Notes: A oneshot I wrote in an interesting first-person narrative with the first OC I've ever made for this fandom. I normally hate OC's, so I was resistant to posting this story, but it received some pretty positive feedback, so I thought I'd share. Of particular note, I'd like to make it clear that this is quite a silly little fic, and is not to be taken as a demonstration of proper techniques, or how therapy is meant to take place. So read it with a grain of salt – it's for entertainment, and is based very loosely on my education in this particular field. Gwen is based, yet again very loosely, on myself and any resemblance to others in purely coincidental. Don't try this at home! XD

Warnings: Just the normal stuff... Always seek help from professionals and realize that everyone's experience will be a little different when seeking therapy. And hey, it's a fictional character! Just enjoy it for it's amusing qualities!

Disclaimer: 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by Dreamworks. I own nothing.

"Hello, thank you for calling Metro City Community Counselling Centre," I said in a practiced voice into the phone receiver, balancing the device against my ear with my shoulder. My other hands busy themselves between pouring a cup of tea, and navigating a word document on the beat-up desktop in front of me. "How can I help you?"

God, I sound like a perky receptionist, all blonde hair, high voice, and nail file in hand.

Well, I am answering the phone... and I do all the receptionist duties, but that's where the resemblance stops.

I don't really have a choice. I do everything. I'm the only one here. So I suppose I am the receptionist. And the maid. The accountant. The manager. The frontline worker. The one and only counsellor in my little business.

And as for that mental image of the blonde, relaxing in a high back chair, filing already perfect red nails? Well there's brown hair instead of blonde, and the nails are plain, chewed and broken from stress and labour. No flashy colours. No big hair style. Just a pony tail, and glasses slipping down the bridge of my nose.

"Hello," a smooth voice responds. A female. Young. Confidence in her tone. "I'm calling to speak with Mrs. Gwendolyn Stark?"

"This is she. How can I help you?" I ask again in return, sliding back into the desk chair that creaks beneath me, its wheels squeaking as I shuffle closer to the desk, switching the phone receiver to my other ear, the cord no longer laying across my body and getting in my way. I take a fortifying sip of my tea and then reach for an Intake Form that sits waiting in the filing rack to my left.

"This is Roxanne Ritchi calling."

I stop dead, a pen pressing on the top of the form, as if ready to write that first letter, but my fingers stop and there's dead silence as my brain clicks in.

"THE Roxanne Ritchi?" I reply before I can stop myself. It sounds incredulous, doubting. I cringe and try to recover from my shock. But it's hard. It's not every day that I get a call from the leading news reporter in all of Metro City.

A thousand thoughts run through my head.

What is she calling for? An interview? Am I involved in a scandal I don't even know about? Is she doing a fluff piece about counselling in Metro City? An expose on funding cuts? Is she maybe calling to become a client?

A big part of me doubts it's the latter. I'm a small agency. Pretty much run out of a studio office I rent in the outskirts of downtown Metro City. No doubt the woman could potentially need therapy; you get kidnapped and have your life risked that many times, the poor girl probably had enough baggage to fill all the terminals at Metro City Airport. But she would be more likely to go to a big firm, wouldn't she? Not a private practice like mine. It was just me; alone in a small room filled with plants, decrepit furniture, and not a whole lot of expendable income. Not that I'll turn her away, but I'm shocked she'd call here.

She laughs over the receiver, and sounds like she's taking my comment in good humour.

"Don't worry, it's not anything to do with an interview," she states firstly and I release a breath I wasn't aware I was holding.

"Oh, I see," I offer lamely, and then try to put on my Professional Cap to get this phone conversation back on track. "I apologize. I don't get calls from famous reporters very often. You'll have to excuse my shock. What can I help you with today, Miss Ritchi?"

There, that sounded like the response of someone who had everything under control. Total professional. A professional that still wants to wet herself, wondering why the hell Roxanne Ritchi is calling her.

"I have a few questions for you, actually. Again, nothing like an interview. I just wanted to ask you about your practice."

"Of course." I'm shaking, but my voice stays strong.

"Can you tell me about the sort of counselling you offer?" she asks, all business, her voice calm and clear. I lean back in my chair, adjusting the phone again while taking another short sip of my tea before I go into my Social Work voice. Ok, I can do this...

