Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the second month of lockdown, the Tower had splintered into zones of influence.

There were no treaties, no boundary maps, no landmines—not yet. But the warning shots had already been fired. Homelander’s shower had suddenly begun spraying ice-cold water, and his entire collection of high-end grooming products had mysteriously been swapped for a gray bar of soap stamped SANITARY RATION TYPE B. The gym’s audio system—once loyal to classic rock—now blasted "All Star" from sunset to sunrise. The Tower’s smart TVs defaulted to grainy black-and-white WWII propaganda reels, where everyone pointed at maps and said "Reich" every other sentence. The ventilation system coughed out thick clouds of Homelander’s signature cologne—Alpha No. 1. And just to tie it all together, the Wi-Fi password changed daily: yesterday it was CapesAreForNancies, today SoldierWho?, and tomorrow, most likely, youbothsuck.

One act of sabotage remained unsigned. Someone had spray-painted a Sartre quote along the hallway of the twenty-second floor: "Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself." No one stepped forward. Ryan, passing with a granola bar and headphones, glanced at the quote, gave the faintest smile, and kept walking.

Still, the frontlines had been drawn.

Homelander controlled the upper levels—the security center, the digital analytics hub, and his personal livestream studio, from which he broadcasted daily episodes of Homebound Salvation—psychological counseling for the lonely and desperate, punctuated by ads for antidepressants and Freedom Yeast™ sourdough kits. He called it "healing America, one emotionally vulnerable viewer at a time." Soldier Boy called it "serial murder under a ring light." In between broadcasts, Homelander maintained a baking vlog, manically grinning at the camera as he shaped rye loaves into the form of eagles. Ryan regularly received curated video playlists from him, with titles like "When You Truly Love Your Family—You Don’t Leave,” "How Not to Disappoint Your Loved Ones in Difficult Times,” or "They Gave You Everything—Will You Betray Them Now?"

Soldier Boy had taken the gym, the lounge, and the basement bunker. There, he did fingertip push-ups, pummeled a punching bag he’d named Yuri—after some Soviet drunk he respected for "endurance"—and held long, heartfelt monologues with a laminated photograph of Ronald Reagan. He left his hideout only after a full decontamination ritual involving a homemade sanitizer made from vodka, diesel, and peppermint mouthwash. According to him, it was the only mix potent enough to kill pathogens and that lingering cloud of Alpha No. 1. Occasionally, he’d fire up the ham radio to challenge Ryan to a sparring match, or to recite selections from his self-published pamphlet, Dirt on the Elbows, Honor on the Boots. Naturally, no one had asked him to.

Ryan lived in the demilitarized zone in the middle, and remained the only resident of the Tower with permission to move freely between sectors—a privilege he mostly chose not to exercise. His days passed in drafting, recoloring, and cross-indexing study notes, listening to epidemiology podcasts, and making regular but unsuccessful attempts to meditate with Headspace. Something always interrupted—a dull boom from below as Soldier Boy tested another "training grenade," or the soft ping of his phone followed by a message: "Hey champ, it’s been 43 minutes since your last pulse and BP reading. Don’t make me come check on you."

By all appearances, no one was preparing to start peace talks, so all Ryan could do was keep his head down, hold onto his sanity, and do everything humanly—and inhumanly—possible to keep their pandemic fortress from going up in a cloud of testosterone and sourdough starter.

Sometimes he wondered if coming back to the Tower had been the worst mistake of his life.

He’d given in after Homelander showed him a series of videos: dramatic clips of Supes convulsing in Walmart parking lots or coughing up liquefied lungs in "Free Quarantine Centers." All of it was set to weepy music and a voiceover straight out of an end-of-the-world ad campaign. In hindsight, Ryan had started to suspect it was all staged. CGI. Or at least a deepfake.

But of course, it wasn’t just the videos. Homelander put on a full performance—with fake tears, melodrama, and a tirade about family values. The only role he’d ever played that came remotely close to Oscar-worthy. Pity Ryan had been the only one watching.

"This is our chance, son. To fix everything. To be a real family. Isn’t that what you want?" A trembling hand on his shoulder. A pause for effect. "You know I love you."

And how convenient it had been, at that moment, to leave out the fact that this "real family" also included a defrosted Grandpa still shell-shocked from World War II, Russia, and a brief stint with Butcher.

While Homelander delivered his fiery monologue, Ryan quietly ran through a mental pros-and-cons list. It didn’t look good. His alternative quarantine shelter had been a CIA bunker—fluorescent lights, foil-wrapped oatmeal, and deeply sympathetic agents who genuinely believed the fate of America and the world rested in his hands. Just char his dad to a crisp.

That thought had kept him up at night—and cemented his belief that if he survived the pandemic, going child-free wouldn’t just be a personal conviction. It would be a safety precaution. A preemptive strike against the kind of legacy that came with heat vision. Just in case those same agents ever decided to take him out of the equation the same way.

So yeah, Ryan had to choose the lesser evil. Or the greater one—depending on how you looked at it. A temporary, strategic, ethically questionable decision. Survive the apocalypse first. Figure it out later.

At the very least, the Tower hadn’t yet demanded he kill someone to prove his loyalty. And he was safe. Well, physically. Most of the time. Not counting Grandpa, who sincerely believed that regular trauma from blunt-force objects built character. Or Dad, who considered a pulse of ninety-eight beats per minute the first sign of infection and potential treason—prompting an immediate response of full biohazard lockdown, enforced quarantine, and forty-five minutes of affirmations from Resilience Begins with Obedience. And, of course, the fact that the Tower itself teetered on the edge of systemic collapse, locked in a drawn-out war over whose ego was bigger.

Hard to believe, but their “family cohabitation” had started off relatively peacefully. Almost civil. They even managed to have dinner together once—and didn’t resort to fists or lasers until dessert. But a day and a half in, it became clear: reconciliation was impossible.

The Great Discord began with a war over the thermostat. Homelander insisted on sixty-eight—he’d read somewhere that cold slowed aging and promoted “mental clarity.” Soldier Boy wouldn’t tolerate anything under eighty, claiming he’d frozen his balls off fighting commies and now deserved to live in a sauna. Both tried to outwit the other by adjusting the system at night, until the upper floors iced over and the lower ones turned tropical.

From there, everything went downhill.

The only time they still gathered together was the Thursday meeting of the “Peace Assembly”—held in the former Seven conference room, now a designated neutral zone. It was a ritual, supposedly to discuss shared domestic concerns. In theory. In practice, it was a Cold War summit, with Ryan voluntarily acting as general secretary, mediator, translator, and therapist all in one.

But he didn’t complain. He arrived on time, nodded to Dad—who often camped in the room overnight just to avoid ceding the head chair to Soldier Boy—sat in the middle, opened his laptop, and started taking notes. Soldier Boy would show up fifteen minutes late, post-workout, wearing a face that screamed “who dragged me here,” and immediately start sharpening his hunting knife on his nails.

Today, though, something was off. Because instead of Dad, Ryan was greeted by Grandpa—in boxers, a wide-open robe, and holding a coffee mug big enough to drown a squirrel in. His face gleamed with dangerous enthusiasm.

“Hey, Junior,” Soldier Boy rasped. “You ever hear of this TikTok crap?”

Ryan’s chair creaked.

“My name is Ryan.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soldier Boy waved him off and took a loud slurp of coffee. “TikTok. Bunch of runts twitchin’ to music. I watched one, now the feed’s spitting out fifty more. Goddamn algorithm. Chinese zombotron.” He yawned into his fist. “Back in my day, men only danced if there was a jukebox and a gal worth sweating for. Now it’s just beanpoles in leggings everywhere. Can’t tell who’s a fairy and who just skipped breakfast. What’s wrong with your generation, Junior?”

Ryan tilted his head, studying him. Bags under the eyes. Robe askew. Half a liter of coffee in one hand.

“You… watched TikToks all night?”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Nah. Met a chick yesterday. Total bombshell. On some new app. OnlyGrans. We spent the whole night chatting. And not just chatting, if you catch my drift.”

Ryan almost smirked. “You mean… OnlyFans?”

“Nope. Grans,” Soldier Boy corrected seriously. “Only the vintage stuff. Classy dames. Yarn, pies, full bush. Salt of the damn earth. Not like those silicone goblins with Botox in every hole.”

Ryan snorted, looked away, and tried to banish the mental images already clawing into his brain.

“So, what, you're in love?”

“Hell if I know,” Soldier Boy muttered, taking another savage gulp. “But she’s… she’s special. Calls me her little Eisenhower. Knows Morse code. Field-strips an AK in eight seconds. When this damn lockdown ends, I’m gonna find her.”

“And then what?” Ryan asked innocently. “Move into a bunker and livestream anti-vax sermons over shortwave?”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth to answer but didn’t get the chance.

The door hissed open, and Homelander appeared on the threshold—hands behind his back, a stars-and-stripes mask on his face, and an unnaturally taut smile beneath it. His gaze flicked from Ryan to Soldier Boy with a look that screamed, You're clearly up to something.

“Good morning, Father. Good morning, Son,” he said with forced cheerfulness, the kind that would make any houseplant instantly shed its leaves—if there’d been even a single pathetic ficus in the Tower. Something was clearly wrong. And someone was about to catch it. Possibly both of them.

Soldier Boy winced slightly. Ryan tensed.

Homelander stepped forward, trailing a scent of cedar, metal, and faint antiseptic.

“Well,” he said in a honeyed tone. “Hope I’m not interrupting your little chat. What’s on the agenda today?”

“Geriatric pornography,” Ryan blurted.

Homelander ignored that.

“Milk,” he said flatly, with icy precision.

Pause. Ryan and Soldier Boy exchanged a glance.

“Sorry, what?” Ryan asked cautiously.

He’d long suspected that his dad was dancing on the edge between eccentricity and a full-on break—and that sooner or later, the edge would vanish. It looked like “sooner” had finally arrived. A flash of Butcher came to mind. Grace. A tingle at the back of his neck.

The smile twitched under the mask.

“Milk,” Homelander repeated—louder this time, eyes narrowing at Soldier Boy. “From a cow. With an udder. Milk. Gone. Vanished. Evaporated.”

A pause. He took one measured step forward.

“Saw you this morning,” he added, voice syrupy. “Moving… let’s say, like someone whose joints suddenly started working. Calcium surge?”

Soldier Boy didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, then reached out—deliberately—and set his mug on the table with a dull thunk.

“You accusing me of something?” he said, low and slow.

Homelander rolled his eyes and gave a short laugh.

“Accusing? Of course not. We’re family. Just making observations.” He stepped closer. “It’s just… every time I open a fresh carton of milk, it’s gone by evening. And you… you’ve been looking unusually spry. And—how should I put this—moisturized.”

“Why would you think it’s me, you goddamn junkie?” Soldier Boy roared. “There’s another mouth in this Tower, in case you forgot. Maybe Junior here finally grew a pair and tried something that didn't come from a nut.”

“It's Ryan,” Ryan said, eyes still on his laptop as he added milk to the agenda. “And no, I’m still vegan.”

Homelander flinched. The smile faltered, then stretched even tighter.

“Still?” he echoed, like Ryan had just confessed to joining a cult. “Since when are you…?” He trailed off and glanced at Soldier Boy. “Did you know?”

“Sure did. We’re family, like you said,” Soldier Boy beamed. “No secrets between me and the kid. We’re trench buddies now. One sleeping bag, firelight chats, tears under the stars. I’d even trust him with my shield. My dear grandson.”

“Really?” Homelander hissed. “Maybe start by remembering his name?”

He shut his eyes tight, pinched the bridge of his nose, and fixed his gaze on Ryan—just as the boy started calculating the distance from his chair to the exit. His voice turned oily.

“Buddy, you're not doing this for clout, right? That’s so passé. You can eat real food. No one’s gonna judge.”

“It’s not clout,” Ryan said calmly. “It’s ethics. I decided I don’t kill living beings anymore.”

The second the sentence landed, silence fell. Two sets of eyes locked on him, their expressions hovering between horror and personal betrayal.

Homelander spoke first. His smile had started to crack at the edges.

“Oh. Wow. Okay. That’s… that’s wonderful. Noble. Making these big, important decisions all by yourself, huh?”

Ryan shrugged. “Well, someone had to.”

“Mm-hm,” Soldier Boy muttered. “Gonna be a hell of a war. Guess I’ll take back that shield. Let the hippie carry his pamphlets.”

“We’re not at war,” Ryan interjected, trying to steer the conversation back. “We’re in a Tower. Where someone stole Dad’s milk. So I suggest we get back to the agenda.”

Soldier Boy whistled and leaned back.

“Too late, Junior. The duck’s already quacked.” He eyed Homelander. “Next thing you know, he’ll be telling us he doesn’t respect fracking or nuclear deterrence. Who the hell are you raising here—some goddamn Antifa in sneakers?”

Homelander pressed his lips into a line, then forced the smile back into place.

“Buddy,” he said softly, placing a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Let’s talk this through calmly. You don’t mean that you…”

Bang. Soldier Boy slammed his foot down and stood.

“That’s enough,” he barked. “This can’t go on. This Tower needs discipline. Rules. Order. Chain of command. Not—” he jabbed a finger at Homelander’s hand. Homelander froze, then reluctantly withdrew it.

“Rules?” Homelander hissed. “We have rules. And if you want command, march back to your damn barracks.”

“Yeah, like: whatever little Lord Fauntleroy says, goes?” Soldier Boy scoffed. “You see the kid’s not listening to you anymore, right? Zero respect. And you—clucking around like a hen. Pathetic.”

Ryan frowned. “I respect gravity. And epidemiology. But two grown men who won’t talk because of a thermostat? Not so much.”

Soldier Boy pointed at him. “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying. Someone here needs a good spanking. Preventative measure. And if no one else will do it—I will.”

He started around the table. Homelander moved to intercept, circling the other side of Ryan, eyes glowing red.

“If you lay a finger on him,” he warned, “I’ll atomize you and feed the bits to the Deep’s fish.”

Soldier Boy chuckled, fists already clenched.

“Ha! That’s the ass-kicking you never got, and why you think you’re God. Too bad it’s too late now.”

“It’s not too late,” Ryan muttered—and immediately regretted it.

Homelander slowly turned to him. His eyes dimmed, then flickered with a cloudy gleam—like fogged-up glass behind them.

“What did you just say?” he asked softly, and that softness sent a chill down Ryan’s spine.

He swallowed. “No... Nothing.

“No, no,” Homelander took a step closer, his voice turning papery. “Say it again. I really want to hear it.”

Soldier Boy snorted and grinned with satisfaction. “There it is. Meat’s on the grill.”

Ryan cleared his throat and exhaled shakily. “I just said that… maybe if even one of you stopped projecting your daddy issues onto every household argument, we wouldn’t be sitting here like three morons.”

Soldier Boy stepped forward heavily. Homelander crossed his arms. Ryan glanced at the door and knew: he was screwed.

“You’re on fire today,” Homelander smirked. “Little Jean-Paul Sartre over here.”

“I’m just… calling it like I see it,” Ryan muttered. “And... for the record, I still don’t have great control over the lasers. I panic—and goodbye, New York. Which, depending on traffic, might not be a loss.”

“Is that a threat?” Homelander squinted, voice dropping to a whisper.

Soldier Boy snorted. “Look at that—the egg’s threatening the chicken.”

Homelander glanced at him but said nothing. Then he turned to Ryan and gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“You know… maybe he’s right. We really do need rules.” He turned to the laptop. “Add it to the agenda for the next meeting. Section: Discipline. Subpoint: Foundational Values.”

He turned back. His voice dropped to a graveyard register. “But for now… let’s return to the real threat.”

A pause.

“Milk. That. We. Don’t. Have.”

Soldier Boy let out a guttural noise, like someone had just punched him in the kidneys.

“We’re seriously fuckin’ talking about this?”

“More than seriously,” Homelander nodded, with the expression of a mourning congressional speaker, slowly pacing toward his chair. “Because this isn’t just about milk.”

He made a dark, dramatic pause.

“Yesterday, I checked our lockdown food stockpile. What did I find? Crates of tofu. Bags of lentils. Buckets of chickpea paste. Smoked jackfruit—with rosemary, for fuck’s sake. Ten types of vegan cheese with names that make your mouth want to self-destruct: Firm Bumble. Cashew d’Amaretto. Crime-Free Parm. And—drumroll—only soy milk.”

His voice dropped to a sinister whisper.

“No eggs. No steaks. No bacon.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Soldier Boy croaked, sinking into the chair next to Ryan and turning the color of oatmeal. “This is a terror attack.”

“Unfortunately, it’s our new reality,” Homelander snapped. “Keep this up, and by next Tuesday we’ll all sprout breasts, develop a gluten allergy, and someone’s gonna start a fermentation podcast.”

“Oh God…” Soldier Boy whispered, staring into space. “It’s like Normandy. But worse. Time to activate the Emergency Protocol.”

“We’re already under Emergency Protocol,” Ryan noted calmly without looking up. “The rest is part of Vought’s 2030 Climate Strategy. Carbon-Neutral Superheroes. Leadership. Balance. Cashews.” He looked up at Homelander. “Dad, you signed off on it. You even flew to Nebraska for the climate summit. Did a promo video—‘Minimal Emissions, Maximum Patriotism’. They had a logo shaped like a leaf. In the form of a shield.”

Soldier Boy turned to Homelander slowly. “What the fuck did you do.”

Homelander smiled stiffly. “It was PR. Just PR. No one thought those bureaucrats would actually—”

“I swear to God I will turn you into organic compost,” Soldier Boy bellowed, “and bury you in a coffin made of compressed eggshells and goose feathers! You’ll be carbon-neutral with a negative ass and a zero footprint—except the wet one!”

Ryan leapt up, arms out. “Hey! Stop! Enough! We’re in the Tower! We’re in crisis! Can we, just once, try to solve a problem like civilized people?”

“Agreed,” Homelander nodded unexpectedly. “I propose a task force. The Committee for the Restoration of Dairy Sovereignty. Members: myself—Supreme Representative for Udder Diplomacy. Grandpa—Commissioner of the Strategic Cheese Reserve…”

“And you,” Soldier Boy cut in, fixing Ryan with a cold glare, “Acting Officer for Humanitarian Oversight of Alternative Liquids.”

“I just don’t drink cow milk,” Ryan muttered. “That’s not a criminal offense.”

“For now,” Homelander said grimly.

“But things can change,” Soldier Boy added, pulling out a knife and sharpening it against his boot.

Ryan exhaled. “Seriously. I don’t see how meat-dairy hierarchy and threats of re-education solve anything. Why don’t we just… order food. Online.”

Soldier Boy scoffed. “Brilliant, soy-boy. But there’s a catch. Every delivery service banned us. Because someone”—he jabbed his chin toward Homelander—“not naming names, decided to go full Mortal Kombat on the couriers. Now every delivery is either a pool of bio-smoothie or a customer service complaint.”

Homelander shrugged. “They looked suspicious. One of them sneezed, and his breathing had… irregular localization.”

“He said hello, you psychopath!”

“I was protecting my son! I’m not letting some potentially infectious PostMate with unstable thermoregulation into the Tower!”

“You latex-clad germaphobe, you absolute—!”

“Enough!” Ryan cut in, already exhausted. “I’ll go. I’ll get the groceries myself. I’ll buy whatever you want—bison sausages, filet mignon soaked in the blood of your enemies. I’ll wear a mask. In and out. One foot in the air like a ninja.”

“Absolutely not!” Homelander snapped upright like a flag in a hurricane. “Last time you went outside, I had to send a search party. And that was before the pandemic.”

Ryan blinked. “I was looking for your cereal.”

“For ten days?!”

“They discontinued it. I had to fly to the factory in Connecticut. Talk to the manager. Convince them to restart the line…”

Homelander squinted. “You know I know when you’re lying.”

