Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Butcher was told to not worry about Ron around two in the morning, Frenchie and Kimiko had tracked him down, found him in a rundown apartment, and now they’ve got a lead singling out where A-Train is. He thinks Ron helping them is peculiar, and as Hughie talks to him, sounding sluggish and tired, he decides that it’s not a good time to draw this out.

Of course, Butcher assumes that there is a catch to this, a subliminal blackmail tainted bingo card, because Ron had seen them carry an unconscious Homelander and Starlight into the van. 

He could spew what he’s seen out to anyone who would lend an ear to listen. 

Luckily for Butcher, there were still drastic conspiracy theories dredged up by fans meddling in a never ending pit of denial to edge whatever Ron would leak out. If word gets out, he’d blend in with the mindless crowd, seeming like another dedicated nutjob who was juggling his sanity for a lick of attention. 

Unless he took pictures, which would be insanely convenient, Butcher wants to believe that the cunt has no leverage, and they shouldn’t be extending a limb out. 

“He took some type of transit. We think he’s with an extended family member in the south of Chicago.” Hughie informs him, trudging about in his bathroom, feeling his throat tingle due to an incoming cold, there’s a hot flush in his face already as he sifts through his medicine cabinet.  

“Last time I checked he wasn’t on good terms with his brother.” Butcher feeds in, popping an earplug in despite it being unnecessary due to his abilities, he just doesn’t want to trek around his flat with Hughie on speaker phone, and his hands are too full to hold the device in place on his shoulders. He ends up slipping the phone into his back pocket. “Extended family might work. Keep an eye on that.” 

“Butcher.” 

Butcher huffs out a ‘what’ as he grabs a blanket from the other end of the couch, unfolding the fuzzy fabric before carefully covering Homelander’s snoozing form, a position he left the man in after peeling away from him, ending their unintended snuggling session. 

“If he is with his family. Can’t we just leave him alone?” Hughie questions, and there goes that sprinkle of morality that keeps Butcher grounded as much as it does Hughie. 

Butcher’s eyes linger on Homelander as he straightens up, walking over to the corner of his room, flicking his lamp on, causing it to cast a soft hue over his living room. “Well, kid, before we do anything like that, we need to see if he’s actually with his family.” 

“God.”

“Yep.”

Hughie inhales sharp, sounding apprehensive while he grumbles something along the lines of ‘it couldn’t be that easy,’ which makes the Brit really think. 

It’s not like Butcher doesn’t understand why Hughie would be tired fiddling around in these types of situations.

Perhaps, for the first time, he gets it, there’s this subtle exhaustion in Hughie’s voice that he knows all too well.

“Okay, but I'm not good with stalking people. If he’s depowered and with family, then we leave him be. He’s not doing anything reckless, right? I don’t think Vought is too hung up on him, not like how they’re hung up on Homelander, so we should be square.” 

“I wouldn’t let my guard down.” Butcher says, biting his bottom lip, walking away from the couch, heading into his bedroom, tidying up so he had something to do with his hands. “Frenchie and Kimiko are on the job to make the trip over to Illinois. They’ll be doing all of the stalking, you can breathe.”

“Oh,” Hughie breathes, sniffling. “Okay.” 

Butcher moves on from this subject. “Any news on Annie?” 

“No. Not as of yet. I stopped trying to reach out to her, you know, it’s not worth my time anymore.” Hughie sounds dejected, unsettlingly so, and Butcher has the sudden urge to comfort him, but he doesn’t really know where to start on that front. 

Butcher snorts, attempting to lighten him up. “Did Kimiko really scare you with that threat?” 

“Screw you, man.” Hughie huffs out, coughing into his fist. “I’m just going to leave it up to fate if Annie ever decides to show up again.” 

Butcher’s unsure of how he should word this, but he tries his best, clearing his throat and steadying his voice, offering the best assurance he could summon up. “She’s somewhere out there, Hughie. I think she just needs to find herself again. Whatever she said to you might’ve been spurred on, and it’s not something you should take personally.” 

“I want to believe that.” Hughie says, and for some reason, Butcher could envision the little unenthusiastic shrug he’s probably doing. “She’s keeping herself away from us. If she were here, then we’d try to help her through her pain, but she’s just actively avoiding us. I don’t know what I can do. I’m just sitting here in our apartment. Alone.”  

As Butcher’s gaze lingers on an old polaroid of Becca hidden in his bottom drawer, he slowly realizes that he and Annie aren’t so different from each other. He puts the picture back, straightening up the surface of his dresser, swiping a coin from it before he turns to walk over towards his bed, removing his phone from his pocket.

 As Hughie stifles another cough, Butcher sighs out, ignoring the longing brewing in his stomach as he takes a seat on his bed, laying back against his pillows, he takes a moment to gather his words, eyeing the ceiling thoughtfully, tossing the coin up.  

“Sometimes it’s better to handle a loss when you’re alone. Being around other people during the roughest moments can make you lash out. Say shit you don’t really mean.” 

He thinks about what he said to Ryan before he left, how much he had hurt him when he said what he said, feeling the unattainable urge to push him away.

“I usually don’t do that.” Hughie says, sounding hesitant. “I mean, I caught myself doing it a few times, but I don’t mean to be malicious about it.” 

“Everyone does it, Hughie.” 

“I just want her back. We don’t even need to have the same dynamic. I just want to make sure she’s safe and sound. The last time we saw her, she wasn’t in good shape, and I’m just worried more for her wellbeing at this point.” 

Butcher hums at that, flipping the coin as it lands back into his clutch, listening to its soft ring as it launches from his thumb to swirl in the air. “Did you really think she’d rat us out?” 

“No.” Hughie answers a bit faster than he probably intended. 

Butcher clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Then why did you say -” 

“I thought that I needed to have a bit of control over the situation I was in, and unfortunately, that was the only way I felt I could get any. I didn’t mean it. I’m just so fucking stuck right now.” 

There’s a pause, and then Butcher’s voice came firm, startling Hughie slightly. “You need a break. You’re stressing yourself out to a point where you’re falling ill.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Sure.” 

Hughie changes the subject from himself, his voice pitching up in that fucking interrogating tone which Butcher fucking hates. “Hey, by the way, why didn’t you tell me you took compound V?” 

“Agh, Jesus –” Butcher closes his eyes and rubs his palm along his face, sounding exasperated, of course Hughie was going to bring that up. He’s not sure why he hadn’t prepared himself for that. “It slipped my mind, alright? I got the shot and immediately went home. I was lucky enough to be there in time.” 

Hughie sounds like he’s either mad at him, or  amused by the whole situation now. For some reason, Butcher couldn’t really tell, there’s this static crackling over the phone line. “Oh, right. Is that the day you requested my help with babysitting?”

“Probably.” 

“There’s no other time where you’d willingly leave Homelander behind, so that’s got to be it.” 

“That was it.” Butcher says, continuing to play with the coin. 

Hughie lets out an unsurprised: “Wow.” 

“I was planning to tell you on my own. But I knew you’d find out anyway.” Butcher explains, and he’s telling the truth, he just hadn’t found enough time to really think about when or how he’d tell him. 

Taking care of Homelander had him locked in throughout the multiple weeks that went by, he couldn’t really put his mind on anything else, and not only that, he was cursed with his new abilities.

Hell, he still is.

“So, what does it do? I mean, do you feel any different?” 

“Limbs feel lighter, a little unnoticeable. At the same time, with different sensations, things feel a little stronger, smells, touches, all that shit. It’s a touch overwhelming, fuck. It’s nothing I can’t handle though. At least there’s not a puddle of my brain splashing around up there anymore.” 

“You scare the shit out of me sometimes.” 

Butcher titters at that. “You just worry about me too much.” 

“I do.” Hughie sighs, rubbing his temples. 

They hang up a minute later, Butcher asks if he’d be alright, and Hughie answers with an uncertain sure. Remembering the time of night, and acknowledging the exhaustion apparent in Hughie’s voice, Butcher leaves the call at that, puts his phone on the charger and gets up off of his bed, heading back into the living room. 

“Scoot over,” he mutters as he kneels on the edge of the couch, tapping at Homelander’s arm, getting a disgruntled sound in return, and as the body moves closer to the cushion, Butcher lifts the blanket and slips in as smoothly as he could. 

Homelander groans as he sits up, peeling his eyes open, staring at the Brit as he watches the man slot himself underneath him. Shifting onto his stomach as the other’s arms open for him, he exhales and slips his arm over Butcher’s stomach, nuzzling his face into his chest.

“Hm,” He elicits as he blinks his eyes at the television that’s been turned off for awhile now, curling his fingers into Butcher’s sweater and squeezing, shuddering at the feeling of warm hands sliding up and down his backside, tugging him closer. He’s warmer than the blanket, it makes him feel safer, and it’s kind of strange because he’s never felt the need to feel safe before. John feels his heart thrum against his chest. “Why do your friends love to call you this late?”

Butcher’s chest vibrates as he responds, his head propped up against the arm rest, which would have been more uncomfortable if he wasn’t distracted by the gentle way Homelander looks in this light. “Oh, you’ve noticed?” 

“Yeah. It’s fucking weird. While I’m asleep I can hear you grumble on and on, it’s annoying and rude. Plus, you fucking walk around and shit. I’m a light sleeper, you know, so I can hear all of that.” 

“Don’t think anything of it.” Butcher says, a grin teasing at his lips, his eyes had a soft glint to it, and his hand slips up from Homelander’s back to his hair, running his fingers through it, earning a softening expression from the smaller man. “They’re usually up around this time, none of our sleeping schedules are healthy.” 

“Uh-huh. I can see that. The last time you slept, you didn’t even really sleep. What’s up with that?” John mutters tiredly as he draws his arm back from around Butcher’s torso, folding it over his stomach, resting his chin atop the back of his hand.  

Butcher plays with his hair, stomach tightening up, and he’s unsure if he knows what he’s even saying when he responds. “I don’t really know. I’m alone with my thoughts when I shut my eyes, and it’s not the best company.” 

Homelander’s eyes are so open. 

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“I’ll stay up with you.” 

Butcher huffs, averts his eyes, warmth spreading in his chest. “That’s unnecessary. You need sleep. Humans can’t just skip out on rest for a handful of days.” 

“Supes can’t either.” 

Quite a change of perspective. John lifts his head up and leans forward as he unfolds his arm, touching Butcher’s face with his fingertips, he sees the man’s face twitch under his touch, and that makes him smile.

Butcher’s heart lurches at the sight.

Butcher lifts his head up slightly, letting out an involuntary sound as he feels warm lips press against his own, the hand in the other’s hair stilling, they’re kissing again, soft breaths puffing amongst each other’s skin. It’s as if Homelander was still uncertain that he was allowed to do this, which would have been hilarious if Butcher hadn’t felt the same way, there’s a voice shouting from the back of his head of how fragile moments like these are.

Butcher wets his lips as Homelander pulls away, slipping his hands down onto the cushion’s seat  to lift himself up a little, hovering over the other man, staring down at Butcher like he’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. “This is still so weird,” he admits, voice soft, and Butcher could see the  spirals of longing in his eyes, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die if John keeps gazing at him like this, so fucking open, his expression resembling a blank canvas. 

Butcher swallows as he vacuums his bustling mind for coherent words, and for a moment, he’s mulling over whether he trusts his voice. “I’m not tapping out.” 

Strands of hair fall into John’s face, his eyes sparkle, and he smirks at him, seeming too distracted to allow a full on smile to spread. “Me neither.” 

Butcher knows that whatever he plans to say wouldn’t make any sense, so he just sits up and kisses him again, an arm curling around his waist. 

Annie was peering over the ledge, rubbing her hands together for friction, breathing out into her palms to keep them warm, not used to being this cold, unable to truly embrace the shift in weather. It’s not like she was an android, she felt the sharp twists and turns of weather, but it never used to get under her skin as much as it’s doing now. 

The tip of her nose was bright red, her fingers frigid, ears straining as the wind blew onto it. 

This was one of the many things she hated about being – human.  

It’s been days since she’s gotten a full night of comfortable sleep, she’s been thinking about her bed at home for sometime now, the scent of breakfast, knit blanket on her shoulders, fuzzy socks - just simple things that sort of came along with preparing to speak to your mother for the first time in almost three weeks. 

The city lights reflected in her somber eyes, twinkling brightly, a ground level substitute for the stars that occupy space’s vacuum. Annie stands there in her spot, drinking the view in for one more minute until she eventually moves off of the ledge, trekking across the roof to retrieve her backpack, grabbing at the strap, hoisting it onto her shoulder. 

Opening the creaky door to the roof, she walked her path through the dark corridor, marching over to the flight of stairs that led her up here. Annie refuses to think about how she basically memorized this entire building. 

During her first couple of visits here she initially planned to not even leave it, not with her life still attached at least. 

Thankfully those plans simmered. 

To be frank, having thoughts against continuing on with life was perhaps the roughest spot she found herself in during her time adapting to the feel of the clothes on her body, the fabric - the entire realness of it. Annie still couldn’t comprehend the feeling of concrete gliding under her palms, rocks that weren’t crushed into rubble by one squeeze, the buzzing of electricity no longer in tune with the everyday sounds she normally overhears.

It’s strange being like this. 

Being totally normal, powerless.

Annie still finds herself being neutral on whether it feels right or if she hates it, one thing that mattered to her with having powers is that she had an actual purpose. 

Maybe she still bears a purpose in a world so misguided and cruel, in desperate need of a hero - but she honestly doesn’t know if she’s capable of withholding such faith in herself anymore. 

Anyway, it’s not worth mulling about, she feels like her mind was ripped apart, mangled, and destroyed. 

As she made her way down the steps, she had her phone in her hands, eyes lingering on her mother’s caller ID, index finger hovering over the green call button, teeth gnawing down on the supple skin of her bottom lip. 

Right, back to calling her mom.  

It wasn’t right to keep her mother worrying, and yet, a darker, spiteful side of her felt like she was actually getting something out of keeping her mother in the dark. 

The woman was the one who forced her into this life before she was even teething, grooming her to be a showstopper, a bright light, child of God, the purest child Vought could ever ask for. In return, Annie had to do everything to keep her mother from seeing her daughter in her weakest form after raising her as this giant ‘somebody’ all of her life. 

The last time her mother had seen Annie like this, she was a baby, small, nestled in her arms before handing her over into Vought’s slimy fucking hands, letting them subject her to that evil, blue drug. 

Annie feels her gut churn. 

Stop. Annie tells herself, pleads with herself to not get angry, not again, anger doesn’t fit her, weeks ago, before she left HQ again, she let herself get so pent up to where she started to close her shaking fist, letting her hand grab at her wrist and steady it before she punched and broke bathroom mirror glass. 

This level of inner turmoil is too poisonous for her.

Instead of calling her mother — she reluctantly unblocks his number and calls his phone. 

It took some time for her to get used to flickering on light switches, by the time she stepped off the last step, she was surrounded by this darkness that still gets to her after all of this time, using her phone as a flashlight, listening to Hughie’s phone ring. 

Annie only comes into this building to get to the roof anyway, it’s not like she’d actively explore an abandoned place, and to entertain the floating ‘let’s end it all’ thoughts in her head. 

There’s no energy in her to look around like a fucking tourist, not with baring the thoughts she had. 

Besides coming out of HQ to hike here, she did a good job in staying out in public during daylight, and she maneuvers quite well considering she had to do it before when the Boys had gotten burned a year back. Vought and the FBI are looking for her because she was still a member of the Seven, everyone was freaking out, funny little theories piling up -  there were a couple of missing posters scattered about, each one she saw she rolled her eyes at. 

No one would actually care if she’s missing, she appreciates that her fans try to enforce their own search groups though, she wishes she could have reached out to them more, especially the ones that are targeted by Homelander’s cult. 

Annie pushes herself through a door that’s ajar, which was also the back door of the building, vegetation and graffiti decorating it, she turns around to push it closed with her arm, rust staining the hoodie sleeve covering forearms. 

Throughout this, her eyes remain stuck on her phone, still chewing on her bottom lip. 

Was she ready for this? 

Annie sighs out in annoyance towards herself, ready to click her phone off, believing that she needs a bagel breakfast sandwich to really think about it. 

“Annie?”

Annie swallows, a glob forming in her throat, she makes her way over towards the sidewalk and there sat a stone sitting sideways up, she kick-drags it over to a grassy spot where vegetation crawls up the side of the building, vines and leaves decorating most of its entire side. Sitting down on the stone, she sets her phone down on the ground, hugging her knees, clearing her throat, ignoring the cold. “Yeah.” 

Silence. 

“You called.” Hughie sounds like he wants to say more, she's glad he doesn't. 

Annie looks at the cars passing by. “I did.” 

“Are you - are you safe?”

She shrugs her shoulders like Hughie can see her. “I’m fucking freezing, but, yeah, I’m safe.”  

“It’s a little chilly out, yeah.” 

“Mhm.”

“Where are you?” 

“Somewhere in Harlem.” Annie says, rubbing her cold hands together, twiddling her thumbs from time to time. 

Hughie’s voice crackles over the phone line, and Annie hears this skeptical reluctance in his voice as he queries. “Are you with anyone?”

“No.” Annie sighs out after a long, tense moment, shaking her head, disappointment directed both at herself and Hughie laced her in her voice. “Why would I be, Hughie? Who could I possibly be with?”

“Just making sure. You’ve been distant, and someone’s been looking into us lately.”

Annie says nothing, she just slings her bag off of her shoulder, unzipping and digging inside, grabbing an untouched carton of cigarettes and a lighter. 

Hughie withers at her sudden silence, the shifting noises in the background, and he palms his neck anxiously, he wasn’t ready to get blocked again. “Annie, listen, let me reiterate - I’m not accusing you of anything -“

“No, you are. I get it.” Annie responds in a flat voice, slipping the stick between her lips, flickering on her lighter, hand curled around the flame to keep it still as the wind blows. 

“Annie. God. Just forget I said that. I’m just being paranoid.” 

Inhale - drag - hold - exhale. Annie taps at the stick, wetting her lips, she hadn’t smoked a cig since going to school. 

“Something is wrong with me, Hughie.” 

That keeps Hughie in stunned pause, and like she expected for him to do, he cowered up to her. “No, Annie, don’t think that. Nothing is wrong with you -“ 

“Nope.” Annie responds, putting unnecessary emphasis on the ‘p’ before she slips the stick between her lips again. “I’ve never felt this angry before.” 

Drag, hold, exhale — she shakes her head, and adds. “Useless and unhappy.” 

The next time Hughie speaks, his voice sounds throaty, like he’s actually crying. Annie assumes that he is. “Annie, I never meant to put you through this much pain. I was selfish. I fucking - I broke you - and I’ll never fucking forgive myself -“

Annie stares at her phone. “Hughie.” 

“I failed Robyn. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let that happen again. I fucking swore. ” 

Annie takes another drag, listens to him sob.

For the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to genuinely hate Hughie, and she knows he would’ve been grateful for that. Annie had so much loathing directed to herself, she had yet to grace him with such relief.

It was childish maybe, but during their last argument with each other, it had felt good to say that she hated him, especially if the intention was to hurt him like he had hurt her  – still,  she knows that she doesn’t hate Hughie though.  

She could never.

Annie no longer wishes the pain she’s feeling on Hughie or anyone else, and perhaps that's the first step she needs to take. 

“It’s not entirely your fault that this happened. I want to try to forgive you for being involved, your intent wasn’t to hurt me.”

Hughie lets out a wet sound when ‘try to forgive’ leaves Annie’s mouth. 

“It’s not either of our faults that this happened, not totally. It was wrong of me to um -“ she takes another drag, shutting herself up once she noticed how shaky her voice became, hand trembling as she lowers it back down, tapping the cig again. 

Hughie remains respectfully quiet as she gathers her words. “I don’t think there was a way I could’ve handled the situation right. I don’t think Maeve could’ve helped me either, and it’s really hard for me to swallow that.”

“I don’t know if I want my mom to continue to suffer over the choices she made when I was an unknowing kid. A part of me wants to talk to her, and another part of me, a louder part, wants me to never speak to her again, let her think that I’m dead because she’s the one that fucking put me here in the first place. Like you said, my life was fucked since I got that shot.”

“Annie.” Hughie breathes out, sounding guilty, he deeply regrets saying that, wondering if that triggered her current thoughts towards her mom. 

“It’s funny,” she kicks a rock, waving her cig around, shaking her head, “I’m blaming everyone but myself for feeling this way, am I?”

“No, Annie, I should have stopped Butcher.” 

“Butcher was beating a dead horse even when he had a child to watch and take care of.” Annie says, finding it sardonically amusing, she lifts the cig back up to her lips, sighing out. “Was he ever going to stop chasing Homelander? By the end, that’s all he lived for right?”

Silence. 

“Your mom didn’t give you a choice Annie, and if you despise her for that, then it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You’re human. The strongest human I’ve ever met. Having this - anger - inside of you, especially after what we’ve all been put through by Butcher, Vought, Homelander, Soldier Boy - none of it means that there’s something wrong with you.”

“At one point I wanted them all to die, Hughie. Every single person involved. And I don’t think like that. I never fucking think like that, but seeing those people’s families crying over their loved ones, seeing Maeve’s fans mourn, and just being unable to do anything about it —“ God. It fucking hurts to have it all unravel through her words, a searing pain envelopes her whenever she thinks about it, talking about it just makes her want to scream out in agony. 

Hughie stays briefly quiet as she takes another drag. 

“I don’t fucking know.” Annie mutters under her breath, watching more cars pass. 

“I’m sorry, Annie.” Hughie says, sounding hoarse. 

Annie stubs out her cigarette, twisting it into the grass, watching the embers burn, the tobacco spill out. “I know, Hughie. I know.” 

A pause. 

“I think, and I’m being totally honest, there’s no angle here, but I think you should come home.” 

Annie thinks about whether she feels like being around people, stuffing her hands in her lap, needing them to warm up before she loses feeling in her fingers, shrugging her shoulders at her phone again. “Maybe. I dunno.”

“I’m just suggesting it for your safety. It’s cold and Soldier Boy - you know - plus we have eyes on us, like I mentioned before. I just - I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I might.”

Hughie will take that. “Thank you.” 

“You’re not a dog, by the way, Hughie. I don’t think you are. I just say things when I’m upset.” 

“And I don’t think you’re a fed.” Hughie says quickly.

Annie huffs out a laugh that genuinely sounded foreign to her, she couldn’t help herself at the ridiculousness of the accusation. “Yeah, I sure hope not. Are you at HQ right now?”

“No, I’m at the apartment. I haven’t been well.”

Annie clears her throat. “Feel better.”

“Thank you.”

“I know you might not want to hear this, it might even be the last thing you want to hear, but I love you Annie. I think it’s good to hear that from anyone right now, especially in a time of need.” Hughie says, sounding serious and attentive. 

Annie sits there in silence, staring at the cars, letting his words sink into her mind, vacuuming her thoughts. There’s no use in blocking them out with her anger anymore, she reached out to Hughie, and she’ll take something from that. 

The words do settle her in a way. 

Hughie still loves her after witnessing her at her worst. 

It makes her think. 

“I’ll see you later, Hughie.” Annie says after a beat, voice soft, she picks her phone up off the ground and hangs up after Hughie responds back with a gentle ‘sure.’ 

Well, that happened. 

Later on, the soles of Annie’s shoes kicked against the concrete, launching pebbles out of the way as she walked down a silent block apart from some dogs barking, pushing against wired fences with drool making their teeth glisten and shine. 

She glances at a few of them, sinking her hands into her pocket, breathing in the crisp air, shivering bit by bit. 

Soft music played through her headphones, blasting into her ears, and taking the weight off her mind, she walks up to a deli and pushes open the door while she walks inside, smiling at the cashier, as well as the store owner who was counting the tips he made. 

Annie still needs her bagel. 

“Hi there.” She says, keeping her voice low, rubbing her freezing hands together after taking her headphones out of her ear. 

The owner turns to her as soon as he hears her greeting, grinning wide, eyes welcoming. Annie likes the sight, it’s been awhile since she’s felt this warm from someone’s mere presence. “Good evening! How can I help you?”

Annie breathes into her palms, continuing to rub her hands against each other, searching for warmth. “May I have a bagel breakfast sandwich?” 

“Bacon, egg, and cheese?”

Annie nods her head, winging her backpack from behind her, unzipping the front pocket, digging around until she tugs out a ten dollar bill, reading the small menu taped on top of the counter, skimming her eyes over the price. 

The ten dollars was something Hughie sheepishly gave to her the other day, seeing how hungry she was because he just fucking knows, she took it with a flat ‘thanks’ and left headquarters without another word, her bag packed. 

“Yes. Turkey bacon, please, and a bottle of water.” 

“Of course.” The owner taps a few buttons and opens the register, removing her change. 

“Thank you.” Annie grins. 

Dropping down onto the bench a few meters away from the wreckage, Annie folds her legs up to her chest, unwrapping her freshly made breakfast bagel, staring at the flowers and candles surrounding the wreckage which was more cleaned up than it had been compared to the other weeks.

Annie knows a boutique shop opened up not too far downtown because of what happened, replacing a mini local grocery store, a lot of people were buying flowers from it, coming by to pay their respects. She squints her eyes at a picture of her and Maeve sitting on top of a rock that the fans protested against moving, it was largely rumored that it was the rock she died lying against. 

No one was to remove it.

It doesn’t nauseate her anymore, seeing Maeve’s portraits and fan letters piling up, scattered in the mix of roses. 

Weirdly, she’s grown more fond of the sight. 

It might’ve been due to when she isn’t thinking about talking to her mom or what she’s lost, but she’s been doing surprisingly well on her own lately, apart from not talking to her friends as much as she really wants to, she still had a date with Kimiko that never happened. 

Annie just hadn’t found the patience to act like everything would just pass, she still feels bitter, but it’s not suffocating, when she looks at her wounds they remind her that she can break easily. It was a tough feat. Annie never cared about being untouchable or having the most complex power. 

That shit never mattered to her. 

She cared about helping people, like Maeve wanted to when she first became a supe, but instead, she failed at that. 

People died when Soldier Boy blew up the tower, Annie couldn’t even save them, and that’s exactly what she was there for anyway, but still, everyone died. Maeve died. It’s still very hard to swallow, but the pill goes down her throat anyway.

She's been coming to terms with it, sobbing out into her hands for hours on end, then numbing herself from the pain of her failures with weed, nicotine, or even better, hanging by the ledge of an abandoned building, entertaining the aspect of dropping down.

All of that happens and Homelander still gets a second chance, it makes her scoff. 

That fucker is immortal, even in his most vulnerable form, it was kind of impressive, she wasn’t afraid to admit it. Annie snorts as she bites into her bagel again, shoulders shaking as she laughs to herself, smothered in another round of pure disbelief.

Fucking Homelander.  

Apparently Maeve’s last wish was for him to die, and even that, as possible as it could have been in a million years at that very moment, wasn’t even granted. 

It honestly messed with Annie for weeks. 

Then she remembers the sound of Ryan’s scared voice, how close he was to killing everyone for revenge on his dad’s death, she remembers how she first woke up in Hughie’s protective hold, seeing the child coddle and beg for his dad to wake up, Kimiko placing her hands on his shoulders as he put his head down into his hands and sobbed.

Back then she was filled with hate, confusion, and anger at the notion of Homelander being kept alive and in the same area they were in, but now? 

Meh, she gets it. Somewhat.

Annie is no longer capable of being furious at several things at once, she’d probably go into cardiac arrest if she kept giving a fuck. 

Although she’s relieved that she can still feel some sort of empathy again regarding how devastated Ryan would be if it happened, Annie still wishes he died though, it would feel pretty fucking good. 

She remembers exactly how the man looked, entering the guest room with cautious steps, limping on a bad foot, feeling physically and mentally damaged, glaring at Homelander’s unconscious body. It was a shock to see, not to mention extremely satisfying, but she knew they wouldn’t of brung him along if he was truly dead. 

There’s always a catch. 

Annie never thought she’d see him laid out like that, not in her lifetime at least.  

Now that she’s thinking about it, she couldn’t help but wonder if Butcher actually pulled off being a nurse to Homelander and parent to Ryan or if he’s dead and gone from temp V. Annie tries not to think about the latter. Butcher had definitely used temp V. When they were going at it with Soldier Boy back in the tower, it confirmed her speculation, his brain was leaking out of his ear, and he had a certain stench that followed him.

Well, Annie thought he always stunk, but there was something peculiar about his smell that time around.

Butcher was self destructive, he didn’t fight to win, he fought to keep the bad guy from winning, she couldn’t understand why Hughie decided to tag along with him, it still rubs her the wrong way but she’s going to mind her business from this point on.  

Annie takes a large bite of her bagel, the low rumbling in her stomach ceasing as she eats it, chewing slowly as the taste melts on her tongue, eyes glossy. 

Will she ever call her mother? Annie doesn’t trust herself making the right decision if she hears the sound of her voice, not right now, not like this. 

Instead, she thinks about the loathing residing in her stomach. Annie doesn’t hate any of them - The Boys - she couldn’t, they were her friends, except Butcher, their last conversation wasn’t exactly friend-coded. 

She’ll try her best with Hughie, that’s the least she could do.

Shaking her head, she takes another bite, sinking into her jacket. 

Annie tightens her fist, knocking steadily on the apartment door, her stomach doing flips, breath trapped in her lungs. There’s this sudden urge to turn on her heel and leave, more than likely misleading the person she's expecting to open the door to greet her.

After everything, playing ding-dong-ditch with potentially Butcher was probably one of her most normal left fielded thoughts that ever sprouted up in her head regarding any one of her friends. 

Hughie asked for her to come home to HQ, and although she was vague with her decision - when she thought about how cold it felt outside, her coming home was pretty much guaranteed, she was freezing her eyelashes off, the tips of her ears burning. 

Plus, she kind of misses talking to them. 

She really does. 

It’s easier to speak to them than anyone else in her life right now, especially Kimiko, she understands her in a way, that woman has a gift, she understands everyone. She believes Frenchie and Kimiko look at her in a completely different view than how Hughie and her mother do, there’s no given shape of how she is or what she is in their eyes, she’s just Annie to them, their friend, and it’s relieving. 

That’s exactly what she needs right now. 

Soon, she’ll get around to doing it. 

First, she needs to see Butcher, to check in on him. 

Annie takes a step back, hearing the locks become undone, door knob jiggling a bit before it twists. 

Butcher opens the door instead of someone she was actually expecting to be here, surprise swarming his features as he flickers his eyes up and down, it’s like he was unable to comprehend that she was even alive. “Annie?”

As soon as Annie looks up at him, she sighs out and puts her weight onto one leg, running a hand down her face. What was she honestly expecting? For him to not actually be here, in his own apartment? It would have been a surprise if Butcher continued to be distracted to a point where he’s not even in his own place, but obviously, that idea wasn’t appealing to her situation right now. 

Butcher is here, he’s at home. 

The last time she saw him, she wanted to shove a pair of scissors down his throat, and don’t get her wrong, the urge to do so hadn’t dramatically changed, but for some reason, the empathetic part of her felt relieved that Butcher taking home Homelander didn’t result in him being mangled to death. 

It’s truly confirmed that Homelander lost his powers.  

Annie has mixed feelings about that. 

So, seeing how Butcher looks even healthier than she remembered him appearing, she concludes that temp V hadn’t killed him yet. 

Annie has even more mixed feelings. 

Butcher straightens his posture, his broad shoulders filling out the sweater he wears on, clearing his throat into his fist, nodding his head at her while he steps to the side so that she could come in. His gaze flickers in barely hidden surprise, her presence seemingly taking by surprise as he watches the girl duck her head down, walking past him into the room.

 “Hey.”

“Hi.” Annie responds to him after a moment, her eyes following the way Butcher awkwardly closes the door like he was expecting for her to turn on her heel and leave, she tilts her head a little, her fingers fidgeting with the straps of her backpack, biting down on her bottom lip. 

The sight of him now was honestly startling for Annie considering how long she knew him as – Butcher.

Annie raises a brow and narrows her eyes at him, skimming her gaze over his warm attire, not really used to seeing him in a sweater and no stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt and stinky, musk ridden coat. She notes that he looks healthier than the last time she’s seen him, hell, she could even say he was glowing actually, as if he had struck gold with someone who likes him, his eyes were bright, he hadn’t looked like the disheveled and worn piece of shit she unfortunately knew so well. 

“I cleaned myself up, as you can see.” Butcher says in feigned annoyance as he swipes his hands down his torso, lightheartedly breaking the slightly awkward silence between them. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Annie snorts out after a moment, the tension in her shoulders fading slightly as she looks up at him, her body responding to the warmth of the room, she had missed actually talking to someone.

Butcher looks at her with a heavy gaze, and it makes Annie think that maybe she was more than relieved to see Butcher alive, despite how she feels about his tie-in with Hughie’s idiocy, she still had her moments with the stubborn man, and even if she borderline hated him a couple of weeks ago, it didn’t feel good to keep that type of hate afloat.

Not for her especially, her heart couldn’t take it. 

That’s why she really wants to fix things with Hughie, hoping that soon she would be able to convince herself to call her mother and not have any spiteful thoughts. 

 “Your beard needs a trim though.” Annie teases, her smile is small, tired. 

Butcher feels good inside seeing it on her face though, after hearing all of the shit she’s been taking, seeing her smile, even if it’s a small one, genuinely feels nice to him. 

“I’m thinking about it.” Butcher says as he strokes his beard, smiling back at her. 

Annie tips herself back on the heels of her shoes, lowering her head down a little, laughing under her breath, she tightens her grip on the straps of her bag, looking back up at him with curious eyes, voice gentle and somewhat cautious. “Is Ryan okay?”

“Yeah.” Butcher nods his head, staring at her carefully. “We uhh - we plan to go and get him soon.” 

Annie looks around, registering the use of ‘we,’ her lips twisting up the side awkwardly. “Oh, good. I’m glad he’s okay.”

“Mhm.” 

“And you?”

“I’m good. Better.” Butcher says, honest. Annie believes him, the last time she's seen him, he didn't look like he'd last long. Huh, wonder what changed. “What about you? I’ve heard some things.”

Annie tips her head back and laughs at that, she honestly wouldn’t know where to begin. “You don’t even want to know.” 

Butcher holds his hands up, eyebrows raised. “I do, actually. You see, uhh, I know we haven’t been - the closest pals - but you’re just a kid, and you’ve been through a lot of shit. I kind of put you in those situations, or played a part in it somehow.”

“Mmm.” 

“I’m just saying, if you need someone to talk to then I’m here.” 

“Oh.” Annie says in a flat voice that withers Butcher down a notch, then she averts her eyes elsewhere, clearing her throat, swiftly changing the subject. “Anyone else come by to check in on you?” 

“No, it’s just me and Homelander. It’s been just us over the past couple of days. I ran by the place a couple of days ago.” Annie makes a face at hearing Butcher mention Homelander like he was an old friend, Butcher seems to notice it because he just shrugs his shoulders, looking a bit sheepish. “Frenchie and Kimiko are doing a task right now, finding out if A-Train is practicing being a family man.” 

“Oh?” She frowns. 

“Yeah, some twat gave us a lead. Bloke says he used to work at Vought, and somehow found a way to email MM’s burner.”

“What?” Annie sputters. 

“We’ve got it under control.” Butcher says as he hears a familiar note of concern in her voice,  clearing his throat. 

“And you expect me to believe that?” Annie huffs, shaking her head at him, Butcher is one of the most objectively hilarious people she ever had the honor to run into. “What kind of work did he do? Was he a part of the staff? Security?”

“I was expecting you would know.” 

Annie blinks up at him, frowning. “No, I never heard of Ron.”

Butcher exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking over in the direction of a bedroom where his partner must be occupied, clearly not settled with this news. “Either way, he was fucking spying on Frenchie and Kimiko while they were out scavenging for the other Seven members. When they get back, we’re going to get some answers and then move forward.”  

“Sorry. I’m useless with remembering who worked for what back in that shithole.” Annie says, shrugging at him, although she passed by a couple of interns while in the tower, no one had ever stood out to her. She was so focused on trying not to be murdered, assaulted, or tracked down by the media readiness team to be exploited. 

Maybe Homelander knows something, someone like him probably roamed the tower simply to admire his portraits and statues scattered around in every fucking crevice. “What about Homelander? I’m actually pretty sure he introduces himself to every single person in the tower. I wish I was joking.”

“Ah -” Butcher rubs his beard, a glint catching his eye. 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. He might be useless too.” 

Annie scoffs. “Or you just don’t feel like asking.” 

“That too.” 

A beat. 

Annie blows out a breath, her voice a little stiff. “So he’s awake, huh? He made it through.” 

Butcher nods his head, preparing himself for the inevitable awkwardness that follows as he sighs out, scratching his neck. “He’s up.” 

At the confirmation, and despite worming through her complex feelings regarding Homelander, Annie still feels a ripple of anxiousness course through her. It’ll probably never go away. 

Everytime she thinks about him, his father, and sometimes Ryan, she tenses up. 

Butcher notices how the girl had frozen in place, a thousand yard stare building into her eyes.  

Telling her Homelander doesn’t have his powers anymore would be useless, maybe even a little tone deaf, as she blinks herself back to the now. 

Butcher didn’t think about it as he reached over to her and clasped a comforting hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly to get her out of the confines of her head. It definitely mattered that this is the closest she’s been to an alert Homelander since – things — and it’s  understandable that she was a little rattled at the idea of being in the same space as him again. 

Butcher gets it. 

“I’m good. I just - I wasn’t expecting for him to actually be here.” Annie huffs out and elicits an awkward raspberry after successfully regathering herself. It doesn’t take long for her to shrug Butcher’s hand off of her shoulder, releasing a slightly unsteady breath, running her fingers through her hair, tucking loose strands back into her messy ponytail. 

“Really? Where did you expect him to be then?” Butcher asks, curious, raising an eyebrow at her. 

“Caught, honestly. Found. I don’t know.” She mutters, resting her hands behind her back, below her bag.

The only other member of her former team was a few feet away, most likely in Butcher’s bedroom room, she wonders if God truly likes to fuck with her, making Homelander the only person out of literally everyone else in the Seven  – excluding Kevin – be in arms reach. Annie doesn’t even have the energy to be mad about it, if this is the only way she can seek comfort, as sickening as it is, then fine. She couldn’t believe that the presence of Homelander, despite all the trauma he had caused her, is the only living reminder of the time when she had a sense of belonging and security. 

There’s got to be some twisted reasoning behind this entire haze of bullfuck, and not just fate being a dick to her, torturing her by placing her in this position just for shits and giggles. 

 “I want to see him, if that’s okay.” Annie says, itching for another cigarette. 

Butcher doesn’t visibly react to her request. If anything, it makes him truly wonder what Annie has been up to over the last few days. She was adamantly against Homelander being in his company a few weeks ago, and now here she is, showing up at his apartment, wanting to see the guy who spent a lot of his time driving her insanity out of the window. 

A small voice in his head wonders if she was going to kill him, Butcher just tips his head up, the corners of his lips twitching downwards. “Are you sure?” 

There’s a beat. 

Annie couldn’t help a shiver as she tightens her grip on the straps of her bag, fingers digging into it. “Yeah. I want to warm up anyway, if you don’t mind. I might as well catch up with him while doing so.”

Butcher hums. “Okay.” 

“Now that I think about it, there’s a lot -” like an actual fuck ton, of which she couldn’t get into with anyone else because they wouldn’t have an idea of what the fuck she’d be talking about, “- of things I need to talk to him about.”

There’s a look of apprehension on Butcher’s face, and Annie was about to reiterate her request until Butcher speaks up, sounding adamant, his voice pitched low. “No Maeve.” 

He doesn’t know why he says that, and neither does she. Annie blinks, scrunching her face up, making a confused noise at that. “I don’t know how I can avoid bringing her up - I mean, Butcher - what if he asks? What am I supposed to say?”

There’s a plea in Butcher’s voice that almost knocks the wind out of her. “Please, just let me tell him when I have the chance.” 

Annie doesn’t get it, and she’s not going to exert herself.  “Okay.” 

John was sitting criss-crossed on the bed, placing his cup of tea on the nightstand when he hears the door creak open, quiet footsteps entering the room, when he looks up from the unfinished sheet of paper, his breath catches in his throat alongside Annie’s. 

Starlight - Annie - slowly covered her mouth with her hand. 

John swallowed, remaining still on the bed, sizing her up with wide blue eyes, seeing her in her sweatpants, her long gray sweatshirt, the worn, denim jacket she was wearing on top of it. 

There she was. 

Butcher lingered awkwardly by the door, eyes darting between them. When Annie takes a step forward, he feels something in his gut telling him to fall back unless he’s needed, causing him to leave and head back into the living room. 

“Oh shit,” she breathes out, voice muffled by her hand.

 John knows that she’s assessing his appearance like he’s doing to her, the relief that flows through him seeing her was almost suffocating – and what was funny is that he could’ve sworn he hated her as much as he hated Hughie, wanting her dead and mauled on the other side of the train tracks.

Butcher might’ve softened him up - he did soften him up. 

When he sees Annie now, standing there, in the same depowered, distressed state he was once in, there was this comical urge to hug her, badly. John couldn’t make sense of it.

Annie moves over towards him, her pace as slow as a snail, lowering herself down onto the bed, stiff and tense, spreading her palms across the sheets. “Hey,” she mutters in greeting, clicking the front of her shoes together, shoulders drawn in, adjusting herself on the bed as she slowly turns her head in his direction. 

“Hey.” John responds in a neutral voice, looking over at her, taking in the girl’s appearance as he taps his fingers on his lap.

Annie clears her throat, extends her legs and anxiously wiggles the heel of her shoes into the floor, nodding her head at the paper sitting beside John. “What’s that?”

John grabs the paper, crumpling it slightly in his hand. “An address to Ryan’s.” 

Annie’s eyebrows knit. John breathes in sharp, wondering if this was some type of trap being set between Butcher and her. “Listen, if you’re searching around for your ex-boyfriend, Hughie, then he’s not here. Butcher’s not hiding him anywhere. Plus, no one even showed up here.”

“We’re not -” Annie stops herself from saying anything, instead she closes her eyes, breathes in sharp through her nose, and then slowly exhales, placing the soles of her shoes back on the floor, knees bent. “I only showed up to see Butcher, he was nearby, and he told me you were here so.” 

“Why would you want to see him?” 

“I literally said he was nearby.” 

John blinks, not settling with that. “Okay?”

Annie’s not going to try. “I don’t have to answer your fucking question. Drop it. Listen, I wanted to see you.” 

“Why?” John asks, annoying her despite really wanting to know. 

“Who wouldn’t want to see you like this?” She counters sharply, meaning to hurt him.

That seemed to work because John doesn’t answer that, he just looks back at the paper as Annie had pointed out, staring blankly at his messy scribble of Ryan’s name. 

Her eyes soften. 

Annie looks away and counts to ten, needing to change the subject. “So he just -” she scoffs out an incredulous incomplete-giggle, rubbing at her stinging eyes, not even noticing how close she was to crying until she feels the wetness in her lashes, “coops you up in here all day with a cup of fucking tea?” 

If John notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Who else am I supposed to talk to besides Butcher?”

She drops her hand onto her lap. That seemed to hit home for her. 

John notices the sheen this time, and he chooses to look away. 

“No one. Not really.” Annie murmurs as she shrugs her shoulders, looking down, playing with her fingers, attempting to distract herself from the churn in her stomach. For the life of her, she couldn’t believe this was really happening, Homelander was human, mortal, and even worse, he seemed to be pretty fucking chill about it compared to the brewing storm of thoughts Annie has to sit through every ten to fifteen minutes. 

John relaxes his shoulders, they were drawn up for a long time, and Annie didn’t seem to have an angle here. There’s a lost look in her eyes. John relates to it more than he expected himself to. 

She scratches her wrist, her voice picking up from its dejected tone. “Pretty sure everyone expected for you to be dead, and viola, you’re not.” 

“No I am not.” John responds impassively, folding up the corner of the paper. 

“Doesn’t seem like you’re suffering.”

“Disappointing, isn’t it?”

“Meh.” Annie punches out, grabbing at the pencil used for the paper, holding it in her hands, trying not to break it in half. 

“Who took you in anyway?” John couldn’t help being curious, folding the paper horizontally, and then folding it up again into a smaller piece. 

“What?”

“As you could see, Butcher took me in and played nurse with me for some time. Who played nurse with you?”

“Oh.” Annie sniffs, shrugging her shoulders again as she swipes at her nose, shoes tapping against the floor, looking over at him, squeezing the pencil. “I kind of pushed everyone away.”

“And you come to see me?” John asks, busy unfolding the paper. 

Annie rolls her eyes, repeating herself. “I wanted to.” 

“Why?” John repeats himself too. 

Annie blows out a breath, a knot forming in her throat, she lifts a hand up to dig the heel of her hand into her eyes, refusing to let the familiar burn in them continue on. “Because I felt like it, okay? It’s not like I have a selection of people I can fucking see whenever I want.” 

John nods, clearing his throat, folding the paper up again. “So, are you and Hughie not a thing anymore?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is that any of your fucking business?” Annie snapped before she could stop herself, hands flexing, her gaze heated. 

All of a sudden, John stops fiddling with the paper, staring at her with furrowed eyebrows, and there’s no smugness in his voice. “No. It isn’t.”

A beat.

“Sorry,” she mutters under her breath, rubbing her face and shaking her head, collecting her thoughts. “When have we ever talked this normally to each other?”

“Can’t think of a time.”

Annie titters and fidgets, shivering again.

“I don’t mind. Even though you aren’t my preferred person, I think it’s nice seeing you, like a relief sort of.” John sounds awkward, unsure if he should have uttered that, but it was what made Annie sniffle, shaking her head.

“Shut up.” 

“I’ve got no reason to bullshit you.” John says, looking over his shoulder as he reaches to his left, tossing the girl the fleece blanket that was sprawled by the pillow. He and Butcher had cuddled in it a day ago, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “You look like you’re about to freeze over. Here.” 

Annie stares at him for sometime, her eyes darting down at the blanket and then up at him. 

Eventually, she sets the pencil down onto the nightstand, shifts back onto the bed, and removes her bag from around her back, setting it down on the floor. She grabs the blanket and wraps it around her, shivering into it as she scoots back into the bed, her back hitting the wall, 

John throws one of his pillows at her, and she catches it, stuffing the pillow behind her back, leaning against the wall. The gestures were unusually nice, and she expected for Homelander to relent now that he’s just a regular-degular, but this caught her off guard in a way.

Annie suddenly feels like she ate a recreational mushroom. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” John mumbles, remaining in the same spot. 

“Everyone’s looking for us.” 

John’s response was short, and Annie doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth or not. “I heard.” 

She yawns out despite herself, shuffling into the cocoon she wrapped herself into, the warmth of the blanket and heat seeped into her skin, beginning to enhance the exhaustion that resides in her. For some reason, and maybe it’s because of her sleepiness, she finds herself looking to Homelander for something that resembles leadership, even if he was the last person to give it. 

Perhaps, it was that small, helpless, little naive part of her. 

Either way, she internally cringes when she asks him. “What do we do?”

“William knows what to do. I don’t. Not anymore at least. I’m kind of just - I’m not worried about that shit right now.” John responds, voice timid, clearly feeling some type of way about being dependent on someone when questioning his next moves. 

“Oh.” Annie smothers her face into the blanket, thinking. 

John looks over at her. “I do advise you to lay low though.”

Annie hums, opening the blanket as she draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping it around her again afterwards. “Is Soldier Boy really going to become an issue again?” 

“That’s what I’m hearing.” 

“Jesus. Does being an asshole run in the family?” Annie yawns again. 

“Possibly.” John grabs the pencil from the nightstand,  scribbling on the paper carelessly, a mixture of colors he hates, or has grown to hate, including red and blue.

There’s a beat.

“I should be so fucking angry at you, Homelander.” Annie murmurs while John balls the paper up in his fists, she looks over at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of emotions, voice softening, sleepiness flickering in her features, rasping her voice. “You’re a - you’re just a really fucked up human being, and I hope you know that you got what you deserved.”  

John takes a moment to really stare at her, blue eyes darting all over the girl’s face. He doesn’t say anything back to that, he had nothing to say really, because he knows she was right, Butcher opened his eyes to that long ago.

And anyway, simply apologizing to Annie may be off the table, he had a lot of things to grovel for.

Also, what he’s observed and heard from what was going on between Hughie and Annie, the last thing she would need to hear is an ‘I’m sorry’ especially from him, her former nightmare.

John was fine with that.  

Instead of a verbal response, John moves in, reaches out and places a gentle hand on her knee, a physical message he could only hope gets through to her.

Although he has his immovable dislike towards her, Annie was not someone like The Deep, or like Hughie. Before John adapted to referring to her as Annie – she was Starlight – an annoying fucking teammate, undeserved co-captain, and most importantly another goody two shoes who had the gall to step to Homelander. 

Annoying as it is and was, he admires that. Homelander couldn’t bullshit himself. 

It’s sort of one of the many reasons why he and Maeve clicked. 

John’s touch evokes a noticeable flinch and a hitch of breath from Annie, along with a questioning frown, but soon enough, she swindles down the disturbed look on her face when  her eyes skim over the slightly healed scars littering John’s arm. 

“I’ve never seen you scarred.” Annie mutters as she looks up from his arm as John removes it from her knee, her gaze filled with a mix of satisfaction and awe. John feels his throat tighten when he hears a slight waiver in the girl’s voice, watching as she turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed together. “What happened to you?”

“I’d want to say, Homelander is dead.”

Annie stares at him. 

“So. Yeah.” John’s follow up to such a final statement is stiff, awkward, but he feels pride bloom in his chest now that he’s finally got to say that aloud and not to himself. It feels real. Butcher would be proud of him, right? And Ryan –

“What’s -” Annie begins before she pauses, shifting underneath her blanket, blinking rapidly, needing a second to register whether or not this was the same guy who she spent around two years working alongside with, and being completely terrified of. “So like - are you -”

“I’m working on being good.”

“Oh –” Annie screws her face up in confusion, averting her eyes, shaking her head. 

“For my son, and for everyone here. It might sound like bullshit. And - and -  I’m not saying this because I want people to feel sorry for me either, or because I don’t have a choice anymore, I actually want to fucking do this.” 

Annie’s shoulders sag. “That’s huge.” 

“Maybe.”

Annie stares at him, hard. “Losing your powers seems like it’s the best thing that ever happened to you, huh.”

John sees traces of envy in her stare, her voice, and he feels his face twitch. “I don’t know.”

“I’d never thought I’d hear you say that.” Annie says, blowing out a breath, scooting closer to John, readjusting her pillow. 

It’s weird being this satisfied over someone’s downfall, even if it was just someone’s image, and now they’re just reduced to scrap. Annie’s curious to know how he’s going to navigate through life, and she wonders, truthfully, if she could take tabs on how it goes without asking for guidance. “So, Homelander’s dead, what does that mean for you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still working on it.” 

“Hm. Fair enough.” 

John nods, staring down at the covers, swallowing. “Butcher helps.” 

“Does he?” Annie says, voice filled with mirth, she thinks back to how fresh Butcher looked, his glow. That glow. 

Abruptly, she stops herself from continuing to think before she began to assume things she wasn’t ready to accept – “That’s really fucking huge. I thought there was no hope for you. Especially after Soldier Boy, it seemed like being a fucked up person is a traditional thing when you’re involved with Vought.” 

“Who knows.” John says as he blinks, Annie notices how stunningly quiet he’s become, even if it’s just the two of them, his responses are short. 

It doesn’t seem intentional either. 

What happened to Homelander was the definition of being humbled beyond repair.

It’s quiet for a beat or two, and as if he read her thoughts, John speaks up, but it sounds like there’s a knot sitting in his throat as he surfs through the numerous questions in his head, an anxious pit building in his stomach. “Anyone else from the Seven or Vought reached out?”

Right. The actual heavy stuff. 

Annie rests the back of her head against the wall. “No.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, Ashley, I heard a rumor that she’s um - she was in the hospital - in a coma.”

“Holy shit.” John mutters under his breath, mentally stumbling back, the tips of his fingers numb as the weight of the news crashes down onto his shoulders. He clears his throat and blinks his eyes, registering what he just heard. “Is she going to make it?” 

“Don’t know, like I said, it’s just a rumor.” Annie specifies.

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah.” Annie nods her head, slipping down her own mental wall. “You know, I honestly think since A-Train and The Deep weren’t in the same room as us, maybe they’re like - alright? I don’t know.”

“And what about Maeve?” John asks before he could stop himself, he could feel his chest tightening, the lobes of his ears burning, and he was forcing his voice to remain still as he speaks. Sure, he might’ve come to terms with what might’ve happened on his own, within the strangling hold of a few turbulent dreams and premonitions, but maybe it’d feel different if he heard it aloud. He’d put his mind to rest. 

Annie turns her face away from him as she shakes her head, squeezing her knees to her chest, and when she feels the heat of his eyes on her, there’s a familiar pressure of anxiousness that builds in her chest when she’s being questioned by Homelander. 

“I can’t say.”

John’s eyes linger on her, unable to move or blink, and a sick understanding roots itself into his mind, and he feels like he has to take a moment, chest tightening. “Oh.”

Right.

“Since both of you are here, do either of you know or recognize who Ron is? The bloke worked at the tower.”

“Like I said, no.” Annie says. 

Homelander shrugs his shoulders. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” 

Butcher hums. “Right, well, word got out that Ron informed one of us that A-Train is living it up with a family member back in Chicago.” 

Annie sets her cup down, sputtering. “Wait a second, he’s really with his family members? I thought you were bullshitting.”

“As far as I know.” Butcher says, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, twisting his cup around on the table top. “I’m not on it. You’d have to run it up with the others.” 

“So he did run.” Homelander mutters, rolling his eyes. 

Butcher glanced at him. “Where’d you hear that from?”

“Pffft.” Homelander elicits. 

Annie sits forward in her chair as she shakes her head, scoffing, and despite being surprised, she still felt a little humored at the idea of A-Train hitting up his family faster than she could even call her mother. “Okay. Uhm, fuck? That’s news. Maybe you should just leave him alone then. Why track him?” 

“Ron has got tabs on us, Annie. Who knows if he’s reached out to A-Train too.” Butcher answers the hovering question, returning his glare back at his own finished cup of tea, the warm rays of the sun reflecting off his cup. “It’s just precautions.” 

“Should I even argue?” Annie squints at him, shaking her head. 

“I don’t think he has powers. He probably crawled out of there, and someone must’ve picked him up.” Homelander makes his fingers crawl across the table, unnecessarily emphasizing his words with the action. 

Butcher stares over at him, and then returns his gaze back to his cup, and Annie notices the trickle of amusement in his eyes. “We’ve got it all under control.” He says. 

Annie draws in a breath and shoots a look over at Homelander, then down at her cup. “It’s not like I really care, but I can imagine he’s already scared to death from what happened. If Soldier Boy is really still around, everyone would be smart enough to lay low.”

Homelander makes a face at that. “Ehh -”

“Oh come on.” Annie frowns.

Homelander’s eyes flicker between her and Butcher. “I mean, Kevin was a fucking dumb ass.” 

“Yeah, he is. A-Train isn’t though. You know that.” 

Homelander grumbles under his breath. “They’re one in the same to me.” 

“Okay but A-Train told you about Alex.” 

“Who?” 

Annie grits her teeth at him. “Supersonic. The guy you beat to death.” 

"Oh. Him."

Awkward. 

 “Obviously that wasn’t a smart move.” Butcher cuts in as he darts his eyes back and forth between the two, clearing his throat afterwards, he places elbows on the table, his fingers lacing up in front of his face. 

Annie rubs her forehead, exhaling. “It was smart for A-Train because he told Homelander about the revolt and that immediately singled him out for having nothing to do with it.”

“Survival skills.” Butcher says, shrugging. 

Homelander’s face drops and he murmurs an apology that only gets waved off by Annie, she doesn’t have the time to indulge herself back into that headspace. 

There’s a long drag of silence before Homelander fakes a cough, scratching the bridge of his nose, sitting up in his chair. “Listen, A-Train isn’t very bright, and sure he may not be as dumb as Kevin. But back then, and even now, I really couldn’t see the difference because either way everyone was below me. Smart or not.” 

He twiddles with his fingers, continuing. “What I’m saying is, maybe A-Train is fine. That doesn’t mean he’s laying low though. Perhaps he is keeping tabs on everyone with Ron, but seriously, what the hell is he going to do with that when they find out?” 

Annie picks up her cup. “And if he’s not, then there’s no need to harass.”

“I agree.” 

“Don’t you lot miss your dear friend?” Butcher questions in a purposely airy, posh voice, completely unserious. 

Annie gives him a deadpan look. Homelander just shakes his head and tells him to ‘fuck off,’ burying his face into his palm. 

“Butcher, did you even think this through?” Annie asks, tilting her head at him. 

Nope. Not as much as I wanted to. Butcher hums, scratching his beard. “MM was the one who got emailed by Ron. It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as we get the information we need from him regarding The Deep.”

“I’m pretty sure Deep’s dead.” Homelander says as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

A girl can dream, Annie thinks, sipping her tea. 

Butcher smirks at Homelander. “Think positive.” 

Annie lowers her cup, an eyebrow raised, she ignores the way Butcher’s eyes lingered on Homelander, and digs up a hypothetical. “What if he pulls something and leads you all to a deadend?” 

“Then we’ll get him to share how the fuck he knows us.” Butcher says, tapping his fingers on the table. “I’d sit the cunt down, wrap him up with rope, and tell him ‘we need to know where A-Train and The Deep are, one way or another you’re going to tell us, alright’ and that’ll be it.” 

Annie rolls her eyes at him. 

Homelander clicks his tongue, reaching over and tapping his index finger on Butcher’s wrist, an encouraging gesture. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Like Butcher said, yeah? Everything’s under control, and you’re right, Soldier Boy might’ve scared him enough.” 

“Fine.” She doesn’t feel like indulging in this either. “We’ll see how this goes.”

Homelander has a thoughtful look on his face for a moment as the conversation dies down, then he wets his lips, glancing back at his cup. 

Butcher places his hands flat on the table, as if he were about to stand up, but then Homelander had said something  –

“Annie said Ashley might be in a coma, did you hear about this Billy?”

Obviously, due to the way Butcher halted, he wasn’t expecting that. 

He clears his throat, unsure of what to think, so they have been catching up, he sends a questioning look over at Annie who was fiddling with her cup. 

It’s only a matter of time before Homelander would have to sit down with him and ask about Maeve, he’s gonna have to prepare himself and Homelander for that conversation. It’s going to be a pain to sit through - probably on par with the talk they’ve had during their early morning breakfast. “Oh really, red riding hood?”

Annie and Homelander exchange looks with each other, but for some reason, neither of them could bring themselves to follow up with anything. 

Butcher looks over at Homelander, brows knitted. “Where did you hear this from?”

“Butcher, honestly, it’s just chats I hear from around the block, it might not mean anything, but it’s not like I actively look for any news.” Annie says before John could formulate an answer, noticing how hard Butcher eyed her for a brief moment. She shrugs her shoulders, looking over at the porcelain dog sitting on Butcher’s countertop, then down at her drink. 

As the silence went on and on, she felt the need to add. “Like I said, I’m useless.” 

“That’s useful information. It’s something new.” Homelander assures her, Annie doesn’t know if he was being an asshole or not. 

“I can’t do anything with her only source being ‘chats,’ Homelander.” Butcher comments, giving him a ‘get serious’ look. 

Homelander frowns at Butcher. Annie squints her eyes at the Brit, becoming annoyed with him again. “So none of you have been keeping tabs on what was lost? The fuck?”

“What makes you think that, huh?” Butcher returns. 

“You seem a little lost.”

Butcher crosses his arms, sighing out through his nose, he brings himself to answer Himelander’s question, sounding stiff. “No, I didn’t know.” 

Annie has to look away, her eyes settling back on the cup. 

Back in HQ, Annie stepped out of the shower not too long ago, towel wrapped around her torso, her hair wet and tied up, she grabbed her phone off of the sink counter and put down the toilet lid, sat down and ran her hand down her face.  

She doesn’t know what to think about Butcher’s noticeable chemistry with Homelander.

Not only was it unsettling, it also felt strangely natural. 

Should it be a surprise to her if they’re fucking? Yeah. But. Both of them were brutal people. Unforgivably brutal, with a matching track record of violence albeit different intentions. Annie had seen so many similarities between them whenever she’d leave HQ to go to the tower, or leave the tower to go to HQ, a remnant of Butcher or Homelander kept following her throughout the day, intertwining in such a weird but fitting way. 

It’s morally wrong. 

And yet, in Butcher’s defense, Annie wasn’t even entirely sure how she felt about Homelander at this point, she’d have to settle with him being the only other living Seven teammate, and with what he’s told her — maybe she could get around to that. 

Maybe. 

He was being genuine, a flicker of desperation in his eyes as he spoke, as if he was trying to convince himself to believe his words too. Not to mention how reserved he was when they were talking, he seemed blanked face - yet appealingly open. Annie couldn’t get her mind off of it. 

Today was strange, but at the same time, she sort of missed these type of shenanigans that go on when she’s around her people. She'd always oppose stalking someone down all the way to Chicago, but that’s how her friends worked unfortunately. 

Homelander being tagged along in it, although her feelings are deeply mixed about how she should view him, kind of adds another layer of chaos. 

It was odd seeing him so fucking – 

Annie bites her bottom lip, rubs her eyes, exhaustion seeping into her muscles.

It’s a clusterfuck. Does she even call Homelander - Homelander anymore? Annie doesn’t remember if she ever knew his real name, she’s pretty sure she hasn’t, does he even have a real name? 

Homelander was Vought’s baby – literally – Annie has a hunch that they played a huge part in his childhood, you can't just find someone like Homelander off of the streets and inject them with so much V they become the most powerful hero ever. 

That’s what they did with Soldier Boy and look at how he turned out. 

They were forced to fucking replace him. 

Anyway, Homelander, or whoever the fuck, was changing, and to be honest, that was a smack in the face for her, a huge and glaring wake up call. Annie’s been in the throes of a depression episode she hadn’t experienced before for literal days, having these haunting thoughts of just quitting life entirely since she lost all she had to live for, going into that abandoned building with the intentions of saving a dance with death. 

Homelander was dropped in the same situation, and if he was really raised up by Vought like she thinks he is, he arguably lost more than her. In response, he’s given up his ego and he’s playing around with a piece of paper, pencils, sticking by Butcher - his enemy turned something , also a consistent support system - which was something Annie had rejected, and most importantly, he’s healing. He wants to be better. Annie hadn’t seen any hatred in his eyes, or annoyance flickering in his microexpressions, not towards her at least, instead when Homelander had looked at her, it was this blanket of relief that swirls in the blues of his eyes. 

It was as if he was a different person. 

Annie wonders if that was the closest she’ll ever see Homelander before he was casted off into the bright lights and snapping cameras.  

Below his surface level of bullshit, was he always this strangely gentle, soft spoken, and attentive guy? She remembers the feeling of his hand on her knee, a wordless apology buried in his movements, an apology she wasn’t even sure she’d toss to the side, especially when she considers the exact person who was giving it. 

