Power To The Danvers

Lena goes still for half a second, heart doing that quiet, traitorous flip it’s been practicing lately. Kara is already drifting again, having dropped the sentence like a pebble into deep water, utterly unconcerned with the ripples.

Lena exhales, slow and careful, and lets herself stay exactly where Kara keeps finding her.

She always does this. Says the first thing that crosses her mind, bright and unfiltered, and never stops to wonder what it might do to Lena. Whether it will build her up or undo her entirely. Whether it will make her believe it’s true, even when everything else insists it can’t be.

Kara’s watch lights up against her wrist, pulsing insistently, and Lena is certain that if Kara were the swearing type, the air would be considerably bluer by now.

“Fine, fine. I’m up,” Kara groans, untangling herself at last. Late, as usual. Lena really shouldn’t be surprised anymore. “Sorry, I have to—”

It’s a blur after that. Kara vanishes into Lena’s bathroom and reappears seconds later already dressed, cape settled, boots laced like the laws of physics have simply given up around her. “Okay, Alex, I’m on my way.”

She’s halfway to the balcony when she doubles back, like she’s forgotten something essential. She presses a quick kiss to the top of Lena’s head, easy and familiar, like punctuation. “Emergency in London. See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Lena says. “Call me if you’re coming for dinner.”

Kara pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “If I don’t, will you eat?”

Lena doesn’t answer. She just smiles, small and telling.

Kara grins, victorious. “Then I’m definitely coming for dinner.”

“Go,” Lena says, warmth threading her voice despite herself. “Go save the world.”

Kara’s gone a heartbeat later, leaving behind quiet and the faint echo of wind. Lena stays in bed longer than she needs to, staring at the ceiling, wondering when this became normal. When Kara wove herself so thoroughly into the fabric of her life that every night seems incomplete unless it ends like this. Tangled, half-asleep, unnamed.

It’s just another one of their rituals. Lena knows that.

They accompany each other to boring work things. That’s all. It was settled ages ago, back when Lena invited Kara to the first L-Corp event she hosted in National City, back when it made sense to have someone familiar in the room. After that, it simply… stuck.

The habit is so embroidered into their friendship—relationship?—that neither of them needs an invitation anymore. Just a heads-up.

So when Kara texts her,

Kara: Boring CatCo thing tonight. Cat is going to talk forever. I’ll need distraction.

Lena smiles at her phone, already reaching for it.

Lena: I’ll bring my A game.

And she does.

She chooses her favorite dress, the one that knows exactly what to do with her collarbone and doesn’t pretend not to understand the assignment when it comes to cleavage. She tells herself she’s dressing for the room, for confidence, for herself. All perfectly reasonable explanations.

Kara seems to agree anyway.

She notices it immediately, since it's a little hard not to, and then seems entirely incapable of stopping. Her eyes keep drifting back, like they’ve found a point of orbit they weren’t warned about. She misses half of Cat’s opening monologue. She bumps her knee into Lena’s chair and murmurs an apology that doesn’t sound particularly sorry.

Lena catches it. The looking. The way Kara’s attention keeps snagging and returning.

For a moment, something in her pauses. Tilts.

Then she smooths it over, neat and practiced. Kara is bad at subtlety. And to be fair, she knows this dress is… a little too distracting. Anyone would look.

That explanation settles easily enough.

Lena crosses her legs, leans closer so Kara can hear Cat complaining about bad journalism, and lets the thought dissolve before it can finish forming. She’ll just— not wear this dress again around Kara. You know. Not to distract her.

It’s somewhere between Cat’s third digression and Kara’s fourth barely-suppressed yawn that someone else notices.

Maxwell Lord, unfortunately, decides to exist near them.

He slides into the space beside Lena like he owns it, smile slick, eyes doing that slow, evaluative drag that makes Lena’s shoulders tighten by instinct. “Ms. Luthor,” he says, voice low, intimate in a way he very much hasn’t earned, “you really should warn people before you wear something like that. It’s distracting.”

Lena’s expression doesn’t change. She’s perfected that. The polite half-smile, the mental note to forget this man later. “I’ll be sure to take that under advisement,” she replies coolly, already turning back toward the stage.

She would’ve let it pass. Filed it away as another small indignity in a long career of them.

Kara doesn’t.

Something in her posture shifts immediately. She straightens. Grows taller. Not metaphorically. Literally. Just enough that Maxwell has to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.

“That’s inappropriate,” Kara says, bright smile gone. Her voice is calm, but there’s steel under it now. “You don’t get to comment on her body.”

Maxwell chuckles, dismissive. “Relax, I meant it as a compliment.”

Kara steps closer. Close enough that Lena can feel the heat of her, the solid certainty of her presence. Kara’s hand finds Lena’s waist firmly. Protectively. Claiming in a way that makes Lena’s breath catch despite herself.

