Chapter Text
Kara Zor-El was nineteen years old, hopelessly in love, and absolutely certain that honesty was the only policy.
The Titans Tower comms room was empty at this hour or so she'd thought. Barbara Gordon sat at the main console, running diagnostics, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of multiple screens. She looked beautiful. Composed. Untouchable.
Kara's Alpha instincts had been screaming at her for months. Claim her. Protect her. Tell her.
So she did.
"Barbara?" Kara's voice was soft, tentative. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Barbara didn't look up. "Mission report can wait until morning."
"It's not a mission report." Kara moved closer, her heart pounding. "It's... personal."
Something in her tone made Barbara pause. She turned, her green eyes sharp and assessing. "What is it?"
Kara took a breath. And then, because she was young and hopeful and had never learned to guard her heart, she said:
"I love you. Not as a teammate. Not as a mentor. I love you, Barbara. And I know you're older, and I know you're Oracle, and I know I'm just—just Supergirl, just the kid who's still learning but I had to tell you. I had to know if there was any chance you might—"
"Stop."
The word was like ice water. Kara's mouth closed.
Barbara stood, her expression unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was calm, professional, and utterly devastating.
"Kara. Listen to me carefully. I am your mentor. I am your strategist. I am not your romantic interest. You're nineteen years old. You're young, you're inexperienced, and you're confusing admiration with attraction. This—" she gestured between them, "—is not going to happen. It cannot happen. Do you understand?"
Kara felt something crack in her chest. "I... I know my own feelings, Barbara. I'm not—"
"You're a child." The words were sharp, dismissive. "You're impulsive. You don't think about the consequences. If we were to become involved, it would destabilize the team, compromise my objectivity, and put everyone at risk. I will not allow that. Not for you. Not for anyone."
Kara's eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "I see."
"I hope you do." Barbara's voice softened, just slightly. "You're a valuable hero, Kara. A good person. But this? This isn't something I can give you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
The dismissal was clear. Kara turned and walked out, each step feeling like she was leaving a piece of herself behind.
Kara didn't cry that night. She couldn't. Alphas didn't cry over rejection. Alphas protected their hearts and moved on.
Except she couldn't move on.
Every mission with the Titans became an exercise in control. Every briefing with Oracle became a study in avoidance. She answered when spoken to. She followed orders. But the warmth was gone the easy smiles, the lingering glances, the way she used to orbit Barbara like a moon around a planet.
Dick noticed first.
"Hey," he said, pulling her aside after a training session. "You and Babs. Is everything okay?"
Kara's expression didn't change. "Fine."
"You've been... different. Distant."
"I'm fine, Nightwing. Focus on the mission."
He tried again, weeks later. "Kara, if something happened—"
"Nothing happened." Her voice was flat. "I'm just growing up. That's what everyone wanted, right?"
Dick didn't have an answer.
The Birds of Prey noticed too.
"She's different," Dinah said one night, watching Kara fly patrol over Gotham on the monitors. "Colder. More efficient, but... colder."
Barbara didn't look up from her data streams. "She's maturing. It happens."
"Babs." Helena's voice was sharp. "She used to light up when you walked into a room. Now she barely acknowledges you. That's not 'maturing.' That's something."
Barbara's jaw tightened. "Whatever it is, it's not my concern."
"Bullshit." Dinah crossed her arms. "What happened between you two?"
Nothing. Barbara wanted to say. Nothing happened. I simply told her the truth. I protected the team. I did the right thing.
But the words wouldn't come.
The words had been spoken four years ago, but they lived in Kara's chest like shrapnel permanently embedded, impossible to remove without causing more damage.
You're a child. You're impulsive. This isn't something I can give you.
She'd replayed them a thousand times. In the quiet moments between missions. In the dark of her apartment when sleep wouldn't come. In the arms of people who weren't Barbara, whose names she sometimes forgot by morning.
Every time, the wound reopened. Every time, she told herself it would heal eventually.
It never did.
---
Barbara's guilt was a living thing.
It sat with her during briefings, whispered during quiet nights, stared back at her from every mirror. She'd done the right thing. She'd protected the team. She'd maintained professional boundaries.
Then why does it feel like I destroyed something irreplaceable?
She'd watched Kara pull away, first from the Titans, then from the Bat-family, then from her. The warm, eager girl who used to light up at her voice became a ghost efficient, professional, utterly unreachable.