"Well, I've been in private practice now for six years, which means it's just me offering services. I have both a Bachelor and Masters of Social Work. I work primarily with a relational and strengths based focus of therapy, meaning I'm all about finding resiliency and getting to know people. I also have training in EMDR, which is Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, as well as Art and Animal Assisted Therapy. In terms of who I help, my clients range from children to older adults, and I work with individuals, couples and families. Many of my clients come to me with issues of anxiety, trauma, and just about anything you can name," I state, breathing out heavily at the end.

I hate the schpeel. It sounds fake and forced in my head, but often times, that's what the clients are looking for; a pamphlet version of conversation that they can leaf through. They want to know what they're getting before they step in the door. And so, I've rehearsed it so many darn times, it's like a script in my mind that automatically comes out whenever a certain button is pushed.

I've become a human answering machine.

"Excellent," she says, seeming pleased. "Admittedly, I read most of that on your website, and all the research I've done of your practice, but I like hearing it myself too."

I feel my face grow hot. My tongue feels fat in my mouth and I swallow.

People looking at the website is good, since it gets business, but she's implying she's done more than just some web surfing to investigate me. The idea that Roxanne Ritchi has been Googling, let alone researching me makes me feel... exposed.

I try to redirect the conversation, finally writing her name across the top of the Intake Form and then begin to move down the page, filling out information as I go.

"Well I'm glad. So, tell me Roxanne, are you interested in seeking some counselling?"

She laughs, as if it's a ridiculous idea.

I stiffen a bit and frown. Maybe this is some sort of joke.

"No no, no, it's not for me," she explains, still laughing. "It's for a... friend."

Evasive answer. I note the pause.

"I see. Well, I would suggest then that your friend could make a call to speak with me. I normally don't take referrals unless I speak with the individual themselves," I explain, a little more testily than I should have, but a part of me feels like it's a hoax. I'm instantly defensive. I don't like serious counselling being brushed off as a silly idea, and her position of power as the big-shot reporter makes me nervous.

"Ah, see, it's like this..." she says now, her voice becoming a little more cautious. Definitely hiding something.

"My... friend. Well, he's not very trusting. But I think he does need to speak with someone. It's just, we need to make sure that any therapy he receives is done with the utmost care, and to be honest, secretly."

"Miss Ritchi," I say slowly, carefully. "I can assure you that my services are highly confidential. If your friend would like to give me a call, I can set up an appointmen-"

"No, you don't understand," she interjects sharply, and I can hear shuffling, as if she's moving around and her voice lowers. "It's gotta be ENTIRELY secret. And he's very particular. You're the only one I think that can help him."

Suddenly I feel like she's Princess Leia, and she's telling me I'm her only hope.

This puts my whole body and mind on hyper alert. Definitely not a good start to things. I keep my pen hovering, but I'm no longer paying attention to the form. The evasiveness, the cryptic answers and questions; they don't bode well. I press her.

"What do you mean?"

A heavy sigh follows, and a long silence. "As I said, he's particular. I've researched all over the city. Other agencies are too large, too public. Someone would see him and they'd find out... And it wouldn't be good. And I really think he'd admittedly do well with your Animal Assisted Therapy. He likes animals. Fish and Brain-B—I mean, dogs, mostly. You're the only small practice that can offer the confidentiality we need, as well as therapy suited to his... needs."

This friend of hers was sounding more and more interesting by the minute. And what was that Brain comment? It didn't make sense. It made my stomach clench uncomfortably and I laid a hand across it to try and quell the feelings of worry. I feel like I know something about this fellow, but my mind doesn't want me to catch up and figure it out.

I glance to the side at Bronx, my young Boxador pup who's laying on his matt, slumbering peacefully in the corner of the room. He was a fine therapy animal, but I had to be cautious what clients I exposed him to. I had a duty to protect the poor pooch as well. And this... friend of Roxanne Ritchi's wasn't sounding promising, purely because of her introduction for him.

Particular.

High profile.

Didn't want to call himself.

I start out with the point of contention that I can grasp onto best.

"Not everyone is suited for Animal Assisted Therapy just because they like dogs, although it is a place to start. But, again, if you could let your friend know to call, I could explain this to him more."

"No, that won't be happening," she says flatly. I pinch the bridge of my nose after pushing my glasses up and lean forward onto my desk. Roxanne Ritchi was not quite as nice as she seemed on TV. She was beginning to give me a headache. I struggle to keep my cool at this point, as it makes me aggravated to have to dig for information like this.

"May I ask why?" I venture with a heaving sigh.

"Because it's Megamind."

