Chapter Text
National City isn’t the same for Lena anymore.
She doesn’t really understand the why’s and how’s of it, doesn’t really understand much of anything happening nowadays but she feels the shift in her bones, feels it flowing in every cell of her bloodstream.
It’s not any one thing she can pinpoint, more of how she feels like a dagger is sitting snug in her chest these days, waiting to twist at the wrong moment. Or like a flower, with a petal drooping, about to wilt away but barely holding together. Or something of that sort. She doesn’t know.
Frankly, it feels a lot like the time she left Metropolis after the entire Lex ordeal, a lot like those times when she felt like all eyes were on her at every moment, judging each step she took, waiting for her to fall.
Except this time, it feels a little like she’s already falling. This time, it’s a little harder to deal with. This time, she functions a little different because of it, avoids old routes, avoids old friends—or well, not friends.
(Not anymore. That’s kind of a part of the problem too.)
This time it’s just—it’s all these little things adding up, it’s everything. Maybe it’s all of it together times infinity.
When she tries to think back, tries to understand it, all she really concludes is that she’s come full circle—she came to National City alone, and now, she’s alone again.
(It might even be poetic in some twisted way. Like it should be a sign, she just doesn’t know what for.)
It’s been a month since she found out.
It’s been a month, and in that time, Lena hasn’t stopped trying to not think about it. In that time, she’s probably gone through the five stages of grief ten times over. In that time, Lena has just—stopped working. Her CPU has crashed and burned and flung itself off a fucking mountain cliff but the memory unit is somehow still intact and she just Can Not seem to forget.
And she’s tried, okay? Tried drowning herself in work, tried her luck at yoga, even ramped up her already high alcohol intake. Tried every trick in the book that would get her to stop thinking about Kar—no, she doesn’t even know a Kara anymore. About Supergirl.
(All those, even altogether, worked barely.)
So she does what she always does—she assigns it a box. An itty bitty tiny little box she can stuff all this into and shove in the furthest corner of her brain, till she forgets that the box even exists in the first place.
Thing is, when Lex told her, she was shocked. She was hurt, confused, disappointed. She was all these emotions overlapping together to leave something catastrophic in their place.
But catastrophic or not, those were just emotions. Those were normal, were human. Those, to some extent, Lena was used to.
What she didn’t expect was for it to cripple her with this—with this emptiness. Of how there’s a hole where her heart’s supposed to be, except she’s still feeling everything like that’s her brain’s singular purpose, to a point where all she does is feel. But her heart’s still missing, and. And it’s all confusing, okay? It’s all very fucking confusing.
Kara. Supergirl. Is confusing. Was confusing. Has always been confusing. Has always made Lena into something she didn’t understand, pliable and soft and just. Confusing.
Which is a whole other issue, she thinks. The entire problem of having a person as valuable as Kara (no, Supergirl) was to her (is to her) is that she unknowingly intertwined every part of herself with Kara (Supergirl. Supergirl Supergirl Supergirl).
Like she couldn’t function properly without her.
And for the most part, Lena knew that wasn’t true. It just. Felt very true these days. Felt like it had weight to it, meant something.
Forgetting her wasn’t going to be easy. Not by a long shot. Lena knew that, understood that (even boxed it all up so she didn’t have to think of it).
(That was the whole issue, probably: the box she assigned for betrayal overflowed.)
(She just needed to reorganize, maybe assign betrayal two boxes instead, maybe ten.)
So she tries her hardest to rewire, tries her hardest to change, tries the hardest not to process it.
She just… feels a little unhinged. Feels a little like she’s the sand slipping away from someone’s hand.
And—she hates it.
Hates how it makes her feel. Hates what it makes her do. Hates what she becomes because of it. Hates its everything. She just hates.
Which is why selling CatCo is an obvious next step, something that occurs to her in a natural meant-to-be sort of way.
And it probably happens quicker than it should.
