Work Text:
Exhibit A: The Board
L-Corp's board did not understand the new division.
"Makeup?" one investor asked, staring at the projected numbers on the wall. "We are a technology and defense company. Why are we pouring millions into long-wear cosmetics?"
Lena Luthor, seated at the head of the table in flawless crimson lipstick, simply smiled.
"Market research," she said. "Very thorough market research."
Nobody asked a follow-up question. Nobody had the nerve. At the far end of the table, an older gentleman who had been on the board since Lex's days looked at the lipstick, then at Lena, then, very slowly, at the glass wall behind her, where a blonde woman in a cardigan was passing with a tray of coffee and trying very hard not to look at anyone.
He opened his mouth.
He closed it again.
He was, after all, a man of great experience.
Incident #1: The Charity Gala
Lena stepped onto the red carpet looking like a painting. Soft matte foundation. Precise winged liner. Lipstick the exact shade of a warning light.
Three hours later, the society pages ran a photograph of her accepting an oversized check beside the mayor. Her mouth was suspiciously blurred. A faint pink smear crossed her chin. The caption read: Lena Luthor, slightly disheveled but still radiant.
In the limo afterward, Kara looked guilty and extremely well-kissed.
"I only meant to say goodbye," she mumbled.
Lena touched her own lower lip. The lipstick came away on her fingertip.
"You said goodbye for eleven minutes."
"It was a very long goodbye."
"There was a coat check attendant."
"He was very discreet."
"He applauded, Kara."
Kara put her face in her hands. Lena examined her reflection in the dark window, sighed, and began to reapply, with the steady, practiced hand of a woman who had been doing it for some time.
"Do you know how many shades I've brought to this event?" she said.
"...Three?"
"Seven."
Incident #2: The Live Interview
CatCo's morning show. Lena in a sharp navy blazer, perfect neutral makeup, ready to discuss clean energy.
Kara was "just dropping by" with coffee.
They stepped into the stairwell for thirty seconds.
When Lena returned to the desk, the host blinked.
"Ms. Luthor... is that a handprint on your jaw?"
Lena's smile did not waver. "New contour technique."
Under the desk, her phone buzzed.
Kara: I'm so sorry
Kara: you tasted like mint
Kara: I panicked
Kara: I didn't mean to touch your face
Kara: I mean I DID
Kara: but not with the coffee hand
Lena looked down at the beige streak across her cuff, the unmistakable shape of a half-moon thumbprint, and, with great composure, took a sip of water.
"It's very popular in Europe," she told the host.
Incident #3: The Drawer
Jess had been Lena Luthor's assistant for three years, two months, and sixteen days. She had survived a hostile takeover, two kidnappings, one explosion, and a very long weekend in which the CEO had been replaced by a clone.
Nothing had prepared her for this.
On the first day, she had kept a spare lipstick in her desk. On the second day, she had added a compact. By the end of the first week, the bottom drawer of her desk contained a full emergency kit:
Three shades of lipstick, labeled by urgency.
Two blotting papers.
Concealer (light, medium, "I have a meeting in four minutes").
A travel-size can of hairspray.
A clean white blouse in a garment bag, size four.
A very small sewing kit.
A laminated flowchart.
The flowchart was titled PROTOCOL: DANVERS.
It had colors. It had arrows. At the top, in bold, was the first and most important question: Has the CEO been in a stairwell?
Jess maintained it with pride.
"Ms. Luthor," she would say, in the elevator, with a perfectly neutral face, "I notice your lipstick has shifted by approximately two millimeters. Would you like me to initiate the protocol?"
"Please."
"Of course."
"And Jess?"
"Yes?"
"Don't tell Kara about the flowchart."
"I would never."
Jess had, in fact, already told Kara about the flowchart. Kara had cried. She had said it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. She had then requested a copy.
Incident #4: The Board Meeting
Lena walked into the executive conference room with classic red lips and zero patience for fools.
Forty minutes later, she leaned over to whisper something sharp to Sam, seated at her left.
When she straightened, half the room was staring at her mouth.
The red had migrated. A clear, unmistakable lip-print now decorated the collar of her white blouse, a perfect crimson heart, as crisp as a stamp.
Sam kicked her under the table.
"What?" Lena murmured.
"Collar."
Lena looked down.
She looked up. Her expression did not change. She did not blush, or flinch, or glance at the glass wall of the conference room, where Kara was supposed to be "waiting outside."
Kara was, in fact, still visible in the reflection, ears pink, standing at a perfectly casual angle and waving.
"Gentlemen," said Lena. "I'd like to move to the next item on the agenda."
