Archive of Our Own

PART ONE: THE MAGAZINE
Mask & Faces, the gossip weekly of National City. Back page, bottom left, below the horoscopes and above the crossword.

Everyone knew Kara Danvers.

Pulitzer-winning reporter. Tireless investigator of environmental crises. Fierce defender of Supergirl. Even fiercer defender of Lena Luthor. The friendship was public knowledge. The soft looks, the shared smiles, the way Kara always seemed to materialize at Lena's side during press conferences, none of it was secret.

What started as a joke in the back pages of a rival magazine, however, became something else entirely.

THE ILLICIT REPORTER
A weekly column of one reporter's unwavering journalistic attention.
Issue #1

[PHOTO: A black-tie charity gala. In the foreground, Lena Luthor, in a close-fitting emerald gown, turning to accept a glass of champagne. In the background, Kara Danvers, notepad in hand, with her eyes locked on the curve of the dress where it hugs Lena's hips.]

"Is this what they call 'objective coverage'? Our sources confirm Ms. Danvers has been 'taking notes' for eleven minutes. The notepad is upside down. Reporting on the Luthor Foundation has never been so... thorough."

(Editor's note: This publication does not endorse speculation. We merely endorse a very good vantage point.)

It was meant as a smear.

The photographer, a lean, harried, cheerfully ruthless man whose name never appeared on any byline, had taken the shot on a whim. His editor wanted a hit piece. He had tried to build one. He had spent three weeks digging for dirt on the CEO of L-Corp, and discovered, to his disgust, that she had none. The only interesting thing in all of Lena Luthor's world was the reporter who kept following her around with a dopey expression.

So he ran the photo.

The reaction was immediate, and nothing like what he had expected.

People found it funny.

Issue #2

[PHOTO: A rooftop interview, golden hour. Lena, seated, one leg crossed over the other, speaks to a camera. Kara, standing just behind the operator, stares at the leg.]

"The question was about carbon credits. The answer, apparently, was legs."

[PHOTO: Lena turns away, her dress open at the back in a low, elegant curve. Kara's eyes follow the line of her spine, from shoulder blades to the small of her back, as though reading a very long and very interesting document.]

"Ms. Danvers appears to be fact-checking the vertebrae."

[PHOTO: Lena, mid-sentence, her lips shaped around a word. Kara, rapt, with her pen frozen halfway to her notepad and her mouth slightly open, looks at the mouth as though it contained the secrets of the universe.]

"Whatever she's saying, Ms. Danvers is not listening."

Issue #3

[PHOTO: A press conference, Lena leaning over a podium to adjust a microphone. Her blouse falls open an inch at the neckline. In the third row, Kara Danvers has stopped breathing.]

"Our correspondent wishes to remind readers that cleavage, in the journalistic tradition, is not technically a 'beat.'"

Issue #6

[PHOTO: Lena Luthor climbs into a limousine. Kara stands at the curb, one hand over her heart, the other still holding the door.]

"The door was held for eight minutes. The limousine left four minutes ago."

Issue #9: LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Dear Illicit Reporter, I have been a CatCo subscriber for twenty years and I have never been so moved. My husband and I now read your column aloud to each other every Thursday over breakfast. We are in our seventies. Please don't stop. — Dolores, Midvale

Dear Illicit Reporter, I demand a retraction. I am a close friend of Ms. Danvers. She has never in her life looked at anyone in the manner you describe. She's very professional. She once told me, sincerely, that Lena Luthor has "the most remarkable posture." — Anonymous (Alex)

Dear Illicit Reporter, Is it weird that I now go to galas just to see if I can spot her? — Kevin, Accounting

Reply from the editor: It is not weird, Kevin. It is a calling.

Issue #14

[PHOTO: A fundraiser, black tie. Lena Luthor in a slim burgundy dress, laughing at something someone has said. Behind her, at a respectful distance, Kara Danvers has apparently noticed the faint, dark outline of a very delicate strap beneath the fabric across Lena's shoulder blade. She is not blinking.]

"Our legal department has asked us to refrain from guessing the color."

(We would, however, like to point out that the reporter in question has a perfect memory.)

SIDEBAR: THE OFFICIAL RULES OF THE ILLICIT GAME
(As compiled by an anonymous group of readers at O'Malley's Pub, third booth from the left. Do not attempt at home.)