She forgoes her usual background checks and countless evaluations, and sets up a meeting with the first familiar face willing to get it off her hands, even if that face brings up memories just as painful.
All of that is background noise in comparison though, secondary to the knowledge that Kara will no longer be in the same building as her everyday. That in itself is comforting enough to make her tune out the rest, and she wears that comfort like a protective blanket. Lets it sit in her chest, lets it fill her up.
She still doesn’t know what she’ll do, how she’ll deal with this, where she goes from here.
(There’s just boxes and boxes and boxes—filling up, breaking apart, running out of space.)
All she knows is that National City isn’t the same for her anymore. It probably never will be.
She tries not to think about it.
(She thinks about it constantly.)
***
Lena works almost mechanically as soon as she gets her hands on a pair of the Obsidian North lenses, cherishes them even more when she thinks back to how difficult it was to procure them in the first place.
(Maybe it involved a little bit of suspension of belief regarding the status of her and Andrea’s newly rekindled 'friendship.'
Lena thinks, given everything, a little bit of fallacy is fair enough.)
Her progress is slow but steady. She can see the advancements being made with each modification, she hooks up her beta virtual assistant with the augmented contact lenses, notes down each new observation. Her steps are calculated, precise, and she knows in no time at all, she’ll be able to perform trials.
The first thing she notices is that it’s a little off, the way the device pronounces her name—awkward and strange around the edges, unfamiliar—but she decides it's probably for the best and doesn’t bother fixing it.
She works and works and works and works. Drowns herself in this project in a way she was trying to stop doing, makes it the single point focus of her existence, like it’s the only important part of her life, and maybe, to some degree, that’s even true.
Everything is else is slipping away, but this—this she can hold onto. This, she can still pour every bit of her energy into till it’s the very embodiment of perfection.
And that’s okay, has to be okay, because this project is her last shot at sanity, last shot at normalcy—her only hope.
(In retrospect, that’s the majority of the reason she names her AI Hope; feels strangely fitting with the direction they’re going in.)
Lena barely notices how she’s letting herself isolate, how she’s succumbing to the same tired tactic she’s notorious for. How she can work without any consideration behind it, like her brain knows what to do even when she doesn’t really think. How it might even be a little bit destructive.
How she’s probably not even ready to start testing this out.
But it’s okay.
It’s helping her cope and it’s okay.
***
Lena deletes their chat history when it starts to distract her too much.
(She wonders how many versions of Kara she’ll have to destroy before she finally forgets all about her.)
Her first trial was supposed to be the day before yesterday, but she doesn’t want to perform it. Can’t perform it.
She created the tech for a purpose, created it so that she could put a direction to her emotions, give them an outlet, but all of that seems to be going to shit apparently because all she does is think about Kara.
She’s already reread her way back to last February, when Kara had wished her Valentine’s Day with a long paragraph of everything she loved about her and it just. Breaks her, sort of.
To think that all of it was a lie, a long con seems like a far-fetched possibility at times like these. And that just makes it hurt all the more, makes her turn into the exact kind of person she wants to run away from—weak and messy and ugh.
She needs to be better than this, needs to get a grip.
(Hours after she’s deleted them, when she picks up her phone absentmindedly and it finally clicks that the messages are all truly gone, her brain jumps to code ten different complex programs to get them back, and she barely controls herself from acting on it.
It starts to feel more like a break up each passing day and Lena doesn’t know what to do with that information but cry.)
***
“It’s been 37 days since you found out Supergirl’s identity, Miss Luthor. Do we still have no plan of action?”
She gets used to the voice much faster than she expects to, looks over to the device with a sense of familiarity she shouldn’t have developed so fast.
“I’m meeting her today, Hope,” Lena replies, checks the numbers on her tablet, makes a few minor adjustments.
She still hasn’t performed any trials.
