Chapter 4 - The Intervention
### Trigger Warning - Depression/Internal Dialogue, Alcoholism ###
It had been a few months since Kara had last confronted Mon-El about his behavior. Her busy schedule, juggling an internship and schoolwork, had led to less frequent interactions between them. However, Winn had finally reached his limit with Mon-El's late rent payments, excessive drinking, and constant partying. Frustrated, he turned to Kara for help. Recognizing that immediate action was necessary, Kara contacted Barry, urgently explaining the situation.
A few days later, on a weekend, Kara picked Barry up from the airport and took him to her apartment. Together with Winn, they prepared to confront Mon-El about his behavior and discuss his need for rehabilitation. However, the actual intervention proved much more challenging than they had anticipated. Mon-El arrived at the apartment clearly intoxicated, stumbling and emitting a strong odor of alcohol. It took the combined efforts of Kara and Barry to maneuver him into a cold shower in an attempt to sober him up.
Once Mon-El eventually emerged from the bathroom, his bewildered expression signifying a degree of clarity, he attempted multiple times to flee the situation, leading to a heated argument involving Winn and Barry. It wasn't until Kara's voice thundered, "Enough!" that the room fell into a strained silence. Turning her attention to Mon-El, she instructed him firmly, gesturing to the couch. In an attitude of reluctant compliance, he sat down, arms crossed defensively, his frustration evident. After all, he reasoned, he wasn't hurting anyone.
"Mon-El," Kara's voice broke the silence, filled with a mixture of frustration and concern. He looked up as she sighed, her eyes capturing his. "I can't keep doing this," she admitted, the exhaustion in her words palpable. "I'm tired—truly tired." Her repetition carried weight, and a frown creased Mon-El's forehead. Beneath her words, he sensed layers of emotions that he struggled to decode. The fear of her ending their friendship gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
"Kara?" he stammered, panic evident in his tone. However, she raised her hand, halting his spiraling thoughts. "No, Mon-El," she said firmly. "I'm overwhelmed," she confessed, her words laden with the weight of her responsibilities. "With school, my career, life—it's a lot. And adding the weight of worrying about you... it's too much." Her candor struck a chord with him, tugging at emotions he often pushed aside. The idea that his actions were further burdening her sent a pang of remorse through him.
"I don't want to live in fear that someday, I'll wake up to the news that you've gone too far," her voice wavered, a knot forming in her throat. She continued, her gaze dropping to avoid his scrutiny, "I wouldn't want to face the reality that you're no longer in my life because you died." A sniffle escaped her as she struggled to maintain her composure. The vulnerability in her admission stirred his heart, leaving him unable to look at her any longer.
"Please, Mon-El, stop doing this to yourself," she pleaded. "I can't bear the thought that we—that Barry, Winn, and I—care more about your well-being than you do."
His gaze remained fixed on his hands, his heart aching as he absorbed the depth of her emotions. "It's not that I want you to stop having fun, but are you even enjoying yourself, Mon-El?" she questioned, her tone heavy with concern. She already knew the answer, but she needed him to face it. Mon-El remained silent, grappling with his own turmoil.
"You're my best friend, Mon," Kara confessed, her voice breaking through the tension-laden air. "I don't want to see you like this anymore." Her plea to cease this self-destructive path had him struggling to process his emotions.
Mon-El drew in a deep breath, ready to respond, but Barry intervened, sensing the direction Mon-El's thoughts were taking. "No," Barry asserted firmly, his gaze fixed on Mon-El. "Don't do this just for Kara." He warned, his tone unwavering.
"Rehabilitation won't succeed unless you genuinely want to get better, Mon-El," he emphasized. "This is about your well-being, not ours." Barry's words echoed in the room, a reminder that this journey toward recovery had to begin with Mon-El's own desire for change.
Kara's nights have become restless, haunted by the mystery of why Mon-El abandoned his cherished bike at Al's bar. The idea that he would forsake such a meaningful possession perplexes her. The bike had grown from a seemingly insignificant purchase to a reflection of his character over the years, making its abandonment all the more inconceivable.
Memories of when he first acquired it from Craigslist and how he had transformed it into a symbol of himself plague her thoughts. The confusion is further fueled by the information that Alex had provided, detailing a motorcycle accident. Kara can't reconcile the contradiction—Mon-El's bike left behind, yet a motorcycle was involved in the accident. Did she mishear Alex, or was there another piece to this puzzle?
Amid her tangled thoughts, the alarm rouses her from her internal turmoil several hours later. Already dressed and deep in contemplation, she ponders whether to consult Alex or Maggie about the accident. However, both avenues seem fraught with complications. Maggie might inadvertently alert Alex, who still grapples with emotions tied to Mon-El, while Alex's emotional turbulence makes her an unsuitable confidante.
