[Kara's Apartment — September 2017, 10:30 PM]
The balcony was cold, but neither of them minded.
They'd brought blankets—dragged them from the couch, piled them into a nest against the railing. Wine sat untouched between them, two glasses poured more for ritual than consumption. The city hummed below, and above, stars burned through the gaps in the cloud cover.
"One year ago," Mon-El said, watching the lights, "I crashed here. Different person in a Kryptonian pod. No idea what I was doing or how I'd gotten here. Terrified of everything."
Kara leaned against his shoulder. "Different is good."
"Is it?"
"The person you were when you arrived—would he have told me the truth?"
Mon-El considered the question. The answer came quickly, uncomfortable in its honesty. "No. He would have protected the secret forever. Would have convinced himself it was for my own good."
"Then I'm glad you changed." She pressed closer. "I'm glad you became someone who could be honest with me, even when it was terrifying."
The weight of the past week—the confession, the waiting, the verdict—finally began to lift. Not completely. The wound was still fresh. But the bleeding had stopped, and healing could begin.
"In the show," Kara asked carefully, "what happened to us?"
The question hung in the air. Mon-El had known it would come eventually—the natural consequence of revealing his knowledge. She deserved to know what he knew, even when the knowing was painful.
"You lost me," he said quietly. "Multiple times. Different ways."
Her hand tightened around his. "How?"
"The lead device. In the original timeline, I couldn't survive it. Had to leave Earth—went into the Phantom Zone, or somewhere similar. Was gone for... a long time, your perspective. Then came back changed."
"But you didn't leave."
"I adapted. Evolved." He touched his chest, where the lingering effects of the lead exposure had once threatened to kill him. "My body figured out how to survive what should have been fatal."
"So I changed that story." Kara turned to look at him, her expression fierce. "Right? I changed it?"
"You changed everything." He met her eyes, letting her see the truth of it. "Every choice we made together—every time you believed in me when I didn't believe in myself—it shifted the timeline. Created something new."
"Good." She lifted her chin with characteristic determination. "Then let's keep changing it."
"What do you mean?"
"Whatever comes next—Worldkillers, crises, whatever dark things are lurking in the future you remember—we face them together. No more secrets. No more hidden knowledge you're carrying alone."
"Kara..."
"I mean it." She gripped both his hands, turning to face him fully. "If you know something that could help us—could protect people—I want you to tell me. Not because I'm forcing you. Because we're partners. In everything."
The offer was more than he'd hoped for. More than he deserved, probably. A chance to share the burden of knowing instead of carrying it alone.
"Some things I remember are vague," he warned. "Details fade. The timeline's already so different that my knowledge might not even be accurate anymore."
"I don't care. Whatever you know—even if it's wrong, even if it's incomplete—I'd rather have it than not." She smiled slightly. "Besides, having a boyfriend with precognitive abilities sounds useful."
"It's not precognition. It's just... remembering a story that doesn't quite match reality anymore."
"Potato, tomato."
"That's not the expression."
"It is now." She pulled him closer. "So. Deal? No more secrets?"
"No more secrets," he agreed.
They sealed it with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, rebuilding what had been shaken with each moment of connection. When they finally pulled apart, Mon-El felt something he hadn't experienced in weeks: peace.
---
The temperature dropped as midnight approached.
Kara had wrapped herself in the entire blanket—a familiar pattern, one he'd complained about countless times before everything had changed. Now it just felt like home.
"I should probably give you some of this," she said, gesturing at the cocoon she'd created.
"I'm fine." He was, actually. His adaptation had evolved to handle temperature extremes with ease—a side effect of the lead resistance, maybe, or just continued development of his Daxamite physiology. "You need it more than I do."
"Show-off."
"Survivor."
She laughed, and the sound warmed him more than any blanket could. They sat in comfortable silence, watching the city settle into its nighttime rhythms.
"What happens next?" Kara asked eventually. "In the big picture, I mean. We've survived the invasion. You've told me your secret. Where do we go from here?"
Mon-El thought about the question. A year ago, he would have had answers—would have known the shape of the story, the beats to come, the threats waiting in the wings. Now, though, the future was genuinely unknown. He'd diverged so far from the original timeline that his knowledge was more historical curiosity than practical guide.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "And I think... I think that's okay."
"Okay how?"
"Before, I was always playing a role. Navigating a script I'd already read. Trying to hit the right marks while hiding that I knew what came next." He looked at her, at the woman who'd forgiven him when she had every right not to. "Now I'm just... living. Whatever comes, I'll face it as it happens. Like everyone else."
"That sounds terrifying."
"It is." He smiled. "It's also kind of wonderful."
Kara considered that, then nodded slowly. "I suppose that's the trade-off. You lose the certainty, but you gain... authenticity. Every moment is real because you don't know how it ends."
"Exactly."
The first snowflake drifted down—early for the season, a surprise gift from an atmosphere that didn't care about calendars. It landed on the railing between them and melted instantly.
"Snow," Kara said, surprised. "In September?"
"Climate's changing."
"Everything's changing." She reached out, caught a flake on her palm, watched it dissolve. Then she tilted her head back and caught one on her tongue, laughing at her own childishness.
Mon-El watched her—this impossible woman who'd watched his story unfold before he'd lived it, who'd loved a version of him that existed only in memory, who'd chosen the reality over the fiction. Overwhelmed with gratitude for impossible second chances.
"Ready for whatever comes next?" she asked.
He pulled her close, blanket and all, feeling her warmth against his chest.
"With you? Always."
---
Below them, the city continued its endless motion—cars and people and lives intersecting in patterns no one could predict. Above them, the clouds drifted apart to reveal stars that had been burning for billions of years.
And between them, something new was taking root. Not the relationship they'd had before—that had been built on incomplete foundations, loving but fundamentally unequal. This was different. This was honest. This was two people choosing each other with full knowledge of what that choice meant.
The snow fell harder, dusting the balcony with white. They'd have to go inside soon—Kara despite her Kryptonian resilience still preferred warmth, and there was only so much blanket to go around.
But for now, they stayed. Watching the world transform around them. Holding onto each other.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New threats. New opportunities to prove that the choices they'd made were the right ones. The Worldkillers lurked somewhere in the future, a darkness Mon-El remembered dimly from episodes he'd watched in another life. Reign. Sam Arias. A story that might unfold entirely differently now that he'd disrupted the timeline so thoroughly.
But that was tomorrow.
Tonight was for this: snow falling on a city they'd sworn to protect, two people who'd found each other against impossible odds, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, they'd face it together.
Mon-El pressed a kiss to Kara's hair and closed his eyes.
For the first time since he'd awakened in this body, in this life, in this universe that shouldn't exist—he felt truly at home.
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