I don't speak. I just sit, eyes closed, before the words filter into my brain, and my eyes shoot open once more. I sit upright with a start, the phone receiver toppling out of my hands and I scramble to grab at it, fingers shaking. I press it back up to my warm ear, take a gulp of air and try to calm my voice.

"I... I don't think I heard you correctly. Could you repeat that?"

"Megamind," she says without hesitation, and my throat is suddenly very dry. I gulp scalding hot tea, not even caring about the burning sensation.

"As in, THE Megamind?" I squeak for the second time that day.

"Yes," she says resolutely. "You can probably see why I've been asking questions like this."

"Yea, it makes more sense now," I mutter numbly, and go back to massaging my temples. "Look, I'll be blatantly honest with your Miss Ritchi. I follow the news like everybody else does. Megamind," and my voice hitches on his name, like my lips don't want to form the syllables. "Well, he's a reformed super villain, definitely. I can see he wants to change. But you have to see how... daunting this might be for me. I think this may be a bit beyond my scope of practice."

"I understand," she sighs, and she sounds tired. Weary. There's a pause. "I just want him to get help," she adds, her voice suddenly meek and small. Hopeful.

I groan, and look up at the ceiling over me, as if for strength. My bleeding heart is already clenching at the need in her voice. This is a woman who has dwindling options, and those are the cases that pull the strings attached to my chest the most, so I end up dancing like a marionette.

"I don't even know what I'd do with him sitting in front of me," I confess sadly. The conversation is no longer between prospective client and professional. Now it's two nervous women, trying to navigate a very difficult situation.

"I mean, you obviously have a very different relationship with him than most do... but I... well..." I stammer to fill the sentences with my thoughts and feelings. Try to find a diplomatic way to say things.

"You're afraid," she supplies simply, and I nod.

"Yes. It wasn't very long ago he was terrorizing the city. And I lived through that experience. I'm technically a victim of his crimes, just like everyone is in this city. I'm not sure if I can be unbiased enough to offer him counselling in good conscience."

"That's the thing. No one is," she replies back quickly. "No one can be unbiased when working with him. But that's a risk I need to take. You don't understand. There's so much he hides. I mean, he puts up a good front. But that's what it is; an act. A performance. Hence all the dashing and gesturing and lights and smoke. I just want to make sure he's ok," she says softly.

"...You care about him a lot," I offer as an observation, and her reply is so soft, and so heartfelt, my chest feels tight again.

"Yes."

"You aren't scared of him?"

"No."

I sigh heavily. "Should I be scared of him?"

"No," she says, with conviction. "He's turned over a new leaf. He's a hero now. He's trying to prove that to the world, but his past keeps coming up. Maybe, if he had someone to talk to beside me and Minion, he could start to... I don't know... let his guard down. Not push others away so much. LET the city trust him." She speaks with this desperation that displays her affections for the alien menace which had not a year previously taken the city hostage after destroying Metro Man. But he was attempting to help the city now, despite everything that happened in the past.

"Why not go outside of the city?" I ask, like I'm trying to chase her business away, which I am.

"A – It's gonna be hell getting him to see someone IN town, let alone out of town. B – Just because people weren't directly affected by his evil days doesn't mean they don't react as if they were. And C – Metro City at least protects its own, and recognizes that Megamind has lived here his whole life. I'm worried if we go out of the area for help, that they'll take advantage of him..."

"Here, you can protect him from the press... Out there, you can't," I summarize her final point, and I can hear a sad little sigh over the line.

"Exactly. Look, I don't normally do this... but please. Just... please, at least see him? I'll pay double. Triple. Whatever it takes. Just see him once?"

The plea is so desperate, I flash back to the events of the year before. Titan. Me, watching slack jawed with the rest of Metro City as she is held hostage on top of Metro Tower, and her desperate broadcast to Megamind for his help. I can practically see her on the TV, burned in my memory. So sad. So scared. The spunky reporter I turned to at 5:00 every day for my daily News, turned into a normal, desperate woman needing help. And that same voice is in my ear again, whispering out to me now.

Oh god, I am going to regret this.

"Tuesday at 10 AM. I'll meet with him once, to see how things go."

I schedule no other appointments that day. If something goes wrong, I don't want another client to walk in and get hurt. I respect confidentiality, but I've informed my husband to call at 11:05 sharp, and if I don't answer, he's to call the police. Not that it will help much, but it's something... and the backup plan makes my hands not shake as violently. They still shake, but not as much.