Barry, on the other hand, could potentially provide the assistance she needs through his position at the NCPD forensics department. She calls him, seeking a favor that she knows he's hesitating to grant due to a conversation with Winn a few days earlier. Despite his reservations, his concern for her well-being ultimately prevails.
During their conversation, Kara requests access to Mon-El's autopsy report. Barry's reluctance wavers only when she commits to dropping her relentless quest for answers in return for his help.
Days later, Barry orchestrates a ruse to acquire the autopsy report under a fabricated case. He visits Kara's apartment, knowing that what he's about to reveal might alter her perspective irrevocably.
"Okay, Kara. I've got access to the autopsy report. But remember, whatever we find out, you have to promise to approach this rationally." He says, tentatively as Kara nods.
Barry starts by detailing the general findings of the autopsy, but Kara's distress prompts her to interrupt him multiple times, unable to handle the gruesome details that draw a vivid picture of Mon-El's tragic fate.
"I can't hear that, Barry. Please, stop." She pleads with Barry to stop, her heart aching at the memories at the hospital it dredges up.
Barry shifts his focus to the contents of Mon-El's stomach, the last meal he consumed before his demise. However, this revelation stirs Kara's emotions anew, and she once again halts Barry's explanation. The implication is clear—the autopsy cites a blood alcohol level significantly surpassing the legal limit.
"No, Barry, that's not right." Refusing to accept the report's validity, Kara battles a rising tide of disbelief as she pulls the report from him, reading the damning information herself. Her eyes flicker with a mix of frustration and desperation, her heart yearning for an explanation that contradicts the painful truth.
"Kara, relapses happen all the time...that doesn't under-" He strives to convey the complexities of addiction, the battles that can reemerge even after long periods of recovery.
"Barry, you don't understand. Mon-El wouldn't do this. There's no way." Her voice teeters between raw vulnerability and unyielding determination.
"Kara, Mon-El worked at a bar, it's completely possible that he was tempted-" Barry tries again, his reasoning veering toward the practical. Yet, this sends a wave of anger coursing through Kara.
"He's been sober for five years, Barry! This isn't him." She fires back with a fervent defense. "That's not who he is anymore." She refuses to accept that Mon-El, the man who meticulously juggles two jobs and devotes his free moments to her and their friends, could have possibly had the time to imbibed to such excess.
"Kara..." Barry starts and in an attempt to provide comfort, he reaches out to her with a hug, but Kara recoils, pushing him away, her pain too raw to be quelled.
"Just go Barry." She shakes her head, her tearful eyes locked onto Barry's. "Please." She whispers. Barry sighs and leaves.
As the door closes, Kara crumples under the weight of her emotions. The dam she's been trying to uphold shatters, and her anguish pours forth in torrents of tears. Grief, anger, and the weight of a truth she's struggling to accept cascade in waves, leaving her emotionally broken in the wake of the harsh reality.
The softly lit bar hums with the cadence of laughter and clinking glasses, a haven of camaraderie that Mon-El steps into. His eyes immediately find Jack, comfortably settled on a barstool, a sight that triggers a surge of recognition and warmth within him. The genuine happiness on Jack's face as Mon-El approaches adds to the welcoming atmosphere.
"Mike!" Jack's exuberant greeting, already slightly muddled by alcohol, resonates through the air, accompanied by a hearty grin.
Mon-El's lips curve effortlessly into a reciprocal smile as he closes the gap between them, a sense of easy familiarity taking over. "Hey there, Jack. Looks like you're having fun."
Jack's laughter holds a carefree note, a likely testament to the drinks he's already enjoyed. "Can't deny the appeal of these drinks, my friend."
Easing onto the barstool adjacent to Jack, Mon-El allows the ambiance of the bar to wrap around him, the soft clinking of glassware and the distant hum of conversations creating a gentle backdrop. He opts for a club soda, his attention mostly fixed on his companion.
As the night unfolds, Mon-El skillfully guides their conversation, subtly nudging it towards Lena. "You and Lena seem to have quite a bond. You must know her pretty well."
The corners of Jack's eyes crinkle, carrying a hint of nostalgia, as if inviting old memories to surface. "Yeah, Lena and I go way back. We went to school together. We were best friends, me, her, and this girl Veronica." A fond smile brushes British man's lips, his voice carrying a touch of affection. "Lena and I actually became close... we used to date." Jack's gaze turns reflective, his eyes drifting into the distance, as though glimpsing fragments from a distant past. "But I messed it all up."
"I can understand that feeling," Mon-El replies, a knowing glint in his eyes. "But I'm a firm believer that if it's meant to be, it's meant to be," he offers empathetically, his words resonating with the universal essence of human experience.