"Ms. Luthor..." one of them began.
"The next item."
"There's, ah, something on your..."
"It's a brand," said Lena, serenely. "We're exploring cross-promotional opportunities."
Sam put her forehead against the table.
Incident #5: The Montage
It was becoming, Alex Danvers noted privately, a pattern.
The elevator. Forty floors, an empty car, and a woman who had calculated, with great precision, that the trip took exactly thirty-one seconds. Kara had pressed Lena against the wall for twenty-eight of them. When the doors opened, Lena stepped out with a smudge the size of a thumbprint at the edge of her mouth, and Kara, behind her, was fanning her own face with a folder.
The car. A red light at Fifth and Main. A stolen kiss, over the gearshift. The light turned green. The car behind them honked. Neither of them noticed until the third honk, by which point Lena's lipstick had traveled halfway to her ear.
The DEO hallway. A quick, hasty, thoroughly illegal kiss against a filing cabinet. Alex, rounding the corner with a stack of reports, stopped dead, turned on her heel, and walked directly back the way she had come.
"I'm a federal agent," she said to Brainy, at the end of the corridor. "I'm choosing not to see that."
"I did not see anything," said Brainy, gravely.
"Good."
"I did, however, calculate a three-hundred-percent increase in the frequency of the event over the past fiscal quarter."
"Brainy."
"It is a trend."
The rooftop. The coat check. A utility closet. The back of a taxi. The pantry at the Danvers house in Midvale. A dark corner of the L-Corp parking garage, in which Lena, at one a.m., discovered that she had lost a lipstick, a compact, and an earring, and could not have told anyone, to save her life, where any of them had gone.
Kara was a serial smoocher.
She did not do it maliciously. She did it the way other people breathe: unconsciously, constantly, with her whole heart, and with an expression of such open, helpless happiness that it was impossible to be angry about it for more than four seconds.
"I can't help it," she said, once, in the elevator, with her hands up. "You're so kissable."
"I have a meeting."
"I know."
"It's in ninety seconds."
"I know." Kara beamed. "But you have such a nice mouth."
Lena had stared at her for several moments. Then she had pulled a spare lipstick out of her bag, in a smooth, resigned motion, as if she had been born with it.
"One more," she said. "Then I'm going to go and be a professional."
It had been, strictly speaking, a lie.
Incident #6: The Revenge
It was Lena who struck first.
She did it on a Thursday, in the lobby of CatCo, five minutes before Kara's meeting with Cat Grant. She had stopped by "to drop off lunch." She had said all the right things. She had smiled warmly. Then she had stepped close, taken Kara's tie in one hand, and kissed her, with deliberate, thorough, painstaking care, as if she were signing a contract.
When she finally stepped back, Kara's lips were the exact color of a ripe plum.
There was a smear across her chin.
There was a perfect, unmistakable berry-colored handprint on her collar.
"Have a great meeting," said Lena, sweetly, and left.
Kara stood in the lobby for four full seconds, completely unable to move. Then she bolted for the restroom, and scrubbed at her face for ten minutes with paper towels, and arrived at Cat's office three minutes late, flushed, breathless, and still faintly purple.
Cat looked up.
She looked her up and down. One long, slow, appraising look, from collar to chin.
"Kiera," she said.
"Ms. Grant."
"That's a very distinctive shade of lip color."
"It's, uh..."
"Don't. I appreciate a color story." Cat returned to her papers. "Do sit down. We're discussing the circulation numbers. I assume you'll be able to concentrate."
"I will," said Kara, in a very small voice.
"Of course you will," said Cat, and smiled at her desk.
In the hallway outside, Lena Luthor, hiding behind a ficus, had her fist pressed over her mouth and was shaking with silent laughter.
Incident #7: The Family Dinner
Lillian Luthor arrived at seven o'clock precisely, in a gray silk suit and a pair of pearls, carrying a bottle of very old wine and the faint, formidable air of a woman who had come to inspect a battlefield.
"Mother," said Lena.
"Lena."
"You're early."
"I am punctual. It's an important distinction." Lillian's eyes moved over her daughter's face with a slow, clinical sweep. "You have something on your chin."
Lena put her hand up. "I...?"
"A smudge. It matches the girl."
In the kitchen doorway, Kara, who was carrying a tray of appetizers, went rigid.
There was a very long, very quiet pause.
"I raised you to be impeccable, Lena," said Lillian. "I see someone has other ideas."
"Mother..."
"I'm not criticizing." Lillian handed Lena the wine, crossed the room, and surveyed Kara with a long, cool, appraising gaze, as if she were pricing a very rare antique. Kara held up the tray of appetizers like a shield.
