Chapter Text
Things are Bad tonight. You pace the room like a caged animal. Wanting to leave but not knowing what's out there. Who's out there.
The gang's all here tonight, it seems. Everyone is chattering for your attention. A sign of just how Bad things are. You want to yell at them to shut up, but of course you can't. So you repeat the same motions--pace, sit on the bed, place your head in your hands and silently scream, stand up, pace... lather, rinse, repeat. You hear something in the hallway. A familiar gait.
Everyone stops talking at once. You freeze.
It's him.
No. No of course not. That's. That's ridiculous. He's gone. He's in Russia. He's dead. Or... it's ridiculous.
The footsteps stop outside your door. There's knock.
"Noir?"
You are so panicked that for a moment it is his voice. Your eyes dart around the room (sure, now everyone leaves) and land on a knife on your desk. You grab it.
"Noir, can I come in?"
Wait. It's Homelander. You let out an audible sigh and you feel your muscles relax.
The door clicks open, and he steps in. You can practically feel your anxiety melt away. Not completely, but enough to realize you look silly standing there with a knife in your hand. He smiles and holds his hands up, open, palms facing out.
"Whoa there," he says, giving a chuckle. He's different with you. More relaxed. More himself. Different than what he projects for the cameras and fans. You like that. "If it's a bad time...."
You smile too and return the knife to the desk. You sit back down on the bed, suddenly feeling exhausted.
"Sorry," you tell him. It's always nice to see (your boy) the kid, but you hope he doesn't expect you to carry on a conversation tonight.
"Rough night?" Homelander asks, sitting next to you. His gaze, normally fierce and hard, seems to soften and you hear a note of concern in his voice. You nod, and he gives you a small, sympathetic smile. "Been there," he says.
"I'm doing better now," you tell him. "Why are you here?"
"Because I could hear your pacing from across the damn building. You're not normally that restless. And then as I got closer..." He reaches out and taps your chest, right over your heart. You fight back the urge to recoil from his touch. "This was going a mile a minute. I know you, Noir. Better than anyone. You're not okay." He looks at you again. Something about his expression seems conflicted. You can't figure it out right now, but there's a question in his eyes.
"Can't talk about it. I don't want to."
He nods, seeming to understand.
"Fair enough," he says. You know he means it. There are monsters in his closet too. For a moment, the two of you sit in a comfortable silence. Survivors of different wars.
"Well," he says, coming back from... wherever he was and giving your thigh a light slap. "If everything's okay, I think I'll just--" He starts to stand up, and your hand shoots out and grabs his arm. He turns and looks at you. You give him a pleading look, forgetting for a moment that he can't see you.
"Stay," you tell him.
"Please," you add.
"Scared," you admit.
You will hate yourself for admitting these things.
He sits back down. You move closer and lean into him. He stiffens slightly at the unexpected weight of you. Uncomfortable with the vulnerability, perhaps.
Slowly, awkwardly, he puts an arm around you. Holding you close.
"It's... uh. It's... going to be alright?" he says. You smile a little. He has no idea what he's doing. You doubt that he has ever genuinely comforted another person before, but he's trying. Behind your mask, you close your eyes and finally, finally relax. He notices. "Yeah," he says. Much more easily this time. "Yeah, it's going to be okay. You're..." A hesitation as he finds the right word. "You're safe."
You believe him.