Startling Mimicry: Captain Boomerang II/Supergirl
She's never been sure of much.
“Do you even know who you are anymore?” She demands of her cracked reflection.
“I mean, fuck, do you even know what your name is today? Are you Claire? Kara? Flamebird? Supergirl?” She slams the heel of her hand against the wall, feels the cinderblock turn to powder under her hand.
“Who the hell are you?” She hisses, glass bubbling over her eyes “Just - ”
The door bangs open, shaking the mirror, and the sounds smells colors of the club pour in - alcohol and make-up and flashing strobe lights and dozens of happy, sweaty bodies squirming against each other.
“Hey, Luce!” A happy, giggling voice calls “Whatcha doin’ in there? We’re doing shots with, like, the hottest guys ever out here, girl!”
Luce. Luce works.
“Just a minute!” Luce yells over her shoulder “I’ve gotta fix my eyeliner!” The door bangs shut, cutting off the dingy bathroom. Luce turns the mirror over and slides her compact from her purse, popping it open with one cherry red fingernail.
“Fuck,” she says softly, touching the charred make-up around her eyes with dusty fingers. She heaves a sigh and reaches for the mild acid next to the lipstick - black, red, bubblegum pink, ultraviolet (for Power Boy), and light, translucent peach.
It smells tangy, like candy, as she mists it onto a piece of sandpaper and brings it to her eye to start touching up.
*
Supergirl drifts aimlessly on her back over the Atlantic Ocean, cape a few inches above the waves. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, making snow over her face that melts almost right away under the tropical sun. She arches her stomach up into it and sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
These are the times she practices listening.
“Fuck you, I won’t put this shit on - ”
“Dude, I’m serious - ”
“Mommy, I want a - ”
“And the he said, get this, he said - ”
Almost all of human communication is small talk. Supergirl doesn’t want to deal with that right now, so she wrinkles her nose and tunes in on a heartbeat, then widens the scope to…about a fifteen foot radius around it.
Heavy breathing. Stickiness on leather. Rustling.
“O-”
Supergirl smirks, hands behind her head. It must be around three in the morning in Central City, Owen’s apartment.
“O-”
And it’s a moaner, not a screamer. Supergirl wonders if he prefers them that way, because Owen? Owen sounds great moaned.
“-Owen, ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod OwenOwenOwen -”
“Fuck, Claire -”
Kara’s eyes snap open as, across an ocean, Owen comes.
*
“Hey, Boomer,” she says, when he opens the grimy window of his apartment.
“Some people sleep, Kara,” he tells her, rubbing his eyes. She shrugs as he runs a hand through his bed head and glances over his shoulder to check the clock.
“Five thirty,” he says, like a curse, and shakes his head “Jesus. This is not the time to be making social calls.”
“Wanna go out somewhere?” She asks, bobbing in the air like a balloon trapped under a glass ceiling.
“Well, you know there’s usually nothing I love more than dropping everything to run off, beat up thugs, and go clubbing with you, but I’ve got a guest and that entails certain responsibilities as host,” he says, rolling his eyes as he leans on the windowsill. He smells like sweat and perfume - expensive - and hair dye.
“Ditch them. Come on, I’m bored,” she says, tossing her hair and crossing her arms under her breasts.
“Owen?” Someone calls sleepily from the living room. Owen looks over his shoulder and grins. She wrinkles her nose and flies higher, peering into the gloom.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, straightening up and looking back to her “Don’t beam radiation into my apartment. This place is enough of a biohazard as it is, ‘mkay?” She cocks her head to the side and lifts her eyebrows.
“How did you -”
“You squint before you turn it on,” he tells her, smirking as he ducks under the edge of the window and back into the room.
“Do not - ” she begins to protest, before she’s interrupted again.
“Owen, baby, who’re you talking to?”
“No one,” he calls softly, turning his head away from her “I’m just getting some fresh air. On my way back as we speak.” A soft, bleary laugh - donkey-like, she decides, more of a bray than a laugh, really.
“Who’s that?” She dips her chin and looks down her nose at him as she glides up higher, blocking the light from the street lamps.
“My maiden aunt,” he says, closing the window “Come back in four hours.”
*
She starts keeping track of their names.
Claire. Carrie. Kassie. Carolina. Cambridge.
Then she starts keeping track of what they look like, when an Ashley and a Veronica and an Erica crop up.