Truth be told, the AI has been acting a little more like a substitute friend (as sad as that sounds) than serving the purpose it was actually meant to and something about that makes Lena feel so pathetic, so fucking pathetic that she can’t even stand to look at herself these days, let alone leave the confines of her apartment.
Which is probably why meeting Kara was even happening in the first place.
The decision to meet her wasn’t a very conscious one. When she finally responds to one of Kara’s numerous attempts to reach out, she can tell it’s a bad idea as she does it. Knows she shouldn’t, is fully aware.
She just. Needs to hold on a little longer. Needs to feel a little less like whatever it is she’s feeling right now and find some source of grounding, a sense of stability amidst the chaos.
(Needs to see Kara so she can maybe breathe a little again.)
(And it’s ironic, she knows that—
But.)
It’s only till she figures out what to do.
Besides, she’s sure she’s already pushed it a little too far with the avoidance, that anything more would probably raise suspicion.
Which she obviously doesn’t want, so really, emotions aside, it all adds up anyway.
In a way, Hope is right. She doesn’t really have a plan yet—just keep your enemies closer, right?
That’s enough for now. She can work more on it later.
When the doorbell rings, she takes a long breath in, tries to prepare herself for—for whatever.
Another deep breath as she plasters a smile and swings the door open.
“Kara,” she says as a greeting, attempts her hardest to sound normal but her pitch is high and her tone is off and her breathing is too jagged. Too wrong.
Kara doesn’t seem to notice it. Doesn’t seem to care, seems more engrossed in having her arms around Lena as quick as she can, like it’s her Top Priority. Lena’s arms still wrap around Kara instinctively, which is probably for the best; it’s one less interaction she has to worry about forcing to perfection.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” Kara murmurs against Lena’s hair, holding her tight enough that Lena doesn’t want to pull away. Tight enough that Lena forgets she’s supposed to. “I was going crazy,” she whispers, lips brushing her temple, and it makes Lena want to rearrange her organs a little. “Was literally going to go crazy if I didn’t see you.”
“Glad your senses get to stay intact then,” Lena breathes out, still awkward, stilted, but a more manageable, less noticeable amount.
(Somehow, no part of the interaction really seems as forced as it should.)
(She doesn’t overthink it.)
Kara chuckles into her ear, sending shivers down Lena’s spine, and lets her go after another squeeze. “So, when do I hear about this ultra important project you’re avoiding me for?”
Lena laughs, pretends it’s more forced than it truly is. “Nothing ultra important, no. Just the usual work stuff. Meetings, conferences—you know what it’s like.”
“What’s got you so cooped up in your office if it’s no big project?”
“You can’t even begin to imagine the amount of turbulence Lex caused with his… spectacle, Kara,” Lena sighs, and it’s a little too close to the cold dark raw truth to be allowed as an acceptable conversational topic with a not-friend/maybe-enemy. “The stocks took a major hit, investors are doubtful. L-Corp was only beginning to make a name for itself outside my family and now it seems like it’s all back to square one.”
“I’m sorry,” Kara says, looks so genuinely distraught that Lena’s shoulders can’t help ease up a bit. “I didn’t realize the gravity of the situation, I wouldn’t have bothered you as much if I knew.”
“You’re hardly a bother, darling, you know that.”
Kara grins, moves them to the couch, grabs the fluffiest pillow Lena owns and adjusts it behind her back. The ease with which Kara maneuvers around her house makes her partly mad, partly angry but mostly just makes her want to yell at Kara, makes her want Kara to reassure her that they can fix this.
Nine times out of ten, she wouldn’t have even let it get this far, wouldn’t have even dreamed of ‘fixing’ it.
She knows this goes against the very fiber of her being. Knows that she’s always been more of a fool me once, end of story kind of person, always been black or white, and no gray. And even though it feels like being dunked in cold water and forcing herself not to shiver, she really wants this to be the tenth time.
It kind of feels like the tenth time, too. A part of herself—the weaker part—doesn’t want to give this up, doesn’t want to be alone again when she can just tell Kara she knows, let her fix it.
