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The Move, The Hall, The Burden, And You (II)

Kara Zor El x F!reader

(find part one here!)

𝘼/𝙉: Hey folks! Know I've been gone a while and this is multiple days late. I apologize for the long wait. I literally got carried away and ended up with too many words. I would like to apologize in advance for any inconsistency or grammatical errors as this is a lot to proofread so rather than my usual routine, I'll be proofreading and editing over the next few days. Like before, I hope this is satisfactory and I wish you all a (lengthy) good read. BY THE WAY, the fic is insanely long so I had to split it. I'll be linking the second half at the end of this part.

𝙬𝙘: 28.2k

(they hold hands) (fluff) (sleepovers) (they get banned from an establishment) (lore from the comics) (krypto cameos left and right) (reader wears kara's clothes) (kara's throwing innuendos) (good ol' skin to skin) (reader isnt catching them) (kara holds reader with questionable hand placement) (kara likes reader in her clothes) (clark kent mentioned) (will he appear in the next part??) (i said slowburn and i meant it)

𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎: After a few depressing months in Metropolis, you finally land a job. Your officemates are as welcoming as they are kooky, you have a salary to rely on, and life seems to be improving. However, your beloved neighbour is still gone. Things go haywire after a celebratory team-event held at the bar. You wonder if you'll be saved. If your upward track was just a cruel illusion.

To believe in saviours, or not to believe in savours? That MIGHT be the question. I still don't know how to write synopsis(es). Read and find out.

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎: reader has a job, reader has coworkers, drinking and alcohol, reader is lonely, the word platonic, mentions of money, crowded train, children

𝙀𝙓𝙏𝙍𝘼: Interact if u like. No more promises about posting early because I have the dreadful inkling that the next part may or may not exceed 30k. Sorry if it does. Cursing is still a reference to comics. If you're new, I beseech you to click the hyperlink and read the first part. Reader is a yearner, okay? Can't yearn without context.

In spite of knowing how incalculable Kara's 'retreats' were, a part of you still missed her. You would think of the patience she gave you in the diner and at the map, the constant offers to fix your furniture, the menu, the pies—and you'd feel this… rush. An obscure, bittersweet warmth unfurling within you. It coiled into your ribs and drifted in your bloodstream. Maybe that was why your days were fairer with her in them. In a way, it kept you alive. Your friendship. Her.

She'd become someone that mattered to you more than you'd thought. You'd gone from seeing her in the light to needing her as much as you did the sun. And no—it wasn't romantic. It was merely your waking in the morning to the silence in the hall. Your leaving for the groceries just to return to a dead and quiet space between her door and yours. You missed the fleeting conversations and you missed the noise she and Krypto caused. That was when you'd realized how much you'd grown to like Kara.

But you had to admit, a lot of good things transpired in the time she was away.

The biggest had been the unexpected miracle that came on a Saturday afternoon. It'd been three days since she left the pies at your door. Three days since you'd felt her on you. You'd fixed up the flat since then. Permanently. You owed yourself a good life and you owed yourself the decency to try. Gone were the scraps of cardboard and crumpled tape. You'd thrown them all out in one day, making several trips to and from the garbage chute on your floor. And as for the hazardous scissors all over the tiles, you'd kept those in a repurposed mug.

The expired food went in the bin. The planks of wood went in the closet. It wasn't because they were horrendously ugly or because you'd stubbed your toe on their rough sides whenever you passed them. Though you couldn't contest the validity of those reasons, you'd stored them for safe-keeping. You wanted them in prime condition so that when Kara came back, whether it would be in a few days or a month, you could fix it with her.

You'd kept the receipt from your lunch with Kara. You'd originally taken it as a reminder of your debt. Then you looked at it the morning after and found amusement in place of obligation. Sure, the three-digit total had been and still was harrowing. You didn't know what Kara's job was but you knew it didn't make a six-figure sum on the annual. You supposed that it mattered more because of that. She treated you out in spite of her "really %$&#$#" morning. In spite of a lack of funds you knew you were both subject to.

Rather than the photos from town, you pinned that on the living room wall, Kara's note displayed beside it. It wasn't a million dollar painting, not by a long shot—but you wanted to be good to yourself. It wouldn't hurt anyone to let the past remain where it belonged. The present deserved to be heard too. In any case, it gave you more joy than your memories from town.

How wonderful, you'd thought, to need only glance at some papers pinned high to alleviate the burden you carried. You'd hoped that wherever she was, the memory of you would do the same for her too.

You'd been folding the laundry when the notification came. The clock had read 16:23, the dishes piled in the sink and dinner on your mind. The ding! rang through in the midst of the news playing on the TV. Something something Superman, something something Supergirl being missing.

You hadn't cared for them at all the day you moved in. But the longer you spent in Metropolis, the more you got accustomed to their heroes. And their villains. See, the closest your town got to having an indestructible defender against injustice was the firefighter's office. If it wasn't them, it was the spiritual rescuing people found in the preacher down the street.

Essentially, you'd heard enough to become aware of the Supers. You weren't a fanatic or the best-educated in terms of their stories, but you knew most of the sonic booms and overnight wreckage in the city could be attributed to them. However, that awareness didn't mean you relied on the idea of heroes to save your days.

Directly across you, within the short reach of six paces, was where your most dependable friend lived. Fixing up your life didn't mean you had to fix all your bad habits. You had plenty more years for that. Free of remorse, you remained ignorant of the voices on the news.

The notification had pinged once more. Your phone had been sitting on a heap of freshly cleaned clothes, three disparate stacks set beside it on the couch. You'd brushed it off. Drawing out another shirt from the pile, you'd impartially assumed it was at most another post on ThemTube. Otherwise, it was an unverified and bogus article about why eating three walnuts a day would raise your IQ level.

That was, until you'd seen the Beemail logo. You'd paused and let your hands still.

It was perfect timing, really. You had already begun to consider less socially acceptable job offers from the lack of responses to your applications. And what was wrong with that? All hard work resulted in hard-earned money. Didn't change anything if you had to shake some to make some.

You'd slowly lowered the shirt until the cotton was flaccid by your hips. Your phone had lit up long enough for you to catch it. There, nestled in between subscription reminders and payment plans, was your way out. It was the logo. The long lines of text. The word "CONFIRMATION". You'd felt your eyes widen as you'd dropped the shirt, the fabric crumpling at your feet.

And like a badger at a beehive, you'd lunged for the phone.

You'd landed gracelessly in the pile of clothes, your arms splayed over folded stacks. You hadn't cared that your past hour devoted to getting them perfectly sized had gone to waste. You'd been too occupied in cradling your phone. Blue light to your face, your heart had stuttered at the beauty of the subject line.

"Subject: EMPLOYMENT CONFIRMATION LETTER

Dear —-,

We are delighted to confirm that you have been selected as a temporary proofreader here at The Daily Scoop, commencing your start of employment on 10th August until 28th September, 2026.

You will be paid a weekly salary of $380. Your working hours are 9 AM - 5 PM from Monday until Thursday and 9 AM - 1 PM on Fridays. Our editor June will be in charge of training and supervising you until the termination of your contract.

We look forward to working with you.

If you have any further inquiries, feel free to reach out to us via our email or through our contact no. +1 9857724601.

Sincerely,

Robert Burbage

The Daily Scoop."

You were finally employed. Taking in a deep breath, you'd released your phone. It had landed with a muffled thump. Your head fell soon after, dipping into the plush stack of clothes, folded and falling apart. A few buttons had been digging into your cheek and the cold metal of a zipper had pressed into your forehead—but you'd been so glad. No, you were fucking ecstatic. A grin had crept onto your face as you'd looked to the heavens, thrusting your arms out to embrace the taste of sweet, sweet victory.

Well, one arm had been halfway stretched. You didn't have much room with your couch stationed against the wall.

"Thank you, Universe," you'd whispered, your head languorously shaking in delight. You'd closed your eyes and imagined it all. Your temporary employment, your $3,040 dollars, all the new friends you could make. You'd allowed your imagination to transform the softness engulfing you (laundry) into the softness of a hotel bed somewhere in Paris. Perhaps, you'd thought, you'd reached so earnestly to the sky that heaven itself had come down to you.

Slowly, you'd pulled your arms back in. Wriggled onto your back, arms and legs scattered as you'd starfish-ed on the cramped couch. Peak position for gratitude.

You'd stared at the ceiling. The universe beyond it. The forces working to grant you all these good things. You couldn't have helped the sigh of relief that escaped you, beaming up to the sky.

That was right. Your life was steadily going back to its upward track and you were more than ready to wave rock bottom goodbye.

Monday came and Kara still hadn't. You didn't mind. Distance made the heart grow fonder and you knew that time apart would give you more to say to her.

You woke up sooner that day. You greeted the morning before the sun could, early enough to hear the wind as it drifted by with the birdsong of the dawn. It wasn't completely like the sound of home. There, the morning began with the rooster's call. It began with the dew frosted on the windows. The cold fading into warmth as the light rose over the horizon.

Maybe you had grown. You used to think growing older meant only the passing of the days, the aging through the years. Free will and freedom was all you'd dreamed of. You'd thought that Metropolis couldn't teach you anything, but it had. Growing older now meant seeing past yourself and grasping at the world beyond your ideals. It meant shifting through altered and evolving versions of one soul. It was, in truth, the gift of being lucky enough to live a hundred lives through the choices each variation made.