Ashley has long, straight blonde hair. Veronica is a professional ballerina. Erica wears high red boots.
There’s a pattern, there.
*
The top of Mount Everest gets visited a little less than the Statue of Liberty, so that’s where Supergirl takes Power Boy for their third date. She brings ice cream - he says he likes vanilla-cherry swirl, and she’s all right with it, so that’s what she gets. He grins bright and easy when he sees it, touching down next to her.
“You remembered,” he says, taking the bucket.
“Of course I remembered,” she says, opening the package of cones - chocolate shell.
“You,” he tells her, as he pries off the lid and gestures for one of the spoons “Are actually super.” He has a nice laugh, smooth and mellow, and Supergirl smiles secretively as she heats the spoons with her heat vision. Hers hisses when it hits the ice cream, and she spins a light curl into her spoon before holding over her cone to let it drip inside.
He slips out of super-speed to give her a look, full cone in his hand “What’s that for?”
“More flavor on the inside this way,” she informs him, shaving off another thin curl around the edge of the gouge he left in the surface.
“That’s the weirdest way to make an ice cream cone I’ve ever seen,” he says.
“Whatever.”
“No, I mean, it’s cool. It’s, you know, unique. Like you,” Power Boy tilts his chin up and puts his arm around her waist. Supergirl slides into him, sighing.
“You’re sweet,” she tells him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“You’re sweet,” he says, squeezing her side.
Supergirl finishes her cone and starts licking it, and he does the same, tilting his head up to look at the sky.
“PB?” She says, after she gets tired of staring at snow flurries.
“Mm-hm?” He mumbles, squeezing her side again affectionately. She thinks it’s affectionately.
She’s quiet for a moment, and then smiles. “Say my name. Kara. Say Kara.”
“Sure, Kar - ” he starts, and she lunges up to kiss him, cut him off. He makes a small, pleased sound and kisses back.
Their ice cream falls in the snow, artificial, frozen.
*
Supergirl’s mouth still tastes like cherry and vanilla when she shows up at Owen’s apartment for the Survivor marathon, but she’s changed out of her messy ice cream smeared costume into a sweatshirt and jeans. She’s dressed down today, Owen comments, and she says so? He says so what, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes - stay put and don’t touch anything.
She snags his blueberries from the fridge and starts eating them while she waits for him to come back from the snack run, popping each berry precisely under her canine teeth as she counts dust particles on his ceiling, lying on her side on his couch.
“Someone looks comfortable,” he says, amused and a little bit of something else when he gets back, dropping the grocery bags by the door. Supergirl smirks and crosses her ankles, sucking blueberry juice off her fingers. Her skin doesn’t stain, which she guesses she should be grateful for.
He shrugs at that and flops onto the couch by her feet, pulling his bare feet out of his boots and kicking them aside.
“You don’t wear socks?” She asks, setting the empty blueberry container down on the floor.
“I don’t wear socks when I’m going for a ten minute walk,” he says, hooking his arms over the back of the couch “Did I miss much? What happened to that bony chick with the bad accent?”
“Nothing yet. I think Renaldo is plotting against her, though.”
“I’m pretty sure his name’s not Renaldo,” he says, cocking a brow.
“Whatever.”
*
They get about three hours in before either of them says much that means anything. It’s back and forth about rivalries and liars and betrayal as framed on a desert island. Supergirl thinks most of women look fat, but she keeps it to herself as Owen munches on tortilla chips and smirks knowingly at commercial breaks.
They drink pop. Supergirl’s pretty sure Batman has breathalyzers in her apartment.
“So, how do you feel about ‘Renaldo’ now?” He asks her, when it’s been long established Renaldo’s name is Jeremy.
“Pretty good, I guess,” she says, shrugging and cricking her neck “He’s got a shot if he can make it through the next challenge and keep Karen from finding out about his alliance with Lilly.”
“‘Renaldo’ seems to cracking under the pressure to me,” he remarks “Look at him. He’s twitchy.”
“You’re twitchy. Shut up.”
“Oh, touché, you really put me in my place,” he says, and she can hear that he’s rolling his eyes without even flicking on the super-hearing. It’s a tone thing.
She kicks his leg lightly and makes him wince. “Could you try not to do that?”
“You like it when Veronica kicks.”
There’s a sudden silence below her feet, and she cuddles her cheek into the arm under her head.
