Chapter 7: For Better Or Worse (In Sickness...)

Chapter 7: For Better or Worse (In Sickness...)

06/06/2020:

Journal,

I saved for months to get front-row tickets to his V51 event; I'd planned to finally say something to him, though I don't know what. I just wanted... to see him. To feel the brush of his cape as he turned to go. He'd been staring into the cameras, though, never looked at the audience - but as much as that hurt, I understood. I hadn't wanted to look at the audience, either; the way they clamored for photos, begged for autographs when it was nearing midnight, and he must be busy tomorrow. He couldn't have known that somewhere in that crowd, was someone who at least tries to see. Tries to understand. Someone who also comes home to a lonely house - one that, for all my decorating, I can't seem to make less empty. 

I read up on his time with  Maeve, just to see, to imagine what it might be like to date him... it was hours of work; someone had wanted to keep it hidden. But I finally found an article, where Maeve had discussed it herself. The interviewer had asked her to summarize her relationship with Homelander in one word. She'd said "overwhelming".

I was angry. I was so, so, unbelievably angry - because I would do anything to be smothered, anything to be overwhelmed. To be loved so totally that there isn't room for anything else. I thought to myself - how could she appreciate that kind of love, when she had no idea what it took for someone to offer it? I love like I want to devour, to be devoured. And that day, I knew that he felt the same. 

Homelander... I want that kind of love. It's not too much for me. I want you to wrap me in it, subsume me. Hold me by the waist, kiss me, then drag me into your abyss. 

Hold me close, until I can't tell which heartbeat is mine, and which is yours.

Noir hung upside down from the rope in the center of his room, feeling the blood pool in his skull. He couldn't take off the mask to smoke, or drink - not that he'd cared for such vices - and so, in light of a particularly stressful meeting, he'd found his own alternative. Everyone in the Seven had a vice, he supposed. Everyone had their demons.

As he closed the woman's journal Stan had given him, he took a deep inhale, exhaling slowly. This... was worse than he'd thought. When he'd first been tasked to investigate the woman, he'd set off earnestly, hearing Sage and Maeve's plans of tailing Homelander and realizing that this developing romance had gotten out of hand. It was good that all of them were aware to the danger this union could bring. It almost felt like teamwork.

But as he'd spied, creeping into her apartment at night, he'd gotten a horrible feeling. Immediately, upon entering, he was struck with the force of the temperature. The entire place was sweltering, the very air shimmering with the heat. He'd actually had to pull off his mask for a moment, and rinse his face, before carrying on.  The way the apartment was decorated, firstly, filled him with a deep sense of foreboding, of unease. It was saccharine in its sweetness - an armoire full of porcelain figurines, flanked by two antique-looking lamps. A pastel floral wallpaper with vintage-looking teddy bears, pasted in the living room. A large glass table which held more figurines, old cards, a stack of magazines that all featured Homelander, another framed photo of him on the wall. A bearskin rug lay underneath the table, the eyes vacant and unseeing. Noir had sniffed, recoiling in disgust. It had been real. And the couch... that couch... Noir remembered looking at it, feeling an inescapable pull to rest in its embrace -  and, upon doing so, feeling like it was pulling him into its downy recesses, never to return. He gave a rare shudder.

What really interested him, though, was the small space behind the bookshelf in her bedroom. He'd been looking for more articles to take to Vought, possibly something with her DNA, when he'd moved the shelf, expecting a lip gloss - and finding a hollowed out space in the wall, where she'd set up a shrine.

Candles, articles - even a piece of old, hardened gum in a jar labelled "His", in deliberate print. And, of course, the pictures. So, so, many pictures. He looked through them, a vague sense of horror crawling under his skin, trying to piece together who she was, really - when he'd seen the most disturbing piece of her collection: a candid photo of Homelander, poised for flight, his cape billowing, and his head pointed high.

But he wasn't truly worried. Homelander and this girl... it would all be a disaster. But that was because she and Homelander were disasters, and there was no way for them to be anything else. Maybe, he considered dryly, it was fate that they met. Noir remembered watching John grow, from that spindly boy in the hospital gown, into the creature he was now. It had been like watching a supernovae; one bright flash, the hurling of all that molten rock and gas through space... and then the settling in of biting, unrelenting cold. If he never met her... Noir couldn't imagine things going any differently.

Sliding quickly into an upright position, he wobbled on his feet, watching the room around him warp and swirl, the hint of nausea in his gut making him hold a hand to his mouth. He waited for a moment, then uncapped the water bottle he'd placed on the desk nearby, pulling the water through the straw and his mask, taking a deep swig. Finally, he let out an inaudible sigh. 