She hopes, prays, they can fix it.
(This can be the tenth time. It’s worth a shot.)
***
Kara comes to her apartment unannounced three days later, Lena doesn’t have the heart to tell her to go.
Kara doesn’t tell her she’s Supergirl, Lena doesn’t tell her she knows.
They hug and promise to meet again before the week ends.
***
Kara has to excuse herself in the middle of a movie night Lena ‘forgot’ to cancel.
It’s probably/definitely a Supergirl emergency.
Lena wants to say good luck or be careful or why the fuck are you still not telling me when you clearly want to.
She has to say oh, hope your stomach gets better instead.
***
When she agrees to meet her for an impromptu lunch the next week, she convinces herself it’s just a step of the acclimatization period.
A part of her knows that waiting for the tenth time is like sticking a knife into her stomach and hoping she doesn’t die, and that kind of self-loathing deserves its time to unlearn.
Letting go comes in part, Lena’s taking it day by day.
(In return, it’s taking Lena wholly-completely-all at once.)
***
They’d met eleven times since.
(Nine times out of ten turned to tenth time out of ten turned to eleventh time just because.)
Eleven times. Eleven different opportunities for Kara to tell her, even hint it at her, even a little—
And. Lena can tell Kara wants to, can see it in her eyes whenever she says i need to tell you something before covering it up with something stupid, can almost hear it coming out of Kara’s mouth and just needs her to fucking say it because the it’s okay i forgive you is sitting on the tip of her tongue, no questions asked.
Eleven times. Eleven extra times after a friendship full of opportunities and Lena doesn’t know if she has any more in her left to give, thinks she might’ve drained herself out dry trying to wring out these eleven anyway.
Which is why when Kara abruptly stands up, mumbles an excuse about her dog, or, no, no, wait sorry, i meant the neighbor's dog; another obvious lie that Kara thinks she can get away with another time, she might as well have kicked Lena to outer space with a post-it note worth of explanation stuck to her head.
(She doesn’t have to think too hard to picture the I don’t want you in my life, I don’t know why you’re trying so hard, in Kara’s messy scrawl, hearts over i’s and everything.)
And Lena’s done—she’s done, okay? This is the last straw. She can’t deal with it anymore, can’t do it. Doesn’t have it in her.
Time isn’t going any slower. She has the lenses, has Hope ready.
If Kara can’t do it and Lena can’t do it, maybe Hope can. Maybe Hope will.
She just has to test it out.
***
Kara is standing across her, she’s making both of them a hot chocolate, is almost done even.
It’s strange how Lena didn’t see it before, because now, it’s all she sees, sees it in everything Kara does.
Sees it when Kara grabs a carton of milk before Lena can even see the fridge open, sees it when she catches the cup she dropped inhumanely fast, sees it when she chops the chocolate a little too fast and a little too carelessly. Sees it like the world is screaming it at her every second.
Kara is Supergirl.
“You’re Supergirl,” Lena says, simple and practiced and controlled. She sounds emotionless, like she’s had too much time to sit on this information, has thought about this scenario time and again. “Lex told me. Told me you were lying all along.”
She looks up to see the multitude of emotions cross Kara’s face—shock, guilt, regret. Sees her mouth open, close, open again.
Lena wants to look away, wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to walk away, wants to do all of it at once.
She forces herself to stare at Kara instead.
Then it begins, Stage 1: the expected stuttering, the lame excuses. Lena’s already rolling her eyes before Kara can even begin saying “I—I wanted to tell you—”
“Oh, save it,” she scoffs. Kara had eons worth of time to tell her. If she really wanted to, she would have.
“Lena, I swear I did. I wanted to tell you, I hadn’t told you to protect you—”
“Protect me?” Lena laughs bitterly, swallows down the urge to cry. They’re at Stage 2 already, she supposes—quicker than she thought they’d reach it—where the ‘explanations’ come in. “How did that work out for you, huh? Did you compare the statistics? Hypothesize a drop in my assassination attempts?”