This version of you, built and honed and still learning in Metropolis, had a contrary definition tied to home. It was the coo of the doves. The vacant, dimmed streets. The skyscrapers standing where trees would have been in the mind of the version you used to be. Though the people were harder to talk to—even harder to love—a part of you was glad. Grateful that Metropolis wasn't the world you'd concocted all those years ago.

It was a far cry from what home used to be. But that didn't mean it couldn't ever be home to an older, newer you.

The firm was eight stops from the complex, the transit tracking up to a forty-five-minute commute. You watched the sky meld from red, to pink, to gold. You observed the people leaving their homes, starting their cars, feeding the birds. You saw the first rays cast over the ground. Like the city breathed with you, and you with it.

You'd never acknowledged the life of it before. Ironically, it was quieter than the town. What made the city thrive flowed beneath the asphalt and existed interspersed in the crowds. It was present in the chatter on the sidewalk. In the rushing sounds on the road. Most of all, it was present in the hall that tethered you to Kara.

You acknowledged it now.

You heard the announcement of your destination before the train halted. The hiss of the opening doors pulled you from your notions.

Somehow, roaming the city felt no different to roaming the woods. Only, you ventured on your own this time. And perhaps it was long-overdue for you to do so. Spending three-quarters of your life in the company of others led to your failure in observing what stood around you. It was always their thoughts occupying the space of yours. A shared life. Thus, you couldn't give the world the reverence it merited.

That might have been the cause for why you'd flown the coop in search of love and success. You couldn't see how fulfilling your life could have meant anything else. That your accolades could have been greater than romance or a noble act worth your name placed on a pedestal in history. And though they subsisted still within you, you'd stored them away with the boards and the scissors and the pictures. It was wiser. Safer too.

Roaming the city also didn't feel any different to roaming the woods because you couldn't seem to find the damn building. The directions on your phone had ceased to exist at a spot you'd walked past three times. It was some sort of coffee shop or bakery with a yellow awning, seats and tables collecting dust beneath it. There wasn't a signboard above or a sign indicating if it was open or not.

You'd stop in front of it, glance at your phone, and you'd find the arrow gone. You tried walking a block ahead, a block before—and still, there was no sign of the firm.

Where the hell was it?

You rubbed your eyes to ensure you weren't seeing things. The arrow remained stubbornly pointing at its mystery spot. You scowled at your screen.

You had two options. One, you could break into every single establishment on that street until you found it. Two, you could ask a stranger. Breaking into all the establishments would probably blot a mark on your record. Not like you had the confidence to do it anyway.

Scratching your head, you looked around to scope the passing people. It didn't take long for a man in a tux to sprint past you, briefcase in one hand and his phone in the other.

"Miranda, listen—Miranda! I can't make it to the meeting because my sister got run ove—"

Whatever happened to his sister, you wished her a speedy recovery and returned to searching for your target. The next passerby was a woman. Yes, you could ask a woman, right? She looked calmer. She was wearing running shoes, jogging pants, and had a huge duffel bag slung over her shoulder. That was exactly what you needed. No emergencies, no family members dying—you could absolutely ask her.

"Hey, excuse me?"

"I CAN'T DO THIS TODAY! Ryan, I told you last time that if you ever came back I would sue your whole fucking house to the groun—"

The blood drained from your face. You did have a hand extended. A wavering smile. What you didn't have, however, was the common sense to see if she had earphones plugged in. You hadn't seen them at all.

Though she was twenty paces away and only getting farther, you could still hear her.

"Oh, honey, I'm taking your land, your house, your wife…"

As your willpower fell, so did your hand.

You really, really didn't wanna have to ask a stranger.

Cutting your losses, you turned around and walked back the way you came. You were finally employed. But who gave a damn? Who gave a hoot? The universe had given you enough signs that it wasn't meant to be. The universe wasn't taking back its gift. It was protecting you. Rationalization was a fake concept.

Just as you were about to pass the yellow awning again, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You stood stiff. Held your breath.

Kara…?

No, the hand was larger. Too cold and too heavy.

"Aren't you the new hire?"

Hell no it wasn't Kara. It was someone better. Your coworker? Your manager? Your boss?! Taking a deep breath, you put on your best grin and whirled around.

"I a—"

You locked eyes with the man, your smile faltering. He was paunchy and tall. If anyone fit the word "burly", it was him. His t-shirt had a Klooney Tunes character printed on, dotted pink hearts encircling it with the fabric stretched tight over his chest and arms. He smelled specifically of apple-scented body wash. Well-trimmed beard. Moustache.

You had to swallow your urge to gasp when you saw his hair. You were stupefied. Not even your mother had hair that good. The man had glorious, dark brown curls down to his neck.

Then you heard a (mental) sheet of glass shattering in your head. A thought suddenly occurred. You didn't know what your coworkers looked like. You didn't know what your boss looked like. All you saw was an opening on the newspaper that was planted at the bottom of the last page. No face, no photo. What if they got you confused for a totally different human being?

Hesitantly, you reached up and brushed your shoulder, wiping away where his hand had been. That spot was reserved.

"I might be."

"Might? No, I'm sure you are. I read your resume."

Nevermind. You were spot on.

"Oh. Sorry, I just… I've been walking this whole street for twenty minutes. I was honestly starting to think I was in the wrong place," you chuckled, strained and awkward.

You watched in mild fear and confusion as he cocked his head, his eyes going wide. Maybe Kara was the only light-eyed person that didn't scare the shit out of you. His eyes widened and you had to look away. You felt him slope forward to take a closer gander at you, sweat forming on your neck as you angled yourself further from him. Your name could have been Neo with how you teetered on the brink of pulling a bullet time move on the man.

"You're definitely her," he reiterated, nodding. The man squinted and continued, his fingers stroking his beard. "That's weird. I thought I sent you the directions."

"Sir," you started, gulping. "I might fall, sir. Sir, I'm not flexible enough for this."

His breath had already come too close for comfort before you felt it halt. Immediately, he shot back to standing straight, his chest protruding. The bead of sweat forming on your throat had fallen. You hiccuped.

"My bad!"

If he was your boss, you were incalculably grateful to be a temporary hire. You were barely recovering from the strain in your lower back when he began to laugh. His head thrown back to guffaw. You swore that word could have fit no one else but him. The sound resounded on the street and caused about five of the passing strangers to turn, flashing appalled glances at the both of you.

"Sorry, sorry. It's a whole thing," he said, offering an apologetic pat on the shoulder. The impact of the 'pat' made you nearly cough and spit.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you laughed as well. It came out trembling. Your voice cracked.

"Oh, don't worry, I get it."

Did you?

You took a step back, jamming your hands in your pockets, "Uhm… so where—Where is the firm? Not to interrupt your… whatever, or anything."

"We're in front of it."

"I'm sorry, what?"

The receipt had been harrowing. But this? This discovery was an entirely new level of macabre.

The yellow awning belonged to The Daily Scoop. What kind of journalism firm had hedgerows and outdoor seating? Where was the sign? If the pun was intended, was this a part-time ice-cream shop? S.O.S.

It was a losing battle. You were helpless against the many muscles in your face that threatened to break out into a foul, ugly scowl. Regardless of your best efforts, you couldn't bring yourself to process it. The man—Robert Burbage—was indeed your boss. He was elated as he led you through the storefront, extensively spilling how eager he was to see a new face, how welcome you were to the "family", and how there were no other journalists in Metropolis quite like them.

Oh, you believed that.

As soon as he opened the front door, you were greeted by the sight of four people huddled at the first desk. You felt your smile fading further as you scanned them all. One had vibrant violet hair. One had disposable latex gloves. Another had mismatched socks and toe shoes. The last was in pyjamas. You could see them passing tools from the gaps between their bodies. Could hear them arguing amongst themselves.

"Fin, you're doing it all wrong."

"Why don't you do it then?!"

"Where are the scissors? Where are the scissors?!"

"Glue it quicker! Shit, she's gonna be here soon—"

Beside you, Robert had paled. You saw his gaze rove over them too. The scraps on the floor. The overflowing bin.

Clearly, you both had had expectations. You thought you would have walked into an office with the sound of keys clicking and the coffee machine running. An office with bright, fluorescent lights. You imagined greeting all the well-dressed folks at their cubicles, each desk tailored to subtly suit them quirks and characters. Maybe they'd have photos of their family. A cup with chocolates or a shelf with books like your parents'.

This office had none of that. Your expectations had assiduously flunked.

"They're not usually like that," he reasoned, quickly moving to usher you back out. "Why don't you wait outside while we clean up?"

Robert's palms were inches from your face as he endeavoured to turn you to the door. You could have let him. However, you had the nagging feeling that this wasn't a one-off occasion. If that was the style of office you'd be in for the next eight weeks, you were better off facing it when you could instead of running away. It was your first job in Metropolis. You had to make a good impression.

Shaking your head, you politely declined Robert's frantic suggestion.

"It's fine, sir. I don't wanna intrude on them."

You held your hands out to ease his down. They almost listened. Almost cooperated with yours. Then his face began to melt. His earlier fluster gradually turned into awe. Something between a sob and a cough escaped him and Robert's fingers soon enfolded yours.

Your lips smacked into a flat line.

"Sweetie… they are going to love you."