Today would be a long day.

Homelander raced down the halls, his feet pointed to add a boost of speed as he flew, zipping past Vought personnel and ducking around groups of people. He had plans to meet her today, and he would not be late. She was going to cook him dinner, she'd said, the thought making him zoom faster. His mouth watered; he hadn't eaten since she'd given him the news, but he liked the way the hunger sharpened his focus, turned him into an icy dagger.

Breaking free of the doors of Vought, he skidded to a stop, landing lightly on his feet, considering the past few days with a smile that was almost serene. He'd been so ready to give up on them during their coffee date, he chastised himself, shaking his head. But she'd shown him, hadn't she? Shown that she was honest, that she understood. At least... he thought she might. He could never be too sure. Madelyn had seemed to understand, too. 

Pushing the thought of her from his mind, Homelander stepped into the florist's shop, a grin blooming on his face. He'd indulge her, for now, though he expected - no, deserved - some further proof soon, that she was exactly who she professed to be.

The woman stirred the white sauce she was making with a soft look in her eye, bringing the spoon to her lips to taste. Oldies music played smoothly in the background, and she hummed along, imagining the feel of Homelander behind her, turning to offer him the spoon. One day, it really might be like that - him, coming home to her, sweeping her into his arms, the tail of his cape enveloping her. She thought back to the kiss they'd shared, a grin lighting up her face. The way he'd held her... 

Too many times, other people had told her that her love was too much, that she was too much. They couldn't bear the weight of her embrace, and so they'd pushed her away each time she'd offered. She was on the verge of believing that there was no-one alive that matched her intensity, wanted that same intensity given back to them. He hadn't been interested in the façade she offered to everyone else, she considered. But was it really true? She wanted so badly to believe that it was, that she could present to him that dream of subsumption, and he'd accept - no, reciprocate.

"Oh, Homelander... I've just been hurt so many times," she sighed, taking the ground beef out of the oven and the sauce into the meat. She seasoned liberally, adding a dollop more of cream, before tasting again, a soft, satisfied sigh leaving her. The dinner was hearty, and cozy - solid; everything she'd wanted, everything she hoped to give him. She hoped he'd understand.

A knock on the door startled her, and she leapt for the door, a grin splitting her face. She checked her makeup in the mirror quickly, and looked around to make sure everything was just right; she'd switched out a few of the bulbs in her lamps for soft pink ones, and dropped a few leather and vanilla melts into her wax warmer, filling the air with a thick, rich scent. She'd adorned herself with a hint of perfume - the Yves Saint Laurent she saved for special occasions - on her neck, her breasts, her inner thighs. Tonight was the night, she'd decided when she'd told him about her plans. 

Taking a deep breath, she swept open the door, looking up into what should have been Homelander's face - but instead, she stared into a bouquet of roses so large they blocked out the outside. She gasped, pulling him in. "Oh, my goodness! Homelander!" She gently took the roses from him, inhaling deeply, satisfied to find a trace of his scent among the petals. She placed them into the vase on the table. "These are beautiful," she murmured, looking up at him, and taking him into a gentle kiss.

He pulled her in immediately, lifting her off her feet and pressing into her, the shift of their bodies guiding them to the couch. She relaxed onto its pillowy surface, pulling him on top of her and gasping when he pressed his lips to the shelf of her jaw. Lips parted, she sighed out contentedly as his hands roamed her body, squeezing, pulling her. Needing her. She explored his body in turn, drawing him closer with her arms, the brush of her thighs against his waist making him shudder.

Finally, they pulled apart, a dopey smile on each of their faces. "Hi," Homelander greeted her, the tip of his nose glowing a faint pink. She kissed the spot, her answering greeting just as shy. "Hi," she breathed, ending in a soft laugh.

Reluctantly, they moved off of the couch, though a spark of hunger still lingered in the air; Homelander raked his eyes over her, the feline curve of her spine, the shelf of her collarbone. She breezed over to the kitchen, ladling their dinner into bowls, a large mixing bowl for Homelander, a smaller one for herself. "I hope you're hungry!" she called. Homelander grinned.

You have no clue, he thought, rising to meet her.