“She doesn’t need your compliments,” Kara continues, eyes steady, unblinking. “Everyone here already knows she’s brilliant. And kind. And powerful.” Her grip tightens, just slightly, a quiet warning. “So if that’s all you’ve got to offer, you can walk away now.”

Maxwell adjusts his posture, chin lifting, pride bruised and scrambling to recover. Lena recognizes the look immediately. The one that precedes a bad decision. She’s about to intervene, about to soften the edges, when Kara steps in again.

“Or,” Kara leans just a fraction closer, voice dropping, “I can make you walk.”

The air thickens, charged, like the room itself has learned how to hold its breath. Something old and unmistakable glints behind Kara’s eyes now, no longer human-small, no longer willing to play along. Maxwell sees it. He goes pale around the edges.

He huffs, scoffs, takes a step back. “Whatever,” he mutters, retreating. Then, smaller. Meaner. “Lesbians.”

The word hits the space between them and falls flat, powerless. Kara doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just watches him go with the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly how breakable he is.

Only when he’s gone does the room slowly exhale.

Kara’s hand is still at Lena’s waist.

“Kara,” Lena says quietly, not as a reprimand, and definitely not a warning.

Kara blinks, like she’s coming back into herself. “Sorry,” she says, immediately, pulling her hand away. “I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“I know,” Lena interrupts, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounds. Her pulse, however, is doing something reckless and unhelpful. “Thank you.”

Kara nods, sheepish now, hands tucking into her pockets like she’s trying to make herself smaller again. But the echo of her presence lingers undeniable.

They turn back toward the stage. Cat is still talking. The world keeps spinning.

And Lena, heart humming, thinks not for the first time tonight, that whatever this is, it’s starting to resist being unnamed.

It turns out that Kara seems to be more ready to name it than her. 

They’re on a thing. Lena doesn’t call them dates, because dates are for couples, and Kara and her are...not that. Right?

They’re having lunch together about a week after the incident with Maxwell Lord, something easy and familiar, when Clark Kent walks into the restaurant like he belongs in daylight. All earnest smiles and impossible posture.

“Kal! I mean,” Kara schools herself quickly, “Clark! I didn't know you were in National City!”

“Had some business to take care of. Thought I'd stop by and say a hello.”

“Oh, it's good to see you!” She hugs him tightly. When she lets go, she points at Lena with a smile, “You know my girl friend, Lena, right?”

Clark’s brows furrow for half a second. Lena’s nearly meet her hairline. “Yes.” He finally says, “Ms. Luthor, how are you?”

“Good.” Lena swallows. Confused, but good. “Please, join us for lunch.”

“I’d love to,” Clark says, already stepping back, “but I actually have to fly—take a flight back to Metropolis now.”

He looks at Kara. A look that lingers, knowing and fond.

Then he’s gone.

Kara sits back down like nothing remarkable has occurred. She picks up her fork, resumes eating, utterly unbothered by the tectonic shift she’s just caused.

Lena stares at her plate.

Girlfriend, her mind supplies calmly. Not a question. Not a panic. Just the conclusion. The word she’s been looking for. Because, if she’s honest, friends couldn’t begin to explain it.

Not the flying almost daily to Dublin just to bring her scones. Not the way they share a bed more nights than not, bodies fitting together with the ease of long habit. Not the hand at her waist the moment someone else dares to show interest. Not the lunches that are somehow always just the two of them, or the movie nights with legs tangled together like ivy, growing wherever there’s space.

And most of all, not the way Kara comes home to her. Like Lena is an anchor point, not a stopover. Like no matter how far she flies, this is where she lands.

Friends don’t do that.

Girlfriends do.

The realization doesn't panic her. Instead, it provides a strange, clinical relief. All the data points finally align. If this is a relationship, she’ll be good at it. Better than she’s already been. Because once Lena commits to a course of action, she is nothing if not thorough.

She starts the ‘campaign’ by sending flowers the very next day. Because that’s what she should have been doing all along, and stupid, stupid her has apparently been falling behind.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately.

Kara: [picture 📸] Kara: My favorite! You know me so well ❤️

Lena smiles at her phone, warm and pleased, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows she’s doing something right.

Lena: I was selfishly trying to convince you to come to my yoga class with me.

Kara: You’re trying to buy me out?? Whoa. I was not expecting that. Kara: Do I really have to?

Lena: No, I suppose not. There’s a girl there who seems interesting. I could try talking to her instead.

There’s a pause. Longer this time.

Kara: Kara: Fine. Kara: I’ll see you there.

Lena’s smile deepens, slow and satisfied. She's so good at this girlfriend thing.

The yoga studio smells like eucalyptus and quiet ambition. Lena unrolls her mat with practiced ease, stretching like she belongs anywhere she decides to be. The class hasn’t started yet, the room full of soft conversation and polite distance.