As if that was your first concern. No, your concern was this strange man who seemed all too eager to welcome you to a strange family you couldn't be bothered to know. The sole reason you came was for experience. For cold, hard cash. These people were hellbent on misconstruing your shallow desires.

Shifting your feet, you forced yourself to look away.

"Sure, sir. Yes, sir. Can I please go to my seat, sir? If I have one?"

He tilted his head, humming in amusement. You expected relief then. That you'd be free of his company and his hands and his needlessly large green eyes.

"No."

"Huh?"

"No. You should go out. I meant that."

You spent about twenty minutes outside. Glancing anxiously at your watch, you saw the 9:21 displayed in bold, white numbers. Twenty-one minutes past the beginning of your shift. You'd already tried numerous times to remind Robert it was your first day and that their productivity levels would surely dwindle with your training shelved. Each time, however, Robert would beam at you with the same mawkish smile he'd greeted you with. You couldn't understand what was so important about the DIY situation they had fermenting in the room.

To think your first job would be there of all places. It made your skin crawl.

Your watch read 9:38 when Robert finally relented.

"Go on," he urged, "They're waiting for you."

This time, the doors opened to those four people facing you. The woman with violet hair had a dopey grin on her face. The one with latex gloves sent you a wink. The one in mismatched socks had a faint, upturned curl to his lips. You saw the hint of dimples in his cheeks. As for the last one in striped orange pyjamas—he began the countdown and the others followed suit.

"Three, two, one—"

"Welcome to The Daily Scoop!"

Frozen, the only muscles willing to move were the ones in your eyes. They skimmed a second time over the people. Then they wandered to what they all held. A fraction each of a banner was shared in their hands, your name spelled in letters traced and trimmed like bubbles. The shapes were cut clean. The chart paper was spotless. You'd noticed then how many latex gloves had been used and discarded in the bin. Beneath them were the scrapped letters that had fallen short of their standards.

Standards they'd upheld for a stranger.

You would have liked to smile. For the first time in the day, you could have worn one you meant. But you felt your heart swell. You felt the unbearable warmth within you. Your throat tightened as it thrummed and spread—higher and higher until it came as the tears clouding your vision. Your bottom lip quivered. Oh, universe, you were doing it again.

You'd cried twice in four days over moderate gestures that required little to no effort. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, trying and failing to stave off the tears. How shameful. How embarrassing. Worst of all, how touching it was to you that they'd gone so far for the likes of a temporary hire.

Metropolis was weird. Nothing could change your mind of that. You'd believed so before, and you believed it more now. You saw it in their grins, in the hope they held in that banner, and in the hope they stored for you. When you'd read the confirmation letter, you'd imagined your next eight weeks would play out in formality. You'd liked the idea of friends but you'd set it aside for the rationalization that it wasn't realistic. People didn't have so much time to spare. It switched a valve somewhere in your heart to realize people you hardly knew had spared over an hour for you.

Hence, your first day at the office was marked by a tearful group hug. It was stuffy. A little too foreign. Yet you were thankful nonetheless that you stayed in spite of yourself. Without doubt, landing a spot in another office wouldn't have resulted in free lunch. Or free dinner. Or a free ride home.

They had a huge motto regarding workplace family and quality time. Who were you to refuse?

You took the banner home in the evening. You nailed it on the wall a few inches from Kara's note and the receipt. It had started to become a sort of museum. A showcase for the little things that had moved you and changed you. Admittedly, the banner was kinder on the eyes than the receipt. It said a lot of odd things. One look at the wall and a stranger might have thought you self-absorbed. Perhaps too sentimental. Or with the simplicity of it all, too frugal. You didn't mind.

No, you didn't mind at all.

Monday through Friday, you'd spent the days noting the quirks and tells of your coworkers. You'd constantly found yourself questioning if every corporate establishment in Metropolis worked the same way. And a larger part of you couldn't keep from questioning where all their profit was coming from. They spent most of their days obsessing over the Supers.

As spectacular as they were, they weren't a sponsorship. Writing about them also didn't aid how competitive The Daily Scoop was in comparison to their rivalling firms.

Alas, they were all lovestruck fools.

You could hear them even now. Sitting in a half-circle booth at a bar, you'd found yourself in the crosshairs of their arguments. You'd been there for an hour. You'd resorted to zoning out and allowing your soul to drift onto the dance floor instead, seeing as you physically couldn't.

"I think she'd drink beer," Tom mused, nudging at Zoe with his elbow, "I mean, think about it. You're fighting aliens and mass threats to the whole damn planet every other day. You seriously wanna have wine after that?"

Zoe rolled her eyes. "Tom. Wine can actually be calming. You wouldn't know anything about that though."

The first time you saw Zoe and Tom arguing, they were glaring at each other in front of a cork board. That was when you'd learned their names. Zoe, you couldn't forget. You could spot her hair a hundred miles away.

Regarding Thomas, you knew him then because of the mismatched socks and toe shoes. You recognized him now through his gangly stature and square glasses. He didn't have much to say unless the conversation covered Supergirl. Which was, unfortunately, the one topic taking up their cork board. A whole section had legitimately been consigned to sourcing the fabric used for her skirt.

Clank!

You heard the distinct sound of a glass slammed into the table. Looking across, you were met with the unsettling sight and cognition that June had downed her fourth round of the night.

"There are infinitely more interesting things to want to know about Supergirl. And I—I just don't understand," she griped, pointing a finger at Tom, "why the two of you insist every damned day to bicker over such childish topics."

On the other hand, the one that been in latex gloves was June. She had her preferences. To no one's surprise, she was the reason for the neat cuts on the banner. She also owned a majority of the expensive stationery in the office. You often saw her locking a black binder in a safe in the mornings. She'd only ever peruse the binder for an hour, strictly shifting said hours by a thirty-minute gap each day. You didn't want to pry and you knew she didn't want to tell. Nevertheless, the one time you caught a glimpse was the last time you wanted to peer into the thing at all.

It had been filled. To the brim. Just like Zoe and Tom, the woman had nothing but the Supers occupying the sleeves. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't shake off the image of Superman's teardrop muscle. It haunted you.

Beside you, Fin obnoxiously cleared his throat. As opposed to the others, he'd taken to swirling his glass in indifference. He'd packed his own champagne glass to the bar. His motives were unclear. When you had asked, you'd quickly grasped that there were simply no plausible way for the reasons to be explained without your mind combusting. He hadn't taken a single sip of champagne in th last few hours. All he had at present was a yogurt tequila with an opened can of coke under the table.

"Okay, June. A few of us don't wanna analyse how many pirouettes she did in the air. The thing is, we have better questions to answer. And, really, there's nothing wrong with that."

He had been the one in pyjamas. He remained steadfast to them throughout the whole week, actually. You'd naively assumed he only wore it because you were coming. That maybe he'd got up so early that he sacrificed his decency for the welcome party. That was, until you saw him going upstairs on Wednesday.

He lived above the office.

June scoffed, "First of all, they are far from being classified as pirouettes—You do that on one leg, Fin. Where do you see her leg when she's airborne!"

You jolted when her hands shot out, acrylic nails clawing at the table. She almost leapt onto it again. She had done it before with the very docile aim of strangling someone there. That someone was, unfortunately, the man in pyjamas over to your right. Fortunately, Robert had been there to placate the situation.

He could mend this, right?

Glancing around, you realized Robert was no longer there. He had vanished. He had abandoned you. You were left in a sea of bickering childr—adults.

Zoe clicked her tongue, shaking her head at June. She motioned towards the spray bottle beside her plate of nachos. You'd asked her once for it. Foolishly, like you had done with Fin, you assumed these people were normal. You'd just wanted sanitizer. Yet when she sprayed it, you'd made the unnerving discovery that it was purified, distilled drinking water.

"Careful, girl. Is that a threat? I might have to ruin your hair. Or worse, I might have to call Superman on you."

June sat her ass down. She gasped.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would."

"I'm not going to forget this, Zoe. You traitor," June seethed through gritted teeth, yanking her fifth round to down it in retaliation. You had the feeling she would definitely forget it.

Zoe smirked and shrugged, "That's what I thought. Anyway—what about our newbie?"

All their heads snapped to you in an instant.

You scooted back in your seat.

"Uh, yeah?"

"You haven't said anything," Fin replied, peering at you expectantly. June was ogling you. Zoe's irises were the the most you could see of her in the dim light. Tom had stretched his neck out to see you.

"Eh… it's not really my thing," you chuckled, averting your gaze. You pinched the centre of your blouse and tried to fan a little fresh air to yourself, hoping it could flush out your awareness of their gawking.

Tom cocked his head, "Not your thing?"

"That's awfully vague, love," June noted, setting her drink down. "Tell us more."

Shit. You were a non-fan tucked in a flock of fanatics.

"I, uh," you faltered, scratching your throat, "I don't think about them that much."

The table shook.

"Excuse me?!"

It was 11 PM when you escaped their clutches. You stumbled out of the bar, weak and drained (cruising steady in sneakers), inebriated and confused (completely sober). They'd kept you there for two hours. For two whole hours, all you heard was Superman this, Supergirl that. They rambled on and on about the Justice League. Some woman with powers bestowed by the gods themselves. Some rich guy in a catmobile, or something. But they wouldn't let up about Supergirl. You didn't know why they loved her so much. You couldn't see it the way they did.