Joining the woman in the kitchen was like stepping into another world, Homelander marveled. She'd carried that same warmth from the living room here, the frilly decorative towels and fluffy coasters making him feel... fuzzy. He'd gotten better about being angry at her for inspiring these feelings as of late; he still felt the unease, that this was somehow a cruel trick - like she might be some Vought honeypot cooked up by Stan to get him to comply. But he'd found out everything about her; she'd never set foot in Vought until he brought her. She worked at the office downtown. Despite the violent churning in his brain that told him not to trust her, not to grow weak... he couldn't help but feed the belief that she just might care. 

But had she made him weak? It certainly had felt like it, in the beginning. But now... that the thought that this wasn't like the other times clung to him fiercely, like a sticky wrapper on a piece of candy. She really might just... want him.

She looked up at him then, brandishing a spoon, offering him a taste - and his body immediately lit up with an intensity that set his nerves singing, vibrating. Dinner, just as she'd promised him.

He opened his mouth, letting her guide the spoon to him, closing his eyes as the flavors danced on his tongue. 

Savory. Hearty. Indulgent. Rich.

Homelander moaned, the sound shocking his eyes open - but when he looked down at the woman, she was staring into him with a voracity that made his stomach seize. She caught her lip in between her teeth, before subtly licking her lips, eyes half drawn in a hypnotic gaze. "That good, huh?" she asked him softly. He nodded, flexing his hands. 

But they'd have to eat; Homelander's stomach grumbled, and she laughed in response, patting his stomach gently. "Alright, alright! I'll get on it," she told it teasingly, setting their plates on the living room table with Homelander close behind. They sunk into the couch, letting a show run in the background as they ate.

"What did you do today?" she asked him. Homelander thought, brow furrowed as he finished his bite. "You know what? I think was actually on autopilot until I came here," he said. "I feel the same way," she said, scooping a bite into her mouth. "I woke up, got the ingredients for our dinner, then went to work... and I couldn't tell you a single thing I did." They laughed together.

"This is delicious, by the way," Homelander mumbled around a bite of pasta and ground beef. "Family recipe?" 

A tinge of pain flitted across her eyes - nearly too quick for him to notice. "No," she said, "I made this one myself, actually! I'd been experimenting with recipes I already liked, then I added truffle one day, and it finally clicked."

Tell me why that made you sad, Homelander urged. Tell me who hurt you.

"My little chef," he said instead, pressing a kiss to her forehead, purring when she melted against him.

It was too perfect, the both of them eating this cozy meal, in this dollhouse replica. Things were easy, Homelander thought, as long as they kept the mask on. But then, what was he doing here, if he was only going to pretend, and let her pretend? Pretend that they weren't lonely, pretend that there wasn't a darkness festering - at least, within him. Maybe she did share that darkness... but as long as she played the perfect girl, he'd never know. This couldn't go on. Homelander sat up straight, his eyes now sharper as he looked at her.

"I lied. Just now. I do remember what I did today." he faced her, daring (begging) her to meet his gaze. She did, and did not waver.

"I flew to China... and set fire to a rival company's manufacturing plant. I burned it to the ground. There were a total of 200 casualties."

A beat of silence passed as she looked into him, her gaze unflinching. Any moment now, he thought, would come the rejection, the horror. He'd torn them to pieces, just as he'd tear her apart for rejecting him after promising so much...

She cocked her head. "Why?" she asked simply, confusion coloring her tone. Homelander started. "What?" "Why... do it? Is Vought struggling? Were you under orders?"

Homelander struggled to process her question, so abruptly had it brought him up short. She was asking him why. Not running in fear, or begging for her life - but asking why he'd done it, as if she were asking if he'd like to go out for dinner. Homelander opened his mouth, then closed it.

"I..." Why had he done it? Some need to prove his godhood, his usefulness to Stan? Homelander grit his teeth. Even if it were true, he wouldn't tell her that. But the question bared answering; that was only fair. He'd confronted her with it - and she'd called his bluff.

"Because it needed to be done," he'd answered finally. There. That was true enough, he thought, a little irritated by the way she'd put him on the spot... but secretly relieved all the same. She resumed her dinner, a curious hint of amusement in her eyes.

You big silly, she thought, wanting to kiss him. You don't scare me.

"Then... I guess it was a good day for Vought," she said cheekily. Homelander narrowed his eyes.

"That doesn't bother you? I razed a building to the ground, with innocent people inside... and you're joking?" She set down her bowl and looked him fully in the face now, levity gone from her eyes. 

"Everyone has to die sometime," she murmured. Homelander gave a low growl.

"But - not like that! That... why are you okay with this?! Why are you okay with..." with me?

She leaned in, as though she'd heard the unfinished plea, and pressed a kiss, achingly slow, to the tip of his nose, looking back at him with that impossibly warm expression.

