Work Text:
Every day is a great day when you’re a Vought International intern. Especially when it’s been two solid months since you’ve had to do anything at all.
You’re not stupid — far from it, actually. You know this position is a total redundancy, one that will be eliminated the moment anyone with a lick of power notices. Like all world-famous celebrities, Homelander is buoyed by an army of graduate-school sycophants who made it through the grueling internship background check by the skin of their teeth; the rest of the Seven, too, have their cohort.
For a time, you worried that you’d be spending your time cleaning the tanks in The Deep’s room or scheduling Firecracker in movies about how the greatest superpower of all is accepting Christ into your heart. You were surprised and bemused when you were instead assigned to the skeleton team in charge of Sister Sage, the only member of the Seven who didn’t need a damn thing done.
Automated, pre-scheduled, predicted. Nothing escapes her notice. Five minutes after a former Teenage Kix member announced his intent to sue her on Twitter, you ran to give her the news; she informed you, in her crisp and unvaried voice, that video evidence would reveal her ex-teammate’s own sexual misconduct within the hour. She predicted this as she scanned through footage of some Vought networking event happening halfway across the country, her dark eyes rolling to regard you in that languid, half-lidded way she looked at anyone she could just tolerate.
(She was right, of course. She always is.)
You are useless to her. She knows that, but you’re still around, chewing through your stipend with frequent visits to the chain coffee shop half a block from Vought headquarters. The baristas there are attractive and enviably progressive, and sometimes you catch one reading your corporate-branded nametag with a look of vague disgust.
Come on, I’m not even doing anything , you think, and it’s technically the truth.
In two solid months, you’ve answered a handful of emails (from other interns), finished several seasons of Columbo, and gotten virtual years into an indie farming simulator. You get the sense that the other interns are starting to catch on to the cushy position you’re in; someone on A-Train’s team calls you a lucky bitch over their shoulder as they rush to intercept an incorrectly-made Shake Shack order.
You are, therefore, completely caught off-guard one evening when you get assigned an important task at incredibly short notice.
It’s two in the morning. You’re awake, naturally, feet propped up on the coffee table in your Vought-provided dormitory housing, watching your virtual avatar of Lamplighter get ripped in half by Black Noir. You almost miss your phone ringing entirely, deadened as it is by the throw pillow sitting on top of it. When you pick up the unsaved number, wetting your throat with the last of a mug of lukewarm tea, a man’s voice answers.
“Hey. Is this, uh, Sage’s assistant?” The Deep asks.
You blink. “Sure. Yeah, that’s me. What can I—”
“Great. Okay, awesome.” He sniffs, hard, into the phone; in the background of the call, you hear a distant bubbling sound. “Listen, I need you to do something for me.”
“Oh.” A fish-related dread settles heavy in your stomach. “Uh, sure. What about your interns, though?”
“They’re not fucking picking up, so I just need you to do your job and help me out with this,” he says, voice tight with petulance.
“Yes, sir,” you say, looking down at the work uniform you haven’t totally removed yet. Well, at least you’ll look pretty damn professional for an intern roused to action before sunrise.
“So Sage and I were out, and I got distracted with… stuff. And I left her at a, you know, a nightclub. You own a car?”
How? You think, but that’s the kind of question that gets you a bad performance review. Instead, you try to sound less hoarse, and ask, “Which nightclub would that be, sir?”
“I’ll drop a pin for you. Whatever it’s called.” The Deep sounds relieved, but that tension in his voice isn’t totally gone; for some reason, he’s really unsettled right now. “Just pick her up, get her back here, don’t draw a lot of attention. Listen. This stays between us, okay? You don’t tell anyone what happens tonight. Ever. I know how you all gossip about us.”
You take note of the venom in his tone and confirm, for the final time, that The Deep definitely has sexual relations with fish. This only makes your opinion of him marginally worse.
“Of course,” you say, forcing a smile. “Have a great night, sir. I’ll be back soon.”
He sighs and doesn’t say anything else as he drops the call. A message appears from the number: the pin, and the word Ozymandias. You stare at your phone screen for about thirty seconds before you stand, legs tingling, to go find your keys.
—
The location The Deep gives you looks like an abandoned warehouse in Lower Manhattan from the outside. For a second, you wonder if he screwed up — stories from his intern cohort imply this happens frequently — but a moment later, a sweating man and a woman with what looks like a prehensile tail creep out of a back entrance and dart off into the alley beyond.
Neat , you think, and wonder for a brief moment if you’re about to be in a lot of danger.