Someone settles onto the mat beside hers.

“Hi,” the woman says easily. “I’m Ella. I think I’ve seen you here before.”

“Yes,” Lena replies. “Lena.”

They talk. Lightly. Harmlessly. Ella compliments her balance, asks how long she’s been coming here. Lena answers, relaxed, grounded. She doesn’t invite anything forward, but she doesn’t retreat either. There’s no need.

And then the door bangs open.

“K—sorry! Sorry—hi—sorry!”

Kara barrels in like a natural disaster with legs, bag half-zipped, shoes in her hands. She skids to a stop when she sees Lena, relief flashing across her face so brightly it’s almost embarrassing.

“You started without me,” Kara whispers loudly as she hustles over.

Lena turns, unbothered, serene.

“Oh,” she says, gesturing. “This is Ella.”

“Hi.”

“And this,” Lena adds, smoothly, without looking back at Kara, “is my partner, Kara. She’s usually more on time.”

Kara drops her bag and blinks.

“Oh.” A beat. Then she brightens, entirely pleased with herself. “I didn’t know we needed partners for this class. Good thing I made it.”

She plops down on the mat beside Lena, grinning, stretching like this was always the arrangement.

Ella looks between them. She notices the way Kara’s knee nudges Lena’s without hesitation. The way Lena doesn’t move away. The way her hand drifts, absent-minded, to rest against Kara’s wrist like it belongs there.

“Right,” Ella says, polite, understanding. She smiles again, this time with an edge of resignation. “Well. That makes sense.”

Lena smiles back, perfectly composed.

“Lucky you,” She says to Kara, already rolling up her mat. “I’ll see you around, Lena.”

Kara, meanwhile, leans closer and whispers, stage-quiet, “Did I miss something?”

Lena doesn’t answer. She just lets her fingers lace with Kara’s.

Because some things don’t need clarification.

It’s late, and it’s raining in National City, so Lena assumes Kara isn’t coming tonight. That assumption has never been particularly reliable.

“Hey!” Kara calls as she steps in from the balcony, rainwater still clinging to her hair and jacket. “I’m super wet, so I’ll just take a quick shower first.”

Lena glances over her shoulder and nods, because what else is there to do, and Kara is already halfway to the bathroom anyway, moving fast like she’s afraid of dripping rain into the house itself.

A few minutes later, she’s back, wrapped in a towel and looking sheepish. “So… all the clothes I left here are dirty.”

Lena smiles, small and indulgent. “Just do it. You don’t have to ask.”

Kara’s grin is immediate, bright. She disappears again and returns wearing Lena’s clothes from head to toe, including an oversized sweater that doesn't look big on her, pajama shorts that hug her thighs in a way that almost makes Lena choke, and to complete the look mismatched socks. 

“You know I have matching socks, right?” Lena tries, knowing it's useless.

“What’s the fun in that?” Kara replies easily, already heading toward the kitchen. “What did you have for dinner?”

It turns out Lena didn’t have dinner. Not because she forgot, or because she was too busy, but because she was expecting something like this to happen, and she didn’t want to be full when Kara arrived.

“Lena!” Kara protests, head buried in the fridge. “You have to eat! Honestly.” She straightens, frowning. “Am I the only one who cares about your health?”

Lena just smiles, leaning against the counter, watching Kara move through her kitchen like she belongs there. Kara doesn’t ask where things are. She just knows. Opens the right drawer. Finds the pan Lena favors without thinking. Pulls ingredients out like this is a memory she’s revisiting, not a space she’s borrowing.

“Okay,” Kara says, decisively, tying Lena’s apron around her own waist like this is settled law. “Sit. You look like you’re about to argue, and I will win.”

“I don’t argue,” Lena says mildly.

Kara shoots her a look over her shoulder. “You litigate.”

Lena huffs a laugh despite herself and does as she’s told, perching on a stool, chin in her palm. She watches the small things. The way Kara rolls up sleeves that aren’t hers. The way she tastes the sauce, frowns, adds something, tastes again, nods like she’s solved a riddle only she was given.

It’s domestic. Obscenely so.

Kara talks while she cooks, filling the space with nonsense about CatCo and a printer that hates her personally, and Lena hums at the right moments, lets the sound of Kara’s voice settle into her bones. When Kara finally slides a plate in front of her, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just nudges it closer, hand brushing Lena’s fingers.

“Eat, please.” she says, gentler now.

Lena does. Because Kara is eating with her, so it makes sense now. Because it feels like being cared for without being inspected.

They end up on the couch afterward, rain louder now, the city blurred into watercolor beyond the glass. Kara kicks her feet up, mismatched socks resting against Lena’s thigh. At some point, without ceremony, Kara reaches out and tucks a strand of Lena’s hair behind her ear. The motion is so automatic it barely registers on Kara’s face.

