Work Text:
You knock on the door to (Homelander’s) your apartments.
“Just come in Noir,” she says. It’s a normal speaking voice, but you can hear her just fine. You knock again, more insistently. You hear her tell Ryan to answer the door.
No no no no—
Ryan opens the door and his eyes go wide.
“Mom….?” he says, uncertainly. She hurries to the door and gasps. “Ryan honey, why don’t you go to Kevin’s for a bit?”
“Is dad gonna be okay..?”
You nod, and have to steady yourself as a wave of dizziness sweeps over you. You give him a thumbs up and as much of a smile as you can manage.
“He’ll be fine,” the Homelander says, giving him a reassuring nod. “I just need to check on him, okay?”
“Okay,” Ryan says doubtfully. That doesn’t stop him from walking down the hallway to Kevin’s.
Homelander pulls you in drags you to the bedroom, before forcing you down on the bed. She gives you a once over.
Your helmet is cracked, a huge piece missing from it. Part of your mask is gone, and what’s visible underneath is a bloody mess. You feel like part of the undergarments you wear to prevent your skin from being pinched is melted to your skin. Large areas feel uncomfortably damp.
“What in the hell happened,” she asks. There’s an awkward pause as you try to answer, but you don’t. You’re having a hard time forming sentences, and it wouldn’t matter because it hurts to move anyway. Homelander’s expression is nothing but worry.
“Alright,” she says. Her voice seems steadier now, her gaze more focused. “Sit still. The first thing to do is get that armor off. Thank god nothing’s broken. I don’t feel like dragging you to the infirmary.”
She gently removes what’s left of your helmet, and sets it off to the side. She locks eyes with you and something about this makes you feel uncomfortable. It feels… threatening in a way that your trauma-addled brain is trying to avoid pinning down.
Her eyes glow red for a moment, and you fall backwards (and the pain as you do, your whole body is alight with it), trying to scramble away. But she grabs you by the shoulders and hoists you back up.
“Pupils are reactive,” she mutters. To who? Does she have her own friends? Where are they? And for a moment, you look around, panicked. But you see Buster, perched on a dresser, and you relax a bit. She takes your head between her hands. “Hold still. I’m sorry I startled you. Do you know who I am, where you are?”
You nod. She smiles and relaxes a bit.
“Good. Then you know I won’t hurt you. I’m just checking some things. Stay here,” she says, standing up. “I’m going to get the first aid kit.”
She stands up and leaves, returning a minute? an an hour? later with a plastic first aid kit in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. You almost laugh at the idea of supes with a first-aid kit, like Neosporin and a bandaid could fix whatever’s wrong with you.
She holds your face still and wipes the blood off. You instinctively try to move away, but she holds your head in place.
“Be still,” she says, sternly but not unkindly. “Honestly you’re as bad as Ryan was.” You make a face, but remain still after that. Buster and Petie snicker good-naturedly. “You look okay under all that. Some bruising and some cuts, but it’s not as bad as it could have been. Up now,” she says, smacking your arm gently. “We’re getting that armor off now.” You stand, wincing in pain.
You turn, back towards her, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You hear her fumbling with the clasps and latches, muttering under her breath about how fucking complicated this is.
“How do you even get this on yourself? No, don’t answer, I’m just irritated. I can’t even tell with the—” The Homelander lets out a frustrated sound. “You know what? Fuck it. Hold still Noir, I’m going to just rip this fucker off.”
Please be careful please don’t hurt me please be careful please don’t hurt me—and then there’s a horrible ripping sound. It’s hard and jagged and for a brief moment you’re sure that she’s peeling you open. You hear the upper plates land on the ground with a soft splat.
“Well, they’re going to hate that. They can bill me for a new one. It was shot to hell anyway.” This comment seems directed at nobody in particular, but your body hitches with a little chuckle anyway.
You’re feeling better by this point and remove the lower portion of the armor yourself. At least, that’s how it feels until you lose your balance lifting a leg off the ground. Homelander catches you and finishes up the job, then begins the arduous task of taking off your underclothes.
“Christ Noir, what the hell happened, and don’t answer right now, I need to focus on this.” She begins slowly lifting your shirt up, and you bite back screams as it takes part of your flesh with it. This will all heal, you know it will (it has before) but that doesn’t mean it will be easy. The pants come off easier because you’re not fighting gravity pulling them down, and because they don’t appear to actually be melted to you.
“Shower time, let’s go,” she says, gently guiding you there. She still has that no-nonsense tone, and you wonder if she’s focusing on you to avoid her own worry and panic. She turns the water on, and it’s gentle and warm. You let it run over your body as she goes over you with the washcloth again. The water pools in the tub, and you can see that between the actively bleeding injuries and the dried blood, it looks like a murder scene in here.
You smile at her, point at the shower drain, and sign a single word: “Psycho.” She smiles back, and you see some of that hardness fade from her eyes.
She turns off the water and helps you out of the shower. Another wave of nausea-inducing pain washes over you, and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute. When you come back to yourself, you’re laying on her (no, your, dammit, you share it) bed. She finishes daubing something on your burns, and then pulls out the gauze.
You are so tired. You feel your eyes get heavy. The last thing you think you see is your spouse filling a needle with a bright blue fluid.
You wake up the next morning feeling better than you expected, and with her arms holding you close. You pull her arms more tightly around you, anything she might have done to you the night before forgotten.