As time meanders on, their conversation naturally gravitates toward Mon-El's personal experiences. Jack's curiosity prompts him to delve into the topic of a certain "Clara Anders." Mon-El can't help but wonder how Jack came across that name. When he recalls that Jack was nearby when he gently rebuffed Eve's advances just a few days prior, he feels somewhat exposed. Mon-El realizes he must stay vigilant of his surroundings to prevent his real identity from being discovered. With a softened countenance, Mon-El allows himself to embark on a journey through a cherished memory. "Kar-Clara is my anchor, my best friend."
Recognition and a touch of yearning flicker across Jack's face as his gaze meets Mon-El's. His voice holds a mixture of admiration and nostalgia. "I envy that kind of connection."
Mon-El's smile conveys a shared understanding. "It's not always a smooth ride, but it's worth every moment." A moment of contemplation flashes across his eyes, a fleeting memory of when Kara had been his pillar in rehab, steadying him through a tough time. The ability she had to understand him so deeply had always left him in awe.
"You know what I'm feeling, Mike?" The alcohol blurs Jack's speech, he leans in, his voice taking on an intimate confessional tone.
Mon-El raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. "What's that?"
Jack's words are earnest, though slightly slurred, but carry a depth of emotion. "A 'mannection,' man."
"Yeah." Mon-El's laughter, genuine and warm, fills the air. "We should hang out, I'll call you."
As the evening comes to a close, Mon-El rises from his seat, surprised when Jack envelops him in a tight hug. He then pulls away, and Mon-El decides it might be a good idea to make sure Jack gets home safe. When Mon-El leaves Jack at his apartment, he notices that Jack had dropped his LCorp keycard.
After failing for the fifth time to crack the elusive answer, Mon-El's patience crumbles like fragile parchment. His notebooks and pencils cascade to the floor, an explosion of frustration mirroring his internal chaos.
Agony brews within him, a tempest of confusion and irritation. Why does this feel so impossible? His eyes burn with unshed tears, his fists clenched at his sides. The example's steps mock him - taunting reminders of his inadequacy. He leaps from his seat, the chair's harsh screech merging with his exasperated shout. His foot collides with the wall in a futile attempt to release his anger. Self-doubt and frustration fuse, a cocktail of emotions he can't contain.
A venomous voice creeps into his mind, a voice of his own insecurities. 'Idiot', it sneers, taunting him mercilessly.
'Even idiots ace this course, yet you fail at its simplest level.' Mon-El slumps back into his seat, wiping away tears with a mixture of fury and despair.
Flinging a stray highlighter becomes a futile outlet for his spiraling emotions. Online classes feel like insurmountable mountains, his battle with sobriety an uphill struggle, and nights remain invaded by haunting nightmares.
'You'll never get it.' The voice persists, a relentless internal critic driving him to his breaking point. His inner turmoil escalates.
'Pitiful,' the voice taunts. Mon-El's sanity teeters on the edge. 'Waste of air.' He flees his room, a desperate attempt to escape the clutches of his own mind. 'Cry baby.'
An ominous thought takes root - a drink would quiet the relentless voice. He dashes towards the main door, a desperate escape plan forming. But then, a small but defiant whisper emerges within him: 'Call Kara.' He halts, his frantic steps retracing back to the admin's desk. Kara's name reverberates through his thoughts like a lifeline.
With shaky hands, he seizes the admin's cellphone, an electronic lifeline to the one person who can ground him. The passcode proves a formidable barrier, his desperation amplifying with every failed attempt.
A yellow sticky note beneath the keyboard draws his attention. Could it be the same? Hope rekindles as he enters the code, connecting him to Kara's world. The phone rings, and the sound is both a salvation and a reproach, knowing he's interrupting her. The crushing weight of his intrusion seeps in.
"Uh...um..." Mon-El's voice trembles over the line, his desperation palpable. "I-I'm sorry," he stammers, self-recrimination woven into each syllable. "I d-don't know why I called." The line goes dead, leaving him ensnared in the echo chamber of his thoughts. 'Pathetic, worthless, waste of air...'
Seeking refuge on his bed, he clamps a pillow against his ears in a futile attempt to drown out the ceaseless barrage of torment. 'Burden, piece of shit, good for nothing.' Sleep eludes him, leaving only the ceaseless barrage of his torturous thoughts.
Morning light creeps into his room, marking the time he should have been at his appointments. He's stirred by the presence of another patient. He has a visitor. Shit. Kara
Mon-El forces himself to his feet, teeth gritted as he grapples with how to downplay last night. Find the fastest way to get rid of her. But upon entering the cafeteria and catching sight of her concerned expression, all his planned words vanish. 'You just ruin her life', the voice chants.
"Knock it off," Kara's firm tone intercepts the voice's assault. As Kara approaches, Mon-El attempts to cloak his inner turmoil, but his façade falters beneath her gaze. The lines of tension on her forehead and the worry in her eyes remind him of the very thing he's afraid of jeopardizing - their friendship. Fucking up again. He heaves a heavy sigh.