“I—I thought I was protecting you,” Kara says and the thing is, it reeks of sincerity. Lena really can’t tell who the better liar is, between the two of them. “I realized I was wrong, knew it was hurting you. Which is why I wanted to tell you. I really was going to, after the—”
Lena’s shaking a little, she realizes, when she feels her clenched fist quiver, feels her jaw tremble. She’s had too much time to think about this, enough time to counter each of Kara’s possible arguments, and.
(It’s the best and worst part of all of this.)
And there’s nothing to gain here, nothing to take from this.
She can’t even see Kara anymore, can only spot her hazy outline with all the tears blocking her vision, can barely hear her, barely process her words with how loud her thoughts are—
She hears a sob. She doesn’t know if it’s her own or Kara’s.
Lena swipes her fingers in front of her eyes, collects the lenses and deposits them in their case.
Her eyes don’t sting with unshed tears in reality.
“Miss Luthor, this simulation was your eighth failed attempt at—”
“Shut down.”
The device fizzles out, all the nanobots disappear into the disk at its base.
Lena takes that time to catch her breath, to realign her senses. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides.
She can do this. She can confront Kara without running away mid-simulation, without breaking down.
She can do it. She just needs time.
***
Kara♥️: There’s ??? chaos at CatCo???
missed call from Kara♥️
contact information updated
Kara Danvers: You need to come here
Kara Danvers: Some woman called Andrea showed up and says that she’s the new CEO
missed call from Kara Danvers (3)
Kara Danvers: Lena, you SOLD CatCo???????!!!!!!!!!
missed call from Kara Danvers (7)
Lena turns off her phone and tells her watchman not to let anyone up.
***
“You know, I chose you,” Lena says, not as a jibe, nor a taunt. Just words she wanted out there.
Kara blinks up at her, drags her eyes away from the movie to face Lena with obvious confusion, stares up at her blankly.
“Over Lillian. Over Jack. Over Lex,” Lena continues, barely controls herself from showing Kara a detailed powerpoint presentation listing exactly how. “I chose you every single time.”
Kara picks up the remote, puts the television on mute. Slowly, after a few long, uncomfortable seconds, she asks—concerned, always concerned—like she really doesn’t know that the entire problem is her, “Lena, what is this about?”
“I know.”
Kara’s eyebrows furrow together, and a moment later they widen. She’s about to open her mouth—
“You’re Supergirl. I know.”
“I—how?”
“That’s what you have to say to me? How?”
“Lena—”
“No, you listen to me,” Lena interrupts, doesn’t want Kara’s inputs, doesn’t want her Stages, doesn’t want her to speak—just wants to get everything off her chest, to unload, fuck, she doesn’t even know what she wants. “When I came to this city, I promised myself that I would never trust anyone again, and then I met you,” Lena spits out, like it’s venom, like it’s acid.
Kara just stands there, distraught, listens in silence, eyes bright with tears—
“You knew how important trust was to me. Knew how I had been betrayed in every single relationship I’d had. And even after I’d confided in you, you lied to me! Kept me in the dark like a fool—”
“No, no, that’s not—” Kara says, and Lena feels her boxes cracking up already. “That is different. I’m not—I lied to you because I love you!” Kara’s voice softens towards the end, she repeats it again, somehow even softer, “I love you.”
Lena feels her boxes explode at that, feels like her program might be malfunctioning—she can’t stand the thought of Kara loving her, can’t even begin to think of it as true.
She ignores it. Decides to say instead: “It hurts the most that you didn’t even choose me once.”
She ends the simulation, doesn’t stay to listen to whatever argument Kara has, knows that on some part she’s wrong about all of it herself, doesn’t want Kara to be logical about it. Doesn’t want to stop being angry so fast.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
Nothing does.
She swipes away the lenses and her tears all in one go.