Ryan surrendered. “Okay. You want the truth? On the way I stopped by a comic shop. A bookstore. A dog shelter. And—briefly—Argentina. But I did bring back the cereal.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Homelander said flatly. “It’s not safe.”

Ryan stared at him. “Last week you let Grandpa hunt me with a flamethrower because he said it ‘develops reflexes.’”

“And I stand by my methods,” Soldier Boy interjected proudly.

“Those were controlled conditions,” Homelander added.

“I fell down an elevator shaft and dislocated a vertebra.”

“And now you’ve got perfect posture.”

Ryan rubbed his temples. “Fine. I have another idea. Radical. Revolutionary. So progressive Stanford would give it a grant and a podcast.”

“I’m listening,” Soldier Boy perked up.

“Drone delivery.”

“...The hell?”

“Drones,” Ryan explained patiently. “App, cart, pay—and in twenty minutes, fresh meat on your balcony instead of a dead courier. Sterile, contactless, futuristic. Milk and sausages falling from the sky like manna—but without Moses, the desert, or the guilt.”

“And why the fuck are you only telling us this now?” Soldier Boy rasped.

“Because no one listens to me around here unless I'm lasering something,” Ryan replied dryly. “Dad, can I have your credit card?”

Homelander lit up instantly, rummaging under his cape. “Of course, buddy. Buy whatever you want. Even… even something without palm oil. We’re responsible consumers now.”

Ryan almost said like psychiatric care for the both of you, but held it in. Too early for the final boss.

At that moment, Soldier Boy dug into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out a crumpled bill. “Here. In case your cyber-courier still respects cash."

Ryan looked at it. “This is a Canadian twenty.”

“Don’t forget the bacon. Real bacon. I want a crying pig and a flag on the packaging.”

“And milk,” added Homelander, sliding the card across the table. “Whole. Like freedom.”

“Alright,” Ryan muttered, already placing the order. “Decision made. Agenda closed. If nobody else has complaints about dairy fascism or the nut conspiracy—this meeting is adjourned.”

He rose, laptop in hand, tired and composed. “See you next Thursday. Or whenever someone declares martial law over yogurt again.”

Somewhere in the corner, a timer beeped—a reminder for the “Seven Breaths for the Homeland” breathing exercise. Soldier Boy and Homelander growled in unison.

Chapter Text

Homelander found Soldier Boy in the gym. The latter, already warmed up, was bench pressing a homemade barbell—two decommissioned World War II bombs, welded together with a handle shaped like an eagle clutching a flag in its beak. The gym speakers, after enduring a thousand lifetimes of "All Star", finally surrendered and exploded in what experts might call a mercy killing. Now, a battery-powered portable radio stood nearby, blaring Johnny Cash.

The room held a steady temperature somewhere around eighty degrees. It reeked of melting plastic, overheated protein powder, and Soldier Boy’s homemade sanitizer, distilled in a protein shaker.

“Father,” Homelander said solemnly, stopping beside him. One hand behind his back, the other gripping a thick folder of printouts—clutched like it contained custody termination papers.

“If you’re not here to apologize for that chest rash your cologne vents gave me,” Soldier Boy muttered, not looking up, “you can go fuck yourself.”

“Ryan watched a film,” Homelander announced darkly.

The bar clanged onto the rack. Soldier Boy sat up, wiped his face with a T-shirt soaked through with sweat.

“So?”

“Call Me by Your Name.”

“This some kind of spy crap?”

“No.” Homelander spoke like a man about to utter something so spiritually violating it might kill whatever was left of him inside. “It’s about two young men. Who... explore their feelings. Against the backdrop of an Italian summer. Wine. Bicycles. Pastel shorts. The atmosphere... gently blurred, with a touch of decadence.”

He opened the folder and pulled out a color printout.

“Here. The peach. In frame. A lot of attention. Very… symbolic.”

Soldier Boy squinted.

“It's a peach. You havin’ a stroke?”

“He doesn’t eat it,” Homelander hissed. “He uses it. For… stimulation. You get what I’m saying?”

Soldier Boy nodded slowly. “Ah. So Ryan fucks peaches now?”

Homelander’s head snapped up. “No! Not Ryan, you prehistoric moron! The character. In the movie. That Ryan watched. All the way through. Alone. Unsupervised!"

He sucked in a breath, eyes glassy with manic righteousness.

"And what’s worse—” Homelander’s voice cracked, just a hair, “—he called it ‘beautiful.’ Beautiful! That’s the word he used! Do you understand what that means? Collapse. Everything I’ve built—all the values I’ve instilled—dissolving in a warm bath of Eurotrash emotions and fruity perversion.”

“Pfft.” Soldier Boy scoffed. “At his age, I was locking myself in a broom closet with a Voentorg catalog and a bottle of ethanol-based lube. Turned out just goddamn fine.”

“This is systemic decay,” Homelander snapped, slapping another sheet onto the bench. “First he goes vegan. Then—look at this: a chart. Socks—forty-seven percent increase in consumption. Shower time—plus eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds. There are spikes. Anomalies. Disturbing ones.” He froze, eyes blazing. “And now—soft-focus, fruit-forward homosexual erotica. And do you know who’s to blame?”

Soldier Boy took a sip from his shaker and squinted.

“Alright. Go on. Surprise me.”

“You!” Homelander barked. “With your bedtime stories about ‘brotherhood in the trenches’ and ‘how you and MacArthur spooned for warmth during a mustard gas blizzard in the Ardennes!’”

“Hell of a night,” Soldier Boy smirked.

“Exactly! And now Ryan thinks male intimacy is some kind of poetry! You put that crap in his head!”

“Oh, screw you, Captain Creepshow,” Soldier Boy growled. “I told him: lift heavy, eat meat, don’t trust Canadians. That’s it. If the kid’s got a thing for peaches now, that’s on you and your weird little neurosis. And seriously—you’re in his browser more than he is. Making spreadsheets about sock turnover and shower duration. You need to be locked in a broom closet till the voices tap out.”

"It’s not about peaches!" Homelander snapped. "It’s about parental guidance. We have a duty to step in before he starts moisturizing his cuticles and demanding gender-neutral pronouns. He needs to understand his obligation—clearly and without confusion: to carry on the bloodline through high-fertility, genetically stable, ideologically aligned Supes of American origin. Preferably blondes. Or would you rather our legacy ends to the sound of soft piano music and the scent of lavender lotion?”

"The longer I sit here, the more I think it never should’ve started," muttered Soldier Boy. "But fine. I get it. I’ll talk to him. Tell him about the week I spent trapped under an avalanche with three Norwegian nurses and a crate of brandy."

"No!" Homelander winced. "No nurses. No brandy. And for the love of God, no war orgy stories. We’re going to do this the right way. Together. At next Thursday’s session. We’ll prep a presentation. We’ll explain everything he needs to know… about proper impulse direction."

“You want us to sit him down and explain how to crank it?"

"I want us to give him a proper puberty education seminar," Homelander corrected. “You’ll handle anatomy and historical context. I’ll cover the psychology. Healthy boundaries. Emotional bonding. Self-regulation.”

“What if we just show him Top Gun?”

“Are you insane? That movie is ninety minutes of sweaty homoerotic tension dressed up as aviation patriotism. I’m trying to protect the boy, not trigger a phase of tantric ambivalence.”

Soldier Boy blinked, frowning.

“Wait, it’s not about jets?”

“It’s about Tom Cruise’s tank top,” Homelander hissed. “And the shower scenes. And the volleyball game where guys leap into sunsets like they’re contractually guaranteed to climax every time lens flare grazes a nipple.”

Soldier Boy shrugged.

"Whatever. It’s got F-14s and a solid soundtrack. And ass slaps are part of the brotherhood. You’re just touch-starved and projecting.”

Homelander shut his eyes tight.

“This is a turning point. If we don’t intervene now, in a year he’ll be running a blog on queer experimentation and brewing mugwort tea.”

Soldier Boy sighed and flipped through one of the printouts.

“My old man just kicked me in the ass and said, ‘The army’ll sort you out.’”

Homelander nodded grimly.

“Vought gave me an eighty-slide presentation on how abstinence sharpens laser focus. One of them was literally titled ‘Semen as a Threat to National Security.’ Now do you see what I’m getting at?”

“He’s gonna cry,” Soldier Boy concluded. "Maybe bolt."

“He won’t bolt,” Homelander cut in. “If he tries, we activate Operation Young Patriot: doors locked, Wi-Fi replaced with intranet featuring four approved websites, morale-boosting documentaries, and three daily sessions of mandatory Family Circle. I’ve planned for everything. Everything.”

***

As soon as Ryan stepped into the conference room for yet another session of the “Peace Assembly,” he felt the trap snap shut.

Dad and Grandpa were already inside, beaming with suspicious conspiratorial glee. Homelander stood beside the projector, hands clasped behind his back in full commander mode. Soldier Boy was leaning against the wall, gnawing on a chunk of jerky. The screen cast an ominous bluish glow. Across it crawled the words: “The Hero’s Journey: Love, Duty, and Sexuality.”

Ryan froze. Some ancient part of his brain tried to pivot his body back toward the door.

“Hey, buddy! There’s our hero!” Homelander greeted him in a tone that was suspiciously gentle. The smile was so toothy you could get lost in it. “Come on in! Grandpa and I prepared something… important for you.”

“This is the Peace Assembly,” Ryan reminded them. “I emailed you the agenda last night.”

“Peace is a hippie fantasy,” Soldier Boy grunted. “What this country needs is clarity." He squinted. “What’s that in your hand?”

“A smoothie,” Ryan said, taking a sip. “I was gonna bring you one, but it’s made with soy milk. And you said soy tastes like estrogen and French surrender.”

“...Peach?” Homelander asked, voice suddenly low.

“Uh… yeah? Why?”

They exchanged a look.

“Take a seat,” Homelander nodded and clicked the remote. Ryan sat down reluctantly. The first slide flared to life showing Timothée Chalamet staring pensively at a lake.

“We’ve noticed,” Homelander began, “that your media preferences have… evolved.”

“Is this because of a movie?” Ryan asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with good cinema. Especially American. Based on moral clarity. And political certainty.”

“And boobs,” Soldier Boy added. “Big, shiny ones. On women who believe in their country.”

Ryan discreetly pinched himself under the table, hoping to wake up.

“Look, Junior,” Soldier Boy continued, “we just wanna help you out. We know what it’s like nowadays—soft music, TikToks, tofu. But you’ve got a big future involving leadership, war, and inseminating women with reliable genetic capital.”

“Which brings us…” Homelander clicked the remote again, “to the next slide.”

On screen: a Venn diagram—“Love,” “Duty,” and “Reproductive Endurance.” In the center: a smiling nuclear family superimposed over Mount Rushmore, framed by an eagle, with fireworks exploding in the background.

“Sex isn’t about peaches. Not about dancing in the rain. And definitely not about strolling through Tuscan vineyards. It’s about responsibility. Genetics. And patriotism.”

“And survival,” Soldier Boy added. “Say you’re freezing your balls off in the Ardennes. Only one option—warm yourself against a buddy’s body. That’s not gay. That’s tactical thermoregulation.”

Homelander’s cheek twitched slightly.

“We’ll… circle back to that.”

Next slide: a giant peach with a red X over it.

“This,” Homelander announced solemnly, “is a symbol. Of emotional instability. Overripe decadence. And compromised fiber.”

“It’s just a fruit,” Ryan said.

“That fruit’s seen some shit,” Soldier Boy muttered.

“We just want to make sure you have all the necessary information,” Homelander said gently, clicking the remote.

The screen lit up with a graph titled: “Masturbation Index (MI): Ryan B.”—complete with alarming arrows, danger zones, and disturbing little icons.

Ryan’s soul left his body.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS?!” he shrieked, jumping up. “YOU MADE A CHART?!”

“Several,” Soldier Boy replied calmly. “My personal favorite: ‘Mood Fluctuation Correlated with Suspected Ejaculation Events.’”

“You’re both clinical cases!” Ryan clutched his head. “You should be locked in a concrete cell with no windows, no Wi-Fi, 24/7 chess commentary and nothing but MREs for food!”

“Sit down, champ,” sighed Homelander. “This is for your own good. We just want to… have an adult conversation.”

“And ask a few clarifying questions about that spike in your MI right after the movie,” added Soldier Boy. “You know, the one with Italy, longing, and forbidden fruit.”

Ryan buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my God. I hate you both.”

“There was a spike?” Homelander flipped through a stack of printouts, frowning. “Here it is. Minute twenty. Second viewing. Goddamn peaches…”

“It was a homework assignment! For film history! On the school platform!”

“You rewatched the fruit scene,” Homelander hissed. “Twice. In slow motion.”

“I was analyzing the cinematography! And lighting!”

“Mhm.” Homelander exhaled sharply. “Either way, it’s time for a talk. Man to man. We want to pass down our experience. Our wisdom.”

“Pretty sure the CIA offered me the option with less psychological damage.”

“Be grateful,” Soldier Boy added. “I got a knife, a New Testament, and a warning: ‘If you cry in front of a horse, kill yourself.’”

“The knife would be enough,” Ryan said darkly. “Can’t you just email me the slides and we all repress this like a normal trauma? And delete those charts!”

“No no, champ,” Homelander beamed with a fatherly smile. “This is an important stage. You’re growing up. Your body… is changing. You’re starting to feel impulses.”

“Please don't say anything.”

“This is perfectly normal,” Homelander continued undeterred. “Self-love is a natural reaction to internal biochemical signals.”

“Exactly,” nodded Soldier Boy. “You wanna crank it like a howitzer at midnight—that’s your patriotic right as a free citizen of a sovereign nation.”

Homelander gave a solemn nod. “What Grandpa’s trying to say is—we support you. We even… encourage personal growth through mindful, tactile—”

“NO!” Ryan shouted, clutching his ears. “If I hear ‘self-love’ one more time, I swear I'll laser a window into the stratosphere!”

"Hey. No need to be embarrassed," Homelander said earnestly. "At your age, I had no one. First time I shot a load, I thought I cracked the space-time continuum."

"Oh God," Ryan whispered.

Soldier Boy nodded knowingly. "I thought I was having a stroke. Ran six miles just to forget what a boob looked like. Didn’t help." He sighed. "Anyway. Time to talk birds and bees. It’s simple. You like a girl—you buy her a steak, call her ‘pretty lady,’ and if the stars align, she’ll jerk you off behind the soda fountain."

Ryan shut his eyes and rubbed his face. "I know how sex works. School covered it. Can we not?"

"Don’t listen to him," Homelander said with a warm smile, locking eyes with Ryan. "Sex isn’t about soda fountains. It’s about love. And love is beautiful. It’s when you meet someone who accepts your uniqueness, submits to your strength, and recognizes your total superiority."

Soldier Boy snorted. "Are you serious right now? Real love, kid, is when you and your buddy sit knee-deep in dysentery, eat expired rations, and still share your last stick of gum. Because nothing brings men closer than NATO-issue diapers."

Ryan blinked. "How is that remotely related to—"

"That is intimacy!" Soldier Boy barked. "That’s trust, brotherhood, and a shared case of trichomoniasis. Not whatever cupcake-frosted crap your dad’s been preaching while kneading dough on his baking livestream."

Homelander’s eye twitched.

"You’ve crossed a line," he growled. "Don’t talk to him like you’re family. You don’t even remember his name."

"Of course I do! Uh… Ringo?"

"Ryan," Ryan said flatly.

"Knew it started with an R!"

Ryan shot to his feet.

"Okay. This has been... deeply scarring. I’m going to line my room with zinc panels, set up a firewall, and repress all this in alphabetical order."

"And remember!" Soldier Boy called after him. "Never stick your dick anywhere you wouldn’t put your toothbrush!"

The door slammed.

Homelander turned slowly to Soldier Boy.

"Next Thursday. We try again. I’ll prep didactic models. And flashcards."

"And I’ll dig up that ‘Sex and the Frontline’ brochure. There’s a whole chapter on frostbitten genitals. With illustrations."

They sat in silence for a moment. The room grew still.

Homelander picked up the smoothie Ryan had left behind, took a sip—then grimaced.

"Ugh. Soy. Tastes like my tongue joined a union."

Soldier Boy lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing into the distance. "It always starts with soy. Then it’s granola. Then it’s a ceramic mug that says ‘Empathy.’"

Homelander rubbed his face wearily. "He’s gonna start a podcast. I can feel it. He’s already composing the jingle: ‘Hey, this is Ryan. Today we’re discussing boundaries and sensitivity in the age of post-heroism.’"

Soldier Boy nodded. "Worse would be goat yoga."

"Or naked debates."

"Wanna watch Top Gun?"

"Only if we skip the volleyball scene."

"Then what’s the point?"

They looked at each other. Slowly. Defeated.

"Put it on," Homelander sighed. "But if I see one nipple in a lens flare—I’m cutting the power."

Chapter Text

Things were grim. And getting worse by the minute. Ryan felt it in his gut as he lay flat on his back, staring at the sterile ceiling of his deluxe containment suite. Realistically, he had no more than twenty-four hours to live. Generously, maybe twenty-six—if his immune system found a miracle or Homelander got distracted by a mirror. And in his short life, he hadn’t done much. Especially not anything that wasn’t pre-approved by the Vought PR department.

And it all started with Zoe.

They’d been texting since the start of the pandemic. Talking about movies, fake news, vaccine side effects—gills, magnetism, 5G weather control, and sudden cravings for celery. But mostly, they talked about who they could’ve been in another life. One where the Vought logo wasn’t stamped onto every cup. Zoe told him how the Red River kids found ways to sneak out of their lockdown. They called it “mental health breaks.” Dumpster karaoke, night parkour in industrial zones, gas station raids in search of chips, spicy peanuts, and any trace of a reason to live.

Ryan listened to every story and vibrated with envy—literally. Sometimes so hard it triggered the sanitation alarm and launched the ventilation system in case of spontaneous combustion. His cortisol spikes routinely activated the virtual assistant, who, in The Deep’s voice, initiated emergency breathing therapy: "Inhale... exhale... you are not alone. Well, technically alone. But supervised. Inhale..."

The pandemic showed no sign of ending. And yet all his peers seemed to be out there, somehow partying, living, breathing—and not turning into infected puddles. Meanwhile, he sat in his sterile tower like an exhibit in the Museum of Quarantine Delusions: contactless, isolated, compliant.

He’d almost decided to run away—until he googled R0 values and viral loads, and the idea fizzled. Then fully died when he imagined Homelander discovering his disappearance and methodically burning through the U.S. map using GPS coordinates.

That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

Because Ryan wasn’t the only one losing it. Soldier Boy was circling the drain too. His descent featured failed TikTok routines set to the Rambo II soundtrack, rants about “real masculinity,” and a growing obsession with glitter. Watching from above through the floorboards with his x-ray vision, Ryan began to feel what, in another life, might’ve been called male solidarity.

At some point, Soldier Boy invited him for another sparring match. But instead of a fistfight, they ended up playing “Salvation Bingo.” The rules were simple: each player picked a buzzword Homelander was guaranteed to say in the next Homebound Salvation broadcast. When your word came up—you took a swig from Soldier Boy’s flask. The contents, he claimed, weren’t alcohol. “Just a tonic,” he said. “Half V, half Truman-era cologne. Sugar-free, obviously. I’m not a monster.”

Ryan briefly wondered what would kill him first: the virus, paternal wrath, or this cocktail. Still, for that round, he picked “real America.” Soldier Boy went with “family.” Who won? No one remembered. By act three, both of their faces were starting to melt a little. But their victory dance went viral and landed on TikTok’s trending page under #PatrioticBlackout.

And then the local apocalypse began.

Homelander saw the TikTok—and proceeded to go through all five stages of grief in one evening.

In anger, he burned down the gym where Soldier Boy trained, sparing not even Yuri.