Heroes were exactly that. They belonged in stories and if they ever permeated into reality, they belonged a many hundred metres from you. You weren't big enough to have intergalactic or international issues plaguing your life. Neither did you seek the spectacle of a caped saviour to ease your burdens.

You were content with what you had. That was your flat. Your memories. Your… your neighbour, and your good friend. Kara.

You weren't about to lose your sanity waiting for a cab that wouldn't come. A few intoxicated strangers had already mindlessly bumped into you, their limbs slung over their friends' shoulders. Bodies tucked into the crook of their partner's arms. They reeked of alcohol.

You wondered where Kara was. You hoped she'd come home.

Sparing one last glance at the neon sign, you took your leave from the bar.

The train had been empty when you got on. You chose the seat you'd picked in the morning. So late in the evening, you couldn't see the world outside. Only the yellow street lights and your face staring back at you through the window. Your smudged makeup. The shadows under your eyes. You felt the whir thrumming through you as the train ran over the rails.

And every now and then, you witnessed more than that. You saw your face behind the apertures of a full cabin. You saw Kara where she'd stood that day, fingers closed tight around the handrails. Looking down at you from above.

You really hadn't missed anyone so badly in your life. It was unlike you. But… you didn't want to not miss her either. Her physical absence was more than enough. You didn't need to forget her too.

Legs sluggish and leaden, you dragged yourself to your building. It was twelve in the morning. The lobby was desolate, the reception was vacant, and you would have feared the chances of a ghostly apparition if you weren't so out of it.

You stood in the same spot in the lift. The spot where you'd faced the mirror, pointing and mouthing things at Kara. Where you'd held the wildflowers. You left the place where she'd been empty. It felt like a disservice to do otherwise.

After spending so long in the complex, you'd taken the buzz of the flickering bulbs as a welcome sound. The doors opened to their low hum. Futile as it was, you wished that they would flicker once, twice, and you would see her standing in the fleeting flashes of light. It could have been the traces of alcohol in your system. It could have been the brain damage from your coworkers. It was like she had buried herself inside you. And the thought of arriving to that lifeless hall made that pit—that bolthole—carve itself wider.

You sincerely hoped that the Kara in your head had a good fucking sleep in that bed. Because you couldn't.

You didn't look at her door when you reached the window. No, thought-Kara didn't deserve that. You shoved your hand in your bag and rummaged around for your keys. Notebook, pen, hair ties. You felt a multitude of things. What you couldn't feel were the keys you needed most.

"Where the hell," you muttered, using both hands to tear your bag open. In the void of it, you couldn't see a single glinting item. You shook your bag. No jingle. You searched the contents again. No keychain. No keys. You felt your stomach drop.

"Oh, no, no, no, no… No way. Shit. Shit, I'm so stupid."

Breath hitching, you fell to the tiles. Your heart was beginning to race. It had to be somewhere. You dumped the contents of your bag onto your welcome mat. You flipped the pockets of your bag inside-out. Flipped the entire bag inside-out. You wiggled your fingers in the pockets of your jeans, checked the inside of your shoes.

No, you weren't welcome. Your flat didn't want you home. Neither did the universe.

You didn't have your keys. You could still taste the beer from Tom's cup. You regretted tasting whatever the hell June was drinking. And you desperately wanted to pass out in your bed.

You groaned. You must have forgotten your keys in the office. They'd hurried you out in such a rush so they could catch the Early-Bird discount at the bar. Yeah, that was it. You shunned the idea that your keys were roaming in some stranger's possession. It would be in the office. It would totally be there and nowhere else. Sure, it was a Friday night and the office would open in two days. At least the keys were safe.

You would live. There would be another way in the morning. You just had to make it through the night.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you held yourself snug to the wood. The tile was cold. The mat couldn't block it as well as you'd have liked. You could smell the alcohol off your own breath and taste the remnants on your tongue, not to mention the stickiness coating your palms from a mysterious substance in the train. If you focused enough, you might have felt the oils leaking out of your pores.

These things happen, you told yourself. There was no use in sulking.

You let your head rest there, cheek flush to your denim jeans. Eyes still evading her door. You most definitely weren't wishing for a hero. There were no such things. Not in your mind. If anything, the likelihood of your assailant returning to silence you was greater than a Super coming to picklock your door open.

So, when your eyes began to droop, you didn't fight the croon of sleep. You would dream there. You would dream of a luckier day, perhaps, where Kara had returned and she'd take you for another lunch. Or dinner. You wouldn't be picky with her. You would bring flowers this time for a change. You didn't know the sort she liked. You didn't know her job or her favourite colour either. But you felt that she wouldn't mind. And you'd dream of a walk. A proper stroll in the city, maybe in a park, with Krypto chasing a ball in the distance.

You would hear his barking. You would smell the grass. And on her, you would feel the heat of her shirt from spending ages sitting out under the sun.

Krypto would fetch and run back. The ball would return covered in his slobber. You wouldn't mind. Maybe you would laugh about it with her. Maybe she'd clean your hands. You would revel in the familiarity of her grasp.

The problem was, she didn't. Krypto kept licking your hand. You felt the slobber increasing and progressively coming in larger dollops. One moment, you were sitting in lawn chairs with Kara. The next, you were in a white room full of saliva and humidity and hell did it stink like unbrushed tee—

"Krypto!"

Your eyes fluttered open. Krypto? Had Kara's cousin come to babysit him? He was a little late. It'd been over a week already.

Something warm and viscous proceeded to pool on your cheek, and something as cold as the arctic kept swiping over it.

"Krypto. Down, boy. You're—hey, buddy, that's not nice—"

No, Kara's cousin didn't sound like a woman. He also didn't sound like her. Opening your eyes, you looked up. You saw a blurred head of white fur looking back down at you. You blinked. It disappeared. A snout began to nudge at your legs. You blinked again. You saw blonde hair.

For the third time that week, you hit the jackpot. Your accuracy meter was crazy. Indeed, it was your assailant. Did you have the strength to fight? Perchance. Could you have cared less?

Nope.

In a matter of seconds, the figure knelt down beside you, reaching to lift your head. You grumbled in response and weakly kicked her away with your shoe. You suspected that your assailant might have had a prosthetic leg. It was like trying to kick a metal wall.

The issue was, they were an immovable object. You were a stoppable force.

Giving up, you let your head loll in her hands. You'd just go back to dreaming. You weren't sure if you'd even woken at all.

"Oh, sweetheart. Why are you out here?"

It sounded so much like Kara.

Her voice channelled directly into your ear. A hand roved over your leg, the steady weight tepid through your jeans. It moved up along your shoulder. It settled on your face. Her thumb swiped over your cheek to wipe away the wetness.

"Stay with me," she whispered, lifting your head from the door, "Did you get locked out? Forgot your keys? $#%@, you smell like beer. Did your friends dump you here?"

Her voice grew louder. You guessed she came nearer.

"No, what am I saying… you don't have friends. Did you drink alone?"

Drifting back and forth between being alert and asleep, you managed to muster the brainpower to answer.

"Keys," you murmured, blindly feeling around the floor for your bag. Your fingers landed on the fuzz of your mat. You heard the rustle of fabric then, a rattling sound echoing in the hall. She must've picked it up. Soon after was the whimpering of a dog. You felt a harsh tug at your shoelace.

"I know, buddy. I know. I'm worried too. We'll help her."

She pulled you in until your forehead rested on her shoulder. She moved your arms over hers, elbows by her neck. Placed her palm flat on your back. She lifted you off of the floor, the hand on your head drifting down to hold you at your hip. Whoever this was—and if it was your assailant—your AC theory had been debunked. You were certain now that she mustered all that wind herself.

"I've got you. I'll take you to my place, yeah?"

Eugh.

You shook your head and tried to kick her again. So what if she sounded like Kara and had a dog like Kara and felt like Kara? This was (probably) an evil woman who had wrongfully attacked you and fled.

"Nuh-uh… I don't know where you live, weirdo…"

She paused. The dog barked.

"… It's me."

"Mario?"

"I… No, it's Kara. Kara, your neighbour?"

Smacking your wrist at her back, you huffed.

"My neighbour isn't home, you doofus. Wish she was, but she isn't."

Sighing, you dropped your fist and returned to dozing off on her shoulder. If this was your last night, you'd spend it sleeping.

"Since you can speak coherently, why don't you take a look and test it?"

Funny. The woman was so sure of herself. You weren't sure if it was just her confidence or the absurdity of the situation. Was it a dream? Were you awake? The consequences weren't bad in either scenario. You sniggered and scoffed instead.

"Pffft—no way you're Kara. She's cooler than whoever you are."

thonk.

"Ow!—Shit, man, what the fuck was that for?"

You snapped your head back to rub at your forehead. It was sore. There was a bruise coming on, you could sense it. How on earth could the sound be so hollow?

You were awake. Indubitably, your dream had sadly ended minutes ago. That meant the person holding you presumably was Kara. Which, in extension, meant the person you'd been kicking and hitting was also Kara.

You did not wanna look.

Unfortunately, like the office, the older and wiser part of you knew it was better to face the case before it escalated.

You reluctantly peeled your eyes open.

"Ehm… hi," you greeted, cheesing at her in apology.

Kara looked back at you with a deadpan. You noted the hollows beneath her eyes, more evident than before. Her hair was tousled. You weren't sure if she'd showered at all in the time she was away. Nonetheless, that was a problem for tomorrow. You weren't so far off anyway.

