Kara Zor-El was a god.

She was a girl from the stars, had watched entire planets burn— had watched her own planet burn. Her skin was made of diamonds, her bones of star dust and moonlight— she was not of Earth, and that was the best thing about her.

Oh yes, Kara was a god.

Her screams could shatter bones, could break windows, could drive even the cruelest of people to tears, and her glare— oh, her glare could burn, could freeze, could annihilate. Nothing about Kara was normal, not even the blood that flowed through her veins.

But nobody knew.

No, she was just Kara Danvers, Cat Grant's assistant. Sure, people knew there was something special about her — all of the assistants before her were gone within weeks of being hired, but not her, never her — except they thought it was her steadfast goodness, her pretty little smile, her unwavering faith in humanity. Not the powers burning in her chest, not the horrors that she had run from, not the things that actually made her special.

She knew that she shouldn't, but a part of Kara resented them for it; for being able to look at her and think normal when she was the last daughter of the House of El, when she was ready to fight and bleed and die for them at any given moment. But Kara knew that the only way they wouldn't think her normal would be if she revealed who she was, what she could do— and maybe, just maybe, Kara would have done just that. But then she had to think of Alex, of Winn, of James, of Cat, of the people that would suddenly be in danger if she did. And she couldn't do that, not to them.

But there she was, hair down, glasses off, staring into the eyes of the triumphant Cat Grant.

Who just called her Supergirl.

That was tough to swallow. Kara thought she had been doing so well, but Cat had just called her Supergirl, which meant that she figured it out, that she knew. Kara didn't know how to deal with that, knew she couldn't convince her boss that she was wrong, and— what if she published her identity? Kara would have to quit her job, would have to sell her house, would have to hide and oh god, oh god, Kara couldn't do that, she couldn't, she—

"I'm right, aren't I?" and Cat sounded pleased, like it was all just a game, like she hadn't just ruined Kara's entire life, "You're Supergirl."

"No," Kara said, firmly, too firmly, "I'm not." She faltered, tried to go back to being soft and kind and easily flustered, but god, it was so hard when she wasn't truly any of those things, "Really, Miss Grant, I'm not her, I swear it, I'm not Supergirl."

"Yes, you are," insisted Cat. She leaned forwards, examined her face more thoroughly. "You definitely are."

"Don't—" but what could Kara say? Don't tell anyone, maybe, but there was no way, not a single chance in hell, that Cat would keep her secret. She was a news reporter, she was the news reporter, and revealing Supergirl's identity would guarantee that she never fell from the top. "Don't."

"Don't... what? Don't tell?" Cat laughed, like it was funny, like her finding out Supergirl's identity wasn't completely horrifying, like Kara wasn't dying in front of her, "Kiera, you're Supergirl."

"It's not a joke," she said, genuinely hurt by how uncaring and dismissive Cat sounded. Kara had thought they had grown close, had perhaps even become friends. "This is— working here, with you, at CatCo? This is my life. I'm not going to continue to insult your intelligence by pretending that I'm not Supergirl, because guess what? You're right. I am. So— yes, I go out there, and I help people, I save people, I do, but if you tell then I can't work here anymore and god, okay, I can't handle that, I can't handle that."

"But if you cease working here," her response was smooth, articulate, and above all else: calculated, as if she had already planned out what to say, how to say it, "you'll be able to save people full time."

"You don't," Kara squeezed her hands shut, nails digging into her skin, "You don't understand, I can't do that, I can't— I lost everything, Miss Grant. When I came to this planet, to Earth, I lost my entire world. And it's not like my friends and I grew apart, or— whatever, I mean, they're dead. They're all dead. My friends, my family, everyone I ever had a crush on or did an assignment with, they're just," she drew in a breath, "they're just gone, okay? Everyone. And I— I wasn't in a good place for a really long time, but working here with you? It helped, Miss Grant." Kara tried to smile, tried to be strong, but she was so tired and god, the mere thought of having to leave her job made her want to cry. "I know that, to you, to everyone, my mental health is less important than innocent people's lives, but you don't— you don't get it, not really. I don't just put on a costume, okay? That's—"

"Kiera," said Cat, softly. "I— I would never think that your mental health isn't important. Is that really how you see me?"

"Maybe not unimportant," Kara assured her, but that wasn't true, not really, "but definitely less important than the lives of everyone in this city, Miss Grant, and I'm— honestly, I'm more than okay with that. The people here are— they're beautiful, they're so beautiful, and I love them. I love them, and they deserve to be saved, they deserve a full-time Supergirl. I would never try to insinuate that that's not the case, because it is, they deserve that, but I can't— I can't. So, look, my point is, you can't fire me. I mean, you can, of course you can, but don't do it because of this."