In denial, he rewatched the clip twenty-four times, doing frame-by-frame analysis with notes like, “He’s not smiling—that’s a muscle spasm.”

In bargaining, he spammed Ryan with fifty-seven messages in a row, ranging from passive-aggressive guilt trips—“Just tell me: what does he have that I don’t? Because I don’t dance? Because I’m too busy protecting this country and your life?”—to full-on psychological landmines like: “You don’t want to be a hero. You want likes on remix clips. Fine. That’s a choice. But guess what ends up in the history books.”

In depression, he recorded seven different intros for the next episode of Homebound Salvation, each more melodramatic than the last: “Sometimes, the ones you love... choose Darkness. But you save them anyway. Because you are the Light.”

He never made it to acceptance.

But he did make it to a punishment disguised as bonding: a five-hour marathon of The Brave and the Just: A Homelander Anthology, where he muted the original audio so he could personally voice all his own monologues. Every fifteen minutes, he’d hit pause, turn to Ryan with radiant pride, and ask: “What do you think my eyes symbolize in this scene?” Or: “Did you feel the pain here? Or just the strength?”

By the end, Ryan was staring at a blank screen and seeing himself in it. Crying.

After that, “mental health break” became a medical necessity. So when Zoe messaged, “What if we just met up? Just us two?”—Ryan didn’t even try to say no.

Seizing the moment—while Soldier Boy was in the lab brewing a fresh batch of sanitizer and Homelander, wearing the face of a martyred saint, was kneading cinnamon roll dough for his vlog—Ryan quietly slipped out the window.

They skated, roasted marshmallows to Rage Against the Machine, and swapped memes—freedom, in its purest form. Then the rain came pouring down, and Ryan had no choice but to head home. He flew in through the window soaked to the bone, shivering, but blissfully satisfied: the escape had gone unnoticed. No sirens. No laser-eyed silhouettes patrolling the Manhattan skyline.

He went to bed in peace.

And woke up with a terrible sense of doom. Sore throat. Burning forehead. Sticky skin. A quick self-diagnosis confirmed: not a Supe-virus. Just a regular cold. Something completely mundane, like seasonal flu. That brought some relief. He still had three days till Thursday—plenty of time to recover.

But fate had other plans. Specifically: boredom, weaponized in the form of a chronically unstimulated WWII veteran.

The door exploded inward, ripping the lock off the frame, and he stormed into the room.

“Hey, kid!” he barked from the doorway. “How about we hack Homebound Salvation and mess with the captions? Or add fart sounds over it—I got an app now!”

He suddenly stopped, narrowing his eyes at Ryan curled up on the bed.

“What the hell happened to you? You look like someone microwaved you, froze you, microwaved you again, and then left you in the back of the fridge. What’s up, Junior? Time to dig a hole?”

Ryan shook his head too hard, dizzy sparks flashing in his eyes. And then it came: baby carrot. Maybe broccoli.

Soldier Boy recoiled like the thing had crawled out of Ryan, and stared at the orange fragment with the intensity of someone spotting an active biohazard.

“I’m fine,” Ryan croaked, sliding back onto his pillow. “Just the flu.”

Soldier Boy was already fiddling with a tactical radio.

“Nancy, come in. Code Red. I repeat: Red. The kid’s infected. Patient Zero confirmed. Over and out.”

“No—no,” Ryan rasped. “It’s not a Supe-virus. Just regular flu. Classic. The 2003 kind. I’ll drink chamomile and sleep it off.”

“Uh-huh,” Soldier Boy grunted, now somehow in a gas mask and gloves. “That’s what they said in ‘Nam too. Day one—herbal tea. Day three—three dead priests and a goat with diplomatic immunity.”

Homelander appeared in the doorway wearing something that clearly aspired to be a hazmat suit but looked more like a pool-cleaning jumpsuit. His face was hidden behind a plastic shield. One look at Ryan—and he turned pale beneath three layers of bronzer.

He lunged forward, but Soldier Boy grabbed his elbow and yanked him back.

“Oh no. No—no—no,” Homelander muttered. “One hundred and two degrees. He’s glistening. He’s vaporizing disease. First it was the peach movie. Then TikTok. Now—cellular decay. You’re disintegrating at the molecular level, Ryan!”

Soldier Boy casually slapped the shield. “Get it together, Nancy. This is quarantine, not Broadway.”

“It’s just the flu!” Ryan yelled. “And that movie had nothing to do with it!”

“You wish,” Soldier Boy growled. “You let peach perversion into your soul, and your immune system collapsed under the weight of European values. Total chromosomal failure. I bet you’re already doubting the dollar.”

Ryan wanted to explain that DNA doesn’t change from watching movies—and that if it did, he’d have edited his entire genome by now. But he didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes.

“I’ve had this before,” he mumbled. “Just the flu. Not a Supe-virus.”

No one was listening.

“We need to isolate him,” Homelander declared. “Antiviral chamber. Lead-thread bedding. Infrared showers. No soy—cow milk only. Three doses of Compound V daily.”

Soldier Boy placed a solemn hand on his shoulder. “It’s too late, Nancy. He’s gone. Only one option left—burn the kid.”

“…What?” said Ryan.

“WHAT?!” said Homelander.

“Tactical thermal sanitation,” Soldier Boy explained, matter-of-factly. “Low heat. Through foil. Slow roast. Burns out the virus. Bakes in discipline. Classic Korean frontline procedure. I’ll grab the flamethrower.”

“I am not letting you roast my son like a goddamn chicken nugget!” Homelander snapped.

Soldier Boy nodded thoughtfully.

“You're right. Open flames could vent the virus into the ducts. Too risky. Switching to Plan B.”

Ryan had just started to relax. Mistake.

“Lasers,” Soldier Boy muttered. “Fast. Precise. No odor.” He nudged Homelander with his elbow. “You’re up.”

Homelander blinked.

“Up for what?”

“You read the Bible, right?” Soldier Boy snorted. “Book of Genesis. God tells Abraham: ‘Crisp the kid.’ Abraham doesn’t whine. Doesn’t ask for a second opinion. He just preps the altar and gets the lighter. Mission-first mentality.”

Ryan almost said, “That’s not in Genesis,” but figured it wouldn’t help.

“You think you’re God now?” Homelander asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I think when you’re given an order—you follow it. Laser first, interpret scripture later. It’s a test. Come on, son. The Homeland’s counting on you. Make America sterile again.”

“Hold on,” Homelander said, squaring his shoulders and glaring at Soldier Boy. “I’m the only one who decides who gets lasered around here. I don’t take orders—I give justice.”

“I’ll laser both of you if you don’t shut up and get out of my room!” Ryan shouted, voice cracking. He tried to fire—something jolted in his chest, his eyes flickered an anxious red. The room fell silent. The flicker in Ryan’s eyes faded like a dying fluorescent bulb in a janitor’s closet.

Soldier Boy grabbed Homelander’s elbow and gave it a grim shake.

“You saw that? He’s already losing powers. Virus is eating the V from the inside. We’re past the threshold. What more proof do you need?”

Homelander turned to Ryan, tilted his head, and... paused. In his eyes—Shakespearean tragedy. In his voice—a late-night commercial.

“So... totally hypothetical, no pressure... but what if I gave you, like, a quick medical graze? Just a teensy bit. Gently.”

“WHAT?!” Ryan bolted upright, panicked. "Oh my God!"

"Exactly," Soldier Boy nodded, pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "God."

“Are you actually being serious right now?!” Ryan groaned. “You’re planning to roast me alive?!"

“Whoa there, champ, easy,” Homelander smiled. “I’d set it to the absolute minimum. Just shave off the virus. Like a crème brûlée. You won’t even have time to scream.”

“And if you’re still symptomatic by morning—full internal sweep,” Soldier Boy nodded.

“You’re gonna execute me?!” Ryan croaked.

“Listen, sport,” Homelander cooed, “if you’re infected, this is honestly the most humane, high-efficiency solution. Swift, nearly painless.”

“And biblical,” Soldier Boy added. “Especially if you aim for the gut.”

“Let’s do this, champ,” Homelander said gently, raising a plastic riot shield. His eyes glowed like two emergency exit signs.

Ryan's life flashed before his eyes. Mostly PowerPoint slides about civic duty, and one blurry memory of Homelander weeping at the smell of apple pie. He had about five seconds to not get medium-rare'd by his own father. Facts were useless. Logic, dead. He needed something stronger. Something that hit harder than a flamethrower. Something… paternal.

“Dad—wait! I need to tell you something,” he blurted, panicked.

“What now?” Homelander blinked. The glow flickered off.

“I’m just… so grateful. For everything. For how much you care. Especially when I’m weak. Or sick. You’re my protector. My strength. My… dad.”

Homelander blinked. Again. His eyes dimmed. His voice glitched. “Oh… kiddo…”

“God damn it,” Soldier Boy hissed. “It’s already in the neural tissue.”

“I’m not afraid of the virus,” Ryan continued solemnly. “I’m afraid of losing you. I need you.”

“He… he said he needs me…” Homelander choked.

“Don’t listen to him!” Soldier Boy shouted, gripping Homelander’s shoulders. “That’s not your son—that’s the infection talking!”

“Don’t listen to him!” Ryan shot back. “He’s just a bitter, paranoid boomer with a war fetish! He wants us apart because no one wants him!”

“Maybe we could… bake cookies?” Homelander said quietly. “For the vlog. Matching aprons.”

“I already wrote the tagline. And the script. And a teaser trailer. ‘Baking the American Dream—together!’”

“Ooh—or ‘Sprinkled with love, stuffed with freedom!’” Homelander lit up, pulling a notepad from somewhere.

“Yes! Or ‘Flour on our hands, pride in our hearts!’”

“What if we do a weekly cookie stream?” Homelander said, starry-eyed. “Alternate aprons. Branded slogans. ‘Family First. Frosting Second’… ‘Love You to the Oven and Back’… ‘Because Nothing Says Homeland like Homemade’…”

“‘I Don’t Need Superpowers to Love You,’” Ryan added, softly.

Soldier Boy stared at them. Then gagged. Then vomited on Homelander’s boots.

Homelander didn’t notice. He stood there, hands to his chest, rapt with joy.

“That’s it. Final decision. No lasers. Ryan goes into quarantine. He just needs time. He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”

“He’s a carrier,” Soldier Boy croaked. “And a manipulator. He apron-bombed your heart, man. Now it’s all just peach fallout.”

Chapter Text

The antiviral chamber was a glass cube—and Ryan was starting to feel like a side character in The Truman Show. Or The OA. Or maybe Squid Game—minus the budget, plus actual threat. By the end of this lockdown, one of the three men in the Tower was going to make it out alive. And judging by the current stats, it wasn’t looking great for him.

He lay under two lead-lined blankets, breathing slow and steady, like they taught in Resilience Begins With Obedience (four stars on Vaudible—one docked for "mild cult energy"), and doing his best not to spiral over the fact that his immune system might fail its one shot at divine intervention.

Beyond the glass, the red-white-blue blur of Homelander’s cape carved laps through the corridor. Hour two and counting. Then he finally parked himself by the glass and opened a box of cupcakes shaped like white blood cells—whipped up mid-anxiety spiral. Supposedly for morale. Realistically, for the vlog. And possibly as moral leverage.

“Everything’s fine, Ryan,” Homelander said, voice low and buttery. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing’s out of control. Nothing at all. You’ve got me.”

Mutually exclusive statements, Ryan noted. Also statistically incorrect. But he kept his mouth shut and his eyes open. Ideally until morning. Or unconsciousness. Whichever came first.

“I checked out your apron ideas, by the way,” Homelander added. “Some of them are… mm. Quirky. ‘Emotionally Glazed’?”

“It’s for Gen Z,” Ryan mumbled into his pillow. “Kind of a bold, post-irony, quarantine-core thing.”

Homelander tilted his head, unconvinced. “Now these ones—‘60% Frosting, 40% Stockholm Syndrome’ and ‘My Trauma’s Preheated’—that’s a no. You really want people thinking you’re… not happy here?”

“It’s just a phrase,” Ryan said. “Like when people write ‘eat me’ on a sugar cookie. It’s not a cry for help. Usually.”

“And you crossed out '#BlessedToBeHisSon,'” Homelander added, his voice lowering, a little wounded. “That was a strong one. Real. From the heart.”

Ryan exhaled—long and pointed.

“If it means that much to you, use it,” he said. “Just don’t fry me with your eyes. And maybe ease up on the emotionally symbolic pastries.”

Homelander nodded solemnly. Smiled. Not with his eyes—just the usual polite curvature of mouth.

“Okay, champ. If that’s what makes you happy.”

A pause.

Ryan closed his eyes slowly.

And please don’t frost my coffin, he thought. Or livestream the funeral prep.

“Hey—so I did a little brainstorming,” Homelander said, dreamy now, in full brand visionary mode. “Came up with an idea for how we can spend some quality time once you’re feeling better. Something more impactful than that TikTok where you and your granddad were doing that little combat-twerk to Imagine Dragons.”

“That was a patriotic dance,” Ryan muttered, not opening his eyes.

“Sure it was. But we can top it. You and me? We’re already a brand. Family-friendly. Values-driven. Merch-ready.”

“Well… you did put my face on an apron. So yeah, I guess.”

Homelander lit up. “Exactly. See? It all connects. Now hear me out: an NFT collection based on high-res scans of your antibodies, each one comes with a digital certificate signed in trace amounts of your plasma. High utility, high inspiration. We call it ‘Viral Virtue.’ It’s educational and monetizable. Two birds. One immune system.”

“It’s the flu,” Ryan said flatly. “Just. The. Flu.”

“Of course, buddy,” Homelander nodded gently. “But that doesn’t mean your journey isn’t meaningful. We could even do a docuseries. I’m thinking Bubble Boy: The Last Hope. Or Heirborne: The Viral Redemption of America’s Son. Just spitballing.”

Ryan sighed and covered his eyes with his arm.

“As long as you don’t show my stool samples.”

“Why not?” Homelander blinked, genuinely puzzled. “That’s the emotional core. People want truth. They want to see the struggle. And you—you’re a symbol now. Our little soldier on the viral front line.”

He had his phone out now, front camera flipped.

“Let’s record something real quick. Doesn’t have to be heavy. Just look in the lens and say, ‘Even in isolation, I never felt alone.’ Or improvise! If you can tear up a little, that’s great. Adds pathos. Algorithms love that.”

Ryan groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows. At the far end of the hallway, a shadow slipped across the glass.

Soldier Boy. Flamethrower in hand.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, striding closer. “Knew it. So what are we doing? Tick-tock—the deadline was twenty-four hours. Kid’s still not sizzling. What happened to that officer’s word you were so proud of, huh?”

Homelander sprang to his feet.

“He’s improving,” he said quickly. “Fever’s down, vitals stable, drank milk. Through a straw, granted, but it counts. That’s a win.”

Soldier Boy snorted hard.

“Soy milk. That’s not a win, that’s a war crime. And you’re clearly panic-baking again, Nancy. That six-pack’s about to burst through your foam suit. Look at him—” he jabbed the flamethrower toward the cube. “Kid’s paler than your teeth in night vision. He’s spent. One sneeze and this place becomes ground zero.”

Of course I’m spent, Ryan screamed internally. I just sat through 1,657 apron slogans—from "Flour to the Fatherland" to "Baked But Not Broken". Then survived a pitch for antibody NFTs based on my bloodstream. And I haven’t slept, because someone in a cape kept doing ominous laps around my pod all night, like he was waiting to whisper, “Time’s up. Into the oven, cupcake.”

“We’re not incinerating him,” Homelander said firmly. “Yet. He’s got color. Look—cheeks. There’s a glow.”

“Yet?” Ryan rasped. “After all this? After I agreed to '#BlessedToBeHisSon'? That was supposed to mean something!”

Homelander placed a reverent hand to his chest.

“That hashtag means a lot to me, sport. But you know what means even more? Data. And we don’t have the labs back yet.”

“By the time your lab nerds fax anything,” Soldier Boy growled, “he’ll be dead and spraying pathogens like a spore grenade. Is that your idea of love?”

“My idea of love,” Homelander said through gritted teeth, “does not include slow-roasting my only son.”

“Well, my idea of love includes having a pair. Not hiding behind frosting slogans and emotionally manipulative merch drops.”

Ryan dragged both hands over his face.

“Maybe you two could—I don’t know—shut up? It’s the flu. Just. The. Flu. Not a Supe-virus. Not the plague. Not... airborne socialism. I need sleep. And tea. With ginger. Not a tactical cremation meeting.”

Soldier Boy perked up, voice suddenly bright. “Listen, we could give you a Viking funeral! Boat, fire, drums—noble send-off. I'd even tear up a little. If I, y’know, did that sort of thing.”

Ryan sneezed. Loud. The sound echoed off the glass like gunfire in a fishbowl. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“God. Please let that sneeze take at least one of them with it.”

Soldier Boy planted the flamethrower against the floor and leaned on it like a crutch.

“Alright,” he sighed. “We wait a little longer. Though I’d already be reaching for the barbecue sauce.”

“To make good use of the time,” Homelander chimed in, “I propose we move the Thursday Peace Assembly to right now. Since we’re all here. And nobody’s leaving.”

“Especially since the kid might not make it to Thursday,” Soldier Boy added, lazily stroking the trigger.

“I actually have a perfect topic for discussion,” Homelander continued with a spark in his eyes. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately. Self-growth stuff. You know Toxic Parents by Susan Forward?”

He threw a loaded glance at Soldier Boy.

Ryan sat up like he’d been electrocuted.

“You took that?! That was my only copy! I annotated that thing!”

“I needed to vet it,” Homelander said coolly. “Make sure it wasn’t pushing any dangerous narratives. Like personal boundaries. Or early separation. Don’t worry—we’ll circle back to your literary deviancy. But first, I want to share something.”

He folded his arms across his chest.

“That book really opened my eyes. Gave me clarity. Perspective.”

He paused dramatically.

“We are wounding each other’s inner children.”

Ryan blinked slowly. Possibly not out of shock—maybe just to stop his eyeballs from rolling too hard.

“We’re not emotionally present for one another. We don’t create space for vulnerability. We don’t listen. We bury our feelings in sarcasm, violence, and…”—he glanced at the cupcakes—“...carbs.”

“Wow,” Ryan muttered. “That was almost an insight. Almost.”

“Admitting the wound is the first step to healing. That’s what they say. And I say it now too.” Homelander went on. “Which is why I’m proposing a new initiative. The Family Circle. New format. New ritual. Every morning. Instead of aggression—honesty. Instead of violence—vulnerability. Instead of flamethrowers—”

“—hugs?” Soldier Boy cut in. He squinted, tightened his grip on the weapon. “You come near me with ‘vulnerability,’ I swear to God, I’ll torch this therapy bunker so hard, they’ll feel it in 'Nam retroactively.”

Ryan exhaled, shut his eyes, and murmured into his sleeve:

“I miss the CIA bunker. At least they had safe words.”

Homelander wasn’t listening.

“Okay!” he declared, solemnly swiping his tablet. “Let's begin. Welcome, brave souls, to Session One of our sacred Family Circle. Think of it as a spiritual cleanse. I’ve put together a list of deep, soul-healing questions. To help us connect. Like a real, mature, emotionally literate nuclear unit. Dropping it in the group chat now. We’ll take turns reading.”

He looked up, radiant.

“And just a reminder: I’m tracking your pulses, micro-expressions, and blink rates. So—no lying. Family Circle demands radical transparency.”

He gave them that smile—the one that usually came right before the threats, and right after the cameras cut.

“Father? You’re up.”

Soldier Boy squinted at the tablet. “‘If I died heroically saving your lives, how would you honor my sacrifice,’” he read flatly. “You came up with this shit yourself?”