You cross the parking lot with what you hope is casual confidence and not the demeanor of a total narc. No one greets or stops you when you duck under a piece of wood nailed across the upper half of the doorway and make your way down a dingy-looking industrial hallway; there’s no sign of human life at all until you reach the only closed door in the hallway, a heavy-looking metal one with a strange hole about a foot above eye level.
Your knock is almost silent, despite the way your footsteps echoed just a second ago. No reply, but you realize that the light in the hallway has shifted near-imperceptibly; someone is blocking the tiny shred of light that escaped that peephole. They don’t say anything, or move, and after a moment you clear your throat and rack your mind for anything The Deep told you that you forgot.
“Ozymandias,” you say, feeling very stupid.
It works. There’s a cracking sound, like a seal on a soda can breaking, and the door swings open. The man behind the door is enormous, and appears to have metal embedded in the skin around his joints. He gives you a once-over, still silent, then nods to the end of the hall. Music is playing, distant and distorted by the curves of whatever path lies ahead. There’s a strange, pungent smell in the air, like warm window cleaner.
You have a bad feeling about tonight. You also have a great feeling about the prospect of a recommendation letter in a few months.
The hallway isn’t as long as you expect; the acoustics of this place would probably be fascinating to someone else who cared about that right now. You emerge into a room full of warm, dim light, crowded wall to wall with people who look very wealthy and very inebriated. Everything is made of dark wood and authentic marble, except for the furniture, which appears to be covered in a thin and shimmering layer of plastic. For a moment, you wonder if this is a supes-only establishment, but it’s impossible to guess. Sage, after all, has one of the most extraordinary and statistically rare powers of all time, and you’d never know it until she opened her mouth.
“You looking for someone?”
You whirl, face-to-face (face-to-chest, really) with a tall, lithe woman who appears to glimmer when she moves. For a moment, all you can do is look up at her like a dumbstruck country mouse, and she smiles at you in a manner that could be maternal or condescending.
“Yeah,” you manage, tugging at your collar. “Uh, have you seen Sage anywhere?”
The woman squints; her eyes are literally violet, glowing an eerie pink in the amber light. “I thought she left with The Deep? I saw him go, at least.”
“Do you know where they were before that?”
She giggles, pinching the end of a strand of your hair between two long fingers. “The darkroom.”
This doesn’t sound good. “Great. Thank you so much,” you say, and depart at a rapid clip. You jog back a minute later to ask for exact directions to the darkroom, as this place is much larger than you expected it to be, and you are very lost.
When you finally find the darkroom, its outer appearance does little to assuage your concerns. It’s a black door made of the same metal as the one you came through; behind it, you hear sounds of arrested cries and deadened skin-to-skin impacts. For a moment, you remember being a high school student at a Vought-sponsored career fair, and you wonder how you would explain to your sixteen-year-old self that you’re about to walk through a sex dungeon full of people who could kill you so that someday, someone will promote you to a lower-level C-suite position.
You put your hand on the doorknob and take a steadying breath. The moment before you turn it, before you steel yourself and go forth into the breach, it flies open; Sage is there, eyes wide, staring at you with lips parted.
“Oh, thank God,” you mutter, then put on your best smile. “I, ah, just came to check on you, ma’am. The Deep was kind of worried, and he wanted me to—”
“Hey!” she squeals, and crushes you in a hug so tight your shoulders pop.
You blink. She does not let you go. She smells like honey and sweat, and not as much like alcohol as you’d expect; as you stand there, wondering whether to pat her on the back or seek medical attention, she buries her face in the crook of your neck and giggles .
“Are you alright, ma’am?” Your voice is strained, and it’s a rather embarrassing thing to realize.
“You’re in a little suit,” she mutters, pulling away to brace herself on your lapels. You try to meet her eyes, to search for that apex-predator’s intelligence that got her a spot at Homelander’s side, and find none of it. Other than a speck of something too dark to make out at the corner of her right eye — Mascara? Blood? It’s not blood, is it? — her face is clean, bright, and overwhelmingly happy.
“It’s the Vought company intern uniform,” you say, with a nervous smile. She laughs at that, too, rocking back so that she pulls you forward; you just manage to piston your arms out before she draws you back into the darkroom with her.
“Come with me,” she says, voice suddenly heavy and breathless. “I like you. You’re funny, you don’t bother me ever . Come in here with me.”
The Vought internship onboarding program had a long and detailed module about romantic entanglements at work. You’re pretty sure that your boss asking you to come with her into the obvious sex dungeon is a violation of this. Your pulse rises, and you can hear your blood singing in your ears; on an objective level, you should be horrified right now. This is bad, because you’re definitely a little turned on by whatever’s happening here.