Why was it so easy to mull over accepting The fucking Homelander’s physically given apology than her mother’s depending on if she does apologies? 

Annie lowers her head down and stares intently at her feet, the tiles of the bathroom floor,  trickles of water dripping from her scalp, tickling the bridge of her nose as it trails off to the tip. Her grip on her phone was loose. 

It’s funny, honestly. Annie talked to Hughie, Butcher, and Homelander before even saying a word to her mother who was probably worrying to death -  the three people who hurt her the most. 

Should that tell her something about her mom? 

When Annie hears herself sniffling, she tenses up, rubbing harshly at her burning eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks despite her trying to stop it, she leans up and swipes frantically at them, breathing harsh and fast. She refuses to cry over her mom. She refuses.

A sob escapes her anyway, pain ricocheting through her chest. 

She feels pathetic, negative thoughts replace the neutral ones, and she couldn’t stop panting, pain blooming in her chest causing it to tighten.  How the fuck is Homelander in a better place than her? Why is she still hung up on Hughie after everything he’s done to her? Why is she still even entertaining Butcher? Why did her father abandon her and her mom? Why didn’t he fight harder to stop her mother – 

Annie drops her phone onto the floor, trembling violently as she sobs, her flustered face pressed into her hands.

A support system. 

Homelander had one, Annie didn’t. 

That’s fucking hilarious. 

After three hours, Annie stepped out again.

The ladder was sturdy as she climbed it, rusting bit by bit, creaking as she set her foot on each step, and when Annie had finally made her way to the top there were stains on her hands. 

Dusting them off on her pants, she looked around and took in a deep breath, wandering over to the ledge of the rooftop, taking in the sight before her, her eyes reflecting the twinkling lights of the city.

Annie sighs out and shrugs off her jacket despite it being cold, folding it up and laying it onto the ground next to her feet, planting her palms on the surface of the ledge, hoisting her leg up with a soft grunt, climbing onto it. 

She swings her legs out over the edge, hand gripping the stone, fingers curled and body hunched over as she gets comfortable, wind blowing through her hair as her eyes gaze down at the cars passing through below. 

If this goes wrong, she’d have an option, as dark as it sounds. 

Annie sits like that for a while, maybe ten minutes or so, then she straightens her spine and breathes in deep, listening to cars honking below, the bustling and rumbles of the city, and the sirens of police cars that resonate throughout downtown.

Despite her prior worries, perhaps it would be nice to see her, relieving even, breathing in air that was this cold, and sitting over the ledge, watching the city lights replace the stars above made her really think this time around. 

Once the beep stops, her ears let the noise drone out, and as soon as she hears a familiar ‘hello’ her voice catches in her throat. 

“Mom?” Annie calls out as soon as her mother picks up, she swings her legs back and forth, phone in hand, facetime camera flipped so that her mother could see the city too, she doesn’t want her mom to see her yet. Not yet. 

Not until –

“Annie? My Annie?” 

“Hi mom.” Annie says, her voice soft, eyes glossy and wet, she hears a glass break in the background, a joyous, relief heavy sob escaping her mother’s mouth

The emotions that raced throughout her body were visceral, she’s been through too much adversity to shed anymore tears, but her eyes burn as well as her throat, her mother was crying as hard as she could ever remember, almost wailing, completely flustered with relief. 

Annie swipes at her reddening nose with her thumb, sniffling. Fuck, she was losing her composure. The sound of her mom crying was too much.

“Annie, my baby, my sweet baby. Are you safe? Are you -” She chokes over her words, another sob ripping through her. 

Annie lets out an exhale, reaching a trembling finger out to finally flip the facetime camera so that her face was in view, finally glancing at her mother who was hovering over the phone, hand clamped over her mouth, tear tracks under her red brimmed eyes.

God. 

“I’m okay, mom. I’m okay.” 

Chapter Text

MM wasn’t the type to be ecstatic-ecstatic about something, but Annie returning back to headquarters after being MIA over the past couple of days was a big dub for him it seemed. MM had texted him a slew of messages regarding Annie’s condition, relieved that she was alright, and with confirmation that she hadn’t been in contact with anyone. If she had, Butcher doubts that would change the status of MM’s feelings towards her, as far as they know, she’s finally reaching out for help, and as her friends, sticking beside her should be a no brainer. 

In the meantime, Butcher is stuck not knowing if he should tell Hughie that Annie spent some time at his flat, because that seemed like something he’d have to really bring up to a close friend. A part of him believes that he might figure it out either way despite his take on it, but at the same time, he has his phone hovering above his face, shooting the younger man a text anyway.

He needs to start being reliable. 

Texting first and asking if Hughie was okay was a good start to him, and as he waited for a response, he swiped out of their inbox, clicking back into his and Ryan’s messages. 

Ryan texted him a picture of a bird earlier that afternoon, and Butcher responded with a thumbs up and a heart, sending back a message. 

‘Are you ready to see your dad?’ 

Ryan accidentally keyboard smashed his first reply. 

So now he’s waiting for the perfect time to bring it up to Homelander, and it couldn’t come a moment sweeter than this; both of them seated on the couch, the other man laying back against him, the back of his head settled in the crevice of Butcher’s neck and collarbone. 

Their fingers were laced, he doesn’t know when that happened, or if he was the one to initiate it, but he doesn’t care for that right now. 

There are more important things. 

Like how he notices how Homelander’s roots were taking over. 

Dark shades of brown were blending in with bleached blonde, giving his hair a considerable smoky color. 

Fascinating. 

“I never watched any actual episodes of sitcoms besides the thanksgiving episodes.” Homelander says, gathering his attention, his voice is low pitched, a small vibration stretching around his words, Butcher could feel it thrum in his chest. He sounds distracted. 

“Full House is a good one.” 

“I guess.” Homelander says as he exhales, stroking his thumb across Butcher’s skin. 

Butcher chuckles, wondering why Homelander had brought this up. “You seem uninterested.” 

“I’m interested.” 

“Not in Full House.” 

Homelander shifts and lolls his head to his left, looking up at Butcher quizzically, he seems to be rolling a thought over in his mind, lips parting. “Billy,” he starts awkwardly, his voice hitching up into a modest note as he tries to find his words, fingers twitching where his arm hung over Butcher’s lap, “you’ll never leave me, right?” 

That certainly caught him off guard, Butcher had to lean back and tip his head down, eyebrows furrowing. “Huh?” 

Homelander stares blankly at him before he rolls his eyes, letting go of Butcher’s hand to pinch his knee.

“Don’t make me repeat myself. You’re not fucking going anywhere, are you? Do I have to bear these nauseatingly sad thoughts if you ever decide to fuck off and leave me, because I don’t want to. It’s a pain in the ass.”

Butcher looks up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to gauge why Homelander would ask this, and then he flickered his gaze back back down at Homelander, letting the man shift off of him, watching in bemusement as he turns to face him. “It’s my plan to fuck about for as long as I can manage.” 

Homelander stares at him closely, seemingly searching for some type of truth before he eventually drops his skeptical expression, nodding his head. “Okay.” 

“Why’d you ask?” 

Homelander shrugs his shoulders, shifting in close again, his hands looping Butcher’s arm into his, pulling himself close to the dark haired man.

He won't tell him how he's been having long nights thinking about Annie's response to his question about Maeve, how he had basically came to a conclusion surrounding her status, but asking Butcher if he'd ever leave him would feel like cooling gel on that scar.

That's all there is to it, really.

Homelander doesn't feel like truly indulging in that sore spot, he wouldn't handle it.

Not now.

So he doesn't elaborate, leaning on nonchalance as he answers the Brit's query. “Nothing, honestly. I think I just needed to confirm something. It’s embarrassing actually.” 

Butcher looks at him, brows furrowed. “Oh, come off it. Talk to me. What’s up?”

Oh, but Billy reads him so well sometimes. “Uhh the problem with that is, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

 “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Homelander pauses, hesitating to continue when he looks up to see Butcher staring at him like he’s broken a limb. “It’s nothing objectively horrible or anything. I mean - I’ll tell you later - I will, promise. All I really needed is a confirmation.”

“I’m not going anywhere. As long as you won’t.”

Homelander's quirks his lips up in a soft smile, staring straight ahead, asking a question directed to himself more than it is to Butcher. “Where else would I go?” 

Butcher’s eyes linger on him for a moment, and then he cups Homelander’s face with his freehand, turning his head to face him, leaning down to plant a kiss on his lips just because he can. In return, he gets a breathy laugh, or something that sounds like a laugh at least, and Homelander’s lips move against his. They kiss for longer than necessary.

At this point Butcher had expected himself to have already told Homelander about Ryan’s acknowledgment, but eventually he does pull away, needing to get them an agreed time on when they should head off to see Ryan. 

Butcher got around to giving him his address already. It’s not like he was paranoid to the point of manic distraction, but he thinks it’s smart to give Homelander an address to where Ryan is in case anything sporadic happens.

Either way, it was one of the first things Homelander had asked for when he became conscious, and when he slipped the piece of paper to the blonde, he couldn’t get the man to tear his eyes away from the location written. 

“Different address than last time.” Butcher had said, tapping a finger on the street name scribbled down as Homelander held the paper in between his fingers, his eyes skimming over the words. “Memorize it. God forbid shit happens, you’d need to find your way there on your own. I always have a lick of cash on me, and there’s bus stops everywhere, and I’m thinking about getting you a burner phone.” 

“Can you shut up with that?” Homelander huffed, shaking his head. “Do you know how you sound right now?”

Butcher had tossed the pencil on the bed, rolling his shoulders, trying his best not to sound like a pessimist. “I’m just saying, if I’m occupied with something and if that becomes a danger to you, then at least you know the way to Ryan.” 

Butcher wonders if his pessimism is what triggered Homelander to search for confirmation, but that’s strange in itself because that’s simply how he talks.

Sometimes.

He’s choosing to believe that he doesn’t know it yet, but maybe there was this hidden uncertainty on whether or not he’d be able to get Homelander to Ryan, a discreet reluctance he’ll never show.  

As they sit on the couch, Butcher draws in a breath, stretching his arm around Homelander’s shoulders, tipping his head to the side. “When do you want to see Ryan?” 

Butcher could hear how Homelander’s heartbeat picked up, and he sat up, fidgeting, and he’s trying not to beam as he fights for his words. “What? I -” 

“You’ve been good. I think it’s time for you to see him, and I don’t want to keep him waiting. It’ll drive him crazy if he doesn’t get an update on you, and enough weeks have passed.” Butcher tells him, being completely honest. “Also, I miss the lad too.” 

“Oh, fuck, okay.” Homelander breathes as he tries to follow what the other man says, blinking his eyes, his gaze skittering across the living room.

It’s endearing how Homelander doesn’t have to smile for Butcher to know that he’s drowning in excitement, anticipation, and as he tries to assess a schedule with him, he sounds like he could barely hold it together. “Is - can - I thought that this weekend could be good? But um, is there a way we can see him sooner, just in case it’ll take a long time to see him again?” 

Butcher chuckles, a low noise that vibrates in his throat. “I plan to take him home with us.” 

Homelander nods his head, his brain stalling, he’s really going to be around Ryan for the long term, he can’t fuck this up.

There shouldn’t be this deep of an anxious pit blooming in his stomach, but there is, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s best that everything dawns on him now, with Ryan seeing him like this, depowered, vulnerable. He swallows, unable to stop the shiver of dread trickling down his spine.

“Okay. Fuck. This is real.”

Butcher eyes him. “So how does this weekend sound?” 

“We’d have to take him home.” 

Without having to ask what was wrong, Homelander’s stomach lurches when he feels Butcher rub his shoulder, his hand warm, reassuring. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Always been.” 

“Do you think I’m ready for that?”

“Are you?”

“I think I am. I want to believe that I am, but the last time he saw me, I was gone. I mean seriously. William. I was fucking gone, and wasn’t I still in the suit?”  Homelander tries his best to rally his precise thoughts, he can feel himself getting tongue-tied, his mind running over a thousand miles, faster than how he believes his mouth is moving.

“I don’t know. What if this all confuses him? We didn’t really get to have a moment - at least not like how I wanted us to before everything happened. So if we get him, and if he stays with us, what do I do? Like. I - where do - Butcher, where do I even start?” 

Butcher lets him ramble, not wanting to put a plug on him, they’re genuine, and that’s good, these are things a parent like Homelander would want to think about.

“Ryan adapts to anything thrown at him. He’s a tough kid. It might be a little awkward at first, but he misses you to death, and he’s been worried sick. When you see him, you’re not even going to think, the first thing you’ll register is that you’ll never want to let him go.” 

“God.” Homelander mutters, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. He probably already fucking,” he exhales, dropping his hand to his lap, his words blanking out. “Billy, you guys are closer. With me? I’m kind of - we’re not really. I mean, we were starting to. But we haven’t -” 

“John.” Butcher leans back as the blonde pauses and looks over at him, mirth glistening in his eyes once he hears his name roll off of Butcher’s tongue for the first time.

Whether the intention was to ground him or not, saying his real name fits into this situation like a puzzle piece, because it is John that is going to see his child - not Homelander - for the first time ever, it’s John. 

Perhaps it could be considered that in this way, John being apprehensive is equivalent to holding a newborn in your arms for the first time; you're nervous, fidgety, and this is the most fragile point of your relationship, even if it’s the first meeting.

“All Ryan wants to do is see you. Whatever loose ends you two have isn’t what he’ll be focused on. He’s a worried kid who wants to see his father. You’re all he has left of his immediate family.” 

John makes an inaudible sound, but he buys into it, he knows that’s what he needs to hear, and Butcher has a point. He’ll always believe Butcher, he has no reason not to.

Like he had said and thought, Butcher and Ryan seemed closer. 

Ryan had spent more time with Butcher anyway, it’s not as painful to acknowledge anymore, but anyway John is gonna have to take his word for it.

The reassurance is pleasing, he doesn’t want to take it for granted, not all the way, because that’s the best case scenario. He doesn’t know what’ll be going on in Ryan’s head when they meet, but Butcher can be very convincing, and right now he’s stuck trying to understand an estranged child’s mental concept. 

“I’ll let you think about it.” Butcher says, feeling the need to cut through John’s train of thought. 

John feels like he needs to reiterate, not wanting Butcher to read this wrong despite the note of understanding in his voice, he’s gotten this far, and he’s afraid to fumble. He couldn’t afford fumbling. “I want to see him, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a fucking tricky situation. 

Butcher nods, tracing his fingers over the back of John’s neck. “I know. I get it. When I took him back in after everything happened, for the first day or two, it felt that way. Ryan looks at the bigger picture. He always does. He’s a smart kid, easygoing, and he picks up on everything. It’s not going to be a problem.” 

John doesn’t know how to feel about Butcher describing his own child, whom he met and spent time with already, to him as if he was a stranger.

He leans into his touch with a self directed, frustrated grunt, sifting through his thoughts as they pour in. “This is for the long term, right? I like it, I do. I’m just - I don’t think that I have that much faith in myself. Right now.” 

For a beat, Butcher stares at him, and John fidgets. “Okay. We’ll think about it. I just asked if he was ready to see you, and he said yes. You want to see him. I want to see him. We have an estimated time – the weekend.” 

“Yeah.” 

“But it can change, and Ryan is going to understand either way. As long as he knows that we’re still planning to see him. I just didn’t want to leave him in the dark.” 

“I get it. That’s good you didn’t, because we won’t. This weekend sounds good. I’m just - being fucking annoying -” John pauses, and then he turns to face Butcher, looking at him, an appreciative look on his face mixed with something else. “Thank you.” 

“Hm?” Butcher raises a brow at him, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “I was going to do this from the start. I just needed to see how you’d come out of this.” 

John moves in and hugs him before Butcher could even blink, a pair of arms wrapping around his neck, warmth pressed close to his chest, he feels breaths ghosting over his skin, another ‘thank you,’ being emitted, and Butcher has to reboot his brain. 

The Brit has to draw in a dazed breath, not expecting an embrace of this caliber. It was too intimate, too cherishing, and Butcher feels a visceral urge to make sure this entire plan becomes complete, he couldn’t imagine not following through with it. 

Not while they’re holding each other like this. 

It’s a little funny to think about considering how many times they’ve actually kissed each other, but this simple hug is what had caused a heated flush of pink to coat Butcher’s cheeks, and as he held him, he’s left a little stupefied.  

John was right, this is weird. 

Butcher reaches out to Mallory ahead of time, giving her a much needed heads-up in a phone call, and as soon as he informs her of his future plans, the normalcy between them doesn’t last over two minutes.

It could be due to one, poor service, and because of how sharply Mallory had objected to Homelander showing up to her house, a firm ‘absolutely fucking not’ that left Butcher’s breath stuttering. 

Alright so, maybe before he became occupied with having to explain why that needed to happen and how an ‘absolutely fucking not’ wasn’t going to work in this situation, he hadn’t thought much about what he was going to say to her.  

He initially assumed that the topic was going to be straight and narrow, ‘Homelander is going to see Ryan when he wakes back up and recovers,’ that sounded like a plan that could be easily executed, dealt with, one domino falling onto another.

So he has to stand there, in his bath towel, asking himself and Mallory what was the deal? Is it because he’s coming along? 

Butcher can’t go all the way to her house and leave Homelander to fuck about on his own, it’s not what he planned, and it’s just something he won’t fucking do. 

So what, hadn’t really stopped for a second to really think on Mallory’s position, she seemed to accept the request of babysitting Ryan until Butcher was ready to pick him up, and it’s not like she’s going cold turkey on him.

Is she? 

Unfortunately, considering extracurricular circumstances, he couldn’t just have an interaction that can be considered normal. 

“Then how about you come down here.” 

“Absolutely fucking -”

“Alright,” Butcher cuts her off and pulls down the toilet lid, taking a seat on top of it, fingers pressing into his temple, he hadn’t even turned on his shower yet. “I know things seemed a little hectic the last time I saw you, but it’s really important that we stop fucking around and get Ryan back into the mix. He misses his dad. They need to see each other, alright?” 

Mallory remains unmoved. “Well, you’d either have to come by yourself, or facetime.”

Butcher bites at the nail of his thumb, shaking his head, frustration laced in his voice as he questions her. “Why are you fucking about with me? I miss him too, alright? I can’t leave Homelander here by himself, it can’t happen, he needs to be with me. At all times. That’s the only way this’ll work.” 

“Billy, for the last time, I am not having that fucking monster in my house. Depowered or not, he stays the fuck away. At all times. I don’t see how I’m not making myself clear here -”

“Listen -”

Mallory cuts him off. “Because I think I’m pretty fucking clear.”  

“This shit isn’t about you. When he’s there, all he’d want to do is see Ryan, and that’s it. I’ll keep that in check. You’d have nothing to be upset about. It’s a reunion between father and son, s’all it is.” Butcher says as he rubs his forehead, his voice comes out gruff and sharp because this honestly really isn’t about her, and she has to see that. 

Personal external feelings can’t get in the way of this reunion, that’s entirely unfair to John and Ryan, but in this case, since Mallory could give less of a fuck of what John thinks - 

Ryan would be getting the short end of the stick here. 

Mallory doesn’t sound all that convinced. “If you really want me to consider, then let me sit on it for a couple of days. And for fuck sake, don’t text Ryan again. You’re only going to get his hopes up.”

Don’t text him? “I can’t just not text him –”

“Butcher, if you text him, then I won’t even consider it at all.” 

“But I already asked Ryan if he wanted to see his dad, he’s expecting something, you can’t just fucking leave him in the dark –” The line on the other end had cut off, three beeps signaling him that Mallory had hung up, all while he was talking in mid sentence. 

Butcher takes his phone off of his ear, staring at it with a blank expression, as if he couldn’t believe she just did that. In a way, he couldn’t. 

This is about Ryan. Does she know that? Fucking hell, does she even care?

He lets out a couple of murmured expletives and drops his head down, closing his eyes, chasing back the heat climbing in the back of his eyes. 

Don’t text him again? What’s all that about? Fucking hell.

The bathroom door opens, the air shifting as another presence trickles into his proximity, but Butcher doesn't budge, he just lets a hand fly up to his hair, scratching at a convenient itch. Meanwhile Homelander pads in with an unreadable look on his face, his eyes skimming over Butcher’s appearance, his hand still wrapped around the knob, the other playing with the hem of his shirt. “I’m guessing bad news?” 

“Nothing impossible.” Butcher huffs after a moment, lifting his head up, elbows pressed against his thighs, brown eyes following the way Homelander moved to stand in front of him. “Were you eavesdropping or do I have to explain how it went?” 

“I’ve heard enough to assume that she doesn’t want me to show up.” Homelander utters under his breath, the way he says it teeters on a hollow, chilling tone. 

It’s the saddest he’s ever sounded and before Butcher tells himself to react normally about it, the blonde shook the dejected look off of his face, unclasping his hands from behind him, settling his palms on Butcher’s bare shoulders instead. 

“Hey,” he says, squeezing Butcher’s shoulder, his voice sounds a note lighter, impossibly so. It’s as if he was trying to cheer him up, reassure him, and Butcher honestly doesn’t know how to feel about it. Homelander’s eyes are focused on him, his hands tracing up to his hair, touch gentle, and barely there, Butcher couldn’t help but shiver. “She’ll probably change her mind, but ehh, who gives a shit. If she doesn’t want me to come then I can stay here, and then you can get him. That’s probably the only way.”  

Butcher grabs his waist and pulls him in, swallowing. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Homelander sighs through his nose as he bites his bottom lip, ogling him. “That’s the only way she’ll let you get Ryan.”

“You could wait in the car. I mean - you said you feel safer when you’re with me right? That’s the best option, because all you have to do is sit and wait.”

“Yeah.” Homelander says, nodding, his hands back on Butcher’s shoulders. “That sounds like a good move. We’re not disturbing her peace or anything, right? Is that what she’s so worked up about?”

“I told her you’d only come in to see Ryan, she doesn’t want you in her house at all.” Butcher blows out an exasperated breath. “Probably not even on her property.” 

“Well that makes things - complicated.” Homelander has that look on his face, traces of regret, the weight of his self-loathing making itself present in his demeanor. 

Mallory being adamant on Homelander never stepping foot on her house are simply consequences of the blonde’s actions, and apart from being frustrated at the delay of seeing Ryan again, Butcher really doesn’t know what to say about that. 

She has her reasons, just like how he had his. 

“Butcher.” Homelander says, squeezing his shoulders. “Go.”

Butcher averts his eyes. 

Homelander slides up his neck to cup his face, turning his head back towards him. “You can leave me with your friends.” 

“You’d fucking hate that.”

“I’d hate missing a chance to get Ryan more,” Homelander says, huffing at the ridiculousness of this entire thing, something that could be so simple turns out to be the most taxing. “Plus, I need to get used to your people anyway. I’m going to be around them for a long time after all.” 

“Huh.” Butcher breathes out, thinking about how MM and everyone would interact with him, genuinely hilarious images and scenarios pop up in his head as he mulls over it, but he could still feel his gut free-falling. “Listen, she’s going to sit on it for sometime. We should just - fucking wait it out I guess.” 

Homelander hums, biting the inside of his cheek. 

As Mallory’s lengthy consideration looms, Homelander and Butcher spend most of their newfound freetime together in intimacy. 

It’s a little different now, their moments alone, when their vulnerabilities are levels high.

Homelander - John has pretty much recovered from his physical injuries, and Butcher is somewhat used to being on compound V, although he still has his moments of slippage, questioning the existence and meaning of everything.

Unfortunately, the slippages he gets caught up in from time to time can go as far as being ridiculously cautious with Homelander. 

But Homelander doesn’t seem to really question his actions, when he’d abruptly pull away from a kiss that goes on for too long, his hand cupping John’s cheek, thumb brushing along his lips, not recognizing his own voice when he’d ask. “Good?” 

At least, that’s what Butcher would assume. 

John always had two separate thoughts that occurred in his head whenever he’d spend his time pouring over the Brit.

For as long as he lived, there were always two sides of everything when it comes to how he interpreted things, and he should be used to it by now.

But he’s not. 

That’d be too easy.

Two days after Butcher had called Mallory, the aroma of breakfast filled the chilly morning air, curtains that hung over the windows weren’t drawn yet, and the blinds hadn't been strung up yet, so the rays from the sun bathed the room in a soft, orange hue.

John had sat at the table alone while Butcher continued to cook, finding himself being pulled back into the moment where he admitted he liked Butcher, the response he got, along with the confession –

Butcher was on V, and there’s not a chance in the world where he’d reveal where he got the dosage from. Frenchie had given it to him. Alright, sure. How long have they had it? Why do they have it in the first place? If there’s more then what’s the use for it? 

Homelander tries to think rationally about it. 

And then again, John doesn’t want to think about it at all - not now, not here. 

He flexes his hands. 

Despite the surface level disgust he’s feeling – Homelander is genuinely happy and relieved that Butcher was cured of whatever brain schmuck he had going on. 

He couldn’t stomach losing him, not after molding the man into his heart, his soul. A melted brain taking him away, imagine that.

 Jesus, fuck. 

Homelander has to lift a hand up to cover his mouth at the thought, staring at the direction of the kitchen, staring into the back of the man’s head, the sizzling coming from the pans sitting on the stovetop fills his ears. 

Homelander thinks about Butcher giving him Ryan’s address, telling him to memorize it just in case.  

Just in case, what?  

Butcher continues to cook. 

Homelander’s foot taps against the floor, knee jerking up and down. 

All of that aside - what’s been really biting at him now is knowing that Butcher is somewhat of a fucking God now, even if he’d deny it. Here he is, at his most powerful, meddling with someone so fucking feeble and fragile.

He actually likes him back.

The thought lacks maturity, but Butcher literally pulled him back in for that first kiss, and not only that, he was being more eager, sure, and confident in what was happening than John himself was. 

Possessiveness wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but having Butcher look at him like that all week, just to finally melt into his mouth after admitting he felt the same way, Homelander feels nauseated imagining someone else making Butcher that pent up. 

Their moment on the balcony, their snuggling on the couch, the way Butcher seemed so swooned, saying he wouldn’t tap out, and kissing him breathless afterwards – he made that happen. Fuck.  

Butcher is perfect for him. 

Too fucking perfect. 

And that’s not even the main issue here. 

Perhaps it was his ego that was making his stomach churn. He could imagine the criminal  urge of needing to be better somehow resurrecting inside of him, swarming him like a colony of bees.

Even if that was it, John hadn’t been able to puzzle piece the theory of his ego rebelling against his new way of approaching things to the feeling of dread that unravels inside of him. 

It transpires when Butcher freezes and pulls away from him as if he was scalded, John would have to fight himself to not pull Butcher back in, demanding for him to stop acting so fucking scared. 

Homelander knows that Butcher will never intentionally hurt or kill him, as if that ever really mattered to him. He likes Butcher - a lot - and not only that, he deeply cares for him, although he thinks he might be shit at really showing it because he’s never properly liked anyone in his entire life. 

Huh. 

It’s just - hard for him to swallow - because John knows for the rest of Butcher’s life, he would have to deal with the paranoia, trials, and tribulations that he himself was basically born into, and that also makes the blonde nauseous.

And angry. 

It stings. 

Seeing Butcher afraid like that on the balcony, it had hit home. 

Homelander needed to calm him down. 

He would never admit it, but it deeply resonated with him and his own past, seeing the man, who is admittedly one of the strongest people Homelander had ever met, that paranoid. 

Butcher checking on him so thoroughly, needing to reel back and reassess what was happening had been a harsh reminder of the weeks and days leading up to his debut, when he was a teenager. 

Eighteen - nineteen or so, cameras flashing, observers, scientist, and media members asking him a bunch of hard-hitting questions, him needing to keep it together before he lasered the whole facility down, paranoid that he’d kill everyone with one flinch – 

John bites his bottom lip, diving into his thoughts, setting his overall uncertainty towards Butcher being a supe aside, whether it be his ego returning, his envy being bolstered.

Honestly, despite his other issues, he mainly vows to himself that he’d never see Butcher that rattled again, and he won’t let him reach that point. 

Not like how he did. 

Homelander was more than likely ready to dedicate himself to making sure that Butcher and Ryan are never hesitant and paranoid on injuring him.

That should start today. 

Believing that you’re too physically powerful to show physical affection to someone is a tough rock to move once it’s in your mind.

John doesn’t want to assume, but it seemed like Butcher already had plenty of moments dealing with the common conflict of accidentally fucking up and hurting somebody.  

John sighs through his nose as he looks around the table, and once his eyes on a half full bag of bread, an idea spawns in his head.   

Butcher wasn’t paying attention to the blonde as he padded around the kitchen, something shiny being held in his hand, and when he heard footsteps approaching him, he straightened his posture, ready to ask the shorter man what he was up to –

“Slice this diagonally for me?” Homelander asks Butcher as he sets down a plate of two breads stacked on top of each other. 

Butcher, who was in the middle of cooking himself some eggs, on the stove top by the way, which certainly wrinkled with Homelander considering that he has two functional fucking eyes that can cook it for him, looked at him with a raised brow.  

“Is that a fucking - wait a sec, are there any toppings on that?”

Homelander rolls his eyes at the question, blowing it off, Butcher’s lack of relevance could be annoying sometimes. “Doesn’t matter, just slice it.” 

“My hands are full if you haven’t noticed.” 

“Use your eyes.” 

“Absolutely not.” Butcher says quickly, giving him a weird side look. “Why in the hell would I use my eyes? I could slice right through you by accident.”

Homelander squints at him. “No you won’t. Manage the heat.”

Butcher turns back to the stove with an annoyed huff, scrambling his eggs in his pan once more, he mutters ‘manage the heat’ under his breath in an incredulous fashion.

Homelander doesn’t mention that he felt offended by the mockery, so he says nothing and patiently continues to stand by the other man’s side.

Butcher has no other choice but to conclude that Homelander was being serious. They haven’t discussed his powers yet. It’s not like he hadn’t expected for the conversation to come up, he has, but not on a random morning like this.

“No, it fucking kills my eyes, gives me a headache.” 

“You’re not used to it, William. It’s easy, all you have to do is hold back, if you fucking think that you’re going to slice right through me, then you will. So don’t think. Just do it. You’ve got the strength, you can fucking do it.” Maybe Homelander sounds a touch too aggressive, but honestly, he couldn’t help himself, he wants to get his point across. 

Butcher, oblivious to the mantra of thoughts racketing the blonde’s mind, was staring at him like he had three heads. Homelander matched the look. 

Eventually, he sighed, shook his head, and turned the stove off, moving in and reaching across the countertop, grabbing the knife laying near the cutting board, holding it up in his hand. “I’m not lasering anything, give me the plate.” 

When Homelander didn’t move from where he stood, only sucking in an exasperated breath, glancing down at the plate, the corners of his lips twitching downwards, Butcher took a step closer and looked at him quizzically. “Are you alright?” 

Homelander blinks, looking up at him. “What? Yeah. I’m fine. I just -” 

Butcher places the knife back down on the counter top, grabbing John’s arm, his grip on him a touch too loose for the blonde to be comfortable with it, and he pulls the shorter man to him. 

Despite himself, Butcher’s touch makes John's jaw lock, and he stifles an awkward noise as he steps close to him, bridging the gap, blue eyes flickering up at Butcher’s handsome, concerned face.

The invisible butterflies in his stomach flutter, temporarily replacing the anxiousness that nested there. 

He’s fucking whipped, and Homelander wonders if Butcher could notice. 

“Listen, I’m not using my powers around you unless I have to, if I ever hurt you then I’d never forgive myself.” Butcher says after a moment of quiet, fond staring, swiping his thumb over a weeks old scar embedded in John’s arm. 

John jumps to shut him down, ready to aggressively assure him, ignoring another pang in his heart. “You won’t, Butcher, and even if you did then it’s not your fault. The sooner you get that through your head, the better this thing between us will work.” 

Oh, it feels so real now. John couldn’t believe that came out of his mouth. 

Butcher grins as he shakes his head at him, swiping his arm up Homelander’s arm, cupping his cheek, eyes soft as he gazes down at him. “I want this.” 

“I do too.” Billy’s hand smells like eggs and home, it was warm against his cheek, John feels like he’s about to short circuit.

Aches of doubt start to climb back into his skin.  

He couldn’t fucking believe Butcher actually shared the same feelings he did, and every time he looks at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen, Homelander feels like he has the world back in his grasp – but in a less world domination, sink all the banks, take over the white house way. 

“I want you to last forever, and I’m not going to fuck it up. Do you understand?” Butcher was speaking in a low voice, and his words had dashed Homelander out of his softened headspace. 

This was their current problem, not just Homelander’s. What’s annoying to John is that this is just one of the glittering troubles among others - like Maeve. 

He doesn't think about her. 

Right now, as John’s face falls, he couldn’t help but wonder if Butcher knows that this is hurting him more than anything else, even if he doesn’t show it or bring it up.

And it’s just fucking ironic because Butcher is literally telling him that it’s the last thing he wants to do to him - and yet - he’s fucking doing it. 

Feeling upset at everything, John looked down at the floor, staring at the way their feet were facing each other, and he just nodded his head anyway. He could feel his throat burning, and there was that anger rattling through his bones again, the reminder of his younger self, his former self. 

Butcher studies the distraught look on John’s face for some time, his brows knitting together, and he stalls all of his thoughts when he brings his hand down to the blonde’s chin, tilting his head back up, leaning down and kissing him. 

John reacts immediately, hands flying up to wrap around Butcher’s wrist, letting out a muffled noise into Butcher’s mouth, and oh fuck, he’s never going to get used to that. 

Day three of waiting for an update is uneventful. Mallory is still sitting on it, ignoring Butcher’s calls, and texting him that she needs to really think about this.

No news from The Boys.

Butcher and Homelander spend more time together. 

Despite being adamant on not pursuing heated physical contact - Butcher’s self control has been dwindling as soon as he had first seen Homelander wearing his clothes, and he knows that too. 

It’s been a long time since their mutually shared confessions had happened on the balcony, and after Butcher denied lasering a sandwich in half for him that one morning, Homelander kept indirectly punishing Butcher for being antsy with showing physical affection towards him. 

Dry responses, Homelander being dreadfully quiet, and when Butcher would talk about something, he’d sit there, silently listening with big blue eyes. 

To anyone else, there’s no problem with having someone sit in silence, listening to you talk, but to Butcher, it was troubling how none of his words seemed to really relay back to Homelander. 

Usually, when the blonde was in a good mood, he’d snuggle against Butcher with this unshakeable eagerness and his expressions would get all animated at certain parts of whatever Butcher’s story was. 

Now, Homelander has been indirectly (Butcher’s not even sure if it’s indirect, or purposeful) keeping his distance from him, and Butcher has had enough of it despite the uncertainty camping in his head. 

Compared to before he lost his powers, when Homelander gets upset now, he gets unnervingly quiet, expression deadpan, and he slickly tries to avoid talking about what’s bothering when Butcher calls him out on his behavior. 

It gets a little frustrating considering how fucking opened they’ve been with each other during his recovery, by the end of it, when they expressed how much they appreciate talking about things to each other, Butcher thought their communicating would be easier. 

Despite his concerns, Butcher indulges in their early morning makeout session, day five. There’s a familiar heat pooling into his stomach as Homelander shivers against him, sighing out into his mouth. 

His self control is out of juice. 

Homelander was eager, responding so well to him, and for a moment, Butcher feels like he’s in some sort of dream, having him like this, forcing all of these mind-numbing cut-off noises from him. 

Butcher couldn’t believe it, his mind was honestly stuck on whether he was the luckiest person alive or the sickest.

Of course it was way too late to regret what he’s gotten himself into, especially since he could’ve just shut Homelander down on the balcony, walked away from him, and let things crash and burn – which was absolutely impossible, not with how beautiful and inviting he looked in that moment.

Instead, Butcher spilled a bunch of soft words that may or may not come back around to smack at the side of his head. 

Catching feelings for Homelander was not the dumbest thing he’s ever done, but the morals behind it were a little cheeky, and yet, he still finds himself a little fucked over about the whole thing – Homelander, the gorgeous, screwed up man with soft, golden hair, and also weirdly Butcher’s type, is a good fucking kisser, he knows how to use his lips, rile you up with it. 

The mouth on him either makes you want to plummet him to the ground, or kiss him until he’s flushed and panting.

Could anyone blame Butcher for being so wound up? 

It makes him hysterical.

A part of him should hate how he just continues to let Homelander terrorize his soul, his being, his goddamn common sense, but the sensations and the taboo feel of his lips are intoxicating.

All he could think about is the cunt, his cunt. 

It should fucking drive Butcher nuts, make him angry, disgusted, have him rethink his life, do a little soul searching, get connected with fucking – God or some shit.

Instead, and hilariously so, he has a tent in his boxers, and he’s not entirely sure if it was formed when he woke up from a rare night of sleep, or when he started his make out with Homelander. 

Homelander was awake before Butcher, he sensed it, but he couldn’t roll out of whatever sleep haven he found himself buried in to check on why. 

A human Homelander being up throughout the night wasn’t uncommon, so he doesn’t think to mull over it, not now at least. 

Because, as of now, Homelander is warm and he's pressed so close to him, fingers curled into his shirt and hair, kissing him softly, their lips meeting every few seconds, Butcher has a firm hand on his waist, reciprocating everything fully.

Sure they half-heartedly agreed to indulge in these practices later - whatever later meant anyway -  especially when Butcher blurted out that he was on the real shit, and sure things got out of sorts, even when Butcher tried so hard to discipline his self control. 

Could anyone point fingers though? It’s been awhile since Butcher had struck intimacy, he’s surprised it took him this long to be caught out. 

One taste of it from Homelander and he’s craving for more, it’s pathetic, and he knows it, relishes in it. 

Still, he’s not tapping out. 

Butcher brushes his thumb across the soft patch of skin exposed due to Homelander’s shirt crinkling up due to them shifting close to each other, breathing him in, holding him still, kissing him, and kissing him, mind blank, heart thrumming in his chest. 

This could go on for hours. It’s possible.

They’re so into each other right now, they just might draw this session out for longer than it appropriately should.

Butcher tells himself that this doesn’t need to go on longer, but his body is responding quite well, the V enhancing each sensation that blooms through him. 

Homelander taps his chest with a long finger, abruptly pulling away from him with labored breaths, appearing flustered and dazed.

Butcher forces himself not to chase his lips or do anything else stupid, gazing at him longingly as the blonde shifts away, swinging his legs off the side of the bed, standing up slowly. “Where are you going?”

Homelander straightens his shirt in a hilariously nonchalant manner like he knows he caught Butcher in a bear hug, peering over his shoulder at Butcher, amusement present in his eyes as it flickers to different parts of Butcher’s body, he takes the sight of the Brit in for a moment before he talks.

“I’ve got to piss, and I need to brush my teeth.” 

“We were in the middle of something.” Butcher knows he sounds uncharacteristically petulant, but he’s too riled up to feel any sort of shame about it.

It doesn’t help that Homelander has the long shirt and shorts combo going on, something Butcher complained about giving him blue balls several times, the last few complaints being in a half joking manner. 

“Billy, it’s even better when at least one of us tastes like mint.” Homelander says, flashing him a genuine, yet faint smile before padding off into the bathroom. 

“You better come right back here!” Butcher calls out.

He would sit up to join him, he really would, but he’s sporting a noticeable hard-on right now, and he’s unsure on what it would lead to if Homelander ever caught wind of it even though the blonde had checked him out before leaving to the bathroom. 

So, for some time, he lies there on his back, listening to the water run, staring up at the ceiling while heat continues to stir in his gut. 

While Homelander brushes his teeth, he grabs at his phone from the nightstand, checks in on his messages, seeing two chat bubbles from MM. 

‘Frenchie and Kimiko are in Chicago right now.’

‘They’ve got some rope and tape in case something happens.’

Interesting, so they’re actually going with Butcher’s plan to get information out of this guy. 

Despite their conflicts, Butcher thinks about Annie and Hughie’s advice to just leave the former speedrunner alone. Annie, as tired as she was, seemed very adamant about it. He thinks she has a point, but all they’re doing is double-checking, there’s no harm in that, right? 

Perhaps it’s something to think about. 

Anyway, Butcher wouldn’t say it aloud, but he sort of hopes to see her again soon, preferably on his next visit she’d be with the group, feeling much better with some rest. 

After their last interaction, he’s actually looking forward to talking with her, Homelander’s made him soft perhaps. 

To Butcher, Annie is still just a kid, just like Hughie, and unfortunately both of them have seen the worst outcome from bringing Soldier Boy into the equation. 

Their lives were changed completely, especially Annie’s. 

The guilt has always been pushed to the back of Butcher’s head regarding Annie and Hughie’s situation.

The poor girl was caught up in the fire trying to save Hughie’s life and she ended up alienating herself from the only people she could lean on. Hughie had or has lost his second wind, and for what’s worse, Butcher played a part in it all.

He will never understand how Hughie doesn’t hate him for splitting them apart, and making Hughie choose between her and him. 

Jesus, Butcher is a terrible brother. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he ends up replying  to MM with a thumbs up that’ll probably earn him an annoyed response. Then he swipes over to Annie’s contact, probably for some type of reference for his thoughts, and as he swipes the pad of his thumb across his screen, he notices how their last few messages were short and spaced out. 

He scrolls up to a picture Annie took of Hughie posing next to him while he was sleeping on the couch a year or two ago when things were calm, when he and Ryan were arguably on their best terms with each other.  

The message below said. ‘Did you know you drool in your sleep? Lol’

Butcher remembers how he grumbled to himself and texted back a middle finger emoji in which Annie liked, sending a laughing emoji back to him. 

Yeah, they didn’t text each other much, but Annie would always be the one who’d do it first, always the one to reach out.

Their terms were always rocky, but when they were somewhat good, Butcher never minded her company and jokes.  

Before Butcher thinks to send her a text, he hears the faucet turn off, and the echo of the toilet flushing, followed up with gentle footsteps.

Turning his phone off and setting it back down on the nightstand, he sits up in the bed, eyes following Homelander once the man emerges from the bathroom, crawling back onto the bed, and plopping down onto his side with a soft grunt. 

Eagerly, Butcher moves closer to him, places a hand on his head and plays with his blonde strands, Homelander shuffles in close, a shaky sigh leaving his lips.

Butcher stills, peeling away to look at him. “Everything alright?”

Homelander looks up at him and nods, murmuring. “Yeah. Fine.” 

Butcher leans down, kisses his forehead. “You’ve been quiet lately.” 

“Hm?” Homelander shudders at the touch of his lips, slipping his hands up Butcher’s chest, delivering a smile that seemed even fainter than the last one. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Yeah?” Butcher questions as he looks him up and down, grabbing one of Homelander’s hands, squeezing it gently. “Are we good?”

Homelander leans up as he nods his head, drawing invisible circles on Butcher’s chest with his free hand.

“We’re good.” He mutters lowly, closing the gap between them, eyes fluttering as he presses their lips together, they slot perfectly for a hot moment, and to both of their surprise,  Butcher hums needily into his mouth. 

Homelander reads the response well, and this time he really smiles as he surges in for the next kiss, pulling Butcher closer by his shirt, and the Brit goes along with him, planting another kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing longer.

Butcher’s blood runs hot at the sounds of their lips moving against each other’s, and this time he groans into the kiss, letting go of Homelander’s hand to plant his palm onto his waist again, pulling his hips forward as the other man’s long fingers card through his hair.

Homelander’s heart beat picks up, Butcher lets the drumming sound vibrate through him, his tongue slipping between the blonde’s lips, brushing, rubbing, and it’s all so fucking good. 

Homelander, the slick fuck, shifts his leg, bumping it against Butcher’s crotch, and the surprised sound that catches in his throat, slipping into the kiss makes Butcher accidentally squeeze his waist too hard. 

Butcher’s blood runs cold as soon as Homelander winces, eliciting a cut off whimper of discomfort. 

Oh shit.

“Billy,” Homelander breathes out sharp once he regathered himself, pulling away from him, breathless, already sensing what was coming when he feels Butcher’s grip loosen slightly, he wings his hand from the man’s hair, wrapping it around the other’s wrist in order to keep his hand there, nails burying into his skin. 

“Too far -” Butcher starts. 

“Billy, don’t.” Homelander’s voice is filled with anger, want, fear, and a touch of insecurity.

Butcher's breath stutters, and he keeps his hand still even if knowing he could easily shake it out of Homelander’s death grip. 

The look on Homelander’s face makes him stay.

When the other man speaks, he sounds gravelly, wrecked, demanding, and Butcher would be lying if he said it didn’t spark something within him. “Don’t fucking do this.” 

Butcher feels like there’s a frog in his throat. “I hurt you.” 

“You didn’t.” Homelander assures him with a milky whisper, leaning forward, kissing his cheek, his neck, urgent and tense, his hand slipping up Butcher’s arm, his bicep, shoulder, then swiping down his chest and stomach. “It felt good. I like that. I liked it, Billy. Let’s keep going.”

“God –” Butcher breathes in sharp and throatily, feeling split into two.

Homelander bites into his neck, moans into his skin in a way that causes Butcher’s blood to spike into his cock, and he feels the other’s hand finds its way into his pants.

“Fucking hell,” he couldn’t help but grunt out as he shivers, hips shifting when he feels a warm hand wander along his thigh, Homelander elicits a deep groan, leans up to seal their lips together again and Butcher’s breaths come out harsh through his nose. 

He knows he’s fried. 

Butcher feels Homelander lick into his mouth, and he feels himself melt into the kiss as he moans out, mind going lucid. 

The blonde’s breath hitch as soon as he felt a strong, confident, desperate hand pull him into the other man’s chest with ease, pressing their bodies amongst each other’s, this was really happening. 

Butcher feels long fingers closing around his cock, and Homelander’s own twitches in his pants when he feels the other man’s girth, his thickness – he fucking mewls into the kiss and strokes him, missing this exact rush that rams into him when Butcher’s hips jerks forward, a rough moan escaping the passageways of his throat. 

Homelander shakes as he lays there, excitement bursting through him, blood pumping into his cock, causing a lump forming in his boxers, and he finds himself fixated – 

“Spit into your hand.” Butcher pants into his mouth, sounding wrecked already, and Homelander breaks away with a whispered apology that sounded too innocent, and he’s aggressively reminded that this was his first time giving a man a fucking handjob. 

Butcher was actually letting him do this. Homelander was red all over as he tried to correct his mistake, quickly moving his hand from Butcher’s aching cock, spitting into his palm. 

Butcher couldn’t stop staring at him with glazed over eyes, watching through a lust cloud, genuine earnest as the other man fumbled over himself, spitting a glob of his saliva into his palm.

He looked so fucking gorgeous like this. 

Butcher swallows.

He never wants to let him go.

Butcher surges forward and smothers him with another kiss as Homelander blindly shoves his hand back into his boxers, grabbing his cock, stroking him in a long, twisting motion, similar to how he’d do it to himself.

Sensations pulsed through him, heightened, dizzying, Butcher moans and thrusts into the slick of Homelander’s saliva, earning a shiver from the blonde, the sound of his heart beating was like music to his ears. 

Many of his senses were being put in good use, and Butcher couldn’t get enough of it. 

“Shit,” Butcher moans out again, pulling away, chest heaving. 

He was fully hard in Homelander’s tightening grasp, and he could feel how he’s being watched closely by the smaller man, in return his body was heating up under the intrusive stare.

It makes his mind all foggy again, clouded, and his hands couldn’t help but wander along the blonde’s pliant body, tugging him close as he drills his hips up into his hand. 

“Is that good?” Homelander asks, sounding breathless and awed, his own hard on becoming prominent as Butcher touches him, desperate hands on his body, guttural sounds punched out of the other man’s chest lightning up a fire within him, he felt very close to drooling. 

Billy looks so fucking good like this. 

Butcher feels Homelander twist his wrist, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, he hadn’t felt a rush like this in ages, and the way he was being looked at, scrutinized, God he never wanted to fuck anyone so bad in his life.

“You’re amazing,” he groans out into Homelander’s mouth as he kisses him repeatedly, driving his hips up, fucking his hand, precum and spit smeared all over Homelander’s palm.

The bodily reaction he gets from the praise drives him hot, up the wall, goosebumps running up and down his arms. 

Homelander relishes in being kissed like this, used like this, and Butcher knows it, both of their heartbeats were overlapping each other at this point, and it was a sound nothing short of beautiful. 

Within seconds, Homelander was slightly pinned down onto the bed. It was a little awkward and uncomfortable for him to move his arm but he fought through the burn, liking the ache.

Butcher shudders as he presses against him, hips rocking back and forth with a consistent snap, making the other man’s hand wet and drippy, Homelander only tightens the suction as he arches up into him, whispering filth into his ear.  

Butcher could only imagine what it’s like to actually fuck into him, have his legs perched up on his waist, kissing him stupid, mark him up, suck him dry, fuck him until he cries and begs.

God.

He’s really lost his marbles.

The mere image of Homelander riding him is what causes his hips to stutter suddenly, and a tremor rocks through his body as he grunts out. 

Stilling up, Butcher spurts into Homelander’s hand and his boxers, each orgasmic shock that courses through him makes him groan, everything is notched up tenfold and he ends up moaning Homelander’s name over and over again, voice softening on each utterance before collapsing partially on top of him.

“Jesus, Billy -” Homelander begins after a beat, his legs twitching apart as Butcher shivers against him, he was unbearably hard, unable to remember the last time he’s been this fucking turned on. 

“Christ, that was something.” Butcher pants out as he turns his head a bit, kissing  Homelander’s cheek, then the corner of his lips as some kind of hidden, subliminal ‘I love you.’ 

Homelander says nothing because his mind is gushed out, he only squeezes his arm with his other hand in response, then he wraps his arm around his back as the man continues to come down from his high with heavy breaths, kisses, and praises.

Butcher keeps praising him while Homelander stares up at the ceiling in a spell of slight shock, basking in the praise, the attentiveness, and tenderness blooms in his chest along with this feverish want – 

“Billy,” he finally speaks again as he removes his shiny hand from Butcher’s boxers, sounding breathy, shifting so that he was laying completely on his back.

As soon as he catches a glimpse of the other man’s cum, he swipes the mess off on his shorts leg before he could even think about licking it off, shuddering from head to toe. 

Butcher moves over so that he is positioned back on his side, blinking at Homelander in a post orgasmic haze, choking out a wrecked. “Yeah?”

Homelander was trembling slightly as he reached for Butcher’s hand, guiding it down to his bulging erection, Butcher’s hazy eyes following the movements of their hands.

“Can you - I need -  please.'' He couldn’t even get his words out, especially as desperate as he is right now, he cants his hips up as Butcher takes the notion, opening his palm and cupping Homelander’s cock from his pants. 

Homelander pants out, voice shaky, eyes shimmering with need, suddenly he looks too pretty for Butcher to think straight right now. “You won’t hurt me -” 

“Yeah, yeah, love, I got you.” Butcher tells him hurriedly, cutting off his stammering with a kiss.

He doesn’t need to be reminded of how shit his self control is for letting them go this far, and anyway, why would he refuse such a polite request? 

That’d just be cruel.   

Butcher, still in his post-orgasm state, sits up bit by bit, continuously kissing the pleas off of  John’s parted lips, shucking the other man’s shorts and boxers down to his knees and grasping his drooling cock with a firm but careful grip. 

The blink of an eye action causes Homelander to jerk a little, pleasure coursing through him as he arches into Butcher’s touch with a chest rattling groan, he was so thick and wet in his hand, Butcher wonders if this is the first he let a man touch him like this. 

As he expected, the thought makes him feel sickly possessive, the hot feeling circuiting dangerously through his body like poison. Yet, Butcher still moans at a pleasing noise Homelander chokes out, licking into his mouth, hand pumping.  

With his breath catching high in his throat, hips lurching forward, Homelander drops his head back against the pillow, his hands gripping the sheets and twisting. He couldn’t wrap his head around how good Butcher’s hand felt around his cock, he fucks into his hand, a hot burn licking up his body from the source of the sensations to his toes.

 “Billy,” he groans once more into the other man’s mouth, legs spreading as far as they possibly could with his shorts hugging at his knees, slipping down to his ankles. 

Butcher lets the breathy sound of his name rolling off of Homelander’s tongue melt into his mind, fucking his tongue into the other’s pliant mouth while he strokes his cock earnestly.

His hands feel so warm around him, fingers thick as they handle his shaft, all Homelander could do was tug at the sheets, arch his back, and whimper out embarrassingly.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Butcher pulled away from him, and he knows how fucking drunk he sounded from how gorgeous Homelander looked while coming apart under his touch, he can feel his cock hardening again. “Look at you.” 

This was heading into dangerous territory. 

Homelander’s hands were buried in his hair while Butcher was kissing lightly at his neck, collarbone, and any exposure of his chest. He’s holding onto Butcher while he writhes, stills, and shakes against the sheets, fucking up into his closed fist, face flushing red, high breathy sounds he’d probably deny later escaping the depths of his throat.

Butcher closes his eyes and breathes in his scent, stroking him faster, hearing Homelander cry out, tugging desperately at his hair. 

It’s not like either of them could help themselves. 

Butcher knows they both might’ve overstepped, but that’s too bad.

He’s convinced, more than ever, that he couldn’t lose this spark, couldn’t lose him, which was ironic – he never would have thought Homelander would reach the same importance to him as Ryan did.

Homelander spilled into his hand with a choked out sound, shaking against him for two whole minutes, legs closing in around Butcher’s hand.

As he gathers Butcher’s shirt up into his fist, he pants out a mantra of his name, forcing the other man to file the filthy sounds into his head, and as the blonde writhes against the sheets, Butcher makes sure he drinks in the sight of him, needing a vivid image to help get him off later. 

“That’s it, that’s it.” Butcher talks him through it, he doesn’t know why he did it, but it feels right. 

Homelander’s letting out wet gasps, turning his head and burying his face in his chest, shivering as he rides out the waves, continuing to rock his hips slowly up into the other’s closed fist, chasing the burn of overstimulation. 

“Billy,” Homelander whines out endearingly into his skin, mouthing at the base of his neck wetly as he trembles through the aftershocks. 

Butcher swallows again, awed, and he gives Homelander’s cock one last stroke for good measure, but that only earns him a soft, reprimanding nip, which makes him crack a little.

“Oi,” he chuckles out breathily, letting go of the blonde’s sensitive cock, staring luminously at the mess he’s made, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “I’m here.” 

He wipes his hand off on the sheets, holding Homelander to his chest once his panting had ceased into calm, slow breathing. 

At this point, Butcher couldn’t help but to be genuinely amazed with his own restraint.

Another step had been taken just now, and Butcher’s aware that they can’t go back from this, but he feels confident enough to really know what he wants from this point on.

He peels away after regathering himself, tips the sleepy man’s head up with a finger positioned underneath his chin, and kisses him, soft, languid. 

They’ve already entered dangerous territory, as he thought before, but Butcher was fucking knee deep in whatever this was, and most importantly - it felt right - Homelander melting into his arms like this, kissing him back despite tiredness seeping into his bones, being fully immersed into him despite being distant from him the past few days. 

Butcher could only hope that this made him feel better, he’s still going to be careful with Homelander, but obviously not to a point where it begins to drive the blonde away from him.

Thankfully, them having sex made Butcher’s paranoia die down into a low simmer, and he feels a weight lift off his shoulders knowing he didn’t detach Homelander’s cock from his body. 

Yet still, as he steals glances at the bruise he made on the blonde’s hip, he couldn’t help but whisper repeatedly into their lazy kisses. “You okay?”

“Better.” Homelander replies with the most honesty Butcher has seen from him over the past couple of days, not only that, he also sounds almost freakishly vulnerable, looking up at him with glimmering and tired but naked eyes. “Was that good? Was I -”

Butcher smiles at him, brushes his knuckles across his cheek which was still a shade of pink, fondness blooming in his stomach, present in his gaze.

 “Yeah, it was. You were good, you did good.” He leans in again and kisses the praise into the blonde’s parted lips and Homelander, as expected, shivers into it, drinking in his words with a content hum that vibrates throughout Butcher’s body.  

Butcher can tell that he’s getting sleepy, his breathing pattern dropping a bit.

To be frank, he wasn’t sure if Homelander slept at all last night, and that very realization hadn’t zipped through his head until now. 

He hums and taps Homelander’s cheek gently to bring him out of his sleep haze, getting the other’s vision to refocus. “C’mon, let’s go shower, and we can snuggle on the couch while the sheets are in the wash.” 

As they snuggled on the couch like Butcher suggested earlier, Homelander prods. “About the compound V thing –”  

“What about it?”

“It saved your life, didn’t it?”

“It - yes, it did.” 

“Are you doing okay with it?” Homelander asks in a slightly weary tone, looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows, wondering eyes, to keep himself grounded he wrapped his arms around Butcher’s torso. 

Butcher was about to say he was doing fine, but then he paused, reassessed the question, and actually took some time to formulate his answer, his recent experiences with being pumped on compound V, taking advice from Ryan on how to adjust. 

Butcher sighs, places his hand on Homelander’s back, rubbing circles into it. “I’m not used to it. Everything feels kind of tenfold.” 

Homelander bites his lip. “That’s usually how it is.” 

“It’s not something I think I can get used to. It’s very different from temporary V, it feels like I got a bunch of little worms inside of me, and everything feels a little rubbery, unreal.” Butcher explains to him, trying to be as descriptive as possible. 

Homelander just shakes his head in a gentle nod, eyeing Butcher with an unreadable expression. 

“When you say it like that it’s kind of funny because, to me, things feel a little too real. Especially now that I’m –” he makes a face as if it were a pain to find the words, even if referring to himself as human was supposed to come easy to him at this point, Butcher could only imagine what goes through his head whenever he addresses his current physical state. 

“I can really feel you and your arms. The way you touched me this morning too, I felt it more, in a way. It’s like the sensations were better, a touch overwhelming, but better, way fucking better.” Homelander continues, choking out a shy laugh. 

Butcher’s blood runs hot at that, he shoves a left field thought into a mental drawer and the next time he talks, his voice comes out hilariously stiff. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Homelander catches on to the innuendo hidden in Butcher’s response and narrows his eyes, pinching the man’s biceps. 

Butcher’s chest warms and he lifts his hand up, moving a strand of hair from Homelander’s face, staring at him fondly, voice pitching low. “It’s insane to me how you were born like this.”

Homelander sniggers slightly at that as if it were a joke he wasn’t supposed to find funny, a dejected look pooling into his eyes. “And you were born like this, I can’t believe I’m saying this but it seems – okay. I grew up trained to not break, harm, or kill things unless I was told to, now me breaking anything with a simple tap is close to fucking impossible.” 

Butcher compares the two lifestyles, secretly admiring how Homelander was finally acknowledging the pros of human life; he's grown so much as a person, Butcher couldn’t believe it. “It’s less trouble being human, I’ll tell you that.” 

“Yeah, but, I mean of course you can say that. You’re more used to it than I am.” Homelander says, blinking up at him. “Do you miss it?”

Butcher ponders on the question, staring at the other man thoughtfully, index finger tracing up and down his jawline. “I do miss it, just a bit. Thing is, my life as a human wasn’t exactly up to standard, I fucking hated it.”

“You know, Billy.” Homelander begins after a beat. “I felt like this before. Like a simple human, I mean. When I was a kid, around five or whatever.”

Butcher raises a brow at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. I was told that I was special, but I never really knew what they meant by that until - you know. I didn’t think I had powers until I was pushed into using them when I was like four. How I felt before using them, it’s similar to how I feel now, but - it - it was better. I think.” 

“It was better.” Butcher repeats. 

Homelander nods his head, traces of deep seeded sorrow seeping into his features, a reminiscent look on his face. “But anyway,” he clears his throat, shaking his head, “if you ever need help on anything regarding your powers, you can ask me. I may seem useless now, but it’s like muscle memory.”

“Ryan’s been helping.” Butcher says before he could think, then he adds sheepishly as Homelander fixes him a confused look -  “He knows too.”  

Homelander pinches his bicep again. 

“Ouch.” Butcher says despite not feeling the pinch. 

Homelander keeps pinching him. “You’re such a dick. You tell my son before telling me?”

Butcher snorts. “He’s the one who suggested that I take it.” 

“Asshole.” Homelander huffs in fake dramatics, and then he softens his voice. “What do I have to do for you to tell me where Frenchie keeps the V?” 

“Nothing, because I’m not telling you.”

“Rude.” Homelander pinches him, again. 

“Stop pinching me.”

Homelander sighs and sits up with a grunt, straddling Butcher, hands on his chest. 

Butcher rests his hands behind his head, getting comfortable with the new position, he doesn’t mind the pouting sight above him. “Oh come on, seriously, if I’m good and I stay on the right path, which I will. Can I get a second chance?”  

“Fuck no. And even if I said yes, at this point, he probably threw it away.” 

“No one throws away compound V.” 

Butcher fixed him a serious look. “Homelander. No.” 

Homelander stares at him, shoulders tense, and then he fakes a smile, shrugging his shoulders, wiggling his butt against the other’s crotch. “Fine. I was just curious to see what you’d say.” 

Butcher lets out a breath and shifts his hips, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at the blonde.

This is definitely going to come back up later somehow.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” 

Later on in the evening the day after, Homelander was tucked into Butcher’s side eating a bowl of oatmeal the Brit had fixed for him earlier, hate-watching an episode of Friends when the ringtone of Butcher’s phone shattered the domestic moment.  

It was a text from Mallory, Butcher and Homelander both read it in a mutual silence. 

‘You can come and pick him up.’ 

Chapter Text

Five weeks earlier –   

On the peak of Vought tower, like any other frighteningly large building in the vicinity, there’s this roof with ventilation units situated on top of it, and there’s this rusty rail that stretches across the perimeter, and even behind the large logo.

The ground seemed a little rocky, grainy, as if someone would go around kicking their heel into it. 

Ryan tries not to assume who might’ve done that, but the first image that pops in his head is Homelander. 

Ryan was shivering by the time they landed on the roof, the Vought building is majestically tall, towering over everyone on ground level, you’d have to stretch your neck to get a good look at the top and even then, even then. 

Ryan clutches onto his father’s gloved hand, breathing in sharp as he looks around the plain of the roof, he doesn’t miss the splatter of dried blood a few yards away, as if someone had gotten really injured.

He turns his eyes back towards the view, peering over the ledge, there’s a sea of twinkling lights below, sirens and honks echoing in the distance. 

If this tower were to ever go down, it’d be devastating.

People would be trapped underneath rubble, blocks and blocks of ash would pour into different sections of the city, it would sit thick in their lungs, killing them slowly. 

“Are you cold?” Homelander asks, breaking the silence that lingered on between them, he releases his son’s hand and rubs at his back, eyebrows furrowed, his cape flowing, curtaining behind his back. 

He sounds legitimately concerned for him. 

Ryan doesn’t know what his facial expression was for him to warrant Homelander’s waning attempt at comfort, but he manages to soften his eyes, tilting his chin up.

“A little.” 

“We’ll go inside soon.” 

Ryan wraps his arms around himself, seeking warmth as he rubs his palms up and down his arms through the thin sleeves of his shirt.

He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the view ahead, face glimmering, a mix of awe and apprehension flickering in his gaze. 

“This isn’t all of New York, is it?”

Homelander steps next to him, drops his hands onto the ledge, posture straight, staring out at the city with a fixed expression, there was a specific aura emitting from him, one that Ryan hadn’t noticed the first couple of times they were together. 