“What?” He says, finally, tense and quiet.
“I just said you like it when Veronica kicks, is all,” she says, casually “You do, don’t you?”
“Kara,” he says, and it’s a question and a warning and a little something extra.
“What?” She says, smiling at the next commercial - it’s for a breakfast cereal.
“I’ve never talked about Veronica with you,” he says, and she hears him twist towards her, pulling one arm from the back of the couch.
“You must have,” she says dismissively “Whatever. Calm down.”
“No, Kara,” he says, and she sighs “I never did. And if I had, I really don’t think I would have mentioned that.”
“Because she only kicks when she comes, right?” She says, watching the TV flicker intently “And Carrie scratches, you like that too, and those awesome little noises Beth makes at the back of her throat - Beth’s the one with that tattoo on her back, right? I always get her and Olive mixed up. You know, because you usually bring them over together. Olive’s got really pretty eyes, not that they’re open much when she’s with you. You got any more Coke around here? I’m out.”
Owen doesn’t let out a breath until he swears, softly, and she can feel his eyes on the side of her head. She ignores them. She likes this episode.
“You,” he breathes, sounding awed more than horrified, but it’s there, he can’t hide it “You fucking Peeping Tom.”
She shrugs, lightly.
“How long have you been watching me?” He demands, leaning forward “Wait, no, why the hell were you watching me? What, cable not good enough for you?”
“Jesus, let it go,” she says “I’m trying to watch this.” He laughs, bright and edged, and she hears the clatter of the remote being moved before the screen blinks and fades.
“Don’t be so fucking immature, Owen,” she tells him, unmoving.
“Immature? You tell me you’ve been spying on me while I fuck and try to blow it off, and I’m immature for being slightly unnerved that jailbait from space has been peeping in on me every so often and maybe wanting to explore the motivations behind it?”
It’s her turn to be quiet, from boredom more than anything else, she tells herself.
“You know, I’m the one being fucked in effigy here,” she says, curling her legs up to her chest, staring into her own reflection’s eyes on the dead television set.
He stiffens - she sees it in the reflection of the room, his knee locking up - and laughs, low and wounded, once, before it tapers off into a tired moan as he tips his head back. She sees the way his muscles shift under his shirt, knows he’s rubbing his temples.
“You,” he says, soft and edgy and frustrated, (dangerous) “You are unbelievable.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, sullenly, rubbing her fingers on the back of her neck.
He just laughs, mockingly, and she kicks him again. He grabs her bare ankle before she can pull back and she lets him hold it, pushing herself up from the couch with one hand to glare at him as he twists to look at her.
“Boomer,” she says.
“That’s my name,” he says, grinning fiercely, and she grins back “Or Owen, you know, but it’s up to you. Tell me, Kara, what kind of kick did you get out of watching me?”
“Did any of them know who you were really fucking?” She asks, grin nearly a snarl, sitting up smoothly “Did you let them in on it? Give them a clue? I mean, I bet a blow up doll with an S on it isn’t so hard to find - just not real enough for you? Not enough?”
“Kara, Jesus, it’s never enough,” he says, leaning in, teeth bare and eyes bright and open and wanting and needing and she can’t even decide what color they are “It’s never fucking enough.”
They’re so close now. He smells like detergent and coffee and deodorant, she can hear his blood rush, hand hot and tight on her ankle.
“You sick bastard,” she spits, closer. His grin gets painful, pained.
“Hey, Kara?”
“What?” She hisses, hard-eyed.
And he closes the gap between him and his beard is as scratchy as she thought, his mouth is dusty thick tortilla spit and coffee and sugar and a warm hard tongue and holes between his teeth.
His fingers tighten on her ankle as his hand cups the base of her skull, draws her in, and her hands rise to his shoulders without asking her if they can, dig into the cotton of his shirt and the muscles laid over his bones.
He’s the one who pulls away, smirking, and she blinks at him, startled (breathless).
“You know, for such a good spy - you’re a lousy fucking kisser,” he tells her, wiping his mouth on his shoulder next to her hand. She breathes in, indignant, until his smirk sharpens and he presses her mouth to her fingers.
“God, but I’ve been waiting for this,” he mumbles against her fingers, clear nail polish, and his hands settle on her hips as he turns back to her.
He’s a good kisser.
Kara’s never really liked kissing before.