Barbara told herself it was for the best. Told herself Kara would grow up and understand. Told herself anything to quiet the voice that kept whispering: You broke her. You broke your Alpha.
The League thought they were being subtle.
"Supergirl, you'll be paired with Oracle for the reconnaissance mission."
"Supergirl, Oracle will be your tactical lead for the extraction."
Kara accepted every assignment with the same flat professionalism. She showed up. She did her job. She left. She never looked at Barbara longer than necessary, never spoke to her beyond mission parameters, never acknowledged that there had ever been anything between them.
Barbara tried to catch her eye. Tried to find a moment, a crack, anything. Kara was a fortress.
After one particularly brutal mission a close call that had left Barbara shaken she found Kara in the med bay, getting a superficial wound checked.
"Kara." Her voice was soft, careful. "That was close. Are you okay?"
Kara didn't look up. "I'm fine, Oracle. You can file your report."
Oracle. Not Barbara. Not even a flicker of warmth.
Barbara's chest ached. "I'm not here for the report. I'm here about us. About what happened—"
"Nothing happened." Kara's voice was ice. "You made that very clear."
She stood and walked away, leaving Barbara alone with four years of regret.
Kara Zor-El was twenty-three years old, and she was nothing like the girl who'd confessed her heart to a closed-off Oracle.
She'd built herself anew. Piece by piece, wall by wall. She'd stopped relying on the Titans, stopped orbiting the Bat-family, stopped looking for approval from people who saw her as a child. She'd become her own hero confident, capable, and completely, utterly guarded.
Her Alpha instincts were still there, but she'd learned to silence them. To ignore the pull toward connection, toward pack, toward love. She'd had casual relationships, nothing serious, nothing lasting. Every time someone got too close, she pulled away. It was safer that way.
Barbara Gordon had become Batgirl again. The chair was behind her, a miracle of modern medicine and sheer stubborn will. She was back in the field, back in the action, back to being the hero she'd always been.
And she couldn't stop watching Kara.
It started small. A glimpse of gold during a League briefing. The sound of her voice comms deeper now, steadier, different. The way she moved in battle, no longer hesitant or seeking approval, but with the absolute confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was.
When did you become this? Barbara wondered. When did I stop seeing you?
The tension became unbearable.
Every joint mission was a study in avoidance. Kara would position herself as far from Barbara as possible. She'd communicate through others rather than directly. She'd leave briefings early, arrive late, and make herself unavailable in every possible way.
Barbara started making mistakes.
Not tactical errors, never that. But she was distracted. Short-tempered. Her focus, once legendary, fragmented every time gold flashed in her peripheral vision.
Dinah kept watching. Helena too. Even Dick, who'd been giving them space out of some misguided loyalty, finally intervened.
"You need to talk to her," he said flatly. "This is killing you both."
"She won't talk to me."
"Then make her. Yell. Scream. Something. This silence is worse than any fight."
---
Barbara cornered Kara after a Titans training session. No cameras. No witnesses. Just the two of them in an empty gym.
"Kara. Please. Just give me five minutes."
Kara's jaw tightened. "I don't have anything to say to you."
"Then listen. Please." Barbara's voice cracked. "I was wrong. I was so wrong. You weren't a child. You weren't impulsive. You were brave—braver than I've ever been. You told me your truth, and I threw it back in your face because I was too scared to feel it."
Kara's expression didn't change. "Is that all?"
"No. That's not all." Barbara stepped closer. "I've spent four years regretting that night. Four years watching you pull away and knowing I deserved it. Four years—"
"Four years." Kara's laugh was hollow. "You've had four years. Do you know what I've had? Four years of wondering if my feelings were real or if I was just a stupid kid with a crush. Four years of second-guessing every instinct, every emotion, every hope I ever had."
"Kara—"
"You told me I was too young. Too immature. Too much. And I believed you. I spent four years believing I wasn't enough. That my feelings were something to be ashamed of." Her voice broke. "Do you have any idea what that does to an Alpha?"
Barbara's eyes filled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix it." Kara's gaze was cold, distant. "Sorry doesn't undo four years of wondering if I'm capable of being loved."
She turned and walked away, leaving Barbara shattered.
---
They were forced to work together again. A Thanagarian threat required their combined skill sets, and the League wasn't taking excuses.
The mission was successful. The aftermath was not.