It was as if he didn’t know how to make another move from this point on, he was just standing here beside him, waiting for something.

For what? Ryan does not know, not at this point anyway.

The only time they’d really talk was when Ryan doubted his powers, his strength.

He noticed this now, as he waited for an answer to a simple question, how Homelander seemed to be visibly overthinking it, his mouth twitching, several different answers ready to catapult.  

Ryan glances down at his shoes, notices the laces were coming loose. 

 “No.” For some reason Homelander chooses to settle for that, which would have been easy enough, and less awkward if he said it sooner. 

“There’s quieter parts.” Ryan tries. 

Homelander nods, or he just tilts his head down.

“I don’t think there’s ever a quiet part.” 

Ryan took a step to his left, moving in close to his father, either for warmth, or to check if this was actually happening, if this was real.

He still feels like a lost dog smothered in a wet cardboard box, a wandering dalmatian, even when Homelander came to pick him up when he felt at his lowest, and he’s feeling more than a little lonesome. 

Homelander welcomed the loss of space between them, glancing down at Ryan, his smile small and tight, Ryan was a second too late to see the unfathomable affection sheltered in the man’s eyes. 

It’s there, something is there, Homelander thinks. 

“Sometimes, I think noise is - good. It helps you to not feel like you’re completely alone.” Ryan’s voice sounds timid and light, but he doesn’t flinch at the sound, no matter how much it gives off how vulnerable he feels.

The lights of Manhattan were reflecting in his eyes as he spoke, fingernails digging into his skin, he pauses, and then sighs out, eyes darting from one illuminating building to the other. 

Homelander looks over at him, deeply pondering on why’d he say that, catching onto the tension riding on the boy’s shoulders. “Huh.” 

“I used to like the quiet.” Ryan murmurs, blinking, and he’s not really sure if he sounds reminiscent, or if there’s this trickle of uncertainty that he, himself, doesn’t hear - but Homelander seemed to ripple at that.  

“That’s not a surprise. It was all you were surrounded by, Ryan.” Homelander replies after a beat, sounding practical, and Ryan fights off the urge to groan out.  

Ryan shakes his head.

“It was a different quiet. Before, with my mom, and I liked it.” He looks down, bites the inside of his cheek, drawing invisible circles into the stone of the ledge, he sees Homelander do this weird, subtle face twitch at the mention of his mother.

Ryan wonders if it’s because he’s not mentioning her in a mourning way, not like earlier.

Which is easier for him. 

When there’s a reminder of the past, he always finds himself thinking back to her, and now he wants to share it with his dad.

That’s not a problem, right? 

It’s not like he could go to anyone else. 

But Ryan knows that before his mother’s death, his parents have been going through  – issues, however, being reminded of the quiet, of sharing the sweet, comfortable silence with his mother before everything came crashing down, it all just works for him. 

Now, he couldn’t stand any type of silence, it eats him up inside. 

And anyway, Ryan notices that Homelander hadn’t said anything to him yet, so he reluctantly continues.

“The quiet felt natural because I was raised in it, kind of. Then when it happened - when she died, and when Billy -“ 

“Ryan.” Homelander interrupts him, tapping his gloves on the ledge.

Unfortunately, he sounded like he didn’t know what to do with this information, and Ryan feels another lick of loneliness hit him, even if Homelander being at a loss wasn't intentional. 

But still, Ryan finds himself stiffening up and stammering shamefully over his words, attempting to get his point across the best way he could before he could get shut down by his own reprimanding, already on edge with sharing deep things –  considering how Butcher straight up shunned him the other day.

After their fall out, Ryan walked around feeling like he was a broken record that didn't spin properly.

“It felt - I mean, there was the quiet that didn’t feel - quiet - and it was more like a silent but loud noise that just -“

A gentle hand rests on the top of his head, Ryan’s shoulders draw up, and he forces himself not to flinch at the touch.

“Ryan. You don’t have to explain yourself.” 

Ryan lets out a breath, eyebrows furrowing. “Okay.” 

“I get it.” Homelander says, moving his hand from Ryan’s head, placing it back on the ledge, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Are you just saying that so you won’t hear me talk about it anymore?” Ryan forces out in the midst of his inner conflict, not being able to help himself from getting a touch defensive, he’s tired of being cut off.

Homelander fixes his eyes on him, looking taken aback, and Ryan is once again reminded how limited their conversations really were, and it’s buggering to him how he doesn’t know how to talk to Homelander. 

It’s a little frustrating because Ryan wants to, he needs to, if they were going to be each other’s rock then he needs to be reassured that one, he’s not being used, and two, that he wouldn’t be abandoned. 

Homelander told him that he wouldn’t leave him, but Ryan, despite not knowing how to talk to him, had enough nightmares that included the man harming him.

He wonders if Homelander knows that there’s a level of dubiety seething underneath the cracks of this weirdly timed reunion - yeah, no, he’s got to know. 

Ryan wants to fix it before he gets thrown into a lion’s den. 

Homelander stares at his kid with a telltale look, his head tilted slightly, brow knitted. Ryan wonders what he’s thinking right now, and he humorously wishes he could read minds, that’d be a cool power trait he’d enjoy inheriting.

“No, I’m saying I get it. I’ve been there before.” 

Ryan scrunches his face up at the gust of wind that whips at his face, they’re so high up in the air, standing on the roof of Vought, the cold that hugs at his body is almost unbearable.

There’s an urge to end the conversation there despite his inner pleading for a proper conversation with Homelander, so he does end it, or at least tries to. 

He sniffs as the cold makes his eyes water, and his facial expression is hard again, different emotions crashing against one another, his mind turned into an entire cluster fuck. “You can say that.” 

Homelander turns to him, blinking his eyes as he talks after a brief pause, sounding hilariously awkward, his hand forced.

“You seem bothered, Ryan. If it’s about your mother, then I’ll tell you again, it’s not your fault. It was an accident.”

Ryan was about to tell him to shut up, but he decides not to right as the words weigh down his tongue. “Yeah. I know, sure.” 

Homelander is unsure if he’ll ever be good at this. Playing a concerned dad with a distant kid. Woopty-fucking-woop.

“I thought we talked about -“ he stops himself from speaking when Ryan shakes his head, rocking side to side awkwardly, dipping his head down as he tries to gather his words.

Without that bitch Stormfront aiding him to really get vulnerable with Ryan, he feels like he’s in a stump, this may have nothing to do with powers, and that’s just - really annoying - what is he supposed to do? 

“I think there’s something troubling you. Still. You seem a little withdrawn. So do you want to talk about it or something?” Homelander says, sounding performative. 

Ryan parts his lips, considering, and then he closes his mouth, shaking his head again. 

Homelander sucks in a breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at himself for even thinking he could play the concerned parent part right.

Ryan shifts away from him and Homelander tries not to feel gutted, alright, okay. 

Well, he fucked that up.

“Why did you come back to me?” Ryan asks him after a beat, abruptly changing his mind on the decision to not share, he wants to jump off the roof at this point, do anything to not be under the heat of Homelander’s stare right now.

It’s a question that made him seem weaker than he thought it would.

His mom told him to never hold back his thoughts or feelings, but the idea of being a burden to everyone wasn’t exactly appealing.

What spawns in his head is never that simple; you can’t just say it aloud and sweep it away. 

Homelander fixes him a slightly confused look, brows knitting. “Because you’re my son.”

Ryan garners enough of his dignity to lift his eyes and stare right back at him, turning to face him, leaning his side against the ledge, clasping his hands together at his front.

He doesn’t know what comes over him -  maybe it’s years of being hidden away, or it’s just this need to hash things out with Homelander before he decides to fully let his guard down. 

One thing he does know is that he’s tired of being shut out, tired of allowing himself to gloss over things that had hurt him, acting as if he didn’t care.

“I thought I was a little shit to you.” 

There’s a pregnant silence that’s only filled with police sirens piercing throughout the city streets down below. 

“I didn’t mean that.”

Ryan swallows. “That’s nice to know, dad.” 

“I didn’t, Ryan.” Homelander says, voice firm. “I was angry, alright?”

Ryan blinks. “So you were mad at me.” 

“I’m not anymore.” Homelander feels like he’s being pinned down, he doesn’t know whether he should feel proud or threatened. 

“But you were.” Ryan points out meticulously, voice cracking. 

“I was.” 

“Okay.” 

Homelander shrugs his shoulders, suddenly befuddled.

“What do you -“ he laughs out in discomfort, scratching at his brow, feeling like he’s been peeled open, as embarrassing as that sounds considering Ryan is only a kid, “what do you want me to say, Ryan? I can’t control how I feel or what I say when I’m fucking angry -” 

“Tell me why you came back.” 

Homelander elicits a sound of mirth. “I just did -“

“And don’t lie to me.” It was the boldest Ryan had ever been with him, and yet Homelander hears his heart hammering in his chest, the slight waiver in his voice, the shiver continues up and down his little body. 

Homelander’s not sure if it’s from the cold or from adrenaline, but a little part of him is impressed.

Still, his worries are thrumming so he manages to ignore his extracurricular thoughts this time around, and he takes a step to him, eyes intent with a small hint of apprehension.

“It wasn’t right for me to not be able to see you, Ryan. You’re my son. I should be around you at all times.”

A pause. 

Ryan’s voice shakes, searching Homelander’s eyes for a hidden giveaway for what he wants to know, sounding starved, desperate.

“Did you even miss me?” 

“Ryan.” Homelander’s face drops as he takes another step towards him, kneeling down to his height, grappling at his shoulders, sounding incredulous that he even has to explain himself, he wonders what’s going through Ryan’s mind. “Of course I did. How could you even ask that?” 

“I had dreams you’d kill me.” Ryan mutters, shaking his head, looking away. “I thought -” Butcher was the only person I had left. Ryan doesn’t finish with that, even though it’s prodding at his teeth, ready to be blurted. “I thought you hated me for leaving with Butcher.” 

“I’d never hate you Ryan.” Homelander says. 

Ryan snorts. “Easier said.”

Homelander’s grip tightens on him, forcing Ryan to flinch and meet his eyes.

“Ryan. You are all I have left to live for.” 

That makes Ryan stumble backwards despite the vice grip on his shoulders, eyes widening slightly, breath catching in his throat. “But -“ 

“If I lost you, I’d be done. You keep me intact.” Homelander says, staring at him intently. “You’re always going to have me. I promise.” 

Ryan’s eyes skitter all over his face, bottom lip quivering as he registers those words, eyes going glassy.

“You’re the only one I have left,” and he hates how he sounds when he says that, his voice wobbling, he feels so cold, and the way Homelander reacts to that makes him want to eat his words, staple his mouth closed. 

“Ryan -” Homelander starts, hesitant. 

Ryan doesn’t want to hear whatever he’d have to say, unable to settle the churn in his stomach that triggered from the look on his dad’s face.

So, before he could ruin it, Ryan shuts him up and steps forward as Homelander loosens his grip on his shoulders, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck, giving him another hug.

Homelander seemed to tense up as Ryan buried his face into the crevice of his suit collar.

“I love you dad,” he murmurs as Homelander awkwardly wraps his arms around him, eyes closing tight. 

“I love you too, son.” Homelander felt odd, and split into two.

When he responded he sounded stiff, noticeably uncomfortable, out of character, but it was still honest.

Ryan convinced himself that he’s just bad at expressing himself, knowing in his gut that he meant well though. 

After a moment, they pulled away from each other, Ryan continuing to shiver from the cold as Homelander studied him for some time before he finally picked him up, placing the boy on his hip.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” 

He gets a head nod in response, feeling the boy shiver, teeth chattering while clutching onto him, ducking his head down as Homelander takes off. 

Ten minutes later, Ryan was staring at the sand colored floor tiles, the shadow of his legs as he walked, his hand slotted with his father’s.

The gloves Homelander’s wearing feels rubbery, creaking awkwardly as they wrap and squeeze around his hand.

Ryan doesn’t really mind it, but he might prefer holding his dad’s actual hand, feeling as if the gloves were another blockage built between their budding bond. 

Maybe he’d mention it later if he remembers. 

Right now, he just wants to take a long nap. 

The flight from Mallory’s house to Vought Tower was taxing because his father was flying strangely slow, languid, and plus he was warm, which was a great contrast to the cold that lashed at his skin, so he ended up nodding off while his head was resting on Homelander’s shoulder. 

There’s voices he didn’t care to listen to, finding himself being occupied with rubbing his heavy lidded eyes, gaze focused on the waxed floors, the yellowish hue of lights reflecting off of them.

Ryan hears the clicks of heels rush to keep up with them, white bell bottom pants, he flickers his eyes over and up, blinking sleepily at the familiar figure – artificial red hair flowing down to the woman’s shoulders, lipstick, racing heart, a fearful waiver in her voice. 

The voices drone out. 

Ryan narrows his eyes and furrows his eyebrows, recognizing the figure after a moment of analyzing the anxiousness that ebbs off of her.

“Ms. Ashley?”

Ashley pauses as she catches Ryan’s eye, her face lighting up as she slows down to walk beside him, lowering herself down to his height with a huge smile on her face.

“Hi Ryan, my goodness, you’ve gotten taller the last time I saw you.” 

“Hi.” Ryan grins up at her toothily, feeling genuinely flattered. “Thank you.” 

Homelander levels Ashley over with a stony look in his eyes, squeezes his son’s hand, pulls him in close.  

The anxiousness returns in Ashley’s voice as she looks up at Homelander for a split second, then back down at Ryan who tilts his head at her innocently, reading her expression. “I mean of course you’d grow - especially considering how tall your father is - you’re his son after all.” 

Ryan's grin softens, he nods his head at her.

It was nice to see Ashley again.

But - 

A part of Ryan just hopes that he won’t spend the whole evening with her again, his father going out to do something that’ll take him hours, leaving Ryan alone with his thoughts. 

The first time he was here, he thought about his mother and what he said to her, how he treated her before running off with his dad and that weird, creepy white-geno-whatever lady.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to sit through that again, he couldn’t bear to think about his mom, and he definitely didn’t want to think about Butcher. 

Especially now that he’s with his dad. 

Ryan doesn’t say anything more to Ashley as her attention returns back to his father.

He lowered his eyes back down on the floor tiles, his now untied shoelaces bouncing and flapping with each step he took, zeroing everything that was happening out – including the conversation she was having with Homelander. 

Ashley left by the time they made it to the elevator, the clicks of her heels hitting the floor drawing farther and farther away. 

As they come to a stop, Ryan is stuck wondering what they were talking about.

From the corner of his eye, he could see his dad press the elevator button with a fat, red gloved finger, the arrow facing up glowing from bottom to top with a soft ringing sound. 

Ryan rubs his stomach as it grumbles, quietly looking around at the staff that passed by them, their heads down, keeping their distance. “Dad?”

Ryan notices Homelander flinch when he calls out for him, blinking his eyes rapidly before he eventually turns his head down, looking at him with a raised brow.

That was odd.

Ryan decides that it would be best to ask him if he was okay instead of wondering if they’re going to eat any snacks or food when they get up to his penthouse, a little put off with how quiet Homelander’s been for the time being. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Ryan.” 

Ryan frowns, unsure if he should pry, and he spends the next ten seconds mulling on it before Homelander sighs out. “I just need to tell you something.”

That’s concerning. 

A light zings through the slip of the elevator doors before they slip open, it was then where Ryan finally notes how Homelander could’ve just flown both of them up into his penthouse, they must’ve taken an elevator for a reason.

His frown deepens as he bites his bottom lip, letting go of his dad’s hand, apprehensively stepping inside of the elevator while Homelander keeps the door open for him, following him shortly afterwards, looking slightly distraught. 

The doors close. 

Ryan couldn’t help but notice how Homelander’s posture is lined ruler straight as he grasps his hand again, it always is, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

It’s as if he’s unsure of something, anxious even. 

Ryan wonders if he’s thinking about their conversation on the rooftop, and as much as he tells himself not to ask, he couldn’t help drain the dozens of questions ready to drip out.  

As Homelander presses the numbered button of his floor level, Ryan looks up at him skeptically, eyebrows furrowed.

“What’s going on, dad?”

“I don’t know for sure.” Homelander answers stiffly, blinking every ten seconds, eyes staring straight at the doors. “We’re going to meet someone really important.”

Oh - even stranger. 

Soft rings resonate off the walls of the elevator with each floor they pass by. 

Ryan studies him closely, becoming more and more unsettled by the swift change in his father’s demeanor compared to when he picked him up from Mallory’s place earlier, squeezing his hand encouragingly.

“Who?” 

Homelander clears his throat, regathering himself. “Your grandfather.” 

Ryan feels the world tilt on its axis, he ends up staggering back a bit, exhaustion, hunger, and surprise all crashing down on him at once, if he hadn’t been holding Homelander’s hand he probably would have fell backwards.

 “I - I have a grandfather? Are you sure? I thought - mom or Billy never mentioned -”

Homelander clears his throat, regathering himself, again, sorta.

“I just found out. Your mom didn’t know, and William? Tsk.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. 

Ryan opens and closes his mouth, feeling a little lost. Shouldn’t he be thrilled at this, of having an extended family of some sort? His dad, strangely, didn’t seem too thrilled at the idea of meeting him, but it was hard to tell, he looks distressed as if he knows what he might be potentially in for. 

Ryan wonders if he met him already. 

“Oh,” he just breathes out, finding himself staring straight ahead too, a knot forming in his empty stomach, Homelander draws in a deep breath beside him. 

“Aren’t you - excited?” Homelander queries as Ryan breathes in sharp, his voice dropping low as he punches the word ‘excited’ out from the depths of his soul. 

“Are you?” He couldn’t help but counter. 

Homelander blinks his eyes at the flashing numbers. “Why wouldn’t I be? We might actually become a family if things go as planned.” 

Ryan gives him a sideways glance. “If things go as planned? What happens if they don’t go as planned?”

“Mmm,” he hums, Ryan feels his father’s grip loosen on his hand once the elevator ride comes to an end, he feels it slow to a soft stop, the final ring echoing into his ears. “Let’s get you something to eat. We’ll talk later.” 

It sounds like he was convincing himself more than he was reassuring Ryan. 

Ryan was dragged out of his dreamlike flashback, opening his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and then exhaling, falling back asleep, nuzzling his face into the drool stained pillow.

The reminders of what was to come with Soldier Boy came more vivid the longer he found himself traced back into that realm, the haze of sleep wrapping him in an invisible cocoon.

Homelander’s absent stare, the tension weighing in his shoulders, it plays with his heart, his mind, he should’ve been more perceptive. 

Fuck. 

It’s impossible for him to not assume that if he prodded his father’s leering anxiety with meeting grandad more, he would’ve prevented everything from happening, people from dying. 

As someone with superpowers, if he sensed something off, he should have tried everything in his power to prevent an atrocity, right? 

“You get comfortable and warm. I’ll order some take out for you.” Was the last thing Homelander said to him before disappearing into what looked like an office area. 

Ryan kicked his shoes off, rubbed at one eye, blinking around using his other one.

His dad's place was weird. Ryan glanced up at the portraits, a chill running down his spine. 

Really weird. 

He’s never been inside of the apartment, not until now. 

At least the hue of it was comforting somewhat, soft lights placed here and there, a golden filter blanketing the room, Ryan hasn’t looked into home interiors, but this one seemed like a mix of modern and traditional America.

Everywhere he turned he was a splash of patriotic architecture, American freedom, and it sort of made Ryan begin to question his choices leading up to this moment.  

After Ryan had set his shoes down by the door, he let his fingertips brush along the columns mounted by the entrance, he’s never touched one before, he’s seen pictures of the columns at Washington, d.c. and he expected for them to feel as solid as stone.

This one felt - weird - artificial yet hardened enough to be a stable piece, and there wasn’t just one, every corner anyone would have to cut by there was a column placed from floor to ceiling.

 Ryan flicked at the column with a gentle pluck, sizing it up before he pads out into the living room, socks slipping along the brown wooden floors, he looks around with building curiosity at the statutes scattered around the place. 

He studies one of the statues carefully, rubbing his stomach in small circles, gaze roaming across the room, gazing over at the flag perched up on the wall behind a couch. 

Ryan hums, tilting his head at it, unsure of what to make of that. He’s seen the flag out in front of federal buildings, and it’s optional to have a flag in your front yard or something, but having one mounted up on the wall seemed a little – 

Whatever his dad likes, whatever his dad likes.

Ryan’s eyes flicker around until they land on a bookcase. 

Does Homelander even read books?

Ryan tilts his head as he approaches the bookcase, coming to a stop in front of it, reaching down to grab a book off of a lower shelf, he holds it in his hands and rubs his thumb along the faded cover.

It was hard to tell what it was, it seemed as if the books were stolen or borrowed from multiple museums across the globe, he finds himself curiously flipping through the pages — 

The writing in it was sketchy, old-timey, similar to Shakespeare.

Ryan is certain that he's reading the original copy of the U.S. constitution, but he gets bored of it rather quickly, shutting the book closed, a spell of dust clouding once he shut it, slotting the book back into the shelf alongside the others that had donned the same faded, dusty brown cover.  

Homelander doesn’t really seem like a guy that would sit down and read through the U.S. constitution, but that’s coming from how Ryan already views him. He doesn’t think Homelander is the type to read anything, actually. 

Ryan walks towards the bedroom, looking around, wide eyed. 

The walls are adorned with portraits of America's founding father, George Washington, and other historical figures.

Ryan feels their eyes on him as he takes in the sight, he shivers and turns his eyes away from the portraits.

The centerpiece of the room is a large, ornate fireplace that provides both warmth and an intentional sense of old-world charm.

Above the fireplace hangs a portrait of British men surrendering to George Washington, a nod to America's victory in the Revolutionary War.

Ryan raises a curious brow at it. 

The side of the room is well-lit by three strip lights that run up and down the floor-to-ceiling mirror, splitting it into three parts.

The lighting highlights the room's high-end features, which includes a large king-size bed with plush linens and a leather ottoman at the foot of the bed. 

Ryan moved his fingertips along the sheets, humming in approval, he couldn’t lie to himself, it seemed like a comfortable room to nap in, especially if he ignored the unsettling portraits of historical figures situated on the navy blue walls. 

Wait. 

Ryan blinks as he notices a movement from the sharp corner of his gaze, he takes a step back and draws in a panicked breath as he looks up, flinching when he sees his reflection staring back at him. 

As if the portraits weren’t enough, he sees a large, rectangular mirror mounted on the ceiling directly above the bed.

What the fuck, dad. 

Ryan blows out an awkward breath that makes his cheeks puff, averting his eyes elsewhere. 

As he passes by what he would call the office area, considering that’s where Homelander was, being completely distracted on the phone regarding ordering Ryan’s takeout food, passing through a couple of corners, Ryan manages to find something resembling a staircase that leads up to the second floor.

The actual staircase was nowhere to be seen, possibly due to Homelander being able to fly any time he wants. 

Ryan personally believes flying up just takes more energy from you, but he wouldn’t know, he hasn’t been able to succeed in taking off yet. 

He makes his way up the narrow steps, hand trailing along the smooth, polished wood of the railing, it becomes more and more obvious that this was barely put in use by his father. 

It’s probably why the staircase didn’t seem to be fully installed, the area where the staircase should be is sort of lopsided in itself, the boy finds himself staring at an incomplete structure, as if it were still under construction.

Some of the steps are missing, not enough were gone to a point where it’d be completely impossible to get up there, and the railing only covers a small section of the wall.

It seems as though the staircase was never meant to be finished. 

Homelander can fly, so of course his abilities render it unnecessary, but Ryan still feels a little funny about it.

It's as if the staircase was simply a formality, a nod to traditional architecture that Homelander didn't care for the designers to fully implement. 

The empty space where an actual staircase should be feels eerie and incomplete, like a gaping hole in the floor; he wonders if Homelander ever tried to put them in use but just decided to give up, thinking it would take up too much of his time and energy. 

Ryan huffs and looks over his shoulder towards the occupied office space, then back up, continuing his expedition to the second floor without pausing for another thought. 

Dad did say I can get comfortable.

There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to go up to the second floor, there’s no yellow tape or glaring warning sign signaling him to turn around and walk away.

Perhaps there was a guest room he could find and possibly transform into a room of his own.

It would really solidify his place here, let him know that this is real, and he’d be able to depend on his father without a looming cloud of doubt following him. 

Seeds of abandonment issues were planted inside of him, rooting into his brain, snagging onto his soul, and he doesn’t know when or if he’d ever address it.

Ryan knows that it stems from killing his mother, but he’s lost to how these feelings layered and mounted on itself. 

How does one discomfort pull in another? 

Ryan shakes his head.

Moving away from the weirdly constructed case of stairs, Ryan looks around at the large, open space, curiously peering out at the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the city below. 

The walls upstairs are also aligned with various pieces of centuries old art, ranging from abstract paintings to large sculptures, a glass balcony snakes through the upstairs, Ryan moves away from the windows and drags his fingertips along the glass.

There are a few pieces of traditional furniture scattered throughout the space, but it is largely empty, giving the impression that it is more of a showpiece than a functional living area. 

Ryan doesn’t know what to make of that. This penthouse seems like one of those movie sets other than a home qualified for someone to live in.

Butcher told Ryan a little more about what Vought is, how it’s similar to Disney, Apple, and all of the other ridiculously stacked companies.

They have a reputation, sort of.

Ryan knows from a certain standpoint that his dad, and his friends, the Seven - are kind of like brands, sort of like how there’s different soda brands, candies, cereals, and etcetera. 

When he tries to indulge in why that is, he couldn’t really conjure up a good breakdown, but he honestly thinks it’s strange and something that would work more in a theater establishment rather than implementing it in everyday life.

He never wanted to get an inside scoop but Butcher had just brought it up and it’s starting to stick with Ryan now that he’s exploring his father’s — unique — apartment. 

As Ryan wanders through the hall, he notices a door tucked away in the corner, the knob a shiny gold, looking barely touched. He raises a brow at it. 

Curiosity getting the better of him, he walks over to the door, socks sliding along the floors as he moves, twisting the knob in his hand, pushing it open and stepping inside with squinted eyes. 

The room is dimly lit, earth colored curtains draw down to the floors, and Ryan has to strain his eyes to make out the details.

There were lamps stuck in each corner, flickered on, giving the room a soft glow. 

It seemed drastically different from the main bedroom downstairs, and Ryan was surprised once his vision adjusted.

He comes to realize that this is Homelander's other bedroom, it probably wasn’t claimed as a guest room, what really stood out to him was how it looked nothing like the opulent space he had seen downstairs. 

The room is bare and sparsely furnished, with only a bed and a small table in one corner.

Like the other rooms, the walls are painted in a deep shade of navy blue, yet with little to no portraits of dead presidents and insane historical events documented in regal paintings.

There were no mirrors on the ceilings either. 

Thank goodness.

He’s had enough of the creeps.

However, despite the lack of uncanny decorations, Ryan notices that there is this large, crimson red plush rug in the center of the room as if the intention was for the room to be included in the overall theme of the penthouse. 

As Ryan lingered curiously by the door, looking around the bedroom skeptically, he took some time to study how different and alienated this room was from the others.

It doesn’t make sense to him, and he’s stuck wondering why this room hasn't gotten the same patriotic treatment as the others. 

Was his dad lazy? Absolutely not. 

Ryan honestly thinks he’s one of the hardest working men ever, right next to Butcher.

He probably just doesn’t like this room. 

Ryan shrugs to himself, biting his bottom lip, flickering his eyes about, unsure of his impression on this room.

He likes it better than Homelander’s main bedroom with the freaky mirror and the haunted portraits.

It could be a good room for him.

It’s spacious, there’s not much furniture so it wouldn’t make it impossible to fit his stuff in, he could build one of his large blanket forts using whatever pieces that lie around plus his own possessions he could move in.

Ryan grins, nodding his head as he imagined the layout. This could really work. All he’d have to do is ask Homelander if he could have this room and turn it into his own.

 It shouldn’t be much of an issue, but he wants to make sure he isn’t overstepping. 

Before he turned around to go back to Homelander, something caught his eye. Against one wall, there is a king-sized bed with white linens, and at the foot of the bed, there is a chest of drawers made from dark, polished wood.

Drawers, huh?

Ryan approaches it inquisitively, wondering if this is where Dad buried all of his suit equipment, he pulls open the top drawer and lets his eyes study what’s in it, his gaze ultimately falling onto a crumpled, baby blue blanket. 

What’s this doing here?

Frowning at the discovery, he picks the blanket up, holding it between his index and thumb finger, staring at it attentively. 

It’s definitely a baby blanket. 

Portraits, mirror, and a baby blanket — alright, dad. 

Ryan blinks his eyes and tilts his head, rubbing his fingers into the soft fuzz. 

It feels nice, warm. 

Ryan adjusts his hold on it, letting the worn but cozy fabric drape off of his arm. He feels a fluttery feeling lighting up in his stomach, eyeing it fondly, suddenly being drawn to it as if there was an invisible pull tugging him in. 

The blanket sitting in his arms doesn’t help kick away the fatigue already settled into his body, if anything it makes his head buzz with this comforting warmth, and he wraps it around himself, letting it drape over his shoulders as he sighs out, relishing the warmth it stirred in his stomach. He doesn’t know why Homelander has a blanket in his possessions, or even why he had this room actually, it’s a different atmosphere from what the rest of the penthouse tries to convey. 

Should he ask him about it?

It’s not like Ryan minds, his interest is piqued, and he feels the tension that’s instilled towards his father dissipate even more. Also, he wants to move into it. Make it his own. 

A yawn crawls out of Ryan’s throat before he could even stop it, and he finds himself snuggling the blanket close to him, it’s fuzz tickling at his neck.

He continued to peer back into the drawers, closing the top one and pulling out the second one, carefully skimming his eyes over the contents, eyebrows furrowing. “Huh?”

There were two sets of light blue clothes, neatly folded.

A pants and shirt, similar to the color of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, light blue, evidently worn, a couple of stains, and rips spotted at the corners.  

It’s not even close to Homelander’s current wardrobe. 

Ryan blinks at it, beginning to reach out to grab at the shirt —

“Ryan?”

“Ah!” Ryan yelped out, jumping so hard, he hit his elbow against the dresser, hissing out sharply as he grabbed it, the blanket falling from his shoulders to the floor. 

Homelander approaches him slowly, his eyes flickering down at the blanket, then back up at Ryan and his elbow. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, I - I was just looking around and I found this room. I didn’t know if anyone was supposed to go in it, I thought it looked cool. I mean, I was wondering if when I’d move in - or if I stayed - I’d like -” Ryan’s words start mashing together as he frantically rambles out, feeling the need to apologize over snooping too much due to the way Homelander’s intent gaze was examining him, he looks up at him with repentant eyes, backing up a little. 

“Slow down.” Homelander advised him, seemingly caught off guard considering the traces of bemusement in his voice, his eyes were open, more opened than Ryan had ever seen them, and his voice was soft, reassuring as he adds. “It’s fine. No one was meant to come up here other than me. How did you get up here?” 

“There was a weird staircase I followed.”

“Oh.” Homelander musters up after a five-second-too-long silence. 

Ryan bent down to pick up the blanket, holding it close to his chest, unnerved at how intense Homelander’s eyes are as they follow his movements. “Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. You said make yourself comfortable, so I just -” God, please don’t send me away.

“It’s fine.” Homelander repeats in a soft tone before Ryan could start up on his rambling again, blank-faced. “Can I see that?”

“Sure, yeah, sorry.” Ryan couldn’t help but to apologize again, handing the blanket over, eyes darting up and down from Homelander’s facial expression to the blanket crumpled in his hands. 

Homelander holds it up to his face as if he were going to smell it, closing his eyes for a few seconds, and then he straightens his posture again, handing the blanket back to Ryan.

It was a silent message Ryan isn’t entirely sure he gets, but he takes the blanket, and watches as Homelander releases some type of pent up exhale. 

Ryan frowns. “Dad?”

Homelander points at it. “Keep it.” 

“But it’s yours, it was in this room.” 

Homelander studies his son for a moment, then he places his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out, the softness that was once there had disappeared without a trace as he flicks his eyes around the room. “You want this room, you can have it. I’ll call someone to clean it up for you. Move some things out.” 

Ryan’s eyebrows twitch together, hearing the faint disgust in his voice as he says ‘move some things out’ and it causes his tongue to tie, words dying out.

He had a lot of questions to ask, but his dad was obviously put off by even being in this room, his nose was slightly scrunched up as if the air was putrid, his gloves were digging into his hips, and he had that signature look of discomfort.

 So, knowing how much Homelander wants to get out of here, Ryan remains resigned, folding the blanket up to his chest. “Okay. Thanks.” 

Homelander nods his head, grabs his hand, and gently pulls him forward. “Come on, I want to show you something before your food gets here.” 

Solid Gold. 

Ryan makes a questionable sound as he plops down on the couch, setting the blanket aside near the armrest, staring up at the television as the Solid Gold intro flashes on, different artists being presented, their names or their band names popping up below.

“What’s this?”

“Just something I dug up.” Homelander responds as they introduce their ‘special guest,’ he clears his throat and turns up the volume despite both of them having super hearing, sitting down next to his son, legs crossing over the other as he sinks into the cushion.

Ryan shifts as he sees Soldier Boy on the screen, mic in hand, doing a sloppy rendition of a song he’s pretty sure was released in the eighties. 

Soldier Boy bounces from topic to topic as he raps, going from how flash is fast and cool, how someone would get in a car, and drive real far yada-yada, Ryan ogles the screen, ultimately losing his train of thought by the time they’re halfway through the music video. 

He looks over at his dad as Soldier Boy continues to ramble on about a man from Mars eating cars, examining the awed expression on the man’s face, and funnily enough there’s a touch of confusion settling into his features too. 

Thankfully Ryan wasn’t the only one lost here. 

Soldier Boy has an aura, a displeasing one.

Ryan couldn’t put a finger on why, but there’s a darkness in the man’s eyes as he looks at the camera, his smile coming off as soulless. 

Sure it's a little humouring considering the video context, but Ryan couldn't shake the ominous cloud that loomed over him.

Perhaps he’s looking too deep into it, too deep into him, but he’s been through a lot of shit with random ‘important’ people just suddenly spawning into his life and he’s not sure if he could be trusting with someone who raps like - that. 

They sat in complete silence once it was over, Homelander had been gnawing on his bottom lip before he eventually looked over to see his reaction, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

In all seriousness, Ryan has a bad feeling about him, but he doesn’t express that aloud, instead he asks a question that pooped up in his head earlier. “Did you meet him already?”

“Yes.” Homelander mutters after a beat, a frown forming on his face, he looks like he was assessing something, Ryan becomes even more withdrawn from the idea of a potential meeting simply due to his father’s reaction. 

So, that sort of changes everything. 

Tension laces Ryan’s voice, his eyes staring down at his hands. “Is he nice?”

“I - he -” Homelander fails to begin, clearing his throat, he starts over. “I think he could be. Once he sees us, he might be welcoming. When he called me, he sounded approachable.” 

Ryan stares at him, at a loss for words. That’s the first time he’s seen him stammer.  

Homelander blinks, opening and closing his mouth, visibly searching for something to say, to wipe that look of distrust off of Ryan’s face. None come. Instead, he changes the subject. “Want to learn flying?”

Ryan is a little taken aback by the veering conversation, and there’s a note of apprehension in his voice as he squints at him. “Sure?”

"Okay, Ryan, the first thing you need to do before you take off is focus," Homelander said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "You’d need to close your eyes and breathe. Feel the wind on your skin, the sun on your face, and the power inside of you."

The feel of Homelander’s hand on his back made him feel more content than last time, it gave him warmth with no lingering anxiousness or fear, it felt comforting, reassuring.

It’s a much needed relief compared to the tension they’ve been rolling in since they arrived back at the tower, he wasn’t sure if Homelander had felt it too.  

"Now, if we were outside, you’d open your eyes and look at the horizon," Homelander continued as Ryan fluttered his eyes back open, pointing out his window towards the skyline. "Focus on a point, a place where you want to go, and visualize yourself getting there. See it in your mind, feel it in your stomach, and then take off."

Ryan let his eyes roam, turning his head and staring out at the city skyline from where he stood. He picked a point in the distance, a tall building with a spire, and focused all of his attention on it. If he ever decided to fly out of here, that would be his destination, the building’s lights glimmering in the warm scenery of the sunset.  

“That one?”

“Yes.”

Homelander hums and squeezes his shoulder, smiling at Ryan’s determination. “Our long term goal is to get you to fly there and back without any trouble. Does that sound good?” 

Ryan looks from the building and beams up at the man, looking forward to actually spending time with him, even if it involves them training his powers all day, he wouldn’t care because one way or another, Homelander would open up more and more.

They’d actually have a relationship.

Plus, at least he’d actually be acknowledging something that pumps in his blood instead of shunning it away and being angry at himself, at his mom, at Butcher. 

He smiles up at him. “Yeah. That sounds amazing, dad.”

Homelander suddenly became quiet for a moment, staring into space until Ryan eventually shifts, grabbing his arm and giving it a curious tug. He looks down at his son with a sentimental glint in his eyes, smiling awkwardly at him before his fond expression drops into the determined look Ryan is used to seeing, removing his hand from his shoulder. “Let’s try to simply float up in the air.” 

“Now?” Ryan’s face drops as he asks as he looks up at him, not trusting himself to follow instructions to the best degree. “Is there any warm ups or do I just -”

Maybe he sounded a little too squeamish because Homelander stares at him with a questioning stare, his lips set in a straight line. “No. Ryan, it’s not yoga. You just fly.”

Ryan clenches his jaw as he cringes inwardly at himself, blinking and nods his head, taking a step back from him. “Oh, sure. Okay.” 

That came out harsher than Homelander intended it to, he reaches out to pat his back apologetically, and stands back, scolding himself for making Ryan flustered. “But. Warming up might help you. I never tried it when I was learning. If you think it can help you, then we can go for a walk. Stretch your legs.”

“Okay.” 

It was after they took a walk around the tower, hours before grandpa showed up with Butcher and his friends, Ryan remembers how he kept jumping up in the air, attempting to fly, his muscles straining as he sprung up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Homelander strolls back and forth, watching him in this unnerving lapse of silence each time he hops, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, underneath his flowing cape.  

Ryan sounded breathless by the time he came down after the dozenth jump, his knees buckling a little before he caught himself from falling, exhaustion settling into his bones again, as he pants he realized he never got to take his nap.

“Dad - I’m sorry, I don’t think I can -”

Homelander cuts him off before he could continue, unfolding his hands from behind his back, and despite his intimidating sauntering, Ryan hadn’t expected for him to sound gentle and encouraging. “If you say you can’t do it, then you never will.” 

 “I’m sorry, dad, I - I can’t -” he stammered, embarrassed. 

Homelander stared at him intensely, and at first Ryan once again had thought that he was furious at him again, that he was going to verbally beat him down and abandon him just like Butcher did, but instead, Homelander’s expression just softens and he just sighs out, lowering himself down to his son’s level. 

Homelander looked at him differently, his eyes reflected a more fond, sorry, attentive and less calculated gaze than Ryan could ever remember him having. “You’re so much like me.” 

Ryan blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing as he tries his best to understand. “Dad?”

“Remember what I told you about the doctors? I had to teach myself to fly.” Homelander carries a distant look in his eyes that Ryan has never seen from him before. “It should involve relaxing, letting go, but for me, it’s just fucking gunning for it. I still gun for it whenever I have to fly, actually. I could never relax. Not when I — not at the moment I needed to.” 

“Gunning for it?” Ryan blinks at him, quizzical. 

Homelander nods. “Yeah.” 

“Dad, if I can’t relax -” Ryan frowns as he searches for words, twisting his fingers anxiously as he weighs the options suggested. “Do you want me to gun for it too?”

“No.” Homelander answers him firmly, the answer was fast, swift to a point where Ryan had almost flinched from it. “I had no other choice but to gun for it.” 

Ryan was tempted to pry, he couldn’t help himself. “Why?”

He doesn’t know if his dad was being honest or if he was trying to scare him, or both, but his response ran so deep it made Ryan shiver, take a step back from him, his skin feeling prickly. Homelander just sounded so believable. “They would’ve punished me.” 

“The doctors?” Ryan blinks, registering that information, holding himself. Homelander looks down at his gloves, he doesn’t answer his question, Ryan never understood why he didn’t, but it only made what he said more believable. “I thought - aren’t they supposed to -” 

Homelander looks back up from his gloves and cuts him off, his voice thick. “My point is, Ryan, I don’t want you worrying about not having this flying shit down. It seems impossible, but I believe it’ll come to you. You’re special, and you’ll get it, and you will be better than me by the time you get it. After we meet your grandpa, we’ll teach each other how to fly.”

Ryan visibly relaxes as Homelander talks to him, the kind words, praises, and promises making the corners of his lips twitch upwards until he’s beaming, eyes lighting up.

“Really? Do you really think I can do it?” 

Homelander grins back at him, a small one that still showed his fangs, and in Ryan’s eyes, the smile seemed genuine, real, which was unique and reassuring.

Ryan hasn’t seen him this vulnerable before, and perhaps he was reminiscing differently considering how both of them almost died hours later, his perspective on this moment was probably a little screwy, but it felt good to flashback to. 

It felt good to hear his father say. “I know you can do it.” 

Everything blacks out. 

Ryan's eyes slowly open to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream ringing in his ears. 

He gasps for air, inhaling sharply as he blinks, lungs filling with smoke, the acrid smell of smoke and the gritty taste of ash fill his mouth and nose, making it hard for him to breathe.

Ryan was coughing violently as he struggled to push himself up from beneath a solid weight pinning him down, feeling a pair of arms wrapped around his torso, the person’s grip loose on him. 

He could barely fucking see, rocks were falling from somewhere above him, hitting at his face before he could cover it, causing him to yelp and wither underneath the body.

He continues to pant out as panic crashes onto him, wincing as he moves his arm, shifting his hands up to the chest of whoever laid on top of him, ash continuously building up in the back of his throat as he breathes in. 

Ryan strains, exhausted, attempting to push the man off of him, he coughs and coughs, tears prodding at his eyes as he does, chest hurting, arms aching. 

“Dad,” he struggles to get out in a gravelly voice, body trembling underneath the weight protecting him from a large boulder looming above, vision still a touch out of focus. 

Did he hit his head? 

Ryan groans, his back aching, coughing more and more. He blinks up at the man above him, attempting to use his x-ray, the darkness surrounding him was beginning to really fuck with him amongst everything else. “Dad?”

What the fuck happened? 

There’s a sliver of light peeking out at him to his left, Ryan is forced to shove the body off of him with newfound strength, survival instincts beginning to dawn on him, he makes a break for it, crawling towards the glimmer of  light, his mind is foggy with frustration, confusion, and fear.

Ryan was disoriented, he knew he was, he’s seeing two things at once, anxiety warping his mind, and in his panic, he's calling out for his dad, for Butcher.  

The sharp objects poking at his skin add to his terror, he’s bleeding through his shirt, no doubt. With every jerky movement he makes, his injuries scream out in protest, combining with his healing powers that were battling against them, it’s the worst feeling he’s ever had to face in his life.

Discomfort ripples throughout his body, and he has to take breaks from crawling, tears pricking at the brim of his eyes.

He feels his ankle pop back into place, and while the pain recedes slightly, it's quickly replaced with a new ache. 

Ryan struggles to catch his breath, coughing and wheezing as he claws at the debris around him, shoving his hand through the opening, waving his hand about, pushing forward.

"Help me," he cries out again, his voice shaky and desperate.

So far he could only hear the sound of falling rocks, strangers screaming, and his own labored breathing. 

For a nightmarish moment, he feels utterly alone and helpless, whimpering out another shaky plea for help, the weight of the boulder crushing down on him.

Realization has yet to crash down on him, but he knows that he’s in some deep trouble. 

Ryan regains his strength after a minute of lying there in the rubble, heaving and coughing, fighting the urge to just close his eyes and succumb to the invisible force bribing him to give up.

He shifts back up onto his forearm and knee, making sure he’s curled down due to the lack of space he has, balling his fists up, and punching through the opening with as much power and adrenaline he could possibly manage, blasting an entire wall of debris away.

Ryan would be amazed at what he’s done if he wasn’t so determined to get the fuck out of there, as soon as he got the chance to leave, he grabbed it, crawling out from the hole he was stuck in, standing up on unbalanced feet, breathing fast as he looks around. 

Holy shit. 

Ryan stumbles back with a frightened yelp as he takes in the destruction surrounding him, sheer horror blanketing his face, skin pale, eyes blown wide.

Everything was destroyed. The tower was gone. Dust and thick clouds of ash blanketing the area. 

Ryan’s eyes land on a mutilated body a few feet away and he has to whip his head away from it, turning his entire body away from the sight, stumbling forward as he gasps out sharply, clutching at his chest as he hyperventilates, eyes almost falling from his skull. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The back of Ryan’s throat closes up, he drops down to his knees, cold sweat blanketing his skin, forehead. 

The man’s arm was shredded, his body smashed under large rocks and glass shards. 

Another one was decapitated, 

And then there was another body –

Ryan’s up on his feet again, stumbling back as he blinks harshly, breaths coming in and out faster than he could manage. 

Upon witnessing the sight, he finds himself thrown back in the woods into his past self, Stormfront’s body in front of him, burnt to a crisp, the smell of her blood, he had nightmares about her body for weeks, waking up screaming and clawing at his eyes in a cold sweat.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes out shakily, a trembling hand fisting into his shirt as his chest tightens, violent waves of anxiety rocking through him. 

Ryan could not feel his legs, and his mind is stalling as shock nails itself into his stomach, he ends up gagging due to how hard he’s breathing, and he doubles over to wretch, but nothing comes up, not the food he ate earlier, nothing.

Tears roll down his cheeks as the destruction permanently mends itself into his mind, he’s absolutely horrified at what he’s seeing, blood running ice cold in his veins. “Oh God.” 

The tower fell. 

“Dad?” Ryan calls out with a shaky voice he couldn’t recognize was his own.

He was still holding his tightening chest, taking a step towards the barricade of wreckage he had crawled out of, he blinked once, twice, and then he successfully activated the x-ray vision he inherited. “Dad, where are you?” 

He darts his eyes around wearily.

There. 

Oh no.

Ryan is thrown into another internal shock attack, feet moving faster than his mind, he tosses the boulder elsewhere and pushes through the rocks, his super strength hiked up to extreme, screams of people enter one ear and come out through the other. 

Ryan hears his own voice, he still doesn’t recognize it, he doesn’t know what’s happening to him, when he pulls the rocks out they fly in superspeed, rocketing up into the air like missiles, adrenaline and fear enhancing his super strength  – “No, no, no,” he pants out as he digs his father out of the rubble, pulling him out completely, dragging him away from the area, larger rocks collapsing onto the space seconds after, shaking the ground.

He was just in time. 

Homelander would've been crushed.

Ryan lays him down, eyes flickering all over the man’s face, his eyes were closed, breaths shallow, and there were cuts on his face - and he was fucking bleeding. 

Homelander doesn’t bleed, right? He shouldn’t - that wasn’t - 

Ryan’s hands were shaking violently as it all dawned on him, his heart pounding against the drums of his ears. 

Homelander was hurt, and he was hurt very, very badly. 

Ryan has never seen him hurt.

“Dad, no, please, wake up.” He begs, holding him close, a panic attack rummaging through his body, he pulls the man to his chest and looks around helplessly, his meek voice picking up into desperate, loud cries that tears through his throat. “Help! Somebody help!” 

First mom, then Butcher, and now –

“Somebody help us, please!” Ryan cries out again as he stands up, tugging his father up to no avail, trudging forward with shaky legs, his fear of abandonment strangling any coherent thoughts.

He was spiraling.

This wasn’t fair.

“Help!” 

It’s like a fog that clouds his head. 

Ryan drops back down onto his knees and cradles his dad’s head, crying, an unbearable amount of grief overtaking him, he couldn’t wrap his head around anything that’s transpired over the past hour, he’s trembling, pleading for Homelander to wake up. 

This can’t be happening. 

Not after their rooftop conversation. 

Ryan shook his head, refusing to believe that this was happening to him, again.

“Wake up, please,” he pushes desperately at Homelander’s chest, a futile attempt at CPR, tears and ash scalding his eyes. “Don’t do this to me. I need you.” 

Homelander had remained unresponsive, limp, blood trickling down his face from a scar on his cheek. 

Ryan felt absolutely gutted. 

He had blacked out by the time Maeve stumbled onto the scene, lines blurring, Homelander’s shattered promises of never leaving him drifting through his head. 

Anger took over in a way he hadn’t thought was possible, it scared him as it smeared itself into his soul, and he sat with it for days and days. 

Bzz – the alarm he set in case he’s having a nightmare he couldn’t climb himself out of makes his phone vibrate on the nightstand, tearing Ryan out of his nightmarish dream. 

Ryan shivers as he opens his eyes, a swift movement, inhaling sharply, droplets of sweat rolling down his face, and as he stares up at the ceiling with saucer-like eyes, he opens his fist and lets go of his pillowcase and watches the feathers rain down onto the floor. 

That’s the fourth pillow set he unintentionally destroyed in his sleep. 

Ryan holds his stomach, nausea dizzying him, he rolls over onto his side with a soft grunt, vision unfocused, hand grappling and swinging around on his nightstand, knocking over a couple of things, grasping at his phone to check the time. 

3;45 AM. 

Ryan groans and goes back to sleep. 

In the morning, hours later,  he was inhaling sharply as he fluttered his eyes open, feeling the sensation of a warm hand being placed on his shoulder, a gentle voice filling his ears, and for a moment he hoped it would sound different, an English lilt added onto it, rough and gravelly. 

“Breakfast is ready.”

No, no, it’s just Mallory waking him up, again. 

The little voices that occupy Ryan’s head don’t even refer to her as ‘Aunt Grace’ anymore, he doesn’t know when the transition started, but it doesn’t really matter to him all that much.

Throughout the two weeks he’s spent here, he’s been swarmed with the idea that Butcher might not even come back to get him, and as much as he tries to convince himself that the man wouldn’t dare abandon him again, he ends up stuck in an ongoing loop of doubts. 

When Mallory said she’s still mulling over the idea of Butcher and his father coming over earlier that week, it only worsened his doubts.

He sighs out as he fidgets his fingers, curling the sheets up in a tight grip, a familiar swoop of disappointment settling in his gut, enthusiasm seeping from his body. “Okay.” 

Ryan swings his legs off of the bed when he hears Mallory leave his room without another word, he doesn’t even think to grab his phone, he doesn’t expect any news from Butcher about his father or how he’s dealing with his powers, which only enhances his building frustration.

After giving him an idea that he’ll be able to see his father soon, the man had just - vanished, he stopped texting him altogether, and weirdly so. 

Trying not to overthink on both your father figure’s statuses was a pain in the ass when you’re the only one who’s been reaching out day in and day out, only getting responses back in between long lapses of time. 

That goes with asking Mallory for any updates on her decision too. 

Ryan feels his annoyance grow as he rubs his eyes hard, right up until he sees splurges of purple and green. 

After heading downstairs, Ryan walks to the bathroom to freshen up, shoulders slumped on his way there. As of late, he chose the downstairs bathroom to fix himself up everyday, it’s the closest to the front door, it was easier to slip out in the morning without Mallory noticing. 

Even now he could see from his peripheral view that Mallory’s attentive eyes were focused on him, he doesn’t address it with himself this time, she’s worried about him and he knows she is, simple as that. 

Ryan could say that he’s worried about himself too, and not only that, he’s been hung up on a lot of things regarding his identity, he couldn’t even pinpoint where it begins and where it continues. 

 It’s unnecessary to think about, not this early. 

He flicks the light on once he reaches the bathroom, stepping up on the stool, and grabs his toothbrush, twisting the faucet, sticking the brush under the rush of water to wet it, at least the brightness of the lights shining over his head doesn’t make him wince anymore.  

Ryan squirts the toothpaste onto the brush, slotting it back into the cup sitting on his right, he stares in the mirror, brushing his teeth with underlying self-directed aggression. 

As Ryan stares at himself, he sees his reflection glaring right back at him. 

Brush, brush, brush. 

He should go outside. That’ll probably do him some good, get his mind off of things and what-not.

It’s his safest bet. 

Ryan leans forward, spits, then rinses his mouth and his brush, shutting the water off after drenching his face with it. He dabs his face dry with a towel, flicks the light off, steps off the stool, then turns to leave the bathroom with a sinking feeling continuing to grow in his stomach.

Ryan hasn’t been feeling okay in awhile, and he doesn’t know if he should bring it up to Butcher whenever he does get back in contact with him, because he’s not sure if he’d ever want to talk about it.

But he should. 

Only thing is, Ryan is concerned about the wellbeing of his father, and he wants that to be his only concern. 

He wishes he could force his mind to stop racing. 

Mallory was eating a small portion of her pancakes already, raising a concerned brow at Ryan as he sauntered past the table, walking past the table, his fixed plate, and heading straight towards the stairs, running up the steps.

“Ryan?” 

Mallory listens to heavy footsteps leading into Ryan’s room and then there’s the sound of a  closing door, she lowers her fork down onto the plate, grabbing at a napkin, wiping at her mouth as she sits there in deep thought. 

Ryan sniffles as he grabs his sweatshirt, tussling it on over his head, then he swipes at his shoes, slipping them onto his feet, padding across the room, opening his bedroom door again. He makes a quick break for it, knowing Mallory is sensing his visible turmoil, and he beelines for the stairs, each step swinging by until he reaches the last one.
 
The front door he planned to storm out of was blocked by Mallory, she stood tall with Ryan's plate and cup of milk in her hands, shaking her head at him in a silent refusal to let him leave. 

Oh, come on.

Ryan narrowed his eyes as he came to a stop, inhaling deeply and feeling his back tense up.

“Eat your breakfast, Ryan.” Mallory chides. 

 Not having time for this, Ryan straightened his posture and tried to slip past her to the right, but Mallory stepped forward, effectively blocking him once again. Frustrated, he tried to move to his left, but she anticipated his move and shifted to prevent him from escaping that way too.

It was a funny game, but Ryan didn’t feel like laughing this time, annoyance flickering in his stomach, he stops and stands in place, sighing out. “Really?”

“Eat.”

Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets, his voice flat as he spoke. "I'm not hungry."

"Ryan--" Mallory started, but he cut her off.

"I want to go outside, please."

Mallory stood her ground, her voice firm. "No, Ryan. You can go outside after you eat."

They stood there for a long moment, a tense silence settling over the room, the space between them, a stark difference to the limited fun they had together when Butcher had first dropped him off here.

Overtime, their interactions were becoming more and more tension filled, the longer Ryan had to wait for Butcher, the more anxious and agitated he became, it was a feeling he couldn’t stop, help, or control. 

It somewhat ties in with his identity issues - the problems that arise when he feels mad, and how he should handle it, the appropriate way of doing so. 

Times like these are when he really needs an update on whether or not he’ll ever see Homelander again, he needs his guidance. 

Lately, he feels like his broiling anger comes close to blowing up in his face, and when it does, he’s afraid of what's going to happen. 

Ryan's shoulders slumped as Mallory tapped the fork against the plate and his eyes hardened, his expression turning cold and unreadable.

Sometimes he scares himself thinking he might hurt Mallory.

He stood there for a moment, and then turned around on his heel and dragged his feet back into the dining room, Mallory following closely behind him.

Ryan sits down at the table across from where his current caretaker sat, his hand cradling the side of his head as he lets out an annoyed exhale through his nose. He eyes the plate and cup of milk Mallory had set down in front of him, the steam rising from the pancakes and mixing with the sunlight that filtered through the window.

The utensils clink as he moves them around, his frustration apparent.

Mallory clears her throat as she rounded the table, getting back to her own seat, picking up her fork and knife, continuing to cut through her pancake. 

After two whole minutes, Ryan doesn’t move a finger, he just flicks his eyes up from his plate at Mallory, staring at her, completely exasperated. 

The ticking of the clock above the stove is the only sound in the room.

Mallory’s halfway through her breakfast. “Your food is getting cold, Ryan.” 

“What a waste.” Ryan says after a beat, tapping each of his fingers against the table, clearly annoyed with her. 

He glances at the window, the blue, slightly cloudy sky outside beckoning him.

“You must not want to go outside today.”

Ryan lifts his head from his hand, a challenge buried in his voice. “I do, and I will.”

“Eat your food, Ryan. Do you want me to cut through the pancakes for you?”

Ryan fixes her an incredulous look, inhaling sharply, then he glares down at his plate, abruptly lasering through his pancakes.

Utensils rattled, and there was a sizzling gash sliced through the pancakes as he dragged the lasers along the syrupy bread.

The two strikingly hot beams of red had changed the entire temperature of the dining room, a clean line slashed across the cakes exactly like Mallory proposed. 

Mallory had flinched back with a muted gasp despite herself and placed her utensils down again, her hands trembling slightly, she decided not to play with fire anymore.

The boy was obviously upset, he wasn’t threatening her, goodness no, but whenever he was a touch too mad, he couldn’t help but display the use of his powers albeit it being rare when he does. It was kind of a new thing that he picked up throughout the weeks, same with his reoccuring nightmares of Soldier Boy, which was something that only grew and grew. 

Regaining her composure from the slight scare that overcame her, she clears her throat, placing her hands flat on the table. 

“Alright. Obviously we need to talk. This new attitude problem you’ve picked up all of a sudden. It’s not going to work out with me, Ryan. I’ve been through it with Butcher, his friends, a lot of people, and I’m not going to put up with you having it too. You’re a sweet kid, this isn’t you.” 

Ryan scoffs at that, averting his eyes over to the window, and due to the sunlight pouring in, shining over his face, there this glossy look Mallory notices, it’s coating his gaze with a familiar sheen and it causes her expression to soften slightly. 

“If this is about what I think it is. You need to be patient, I am trying my best to decide which is the most practical option –” 

“I don’t even know if my dad is alive.” 

A saddened flicker passed over Mallory's face as she listened to Ryan's words, her gaze dropping to her plate. “I’m sure he is, Ryan.”

Ryan shakes his head at her, looking away from the window, pushing the plate away to settle both of his arms on the table, he feels like his heart is bleeding when he asks. “Then why the fuck is Butcher avoiding me? Why are you keeping him from me?”
 
Mallory's face softened, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she gazed at Ryan, there’s a defeated glint in her expression that Ryan couldn’t help but notice. 

It’s a wordless decision. 

The next time Ryan gets woken up, his world stops.

At first, he assumes the warm hand on his arm was Mallory disturbing his slumber again and he stills.

Fighting off the disappointment rising up in his gut, he breathes in deeply, turning around in his bed to face the source of the warmth radiating off of who he assumes is his aunt Grace. 

As he blinks his eyes open, he’s greeted with the sight of his dad, there’s this unfamiliar warm-looking jacket on him, and he’s wearing a fuzzy looking hat on his head, but there’s strands of his blonde hair peeking out from underneath. 

He looked familiar, and yet unfamiliar. 

Ryan’s heart thumps against his ribcage as he studies his father with widening eyes, he feels a knot building in the back of his throat. He's so surprised he doesn’t even notice Mallory and Butcher collectively standing by the doorway, their gazes are attentive.

“Dad?” He croaks. 

“Hey, Ryan.” It’s a careful greeting, his voice fills Ryan’s ears, traces of hesitation and promise lingered in those two simple words. 

Ryan lets out a throaty sound, the dam breaking, a heavy weight being lifted off of his shoulders.

Seeing Homelander’s eyes is what makes things click for the child, and it was when he had caught onto Butcher hanging back, standing next to Mallory, the little head nod he gave, a small, rare smile twitching onto his face.  

That’s all it took to convince him that this isn’t some type of thrilling dream. What brings it home for Ryan is that there’s a nervous smile that spreads on Homelander’s face when he concludes that the look on his son’s face is not one of disgust, but instead, genuine relief.  

He gives the stunned child a shoulder squeeze before he eventually moves his hand away from him. “It’s me. I’m okay, see?”

“Dad.” Ryan hiccups as his bottom lip quivers, moving to sit up onto his knees, whisking the blankets off of him as he moves in without any hesitation, throwing himself onto his father who has to stumble back from the sudden weight in his arms.

John lets out a surprise ‘oof’ sound that follows up with a wet laugh, once he gathers his footing, cupping the back of Ryan’s head as the boy sobs out into his neck, he wraps his arms around him, hugging him close, never wanting to let him go again. 

Butcher was right. 

Butcher grins at the two of them, arms crossed over his chest, warmth filling him while Mallory emits a vulnerable sound, the heel of her hand digging into her eye, and she has to excuse herself from the bedroom. 

“It’s alright,” John shushes Ryan as he cries, despite his own eyes shining with unshedded tears, his voice coming out shaky as he whispers to him. “I’m here, God. Ryan,  I’m here. I told you I wasn’t going to leave you, right? Didn’t I?”

Ryan sniffles, nodding his head in response while holding onto John’s jacket as the man rocks them side to side. “I missed you so much,” he murmurs brokenly, closing his tight as he snuggles his face back into his neck, savoring this moment, the overall joy he’s feeling. 

“I missed you.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Ryan had tears rolling down his cheeks, murmuring how much he had thought about him, and not only that, he was still apologizing. He apologizes for not listening to him when he was told to go back upstairs before Soldier Boy had shoved him; for leaving him when he was still unconscious, Butcher couldn’t help but to take note of that. 

John had told him to not apologize, that it wasn’t his fault, but Ryan was a broken faucet. 

Butcher’s eyes were glued on the two of them as they held each other, a weight partially lifting off of his shoulders, another one replacing it. 

Chapter Text

Throughout the latter half of the day, Ryan had finally separated from Butcher and his dad to go shower and freshen up. 

It’s the fastest he’s ever brushed his teeth. 

Butcher leaned against the hood of his car, parked along the mud road made from his tire tracks, engine thrumming, headlights still on. He stared across the field, focusing on Ryan as the boy lingered by the doorstep. His overnight bag was stuffed full with his clothes and personal items, planted safely at his side, and he was kneeling down tucking his foot into his sneakers calling out for Butcher to give him a second. 

The sleeves of his sweater slipped down his elbows where he had them rolled up, and he wiggled his foot into his shoes, tying his laces. 

Ryan was finally going home with his parents, he could taste the excitement sitting thick on his tongue, and his face was fixed in this permanent smile he couldn’t seem to get rid of, stomach flipping. If this was a dream then this is the best one yet. 

Homelander was still using Mallory’s bathroom, so there’s no rush, not really, Ryan just wants his things in Butcher’s car because he knows that would be his insurance. It would make this all completely official, even if he knows that Butcher wouldn’t do anything cruel like speed off right when Ryan is about to open the door, manically laughing, and giving him the bird. 

Plus, it’s practical, if he really is moving out, and this is his transportation, he would need to have his things in there. 

Ryan ties a tight knot on his shoe, standing back up onto his two feet, waving off the flies of doubt that’s buzzing around him, and he yanks his bag into his arms.

He steps off the porch, takes a deep breath as if the air was clean and new, he doesn’t even think to look back at the house because he’s already taking off in a sprint towards Butcher, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he runs and runs. 

