Chapter 8: Love And Happiness

Chapter 8: Love and Happiness

Ok, you know the drill - 5 chapters, and then I be quiet! (I'm still writing this fic, so once we get to Ch 13, we'll be caught up, so read slowly!!/j)

TRIGGER WARNING FOR "SOMNO"!!

Homelander brushed a lock of the woman's hair from her sleeping face, the sounds of the city acting as a quiet backdrop as he gazed at her. Her lips, swollen from kisses, parted gently, a soft sigh escaping them; Homelander ducked to inhale it, chasing the air into his lungs. They'd spent all night in each other's arms, locked in an embrace that nothing but the call of sleep could break. He'd wanted to take her then - he'd stripped her naked, under the glow of the candlelight - but they'd been too worn from the exertion of both of their respective revelations. So he'd been content, for now, to hold her as they drifted off.

Underneath the bed rang his phone; the woman shifted, her brow furrowing lightly - and Homelander reached frantically for it, the name "Stan" blaring before his eyes, before crushing it in his grasp, the sound like bones snapping. He felt a dark satisfaction curl around him at the feel of the ruined metal, and smiled. That would teach Stan to call him on a weekend.

Turning his attention back to her, Homelander let his eyes roam her body, from the hill of her hip beneath the duvet, to the delicate slope of her neck... and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. She pressed into his touch, the haze of slumber turning her movements smooth and surreal. Her arm fell across his waist, and Homelander held his breath. 

Could she feel him, even in sleep? A burst of excitement pulsed in his core.

Leaning in further, he tested the theory and graced his lips against hers, eyes trained on her face. She didn't move further - but he caught the sound of her heart picking up in speed, his mouth turning up at the corners. 

Homelander shifted into a sitting position and then hovered above the woman now, the tip of his nose buried in her hair. Settling on top of her, bracing himself on hands and knees, he lowered himself incrementally, until his hips met hers with a brief kiss, eyes locked on her downswept lashes. He let his hips dip low again, half willing her awake with the sweet heat of this contact - but she did not stir. Homelander bit his lip, and, assured that she was asleep, lowered his head to her breast, seeking out the bud of her nipple with his mouth and granting it a tentative flick, and then another.

He grew greedy then, undulating into her as he rolled her nipple with his tongue, his panting echoing in the room like that of a crazed beast. The slick silk beneath him shifted in a way that made his toes curl; he released her from his mouth with a quiet pop, focusing on the feel of her warmth beneath him as the gentle rocking of his hips threatened to fall into a rut. He looked up, expecting a faint flush on the woman's sleeping face, but gasped, body stilling to a cold halt. She was staring at him, eyes glinting in the moonlight from the window. He stared at her, too shocked at being caught to hide his look of surprise, the hint of mortification.

"Do you want to?" she whispered, the sleepy tilt of her eyes making Homelander worry his lip. He swallowed heavily, and nodded. She smiled, letting out a soft coo and cupping his face in her hand, before rolling onto her stomach. Homelander raised his brows, heart pounding.

He waited for a stretch of time, steadying himself and letting her drift back into sleep, then slowly joining her under the duvet, blanketing her with his body, and let it seal them in, resting on his forearms on top of her. He brought his hands to her hips, kneaded her there, slowly, before lifting the sheer silk of her nightgown, the sound of the fabric against her skin like a gentle breeze.

Pressing his weight onto her fully - he felt a twinge of excitement at her deep exhale - he rocked his hips into her again, no barrier between them now. The feel of her skin against his was electric in its intensity; he looked, and saw that the hair of his arms was standing on end. Clamping his jaws onto her pillow, he sent his hips back slowly, then brought them to meet her, pressing hard when he'd filled the gap with their union.

She gasped then, and he brought a hand to her mouth, tracing a finger against her lip, hips surging forward when she took the digit into her mouth, the sensation wringing a stuttered groan from his lips.

She turned, eyes half lidded, and pulled him into a kiss with one hand, interlacing her fingers with his with the other, and in the snatches of air between their kisses, she whispered, hot and fervent, into his skin, "You can have this, any time." Homelander felt the explosion of stars beneath his closed eyelids, her words taking root and holding him firm against the pliant softness of her body.

He lost himself then, his grip on her tightening as he drove into her harder, the desperate clash of his body against hers loud in the room. At the feeling of her squeezing his hand, he let out a soft cry and spilled inside her, holding her in his arms and listening to the race of their heartbeats, marveling at the way his sweat glinted on her skin. Homelander let out a gusty sigh, tucking his chin into the crook of her neck, warmth bleeding into him when she entangled her legs with his and pressed his hand to her lips, before wrapping it around herself. He melted - she'd wanted him close.

She wanted him, he thought, smiling softly as sleep pulled him under now, too. She wanted him.

Stan watched the couple with a patient boredom in his eyes; he'd rolled his eyes when Homelander had crushed his phone to dust when he'd called, but felt himself slide back into apathy as he crept on top of the woman's sleeping form. She'd given him everything, and yet he still felt the need to take. It was typical Homelander, he thought, sweeping his eyes away. Even he didn't wish to see what was about to unfold.

