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Chapter Text

When he walked back into the office, the room exploded into noise and motion. Most of his friends vacated their chosen fretting spots to swarm him at the door; Hughie actually scrambled over his desk and tumbled to the floor, shoving himself upright to try to sprint to Billy. All the commotion brought his headache back with a vengeance, and he hissed through his teeth as bile burned his throat and lights flared in his eyes. 

“Are…are you–” Hughie’s hands were fluttering in the air over one of his shoulders; Billy could feel him shifting nervously side to side, unsure if he should grab on or back off. 

“I’m bloody fine,” Billy hissed. Or, more accurately, slurred. His tongue was slow to respond, now that pain was thumping through his head, a shitty garage band shaking his walls to pieces. Too late, he dragged one arm up and waved them off: the exhaustion of the afternoon had caught up to him right after the door to the roof had slammed shut. That loud bang , now that he thought about it, was likely fuel for this latest agony-fire as well. 

Also too late, he started to stagger past them, and gingerly groped his way to his desk. The lights were fading out from his vision, but now it was blurred. “See? Told you I’d live.” With a far harder crash than he intended, he collapsed into his chair. “Dumb bastard didn’t feel like killin’ me yet. Just tortured me for a bit, then chucked me in a broom closet ‘til the witch flew back in on her broomstick.” He wanted to make a few clever jokes about broomsticks being code for wooden dildos lubed up with fun party drugs, but his body decided to slump forward onto his desk instead. 

“What did he do to you?” Annie’s voice was coming closer as she spoke. Every smack of her feet on the wood floor had him wincing, and he was a tad grateful to have his face hidden in his folded arms. “I…Butcher I don’t see bruises–” 

The tone of her voice was all horror and implications and he refused to confirm them. “He was dislocatin’ me joints, mostly,” he said, voice muffled by his sleeves. “Bit of waterboarding, some shocks–” Wonder if he’ll bring out the electrodes tomorrow night– “–dangled me off the balcony and swung me about ‘til he got sick of me Michael Jackson jokes. Nicked me fags outta me jacket and burned me with a few…dozen…I’m fine, really. Bit disappointed! I honestly expected more.”

“Let me see.” 

MM’s voice was right by him, and Billy jumped half a foot. He hadn’t even sensed him coming close, and he uneasily recalled Homelander telling him that his instincts seemed dull. Then a hand landed on his back, started to tug at his shirt collar. “Get off!” Billy groaned, and jostled his shoulders, like he was bucking flies. “It’s not bloody serious–” On his shoulder, one of Homelander’s hickies stung, and he shuddered, remembering those perfect teeth marking his skin. 

MM’s voice was granite-firm, daring him to argue. “If he fuckin’ burned you, they might get infected. Your immune system is jacked up enough already. So let me see .” 

“...No,” Billy said, as steadily as he could manage. “I ain’t takin’ me shirt off for free. In this economy? Not a chance.” It was weak. It was worse than weak.    

There were a few beats of silence, and Billy pressed his face harder into his arms. 

“Okay,” MM said quietly, and backed off. “Just tell me if you need antibiotics or some shit, yeah?” 

Billy felt sick. They know, I can fucking smell it, they know – “Listen, mate, if I’m comin’ to you for drugs, it won’t be for penicillin.” He managed to force some life into his words, and they showed him some mercy. 

MM snorted, and he sounded a tad closer to normal when he answered: “I’d fuckin’ hope not. Seein’ as you’re allergic to it and all.” 

That got Billy to lift his head and squint up at his friend, who looked back at him with a concern and an anxiety that he refused to address. “Am I? Well. That’s good to know.” Looking around at the rest of them showed the same expression in their eyes. Eels writhed in his guts; bile stung the back of his tongue and sweat prickled on his palms.  “Come on. What’s with the faces? I’m intact. Got all me bits and bobs.” 

Hughie looked at him with wide eyes and a pallid face. He was hanging back now, and tore his eyes away from Billy to look desperately at the others. “...That’s all he did to you?” He blurted out, and then folded his arms. Not defensively. More anxiously. 

Annie winced, looked irritated; Kimiko gave Hughie a light shove and shook her head at him; Frenchie forced a subject change. “Where was la sorcière all this time?” He asked. 

Billy forced himself to meet Hughie’s stunned, worried eyes. Finding enough strength to speak more or less normally, he said: “Not sure. Unluckily for her, looks like she tried to take off of her own accord. So, she was gettin’ waterboarded when I left.” It was a stupid lie. But he was struggling to think clearly just then, and he was so bloody tired. “If it’s all the same to you lot, I think I’ll call a cab and go home.” 

“Don’t you think you should tell Mallory?” Hughie said. Or demanded, really. There was a strange tension in his posture, and Billy leaned back in his chair to eye him. Annie whirled around to confront her boyfriend. 

“Hughie, he’s been tortured , it can wait–” 

Billy interrupted, intrigued by the odd new energy Hughie was throwing out: “Was gonna call her when I got home, son. That soon enough for you?” 

There was that expression on his face again, stricken and gray, and his eyes bored into Billy’s for a few seconds too long. “...Yeah. Okay. Just.” He spared Annie a glance, and swallowed before asking: “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

The eels twisted faster and faster in his gut, and for a few mad seconds, a stream of words was hammering against his teeth. No I’m not okay I’m in an abusive relationship with the supe that ruined Becca’s life and I have no idea how to make myself stop because he’s offering me things I’m not strong enough to say no to and I need help –

But no. He shoved those words back down; some part of him knew it was already far too late. So, instead, he said: “No. I’m not bloody okay. As your bird said, I was tortured for shit that didn’t have nothin’ to do with me. And you know something? Really hurts me feelings when he don’t believe me. After all we’ve been through.” He cracked a smile at his own joke, and Hughie looked ill. They think he raped me–he did – ha, no, no he bloody didn’t , you came four fucking times on his cock and fingers and sucked his tongue–that’s not the point they know – He retched, and MM didn’t even flinch. 

“You need a bucket?” His hand was back on Billy’s shoulder, and then Billy did need a bucket, because the thought of infecting MM with whatever mind-rotting disease lurked beneath his skin made him hate himself so much it ached. As he was shouting into the small trash can, he heard MM talking to Kimiko: “Hit the witch up. Make her fuckin’ talk to you, get her to tell you where she was and what she was doin’ there. If it’s worth pissin’ Homelander off for, it’s a weak point, and we need to know it.” 

And now my fuckin’ lies have them all chasin’ fucking shadows God please let me bloody die soon– Tears burned in his eyes, and he rubbed them away with his sleeve. He heard Hughie calling a cab for him, and couldn’t even feel relieved that he was getting away with this. 

***

He did call Mallory, when he was alone in his flat. Gave her the condensed rundown: Witchfire vanished, Homelander grabbed me, tortured me, returned me when he got his rat back . He hoped it’d be easier to lie to her, with her not being there in person. But it was Mallory, so it was harder, somehow. Partly because she was more direct than his team was. She listened to his bollocks story in silence, and then calmly asked: “Did he assault you?” 

There were the eels again, twisting and squirming in his guts, and his free hand found a hickie on his shoulder, pressed hard on the forming bruise. “I just told you he–” 

“For god’s sake Butcher, did the bastard rape you?” 

Billy closed his eyes, and slumped over his table. He scuffed his feet against the floor, and once again, there were words trying to come out of his mouth and into the phone and right into the ears of somebody who can’t bloody help me because nobody can bloody help me – “And what if he did?” 

Silence. Late afternoon sun streamed through his balcony doors. Homelander wasn’t coming tonight. But Billy had homework, so he had to get off the bloody phone sooner rather than later. 

“Butcher–” Mallory began, awkwardly. Then she stopped. She knew as well as he did that, if Homelander had raped him, there was very little justice to be had there. “Did you get anything useful while you were there?” She asked instead, and Billy was grateful to her for it. 

“Other than the fact that the cunt is possessive of the witch, and still isn’t bored of me? Nah. But still, him torturing me for hours and then lettin’ me go? He’s playin’ with his food.” Again, words crawled up his throat, trying to throw themselves at Mallory’s feet, because he’d actually learned so much, so bloody much , over the past several weeks. But just like his mouth would move on its own, it would also stay shut on its own. He told Mallory nothing, kept the cunt’s secrets to himself, and listened as she answered his lies.  

“Do you think he’s sleeping with her?” There was a tone in her voice. A slightly placating one, cautious. Pretending things were normal in order to ignore what he’d half-admitted to. 

“No. Not his type. He might turn her into a whore later, but right now I’m not getting that vibe. Rich blokes usually know it’s a bad idea to shag the nanny, after all.” A couple of months later, Wendy would lose her temper with him one day and punch him for calling her a ‘nanny’, but he hadn’t learned that lesson yet. 

Neither had Mallory, though she’d learn it much in the same way Billy would. “If she’s just the nanny…Where’s the attachment coming from? Him to her?” 

Been tryin’ to find that out since she got here, mate! He won’t tell me…no matter how good I nosh his prick. Clicking his tongue, Billy sat up and stretched as best he could. “You lot don’t have much on her, yeah?” 

“Oddly, we have more information on her previous life than we do on her time at Vought. Stan Edgar and Madelyn Stillwell took extra care to cover up her…after hours activities. As for her and Homelander…by all accounts, they only met twice before she joined the Seven.” 

“She’s taking proper care of the kid. That’s part of it. ‘Nother part of it? She’s unique. Can’t replace her; she’s the most valuable asset he’s got in that Tower.” 

“She’s hurting his brand.” 

“Actually–” Through the fog in his head, he recalled something Annie had been explaining to him. She’d made it sound clever, and he tried to fumble out her points now: “She’s hurtin’ his brand with his main base, but, distancin’ himself from Stomfront was gonna threaten that anyway. Witchfire’s fanbase is more…fringe, I suppose? Whatever that means for supe fans, anyway. Point is, it’s liberal, and young, and full of the gay people who were too edgy to like Maeve. He cozies up to her? Casts him in a different light, especially with her gettin’ targeted and all.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Mallory, while you consider that, do you mind if I lapse into a wee coma?” 

“...Do you need anything, Butcher?” 

A lobotomy. “Sleep. That’s what I need.” 

Mallory let him hang up, and he squirmed out of his clothes before crawling into his bed. 

An hour later, he was back up, on his laptop, feverishly picking out videos to send to the cunt. With every click and thumbnail, his ears burned hotter, and he got worse at telling himself he wasn’t excited to comply. Nobody had ever made him do something like this, demanded that he show them the filthy things he stroked himself off to. 

He considered being cheeky, sending links to the pouty blond twinks he’d mentioned at the Tower. Thought they might get the cunt wound up in a different way, have him back on his knees and panting for it–and then Homelander’s soft purr was filling up his head again tomorrow, I’m coming over and we’ll explore your body together – his fingers went rogue, just like his mouth liked to do, and sent the other kind instead.

Now, his brain was quiet enough to let him sleep properly, blissfully nightmare free for the first time in days. 

***

Mallory stared at the phone in her hand until the screen went black. Butcher was lying. She could feel it in her toes. Slowly, her fingers drummed on the edge of the sleek black case, the case that held a photo of her grandchildren against the back of the phone. Sometimes, she felt their flat, laminated eyes boring through the plastic, silently asking her what the hell she was doing. 

Her shoes squeaked over the observation room’s floor as she turned her chair to face the computer console and the glass beyond it. Down below, Soldier Boy slumbered in his glass coffin. Through the pill-shaped capsule, she could see his face, smothered by his mask, and his messy hair, permanently tousled by sweat no matter how cool they kept the room. Despite the heaviness of the drugs he was breathing in, the EEG machine said he was dreaming. Constantly, constantly dreaming. 

She set her phone aside, screen-down, and told the covered picture that she was making sure that the bad man didn’t wake up. That she’d learned her lesson about vengeance, and that it was something else pulling her back. A young boy with no mother was in big, big trouble, she explained, as her fingers found her keyboard and her keyboard found her files, that he was all alone with a monster, and that monster was collecting up other monsters to do something awful. 

Onscreen, Witchfire’s file bloomed open, filled with a few mugshots, transcripts from wiretaps, information gathered from Supes that had known her during her time at Vought. When the little witch had fallen into Vought’s lap–essentially bought at a police auction while her old ‘benefactor’, Gaine Meloni, was hauled off to die in prison beside his sons and lieutenants–she’d hunted high and low for anything on the Supe’s origins, her history, her vulnerabilities. Naturally, she’d made the trip out to High Desert State Prison in Nevada, had interviewed the sneering mobsters that had paid Wendy Fineheart’s bills. 

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Didn’t matter what she’d wagged in front of their noses, not a single man would say a single word of useful information. Except for Old Man Meloni himself. The six-foot-nine, 65 year old real estate tycoon and fifth generation mafia don had grinned coldly at her, in that dingy, private interview room, and gave her four little words of advice: don’t play with fire. 

Her best guess for when Witchfire had entered into the man’s service was well before the girl’s 18th birthday. The FBI’s photo surveillance placed her in the man’s limo–regularly–by the age of eleven, in fact. Sharks are born swimming, she’d reminded herself, when she’d been tempted to doubt those facts. 

Now, she was watching a video she’d seen for the first time two days before, a video she’d be sending to Butcher soon, to see what the hell he made of it. 

It was 2008, four years before Becca Butcher would vanish. Gaine Meloni had been betrayed by Dario Fry less than six months prior, and was already aware that he’d never see the light of day again. One of Vought’s better event spaces in the Tower was packed with reporters and celebrities and employees and Supes, celebrating the debut of the new DC based team The Minute Men. Three established faces, three brand new ones, including…

Onscreen, Witchfire sat in one corner, on a backless sofa near a window-wall, clutching a champagne flute she’d never sipped from. Two of her teammates had been with her at the start: Coyote, who still worked as an active Supe in Palo Alto, and Swan Song, who was currently leading a punk band under the name Serenity Ward. Both of them left her by herself, and Mallory skipped to the part she was interested in. 

Three hours into the party, and Witchfire had company again: Deep and Translucent had flanked her, one on each side, and both had been much less subtle at this age. Despite the young woman’s very obvious discomfort, Deep had slowly inched one hand behind her on the sofa, essentially making his arm a bar against her back as he constantly ducked in close to whisper in her ear. Translucent was tight against her other side, turned to block from easily rising and fleeing. 

Her fingers flexed around the champagne flute, and even on the black-and-white feed and with the camera mounted high on the corner of the perpendicular wall, Mallory could see that phantom fire fill her eyes. 

What Mallory hadn’t noticed yet, because Butcher hadn’t yet watched and seen and indicated it, was Homelander, on the farside of the screen, jolt in the middle of his conversation with the then-Mayor of New York. Shaking his head and blinking, the man chuckled, excused himself, and turned on his heel. Mallory, until Butcher got his eyes on this, only saw Homelander as he crossed into the middle of the image and then pivoted to come up to the couch. 

Deep and Translucent scattered. Homelander took Deep’s seat on Witchfire’s left, and they introduced themselves. For the next two hours of video, they ignored the rest of the party, and it was only when Madelyn Stillwell interrupted that Homelander grudgingly returned to his rounds. She had a tense word with the psychic, who rose to her feet and made her way to a cluster of shareholders. 

In the coming two weeks, it would be Hughie, under Butcher’s urging, that found two more videos that added additional puzzle pieces. The first would be the feed from the hallway outside the express elevator to Homelander’s penthouse, where, after the party ended, he waited impatiently. After five minutes of pacing, Witchfire appeared from camera-right, apparently having snuck out of the Minute Mens ’ transport back to their hotel. Homelander grabbed her by the elbow, and, instead of looking frightened, she gave him a dazzling smile as he dragged her onto the elevator. 

She stayed in the penthouse the entire night. 

The third video, which would be found by Hughie only three days after the second, was from a bug planted by an unknown Vought executive. It had been placed in Stillwell’s computer monitor, recording a surprisingly sharp videofeed. Like the other two, no audio, but it was far, far better than nothing. 

Homelander and Witchfire sat in chairs in front of Madelyn’s desk, Homelander looking stoney-faced and Witchfire looking both guilty and pissed off. Madelyn wasn’t visible, but the conversation went on for forty minutes. Homelander was dismissed, and a few minutes after that, Stillwell left her own office, relieved by Stan Edgar. 

Stan Edgar and Witchfire argued, that much was obvious, and that green fire was flashed more than a few times. Regardless of the witch’s flexing, the outcome didn’t change: Witchfire was off the Minute Men , and swapped places with Rainbow Rae of the Denver-based Altitude , the team she’d serve on until retirement. 

Soldier Boy slept peacefully below. Across the state from her, Butcher was sexting with his alleged archnemesis, and Grace was still months away from suspecting that. Witchfire was healing from the fallout of her most newly discovered power, and would wake in the morning to sow some more seeds with her future nemesis. And Ryan Butcher was alone, his whole future ahead of him, completely unaware of what he was destined to become. 

Her grandchildren’s picture stayed silent, powerless to interfere. 

***

Kinky boy!

That was the text message waiting for him when he woke up again a few hours later. Billy squinted at the screen and groaned. His head was pounding, but, luckily, he could tell it was more dehydration than deadly lesion now. 

He hauled himself out of bed and dragged his aching body to the kitchen. Hughie had come over and filled his fridge with bottles of water the previous week, and he let himself be grateful for it as he fumbled one out. After he downed half of it in three swallows, he picked up his phone and considered how to respond. 

Piss off he sent back. 

It took the cunt a half hour to answer: Lot of KJ Silver in here. I should have known. 

Billy scowled at his phone, and set his meager dinner aside to focus on his response. Yeah, well, he’s not as muscle-bound as you and his hair’s dyed instead of natural but he can do the Voice and he’s got most of your smiles down pat and when he tops he’s so bloody vocal – He backspaced the whole thing, cursing his fingers. Asked himself the hell are you thinking tryin to say all that and instead typed out: you wank to videos of blokes playing YOU? 

Sometimes. Billy choked on his fried rice and shivered as that very appealing image filled his mind. Especially when they get as popular as he has. I get it. He’s cute. Not as cute as you. But cute. 

He’s not the bloke you won’t tell me about, right? And nope, backspacing that too. There. I did your pervy little homework.  

Yes, you did. I’m proud of you. 

Bite me. 

I plan on it. You really like it, huh? More or less than the spanking? 

Breath leaving his lungs in a hard rush, Billy dropped the phone and covered his face; his arse stung, briefly, the phantom burn of the cunt’s hand slapping him pink and sore while he–while he–

Billy…Billy you’re moaning so loud–like you’re close–are you close? Can you cum from this? Can you cum from just a spanking? He hadn’t, but it had been close, probably would’ve, if the cunt hadn’t gotten too desperate to wait. And that had his face burning even hotter, remembering how Homelander had sounded, fucking back inside him: a hot, rough gasp, as relieved as it was aroused. His phone buzzed, and he couldn’t stop his hands from grabbing it back up. 

Oh, not ready to answer? That’s okay, gorgeous. Want to hear what I’m planning for tomorrow? 

“Yes,” Billy whined, hating himself for it. All the same, he forced his thumbs to preserve the last shreds of his dignity. No, you fucking clown, I don’t want spoilers for part two of my sexual humiliation. 

Okay. I’ll just give you a hint…

Screenshots from one of the videos Billy had sent him buzzed into view on his phone screen, and Billy whined again. Louder and sharper and tinged with despair as he recognized brilliant golden candle wax, bubbling on sensitive skin. He remembered the yelps of pain that turned to moans of pleasure, the sight of sharp nails carefully scraping the wax away, the grateful babbling of the sub as he was allowed to get off. 

That’s just the appetizer. I have to compare that to the spanking, too. And I’ve never choked you. Which is a pity, really, one I can’t wait to fix. I think you’ll like it. And even if you don’t, I already know that I will. 

Don’t bloody touch yourself you pathetic slut, Billy thought, but shoved his hand into his pants anyway. He’d never been choked, either. Had fantasized about it, sometimes, was plenty curious, and was willing to bet his prick would love anything Homelander could dish out.

His phone buzzed. If you’re jerking off, tape it. Show me what I’m doing to you, and I’ll call you a bad little slut as a reward. Plus…I’ll hurt you if you don’t. 

Billy couldn’t comply just then, because he was cumming into his own hand and thrashing so hard his dishes went tumbling to the floor.

Chapter Text

Be naked when I get there. 

That’s what the text from Homelander said. No specified time, no other instructions at all. Billy bit his lip on a whine and his thumb shook as he tried to decide on a reply. He thought of brightly colored wax dripping over his chest and thighs, and all the other things he’d been promised, and his thumb moved on its own. You’re barking. I’m not waiting on the bed for you. I already told you that I’m not your mistress. 

But he didn’t hit send. His thumb froze when he tried, and he hunched over his phone on the couch. Staring at the draft on his screen, he shuddered, remembering the cunt toying with him in the shower, and the needy noises he’d made while fucking him into the mattress. Pretending he was thinking about Ryan, and getting to see him again, he erased the message. 

I am his mistress. We established that yesterday. The thought was simultaneously bitter and breathless: his pathetic body was as onboard as ever, and Billy was on the verge of giving into its pleas. 

I don’t care what you do I’m–

He knocked the thought away, slammed the door shut on it, and tossed his phone aside to hide his face in his hands. What happens if I’m not naked when he turns up? His ass stung briefly and he sucked in a breath. “Calm down!” He barked, directing it at the excitement bubbling in his chest and the blood pooling in his cock. Insane how his body was struggling to muster the energy to eat and shower but was dead set on keeping his prick primed and ready. 

Heaving himself to his feet, Billy started to pace (once the light-headedness had passed) in front of his couch. The faded area rug was vaguely gritty under his bare feet; he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d vacuumed it. Still rubbing his face with his hands, he tried to weigh his options. 

And realized he didn’t actually have many. 

“Look, regardless of what I do, he’s going to come ‘round tonight and have his wicked way with my supple little body,” he said to his palms and his coffee table and his cookie jar behind him. “Clearly I got what I wanted: he’s absolutely barking mad for me!” Annnd what was our plan, when we got there? “I hadn’t gotten that far!” He reminded himself, and then fell back onto the couch. 

Or tried to. He missed, and landed hard on his back, rattling most of his important inside-bits. As he lay there, gasping at the ceiling, he felt a dull swell of pressure in his head break. Hell, he could practically hear the soft sploosh as the lesion’s sac opened up. He hadn’t even caught his breath as the slime bled into his nasal cavity, and then dripped into the back of his mouth. Retching, he thrashed over onto all fours and spat as much as he could out. 

Green-black sludge bubbled on the carpet, and Billy struggled more than he’d like to admit to get to his feet. Gingerly, he stepped around the puddle, and shuffled into the kitchen. As he scrubbed up the pus, he continued his conversation with himself: “No matter what, he’s going to be here tonight. So, I can either go along with it, and get something out of the deal–” And yeah, as he said that, he was thinking of Ryan; but he was also thinking of how Johnny had looked, lounging on the bed beside him after they’d finished. All mussed hair and filthy gloves and lazy smiles. Wadding the slimy paper towel into the bin, he said: “Or I can–can what? I can run, but he’d likely react pretty poorly to that, yeah? Like. Like beat Hughie to death with Frenchie’s burnt-up corpse kinda poorly , and–and–” 

He stopped. Leaned both hands on the counter. Stared at his teapot for a few long seconds. 

Thought of the green sludge he’d just wretched into the carpet, and of the pills that he’d thrown away out of rage and self-hatred, and of that amazing, plush bed he’d been fucked in yesterday. He drummed his fingers on the countertop, and turned his back on the teapot. Part of him wanted a shower, but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hand off his prick if he took one. So he shuffled back towards the fridge, mouth feeling dry. That feeling was creeping back in, the same one that had filled him when they’d fucked on the floor after Vegas: like he was being pulled under the surface by a violent riptide. A violent riptide that had dragged him into the one of the best shags of his entire life. 

“And besides. Who gives a fuck what I do?” He asked in a mumble, as he yanked the door open and reached for a water bottle. “I’m dying.”   

The noises Homelander had made played in his mind again. Desperate, that’s how he’d sounded. Like he couldn’t’ve stopped if he wanted to. Billy’s hand shook, but he forced it still, and drank the water fast, before the tremor returned. The tremor caused by lesions rotting his body away from the head down. I’m bloody dying , he repeated to himself, and fuck, sometimes, if he thought about that it, it made him so bloody fucking angry that his irises flared and his muscles crawled under his skin. He was dying , goddamn it, so who fucking cared? He was dying, and the bastard who was at the very bloody least indirectly responsible was standing between him and his wife’s–no–fuck it, fuck that too, between him and his kid, and didn’t he deserve a little bloody fun ? 

He paused for breath, stared at his phone lying on the coffee table, and then he was walking towards and fumbling it up with his left hand. It was so close to how it felt whenever he started smoking again, or drinking again, or picking fights again: like his body thought he’d die without it and sought it out for him. 

After a few more swallows of water, his thumb jumped across the screen, a tad uncertain; he hardly ever texted with his off-hand. No. Sending it made his heart jump a bit, and he viciously swiped at the guilt that tried to burble up from deep inside. 

I AM BLOODY FUCKING DYING. Didn’t he deserve sex and affection and decent food and the chance to watch a prim and pampered prat on all fours begging for his attention? Didn’t he deserve to spend some time with his kid? Didn’t he deserve this new way to hurt the caped demon bastard, by being his lapdog and then fucking off into the great beyond?! Hadn’t he bloody fucking earned that after all the shite– 

The tremor came back, slooshing water down his front, and Billy threw the bottle aside, knocking several stacks of mail to the floor. His limbs shook with a phantom strength they no longer had, but then his phone buzzed, and his rage died. Replaced by a single focus on the response his boyfriend had sent.  

William. We both know that means Make Me. 

Oh. Oh yes. He didn’t send anything back, preferring to wait, continue this discussion in person. As the chilly water dried on his clothes, his mouth was bending into a rusty grin. Yeah, he deserved this, he reminded himself. He deserved some bloody fun. 

***     

At 1:30 am, Homelander strode through the unlocked doors of Billy’s balcony, and found his lover sitting at his folding table, beer in hand, fully dressed. “Hello, sweetie,” Billy said brightly, lounging back in his chair, grinning as Homelander eyed him. Excited by the expression he saw in those shining blue eyes, Billy threw one arm over the chair’s back, opening up his chest to show off his jacket and both shirts. “You’re earlier than I expected.” 

Billy had been in that exact spot since midnight, but Johnny boy didn’t need to know that. 

“Hmm. Is that why you didn’t do as you were told?” He started to cross the living room floor towards him, but Billy halted him with a finger snap. 

“Doors!” He barked, and Homelander blinked at him. 

“Excuse me?” His voice was tight and threatening, and Billy leaned forward, over the table, so fast he nearly tipped his beer. 

Ooooh he’s already starting to twitch. Heart starting to sped up in his chest, he kept his voice falsely cheery.“You left me doors open, again. Close ‘em, or you ain’t touching me tonight.” 

Homelander gaped at him. Scoffed. Shifted his hands under his cape, and eventually asked: “Do you really think I’d give you a choice ? I didn’t yesterday.” There was a tense, unamused smile creeping into his voice and across his lips. 

“You’re the one askin’ to Play House!” Billy waved a hand at him, and the open doors behind him. “Close ‘em. Please .” He added that last word in a sneer, and Homelander rolled his eyes before turning around and angrily making his way back to the doors. Billy could have fucking cheered you are not in control you are never in control here but schooled his expression into something less baiting by the time Homelander was facing him again. “There. All closed up, gorgeous,” he said, forcing calm into the words. 

“Thank you, love,” Billy cooed, and his heart leapt into his throat when Homelander blinked across the kitchen. A stack of his neglected mail swished to the floor and lampshades trembled in his wake, and then his left hand was wrapping itself around Billy’s throat. “Ah–” He hadn’t meant to make that sound, but the cunt’s eyes flashed when he heard it, so he let himself make it again as Homelander hauled him to his feet. “Ah!” He grabbed at Homelander’s wrist and met his eyes as he was dragged in close, noses nearly brushing. 

“Now. You didn’t answer my question…” With his free hand, he started roughly pulling Billy’s jacket off; Billy told himself that he only helped because he didn’t want the leather torn to shreds. “Why aren’t you naked ?” Apparently Homelander liked the jacket too: he simply tore Billy’s top shirt open, shredding bright green and soft purple fabric in his fist. Billy protested past smothered laughter, and Homelander repeated his question through his teeth: “Why aren’t you naked for me?” He gave Billy’s next shirt the same treatment, and then that invincible hand dropped to his fly.

The fact that he was snickering about it wasn’t ideal, but he could live with it as he answered: “You didn’t say when you’d get here, love, I thought I’d have time–” 

Homelander shredded his trousers too, pants along with them, and Billy gasped as his cock was given a few possessive strokes. “Of course you’re already hard,” he muttered, and Billy watched in mounting anticipation as he dropped to his knees. Goosebumps formed where that gloved hand had gripped his throat; both hands were now pulling off his worn boots and tossing them aside. “You know what time I come to visit, gorgeous. That’s why you were still up and still dressed this late.” He got back to his feet, and took a step back to look Billy up and down. “I know what you want,” he added softly, and then Billy was being slammed face down onto the table. 

“Get off me!” He heard his beer tip over, roll, shatter on the floor, and then smelled the bitter contents puddling across the far end of the table. His heart was thundering in his ears and the pin left him short of breath as he scrabbled at the table, feet kicking uselessly across the floor. Homelander had him by the scruff of his neck and pushed him further across the table, not caring that Billy’s face was dragging against the formica. “I s-said get off–” Yes yes yes yes–

His words came out in a moan, and his cock throbbed between his trembling thighs. Behind him, he felt Homelander ogling him, and then the cunt reached between his legs and teased his prick for a few mind-melting seconds. “Oh, I’m going to. In your mouth, probably. But first–” The hand between his legs pulled back, and lovingly stroked the curve of his ass; Billy sucked in a sharp, frightened breath. “First…you need your punishment…” His voice was like velvet, no threat, just a promise. 

His cock twitched and goosebumps peppered his bare skin. “H-how many?” He hadn’t meant to ask it at all. Certainly hadn’t meant to ask it in that breathless, needy tone that it came out in. 

Homelander was smirking, he could hear it when the cunt answered him, still petting his ass: “Twenty. And this time, I expect you to count for me.” 

“No,” Billy protested, and struggled on reflex. Useless: he couldn’t even lift his head, and that had his eyes rolling back in their sockets. “No, don’t–” 

The first smack cut his words off with a strangled yelp, and Homelander prompted him: “Count, Billy, or I’ll have to start over.” 

“I’m not bloody counting!” Billy shouted at him, and he was shocked at his own tone. There was something shrill to it, and Homelander paused. 

The grip on Billy’s neck loosened a bit, and Homelander’s thumb rubbed at his pulse point. “Oh. Do you not like that?” The question was genuine, Billy could tell by his tone. When he really wanted to know, he’d put something into his voice, a sort of firm curiosity. Like a precocious kid refusing to eat his food until you explained why putting your elbows on the table was rude.  

Swallowing hard, he made himself turn his head, made himself peek up at him. Homelander looked back, patient and interested.“No,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm, free of any notes of pleading. “No. I bloody don’t, so don’t try and fucking make me. You want to fuck me, go ahead and fuck me–” Please please please – Heat building in his face, he spluttered out the rest. “But I’m not a damn schoolboy. I’m not gonna–” 

“Okay, okay!” Homelander held up his other hand in surrender and gave Billy a tentative smile. “I hear you. You don’t have to count if it’s gonna kill your boner, pal.” He adjusted his grip on Billy’s neck and pressed him back into the table. God , that was nice . His body kept trying to relax, to accept the pressure and the authority behind it. “Can I count out loud, or is that no good either?” 

Again, the question was genuine, and Billy grudgingly considered it. Homelander waited patiently, his hand a firm, grounding weight on the back of his neck. It was getting harder to not shiver, to resist calling him Sir and saying please until Johnny boy just couldn’t wait anymore and fucked him senseless. But not yet. He wanted more first. So, instead of please take me I’ll scream nice and pretty , he said: “Don’t. If you can’t keep count in your head, you shouldn’t be doing it.” 

Homelander huffed, but his voice was fond. “Whatever you want.” 

For the first time, Billy believed him.  

And then the next smack had him cringing and whimpering into the tabletop, the marks from yesterday still lingering; Homelander instructed him to hold still as the third blow fell. “Fucking pervert–” He moaned, toes curling. “Bloody creep! You and your fucking kinks–” Four and five and six were just mean, too fast and too sharp and he wasn’t warmed up yet– “No! N-no stop, I’ll rip your bloody eyes out if you don’t–” He cut himself off with a shuddering gasp as seven eight nine hit him over and over in the same spot. Fingers clawing at the table, he tried not to sob: “D-don’t, don’t stop–”  

Behind him, the cunt was growling, low and frustrated and sadistic, and Billy wondered what reaction he’d get when he finally let himself whimper. “Bad boys hold still and take it,” He gritted out, and his hand paused, rubbing over the red marks he’d left. “If you didn’t want this, you should have been obedient,” he reminded him, and the next hit was harder ; between his thighs, his cock was starting to drip. “I told you, yesterday, in bed, I warned you –” The cunt’s snarled breaths were coming faster now, as were his strikes, and Billy genuinely didn’t give a fuck if they were already at twenty or not. “That next time you broke a rule, it’d be twice as many. You knew this would happen and disobeyed me anyway. So, clearly, you want this .” 

Billy swore mindlessly at him and rolled his hips back into the blows, and had to fight down a cry of disappointment when they suddenly stopped. No no keep going I’m still being a brat beat me into fucking submission– 

Panting, Homelander yanked him up by the scruff of his neck and pulled Billy’s back against his chest. The height difference made it a tad awkward, but the strength of his grip compensated nicely. “Have you learned your lesson?” Homelander asked sternly, and Billy shook his head, breathless and starry-eyed. 

“N-no, explain it to me again–” He meant it, he wanted more, but Johnny had kept count, had stopped at twenty like he said he would. He’d never do more than he said would, not unless Billy wanted that as part of the game. 

In the present, Homelander dragged him around the table and frog-marched him towards his bedroom. “Your ass is so red,” he said, voice slanted to make it a taunt, and Billy bared his neck without meaning to. Not like he gave a shit. How could he give a fuck about his pride when Homelander was mouthing at his neck, teeth teasing like they might bite. Instead of tearing out Billy’s throat, however, he murmured: “Red and hot to the fucking touch. How’s it feel, gorgeous? Does it burn? Does it sting ?” 

It did sting, dulling to sore as the seconds passed, and Billy’s cock still dripped at the feeling. “Feels like a love tap,” he sneered, and Homelander scoffed against the back of his ear. “I’m disappointed, if I’m bein’ honest. That the worst you can do?” His fists clenched randomly at his sides as they approached his bedroom door, aching to grab something and hold on. 

“Heh. You know it's not.” Homelander shoved his door open. Beyond it, the bedroom was dark, and Homelander snapped the light on, bathing the room in incandescent yellow. Casually, he lifted Billy off his feet and tossed him onto his bed, like he weighed no more than an old sweatshirt. He chuckled when Billy landed with a whump and an audible gasp, no more dignified than last time he’d been literally thrown around. “Mmm. I can smell how much you like that,” he purred, and Billy’s fingers curled into the comforter. Yeah. I like it. So what? “Get on your back. Put your hands up by the corners of the frame. And hold still…” 

Billy did turn onto his back, but lifted himself up on his elbows to meet his eyes as he sneered back: “Make me.” 

Once again, Homelander was across the room in nanoseconds, making the comforter jump and rattling the pill bottles on Billy’s bedside table. Looming over Billy’s naked form on the bed, backlit by the overhead lights, he slowly reached down. “What’s with the attitude, William?” Above Billy’s eager skin, his hand hovered in place, like it was deciding where to touch first. “I thought we agreed on this yesterday. I seem to remember us making a deal…” 

His hand darted down, but instead of finding Billy’s cock or his neck, it came to a rest on his gut. With a soft sound of pleasure, he let his fingertips tease his treasure trail and circle his navel. “And here you are, being a bad boy again.” The growl had left his voice; all the heat was in his eyes now, drinking in Billy’s body like he was going to eat him alive. 

Frustrated, Billy rolled his hips, and replied: “Yeah, love, you wanted the Boyfriend Experience. That’s what I’m giving you.” He wanted the snarl back, wanted those cruel, punishing hands back, so he let himself smirk, his tone bordering on flirtatious. 

Huffing, Homelander danced his fingers up, over the curve of Billy’s stomach and up between his pecs, scratching through his chest hair. “No. You’re being a brat .” He tweaked one nipple and Billy couldn’t keep from touching himself. To his surprise, Homelander allowed it, actually turned his head to watch. “Slowly,” he said, almost absently, and Billy really tried not to obey. 

His hand slowed on his cock, making him moan, just a little, and he was rewarded by having both nipples pinched. “Yeah. Bein’ a brat,” Billy breathed, and lifted his eyes to meet Homelander’s gaze. “Cuz you like it.” He rubbed the slick head of his cock with the pad of his thumb; more precum seeped out when he spied a new glint in those blue eyes. 

“Do I, now?” The hand teasing his chest slid lower, past his navel, to gently push his own hand aside. At the first touch of warm leather around his shaft, Billy nearly melted, body almost going limp on the mattress. 

“You do,” he insisted, and tried to cover the cunt’s hand with his own. He was corrected with a warning tut, and had to stifle a whine, so he continued: “You’d be so disappointed if I just gave in . Don’t you like it best when I fight ?” 

For a few seconds, Homelander said nothing. Just pumped Billy’s cock and held his gaze. Then, he cracked a smile. “Thank you, gorgeous,” he cooed. “That’s awfully sweet of you, putting on a show for me.”

What. 

“I think you deserve a reward.” 

What. 

Homelander let go of his cock. Trailed his fingers back up Billy’s body, so slowly and lightly that he thrashed. “I told you to put your hands up by the bedframe,” he murmured, voice so fucking soft that Billy nearly whimpered, had to bite it down as he did as he was told. 

He cock twitched against his stomach and he shivered as Homelander petted one of his wrists. “Fuck…” He breathed. “Look at your face.” He reached back down and slid two fingers into Billy’s mouth. 

Make me suck it make me suck you off make me make me make me– He gagged and tried to turn his head away, tried to keep his tongue from lapping desperately as he did so. Mostly, he succeeded, and Homelander’s eyes glinted brighter. 

“Suck my fingers or I’ll spank you again.” His other hand grabbed Billy’s wrist and pinned it down. “With one of your own belts. I’ll cuff your hands behind your back and lay you over my lap, make sure you can feel my hard-on pressing against your dick–” Shuddering, Billy sucked his fingers, and to his immense displeasure, Homelander changed the subject. 

“Good–” He stopped. Grimaced, and eased his fingers deeper into Billy’s mouth, making him gag a little. “Sorry. You don’t like that. Huh.” He eyed Billy critically as he slid his fingers in and out of his mouth don’t moan don’t bloody moan and asked: “So, you’ll let me punish you, but no praise? What am I supposed to do when you’re good like this?” 

He actually sounded a little…annoyed. With another huff, he took his fingers out, and Billy refused to chase them, even though he’d been in heaven, thank you very much. “Don’t want your treats,” he rasped, tearing his eyes from Homelander’s hands to stare at his face instead. “You can’t reward me for doing what I’m forced to. Not getting maimed is the fucking treat. Ryan is the reward, got it?”

“No, Billy,” Homelander said, exasperated. “I told you, you need to be trained. And delayed rewards are not best practice if you want it to sink in.” 

“I’m not a damn dog–” Billy started to protest, but was cut off by a gag as Homelander’s fingers slid back into his mouth. A moan finally slipped out, despite his best efforts, and Homelander’s soft voice encouraged him until he started to suck again. 

“God. This part is going to be so hard.” He watched Billy intently as his fingers played over his tongue. “I need to reward you, Billy.” For half a second, there was a tone in his voice that Billy couldn’t place. Something tense and–then the cunt cleared his throat and the purr was back. “If I don’t give you positive reinforcement in the moment, how are you going to learn your place?” 

Another shudder rolled through his body, and he sucked the two three he put in three this time fingers in his mouth. Homelander cooed at him, and Billy pretended that didn’t make his cock twitch a little. “Ah. Well. I’ll just fuck you sweeter when you’re good.” 

Trying not to flail, Billy grabbed for Homelander’s belt with his free hand. Didn’t even think about it: just grabbed at that stupid, gaudy buckle and tugged demandingly. Homelander laughed, the sound low and condescending, and he released Billy’s wrist to grab the other one. “Bad boy,” he scolded, voice still a coo, and pushed his arm back down.  

Fingers still in Billy’s mouth, he gathered both of Billy’s wrists in his hand warm its so warm and held them down against the pillow. “Should have tied you up right away. So impatient: tonight’s about your body, not mine.” His cock was hard under his suit, Billy had felt it; now he was remembering what Homelander had said earlier in my mouth he’s going to give my ass a break and settle for my mouth instead – “I’m going to restrain you now. Just your hands, so you can kick if you like. I’ve seen you do that when you get close. It’s cute.” Something in Billy’s chest started to melt, and he fought it off by focusing on the cunt’s next words and the fingers in his mouth. “I know you have handcuffs. Two pairs, if I remember right. Do you want those, or something…” He stopped, watching Billy work his mouth up and down his fingers, gagging on them every now and then. “Softer?” 

He finally took his fingers back, and Billy gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. “Johnny–” He moaned, instead of what do you mean by softer? “P-please–” Softer softer– Silk scarves, that’s what Becca had insisted on tying him up with; he could vividly recall the glide of the fabric against his heated skin, could still taste the silk that would fill his mouth when she’d gag him too. 

He put those memories back where they’d come from, replacing them with the echoes of Aaron cuffing him to the shower head and holding a knife to his throat. His prick ached again, and his ass clenched on nothing, burning slightly from yesterday’s abuse. Aaron used to press the edge in hard , drawing a few trickles of blood, and would suck Billy off if he begged for his life sweetly enough. Realizing Aaron was genuinely capable of murder, had done it more than once, in fact, had made those games a lot more fun.

Aaron was no longer the most dangerous person to get on their knees for him, and the thought had his eyes rolling back in his head.  

“Mmm. Gorgeous. I know you’re…distracted…” He stepped back, leaving Billy gasping on the bed. “But I asked you a question.” Not asking where they were because he’s searched my flat he’s told me so himself Homelander left the bedside and threw the closet door open. With his foot, he kicked out an old two by two box, and Billy let out a shaky laugh as he heard the contents rattle. “How should I keep you in place? Your cuffs?” 

“My c-cuffs–” He shuddered. Swallowed hard. “My cuffs, or?” Again, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to ask What do you mean by softer ? Nor could he bring himself to uncross his wrists and sit up; Johnny’s gaze had him pinned in place. 

Homelander tried to sound restrained, but there was an undercurrent of hot excitement as he answered: “I have ribbon in the bag.” 

On his belly, his cock jumped and drooled, and Homelander absolutely saw. He grinned, and started to step around the box and towards the door. Can’t let him do that. Finally getting his brain and his mouth on the same page, he gasped: “Cuffs, the bloody cuffs, fuckin’ ribbons won’t hold me–” 

With an exaggerated look of disappointment, Homelander pivoted back to the box, and stooped to retrieve the handcuffs.   

Both pairs of cuffs swinging from one crooked finger, he sauntered back towards Billy, who watched them swing, too memorized to look away. “Of course not, gorgeous. But the tape doesn’t hold me , does it?” Neatly, he snatched up one of Billy’s hands and closed the bracelet around it. Cold metal slid against his skin and he moaned; at the sound, Homelander’s cheeks darken. “It’s about controlling yourself .” The other bracelet closed around the bedpost and he yanked it, just to hear it clink. 

Homelander teased his cock with a few gentle strokes, and then lifted Billy’s other wrist from the pillow. “And look, you do control yourself. So well!” It was very nearly praise and Billy shivered. Homelander continued, voice affectionate: “Kept your hands right where I put them; have you learned your lesson?” The first bracelet of the second pair of cuffs was chilly against Billy’s wrist, and blood was rushing in his ears as Homelander closed the other bracelet around the bedpost, trapping his lover’s hands. “Are you ready to be sweet?” 

He kissed the tip of his nose, and Billy spat at him, most definitely not ready to be sweet. “You get six licks with your own belt for that,” he told Billy, voice gentle, and closed the bracelet of the second pair around his left wrist. Taking a step back, those crystalline eyes raked down Billy’s body, inspecting him again. Hands now free, he dropped them to Billy’s thighs, and slowly pushed his legs apart. His cheeks redeemed further when Billy let out a soft cry and tried to close them, just to feel Homelander force them further open. Thumbs rubbing circles on the sensitive, fuzzy skin of his inner thighs, he breathed out: “Three on the inside of each thigh. Okay?” 

A full body shudder was the only answer he got, and the cuffs rattled on either side of his head. That’s my treat. Please love, tell me the beating’s the treat and that the fucking’s the punishment please please please–

“Later, though. We have to get started.” He kissed Billy’s mouth, soft and deep, and Billy did whimper this time. “I’ll get my bag from the balcony, and then…” He cupped Billy’s face with one hand, thumb stroking just under his eye and tracing the tail of the scar there. “Then, I’m going to blindfold you.” 

Swallowing hard, Billy shook his head and moaned a few half-hearted protests. He was hushed and that sent a spike of something warm and intense through his body. Bones aching with need, he watched Homelander stride from the room, and then yanked at his cuffs again. Fuck , he’d gone into this round of their game so bloody confident. Had it all worked out in his head, how he was going to keep his cool and twist Little Cunt Blue all up in knots–

That had gone out the window the moment he was face down on his own table, and now he was losing and losing badly fuck badly I’m losing worse than Richmond against Man City last season but instead of rage or hate or anything useful, all he felt was eager. 

The cunt took his sweet time coming back, bringing a backpack with him; Billy was trying to figure out exactly how stupid he must’ve looked, flying here with that, when Homelander dropped it on the floor beside him. “Comfy?” He asked, and touched one bound wrist with his fingertips. 

Billy said nothing, just gazed up at him with parted lips and mounting anticipation; Homelander caught his eye, and the smile Billy got was brief but genuine. “Billy…are these too tight? I can’t know if you don’t tell me.” His hand moved back to Billy’s face, cupped his cheek and petted his scar again, and Billy shuddered, too tense to not respond to a touch that soft. 

“N-no, it’s–” He swallowed hard and fought the urge to look away or close his eyes. “It’s not too tight,” he managed hoarsely, and Homelander bent down to kiss him. 

“Thank you, gorgeous.” And Billy gasped in disappointment as that tender touch vanished, Homelander turning away to go digging in his bag. He’s gonna blindfold me won’t see what he’s doing won’t see his face gonna surprise me– “Mmm. This color looks so nice on you…” Homelander straightened back up and showed the blindfold to Billy. Soft cerulean blue, and Billy felt heat flare in his face. “Yes, gorgeous, I picked it out, just for you, because it looks beautiful against your skin.” 

Spoiling me wants to spoil me– “I’d crack a joke here, but honestly, all of ‘em are too easy.” 

“The only easy thing here is you. Lift your head or I’ll take that meat thermometer from your kitchen and puncture both your eardrums.”

Fear and need jolted through his body, and Billy obliged, lifting his head from the pillow so Homelander could carefully he’s being so bloody gentle tie the cloth across his eyes. Velvety and warm from sitting in the bag for hours, it closed out all the light in the room, leaving him in the dark. “F-fuck–” 

“Oh, good. You like it.” 

Under his ribs, his heart was starting to race, the helplessness of his bondage amplified by the loss of his sight. His fists clenched and unclenched in the bracelets, desperate for something to grip, and every sensation in his body felt cranked up without visuals to distract from them. His ass stung against the sheets, and the metal of the cuffs sent goosebumps blooming down his arms. When Homelander’s hands landed on his thighs again, the weight made him moan. “L-love–” He had no follow-up: just that word, trying to crawl out of his mouth over and over again. “Love!”  

Again, he was hushed, and his jaw went slack. Homelander murmured something to him, and pressed on his thighs for a few seconds. Billy got the message, and kept them open when Homelander stepped back. “What’s your safeword?” He asked, and Billy jolted when both of his nipples were tweaked. “Mmm. Can’t wait to clamp these…” 

Cock drooling at the thought, Billy gasped and shook his head. “N-no–” He was protesting on reflex, out of the sheer fact that saying NO while getting fucked was bloody hot; still, he repeated it, stuttered out “No no no” as Homelander, by the sound of it, stripped by his bedside. 

“Pick a safeword or you’re not invited on Saturday.” 

Billy didn’t care what was happening on Saturday, he was going if it killed him. So he choked out the first thing that drifted into his mind: “HeroGasm.” 

Homelander’s long-suffering sigh started a laugh out of him. One short bark before he tried to bite his lip, adrenaline surging in his blood and heart still thundering. “You…you are really…” He’s trying not to smile. “Getting on my last nerve, Billy,” he muttered. “Not that! Okay?” 

“...Pineapple.” 

“Oh my god. Whatever. Fine. At least you picked one.” 

Billy was grinning in the general direction of his voice, but the grin faded as he heard the backpack unzip. “So. What pervy little torture devices can I expect to be subjected too tonight?” He asked, trying to sneer. He failed. Miserably. 

“Mmm. To start with…” More cold metal over heated skin. Billy threw his head back and let out a pathetic yelp as the cock ring sank down his shaft and nestled snugly at the base. “Let’s see if we can help you learn some…restraint…” Now his hand was pumping up and down Billy’s cock, and the cuffs jingled as he tugged frantically at them. His hands were bare now, the gloves discarded, and Homelander purred when Billy’s precum spilled over his fingers. “Even if you can’t learn, it’ll make your orgasms more…intense.” His thumb circled the slick head, tugged at his foreskin, played with the most prominent veins until Billy was babbling nonsense. “And I intend to knock you flat .” 

He let go, leaving his lover to writhe and buck and gasp on the sheets. “Mmm. Here we go.” He tweaked one of Billy’s nipples, fingers wet with Billy’s precum, and tugged at the bud until it was peddled and rosy. “You like pain, don’t you gorgeous?” 

“You know! You know!” Don’t make me admit it not yet I can’t admit it–         

“Heh. Yeah. I do know. So…” He flicked the nipple he was playing with, and Billy heard him shift through the bag again. “I think I know how you’ll respond to this. But…just to be sure…” A tiny, tinny creak. A pause. And then hard metal closed around the bud of Billy’s right nipple, and he screamed. 

Short and rough and more startled than pained, but a scream, no doubt about it. The pinch was hard, making his chest smart and sending brilliant little strobe light flashes up and down his nerves. Homelander chuckled at him and chuffed his chin; heat gathered in Billy’s cheeks and he gasped for air as he tried to fight off the twitching in his cock. 

Above his head, his hands flexed in the cuffs, fingers curling uselessly. His teeth worried his lower lip and he heard himself whine. The longer the pinch went on the more edges he found to the pain: an edge of sting, an edge of sweet, an edge of hot –Just as he was getting familiar with it, starting to feel excitement from the tease, the other clamp closed on him and he threw his head back, half-laughing past his yelps as precum bubbled down his shaft. 

“Good,” Homelander breathed, and trailed his hands over Billy’s pecs, stopping to fondle the clamps and make his lover scream again. “Good…Now…” 

Straining his ears, Billy listened with vibrating excitement as Homelander returned to his bag a third time. “L-Love–” He called, trying to make it a question. 

“What do you need, gorgeous?” 

For you to keep calling me that. “Am I gettin’ a punishment or a treat?” 

“Mmm. That’s up to you, actually.” Two objects were laid across Billy’s stomach, making him flinch. The motion jostled the heavy clamps on his chest, and he laughed again as his cock begged for more. “Gonna let you see for a second. Pick.” 

One hand dragged Billy’s head up by his hair; the other tugged his blindfold up and away from his left eye. Billy had felt the outlines of the things, had made a guess. And he’d been correct; one of his belts, and a long, black taper candle lay on his stomach, side by side. “Oh, love–” He hadn’t meant to say it, but it earned a growl in his ear I can smell how bad he wants to fuck me and then Homelander whispered to him again. 

“Punishment…” The hand not holding his hair tapped the belt. Billy felt dizzy. “Treat.” Homelander tapped the unlit candle. “Pick or I’ll start taking your teeth right out of your gums.” 

His chest was already so fiery, so awash in sensation, and he felt greedier than he had in months. He wanted more; he wanted all of it. Panting out the words and nearly drool as he stared hungrily at the candle, he replied: “Treat, fuckin’ treat, you want me trained so bloody badly–” 

His head was slammed back down, and he bucked his hips until the belt and candle tumbled to the mattress. He was screaming from the tug on his hair, scalp as happy as his chest, and then Homelander roughly pulled his blindfold back down. “Your wish is my command. Keep screaming for me and I’ll rock your world, gorgeous.” 

Seeing no possible downside to that, Billy screamed for him all night.    

Chapter Text

The fun with the candle wax and the blindfold and the clamps was Monday night.  

Tuesday night, he found himself on his stomach while the cunt iced the marks left on his shoulder blades and upper arms. Billy hadn’t been given much of a choice, mind you; the cunt had strapped him to the bed during his beating (which was fun) and refused to let him up until after he was ‘tended to’ (which was less so). 

As he rested wrapped ice packs over the soft, red belt marks, Homelander explained about starting Ryan off with home-schooling. “He needs time to adjust,” he said, and then told Billy to quit whining, that the strap across his lower back wasn’t that tight. “And if you’d just let me do my job and take care of you–” 

“Adjust to what?” Billy snapped, wishing he could cross his arms under his chin. But noooo, he needed to keep them laid out in opposing Ls so Homelander could soothe the burn of his own handiwork. “He’s been to school before.” More ice on the highest mark on his right arm. And yeah, okay. That felt nice, he supposed. “Hurry up,” he muttered, trying to stretch out his neck. “Don’t want you here all night.” 

“Ouch! You used to beg me to stay until dawn.” Homelander spoke with exaggerated wistfulness as he checked on Billy’s upper back. “Yeah, you’re okay,” he murmured, and set the ice pack back in place. He’d apparently stashed them in the back of Billy’s freezer the previous night, and it was only sort of hot that he’d planned that far ahead. “Took that like a champ,” he added, voice appreciative and fond, and Billy might have preened for someone else. 

But he was tired, and embarrassed by how hard he’d come against the sheets when Homelander had fingered him, and he wanted to be alone. So, he refused to accept the subtle praise and instead pressed the real issue: “You just don’t want him makin’ friends.”  

“That is not true!” Homelander snapped, and Billy twisted his head to look at him. Above him, Homelander was sincerely pissed, mouth puckered in a sour glare, eyes blazing, one hand nearly trembling around the ice pack it held. Meeting Billy’s eyes, he said, in a voice of forced calm: “That is not true. I want him to make friends.” There was something hiding under that last word, too shaded over to pinpoint. “But he knows the town he lived in was fake .” A hint of rage in his eyes, and he set the ice pack on Billy’s arm. “Finding that out was–” Homelander stopped for a second as Billy let out a soft noise of relief. “Hard on him,” Homelander continued, and trailed his fingertips down the curve of Billy’s spine . “The social skills he learned there are–”  

“This is the witch talking,” Billy grumbled, and looked away from him again. It was hard not to shiver. Between Homelander’s caress and the chill of the ice packs, his body hair was all on end. Homelander stopped petting him long to start lifting the ice packs off of him.  

Still pissed, he said: “And he’s developed serious social anxiety. Abandonment issues.” That was a dig, one Billy accepted silently, since he deserved it. “He’s never been exposed to big crowds or to a lot of technology from the last 15 years or so. And the trauma of. Of. Losing his–” He stopped and took a breath, and Billy fought off several different, intense emotions. His ears got hot and his hands curled and he could sense the bile in his stomach roiling. Thinking about Becca right now was pointless, he wouldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it–

Homelander spared them both and skirted around the rest of his sentence. “The trauma he’s been through has caused some regression, apparently. Loss of skills and loss of tolerance to…to…” He huffed out an annoyed breath as the last of Billy’s new marks were exposed to the room. Gently, Homelander ran his fingers over, watching Billy’s reactions, presumably checking the damage under his skin as well. “I don’t know, I can’t remember everything she said–” 

Endlessly grateful for Homelander’s continued avoidance, Billy twisted his neck again to sneer at him. “Ah! It was the witch talking!” It was fun to pretend he’d won something by guessing, as if it wasn’t obvious. As if it mattered. 

“Billy,” Homelander said, suddenly weary. “She is a developmental psychologist and a fucking psychic. I, on the other hand–” He paused and flapped a hand at Billy’s arm. “You can move your arms, gorgeous, I’m going to let you up. I have no idea how to be a parent. I know that, okay? Obviously, when I’m saying that shit, I’m more or less repeating what Wendy said. What, you think I have time for child psych classes? I’m sleeping three hours a night.”

Billy wasn’t really listening. He was busy wrenching his arms under his chin, ears burning. He hated that he actually waited for permission, hadn’t even realized it. His mouth decided to do something with the irritation: “Always a sock-puppet for somebody, eh, love?”  

“Ass,” Homelander hissed, and undid the buckle of the strap he’d brought along. “Come on, get up, we’re done with the ice.” 

Billy rolled off the mattress and stood up, pretending the movement didn’t make his head spin. He failed when he lost his balance and Homelander had to catch him. “Stop that,” he said, trying to wiggle out of the cunt’s iron hug. 

“You want me to let you fall?” One hand cupped Billy’s face, and Billy swatted at it reflexively. “You have been a fucking pain tonight, you know that?” Homelander snarled, as if that hadn’t been the bloody goal .  

Innocently, Billy said: “If you’re cross at me, love, we could–” 

“We are not skipping our shower!” There was a tantrum threatening in that tone and Billy gave an exaggerated groan. 

“Every time?” He whined, and Homelander adjusted his grip. Now, his hand was on the scruff of Billy’s neck, and Billy pouted as he was frog-marched into the bathroom. “Every single time?” He put as much petulant grief into the words as he could manage, and caught a glimpse of Homelander’s face in the spotted mirror. Instead of angry, he looked hurt. 

Good , Billy reminded himself to think. Fuck his feelings. I barely believe he’s got any.  

“Are you going to spend the night Saturday or not?” He asked tightly, before pushing Billy under the showerhead. “Turn it on,” he ordered, refusing to bite the cold-water bullet this time. 

Accepting his punishment, Billy twisted the taps and cringed as ice water burbled from the pipes. “Yeah, course I am,” he said, and surreptitiously checked the color of the marks on his arm. Pale red stripes, and he’d be sporting them for a few days at least. His lover wasn’t bad at this, he could admit that.  “Nothing in front of–” 

“I won’t kiss you in front of him,” he promised again. “Not until you want me to.” The water finally heated up, and Homelander stepped under the spray with him. “And yes. We are showering together every time we have sex.”

There was barely room for both of them in here, and Homelander seemed much broader because of it. Billy felt blocked in, trapped, and refused to shuffle backwards. Instead, he feigned disgust. “For fuck’s sake, why?” 

A muscle was working in Homelander’s jaw. “Because I like doing it,” he said through gritted teeth. Between their feet, the drain gave that gurgle Homelander hated. “And we agreed that you’d play along and make me happy , right, gorgeous?” 

“Made you plenty happy out there, love,” he said, jerking his head at the wall separating them from his bedroom. “Or did you forget about stuffing me mouth with your golden prick?” He crossed his arms over his naked chest, which bore a different set of red marks. Homelander had decided he liked biting Billy’s chest just as much as his thighs, and hadn’t left his tits alone since.

Those teeth were flashing at him now, the cunt’s honeyed smile far more threatening than a snarl. “Oh, I could never forget that, William, it was the only time all night you shut up for more than 5 seconds.” He seemed to be fighting the urge to put his arms behind his back, hands twisting at his sides as he refused to make real eye contact. 

If you’re having a bad time love, you could always piss off . 

He changed it up, just to make the cunt lose his rhythm. “So, what’s the plan for Saturday? We taking kiddo out to murder unarmed protestors? Hunt endangered sea creatures for fun? Burn down the World Seed Bank for being pedophilic socialist occultism?” He waited until Homelander opened his mouth and then added his final: “Or just Parcheesi?” He tried to feign innocence in his grin but quickly gave up, and Homelander pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Movie!” He said flatly, as water drenched his hair and ran in rivers down his shoulders and chest, and you know, Billy kept waiting to get over those pecs but it kept not happening. “We’re taking him to a movie. Some sort of…Indiana Jones for kids, I think? It looks…atrocious…but, hey. I’ve been through worse.” 

He was clearly implying that Billy was torturing him. Which was a very rude thing to imply about your boyfriend. “You watched Soldier Boy in Atlantis on purpose, cunt, you got no room to talk.” 

He hadn’t thought through the reference. At all. That was just the title that came to mind first, honest, he might not have said it if he’d just thought–

That muscle worked harder in Homelander’s jaw and then his head snapped up, eyes still clear and blue but glinting with fury in the dim light. “Don’t fucking bring him up!” He sounded a bit shrill, and was smidge less gentle as he shoved Billy aside. He grabbed the shampoo and Billy was impressed he didn’t crush it to pulp. “God. You are ruining this for me, you know?” 

Refusing to hesitate, Billy sneered back: “Thanks for the feedback. I strive to provide a first-class–” Glop was smacked into his hair and he stopped midword to scowl as the cunt roughly washed his hair for him. “I don’t need this,” he grumbled. “Especially not from you.” 

“I need it,” Homelander said quietly, body still tense, fingers still too rough. 

Billy blinked, and then reflexively closed his eyes when Homelander said rinse and stiffly pushed his head under the spray. Impossibly strong fingers returned to his hair and massaged the shampoo from it. Slowly, carefully, taking time to scratch his scalp and stroke his temples. When he opened his eyes again, Homelander had softened, eyes a tad warmer and mouth easing out of its frown. His hands slid out of Billy’s hair and over his shoulders before he took them back. 