"Hi. Had a good nap?"

Your smile dwindled as you pressed your lips into a thin line, turning away in shame. Not that you had much room to do so. You were currently cosplaying a monkey whereas she was the tree. Krypto was the bush. It was the quietest he'd ever been in all the times you'd seen him.

"Long story."

Tilting her head, she followed yours. Her voice softened. The hardened tone had gone and her hand pressed firmer on your back.

"You can tell me when we're inside. Don't give me a hard time now."

Your shame and regret had effectively pilfered the seats of the advisors on your shoulders. You relented.

Though your view had been partial with your head over her shoulder, you had sufficient room to scan her flat. You realized she lacked a lot of things from the hall alone. The woman didn't own a shoe rack. There were two pairs clean on the floor. The last set was torn and dirtied, its soles severed from the shoes. The door hooks had been ripped off. Uneven and dredged patches had been left where they would have been. Unlike you, she didn't have any photos framed on the wall.

Come to think of it, you'd never once heard her talk about her family. It was always Clark and Krypto. No mother, no father. No siblings.

You caught a glimpse into her kitchen. There were a few cups left in the sink and a bin you were sure had new microorganisms fermenting inside. For days, possibly for weeks. You rarely met her in your floor's trash chute.

She had more bags of chips and sour candy than spice jars. More energy drinks than she did bottled water. Her cupboards were empty. No fridge magnets, no fine china.

Rather than utensils or a cutting board, her kitchen counter was riddled with ointments and bandages. A handful were discarded in the bin, the white overtaken by a faint hue like rust. Some stained in deeper scarlet loomed below.

Though you'd always believed that a house would never be enough to make a home, this worried you. She lived like her flat was just another rest-stop.

You wouldn't ask. You wouldn't pry. But you hoped—prayed to the universe—that she wasn't working in an underground fight pit.

Kicking the clutter off her couch, Kara carefully set you down. Her exhales brushed against you, the puffs cool against your nape. It was shallow. Reticent. She held you to her chest with one hand while she fixed the pillows. It wasn't much. Despite her efforts, the mess remained at your feet, in the shirts she had draped over the edge of the couch, and in the junk she'd left scattered on the table.

Even so, it meant everything to you.

Krypto had trailed behind you two. He claimed the spot beside you once she had you settled. Like her, you felt his breath at your arm before he curled up in that very place, one ear flopped over you.

"You don't have to do this," you murmured, digging your palms into the cushions to push yourself up. She frowned. With two fingers pressed to your shoulder, you were nudged back into the pillows.

"Let me," she insisted, kneeling once more before you. She made quick work of unlacing your shoes. Her fingers enveloped your ankle, her strength measured and cautious as she slipped them off and slotted them beneath the coffee table.

She didn't mutter a single complaint. No, she hadn't. But you saw the furrow of her brow. The downturn of her mouth. You didn't want to seem presumptuous. Yet looking at her now, you couldn't deny the persistent idea that your refusing her aid had upset her more than providing it to you.

Kara liked to give. You knew that well. She'd given the exact same words to you at the map and you had the hunch that this wouldn't be the last time.

Hopefully, the next wouldn't come before you could give to her too.

She kicked her shoes off after yours, discarding them in a random corner of the living room. She threw her jacket off and onto a stool.

"So—were you drinking alone?" she asked, scratching her head as she modulated the thermostat.

"No. I was invited."

Absentmindedly, you soothed your hand over Krypto's fur. He radiated a mellow heat beside you, the steady rise and fall of his body small compared to your own. Now and then, you faced the repetitive conundrum of trying to understand the sort of messes he caused for her. In your eyes, he was delicate. He had bounds of energy packed within him. So did every other dog. You couldn't comprehend how the loud commotion from Kara's flat could be his fault.

Feeling that tug in your chest, you scritched at his ears, humming softly to his resting form. He huddled closer as soon as you began. A solid source of heat. He bumped his head against your thigh, his tail flicking between the cushions and your side.

"You were gone a while," you deflected, drawing your feet in to the front skirt of the couch. "How was it?"

"For starters, I got my #$! beat," she joked. Her voice grew faint as she turned the corner to the kitchen. A series of strident, piercing crinkles reached the living room as she ransacked what you assumed to be the mountain of chip bags. Krypto's ear lifted at the ruckus. You felt him tense beneath your fingers, merely cooing to soothe him.

"It's loud, isn't it?"

Another wave of crinkles came. His head perked up.

"Almost lost a #$%@&%% limb," she continued, "but Krypto saved me!"

He chuffed. An abrupt puff of air hit your wrist. With a subdued thump, his head toppled back onto your lap.

The corner of your mouth lifted at the sight. You didn't get many chances to hang around Krypto before. But you'd never missed recognizing how expressive he was.

You'd asked Kara once if she stole him from a storybook. She'd said no. You hadn't believed her.

You brushed your fingers over his fur, relaxing further into the couch. The ceiling was so tall above you. You would have mistaken it for your flat if it wasn't for the crowded state of the space. Suddenly, you were back in your first month. The lassitude of longing. It hadn't been easy moving away. Though muted, something within you felt sorry for her. It hoped as well, vainly so, that you could help Kara the way she'd helped you.

"Not funny," you whispered, "right, Krypto? Kara's not being funny. I don't know what she's laughing about."

CRASH!

This time, both yours and Krypto's heads sprang up. You held your breath and waited for a response.

It was dead silence in the kitchen. You didn't know what Kara was doing. It was midnight, therefore hardly a time to rummage through soda cans and sour candy. The sound was also enough of an indicator that whatever fell was larger than a chip bag or five—which didn't make much sense. She wasn't startled easily. You'd seen her catch a ball flying a hundred miles an hour precisely five inches from her body.

The point was, Kara was alert. Clumsy wasn't a word you could use to describe her.

On the flip side, the creature in your lap decided to cuss her out in doglish. You guessed that he was so tired of the noise that he'd made the wise decision to contribute to it. He barked with the whole of his body. And as if it wasn't enough, he jolted upright to hammer his point home. It was louder. Sharper. Angrier, you supposed. The longer Kara went without a response, the more acute his barks became. You winced.

"I'm fine! God, $#%#—Krypto, I get it!"

As soon as she called out, his weight had returned to acting like an anvil on your thigh. Who were you to complain? You didn't have too many urgent tasks waiting in the morning. You didn't mind sleeping on Kara's couch. It was a step up from your doormat, that was for certain.

Carrying on, you tipped your head to the ceiling once more. You blissfully resumed your pivotal task of petting Krypto. You didn't bother with responding to her.

Roughly four minutes passed before Kara emerged from the kitchen. She had a tub of ice cream in one hand and two bags of chips squeezed in the other. Her eyes darted restlessly around the room, blues flitting between the heaps of rubbish, the clutter, and the mess. They lingered on Krypto. His even breaths, the subtle snores.

Then they landed on you. You were where their antsy darts had ended. They narrowed. It was almost perplexed, the way she'd looked at you. Perhaps it was regarding how well Krypto had taken to you. Or how naturally it had come to you to hold him the way you did. To ghost your fingers over his fur in spite of your exhaustion. Humming to yourself, or the world, while you lost yourself in the stark white ceiling.

Kara couldn't make sense of it. Of you.

The tub nearly slipped from her grasp. Consequently, it jarred you from your thoughts. You veered your head around to the best of your ability, hushing Krypto's whined protests with a hand smoothing over his fur. Kara's gawking ended as soon as you faced her.

"Well," she blurted out, a muffled cough escaping her, "are you up for a movie? I've got snacks. You can pick it. The snacks and the movie, I mean."

Drawing in a deep inhale, you thought over the options. Your clothes still had the residue of your sweat from the day. And if it wasn't sweat, it was a type or combination of alcohol that your colleagues had splattered onto your blouse. It felt a bit sticky. Grimy. You were uncomfortably aware of the clammy sensation that certain patches of the fabric had against certain areas of your skin. As much as you appreciated her offer, it wasn't practical for an impromptu binge session.

Grimacing regretfully, you sighed. "Can't, dude."

For a split-second, her shoulders fell.

"That's totally fine—"

"I just think I'm better off skipping to the morning in these clothes," you reasoned.

You swore some sort of tension escaped her. Her face had relaxed. Her shoulders hitched up again.

"There something wrong with them?"

She sounded more relieved to know the issue had rooted itself in your clothes than in her suggestions.

You looked down at the state of your blouse. The button at your collar had been ripped off. There was a stain where Krypto's head covered. Some threads had been pulled loose, likely snagging on a hook or corner at the bar. Your jeans stuck like second skin. Most of all, you just… really wanted out of those clothes. It was like you'd worn them so long that the bar had somehow infused its essence into it. The drinks and the barfing and the sweat. The tacky triune.

"There's a lot wrong with them."

You adjusted an inch to try and lessen your awareness of your skin and your clothes, the sordid sensations in each movement. The marginal surge in airflow relieved you. For about one beat. Nevertheless, you could feel how sticky your body felt against the fabric. Not that you could move much either. Which did make for a rather dismal situation. You needed to move an inch or two to get some space from the stifling feeling.

Krypto's head wouldn't budge. You didn't want to disturb him. It was another kick-Kara-and-fail situation. Did she train his muscles too?

