Chapter 33: PROFESSIONAL DISTANCE
[National City, Financial District — November 2016, 11:23 PM]
The alien arms dealers had chosen their location well. The abandoned warehouse complex straddled the boundary between National City's financial district and its industrial zone—close enough to shipping lanes for supply, isolated enough to avoid casual notice.
Too bad for them, the DEO had very thorough surveillance.
"Six heat signatures inside," Winn reported through our comms. "Multiple weapons caches detected. Energy readings suggest off-world tech."
"Approach pattern?" Kara asked, hovering beside me a quarter-mile from the target.
"Standard containment. Supergirl takes aerial, seals the exits. Mon-El, ground entry through the loading dock. Tactical team holds the perimeter."
Professional. Focused. Our first official mission as an acknowledged couple, and every eye at the DEO was watching to see if we could handle it.
"Copy that." I dropped toward the street level, using the buildings for cover. "Moving to entry position."
The loading dock doors were reinforced—alien metals, probably, resistant to conventional force. I placed my palm against the surface, felt the TK field extend through the contact, sensed the internal structure.
Three locks. Two mechanical, one electronic.
I pushed. The field focused into the mechanisms, applying pressure from inside. Something clicked. The door swung open.
Inside, the warehouse was converted into an efficient operation. Crates stacked in organized rows. A central workspace where aliens of various species packaged and catalogued weapons. And in the corner, the six heat signatures Winn had identified—guards, armed, currently unaware of my presence.
"I'm in," I reported quietly. "Six hostiles confirmed. Beginning approach."
"Copy. I'm sealing the east exit now."
The operation proceeded by the book. Kara blocked escape routes while I moved through the crate rows, taking down guards silently where possible, creating diversions when necessary. We communicated through brief, professional exchanges—positions, threat updates, tactical adjustments.
Then one of the dealers got smart.
He'd been hiding behind a crate, watching the pattern of our movements. When Kara descended to engage two guards near the main door, he slipped past her peripheral vision with something that glinted with an ugly green light.
Kryptonite weapon.
I moved without conscious thought.
The TK field extended outward—further than I'd ever pushed it—wrapping around Kara like a protective shell just as the dealer fired. The energy blast hit my field instead of her body, dispersing against the barrier I'd created.
The dealer had exactly one second to process his failed attack before I was on him.
He went down hard. The weapon skittered across the floor, safely away from anyone who could use it.
"Mon-El." Kara's voice was tight. "That field—"
"Later. Three hostiles remaining."
We finished the operation with brutal efficiency. The remaining dealers surrendered rather than face opponents who'd just demonstrated they could counter Kryptonite. The tactical team swept in to process the scene while Kara and I caught our breath in the relative quiet.
"You extended your field to cover me," she said, once we were alone. "From thirty feet away."
"Instinct."
"That's not how your powers work. That's not how any Daxamite powers work."
I didn't have a good answer. The TK field had responded to my need—protect Kara, stop the threat—and had done something it shouldn't have been capable of doing. The adaptation was growing faster than I could explain, developing in directions that didn't fit the cover story about pod modifications.
"I'm still learning what I can do," I said finally. "The adaptation keeps surprising me."
Kara studied me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Then she nodded, accepting the non-explanation.
"We need to talk about it. Later. With the team."
"I know."
But later was later. For now, we had a scene to process and a report to file.
---
The debrief was mercifully brief. J'onn reviewed our tactical performance, noted the efficient coordination, flagged the Kryptonite weapon as evidence of escalating dealer sophistication.
"Your combat synchronization has improved," he observed, pulling up footage from the operation. "The instinctive protection response—extending the TK field to cover Supergirl—suggests deep-level coordination."
"We've been training together for months," Kara said.
"Training doesn't explain reflexive actions. Trust does." J'onn's expression was unreadable. "It appears your relationship enhances your operational effectiveness rather than compromising it."
"Is that a compliment?" I asked.
"It's an observation. Compliments are for people who need encouragement. You need results." But the corner of his mouth twitched. "Good work."
High praise from J'onn J'onzz.
---
The med bay was quiet. Late shift, minimal staff. Kara and I sat on adjacent beds, sharing ice packs and comparing injuries.
"Mine's bigger," she said, gesturing to a bruise on her shoulder where a thrown crate had connected.
"Mine's more colorful." I displayed my forearm, where the dealer's desperate punch had left an impressive purple-and-green mark. "Multiple shades. Practically artistic."
"It's already healing."
"Daxamite physiology. Give it an hour."
"Show-off."
The door opened. Alex walked in, took one look at us—shoulder to shoulder, trading ice packs, grinning like idiots—and immediately walked back out.
"Aliens," she muttered audibly through the door.
Kara burst out laughing. I joined her, the absurdity of the moment overwhelming any pretense of dignity.
"We should probably look more injured," I suggested.
"Probably." She didn't stop laughing. "Do you think she expected us to be more professional about the aftermath?"
"I think she expected us to at least pretend it hurt."
"It did hurt." Kara touched her shoulder gingerly. "But I've had worse. And the alternative—that Kryptonite blast connecting—would have been much more painful."
"Then the bruise was worth it."
"Mon-El." She caught my hand, squeezed it. "Thank you. For the protection. I know it wasn't in the tactical plan."
"Protecting you is always in my tactical plan."
"That's either very sweet or very concerning."
"Can't it be both?"
She kissed me—brief, gentle, mindful of our various injuries.
"Both works."
---
Flying home through National City's midnight sky, Kara looped beneath me in an aerial spiral. Showing off, the way she had during our first partner patrol. Testing my reflexes.
I matched her movement—not as graceful, not as precise, but close enough that she laughed in surprise.
"You've gotten better at that."
"I had a good teacher." I remembered saying the same thing on the cliff, weeks ago, when the relationship was still tension and possibility rather than reality. "Several good teachers, actually."
"Alex would hate being grouped with me."
"Alex would hate being grouped with anyone. It's part of her charm."
We spiraled upward together, then dove toward the city lights, pulling out of the descent with matched timing. The wind rushed past, carrying the scent of urban night—exhaust, cooking food, the indefinable electricity of millions of lives happening simultaneously.
"This is nice," Kara said as we settled into a comfortable glide. "Being able to do this. Not having to pretend we're something we're not."
"We're still pretending about some things." The transmigrator secret sat heavy in my chest, as it always did. "But fewer things. That's progress."
"Progress is good." She reached out, touched my hand mid-flight. "Mon-El? Whatever you're still not telling me—and I know there's something—I can wait. Until you're ready."
The observation caught me off guard. I hadn't realized she'd noticed the gaps, the careful phrasings, the moments when I steered conversations away from certain topics.
"How did you—"
"I'm not stupid. And I spent months interrogating you about Daxam. I know what you sound like when you're editing yourself." She smiled, soft and understanding. "I meant what I said about honesty. But I also know that some truths take time to share. I can be patient."
"And if the truth is stranger than you expect?"
"Then I'll deal with it when you're ready to tell me." She squeezed my hand. "We're partners now. Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone."
The words settled somewhere deep. Not absolution—she didn't know what she was absolving—but acceptance. The promise of understanding when I eventually found the courage to explain.
Below us, National City glittered with a million lights. Home, now, in ways that Daxam had never been. And beside me, someone who cared enough to wait for truths I couldn't yet speak.
Progress. Patience. Partnership.
One step at a time.
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