"Hello, Mrs. Luthor," she said, in a very high voice. "It's, ah, a pleasure."
"Miss Danvers."
"I made, there's, would you like a stuffed mushroom?"
"Certainly." Lillian took one, examined it, and popped it into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, with her eyes half closed. "Adequate."
Kara's whole face lit up.
"I would suggest," Lillian went on, delicately, "that you try to be discreet."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Or, failing that, waterproof."
Kara made a small noise like a teakettle.
Lena, behind her, put her hand over her eyes.
"I have long since stopped being surprised," said Lillian, tonelessly, "by anything my children do." She patted Kara once, briskly, on the shoulder. "You'll do."
She swept off toward the dining room.
Kara stood very still, holding her tray. After a long pause, she turned, with an expression of dazed delight, and whispered:
"Lena. Lena. I think your mother likes me."
"I think," said Lena faintly, "that's the nicest thing she's ever said to anyone."
Incident #8: The Press Conference
Lena announced a new renewable initiative under bright lights. Her makeup was architectural. Untouchable.
Someone in the front row asked a pointed question about Lex.
Kara, standing at the back of the room in her press badge, frowned in protective solidarity.
Afterward, in the quiet hallway behind the stage, Kara cupped Lena's face and kissed her once, softly, reassuringly, a gentle gesture meant to be brief.
It was not brief.
When Lena stepped back into the corridor, a junior reporter made a small, strangled noise.
Lena's lipstick was now artistically destroyed. A perfect smear crossed her cheekbone like war paint. A ribbon of red trailed down her jaw. There was a single smudge on the bridge of her nose.
She looked directly at the reporter.
"Any further questions?"
There were none.
Exhibit B: The Laboratory
L-Corp's Cosmetic Research division occupied the fourteenth floor, a sleek white laboratory with sixteen workstations, a fully stocked pigment library, and a small, nervous team of chemists who had been told, in their interviews, that the project was "extremely confidential."
Dr. Patel, the lead formulator, had been in the lab for three weeks, and she had a lot of questions.
"Ms. Luthor," she said, on the first day, "the brief says, and I quote, must resist all forms of deliberate and accidental contact, up to and including supernatural force."
"That's correct."
"What exactly is the test condition?"
"Confidential."
"I understand, but if I'm going to calibrate the polymer..."
"The condition," said Lena, coolly, "is a very enthusiastic kiss."
Dr. Patel blinked.
"How enthusiastic?"
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"Yes."
Lena considered. "Fourteen."
There was a long, long silence.
The door opened, and Kara walked in, in her civilian clothes, holding a clipboard, a bag of donuts, and an expression of fierce, solemn dedication.
"Reporting for testing," she said.
"Thank you, Kara," said Lena.
"I take my duties very seriously."
"I know you do."
Dr. Patel looked from one to the other, and a slow, awful comprehension spread across her face.
"Oh," she said.
The testing lasted a month.
Prototype 1 survived a kiss for forty-five seconds, and then dissolved.
Prototype 2 survived the kiss, but stuck to the sleeve of Kara's cardigan, and could not be removed by any known solvent. She wore the same cardigan, with a bright red cuff, for two weeks.
Prototype 4 glowed in the dark.
"That's not a feature," said Lena.
"It's a little bit a feature," said Kara.
"We are not selling lipstick that glows."
"What if we call it night mode?"
Prototype 6 smelled of cinnamon. Prototype 7 smelled of pie. Prototype 9 smelled, on contact, so powerfully of chocolate that Kara became extremely distracted, and ate the sample.
"It's not edible," said Dr. Patel, in horror.
"It's cherry!"
"It's a polymer."
"It's a delicious polymer."
"Test it again," said Lena, wearily.
Prototype 12 survived an hour of continuous kissing, including two attempts by Kara to "go full strength," and a short, rather alarming experiment by Brainy, who had been brought in as a consultant and had concluded that, statistically, Kara's kisses exceeded the load tolerance of conventional cosmetics by four hundred percent.
"It's the thermal output," said Brainy. "And the pressure. And, ah, the enthusiasm."
"I thought it was the enthusiasm," said Dr. Patel.
"It is largely the enthusiasm."
"I'm right here," said Kara.
"We are not criticizing," said Brainy, kindly. "We are measuring."
Prototype 15 held for ninety minutes.
Prototype 16 held for three hours, through a vigorous kiss, a hug, a very emotional reunion, and a minor incident involving a ceiling fan.
Prototype 17 was perfect.
Dr. Patel stood at the end of the lab bench, staring at the sample, with her hands trembling.