Before the man could even blink, Ryan had already zipped to him, crashing into the man’s legs in a clumsy hug, a rush of wind almost tipping the car over if Butcher wasn't weighing it down. He hears Butcher stifle a warm, surprised laugh before he feels himself being lifted off of the ground, firm hands hooked underneath his arms, Butcher holds the boy up in front of him like a piece of treasure. 

“Hey,” he smiles. 

Ryan gazes at him with a euphoric glint in his eyes, he lets his bag drop onto the muggy ground with a soft thump, and properly hugs Butcher, arms wrapped around his neck, murmuring out into his shoulder. “How did you do it?” 

“Baby wipes.” Is the first thing Butcher chokes out, hugging Ryan tight as the boy stifles a high laugh followed up with a fond, affectionate ‘you’re so stupid,’ Butcher closes his eyes tight and his voice is low.

“I missed you, lad.” 

Ryan sighs out. “I missed you too.” Once he hears Mallory’s front door creak closed signaling that Homelander had emerged from the bathroom, he squeezes Butcher, pulls away from him, smiling softly. “Thank you.” 

“Have a little faith in me.” Butcher replies, his words coming out softer than he intended for them to.

“Always.” Ryan grins at him, teeth white. 

Feeling as if he successfully concluded some type of redemption obstacle, Butcher swallows, eyes sheening over, and he blinks away the annoying wet sting, lowering Ryan down. There’s no mistaking that Ryan is proud of him, Butcher could see it in his eyes, and he’s been feeling moved far too many times today to react properly to it, perhaps he’s gotten soft or maybe it’s something else entirely. 

He feels at peace with this for the time being. “Go ahead and get settled in, yeah? Car should be warmed up. We’ve got a long ride.” 

Ryan's smile softens, a knowing look flickering in his eyes, he reads Butcher well, he could probably see the sheen blanketing his eyes, and fortunately, he doesn’t bring it up.  

“Okay,” he says, drawing back, and Butcher notices that there’s a bounce in his step as he heads on over to the car, opening the backseat door as he hums delightfully, throwing his bag inside before clambering into the car.

Butcher’s eyes follow the boy until the footsteps he’s been picking up on draws a little closer. 

When he looks ahead, Mallory’s a few safe paces behind Homelander, or maybe it’s Homelander that’s purposely creating the gap between them. It was a funny sight, one that obviously depicted passive aggressive animosity. Homelander had speed walked across the lawn towards the waiting vehicle, avoiding being within five feet of Mallory at all cost and vice versa. 

To Butcher, it sort of made their joint breakfast entertaining, he didn’t eat anything, too pent up, instead he just sat back and watched the three. Homelander hadn’t engrossed himself into any food either, he was too focused on his son, all his attention directed to him and no one else, which was expected. 

However, there was still an air of awkward tension that was only diffused by Ryan’s persistent, excited rambling, turning towards Homelander every five seconds after stuffing his face with the contents on his plate, swallowing without chewing that much. 

Mallory would make unpleasant faces when Ryan kept bringing up how much time he spent training his powers, his dad listening very attentively, Butcher wonders what’s going through her mind. 

Ryan said he spent most of his time on adjusting his flight patterns, splitting logs using the side of his hand and helping Mallory use them as firewood, Homelander asks about his lasers, and Ryan, for some reason, has a vague response. “I use them when I can.” 

“Like with pancakes?” Homelander jokes, the delivery was dry, awkward, maybe because he knew, as soon as it came out of his mouth, that the timing wasn’t the best, and yet Ryan still belly laughs at it.

Butcher covered his mouth, and Mallory had sent Homelander a look. 

Definitely an entertaining breakfast. 

After Ryan eats his breakfast made by Mallory, which was a quick bite or two, too entranced with having his father back in his life to even think over the apology for the pancake thing, he returns to a distracted John. 

The apology was there, and he didn't mind saying it, but the words were stuck in his voice box, backed up by all the things he wanted to tell Homelander. 

But, before that -

Butcher stood beside John in front of the fireplace, hands in his pockets, subtly following the movement of John’s eyes as the man studied the family portraits Mallory had propped up on her wall. 

There were pictures of her grandchildren sitting on the side table in which he couldn’t look away from, it’s as if Homelander was stuck in this hilarious spell of disbelief at the idea that someone like her actually had a family, but he doesn’t verbally say anything. 

Not about the portrait at least.

Homelander looks over at Butcher, catching his eyes, and he seems to have this mixed expression on his face. “How was I - when Ryan had last seen me? I mean, I know it was pretty bad, but, be um, be honest.” 

Butcher’s voice comes out weird, a little croaked. “When he had last seen you?” 

“Yeah. How bad did it seem? How was I?”

Butcher doesn’t know how he’d feel broaching that subject right now. “The suit was just - completely ruined, I told you that.” 

John squints at him. “Come on, Billy. I know how bad it was when I woke up, but before that - I don’t know - I’m just drawing assumptions from what you’ve told me already, and the scars I have on my body.”

Butcher pauses for a moment. “Why?”

“Butcher, he was so scared I was going to die.” John mutters under his breath, and that was when Butcher immediately picked up on how slightly shaken up he seemed. He felt his hand twitching to touch him, but he didn't act on it.

At this point, Homelander had somewhat of a perspective of the austere condition he must’ve been in during his critical time in Butcher’s bedroom, only he decided to remain oblivious to the senseless physical state of his body. 

It was just - well - Butcher was so hostile at the start of this whole thing, he more than likely would’ve said anything to make his stomach churn back then, just for shits and giggles. 

But now, an hour after Ryan was sobbing in his arms, muttering how scared he was for him, the slim chances he had of surviving that blast and tower collapse really dawned on him. John feels a little queasy at the glaring reminder of his mortality. 

Shoving his thoughts aside, he turned to face the Brit, keeping his voice low. “I mean, you don’t have to really describe anything, but just tell me, like on a scale, how bad did it seem?” 

“You were alright, really. A silent sleeper pretty much, as long as you were breathing, it kept us a little sane.” Butcher says, looking back at the portraits, flickering his eyes down at a painting one of her granddaughters gave her. “You did scare Ryan to death though.”

“I - I couldn’t wake up.” 

“Couldn’t move, couldn’t twitch -” Butcher lists, trying his best not to think too hard about how lifeless he really was, only telling Homelander the details he wants to know, but he still excludes the bath part, hell he might even take that to the grave - figuratively speaking. “You were pretty much gone. Like you said.” 

“Fuck.”

“It seemed pretty grim.”

John looks up at him. “He really had to see me like that?”

Butcher feels a twinge of guilt tighten his gut. He wets his lips, looking away from the painting, drawing in a breath. “He did.” 

“Jesus, Billy.” 

“That’s why I took him here, he couldn’t - it wasn’t good for him. I wish I could’ve done it sooner, but the damage was already done, son. He was the one who found you in the rubble, and he initially thought you were dead then and there.” 

John whispers a distressed ‘shit,’ under his breath, closing his eyes briefly, bringing a hand up to rub at this temple, Butcher can hear both the embarrassment and frustration exuding from his words. “He must’ve been so - ahh, fucking christ.” 

“Hey. Everyone was scared.”

“For different reasons, Billy.”

“Yes, but, that whole day was fucked. People died. The tower was gone, Vought was in pieces, their own product they had no use for anymore had destroyed the tower. Everyone was scared.” Butcher says, leveling his voice, making sure Homelander had a scoop of how chaotic that day really was. 

He doesn’t think he could ever truly convey how insane it was, all of the negative  implications the tower falling had brung; the spine chilling horror that surfaced through everyone when they felt the tower’s floors giving away underneath them, the deafening fire alarms blaring in the halls, the people screaming as they ran towards the stairwell exits, climbing on top of each other as the creaks of the tower collapsing grew and grew.

Butcher chose not to think about it for good reasons, and as he blinks out of his thoughts, he feels Homelander’s hand wrapped around his arm, he must’ve been spacing out. “Haven’t seen anything like it, and I’ve seen some fucked up shit.” 

“It’s over.” John reminds him, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Sure, I guess. It is something we should touch on sooner or later.”

There’s a pause. 

“Lots of people died.”

“Lots.” Butcher replies. 

“Even ones you’d consider indestructible.” John thinks about Maeve as he says this, and so does Butcher at that moment. 

The Brit looks over at Homelander as soon as he further registers whatever he could be implying to, a silent question drifting in his eyes.

Butcher was about to vaguely ask if he knew about Maeve’s status before Ryan came up to them, his footsteps quick and fast. The boy reaches up and tugs at John’s hand, standing between the two of them, grinning up at his father when he immediately gets his attention. “Hey, dad.” 

“Hey.” John smiles down at him, Butcher stares at the two of them.

“I’ve got some cool things to show you, dad.” Ryan tells him, a promise evident in his voice, and he adds on, albeit a little shyer. “You’re gonna love it.” 

“Oh really?” John raises a brow at him. “I’m sure I will.” 

Butcher gazes at them fondly, chest warm, he decides to make a mental note of this conversation, stock it up for later. “When we’re in the car you can show him. You go ahead and get your stuff packed and ready.”  

“Okay.” Ryan says as he takes a step back, tugging at John’s arm to follow him while Butcher looks back at the painting.  “Can we start packing, dad?”

“Sure.” Butcher hears John respond shortly after eliciting a quiet hum.

Now, as he stands in the dew, ready to leave Mallory’s home with Ryan settled in his car, Butcher straightens up as Homelander draws near. The blonde comes to a stop to stand in front of him, and before he says anything to Butcher, he glances over at Ryan who is currently pressing his palms flat against the backseat window, staring at his two guardians with big eyes. 

“He’s so happy,” Homelander utters, waving at his son, flashing a grin at him before finally flicking his eyes up at Butcher, the tip of his nose, and his cheeks were colored a tender pink as if he were crying. “I’ve never seen him this excited before.” 

Butcher’s hands were in his pockets and he leaned back against the hood, making sure to not put all of his weight on the car. “He didn’t have any reasons to be. It’s been tough for him. You remember what Mallory said to us before we arrived?”

Homelander exhales, probably because he’s seen this coming, and he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as the wind blows, mists of rain coating his skin. “The pancake thing, right.” 

“Yes, that. It was big. It scared her.” Butcher says, and that causes Homelander to elicit an awkward noise. Butcher has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, he needs to know if Homelander is on the same page about this. 

“Listen, she was fucking around with the decision making the whole week, and it annoyed us, I know. But she’s important, and how she feels dictates whether or not she’ll swing around for us next time. Ryan scaring her is not necessarily good.”

“Well, I mean -” Homelander shrugs, drops his hands from his hair, and by his facial expressions alone, Butcher knows that he’s trying to find the right words that don't make him sound like a cunt. Eventually he gives up on that and settles with an exasperated. “Come on, man.” 

Obviously he doesn’t feel good with his son’s behavior being under ridicule here, a hint of his defensiveness sharpening his voice, tacking an edge along to it. “It’s not Ryan’s fault, he was frustrated, and he reacted. He’s almost eleven.”

“I’m not going to stand here and say that I don’t see an issue with that.” Because Butcher does, Ryan using his powers for anything involving a scare tactic is a crimson colored flag, flapping proudly in the wind. 

Mallory sounded adrift when Butcher called her on the way there, as if she lost hope, but Butcher couldn’t really tell since that’s how she usually sounds. 

Homelander nods his head before he makes a ‘pfft’ noise, averting his eyes, and it’s clear that he is somewhat on the same page with Butcher despite not wanting to indulge in speculation over the seeds of darkness Ryan had shown.

Of course he wouldn’t, Butcher thinks. Ryan is his son, and there’s layers of personal ties embedded between them that he knows he could never brush, this genetic trait of being viscous passed along. 

Homelander gives in, subtly. “Yeah, well. He won’t do anything like that again.”

Butcher nods at that, agreeing with him completely, because Ryan wouldn’t do anything like that unless he has a reason to. Removing his hands from his pockets, resting them on his car, he looks Homelander in the eye and assures the statement. “He won’t. Because we’re going to be there for him this time.” 

Homelander looks back at him at Butcher’s use of ‘we’re,’ his gaze soft, cheeks shading red, a small smile curling onto his face, resigning to nodding his head back to him. 

Funnily enough, Butcher never knows the exact words he uses that causes the shorter man to stare at him like that - like he’s his everything - but it’s not like he minds. It’s endearing honestly, he just says things and it gets Homelander looking all red-cheeked, twinkly eyed, and smushy. 

Although he would usually not care, Homelander notes how this is not the right moment to kiss Butcher silly, PDA unwarranted, not with Mallory drawing closer to them.

So, instead, he points at the car and tells Butcher in an unintended soft tone that he’ll be sitting in the backseat with Ryan ‘if that’s okay’ and Butcher replies after a moment of gentle staring, eliciting a quiet ‘right, sure.’

The rush he gets from Homelander will never get old. 

Butcher turns his attention to an approaching Mallory, letting out a breath he feels like he’s been holding in as soon as he hears Homelander shutting the car door behind him, cheeks hot. 

“Oi,” he greets the woman, pushing himself off of the car hood once more. 

“Butcher.” Mallory’s smile is tight, and Butcher wonders if he could even consider it a smile. 

The one he returned to her was worse, he looked sadistic. 

Mallory doesn’t flinch at it. “I see he’s all set. He pretty much cleared the entire room out.”

“Huh.”

Mallory wraps her arms around herself, narrowing her eyes at him. “You were right, maybe being with someone like his father is for the best.” 

“Jesus. Listen, Ryan didn’t mean to frighten you.” Butcher says, running his palm along the back of his neck. “He’s not like his dad, at all.” 

 “Butcher, when something’s not going his way, they’re practically identical to each other, and that’s not something you should gloss over. Ryan is a nice kid, but there’s no excuse for him lasering through my plate just to showcase how angry he was at me. There are scorch marks on my table.” Mallory sounds conflicted, split in two, and she avoids making prolonged eye contact as she gestures over to the car as she tries to explain it to him.

Butcher looks at her, and he kicks his feet around in the grass for a moment, sighing out. Ryan is in a tough spot, he did something very impulsive, and he plans to bring it up to the kid later once they’re settled in. As of now, Butcher doesn’t want this conversation to linger on any longer, not while they’re about to leave. 

“I’m not excusing what he’s done. I’m concerned too. We might have to uhh - tread a little carefully with this stuff though, he’s been through a lot, he really wanted to see his dad, and –”

“I know he wanted to see his dad.” Mallory cuts him off, digging into her pockets, pulling out a cigarette carton as she shrugs her shoulders. “At the end of the day, that’s all that mattered, right? Before the blast Homelander swoops in and takes him, after the blast Homelander swoops in and takes him.”

“What do you want me to do, Mallory?” Butcher asks, fixing her a stare. 

“I’m not the bad guy here, Billy.” Mallory says, pausing her movements, frustration present in her voice. “This time, you have to be there for him.” 

“I will.” 

“And I don’t trust him.” Mallory doesn’t have to say who she’s referring to, but Butcher still writhes at the shift of focus, she fishes out a lighter from her pocket, slipping the cigarette between her lips. “If I were you, I wouldn’t give him so much freedom.”  

“He’s changed.” Butcher says, earning a sideways look from her. “Listen, he doesn’t hold any power anymore, and he knows that.”

Mallory scoffs out, taking the cig out of her mouth, shifting her weight onto one leg as she stares up at him, incredulous. “Oh, does he now? Did he tell you that?”

Butcher draws in a sharp breath, looking up at the clouds as his chest burns, the mist of rain dotting at his cheeks and forehead, he really doesn’t want to play devil’s advocate here. 

This isn’t his battle to fight. 

Mallory studies him closely. “Butcher, you’re smarter than this. Chances are, if he does have a change in behavior, it’s only to benefit himself since he knows he holds no power over you.” 

“You saw him back there.” Butcher says, removing his attention from the clouds, meeting her eyes. “This is as vulnerable as you'll ever see him, he just wanted to be with his son, him and Ryan, they had the same motivation this week.”

“I don’t care for that, Butcher. Everyone has a soft spot, even the most vile pieces of shit like Homelander, surprise, surprise.”

“Hm.” Butcher huffs, lips pressed together in a thin line, looking down at the dewy grass, tittering lightly to himself because he can personally say that it’s true. 

“That doesn’t mean he won’t take advantage of him and use his lost powers through Ryan now that Ryan basically spilled that he knows how to control his abilities at the breakfast table.” Mallory explains this as if it were basic common sense, and considering Homelander’s history, maybe it is, she seems genuinely confused as to how Butcher is allowing his guard to dwindle down. 

Butcher’s not going to kid himself, if he wasn’t up the hills for Homelander, he’d probably buy into it. “Homelander’s going through some type of reinvention, I doubt he’ll take advantage of Ryan.” 

“Butcher -”

“He trusts me.”

“Okay,” Mallory blinks, her face screwed into an understandable look of disbelief, she stands up straighter, “and do you trust him?” 

“Working on it.” 

Mallory lets out an unconvinced ‘uh-huh’ at that. “Do you trust him with Ryan?”

Butcher bites his bottom lip, averts his eyes back to the car, watching the two chat in the backseat for a beat, then looks back at Mallory and nods his head. 

Mallory’s eyes flicker across his face, her head tilted, still holding the cig and lighter in both of her hands. “What’s gotten into you? What exactly did he say to you?”

“He was nervous that Ryan wouldn’t want him back in his life.” Butcher says, crossing his arms over his chest, sighing out. “Nervous, pfft, he was practically near tears, hell he almost flunked out on coming here. This Homelander he’s not himself -” he sighs, shaking his head, Mallory frowns. 

That wasn’t what he was trying to say, Butcher starts over. “John is uhh, he’s not the same man you knew of before, and I’m not saying he found God and got baptized, and I’m not drawing out that maybe he sees a bit of his old all-powerful self in Ryan, but there’s this mortality there now. He’s different. This entire clusterfuck turned him into a complete stranger.” 

“He certainly looks different.” Mallory says after a long pause. “But you know that doesn’t matter, William. Not with him.”

“Mmm,” Butcher looks her over. “I don’t see him acting on hurting Ryan.”

Mallory twiddles the cigarette between her fingers, scrutinizing him, and she comes up with something a little twisted.  “Seems like he’s acting on you.” 

Annnnd that’s his cue to go, Butcher chokes out a mirthy laugh at that, the tips of his ears burning, agitation tickling at the back of his throat, he needs to scale back. “Alright. My schedule is pretty tight, and I’m knackered. I think we’re going to head out now.” 

“Butcher. Wait.” Oh God, now what?

Butcher draws his shoulders up as he turns to look at her, expecting more chiding, nitpicking, and skeptical looks, but he doesn’t get that. Mallory doesn’t say anything to him immediately, she seems to be battling on an internal decision, a decision the more restrained side of her seemed to be losing at the moment - “For what it’s worth, I’m relieved to see that you’re okay. You looked like shit the last time I saw you.” 

“Oh.” Butcher breathes, wondering if she somehow knows what he’s done to himself the last time they had seen each other, when he was dropping off Ryan. 

It makes him wonder, how terrible did he look the last time he was here? 

Did it look like he was seconds away from dying? 

He thinks about the questions Homelander asked him earlier, him being curious about his condition throughout the time he was resigned to being in Butcher’s bed. 

“I’ll call you when we get home.” Butcher says, studying her. “Thank you for keeping up with Ryan.” 

 “Just go already.” Mallory says as she places the cigarette between her lips, finally lighting it. 

Without another word, Butcher heads to the driver's side. 

The rain grew more apparent, no longer a light mist, Butcher’s windshield wipers slid across the glass every minute, sloshing splashes of water out the way as the car jostled down the road. 

Soft music circulated throughout the car as he drove, his fingers were busy switching between tapping on the gear shift, and on the steering wheel since he couldn’t rest his hand on Homelander’s leg, hold his hand. 

“Look at this one, dad.” Ryan says, flipping a page in a notebook he’s been spending some time drawing in throughout his tenure at Mallory’s, he leans his side against Homelander, opening the book wide. “It’s the view of New York City. Remember that skyscraper I said I would fly at? I drew it right there, and you see these little buildings in the front? They’re surrounding it.” 

“Wow.” Homelander draws out, brushing his fingertips along the sketch, his memories surrounding their moments leading up to the catastrophe were a little scattered, so he couldn’t convey any actual understanding. 

Nevertheless, Ryan’s art was lovely. 

He must’ve drawn the sketch based on their viewpoint, he drew two figures, it was Homelander and himself, both of them staring out of the floor to ceiling window in his apartment. 

The details Ryan included of his cape and boots makes John smile, the sketch depicted his hand being placed on Ryan’s shoulder, with Ryan pointing out at the skyscraper, looking up at him with a big grin on his face. 

John feels a pang in his heart as he gazes at the drawing; nostalgia, affection, with a hint of melancholy. “Ryan.”

“Do you like it?” Ryan asks, eyes twinkling as he turns to look up at him, there’s a lilt of insecurity weighing in on his voice as he adds on. “I still have to color it in so it’s kind of lifeless, but you remember this, right? It’s - you were trying to teach me how to fly -”

“It’s amazing, Ryan.” John says, breaking out of his awed silence, wrapping his arm tight around his son. “I love it, all the details. My um - my head is still foggy about the day, I’m sorry if I can’t exactly recall what we were doing together, but I do remember that skyscraper, that view.” 

A look of abatement flickers across Ryan’s face at the genuine praise given from his father, and he even blushed, a large smile forming. He looked over to Butcher who kept curiously glancing at the two of them through the rearview mirror, eyes glistening with happiness. “See? I told you he’d like it!” 

“What -” Butcher sputters, blinking his eyes back at the road, flushing at the call out. “I didn’t say he wouldn’t.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” John asks, ruffling Ryan’s hair, smiling at the light giggle he gets. 

“I’m going to draw another one.” Ryan says, flipping to another page, and then another, John skims his eyes over the little sketches as fast as he could before Ryan could flip to the next page, catching onto one a messy, half-erased drawing of Becca. “This time, I’m going to include your jacket.” 

John acts like he didn’t see the sketch, blinking his eyes down at Ryan. “My jacket?”

“Yeah. I think your jacket looks pretty cool. It makes you look more like me.” Ryan says, pointing at it, and if John had any concerns on how the boy would take in his ‘casual’ appearance, Butcher assumes that all of it must’ve disappeared as soon as those words rolled off the boy’s tongue. 

John’s eyes flicker over towards Butcher, bearing a look of solace, Butcher looks back at him, sends him a wink that almost makes John kick the back of his head. He doesn’t regather himself fast enough to say thank you to the child because Ryan is talking to him again. 

“When I’m finished coloring the other one, I can give it to you. I don’t mind. A lot of these are for you anyway, considering if you like them or not.” 

“I like every single one.” 

Ryan wags his little finger in his face, showing more and more of his personality, John couldn’t stop smiling. “No, no, no, I want you to pick out the ones that you really like.” 

“Alright, I will.” John says, cooperating. “But I’m very sure that I like every single one.” 

Smiling in triumph, Ryan turns to his bag, snagging it and withdrawing his phone. John watches in a fond silence as he unlocks it, swiping his thumb across the screen, and tapping on his camera roll. “Remember how I told you I was practicing with my powers? I made sure to get this on video to show you, it was pretty cool.” 

John, curious, leans in as Ryan presses play on the video he recorded of himself putting his powers into use. As Butcher listens to the video along with the other two boys, he’s inconveniently reminded of Mallory’s words, plus the fact that Homelander keeps subtly pressing him about compound V. 

It makes him think. 

Ryan had propped the camera up against the trunk of a tree, he lingers a bit, making sure it was recording, and then he rushes out of view, returning with a handcrafted stuffed pillow case, sticks as arms, bird feathers resembling hair, with green grass glued onto the pillowcase. 

“The pillowcase is grandpa.” Ryan casually points out as they watch, and the car goes freakishly silent apart from the birds tweeting and the rustling audio of the video. Ryan, in the footage, props the Soldier Boy pillow case in front of a log so it wouldn’t fall over, and he backs up, still in view of the camera. 

“Okay, okay, watch this.” He tells his dad who hadn’t looked away once.

Video footage Ryan lasers the pillowcase into the soil, two scorching bright red beams emerging from his pupils, the shockwaves of the laser penetrating the pillowcase was so powerful, it caused the ground to collapse underneath the pillowcase and log.

In the background, flocks of birds take off, chirping urgently, fearfully in the background, and the trees surrounding the field of Mallory’s property shake and rumble. 

“Holy fuck.” Homelander blurts out, unable hold his reaction back, flabbergasted. 

Ryan’s smile was a little sadistic, the footage recorded reflecting in his eyes as he watched himself, and as Butcher looked up at them through the rearview mirror, he couldn’t lie to himself and say that it wasn’t a concern. “What did he do?”

“I lasered the pillow case I made of Soldier Boy.” Ryan says, grinning. 

Okay, so Ryan wants to kill Soldier Boy. 

Ryan wants to kill. 

A knot forms in Butcher’s throat. 

Homelander fidgets a little, and he tries not to make eye contact with Butcher through the mirror. “That’s really - you were right, you have been practicing.” 

“Was it good?” Ryan asks, turning his phone off, looking up at him in search of approval. 

“Yes. Very impressive.” Homelander says, squeezing his shoulder, and despite being taken aback, he genuinely meant it. 

Butcher, alone in the front, sounded apprehensive. “Mallory let you do that?” 

“She was at the store when I did this.” 

Silence.

“May I see it again?” Homelander asks after a few minutes of stirring the video around in his mind, Butcher was about to open his mouth to ask why he would need to see it again, but he decided not to. 

“Sure.” Ryan chirps as he turns his phone back on, opening the video up again, handing the device to his dad. 

“Need to use the bathroom, Ryan?” Butcher speaks up, the audio of the video Homelander was currently replaying filling in the lengthy pauses. “There’s a seven-eleven a few miles away.” 

Ryan pats at his leg, creating a repetitive beat. “Can I get a slushie for all of us?” 

“Alright.”

Homelander mutters a soft ‘fascinating’ to himself as the video goes off, examining how sunken in the ground looked afterwards, he inhales sharply as he hands the phone back to Ryan, his belly warm. He compliments Ryan again, voice soft. “You did really well, Ryan. Your confidence strengthened and so did your control.”

“Thanks, dad.” Ryan says, face warm. “I wanted to make you proud.”

Butcher clenches his jaw, staring ahead. 

Later on, the rain had let-up by the time they made it to the store. After handing the kid a tenner, Ryan rushed inside to go and make them all individual slushies of three different flavors.

Butcher and Homelander lingered outside in the parking lot which was mostly empty apart from the two store employee cars, the blonde still had the warm snug cap on his head just in case as he stood outside, the jacket working as a decent disguise as well.

With Homelander’s appearance not being much of a worry to keep him distracted from what Ryan had presented, Butcher circled around a yellow parking pole a few times.

Because he’s unaware that he’s even moving right now, he’s not exactly pacing, but at the second, he had numerous uncertainties sprouting in his head which failed at making him stay still. 

Homelander leaned against the perimeter wall of the store, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at his shoes. “Your legs are going to fall off.” He comments without even looking as Butcher rounds the pole again. 

“Hm.” Butcher stops his pacing and turns to Homelander. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I mean, I thought we already -” Homelander stops himself, releasing a deep breath, continuing to look down. “Yeah, we can talk.”

“Lasering pancakes to force Mallory to make a decision, lasering pillowcases that look like Soldier Boy, what’s that about?”

“He’s - he’s just angry, Billy.” Homelander mutters before shrugging his shoulders, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand. “We’re going to ween him off of - whatever this is - don’t worry about him.”

Butcher grumbles out. “Ween him off of it you say? You fucking praised him for it.”  

“Billy, what,” Homelander frowns at his words, the hint of accusation dripping in his tone, and he drops his hand to his side, giving Billy a confused look. “Because it was an impressive display of his powers? What the fuck?”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t.” Butcher says, holding his hand up. 

Homelander huffs and looks ahead as he leans his back against the stone, visibly miffed with whatever this interaction is. “Alright.” 

“I’m not.”

Butcher doesn’t exactly know what kind of smile comes across Homelander’s face, but it’s definitely relative to annoyance, and it’s only confirmed when the man sighs out with a discreet eye roll. “Tell me what’s wrong with what I said to him, Billy.”  

“There’s an obvious issue here. He has a tendency to harm someone, and I don’t think it’s something we should really give him a thumbs up on.” 

“He wants to kill Soldier Boy, Billy, he hates him.” Homelander says, digging the heel of his shoe into the concrete. “The thing with Mallory, okay, I can’t -  that wasn’t good - and we’re going to talk to him about it. This? It’s a natural feeling, he’s angry, furious. You can’t blame him for wanting to act it out, and if that’s the way he copes then I’m not going to shame him for it.”

“It’s not smart to be passive with this behavior, no matter what.” Butcher says, nonetheless, he understands Homelander’s point, but still, it’ll forever bother him if he just turned his head. “We can’t just let him seek approval in being destructive, and that’s exactly what you did back there.”

“Butcher, oh my God,” Homelander laughs out, not completely understanding why he’s being accused here. “I wasn’t trying to.” 

“You did, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Butcher argues. 

Homelander doesn’t feel like going on with this, it’s been a good day so far. “Just fucking chill out, alright? Ryan’s going to be fine. I just got him back, I’m not going to chide him right out of the gate, he’s literally - he’s happy, overall, he’s happy. Just drop it.” 

“Drop it? When there’s a clear problem, you want me to drop it?”

“Yes. Please.”

“What else did I expect from you?” Butcher’s annoyance brings extra emphasis to those words, underlining extra meanings he doesn’t verbally push out, either way, it strikes Homelander below the belt. 

“O. K.” Homelander forces out in a breathy laugh, feigning this look of amusement despite his stomach suddenly hurting, and before Butcher could summon up the idea to apologize, the shorter man pushes himself off of the surface of the building, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. 

“If him being angry bothers you so much, you go in there and tell him to knock it off. I’ll be in the car.” 

Oh, hell. “Homelander. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Homelander opens the door, lifting his foot up onto the platform of the car, and he doesn’t look at Butcher as he dismissively responds. “It’s fine. I don’t care. It’ll be better coming from you anyway. I’m like the last person to police -” 

He forces himself to stop talking, shakes his head at either himself or Butcher, likely both, and dips into the car, closing the door behind him. 

“Fuck.” Butcher mutters under his breath, slipping his hands into his pockets. 

Ryan comes out of the store with a big smile, holding three slushies, one pressed against his chest by his forearm. “I got the slushies.”

Butcher retreats on his intent on speaking to Ryan, it’s not the main focus at this point, and anyway he’s too hung up on the way John’s demeanor visibly free-falled after he said what he said, it was literally weighing down his ankles. “Alright, let’s get going then.”  

“Everything okay?” Ryan asks, ever so perceptive, eyebrows furrowing in growing concern. “Where’s dad?”

Butcher points at the car, answering the latter question. “Yeah, fine.”

Ryan studies him, opening and closing his mouth, holds the slushies close, and just mutters under his breath. “Oh, okay.” 

Butcher, realizing that Ryan knows he just lied to him, reluctantly adds on. “Me and your dad, we’re just - we were just worried about how you’re coming out of this whole thing. It’s okay to be angry at what happened, but you know, we just want to make sure you’re not lashing out at anybody with it.” 

Ryan looks like he’s gotten his picture taken without consent, he doesn’t respond verbally, he just nods his head slowly and unsure like Butcher’s speaking a language he only understands to a certain extent.

Butcher, in the most torturous way possible, feels like he’s being the bad guy, as Mallory had previously defended herself from being classified as.

He decides not to press on about it, Ryan nodded his head, seeming to get it, and he trusts Ryan so he’ll  take that. “Come on, let’s go.”  

By the time they arrived, Ryan bolted out of the car towards the door, swinging it open and yelling ‘home sweet home’ with Homelander jogging after him, smiling widely while Butcher remained at the car to retrieve his bag. 

Ryan and Homelander could have his bedroom until Butcher could figure out a way to convince Mallory to let them move into one of her spare houses across town, it’s asking a lot from her, and she’s already on not-so-good terms with him, but he’s open to set aside whatever pride he has left.

Either way, it doesn’t matter for tonight, Butcher’s more than likely going to be sleeping on the couch anyway, and Ryan would probably question why he’d be so casual sharing a bed with Homelander considering their history. 

That brings on another thing, telling the kid about their – thing – would be a lot to unpack, at least during the first few days of wedging Ryan back into the dynamic, and they’re already dealing with a lot at the moment. 

Ryan, a boy skilled at picking up social clues, would come to a conclusion about it on his own time, but Butcher doesn’t want to hold out on it. 

Having the boy walk in on them smooching or hugging each other would cause complete chaos, and Ryan, the jokester he is, would never let them live it down, he’d torture them with it for all eternity.

Yet, as the night fell, Homelander remained, overall, not mad at him? And although he could be relieved, Butcher is pretty sure he’s doing that ‘not wanting to ruin the moment’ thing again. 

So when he makes sure Ryan is cooped up in the bathroom preparing for his bath, he turns the television down a notch and walks into the kitchen, approaching Homelander from behind, the fuzziness returning to him every time he’s in his presence. 

“Hey,” Butcher greets him softly as he places his hands on his waist, leans his chest against his back, hovering over his shoulder as he watches the man pour himself a glass of milk. “Alright?”

Homelander pauses briefly at the feeling of Butcher’s warmth encasing his frame, he bites his bottom lip, blinks his eyes at the glass of milk, and then he places the jug down, twisting the cap back on. “Yeah. You?” 

“Just a bit tired.” Butcher hums, pulls away a little, ducking his head down to kiss his neck, his lips pressing light on soft skin, barely there. “Earlier was stupid.” 

“You’ve said worse.” Homelander shrugs.

“Well, that was before.” Butcher says after a beat, going back to kissing his neck, lingering for sometime, inhaling his scent. “You know? It was shitty, and I’m sorry.”

Homelander stands there for a moment, lets Butcher continue to kiss him for sometime, then he reaches down and moves Butcher’s hands off of him which earns him a surprised noise. 

Homelander blows out a long breath, reaching out, grabbing the glass and turning around to face him. “You don’t want him to end up like me, and honestly, it would’ve hurt less if you said that. I don’t want him to either, Butcher. And yeah, when I tell you to drop it, it’ll sound like I wouldn’t mind if he went down that route, but it’s - that’s not it -” 

He sighs out, frustrated, lifting his cup to his mouth. “I just understand where his anger is coming from, and why he’s doing what he’s doing, perhaps you do too.” 

“I do.” Butcher mutters, and he does.

 Homelander blinks at him, lowering his cup after taking a few sips, licking his lips. 

“It’s a genetic thing. Generational trauma. The fear is not him becoming like you, well for me, at least. The initial fear is the cycle of being a fucked up person not breaking and just continuing on, which Ryan is currently showcasing with his willingness to intimidate people. I just want to put a stump in it right off the bat.” Butcher explains, thinking of his own family dynamics. 

He would know, he is a part of that group after all. 

Homelander nods his head, flickering his eyes down. “Okay. I get it,” he looks back at the cup, swiveling the glass. “I could’ve been better.” 

Butcher huffs, drawing in close, reaching out to touch his arm. “Compared to how Soldier Boy would’ve treated you if he had known about you sooner, and well, the shit you already had to take while growing up, I’d say you were the best you could be.” 

Homelander looks up at him. “I threw him off a roof, William.” 

Butcher snorts. “I said the best you could be.” 

“Hm.” Homelander hums thoughtfully, and he mutters to himself.  “Soldier Boy would’ve killed everyone in Vought if he knew about me sooner.”

Butcher eyebrows furrow, and he parts his lips to ask why that even mattered until Homelander adds on. “So I guess it is a genetic thing.” 

There’s a beat.

Homelander has this sad look melted onto his face, it was the most dejected he looked all day. Butcher clears his throat, wanting to redirect the conversation, changing the focus. “So, did I ruin the day?”

The corners of Homelander’s mouth twitches upwards, he hides his smile with his cup, the previous expression melting away, muttering. “Nah.” 

“Good.” Butcher says, staring at him fondly, he tries not to indulge in the fact that it was an alternative way of asking Homelander if he was still mad at him despite the blonde not directly showing any anger towards him. “You guys can sleep in my room, it’s a little cramped in here now but it’s nothing we can’t work with.”

Homelander chugs the rest of his milk down freakishly fast, turning around and running the sink water, preparing to wash the glass out. “That sounds like a plan.” 

“Alright, I’m going to be outside if you need me.” Butcher says, leaning in, kissing his cheek. 

“Okay.”

As he shuts his patio door behind him, Butcher rings Mallory’s phone, and when she picks up he immediately tells her that they’re all settled in and her response remained neutral which was good enough. 

Now that they’re alone she has no reason to be friendly to him. 

They don’t chit-chat that much considering there wasn’t really anything on the table, but he does get around to asking her if she has any spare properties for them to make room at and after an awkward silence, she gives him an address.

 “It’s pretty empty, but it’ll do. It’s two bedrooms. Capable. Don’t go and fuck it up.”

Butcher rolls his eyes. “We won’t.” 

“Mhm.” 

The cold nips at his skin but he doesn’t feel it, an idea warms his head.

 “Hey, uhh,” he turns around, looking at the shadows of Ryan and John fleeting across the hall through his blinds, most likely in the direction of his bedroom. “Me and The Boys, we’re still trying to navigate the situation -”

Mallory huffs on the other end. “Butcher, please. I’m already on it. They’re all covered.”

“Yeah, but, we’ve been trying to find the other members of the Seven.” 

“We see that. You’ve been making shit progress so far.” Mallory says, sighing, and then there’s a brief pause before she says. “I already have my hands busy with Soldier Boy.” 

What? Butcher takes the phone off his ear, blinks, and then puts it back on. “You’ve got your hands busy with Soldier Boy? Since when?”

“Since the tower fell. The FBI has been on his case for weeks, I took the lead, and then you dumped Ryan on me, so now my team has all hands on deck.” Mallory explains this so practically, and Butcher’s knees almost buckle with relief that feds were more ahead than The Boys were. 

Why didn’t he ask Mallory about this earlier? It didn’t cross his mind, he assumed that she was one-hundred percent focused on Ryan and so he never thought to ask. 

Was Homelander that much of a distraction? 

Why didn’t Mallory let him know about this anyway? That’s the real fucking question. 

Butcher shakes his head, trying not to bite his tongue. “What’ve you got on him so far?”

“What have I got?”

“Yes.” Butcher rolls his eyes.  

“Vought found Soldier Boy not too far from Queens and they killed him, he injured himself in the last blast that took out the tower, the amount of radiation used had vacuumed everything out of him, he managed to escape the wreckage but he didn’t go far.” Mallory informs him, putting her phone on speaker as she pushes herself up off of the couch, walking across the room towards the brown, wood cabinet parked against the sidewall. 

Fucking what.  

Her voice was blunt, nonchalant, as if she was being sarcastic, Butcher genuinely wonders if there’s a part of her that is truly tortured, agonized at the idea of being mixed up with anything regarding his bullshit anymore. 

Was she punishing him for even asking?

Butcher doesn’t even know. 

All this time, he was dead, all this fucking time? 

Mallory had to be pulling the rug out from beneath him, seizing the sick satisfaction, with her many connections to both Vought and FBI especially, in saying that Soldier Boy was actually dead. Butcher bites at the inside of his mouth, flickers of annoyance blooming from his toes to his head, a swarm of insults shove itself through the depths of his throat, buzzing in his body, causing his organs to shudder. 

Butcher’s silence draws out a sigh from her. 

Mallory opens the drawer to the cabinet, removes another cigarette packet and a lighter, withdrawing a stick. “Why didn’t I say anything sooner, right?” She rhetorically asks, continuing to fuck with him, shaking her head at herself as she titters bitterly, slipping the cig between her lips, cupping her hand around the lighter as she flicks it ablaze.

Asshole.

 “Are you trying to fuck me?” Butcher queries, or more so blurts out, narrowing his dark eyes and tilting his chin up.

“Isn’t it fair to get you back for fucking me?”

“Not with this, no.”

Mallory takes a long drag of her cigarette, backing up until the back of her knees bumps against a piece of furniture, and she sits down on her ottoman, crossing her leg over the other. “Okay, he’s not dead, technically. In a way, he pretty much is, on the inside at least. He’s depowered. That’s what we know.” 

Butcher runs his fingers through his hair with his other hand, his face scrunched up, he’s feeling split on this, his balls were tickled. “Mind giving me the full spill?” 

“We have him in a cell. They’re running tests on his brain, psychological shit.”

“Kill him.”

Mallory's tone is pointed. “I’m not in charge of that, but that’s the end goal.” 

Whispers of the night combs through Butcher’s hair. 

Butcher couldn’t wrap his head around this, too pinned up under the weight of his shock. “The last thing I heard is that Soldier Boy is still roaming about. I mean, we’ve got a guy, this fucking random bloke - Ron - who emailed us about the Seven, saying they knew where the rest of the Seven were. I don’t remember if he mentioned Soldier Boy.” 

“Initially, he was roaming around, like I said, he was in Queens when we found him, passed out by some dumpster.” Mallory says after a long pause, raising the cigarette back up to her lips, staring at her floors as she hears the man murmur a couple expletives to himself. 

Fuck. Okay. “What about Ron?”

“As soon as I heard about what happened, and despite being pissed off, I got a few of my guys to keep a watchful eye on you and the rest of the Boys. I haven’t heard of Ron.”

“Huh.” Butcher hmph’s, kicking the heel of his shoe against the patio floor, biting down on his bottom lip as agitation ravages through him. “This all would’ve been nice to fucking know.” 

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

“Had a lot of sleepless nights, you know.”

“If I haven’t heard of Ron, then you should definitely deal with that issue.” Mallory says, getting back to the issue. “People are scavenging for any sort of information on the supes, and there were tons of bystanders at the wreckage site. He must’ve tracked down a license plate, or stayed around long enough to get a good look at all of you.” 

 “We wouldn’t have taken the fucking ‘Ron’ route if you just opened your trap. We were all left to fend for ourselves back there, Frenchie was going door-to-door to keep us all alive, and I’ve been having to lay low for weeks.” And Butcher runs it back to his point. 

Mallory sighs. “Butcher -”

“And now, we’re dealing with a fucking fed? If your guys were on it, then why did we still get contacted?”

“People sidestep us all of the time, Butcher, you know that. You’re one of us. It’s not like I could put a whole team on you and your friends without having one eventually figure out you’re holding a depowered Homelander captive.” Mallory mutters in increasing annoyance as she caresses at her temple with her free hand, eyes closed, a vexed expression etched across her face. 

Butcher physically draws back as if she were right in front of him, recoiling at her selective use of terms, his face drawn up in denial. 

At his second spell of silence, Mallory shrugs her shoulders, eyes sheened over with lethargicness, and she adds on. “It’d be out of my hair by that point.”

“I wasn’t holding him captive.” Butcher grits out in a low voice, stomach lurching, he feels a spike of heat tighten his muscles, his jaw clenches and there’s a hot spark flickering in the back of his eyes.

That is a conversation he wanted to avoid. 

 “I know, but that’s exactly what they would think you’re doing though. You’ve been keeping him in your house without his explicit consent for weeks, Butcher, not letting him leave, I mean if Ron is rat, then Vought can easily pin a hostage case on you –” 

“Well they can just fuck off. Vought is not getting him back.” Butcher says sharply, shaking his head, ignoring the goosebumps coating the skin of his arms, the way his tongue burns as he talks. “I’m not holding him captive, alright? I know he didn’t fucking consent to anything, but that’s not the point, is it? Jesus. You weren’t even there.”

“Butcher, I’m not accusing you.” 

“Well that’s one thing.” 

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Mallory scoffs out despite holding her hands up in defense as if Butcher could see her, cigarette ash flaking off of the stick as she keeps her hands raised, “what I’m trying to say is that we couldn’t help that Ron slipped past us, and our sights were on Annie recently. She's been going to the top of this one building in downtown Harlem, sitting on the ledge several times the past two weeks.”

“Fuck.” Butcher rubs at the back of his head, blowing out a held breath. There was a lot to unpack here, what with Annie’s self destructive side tasks, and Mallory’s neverending commitment in causing him headaches. “So what do we do?”

“Butcher, my advice is to do what you can.”

Butcher forces himself to calm down, and fails at it, but at least he can tell himself that the information given is helpful despite being dropped on him weeks later. “Kimiko and Frenchie had already gone by to see him. He gave them coordinates to find A-Train and they’re already in Chicago.” 

Mallory doesn’t immediately respond, she just sits there on her fancy little ottoman and takes another drag of her cigarette, jawline protruding, eyebrows twitching downwards as smoke enters her lungs, nicotine pulsing through her veins. 

“He said in an email that he worked at Vought tower,” he says, it’s necessary to mention that, he feels. It’s something Mallory could peel apart and prod at until Butcher can get his mind to refocus. 

Mallory lets the smoke trail out of her mouth, watching it.

Butcher draws in an annoyed breath at her ongoing silence. “He saw us take Homelander and Starlight into Frenchie’s van.”

“Did he? What the fuck?”

“That was our only transportation out of that hellhole.” 

“Okay. So he’s been keen, watchful, obviously. The email must’ve been bait, and you got caught in the trap. Do you answer all of your emails?”

Butcher tries not to snap. “It wasn’t my email, it was MM’s, and besides, we were desperate for a lead.”

Mallory grumbles to herself, moves on. “So you’re telling me that Kimiko and Frenchie paid him a visit already?”

Butcher mutters out a distracted ‘yeah,’ and fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, undoing one. “Rundown apartment, Bronx.” 

Mallory nods. “I’ll get my guys on it, but I’m going to need a better reason as to why he contacted you, because if it has anything to do with the Seven -”

“In that case, I’ll handle it.” Butcher interrupts her, feeling too fucking agitated with himself to let this one slip through at this point, he doesn’t feel like going on longer with this, not with all the information she just gave him. 

“Butcher, I can track him.” 

“Piss off.  Didn’t you say you were busy with Soldier Boy?” Butcher asks, and before she could answer him, he hangs the phone up, a parallel to her hanging up on him the other night. 

In Butcher’s bedroom, Ryan was seated next to his dad, his hair still damp, he tuned into his super-hearing not too long ago, causing him to zone out once he picked up on Mallory and Butcher’s phone call. 

He was unable to move, sheer curiosity peaking over the mountain top, and when John asked if he was okay, he shushed him. 

“They’re talking.” Ryan whispered, keeping note that Butcher has super-hearing too. 

By the end of it, they were both just sitting there in this thick air of silence, Ryan taking in everything at a snail’s pace, staring down at the floor.

John feels a tingle transpire in his stomach, and he flicks his eyes over at his son who seemed stuck in some type of blank trance, he reaches over to tap his shoulder gently, attempting to bring him back. “So?”

Ryan’s fists were balled in his lap, breaths labored. 

John frowns at him, tapping his shoulder again. “Ryan?” 

The boy breathes in another rattling breath as he blinks his eyes, looking over at him with raised eyebrows, an emoted question, asking what he wants, Homelander notices his jaw unlatching after it was clenched tight for sometime.

“Are you good?”

Ryan fidgets, twiddling his thumb clockwise, and then counterclockwise, an anxious back and forth movement that Homelander heavily scrutinizes. “Hm? Yeah. What’s up?” 

“You said Billy and Mallory were talking. What did they say?” Homelander asks, motioning his head towards the door as the patio door closes from afar. 

As he waited for an answer, Ryan was just staring up at him with big blank eyes, so he awkwardly cleared his throat, adding on. “I couldn’t hear anything they talked about. I don’t - have that - anymore. Super-hearing, I mean.” 

“Oh,” Ryan elicits after a beat, and he looks back down for a second, cursing under his breath before immediately apologizing. “Right. I’m sorry, dad. I kind of zoned out, but they were talking about some dude named Ron,” he decides to leave the Soldier Boy part out, rubbing at his chest at the mere mention of that man’s name.

“I heard of him, he knows where A-Train is.” It doesn't take much of an effort for Homelander to not mention the Deep, he never wanted Ryan to acknowledge that idiot’s presence in his team, and he was glad for each time he did have Ryan around in the tower, Kevin wasn’t there. “You remember A-Train, right?” 

Homelander didn’t necessarily like A-Train more, he was just as annoying, especially when he couldn’t run, which was pretty much the only interesting attribute about him – A-Train did say ‘fuck you, man’ to him though, even if he was turned away from him and that Homelander was already a few paces down the hall. 

Sure, he might not really like him, but there’s a minimal amount of respect that blends in with his honest opinion on the speedster, over time, as he changed, it sort of grew. 

Ryan responds with a nod, and a genuinely concerned: “Is he alright?” 

Homelander makes a quizzical face at that question, looking down at his hands for a moment, searching for the best answer he could possibly come up with. He wants to actually take time to mull over his responses to Ryan, not wanting to sound dismissive, cold and withdrawn from the topic. 

“I don’t really know. Me and Star - Annie - we think that he wasn’t in the tower. They’re trying to find out where he is.”

Ryan lets that roll over his thoughts, repeating the back and forth motion with his thumbs. “Ah, well, Ron might be misleading everyone. He used to work with Vought so it’s possible that he’s a potential danger, but Mallory must’ve known this for some time and that made Butcher really mad.”  

Homelander blinks, looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Really?”

“She also might’ve been too busy with me to really contact Billy about it.” Ryan forces himself to sound as neutral as possible, averting his eyes. 

“Wow.”

Ryan seems to mull over something he doesn’t verbalize, and then he abruptly floats himself off of the bed, dropping back onto the ground with a soft thud, quickly saying. “I gotta use the bathroom,” and before Homelander could manage to say anything, he rushed over to his bag, yanking his phone out of it before retreating to Butcher’s bathroom. 

Homelander, still sitting on the bed, feels a numbness occur in his fingers, his annoyance towards that old hag has been tested all day. 

Mallory is such a fucking handful. 

The patio door clicks closed again and Homelander sighs, getting up, heading out of the room, attending to go and talk to Butcher.

“Hi Ryan, how are you?” Mallory asks, sounding wringed out. 

“Is it true?” Ryan asks instead of greeting her back, holding the phone against his ear. He hasn’t apologized for the pancake lasering yet, and Mallory’s wondering if it’s ever going to come. “Is grandpa really like dad now?” 

Mallory doesn’t find the use in hiding the news from someone as smart as Ryan, if he heard this, then he’s already heard enough. “Yes.”

Ryan swallows before asking. “Where is he?”

“Why is that any of your concern?”

“Because - I think -  I just really need to know.” Ryan stammers, trekking over to the mirror, staring at himself. 

Mallory hums, noting the perturbed tone flickering between his words, her cigarette has been stubbed out the moment Butcher hung up, crushed underneath her slippers. “I have it under control Ryan, he’s not going to get out, and he’s going to pay for his crimes. We’ll get justice for what he’s done. There’s no need to fret over him any longer.” 

“Okay, but -” Ryan doesn’t know how to correctly put this, a million words springing off the walls of his skull, he releases the fist he’s been clenching with his free hand, eventually finding ground, staring straight at himself. “I don’t want him to go to jail or anything.” 

A frown twists its way  into Mallory’s features, and she tries not to come off as surprised, failing. “What?” 

Ryan kept staring into the mirror, at his reflection, fidgeting slightly. 

“Ryan, that’s -” she shakes her head, completely lost, she stops herself from stammering over her words, too in shock by this sudden change of heart, “why don’t you?”  

“Because,” Ryan pauses to gather himself, standing up straighter, and forcing himself to relax. “I want to kill him myself.”

Silence. 

Mallory’s features soften, the confusion melting into a look of understanding, and when she talks again Ryan can hear the threading in her voice, that she doesn’t buy his words, even with knowing what he’s capable of. 

There's a hint of doubt littering her features, Ryan is thankfully not there to see it. 

She sighs out. “Oh, Ryan. Sweetheart, I know you’re angry at him, but having him detained and locked away benefits us -” 

“I’m serious.” Ryan says, cutting through the bullshit, and he doesn’t really know if she buys it but Mallory was clearly caught off guard, her heartbeat accelerating, he could hear it from here. “If you know where he is, then tell me, because he can’t get away with everything he’s done by being held up in a cell. I want to kill him.” 

“Ryan, you don’t kill people. You don’t even know what you’re talking about, the repercussions that would have are extreme. You’re only ten. You’ll never recover and your conscience will forever be tainted if you took the life of someone.” 

“Do you know what I saw after the explosion?” Ryan asks her as he takes slow steps towards the mirror, his voice steady and sure. “I saw so many bodies, the aftermath of everything, people were strewn everywhere with their guts mashed into the ground, they were burnt, and mutilated -” 

“I know, Ryan, but -”

“Superheroes are supposed to get rid of the bad guys. At all costs. I had a bad feeling about him, but I didn’t do anything and people got hurt. Butcher and his friends almost died. My dad almost died.” Ryan continues, feeling his chest tighten at the nightmarish memories. “My conscience is already bad, aunt Grace.”

Mallory’s quiet for a beat or two, settling with herself that this isn’t a conversation where she can hide behind being Ryan’s guardian, the boy was making some serious considerations, he wants to willingly take a life.

A more ignorant side of her wonders whether Homelander was feeding this to him, but she knows that this isn’t a good time to ask. 

Even then, as uncharacteristic as this sounds for the boy, Ryan still sounds like his normal self, hell, he even seemed uncomfortable on the topic, and yet, it was something he felt necessary to do. 

She wonders how long this anger inside of him has been manifesting, and she feels guilty that it’s bubbled to this point, that someone as kind and gentle as Ryan would want to put an end to someone's life - even if it’s in an individual like Soldier Boy. 

“None of it was your fault, Ryan.”

She doesn’t want him to go down this path, Becca would be very disappointed hearing the way he’s talking.

“It was his.” Ryan says, pulling her out of her tangled thoughts, his eyebrows knitted and he sounded so sinister, Mallory could hear the simmer of his rage skittering behind his words. “He deserves to suffer, don’t you think?” 

“Butcher wouldn’t like you talking like this.” 

Ryan blinks, swallowing. “He would understand. I can make him.”

“Your mother, Ryan.” Mallory mentions, and Ryan tenses up and looks away from the mirror at that, his mouth twitching downwards, breaths coming in sharp through his nose. “Becca would be very disappointed hearing you say things like this.”

“Don’t mention her.” 

“Ryan.”

“Don’t. Please.” Ryan pleads, and then he sighs out. “Where is he?”

“You don’t want to kill him Ryan.” Mallory pauses, and then she decides to try to seek the origin of this sudden moral shift. “Did Homelander -” Ryan cuts his eyes to the door as soon as his dad’s former title rolls off her tongue, immediately scrunching his face up, “- tell you that it would be best if he was dead?” 

“No.” 

“Ryan, listen, your dad -”

“Aunt Grace, he didn’t.”

“Just listen to me -”

“I said he didn’t fucking say anything.” Ryan snarls out sharply, there’s an unhinged lilt dripping into his tone, and it sends a chill down Mallory’s spine. 

“Okay.” She responds, her voice light. “Okay, Ryan.”

There’s a pause.

Ryan didn’t even recognize the sound of his voice, and for that, he apologizes.

Although he’s annoyed at her again, maybe even partially pissed, his words come out softer than previously. “I want to kill him, I decided that I wanted to do it by myself. Dad had nothing to do with it. He’s not even like that anymore.” 

Mallory sets her phone down, leans back and clasps her hands together. 

She’s getting too old for this, there’s a discomfort residing in her chest, and she honestly felt like she was fighting a losing battle here. “How about this? We discuss this with Butcher, and he’ll decide whether you can execute Soldier Boy’s fate. I’ll even give him the address, it’s up to him to give it to you or not.”  

Oh, fuck. Ryan buffers, opening his mouth to argue. 

Mallory’s voice left no room for argument. “Ryan. I need you to not worry about this right now. Your family is back, and you left with them today, as of now, enjoy that.”

Ryan goes back to staring at himself wordlessly before he lowers his head, rubbing at his eyes. “Perhaps I’m asking for too much today.”

“Your anger is valid.” Mallory makes sure to remind him. 

“If you could just -” Ryan stops himself from continuing because the conversation seemed over, and he was about to tell her to go fuck off which wasn’t – nice. 

He thought he made his point to Mallory, but turns out he didn’t. 

He sticks to rubbing his eye more violently, a melting pot in his stomach, there is an invisible weight crashing down onto his shoulders, and there’s an immense amount of guilt at the void that’s still in his chest. “Nevermind.” 

“Goodnight, Ryan.” 

“Night.”  

“Holy fuck.” Homelander breathes out, as he steps into Butcher’s proximity, a little dismayed as he eyed the mutilated rabbit a few feet away nearby a dumpster that had scorch marks on it. “Did you - Butcher did you do that?”

“Was an accident.” Butcher mutters as he swallows, staring at the rabbit, his eyes still tinged from the searing glow, the yellow fading. 

He’s going to fuck Ron up. 

“Oh, well, that’s usually how it goes.” Homelander forces into a not-so-there laugh as he stands next to him, bumping his shoulder against the taller man, an attempt to lessen the shitty feeling of harming an unknowing animal.

He’s been there too many times. 

Butcher doesn’t respond though, remaining quiet.

Homelander just clears his throat and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together, because that’s how comforting someone works for him. Despite being mad to a point where his powers can easily be called upon due to the flare of his anger, Butcher embraces the touch, careful not to squeeze him. 

Homelander tries to cheer him up despite thinking he was terrible at it. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Shit happens.” 

“I’m not.”

“Oh.” Homelander mutters as he blinks, his mouth twitching awkwardly, shifting side to side on his feet. “Well, okay, good. That’s uhh - a pretty good mark you left there by the way. You’re probably as good as Ryan.” 

Butcher lifts a hand, digging his thumb into the corner of his eye as he sighs out. “Ron might be a spy from Vought.” 

Wind breezes through their hair, light mists of rain coming down on them once more today, making their hair damp. 

Butcher was expecting a reaction as unsettled as his, but instead he gets this long exhale, which isn’t much of a surprise in itself, it was as if he knew already. 

Homelander hasn’t dressed down yet, only wearing slippers, so he shivers in his jacket as he looks down at the floor, awkwardly drawing his right foot out, striding back towards the flat, tugging at Butcher's arm so that he can come along with him. “Come on, let’s go back and sleep on it. I’m fucking beat.” 

Butcher doesn’t budge. “No, we should talk. Just a little.” 

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.” Butcher looks down, shaking his head. “I mean, if you want to go back inside then you can. I won’t hold you up.”

John's expression softens, studying the taller man’s face. “Billy,” he murmurs, looking back at the flat, willing himself to be patient, then he turns to face Butcher, staring up at him as he lets go of his hand to run his palm up the length of Butcher’s arm instead, giving it a gentle squeeze and he whispers. “I’ll stay with you.”

“Thanks, love.” 

“Mm.”

It’s quiet.

John’s cold, but he doesn’t care at the moment. 

“I already told MM and Hughie. They’re relaying the message. We should be regrouping soon.” Butcher finally says after a minute or two, shaking his head, jaw clenched. “Stupid decisions were made, Homelander. I mean, she didn’t say a fucking word about it this entire time. I should’ve reached out, should’ve been more involved.”

“That’s her problem.” Homelander tells him, opting to rub his back. 

Butcher shakes his head. “They could’ve been burnt, and where was I at?” 

“Butcher, come on.” Homelander says, frowning. “It was her choice not to tell you.”

“She was all over it, and I didn’t even – I mean, she had her guys keeping tabs on us from the beginning. Watching us, and shit.”

Mallory had her men watching them, John let that sink in, his nose twitching as he glanced down at the patio floor. 

Discomfort makes his gut flip, and there’s a hint of anger there, festering in his gut, but he decides not to indulge in it, because Butcher is doing it for him. He’s been watched before, his privacy previously invaded by people like Mallory and in the higher-ups, the annoying fucks that stuck around him kept scavenging around in order to find one thing to carve his flaws out.

Butcher did it too, ironically enough. 

“Although she doesn’t seem like the type, it seemed like she assigned her men to everyone out of worry, but it’s still a little fucked to me.”

“A little?”

“Very.” 

“What do you want to do about it?” Homelander asks as he draws in a breath, tilting his head up at him. 

“Nothing I can do, unless you have any ideas.”

“Okay. Well, first, with Ron you can -” he makes a slit throat motion, thumb making an invisible cut across the column of his throat, and Butcher sniggers at the action despite himself, looking away from him towards the flat. 

“Walked right into that one, didn't I?” Butcher says, feigning a disappointed look. 

Homelander smiles smugly, it feels good to make Billy laugh, he grabs the lapels of Butcher’s shirt and pulls him towards the door. “Come on, stop moping out here and come inside. It’s fucking freezing.” 

Butcher sighs through his nose, following him through. “Alright.” 

Ryan might be reuniting with The Boys sooner than he thought.

Chapter Text

Butcher gets off the phone with U-haul company around eleven, renting out a truck for two to put his furniture in for the move. He believes he’d only need one day, but things can change in the near future.

The least Mallory could do after playing hide and seek with him for weeks on end is to pay for the truck, and, well, she doesn’t, but he decides to not let that bother him because there’s too much shit going on at the moment. 

From the corner of his eye, he could see Homelander wordlessly observing him from the passenger seat. He's been looking at him ever since they came back from their breakfast outing, and with each second that goes by, the staring gets less romantic. 

Butcher straightens up his posture, one hand on the steering wheel, the other placed on the armrest. Ryan was sitting with his back against the left door, sketching and sketching, he had his headphones on despite not needing to wear them, he didn’t want to disturb his dad or Butcher with his diverse choice of songs.

 All in all, the boy is paying no mind to the men up front as Butcher’s hand twitches towards Homelander’s, fingers brushing along the back of his hand.   

“What’s up?” 

“Hm,” Homelander hums as he blinks, deep in thought as he keeps glancing down at their hands, then back up at Butcher. “On the kids menu, it said there was a super-abled amusement park. Do you and Ryan really plan to go?” 

“Funfair, actually. It’s for both supes and humans. Fans hosted it in tribute for what happened at Vought, it’s a community thing.” 

“Sounds a little -”

“Outlandish? Yeah, maybe, mixing those groups together and what-not. Ryan’s going to love it though, he’s the one who brought it up to me, on his phone it said the breakfast place was handing out free tickets. I didn’t get the chance to ask if you wanted to go because you were still asleep. He was excited, kept insisting we should go.” 

“It’s fine.” Homelander assures him, and yet, his brows were furrowed as if something was wrong. “So, human fans and supe fans went all in on this, or,” he trails off as he stares at the Brit, continuing to frown, expecting Butcher to finish that thought. 

“Yes, and it got signed off.” 

“Oh. That’s nice.” 

“There’s an adult section too, and I plan to get all of The Boys gathered there. I’m assuming Kimiko and Frenchie have their hands on Ron already, so we do our thing at the funfair, let Ryan take off some steam, get his mind off Soldier Boy, come back to HQ, then take care of business.” 

“Exciting.” 

“Yeah.” 

Homelander hums distractedly, looking out the window, strumming his fingers on his lap. 

Butcher frowns slightly, glancing over at him. “You alright, love?” 

“Just in one of those moods. It’s been awhile.” Homelander replies after a beat, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m okay.” 

“What kind of mood?” Butcher presses on with furrowed eyebrows. Homelander's lips just twitch in some sort of silent response and he fidgets his hands on his lap, and Ryan shifts in the backseat, tugging his headphones off of his head, letting them dangle around his neck. 