Bronx paces behind me, the pads of his paws echoing on the soft rug. He's picking up on my anxiety, and I crouch down to pet his smooth ears and gaze into his soulful eyes. He whines, putting a paw on my forearm with a tilt of his head. He's conveying such concern, such sympathy that I have to laugh and wrap my arms around him.

"Oh you are such a good dog," I gush and his tail wags hard enough to send his body vibrating. I scratch him behind his ear like he likes, and as I stand I feel calmer.

He's smiling at me with his dopey tongue lolling out to one side. He's all happiness now, and tromps off to the door and sits, waiting. He knows a client is coming, and he wants to be there to greet them when they arrive. No fear, that creature. Maybe he would change his tune when a blue skinned alien walked in. But for now, he's just ready for work.

I straighten the office one last time. The front room is immaculate.

My desk as clean as it can be, still studded with knick knacks and photos, my diplomas hanging on the wall beyond. The computer is turned off and locked, the waiting chairs perfectly lined up against the wall, and a variety of magazines are spread across the low table in the center. Plants brighten the yellow painted room and freshen the air. The wall opposite my desk holds a large fish tank, a variety of tropical creatures swimming languidly in its crystal clear depth.

Roxanne Ritchi had done her research. If Megamind liked fish and dogs, she'd done well in sending him here.

The only other door, besides a bathroom and storage closet, leads to my actual counselling room, similar in taste to the outer waiting area. A couch and two chairs fill the room, pillows, a table and lamps creating a comfortable feel of being at home. At least I hope that's what it does. I survey the area one last time, setting down the glass of water I always leave for clients on the center table, and then I hear the door jingle out front. The blood drains from my face and I feel flushed.

I have to stop myself from racing into the other room, as I take slow purposeful steps after a few deep breaths. I step out of the counselling room and find... not what I expected.

It's Roxanne Ritchi herself, dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket, high heeled boots clicking on the floor as she walks down the short hallway into the waiting room. Behind her, bent down to be face level with Bronx, is a man with wild wisps of hair practically standing on end, glasses hiding his giant green eyes as he stares at the brown and black dog with obvious fascination. A blue turtle neck and brown suede blazer cover him, and he suddenly looks up, a brilliant smile capturing his features.

It's the smile of a child at Christmas. I'm stunned by it, and instantly endeared to the man. It's rare to find a look of such total innocence and wonder. How lucky he must be to see the world like that.

"Roxanne!" he cries excitedly. "Look at this creature! It's so FRIENDLY!" he gasps, and Bronx is delighted by the attention, his feet jittery and stamping a bit in his excitement.

I could never get the dog to lose that particular trait. Not entirely ideal for a therapy dog, but what he lacked in calm energy upon first meeting a new person, he made up for with quality work later on down the road.

"That's Bronx," I explain by way of introduction, but I'm watching the door, waiting. Megamind would be coming. Had Roxanne and her companion come ahead to scout things out? I extend my hand to the reporter.

"Pleasure to meet you," she smiles, and we shake hands.

"Likewise. And who is your friend?" I ask, extending my hand to him now, although he doesn't seem much inclined to stand, now that he's so focussed on the dog.

"Megs, come over here," Roxanne calls softly, almost coaxingly like she's talking to a child. And the man reacts like he's a child too. He stops in his emphatic ruffling of Bronx's ears to gaze up at her with eyes that held such apprehension and uncertainty, I almost missed the name she'd called him.

"Wait... Megs?" I ask, but the man is standing now, looking behind him to make sure the door is shut, before he turns back and reaches to fiddle with a watch on his left hand. A sci-fi movie sort of sound emanates, followed by a blue light that scans up and down his frame from the watch's face.

And the wild haired man is no more.

He's replaced by the large headed alien from all the newspapers. His skin is eerily a baby blue colour, his eyes an unnatural neon green. His whole body is so thin and lithe, and I don't understand how his slender neck supports his massive cranium. He raises his chin a notch as if to show more confidence than he feels. Then he hesitates.

I am gaping. I know it. But he's ignoring it, instead looking to Roxanne, who makes a little motion with her hands. As if breathing in to support his next movement, his chest rises with a deep inhale, and then he bridges the gap between us, jabs out his hand and grabs my own that is still hovering in mid air. He pumps them up and down three times, rapidly, and I just stare at the thin, long fingers wrapped around mine, encased in dark leather that feels soft to the touch.

Then he rips his hand out of mine like it hurts.

"I'm Megamind," he says.