“Oh.” There was supposed to be more to that sentence, but his mouth was tired or something, could only give him that single, weak syllable.  

“Yeah.” Homelander didn’t try to go for the soap or for a washcloth, apparently not in the mood to fight anymore. “I–just, let me do this, okay? I–I want to–” He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair, and shifted his stance. Water splashed under his feet and he groaned again, louder. “Like you did for me,” he muttered, as if he couldn’t articulate the feelings connecting those two sentence fragments. “You always– I never just LEFT. Billy, you would ask me to stay, remember? And, we’d–” He swallowed. Trailed off. Now he looked hurt again. Hurt and confused, like he always did when he had to play Human Beings with somebody who didn’t follow his script.   

They stood there, awkwardly, as the water started to run cold.

“What time’s the film,” Billy asked, quietly. 

Homelander’s hands worked uselessly at his sides. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Billy and scoffed, forcing his face into something more suited to His Majesty. “Movie,” he said, haughty as you please, and it was Billy’s turn to groan as he stepped out of the now-tepid spray. 

“Shut that off, please ,” he said, waving his hand at the shower, and squelched his way to the sink. Grabbing his toothbrush, he tried to get the taste of Fascist Prick out of his mouth. 

The shower turned off and Homelander shoved the curtain aside to join him. “I’m not a sock-puppet,” he said, a sulk tinging his voice. 

“No, not anymore,” Billy conceded. “I think you might even be growing a personality, love.” He spat into the sink and Homelander actually waited until after he rinsed with mouthwash to grab him by the elbow and spin him around. 

“I have a fucking personality!” His nostrils were flaring and there was color in his cheeks, and Billy smirked. 

Gently, he grabbed him by the hips and pulled their bodies together. The anger in Homelander’s face faded quickly as Billy ran his hands up his bare spine, from his tailbone to his shoulder blades. “Of course you do, love,” he said, dripping condescension. “Why else would I like you so much? God knows it ain’t your looks.” 

Annnnnd there was the fury, back at the snap of his fingers. “Ass!” Homelander shook his arms off and stormed into the bedroom. Billy leaned against the counter and crossed his arms and listened to the whoosh and clatter of the cunt using superspeed to dress himself before Billy could follow him. 

Just as the cunt was ready to flounce off and lick his wounds, Billy called after him: “What about my goodnight kiss?” 

There was a pause.

And then Homelander was back in the bathroom, inches from Billy’s nose. “What?” He hissed, and his hands bracketed Billy on either side of the cheap counter. 

Not minding the cracking tile, Billy clarified. “Goodnight kiss. That’s your rule, love, not mine.”

“Testing my fucking patience–” 

“When’s the movie?” Billy arched his brows when Homelander blinked in confusion. “What time should I get there, love?”

For half a heartbeat, Billy thought Homelander wasn’t gonna tell him. But then the cunt took a few deep breaths through his nose, and forced his shoulders down and out, uncurled his hands. Straightening up, he studied Billy’s face and said: “5:30. And I want you to spend the night.”

Billy’s brain stopped working. Homelander watched his face, and barely looked smug when he realized Billy was stunned. “Uh–” Shifting against the counter, Billy braced his own hands on it, feeling his wrists twinge as he did so. Ignoring it, and the creeping numbness in his fingers, he said: “Seriously?” 

“Yeah. Absolutely. Movie, dinner. My bed, with me. And then breakfast with Ryan on Sunday before you fuck off to do whatever it is you do while normal people are in church.”

“Like you go to church.” 

“Why would I? There is no god.” The words seemed to come out darker than he anticipated, because he covered them with a bitten-off laugh and said: “You can come over early, while he’s out with Wendy. We can play. Have a bath together.”  

Briefly, Billy thought of the tub he’d seen in Homelander's genuinely obnoxious bathroom. “And why would I do that?” 

“You were drooling over my abs 10 minutes ago,” Homelander snapped. 

“Was not.” Again, it had been his pecs getting Billy’s attention just then. 

“Heh. Oh? You weren’t?” Homelander leaned in closer. Brought their noses close enough to brush. “My mistake…” He kissed him. Not hard, no, the goodnight kisses weren’t hard or demanding or full of lust. They were soft and they lingered instead of claimed and the cunt always broke them just before that warmth would turn to want. “Come over early,” he whispered, and Billy found himself nodding, hoping his cheeks weren’t pink. “Aw. Made you blush.” 

And then he was gone, various shite in Billy’s flat rattling in his wake. With an angry mutter, he shoved himself off the counter and shuffled to his bed. 

There was a dose of Compound V next to his pills, but that wasn’t nearly as important as the bottle beside it. The cunt had replaced the headache medicine he’d tossed out. Billy’s face burned hotter.   

***

“I am not a sock puppet,” Homelander told no one in particular, as he strode in from his landing pad and into the useless wings of open space his third floor held. Sometimes, he suspected that 9/11 caused Vought to rush the debut of the Seven a bit, and his house simply wasn’t done by the time he had to move in. Then again, he thought, looking from side to side as he strode for the first staircase, what the fuck else would they put up here? Probably a gym or something else completely useless to him. 

They might need one for Billy, if he moved in while still tragically human. 

The stairs from the top floor to the second were straight and narrow, unlike the sweeping white slide that connected the second and first floors. It led down into the narrow side hallway and its assortment of rarely used rooms. The formal dining room, the office (his actual office was three floors below him for fuck’s sake) and the random guests rooms he was systematically having ripped out to make room for Ryan’s needs and life. He didn’t mind doing it. He didn’t mind at all, actually, which sort of surprised him. 

At the top of the stairs, he passed the ‘formal’ bookcases, as he thought of them. The ones that Vought had put in for show, like pretty much everything else out here. He’d simply tossed most of the ones Billy had damaged during their first playdate here, having never once opened the majority of them. He was a bit pissed about Journal of A Plague Year taking a beating, had actually had a bit of a fit when Beware of Pity turned up with half its pages vomited out of the cover. The rest? Into the trash, and now he couldn’t even remember what color the bindings had been, let alone what the titles were. 

Now, he was down into yet more open concept/useless space, the Old Glory mural brilliant even in the dark. The door in its center hid the kitchen and the breakfast bar, where Ryan preferred to eat, and past that was his den and the space where his bed used to be. After Stormfront died, he’d tried to keep sleeping there, but had had the worst sleep paralysis nightmare of his life when he tried. 

So he’d smashed the bed to pieces, and the mirrors around it too, to make Friend shut his mouth for a minute, and had started sleeping in the room where he kept his music and books. It was only accessed through the shallow stairs on the other side of the den, one of the few truly private feeling places in the house. It was one of four bedrooms in the place so much useless fucking space and one of only two with an ensuite bathroom; he’d always bathed in there too. 

For the first time ever, it occurred to him that he’d been hiding in there, and he almost laughed a little. 

He stopped and backed out of the hallway, drifted back to the open concept entrance. For the first time in about…ten or so years, he really studied the place. The paintings on the walls, the cheap reproductions of sculpture, the books upstairs, the furniture, the flag murals. Piece by piece, he took it all in.   

And frowned.

There was a reason he’d felt the need to hide most of his actual books, hide all of the music he actually listened to. This was not his home. He’d picked out maybe ten percent of what was in here, and suddenly, he hated absolutely all of it . 

“Hmm.” He said, hands under his cape, feet still off the ground. Silently, he flitted from room to room and wall to wall, examining all of it, disgust creeping further and further into his thoughts. He thought of his teammates’ rooms downstairs, and for the first time, he could put a specific name to the emotion flaring up when he did. Jealousy. A deeply juvenile, wounded jealousy, the kind that always bubbled up when other Supes talked about childhood toys and bedtime stories and the movies they snuck into while he was–

“Stop that,” he barked at nobody, yanking his thoughts back to the problem at hand. AKA, that his house was hideous and he needed a more specific plan than ‘fire’ and ‘sledgehammers’.   

Swallowing hard, his fingers curled and flexed, he decided two hours of sleep wasn’t that much worse than three hours, and used his speed to rummage through the offices a few floors down until he found what he was looking for. Colorful stickers for sorting files. 

Back upstairs, as he slapped blinding orange stickers on everything he wanted gone gone gone, he congratulated himself on doing this before Billy spent the night and actually got a long enough look at it to mock him. “I am not a sock puppet,” he told the space where the mirror over his old bed had been. “I have a personality,” he told the statues, each with a brilliant orange sticker pasted to its forehead. “This is my house. This is my house. This my fucking house,” he told the uncomfortable furniture and the books he’d never read and the dining room that his son hated. 

Speaking of Ryan, he should cancel that shit he’d had blocked out in the afternoon. He’d make Wendy do it, or something. He needed to take his son shopping. Fill this house with some fucking life for once, make sure Ryan knew this was their home, and that he got to make changes and personalizations too. Maybe they should make him a studio for his little movies, there was so much space upstairs–

The last sticker was pressed into place, over yet another portrait of yet another president. “They call me a lunatic,” he hissed at Old Hickory himself, sitting there with his lopsided head and glum cartoon dog face. “You? You were a fucking lunatic.” Dropping the rest of the stickers unceremoniously to the floor, he finally made for his bed. He had a long day ahead of him, but he barely cared about being tired. 

Tomorrow, he’d start gutting this place.      

***   

There were 2 open spots on the Seven, and the longer they stayed empty, the more it felt like a shark was circling, and they were blind inside the diving cage. None of them had a clue who was on the short list, nor many means of finding out. 

Annie was putting out feelers, trying to dig up rumors about who was being approached, but nothing solid was turning up. “Half of my old connections will NOT talk to me! Jesus Christ, are you listening to some of these people?!” The only one currently standing, she paced in the center of the room and gestured at the telly in disbelief. Now perpetually on, showed Neuman on a stage, sitting in a truly ugly armchair,, surrounded by multiple has-been Supes and trying to be heard over their puffed up opinions. “Openly stating that–that–that WHAT, he was RIGHT to lie about Soldier Boy?! That he’s allowed to kill civilians, just WHENEVER?!” 

Neuman had been pushing for the cunt to be prosecuted, which Billy just found funny. What, exactly, was their plan if he was convicted? Put him in prison and ask him nicely to stay there? 

The freely elected head-popper in chief vanished and was replaced by old B-Roll of Lamplighter, spliced in with Crimson Countess and a few other dead Supes. Crowd footage, and Billy sneered at the signs blaring SUPE LIVES MATTER over the heads of protestors. More puffed up opinions. More bootlicking normal people, trying to get in on the ground floor of the coming regime change. Not that Neuman’s leash-tightening would do any better. More likely, she’d just formally militarize them–

He thought of Homelander, growing up in a chilly lab, Clockwork Orange brainwashing shite pumped into his ickle brain, a focus-group test script where his heart should be. His lip curled and he hunched over his desk as Neuman’s face came back, thought about the new shape he’d beat her skeleton into if she ever went near Ryan. If anyone from the government–any government–or Vought’s executive suite went near Ryan, ever, they’d get the same. Becca’s son was never going to live inside a box ever again. 

From his own desk, which was strewn with two laptops, three tablets, and six different partially drunk Red Bulls, Hughie piped up. “Multiple South American governments are reporting sightings of OakenAsh.” The screen lit his face up vaguely blue, even in the afternoon sunlight. “And not a single person has asked Vought for comment!” He gestured at a few of his screens and then rubbed a hand over his mouth. He looked sallow, like he hadn’t been sleeping. “Hell, I’m getting this from, like, Brazilian social media accounts and this one unhinged furry artist on tumblr.” 

“I’m not unpacking that,” MM said flatly, frowning at the TV over Annie’s nearly-steaming head. He’d been taking about and updating his field kit, restocking gauze and painkillers, keeping a pouch left open for any stray FireBoxes they came across. Frenchie had a few leads on them, but nothing had panned out yet. “And there ain’t shit we can do about the Tree Hugger from Hell. What I’m concerned about is the fact that we still don’t have fucking profile on that dude–” 

Onscreen, some talking head from God-U had been replaced by footage outside Vought Tower, which included the new Noir, standing silently between Deep and Witchfire. Billy had heard the cunt refer to him as ‘Not-Noir’ more than once, and honestly, it was catchy. “–Meanin’, we got no idea what he’s capable of and what he’s done before he teamed up with these fascist fucks.” 

“I think we should get it out of the witch,” Billy said, gesturing at the bitch’s still bandaged face, and then angled a look at Kimiko. “Somebody could go seduce it out of her.” 

“No,” Kimiko signed back at him from her favorite perch on Frenchie’s desk. Considered it for a second, though, he saw it in her eyes.  

“We are not honeypotting a mind-reader !” Annie snapped, because she was no fun. She spun around, back to the TV, and crossed her arms at him. “Especially when she JUST pissed off her boss; she’d probably give him Kimiko just for a pat on the head.” 

“No,” Kimiko signed again, her face changing the tone from dismissive to sharp. “She wouldn’t.” Past her shoulder, Frenchie looked as unconvinced as Billy felt. 

Hughie hadn’t let go of the rag in his mouth just yet. “Look, this, this media black out on OakenAsh? It shows that Vought is leveraging their hold over the news more and more. We should find out how they’re doing that, right?” His whole body was turned towards his girlfriend, who wasn’t looking at him. Billy smelled the afterburn of a row; they’d gone at it again last night, he guessed, and Kimiko looked at him tensely as Hughie kept trying to make his point. “Maybe that’s a way to–” 

With a groan, Annie uncrossed her arms, flinging up on either side of her head. She spun slightly to face Hughie and snapped: “We know how they’re doing it!” In her pocket, her phone buzzed, and she snatched it out to read the text frantically. Based on her expression, it was another of her old mates telling her to piss off. “Money!” She continued thickly, as she shoved her phone back into her pocket. “And the reason they don’t want anyone reporting on OakenAsh is the same reason they don’t let anyone report on Menagerie, or TechnoBabble, or any of the other Supes that went full ecoterrorist!” Hughie was swallowed hard, and nervously rubbed his hands on his desk as he stared back at her. “Because it’s bad for business! No big mystery there! Hughie, Oaken isn’t important–” 

“Don’t he got that pollen shite?” Billy cut in, before Hughie could rally a response. “Makes you go all crazy and hormonal and fuzzy in the head?”

“You are describing yourself,” Frenchie said, and Billy threw a pen at him without looking. If the green twink was willing to sell it in bottles, he’d put a sizable dent into his bank account for his own private stash. Fun little surprise for Johnny.

“Yeah, see!” Hughie said defensively, once again forcing Billy to inhabit reality. He pointed at Billy and sat up straighter in his chair, making the mechanics in it squeal. “We’re talking about good Supes to recruit to fight Homelander and his team, and OakenAsh is–” 

“One of the most powerful Supes currently out of Vought’s control,” Annie relented, and heaved a sigh. Her body sagged, her face faded into something apologetic and soft. She took a few steps towards him and now Hughie was the one turning away, facing his computer. Talking to his tense shoulder, Annie said: “Hey, I’m sorry, you’re right–” 

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Hughie muttered, and Billy really wished this would wrap itself up. Out of sheer awkwardness, he checked his own phone, found nothing from Homelander. He pretended that he wasn’t disappointed.  

Across the too quiet room, Annie tried again. “So, he’s still in the jungle?” Annie asked, soft and coaxing. 

It got her nowhere. “I mean. I think so, but that means nothing,” Hughie said, the edges of the words serrated and bitter, and Annie stormed out of the office.  

Kimiko bounced to her feet and ran after her, and Billy said, “Mate,” with as much emphasis as he could muster. 

“No, ever since Vegas, she acts like I’m a fucking moron!” He gestured at the door, which was hanging gloomily open. Billy could vaguely hear Annie, down below, could picture Kimiko leaning against her as she complained and berated herself and did everything else women did when you decided to be a bastard to them. 

“Well–” MM started, and his words had their own edge to them. He’d never voiced much of an opinion on Hughie smashing the FireBox, but was still cross at him for doing it without consulting anybody else. 

Hughie shot him a look, visibly bristling at the tone. “We have been over this, I fucking–I–I made the right choice, it’s not my fault that–” His voice sounded weaker and colder every time he said it, and Billy wondered if the well meaning bugger was doubling down out of pride or out of a sincere belief that he’d been in the right. 

Not that ever mattered in the end. It certainly wouldn’t this time.

Frenchie was visibly making himself busy with something on his desk, and Billy was trying to focus on the TV. But his vision was starting to blur for some reason, and he couldn’t tune out MM doubling down himself. “Right choice? You sure? Cuz, I seem to remember that we talked that shit over as a fucking team, and, at the time–” 

Frenchie groaned under his breath and dropped his forehead onto his folded arms. He was more sick of this than Billy was, if that was possible.

Hughie was starting to respond, voice going tense and a bit squeaky, and Billy put a stop to it for Frenchie’s sake. “You want her to stop thinking you’re a twat?” He interrupted, and heaved himself out of his chair. He needed a fag, and to check the skyline for Homelander, so he shuffled towards the door. “Figure out where the Jolly Green Giant is currently defending all the asparagus villagers from evil bulldozers, and maybe she’ll come ‘round.” He was moving slower than he liked. It was the part of the afternoon where he was feeling sluggish and clumsy, and couldn’t be fucked to lift up his feet too much. The others pretended not to notice, which was good of them. “Oh, and see if you can figure out how to convince him to kill God for us. Might make her happy enough to get you out of Christmas presents.” 

He managed to get the fag in between his lips without dropping it, and then MM barked at him. “Oh no, you are not lightin’ that in here. Historic building!” 

“Dying!” Billy pretended to whine, gesturing at himself. He ignored Hughie’s visible flinch and Frenchie’s tense, startled laugh.  

MM took it better than either of them. Hell, out of everyone on the team, he was the only one also making jokes about Billy’s prognosis. Like how he’d taken to questioning the worth of investing in milk and bananas and other things destined to outlive him. So, instead of caving, he just scoffed at Billy, and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t give a fuck, wait til you’re outside.”  

Billy mimed ripping his own heart out as he mounted the stairs to the roof. Once he was there, he lit up and slouched against the closed door, slightly-blurry eyes scanning the dense forest of cold gray and gleaming glass. He didn’t spot the cunt’s pinprick silhouette anywhere in sight, but knew he could have him here in five minutes with a text. 

But no. As fun as a quickie on the roof sounded, he refused to risk being caught by any of them lot downstairs. Had recurring nightmares about snogging Homelander against the door, only for it to open and reveal Hughie or Frenchie or all of them standing there, eyes bewildered and horrified, mouths slack with shock. 

Shuddering, Billy stamped his feet until he got back the feeling in his toes, and he held the filter between two fingers while he swallowed two of the little red pills he took for his neuropathy. 

Under his jeans, the tender spots from the belt and the candle wax throbbed dully, and he kept his hands busy with the bottle’s tricky cap. Otherwise, he’d dig his fingers into the tender spots, just to make himself hiss. He’d gotten these on Monday night, and they ached worse than the belt marks on his arms from Tuesday. It was Thursday morning now; two more nights, and then it was Saturday, and he’d get to see Ryan. 

And spend the night in Homelander’s bed. 

To forget that, he fumbled out his phone and shot MM a text. Annie back yet? 

No. We think they left. 

Well. Shite. Billy sighed and debated stamping out the rest of the cigarette and heading downstairs, but what good would that do? No. He’d go down in a minute. For now, he’d let Hughie stew and work and calm down. 

On his phone, the news held nothing he didn’t already know. Speculations on the Hero Draft at the Murder Baby University, first proper one since the news about Compound V leaked. He wondered, vaguely, how said Murder Babies were getting on with their cunt parents since finding out. Poorly, he hoped. A few social media dreck sites squealing about the witch’s injury. He regretted doing that. As fun and satisfying as it had been to kill another psychic–for once, his brain bothered to remember killing Mesmer–Vought was really milking it. A few hysterical headlines referring to the ‘climate disaster’ that OakenAsh was likely justifying his suped-up tantrums with.  

His phone buzzed in his hand and a notification barged into view. Text from Ryan. Best bloody news he’d had all day. His ashy fingers wandered about for a second as he tried to remember how to actually open his messages. He got there in the end. Damn lesions were making him forget passwords and street names and entire stretches of his life, memories flickering in and out like a fritzy TV signal.  

Dad is yelling at Deep and it is really funny. 

The kid typed out a tad too formally, and Billy chuckled it as his thumb jumped clumsily across the screen. Yelling at him for what? 

There was a couple seconds of nothing, and then Ryan sent him a voice note. 

Billy stared at it, frozen. The fag burned down to the filter and he didn’t even notice it singe his slack fingers. An audio recording. From inside Vought Tower.

Sent by his adopted son, who’s trust he was desperately trying to keep. 

Annie’s exhausted, disillusioned face and Hughie’s frustrated voice and MM’s always tense posture crowded into his head. Laser burnt plane wreckage was there too, as was Maeve’s face as she handed him the Temp V, Mallory’s grandchildren’s tiny headstones. Piles of corpses cast long, lumpy shadows in his mind’s eye. 

He remembered Ryan walking away from him, towards Homelander, and his stomach lurched. 

His thumb trembled over the button as he stared harder and harder at the message. It’ll be worthless , he told himself. It’ll be worthless, an argument over CuntFish humping a lobster or something. I won’t have to show anyone– He hit play before he could stop himself, and then waited, tense. Praying this was nothing, just a funny thing his kid sent him–

Tinny and weak but the words intelligible, Homelander was indeed shouting through the phone’s speaking. “Do not talk back to me, not ever!” 

“DUDE, I am not talking back, for fuck’s sake I am just saying–” 

“He is your responsibility–” 

“You might as well make me responsible for the fucking weather, then! I cannot fucking control Oaken, not anymore than Vought ever could! He’s the fucking god of all plants or some shit, I’m, I’m I’m the FISH GUY, how could I–” 

“He used to listen to you–” 

“THAT WAS BEFORE! Look, he’ll listen to Menagerie, or Alec–” 

“TechnoBabble?” And my, Billy hadn’t heard that name in several years. The technopath had seemingly gone into hiding sometime in 2018. No public sightings since they’d stopped shutting down pipelines “extra legally”.  

“They don’t like being called that–” Deep was saying, and Billy vaguely recalled a ‘They/Them’ scribbled in the margins of Alec Moon’s two inch thick file in Mallory’s collection. 

“If that’s who Oaken will listen to, go fucking find him!”   

The voice note ended, and Billy responded on autopilot, because yes, that was funny. Funny, and likely not worthless. Because, if he recalled correctly, they’d been operating under the assumptions that A) Vought and its employees had zero contact with OakenAsh, and B) that they knew exactly where TechnoBabble was. Neither, it seemed, was true. 

Oaken used to listen to Deep but not anymore–

Now, what had the Fish Fucker ever done to earn that much clout? And… could he find TechnoBabble? Billy had seen the footage Mallory had on him– them , his brain corrected, sluggishly–had seen the SuperTech conjured from scraps and trash. Tiny bombs that ricocheted to strike impossible targets, the magnetic drones carrying off SWAT vans and armored cars, the silvery, worm-like tentacles that seemed to come from inside the bugger’s very bones. had seen the dismantled nukes and the doused wildfires and the crashing planes saved. 

For a few, very pleasant moments, his brain happily discarded guilt and–he chose familiarity over affection but had to remind himself to do it–in favor of scheming. 

Lighting up once again, he smiled humorlessly at the skyline and tried to picture it, in his rapidly decaying mind’s eye. In loving detail, he ran the simulations. OakenAsh versus Homelander? Weed, meet Whacker, no question. But, OakenAsh and TechnoBabble and Starlight and Kimiko? 

There was some question there. 

A bit more excited than he’d like to admit, he inhaled the latest cigarette in four quick drags. He told himself that it wasn’t violating Ryan’s trust if he pretended he got the idea from somewhere else. If he pretended to have a contact that he couldn’t name who’d somehow overheard this–which was true , he added to himself, defensively. 

Now, using that information to plot his father’s (justified) execution? See, that felt dicey. Harder to argue with himself about. Finally, he reminded himself of that ‘wholly justified’ bit. Homelander was a threat to the existence of humanity. Kid or not, he had to– 

His phone buzzed again, against his knee. At some point, he’d slid down the door to sit on the chilly concrete roof. Getting up was going to be hellish, but that could come in a few minutes. Dad says I can have an ant farm! A really big one, where the big shelves used to be! And he might build me a studio for my videos! He sent Billy a series of photos of workmen hauling away bags and bags of fancy books, narrowing the amount of occupied shelf down to a third of its original size. Other workers were dismantling the empty shelves, making room for Ryan’s new hobby. 

Swallowing hard, Billy lit another fag as he considered his response. Wondered if Annie was coming back that day, or if she needed hours of space, instead of minutes. After a minute, he sent back son, since when are you into creepy crawlies?  

A link to a YouTube video of carpenter ants building their hill. Since I realized ants are like the third coolest thing on the planet. A pause while Billy huffed a laugh and wondered if this fascination would be a phase, like Lenny’s thing about dinosaurs, or a lifelong obsession, like his sister in law’s thing for Minnie Mouse. His phone buzzed again. I’ve done the math. Ants are cooler than you. 

Something horrible was happening to his heart, but he shoved aside the complicated bits, and focused on the most important thing, which was playing along with Ryan so he knew, really knew , exactly how much he was loved. Cooler than me? How, exactly? He was sent a barrage of articles on ants communicating by smell and having agriculture and surviving the ice age. Are ants cooler than your dad? He asked, thumb choosing the question for him. 

God, he’d never stop being grateful for how easy it was to picture Ryan’s face as he replied: The easter bunny is cooler than dad. 

And yeah, that made him laugh so hard his head swam, but it also threatened to make the complicated bits of his feelings bob back up, and he barely had the strength to stamp them down again. He needed to focus, he needed to act–

No. He vividly pictured slamming a door between the two halves of his life, and it cut his guilt in two, made it possible to carry around for a while longer. He could pretend that the information was independent of its source, and for now, that would have to do.

He stamped the fag out under one boot (a boot that felt heavier every day, if he thought about it, which he chose not to) and dragged himself to his feet. Hopefully, this would be one of the times where they simply didn’t ask how he’d found something out. 

As he trudged downstairs, trying not to feel the sharp needles of pain lancing through his bones, part of his brain begged him to think ahead, to consider what was going to happen to Ryan if both of them died. If they killed each other, leaving him alone and angry and traumatized all over again. But that thought always led to him remembering Ryan’s face when Billy had ripped his heart out on the front lawn of the safehouse, and if he pictured that too long, he’d down bottle after bottle of bleach until the memory was clean, white nothingness. 

Dying anyway , he reminded himself, swinging back into the office. So what do I really care? Hughie was sitting with his face in his hands, phone lying face down on his desk. Frenchie was nowhere in sight; probably slunk off after Kimiko. MM looked at him gravely and mouthed Annie called , and yeah, Billy didn’t need further details. “Got something,” he said, too loudly, and Hughie’s head shot up. His eyes were faintly red, and Billy thought about how much simpler things wouldn’t be if he just didn’t care . 

Pretending things were simpler, he launched into a summary of the voicenote, dodging any inquiries as to where this came from in the first place. Hughie perked right up, glad to have a scent to chase, and his fingers were moving, pulling up TechnoBabble’s last known sightings. Not for the first time, he brought up trying to hack Vought’s network so he could follow the Sevens’ trackers, and sure, why not, that’d be dead useful. 

As Hughie’s fingers clacked and MM nagged them both about something, Billy half-collapsed back into his chair and counted the hours until Saturday. 

Chapter Text

On Saturday afternoon, Billy found himself sitting on Homelander’s bedroom floor, pulling books off his shelf and examining them one by one. Lots of dime store horror, the kind where three quarters of the cast died via chainsaw or beheading or being burned alive. Mass market science fiction and crime thrillers, too. Fanged aliens and toxic ooze and unholy experiments; butchered girls and dirty cops and wrongful executions. Some of the books were old enough to still have painted portraits for covers, and he scoffed at the campy monsters and barely-decent heroines. “Pervert,” he muttered, flipping one open at random and scanning the exposed pages. Some bloke named Darwin was being impaled through his limbs on meat hooks, and was apparently going to be ripped to pieces by them.  

Shaking his head, he set the first pile aside and snatched up a few others, pretending that his back wasn’t a tangle of sore rope and tired bones. He opened the first book, and blinked until his vision stopped blurring so badly. He hadn’t slept well last night, and was paying for it now. Footsteps sounded in the bathroom, where Homelander was filling up the tub, and Billy grimaced at what he’d found: several paragraphs of purple prose, describing a compound fracture sustained on a white water rafting trip. The other books in this pile were all much the same. Voyeuristic memoirs: multi-chapter portraits of human misery, broken people peddling their shitty lives to gawking on-lookers. Some low-brow true crime, too: the kind with just a few too many details to pretend it wasn’t eager for the blood.  

A cleared throat made him look up. Homelander was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, already naked. Which Billy was used to. Bored of , even, he told himself, as he glared at the cunt’s face and refused to look at his perfect chest or his pretty cock. “What?” He snapped, like he didn’t know. 

“Bath’s ready.” He looked at the mess Billy had made of his shelves and sighed a little. “Gorgeous? You mind picking those up before you join me?” It was not a request. 

Bite me, Billy thought but didn’t say. Slowly, fingers still tingling, he gathered up the books and shoved them back onto the shelf, not bothering to be careful. He wanted to hurl them at Homelander’s smug face, but that wouldn’t get him what he wanted, so he resisted. 

“Wait–Not that one.” Homelander gestured to the one Billy was holding. The cheap black of the spine had all cracked, and edges of the cover were so worn they’d begun to crumble. Spidery cracks ran across the embossed title: Lonely Things. “I’m almost finished, just… toss it on the bed.” He thought for a second, and then smiled. “Please, I mean.” He always sounded smug when he was trying to be polite. Prat. Billy gritted his teeth, and did as he was asked. Last of the books put away, he grabbed the top of the shelf, and pushed himself to his feet, since he could no longer get off the floor without bracing on something. “Thank you, gorgeous,” Homelander cooed, voice all sugar, and Billy wished very, very much that he could actually slap the prick. “Come on, while the water’s still warm.” He beckoned Billy to follow him and stepped further back into the bathroom. “You’re gonna love it, I promise.” 

“Just finish whatever you’ve got planned before Ryan gets back.” There was a threat in Billy’s voice as he slouched across the room and past Homelander. He shed his clothes as he went, long past feeling shame at being naked in his presence. There was too much else to be ashamed of, after all.  

“Mmm. He won’t be back for a couple of hours.” Homelander’s bare feet slapped against the marble as he followed Billy. “Plenty of time for you to relax.” 

Billy snorted, his blurry reflection staining the long, brilliant mirror. “Yeah. Right. This is so I can relax . Sure.” With a tiny clink, his jeans fell to the floor, and he only stumbled a little as he stepped out of them.  

Inside the tub room, the water was steaming, and the surface was coated in thick bubbles. Some fragrance filled the air, all warm and spicy, and he spotted the shampoo he always used sitting on the tub’s far edge. Somewhere in the sluggish depths of his semi-rotten brain, he thought of cartoon soup pots and rabbits loufahing themselves while cannibals chopped carrots into the water. 

His toes curled a little, against the cool floor, and he couldn’t make himself take another step. But then Homelander was at his back, kissing his temple and urging him towards the short, marble steps. “It is,” he insisted, and Billy shuddered as his feet splashed into the water. “Tell me if it’s too hot–” 

“Shut up.” It’s perfect. Bastard. Gingerly, he descended into the water, and dropped onto the carved bench. Hot, fragrant water swallowed him up to his chest, and instantly he started to feel softer, more pliant. Again, he thought of being boiled for soup. “Fuck…” He let himself sink a bit further into the water as Homelander followed him into the tub. “You’re a spoiled little shite, you know that?” He said, just to say something, and stretched. 

Arms up over his head, he used the lip of the tub to bend backwards, and nearly moaned as his spine popped four or five times. His arms dropped back into the water with a splash, and he slumped in relief, discomfort easing. Whatever had been mixed into the water to make it smell like that, it was doing wonders on his muscles. Eyelids threatening to droop, Billy leaned back against the side of the tub, feeling bubbles brush his skin and burst into soap swirls. 

Water splashed again as Homelander came closer, reaching for him; Billy had to actively remind himself to cringe away from his touch. That earned him one of those cute little frowns, the kind that creased his forehead and showed the lines at the corners of his mouth. “Let me rub your shoulders,” Homelander ordered, forcing calm in his voice, and Billy looked at him just long enough to scowl. “Boyfriend experience,” he reminded him, ignoring Billy’s expression. “That means foreplay.” 

The cunt had rubbed his shoulders before. If memory served, he wasn’t complete rubbish at it. So, Billy sucked in a breath through his nose, and shifted on the bench. Turning slightly, he let Homelander grab his shoulders. “Thank you, gorgeous,” he said, words practically a coo, and then he started to rub and squeeze. And yes, Billy had remembered right, he was absolutely not rubbish at it. His motions were firm but never painful, never bruising, and he never cut himself short. Didn’t let up on a spot until something gave or slackened. “Good?” He murmured, when his lover sucked in a short breath. Billy said nothing, refusing to admit to how nice it really felt. “Oh…gorgeous…” There was something sympathetic in his voice as his thumbs went to the twin knots that habitually formed at the base of Billy’s neck. “You slept on your couch again, didn’t you?” 

“Bloody hell…” Billy sighed as Homelander dragged his thumbs outward, in a line, from the nape of his neck, like he was smoothing down the edge of a piece of tape.

“Billy,” Homelander said, trying for stern, and Billy rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, I did, so what?” It was hard to tell what was warmer, his hands or the water. 

“That’s not good for you!” Exasperated, that’s how he sounded, exasperated , and Billy almost smiled, almost forgot who was telling him off. Homelander continued to scold as he pushed his fingertips into the tendon along the tops of Billy’s shoulders. “You can’t do that.” Slowly, he worked his hands out from Billy’s nape, towards the curve of his shoulders. “After all the abuse you’ve put your body through–” 

Billy couldn’t resist. “You abuse it plenty yourself, love,” he sneered, and frowned when Homelander only chuckled at him. 

“Mmm. You think that’s abuse?” Once again, his hands shifted, seeking out the inner edge of his shoulder blades. “When you’re ready to take your medicine–” 

It was hard to sound serious when you were gasping in pleasure, but Billy tried anyway. “Never happening.” Two hard points of pressure dragged along the edges of his shoulder blades, easing the pressure on his upper spine and somehow making his head feel less tight and foggy. “I told you before–”

“Shush.” As if to emphasize his point, he pressed his thumbs harder into Billy’s skin, earning a soft, pained gasp. “Don’t interrupt me.” Now, his strokes were long, thin ovals, tracing the same path over and over, unspooling every knot and kink he found. 

“God, just bloody drown me already,” Billy mumbled, as if his cock wasn’t starting to twitch under the bubbles. 

“ When you’re ready to take your medicine,” Homelander continued, digging the heels of his palms into the backs of Billy’s shoulders,  “I’ll be the only person who’ll ever make you sore again.” The tendons started to relax for the first time in days, and Billy sagged under his touch. Homelander nuzzled into the back of Billy’s hair, and asked: “How’s your head? Are the pills working?” 

“...Yeah,” Billy admitted, reluctantly. His head might still swim when he stood up too fast or tried to go up a set of stairs, but loud noises hadn’t triggered a migraine in days, and the secondary stomach symptoms had ebbed to something manageable. “Don’t even make me tired and anxious all bloody day like that other shite did.” Maybe he owed the cunt a nosh for that. His mouth watered at the thought, and he decided that, yeah, Homelander could have a BJ for his trouble. 

“You never should have thrown out the first bottle,” Homelander said, and Billy rolled his eyes, hard-on ruined before it really got going. “Honestly, you throw worse tantrums than Ryan.” 

Both thumbs pressed into the spot where shoulder met neck and dragged downward, along his uppermost spine, and that , oh merciful god, that was good . To cover up the moan that tried to slip out, Billy breathed out: “You ain’t seen a tantrum yet, love. My real tantrums involve bombs.” Sometimes, he liked to daydream about building one that was all sound and concussion. No flames, no shrapnel, just a loud shockwave, something to knock the cunt off his feet and leave his head ringing like a bell. He’d look so cute, lying prone on the ground, confused and angry and– 

Homelander chuckled behind him. Which was just rude, honestly. “Oooh. Sexy.” He tugged Billy closer, pressing his slick back against his bare chest. His cock, already hard, pressed against the back of his hip, and Billy shuddered. Foreplay was over, apparently; his lover’s voice was hungry when he whispered: “I want to finger you this time. Say you want that.” When Billy didn’t respond, not even with a gasp or a moan, he growled in annoyance. His grip tightened on Billy’s shoulder, just enough to be a threat, and his voice went from hungry to dark: “Say you want that .” 

Make that noise again. Please. Not ready to obey–not properly, at least–he licked his lips and tried to keep his voice casual. “Mmm. You know, love, if I’m being honest? Rather have you fuck my mouth.” He said it because of the pills, he told himself,  as Homelander licked his neck. Not because, earlier that morning, he’d woken up from a very pleasant nightmare about choking to death on his thick, silky cock and had been craving something in his mouth ever since. That was completely unrelated. 

Homelander growled again, low and short, and Billy tried not to go limp in his arms.“Oh? You can have both , you know.” One hand stayed on Billy’s shoulder. The other brushed down his side, to his hip, and then found the base of his stiffening cock. “I like fucking your mouth. I like fingering your ass.” Billy shivered and lost the fight to not sag against his chest. He bared his neck in submission, and Homelander bit down on one of the spots he favored. “So, let’s just do both, okay, gorgeous?” 

God, his grip was so tight. Like he never wanted to let go. Swallowing hard, Billy groped for his hair with one hand and twisted, just for the thrill of winning another growl. He doubted it really hurt, but Johnny liked it and he liked doing it. Give him what he wants and you get what you want. “Yes, please, both, don’t hurt me–” 

With a soft, wordless noise, Homelander slowed his strokes on Billy’s dick, making him gasp into the steamy room. “Hush. You don’t have to beg.” 

Fuck, don’t whine, don’t fucking whine annnnnnd I’m whining bloody brilliant– ”N-no–” The word slipped out on its own, and Homelander growled. He'd said that Billy begging him to stop was his favorite sound. So, he said it again, just to feel his cock twitch. "No!" He squirmed, arched, tried to pull away, and was only held tighter. It made him gasp as his lover continued toying with him. 

“No, what?” A bite to his ear. A caress to his stomach. More slow, light attention to his cock, and he tugged harder on Homelander’s hair. The movement was mindless, just like his other hand grabbing for Homelander’s wrist, trying to guide it faster, tighter, something – 

“Stop!” He blurted, tossing his head back, and then let out a short scream when the cunt bit his pulse point, hard enough to bruise. “You–you promised–” He moaned, eyes rolling back in his head. “S-said you wouldn’t mark me!--” His heart was thundering in his chest, but so was Homelander’s, and the cunt biting that hard meant he was losing control, which was far sweeter than the hand on his cock.  

“Oh, gorgeous. You’re so forgetful.” Homelander pulled him backwards, towards the lip of the tub. “I agreed to leave your neck alone, if you behaved. If . And you didn’t behave, you mouthed off–” Billy tried to pull his head around, desperate for a kiss–he wanted to feel the cunt growl into his mouth, it sent him bloody feral every time– “So now? Now you get hickies all over your neck–” 

“No!” It was hard not to sound giddy when his cock was so excited about it; he knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. “Don’t, Johnny, no–”  

There was that look in his eyes, that flash of something that wasn’t heat and wasn’t cruelty. Johnny had grown on him. It had grown on him a lot. “Yes,” he purred, and stroked Billy’s balls, a subtle reward for his favorite pet. “All over your neck. Your friends are going to see. They’re going to know you were out whoring around again, that you’re a little slut –”

“N-not a secret!” He squirmed in that tight grip, just to feel trapped (held) and let out a stifled, giddy noise when Homelander bit his neck again. Higher up this time, sucking before he let go; it left an even deeper mark. “They–they might not even a-a-ask!” Another bite, between the first two, and then he pulled back, rearranged them so he could turn his attention to the other side of his lover’s neck.  

“If they ask…mmm…you should tell them the truth.” Of course, he protested, begged Homelander to stop, called him Johnny and Sir and Love and was taunted for it. “Tell them the truth, tell them who did this to you.” The painful bites to his throat and the hand on his cock and his own pleading voice had him dripping and he had to fight to keep his hips still, to at least feign disgust. “No, you should. You should tell them that I’m raping you .” 

“A-ah–” He rolled his hips back, begging with his body too, and was rewarded by Homelander’s cock starting to twitch. His mouth watered, and he begged for his lover’s fingers inside him.  

Johnny mocked him for it, called him pathetic , called him a nasty little whore and a needy bottom bitch , and then spun him around by the hips, made Billy look at him through the fragrant steam. “They’re going to know, Billy, look at your neck. Mmm.” He bit Billy again, earning a longer, louder scream, and his lover’s arms were thrown around his shoulders.   

“Please, love, don’t give me anymore–” His cock, suddenly abandoned, ached, but God , the look in his eyes was exhilarating. The cunt’s pupils were blown out beautifully, black and slick as an oil spill, and the strip of iris left around them was pure want. He’s going to eat me alive , Billy thought, breathless at the sight, and let himself sob when Homelander finally kissed him. 

“Okay, gorgeous. Our little secret. I promise, nobody ever has to know.” Another kiss, deep and sweet and full of tongue, and Billy was pleading again when they broke apart, just because doing it felt so bloody good . 

“I told you. No begging, just take it.” His hands shifted; slowly, almost indulgently, he ran his hands up and down his sides, over his stomach and chest, down his hips and ass and thighs. Every caress made Billy shudder and twitch, which Homelander cooed about; apparently, it was cute. “God, I love your body.” He said it borderline reverently, and Billy blushed from his hairline to his chest. 

And then he was turned and bent over, face against the floor around the tub, chest breaking out in goosebumps at the sudden chill. “H-hands behind my back?” Billy asked, already breathless. For now, his hands were lying flat on either side of his head, itching to touch.  

“Uh-huh. Gotta pin you, gorgeous. You can’t be trusted yet.” 

Biting his lip so he didn’t whimper, Billy obeyed, crossing his wrists behind his back. Iron fingers wrapped around them, and Homelander let him struggle for a few seconds. Of course, he got nowhere. A Barbie doll pinned by a Rottweiler, about to be chewed. “Nnn– ah , ah– oh , oh fuck–” Every fruitless twist and pointless tug made color rise in his cheeks and his heart pound under his ribs. “Love!” Against the marble floor of the tub, his toes curled uselessly, and his cock dripped precum just under the water’s surface. “T-tell me what you’ll do if–if I–” He was panting against the chilly floor now, and Homelander complied, giving his lover what he needed. 

“Act like you like it,” he ordered, voice a low, dark growl. He bent over Billy’s back and bit his ear, like he wanted his next words to be felt as well as heard. “I meant what I said, Billy, I want the Boyfriend Experience. Which means I want you to enjoy it . So. Fake it for me…” His free hand slid under the water to stroke Billy’s thigh, making him flinch. “And do your absolute best. Because, if you aren’t convincing enough…” The tip of his tongue pressed into Billy’s pulse point and traced the vein, all the way up Billy’s neck, to his jaw. Smiling at the sound of Billy’s short, anxious breaths, he purred: “I’ll bite your throat out, and fuck you as you drown in your own blood.” 

God, love, you’re good at that. Billy gave him a full-body shiver and even let himself sob a bit before he nodded, face and ears and chest all blushing crimson. “I’ll act like I like it,” he promised hoarsely, and Homelander kissed the back of his head, then straightened up. 

“Thank you, gorgeous,” he said, sincerely, and Billy nearly thanked him back. For playing along, for letting him pretend he didn’t want this. But Johnny didn’t need a thank you. He knew how grateful his lover was. 

“Fingers first,” Homelander said, voice once again hot and firm and predatory, and Billy relished the mounting anxiety, the helplessness of his situation. “I want to listen to you scream. You’re a fucking screamer, it’s so hot–” Fucking hell, that voice . It was Billy’s favorite tone, because it promised that the sex was going to hurt . “Fingers first,” Homelander repeated, and Billy heard him pick up the lube that was off to his left. “I’ll make you scream for more until you’re spent from coming for me, and then we’ll put that smart mouth to good use. Now, say you want that–” 

“I want that!” Billy sobbed, body screaming for attention, and Johnny spent a good long while rewarding him. 

By the time they were stumbling out of the tub, both of them were shaky-legged and panting. “You’re bloody insatiable, you know that?” Billy said, a tad hoarsely, muscles like half-melted butter under his pink skin. Homelander was at the sink in front of the mirror whole bloody place is full of mirrors and was rinsing his mouth and hands. When he only shrugged, somewhat apologetic, Billy snorted. “Can you seriously not go twelve hours without playing with my prick?” 

“Nope. I can’t.” Billy had shuffled to the towel closet and pulled out two, throwing one against Homelander’s back. It flopped over the cunt’s shoulder, and Homelander tugged it down to start drying off his chest. “It’s…it’s crazy, I’ve never fucked this much.” There was a laugh to Homelander’s words as he toweled off. “Not with anyone. Ever. I’ve never had sex like this. I didn’t know there was sex this good.” Wonder: that was the only word for the tone creeping into his voice, and it was hard not to take it as a compliment. 

Refusing to preen, Billy dragged his eyes away from Homelander’s back to busy his hands with his own towel. “Heh. Well, clearly your other victims weren’t tryin’ too hard. You’re easy, love.”  

The side of his neck hurt. Some of his new hickies stung, and, despite what he’d said, he’d definitely be asked about it. The rough fabric of the towel passed over the older marks on his thighs and stomach, and the dull sparks of pain filled his head with questions about tonight’s agenda. And something must’ve shown on his face, because Homelander was smiling at him in the mirror. “Usually, I get bored well before now,” he said, voice pitched to something soft and coaxing. Billy’s hands faltered, and Homelander noticed. “Start looking for…variety.” Don’t fucking blush. Don’t let him see you blush. “You’re still the only thing I’m craving,” he added, words full of heat, and Billy was grateful that his skin was already pink from the hot water. 

The cunt noticed anyway because he can hear my heart beating faster when he says shite like that and his mouth sharpened into a grin, kept curving until it looked borderline predatory. The breath caught in Billy’s chest; usually, that look meant he was about to get thrown on his back and used like a toy again. Wouldn’t be the first time the cunt wanted him again less than ten minutes after getting them both off. His body ached, briefly and sweetly, and he was genuinely a little disgusted with himself how can you be randy AGAIN seriously Butch you’re pushing FIFTY control yourself –  

And then Homelander broke eye contact to change the subject. Bloody tease.  

“Mmm. Anyway…you ever had Ethiopian food, gorgeous? I took Ryan to this place in Brooklyn yesterday–I want him to grow up cultured , you know, so we’re trying something new every week–”  

Willing away his erection, Billy snorted and tossed his towel into the hamper. Pretending he hadn’t already decided to spread his legs again later, he said: “Cultured? Fine. Spoiled ? That’s a different story.” 

Homelander laughed, and turned to face Billy. Still naked, last of the water and bubbles dripping down his legs, he said: “You’re full of shit! Name one thing you’d deny him.” He lifted first one leg, and then the other to swipe at his calves, and Billy was absolutely not watching.  

“Hard drugs.” 

“Oh, go to hell. Ryan’s going to be a brat, and that’s final. He gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants, forever. Okay?” 

Well, yes, obviously. Without thinking, he caught the cunt’s towel as it was tossed to him and shoved it into the hamper with his own. He could vaguely remember a few more sentences passing between them before he somehow arrived at snapping: “You ruin everything you touch, you know that?”  

To his credit, Homelander took it in stride. “Hmm. Stan Edgar said something like that to me once. I threw his car off a bridge in retaliation.” Chuckling, he padded out of the bathroom to get dressed, leaving his discarded suit on the floor. “He was so pissed. Oh, boy, I paid for that…” 

Billy found his own clothes. The pale minty green/violent yellow of his shirt, stark black of his undershirt, tattered brown of his boots, and faded gray-blue of his ragged jeans were scattered like breadcrumbs between the bedroom and the tub; his jacket was somewhere upstairs, where it had been pulled off by Homelander’s eager hands after he carried Billy inside. Shuddering as he re-dressed him flying me here is not sexy its not fucking sexy at all , Billy followed him once he was decent. 

He spotted the paperback still on the bed and scoffed at it. “So, are them fancy books outside just for show?” He jerked his thumb at the wall connecting the room to the hallway, and arched his brows when Homelander looked over his shoulder at him. “Cuz all that–” He gestured at the bookshelf with his other hand. “ Pulp .”

“If I kept it, I’ve read it,” he said dryly. “I can have layers, Billy.” He’d only pulled on his briefs so far, leaving his torso bare. Every pair he owned was identical: bright red and tight. Billy used to call them panties, would leer openly until Homelander blushed and cringed and begged Billy to kiss his cock through the thin cotton. 

In the present, instead of going to the closet and grabbing another suit, he went to the small set of drawers, and snatched out a pair of jeans and a shirt. He didn’t look at Billy again as he dressed, which was good, because all he’d’ve seen was flat-out staring. “Anyway, there’s a difference between what I read during the day as part of, you know, bettering myself , and what I read when I’m going to be asleep in less than an hour.” A sneer crept into his voice as he added: “Do you read so little that you don’t understand that?” 

He hadn’t seen Homelander in civilian clothes since Vegas. Under Hannah Fry’s coercion, it had looked wrong and strange, like an insult. But, well. They were going out in public. Couldn’t very well go out in his cunty little suit, could he? 

“Very rude thing to say to your boyfriend,” Billy said innocently, a beat too late, and Homelander sighed, doing up the fly of his jeans. Instead of dropping to his knees and undoing it again with his teeth, Billy added: “I’m not convinced you can read. I think you just pretend. All that bleach in your hair? I suspect it’s been seeping into your brain for years. Got to be permanent damage by now.” Homelander ignored him, and Billy sidled up closer behind him. Lips brushing his ear, Billy whispered: “Quick, what’s 3 and 4 make?”     

Maybe he was hoping Homelander would throw him on the bed and shut him up with his cock. Maybe he was hoping the cunt would get all bent out of shape again. But, the most he got was mild irritation. “Yeah, and we’re worried about Ryan being a brat. You’re impossible.” He turned around and pecked Billy on the lips, before breezing past him to head downstairs; Billy only ogled the muscles in his back a little bit, thank you. “Feel free to rifle through my shit some more before you follow me. God knows I’ve been in every square inch of your apartment.” 

Greedily accepting the invitation, Billy snatched up the book that was laying on the bed and inspected it closely. On the dog-eared page, he scanned a few paragraphs. A teenage girl, trapped in an isolated hunting cabin, armed with only a kitchen knife. Under the floorboards, something horrible, something the protagonist was calling The Cuckoo Bird, slithered around, clawing at the old wood and taunting the doomed girl. 

“Sadistic creep,” Billy concluded, and dropped the book back onto the bedspread. He left the room, praying his hair would be dry before Ryan got back. Part of him was pretending Ryan couldn’t possibly know what sex was, let alone suspect adults he knew of having it…but another part of him knew that it was going to be impossible to hide forever (or even for very long) and yearned for any chance to delay it. 

Just don’t let it be obvious we were bloody bathing together. 

Out in the hallway, he slowed his gait and took a few seconds to actually survey the walls. He’d been a tad distracted last time he’d been here; when he’d arrived earlier, the cunt had rushed him to his bedroom a bit, clearly eager. It had taken the threat of a serious tantrum to get him to stop tearing off Billy’s clothes as they went. So, at first, he’d missed all the gaps on the dark blue walls, the glaring empty spaces with their unfaded paint, the nail holes dotting the hallway like pores.    

Hmm. Well.  

He couldn’t be sure, but, he suspected that the things currently hanging on the walls were not the same ones that had been there last week. No, last week, he remembered seeing presidents and Jesus and wild birds and serene still lifes of flowers and fruit and schoolhouses. Now…

Now he saw landscapes, full of dramatic color and impressionistic shapes, dreamlike portraits of sad-eyed strangers, bizarre shite that bordered on surreal. A seascape with something iridescent in the sky and the water and the sand; blurry-faced villagers sending soft lanterns into the sky; a truly hideous portrait of some sort of deformed horse. “Huh.” On either side of the hallway were a few hip-high decorative tables. Last week, they’d held small vases with (fake) flowers or kitchy statues of the same dreck that had been on the walls. Now, Billy was picking up and examining large, tacky snowglobes and sparkling geodes and–

There was an urn. 

On the table closest to the mouth of the hallway was an urn. 

Billy stared at it. Swallowed. Crept closer. He expected to see ‘Klara Risinger’ on the plaque. Or maybe just ‘Stormfront’. But, like the photos beside the cunt’s bed, he was surprised. 

Madelyn flashed in carefully etched letters on the little plaque. Billy gawked at it, part of him experimenting with being pissed. But honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry, couldn’t think of why he should be but didn’t have any better ideas. Eventually, he left the hallway so he could stop looking at it, and stalked out into the rest of the penthouse.

Billy couldn’t see him, but he could hear him; Homelander was in the kitchen, based on the soft, plastic-y noises of the cupboard being cleaned out. One by one, empty boxes went into the bin. Ryan, apparently, could never remember to throw things out after he finished with them, and it drove the cunt a bit batty. Batty enough to do the cleaning up himself. 

Deciding he didn’t want to be within arms reach just yet, Billy bypassed the kitchen and slapped up the staircase in the center of the open area. If I kept it, I’ve read it, the cunt had said. So, Billy might as well take a look at what he’d kept. 

From beyond the kitchen door, Homelander called: “If you’re going to throw yourself off the landing strip, I’ll just smash through the wall to catch you!” 

“Oh, nothing to fear. I’m just avoiding you, love,” he shot back, slouching against the railing and surveying said fancy books, all crowded together on the shelves he’d vandalized while being abducted. Most of the shelves were gone now, dismantled, and there was construction tape marking out the boundaries of Ryan’s unbuilt ant farm. He’d decided he wanted ‘Silky Ants’ specifically. Something about them having multiple queens and Ryan thinking that was inherently cooler than having one. 

Many of the books still there were dotted with fingerprints, or had bookmarks sticking out of their pages. And they were no more worthwhile than what was in the bedroom, if you asked him. “Heh. ‘Course you’ve read Fountainhead ,” Billy muttered, knowing Homelander could hear him, and ticked his eyes across the other titles. Pretentious dreck, nonsense, worse nonsense… One title made him snort a small laugh. He had no idea what Beware of Pity was, but it was probably good advice. His hands curled restlessly around the glossy railing, trying to keep his fingers from going numb. Weren’t shit he could do about his toes. Finally finding something else to dig at him about, he yelled over his shoulder: “Why the fuck do you have FOUR copies of Frankenstein?” 

“I have six,” Homelander corrected, voice slightly muted by distance and a closed door. “And you sure are lucky you didn’t bust up any of them. I might have been a bit peeved at you, to be honest.” Billy could hear his voice drifting closer, and looked over his shoulder, down into empty space. He’d wandered out of the kitchen to stand in the open space downstairs, where he was now checking his email on his tablet and looking mildly appalled at whatever was in there. “They’re running early,” he added, “Ryan’ll be up soon, and then we can go.” 

“Brilliant, but don’t change the bloody subject.” Billy turned and grabbed the railing with both hands and leaned over to stare down at that blond head. “Why the fuck do you have SIX copies of Frankenstein?”  He couldn’t see what the cunt was reading on his screen, not from here, but he squinted anyway. 

Homelander looked up at him. “There are two editions,” he said dryly, and then there was a brief rush of air as he took his tablet back to the kitchen, returning with his hands free. Instead of jumping at the blink-and-you-miss-it display of speed, Billy wondered how hard it would be to guess his passcode. Probably not very. Sounding very practiced, the cunt continued: “The 1818 edition was published anonymously, and is the version that many argue is most true to Mary Shelley’s actual vision. The 1831 edition was heavily edited, making the novel structurally stronger but less–” He considered for a second, watching Billy watch him. He clicked his tongue, choosing his words like the Shelley bird was still alive and would give a shite about his opinion. “Artistically daring,” he concluded finally, and ignored his now buzzing phone. Meaning he knew the ringtone and didn’t care about whoever was on the other end.

Billy could admit he liked it when the cunt ignored somebody for him.  

“Some people feel that hands other than Shelley’s made these changes, but–” That pose, his arms folded behind his back, looked much odder out of his little costume. The t-shirt he was in hugged his biceps and Billy tried not to think about what they’d been doing a few nights ago, when both of them were wearing significantly less clothing. The cunt loved typing him up, had spent a couple of hours binding him into different stress positions and teasing him mercilessly, forced Billy to make several dirty promises before he finally fucked him. Honestly, Billy would’ve liked to go longer, but the cunt hadn’t liked how shaky his limbs started to get, had seemed almost worried – 

Homelander’s voice broke back in, getting Billy’s attention, like it always did. “That’s neither here nor there. The others are special editions. You know, ones that include the script of the stage adaption Peak…attempted, is how I’ll put that, ones with forewords by other notable minds in literature. I have one with copies of her letters to–” 

Deciding he’d had his fill of this, Billy pitched his voice into a sneer and cut him off. “Oh? Were you not done? Sorry, tuned out a couple minutes back. So hard to listen to nerds babble on and on. Part of why I never catch what Hughie’s sayin’.” 

Homelander looked genuinely upset for a few seconds, but instead of flying up to knock Billy flat for his transgression, he simply turned away and said: “Don’t mention Campbell,” in a tight, angry tone. 

Billy shoved off the railing and finally slouched back down the stairs. Instead of going closer to the cunt, he made for the den instead. He already knew what was in the fridge and the cabinets. Turned out the cunt could cook, sort of. Simple shite, all of it: eggs and salads and paninis, burger patties and steaks and seasoned veg with rice, lasagna and baked potatoes and soup. The freezer had ice cream for Ryan and there was pre-packaged cookie dough and Babybel cheeses and other little kid snacks in the fridge drawers. Cereal and oatmeal and boxes of fruit snacks filled the cabinets, and glasses with cartoon characters and frolicking animals had been mixed in with the more generic dishes.  

Deep down, he knew all the snooping was pointless, but that didn’t make it easier to stop. Meaning he scanned a nearby cabinet full of DvDs after he’d flopped heavily onto the sofa; he could smell that that was new too. Threw out everything your old man was in, not surprising. Kept all of Noir’s shite, though.   

The cunt’s phone rang again, a different pattern this time. And, with another rattle, he retrieved it from the kitchen and answered it, tersely. “Ashley–” A pause. A huff. “Yes, I read it. The answer is no–because, Ashley, I already gave you the list of approved Supes to take Starlight’s place, and Golden Shower was nowhere on it–”

Billy stretched out on the couch and listened, trying to keep close enough track of the conversation to repeat it later. And where are you gonna tell ‘em they got this info, eh, Butch? Ah, well. Just bloody me knuckles, say I beat it out of–who? They’re going to ask who . And I’m going to tell them to piss off –

While he argued with himself, the part that was always listening to Homelander was catching the following: “Try them again! I don’t want some random child , Ashley, I need somebody with experience and half a fucking brain! Besides, Witchfire–Ashley. ASHLEY–” There were empty spaces on the walls in here, too, bits of exposed flooring, visibly less faded than the rest. The cunt was on a cleaning spree, apparently. He studied a rectangular painting of a stand of slim black trees, huddled together on a swath of gray-green land, as Homelander shouted at his puppet. “She said the psyche profile was…weird, or something, like it wasn’t–like it wasn’t actually analyzing the kid and like Indira Shetty is full of sh–ASHLEY what do you–” He stopped, and Billy sat up to listen more closely. “...already signed? Already–For fuck’s sake, Ashley. Fine. Fine. But I’m calling it now, he won’t last six months! And then, we’re going back to my fucking list.” 

The kitchen door slammed, as if Homelander was putting his phone in time-out for Ashley’s crimes, and heavy footsteps sounded over the floor. He rounded the corner into the den, and Billy realized his mistake half a second before he was pinned on his back, 200 pounds of living stone on top of him. “Kill him for me,” Homelander whined, and kissed him. 

“Get off me!” Billy squirmed under him, and avoided another peck. The warm, soft suede of the oversized black sofa caught on the fibers of his shirt and dragged against his arm hair as he tried fruitlessly to get free. “And no! Piss off, I ain’t your bloody errand boy.” Just your rent boy. Instead of shivering at the thought, he added: “Kill who?” 

“Mmm, if you’re not gonna do it, why are you asking?” He gave up trying to catch Billy’s lips and started nibbling on his earlobe. Which was cheating, by the way. He wasn’t hard under his jeans, but he was starting to shift his hips in a way that suggested he was perking up. “I’d be grateful. You know how I get when I’m grateful–” 

Summoning a few dregs of willpower, Billy rolled his eyes and sneered at him: “I mean it, cunt, get off me. I’m awfully sore, need a break before doin’ me wifely duties again.” That time, he realized his mistake as he was making it. Homelander’s eyes flashed, and he tried to kiss Billy again. “Pineapple,” Billy said, voice pure warning, and–

And Homelander was off him. On his feet, backing away from the couch with his hands up. “Sorry, gorgeous,” he said, as Billy sat up again to look at him, somewhere between jarred and astonished. Hands still up where Billy could see them, he continued, sounding earnest. “You’re so pretty; I get excited.”  

  DO NOT FUCKING BLUSH. During the brief pause, Homelander watched him, gaze apprehensive. Billy chewed the inside of his cheek and leaned on his elbows, considering. “...Kill who?” Changing the subject was easier than processing that he’d just used a safeword and Homelander had actually respected it. Wasn’t even huffy about it, actually. Had simply backed off .  