"It's... unmovable," she whispered. "I've never seen anything like it. It's survived everything. It's, it's Kryptonian-proof."
Lena picked up the lipstick. It was a deep, rich berry, in a sleek black tube. She turned it in the light.
"Perfect," she said.
"It's a breakthrough, Ms. Luthor. It could revolutionize the entire industry."
"I know."
"Do you want to call it Prototype 17?"
"No," said Lena, with a small, private smile. "I have a name."
Exhibit C: The Launch
Six months later, L-Corp Beauty launched its first product line in a minimalist black campaign.
The flagship item was called UNRUINED.
Sixteen-hour wear. Kiss-proof. Cape-proof. Alien-strength affection-proof. Because some of us have a girlfriend who kisses like she's trying to breathe us in.
The launch party was held on the rooftop of the L-Corp building, in a glittering glass pavilion hung with black silk. Photographers lined the walls. A string quartet played in the corner. Across the room, in a soft, drifting crowd of editors and influencers and investors, Sam stood holding a flute of champagne, with an expression of deep, abiding peace.
"I knew it," she said, to nobody. "I knew it."
Jess, at her elbow, adjusted a folded copy of the flowchart in her breast pocket. "It was the right call."
"It was the best call."
"I'll have the framed version delivered tomorrow."
"I'd like to hang it in the lobby," said Sam.
"I'll make the arrangements."
Kara stood off to one side, in a soft sweater, with a glass of sparkling water in one hand, watching Lena.
She was standing at the center of the stage, in a black dress, with a tiny microphone at her collar. She was radiant. She was composed. She was holding a small black tube, and she was talking to the room in that warm, steady voice that made rich men sit up straighter, about wear time and pigment density and a proprietary polymer lattice, and a hundred cameras were pointed at her face.
She applied the lipstick.
It was a deep berry shade. She did it slowly, carefully, in one smooth, practiced stroke, and the room went quiet.
She smiled.
Then she looked across the pavilion, directly at Kara, and crooked one finger.
Kara went scarlet from collar to hairline.
She set down her glass. She crossed the room, slow and stiff, with a dozen heads turning to watch, and stopped in front of the stage, at the foot of the steps.
"Ms. Luthor," she said, hoarsely.
"Ms. Danvers."
"You, uh. You wanted me?"
"For the demonstration," said Lena, and smiled.
She reached down, took Kara's tie in one hand, drew her up onto the stage, and kissed her.
It was in front of every camera in the room.
It was long enough to make a point. It was long enough that someone in the back dropped a glass, and somebody else began, faintly, to cheer. It was long enough that the string quartet missed a note. It was long enough that Alex, standing by the bar, set down her drink with great deliberation and said to nobody, "I need to go and look at something else."
When they finally parted, Lena's mouth was perfect.
It was berry-red, and flawless, and entirely intact.
Kara's mouth was berry-red and dazed.
She stood there, blinking, with the faint stunned look of a woman who has been hit by a very slow, very pleasant truck.
Lena turned back to the microphone, her voice smooth as glass.
"As you can see," she said, "it doesn't move."
She glanced sideways at Kara, with warm, bright, laughing eyes.
"No matter how hard someone tries."
The room erupted.
Kara, still ruined in the very best way, leaned in toward the nearest microphone, and whispered, just loudly enough for the speakers to carry it across the crowd:
"Challenge accepted."
Lena's smile curved, slow and dangerous and entirely delighted.
It said, clearly, that she had already begun planning the next formula.
Exhibit D: The Board (Reprise)
The quarterly numbers were projected on the screen.
L-Corp Beauty had doubled its sales projection in the first month. The Unruined line had sold out in nineteen countries. A famous actress had endorsed it on a talk show, with a very long, very enthusiastic anecdote involving a shower and a brass band. There were waitlists. There was a documentary.
The board sat in stunned silence.
"These are remarkable figures," said one of the investors, at last.
"I told you it was a sound investment," said Lena, who was seated at the head of the table in a flawless berry-red, with her hands folded neatly in front of her.
The older gentleman at the far end of the table cleared his throat.
"Ms. Luthor," he said, "I wonder if I might ask about the, ah, research."
"The market research?"
"Yes. Very thorough, I believe you said."
"It was."
"And, ah, is it concluded?"
Lena considered the question.
She looked up at the glass wall behind her, through which she could see, at the end of the corridor, a blonde woman in a cardigan, carrying two coffees, with a very soft, very hopeful, very tentative expression on her face.
Kara waved.
Lena's smile widened, just a fraction.
"Oh, no," she said, to the board. "It's very much ongoing."
The End