***
She almost goes to game night.
It’s a friday, she gets off work a little earlier than usual. Her driver isn’t scheduled to come till an hour later, it’s a pleasant enough evening and she decides to walk back.
(Her driver deserves a break.)
It’s nice, walking alone, letting the loud streets of National City mute her thoughts—even with the looming fear of assassination.
Half way through, she realizes she’s walking to Kara’s apartment.
She calls her driver from the middle of the street and breaks down in the car.
(She deserves a break too.)
***
Sometimes, the mantra of i’m not a villain i’m not i swear i’m good i’m not a villain plays in a loop in her head even when she sleeps, and she can never never never stop that voice no matter how hard she tries.
It’s a little bit of a constant, she thinks, has been there ever since Lex was incarcerated and the spotlight was on her, big and bright and daunting, but nowadays, it seems more constant than before, like an x=2 instead of an x=y, a constant constant.
(Maybe even just a 2=2. No variable in the equation, however mathematically redundant.)
It’s relentless, should also be unnecessary with actions speak louder than words, and whatnot.
But Lena doesn’t think people see her, like, actually properly notice her actions or her words or her, just look away when they hear Luthor and it’s—
She’s not a villain. She’s not.
“Anything you want to get off your chest, Kara?”
Kara just stares at her, looks a little bit like a ghost, a deer caught in the headlights.
“Huh?” Kara asks, muffled and muted, mouth filled with popcorn.
“Nothing?” Lena gets up, ignores Kara’s wait where are you going. Walks towards her balcony, stops only when her back hits the railings. She knows if Kara was a human, there’d be no way she’d be able to hear her all the way from the sofa in the living room, but because she’s a liar instead, Lena doesn’t even bother raising her voice the slightest. “Guess this is the last time I’m seeing you, then.”
“Lena, what?” Kara says, panicked, drops the bowl and rushes up—
“I’m not a villain,” Lena says, wants that to be the last thing Kara hears from her, wants to tattoo it to Kara’s brain, ingrain it there in bold letters, underlined twice. “You shouldn’t have treated me like one.”
She jumps.
She ends the simulation before Supergirl can catch her.
***
She doesn’t know why she does it.
On a lot of levels, it’s a bad idea, a very bad idea, but something makes her do it anyway.
When she looks at her mother, looks at the reflection that looks exactly like herself, just older, she wants to run away and throw up in equal parts.
Lena doesn’t really remember what her mother looked like, just visions from her childhood, faint and foggy, too vague to be concrete.
The memories that she does have seem too distant to be her own, seem like visions from an old favorite movie she hadn’t watched in a decade, seem more like peeping through a window at someone else’s memory than her own.
She remembers being read a book to sleep every night, something about a girl and a medallion, but she doesn’t remember much else. Remembers going to her bed, long after the story had been read (it’s too dark i can’t sleep i’m scared i’m scared mam help) (honey it’s okay you’re okay come sleep with me just close your eyes and think about happy things). Remembers the last time she saw her, in the lake, just standing there, paralyzed, watching her die.
She remembers things like that, hazy hazy hazy, doesn’t even know if they’re real but they’re there and they’re something to hold onto, and that’s enough, maybe. It’s all she has anyway, enough or not.
(Mostly, she doesn’t remember much except the scrapes of information she got from the screaming matches in the Luthor Manor from when she was five.
And, the thing is—she remembers being that kid, remembers the kid that always lived in Lex’s shadow, trying to measure up and always falling short. Remembers being the laughing stock, remembers being made a fool of for some or the other kind of running joke against her. Remembers being five and miserable but doesn’t remember being four.
Remembers everyfuckingthing except her own mother.
She doesn’t know what her stupid brain is even suppressing down anymore.)
In her head, she decides that her mother was kind—her first hero. That she loved her, in spite of all her flaws.
(It seems a little unrealistic, simulation or not.)