"Because... you'd said... it needed to be done. I believe you."

 A moment of disbelief, the Sword of Damocles hanging sharp in the air above them - and then he was kissing her, pulling her by the hips again, pulling her on top of him and pressing enough that he could feel the faint twinge of her heart against him. She felt it, too, moaned loud in his ear, kissing him breathless and coming up ragged for air. She kissed him like she wanted to make her home in between his ribs, merge into him completely; she wrapped her arms around him, gasping in the scent of him, feeling that perfect blanketing of her body when he flipped her onto her back, wrapped her in the cocoon of his cape. 

He pressed into her, insistent and hot, desire drawn all over his face, and she licked a slow stripe up his neck before taking him into another, slower kiss, melting into his touch, pressing herself into him at every point.

Homelander was murmuring into her skin, reverent snatches of words she felt rather than heard, each one binding something that had been broken inside her. He stitched her together on that couch - and suddenly, she knew what she had to do, to stitch him up in turn.

Lightly, she pushed him off of her, gathering her breath, her heart suddenly jittery in her chest. She hadn't wanted to do this - wanted to keep kissing, doing more - but he'd been honest with her tonight, done his part; now it was her turn.

"I want to show you something," she whispered, fear coloring her tone. Homelander's brow furrowed. 

This was it, then. She'd go into the other room, reveal that she'd been recording all along, that all the news stations would be reporting of his overseas massacre - and he'd have nothing left to lose. A vision of him, soaring through the sky and raining hell down on the city, flashed through his mind... and Homelander felt at peace. This was inevitable, he thought, letting her lead him away from the couch, and into her bedroom. It had been nice while it lasted.

He leaned down, to press one last kiss to her lips, as she opened the door. "Sorry for the mess," she apologized weakly. Homelander looked up, and gasped.

The room... was impossibly cozy. There was a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, casting a rosy glow over the room, and pink and cream candles adorned the bookshelf and sewing desk. A dramatic coral canopy hung above her bed, and he flexed his fingers at the sight of the sheets, the duvet. Even from here, he could tell - it was real silk. A framed print hung above her desk, a zoomed in segment of the Creation of Adam, focused solely on their hands. She had painted over it; instead of empty space, the fingers now touched.

"This... is beautiful," Homelander murmured despite himself. The woman flushed. "Thank you! I've been decorating for years, it seems." Her face turned somber, a note of apprehension in her eyes.

"But... that's not what all I wanted to show you," she whispered. Homelander flicked his gaze over to her at the sound of unshed tears in her voice, and he suddenly felt the sense that this revelation would be something not even he had expected.

"Homelander..." she breathed. He took a step closer, eyes searching. "What is it?" he murmured, drawing her face to meet his with the tip of his finger. She took a deep inhale.

"All my life... people have called me... intense. Overwhelming. Suffocating. And for so long, I felt like there was nobody who would accept me, as I am. But that changed... when I met you. Oh, Homelander..." he kissed her, quickly, pulling away with an urgency in his eyes that froze her.

"What are you saying?" he whispered. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "If you're disgusted... if you... if you want to pull away from me..." she choked back a sob, "I'll understand."

The couple stared at each other, hearts racing. She looked up at him again, fear and resignation draining the color of her face. In the flickering candlelight, she looked like a tragic painting, all shiny eyes and swollen lips. Homelander fought the urge to kiss her tears away.

"I want you... to move the bookshelf." she said it like she wished she hadn't, wished she could snatch the words back... but it was too late, the air tinged with their weight.

Homelander shifted his gaze to the oak shelf, curled ornately at the top, a frilly doily draped across it. He peered inside at the miniature figurines inside, these more sensual than the idyllic ones in the living room. Two figures lay on their side, tangled in a heated embrace. Another set depicted a couple, engaged in the act of undressing each other. A book stood proudly on the top shelf, clearly thumbed through, a leather Kamasutra. Homelander raised a brow, but moved on, lifting the shelf, listening to the anxious racket of her heart as she watched him, eyes wide.

Leaning down, Homelander felt all the air escape his body in a sharp exhale as he took in the scene before him, kneeling to peer at eye level. Behind him, the woman tried to muffle the sound of her tears.

She'd built a shrine to him.

Homelander looked closely, plucking the small booklet of articles she'd handbound imperfectly, feeling the ripples of the leather cover. He thought back to their coffee date, and his heart seized. She'd wanted to tell him, all along. 