“It's multi-layered. Timeless”, said Homelander proudly, puffing out his chest. “Personally, I’d open a foundation. ‘Soldier House.’ You could get therapy there. Or just do push-ups to 'All Star.' No judgment.”

“All donations go to OnlyGrans,” Ryan muttered. “Empowering mature creators.”

“See?” Homelander clapped. “We’re healing already. Honesty’s flowing. My turn. ‘How would you react if I accidentally erased a city off the map?’”

“Which city?” Soldier Boy asked, suddenly curious. “'Cause I got a list. One’s got a golf course and a yoga festival. The other sells coffee made from fungus and oat foam.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Ryan hissed. “He’ll put it on a mood board.”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Okay. Well... I’d say it was an act of divine judgment. Or a masculine rebirth.”

“Mmhmm.” Homelander nodded thoughtfully. “I like that. Ryan?”

Ryan buried his face in a pillow.

“Please. Vought’s got a playbook. I ghost the algorithm, flee to Iceland, launch Not Actually His Kid. Cry a little, journal a lot, sell weighted blankets. Hashtag resilience.”

Homelander gave a tight little smile.

“Very funny. It's your turn, champ."

Ryan sighed and checked the chat.

“‘What’s your favorite memory of us that hasn’t happened yet?’” he read. “Great. We’re in the hallucination phase.”

“Oh, easy!” Homelander lit up. “Carving the turkey. Our Nobel Peace Prize. Co-authoring a children’s book. Or when you finally say ‘I love you.’ Sincerely. On camera.”

“My favorite memory,” Soldier Boy muttered, “is the day you finally man up and accept your destiny...”—and flipped the ignition on the flamethrower. “Next,” he growled. “Let’s see… ‘What’s your biggest family fear?’”

“Dad starts a podcast,” said Ryan grimly, counting on his fingers. “Every episode’s about me. Calls it ‘The Genetics of Pain.’ Opens with: ‘My son is my curse. And my blessing.’”

“Ooh,” said Homelander, eyes glinting. “Strong opener. Picture Ave Maria as the theme.”

“Then he makes a musical about my hospitalization,” Ryan continued. “Solo number: ‘Saliva for Testing.’ Premieres on AppleTV+. Subtitled in forty-six languages.”

“Starring Sebastian Stan,” Soldier Boy added. “In full prosthetics. Still a better you than you.”

“Or he posts my sneeze again,” Ryan muttered, “captioned: ‘My little hero is holding strong 💪🥺’ plus link to trademarked tissues: ‘Moist Tears of Freedom™.’”

“Hey—they sold out,” Homelander shot back.

“And Grandpa tries to give me my balls back,” Ryan went on. “Metaphorically. Via trench warfare. We end up in a puddle. I’m supposed to ‘kill the beast in me’ with bare hands.”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Just a healthy Sunday rite of manhood.”

“One of you reads my journal. Dad calls it a 'raw emotional manifesto'. Grandpa calls it 'State’s Exhibit A.'”

He paused. Then, solemnly:

“And worst of all? I’ll dream it again. You two… hugging. Crying. With a heart-shaped American flag behind you.”

Soldier Boy flinched.

“Jesus. Kid. I had that nightmare too.”

He stared into space.

“Everything was smoky… I was cupping his face… he had this tear—like some fancy skin serum ad. The flag throbbed. Vanilla in the air. Someone was whispering the national anthem backwards. I think there were fireworks shaped like our initials. Then we both said ‘I’m proud of you.' In unison.”

He shivered. Homelander’s face, meanwhile, was aglow with awe.

“Wow,” he whispered. “That’s beautiful. Archetypal. It’s catharsis. A father wound… bathed in glory. Add some slow-mo… two frames per second… CGI eagle… lands on our shoulders… one each…”

He was already texting. “I’m storyboarding this. I want Trevor from Media sobbing in a corner. I want Emmy voters calling their dads.”

Soldier Boy groaned and gently headbutted the flamethrower. “Christ. He’s gonna make it real.”

Ryan looked over. Homelander was typing furiously.

“Dad? You’re up.”

“Me?”

“‘Biggest family fear,’” Ryan reminded him.

“Oh. Right.” Homelander put the phone down, eyes suddenly soulful. “Thanks for asking. I’ve been waiting to say this.”

He looked at both of them, earnest.

“My fear is that someday, you’ll both decide to live without me. You’ll stop watching my interviews. Unsubscribe from Vought+. Tell the algorithm: ‘Don’t recommend.’ Reject my over-the-shoulder gaze like it’s not the spotlight of truth.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Anyone else hearing ‘Eye of Sauron,’ or just me?”

“I’m serious,” Homelander pressed on. “You, Ryan—you’ll pick a new dad. Start filming TikToks. And the captions will say: ‘Thanks, Grandpa, for showing me what family really means.’”

Ryan blinked. “You’re still mad about that one TikTok?”

“One?!” Homelander exploded. “He held your shoulder. You laughed. That was our brand. And you gave it away. To some crusty PTSD helmet-case who smells like napalm and fear of intimacy.”

“I smell like cigars and domination,” Soldier Boy said. “Check your nose.”

Homelander ignored him.

“Or worse—you two start traditions. Without me. Like ‘Movie Night Sunday.’ Or ‘Burger Tuesday.’ And I find out from a goddamn UberEats receipt. That says: ‘Leave at door. Don’t tell Dad.’”

“Delivery apps still ban us,” Ryan muttered.

Homelander stood tall. “Here’s another fear. You start hugging… without me.”

Ryan hugged the pillow tighter.

“And saying ‘I’m proud of you’ in unison?” he asked quietly. “Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.”

He pulled the blankets over his head, muffling the rest.

“If I die in here… delete my browser history. And bury me somewhere cold. Preferably Iceland.”

Silence.

Then, faintly, from the corridor:

“Do we have distribution rights to Iceland?”

Ryan didn’t move.

“Shut up, Dad.”

A pause.

“Fine. But hear me out—Frozen Legacy: The Ryan Chronicles.”

The flamethrower clicked.

Silence. At last.

Chapter Text

Homelander beamed with a smile bright enough to cure cancer—and then give it right back.

“Welcome, family, to our weekly Tuesday session of the Family Circle. As agreed, this will be a heartfelt extension of our Peace Assembly—and help us bond in unconditional love.”

“You promised booze,” Soldier Boy grunted. “Where’s the damn booze, you Promethean freak?”

Ryan—officially discharged from quarantine just yesterday, still pale and exhausted—cast a weary glance at the clock.

“Today,” Homelander raised his voice slightly, “we’re continuing our tradition of therapeutic revelations. First question: 'What’s something you’d never say out loud—but secretly want the others to know?' Since you’re so eager to share, Father, you start.”

Soldier Boy scratched his chest.

“Knew something was off the second you sealed the door with lasers. Fine… I’d never admit this, but I have no fucking clue what an NFT is. Always figured it stood for No Fucking Tequila.”

“You mean my antibodies?” Ryan said tiredly. “Ask Dad. He turned my immune system into collectibles.”

“I gave you a performance bonus,” Homelander smiled. “And Father, that answer doesn’t count. We're here to bleed. Cry-in-the-shower-and-eat-off-the-floor level pain. Like it's therapy.”

“Tried therapy once,” Soldier Boy grunted. “Shrink cried. I got billed double. That count?”

“Warmer,” Homelander nodded. “But I want pus. Give me something infected.”

Soldier Boy huffed like a bull in heat.

“Fine. I’d never admit it, but... I can’t stand goats. One gored me in the balls in ’39. Still shows up in my dreams. Same smug stare. Same beard. Bastard knew too much.”

Ryan tilted his head.

“So… was that your first moment of vulnerability?”

Homelander rubbed his eyes.

“Your core trauma is a goat. Not metaphorically. Just… a literal goat.”

“Don’t like it? Sue me. Fine—here’s the good stuff. Sometimes I wonder who I could’ve been if my old man wasn’t a sentient sack of shit.” He sighed. “But he was. So. No point wondering.”

“I wonder that too,” Ryan said gently—then caught Homelander’s eye and added, “I mean… I wonder who you could’ve been, Grandpa. If someone had actually hugged you without recoiling.”

“Your turn,” Homelander said, jaw twitching like a glitching cartoon.

Ryan shrugged.

"Okay. I’d never admit it, but I’ve been swapping Grandpa’s protein powder with your baking powder for a month now."

"Pfft. I’ve been sneaking protein into his baking powder for two," Soldier Boy grunted. "Figured something oughta grow eventually. Though pretty sure he exfoliates with it."

"You’re just jealous," Homelander scoffed. "This skin’s a runway. With this face, I could part the clouds and land a Boeing on a rainbow."

"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "Just… not Flight 37."

Homelander flinched.

"Wow. That’s cold. Even for you. And for the record, I still pulled a 97% approval rating that month."

"From who?" Soldier Boy snorted. "The flaming fuselage?"

"From the flight attendant who managed to hit 'like' right before the Wi-Fi combusted," Ryan said.

He sighed and continued, same flat tone:

“And sometimes, I fantasize about being adopted by a bald accountant from Ohio. He builds birdhouses. Doesn’t know what lasers are.”

Homelander narrowed his eyes.

“That fantasy’s got a disturbing amount of lore.”

“His name’s Alan,” Ryan went on. “Wears a green cardigan. Drives a Prius. Has gentle opinions about the Postal Service. We go fishing. Just sit there. Quiet. Cast. Reel. Cast. Reel.”

Soldier Boy nodded approvingly.

“Bet he’s got strong hands. I’d shake ’em.”

“He’s not real!” Homelander snapped.

“Alan listens to jazz,” Ryan said calmly. “He composts. He’s real—to me.”

“Oh, he’s real?” Homelander sneered. “Is he gonna be real when you melt your entire geometry class because you’re hormonal and someone calls your backpack ‘girly’? What then, huh?”

“Alan would understand,” Ryan replied, serene. “He’d say, ‘It’s not your fault, buddy. Sometimes we all get a little spicy.’ Then he’d hand me an oat milk latte with birch syrup.”

“I can do that too!”

“Ehh…” Ryan shrugged. “Alan’s just… softer. He doesn’t throw people into drywall. He hugs. And gently adjusts their tax brackets.”

“What do you mean, softer?!" Homelander shrieked. "Who held your hand when you torched half the forest?! Alan?! No! That was me! And I didn’t even flinch!”

“You flinched,” Ryan reminded him. “You screamed, ‘OH GOD, NOT THE CAPE!’ and hopped around like a stork.”

“Point to Alan,” Soldier Boy said. “Cardigans are badass.”

“And finally,” Ryan added. “I’d never admit it, but I rate all your dramatic monologues by cringe factor. Grandpa’s holding steady at 42—mostly for the goat thing—but Dad’s winning for ‘most abrupt tonal shift.’”

“It’s called range, Ryan,” Homelander replied coolly. “Sorry I’m not monotone like your fake cardigan dad.”

“Hey,” Ryan frowned. “Don’t talk shit about Alan. He only ever says nice things about you.”

“You gonna invite him over?” Soldier Boy asked hopefully. “I’d love to meet him. We could sit in silence. Build a birdhouse.”

“HE’S NOT REAL!” Homelander howled, clutching his head. “And enough about him already. Father, why don’t you read the next damn question?”

Soldier Boy shrugged and poked the tablet.

“Alright, fine. ‘What’s something you wish people admired you for—but they don’t?’”

He waved blindly in Homelander’s direction—who had already drawn breath, eyes glowing.

“Zip it, Nancy. Or we’ll be here ‘til morning. Let the kid go first.”

Ryan yawned and glanced at his watch.

“I dunno… probably my patience. I live with two sociopaths—one talks to his reflection in third person, the other thinks deodorant is Chinese bioweaponry.”

Homelander sat up sharply. Soldier Boy snorted.

“And also my bladder. It survived five hours of The Homelander Anthology. No breaks. No hope.”

“Crybaby,” Soldier Boy scoffed. “In ’45, briefings went on for eight hours. Nobody complained. Except this one guy, but he’d lost a leg.”

“And maybe,” Ryan went on, “my acting skills. You two have absolutely wrecked my sense of what ‘normal’ means, and yet I still manage to pass for a ‘relatable teen’ in interviews.”

“That the one where you whined a girl ghosted you ‘cause you could read lies from her heartbeat?” Soldier Boy scoffed.

“Or the one where you complained about fanmail in twenty languages and struggling to choose between a lip balm deal and the GlowBoy skincare line?” Homelander added with a squint.

“Hey,” Ryan mumbled. “I was holding a puppy. And wearing a Christmas sweater.”

Soldier Boy nodded matter-of-factly.

“Yeah. And that puppy pissed itself from the camera flash.”

“He got scared. The shoot was toxic.”

“Toxic?” Homelander echoed. “Kid, it was a cozy marshmallow-themed shoot with soft lighting. The only toxin on set was your acting.”

“And your sweater,” Soldier Boy added. “It glowed so hard I had ’Nam flashbacks.”

“Alright, enough,” Ryan frowned. “Dad, maybe you could finally answer the question? So we can wrap this up? What should people admire you for, but don’t?”

Homelander rolled his eyes with the long-suffering air of someone cruelly underestimated since birth.

“Isn’t it obvious? I don't get enough credit for my restraint. Do you know how many people I don’t laser every single day? That’s where the real heroism is. Not in the smiles. Not in the rescues. In the silence. In the holding back. But no one says, ‘Thank you, Homelander, for not exploding the cashier.’ No. They don’t.”

“Knew we shouldn’t let him into supermarkets,” muttered Soldier Boy. “Too many people.”

“And my dignity,” Homelander continued, already mid-righteous monologue. “I live under cameras. My speeches move stock markets. I smile until my face cramps. And then what do I see? A GIF of me slipping on a hot dog bun trending with three million likes. And what do I do? I wave. I hold babies. I forgive.”

“You lost me somewhere between ‘stock markets’ and ‘babies,’” Ryan said.

“And I’m pretty sure they should stop letting you hold babies,” Soldier Boy added. “You bowled the last one like a grenade.”

“He slipped!” Homelander snapped. “And for the record, he bounced. I caught him. Almost immediately.”

“He bounced into a sewer grate,” Ryan said calmly. “We heard the lid slam shut.”

“That was symbolism! A descent into the archetype. A return to origins. Like Moses. But… downward.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Alright. Ryan. Final question’s yours. And then we can release Grandpa back into the wild.”

Ryan sighed and glanced down at the tablet.

"Okay. Last question: ‘What would you say to me if you knew I’d never wake up?’” He glanced upward. “Perfect. Big finale in major key. Really gives the people what they want: more martyrdom, fewer breaths.”

“That’s an important question,” Homelander said, voice strained with emotion. “Existential. Practically sacred. Let your grandfather start. He nearly crisped you—there’s probably a lot bottled up in him.”

Soldier Boy smirked.

“Whatever. These days, kids break if you look at ’em funny.” He scratched his jaw, considered it, then said, “I’d tell you, Junior, you weren’t... totally useless. Even when you bitched.”

“Wow,” Ryan said flatly. “Inspirational.”

“And then,” Soldier Boy went on, “I’d deck your old man, blame it on bad genes, chug something flammable, kick the coffin open and scream Braveheart's whole speech over his heroic wreck."

He reached out and tapped Ryan’s head—light, like a salute. Ryan blinked, thrown off.

“That’s... more than I expected,” he admitted. “Thanks?”

Homelander, who’d been holding perfectly still, suddenly stirred like a camera light clicked on.

“And I’d say—if you didn’t wake up…” He inhaled like he was about to belt out a ballad. “I’d tell you I love you. Deeply. Unconditionally. So much that it defies conventional expression. It’s… a love metaverse.”

Soldier Boy bursted out laughing.

“A love meta‑what? Let me guess—you’ll sell it as wearable grief tech?”

Homelander shot him a steely glare.

“And I’d say I regret it,” he continued. “Regret monetizing your immune collapse.”

Ryan narrowed his eyes.

“But you’d still post about it, right?”

“One tasteful tribute.” Homelander put a hand on his chest. “Just one. Black-and-white. Minimal filters. Caption: ‘Fly high, my boy.’ Candle emoji. Link to my webinar: ‘Grief as Growth.’"

“Don’t forget the ride at VoughtLand,” Soldier Boy said. “‘Tears of a Father’—it dunks you in saltwater until you cry or drown. I've seen your pitch deck.”

“Please tell me that’s not a real thing,” Ryan whispered. “Oh god. It is, isn’t it.”

“It’s all there," Soldier Boy nodded. “There’s a 4D escape room: 'Cure the Kid'. And actors perform your childhood in real-time. Guests vote on how it ends. Very immersive. They’ve even got a ‘like’ counter right on the gravestone.”

Ryan went pale.

“If I ever die and become branded content, I will haunt you,” he warned. “I’ll kill your Wi-Fi mid-stream, and autocorrect your captions. ‘#hero’? Gone. Now it’s ‘#notadad’. Oh, and your wrinkle cream will be full of glitter. Ultra-fine. Impossible to scrub out.”

Homelander’s voice dropped a pitch.

“You’re not dying. Not before me. I won’t allow it.”

Ryan groaned.

“Of course not. If I croak, you’ll write a musical, and Grandpa’ll burn down the theater halfway through Act One.”

“Only if they screw up my choreography,” Soldier Boy said.

Ryan let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Alright. Since we’re all doing the big emotional honesty thing—I guess I’ll join in. If one of you didn’t wake up… I’d probably just say: ‘Huh. Didn’t think it’d go down like that.’ And yeah, I’d be pretty pissed. ’Cause that means I’d be stuck with the other one.”

Soldier Boy nodded, unfazed. “Fair.”

“Wait, what?” Homelander leaned forward, eyes wide. “That’s all you’d say?”

Ryan shrugged. “I mean… maybe I’d add that sometimes it wasn’t completely awful. Occasionally even kinda fun. Usually when you were both passed out.”

“But you’d tell us you love us, right?” Homelander said, with that desperate smile he thought looked casual. “And… I don’t know… cry a little? On livestream?”

Ryan tilted his head. “I’d say no, but your eyes are glowing again, so… sure. Deeply. Eternally. With hashtags.”

Homelander smiled. “Knew it. That’s my boy. And on that beautiful note, I say we close out this Family Circle with one soft, healing embrace. No words. Just love. And synchronized heartbeats.”

“Hell no,” Soldier Boy barked. “I’ve lived through jungle warfare, Cold War psych experiments, and the neon leggings era. But I draw the line at group hugs.”

“You don’t get to opt out,” Homelander objected. “This is a Family Circle, not a Family Fault Line. No exits in a circle. Ryan? Back me up?”

Ryan blinked. “Uhh… can I just send positive vibes from over here? I’ve got a rare, uh, sweater-transmitted skin disease. Very aggressive.”

Homelander squinted at him, wounded.

“Son. I expected more from you. Or have you forgotten who stepped in front of a fireball when your Grandpa was already reaching for the seasoning?”

Ryan covered his face with a hand. “Jesus. Fireball guilt trip. We’ve hit rock bottom and we’re drilling to the core.”

Homelander turned to Soldier Boy.

“You’re outvoted, Father. There’s two of us. We’ve got lasers. You’ve got arthritis, PTSD, and a medical file that just says ‘Port Wine—see dosage.’ So. It’s hug time or punitive heat therapy. Your call.”

Soldier Boy clenched his jaw. “Fine. But if one damn tear touches my neck—I’m cleansing this place like Babylon after a frat party.”

“Excellent!” Homelander clapped once, beaming. Then rose to his feet, arms wide like he was announcing a pageant. “Let’s crack open some healing, boys. Therapeutic embrace… starts now.”

Ryan stood like a man being called for jury duty and shuffled over with the energy of a tax audit. Soldier Boy didn’t move.

“Grandpa,” Ryan warned, “either you walk or he’s putting on Celine Dion.”

