Note: Based on this tumblr prompt: 'i'm in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and i noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the fuck' au

Warning for mentions of violence, descriptions of injury and some accidental (kind of?) exhibitionism.

This is part 1 of 2. Next part will be up within the next few days.


1

Kara only went to Andrey's self-serve 24 hour (no money back) Laundromat when she was absolutely desperate. So, every other week or so.

Through no fault of her own, every once in a while, none of the shirts she'd sniff would smell acceptable and she'd remember she'd forgotten to do the laundry. She just hadn't been born with that organizational time management gene people like Alex had. Or maybe it was an app or something.

At 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, Andrey's was completely empty, and since Kara had nothing but dirty clothes, she saw no reason not to put all of them in. Stripping out of her smelly t-shirt and stained jeans and selecting the eco wash program, Kara almost felt like a responsible, functioning adult.

An hour or so later, after her clothes were done washing and Kara had popped them in the dryer, a stranger entered the laundromat.

She appeared to be a woman, maybe around Kara's age, with dark hair and business casual clothes. Beautiful, but otherwise unremarkable. And then she crouched down, placed a large canvas bag beside her, and began pulling out one blood soaked clothing item after another and stuffing them into the wash.

This wasn't a cut finger or scraped knee or even a dog bite to the leg kind of bloody. This was slasher movie, chainsaws and buckets of viscera bloody. The smell of iron was noticeable in the air.

"Hey," Kara called, approaching the stranger carefully. "Are you okay?"

"Mm?" the stranger hummed absentmindedly, cramming yet more bloody garments into the machine.

"Your clothes are covered in blood," Kara pointed out gently.

"Mm," the stranger agreed. "It isn't mine."

Kara peered down at her. "Are you a werewolf?"

"What?" The stranger's head snapped up, twisting to look at Kara. She was crouching, and her gaze naturally caught on the nearest point of interest in her line of sight: Kara's crotch, in this particular instance. "Why are you in your underwear?"

Kara blinked. "My clothes are in the wash."

"And you have only the one set?"

"Oh, no, I have a bunch," Kara assured her.

"But not enough to stay decent in public?"

"Why are you giving me such a hard time about this? Your clothes are covered in blood."

"It's not mine, though," the stranger repeated, turning back to stuff the last of her things in the wash and turn it on.

"That's not necessarily reassuring," Kara told her. "I don't know you. What if you're a murderous werewolf?"

"I—are you really accusing me of being a werewolf? It isn't even the full moon."

"Maybe you just transform at night, regardless."

"It's night right now," the stranger pointed out.

Kara shrugged. "You could be a murderous anything, really."

The stranger gave her a pointed onceover. Without lingering on her briefs, this time. "Is your badge also in the wash?"

"My—? Oh, I'm not a cop or anything," Kara told her.

The stranger climbed slowly to her feet, leaning her hip against the washing machine and fixing Kara with an unimpressed look. "Mm hm. Maybe you shouldn't interrogate strangers about their dirty laundry, then," she said.

Finally eye to eye, Kara could get a good look at the stranger for the first time. Shorter than Kara even in pumps, she still had an air of command about her, like a firefighter, or a math teacher. Her hair was in a bun so tight it must have been painful, and she wore rather heavy makeup that failed to conceal a freshly scabbed over cut at the edge of her eyebrow.

On closer observation, she seemed to be breathing shallowly, never standing quite straight. Kara would bet on bruised ribs.

Kara forced herself not to reach over to her. This was not a patient. "Do you need help?" Kara asked quietly.

"No," the stranger said coolly. "I told you. It wasn't my blood."

Kara stood silently for a moment, the urge to press superseded by the understanding that her intervention wasn't wanted. Then her machine started beeping loudly.

She could feel the stranger's eyes on her as she extracted a shirt and pair of sweats at random and quickly pulled them on. They were toasty warm from the dryer, their artificial floral scent just slightly too strong. She gathered the rest of her laundry into her big plastic bag and headed for the exit. At the door, she turned back. The stranger was still watching, arms folded and body tilted subtly away, observant but unapproachable.

Kara waved at her. "Well, bye," she said lamely. "Take care of yourself."

Inexplicably, the stranger uncrossed her arms and waved back.

.

.

2

Three weeks later, when Kara next remembered that clothes needed washing sometimes, Andrey's Laundromat was empty. That was most often the case this late at night, of course. Once in a while she'd encounter a college student or a nightshift worker or just somebody like her, disorganized and a little airheaded; but generally, she was used to doing her laundry alone.

There was no reason, really, to keep looking over her shoulder, checking to see if maybe Bloody Laundry Woman was there with her bloody laundry, see if the cut on her eyebrow had healed.

There was reason to feel oddly worried when she never materialized.

.

.