Kara's hands gradually drooped from where she'd displayed her food. It was odd. In her own Kara way, you found it endearing. You caught her setting her snacks down in your peripheral before she came to peer at your predicament. Her shadow swallowed the light that had shone on you.

"I'm pretty sure I was in that bar for four hours," you explained, angling your head away to give her a better view. "And I've been in these clothes since… like… nine. In the morning. It's gross, I know. Work meeting and stu—"

"You can use mine."

Woah there, neighbour.

You jerked your head forward, brows shot high. "Repeat that?"

She planted her hands on the couch, towering over you. You swore the wood frame crunched beneath her grip. Flashbacks of the dented bar in the diner flurried in one ear and out the other. It wouldn't have shocked you if she worked in the construction industry. Except she would be the construction company itself. She would be the crane that appeared overnight. She would make the noise of the creaks and clangs as the metal frames would stack. She'd be mixing and pouring the cement. Bare handed.

The moment you thought of her inhuman brawn, she started tilting forward. Closer. Closer. Even closer. She stopped a good eight inches from your face, crouching behind the couch. Her eyes had zeroed in on your neck—your collar? Your collarbone? Your skin?

"I've got spares in your size," she offered, unblinking. Unmoving. You could smell her shampoo. Or the lack of one. Something about her came off sweet. Mild and a hint musky. Maybe you'd imagined it. Maybe you both needed a shower.

Your gaze fell to your lap. Krypto slept soundly, his paws resting on your thigh. Going to change would disturb him. Not doing so would result in your discomfort holding off sleep. On top of that, borrowing Kara's clothes felt like asking too much of her. You still had so much to thank her for.

"It's not an issue," she assured, gently poking at your arm with a small grin, "don't think too hard about it."

You thought very hard about it. What if you stained her clothes? Or left them smelling like you? Hell, what if you never gave them back?

Not like you'd do that.

You ground your jaw. You were in fact thinking too hard. So you lifted your hand and pointed a finger at her face, stiffly driving it forward until you could shove her head far, far away.

You carved a second line for the tally in your head. It was a new category this time. You'd kept other spaces for her staring and her strange words and her habit of lingering. This one counted how often you'd yielded to her giving. Just for one night, you'd agree.

You didn't want to agree with her so close, though.

"If it's fine with you," you supposed, watching her scrunch her face at your nudge. She bucked her head back. You might have been imagining it but a red hue definitely bloomed in her cheeks.

"#$!%, you're rude," she grumbled. "You're a guest. Mother raised me to be good to people who were kind enough to show some hospitality to me. Did your parents teach you anything? At all?"

She was one to talk. Didn't seem like her mother taught her how to sweep the floor or do the laundry.

"You carried me in here. Your monkey, your circus," you shrugged. Her grin turned into a sneer. You snickered. Something possessed you to go full-in on the act and flick at her forehead. She'd done it first. It was only fitting that you could do it too.

Your nails fucking shattered.

"Holy—ow, ow—shit, that stings…"

You retracted your hand at the speed of light. The pain surged from your fingertips to your wrist, coursing all the way through to your elbow. A muffled scream resounded from your throat. You swallowed it down, rocking to and fro in the limits of your seat. Krypto weighed you down. Krypto slept too soundly. You couldn't wake the damn dog.

Cradling your fingers in your palm, you blew over the pained tips. The skin had already taken on an angry claret shade. Was it going to bruise? Your middle finger ached.

Kara stood up straight, squaring her shoulders as she smugly crossed her arms over her chest.

"Learned your lesson?"

Abso-fucking-lutely. You learned that she was, truly, a metal wall. The immovable object. You hadn't hallucinated anything. She trained more than muscle. You literally felt it in your bones that she probably had some sort of re-enforced, lab-engineered skeleton.

"I'm never touching you again," you hissed, decisively whirling around to turn your back to her.

"Mm, sure," she teased. "Huge bummer, sweetheart."

Didn't matter if you wouldn't. Kara's other habit was physical touch. A hand on your shoulder, a finger prodding at your cheek. Like she needed concrete, tangible assurances of you.

It was why you felt the exact same phenomenon occurring all over again. You felt her hovering at your arm, her touch feather-light as she tugged at your sleeve.

"You still want my clothes?"

Kara had given you the courtesy of changing first. She'd spent ten minutes scouring through her closet, a heap of her disqualified options continuously piling at her feet. She'd left her bedroom door ajar. You'd watched her through the gap, your head against the door and Krypto in your arms. He'd refused to leave your side.

This was the compromise they'd both settled for.

It was almost domestic.

Krypto sat patient outside while you changed. Every few minutes, you'd hear his bark through the door. You'd hear her murmur things to him in response, her footsteps faint and fading from the bathroom.

Her bathroom was stupendously neat. There were no opened and abandoned bottles or questionable rags. No overflowing bin. Her shampoo bottle had been set next to her conditioner, the pair neatly arranged by the faucet on the tub's edge. Both containers shared the same label. Her body wash had been placed on the opposite side, having the same scent as the lotion on the counter. You didn't spot any bath bombs or scented candles. It felt more like her without them.

You found yourself giddy over those small, irrelevant pieces of information. They were relics of her. Little telltale signs that gave away her routines and specifics. And, to be frank, you were grateful for the absence of 3-in-1s. You wouldn't have been too surprised to see them, considering the unruly state of the rest of her house.

Wriggling out of your clothes, you slipped hers on. It wasn't that you'd expected her to hand you a tulle nightdress. You just hadn't expected shorts with giant, neon red stars to be what she'd proffer you either. She'd given you an oversized t-shirt with the very tiny words "don't strain your brain, paint a train" scrawled on the front to match them. You slid your head through the collar, fumbling your arms into the large sleeves.

You couldn't understand it for the life of you. But she'd waved you off with talk about some old Blondie song.

You folded your jeans and kept them on the counter. Chucked your blouse on top of it. Good riddance to that, you thought.

You had to admit, it was comfortable. You felt cleaner. You couldn't feel your skin stick from the sweat accumulated in the day. The cool air had room to circulate beneath your clothes. And though it wasn't pretty, it was hers. That was strangely better than a nightdress. Or a matching pyjama set like Fin's. The selfsame scent of sweetness tarried in the fabric, waned and feeble on the cotton. Maybe it was her detergent. Maybe it was just Kara.

Maybe that was why you liked it more than the former version of you would have.

Stepping out her bathroom, you plodded onto the cold tile in your socks. Krypto tagged along behind you. You could hear the pitter-patter of his feet. Felt his huffs on your calves when you walked too fast and too far too quickly. Your kept your clothes wedged in the crook of your arm, intending to stuff them into your bag and forget them for the night.

"Kara? Should I switch off the light, or…"

Your words trailed off as you entered the living room. Your jaw went slack.

The junk was gone. The clutter was gone. Where the hell did she put all the clothes dumped on the stool?

You'd taken roughly seven minutes to change. There wasn't any kind of ruckus or commotion within those seven minutes. Krypto's barks were directed at you and if they weren't, Kara had made sure to coherently respond. Had she been cleaning all the junk away, she wouldn't have even been able to give him a pat on the head!

Your clothes fell to the ground.

There was no way. There was no plausible explanation for it. The couch was clean. The floor was spotless. So spotless that the tiles were shining. All the muck on the coffee table had apparently been moved to an unknown, undisclosed garbage truck. A sheen remained on the surface of the wood like it'd just been scrubbed.

It was too tidy. The ice cream tub with its clean lid, the ceramic bowls and noticeably reusable metal spoons. The tissues stacked beside it.

And Kara was pouring chips into a perfectly clean glass bowl.

Where did she get the cutlery? Her cupboards were empty. You weren't hallucinating. But how could you be sure about that? Who would do all this cleaning at twelve in the morning? Kara? That hardly sounded like her!

"Nah, you can leave it on. Doesn't run my bill that mu—"

Kara paused, the chip bag held in the air. A single, measly chip toppled out. She raised a brow.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

You felt the muscles in your face twitch.

"Your things," your voice quavered. Cracked. You gestured with a trembling hand to the stool, "Where did you put them? Why are they gone? You don't—You don't even have a vacuum."

She had the nerve to chuckle.

"I cleaned up the place. Thought you'd be, y'know, more comfortable this way," she said, watching you with a half-smile, "you don't like it?"

You looked down at Krypto in dismay. He looked back at you with big, beady eyes. You hoped he got the message. That you could telepathically ask him if it was wiser to leave the confusion for tomorrow and settle for the movie at present. Or if you weren't insane, Kara was, and you were safer sleeping on your doormat.

Krypto lifted his front foot and pawed at the air.

You realized he would be of no help.

With a quiet groan, you chose the former. You picked up your clothes. You walked past her, ignoring her satisfied chuckles, to knuckle them deep into your bag. Was it your bag's fault that it didn't have your keys? No. But if it had held your keys, you wouldn't have lost so much of your sanity to this scene.

In the following ten minutes, you'd scooted yourself to the side of the couch, your side conjoined to the far end. Your elbow had dug itself into the armrest. Your chin was propped up in your palm. You tracked her from the corner of your eye as she scrolled on her laptop, going back and forth on some old pirating site.

You were thankful for Krypto. He'd fastened himself to you for the night, his head and front paws sited on your lap while the rest of him stretched over the middle of the couch.

It was the ultimate solution to keep your distance from Kara. You couldn't sit close to her. Not with the hundreds of questions running laps in your head, no.