It sounds like an odd thing to say. It's robotic, unnatural, stiff. Like a script. And it probably was, because he looks at Roxanne out of the corner of his eye, as if for approval. She smiles, and he relaxes.

"Hi. I'm Gwen," I say lamely. It's automatic. I shake my head and try to will my body to move. "I mean, my name is Gwendolyn Stark. Welcome. Come on in. I mean, never mind, since you're already IN, so, um, yea. I'm glad we could meet."

I'm babbling, but I can't stop.

"I... like your dog," he reflects cautiously, looking down to Bronx who is sitting down beside him, staring up with adoring brown eyes, mouth opened in a happy doggie smile. Megamind smiles back, his eyes sparkling with some sort of excitement.

"He likes you too," I say honestly. Normally, Bronx stands beside me in situations like this. Unless he knows he's needed elsewhere.

"Will you two be ok now?" Roxanne asks, and we each turn to look at her, as if terrified she might leave us both.

"You're not staying?" he cries, his body suddenly jumping to stand in front of her, bent so he's close, almost anxious. If he could have leapt into her arms, he probably would have.

"No dear, I told you," she explains soothingly, and presses a hand to his face. He leans into it without shame and his whole face creases in a frown. Then he lets out a sigh, his eyes boring into hers.

"I know," he says in a small voice. Then his frown turns more irritated. "I still don't think this is a good idea."

"It'll be fine M. Just talk. Listen. Pet the dog. You'll be fine. I promise. I'll be back in an hour to pick you up," she explains and then affectionately kisses the tip of his nose. A pleased smile spreads across his features and he seems to be bolstered by the interaction, because he grins confidently, stands up straight, and suddenly whips around to face me, pointing one finger directly at me with great conviction. I stagger back in shock.

"VERY WELL THEN!" he cries, and Bronx stands up, all excitement and dancing feet. "Let us commence the therapy!"

"Uh... ok then?" I reply back, my heart fluttering wildly in my chest. Roxanne is laughing at this, and shakes her head before giving a small wave of her hand and walking out the front door, to return again in an hour.

Now I am alone with him. Alone except for Bronx.

For all his bravado moments before, he is suddenly quiet and his face is blank, eyes dodging mine and scanning around the room. I swallow audibly and try my hardest not to stare, but I can't control the reflex to ogle.

Megamind isn't looking at me, so I have a moment to absorb the details. He doesn't look very menacing, standing in the middle of my small office. He's so skinny, he barely looks like he could punch a kitten, let alone hurt me. His head is huge; there's not much getting around that. But when his face isn't contorted in an evil glare, or sneer, he just looks peaceful. Almost bashful. And now, he's looking around the room, seemingly taking in every detail just like I'm trying to do.

Slowly his gaze travels to land on me, but then past. His eyes suddenly open wide, the green popping out against his blue skin. He gasps and a smile splits his face.

"You have FISH!" and he's rushing past me, all but squishing himself against the glass to view each fish with one giant eye, mouth squished at an angle by the aquarium surface and hands splayed out on either side of his head.

"Yes," I offer lamely. "Miss Ritchi said you liked fish and dogs."

"Oh yes. Well, Minion likes fish more, but I like Minion, so I suppose I enjoy fish too! They're different from Minion but still truly fascinating," he rambles on excitedly, but then he stops, and glares over his shoulder at me. My blood runs cold.

"What else did Roxanne tell you?" he asks slowly, almost darkly, and I struggle to swallow or find breath in my lungs. I glance at his thigh and notice the holster; a gun is there.

I freeze and stare at the device as I start to tremble. He follows my gaze, turns around and looks down at the gun. Then he takes it from the holster and I can't help myself as I scrambled backward, my back colliding with the desk there. Pens clatter out of a cup, skittering down to the floor around me, and the ceramic holder shatters.

"This is my De-gun," he explains calmly, holding it in his right hand, giving it a flip so a bubbling metallic noise rings out. A whimper almost makes it to my lips, but he puts the gun back in its holster.

"What did she tell you?" he asks again, seeming to forget about the gun, not really noticing my reaction.

"Sh-she didn't tell me much. She just said you... you liked fish and dogs. And needed things to be secret. And that you were particular," I gush in terror, instantly regretting allowing him here, for agreeing to this.

I'm suddenly aware of the pictures I have of my family on my desk, and I wish I had hidden them. He could find them. Not that he didn't already know my name and could find them that way, but somehow, I feel like moving the pictures away could protect them more. I know it's stupid. But I can't help it. I wiggle to the side to place myself between him and the picture of my husband, grinning against the sunset.