Take one sip every time Kara looks.
Take two sips if she is caught looking.
Take three sips if she is caught looking and pretends to be reading something.
Finish your drink if Lena turns around at exactly the wrong moment.
Take a shot for every "consecutive second" of cleavage. (This rule was repealed after the Gala of the Third of March. Four players were hospitalized.)
In the event of a hair flip, the table must stand and observe a moment of silence.
In the event of a leg cross, the table must also stand, and some of us must leave.
The designated counter must be sober. (See: Walter, 14 years, the hardest job in the building.)
By the fortieth issue, the section had a cult following.

Private group chats formed. Drinking games were invented. Walter, the long-suffering man from Alcoholics Anonymous, kept the official count, because everyone else blacked out by the third "Kara has now been staring at cleavage for forty-seven consecutive seconds." There were time bets. There were frequency bets. There was a particularly vicious tournament that required a shot every time Kara's eyes dropped below Lena's collarbones. Attendance was high. Survival rates were low.

Little Sunny Danvers, it turned out, had the attention span of a particularly dedicated golden retriever whenever Lena Luthor entered a room.

PART TWO: THE BLOG
The Illicit Reporter (dot com). Est. eleven months ago. Four million unique visitors this week.

POST #212: ON THE ALLEGATIONS OF "DEEPFAKES"

Posted at 2:14 a.m. by [REDACTED]

Good morning, friends.

In the last twelve hours, I've received approximately nine thousand emails alleging that the "Illicit Reporter" photographs are the work of artificial intelligence. The accusation is flattering. It implies that I possess technology capable of capturing, in perfect detail, the exact moment a Pulitzer winner loses all cognitive function at the sight of a woman reaching for a glass of water.

I do not.

I have a camera, a patient disposition, and a hard drive.

In the interest of transparency, I am hereby uploading, in full, the raw footage for the Gala of the Third of March. Run time: four hours and eleven minutes. Please note the timestamps. Please note the reaction at 2:47:12. Please note that the reporter in question, at 2:47:13, knocks over a candelabra.

Enjoy.

COMMENTS (14,882)

ThomasInSeattle: I came here to call fake. I'm leaving as a fan.

GalaGirl88: at 2:47:12 she sees the BACK of the dress. there is no recovering from that.

NotAFed: I've watched the candelabra moment 40 times. I'm not okay.

Walter_Sober_14yrs: I'm the counter. I counted 61. I need you to know the number is 61. I've never been this proud of anyone.

DolorisFromMidvale: Is she all right? She went very red.

TheRealAlex: I am going to find you.

Kevin_Accounting: The best part is she has no idea. She thinks she's being subtle.

BaristaOfJustice: She is NOT subtle. She is the least subtle person in the Western Hemisphere. I say this as someone who once watched her spill an entire latte down her front because Lena Luthor walked in.

Hot_Dog_Vendor_Gary: I've seen the look. She came to my cart on the way home from a gala, in full makeup, and she ordered four hot dogs and said, quote, "I need something to do with my hands."

Over the following weeks, the detractors became the source material.

They flooded the site's inbox with gigabytes of their own: security stills, zoomed phone videos, grainy livestream captures. A man in Cleveland uploaded a seven-minute clip of Kara's expression at a Senate hearing. A group of interns at the Metropolitan Museum sent in a photograph that had required a ladder. A kindly old docent submitted four decades of gala footage, with an apologetic note: I don't normally do this, but I felt the world should see.

They went from haters to fans in a matter of days.

They gathered in groups to watch live gala recordings, with a drink in hand and a legal pad on the knee. They bet on the number of glances. They bet on the duration. They bet, with feverish intensity, on what color the next peek would be. And they watched, rapt, as the most admired reporter in the country tried, and failed, in every possible venue, to get a glimpse of the lace on Lena Luthor's bra.

Because she tried.

She tried. She tried so hard. She would settle her face into a mask of calm professional attention, and fix her eyes on Lena's face, with iron resolve. And then Lena would shift her weight, or lean forward, or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and the whole performance would crumble like a sandcastle in a tide.

She went red every time.

It was, by a vast margin, the most beloved thing on the internet.

PART THREE: THE DIARY
The private journal of the man behind the camera. Kept in a locked drawer. Never published. Do not read.

March 14

Six months of this. Six months, and a hundred and twelve issues, and a readership that could populate a small country. I should be happy. I AM happy. I have an apartment with a real couch, and an assistant who has stopped crying at her desk.

I started this column to hurt a woman.