Ryan taps his pencil against the notebook. “Billy, can I ask you something?”

Butcher directs his attention to Ryan. “What is it, lad?”

“When we move our stuff, can I help you with the furniture?” 

“Of course. As long as you’re careful.”

“So, A-Train the last time we seen him looked uhm -” Frenchie doesn’t have the words for it, his fingers cupping at a handful of french fries, seat positioned back, one hand in his batch of fries and the other holding a pair of binoculars against his face. He hums thoughtfully, giving up on speaking his opinion, shoving the fries in his mouth instead.

As he shrugs his shoulders, making a noncommittal sound, he passes the binoculars over to Kimiko who was staring straight at him, no longer drawing in her notebook, signing. “He’s not in the house. We should get back to New York.” 

Frenchie turns to look at her. “We will, mon coeur.” 

The van doors are abruptly opened with brute force, and an arm is wrapped around Frenchie’s neck before he could even blink. 

Kimiko’s eyes widen, heart sinking as Frenchie gets dragged out of the car, choking out her name helplessly. She drops everything in a flash, clambering over the armrest, teeth gritted, rage warping her, and then someone grabs her foot, yanking her back. She twists as she’s pulled the opposite direction, writhing against the aggressive touch, a strained noise escaping her and then there’s a weight on her back, one hand grabbing a handful of her hair, the other clapping over her mouth. 

With a growl, she bucks up, hinges her mouth open and bites down on the hand, teeth searing through the aggressor's skin, tearing off the person’s fingers in one hike and pull of her teeth. The grip on her falters, blood spewing out everywhere and her eardrums rattle as the man releases a guttural scream, three fingers left on his hand, the skin hanging off one of them. 

“Fucking bitch,” is cried out before Kimiko headbutts him with all her strength, causing the front of his skull to cave in, his neck making a snap sound as it whips back from the impact. With a thud, she collapses onto the ground with the man, his body limp and sprawled out below her as he cushions her fall. Kimiko inhales sharply, pushing up off of him, scrambling up onto her feet within seconds, and sprinting around the van to search for Frenchie. 

“Tommy!” Kimiko comes to a stop, whipping her head around at the sound of another man’s voice, blood from who she assumes is ‘Tommy’ rolling down her cheeks, soaking into her shirt.

She sees another man approaching her, albeit distracted by the body of his partner lying on the grass, his widened, fearful eyes darting from Tommy to Kimiko, gun clicked. “What the fuck did you do to him?” 

Kimiko narrows her eyes at him, scowling, fists clenched. 

There’s another voice from behind her. “Take him out of here and call 911!”

Kimiko whirls around. 

A golf club clocks the upside of her head before she could even dodge it, and she hits the ground hard, her breath knocked out of her lungs as she clutches her head.

A-Train – Reggie – dressed in regular clothes, wearing bandages wrapped along his arm, stands over her, snarling down at the girl as she bleeds from the side of her head, groaning softly as she lifts herself up on her forearm. 

“You and your friend have been sitting by my house, watching me for days.” He points the bloodied club at her face, and there’s a dangerous look in his eye as he spat, voice trembling. “Look at what you did to my fucking friend . ”

Kimiko’s eyes move from the club in her face to glare up at him, her jaw clenched, the wound on her head healing over as the seconds go by. 

Behind her, the man who held the gun at her had sniffled, kneeling down by Tommy’s lifeless body, shaking his head, eyes glossed with wetness. “I can’t risk calling the police, Reggie. If they’re in the area that - that has a crime scene and they find you -” 

“That doesn’t matter, Jay. I've already been found.” Reggie says, and Kimiko could see the distressed look on his face, but above that all, he made the unfortunate choice of breaking eye contact. 

Kimiko swings her foot out, sweeping his legs off of the ground, and as soon as he crashes into the grass with a high cry of pain, she surges up, mounting and straddling him with effortlessness.

Jay’s eyes widen, reacting fast as she pins A-Train to the ground with fingers wrapped around his neck in a unique manner, fingertips pressed against the back of his neck, threatening to snap his vertebrae. 

The man was fumbling with his gun, screaming at her to stop, the sound of desperation weighing in on his voice. “Don’t, please, wait! Don’t kill him!” 

“Get out of here, Jay,” Reggie chokes out, a hand flying up to land a punch in her face only for Kimiko to catch it, break it with a firm squeeze of her hand, before pinning it back down by the side of his head. To Jay’s horror, Reggie screams out in pure agony as hot white pain snakes up his arm, blooming in his chest. 

He’s left whimpering, writhing underneath her, and Kimiko glares directly at Jay, hair falling into her eyes, breathing slowed. 

“Stop! Fuck, just - stop! Please!” Jay turns on the safety, dropping the gun in defeat as Reggie continues to sob out in pain, choking bit by bit, Kimiko putting pressure on his neck the more Jay begs. “What the fuck do you want from us? We just wanted - we just wanted to be left alone, that’s it - we’re not hurting anyone -”

“Hughie’s -” Reggie struggles to speak as he’s being choked out, eyes wet with unshed tears, face turning a variation of blue. “Hughie’s group, they’re from - Hughie -” 

Through the multiple stories Jay had heard from Reggie regarding Hughie and The Boys, their history, Robyn’s death, and their possible involvement with resurrecting Soldier Boy, that was the worst possible news he could hear.

He lets out a weak sound as he places both of his hands in his hair, gripping at it, shaking all over, and he gets on his knees as tears roll down his cheeks, pleading. “Let him go, please. Whatever we did, we’re fucking sorry, alright? What - what the fuck do you want from us?”   

Kimiko doesn’t move, and Reggie’s struggling to pant underneath her. 

“Are you -” Jay pauses as he blinks, sniffling, stammering over his words. “Are you mad about your friend? He’s in the house, all Mareese did was tie him up, we didn’t hurt him or anything. I can - I can go get him! Just let Reggie go, okay?” 

Kimiko doesn’t budge.

“You can come with me!”

And then, her grip lightens slightly at that, expression softening. 

Reggie draws in sharp intakes of breath below her, sweat beading at his forehead. “Get,” he breathes out harshly, spit flying out of his clenched teeth, “get Mareese to chill out on Frenchie first, that’s his name,” he narrows his wet eyes at Kimiko, choking out, “then she’ll let me go, right?”

There’s a beat, and then, Kimiko nods her head, slowly. 

Jay darts his eyes from A-Train, to Kimiko, then back at A-Train, a look of apprehension embedded in his features. “Reggie -”

“Just fucking do it, man.” Reggie sputters out, letting his head fall back against the grass, his throat trembling in Kimiko’s grasp as he swallows. 

Jay scrambles towards the house, shouting Mareese’s name, his footsteps hitting the ground to the stairs of the porch in quick succession, the front door being swung open with a loud creak. 

Kimiko watches him leave for a moment, and then slips her hand from A-Train’s neck, grabbing at the front of his shirt, fist pressed against his chest as she swings her legs off of him, standing up. Reggie grunts out in discomfort as he’s hoisted onto his feet by the girl, being shoved back towards the house seconds later, a silent command to walk. 

Kimiko acknowledges the smart decision of him obeying her muted order without any arguments, he just complies, holding his broken wrist, trembling, breathing in and out through gritted teeth. 

They make their way towards the porch in short strides, Kimiko forces Reggie to hurry up the steps, shoving him repeatedly, causing the injured man to trip over his footing a few times. “I’m going, I’m going,” he croaks out as he steps foot inside of the house, his breathing labored, Kimiko follows right behind him. 

No one else was here aside from these three apparently, and sure, that made sense. A-Train is/was a member of the Seven, a representative of Vought, and the manhunts alone would clue anyone in into laying low for the past month.

Perhaps it wasn’t entirely a family’s home, but instead, it was a friend’s place. So, Ron did know something, he must’ve been obsessed with this entire situation for weeks, thinking he could make a quick buck off of their pain.

How cheap. 

Kimiko took a few seconds to look around before she’s indirectly called to attention again.  

“What the fuck?” A man, presumably Mareese, exclaims as he grips the cord he already had wrapped around a bruised and bloodied Frenchie. “Where’s Tommy?” 

“Just let him go, man.” Jay repeats, gesturing over to Frenchie. 

Kimiko’s eyes widened at the sight of Frenchie. 

Frenchie, positioned on his knees as he sat on the floor, looked back at her, giving the girl a shaky wave, along with a toothless grin. “Mon coeur, glad you’re okay,” he struggles to speak, Mareese must’ve gotten some good hits in. 

“Where’s my brother?” Mareese asks instead of untying Frenchie, sounding increasingly frantic. 

“She killed him.” Reggie grunts out, flinching as Kimiko steps up to stand beside him. 

She glares at Mareese as he elicits a wounded sound, huffing, tingles of anxiousness residing in her stomach the longer he keeps Frenchie tied up. 

“They’re with Hughie’s group. Mareese, listen, she broke his - she broke his fucking wrist with one squeeze. She’s a supe, I think, I don’t know -”

“She is.” Reggie confirms, still holding his damaged wrist. “He’s friends with a British dude, I forgot his name. Hughie, that motherfucker,” he tilts his head at Frenchie, “and someone called Mother’s Milk.”

“She killed my brother.” Mareese says, sounding broken as he pulls out his gun, presses the cold metallic revolver against Frenchie’s temple.

“She killed my brother, and you want me to let him go?” Kimiko draws near as Frenchie emits a noise of uncertainty. Mareese clicks off the safety. “Is he a supe too?” 

Jay backs up, and Reggie draws forward. “Mareese, stop -”  

“Wait, wait, I was wondering if maybe we could just talk this out before we do anything rash.” Frenchie rambles out in a desperate hurry because Kimiko has that nightmarish look on her face, he also sees Mareese’s finger hover over the trigger from the corner of his eye and decides to explain himself to the best of his abilities. 

“We were about to leave - we just wanted to check in on you, and that’s all we were doing, that’s it. I swear. Je promets.” 

“I don’t want to hear what he has to say.” Mareese says, eyeing Kimiko, then directing his glare back to Frenchie. “Let’s just end his shit.” 

Kimiko scowls. 

“Mareese, don’t. Don’t.” 

Frenchie hears a click and he flinches at it. “Just listen to me, please. You don’t want to do this, alright?” 

“We don’t know if there’s more coming.” Reggie says, battling between his options, and yet, his friend was playing with death considering how Kimiko had quietly slipped halfway across the distance between her and Mareese. “You should go be with your brother. Outside. Take him out of here.”

Mareese blinks back tears, readjusting his grip on the gun. “I - you can’t let them live - not after what they did.”

“She can’t die,” Frenchie utters as he squirms and fidgets on his knees, tilting his head towards a stalking Kimiko who nods at his next words, “and if you kill me, she’ll kill you all.” 

Frenchie flicks his gaze between all of them. “And then, they will come. They’ll all come for your families, your friends, especially Billy Butcher. He will not stop until every single one of you is dead.” 

Although he’s fiddling with a scare factor to keep a bullet out of his head, Frenchie knows that he’s telling the complete truth. Once Butcher is pushed to or over that brink, it is lights out. 

A pregnant pause, everyone exchanges looks with each other.

Frenchie takes advantage of the silence, straightening his posture, Mareese lowers his gun, withdrawn from what’s happening at this point, he’s staring out the window at the lawn where he assumes his brother’s body is lying.

We didn’t mean for this to happen. There’s this man who worked at Vought, Ron, he told us you were here. We had no intentions of coming here other than checking on you, and eventually, coming around to asking you if you knew where The Deep was.” 

Reggie clenches his jaw, shaking his head. “I don’t know a Ron.”

Jay looks between A-Train and Frenchie.

“Well, he knows us. All of us.” Frenchie states, looking around the room. “It’s a little fucked now, but we didn’t mean any harm, honestly.”

After a pause, Reggie speaks up again, averting his eyes. “I don’t know where Kevin is now. He wasn’t in the tower when it went down, he was with -” he swallows, thinking about their very last Seven meeting. “Homelander sent him on a mission, I don’t know what it was, but something went down with the Vice President. He never came back. Forget about finding him. Let him live with that, wherever he is.” 

Kimiko looks at Frenchie, there’s a brief look of surprise etched onto her features before she goes back to scowling. 

Frenchie’s eyes bulge. “He sent him to kill the Vice President? Sacrebleu. ” 

“Reggie?” Jay chokes out in his own mirth. 

Reggie holds his wrist, sighing out in frustration. “Look. I lost my powers, and I went back home. You come back here with a tip from some guy I don’t even know, stalked me, broke my arm, and then killed my friend. There’s nothing you can get out of me anymore. I’m done. I’m out.”

At the reminder of his brother’s demise, in a faulty move, Mareese tightens his grip on the gun, positioning it against Frenchie’s temple, finger on the trigger –

Kimiko lunges forward and grabs his neck, wrenches the gun out of his hand, it goes off anyway, the bullet ricocheting off of a square metal piece drilled into the floor, Frenchie ducks and caves to the ground, shrieking in terror. 

Jay drops to the floor too, shielding himself as he screams, Reggie takes a bullet to the vital part of his neck, and he crumples to the floor, blood spewing out of his neck.

Jay drops his hands from his head, eyes widening, mouth dropping open, grief ramming into him full speed as crimson red blood pools around A-Train.

With gritted teeth, Kimiko crushes a thrashing Mareese’s windpipe, killing the man instantly, and Frenchie’s whimpering next to her by the time she regains her senses.

She looks over her shoulder at a dead A-Train, eyes widening while Frenchie continues to whimper, neither of them not being able to look away as Jay tries to apply pressure on the wound.

– Eighteen hours later 

“There he is.” Frenchie murmurs as he puts down his binoculars, starting the van up with one hand, holding up his phone with the other, his still bruised eyes darting back and forth between the picture of Ron MM had dug up and sent him, and the man walking down the sidewalk with a Starbucks drink in his hand. 

There’s a clear resemblance. 

Ron looks middle-aged, wearing a bunch of techno, a faded AT&T shirt, and khaki cargo shorts which would be considered psychotic due to the cool weather, he’s wearing this light blue cap on his head. Frenchie is reminded of Hughie in some ways. 

Kimiko looks up from her phone, removing a headphone from her ear, sitting up in her seat and grabbing the binoculars from the man.

Frenchie texts MM that he’s found Ron, the message takes time delivering, and he waits for it to send while Kimiko looks through the scopes, the corner of her lips curling down into a frown, another large pit building in her stomach.

She sighs and lowers the binoculars from her face, looking over at Frenchie with a mixed expression, signing to him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go home.” Frenchie signs back to her, putting his phone down onto the cupholder once the message is sent, reaching over to grasp the binoculars, taking another glance at their guy. 

“What happened last time was bad for us.” Frenchie looks back at her, glancing down at her hand gestures. Kimiko bites her bottom lip, signing again. “We need a break from this, we’re hurting.” 

“I agree.” Frenchie gives her a reassuring smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes, Kimiko notices how bad his hands are shaking as he reaches for the gearshift. “But we’ll work it out, mon coeur. We always do.” He puts the van back in drive.

The thing is, it never ends. 

Kimiko knows that nothing is going to immediately happen to him either, Butcher is a dick, and he’s going to make this man Ron suffer. Although Kimiko doesn’t entirely disagree with the plan, she just hates her and Frenchie being used as the weapon. Again.

The inner rage that’s consuming people within the group doesn’t help either.

At the end, she takes what she can get so that they can leave her and Frenchie alone later. It’s just a pain to do things like this again when she wasn’t really over what happened back at the tower, violence of any kind triggers her anxiety, makes her overprotective, oversensitive. 

Too many atrocities have happened in her life for her to ever get used to dealing with it in a passive manner; getting the job done, cleaning herself off, and then moving along. 

She’s not supposed to think about it. Tools don’t think. 

The tools inside of the van rattles as Frenchie drives, the sound of the engine drowning out the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Kimiko glances back at it, biting down on her bottom lip, chewing into her skin. 

This is so fucked. 

Still, despite her looming hesitance, she exhales a long breath, rolls her shoulders and cracks her knuckles in preparation. As Frenchie rolls the van to a stop a few meters away from the man, she turns to grab the door handle, making her way out of the van, and after she closes the door she gives Frenchie a nod in which he returns. 

Tap. Tap. 

As soon as Ron turned around to see who was trying to get his attention, Kimiko socked him into unconsciousness in broad daylight, his Starbucks drink falling onto the ground with a splash of hot liquid seeping along the concrete, spilling everywhere. 

Frenchie watches it all occur, his gut twisting, and he’s immediately sweating bullets before he could think his next thought. 

As soon as Ron's knees buckle due to the punch to the eye, he lets out a distressed ‘umf’ noise as his head whips back from the impact, and before he could succumb to the same fate as his drink, Kimiko caught him in her arms. 

Looking around the area to see if anyone had witnessed this, she noticed that the block they were in was otherwise very empty. Thank fuck. 

Kimiko sighs and returns her attention to the man, pulling him up against her body, backpedaling towards the van.

Frenchie was already cruising towards her, rolling down the window, craning his head to get a good look at the man, making sure he matched the image sent to him. It’d be a bust if this person wasn’t Ron, Kimiko would probably be pissed at him too, giving him the cold shoulder for the rest of the day, or week. 

Good on Frenchie for having a good eye though – well, when he’s not high. 

As soon as Frenchie rolled the vehicle up beside her, he put the van in park and stepped out of the vehicle, rushing over towards the back, slapping the side of the van with his palm to make sure it was hollow, sound proof, then he rushed to the doors, opening them both. “Hurry up before someone sees.” 

Kimiko nods her head, dragging Ron towards the back of the van, shoving him up against the truck, basically pushing him into the vehicle before grabbing the arm holders to climb in herself.

Frenchie looks around quickly, then he ducks his head, rushing back to the front of the van while Kimiko sits Ron up against the wall, crawling back towards the opened doors, grabbing the handles and closing them both shut. 

Tires screech against the road as Frenchie takes off at breakneck speed, leaving a cloud of smoke and dust behind them, onlookers from afar sending the speeding van skeptical looks when they hear the ear piercing screech of the tires, unaware of what had happened.

Frenchie sinks into his seat. “Check if he’s bleeding.”  

Before doing anything else, Kimiko’s sharp and observant eyes darted around the mostly  empty van, there’s enough room for Ron’s body to be perched up. She searches around for the duffel bag stuffed not too far away from her, and once she spots it, she finally clicks her tongue in disapproval towards the situation they barreled themselves into under Butcher’s orders.

She fucking hates this.

As she knelt down on the hard and cold metal floor of the van, Kimiko’s fingers were delicately anchoring the unconscious man’s head up straight, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slickness of his sweat that was beginning to build. Using her other hand, she made sure her touch remained gentle and feather light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw and mouth to check if she knocked a few teeth out. 

Meanwhile, Frenchie was steering with reckless abandon, causing the unconscious man to slip up and down against the wall of the vehicle, head lolling slightly once Kimiko leaned up and removed her grip on him, mouth still open, the flush of a bruise forming around his right eye, grape purple. Other than that, there’s no blood to be found. 

Kimiko shakes her head at Frenchie, letting him know that it was all clear, meeting the man’s eyes through the rearview mirror. 

The van rocks, and she sighs, this is what she means by them needing a break. 

Homelander doesn’t know if he’s ever going to voice this to William, but he’s feeling a little too raw right now, and he’s reduced to silence as the ten year old continues to float across Billy’s flat, helping the man move the mattress through the door frame.

“Twist it clockwise.”

“I am,” Ryan twists the mattress, barely straining, he’s basically lifting it into the air, letting the bed levitate off of the floor because it’s easier to maneuver it that way, and Butcher couldn’t appreciate it more.

Homelander sits on the couch, drinking his tea in silence as Ryan exclaims to Butcher, holding the mattress awkwardly, crunched on the ground, getting a good angle on it.

“I got it! I got it, Billy! Just - okay just drop your half and then I can just move it - yeah, yeah, that’s it.” 

“You’ve gotten stronger, look at you.” Billy praises with bright eyes, swiping his hands off on his trousers, watching Ryan manage to waddle the mattress through the door frame.

He was right.

Ryan had seemed so comfortable in balancing his strength compared to before, he was even more comfortable than Homelander was at that age. 

“Thank you.” Ryan smiles at the proud Brit, placing the mattress up against the bare wall of the living room. The U-haul truck outside has most of the apartment’s furniture placed in it aside from the couch Homelander is sitting on, and the television, but it’s not like Butcher had a lot of things to pack up and transport anyway. 

Homelander lowers his cup, setting down onto the floor, suddenly feeling the need to do something after being subjected to watching two supes move heavy pieces of furniture around the flat all day as if they were just regular materials.

There’s a trace of insecurity in his voice, one that makes his fist clench in his lap, a heat of self directed agitation zapping at the back of his neck, spreading to his shoulders. “I can do the couch.” 

“The couch?” Ryan asks, blinking at his dad, sounding a little taken back. He points his finger at the couch as if it were something that didn’t belong there, eyebrows furrowing, and there’s a light shake of his head. “That’s really heavy though, dad.”

Billy’s wearing a look of questioning too, and that withers Homelander more than he’d like to admit. He stands up onto his feet, shrugging his shoulders, rolling his sleeves up his arms, stepping by the cup to head over to the right side of the couch. “It’s fine. I don’t want you two doing all of the work. Anyone could move the couch.” 

Ryan doesn’t have much time to deliberate it because Homelander is already bent at the waist, attempting to lift up the right side of the couch. He rushes over to the other side of it without a moment of hesitation, bending down, hooking his hand underneath the couch, lifting the other side of it up. “Okay, let me help you.” 

Butcher interjected before Homelander could even try to put all his strength into lifting, basically nudging the other man out of the way. “Oi, oi, I got it. You’re going to try and lift it with your back, you’ll only hurt yourself doing it like that.”

Annoyed now, Homelander argues. “No I won’t.” 

“Yes you will.” Butcher counters immediately, putting all of his focus in lifting the piece of furniture up, him and Ryan effortlessly hoisting it up into the air, Homelander watching with piqued annoyance. 

“What the fuck is your problem, Billy?” 

Butcher halts. 

Ryan blinks, lowering the couch, looking back and forth between them. “Guys?”

An awkward silence unfolds between them all, and then Butcher chuckles to himself, phone vibrating in his pocket, he just shakes his head, lowering the couch back down onto the floor. “Ryan, make sure your old man doesn’t break his back, alright?” 

In the midst of his increasing agitation, Homelander squints his eyes at Butcher as the Brit walks away from them past the patio door into the bedroom.

He bites his tongue on a ‘fuck you’ that would’ve most likely led to them having an argument in front of the kid, the stupid back remark, and his overall disapproval of Homelander helping out has been very annoying.

Demeaning, even. 

He doesn’t say anything as he turns back to the couch, crouching down, grasping underneath the furniture, he lifts the other side up with his arms, and – oh fuck.   

“Easy, dad.” Ryan’s voice is filled with concern as Homelander stumbles back, the couch having almost completely slipped out of his grip, crashing into his father as the man loses his balance, the weight of the couch bearing down on him. Ryan tugs most of the weight back into himself, barely budging at it, and Homelander’s blinking rapidly as the heaviness of the couch suddenly lessens, “just let it go, dad. I can carry it out, it’s fine.”

Embarrassed with everything that transpired in the past two minutes, Homelander gives up, his voice is choppy, and he doesn’t make eye contact with the boy for a few seconds, staring wide eyed at the blank floor spiraling underneath his feet. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Ryan replies, his eyes soft, understanding. 

In the bedroom, Butcher answers his phone, hand perched up on his hip, trying his best to ignore the mantra of thoughts pouring into his head regarding Homelander.

It wasn’t as if the outburst was strange, Butcher, for some reason, saw it coming eventually  - but the timing of the delivery was questionable, and yelling at him in front of Ryan wasn’t something he expected the other man to do, at least not this early. 

As soon as Butcher’s voice drills through the phone line, Frenchie finally fucking breaks, repeating himself, sweating and sweating. “He’s dead, we fucked up, he’s fucking dead, he’s fucking dead, he’s fucking dead –” 

Butcher opens his mouth, nothing comes out, he takes a step back, and he’s still speechless. 

Things were rattling in the background, Frenchie must’ve been driving. Butcher rubs his hand across face, closing his eyes. “We were there all fucking morning and we were about to leave, and then we got attacked, Kimiko killed Mareese’s brother. And, I mean, what were we supposed to do? I got dragged into a house, beat up, Kimiko came in, we talked, this guy Mareese pulled out a gun –”

“Frenchie, what the fuck?”

“He pressed the fucking gun against my head! He was about to kill me!” A pause, muffled shouts, and then another sound of rustling, Frenchie’s responding to whoever was talking to him urgently. “Yeah, yeah, hold on. Can you shut him up? What - Kimiko, I don’t know. Just put tape over his mouth or something, but don’t break anything -” 

Ron is half awake, shouting the best he could for help, he was either concussed from the punch or the bruise on his mouth was significantly limiting him. 

As Ron’s head flops around like a rag doll due to Frenchie’s manic driving as he rambles on the phone to Butcher, Kimiko remains still on her feet to keep from wobbling herself, tracing the bruise with a careful and gentle finger, frowning slightly at it.

Crap. 

Kimiko reaches over to her left, grabbing at the duffel bag, unzipping it and removing the tape and scissors Hughie had bought before they left to get A-Train, he said it was just in case things go wrong. 

It’s quite funny how they didn’t get a chance to use it on him.  

Despite being punched square in his face, the man was murmuring something under his breath while Kimiko whisked the tape out, he seemed half there, half gone, slurring his words as he questioned what was going on, vision going in and out. 

Ron sounded incomprehensible. 

Kimiko shakes her head at herself as she snips the tape with the sharp and shiny scissors, lining it up with the man’s moving lips, applying it gently on his mouth, an empathetic look in her eyes. It’s not directed towards Ron, or so she thinks, the empathy is driven more so towards herself and Frenchie. 

“Frenchie, what the hell is going on?” Butcher asks, trying his best to follow this phone call before he ends up becoming completely lost.

“Uh. We accidentally, indirectly, killed A-Train.” 

“Fuck!” Butcher chokes out, a chill rattling through him. “How?” 

“I’m trying to tell you! Mareese was about to kill me, and Kimiko stopped him, but the gun went off, the bullet fucking flew to A-Train and it took a chunk of his neck off. He’s dead in the house. We fucking drove off, we have Ron, like you asked -” 

“Slow down, alright?” Butcher tries to catch his own breath. “Seriously, Frenchie, what the fucking hell went down over there?”

“Self defense! All of it! We didn’t want him to die, that wasn’t the plan, but they fucking ambushed us, Butcher! I was about to die!”

“Are all of them dead? How many people were there?”

“Uhh -”

More muffled groans. 

“Kimiko, please!” 

When Ron begins to get restless from being sheathed in almost complete darkness, Kimiko clocks him in the back of the head with a swift and hard punch that sings through her soul as it did his, and he falls to his side, body limp, like a sack of potatoes. 

“I thought you were going to do the pressure point thing.” Frenchie says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to check on their injured, hooded passenger. 

Kimiko was on her knees, crouching down so that she wouldn’t wobble, crawling towards the front of the van in fluid movements, she clambered through the threshold, settling into the passenger seat with a sigh, signing to Frenchie. “I wanted to get it over with quickly.” 

“Frenchie.” Butcher gathers Frenchie attention with a firm call of his name. “How many were there and did you kill all of them?”

“It was A-Train, Jay, Tommy, Mareese. So four. A-Train, Tommy, and Mareese are all dead.”

“And Jay too, right?”

Frenchie’s face drops. 

Kimiko stares at him closely. 

“Frenchie?”

“No,” Butcher’s heart sinks at the response, and he has to lower his head down into his palm while Frenchie continues, “but, he knows, if he says anything about what just happened then we’ll come for him.” 

Homelander comes into the bedroom with the television remote, he seemed more than a little discombobulated. “Billy,” he begins in a stiff voice, blinking, “A-Train is dead.” 

Butcher takes the phone off of his ear, mouth dry. 

Ryan shouts, running into the bedroom, fullspeed. “Butcher, look, it’s all over the news!”

“Also, Butcher, did you know Homelander got the Deep to kill the Vice President? So we might not be able to find the Deep, A-Train’s last words basically meant that he’s long gone –” Butcher has heard enough, he hangs up the phone, and speeds past both Ryan and Homelander, walking into the living room, eyes stuck on the television screen. 

A man, with blood soaking his shirt, talks into the mic, tears rolling down his cheeks. “They came in here and killed my friends! It was a French dude, and an Asian girl, they fucking - they killed Reggie, Mareese, and Tommy! Hughie’s group, that’s where they’re from, Hughie’s group! I’m telling you it’s the same group that brought in Soldier Boy and killed all of those people at Vought tower!” 

Butcher’s ears were ringing, eyes blown wide. 

Ryan is calling his name, tugging at his hand, but he’s too far gone right now, he could hear every single heartbeat in the room, his head is throbbing.

The news reporter leans in, her voice dropping a note. “Who are these people in Hughie’s alleged group?” 

This must’ve been Jay, Butcher swallows, the man opens his mouth to answer, and then, out of nowhere, a bullet sends his brain matter flying all over the reporter’s blouse and camera – 

“Holy shit!” Ryan yelps out, flinching back while a disturbed noise escapes his throat seconds before an equally stunned John reaches out to grab his arm, pulling him in, pressing the boy’s face into his shirt. 

The audio cuts out, screams overwhelming the mic, and the entire channel gets shut down with static cutting to a ‘technical difficulties’ television card, elevator music playing. 

Butcher’s ears continue to ring as he pats his pockets, numbly pulling out his phone, he felt it in his gut that the notification he just received was a text from Mallory, and he was right. He feels queasy. 

‘Thank me later.’ 

“William -”

Riiiiing . 

“William!” John really raises his voice at him for the first time in a while , and that’s what brings Butcher back. Ryan is clutching onto John still, face pressed into his shirt, trembling slightly from what he had seen, and John’s intense stare is sharpened to a point where it’s burning into Butcher’s skin. “What the fuck is going on?” 

“I -” Butcher is at a loss for words. “A-Train, things went really bad with A-Train, he had people, and they attacked Frenchie -”

John couldn’t swallow this, goosebumps prickling at his skin, he doesn’t know why he’s feeling so much - anger. He didn’t even like A-train like that, and he was completely nonchalant to what they initially planned to do with him, so why does it feel like he’s been slapped in the face now? “So they - they fucking kill him?”

“They were attacked.” 

“There’s not many of us left, William.” John is not sure why he says that, his voice is trembling, and there’s a knot in his throat. “Jesus fuck -”

Butcher’s words burn on his tongue. “Did you get the Deep to kill the Vice President?” 

Ryan pulls away, regulating his breath, eyes darting back and forth between them. 

John stalls at that, stammering over his words as he blinks rapidly, unsure of what to make of that question. “What - what does that have to do with -” 

“Did you get the Deep to kill the Vice President?”

“Yes. I did. Why?”

“Christ.” Butcher feels sick. Too many things are happening all at once. “Well, that makes sense. The cunt commits treason, and then the tower blows up hours later, he’s probably in a whole other country if he’s smart enough.” 

“William, can you fucking stay with me here?” John asks, genuinely upset. “Your guys killed one of the last remaining members of the Seven.” 

Butcher rubs his temples. “I told you already, they were attacked. What were they supposed to do? I mean, Frenchie said the bullet bounced off of something and hit the bloke’s neck. It was an accident.”

“An accident?”

“Yes, a fucking accident.” Butcher reiterates, becoming agitated. “They didn’t mean to kill him, it was indirect –”  

“Just like Maeve?” John asks, cutting him off, an edge added to his voice that vacuums the room of anything positive. 

Butcher’s breath escapes his lungs for a moment, and for the first time in his life, he couldn’t hold intense eye contact with Homelander, he lost. Ryan stands between them, in shock from the uncensored gore he just witnessed on live television, and uneasy with the familiar hostile tension between his father and Butcher. 

It’s not something he misses. 

Homelander stands there, staring at Butcher for a second before he eventually settles into a neutral look, and Ryan notices how the next thing he says sounds spectacularly forced, as if he was training himself against his own will to believe it. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Butcher doubletakes at that. “Home -” he stops himself from continuing, seeing a wet sheen glimmer in Homelander’s eyes when the light from the outside hits the windows, casting over the blonde’s face. 

“Dad?” Ryan’s little voice reminds them both that their kid is in the room with them. 

The air comes back. Homelander finally averts his eyes. 

“Hey,” Homelander ignores the bad feeling he’s getting in his chest, shoving it into a pile. His attention is on Ryan as he cups the side of the boy’s head with a cold hand, patting it absently. “I’m sorry you had to see that, are you okay?”

“I think so.” Ryan murmurs. 

Homelander’s mind feels like it’s been bent over and fucked regarding Maeve. At this point, it’s just a cold void in his heart that he’s learned to live with. It doesn’t make the way he brought her up earlier sting even less though. He finds himself stuck in a whirlpool of flashbacks, bottled up memories from years ago, decades, and he sits there in an invisible seat, completely unresponsive. 

He’s so deep in his head right now. 

The last thing he sees before he’s tugged away by Maeve’s hand wrapped around his wrist is his former mentor and closest friend, Black Noir, crossing his arms over his chest, shaking his head at him and he could see the annoyed look on the man’s scarred face underneath his mask.

Noir, like the semi parental figure he is, had sat him down and warned him about engaging in things like this, what it could bring when the power gets under his feet, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Yeah, nope, not that much, he felt free when he was with her. That’s all that mattered at that time. 

Vought wouldn’t dig it at first, they’re still trying to find ground in this restart, this rebrand, and they couldn’t promote a love affair with their two main stars as of yet. At the time, Homelander believed he had just turned nineteen, or eighteen, or twenty, he’s not really sure of his age around that time.

They kept changing his birthday. 

Anyway, it’s been a full year since he debuted, no longer having restraints tying him down.  

What was the problem in mingling around? Exploring what he likes, his preference, all of that bullshit? 

Homelander didn’t think he’d be punished for it, he naively explained that to Noir who only shook his head in disapproval. Fooling around with Queen Maeve was simply just him having fun, and he could at least have that right?

It’s not like he hadn’t dug around before, unashamedly eyeing an older male assistant who was tasked with observing him once, making provocative remarks towards him every now and then, especially when the others were watching through hidden cameras. 

Homelander never assumed him and Maeve would have issues such as what Noir feared. 

Maeve dropped in a few months after Edgar hosted tryouts, fishing out a young collection of supes to put on the market, building up Homelander’s team. He remembers how she came in with her long, soft hair, pretty eyes, gorgeous smile, and gentle hands that used to slip into his palms whenever someone wasn’t looking. 

She exuded this aura of unshakeable confidence, the pure need to be the greatest superhero, just like Homelander did before he had his first blunder, when Noir had to bail him out. 

Once they had slotted together, they clicked. 

There was this mutual substance growing.

Elena was there too, she saw it all, saw how they looked at each other, she was in the crowd. 

Homelander knew about her longer than he let on. 

So it surprised him months later, one evening after their first assignment together and shared debrief back at the tower, she tugged him away from the noise and pressed him to the wall of the conference room, her smile stretched across her face, knocking the breath out of his lungs. She was most beautiful like this, when all her attention was on him, her thoughts of Elena being miles away.

And when he chases her inviting lips, grabbing at her waist with a yearning grip, she pulls back from him with a softened, weary glint in her eyes. He doesn’t understand the shift in her demeanor and he was about to ask what was the matter, but then she cups his face into her hands, the pad of her thumb brushing featherlight against his cheek.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.  “Let’s get out of here, John.” 

Before he could think up a response, she leans in, kissing him, murmuring her worries into his parted mouth in rambles, she tells him that they should run away together before it — whatever it is, gets to them too, gets to him, she begs him as they kiss and kiss. 

For a moment, in the midst of his hazy  surprise, he thinks she’s fucking with him at first, a loose prank, they’ve been working at Vought for months now, a full year for Homelander. They can’t - do that - 

Perhaps she’s twiddling him around her finger, determined to draw a reaction from him, because she knows what would happen if they ever tried to run. Homelander tried to entertain it once. Step by step it unfolded. It started from having the thoughts of running away, age six; planning, age eight after a very bad day; executing and failing, age ten. They prepared for it. Read his every move. 

It’d knocked him down a few pegs, and Edgar himself had showed up to his room to monitor him at one point, not saying any words, instead he  just kept staring at the child with a ghostly expression until John grew frightened, cried until he couldn’t breathe and hid his face into his blanket. 

Why would Maeve give them another shot at reprimanding them? He releases a laugh of disbelief into their hurried kisses, telling her to cut it out in a breathless and low voice, but then she tenses against him, pulling away again, traces of uncertainty budding in her eyes as she looks up at him. 

His breath catches in his throat, grip loosening around her waist, he realizes she was being serious. 

Concerningly serious.

“We can’t.” He chokes out, confused. 

She looks hurt, desperate. “What they’re doing to us, what they did to you ,” he looks away at that, memories flooding back, jerking away from her as if she burned him, but she grabs his hand, her voice pleading, “they can’t profit off of that.” 

“No. Maeve. We can’t.” He repeats, as he backs away from her. Fear of the ‘bad room,’ the doctors, the hands on his skin, grabbing and pulling at him — they all swarm him like a colony of disturbed bees, and he gives her a look of disgust. 

If she knows what they’ve done, then she would have understood what the consequences of doing something so fucking stupid could bring. 

The next time he speaks, he doesn’t recognize his own voice, and perhaps she doesn’t either, because she flinches back as if he scared her. “We won’t.” He points his gloved finger at her, his voice clipped. “Don’t you ever mention running away again.” 

Homelander buried these moments. The first dominoes to fall in his and Maeve’s relationship.

They started soaring fast with the general public and media, a newer and younger generation of people adoring their superheroes, no one had mentioned Soldier Boy and his group anymore, getting over their loss as the new millenia hit. Only old-heads threw his name around, stuck in a haze of nostalgia, meanwhile Vought had reestablished itself as one of the biggest companies in the world. Everyone made millions. 

Their experiment, their golden boy; Homelander, for the time being, was a success. 

Being on top of it all, becoming everything that country has ever dreamed of, it pushed John away from Maeve more and more. Madelyn’s eyes had met him across the room once, and it was over from there, she fed him things that Maeve didn’t, couldn’t. She took time in nurturing and tugging at the aches of his trauma, twisting the pain embedded into him ever since he was a child, and exploring it in ways that benefited her greatly – pleasured, confused, and yet reassured him. 

He could have done whatever the fuck he wants. 

Noir went from his mentor to a ‘good friend,’ which stung. Because, as he digs and digs into one of his lowest moments, he remembers having this embarrassing conviction once, dragging Noir into a breakroom, and questioning their bond. Why was Noir so adamant on protecting him than the newbies? 

At that time, A-Train was being brought in in a few weeks and he hadn’t even blinked, and it didn’t seem like Noir liked Maeve all that much. 

So why him? 

A smaller, yet persistent part of Homelander, under all the assumptions that everyone should want to protect him and love him, just didn’t get it, didn’t understand Noir’s behavior. 

It’s been ongoing for years after Homelander had debuted. 

Did Noir see him as some kind of son? 

Homelander would have to explore that on his own, create his own verdict. Downside to that is, he knows he’d have to suffer with whatever conclusion he’d come up with, because he killed Noir, and he killed Noir because of his affiliation with Soldier Boy. 

And because he lied.

Noir had been truthful about Soldier Boy all the way up to that point where he admitted in knowing that the man was his dad, which was also after he fucking ran away, leaving him in the dark for many dicy hours, having to scurry and gather information himself.

But -  when he asks himself why would Noir lie to him, Homelander couldn’t summon up one answer for it, there were many pathways that followed to each excuse he could find for Noir, and each one he would attempt to examine triggered some type of guilt-filled, clusterfuck of a headspace. 

This inconceivable amount of regret would pin him down before he could even think to flush away his thoughts, pierce his heart, and make him nauseated. 

He would end up looking down at his hands, imagining the blood of Noir on them, wishing he could take it all back, cursing at himself, the self-hatred rooted inside of him growing and growing until it started to hurt. 

Maeve is dead -  Homelander is certain she is, it would probably be a pain in the ass if Butcher ever told him straight up, but he’s not crossing the idea out, maybe he’d feel better if it came from him anyway. In a tragic way, it would be the last corner stone of whatever the fuck their relationship was. John knew he wouldn’t be able to fix what his ego, and twisted identity had broken between them, so maybe it was a good thing. 

By the end of everything, Maeve had seen Homelander and John as one of the same, through time, it had permanently fractured and split them apart. She was completely broken. They were broken. 

In recent years, by the time William Butcher and his circus started to be really annoying for Vought, Homelander would intentionally make a show out of their failed-situationship, and their inevitable fallout as they continued to rise to the top. He would make each of their interactions increasingly uncomfortable by actively staving off his own battles with how things ended, replacing whatever intimate feelings that simmered for her with fear and anger.

Until it ultimately reached the tipping point. 

Transoceanic. Flight 37. 

Homelander remembers how violently Maeve was shaking by the time he dragged her out of the falling plane, engine smoke whipping in their faces for a brief moment as he flew away from its trail, hearing the gut churning sounds of screams and cries from the plane.

As Homelander reminisces over that day, he notes how he never saw her cry like that, on the verge of hyperventilating, he had no other choice but to drop them down in a wooded area because Maeve was a mess. 

The thing was, if he were to spin this so that it would benefit Vought, and Madelyn’s ambitions for the Supe-military merge, she couldn’t oversell.  

And back then, Homelander thought overselling is exactly what she was doing.

“Come on, Maeve. Look at you. Get it together and fix your face.”

Maeve was inconsolable, saying hurtful things, cursing at him, exclaiming ‘how could he do this’ and hurling on and on about how much of a fucking monster he is. 

Homelander remembered how he grew annoyed, annoyed at her bitching, and even more annoyed at the fact that he actually felt a pang in his heart from the look of pure hatred flickering in her eyes. His voice was levels deep, rumbling in his chest and he stepped to her, pointing a threatening, gloved finger at her. “Fix. Your. Face.” 

In the distance, he could hear the plane go down, the screaming coming to a chilling stop, right in sync with Maeve’s breath catching in her throat. 

Then there was the blackmail. At arguably the worst time of his life. Butcher holding Ryan in his arms, glaring at him with murderous intent. 

Homelander wonders if that video is ever going to make it out. 

Homelander bites his bottom lip, blinking back to his current status, human, sitting in Butcher’s car, enveloped by an awkward silence, a hot small sized box of pizza warming his lap. He just realized that he had been reminiscing over Maeve throughout the entire car ride, and to his surprise, he doesn’t feel as awkward as he should about it considering his relationship with Butcher. 

With that being said, Homelander feels like he’s been sitting in a tub of scaldingly hot water, he’s only been thinking about Maeve due to A-Train’s sudden death, another loss of someone on his team due to Butcher and his friends. 

Unfortunately, once he starts entertaining the trickery his mind brings, there’s no way for him to fucking stop.

 So now, as he registers his thoughts, he has a pit forming in his stomach, around the size of a whale’s blowhole, and he couldn’t stop tapping his fingers on his lap, swallowing down the knots that form in his throat when he’s about to cry. 

God. He really lost her. 

Huh. 

John wishes he had listened to her when she had urged for them to run away, and although it would’ve kept him from experiencing these feelings of pure bliss with Butcher, neither of them would not have suffered through the mountains of anguish they’ve brought upon each other.

Things might’ve been better for everyone, as painful as that sounds considering how much he likes Butcher. 

But, well, John knew he couldn’t live a life that easy.  

Shit happens. 

When he feels like there’s an iron plank crushing his ribs, Homelander stops tapping his fingers on his leg and closes his eyes for a few seconds, attempting to balance his composure. 

He doesn’t feel good. 

“About Maeve -” 

Homelander opens his eyes again as the sound of Butcher’s voice spears through his bubble. 

He furrows his eyebrows as he gazes out at the window, wetting his lips and mouthing out something inaudible, even to Butcher’s ears, it must’ve been a muted response, and not a positive one considering how much he wanted to tell Butcher to fuck off from his facial expression alone. 

God, not now, is what he said, it comes to Butcher a second late.  

Butcher continues to stare at the road ahead, bustling traffic slowing down the process of returning to the flat, which is all he wanted to do right now because he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. “How did you find out what happened to her?” He asks, treading carefully. 

Ryan’s not in the car with them, he wanted to stay at their new home, emptying the U-Haul truck until Butcher could join in and help him. Butcher convinced John that the boy could fend for himself and fly to their location if necessary. With Soldier Boy locked away with Mallory, doing things like this is easier to decide on. 

When Homelander finally shifts his body, slowly turning his head to face Butcher, studying him wordlessly, Butcher feels his grip tighten on the steering wheel, it’s not the same awestruck look he’s been fixed by the blonde countless times before. 

Butcher can see the conflict tainting his eyes, even when he’s looking straight ahead, his vision is clear in all corners excluding the back of his head when he allows it to be,  and Homelander knows that - therefore, a silent dialogue is picked up between them as Butcher eases up on the gas once more, a one-sided conversation. 

Tension floods the car for a brief moment. Butcher wonders if Annie slipped up and mentioned Maeve anyway, but that would’ve been too long ago, right? 

He expects for Homelander to curse him out, hit him, cry, at least something -

None of that comes, Homelander just watches him, and that just brings forward  another layer of turbulence. 

“I wasn't thinking when I said that.” Homelander speaks, finally, not answering Butcher’s question.

He still has the look of accusation on his face, and Butcher’s beginning to wonder if Annie really did corkscrew him, opened her mouth about Maeve’s death. With her knowing how cautious Butcher is towards mentioning the tragedy, she probably blurted it out as another ‘fuck you for what you’ve done,’ which undoubtedly gets his agitation going, he stays quiet. 

But then, as Homelander has no other words to add on, returning back to staring at him, Butcher doesn’t know for sure. Annie wouldn’t really get anything out of that other than the satisfaction of hurting Homelander, the air between them didn’t really seem electric, intense and palpable. Odd, but notable. Annie was tired as she hung about, she didn't have the energy to throw blows, it seemed as if she was searching for something close to peace and rehabilitation. 

There’s a fucking weird situation here, wedged between him and Homelander, which is on brand since it’s occurring after only a couple of days of pure content. 

Content and peace Butcher wasn’t sure he’d ever feel with someone again. 

Fuck it, Butcher thinks as he prods at him. They’ve been on this non-returnable intimate level for a couple of days now, so there shouldn’t be this much of a fucking layer of awkwardness walling between them, but there is, and that frustrates Butcher, a lot. Homelander’s been acting emotionally unreliable the more healthier he becomes, and if they want this to work, for Ryan, and for them, then that’s going to be an issue. 

Butcher suddenly really needs — wants to know what Homelander and Annie talked about. If Maeve’s name was in the conversation, then they’ll just have to work through that obstacle together. “Everything alright with you?” 

“Yeah.” A golden lie, another example of what Butcher assumed with the other man being emotionally unreliable. Afterwards, Homelander had sighed and curled  his fingers up into his sweatshirt, shivering from something, unnerved, his eyes tearing away from Butcher. “I’m fine.” 

“Don’t fuck me around.”

“A-Train’s death just caught me off guard.” 

It’s not exactly a subject change, they weren’t talking about anything with substance, but Butcher still feels the tug of concern transpire in his gut, watching subtly as Homelander fidgets. “Huh.”

Homelander makes a face. 

Butcher makes his right turn, releasing the wheel, letting the car adjust itself before cruising down a clearer street with fewer cars in the way, parked against the curb. He attempts to sound assuring because Homelander was visibly anxious about something, even if the man himself didn’t notice it, maybe the lack of honking and cars would tune the outside noises down for him to think. “I’m sorry that things ended the way they did.” 

“I get it.” Homelander pauses, his hands slipping up to his seatbelt, sliding up and down the strap, pressing his fingertips into it, his knee jumping up and down. “Just another loss I have to deal with.” 

Butcher inhales. “It’s best not to think of it that way. I mean, during times like this, Hughie would say -” 

Homelander huffs, sounding a touch closer to normal when he replied bitterly. “I don’t care what Hughie thinks.” 

“Just trying to cheer you up.”

“I’m not - Butcher, I’m fine.” 

“Mhm.” Butcher hums, Homelander rolls his eyes. 

There’s a beat. 

Homelander runs his fingertips along the box of pizza, he attempts to switch the subject, an ache in his stomach. “It felt weird seeing her again the other day - Starlight. You know, without the feeling of wanting to slice her apart, limb from limb.” 

“Yeah?”

“I told her that I’m trying to be better.”

“Really?” Butcher follows along, turns signals to his right, his blinker flashing, Homelander nods his head, a noticeable tension in his shoulders. “What did she say?”

“She seemed surprised. I don’t know if she’s supportive of it, but it didn’t seem like she thought it was bullshit,” Homelander says, looking down at the vintage design of the pizza logo displayed on the box. “I think I regret telling her that.”

“Why?”

Homelander doesn’t answer. 

“John, love. You’re alright. You’ve been good.” 

“Right.” He gets a stiff nod, along with searching blue eyes, and parted lips, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else, his face fixing into a look of thought.

Butcher wonders what’s going through his mind right now. 

There’s a pause. 

Homelander’s shoulders drop, and he releases his hold on the seatbelt, reaching over to grab at Butcher’s hand. 

It was an unexpected move, the blonde seemed so withdrawn from everything up to now, so as he laced their fingers together, placing their hands on his lap, Butcher felt his breath catch and his chest burn. 

“I’m so tired,” Homelander mutters as he covers both of their hands with his free one, looking back out the window, there’s a touch of denial in his voice, and Butcher finds himself split on whether he should pinpoint it. 

“I know.” 

Homelander’s voice was light. “Remember when I said that I’d piece everything that happened at Vought together on my own?”

Butcher croaks out an awkward - “Yes.” 

Homelander looks over at him, pondering on what he wants to say next before uttering out. “Might regret asking you this, but can you like - can you just tell me what happened? Put my mind at rest or something.” 

Butcher doesn’t say anything. 

Homelander blows out a breath, a small tremor in his exhale. “Billy, it would be easier to hear it from you. You’re the one who took care of me from that point on. And you were going to tell me anyway.” 

Butcher grits out. “That’s not my main concern.” 

He doesn’t know if he wants to revisit it at all. Unknowingly witnessing Maeve dying while keeping Ryan’s sanity intact at the same time, pleading for the distraught child to leave the wreckage with him, and, with the help of Hughie, to not kill everyone in his line of sight. 

It was only a matter of time. 

Homelander squeezes his hand encouragingly despite his stomach churning, Butcher was easy to read like this, and the answers he was getting to the millions of questions floating around in his mind were not the ones he’d prefer. 

When he sees Butcher shake his head no, Homelander feels a familiar tightness possess his chest, sounding unsure as he attempts to convince the Brit to tell him what happened, lending him his ear in the most gut wrenching way possible. Butcher was clearly bothered by this as much as he is, Homelander wonders if it’s his guilt too, but then he stops himself from thinking about it. 

He knows that if he ever truly indulges in how Butcher played a role in Maeve’s death then it might actually ruin everything they’ve built so far, and he couldn’t afford another heartbreak right now.

That would come on its own time. Hopefully it’ll be after when the confirmation of her death doesn’t make him die a little inside anymore. 

 “What I pieced together on my own so far, I don’t want to believe it, William. You could either stop me from overthinking about it or let it drive me up the wall.”

“What are you talking about?” Butcher queries, noticing raindrops shed onto his windshield, he couldn’t reach up to turn on the wipers, Homelander has his right hand in his hold, and he finds himself relying too much on his touch to change that. 

“Maeve.” 

“I don’t think you’re ready.” 

“Jesus, Butcher, don’t do this.” Homelander scoffs at him, a soft incredulous sound, his eyes shiny. “I’m asking you to tell me.” 

“I don’t want you to get hurt. Got it? It’s best if we leave it alone, time will pass and it won’t matter anymore.” Butcher fucking hates the way that comes out, but that’s as far as he could go with some type of confession, even if it’s a little impassive and cold. 

There’s a long, heavy silence in the car, broken only by the sound of rain tapping against the windows. Butcher can feel Homelander’s hand trembling in his, and he squeezes it lightly.

Homelander was given an answer, not a direct one, but Butcher’s hesitance says it all for him, and his voice shakes the next time he talks, the pinnacle of grief beginning to bear down on him all at once, there’s this burn in the back of his throat, and he has to swallow a few times to diffuse it. “It’s going to hurt regardless. We had something. Once. I’m sure you know that, and leaving it alone won’t make any difference, Butcher. It’ll just blur into everything else I’ve lost.”

Butcher is terrified if this is what breaks him, breaks their progress, as cold as it may sound, despite his own conflict with Maeve’s death, but they’ve worked so hard to get here and he could feel the other man’s composure crackling. “Homelander,” he begins, trying to find his words, continuing to fall short. It was hard to drive like this. 

Butcher sighs out after he clears his throat, continuing. “If you open the wounds and keep peeling off the scabs, it’ll never heal.” 

Homelander shakes his head, frustration boiling, they’re still holding hands with each other as he snaps at him. “If I lost you, Billy, like right fucking now? I’d feel the same way. I’d feel like shit, because I care about you. And you know how that feels. You witnessed it first fucking hand with Becca.” 

Butcher clenches his jaw, gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckle-white, he’s beginning to feel a dent form under the pressure. 

“Fuck.” Homelander breathes out, slumping in his seat, eyebrows furrowed as he glares down at his lap, mixed emotions simmering. “You can’t just say things like that, William.” 

Butcher doesn’t even believe it when he responds with. “It helps.”

“My God.” Homelander says quickly, sounding breathless, nausea pooling into his gut, running his fingers through his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“Homelander,” Butcher glances over at him, feeling the planet tip over. 

“I thought you wanted me to talk to you about things.”

“I do.”

“But you’re saying that I should forget about it.”

“I - I didn’t say that.”

Homelander looks at him, wide eyed. “You basically did, Butcher. I’m not stupid. You literally just said time will pass and I’ll forget about it.” 

“I said it won’t matter anymore.” Butcher mutters. 

“What makes you think Maeve’s death won’t matter to me? This whole thing matters to me, because at one point, it’s all I had to live for. Including Maeve. I thought you knew that.” Homelander says, sounding hurt, but mostly angry. 

“When you think too much you hurt yourself.” Butcher blurts out, needing to take the reins of this conversation before it continues to steer out of his control, Homelander grows still, and Butcher notices how they’re still holding hands. “Sometimes, you still don’t tell me things. You seem more comfortable with that though. Now you’re not. I don’t-fucking-know. So I said what I said because of your recent behaviors. If you want to be more independent with how you handle certain things or not, then expect the advice I’m giving you.” 

“It’s shitty fucking advice.” Homelander spat, letting Butcher’s words sink in. 

“You don’t have to take it.” Butcher says, squinting his eyes, sounding defensive. “I’m trying my best.” 

Homelander chooses not to say anything, he looks upset, mortified, and yet he still brushes his fingers across Butcher’s knuckles, his touch soft, featherlight. 

Butcher inhales, a frown on his face, sounding pained. “I’m sorry.” 

Homelander whispers ‘me too,’ under his breath, staring down at their hands. 

For some reason, Butcher feels a strong urge to wrap him up somewhere safe. 

“Couldn’t you have saved her?” Homelander asks after a minute passes.  

“It was too late.” 

Homelander spaces out for the rest of the car ride, sitting alarmingly still in the passenger seat, he had a glassy look on his face, but as far as Butcher knows, he doesn’t shed any tears. 

Butcher knows there was — a thing — between Maeve and Homelander.

Perhaps it was one-sided and fear driven, or perhaps there was actually a mutual spark that occurred between them in the beginning, when they were both ridiculously young and thrown into the spotlight. A spark that molded itself into Homelander’s soul deeper than anyone could have possibly imagined, including the man himself. As far as Butcher knows, it might’ve been another line driven between his two personas, identities.

John and Homelander. 

Overtime, as they grew famous, as Vought got their feet underneath them, the lines blurred. Homelander had most likely driven a wedge between their relationship, taking Maeve’s still budding love away from John , permanently. And vice versa, slightly. 

To be honest, now that he was in this position, it felt almost impossible for Butcher to stomach this all down in a healthy way, of course it was, he felt at fault here just as much as Homelander does, and he didn’t mean for Maeve to be killed. 

Butcher, before all of this, including his own intimate run-ins with Maeve, would have been over the moon at seeing Homelander crumble like this, but there’s been a drastic change in him that stemmed from the past couple of weeks. He feels ill now, nausea pooling in his gut.

He also recognizes and concludes that this may be the first time Homelander is truly coming to terms with the fatal consequences of his actions. It’s not anything Butcher wants to really relish in because John is in so much pain right now, he shouldn’t feel any satisfaction, but the thought is still there, blooming in his head. 

He couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t his fault, it’d be slightly untrue, Homelander had forced Butcher’s hand into bringing Soldier Boy back. 

Or, that could just be his inner defensiveness settling in, trying to diffuse the guilt rocketing through him, and although he’s beginning to question his own selfishness and refusal to stop hunting the man down, and whether it played a bigger part in bringing Soldier Boy back than Homelander’s behavior — he couldn’t swallow the fact that he dragged Maeve into Soldier Boy’s mess, even if she joined in on her own terms.

It took them all day to move into Mallory’s safehouse, including the pizza break. Ryan was a big help by the end of it, setting up the mattress stand in an extra guest room since the house already had beds in each respective bedroom, and then helping Butcher put the comforter on it afterwards. John had opted to stock up the kitchen with the different canned foods Butcher had flooded the cabinets with in the old flat, letting the boys get some rest despite the lack of genuine exertion they exuded with the help of their super strength and what-not. 

Besides, he needed to gather himself anyway. John made all of these improvements on his new way of life, and yet, the nagging is still there. 

By the time Ryan had settled into his new room, John tucking him into bed, kissing his forehead and opening the curtains so that the moonlight could pour in, the blonde felt completely exhausted. Too much shit had gone on today, and Butcher is still expecting phone calls from his trusted comrades. 

William, that fucking asshole, played it smart though. 

Butcher closed the door behind him, coming back from dropping off the U-haul truck,  shoving his jacket off, watching as Homelander walked into the living room and slipped off his sweatshirt, silently folding it onto the couch. “Hey,” he greets softly, not looking up at the Brit, and he doesn’t know what gives off that he’s on the edge because he’s skilled at hiding things like that, but Butcher must’ve sensed it anyway.

Butcher approached him from behind, and without making eye contact, he grabbed his hand, leading him up the spiral of stairs into their bedroom.

Five minutes speed by and Homelander was guided into laying on his side in the bed, his back facing Butcher, he’s numb enough to not feel the arms wrapped around his waist, tugging him in close, he’s been forced to adapt to the high pitched ringing sound in his ears  over the past forty-five minutes. 

“Your heart is beating out of your chest.” Butcher comments from behind him, his breaths light against the back of his neck. 

Homelander doesn’t say anything. 

Butcher tugs him in closer, burying his face in his hair, the blonde slowly beginning to fade off, blending into a fine brown color, similar to Ryan’s hair, his roots have been more apparent than ever. Homelander was tense against him, rigid and when Butcher had first spoken, he seemed to tense up even more, like he was being held at gunpoint, trapped, pinned down with no escape route. 

Butcher’s main focus is to get him to relax, and right now, he felt like he was holding more of Homelander’s muscle, it felt like his touch was scalding him, and that fucking hurts. 

Hugging a stunned Lenny after his father’s meltdowns felt the same way. 

Butcher loosens his grip, an embarrassing amount of vulnerability in his voice as he asks. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

No response. 

Butcher doesn’t know what to do, but when he tries to unwrap his arms from around the man’s waist, Homelander shifts abruptly and grabs desperately at Butcher’s arm, inhaling sharply, his voice wet. “Don’t go.” 

“Alright,” he murmurs, chest tightening, leaning back in, Homelander turns around and grabs for him, stifling a whole body sob, trembling in his arms as the emotions barrel through, burying his face into Butcher’s neck as the man runs his fingers through his hair and whispers to him, “alright, come here,” he kisses his forehead. 

John’s punching at his chest as he cries, frustrated at himself, he’s trying to break away from him despite pleading that he shouldn’t leave minutes earlier, Butcher just holds him tighter, hands rubbing circles into his back, shushing him. 

Realizing all of the horrible shit you’ve done leading up to a final meeting in Vought tower is going to come back and hit you like a freight train is one of the most life altering things one can experience. In Homelander’s case, it must feel like being torn apart on the inside, he’s blaming everything on himself, and Butcher couldn’t bring himself to shoot it down for some reason. 

He feels just as terrible about Maeve, so he’s stuck not knowing how his guilt is supposed to match the other man’s, he feels like a shit person, because he knows it’s not all Homelander’s fault. Butcher can’t say that aloud though.

An invisible force is keeping him from shifting a portion of the blame onto himself, a hand he couldn’t see being clapped over his mouth, all he could do is attempt to comfort John, keeping him from drowning in his own tears, stuck in a loop. 

After a couple of minutes, Butcher peels away slightly to look at him. Gently cupping his face, Butcher tilted John’s head up, softly thumbing away traces of wetness from underneath his glassy eyes. “Hey,” he starts, not knowing where to begin, sounding cautious, “I don’t want you to beat yourself up over this.”

“I ruined everything.” John hiccups as he shakes his head away from Butcher’s touch, voice cracking, eliciting a pained sound, he shifts away from him entirely, turning onto his backside. 

Butcher sighs out, pulling him back. “Homelander.”

John winces as Butcher touches him, like he’s been hit. “I got her killed, Butcher.” 

How distraught he sounds rings right through Butcher’s soul, and all he could respond with is a meek sounding. “Soldier Boy killed her, not you.”

“Because of me.” John says, getting worked up at either Butcher or himself, or both, because his teeth are gritted, and there’s this agony buried away in his voice. “He was there because of me, you guys brought him there because of me, it all fucking comes back to me and I got her killed. I was fighting her and then - next thing I know -” 

Butcher doesn’t want to hear this right now, his voice is firm as he speaks, turning John’s head in his direction with a gentle palm to his cheek, looking down into the teary blue eyes. “Enough. You weren’t the one that shot that beam out of your chest, you went to go save your son and she got sucked in the blast. That’s what happened.” 

“But I -“

“That’s what happened, John.” 

John flinches, he averts his eyes, sniffling, face flushing as tears begin to roll down his cheeks again, bottom lip quivering. “I can’t,” he whispers thinly as Butcher awaits his reaction, turmoil unraveling inside of him, it’s a tough hit, and the Brit has no dependable words to describe what he’s feeling right now. 

Fucking hell. 

“Look at me.” 

“I can’t -“ John swats at him, breathing fast.

Butcher catches his hand and holds it tightly, pulling it away from his face. “Look at me, John.”

John’s gaze flickers up, his eyes red-rimmed and tear-stained. 

“Breathe.”

They do a couple of breathing exercises together, Butcher kisses his cheek, tells him he’s doing good, and that makes John turn to him again, allowing Butcher to pull him in, snuggling the side of his face into the other man’s chest, his breathing shallow and strung out.  