"I should," Cat declared, and then faltered. She had been so determined before, so hellbent on firing Kara, that perhaps it was something of a struggle to consider the other side, to consider what that would mean for Kara— or at least that's what she hoped was happening. Cat began again, "I should fire you. I know that, you know that, everyone who knows your identity knows that. But. I once told you that you'll always have a job with me, and I would hate it if that was no longer true." She paused, and then, "You said that I don't understand, and you're right, I don't, but... does anybody?"

"No," Kara admitted, "I thought— I mean, there were people who I believed would. Kal-El was only a baby, but I hoped— he doesn't even remember Krypton. I tried to teach him our language, told him of Rao, tried to show him what it meant to be a Kryptonian, but— he's an adult, now, he was when I arrived, and... he's wrong. Kal-El is from Krypton, as all Kryptonians are, but he is not of Krypton. He's wrong. He's wrong, he's wrong, he's—"

"Kiera," Cat said, sharply.

Kara closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't— it's hard to— talking about it is difficult."

"Is it... just him?" she asked, not quite pitying but not far from it. "The only one who you thought would understand?"

"There's Astra and Non, too. My family. But while they lived and loved and breathed Krypton, they didn't get to watch the planet — our planet, my planet — burn," confessed Kara. "They warned us, though. They knew it was coming and they told my mother but she did nothing, simply sent them to prison. Our planet was going to die and my mother stood by and watched it burn."

"You said she died in a fire," recalled Cat. "She didn't try to come to Earth with you?"

"No, she did not," Kara said, softly. "I understand why, I suppose. There weren't that many pods, and she wanted to keep us safe, Kal-El and me. I just wish— it never should have happened in the first place. It wouldn't have, if she had bothered to listen."

Cat reached out, placed her hand on Kara's shoulder, and she did her best not to flinch away. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," she said. "Is there— have you talked to anyone about it? You said you watched the planet burn, that couldn't have been easy—"

"I watched my family die," Kara corrected, quietly. She reached up and placed her hand over Cat's. The warmth radiating off of her was comforting. "Maybe I didn't see the light extinguish from their eyes, but I watched them die, and the planet screamed its anguish. Not easy doesn't even begin to cover it, I'm afraid. But I had— I had a purpose, you know? Protect Kal-El. Protect my cousin. Except when I got here, he was an adult. A superhero. And I couldn't— I didn't— knowing that I had to help him was the only thing that got me through the years spent drifting through space, and then it just... was gone. My reason for leaving Krypton, for surviving, didn't need me. And then I was stuck with the Danvers family."

"I've met Alex, once," Cat recalled. "You seemed to get along well. Is that not the case?"

"No, no, I love them, I do, it's just," Kara sighed. "For me, my planet had just died, and the first thing Kal-El did when I arrived was abandon me. Just like they did. I know it's different, but— I was scared and lonely and I missed my mother, and I was stuck with these strangers; people who knew nothing about me, who were telling me to hide my powers and giving me glasses to suppress the things that made me special. They're my family, now, but back then— god, back then I would have killed them if it meant I could go back home."

Cat stared. "You don't mean that—"

"I do," confessed Kara. "I don't want to, but I just— everyone I loved was dead and I didn't even get to say goodbye."

She stood, and pulled Kara up with her. It was silent for a moment, the two women staring at each other. Boss, employee. Friends. Cat's hand was still on Kara's shoulder, but it had tilted, was nearly cupping the back of her neck. If anyone were to walk out onto the balcony and see them, they'd think they were about to kiss, and— dear god, were they about to kiss?

"Kara," Cat said, softly.

She inclined her head in a nod, but all it did was bring their faces closer. "Cat."

Cat struggled for words; a miracle, really, considering her occupation. She was considered to be the queen of media for a reason. "You're my assistant—"

"I thought you were firing me," said Kara, voice barely above a whisper. Kiss me, she thought. Please, please kiss me.

Whether it was because of her words or her silent prayer, Cat's hand shifted, nails digging into the back of Kara's neck as she tugged her closer. Their lips met in a crash, teeth scraping and tugging and pulling.

It wasn't a kind kiss.

Kisses with gods never were.

Kara pressed her palm against Cat's collarbone, fingers snaking upwards to press against her pulse. She could hear it beating regardless, but there was something about feeling the thrum of a heart beating that Kara loved. She pulled back an inch, and whispered, "This is a bad idea."

"No," replied Cat, just as quiet, "it's not."

"You're my boss," Kara reminded her. Their foreheads were touching, but neither were particularly tempted to pull away. "I'm your employee. Like you said."

"You're fired," said Cat, and kissed her, again.

It was softer, this time. Not kind, never kind, but close. Kara wrapped her arms around her neck, hands dangling behind Cat the way it always happened in movies. Cat's hands were on her hips, pulling her closer, closer, closer, and Kara fell a little bit more in love. For a second, she forgot who she was, who Cat was. For a second, they were just two women, smiling and kissing and living. And then reality sunk back in. Kara wasn't just her employee. She was her hero, her latest claim to fame. She was Supergirl. She was Supergirl. That was all Kara would ever be to Cat; a girl in a costume, playing at hero.