He watches my movement and one dark eyebrow draws up dramatically in question. Then something like realization passes his face. He looks thoughtful, shifting his posture so he resembles a scientist, deep in thought, arms crossed and hip cocked to the side, one hand near his mouth.

"Oh. OH! Hmm. Roxanne warned me about that," he was saying, tapping a finger to his chin where a thin line of hair grew, like every evil villain I'd ever seen in movies. They all had goatees.

"I wasn't supposed to show you the gun, because you might get scared. But what's the point in having an amazing invention like this if I can't show it off!" he cries, stretching his arms out in some show of exasperation. "Being a hero is so much harder than being a villain!"

"Wait... really?" I ask, blinking a bit.

"Well, of course," he shouts, letting his arms flop to his side before he begins pacing back and forth around the room. He shifts position and moves so much, I barely have time to take in the meaning behind his body language.

"I mean, granted, being evil was exhausting; always escaping from jail, getting defeated. But with being good? I'm having to work double just to prove I'm not ee-vil anymore." He elongates the sound dramatically.

"I... suppose. So you've really turned good?" I ask, cautiously, and he looks over at me as if I were an idiot.

"Of course! Can't you tell based on my good-guy outfit?" he asks, gesturing to himself. And he... looks exactly as he always had. Still black leather jumpsuits, belt, spikes, cape, and the blue lightning bolt. I nod my head though, not sure what else to do.

"Yes, I see." I really don't. "Did you... want to sit down and talk?"

He glances to the room where I'm motioning and after a thought, he simply turns around and enters the room, surveying it as he had the first. He chooses the couch, and sits primly on the edge of the cushions, as if prepared to stand at a moment's notice. Bronx is right there beside him, tongue flopping out the corner of his mouth as he sits and turns his adoring eyes up at the alien. If Bronx reacts this way, then I normally don't have much to fear. So I walk in, and take a seat on a chair opposite the ex-super villain.

I'm shaking, and my hands want to fidget, but when I look at Megamind, he is mimicking my posture exactly. Anxiety radiates off the two of us. We both have hands clasped carefully in front of us, backs straight like rods, barely teetering on the edge of our seats like our flight or fight responses are still battling to choose a reaction.

We're the same. We're both scared.

I need to be a professional. I need to do my job.

He's good. He's not evil.

I take a steadying breath.

"So... Megamind. I can call you that, can't I?" I ask, and his raises one expressive dark eyebrow high on his towering forehead.

"It is my name," he replies dumbly. I cringe.

"No, I meant sometimes people like other names. Roxanne called you Megs, and M."

"Well, those are her names for me. No one else calls me that. Minion calls me Sir." He sounds so terribly awkward. The theatrics are gone, and he's fiddling with his fingers until Bronx pushes his head onto one of those thin thighs. Shocked for only a second, I watch his whole body relax as his hand finds the top of the dog's head, putting the jittery energy into petting him.

Oh how I loved this dog. He was already doing his job before I could even ask a single question.

"Ok, we'll go with Megamind then. So, there's a few things that I need to go over with you first before we continue," I begin slowly, as I always do, and I outline the dirty work as I call it. The routine calms me, and I let myself take solace in the script I repeat every session. The office stuff. Confidentiality. Fees. How sessions run. What I do.

He listens with rapt attention, and when I push a consent form to him across the table, he reads it over intently, and then signs a single stylized M on the line, a half circle coming around it. I recognize it as the symbol attached just at the hollow of his throat on his outfit. Good enough. I take the sheet and tuck it into my clipboard before leaning back.

"So. Tell me what brings you here?"

"Roxanne brought me here," he replies matter of factly. I laugh, easily now, without as much fear. Having the man's signature somehow seems like a shield. And I'm not dead yet, so that's a good sign.

"No, I mean what brings you here to speak with me. What do you want to talk about?"

"Hmm. That is a difficult question. Because I don't really want to be here. It's Roxanne and Minion who think I need this. I think I'm fantastic just the way I am," he says, sitting up straighter.

"I'm sure you are. But even the most fantastic people still need to talk every once in a while."

"I talk to plenty of people."

"Like who?"

"Minion."

"And?"

"Roxanne."

"And?"

He goes quiet.

"I only need two people," he replies after considering this.

"Do you feel comfortable with me as a third person?" I venture, and he narrows his eyes a bit.

