forget how to fly.
LENA: And yes.
LENA: Forever.
She hit send.
She looked up, and found Jess smiling at her, a rare, soft, genuine smile.
"Go," said Jess. "I'll hold the building."
7:12 p.m.
In the CatCo studio, a phone chimed.
Kara Danvers was standing in the middle of the set, surrounded by technicians who were all, simultaneously, trying to shake her hand. A man in a headset was crying. A makeup artist was hugging a boom operator. In the corner, Alex was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and her face wet, glaring at nobody in particular.
Kara looked at the screen.
She read it.
She read it again.
Then she made a small, strangled, wonderful sound, and burst out laughing.
"Is that her?" said Cat, from behind her.
"It's Lena."
"What does she say?"
"She says," said Kara, wiping her eyes, "that she's going to kiss me until I forget how to fly."
"A promising proposal."
"And, uh. She says yes."
Cat Grant smiled.
It was a small, warm, private smile, and it lasted for about two seconds, and then she waved a hand at the window.
"Well, go on," she said. "You've got an engagement to attend."
"Ms. Grant..."
"Go, Kiera."
Kara grinned.
She spun, and in a flash of gold and blue and red, in the middle of a live television set, in front of forty stunned crew members and a camera that was, technically, still rolling, the cardigan melted into a suit and the glasses vanished and a cape snapped out behind her.
There was a pause.
"Woooo," said somebody, faintly, in the control room.
Then the studio erupted. People were cheering, and clapping, and one of the cameramen had fallen flat on his back and was laughing at the ceiling.
Kara blew a kiss at Alex.
She threw open the window.
And she was gone.
Meanwhile, Online
#SupergirlIsKara was the number-one trending topic in the world.
It had been there for four minutes, and it had already displaced a royal wedding, a major sporting event, and a very controversial new flavor of potato chip. Underneath it, in a long, glowing tower, the rest of the day's hashtags had rearranged themselves:
#ForeverGirl. #BlueDressProposal. #SheSaidYes. #CatGrantKnewAllAlong. #IAmSoSorryForWhatISaidThisMorning. #WhoTookThePhoto (still, at number nine).
News anchors were speechless. Panels had been disbanded. The judge with the serious mustache had been asked for comment, and had said, quietly, into a microphone, that he would like a moment.
On one platform, a man posted: I called this woman an assault perpetrator at 9am. I'd like to formally apologize to Supergirl and offer to buy her lunch.
On another, a woman posted: I am crying in a Starbucks. The barista is crying. We're both crying. We don't know why.
On a third, a teenager had edited the kiss, the confession, and the proposal into a single three-minute video, set to a very soft song, and it had been viewed eleven million times in the past hour.
In a small apartment on the west side, an old woman in a quilted bathrobe turned off her television, put her hand over her heart, and said to the dog, "Well. I always thought so."
In Midvale, in a quiet kitchen with a view of an orchard, Eliza Danvers dropped a dish towel and said, "Oh, my girls," and began, very softly, to cry.
7:20 p.m.
The sun was setting over National City.
It lay across the tops of the buildings in a long, rich band of gold and rose, glinting off the glass towers, painting the clouds in coral. On the private balcony at the top of the L-Corp building, the light was warm and soft. A pair of potted palms stirred in the breeze.
Lena stood at the railing, with her hands on the cold metal, and waited.
She did not wait long.
There was a rush of air, a soft whistle, a flutter of cloth, and then a pair of boots touched the tile behind her, as light as a whisper.
She did not turn.
"You're late," she said.
"I got stopped by a crowd."
"You always do."
"They wanted pictures."
"I'm sure they did."
There was a long silence. A gentle wind lifted the ends of Lena's hair.
"Lena?" said Kara.
"Mm?"
"I'm so sorry. About the interview. About all of it. If I hurt you, or embarrassed you, or if it was too much, I..."
Lena turned around.
She did it slowly, and her face was wet, and she was smiling. She was smiling so widely it hurt her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and very bright, and her whole body seemed to glow, as though she had swallowed the last of the sunset.
"Kara," she said.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to say something. And I'd like you to listen."
"Okay."
"Yes."
Kara blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Yes." Lena crossed the space between them in three steps, and took Kara's face in both hands. "The answer is yes. I want to marry you. I want every morning, and every balcony, and every ridiculous scandal. I want the cape, and the glasses, and the nonsense. I want you in every version there is."
"Lena..."
"And for the record," said Lena, "you did not grope me. I was there. I would have said something."
"They landed two inches..."
"I know where they landed." Her smile turned wicked. "I rather enjoyed it."
Kara went the deepest, brightest shade of red that Lena had ever seen.
Then, with a helpless, delighted, astonished laugh, she pulled her in, and kissed her.
It was a long kiss, and a slow one. It was a kiss with no hurry in it at all, the kind of kiss that makes a sunset hold still. Lena's fingers curled into the front of Kara's suit. Kara's arms wound around her waist, and lifted her, just a little, off the floor.
Her boots left the tile.
They rose an inch. Then six. Then, slowly, without either of them noticing, a foot. They hung there in the golden light, in the air above a city of nine million people, with the sun going down behind them and the whole world watching, and they did not care in the slightest.
"I told you," Lena murmured, against her mouth. "Until you forget how to fly."
"I haven't forgotten," Kara whispered.
"No?"
"I'm just not using it for anything useful."
Lena laughed.
At the glass doors, very quietly, someone cleared her throat.
The two of them looked down.
Jess was standing in the doorway, a few feet away, with a folder in her arms and her glasses a little crooked. She had the faintly harried air of a woman who had been standing there for some time, and had hoped, rather desperately, not to be noticed.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I was just going to leave the, ah, the schedule."
"Jess," said Lena.
"Yes, Ms. Luthor?"
"We're floating."
"I can see that."
"You can come in."
"I'd rather not."
Kara giggled.
Jess set the folder down on the little iron table by the door, very carefully, as if it contained a small and sleeping animal. She straightened. She turned, with great dignity, to face northeast, three hundred feet up, in the direction of an angle that nobody could find.
She raised her hand.
She held up her middle finger.
"Just in case," said Jess, to the empty sky.
Then she nodded, once, turned on her heel, and walked back inside.
The balcony was quiet.
Kara, floating a foot above the tile, with her arms around the woman she was going to marry, put her head on Lena's shoulder and began, helplessly, to laugh. Lena laughed too. They laughed until they had to hold on to each other, rocking, in the warm, dying light, while the city below them glittered and roared.
"I love you," said Kara.
"I know."
"Forever."
"I know."
And somewhere, in a very small corner of the internet, a nameless account with no history and no followers, which had been silent since seven-fourteen that morning, posted its final message.
It was very short.
You're welcome. Congratulations. Mazel tov.
Then it deleted itself.
Nobody ever found out who it was.
Fin