You especially couldn't stomach sitting next to her due to the matching fiasco she'd put you two in. The woman had multiple pairs of the constellation shorts. She was wearing them too. Neon blue stars speckled on her thighs.

Kara turned towards you, "You want thriller? Action? Something sappy? I know a couple sappy ones from Clark. He loves that #$@!."

You snorted and looked elsewhere.

"Whatever you want, I guess," you drawled blankly, stroking your fingers along Krypto's back. You felt his paws flex in your lap.

"But I want what you want," she retorted, extending her foot to the side to nudge at yours. "C'mon, I'm sure you've got some favourites."

You screwed up your face, "Ugh—Geez, fine, fine. Fantasy works, I guess?"

Fantasy for all the bat-shit crazy things she could do. You'd seen her mould the shape of her grip into pure metal. She'd carried you with a single supporting hand just an hour prior. And you were certain she'd snarfed down all the rubbish littered around her flat within seven minutes.

"Fantasy… hm. Don't think I know any," she murmured, aggressively tapping the keys on her laptop.

You yawned and lightly scratched at the spots behind Krypto's ears, "You could put on one of your favourites."

Kara let out a disgruntled noise.

"My favourites aren't your favourites."

A beat passed as your grudge momentarily faded. You chewed your cheek. Kara cared a lot. Like her preference to touch and her tendency to give, you knew that well too. Still, you'd discovered that you could still be taken aback by how much she did care. The flowers had already been such a grand leap.

This night was… downright fresh territory.

Turning back a fraction, you allowed the remainder of your spite to dwindle and ebb.

"Pick one anyway," you concluded. Being spiteful wouldn't answer any of your questions. And although Kara freaked you out, she had good intentions. Odd ways to go about them, sure, but they were good intentions nonetheless.

"I might grow to like them."

You laid down your hand—laid down your wall. Palm flush to the armrest. You had the familiar feeling creeping up your spine that she was studying you once more.

"That's sweet," you heard her whisper, tenderness laced in her voice.

Glancing at her, you found that your hunch was right. It was the look she'd worn when you'd hit your head. Pupils so dilated that the black had practically swallowed the blue.

Kara could act like such an alien sometimes. If she was, you thought that her extraterrestrial origins were simply manifesting in her action. It was the heat of her eyes. Focused—as if she had tunnel vision and her sole target was you. Or she had it, and she just couldn't help it from finding its way to you.

There was an admiration that showed clearer than you'd seen before. It paralleled the face your mother used to don on a good day with your father. It paralleled Liv's expression in the first sunset you'd spent by her side.

It made you nauseous.

"…Dude, you're making my stomach churn."

Like the first light of dawn, a grin gradually grew on her face. It was wide and toothy. A glimmer in her eyes no different to the stars in the sky.

"With butterflies?"

Blinking in utter dismay, you made up your mind. She was an alien. She was definitely an alien.

"Wrong idiom, Kara. Churning isn't fluttering."

"They're synonymous," she rebutted, her grin fading into what you understood to be a stubborn (pout) frown. "I wasn't that far off."

Rather than a movie, Kara had made the rational and logical ruling to watch a TV series.

You were twenty-six minutes into the second episode of Wynonna Earp with a live commentary session ongoing below you. She'd switched the lamp off, the only source of light now emanating from her laptop's screen. Your watch read 1:17. And Kara had successfully convinced you to quit your social distancing to opt for somewhere nearer to her.

Somewhere warmer.

You didn't remember when you'd got so close. You'd ended up lying on the couch, a pillow stolen from her bed snug beneath your head. Krypto snuggled himself beneath your arm. It rose and fell in time with his breathing. Kara had taken the floor, insisting you needed your rest. You could see the blonde waves of her hair pressed against your thigh through the dim glow of her screen. She'd been using it as her pillow. Her legs were stretched out beneath the coffee table, an empty soda can disposed of at her leg. She had her second helping in one hand, ice cream bowl in the other.

"#$@!, this is the part," she chuckled, shaking her head in amusement, "See? See—Okay, so she gets pressure-washed by the beer, right? And then—Oh, I #$@%%$ love this part."

You nodded with a yawn, "Mhm, yeah… Then what?"

"Then Nicole comes in. And since Waverly can't get the shirt off, Nicole's gonna—There! There, she's gonna help her get it off and—You see those eyes? Look, she's thinking about it so…"

You didn't really care much for the show.

Okay, maybe a minute part of you did. But you'd been fending off sleep for more than the demons and the gritty lead of the series. In a way, she resembled Kara. She was headstrong. Blunt to a fault. Unpolished and crude. More than that, she bore that resemblance because of her devotion to her sister. In spite of how rough Kara could seem or could be, she always cared. Always saw the good and tried her level best to foster it.

However, you'd been blinking sleep away, yawning it away, and chewing-on-chips-ing it away for Kara. She had this fixation on the 'Wayhaught' pair. The lead's sister and the haught cop. Pun very much intended. You thought the special effects and the editing were a little under-funded. You thought some of the plotlines were corny. You also thought Waverly had a serious case of comphet.

Either way, you endured it for Kara. She spoiled half of it for you anyhow.

As another yawn slipped past you, you felt a tap on your thigh.

"Do you think they'll end up together?"

You took a gander at her, a scoff rising in your throat before you flitted back to the screen.

"Let me think," you considered, "you've been raving about them since you put the show on. You told me that they kiss, that they eventually sleep together, and that they have a totally cute relationship that'll outlast Clark's—"

"Hey! What'd I say about being nice to hospitable people?"

"As if," you muttered, prodding your knee forward at her head. "It's one in the morning, Kara. It'd be nicer if we slept."

"You should take my bed then. Want me to stop the show?"

Your eyes snapped to her. She'd said it so nonchalantly. She was deeply invested on the screen, taking lazy sips of her soda. She hadn't even been staring.

"Uh… maybe another time," you faltered, tearing your gaze away, "We can just… keep watching."

The next few minutes passed in silence. It was merely the characters on the laptop, the muted noise of the street outside, and your shared consumption of the snacks laid out. You didn't mind the quiet. It gave you ample room to watch her.

There was the outline of her face highlighted in the dim light. The curve of her nose, from the straight line of the bridge to how its tip turned up. There was the heavy weight of her gaze. The subtle crease in her forehead. In a twisted sense, you felt it was your right. Usually, Kara held the upper-hand as if she could see into the future. She could read your every move, your emotions. She knew you better than most.

And it was, in your view, a grave injustice that you couldn't know her as well as she did you.

Indeed, you had been too unkind. She'd been nothing but obliging. "Hospitable", as she'd said. You did recall the source of her values.

"Mother raised me to be good".

The noise waned as you registered her words. It wasn't like you'd thought she was an orphan. But she rarely spoke of them. There was the possibility that they'd died or that they'd shunned her. Be that as it may, it didn't fit the Kara you knew to be someone who could be shunned. It would take too much for you to hate her. To deny her.

Slowly, you stirred from where you lay. Krypto whined at the disturbance. You soothed a hand over his back, gingerly cooing him back to rest to buy yourself the time and room to move. Supporting yourself with your palm, you sat up. Kara hadn't reacted. She was stuck fast to the tile, rooted with her eyes pinned to the screen.

"Kara," you whispered. "Neighbour. Hey."

Pivoting an inch, you caught the small jerk of her head.

"Mm?"

You hesitated. She was either too immersed or she was actively avoiding you. With how often she read right through you, you suspected it was the latter.

"Thank you. For letting me sleep over."

Her finger fiddled with the soda tab, flicking it back and forth with the tip of her nail. Her attention momentarily drifted from the show to the floor.

"I wouldn't have left you there."

Kara's voice came out in a rasp. So soft that you'd almost missed it in the distortion of the show and the road. With a sharp click!, the soda tab detached from the can.

Wistfully, you hummed. "I know, Kara."

Perhaps you'd both stopped watching the show long ago. It was a distant component of the background now. It was nothing but the buzz in your ears as you noted the tremble of her lip, the thrum in the room as her head drooped forward.

"Thank you anyway," you breathed, hoping to ease her rumination. Whatever sort of turmoil waited in her mind, you wanted to whisk her away from it. Just for the night. Like her clothes that harboured your body and like her gestures that salved your soul. They existed in brief, passing moments of time. As did your friendship. And soon, what tethered you two together would come to pass as well.

So, just for the night, you would try.

Carefully, you stationed the pillows around Krypto to fill the spot where you'd been. You folded the throw blanket over his ears. Tucked his body into the weave. The couch creaked softly as you slid over to the edge, stretching your feet to the ground. The chill of the floor permeated through your socks. It prickled at the nerves in your feet. Nevertheless, you greeted it, knowing it would wake you enough to give her what you could.

Kara hadn't moved much. She'd only drawn her knees up to her chest, her arms limp over her knees. She hid her face from you.

And you lowered yourself beside her. Crossing your legs, you stared ahead at the screen. Attempted to keep your eyes on the screen.

"It's cold down here," you whispered, "mind if I keep you company?"

From where she hid, slouched against the couch, you heard a stifled choke. Whether it was a laugh or the makings of a sob, you extended your hand and let your fingers brush over her arm. She sucked in a quick breath.

You felt a lump form in your throat. You were neither a licensed therapist or a professional friend. Comforting people was like treading on a bridge constructed with two nails. Your brain was grimacing hard. You prayed it hadn't reflected on your face.

