Disclaimer: Supergirl isn't mine. Sad.

A/N: So I arbitrarily decided to ship Supercorp when it was announced that Lena Luthor was joining the S2 cast. Then I looked up Katie McGrath, and my ship was solidified. But I did not expect them to actually have ridiculous chemistry, let alone for the writers to have such a delicious lack of subtlety! It's so amazing, I had to shamelessly leap aboard the Supercorp bandwagon like the shipping trash I am, haha. I hope you enjoy this admittedly introspective story, and if you do, please review!

Lighthouse

It is difficult, even now, for Kara to think of the future—for even now, she always envisions that future on Krypton.

She knows better, of course; her homeworld has been dead for decades, longer than the mere thirteen years that have physically passed for her. Its rituals and customs, politics and society: none of these remain, save in her memory and Kal-El's fortress. And that's not enough, really, to support this kind of delusion. She ought to be able to think about earthly things instead of constantly having her dreams track back to the stars.

But again, it is difficult. Kara knows that Ms. Grant is unaware of the burden she has placed upon her young protégé when demanding the girl select a vocation, but still, it is a burden, and it is weighty. Somehow, Kara has been hoping that life on Earth would be transient—that somehow, someway, she would get to return to her childhood realm and progress into maturity like she'd always imagined.

That is stupid. Well, not stupid, but. But it cannot be. It is impossible. And that is worse than stupid, worse than childish, worse than anything. Kara swallows the blackness that wells up in her throat, tastes its poison (sharp and acidic, like bile, but sicker), and tries once more to marshal her thoughts in accordance with her mentor's wishes.

They stray once more, though. She wonders what her vocation would've been on Krypton; it is easier to contemplate that way, but it involves an inherent difficulty, as well. For there are not always direct human equivalents—hardly ever, in Kara's experience. There are similarities, of course (her mother was sort of a lawyer, but only sort of), but something inherent, something necessary is utterly lost in translation. People can travel between the stars, it seems, but apparently a people cannot.

Krypton remains long ago and far away, and not even that.

She chose the job of assistant because that was frightfully normal, frightfully human. It was mundane and trite and borderline shameful, being someone's lackey like that, subservient to every whim, every beck and call. On Krypton, there were no assistants; the closest corollary was servant, and even that term was archaic, as befitted an advanced society of philosophers. Starting at the antithesis of all things Kryptonian seemed to Kara the perfect way to invest herself in Earth-life—to forget (hopefully forever, never forever, please not even for a little while) that there ever was something else than this blue planet circling its yellow sun.

And then along came Supergirl, or her persona, but that lends no clarity to Kara. For Supergirl has no equivalent on Krypton; once again, something is lost in translation. There were heroes on her homeworld, true, in the way that there have been heroes on Earth: bold warriors, noble guardians, champions of justice and advocates of right. But none of them were super, none akin to gods except in the annals of mythology.

Being Supergirl isn't a Kryptonian vocation anymore than being Ms. Grant's assistant is. Supergirl is Kara's core, her heart and her passion and a silent way to keep herself separate from humanity, to remind herself of her soul's birthplace, but still, not a job. Not a career. Truly, Supergirl is not a hero because flying is one of her skills. Kara embodies her just because it's what feels right in her bones. It feels natural, even though on this backwards planet, it's anything but.

So Kara is at a loss.

Until, that is, she meets Lena Luthor.

Kara has expectations for this meeting, expectations and prejudices and half-forgone conclusions. This is Lex's sister, after all, and she knows plenty about him. He is abhorrent, a black mark on humanity's record if ever there was one (though, Kara recalls, humanity had a lot of those. A bloody-historied race, indeed.). Many of his lesser crimes would have earned him a sentence in the Phantom Zone, and his greatest genocide would have probably condemned him to far worse. Kara isn't sure what that would be, since Krypton had done away with executions as barbaric long before humanity had ceased burning people alive, but it would've been severe, she knows that much. He deserved to be cast into a black hole, or…or something.

And she saw him on television, abusing her cousin as a threat and a monster instead of the kind, decent nobleman he is (for the great and ancient House of El carries a degree of nobility in its blood, and Kal-El bears his like the humblest of kings). Lex is a demon, frankly. He is hardly any more human than his archenemy. He is decidedly less, Kara corrects. So much less. (Correct DNA isn't the only indicator of humanity.)

Her perceptions so skewed, Kara expects the same of Lena. She expects a female Lex: terrifying and twisted, rotten to the core and stinking of that rot as surely as a corpse. Needless to say, upon that first encounter, Kara is utterly taken aback.