Flipping through, his heart racing, he saw every gesture, every kiss, every moment she'd professed her devotion... all proven to be true. The first article was dated to 2012. He'd been 24, young, lost. Alone, with Mirror John as his only confidant. He'd left the Bad Room behind, left Vogelbaum behind... but the emptiness still lingered. Vought had just proposed the idea of a league of heroes, and he'd been excited - only to have it all dashed upon meeting them. His lip curled at the memory.

But she'd been watching... saving these moments, revisiting them, this whole time. He looked up, saw the jar of what could only be gum that he'd chewed, and felt a sense of wholeness so complete that it nearly rocked him. He rose to his feet, resolute, and turned to face her.

Tears rolled down her face, the apples of her cheeks hot as she tried her best to keep from crying out. Homelander closed the distance between them, and held her in his arms, lifted them off the ground, and onto the bed, the duvet whispering against her back. He looked down at her, the coldness that had lurked before cracking open, revealing the breaking of dawn in his eyes.

 "You don't ever... have to hide from me," he whispered. "You will never... be too much for me." And leaning down again, he took her into a kiss, melding into her once more.

In the haze of their tearful union the couple kissed, the salt of her tears lingering on his tongue, the shuddering of his breaths rocking her body. Above them, Vought's hidden camera watched on, nestled securely in the corner of her ceiling, beneath the drywall.

bloody mary! boo

This too shall pass but like holy fuck

Guys, I have something else to post

Would you or would you not be interested in reading some personal blurbs/poetry I cooked up? It's a lil dark, but I figure if you're reading my Homelander fic, maybe you won't be too put off?

I also want to know what pieces you all like - currently, I'm stuck on "Prayer for the Recently Damned"!

the way I’ve been surgically attached to your HL fic ever since you started posting has actually given me the nerve to start writing one of my own HL fic ideas ahh 😳😳

— Lisa (Crethida) 👁️

This is so good to hear, omg! Please, please, please start writing it. I will be looking out!!

Chapter 9: Hey Jude

Summary:

Go Go Seven Therapy Session!!

Notes:

it's not filler!! It's a character study!! Shut up!!

The Seven sat in a circle on the floor facing each other, the therapist of the session sitting in a chair behind them, notepad in hand. She looked around, ensuring that they were all present. Deep was picking at a scab on the back of his hand, while A-Train was staring longingly out the window, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of a blimp that flew by, his face plastered on the side. Maeve sat with her knees up, looking sourly at Sage, while Sage stared coolly back, eyes betraying nothing. Noir sat silently, a notepad of his own in his hand. Starlight sat, prim and proper, legs folded neatly and her hands in her lap, the picture of compliance. Firecracker placed a hand on Deep's arm, tutting at him to stop picking. Homelander (and the woman, A-Train noted with an eyeroll) sat at eye-level with the therapist, Homelander floating above the the rest with her settled in his lap. She'd cooed when he'd done it, as if she was impressed, A-Train thought in disgust. So they were letting groupies into the Tower now... this place had gone downhill, in a major way.

The therapist peered down at the group from beneath her bifocals and cleared her throat. "Alright, everyone. Thank you for all making the effort to attend this session. I understand that it isn't easy to take this first step, but you're all here - and I'm grateful for the time you're giving me. It's not just that I'm giving you my time, to listen - but that you're giving me yours, to be heard." The Seven shifted, uncomfortable with the sentiment. Deep looked around, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. "No problem, Ma'am. I woke up, totally prepared to bail on this, but then I thought," he snarked, putting on an expression of mock thoughtfulness, clenching a fist, "Stan is forcing me to be here. I can't miss it."

Instantly, the group erupted into mocking laughter, even Homelander, Deep noted with pride, the quiet sound of their derision filling up the room. The therapist nodded, nonplussed, though her eyes now carried a faint sharpness that wasn't there before. "Thank you, Kevin. I notice that you often keep to yourself, unless there's an opportunity to play the comedian. Do you think that this act of defiance endears you to the group, or serves to boost your self-esteem in some way? Your friends laugh now... but does that ever stop them from making light of your bond with your octopus friend?"