Brightening at Billy’s question, Homelander started to rant about how miserably worthless Ashley newest recruit promised to be. Some idiot who was about to graduate from Supe College and sounded like a drugstore brand version of Homelander himself. Golden Boy. Billy hated him for the name alone. After a minute, Billy pulled his legs off the end of the couch and let Homelander sit back down. And, honestly, why not pluck the thorn in the cunt’s side, kill Golden Twat and nip that whole business in the bud. So, he listened more or less attentively until the elevator dinged and he shot to his feet. “Shut up,” he barked, cutting Homelander off mid-word as he stalked out of the den and towards the kitchen. Discarding the cunt like the rubbish he was the second Ryan showed up was always a laugh. Kept things in their proper place.  

The glossy elevator doors rolled open and there he was, big smile and tousled hair, proudly carrying a large bag of something. “Billy!” Just like his father, Ryan had a habit of using his superspeed to get through the boring bits of life faster. Thus, the door to his room upstairs banged open and shut after he shot past Billy, too fast to see. Shopping loot safely in his room, he sprinted back downstairs, a blur of color and sound, and threw himself into Billy’s arms. He nearly squealed when Billy lifted him off his feet for their hug. He did it every time he greeted Ryan; eleven was already a tad old for it, and soon he’d have to stop completely. He needed to take advantage–

Then again, he’d likely be long gone by the time Ryan was too big to pick up. 

Doesn’t matter, none of that matters– “Hello, darling,” Billy said, swaying Ryan side to side, trying to really treasure the weight of him in his arms. “I missed you, son, it's been too long.” Instead of pointing out that it had been less than a week, Ryan muffled an agreement into Billy’s shoulder. “Now, where have you been? Gettin’ into trouble?” 

He giggled and shook his head. “No, Miss Wendy took me shopping. I got a new lego set! I’m making a new video, for one of Claudia Cantrell’s new songs!” He said, and Billy played up how excited he was, just to watch him beam. “I have most of it all planned out, and I even have the deadline, she’s releasing a video for this one, so I wanna release it the same day.” Any thought of his health faded as he listened to his kid talk and felt him hanging in his arms. None of that matters. This is what matters this is what matters– 

Just as abruptly as he’d been there, Ryan was gone, shimmying back to the floor to run to his dad instead, and Billy was only a tiny bit heartbroken. 

“Buddy!” Homelander said, delighted, and there was an audible thunk as Ryan threw himself into his dad’s arms. Billy scowled as he turned back around. Homelander smiled at him over Ryan’s shoulder, and then kissed his hair. “Come on, kiddo, let’s head out, and you can tell us all about your day.” He strode across the open concept/useless space. When they reached Billy, he set Ryan down on his feet again.  

“My day was boring,” Ryan said dismissively, grabbing his dad’s hand and pulling him impatiently towards the lift. On the way, he grabbed Billy’s hand too, and Billy squeezed those perfect little fingers as tight as he could. 

“Boring? How, I thought you went to the LEGO store?” Homelander said, as they stepped inside the lift. Billy hit the button and watched Ryan look up at his dad. “And, I thought that was your favorite place on Earth?”  

“YEAH, but after that, it was like, you know, nothing–” He cut himself off to look up at Billy instead. “What did you do today?” He asked insistently, and Billy tried not to choke on his own spit. Homelander laughed, and Billy hated him for it. “What?” Ryan looked between them as Billy glared over his head, wishing harder than ever that he could cave in that smug little face. “Did you guys hang out?” There was something hopeful in his voice, and something challenging in Homelander’s eyes as he looked back at Billy. Yeah, pal, they seemed to say, in their faintly inhuman glimmer. Did we hang out?   

Billy knew the cunt wanted to tell Ryan. Part of his sick little ‘happy family’ fantasy. But Billy couldn’t stomach the thought, couldn’t swallow the horror of Ryan knowing. So he broke his gaze away from Homelander’s and didn’t budge. “Nah, not really, son.” He grinned down at Ryan, and lowered his voice to a mock whisper: “Was tellin’ off your dad for never makin’ you finish your fruit and veg, and he got a bit nasty about it–” 

To his credit, Homelander hid his disappointment well. “He eats as much as he feels like eating, I don’t see the problem.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out to fully silence it. “They know I’m busy,” he said to Ryan, who beamed. 

“Really? He had so many biscuits last week that he was sick all over his bedroom floor, and you don’t see the problem?” 

“Oh, that? I was going to jot it down as a learning experience. He knows his limits now. Don’t you, buddy?” He was smirking I can fuckin’ hear it when he smirks and Billy called him an idiot, with no real bite to the words. 

Ryan hated when they fought, but didn’t seem to mind when they bickered . In fact, it made him giggle as he rocked in place on his heels. “I should stop at 10 cookies. Yep. I get it now.” There was that cheeky tone again, the one he’d had when he called out his dad’s little “behavioral problem”; Billy played along, just to let him feel like a normal kid for a minute.  

Queuing up his most exasperated voice, he looked down to meet Ryan’s feigned innocence. “Ten? No, bloody hell, no , that is still too many–” 

Homelander cut back in; he never cringed away from these little games, seemed to understand them instinctively despite his own lack of play-time growing up. “For normal children, probably, but Ryan’s special –” He smiled down at Ryan. “Aren’t you, buddy?” He cooed, sweetness exaggerated, and Ryan couldn’t smother his laugh. 

“That doesn’t mean that he’s immune to bleedin’ diabetes!” Billy refused to think about what he was doing. Who he was doing it with. He just squeezed those perfect little fingers tighter and listened to the sound of his kid being happy.

“Yes, it does!” The cunt was giggling too; Billy told himself he didn’t care, that he didn’t like the sound. “He is absolutely immune to diabetes, sugar can’t hurt him.” His voice was warm and playful and now Billy was avoiding his eyes, afraid he’d blush always fucking blushing when I’m talking to him.  

Ears getting a little hot despite his best efforts, he replied:“See, this is why I need to come to dinner, who the hell knows what you let him eat when I stay home.” 

“Broken glass and radioactive waste, if you must know.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past you, honestly–” 

Ryan was no longer stifling his laughter as they got off the elevator, bypassed the lobby, and took a side exit. As they left the alley and turned onto the street, Ryan looked up at Billy again. “Did you know Pocahontas is propaganda?” He asked brightly, and Billy happily ignored the cunt for over six blocks as Ryan excitedly told him that Disney was a pack of lying twats. Which Billy had long suspected, but it was good to have facts to attach to his opinion. 

By the time they got to the theater and were picking up their tickets, Ryan’s chatter had drifted to his home schooling, which was going to start up on Monday. Homelander had sent Billy a sneak-peak of the teachers he’d hired, short files on the backgrounds and credentials, and Billy grudgingly deemed them acceptable (for now). Ryan was most excited about his science lessons; apparently, he’d be starting with tectonic plates. Tectonic plates were, quite possibly, the fourth coolest thing on Earth, and Billy was trying to get the tyke to explain how moving chunks of Earth were less cool than ants while Homelander paid. 

As Ryan explained why volcanoes and earthquakes simply couldn’t hold a candle to six-legged garden pests, Billy tried not to remember Homelander whispering to him, in his flat’s kitchen: She compared my feelings for you to black holes and collapsing volcanoes and the kind of storms that sink cities– and finally quashed the thought, focused on Ryan, focused on pretending to nag him about the junk food he was loading up on. 

Ryan went to the toilet as the previews started, and Billy tried not to panic the entire time. “I don’t like it anymore than you do,” Homelander murmured, across the empty seat between them. “But we can’t…baby him.” 

“Fuck that, I bloody want to,” Billy snapped, because he couldn’t help himself, and he wished he hated how soft and affectionate the cunt’s laugh was. 

“Wendy says–” 

“Wendy says,” Billy mocked, and was genuinely pissed that only earned another laugh. 

“You wanna see her credentials again?” Homelander asked dryly as the lights dimmed and the screen switched off of the local ads. His arm was across the back of Ryan’s seat, long enough to leave his hand resting behind Billy’s shoulder. 

“Never saw ‘em in the first place,” Billy reminded him, slouching in the too-stiff and too-narrow theater seat. Place was crowded with kids and families, dark shapes lit up by the flickering screen. 

Homelander didn’t touch him. In fact, he withdrew his hand and propped his elbow on the armrest. Not in public never fucking in public Billy had told him on Wednesday night while Homelander forced Billy to ride his cock.  

“He has attachment issues,” Homelander said softly, and Billy threw him a glance. His face was half-lit by the preview that was currently playing, and he could see a faint sadness there. “We’re… we’re not supposed to encourage those, he needs to be–” 

“Independent,” Billy finished grudgingly. “Fine, fine. I let him go , didn’t I?” He paused, and then added, a tad anxiously, “Is he coming back?” 

Homelander twitched. Sounded caught as he said: “...I’m not watching–” 

“Yes, you are! You’re looking past me, you watched him through the wall–”

“I stopped when he got to the bathroom!” He hissed, under his breath, and Billy grinned at him, enjoying the sound of him getting so flustered. 

After a beat, Billy huffed and prompted: “Well. Is he coming back?” 

Homelander tried to keep a straight face, and Billy could almost perceive the shift as he switched to X-ray vision. Something glossy would slide across his eyes, like they’d been preserved in resin. “Yes. He’s back in the lobby,” he said, sounding relieved. 

“You’re as bad as me, see?” 

Ryan got back just as the actual film started. It wasn’t terrible, for what it was. Mostly it was loud, and trying too hard to be funny, but Ryan was glued to it, and Billy kept himself busy by figuring out which of the various jungle animals he’d like siccing on Homelander best. And then remembered the animals that had been dosed with V, in the Vought labs, and that occupied him for a good while. Tigers with laser eyes and steel-rending claws sounded fun. Not as fun as toucans with supersonic screams and bullet-proof beaks, though. Or stampeding elephants that couldn’t be killed and could follow the cunt into the sky.

The film ended, and as soon as they were outside, Ryan grabbed their hands again. With that sense of purpose kids always had when they were in charge, he dragged them towards the diner he’d picked out. A borderline dive, according to the cunt’s whining, and Billy was very much looking forward to watching Prince Prick eat grease and fat for once. Between them, Ryan chattered excitedly about what they’d just seen, and Homelander picked up the brunt of that conversation. 

If Billy had hated him less, he’d have found it dead sweet how clearly the cunt actually enjoyed talking to Ryan about anything and everything. He asked questions, encouraged him to elaborated, talked much less than Billy expected him too. Enchanted, that was the only word for how he looked at his son. He was enchanted by everything his kid said and did and thought and shared, and telegraphed that openly and enthusiastically. 

Against his will, Billy wondered who would be left to raise Ryan once he and Homelander were both gone. Mallory? Or the witch? 

Neither thought really comforted him. So. He squeezed Ryan’s fingers and thought about him instead.  

“–and that’s the kind of spider that Miss Wendy wants, right?” Ryan was asking, as Billy held the door open for them. “The really big one that was trying to bite the Australian guy?” The diner was crowded with families and groups of coworkers and unhappy couples arguing under the din. Homelander flinched but pushed through it. Beside the counter, a frazzled waitress barely looked at them before gesturing to the single open booth. 

The cracked pleather squeaked as they settled into the bench seats, and Billy was only somewhat devastated when Ryan slid in next to his dad. Homelander, visibly uncomfortable in the setting, was already squinting at the menu when Ryan repeated his question. Trying to sound upbeat, he answered: “The movie spider was venomous. To humans, I mean. She likes tarantulas.” Under his breath, he muttered something about greasy , and Billy smirked. Choke on it, love.   

“Oh, yeah! The ones with the fat, fuzzy legs and the real big webs. She was showing me pictures.” Ryan was fascinated by their slightly shabby surroundings, head twisting this way and that. While his dad was clearly struggling with the noise, he seemed entertained by it, grinning when someone in the kitchen dropped something, making it shatter. “She said she got her first one from her backyard, she caught it in a jar.” The rotating display of deserts kept recapturing his attention, and Billy tried to figure out how many he could let the kid try without undermining himself. Four, he decided, four was reasonable, right? 

“Course the witch likes spiders,” Billy said, mostly to himself. His menu clattered back into the holder, and Ryan frowned at him across the table. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Next to Ryan, Homelander was giving him a pleading look and indicating the menu. Don’t make me eat this, said his eyes, and Billy mouthed back you said you’d try it.   

“She’s creepy,” Billy said simply, and once again silently berated the American public for banning smoking inside. What the fuck was he supposed to do with his hands?  

Ryan was apparently done deciding too, and kept frowning at Billy as he put his menu away. “That’s mean.” 

“Is it? I was under the impression she was doing that on purpose.”  

Ryan let out a huff and rolled his eyes, and then kept talking as if Billy hadn’t just gravely disappointed him: “I told her she should get the yellow kind, cuz a yellow spider is just cool , but she said they’re aggressive and skittish–” He took a few seconds to get the word out right and looked pleased as punch when he did. “–she needs a species that likes to be handled, and I was like get two but–” 

“Ryan,” Homelander said, sounding exasperated. “I don’t want her bringing a thousand of those things into the Tower, I was barely alright with one–” 

“Oh, what, you scared of spiders?” Billy asked, thoughts instantly turning to Supe Spiders, weaving unbreakable webs and liquifying the cunt’s organs with their mutated venom. He propped his elbows on the table and kept digging. “You know, they’re more scared of you that you are of–” 

“I am not afraid of spiders!” Homelander barked, visibly fuming. 

Billy arched his eyebrows. What was he supposed to do, leave that be? “Are you sure, mate? Seem awfully rattled–” 

Homelander scowled, grip on the menu tightening almost imperceptibly. “They look gross, okay? They’re ugly, and the way they move is awful!” Voice tight with embarrassment, he continued: “And I don’t like the noises they make!” He only realized he was tearing the menu when Ryan gently touched his wrist, and he quickly put it aside, in the holder with the others. Still huffy, he folded his arms and said contemptuously, “They fucking purr , William, it’s disgusting–” 

“They do purr,” Ryan confirmed, and, okay, Billy could agree that was awful. “They do it to attract mates!” Ryan added, and his father retched a little 

“Disgusting,” Homelander said, and Billy was trying very hard not to smile at his pouty, wounded tone. “And they rub their legs together to make this… hiss noise, it’s–” 

“You promised her,” Ryan reminded him and Homelander groaned, putting his face in his hands. 

“I promised her one! Not two, and certainly not–” 

Ryan shrugged and said innocently: “I told her to get as many as she wanted. They make her happy. And besides, Dad, I really want her to get the yellow kind! It’s a yellow spider!” 

They both listened with rapt attention as Ryan explained his opinions about the witch’s spider collection, which turned into an explanation about his opinions on several other things, and were both somewhat annoyed when a server arrived and interrupted. The cunt made Billy do all the talking with the waitstaff, which suited him fine. He was in no mood to have one of the cunt’s little tantrums ruin Ryan’s evening. Getting him to agree to actually try something was a bit tricky, but the place did all-day breakfast, thank Christ, and Homelander could apparently live with Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs for his dinner. Ryan wanted to skip to desert (he’d never had key lime pie) but Billy shot that down before it got anywhere.  

The cunt was just as appalled by the food in person as he was by the pictures on the menu, staring at it like it was going to bite him back. “You don’t let me skip meals,” Ryan pointed out, voice borderline sing-song as he dumped ketchup on his burger. 

“All that muscle, need your protein,” Billy taunted, and Homelander bared his teeth at him, mumbled something that sounded like going to feed you to that fucking spider until Ryan physically put the fork in his hand. 

He ate about half of what he’d ordered, kept his bitching about the taste (and cleanliness) to a minimum, and took Ryan’s teasing like a champ. “Eats like a bloody princess, don’t he?” Billy sneered, clearing his plate. Finishing a meal was hard these days, but he was actually feeling hungry for once. Probably because he’d puked right after he got to the penthouse; sometimes, that would settle his gut for a few hours. 

(The cunt had handed him a bottle of water through the water closet door and hovered in the bathroom doorway while Billy brushed his teeth afterwards. He did his best to not think about the fact that the bastard could watch him shout into the toilet for a quarter of an hour and still want to shag him afterward.) 

On the way back, full of corned beef and iced tea, Billy held Ryan’s hand again, and barely minded when Homelander took Ryan’s free one. The kid had finally talked himself out, was now just humming a snatch of music from the film and gazing up at the skyscrapers as his parents walked him home. Homelander was quiet too, watching his son instead of the sidewalk in front of him, and Billy had to bark at him to avoid mailboxes and one very bold rat that was making off with half a cannoli. 

“I didn’t know your witch had a sweet tooth,” Billy commented, as the rodent vanished into the mouth of an alleyway. It was mid-September and the sun was barely starting to set. The air was still warm and heavy, and the wind was minimal. Billy wondered if this was his last autumn, and buried it another joke about the witch.  

“Don’t be mean!” Ryan snapped, stopping at a crosswalk. Absently, he swung his arms, pulling their hands along with his. “She’s fun, and she’s dad’s friend, so stop being a jerk.” There was little real animosity in his words, so Billy chuckled instead of apologizing. 

“Aw, lad. I really wish that was possible.” 

Ryan huffed at him as the light turned green and they crossed, only a few blocks from the Tower. 

Billy’s phone buzzed, and he ignored it. He’d told Mallory and his team that he needed the weekend to himself. They could manage themselves for a bit. 

Chapter Text

Homelander’s mobile was ringing in his pocket: the witch’s ringtone. Eyebrows going up, he started to answer it, and Billy scowled at him about it. I let mine ring , he thought, loudly, in Homelander’s direction. Between them, Ryan was tugging on his dad’s hand, trying to get him to put the phone away. “Dad, no! Talk to her later,” he said, a slight whine to his voice. Billy frowned at that dirty blonde head. Something else was in his voice too. Worry.

“...She doesn’t call for nothing,” the cunt said, almost apologetically, and opened his now silent mobile. He hit redial, and had to let go of Ryan’s hand to do it. “What?” He barked into the phone, and Ryan was nearly squirming with obvious nerves. 

“Lad?” Billy asked, softly. His first response was concern; the kid seemed cornered, like he was about to be shouted at–

“Meant to call me sooner about what ,” Homelander was asking impatiently, and Ryan threw a terrified glance at him. 

As his father listened to the rat squeak about whatever, he looked up at Billy. “Promise you’ll stay for breakfast?” He begged, pulling on his hand. “Promise, no matter what! Please, please, please?”

“Ryan–I already told you–of course I’m–” He was looking between Ryan’s face and Homelander’s as the lift came to a halt, and Ryan jumped at the ding .  

Homelander, to the witch: “Why wouldn’t I have taken him out?” Ryan cringed harder, and avoided Billy’s eyes, but gripped his hand even tighter. The three of them shambled off the lift and into the half-lit foyer. “No, he didn’t tell me anything. No, no. That’s alright, he was supposed to tell me himself. Weren’t you, buddy?” He looked down at his son, who avoided eye contact by staring at his shoes.

Billy was rapidly running out of patience. “What the bloody hell happened?” He wasn’t sure which of them he was asking.

Behind him, Homelander was dismissing the witch. “Next time, check sooner. Oh, busy with what ? You don’t have a life.” There was an audible crunch, signaling that he’d cracked his screen when he hung up. Ryan flinched as his father snapped into view in front of them, arms behind his back. Face somewhat grim, he prompted: “Buddy?” When he got no response, he threw Billy a strange look, like he was searching for advice or permission. 

Billy rubbed the back of Ryan’s hand with his thumb and didn’t speak, had the strangest urge to let the cunt take point. He shrugged and jerked his head at Ryan, trying to keep his conflicting emotions in check. Blessing secured, Homelander took a short breath in and tried again, even as Ryan hunched up his shoulders, trying to shrink. “What happened at the store? Miss Wendy says you were supposed to tell me before dinner.” 

“I forgot,” Ryan said, in a voice both defensive and small, and Billy fought off a wave of nausea as he recognized it; Becca used to get that voice when she’d done something daft and knew he was going to be cross about it. No time for that not important she’s dead – So, he pictured the thoughts as round, soft things like rotten melons and blonde heads, and crushed them to pulp, one by one.

He spoke to keep his brain busy and his mounting anxiety in check. “You bloody remember now, don’t you?” When Ryan looked up at him, eyes wet and posture wilted, he refused to budge. His heart was racing and they can both bloody hear it as he tried not to think the worse. But it was hard, now that he was remembering that prat at the scavenger hunt. Some older kid Ryan had told him about on the phone earlier that week he called me a freak for not knowing about some dumb tv show please don’t tell dad you know he gets– And maybe Ryan got like that too, sometimes and now, said prat was dead in a dumpster behind the bloody LEGO store, eyes burnt out and bones crushed to pulp. 

Nonsense, bloody nonsense. The witch wouldn’t have waited this long if he killed somebody he told himself desperately but then he barked back at himself we have no proof she gives a damn! 

Finally, Ryan spoke. “Don’t be mad,” he pleaded, and grabbed Billy’s hand with his other one, eyes huge and frantic and still considering getting all teary. “Don’t be mad! Please, please don’t leave, please don’t fight –” Sounding more than a little desperate, he looked back and forth between them, and Billy winced at the pressure on his hand. “Please, don’t fight about it, promise to not fight about it or I won’t tell you–” And his face was getting flushed when he said that, and Billy laughed on reflex. 

At least the sound got Ryan to ease up on his hand, and Billy answered him to cover his own wince. “Oh? You’d rather we hear it from the witch? I’d advise against that, lad.” He had more, but Homelander cut in, sounding exasperated. 

“Ryan, we promise to not be mad! Now, just tell us!” He ignored Billy’s irate expression speak for yourself I’m plannin’ on bein’ furious and gestured for his son to continue. “Out with it, or I will get mad about you lying to us.” 

“I didn’t lie!” Ryan shouted, and looked as startled as Billy felt. But then he doubled down, planted his feet and twisted his frown into a scowl, aiming it at his father. “I forgot, I did!” And he was very obviously lying, but Billy refused to be distracted by that. 

“Tell us,” he said, voice low and sharp, a tone he didn’t like using on the kid. But it worked, like it usually did. 

Ryan’s posture went from tense and aggressive to ashamed. His heaving shoulders went down and his spine slumped forward. Head hung, he was back to staring at his trainers instead of meeting either of their eyes. Billy tried to prepare himself for the worst as he finally mumbled: “I stole.”  

And yes, Billy’s first response was relief. He could feel the cunt relax too, sensed the air shifting as he let out the same breath Billy had been holding. Petty theft, was that all? Christ, like he hadn’t nicked his fair share of shite he didn’t need to in his lifetime. Most lads around that age did it at least a few times, he figured, birds too, probably. But, he caught himself, tried to think like a normal person for a second or two. Yes, it wasn’t murder , but that wasn’t the point.  He had to correct this, now. So, he prodded him for more, voice still stern not cruel don’t bloody scare him . “Stole what and from whom?” 

“At the store. Miss Wendy went outside, cuz I wanted to pay for it myself. And, um. I was standing in line for a while and I was looking around and–” He heaved out a breath. “They had this…this other set I wanted, and I–almost changed my mind and got out of line but then I. Um. In-instead, after I paid, I just kinda–”

With a heavy sigh, Homelander adjusted his stance and folded his arms over his chest, eyes hard. “You just kinda what , Ryan?” 

Once again, Billy didn’t rescue him, just repeated his dad’s question. With a swallow, and a noticeable sulk creeping into his words, Ryan continued. “I went, you know, fast , and I–took it. And put it in the bag and then went outside, fast, but–but Miss Wendy put it back!” He added defensively. “And–and–and she shouldn’t have left me, right?” That was directed at his dad, but Billy was the one who twitched, torn between agreeing with him and telling him off for try to weasel out of it. “And she put it back, and told me that it wasn’t okay for me to do that, and–” He let out a long, shaky breath, and visibly fought the urge to straighten up. Tried to stay meek and that deliberate thought on Ryan’s part was a wee bit troubling–but– not now focus . Ryan mumbled, “So I– I don’t even have it, so–” 

So don’t be mad was the implication there, and that, honestly, made Billy certain that he needed a consequence. He’s not ashamed because of what he did he’s ashamed that we’re angry and that’s different. He knew; he’d felt both many times. Kids need limits. They need to learn right from wrong. Especially kids that could level city blocks with a tantrum if you let them, and who were about to be in the sole custody of a violent, bigoted rapist. Ryan had used his powers to do something he knew was wrong, and then tried to lie about it. Again, the air seemed to shift; Homelander seemed to be on the same page good about bloody time he pulled his weight. So Billy schooled his face and voice into something stern and said: “You cannot do that. Ever, do you understand?” He squeezed Ryan’s hand and the kid was staring at his shoes again.  

“Billy’s right,” Homelander said, and Billy decided to let him talk. Better than undermining me or doing nothing. The sun was down, and he was mostly backlit by the den, where he almost always left the lights on. Ryan shrank a bit closer to Billy and it was impossible to not soften, feel less angry. Frowning, arms still folded, Homelander continued, “Somebody could have seen you, did you think of that?” 

What? “ What?” Billy said flatly, looking up from Ryan to stare at the cunt and try to compel him to have a reasonable follow up to that statement. Come on, you can do it. Johnny continued, voice tinged with cold: “You can’t always control your speed yet, and you were in a crowded, public place. You could have knocked other things down, or hurt people. Those things draw attention, Ryan. Negative attention, they start rumors which get traced back here–” He pointed to the floor and Ryan stubbornly looked at his face instead. Some time ago, he’d let go of Billy’s hand to cross his arms, mirroring his father, and Billy fought the urge to look away or maybe just walk the fuck out– 

“Are you bloody serious?” Billy said, trying to interrupt, but neither of them heard him. Ryan was busy with the rage that was starting to tighten his shoulders and curl his fingers and twist his mouth. But his father wasn’t easily phased by other people’s emotions, and ignored the look just like he’d ignored Billy.

 “Somebody could have seen you stealing! How do you think that would look?” 

“I–I just,” Ryan shook his head, frustrated and starting to boil, and Billy was trying to think of something to say that properly conveyed his disgust. Before he could, however, Ryan blurted out: “You said that I could do stuff like that if I want!” 

“You bloody fucking what?!” I was fucking right you bloody encouraged– Unable to contain himself, Billy stepped into Homelander’s space, ignoring his kid’s whine. Fuming, he got in the cunt’s face, and Homelander sneered back at him, not moving an inch. 

“That’s not what I said,” he said, voice contemptuous, and Billy really, really wanted to hit him, wondered if he’d turn his head with the blow or let Billy break his hand– 

“Ryan! What did he tell you exactly ‘bout stealin’?” When Ryan remained silent behind him, Billy growled and Homelander had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Let me guess! He told you that you can do whatever you want because you’re better than other people, right?”  

“I told him not to hurt anyone who doesn’t have it coming,” Homelander said mildly, and Billy was so angry he laughed, short and hostile. “Oh, what? Like you wouldn’t have told him the same thing!” 

“Firstly, no, I didn’t, and second–” Don’t call him love. “Didn’t we agree that he shouldn’t–” 

“Can I go upstairs?” Ryan whispered, and they both froze. Homelander looked guilty and agitated as he broke eye contact with Billy to look past him, at their son, who didn’t sound angry anymore. Just deeply, deeply upset, nearly quavering, and Billy almost let the whole thing go out of shame over spoiling everything. 

Don’t give in he needs to learn– Unable to bear looking at him, Billy fumbled out: “Yes, go upstairs, go to your room–” 

“Come down in an hour for goodnight,” Homelander added, and forced a smile. “Billy and I need to talk about this, and decide how we’re going to…address this.”

“Am I in trouble?” Ryan asked, voice weak, and Billy wasn’t sure if he should turn around and hug the kid or not, but he was doing it before he could stop himself. 

Ryan hugged back, arms around his shoulders, and Billy nuzzled into his temple, refusing to acknowledge the ache in his knees or the twisting eels in his guts. “Maybe,” he said quietly, and Ryan crumbled in his hold. “But I’m staying for breakfast and I don’t–you’re still–Ryan this doesn’t change things, okay? Do you hear me?” It wasn’t quite what he wanted to say; he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, truth be told. But it worked. 

Ryan relaxed, and lifted his head to look up at his dad, who’d stepped up behind Billy. “Dad?” He asked, tentatively, and Billy adjusted his grip to hold him tighter.

“We need to discuss what sort of consequence you’re getting,” Homelander confirmed. “You shouldn’t have done that, buddy, and we need to…Just, go play in your room until it’s time for goodnight, okay?”   

Letting the kid step out of his hug was harder than he’d like to admit, but Billy let him go, watched him back up. His eyes weren’t wet or spilling over, but his mouth was still twisted in a slight sulk he thinks he shouldn’t be getting a consequence and that’s a very bad sign as he backed towards the stairs. “Don’t fight!” Ryan said, one last time, trying to make it an order, and then he was gone, sprinting up the stairs to his room. He went so fast that the other doors rattled in their frames; downstairs, Billy was straightening up and turning to face Homelander.

“What the fuck did you mean exactly? Bout hurting people who deserve it?” He turned around and stepped directly back into Homelander’s space, and the prat didn’t even have the decency to step back. Well. If he wasn’t going to be a good boy and grovel over this latest atrocity, then Billy wasn’t going to go easy on him. “Because I thought we agreed he shouldn't be like either of us,” and he grabbed at the front of that thin t-shirt, laid into him some more as the cunt stayed infuriatingly silent. “Miserable and poisonous and destructive to everybody around us! So! Why the fuck are you filling his head with shite like ‘stealing is fine and dandy’?” Nostrils flaring and heart still going far too fast, he tried to yank the cunt off his feet and bring them nose to nose. 

Homelander didn’t budge, and smacked at Billy’s hands, eyes glinting. “Do not tear my fucking clothes,” he whispered back, and then spun on his heel, fast enough to whip up a curl of wind and flap Billy’s shirt against his body. Stalking across the half-dark foyer and towards the always-lit den, he called over his shoulder, “You want a drink, gorgeous?” His voice was sarcastic as all get out, and Billy followed him, murder in his eyes. “If we’re going to have this discussion–” 

Don’t call me that you stupid prick. “Listen, you stupid cunt, this is not a bleedin’ discussion. This is a very unfavorable performance review! What in the fuck are you doing?!” Billy followed him to the liquor cabinet, glared at his back as the cunt poured them each a scotch. When he didn’t answer, Billy swallowed a frustrated scream. Kid’s upstairs don’t make it impossible to ignore what’s going on down here. “For Christ’s sake, this is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid!” He squeezed his hands until they stopped trembling, like they often did when his adrenaline spiked, and Homelander was refusing to turn around. Tired of not getting a reaction, his voice dropped back to a hiss: “He needs limits, or he’ll turn out like you –”  

A sharp intake of breath from Homelander barely covered the wet crunch of one of the glasses shattering in his hand. Honey gold liquor dribbled off his fingers as he shook off the remains of the tumbler, glass littering the carpet like chunks of hail. Billy didn’t flinch, refused to flinch, as Homelander slowly turned around to face him, eyes cool and flat, mouth a straight line. Go on then, let me have it.  

Homelander dropped his gaze to the remaining glass, swishing in his slightly-too-tense grip, and said through gritted teeth: “He has limits. He sometimes ignores them. You know, like he has a right to do, since he has free fucking will.” The other tumbler creaked dangerously, but stayed intact for now, as Homelander continued: “Sue me for not treating him like a wind-up toy!” He knocked back half of the surviving glass in a long, hard swallow, and his face was flushed when he lowered it again. Still not meeting Billy’s eyes, he asked the room: “Forgive me, William, forgive me for not hollowing him out and replacing him with–with–” He spluttered in frustration, shook his head, and put his back to Billy again, all in one inelegant clutter of motion. In no mood to be ignored, Billy stalked closer. 

Look at me bloody look at me. “Oh, stop being so bloody dramatic! You are not getting out of this by sulking!” Under his feet, the glass shards were being crushed to powder, and he barely noticed, too busy trying to coax some fire out of his eyes. Just enough to singe the cunt’s hair would be enough. But, he had to settle for words, so he made them sharp at the edges. “We don't want him to be miserable and alone like us, right? That’s why you let that slimy rat of yours crawl around inside his head–” 

Now Homelander was the one with shaky hands as he snatched them back from the glassware and snapped: “You tell me to get him a therapist, I get him the best one in the world, and you find a way to shit on me for that too?!”

Despite bringing it up, Billy didn’t actually want to fight about the witch, so he barrelled past that. “The point bloody being that he will be just as bloody broken in the head as you if you keep fillin’ his noggin with shite like ‘we’re gods’ and ‘we’re above the law’ and ‘we’re allowed to hurt people’! He needs to know that the way we act–” He gestured wildly between the two of them; he could feel Homelander watching him the reflection of the ice bucket. “Is wrong, and that he’s better than that–” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” And he started to turn but visibly stopped himself, kept his face down his eyes are probably burning and planted his hands on the top of the cabinet doesn’t want to grab me . “What the fuck is wrong with him stealing a fucking LEGO set?! I agree he shouldn’t have done it, but because it was stupid and unnecessary!” He rubbed one hand over his mouth, and honestly, he really did look different out of the suit, and if he wasn’t plotting how to poison the cunt, Billy would be able to decide he liked it. “No! I don’t care that he stole a…a goddamn toy! Why the fuck do you?!”  

“Because he needs to learn to play nice with the rest of humanity! And you do that by remembering that you have to follow the same bloody rules as the rest of us–”   

“Oh, because, if he doesn’t, somebody like you is going to kill him?” And now Homelander turned around, topped off tumbler in hand, and his eyes had that look. That fuck it lets rock look he’d get right before he twisted heads off of bodies. Normally, Billy rather liked that look. Now, he loved it, because he’s not gonna touch me no matter what I say he knew that in his guts, so Billy kept swinging the only way he could.

“Actually, yes, bloody maybe! Because that’s what the mud people gotta resort to when the hoity toity gods rape too many maidens and kill too many puppies for fur coats! They scale the mountain and bust heads until all the pretty fire leaks out!” And yes, that was getting a bit protracted and vague, but it made the cunt’s lip curl as he downed another swallow of scotch and then opened his mouth to hit back.

“That’s what you think of him, huh?” 

Nice, clean hit, and Billy took it on the chin and kept rolling. “No,” he hissed, even as a tiny part of him whispered maybe one day if I don’t do right by him – “I don’t! But he’s a kid, and kids grow up. Before they do, they gotta learn that other people bloody matter! Otherwise, they get it in their heads that they can do as they like, when they like, and then people get hurt! Just bloody look how you turned out, livin’ without consequences –” 

When Homelander straightened up and interrupted him, his voice was dark, and something rough was flowing underneath his words, a harshness that wasn’t quite a snarl. “ I had fucking consequences .” His face had gone stricken and enraged, and his eyes were turning wild as he stared into Billy’s defiant face. Snap all you like I ain’t flinchin’ til you bite love– “You–you have no fucking idea–” The tumbler creaked again, louder, the glass threatening to give, and Billy pushed him some more by grabbing the front of his shirt again. 

“I don’t care,” he whispered, nose to nose and nearly chest to chest. Face white with rage, Homelander breathed out a warning Billy under his breath; but Billy wasn’t backing down, not when he had the cunt cornered. “Do fucking better. Tell him the fuck off when he acts like a cunt or else he ain’t going to stop. He’ll keep doing worse and worse shite until–” 

“Don’t!” His voice was verging on shrill, like how Ryan’s got sometimes if your failure of him was especially baffling, and Billy gritted his teeth and forced his free hand into a steady, solid fist. With his other fist, the one bunched around soft fabric, he tried to drag Homelander closer, to whisper right into his mouth:

“Until he’s just like you–”

Once again, Homelander crushed the glass he was holding. Beside them, a cascade of barrel-age droplets dotted the carpet, landing amongst the glittering remains of the second tumbler, and Homelander looked at his wet fingers in disgust. “See?” He barked, voice still somewhat high and tight and ringing. “See what you fucking–” God, seeing anything he and Ryan had in common made Billy sick, and he went for the throat on reflex. 

“Told you earlier, you twisted fucking mutant, you ruin everything you touch, and you’re going to fucking ruin him–” 

And then Homelander was gone. A whoosh of air announced his departure, glassware rattling on the liquor cabinet, and Billy blinked at the empty space. His fingers stung from the super speed drag of cotton over skin, and oh, oh that would bloody cost him ! “Oi!” He barked, and stormed out of the den. “Johnny!” He shouted, barely remembering that Ryan could hear him, and then he was stalking towards the cunt’s bedroom. “Do not fucking hide from me! We are not done! We are not bloody–” 

Homelander snapped past him, a blur of color going in the opposite direction, and Billy turned on his heel to follow–

Only for his head to not travel at quite the same rate as his body, and he staggered to one side as his brain wobbled like jell-o on a train. Retching as something chemical and sour dribbled down the back of his throat, he found himself slumping against the wall. Above his head, disturbed paintings swung back and forth in Homelander’s wake, and he tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t stand up. His legs were struggling to rise and brace at the same time; any attempt to get up had them trembling wildly. Still breathing heavily, he clung to the wall and closed his eyes. Just had to wait it out. It’d be fine–

His head was starting to hurt. Dull, insistent pounding, radiating out from one of the lesions, and now all he felt was dread. Not a bloody migraine , not now, it had only been three days since the last one– 

After a few seconds of slow, ragged breaths and fuzzed out vision, he heard bare feet on plush carpet, and then there was a form looming over him. “Billy?” Homelander asked, softly. 

“We’re not done!” He repeated, trying to snap. But now the throbbing pain was spreading in a slow, hot pulse through the left side of his head, and he reflexively curled inward.  

“...I’ll get your pills…” 

Homelander was back as soon as he left, it seemed like. The paintings were back to swinging on the walls as he helped Billy swallow half a glass of water and two of his migraine pills. Then he knelt there, silently, as Billy hunched against the wall and prayed for a minor miracle. Once they were confident that said pills would stay down (and Billy could see again), Homelander pulled him to his feet, and they started back to the den together. Instead of blessed silence, however, he was assaulted with the cunt’s voice. 

“You were being a bastard,” Homelander muttered, and Billy gave him a withering look, as if the cunt’s arm around his waist wasn’t the only thing keeping him upright. “I left to take a fucking breath so I didn’t throw you out the fucking window! Christ.” 

Instead of tapping out, however, Billy retaliated, because if he had to choose between babying himself and hurting Homelander, well, no contest. “Oh, like you weren’t being bloody insufferable! You can’t play the shitty childhood card with me, love. Won’t work, you–you fucking–you bloody–” Come on. Don’t just call him a cunt. This needs to be at least three words. The tectonic plates shifting in his skull made that hard, however, and now his tongue was getting clumsy. Left treading water too long, he supposed.  

“Mmm. Fresh out, gorgeous?” Homelander sounded amused as his lover fumbled for a retort, and Billy bared his teeth like an agitated dog. Didn’t do much good, though, seeing as the lights of the den had stabbed into his eyes, and he’d reflexively hidden them against the cunt’s shoulder. Snorting, Homelander walked them towards the couch and teased: “You know, I once heard Edgar compare me to a fucked up version of Pinnochio, you wanna do something with that?” It was mockery, and Billy felt weak and vicious all at once. 

Lifting his head from his prat lover’s shoulder, he spat: “Get your grubby Yank hands off me you daft little Frakenstein,” because Johnny hated that. Hated being called an experiment or a lab rat or when Billy implied he came off an assembly line. And that thought finally gave him an idea: “That’s a bad comparison, Pinnochio was made with love,” and Homelander went pale. 

“Asshole,” he said flatly, and unceremoniously dumped Billy on the sofa. Ignoring Billy’s yelp of pain, he breathed heavily and stared down at him. Shoulders quivering, he said, “You know? I just wanted to watch TV with you. Why do you have to ruin everything?” 

Head throbbing, Billy wanted to hurt him. Wanted to double down, wanted to throw the word ruin right back at him, remind him of the long list of lives he’d wrecked–

Homelander was gone, and the den was dark. He was over by the lightswitch now, and Billy sat in the darkness, blinking. And then Homelander was speaking much more softly, still at the switch. “If the pills don’t work in twenty minutes, you can have another.”  

Billy almost continued the fight. Really, he almost did. But. Well. His head bloody hurt. So, what came out of his mouth instead was: “Need another now. I can tell, it’s–” 

“Sure.” 

This time, Homelander didn’t move fast. He padded away, down the hallway at the back of the den. Billy sat on the sofa, listening to the penthouse around him, and he could feel the phantom weight of Homelander’s arm around his waist. Trying not to flush, he slumped further onto the arm of the sofa and fought hard to think past the fiery torment burning in his skull. He intended to start the row up again when (if) the third pill worked. A bloody migraine wasn’t going to…to…

Fuck. His head hurt. 

When Homelander got back, he let Billy take the pill on his own, and then sat beside him on the sofa. He was quiet for nearly half an hour; when he rested his hand on Billy’s thigh, Billy let him, and refused to admit that he reached down and grabbed it with his own. Still silent, Homelander rubbed his thigh, slow enough to not dislodge Billy’s hand, and they stayed like that until the headache receded. And fuck, that was like watching the skies spontaneously clear up, banishing the funnel cloud that had been barrelling towards you. 

Groggy, he pushed himself up from the arm of the couch and rasped: “I’ll take that drink now, love.” 

Homelander snorted, patted Billy’s leg. “Water first. You’re dehydrated.” 

And Billy scowled at him across the dark couch. “You ain’t my bloody sitter,” he said, voice still thick and tired. “Do as I like, thanks!” His head pulsed a single warning and he froze like an exposed rabbit. Had to take it easy, least til he could have a fourth in a couple of hours.   

“Water first?” Homelander repeated politely, as Billy sulked and propped his elbow on the arm rest. 

“Bloody hate you.” 

Homelander didn’t turn on any of the lights as he got Billy another glass of water, and Billy drank it in silence, which the cunt didn’t break. 

Ryan came down around half past ten. When they heard him call out, Billy gestured for the cunt to turn the light on. Homelander did so, and the first second or two smarted, but then his head quieted down and every muscle in his body relaxed. When Homelander called by that it was okay, Ryan’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Billy’s smile was genuine when he came into view.

Upon entering the den, he seemed satisfied by the lack of broken furniture…until his eyes caught sight of the busted tumblers, and he frowned. “Dad,” he whined, toes curling in the carpet. He was on the far side of the coffee table, already dressed for bed in dark green PJs. His face was pale and nervous, and Billy suddenly found the idea of punishment daunting.   

Beside him, Homelander was saying: “I know buddy. I didn’t throw them, I promise.” He mimed crushing the glasses with his hand and gave Ryan a helpless shrug. Ryan, to Billy’s slight surprise, grimaced and nodded in a solemn commiseration. 

Still fact-checked his sources, though, and turned to Billy, who was halfway through another glass of water (the cunt had bloody insisted he have two). “He didn’t throw them?” He asked, and honestly, it wasn’t worth lying about. 

“Nah. Not this time.” He slouched further back onto the sofa. It was late, and his head didn’t hurt anymore, and the kid hadn’t really hurt anybody– “Come here, gimmie a hug.” He gestured with one arm and Ryan came to him, perking up as he crawled onto the couch to tuck himself under Billy’s arm. “Look. You cannot do that, alright? Laws is laws for a reason, yeah? You ain’t old enough to know which ones is stupid and which ones is reasonable. Until you are, just–” 

Homelander helped. Actually helped, even, as he added: “Billy makes a good point. You’re still learning how the world works, champ. Gotta follow the rules for now, okay?” He stroked Ryan’s back, and Ryan lifted his face to smile at him. “Billy and I are grown ups, with…complicated jobs. You don’t have to take on the burdens we do.”

“Okay. Am I in trouble?” 

Billy shrugged, refusing to look at Homelander over Ryan’s mussed hair. “I’m over it.” Only got so much time don’t want to waste it pissed off. If the kid did it again, he lose his bloody mind, and he told Ryan as much, and the kid nodded as if that was fair and reasonable. “Johnny?” Billy prompted. 

“We’re letting you off with a warning,” Homelander agreed.  

Ryan brightened and wiggled out of Billy’s hug to flop over onto his dad instead. “Where’s Billy sleeping?” He asked, as Homelander caught him in his arms. Billy tried to guess at the logic of asking the cunt instead of him, but. You know. Kids is weird. 

“Wherever he wants,” Homelander said easily, and pulled Ryan around against his chest. He always squeezed the kid tight, practically curled around him if Ryan allowed it. Whenever he did, it looked desperate, possessive and fearful; the sight always sent a hard pang through Billy’s ribcage. After a moment of silence, he abruptly stood up from the couch, making Ryan yelp, then giggle. “Come on. Bed time.” 

Still giggling, Ryan squirmed in his dad’s arms. “Put me down!” He continued feigning protest as his dad carried him upstairs. Only halfway, before Ryan’s playful shrieks reached a point Billy wasn’t yet attuned enough to detect, and Homelander set him down, let him go the rest of the way on his own. “Good night!” Ryan yelled from the hallway, and Billy watched Homelander’s shadow come back into view.

“Isn’t he a bit old–” Billy started, and Homelander snorted. 

“Yeah. He is. But he kinda likes being treated like he’s eight, sometimes. He’s been through a lot, I don’t think it’s serious.” He gestured at the liquor cabinet, arched one brow at Billy, and Billy allowed him a smile back. 

“None of that swill you were pouring earlier,” he said, and Homelander scoffed.  

“That bottle cost 2 grand, it is objectively not swill.” 

God, you’ve been dying to tell me what something in here cost, haven’t you, love? But that was cute, if he was being honest, so instead, he said: “You sure you didn’t get swindled? Like, how much do you actually know about–”  

“I preferred it when we were arguing about Ryan. At least you were less wrong than you are right now.” Homelander pulled out a gin bottle, a relatively ornate one; there was the head of a goat etched into the glass and the cork sealed with red wax. “Will you shut up and watch TV with me?” 

Yeah. Why the bloody hell not? “Heh. All them bottles get picked out for you too?” He asked the cunt’s back. Because, well. He’d seen inside the cabinet when Homelander had opened it. Most of it was decidedly not swill, and his liver started updating its will. 

“Most of it was gifts,” he admitted. “The remote is next to you,” he added. “I still have cable, so, you know. Browse.” 

“You have bloody cable? What, can’t remember a password to save your life?” The corkscrew of the gin bottle opened the bottle with a soft pop, and even from here, he could smell bright, clean citrus. “You know, you can just leave it logged–” He stopped as the cunt turned around and came back to the couch, glass in one hand. “Why the fuck is this shite purple?” He was gawking into the glass he’d been offered, caught between disgusted and intrigued. 

“Uh. Something about…the barrel it’s aged in…and oil from tea leaves? I wasn’t listening, it was a gift from a foreign investor, and I don’t drink gin. Drown yourself in it.”

“Like I’m allowed to die sooner,” Billy scoffed, just to agitate him, and decided he wasn’t scared of weirdly colored posh gin. On the couch, Homelander sprawled out on his side and plopped his head into Billy’s lap. He’d grabbed the remote on the way down, and clicked on the wall of telly screens. 

“This gonna hurt your head?” He asked absently, flipping through channels. 

Billy considered. Tried to feel it out as he took the first mouthful of sweet fire christ that is good. “Not if you put the lights out,” he said, and laughed as the cunt zipped across the room to throw the switch. Bloody telly remote didn’t even hit the carpet before he was back, head in Billy’s lap again. 

Finally, Homelander settled on something that held his attention, and Billy paused in his slightly-greedy drinking to roll his eyes. Nature programs. Figures the cunt would like watching animals slaughter each other. “So. When did Vought start letting Baby drink? Was it before or after your little hostile take-over?” The gin was good. Under the juniper was something sweeter, a bit woody, too, more complicated than he was used to this sort of drink being. 

Johnny answered him without sitting up. “Mmm. Before. They tried to stop me, like I said. But, you know. The only girlfriend they ever approved for me was a drunk, and Stormfront wasn’t exactly a monk either. And, you know, people kept giving me gifts with bottles of wine and whisky and vodka in them. Eventually, Madelyn gave up on having it thrown out.” 

Billy choked on his next swallow as the screens showed a simulation of a sperm whale chowing down on a giant squid. On screen, as a faceless twat gave a tense voice-over, the serrated suckers of the squid’s tentacles ripped chunks out of the whale’s rumpled black hide. On the couch, Billy leveled a stunned look at Homelander. 

“She would throw out your fucking booze?” He said, voice a bit thick from the gin going down the wrong pipe. It made sense, yeah, with what he now knew, but bloody hell . “Like she was your bleedin’ mum?”  

Homelander snorted humorlessly, and nuzzled into Billy’s thigh.  “Oh, gorgeous. You have no idea.” Flashes of ships and the sea were reflected in his eyes and Billy thought of the bitch’s baby for the first time in…ever, it was the first time he ever remembered Teddy Stillwell, rotting away at one of those holding pens that unlucky Supe kids were left in. The cunt had saved the rugrat from the blast. Unlike the kids from Flight 37, the ones he just ditched in mid-fucking-air.

And for a half a second, nearly hurled all over this monster’s stupid hair, almost threw himself off the balcony this lunatic has killed fucking children what are you doing –

But then that was gone, banished by another mouthful of fancy gin and the memory of Ryan’s hug. Caring about shite like that was for blokes on unborrowed time. Right now, he was narrowing his life down to an hour by hour basis, and he wanted these hours to be bloody peaceful. 

So, Billy set the gin aside so he could toy with his hair. Ain’t bleach supposed to make it all brittle and dry? Soft as bloody velvet… Absently, his nails scratched down the back of the prat’s neck, then back up to creep into his hair again. Tiny goosebumps bloomed in their wake, and Billy smirked and murmured nonsense when Homelander shivered under his touch. “Fuck. Keep doing that.” His eyes slipped closed as the screens’ light played over his face. For a while, Billy found it easy to pretend that this was all there was to him. Just a repressed, rich prat with a kid he wasn’t prepared for and a bed that was too big to be empty.    

Next time, get a bloody body pillow and leave me out of it. Saying that out loud would require backtracking for context, and that felt like a lot of effort. He’d rather listen to tape recorded birds screech and posh professors from Brasenose babble about said birds. Besides, it was fun to make the iron prick melt at a little tenderness. He kept silent, and played with that stupid, silky hair a little more, and focused on how easy it’d be to put a knife through the cunt’s throat right now. If only, if only.  

In his lap, Homelander let out a few soft noises, and nuzzled into his thigh, cheek warm through the denim. Fighting down a smile, Billy smoothed his palm down the back of Homelander’s neck, practically caressing him. Under that peachy skin, his spine thrummed, so vital, so exposed, so utterly, tragically indestructible. It's the only reason you let me do this Billy thought, a little darkly. Betcha anything, if I took the V, you’d keep on shagging me, but all this shite would evaporate like– Homelander interrupted his thoughts with a yawn, and then stretched his legs out. After mumbling contentedly at the stretch, he yawned again, and slowly rolled over. 

Billy pulled his hand away as Homelander settled onto his back, back of his neck now resting on Billy’s thigh. “Mmm. Hi, gorgeous,” he said. His eyes had been at half mast; now, he forced them open wide and gave Billy a slightly sleepy smile. God, I hate it when he’s cute. I really, really bloody hate it when he’s– And Homelander interrupted his thoughts again, this time by grabbing Billy’s hand and pulling it back to his scalp. “My hair,” he ordered, and Billy snorted, the audacity startling the sound out of him. 

“Ain’t we bossy?” His fingers sank back into that dyed mop, the sides bordering on chestnut and the lightest bits of the fringe nearly white. Looked nice on him. Or would’ve, if he’d been anyone else. Pretending he thought the cunt would break his fingers if he didn’t, he started smoothing the tresses out just to muss them up again. “There, cunt, happy?”  

“Yes.” Chilly blue eyes stared up at him, matching his voice in sincerity. “Give me your other hand.” And Billy did so, managing to sneer something about don’t put it on your prick you perv– But Homelander just brought the hand to his chest, rested it over his heart, and kept his own wrapped around it.    

And Billy blanched, just a smidge, tried to pull his hand back on reflex. “N-no–” His face heated, just slightly, and Homelander arched a brow at him. 

“What? Hand-holding too kinky for you?” His hand shifted, squeezing Billy’s fingers gently and trying to rub his wrist with his thumb. He stopped when Billy hissed at him, something incoherently threatening. “Mmm. We kiss. We cuddle. Tomorrow…we’re going to wake up together. This isn’t that weird.” Still, his fingers slackened; Billy could pull his hand back if he wanted. 

With a hard swallow, Billy tried to consider his options quickly. Because yes, this was, in fact, very bloody weird, and yes, hand holding felt too far, too familiar and affectionate–

The cunt was smirking. He was watching Billy’s face and smirking , and Billy’s face got hot for a different reason, starting in his ears instead of his cheeks. He gritted his teeth around a “Fuck you, love,” and kept his hand where the cunt had put it. “Course it’s not a problem. Well. No more than any of the other sick shite you inflict on me is a problem. You really think I’d find holding your hand more repulsive than choking on your spunk?” 

“Mmm. You love my cum. You’ve told me. Remember, right off you sucked me off for the first time? When you fucked me like a wild animal and told me I had the best you’ve ever tasted?” 

And that was not bloody fair at all. Because what was Billy supposed to say, hmm? Yes, love, I said that, but only because you’d been such a good boy ? No, obviously not. So, instead, he just rolled his eyes at the prat and changed the subject. “You left me jacket lyin’ on the floor upstairs.” But his voice came out softer than he meant it to, almost playful, and he grimaced, wished he could take that again. He hardened his words for the follow up. “No more trying to strip me naked before we get to your room, got me?” 

On screen, baby octopods were swimming around a reef, occasionally landing on an outcropping of coral, where they’d shift their rubbery skin to match the texture of the living rock. Homelander didn’t seem as interested as he had been when the squid and the whale were trying to kill each other, but spared the telly a glance before replying: “Sorry, gorgeous. Force of habit.” Unphased by Billy’s tone, he stretched again and sank further into Billy’s lap, like he’d be there all night. Flapping his free hand at the TV wall, he added: “My bed used to be there, on the other side.” 

Billy had been thinking of dumping the gin on his face, just to hear him squawk like an irate heron and see him literally levitate in his rush to clean himself up. But he stopped to blink at the wall instead. “Seriously?” In front of the bloody windows? 

“Mmm-hmm. Mirrors everywhere–” He did his best mime-in-a-box with one hand: above and on all sides of his head. “Those were fun,” he added, thoughtfully, and his eyes started to sink closed again. Only about halfway, and from under his lashes, he considered Billy for a moment. “You’d let me fuck you in front of a mirror, right?” 

Rather you fuck me on that balconey out there. “Heh. Like you needed any more mirrors in here. Why’d you move into the fancy suite back there, then? Finally get tired of your own face? Or, was the vultures from the gossip rags learnin’ how to climb, had to hide what a perv you’re turning into?” You used to be down right repressed, love. Go months and months without a fuck, when Maeve wasn’t shagging you and Madelyn was holding out on you and you wouldn’t go looking for it you didn’t like strangers I know because I combed the bloody city for anyone who’d been paid to fuck you–  

Billy had decided he wasn’t getting an actual answer and would have to settle that frown that had spread over his smug, pretty mouth. But, Homelander surprised him. He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, cheek and temple lit by the eerie green of whatever egghead lab was being filmed on the telly. “It’s not important,” he said, and Billy detected discomfort in his voice. “It seemed more normal for Ryan,” he added, speaking a bit too quickly, and Billy eyed his face in growing curiosity. He was dodging. 

Then the cunt got to his feet, and Billy felt a flash of irritation. His unoccupied fingers drummed, only slightly jerky in their rhythm. Why won’t you answer the stupid question love ? Maybe he wasn’t too tired for a row– 

Standing in front of the couch, framed by the light from the wall of screens, Homelander held out his hand, and Billy took it without thinking. His fingers had been getting cold, and the cunt’s hands were warm on his skin. Those eyes were still frosty, though, as Homelander appraised him. “You look good,” he said simply, and tugged Billy to his feet. 

“Hey!” Billy yelped, head sloshing, and Homelander chuckled at him. “Prick,” Billy tried to say, past the kiss that was covering his mouth. He could have pulled his head back, but, eh. Best to let his brain settle. ‘Sides, the cunt tasted like scotch now, just scotch, and he was doing something nice with his tongue.

When they broke apart, one of Billy’s hands was gripping the back of that plain shirt, and the other was entwined with Homelander’s. “Had enough of a break, gorgeous?” Billy nodded, also without thinking about it, and the cunt kissed him again, deep and soft and lingering. “I wanna make up,” he murmured, when they broke apart. His free hand rubbed the corner of Billy’s jaw. “But I don’t wanna push you. Are you okay?” 

Billy…took a second to process that. “Me head, you mean?” He asked. 

“Yeah.” Homelander’s face was in shadow now; Billy couldn’t see his eyes. “And we had a fight, gorgeous. I was being insufferable, yeah?”  

“Ahem. Yes. You were.” Billy resisted the urge to kiss him, but then that felt sort of stupid, and then their lips were pressing together again. “But that’s not different than any other night.” 

“Mmm. So fucking rude to your boyfriend.” Homelander stepped back, out of Billy’s arms, but kept a hold of his hand. “So. You up for make-up sex? We can wait until morning,” he added, and that. Did something, in Billy’s chest, and he watched Homelander flick off the telly screens in silence. 

“Yeah. Morning. Let me sleep off what a prat you are,” Billy tried to sneer, but it came out too soft. Homelander led him through the den and into the back hallway, past Madelyn Stillwell’s urn and the empty spaces waiting to be filled. “Any chance I can kick you out of your own bed?”

Instead of laughing or saying something shitty back, Homelander paused in front of his bedroom door. He tugged Billy closer, into his space, and their breath mingled. “Yeah. You can. If it’s your bed too.” 

And Billy’s throat closed up. His heart stopped, just went dead in his chest, and he fumbled bloody dark in here can’t see his face–

“But, until then. Nope. You can go sleep upstairs, but, I’ve slept in both. My bed is better, and you only get woken up with my dick if you sleep down here.” 

“Heh.” Billy wanted to go to bed. Now. Going upstairs sounded…stupid. So he pecked the cunt on the mouth and started into the bedroom, Homelander still holding his hand as he followed. “Like your prick is an incentive. If I’m going to be sick in the middle of the night, rather do it in the loo than on the carpet.” Weak excuse. Neither of them cared. 

Chapter Text

The damn AC in his apartment was broken; it had been stuck on MAX for a week, and, yesterday, had stopped responding to the POWER button, and he couldn’t turn it off at all. Over the course of the day, it had plunged the living room, kitchen, and half-bath to a knuckle-aching 55 degrees. Coming inside from the brutal heat of a New York City September that was worsened by global warning and Canadian wildfires, the high chill would only feel good for a few seconds; after his sweat cooled, his hands and teeth started to ache. Trying to brace against it, he worked his hands together between his knees. If he didn’t keep it up, his fingers might lock up again.

On the couch cushion beside him, Grace Mallory was on speaker phone, and it was not a social call. “We need to start thinking long term–”

“Exactly, Mallory! And long term? Going back to a command structure isn’t gonna work! These guys are not–” Outside the window, the fire escape creaked, and he froze. Staring out the window, he fought the urge to stand and check the lock. He’d checked it before and after he’d left that day. It was locked. It was locked. It was locked–

“Democracy and active warfare do not mix, Marvin. You can’t be slowed down by voting and debates when you get your next shot at Homelander, or any of the rest of them.”

“No!” Marvin snapped, half at her and half at the thought chasing its tail in his head. Clasping his still-cold hands together even tighter and forcing his eyes to look at the phone instead of his window lock, he tried to sound calmer. “No, I don’t agree, ma’am. Going against group consensus is what Butcher did when he buddied up with Soldier Boy and Maeve!”

Mallory scoffed a laugh, short and mean and bitter, and Marvin grimaced. “Maeve, who Starlight forgave, you mean? By the way, how’s Kimiko’s little romance with the Wicked Witch of the Supe Reich going?”

His legs twitched, and suddenly he was up and walking around his coffee table. Cursing himself out under his breath, he unlocked and re-locked the window about nine times, before he managed to pull away. Stamping back to the phone, where Mallory was repeating his name with increasing irritation, he snatched it up and barked: “I’m not fucking judging Kimiko, and you ain’t in any position too either!” His hand shook a little, making the phone screen blur in his vision. Not wanting Mallory to respond yet, he added. “I don’t like it, but Hughie took this same shot with Starlight, and it got us Annie! So, for now? I’m trusting her!”

“The witch needs to die,” Mallory said coldly, and he could picture her fingertips drumming on her desk while the other hand gripped the receiver dangerously tight. “With her in play, we no longer have any real hope of planting long term spies in the Tower. Besides, my analysts tell me that killing her will drive a wedge between Homelander and Ryan. Enough for us to pry them apart, maybe, but we can’t if their damn family therapist is living downstairs.”

“Okay, riddle me this, then? You kill Witchfire, you kill Homelander–what’s your plan for Soldier Boy?” She was silent for several seconds, and the heat of her glare through the phone line almost had his joints loosening up. “See? You can’t even pretend that I don’t have a point! Lecturing me about fuckin’ long term thinking and you don’t even–”

“I have multiple contingencies for Soldier Boy’s return, Marvin. Your clearance level only goes so high, and there are assets that are none of your business. Witchfire–”

“Kimiko feels a connection to her,” Marvin cut in. He hadn’t sat back down, choosing instead to pace around aimlessly. It helped him think, helped him change his tactic. Lowering his voice to something much less combative, he continued, “They have–I don’t know, parallel experiences. Bought and sold, powers lost and regained–she wants to save her, and, and I get it! And, quite frankly, after what I saw that Mafia Bitch do to Homelander in Vegas? Hell yeah I think she’s worth keeping alive!”

“I’m glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about how Starlight and Kimiko helped Homelander kill a potential informant.” Marvin froze, practically mid-step. His shoe came down slowly to the floor, and then he lifted it again. Repeated that a few times as he tried to get the roll from heel to toe just right. “Oh? Nothing to say to that? What about Campbell–”

“You didn’t fucking see–you–were not fucking there, you don’t understand–” He was fumbling with the words, trying to explain that nothing about the night seemed real, that none of it felt like it truly counted.