I'd like to say, for the record, that I regret it. I do regret it. I've regretted it every day since I realized that she's a nicer person than I am.

But there's a problem.

I went through the archives today, for the "Best Of" issue. I laid out four hundred prints on the living room floor. And I noticed something I should have noticed months ago.

She isn't the only one.

March 16

I've been going through the footage again. I'm not sure why. I've told myself it's for the "Best Of," but I don't think it is.

There are other photographs in the archive. Not Kara. Not exactly. Pictures I took over the years of Supergirl. Rooftop landings. Rescues. A press event after the bridge collapse. Pictures I never thought twice about, because who thinks twice about a superhero?

I laid them next to the others.

It's the same look.

It's the SAME LOOK.

Same lingering glance. Same helpless, soft, lopsided little smile. Same way of hovering a fraction of a second too long when Lena Luthor's back is turned. I checked the angles. Some of them are impossible. Three hundred feet up, from a vantage only a person who could fly would have.

Same expression. Same eyes.

I'm going to throw up.

March 17

Okay.

Okay. Let's think about this calmly. Let's not panic. Let's assume I'm wrong. People look alike. Hero looks at CEO. Reporter looks at CEO. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe all of National City gets a little soft around Lena Luthor. She's very, very beautiful.

I checked the eyebrows.

Not a coincidence.

March 20

Little Sunny Danvers is Supergirl.

My little perv is the GREATEST HERO IN THE WORLD.

I've been taking photographs of her cleavage from the ground for six months, and she has been taking photographs of Lena Luthor's cleavage from the SKY.

My chest hurts.

I'm sitting on the floor of my kitchen. I've eaten an entire box of cereal. I can't breathe.

I need to tell someone.

I can't tell anyone.

March 21

I deleted the first batch.

It took four hours. I did it methodically. I did it without thinking. I went through every folder, every file, every cache, every backup, and I erased anything that made the connection too obvious. High-angle shots. Rooftop landings. The one where her cape is visible in the corner of a pub photo from last August. I scrubbed the metadata. I overwrote the drives.

Ten gigabytes. Gone.

My assistant asked me why the "Rooftop Series" had vanished. I told her I'd accidentally dumped it. She gave me a look. I told her I was fine.

I'm not fine.

I'm a professional. I'm a paparazzo. I've taken photographs of senators in compromising positions, and actresses crying in bathrooms. I've never had a moral problem in my life. I take what's in front of me and I sell it.

But this isn't mine.

It's not mine to sell.

April 2

I made a folder.

It's encrypted. It's hidden. I put it on an offline drive, in a safe, behind a false panel, in a place no one knows about. I called it "Don't."

Inside are the best frames. The ones where the look is unmistakable. The ones where the angle gives it away. The ones where, if you laid them side by side, even a child would understand.

I can't delete them.

I know I should. I know it's the right thing to do. But when I look at them, I think, "If one day she decides to tell everyone, somebody should have kept the evidence of how she felt."

That's creepy. I know it's creepy. I've decided to be creepy about it responsibly.

May 9

Gala season.

*I've never been so stressed in my life. Every event, I stand at the back of the room with my camera, and I watch the two of them, and I pray. I pray she won't do it. I pray she won't fly up to the skylight. I pray she won't look up when she hears something, and forget herself.

Every time she looks at Lena like that, I lower my camera.

I shoot a wide angle. I shoot the room. I shoot the chandelier.

And then I step behind a column and press the button anyway, because I'm still me.

I just don't publish it.

I'm protecting her.

I'm not sure from what.

I think from herself.

June 30

Kara Danvers tripped on a rug tonight.

She was watching Lena cross the room. She wasn't looking where she was going. She caught her foot on a fold in the carpet and went down, in front of two hundred people, with an entire tray of champagne flutes, and Lena was there in a heartbeat, her hand out, her eyes wide, saying, "Are you all right?"

And Kara looked up at her, from the floor, covered in champagne, with her glasses crooked and her face in her hands.

And her expression.

I've been doing this for a long time. I've seen every look a human face can make. I have never, in my life, seen someone look at another person like that.

Like she'd just been handed the sun.

Lena helped her up. She said something I couldn't hear, quiet and fond, and Kara turned the color of a beet.

I put my camera down.

I didn't take the picture.

Some things are private.

September 4

I know them.