A week after that, the idea of laundry miraculously popped into her head even though at least two of her shirts hadn't been worn even once. Usually, in a scenario like this, she'd take the time to go to Alfassi & Sons (open 8:00 to 17:30), where she knew her money would go to a local, family owned business and her clothes would come out smelling gentle and comforting and somehow look newer than they went in.

This time, though, she had the strange urge to go back to Andrey's, anyway. Preferably at night. Around 2 a.m., or so.

But Bloody Laundry Woman wasn't there today, either.

Kara leaned her butt against the washing machine's edge and started going through the articles she'd bookmarked for her spare time. She picked one she'd been saving for a truly direly boring situation; this one certainly qualified.

And that's when Bloody Laundry Woman walked in the door.

"Oh, wow," she said as she saw Kara, actually taking a half step back as if shocked. "You're clothed, this time."

Kara tugged at her shorts. "Yeah, I remembered to leave something clean, for once." She looked at Bloody Laundry Woman. "And you actually aren't bloody."

The woman gave a funny little curtsy and walked over to the machine directly facing Kara, which made it very easy to examine her fairly discreetly. She was standing properly upright, her chest rising and falling easily. When she crouched to load the machine, there was no hesitation or stiffness to her movement. She'd clearly healed well. A few weeks would do that.

Kara looked away, trying not to broadcast her relief.

"So, do you come here often?" Bloody Laundry Woman was looking directly at her. She'd asked her a question. A come-on kind of question.

Taken aback, Kara could only manage a mumbled, "Um, yeah."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Live nearby?"

Kara nodded. "Pretty close."

"You were so much more verbal last time," the woman observed. "Is it the clothes? Do you only express yourself freely while partially nude?"

Kara couldn't help cracking a smile. "I'm surprised you're talking to me," she admitted.

Bloody Laundry Woman smirked. "I had a pretty bad day last time we met. But you weren't the worst part of it."

Kara scratched at a loose thread in the hem of her shirt. "Oh. Thanks."

"I made sure to wear this, in case of any further accusations of lycanthropy." The woman raised her hand, displaying the thick ring on her middle finger. "It's about 92% silver, I hope that's sufficient."

Kara grinned. "I don't know. That 8% could easily cover the surface area, insulating your skin."

"Aw, come on, it's an alloy," the woman protested. "Fine. I'll bring the silver bullets next time."

Next time. What a concept. "Do you live around here, then?"

The woman nodded. "I just moved to National City recently," she said. "Got a job offer I just could not refuse."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Debugger for Edge Global," the woman replied. "Glamorous, isn't it?"

Kara grimaced sympathetically. "Sounds extremely boring."

"Oh, yes," the woman said, with feeling. "What about you? If it's too fascinating, please lie."

Kara laughed delightedly. Bloody Laundry Woman was surprisingly fun. "Physical therapist," Kara told her, wiggling her fingers.

"Working with your hands," said the woman, a certain edge to her smile.

"It's pretty wonderful," Kara gushed. Plenty of people hated their jobs, but she was pretty lucky. "It's challenging work, the human body is such a complex tool. And I get to help people."

"I bet you're very good at it," the woman said with that same edge.

Kara could feel herself flush. "Thanks. Um—"

"Don't say you'd bet I'm very good at debugging," the woman cut her off.

Kara laughed. "Okay, I won't."

"Do you any good work stories to tell?"

They chatted on, their conversation shifting from work to politics to stain removal techniques. When Kara's laundry started beeping, she was shocked to discover over an hour had passed.

.

.

3

The next time Kara attended her early morning appointment at Andrey's, Bloody Laundry Woman was already there. She was sitting on one of the long plastic benches, wearing slacks and a low cut blouse, her legs crossed at the ankle, reading. The machine next to her was already rumbling, unfortunately, so Kara didn't have a chance to assess the bloodiness of today's laundry.

"Hey there," Kara greeted as she set about loading her own laundry.

The woman didn't look up from her book. "Mm," was her only response.

Kara unbuttoned her pants. "Mm?"

"Mm hm," said the woman.

Kara peeled off her tank top, added it in and turned on the machine. She indulged in a long stretch, feeling a couple vertebrae pop. It'd been a long day.

"What are you reading?" she asked the woman, gripping an elbow behind her head.

"Practical Dismemberment: Professional Tips for the Amateur Enthusiast," Bloody Laundry Woman answered in perfect monotone.

Kara adjusted her shitty old sports bra, its band having ridden up the underside of her tits, and walked over to sit on the opposite side of the Laundromat bench. Energy Harvesting Systems: Principles, Modeling and Applications, proclaimed the stark red and blue cover of the woman's book.

"You're not a very honest person, are you?" Kara observed out loud.