She decides she’s going to have to keep it up, after all.
“Do you even know who you are anymore?” She demands of her cracked reflection.
“I mean, fuck, do you even know what your name is today? Are you Claire? Kara? Flamebird? Supergirl?” She slams the heel of her hand against the wall, feels the cinderblock turn to powder under her hand.
“Who the hell are you?” She hisses, glass bubbling over her eyes “Just - ”
The door bangs open, shaking the mirror, and the sounds smells colors of the club pour in - alcohol and make-up and flashing strobe lights and dozens of happy, sweaty bodies squirming against each other.
“Hey, Luce!” A happy, giggling voice calls “Whatcha doin’ in there? We’re doing shots with, like, the hottest guys ever out here, girl!”
Luce. Luce works.
“Just a minute!” Luce yells over her shoulder “I’ve gotta fix my eyeliner!” The door bangs shut, cutting off the dingy bathroom. Luce turns the mirror over and slides her compact from her purse, popping it open with one cherry red fingernail.
“Fuck,” she says softly, touching the charred make-up around her eyes with dusty fingers. She heaves a sigh and reaches for the mild acid next to the lipstick - black, red, bubblegum pink, ultraviolet (for Power Boy), and light, translucent peach.
It smells tangy, like candy, as she mists it onto a piece of sandpaper and brings it to her eye to start touching up.
*
Supergirl drifts aimlessly on her back over the Atlantic Ocean, cape a few inches above the waves. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, making snow over her face that melts almost right away under the tropical sun. She arches her stomach up into it and sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
These are the times she practices listening.
“Fuck you, I won’t put this shit on - ”
“Dude, I’m serious - ”
“Mommy, I want a - ”
“And the he said, get this, he said - ”
Almost all of human communication is small talk. Supergirl doesn’t want to deal with that right now, so she wrinkles her nose and tunes in on a heartbeat, then widens the scope to…about a fifteen foot radius around it.
Heavy breathing. Stickiness on leather. Rustling.
“O-”
Supergirl smirks, hands behind her head. It must be around three in the morning in Central City, Owen’s apartment.
“O-”
And it’s a moaner, not a screamer. Supergirl wonders if he prefers them that way, because Owen? Owen sounds great moaned.
“-Owen, ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod OwenOwenOwen -”
“Fuck, Claire -”
Kara’s eyes snap open as, across an ocean, Owen comes.
*
“Hey, Boomer,” she says, when he opens the grimy window of his apartment.
“Some people sleep, Kara,” he tells her, rubbing his eyes. She shrugs as he runs a hand through his bed head and glances over his shoulder to check the clock.
“Five thirty,” he says, like a curse, and shakes his head “Jesus. This is not the time to be making social calls.”
“Wanna go out somewhere?” She asks, bobbing in the air like a balloon trapped under a glass ceiling.
“Well, you know there’s usually nothing I love more than dropping everything to run off, beat up thugs, and go clubbing with you, but I’ve got a guest and that entails certain responsibilities as host,” he says, rolling his eyes as he leans on the windowsill. He smells like sweat and perfume - expensive - and hair dye.
“Ditch them. Come on, I’m bored,” she says, tossing her hair and crossing her arms under her breasts.
“Owen?” Someone calls sleepily from the living room. Owen looks over his shoulder and grins. She wrinkles her nose and flies higher, peering into the gloom.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, straightening up and looking back to her “Don’t beam radiation into my apartment. This place is enough of a biohazard as it is, ‘mkay?” She cocks her head to the side and lifts her eyebrows.
“How did you -”
“You squint before you turn it on,” he tells her, smirking as he ducks under the edge of the window and back into the room.
“Do not - ” she begins to protest, before she’s interrupted again.
“Owen, baby, who’re you talking to?”
“No one,” he calls softly, turning his head away from her “I’m just getting some fresh air. On my way back as we speak.” A soft, bleary laugh - donkey-like, she decides, more of a bray than a laugh, really.
“Who’s that?” She dips her chin and looks down her nose at him as she glides up higher, blocking the light from the street lamps.
“My maiden aunt,” he says, closing the window “Come back in four hours.”
*
She starts keeping track of their names.
Claire. Carrie. Kassie. Carolina. Cambridge.
Then she starts keeping track of what they look like, when an Ashley and a Veronica and an Erica crop up.
