[Danvers Family Home, Midvale — July 2017, 6:23 PM]
The house smelled like home.
Not Mon-El's home—he had no equivalent memory to draw on—but the platonic ideal of home. Warm bread, roasting meat, the indefinable comfort of a space that had held love for decades. The Danvers family home was everything his childhood quarters on Daxam hadn't been: small, cluttered, filled with photographs and handmade decorations and evidence of lives lived fully.
Eliza met them at the door, her face bright with the particular joy of a mother welcoming guests to her table.
"Kara, you're too thin. Mon-El, you're taller than I expected." She hugged them both with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent years managing alien children. "Dinner's almost ready. Jeremiah's in the living room."
The living room was a masterpiece of suburban Americana. Family photos covered every available surface—Kara and Alex at various ages, Jeremiah and Eliza on their wedding day, candid shots of holidays and birthdays and ordinary moments that had become precious through their accumulation.
Jeremiah rose from the couch as they entered, his smile warm and welcoming.
"Mon-El. Good to see you again." He extended his hand. "I've been wanting to talk to you properly since I got back."
Mon-El shook the offered hand, noting the strength in Jeremiah's grip. "Likewise."
"Alex tells me you were instrumental during the Medusa crisis. Saved a lot of lives at considerable risk to your own."
"I did what needed to be done."
"Modest too." Jeremiah's eyes crinkled. "Kara chose well."
The words were perfectly normal. The delivery was flawless. But something in the way Jeremiah said "Medusa crisis" set off alarm bells—a specificity that suggested knowledge beyond what he should have.
Mon-El filed it away. Added it to the growing list.
---
Dinner was extraordinary.
Eliza had pulled out every culinary weapon in her arsenal—roast chicken, homemade stuffing, vegetables from her garden, fresh bread that steamed when you tore it open. The conversation flowed easily, touching on safe topics: Kara's work at CatCo, Alex's recent promotions, the peculiarities of National City weather.
Mon-El ate steadily, contributing just enough to seem engaged while his attention stayed fixed on Jeremiah.
The man was good. Genuinely good—his stories of captivity were vague enough to avoid detailed questions, his joy at reunion convincing enough to deflect suspicion. He asked about the years he'd missed with the curiosity of someone actually wanting to know, laughed at the right moments, grew serious when appropriate.
If Mon-El hadn't known better, he'd have been completely convinced.
But he did know better. And the more he watched, the more he noticed.
Jeremiah knew too much about recent events. Details that hadn't made the news, specifics that shouldn't have filtered down to a Cadmus prisoner. He covered it well—attributing knowledge to "overhearing guards" or "piecing things together from fragments"—but the pattern was there.
He also watched Mon-El with a intensity that felt deliberate. Every time their eyes met, something flickered in Jeremiah's expression—assessment, maybe, or recognition of a fellow player.
"Let me help with those."
Mon-El gathered plates and followed Eliza into the kitchen, leaving Kara and Alex to interrogate their father about his favorite TV shows.
"Thank you for coming tonight," Eliza said as they loaded the dishwasher. "It means a lot to the girls. To all of us."
"I wouldn't miss it."
"Kara says you've been worried about her." Eliza's voice was carefully casual. "With the Daxamite situation."
"It's been tense."
"I can imagine." She handed him a serving dish. "You know, when Kara first came to us, Jeremiah was the one who helped her most. He understood what it meant to be different, to carry secrets. He taught her that being alien didn't mean being alone."
"He sounds like a remarkable man."
"He is." Eliza paused, something shifting in her expression. "Was. I keep forgetting—it's been so long. He says he hasn't changed, but..." She trailed off.
"But?"
"Fourteen years is a long time. People change even in normal circumstances. What he went through..." She shook her head. "Sometimes I look at him and see the man I married. Other times, there's something in his eyes that I don't recognize."
Mon-El's attention sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing specific. Just... moments. Little things that don't quite fit." She laughed self-consciously. "I'm probably imagining it. The shock of having him back, processing everything that's happened."
"Probably," Mon-El agreed. But his mind was racing.