He brought his gaze up, though flickering with faint curiosity, when the woman stopped Homelander with that innocuous question, that froze him in his tracks.

Do you want to?  Stan leaned in.

So this was her angle, then; the illusion of choice, redemption. She'd pretended to sleep, kept still until he'd lost himself, and then presented him with her compliance, drawing him in deeper. Stan couldn't help but feel a little impressed. Clever girl.

But... to what end? She hadn't asked him for money, hadn't stolen anything from Vought when he'd brought her - she hadn't even posted pictures of the inside of the Tower, though this last thought was less surprising. The woman had no social media, save for a blog she posted updates to occasionally. 

He couldn't bring himself to read another post - it was all the same depressive drivel, the same unsettling longing. She liked villains, monsters. Stan supposed, then, that this next one, the one in her bed, wasn't so far a leap to make.

It was Saturday, but Stan always stayed late, seven days a week. He tucked his chair in closer, studying the segment he'd rewound; the woman, wrapping Homelander's arm around her, pressing a kiss into his open palm.

What did she want from him?

He picked up his phone, messaged Noir to confirm that he was in position, ready to act - and a moment later, Noir replied with a picture of the woman's front door. Stan nodded, shut the laptop, and made his way to the window of his office, looking outside with a contemplative air.

The woman snuggled in closer to Homelander, feeling his breath ruffle her hair and smiling. This was exactly how it should be. She thought back to the fear of last night - that blind terror that he'd see the shrine, recoil in disgust, and fly out of her life forever. A future of being barred from all events he hosted, blacklisted from the store she got his news clippings from - maybe even walked away in handcuffs for collecting his gum, flashed through her mind.

She thought of the day she'd created the shrine; Vought had cancelled an event she'd bought tickets to, four months in advance, and then it happened. One moment, she was staring at the message they'd posted, ears ringing - and the next, before she knew it, she was taking a hammer to the wall, screaming as chunks of drywall flew back at her. When the dust settled, she'd looked in horror at the mess, before stuffing the cavern full of her Homelander memorabilia, a dark peace washing over her as she lit the candles. Even then, she knew it was... intense. Maybe too intense to show him. But he'd needed her to, she thought, remembering the faint tremor in his voice when he'd asked why she'd been okay with the overseas massacre.

Why?

She considered, tracing his cheek with her index finger. Maybe she'd just seen too much; the world, even before Homelander, was an abysmal, wretched place, and each tragedy only felt like the same news, repeated on a loop in her mind. There was no need to fear a superhero who could level cities to the ground, when the politicians on Capitol Hill hovered around the Big Red Button, daring each other to push it like teens at a sleepover. The ocean was heating up and would boil them alive, anyway -what did it matter if Homelander sped things up a bit?

Maybe it was because she was angry for him. Angry that he felt the need to act on their behalf, chained to their puny wills, when he should be free, as any person was, to live a life of his own choosing. Even if China hadn't raised Homelander to the heights he stood at now... they most likely would have, if they'd had the chance. And besides - it would only be a matter of time before they did. China would never let an affront like this go unpunished. But Homelander would be waiting, as he always was. The thought comforted her.

Another thought tapped at the forefront of her brain - one that she didn't often engage with, because it unsettled her, if only briefly. As she looked into Homelander's sweet, sleeping face, her heart swelling, she thought maybe she hadn't cared... because nobody else mattered to her. He could give whatever answer he wanted - he'd said it 'needed to be done', she recalled with an affectionate roll of her eyes  - but the answer wouldn't have changed things. For as long as she could remember, she'd never been extremely concerned with the sanctity of human life. An old woman dying, surrounded by friends and loved ones... a man, bleeding out in the street after a mugging gone wrong... it was the same to her. And if the one behind the gun was the man who'd seen the apathy in her eyes, kissed away her tears? How could she care?

So she'd told him that she believed him, and it was true.

Rising up on her knees to straddle him, she laid her cheek on his, humming contentedly when he wrapped his arms around her, his eyes sweeping open. Homelander looked into her face and smiled, feeling her trying to press herself as deeply onto him as possible. "Morning," she chirped, winding her hips against him, kissing his cheek, his neck.

Homelander growled, sliding his hands to her waist and pressing into her in turn. "Don't start something you can't finish," he teased darkly, nipping at her earlobe. She kissed him then, her lips hot on his mouth. "Never," she whispered.

The couple folded into the embrace, Homelander's fingers teasing at the waistband of her panties - when a sharp knock jolted them out of the moment. The woman frowned, reaching for her robe, and Homelander strode toward the door, eyes narrowed, swinging it open - and staring into Noir's masked face. He was holding a sign, Homelander noted with irritation.

'Stan says you don't have enough vacation days for this "excursion" '  Homelander felt the muscles in his face twitch. He nodded minutely, before stepping back into the apartment, gesturing toward the couch. 