"I don't know you."

"Well, that can be good. I don't know you either. Do you want to ask me any questions about myself?"

"Why did you agree to this?" he asks without hesitation and I note that he's cutting to the chase pretty quickly. I can practically feel the metaphorical walls going up around him.

"Because a woman called me who genuinely cares for you, and wanted you to have the opportunity to speak with someone about your life."

"She's just being nosy."

"Nosy?"

"Yes, she's always terribly nosy. She's a reporter. It's her job. But I don't always enjoy it. It can be frustrating."

"It sounds like it's something you've dealt with a lot in your relationship with her."

"Of course. We met because she's a reporter and I kidnapped her."

I cringe at the reminder of his murky, unsavoury past, but I push forward.

"Did you kidnap her because she was a reporter?"

"...Yes."

"Hmm..." I hum softly, and I find myself already wanting to jump right into the real work of our meeting. I tread cautiously though. I don't know if I can push him too hard, so I go for some self-reflection instead.

"I heard a pause there, and I know sometimes when I'm worried what someone will think of my honest answer, that I need to pause to think of a way to word it better. So they won't think less of me," I ponder out loud and then tilt my head at him. He focuses down on Bronx, pulling one of his ears up and then letting it flop down. Then, Megamind flicks brilliant green eyes up at me with a frown creasing his brow.

"You're nosy too."

"Therapists and reporters sometimes have to be."

He sighs out heavy, a martyred sound like I'm inconveniencing him. Then he waves his hand in the air a bit, as if to make the comment seem less important. But it speaks volumes.

"Fine, I had always enjoyed her reporting because I find her attractive, so it was two ducks with one rock; Kidnap victim, and I got to meet her in person." I try not to laugh at the mangled phrase 'two birds with one stone'.

"Seems like it was an important moment for you."

"It was! And look where it got me now!"

"Being the hero of Metro City?"

"YES! Annnnd I got the girl!" he grins brilliantly, smug, and then he leans back on the couch, crosses one leg and lays his arms across the back of the sofa.

"She does seem to like you a lot. But she's nosy. And you don't like that sometimes. And now she's making you come here," I summarize.

"Yes," he grumbles, switching back to the aggressive pout of a temper-tantrum prone five year old, slumping down in the couch with arms crossed sternly.

"Sounds like a pretty complicated relationship."

"Miss, I am a blue alien, who once terrorized the city. She is a female human who is a major public figure. Complicated is an understatement."

"Point taken. How do you two deal with all of that?"

"Not well, sometimes," he admits. "We fight. A lot." His eyes gleam and he grins dreamily as he says it.

"You fight a lot?" I ask, not sure if I really want to know, based on the look on his face. Maybe they're one of those couples that enjoy things a little... rough. I try not to judge, and based on what I know of the couple, their relationship did start with ropes and laser beams. It doesn't seem that farfetched.

"Ohh she is a most worthy adversary when it comes to witty banter. She's very intelligent," he explains, and he's back to sitting up, leaning forward eagerly. Again, I note he changes positions so often that it's difficult to try and mimic his posture. I give up on mirroring and just sit back to watch.

"Sometimes, she even bests me. I do enjoy the challenge though. Especially when she's angry, her verbal sparring skills are stupendous!"

"So it's the verbal sort of fighting?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course. No physical violence, if that's what you're implying. We are just... well... opinionated. And sometimes that causes friction," he explains, rubbing his hands together to give a visual representation, the leather of his gloves whining softly with the motion.

"It sounds like you like fighting with her."

"Not that I enjoy making her upset, or anything..." he stammers unsurely at the question, but I smile.

"But it's intellectual stimulation."

"YES!" he all but jumps up from his seat in his excitement, leaning toward me with his hands braced on his knees. "I get so few times to have witty banter now... Thugs and hooligans don't understand the art of back-and-forth hero to villain dialogue. Minion tries, to amuse me, but he's just dreadful at it. And with Metro Man? Well... I've missed it..."

And he suddenly looks so saddened, I wrinkle my brow in concern.

"You never meant to kill him, did you?" I ask softly, and he blinks, looks up at me, and then frowns.

"No, I didn't. Injure him. Defeat him perhaps. But I never fully imagined I would KILL him," he states, shaking his head ruefully, before fixing me with a cryptic sort of glare, eyeing me up and down. He opens his mouth, leans forward and then stops. His lips close together in a tight line again and he's back to resting against the couch, arms crossing his chest and head turned away.