Soldier Boy swore under his breath and stepped in like it physically injured him. Homelander instantly slammed both into a rib-crushing hug. Soldier Boy jolted like he’d been tasered directly in the soul.

“This isn’t real,” Ryan croaked, smushed between them. “It’s a coma dream. I’m flatlining in the antiviral chamber.”

“This is worse,” Soldier Boy muttered. “This is the goddamn Ardennes. But with scented candles.”

“Deep breaths,” Homelander purred. “Imagine all your resentments are sand, and the tide of forgiveness is washing them off your inner beach.”

“I can’t breathe,” Soldier Boy growled. “Your cape is in my mouth. Tastes like ego.”

“Same,” Ryan rasped. “Someone’s elbow hit my liver, and I think I just stopped believing in God.”

“Shhh,” Homelander whispered, gently rocking. “Let the trauma emulsify. Let the generations merge. Let your father’s cells embrace yours.”

Ryan squirmed. The grip tightened.

“My cells are trying to defect,” he choked. “They’re Googling Canada.”

Soldier Boy let out a groan—part agony, part undigested whiskey.

“Pretty sure I just pulled my ability to love.”

Ryan blindly reached out and patted Soldier Boy’s arm twice—like he was trying to burp a giant baby.

“Hang in there, Grandpa. We're almost at empathy.”

“Just a little more,” Homelander said soothingly, squeezing tighter. “All that’s left is forgiving the old man. He hits because his inner child never learned to use its words.”

“I got words,” Soldier Boy growled. “Like: ‘Let go, you spandex-wrapped lunatic.’”

Homelander squeezed harder.

“Family is pain you didn’t RSVP for. Breathe in. Breathe out. Heal.”

A speaker crackled in the corner: “In the arms of the angel…”

The hug broke.

Soldier Boy stumbled back like he’d just survived a cult ritual in a hot tub. Homelander stayed frozen, arms mid-air, as if the love was still uploading from the cloud.

Ryan wriggled free, tugged down his sweater, and muttered:

“Cool. That’s fused to my brainstem now.”

They stood there in silence. The uncomfortable kind. Even Soldier Boy shut up—either from lack of oxygen or existential dread. Then, finally, with the grace of passing a kidney stone:

“Ah, screw it. You’re alright, Junior. Seventy-five percent solid. Still mouthy, but less. And you didn’t bitch too much during the virus thing. Respect.”

He paused, then added—rough and reluctant:

“Might even… be proud of you. A little.”

Ryan blinked. Stared. Then turned to Homelander with dread.

“Don’t.”

Too late.

“I’m proud of you too, son,” Homelander said, voice thick. He sniffled once, eyes glassy—then brightened suddenly. “So proud I’m launching a fragrance in your honor. Alpha No. 2. Smells like power and morning tears.”

“So... your cape conditioner,” Ryan sighed.

“And disappointment,” Soldier Boy added. “His signature musk.”

The speaker kept crooning softly: “May you find…”

Soldier Boy wiped his face.

“Jesus. Somebody shoot that angel.”

Without turning, Ryan reached over and shut it off. Stood there a beat.

“…Don’t make it weird,” he said, quieter now. “But that didn’t totally suck. Alan would’ve approved. He says group hugs are like joint tax filings—nobody wants ‘em, but sometimes they keep you out of prison.”

Homelander squinted. “Did Alan ever… say anything about laser-eyed sons with complex emotional needs?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “He said: ‘Don’t try to fix it. Offer tea and exit the room slowly.’”

“Alan sounds like a stand-up guy,” Soldier Boy said. “Bet he hits the gym at sunrise.”

Homelander rolled his eyes. “He’s not real, Father.”

Ryan shrugged. “Neither’s your Q3 bump.”

He waved lazily and started walking off.

“See you Thursday. Don’t forget to sanitize after all this emotional leakage. And next Peace Assembly’s on boundaries. PPE recommended.”

Chapter Text

Dinner was set with the kind of pomp you'd expect if the Pope, Beyoncé, and the Spirit of America were all coming over at once. The cream-colored tablecloth was stretched so tight it squeaked, and the silverware gleamed with the intensity of a weaponized light show. On the table sat whiskey, milk, and Coke—like three distinct stages of a psychotic break.

Homelander beamed, carefully slicing the steak tartare with the focus of a man performing open-heart surgery. The cubes were flawless—red, symmetrical, arranged in a geometrically unsettling spiral on a porcelain plate.

“Isn’t this nice?” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “A warm, cozy family dinner. Heartfelt conversation. Raw meat…”

He glanced at Ryan’s plate, where the only thing bleeding was a tomato.

“…and, uh. Plants.”

Soldier Boy tipped more whiskey into his glass, snorted.

“What’s the occasion? You vaporize someone again and now you’re buying forgiveness with Wagyu?”

Ryan prodded his asparagus without looking up.

“Please tell me this isn’t another one of your family-bonding stunts. Like the one with the spoons tied to our wrists where we had to feed each other while maintaining eye contact. That was... deeply traumatic.”

Homelander chuckled into his hand.

“You guys are so cynical. I just wanted a little peace and quiet. A nice, wholesome evening with my two favorite boys. And, uh... maybe a short presentation.”

He produced a remote from somewhere under his cape, clicked it with magician-like flair. The lights dimmed. A screen dropped down from the ceiling with a theatrical hum.

Then came the headlines:

“CAUGHT: Homelander’s Son Holds Hands with Mystery Boy!”

“Bubble Tea & Hormones—Ryan's Pandemic Romance!”

“Who Is Ethan M.—and Why Is He Still Breathing?”

Ryan froze. He knew the shots—the bench, the hoodie, the bubble tea. The boy beside him.

They met through Zoe and had been chatting for weeks—late nights, dumb memes, voice notes that made him blush. And then—first date. Yesterday. Ryan, as always, slipped out of lockdown like a seasoned escape artist with a rehearsed route. And, as always, he was sure no one had noticed he was gone. He even picked a path with no cameras. Almost.

His fork slipped. A tomato rolled onto his jeans. He didn’t move.

“That was…” his voice cracked. “That was yesterday. How did you—who even took these?”

Homelander widened his eyes in mock surprise.

“Yesterday? Gosh, I thought it was… photoshopped. But nope. That’s my son. In broad daylight. Violating quarantine. In the middle of a deadly epidemic. With a boy. Not a supe. Wearing Crocs. With braces.”

Soldier Boy chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Knew it from day one. Sensitive kid—reads poetry, holds eye contact, says shit like ‘violence isn’t the answer.’ Classic fairy.”

Homelander snapped toward him, voice pitching.

“Whoa, whoa, hey—Father, Jesus! You can’t say that! Not in this century! We are inclusive, okay? We embrace diversity. We celebrate expression. Ryan can identify however he wants—as long as legal signs off and it polls well in swing states. I support him. Of course I do. I just…" He gave a tight smile, "would’ve appreciated a heads-up before the Internet did."

Soldier Boy shrugged.

“Back in my day, you so much as looked at a guy too long—boom. Combat posting. Next thing you know, you’re shoulder-to-shoulder in a trench, playing footsie over a live grenade.”

Ryan sighed, still staring at his plate,

“Explains why you re-enlisted six times. Lotta touching in those trenches, huh?”

Homelander turned pale.

“He… touched you?”

Ryan finally raised his eyes. His face was stone.

“Yes, Dad. He held my hand. Bought me a strawberry milk tea. We sat on a bench. You planning to eliminate him now, or just launch a smear campaign first?”

Soldier Boy smirked.

“Did you also swap spit or just longingly sip from each other’s straws?”

“They did,” Homelander muttered, jabbing the remote before Ryan could answer. The slideshow clicked faster. “One minute, forty seconds. Front-facing angle.”

He sucked in a breath, visibly vibrating.

“I’m getting the body chart. Full outline. You’ll mark it with a red pen—a red pen, Ryan—every single place he touched you. Fingertips. Palm. Elbow brushes. Lingering contact. I want pressure ratings.”

He turned to Soldier Boy, eyes wide and glinting.

“We’ll laminate it. File it under E. For Ethan. Or Evidence. Or EXCESSIVE.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Ryan exploded, standing up. “What is this—Guantanamo?! You two are insane! It was just a date. One kiss. In a park. You weren’t supposed to know about it—because it’s none of your goddamn business!”

Homelander squinted.

“None of our business? Ryan, sweetheart. This is a publicity nightmare. Tomorrow it’s all over TikTok. Reddit. Fanfiction. They’re already shipping you with some orthodontic twink in Crocs. You want a meme of you two slow-dancing under moonlight to ‘Careless Whisper’?”

Soldier Boy raised his glass.

“Just saying—if this Ethan kid can’t bench-press your bodyweight, it ain’t love.”

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“Great. So now love is measured in upper body strength. Figures.”

Homelander cleared his throat into his fist, then reached under the chair and pulled out a thick folder bound with gold clips.

“Ryan,” he said, voice low and painfully earnest, “we just want you to be happy. Loved. Worshipped. And not by some—some little chlorophyll-sucking drone who goes to public school and volunteers at the botanical garden on Saturdays.”

He slid the folder across the table.

“And do you know what else your little Romeo does? He’s flunking algebra. Jerks it five times a day—conservatively. And he’s Googling at 3:12 A.M.—don’t look at me like that, I have timestamps—‘how to flirt if you’re average height’ and ‘kissing techniques for absolute beginners.’ And he uses the word ‘slay’ unironically.”

Soldier Boy let out a whistle, dragged the folder over, squinted at the pages.

“Kid’s down bad. Worse than me with that tap-dancer in Saigon. And she was double-agenting for three governments.”

Ryan stared in horror.

“You… you spied on him?!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Homelander said, waving a gloved hand. “I was protecting you. When your retinal capillary density matches a known insurgent and you wear Crocs, that’s a two-strike situation. I’d be a negligent father not to launch a discreet paramilitary investigation.”

Ryan went pale. “Oh my god. You killed him. You killed my first boyfriend.”

“Killed?!” Homelander reared back, scandalized. “Wow. Okay. So now I’m a murderer? Is that what we’re doing? No, Ryan. I didn’t kill him. He’s just… temporarily relocated. For a full-spectrum behavioral evaluation. In a very safe, very padded... facility.”

Ryan dropped his head into his hands.

“You kidnapped him.”

“Jesus, no I didn’t!” Homelander cried, flinging his arms out like he was being framed. “I invited him! Very convincingly! To a wellness center. They’ve got sand gardens. Diffused lighting. It’s like Gwyneth Paltrow threw up in there. He’s probably journaling right now about how seen he feels! There’s a hammock, Ryan!”

Soldier Boy snorted.

“Bet he’s duct-taped to a chair in a soundproof room watching a slideshow called ‘Kissing and Other Forms of High Treason.’”

Ryan still didn’t look up.

“That was my first kiss. Ever.” A pause. He bit his lip. “And now he’s never gonna text me again. Or he will—on the wall, in blood, with his last breath.”

Soldier Boy reached out and clapped him on the back, too hard.

“Aw, don’t cry, kid. My first kiss was with a nurse in Oslo. She had thighs like telephone poles. Thirty minutes later? Landmine. One leg in a tree, the other somewhere in a fjord. Life’s a bitch.”

Ryan groaned into his palms. “Jesus Christ. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Soldier Boy shrugged.

“Hey, at least she kissed back. Far as I know.”

He turned to Homelander.

“And you—next time you decide to stalk your kid’s crush, let him at least make it to second base before you black-bag the poor bastard.”

Ryan let out a watery laugh. “What the hell is wrong with this family.”

“What’s wrong?!” Homelander exploded, slamming his palm on the table. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! I’m your father. I deserve to be the first to know these things. Not TMZ. Not the New York Post. Not some half-blind Brooklyn paparazzo who doesn’t even know how to adjust white balance!”

“First? You turned it into a hostage situation!”

“And you turned it into a reputational Chernobyl!” Homelander lunged for the folder, yanked out a pile of documents, and scattered them across the table with flourish. “Here, look at this shit! ‘From Laser Eyes to Puppy Eyes: Ryan’s Soft Power Debut.’ Great, huh? How about this one—‘The Boy Who Lived (Through a Date with Homelander Jr.)’— real classy, real restrained. Jesus, Ryan. You think I can walk into a boardroom after this?”

Ryan slowly raised his flaming red gaze. He stood—calmly, but with menace.

“If he has so much as a scratch on him…”

“He’s perfectly fine, Ryan,” Homelander huffed, rolling his eyes so hard the veins popped. “He passed psych screening, medical eval, neuro-profile. I even gave him a lavender pillow. We’re not monsters.”

“I need a lawyer,” Ryan said coldly.

“You need a notary,” Soldier Boy grunted. “And a fireproof will. You’re a biological weapon, kid. He bought you tea, and you probably roasted his spleen with hormones.”

“Oh, amazing,” Ryan snapped. “So now I’m the threat. Not the two emotionally constipated meatheads with boundary issues who think ‘personal space’ is part of a liberal conspiracy.”

Soldier Boy raised his glass with a wide grin.

“Officially the gayest thing you’ve ever said.”

Ryan groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh my god. I’m not even gay! I mean—” He looked up just in time to catch both Homelander and Soldier Boy exchanging a glance, sucking in air, and opening their mouths in sync like piranhas about to strike. “I don't know! Okay? No labels, please! I like boys. I like girls. Apparently I’m into emotional abuse too—because I’m still here. But it’s none of your fucking business!”

Soldier Boy leaned over the headlines, tapped one with his fingernail, and squinted.

“Oh, here’s the one saying that you’ve got ‘bisexual villain origin energy.’ Kinda tracks. Especially with that whole ‘I kissed my Emil and now the world burns’ look in your eye.”

Homelander squinted like he’d just heard a national security threat.

“You mean… you play for both teams?” he asked slowly, processing. “Ryan, that doesn’t fly. People want clarity. All this… fluidity? Makes them twitchy. You need to pick a side. Preferably before tomorrow’s morning briefing.”

“ENOUGH!” Ryan shot up from the table, fists clenched. “I’ve had it! You’re both clinically unwell. Alan would never pull this shit!”

“Oh Christ on a cracker,” Homelander groaned, flopping back in his chair. “Alan again. Alan wouldn’t detain a minor. Alan respects boundaries. Alan listens. Alan bakes gluten-free cupcakes and plays acoustic guitar on the weekends. You want Alan to raise you, Ryan? Fine. But here’s the kicker—ALAN ISN’T REAL! Alan is an emotionally sterilized IKEA mannequin you made up because you'd rather kiss random boys than—I don’t know—redirect that affection toward your loving, perpetually neglected father!”

Ryan blinked. Slowly sat back down.

“Yikes. You heard yourself, right?”

Soldier Boy choked on a laugh, pounding the table with his fist.

“Oh boy. That sentence just bought you a platinum pass to Freud’s VIP lounge. And I thought dinner was gonna suck.”

“No!” Homelander flinched. “God, not like that! Ew! What the hell is wrong with you?! Obviously I didn’t mean it—”

“You sure?” Soldier Boy squinted, refilling his glass. “’Cause that came out like you’ve been workshopping it in front of a mirror for weeks. Maybe test-drive that one in therapy before you throw it at your actual kid.”

“It was a metaphor!” Homelander barked, beet red. “I meant it like… ancient Greek tradition!”

“Ancient Greece,” Ryan muttered. “Great. Bit of incest, bit of divine wrath. Real homey vibe.”

“Bad example! Forget Greece!” Homelander snapped. “I was talking about legacy!”

“Ah,” Soldier Boy nodded. “So like, ‘Go forth, my boy—conquer the world. But first, shirtless hug in olive oil.’”

“I MEANT A MISSION!” Homelander howled, full meltdown mode. “GREATNESS! A sacred lineage passed from father to son like—like a divine torch! WITH LOVE!” He threw his hands toward the ceiling. “Can you please stop making me sound like a creep?!”

“I dunno,” Soldier Boy drawled, grinning. “Sounded like you’re jealous his first kiss wasn’t with you.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Ryan said flatly. “That I didn’t kiss you ancient-Greek style. Pretty sure my therapist would call that a red flag.”

“Aww, don’t pout, sweetheart,” Soldier Boy added with a wink, sloshing whiskey into his glass. “You want me to kiss you? Just for closure. Tongue's optional.”

Homelander slapped a hand to his forehead.

“Oh God. Father, you’re drunk. Go sleep it off.”

“And yet somehow,” Ryan deadpanned, “he is still the most emotionally available one at this table.”

“That’s it,” he added, standing abruptly. “I’m out. I’m emancipating. No more Peace Assemblies. No more Family Circles. You two can scream Freud at each other till the end of time. I’m gonna go check if my boyfriend’s still alive and report both of you to Child Services.”

“Ryan, wait!” Homelander lurched after him. “You didn’t even try the dessert! It’s a heart-shaped soufflé! With raspberry coulis! Do you have any idea how hard soufflé is?!”

The door slammed so hard the souffle trembled, then collapsed like a lung.

Soldier Boy knocked back the rest of his whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said lazily,

“So... you think he’s top or bottom?”

Homelander spun like he’d heard a sniper shot.

“WHAT?!” His voice cracked. “He’s fourteen! He still gets nosebleeds when he lies and thinks drinking boba is edgy! What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Hey, don’t kinkshame the next generation,” Soldier Boy said, unbothered. “I’m just saying—kid’s got that ‘dead-eyed poet who bottles everything until he snaps’ look. That’s textbook dom-in-waiting. But teenagers in Crocs? Total wildcard.”

Homelander grabbed the bottle and chugged straight from it.

“That’s my son, you sick old bastard! My baby boy! He still sleeps with a nightlight shaped like a fucking narwhal! Stop projecting your weirdo kink taxonomy onto him!”

Soldier Boy snorted. “You’re the one who threw a tantrum about ‘channeling affection into healthy directions.’ Sounded like a grooming manifesto, man.”

Homelander gagged mid-sip. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Soldier Boy blinked. “You started it. You turned this dinner into a Greek tragedy with incest vibes.”

Homelander looked like he was about to cry—or vaporize someone.

“You need to shut the fuck up before I jam this souffle into your eye socket.”

“You won’t,” Soldier Boy smirked. “You baked it for love.”

He bent down, picked up one of the photos that had fallen, and studied it.

“Gotta say though, the kid’s got an eye. Look at this guy—cheekbones like they were issued by the military. Straight spine. And that neck? Built for long, loaded kisses.”

Homelander dragged a hand down his face.

“Father… I’m begging you. Please stop sexualizing the underage hostage.”

Soldier Boy flipped through the dossier without looking up.

“Personally, I think you’re just pissed he stole the spotlight. Not a single headline about you. Except maybe—”he tapped the paper, “‘Daddy’s Downfall: Disappointment, Phase Two.’”

Homelander slumped in his chair.

“He hates me.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“You hate me too.”

“Oh, for sure.”

“You both think I’m the villain.”

Soldier Boy looked up at him, finally.

“You are the villain. But you’re also my kid. And his dad. Not some cardigan-wearing compost-fetishist named Alan who treats boundaries like the Holy Grail.”

Homelander jabbed his fork into the cake.

“Since when is Alan the gold standard?”

“Since Alan doesn’t laser people or abduct teenagers. The bar’s on the floor, son. And you’re still tunneling under it.”

Homelander stuffed cake into his mouth and chased it with a swig of milk, straight from the carton.

“I need a rebrand,” he muttered around the crumbs.

“You need a shrink, a lock on Ryan’s window, and a labrador,” Soldier Boy said. “Maybe then you’d stop measuring fatherhood in DNA ounces and let the kid actually grow up.”

Homelander narrowed his eyes.

“Was that… parenting advice?”

Soldier Boy shrugged.

“He’s a good kid. Considering he was raised by an anxiety glitch from Introvert Netflix and a walking personality disorder wrapped in a flag.”

He flipped another page in the folder and squinted at the photo.