Lena is…powerful, in that curious way of humans. It's a trait she shares with Ms. Grant: both women seem to take up far more space than they actually do, despite the fact that neither of them has a cape billowing from their shoulders to broaden their silhouette. As traits go, too, it's rare, and Kara is impressed by its presence, and intrigued by the subtle differences. Ms. Grant is effortlessly comfortable in her larger-than-life confidence like her feline namesake, but Lena is defiant in hers. She is challenging and direct and apparently disgusted by suspicion, instantly attacking any supposition that she shares morals with her fallen sibling.

Kara hardly knows what to make of her, not in her head. Her heart, though, is convinced from the start: this is not a female Lex. This is a woman who does not desire to bring harm, not by association and certainly not by her own hand.

But Kara's not very good at listening to her heart, sometimes. She thought James was the fabled One, but they missed too many chances, lost too many opportunities, and love cannot be duped endlessly. Sparks die without a breeze to fan them, and their sparks charred, soundlessly, into ash. But James, or his now-empty place in her thoughts, irks her as greatly as Ms. Grant's challenge to find a vocation.

She once again envisions a future on Krypton instead of here on Earth. A Kryptonian suitor, a Kryptonian spouse; an ordinary Kryptonian career. Except it's blurry, mocking, like the false life she suffered beneath the Black Mercy's thrall. She can't picture her human future, but neither can she completely conjure her lost Kryptonian one. All paths, all threads vanish, as surely as footprints lapped away by the sea.

Kara envies Kal-El for his direction—envies him for his Clark. She laments the lack of different name for herself; perhaps it would have been easier if she could differentiate between lives so easily. A Kara Zor-El for Krypton, and a Someone Danvers for Earth. But then most days she cherishes that she has not had to give up something so personal as her very name; the humans don't always know, but they're speaking her language when they address her. Each time they say Kara, they're perpetuating Krypton, just a little.

Okay, so she likes that her name is the same. But even so, she would appreciate the clarity of Clark's life, the surety of Kal-El's. Maybe that's just because he never knew their homeworld, though, and Kara dismisses the desire in the next instant: she would never forget Krypton just to fit in better here.

That would be the height of blasphemy.

Kara's thoughts wander again, back to Lena. The female Luthor doesn't look like Lex, either—not that Kara had been expecting another bald head, but she is still surprised by the other woman's appearance, and not just for that power that rolls off her in palpable waves. She is stunning, poised, severe: similar to Ms. Grant, but different once again. Not as comfortable again, like she's almost on the brink of clawing her way out of her skin. And when Kara learns that Lena is not a Luthor by blood, that impression solidifies into sense, and her prejudices ease.

Not a Luthor by blood. Kara knows that familial ties aren't proof for or against corruption—oh, dear Rao, she knows that all too well—but it comforts her, even so. It seems to give Lena more of a fighting chance to emerge untarnished by her brother's dark stain, because he's not her brother.

(And Alex isn't her sister, of course, but…well, Alex isn't a genocidal maniac, so there's hardly a point in drawing comparisons.)

Kara likes Lena after that first impression. There's a sense of solidarity there, on several planes. It comforts Kara, somewhere deep down that she hadn't realized was hurting. Here's another woman, adopted and lost and trying to find her way, to blaze her own trail alongside the overwhelming shadow of her family. Here's another woman, succeeding.

It gives Kara hope. A sliver, perhaps, or at least it is a sliver because it is a fledgling, not yet given time enough to grow.

But upon their subsequent encounter—although, Kara acknowledges, Lena doesn't know it's subsequent, as she has no knowledge of Supergirl's alter-ego—Kara molds more of her perception, shapes more of her picture, and it only grows more favorable. It strikes her as strange to save Lena, who seemed so untouchable in her skyscraper office but is now so helpless spinning circles in the same height of empty sky; it strikes her as strange that Lena could need saving. Not as a Luthor, not because all Luthors deserve whatever end they get, but because she seemed so capable, so defiant of the world that surely danger and death, too, would balk and retreat from her presence.

But Lena is human, Kara realizes. Fragilely human, just like the rest of them. So Kara starts to worry, instead. She tries to persuade Lena away from reckless behaviors, like very public ceremonies, but the Luthor is as obstinate as ever. And fragile as ever, Kara thinks as the plaza explodes, and stronger than she'd ever dared imagine, she corrects when Lena stands with a smoking gun in her hand and the most fearless, drawn, resolved expression that Kara has ever seen.

It stuns her, just for a moment. She can't look away, for a moment.

It's like Lena doesn't care that she's a mere human. It's like she doesn't care to wait for a superhuman savior, or even her very human savior, Alex. There's a sense of power again, nearly enough to taste despite all the smoke in the air, and Kara wonders in the idle silence of her mind (in those stunned moments that interlink like chains, like train cars, like fingers) if she herself ever exudes that much invincibility.

Truly, is this how people feel, looking at Supergirl?