Later on, Butcher turns his phone off after texting Frenchie, telling him that they should keep Ron in the basement until they’re ready to start. He thinks about the funfair, and perhaps he could make a plan out of the occasion, all the while doing business with the Boys. The thing is, as of now, he’s handling a personal matter, and they’re just going to leave the day as it is. 

There’s no doubt the news channels are still running the ‘breaking news’ headlines regarding A-Train’s death, so maybe they should wait until the smoke has dissipated. 

Hopefully this matter won’t take two weeks to handle — and, honestly, that’s one out of the many jokes that fall flat in Butcher's mind, he’d been trying to successfully deliver them to himself, and before, he’d have no issues with it. His head is a bit of a fuckfest now, and it doesn’t matter, because easing his state of mind feels like a side mission at this point. 

Butcher rids himself from his thoughts and picks up the two mugs off of the counter, filled with tea he had brewed minutes ago, steam still exuding from them. 

Homelander picks his head up from his arms which were folded on top of each other as he leant his torso against the table, his low-lidded eyes following Butcher as he rounded the corner from the kitchen, heading over towards the table. 

“It’s hot so make sure you blow,” Butcher utters as he takes his seat, stretching his arm across the table to John, setting the cup down a few inches away from him. 

Homelander flickers his eyes down at the cup as soon as it’s in his proximity, unfolding his arms, wrapping an index finger around the handle, slowly pulling it over towards him. 

Butcher clears his throat as he fiddles with his mug, sitting upright, trying to maneuver through the apparent awkwardness as best as he could. “That might help the headache.”

“It might.” Homelander replies in a low mutter, twisting the mug around with one hand, raising his other up to his face, rubbing at the side of his head with his palm. “I don’t think it’s going to go away that easy though. It’s not just the head.”

“Where else?”

The dark liquid swivels around in Homelander’s moving cup, splashing around in small waves as he twists the mug clockwise. “I don’t know.” 

“Hey,” Butcher reaches forward and wraps his fingers around Homelander’s wrist, effectively stopping him from using the cup as a grounding tool, he slips his palm up the man’s hand, holding it in his own. For some reason, holding hands always seems to keep them both afloat. 

“Billy.” Homelander sighs out in a rumbling voice, not meeting his eyes, but Butcher doesn’t need to stare into his soul to know that the man is more composed than he had been half an hour ago. Scarily so. He gets a chill, caught off guard by the noticeable unsteadiness of his following words. “You should kill Soldier Boy.”

“Mallory’s working on that whole thing, love. Don’t worry about that.” Butcher reassures, already aware of who he was referring to, yet he could feel his eyebrows furrowing, a wave of concern swaddling him.

“You have to find Soldier Boy, and when you do, you tear him limb from limb.” Homelander continues, ignoring Butcher’s reply. He looks up from the mug, staring straight at the Brit who taps lightly at his hand, a gesture meant to calm him down despite John being perfectly calm, still, and alarmingly clear in regards to his request. “Promise me.” 

Butcher chooses not to say anything back to that, at least not verbally, but he does exhale and lift the back of Homelander’s hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to the small, fading cut centimeters away from his knuckles.

Homelander shivers. “Billy,” he begins, waves of exhaustion crashing into him, when he expressed how tired he was earlier, he hadn’t sifted through the options of taking a short nap or sleeping for the rest of the day. His train of thought is clustered with self loathing, anger, and regrets, not to mention the headache that’s warping around his head isn’t doing him any good either. How he should think of Butcher is another add-on. 

Should he be mad at the Brit for his role in Maeve’s death, or will that just make the other man shift the blame on him, and is it even worth mulling over? It just makes John more tired. It’ll just lead into a never ending argument they had found themselves in during their first couple of days with each other. 

So he just lets the questions blend in with the rest of his discomfort.

Falling out with Butcher is the worst thing that could possibly fucking happen right now, and despite a part of him wanting to smash this stupid fucking mug over his thick skull, he really just wants to keep holding hands with him, and he appreciated the comfort he brung.

“What is it?” Butcher asks, pulling Homelander out of his thoughts, mirroring how Homelander had brushed his fingers along his knuckles while in the car.  

“I’ve been having a tough time.” Homelander says, and the words weighed down on his tongue awkwardly. “I think I should slow down a little. Everything is going too fast. You’re a supe and you’re hesitant to touch me, and that fucking sucks. You could break me. As soon as I feel a sense of normalcy, of being someone’s equal, in some way, then the rug is pulled from under me.”

He continues, Butcher draws forward, visibly taking all of this in. “You’re on V, I saw Starlight for the first time in weeks, and then I’m bombshelled with Ashley being in a coma, Maeve’s dead. I mean, I knew that, but I don’t know. Butcher, this isn’t - this hasn’t been a good week for me - I haven’t been feeling good this entire week.” 

Butcher nods, slow, and with a long blink, he sits back, not letting go of the other’s hand. He doesn’t know where to begin regarding the amount of pent up affliction John had fed him, but he does feel a touch of relief uplift him, although just a slight bit. 

Homelander was opening up to him again.

“Can you help me?” He asks awkwardly. 

It should not have been a surprise to him, but Butcher had been so accustomed to expecting the opposite, especially with the news he received. Homelander’s looking at him, a silent request for guidance, a need to know what he should do next to get over this is as traditionally as any normal human could. Butcher thinks that he’s the last person he should go to, his track record of handling death of a close person isn’t exactly clean, and the only advice he’d have in store in situations like these is sending an invite to the Boys.  

Gun for revenge for who you’ve lost. Don’t sit there and mourn. A supe took someone you loved? You find them, and you kill them. Take down every other supe along the way until you’re left with this unsatisfying, yet twisted, high body count of dead or ruined supe’s left in their wake. 

Butcher can’t say that to him though, he doesn’t want to say that to him. Homelander is making a big step, the biggest step he has taken so far, and the step is him simply keeping himself from falling into a meltdown similar to what Butcher had found spiraled in. 

It’s fascinating.

There’s a level of maturity Butcher hadn’t truly thought Homelander stored, and he feels a little unraveled by it, proud, and relieved. There’s a hint of agitation directed towards himself though, he hadn’t given Homelander a chance to sort through his own emotions, and he was left in his own assumptions, fearing that hearing about Maeve’s death would either break or kill him. He has an idea where the overprotectiveness comes from, but it’s the faintest, there are many reasons why he’d want to keep something like that from John. 

“Thank you for telling me.” That’s the first thing he says, and he means his thanks, giving John’s hand a careful squeeze.

The corner of John’s lip twitches downwards, and he nods his head, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t mean to be this fucking prude around you, that’s not how I am. You’ve become one of the most important people in my life so fast, and we’re in a situation so complex, within a handful of days anything could happen. It’s complicated.” Butcher explains, he feels like he’s revealing a top secret, and he doesn’t know why,  the heel of his shoe taps on and on against the floor. 

John blows out a breath, looking at their hands, eyes soft. “I know. You feel the need to preserve me.”

“Something like that.” 

John looks from their hands, staring at him, and there’s not a lick of hesitation as he asks. “Is there a chance of me ever becoming a supe again? Me,  you, and Ryan, all of us, together.” 

Butcher doesn’t give the question any thought because he knows that there’s not a chance, he shakes his head at him, brushing his thumb across Homelander’s skin, watching as the other’s face falls. “You’re fine the way you are.”

John doesn’t like that, he tugs and pulls his hand away, and at this point, Butcher is trying to ignore the obvious conflict that could arise between them the longer they poke and prod at this topic.

 It looked like John was itching in his own skin. 

“What if I use it for good? I mean I would. I’d still be better, and I wouldn’t do anything that would hurt people. Morally, I’m better.”

“No.” Butcher says, putting a cap to his rambling. “This is good for you.”

“Alright.” Homelander mutters after a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth, clearly split on pushing the envelope or keeping quiet, nodding his head and picking the cup up off of the table. “You’re right.” 

“Stop asking me about it.”

Homelander lifts the cup up to his mouth, and then he pauses, tilting his chin up. “No consideration?” 

Butcher sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Fine, yeah, I’ll stop,” he grumbles, sipping his tea. 

“Anyway,” Butcher moves on, feeling a heated tension circuit around them, he doesn’t want to indulge in it, thick muted aggression sitting in both of their stomachs, ready to spill out the longer they sit on this. 

“I agree that maybe it’d be best if we did slow down. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, then that’s fine, I want you to relax and be comfortable with whatever we’ve got going on. We can take a step back, reassess and then go on from there.”

“Hmm,” Homelander hums as he lowers his cup, and he starts spinning it around on the table top again, his voice a little stiff. “Thank you. That might work. Whatever you think could work, I’ll go through with it too.” 

Butcher taps his hand on the table. “Well, alright.”

Homelander’s lips are in a straight line, Butcher thinks he’s still stuck on being denied V, and he feels a churn in his stomach. 

It forces Butcher to ask before he could stop himself. “Are you going to be alright seeing Ryan use his powers?” 

Homelander nods his head at the question, and then he recoils once he really registers how it’s delivered. “Yeah,” he says as he frowns, looking up at Butcher, an accusation buried in his voice “why’d you ask?” 

“You’re really adamant on getting V, and so, I just want to make sure -“

“Oh fuck you, William.” Homelander says, anger evident in his voice, he scoffs out in disbelief. “What, you think I’m going to be jealous of my own fucking son?”

Butcher frowns. “I didn’t say that.” 

“You know what,” Homelander stands up, drags his hand down his face leaving the cup full of tea on the table. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

Well. That soft little moment didn’t last long.

It’s not like Butcher was walking on sunshine when he asked that. 

“Don’t go to bed mad at me, come on.”

Homelander stares at him blankly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m tired.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

“Actually,” Homelander wets his lips, narrowing his eyes. “If Annie asked to get compound V, would you guys let her have some?”

“Homelander.” Butcher sighs out, shoulders sagging. “What are you doing?”

“Would you?”

“That’s up to her. She hasn’t asked yet.”

Homelander tilts his head. “But it can’t be up to me? I’ve asked.”

Butcher snaps. “You’ve got your son back, isn’t that enough?” Homelander draws in a sharp breath at that, flinching a little. “Giving you compound V is not the way I’m going to help you through this slump.” 

Homelander squints at him, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Okay.” 

“I was just wondering,” Homelander says as he nods his head, and he feels like he’s steadily being pushed into some sort of relapse. He looks as if he’s about to leave, but then his eye twitches and he turns to face the Brit again. “Using that against me is low for you though, William.” 

“Using what against you?”

“Don’t act stupid. I got Ryan back and that should be enough? That’s low.”

“Alright.”

Butcher should’ve seen it coming, but Homelander delivers a hard swing, out of nowhere – “That hurt, Butcher. I apologized for what I did to Becca all those years ago, that should be enough for you, right? I don’t have to get you off and think about letting you fuck me, letting you sleep with me, take care of me -”

Now Butcher stands up, strides across the table. “What’s your fucking problem?” 

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, isn’t it?” Homelander asks as he looks up at him, clasping his hands behind his back. 

Butcher’s not doing this right now. “Go to bed, John. You’re in pain.” 

“I keep losing, Butcher. I’m not allowed to want one fucking thing back, just one thing that I’m more familiar with than anything else? I’ve been trying, I am trying. I can’t be like you - how you were - I’ve been getting better, I’ve been working on myself, and you can’t see that.”

“I do see that, Homelander. I praise you everyday for it.” Butcher counters, shaking his head at him.

Homelander fights back the urge to shove him. “You keep getting fucking antsy when I compliment Ryan on his powers, you don’t think I notice it? And then what you said earlier, ‘hey Ryan, make sure your old man doesn’t break his back,’ just throwing that shit in my face as if that’s okay. It fucking hurts, Butcher.” 

Butcher blows out an exhausted breath, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was a bad joke.”

“All day I felt useless that I couldn’t help you two.”

“We didn’t mind.”

“That’s not the point -” Homelander says, tired. “Forget it, man. Goodnight.” 

“I understand what you mean.”

“No. You don’t.” Homelander swallows, rubbing his eyes. 

Butcher’s still mulling over the blow from earlier, so he sits back down and huffs out, returning with. “Fine. I guess I fucking don’t.”

“I’m - okay, alright. Goodnight.” Homelander says again, actually walking away from him this time. 

Butcher watches him go. 

Hours into the next morning, Homelander’s awakened by a gentle squeeze to the shoulder, following up with an aroma flooding his nose as he flutters his eyes open and lifts his head up, hearing a car door close to his left. Butcher had said nothing, he just placed a warm brown bag on his lap, he tenses up, grunting out in confusion, blinking his eyes down at the bag as he lifts his hands up from underneath the coat that laid on top of him.

“Sorry to wake you. I’m just making sure you’ve got something to eat.” Butcher says, reaching over and opening the bag as Homelander sat up fully, he casually reaches in and removes a container that withholds french toast sticks, hash browns, and eggs from the bag. “It’s a lot compared to what you’ve stomached down over the last couple of weeks, but I didn’t have much control over the portions. If you can’t finish then that’s fine, I’ll eat the rest.” 

“It smells amazing.” Homelander mutters groggily, reaching up to take the container into his hand, glancing at the to-go cups of orange juice and coffee sitting in the cupholder. He hums as he makes room on his lap, handing Butcher’s coat back to him with his freehand, glancing down at the contents of food in the container, and then shifting his gaze out of the foggy window, seeing the coating of raindrops blanket the cars that parked aside theirs. 

As he looks around he could tell how it’s really foggy out, and as he sits in the warmth of the car, he could sense the contrast. It’s real to him. Feeling the goosebumps ride up the skin of his arms, chills from the cold running up and down his backside - fuck - it’s all so real. 

Homelander doesn’t know if he likes the sensations or not, but either way it’s pretty fascinating, and his curiosity is piqued. 

“How long was I asleep?” 

Butcher pulls at his seat handle, lowering the seat back, sighing out tiredly. “All morning. I thought it was because you were mad at me, but ehh you were really  knocked out.” 

Homelander has a closed-lip grin on his face, looking sheepish, watching as Butcher fidgets to get comfortable, covering himself with his coat, chasing some type of relaxation. “I wasn’t mad at you.” 

“Last night was odd.”

“It was just emotions.” Homelander responds, blinking slowly. “Why did we go out again?”

“Just wanted to take you somewhere before Ryan woke up. It’s not exactly breakfast in bed but, you know. I think um -” he sighs out, and Homelander looks over at him. “I’m sorry, love. Yesterday was too fucking long.” 

Homelander rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders. “Butcher, please, you’ve said worse to me. I was caught off guard. Emotions are weird as a human, more intense sort of.” 

Homelander squints at him, the corners of his lips curling up into a teasing smile, he tilts his head and looks the Brit over. “You going soft on me, Billy?” 

Butcher grumbles something under his breath and waves him off, his eyelids feeling heavy, exhaustion seeping into his muscles, he never wondered if supes even needed a full night of sleep, or if they trained themselves to not rely on sleep, all in all, Butcher had assumed that he didn’t really need an adequate amount of sleep. Lately, that’s been backfiring, now especially. 

“You look exhausted.” 

“Long week. It’s fine. I’m just glad you’ve gotten some rest.” He responds, lowering his hand back down into his coat, sighing out again. “Cleared your mind.”

Homelander hums, voice low. “I’m trying not to think about A-Train or Maeve.”

Butcher doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nods his head, reaches over and pats John’s knee before settling his hand back onto his stomach. 

Homelander raises a brow as he studies him, settling his food onto his lap before he extends his hand towards him, threading his fingers through the forest of dark hair atop Butcher’s head. It’s a gesture Butcher wasn’t prepared for, excruciatingly gentle contact being initiated by the other man, it sent a rack of chills up his body, the good kind, and he ends up moving into the touch as Homelander slips his palm down the side of his head. 

“Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll eat it all.” 

“Hm, I’ll be fine.” Butcher says, closing his eyes anyway, unable to rest chasing some shuteye. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No.”

Homelander frowns. “Why not?”

“I was up thinking about you all night.” Butcher responds with his eyes still closed, a gentle note to his voice, and he feels John brush his thumb across his forehead, his heart skittering in his chest. 

“Yeah. You're soft.” John mutters as a blush blankets his cheeks, running the back of his hand across the man’s cheek, brushing along his beard. 

Homelander takes the plastic fork and stabs it awkwardly into the eggs, he had gotten so used to Butcher cooking oatmeal for him, experiencing breakfast made by someone else always seemed a little jarring. 

He ends up twisting the fork of eggs around between his index and thumb. 

It certainly smelt good. Homelander lifts the fork up to his nose, expression softening, and then he brings it down to his mouth, closing his lips around the fork, swiping the egg off of with his tongue.

 As he tried to relax his shoulders, he hadn’t noticed Butcher opening one eye to look at him, keeping watch on whether or not Homelander liked the food despite being tired. And maybe it’s because of the hilarious reactions that he gets whenever the man is trying something new, not made by him for once. 

Either way, Homelander eats his food without any complaints, going around two-fourths of the way until he sets his fork down, licking his lips, glancing over at Butcher who went back into a power nap. He leans forward and gives the man a small nudge to his side, immediately waking him up out of his sleep, passing the container to him. “Billy, come on, eat the rest.” 

“Hm,” Butcher hums, pushing his seat up, one hand on the handle, the other gently pushing the container back. “No, no, that was all yours.” 

“Please?” Homelander pleads, continuing to offer the container, ignoring Butcher’s arguments. “It’ll keep you up right. You can’t just depend on V without any type of food in you. Trust me. If you’re not going to eat this then you should at least have a bar of some type with you.”

“Ease off, alright, alright,” Butcher huffs out, taking the container from the other’s hands, his face screwing up in a brief flash of annoyance. 

He forks at a french toast stick, expression softening as he lifts the piece up to his mouth, eating it slowly, humming contently at the sweet taste, while he chews and savors the taste a small voice in his head reminds him that Homelander had been a supe longer than him. He should actually listen. 

Meanwhile, Homelander had picked up his orange juice, sipping down the rest of it, Butcher’s unsure if he likes the taste. If he does like it then it doesn’t really show on his face, and if not, then, well, maybe apple juice will do the job for him next time. 

Nowadays, he’s not as picky, and that’s been a really good development.

“Who’s the coffee for?” Homelander asks once Butcher finishes the rest of his food, placing his empty cup down into the holder. 

Butcher clears his throat awkwardly, gesturing his hand over at the coffee as if Homelander wasn’t looking directly at it. “They didn’t have tea, and in the store, the other day, I don’t know - you seemed pretty curious about it. So I’ve got you some.” 

Homelander hums, picking it up, eyeing it closely, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in a short, appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

“Sugar and cream have already been added.” Butcher says as Homelander takes a sip, moving his coat off of him, passing it back over to the other man, letting it splay out onto his lap until Homelander eventually picks it up.

“It’s bitter.” Homelander croaks out, face fixed in disgust, he retreats and gracelessly puts the coffee down, moving forward as he shuffles Butcher’s coat onto his shoulders, hugging it around him, leaning back against the seat, breathing in the man’s scent. 

Butcher laughs, starts the car to warm the interior back up, there’s a flare of affection residing in his gut as he talks. “I see that I’ve put you on tea. Nice.” 

“Yeah,” Homelander begins as he smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to get rid of the bitterness, he leans forward again and shifts his arms into Butcher’s coat sleeve, nestling further into it, “or maybe you just put a reasonable amount of sugar in your tea like a normal person would. I don’t know.”

“The amount of sugar I put in my tea is exactly what I put in the coffee. You’re more used to what I had to give you, and you like it more. You could say that.”  

Homelander looks over at him, smirking slightly. “And give you the satisfaction?” 

“No satisfaction. You’d prove my point.” 

“Okay, well, the way you make tea is better than how you make coffee. I don’t think you acknowledged the bitterness that comes with coffee, you put only a pinch of sugar in there, and that doesn’t work.”

“So if someone else made it for you, with extra sugar, how would you rate it compared to tea?”

“I wouldn’t drink it.” Homelander responds after mulling over the answers that spawned in his head, shaking his head, amusement in his voice. “To put an end to this, can I say that I’d just tolerate it because it came from you?”

“I’m not satisfied with that.” Butcher returns, cranking the heat up in the car. 

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Chapter Text

Butcher’s super hearing loses its traction by the time he’s leaning up, a finger moving a strand of Homelander’s hair from his face, he’s too distracted to tell that Ryan’s beginning to stir awake in his bedroom. 

John stares up at him with tired eyes, still half asleep from an uncomfortable night out on the couch, his muscles aching, the early sun making the blue of his irises twinkle, causing Butcher to sound a little breathless. “Funfair should be loads of fun, as it says, yeah? If we decide to reconvene there, it could take our mind off of things later on in the day. Give Ryan some space to let loose.” 

Homelander hums thoughtfully, fingers fiddling with the hem of Butcher’s shirt, he rests his head back on Billy’s chest, closing his eyes. “I think he’d like that. I wouldn’t mind it either.” 

“That’s the goal.” Butcher says, running his hand up and down Homelander’s back, his other resting on his lap. 

“We get Ryan to relax, and then we meet up with MM and Hughie at the bloody amusement park. It might not sound like the best idea, but at least my brain isn’t completely fucking fried like I thought it would be. This entire week has been fucked.” 

“Mhm.” Homelander hums.

“I mean, fucking hell. We almost got burned on national television. Do you know how close we were calling it back there? I know Frenchie’s exhausted, but leaving no witnesses behind has always been the ancient rule in the book.” Butcher rants out in an exhale, running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, and in response, Homelander unbuttons a button on his shirt, slips his palm in, brushing his warm hand along his chest. 

“Hughie’s ass over tit, mate’s been blowing up my fucking phone since then, and now I can’t even use the thing. I mean, sure he’s been name dropped on live television, but it’s not like it was the full government.” Butcher continues, peering down through half-mast eyes at his phone rattling on the coffee table, settling his hand on his lap, opening and closing his palm. 

Butcher tries his best to lean forward without moving Homelander off of him, checks the notification, seeing that it’s a text from Mallory regarding Ryan’s phone call. His muscles jump, face hardening, anxiety choking him for a hot second, and then he puts the device back down, leaning his back against the couch again. 

He continues shakily. “I already told him that he’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t outwardly give out his fucking name. The descriptions are vague. They can’t do much with it, and there’s only one Ron out there as far as we know -”

“Butcher, come on. Just relax.”

Butcher blows out a breath, flexing his hands, before curling his fingers into fists, Homelander huffs when he notices the small tremor in his hands, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. 

Oh, this is really getting to him.

“We’ve been really cutting it close.” Butcher says, face tight.

“Billy, you’re stressing yourself out about it. There’s nothing more you can possibly do, and if they show up to the funfair with us then that’s good for business right?” Homelander says, talking low. He twirls his fingers into Butcher’s chest hair, stringing it along his index finger, then he noses up against his neck, planting a soft kiss that he hopes grounds the Brit back. 

“Yeah.” Butcher mutters under his breath after a beat, leaning his head back, Homelander plants another kiss on his collarbone before settling against him once more. 

“Just think happy thoughts.” 

Butcher titters at that, hands skittering along Homelander’s leg. “Oh, listen to how you sound. Back to being an optimist, huh?”

He gets a neutral hum, then a small shoulder shrug. 

“Hey, listen, before we let Ryan see the Boys again, I’ve got to tell you about something that happened, well, at least go in depth about it.”

“Oh? What?” Homelander questions, pulling away, looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows. 

“It involves his volatile behavior.”

“Oh.” Homelander sits up, nodding. “Yeah, okay. What’s up?” 

“When we found him in the rubble with you, he was mad. And, mad? Fucking hell. It seems like an understatement. The lad was pretty much unrecognizable.” Butcher says, blinking up at his ceiling. “Annie was unconscious, MM was bruised, Kimiko was fine, Frenchie wasn’t there, and I was pretty fucking beat up. Ryan thought you were dead. It was pretty grim. You know that already.” 

Homelander studies him closely. “How ‘mad’ was he?”

Butcher raises his head back up, returning Homelander’s gaze, searching for a good way to word this. “He was going to kill us, Homelander. All of us. Hughie, that crazy cunt, came in and fucking saved us. The future was that bleak, and after that, I don’t know. They were a little bit quizzical about him by the time I moved you into my flat.” 

“Ryan would never kill you.” Homelander says with a noticeable touch of denial flickering in his voice, he couldn’t imagine Ryan ever intending to afflict harm on the man. There’s a frown on his face as he removes his hand from Butcher’s shirt. “He’d never hurt you, I don’t think.”

“I was melting where I stood, son. Just from being near him I was getting burned alive. I couldn’t get to him, Homelander. For the first time ever, my words were like bullets to him, they just couldn’t penetrate. I’ve never seen him like that before. I thought that was it.” 

Homelander’s face softens, and he moves in closer to Butcher, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. “Oh. So, what happened with Mallory wasn’t really the first time he’s used his powers with harmful intention.”

“No. It wasn’t. It was always there, maybe since the beginning.”

“Oh.” Homelander sounds – 

Butcher doesn’t know. 

“I don’t think so, Butcher. When I first met him, he was annoyingly kind, patient, and gentle. He still is but it’s different now. It was planted there by me, and - and you could fucking say it. I don’t care. It’s true.” Homelander says, biting the inside of his cheek afterwards. 

“You’re not the main cause, just a mere contribution. Ryan is still a sweet lad, but he’s been through more shit than people twice his age have gone through. The boy is troubled. I just don’t want him getting up in arms when he’s surrounded by most of the Boys again.” Butcher says before the man could spiral down that route, wrapping an arm around Homelander’s shoulders, drawing in a deep breath, tapping his foot against the floor. 

After a second of consideration, Homelander settles against him once more, yawning. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. It all depends on the interactions.” 

He feels Butcher’s chest lurch as he huffs out. “Huh.”

“Ryan is going to be okay.” 

It gets quiet for a moment. Butcher feels the light weight of Homelander’s body sag against his chest, and he can hear his breathing slowing after a few seconds. He must’ve finally fallen asleep, it wasn't a surprise, they’ve been out of the house since the cracks of dawn, replenishing themselves after their argument the night before.

A few seconds after he realizes that John was dozing off, Butcher angles his head to look at him better, eyeing him with furrowed eyebrows, seeing his eyelids flutter in his sleep. He flexes his shaky hands again, swallowing hard.

“Hey,” he shakes him lightly, squeezing his arm to wake him up, “maybe we should get you all dressed down, ready to go back to bed, yeah? Ryan should be awake soon, and he’s going to look forward to heading out soon.” 

“You’re warm.” John mutters, eyes still closed, nuzzling further into Butcher’s chest, his body thrumming with fatigue. “Can we just sit here?” 

Butcher sighs out. “You’d be warmer in bed.”

“With you.”

Butcher strums his fingers along John’s arm, smirking crookedly despite himself. “You’re in a mushy mood because I gave you breakfast earlier. Come on now, sit up.” 

John leans up with a closed lip smile, hand cupping Butcher’s cheek, pushing himself against him and pressing their lips together in a lazy kiss. Butcher momentarily forgets whatever he was about to do as soon as their lips meet, a choked out sound being swallowed into the other’s parted mouth, eyes closing.

They continue on like this for a few more minutes, John’s hands slipping from his cheek to his shoulders, gripping them firmly, his head tilting slightly. Butcher could taste the breakfast they shared earlier on John’s tongue, his body vibrating, he caressed John’s waist, keeping him pressed close.  

“If this is what I get for dragging you out of bed for breakfast,” Butcher begins breathlessly as John trails featherlight kisses along his jawline, gentle fingers curling into his hair, he shifts around to get more comfortable as the man leans against him, “then maybe I should do it more often, huh?”

John pulls his head up, biting his bottom lip, a part of him was tempted to straddle Butcher’s lap, but he’s not taking a chance on pushing this any further, not with Ryan nearby. Plus, he’s feeling tired, he slept rough and upset for most of the night leading up to the moment Butcher shook him awake. “It’s not that.” 

“Oh, it isn’t?”

John’s eyes flicker all over his face as he plays with Billy’s hair, shaking his head as he leans in, scrunching his nose up. “Our little argument is bound to come back to me later on in the day, so I’m trying to take advantage of feeling good now.” 

“We’re good.” Butcher assures, raising a brow at him. John gives him a blank look, Butcher thumbs at his hip. “Unless you feel like rehashing things, then I’m all ears, love.”

“Well, we never really finished it.” John raises his eyebrows at him.

Butcher shakes his head at him, a warning sound in his voice. “Homelander.”

Their argument was a pretty ugly moment, nothing about it was good or progressive, and it didn’t help that they went to sleep on it instead of allowing the tension to disperse. Sure, the early morning breakfast applied cool gel over it, but like Homelander said, they never really finished it. 

Maeve’s death being officially confirmed made the budding confidence in Homelander living on with this life rot, and Butcher could see it on his face. He had brung up wanting to take compound V more adamantly this time, including this extreme desperation pooling in his eyes, his voice, and Billy shot him down, firmly. He’s not going to lose John to the powers of that blue drug, not like that, it would scorn him to see that happen. 

They’d be back at ground zero. 

Perhaps, in the most tragic way possible, Homelander will always be dependent on V, he grew up off of it, and with the historic scale of his powers, he was probably injected with the drug every other week, ever since he was an infant. It aided the persistent abuse he was faced with as a child, the lab doctors and scientists cutting corners with every single flaw they could spot on him, needing their experiment to be perfect  -  

At this point, Billy doesn’t know if he successfully weaned him off of it in the beginning and if he just relapsed as soon as he confessed that he got the shot. After the blast, Homelander himself said he was partially relieved to be stripped from having his powers - or maybe he just meant his overall power regarding his ties with Vought.  

The argument put a lot of things in perspective. 

The healthier Homelander gets, the worse he feels about living on as a regular human. Everyday that passes, with every headache he gets, he realizes that he’s completely mortal, defenseless.

 Of course he’s not talking to Billy about it, which hurts. Not because it would be better if he did - it makes Butcher wonder if he’s actually trying his best with John. He had initially thought, after the conversations they’ve had, that he was safeplace to the fallen supe, especially at this point in their relationship, holding hands in the car and smiling into each other’s faces. 

But as of now, the distance Homelander unintentionally puts between them just adds another layer to his ongoing issues. 

There’s no way in hell Homelander would bring his depression up to Ryan either, the boy was already tripping over himself to make sure his normal father was happy and safe.

Not to mention, Ryan is human too, albeit half-human, but all of his life he was raised entirely as a human, and that’s how Butcher continues to look at him to this day. 

Ryan loves that Homelander is just — John, now. Sure, he loves his father regardless, but Butcher can see it in his eyes when he’d look at John as of late, the sheer contrast between the boy loving his father then and now. 

It’s easy to imagine John entering the room, his presence alone making Ryan absolutely ecstatic, dropping all conversations with Butcher to run towards his dad, greeting him.  He could imagine whenever John would have a hard time opening a jar, reaching a shelf, moving something heavy across the room, Ryan would always be understanding, affection laced in his voice when he’d say, ‘I’ll do it for you, dad.’ 

He’s already been saying ‘you’re just like me’ a lot, he says it every single time John does something relatable, human, or just completely normal. Ryan says it like an I love you, and with each breath the words come out, Billy notices more and more often how John’s smile doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. It mirrors the moments where John would say the words back to him, and yet, Ryan would take it at face value rather than react negatively to it. 

So hearing his dad open up about wanting to be on V again - God - who knows how the boy would react. 

Those two are so tied into each other despite their tumultuous history, Butcher hasn’t seen anything like it.

“Billy,” fingertips brush along the shell of his ear, bringing him back, and when Butcher is finally wrung out of his thoughts, he sees how open John’s expression is all of a sudden, his stomach starts to do flips. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry about last night.” John whispers, looking up at him, sounding strangely innocent. His hands are fidgeting awkwardly, so Billy grabs them in his own and that makes John’s voice tremble a little. “I said some stupid things. You didn’t need to hear all of that.”

It’s as if he read his mind. 

Butcher’s expression remains neutral, but he could feel his stomach twist, the frightened child in the lab is on full display here, he could hear it in his voice, and his overall body language is similar to Ryan’s when he’s put under pressure. 

Even Soldier Boy had the same troubled glint in his eyes when he told Butcher about how his father thought he was a disappointment. 

Fucking hell. It’s the entire bloodline.

Butcher lets go of his hand to stroke the back of John’s neck, tickling the soft brown hairs between his fingers. He must’ve really felt bad about the whole thing, and remorse is always huge. “I know. We talked about it.” 

“I was thinking about Maeve. One subject went to another, I was in a bad headspace, but that’s not really an excuse. I don’t like talking to you like that anymore, it makes me feel funny.” John admits, he sounds genuinely shameful, embarrassed even.

“Maeve.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you know that it’s wrong, and you’re taking accountability for it. Plus, you’ve said worse.” Billy repeats John’s words back to him, looking into his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got more things to whine about. It’s all fine.” 

John doesn’t look too convinced.

Sighing out, Butcher places his hands on each side of John’s face, cupping his cheeks, leaning forward to kiss him again. He gets a soft hiccup of surprise before John eventually melts against him, the other’s lips parting on instinct, Billy holds him still and breathes him in, feels his heart ache in his chest. 

Fucking Vought .  

Billy vows to do whatever it takes to get him out of this ridiculous ‘I need V to strive’ mindset, he needs to guide him into the light again. And Butcher doesn’t mind doing a little more caretaking, it works for his own problems, taking care of John. That’s how they ended up here in the first place. 

He tells himself that this is just a setback, an expected one, and Billy is just gonna have to harden himself back up to take the pelts that’s going to come with it.

He pulls away, rests his forehead on John’s, his thumb brushing across the man’s cheek. He feels him shudder under the sudden attention, and when he opens his eyes, John’s cheeks are shaded a rose red color. “I wasn’t expecting a kiss, William.” 

“Felt like the right response. I don’t know.” Billy replies, his voice rumbling through his chest, lifting his head up from John’s, moving back in to kiss the tip of his nose, his cheek, and chin. “You’re a piece of work sometimes.”  

“I’m sorry,” John breathes out in a small yet flustered sound, his eyes fluttering as Butcher’s kisses go back to his lips, his heart racing in his chest, he feels like he’s going to implode all of a sudden. 

Out of coherent words to say at this point, he decides to move his lips against Billy’s, sighing out into his mouth, his thoughts evaporating, he’s once again in disbelief that this was actually happening to him.

The air in the living room shifts as they continue to kiss each other, their lips moving in sync with each other’s, and Butcher was too focused on the sound of Homelander’s heartbeat to notice Ryan padding into the room, pajamas on, his eyes landing on the two men snogging on the couch. 

He blinks, his jaw unlatching, mouth dropped wide open, and then he’s drawing back as if he’s been scalded, choking out a surprised noise. “Guys?” 

John breaks off from the kiss and basically shoves Butcher into the cushion, using the man as leverage to rise off of him, stumbling backwards, nearly crashing into the coffee table.

 “Ryan,” he coughs out as he straightens his shirt, meeting the boy’s widened eyes, face flushing crimson red. “Shit. Hi. Uhm - fuck, okay -” 

Butcher sits back up on the couch, twisting around to look at Ryan, rendered speechless for a few seconds.
Ryan’s mouth was still hanging open as he darted his eyes between Butcher and Homelander, face screwed up in a mix of emotions. He lifts up a finger, pointing back and forth between the two, visibly unsure of where to start. 

“Shit.” Butcher mutters under his breath. “Ryan, we can - I can explain. Alright?”

John looks like a deer in the headlights. 

 “I didn’t see anything.” Ryan finally speaks before Butcher could bury his own grave, he seemed to get ahold of himself, a neutral expression blanketing his face, it was as he was panning out his words before he said them.

He drops his hand to his side.

John and Butcher exchange a quick glance with each other. 

“Are -” Ryan begins, but then he pauses and shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. He finds it best to start over because, as of now, his tongue feels so fucking tied, mouth dried out, and he doesn’t know whether he should be ecstatic, relieved, or angry. It’s an expansion pack. 

Were they ever going to tell him about this? That’s where the anger comes in, and he gives Butcher, especially a long scrutinizing look that causes the Brit to squirm.  

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, breathing out after a beat, the mantra of thoughts in his head talking to him. There’s a bunch of what the fuck’s and wow, okay, that’s quite a turn repeating in his mind, threatening to spew out all at once.

Instead, he goes another route.  “Um, are we still going to the amusement park today?” 

“I’m sorry, Ryan.” John blurts out before Butcher could formulate an answer. “I personally wanted you to settle in first before bringing that up.” 

Ryan tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “Oh. Helpful.”

He averts his eyes and mutters something along the lines of ‘that’s why they were acting so weird yesterday,’ but he never says it aloud, he sees his father deflate, then he reaches a hand back to scratch his neck even though there’s no itch, shrugging his shoulders. “I honestly didn’t see anything, dad.” 

Butcher swoops in, standing up from the couch to properly accompany the other man in this awkward exchange, his shoulder brushing against Homelander’s. “We’re still trying to figure it out ourselves. It’s sort of just a thing that’s been going on between us. An agreement, sort of?”

“It’s fine.” Ryan says with an awkward smile, shaking his head, dropping his hand. He’s embarrassed for them at this point. “I’m not mad or anything. It just would’ve been nice to know. Very helpful.” 

“We were going to tell you.”

Ryan snorts. “Sure. Yeah.” 

Butcher stares at him. “It is what it is, okay?”

Ryan’s eyes darted between them both again, seeming to scrutinize the two of them, the flush on Homelander’s face, and the concealment of uncertainty on Butcher’s. He itches to take a picture of them both so he could laugh at their faces later, but he refrains from doing so. 

“Okay,” he emits after a long moment of purposely building awkward tension just so he could see them squirm, letting his face soften into a more amused expression. 

When the two men continue to remain frozen, Ryan repeats louder. “ Okay. ” 

“Okay?” John’s eyebrows are furrowed. 

Ryan’s grin only grows, and he doesn’t comment on the topic further, instead, and fortunately for the two men, he switches the subject. “Are we still going to the carnival today?”

Homelander decides to retreat, taking his seat back on the couch, rubbing his face with his palm as Butcher momentarily takes the reins, the dark haired man patting at his pockets just so he had something to do with his hands. 

“Yeah. Yes. That’s the plan. Are you feeling up for it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s still a little early, so I guess I’ll make you breakfast, and uhh your dad needs some sleep. But first, we need to talk about some things though.”

Ryan blinks at him, concerned. “Talk about what?”  

In the bare dining room of the new flat, Butcher is sitting besides Homelander, both of them planted across the table as the Brit replays Ryan’s video back to him, the child lasering down a handmade Soldier Boy dummy with enough heat to make the earth collapse. 

Ryan watches himself on his phone as Butcher holds it up to his face, staring blankly at the screen, a knot budding in his stomach because some-fucking-how he’s in trouble for this. They never said so, but he can read things very deeply, and so he concluded that this was going to turn into a Mallory-esque scolding. 

His hands grip at his lap by the time the video’s finished, and he’s leaning back against the seat, feeling a mix of confusion brew, a silent question spawning in his head as to why Butcher is giving him this annoying look of disapproval. “Okay,” he starts slowly as Butcher turns the phone off, placing it face down on the table, he shrugs his shoulders and forces a confused smile at the Brit, “why are you showing me that?” 

Homelander rolls his thumbs over each other, staring intently at his hands, his lips downturn. 

Butcher clears his throat. “Mallory texted me this morning,” Ryan stirs at that, eyes hardening, hand caught in the cookie jar, “she said that you called her and demanded to see Soldier Boy so you could kill him yourself. You basically scared her, for the second time in the row, uhm, by the way. We still need to talk about the pancake incident.” 

Ryan looks over at Homelander, then back at Butcher, his face falling. Butcher can hear his heart rate spike, and if he were to react to scolding like his father in any way, he knows he should continue cautiously. “This behavior you’ve been exhibiting with your powers, Ryan - it’s wrong. We have to nip it in the bud, immediately. You’re better than that, and it’s disappointing to see you spiral down that route.” 

“What?” Ryan’s eyes are so big right now, and the ‘what’ - fuck - his voice literally disappears into a stunned whisper that sends a dagger through Butcher’s heart. 

Homelander looks at Butcher, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something, in the end he remains silent, averting his eyes back to his hands. 

Butcher spreads his hands out on the table, they’re trembling slightly, he feels very on edge. “I understand where this anger is coming from, but it’s not necessary for you to indulge in it because it’s not good for you, it’ll turn you into something you’re not. You’re just a lad, Ryan. We don’t want you around Soldier Boy, he’s an obvious trigger for you, and I don’t like seeing you mad.” 

Ryan shifts in the chair, his breath catching, and he digs his nails into his knees. “Are you two mad at me or something?” 

“No.” Homelander said quickly. 

“We’re just concerned.”

“I’m fine.” Ryan firmly says, and the sudden shift in his voice hits Butcher hard enough to give him whiplash. “I want to kill grandpa, ever since the tower fell. I mean, I never intentionally planned out actually killing anyone before, but it doesn’t mean I’m losing control or anything. I’m fine.” 

Butcher sighs out, strumming his fingers on the table while Homelander just stares at his son, gnawing on his bottom lip. “You shouldn’t want to kill anybody, Ryan. That’s the issue.” 

Ryan screws his face up in confusion. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is that an issue?” 

“You’re smart enough to see the problem with what you want, Ryan. Come on.” 

“Well obviously I’m missing something because I don’t see the fucking problem.” Ryan snaps like a literal twig, and there it is, that sickening look in his eye, one that Butcher had seen too many times with the man next to him. 

Butcher eyes widen and he sits back in his chair, shaking his head. 

Oh brother. 

Homelander leans forward, an uncharacteristic moderator, his voice is soft, and he’s once again put in an unfamiliar position where he has to settle things down. Butcher doesn’t seem like himself right now, he looks stunned, and a little overwhelmed. “Easy, easy, Ryan.” 

“I don’t get it.” 

Ryan’s steely eyes flicker over to his dad, a brief glance, then it seemed like a tidal wave of agitation washed over him because he returned his glare back to a quietly befuddled Butcher, and he’s angry.

 “You know what’s really an issue, Butcher? Soldier Boy is still out there, getting the chance to live after what he’s done to my dad and to thousands of innocent people, to your friends. I mean dad’s teammate literally just fucking died from a measly gunshot wound because he doesn’t have his powers anymore –” 

Homelander looks over at Butcher, wondering why he hasn’t said anything yet, he turns back to his fuming son and tries again. “Ryan.” 

Ryan is continuing to rant. “I don’t understand, why are you making it seem like I’m the problem? Do you think I’m going to turn into what Soldier Boy was? Do you think I’m going to end up like him?” He points to Homelander, which was brutal enough, and then he delivers a dagger. “Or like you?”  

That gets Butcher to return from spacing ouy, he decides to match the boy’s energy, treading lightly around him is only making it worse. Besides, maybe Homelander will finally see the full scale as to why Ryan’s situation could really become a dynamic shifting issue if it continues to go unnoticed.

 “Your mother would be sick hearing you talk like this, Ryan.” 

Ryan's eye twitches, nothing but air leaves his lips, and he buffers for a moment before he eventually catches himself. “Don’t bring her up.” 

“Maybe I should.” 

Ryan grits out, frustrated. “Why am I the problem?”

Butcher shakes his head at the boy, squinting his eyes. “I didn’t say you were the problem. You could become a problem if you continue down this path. I know you, Ryan, and I know that killing someone isn’t –”

“You don’t know me.” 

Butcher blinks. “What?”

“Dad knows me. You don’t, because you and everybody else never tried to, Butcher. If I ever thought to embrace my powers back then when it was just you, me, and aunt Grace, you’d probably run away earlier than you actually did.” Ryan spat, fists clenched on his lap.

Homelander gives Butcher a long look. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. 

Butcher’s eyebrows furrowed. “Where the hell is this coming from?”

Ryan averts his eyes, muttering. “I don’t know.” 

Butcher couldn’t believe he was hearing this, his voice shakes slightly, and Homelander frowns when he notices. “Ryan, I stuck by you from the beginning. I mean, I sure as shit didn’t have a choice at first, but I took you under my wing for an entire year.” 

“Billy?” Ryan frowns at him, and suddenly, the conversation shifted.  

“I fucking took compound V for you, Ryan. I betrayed myself, my entire life’s morals, and turned into a fucking supe, do you know how painful that was for me?” Butcher sounds choked up, more choked up than Homelander had ever seen him since the Stormformt-Becca incident, and it crashes down on him like a falling iron. 

Billy was about to unravel. John feels his stomach twist. 

Homelander absently grabs at Butcher’s hand, genuinely rattled. Ryan sees the movement, and he blinks his eyes in realization, but by then it was too late, because at that point, his father was the one talking to him now  – 

“Is he alright -”

“Enough of this, Ryan. You’re not killing Soldier Boy, you’re not seeing him, you’re not going near him, understand? And you’re going to stop acting like what you’re doing with Mallory is fine, because it’s not.” Homelander scolds, taking Butcher’s place, giving Ryan a familiar, stony look. 

Ryan falters massively. “But she -” 

“It makes you look like a fucking idiot, Ryan. Okay?” Homelander adds, blunt, unwavering.  

Ryan flinches, but he’s nodding his head, somewhat, but he looks to be buffering again, his face falling, ears ringing loudly. He’s been scolded by John, he messed up with Butcher, unintentionally making him crumple,  and now he’s being scolded. “But - is he - dad I -”

“What?”

Ryan’s eyes sheen over, panic coiling in his gut. “I - I was just - I’m -”

Depowered or not, being on Homelander’s bad side is still terrifying, and for multiple reasons. Ryan gets a chill up his spine and he averts his eyes, continuing to stammer over his words, over his excuses. Homelander glances at Butcher, then back at Ryan, studying the soft concern skittering across the boy’s face. “He’s fine, alright? It’s not you. Don’t worry about him.” 

“I’m sorry, Billy.” The boy utters after a beat. “I got defensive.” 

Butcher raises a hand in acknowledgement, then drops it.

“We’re concerned about you, Ryan. No one said you were the problem. I want Soldier Boy dead too, but not by your hands. When I was your age, I wanted everyone dead.” Homelander’s voice softens, but it remains noticeably firm, keeping Ryan’s attention.

Butcher, in the state of his muted despondence, is wondering where the actual hell this level of parenting came from. 

Ryan sniffles, sounding tiny, the menace behind his voice is all but gone at this point, and maybe this is how the conversation should’ve gone in the beginning. “He almost took you away from me, dad. You were gone.” 

“And in return, you almost killed Butcher and his friends. Remember?” 

Ryan looks at Butcher, meets the man’s wet eyes, and he sucks in a deep breath, suddenly feeling numb all over. His dad of all people was giving him a much needed reality check, he feels like taking a sledge hammer to himself. “I didn’t mean to do that.” 

“Well, when we see them today, you tell them that. Sure, you didn’t mean to do it, but now they see you in a different light. That’s how it starts. You’re only pushing the envelope by scaring people who took their precious time taking care of you and threatening to go on this fucking war path to avenge me. How are they going to look at you now?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’ll become scared of you, and they’ll hate you, and that will never leave. It won’t, Ryan. It doesn’t matter how hard you’ll try to convince them that it’s not really you, that it’s not what you’ll become, because they’ll only see you as Homelander’s kid, Soldier Boy’s grandson, the boy who continued the cycle of violence.” John tells him, staring across the table at Ryan like he’s his own reflection, because in a weird way, he is. 

A part of him wishes someone told him this when he was out of the lab, and hell, someone probably did. 

Ryan shifts awkwardly in his chair, being quiet for a moment. “I get it, but I’ve just been so angry, and it’s really only directed towards Soldier Boy.” 

“Then fly, Ryan. Go out and fly, punch a tree, scream into space, kill a fucking rat. You want to kill Soldier Boy? The closest thing to him is a rat, and there are rats all around the city ready to be disintegrated, you’ll run the exterminators out of business but fuck it, they suck at their jobs anyway.” Ryan drops his head and snorts at that, attempting to fight off the smile forming on his face. Homelander’s shoulders slump, and relief floods in at the sight. 

“Or you can draw, I mean, you’re a really good drawer, or, even better, you can just talk to me. I’m here, I’m back, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Ryan lifts his head back up, biting his lip, nodding. “Okay. I will.”

“Okay?” Homelander lets go of Butcher’s hand to lend it to Ryan, and the boy immediately clasps it. “You’re a sweet kid.” 

“Thank you.” Ryan says, eyes soft. 

Homelander sees so much of himself in Ryan it’s fucking insane. 

Butcher remains withdrawn, but that’s okay, they’ll talk later. 

Ryan leaves to go freshen up after a couple of words of reassurance pass along to him, retreating in his room to go and pick his clothes out for the carnival, or to just get out of Billy’s sight, maybe both.

John waits until Ryan closes the door before he turns to Butcher who seemed to be zoning out where he sat. “Billy,” he sighs out as he tilts his head, looking at him closely. “He was just really angry, I doubt he meant -” 

“He’s right. I don’t know.” 

“No, come on. You know that’s not - William, stop.” 

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve got a headache.” 

“He just got defensive.” 

“I know, tell him it’s fine.” 

John nods, rubbing his arm. “Okay.”

Butcher trembles, and then he drops his head into his hand. 

For the first time since they’ve ever been intimately involved, John is witnessing Butcher finally break. If John, in the past, ever previously doubted that Butcher couldn’t be pushed past a breaking point he’s already crossed over, then he was very wrong, because Butcher is currently pressing his palm to his face and he’s probably crying. 

John couldn’t truly tell.

 “Billy, hey. Hey, hey, hey.” He whispers to him, shifting closer, stretching his arms across Butcher’s shoulders and pulling the man into an awkward embrace since they’re still in chairs. 

“Just need a minute.” Butcher mutters stiffly into his palm as John runs his fingers through his hair, voice choppy, wet. If he was crying, then he was doing a good job in being discreet with it.   

“I’m sorry, Billy.” John kisses the words into his forehead, swallowing hard. He’s painfully reminded of the bullshit he’s been on regarding compound V, their heated argument from last night, Maeve and A-Train, almost getting doxxed on national television. 

The things that transpired this week was only the tip of the iceberg. 

Was this the first time Butcher has ever broken down since the tower explosion? 

Butcher turns to him and holds onto John, wrapping his arms around him, initiating an embrace. John has to close his eyes for a few seconds, running his hands up Butcher’s shoulders. “It’s okay, it’ll be alright, it’s just been a tough week.” 

“Been a fucking war, son.” Butcher sighs out as he shifts closer and buries his face into John’s neck. 

“I know.”

For over ten minutes, John strokes his hand across the other man’s head, being less awkward at comfort. He knows Ryan is probably watching them, but the boy is smart enough to know that Butcher crying wasn’t all because of him, if he’s even having those thoughts anyway. 

Either way, John will shut them all down.  

They’ll have to settle for eggs and bacon, and it seems like John will be the one cooking. 

The carnival. 

God is it lovely, even in such dour weather. 

Vibrant multicolored lights scatter across Central Park, confetti spilling all over the opened and decorated paths. Posters of Vought’s missing supes are drilled in on every surface anyone could find, whether it be a lightpost, a bench, or a concession stand. The sun is beginning to set, although the gray clouds above sort of kills the beauty, however, the large temple that includes an arcade casts a pink-orange hue on the overall scenery.

The darker the park gets, the brighter the multicolored neon lights become, casting a soft haze over Homelander’s face that Butcher couldn’t bring himself to look away from, not to mention the flickering lights of downtown Manhattan itself. 

At one point, as they push through the groups of super-abled and normal children along with their drunk parents, Butcher’s eyes are stuck on him, completely forgetting he was supposed to be walking.  

In the far distance of the skyline, the ferris wheel is spinning in a slow pace, its lights glimmering with life. Next to a miniature roller-coaster roaring a few concession stands away, and the path towards the different rides such as merry-go-rounds and a spinner were sprinkled with confetti.

There’s a cotton candy machine next to an old popcorn stand, and in the center of the funfair there was a busy ice cream parlor for kids who had powers, their skins would run hotter than most children after running around all day, no matter the weather. 

Butcher didn’t have to pay for tickets, all of it was community driven, just like he and Ryan had discussed. It was a relief, which is more than an understatement, everything looked hilariously expensive, and he’s not entirely sure how anyone got their hands on this type of high-level amusement park machinery.

Although he’s not really a funfair person, there’s one thing he couldn’t disagree with, the town needed some festivities since what happened. A funfair was a good idea to get the children’s minds off of the disaster that transpired just blocks away from their homes, and the adults too. 

Ryan had his large raincoat on, a color that makes his eyes pop, he looks eight again. He stares in awe at the rides, the glimmering lights reflecting in his eyes; wide, pure, and blue. “Billy, oh my God,” he breathes out shakily, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile, and he turns to look at his parents, sounding exhilarated, “this is so fucking cool.”  

Homelander has Billy’s sweatshirt on, returning from the shower with it on, ridiculously good-looking and all. Still, despite seeing them kiss earlier, it made Ryan do a double take in the middle of eating the eggs and bacon John had made, accidentally dropping his spoon into his food, wordlessly eyeing Butcher seconds later. 

Most awkward fucking breakfast ever among other things. 

At least Homelander looks warm though. 

“Which ride do you want to go on first?” Homelander asks this question as if he wasn’t terrified of actually going on a ride. Butcher could see it written all over his face, but he decided not to say anything yet. 

As Ryan decides on what to do, tapping at his chin all thoughtfully and such, Homelander lowers himself down to Ryan’s height, zipping up the boy’s raincoat, keeping it from potentially flapping open.

“I want to go on the bumper cars.” Ryan answers, eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve never been on one before but they look so cool in the movies. Have you been on one?” 

“No. I never had the time to.” Homelander says with furrowed eyebrows, standing back up, grabbing Ryan’s hand. He looks over at Butcher, confused. “What exactly is a bumper car?”

“It’s like a mini-car.” Billy says, hands in his pockets. 

“A mini car? What?”

Ryan tugs at his father’s hand with a little too much energy, causing the man to lose his balance and stumble forward, he points his little finger towards the obnoxious bumper car racetrack a few yards east. “Come on dad, I’ll drive us around in one! It’s going to be so cool!” 

“Ow, Ryan, hang on a second.” Homelander says, an uncertain look in his eyes, sounding noticeably wounded after another unintended hard tug from Ryan, feeling as if his arm is about to get ripped out of his socket. 

“Ryan, Ryan. Ease up, lad.” Billy chides gently, brows knitted. 

“Oh, oh, sorry dad,” Ryan blinks, softening his grip and ceasing the tugging. “Are you okay?”

Homelander ruffles Ryan’s hair before settling a hand on the boy’s shoulder, smiling at him despite his arm aching. He pays no mind to Butcher. “Yeah. I’m fine. How about you go ahead? I don’t think I’m ready for uhm - bumper cars.”  

Ryan blinks up at him, brows knitted. “You’re not?”

“One thing at a time, Ryan.” Butcher reminds him, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Took him some time to get used to a regular car ride.” 

“Ooh. I get it. That’s okay.” Ryan says, nodding his head. “We can just walk around then, I don’t mind. I’ll go to it later.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Being genuine here, MM.” Butcher speaks into his phone, breaking off from the group a moment later before they stepped foot into the festival area, he went back towards the entrance area beyond the gateway.

Homelander decided to hang about ahead with Ryan, looking over his shoulder towards Butcher before continuing to push forward. 

“Okay, but a carnival? That’s literally the most idiotic idea ever. Hughie has been in a barrel ever since the news about A-Train broke out. He can’t come anyway.” 

“You lot either come along, or you don’t, but I’m all out of options at the moment. Ryan needs to be in this environment one way or another.” Billy says seconds before he presses the ‘end call’ button, staring at his phone briefly, then once a blast of confetti hits his face he gets around to putting it away, slipping the device into his pocket. 

He blinks his down eyes at an elated Ryan who was holding a confetti gun at him, grinning toothily, finger on the plastic trigger. “Look at what I found, Billy!”  

“Did you really just shoot me with it?” Butcher asks his kid, feigning offense, he takes his mind off of his friends and pushes along into the gateway of the funfair, an opened fence mapping around the perimeter of the area, his hand on clasping Ryan’s shoulder.

“You were an open target.” Ryan teases. 

Homelander’s waiting on the other side of the fence, his back turned to them, hands in his sweatshirt pockets, hat on to cover his hair, eyes big and shining. 

“And your old man isn’t?”

“Your reaction would’ve been more funny.” Ryan shrugs his shoulders as he holds his confetti gun close, his smile never leaving, the colorful neon lights strung around the funfair makes him look younger, happier. 

Billy couldn’t appreciate that more than he already does, the kid needs days like this in his life. 

“Think I got some in my hair. You little chump.” Butcher swats at confetti pieces decorating his hair as Ryan laughs and points a finger at him. 

“There’s some in your beard too!” 

“You git.” Billy says as he paws at his beard, confetti pieces brushing at his fingers, fluttering to the ground. 

Once they pass the gate, closing in towards Homelander, Ryan, still giggling, aims the confetti gun at him again. “Leave it there, it makes you look nicer.” 

“You shoot me with that and we’re wrestling.” Butcher threatens, an eyebrow raised. 

“Only if you could catch me.” 

“Ryan don’t you dare  -” Confetti flies into his mouth, and high-pitched laughter follows, along with a sudden rush of wind, fading footsteps. The boy was running, he was lucky enough to not be chased around the entire funfair.

Butcher coughs and spits out the confetti as he runs his hands down the front of his shirt, unbeknownst to Homelander’s fond stare directed towards him a foot away, confetti is everywhere on him, and when he finds Ryan he’s definitely going to tickle him until he cracks. 

Onlookers laugh softly at the sight, some even bristle due to their children most likely getting ideas of possessing their own confetti gun to torture their parents more than they might’ve already done today. Butcher couldn’t complain. 

Homelander bites his bottom lip to hold back an amused smile when Butcher approaches him with pieces of confetti raining from his messy dark hair. “Can’t lie, you sort of walked into that.” 

Butcher huffs. “Where did he get that from?”

“Over there.” Homelander points his finger at a basket filled with confetti guns across the walkway, a handwritten sign drilled into the rim that says, ‘take one and make the most of it,’ and Butcher has to shake his head. “He ran ahead as soon as he saw it.” 

“Oh. Convenient.” 

Homelander turns to him, tilting his head, reaching up to remove pieces of confetti from Butcher’s hair, his moves are hesitant and careful, as if he’s not supposed to be touching him. A pang of embarrassment hits him, and he averts his eyes. Homelander might’ve been acting all antsy due to Billy suddenly catching a bug of the waterworks earlier that morning, but then the shorter man moves in close, eyes filled with an overwhelming amount of affection. 

Butcher looks back at him, his heart thrumming in chest. John had seen him at his most vulnerable and he’s still here, staring up at him like he’s the only thing in the world, picking pieces of confetti out of his hair. 

Fuck. 

“Everything okay?” Homelander asks after removing the last piece, raising a brow at him. 

Saying nothing, Butcher grabs him by the waist, dips his head, and kisses him breathless, swallowing the surprised noise that slips from Homelander’s parted mouth. Homelander’s hands are gripping his shoulders once got over his mirth, fingers pressing into them, he returns the kiss, sighing into it all dreamily, letting Butcher press his chest into him. 

John is so perfect.

Butcher pulls away from the flustered man, cupping the back of his covered head, hugging him into his chest, curving against him. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, eyes fluttering as John nuzzles his face into his shoulder, his heart is hammering against his ribcage, and he has to reassess. “Jesus Christ.”

“William?” John murmurs his name, sounding understandably concerned, his arms slung along Butcher’s shoulders. 

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” 

John’s body vibrates as he talks. “No, it was - I think I needed that. As weird as it sounds.” 

“Only other person to see me crack like that was my little brother, and maybe, possibly Hughie, but being drunk doesn’t count.” 

“Really?” John’s breath hitches, and he goes quiet for a beat as Butcher breathes him in, then he lifts his head up and kisses where Butcher’s jaw and neck meet, his beard tickling him. 

“When I was crying about Maeve, that’s the longest I’ve ever allowed someone to see me cry. Like actually crying inconsolably.” 

“Huh. So we both turned into little piglets in front of each other. Back to back.”

“Mhm.”

Butcher pulls away from the embrace, needing to look at him. “I’m going to kill Ron, and I’m going to kill Soldier Boy.”

John licks his lips. “When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll do all of it tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow. Okay.” John nods his head, running his fingertips along the side of Butcher’s neck. “I want you to make them suffer.”

“Do you want -” Butcher swallows, staring into pleasantly blue eyes. “Do you have anything you’d want to say to him? To Soldier Boy?” 

John shrugs his shoulders, whispering dejectly. “I don’t know yet.” 

“And John -” Billy says his name in such a captivating way, and John shivers at the authenticity of it, how natural it rolls off of his tongue. 

“Yeah?”

Butcher searches his eyes, a fog over his eyes. “Do you still want to take compound V?”

“Um,” John averts his eyes, hesitant to answer the question now compared to his confidence regarding taking compound V the other night, but still, the slight incline of his head gives Butcher his answer anyway.

“If you take it, and you lose yourself,  then I’d have to kill you too.” Butcher’s voice was trembling again, but he tried to make it unnoticeable this time around, but John hears it, he doesn’t need super hearing to hear how much pain that rings through Butcher from saying that.

The threat would’ve felt less painful coming out of his mouth months ago, but now, he feels extremely nauseated by it, by John’s fidgety reaction, by the discomfort that settled onto him.

 “You know that, right?” 

Then, for a brief moment, all that’s heard between the two men is the sounds of children laughing and the rides going in the distance, John bites down on his bottom lip, continuing to look away from Butcher’s piercing gaze. 

Through it all, John sees Ryan mingling with a group of other kids, all super-abled, and he’s grinning with excitement, totally unphased to the crowd, fourth in line to reach a high score on a strength tester game. 

One child has the hammer already in her hand, her eyes wandering to the bell strung high up in the air. There’s a metal rod ready to spring up and strike the bell depending on how hard she’ll send the hammer down onto the platform. 

It’s one of the few mini games scattered around the field. 

Ryan loves him like this. Billy does too. 

John has to breathe in, a burn transpiring in his gut. 

The pain of giving everything up will always linger with him, it’s a humongous transition, one he only hopes he can see-through. At this point, with everything he’s ever known in his life lost, he doesn’t know what to do, and he could only hope that William will get his mind off of things.

He’s in a slump, a very bad one.

John would need to forget about the Seven, and everyone involved in the Seven apart from the one that’s still alive. He'd have to ignore the voices in his head telling him to take compound V, he should try and forget to feel the warmth of the blue drug coursing through his veins again.

Even if he did have the chance to get the injection once more, would it even be the same?

Billy and Ryan are his people now, that’s all that should matter.

Those two would be worth living like this. 

John can’t say much for himself, he’s not doing this for him, and maybe that’s why he’s so bothered. He couldn’t think for himself. His mind is ripped into two, he could either help himself, or – help him self.  

“Even if you do mean to use your powers for good,” Butcher tips John’s face back to him, a gentle press of his fingers under his chin, “it’s still going to take you away from me, from Ryan. Do you understand that?”

John frowns up at him at that, and his voice sounds remarkably tiny the next time he speaks. “You’ll take Ryan away from me?”