Eliza had noticed something. Not enough to articulate, not enough to challenge—but something. The instinct of someone who'd known Jeremiah intimately for decades picking up on inconsistencies that others would miss.
He filed that away too.
---
The backyard was quiet.
Mon-El had excused himself after dessert—the pie had been extraordinary, and he'd told Eliza so, watching her beam at the compliment—claiming he needed fresh air. The real reason was tactical: separate himself from the group, see if anyone followed.
He didn't wait long.
"You're watching me."
Jeremiah appeared from the darkness of the house, his silhouette framed by the kitchen light behind him. He moved quietly for a man his size—another detail that didn't quite fit the profile of a long-term prisoner.
Mon-El didn't flinch. "I'm cautious."
"About me specifically?"
"About everything. It's how I've survived."
Jeremiah crossed the lawn, stopped a few feet away. The light from the windows cast strange shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read.
"Cadmus told me about you," he said quietly. "The Daxamite prince who defected. Who chose Earth over his own people." He studied Mon-El. "They were very interested in your... unique abilities."
"I'm sure they were."
"They wanted me to assess you. Report back on your strengths, your weaknesses, your relationship with Kara." Jeremiah's voice was flat. "They have plans for this family. Plans that involve me."
Mon-El's hand moved toward his pocket, toward the concealed communicator that could summon backup in seconds.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm not what they think I am." Jeremiah's eyes met his, and for the first time, Mon-El saw something genuine there—pain, maybe, or determination. "They broke me, Mon-El. Rebuilt me. Put things in my head that I can't always control. But they didn't destroy everything."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I love my daughters. I love my wife. And whatever Cadmus programmed me to do—" His voice cracked. "I'm going to fight it. For as long as I can."
"That's not very reassuring."
"It's not meant to be." Jeremiah stepped closer. "I'm telling you because you're the only one who's suspicious. The only one watching. And when I fail—when the programming takes over—I need someone to protect them."
"You think I can stop you?"
"I think you'll try." Jeremiah gripped his shoulder—the gesture achingly similar to Lar Gand's, fathers passing warnings to the next generation. "Protect my girls. Whatever it takes."
Mon-El held his gaze. "I will."
"Good." Jeremiah released him, stepped back. Something shifted in his expression—the moment of vulnerability closing, the mask sliding back into place. "They're probably wondering where we went. We should head back."
"Jeremiah—"
"Don't." The word was sharp. "Don't tell them. Not yet. Let them have this time. Let them believe, even if it's temporary." His voice softened. "They've earned that much."
He walked back toward the house, leaving Mon-El alone in the darkness.
The stars above were the same ones that had watched over Daxam, over Krypton, over every world that had risen and fallen in the vast indifference of the cosmos. Mon-El stared at them, processing what he'd just learned.
Jeremiah was compromised. He knew he was compromised. And he was asking Mon-El to be ready for the moment when his programming won.
It was almost worse than simple betrayal. A man fighting against his own broken mind, knowing he would eventually lose, begging someone to protect the people he loved from himself.
Mon-El had come here looking for evidence. He'd found something more complicated—a tragedy in slow motion, playing out against the backdrop of a family's desperate hope.
---
The drive back to National City was quiet.
Kara talked about her father—stories from her childhood, memories she'd thought lost, the joy of having him home. Her voice was light, happy, full of the peace that came from believing things could finally be normal.
Mon-El held her hand and said nothing.
He thought about Jeremiah's warning. About the programming he was fighting. About the inevitable moment when love wouldn't be enough to override what Cadmus had built.
He thought about his own father, somewhere in orbit, trying to restrain a queen who wouldn't be restrained. About the impossible positions they'd all been forced into—sons watching fathers struggle against forces too strong to defeat.
"Hey." Kara's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're somewhere else."
"Just tired." He squeezed her hand. "It was a lot."
"A good lot, though." She smiled. "Family together again. Dad home. Things finally going right."
"Yeah." He managed a smile of his own. "Things going right."
The city lights grew closer, the familiar skyline of National City rising against the dark. Behind them, Midvale receded—a small town, a small house, a family clinging to hope.
Mon-El had given Jeremiah his word. He would protect the Danvers girls.
Whatever it took.
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