Instantly, the room hushed. Deep sputtered, face growing red. "That's - that - I..." The therapist looked him over, eyebrow raised faintly, before writing something in her notepad and looking the group over once more. "I'd like for us all to treat this session with the seriousness it deserves - the seriousness you all deserve. I get paid either way. Whether or not you show up genuinely doesn't impact me... it only hurts you." That being said, the group looked around, vaguely unsettled at the therapist's stand, almost chagrined. The therapist sat up straighter. "With that being said, I'd like for us all to go around the circle, introducing ourselves. My name... is Dr. Therese Rangel. I'm a double board certified clinical psychologist, and my scope of work includes those who struggle with complex trauma, psychological disorders, drug dependency, and especially the unique struggles of the Super Abled grappling with fame. In short, I was specifically chosen to work this case due to this skillset - and I'd like to let you all know that there is nothing you can tell me that will shock me, or disgust me, or frighten me. I've worked with Supes for a very, very long time." She gestured to the rest of the group, giving them the floor.

Starlight looked around, sensing the direction this meeting would go. They'd tried insolence - but Rangel had shut that down right away. It was clear what they were planning next - waiting her out until the 45 minutes were over, then leaving victorious. But as she caught the conspiratorial looks in her teammates' eyes, she couldn't help the wave of frustration that overtook her. The Seven was a mess; they were nothing like the heroes she'd fantasized about fighting alongside in Des Moines... it had been three months since she made that fateful walk into the Tower - and they'd instantly disappointed. On her first day, she recalled bitterly, Deep had snuck an anglerfish in her tub, A-Train had snagged her order from the café three times before she could grab it, and Firecracker had snuck up behind her, snapping and scaring her with the loud pop of fire in her ears. Sage had talked down to her for thirty minutes about her itinerary, cutting her off when she'd tried to explain that she knew what it was, and when she'd finally broken down in the bathroom, Maeve had offered her a wadded up ball of tissue, before telling her that this soft attitude would only have her back on the first plane to Iowa before she could say press junket. And Homelander... the thought made her lower her head. Homelander had ignored her all week, until she'd managed to complete her first real save, to which he gave her a curt, "Good work, newbie," smirking when she lit up at the first positive attention she'd received since arriving. She took a deep breath, ignoring A-Train's eye roll.

"My name... is Annie January. I'm from Des Moines, Iowa, and I joined the Seven three months ago... because I wanted... I wanted..." she stopped then, feeling the judgmental looks of her teammates. Dr. Rangel waved her on gently. "You wanted..." Starlight felt herself shrink under the Seven's scrutiny, but she nodded and pressed on.

"I wanted... to help people," she said, voice stronger now. From the corner of her eye, she watched Maeve stiffen. "I wanted... to do something about the state of the city, the world. Before The Seven... all I could do was stop drunk drivers in Des Moines, and practice my lines for those stupid pageants... but I couldn't even stop a cop from beating up on a homeless person, or save a girl who I knew was being trafficked. I felt this... disgust, for myself, for other Supes, for just watching, and doing nothing. And so, when I got the chance... I was actually grateful to be here. To be able to make a difference. But now..." she sighed, eyes downcast. Maeve broke into a slow round of applause, eyes venomous. 

"Everyone, give Annie a hand! Even in therapy, she finds a way to make her intro about how shitty we all are..." the rest of the Seven joined in, A-Train clapping Deep on the back and snickering as Starlight's face fell. Dr. Rangel leaned in, eyes hawkish under her impassive gaze.

"And why does that upset you, Maeve? That Annie came to The Seven with the goal of changing things for the better? I didn't hear her say that she thought less of any of you - just that her goal was to help."

Maeve froze slightly, eyes trained on Dr. Rangel. "She didn't need to say she looked down on us - we can all feel it, all the time. Going on saves with her is miserable. She won't just go by the script; she has to pull some wild card move, like when she held up traffic for an hour giving some boy CPR, or making us stay late at the opening of that animal shelter until twenty dogs had been adopted." Maeve turned to face Starlight with a withering look. "That was a kill shelter, by the way. You held us up for two hours, and 100 dogs got put down, anyway."

A-Train spoke up now, eyes somber. "Yeah... and she's always trying to preach at us when we do follow the script, like she knows something we don't. I've been in the Seven for five years - the shit that makes her cry herself to sleep? Isn't even a blip on the radar. And the thing that really pisses me off is, if you really wanted to be hero, you wouldn't have come to work here. You'd be in Congress, making the laws we have to follow. She's just as fame-hungry as the rest of us, but she won't admit it. No, not even that - she tries to shame us for it."

The Seven nodded their agreement, murmuring their distaste for Annie, until Dr. Rangel held up a hand. "Thank you, A-Train. I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge what was just said: that if Annie genuinely wanted to make a change, she'd take up a seat in Congress. And certainly, the thought has its merits. Lawmakers have the ultimate power in the land, to shape our standards for what is right in the eyes of the law, and to correct those who step outside of its bounds." Annie hung her head; so even Dr. Rangel was against her, now. She thought about flying back home before the next meeting, and avoiding her. 