Ashley has long, straight blonde hair. Veronica is a professional ballerina. Erica wears high red boots.
There’s a pattern, there.
*
The top of Mount Everest gets visited a little less than the Statue of Liberty, so that’s where Supergirl takes Power Boy for their third date. She brings ice cream - he says he likes vanilla-cherry swirl, and she’s all right with it, so that’s what she gets. He grins bright and easy when he sees it, touching down next to her.
“You remembered,” he says, taking the bucket.
“Of course I remembered,” she says, opening the package of cones - chocolate shell.
“You,” he tells her, as he pries off the lid and gestures for one of the spoons “Are actually super.” He has a nice laugh, smooth and mellow, and Supergirl smiles secretively as she heats the spoons with her heat vision. Hers hisses when it hits the ice cream, and she spins a light curl into her spoon before holding over her cone to let it drip inside.
He slips out of super-speed to give her a look, full cone in his hand “What’s that for?”
“More flavor on the inside this way,” she informs him, shaving off another thin curl around the edge of the gouge he left in the surface.
“That’s the weirdest way to make an ice cream cone I’ve ever seen,” he says.
“Whatever.”
“No, I mean, it’s cool. It’s, you know, unique. Like you,” Power Boy tilts his chin up and puts his arm around her waist. Supergirl slides into him, sighing.
“You’re sweet,” she tells him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“You’re sweet,” he says, squeezing her side.
Supergirl finishes her cone and starts licking it, and he does the same, tilting his head up to look at the sky.
“PB?” She says, after she gets tired of staring at snow flurries.
“Mm-hm?” He mumbles, squeezing her side again affectionately. She thinks it’s affectionately.
She’s quiet for a moment, and then smiles. “Say my name. Kara. Say Kara.”
“Sure, Kar - ” he starts, and she lunges up to kiss him, cut him off. He makes a small, pleased sound and kisses back.
Their ice cream falls in the snow, artificial, frozen.
*
Supergirl’s mouth still tastes like cherry and vanilla when she shows up at Owen’s apartment for the Survivor marathon, but she’s changed out of her messy ice cream smeared costume into a sweatshirt and jeans. She’s dressed down today, Owen comments, and she says so? He says so what, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes - stay put and don’t touch anything.
She snags his blueberries from the fridge and starts eating them while she waits for him to come back from the snack run, popping each berry precisely under her canine teeth as she counts dust particles on his ceiling, lying on her side on his couch.
“Someone looks comfortable,” he says, amused and a little bit of something else when he gets back, dropping the grocery bags by the door. Supergirl smirks and crosses her ankles, sucking blueberry juice off her fingers. Her skin doesn’t stain, which she guesses she should be grateful for.
He shrugs at that and flops onto the couch by her feet, pulling his bare feet out of his boots and kicking them aside.
“You don’t wear socks?” She asks, setting the empty blueberry container down on the floor.
“I don’t wear socks when I’m going for a ten minute walk,” he says, hooking his arms over the back of the couch “Did I miss much? What happened to that bony chick with the bad accent?”
“Nothing yet. I think Renaldo is plotting against her, though.”
“I’m pretty sure his name’s not Renaldo,” he says, cocking a brow.
“Whatever.”
*
They get about three hours in before either of them says much that means anything. It’s back and forth about rivalries and liars and betrayal as framed on a desert island. Supergirl thinks most of women look fat, but she keeps it to herself as Owen munches on tortilla chips and smirks knowingly at commercial breaks.
They drink pop. Supergirl’s pretty sure Batman has breathalyzers in her apartment.
“So, how do you feel about ‘Renaldo’ now?” He asks her, when it’s been long established Renaldo’s name is Jeremy.
“Pretty good, I guess,” she says, shrugging and cricking her neck “He’s got a shot if he can make it through the next challenge and keep Karen from finding out about his alliance with Lilly.”
“‘Renaldo’ seems to cracking under the pressure to me,” he remarks “Look at him. He’s twitchy.”
“You’re twitchy. Shut up.”
“Oh, touché, you really put me in my place,” he says, and she can hear that he’s rolling his eyes without even flicking on the super-hearing. It’s a tone thing.
She kicks his leg lightly and makes him wince. “Could you try not to do that?”
“You like it when Veronica kicks.”
There’s a sudden silence below her feet, and she cuddles her cheek into the arm under her head.