But the moment ends and there's debris and chaos to clean up and contain, and Supergirl is needed and so Kara is, too. She attends to the disaster, not worrying about Lena, and not because Corbin is being spirited away to a hospital, but because it's very plain that she does not need to worry about Lena. (Part of her still does, a little, reflexively almost, but it's a much smaller part than before.)

Instead, she spends her time marveling at the strength of humans, defiant against the darkness that threatens to swallow them whole at every side. Her head whirls with the thoughts all night, even though it's nighttime and she's supposed to be sleeping, because whatever Ms. Grant says, Kara likes to sleep at night, and preferably a solid eight hours, thank you very much.

Still, Kara frets when she wakes, for she wasted her time sleeping and has given no further consideration to Ms. Grant's challenge, and the deadline is approaching. But her mind is blank as the space where Krypton used to hang, and she tries not to focus on her impending failure and the disappointment she will see on Ms. Grant's face (who, Kara only ever privately admits, has become something of a surrogate mother. She would never speak it aloud, even to Cat, because Eliza Danvers deserves better than that, and maybe even her own dead mother deserves better than that, even if she did let Krypton tear itself apart).

Still. Disappointment looms, and Kara consoles herself by tagging along with Kal-El again as he masquerades as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. Except, Kara recalls, he might not be masquerading as much as she is as Kara Danvers. There's that distinction again for him which offers clarity, and she's convinced her whole life is a muddy blur. Kara Danvers or Kara Zor-El: she can't picture a future for either of them, though she does her damnedest to try.

It's beyond her reach. Ms. Grant pointed her in the right direction, but the ground between her present and that dim horizon is trackless, and she cannot conceive how to navigate its treachery. She knows she cannot fly over it. Superpowers cannot solve this.

She hangs back when Kal-El is congratulated by Lena; she indulges in the sulk, in her own misery, in her perceived failure. Perhaps she doesn't get a future, as she's taken too many pasts, too many parallel presents. Perhaps she avoided death on Krypton, but that doesn't mean she's guaranteed anything. She doesn't get a perfect fulfilling life as some sort of compensation.

The universe just doesn't work that way.

"And what about you, Miss Danvers?"

Lena's voice jerks Kara from her thoughts, and she blinks.

Lena gives her a significant look, direct and defiant, but with laughter flashing a fin in those ice-green depths. "I didn't see your name on the by-line," she prompts.

Kara scrambles for an answer, an explanation. All of them seem to fall flat, as she's sure her future excuses will for Ms. Grant. "Uh-uh-uh," she stumbles, and, "Well, like I said, I'm not a reporter."

But instead of disappointment, which Kara unconsciously braces for, Lena just smiles. Stunning and like she has a secret, like she's going to thoroughly enjoy sharing it. And share it she does. "You could've fooled me."

And Kara smiles in return, because she can't help it, because she's never been good at biting back smiles. And she thinks, Oh, oh. Reporter. That…that just might be the answer.

The possibility fills her with warmth, and she is riding so high on the giddy swell, anxious to see what heights it may reach, that she nearly misses Lena's parting remark.

"I hope this isn't the last time we talk."

Kara grins broadly now, full of genuine feeling. "I hope not, either."

It's heartfelt, almost painfully so.

Kara tells Ms. Grant that her destined vocation is a reporter, but she fails to add (because she hardly realizes it herself) that she only knows this because Lena Luthor pointed it out. She's still too caught up in the whirl of the epiphany itself to properly credit the source.

Eventually, though, she thinks back on it and a wondering blush creeps across her cheeks.

Lena had known her for less than a day (hour-wise, at least—it's been nowhere near twenty-four; it's scarcely been thirty minutes) and still she recognized the innermost shape of Kara's heart. That's something remarkable, indeed. It's not like Lena has X-ray vision, or even the partial crutch of Kara's resume like Ms. Grant.

Lena just knows, like an instinct. Like she's somehow made to understand Kara, even though Kara hardly understands herself most days.

Kara shamefully but resolutely condemns her initial notion of no good Luthors to permanent trash once and for all. Regardless of name or blood, Lena is different from the Luthors. She's different from everybody. She's…Lena.

Powerful yet fragile. Defiant yet vulnerable.

And Kara's in awe.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a vision of the future starts to take shape. It's not like it would've been on Krypton; it's a far cry from it. There's less space travel, for one thing. And her family is otherwise, with foster members and younger-turned-older cousins and friends so close they might as well share blood. Her vocation is settled, even though reporters don't quite have an analog on Krypton, just like nothing human ever does.

Her expectation of a suitor, of a spouse, flickers, too. Changes shape. Alters its guise.

It's faint, but if she squints, Kara almost thinks it looks like Lena.

And for a moment, she doesn't miss Krypton at all.