Doux Mouton Noir

He’s late. He’s never late. Even if he’s only 10 minutes late right now, he’s never been even a second late before. Tonight is their third date. Or was supposed to be. She’s starting to get a little worried. He had been acting odd lately. A bit distant, less expressive. Now looking back, she sees he was worried. And now, she’s even more worried. Because he never seemed to worry. Not with that over confidence bordering on smug arrogance. She knows not to call him with the same urgency she douses herself with the most hideous of perfumes she can find whenever she’s around him just to fucking conceal her true scent from the madman supe that is Homelander. She’s— She gasps and jumps out of her fucking skin when there’s suddenly a loud series of slow thudding knocks against her bedroom window. She’s eight stories up and there is no ladder or balcony outside, so, she knows it can only be him. But he always uses the front door. Always politely knocks—the adorable gentleman that he is. So, that can only mean something is wrong... She rushes over to the window, pulls up the blinds, and this time, she gasps in horror. He’s there, barely clinging on to life with one hand grasping his bloody midsection and the other barely clinging onto the drainpipe. She yanks the window open, spares no words, simply grasps him around his middle and pulls him inside as best she can. ‘I’m OK.’ He signs with his free hand, his other arm still clamped around his middle. She laughs bitterly as she helps him down onto her bed. “Yeah, you really fucking look it.” His shoulders shudder from silent laughter, then, quickly from pain. He falls to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He looks up at her, smile quickly dropping through his mask as she reaches forward to take it off of him. She scowls when he shakes his head, holds his hand up to stop her. She tries and fails not to sound childish when she says, “Don’t be stupid. I’ve seen your face. You don’t scare me you, you big fucking dope.” She cracks a small smile. But it quickly drops when he signs, ‘I don’t want you to see me afraid.’ And before she can argue that she’s already seen him worse than afraid, he signs, ‘Not for me. Afraid for you. I’m supposed to keep you safe. Can fail at anything else, but not that.’ “Exactly. You look out for me and I look out for you.” She holds up her hand to stop him from signing in protest, slapping his hand lightly and frowning as she tells him, “We need to get the fuck out of here.” He nods furiously. Signs with one hand, ‘Not healing. Just needed to see you again...’ He sighs, but she cuts him off again, because she knows he will tell her to go on without him. And if he does, she will break another lamp over his idiot head. “Yeah, well, you’re not dying on me neither, or I’ll kick your fucking ass.” His shoulders shudder with another laugh before he signs, ‘Would love to see that.’ She turns and darts towards her desk. Snatches up her phone. ‘You got a stapler?’ He signs as he slowly forces himself to sit up. She rushes over and to help him, her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder. “Will you heal if I stich you up?” Really, she wants to ask if he will make it in time for her to call for real help and that help to actually manage to get here without being annihilated themselves. ‘Maybe. Let’s try. But quick. We have to go soon as possible.’ “OK. Let’s do that. Lemme just grab the kit from the bathroom.” She nods furiously just as the line answers. She doesn’t let the girl talk as she says, “Marie, I need your help and it’s really fucking bad.” Buster Beaver hovers on the bed beside her, grinning over her shoulder at him. “Silly, stubborn boy. You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than even Homelander or Soldier Boy think.”