"I..." He searches for words, his thoughts an incoherent storm within. Kara touches his cheek and the warmth of her palms against his coax honesty from his lips, mingling with the moisture that traces his cheeks.
"I've never felt...worthy," he confesses, his vulnerability laid bare in the tremor of his voice.
Kara's unwavering blue gaze meets his gray one, her touch a balm on his battered soul. He gathers the courage to continue, despite the vulnerability of his admission. "Or...um...li-like I m-mattered." The words tremble, revealing the depth of his pain.
"To-to the world...uh...to anyone." He averts his gaze, finding it impossible to hold the intensity of her eyes.
"I-It's stupid," he adds with a forced laugh, self-deprecation mingling with the tension in the air. "I-I'm j-just overreacting."
"I'm proud of you." Kara refuses to let him trivialize his feelings. "I'm so proud of you Mon." She envelopes him in a hug that shatters his defenses. Her touch and her words are an anchor amidst his tempest.
'Weak, idiot, mistake...' The voice struggles against Kara's unwavering support. He releases his grip, vulnerability washing over him like a tidal wave.
"You inspire me," her words are a lifeline, her fingers gentle against his skin. Cradling his face, Kara wipes away his tears, her smile like a beacon. "You're getting through this, okay?"
As he nods, the moment is jarred by the intrusion of reality. "Monroe?" The worker's voice pierces through their cocoon, jolting them back to the present.
And the dual correction comes instinctively, "Mon-El!" a shared laugh breaking the tension.
"Thank you." Mon-El wipes the remnants of his tears, offering Kara a fleeting smile before departing.
Kara's hesitation is a fleeting whisper as she burrows the shovel into the earth, determination etched across her face. She doesn't have the luxury of second-guessing herself now, for as the last shovelful of dirt falls aside, a wailing police siren cuts through the night air.
A cold shiver races down her spine, her heart skipping a beat. Dropping the shovel, Kara raises her hands in surrender, the beam of a flashlight blinding her as it's directed her way. "Hands up!" the police officer's voice rings out, his gun trained on her.
Thus, it's how Kara Danvers finds herself under arrest for the first time in her life, caught red-handed in the act of illegally exhuming a body. The absurdity of the situation isn't lost on her, and if someone had predicted this even a few months ago, she would have scoffed. But the relentless unraveling of mysterious findings has her past the point of caring about conforming to normalcy. Something is undeniably amiss here, and her intuition, unyielding as ever, compels her forward.
Within the tight grasp of legal proceedings, Kara's release arrives almost as swiftly as her arrest. One phone call, the swift intercession of Barry Allen reaching her aid. The ride back to her apartment is marred by silence, awkwardness weaving through the air like an invisible thread. Even the subsequent walk to her apartment door feels strained.
Stepping into her home, she's met not with solitude, but a room teeming with familiar faces, an intervention she could have done without. Kara's annoyance is palpable, an audible groan escaping her lips as she makes a beeline for the fridge. Her hopes of a strong drink to fortify herself against this ordeal are quickly dashed by Winn's impromptu role as a blockade. His refusal to meet her eyes is met with a fiery glare she knows he can feel.
Perching herself on the couch, arms crossed defensively, Kara resigns to the notion that perhaps letting this intervention run its course is the simplest solution.
It's Eliza who takes the reins of the discussion, her approach mirroring the concern of a mother who fears for her child. Kara listens, absorbing her words, a wistful pain aching within her. But that pain dissipates, replaced by a renewed sense of conviction when it becomes Alex's turn.
Alex steps into the fray, her tone striking an accusatory note, an attempt at a bad cop act. Kara resists the urge to roll her eyes. Her sister rattles off Mon-El's shortcomings, each word reverberating through the room, yet Kara remains distant, half-tuned. She's heard it all before, the concerns Alex raises are nothing new. But she's simply wrong, Kara can feel it.
As the barrage of words continues, Kara's patience wanes, her interest dwindles. Eliza, observant as ever, senses the shift and intervenes, defusing Alex's accusatory stance. It's a brief reprieve, Eliza guiding Alex toward the door, leaving Kara with a mixture of relief and a renewed pang of guilt. With their exit, Kara hopes for a return to solitude, a space to breathe and collect herself.
But Barry and Winn linger, their steadfast presence catching her off guard. "What?" she exclaims, her voice laced with frustration. Her patience, already frayed, nearly snaps at their unexpected intrusion. She squares her gaze on them, her frustration palpable. How could they, Mon-El's so called friends, fail to recognize the turmoil that taints her world?
Her anger bubbles close to the surface, her muscles tense as she prepares to demand their exit. But then comes a curveball, a statement she never saw coming:
"You were right."