She likes me? You think, then shake your head against the very notion. Sage doesn’t like anyone. She tolerates you, which is her equivalent of a glowing endorsement. She is clearly high right now, probably on some insane designer drug made to fight through supe regeneration, and it’s your job to make sure she doesn’t do anything that will make her trend on Twitter. Or that she’ll personally regret. Whichever is more important to her.
“I’m really flattered,” you manage, hooking one arm around her shoulders. “But you should really be home right now, ma’am. We have a big day tomorrow.”
She stares at you, dark eyes gleaming, and for a moment you wonder if you’re about to be fired at a weird sexual nightclub in Lower Manhattan. Then she smiles, the expression brilliant and disconcerting on her face, and hooks her arm through yours as she strides back into the bar.
“You’re right. You’re a good assistant.” She pulls you through the crowd at a pace that’s hard to match — what the hell is she on right now? “You wear your little suit every day for me.”
“Sure do,” you say, because humoring her is going to make this whole thing a lot easier. “My car is—”
She makes a vrooming sound with her mouth and cackles. Apropos of nothing, she adds, “Did you know Keanu Reeves was in a movie called Drive about a bus that exploded?”
“You’re thinking of Speed ,” you murmur.
“No I’m not,” she says, and for a moment her voice dips into the pattern of the Sage you remember. Then she’s dragging you along again, grinning, and you can only stumble along like a good little lackey.
—
You take her in through a service entrance, half-support her up the flight of stairs you’ll have to take to get to a decent, inconspicuous elevator. She asks you about random, insignificant facts while you ascend — your star sign, your favorite food, whether you’ve ever tried chili on a hot dog — and by the time you’re at her reserved room in Vought tower, you’re wondering if you should call a doctor.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” you ask, almost falling as you help her over the threshold to her room. “You just… don’t sound like yourself.”
Her expression clouds, and then she gives you the smallest smile she’s given you all night: no teeth, just the soft dimpling in her cheeks and the shimmer of her glassy eyes.
“This is me. This is myself,” she says, running her hands down her body in a way that feels wrong to watch. “This is me so happy I could die.”
Despite everything — the wildly inappropriate things that have happened tonight, the fluttering in your stomach at the sight of her mussed and high — you feel a little queasy when she says it. She’s out of it, sure, but there’s a shred of truth in that, an element independent of whatever she’s done to herself. Then she snorts, pointing to you with a wavering finger, and buries her face in her other hand to stifle laughter.
You smile, incredulous, in spite of yourself. “Everything okay?”
“You looked so sad. In your little suit,” she says. You start to wonder whether you should be offended that she keeps calling the suit little.
“Well, ah, I’m going to head out,” you say, making a concerted effort to look elsewhere in the room as she turns to face you fully. “Get some rest, ma’am. Tomorrow is—”
She grabs your tie like a leash and pulls, hard . It’s not a romantic kiss; she’s hungry, taking your bottom lip between her teeth and grinding against your leg so hard you stumble back against the wall. She tastes like sugar and lavender, and in the first moment of full contact you rock into her touch before the last scrap of a conscience in your head can remind you that this is a terrible fucking idea.
“Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, some base instinct burning in your gut.
She stops and looks at you, tilting her head, and god she’s so beautiful. Her skin turns dark blue where the moonlight strikes it, and as she reaches a hand to brush the hair from your face, you press into it without thinking.
“Something’s wrong,” you press on, gently taking her hand from your face. “Sage. You’re not okay right now.”
“I’m fine .” She groans, and she presses closer with a little growl that makes your pulse spike. You pull back, head barking against the wall, and she looks at you with a dawning expression of surprise.
“I’m okay-er than usual,” she says, with a smile that looks more brittle than any other expression she’s worn tonight. “What, do you not want me?”
“I mean—” You clear your throat, hard. “Not like this. Not while you’re… you know. High.”
“High,” she repeats, as if in a daze. She keeps her hold on you for a moment longer, dragging her eyes from your lips to your chest and then back up to meet her gaze. For a second, you see a gleam in them that you think is the beginning of tears, and then she shakes her head and groans, pushing off with a huff and turning to stalk toward her bedroom.
“Let me help.”
Her eyes flick to you as you make your way to her side, steadying her until she’s able to sit down on the edge of the bed. She’s tired — that much is obvious, based on her bleary expression when she holds still to let you undo the first two buttons of her Vought-approved outfit. Once you’re done, you make your way to the door, content that she’s probably lucid enough to figure out the rest on her own.