"But... I'd like to introduce this point to the group. Annie could have worked her way into Congress - but she chose to train, and temper herself, into someone who could fight alongside those she deemed real heroes. I'd like to ask.. is your discontent with her truly out of anger for her sanctimonious attitude... or are you punishing her for believing in you?"

The group fell into a moody silence now, all avoiding each others' gazes. Dr. Rangel wrote in her notepad, the scratch of the pen soft in the tense room. The Seven shared bitter looks, some aimed at Annie, others aimed at each other. Finally, Deep raised his hand, avoiding their gazes, and looking at Rangel. He cleared his throat.

"My name... is Kevin Moskowitz. I'm from Long Beach, California, I've been in the Seven for five years...and... I talk to fish," he finished quietly, ducking his head. Dr. Rangel wrote for a second, then clicked her pen. "What kind of fish?" she asked him. The group snorted - but she held up her hand, gesturing for Deep to continue.

"Well... all of them. Angelfish, sugar fish, flounders, guppies.. sharks. Sharks are my favorite," Deep said bashfully. Firecracker gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand. "I'm actually really good friends with the ranchu goldfish at the front downstairs, even though they're a little stuck up." Rangel gave him a soft smile, and Deep answered with a shy one of his own. Then, she looked towards the rest of the group.

"You all find it very easy to bully Kevin, because his powers differ from yours. He doesn't have super-speed, he isn't the smartest person in the world..." Sage snorted. Dr. Rangel let the sound carry, and watched as the Seven turned their gaze on her, until she cleared her throat and looked away, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

"But, I see something deeper, if you'll mind the pun, in your collective disdain for him, something that I believe is symptomatic of an underlying issue. Could it be possible that you all treat Kevin with the same derision as you do Annie... because his powers suggest a certain empathy for living creatures? Kevin talks to these fish, forms bonds with them - something you all seem to struggle with, even with humans. Could it be... that you turn him into the butt of your jokes, because you resent his ability to care for life forms you deem to be beneath you?"

Suddenly, the group heard the scratching of another pen - Noir's. Everyone watched in quiet surprise as he wrote painstakingly, the movements of his pen slow and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath as he made his debut to the therapy session, and Deep's face flushed as he held up his pad. He'd drawn a school of fish, seven of them, childish smiles on their faces, and underneath, he'd written a short message:

Deep makes me feel heard. 

Starlight let out a small murmur, touched. Dr. Rangel nodded.

"I'm glad to hear that, Noir. I noticed that, though you are present in the events the Seven hosts, or are called to... you don't often have the opportunity to express yourself, or get your opinions across," she started. Sage gave her a dismissive look. "He can't talk," she said, deadpan. This time, though, nobody laughed. Deep bristled.

"That's not his fault," he interjected hotly. Starlight nodded, narrowing her eyes. Dr. Rangel turned to Sage now; Sage felt her stomach drop. She was too smart for therapy, she'd argued with Stan when he'd insisted that she join the rest of the Seven. It wouldn't work. And maybe that was the case... but Rangel wasn't going to let her sit on the sidelines, making her snarky little comments. No, she thought, annoyed, that was her job, wasn't it?

"I noticed that you've been quiet as well, Sage. I understand that you are the smartest human in the world - and so it would make sense that, to you, therapy would be as useless as... Deep, buying a snorkel, or A-Train taking a bus. You can solve your own issues by virtue of your own mind - and so why bother attending? But I have to say... this session offers you an opportunity to have something you might not otherwise get in normal circumstances."

"And what is that?" Sage asked dryly. Dr. Rangel smiled.

"The undivided attention of your teammates. I notice that you often feel the need to assert your position as smartest in the room... but this isn't new information to anyone in the Seven. Is this repetition a means of solidifying this idea in their heads... or yours?"

The room watched Sage grapple with this veiled barb, her face working as she tried to come up with a retort that would undercut the way Rangel had pierced her. Who the hell did she think she was? Sage narrowed her eyes, turning her attention onto the therapist.

"I think... that you are playing a dangerous game, trying to crack open the minds of people who could turn you into ground beef. Nobody cares that you're double board certified. Nobody cares about how many Supes you've worked with. We all know this is a just a mind game from Stan, trying to mold us into the perfect heroes, even though he's the reason most of us are the way we are." She couldn't help the outburst; the way this doctor was picking at her insides... it was like her brain was on red alert, instantly shutting down. This therapy session was for them - for Homelander, really, who was playing with the woman's hair, whispering in her ear and watching her giggle - not her.