“If it makes you feel better, I intend to retrieve her powers before her execution. You do have a point about their utility.”

That got under his skin. The hypocrisy of it, the way Mallory and the rest of the brass would damn somebody for merely existing because of potential danger but hoard those same dangerous powers for themselves. But he bit his tongue, focused on the rest of what he had to say, the part that she might actually hear and understand. “You know what would make me feel better? Some motherfucking reassurance! Fuck my clearance level; tell me what you’ve got in your back pocket to deal with Homelander and Soldier Boy! If it impresses me enough, maybe I’ll go along with your whack-ass plan.”

He was out of line. They both knew he was out of line, and they both knew she was going to let him stay out of line, because he’d walked out before, and he’d do it again if she really pushed him. So, he set the phone down on the counter and planted his hands on either side of it, glaring at it expectantly.

Finally, Mallory let out an exhausted sigh. Now, he was picturing her rubbing the heels of her palms over her screwed-closed eyes, brow rumpled and mouth sour as she tried not to slouch in her chair. “TechnoBabble,” she said, the answer given through gritted teeth.

Marvin blinked. And then laughed, louder and longer than she had but just as unkind. “Oh! Oh, man, that is good, Mallory! TechnoBabble, are you fucking stoned?! One, like you could even find Moon! Two, like you could ever convince him–”

“I am telling you that I have TechnoBabble,” Mallory said, words sharp enough to cut. “I have–them–” She sounded even more exasperated at having to correct herself, but still did it. “In custody in a black site somewhere outside of US borders. We have been unable to persuade them to our side, but, with Witchfire’s abilities secured–”

“--Outside our borders?” Marvin repeated, as his brain tried not to unravel at the edges. His own fingers were drumming now, and he couldn’t get them to stop as he forced out the next sentence. “Like. Like South America?” Her silence was a good enough answer, and he swore loudly. Heaving himself off the counter, he paced in front of the phone, clasped hands tapping against his own forehead. “MALLORY!”

“That contingency impressive enough, Marvin?” She asked, voice growing hollow towards the end. “Second smartest Supe on the planet, most powerful technopath in history–”

“And his motherfucking plant god boyfriend is tearing through the motherfucking jungle and is then they’re both haulin’ ass up here to put you in the fucking morgue!”

“TechnoBabble is a they, actually.”

“This is not fucking funny! Shit’s sake, Mallory, that don’t make me feel better! That’s way fucking worse! Now, goddamn OakenAsh is gonna be gunning for us–”

“Unless we grab him too,” Mallory said, and Marvin felt a headache coming on.

“You have gone insane. Like, fully, clinically, waving-a-gun-at-protestors-on-your-lawn insane. No! I am not going along with this! No way!”

“Butcher is dying! Ryan is living with his father! Maeve is gone, Witchfire is compromised! We are well past desperate measures; clinical insanity is the only route left to us, and clinical insanity doesn’t mix with democracy either.” When he didn’t answer, just fumed and fretted, she sighed again. Her frustration was messing with the olive-branch tone she was aiming for, but he still noticed the effort. “The fact that you will argue with me? The fact that you will defend your team’s choices, and advocate for the rights of the enemy? These aren’t faults in a leader, Marvin. But you need to combine those traits with quick decision making, a goal oriented viewpoint, and an ability to make very hard sacrifices. Those are the leaders that win wars, and that’s why you’re the man I need.”

That was bullshit. Every fucking word of it was bullshit. The false morality, the pretension that he was first choice instead of her last viable option. Condescending and manipulative, like all CIA and military brass mind-games. And he almost told her that. Daydreamed briefly of throwing this all off like a slimed-on jacket, but–There was nobody else. There was no behind him this time. Last line of defense and all that shit. So, instead of go fuck yourself you crack selling treason committing hypocritical bitch, he said, “I got conditions. Hell, I got demands.”

His broken AC unit clunked and shuddered, and he really should just get it fixed, or maybe just fucking move. Outside in the hallway, somebody was yelling through a neighbor’s door. Sounded like the Meals on Wheels guy. Maybe Old Man Dinkins was dead in his smelly-ass foyer, newspaper stealing dick was 94, after all, it was totally possible. “Demands, huh?” Mallory said dryly.

“Have you tried drowning Soldier Boy yet?”

“Uh. No. I don’t think we have.”

“Cool. That’s demand number one. Fucking try. Try a LOT!” She snorted, and his shoulders relaxed by several degrees. “Demand number two. We are using TechnoBabble now. No waiting for creepy-ass mind control powers we might never get. You send my team down there to try to talk some sense into them. If we reunite him with his lawfully wedded plant monster, sorry, they might be able to forgive us just long enough to help ice Homelander.”

“This pronoun shit is hard.”

“Yep, and nobody cares. Learnin’ to shoot a gun is hard. Hell, driving a car is fucking HARD and we expect sixteen year olds to do that shit all the time.”

“Heh. That Janine talking?”

“Or, hey, maybe I give a shit about gay people. I’m in 40s but I’m not a fuckin’ shithead, Mallory.” Crack selling, treason committing, Dixiecrat motherfuckin’ bitch.

Awkwardly, Mallory cleared her throat, and then said: “I’ll workshop the specifics. You’re going in with my oversight and I get final say on your gameplan. But alright. Clinical insanity, after all.”

“You’re damn right, clinical insanity. Alec fuckin’ Moon? Really? How’d you pull that off in the first place?” He’d seen the footage. He knew what TechnoBabble could do when somebody got them good and pissed off. He’d also seen the guy stopping wildfires and doing search and rescue after mudslides and kicking the dogshit out of poachers.

Against his will, thought of blurry, black and photos of Soldier Boy manning a firehose during the Civil Rights marches. Thought of the FBI doing fuck-all when they knew somebody was gunning for Dr. King. A muscle worked in his jaw.

As though completely oblivious to his simmering disgust, Mallory said: “Months of planning coincided with a once in a lifetime opportunity. We pounced, and the Supe was caught unaware and alone.” Any pride hiding in her words was camouflaged by the next sentence’s taste of regret: “It cost us 30 agents and started a major wildfire in northern Oregon.” Apparently guessing his next question, she continued: “It was shortly after the Boys originally disbanded; TechnoBabble was ramping up their activity, remember? Well, we’d gained concrete evidence that they intended to form some sort of…league, of Supe Eco Terrorists.”

“Nu-uh,” Marvin said flatly, and picked up the phone. He took it off speaker, grabbed his keys, and headed for the hallway. After locking his door, he turned towards the stairs to the roof. He wanted to be outside for a while, now that it was past dusk and less hot, at least. “No way that’s fucking real. That–” He shook his head as he rounded the first landing, safety door finally closing below him. “That is a stupid lie that you made up and then forget you heard it from yourself.” It was three flights to the roof and the muggy evening air. Up above his head, the stairwell had moths fluttering around in random patterns, wings throwing shadows over the utility lights. He wondered if they had flown in from outside, or if the rafters had a breeding population, like the ants in the lobby.

He should really fucking move.

“I am being 100% serious. Boys or no Boys, the powers that be agreed that they needed to be contained.”

Pushing open the door to the outside, Marvin shot back: “So why’s white-boy-plant-fucker still walking around free as a fuckin’ condom at a disco?” He wondered which powers she meant: the CIA director, the Joint Chiefs? The fuckin’ president, maybe? Stan Edgar? Fucking Santa Clause and Lao Tzu and Baby Jesus? What shadowy council of white dicks in tailored suits had decided which eco terrorist got through in a CIA shithole first?

“We’ve been trying–”

“Yeah. Sure you fucking have.”

“Any other demands?”

“Way to dodge the issue. But. Fine, since you’re being so generous. Give Kimiko a little more time with Witchfire. Listen, don’t groan at me! I don’t fucking like it either! I don’t! But I was wrong about Kimiko, Butcher was wrong about Starlight, and I think we’re wrong about A-Train.” Trust was a two way street, and so was respect, god damn it. If he was gonna be in charge, he was doing it the right way.

“That’s rich, how’s Campbell feel about that?”

“The point is that I think FireBoxes are too much of a monkey wrench to make a regular tool, and I think I’m learning to trust my people when they say somebody is more complicated than I think they are. I mean, you saw Butcher with the kid; even he’s got layers. And he’s the fuckin’ worst.” He said the last part as matter-of-factly as possible, and Malloy let out another snort.

“Kimiko can have a microscopic amount of time. But if she can’t start getting useful information out of her by October, I’m ordering you to see that the tie is severed. And you’ll be expected to begin plotting how to take her out as swiftly and as certainly as possible.”

Marvin let out a sigh, and then inhaled the humid air of the roof. The flat square of gravel had been baking in the sun all day, and the air was thick and way too hot to stay comfortable in while fully dressed. Stupid fucking AC. Stupid fucking September. Stupid fucking CIA She-Ra Mallory locking up all the fucking climate change fanatics in fucking blacksites and letting the heat index get all fucked up. “I’ll tell her,” he said, only a tad grimly.

Overhead, the moon was big and flat and cold, staring down at the city like a fish’s eye. Dumb and awestruck and somehow judgemental. All hail the mighty sky fish, it sees all and does jackshit about any of it. “Before or after you tell them that, in exchange for continuing to bankroll your operation, you’re now commanding officer?”

“I’m, uh. I’m gonna ease ‘em into that.”

“Sure you fucking are.”

Chapter Text

Billy hadn't shared a bed with somebody in a while. Hence why he’d sometimes pretend the cunt was someone else and snuggle him for a while before letting him go home. Was regretting that now, though, as Homelander stood at the foot of his ridiculous bed and squirmed out of his clothes. Got him all spoiled. Now he thinks I’m a bloody lapdog. Billy watched him passively, traced the line of his spine with his eyes a few times. Dark t-shirt and light jeans and posh cashmere socks fell into a pile, and then he looked at Billy expectantly.

“I ain’t got a treat.” Or anything besides what he was wearing, since he slept stark naked when it was warm enough and hadn’t really thought about it until now. Oddly self-conscious at the thought of falling asleep next to him, he refused to turn his back as he started to undo the buttons on his shirt. “And you said you’d wait until morning,” he added, a slight challenge in his voice. Filthy fucking beast can’t keep his paws to himself, no way–

“I will,” Homelander promised, eyes on Billy’s chest as his shirt fell away. “I just really like seeing you naked, if you haven’t noticed.” When Billy shucked his jeans, Homelander stepped into his space and grabbed his ass through his pants. “Nice,” he said, and Billy sneered.

“Get the fuck out of my bloody way, I’ve still got my bleedin’ shoes on.”

“Testy! You’re really tired, huh?” He gave Billy a quick kiss, and then rested their foreheads together. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Piss off.” It was pure reflex; it didn’t feel like a real bloody question, coming out of that spoiled, vile mouth, so he didn’t treat it like one as he stepped out of his trousers and then out of his shoes. Homelander let him go, watching him step around him to sit on the bed. He hadn't shed his boxers, as though keeping a shred of modesty would ward off the cunt's greedy hands. Pulling his socks off was a good way to avoid said cunt's eyes, and as he peeled them off, Homelander repeated the question.

“I’m serious. Ryan wants waffles but–”

“Make what the kid wants,” Billy said curtly, and then crawled under the hideous comforter.  “And then burn your bloody bedclothes afterwards. What in Christ’s name is this still doin’ here? I thought you were done with all this shite they forced on you?”

“Oh. I. I didn’t really think about them–I don’t know how to make tea, by the way.”

“Color me gobsmacked.” And, yeah. The cunt’s mattress was still amazing, or whatever. And so was the pillow–

“Also, that’s actually my side of the bed.” Through said hideous comforter, he felt Homelander gently grab his foot and squeeze it affectionately. “I need to brush my teeth. Move before I get back.” He snapped off the suite’s overhead light as he left the room, and Billy lay in the half-dark as the cunt’s bare feet slapped over the bathroom floor.

Fucking twat. Like you get tooth decay. Nuzzling down further into the mattress and wrapping up in the sheets and comforter seriously what is this made of Billy found himself looking at the photos on the cunt’s night stand again. The only light still on came from the mirror lights in the master bath, and some of it spilled out from the open door. It was just enough that Billy could see the frames by their shadows, the pictures themselves reduced to monochromatic blurrs. Rolling over to the other side of the bed, the one facing the bathroom door, it was the same thing. He wondered when that picture of Maeve had been taken, what sort of shitty night she’d had to leave her that bedraggled, why Homelander had that one in particular on his nightstand.

When Homelander came back, he turned the bathroom light off too, plunging the windowless room into near total darkness. Now he couldn’t even see the frames as Homelander slid in behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Get off me,” Billy said automatically, and he snorted against his neck. The rush of warm breath had his hair standing on end and his skin rippling.

Voice chipper and sweet, Homelander said: “My bed, my rules. If you’re sleeping in here, we’re going to cuddle.” He punctuated the word with a firm squeeze around Billy’s middle, smiling against the nape of his neck. A shiver tried to roll down his spine, but he clamped down on it. Their bare feet tangled together and fuck, there was no way that the cunt had missed the sharp intake of breath that had earned. “Mmm. You fit so nicely in my arms.” His skin was warm, as always, and he was pressing small kisses to Billy’s nape. He adjusted his grip on Billy’s waist, clearly trying to get comfortable, and this was worse than the hand holding, honestly.

Ignoring the desperate mewling in his bones, Billy made a show of trying to cringe away from him. “Uhg. Did you make all your exes do this?”

That made him freeze, arm now stiff around Billy’s waist, mouth half open against his neck. When Homelander answered, he sounded genuinely wounded. “Ouch. Most of them were willing to.” Wounded and surprised: clearly, he’d thought that Billy had settled down for the night, was going to play nice. In that same tone, he continued: “You can sleep in the guest room upstairs. I don’t give a shit, okay?” He started to pull away, and Billy grabbed his wrist on reflex.

Say something, idiot– “Ha. Obviously you do,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. He told himself he was tired, and didn’t want to get dressed and go upstairs to an empty bed and if I need to be sick at 4 in the morning Ryan’ll hear. Homelander stayed in place, silent, face still pressed to the back of Billy’s neck. Aiming for cheeky, he nuzzled back into Homelander’s touch, not quite rolling his arse against his soft cock. “And, besides, didn’t you want to shag me first-thing? Start your Sunday off with make-up sex?” We’re awfully good at make-up sex, love, be a shame to waste that, yeah?

But, apparently, the cunt had taken whatever pill made him immune to Billy’s sex appeal. “I can fuck you any time I want,” he said, voice slightly muffled by the scruff of his lover’s neck. The hurt was still there, loud and clear, and something in Billy’s guts squirmed a bit in response. “If letting me hold you is that awful, I don’t want to listen to you whine about it. I just–” He started to pull away again, and Billy tightened his grip, unable to let go. Huffing in frustration, Homelander squirmed and muttered darkly under his breath and then snarled: “Do you want me here or not?!”

Want to get woken up with your dick. “Sorry, love,” he said, trying to sound at least a little sincere. When all he got was silence, he winced, and added: “Look, I’m just being a pain, yeah? Snuggled you before. It’s fine, I’ll shut me mouth, yeah?” And Homelander seemed to consider forgiving him.

After a minute, he did; he shifted their hands around until his was covering Billy’s and both were resting on his gut. Billy let himself shiver and make a few soft, content noises, and Homelander melted against him. A few scraps of intimacy and he purrs like a kitten. Hell, the cunt even changed the subject, hurt feelings kicked aside like old shoes. “Going through my pictures again?” He murmured, kissing the crook of Billy’s neck a few times. Still trying to play nice, Billy stretched, exposing more of his throat, and let himself murmur about how nice it felt. “I know, I need to take more of Ryan. I’m picky.” Gently, his hand slid away from Billy's and started to wander.

For a minute, Billy didn’t answer, because fuck. Fuck, he was good at this part, too. Because those kisses were sweet, those touches downright lovely, but not sexual, not starting anything. It just felt intimate, affectionate; he tried to focus on where the frames were becoming visible again as his eyes adjusted to the dark. After biting down a whine, he managed: “Picky? Why you got the Queen looking like a drowned poodle, then?” He kept his voice soft and light, hoping the cunt might be relaxed enough to answer. Maeve was a tender spot, but if you touched it gently…

And he had. Homelander didn’t even tense, just paused briefly in his careful attention.“Oh. That one. Yeah, I took that one too.” He sounded…wistful. Sad, in a slow and quiet way, one Billy recognized. The shit we don’t ever get back, eh? “That. Uh.” He laughed, the sound soft in the darkness, and he rested his cheek against the side of Billy’s neck, using him as a pillow. “That was the morning after the inaugural photo, actually. The one with the original recipe.” His hand was still idly touching his stomach and chest. Light, affectionate caresses, wandering over his navel and stretch marks and patches of hair.

“And?” Billy prompted, trying to ignore the odd, not-uncomfortable cuddle, and the hand wandering across his body.

Instead of answering, Homelander murmured something nonsensical and sweet against his neck, something about you smell so good I want to bottle you, and Billy couldn’t hold back an incredulous snort. “If you wanna fake-gag at that, you can. It was awful, I just had to say it, you know.” And Billy only actually took him up on the fake gagging because it made the cunt laugh, and then he said something even sweeter. Something Billy never repeated to anybody because of how red it made him turn.

When they were done snogging about it, Homelander continued in a murmur: “They all wanted to go bar-crawling, afterwards. I guess they wanted to really test out their livers–and they decided to go out in their ‘I’m Nobody’ clothes–” A pause, but Billy let this one sit for a bit. Partly because Homelander had moved one hand to his thigh and was toying with the hem of his boxers and he really wanted to focus on the feeling in that patch of skin; partly because he was finding it hard to do anything other than lay in his arms and listen. “Be nobody one last time, I guess. Something like that. And. Uh. Well, they didn’t need to know that was my first time.”

Billy blinked, trying to wake himself up I was fucking drifting off. “First time, what?” Drinking? No– “Goin’ out, in somethin’ other than that?” He asked, and moved one arm as best he could to flap a hand at the cunt’s discarded suit from much, much earlier. His body protested, wanting to sleep and relax and soak up all this heat and gentle touch.

“Yep.” He turned his head to kiss Billy’s pulse point, and his lips found that spot he was so in love with. “And I almost didn’t go! I was–” Another soft laugh, and he rubbed Billy’s treasure trail, the touch pure affection. It sent curls of heat through his stomach and chest, his body not caring who was touching it so long as it felt that good. The skin on his back was whimpering for contact; Billy couldn’t resist the urge to settle further back into the cunt’s chest. “Yeah, there you go,” he murmured, as Billy’s back shifted against his bare chest he’s a bloody furnace fuck he’s just warm. “I want you close…”

“You’re hard–” He was too, a little. Nothing urgent, just his body letting him know it was pleased. He shivered again as Homelander smiled and hummed against his neck, and then moaned softly when that nuzzle turned into an open mouthed kiss, one with a hint of teeth.

Pressing closer to Billy’s back, he gave his half-hard cock a light fondle through the worn cotton. Again, nothing urgent, just another spot to touch him. “I’ll ignore it if you do.” His hand had wandered again, landing on his hip and rubbing it appreciatively; the soft, gentle petting coaxed out a series of full-body shudders and soothed any remaining tension in his body. Good. You throwin’ a fit–two fits, actually– undid all that hard work from the bath. This whole thing was making his mind fuzzy, even more so than usual, and it was apparently evident. Against his ear, Homelander whispered: “Relax…relax, this isn’t going anywhere, gorgeous. I’m just petting you until you drift off. Mmm. Nothing else tonight. Not after you gave me so much earlier.”

“Why’d you go?” Billy mumbled, eyes fully closed now. He was listening, really. His ears were much more awake than his mouth. He wanted to know, so he asked, and asked again when Homelander tried to shush him to sleep. Finally, Billy mumbled something about I’m your boyfriend and this sounds important or maybe he said special and either way Homelander relented.

Still massaging Billy’s hip, he answered the question with his lips against that spot on Billy’s neck. “Sheer anxiety. I looked at them all, in jeans and Nikes, plotting how many filthy barrooms they were going to poison themselves in all night, and I just sensed it. If I let them go out there without me, they were going to do…” He paused, mostly to bite Billy’s ear for a few seconds, before adding, “something,” somewhat lamely. And Billy chuckled, the sound sleepy and genuine, while Homelander kissed his hair for a while. “Something!” He insisted in a hot whisper, and god, okay, Billy didn’t blame his exes. This was bloody comfortable and he cuddled like an affectionate kitten. “Something idiotic or dangerous or just weird, and I-I-” He stifled a snort against the nape of Billy’s neck, and was rewarded with Billy stretching leisurely and sighing oh love into the dark room. “So I went! And spent all night wound as tight as a fucking clockspring–”

“Mmm, I took care of that, didn’t I, love?” He was slurring his words, body halfway asleep and his head not far behind. Fuck, he was warm, and a tiny bit drunk, and his head didn’t hurt. And the cunt’s voice was nice when he lowered it like that, so Billy said: “Talk to me more.”

“I can’t understand you when you mumble, gorgeous.”

“Keep touching me. It’s so nice. I want more, please–”

“See? Not a fucking word of that was comprehensible. Anyway. I went. I followed them around, tried to talk to them. Make friends. Bond with my new family. You can guess how that went…but they thought me fussing about everything was funny, and I was…I could be okay with that. I liked seeing them laugh. Especially her.” He was quiet now, and Billy let him be. When he was quiet, Billy could feel his heartbeat through his back, slow and steady, and…Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time somebody just held him like this.

“You asleep, gorgeous?” Asked a rather far off and muffled voice.

Billy yawned at him in response, and then tried to nestle further and further under the cunt’s chin. “Oh. Oh, honey.” His tone was so hushed, so pleased, that Billy felt a surge of something at being its source. Satisfaction. Not anything sweeter or more complicated, just a twinge of satisfaction at a mark well-seduced. Said mark was still babying him, voice layered with something like adoration. “Go to sleep…it’s late…”

“Don’t leave.” He wasn’t sure why he said that, but Johnny didn’t miss a beat.

“I won’t. I promised to wake you up with my dick, remember?”

“Not too early…”

And Johnny laughed, softly, burying it in Billy’s neck. “I was right, by the way,” he whispered, and Billy summoned up the brain power to shove at his hand, making him resume touching. He complied: his fingertips traced random patterns on his thigh and arse and bare side, and kept his voice very soft and low as he continued to whisper: “At around 3 in the morning, I heard Maeve, and Translucent, and Deep, plotting to dismantle part of the Statue of Liberty–”

“What?” Billy tried to turn his head, but Johnny was kissing his neck now, so he stayed still. “Which part?”

“Her hand! They were gonna carry the torch back here.”

“...What?” Billy repeated, perking up a little and blinking in the dark room as Homelander laughed against his pulsepoint. Gently, he swept his hand up and down Billy’s hip, voice fond and soft as he answered.

“You heard me. I was 100% right, they got hammered and tried to do something stupid, and I stopped them, and for about…oh, 3 years? After that, for about three years, imitating the way I said do not fucking do that was a running joke among them.”

And Billy considered rolling over to look at his face. But the room was too dark for that to do any good, he told himself, after deciding he was happy lying exactly how they were. “You squawked, didn’t you?” His eyes were closed again, as Homelander petted him all over, soothing him back to his half-sleep far faster than he wanted to admit.

“I do not…squawk,” he said, feigning haughtiness as he took a moment to stroke Billy’s chest.

“That was a squawk,” Billy insisted, and shimmied against his chest, just because it felt nice. Soft pleasure pulsed up his spine, and Johnny chuckled tiredly. “You, imitating you, just now, that was a squa–”

“I liked you better sleepy.”

“I liked you better bleeding,” Billy said, but softened the words by craning his neck for a good night kiss.

He got it, and Johnny let it linger while he continued to stroke Billy’s chest. “Take your medicine and I’ll bleed for you forever,” He promised, and yeah, that sounded pretty fun. “Say the word, and I’ll get a dose from downstairs, and I’ll hold you through the pain, and we’ll fuck against the ceiling to celebrate when it’s over. We can tell Ryan at breakfast. I can move you in tomorrow.” He almost sounded hopeful.

Butch, keep your fucking mouth shut– “Love, if I take that shite, ever, it’ll be to tear your bloody head off. Quit confusing yourself here.” Johnny held him tighter, and said nothing else, and Billy fell asleep resisting the urge to apologize for that too.

***

Billy woke up with a gasp, brain sluggishly trying to catch up to reality. He was on his side, facing the wall, with Homelander spooned against his back. He tried to say what the bloody hell are you doing, because those pesky lesions were making it a bit hard to work out for himself–and the fingers in his ass spread wider and he bit down on the pillow to stop from screaming. “Morning,” Homelander said lazily, and kissed him behind his ear. “How’d you sleep?”

Instead of answering, Billy groaned into the pillow and shuddered, and Homelander shifted his angle to rub his prostate, cheeky bastard. He already had three fingers buried in Billy’s ass, as deep as they could go, and slick dripped out of him as he tried not to squirm. “P-perv,” he said, barely managing to say it without whining. His cock was so hard it hurt, and not just from having his hole played with; he’d never woken up like this, already being used, already being violated, and it was leaving him downright dizzy. “Should–shoulda known you couldn’t keep–keep your hands to–OH!”

“Yeah, I can’t keep my hands to myself, and you love it,” Homelander taunted, and slowly slid his fingers out, pausing to tease Billy’s rim. “Since you’re up, you should do some work for me, yeah?” Billy’s breath caught, and his mouth threatened to water. Then Homelander’s hand was closing over his, and guiding it to his twitching cock. His bare fingers were slick with lube, which dripped and drooled onto Billy’s skin as he lazily closed their joined hands around the base of Billy’s aching prick. Redundantly, he whispered: “Touch yourself.”

Thank you, sir. He didn’t say that. There was no bloody way he said that out loud, just like there was no bloody way Homelander said oh you’re welcome, gorgeous, yes, just like that. When he was satisfied that Billy was going to behave for a minute, he let go, and Billy was trying not to make soft, pleading noises as the bastard started teasing his rim again. This time, it was with the tip of his cock, and Billy’s ears went red and his lips twitched as he tried so bloody hard not to start begging already.

“Are you close?” Homelander asked, and rubbed one hand up and down Billy’s trembling thigh. “Your feet… mmm.” Another shower of kisses over his neck, his thrumming pulsepoint, his vulnerable, whining throat. “You kicked. Just a little, just now, when I–” Very, very gently, he pressed the tip of his cock against’s Billy’s slick hole, and yeah, Billy might have kicked his feet like a startled rabbit. So what? Didn’t mean anything besides that feels so bloody good I might start speaking in tongues. “You are close! Good. I like when you cum all over yourself like a bad little whore.” The tip of his tongue traced one of the pale hickies on Billy’s neck, left there as a punishment. “Gonna split you open on my dick now. Keep touching yourself, or I’ll take one of your eyes out.”

Despite that threat, Billy’s hand faltered on his cock when Homelander fucked into him. The thrust was too fast and too deep, but he relished the beautiful, ragged pulse of pain that it sent through his whole body. He was still sore, the break last night not enough time to recover, and every thrust made the ache deeper and sweeter. Fuckin’ delicious. Behind him, his lover was starting to gasp and pant, and the hand on Billy’s thigh moved to grab his arse instead.

The rough, possessive grip made Billy’s roll back in his head, and his legs jerked helplessly, body all keyed up with nowhere to go. “Sl-slow down–” He pleaded, because that made it taste even better, and Homelander moaned his name a few times, which was borderline obscene. Billy wanted him to do that again, wanted Sir to fuck him even harder, maybe, so he let himself sound breathless and demure when he kept begging: “Love, no, not so rough, please!” Harder harder fucking harder. Every tug of his hand around his cock made him squeeze tighter, and his arse throbbed a little as he felt Homelander twitching inside him. “Love, love it hurts, please, Sir, you’re hurting me–” Close, oh, oh fuck, he was close already how I am so close already–

And Homelander sounded close too, when his mouth found Billy’s ear. “Fuck, do you mean that? Do you need me to be soft and sweet, gorgeous? I can give you a break. I can give you my fucking tongue instead.”

His voice was hot and excited, words a bit rough, and his hand returned to the one on Billy’s cock, easily trapping it with his own and forcing him to slow down. “NO–” Billy thrashed in his grip; his toes curled when Homelander shifted his weight and pinned Billy to his chest. No room to thrust; Billy had to content himself with a lazy grind, and with the hand on his, fingers still slick with lukewarm lube. “Fuck me!” It was a whine. He could wish it was a snarl all he liked, but no, that was a pathetic whine, like a dog, a bitch in heat– “Fuck me, please, I’ll do anything, I’m so close–” Homelander was kissing the marks punishment on his neck again, and laughing at him, and taunting him for begging for mercy when he didn’t even mean it. And he knew what the cunt wanted, so he gave it to him: “Tongue, want your tongue, please, just fuck me afterward, I’ll be sweet.”

A light, affectionate smack to his thigh, and then Homelander sucked another hickie into his skin. On his shoulder, this time, because Sir was merciful sometimes. “Thank you, gorgeous. So sexy when you make those fucking sounds.” He pulled out, and Billy behaved, kept his hand slow when he let go. “Mmm. That’s so fucking cute.”

He didn’t resist couldn’t resist when he was posed, facedown in the sheets, ass in the air. “Don’t call me that!” Hadn’t meant to say that, really. Just sort of fell out of his mouth. Didn’t make him stop, though, as Sir knelt behind him. “I’m not a bloody dog–” Heat seared across his ass as Sir spanked him twice, and laughed at his cries of alarm pleasure. “I’m not a dog, I’m not bloody cute, I’m not your bloody plaything, no, no, no!” He kept touching himself and Sir kept spanking him, not letting up until his lover’s needy cock had leaked a small puddle onto the sheets.

Finally, Sir stopped, and reached between his thighs to stroke his bollocks. “Tell me you liked that, or I’ll keep doing it until you do.” Fingers caressing Billy’s sac, gentle and appreciative, he added, “That was twenty-five, gorgeous.”

See? You don’t need to bloody count. “Liked it,” Billy panted into the sheets. “Yo-you said you’d, you said you wanted–”

“I’m gonna rim you, slut, gimmie a damn minute. You told so many lies just now, gorgeous!” One hand stroked the hot, tight skin of Billy’s arse, and then his thumb teased at his slick, sensitive rim. “You are my property, and my plaything, and my pet. And you’re definitely cute. Fucking adorable.” I hate that that’s hot, I bloody hate it, why, why is it so bloody goddamn hot? He covered his mouth his free hand, still stroking his prick, still listening to the cunt’s bedroom voice slithering into his ear and taking over his brain. “Admit it. Admit it and fucking agree with me, take the fucking compliment.”

“O-or?” Billy whispered, and glanced over his shoulder, just to see how intently Sir was staring at him. As usual, it was like being sighted by a shark with a taste for human meat, and, really, was there a higher compliment than being eaten alive?

“Fucking brat.” Sir grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, pulling back painfully hard. “So goddamn ungrateful sometimes.” Warm satin and cooling precum rubbed against his shaft as the position of their bodies forced him flat to the bed, and he was completely pinned in place, helpless. “I’m literally trying to fuck your ass with my tongue. Why are you being so difficult?” He bit Billy’s ear hard enough to be a threat, even tugged, just a little, and Billy decided that he’d died in his sleep, because this was fucking Paradise. “Fucking take the compliment, or I’ll bite something off.”

Finding just enough strength for a rally of resistance, Billy tried to sound cheeky, instead of eager, as he shot back: “Bite what off, you murderous git?” Said murderous git let out a startled laugh, which made him blush crimson against the sheets. “Might be worth losin’, ya know?”

Exasperated and fond and uncharacteristically warm, Sir murmured: “Jesus Christ, Billy.” He stroked the small of his back a few times, and his eye-roll was nearly audible when he said: “It’s a fucking surprise, okay? I’ll print out a poster of you and throw darts at it to decide. I suck at darts. It’ll take a while.”

And fuck, that was nice. That was just nice, to make him laugh and tease back while they shagged, and so Billy behaved, because it was fucking Sunday morning and his head didn’t hurt and the bastard knew what he was doing. “Fine! Fine, I like it when you call me cute–”

His fingers slid back into Billy’s hole, and he screamed, startled. His prick jumped in his hand, which was pinned painfully to the mattress, not that he gave a shite just then. “Agree with me.”

Humiliation flared in his gut at the thought, even as it made his balls tighten. “N-no!” Force me force me force me–

Sir read his mind, like always. “Yes. Do it. Agree with me, or I’m going to tie you up, gag you, and praise you while you take my cock for an hour straight.”

And Billy let out a long, loud moan as he came all over his hand. “--Oh–oh–oh, Sir–Sir–” Helplessly bucking against his own palm through the aftershocks, he cringed as Sir’s fingers pulled out, fast and rough, like he was a toy or something.

“You fucking want that, don’t you?” Sir spread him open and started to roughly lap at his rim. “Answer me, you little whore, do you want that?” When Billy couldn’t string together a coherent sentence, Sir spanked him a few more times, and teased his hole with the very, very tip of his tongue. “You’re sobbing. You’re fucking sobbing, shit, you want that so bad, don’t you? Mmm. All you have to do is disobey, and you’ll get it. I’ll rape you, and praise you, over and over again, until you’re good and brainwashed.”

Briefly, Billy recalled his fantasy about the straightjacket and the padded dungeon and the addictive drugs shot into his veins while he was stuffed full of cock for days on end. But he had to be at work tomorrow, so, instead he whimpered: “I’m cute, I’m fucking cute, there–there, happy? Don’t, don’t fucking do that to me–Oh, oh my god–” Billy squeaked in surprise and squirmed uselessly when that familiar tongue forced its way past his rim. “Si-sir!” No longer pinned, he could move into a more comfortable position, and did so, sprawling on the mattress as his prick got hard again. Flat on his belly like this, his head and shoulders hung off the edge, so there was nothing to muffle his endless chanting of please please please as Homelander ate him out.

When he withdrew, Billy whined in disappointment and tried to rub his prick against the sheets, but he was still overstimulated. The friction was too much just then, and his efforts were leaving him twitchy and frustrated. Behind him, Sir was caressing his arse and his thighs, admiring him. “Is that nice? Does begging make it better?” He sounded downright tender, and Billy wasn’t really in control of any part of his body right now, let alone his obstinate mouth, so he answered truthfully. In a jumble of curse words and needy gasps, he reminded him that he bloody loved to beg, wanted to just do that sometimes, lie back and beg and babble while somebody used him anyway they pleased. “Thank you, gorgeous, I like it when you tell me the truth.”

“Like that! Sir, I like that–” By the time Billy what he was saying, the words were starting to slur and melt together. Sir was dragging him off of his stomach and settling him upright in his lap, back against his chest, sore cheeks hot against Sir’s slick cockhead. “Instead of good boy or whatever, like it when you just say that instead–” His cock and stomach and hand were filthy with cum, and he started touching himself again, not able to stop as his lover teased him.

“Oh? You like it when I thank you for behaving?” Billy nodded, more than a tad frantically, and Sir hummed against his throat. “You deserve a treat.” With that as his warning, Sir took over stroking his cock, and Billy obediently went limp in his arms. Can’t help it can’t bloody help it– “Love the way you feel in my hand. And look at you, so pathetic. So fucking pathetic. I barely had to do any work and you crumbled like dry fucking toast. God, you are beautiful like this. Gonna keep you like this, all slutty and dumb and perfect for me.”

Still begging, still squirming, still calling him Sir, Billy came again, and Sir fucked back inside. Anything else he had to say was reduced to nonsense as Sir put him to use, and Billy babbled away, mind as pliant and grateful as his body.

***

Billy was too tired to have a shower after they made love, which he understood. Honestly, things had gotten out of hand. He’d meant for the whole thing to be slow and sleepy and, you know, a bit romantic, maybe. Certainly not so intense and rough: make-up sex was supposed to be sweet, right? But Billy had been too perfect, and he’d lost control. So, he tried be extra tender as he cleaned his lover up with a damp cloth, tried to shower Billy in appreciation; to his absolute delight, he basked in it. Starry-eyed and quietly content, he stretched out on the bed, gazing up at Homelander as the washcloth gently mopped up the mess on his stomach and thighs.

“Cute,” he whispered, and Billy yawned in response. “Heh. You wanna go back to sleep, gorgeous?” He nodded and settled further into the mattress, and Homelander kissed him for a while. “Its only, like, 9 or something, you can sleep until noon if you want. That was amazing. You’re getting a big reward for that, okay? We’ll pick something out when you wake up.” I’ll buy you beach front property in Malibu if you want. Or I’ll serve you my own heart on a plate. Or let you spend the night again. Anything you want.

By the time he returned from showering and brushing his teeth, Billy was asleep again. He stood over him, watching him breathe as he toweled off his hair. Billy had curled up on the opposite side of the bed, wrapped around Homelander’s pillow and bundled in the comforter. The towel hit the floor with a fwoop, landing near Billy’s abandoned clothes. “Heh. Really? You crawled all the way over there just to shove your face in my pillow?” Feet still damp enough to squish and leave footprints with every step, he walked around to his side of the bed and reached down. “Gonna wake up for me?” Billy didn’t even stir when he ran his fingers through that messy mop of dark brown and near black, just mumbled in his sleep. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.” He skipped the suits in the closet, turning to his dresser instead. Billy liked him in mud person clothes, he’d seen it in his face yesterday.

After he was dressed, he left the bedroom behind. Just like yesterday, the tag on the inside of the t-shirt was jarring, distracting. He tried to tune it out as he padded out of the hallway, pausing only to ask Madelyn’s ashes if she was sorry yet. Next, he detoured through the space where his bed used to be, and said good morning to Stormfront’s shrine: the glass fronted box holding her wedding picture and a few other keepsakes. Part of him was glad Billy hadn’t noticed it; that might have been another fight, and the one they’d had about Ryan was bad enough. Wendy had told him to get rid of it, said it was a shitty thing to do to Ryan she’s the reason his mother is dead this isn’t complicated move it where he can’t see it or ditch it but he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

Swallowing hard, he shut the lid with a snap and looked up to check on his son through the ceiling. Ryan wasn’t awake yet; he flat on his stomach, starfished out to take up most of his twin bed. LEGOs were scattered on his work table, as if he’d been up late rebuilding setpieces. Let him sleep, too. According to Wendy, who he still needed to yell at and threaten and terrorize, Ryan was rapidly approaching an age where he’d also prefer to sleep until noon on his free days. So, he didn’t even need to start breakfast, really, could probably go downstairs and shake the witch awake. Interrogate her about why the fuck she’d waited so long to tell him about–

His phone buzzed on its charger, and he grimaced, blinked across the apartment to grab it from the bedroom before it woke Billy. He almost ignored it when he saw the text was from Deep, but unlocked it, in case it was an excuse to throw him into space. And then he frowned as he returned to the front hall, toes squeaking over the glossy floor as he came to a halt. Because, no, Wendy did not have his permission to have Sister Sage in her apartment, and she was getting far too comfortable pissing him off.

So he aimed his x-ray vision through the floor, let it turn to glass beneath his feet as he peeled back the layers to show him what his idiot goon was doing now. Sure enough, Wendy was in her apartment, arms crossed as she paced in a circle around her coffee table. Sister Sage was on her couch, watching her pace with a rather relatable air of contempt. “Nope,” he said to himself, going to his contacts. “No starting covens on my watch.” He found RAT FINK under favorites and hit CALL.

Wendy cut herself off when her phone rang, and cringed when she fumbled it out of her pocket. Picking out her voice from the building’s deafening background noise wasn’t that hard, and he managed to tune in quick enough to hear: “--tried to warn you–”

“And I told you not to waste time. But you just had to argue. Bad habit for the help, I’m surprised he puts up with that.”

“He fucking owes me!” She blurted out before answering with an angry jab of her finger, and he was scoffing when she said: “Morning, boss,” in a voice full of false cheer. Sage also looked at the ceiling, and he noted that there was an large folder, stuffed with paper and sprouting over a dozen colorful tabs, on the coffee table between them.

To Wendy, he said: “Good morning, you moronic rodent. Put me on speaker, please.”

“Harsh.” She did as she was told and then set the phone on the coffee table.

“So! Is this just a new habit? Keeping things from me, I mean. First the LEGO shit and now–”

“HEY. She just showed up! I had no idea she was coming and I was gonna tell you everything she said!”

She was fucking whining. She had the nerve to be whining! Now he was the one wandering in pointless patterns, but he was doing it in the empty space before Stormfront’s shrine. Sage made a noise of disgust as his bare feet criss-crossed over random patches of sun. “You are the most potent psychic ever created by compound V. Stop cowering in front of him like you’re as mortal as the rest of us.”

Wendy, as usual, refused to be denied her god-given victimhood, as rounded on Sage. “Yo, lady, tell that to my leg the day he snapped it–” She patted the leg in question, and he rolled his eyes as if she could see him.

Oh, real mature, bringing that up. “Both of you shut the fuck up!” He clenched his teeth and tried to keep his fists from balling up too tight. That tag in his fucking shirt was still bothering him. “Sage, as much as Wendy sucks, I doubt you came here just to remind her of that.”

“WHAT THE SHIT DID I DO TO YOU?” Wendy demanded, because apparently she’d forgotten to take the pills that treated her terminal stupidity that morning. “Oh, oh my GOD is this about the fucking LEGO store shit? Cuz, like, I did TELL YOU! I just gave him a chance to tell you first–”

“Oh. You stand up to him about the kid. That’s promising.”

If Sage’s intention was to remind them that she was there, she failed, because Homelander was still yelling at the rat. “It’s not his job to tell me!” If she hadn’t fucked up so badly yesterday, or, better yet, if she had just made Ryan understand all the little nuances of societal norms that that fucking zoo enclosure had failed to teach him, last night would have been fucking perfect.

Maybe Billy wouldn’t have been so fucking mean after they went to bed.

Downstairs, Witchfire’s face twisted a few times, and she was staring up at the ceiling, olive cheeks getting minutely darker and chest heaving a little under her ragged t-shirt, the album artwork faded and cracking in places. He could feel his own face getting red as he waited for her to either retaliate or back down. Sage was looking between her and the phone, clearly waiting for the same thing, and they both jumped a little when Wendy suddenly shouted back: “YES IT IS. That was a test, Boss, and he failed it–”

And she flinched at her own words, likely wouldn’t have been sloppy enough to say them if he’d been in the room with her, and it was good he wasn’t, because he’d have broken her arm, and their agreement explicitly stated that he was not allowed to use physical punishment with her. Not wanting to wake his lover or their son, there was a rush of air in his ears and then he found himself outside, hovering above the tower. Out of earshot, he started shouting into the phone: “Fuck you, Fineheart, he didn’t fail shit! You slipped up, you let that happen because you literally left him alone in a crowded store when he wasn’t ready, which is ALSO your fault!”

“This was not the first goddamned time he was out! We’d practiced and discussed this and that is…that is another test that he–”

He couldn’t see her anymore, could only see endless city streets and early morning skies as he turned in a fidgety circle above the roof. It was taking monumental effort to not crush his phone to atoms as he spat back: “If he is failing, that is because you are failing to teach him you slimy, disloyal, charlatan!” The air out here tasted like smog and southbound winds, and he lost his patience with the tag between his shoulders. “What good are you to me if you can’t do the one thing you’re supposed to be good at, huh?”

As he tore out a hunk of the shirt’s back collar, Wendy’s voice had gotten shaky and several shades meeker: “You do not get to fucking attack me–”

He almost told her that she was even more pathetic than her father but something stopped him short. Gripping a hank of cottonblend in his free hand, he pressed the phone harder to his ear and hissed: “Oh, oh yes I do, and believe me, if I wanted to attack you–”

She cut him off, uncharacteristically stubborn about her rightness. “HEY MAYBE, just MAYBE, the reason I can’t teach him is because somebody is failing to model correct behavior consistently! Maybe someone isn’t fully attending to his emotional needs and is fostering a need to act out! Does that sound FAMILIAR? Like part of an intergenerational pattern that can’t be fixed just by treating HIM?”

“Shut the fuck up!” He hated that he sounded a bit strangled, sounded a bit like he was now on uneven footing. Dropping the torn piece of shirt to the crowds below, he rubbed his free hand over his mouth and stared at nothing, vaguely in the direction of the Flat Iron building. “I fucking hate that fucking therapy babble, talk to me like a fucking–”

“LIKE WHAT?”

“Like a fucking person, Wendy–”

“YOU FIRST!”

Sage broke in again, voice no louder but some how more commanding of attention. “Not that this isn’t moderately interesting, but, we’re wasting time.”

“Wendy, what the fuck does she want?” He was getting a headache, and was desperately wishing that he’d stayed in bed with Billy.

“I don’t know!” Wendy sulked, and he could picture her pouting at her ceiling, wormy tail and round ears drooping, nursing an imaginary wound on one pink little paw. Dramaticus regina rodentia. He put her on speaker while he went to change her contact name in his phone. “I can’t read her thoughts, its awful and its weird and its not fair and are you going to murder me later?”

Damn. Her proper scientific name didn’t fit. What was the correct way to abbreviate that? How did he look that up? Would Sage know? Would asking Sage in front of Wendy be funny enough to be worth the effort? “No. I’m not rewarding your failure with a vacation. You’re paying for talking shit to me. I’ll put a bunch of random horrible fates on a big wheel and spin it real hard.” He decided to just wing it. She’d know what it meant when he thought it at her LOUDLY every day for the rest of her worthless vermin life.

Sage had no appreciation for the terrible things he was going through, apparently.“I’ll be happy to explain myself if either one of you could focus. You two have no idea what you’re doing, and you’re bumbling is really starting to make me cringe, so. I’m here to help, because, A, I’m apparently a goddamn masochist, and B, we all have a mutual problem.”

Dramatta Regi Roden didn’t look right. He deleted it as he thought Really? All three of us have stunning warrior-god boyfriends languishing in our warm comfy beds, unkissed, with no breakfast waiting for them? Then why the fuck are any of us here, Sage? Before he could think of something to say that was less gay than that, Sage said: “Godolkin University is experimenting on children.”

He paused in inputting Drama Reg Rodentia to think What?

“What?” Wendy asked for him, voice flat and focused.

“Students?” It was only half a question: the definition of “children” seemed weirdly flexible these days. Below his bare, dangling feet, a taxi narrowly missed three middle school mud larva as they crossed against the light, carrying backpacks and rolled-up sleeping bags. “Or am I right about the Starlight House thing? Please tell me they bought children from some lefty do gooder, that’d be–”

“Students, yes, but not just them. They’re also scooping kids out of the foster system, and the juvie halls, and right off the streets, sometimes. Young kids, some of them don’t look more than twelve. They’re testing viruses on them.”

“Oh my god.”

Another rush of air, and he was back inside, walking towards the elevator. Now he could look through the floors again, could see Wendy wrapping her arms around herself, staring at Sage, who was snatching up her folder, face a rigid mask of concentration and something else, something grim and disgusted.

Sage was rapidly paging through the multi colored tabs, pulling out individual papers as she reached them. “Everyone they’re rounded up is being kept in a complex hidden under the campus.” Sage ran out of space in her hand and set what she’d pulled out thus far on the table. Wendy dropped to her knees to bend over them, hair falling around her in a tie-dyed curtain. The elevator doors opened up and he stepped inside, hitting the button for 99. “I can’t identify most of the scientists present; the ones I can ID are most virologists, biologists, pharmacologists–there are some side projects–”

“And why are they testing this on Supe children?” He asked, as Wendy got emotional and pathetic over whatever it was she was looking at.

“Oh. Simple. They’re trying to kill us all.”

The elevator doors opened and he stepped out of the car and nearly right into Deep. Whom he casually picked up and threw in the opposite direction, smashing him into the curving wall of the hallway. As the fish gasped and thrashed and tried to assess the damage in his ribs, Homelander made for Wendy’s door. “Of course they are.”

Chapter Text

If he’d been less tired, he’d have been surprised that Sir didn’t throw a tantrum about him waving off the shower. Instead, he just stroked Billy’s face a few times and went to get a wet washcloth. He’d pulled out before he finished, so the only mess was the one on his stomach and thighs. But Sir started with his forehead and his neck, mopping up the sweat there before moving lower. Not in the mood to talk, Billy lay there and stretched and wriggled and bloody loved it. “Cute,” Sir said, as Billy yawned and watched him lazily. “Heh. You wanna go back to sleep, gorgeous?” He nodded, and thought about reaching up to pull his lover back into bed hold me please tell me I was good but the urge passed when Sir kissed him. “Its only, like, 9 or something, you can sleep until noon if you want. That was amazing. You’re getting a big reward for that, okay? We’ll pick something out when you wake up.”

Sir left, and part of Billy was telling him there was something he should be upset about. But, his head was awfully fuzzy, and didn’t have a lot of room for anything besides dull, almost dreamy impulses, like the one he’d had to crawl over to the far side of the bed. God, he felt good. Minimal aches and sores, no pain in his head. He didn’t remember falling asleep again, just remembered burying his face in Sir’s warm pillow and curling up under the comforter. For a few hours, he dreamed. Broken fragments, mostly, all of them pastel and silent and blissful, half memory half wishful thinking.

When he woke up, it was to the sound of his phone buzzing in his trouser pocket on the other side of the bed. Still face down in the cunt’s pillow, it took him a moment to catch up with reality where’s my collar why am I alone–

And then he was literally rolling out of bed, and hitting the floor with a thump, pleasantly surprised to find plush carpet instead of dirty imitation hardwood. Blinking the last bit of sleep out of his eyes, he crawled over to his jeans, and his blindly groping hand found the vibrating mobile just as it went to voicemail.

MM, the notification said, right above two missed calls from Hughie. He sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, naked arse crushing the pile of the carpet, and returned MM’s call. “Mornin’ mate, what’s up the kid’s arse?” He winced at his raspy voice and rubbed his free hand over his bare throat. Got me there without a bloody collar, god’s tits what is he doing to me?

MM snorted at him. “That sandpaper in your voice from boozin’, pukin’, or did you wash down your super secret medical tests with a booty call to your closet case?”

Billy reviewed yesterday’s itinerary and chuckled. “Oi, that’s impressive, it was all three.” Save the test. He hadn’t go to that appointment. Or any of his appointments, really. Johnny don’t need to know, and the kids don’t either– “What can I do you for? Only cuz he ain’t left yet, you know. I’d like to get back to my plans.” Cunt promised me waffles and I’m dyin’ to see how he’s ruined the tea.

“Why you lyin’ to me?” And Billy froze for a second, eyes locked on the cunt’s closet door, hanging open to show off his suits. A distant, hysterical part of him was waiting for those suits to be shoved aside to reveal his entire team, who would proceed to beat him to death with tire irons and whatnot, as was their right. “I know you’re at his place, cuz we’ve been banging on your door for like twenty minutes.”

Billy relaxed, and started looking around for his pants. The cunt had somehow wriggled them off before molesting him, and must have tossed them somewhere. “We rented a room, I don’t wanna know where he bloody lives.”

“Bullshit, it’s 11 fucking 30, no hotel in the city–”

“You’re worse than Kimiko! It’s not bloody Aaron,” he added, as he concluded that his boxers were not on the floor. He stood, wobbled, caught himself, and threw back the atrocious bedclothes to paw through the sheets. He tried not to look at the stains his spunk had left made me call myself cute and I bloody loved it and yanked the comforters off even further, hoping the bastard hadn’t literally torn them off. Even if that would be more than a bit hot.

“You know what, fine. Be cagey, your dick isn’t my business.”

“Exactly. Seriously though, why’s the kid calling me?” On the other end, Hughie said something muffled and indistinct. Billy found his pants, and tried to hold the phone with his shoulder as he fumbled back into them. “Tell him to speak the hell up!” He fell backwards onto the bed and landed with a slight bounce, phone hitting the mattress next to him. Bugger.

“Cuz I fucking told him to. Emergency meeting at the office, one hour.”

“No!” Billy said automatically aint even had breakfast yet “I-I can’t, mate–” He’d promised the kid. He’d bloody promised, and after the stealing shite he needed to stay.

“Tell your boyfriend you’re real sorry, but you gotta go to work–”

“I am at bloody work!” Billy spat, and managed to roll onto his side and push himself up with one hand. His hand smacked at his phone and found SPEAKER in time hear MM say:

“And that means fuckin’ what?”

Billy got his feet under him and squatted to grab his other clothes. To the phone, he said: “What if I told you that, if you gimmie one more day, I’ll get you an update on the treehugger.” The cunt would cave, Billy knew that in his gut. If it meant Billy stayed for breakfast, he’d bloody cave.

“Ha. Mine’s better.”

Oh. That kind of emergency meeting. But he could improvise. “I’ll get you the shortlist for the new Seven cunts, too!” He finished pulling on his trousers and was fumbling with the fly when Hughie’s voice crackled out of the screen:

“HOW?!”

Success! Eat shite, button. Bending to retrieve his shirts next, Billy shot back: “The math is awfully simple, son.”

“YOU’RE FUCKING A VOUGHT EXEC?”

Hughie’s squawk wasn’t completely dissimilar to the cunt’s, but Hughie’s was usually much more horrified, with an air of spoiled innocence or something. Johnny always sounded affronted, and somewhat dismayed at much you were disappointing him. Barely containing a snort, Billy said: “Give me a day. Much more productive emergency meeting.”

After a pause, MM groaned in frustration. “Alright! Alright, Butcher, one day. 8 am tomorrow, in the office, got it?”

“Cheers,” Billy said, shrugging on his shirt. “See you gents tomorrow.” And he jabbed a finger at the screen, hanging up. Leaving his shoes behind, he struggled up from the bed and shuffled out of the room. Checking the rest of his notifications, he found a text from the cunt: Emergency meeting. See you when I get back XX. “Heh. Copycat. Least I wriggled out of mine.” It was from a while ago, about a quarter past nine. “If you ain’t back by now, I’m gonna be awful cross. Mornin’, you bleedin’ idiot,” he added to Stillwell’s urn as he passed it.

Out in the main part of the penthouse, he found Ryan on the couch, watching TV. Kid looked younger than his eleven years, curled under a blanket he’d brought from downstairs, bowl of grapes on his lap. He brightened when Billy shuffled into view, the colors of the cartoon he was watching shining faintly on his skin. “Hi Billy! Dad’s back–” He pointed past him, towards the kitchen door. “He was gonna come get you for waffles.” Billy tried to reply, but just yawned instead, and Ryan giggled. “And he says he needs to talk to you.” Message delivered, he settled back into the couch and resumed staring at the old VoughtReel cartoons Billy could hear chirping from the speakers.

Billy watched him for a second, listening to the twee dialogue and tacky sound effects. The musical ques dragged a few memories out of the cellar, and he found himself smiling. “Bullet Bettie?” He asked, and Ryan nodded enthusiastically. Lenny had liked her too, thought it was dead class that she could punch people straight into space, and always laughed when they hit the moon and made a new crater. Billy had liked her ridiculously bouncy tits and teeny little waist, mostly. “Smashing. I’ll check on your dad, make sure he ain’t drowned in the batter.”

Ryan snorted and ripped a few more grapes off their stems. “Like wet flour could kill him.”

“I bloody wish.” Pleased that he’d delivered that with enough of a smile to make Ryan giggle instead of frown, he turned and ambled to the kitchen door. He already had his plan sketched out, mostly because the cunt wasn’t that complicated. A few coos and kisses and a half-threat to leave before breakfast, and he’d give Billy the nuclear launch codes. Inside the kitchen, the cunt was at the counter, side closest to the fridge, and Billy was startled to see him in his people clothes again: pale green shirt and loose fitting jeans. He hadn’t slicked his hair, either, was letting it fluff and fall over his ears a bit as he tipped another waffle out of the iron. He looked–

Billy shook himself and refused to freeze midstep, kept crossing over the threshold. Prick really went overboard, I should have known. The plate was stacked with far too many waffles, at least ten or twelve rich prats is always wasteful aint they and he chose to flat out ignore the bowl of chopped strawberries next to said overfilled serving plate no bloody way he did that himself. There was a tea kettle on the stove, a posh glass thing painted in ivy vines, and it’d be a couple of weeks before Billy realized the cunt had bought just for these little visits.

Said cunt looked up as Billy came in, and he smiled broadly before switching the iron off. “Morning, gorgeous.” And then he was in Billy’s space, bits and bobs on the countertops spinning in his lightspeed wake.“Fuck. You look amazing.” He threw his arms around his lover’s waist, the grin on his face downright sunny. “Hungry?” He pulled him into a long kiss, and Billy let him, even opened his mouth for it.

Don’t even need to soften him up. He’s ready to lasso the moon for me. “Starvin, love.” When they broke apart, the cunt rubbed their noses together, and Billy rested his hands on the small of his back. After a second or two, he murmured, almost apologetically, “I need a favor…”

“Mmm. Anything. Name it, anything.”

“Dangerous talk…” Billy kissed him again. For a bit too long, maybe, but, when he tried to pull back, Homelander had dragged one hand up his side to stroke the marks on his neck, and that was a bit distracting. When he finally dragged his mouth away, he whispered: “Got a call from work. They want me to come in. Now.”

Homelander frowned and pulled away from him, expression getting a touchy stormy. “And you told them no, right?” Behind him, the waffles were steaming slightly and Billy continued to ignore the juice-stained cutting board and knife beside the bowl of strawberries. “You aren’t going, Billy! You promised–”

“I know! I know.” Billy closed the gap between them again, lifting a hand to the side of Homelander’s face. The cunt crossed his arms, but let Billy stroke his hair and temple. “I got out of it, love, but it weren’t easy–” Yes, it was. “–hence the favor–”

“I kill the basketcase for you?”

Ain't that the cutest little scowl I’ve ever seen? “No. Obviously not. Look, I’m told them some stupid lie–”

“What lie this time?” Homelander hissed, and raised a hand between them. Billy expected to have his own hand swatted out of the way, or to be shoved back. Instead, Homelander grabbed his wrist so bloody gentle and tugged it down, shifting his grip to squeeze their hands together. He was still pissy, Billy could see that, but was fighting to play nice.

Which was awfully decent of him, given their kid was outside the door and all, so Billy kept playing nice too I’m in no bloody mood to fight and I’d be yelling at you if it was the other way ‘round. “Told ‘em that I’m shagging some Vought flunkie and pumping him for info. Only thing that got me outta the third degree. That’s all, that’s the favor. You gotta give me something, love.”

And Homelander’s face softened by several degrees, draining the mounting tension in Billy’s back. “That, makes sense, that was really–smart, actually, and. And I gotta talk to you anyway, some of what went on downstairs is–you have to know, so. Okay. I’ll give you something.” Billy blinked. He hadn’t thought it’d be that easy, was expecting to spend at least some time on his knees, earning it. Homelander squeezed his hand again, before releasing it and going back to the counter. “You got my text, right?”

“Yeah, your little emergency meeting; let’s start there.” Billy mirrored his movements on the other side of the counter, following along as the cunt used tongs to move waffles onto their plates. “That’s out of a box,” he added, jabbing a finger at the batter bowl that sat near the waffle iron.

“Ooh, you got me, I don’t make the batter from scratch. How fucking humiliating for me. Tell me, master chef, what’s in your pantry right now, besides mummified flies and cannibal mice?” When he went to the fridge and pulled it open, Billy groaned in disgust. “Oh, my god, what now?”

“You keep syrup in the fridge?” I knew you didn’t have a soul.

“Yes! I do, because I’m a civilized individual with genuine self-respect!” Homelander rounded on him, syrup bottle clutched in one hand, and Billy rolled his eyes.

“Nobody who sucks cock like you do has self-respect.” While the cunt was blushing about that and getting the powdered sugar from the pantry hate his stupid hidden cabinets how am I ever gonna bloody find anything Billy opened random drawers until he happened upon the cutlery. “And syrup aint supposed to be bloody cold! It belongs in the pantry. Everyone knows that.”

“Ryan doesn’t think so.”

Billy scowled at his back as he set plates of waffles and the cutlery and the bowl of strawberries in front of three barstools; across the counter, the cunt shoved a dish of powdered sugar across the marble and then rattled the cabinet doors as he tornadoed away the mess from his prepwork. “Stop poisoning our kid’s mind. I can forgive you for turning him into dictator or a murderer but I swear to Christ, Johnny, I won’t have him refrigerating syrup.”

The strawberry-stained knife rattled into the sink, the last bit of dirty kitchenware, and then he was opening the fridge again, this time to retrieve to plastic jugs of juice. He pointed out where the glasses were and Billy grabbed down two, and a mug for whatever Homelander had mistaken for tea. When he turned around again, Homelander was at the door. Before pushing it open, he said over his shoulder: “You stop poisoning him! He unpacked the groceries the last three times, and he put the syrup in the fridge on his own! And if you trick my son into keeping syrup in the pantry after its opened, I will never suck your dick again.”

Billy watched him step outside, trying not to smile. He sat in his usual spot and propped one elbow on the counter, eyeing the kettle that was now on the counter witg the juice. Part of him was trying to think about Becca, was trying to recall if they’d ever argued about where to keep shite, the fridge or the cabinet, but he was ignoring that part. It was Sunday morning, and his head didn’t hurt, and his kid was running in through the door to scramble onto the stool next to his.

***

“The water was too hot,” Billy was complaining, as the cunt cleaned up after breakfast. “Ruins the bloody leaves, you know!” He was slumped forward slightly, leaning his weight on his folded arms. Chilly marble made his skin tingle; idly, he pictured laying Homelander out on it, naked, legs spread so Billy could lick strawberry juice off his chest and cock.

“My god, you are picky! Seriously, what do I have to do to get a fucking thank you?” There was no real anger in his voice; Ryan had been down right bouncy during their little brunch, and hugged them before trotting off to play in his room, so, they were both in a good mood. “Wake up earlier next time and make it yourself, then.”

“No,” Billy said simply, and Homelander snorted. A few heavy thunks and a cascade of muffled water signaled that the dishwasher had turned on. When he turned to face him again, Billy continued: “I know makin’ it for me made you feel all wanted and useful, so. You’ll just have to get better at it, love.”