In the debrief, Barbara tried to compliment Kara's tactical instincts. "You've grown so much. Your decisions were—"
"Don't." Kara's voice was sharp. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you. I'm acknowledging—"
"You're acknowledging that I'm finally not a child anymore. Congratulations. I grew up. Just like you wanted."
Barbara flinched. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" Kara's laugh was bitter. "You want to talk about fair? You rejected me, dismissed me, and then watched me struggle for four years without once reaching out. Without once asking if I was okay. Without once seeing me."
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't want to know." Kara's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "It was easier to pretend I didn't exist than to face what you'd done."
The words landed like blows. Barbara had no defense. Because it was true.
---
Kara regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.
Not because they weren't true they were. But because the look on Barbara's face... that wasn't the face of someone who didn't care. That was the face of someone whose heart was breaking in real time.
She'd wanted Barbara to feel what she'd felt. Wanted her to understand the weight of four years of loneliness and doubt and longing. But watching her crumble... that wasn't victory. That was just more pain.
That night, alone in her apartment, Kara stared at the ceiling and wondered when she'd become someone who hurt people deliberately.
This isn't who I am, she thought. This isn't who I want to be.
But she didn't know how to be anything else.
It happened on a night neither of them expected.
A crisis mission. Near-death experience. Adrenaline and relief and the sudden, overwhelming awareness that life was too short for walls.
They ended up in Barbara's quarters. Kissing. Touching. Finally,
Kara's hands mapped Barbara's skin like she was memorizing territory she'd dreamed of for years. Barbara's breath came in gasps, in sobs, in finallys whispered against Kara's mouth.
"I love you," Barbara breathed. "I've loved you for so long."
"Don't." Kara's voice was raw. "Don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know if I can believe it."
But she stayed. And when they came together, it was desperate and beautiful and absolutely devastating. Kara's hands moved with desperate reverence, tracing every curve, every plane, every inch of skin she'd imagined for years. She gasped against Barbara's throat, drinking in the sweet Omega scent that clouded her judgment and sharpened her senses all at once. It was overwhelming.
Barbara's body was beautiful. More beautiful than any fantasy, any lonely night, any dream Kara had never quite let herself fully have. Pale skin scattered with freckles like constellations. The soft give of her waist beneath Kara's palms. The way she arched, the sounds she made, the trust in her eyes even now, even after everything.
Kara wanted to savor this moment.She wanted to memorize every detail, every breath, every tremor. But even as she laid Barbara down, even as she looked at her, something tangled in her chest. Conflict. Doubt. The ghost of four years whispering this won't last.
She entered her anyway. Because she couldn't. Because her body knew what her heart was too scared to admit.
Barbara moaned deep and desperate and broken. She gasped Kara's name like a prayer, like a plea, like finally. It was good. It was so good. It felt right in a way nothing had ever felt right.
But it was off.
Both of them felt it. The hesitation beneath the passion. The wall behind the touch. The thing neither of them could name, hanging in the space between their bodies like a question that had no answer.
They moved together, beautiful and broken, and for a moment just a moment it was almost enough.
But almost wasn't the same as being.
Afterward, Kara lay awake, staring at the ceiling, Barbara asleep against her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to stay. To claim. To hold on.
Instead, she slipped out before dawn.
---
Barbara woke alone.
The space beside her was cold. The scent of Kara still lingered on her pillows, on her skin, in the hollow space where her heart used to be.
She didn't cry. She was too numb for tears.
When Kara ignored her calls, her texts, her desperate attempts to reach out, Barbara understood: this wasn't forgiveness. This was punishment. This was Kara showing her what four years of absence felt like.
And the worst part? Barbara deserved it.
---
It took three weeks for Kara to respond to a message.
Three weeks of Barbara functioning on autopilot, going through the motions, pretending she wasn't falling apart inside. Three weeks of Dinah and Helena watching her with worried eyes, of Dick hovering without quite knowing what to say.
When the reply finally came a simple We can talk Barbara's hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her tablet.
They met on neutral ground. A coffee shop in Metropolis. Public enough to feel safe, private enough to actually speak.
"I'm sorry," Kara said, before Barbara could speak. "For leaving. For not responding. For—"
"You don't have to apologize." Barbara's voice was steady, even though everything inside her was screaming. "I hurt you. You're allowed to protect yourself."
Kara's eyes searched hers. "That's not an excuse. I should have—"
"You should have done whatever you needed to survive." Barbara reached across the table, not quite touching. "I spent four years not seeing you. I don't get to demand that you see me now."