“Anyway. I’m calling verse. You can always tell by the hair—soft part, diplomatic bend, hint of brooding. Classic switch vibes.”

“Charming,” Ryan said flatly from the doorway. “I come back for my phone and find you two debating my sexual alignment. Should I step out, or are we about to unpack my unresolved mother issues too?”

Homelander jumped like he’d been caught cheating on a quiz.

“Ryan! No—God, it’s not like that!”

“We were doing science,” Soldier Boy added helpfully.

Ryan crossed the room, snatched his phone off the dresser, and gave the collapsed soufflé a long, accusatory stare.

“Also. Your cake sank. Much like your collective parenting skills.”

At the door, he paused.

“For the record, I just wanted a date. Instead I got dropped into a surreal Sopranos reboot where Dad’s a delusional schizo, Grandpa predicts sex roles based on haircuts, and the dessert is a metaphor for trauma.”

He left. The door slammed with apocalyptic finality.

Homelander stared at the cake. It quivered slightly.

“…Did he just call me a schizo?” A pause. “He didn’t even try it.”

He picked up the fork, then set it down again. His jaw twitched. His voice dropped, almost bewildered.

“I made that. For him. Watched twelve goddamn soufflé tutorials. And the little brat doesn’t even eat dairy.”

Soldier Boy sat down across from him with a spoon.

“Kid went easy on you. Now scoot. Let’s eat your failure like real men. You want your trauma with or without the coulis?”

Chapter Text

Everything was ready for the Great Emancipation. Backpack and duffel by the door—two shackled hostages awaiting trial. All the family photos were wiped from the cloud and archived on a flash drive that Ryan ceremoniously buried in the pot with the violets: a passive-aggressive time capsule for future archaeologists with attachment issues.

He lay on the bed in headphones, pretending to sleep while his brain rifled through escape routes: Red River. Antarctica. The Astral Plane.

In a moment of despair, he’d even messaged Butcher. Politely. No emojis. Just asked if he could tag along into his emotionally constipated bachelor cave of solitude. Radio silence. Ever since the Grace thing, Butcher had vanished off the radar. Kind of brutal—getting ghosted over an accidental homicide. But in Ryan’s family, you lost hug privileges for less.

Going back to the CIA bunker didn’t appeal. Even if, by now, he’d accepted that his life operated on a rotation of biblical plagues and ancient Greek plot twists. So: Red River. Where people had trauma, but not bloodline manifestos or branded scented candles.

The decision was made. Family—deleted from the résumé. And if he was lucky enough to hit his head on the way out? Maybe from memory, too.

He was mid-rehearsal of his dramatic exit face when the door cracked open.

“You decent?” came that familiar gravel-and-regret baritone.

Ryan cracked one eye, peeled off a headphone. Soldier Boy stood in the doorway holding a twelve-pack of soda, wearing the look of a man who’d mulled it over and decided to ruin the moment anyway.

“If you’re here to ask if I’m a top or a bottom,” Ryan said flatly, “I will laser you in half and leave a note that says, ‘Sorry. But fair.’”

Soldier Boy gave a low whistle. “Damn. You’re already talkin’ like an emotionally unavailable bisexual villain from one of those fancy HBO shows. Proud of you.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Perfect,” he said, stepping in and shutting the door. “And for the record, I wasn’t gonna ask you about sex. What the hell do you think I am? I just dropped in. I did take one of those personality quizzes though—typed you up real nice. You’re a ‘burning aesthetic with a destructive savior complex.’ Nailed it.”

“Jesus. Don’t you have, like, a hobby?”

“I’m a hundred and two, kid. My last hobby was World War II. This week I watched Dr. Phil three times, cried once, and started fantasizing about blowing up this tower, losing our powers, and opening a family bakery. Cakes shaped like unresolved paternal trauma.”

Ryan grimaced. “You’ve been spending too much time with my dad. That ‘Radical Honesty Family Circle’ thing already rewired your brain.”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me.” He cracked his neck. “And let’s face it—if I ever did power us all down? Your old man’d kill me first. Then you. Then the mirror. Then maybe himself.”

“Or just cry so hard he passes out and we’d have to sedate him with Enya and soft walls.”

“Enya… she’s the one that sounds like a Victorian ghost whisperin’ ‘You’re adopted’ into your ear, right?”

“Exactly.”

Soldier Boy sighed like he remembered something deeply stupid he once did and dropped onto the bed. It creaked under his weight.

“Look. If you ever wanna talk? Like, real talk? No vanilla bullshit, no pastel graphics, no therapist with a nose ring? I’m here. Boners. Existential dread. Fear of being a meat puppet in a dying universe. The classics. Y’know—the shit your generation buries under cat videos in little hats.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You really think we hide our emotions under cats?”

“You don’t? I thought it was either dance or meme. Sometimes both. Set to Interstellar.”

Ryan sighed. “...Yeah, okay. Meme. Suppression. Dissociation. Space. In that order.”

“See? We had trenches. Grime. Rashes. Two liters of bourbon. Same thing, just no vibes.”

He scratched the back of his neck and went still for a beat—like a turtle thinking about the void.

“I mean yeah, I’m cracked. Like a Christmas light strand you can’t throw out ‘cause of some weird guilt.” He shrugged. “But if you ever need to talk—full swearing, zero therapy—I’m around. I’ll even bring fruit. For metaphors.”

“Fruit?”

“Grapes are for boners. Pear is anxiety. Peach... doesn’t matter. I’ll walk you through the fruit salad of pain.”

“No fruit. Please.”

Soldier Boy clapped him on the shoulder—firmly enough that Ryan’s inner child got whiplash.

“You know what’s messed up? Outta all the unmedicated psychos in this hell tower—you might actually be the most emotionally well-adjusted.”

Ryan stared at the ceiling. “Which, if you think about it, is a goddamn horror show.”

Soldier Boy finally clocked the bags by the door—backpack and duffel slouched like embarrassed toddlers.

“Ah. So it’s official. Ditching the cult. Breaking up with the gene pool. No hugs, no fireworks.”

He sighed like a man reading the receipt for a divorce he doesn’t remember filing, and gave a lazy salute.

“Got it. Respect. But hey—before you go, drop me that Enya playlist. And maybe a track with some brainwave shit. I’m gonna need all the help I can get, alone in here with your dad and his leaky grief hole.”

Ryan glanced at the bags again and frowned.

“Stop. You’re triggering empathy. It itches.”

“Careful. Only known cure is a long, bloody kill list.”

Ryan flopped back onto the bed and covered his face like a Victorian heiress in a tragic third act.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll stay one more day. For closure. For mutual toxicity. For TikTok.” He peeked at him. “We’ll call it #TraumaWithChoreo.”

Soldier Boy squinted, cracked a can, and handed it over. Opened one for himself.

“Seriously, kid? Alright. I’ll go unpack my emotional baggage. And re-hide the grenades. I won’t fix anything, but I’ll sit nearby and go, ‘Damn, that’s rough.’”

Ryan mumbled, “That’s… disturbingly honest.”

Soldier Boy nodded. “I know. It’s freaking me out too. I think your goddamn Family Circle actually worked.”

Later that night, Ryan lay under the covers with a dog-eared copy of Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents. He wasn’t reading. Just flipping. Skimming highlighter-scarred pages with lines like “You are not responsible for saving your parents” and “Boundaries are not violence.”

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Faux zen. Sponsored by despair.

He was halfway through the chapter “When Your Parent Thinks They’re God and Also Owns a News Network” when there was a knock—soft, apologetic, like it brought a condolence card.

“Hey… Can I come in?” The voice was warm. Banana-warm. Overripe and vaguely sticky.

Ryan didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” chirped Homelander, already halfway through the door.

His cape dragged behind him like funeral drapery as he sank into the desk chair—backward, aiming for “relatable dad,” but landing closer to “youth pastor about to say the word ‘semen.’” In his hands: a plate. Lemon meringue pie. Aggressively perfect. Like it had been precision-whipped by nanobots and garnished by someone who thought sincerity was best expressed in piped frosting.

“I thought… maybe you were hungry,” he said gently, placing it on the nightstand. “Lemon strain: Emotional Resonance. Meringue: no stabilizers. Just like our relationship. You used to love it.”

“Yeah. Before you started serving it with a side of guilt and drone surveillance,” Ryan muttered, eyes still on the book.

Homelander visibly deflated.

“It’s not a bribe, Ryan. It’s a gesture. Warm. Honest. I baked it myself. With love. And… a guy on YouTube named Kevin who made intense eye contact.”

“And probably had emotionally stable parents.”

“Well… yeah, probably.” Homelander cleared his throat. “Look, I’m not here to threaten you. Or gaslight you. Or upload this to Vought+.” He hesitated. “I know I screwed up. I’m trying to… grow. But no one handed me a pamphlet titled ‘So Your Son Hates You Because You Intimidated His Boyfriend.’”

“You put him into a sensory-deprivation chamber with affirmations and waterboarding.”

“It was a five-star spa!” he protested. “There were oat snacks. Acrylic painting. A magazine called Trauma Digest. I even flew in a DEI consultant. And now he’s home. Safe. Soft. Studying algebra. I told him not to text you until he brings up his GPA.”

Ryan raised his eyes, slow as a guillotine.

“You honestly think that’s what care looks like?”

“I just wanted to be part of your life,” Homelander murmured, staring at the pie like it might develop sentience and rescue him. “But somehow I’m stuck between spam and fake crypto giveaways. I’m a pop-up that says Dad v1.0—Beta Version. Unstable build.”

“You’re not a pop-up,” Ryan said dryly. “You’re a banner ad with a fake close button that opens twelve Russian porn sites and starts playing death metal.”

Homelander nodded solemnly. “Yeah. That… tracks.”

“I found out about your first kiss on Twitter,” he said after a beat. “Twitter. I felt like a guest star on a sitcom I used to headline. Like I brought a balloon to a kid already flying an AI drone with emotional validation software. I wanted to be there. You get that?”

Ryan closed the book.

“And what exactly did you picture? Me going, ‘Hey, this is my dad. You might remember him from such classics as Oops, That Was a Kindergarten and Laser Tag: A Manslaughter Edition. He’s here to rate my makeout technique and implant a GPS tracker. Don’t worry, it’s sterilized.’”

Homelander tilted his head, genuinely considering.

“That sounds… honestly kind of thoughtful.”

“You are so broken.”

“No, I’m evolving!” Homelander said brightly. “The old me would’ve just cloned you and launched a spinoff. But now—I’m sitting here. With pie. Without a camera. Okay, with minimal camera coverage.”

He nudged something under the desk and handed over his phone.

“See? I’m learning. I did research.”

Ryan squinted at the screen:

Search history:

how to talk to your teen after a date

why does my son hate me if I’m perfect

parenting in ancient greece: tips for immortals

superhero burnout: symptoms and treatment

lemon meringue no guilt edition

can you sue your child for emotional damages

homelander best moments slow motion HD

sexiest superhero of all time (voting poll)

how to deepfake yourself into couple TikToks without triggering the algorithm

Ryan blinked. Then blinked again.

“One search about me. Eight about you. Amazing emotional ratio, Dad.”

“It was… reflective. Self-work. Want me to record a real apology video? I’ll hold a mug. Whisper. Add a slow-motion rain filter. Hashtag it #SorryNotSorryButHealing. Maybe cross-post it to LinkedIn for maximum sincerity. Maybe add piano chords. Or—cello?”

“You are so far past therapy.”

“Ryan… I’m not just sorry. I’m proud of you. And your… hormonal odyssey. And your… young man. Even if he wears Crocs. Even if he has… well… a jaw like a Pixar character.”

Ryan snorted with laughter through his nose.

“That almost sounded like support. Until you insulted his jaw.”

“Sorry. That was the old me. The new me is emotionally literate. Hug-ready. Therapy-curious.”

“So I can keep seeing Ethan?”

“You can. But once the pandemic’s over, okay? Outside still looks like The Last of Us. Half the supes are dead, the rest are cannibalizing each other on Fox News.”

Ryan sighed. “Fine. But no public coming out videos. I swear to God—”

“Damn. I already storyboarded one. Hashtags were #BobaAndLasers, #PrideOfAmerica, and #TwinkAndDestroy.”

“Delete.”

“Gone. Even from the Vought cloud.”

He stood up awkwardly and held out a hand.

“Truce?”

Ryan eyed it like it might explode, then stood and hugged him. Homelander froze. Then, very slowly, as if defusing himself, wrapped his arms around the boy.

“This… this is good,” he whispered.

“But it doesn’t mean you get to pull some ancient Greek ‘heirloom kiss’ bullshit.”

Homelander laughed softly. “God, you’ve been around Grandpa too much... And Alan can go to hell too.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this. Emotional growth isn’t yelling ‘me too’ when someone else gets affection.”

“I know. I’m trying. Oh—by the way, I got you a T-shirt. It says ‘My Dad Destroyed a Nation and All I Got Was This Therapeutic Hug.’”

“…Is it at least black?”

Homelander smiled proudly. “Of course. I have taste, you know. It also glows in the dark and bleeds when wet. Limited edition.”

Chapter Text

Change had crept up on the Tower. The big, irreversible kind. Their dysfunctional Triangle of Sadness was about to sprout a fourth corner.

But neither Ryan nor Soldier Boy knew that yet.

They sat quietly in the Seven’s conference room, waiting for the Family Circle to begin. A diffuser hissed in the corner, misting eucalyptus into the air. On the table between them sat Trauma Jenga (each block representing a repressed memory), the Gong of Feelings (strike when emotional regulation fails), and a set of Healing Crystals, one of which looked unsettlingly like Jeff Bezos’s head—bald, glistening, and vaguely judgmental.

Ryan checked his watch. Again.

“He’s never late,” he muttered. “Usually shows up early. Creepily early. Like, ‘I’ve been practicing vulnerability in the hallway’ early.”

Soldier Boy scratched his chest and grunted.

“Maybe he finally joined that Reddit cult. The cape freaks.”

“You mean the one with the prophecy about a blond supe-child cleansing the Earth through blood and dairy products?”

“Yeah. Motto was something like, ‘Light. Carnage. Milk.’”

Ryan frowned, biting his lip.

“No. It’s dumber than that. I sent him a documentary about narcissism last night. Titled it A Heartwarming Tale About Literally Anyone Else. Might’ve short-circuited something.”

Soldier Boy snorted and reached into a bowl labeled Snack Through the Pain.

“Please. That guy’s ego could tank a Vatican exorcism. Freud, Jung, and a priest couldn’t dent it.”

Ryan tapped the Bezos crystal with a fingertip.

“What if he had a breakthrough? Saw through the farce. Embraced growth. Let us go.”

Soldier Boy gave him a long look.

“Kid. This is the same guy who once held a grudge against a toddler for not clapping fast enough. He’s not letting go of anything.”

He popped an almond.

“My guess? He’s nosebleeding in front of a ring light, whispering affirmations to his reflection.”

Ryan sighed. “Yeah. While reapplying concealer and checking for good angles.”

“Or maybe he locked himself on the spa floor again.” Soldier Boy said. “Last time I found him curled in a milk jacuzzi, massaging his own navel.”

Ryan winced. “He calls it a 'womb reboot.' Said he was reconnecting with his ‘pre-verbal essence.’ Invited me to a guided meditation called Me, Myself, and Fetus. I made it to the part where he passed out pacifiers and put on a white noise recording of his own heartbeat. Then I bailed through the air duct.”

Soldier Boy stared into space, his expression somewhere between pity and gastrointestinal distress.

“Christ. The man is a whole psychiatric amusement park. No exit signs.”

“Remember the haiku phase?” Ryan asked.

“Oh yeah. What was that one about melting a guy’s face?”

Ryan held up a finger.

"Melted his face off.

He begged for mercy. Too late.

Sadness tastes like raspberry jam."

Soldier Boy clicked his tongue. “New theory. He finally cracked, opened a wormhole, and now we’re in a timeline where he has emotional range.”

“Or he got canceled so hard he just disintegrated.”

Soldier Boy sighed, picked up the Bezos crystal, and rolled it between his hands.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Ryan stood.

“Let’s go.”

They made their way up to the ninety-ninth floor and walked through the penthouse’s ominous, pressure-cooked silence.

And then they heard it.

A voice.

Cooing.

In a register no human ear was ever meant to endure.

“Who’s Daddy’s girl? Who’s my little squishy miracle of the gene pool? You! Of course it’s you! You, you, and no one but you!”

Ryan and Soldier Boy exchanged a slow, alarmed glance—and kicked the double doors open at the same time.

Homelander was sitting on the floor, gently rocking a tiny labrador puppy swaddled in red booties and a miniature cape.

His face was aglow. Not just peaceful—beatific. He looked at them with a kind of wonder usually reserved for ultrasound appointments in slightly more functional families. Then, solemnly, he raised the puppy above his head like Simba in The Lion King.

“Father. Son,” he declared. “May I present the newest member of our divine little family: Miss Justice. Miss J for short.”

And just like that, the Square was complete. A sacred geometry of codependence, narcissism, and chew toys.

The puppy gave a polite yap and stuck out her pink tongue.

“She’s V-enhanced,” Homelander added proudly. “She can fly. She shoots lasers. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to this country. Well—after me.”

“How many labradors do you think he vaporized to get one with that loadout?” Soldier Boy whispered, eyes fixed on the scene.

“I don’t wanna know,” Ryan muttered, barely audible.

Homelander wasn’t listening. He was already monologuing to the dog.

“We’re connected, sweetie. Spiritually. Strategically. We share the same long-term vision of justice. Of purity. Of milk. Honestly? You’re the MVP of my emotional rebrand. Q3’s all about high-impact empathy and legacy alignment. You're... you're my inner light, made manifest in the mortal world.”

Miss J yapped again—somehow with dramatic timing—and gently licked Homelander’s forehead. He shuddered like he’d been touched by a higher power.

“That…” His voice cracked. “That was the first real kiss of my life.” He clutched the dog to his chest like he was trying to absorb her. “No one’s ever loved me like this.”

Ryan stared, deadpan.

“It’s a dog,” he said flatly to Soldier Boy. “He’s imprinting on a dog in booties.”

Soldier Boy shook his head slowly.

“Give her a week, she’ll be polling higher than half the cabinet.”

By then, Homelander had already raised the pup skyward again, like a sacred relic.

“We will usher in a new era,” he proclaimed. “Me. Her. And you—if you earn it.”

Ryan exhaled slowly. “We’re supporting cast now. In a labrador’s fascist origin story.”

Soldier Boy pulled out his flask.

“Come on, kid. Let’s go toast what’s left of our dignity.”

The days that followed would go down in the Tower's chronicles as the golden age of enforced quarantine. As if a deity in canine form had descended from the heavens and blessed them with her fluffy grace.

At the next Peace Assembly, Homelander did the unthinkable: he proposed a compromise on the thermostat. The great temperature truce—debated for so long it had spawned special committees, subcommittees, and a thriving micro-ecosystem of petty corruption. Soldier Boy, too stunned to resist, signed it without a single "shut the fuck up." Homelander signed too—never once breaking eye contact with Miss J, who sat beside him in a velvet stroller, wearing a little tiara.

This unprecedented act of diplomacy was commemorated by the indefinite suspension of Family Circle (now that the family “functioned like a well-oiled machine”) and a celebratory dinner, the only tragedy of which was a steak that slipped from Soldier Boy’s fingers and hit the floor. Miss J took it as a challenge. She flash-fried his fingertips with laser vision, soared across the table, and swallowed the steak whole—thus revealing her powers for the first time.

And that was only the beginning.

Ryan stopped receiving his daily playlists titled “Ten Ways to Be Less Disappointing (Without Even Trying!).” The requests for pulse, blood pressure, and motivation scores vanished too. And when he and Soldier Boy—risking it all—posted a few TikToks featuring butter knives, Homelander didn’t scold them. He reposted them. With captions like “#SoProud” and “#MyBoys #GreatnessInTheBlood.”

