An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
an Accidental Red (14389 words) by willowcabins
Chapters: 3/10
Fandom: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Alex Danvers/Kara Danvers
Characters: Alex Danvers, Kara Danvers, Cat Grant, Hank Henshaw | J'onn J'onzz, Winn Schott Jr., Agent Vasquez (Supergirl TV 2015), Cameron Chase, Plastique - Character
Additional Tags: Discussion of Mental Health, Kara Has PTSD, Developing Relationship, Slow Build, Quebec Seperatists, undercover kissing
Summary:
When confronted with the ultimate question of saving Alex's life by endangering her own, Kara never really paused to consider. The answer was too simple.
Or: how an explosion at Lord Industry, a a fancy party at the Canadian Embassy and a rogue Quebec supervillain made Alex Danvers a superhero.
EACH SUNDAY, POST SIX OR SO SENTENCES FROM A WRITING PROJECT — PUBLISHED, SUBMITTED, IN PROGRESS, FOR YOUR CAT — WHATEVER
"Do you see the north star?" She asked. Kara tilted her head and frowned.
"No," she admitted. Alex gave her quizzical look.
"It's the brightest star up there."
"...They all look the same to me."
"Okay, look." Alex stepped behind Kara and put Kara's hand on top of her own. She then used Kara's hand to point at the North Star. Kara smelled like pomegranate shampoo and something sweet. Alex tried to concentrate on the stars as Kara leaned back against her ever so slightly and exclaimed in excitement.
a short fic about law school lucy and her beautiful hipster girlfriend based on images by @smallandsundry which i am In To (image one, image two).
Lucy is fed up with law school. She's meant to be done with this, but the Bar exams coming up this weekend and she just feels so -- overwhelmed. She sips at her coffee nervously, only slightly aware that her hands are shaking. She's so anxious about this damn exam. She wishes she could be done with it and -
"You're thinking too loud." Lucy bites her lip to stop a smile, but she can't help herself. She glances across the loft where they're living, where Alex is stretched out in the double bed. Alex is just out of the glow of the desk lamp, and so Lucy can mainly only see shadows, but she knows what Alex looks like right now. Her tattoos are bright and colourful, and she has her head leaned on her elbow as she lies on her stomach. The muscle shirt she likes to wear to bed has probably ridden up, so if Lucy just turned the light on, she could see the intricate map of the stars along Alex's right hip.
"I just want to finish this chapter," Lucy whispers, though her voice has gone slightly hoarse. Alex chuckles and unfurls herself, slowly sitting up. Lucy watches the shadow of the blanket fall to the ground. Alex steps into the light. The boxers she's wearing as a pj bottom barely cover her long legs, and Lucy licks her lips despite herself.
"It sounds like you're mainly trying to convince yourself," Alex purrs as she stalks towards Lucy. The golden light of the lamp just makes her look so irresistible. Lucy sighs and looks down at her papers, forcing her mind back to criminal law and away from criminally beautiful legs. Alex chuckles again at Lucy's terrible attempt to deflect attention and circles around the desk. She puts her arms on Lucy's shoulder and grins as Lucy relaxes into her.
"Doing an all nighter is bad for you," Alex whispered, her breath tickling Lucy's ear. "Just come to bed now, and wake up early and finish this."
"But I don't feel like I have time to sleep."
"Who said anything about sleep? I said come to bed, not come sleep."
"I feel like I don't have time for SEX then."
"Wow, I didn't think I would ever hear those words out of your mouth," Alex said casually as she began to play with Lucy's hair, gently combining through it.
"Now you're just torturing me," Lucy groaned, leaning her head back to Alex could continue petting her hair. Alex kissed the spot right under Lucy's ear with a grin.
"Of course," she whispered. "That was my whole aim."
"I hate you," Lucy whispered. Alex kissed her neck gently, and then tilted Lucy's face up so she could kiss her on the mouth.
"Hush," she murmured as she pulled away. "Stop protesting, and let me just bed you." Lucy giggled and swiveled around in her chair so she could pull Alex's mouth to her own again.
"You have my permission to bed me," she told Alex as she half stood up. Alex laughed and pushed her towards the desk, lifting up one of Lucy's legs and making her gasp.
"What if i don't want the bed?" Alex purred. Lucy laughed and ran a hand through Alex's hair, grinding herself against Alex's thigh.
"I'd accept that too," she decided, kissing Alex gently. Alex hummed happily, and leaned into the kiss while Lucy traced the tattoos on her arms gently.
There is an oil slick a meter and a half behind Root, all darks interspersed with winding rainbow colours; this is what Shaw tries to concentrate on instead of Root’s eyes, large pupils rimmed with light brown as she looks up at Shaw.
The next time that Root appeared in the subway, shedding the used identity and looking for some freedom before she was cast out again, Finch awaited her with an anxious expression.
“Harry?” She asked, playful. “You seem excited to see me.” He didn’t rise to the bait, instead turning back to the computer with a frown.
“We haven’t heard from Shaw,” he admitted quietly. Behind him, Root stopped discarding her uniform and stilled.
“What?” She asked quietly. Harold swallowed.
“She didn’t go to work yesterday,” he murmured.
“What?” Root strode forward and pushed Harold out of the way unceremoniously. “Do you have her most recent apartment’s information?” Before Harold could reply that yes, he had already checked the surveillance from the ATM across the street, and that it had recorded Shaw going into her apartment at 9.08 pm two nights ago, Root was already reviewing the footage herself. “Do this look doctored to you?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at the screen. Again, Harold opened his mouth to say something, but again Root and his computer were faster; she deconstructed the image. It was real. “Why is there no footage from the backdoor?” she demanded quietly; this time, Harold didn’t try and answer.
