I'm not sure why I wrote this, just felt the urge to one day and scribbled it out. Call it a writing exercise, emotional unburdoning or self-absorbed claptrap. I just got the feeling that he'd be in the same boat as I am if his beloved was on the other side of the veil.
Dedicated to my dear wife Doreen. :* MWAH MWAH MWAH.
_
They had known it was a looming possibility, that every villain wanting to make a name for themselves and thinking love may have made Megamind soft would try to get his attention by kidnapping Roxanne, only this time there would be no one meticulously making certain she was in no danger. They had talked at length about it, him knowing there was no way he could contain her to ensure her safety and not really wanting to hide her light under a bushel anyway. They had settled upon putting her through a crash course of self-defense, and she had taken to it readily. Minion was amused by their training antics, remarking that it reminded him of the Pink Panther movies, Inspector Clouseau's manservant Cato helping his boss stay alert against all attackers by popping out of random places at any time and forcing him to fend off the jarring onslaught, except this looked more like them auditioning for Dancing With the Stars. He'd even made her a compact ladies' version of the De-gun she could hide in a special garter holster, but in the end, no one could possibly think of every eventuality, not even a brain a layer or two beyond ours in evolution.
Every night ended the same; barring the rare emergency heralded by a patrolling brainbot, the city's emotionally weary defender would thank his best friend for dinner and bid him goodnight with their traditional forehead hug, then slip into his bed and pathetically wrap his arms around the pillow that had been hers, compulsively burying his nose in it for some lingering trace of her pheromones, long since gone or overpowered by his scent. But it did not matter. Even if it wouldn't kill him, as she had once asked him about the burlap sack unnecessarily encasing her head every kidnapping, he would never wash that pillowcase.
Minion felt so helpless. He had stopped listening at the door, for he knew the kind of monologue he would hear.
"My darling, I miss you so ... I'm so sorry I wasted so many years ... please Roxanne, I need to see you ... won't you come to my dreams tonight? I used to dream of you all the time, why no more? At least ... try to call me. Research seems to show that ectoplasmic entities can manipulate electricity to communicate ... like that old Twilight Zone we saw where the husband was calling his wife through a downed phone wire on his grave? Oh, sweetheart *sniff* ... if I heard your voice on the phone, I'd never hang up."
The same sorries every night, sorrow for lost time. Followed by the weeping that would escort him to slumberland. Minion's heart ached for his dear bond brother, who had unwittingly orchestrated his own Hell on Earth.