“Heh. Probably will. You’re gonna be spending the night a lot, gorgeous.”

“Junkie.”

“Gimmie a fix then.”

Billy indulged him, and stood up from the breakfast bar. He stepped around the far end and Homelander met him halfway, stepping into his arms and accepting a quick kiss. He’s damn near giddy. Who the fuck loves playing house this much?

He’d actually asked the cunt that, once. After Vegas, before New Hampshire: they’d been curled up in bed after a very good shag, one that had been mostly whispers and giggles and eager hands and grinding hips; Billy had been tracing random patterns on his back as Homelander excitedly talked about some day trip he was planning for Ryan. After pressing a kiss to his shoulderblade, Billy has teased him, asked him where he learned to be so domestic aint all that beneath you love and Homelander gotten very quiet, had told Billy that Ryan deserved better, and then left it at that.

He knew the cunt had had a shite upbringing. Hard to piece together the details, seeing as he only talked about it in half-coherent remarks and possibly sarcastic insinuations. Some things were clear: lab, underground; rules, psychotic; privacy and freedom, none; adults on hand, all scientists, none of them warm and fuzzy; experiments, constant and painful.

I feel pain, he’d said, the night he’d saved Billy from Gilgamesh and his loser back-up. Pity I wasn’t your first, love.

“Heh. Whatcha thinkin’ about, pal?” Billy blinked a few times, and realized he’d been zoned out, forehead resting on Homelander’s as they stood in the kitchen, arms loosely around each other. There was that sunny grin again, that sparkle in those eyes, blue as cartoon ice, and Billy tried to picture that face at Ryan’s age. Tried to picture locking it in an oven and switching it on…if that hadn’t been one of the cunt’s “jokes”. “Mmm. We aren’t confined to the kitchen, you know. We can go watch tv, or–”

Pushing away the urge to thank the cunt for something or everything, he cut him off with a sneer: “You promised me dirt.” He tried to soften it with a squeeze to his hips, and Homelander only stiffened a little.

“What are you, a vole?” He sniffed, and started to pull away.

“Mole,” Billy corrected cheerfully, and tightened his hug. It worked: Homelander stayed put, not stung too badly. “It’s moles that dig in dirt.” When Homelander just squinted at him, he pressed on. “Voles is above ground things. Look like wee little mice.” He held up one hand, finger and thumb a small distance apart, and Homelander groaned loudly. Billy’s smile was pure flirtation, and the cunt caved, let himself be pulled into another kiss. “Good boy,” Billy said, and that squint was back.

“Thin ice,” he whispered, and pulled out of the hug. “If you wanna get straight to business, fine. I’ll force you to spend time with me some other day.” Again, not much bite to his words. Playing nice. Billy followed him out of the kitchen, but slowed when he veered towards the elevator. “Oi, no. I ain’t goin’ downstairs,” he said, and Homelander stopped mid stride.

“Right. Shit. Uh.” He turned, and went back towards the stairs instead, grabbing Billy’s hand as he passed. Billy almost protested that too, but stopped himself, and was passively dragged upstairs and down the hallway opposite Ryan’s bedroom. “I had my–christ, my spare office, I guess–ripped out for his main classroom,” he said over his shoulder, and again, Billy almost thanked him.

Or asked him if he was serious about that oven thing he’d mentioned a few weeks ago you’re gonna bake me alive huh Billy that’s disappointing I’m damn near used to that but he was busy kicking the door shut behind him. Huh. The room had, indeed, been fully converted into a classroom for one. Digital blackboard at the front, a desk for Ryan in the middle, a metal rack with a few dozen text books and homework packets lined up, a separate corner set up for art classes, and the walls were covered in garish plastic posters with cell diagrams and world maps, that sorta shite.

“He said somethin’ about a lab, at breakfast?” Billy asked, and shoved his hands in his pockets so Homelander would stop grabbing them so much.

“Yeah, room next door. He wants to take real biology courses–” He used air quotes around real before crossing his arms. “–which means he needs like, sinks and shit? I don’t know. When I dissected frogs it was, you know, cuz they let me catch a frog. There wasn’t an agenda.” He leaned back on the teacher’s desk, face growing a tad grimer. “Someone is developing a virus to genocide Supes.”

Billy…wasn’t sure he heard that right. “Virus?” He repeated, and Homelander nodded.

“Nasty one! Makes your skin–” He lifted one hand, waggled and flexed his fingers in the air beside one cheek. “–bubble. You get these big, disgusting pustules, uhck. Seriously, Billy, I was taking you downstairs to show you the pictures, you’re not going to believe this shit, its horrible. And then the internal bleeding starts, and the organ damage, and the fevers. Downright grizzly.”

He wasn’t nearly as horrified as he should be, seemed more than a touch gleeful at whatever gore he’d seen snaps of downstairs. But Billy just felt a bit sick, and his hands twisted uselessly in his pockets.

“And its lethal?” Billy asked, and Homelander tried to wring the amusement from his voice as he nodded.

“100%.”

“You–you aren’t serious, 100%?” Billy stared at him as the cunt finally made himself understand that this wasn’t funny. “They’ve–they’ve done this, you’ve seen–”

“Yeah, they’ve killed like six teenagers with it.”

“Bleedin’ fuckin’ Christ!” Billy spun around and paced uselessly over the same tiny square of space. “How contagious?! How bloody bad is this–” As he turned to face him again, he yanked one hand out of his pocket to gestured wildly at the far wall; in the opposite corridor, their son was probably reading a comic or watching videos on training ants to do circus tricks or something and Billy hated whatever feeling was clawing its way up his throat.

Homelander held up his hands, palms out. “Not apocalyptic. It’s not contagious yet. They have to get it in you, in your blood or your jizz or spit. So they either shoot you up or somebody drips it into you, and its hard as fuck to hide that you’ve got it.” He laughed a little, mostly grim and mirthless, and pushed off the desk. “I’ve got people on it already. More people, soon.”

Not good enough, not bloody good enough. “What’s that mean, got people on it?” Billy demanded, even as his shoulders relaxed and his heart slowed. Part of him, upon hearing that the virus wasn’t already spreading through the air and into his kid’s lungs, was busy doing different math, was thinking of those special needles Frenchie had wanted, the kind for Supe skin. But Ryan first, always Ryan first.

“The lab is at Godolkin, and my source has a plan to infiltrate so we can start shutting down the operation.” He came closer, and Billy let him. “Nobody is going to hurt him. Ever.” Homelander said firmly. “No fucking mud people scientists are going to get away with breeding unholy, sacrilegious microbes to poison our child, okay?”

Still not good enough, so Billy crossed his arms and didn’t meet the cunt halfway. “Shutting down the operation how?” Then his brain grabbed the thread labeled GODOLKIN and tied it to the one labeled GOLDEN BOY and the knot actually held for a minute: “With–that cunt you was whinging about!”

An eyeroll punctuated his response. “Yes, he’s unfortunately going to be helpful here, so! Ix-nay on killing him for now, kay? Save it for my Christmas present.”

“He’s going to need a minder, then. Somebody to keep him motivated on destroying the bloody pus plague instead of shagging future data analysts.” Now Billy stepped closer, grinning far too sharply, and then snarled: “Cut me in. Now, you got me, you are not keeping me in the fucking–”

Shaking his head. The cunt had the nerve to start shaking his head, and Billy saw red, nearly seized him by the tight little t-shirt and tore his nose off with his fucking teeth. “Billy, the CIA can’t know–”

“Obviously,” Billy said without thinking, and genuine shock passed over Homelander’s face. Bugger. “I, I just meant–look!”

He shrugged, clearly trying to suppress a grin. “Hey, as long as we’re on the same page–” He started to lift his hands, as if to take Billy’s again, and it took a lot of willpower to step backwards, out of reach.

“Can it kill you?” Billy demanded, as Homelander let his hands drop limply at his sides again. He looked hurt, yeah. But not nearly as hurt as Billy would’ve liked; it was the look of hurt you wore when your rescue dog got scared by something and regressed a bit, went back to curling up in the corner instead of in your lap for a few days. It’s okay buddy, I know you’ve got baggage. I’ll just miss you ‘til you come back to me.

Blushing your own thoughts is just bloody embarrassing, and Billy wished he had an easy way to hide his face as Homelander said: “We have no idea. Maybe. But, we have to assume–”

Way ahead of him, Billy found his eyes being dragged to one of the posters on the wall, the one showing the life cycle of a cold germ. “Viruses mutate, if it can’t hurt Ryan yet, it’ll evolve, get worse and if–” It wasn’t just Ryan’s face he was picturing covered in bloody, pus-filled craters, liquifying organs dribbling from his lips. They have to get it in you– He saw it in jagged fragments; Homelander’s eardrum punctured with a needle lifted from a Supe body art shop, brain pumped full of a microscopic silver bullet; Ryan finding his father dying on the kitchen floor; Ryan burying Billy mere months later; his kid, all alone in a world that kept forgetting he was an eleven year old boy–

“He can’t lose us both,” Billy said, almost without meaning to, and he looked back at Homelander. “He can’t, and that shite could–” Could solve so many bloody problems. If not him, then, others. A-Train, Soldier Boy, Neuman. Could gnosh his prick for a sample. Hell, he’d likely give me a list of any Supes that’s fair game for Death By Pustule. But no. Virus mutate. Virus get out of their bottles. Viruses learn to travel on the wind. If Ryan was the planet, the virus couldn’t be, it was really that simple, wasn’t it? “CIA can’t know, they won’t destroy it, too valuable. They’ll keep it like a spare vial of smallpox; we gotta destroy it,” Billy concluded, and Homelander looked more triumphant than relieved as he nodded in ascent.

“My thoughts exactly, gorgeous! And, like I told you, I have people on it.” He stepped forward again, into Billy’s personal space beside the rack of textbooks. “Two very smart people,” he added softly, and Billy sneered at him. “Really! Gorgeous, I promise you, I promise, I am going to put a stop to this, as soon as possible. And I am going to make sure this does not keep goddamn happening.”

And Billy would have asked him how, if he thought he’d live long enough to see the end result. But he thought he wouldn’t, see? You got to remember, he thought he was a dead man, so, what mattered was that Ryan was going to be safe. He almost denied the cunt his thank you yet again, but changed his mind at the last second, said: “I believe you, love. You’re an awfully vengeful god.”

Another dazzling smile. “Their punishment will be fiery and never-ending,” he said earnestly, and Billy kissed him for that. His forehead, not his mouth, and it made Homelander snort a laugh, ruffling his beard. “Still want your dirt, vole?”

“I told you–”

And that got a hand clapped over his mouth, and Homelander feigned frosty annoyance as he said: “Sister Sage! That’s my source on Godolkin; she took over Technobabble’s network of bugs, after the CIA tossed them in a blacksite a few years back.” He rolled his eyes again as Billy processed that, and muttered under his breath: “Fucking heretics. Alec’s a tree-hugging psycho but no human institution has the fucking right to lock them up or deny them what they see as justice.”

“Why is she helping you–” Billy’s voice was muffled against that steel palm; inside his skull, his sluggish brain was still running at dangerous speeds, trying to figure if Mallory had kept him out of the capture of Technobabble the Computer God or if he’d forgotten about it. “Did you bloody say them?”

“That’s what they say people have to call them,” Homelander said tiredly. “Like. Obviously its stupid. But! Wendy gave me this whole weird lecture on a bunch of gods from a trillion years ago that were–like Techno, I guess. You know, not…normal with–” His free hand gestured vaguely at nothing, and Billy arched both eyebrows at him. “Whatever! The point is, take that back to your team. Sister Sage and Golden Boy are joining the Seven, and we’re looking for–”

Billy grabbed his forearm and shoved, and Homelander allowed his hand to be pried away from Billy’s mouth. “OakenAsh and Technobabble, both of them. I’d figured that out, love. Give me something recent, like, how close are you to actually finding either of them?”

“Oaken’s in Venezuela. Has been for a longer period of time than the other countries.”

“Like he’s combing through it more carefully? Hang on a tick–you know they’ve got Technofreak, but you don’t know where?”

“Whatever bug Sage got that from didn’t include Alec’s actual location. But she does have very reliable intel that Oaken’s getting close.” He reached out, and this time Billy let him grab his hips and tug him in close. “They’re a thing,” he added, when Billy was close enough to nuzzle. When his love looked nonplussed, he clarified: “Oaken and Alec. Oaken’s likely just looking for them.” Still nuzzling Billy’s jawline, he said: “Six years, Billy. Those people you work for threw a god, a living, thinking, god, into some hole in a jungle for six years. And left their lover all alone on the outside, and called him a terrorist for making a few messes while looking.”

That blow was both low and pointed, and Billy took a hard step back, out his arms. “Alec Moon’s a bleedin’ maniac and no better than any other Supe–” He barked, as if he wasn’t suddenly shaking. Homelander, expression soft and patient, followed him across the floor. Billy tried to stand his ground, but found himself backing up again as Homelander reached for him. Can’t let him do that. “If they got their arse thrown in a cell–” Why the fuck don’t I know where they are? Why the fuck wasn’t I the one throwing them in there?

“Ha, sure, that’s great. Lock up one of the only guys capable of cleaning the air our son breathes! Or making sure the power grid doesn’t fry to pieces under the fucking strain in the next decade or so! Or fighting the goddamn forest fires that never seem to stop getting worse!” And Billy was trying to figure out who he was parroting this time, cuz it didn’t sound like the witch, when Homelander volunteered it. “Sage showed me some shit, Billy! Apparently this crap is actually, like, real, and it’s pretty bad! Did you know that it like, matters, if something goes extinct? Like, it really fucking matters if something goes extinct, and you guys–” He pointed at Billy. “Killed Menagerie.”

And every muscle in Billy’s body locked up, freezing him a few steps shy of hitting the far wall. He stared past that pointing finger to those glittering blue eyes and smug gotcha there pal grin, and felt something working in his throat. Guilt was far from the right word for what he was feeling. Caught wasn’t inaccurate, but surprised was leagues better. Yeah, he was just surprised, mostly, how in the shit did Johnny know that, and god, he was a right prat about reminding him of Sage’s existence.

“And honestly? She thinks that’s why Techno started bugging CIA operatives in the first place. Trying to figure out who killed–I mean, my god, Billy. She talked to animals and fought poachers and protested mink farms, and the CIA assassinated her?!” There was no hiding his glee now, and he put his arms behind his back, face eager for Billy’s response.

Billy was only half-cornered, but he couldn’t convince himself to flee, not when he felt no guilt, no remorse, none, not for some dead Supe bitch who more than had it coming. “She also murdered cattle ranchers and mink farmers and exotic animal smugglers–”

“Oooh, and the CIA cared oh so much?” Homelander asked, and Billy threw off his paralysis like a beach towel and got back in the cunt’s pretty little face.

“That was the whole point of me team, love, we kill Supes that get out of line–”

“Where was Courtney out of line?” Homelander asked, and Billy hated him for using the bird’s fucking name. “Where? Everything you accused her of was within her rights–”

“No!” Billy barked, and shoved at the cunt’s shoulder, trying to knock him aside I’m getting the hell out of here to hell with this but he refused to be moved. Steady as marble, he kept Billy stuck there, so Billy kept shouting. “Do not start with that shite, do not–”

Homelander cut him off, voice firm but eyes still full of glitter. “Alec and Oaken and the rest of those hippie-dippie anarchists need to be allowed to work, Billy! When gods are denied their rights over their natural domains, the balance is disturbed, and everything gets all, messy!” He gave an exaggerated shrug, hands still behind his back, face trying to say whelp that’s just how it is.

With no way to go forward, Billy let his back hit the wall as he rubbed both hands over his face. “You know, for about ten minutes, I forgot what you fucking are,” he snarled, refusing to look at the loony cunt. “You are not a person! You’re an…an unsupervised troop of, of, coked fascist CHIMPS all, all mashed into one–” With a groan so frustrated to tried to turn into a scream, Billy finally lifted his face from his hands to find Homelander watching him from a few steps back. He seized the opportunity and got out the corner, headed for the windows on the exterior wall opposite the door. Feeling eyes on his back, he started over. “You are a walking, talking pile of entitlement and madness and fucking Voughtland jingles! Do you actually believe any of this rubbish you keep repeating?! Do you actually think you’re a–”

“Explain how I’m not.”

“You don’t work fucking miracles, for one!”

“I fly, how is that not a–”

“You got injected with fucking chemicals,” Billy sneered, and wrenched open one of the narrow panes at the top of the window. Not giving a shite if it triggered the sprinkles, he fumbled out his lighter and his fags and lit one, blowing the smoke out the open pane. “They made you in a bloody dish, you told me that your own bloody self, love.”

Homelander was quiet for a while. Outside, the sky was blue and the air was hot and he could hear the wind going past. He closed the pane, and then stubbed his cigarette out on the window frame after smoking less than half of it. After steeling himself for a moment, he turned around to face his boyfriend. A bit red in the face, jaw tight, posture a little hunched in: he was stung but not bleeding, had maybe been expecting Billy to bring that up you don’t get to throw my childhood in my face just to hurt me.

“Where we come from doesn’t change the facts of what we are,” Homelander insisted, voice quiet and a tad sulky. He didn’t try to come closer, stayed rooted to where he was, kept his at-attention pose. “And what we are doesn’t change what the CIA did to her, or to Alec.”

“What are you asking for?” Billy wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so they found their way to the window sill behind him, as he focused on untangling a small knot in his chest. No guilt, he reminded himself, no guilt, cuz the only good Supe was a dead Supe oh shut your gob you aint believed that for bleedin’ years.

“Pretty sure your boss wants to use Oaken and Alec to kill me. I can taken them, its not a problem–”

“Phone call,” Billy muttered, and Homelander scowled at him.

“Just let them both go, Billy! I highly doubt they’ll come after me, either of them! If they were going to prioritize eliminating me or Vought in general, they’d’ve done it a decade ago. They have–”

“Forest fires to fight and minks to save, yeah, love, I was here for you sayin’ that the first time. Here’s the issue, love, if Mallory do got the techno-supe in a drawer somehow–” Down in his guts, he knew she did, he just bloody knew it. “–she don’t got no reason to let ‘em go if they ain’t going to play ball.” Courtney Walker had learned that the hard way, and suddenly it was damn near impossible to push away the images bubbling to the surface. A horrific snuff film, slowed down to a series gore-spattered technicolor screengrabs, each one backed by bone-shakingly loud surround-sound.

“Gorgeous?”

“I’m fine!” Billy snapped, and stepped around him, heading for the door, but the pictures just followed him. A massive circular saw in an unused lumber mill, the blade mangled and smeared with gore. Organs spilling out along the shuddering conveyor belt, the heat of the destroyed motor blackening a length of intestine. Menagerie’s legs and pelvis lying on Mallory’s side, twisted comically. Her torso lying on his side, stomach ripped in half from the weight of her falling off the belt while the rest of her digestive track was hopelessly enmeshed with the saw’s mechanics. At his feet, her face was a mask of pain and horror and despair.

A hand caught his elbow and spun him back around, and Homelander didn’t let go, no matter how much Billy pulled away. “Just–it’s alright. It’s–I just, want to know we’re on the same page,” he said gently, not pulling Billy any closer. “About everything. Certain…supes, are good for Ryan, and the future we want for him, right?”

“I bloody fucking suppose!” Billy snapped. “Look, fine, I promise not to murder the Plant Twink or their Geek Squad Sweetie, not even if I get a chance, yeah?”

“You’ll let them work?”

“If you don’t bleedin’ let go of me–”

“Don’t leave yet. Please, Ryan wants to go the park–”

Tears were stinging the corners of Billy’s eyes, and he swallowed hard, felt the fight go out of him. Homelander wasn’t meeting his gaze, was looking at Billy’s chin, and god, it had been a good morning ten minutes ago, right? Had he bloody dreamed that? He fucking made me tea. He chopped the fucking strawberries. “It’s bloody hot out–” Billy mumbled, and Homelander let out a slightly miserable laugh.

Looking back up, he gave Billy’s arm one last squeeze before letting go. “Yeah, tough shit. He wants to go to the park, and he needs sunshine.” His voice almost broke a little on the last word, and Billy sighed. He grabbed the cunt’s chin and stroked his lower lip with his thumb.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered, trying to keep his gaze soft. “I’m sorry, I was nasty.” He tried to shrug it off as Billy found a few other places to touch him, light and gentle and comforting. “No, I was. I was nasty first, I’m sorry.”

“Kiss me and I’ll forgive you,” he mumbled, and Billy obliged, kissed him soft and deep and for a long time. When they broke apart, it wasn’t very far: Billy had one arm around the cunt’s waist, and the other had found it’s way into his hair; both of Homelander’s hands were gripping the back of Billy’s shirt, trembling with the effort to not tear the loudly patterned fabric. “I’m sorry I baited you so much,” Homelander murmured, and Billy kissed him again as a reward. “Sometimes I’m a dick on purpose.”

“Sometimes, eh? That’s what you think?”

“Uhg. Are we making up or not?”

“We’re made up. Past tense.” One more squeeze around his waist, and Billy let him go. “Come on, let’s get our kid.”

Chapter Text

“I could have walked back,” Billy said tersely, as the cunt was setting him down on his balcony.

“You know, I’ve noticed something. Ever since I fucked you in the ass for the first time, you save your pointless bitching for the end of these trips. Almost like you don’t fucking mean it.”

“Bloody rude of you to point that out.”

“Good night, gorgeous!” Homelander said pointedly, and jabbed a finger at Billy’s doors.

Billy looked over his shoulder, as though considering it, and then looked back at him. Crossing his arms, he said: “I want daily updates on the virus at Supe Cheerleading Camp. Daily, you hear me?”

Homelander sighed. “Of course.”

“And if you go and fuck me over with this supe eco terrorist shite that’s goin’ on, I will bloody kill you.”

“Oooh. How?”

“No idea. Not the point. Don’t bloody lie to me about that shite, alright? You want my help keeping the Planeteers in business–”

“For Ryan, to be clear. I don’t care about–”

“Love. I fucked you before you fucked me, so, already know you’re queer. No need to butch it up, you insecure yank prat.”

“Wow. I’m cured. You’ve become repulsive to me again. What a relief, my life just became so much simpler.”

“Stop dodging the bleedin’ issue. You do not get to fuck with my priorities and then leave me in the dark, yeah? And do not ever fucking ask me to work against my team just so you can put a knife in me back later. Understand?”

And Homelander stepped into his space, but not aggressively; he slid his arms around Billy’s waist and kissed him, and Billy refused to kiss him back until he pulled back to whisper: “I won’t, I promise.” After that, Billy returned the good night kiss, and tried to step out of his arms when they broke apart.

“Love,” he said sternly, as Homelander refused to let him go. “Its late.”

“Spend the night again?”

He was practically pleading all of a sudden, and Billy avoided his eyes. “Gotta be at work–”

“You could surprise Ryan at breakfast.” He released his hold on Billy’s waist, but grabbed his hand instead. Holding it in both of his, he said: “Think about how happy that would make him…”

Billy’s free hand went to his neck, rubbed the field of hickies that covered his skin like poppies. The kid had noticed, had asked if one of Billy’s pills caused rashes, and Billy had gratefully run with the lie. Now, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if the kid had noticed anything else. Like Billy coming out of his dad’s bedroom that morning.

“He didn’t notice,” Homelander said weakly, and Billy mentally told him off for reading his mind all the bloody time.

“He’s fucking going to.” I can’t bloody be with you right before I see all of them I can’t fucking shower with you in the morning and eat a breakfast you made me and then catch the subway to the office and look any of them in the eye.

“Sleep upstairs,” Homelander blurted, and Billy looked at him, startled. He was biting his lip, hands still clasping Billy’s. “Grab your clothes and your toothbrush and your pills and, and put it in the other suite, the one in the same hall as Ryan’s room. We can get the rest of your stuff tomorrow too.”

Annnnd there it was. Cunt was confusing himself, just like Billy had warned him not to. “You’re talking loony,” he said, avoiding Homelander’s eyes. Over one crested shoulder, the city twinkled and shone, washing out the stars until the sky was just a flat, rolling plane of black, broken only by the dead, staring eye of the moon. “Loony!” He said again, a bit more forcefully, and met the cunt’s gaze again. “How long are you expecting me to stay?”

The sneer in his voice earned him a flinch, but Homelander barreled ahead, face determined, hands gentle. “Just move in.” When Billy scoffed, he flinched again, but didn’t falter. “He won’t question it if tell him it's so we can take care of you. We can fuck in my bed whenever we’re alone, and at night you can sleep upstairs. We can keep this place as a cover for your team, or for any time you’re pissed at me and want to ignore me for a few days. But you could live with Ryan. Please, Billy, I want you to come live with Ryan.”

I can’t do that. “They’ll know–he’ll know–” He pulled his hand out of Homelander’s, who stared at the spot where it had been. “He’ll know,” he repeated, with more emphasis, and balled his hand up at his side, while the other went to his pocket. “Can’t have that, can we?”

“Why not?” Homelander asked, and the despair in his voice was genuine, the bafflement so intense, that Billy almost laughed.

Let’s think, shall we, darling? “Love, I told you last night. You…you gotta stop confusing this–” He gestured between them with his now free hand, trying to sound firm and unapologetic. “–with something that’s real.” He ignored the hard swallow that was visible in the cunt’s throat. “We made a deal, I’m giving you the fucking boyfriend experience and I’m clearly dead grateful for you lettin’ me see the kid–”

“Don’t call him that–” Homelander said hollowly, but Billy couldn’t stop.

“But I’m not moving in with you just to cater to your fantasies.” The words hurt to get out, and that horrified him. They hurt to force out between his teeth, and they weren’t the truth, not the whole truth, really, but what good would the whole truth do either of them? At least he hadn’t thrown in any unnecessary jabs, any excessive cruelty. But Johnny was always a bit sensitive, especially to rejection, and took it every bit as hard as Billy feared he would.

“I’m not asking you to fucking marry me, William, I’m asking you to live with your son. So he can spend more time with you before you die.” And Billy winced, felt himself starting to regret taking away his hand, because Homelander’s voice was shaking and angry and twitchy; like this, he sometimes reminded Billy of a peacock, but only because he was liable to peck anything that came within reach. “If you want to hide it for the rest of your life, fine, I get it. After all, I’m forcing you, right? You don’t actually want any of this.”

For a few seconds, Billy found himself reconsidering, felt a few hundred words clamoring around his throat.“Love–” I’m scared I’m ashamed I’m confused I’m lonely I’m not sure what I want even matters.

But Homelander cut him off with laugh, that awful strangled noise he’d made a few times when Billy had been dumping him after New Hampshire. “Why are you fucking calling me that? You don’t fucking have to, you know. Its not a rule, you don’t have to call me that if we aren’t screwing.” His voice quavered on the last few words, and he rubbed one hand over his mouth as his eyes screwed shut.

“I know,” Billy said lamely, and almost went to him, almost reached for him, almost said I’m sorry love I’m so sorry let me fucking explain but he didn’t (couldn’t) I can’t do that I can’t bloody do that and then Homelander was snapping back to attention, shaking it off with a snarl.

Arms behind his back, shoulders high and tight, he kept the red out of his eyes as he hissed: “Not like I can fucking blame you! I’m a monster, right? A predatory fucking mutant that needs to be controlled and contained. Yeah, you’re completely justified in hiding this!” Mirthless light filled up his eyes, a sure sign of a nerve not just touched, but stabbed into. “I’m disgusting, I’m vile, I’m nothing!” No, no you’re not, I never fucking meant that, you’re everything– “Even though, you know, in private you’re all over me. Kissing me. Calling me pet names.” Billy was shaking his head as he took a few steps back; Homelander watched him go but stayed by the railing, not quite shaking. “I’m forcing you,” he repeated, mostly to himself, mouth twisting as much as his hands must be. “Because I’m the rapist that ruined your whole fucking life.” That, too, he said mostly to himself, and Billy barely fought off the urge to cringe. Homelander spoke up, aiming his next words directly at Billy, fake, angry smile slapped into place: “So! Why not play with my emotions? My own stupid fault, really. I made this stupid bargain because I’m a goddamn masochist, I guess!”

“Thanks for makin’ my point for me,” Billy blurted out, and it was only after he said it that he realized that his gut was twisting like a knot of snakes and that his breath was coming fast and anxious. As he tried to desperately fumble the words back into his mouth, which never worked, Homelander let out that not-laugh again. “Shite. Fuck. No, I didn’t–I didn’t mean that–”

“Yes you did. Forget I said anything; you’re right, you did tell me last night. Besides, I was being shitty too. I was hoping that, after a few weeks of listening to Ryan cry himself to sleep about the fact that you’re literally fucking dying before our very fucking eyes, you’d grow the fuck up and take the V.” And now Billy’s eyes were burning for the first time in weeks and he gaped at Homelander, too stunned to really respond. His irises flared magma-orange, though what was brewing in his chest was far from rage. Homelander’s face threatened to crumble, expression abruptly shadowed by grief and dread, but he visibly slapped those feelings away. Before Billy’s eyes died down, he’d stepped into his space, close enough to touch but Billy knew better to try just then. Hurt and seething, he whispered: “Go on, keep fucking with my head. I don’t care. You’re mine and I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

The balcony shook as he took off, and Billy stared after him as his eyes burning out pathetically. “I didn’t mean that,” he repeated stupidly. He had meant it, but it hadn’t been the whole statement. There’d been a but coming. There’d been an and, even! A whole bloody monologue about the kaleidoscope of competing agendas and hormones and personal desires and self destructive urges he was operating within at the moment, and yes, the little tidbit of you raped my wife and got her thrown in a Stepford nightmare and then your Nazi girlfriend got her killed was definitely at play here! But…but so were other things–

And his eyes sparked back to life, pushed to the surface by a sudden fury. Heat radiating out from his irises to his cheeks and jaw, he aimed his delayed retaliation at the judging gaze of the moon. “Said you wanted the boyfriend experience! Playin’ house was your idea! You said it first, love, you’re an idiot and a masochist!” No angry boyfriends came crashing out of the sky to wring his neck, and the moon just stared back as though asking him if he was drunk, loony, or merely very thick.

Swallowing a knot of something that was lodged in his throat, he spoke several notches more quietly. “And you don’t get to use the bloody kid to guilt me into giving you more than I agreed to. I aint playin’ with nothing, I told you, you’re doin’ that to yourself!” He spun around and his head sloshed ominously. Chemical runoff burned in the back of his mouth and he retched, hand groping blindly for the door handle. He got it on the fourth try and puked all over his own shoes. Cursing in a quavering voice, he threw the door open and stomped into the apartment. Shoes toed off, he stumbled from the door to the bathroom and kept his eyes shut as he roughly brushed his teeth.

After he spat, he stayed in place, hands braced on the still-running sink. The room was dark and the faucet louder than it should have been. “Doing that to yourself,” he repeated, trying not to think of posh gin and satin sheets and warm hands. “Don’t owe you shite. Bartered your bloody rape baby like a crack rock, waving him under me nose to get me to gnosh your prick and then acting like I’m the bloody succubus in this arrangement. You don’t bloody care about me, you threw me away the second Soldier Boy strutted out in front of you.”

“Yeah, that’s bollocks and you bloody know it”, said the running water, and Billy pawed at the knob just to shut it up.

“Don’t owe you shite!” He said again, and pushed away from the sink. He tore off his clothes as he went to his bed, and fell onto the mattress in an inelegant heap. “Don’t owe you an explanation, don’t owe you kindness, don’t owe you–”

“What, consistency?” Billy wondered when the streetlight outside got so snotty. As orange light hummed over his floor, the bulb continued to nag him: “In or out, you obnoxious house pet, cuz this hovering in the doorway thing isn’t cute anymore.”

Snatching his pills off the nightstand, Billy hissed: “Piss off, I don’t care if he gets his cunty Supe heart broken! Hell, hope it bloody devastates him when I die!” He had to sit up again to open the bottle, and hunched over his shaking palm as he tipped out three pills. Little and yellow and round: these were what he took to prevent a migraine, and not to be confused with the hexagonal orange tablets he used to dampen ones already in progress. He dry swallowed the yellows in one go, wincing as more chemical ooze sprayed from his sinuses into his throat. When he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to be sick, he went back to arguing with the streetlight. “Hope it bloody devastates him every time I spit in his face! Maybe he’ll–”

“Stop?” The streetlight suggested. “Is that what you want?”

“Obviously–obviously not, I need him for Ryan, I need–” He swore that the faucet was snickering at him, and he snarled a warning at it before snapping over his shoulder at the streetlight. “That bloody virus! Can’t deal with that shite on me own, and–it’s not forever, just until–its not forever!” It’s not real. “And this gets to happen on my bloody terms–”

“You need him but you’re setting the terms? You want him and want him to want you but you also wanna hurt him whenever you feel like it because it makes you feel powerful? Perfect plan. Ask Stillwell how great that worked out for her long-term. Jackass.”

Billy grabbed another bottle from his nightstand and took two of the long blue gel tablets inside. These were good for two things: one, helped him sleep, no matter how restless he was feeling; two, they were technically an antipsychotic, and it had just occurred to him that he was hallucinating. Pills making a slow, painful trip down his very sore throat, he fell back on his pillow, which wasn’t nearly as nice as the cunt’s. Staring up at the ceiling, he slowly became aware of the noise of his heart, ticking away under his ribs. “Don’t you start,” he muttered at it, and that, of course, got it started.

In words cobbled out of pumping blood and flexing arteries, his heart asked, rather pointedly, “If you don’t owe him anything, why are you so upset right now?”

“Bloody lesions is pressin’ on the bits of me brain that make me feel shite, you read that shite the cancer doc sent over. Plus these pills–”

“No. You don’t take those anymore. Remember? He got you the better ones.”

“Oh, whatever. Lesions, then.”

“Your phone is ringing.”

“What?” Billy jerked, thrashed, shoved himself up. His mobile was, indeed, ringing on the floor, and he stared at the patch of blue light shining through the denim of his trouser pocket.

“Wonder who that is,” the ringtone chirped at him, and Billy absently told it to shut up. A second later, it went to voicemail. And a few long, silent minutes after that, there was a different chirp. The twinkling tone that meant somebody had left a message.

“If that’s Hughie, I’ll kill him,” Billy said to nobody in particular, and then he was diving towards the discarded pile of his trousers. Hands shaking like he was filling a syringe with sweet blue nectar, he pulled it free of the pocket and unlocked it. PICK UP NOW had left a message that was multiple minutes long, and Billy was nearly feverish in his movements as he hit play and held the mobile to his ear.

“Hey, gorgeous,” the cunt said wearily. Billy huddled against the foot of his bed and ignored the giggling of his furniture as he listened breathlessly. “I. Fuck. I don’t know what to fucking say. Or where to start, actually. Um. That. That was my fault. Just–earlier, was my fault.” Billy shook his head at the mobile, unbelieving, but the apology kept happening. “I had no right to spring that on you or push you about, about anything, really. I. I ruined your life. That’s just true. I hurt your wife and it ruined everything and then I kept ruining everything instead of just letting you kill me.”

“Stop it,” Billy said weakly, feeling like the walls were caving in on him. This was too much, this was deranged.

“I know you loved her. I know that. She didn’t deserve–After I calmed down. After I stopped thinking about how humiliated I was, I thought–I thought about–um. If. If Madelyn was, who I thought she was? If, if I still loved her that much–and you were the reason she was gone–”

“How? How the fuck could you fucking do this to me, you stupid bastard cunt?” He hugged his knees tighter to his chest, stared at the spot where he’d smashed a vial or five of V in recent history. It was also a spot where said stupid bastard cunt had spent some time on his knees, moaning around Billy’s cock with genuine enthusiasm.

“I know you don’t love me. And maybe you can’t love me. I’d understand that. Most people can’t. She didn’t; Maeve never did. Nobody who raised me did, and I don’t think Stormfront did. Not really, not in–not in a better way than I ever loved anyone, you know exactly how shit I am at that! Noir did. I know that, jesus fucking christ Billy he loved me so much–and jesus fucking christ Wendy tried but I made that impossible. I made it impossible for you to love me, right?”

“Damn near,” Billy said weakly, and yeah, those blue things had to be placeboes, the rug was laughing at him too.

“You don’t have to. I’m not asking for that. I won’t ask for that. I won’t ask for anything. Treat me anyway you want. As long as you make Ryan your priority, always, and keep making me cum so hard I see fucking stars and stripes, gorgeous, you can treat my heart like a cat toy. God knows, I deserve it. Worse.”

“Fucking hell. Fucking hell.”

“Shit, I’m talking to nobody. I hope you’re asleep. Been wearing you out, haven’t I, pal? I'll see you later. You don’t actually owe me anything, you know.”

The message ended.

Billy didn’t say anything else, and neither did his empty room. He managed to crawl back into bed before the blue things finally did their jobs and knocked him out cold.

***

[Love, don’t be mad.]

[Hello Billy, I’m already furious. Why are you at the fucking airport.]
[Its been a whole day and you haven’t called me]
[Did you even listen to it?]

[I did]
[what the hell do you want me to say to that?]
[And I am being forced to go to South America against my will. By work, I mean, orders from above.]

[Billy. Are you going after Oaken?]

[Recruiting. Mallory plans to use him to kill you and then chunk him in an even deeper hole than his robo-lover’s in. You know, since you’ll likely drag him nine tenths of the way into hell with you.]

[What?]

[MM wanted to let the technopath free and have them both kill u]
[powers that be kaboshed it said Technobabble’s ttoo danger has to stay locked up]
[“once they’re free we’ll never get them twice” sort of logic. And they aint been able to catch Oaken, so. He kills you and is beat to hell and back and we can chuck him in a hole even deeper than one Lover-Them is in, or]
[You kill him, and you’re beat to hell and back, and we finish you off with Kimiko and Annie.]
[Everybody loses, even our fucking kid.]

[Billy, we fucking talked about this. They need to be allowed to fucking work! I will not have our kid inheriting an unlivable Earth and Sage can’t fix this on her own!]

[I aint any happier about this than you are. Unless you’ve already dealt with that bleeding virus I need you alive.]
[Facsist clown.]

[Fascist.]
[We arent ready to give a counteroffer.]
[Sage is getting all twitchy! These plans aren’t exactly tried and true, not every single detail is hammered out! Key pieces are still in doubt! they don’t hate me much less than they hate the CIA]
[You can’t delay this, at all? You can’t buy me two fucking days?]

[NO I can’t!]
[And dont ever correct my fucking spelling you pretentious pisswipe]
[What fucking plans?]
[Never bloody mind.]

[bastard bastard bastard]
[you promised Ryan would come first we came to a fucking agreement]
[this is TERRIBLE fucking timing]
[quit your job billy jesus christ i will pay for everything even if you dont move in]
[you know i will]

[i am a modern woman and i will not sacrifice my career to bear your children you chauvinist dickhead]

[deranged statement even for you]
[you promised to kill me yourself]
[this is worse than cheating on me. Its forcing me to cheat on you.]

[Don’t be bloody dramatic! you can take the blody plant twnk, right?]
[that shite with the phone call was a fluke yeah?]
[Johnny.]
[JOHNNY you cn tke the bloody plant twink RIGHT?]

[i dont know]

[what]

[i mean normally YES obviously]
[my stats are you lose NORMALLY but Oaken is a PLANT Billy]
[hes not static his limits are pushable]
[he heals. He is much stronger than he looks]
[and normally that would not be enough but you people are about to lie to him and tell him that he’s getting Alec back so he is going to be PUSHING those limits he is going to be hitting me so hard its breaking his own bones and he is likely going to care less about NOT destroying whatever environment hes throwing at me]
[and he will be BACKED UP by starlight and the fucking invincible super model]
[so i dont know]

[you worthless fucking idiot how do you not have a plan for this]
[how does sage not have a plan for this?!]

[how do YOU not? You’re the one there! Sabotage the fucking plane! Murder Campbell and frame a random janitor!]
[Should I just fucking kidnap you again?]

[do not bloody kidnap me again you fucking pervert]
[He canot lose us both. He will never fucking be safe if he loss us both& that vrus means we cant count of the V to keep me around if u get murdered by an army of sustainably built robots!]

[Tell me where Alec is]

[I don’t know]
[Mallory wont give us the long and lat of where Technos been stashed. Think shes afraid starlight will go spring them out]
[pageant queen is damn near as wobbly as you are, love]
[i think its east itll be minimum of 50 or 60 clicks from anything resembling civilization im talking no villages even]

[thank you for barely narrowing it down at all]
[I am ordering you to quit your job and also kill your team and also get back here]

[piss off]

[BILLY.]

[were leaving got to go]

[Billy goddamn it do not get on that fucking plane]
[BILLY]
[BILLY GOD DAMN IT]

Hours later

[Are you still up, Johnny boy?]

[GO TO HELL.]

[I am in hell, love, I'm sharing a hotel room with MM and he ain’t as fun as you. Or as pretty.]
[What are you wearing?]

[None of your business.]

[Is it your pretty little suit? The one I love taking off you? Or is it those cute jeans you were in Sunday morning?]

[I am not doing this. I’m mad at you.]
[I’m so fucking mad at you]
[so dont be fucking cute with me right now]

[I had to do me job, love, I couldnt get out of it without making them suspicious. You know that, you understand. I’ve been obsessed with you for years and years, sweetheart. I couldn’t just derail our best shot at taking you out, theyd know something was weird]
[Come on you got a plan for this, don’t you? You got a way to pull the rug out from under us, make Ash and Techno no bloody problem at all, I already know that. Do you think I’d even go along with this at all if I thought for a single second they could hurt you, take what’s mine and claim your pretty golden head?]

[Of course I have a plan. Sage and I figured it out in like five minutes because she isn’t a horrible lying backstabbing asshole traitor.]

[No, no, love, its this lot I lied to. They can’t get suspicious of me, love, we need me on the inside. Think about it. These particular mud people might be a threat to us, they’re plotting against you just like the God U cunts. You’re so sweet and patient with me, aren’t you? You let me keep me cover so we can look out for our boy. All the sacrifices you make, and you put up with the dumbest shite, cuz you know I gotta be here. You’re a bloody good dad some days.]
[Seriously what are you wearing?]

[Okay. That makes sense. I’m sorry.]
[Apologize to me.]

[I’m sorry, love. I miss you.]

[You do?]

[Yes, god, yes, I bloody do. I miss your pretty hands and your kisses and the way it feels when you sit in my lap.]
[Miss taking care of you, letting you be a good boy for me]

[Okay]

[okay what?]

[Okay, billy. I told u that you could play with my heart if you want]
[i mean it. I meant it. So go on. I like it when you hurt me.]
[Oh? Is that your reward, gorgeous? Wanna play like you’re in charge?]

[I am in charge, love. You’re the one play acting.]
[Wanna put you back on your knees. That’s how you’re prettiest.]

[I do like feeling pretty. Fine, i can play your stupid game, William.]
[Tell me more. What would you do to me, if we were alone right now and I was letting you call the shots.]

[Put you in those slutty jeans.]

[Slutty? Seriously?]

[Just in those. You look so good in them, like some slutty calendar model and I just want to bloody grope you. And I would too, grope you everywhere, rub your ass and stroke your pecs and lick you anywhere I feel like licking you.]

[Barbarian.]
[Gonna gnaw on me next?]

[Just might, pretty boy. Or I might pull you into my lap, press your cute cock against mine so you can feel how hard that got me. I’d play with your chest until you whined like a whore, and then I’d just kiss your pecs while I forced you to grind on my throbbing bulge. For a fucking hour, if I felt like it.]

[Hot. Gonna make me suck it before you fuck me?]

[Obviously. What good is your smug little mouth if it doesn’t keep my prick warm?]

[Fuck, that sounds so good. I want it. Make me cockwarm you. Make me hold still and hold your dick in my mouth like a good boy while you ignore me. Do it, Billy, I fucking want it.]

[Bossy. Topping from the bottom, ain’t you, sweetheart?]

[You’ve never minded before.]

[Yeah, I like you bratty. Like you more when you’re good.]

[Tell me how, then, since you wanna take care of me so bad. Give me an order.]

[Ask like a good boy.]

[Like this?]
[Please, Billy, can I have an order, please?]

[You want to be good, love? You want to please me?]

[Always]

[Can you try something new for me? Something dirty?]

[I wanna try everything with you]

[Can you call me Daddy?]

[I thought you didn’t like that]

[Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe I wanna be your Daddy.]

[Just mine?]

[Just yours sweetheart]
[We don’t have to. You can say no. I won’t be disappointed.]
[Johnny?]

[I’m here i’m stll here i want to try it Daddy pleasse]

[Good boy, very good boy. Try it for a while, and then tell me how it feels.]

[Yes daddy please give me an order daddy i want to kep being good pl]

[Aw. Aren’t you just the cutest thing I’ve ever fucked? Cutest fucking thing I’ve ever had my dick inside, god, it’s like fucking a pretty little doll.]
[Breathe, sweetheart. Take it easy. Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s so pleased.]
[Now please me some more and tell me what you’re wearing.]

[Picture Message]

[Naughty boy. Daddy didn’t tell you to strip.]

[I’m sorry Daddy]
[Picture message]
[Picture message]
[I can’t help it, Daddy, I’m thinking about you]
[Video]

[You better be thinking about me. If you were thinking of somebody else, I’d have to bloody kill them for making you moan like that. How long has your hand been between your legs?]

[Since you told me you want to be my Daddy.]
[I started jerking off when you said you wanted to kiss my chest while I dry humped you like a horny animal and when you called yourself Daddy I had to have something in me I couldn’t fucking help it]
[Daddy please talk to me]

[Do you like calling me that?]

[Yes.]
[Video]

[Good boy love very good boy you look fucking beautiful]
[sound beautiful to]
[fuck i keep watching tht just t hear that sound your making agin]
[god its like your trying not to scream Do you like that fuking much?]

[i like it so much]
[Video]
[is that it? The sound you like?]

[don’t just like it sweetheart i bloody love it]

[I think I love calling you Daddy]
[Yeah, I love it]
[Are you touching yourself? Daddy, please, show me if you are.]

[Video]

[Oh fuck thank you. Thank you thats so fucking hot. Listen to what you’re fucking doing to me]
[Video]

[Such a good boy. Such a bratty boy for Daddy. You sound frustrated, love, are you not getting close enough?]

[Picture message]
[Picture message]
[Video]

[SLUT. Naughty, naughty whore, your fingers aren’t enough, are they? You need my fucking prick. I can see it in the way your hole is clenching around your fingers, you need more.]
[Fuck we need to get you a toy, love. Something bigger than your perfect fingers.]

[Will you use it on me, the first time?]

[Fuck yes.]
[Picture message]
[Making me leak]

[Call me a whore again.]

[Wanna call you more than that lot more than that wanna fucking talk you off love make you fucking cum with my voice]

[Tell me all of it wanna hear it]
[If we were home together in our bed and you were balls deep inside me and we were both close and I begged you to call me dirty names]
[talk me off daddy please]

[Video]

[I came so fucking hard.]
[Thank you for giving me permission.]

[Good boy, Johnny.]

[Did you come too?]

[Picture message]
[Yes, love, I did, you were amazing.]

[Thank you. That was fun, I missed that. Being good for you, I mean. I really do want you to tie me up and try out a bunch of toys on me.]

[Fuck yes. We’ll pretend that’s your punishment.]

[Can we? Can I pretend I don’t like it?]

[Want to beg me to stop, love? Tell me that you’re a god and I have no right? Sob because it feels good and you’re ashamed that your cute cock is getting hard from it?]

[Yes. Call my cock cute while you do it. Tease me. Mock me. Pretend you’re torturing me.]

[Picture message]
[I’m hard again.]

[Video]
[Me too. We’re going again.]

[Tell me one of your rape fantasies love. Tell me one about me. Make it dirty and I’ll make it come true.]
[Oh, you are taking a while. Thats good]

[Video]

[Oh, love, you look so flushed]
[Are you in my bed?]
[You are. Little whore, you’re touching yourself in Daddy’s bed?]

[Keep watching. Listen to how dirty my fantasies get.]

[You are fucking sick]
[And creative]
[And bloody adorable]
[Oh my fucking god love that is so cute]
[Naughty boy. What a naughty, naughty boy you can be. You touch yourself to this? This is what you really want?]
[Good boy. Thank you, good boy, I came so hard to that]
[Picture message]

[Me too]
[Billy?]

[Yeah love]

[Would you cuddle with me afterwards?]
[After you pretend to rape me or whatever, and we take a shower together? Would you still hold me, too?]
[Billy?]
[Do I have to choose only one, if we do that?]

[No of course not]
[I’m sorry love I wasnt trying to ignore you]
[If we do that, well stay at your place after so i can spend the night, ok?]

[Id really like that]
[I miss you too]
[Billy can you tell me how youd hold me? Afterwards, please?]

[Do you need that?]
[Right now, I mean]

[You dont have to]

[After our shower id dry you off, nice and slow. Towel off your hair too, and kiss you as much as you want me to. Id bring you water and fuss while you drank it, check you all over for boo boos even though I know you dont got any. When your nice and dry, i’ll tuck us both in skin on skin and wrap my arms around you]
[kiss your forehead and tell you how amazing you were and ask you what your favorite part was ask if i crossed a line ever, at any point and no love i won’t be frustrated if you couldnt speak up while it was happening]
[ill touch you gently and stroke your back and toy with your perfect hair until you fall asleep in my arms and i’ll hold you until you wake up]

[thank you]
[fuck i wish i could sleep here]

[take my comforter]

[yeah?]

[fall asleep with it so you can smell me]
[we talked about dropping, remember? Thats that shitty feeling youve gotten a few times]
[might help if youve got a bit of me there]

[i took the comforter]
[it helps i can already tell]
[i wish you were here stoking my back]
[telling me how pretty i am]

[Video]
[thats for your ears only, got it? you tell anyone how sappy i get in that and i’ll make you pay for it]

[billy that was really sweet]
[i feel good right now. So good. Like i did after that time you fucked me on my side and basically hypnotized me]
[i feel safe and i know you care about me]
[close enough anyway]

[i gotta go to bed now love]
[see you soon as i can alright?]

[<3]

[XO]

Chapter Text

Having a wank in the backseat of a parked car is only fun occasionally. Besides the cramped conditions, there’s the mess to consider; clean up is even more tedious when you’re penned in by car seats, particularly when you’re trying to completely erase any evidence of what you’d been up to. Billy lit up a fag, mostly to mask any lingering smells of spunk and sweat and shame, and cleaned up his shirt and hands as best he could with a wad of napkins and tissues he’d snuck into his pocket earlier. Honestly, when he’d realized how few options he had for privacy, he’d almost stuck to wanking in the shower before lights out and making the cunt settle for a sarcastic good night you spoiled peacock text, but–

His phone buzzed and he dropped the sticky napkins to grope for it. In the dark parking garage, he unlocked it, and hunched against the closed passenger door. “Needy prat,” he was mumbling around the filter between his lips as the screen came to life. His background was a snap of one of Ryan’s films: a cowboy burning his hat for warmth on the tundra while his saddled polar bear terrorized a penguin. But when he opened his messages, his heart lurched between his ribs; the text was from MM, asking him where the hell he went, warning he’d ring in 5 minutes and come looking in 10. So, not the cunt, asking for more sweet talk.

He’s just asleep and I don’t even care anyway, Billy told himself. Meanwhile, his fingers told half a lie: [stepped out for a bloody smoke]. I’m not gonna fucking check on him. Homelander was more experienced than he’d seemed right after Vegas; Stillwell had done dommy-mummy shite with him, and there was no way Maeve hadn’t played with him. Not like he was naive. And Billy had given him plenty of attention. Plenty! Cunt’s all snuggled up under my comforter. His phone buzzed again, sparing him from picturing that.

[For 45 minutes?]

[went out for one decided to have six] Hesitantly, he looked towards the lift doors, out of sight from the backseat. There was no reason to stay outside, not really. His hands, already growing tingly again, fidgeted with his mobile, which remained still and silent. There was no reason to stay outside, but, the thought of going back to his room wasn’t anymore appealing. He’d never had to go straight from shagging Homelander to facing anyone on his team, let alone MM. His stomach was twisting itself around and around, almost as fast as his brain, which was arguing with itself so chaotically Billy wasn’t even sure what he was feeling torn about.

Another minute or two passed, and still, Billy didn’t budge, couldn’t budge, really. This time, when his mobile buzzed, he knew it wasn’t Homelander.

[hughie thinks ur calling ur spy] [frenchie thinks u BROUGHT ur pet spy. But i said that u a motherfucker, not dumb] [if u brought ur vought flunkie closet case here imma kill u myself fyi]

With a groan, Billy rubbed a hand over his face. Of course they were gossiping about his imaginary side-piece, of course they were. “I’m gonna to have to hire a bloody actor, aren’t I? Bollocks. That sounds like so much work and the cunt’ll just get jealous.”

“Or get a realllllly fucked up boner about it,” his reflection drawled from the rearview mirror, and Billy blinked at it in surprise for a few seconds before realizing it was right.

“Heh. He might let me actually shag him. You know, just so he can watch.”

“He’ll kill him right after,” the reflection said, sounding more amused by the thought than concerned; not for the first time, Billy wondered what Homelander had done to the bloke he’d fucked a few weeks back, while they were in the midst of their spat. “And then alllll that work? Down the drain. That’d suck.”

There was a headache lurking somewhere behind his eyes, and he groaned as a dull throb rolled through his decaying head. Time to go upstairs. A few dollops of hand sanitizer got his palms and fingers to a state of relative cleanliness, and he let himself leave the car. He disposed of the fag and the soiled tissues and napkins, tossing them into the battered and sticker-pocked bin in front of the lift, and tried to ignore his silent mobile as he rode the car up to their floor. His heart wasn’t lurching anymore, but, its hard stumble had left his stomach tilting and twisting oddly. His face was a bit sweaty, and he couldn’t keep his hands still. Hell, it was hard not to pace inside the car as it crawled upwards. Silently, he cursed every air travel law on the planet for forcing him to leave his hash gummies and his mushrooms back in his flat. Wasn’t sure his pills would cut it tonight.

A loud, off-key DING announced the car coming to a halt, and Billy stumbled out of the doors and into the hall, one hand going to his forehead. His gut was still twisting, but he was able to pick out a few of the conflicting emotions in there now. Namely, the guilt, and he crept cringing at himself as he made his way down the corridor. Shouldn’t have done the Daddy shite what the fuck was I playing at? He ain’t confusing himself I’m bloody doing that–

And maybe it was best that he’d had to leave the shrooms at home, because once again, the lights were talking to him. Each bulb let out a warm, tiny buzzing, and in that buzzing, Billy heard whispers; as he made his way to his and MM’s door, he tried to ignore their calm, reasonable words. “Why be cruel to him if you don’t want to be?” They buzzed.

“Wasn’t bloody cruel to him!” Billy hissed, and then realized he’d gone the wrong way. He was at the very end of the hall, staring through a narrow window at the city below them. Blinking at his own reflection for a few seconds, he continued: “Sent him that bloody…video…I, I sweet-talked the cunt like he was my bleeding boyfriend, didn’t I?” He had. He had whispered to his phone’s camera app in the dark backseat, telling Homelander every sweet, gentle, soothing thing he could think of: I’m proud of you, and that was so good for me, and I loved doing that for you and thank you for showing me that side of you.

There had been more. There had been a lot more, but now, in the hall upstairs, he still didn’t hear a trace of Becca’s voice in anything: the guilt was, apparently coming from somewhere else entirely. All around him, the lights rather crossly pointed out: “You’re toying with his feelings on purpose.”

For half a second, his reflection cocked its head and grinned of its own accord, and Billy spun around and stalked down the hallway, towards his room. It didn’t look much like him at the moment, and he felt it best to put some distance between him and it. From the window, the reflection called out in a voice that wasn’t Billy’s, its tone one of pure approval. “That’s the point, isn’t it, Butcher? To drag him in so deep he drowns with you, dies of a broken heart?” It chuckled darkly. “Fucking diabolic, brother, didn’t know you had it in you. Thought the kid had made you soft!”

The lights told his reflection to stay out of it and Billy said, over his shoulder, “Ain’t you a smart one? Whoever the fuck you are.”

“Oh, you are such a liar,” the lights sounded exasperated as Billy rounded a familiar looking bend in the hall did the room number end in an even or an odd? It was difficult to remember while the lights were still nagging him. “You keep smacking him away! Telling him to remember that this is all fake, remember? It’s like you’re trying to drive him off on purpose!”

“Didn’t you try that with Becca? And Hughie? And Marvin?” The pattern in the carpet really ought to mind its own bloody business. Odd. Room number ended in an odd, and that odd was 5 and– A door swung open up ahead and MM stepped out, stopping short when he saw Butcher.

“There you are. Asshole.”

“In or out,” the lights were telling him, as Billy followed MM inside the suite. “In or out, Billy, there’s no third option.”

“Is so!” Billy snapped, freezing halfway over the threshold. “Doing the bloody third option right now–”

“Butcher, the fuck?” MM asked, and Billy realized what he was doing and how very, very weird it looked.

“Nothing, mate. Uh. Hearing, shite. You know–” He stumbled the rest of the way into the room before he lost his balance, and then shambled into the loo. Leaving the light off to escape their nattering for a tick, he swatted the other pill bottles aside until he could find the one with the little yellow things.

In the mirror, his reflection peered at him, despite Billy fighting to keep his eyes down. Neon orange, like CGI magma, was flicking in the eyes of its shadowed face, and a second later, his eyes grew hot and itchy. Billy swallowed a small noise of alarm, just managing to turn it into a ragged gulp as eerie orange light bathed his feet. Hanging his head like that allowed a gush of chemical rot to bubble out of the back of his throat, and he retched it into the sink until sweat beaded across his face and back.

His hallucinations never gave a shit how he felt, they always kept right on badgering him. Sometimes the pills would make it worse for a short while, almost like the voices were offended that he was trying to drown them out. “The lights got a point, pal,” his reflection rasped over the sounds of his dry-heaves. With every sentence, that voice got more recognizable, and he found himself cringing away from something that was banging on the wrong side of a crypt door, miles below the dungeons of his rotting brain. “Negging works on dames, maybe, but not on prissy nutcases with fuckin’ laser eyes.” That voice that belonged to something dead and far away continued: “Stillwell was waaay better at this game than you, and she still ate shit for it in the end; and Maeve was a better fuck than you, and a Supe to boot, but she couldn’t keep a handle on him either. The lights think you’re trying to drive him off. I know you better, Butcher, you’re trying to get his hands around your neck, for real.”

Can you blame me? Spitting the last of his sick into the drain, Billy gargled at the phantom, “Maeve was not a better fuck than me. He’s told me that himself.” Safely through the dry heaves, he switched on the sink and used his cupped hand to swallow the pills.

The thing in the mirror rolled his eyes and shifted in the dark glass; the movement of its body felt wrong and ominous and paradoxically alluring, and Billy refused to look directly at it. “For the record, I’m just as disappointed as you are that Aaron didn’t try to follow through on all his queer little promises of fucking you while choking you to death; we should have killed him, not let him skip town like a little bitch.”

Billy gave his teeth a solid brushing, and rinsed his mouth before answering. “You know, he’s a better fuck than Aaron. I can admit that now.”

“What are you mumbling about?” MM yelled from the far side of the suite. “Don’t fucking engage with your hallucinations. We had a whole long talk about this, you remember that?”

“No,” Billy half-lied, and the reflection was typing something out on its phone. When Billy looked down, he’d sent a text to himself.

[The lights STILL have a point. You don’t have to be a bitch to him. The sweeter you are, the harder he crumbles when you finally croak. Dig deep and LOVE HIM until it kills him.]

Before going to bed, he took three of the blue things as well; the package said he could, if two didn’t cut it in the first half hour. He was getting familiar enough with these episodes to recognize those times right as they started, not hours into it. Stopping the voices wouldn’t make him forget them, though, and he suspected he’d be turning their words over for a good long while.

From his left and up above him, MM asked him: “Did you already take your knock-out shit, or can we have a convo about how fucked up this whole situation is?” Not a request.

“Which one?” Billy asked, as he realized he somehow facedown on his bed. He genuinely couldn’t recall getting there. “The decor? Cuz, I don’t know mate, fucked up seems harsh. I rather like the vomit green–”

“Oh, great. You took it.”

“Would you rather I hadn’t?” Billy tried to sink deeper into his bed. Involuntarily, he thought of the cunt taking his shoes off after rescuing him, and tried vainly to kick his boots off without sitting up.

“Right now, yes. You always fuck me! Somehow!”

“Dying!” Billy complained, and gave up on his boots. He’d just leave them on. No choice; the second he sat up, the conversation was happening, and god knows when MM would let him sleep.

His mate was deeply unsympathetic. “Die on your own fuckin’ time! I gotta fuckin’ talk to you, man!”

Billy turned his head to scowl at him, and then crossed his arms under his cheek. “Mate,” he said in a mumble, jaw squashed against his fuzzy forearm. “I feel your pain. These lampshades are hideous, and have you seen the state of the loo? Earth toned wallpaper, really? It’s for cave people. But what can we possibly do, besides set it ablaze? And for that, we should really wait until morning.”

MM was sitting on the side of his bed, half-slouching his weight onto the arm across his knees. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he said: “Thank god I knew you before you dug toxic landfills in your brain. I might think this is the pills makin’ you loopy, but I know. I know that you–” He shifted one arm to jab a finger at Billy, “–are just an asshole.”

“These landfills created half a million jobs, you know. Saved Springfield from–”

“You will shut the fuck up now, or I will strangle you.”

“Gladly!” Billy tried to turn his face into the bedclothes to force himself to sleep forget what I did to him in the car but MM grabbed his pillow and whapped his back with it, hard. Billy thrashed and sat up on reflex, gawking at him. “Tosser!” He snapped, and grabbed for the pillow (missed by a mile) and MM hit him over the head with it, repeatedly, until Billy dragged it back. “FUCKS SAKE–fine! Fine, mate, go ahead! Rant about the unique and traumatic experience of being screwed over by your superiors. After all, it’s only your three thousandth time going through this!”