The therapist nodded. "Again... there's the need to undermine my practice, my time working with other heroes. And I hope you'll forgive the observation... but you'd said that these heroes here could end my life violently, if they so choose. I won't disagree with you - but I will point out... you can't 'turn me into ground beef', as you'd said. There's a focus here, on the behaviors and supposed knowledge of the rest of the Seven, which implicitly ties you to them... while neglecting to examine yourself under that same critical lens. I wonder... could it be that you're intellectualizing this session in an attempt to subtly align yourself with your teammates, without actually having to state this goal directly?"

Sage stewed, watching as the Seven witnessed Rangel dig into her, blood boiling. She crossed her arms and held her peace, though she planned to go directly to Stan after this meeting and demand a new therapist. There was a hum of static energy in the room, everyone's eyes on her - and she broke the silence with a petulant, "Fuck you," under her breath, to which Homelander responded with a hearty laugh, breaking the tension. Dr. Rangel shifted her gaze to him. Homelander fixed her with a dark glare. 

"No," he said, a note of finality in his voice. Dr. Rangel raised her brows and opened her mouth, as though to press him anyway - but Maeve, seeing the tightening of his jaw, shot her hand into the air, stopping the train wreck before it could happen.

"My name is Maggie Shaw!" she exclaimed, slowly lowering her hand. The Seven turned to face her.

"I'm... Maggie Shaw...I'm from Modesto, California. I joined the Seven five years ago, like everyone else. Skill set... super strength, durability,  hearing, tolerance - and shut up," she interjected, glaring at Homelander's teasing look. "That's low-hanging fruit." She steadied herself, before continuing.

"My name is Maggie Shaw, and I..." 

But the words wouldn't come; Maeve wrestled with her brain, trying to find something that would cut to the heart of them, but avoid exposing herself - something that would affect them the way Noir had, with that stupid drawing... she felt a pang of envy for the mute Supe then; he could be as open and mushy as he wanted, and nobody ever gave him shit. Maybe it was because he just didn't care what they thought. Maybe it was his silent aura of menace. Maeve grimaced, sighed, and lifted her head, staring Dr. Rangel in the eye.

"I think therapy is a waste of the taxpayer's money."

Homelander laughed again. "Hear, hear!" he saluted her.

Dr. Rangel let his teasing go on uninterrupted, Maeve noted gratefully. As much as the therapist annoyed her, she really would hate to clean her off the ceiling after she'd pushed Homelander one time too many. Dr. Rangel paused, and wrote for a long while, letting Maggie's words reverberate. Maeve shifted, uncomfortable, the sound crawling under her skin. Finally, Rangel stopped writing and looked up, a smile on her face.

"And what would you have the taxpayers' money be delegated to?"

Ooh, get her ass, A-Train thought, leaning in. But before Maeve could answer, a buzzer rang out above them, the red light hung over the door blaring brightly. Dr. Rangel stood, and gave the Seven a polite bow.  "Well... that's our time, I suppose," she said, gathering her bag. "Our next session will be next week, at the same time, same location. I'd like to thank you all, for attending, and I hope to see you again."

Slowly, the Seven rose to their feet and filed out the door. Starlight lingered behind, watching them go; A-Train was there - and then he wasn't. Noir slipped through a vent in the ceiling, just as quickly. Deep slunk toward the door, the hint of a smile on his face as he talked to Firecracker; Maeve walked stiffly, shoulder-checking Sage, who absorbed the blow with her chin high, and Homelander ghosted out of the room, still cross-legged, the woman hanging onto him by the neck, letting out a peal of laughter.

Starlight looked into Dr. Rangel's face; her eyes were piercing, but not unkind. The silver spectacles that hung from her delicate chain glinted, even in the fluorescent lighting, and Starlight saw a vision of Stan then, that same silver bite in his glasses. 

"I just want to thank you, for this," she started tentatively. "It was nice to, even for a moment, talk about why I joined... and to not be mocked across the board for once." Dr. Rangel smiled at her, this time a current of warmth gracing her features.

"I think it was very brave of you to say, Annie. I watched the opening of that shelter you'd hosted on the news. It was refreshing."

Starlight felt the urge to throw her arms around the woman, the hot prick of tears sudden in her eyes. She sniffled, embarrassed. 

"Thank you. I... I really did mean to save every animal in that shelter." She sighed, feeling a bit lighter. "Thank you," she said again, making her way to the door.