The woman glanced at her over her decidedly inoffensive book. Her gaze dragged over Kara's chest, and Kara struggled not to fidget with her bra some more. "By contrast, you're exceptionally open," said the woman. "With one aspect in particular, at least." Her eyes dipped down for a quick second.

Kara crossed her legs. She was wearing bikini style briefs today, the only clean pair she had left, and some pubic hair inevitably stuck out.

Something occurred to her suddenly. "Oh, does it bother you?" she asked, feeling a belated pang of guilt in her stomach. "I just realized maybe you've been trying to tell me I'm making you uncomfortable and I totally missed it."

The woman let out an abrupt, croaky, endearing laugh. "You really are just that sincere, aren't you?" Tucking a finger between the book's pages, she shut it and put it aside. "I don't mind. I think you're charming." She looked at Kara, bold and direct. "We've been flirting, I thought you realized."

Kara returned her gaze, and they just stared at each other for several seconds. It was a strange moment, and yet it felt as if something had been communicated between them rather effectively.

Kara uncrossed her legs.

"Read me something from your book," she said.

Bloody Laundry Woman lifted an eyebrow at her. Then she parted the book around her finger. "How to dismember a body," she recited dryly. "Step one: choosing the right bone saw for you."

Kara laughed. "Alright, alright. Wanna listen to bad outdated pop music instead?"

The woman pulled her finger out of the book at that, closing it without marking her place. "I'd love that, actually," she said, for once sounding entirely sincere. When Kara offered her an earphone and started playing Britney Spears, she seemed genuinely delighted.

They'd gone through two of Kara's favorite workout/cheering up playlists by the time the woman's dryer went off. She pulled out the earphone, and in the process of handing it over to Kara, somehow managed to brush the outside of her thigh, making the fine hairs there stand on end.

Kara watched her fold her clothes neatly into a large zipock bag, tucking it into an even larger canvas one. When she finished, Kara handed her the fake murder book.

"I'll see you in two weeks?" the woman asked as she took it.

Kara beamed at her. Unsuccessfully trying to temper her excitement, she simply nodded silently.

.

.

4

Seventy five minutes on average of laundry and drying tended to pass pretty slowly. The rows of identical white, square machines under the white fluorescent lights didn't help. It was the sort of atmosphere, Kara discovered, that lent itself much more easily to deep, personal conversations than to work emails or games of Two Dots.

"Are you religious?" Bloody Laundry Woman asked her casually as she settled more comfortably against one of the inactive machines, propping her feet on the bench.

"I'm Jewish, but I'm not really religious, though," Kara said, stretched out next to her. "I do have, kind of, these weird spiritual moments sometimes. Like you know when you take your glasses off for a second, and it's early morning, and you're bad at cleaning, and you sit on the couch and disturb a bunch of dust motes, and they catch the light and they're a little blurry without your glasses on? And you wonder how many people have been in a situation like yours and seen something just like this, and how many of them thought these floating pieces of bacteria and dead skin looked sort of… magical?"

Bloody Laundry Woman laughed at her. "I don't think so, no."

Kara grinned, excited at the challenge. "Or when you have a conversation with someone that you don't understand at all, you realize the contexts of your lives and your ideals are so different that there's no overlap, no common ground to build from, but you listen to them and it's like slowly learning a new language, and you can almost feel your perception shifting to accommodate it?"

"A bit like this conversation, then?"

Kara pushed fearlessly on. "Or when you love someone so much, one day you see them picking their nose and feel like you've just had a revelation?"

Bloody Laundry Woman went quiet at that. She gathered her legs closer to her and started playing with the seam of the sock peeking out of her shoe.

"I have a memory of laying my head on my lover's stomach," she said finally, her voice lowered. "After lunch, not even sex or a date or anything intimate. I had my ear pressed there, and I could suddenly hear it so clearly, magnified. Like the inside of a seashell. It was just digestion, nothing romantic, but I had this thought, that I was listening to the inner workings of her, her body. It was a strangely intense moment." She looked over at Kara. Her expression seemed both tender and almost verging on combative. "Maybe I would call that spiritual."

Kara met her gaze, and found it hard to look away. There'd been a magnetism to her, from the start, and now Kara had finally passed the event horizon. She felt her body orient itself toward her as if of its own accord. Like a sunflower. Bloody Laundry Woman placed a bracing palm between them, half leaning over, eyebrows drawn and hair in her face, and in that moment it all seemed rather inevitable.

Naturally, that was when the beeping started.

Kara physically jumped at that. She'd been so absorbed in the intimacy of the moment, she'd forgotten they were sitting on the filthy floor of a fucking laundromat.

The woman made a huffy little sound, of resignation or annoyance. She tilted her head, giving Kara a particular look, and hauled herself to her feet where she started stuffing her laundry into a bag, forgoing her usual meticulous folding.