“I’d never do that to you, Homelander.” Billy’s quick to aid that thought away. “He’ll be the one to make that decision. But seeing you like that, seeing you willingly go back into those restraints those cunts put you in, I don’t think either of us could take it.”

“Billy, no,” John begins in an exhale, shaking his head, Butcher can feel him pulling away, his hands pushing at his shoulders.  

“No, John. Listen to me, please, love.” Billy begs, keeping him still and planted in front of him. “In the past few weeks, I’ve seen you, all of you, from the inside and out. Underneath all of the bullshit, you’re fucking Christ, you’re actually very considerate.” 

And that’s just the surface, Billy genuinely believes that deep down John is caring, attentive, and surprisingly nurturing. There were so many moments where the other man, the most fucked up individual he’s ever met, seemed so - caring and genuine. Offering Billy the rest of his breakfast after a few bites, staying outside with him while he was upset with Mallory despite being cold and tired, offering to stay up with him after Billy brung his fucked up sleeping pattern into conversation. 

God, he fucking witnessed him cry and held him. 

That kindness Vogelbaum had mentioned, it’s very blurred now, faded, buried and abused, but it never truly disappeared. 

Overtime, it convinces Billy to believe that Ryan is John as a lad. Perhaps they’ll never fully breach the subject of John’s childhood whilst in the lab, similar to how Billy would never dare to go in depth about his past.

Ryan is pretty much the closest he’ll ever be to seeing John as a kid, he could see it in the man’s eyes, how much the boy reminds him of himself, of that ‘stupid child’ in the lab, and for what it’s worth, Butcher is fine with that. 

And sometimes, but more as of late, Billy would imagine what it would’ve been like if they had met as kids. 

Little John and Lenny. God.

Lenny, that softy, would love him. 

“I don’t want you to run back into the darkness because nine times out of ten, I’m going to lose you, and I don’t want to suffer another loss again.” Butcher says, and John notices a thickness resembling a plea in his voice, seeing a rare desperate sheen in his eyes. “That temptation to take V is just a temptation , you shouldn’t entertain it, because you’re more than that, alright?”

“More than that.” John repeats under his breath as he looks down, shaking his head in disagreement. Butcher frowns at him. 

“My time with you and my son is limited, Butcher. I’m mortal. I’m weak, and - and you’re this unstoppable force now. You’re so fucking perfect, and it’s not me being selfish, I want to believe I’m past that. But it’s hard, and I think I need help. A part of me just wants to have some sort of grounding, and even though I have you and Ryan, nothing is going to replace compound V.”

That’s a lot of honesty, Butcher has to remind himself how broken this kid really is, it’s easy to forget sometimes. “Nothing will?”

“I’m sorry, William,” John’s face drops, he’s thinking he’s hurt Billy, but he also knows that he’s telling the truth, and that’s what Butcher wants to hear. “Nothing will, I don’t think. I’d like your help in trying though.”

Billy studies him for a bit, then he sighs and much to John’s surprise, pulls him in for another hug, arms wrapped around John’s waist, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “If you think you need help.” Butcher says, running his hand up his back. “That’s all you had to say, John. Stop fighting me. What I say and do for you is all in your best interest.” 

He has to close his eyes for a bit, embracing John’s warmth, his scent. 

“What if it doesn’t feel that way?” John mutters into his shoulder, and then he winces at his own question. It sounds like mistrust. 

Butcher assesses the query, doesn’t get defensive, instead he holds John closer. “That’s a good question. I’m the last person you’d probably want to come to involving your livelihood, especially since I basically put you in this position, right?” 

John doesn’t respond. 

“There’s no ulterior motive.” Billy pulls away, sees John’s eyes, noticing how wet they suddenly are. “Maybe before this there was, maybe I - maybe I was going to find a way to kill you while you were asleep, not tell Ryan, blame it on an infection or some other shit.”

The corners of John’s lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile. 

“But John, love, I would not do anything to hurt you now. You know that, right?”

John is holding onto him again, eyes glistening. “I trust you. Yeah.”

“It’s fine if you don’t, love.”

“I do, Billy. I do. I mean, you basically,” John sighs, squashing a bug underneath his shoe as he searches for his words, “you basically fixed me. I had no other choice but to trust you, and plus, I even let you do things to me.” 

“All I need you to do is give me a chance to make you see that this is all worth it before you run back to V.” Billy says, looking at him closely. “Alright?”

John stares at him for a beat, eyes flickering across Butcher’s face before he eventually sighs out again, shrugging his shoulders. “Okay.” 

Posters of Vought’s missing supes are drilled in on every surface, whether it be a lightpost, a bench, or a concession stand. The sun is starting to set, casting a pink-orange hue over the scenery, the darker it gets, the brighter the multicolored neon lights become. 

John looks lovely in this light. Butcher’s breath catches.

He cups the man’s cheek, swiping his thumb under his eyes, and he’s not really to throw the word ‘love’ in there yet, at least not verbally, he’d probably start sobbing again, and he’d rather live the rest of his life out in the back rooms than let strangers see him cry.

So instead, he goes with something possibly more intimate, more meaningful, he hadn’t even uttered it to Becca during their time together. “I need you, John.”

John breathes in sharp through his nose, his eyes fluttering at that, visibly swooned, and he opens and closes his mouth. “Fuck,” he drops out, breathless, blushing all over. “I - shit - okay. Thank you. Thanks.”

“Too much?” Butcher snorts, heart fluttering. 

“No,” John says, and then he pauses before breaking out into a flustered grin, rewording his answer bashfully. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” Butcher smiles, staring lovingly at his face, drinking in his reaction, pulling the man in by a hand, their fingers lacing together, slotting so perfectly with each other. “I want to make you forget about V, will you let me do that?” 

“Yeah,” John mutters at first, lips twitching, and a second goes by before he repeats his answer, talking louder. “Yes.”

Billy sees his eyes twinkle as he looks up at him, and that content ‘yes’ is the best thing he’s ever heard come out of his mouth. “I want to try. For you.” 

“This is for you too.” 

John nods, shrugging slightly. “Okay.”

“You don’t know how happy hearing that makes me.” Butcher confesses in a dopey voice, being completely honest, in return he feels John squeeze his hand lightly. 

“I like seeing you happy. It suits you.” John replies, body warm. 

And, perhaps, that’s the best promise he could get out of Homelander regarding compound V, it wasn’t a flat out ‘no I won’t erase it as an option’ but he’ll try to forget the temptation, sludging through the uselessness he feels as a simple human being, all because he loves Butcher.

John lets Butcher pull him in by his hand, fluttering his eyes closed as the taller man kisses him again. He allows himself to melt into it, letting the softness of Billy’s lips completely vacuum any coherent thought he once had.

The sound of bells shrilled throughout the air, children cheered and parents clapped, confetti came raining down from the top of the bell, a string being cut by something that wasn’t visible. A monitor connected to the game kept repeating ‘new highscore’ in the midst of the cheering.

Butcher, in the meantime, had been holding John’s hand as they trekked through the funfair together, Ryan had sped away from the other game and was now clambering onto a bumper car ride not too far away, seeming too wrapped up in his excitement.

There’s the regular bumper car ride, and then there’s one for supes with added capabilities depending on whether the person driving wants to crank the competitiveness up a notch. Mufflers are off, so the sounds of the engine would send vibrations through the driver and spectator’s chest.

Butcher knows Ryan won’t mind the noises, the kid is insane like that, and from the looks of it, he doesn’t even have his seatbelt on. 

The racetrack spans out into the other side of Central Park, and as the two men get close to the cars lined up, Butcher thinks it looks like it’s the shit. He has an inkling inside of him that’s telling him he should participate too, give the kid something to laugh at. 

John, on the other hand, looks completely rattled, and he’s clutching onto Butcher’s hand tightly, not used to how sensitive his ears are now that he can’t control the volume of what he hears and what he doesn’t. As the players, including Ryan, rev their engines, he attempts to talk above the noise. “That’s pretty loud!”

Butcher watches as the cars take off down the ramp, keeping an eye out on Ryan’s, grinning as he tugs John in close. “You’ve been to an amusement park before?”

“Yes!”

“Play any games?”

“Only for promotional advertisements!”

Butcher hums at that, looks around, turns, then walks ahead. “Let’s go find a game.” 

“What about Ryan?” 

“He’ll be fine, he knows where to find us.” 

John makes a surprised noise and bumps into Butcher as a group of shrieking, joyous kids zip past them, one of them flying. He was a hair away from getting caught in a stampede, the breeze that hits him seconds after makes his hat fly off of his head, and he quite literally squeaks out. “Jesus Christ.”

Butcher laughs at him. “Relax, alright? The blonde has pretty much faded, no one’s going to recognize you.”

John looks like he’s seen a ghost as his fingers curl into his brown tinted hair. Butcher just stands there with his hands slipping into his pockets, staring at him as he freaks out about his appearance.

“What do you mean it’s faded? No, no, no. The roots took over. Do you see the problem here? This is bad, Billy. Do you have bleach? We should get bleach. I fucking hate dark blondes, excluding Ryan, but every single dark blonde I met was a fucking -”

"Oi."  Billy cuts him off, a fond look in his eyes. “You look fine.” 

“No. I don’t.” 

“You do.” 

John pouts. “I don’t.”

Butcher fights back an eye roll, grabs at his wrist and pulls him forward without much compliance, heading towards the arcade tent. “Come on, let’s go here. 

Neon lights flash, and suddenly Butcher finds himself sent back into the late eighties, roaming around a lively town with his friends, avoiding going home due to his father’s hysterics. There are new games, ones he couldn’t entirely recognize, John flickers his eyes around the tent, seeing games every which way, super-abled children who keep shapeshifting into animals playing at a select few, the aroma of funnel cakes wafting at his nose. 

John looks at Butcher, following behind him as the man makes his way towards some sort of vintage Vought-based mortal kombat game. “After this, can we get food?” 

“Sure, love. Now come here and play with me.” 

John snorts, approaching the game, giving it a once over as Butcher turns it on. “What are you, ten?”

“Don’t be a twat.” Butcher says, twiddling with the joystick. 

“We don’t even know how to turn this thing on.” John complains, pressing at a button he assumed random, coincidentally turning the entire system on, its bright colors and theme music echoing in their ears. He blinks his eyes, lips parting open. “Oh.” 

“Nice job.” 

“What is this?” John presses another button, but this time it doesn’t do anything that affects the game, the main menu screen is still flashing and Butcher reaches across to press the ‘start’ button. The screen is split into two, switching to various fighter selections, which were most known to D-class supes, two-player options available, and Butcher surfs between characters, the buzzing of the joystick vibrating through him. 

John watches the screen, sees the Seven members, squinting his eyes at a pixelated version of himself, he lowers his voice into a whisper in case someone hears. “Is that me? What the fuck?”

“Yup, I’m playing as you.” Butcher whispers back, selecting Homelander’s character, a crappy voice over of some bloke uttering a cheesy ‘great selection, champ’ one liner that makes John’s eyes widen in disgusted horror.

Butcher threw his head back, laughing loudly. 

John turns to his own screen, sifting through the selection with the joystick, settling on Starlight’s character who was voiced by a woman who sounded like she smoked forty packs of cigarettes a day. “I do not talk like that. What’s with the fucking surfer accent? When was this even released, and why haven’t I been told?” 

Butcher grins, discreetly setting the mode on hard as John ranted. “Seems like your little red riding hood skipped a subject.”

“Fucking Ashley.” John mutters to himself, shaking his head, and then he flicks his eyes back to the screen, talking a little softer. “I wonder if she’s doing okay.”

“I’ve really softened you up, huh?”

“No.” John counters immediately as his face burns, pressing the start button, avoiding Butcher’s smug gaze. “Come on, let’s play.” 

There’s a small cut scene with more shitty one liners. 

Pixelated Homelander basically calls Starlight a traitor, and Starlight calls Homelander an insecure narcissist.

 From the corner of Butcher’s eye he could see John actually crack a smile at the flat jokes exchanged between the two challengers, the colorful lights reflecting in his gaze.

“It didn’t have to end like this, Starlight. We both could have been stars with lights.”

“You left me no choice, The Homelander. You’ve gone too far with your The Homelander-ing.”

“God. This dialogue is so fucking stupid.” John says under his breath as their intro ends, their fight setting popping up on the screen seconds later. He narrows his eyes, shaking his head, his grin still there. “I don’t have any fight moves. Or at least I don’t think I do, but I don’t remember Starlight having any either.”

“Ryan might know a little something about this. One time he told me they usually take some abilities from the other characters, and then mix it in with their assumptions.” Butcher says, placing his hands on the buttons, not pushing down on anything yet. He chuckles at the fighting stance they gave Homelander, the man’s posture was ruler straight, his hands were on his hips, the pixelated gloves red and chunky. 

John tilts his head at Starlight’s stance, she was in her alternate uniform that showed more skin. “Could you take a picture of this?” 

“When I win.”

“When you win.” John mutters, rolling his eyes at that, and then he starts hitting random buttons, spamming a leg kick, plus one of Starlight’s beams. “Uh-huh. We’ll see.” 

Butcher makes his Homelander character fly, dodging each beam. To be frank, he doesn’t know what buttons he’s pressing either, but at least he’s doing something progressive, Ryan would be way better at this. “I thought no one could beat The Homelander.” 

John somehow lands a beam on Butcher, he decides to play along with him, the health bar on the pixelated Homelander shrinking an inch. “He’s been off his game recently.” 

“Oh, you cunt.” Butcher presses repeatedly on a single button and his Homelander strikes pixelated Starlight with his lasers several times, the hag voicing her lets out a shriek, her character jumping up before fizzling out into dust as her health bar decreases completely. 

“What the hell?”

“Too easy.” 

“The fuck?” John sends a fist down on the restart button while Butcher takes a picture of the results. 

“Rematch?” Butcher snorts as John pouts, putting his phone away, spamming the laser again, killing pixelated Starlight within seconds. 

On the third restart, John reaches over and swats at Butcher’s hands, the Brit laughing out as he gently pushes him away. “Stop spamming that fucking button -”

“What’s wrong with it, huh? It’s what you did.” 

“Press another button.”

Butcher does, and pixelated Homelander does nothing but stand there. It’s as if flying, dodging, and shooting lasers was his only move. “What the fuck?” 

John immediately spams the beam button as Butcher tries to scramble. Homelander’s health deflates each time, and then the fucker drops a combo move that has pixelated Homelander flying off as Starlight points and laughs. He turns to face an astonished Butcher, a shit eating grin on his face. “Yeah, run away.” 

Butcher bumps his shoulder. “That’s fucking cheating, you know.” 

John bumps him back. “Well, you’re just a loser.” 

“So, you’re telling me if Starlight beamed you enough, you would’ve flown away? That’s worse than what happened at Herogasm.”

“We don’t talk about Herogasm.” John looks around the arcade tent, searching for another game. 

Butcher continues to tease him. “It was fun, you have to admit.” 

“It was fucking annoying, Hughie was naked and sweaty, and Soldier Boy smelt like weed.”

Butcher feels his phone vibrate in his pockets, and he pulls it out, motioning his head towards the open flaps, stomach growling. “Come on, let’s find Ryan and fill you up.” 

John tugs on his sleeve. “Picture first.” 

Butcher turns back to the game and presses down the power button, causing the system to turn off. “Whoops.” 

“William, you fucking dick.” John smacks at his arm as Butcher laughs, curling it around the other’s waist as he scowls at him. “You took a picture when you won.”  

“That’s because I won, love. Game logic.” Butcher tells him, guiding them towards the entrance, answering his phone and pressing it to his ear before he could hear the expletives thrown at him. “Hello?”

MM’s voice penetrates his ear. “All of us are here, happy? Where the hell are you?”

“On our way to the food market, mate.” Butcher removes his arm from around Homelander’s waist to move the flap open, then he stops in his tracks seconds before he could bump into Annie, the blonde standing in front of the two men, arms crossed over her chest. Still on the phone with MM, he adds. “I see you all started exploring already.” 

“Hey.” Annie says to Homelander while Butcher moves away to continue his on-phone conversation, an awkward, crooked smile on her face as she greets him. 

“Hey.” Homelander says back, sounding stiff, also awkward. 

There’s a beat that goes by before she clears her throat. 

“Were you -” She blinks her eyes as she points at Butcher, then back at Homelander. “Were you heading to the food market, because that’s where we all are.”

“Yeah.” Homelander glances over at Butcher, then back at Annie. “I think.” 

“Oh, okay, do you want to -”

“We were going to look for Ryan first.”

Annie raises her eyebrows, surprised. “Ryan? Holy shit, he’s here too?” 

Butcher takes his phone off of his ear, speaking up before Homelander could answer. “You two start heading off, yeah? I’ll catch up when I find the lad.” 

“Uh, sure.” Annie responds after giving Butcher a once over, slipping her hands into her pockets because she doesn’t know what to do with them, waiting for Homelander to step in front of her before she starts to walk.

 “So. How have you been?” Homelander forces himself to ask as they move farther away from where Butcher stood, taking slow strides towards the direction he assumes he should be moving in, he’s not sure where the food market is. It sounds weird for a carnival-like place. 

“Oh, you know.” Annie begins while looking down, dragging out her words, kicking her heel into the dirt, stringing some confetti along. “I’m better, I guess. A-train’s death sort of threw me for a loop, but other than that, I think I’m okay.” 

“Yeah. He didn’t -” Homelander swallows, blinking, “He didn’t deserve that.” 

“Mhm.” Annie bites her lip, inclines her head. 

Homelander changes the subject. “Anyway, you look good.”

“Thanks. You do too.” Annie says, genuine. 

Homelander looks ahead, blowing out a breath. “It’s been a long week.”

“So Ryan’s really back. That’s good, right? How is he?” 

“He’s fine. There’s a couple of hiccups, but it’s - he’s fine.” 

Annie hums, nodding her head, giving him a sideways look despite herself. “A couple of hiccups? Is it the no powers thing?” Homelander tilts his chin up and gives her a deadpan look. Annie just shrugs and raises a brow at him. “Just curious.”

“Question.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Frenchie has compound V?” 

Annie stops walking, eyes widening. “What?” 

Homelander continues to walk, talking in his nonchalant voice. “I mean, he gave some to Butcher, so he must have more, right?”

“What the fuck? When did this happen?”

“He was dying, remember when he was on temp? His fucking brain was gooey.”

“Holy shit.” Annie catches up to him, she sounds breathless all of a sudden. “He took around three to four doses.”

“Yep.”

“So the V saved his life, didn’t it?”

“It did.” Homelander says, looking at her. “He has similar powers to - well it seems like he inherited abilities similar to what my powers were, weirdly. The thing is, Frenchie might have more, he’s the one who gave it to Butcher, and I just wanted to make sure you knew.” 

“This is my first time hearing anything about that. I mean, I knew Butcher would get V somehow, but not from Frenchie at least.” 

“What are you going to do?” Homelander asks, staring at her expectantly. 

Annie’s eyebrows furrow, and she gets quiet for a moment, her arms crossing over her chest again. “It feels cheap to re-inject myself. I think I’d feel worse doing that.”

“But you feel miserable like this, right?” 

Annie sighs out. “I didn’t consent to getting shot up with V, Homelander. None of us did. I was a baby, and so were you. We were fed bullshit about it since we were kids, lies and lies and lies. It’s like - why would anyone want to go back to that?”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

Annie eyes him, concerned. “Homelander, you shouldn’t - If you’re thinking about getting it -”

“I’m not. Well, not anymore. I just needed another point of view.”

“Oh?” 

Homelander lowers his eyes down to his shoes, making a soft ‘mhm’ noise, muttering a genuine but nonconvincing: “I’m good.”

Annie’s eyes linger on him for sometime, then she looks ahead, a light in her eyes. “Right.” 

Hughie arrives ten minutes late, and he gets clocked in the head by MM when he comes up to their booth, the humorous sight causing Ryan to release a nervous laugh as he fidgets next to his dad. “Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.” 

“This entire place has been filled from crack to crevice. It’s not my fault I got lost. I didn’t choose a goddamn carnival.” 

“I pinged you, Hugh.” Butcher says as he leans back into his seat, holding up his phone, his arm slipping across the booth seat, slinging it over Homelander’s shoulder. “Phone’s dead or something?”

“I have no service, okay? My phone’s been off because everytime I go on twitter or something I see my name being doused in fire.” 

“Since when did you have a twitter?” Annie asks him, leaning against the booth where MM had sat back down, drink in hand. Hughie sighs, Annie shrugs her shoulders and leaves it be, turning to the Brit. “So what are we doing here, Butcher?”

Butcher lays it all out on the table, getting straight to the point. “Turns out Soldier Boy’s with Mallory, and she’s been keeping a very watchful eye on all of us.” 

MM’s immediate reaction is to sigh out, rubbing his temples.

“What?” Hughie sputters out. “This whole time?”

“I know right?” Butcher clicks his teeth, strumming his fingers on top of the table, glancing over at Ryan who distractedly dips another nacho in his cheese, then at Homelander, then back at his friends. “We’ve been led astray by our own paranoia.”

Annie doesn’t react, only scoffing into her drink, rolling her eyes, nothing else can surprise her at this point. 

“While we sit on that,” MM begins in the midst of an infuriated exhale, continuing to rub his temples, a headache forming. “Frenchie and Kimiko have been taking turns on watching Ron throughout the night since they dragged him into the basement. What exactly are you planning for us to do to him?” 

Ryan slips the nacho into his mouth, bearing his teeth down on the cheesy chip, looking around at Butcher’s friends, just now noticing that Frenchie wasn’t with him. He sits up when he catches Hughie’s eyes, eliciting a muffled sound of his name, raising his eyebrows at him in acknowledgment. 

In response, Hughie just straightens his posture and sharply averts his eyes, a weary look on his face. 

Oh. Ryan draws back, frowning as he inhales, looking away from Hughie, thinking back to what Homelander told him, his stomach twists and he stops chewing his food.

“I can’t tell you specifically, but afterwards I guarantee that we’ll have a mess to clean up.” Butcher says in a matter-of-fact tone, he winks at an annoyed MM, reaching to his left towards Ryan’s nacho stash, flicking a chip into his hand. 

“You’re fucking unreal.” Annie says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Seriously dude?” 

“Too dark for you, Annie?”

Annie flashes a fake, passive aggressive smile. “Fuck off.” 

“Are you going to kill him?” Hughie asks, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Yes.” Butcher says much to Hughie’s displeasure, staring directly at him, spreading his hands out on the table. “Hugh, he’s a fucking fed. I’m fixing a fuck up you idiots made, so yes, I’m killing him.”

Hughie runs his hands across his forehead, clearly stressed out. “I mean, it’s not like you were there to help. He had a lead so we ran with it, if you mention the context then you can’t really lay the blame on us.” 

“You were sobbing over Annie for a week straight.” 

Annie holds her hand out in a ‘really, man’ manner as Hughie flushes.

MM sits forward before Hughie could say something, jotting his index finger down on the table. “Both of you have your points. Let’s leave it at that, alright?” 

“When were you going to tell me you were on compound V, Butcher?” Annie questions with a scolding mother-like head tilt that irks Billy to his core, she crosses her leg in front of the other, pressing the tip of her shoes against the market’s floor. 

Butcher sends a knowing glare at Homelander who just smiles lopsidedly at him. 

Hughie turns his gaze onto Annie and he stammers as if he was the one being asked the question. “That’s a - well that’s a warranted subject change.” 

Billy clasps his hands together in front of him, twirling his fingers, below the table he feels Homelander apologetically bump his knee against his thigh and he has to fight off the bubbling chuckle in his throat. “I didn’t think of doing so.” 

“Obviously.” Annie scoffs out, rolling her eyes. “Keep leaving me out of things and see where that gets you, asshole.”

“I didn’t think you cared. You’ve been MIA.” 

Annie frowns at him, shaking her head, incredulous. “Okay, but still, you had compound V. You knew I would’ve really appreciated that information back then. You’re just as bad as Mallory.”

Ryan shifts in his seat, wanting to break the ice before Butcher could come up with a snarky response, he could literally sense it brewing. “Hi Annie.”

Annie pauses, glancing over at the kid, her expression immediately softening, everyone collectively looks at him, and Ryan waves awkwardly. Her voice eyes are gentle, and her voice takes on a lighter tone compared to her previous one, Hughie and MM look back and forth between the two. “Hi Ry. How are you?” 

“I’m fine.” Ryan’s eyes twinkle as he looks at her. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

Hughie takes a step forward as he clears his throat, fidgeting, finally acknowledging Ryan since Annie’s doing it. “Hey, Ryan.” His lips twitch into a crooked smile, Ryan waves at Hughie. “Long time no see.” 

“Hi Hughie.”

“What’s up, little man? How’ve you been?” MM smirks as he reaches across the table, his hand out. 

Ryan smiles at him, clasping their hands together, his grip was hilariously firm for his age and it made MM chuckle aloud. “I’ve been okay, thank you for asking.” 

Homelander fondly watches the exchanges, a mix of relief and pride blooming in his chest, releasing a soft exhale. Ryan was able to overcome something he couldn’t.

 As he watches Ryan interact with the people he had previously threatened, he could feel Butcher bump their legs together under the table again, a silent wordless exchange. 

Ryan sounds so mature when he speaks, he looks everyone in the eye, an ashamed lilt to his voice, shoulders drawn in. “I’m sorry for losing control the last time I saw you guys. It’s okay if you can’t forgive me, I understand. I’ve been really angry about some things lately. I’m trying not to lash out.” 

“Hey, man. You thought your dad died, and we didn’t look so innocent if we’re being truthful.” MM said, shrugging his shoulders, glancing over at Homelander, meeting his eye. He looks the man up and down with a neutral expression, noticing that he’s wearing Butcher’s clothes, and that the two are basically smushed together on the other side of the booth. 

MM flattens his lips and gives the Brit a deadpan look. 

“Wait, what exactly was he going to do?” Annie has heard bits and pieces of this story, but a lot of shit has happened since she woke up at where the Boys stayed, injured and broken. It was a pain to retain every single event that took place, especially ones that she wasn’t actually awake to witness. 

“He was basically going to beam us.” Hughie delivers the words flatly, as if this was something that should’ve been commonly known. 

Ryan draws back into his little corner as Annie sputters out a surprised ‘what,’ biting his bottom lip, looking down at his lap, suddenly embarrassed with himself. 

“Ryan knows what he did was wrong.” Butcher says, coming to his defense. “Kimiko had her moments too, she even said that.” 

Homelander’s brow twitches as he leans forward, and for the first time, he speaks directly to the Boys, or to Hughie, because he’s so fucking tired with Hughie. “And I talked to him about it. We’re going to work on the way he should use his powers and he’s going to be fine. In case any of you assume that I’m being a bad influence.”

MM raises his eyebrows at the man while Annie lifts her cup to sip her drink again, staring straight at Homelander. 

“You?” Hughie squeaks out in the meantime. 

“Yes. Me.” 

“Butcher?” Hughie looks to the Brit for confirmation, and then his breath catches in his throat when he sees the way Butcher’s staring at Homelander as if he was some sort of angel. 

He’s only seen him look like that with Becca. 

Hughie blinks, averts his eyes over at Annie, cheeks hot, and she must’ve had the same thought because she just shrugs her shoulders his way, a small smirk on her face. “I - I mean, that’s -“ he legitimately doesn’t know what to say because holy shit, and so he shuts up, twisting away from his friends. 

Butcher is in love with Homelander? What the fuck?

Annie saves Hughie from getting weird looks. “That’s pretty cool. I’m glad it’s working out for you guys.”

MM leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, tilting his head at Homelander, scrutinizing him. “How have you been?” 

Homelander, realizing he has to carry a conversation with Butcher’s friends now since he opened his trap, pulls away from the table, pressing back against the boothe’s cushion as much as he could, glancing over at Billy for help. 

Billy, that fucking asshole, only smirks as he presses his fist against his cheek, holding his head up. His fake innocent eyes flicker back and forth between his closest friends and Homelander, driving the former supe insane. 

Ryan looks at his dad expectantly, as well as everyone else. 

Ah shit.

“Uh - I’m - yeah. Fine.” 

MM is quiet for a second, glancing at Butcher, at Ryan, then his eyes settle back onto Homelander, eyes narrowing. “You’re a piece of fucking scum, you know that?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Homelander blinks, dropping his eyes down to his hands, abruptly reminded of how much he’s gonna to have to grovel, unable to meet anyone else’s eyes. “I know that.”

“I’ve got so many things to say to you, Homelander. Decades worth of things. I mean, shit man. I’ve been dreaming about telling you how much I fucking hate you to your face, and now I can do it, and you can’t do jack shit about it.” 

Ryan frowns, lips parting and then closing. 

Butcher’s face remains neutral as he studies Homelander, the man lifts his head up and looks at him briefly, giving him this slow nod, and that’s enough for Billy. He turns back to his friends, speaking up before Ryan could formulate any words to defend his father. “I think you all should go ahead and clear the air with him. Now’s the best time.” 

“You sure?” MM raises a brow.

“I already did, actually. It felt good afterwards.” Annie shrugs.

Before anyone else could speak, Hughie moves in a flash as he snatches Annie’s drink out of her hand, basically ripping off the lid, and splashing the drink into Homelander’s face.  

Annie gasps out as everyone individually reacts to what he’s done, eyes widening as she turns to the man. “Hughie, what the fuck?” 

Homelander blinks his eyes once or twice before squeezing them shut, the red drink running down from his hair to his sweatshirt. He parts his lips, breathing hard through his mouth, soaked to the bone from the cold drink, shivering where he sat, Butcher’s sweatshirt sticking to his skin. 

Fair. 

“Holy shit,” Hughie breathes out as an unhinged smile dances across his face, going through some sort of epiphany. “That did feel good.” 

Ryan bristles as he watches Homelander raise his hands up to wipe at his stained face, teeth clenched, fingers curling into his pants, fisting them, a fire brewing behind his eyes. 

Butcher chuckles out despite his own dismay, reaching behind Homelander, ruffling Ryan’s hair to calm him down. “Fucking hell, Hughie.” 

MM shudders, pushing away from the tables, twitching. “Look at this fucking mess.” 

Homelander bites his tongue and the only thing that’s keeping him from clambering across the table to strangle Hughie is to imagine shoving his head against a fast moving conveyor belt, burning his skin off.  

Butcher fiddles with the latch while John stares down at the funfair t-shirt he changed into after Billy and MM helped clean him up, his face was plastered on it, and he was fully suited, blonde hair on display, brighter than it actually was. “They could’ve found a better picture of me,” he complains as he pulls at the hem of the shirt, shaking his head in disgust before looking over at Butcher, making a questioning noise. 

“You look fine.” Butcher says as he adjusts the latch, looking up and over his shoulder at the view of twinkling lights. “We’ve got a better prettier view of the square from up here, so stop picking at yourself.”

“Dick.” John mutters as he glares at him, but then he’s following Butcher’s eyes anyway, sucking in a deep breath, they’re far up on the ferris wheel, right at the top, moving at a snail's pace. He hadn’t been this high up in awhile, and as the wind breezes through his hair, he feels this gust of nostalgia hit him.

 “I never got the chance to really acknowledge the view.” 

“Because you soar. You can’t see shit when you’re soaring.” 

“I had places to be.”

Billy twists back around, looking at him, lips twitching, the maroon colored funfair shirt on him really brings out the hypnotic blues of his eyes. “Oi, Ryan was pretty pissed back there.”

“I bet he was. He’s really protective.” John says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns back, the lights of the funfair below blanketing his face. “To be frank, regarding Hughie, the results of bargaining a truce with him was either me getting splashed with the drink or getting whacked with a fucking frying pan.” 

Butcher laughs. “No, but Ryan’s fine. It was just a moment. He’s fine now it seems, the lad ran off with MM, Janine’s mom dropped her off not too long ago and I’m guessing they’re going to become friends soon.”

A glaze forms over John’s eyes at that, his voice low, quiet. “Ryan’s making a friend.” 

“The Boys understand him. And honestly, I think they were more worried about him than they were scared. He’s been through a lot, and he needs his people.” 

“How old is Janine?” John asks, curious. 

Butcher hums. “They’re around the same age, I believe. She might be a year or two younger though.” 

“That’s good. It’s good if he’s around someone his age, another child he could relate to, I mean - maybe she could even help him understand his feelings better.” 

“She’s a child, Homelander. Not a therapist. We still have a long way to go with him ourselves.” Billy says, eyeing him, and in return John scowls and pinches his wrist. 

“I know that, dickhead.” 

“Okay, just saying.” 

John twists his skin between his fingers, and although Butcher couldn’t feel the pinch, he still felt insulted.

“Stop pinching me.”

“Stop being an ass.” John counters as he raises his hand, attempting to pinch him again, but before he could touch him, Butcher wrapped his hand around his wrist, stopping him without much of a challenge; he basically corners the man against the left side of the seat.

“Billy, let me go, this is cheating. You know I can’t push you away.” John says, attempting to sound condescending, as he twists his wrist around in the man’s vice hold, looking up at intense brown eyes. 

Butcher’s voice is deep. “Ryan’s ticklish too you know.” 

“Okay?”

“Strange trait for him to randomly have.”

John’s eyes widened. “No.” 

Butcher’s fingers fucking tiptoes up John’s leg, enjoying the full body shudder he gets, his other hand keeping his wrist confined. “No, what?”

“Don’t -” John chokes out as he writhes against him, Butcher’s mischievous hands are splayed out on the side of his stomach, his fingers pressing in, and wiggling.

 “William - you fucking - stop - stop!” His voice hitches into a shriek that echoes throughout the sky as he bucks around, laughing out as the man tickles him mercilessly, thrashing underneath a manically grinning Butcher. 

“What’d I say about pinching me, huh?” Billy pesters him, releasing his wrist, deciding to tickle him with both hands, and John basically twists over onto his side, giggling uncontrollably despite the position being awkward due to them being on a ferris wheel seat, a tight space. He kept swatting his useless hands at the Brit, laughing until his face was red and hurting from the smiles, eyes teary, pleading for him to stop. 

“I’m sorry, fuck.” John squeaks out as he throws his head back, unable to control his laughter, tugging at Butcher’s hand, eyes fluttering as he giggles oh so sweetly. Butcher couldn’t stop staring at him, lips parted. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“You tap out?”

“Yes!” John cries out, tapping Butcher’s arm. 

Butcher stops moving his fingers, chest warm, his grin softening. He watches in earnest as John shakes in his seat, struggling to catch his breath through his hysterical fits of laughter.

 “You are such an asshole.” The man breathes out, causing a nonchalant Butcher to readjust the loosened latch, his mind in the gutter the longer he stares at the former supe. 

John sat up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking as cackles quietly, looking at Butcher incredulously. “I can’t believe you did that to me.”

Butcher smirks. “I’ve never heard you laugh like that.” 

“Yeah, well, you just attacked me so I didn’t have much control over how I sounded. Congratulations” John says, nudging his side. He has this flush to his face now, eyes glimmering, sheened over from the tears that prodded at his eyes due to him laughing, his hair messy due to his thrashing, attractive, Butcher drowns everything out. 

The clouds have cleared, and overtime, the mesmerizing rays of the golden pink sunset started to cast over the skies above, kissing at John’s skin, enhancing the trickles of brown in his hair. Butcher found solace in staring at him, he’s been doing it all day, noticing the shadows that danced across his skin, every single accentuation. 

Vought didn’t see the beauty they put into their most important asset, it’s ironic because a handsome American golden boy is what they were going for. 

But did they know?

Did they know what John’s true, genuine laughter sounded like? Have they seen the way his eyes crinkled as he laughed, his fascinatingly sharp fangs on display while he grinned, and grinned, how high his voice gets when he’s tickled - 

John returns the heat of his gaze, those fucking pools of blue. There’s a play of light and shadow here, the rosy gold of the sunset meeting their faces, including the multicolored lights below, creating a palette that filters into their skin tones. 

Billy’s hands are on him again, he feels John’s breath hitch when he leans towards him, fingers curling around his waist, the other cupping the back of his neck, his lips finding the other’s within seconds. He kisses him deeply, breathing into his mouth, relishing in the way John bowed up into him, chest rising and falling, his heartbeat steady, arms slinging around his neck, tugging Billy closer and closer. 

“God, love.” Butcher kisses the groan into the corner of John’s lips, his blood running hot. 

“Butcher,” John sighs out, tangling his fingers in dark strands of hair, it’s grown out long enough for him to pull at it. “I think I’m in love with you.” 

“Oh? Have I upgraded from like?” Butcher’s body thrums nonetheless, he has to pull back and gaze at him, eyes skittering across his face. 

John smiles, it’s soft, and it fades fast into a serious look, swirling Butcher’s hair into his fingers. “I like you.”

“I like you too.” Butcher’s voice betrays him.

“I love you.” John whispers, taking the Brit in.

Fuck. 

Butcher, no longer trusting his voice, leans in and presses their foreheads together. 

“Can I spend more time with Janine?” Ryan asks Butcher, pointing towards his new friend as everyone gets ready to leave in their cars. MM has his daughter’s hand in his, the girl pointing at Ryan, most likely saying the same thing. “Just for a few hours? She draws too, and she could teach me a couple of tricks.” 

“Is it okay with MM?”

“He told me to ask if it was okay with you.” 

John sits in the passenger seat, the car door opened, looking over at Butcher and Ryan, still flustered from the ferris wheel adventure. Everytime their eyes meet, his heart speeds up in his chest, and he gets these butterflies similar to the ones he’d get when Madelyn praised him.

John fists his hands into his own shirt, releasing a shaky breath, swinging his legs out of the car, brushing the soles of his shoes along the ground, feeling both giddy and terrified at the same time. 

At one point in his life, he was pretty sure he wanted to single handedly bury Butcher six feet under, make him suffocate under feets of dirt. Now look at him, he’s been smiling at nothing over the past twenty minutes, swinging his legs and laughing under his breath, the night air sending his chills down his spine.

He feels great.

“Uh, hi.”  

Homelander’s smile drops and he moves against the door, eyes flickering up at Hughie who was also holding another drink. “Hi?”

Hughie clears his throat, fidgeting awkwardly, blowing out an exasperated breath. It was as if he was still intimidated by Homelander, his prior confidence suddenly dwindled down into shifty movements and stammered words. “I’m - okay, so I thought the throwing fruit punch on you was fucking badass, but turns out, Ryan almost caved my head in for it afterwards and Annie forced me to apologize to him because I guess it’s kind of dick-ish to do that in front of someone’s kid?” 

“Anyway, I’m sorry. I guess.”

Homelander squinted at him, his patience being put to the test. “You know you didn’t have to tell me that, right?” 

“Well, I have to tell you something anyway.”

“What -”

Hughie is suddenly towering over him, the man using his ridiculous height to his advantage because Homelander has to crane his head up to look at him. “If you hurt Butcher, in any way shape or form, Ryan is not going to stop what we do to you. So, you should tell me the truth, like right fucking now, are you using him?” 

“No.” Homelander responds quickly, frowning up at him. 

“How did you get to him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s fucking - the way he looks at you - Homelander, I swear to God. If you’re pulling some type of hail mary crap, I’ll fucking kill you and blame it on a fucking drunk driver or something. I’m serious too, alright?” 

When did this kid get the balls –

Homelander blinks at him, making a face. “Okay?” 

“Hughie, fuck off home. You’re drunk.” Butcher’s voice travels over towards them after he pauses his conversation with MM and Ryan.  

Hughie looks back at Homelander, then towards Butcher, before sighing out, pointing a finger at former supe. “I’m not drunk, by the way.”

Homelander snorts. “Sure thing, bud.” 

Hughie glares at him before trekking over to his car. 

In the meantime, Butcher turns back to MM, rolling his eyes, shaking his head. “Tomorrow, I will take care of business, on both ends, alright?” 

MM glances at her daughter and Ryan excitedly chatting in his car, sucking his teeth, looking back at Butcher. “I can’t believe Mallory.”

“She was giving me shit all week, fucking had a mental breakdown. I don’t have mental breakdowns.” Billy rolls his eyes, itching for a cigarette, he doesn’t feel like bringing that moment to light and dealing with it.

“You do have mental breakdowns. A lot of them.” MM says, cocking a brow. 

“Not like the one I had earlier, the waterworks came and went.” 

“That might be a good thing. You’ve been through a lot, there’s nothing wrong with crying it out, Butcher. I cried my ass off around several times this week.” 

“Bleh.”

“Grow up, man.” MM scoffs, glancing down. Butcher thinks he’s about to deliver his partings until he takes a step forward. “Hey, listen, what’s really going on with you and Homelander?” 

 “What happens after the earth is scorched?” 

“Seriously, Butcher.”

Butcher sucks his teeth, staring into MM’s eye. “It’s just something, alright? It’s none of your concern, he’s not using me or anything, at least as far as I know. We just feel something for each other. That’s it.” 

Silence.

MM shakes his head, giving Butcher some sort of once over, nose scrunched up.

“What?”

MM wets his lips, making an unrecognizable sound of disappointment, patting his hand on Butcher’s shoulder. His voice is low, rumbling through both of their chests. “I’ll get Ryan back in the morning, man.” 

Butcher watches as his friend leaves off to his car, the man passing a quizzical Homelander an unreadable look before opening the car door, greeting the two kids inside with a big grin. 

Steam follows John out of the bathroom when he eventually opens the door, his hair damp, towel wrapped around his waist as he approaches the bed Butcher laid sprawled upon. He kneels down onto the mattress, crawling as languidly as a cat would on top of Butcher, straddling him by the time he’s settled on his groin, hands pressed down on his chest, sitting up on the man’s lap. “Are you picking Ryan up later?”

“MM said he’s going to drop him off in the morning.” Butcher opens his eyes, the moonlight pours in through the blinded windows, highlighting John’s pale skin, silver by silver, seeping in from each shadowy crevice. He sees them all for the dozenth time, each time he’s seen John’s bare skin being more intimate than the last, he sees every faded scar from the injuries he suffered from the fall littering his arms and chest, and he wants to trace each and every one of them. 

 “So I guess -” He’s out of breath for some reason, staring too hard at the man sitting on him, and that cunt notices too, because John smiles down at him, fangs showing, and Butcher is suddenly unsure whether his thought process was hijacked or not, he just couldn’t seem to find his words. “It’s just us tonight.” 

“Oh.” John softly coos, undoing Billy’s buttons, staring directly into his eyes. His pupils are blacker than Butcher has ever seen them and they’re blown, his gaze hot, dangerous, and oh, Butcher feels his body heat spike.

 Jesus, he might actually die.  

Butcher runs his hands up his towel, grasping his waist, then he slips his hands up his sides, underneath his ribcage, his skin feels so soft underneath his hands, so warm and rich, he’s shivering, Butcher is shivering. John twitches at the touch with a soft intake of breath, fresh out of the shower, his body still running hot compared to Billy’s cold hands, but he pushes through and opens his shirt, swiping his palms up and down his chest. 

“So what do you want to do?” John asks, tilting his head. 

“A lot.”

John’s stomach growls, Butcher literally flinches at the sound, which causes the other’s shoulders to shake as he laughs, swinging his leg off of Butcher, scooting off of the bed, standing up. “Can we eat something first?” 

“You little shit.” Butcher sits up, eyes ablaze. “Get back here.”

“Ryan ate all the nachos, what was I supposed to do?” John asks as he heads over to the dresser that hadn’t been filled with every piece of clothing yet, removing one of Butcher’s shirts, and slipping it over his head, covering that expanse of skin.  

“You’re sick.”

John does shed the towel from around his waist, the hem of the shirt flowing over the curve of his back to cover his bare ass, and before Butcher could tear his eyes away, the man basically fucking skips off into the kitchen. 

Butcher follows him through the halls, flicking the lights on along the way, seeing John open the fridge door as he steps into the kitchen. “You’ve ever been fucked before?”

“Mm-mm.” 

“No?”

John looks over at him with a confused expression, jug of milk in hand, the slightly dimmed lights of the kitchen casting shadows on him. “No? I mean - wait, what do you mean?”

Before he could blink, Butcher’s chest is pressed against his back, hands on his waist, head dipped down, a brush of his beard followed up with soft lips brushing against his ear. “What was that?”

John shivers, tightening his grip on the milk jug. “I said, what do you mean?” 

Billy’s face darkens startlingly, he licks at his lips, his hand cups John’s ass through his shirt, eliciting a surprised hitch from him, along with a slight jerk of his body that makes searingly hot blood soar to the Brit’s groin. “I mean, has anyone ever made you cum on their cock?” 

“Oh.” John almost whimpers out, eyes fluttering slightly. Butcher can hear his heart skipping beats, feels his shoulders as he breathes along his earlobe and not only that, his breaths are clearly wavering.

 “No,” he finally whispers after a couple of trembling breaths, seeming to lose his voice in the process of finding his answer. “You’d be the only one, if you’re up for it tonight.” 

“Fuck.” Butcher’s wires are loose at this point, a flame flickering in his stomach, and he could barely register that he’s even talking. “I could hurt you.”

“We’ll find out.” 

Butcher forces himself to pull away from him before he ends up doing something stupid, face hot, treading back into the bedroom. “Hurry up and fucking eat. Christ.”

Chapter Text

When Homelander finishes eating his food, he makes his way back into the bedroom while slipping the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing vigorously. He closes the door behind him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once his eyes land on Billy who was perched up on his back, completely shirtless. 

The sight makes him stop in his tracks for a brief moment, John almost chokes on his food, forcing himself to turn away from him before he makes an embarrassing noise, ears burning at the sound of Butcher’s laughter.  

“Aw, come here you.” Butcher coos mockingly, grinning evilly. John turns around, swallowing his food, feigning a placid look, muttering a flustered ‘fuck off,’ under his breath as he steps forward. “You eat well?”

“Mhm,” John eyes his chest hard, heartbeat fluttering.

“Oh my God, Billy,” he mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes at him, he approaches the bed, plopping down on his stomach a few spaces away from the Brit, an amused grin forming on his face. “Look at you, ready to fuck my brains out. Do you have any shame?”” 

“What if I just wanted to get comfortable?” Butcher asks, unzipping his pants, preparing to take them off, raising an offended brow at the former supe. “Your mind is in the gutter, son. It’s half past one. I could be knackered.” 

John’s eyes flicker from Billy’s shit-eating expression, to his hands fondling with his zipper, then he sits up onto his hands and knees, crawling towards him with dark eyes, deciding to contribute. He moves Billy’s hands away with his own, undoing his pants, staring back up at him. “As if you ever sleep.”

“Fair enough.” Butcher responds, eyeing John’s bare thighs where the stupid fucking shirt rides up at, his still damp hair, how pretty his hands look on him, fingers tugging down his zipper.

He licks his lips to ground himself, reaching his hand out, running it along the back of John’s leg, watching as the other man falters a bit, his fingers twitching at the sudden, sensual contact, blue eyes widening just a little.  

Butcher has to ask. “So, you’ve let absolutely no one take you?”

John regains his composure, snorting, looking up at him, his lashes looking long in this limited amount of light, skin soft and way too blank of bitemarks. “No, asshole. I have not. Not one guy, no. Vought would’ve sent me to the Russians right along with Soldier Boy.” 

Billy has to scoff at that, his hands tracing up to his ass cheek, his shirt John currently has on curtaining over his wrist. John swallows as Butcher runs his fingers up his spine, parting his lips to elicit a light sigh, goosebumps riding up the skin of his arms. 

“Unbelievable. Not even in secret? I mean, look at you.”  

John flushes, a giddy feeling residing in his chest, buzzing in his stomach. “Butcher, I’ve only kissed -”

Butcher cuts him off, his voice pitched in a suddenly low growl. “Come here.” 

John blinks and shifts closer, Billy just sits up, turns to him, dragging him forward, attaching his lips to the bare skin of his neck, sucking a mark into it, teeth needing at the skin.

John inhales sharply through his nose, chills racking up his spine, he sits still, tilting his head, choking out a soft noise.

Butcher mumbles something that sounds like ‘keep talking’ into his skin, running his hands along John’s legs, dipping between crevices, a rush of possessiveness moderating most of his actions. 

John has to settle his hands onto Butcher’s shoulders, eyes fluttering, his voice unsteady, a spike of heat rushing through him, blood circulating into his groin. He has to get a grip on himself, but Billy could witness his composure dwindling live.

The scrape of his teeth creates a hot flare that circuits around his neck causing John’s breath stutter. His skin is suddenly hot to the touch, chills running up and down his spine, mind going hazy, a yearning want building inside him. 

He never thought Butcher would have the knack of being so territorial, he knows that the man isn’t particularly classy, but this behavior isn’t something he’d initially expect. At least not with someone as passive as him. 

John doesn’t know what to do with himself except obey Billy and continue talking. “I - I’ve only kissed other men. I mean, when I was younger, like sixteen I think, when they were preparing for my final years there.” Butcher groans, sucks another mark into his skin again, John’s breath hitches, stomach tightening.

“They were beginning to introduce me to people behind the scenes. They were all old men I’ve never met before so I don’t think it counts. But no one ever really got the chance to touch me. Not like this, Billy.” 

Fuck. 

What the actual fuck went on in that lab?

Butcher hums thoughtfully, pauses his ministrations for a second or two, then without some sort of physical warning he bites down into his neck.

John heaves in, crumpling into him as he yelps out, pain ricocheting through him.His neck stings attractively, Butcher pulls away from him, eyes terrifyingly dark, biting his bottom lip, gaze skittering across the bruises forming on John’s neck, the prominent bite mark he left.

“What do you want me to do to you tonight?” 

John sits back on his haunches and cups his bruised neck, a blush smoldering his cheeks, he’s in shock, his cock was hard, and he was in shock.

Billy’s eyes are intense, he doesn’t apologize for biting him, doesn’t ask if he was okay, and that was hot enough for John to genuinely lose coherence.

He has to swallow down a weird noise before answering, his voice sounding ridiculously tiny. “Anything.”

“Anything?”

John nods his head eagerly. 

A moment later, Butcher makes him sit at the edge of the bed, shirt bundled up at his waist, he’s on one knee in front of him, tapping at his thigh to get his undivided attention as if he wasn’t always the focal point of John’s focus. 

John leans back on his hands, curling his fingers into the sheets, eyebrows raised, an expectant glimmer sparkling in his eyes. 

 “Watch closely,” Butcher says in a low voice, then he spits into his palm, wrapping his hand around the other man’s cock. John's breathing picks up, hips fidgeting as the warmth of Billy’s palm engulfs his dick.

Still he obeys, watching him attentively. 

“You’ve gotten your dick sucked many times before, haven’t you? There’s a certain way I like it,” Butcher tells him as he dips his head down, running a stripe of his tongue along the tip of John’s cock, he gets a cut-off whine, sees the muscle flex in his thighs. 

“Mm,” John hums low in his throat as he shivers from head to toe, Butcher’s intense eye contact is driving him insane, he takes John’s cock all the way into his mouth, moving his lips, sucking him down, staring straight at him. He watches the way John’s head falls back despite being told to pay attention, his chest heaving, a warm flush blooming in his skin. 

John moans low in his throat, attempting to buck his hips needily into Billy’s mouth, panting out harshly through clenched teeth, Billy’s hand keeps his hips trapped into the bed though, humming out a noise of disapproval that sends vibrations through John’s body. 

“Billy,” John whispers out his name as Butcher bobs his head on his cock, he grips onto the bed sheets, lifting his head back up, trying his best to look at him, he’s quivering all over, breathing heavily. “Oh, oh, fuck.” 

Butcher chuckles around his dick, sending off more vibrations. 

When John’s legs begin to clench around the sides of his head, his moans picking up into a higher desperate pitch, the sensations coursing through him steadily climbing into an incoming orgasm, Butcher parts his legs and pulls off with a thin stripe of saliva following him.

John jerks slightly at the loss, forcing himself not to chase Butcher’s mouth, releasing his grip on the sheets, he ends up combing his fingers through his own hair, trying to regulate himself. 

Billy watches him in amusement, continuing to stroke his cock to keep John’s attention trained on him, the corner of his lips curling as he smirks. “You follow my lead, alright? I’m gonna sit down, and you’re going to do exactly what I did until I cum.” 

John swallows, at the moment, he feels lucid enough to not be surprised by the breathless stammer tacking itself onto his words. “I can’t - I don’t think I can do it as good -”

Butcher makes a dismissive tsk noise and leans down to kiss his knee, squeezes his cock gently, causing him to squirm and whine out a wrecked, breathy ‘fuck,’ that Billy makes sure to file away into the back of his mind for later. “Of course you can, love. Your task is not to compete with me, it’s to make me cum, alright?”

“Okay,” John musters to say after a beat, legs already shaking.

Billy looks so majestic in this element. Eyes chillingly dark, voice gravelly - it’s making John’s blood run hot, submerging itself into his consciousness, and then there’s the layer of Butcher slightly tapping into his powers, exhibiting how John’s completely under his control.

Should it make him feel some type of way? Yes. To Homelander, it should. 

But, now, as Billy releases his cock to grab onto his hand, pulling him up off the bed so effortlessly without even needing John to comply, he suddenly craves to be manhandled into this role of total mental and physical submission. 

Butcher watches him closely as he takes a seat, officially ridding himself of his pants and boxers, sitting completely naked in front of John who was slowly kneeling, his eyes seeming so wide, to Billy he looks sickeningly innocent.

He begins to think that fucking his mouth and then fucking his ass was a little too much for him since it’s John’s first time actually indulging in things like this, Billy’s eyes softening as he gently pulls the other man in as he opens his legs, his hand still holding onto his.

John scoots between them, looking small, but then he flickers his eyes up at Billy, running a very sure and confident pink tongue along his bottom lip with a soft glint in his gaze, and that’s what draws the Brit’s concerns away. 

Christ. He’s gorgeous. 

Billy swallows, cups the man’s head, John pushes up into his touch like a cat, sucking in a deep breath as he tugs his head closer to his cock. “Go ahead, love.” 

John raises his hand and remembers to spit into his palm.

His cheeks are gloriously flushed, looking a little nervous as if he was going to be punished if he messed up, he wraps his fingers around Billy’s cock, stroking him slowly. When Billy makes a sound he’d probably deny later, John gapes up at him in awe, then he looks back down at what he was doing, eyeing his dick provocatively, as if he were milking a cow. 

“Fuck Billy,” he murmurs in astonishment, voice trembling under his breath, pressing his hand into his cock, practically drooling over himself. 

Butcher couldn’t hold back the groan that was prodding at his teeth, body running hot as John’s breaths puffed against his tip.

There’s no doubt that he’s going to cum sooner than he’d like, but with the live image he has playing through his head of John fucking worshipping his cock, he wonders if anyone could blame him.

John leans in and licks his tongue across his tip, a shy kitten-lick that drives Billy completely up the wall, off of the fucking rails.

He leans back on his hands, watching with mirth as John licks at his cock, completely mystified with what’s currently transpiring. “Oh fuck,” Butcher breathes out in an incredulous chuckle, losing his composure as John looks up at him, tilting his head slightly, licking him again. 

It seems like he’s getting more comfortable since Butcher’s reacting to almost everything he does, brown eyes coated with need. “Come on babe, be a good boy.” 

At that, John keens and squeezes Billy’s cock, his brain turning into slush, and he wraps his lips around Billy, eager to impress despite his lack of skills in this department, lapping his tongue at his dick, sucking him down at the same time.

Butcher draws in a deep breath at the heat surrounding his cock, muttering out a breathy ‘John’ that travels through the other man’s entire soul, his eyes fluttering slightly as he breathes in Butcher’s smell through his nose, wanting to bury his face in the fine hairs gracing his pelvis. 

He tries not to touch himself as he listens to the different range of sounds the Brit makes, continuing to press his hand down onto his own self, grunting as spikes of not-so-there pleasure spins his mind around, swallowing his mouth around Butcher’s dick as he hums. 

Billy’s hand is itching to grab a handful of his hair and fucking pull, but with a mere slippage of his control, it’ll turn the entire room into a bloody massacre within seconds.

So instead, he just grabs onto the bed, crumpling the mattress up into his palms with as much ease a supe could have, head tilting back, sighing out in bliss. 

John begins to suck his cock like his life depended on it, but the inexperience is there. Butcher, in the midst of his pleasure, tells him to tighten his hand as it grips the base, and John does exactly that.

It doesn’t take long for him to get the hang of it, Billy makes a mental note of how  fast of a learner he really is.

John follows the way Butcher’s breath hitches, he keeps rising and lowering his head, swiveling his tongue, crystal blue eyes fluttering up to look at him, drinking in the way the Brit unravels second by second.   

“God. Baby.” Butcher hisses out as he stares back at him, at those formerly dangerous eyes, his gaze is still so unsettling, icy, unforgettable.

Especially as he takes the man’s cock into his mouth, blue irises spilling through long lashes, sending chills up Billy’s spine. He faintly remembers how he’d have vivid dreams of seeing the hot red taking over the man’s irises. 

John’s saliva dribbles down his cock as he takes him in deeper, gaze sharp, he looks so fucking good on his knees like this.

Butcher’s chest begins to heave, muscles clenching – he begins to question how long he’s actually been wanting to fuck Homelander. 

Once it hits that he’s got the former strongest man in the world’s mouth around his cock, it strikes him hard. Butcher jerks his hips up as a curse rips its way out of his throat, gagging John on accident, the mattress springs stressing under his grip, muscles drawing up in his stomach. 

It’s the sound of John’s throat struggling to take the sudden jerk of his hips, forcing him to sputter out a pathetic cough around his cock that pushes him to the edge. 

Butcher reminds himself to not pull his hair, so his hand flies down to cup John’s face in his fingers, making him gasp out as the Brit pulls him off of his cock.

His other hand strokes himself until he violently snaps his hips into it, grunting out John’s name as he spills onto his fist and John’s shirt, vision whiting out for a few seconds. 

“Shit,” he breathes out as he leans back onto his forearm, panting harshly, the sight of John gawking at him like an interested spectator making it hard for him to catch his breath. 

“Billy,” John utters his name under his breath as he leans in to press a wet kiss to his quivering thigh, nipping at it. 

Butcher’s mind is tainted with thoughts that’ll make a priest fall to their knees, he sits back up, cups the other man’s face with both hands, kissing him, tasting himself on his tongue.

John rises up onto the bed, eyes fluttering closed as soon as their lips meet, pushing his head forward to deepen the kiss, moaning wantonly into Billy’s mouth as their tongues brush. 

He must’ve tasted himself too. 

Billy suddenly wants John’s cock in his mouth again, wants to make him cum over and over again until he squirms and cries, but then again, he wants to do a lot of things to him. 

“Your fucking mouth. Amazing.” 

John sighs out into the kiss, goosebumps forming as the praise needles itself into his stomach, followed by a fuzzy buzz that wraps around his skull, Billy could sense a vibration running up his legs, underneath his shirt.

With a light, quizzical noise, Billy pulls away from him, breathing against his lips.

He has to stare at him for a beat, expression mixed with a light hint of shock and awe, he’s measuring the sudden shift in the other’s body heat, just from a simple compliment. John never runs out of things Billy could fixate on. “That really gets you going, huh?” 

“Billy,” Comes a whine. 

“When I praise you,” Billy’s eyes are intense, similar to the look he gave John on the ferris wheel shortly before he attacked him with tickles and as John stares at him, biting his bottom lip, he tries not to let his thoughts linger on the way his voice sharpens. “You start getting all flustered, your eyes get all open and your face gets all contorted as if you’re not sure it should be meant for you.”

John inhales slow through his nose, measured, attempting to finish chewing his teeth through his bottom lip as Billy continues to talk, keeping himself from letting a weird, revealing noise escape. 

“Your breathing gets all slow and even, yeah, like that -” John keeps eye contact with him as he swallows down an embarrassing sound, impressed at Butcher’s abilities to just fucking sense, becoming very flustered at the same time.

Billy moves his head, kisses his neck again as his hands drift over the small of his back, tugging him in, lips tracing over the bite mark, sounding breathy. “Your pupils get a touch wider, your body heat skyrockets, and your heart beats faster. That shit turns you on, doesn’t it?” 

John breathes in sharp, lungs cooling as the oxygen hits them, eyes fluttering closed as Butcher’s lips ghost over his skin once more.

“Mm,” he nods his head instead of verbally answering, and that’s alright, they’ll have enough time to thoroughly explore this kink later among other things. 

Billy doubts either of them are going to get some sleep this entire night, he reaches down and crushes up the hem of John’s messy shirt in his fist. 

“And if I say, I’ve always thought you looked so fuckable in my clothes, how’d that sound, love? Ever since I first saw them on you, God. I had to stop myself from thinking about how fucking good you would look all spread out and wrecked in a shirt like this.” Butcher mutters into his neck, feels John tremble underneath his hands, so reactive.

Butcher groans, wanting to bury his face into his ass. 

“Fuck,” John whispers under his breath, body thrumming, pulsing with a violent wave of want, followed up with an ache he technically doesn’t know how to deal with festering inside of his stomach.

“Please.” Is all he could honestly come up with, grabbing onto his shoulders and digging his nails in, suddenly needing Billy’s hands on him in ways he doesn’t have the word capacity to explain right now. 

“Need to fuck you,” Butcher breathes into his skin, composure gone, he’s so far gone for John, sweat is beginning to prod at his forehead. “God. I need to.” 

John lets another breath escape, shifting his head, cupping Billy’s cheek, drawing forward, licking his tongue into his mouth, mewling needily as he pushes himself into the man. He quite literally draws Billy’s oxygen from out his lungs, making the man momentarily trip over himself. 

It’s a messy clash of lips, but they move in sync with each other Butcher eventually captures the rhythm, feeling John’s hands slip up to the back of his head, his fingers fidgeting uselessly into his hair, stretching and curling as if he was trying to claw at his scalp. 

Billy’s mind is buzzing with provocative images as he swipes his tongue along his, swallowing the whimper that slips from the depths of John’s throat, swiping his palm along the smaller man’s thigh up to his hips. 

Butcher grabs John by the waist, and effortlessly hoists him up onto his chest as he shifts off of the bed to stand up onto his feet, whirling them both around, the sudden movement driving the air from John’s lungs in a quick haste.

The former supe abruptly breaks the kiss to squeak out, holding onto Butcher while the man casually sends him crashing back down onto the mattress, on his backside, smirking at the visible surprise riddling through John’s body.

 With a breathless laugh, John opens his arms for an embrace, still tittering. “Dickhead -”

Billy snorts at the heatless insult, dives on top of him, burying his face back into his neck to continue his ministrations. 

Immediately, hands start falling back into Billy’s hair, long fingers curling dark strands around them before tugging. John bucks against him, wrapping his legs around his waist, encouraging Butcher, who was already mouthing at his neck to press in closer.

John’s breaths come out fast, hot, and he tilts his head back as Butcher creates bruising nips –

Butcher hikes him up further onto the bed, moving him by the pillows, his hands firm, grip bruising, he’s still being careful, but he knows what John’s expecting, so he lets his nails dig into the soft skin of his waist, forcing another yelp out of the smaller man’s mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” John chokes out, nails subconsciously digging into Butcher’s scalp, eyes widening as the pain aches and ricochets through his body, he could feel his cock throb in response.

The way John grows even warmer against him sends a spike of need through Billy despite himself, “Christ, you’re fucking shaking.” 

John just curves his spine up, pushing into Billy’s chest, pulling at his hair for him to press on and not question it.