"Is this okay?" you asked, quickly masking whatever expression you might have worn. "I'll sit farther if it isn't."

Kara's hand found yours. She shook her head.

"No—it's fine. Stay."

Her fingers laced through yours. Your brain stopped working. Like the synapses just… stuttered. Malfunctioned.

You recalled her comment about butterflies.

You could feel them now.

Skin to skin, you finally grasped how warm Kara was. It was more vivid than feeling it through a sleeve. It might have been all the aching wound up within her or the reprieve from the cool of the room. No matter its origin, it was ardent anyhow. Sincerely tender. You could have melted. The pieces of her seeking yours, brushing against your knuckles and looping into you.

In spite of yourself, your heart, and your brain, you scooted closer. Fingers interlocked, you returned her gesture with a reaffirming squeeze.

"This is fine?"

She let out a fragile chuckle. "Yeah. It's perfect. You don't have to keep asking."

"…then I'll be here." Untiring and placid, you fell into a pattern of gliding your thumb over her arm, tracing small circles until her breathing evened out.

"You don't have to—#$##… I didn't want you to see this. Not… not yet."

You offered a smile.

"You know I don't mind. We've all had our days, remember? So let me."

Truly, you didn't want her to give so much without you reciprocating the act. You hated the idea of never returning the comfort she gave. If it was within your control, it would be a possibility wiped clean from the list.

"You're stealing my lines," Kara mumbled.

You had. And you'd have done it a million times more.

When the burden crept in, she had the tendency to withdraw from the world. Her retreating now brought the scene at the window back to your mind. When she'd been moored to the ground, her form smaller than you'd ever seen. In times like that, you couldn't help wondering if those were past versions of her resurfacing.

It was ironic. Kara frequently lulled the good out of you. You liked to think that Kara honed the good in others too. It was because of her that you'd survived this far in Metropolis.

Yet, you appeared to have the contrary effect on her. Like you were the key to uncorking some wretched, rotting memory that fermented inside her.

So you'd keep stealing her lines. Maybe then, the reminders that you triggered would come with the consolation of her own words.

"A burden shared is a burden halved," you repeated, your shoulder grazing hers.

Kara lifted her head. She met you with narrowed eyes.

"You and your idioms," she jabbed, her nails briefly digging into your skin, "you never get sick of those?"

"No," you answered, resolute in your stance. Tilting your head, you peered closer. Hoped to get a glimpse into the hell that trawled her down. It would always be miles easier than asking her yourself.

"They make things feel better," you continued. "Like praying. Or hoping."

Her lips pursed as her expression hardened. It lasted a second before she turned away, and you found yourself chasing after her.

"I can't do that."

"There's always someone who's listening."

"…No, sweetheart," she muttered, a bitter chuckle slipping from her. "The gods just aren't that kind."

The lump in your throat returned. Fiercer and sharper, it had. Her fatigue must have drifted into you. Your chest constricted and your lungs strained for air. It was anomalous. How greatly your heart had pained for hers to the credit of a few spoken words.

And as dramatic as it was, you desperately wished to the universe she'd spurned for mercy.

"I will listen," you insisted, reaching with your free hand to envelop the one clasped in hers. "Screw the gods. We're more real than they are. Which, um… means we're more reliable."

She blew out her cheeks.

"That's nice of you," she professed, her hold tightening in yours.

"But, uh… do I have to wait for you to get locked out for that? It's a bit inconvenient, y'know. Having to carry you with your very obvious lack of faith in me—"

Your tender gaze quickly schooled itself into indifference. You wrenched your hands away.

Err—you tried. Kara's fingers planted them in place.

"Easy, girl," she coaxed, shifting back to you with a faint lift to the corner of her mouth. "You wanna take that promise back already? I'm hurt."

You let out an irritated grunt. You didn't try your luck with another attempt to pull away or flick your way out. Did you want a bruise? No, not at all.

"Dude, I thought we were having a moment."

"It could still be," she asserted. "But I don't want you crying on me tonight."

Her eyes had softened. You both were reminiscing plenty that night, apparently. The mention was all you two needed to go down memory lane. Kara's thumb dipped to skim over your palm. And you, on the other hand, had felt more than that. You felt the scene replaying. You felt the swelling of your eyes.

Awesome reminder. You grimaced, your face scrunching in disgust.

You'd given her that foul expression even with the ardour in her voice. Half of you wanted to pin it to memory. The other wanted to chuck it into the scrap bin.

"Ew, ew, ew," you spluttered. "Never remind me of that again, dude. The hell happened to being hospitable? You're triggering flashbacks, Kara."

Who cared if you risked waking up with bruises? You huffed, gritting your teeth as you dared to pry your hands free. Kara didn't bat an eye. Didn't even flinch. Effortlessly, she watched you in tired amusement. You hoped she was having fun. Because you surely weren't.

"You should pull harder," she taunted, laying her head on her arm. You could distinctly see her then.

"Ha-ha, as if it'll work," you seethed, your words acrid on your tongue, "You could be more helpful by, I dunno, letting go??"

You followed her half-hearted advice nonetheless.

"It will work," she attested. "It might take a week, but it will."

You stopped following her advice.

"I'll be stuck here? To you? Forever?"

There was that fondness again in her voice. In the smile that surfaced on her lips.

"Doesn't sound too bad, if you ask me," she murmured, a careful pull bringing you all the more nearer.

Mouth set in a grim line, you stared at her in scrutiny. This side of Kara was an unwarranted consolation to you. Where she'd tease, poke, and push your limits—in the same way you would hers. You could feel her against your side. Hear the cadence in the rise and fall of her chest as her blue eyes beheld you. Krypto and the sounds of the show had dwindled into the distant whir around you. And she pervaded the air until there was only you, her, and your anchored hands.

Energy abating, the tension dissipated from your body. It took your futile struggling with it.

"…so you'll stay," Kara concluded, allowing your right hand to fall.

"For the night."

Just for tonight.

You felt a flush creeping up your face and immediately whirled your head away.

"We can, uh, share some stories. Vent. Then," you paused, your attention flitting to the floor, "when the sun rises, we can forget about it all. And it'll be out of our systems."

Kara chortled, dry and unimpressed. "You'll fall asleep before I finish."

"I—whatever! It's a good plan, okay? So stop looking at me, look at the screen, and we'll both talk."

You grumbled low to yourself as you fitfully manoeuvred yourself on the floor. One hand in hers, the other grasping the tile. You mimicked her form. Untangling your legs, you stretched them out. Winced at the pins and needles spanning the length of your thighs, a dull ache throbbing through your hamstrings.

You pulled your knees to your chest.

"I'm guessing this is the optimum position for "vent"?"

"Venting," you corrected.

"Ah. "Venting"," she echoed, the word foreign and awkward on her tongue. "Who the #$!! came up with that?"

"I wouldn't know," you remarked, just as lost in the topic as she was. You'd grown accustomed with her crassness. You had, to such a degree that a conversation without it felt inadequate. "Which one of us starts?"

Kara's fingers gave yours a light squeeze. "We could wait it out until it slips."

"Or we fall asleep."

With a soft, doleful laugh, she dropped her head against yours.

"Both work for me."

It was an hour and a half—perhaps more—that you two spent in conversation. Kara spoke of the home you'd been thinking of for months. She hadn't given you its name or an exact location. All you knew was that her homeland existed only in the confines of her mind. It could not be visited or returned to, not like you could yours.

You couldn't begin to imagine her grief. Her parents were lost to the catastrophe. She spoke as if she carried all the lives that had been lost on her shoulders. Death was the burden you'd been seeing all along. And with it, the guilt of being unable. Too young to do more yet too afraid to do any lesser than she had. Nevertheless, her efforts had been "wasted".

Kara was faultless in your mind. There was nothing in anyone's power that could beat the will of fate or the ruling of nature. Growing up was, after all, a pivotal component of nature's order. You and Liv failed to survive it. It was no one's fault.

She spoke of a disease that came in "waves", taking more of what was left each time it did. How the gods had closed their eyes and ears as the number of thousands dwindled to eighteen, then five. How her father hadn't shed a tear at her mother's deathbed but wept at their farewell.

"You are my little girl. And I will save you."

It was a vague picture that she had given you. You'd imagined an unnamed city on the other side of the planet, ruined in the wreckage of disaster. Blurred faces of people she'd loved. A strange, ruthless illness that could do nothing beyond robbing and consuming. Sometimes, she'd stutter and take back her words. A name would nearly slip from her tongue. A long silence would unfold before she started again. You didn't mind.

You would trust her word. You wouldn't pry, or search it up online. If the pieces were all she was willing to share, then the pieces were all you'd need. You hadn't known anything when you'd first met her. Even then, you mourned the losses in both your lives.

And when you'd felt sleep lulling your form from her, you'd imparted the universe with a wish like your first. In place of pursuit, you'd wished that Kara would dream that night. You'd wished that she could find home there, by your side. If only for a second, you'd willed it. For the "bowbuck" tree, its red and blue leaves, to greet her in that instant. For her to see them swaying in the wind once more. That a lifetime in her homeland would pass in the night so her burden could depart in the wake of closure.

Just for a night, you'd wished it.

hello boo, hope you're enjoying. click here to continue <3

@queenamibeebop @itwaszzmoon#

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