I don't mean I know them. I've never spoken to either of them. But I've spent a year in their orbit. I know the way Lena stirs her coffee, and the little pause before Kara laughs. I know the sound of their footsteps. I know that when the two of them are in a room together, the whole building seems to sigh, just a little, like a house settling.

I think I'm in love with them.

Not like that. I mean the way you love a show. Or a team. A good story you've followed so long you'd walk through fire to see how it ends.

I hide it from everyone. I hide it from my editor. I hide it from my friends. I'm jealous of it, almost. I guard it like a dragon, in the dark.

They don't know I exist.

But as far as I'm concerned, we're friends.

October 11

One year.

One year of suffering, trying to cover for her. One year of hunting. One year of shredding my own evidence, and rewriting my own captions, and lying to my best friends. One year of watching a woman who can lift a bus try to look nonchalant over a cheese plate.

She is not nonchalant.

She has never once in her life been nonchalant.

It's killing me.

It's killing the whole magazine. We're running out of ways to say "Kara looks." We've used every adjective. We've exhausted every synonym. The last issue's caption was "STARING (again)," and the readership went up eleven percent.

I'm exhausted.

I'm so tired of protecting her.

I think I'd like to see her happy.

October 18

It was a Tuesday.

I was at my desk at ten past eleven, in the middle of eating a sandwich, when a notification buzzed on my phone. A press alert from CatCo. It said: "Kara Danvers to make an important announcement. Live."

I watched it on the break room television, with half the newsroom.

She stood in front of a podium, in a dark blue blazer and her glasses, with her hands clasped in front of her. She looked terrified. She looked calm. She looked like a woman who had decided something.

She said: "My name is Kara Danvers. And I'm Supergirl."

I dropped my sandwich.

I don't remember anything else. I remember the room going silent. I remember somebody screaming. I remember my knees giving out, and sitting down on the carpet, and putting my head between my legs.

I remember breathing.

I remember thinking, "It's over."

I remember thinking, "She told them."

I exhaled for the first time in twelve months.

October 18 (later)

I went home. I opened the safe. I took out the drive marked "Don't."

I plugged it in. I looked at the first image.

Supergirl. Mid-flight, over a rooftop, three hundred feet above a gala. The cape curved behind her like a banner. Her face was turned toward a lit window, and in the window, very small, was a woman in a green dress, with her hair coming down.

Her expression.

I'd never allowed myself to look at it for more than a second.

I looked for an hour.

I think it's the most beautiful photograph I have ever taken.

I think I'm going to make a book.

PART FOUR: THE BOOK
Mask & Faces Presents: On the Eyes of the Supergirl A collection of photographs through the years of our dear local hero

Foreword by the publisher. "I took these photographs for twelve months. I did not publish them. This is why."

The book hit shelves six weeks later.

It released on the exact same morning that Kara Danvers and Lena Luthor issued a joint statement: they were dating, they were in love, and they were engaged.

It sold out before noon.

It went through ten reprints. Pre-orders crashed two separate online retailers. People lined up around the block, holding copies open to the page where Supergirl, mid-flight, was caught staring at Lena Luthor's bare shoulder with an expression of pure, helpless devotion. A local radio station read the captions aloud. A famous painter requested a signed copy. A very elderly woman in a motorized wheelchair waited four hours to tell him, with tears in her eyes, "I always knew."

On the third night, at a charity gala at the Metropolitan, he saw her.

She was standing across the room, in a slim black dress, with a signing pen in her hand and a stack of his book beside her elbow. She had been there for an hour. A long line stretched out in front of her table. Each guest held a copy open to the same page.

She looked, he thought, mildly exhausted.

He was about to turn and slip out through the side door when she looked up.

She looked straight at him.

She smiled.

It was a small, sleek, entirely unreadable smile, and it went down his spine like ice water.

She said something to the woman beside her, and set down her pen, and crossed the floor. She did it at a leisurely pace, with her hands loose at her sides. Heads turned. The crowd parted. She stopped a foot in front of him, and tilted her head.

"Mr. Moreau," she said.

His throat closed.

"Ms. Luthor."

"I believe," said Lena Luthor, "that we should speak."

She steered him gently, with one hand on his elbow, to a small, shadowy alcove behind a pillar. It had a velvet bench. It had a potted palm. It had, he noticed, a very good view of the exit.

He thought, with great clarity: This is it. This is how it ends. I will be found in a river.

"Please," said Lena. "Sit."

He sat.