“What?” He says, finally, tense and quiet.
“I just said you like it when Veronica kicks, is all,” she says, casually “You do, don’t you?”
“Kara,” he says, and it’s a question and a warning and a little something extra.
“What?” She says, smiling at the next commercial - it’s for a breakfast cereal.
“I’ve never talked about Veronica with you,” he says, and she hears him twist towards her, pulling one arm from the back of the couch.
“You must have,” she says dismissively “Whatever. Calm down.”
“No, Kara,” he says, and she sighs “I never did. And if I had, I really don’t think I would have mentioned that.”
“Because she only kicks when she comes, right?” She says, watching the TV flicker intently “And Carrie scratches, you like that too, and those awesome little noises Beth makes at the back of her throat - Beth’s the one with that tattoo on her back, right? I always get her and Olive mixed up. You know, because you usually bring them over together. Olive’s got really pretty eyes, not that they’re open much when she’s with you. You got any more Coke around here? I’m out.”
Owen doesn’t let out a breath until he swears, softly, and she can feel his eyes on the side of her head. She ignores them. She likes this episode.
“You,” he breathes, sounding awed more than horrified, but it’s there, he can’t hide it “You fucking Peeping Tom.”
She shrugs, lightly.
“How long have you been watching me?” He demands, leaning forward “Wait, no, why the hell were you watching me? What, cable not good enough for you?”
“Jesus, let it go,” she says “I’m trying to watch this.” He laughs, bright and edged, and she hears the clatter of the remote being moved before the screen blinks and fades.
“Don’t be so fucking immature, Owen,” she tells him, unmoving.
“Immature? You tell me you’ve been spying on me while I fuck and try to blow it off, and I’m immature for being slightly unnerved that jailbait from space has been peeping in on me every so often and maybe wanting to explore the motivations behind it?”
It’s her turn to be quiet, from boredom more than anything else, she tells herself.
“You know, I’m the one being fucked in effigy here,” she says, curling her legs up to her chest, staring into her own reflection’s eyes on the dead television set.
He stiffens - she sees it in the reflection of the room, his knee locking up - and laughs, low and wounded, once, before it tapers off into a tired moan as he tips his head back. She sees the way his muscles shift under his shirt, knows he’s rubbing his temples.
“You,” he says, soft and edgy and frustrated, (dangerous) “You are unbelievable.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, sullenly, rubbing her fingers on the back of her neck.
He just laughs, mockingly, and she kicks him again. He grabs her bare ankle before she can pull back and she lets him hold it, pushing herself up from the couch with one hand to glare at him as he twists to look at her.
“Boomer,” she says.
“That’s my name,” he says, grinning fiercely, and she grins back “Or Owen, you know, but it’s up to you. Tell me, Kara, what kind of kick did you get out of watching me?”
“Did any of them know who you were really fucking?” She asks, grin nearly a snarl, sitting up smoothly “Did you let them in on it? Give them a clue? I mean, I bet a blow up doll with an S on it isn’t so hard to find - just not real enough for you? Not enough?”
“Kara, Jesus, it’s never enough,” he says, leaning in, teeth bare and eyes bright and open and wanting and needing and she can’t even decide what color they are “It’s never fucking enough.”
They’re so close now. He smells like detergent and coffee and deodorant, she can hear his blood rush, hand hot and tight on her ankle.
“You sick bastard,” she spits, closer. His grin gets painful, pained.
“Hey, Kara?”
“What?” She hisses, hard-eyed.
And he closes the gap between him and his beard is as scratchy as she thought, his mouth is dusty thick tortilla spit and coffee and sugar and a warm hard tongue and holes between his teeth.
His fingers tighten on her ankle as his hand cups the base of her skull, draws her in, and her hands rise to his shoulders without asking her if they can, dig into the cotton of his shirt and the muscles laid over his bones.
He’s the one who pulls away, smirking, and she blinks at him, startled (breathless).
“You know, for such a good spy - you’re a lousy fucking kisser,” he tells her, wiping his mouth on his shoulder next to her hand. She breathes in, indignant, until his smirk sharpens and he presses her mouth to her fingers.
“God, but I’ve been waiting for this,” he mumbles against her fingers, clear nail polish, and his hands settle on her hips as he turns back to her.
He’s a good kisser.
Kara’s never really liked kissing before.
She decides she’s going to have to keep it up, after all.