"I'll be just a minute," he grumbled at Noir, before meeting the woman. She was standing in the hallway, a mix of surprise and wariness on her face.

"Who is that?" she whispered, eyeing Noir with distrust. Homelander smiled at her pouting expression. "That... is your ticket to a trip to Vought Tower. Hosted by yours truly, of course." He winked at her when she beamed, stepping into her room to pull the suitcase from under her bed. He smacked her lightly on the behind. 

"Get packing," Homelander said cheerily, loud enough for Noir to hear, "and bring your lingerie," he murmured in her ear, chuckling at her gasp.

Maeve watched Homelander and the woman fly through the doors of Vought Tower through the slats in the blinds, the headache she'd been tending to re-emerging with a vengeance at the sight of the woman's lilac suitcase. He was holding her in one arm, the luggage in the other. She scoffed. How much says he sees them as the same thing? 

She'd stayed gone from the last three Seven meetings, ignoring Ashley's frantic texts, spitting cutting remarks at Deep when she passed him in the halls... but nothing could seem to mend the void Sage had left inside her that night. 

She hadn't been clingy with her - she hadn't. But it hadn't mattered to Sage. She thought of their hazy bar crawl, the flush on the shorter woman's face when Maeve had teased her - and she'd really believed it... she'd believed that Sage had wanted her. Maybe not in the traditional sense... but in some way. Why lean in, then, when Maeve dipped her head to kiss her? Why lead her to her bedroom, hands in her hair?

Had she really been unable to distinguish passion from the need for control? 

The wet ragged squelch of Sage's brain, coming apart under the lobotomy wand, suddenly rang through her mind - Maeve jerked up, clambering for the trash can she'd left by the bed, the splatter of vomit loud in her ears. She rinsed her mouth out, before rising to her feet, and putting the thought from her mind.

This woman would be staying with them, for who knows how long, Maeve thought. It wouldn't do well to show weakness - not while this new dynamic was unfolding. So she stood, checking herself in the mirror, before stepping out of her room for the first time in days, the crisp air of the hall raising the hairs on her arms.

As she walked by, she caught a glimpse of The Deep, who instantly tried avoiding her path. Too late; she caught up to him on the way to the meeting room, gaze venomous.

"Something smells fishy," she snarked. "Letting Ambrosia hit third base already?" Deep blanched. "It's 'Ambrosius,' ", he mumbled, rubbing his arm and looking away. Maeve smirked, making her way to the table. Hell yeah. She wouldn't let petty one-night stand gone wrong ruin her.

Stan sat at his desk, eyeing Sage with a cold gaze that made her straighten her spine. He'd actually gone out of his way to consult her this time around, in regards to a plan he'd crafted. As she listened, a whisper of incredulousness tangled in her mind, until the last word he'd said had made her outright snort with laughter. Stan stopped at once, eyes somehow even shrewder.

"Something amusing?" he asked. Sage shook her head.

"No, sir. It's just... therapy? With all due respect... are you sure? It seems a bit... late for that." Stan shook his head.

"Sage, you've seen your... teammates. Deep, with his fixation on that octopus he thinks I don't know about... Maeve, drinking herself into a coma. Starlight, cracking under the pressure of what it truly means to work for Vought. They're all children, equipped with the power to make their issues the world's problem. Vought's problem." Sage shivered, the unspoken tail of that sentence menacing in her brain: My problem.

"To that end... I suggest that we stop pretending that this is something else. We meet them at their level - and maybe they'll even feel the need to rise above these measures, prove they're not as immature as they come across." Stan gestured to her.

"That's where you come in. You have insight on the Seven that even I don't; what they like, what makes them tick... their idiosyncrasies. Using that knowledge, we can craft a series of sessions that will prove to be more effective than previous attempts others have made."

Sage looked at him, thoughts swirling. "So... you want to... speak to their inner children?" Stan smiled. "Precisely." 

"I expect your findings by end of day. We start this effective immediately; I already have therapists waiting in the wings, ready to act." Stan made to dismiss her, but the worry that had blossomed in her gut refused to let her leave. "But sir... surely Homelander will object to being... analyzed like this. What do we do if he... rebels?" Stan ushered her to the door anyway, a frosty glint in his eyes, that polite smile pointed at the edges of his mouth.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked. "This is a therapy session for the entire Seven. Not everything revolves around Homelander, you know." 

Kinoko Shibari

Found a writer who is better than me; I will now be giving up. Thank you for your support, but you would not believe how over it is.

"Your Mother's Daughter"

I can only bring myself to write poetry when I'm broken when I'm tear-streaked and raw and the burn of the salt runs down my face like acid. It's the only time I recognize myself the only time my reflection is someone I understand.

But God, I am so fucking ugly, so disgusting, so fucking abominable - when I cry, when I grieve.

I look just like her. I fucking look just like her. And a million miles away, she sleeps just fine.

I tug at the crimson thread that binds us together - but when I look down I see that I've only snatched my own intestines out, the patter of blood like children's feet on wet grass.

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.