Something had gone through his mind briefly, I reflect. Something he had wanted to talk about, but the trust isn't there yet. He is unsure of me, and decides not to share with me whatever was going through his mind.

"This is a pretty touchy subject I gather," I say softly, and he snorts, his shoulders bobbing with the exhale.

"Understatement of the CENT-TWO-REE," he drawls, drawing out the word 'century' in such an odd way, I have to stifle a giggle behind a cough, clearing my throat.

He narrows his eyes.

"Look, therapy can be pretty awkward, and I think this is a pretty special circumstance. I doubt you've had the best experiences with Social Workers in your life," I venture, and he frowns even more, hunching into himself. The posture alone speaks of a child, not willing to talk about why they came home from school with a busted lip. I picture an orange jumpsuit, bars, and a talking fish somewhere in the mix as well.

"Maybe you met some Social Workers or Psychologists in the prison, and maybe they tried to talk to you about things that were going on. They might have tried to assess you, figure out how to 'fix' you. Asked you why you did the things you did," I carry on, and with each new thing, he hunches in further, avoiding my gaze, his frown so wide and deep, he's practically stretching the skin of his cheeks beyond recognition. He glowers at the wall, his eyes dark with eyebrows down in a scowl that shades the green from view.

"And I'm guessing they didn't really do a good job. And that sometimes happens. Particularly in your case, I bet there was a lot of fear. You afraid of them. And them afraid of you. Fear can make people react harshly, and give up on something just because it's too frightening."

My guess is that fear prevented anyone from doing much more than making the slightest attempts to talk to an alien boy who was stubborn and quiet. And when he didn't respond, they gave up, stamped out a label, and left him in the dark. Because it was better to leave something you fear in the dark, then pull it into the light.

I'm still terrified myself, right now, and I admit it to him.

"I won't say I'm much different in the fear department. For all your heroic deeds, I still see you as the villain," I say softly, and he stares at me with a quick jerk of his head, his frown lightening a touch. He seems shocked by the confession. He wasn't expecting it.

"I tried to tell Roxanne as much. That I didn't think I was impartial enough to offer you help without letting my own experience as a citizen of Metro City get in the way. It makes me worried that I could end up like all the people who've tried to talk to you your whole life. I don't want to be another person in that cycle."

He's watching me intensely now, his arms slowly uncrossing so he can lean forward, elbows across his knees, hands clasped together tightly.

"But, maybe there's something useful in all this. They say the first step is admitting there's a problem. Once you acknowledge it, you can actually see it, talk about it, and figure out a way to fix it. Do you think we could work together to address this? Me, fearing you, and you having a past full of people who tried to do this sort of thing and failed?"

He's contemplative, turning his head off to the side, worrying his lower lip under his teeth awkwardly. He glances down at Bronx, pats his head gently, and then casts a soft smile my way.

"You remind me of Minion."

"... Intellectually, or do I look like a fish in a gorilla suit?" I ask, bolstered into injecting a bit of humour and he blinks, then gives a hearty guffaw of a laugh. We both dissolve into chuckles.

"Intellectually. He's often saying similar things," he waves his hand and goes into a complicated mimicry of the sidekick, puffing out his chest and putting his arms out high like they're too big to hold at his sides. A gorilla like stature, but the voice doesn't fit the image.

In a higher-the-needed nasally tone, he spouts out a whole dialogue between himself and the fish, which obviously occurred sometime before coming here. It's a back and forth about letting the therapy take place, and not trying to sabotage it by letting his old defence mechanisms take over.

It's a serious discussion, but between his actions, and impersonations of everyone (including Roxanne), I'm just trying not to choke on my laughter. He soaks up my amusement like a sponge and grins eagerly at me when he's done.

I liken it to a child who finally has the undivided attention of an adult.

"I never knew you were so funny," I chuckle once the performance is over, and I smile genuinely at him. He flushes with pride.

"There's a lot people don't know about me," he explains airily, still grinning and looking smug. "I'm very complex and mysterious. All the best people are." And he wraps his cape around his forearm for emphasis, holding it up to his nose to glare at me over the draping fabric.

"Ah, I see. Care to dispel some of the mystery? Why don't you tell me more about yourself?" I ask, and for a moment, he's still unsure. He looks me up and down, and I stay still for his scrutiny.

Then he smiles, leans back and relaxes on the couch.

"I had a fairly standard childhood..." he starts, and I lift my pen to take notes.