“You really don’t want to stay?” she asks, eyes night-black in the darkness of her bedroom.
You fidget and thrust your hands into your pockets. “I can’t take advantage of you like this. You’re not yourself, ma’am.”
“Call me Sage.” Her voice is a little flinty, just a fraction harder than the relaxed, smiling tone she’s had all night, and it’s a relief to hear. You nod, handle on the doorknob, and make a note to double-check before calling her that when she’s sober and sane again.
A sigh from the bed behind you. “Hey.”
You turn, finding her in the same position you left her in; only now, she’s removed the upper portion of her supersuit, and she wears a black sports bra beneath. You almost avert your eyes again, but it’s not like she’s naked. Even if you do find the way the sheets bunch around her waist oddly attractive.
“Yes?” you manage.
“Stay with me.” She closes her eyes and holds up a hand before you can object. “No sexy stuff. Not that. Just… you know. Sleepover time.”
The toe of your shoe is just pass the threshold. You glance out the door, aware that you ought to have been in bed hours ago, before you take a single step back and close it; the light of the lamp at Sage’s bedside shuts off, and you’re left to feel your way to her side in total darkness.
You take your tie off and your dress shirt — you have a camisole underneath — before lying down on the other side of the bed, too nervous to get under the covers. You hear Sage shift a bit on the bed beside you, shimmying out of her pants and under the covers, and her warm breath is just tangible on the side of your jaw. You shiver, and not just because it’s winter in New York City.
“You look so pretty,” she says, voice thick with approaching sleep. “You’re like an angel, and I don’t even think I believe in those.”
“You should sleep.” The cold is too much; you tuck your legs under the covers, hoping she isn’t disturbed by the motion. “I’m going to cancel some things for you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Angel,” she says, and her giggles into the sheets hum through the fabric.
—
If there’s one thing a good Vought employee is, it’s discreet. It’s why, after about three hours of perfect sleep, you tiptoe out of Sage’s room to freshen yourself up and drink a horse-killing amount of coffee alone. If Sage is spooning you when you wake up, snuggled against you like you’re the warmest thing in the world, you don’t mention it. You don’t even think about it much, all things considered.
You get your perfect coffee from your judgmental barista and spend an hour watching some French movie on your computer before realizing you don’t have subtitles on. When Sage strides into your so-called office in the afternoon, face flat and eyes sharp, you jump like someone’s jabbed a fork between your shoulder blades.
“Hey.” Her voice is the same cold, smooth voice you always expected from her until last night. “I got a late start today, but you didn’t have to cancel the VNN appearance.”
Something inside you raises its hackles at that — it took a lot to get Cameron and his boys’ club to agree to host The Deep again — but you just nod and open an email tab to hide the obvious torrent client.
“Sorry about that. I thought you could use some time off to ensure you’re all good for the Super School cameo tomorrow.” You fold and unfold your hands, then settle on propping your head up with a fist. It’s a relief to see that she’s back to normal, even if… well, the night prior doesn’t bear thinking about. You’ve been high before, sure, but never that high.
She watches you for a long time, longer than necessary, and you sit still like a good employee and nod your head. Then she smiles — not the broad grin from the club, when she first saw you at the doorway to the darkroom, but the half-cocked toothless smile you’ve only seen her make when no one is watching her too closely.
“It’s alright.” Without ceremony, she turns to leave, and you make a show of typing something important and job-related on your computer. She’s gone as quickly as she came, and you ignore the moment of sadness you feel as the memory of her arm slung around you intrudes on your afternoon.
Her head appears in the doorway before you can process her exit.
“You were right, by the way,” she says.
Your brow furrows. “About the VNN thing?”
“The movie.” She brushes a loc out of her face with a flick of her wrist. “It was Speed .”
You don’t reply. Your mouth doesn’t move except to open, just slightly. She snorts under her breath and shakes her head, one shoulder propped against your doorway.
You sit very still and try to look very innocent. “Pardon?”
“See you, Angel,” she says, voice soft and teasing in a way you’ve never heard before, and then she pivots and is off again.
You sit in silence for too long, eyes unfocused, hands limp on your keyboard like someone’s cut your puppet strings. When you come to again, you’ve typed a long like of the letter A into the search bar, which feels appropriate.
You open your inbox and stare at the wall of read messages. You pace your tiny office, then the hallway, then walk out to grab another coffee while the strange, unfocused energy is still in your veins.
Every day is a great day when you’re a Vought international intern.