She did not. She stood in front of him, with her arms folded, looking down, with an expression he could not read.

"Eighteen months ago," she said, "a photograph appeared in the back pages of your magazine."

"Yes. Ma'am."

"It was a photograph of my best friend, looking at my..." She paused. "Hips."

"I, yes. I, that was, I believe it was Issue Number..."

"One."

"One. Yes. Ma'am."

"There were a hundred and fifty-one more."

"Yes."

"A website. A forum. A subreddit with four hundred thousand members. A drinking game." She raised an eyebrow. "A man named Walter."

"He's very good at it."

"I'm sure."

He wanted to die.

He wanted, very much, for the floor to open up and swallow him, and for the velvet bench to fold shut over his head. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He had faced down a mob of armed bodyguards in Monaco, and he had never been this frightened.

"I'm going to tell you something," said Lena.

"Please don't sue me."

"I've known."

He blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"About the column. And the blog. And the footage." She smiled, slowly. "I've known since Issue Number Four."

He stared.

"You, you knew?"

"I read every one."

"But, the lawyers, your, I've been waiting for a, a cease-and-desist, a, a..."

"I told them not to."

"What?"

"I told legal not to touch you." She said it quite calmly, with her head tilted. "I told security to look the other way. I made sure no one at L-Corp ever sent you so much as a nastygram." She paused. "Do you know how many people have tried to sue you, Mr. Moreau?"

"I, I assumed, a few..."

"Three hundred and twelve."

He gaped.

"I had them all dismissed."

"Why?"

Lena looked at him.

She looked at him, for a long moment, with an odd, soft, faintly rueful expression, and then she did something he would never, in all his years, have predicted.

She blushed.

"Because," she said, "the footage was mine."

"I'm sorry?"

"Some of it." She cleared her throat. "A great deal of it, actually. The security stills. The gala feeds. The, ah, the angles. You'd be amazed what you can find, if you have the proper access to the L-Corp archive. I made a, a folder."

"You, you gave me the, you leaked,"

"I leaked."

"The candelabra."

"It was a very good candelabra."

"The Senate hearing."

"That one wasn't me. That was a man in Cleveland."

He opened his mouth. He closed it. He had never, in thirty years of journalism, been so utterly speechless.

"I don't understand," he said, faintly.

Lena was looking at the potted palm.

"I wanted to see what she liked," she said.

"What?"

"It was, it began as an experiment. A research project." She cleared her throat again. Her cheeks had gone a very pretty shade of pink. "I'd noticed that she, that Kara, that she looked. I'd noticed it for a long time. And I'd always wondered what, what specifically. What she liked."

"Her, her tastes."

"Her tastes."

"In clothes."

"In everything." Lena's voice was very small and very dry. "Colors. Cuts. Necklines. I found out she has a, a surprising amount of interest in square necklines. She goes weak for burgundy. There's a particular shade of green that makes her forget her own name."

"Emerald."

"Emerald," said Lena. "Yes."

He was fairly sure he was dreaming.

"I started wearing it," she said. "On purpose. At events, where I knew she'd be. And I'd watch her. And I'd note the results." She waved a hand. "I kept a spreadsheet."

"Of course you kept a spreadsheet."

"It had tabs."

"I'm sure it did."

"One of them," said Lena, to the palm, "was entitled 'Lace.'"

He put his hand over his mouth.

"I may have also," said Lena, in an even tinier voice, "tried a few different, ah, types of..."

"Of?"

"Lingerie."

He was going to die.

He was going to die on this velvet bench, behind a potted palm, in front of the most powerful woman in National City. His heart simply wasn't going to take it.

"I'd, I'd sort of, accidentally let a strap show. At the Hartwell Foundation dinner. Just to see." Lena was staring at the palm with a fixed, resolute, scarlet gaze. "She dropped a plate."

"I have that photograph."

"I know. I sent it."

"I thought it came from a fan."

"It came from me."

He put his head in his hands.

"And the, the, the thing," said Lena, a little desperately. "At the opera. The back. The low one. That was deliberate."

"I wondered about that."

"She had to leave the theater."

"I remember. It was on a Thursday."

"It was a very good Thursday."

He could not look at her.

"It got out of hand," she said, finally, in a very quiet voice.

"I, yes. I, I should say."

"I never meant for it to, to grow. It was supposed to be a, a private study. And then you started publishing, and I thought, oh, well. And then the drinking game. And then someone made a musical." She sighed. "And then I just, I couldn't stop."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

"I never thought..."