“Shut your fucking mouth. Wish you were the fucking mute, I mean it, Butcher.” MM had returned to sitting on the bed and said, flatly, “There is, like, a 70% chance that OakenAsh kills us halfway through our pitch, right?”

“Oh, mate. 75%, 80% minimum. Cuz, like, if I was him? And we showed up now for this little parlay? Clearly, I’m close.” He wondered when Homelander would start combing the jungle for Technobabble, how soon the cunt would find them, what plans the technopath and plant bender were needed for in the first place.

“Ain’t like he waits for permission to do shit,” MM was saying. “If he wanted to kill Homelander–”

“He’d have done it already, yeah. Or at least tried. And, even if he do go along to get his–” His brain could only supply a few words on short notice, and Billy settled on: “–lover back sooner, what about after? Again, if I was him? Well, I’d kill you lot the second I had Becca back.” Or Ryan.

“See? I was afraid that you were gonna say that! And using Oaken at all? Butcher, this feels like its gonna blow up just like the Soldier Boy thing did.”

Another threat to Ryan that Mallory was hiding away from them, somewhere. He wondered, briefly, if Sage knew. Or how easily the witch could find out. Refusing to recognize that he had thunk those thoughts, he took a second to pull his boots off. Since he was UP, and all! Tosser. “He heals. Mallory wants to grab him after Homelander’s churned through most of his health bar, but, how long’s he even gonna be down for? What about when he gets better?” Billy knew where he was placing his bet. Revenge of the vegetables, worldwide tour, starring the US military brass and all their flunkies.

MM nodded grimly, and voiced his own worries. “Starlight–Annie’s not doin’ great with the news about Technobabble,” he said, and Billy let himself slouch back onto the bed. Beard catching on the comforter, he thought of Johnny, back home, curled up under Billy’s blanket to smell him while he came down from their new game. Once again denying the existence of his own thoughts, because one bloody thing at a time, please, he fought the urge to squeeze his eyes closed while MM continued: “And she’s not, wrong, Butcher. This–” He gestured to the empty air with one hand. Billy could picture the implied concrete cell, squatting between them like an irate toad. “–this is a lot to swallow–”

“We sawed Courtney Walker in half,” Billy said to the ceiling, and then realized that he’d rolled onto his back, which he couldn’t fully recall doing.

“That was fucked too! Remember how I went to the damn director about that? But this, with Moon? This is torture! Prolonged, effed up, torture!” And to someone so useful, too, Billy thought absently. Of all the Supes to chuck in there– “I, I don’t think, that we should go along with this.”

Billy’s ears perked up. He turned his head again since sitting up was too much, and looked at MM, who had his elbows on his knees and his chin resting against his clasped hands. He was looking at Billy out of the corner of his eye. Gauging his reaction. “Oh?” Billy started, and MM shrugged. “Ha. So. We don’t do it. What would be the alternative, exactly?” He considered getting his hands under him and pushing up, but, no. This would have to do. Damn you, little blue things, loosening the screws in his joints.

MM’s eyes ticked back to the wall behind Billy, and he studied it for a few long seconds. Thinking. Choosing his words carefully. “Well,” he started, slow and cautious. As if Billy gave a shite about treason ain’t even my bloody country, is it? “There are a few.”

“Are any of them good?”

“Some might be in the same zipcode as good, if we’re real fucking lucky.”

“Enlighten me, mate.” The hallucinations seemed to have stopped, thank Christ. “One is, we run, yeah? Pack up the kids and move to Ibiza? Become street clowns?”

MM snorted, and Billy counted that as a point to him. “More or less, yeah. We can all say ‘enough of this shit’ and quit–”

“Annie will never go for that and I’ll go into anaphylactic shock.”

“Or the other version of that, we all say ‘enough of this shit’, reject Mallory’s offer to bank roll us, and we become straight up terrorists again.”

“God, part of me would love that.” But it might be harder to see Ryan, and that was unthinkable, honestly.

“Or, we. Well. The other options get, a little–”

“Treason-y?”

“...Yeah. Treason-y.”

MM was looking at him again, and Billy felt steady enough to half sit up and meet his gaze better. “Oh.” Considering that, he looked around the room, clicked his tongue, and then said, lightly, “We pretend like we’re going to talk to Oaken to recruit him, but we, what? Tip him off to the endgame? Give him the chance to run?”

“Yeah. Something like that. FUCK! What am I doing? What are we talking about?!” MM buried his face in his hands and groaned, loudly. “Butcher, I don’t fucking know! I just, don’t! Supes are–most fuckin’ Supes are bastards, motherfuckers right to their core. World’d be better off with 90 percent of ‘em depowered, or straight up motherfuckin’ DEAD. But keepin’ one of them in those kind of conditions? Not even givin’ them the dignity of dying? Going to a terrorist to kill a threat to democracy, and then–then doin’ the same to that guy? No. No, I do NOT believe in that shit, man!”

His foot was tapping, fast and light and in a seven pointed pattern that twitched into an eight point pattern as Billy watched. “Mate,” he said, low and gentle, and MM looked up at him, expression haggard. The pattern kept tapping. “Did you really believe her, when she said she’d listen to you? Let you play Jiminy bloody Cricket?”

“Ha. Yeah. Part of me hoped she meant it.”

“So, I figure you already told her this?” She ordered it in the first bloody place.

“Fuck yeah I did. And every explanation she gave me for Alec Moon not being executed was bullshit. Could smell it through the phone. But, mutiny is mutiny. Treason is fucking treason. We can refuse to carry out the order, or we can carry out the order. We cannot deceive our commanding officer to execute our own agenda. That’s–that’s fucked, we cannot–”

Why the fuck not? Asked something Billy couldn’t place, but that didn’t stop Billy from echoing it: “Why the fuck not? You tried to tell her, and she didn’t listen.”

“So, if we’re gonna refuse the order, we refuse the order. We don’t–we can’t–” He shook his head, hard, and his foot hadn’t slowed. “I cannot be a fuckin’ traitor, Butcher, I can’t fucking do that.”

Billy sensed it, the real kernel of terror sprouting this fit. “Can’t ruin your rugrat’s life again. I get it, mate.”

“Not again,” MM confirmed, and Billy fell back onto the sheets.

“So. We refuse the order?” That didn’t feel like the right move; if Homelander was successful at poaching both of the Supes in question, and his team had refused the order–then again, he had fed them the info that the cunt was after the same prize as them. They might be alright, above suspicion. Or, Billy knowing that ahead of time would make the coincidence even more unbelievable. Mallory was getting desperate, he’d heard it in her voice on the briefing call, and desperation would make her paranoid. “That might not go better for us,” he said, and meant to say more, but his tongue got confused and he bit it by mistake.

When Billy was done cursing about that, MM said: “This is a shot to kill Homelander. If you’re not foaming at the mouth to take it, I know its a bad idea.”

Billy covered his surge of panic with an exaggerated coo, and MM rolled his eyes at him. “Aw, mate. Touching, truly! Honestly, it’s pure laziness. We’re so busy, we are we agitating the Jolly Greenpeace Giant?” Sloppy sloppy sloppy I’m bloody slipping–

“Oaken’s short as hell,” MM said, and then added, “And we’re not gonna refuse the order. I’m gonna refuse the order, tell her I’m not walking my team into a suicide mission. Especially not one that’s end result should get us all tried in the fucking Hague.”

“Excellent! Can I go the fuck to sleep?”

MM eyed him, offered a half smile. “You seriously behind me on this? Even if it might get us Homelander in a casket?”

“Firstly. He ain’t goin’ in a coffin. I’m sealing him in resin and using him as a coffee table. Secondly, you think I want a plant killin’ him? The only way that’s happening if I find out he’s allergic to nutmeg and I fill his bloody mattress with it.” And then I’ll just epi-pen him and do it like ten or twelve more times.

“Oooh. How you gonna do that, tumor boy?”

Instead of letting the room lose its faint glow, Billy said let out an overly loud HHMM as he feigned thinking it over. “I was thinking of buildin’ a machine to make meself really tiny, germ size, you know, and then going into his cunty little head and unplugging his brain stem.” Then I’ll drown myself in his spinal fluid.

“Points for creativity. Don’t pitch it to Mallory, she might build the machine and send Kimiko instead.”

“Kimiko can fit inside most people’s skulls already.”

“Seriously. Homelander. You got a plan for him?”

“Seduce him and break his heart.”

“Be fucking serious.”

MM, there’s something I have to tell you. Mind if I chain you to the radiator first, so I can finish my bollocks defense before you rightfully end me worthless life? Instead of that, Billy said: “I think Frenchie’s got it. Poison, through the eardrum. Soak his brain with it. Might not even need to be poison. Acid could do it. Dahmer did that, right? Dumped acid in bloke’s brains to zombify ‘em?” He hated himself. Lying there, numb and exhausted and in far too deep, he heard the words coming out his too-smart-for-its-own-good mouth and hated himself more with every syllable.

“It killed them. So, that ain’t a bad idea. Not at all.”

I know you care about me. Close enough, anyway. “The witch is a dead end for now,” Billy’s mouth continued, as the texture of the ceiling twisted into several different rude gestures and accusing stares. Sweat once again dusting his forehead, Billy closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally. “But she talked about makin’ him off himself; we might think about drivin’ him to suicide.”

“Hey, I don’t always believe in you, but in this case? No guy I’d put more faith in. You’d get him jumping off the ledge in ten days, tops. You know, if he didn’t just twist your maggot-stuffed dome right off your fucking shoulders.”

“We’ll hide me real good, and I’ll cyber-bully him from a whole bunch of accounts.” That was an interesting thought. Picking on Johnny behind different names, different profile pictures. Digging at his insecurities, drive him deeper and deeper into Billy’s arms for validation. Yeah, when I finally showed him the prick behind the curtain was me the whole time, he’d probably kill himself.

“Or,” said that undead voice, from under the closet door, as MM chuckled and reached to flick off the light. “Or, he’d get a really, REALLY fucked-up boner about it, and gag on your dick until you apologized.”

Taking MM’s advice for once, Billy rolled over and put his back to the closet. He told himself that pulling that kind of demented shite would cost him access to Ryan, more likely than not, and, besides, the lights would throw such a wobbly about it. Not worth it. Just, not bloody worth it, that was all.

Maybe being cruel to him at all wasn’t worth it. There was so little time left, and Ryan always lit up when they got along for a minute or two. His eyes slipped closed as the closet stayed silent. Tugging the comforter over himself as MM said good night, Billy wondered how old Ryan would be when he became an orphan.

***

Homelander was having an intensely weird day, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep. But not even Billy’s comforter was getting him that far. The smell, the familiar texture, the beautiful experience of Billy suggesting he take it, all of it helped. His heart was slow and his breath was even and he could lay still, for a few minutes at a time, at least. But even with his eyes closed, his mind was racing, and not even in any particular direction. Different snatches of the last couple of days warred inside his skull: Billy’s peaks and valleys, kisses and slaps, stepping in close only to dance back out of reach. Breathing trust me one minute and stop confusing yourself, cunt in the next, and Homelander took back something he’d said to Friend. This was worse than Maeve. This was as bad as Madelyn. Hell, worse than that, maybe, because he wanted Billy more.

But what could he do? Leave? Out of the question. That wouldn’t be fair to Ryan. Or to Billy. And seeing Billy visit Ryan, while not being able to touch him–unthinkable. Hell on earth. A fate worse than death. Besides. Billy kept mocking him whenever he showed actual, sincere devotion, as if that was embarrassing, or something! So! Better not show him anything like weakness by letting Billy see their son while not demanding sex from him–

Then again, might serve Billy right, Homelander taking the high road, putting their child first–

He was racked with sudden guilt, tormented all at once by the weight of his son’s impending loss, which was somehow a bigger nightmare than his own. That was a brand new experience for him, and he curled up into a tighter ball, trying to fit as much of himself as possible under the comforter. “Stop it,” he mumbled to his own brain, because Wendy had suggested that, and it sort of worked, sometimes. He already knew he wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t be able to wall Billy off. Not when their time together seemed so limited, running lower and lower every day.

With a groan, he rolled over, sprawling on his back to direct his sulk at the ceiling of his room. The ceiling he was going to fuck Billy against the minute he was cured and made whole. If they ever got the chance, that was. His lover was being so stubborn!

Another surge of crushing guilt, filling up his chest with hard, irregular edges. Like I’d be any less stubborn, if I was him and he was me? Hell, I’d still be trying to kill him, not giving him fucking aftercare and heart emojis. Of their own accord, his hands grabbed the thick, dark comforter and pulled it up to his nose, drowning himself in Billy’s scent. By now, Homelander’s own scent was mingling with Billy’s, becoming a permanent note in the comforter’s bouquet. Thrilling, despite his aching soul. At least his soul’s jagged bits fit perfectly into Billy’s, no matter how much his lover squirmed and thrashed and resisted.

The thought comforted him, somewhat, and he rubbed at his slightly-burning eyes. Sniffling, just a little, he rolled over again, trying to sprawl at a new angle to trick his body into falling asleep already. He had to try harder, he decided, had to make Billy understand that this really, truly was destiny. Once that message sunk in, it should be easy to pull Billy in so deep he’d forget which way was up. To do that, he had to endure. Let Billy work through his anger, let him heal and grieve and learn how to forgive him. Homelander could do that. He’d had a lot of practice at being tortured. “I meant it,” he said weakly, to an aspect of himself that couldn’t answer him anymore. Not in the same way, at least. Friend wasn’t gone. He was reintegrated, and therefore, right where he’d always been. Inside. Part of him.

Stroking his own chest, Homelander squeezed his eyes shut again. Voice hesitant, he kept talking to himself, since that was what he’d always been doing, from a clinical point of view, and Wendy had said it would likely still help. “I meant it. Billy has every right to torture me. Hell, that’s why I want him to have the V so bad. It’s not fair that he can’t break my jaw and my hands and my spine for what I did.”

Friend, if he wasn’t being an asshole, or Wendy, if she was being her normal self, would ask him some version of, “Where’d you get that conclusion?” and he let out a frustrated huff, cringed despite his complete privacy, and muttered: “I was telling the truth. I…I thought about Madelyn, and tried to picture, Billy–Billy, hurting her and–and her, being. Gone. Just, gone. And, I. I thought about, not knowing–finding out–after, after years–” He stopped. Gave up and moved on after all, I know what I mean, right? “And. And then I. Thought about–”

He’d never talked to Billy about Vegas. As in, the part before Billy rescued him. The days and days and days of psychic enslavement at the hands of a cruel, impulsive stranger. Had never told him why it didn’t surprise him at all that Starlight and Kimiko briefly turned into very different people and helped him murder Hana Fry in cold blood. Or about the utter horror of his existence under that thief’s stolen power, the cold dread of thinking it might last forever. And he definitely hadn’t told him about the episodes where his mind would go completely blank for hours. No room left in his body for him, too much her in there instead. What being forced to attack Billy under her orders was actually like.

He was too afraid of showing that weak spot to Billy. Billy’s vicious side could come out so suddenly, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Billy using that against him during a nasty fight. Still, the experience had helped understand Billy’s hatred, and fear, and obsession in a way he never could before. The more distance he got from it, the more it grew his appreciate for what a mess he’d made of his lover’s life, and the depth of the wound it had clearly left. God, poor Billy. He must have felt so helpless, knowing, or believing he knew, who killed the love of his life (back then, anyway) and being completely unable to take revenge. It was ungodly, unnatural, unacceptable: some terrible mistake in the stars had robbed Billy of his birthright, and Homelander had been able trampled his life to dust as a result. Tragic. Heartbreaking. A wrong to be righted to by his new soulmate, as soon as possible.

And there was Billy’s wife, too, Ryan’s mother. Becca. He never said her name, knew in his bones that Billy would never want to hear him say it. He’d meant his apology about her too; if Billy loved her as much as he clearly did, well. Billy wasn’t exactly generous with his adoration; only someone unearthly could have won his heart that completely. And Ryan was further proof that she must have been special, must have been different than other mudpeople, from other women in general, maybe. After all, he’d never been able to get any other girl pregnant! And no other Supe was just born that way! Even he was the result of V being dosed into his zygote, for Christ’s sake!

Clearly, obviously, Becca Butcher had always been special, and Ryan had been destiny. Written in the stars. No wonder everything had gone to shit. He’d forced it. Screwed up the path of their lives by getting impatient. “Should have waited for her to want me,” he muttered to Billy’s comforter, and mouthed it absently. “She would have! It was meant to be…I’d have given her back to Billy, after she was pregnant with Ryan! I–I would have…” He was increasingly certain that his apology to Billy had been a bad idea, had misfired in some way. Billy introducing this new kink was wonderful, so, so, so wonderful, but he had started seeing through it as soon as it started. A powerplay. A manipulation that hit as hard as blow to the side of the knee.

Close enough, at least. “I meant that too!” He said to the empty room. “I meant everything I said! Pretending is good enough for me! He doesn’t have to mean it–” His voice broke at the end, and he huddled even tighter around himself. The smell of Billy’s body once again filled his nose and mouth, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. “He doesn’t have to mean it yet! Or, or ever! He’s–he’s worth it!” Friend would have asked him why. How Butcher could possibly be worth it, hadn’t Homelander just said that these mind games hurt worse than Madelyn’s did? “Cuz it feels better too,” he said to himself, as tears crawled down his eyelashes. “When it doesn’t hurt, it feels better than that ever did. Better than any of them ever did. Madelyn, Stormfront, Maeve, Noir–Billy is worth it. Billy and Ryan are worth everything!” Even the way he was feeling right now.

Seeing Billy’s eyes go orange for him was incredible. Seeing Billy cum for him was transcendent. Seeing Billy smile for him was sublime. Pretending was more than enough, more than he deserved. Billy deserved canonization for giving him this much after Homelander had raped and ruined his goddess and ripped up his life like a cheap poster. If he wanted more, he had to earn more, had to try harder, prove his devotion and his worthiness more completely. And he could do that, or he’d kill both of them trying.

Eventually, he fell asleep dreaming of Billy’s voice, still clutching the comforter with both hands.

Chapter Text

In the bathroom of their pathetic hotel room, Billy was sat on the floor, aching back against the side of the dingy tub. Cool, smooth faux-porcelain had been too tempting to pass up: he was sweating under his jeans and orange-and-black shirt. Behind him, the cool water of the shower pattered endlessly, but was mercifully quiet. He’d been holding his mobile for nearly five minutes, knowing what he needed to do but still putting it off. That morning’s call with Grace had not gone well, had, in fact, ended with Annie yelling and swearing and Hughie’s head in his hands. Billy hated it when the lad slouched over like that and tucked away his face. Looked like some sort of massive weight was pressing down on him, trying to fold him in half.

Once they’d all had their turns telling Grace exactly what they thought of the situation she’d landed them in, and once she was done half-apologizing, half-berating them, Billy had slunk off to send Homelander an update. Mostly to save himself the headache of the cunt’s tantrum if he didn’t.

Muffled footsteps from the other side of the door reminded him that he weren’t completely alone here, and he only had so long before MM got worried. If he had it his way, I’d have one of those bloody call buttons around me neck.

Sighing angrily to himself, he opened up his messenger and found the cunt’s little string of hearts. “Nutter,” he mumbled to himself, and opened the keyboard. Only took his stiff thumb two tries to get it right: much better than earlier, at least. Tiny, digital taps sounded from the mobile’s nearly invisible speakers, and to Billy’s increasingly unpredictable hearing, it sounded like a bunch of chatty mice.

BILLY [you there, love?]

JOHNNY [<3 <3 <3]

BILLY [jesus christ]

BILLY [knock it off, it is 930am here.]

JOHNNY [what does that have to do with anything, billy?]

BILLY [don’t try to be cute in broad daylight, it’s terrifying]

JOHNNY [sorry! Let me try again]

JOHNNY [go fuck yourself, you feral pig]

JOHNNY [there, that better?]

BILLY [feral pig? The way them beasties shag, i can only take that as a compliment, so, no. Not better.]

BILLY [you’re like if a spider was made out of sanitary wipes]

BILLY [see, that’s an insult]

JOHNNY [Sanitary wipes? What the fuck does that mean?]

BILLY [i don’t explain my art to fools]

BILLY [And stop bloody distancing me]

JOHNNY [*distracting]

JOHNNY [YOU texted ME and picked a fight out of nowhere]

JOHNNY [if anything, you’re distracting me, you foul-mouthed homunculus]

BILLY [you got made IN A LAB. If EITHER of us is the bleeding homunculus, it’s you]

JOHNNY [you know what that is? Wow! I had no idea feral hogs read Maugham!]

BILLY [gone back to that, have you?]

JOHNNY [Yeah I’m sticking to it. Unless you prefer Captain Caveman.]

BILLY [You know, you have never once compared me too the bloody Unabomber, and it’s right there, love.]

JOHNNY [*to]

JOHNNY [He was a math genius who sent homemade explosives through the mail. Feral hogs can’t do math, or post things. Or build bombs.]

BILLY [You’re stall body distracting me.]

BILLY [i only texted you because i need to tell you something, since i honor deals and synch]

JOHNNY [such] [still] [Bloody]

JOHNNY [your thumbs are really crapping out on you lately, huh?]

BILLY [north]

BILLY [new]

BILLY [NO]

BILLY [No, they are NOT you condensation pickle]

JOHNNY [what]

JOHNNY [Billy, just call me.]

BILLY [can’t, MM will hear me]

BILLY [im locked in the damn loo, running the shower]

BILLY [told him i’ve got a serious case of the Dying Slowlies]

JOHNNY [send him out to get you something and CALL ME]

JOHNNY [Billy. I’m not asking. Call me.]

BILLY [Give me five minutes, love]

With a hard swallow, he stood up and shambled to the door, barely sentient while in motion. He hadn’t actually been lying to MM: his brain was draining out down his throat and ears, and his vision swarm in and out of photonegative as he twisted the knob and swung it open to call out into the room. Brilliantly white sunlight was assaulting him through the window, reducing MM to a slouching silhouette on the end of one bed. “Mate–could you go out for a bit–” Pain rang through his skull, loud enough to make him gag, and MM hit the floor already in mid-stride.

“Butcher, why are you fucking dry? You forget why you go in there?”

Not in the mood to be inspected, Billy turned his face away, and regretted it. More pangs crashed between his temples, and something bubbled across the roof of his mouth. Maybe it melted something, a bunch of important circuits or pneumatic tubes, because the lie he’d been prepping didn’t pop to the front of the queue. What he got instead was: “I need to call him–” Worse, he practically belched the words, the result of his throat filling with bile, and he barely registered what he’d actually said before he was spinning for the sink. For two straight minutes, he retched into it, each spasm burst something in his ears or his sinuses, and MM stayed quiet in the doorway until they were both certain Billy was purged for the next little while.

“Nice going, dork,” said the facet, even though it was off, and that was just plain disturbing, like a person suddenly talking without moving their lips. Billy pushed himself upright, and found himself gasping with the effort. His vision swam again, and he groaned aloud before twisting the tap on. At once, it began chattering, just as bossy and nagging as last night. “You better get your story straight, cuz he’s gonna ask–”

“Call who?” MM asked quietly, but with a lot of emphasis.

Arms braced on either side of the sink, Billy breathed in and out, and watched the water swirl away the bile and meager breakfast he’d attempted. “Me spy, obviously!” He sneered, and MM breathed a short, sharp noise. “Oh, don’t get all wobbly about it. Not stupid, mate. I ain’t tellin’ him nothing!” He drummed his fingers on the porcelain, considering a myriad of potential lies, but ultimately went with his first instinct. Briefly, he looked in the mirror and made eye contact with MM, who was leaning on the door frame, sort of half in and half out of the hideous beige bathroom. When he looked away again, he let himself sound defensive and a tad tense. “It don’t go both ways, he’s never asked me for shite.” Behind him, MM wasn’t buying it, but he wasn’t supposed to yet. Pitching his voice to an insistent sort of sharpness, he said, slowly and clearly, “Oi, I told you, he ain’t with them! Hates Vought and the blonde cunt and the bleedin’ witch, just like we do. He’s trying to–” He cut himself off with an audible swallow, and even let his arms shake a bit.

“Trying to what? Help?” Pleased at the tone he’d earned, Billy cringed, and then shrugged and nodded at the same time. MM whistled, the note incredulous, and Billy willed the cunt to be uncharacteristically patient. “You’re defending the guy? A Vought exec–”

“I never said that, exactly!” He barked, and shook his head, trying to clear the fog, keep pushing the lies out. Bad idea: more sloshing, but he fought off the urge to dry-heave. “Not an exec. He’s security and…clean-up, you know.” Felt more plausible than him shagging a fancy prick in a suit, let alone one high up enough to know anything useful. Though, it might have been the wrong move. In the mirror, MM’s expression had darkened, and the hand braced on the doorframe above him started to curl into a fist.

“Clean-up? He gets rid of bodies for them, that’s what you mean. Disappears mouthy victims? Fixes it when one of them motherfucks slips up and ends an innocent fucking life, is that fucking it?”

Shoving himself upright, Billy carefully turned himself around and crossed his arms. He scowled but continued avoiding eye contact. Addressing the wallpaper to the right of MM’s angry face, he snapped: “Oh, like any of us is fucking saints! We’re about to carry out an order we both agree is beyond the bloody pale–”

Ah, point Butcher: guilt and something else, something more conflicted, cartwheeled across the backs of his eyes, but he kept his mouth in a resolute line. “Our hands are being forced here, Butcher! Why the hell are you calling him? If you don’t tell him shit, then he doesn’t need an update!”

Scoffing and wishing he felt steady enough to shift his position and crowd into MM’s space until he was forced back out of the doorway, he sneered his retort. “Gee, let’s think. Why could I possibly want to talk to my mole inside Vought right before fighting the, oh, whaddid we decide on? Third most dangerous Supe they ever created? Easily top ten, barely bloody minimum.”

MM’s laugh was utterly mirthless, and his fist bounced against the doorframe a few times. “Bullshit. We both know that if Vought, or anyone at Vought, knew anything about Oaken that makes him easier to handle, then they’d be using it. Your nasty-ass lesions didn’t make you that dumb.”

Deliberately sounding flippant in a way that only came out when he was cornered, he said: “Worth a shot though, right? I mean, Kimiko tried the witch–” She had, last night. Best that Miss Wendy could do was confirm that the green bastard wasn’t fond of herbicides, but it was less silver bullet and more scattering grains of rice so the vampire stops to count them. “He’s surprised me before! Besides, you got a better idea?”

“Tell him the truth and pray he doesn’t fucking attack us.”

Except he’s a bloody ecoterrorist and he almost definitely knows that our division of the CIA killed one of his besties, and that was before the ‘abducted Technobabble’ thing. “He’s going to attack us.” MM groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. In the quiet of the small, dated bathroom, Billy could hear his feet shifting nervously inside his shoes. “The files was pretty clear, mate. He’s–”

“Volatile, vengeful. Narcissistic, obsessive, impulsive, stubborn. Yeah. He’s gonna attack us, and there is nothing your little fuck-boy side snack can tell you that you don’t already know, so, why are you calling him?” When Billy took five of six heartbeats to respond, MM’s eyes widened a fraction, and he sharpened his words when he asked: “What the hell, Butcher? Are you in love with him?”

Is that his bloody problem? “No, you sentimental twit!” He put some extra disgust into the words and pretended the effort didn’t make his bile-ravaged throat burn. “Marriage made you soft as pig shite, you know that?”

“What you calling him for, then?”

“So he knows why I might stop returning his bloody phone calls!” Making a show of it, he shoved himself off the counter and shouldered MM aside. Water continued to splatter and spray across the floor of the tub, and his scalp complained. It was still gritty with sweat and general grime, and he really, really did need to shower, but yanking MM around by his very-grabbable heartstrings took priority. Now at the window, Billy scowled out at the modest city streets, and at the edge of the jungle that squatted beyond them.

Window glass offers a blurrier reflection, generally: MM was reduced to nothing more than a smeary streak of skin and clothes over his shoulder. He’d turned to watch Billy storm off to nowhere, and snorted at his back. “You care if he thinks you ghosted him, huh?”

“Professional courtesy,” Billy said dryly, but let his shoulders stoop a bit. MM was under the carefully curated impression that this was a “tell”, and, even in the old, dusty glass of the window, he could see his posture shifting. Come on, son, take the bait. I’m way over five minutes already. “He should know he might end up alone on this. I ain’t sending him to Mallory,” he added, and he made sure his voice came out scared-rough, not angry-rough. “With how deep in he is, and how wild her swings are getting lately? Nah, mate, she’ll get ‘im fucking killed.” After a second paused, he added, in a softer tone, “you know she will. And I nearly get him killed enough.”

“Butcher–”

“I just need to call him. I won’t tell him anything except I might be about to bite it. So he knows.”

“...Sure, brother. Text me when you’re done, yeah?”

Billy watched him go in the window glass. When the door clicked shut, he counted to twenty, twice, and then scrambled back across the room for his mobile. Part of him cringed, and another complained, both in response to his hurry. A nervous tweenager, worrying that his crush might be miffed at being kept waiting. A husband in the doghouse, breaking another promise to a wounded partner.

As he snatched up his mobile and hit the CALL button on Homelander’s contact, black text crawled across his memory you can play with my heart like a cat toy. As the phone rang on the other end, his eyes drifted, of their own accord, to the sink’s faucet. Old, bronzey burnish, flanked by dainty hot and cold knobs, it was currently silent. But, it, and its fellow faucets, had been making some good points recently.

“BILLY what is going on?”

Refusing to feel relieved, Billy sank onto the closed toilet and curled over his knees. “We tried to refuse the order to go after Oaken, but, uh, we hit a snag,” he said, eyes falling closed. He still hadn’t switched off the shower, since he was planning on getting one right after this inevitable argument, and the pattering of the water blurred into a single, hypnotic sound. Ignoring Homelander’s angry squawk, he continued: “Honestly, I think she agreed with me, cos we pointed out how it would get us all mulched to death and what not. But, apparently, it ain’t up to her anymore. Came back to us and said that if we can’t the plantbender cunt off his honey’s trail and pointed at your bloody heart, they’re going to–”

There had been something vacant and queasy on Mallory’s face as she described the plans for eliminating Technobabble: namely, burying them alive in cement. Not a pretty solution. Downright ugly one. But, hey, if it was effective– His free hand spasmed oddly, and he instinctively brought it to his chest, tucking it against his stuttering heart. Part of his prescription cocktail included some shite that was meant to keet him awake for longer than two hours at a time. Which he appreciated, except for the side effects, which sometimes had his heart racing for no reason.

“Going to what, Billy?”

More jumping from his heart, like a pup with the zoomies; it was getting harder and harder not to wheeze. Forcing himself not to mumble, he explained it to the cunt, trying all the while to not picture Annie and Kimiko disappearing under layers and layers of wet, gray cement. Ryan, he assured himself, could simply fly away from anything like that–

“Unless he’s unconscious,” said the shower spray, and Billy angrily flapped his hand at it until it shut its mouth. When he was done, he paused for a few seconds to suck in a long, deep breath or five. It was getting hard not to wheeze, and he briefly despaired at the thought of taking the OTHER pill, the one to slow his heart back down.

“Huh. Can’t believe we never…thought of that…” Sirens, or maybe high velocity wind, was tearing by in the background and chopping up his voice. Billy rubbed the bridge of his nose as Homelander continued: “Then again, we weren’t sure how to, you know, keep ‘em fucking STILL long enough to even try anything like that.” After a few thoughtful seconds, he added: “That obviously can’t happen! So, guess your team is going into the jungle, while you stay at the hotel where its safe.”

“Aren’t you hilarious this morning?”

Ugly might have been too mild a word. After some careful consideration, Billy decided he didn’t care for it. Found it tasteless, maybe. Or maybe fatherhood was making him soft as pig shite, and besides, what if it didn’t even kill the fucker? What if they just went insane down there, and eventually scratched their way out to wreck digital vengeance upon the entire English speaking world? To Homelander, and to the bit of floor he was staring at, he said, “For once, I can’t really argue with you. I refuse to believe it’ll work on both of ‘em! Whichever one gets free is going to scorch this planet to ashes before you and I ever get the chance, love.”

Behind his eardrum, something dripped, and it further muffled Homelander’s voice. Straining, he could distantly make out the words: “That obviously cannot happen, but, good news! I’m going to find Alec myself!” Something cold and invigorating surged through Billy’s nerves, and he sat up straight on the toilet. Another miscalculation: a fresh round of sloshing had him tilting dangerously to the side, and he caught himself on the cool lip of the tub. More wind whistled past Homelander on his end, though to Billy, it just sounded like the whine of a tiny drill.

“And then what?” A stab of pain through his frontal lobe clamped his jaw shut before he could deliver the rest of his retort, but he’d said enough.

Homelander sounded downright indignant. “Recruit them, obviously! We talked about this! Once I have Technobabble onboard, OakenAsh will–”

“Technohippie would cooperate with you WHY? And how does that help me and mine?! We still gotta go out there and–”

“Just, survive long enough for me to get there with Alec!”

“Or for Alec to get there with your burnt out skull in a bag and then fries all of us to bleeding sawdust!”

“You have so little faith in my negotiation skills!”

“Remind me, Johnny, how did it go last time you negotiated with one of these two twats? Or is Techno supposed to be the reasonable one?”

“God no, Alec’s an Anti-American communist, but they’ve also been kept prisoner for an obscene amount of time. They’ll probably hear me out. Even if they don’t, you really think I can’t handle Alec Moon?”

There were a million things Billy could say to that. Pointing out that Technobabble had, on two separate occasions, handled Maeve on their own without much difficulty. But, he hesitated, not sure it was worth the effort just then. A small, but exceptionally lazy part of him pointed out that if he left this argument now, he could finally wash his hair and his pits and his arse, and brush his teeth again. That won out over yelling at the big flying idiot, who rarely listened to his excellent advice anyhow. “Fine, fine! But don’t dawdle! We’re about to fight a plant bender in the JUNGLE! Quick as you bloody can! And if we die out there because you’re fixing your hair or touchin’ up your mascara, I swear to Christ I’ll rise from the dead every Fourth of July to haunt you into madness.”

“The idea of you turning down eternal rest just to harass me once a year is hysterical. Thank you, Billy, I needed that!” There was a short, sharp whoosh: yeah, he was flying, Billy could recognize the sound now. “Funny little piggie.”

Heat flared up the back of Billy’s neck and his words came out tangled in a snarl. “Do not bloody call me–”

“You know, the more I think about it, I reallllllly wanna commit to the pig thing! It fits: you used to sort of be a cop, right?”

The harsh laugh he let out made his heart start stuttering again, but he refused to back down. “Not nearly. Drop it, or I’ll stop calling you sweetheart.”

God, he hated that smug little giggle. Got more annoying every time he heard it.“I might be able to live without that one–ah, shit. They spotted me–Billy–I need to go–”

“Who bloody spotted–” The line went dead and Billy cursed at the mobile’s screen for a few seconds. Sensing that trying to call him back would be useless, he shot MM a quick text before tossing it onto the counter, and then stood up to strip off. A couple of twists to the knobs raised the water temperature, and he gratefully heaved himself into the steam.

“Do you really think they’ll spare Technobabble if you get Oaken?” The pattering water asked, and Billy shrugged at it. When he raked his hands through his hair, his nails came away dirty, so he started with his scalp. “I don’t,” the shower added, and he snorted.

“Good instincts for a set of pipes. Yeah, probably not. But that’s hardly my concern.” The shampoo here was plenty thick, and it smelled decent, but it paled in comparison to what the cunt had on offer.

“You promised him,” the shower said sternly, and that earned another short, harsh laugh.

“Who cares?” Sweat had dried over most of his skin during the night. Not even from the heat down here, really. It was plenty sweltering, but two different pills he was on had “night sweats” as a side effect, and they more than delivered on that threat. Unconvinced, the shower grumbled at him, too distorted to make out, and he tried to appease it. “Look, it won’t bloody matter. He’s springing Techno himself, and then they and their botanical boytoy can run off into the chemically poisoned sunset together. Put the world to rights so Ryan can breathe clean air and learn first hand that pandas are pricks or whatever.”

“Soooooooo you agree that locking up Alec was wrong?”

Billy scowled at the bar of soap he was gripping. “Don’t you bloody start!” Any further commentary from the room’s various inanimate objects was ignored as he concentrated on getting clean enough to feel human.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when they closed their eyes and really, really focused, they could tune out the sounds of the jungle and the background hum on the earth. Make the pit around them go quiet, quiet like the center of their mind, where they went when they couldn’t stand it in the pit for one single second longer. Once all those other sounds fell away, and their ears and bones were finally unoccupied, they could almost feel the distant chatter of cellphone towers. Almost. Nothing had been loud enough yet: too far out of reach for Alec to grab ahold of and bend and reshape into an expression of their will.

The key word, they reminded themself, was yet. Because, after all, when they had first woken up down here, in the pit, surrounded by gun muzzles and miles of jungle, they couldn’t hear any trace of the sparkling buzz that digital devices produced, audible only to Alec and a tiny palmful of other Supes. With every year that passed by, however, their awareness stretched further, like it was as restless as their body and their mind and their hands, and was desperately searching for something to chase.

Maybe, someday, I’ll be able to hear further up than I can out. Maybe I can figure out how to grab a low-orbit satellite and hitch a ride on it. Or order it to crash down on top of the guard hut. Make it take itself apart and rebuild into something that can get me out of here. My shit’s OP as fuck, as soon as I can get some half decent scrap, I’ll–

Hinges squealed and cheap wood rasped, and up above them, the door to the gutted basement swung inward. Fresh sunlight slapped down onto the glistening, mildewed floor ahead of Alec: a silhouette marred the brilliant rectangle. “Still here? Damn, I owe a lot of guys some lunch money. I coulda sworn you said you’d be long gone.” The words were mocking, but Alec hadn’t made it as far as they had by taking easy bait. Silent as the grave, they rose to their feet to retrieve the padded box of rations that had been tossed unceremoniously down from the door. “Wait, let me guess: you finally got the decor juuuuust right, and can’t stand the thought of moving again.”

Refusing to engage would deprive this irritating creature of its preferred fuel; Alec opened the box and counted out its contents, noting with little emotion that there was slightly more protein than last month. They refused to feel gratitude for anything, ever. That way lay traumatic bonding, bargaining with the enemy, submission. Nothing done here was ever kindness, because no actor here was ever benevolent.

Above the empty space where the stairs of the basement level of this shitty concrete building had once been, the guard was still filling the doorway, still mocking Alec for threats they hadn’t voiced since their first week here. Doing so had, quite obviously, been entertaining for their captors, and was a waste of breath, and energy, and time. Didn’t stop them from bringing it up over and over again. Probably meant this guard was an old one. Thought I drove those bootlicking thugs off after the second time they failed to kill me. They hadn’t bothered to learn any of their faces. Why differentiate them? A bastard was a bastard. A jailer was a jailer. A corpse was a corpse.

Once the not-yet-a-corpse grew bored of shouting softball insults and getting nothing in return, he left, and Alec started packing the box up again. Hands occupied and solitude restored, they let themself daydream about driving something heavy and sharp through each and every one of their skulls. God, the give, the crack, the crumble, the squish: each blow would go so far in soothing the angry, burning wounds gouged into their soul. Unfortunately, they rarely got to deliver those kind of swings, and hardly ever got to repeat them: during the very, very few fights where Alec had felt the need to attack a non-Supe person with a melee weapon, the first blow had reduced whatever they struck to pulp. Arm, knee, face, exploding into gory pudding under whatever shovel or heavy brick or unloaded shotgun that had been within their reach at the time.

“Drag him to death,” they mumbled to themself, and snapped the ration box closed. “Or straight punch him to death.” They flexed their restless hands and screamed inside their head for a couple of minutes. A luxury they’d hadn’t granted themself in a few weeks, but, they felt that they had earned it. Screaming out loud? Now, that was a luxury they had denied themself since waking up here. They knew that once they started, they’d never stop. Not until the underbrush was slick with blood and the Amazon was bobbing with broken, humiliated corpses.

Perhaps they could put the painfully unfunny guard through some sort of giant paper shredder. Or blender. Salad chopper?

Down in the basement (pit) of the black site, with no stairs or possible way up and out, they had had a lot of time to think about what they’d do once they were out of here. It wasn’t even an indulgence: it was planning for an inevitable future. After over two dozen direct, and increasingly elaborate, attempts to execute them, it seemed that nothing short of Captain Crypto-Facism or Queen Sell-Out Suffragette was going to separate their spirit from their body. Not even hunger and exposure and despair had done the job. At the moment, Alec could not leave the pit, that was true. But, every day they were there, it became more likely that they would eventually be liberated. The CIA knew that, too. So, the two parties found themselves trapped in a strange sort of holding pattern.

Once or twice or eight thousand times, Alec had considered calling up, out of the door of the gutted basement, and offering some kind of…some kind of something. Let me go right now and I won’t slaughter each and every one of you. And they’d have honored that. In the first year. Before the third attempt on their life, that despicable, brutal drowning–

Hungry. They were, hungry, because they always were, but it had sharpened, and they let their hands go about the task of getting “food” ready. Wrappers tore and utensils clinked and their teeth chewed and they swallowed until the pain in their gut started to ease and flatten.

They only give me food cuz they’re hoping I’ll go easy on them. Yeah, as if.

On the three hundred and sixty-sixth day of their captivity, their three hundred and sixty-sixth day without food, their captors had tossed massive, plastic hoses down into the pit and cranked up the pressure on the water tanks parked above, and, in just under 45 minutes–during which, yes, Alec was forced to admit that they had succumbed to the temptation to scream, but had also cursed and threatened and never once begged–the basement was far enough underwater to guarantee that Alec could not stay above it. Not indefinitely, at least.

Desperation makes people cruel. Then again. What good do motives do? They’ll reap what they’ve sown.

Turns out, Alec couldn’t drown. They had no idea why and neither did their captors. Well. Not no idea. Their understanding of bio-chemistry was limited, but it wasn’t non-existent. With their limited resources but infinite time, they’d been gingerly testing the ground of a few long-shot theories. Highest likelihood was that they were, somehow, gathering oxygen at a molecular level from the surrounding water. Gills had been ruled out: unless they were microscopic, they didn’t have any. If that was what they were doing, the mechanics of it completely evaded them.

Sage would have been able to figure it out, but, Alec doubted they’d ever get a chance to ask her; they were doubtful that they’d emerge from the pit to Sage and themself on the same side anymore. From the get, they’d been wary of Sage’s claims to having the formula for world peace and a utopian society. As a rule, Alec viewed boasts of this nature the same way they viewed proclamations of the end times looming in the near future: tools of control or ploys for money or signs of madness, and likely? Some combination of those three. Her concern for the environment, particularly the ocean and the atmosphere, had been real, but, there was an aftertaste to it. Unpleasantly tangy and discordant, and it made Alec think of the eco-fash pricks who smugly sung the praises of coercive population control and cracked not-quite-jokes about culling the weak and eating the dead.

Before it had been crudely converted into a prison, this had been a glorified storage unit. One floor above, and the basement below. The basement had been a bad call, one made whatever American had overseen this construction. The ground wasn’t quite right for it, part of why it had never dried out, and Alec suspected the place was sinking a bit. Which might explain why, in addition to taking out the stairs, their captors had hastily removed the basement’s ceiling. They refused it was to allow them a view of the sloppy windows cut out of the first floor walls. After all, nothing here could ever be done as a kindness.

Through said windows, sunlight crept in, and glimpses of the sky, and, since the glass had been knocked out ages before Alec’s arrival, whispers of wind and the smell of the plant life and animal chatter. That, maybe, was a kindness, but it was one from the jungle, not from their captors. Even if they never learned to make the distant machines hear them, they could keep listening through those windows. Listening for the snap of vines and the echo of screams and the pop-pop-pop of Oaken’s BB gun voice. And hell, maybe Oaken could crack the mystery of their ability to breathe underwater, and they wouldn’t even have to risk talking to Sage.

I think she was straight up a eugenicist. She used to complain about Vought not requiring certain Supes to store their reproductive material. Holy shit. Why was I working with her again??? Wait. Right. That awesome thing she built. That…that hockey-puck lookin’ thing. She dropped it in that poisonous fucking lake and–Clean enough to drink in one afternoon. Right. Okay. I forgive me. It was 2008. Shit was weird. I was high for eight months straight. Mitt Romney died when the Deep accidentally crashed his campaign bus and Vought covered it up. Remember? They blamed a herd of elk. In South Carolina. And people believed them. I didn’t even expose that shit because fuck Mitt Romney. 2008 doesn’t count.

After they gave up on Alec drowning, and had quickly drained the basement, they retreated for several days. Left on their own, Alec had huddled between filthy puddles on the floor and tried to live through the panic shaking apart their exhausted, shell-shocked skeleton. Too delirious to weep or rage or do anything but ache, they had eventually half-passed out. Tank firmly on E, they teetered on the edge of sleep, but their nerves and neurons were all too deep into survival mode to let them plunge below the surface of anything again, not even their own mind. Torn between the two opposing biological urges, paralysis had rapidly locked their eyes open and then had frozen their body into its awkward, fearful huddle. Throughout the evening and most of the night, their hallucinations had bled into dreams and the dreams had bled into wishful thinking and then back into hallucinations. Oaken, both mortal and resurrected. Grandma. The sky burning. The Earth swallowing them up.

After a few more days of starvation, the first ration box had been tossed down. The CO who had done it was damn near sheepish, and the pathetic gesture wormed its fingers between their ribs and dug out big, throbbing canyons in the flesh of their heart. Inside the first ration box, they had found their meager food, their meager water, a pad of paper and pencils to write with. Not quite free of the half-crazed terror that had tormented them for so many hours the previous night, their arms shook as they took stock. Each time their gored heart thumped beneath their ribs, the stabbing pain in their gut briefly transformed. For a flicker of time, it would feel like hate. The kind of hate that had once made them pick up a shovel and swing the back of the blade right into somebody’s face. Crack-crumble-squish, the sounds coming so fast and so fluid that the end of one overlapped the front of the next.

Unlike Sage in 2008, the guards could no longer be negotiated with. There could be no genuine compromise. If a deal was struck, Alec was now, as far as they could reckon, obligated to go back on it. Someday. Someday.

It had never gone away, that throbbing stab-stab-stab of their vengeful thirst. Not in all the days they’d had since that one. Instead of petering out, it had been building up kinetic force and friction, and they had to keep a grip on it. Otherwise, they’d get lost in it, and drown in its tepid, noxious waters. This was not the kind of rage that naturally brought focus: no, this was impulsivity and wasteful aggression, two things that Alec Moon did not fuck with. So, they pumped their own brakes. Paced out the building momentum so it could hover in stasis for as long as it needed to.

Memories had always been good guardrails for Alec’s moods: memories like home, with its squat, ugly buildings and its overrated college and its alarmingly fat, yet unusually aggressive ducks. Even now, they couldn’t hold back a faint smile or two when they recalled roaming its streets in the dead of night, fistfuls of microchips and sim cards in the pouch of their hoodie and barely denying that they were looking for trouble. Sure, in their defense, it had started as a way of avoiding the late night crying jags their step-mom kept going on back then. She was overworked and unhappy, and Alec felt weird about feeling sorry for her, since she was such a fucking witch. So, they modified some safety googles and an old lab coat and a few other random bits of crap from the thrift store. God, they must have been a sight. Seventeen and buzzing with a power that was growing like a well-fed bonfire.

The thought of wearing a mask or any sort of costume had, initially, made them balk: Alec had never thought of themself as prone to making a spectacle of themself…at least not in that way. But, only briefly: their hair was ink black and long for a boy, which most people had still been insisting they were; the angle of their nose and the shape of their mouth and the weight of their brows would make their face too easy to match to a semi-familiar neighbor. They didn’t want Vought finding them anymore than the cops, and trying to lure them into a golden rabbit trap.

Local TV news gave them the semi-decent, but ultimately kind of annoying, name that had followed right up until their abduction, and they had long ago made peace with it. Mostly because they hadn’t come up with anything better.

Back-breaking labor, street crime: long nights of stopping carjackings and burglaries and any arrest that smelled like bullshit. But it had evolved, as they got older and things got harder and the world got colder. Eventually, they’d robbed a few banks, held up a few University galas and country club auctions, and then the thing with the yacht. Maybe, if they’d stuck to the path that had been forming in front of them, they’d still be that metrohub purgatory, running some b-tier gang, eecking out a half-decent fortune to leave their nieces and nephews, if Death ever bothered to come for them at all. Would that have been the worst thing? Controlling the drug and gun and chop shop economy in East Lansing? The cops couldn’t touch them, even back then, and while Vought had thrown a few of their tamed capes at them, they’d been D-Listers at best. With some practice and a bit of pre-planning, they’d always held their own and evaded capture, and quickly surpassed the grade of Supe turning up in their city.

They could have kept that up, if they’d rallied some organized support. Had back up and muscle and extra hands to do the work. I could have had a good life that way, right? Been happy instead of here?

All around them, the impossibly slick, perpetually wet walls of the basement pit stared dumbly back, but that was alright. Alec hadn’t been asking them.

No tech down here, obviously. But, there was plantlife, sort of. Algae growing in a few spots of standing water. Moss. Mushrooms. On the other side of the walls, they knew there were roots, twining through the dirt, feeding the trees and grasses up above, all around the squat building covering their prison. Sometimes, they would briefly lay their ear against the unclimbable walls of their prison and pretend that Oaken was speaking to them through those roots and shoots and what the fuck ever. Ear and hair soaked in lukewarm, grimy water, Alec shut their eyes as tight as they could, and asked the roots and the water if they’d have been better off not trying to save the world through brute goddamn force.

A phantom scoff brushed their heart, and their mouth ached for a kiss. No! Obviously not! Even in their daydreams, Oaken remained blunt and more than a tad superior: why airbrush out the best parts, after all. You’re too powerful, babe, he reminded them, and they pulled their ear back from the disgusting wall. They sat up and tried, vainly, to wipe away the burning behind their eyes. In the lonely dark, their imaginary Oaken continued yapping at them, for realism’s sake. Famously sexy global terrorist or approachably hot small fry, they’d have come for you eventually. You know why? Because you’re so damn special it scares them.

“Thanks, angel,” they said. Rasped, actually, their throat suddenly sandy and so tight it was painful to use. They reached back into the ration box and closed their hand around a lukewarm canteen. After swallowing several long, indulgent gulps of their deplorably scant water supply, Alec found themself staring at their free hand and trying to remember the sensation of intertwining their fingers with Oaken’s. His fingers were longer, but slimmer, and a few them always felt slightly crooked. Another dust bowl rolled through their throat, and they didn’t have the energy to regret the additional water they needed. When they could speak again with their esophagus threatening blood, they stroked their fingers across one dripping wall. “By the way. If you’re not too busy keeping the Joshua Tree from going extinct or seed bombing Route 66, could you come rescue me?”

I’ll get right on that. Sit tight, I’m minutes away.

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Alec said warmly, and traced a faint heart in the damp. “It’s okay. I know you’re busy.” Menagerie had been dead since before they were put down here and who knew if Chatterbox had ever taken up the cause after her; Icestorm was in prison and too poisoned by guilt to break-out; Sage was Sage; Taipan had been playing dead when they were abducted, might still be in hiding; Deep had abandoned any vague commitment he’d once had the instant Vought had gotten him to sign on the dotted line. Oaken might be the very, very last line of defense: he couldn’t drop the real mission to just for Alec. Not completely. They couldn’t choose each other over the world. They just couldn’t.

Their eyes burned again, and they let themselves have a few more gulps of water. Fuck it. They could apparently go without it indefinitely too, and dehydration without death didn’t actually hurt worse than being down here, alone, without Oaken’s smell and touch and voice. Nothing could ever actually hurt as bad as that.

When they first met Oaken, it was after they’d grown up a little, and had slowly but surely developed a new kind of anger to feel. Now the rage brought focus instead of mania, and felt rooted in something steady and old and made of love, like it was growing in soil instead of rising from smoking, catching tinder. Coal mines and nuclear plants and lumber mills: one carefully selected target at a time. Ripples in the pond, but they could make awfully big ones. Vought or no Vought, I was always gonna be bigger than any of that D-Lister crap.

After shutting down an attempt to build a pipeline right through one of the poorest counties in Washington state, they’d slunk back to their home town to lay low for a few months. Stumbled right back into food service and hospitality, like they always did. So, there they were. 28, managing a dive that catered the even-more-broke end of the university crowds. Said crowds had happened to include Oaken, back when his hair was auburn and his eyes were grey and his skin only turned green if he wore the wrong shade of yellow. Most Saturday nights, and several week nights too, the 23 year old botanical sciences prodigy would breeze in with a handful of other plant and chemistry geeks, always in dramatic colors, always loud, always threatening to monopolize Alec’s attention from clear across the bar. After his friends claimed a table, Oaken, or Oakley Ashford, as he had still been answering too, would dodge and shove his way up to the bar to complain, order for the entire group, complain more, and then flashily over-tip before scuttling back to his friends.

He’d always be back, though, and the Alec trapped in the pit let themself groan affectionately. From out of the box, they took a few cracker and several small bits of milky, immortal cheese. Like a houseplant stretching towards sunlight, Oaken had always bounced back to them, bringing up nearly every order from his table. Once at the bar and squarely in Alec’s field of awareness, he had bitched about every little flaw in the admittedly shitty establishment; and he’d tattled! He’d tattled a lot, actually, and Alec had only been half-lying when they’d called it annoying and told the brat to knock it off. Mostly to see his feathers ruffle up and his eyes get all narrow before he’d slide off into the semi-thick weekend crowd. Cuz it was aggravating as fuck to have some mouthy, pocket-sized twink glittering at them from across the bar, especially when they were supposed to be counting down the days before the signal to pack up and ditch the midwestern mediocrity of Lansing behind in favor of the blood-money-choked urban sprawl of Singapore. Ever mindful of what the life they’d chosen met for their romantic prospects, Alec had made a concentrated effort to hate the guy, but never quite got there.

About five or six months into the gig at the bar, on an especially busy Friday night, one of their two bartenders had abruptly flaked. Thus, Alec had found themself pouring drinks to keep up with the demands of the increasingly rowdy MSU jerks. At some point, Oaken and their friends had wandered in, despite the crush, and Oaken himself had elbowed his way to the front of the line. After a moment of casual math, Alec had decided that letting Oaken cut was funnier than busting him for it, since the non-regulars were yelping about it so loudly. Being a tad too short to lean over the bar from the floor fuck he really is a kewpie doll Oaken had deftly stepped onto the thin brass pipe that wrapped around the bar’s base and planted his hands on the bar to push up, like he was lifting himself out of a pool. Every time he’d done it, Alec had half-wished it would break, just to make him squeal and complain.

When they leaned in to bring their ear closer to Oaken’s mouth, they had told themself it was because he’d tipped damn near 50% when he closed out the last tab, like a jerk. Weren’t people supposed to be broke in college? Where was the fucking cash coming from, and why wasn’t he spending it on better clothes? Instead of finally answering literally any of those questions, or ordering something like a normal fucking person, he’d tattled about something.

“You have two motorcycles parked in your handicap spot!”

Automatically, Alec’s eyes had ticked over to the two guys in the third booth, the ones who could’ve been fine with a table but had been hogging prime real estate for over an hour. Leathers and helmets. Their mouth had twitched, and they weighed a few responses, factoring in the time they were wasting talking to Oaken. Who smelled like pears or something, and that was distracting. Decision made, Alec had said back, “I don’t have time to–”

“Then can I do something about it?”

At the time, you have to understand, Alec had not known Oaken very well. Or even known him much at all. So, they had assumed Oaken was going to pick a fight they weren’t ready for, and get his itsy-bitsy skeleton beaten into puzzle pieces. “No,” they had barked, and Oaken had scowled. He took his hands off the counter and straightened up, still balancing on the tiny brass pipe under his feet.

“We can’t leave them there! It’s a crappy thing to do, you’re like three doors down from the pharmacy and shit!”

“Terrible location for that.”

“ALEC!”

“Alright! Chill! Like, right now.” Alec had snapped their fingers at their barback and instructed them to deal with the fucking bikes. Said barback vanished to hustle the posers outside to move their overpriced showpieces somewhere else, and Alec made a TA-DA gesture. Apparently satisfied, Oaken had glittered at them some more and chirped his graciously simple order before flitting back to his friends. About 15 minutes of meaningless noise and non-memory had passed by on auto-pilot. But that obviously couldn’t last: Alec wasn’t meant to have nice things, after all! So, eventually, the fence of people on the other side of the bar was rudely elbowed aside, and Oaken once again hopped up on the little brass ledge to bark at Alec: “Your barback and both of the biker assholes are beating the shit out of each other in the alley!”

Obviously, that was a problem. But, they couldn’t resist yanking Oaken’s chain whenever he’d been driven right to the end of it.“Really? That’s awesome,” they said, voice deadpan and dismissive, and the look on Oaken’s face was so funny they almost laughed for the first time in a week. Continuing to pour and trusting their hands to do things correctly without their direct supervision, they added, “Who’s winning? Influences my decision here.”

“Alec!” Oaken whined, making an entire sentence out of their name.

If they hadn’t been short-staffed, Alec would have already been outside. But, going out now left Valerie in charge, and she was basically a pug that could make change. Finnie could handle himself, right? “I am BUSY, short one.”

“Do not fucking CALL ME THAT!” With a prolonged, frustrated groan, Oaken hopped down and stormed off towards the backdoor.

“Don’t!” Alec called after him, but Oaken ignored him and vanished down a side hallway. One he was technically not allowed in, but, you know. Oaken. “Uhg. Valerie!” They took roughly thirty seconds to get Valerie situated, and then took off after him. Outside, in the thin night air of late April, they had found Finnie getting repeatedly punched in the gut by the shorter of the biker assholes and striking uselessly at the man’s shoulders and dense chest; the other, slightly taller one was advancing on Oaken, who had continued shouting at him and brandishing–

“Put that down,” Alec had started to say, before the taller asshole had lunged forward and Oaken responded by swinging the large, jagged chunk of brick he was holding, directly into the side of the guy’s face. “Oaken!” Alec darted forward to see the guy sprawled on the ground, spluttering and gagging up teeth. Across the alley, his friend had stumbled back from Finnie, who promptly tackled him. “Damn it, no! Knock it off, we need to call a fucking ambulance–”

“No ambulance!” The other biker had shouted, panicked, and Alec could still remember checking over their shoulder, scanning the doorway back inside for the shadows of customers or other staff.

“You sure? Cuz I like…broke him.” Oaken had pointed at the severely injured jerk at his feet. Pricey leather scrapped between pavement and his heavy body as he tried to crawl away, and Oaken glared down at him. “And he threatened to kill me!” He had added, like that would actually matter when the cops showed up and needed somebody to chuck into a cell. Which he seemed to realize when Alec looked pointedly at the blood-splattered brick he was still holding. It looked like he’d taken it from one of the building’s damaged exterior walls, and Alec knew from experience how easily the state could spin that into premeditation. “He did!” He repeated sulkily, but lowered the brick.

Satisfied, Alec turned around to deal with the other bullshit fucking up their night. “Why no ambulance?”

More or less still trapped by Finnie’s not-great pin, the shorter one hastily tried to explain. Turned out, the assholes weren’t supposed to be in the country, what with their lengthy history of smuggling and reselling prescription drugs across the border; the local ERs were familiar with them and not liable to look the other way.

“Not handing anybody over to ICE or the cops,” had been Alec’s response, and they’d told both idiots to not show their faces there again. The shorter one had helped the taller to his feet, and they’d hastily jury-rigged a torn shirt into something to staunch the bleeding on his–likely fractured–jaw before they hobbled off to the bikes they hadn’t even gotten around to moving yet. Once the assholes were out of sight, and Alec had convinced Finnie to finish his shift and go back inside, they’d stuck their hand out to Oaken. “Give it here, you fucking idiot.”

“He threatened to kill me! And I’m all–” He gestured at his dainty frame. “What would you suggest I do? I’m busy too, Alec! I don’t have time to learn kung-fu!”

Ignoring the fascinating angles of Oaken’s body and face and hands, Alec had roughly taken the brick from him and tossed it into the nearest dumpster. It had hit with a hollow thud that wasn’t too unlike the sound of their ration box closing for the day in the present. As much as they would have liked to keep eating, they knew they had to conserve it, or they’d be facing some very unpleasant days later that month.

Back in the alley, a million years ago, they’d still been buzzing with the energy of a fight unfought. They snapped at Oaken again, louder and harsher. “Don’t make your fucking jokes right now! And I suggest that you don’t pick fights you can’t handle–”

Oaken’s hackles were raised and he took a step closer, eyes like little gray chips of ice. “You have no idea what I can and can’t handle! Do you think this is the first time I’ve had to–”

“Had to?! You came out here on purpose! What the fuck were you even trying to do–”

In a smaller, more defensive voice, Oaken tried to answer. “Make sure they moved their–”

“Why, why the fuck do you care? Where the fuck do you get off telling people what to do?” Lowering their voice by a few fractions, they asked Oaken something along the lines of: “When are you going to stop being so fucking stupid? This fussy little control freak bit has gotten so fucking old.”

Maybe they were expecting welling tears and a trembling lip. Maybe they were only hoping for a flinch. They couldn’t remember anymore, but, they could remember Oaken’s angry sigh before dodging around them and heading for the sidewalk in front of the bar.

“Okay, message received, sorry I care about shit! I’ll be sure to stop!” He’d vanished around the corner at the mouth of the alley, shoulders hunching right before he was out of sight. Good riddance. Guy was nothing more than a walking, talking headache, after all. A headache that could walk around and rack up assault and battery charges if you didn’t watch every goddamn second. Did he even think about the fact that if he went and got his fucking head caved in, I’m the one that mops it up? Asshole.

Oaken didn’t come up to the bar for a few weeks after that, but had kept on following his friends in through the door. He’d perch in whatever booth his friends had secured and pointedly ignore Alec. Who, incidentally, had decided that watching him in the mirror behind the bar didn’t count as looking.