When she faces her, she doesn’t run away or throw up, even though those are her first instincts. She steps into her arms, hugs her tight and cries.
It’s the longest time she’s spent in any simulation, only lets go when the battery drains out and she’s alone again.
***
Some days Lena thinks Kara Danvers stopped existing for her the moment she found out she was Supergirl.
(And maybe, maybe that was a part of the problem too—that Kara melted into Supergirl all those weeks ago. Things might’ve turned out different if Supergirl melted into Kara instead.)
In spite of that, even on those days, there’s still some degree of separation, between Supergirl and Kara, a fine line she never wanted to cross but is constantly forced on the other side of.
And like, the distinction is still there, still exists in some capacity—on those days, however small, and other days, big and scary—where she’ll see Supergirl on the news and look away for a moment until it clicks and she can’t.
There’s that microsecond of indifference, a microsecond too long before she realizes and does a double take, sees Kara’s face where Supergirl is fighting and—
She’s convinced herself that she doesn’t care, okay? Convinced herself that she doesn’t have a single bone in her body that still cares about Kara Danvers.
(She wonders why her heartbeat still quickens with worry whenever she sees Supergirl on the news—doesn’t calm even the slightest till it’s confirmed that she’s okay. Wonders if Kara got the switchboard in her kitchen fixed, the one that she asked Lena to remind her of, wonders if it’d be strange for her to text her a reminder out of the blue, because she knows it’s insignificant, in the grander scheme of things, but it just feels very significant sometimes.)
Doesn’t care in the slightest, doesn’t care at all.
She tries to stop thinking about it, tries to stop it all the time but thinking about not caring so much is definitely expressing some amount of care and—she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t care.
(Like the masochist she is, she tries to fill the silence with words Kara would’ve said if she was here, if everything was normal.
She can’t even begin to picture it anymore.
Normal is distant. Normal is gone.)
***
“Terminate,” Lena says, the vision of Kara and the bus fading away and in just a second, she’s back in her pristine white lonely penthouse.
“Virtual reality simulation terminated.”
Lena sighs. Whatever comfort the simulations are supposed to provide her, they’re failing to provide. And it exceedingly seems more and more like a mundane task, one that only prevents her from actually confronting Kara, actually dealing with this.
The simulations don’t even make her feel better about it anymore, just more disgusted than anything.
And like, she doesn’t even know what she wants from this. What is she expecting out of it? What is a successful simulation—
“May I ask you something, Miss Luthor?”
“Yes, Hope,” she says, calm and even, showing no sign that the simulation is still running in her head, still haunting her. That she wants to wear the lenses again, pull Kara to her chest and just.
Just.
She forces her legs to walk to the coffee table. Places the lenses into their case.
Out of sight, out of mind.
“These simulations you’ve been running in virtual reality—my calculations show it’s possible they can be achieved in the real world.”
Lena tenses, processes Hope’s words as she grabs the newspaper, Kara’s Pulitzer news highlighted on the front page, her smiling face front and centre. She looks at the headline for as long as she can stomach it, buries the hint of pride that rises despite everything.
She slowly puts the newspaper down, realizes almost immediately that the fundamental programming of the device is supposed to interpret her own desires, is supposed to do what it thinks she’ll want. She freezes when she realizes that the AI thinks actually hurting Supergirl is in that list.
Still, she asks, just as confirmation, “Are you offering me to kill Supergirl?”
“Yes. Would you like me to facilitate?”
The answer comes mechanically, Hope makes it sound like it’s the logical next step in her plan, says it like it’s meant to please her.
Lena feels so sick to her stomach that she almost throws up.
(She decides then and there that she’s had enough, that there’s nothing left to get from this, that she’ll drive herself crazy with the possibilities and let herself drown.
She’ll destroy the AI and return the lenses and really confront Kara even if it’s the last thing she does.)
***
Of course, it doesn’t work out for her as planned. It never does.