"Um—hold on—" Kara stumbled. The woman paused, waiting. Kara reached over to rummage in her bag and fished out one of the loose business cards that always found their way there. She silently held it out. Bloody Laundry Woman bent down and took it.

Kara watched her leave with her neat ziplock bag full of crumpled up laundry, feeling much more flustered and off-kilter than an aborted kiss with an unnamed woman at a 24 hour laundromat should rightly warrant.

.

.

5

Two weeks later, Kara entered Andrey's Laundromat to discover that Bloody Laundry Woman had decided to take a page out of her own book: she was sitting primly on the bench, a tablet in her lap, wearing flats, a skirt, a lacy black bra, and nothing else.

She perked up when she noticed Kara, her posture straightening, a smile blooming. "Fancy seeing you here," she greeted Kara.

Kara grinned back at her. "You look festive."

"Oh, this?" She leaned back and indicated the length of her bare torso with a sweeping, dramatic gesture. "Just a little something I threw together at the last minute."

She blinked meaningfully at Kara. Or maybe it was just a very inept wink or something.

Kara giggled as she stripped off her own clothes. She felt practically giddy. Every single thing she discovered about Bloody Laundry Woman was just beyond enchanting.

"How was your week?" Kara asked, walking over and offering her a hand. "Or, um, fortnight?"

"Boring," the woman said, accepting Kara's help in getting up. "Much better now, though." She slid her fingers over Kara's palm and onto her wrist, gripping lightly.

Kara shivered. "Oh. Me, too," she said nonsensically.

The woman stroked her thumb across the inside of Kara's forearm and guided Kara's hand to rest on her waist. Kara automatically placed her other palm in a parallel position. This close up, Kara could clearly see the woman's expanded pupils, the elevated breath lifting and lowering her chest.

The woman pressed her palm to Kara's stomach, lightly rubbing over the curly hair there and the hidden abdominals underneath.

"Don't you need to wash these, too?" she teased, flicking the elastic of Kara's briefs with the very tip of a finger.

"Um—" Kara mumbled, praying her excitement wasn't visible through her underwear. "Maybe—next time?"

"Mm," the woman hummed, running blunt fingernails along the top of Kara's briefs, tracing the line where fabric met skin. "Next time."

She leaned into Kara's body, her bra a suggestion of a tickle against Kara's skin. She let her fingertips slide upward, pressing into the curve of Kara's belly, skimming over her navel. "I'd like that, Kara."

Kara trembled under her touch. "How—how did you know my name?" she stammered.

The woman's expression shifted from aroused to aroused but confused. "You gave me your business card." She withdrew her hand from Kara's body. "Did you forget?"

"Oh, right," Kara said, blinking through the haze of her own arousal. "You never called."

"No," the woman agreed. She leaned further away, breaking the contact between them completely.

"Why not?" Kara asked.

"I have some deep, dark secrets, Kara," Bloody Laundry Woman said, against all odds, in total seriousness.

Kara couldn't help laughing at that. "Well, I know. You made a pretty ominous first impression."

"Your assumptions may not have been far off," the woman said, unusually subdued. She glanced aside and briefly touched one hand with her other before continuing. "Have you heard the name Luthor?"

"As in Lex, Lillian and Lionel? The serial killer family? Who hasn't?"

The woman nodded. "I'm Lena," she said, her voice tight. At Kara's blank look, she added, "Um. Lena Luthor. The—the sister."

A loud rushing sound filled Kara's ears, the abrupt mood crash leaving her slightly dizzy. She stumbled back a step, then another.

The bare skin of her stomach where Lena had touched tingled, an awareness of her vulnerability blooming. Suddenly the situation didn't seem so funny. "Huh."

Lena didn't move an inch, her hands hanging slack and still at her sides. "I didn't kill anyone," she said evenly. "That day, there was an assassination attempt. On me. It's documented. You could look it up."

"The blood," Kara muttered.

Lena nodded once. "The assassin's. I, I didn't kill him." Her face twitched strangely, and Kara backed up another step. "Google it. Please."

"Uh huh." Kara glanced furtively from the exit to the washing machine interface indicating 18 minutes remaining. "Sure."

Lena followed her gaze. She wrapped her arms around herself, taking a step back as well. "Don't worry. I'll leave. I don't want you to have to walk around in wet clothes."

Despite her words, she stood still for several long moments, looking at the floor by Kara's feet. Kara instantly regretted wearing her flimsy rubber flip flops rather than running shoes.

Lena opened her mouth as if to say something, then shook her head and finally started gathering her belongings. Lastly, she picked up a carefully folded satin shirt laid on the bench and slipped it on. Her fingers fumbled over a couple of the buttons.

She didn't look back as she went out the door.