Chapter 29: NIGHT FLIGHT
[National City Skyline — November 2016, 11:47 PM]
The warehouse disturbance turned out to be a false alarm—two drunk aliens arguing over a card game, no metahuman activity, no threat requiring Kryptonian intervention. We handled it with words instead of powers, de-escalated the situation, returned both parties to their respective homes.
Standard patrol work. The kind of thing that filled most nights—small problems, routine solutions, the unglamorous reality of being a hero.
But the charged silence from the cliff followed us through every moment.
"Another pass around the harbor?" Kara suggested as we rose back into the sky. "The docks have been active lately."
"Sure."
We flew side by side, matching speeds. The city spread below us—a tapestry of lights and shadows, millions of lives happening simultaneously. I'd grown to appreciate these patrol flights, the unique perspective they offered on the world I was learning to call home.
"Can I ask you something?" Kara said eventually.
"Always."
"The other night. On the cliff." She kept her eyes forward, focused on the horizon. "What were you thinking?"
The question landed like a physical weight. I could deflect, offer some safe answer that preserved the status quo. Could pretend I hadn't noticed the moment, hadn't felt its significance.
But we were past pretending.
"I was thinking that I've never met anyone like you," I said. "And I was wondering if I was imagining things, or if you felt it too."
Silence. The wind carried us toward the harbor, over ships and cranes and the perpetual activity of maritime commerce.
"You weren't imagining things," Kara said quietly.
My heart rate spiked. Superhearing meant she probably noticed. I didn't care.
"But it's complicated," she continued. "Everything about this is complicated. Our histories, our species, the work we do. I can't just—" She broke off, frustrated. "I don't know what I can do."
"I'm not asking for anything," I said. "I'm not trying to push you into something you're not ready for. I just... didn't want to pretend anymore."
"That's the problem." She finally looked at me. "You don't pretend. With everyone else, I can maintain professional distance. With you, I keep forgetting I'm supposed to."
We landed on a rooftop overlooking the harbor. The night shift workers moved through their routines below, unaware of the aliens watching from above.
"When I first came to Earth," Kara said, sitting on the roof's edge, "I thought I'd never feel at home. Never find people who understood what it meant to lose everything. Kal had his life in Metropolis, his relationships, his place in the world. I was just the cousin who arrived too late."
"You made your own place."
"Eventually. But there were years when I felt like I was floating. Like nothing was real, nothing was permanent. Like I was just passing through a world that didn't need me."
I sat beside her. Close, but not touching. The boundary felt important to maintain.
"I still feel that way sometimes," I admitted. "Like I'm watching my life happen to someone else. Like the person in the mirror is a stranger I'm slowly learning to recognize."
"But it gets better?"
"It gets different." I chose my words carefully, aware that I was describing something she couldn't fully understand—the transmigrator experience, the consciousness living in borrowed flesh. "The strangeness doesn't disappear. You just learn to live with it. Learn to find moments that feel genuine, connections that feel real."
"And this?" She gestured between us. "Does this feel real?"
"More than anything I've experienced since I woke up here."
The harbor lights sparkled below us. Ships moved through the darkness, carrying cargo to destinations around the world. The ordinary machinery of human civilization, continuing regardless of the extraordinary conversation happening above it.
"I was engaged once," Kara said suddenly. "On Krypton. I was thirteen when the betrothal was arranged. He was nice enough—his family had political connections my parents valued. I spent years imagining our future together."
"What happened?"
"The planet exploded." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "He died with everyone else. And I came to Earth and spent twelve years learning to want different things."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I barely knew him, really. We were children playing at adult commitments." She turned to face me fully. "My point is that I've spent most of my life having my relationships dictated by circumstances. Who survived, who was available, who was appropriate. I've never just... chosen someone. Because I wanted to."
The implication hung in the air. I waited, letting her find her own words.
"You frustrate me," she said finally. "You lied about everything important, and I should still be angry about that. But instead I find myself looking forward to your bar shifts, making excuses to train with you, thinking about our conversations when I should be focusing on work."
"I frustrate you?" I couldn't help the slight smile.
"You make me want things I told myself I didn't need. Companionship that isn't just professional. Someone who understands what it means to be the last of something." She laughed softly. "You're not even supposed to be here. You were supposed to die on Daxam with everyone else. And instead you crashed into my life and made everything complicated."
"For what it's worth, I didn't plan it either."
"No. You just showed up and started being... you." She shook her head. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to reveal some new lie, some hidden agenda. But you just keep being reliable and brave and frustratingly sincere."
"Would you prefer I be less sincere?"
"I'd prefer you be easier to resist."
The words landed softly, honest in their vulnerability. Kara Zor-El, the most powerful woman on Earth, admitting that she was struggling to maintain emotional distance.
My hand found hers on the rooftop. This time it wasn't accidental.
"You don't have to resist," I said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever speed you need, whatever time you need to figure this out—I'll be here."
Her fingers intertwined with mine. The touch was electric, charged with weeks of building tension finally finding an outlet.
"Mon-El."
"Yes?"
She didn't say anything else. Just leaned closer, starlight catching her features, and I thought—
Her comm beeped again.
"Supergirl, we have confirmation on the warehouse district. Actual metahuman activity this time. Team is en route."
Kara closed her eyes briefly. The frustration on her face was almost comical.
"Copy. We're on our way."
She stood, pulling her hand from mine. The moment was broken—again—but something had shifted. Something had been acknowledged that couldn't be un-acknowledged.
"Rain check?" she asked.
"Absolutely."
We flew toward the warehouse district, duty calling us back to the work that defined us. But I could feel her glancing at me during the flight, could sense the unfinished conversation hanging between us.
Some things couldn't be rushed. But they couldn't be ignored either.
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