Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Skylight
Point of View: Diana
The National City Antiquities Museum smelled of lemon polish, old dust, and the distinct, papery scent of history. At eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night, it was also blissfully quiet, save for the faint, tinny sound of the night guard’s radio echoing down the marble corridors.
"...and while the Girl of Steel managed to rescue the trapped window washers with her usual flair," Cat Grant’s crisp, demanding voice drifted through the halls, broadcasted from the CatCo evening recap, "one has to wonder if primary colors are truly the best choice for stealth. But I digress. In other news, the museum's new Hellenic exhibit opens Thursday..."
Diana Prince smiled to herself, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses as they slipped down the bridge of her nose. She stood in the center of the main atrium, a clipboard pressed against her beige trench coat, staring down a wooden shipping crate that was currently refusing to be opened.
She took a breath, letting her shoulders drop. It was always a delicate dance, this civilian life. In truth, she could have torn the wooden slats apart with her bare hands, effortlessly lifting the marble statue inside. But Diana Prince, the newly appointed museum director with a stellar PhD and a penchant for sensible heels, could not.
So, she picked up a metal crowbar, wedged it under the lid, and let out a perfectly normal, entirely human sigh of exertion as she leaned her weight into it.
She hadn’t been in National City long, but it was impossible to ignore the local phenomenon. Everywhere she looked, there were t-shirts, billboards, and endless chatter about the flying girl in the red skirt. Diana found the whole thing rather endearing. From what she had seen on the news, the heroine was impossibly earnest. A little unpolished, perhaps, but shining with a genuine, blinding sort of hope.
The wood of the crate splintered with a loud crack. Diana pulled the lid back, brushing a stray lock of dark hair out of her eyes, inadvertently leaving a smudge of dust across her cheek. She was just reaching for her flashlight when a shadow passed over the amber glow of the atrium floor.
It was entirely silent. A subtle shift in the moonlight pouring through the massive glass skylight above.
Diana paused, her hand hovering over the crate. She didn't reach for a weapon—she didn't need one—but her posture shifted. The slumped, tired museum director vanished, replaced by a stillness that was centuries old. Slowly, she tilted her chin upward.
Point of View: Supergirl
The air at three thousand feet was freezing, but Supergirl didn’t mind. It felt clean.
She drifted lazily over the glittering grid of National City, her cape rippling softly in the updraft. It was a quiet night. No bank robberies, no runaway trains, no alien tech blowing up downtown. Just the hum of traffic and the distant barking of dogs.
"Hey," Alex’s voice crackled softly in her right ear, sounding tired but affectionate. "DEO scanners are quiet. You can probably wrap up patrol. Oh, actually—do a quick flyby of the Antiquities Museum on your way back. They got a massive shipment of Greek artifacts in today. High insurance value. CatCo’s been hyping it up all week, so I don't want any art thieves getting cute."
"On it," Supergirl whispered into the cold air.
She shifted her trajectory, angling her body downward. The museum was a beautiful, classical building nestled between modern glass skyscrapers. She touched down on the sloped roof with the grace of a falling feather, her red boots making zero sound against the copper paneling.
She crept toward the massive, arched skylight that looked down into the main atrium. Just a quick x-ray scan to make sure no one is lurking in the shadows, she thought.
Instead, she saw her.
Supergirl froze.
The woman down there was bathed in the warm, golden light of the museum. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, albeit dusty, beige coat. Dark hair was pinned up in a messy, elegant twist, and a pair of glasses sat slightly askew on a remarkably striking face. She was holding a crowbar.
Supergirl felt a strange, sudden flutter in her chest. She had read the CatCo brief earlier—Diana Prince, the new, reclusive Director of Antiquities. The article had called her 'formidable.' Cat Grant had called her 'the only person in this city with decent taste in outerwear.'
Looking at her now, Supergirl just thought she looked... mesmerizing.
There was something about the way the woman stood. So grounded. So completely in command of the empty room. Supergirl leaned forward, resting her hands on the glass to get a better look, completely captivated by the way the woman brushed a lock of hair from her face, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek.
Supergirl smiled. It was a fond, silly little smile. She leaned just an inch closer.
And then, her breath fogged the glass.
Oh, shoot. Supergirl panicked. She hastily raised her hand, clad in the blue sleeve of her suit, and frantically tried to wipe the condensation off the skylight to see clearly again.
But the glass was damp from the evening mist. And as she shifted her weight, the sole of her red boot slipped on the wet metal framing.
SQUEEEAAAK.
The sound of wet rubber against metal echoed like a gunshot in the quiet night.
Supergirl gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She looked down.
Through the clear streak she had just wiped on the glass, a pair of deep, impossibly dark eyes were looking straight up at her.
Time seemed to grind to a halt. Supergirl could hear her own heartbeat hammering in her ears—thud-thud, thud-thud. The museum director wasn't screaming. She wasn't running. She was simply staring up through the glass, her lips parted slightly in surprise, the crowbar loose in her grip.
The eye contact held for one second. Then two. It felt heavy. Anchoring. Supergirl felt her cheeks burn with the heat of a thousand suns. The great protector of National City, the Girl of Steel, reduced to a peeping tom slipping on a wet roof.
Do something, her brain screamed. Be cool!
Supergirl swallowed hard. A deeply embarrassed, sheepish smile broke across her face. Slowly, agonizingly awkwardly, she raised one hand and gave a small, timid wave.
The woman down below blinked. And then, the corner of her mouth twitched upwards into the faintest, most devastatingly beautiful smile.
Supergirl’s brain short-circuited. She pushed off the glass to fly away, putting entirely too much force into her legs in her panic. She shot straight up like a rocket—
CLANG.
Her shoulder clipped the decorative bronze weather vane on the roof's peak. It spun wildly, squealing in protest, as Supergirl tumbled clumsily into the night sky, her cheeks burning crimson, leaving the museum director standing alone in the golden light.