This was never going to work out.

"I'm sorry," Kara said, and pulled away again. "I want this so much, but it isn't— I can't— just promise me you won't tell anyone."

For a moment, Cat was frozen. And then she was shoving Kara away, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Is that what this is? Your way of shutting me up? Well screw you, Kiera. You want your identity to remain a secret? Good for you, but it's not happening—"

"I love you," Kara shouted. She curled her hands into fists, and did her best to resist the urge to punch, punch, punch, and never stop. "I shouldn't, and I know that, okay? I'm Supergirl. That's all I'm ever going to be to you. Please don't make this harder then it has to be."

"That's not true," said Cat. "That's not— I don't just see you as— don't do this—"

"My name is Kara," she said. "Not Kiera. If you cared about me even a little bit—"

"I don't call anybody by their actual name," she pointed out, and she wasn't wrong. It wasn't that Cat had difficulty remembering names — if she had to, she could name every single person that worked in the building — but it was amusing, to get the names wrong, and it showed that she didn't care.

"I'm not anybody," Kara told her, hands aching, arms shaking. "I'm Kara. I'm your assistant. I'm your superhero. I'm yours."

"Then don't do this," demanded Cat. "You say you're mine, and if that's true, if that's ever been true, listen to me. You're the best assistant I've ever had, you're one of if not my only friend, and I care about you."

"But you don't love me," said Kara. That was what mattered. Cat didn't feel the same way, couldn't feel the same way, and now that Kara had said the words I love you out loud— there was no going back.

"I have a son, Kara," Cat said, finally. "Two sons, one of them your age. I can't— it would be inappropriate—"

"Cat, you need to remember that I'm a god," Kara reminded her. "Unless something somehow manages to kill me, I will outlive everyone on this planet. I don't care if one of your kids is my age."

"Maybe you don't," conceded Cat, "but I do, and when I say no, I mean it."

"Okay," said Kara, softly. "Okay, then, I think we're done here."

Her face fell. "Kier—" she said, before catching herself. "Kara."

"Don't do that. Don't look at me like that. You wanted this, you just said you wanted this, so let me finish," her voice was sharp, unforgiving. Cat had no choice but to nod and let her speak. "When I say I think we're done here, I don't mean here, as in, right now. I mean," she gestured between them, and then towards the building, "here. You said I was fired—"

"—as a joke—"

"—and I'm going to take you up on that," finished Kara. "I don't want to, I mean, I already made that clear by begging you to let me stay, but I don't think that's it in either of our best interest's if I were to remain as your personal assistant. Seeing as you technically fired me, there's no need to write up a resignation letter or give two weeks notice, so I will pack up my things and tomorrow— well, tomorrow I just won't show up."

Cat reached out, went to grab her arm or her hand or her shoulder or her something, and Kara pulled away. "Please don't— I can't let you—" Cat stopped, and for a second, just stared at Kara. "What if I ask you to stay?"

"I told you I loved you," said Kara.

Cat frowned. "That didn't answer my—"

"Yes, it did," she replied, and she was right. That was the best answer, the only answer, that Kara could give; the sort of answer that was written in the stars millennia ago, that needed to be said or the world would have stopped spinning. It was the answer. "If you asked me to stay, Cat, I would say yes," Kara clarified, when she continued to stare. "Please don't ask me to stay."

"And if I did it anyways?" asked Cat. "If I listened to you say no, don't do that, and then I did it anyways? What would happen, then?"

"I'd stay," said Kara. "I'd wish I was still among the stars, that I had never come to Earth, that I had never met you, but I would stay. You need to figure out if that's worth it or not, if that's a cost you're willing to pay." She reached out, rested her palm on Cat's cheek for one second, two seconds, three seconds, before pulling her hand away. "Goodnight, Miss Grant."

Kara turned to leave, turned to pack, but then, softly—

"Stay."

She closed her eyes, stopped in her tracks. Kara had hoped — god, she had hoped — that Cat would have let her leave. That she would have watched her walk away, and wouldn't have said a thing. Part of her knew that she wouldn't. (Part of her was glad that she didn't.)

"I love you, too," Cat told her. "Stay."

Kara turned, and stared. She didn't look like she was lying — not that Kara could ever really tell with Cat — and maybe, possibly, hopefully, she was telling the truth. "Say that again," she said, and listened to her heartbeat. Cat did as commanded, and it didn't stutter, didn't falter, didn't jump. Her heartbeat remained steady. She was telling the truth. She was telling the—

"You could have just said that, in the beginning," Kara said. "It would have spared me — spared you — a lot of heartache."

"Now, where's the fun in that?" said Cat, smiling as she tugged her in close. Kara's eyes flickered upwards, to a star that was lightyears away. She smiled back, and Kara closed the small gap still separating them.

They kissed, strong and steady and sure, and in the distance, Krypton glowed.