She's a wily one, that Kara Danvers. She thinks I don't know what lies beneath those prim glasses, those eyes, wide and bright, that smile so young, so charming. She thinks I can't see the way her breath catches, or all the times her eyes seek out my lips, before darting somewhere, anywhere else.
She thinks I can't see? Oh, I can see.
But we can't do that.
She knows we can't. And yet she persists.
This flirting game, this guileless appreciation of me is to be expected, I suppose. I am the queen of all media. That comes with a certain powerful attraction for others in my orbit. I can't help that.
But I don't give her anything back. I can't afford to. Not in my position. Not with her age. Her sex. Her assistant status.
No, no.
We can't.
She's a frustrating human, Cat Grant. Sometimes she watches me, really closely, and gives a half smile, like she knows all my secrets. How can she? Or can she? I hope not.
Alex says I'm like an open book and it's a miracle my super secret has stayed buried under my "safe, sweet-sixteen" office outfits as long as it has.
She says stuff like that. A lot.
I never had a sister before. I am guessing it's normal to be teased about one's total cluelessness about things. But for a long time, I admit, it hurt. I'm only clueless because this isn't home. This isn't native to me. And she isn't helping reminding me I'm so useless at everything that comes natural to her.
Like love. I don't have a clue how to deal with this. I'm sure that's what this is. It swells in my heart, all strange and burning. It's a compulsion, like when I can't stop eating to refuel after a night of fighting.
I consume food with a ferocity and passion, like I can't get enough. And I look at Cat Grant and I swear it's the same. It's hunger. It feels insatiable. I can't get enough. All I see when I look at her is the word MORE. I want… no, need… more.
If it's not love, I don't know what can come close to explaining this cacophony of emotions. I'm so hyper aware of her.
She touched me today. On the sleeve, to get my attention. Her fingers drifted down my forearm to the back of my hand. They stayed there for 1.4 seconds. I counted, because time works like that for me. I can perceive things and do things so much faster than humans. So I spent an eternity in that 1.4 seconds, experiencing it like it was an hour.
After she was done, after my pores stopped singing a hallelujah choir, and my breath returned to me, and my heart jumped to manic thudding, I wondered how I'd ever cope if she touched more than my hand.
How would I cope if she touched a shoulder? A cheek. A knee... A breast.
I swallow, barely able to pursue that thought. I see it dart away like a tumbleweed down a deserted street. But I look at it, excitement rising.
A nipple.
How would I cope if she placed her mouth on my bare, naked, goosepimpling skin, and looked at me with desire. With eyes that searched my soul? How would I feel if she devoured all of me? Every part of me. The parts of me I have never shared with anyone. The places I touch only when alone, longing for it to be her hand. Her lips.
Her.
I tremble at just the thought.
But it is just a thought. It's silly. Because we can't.
No. It's impossible. She'd never allow it.
Obviously.
I touched Kara Danvers today. I didn't even notice at first that I had. Just the merest accidental touch to call her attention to some paperwork. I would have thought nothing more of it but her reaction was far more than such an incidental brushing of fingertips deserved.
Her pupils dilated. Wide and dark. Her breath hitched. Her eyes searched my face as a blush spidered its way up that soft delicate neck.
Does she know what those ingénue blushes do to me?
Does she?
Sometimes I think she must, given how often she inflicts them on my unsuspecting being.
Of late, I have been debating whether to bring Kara with me to the conference in a week. Normally, as an assistant, it's not even a question. Of course she should be there. To assist. In all the assisting ways she is so perfect at. Coffees on my desk before I even know I want them. Salad or burger? She knows my mood and acquires the appropriate lunch for me before the thought is half formed and curled onto my tongue.
She stays late on the nights I need her most; by unspoken agreement she just senses when I don't want her to leave my side. She takes off when I'm in no mood to be flitted around and fussed over.
And by takes off, I suspect many a night she does that literally. Does she really think I don't know?
My normally faithful assistant was missing during a critical advertiser's meeting some months back. I had to ask that soulful-eyed, cardiganned friend of hers four times for her presence. When she finally deigned to appear, her hair reeked of smoke. There was ash smudged next to one ear.
When I returned to my office, snappish and out of sorts at being prioritized last by the person who is paid to always put me first, I glanced at the TV monitors. The Meat Factory district had been on fire. Supergirl to the rescue. She saved nine souls that hour.
And Kara Danvers smelled of fire.
The realization wasn't as shocking as one might think. I'd always known deep down. It was probably convenient not to think too hard about it. To stop and wonder that they both share the same tiny scar above one eye. That they're the same height, build, and have identical hair color. I mean, really, I'm not known for my denseness, but it should have occurred to me more forcefully than before this.
Once before I'd allowed myself to be convinced by a little ruse involving a Supergirl doppelganger. But somewhere, buried shallowly in my subconscious - which spends so, so long dwelling on both women - I've always known.
Which brings me back to my conference. Normally an assistant would attend. Kara is well aware of this. She keeps pointing out things on the itinerary, as though expecting me to bring up the fact I haven't asked her to include herself on this trip.
How can I though? It's in Fiji. Home of beaches and sarongs, drinks out of pineapples, and guests wearing very little in their downtime. And I can't deny my assistant downtime. I'm not that selfish. But how will it feel, watching her slink by in a bikini, feet crunching along white sand, doubtlessly waving some ridiculous multi-parasoled drink at me as she slaps a hand on her wide-brimmed hat?
Am I supposed to pretend that the sight of her, lean and honed, smooth and soft, all deliciously laid bare, won't give me more doubts, more temptations than I'm fortified to repel?
It's not fair on her though, not to let her go. I'm sure it will be fine. I can always hide in my room and let her go and be young.
It's settled then. I glance up to her desk.
"Keira?" I call. "Pack. I'll need you in Fiji."
I don't wait for a response. I don't look up to see the inevitable delight washing her face. The thought of the trip already fills me with dread. I'm a roiling cocktail of hiss, vinegar, and irritation. Perhaps I should warn her. Pack her sunscreen and armor.