Even Homebound Salvation felt the canine shift: Homelander, for the first time in history, took the official leave. A "pawternity leave," as he called it.

Ryan’s days became everything he’d ever wanted: quiet. Productive. Video calls with Ethan. Texts with Zoe. Books, podcasts, meditation, fruit-coded conversations with Soldier Boy, and the occasional mental fishing trip with Alan.

It was perfect. Like sunrise after a tornado.

But…

By week three of divine serenity, the quiet started to feel off.

No lectures. No micro-manipulations. No trackers. No aprons saying “Good Dad Is a Brand,” no new proposals for father-son merch collabs. Homelander vanished. Off the radar. At the Peace Assembly—just an empty chair with his nameplate and neatly folded cape. He didn’t even like Ryan’s Stories. Didn’t even watch them.

By day twenty, it was weird.

By day twenty-one, unsettling.

By day twenty-two—clinically suspicious.

Ryan cracked first.

To: Dad

hey

in case you’re struggling to sleep without tracking my vitals—here's one for the archives: BP’s 180/120. totally fine. just radiating inner peace and rage

To: Dad

jk

100/60

basically the blood pressure of a guy who’s achieved detachment from all earthly expectations

To: Dad

don’t worry

i’m chill

like, aggressively zen

(the kind of zen where no one bursts through a ceiling vent yelling about legacy)

To: Dad

pls don’t do a surprise “wellness inspection”

i don’t need a lecture on cortisol, or a sweat-level check, or a scavenger hunt of our shared trauma

To: Dad

remember that narcissism doc I sent you?

the one that says “control isn’t connection”?

if you didn’t throw a chair at the screen, maybe we could rewatch it. together. for fun.

Reply (24 hours later):

From: Dad

Haha :)

Miss J and I already saw it!

She closed her little eyes every time they said something rude.

Sends you a wiggly paw wave 🐾❤️

Then came eighty-seven photos.

Miss J flying a toy plane.

Miss J in a bubble bath surrounded by candles.

Miss J in a little black robe under a plaque that said Order in the Bark.

Miss J at what looked like a mock inauguration.

Miss J gripping a tiny American flag in her teeth.

To: Dad

great. you’re alive. swell.

To: Dad

also

that tiktok where i do your voice while buttering toast?

it's blowing up in belarus

thought you’d want to know

There was no response. Not the next day. Not the day after that. Not even when Ryan posted another story with the caption: “I’m not sad. Just existing in a dadless emotional vacuum.”

Eventually, he just sighed. And started the ascent. All the way up. Like Bilbo climbing into Smaug’s lair—only instead of a dragon guarding piles of gold, there was a sacred mountain of chewed-up toys and luxury dog accessories, and every step squeaked like a warning.

Ryan found Homelander on the couch, slowly brushing Miss J’s fur with a massive boar-bristle brush. The dog wore a hand-knit sweater that read #1 Pup-lic Relations Asset. "You Are My Sunshine" trickled from the speakers, while a Himalayan salt lamp softly pulsed in the corner.

“You didn’t answer my message,” Ryan said flatly. “I thought you were dead. Little part of me was kind of... hopeful.”

Miss J barked, cheerful as ever. Homelander didn’t look up—just kept brushing.

“Oh, buddy,” he said gently. “I’ve transcended. Shed my old skin. Let go of vengeance, ego... air strikes. She helped me see who I really am.”

He scratched Miss J’s chin. She sneezed on his wrist. “She’s my emotional anchor now.”

Ryan stared.

“I gave her your old room,” Homelander added brightly. “Better light. Better energy flow. Hope that’s okay. I mean, you’re on your emancipation journey, right? Symbolic, really.”

“Sure,” Ryan muttered. “Very healing. Really loving the arc where I get evicted by a labrador in knitwear.”

Miss J yawned. Homelander beamed at her like she’d solved climate change.

“So,” Ryan tried, “if you’re done brushing her teeth with artisanal charcoal... wanna hang out? Like old times. Watch a movie. Set a pressure-sensitive mine for Grandpa. You used to call that ‘bonding.’”

Homelander turned to him, all sunshine and disturbing calm.

“Ohh, champ. I’d love to. But today’s fully booked. Miss J has olfactory drills at noon, emotional resonance training at two, and her vibrational bark therapy at four. We’re syncing frequencies. It’s very delicate.”

Ryan blinked. The dog was now licking her own butt.

“You still have my calendar, right?” Homelander said. “Just grab a slot that works for all parties.”

“Already did,” Ryan said. “Three weeks out. Right between my guilt reprocessing workshop and your stakeholder summit on ‘How to Weaponize Vulnerability for Brand Engagement.’”

“Ohh, shoot. Can’t do that one. We’ve got pawdicures and guided breathwork. It’s daddy-daughter day.”

He winked. Miss J yapped.

Ryan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You know what? Let’s rewatch The Homelander Anthology. I'm starting to forget what it's like—hearing the sound of a scream die in your throat under a triumphant string section.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea, champ! Really,” Homelander said, shrugging sheepishly. “But Miss J and I just finished our third binge. She cries every time I save the orphans from that burning bus. She’s... incredibly empathetic. Kind of like you used to be, huh?” He tilted his head. “Maybe next time?”

“Or I could join your next cooking vlog,” Ryan suggested. “We could bake matcha muffins and decorate them with, I don’t know… symbols of repressed rage. In the shape of middle fingers.”

Homelander chuckled lightly.

“Ah... well, actually, Miss J is hosting the next one. We’re doing bone-shaped cookies. Body symbolism. But you could help with captions, if you want. You’ve always had a way with words. So raw.”

“Cool.” Ryan said tightly, “Then maybe we just lock ourselves in a bunker full of family memorabilia and stare at each other until one of us cries or dies of secondhand embarrassment.”

Homelander blinked.

“You alright, buddy? That sounds... horrifying.”

“I’m just trying to spend time with my dad!”

Homelander gave him a sincere smile.

“And I love that, sport. I do. But Miss J’s going through a tough patch. Her moon’s in retrograde, her stomach’s all twisted up—poor girl hasn’t pooped in three days. She needs me.”

“You haven’t checked my blood pressure in weeks,” Ryan snapped. “You threw out my coconut yogurt to make room for her pâté. You stopped bringing me those manipulative cupcakes with little messages like ‘Do Better.’ I feel abandoned, man.”

“Look at that.” Homelander whistled. “Big feelings. Honest expression. That’s real growth, champ. That’s the kind of emotional bravery I always hoped for.”

He turned to Miss J. “Did you hear that, sweetie? Our boy’s so in tune with his inner child!”

Then he waved vaguely toward the hallway.

“This is why I love you, buddy. You feel things. That’s beautiful. Why don’t you go ahead and journal that, huh? Get it all out. Pride, resentment—we process to progress. I’m proud of you. Even if you’re acting out a little.”

Miss J let out a triumphant yap as Ryan walked out—like she'd just won custody and half the estate.

Instead of heading back to his room, Ryan went downstairs—to the gym, which had been fully renovated after the fire as part of the “Canine Redemption Narrative.” Even the punching bag had returned. Yuri 2.0.

Soldier Boy, shirtless, was doing push-ups on his pinkies to a blast of ‘80s rock. When he saw Ryan, he silently hoisted him over his shoulder and slammed him onto the mat.

“Welcome back, Junior,” he grunted as stars danced in Ryan’s vision. “I was just itchin’ to punch someone in the face.”

“I’m not here for that,” Ryan muttered, sitting up. “I’ve got a question. Hypothetically… if a dog flies off and doesn’t return—is that, like, mortal sin territory? Or still just a misdemeanor?”

Soldier Boy froze mid-rep. Then slowly sat down on the floor.

“Kid, I’ve heard you say some messed-up shit. But this? This one’s new. Hang on. I’m gettin’ fruit. This feels like a fruit conversation.”

Five minutes later, Ryan was lying on the gym bench, cradling a mango like a newborn. Soldier Boy sat behind him on a yoga mat, still shirtless, in lotus position, holding a half-peeled grapefruit. The mat beneath him read: Breathe. Bleed. Repeat.

“I’ve been replaced,” Ryan said. “She’s got my room. My fridge shelf. She even gets the morning affirmations now—‘you’re a project, but I believe in you.’ Meanwhile I get... pictures. Of her. In a tutu. Wearing a crown. Dressed like a bee.”

Soldier Boy nodded.

“Alright. Lemme guess. You got kidnapped by a narcissistic psycho in a cape, got used to the trauma loop, and now you're freaking out ‘cause he’s love-bombing someone else. Textbook Stockholm. They unlock the door, and you’re the idiot begging to get shoved back in the basement and called ‘legacy.’”

“He’s my dad,” Ryan muttered.

“Yeah, well, I was America’s Sweetheart. We all got our delusions.”

Ryan glared. Soldier Boy shrugged.

“Look, he got what he wanted: laser eyes, wagging tail, no Nietzsche over breakfast. You? You were complicated. You asked questions. You pushed back. Now you’re losing it ‘cause he stopped bribing you with cupcakes that say ‘Pride Is Earned.’”

“It wasn’t bribery,” Ryan said. “It was... connection. Or at least dysfunction with eye contact.”

Soldier Boy bit into a grapefruit wedge.

“You want the leash back. ‘Cause without it, you can’t hear your own damn thoughts. That’s how it goes. You think it’s love. It’s just noise. But it’s familiar noise. Welcome to the club.”

Ryan let out a long breath.

“You get it, don’t you, Grandpa? If this was a real story I’d be the moral linchpin. The tragic mirror he looks into and finally sees the black hole where his soul should be. I’d be the one who breaks him.”

Soldier Boy peeled off another segment of the grapefruit.

“In the finale, he’d whisper, ‘What have I done?’” Ryan continued. “And depending on the director, the ending changes. Like—if it’s Tarantino, I kill him. Beautifully. Slowly. He doesn’t fight back. He just… lets it happen. Because he knows. There’s rain, opera, dramatic lighting, maybe a single shoe floating in a gutter—”

“Jesus. You want a napkin for all that symbolism?”

“If it’s Spielberg, I forgive him. We cry. There’s a hug. A single beam of light falls across our faces while John Williams scores our closure—”

“You’re makin’ my teeth itch.”

“If it’s Nolan, I kill him, but it turns out it already happened three dream layers ago and now we’re trapped in some metaphor about legacy and time."

He stared at the ceiling.

“And if it’s Wes Anderson, we’re in matching suits, sitting across from each other in pastel chairs. I say something like, ‘You hurt me, father,’ and he nods once. Then we stare out the window, drinking chamomile out of thimbles while a French pop record plays—”

“Okay, enough,” Soldier Boy muttered. “My pancreas is curling into a ball.”

Ryan picked at the mango, not meeting Soldier Boy’s eyes.

“If it’s Scorsese, I rot with resentment for forty years and he dies alone in a room full of mirrors. And if it’s A24… I don’t say anything. I just look at him. He looks back. And we sit there in silence until the screen cuts to black and the audience starts googling what it meant.”

Soldier Boy chewed his grapefruit, slow and sour.

“If it’s Michael Bay, I throw you both off a cliff. One of you explodes. Doesn’t really matter who.”

“Must be me,” Ryan sighed. “Since apparently I’m just the Chekhov’s gun no one fired. Hanging on the wall since episode three. Covered in dust. And mold. And whatever the hell lives in narrative irrelevance. Meanwhile, the dog? She gets the arc.”

He held up the mango for emphasis. It stayed silent. Complicit.

“What’s it like, you think? Realizing you’re not the soul of the story—just an emotional speed bump on the road to a labrador-centric catharsis?”

Soldier Boy blinked slowly.

“You need a fuckin’ hobby, Junior. I dunno. Stand-up. Knife throwing. Cryptocurrency.”

“I had a hobby!” Ryan howled. “Saving my dad’s soul! That was my thing. My arc. My tragic fucking niche.”

He sat up halfway, voice rising.

“And then this dog from hell shows up with her unconditional love and emotionally bulletproof eyes and wipes her paws on my entire narrative! Now he’s doing interviews about healing. He donated ten million to dog shelters yesterday. Today he canceled martial law. Tomorrow he’s gonna send handwritten apology cards to his enemies that say, ‘Wishing you warmth and healing.’”

Soldier Boy stared off into the middle distance.

“Rough, kid. But don’t drop the mango. It’s keeping you in pH balance.”

Ryan looked down at the fruit in his hands.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” he whispered. “Maybe I’m just... a side quest.”

Soldier Boy exhaled slowly. Then he stood up, walked over, and wordlessly dropped a tangerine into Ryan’s palm.

“Here. Narrative compensation. Small. But it’s got grit.”

“Thanks.” He stared at it. “Do I eat it… or raise it?”

Chapter Text

The idea was terrible. No—apocalyptic. Like, homicide-suicide-group-hug-apocalyptic.

Ryan should’ve killed it the second it crawled into his head. Nuked it like one of his dad’s draft tweets (God forbid one ever went live). But instead, out of stupidity, arrogance, or some gene-coded compulsion toward self-destruction, he tenderly put it in a jar, fed it breadcrumbs, and whispered, “Maybe you’ll grow into something manageable.”

He even made a pros-and-cons list: four cons, one sad little pro. And that’s without the sub-bullets like “possible collateral immolation of bystanders.” He cast some runes—pulled Power and Havoc. Drew a Tarot card—obviously Death. It’s always Death. Never like, Cupcakes or Netflix.

And still—against reason, ethics, and whatever survival instinct hadn’t been fried out of him—he went: Yeah, we’re doing this. The resurrection of Radical Honesty Family Circle. Featuring, for the first time ever, a special guest: his therapist. Live, in the flesh.

Which meant—thanks to him—that sixty-two-year-old woman was now on the sacrificial menu. Pure human entrée: fragile, flammable, laser-puncturable, wall-through-able.

And yet Ryan didn’t really believe it. Because the truth was, she terrified him. Not the respectful “yes, Doctor” kind of fear. No—actual fear. The kind that left his palms clammy, his diaphragm in revolt, and his brain developing a mild allergy to the phrase, “let’s go back to your childhood.”

Because Dr. Adler wasn’t a person so much as a weapon of mass therapeutic destruction. Her business card literally read: Trauma-Dominatrix. Psychoanalysis. Discomfort. Results. Font: Times New Roman, size nine.

Ryan noticed that later, after a few sessions, when he started wondering if her license had been fake or issued under torture.

Technically, she was competent: nailed the jargon, nailed the pauses, nailed the professional “hm.” But then she’d throw out things no sane therapist should ever say. Stuff like: “Your feelings are valid. But boring.” Or: “Ever considered becoming a narcissist? It’s like LinkedIn Premium for your personality.” Or: “Try dissociating one more time in my presence and I’ll drag your soul back with pliers.”

And once: “When you smile at me like that, I see the little boy rehearsing how not to be abandoned. It’s almost perfect. Almost.”

Ryan never forgot that one.

He tried breaking up with her more than once. He even wrote a three-step exit plan with soft landings like, “It’s not you, it’s my immaturity.” But when push came to shove, his fingers trembled, and instead of a breakup text, he sent a SpongeBob meme.

One time, though, he actually inhaled like a real person, exhaled, and croaked:

“Uh… I’m kinda thinking about switching therapists.”

Adler didn’t blink.

“Technically, you’re free to leave,” she said. “But let’s be honest—you won’t. You’re already regretting this. Already rehearsing your apology. Already picturing me forgiving you, resetting the cycle. That’s called narcissistic injury. And you’ll let me fix it, because even your rebellion reports back to me.”

And for the first time in years, Ryan—already mid-Google on how to survive dumping your therapist—felt disturbingly… seen.

And he thought: maybe she was perfect for Family Circle. The counterweight to everything grotesque and feral. The last functioning human synapse in a house where Grandpa treated PTSD with TikTok papaya cleanses, and Dad was in a monogamous relationship with the dog.

Maybe she was the one. The human stabilizer in a testosterone-fueled demolition derby.

Maybe she was the Second Coming. Though, unfortunately, Dad already called dibs on that role.

It turned out he was wrong. Disastrously wrong. But more on that later.

Dr. Adler did not smile when she entered the Seven’s conference room. She didn’t even glance at the ceiling fresco—commissioned in oil, sponsored by Vought, and already peeling after six months. She marched to the window in her orthopedic heels, scanned the room as if estimating how many casualties this session would produce, and gave a curt nod:

“Gentlemen. Let’s begin.”

Homelander was half-sitting, half-reclining on a sofa that had been dragged in at his command—“because chairs trigger Miss J’s anxiety.” The dog lounged beside him on a cushion, gnawing the drawstring of his hoodie emblazoned World’s Best Dog Dad. He hadn’t worn the super-suit in weeks. Claimed, “Father of the Year doesn’t need to look like a flying flag.”

Soldier Boy sprawled in an armchair at the far end of the room: legs wide, arms crossed, expression frozen at don’t know you, already hate you. When Adler unfolded her steel chair, his eyes lit up with a predator’s interest. The chair had no padding, no back. Comfort, Adler said, was the herald of doom. Comfort killed Rome, Sparta, and American sexuality.

“One at a time,” she said. “Problem, and why you’re here.”

Ryan pointed a “there he is” hand at Homelander. Homelander rolled his eyes heavenward.

“I’m only here because I promised my son to indulge his therapeutic… fetish. I need nothing. I am fully healed. Liberated. Enlightened. Blessed by Miss J.”

“Healed?” Soldier Boy barked a laugh. “You’re on a goddamn honeymoon with your dog.”

Homelander straightened, solemn, as though about to pin a medal to his own chest.

“Jealousy is an ugly feeling, Father. I’ve renounced hate, renounced violence, renounced capes. I have attained zen.” He scratched the dog under her chin. “Thanks to Miss J. She healed my soul—and my digestion.”

The dog snorted, dropped the drawstring, and shot Ryan a smug look. He clenched his fists under the table.

“So you believe you don’t need therapy,” Adler nodded. “And that your bond with the dog has nothing to do with a subconscious terror of rejection in human relationships.”

Homelander exhaled loudly, like someone asked him for a urine sample.

“Fine. Since we’re digging, I’ve prepared something. I knew you’d try to therapize me. So—”

From nowhere, as always, a remote appeared in his hand. Click. A projector whirred to life, screen descending from the ceiling. Title slide: "Rebirth Through Pawfection: My Journey to Canine-Assisted Enlightenment".

“Jesus, I’m gonna puke,” Soldier Boy rumbled.

Homelander clapped his hands like a kindergarten teacher demanding quiet. He rose, glowing.

“I understand everyone here is… unsettled. Maybe even afraid of my spiritual growth. That’s natural. Growth frightens people. But I’m not here for applause. I’m here to share. Although, if anyone in this room were capable of celebrating another man’s happiness, that’d be refreshing.”

He looked at Ryan. Ryan stared back, expression frozen on Windows XP error.

“The miracle of Miss J,” Homelander went on, “is that she’s never sarcastic, never tired, never weaponizes words. She is pure, unconditional support. But some people”—he scanned the room—“would rather drown in their own poisonous jealousy than admit the obvious. Even with slides.”

He clicked the remote. A chart flickered onto the screen:

X-axis: Weeks Since Miss J Entered My Life.

Y-axis: Intrusive Thoughts About The Deep.

“There you go,” said Homelander, underlining the steep downward trend with a laser pointer. “Before Miss J, I averaged eight to twelve fantasies a day involving the Deep’s gills and a waffle iron.”

He paused dramatically.

“And now? From week four onward—just one or two. And sometimes—brace yourselves—he even survives.”

Dr. Adler tilted her head, scribbling a note.

“Fascinating. So you’ve engineered a system of psychic self-regulation based on reducing sadistic intrusive fantasies about a colleague with gills.”