“I’m going to go check on her,” she decided.
“Can you do that?” Harold asked quietly. Root bit her lip and looked down at her discarded identity. Grace Hooper was a nice white middle-class parking attendant; she didn’t really have an excuse to walk into a building on the edge of Harlem at 7am on a Saturday. A small notification appeared on the screen. A little amendment to Grace Hooper. She now had a partner, a resident of 126th Street. Harold watched the flicker of a relived smile, and then Root grabbed Reese’s handgun, and left. Harold sighed, and looked at the screen, watching the repeated footage of Shaw walking into her home.
As Root walked up the stairs and ran her hands along the grey walls, she knew why Shaw liked this place. The apartment building wasn’t dirty; quite to the contrary, it smelled like disinfectant and new paint. The graffiti on the walls had been deftly painted over in a bland blue grey. A small beep reminded Root to stop on the fifth floor; number 42, the machine told her. Root wanted to brush the small voice off, annoyed that this was all she was getting. If Shaw was in danger, and the machine was only feeding Root breadcrumbs, she was mad.
Root walked up to the door and examined the lock. It had not been forced. No sign of a break in. Root breathed out, and pulled out the key she had manufactured ages ago. She carefully opened the door and slipped inside.
Shaw’s military neatness looked, initially, intact. But then Root did a double take; the corners of the bed were slightly askew, as of someone had shifted on the bed, and then no straightened it. The door of the fridge hung ajar, water collecting in a puddle as it all trickled on to the cold concrete floor. Root stood still, panic running through her body as she assessed the room for any further damage.
If she had not been standing so still, she would not have heard the click of the safety, or seen the barrel of the gun as it pocked out from under the spare metal bedframe. The Machine squawked, and Root ducked, the shot ricocheting off the wall. Due to her position, crouched on the floor now, Root could see the figure lying under the bed. “Root,” the figure croacked, and Root wasn’t sure whether it was relief or annoyance in her voice, but it prompted a smile from Root, though she could hear Shaw’s shallow breathing echoning through the room now. Root carefully crawled over to the bed and pushed away the bedframe.
Shaw looked up at Root, eye barely focusing, as her hands shook. Root slowly reached out a hand to touch Shaw’s clammy skin; it was hot, and sweaty to the touch. “Have you been poisoned?” Root asked, sitting down and arranging Shaw’s head in her lap.
“The flu,” the machine chirped quietly.
“Only by germs,” Shaw rasped.
“You get sick?” Root asked, raising an eyebrow. Shaw slowly turned in Root’s lap and gave her a glare before she coughed.
“No,” she muttered moodily. Root grinned and carefully ran a hand through Shaw’s hair.
“I was worried about you,” she murmured after a moment of silence.
“You should worry about yourself first,” Shaw muttered hoarsely. “I nearly shot you.” Root rolled her eyes.
“It was a terrible shot,” she pointed out.
“I’m sick.” Shaw motioned that they should get up on the bed again; the concrete floor was chilling her. Root sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, and motioned that Shaw should curly up in her lap again. Shaw wanted to brush her off, tell her to leave, but Root was so warm, and she was cold, and Root’s hand through her hair helped distract her from the lurching naesaue, so perhaps she should stay. “I’d like to see you shoot better when you’re sick,” she muttered, pulling the blanket over her shoulder and lying down on Root’s lap again.
“I’m sure Samaritan agents would have taken that under consideration when they came to kidnap you,” she joked. Shaw looked up at Root, and detected the hint of anxiety, flavored with a light tug against Shaw’s hair.
“Well, now you’re here,” Shaw murmured, nuzzling Root’s stomach in an uncharacteristic moment of intimacy. Root narrowed her eyes.
“To keep you safe?” She asked skeptically. Shaw looked up at Root with a smirk.
“No, so they take you instead,” she said. Root rolled her eyes as Shaw grinned.
“You’re so funny,” she murmured, lightly caressing the back of Shaw’s neck, where her hair was fine and slightly knotty. Shaw sighed and closed her eyes.
“I know,” she muttered.
Shaw’s favorite deli delivered food, and the Machine told Harold, but other than that, Root and Shaw remained still. Shaw slept, and Root listened to her breaths. The Machine comforted her, with warm reminders of Shaw’s temperature, and the need for fluids in Shaw’s diet. It didn’t occur to Root until months later that perhaps that was the warmest she had ever been.
When Scully used to live alone, living a peaceful island existence, floating in between friends and family, but always slightly absent, she had believed that being alone was peaceful. Where Judith had to run 15 errands a minute for her children, or Tara was always coming up with new concerns about Matthew’s welfare, or Ethan was always chattering away in front of crowds, Scully could simply sit. She could sit on her balcony and enjoy the still clarity of the rising sun, as the morning cold prickled on her skin. But now, she realised she was wrong; an absence of voices was not necessarily silence.
Mulder talked a lot. He cheerfully told her about his research while he unloaded the dishwasher; he told her his plans for her weekend off in three weeks while he folded the laundry, and he told her anecdotes while she brushed her teeth. He was a bundle of kinetic energy, and talking was his release. Sometimes, it was too much; Scully would lean forward, kiss him, and whisper “enough.”
But mostly, there was an element of peacefulness in his chatter. Even when Mulder wasn’t talking, Scully could hear the evenness of his breath, and feel the rhythmic beating of his heart. He exuded noise; his existence could not be taken lightly. But even as Scully sat on the balcony, cold morning mist raising goosebumps on her skin and Mulder quietly told her about nightcaps in eastern Wyoming, she felt a new type of peacefulness.
It was like Mulder’s voice was the exact right pitch, harmonizing with her thoughts until her life sounded like a well-composed symphony.