It lands in Lena like a dropped plate.

She doesn’t think about it. Not really. There’s no strategy meeting, no internal debate. She just turns, slow, careful, and kisses Kara.

It’s brief. Soft. A question asked with her mouth and answered immediately by the way Kara goes utterly still.

When Kara pulls back, her eyes are wide, bright, a little stunned, like someone just shook her entire world.

“Oh,” Kara says. Then, helplessly, “Oh.”

Lena watches her, heart steady, mind calm in a way it rarely allows itself to be. Girlfriend, it supplies again, softly. Not a panic. Not a question. Just the word settling into place.

“You—We—” Kara stands abruptly, pacing like the room has wronged her personally. She opens her mouth, closes it, rubs a hand through her hair. Words seem to scatter the moment she reaches for them.

“You’re okay?” Lena asks, a sliver of unease finally slipping into her voice.

“I mean—you just—you kissed me!” Kara blurts, stopping short in front of her, eyes wide like this is breaking news.

“Well, yes,” Lena says, genuinely puzzled. “That’s what girlfriends do. It did take us long enough.”

“Girlfriends?” Kara repeats faintly. “You mean, like—like Alex and Kelly?”

“Well, they’re married now,” Lena says reasonably, “but essentially, yes.” She tilts her head. “Why are you surprised? You’re the one who called me that.”

Kara freezes.

Somewhere, very far away, the truth finally begins to catch up with her.

“I said girl—pause—friend,” Kara blurts. “You know. Like… girls. That are friends.”

Lena stares at her.

“What?” She stands too, shock snapping through her composure. “Who talks like that? No one talks like that!”

“I thought—wait—” Kara winces. “Is this what you meant by partner? At yoga?”

“Yes, Kara!” Lena throws her hands up. “How did you not realize?” She sinks back onto the couch, mortified. “The woman who saw us once figured it out before you did.”

She presses a hand to her face, groaning.

“Oh my god. I feel so stupid. I’ve been acting like we’re dating for weeks.”

The room goes very quiet.

Kara swallows, standing there in mismatched socks, staring at Lena like she’s just discovered gravity has been optional this whole time.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay the night,” Lena says at last. The words come out steady, but they hurt anyway. “I don’t think I want to wake up tangled in someone who isn’t my girlfriend.”

Kara looks like she’s been struck. Her voice drops, barely there. “But I love waking up tangled in you.”

Oh God. Lena absolutely cannot do this. She can’t handle her own stupidity, let alone Kara’s. She is mortified in a way that feels permanent, like a personality flaw. She considers, very seriously, never leaving her apartment again.

“God, Kara,” she says, pressing a hand to her face. “You don’t get to say things like that after telling me we’re just friends.”

“I didn’t say that,” Kara insists quickly. “I just—” She falters. “Apparently didn’t realize we were already… there.”

Lena scoffs, rolling her eyes, and that’s when the tear escapes, uninvited and traitorous. She doesn’t wipe it away fast enough.

Kara’s chest tightens painfully at the sight.

“But hey,” Kara says softly, dropping to her knees in front of her. “I’m all caught up now.”

Lena looks down at her, wary, arms crossed like she’s bracing for impact. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Kara says, her hands finding Lena’s and holding them gently but firmly, stilling her before she can hide her face, “that I’m an idiot. A huge, flying, catastrophically oblivious idiot.” She lets out a breathy laugh, more fond than amused. “I’ve been living in your house, wearing your clothes, spending every spare second figuring out how fast I can get back to you… and I genuinely thought I was just very good at being a friend.”

Lena’s lip trembles despite herself, annoyance and hope tangling together in her chest. “You called me your girlfriend in front of Clark,” she says. “And for the record, that man absolutely thinks you meant girls who are in love.”

Kara nods, immediate and unrepentant. “Okay. Then he’s right.” She leans in, resting her forehead against Lena’s. “Because you’re my person, Lena. You always have been. You’re where I land. So girlfriend, partner—whatever word you want—they’re all true.”

Lena exhales slowly, the last of the tension draining from her shoulders. “Why am I surprised you’re late even to us?”

Kara laughs, bright and warm and relieved. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops, unmistakably intentional now, lingering on Lena’s mouth. “But I’m here. And I want to wake up tangled in you. So I’m not going anywhere.”

This time, when they kiss, it isn’t a question. It’s an answer. Slow, sure, like something finally locking into place after weeks of hovering just off-center.

When they pull apart, Lena is breathless, composure mostly restored, heart still sprinting ahead of her.

“Okay,” she says lightly, like she isn’t smiling. “Fine. Then take me to bed, girlfriend.”

Kara’s grin is immediate. “You got it, partner.”

Lena rolls her eyes, fond. “Yeah. I hear it.”