Kara stared at their almost-hands. "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I."
"I don't know how to trust that you won't—"
"Neither do I." Barbara's voice cracked. "But I want to try. God, Kara, I want to try so badly.”
Trying meant proximity. Proximity meant temptation.
Every time they worked together, Kara's Alpha instincts screamed at her. Claim her. Scent her. Make her yours. The pull was overwhelmingly magnified by years of denial, by that single night of devastating intimacy, by the way Barbara's Omega scent called to something primal in her DNA.
She resisted. Barely.
But Barbara noticed. Of course she noticed. The way Kara's gaze lingered. The way her jaw tightened when other Omegas were near. The way her whole body tensed with the effort of restraint.
"Kara." Barbara's voice was soft, one evening after a mission. "You can... you don't have to—"
"Yes I do." Kara's voice was strained. "I have to. Because if I let myself want you the way I actually want you, I won't be able to stop. And I can't—" She stopped, swallowing. "I can't lose control with you. I can't be that Alpha. The one who takes without asking, who claims without consent. That's not who I am."
Barbara's heart clenched. "Is that what you think? That wanting me makes you dangerous?"
"It makes me afraid. Afraid of being too much. Too intense. Too Alpha." Kara's eyes were bright. "You already thought I was too young, too immature. What happens when you realize I'm also too much?"
---
Barbara dropped to her knees.
It wasn't planned. Wasn't strategic. It was a pure, desperate instinct, an Omega offering herself to her Alpha in the oldest language either of them knew.
"Kara." Her voice was broken. "Please. I don't care how much you are. I don't care how intense. I don't care about any of it. I just want you. All of you. The parts you're scared of, the parts you hide, the parts you think are too much." Tears streamed down her face. "Please. Please don't keep yourself from me. I can't pI can't lose you again."
Kara stared at her, frozen.
"I know I don't deserve to ask," Barbara continued, her voice shaking. "I know I hurt you. I know I was cruel and blind and wrong. But I'm begging you, Kara. Give me a chance. Give us a chance. I'll do anything. Anything. Just—"
Kara pulled her up and into her arms, holding her so tightly it hurt.
"Don't beg," Kara whispered, her voice thick. "Don't ever beg. You're my Omega. You shouldn't have to beg."
Even after that night, even after the raw confession and the desperate clinging, Kara remained reluctant.
They were together now officially, if quietly. But intimacy was a battlefield.
Every time they moved toward physical connection, Kara pulled back. Not obviously she was too skilled at hiding but Barbara felt it. The hesitation. The careful control. The way Kara held herself apart even when their bodies were close.
It destroyed Barbara's self-esteem in ways she hadn't expected.
She doesn't want me, she thought. Not really. Not the way I want her.
She started pulling back too. Started protecting herself. Started building walls she'd only just begun to tear down.
---
The distance grew.
They were still together. Still talked. Still worked side by side. But something vital was missing the heat, the connection, the claiming that should have been natural between an Alpha and her Omega.
Barbara stopped initiating. Stopped hoping. Stopped believing.
Until one night, when Kara found her alone in the Clock Tower, staring at old mission footage.
"You're avoiding me," Kara said quietly.
"You're avoiding me first."
Kara flinched. "That's not—"
"It is." Barbara turned to face her. "Every time we get close, you pull away. Every time I think we're finally connecting, you find a reason to disconnect. And I'm trying, Kara. I'm trying so hard to be patient, to understand, to give you space. But I can't keep doing this if you're not going to meet me halfway."
Kara's eyes filled. "I don't know how."
"Then learn." Barbara's voice broke. "Because I can't—I can't keep feeling like I'm not enough. Like the Omega I am isn't what you want."
"You're everything I want." Kara crossed the distance, cupping her face. "That's the problem. You're everything. And I'm so scared of losing you again that I'm sabotaging us to protect myself."
--
It was Barbara who suggested it.
"Couples therapy." She said it calmly, like she was proposing a tactical analysis. "For Alphas and Omegas. There's a specialist in Star City who works with hero pairs."
Kara stared at her. "You want to go to therapy. Together."
"I want to fix this. Whatever it takes." Barbara's gaze was steady. "I'll do anything, Kara. Anything. If that means sitting in a room and talking about our feelings like normal people, I'll do it. If that means—"
"Yes." Kara's voice was soft. "Yes. Let's try."
---
The therapist was good. Patient. Skilled.