"Mr. Moreau." She looked at him, finally. Her face was pink, and her eyes were shining, and her smile was shy. "I was waiting."

"For?"

"For her to say something."

There was a silence.

"I thought," said Lena, "that if I gave her enough, if I made it clear, if I let her see that I saw, she might, one day, find the courage to, to tell me." She swallowed. "And she didn't. She just kept looking. And going red. And dropping things. And I thought, Oh, Kara."

"Oh."

"And in the end, she did tell me. In her own way. On live television."

"In front of the world," breathed the paparazzo.

"She is," said Lena, fondly, "an idiot."

"She is wonderful."

"She is."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the gala drifted around them, a murmur of voices, and the clink of glasses, and a very faint quartet.

"There is," said Lena, "one condition."

"Anything."

"If you ever, in your life, tell anyone about this, I will sue you."

"I would never."

"I will destroy you."

"I'd expect you to."

"I'll take your magazine, your house, and your camera. I'll have your hard drive in a vault in the Cayman Islands."

"I, yes. Yes."

"But I won't," said Lena, "for the photographs."

He blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"The photographs." Her smile had turned small and wry. "The ones you took. The book." She lifted one hand, and looked at it. "I'll have you know I've bought four copies. I keep one in the office. I keep one in the bedroom. One is in the car. One, ah, travels."

"You bought them?"

"I'm a supporter."

"I thought you hated them."

"I have never been so touched," said Lena, quietly.

He stared at her.

She had gone suddenly very serious. The pink had faded from her cheeks. Her voice, when it came, was soft and steady and a little unsteady, at the very edges.

"Do you know," she said, "how many people have ever looked at me like that?"

"I, no."

"One."

He said nothing.

"And do you know how many have ever protected her for a year, without being asked, without being thanked, without even being known?"

He was crying.

He had not meant to. It simply arrived. A hot, humiliating, helpless prickle in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand.

"I didn't, I wasn't," he said, hoarsely. "It was only, I only..."

"I know."

"She was just so, and you were..."

"I know."

"You're my friends," said the paparazzo, and put his face in his hands.

Lena was silent for a very long time.

Then, with a rustle of silk, she sat down on the velvet bench beside him. She put one hand, lightly, on his shoulder.

"Yes," she said. "We are."

They sat together, in the alcove, for several minutes. Nobody came looking.

When the bell rang for the next course, Lena rose, and smoothed her dress, and held out a hand.

"I think," she said, "you should come and see the line."

"The, the line?"

"There are four hundred people out there, waiting for your book." She smiled. "I'd hate for you to miss the sales."

"I'm, you're, I don't..."

"Come along, Mr. Moreau."

He took her hand.

They walked out of the alcove together, into the bright, glittering, roaring light of the ballroom, and the crowd saw them, and parted, and a ripple of applause went around the room.

Somewhere in the middle of it, a tall blonde woman in a navy suit, with a plate of canapés in one hand and her glasses perched on top of her head, looked up from across the room.

She saw Lena.

She saw the man at her side.

And the look that came over her face, a slow, helpless, fond, wondering look, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes soft and shining, was so open, and so naked, and so entirely and absolutely devoted, that the whole room, as one, sighed.

She walked into a pillar.

She did it with great dignity.

"Sixty-two," said Walter, from the back, in a voice choked with emotion.

EPILOGUE: THE INSCRIPTION
At the signing that night, Lena Luthor sat down at the long table, pulled a stack of books toward her, and began to sign.

She signed a hundred. Two hundred. Three. She signed until her hand ached, and her smile had worn smooth, and the gala was well into the small hours.

At the end of the night, a last book remained on the table.

It was not from the stack. It was a battered copy, creased and dog-eared, with a small coffee ring on the cover. It had been in someone's bag.

She opened it.

The first page was blank, except for a handwritten line, in an unfamiliar, slightly clumsy script:

To Lena, with all my heart. I'm so sorry about the candelabra. — K.

She laughed.

She took her pen, and below it, in her own sharp, elegant hand, she wrote:

To Kara, Keep looking. I'll keep wearing green. — L.

She closed the book, and held it against her chest, and sat very still in the empty ballroom, with a small and secret smile.

Across the room, in the doorway, a pair of blue eyes were watching her.

They were soft, and shining, and warm.

They were not, this time, looking at her dress.

The Fin