They hadn’t seen Oaken’s face in so long. Hadn’t seen his human face in even longer. There had been hundreds of photos of both versions on the various phones and smart watches and other screens that their captors had pried from their unconscious body. Every now and then, said captors attempted to bribe them with offers of getting hard copies. But the thought of having another thing to lose, another thing that could be taken away at any moment, cut any feeling of temptation short.

Since the failed drowning, the basement walls had never quite dried out. Most of the floor was also wet: they kept their cot in the small portion of the floor that had died out the most, along with the meager possessions and diversions they’d been given. In bare feet, they circled the wet part of the floor daily, eeking out a smidge of exercise by making aimless, uneven circles. Some exercise had to be better than none, even in this cramped, featureless space. God, this place made their shoebox one bedroom basement unit look like a palace.

Then again, nostalgia might be giving that place an unearned glamor. Seeing as they’d kissed Oaken for the first time in its kitchen, and fucked him for the first time in its windowless bedroom, and watched him rise from the dead in its bathtub–

Underneath them, their footsteps faltered on the damp floor, and they told themself to pump the brakes. Not gonna get ahead of myself. Just cuz I know the ending doesn’t mean I gotta skip there.

In late June, in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday, Oaken had shown up at Alec’s door, brandishing a box that had rattled like only a trapped and living creature could. For reasons they could never articulate, likely related to their working relationship with Taipan, they’d assumed it was a snake.

“I need help,” Oaken had said. “I am really, really not supposed to have this but I swear to God I had zero choice in this. ZERO, Alec!”

Instead of wondering where Oaken had gotten their address from, Alec had opened the door slightly wider. “That a snake?” They adjusted the rapidly cooling mug in their left hand, and Oaken’s hands had shifted on the box, as if in response, and they wished that stupid little detail didn’t still make their ears hot right on up to the present day.

“Will you help me hide it, yes or no!” Before Alec could say yeah sure comrade just let me see what it actually is, Oaken added, in a mumble: “If you do, I’ll…um. You know.” No, I don’t, Alec’s face and body language had said, and Oaken, flustered, clarified. “I’ll have sex with you…” For the first time ever, Alec watched him lose his nerve, and he ended up trailing off into anxious silence.

Still in the doorway of their temporary home, Alec had gaped at him while Oaken had stared down at the lid of the box, face going pink at first, before deepening to red. Whatever was in the box had rattled again, and Alec could remember being faintly grateful that it was past 11pm and all the neighbors were either asleep or at work. After a few seconds of silence, save for the hot, sugary tea bubbling in the mug, Oaken had forced a laugh. Sounding pained, he’d said, “Wooooooow, okay, was it my delivery? Or is the offer itself that’s not even worthy of a response?” It was trying to be a joke but was too wounded to make it there, and Alec went rigid with alarm.

Say something. “It was the offer.” NOT. THAT. “Shit!” Across from them, Oaken had gone pale, mouth caught between shocked and furious; his nails were digging into the cardboard of the still-thrashing box, like he was to hold it still. “That is not how I–I wasn’t–all I meant was you don’t have to–” Alec fumbled their words and their tea at the same time, and then cursed as their shirt got the worst of it. “Shit! Damn–just, just come in!” They’d shuffled out of the way and avoided eye contact as Oaken scuttled past them. They got the door closed as tea soaked further and further into their shirt and the waistband of their pants, and herded Oaken towards the sorry excuse for kitchen/dining room.

With a sigh of relief, Oaken gingerly set the box down on the table. “So, I’m not repulsive?” Again, trying to be a joke, and Alec failed to stifle an awkward groan.

“Man, I just meant you don’t gotta fuck me for me to help you. I’m not a–” All they could think of was ticks sitting on blades of grass, waiting for a naked ankle to brush past and give them a chance to cling and bite and drink. “Look, that shit’s illegal, right? Whatever it is?”

“Oh, yeah. Very. I’m, uh. I’m in reaaaaalllll trouble if certain people find out I have it.” He looked over his shoulder at Alec, whose free hand was knotting around the back of their shirt, but had frozen before pulling it off, too aware of Oaken’s presence. “Baaaaad people,” he added in a whisper, half-smiling, half-sizing Alec up.

“Uh-huh. So. I’m gonna go change my…all my clothes, and when I get back, you’re explaining yourself, okay?” Oaken nodded and crossed his heart; Alec rolled their eyes and shuffled off to their even sorrier excuse for a room. Before closing the door behind them, they added, “Seriously, if that’s not a snake, what is it?”

Done with their pacing on the sorriest excuse for a home they’d ever seen, they dried their feet as best they could, and decided to meditate on their cot. That was how they’d started hearing the machines again, though it had taken over six months of concentrated effort. With each breath out, they grabbed for the distant hum of wi-fi signals, and clung on as long as they could. Every few days, it got measurably easier, and they could hold on longer and longer before it slipped from their grasp. Once completely dormant from lack of use, the immeasurable something that the Compound V had unlocked inside their physical body stirred and murmured, but didn’t sit up or even open its eyes. But, that was a sight more than it used to do, and Alec was nothing if not patient when it came to toiling away at an important task. They let some of the ever-present tension in their shoulders ease, let their jaw slacken just a shade or two, felt their toes unfurl just a bit. Hope, no. Certainty, yes. They were going to get out of here, and their vengeance was going to be fucking spectacular, and then they were going to find their lover and then–

Focus on the signal. Focus on finding something I can use.

In. Out.

Even within the space of their next few breaths, they swore they felt it getting easier.

Back in the apartment they’d never loved more, it would take several minutes of careful questioning for Alec to learn all the details of this particular robbery. Initially, Oaken said one of his professors gave him the Compound V and “barely” explained what it was before allowing Oaken to inject a laboratory plant with it. When Alec expressed skepticism, Oaken amended his statement. Pivoted to claiming that he found the Compound V in his advisor’s private work space, and stole it just to “play with” his plants a little, and only figured out what it was and where it had come from after reading said advisor’s notes.

Something about that still didn’t seem quite right, and Alec had pressed a bit more. Eventually, Oaken admitted that he’d been hearing rumors about the existence of Compound V and the truth about Supes, and had also known that his advisor did research for Vought on the side. He’d broken into the man’s private lab specifically looking for the stuff, and instead, had found the burnt remains of several giant carnivorous plants. After failing to decrypt the security on the professor’s work computer, he'd resorted to stealing a few vials for further investigation. At home in his own apartment, he’d injected the corkscrew with what he estimated to be half a dose. This, he claimed, was an attempt to reverse-engineer the intent of the project.

Alec accepted that version of the story. Mostly because of how genuine Oaken’s sulk was when he explained it. Dude did not like being called out. Now, the other revelation, the one about Vought hand-picking their precious Supes by shooting babies full of weird-ass chemicals? That one was pretty easy to believe. Of course a bunch of soulless paper bags in shiny offices were selecting America’s modern gods and idols. In fact, that was a damn good explanation for why there were only two Native supes: themself, Chippewa and Cree, and DreamSpinner, Lenape.

In the present, they felt that disgust and indignation flaring up again, and grimaced, stopping their pacing to flex their toes against the wet floor and try to breathe. Getting pissed with nothing actionable to throw it at just got their hypertension going, and which always brought headaches in its wake. Oaken wasn’t there to rub their shoulders and neck and baby-talk it away, so, they needed to stay chill. Aim for something like zen, even in the wake of remembering that, despite there being anywhere from five to nine million Natives in the so-called United States, only two were deemed worthy of Vought’s special radioactive sludge–

Chill, chill. No advil in that fucking box; you give yourself a headache, nothing you can do about it. Alec breathed, slow and deep, trying their best to focus on Oaken. They could still see him sitting at that cheap table, avoiding eye contact, twirling a finger around the rim of his juice glass. “Annnnnd I figured you could help me with that too! The getting into his computer thing. Since you talk to them, right?”

Changed into jeans and a tank top, Alec fiddled with their refilled mug. “The fuck gives you that idea?” They barely tried to sound nonplussed. Of course the twink knew, somehow. Nosy bastard seemed to clock everything they tried to obfuscate.

“I saw you do it a couple of times.” He swiped one finger through the air. “Unlocking abandoned phones and getting the register to stop sucking so hard. Little stuff, but, uh–” He trailed off again, shrugging at the tabletop. “I obviously wasn’t gonna say anything! Clearly you like your privacy. But, my building manager is searching my apartment tomorrow, since my neighbors keep accusing me of having an unregistered pet. And I’m not sure where else to keep it.” Only briefly looking up at Alec, he dug in his satchel and pulled out a tupperware; when he popped it open, it was full of bugs, and he smiled a little at the sound of Alec swearing in disgust. “They’re for the plant!” Carefully, he demonstrated how to feed the thing, tipping small scoops of the soil-dwelling insects into its bizarre feet-mouths, which he gleefully called its lobster-pots. “Can you keep it for a few days? Until the heat’s off? Please?”

“Annnnd steal university property for you?” Says the terrorist who blows up banks sometimes. But only truly evil banks. And never in the name of pulling tail, regardless of how enthralling said tail might be.

“Why does Vought want plants with superpowers?!” Oaken asked, and patted the corkscrew with his free hand. “Why did mine stay little and the other ones got all crazy big?! These are important questions! Don’t you like asking important questions?”

It was nice to see his shoulders loosening, and his mouth was considering turning up at the corners. And, yes. Vought making super plants was likely bad. But they didn’t they have time for a freaking side-quest just then. Vought could wait: they’d been telling themself that for years. Then again, Taipan could likely handle that Singapore shit on her own. Illegal bio-chemical experiments, unethical drug testing, potentially mutated spiders? Yeah, that was more Oliva’s bag. This, on the other hand, would involve breaking into Vought’s computer systems, digging down into the weird, off-book pet projects they were funding, and the top-secret endeavors that they were outsourcing to bitter wannabees like Oaken’s professor. Practically tailor made for their skill-set. Taipan’s recon wouldn’t be done for a few more weeks, anyway…

“So there were no other living plants in this idiot’s lab?”

“Nope.” Oaken sing-songed, and folded his legs until all five-foot-three of him was tucked onto his chair. “By the looks of it, they grew out of control, and had to be put down.”

“By flame-thrower?”

“By flame-thrower!” His eyes were lit up, less like icy sidewalk and more like an overcast sky. His cheeks and nose had started to scrunch up around the corners of the grin he was no longer fighting off.

“You are. Way too happy about this.” It was cute. It was really cute, and Alec sometimes got impulsive around cute things.

Oaken shrugged, and wiggled his fingers over the top of the corkscrews’ stems and flowers: the creature tried to jump after them but lacked the joints to do so. “It’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said, all soft and sincere and fucking cute and then came the part where the two of them disagreed on what happened. Because Oaken still insisted that Alec had made an audible noise in their throat, which they vehemently denied.

“Because I didn’t,” Alec told their damp prison, and Oaken’s roots rolled their eyes. “You, however, gave me a look, angel.”

No matter who shifted it, the energy in the room was palpably different. Oaken had flushed pink again, and Alec felt the growing urge to cool things off. They cleared their throat and fiddled with their mug again, unable to break eye contact until Oaken did, and only then could they even try to speak. Instead of how certain are you that YOUR plant isn’t going to grow to the size of my couch and eat me one limb at a time, what came out was, “...Did you. Uh. Mean it?”

A few seconds of silence ticked by, broken only by the click and squirm of the insects and the bottom of Alec’s mug sliding back and forth against the tabletop. Eventually, Oaken forced another laugh. “Mean it? I’m sorry, Alec, mean what?” He was trying for coy and not quite getting there, and they could still remember the sight of him cringing at his own shaky voice. “That thing I said about your taste in action movies? No, I didn’t! Sometimes I’m really rude on purpose, usually for like, no reason. You see, when I was five–” With every word, his face got redder, and his hand trembled as he teased the corkscrew again. “Never mind! So, my plant, staying here–I don’t think it’ll need to be flame thrower-ed–” He noticed that some of the bugs were trying to squirm free of their prison and grabbed the lid. “Its growth has plateaued in, like, the last week, so, I’m not worr–” He stopped as Alec reached out and caught his other hand. Swallowing hard, he struggled to close the box of nematodes without it. “Not worried,” he finished, and finally looked at Alec again.

In the dreary present, Alec got off the cot to return to their clumsy attempts at origami. It kept their fingers flexible, and their mind and patience in decent shape. Not that they ever got far with the paper torn from books they were sick of reading, but, they had to do something. Otherwise, they’d keep getting crazier and crazier down here. Had to stay sane enough to be of use when they finally got free.

In the past and in the Midwest, Alec had said, as gently as they could, “You can leave the plant here for now. But I’m not feeding it. I don’t fuck with bugs, yeah?” Oaken had nodded, and when he’d managed to close the lid and trap said bugs, Alec had continued: “I don’t have a ton going on, so, screw it. I’ll help you steal this corpo shill’s computer and see why he’s sticking that gross shit into the plants. If you do it on your own, you’ll get yourself arrested or killed.”

Alec’s fingers twisted the paper into a useless crumble, and they forced themself to breathe out, slow and cool and easy. Yes. That statement had been horribly prophetic. Yes. They’d always sort of blamed themself for speaking it into existence. But Oaken had lived, had survived what came later, thanks to the V. Maybe it was always going to happen. Didn’t matter now.

Back at their kitchen table, months before some SWAT team thug would pump four bullets into their torso, Oaken was meeting their eyes and scooching his chair closer. Grin impossibly wide and eyes big under the fringe of his soft, messy hair, he genuinely looked like a doll. Unable to pick a tone for their next statement, Alec sounded more disinterested than they’d intended to when they added, “Completely unrelated, we can do it if you want.” Hating themself for Oaken’s obvious wince, they tried again. “No, listen. I think you’re hot. You’re not imagining things, and I’m not playing with you, I wanna fuck you.” And make you feel so good you never really feel satisfied by anybody else ever again, but, you know, we gotta keep it casual. Realizing Oaken was waiting to hear more, Alec rubbed their free hand over their mouth and, after unclenching their jaw, went with a saner response than the one playing in their head: “Okay, fuck. I like you. You’re just, I dunno. Young, okay?” Like five years mattered that much. “And I’m–”

Countless potential explanations surfaced but each sounded as lame as both the last and the next: I’m dangerous, I’m not who you think I am, I can’t trust you and you can’t trust me, I actually have no reason to believe this isn’t some honeypot shit, you have no reason to believe I won’t sell you out, I could get you killed just by being near you, I’m going to leave you so, so soon–

Those whirling excuses were interrupted by Oaken’s chirp. “Technobabble?” Alec scowled at him, and he tried to look innocent. “What? Once I figured out your powers, it wasn’t that hard.” On one corner of the table, the corkscrew was settling in to go to sleep; Oaken took his hand back to scoop it up and carry it over to the short, slightly counter that took up a chunk of the back wall. “Not only do you have the same powerset, you showed up here when they went quiet. Honestly, I’m a little surprised the NSA hasn’t noticed you’re here.”

Alec watched him fuss over the creepy-crawly thing, and let themself smile a little. Oaken was carefully tucking it back into the planter that it had squirmed free of while still inside the box when they said softly, “You’re like. The only person who gets my pronouns right.”

After he set the planter in a relatively safe spot on the counter, Oaken shrugged, and glanced back at Alec. “That’s not hard either,” he said quietly.

I am. Don’t say that. Jesus, Moon. “What time does that thing need breakfast? Cuz, again, I’m not feeding it.” They sat back in their chair, trying to relax, trying to help Oaken relax too.

“I try not to go more than ten hours between feedings. Ideally? Six to seven hours. Otherwise, it forages.”

“Forages?!” Alec demanded, sitting up straight again, and absolutely caught the giggle Oaken was trying to swallow. “Forages for what, short one?”

“Do NOT call me that! I get it, I’m short! So are you, by the way!”

“Not as short as you!” Behind Oaken, the box rustled, and Alec shot it a look. As if the plant even had eyes. “Forages for WHAT?”

“Human flesh!” Oaken said dramatically. Even held up his hands and clawed his fingers. “Relax! It goes looking for bugs! Or, things it thinks are bugs. Like, dice, and paperclips, and pills–”

“So, you’re gonna be back here at like, six or seven am? Cuz if it ‘forages’ through my shit, I’m gonna put it outside and let it fend for itself.”

“Uhg. If you refuse to feed it yourself–”

“I’m not sure I’m gonna let you leave those bugs here, that’s how little I fuck with bugs. It’s climbing out again,” they added, and Oaken whirled around to gently push the plant back into the box.

“Fiiiiine. I’ll be back at the crack of dawn to give it breakfast, I swear.”

Fuck it, just ask. “So. You wanna…stay over?”

Oaken didn’t turn back around. He laughed, short and nervous, and fussed with the plant a bit more, and then planted his hands on the counter and stayed like that. Alec gave him a few seconds, resisting the urge to keep fiddling pointlessly with their mug, eventually letting go of it completely. They stared at the back of Oaken’s neck, where his pretty hair brushed his nape and didn’t quite hide his freckles and moles. “Yeah, sure,” he more or less blurted, and then visibly cringed.

Alec didn’t hold back their snort. “Oh, what? Shy, all of a sudden?” They asked, and were relieved to more or less land the right tone: inviting, heated but not hot, and they unwound the tension from their own limbs as best they could. “It was your idea, angel. You brought it up.” They felt a twange of something tight and urgent when Oaken tensed up and drew in a short, sharp breath. On the tabletop, their fingers flexed, yearning to grab those dull auburn waves and pull, just a little. “Tell me straight. You wanna fuck me? Cuz, I already told you, you can if you want.”

Slowly, Oaken had turned around, hands finding the counter behind him again as he looked at Alec. He’d bitten his lip so hard it was getting a bit puffy; he scuffed his feet against the peeling linoleum and his cheeks flushed dark pink–

Fuck. Realizing they were never gonna be able to focus like this, Alec dropped their latest attempt at folding paper into anything other than useless pulp, and went back to their cot to take care of the hard-on they’d given themself. Oaken was still their favorite porn: green or beige, he’d always been beautiful and cute and sexy, all at the same time.

Before they could actually get started, however, they were distracted by a volley of sounds from up above and off to the northwest. Shouting, gunfire, something hollow and concussive like a host of grenades going off. They blinked, sitting up and swinging their legs off the edge of the cot, and listened carefully. Refusing to feel hope. It might be a group of hikers, startling the perimeter guard. It might a starving jaguar in search of a meal. It might be–

Shouts turned to screams. More gunfire, higher caliber. Another round of explosives, closer, like the line was falling back, and despite their best efforts, hope was bubbling up in their stomach and trying to spill into their throat. It might be Oaken. True, it hadn’t been him any of the other five times this had happened, but, eventually, someday, it had to be.

Grandma had been Christian, or a member of the Peyote Church, at least. Alec, however, hadn’t had much patience for God or prayer or anything that allegedly existed but didn’t have the decency to come out and show its face. Despite that, down in the pit and hearing the sounds of frantic combat creeping closer and closer, they found it hard not to think a few requests as loudly as they could. You know, in case something was listening.

When the next round of grenades was close enough to make the ground floor shake, they were on their feet, trotting pointlessly closer to the out-of-reach door. Unspent energy buzzed through their bone marrow and along their hair follicles, breathless and tense from head to toe. Dust fell from the ceiling as several of those high-caliber bullets struck the exterior walls. The voices were closer now, and, as yet another apparently useless grenade shattered the windows, they heard them much clearer.

“–we can’t even slow him down–”

“–he took out all of our jeeps–”

“–not even sure we got the message out they might not even know he’s here–”

Yeah, that hope was definitely in their throat now, and on the verge of filling their mouth too. There was a smile creeping over their face, wider and brighter than it had been in years. “Hi, angel,” they murmured, and suddenly their cheeks were wet and they had gotten even closer to the door, hands pressing against the chilly, damp wall beneath it. “God, I missed–”

Up above them, the door swung open, and they shouted, wordless and joyful…

And froze. Staring in disbelief at the tremendously shitty joke the universe was playing on them. “For shit’s sake,” they muttered, mouth twisting back into a glare as they backed up to get a less uncomfortable angle. In the doorway, backed by the setting jungle sun and the smoking wreckage of several military jeeps, Homelander grinned toothily down at them.

“Technobabble! Long time, no attempted homicide, right?”

Shock was a hard emotion to hide, but they did their level best. After taking a beat to hammer the O of their mouth into a flat sneer, they corrected the asshole. “Killing you wouldn’t be homicide.”  Watching that fucking mask he called a face twitch with irritation was a weak consolation prize, but they took it. “It would be an act of waste removal.”

Animosity bubbled in the air, the reaction to volatile it could of melted the glass lining the walls. FCC approved smile never wavering for more than a heartbeat, Homelander whistled and tried to chuckle good-naturedly. “Ooooooh, ouch! That anyway to talk to the guy who’s giving you a lift out of here?”

This is a trap. From the trees, the shouting started up again, and Alec noted that, while the Nazi asshole was covered in dirt and shredded plant life, he didn’t seem to be smeared in blood. Knowing that their eyes were repeatedly ticking towards the voices of their captors, they snapped back, “why the fuck would you want me loose again? I’m not exactly your ally. Besides, aren’t you scared of my partner?”

Even from down here, Alec could see his posture going rigid with rage, and they couldn’t stop another smile from crossing their mouth. Always felt like good to make one of these douchebags check themselves, even if only briefly.

Before they could carry on reminding him of exactly how many times Oaken had proven “not worth the effort”, somebody lobbed another useless grenade, and both of them cursed as it went off. Part of the ceiling started to crumble, and Homelander tried to wipe off his scowl. “I’ll tell you if you let me help you out of there!”

Every instinct in them said no. Absolutely not. Never. But they fought it down, called it what it was: self-sabotage. Cutting off their nose to spite their face and pretending it was noble. They were always going to get out of here eventually, after all, and when they were done fixing the atmosphere and the oceans and topsoil, and could bury this bootlicking imperialist clown, it would simply even out.

“Fine,” they said, turning the word into a long-suffering sigh, and stuck their hand out.

Chapter Text

10am. They had left their accommodations at 10am, and it weren’t ‘til 5 bloody pm that they even got to the launch point of the bloody river that Mallory expected them to bloody traverse to get to the nigh-certain death waiting on the other end. The last time he’d had to do this much hiking just to get to the spot where all the violence was set to happen, he’d been overseas, in active combat zones, violating the Geneva Convention for pathetically little compensation. At least she’d made something in the same phylum as an apology, but, hours later, swallowed up by a much darker jungle, Billy was getting pretty bloody cross again.

Not even the sun dipping behind the horizon had made the heat less oppressive. Each breath was like trying to drink cake batter, and he wasn’t sure what was dampening his hair more: the borderline lethal humidity, or his own sweat, which his skin continued to push out in vain. If his body had half-decent management running things, somebody might have considered how much water this would force him to drink. Alas, most positions in his guts and nerves and brain were filled by scabs and drunks, so, the sweat kept on coming, and his canteen kept emptying.

If he stayed by the rail, and kept his eyes on the dark shapes of the trees crowded along the riverbank, he could keep the sloshing in his guts to something bearable, so, by the rail he stayed. Leaning on it had tweaked his back, but if he sat down, or collapsed to the floor like he actually wanted to, that might get his vertigo started. Not that his blisters cared about that; under his socks and hiking boots, each one smarted at its very own rhythm, the dramatic little shits. Teeth gritted against the latest tap-dance recital of pain, he was deliberating whether or not to risk taking a few of his pain pills when he was interrupted by the weighty clacking of plastic bricks behind him.

Okay. Breathe. Slow and easy. Don’t feel it, just blisters– “That bag of yours is going to get you killed,” he said flatly, and Annie groaned in annoyance. See? That weren’t that hard.

“What do you want me to do, Butcher? My powers don’t work unless I have a power source.” Without looking around, he knew what she was doing, had seen it twice today already when he or MM had said something about its noisome contents: lifting the canvas crossbody bag and shaking it. As if making the noise more deliberately would somehow help her case. Made of cheap looking green-black canvas, the sack was stuffed to its breaking point with rechargeable batteries and emergency lights and anything else they’d been able to get their hands while gearing up, cuz, yeah, he agreed, her fancy powers didn’t work without electricity, but–

“With or without the bloody batteries, you’re still capable of hitting the bastard really, really hard, ain’t you?” By the fourth or fifth word, his voice turning snide, and he was too tired to dial it back. “Or, or at bare minimum, deal with a few of the likely very deadly vines and thorns and mushrooms for those of us without unbreakable skin? ” Talking got a bit complicated around then: it was taking active concentration to avoid biting his tongue or his cheek. In no mood to actually have the fight he’d half-picked just then, he pivoted. “Hughie got the herbicide?”

“You asked that already!”

Out across the downright opaque water, the trees were starting to twist and distort oddly, and he almost asked Annie if she saw it too. “Ooo-oooh, somebody’s testy. Got holes in me brain, if you recall. Gonna repeat myself every now and then.” Splashing, loud and somehow out of place, sounded below him in dark water, but he didn’t look. Might be dead things looking back up at him.

“Gee, wonder why!” More clacking as she likely shifted in place, the teenager she never really stopped being creeping to the surface. “Is the Director of National Intelligence is bluffing? About Alec and what he’s going to let those mercenaries do to them?” She asked, the question more than halfway to an accusation, and he forced himself to go slow when he twisted round, not quite facing her.

Craning his neck as best he could without taking his arms off the lukewarm rail, he said, “No,” and caught a glimpse of her scowl deepening. “And before you ask, no, Singer isn’t willin’ to intervene. Not for the eco-terrorist who, you know.”

“Called for his public execution on live tv? Twice?”

A warning stab in his back convinced him to face the trees again, and he blinked away the flickering shadow figures that briefly danced on the riverbank. After half a second of consideration, he decided to snicker. “Got to admit, had a soft spot for the bastard ever since he–”

“They,” Annie muttered, and Billy was rolling his eyes before he realized what he was doing.

“Ever since they hijacked the feed from the bloody Super Bowl–”

“On half the networks,” Annie finished. “That was incident number two. I was watching that live, it was terrifying.”

“Oh, come off it. It was brilliant. Standing there, tapping away at one of those bloody screens they always had around and just…just spouting their little manifesto which is just, death threat after death threat after–” He laughed again, despite the itch of Annie’s glare. “And of course nobody’s paying attention to the bloody building behind them. And then–” He made a quick boom gesture with one hand, and felt a flood of relief when the feeling returned to his fingertips. “Down goes the headquarters, the global headquarters, of the…what was it? Some sort of Captain Planet villain league pretending to be a company?”

“Oil,” Annie said dryly. “And fracking, I think?”

Sever hours later, someone would look it up. The company that Alec Moon had dealt a devastating blow to had been the fifth largest polluter of the Atlantic Ocean over the previous thirty years. Several years in the future, Marie Moreau would, during one of her lengthier Die Already You Disgusting Fascist tirades, would find time to lament that everyone could remember Alec’s body count from that day, but never exactly why they hit the switch. Honestly, Billy never actually recalled either fact without actually digging for the information in his over-pickled brain; regardless of his personal relationship to the self-righteous little git and their beloved brussel sprout was at any given moment, he could always recall the delight he’d taken in watching this dry-voiced, steady-handed overpowered geek knock Translucent, LampLighter, and Black Noir flat in quick succession before millions of distraught Yankee twats.

“Eh, don’t matter much. It was bloody incredible. And, before you quit Vought’s little animal circus, you shoulda asked someone, why’d they send the bloke vulnerable to electricity up against a bloody technopath? Were they trying to kill him?”

“Won’t they do it anyway? Kill them both in some, horrible way like that? Like, you think they should be eliminated–”

“Or depowered. Got those handy dandy FireBoxes. Frenchie said he’s got something promising, coming outta the witch’s hometown.”

“Butcher. Oaken is a botanist and a bio-chem engineer; one of his best friends is Olivia goddamn Drake! One of her powers is literally being good at making potent, crazy shit by mixing other shit together! She–”

“Annie, darling. Of the two people in tis conversation, which of them has actually fought the bloody Taipan? Is it you? If so, did I hallucinate the time Frenchie blow her off a roof with three grenades and she still turned up a year later, alive and well in Singapore?”

She was silent for a few seconds. Imaginary heat made his skin itch in the exact shape of her glare. Out across the water, the silhouette of a ropey-limbed, middle-aged gymnast who’d turned faking her death into the beating heart of her career and legacy lounged in the branches of a particularly large and menacing tree. Bronzey armor of chiseled scales flashed in the dull lights of their boat, almost as brightly as her fangs, before the shadow vanished in a puff of smoke. “So you know. That she is alive, and that her and Oaken might be able to just MAKE their own V. The Director, and Mallory, and MM all think so. Depowered is never gonna be enough for them, is it?”

“Now that we know a fresh shot of V brings it all rushing back?” For a heartbeat or two, he couldn’t help recalling several months prior: Frenchie, plastered, emotional, babbling about the noises Kimiko had made when the V was running through her veins, unlocking whatever lurked in her marrow or her spinal fluid or in her bloody hair follicles that let her survive the crystal blue poison and transform it into horrific miracles. “No. Depowering ain’t enough.”

“So what, you agree with–”

“I know sick and wrong when I see it!” He barked, and something in the trees answered with a too-human cry. Shrill and haunting, Annie made a deeply unhappy noise in response as it faded out. “Whatcha think? Panther? Angry ghost? Backpacking masturbator gettin’ his bits assaulted by fire ants?” No laugh, not even a pissy one. “Look. We get the technopath outta the pit, reunite ‘em with their greener half and maybe they won’t never get caught again. It’s that or–”

“Or it definitely happens: Alec dies.” Well, no. But, you don’t know that. And Johnny might end up throwing Moon into orbit. So they might die. Unless they survive that, too. “I don’t think I can keep working for these people.”

Was Marvin getting bloody contagious? Had to be. Why else would everybody be turning into the whiniest, cuntiest versions of themselves. “Embrace the sunk cost fallacy. Accept you ain’t got no better path. Tried everything else, right?” More splashing that was Wrong and somehow recognizable as unreal rattled its way up from the river’s surface, and he willed it away as best he could. As usual, his hallucinations respected him as little as the wind did, and kept right on hallucinating themselves all over the place, blotting up his already blotty brain. “

“Everything except blowing things up and kidnapping people like Oaken and Alec.”

“No, we do that, we just get immunity. Keep that in mind! The immunity.”

“Oh, the same immunity we’re offering both of them?”

“Eh-gads, I ain’t thought of that before!” Sarcasm made his own ears ring, and he caved into the urge to shift his arms enough to cradle his head. Sensing that she was in search of something resembling actual guidance, he tried to his best to think past the chemical bubbling in his nostrils. “Neat choices ain’t an option anymore. Everything is bloody complicated and only gonna get more so. Gotta decide on your own if this is where you’re makin’ enough of a difference to live with yourself.” He thought of Ryan and the crushed remains of glass vials and of being dragged to the bottom of the sea by a freak whirlpool. “If you do decide that, it’ll get easier when you quit forcing so much bloody morality into every little decision. Sick and wrong. That’s gotta be the line, the only line, whatever it looks like to you. Anything else is just gonna drive you mental.”

“Burying somebody in concrete is sick and wrong.”

Out across the water, Grace was weaving in and out of the trees like a squirrel assassin stalking a mark, and he was grumpy at not being able to question the figment of his imagination about any of the million things he suddenly felt like questioning. “Obviously. So. We ain’t gonna help ‘em do it. We simple do some light treason–”

“Fuck treason. They tortured a citizen in a foreign country, fuck treason!”

Apparently, his laugh was not appreciated, and Annie left in a light huff. Several different bits of his spine had begun complaining about the awkward position he was in, so he very carefully adjusted. Degree by degree, he got semi-comfortable again, and he was relieved to sink back into the hazy-minded passivity of watching the trees roll by. Oaken was deep in the wilderness of some of densest jungle in Venezuela, and the darkness around them was no quieter than the day had been. Birdsong had been replaced by the screams of jungle cats, and the calls of the tiny, curious monkeys had gradually morphed into the splash of crocodiles and large snakes plopping into the water. Briefly, the locks on his brain’s moldering basement loosened, and wisps of Menagerie drifted free. Only Supe they’d ever killed, really, truly killed, and honestly, he’d have traded a good quarter of their other Supe assets just to have had her at their beck and call instead. But Courtney Walker didn’t negotiate with feds, not even when staring down the barrel of a very melodramatic death.

Pain, dull but ominous, rang through the very front of his skull. Both sides of his face pulsed with it until his head was sinking back into his hands. Stupidly, he rubbed his face in slow, insistent circles, as if he could scrub away the looming agony. He had to risk puking more; a migraine would put him thoroughly out of commission, and that couldn’t happen, not tonight.

When he was through with the tedium of retrieving and dry swallowing his medication, he braced both hands back on the rail and tried to breathe through it. Menagerie’s ghost stared up at him from the surface of the river, and he tried to look nonchalant when he met her eyes. “Shoulda taken the deal, Court.”

“I was a bitch and a half to take down, wasn’t I?” Puma screams and falcon cries and crocodile roars rained down inside his head, so fast and loud and believable that it made his vision swim, and when he was done blinking, Menagerie was gone. Her dark curls and big eyes and broad nose had bled into the outline of a crocodile, lazily swimming alongside their boat, and Billy fought the urge to rear back.

Can’t hurt me from down there. They had to be getting close. It had gotten so dark–

Slime bubbled down the walls inside his head, and wherever Menagerie had pranced off too, she hadn’t closed any of the doors she’d forced her way through. The thing that had been talking to him in his reflection slithered its shapeless way up the stairs and in between his ringing ears, and fell out of his eyes to spill across the crocodile, a new mask to replace darling dead Courtney. Grin visible in the tea-like surface, it said, borderline cheerfully, “Now, imagine: she was probably what, a fraction of the challenge most Supes would be? Seeing as you COULD get a lumber saw through her. Could ya get one through Starlight?”

“Better question: can we get one through the witch, soon as possible? Or we could burn her. Oooh. Could even get them little chemical packets that make the fire green, just like her creepy little rodent eyes.” How good would he have to be to get the witch bound to a stake and ankle-deep in kindling? A goal worth working towards, certainly.

“Brother, this is America. We hang our witches.” With one ill-defined finger, it drew a sloppy noose in the surface beside its head, which was quickly disturbed by the crocodile’s natural, silent wake.

Crack crack crack went her neck inside his head, pretty green flames guttering out. Pity Ryan would never speak to him again. Ultimately, she wasn’t nearly dangerous enough for that kind of trade. “No, you bleeding moron. This ain’t America, mate. It’s shitty, lawless jungle. Not sure they even get witches down here! Bloody hell, is she an invasive species?”

Water bubbled up around the shadowy figure’s answering chuckle. “She is, actually. Rats are from your side of the pond. Breed too fast for local meat-eaters to keep ‘em under control. They can live damn near anywhere, and they eat everything.”

“Well, far as I know, she’s safely in her cage on Homelander’s desk back home.”

“Yeah, you’re right, she ain’t here. And neither is Taipan.”

With a jolt, Billy finally placed the voice, and a full body tremor rolled through him. Only one person had ever pronounced Taipan like that, putting a strange amount of emphasis on the i in a way that turned two syllables into three. A face flicked over the surface of the river, and he closed his eyes against it before it could shift into focus. “Hell you bringing her up for,” he gasped, trying fight off another bout of shakes.

“Ha. Brother, you brought her up first. Thought it was Frenchie who had a thing for the snake MILF.” Kessler’s voice came from the river and from the endless floors of dungeons and basements and crypts that filled up the dark and shadowy bits of his liquifying brain. Billy refused to open his eyes, refused to risk turning his pills into a useless stew of expelled bile due to the sight of his friend’s dead, ruined face. Both hands spasmed on the railing, and his elbow gave out a bit, knocking his lower gut against the oddly thin rail, and his guts sloshed a warning that wouldn’t be repeated. “Butcher!” Every lap and splash of the water below was clearer, more lifelike and true to the original it was mimicking. “Think, damn it! Twinkle Star’s right. If anyone can reverse engineer that vile crap, it’d be her. And if she can make V, she can make shit like V–” No. Under no circumstances would he barter with the damn snake for his life. There was no timeline or universe or dimension in which he’d let her open his skull and poke at his rotting gray matter and inject it with her reptilian potions. Whatever buried fear of death this hallucination was doing the bidding of was not strong enough to make him that daft.

“Me back is in no shape to go searching the grass for snakes. Remember me rat problem?” Seen this movie a dozen times, mate. I’m not playing this game, I’m in the middle of a better one. What had the witch said, when she did her creepy little spell? “Look, thanks for the hint, mal-da-tive coping whatever, really helpful. But piss off, don’t actually need it.” That had to be close enough, right? Or did he need to lure the thing out of the river and chop it up with a fucking axe?

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing in the water, and he even kept the pill down long enough for it to do its job. MM woulda told him to take one of the odd square tablets, the ones that gave his regular antipsychotics a helping hand on rough days. But, that hinged on him having taken the antipsychotics in the first place, which he had not. They’d been great for about two weeks, but, lately, they were making a bloody nuisance of themselves, side effect wise, and he figured that hallucinations were at least entertaining.

“Butcher?”

Not a hallucination. Hughie. Different kind of entertaining. “Yeah, son?”

“You good?”

“Hughie. In what way, by what miracle, could I possibly be good?”

“...Right! Uh. That was. Stupid to ask. Um. Frenchie said that OakenAsh was…he wasn’t like Annie, he was already an adult when–” He stopped. Billy considered turning around, but, he was semi-comfortable. Hughie didn’t come up to the rail, so Billy was left with tone and word choice to go off of.

“Technowhatever aint as smart as folks say they is. Thought they could bring their bloody boyfriend along when they went out, you know, terrorizing. Cops interrupted the two of them taking care of a very diabolical Vought side project, and–” Before he could remember not to, he took one hand off the rail and mimed three shots off into the dark. Wincing as his shoulder twinged and his spine jostled, he quickly locked the arm back into place. “Apparently, they’d squirreled away some V, and gave their little green sweetheart a vial full–” Accepting that he wouldn’t get settled again, he reluctantly stepped back from the rail. Hands free, he wrangled back fine motor control of one of them and thunked a fist into his breastbone. “Straight to the heart.”

Somewhere, in the back of his skull, somebody daft tried to start up the film reel of Becca at the foot of the tree, neck bloody and face going white, tried to turn the memory into a hypothetical. Somebody smarter bashed the daft one over the head until they were dead, and then kicked them into the dungeons to be eaten by rats. “And that, what. Brought him back from the dead?”

“Debatable,” the crocodile said, in Grace’s voice.

No more leaning on the rail: the plant bender was somewhere around here and he couldn’t afford to be stiff. Moving mostly normally, he sidled around to face Hughie, who was grimacing at him, eyes a tad uncertain. Lad had been odd around him lately, like he was letting his grief drive the car most times they talked. “Gotta question?” Homelander had said that Oaken healed. Less comfortable on camera than his partner, he’d been harder to get footage of, and most of their documentation of the more complex applications of his powers came from non-primary sources, to say the least. Perhaps the V had activated whatever healing factor the cunt had witnessed, had woken the sci-fi steroids that secretly filled the cytoplasm of some people’s cells. A healing fact every Supe got ask Courtney ask Translucent ask LampLighter ask Bullet Betty and Crimson Countess and Mind Storm and those three nobodies from way back when.

“Have you thought about–”

Knowing the words were coming and having to hear them were very different things. Ice crawled up the inside of his stomach and chest, and both fists clenched until his knuckles creaked. “Why would you ask me that?” Fire was good for keeping his joints from freezing up, so he melted the ice crackling up his voice and he took a step closer. “Why, the bloody hell, would you ask me that? After what the Temp-V did to me–what I let it do to me? We’ve seen the bloody wolfman and you want me howling at the moon and eating scantily clad virgins 24/7 are you out of your blessed noggin?” Each word was edged with something raw and burning, and he was as startled by it as Hughie, who blanched and held up his hands. Snorting in a hard breath, he shifted his eyes off of Hughie’s face to gaze at the treeline on the opposite bank. Surprise surprise: identical. “Not like it’d work,” he said, a second or two too late, and the tone was wrong, clunky and haphazard.

Hughie’s foot drummed nervously. “Except you just told me that it saved–”

“That was different.”

“How?!”

“Just was!” Loud. Louder than he meant to be, actually, and he heard a ripple through the others, crowded up at the front. Even when I’m not in the doghouse they bloody avoid me. Forcing himself to talk like a proper person and not a foul-mouthed homunculus, he stepped closer again but didn’t stalk or loom. “Miracles aren’t real. I ain’t the solution to him. Sad day for me, too, but–”

“I don’t care about that! I don’t care about him and what happens with him, I’m trying to save your life–” Shrillness was not a good tone on Hughie, and he was crossing and uncrossing his arms. Billy almost hoped for the plant-bender to show up and crashland in between them, just to avoid the damn vaudeville routine.

Hands too numb and clumsy to be rubbed over his face, he settled for fumbling for another bottle of his pills. Half a tablet of his anti-psychotics. Just to settle his nerves. Stomach felt mostly tame. He hoped. “Stop. I’m not interested in a cure that makes me–”

“More like me?” Stormfront asked, voice flitting by on shards of jungle air.

“More like me?” Soldier Boy Ben asked, from among the rustling foliage all around them.

“More like me?” Courtney asked, from the distant mouth of a screaming jungle cat.

“Butcher?” Hughie asked, and the worry in his voice pulled Butcher out of his head and back onto the deck of the boat. “Makes you what?”

“In any bloody way in debt to Vought,” he said, a smile twitching at the corners of his dry, irritated mouth. Or to that damn snakey weirdo. She’ll have me breaking into research labs and destroying every secret vial of smallpox on Earth. Im dying of lesions, damn it. Not bloody smallpox. “So, that’s not happening, but, I’m sure you’ll think of something, lad. Can’t be that hard to cure Evil-Potion-Induced-Super-Cysts! Just a brand new disease created by liquid superpowers!” His teeth hurt. Maybe he was grinding them in his sleep. Back then, at the mid point of his self-pitying death march, he’d done that, mind so stressed it was fretting all night long, meds or no meds. Stopped when he started sleeping next to Johnny full time.

On the boat, in a year where Hughie still called him family, his not-so-playful soliloquy was met by truly pathetic determination. “I think we know what cures it, Butcher! I, I know you’ve got hang-ups–”

“Hang-ups?” This time, the edges were intentional, and Hughie caught the cuts all over his face and arms but kept on advancing.

“What good are you dead? What, you’re gonna abandon me, and Frenchie, and everyone?”

“More good than I would be alive and one of them–”

“One of what, Butcher?” Hughie snapped, and this time, Frenchie came around the corner to see this particular catfight was about. Paying him no mind, Hughie half clawed at the air, an awkward gesture of frustration, and spat, “One of Annie? One of Kimiko? How about your stepson? Is Ryan part of the them you’d literally rather die than–”

Coming closer a few steps at a time, Frenchie was telling Hughie to stop, but Billy just whistled and rocked back on his heels. No longer caring about his volume, he aimed for chipper when he cut the little snot off mid-sentence. “You on your George Michael? Need a hot water bottle and a candy bar?”

“Wow. Fuck you, but that is NOT gonna work! Answer me, how can you justify choosing to die when we could not only save you, but END Homelander once and for all! Like, like. You can do it! I know you can, if you have–”

“Hughie that is out of line–” Annie was at Hughie’s shoulder, but he shook her hand off, and got further into Butcher’s space, eyes full of an aggression that was masking something far more vulnerable. “Hughie, seriously–”

“Now is so not the fucking time.” Marvin was behind Billy, but his comment seemed directed at Hughie. “Making more Supes out of unwilling volunteers ain’t our job. Besides, he spent so much time digging this grave! Let him rot in it if he wants.”

Too short on time to examine that statement for signs of what it actually meant, Billy just grabbed its coattails to smack some non-bruising sense back into the loyal little twerp. “You ain’t me minder, son, and me death ain’t your concern.”

“Everything, about you,” Hughie hissed, taking yet another step closer, putting their noses inches apart. “Is my fucking concern!”

Before anyone could properly respond to that, their boat bumped to a halt. Quarter of a mile up ahead great another damn walk was a dull glow of manmade light and the silhouette of a small structure. Around them, the trees were enormous and visibly thriving, busy with insects and small mammals and mosses. Huge, lace-like roots spiraled out from the rough riverbanks, and every rustle and creak of the plant life seemed too vibrant to be normal. Maybe he was still hallucinating. Then again, everyone was looking at the canopy, braced for pollen-yellow eyes and a shriek of delight, which would warn them mere seconds before terrible violence fell upon them.

When nothing of the sort happened, they tied the boat to one of those too-large trees and pulled themselves ashore.

“We’re all mushroom food, I guaren-bloody-tee you, mate,” Billy told as they stood in the middle of the campsite. He pretended the automatic rifle in his arms didn’t feel dangerously heavy, and that the blisters in his socks weren’t open and bleeding.

Over his shoulder, MM was staring at the hut that OakenAsh was calling home: woven branches and a thatched roof. There was also a cooking fire, but not much else. Seemed the overgrown dandelion preferred to pack light. Kimiko and Frenchie were both inspecting said fire, with Frenchie was toeing through the ashes and turning up fish bones. Hughie had ignored Billy telling him not to wander, and had crossed the camp’s implied perimeter to peer down into a knot of roots at the base of a tree. “I think he’s growing these mushrooms. They look, like, tended? Farmed, you know.”

“What kind of mushrooms?” Frenchie asked.

“Um. I’m not sure, they’re this like–fuschia, pinky color? They–holy shit, they glow!” Hughie crouched down, staring into the tangle of roots, and yelled over his shoulder. “Do you think he did something to them?!”

Before Frenchie could leave the firepit to check into the distressing shrooms, a hostile Midwestern sneer cut through the damp air of the Venezuelan rainforest. “Uh, I did, but not whatever crazy shit you’re probably thinking.” They all spun towards the voice, coming from the northern boundary of the campsite. Damp shadows filled in the gaps between the equally damp trees, their trunks fat and ancient, and then something shifted in the undergrowth. Too-yellow eyes, bright as a jaguar’s and twice as alien, appeared in between the tendrils of foliage, and, all around them, the air grew heavy with something invisible and fragrant.

“Back up,” MM said to the lot of them, and everyone except Billy fell back. Annie’s bag of batteries clicked and clacked at her side, and Billy tried to look casual as he shuffled between her and the green meanie. “You wanna come out from there?” MM was putting an edge of authority into his voice, and Billy sensed it when Frenchie cringe as hard as he did. Wrong tone, mate.

Those eyes narrowed, and god, Billy hated them. They hovered in a horrid grey zone between plant and animal, the texture odd and downright repulsive in the dappled moonlight. With a rustle and a whisper, the foliage parted like a stage curtain and OakenAsh strode into full view.

Out of his sight, Hughie made an indelicate sound of surprise, and a sneer open a narrow slash across that elfish, emerald face. As much as it wasn’t helping, Billy could hardly blame him for reacting. Hard not to, once you got a clear look. Cause he didn’t even move like a human, not really. There was something too bendy about his limbs, and the swelling and waning of his ribcage as he breathed was too pronounced. It was hard to tell where his flesh ended and the leafs that clothed him began; the variations in the shades of green were too subtle, and, to Billy’s eyes, the texture looked about the same.

All around them, the jungle was murmuring in a voice composed of droning insects and rushing water and eternally restless plant life, and Billy swore it got louder in this thing’s presence. Whatever fragrance he’s brought along was cloying in the back of his throat like a mouthful of cheap perfume. Despite the watering of his eyes, he kept the barrel of his gun aimed at Oaken’s torso, tracking his movements around the edge of the camp.

“You aren’t welcome here,” Oaken said, eyes gleaming, curled fingers sprouting thorns. Another gruesome sight: each needle sharp point tore through his skin and sent thin rivers of chlorophyll running off his hands. Seemingly oblivious to it–or at least unbothered by it–he continued to circle them, and Billy was certain they were being rounded up like wandering chickens. “I’d tell you to leave, but, I’m not sure I’m going to give you that option.” More thorns lurked between his teeth, and Billy had heard rumors that, instead of spit, his mouth was filled with the liquifying acid of a venus flytrap.

“There are six of us and only one of you, mate,” his own mouth said, and he scolded it silently. That was pure bait, but he had no interest in catching a pissy, man-eating barracuda just then. Still, he committed when Oaken pivoted towards him, eyes locked on Billy’s face. Every angle of his expression was etched with rage and unspent killer instinct: a plant that had skipped past carnivorous to become an active predator. “I’m only sayin’, we got ourselves two whole Supes, plus all these guns–”

“Butcher, this is not what we talked about!” MM snapped. Under their shoes, buried deep in the dirt, something twisted and slithered about, and they all froze as they felt the vibrations in the soles of their feet. MM fumbled for something to say, and Billy’s finger wrapped around his trigger as Oaken’s sneer tilted into an even harsher slope. “Dr. Ashford–”

“Don’t call me that,” Oaken said, his voice was the only bit of him that remained firmly human. It was Midwestern and quite enunciated and Billy thought he detected a smidge of vocal fry. Dainty twink had probably been deepening it since high school, trying to avoid more fists smashing into his sharp little teeth. Despite Billy’s continued gun-pointing, he’d switched his focus to MM. Thorny hands on his too-small waist does he even have bloody organs anymore he spat his next question: “Who sent you? I need an address to send your remains back to!”

Annie had damn near sprinted to put herself back between the rest of them and OakenAsh, who stopped a few feet away and eyed her with open disgust. Then those corpse-flower eyes were back on Hughie, and his lips curled back, showing thorns between his teeth. “Its just a goddamn scarlet waxcap crossbred with a purple pinwheel!” He huffed, boney arms crossed over equally boney torso, all 5’2 of him tense and hostile. “It was a side project, fuck me for getting bored, right? Don’t tell me that the CIA came to gun me down for splicing a damn mushroom with a different stupid mushroom?”

The set of his jaw and the squint in his eyes and the way his hands kept squeezing tighter on his own elbows let Billy know that the plant twink knew damn well why the CIA would want him dead, and that it had very little to do with pretty fungus. Menagerie hadn’t been surprised either, when he, Mallory, and MM had chased her into a dead end in the subway tunnels, with only rats and spiders and a lone, mangy pigeon to defend her. Once she was tranqed (with six times the dose Frenchie had claimed it would take to drop the beast master), they’d driven her to a factory the agency had rented out, and the Sawing Incident had occurred. Billy could swear that the city’s vermin had hated him ever since.

In the present, Annie, blind to that context, raised her hands, fingers spread. “I’m not with the CIA–”

“No, you’re with Vought, which might actually be worse,” Oaken said, and Billy thought that he could feel roots stirring beneath his feet.

“Not anymore!” Annie insisted, and took a step back as Oaken took one forward. “Not anymore, I thought I could make things better from the inside, but, I can’t, the rot is way too deep. Vought, and Homelander, they need to be stopped, and you’ve known that for years.”

Branches creaked above their heads, and he could feel Hughie looking at him, searching for reassurance. But there was none to be had. Every instinct in Billy was telling him they needed to bail, but how? To where? His eyes couldn’t settle; they kept swinging from Oaken’s thorny teeth to Frenchie’s gun to the snarled roots of the trees to the vines crisscrossing overhead to the grasses that made up the roof of the eco-cunt’s hut. The true enormity of their disadvantage settled on him, heavier than ever.

“Doesn’t explain them,” Oaken was saying, gesturing with one gleaming emerald hand to Billy and the rest of the team. Tiny stems crawled over his fingers, sprinkled with dainty blossoms. “They’re CIA, right? I recognize the stench.” He leaned to one side and peered around Annie to squint at all of them. When he straightened back up, he added: “And the hardware! Those aren’t civvie guns, and none of you are militia–”

“She’s telling the truth, she–” Hughie offered, and Billy thought he heard the trees hissing. Sweat beaded along the back of his neck, and he wondered if Homelander was close enough to hear him scream he said he hit mach one in two seconds just to get to me he’d go faster this time but knew he would never, ever let himself scream for him like that.

“YOU ARE!” Oaken exploded, and rounded on Hughie.

“NO–” Annie shouted, as Oaken slashed a hand through the air, and the dirt around Hughie’s feet exploded with roots. They wrapped around Hughie’s legs and started pulling him down, and Hughie’s gun fumbled out of his hands as he sank into Earth. It hit the ground beside him and was also seized by the roots still erupting out of the dark soil. “It’s about Alec!”

Far more startling than a gunshot, Annie’s declaration stopped the Supe dead. “What do you know about Alec?” They had turned to stare at Annie, but the roots were still curling tighter and tighter around Hughie’s limbs. He whined in pain, and Kimiko was only stopped by Frenchie’s arm across her chest.

“Where they are!” Annie, hands still up, seemed like she was trying to talk a mall shooter into putting down the rifle. Billy found himself shuffling forward, getting closer to her six, and MM was right beside him. Under his feet, he swore he felt the dirt stirring, could picture roots crawling restlessly as their master got more and more pissy. “What happened to them was wrong, and I am so sorry–” Shaky. Too shaky. He could see it in her posture and in Oaken’s face, the shake was going to be a problem. “–and we are here to tell you that you can have them back, we just want–”

Then the Supe went still.

Completely, utterly still, down to the tendrils of his hair. Those eyes, sickeningly luminous, stared at Annie with no discernable expression, lips parted around a soundless exhale. Nerves, older than civilization, lit up under his skin, warning him of the danger in that silence. But they glowed with an even brighter worry when the Supe spoke. “You have Alec?” The ‘you’ felt plural and general, but no less accusatory.

Hughie was trying to catch his breath, and Billy could see his body bruising around the constricting vines. Restlessly, he fidgeted with his gun as much as he dared, resisting the urge to bait the puffed up salad golem into a one on one. Nearby, Kimiko was tensing up, and Frenchie kept his finger off his trigger as Annie tried to stand her ground and sound personable. “Dr. Ashford, I can explain everything–”

“Don’t do that,” the supe said flatly, and the undergrowth rustled ominously.

“–Oaken, Alec was kidnapped by the CIA. They want to give them back–”

“So why is Alec not in my arms already?” That was not a calm voice. That was a glowing flame chewing down a fuse, inch by deadly inch, and they were inside the bloody bomb. Above their heads, branches twisted and knotted and danced, and Billy felt several hapless insects rain down on his shoulders as Oaken’s rage woke up the jungle around them.

“The powers that be aren’t going to cut a known terrorist loose out of the goodness of their hearts,” MM said, trying to sound all good-cop about it. Annie tried to throw him a dirty look over her shoulder, and Billy helped her out when more roots lashed themselves to Hughie’s limbs and squeezed harder. “As much as they should, as much as we all fucking told them to, they still set us all the way the fuck out here to negotiate–”

“Negotiate?” Oaken asked, voice still flat and far too steady. Another inch of fuse gone, and the living, growing bomb that surrounded them on all sides held its breath. “The CIA wants to negotiate with the terrorist?” His mouth twitched, one corner trying to bend into a smile. Billy could see those thick thorns, sharp as needles, poking down from between his teeth. Once again, he came forward, closing the distance between him and Annie, and when she still tried to stand her ground, his eyes and smile both widened. “They took my baby away from me over people they NEVER wanted to hurt! Every time Alec and I went after someone, or put a stop to something, we’d give them so, so, so many chances to do the right thing!” And with no visible warning, the vegetation descended on them.

Chapter Text

Being dragged out of the basement was a mixed experience. On one hand, the shithead obviously didn’t care about the comfort of anyone he was moving around, and therefore was pretty rough when he hauled Alec out by one semi-atrophied arm. On the other hand, they got to feel dirt and grass under their feet for the first time in literal years, so, yeah. Certain degree of ambivalence.

Especially when a crack of sound and brief hiss of wind signaled said shithead flying back and forth from some hidden spot off in the jungle; at Alec’s feet, he dropped an overflowing bag of random, fully charged electronics. Before they’d fully processed the highly suspicious gift accompanying the highly suspicious rescue, they were already on the ground, like their hands had dragged their body down there to closer. Kneeling over the bag, they began to dig through it, letting their fingers grip the edges of slick screens and their blood call out to the sparking guts inside. After years of incremental strengthening as they’d searched for anything they could seize and bend, the metaphysical mechanism by which their powers worked was restless, and Alec felt like they were gulping water from the ration drop again, that was how eagerly their awareness poured itself into the bag of phones and tablets and tiny laptops and swatchwatches. Blue light swelled up from the depths of the bag, and they thought, hazily, of the day their braces had come off. See, when a specific pain or discomfort has become so constant that you’re forced to let it faded into background noise, finally getting relief from it can leave you downright dizzy.

Despite the endorphins and electricity trying to turn their brain into a runaway Ferris wheel, crushing everything in its path, nothing in the bag exploded, and their hands had moved like they always had. Quick and fluid and precise, they dumped out the whole thing out and began disassembling everything inside; within the space of 60 seconds, they had reduced every last device to its most basic components. Glittering silver and foil-bright gold and digital age green; flat black screens and tiny circuit boards and dainty sim cards: soon, the mess was neatly sorted and formed into a chain of tiny hills around Alec’s knees. Scrap successfully harvested, they tuned back in with their ears while keeping their eyes focused on taking stock of what they were actually working with here. Useless gun fire. The sizzle of burning flesh. Low, humming punches of sound, the accompaniment of those shitty fucking lasers I can make better lasers than that–

Well. Not with what they had here, probably. But they could build a lot of other stuff.

Breath quickening, they felt goosebumps bloom across their skin as something inside them sang louder and louder, joyful in a way Alec couldn’t experience with anything but their heart. As they moved from disassembling to repurposing, the chips and wires and batteries buzzed excitedly at them with that simplistic intelligence that filled anything capable of connecting to a wi-fi signal. While Captain Fascism kept the lesser, more breakable jackasses at bay, they seamlessly wove the harvested junk into something far more useful. By the time they’d straightened up, their new creation had finished wrapping itself around their left wrist; with a few sharp but bearable punctures, its ribbon-thin tendrils burrowed under Alec’s dehydrated skin and thinning muscle to begin integrating into the red and purple gordian knot of their ligaments and nerves. As soon as I can, this shit’s going into my fucking bone marrow. I’ll wind it around my brainstem, bury it inside my veins.

Homelander was hovering off to one side; now and then, he took a few potshots with his lasers, or darted forward to put his fist through one of the olive-and-black camo-clad mercenaries the CIA had subcontracted to guard this hell-hole. He started to say something, but Alec ignored him, and strode out from the shadow of the crude house. Clicks and clacks, more feeling than sounds, vibrated in their right hand as they fidgeted with the three half-inch discs they’d made from the leftover scrap. Not as big or as fancy as they’d’ve liked: cheap idiot had brought stuff that was two or three generations old and not an abundance of it. But, Alec silently conceded, he’d brought enough. Five or six of the dirtbags burst from the treeline and stumbled to a halt, rifles raised but trembling, and Alec tossed the discs. Hook, line, sinker, all six of them opened fire, and it was a tad tempting to laugh at their faces when the discs sparked and glittered and danced into the air to project out foot-wide circles of flickering, buzzing green light. Nearly cheerful in their movements, the shields bounced to and fro in the air, and each bullet that struck them was fried apart and sent tumbling to the lush ground below in harmless, blackened splinters.

Already, Alec had mostly forgotten Homelander was there, preoccupied with sprinting towards the black site’s command center. Well, sprinting as best they could on their stiff, shrunken muscles. It was 5 clicks northwest, but the company’s jeeps were likely closer. They’d be archaic hunks of rust and shit, but that didn’t matter. Just need an engine and gas. Got a little harder to sprint when a few more suicidal non-supes joined up with the first group, and a few shots made it past the shields flying alongside them. For now, the wrist-guard, on auto-pilot and dragging Alec’s arm anywhere it needed to go, was catching every bullet making it past the shields and too close to their head or chest, but it was another distraction, another thing slowing them down–

Behind them, they heard the shields soaking bullets, and the fluttering snap of that ridiculous fucking cape. “Fuck off,” they barked over their shoulder, and winced as their throat burned, dehydration already setting in again. “Whatever you want from me, I’m not playing along. Leave!”

Announced by crashing underbrush, reinforcements were inbound from the opposite direction, coming right towards them; Alec cursed on a loop as they skidded to a halt. No scrap left, and three shields and the wrist-guard might not be enough. Behind them, the shields were still soaking bullets, and they snatched a few precious seconds to make several rapid-fire adjustments to the shields via the wrist-guard’s screen. While gunfire had repeatedly proved nonlethal to them, enough blunt force trauma from armor-piercing rounds could put them into a coma or shatter several of their bones to dust or send them into cardiac arrest or–

That useless spiral of anxiety was cut short by the earth-shaking thud of Homelander hitting the ground directly behind them. “I said leave!” They didn’t look up, not done tapping away, mind and eyes not done spinning. Instead of the sonic boom of Homelander fucking off back to his haunted castle, what they heard was more sizzling, more gurgles and thuds, and then the gunfire and shouting from behind them started to wink out, sources of the noise going dark one by one. Alec growled in frustration, but finished up their desired tweaks just in time for a fresh wave of trigger-happy idiots to come crashing into view roughly a dozen yards ahead of them. With the last wave likely reduced to a pile of flash-fried corpses, all three shields were free to zip forward and begin intercepting the incoming fire.

The 2 inch silica disks Alec had cut from the various phone screens to serve as the core of the shields flickered to life and turned stoplight red. “Commencing collection process”, the wrist-guard’s AI assistant chirped helpfully; through the mostly transparent backside of the silica disks, they could see bits of shrapnel being collected and instantly broken down into molecules. Trying not to get too excited too soon, Alec instructed the AI to handle minor tweaks and basic maintenance of the shields until further notice. Once they were certain it would only bother them if it genuinely couldn’t figure something out itself, they took a moment to look back at Homelander. Yep, he was still there, hands under his cape, smiling all big and annoying, and Alec rolled their eyes in disgust before returning to the real task at hand.