Over weeks, the walls began to come down. Kara talked about the rejection, the years of loneliness, the fear of being seen as "too much." Barbara listened. Apologized. Heard her.
And then, in one pivotal session, Kara finally said the words she'd been holding for months.
"I'm scared to claim her." Her voice was barely audible. "Every instinct screams at me to take to scent her, mark her, make her undeniably mine. And I'm terrified that if I do, if I let myself be that Alpha, she'll see me the way she did before. As impulsive. As childish. As someone without control."
Barbara's heart shattered.
"Kara." She reached for her hand. "That's not I don't see you that way. I never should have made you feel that way. You're not impulsive. You're not childish. You're the most controlled, careful, loving person I've ever known."
"Then why does it feel like I'm always holding back?"
"Because you're protecting yourself. And me. And us." Barbara squeezed her hand. "But you don't have to anymore. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. And I want all of you even the parts you're scared of."
---
The therapy helped, but the weight of the past didn't disappear overnight.
They still had moments of hesitation. Moments where Kara pulled back, where Barbara doubted, where the ghost of four years of pain whispered this won't last.
But they kept showing up. Kept talking. Kept trying.
Barbara worked harder than she'd ever worked on anything. She overcompensated, brought Kara coffee before she asked, sent texts throughout the day, showed up at her apartment with no reason except I wanted to see you. She was terrified of failing, of losing her again, of not being enough.
Kara noticed.
"You don't have to do all this," she said one night, watching Barbara organize her kitchen with frantic energy. "You don't have to earn me."
Barbara paused. "I know. I just want you to know I'm here. That I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." Kara crossed to her, taking her hands. "But I need you to know something too."
"What?"
Kara's gaze was soft, certain. "You're enough. You've always been enough. The problem was never you, it was me, and my fear, and my inability to trust that you could love all of me." She lifted Barbara's hands, pressing kisses to her knuckles. "I see you now. All of you. And you're more than enough.”
But healing wasn't linear.
At a League gala, Kara spent twenty minutes talking to another Omega a visiting diplomat from an allied planet. Perfectly innocent. Perfectly professional.
Barbara watched from across the room and felt her stomach drop.
She's prettier. Younger. More available. Why would Kara stay with me when—
She excused herself to the bathroom and spent ten minutes talking herself down from a panic spiral.
Kara found her afterward. "Hey. You disappeared."
"Just needed a minute." Barbara's smile was fake. "Go back to your conversation."
"What conversation?"
"The Omega. The pretty one."
Kara's expression shifted to understanding. "Babs. That was diplomatic. Nothing more."
"I know. I know." Barbara's voice cracked. "I just see you with other Omegas and I think... Why would you want me? After everything I did. After all the pain I caused. Why would you choose me?"
Kara pulled her into a private corner, framing her face with gentle hands.
"Listen to me." Her voice was fierce, tender, absolute. "There is no other Omega. There never has been. There never will be. You are mine. The only one my Alpha recognizes. The only one my heart wants." She pressed their foreheads together. "I choose you, Barbara. Every day. Every moment. No matter what."
Barbara's tears spilled over. "Promise?"
"Promise." Kara kissed her softly. "Now come back to the party. Let them see us together. Let them know."
---
That night, something shifted.
They returned to Barbara's apartment, and for the first time in months, there was no hesitation. No pulling back. No walls.
Kara lifted Barbara easily, carrying her to the bedroom with the reverence of someone holding the most precious thing in the universe. She laid her down, hovering above her, drinking in the sight of her.
"I'm scared," Kara whispered.
"Me too." Barbara's hands came up to cup her face. "But I'm more scared of not having you."
Kara kissed her deep, searching, claiming. And for the first time, she didn't hold back.
She let her Alpha instincts guide her. Let herself scent Barbara thoroughly, marking her in a way that would linger for days. Let her teeth graze the curve of Barbara's shoulder not breaking skin, but promising devotion, protection, forever.
Barbara responded in kind, her Omega instincts rising to meet her Alpha's. She arched into every touch, gasped at every kiss, clung to Kara like she was the only solid thing in a universe of chaos.
Kara entered her slowly—so slowly—and Barbara gasped, a broken, beautiful sound that unraveled something in her Alpha's chest. She whined, fingers clutching at Kara's shoulders, pulling her closer, needing her closer.
Kara's pace quickened, just slightly, her lips finding Barbara's ear between shuddering breaths.
"I love you," she whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
The words blurred together, a litany, a prayer, the only truth that mattered.
