Roxanne is never sure whether or not she likes these moments.
Right now they are in bed at home in Not-Evil Lair and she's dressed in her most comfy pajama. She's on her back, propped up by so many huge, black, fluffy pillows that she's more 'reclining' than doing anything like 'lying down' on the huge bed, with her feet barely an inch away from going over the edge.
Their bedroom is set to a comfy temperature so they're both more or less above the silky black covers.
Even as a hero Megamind has kept his taste in color and decoration, and Roxanne doesn't mind the black-painted walls with only small blue accents. He hasn't even changed his outfit since he was declared Defender of Metro City (except that first month when he tried a lot of different styles that Did Not Work Out) so he's still wearing that same black-and-blue suit with the cape and huge collar when working.
The lighting in the ceiling is subdued as always, just the faint twinkling of LED-stars displaying an alien sky that has become so familiar. The light is just enough for her to see him against the black covers.
Megamind is asleep now, and his head is heavy but comforting on her left shoulder, lying on his side, his forehead pressed into her neck, one arm thrown over her waist and his legs tangled with hers, as usual. He still has the bottom half of his own hazard-pajamas on but has left the top off, so she has full access to his beautiful blue back.
She's stroking him idly up and down along his side with her left hand while her right hand is focused on his head. She can still feel the faint scar on his shoulder from last year when an up-and-coming villain almost got him. Megamind won in the end but at a price she's currently tracing her finger across.
She can feel his slow breathing, warm against her neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her side. He's deep asleep now.
He hasn't moved the last thirty-or-so minutes, but that's not a surprise. When Megamind sleeps he never moves without someone or something physically makes him. And after four years of living together Roxanne has learned that nothing short of a nuclear blast can wake him up when he's this deep asleep. And... a few other things one does not mention in polite conversation.
She sneaks a peek at him; his face is completely relaxed now, his mouth slightly parted and he's dreaming, judging by the rapid movement of his eyes. His left hand is loosely curled on her stomach now, and it's twitching along with the dream.
He looks so peaceful she can't help but smile.
Tonight he'd come home after finally chasing another would-be supervillain out of town following a rather violent battle (violent enough that he'd told the brainbots to get both her and Minion away). He'd been quiet at dinner after a brief retelling of today's events, but had assured Minion and herself that he was okay, really, just tired, just gonna eat and go to bed.
Okay, it had been ten in the evening at that moment, not an unusual time to go to sleep for a human being after a long day, but for him to say that it was as if she had gone to bed at four in the afternoon.
After a quiet talk with Minion she'd followed him into their bedroom and had seen instantly why he'd been so subdued. Three large dark bruises ran in parallel stripes diagonally across his back, but the worst was a nasty scrape on the back of his sensitive neck, and when he'd turned around to throw his shirt in the hamper she could see some lighter bruising over his ribs as well.
He'd been surprised she was there but hadn't tried to hide himself like he used to do in the beginning, he'd just smiled. A tired, somewhat embarrassed, but welcoming smile, like he'd hoped she'd show up but hadn't dared ask.
He never asked. He didn't like showing weakness of any kind, even to her, even after she'd told him, time and again, that wanting comfort, wanting closeness, wasn't the same as weakness.
He'd still blushed at her gaze, though, all the way from his cheeks and ears, down his neck, shoulders and chest, and she loved him.
Roxanne had just smiled at him reassuringly and gone to change in the bathroom, given him a chance to finish changing without having to worry about keeping his expressions under control.
When she had come back into the bedroom she'd gone around to her side of the bed and started rearranging the pillows the way they liked them for this, ignoring his ongoing attempt to get his boots off.
She had lain down first, finding a good position after wriggling around a bit in the deep pillows, and then he'd come crawling over the bed, aching and stiff, to lie down against her as she'd held her arms open for him. She had seen how he tried to mask every hint of pain, like he always did, but he couldn't quite hide the wince when he'd lain down on his bruised side.
He'd moved around until he found a good position and stretched out along her left side, his legs instantly weaved into hers, his right arm had snaked under her back while his left went over her waist and he had tightened his grip. His shoulder went along her ribs so that his long, graceful neck fit perfectly across her shoulder, but his forehead just barely touched her cheek, like he was trying to get as much physical contact as possible but was afraid to come too near her head and neck.
She'd wrapped her left arm around his shoulders, carefully avoiding his wounded neck, and put her right hand at the back of his head, pulling him to her and letting him know he could put his head to her neck. She'd held him close and tilted her head so that it had been almost resting on top of his for a few seconds. When she'd let go he'd stayed.
It didn't matter how many times she told him, she always had to show that him doing that was okay. Acceptable. Wanted. And he always needed some convincing, so she held him.
He hadn't protested anything she did, just sighed and closed his eyes, and she had felt how he'd relaxed against her as she touched him, almost melting against her skin.
At times like this she would normally keep a hand to his neck, but she couldn't do that this time. The scrape actually wasn't deep, it wasn't even bleeding anymore, but wounds to the neck was always painful, especially if touched, because of all the nerve-endings in that area. Normally it acted as a great pain-relief when he needed it, but that had been a no-go tonight.
He'd just had to manage, and she'd known he would, without a word of complaint.
Instead she had petted his head in long strokes, going from where his forehead touched her neck, all the way around the beautiful swell of his skull and to the back where it curved back in towards his neck, occasionally going to the front across his clavicle and under his jaw. After a few seconds he'd pressed his head hard into her neck for a moment.
She'd known he was saying 'thank you'. He always did.
Her left hand went slowly up and down his back along his spine, her fingers tracing feather-light patterns across his poor, bruised skin.
She'd made sure to never put too much pressure on his skin, and had marveled (again) at how much he trusted her not to hurt him. She'd never once felt him tense, even when her hand strayed close to his neck out of old habit - he knew she wouldn't hurt him and she could never properly express how gratifying the fact that he trusted her like that was.
The fact that he could fall asleep like that with her was purely amazing.
She decides again, like she does every time, she loves the moment, in bed together, him peacefully asleep in her arms. It's just that in these particular situations, when he's hurt, there's that undercurrent of worry, and that's the part she hates. But she'll always be here when he needs her, she'll always take care of him, just like she knows he'll drop anything when she needs him.
After all, that's what you do for people you love.