After sizing up the sloppy formation the mercenaries had fallen into, they calculated the route of least resistance and booked it out of the tiny clearing. Every long, crashing step through the permanently damp underbrush was easier than the last, and their bones and muscles were eager to rise to the occasion. Shadows spread rapidly across the jungle floor as the sun sank further and further below the horizon, and the next several bursts of muzzle flash were visible among the dense trees. Buzzing and sparking like over-designed bug zappers, the shields bobbed alongside them, catching about 80, maybe 85%, of the projectiles. Anything they didn’t catch was usually intercepted by the wrist-guard. Regrettably, the most recent round of reprogramming had slowed it’s response time; no way around it, seeing as the device now had to divide its attention among itself and the shields’ increasingly complex defense systems. That, plus the sheer number of bullets flying towards them? Yeah, a few lucky hunks of leaden death got through.

In unison, the discs turned bright yellow. “Collection process complete; commencing recycling process–”

One particularly well-aimed shot struck Alec squarely in the temple and they staggered through the next few steps, eyes crossing and uncrossing in short, violent jerks. Another, likely from the same shooter, hit their right cheek and audibly cracked a few teeth. Blood seeped over their tongue and they hacked it out onto their filthy shirt as they kept running, eyes frantically searching the dark for the hulking shape of a jeep or troop carrier.

“Recycling process complete,” the wrist-guard chirped inside their ear, and Alec allowed themself a snigger as the light pouring out of the silica discs switched from yellow to green. “Returning fire.”

Pushing through the pain and exhaustion, Alec continued sprinting; briefly, the shields seemed to lag behind, only to suddenly double their speed and begin zipping through the air to throw themselves into the densest knot of bodies they could find. Like flying saucers changing course, they turned in the air at the last moment, reorienting themselves so they were parallel to the ground. For a heartbeat, they continued spinning in place between kevlar-shelled torsos, and instinctively, the mercenaries tried to break formation and scatter. But they simply didn’t react fast enough.

Repurposed microphones and speakers, so tiny they were barely there at all, opened wide around the rim of the disks. With every rotation, they sprayed the hopelessly disorganized company of douchebags with ultra thin, razor sharp projectiles. Given the limited storage space and production capacity of the shields, each one was only a few centimeters long or across. But AI had already recreated and then applied several of their old targeting algorithms, and most of the teeny tiny daggers found their way across the curve of major arteries, or into the nerves of a trigger finger, or through the center of an adrenaline-blown pupil. Shrieks and crazed swearing and death rattles replaced gunfire, and Alec kept right on pushing and sprinting and surviving because they had no other choice.

Flutter-snap, an unnatural whistle of wind, something blocking the last few rays of daylight– “Impressive!”

Ever since they were a kid, that voice had set their teeth on edge. Something inside their ears had rejected it, and Alec still saw no evidence against the validity of that gut reaction. Nothing from a guy like Homelander was a gift; to be saved by him was to owe him, and he always collected his debts. “Fuck off before I kill you with a better version of your own lasers.” Behind them, the shields were greedily drinking down the last few clips of the five or six survivors still trying to put them down.

“Rude,” Homelander said, sounding more than a little offended. “You don’t even want a lift? Or to know why I busted you out?”

“I’m not willing to work for Vought anymore than I’m willing to work for the fucking government–” Originally, they’d planned for a second half of that sentence, but they broke off when their ears caught the sound of another wave of reinforcements. Unlike the previous ones, this one announced itself with the roar of gasoline engines, and Alec let their heart lift, just a little.

“Not Vought! We’ve got a common goal here–”

Alec slowed, just a little, and tried to consider their options. “One of my goals is your head on a stake outside the smoking ruins of the Pentagon. Is that the one we have in common?”

“An intact planet for my son. That sound common enough?”

“Vought let you breed?” Alec asked flatly, as their shields sent out a fresh cloud of lethal shrapnel. “Color me more disappointed than shocked.”

Homelander was next to them faster than the sound of his own movement, the whoosh arriving a second or two behind him. “You built that out of iPads and, like, Blackberrys.” Alec snarled at the too-close stance but, you know, that obviously accomplished nothing. “Do you understand that you do impossible things?”

“Obviously.” When the first of the armed goons leapt from their shitty Jeeps, Alec practically heard church choirs warbling. Nearly half of them had grenades among their load-out of weapons, and that desperation created a beautiful opportunity. Mentally four or five moves ahead by the time they had one of the shields open and mid-upgrade, they barely had time to resent Homelander for killing a quarter of the assholes with one long laser blast. Seriously, I just need a shield that can absorb energy of that intensity, analyze its composition and give it enough self improvement capabilities to (hopefully) create a mechanism capable of delivering an exact replica of–

They let the shields and the asshole deal with the next wave of lesser assholes as they slowed to a walk and tinkered away at the wristguard, fingers better than they remembered, like the daydreaming they’d done for years and years had actually helped them practice. It was so easy to talk and whisper and sing to these tiny scrap parts and the jury-rigged things they’d built out of them, so easy to remind these things of the other things they could do, teach them other ways of being. Unlock their potential, earn their respect and their trust, and out came miraculous things.

They straightened up, only then realizing they’d come to a halt at some point and crouched down, likely too engrossed in the guts of their wrist-guard to keep moving.

Behind them, the asshole kept trying to speak to them even as they charged towards what was likely the last bout of enemies for the time being. “I rescued you, Alec! I gave you the means to defend yourself and execute these uppity little mudpeople–”

“Don’t call people shit like that, you disgusting fucking creep,” Alec said, more or less calmly, as they vaulted over a rotting, moss-draped log, and drove their fist into the face of an overzealous jackass with a jammed gun. Shit luck for him. Great for Alec, who felt his skull cave under their fist, and then they hefted his dead, twitching body off the ground and hurled him directly into the chest of the next closest enemy. The others shook off their obvious shock and opened fire, and Alec let the shields deal with it as they finally deigned to look at Homelander directly.

He was clearly miserable and pissy, hair all frizzed and face a shade or five too red, but he remained stuck at attention. Arms crossed but wrist-guard ready to test its ability to return a new kind of fire, Alec asked, flatly, “If I listen to your BS pitch, will you fuck off?”

Behind them, the shield’s shrapnel reign was actually driving this last batch into retreat. That was okay. They sent a shield after the fleeing men, and shook their head when Homelander moved to pursue them. “Let ‘em show me where the rest are. I want everyone last one of them to–” They paused. Searched a word or phrase they liked for the end of that thought. Eventually they just shrugged. “Every last one of them,” they repeated, and the evil mannequin across from them did his best to look sympathetic and like he Understood. “Where’s my man?” They added, in the stoniest voice they had available.

“Ah! Funny you should bring up Oaken–”

The wrist-guard beeped with an update from the tracker shield. About a click and a half further, and they’d find the nest where the rest of the mercenaries would be holing up. “If you hurt him,” Alec began flatly, refusing to look up from their latest round of endless, loving micro adjustments to their new sidekick.

“I haven’t! I mean, yet. That’s up to him–he’s always hit me first, if you remember!”

“That is. Flatly. Not true. What does not yet mean?” Any threat in that question was underscored by the sparks and sizzles rising from the wrist-guard’s currently exposed guts. Thinking about Oaken hurt worse than it had in the pit, like the ache was sharper above ground.

“Like I said, common goals here. I think we can work out some sort of mutual non-aggression. Or, I could kill you both.”

Fear flickered in the back of Alec’s mind, and they swallowed hard, no longer fully sure they wanted to follow the shield back to the guard house. Stony as they could get, they snarled back, “good luck with that! I’m as hard to kill as you are, shithead–”

“You sure about that, Alec? Feel comfortable betting Oaken’s life on it?”

Silence seconds ticked by as Alec sped up again, suddenly hellbent on shredding their way through this mercenary company. Blood and broken bones, cathartic and fully justified. Plus, the fucking Neo-Nazi had a thing for gore. He’d stick around longer, stay away from wherever Oaken was longer–

As the shoddy building came into view, their hackles and adrenaline started getting up, but they did their best to sound bored. “Just give me the damn offer, so I can tell you where to shove it.”

***

Billy’s eyes blurred as they tried to follow the arc of the nearest streak of jagged green, tried to duck or stumble out of its way. Far too quick to be evaded, the vine lashed itself around the barrel of his gun and tried to confiscate it. Mud squelched under his hiking boots as he wrestled with the overzealous vine, and heard the others shouting as they all did the same.

Roots creaked and strained as Hughie struggled uselessly; he seemed to be directing a frantic outpouring of speech up at the seething plant-bender. Distracted by the bruises spilling over Hughie’s sun-reddened skin, Billy stumbled forward and nearly lost his own tug of war, sweaty, shaking hands unsteady on the gun, and only caught snatches of the inelegant pleading. “It’s about fucking Homelander, they want you to–”

Oaken barked a laugh that was so angry it sounded pained; a subtle flex of his fingers, and the vines pulled harder, the roots clamped down tighter, sending all of them stumbling while simultaneously taking Hughie’s limbs out from under him. With a muffled cry, he was immobilized against the damp, dark soil in a painful looking heap. “If that could be done, I’d have done it already. We actually did try, you know–” Billy froze, hands going slack as he twisted around. He hadn’t know that. Not exactly. Not–he shook himself, debated between fighting for the gun or giving up and trying to slip the vines. “Maeve or no Maeve, I’m not gonna start shit when he’s currently leaving me alone!”

“That won’t last!” Annie insisted, and Oaken’s eyeroll sent a fresh volley of vines down from the lowest branches, and Hughie sank in a smidge deeper into the earth. No longer fighting the vines wrapping around her ribs, she threw up her hands, and Billy bit down the urge to call her a moron. Eyes darting to Hughie every other heartbeat, Annie very nearly pleaded with the loon. “Oaken, Oaken, I will break Alec out myself and I will throw myself any pyre you tell me too, this cannot, fucking, go ON, Oaken! I will give Alec back to you, just, just–”

Briefly, his face crumpled. Looked more miserable and uncertain than unearthly; but it was gone in a blink, and he shifted his hands on his elbows again as he grinned coldly at Annie. “Liar: Alec’s dead already.”

Icy adrenaline spiked through Billy, starting at his spine and going out in every direction. He said it like he’d figured it out six months ago and just hadn’t bother to accept it until just now. “No!” Hughie screamed, as though convincing him was a matter of volume. “No, I swear to Christ, no, Alec is alive, we all want the same fucking thing–” Kimiko and Annie were frantically snapping vines off of each other, but the hellish weeds roared back faster each time. As best they could, they corroborated. Their shouts might as well have been the drone of insects and the babble of the river, that was how little mind Oaken paid them.

Flexible and tough like a rubber hose, another vine snapped itself around Billy’s elbow, wrapping over three times and jerking wildly on his arm, until his spine and shoulder wailed in discomfort. Despite the three or four vines looping themselves around his gut, MM managed to twist his gun around enough to aim at Oaken like that’ll do anything more than annoy him.

Pollen yellow irises eyed the barrel with mild distaste, but the plant-bender addressed nobody in particular, tossing his words out to the general audience. “I will not be led into a trap! And I will throw my life away attempting the impossible!” His hand jerked up and his fingers clawed themselves inward over his palm; every vine and root that had gotten ahold of any of them tightened and then kept right on tightening. Pain radiated out from Billy’s elbow, and its fiery static sucked up valuable brain-space just to add to the chaos between his equally overburdened ears even Annie’s screaming and then a fresh wave of it rushed up from his foot. He glanced down but only for a second, just long enough to confirm that another set of roots had burst from the ground beneath his left boot. Already, they were gripping him so tight it had the leather creaking.

“We can show them to you!” Hughie was pleading, trying to catch a full breath under his living net and briefly reminding Billy of an overly tenacious trout. When that amusing image faded, all he could think of was his thin little neck being crushed between those hateful roots, crumbled and caved in as bad an empty aluminum can sucked under a truck tire. “We can prove all of this, Oaken for fuck’s sake we are trying to fucking save you–” Frenchie swore and sprayed off a useless volley of bullets, which was enough to redirect Billy’s attention to Kimiko. Hair tangled and flapping in the pollen-tainted air, she dragged upwards, off the damp ground and towards the canopy. Face frantic, she kicked and twisted and broke free, but fell only a couple of meters before a fresh set of restraints snatched her up. “PUT HER DOWN PUT HER DOWN PUT HER DOWN–” Hughie screamed the useless phrase on an equally useless loop, and every repetition was louder and shriller. But he didn’t reach truly glass-shattering pitches until all the rest of them were abruptly wrapped in viney restraints and being rapidly hoisted off the ground right along after her.

Despite the panic and strength driving them on, all their thrashing was in vain: Oaken simply added more vines, simply crushed their limbs harder, simply dragged them higher, until his face was blurry and his frame looked doll-like in the crackling glow of his campfire. “Trying to save me?! Fuck you. You’re gonna get me killed! I am the LAST ONE LEFT, do you understand that?!” His voice got even higher, and somehow twisted thorny like he has to pull it out one barb at a time.

The vines swung, hard and sudden, and Billy felt several ribs crack when he struck a tree trunk at sickening speeds. Fresh agony seared through his limp and useless right arm, brought on by the impact, and tears scratched at the backs of his eyes. Frenchie and MM each struck broad, sturdy branches just as hard, judging by the rawness of their pained gasps. MM was still armed and desperately tried to keep a clear shot on the latest threat to their lives; but he was trembling with pain and relying on his off-hand, seeing as his shoulder was visibly dislocated. But he was distracted by a loud, shattered-glass splash behind him, and Hughie clearly saw something from his vantage point: he levied a rather creative jigsaw of curses at Oaken’s ankles, and then screamed Kimiko’s name. Face turning ashen with terror, Frenchie snapped his head towards the sound, and echoed Hughie’s frantic shout. The river, the mad little cunt had hurled Kimiko into the damn river– More splashing: Billy was numb and nauseous but he tried to look over his shoulder anyway–

“You can all watch,” Oaken said viciously, then they were spinning in place, bobbing like Christmas baubles on loops of ribbons. Well past his tolerance, Billy retched and dry heaved as his vision boiled into steam. When he blinked his way back to reality, he saw why Frenchie was still screaming. A massive black caiman, at least ten feet long, had dropped into the river and was rapidly closing the distance between itself and Kimiko, who had snagged herself on a nest of tree roots jutting out from the damp, ever-crumbling bank. Every time she snapped or kicked several aside, more grew in their place, faster than breath and unnaturally strong. He’s got all of us in the fucking air and he’s still doing that from here–

Annie was screaming like a banshee, clawing at the vines wrapping around her waist. Throat burning, head ringing, Billy yelled nonsensical threats down at Oaken’s fluttering green hair until a jerk of the cunt’s shoulder sent him and MM slamming into each other hard enough to make their eyes spin in their sockets. Vertigo and head trauma didn’t tend to mix well, and Billy was trying not to choke on the vomit dribbling out of his nose when MM was slurred his name a few times, sounding concerned and dazed. Frantic splashing from the river pulled him back to Kimiko, just in time to see the caiman’s jaws clamp down on her legs. Khaki twill and flesh shredded and the water churned with the force of her struggling, and as Billy choked out more useless, impotent shouting, Kessler lazily reminded him that Dr. Ashford had always been a sight more sadistic than his sweetie.

On the off chance that he’d spontaneously stopped being bulletproof, MM fired at him, while Frenchie chose the crocodile. A couple dozen rounds rained down on Oaken’s head and shoulders, and did about as much damage as a fistful of peppercorn; several others hit the side of the croc, and it released Kimiko’s legs to roar in pain. Swinging his head back and forth to track both volleys of gunfire left Billy retching again, but that didn’t stop him from giving up and his gun to rip blindly at the vines holding him up. Maybe he could draw Oaken’s attention long enough for Annie to miraculously develop a pesticide ray she could shoot from her nostrils or some such bloody thing. If not, breaking his own bounds might drop him to the jungle floor. Even with both legs broken, he could drag himself over to Hughie and get the blasted idiot out of the latest mess threatening his life.

“That is enough–” Billy closed his eyes half a second too late. Light so bright it rang like a church bell through the various rooms and courtyards of his skull, leaving burning spots on everything it passed over. Hughie screamed in pain, but at least the plant-bender did too. There was a distant, meaty THUD down below him; Frenchie was still screaming for Kimiko, whom the croc had evidently pulled back into the water. By a fraction, Oaken’s grip was loosening maybe he’s finally feeling the strain and Billy writhed and kicked and tried to see clearly enough to bloody chew his way free if he had to.

“Get down here!” Kessler called, from somewhere on the ground. “You really think Super Virgin can talk this shithead into a truce? Kid’s gonna die without you, Butch.”

“Don’t call me that,” Billy snarled, mostly outloud, and MM looked genuinely hurt when Billy twisted his head to blink at him. “Not, not you–I–”

“Are you fucking hallucinating right now?!” Before Billy could point out that he didn’t exactly control these things, his vision went wonky, not graying out so much as kaleidoscoping. Chemical rot filled his nose and mouth and his muscles spasmed, that was how intense the first wave of phantom chills got. His fingers continued to claw weakly at the vines holding him up, and Frenchie’s sob of relief indicated that Kimiko had evaded the croc again, for the time being. “Butcher. Butcher! Look at me–”

Two vines snapped under Billy’s frantic clawing, and Hughie was yelling his name now as he tumbled towards the ground. Oaken shrieked like a cockatoo disturbed mid-nap, and sounded like he tried to grab Billy again, but Annie struck him with another, closer blast of light. This time, his scream was more pain than outrage, but Billy was too busy hitting the ground to care. Joints grinding dangerously, he crawled in the direction of Hughie’s voice, and waited impatiently for his vision to un-fuck itself. Over the roaring in his ears, he could vaguely make out Annie and Oaken, their voices like a gramophone playing through a marble tunnel. Unreal echoes that quickly grew maddening to the overworked sensors of his brain, but the words remained clear: “You literally just tried to feed my friend to a crocodile and I’m still trying to negotiate here, how desperate do I have to be to do that?!”

Keep him talking, keep him on you– Hughie was looking at him through the mesh of roots, wearing an expression of genuine relief, and Billy forced himself to grin back. Just a few more meters, and he could cut him free, and–

Roots burst from the dirt between them, layered and overlapping like the croc’s teeth, and they rushed towards him at a truly shocking clip. He tried to get his hands under him, tried to heave himself sideways as the roots chewed the earth into soft, crumbling chunks. Too slow, too weak: the roots hit him dead on, and impact knocked the breath back out of his lungs. Tangled tight around his shoulder and his thigh and his calf, the roots dragged him backwards, towards the damn riverbank–

Annie tried to hit him again, Billy could hear the building hum even as he fought against the unnaturally strong roots. But the plant-bender was, for some reason, tired of being blinded; Billy didn’t really see what he did, but clearly heard Annie losing her patience. “OAKEN FOR FUCK’S SAKE–”

From seemingly nowhere, Kimiko dove for him, and managed to get her hands around his wrists. Chewed meat and half-regrown muscle dangled below her knees, and tried to brace with her elbows but couldn’t slow the drag by much, was mostly getting pulled with him, actually– Gunfire, just as useless as before, cut through the rest of the din, and it sounded like Annie was throwing punches now. Mind full of the caiman and the primal menace in its cold eyes, Billy ignored Kessler’s taunting laugh and let his mouth scream anything it liked: “My ass, you can’t do it! Look at you, you’re a bloody god!”

Dirt spraying out from the force of the stop, the roots ground to a halt, and Oaken whirled around to stalk towards him. On their side of the riverbank, the jungle hissed and swayed right along. “What did you say?!” Clear, sticky sap ran down his face, courtesy of Annie’s tough love, and he kept having to swipe it out of his eyes as he glowered down at Butcher. Behind him, Annie followed, and Hughie was still being held fast to the earth, but tried to squirm one arm free, like he could actually pull himself out.

Billy tried not to let his voice shake with obvious pain or exhaustion, and spat out a response. “You ain’t like most Supes, you or your hubby! No, you’re like him, you’re like Maeve–”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.”

Bile and lesion drainage and god knows what else were leaking from his face, and Kimiko was nearly crushing his wrists, but he bent his mouth back into a vicious grin. “Oh, what? That not a compliment, back where you’re from? And the way I heard, last time he tried to rain on your Earth Day parade, you sent him packing.”

“You did?” Annie asked, from somewhere beyond that narrow green shoulder. In front of Billy, Oaken dropped down, balancing on his ankles and bending his legs just a tad too much to look natural. “Let him go,” Annie pleaded, but was only acknowledged with a snap of his fingers. Hughie screamed, and Annie was gone, sprinting towards him.

“Sick of you lot,” he sneered, and then growled in pain as the roots cinched tighter. “You, Maeve, your partner in diverse crime–”

“I should just kill you.”

“And the witch,” he added, as an after thought. “Actin’ like you’re all as helpless as the rest of us! If Stormfront can–”

“I told you, I tried–”

“Your very, very hardest?” He demanded. “Hit so hard you broke your own bones? Kept going when you felt like you were too tired to breathe? And when it hurt so bad your nerves went mad in your skin and stopped feelin’ pain at all?” Kimiko was looking rapidly between him and Oaken. Legs fully regrown, she shifted restlessly in place until she found a sturdier position, and kept her hands on his wrists. “Techno’s damn near invincible. Maybe as invincible as Johnny.” The name slipped out without his permission, and Kimiko looked revolted.

“...Why are you on a first name basis with the worst man ever?”

“You know, he might only be the third worse man ever, and the fourth or fifth worst human. But most of the cuntier cunts no longer walk this earth, so, it’s his turn up at bat.” Chancing a look at Kimiko, he saw that she was still staring at him, baffled. “And I ain’t. Not the point. You got that fancy pollen and you’ve come back from the dead before–”

“I’m not gonna die for you–”

“You’d be dying for the whole bloody world!” Billy shouted, exhausted by this brat, and said brat only sneered at him. “Soften him up enough that somebody else can sack up enough to finish the job, and do not try to tell me that that is beyond you, or beyond Technoshit, don’t act like you can’t make a dent if you really, really tried–”

Abruptly, Oaken stood up, and chopped one arm through the air, hard. Everybody gasped and Billy craned his neck to see what–Another net of roots erupted from the group and closed around Kimiko, an oblong cage that dragged her backwards viciously hard and cruelly fast, she let go of Billy to avoid taking his arms but leaving the rest behind, in his own living trap. So many roots were tangling around their bodies that several trees were drawn closer in to the camp, and soon, the others had been forced to the ground too. Halfway looked like the cunt intended to bury them all alive.

“I know a trap when I see one. And I don’t negotiate with the CIA.” With a hard flap of his wrist, he tossed Billy into the river.

Sickly warm water shattered around him like every glass table he’d ever been slammed through, and the water closed over his face and its weight forced his body down and down. Thick as tea, and the same color too, he could barely move his limbs at all, but his mouth opened, let the water roll in, where was Johnny, where the fuck was Johnny, what was Oaken doing to Hughie, what was he doing to all of them what was Johnny going to do all of them and Hughie when he got here and found Billy drowned at the–

With a hard, jarring smack, his back hit the bottom of the river, and then the back of his skull connected with a rock, hard enough that one of the lesions in his head burst. More mud jammed its way into his mouth, and his lungs were burning so, so hot, but still, he could taste the battery acid tang and the radioactive sizzle of his Vought-Brand terminal illness gushing through his sinuses and down his throat and into his spine–

Pain, of a different sort all together, began to grow inside him. Steady but rapid, feverish but sweet, and when the caiman dove down towards his face, his lasers punched straight through its mouth and the back of its throat, hot enough to boil the river above him.

Unable to grin past the sediment in his throat, Billy shoved himself off the riverbed.

Mere heartbeats later, he ripped free of the surface to belly-flop onto the bank. Wasn’t quite sure how he’d done that, but that hardly mattered, did it? Kessler seemed to be of the opinion that it didn’t matter, not when Oaken clearly had been in the middle of burying his entire team alive. Annie had managed to get upright, somewhat, torso out of the crushing earth, but the others were partway under; when he hit the ground and bounced back up, eyes still fiery orange and wet pouring down his body, MM yelled for him and Hughie nearly sobbed. Shaking himself off like a St. Bernard was an excellent way to ignore Oaken as he gawked and spluttered, as was hacking out the mud he’d half-swallowed. Past very grimy teeth, he sneered, “let them out, I won’t have to twist you up like, like–” He hesitated. Cursed. Coming up empty. Again. This was getting to be a problem. “Whatever! Let ‘em up, they’re probably terrible for the environment.” He refused to look at Hughie; the heat in his face told him that his eyes were still ember-bright, and he didn’t trust his grip on those things just yet.

Not at all subtle about it, the plant-bender shuffled backwards, but Billy just advanced, hands itching, muscles as hot as his eyes. “Or, or what?” Iron plates clanked under Billy’s skin, and titanium glistened smugly in his tendons, and fuck, how hot could that burn in his eyes get? Torn and smoking meat, the ravaged ruin of Stormfront’s body, flickered behind his eyes, then got tangled up with Oaken, with Johnny, with Soldier Boy–Kessler mumbled a half finished thought.

Something about a test run. Something about keeping Ryan safe. Something about Oaken having had no bloody right to get involved. “Or I’ll finish the job Johnny keeps starting. Actually, since you’re so adamant that you’re useless to us, how about we skip right to that?” Vividly, he pictured the cunt’s green skin tearing under his hands, his body coming apart like a dandelion stem. How many Supes had he killed so far? Hardly mattered, none of them held a candle to this thing he was staring down. Vaguely, he thought he heard the others telling him off, trying to stop him. Green meanie was lying, he felt it in his…in his everything. Lying or not putting his back into it. Probably the later. Once properly motivated, Maeve had managed to draw Johnny’s fucking blood coulda done that any time she liked if she just tried. Supes had it too easy, never had to dig deeper, never had to find more than they thought they had: if somebody pushed Oaken hard enough, refused to show him mercy, he’d dig, alright, and maybe, just maybe, he could turn up something that could actually hurt–

Instead of Johnny Homelander’s face, he thought of Ryan’s, and almost faltered in his advance on the snarling supe. But he gritted his teeth harder, narrowed his eyes further at the cowardly little carrot, tuned out the latest wave of protests from his wriggling teammates. Regardless of why he was doing it, wailing on the plant-bander was going to feel so very, very good, and he might not ever have another rollback. Might as well enjoy it.

Chapter Text

Banging on Witchfire’s door until she opened it was not how Sage liked to spend her time, and she wouldn’t have to do it so often if she’d just answer on the first knock, but, alas. The witch was still hemming and hawing at every crossroads. Nothing unexpected, just less than ideal.

She said nothing when she answered, just whirled back around, and returned to her living room, with Sage following behind. “The footage of Butcher on Temp V is impressive,” she said to Witchfire’s dye-damaged mane of hair. “But, he’s a bigger wildcard than Homelander. I don’t understand your assertion that we need him.” Ryan appears to be growing relatively normally. Surely, he can do anything Butcher can.

Grumbling low in her throat, Witchfire resumed her half-huddle in one corner of the couch, and very passive-aggressively marked the page of the book she’d been reading; Sage took her usual seat, in the small, somewhat battered chair that sat on the other side of the coffee table. “We have Ryan, that keeps Butcher happy. We have Homelander, that keeps Ryan happy. We need Butcher, cuz that keeps Homelander happy.”

Happy meant a lot of things there. But Sage resisted the urge to just believe her. There were always more options than you thought there were, if you dug, if you thought. Alternatives ran through her head, but she lacked certain insight here. Trying to sound the correct amount of condescending, she asked, “are you adamant that we cannot find another–”

“YES, SAGE.” For emphasis, Witchfire repeatedly jabbed her finger-gun at her temples, eyes huge in her olive-brown face. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen! Hurricanes ripping towns asunder, fault lines splitting open to swallow skyscrapers, comets punching holes in mountain ranges!”

Sage cut her off with an eye-roll. “Per your report, I’m aware of how intense their hormonal chemistry is.”

“Do not belittle the insanity I am forced to bear witness to! This isn’t love, Sage, this is absolutely not just hate-fucking, this is–this is an unprecedented weather phenomenon!”

“How long have they been sleeping together? Two months? Three? Again, I must stress that there are hormones at play here–” Can’t we fucking wait this out? Won’t he lose interest, like he always does? Grief wasn’t something the selfish idiot would know how to cope with: he’d want to hide from it, bury it, forget about it–

Unless you’re wrong, murmured something lurking in one of the darker corners of Sage’s mind. Gnat-like, the growing seed of doubt bounced around the inside of her skull, and each smack of its pinprick head triggered a different video clip of times she had, in fact, been wrong. Very, very wrong, and she couldn’t help it, couldn’t not play the moments back. The pattern was there, clear and scarlet as a stop sign, splashed across a string of her failures and miscalculations and damn stupid calls: she did not understand individual people nearly as well as she understood People as a collective.

Reminder successfully received, she dug her nails a bit harder into the arms of the chair and listened to Witchfire’s irritated sigh. “Uh. So, for the record. They’ve been weird about each other since way before the actual, literal screwing. Seeing Butcher beating the snot out of Soldier Boy was almost a bigger bonding thing for him than–whatever! Bottom line? I’m tellin’ you, without Butcher, you’re not gonna get what you want.”

Scoffing past the heaviness settling into her chest and stomach, Sage tried to force the tension out of both her face and her shoulders. “I’m pretty sure I am.” Before Witchfire could whine again, she added some butter to her next words. “Between you and me, how, exactly, could we not get what we want?”

Not budging, Witchfire glowered at her. The tattered black hoodie and faded jeans sapped several years from her face. Or maybe it was the petulance: everyone pouted the same as they did as toddlers, regardless of how old they got. “I’m not gonna make him take the V: he’ll know that it wasn’t actually his choice–” Now it was her turn to cut off a protest before it was actually voiced. “Yes, Sage, he will. I am not fucking lying, I am not capable of convincing a person that they–I can’t hide–it’s–” Frustrated, she rubbed a hand over her mouth, and then cursed a streak at the smear of lipstick on her palm. Glaring down at it, she spoke past messy lips. “Free will is a fuck of a thing, Sage. I cannot convince him that he chose to do it himself.” She abruptly got to her feet and shuffled off to the bathroom to wash her hand.

That left Sage on her own, glowering at the empty sofa cushion. Does that really matter? Can’t you just make him forget? Water splashed into the sink as she grabbed the book sitting abandoned on the table. Crooked mountain peaks loomed behind the icy white letters of the title, and her nose wrinkled as the plot came back to her in a quick, disappointing blur. “This one’s terrible.”

“I know! Shut up. Whatever.” The water shut off, and she returned, falling back into her seat with a truly tragic lack of grace. Face looking a tad raw from being scrubbed too roughly, she picked at her own nails. “It’s a bad idea.” A stub in her lip jiggled; she was probably worrying it with her tongue. “Using brute force to make him do it.”

“If Homelander is this dependent on him, why hasn’t he given Butcher the V?” She might find the depths of the human mind somehow beyond her total and absolute comprehension, but she knew beyond any doubt that Homelander did not respect bodily autonomy.

Purple hair swished as Witchfire shook her head. “Butcher has. Lines. If those lines get crossed, he will leave. Not many!” She added, catching the look in Sage’s eye. “But he has ‘em. We can’t make him cure himself, cuz, like.” She waggled her fingers in the air next to her temple. “He’ll implode, and even I take the fall for it COMPLETELY, he’ll blame Homelander. And that’ll be it, he’s not gonna play ball after that. Exact same thing happens if we talk Homelander into doing it: we’ll lose Butcher. He’ll stop being a ‘difficult asset’ and go back to being a giant problem. So if we want to use him as an emotional support animal, we gotta get the V in him another way.”

“Are you standing by your statement earlier; in the event Butcher does die, you are unwilling to take his place?”

“Unwilling? Yes. Oh my god, yeah. Sage, I cannot overstate HOW unwilling I am to take a shot at being his–”

“Bang-Mommy?” She could be flippant too.

“Naaaaah. Like. It’s accurate, but. If I wanted to be all dignified and professional, I’d say Person.”

There was the tiniest hint of something in the air when she said that, a barely-there connection to ensure meaning was fully conveyed: Sage felt the capitalization, felt the word’s status as a title, a role with defined duties and expectations. Jarring at first, especially since the witch often struggled to comprehend the exact content of her surface thoughts; but, after a few days, she’d adjusted to the mental asterisks Witchfire used in conversations with other Supes. Was starting to find them more convenient than intrusive, if anything.

Witchfire continued, still far too huffy and snide for Sage’s taste. Uppity was not a good look on most rodents, after all. “And as for being his Person? Unwilling isn’t as important as unable. I am unable to be what he needs, or give him what he needs. We tried that. It went bad. Real bad.”

“Yes, I…heard. I suppose I was hoping that things could…change?”

Witchfire was shaking her head before Sage fully finished speaking. “BAD,” she repeated, putting half a ton of weight behind it, and Sage grimaced.

Heard wasn’t necessarily an accurate word. More like she’d found the information several years ago. Bored one evening, Sage had let herself fall down a few different rabbit holes and ended up reading and re-reading the scant, classified notes pertaining to the messy situationship in question. For reasons the files had been frustratingly vague on, Homelander had arrived at the Avalanche team base in Colorado and disappeared into Witchfire’s room. At the time, this was somewhat routine: he’d been visiting her every few weeks for going on two years, so. No big deal.

Except that a few hours later, things went bad.

Bad like broke Witchfire’s femur with his bare hands bad, like torn part of her scalp off her skull bad, like she lost damn near every tooth in her head bad. More of his more expensive tantrums, too: besides, the witch’s hospital bills, and hefty hush fee the board paid her and the rest of her team, there was still the 2 million dollars worth damage Homelander had dealt to the Avalanche base. 2.799 million, to be exact, including laser blasts bursting two dozen pipes, multiple smashed tables and couches and walls, and the huge living room window that shattered when Homelander hurled team captain Archangel through it. She’d been repeatedly bringing her mace down on the back of his head, trying to beat him away from her barely conscious teammate. What she actually expected to accomplish, Sage had no idea.

All of that, Sage reminded herself, was a long time ago. And these times could become quite desperate at any moment. Especially with that virus fucking everything up, and she still hadn’t found the fucking Taipan, didn’t the witch realize that they were on a time-table, that she couldn’t be expected to make a vaccine herself–

With a short, sharp breath through her nose, Sage put all that aside for a bit, and considered the room past Witchfire’s head. Against the wall behind her was a brightly lit, vertical terrarium. Big, flat leafs hung off of and around a long, multi-branched section of tree limbs. Hidden among the green and brown was a flash of bright blue: Poecilotheria metallica, commonly called a Gooty Sapphire. Critically endangered. Skittish and prone to escape attempts. Venom non-fatal to humans but painful: delivered with long, vicious fangs that sank in deep.

Spider and set up had been delivered the previous morning. Ryan had been nearly as excited as the witch; from outside the door, Sage had heard him pleading with her to name it Smurfette or some such nonsense. Now, naming pets that could provide physical comfort and some sort of relationship was one thing: naming a spider was dumb.

Speaking of dumb. “How can you be that, certain? Even with your powers, you can’t…” Only rarely did she find herself grasping for words, and she gritted her teeth when none came. For the first time, she realized how many assumptions she’d made before setting out on this leg of the journey. Very few of the relationships at play had turned out to work the way she expected. But that was okay. That’s what she had the witch for, if said witch would stop being so pessimistic. “Explain to me why that is not a fixable problem! If you aren’t what he needs, let’s change what he needs!”

Bare feet hit the floor with a too-hard smack as Witchfire leaned forward, elbows on her knees, mouth a cold, straight line; under the carpet, the floor had cracked in two places, audible and flat with emphasis. “No.” Flat and final, one word. Zero room for argument. “The AMOUNT of work I would have to do? Extensive is really not an appropriate adjective! Full reno. Rip it down to the studs, hell, go PAST the studs, because the foundation is probably fucked too! It definitely smells like its made out of moldy cheese and old rags!”

“Laziness?” She should have known. The amount of ash and butts filling the coffee table ashtray, and the haphazard pile of shoes near the door, and the unfolded laundry on the room’s other chair might as well have been labelled pieces of evidence at a crime scene. “You’re going to doom our utopia before it’s ever built out of laziness?”

“More like reluctance to take an entire human being out of their own brain and put some other random bitch in there.” She held up one hand, wagged her fingers until her eyes fill with sparks and flickers. Green flames roiled and rolled between her messy lashes. “The dysfunction that you’re looking to mitigate and ultimately exploit is, like I said, a problem that goes down the foundations. I have been observing him non-stop for months, and have observed him for…for HUNDREDS of hours on and off for almost twenty years.” Contrary to popular belief, most honorary doctorates meant a great deal, and denoted an expertise no less unique than it was real. Witchfire’s hung in a too bright frame on the wall to Sage’s right, looking more defensive than proud.

“Furthermore, his interactions with Butcher now make up a really good portion of those observations. So, I can tell you with a high degree of certainty that this death, happening in the way it is probably gonna happen?” She mimed an explosion, waggling her fingers outward from the space on either side of her head, black and silver rings flashing. “To turn him into the kind of person that I could stabilize after THAT? We might as well make him functional on his own, turn him completely normal, cuz I’m already building him a new mind.”

“I don’t want him functional, Witchfire. I want him managed, and manageable, and useful to manage.” Sage clicked her tongue, purposefully being too loud. “We need Butcher, according to you and no one else; there’s no way you don’t agree that he cannot be allowed to die.” Was this really what was going to rob her of the fruit of her labor, two toxic landmines blowing each other up as foreplay? Witchfire just shrugged at her, noncommittal and unhelpful. “Oh for fuck’s sake. What’s your game plan, then? Just tell me, or, I swear, I’ll take a magnet to every cassette you own.”

“Stall.”

“...Excuse me?” Behind Witchfire’s head, the Gooty had perched in its web. Likely doing maintenance. Thankfully, she couldn’t see the threads clearly enough to start counting them. “What on earth do you mean by STALL?”

“I mean. He has Ryan. That’s, good. Real good. Between that, and me in my current role and–like, if he experiences no other grief ever, there’s like a 65% chance you’ll be able to manage him. For, you know, awhile. Maybe you can pull like a Maccabees thing and turn awhile into long enough. Shouldn’t be that hard, right?” She met Sage’s flat stare with a dry grin, most of her stoniness wiped away. “Yeah, you’re right. Someday, Stan Edgar will die. I am not prepared for that, Sage. No clue how I’m gonna get him through that without Butcher.”

“Who can? Step up, I mean?”

“No one,” Witchfire answered, almost nastily, and then instantly amended. “Starlight, maybe?” There was more doubt in her voice than anything else, and Sage refused to get her hopes up. “Maybe? I could–no. Not a good idea, forget I said it. She’s not gonna be up to it. Not after he’s had Butcher–” She paused. Tilted her head, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. “We could try to get Maeve back,” she said slowly.

When she noticed that Sage was blinking like a barn owl roused at high noon, she tossed out another silent FYI. Barely pausing to let her catch up with the Queen Maeve is alive thing, she continued: “that is honest to god our best bet, if Butcher’s dead. We drag Maeve out of wherever she ended up, and shove her right back into the place Butcher is currently filling. That might even restore his faith.” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling. “Which is good for us,” she added, finally dropping her eyes to look at Sage again. “Seriously, religious faith offered him both structure and comfort. And no! I will not put it back in artificially, don’t ask.”

Either way, they were going to need to force a dose of compound V onto one of Homelander’s lovers. Both options were problematic. “If we can’t get Maeve back? If she kills herself instead?”

Long purple strands tangled in her fingers as Witchfire toyed with her own hair and rolled that question around behind her eyes. “Um. No idea. None. She is honestly my last idea.”

Heartening. So, so heartening. “Uh-huh. And how bad will things get if he doesn’t have a…Person?”

“Probably very. Like–”

“He’ll wreck whatever I may have built by then,” Sage finished, and Witchfire shrugged but said nothing further, choosing instead to wait with one thick eyebrow arched. Fingers curling and uncurling on the arms of the chair, Sage chewed on her lip, and eyed Witchfire, lanky and timid and splattered in tattoos. She could admit that she agreed with Homelander’s assessment: the witch had graffitied herself, had damaged her special, special skin. Rather than dwell on the baffling choice to deface one’s own body like some common human grub, she pivoted. “So. What do we do instead? And don’t say STALL. What’s step two?”

Witchfire snorted. “I don’t work for you, Sage.”

Of course not. You, Wendy Fineheart, don’t really work for anyone. “Don’t play hard to get. If you weren’t on board, you’d have snitched already.”

Subtle needling noticed, Witchfire pulled her now bare lips back a bit to show Sage her moderately stained teeth. “On board with what?”

Frustration colored her voice as she allowed for a rare slip in her composure. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand me!” At some point, she’d leaned forward to grip the arms of her chair, and felt another surge of irritation when Witchfire refused to make eye contact. “The night you two met, the night you first tried to claw him away from Stillwell–”

“Was just trying to make a friend,” she muttered, a lie so blatant, she might as well have said Santa Claus killed Jimmy Hoffa.

“You saw him clearly. You saw the situation clearly, just like I do. He is a means to an end–”

Something that wasn’t anger flickered over Witchfire’s face, and she set her jaw. As though deliberately spiting Sage, she fell back against the back of the couch and pulled her legs back up onto the couch. “He also raised me from the shallow grave Hughie Campbell tried to leave me in. So. You know, there’s that!” She didn’t seem to know what do with her hands, kept shifting them around until she finally clasped them in her lap. Black polish flaked as she picked at her own nails; earlier, Sage had noticed the small, irregular scars cutting through her fingertips and the skin around her thumbnails, and was moderately pleased to have her resulting hypothesis confirmed. “I pay my debts, Sage.”

Quick math let her estimate how many potential arguments she had against that unbelievably childish attitude: between 76 and 83. Gut instinct guided her selection of one, and said gut maintained its 75% batting average. “So do this for him,” she countered, and Witchfire scrubbed a hand over her face again, this time making some of her rings click against her nose and eyebrow piercings. “I’m serious! Secure his future. Secure his son’s future. Don’t let all of his work and all of his sacrifices be in vain.” Saying that with a straight face was hard. Hearing it with one was probably even harder, but Witchfire managed.

Much more genuinely, Sage continued. “If we can’t keep him stable without Butcher, we might lose everything.” She let the sentence hang in the air until Witchfire crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her head down, like the self-conscious twerp she’d never really stopped being. Accepting that the witch still didn’t want to openly cooperate, she continued to state the obvious. “At this present time, you are, statistically, our best shot at neutralizing him. If it comes to that.”

Limbs barely twitching, Witchfire twisted up her lips into something that had too many angles to be reflecting one single emotion or thought. Then she wiped it away, and instead curved her mouth into one long, neutral half-smile; Sage felt a flash of something chilly and irrational sliding up her spine. Reminding herself that at least half a dozen studies suggested, strongly, that non-psychics reflexively found the presence of mind readers unnerving didn’t banish it nearly as well as she’d hoped.

“It won’t,” the witch insisted, voice not matching the vague menace in her face. “So, I think maybe we’re not discussing that.”

“We have to.” She can’t possibly be that scared. After what that disgusting thief did in Las Vegas, she knows what she can do to him she cannot possibly be that scared of him– “Before he got his son back, he was genuinely thinking about wiping out humanity! You, yourself, referred to the situation as He might go full Noah’s Ark but creepier and I am very scared about which version of livestock I’m gonna be.” For no real reason, she decided to make an attempt at imitating the witch’s cadence, and got a hard stare in response.

“I do not sound like that! And we are currently past that–” She uncrossed her arms to mime shoving something aside in mid-air. “And as long as he maintains a firm connection to Ryan–” She gently brought her balled fists together under her chin. “We are probably not gonna get there again.”

“But it will get…bad?”

“Very.” Before Sage could ask for clarification, Witchfire continued. “Like, remember the invasion of Iraq?”

“Ex-excuse me?”

Unfazed by the bafflement she inspired more frequently than anyone else Sage had met in years, Witchfire surged ahead. “Imagine if it was just that, over and over again, forever and everywhere. Like, even with Ryan and me around to stabilize him, he’s gonna–” She waved her hand back and forth, holding it flat like she was sawing through the air with her nails. “Flatten, places. Like. Like you know how he is like hella unpopular in Quebec? We are just not gonna have Quebec anymore.”

She said this as though it were a perfectly acceptable outcome. As though there was no scenario in which someone might need Quebec. Might have plans that involved the continued existence of Quebec. Sage didn’t, personally, but all the same. Preposterous. “For fuck’s sake, we are ethically obligated to discuss this scenario and what we are going to do–”

“Why is there a we?” Witchfire whined, and slumped over onto the couch. She threw both legs over one arm of the couch and crossed her ankles. “And don’t lecture me about ethics.” Past the back of the couch, the Gooty Sapphire had emerged from whatever hole it used as its home and was rustling through the foliage of its enclosure, looking borderline alien when contrasted with the rest of the apartment.

“There is a WE,” Sage said patiently, “because WE are going to rule the world. Once he’s done building a new one for us.”

“I’ve heard that before. I mean. Not that exactly, but, you know.”

“I’m serious. You make your father look like a joke–”

Witchfire sat bolt upright and rounded on Sage, eyes huge and more shocked than angry. Around the sides of her face, her hair was frizzing a bit, and in her quest to scrub off her ruined lipstick, she’d apparently run the water hot enough to get her mascara running. Just a tad, but enough to make her look disheveled. Sage looked back passively, recalling, suddenly and vividly, how fun it was to bother the classroom rats she had been tasked with caring for in tenth grade biology. Smart enough to take offense, but prevented, by their very nature, from actually retaliating. Slowly, incredulously, Witchfire asked: “Enlighten me. What’s the plan for managing Adolescent Armageddon when Ryan decides he wants revenge for that time we murdered his fucking father!”

Oh. Sage felt herself blinking again, couldn’t help the urge to tick her gaze away as she redid her math, worked the new variable into the equation. While that happened in the background, she filtered any and all haste from her voice, and asked, “He can’t be made to see reason? He loves his father, apparently, but he also knows that he’s deranged. Can’t you appeal to his decency, to his humanity?” Even as she proposed it, the futility of the plan felt obvious. Affection and love and possessiveness worked strange magic on the human mind, and not even Compound V could cure it.

Across from her, Witchfire confirmed her worries with a grunt. “There’s a reason you’re instinctively putting more eggs in the Mind Control Suicide basket than in the Overpowered Son Kills Overpowered Father basket.” She shifted restlessly, then sat up properly. “Could Ryan be convinced that killing his father is the right thing to do? Of course. Give me a week, I’ll do it.” She paused, and then amended. “Month. Give me a month. But he’ll only agree to it if he does it himself, and that will destroy him, Sage. I am nearly 100% certain that murdering Homelander will, one way or another, create a different problem in the form of Ryan.”

Several steps ahead, Sage grimaced, and snapped her eyes to Witchfire’s frustratingly neutral face. Telegraphing her irritation as clearly as she was able, Sage asked, “are we not right back to the solution of ultimately keeping Butcher alive? Listen, if we can avoid violence, I’m open to entertaining that.”

“Dumb idea, regardless. Violence, I mean. The stupid CIA couldn’t figure out how to kill Technobabble–”

Sage flapped her hand in irritation. “Don’t act all impressed with that, or whatever. I guarantee, your little…trifle? Distraction? Long con you’re in too deep with?”

Witchfire blinked at her. “Do you mean Kimiko?”

“The mute, yes. I guarantee, she would have given them the exact same problems. A good healing factor can do impressive things. A great healing factor can do downright obnoxious things. But if we can avoid violence, I agree that we should!” When the witch didn’t protest, she went on. “Happy men don’t want to run the world. You know that. Happy men want to retire and screw their bang-mommy and spend taxpayer money on the most worthless crap imaginable. If I can make him happy and out of the way, instead of dead but still causing me problems? Name your price. Blank checks, no terms, no conditions. Help me get to yes, Witchfire.” She was so close. She had been so patient, and so lucky, and so focused, and now, she was finally on the same continent of her goals, instead of entire worlds away.

“I have everything I could I possibly want.” Witchfire didn’t get through the entire lie before cracking up, the laughter short and bitter. “Maybe I don’t wanna run the world either! Maybe I just wanna move back home, get away from this Arctic hellhole.”

“Are you serious? You want, what? Military support to wipe out the Frys and–” She paused as Witchfire nodded, an odd smile quirked on her face. “Oh. You are serious. How do they still have a bounty on you? You’re in the Seven, you’re practically a Congress rep these days.”

“Sage. You are the smartest person on Earth. Do you really think the mob doesn’t put out hits on Congress Reps? I can’t set foot in Nevada, let alone in Clark County. Not unless I wanna get hunted like a fricking baby orca! Every methed out idiot and desperate gambling addict and nobody Stripper trying to make rent will be breathing down my neck, and the Frys won’t accept me payin’ them off, trust me, I have OFFERED.”

Stripper was a term that Vought supes from New York, DC, and LA used for their colleagues who were based in or around Las Vegas. A pejorative nickname, referring to a perceived fakeness, an assumed greed: the semi-sincere belief that any Supe from Vegas was a fame-chasing poser with screwed up priorities. If someone, say, Sage, pointed out that this could be said of roughly three quarters of all Vought supes, regardless of their city, the standard response was to insist that Vegas supes were worse, and therefore were beneath everyone else. Particularly them, the Supes who got to work in “real” cities. “Do you simply despise New York winters that much, or is there another reason you want to go back so badly? There’s nothing for you there.”

Another flicker of that not-quite-anger on her long face. “Nothing for me? It’s my fucking home.” When Sage remained unmoved, she visibly gritted her teeth and shoved some of her hair out of her face. “Why do you care why I wanna go back to Vegas? Maybe I realllllllly miss being able buy tequila at the crack of dawn! Maybe I wanna yell at the city council about whatever fucked up thing I most recently saw on Jackson Avenue! Maybe I think it’d be kinda funny to stand next to my own picture in the Mob Museum and wait for people to notice!”

Taking stock of her scowl and the hard set of her shoulders and the paling of her knuckles as she gripped her own knees, Sage feigned defeat and blew out a sigh, trying to sound like she was allowing the family dog finish the pancake it had stolen off the table. “Whatever you say.” This was something that she could deal with later; the point was, the witch had a solution. “Fine, done. Tell me what your oh-so-brilliant solution is, and I promise, I’ll pry you out of whatever demon deal you’ve locked yourself in.”

For a few seconds, it seemed like Witchfire wasn’t going to answer. But just as Sage was opening her mouth to “...We get somebody else to do it.” She let that hang for a moment, and Sage nodded slowly. Absently, she tapped one finger against the slightly fuzzy fabric of the chair, eyes sliding off to the side in thought. The witch continued, albeit a bit haltingly. “Somebody on his side, obviously. There is no one on our side who we will be able to like, trick into doing that.” She tossed out another silent footnote as she emphasized trick, let Sage understand as well as she did that whoever ultimately injected Butcher had to believe they thought of the plan on their own.

Weak ice shifted beneath her feet; Sage deferred to the more experienced hiker. “This can’t come back to us? No matter how…pleased, they are, with the results, eventually?” Credit wasn’t the concern, for once. Curiosity for curiosity’s sake always paid back in dividends: when asked correctly, every question would tell you something.

“So. Specifically? This cannot come back to me.” During the following pause, Sage sharpened her gaze on her face, tried to pick out every twitch and every blink. “Sage. This is…” Witchfire pressed her palms together. Closed her eyes briefly, and then spoke with glaringly false nonchalance. “Fuck. He is gonna. Be. So pissed, Sage. Somebody–” She opened her eyes, mossy hazel irises flame-free for now. Halfway sulking, she nearly snapped, “somebody betraying him like this? Robbing him of his death, and doing CRAZY damage to his self of self? He is going to–”

“Be very, very vulnerable,” Sage interrupted, not hiding her delight. Realization still fresh, she chewed her lip some more, and scratched at the chair’s fabric. That was quite good, actually. Butcher alive and keeping Homelander happy as a side piece/S&M bang-mommy was one thing. Having Butcher angry, and shaken, and betrayed, and looking for a new porch to curl up under was another. Instead of looking back at Witchfire, and her likely smug face, she eyed the haphazard stack of CDs and tapes piled up beside her stereo. Like nearly every other electronic Sage had seen in her apartment, the witch had covered it in stickers. Somehow, it had nail polish stains in multiple places.

“Who?” She asked after a moment. “The army medic?” A head shake from Witchfire. “Why not? I read the files–”

“Marvin’s already accepted it. And wants to respect the shithead’s wishes. Wrong kind of loyal.”

Sage guessed again. “Not Starlight, or the mute, right?”

Witchfire snorted. “Kimiko is genuinely the least likely person to do it. There is no universe in which she gives William The Human Oil Spill Butcher Compound V.” She thought for a few seconds and added, as if for her own amusement, “in a backwards kinda way, I think we could trick Starlight or Maeve into doing it out of spite.”

Interest almost violently piqued, Sage finally managed to stop counting and re-counting up the total number of sun-catchers dangling in every naturally lit space that could support a hook (it never changed: 15) and jerked her head back towards Witchfire. “Are you serious?” Again, she let her delight be obvious. Humor wasn’t beneath her, not by any means: if they had an actual chance of–

“Way too difficult,” Witchfire said. Her voice lacked both the gravitas and the remorse that should be expressed when breaking a friend’s heart like that.

“Fine, fine. Take the lazy route.” Instead of giving any energy to the witch’s ire, she considered their last two options. “Campbell, or the arms dealer?” Another nod, another eye roll, but this one wasn’t aimed at Sage. She picked at her own nails as Sage gnawed on her lip, which mostly pinned back the random sentence fragments she’d sometimes mumble to herself. Thoughts racing, she opened her mouth twice more without actually forming a sentence before finally giving up. Even more treacherous ice lurked between her and her ultimate goal, and she had had good reason to pick this particular hiker as her guide. Doing her very best to convey the minimal amount of due respect, she asked, “How?”

“Lots of ways,” Witchfire said, in the same tone she might use to confirm knowledge of an alternative route to the post office. “Honestly? Set the right mechanisms in motion, and their own psyches will do the rest of the work for us.” She pointed her index and middle fingers at her temple, and said, “and that Mallory person, the CIA whatever? Look, I’ve dug around in Butcher’s skull plenty, at this point. So, like, I’m pretty sure that she’s gonna be…helpful, here. I haven’t like. Seen her, or read her or anything, but, I don’t think she’s thinking any more clearly than Butcher is…” She trailed off, shrugging, and dropped both hands to her lap. “One way or another, she’s gonna be a significant factor.”

“Which one?” Sage pressed, not fully seeing why the witch was pivoting towards a semi-retired spook. “Campbell or–” She flapped a hand vaguely, still having fun pretending she didn’t know their names.

“Frenchie? Um. Honestly? That’s about…even.” Witchfire blew out a sigh, and scratched her scalp self-consciously, eyes on the carpet. Sage let her chew on it, trusting the witch to get there eventually. “I need to see Mallory. Like, see her see her. Talk to her, preferably! I think–” Shifting restlessly, she fumbled a lighter and a crumbled cardboard pack of cigarettes out of her right pocket. “I think, based on what I know about the people involved, we need to put that in her court. Give her the idea, and then have her pick who she trusts to do it.”

Ice cracked, threatening to give way under her feet. She missed something, somewhere. “Why? Is that, the worst betrayal? To Butcher, that would be the worst?”

Frustration twisting her mouth again, Witchfire shook her head, piercings flashing in the soulless lighting. “No, no, that’s not it, it’s–it just has to be Mallory.” Decisive at last, she nodded, seemingly to herself, and finally met Sage’s eyes. “Has to be,” she repeatedly, around the filter she had clamped in her teeth. Her thumb fumbled with the lighter’s flint. “Prying him away from Kimiko and those idiots, that’s, like, one thing, but–” Cigarette finally sparked, she paused to pull in a few lungfuls of acrid poison, and then finished her thought. “It’s different with Mallory. She has to be a part of this, or else his…attachment to her is never gonna stop being a problem.”

“And you can make her think this is her idea? You’re confident in this?”

“Like. 80% confident.” At Sage’s exasperated exhale, she went on the defensive. “I told you, I need to see her, in person, so I can read her! Can you make that happen, Sage?”

“Absolutely.” 95% confident. Just have to remind her of exactly how much of a bitch Hannah Fry made of him, with stolen powers she barely understood how to use. “Those things make terrible pets,” she added, nodding at the Gooty in its enclosure.

“Gee, thanks, Sage, I only have two decades of experience with domestic spiders, so, you know, I have no idea what I’m doing.” Eyes daring Sage to complain about the smoke, she fell further back against the back of the couch, and took a truly obnoxiously long drag. As if aware that it was being discussed, the eight-legged smear of sapphire crept further into view. “I’ve had three Chilean Rose Hairs, four Mexican Red Knees, and two Brazilian Blacks, okay? I wanted the fancy spider.”

Snorting, Sage resisted the urge to get up and inspect the thing more closely. 93 leafs were visible in the enclosure, and the spider had taken over 300 individual steps (visible) since she’d begun observing it on purpose. Critically endangered because the species wasn’t exactly abundant to begin with. Isolated to a small, heavily exploited forest in the middle of the knot of colonized scar tissue that India was currently reduced to, Poecilotheria metallica had a natural range of only 39 square miles. Dying out, and here was a perfectly healthy specimen, isolated in a tank, unable to breed and carry on its species. “You know, the pet trade is part of the reason they’re going extinct.” The WWF was kidding themselves: unless something changed in the next year, drastically, the Gootys were doomed in the wild.

“She’s captive-bred!” Witchfire snapped. “She’s like four generations removed from a wild catch!”

“Increased demand is increased demand, regardless of–”

“Whyyyyy are you pretending to care?” Witchfire asked, barely managing not to whine it, and that, frankly, was out of line.

“I care!” Sage snapped, and the witch’s hazel eyes widened a fraction. “Conservation is vital to the future we’re trying to build, and here you are, buying non-sustainable spiders and contributing to cancer rates.”

“If I promise to never, ever buy an endangered anything ever again, will you get out of my house and let me sleep?”

“No. I want to watch you feed her. Does she prefer grasshoppers or roaches?”

Groaning, Witchfire crushed her cigarette into the closest ashtray and rolled to her feet. Sage got up a bit too quickly, and the motion of it shoved the chair about an inch out of place. When she got to the six foot tall enclosure, Witchfire had already yanked a large thing of tupperware out from underneath.

“Neither,” she said, and eased off the enclosure’s lid. Startled by the noise, the spider back-pedaled into the hole she apparently used as her home, judging by Witchfire’s mumble of “yeah, yeah, hide in your house from the big scary thing that feeds you.” Gingerly, she dropped three or four live crickets into the enclosure, and then resealed the plastic tub and stashed it back into its proper place. “She likes crickets, and she likes moths. She’ll eat roaches, apparently, but like–” Witchfire pointed, and Sage blinked in surprise to see two grasshoppers perched further down the branches. “Fucking ignores ‘em. Will not eat the grasshoppers, even if they’re the only thing in there. The dude who sold her to me said so, and like. He was right!”

As the crickets hopped frantically from branch to branch, the Gooty went completely still, and then began to slowly skulk her way towards her web. Despite repeatedly reminding herself that a fear of arachnids was learned, not innate, and therefore something she could ignore, her stomach twisted oddly and something sour crept over the back of her tongue. Nothing on earth moved like a spider, not exactly, and the Gooty’s movements seemed exaggerated by its proportions. Unlike typical domestic tarantulas, her legs were slender and her hair short, and she had a longer, narrower body. Dashes of sunny yellow highlighted some of her knees. A beautiful thing, in a grotesque way, much like Butcher on that footage she’d salvaged from Vought’s cringe-worthy internal network. Deep thought he’d deleted it, and Ashley thought she’d actually deleted it, and Tek-Knight thought his copy of it was secure from prying eyes.

For no apparent reason other than bad luck, a cricket hit the very bottom part of the web. Slightly faster now, the Gooty continued her silent creeping down the asymmetrical, almost hammock-like web, towards the oblivious meal. “Breeder kept her for like, two years. Wanted to breed her but she was like, not feeling it, and wouldn’t stop cannibalizing her potential mates.” Witchfire looked pointedly at the grasshoppers at the bottom of the enclosure.

Okay. Well. At least that was funny. “Her face is…truly hideous,” Sage said, in genuine admiration. Finally close enough, the Gooty threw herself forward and buried the cricket under her hairy, metallic body. ¾ of an inch long, her fangs were visible to the naked eye as she brutally executed the hapless insect. Prize limp and liquifying, the Gooty retreated into her hiding spot, but continued to stare out as she presumably devoured the thing. “Disgusting,” Sage said. She’d suspected it would be. Good to have her imaginings confirmed. “When do you feed her again?”

“Weeks. You know it’s gonna be weeks. She’s a spider, Sage.”

“Will she eat the rest of the crickets?” The other three were chirping in various parts of the enclosure.

“Yeahhh, probably. She’s big, she needs more than one cricket. Tomorrow?” Witchfire stooped slightly to make faces at the spider, who stared back from her den, looking vaguely baffled. “Yeah, she’ll probably eat another or two tomorrow.” Glancing at Sage’s face, she groaned. “Dude. Get your own spider.”

“No. As I said, she’s hideous. I’d rather bother yours.”

“Get out.”

“Not until you show me the paper trail proving she’s not wild caught.”

“If I can’t?”

“I’m complain. A lot. And show you some very, very upsetting educational materials from the Indian Wildlife Defense Council.”

“...I’ll find the stupid email.”

Temporarily reverted to a younger version of herself, Sage put her hands against the glass and lowered her head until she could meet the spider’s tiny black eyes. “Would she take a cricket from my hand? She wouldn’t, right?”

“Sage, do not put your hand in there. She WILL bite you.”

As Witchfire disappeared into her room to find her laptop, Sage crept a hand towards the enclosure’s lid. Any conclusion stated that confidently prior to an actual experiment demanded to be tested. Besides, she was genuinely curious what getting bitten by a spider that size felt like.

Slowly, she lowered her hand into the enclosure.