She makes up her mind, formulates a plan as near to perfection as she can, and it's simple, really: she’ll give Kara her Pulitzer, let herself have this one last day (there’s never a last day. there’s never going to be a last day. it’s always going to be another day, and another, and another—) before she confronts her for once and for all, direct and forthright, just like she’s been practising.
But Kara finds her before she finds Kara.
Lena’s preparing for her speech, going through the notes she wrote years back when she first told Kara she’s meant for great things, and only ten minutes before she’s about to go on stage, she comes to face with Kara.
And as soon as Kara opens her mouth to speak, something in Lena senses that she isn’t going to like whatever comes out of it, can feel already that the words are going to push her off some or the other kind of edge.
Kara prefaces it a little, says something about not deserving Lena, something else that Lena just can’t process right now, but it’s not nearly enough, doesn’t buy her any time to—
“I’m Supergirl,” Kara says, and Lena feels the impact like she’s fallen from twenty feet above. “I’ve always been Supergirl.”
Lena’s tired, already so tired, already exhausted from having this conversation every day for a month and she really doesn’t want to do this right now, all she asked was for one more day, just one more (a million more) fucking day(s).
But Kara doesn’t know, doesn’t care about giving Lena another day, just continues, “I should have told you is long ago, I know that.”
Lena knows that too, knows this line, it’s Stage 1, she can counter Stage 1, she knows how, but the words aren’t coming out and she feels like the oxygen is being sucked out her lungs a little—
“And I just kept on making excuses because you’ve been hurt so many times. I convinced myself that I was protecting you.”
Stage 2. Stage 2 Stage 2 Stage 2.
“And then one day you were so angry with me—with Supergirl, but you still loved Kara... and I just kept thinking, if I could be Kara—just Kara, that I could keep you,” there’s a pause, and Lena’s heart stops right with it, no stage has a fucking pause, but Lena doesn’t even get to think about it because Kara completes, almost like an afterthought, “as a friend.”
There’re the tears then, in both their eyes, the Stage 3 she never got to see, that she was never strong enough to see, where Lena would usually just turn the simulation off and not have to face—
(Seeing Kara break down, seeing her devastated, choked up, in tears, was a lot more satisfying as a theory, when it was all in her head.)
(In reality, it makes Lena want to do nothing more than to wrap her up in her arms.)
Instead, she clenches her fist, feels her muscles tensing, throat closing up, and she gives up the idea of arguing back completely
“I was selfish and scared and I didn't want to lose you,” Kara continues, keeps speaking, keeps explaining even though all Lena wants to do is run. “So I kept pretending, and I never stopped.”
Lena wants to interrupt, wants to tell Kara how wrong she is, how all her arguments are shit, but before she can, Kara does it herself: “And every time I kept my secret from you, I wasn’t protecting you, I was hurting you, just like everyone else, and I am so, so sorry.” Even through her own clouded vision, Lena can see the tears flowing freely on Kara’s face, wet and messy and everywhere. The apology didn’t have a Stage, didn’t happen ever in Lena’s— “I am so sorry.”
Something inside Lena breaks, so loud that she can practically hear it, cracking her ribcage, jumbling her thoughts together in her throat into something strange, like if she opens her mouth they’ll come out as a cry, or a scream—
There’s no box big enough for them.
She tries her hardest to stay stoic, stay cold and calculated, but tears keep stinging her eyes and she feels off-balance, feels the sadness wash over her like it’s tangible.
None of her simulations prepared her for this, she never for a second considered that Kara would tell her herself, willingly. That there won’t be a confrontation. Just a confession, an apology.
And. Lena doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to channelize all that she’s feeling in an emotion that’s not anger.
“Please say something.”
Lena’s mouth quivers, eyes red and glassy, and she pleads her body to let her speak, say even a single sentence from the speeches she’d rehearsed So. Many. Times. The ones she planned, the versions of which she’d lived through again and again.
“Lena—”
She walks away before she can hear more.