Barbara's world narrowed to one sensation: her Alpha inside her. Truly inside her. No barriers. No distance. Nothing between them but skin and trust and four years of longing. It was too much. It was perfect.
She screamed. Arched. Whined Kara's name like it was the only word she remembered.
Kara moved faster, her voice rough with need. "You feel so good. So tight. I—" A gasp. "I like it. I like it so much."
Barbara could only whimper, lost in the overwhelming rightness of it.
"I need your words, baby." Kara's voice was desperate, pleading. "I need to hear you."
Barbara found her voice somewhere in the wreckage. "Ah—Your—" She gasped, clung, shattered. "Fuck. So good. So big. My Alpha." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "I love you."
Kara's rhythm faltered, her control hanging by a thread. "Where do you want it, baby?"
Barbara's answer was immediate, absolute. "Inside. Nowhere else. Inside."
Kara obeyed. Of course she obeyed. Her Omega asked, and she gave—everything, always, forever. She let go, pouring herself into Barbara, into the space that was theirs alone.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breath. Ragged. Shared. Perfect.
They lay tangled together, bodies trembling, hearts pounding, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like a blanket.
Neither spoke. Neither needed to.
For the first time in four years, they were exactly where they belonged.
"Yours," she breathed. "I'm yours."
"Mine." Kara's voice was thick with emotion. "Finally mine."
When they came together, it was with the weight of years behind them years of pain, of longing, of growth. It was desperate and tender and absolutely right.
Afterward, tangled together, Kara pressed her face into Barbara's neck and breathed her in.
"I love you," she whispered. "I've loved you since I was nineteen years old. I never stopped."
"I know." Barbara's arms tightened around her. "I love you too. I always have. I was just too scared to admit it."
"Not scared anymore?"
"Terrified." Barbara laughed softly. "But also brave. You make me brave."
---
The days that followed were different.
The strain was gone not completely, not yet, but less. They moved around each other with new ease, new confidence. When Kara pulled back, Barbara waited. When Barbara doubted, Kara reassured. They were learning from each other again, and it was beautiful.
The claim marked a turning point. Barbara carried Kara's scent like armor, like proof, like home. Other Omegas noticed. Other Alphas noticed. Everyone noticed.
But most importantly, they noticed.
"You're different," Dinah observed, watching them at a team dinner. "Both of you. Softer. Happier."
"We're working on it," Barbara said, her hand finding Kara's under the table.
"It shows." Dinah's smile was warm. "It really shows.”
They fell into a rhythm.
Mornings with coffee and quiet conversation. Afternoons with missions and teamwork and the easy synchronicity of people who trusted each other completely. Evenings with takeout and terrible movies and Krypto curled at their feet.
Nights with each other.
The intimacy deepened not just physical, but emotional. They learned each other's tells, each other's needs, and each other's love languages. Kara learned to ask for what she wanted. Barbara learned to accept what she was given.
"I love you," Kara said one night, soft and certain, as they lay tangled together.
"I love you too." Barbara pressed a kiss to her chest. "More than I ever thought I could love anyone."
"Good." Kara's arms tightened around her. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
---
Months passed. The wounds didn't disappear; they scarred over, becoming part of the landscape of their love. Sometimes, on hard days, the pain resurfaced. Sometimes they fought. Sometimes they hurt each other without meaning to.
But they always came back.
Because underneath the pain, underneath the fear, underneath everything they loved each other. Fiercely. Completely. Finally,
And that love, hard-won and carefully tended, was stronger than anything either of them had ever known.
---
One year after they'd finally, truly come together, Kara took Barbara to the Fortress of Solitude.
"Why are we here?" Barbara asked, looking around at the crystalline halls.
Kara's hand tightened around hers. "Because I want to show you something."
She led her to a quiet chamber, filled with holographic projections of Krypton, its cities, its people, its life.
"This was my home," Kara said softly. "Before. I've spent years mourning it, missing it, feeling like I didn't belong anywhere else." She turned to face Barbara. "But I was wrong. I do belong somewhere. I belong with you."
Barbara's eyes filled. "Kara..."
"You're my home now. Not Krypton. Not Earth. You." Kara cupped her face, thumbs tracing her cheeks. "And I wanted you to see where I came from. Because where I'm going, where we're going, that's what matters now."
Barbara kissed her soft, deep, full of promise.
"Wherever we're going," she whispered, "I'll be there. Always."