“That’s called cognitive monitoring,” Homelander shot back with gravity. “I understand statistics. And yes—my study of Miss J uses multiple proxies. Observe.”

Click. New chart: "Ocular Aggression Index vs Number of Miss J Pettings Per Day." A footnote at the bottom read: "Data adjusted for seasonal allergies."

Ryan narrowed his eyes at the projector.

“Please tell me there isn’t a slide three. Because honestly, I don’t think I’m ready for that trauma.”

“Of course there is!” Homelander lit up, clicking again. Title: ‘Comparative Analysis of Heir Candidates: Ryan B. vs Miss J.’ Subheader: 'Legacy Metrics Dashboard, Q1–Q3.'

Soldier Boy gave a low whistle, then roared with laughter.

“Well I’ll be damned. Junior, your score tanked from sixty-eight to twenty-three. And the dog? Climbed from ninety-six to ninety-nine. Even the mutt’s beating you on the survival curve.”

Ryan squinted at the slide.

“What even are these KPIs? Loyalty, attention, risk of teenage rebellion—okay. But ‘tail wags per minute’? I don’t even have a tail!”

“Which is why you scored zero in that category,” Homelander nodded gravely. “But don’t interpret the numbers as criticism. They’re simply facts. And in some areas you’re well ahead. For example, you consistently outperform Miss J in the metric ‘Toilet Usage for Intended Purpose.’ That’s an achievement. She and I are still working on that.”

Ryan nodded darkly.

“Awesome. My only edge over the dog is a toilet.”

Soldier Boy smirked.

“Quit whining, kid. Toilets matter. Besides, the mutt’s not getting drafted. And you still might end up in Special Forces by sixteen.”

“Do not underestimate Miss J!” Homelander flared. “If she joined the army, she’d have taken Berlin already.”

“So then,” Adler summarized. “In the inheritance metrics: toilet goes to Ryan, strategic leadership goes to the dog. Integrating this data will require an extended therapy package. With prepayment.”

Soldier Boy narrowed his eyes, giving her a long look.

“Goddamn… you just sounded exactly like my commanding officer. Only… hotter. I’d sign up for your extended package right now.”

“Father,” Homelander frowned. “We’re discussing me. You’ll get your turn.” He cleared his throat, theatrically solemn. “Doctor, I do have one problem, and I was counting on your consultation.”

He clicked the remote. A photograph of a wolf pack appeared.

“Namely: family toxicity. As you’re surely aware, there’s a proven phenomenon: Pack Emotional Disorder. When the alpha bonds with a new member, the low-ranking individuals…”

“Toxicity?” Soldier Boy cut in. “You built her a temple.”

“Not a temple,” Homelander shot back sharply. “A meditation kennel. With a stained-glass window and an orthopedic memory-foam bed.”

“You made me kneel in front of her and apologize for ‘negative energy,’” Ryan added flatly.

“And she accepted your apology,” Homelander said triumphantly, squaring his shoulders. “Her magnanimity knows no limits.”

He turned to Dr. Adler, beaming with a showcase smile.

“You see it yourself, Doctor. There’s the phenomenon. My dear family resents the fact that I am loved, stable, radiant with inner light. They want me back to lasering senators and sobbing into my cape at 3 a.m.”

Dr. Adler lifted her head from her notes.

“So. To the family, this is a ‘dog cult.’ To you, it’s ‘pack emotional disorder.’ To me, as a specialist, it’s a narcissistic object fixation with elements of substitute attachment and canine messianism.”

Soldier Boy whistled, eyes glinting.

“Jesus… Say that again. Slower.”

“Doctor, is it treatable?” Ryan asked dully.

“No,” Adler replied dryly. “But we can package it as a case study and apply for a grant.”

Ryan sighed heavily. Meanwhile, Homelander was cradling Miss J against his chest, rocking her gently, and feeding her from a bottle like an infant.

Soldier Boy coughed into his fist.

“Doc… question. You, uh… single? Maybe divorced? My buddy wants to know.”

Adler slowly turned her head, eyes like liquid nitrogen.

“I ask the questions here. Your pathology?”

“Me?” Soldier Boy puffed out his chest. “Sweetheart, I don’t got problems. I am the cure. Red, white, and FDA-approved.”

“He’s got PTSD,” Ryan snitched instantly. “Sleeps with a weapons depot under his pillow.”

“Doc, just give the order,” Soldier Boy leaned forward, pupils blown. “I’ll sleep without weapons. Hell, I’ll sleep without anything if you want.”

“Father!” Homelander shrieked, clapping Miss J’s ears. “There are children here! One’s a teenager, one’s a dog, both impressionable!”

Adler raised one brow, jotting a note in microscopic, terrifying handwriting.

“Classic case of projective eroticization.”

“Call it what you want, sugar,” Soldier Boy rasped. “But you smell like vodka poured over live ammo. I’d reenlist on your knees.”

Ryan dropped his face into his hands.

“I need a new therapist. Immediately.”

“No, keep this one,” Soldier Boy said quickly. “I want her to snap me like a rifle and reassemble me wrong.”

“I see.” Adler’s voice stayed even. “You exhibit all the signs of a post-combat subject who retro-eroticized domination, because only under a regime of control could your trauma find symbolic release.”

Soldier Boy exhaled like he’d taken a punch to the chest.

Ryan said flatly, “I hate everything about this. But also… could you repeat the part about ‘eroticizing domination’? For my notes.”

Homelander froze, squinting at Soldier Boy.

“…Why is he panting like God just flashed him a garter strap?”

Adler rose. Ritual-slow.

“You are a soldier who never received debriefing. A boy whose autonomy was annexed by patriotic jargon. Your psyche is a misfiled archive of unspeakable wounds, cross-referenced with shame, hypermasculine rage, and a starving need to be witnessed without trembling.”

Soldier Boy swallowed hard.

“I’m… this close to trembling.”

“...So this is what Freud meant,” Ryan whispered.

“Father! Lower your testosterone or I’ll make you sit on a towel!” Homelander barked. “Miss J doesn’t need filth in her ears!”

Adler stepped into the center.

“You’re close to trembling, because you’ve trained yourself to process psychic penetration as arousal.”

“…Just to be clear—this is a metaphor?” Ryan said. “Please say metaphor.”

Homelander exploded upright, pointing at Adler.

“Doctor! This is outrageous! You’re giving him all the juicy trauma lines! Where’s my kink-coded diagnosis? Where’s my archive of wounds? My psyche is bigger, better, more cinematic! If anyone here is eroticizing domination, it’s me! I invented domination!”

“Christ,” Ryan muttered. “He’s jealous of the pathology.”

Soldier Boy gripped the armrest, knuckles white.

“…Doc, I swear—weaponize me.”

“He is not cleared for weaponization!” Homelander screeched. “Not in front of my son! Not in front of my dog! Not in front of me!”

Adler didn’t blink.

“Mr. Homelander, stop catastrophizing. His arousal is entirely consensual.”

Homelander’s jaw dropped.

“Consensual arousal? For him? What about me? Why does he get ‘sexy trauma’ and I just get called a narcissist? That’s malpractice. That’s discrimination. I demand equal-opportunity pathology!”

“Mr. Homelander, narcissism is already eroticized," Adler replied coldly. “You eroticize yourself daily.”

Homelander froze. Blinked twice. Then, very softly:

“…Excuse me?”

His voice cracked, rising:

“I do not eroticize myself! I… I celebrate myself. This is divine reverence. This is what people pray for when they’re on their knees at night. It’s Walt Whitman. It’s scripture. It’s American exceptionalism. Do you call the flag a narcissist for waving in the wind? Do you call the sun a narcissist for rising every morning?”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Do you call it a circle jerk when it’s a one-man show?”

Homelander spun on him, red-faced. “SHUT UP! You wouldn’t understand! You’ve never had a body worth worshipping!”

Ryan winced. “Yup. Nothing says family bonding like Dad screaming at Grandpa about his body being a national monument. Anyone know where I can buy brain bleach?”

Adler cut through, voice flat.

“Mr. Homelander, your erotic narcissism is a closed loop. We’ll return to it after we treat something more responsive to stimulus. This man”—she pressed her palm to Soldier Boy’s armrest—“is trembling at the prospect of being touched without violence.”

Soldier Boy’s breath hitched.

“You want me dismantling you piece by piece, under fluorescent judgment, without a safeword. You crave demolition because demolition feels honest. You crave command because it feels safe. So when I tell you structure is survival, you’re hearing the first mercy you’ve ever been offered.”

Her eyes locked on his. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Soldier Boy’s chest heaved. The sound that escaped was closer to a child’s hiccup than a man’s breath. He shivered, eyes half-closed, like the sniffle had been pried out of him and it hurt good.

Ryan—against every survival instinct—snorted. Just once. Then clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified.

Adler didn’t even glance at him.

“There,” she said softly, leaning over Soldier Boy, as if she’d drawn blood. "The fracture. Hold it."

“This is like a train crash,” Ryan said. “I want to look away but… I can’t. Is this what Freud wanted?”

“Ryan, close your eyes!” Homelander barked.

“I tried. But then she said ‘fluorescent judgment’ and now I need context.”

“Context is poison! Shut your ears!”

“That’s not how ears work!”

Soldier Boy groaned.

“I’ll give you everything, baby. My medals, my shield polish, my socks… Just give the order.”

Homelander jumped to his feet, red in the face.

“ENOUGH! Session’s over! We’re leaving! Family field trip! Ryan, up! Miss J, with me! This is MY therapy, MY trauma, MY spotlight—and I will not play second fiddle to this trench-porno freak show!”

“But I was finally understanding Freud!” Ryan protested.

“GO! OUT!” Homelander shoved Ryan toward the door, trying and failing to block his ears too.

“Flight,” Adler called after them, “is also a symptom.”

"So is survival," Ryan said before the door slammed shut. “Trust me—I’ve been majoring in it since birth.”

Chapter Text

At first, they pretended the screaming downstairs was none of their business.

They did that a lot: pretending. Ryan—that his life wasn’t a reality show from hell. Homelander—that any of this counted as family.

Ryan sat curled on the couch, stirring vegan frozen yogurt with M&Ms. On the other couch Homelander was feeding yogurt to Miss J on his lap.

“Think he’s stuck down there for a while,” Ryan sighed, barely resisting the urge to switch on x-ray.

Homelander glanced at the floor and grimaced.

“Oh yeah. It’s like Saw meets Oprah. We’re not getting him back soon.”

Ryan stirred his yogurt harder.

“I heard her growl at him. She said he’s just a boy with a mom-shaped hole he keeps trying to fuck shut.”

Homelander jerked back, the grin sliding right off his face. His cheek twitched.

“No. Uh-uh. Don’t ever say that again. Ever.”

Ryan shrugged. “Honestly? Pretty poetic. Bukowski meets Freud at a funeral.”

He tilted his head, listening.

“Yep. She’s got him reading Fifty Shades of Grey. And every ‘Christian’ he swaps out for ‘Benjamin.’”

Homelander’s face pinched.

“Buddy… don’t. Don’t listen. I peeked, and—look, I’m not gonna describe it, because you’re too young. But I’ll give you the headline: blindfold. Baby powder. Lawsuit incoming.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t resist either,” Ryan confessed. “Used x-ray like half an hour ago. He had a bib—said ‘Mommy’s Little Soldier.’ She was warming up applesauce. Only thing grosser is you and Miss J Lady-and-the-Tramping that yogurt cup.”

Homelander chuckled, twirling the spoon.

“Look at you, all jealous. You can share with us too.” He pushed the spoon toward him. “C’mon, champ—Daddy’ll feed you too.”

Ryan barked a laugh. “Sure. Let’s throw in a family toothbrush too. For the three of us. Four, if Grandpa ever discovers dental hygiene.”

“Why not?” Homelander brightened, spoon still in hand. “Family shares. Me and Miss J already do.”

Ryan looked up, deadpan.

“Perfect. Next step: giant bubble bath, all together. Then one mattress. Matching pajamas—with your face on the chest. Eyes as glow-in-the-dark nipples. Limited-edition Vought merch: ‘Daddy and Me, The Deluxe Cuddle Pack.’ And boom—we’re ready to start a cult in Utah.”

Homelander squinted.

“…That sarcasm?”

Ryan just stared.

“The fact you even need to ask is the scary part.”

Homelander puffed up, squeezing the spoon until the plastic whined.

“Right. Because no matter what I do, it’s never normal enough for you.” His voice cracked. “Fine. Go find Mr. Perfect Father. Go ask Alan if he’s got a drawer full of spoons.”

Miss J sneezed, loud.

Ryan sighed.

“See? Even the dog thinks you’re gross.”

Homelander froze, breath stuttering, then—click—the switch flipped. Smile back, dazzling enough to blind planes. He shrugged.

“Whatever. Your loss. Me and Miss J are making memories here.”

“And one day she’ll tell her therapist all about it.”

Homelander winced, stuffing the spoon back in the cup.

“Ungrateful. I’d have killed for my dad to share yogurt with me.”

“Cool. I’ll tell Grandpa. Bet he’d love a yogurt date.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Ryan smirked. “What? Sharing’s caring. Isn’t that the family motto now?”

The chandelier swayed overhead, crystals chiming like a cheap wind chime. From downstairs came a new round of thuds and groans, punctuated by a cheery bark:

“—That’s trauma leaving your body!”

Homelander flinched like he’d been punched himself. He stared at Ryan.

“That’s your therapist?!”

Ryan shrugged. “Technically. And yeah, her methods work.”

“She broke your grandfather.”

“She broke him open,” Ryan corrected. “Like a piñata.”

He fished out a brown M&M, chewed it slow.

“Only instead of candy, it was trauma, misogyny, and an Oedipus complex. Honestly? Not what I expected. Pretty sure I need ten more sessions just to process that last one.”

“Or…” Homelander started petting Miss J like he was trying to start a lawnmower. She snapped at his finger, he giggled nervously. “Or! Here’s a better idea. You talk to me. Dad hotline. Twenty-four seven. No call centers, no wait times. One easy number: 1-800-I-LOVE-YOU.”

Ryan tossed another M&M in his mouth.

Homelander’s voice dropped into molasses.

“You know that, right? You can tell me anything. Anything. No judgment.”

Ryan ate another M&M. Then another.

“Okay, fine,” Homelander muttered, smile twitching like a glitching GIF. “Little bit of judgment. But what’s family without a little judgment, huh? Just… smothered in love syrup.”

Ryan sighed, set his empty yogurt cup on the mirrored table. It rattled faintly with each thud from below.

“Alright. Since you’ve reached dog nirvana and let go of rage, jealousy, and marketing—”

“Just rage,” Homelander cut in, finger up. “Jealousy’s fuel. Marketing’s oxygen.”

Ryan ignored him, watching Miss J lick his father’s hand like she was trying to erase it. He sighed again.

“It’s just… my life’s been nothing but losses. Mom—my powers took her. Grace—same. Butcher—disappointment. You—stolen by a dog. Grandpa—broken by the therapist. Therapist—broken by Grandpa. Feels like I’m the only one left.”

Homelander blinked. Tilted his head.

“Grace..?”

“That was your chance to say the dog didn’t steal you,” Ryan shot back. “But whatever. Forgot, you’re clueless.”

Ryan pressed the M&M into his palm until the candy shell cracked, brown smear bleeding into his skin.

He didn’t look up.

“…I kinda threw her into a wall. Snapped her neck.”

The grin fell clean off Homelander’s face. For once he had nothing—just a sharp inhale, eyes blazing. Then the smile flicked back on.

“Wow. Okay. Old me—the guy who still believed in violence? He’d be proud. Barely a teenager and already showing initiative. That’s my boy!”

He caught himself, backpedaled fast, grin tightening into place.

“I mean—tragedy, candlelight vigil, blah blah. But hey, silver lining: strength. Resolve. Future of America.”

He leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorial, like he was pitching stock options.

“Your legacy metrics just went through the roof, champ. Few more moves like that and you’ll give Miss J here a run for her money.”

He hugged the dog and kissed her nose.

“You hear that, girl? You’ve got competition!”

Ryan stared at him, dead-eyed.

“I broke my grandma-in-practice’s neck and you hear ‘future of America’?”

Homelander’s grin only widened.

“Not just that.” He leaned close, whispering like he was sharing a secret. “I hear… initiation. Rite of passage. We all have one. Me? I realized my power the day I— well, doesn’t matter.”

Ryan snorted.

“You call it initiation. I call it Grace trying to turn me into a killer and getting express-shipped back instead.”

Homelander frowned.

“Wait… who did she...? Don’t tell me it was Butcher?” He snapped his fingers. “Makes sense. Guy looks like he drinks motor oil, bathes in whiskey and marinates in beef jerky. Kinda like your grandpa. No wonder they got along. Shame you turned it down.”

“Not Butcher.” Ryan frowned. “Why would it be? And don’t trash him. He taught me chess.”

Homelander barked out a laugh, slapping his knee.

“Chess? Butcher didn’t teach you chess. He taught you abandonment. And his ‘bedtime stories’ were just drunk rants with a moral tacked on. His ‘hugs’ were chokeholds he never finished because he had to hand you back on Sunday night.”

“Oh my God. Why do all your Butcher insults sound like you’re still paying him alimony?”

Homelander’s smile froze. “Don’t be gross. I could do way better than Butcher. Way better. But seriously—who did she want you to kill?”

Ryan looked at him.

“No,” Homelander said after a beat, going rigid.

“Yep.”

“Me?!”

Ryan turned away.

“She wanted you to kill me? You? That’s insane. You flinch when a toaster dings. You take out streetlights when you land. And to fire your lasers you have to think about global warming or your twelfth birthday party.”

“That was a cringe party,” Ryan protested.

“That was a perfect party.”

“You made the Deep jump out of a cake.”

“Kids love surprises.”

“He was topless.”

“You’re welcome.”

“The cake was shaped like your head. And you made me blow out the candles with my lasers.”

“And you missed. Embarrassing for both of us.”

“The eagle you rented mauled Kyle’s face.”

“I gave him a paper mask.”

“With your face on it.”

“Team-building!”

“The party favors were Funko Pops. With your face again.”

“Collectibles! Value goes up!”

“You forced me to duet ‘God Bless America.’”

“And we crushed it. Goosebumps.”

“And the hologram of my mom sang ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“You needed closure.”

“She glitched halfway through and said ‘Heil Vought.’”

“Still counts.”

Ryan exhaled, defeated.

“Fine. In a way, it was a gift: now I know for sure things can’t possibly get worse.”

“And let’s not forget the upside,” Homelander perked up. “You got yourself a brand-new laser trigger!”

“Yeah. And a fresh trauma bundle for Dr. Adler,” Ryan said flatly.

Homelander narrowed his eyes, gently setting Miss J onto a pillow like she was an infant.

“Buddy, you’re clearly… feeling some feelings.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” Ryan muttered. “What gave it away?”

Homelander coughed, lowered his voice, almost fatherly.

“Look, I didn’t mean you could never kill me. You’ve got the whole package—raw power, stamina, jawline sharp enough to take down the Pentagon. Couple years of drills, a little discipline, and bam—you make Dad obsolete. That’s the dream, right? Every son wants to beat his old man. I just happen to be… you know, God.”

Ryan slowly turned his head, horrified.

“That’s… your idea of encouragement?” He barked a short laugh, then shook his head. “You’re completely insane.”

“It’s a compliment!” Homelander’s smile went blinding. “Give it time. One day you’ll fry me like bacon, and I’ll be grinning through the sizzle. Because that’s parenting. Just don’t forget: you’re not some weapon. You’re… a hormonal little demigod scribbling poetry in a math notebook.”

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“Great. I’ll make sure Adler writes that on my chart.”

Homelander placed a hand on his shoulder, voice low and earnest.

“Buddy, fire her. She let your grandpa French her eyeballs.”

Ryan sighed. "Great family tree we’ve got."