He tries needling a response that doesn’t find its way out, breath catching in his throat, instead he just grinds his hips into Butcher’s, moaning as the man rocks forward in return, both of them grinding their cocks into each other for a beat. 

Eventually, he’s completely dropped back down onto the bed, his body springing up and down as he sits up on the mattress, the momentum stressing the bedsprings. 

They break away for a minute, Billy leaves John on the bed to grab a container of lubricant from the bathroom. While he was rummaging around for it, he could hear the former supe laughing breathilty to himself in some sort of happy disbelief. 

John continued to lie on his back, eyeing the ceiling, fisting his hand into his shirt, his other hand stroking his cock, running his tongue along his bottom lip, he tried to keep a pace that wouldn’t make him writhe around in the bed. 

Still, though, he pushes himself, pressing his fingers into the aching bite mark Butcher left on his neck, eyes fluttering. The action, as expected, draws a high-pitched noise from himself as pain and pleasure rocks through him, a violent wave clapping onto the shore. 

“Oh, fuck,” he whines out as he arches his back, squeezing the base of his cock, trembling head to toe, although this ‘kink’ isn’t exactly a newfound revelation, it’s the first time he has the chance to actually indulge in it.

Billy is so fucking strong, so perfect. 

John’s legs twitch apart, his moans hitching, pressure building in his stomach at every shock of pleasure, he vibrates on the bed as he strokes his cock faster, raising the shirt up and running his hand along the expanse of his stomach and chest. 

Billy returns from the bathroom with a container of lubricant in his hand, captures the sight of him and levels his eyes at the man as he walks towards the bed, heat pulsing through him, John fidgets under his stare, his movements faltering. 

He looks so -

Butcher shakes his head, he feels blood pumping into his cock again, he licks at his lips. “You little fuck.” When he hears John inhale sharply, he finds the actual words he was meaning to say, clearing his throat. “Keep your legs open, just like that. Let go of your cock.”

“Billy,” John sighs out in a semi-whine, trying to regather himself, glistening blue eyes following the Brit as he moves between his legs, chest rising and falling heavily. He moves his hand off of his cock, lip quivering, he’s so fucking close.    

“Good boy.” Billy purrs out, grinning like a cheshire cat as he uncaps the lube, holding the container out. “Dip your fingers in here.” 

John does what he says. 

“You’ve fingered yourself before?”

“Not as much as I’d like to, but yes.” John huffs out, cheeks reddening, he sits up on his forearm, breathing heavily, a spark festering in his eyes. Butcher has a full body shiver at that, his imagination running, his mouth is dry, and all he can do is kneel onto the bed, catching his breath.

“In recent years, no. It’s an intimate process.” 

Billy inclines his head. “Intimate process.”

“There’s a lot of self-love that goes into fucking yourself with your fingers.” 

Butcher tilts his chin up, blinking hard at him. “Huh.” 

John rubs his wet digits together, staring at it closely, breath hitching. “I just haven’t had much of that lately.” He swallows, spreading his legs wider and lifting them as he moves his fingers down to his ass, exposing himself to Butcher entirely. 

He couldn’t help but notice the immediate effect his current position has on the Brit; vulnerable, depowered, spread open.

Billy’s having a tough time hiding his fixation, his eyes following the way John traces his dripping fingers around his rim, he’s kneeling down onto the mattress, palms splayed out on the bed, basically drooling at him. 

It’s adorable. 

A chill runs through John, he holds his breath, prodding at his hole, it’s been half a fucking decade since he fingered himself, and before that time, it was an actual decade – and change. 

When he was seventeen he was extremely curious, fingered himself with his own spit, came on his bed untouched, but there was a camera watching him, and the doctors punished him, forcing him to wear a weird, itchy collar around his neck until it aggravated his skin to a point where he started to grow overstimulated from it.

Now he’s doing it again, in front of Billy, the man he loves, who is just so perfect -

Once he presses in, John’s jaw drops open and he moans loudly, louder than he thought he could, eyes fluttering closed, he’s got only one finger inside of him, curling it into the bud of nerves, a full body twitch courses through him.

 “Oh, oh,” he thrusts it in and out after a beat, then he trembles all over, body going slack, his head falling back against the pillow, a pleasured groan rumbling through his chest like sand rolling through the desert during a dust storm. “God, fuck -”

“Jesus Christ.” Billy almost collapses, this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen, his voice is barely above a whisper, and he has to stroke his cock, eyes locked onto the man lying before him. “Fucking hell.” 

John chokes out a laugh, shoulders shaking, he’s flustered and hot all over, feeling at his most vulnerable, he dips his fingers in once more and shudders, back bowing off the bed, head lolling into the pillow, whining out.

“Forgot,” he begins in a stuttered breath, eyes closing as the pressure builds in his abdomen, “how good this feels.”  

“Yeah?”

“Ah, Billy -” John’s voice hikes up a note as he crooks his finger into his prostate again, panting openmouthed, head tipped back, body thrumming, hips jerking. He sucks in a deep breath, whimpering pathetically at another push and pull of his finger, squirming, eyes crinkling as they remain closed, body heat rising.

 “Shit,” he whispers breathily to himself, head lolling against the pillow, brushing against his prostate again and again. 

Butcher smothers lube onto his cock with a shaky hand, swallowing hard, moving up between his legs, watching him with hungry eyes. “Spread yourself open, love.”

John’s leg twitches, he inserts a second finger, scissoring himself open, his other hand retreating back to the bitemark planted on his neck, he presses his fingers into the bruise, pain snaking through him. 

He jerks his hips up, his cock standing painfully straight, rock hard, drooling precum onto his stomach as it throbs, and seconds later he pants out in quick breaths, eyes fluttering open to find Billy.

“Gonna cum - m’sorry -” 

“That’s alright, babe.” Billy breathes out as he reaches forward, moves the shirt up some more and tweaks his nipple, rolling the pink nub between his thumb and index, tugging his cock with his other hand, applying some more relief. “You look so good like this.” 

In this light, he could see John’s gaze roam, his eyes wandering along the other’s torso. He’s stared at it before, he caught himself doing it many times, the dark hairs on his chest covering his nipples, the abs that dawn his stomach, solid muscles winding underneath taut skin. 

If they could afford it, John wouldn’t mind Butcher’s large hands wrapping around his neck, but there’s only so many limitations they could possibly cross over tonight. 

Billy was gorgeous, and most importantly he was his. John is so in love with him, he couldn’t manage to breathe straight. Any coherent thoughts regarding Butcher he once had were now caught up in some sort of mental traffic jam. 

To no one’s surprise, when John loves, he loves hard. It sticks, and it sticks, and it sticks, he’ll never be able to stop, not at this point –

“Butcher, God.” John grits out lowly after pressing against his prostate and bite mark at the same time, gasping out afterwards, he writhes against the bed and cums hard with a list of expletives leaving his lips, spilling onto his stomach in quick succession.

A violent wave of pleasure comes hurdling at him, rocking through him with ruthlessness. 

“Fuck,” Butcher rasps out in a low pitch that enhances John’s chills, taking a mental picture, he moves his hand up the trembling body, runs his fingers through his hair, getting a tired hiccup in return.

“You’re a sight.”

Homelander recovers from his orgasm like a springy young fella despite being wrung out, which, in a way, at least compared to Butcher’s age, he technically is a young fella.

It’s easy to remember that Billy has some age on the younger man when it comes to moments like this, where refractory periods actually matter. Billy, even as a supe, still needed a moment to reset after almost dropping his entire load into John’s inexperienced mouth.

John, however, is already wordlessly motioning for Butcher’s dick after three minutes goes by, pulling him on top of, helping him lube up his cock with a gentle hand as he kisses his lips. Hell, Butcher was about to finish early in John’s hand just from that alone. 

Butcher discarded the younger man’s shirt after wiping his cum off of his stomach with it, they lay completely naked together, the scars from the injuries Homelander suffered decorating his body, his hands drifting over the big ones twisted onto his back as the man arches it. 

They’re more morbid up close, some were faded like around his cheek, arms, chest and ribs below his nipples. Some seemed permanent, like the ones decorating his back, his knee, a never ending reminder of what happened at the tower.

Butcher remembers when they were all fresh and scary, spilling into the supersuit, blood dried on the sleeves.

He remembers Homelander twisting and thrashing around in his bed, crying out in pure agony, pleading for him to stop every time Butcher brushed an alcohol wipe along his wounds, needing to clean them over and over again. 

Billy makes sure he kisses across each scar he could possibly reach as he pushes his cock inside of his tight heat, John’s breath hitches in his throat as he lets him trace his lips over his scars. 

The gesture was too intimate to be brung up in a normal conversation later, and by the time Butcher stopped by his cheek, he saw how John’s eyes were visibly welled up. 

Billy presses his forearms by John’s head, runs his fingers through his hair, whispering to him as he bottoms out inside of him. “Alright?”

“Mhm,” John blinks the wetness from his eyes, nodding quickly.

John was breathing in sharply, wet. His chest was hurting and his nails were digging into Butcher’s shoulders, feeling stretched wide open.

While he was being pampered with Butcher’s kisses, he felt the hot tip of the man’s cock press against his rim and he had to tilt his head back, swallowing while he stared up at the ceiling. 

The pain was - interesting - John started shuddering underneath him, eliciting stuttering cut-off breaths that made Butcher pause a couple of times, whispering if he was okay.

John always responded with a wordless nod. 

He jerks with a high gasp as Butcher fucks all the way into him, feeding his cock in and in to the hilt.

John grounds his nails into impenetrable skin, gritting his teeth, a guttural groan rippling out of his throat, blinking the burn in his eyes away rapidly as he unintentionally clenches down, discomfort blooming in his stomach.

Billy curves his knee into the bed, lowers his hands back down to John’s waist, tries to keep the grip on him light as he groans out, chills running up his spine, but it’s nearly impossible, John was so tight, and he’s been on the cusp of finishing for the past hour. 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, breathless, shaky, his cock twitching inside of him, brows knitted, evoking a high noise as John rocks his hips to adjust. 

He definitely overestimated himself. 

John looks up at him, eyes soft. Billy notices he’s gotten quiet, hears the light sounds of his chest stuttering, breathing a little ragged. 

Butcher stops again despite his dwindling self control, placing his palm by his head and leans down, brows furrowed. “John, baby, are you with me? Are you hurting?”

“Yeah. No. I’m fine.” John punches out in a harsh exhale, still trying to manage despite his stomach fluttering at the note of concern in Billy’s voice, the pet name he was just now registering, the fact that he’s inside of him.

He’s being treated so cautiously, it’s making his heart skip beats, suddenly reminded as to how he fell in love with Billy in the first place.

The discomfort from the intrusion burns at his waist, traveling inward, racketing up his body like a snake. “Haven’t - felt this full before -” he sounds quite pained, Billy carefully leans forward to not jostle him, presses sloppy kisses along his collarbone, keeping his hips still despite the urge to fuck into the passage hugging his cock. 

Butcher tries to ignore the flare of possessiveness that chokes him, he runs his tongue over the bite mark he left, feels John tremble underneath him, a high whine pushing through his lips, then he starts to suckle down on the tender spot, rocking into him in slow figures.

John lets out a broken noise as the man rocks his hips, relaxing his muscles, wrapping his arm around the curve of his back, “Billy,” he moans out hotly as he arches up again, sensitive all over, he hooks a leg around his waist, the discomfort settling down in his stomach. 

“Fuck.” Butcher groans out as he buries himself inside, burying his face into his neck as he thrusts his hips forward, hand running along John’s leg, bending it around his waist.

He breathes in John’s scent, laps at his sweat from their current activities, a tremor runs through him as he tastes the bitterness of the soap from the shower he took earlier, he thrusts into him again, pleasure coursing through him. 

John tries to catch his breaths, moaning out at each thrust, fingers fisting back into Billy’s hair, tugging on it, his other hand holding onto his arm pressed into the mattress beside him. He likes being pinned down by Butcher’s body, like the tickles of his chest hair rubbing against his chest, and surprisingly, he likes being manhandled by him too. 

He holds onto Billy, opens his legs wider as he fucks him into the bed, clenching down on his cock, moaning his name low into his ear. It’s all too good, he feels Billy’s dick drag along his walls, his hips buckling down as the length of it brushes against his prostate. 

“Ah,” John whines out in a mantra, a mix of pain and pleasure roaring through him, chest heaving, his entire body is moving against the sheets in a pace that makes his back burn all over.

Billy’s thrusting into him, hard, desperately fast, hot breaths puffing into John’s neck.

“Billy,” he pants out quietly, tightening his grip on his hair, back aching, his other hand now splayed out on the bed, attempting to keep himself still. 

Butcher grunts, lifting his head from his neck, snapping his hips into him once more, knocking the entire bed frame against the wall, John cries out, stilling underneath him, pleasure rocketing through him.

“Taking me so good, love,” He grits out, burying his nails into the skin of thigh, causing a heat of pain to counter the pleasure rushing through the smaller man. He gets a low hiccup in response and sees the tremor that runs through John’s body.

“God, look at you.” 

“Fuck,” John whines, his wobbly voice hitching up his throat, he feels the mattress stress underneath him as the frame hits the wall once more, his legs aching. 

Billy shivers head to toe as he fucks into him again, groaning out another absolutely filthy praise that makes John’s back arch off the bed, turning his cheek into the pillow for a brief moment to hide his face, flushing all over. 

Butcher fucks his cock into him again and again and again, moving the bedframe each time, the springs creaking, he’s creating holes in the wall the longer he chases his orgasm. 

Eventually, John has to face him again, too succumbed in his pleasure and discomfort to let Billy’s praises ring through him properly, he presses his face into Billy’s shoulder, and with the next thrust, he cums untouched onto their stomachs with a wet sob of his name, biting down hard into the Brit’s skin. 

“Ah, shit,” Billy hisses as the man clenches down on his cock, he rocks his hips forward a few more times, erratic, John grunts out as he grapples onto him for the home stretch, then Billy rips away, pulling out of him, stroking his cock fast as he moans out. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans out as he pins John’s trembling body down with one firm hand, gives a few more strokes to his dick with his other before he removes his hand, his cum spurting out onto John’s stomach, orgasm crashing through him stronger than it did before. 

He collapses back onto the man, catching his breath, John lays quivering underneath him, sucking in sharp breaths, his hands flexing into fists, before opening back up again.

“Billy,” he chokes out as all of the man’s weight comes crashing down onto him seconds later, his body feels extremely sore, he could barely move. 

John's breaths are ragged, slightly labored, and he runs his fingers though the man’s hair, laughing out tiredly. “Billy –” 

“Mmm,” Billy huffs out, trying to catch his breath, sounding just as tired. 

 “William,” he tries again in a strained gasp, sounding suffocated, he regains the strength to send a hard smack to Billy’s side, struggling to push him off. “You’re crushing me.” 

“Oh fuck,” As expected, Billy immediately gets up, pulling out of him slowly, once he lays on his back he sucks in a breath, noticing the bruises littering the back of John’s body, some he wasn’t expecting to see. “How’d that happen?” 

“Hm? Oh.” John tries to sit up, wanting to twist around and see how bad the damage was, but his lower half immediately argues against that, he stifles the pained cry ready to escape him, eliciting an awkward croaking noise, sitting still instead. “What’s the bed equivalent of carpet burn?” 

“Jesus.” Butcher mutters as he traces his reddened skin, sounding sorrowful, he presses in slightly, sees John tense up under his touch.

“I’m sorry, love.” Butcher swallows as the other man shakes his head dismissively, he sounds regretful and throaty, wrapping his hand around John’s wrist, cautious, gentle. 

“I’m fine, by the way, Billy. I had fun. That was fun.” John murmurs as he lets Billy pull him up onto his chest, his mess trickling down from his stomach in between his legs, pain continues to twinge at him, but he’s too in space right now to give a shit. 

Butcher hums at that with knitted brows, stomach dropping at each wince John makes as he moves the man onto his body.

“Let’s pray you don’t pass out.”

“It’s nothing a little ointment can’t fix.” John mutters tiredly, leaning his head up, kissing at his cheek. 

Butcher doesn’t say anything in response to that, he just smiles to himself and hushes him, quietly lifting him up off of the bed, his arm wrapped around his waist. 

This fucking guy. 

Butcher blinks his eyes open as he’s pulled out of his sleep, drawing in tired breath as he lifts his head up off of the pillow. From his side, he can hear his phone going off on the nightstand, rattling against the surface, waiting to be picked up. 

“Shit,” he says after yawning out, sitting up onto his elbow, running his hand down his face, he feels the warm weight Homelander tucked up against his side, the man snoring softly in a deep sleep, his cheek was resting on Butcher’s collarbone, fingers curled up against his chest. 

Trying not to disturb him, Butcher grunts and stretches his arm out, slapping his hand around on the nightstand, grappling at his phone. He holds the vibrating device up to his face, checking the time.

It’s almost twelve.

MM was supposed to drop Ryan off in the morning. 

“Fuck.” Butcher answers the phone, holding it up to his ear. “Morning, afternoon, morning.” 

“Shit. Are you just now waking up?”

“Long night.”

MM elicits a knowing hum, Butcher flushes. Thankfully he changes the subject. “Yo. Sorry about the holdup, we got caught up in a storm. It’s going to be pouring down all morning and I didn’t want the kids to get sick.” 

Butcher makes a quizzical noise, glancing over at the window, seeing the raindrops coating the glass in a fast pace, he pulls Homelander in closer as the man begins to slightly stir, swiping his palm up his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“No, yeah, it’s fine.“ There’s a beat – “Hey listen, I plan to pick Ryan up later, bring him to HQ once I’m done with Ron, if that’s not an issue.” 

“He’s your kid, Butcher. Of course it isn’t. I can keep him for another couple of hours. I’m sure Janine won’t mind that either, those two were playing all night.” 

“It’s just - I don’t want him around that, you know?” Butcher questions stiffly, blowing out a long breath. He doesn’t need Ryan there while he’s beating Ron to death, not when the boy is already teetering on utilizing his powers in a violent manner. It’ll just launch a ton of conversations he doesn’t feel like indulging in.

“I know where you’re coming from, Butcher. I might swing by later on, let Monique watch them, she made them cookies last night anyway.” MM says, his voice soft, understanding. He certainly does know Billy’s point, he finds it very mature of him too.

He’d rather die than to let his daughter see the things he himself gets up to within the Boys, hell she’d probably never know what he does in her lifetime. 

There are a number of things he genuinely plans to take to the grave. 

“What’re the kids up to now?”

“They already had breakfast. Right now they’re coloring.”

“That’s good.” Butcher’s chest feels heavy. 

“And Butcher, Ryan’s good for her, she needs a friend right now after all of the shit that’s been happening. The kids at school, they’re - well, she was worried sick about me, and she still is. She’s not going to tell me, but I think she knew I was at the tower that day. I mean, she can’t even focus all that well in her classes, she’s not talking to her friends anymore. It’s really shitty.” 

“Christ.” Billy mutters, sighing out, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of his troubles slowly beginning to crash down onto him the longer he remains awake. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry, mate. Ryan is still shaken up about it all too, Grace told me about his nightmares.”

MM sighs on the other end. “They’re just kids, man.”

“Very.” Billy frowns, a sudden weight crushing down on his chest. MM had tried so hard to keep his daughter out of the pig pen, and now she’s suffering too.

Billy honestly couldn’t decipher out how he wasn’t to blame for this, his own selfishness and rage blinding him in the past. “I dragged so many people into shit that had nothing to do with them. Now look, everyone is fucked up in their own way. ”

“We didn’t know it was going to go down like that, Butcher. We poked a bear with Soldier Boy, but at that time, that was the only way out we had.” MM says, hearing the guilt present in Butcher’s voice. “Don’t blame yourself. I’m to blame as well.”

“But I made you relapse back onto it. You were out.” 

“Butcher, what Soldier Boy did to my family was unforgettable. One way or another, I would’ve died an angry man, maybe even angrier than I am now, filled with vengeance. Sure you brung it out of me and used it to tool your own motives, but honestly, I was never out.” MM says, his voice was pitched low, a little withdrawn, he sounded like he was meddling in his thoughts. 

Butcher hums. “Feel like I’m doing a shit job at stopping the cycle.”

“You’re alright.”

There’s a long, calm pause, Homelander twitches, emitting a soft noise in his sleep, Butcher raises his head up to look down at him, exhaling. “I’m going to get rid of them both today. Soldier Boy and Ron. Ron’s going first. Soldier Boy might be later on.” 

“Don’t make a mess.” MM groans. 

“I’ll try not to, friend.” 

Butcher drops his phone back onto the nightstand, attempts to shake Homelander awake, earning a sleepy groan, the former supe’s body slowly rising up off of him.

“Oi, wakey-wakey,” he says, snorting as Homelander sits up on his forearm, hair tousled, bitemarks from last night littering his skin, he blinks his groggy eyes, exhaling through his nose. 

“Afternoon, love.” 

Homelander releases a tired noise, slowly rolling over onto his backside, pressing his palms into his face, briefly hooking his leg over Butcher’s underneath the covers. “How long have we slept?” He asks Butcher as the man shuffles close to him, voice muffled, yawning out into his hands.  

“All morning.” Butcher says as he sits up onto his forearm, stretching his arm out above his head, blindly feeling around for his pre-rolled blunt and lighter sitting on top of the headrest.

He takes it into his hands as Homelander moves his hands from his face, turning to his side to face Billy, placing his palms underneath his cheek as he blinks up at him. “It’s been raining all morning, MM didn’t want to get the kids all wet, and plus, it’s a long day ahead so he’s going to be keeping Ryan for a few hours. He’ll understand.” 

“Hm,” Homelander hums, watching as Butcher lights the blunt that sits between his lips, he scrunches his nose up at the smell, eventually relaxing his face. “So you’re saying you're going to take me along your killing spree?” 

“Thought you wouldn’t mind seeing me cave your old man’s head in with my foot.”

“Watch it. That’s my dad.” Homelander says with a growing smile on his face, biting his lip, gazing up at Butcher as if he finally struck gold.

It doesn’t mirror the way he used to talk about him when he had first woken up, and although it’s very much true, the knowledge of someone like Soldier Boy being his father is sort of comical.

Especially when you look at him now. 

All fucked-out, fresh faced, messy haired, soft eyes and his fangs out as he smiles. 

“Well, and no offense, your dad’s a cunt.” Butcher says with a smirk, giving him a shameless once over, then he purses his lips and takes a long drag, letting the THC rush into his bloodstream, pumping through him once more. 

Cunt. What a word, especially in that accent. It’s so universal, but when it comes from Butcher, it always has this attractive undercurrent to it. Homelander just finds him so fucking extraordinary. Where does someone like Butcher even come from?

So charming, and yet so unclassy. It’s a perfect balance. Homelander’s never seen anything like it, he wouldn’t ever imagine that someone like Butcher would be his type. All of their violent history aside. 

Homelander just lies there and looks at him closely, getting lost in Butcher's features, how goddamn hot he looks as he smokes, including how putrid it is for smoking to be the very first thing he does when he wakes up.

It’s fucking disgusting, and yet, it’s just so – Billy, and Homelander couldn’t stop smiling at him, couldn’t stop thinking about him.  

Butcher clears his throat and fidgets under his gaze, flushing again, eyebrows knitted as heat spills into his cheeks. “Oi, what’s all the staring about?” 

“You’re so -” Homelander shakes his head, laughing. He makes a content sound instead of finishing, sitting up onto his forearms, shifting his bare body towards Butcher, folding his arms up onto his lap, and resting his chin on top. “I just love you so much.” 

Butcher, completely flustered, mumbles something similar to ‘I don’t think you’re too bad either’ and takes another drag of his blunt, a light blush smoldering his cheeks, heat swarming his chest.

He doesn’t have to be as open with the word ‘love’ like Homelander is, even though he’d prefer it being verbally professed, with someone like Billy Butcher, his love will always be conveyed one alternative way or another. 

John can get used to that, he’s gotten used to a lot of things lately. 

Butcher lowers his hand, offering him the blunt, exhaling smoke at the same time he raises a brow at him. “Here. Try it.” 

“Jesus. Ew, no. I’m not like you.” Homelander says as he scrunches his face up, turning his head away and unfolding his arm to reach out and lightly push Butcher’s hand away despite his interest being piqued. It just feels wrong. 

Butcher rolls his eyes at him, scoffing. “You don’t have to stay a goody two-shoes. Not with me, John. C’mon, it’s just weed.” 

“Yeah, but -”

“It’s legal.” 

Homelander gives him a look, flicking his thigh. “You know I don’t care about that.” 

“Come on, babe. Just one hit.” 

Homelander lets out a dramatic sigh, blowing air through his lips as he groans out. “Why?” 

“Because I know you’d look fucking good doing it.” Butcher says, his voice pitched low, rumbling through his chest, the sound purring through Homelander’s body.

He moves his hand back to the man’s face, moving the blunt around in small convincing circles, watching as Homelander’s eyes subtly follow the smoking roll.

Homelander’s lips part slightly. 

“Give me an image to jerk off to later.” 

“You’re disgusting,” He mutters as he takes the blunt, holding it between his fingers, similar to how he did it a few weeks back when they were in the kitchen together. 

Butcher remembers how the sexual tension between them was staggering in that moment, when had backed the man up against the fridge, noticing the challenge flickering in Homelander’s eyes as the blunt hung between his lips – he had to spend on his self control to not fuck him right there on the spot. 

Now, Homelander is naked with him, both of them lying underneath the covers, the younger man lounging across his lap, the blunt lit up, sitting between his lips again.

Their ongoing eye contact serves for thick tension, Butcher has to bite his lower lip to keep from spewing out something stupid, Homelander takes a pull, the embers of the blunt lighting up, sizzling. 

He was right, Homelander looks fucking amazing. 

There’s a cough, and then two, Homelander blows out the smoke after a few seconds of awkwardly holding it in. “Okay,” he struggles to say as he coughs again, smoke filing out of his mouth as he hands the blunt back to a laughing Butcher, “fuck, what the hell is in that?” 

“Christ. Look at you.” Butcher says in a way-too-giddy voice, grinning widely at him. Homelander doesn’t mind the sight despite himself. “I get to fuck you, then I convince you to smoke weed with me. What’s next?” 

“Shut up. Don’t say it like that.” Homelander settles back onto his lap with amusement bubbling in his stomach, a blush in his cheeks, narrowing his eyes at him. “This is the only time I’d ever smoke. I feel gross now.” 

“You say that now, but once the high kicks in -” Butcher snorts, holding his arm up as a shield when Homelander suddenly swats at him, uttering out another flustered ‘shut up,’ seeming ashamed of himself for some reason. 

Butcher lowers his arm. “You know I only let you do that because I think you’d handle it better now, right? That's a big improvement on your end.” 

“Oh is it?” Homelander huffs, smirking nonetheless. “Is this part of your mission to convince me that living like a human is worthwhile?”

Butcher’s smile softens on his face as he traces his fingers along the bitemarks and hickeys planted on Homelander’s shoulder, running his hand up his neck, before letting them thread through his hair. “Maybe.”

Homelander’s eyes flutter, he pushes his head up against Butcher’s warm hand, closing his eyes, basking in their mingled scent, which was now tainted with the smell of marijuana, fortunately it didn’t overtake it.

Butcher gazes at the man as he takes another pull, passing the blunt back to him, clouds of smoke exuding from his nose. “Want another go?” 

Homelander hums softly, pressing the blunt between his lips, being more cautious with his second drag, he’s a little less awkward this time around, Butcher feels his cock twitch as he watches him exhale the smoke, his breathing slowing. “I mean, if you’re feeling up for it. I know you’re really sore. I could’ve been more gentle.” 

“I said it’s fine, Billy. I’m alright.” Homelander says as he hands the blunt back to him, petting his thigh, giving him a reassuring nod. “Just a few bruises here and there, I mean it was bound to happen. It’s still sex. If I still had powers while fucking you, I’m pretty sure you’d be dead.” 

That doesn’t sound too bad, minus the death part. 

Thoughts aside, Butcher still  lets out a grunt, clicking his teeth, he brushes his thumb along one of the more prominent bite marks on his neck, hearing the way Homelander’s breath shakes upon the next release, a full body shiver coursing through him. “You bled a little, love.” 

“Yeah,” Homelander whispers to him, pupils taking over his eyes. “It was my first time, Billy. Plus, I don’t mind. You were amazing, you tasted so good, and you felt good.” 

Butcher has to run his fingers through Homelander’s hair again, tugging some strands back slightly, needing to hear the breathy lilt in his voice, he feels the high beginning to buzz through him, causing the heat mounting in his groin to expand. 

“And you took my cock so well.” He replies before he takes another drag of his blunt, watching with half-lidded eyes as Homelander falters, almost crumpling into his lap as he flushes, a soft noise slipping from his lips, he dabs the blunt out and shifts up further.

“You were so good for me,” he continues as he moves hand from Homelander’s hair to cup his cheek, brushing his thumb along his bottom lip, eyes glimmering, “such a good boy.” 

“Billy,” Homelander begins, sounding breathy as expected, the praise engraving itself into his mind.

He slowly rises up onto his knees, crawling up onto Butcher’s lap, shivering as the man just sits back and watches him move, the blankets falling from his waist as he straddles the Brit.

There’s this fuzzy feeling circulating in his chest, and it’s probably from the weed, or the way Butcher is staring at him, or both. His cock is already hard.

“Can we - let’s do it again -”

Butcher chuckles at his eagerness, he looks up, seeing the glaze coat the other man’s eyes.

He places his hands on Homelander’s hips as the man runs his fingers through his hair, digging his thumbs into his hip bone. “You get riled up so easily,” Billy mutters to him as he leans up, mouthing at his nipple, Homelander leans his head back as his chest lurches, emitting a throaty moan, fingers twitching in his hair.  

“What did you have in mind earlier?” 

Butcher pulls away from his chest, grabbing onto Homelander’s ass, spreading him apart, slipping two fingers inside, he was still wet from last night, it sends heat spiking through Butcher as the man jolts, a high mewl punching out of his mouth.

“Something fast, but memorable. We have to get going soon.” 

“Fuck,” Homelander whines out, letting go of his hair to paw at the man’s shoulders, rocking his hips on Butcher’s fingers as they push further into him, the sensations are tenfold, he’s never felt anything like this before, at least not five to six hours apart.

“Okay,” he pants out in uneven breaths that drag through his lungs, pleasure rocking through him, his bleary eyes meeting Butcher’s. “I - I think we can, maybe I can suck you off -”

Butcher finds him adorable, he pulls him down for a kiss, muttering into his pliant mouth, hot and breathy. “I’ve got a better idea.” 

Minutes later, after blindly fumbling for the container of lube during their makeout, he’s got Homelander on his stomach, spread open with the use of his thumbs, biting into his asscheek, earning a hiccup, the muscle in his thigh jumping.

He licks a long wet stripe of his tongue along the rim of his sensitive hole, sees it clench in response, hearing a high gasp, Butcher delves his tongue inside of him, holding the man down as his hips jerk. 

“Holy fuck,” Homelander chokes out, curling his fingers into the sheets, eyes fluttering, his cock rubs against the sheets as he squirms. “Billy,” he moans out, breathing fast as the Brit continues to fuck his tongue inside of him, withdrawing, planting hot lingering kisses against his twitching hole before he presses his thumb inside. 

“So good, love.” Butcher breathes out in astonishment, leaning in once more, suckling another bruise onto his soft skin, thrusting his thumb inside at the same time, groaning out as Homelander clenches around his finger as he trembles.

“Fucking hell,” he removes his thumb, dives his tongue back in, grabs a handful of Homelander’s ass and inhales as he plunges his tongue in and out, completely obsessed with him.

Homelander sobs out Butcher’s name into the pillow, pleasure racketing through his body, the buzz of Butcher, the high, and the delicious waves of arousal makes him drool, his cum leaking onto the bed like a broken faucet. 

Homelander’s groaning out as he thrashes, and thrashes, his orgasm ravaging through him. Butcher just effortlessly pins him down, continuing to lick at him hungrily, dragging his tongue along until saliva drips from his hole. 

“Billy,” Homelander’s voice is pitched high as he whines out his name, and there’s a rasp tacking onto it that drives Billy fucking crazy. The man sounds so desperate as he jerks his hips into the bed, his stomach rubbing against his mess splattered on the sheets, “please, more, please. ” 

Butcher pulls off of him, chest heaving, searching around for the container of lube, and once he’s got a grip of it, he drags his fingers into the container, lubing up his cock, positioning himself on top of Homelander, his knee knocking his legs apart.

“Fuck,” he grunts out as he thrusts his cock into him, pressing his pelvis against his ass as he braces himself, arms pressing down onto the mattress on either side of Homelander’s head. 

Homelander hisses out a long curse, scrunching the sheets up into his fist, burying his face into the pillow as Billy pins him down with his body and fucks him.

John feels his body drilling into the mattress with each thrust, the bed frame smacking against the wall again, he cries out into the pillow.

He’s with Butcher, he’s high, and he’s in bliss.

This is the greatest feeling ever. 

With every thrust, he feels more and more free, he finds Billy's hand when the man leans down, holding himself up with his forearm, chest pressed against the younger’s back, John ends up lacing their fingers together. 

Afterwards, as both of them were coming down, Homelander's head was resting on Billy's chest again. The Brit tracing circles onto his back, before drifting his hand up to the back of his head, staring down at him.

A thought passes his mind, and his eyes soften while he massages his scalp. "Oi, when you told me about those men you were kissing when you were just a lad. How old were they really?"

Homelander hums as he shrugs his shoulders, eyes opening. He lifts his head up to rest his chin on the man's chest, looking up at him. "Sixty or so. Pretty old."

Jesus. Butcher clenches his jaw. "They force you into doing all that?"

"No. They were just nice to me, and I wasn't around a lot of nice people back then. Besides the nurses, at least. They treated me like an actual person, so when they would ask for a kiss, I gave it to them, because why not?" Homelander says this as if it were a normal occurrence, but there was this flicker of discomfort budding in his gaze.

"My first one was this stock owner, he was like sixty or so, he sat me on his lap and said I had pretty face and nice hair. At that time, no one ever told me that before. He kept sticking his tongue down my throat."

Butcher swallows, his anger beginning to pile up. Fucking Vought. "Sick cunts. You were just a kid." 

"Yeah, well," Homelander shrugs his shoulders again. "I bit his tongue off and he went under the radar after that. I got slapped around afterwards but that didn't stop me." 

John was definitely high, he wouldn't be rambling like this if he weren't. 

"I'm sorry."

Homelander is laying there blank faced for a beat or two, but then he just smiles at him, a sad one, reaching his hand up to swipe Butcher's hair from his eyes. "That's just the tip of the iceberg, Billy." 

John’s legs were still shaking by the time he finished making breakfast for him and Billy to share with each other, his body was sore all over, and yet, he felt like he could fly. 

The shower helped soothe his tense muscles, and to top the sexcapades off with a crimson cherry, he masturbated thinking about Butcher touching him in front of an angered Stan Edgar, giving the old man an aneurysm, and as he was recovering from that – squeezing his trembling hand around his leaking cock while whimpering out into his palm, he found himself unable to count how many times he came in a span of a few hours. 

It was a random fantasy, filled with his hate towards Vought, but it made his toes curl. 

Halfway dressed for today, he stands by the walk-in of their bedroom, eyes twinkling. “Want some?”

Butcher looks up as he presses his fingers into his bare ankle, rolling his foot around, relinquishing the stress from his muscles, boots on the floor nearby the walk-in closet Mallory had installed into the bedroom.

“What’d you take so long to cook? Smells good.”

“Doesn’t it? It’s really good, I promise. It’s my own little sandwich.” John says as he approaches him with a prideful smile, napkin in hand.

Butcher raises a curious brow at him, gaze flickering down at the food. He hadn’t taught John a lot of the homegrown recipes he had under his belt, a lot of the food he had as a child were too personal to share, not alone explain. 

“What do we have here?” 

“I tried to make a grilled cheese sandwich, but with bacon in it. Ryan told me it’s a good snack, I’ve never had the chance to try one.” John hands him the napkin, pulling the hem of his shirt down to fiddle with it as Billy scrutinizes the meal, momentarily forgetting he wasn’t wearing anything underneath the fabric except underwear, he still hadn’t put his pants on yet. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to cut it by myself or not, you know, since you’re so strict about sharp objects.”

“Do you want it cut?”

“It doesn’t matter.” John shrugs his shoulders.

Billy stands up with an interested noise sitting in his throat, his own stomach beginning to make waves at this point, it certainly smells good, the bacon blends in with the melted cheese and toasted bread surprisingly well.

He could imagine throwing in an egg with this, perhaps make it tomorrow's breakfast plan, he feels along the crust, looking at John. “It’s crispy.”

“Try it. I made it for you.” 

Billy frowns. “You said you were hungry.”

“I’ll eat the rest, blah, blah. Just try it, come on. Just a little bite.” John says, he applies pressure, grabbing the sandwich from the napkin, reaching to prod it at Billy’s lips. “Open Billy, say aah.” 

Billy stands there narrowing his eyes at him, John just bats his lashes, smushing the bread against his closed mouth, purposely sprinkling crumbs into the man’s beard. Billy swats at him, squawking. “Oi, cut that out.”

“Please, Butcher? For me?”

Billy turns to face him as he rolls his eyes, he spoils him and parts his lips anyway, letting John eagerly slip part of the sandwich into his mouth, their eyes interlocking somewhere in the middle of it.

Butcher bites down, John’s lips twitch into a halfway smile, his tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip, half amused, half entranced. 

Once the taste hits him, Billy’s eyebrows furrow, his expression rarely content, he literally groans and turns his head away to chew on his food while John puts the sandwich backdown on the napkin still in Billy’s held out hand. 

John snickers, breaking off a corner piece for himself, he looks up at him expectantly, slipping the piece into his mouth. “Good right?”

“Very.” Billy muffles out as he looks back at John, swallowing the broken down food, his stomach beginning to settle due to being distracted. “You did good, lad. You should make that in the morning, put an egg in it. Everyone would be good to go for the day.”

John’s eyes light up as he smiles, chest warming. “Really? Okay, I will.”

Butcher casually smacks his butt, it was a love tap, but it was enough to make John spring up with a surprised squeak. “Now hurry up and eat so we can go.” 

John scowls at him, pinching his nipple through his shirt. “Asshole. Don’t do that.” 

Butcher actually ripples at nipple tweak, glaring at him, he almost drops the sandwich when he lunges forward, tickling John’s exposed stomach before the man could turn on his heel and run. “You fucking cunt.” He chokes out, voice swallowed up in the other man’s shrieks and laughter as he tries to get away. “Go on before I dress you myself.”  

Frenchie opens the door to HQ with a random hatchet clutched in his hand, eyes bulging out of his head when Butcher steps inside, Homelander following close behind. He gapes at them both for a beat, closing the door behind them, not immediately acknowledging Homelander’s presence.

“Monsieur, you actually came! I thought you were going to bail out on this one because of what happened with A-Train, his friend almost spilled the beans on all of us.” 

“Yes, I’m aware of that, Serge. The colonel handled that little kerfuffle, turns out she’s handling a lot of things. It was a big loss that you couldn’t come to the fair with us, you and Kimiko would’ve loved it.” 

Frenchie sighs out as he lowers his head down, disappointment skittering across his bruised up face. “Herogasm was the biggest loss. I’m still not over that.” 

“Come on, take me to the cunt. I’ll fill you in while I rip his teeth out, how’s that sound?” Butcher asks him in the midst of a chuckle, motioning his head towards the direction of which the basement door is, Frenchie’s eyes light up as he nods his head eagerly, rushing up to walk next to him as Homelander stays behind, looking over towards Kimiko sitting cross legged on the couch. 

Her arms were folded over her chest, staring daggers at him. 

Homelander looks back at Butcher and Frenchie, both of them disappearing down the foyer, he directs his gaze back to Kimiko, swallowing nervously as he turns to face her. 

“Uh, hi,” he begins awkwardly, he waves at her, taking a step towards the girl.

She draws in a sharp breath through her nose, blinking rapidly once she realizes that he was approaching her, she shakes her head, shifting into a defensive stance, her movements were jerky, a little fearful, but her eyes were narrowed. 

Homelander falters a little, holding both of his hands up, he stops a few feet away from her, eyes widening as she closes her hands into a fist. “Wait, wait, wait, I’m - I don’t have any powers, I’m not going to do anything to you. I promise.” 

Kimiko continues to scowl at Homelander, shaking her head at him, she tightens up her stance, seemingly ready to pounce at him. 

“I’m sorry. I really am. For everything. I don’t think I’ve ever actually met you. Your name is Kimiko, right? Is that how you pronounce it?” 

Kimiko stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, teeth gritted.

Homelander stands completely still, keeping his hands up, palms facing her. “My name is actually John.” 

Annie steps out of the bedroom frowning as she walks into the living room, her hair down, Hughie’s shirt and sweats on. Her eyes flicker back and forth between Homelander and Kimiko, concern spilling into her features. “What’s going on?”

Homelander doesn’t break his stare from Kimiko to look over at Annie, both of them were engulfed in a sudden eye contest. “I um - I just wanted to thank her, that’s all, I swear. I don’t know where to begin. I think she’s scared of me, I didn’t mean to antagonize her.” 

Annie looks at Kimiko, Kimiko scrunches her nose up, keeping her eyes trained on Homelander, the blonde then switches her attention back to the man in front of her. “What are you thanking her for?”

“I wanted to thank her and Frenchie for helping with Ryan. That’s it.”

“Okay,” Annie says slowly, nodding her head at him before looking back at Kimiko, her expression neutral as she relays the information back to her. “He said he just wants to thank you and Frenchie for watching Ryan.” 

Kimiko's brow twitches, a look of consideration softening her features as she relaxes her stance slightly, but when the man puts his hands down to his sides, she tenses back up, glaring at Homelander again, reaching into her pocket, removing her phone. 

She finally breaks eye contact as she types something down. 

“She doesn’t talk at all, does she?” Homelander whispers to Annie. 

Annie shakes her head. 

Kimiko slowly seats herself down onto the couch, holding her phone out to him. 

Homelander’s eyes widen as they dart to look at the phone, then back to her, he takes a hesitant step forward, seeing her flinch back as he draws closer, ignoring the guilt that itches at his conscience. He tilts his head, pointing at the phone, wanting to make sure he’s assuming his next steps correctly so he wouldn’t anger her. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, voice soft. “Do you want me to take it -”

Kimiko nods her head at him, then she flickers his eyes over at Annie, there’s an uncertain look in her eye, a silent ask. Immediately, Annie takes the hint and walks over to her, sitting down next to the girl as Homelander draws in closer. 

Taking the phone into his hand, he reads what she wrote. 

Siri reads the text almost dejectedly. “You're welcome. John. Is Ryan okay?”

Homelander looks up from the phone, meeting her eyes. “He’s fine. Billy didn’t want to bring him along because of what he’s doing down there, with Ron.” 

Kimiko nods her head after a beat, reaching her hand out for her phone. Homelander gives it back to her. Annie’s eyes follow their hands, curious as to what she said, she doesn’t try to peek at the phone but she does look over to Homelander, studying his facial expressions. 

Kimiko types down another message insisting on using text-to-speech this time, Homelander waits, slipping a hand into his pocket, staring down at the floor as she typed. Siri reads out her message, and Kimiko’s hand shakes as she holds her phone out, her eyes staring holes into Homelander’s skin. “Your nazi girlfriend killed my brother.” 

Annie bites her bottom lip, rubbing her hand into her back. 

“Your brother?” Homelander frowns, attempting to retrace his memory. Stormfront killed Kimiko’s brother, there’s some familiarity in that accusation, but for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to dig it up. “Is - when did that -”

“That guy in the sewer,” Annie speaks up, Homelander looks over at her, lost. “The man who made the ground cave below you, who got all of those cars to fall. That was him, he was her brother.”

Homelander blinks. “The supervill – terrorist? ” 

Kimiko inhales sharply, scowling at him again, she types fast. “We aren’t fucking terrorist, he was my baby brother. They took us away from our home, forced us to be soldiers, injected us with compound V and he was shipped out. We were separated and Stormfront killed him.”  

“I’m sorry.” Homelander says in a quiet voice, scratching his arm, Kimiko stares at him with a conflicted look on her face. “I didn’t -” he couldn’t speak, so he shakes his head, averting his eyes elsewhere, feeling his throat burn. That was originally his guy too, fucking hell, he was about to kill Kimiko’s brother, this conversation would’ve taken a huge turn if he went through with it. 

“Looking at you used to make me sick.” Siri’s voice rings out from Kimiko’s phone. “Now I feel nothing. I’m still scared of you though. I’ll always be.” 

Annie hums, squeezes Kimiko’s shoulder.

“If there’s anything I can do for you and for your friends, then I’ll do it.” Homelander says as he shifts his hands behind his back, looking between Annie and Kimiko, he really wants to grovel right now.

Especially with all of the information given to him regarding Stormfront and her brother, he’s been in so much bliss the past twenty-four hours, being faced with his past feels like a smack in the face.

He sighs out a long breath, drawing his shoulders up. “I’m really serious. I can clean up around here, wipe down the walls, scrub the floors -”

Kimiko tilts her head, frowning at him, then she directs her eyes back to the phone, typing down another sentence. “There’s nothing you can do that can make up for what you’ve done to us.”

Homelander speaks over Siri’s robotic speech, he raises his voice, purposely drowning out the monotone sound. “Yeah, I know. But I can try. I want to try. I don’t want Ryan feeling like an outcast because I’m here. At the funfair, when I was being handed a platter of shit from everyone, he was getting upset. You saw it, right, Starlight?”

“Yeah, but, some people aren’t going to be so accepting.” Annie says, shrugging her shoulders at him, looking over at Kimiko who meets her eyes. “I don’t think she’s going to alienate Ryan though. She loves Ryan. We all love Ryan, we don’t have any problems with him.” 

“Okay. I can take that. But that’s just it, he needs us all to unite, and lately he’s been – I don’t know, maybe it’s best to consider that. I’m not forcing it on anyone.” Homelander says, attempting to find the best avenue to drive this conversation down. 

“IDK.” Kimiko types out. 

“Give it some time.” Annie says, looking at him. “I suggest you do take initiative though. I don’t think anyone is going to like you, not even close. But you can get on people’s good side. I mean, you don’t know how many times Butcher had fucked everyone over and got people to run it back with him. Everyone’s really impressionable.” 

Homelander huffs. “Butcher didn’t do the things I did.” 

“You’re both pieces of shit, to be honest.” Kimiko types out. 

“Fair.” Homelander mutters under his breath, nodding his head, as he folds his arms over his chest. Annie sees Kimiko nod her head, stifling a giggle into the back of her hand at the interaction. “Are you two going to go downstairs with them?” 

Kiimiko nods her head. 

Annie recoils at the question, scrunching her nose up, sitting back against the couch, folding her legs up onto the couch. “Ew. Fuck no. Once I hear screaming and the sounds of bones snapping, I’m going back into my room.”  

Homelander examines her Billy Joel shirt. “Is Hughie here?”

“He’s napping.” Annie says, voice flat. She already knew where this conversation was heading. 

“Where? In your room?”

Annie flushes, squinting at him. “Mind your business?”

There’s a thud below that makes them all simultaneously jump, Kimiko stands up from the couch, tucking her phone into her pocket, heading towards the foyer Butcher and Frenchie had disappeared to. Annie stays still on the couch, eyes widened, staring off in the direction Kimiko trekked in. “What the hell are they doing down there?”

Homelander couldn’t hide his grin. “Butcher’s about to torture Ron, he’s starting his quest.” 

“My God. Fucking barbarians.” Annie complains with an eyeroll, slipping off of the couch, brushing past him. “You said you wanted to scrub floors? Well, get ready to bond with MM,” she says, nudging at his arm before continuing to walk back into her bedroom. 

Chapter Text

Looking at Homelander felt exactly like looking in the mirror, and maybe that’s what he meant by telling the prick that he was a fucking disappointment.

Part of it was word vomit, more so directed towards himself, but anyway, he doesn’t know why his father’s voice rang through his head all ominously when he had noticed the desperation in his son’s voice. Maybe his insults were on the verge of spilling out when he had looked down at Ryan, because meeting that kid’s eyes and hearing his soft, uncertain voice saying ‘hi grandpa’ made him feel like he wanted to vomit.

It all became too real too fast.  

Oh, yes, he had missed so much, and if he had the chance to fix Homelander, he probably would have ran despite himself. In the past, decades ago, Ben had a hunch of what his track record would be if he ever decided to actually have children, especially with Crimson Countess, that fucking bitch. He’s never going to live whatever went on between them down, not even in this cubicle, chains clasped around his ankles, depowered and fucking starving. 

Ben withdraws a harsh grunt from the depths of his throat, sitting up on the floor mattress, his chains jingling as he moves. The space in this facility isn’t all that bad, it’s a few feet longer than an average jail cell, there’s a shit and piss bucket placed in the far left corner, another bucket bearing cheap soap, a ratty rag, and several bottles of water. 

Grace’s men say that’s where he should regularly wash himself up at, but Ben couldn’t decipher why she’s keeping him alive, and even when he asks one of them, they couldn’t deliver a satisfying answer. 

Ben undoes the drawstrings of his pajama pants, hair falling into his eyes, a yawn creeping up his throat as he lowers the pants below the swell of his butt, aiming his piss into the bucket with one hand, the other brushing his fringe back. 

He doesn’t know where they put him, he stopped trying to figure it out, he’s been kidnapped and held in a spooky building before. Hell, he was stuck there for fucking decades. Maybe it’s why Ben’s not entirely repulsed by being in this situation once more, there’s one catch he believes though, he’s wondering why he didn’t die. 

Ben’s now forever stuck in a state of defenselessness, and he’s burned a lot of bridges to chase some sort of ‘epiphany’ he’s now registering he won’t get to grasp. 

Mallory’s got him staying at a safehouse in Elizabeth, to Ben, it shouldn’t even be considered a house. It’s more so a fancy prison for famous assholes who commit tax evasion, even then, it’s a terrible settlement to be holed up in. 

Ben slips his pants back up around his waist, retying the drawstring. Surrounding him are these thick padded walls, he walks over towards one of the cheap mirrors strung up on one of the flattened walls with his bare feet skittering across the cold tiles, curling his fist up to knock on it, testing the glass. 

Although he prefers to not be entrapped in this case of isolation for possibly the rest of his life, it brings forth quite the comfort, he wouldn’t say that aloud of course, not even under his breath, because men don’t need comfort.

Some things just don’t need to be uttered perhaps, the amount of vulnerability that would thicken his voice would make him feel strange, and, well -  fuck - he’s only ever listened to himself cry a few times. 

Ben bites his lower lip, eyes roaming, he’s in a better state than he initially was the last couple of days. In a way, he has experience of getting around like this, being reduced into complete helplessness and all, he’ll be fine, he pretty much did it to himself this time around.

Well, yeah, a team betrayed him. Again. Which is technically how he found himself on the verge of self-destruction, needing to take every single one of those hypocritical assholes down with him, including his two previously living family members. He couldn’t stomach another betrayal, seeing everyone’s face twist at the sight of him, their backs turned against him with for the second time, and although he wasn’t as close with ‘the Boys’ than he was with Payback, it still, really, really fucking stung.  

William Butcher, that fucking cuck. 

Ben’s met some cucks in his early life before, thousands of them to be precise, but he hasn’t run into any cuck like Billy.

An asshole fucks your wife – no, wait, hold that thought - an asshole forces themselves onto your wife, and you get cold feet when there’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to fucking kill him? 

Because of a kid? 

Soldier Boy had squared his feet, ramming the side of his body into the little boy, sending him crashing against the wall, anger coursing through him. “Little shit,” he remembers snarling out, fire flaring in his stomach, no one’s gotten him to fall so easily, at least not an arrogant little runt with some cheap fucking laser eyes. 

And then, the British Cuck did what British Cucks do.

What could make this even more grand? Homelander, his fucking disappointment of a son, eyes had flashed a hot, bright red, sending two insanely hot lasers at him along with the Cuck’s. How fucking romantic. What a triangle. 

At that point, Soldier Boy thinks Butcher, his wife, and Homelander would’ve worked out better if they just planned a threesome with each other. 

Shit had hit the fan after the Cuck’s meltdown, Soldier Boy wasn’t having it, and it didn’t help that the rest of the little termites decided to swarm in, ready to feast on him like hyenas would a lion cub. 

Jesus. The disrespect. 

All of this, that whole meltdown, was because of an angry little kid. 

Funny. 

“Hi grandpa.” Ben remembers how Ryan’s smile was forced, he had to take a seat on his floor mattress, measuring how many intakes of breaths he needed to manage the rising annoyance in his stomach. 

He wishes he could beat the shit out of the kid, he’d make the boy scream in agony right in front of Butcher, right in front of Homelander.

At least a man could dream, things like that makes it easier for him to go to bed at night.   

Why did he even want kids?

– December, 1979.

Gunpowder should’ve known that using the wrong chemical would’ve caused his shield to decay, Ben’s convinced the fucking idiot did it on purpose, and although it was nothing but a small unnoticeable chip tainting his indestructible shield, the disrespect was just too much. So, in that case, he doesn’t entirely know why the others are on his back, pleading for him to stop doing what he’s doing, they should know by now – they should know the consequences. 

“He’s just a kid!”

“Soldier Boy, stop! Please! Please! ”

Gunpowder tries to grapple at his wrist, his blood splattering against the stall walls, teeth falling into the toilet water, now coated crimson with his own blood. 

Ben sends the child’s face crashing back into the bowl, his gloved hands deep into his hair, fingers curled into his bleeding scalp, he hears the sound of the boy’s jaw shattering as his face strikes glass again and again and again. 

Countess is tugging at his shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks, and the twins are calling out for help.

Noir somehow got next to the toilet, pushing his hands at his face as he yells for him to stop, attempting to stop Ben from seeing what he was doing, that fucking idiot. With an agitated grunt, Ben lets go of the now unconscious Gunpowder who falls limp into the toilet bowl, Countess immediately pulling the little boy to her chest, sobbing as she rocks him in his arms.

He turns his attention onto a horrified Noir, pushing his hands against the man’s chest, shoving him through several bathroom stalls with an intent to break a bone.

 “Don’t you put your fucking hands on me,” he tells Noir as he approaches the thrashing man, sounding collected as always despite afflicting pure terror into his teammates, his eyes flash dangerously as he points a finger at the young man, “that little shit chips my goddamn shield and you put your hands on me?” 

“You’re a fucking psycho!” Noir spits at him with wild eyes, taking his mask off, making sure he enunciates each word. 

Soldier Boy squints his eyes at him, a scoff catching in his breath, he balls his fists up, Gunpowder’s blood dripping from his fingers. “Like I haven’t heard that before. How original, Noir.” 

“Don’t touch him!” One of the twins shouts before he could land a possibly fatal blow, it’s Tessa, her brother is holding her back, fear trickling into his eyes. Soldier Boy snaps his head to them and they falter, Tessa stumbling back behind her brother from his look alone. 

“I don’t have time for this shit.” Ben mutters as he turns his head from them, annoyance continuing to brew in his gut, and he really doesn’t, Edgar’s been on his ass this entire week with this Christmas pageant that starts in less than an hour. He’s already sorta in his Santa gear, the hat still fixed onto his head despite having to wrestle Gunpowder from the staff members prepping him backstage, dragging the screaming boy into the bathroom to give him a beating. 

Noir stands back up on shaky legs, rushing towards Gunpowder as Countess continues to hold him in his arms, checking him out thoroughly, the kid was still unconscious, he looked completely unrecognizable, blood smeared all over his face. The twins had yet to move, their eyes trained on Soldier Boy’s movements.

Ben’s shaking his head, muttering expletives under his breaths as he heads towards the door, tugging a cigarette out of the packet hoisted around his waist, removing a lighter as he flickers his eyes back up at his traumatized teammates. 

“Clean him up and give him a Brandy, we’re supposed to be performing soon. Now I’ve got to apply paint over that fucking chip. Great. Thanks a lot, Gunpowder.” 

“You could’ve killed him!” Countess shouts, tears in her eyes. Noir’s picking Gunpowder up into his arms, telling the kid that it’s going to be alright.

“Look at him, Ben. Really fucking look at him. There’s blood everywhere, you fucked up the entire bathroom, and his pulse - it’s barely noticeable. You’re such a fucking monster -” she gets all choked up, her bottom lip quivering, having to place her trembling palm against her chest, she couldn’t catch her breath in time to finish.  

Ben stares at her as she struggles, then he looks at Gunpowder’s busted face, opens and closes his mouth, he feels certain words form on the tip of his tongue, but an invisible force makes it almost impossible to choke them out, so he just turns away. 

Backstage, while Edgar speaks to the crowd, Noir and the others scurry out the bathroom with Gunpowder limp in his arms gesturing for the medical staff that immediately rush over to the scene with several first aid kits. Ben stays in the shadows, walking into his personal quarters where his shield rests underneath the hole he had punched in the wall, his head lowered as if he didn’t want anyone to see him, lips downturned. 

“Soldier Boy, sir! You’re back!” Oh, the idiot that touched up his face is still here after he basically shoved her across the room in a fit of rage after she tried to stop him from ramming through the door, Santa’s vest is even folded across her arm. Ben stares at her blankly, eyebrows furrowed, his lips situated in a flat line. “Is everything sorted with your teammate? What happened to your shield is very unfortunate.” 

“Why are you still here?” 

“I wasn’t - I wasn’t finished with dressing you up, sir - mister Edgar wanted me to make sure -

Ben takes a step towards his makeup chair, plopping down with a dismissive noise, waving that off, noticing how she flinches a little when he moves his hand towards her. “I don’t give a fuck about that. You’re still here after I tossed you to the side like a fucking ragdoll, why?” 

She fidgets, swallowing, moving strands of her hair behind her ear. “I’m just doing my job, sir.” 

“You’re just doing your job.”

“Yes -”

Ben draws back into his chair, gives her a once over, tilting his head, fiddling with his lighter and unlit cigarette. “What’s your name?”

“My name? You want to know -” she swallows down a nervous gulp, visibly shaking. “It’s - um, it’s Judy. Judy Simmons.” Judy stammers as she gets around to answering him, subconsciously rubbing at her bruised arm that wasn’t covered by the Santa vest. 

“Do you love your job, Judy?”

“I don’t mind it, no.” 

Ben crosses his legs. “I didn’t ask if you fucking minded it. I’m asking if you love it.” 

Judy twitches as she averts her eyes, nodding her head. 

“Say it aloud, goddamn it. Yes or fucking no.”

“Yes.” Judy squeaks out, breathing in sharp. 

“So you like being bossed around by Stan and being thrown across the room by a fucking piece of shit? Having to fear for your measly life all damn day?” Ben interrogates, slipping the cig between his lips, flickering the lighter on, inhaling the smoke as Judy stands in front of him, internally battling on whether to answer honestly or lie. 

“There’s a boss in every job,” Judy begins nervously, blinking her eyes rapidly as he blows smoke into her direction, her eyes burning as it wafts at her face. “And you were - you were just angry. I’m not taking it personally, or anything. I shouldn’t have stopped you.” 

“Damn fucking right, Judy.” Ben says with this manic smirk, nodding his head in approval. Judy doesn’t entirely know what he’s praising her for, he’s no longer looking at her, he had turned to look at himself in the large, vanity mirror as she talked. 

The light bulbs hooked around it makes the sheen in his eyes noticeable. 

Judy blinks at the sight, both confused and intrigued. When Soldier Boy cuts his gaze to her from the mirror she jumps and continues, removing her gaze. “And, um, I need this job. For college. When I graduate highschool, I plan to move to Boston. They’re paying for my tuition.”

“Boston, huh?”

“Yes.”

“College.” Ben pronounces slowly, tapping his bloodstained fingers into the armrest of the makeup chair, he takes another drag of his cig. “So you’re still in highschool.” 

“Mhm,” Judy nods her head, stares at his hands, growing uncomfortable. 

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen. I graduate very soon.” Ben grows quiet.

 Judy clears her throat. “Um, Soldier Boy, sir? I really should get this vest on you and clean you up before the last rehearsal, mister Edgar is expecting you to look perfect.” 

Ben leans back in his chair, looks away from himself to check his nails, sees the blood drying in the bedding, he tongues at his cheek, shaking his head before chuckling out. “Gunpowder should be in highschool, did you know that? Told me he’d be in sophomore year by now.” 

Judy remains quiet, not knowing what to do, they’re running out of time and all she had managed to get on him is miniscule foundation, much to his displeasure, and the Christmas hat. 

Ben continues to stare at his nails, his expression fading into an ominous one, his eyes seem far away, gaze blank, his lips flat once more. Judy fidgets nervously as she parts her lips, beginning to repeat that he needs to get cleaned up dressed, but then Ben stubbs the cigarette out into the ashtray, abruptly standing up from his seat, chair legs scraping against the carpet. 

“Alright, I’m fucking off to get something to drink. Tell them not to wait for me.” 

Judy’s mouth drops open as her stomach free falls, eyes widening. A pit of fear forms in her gut at the idea of having to stop Soldier Boy from leaving his quarters again. “But sir, I have to get you ready - I could lose my job -”

“I could lose my job, Soldier Boy.” Ben mocks her, voice pitched high as he brushes past the unnerved girl, leaning down to grab his shield, hooking it up into his arm, he gives her another once over, and makes a dismissive ‘tsk’ sound, turning towards the door as he walks towards it. “Become a prostitute. You certainly have the body to pull that off.” 

“Soldier Boy,” she begs him as her face crumbles, following after him, and without thinking she reaches out to grab his wrist in a move of sheer desperation, momentarily stopping him. “Please. I need this.” 

Ben stiffens up, turns his head to look over his shoulder, meeting her frightened blue eyes, regret spilling into her face, his expression having morphed into something dangerous.

He slowly turns around to face her, grasping at her wrist before she could draw it back, his grip was tight enough to bruise, her breath catches in her throat, Soldier Boy glances at her hand, then back at her. The vest falls to the ground as he backs her up into the wall, breaths trembling, she’s breathing fast, panicked, eyes flickering from the blood on his hands to the look in his eyes. “Sir, I didn’t mean to -”

The man glowers at her, scowling. “Who do you think you are?” 

“I’m sorry -” 

Ben towers over her, snarling, teeth gritted. “That’s the second fucking time, Judy.” 

Tears start to well up in her eyes, and she presses her back against the wall, attempting to create as much space as possible, turning her head to the side as he moves his own face in closer, basically caging her in. “Don’t hurt me please. Please. My mom, she’s really sick - and - and - my dad can’t afford to pay the bills alone. I didn’t mean to -” 

The door swings open. 

“Let her go, Soldier Boy.” Edgar’s calm voice reached his ears, the man’s hands clasped behind his back. Noir is standing beside him. Ben sighs out, Judy whimpers, he lets his grip on her wrist loosen bit by bit. “Let the girl go, now.”

“Oh brother,” Ben mutters under his breath. Judy just collapses onto the floor as he steps away, her chest heaving, eyes wet, hand cupping the reddened handprints on her arm. Ben points at the sobbing girl, scrunching his face up, narrowing his eyes at Noir for a second, then returns his glare back at Edgar. “She put her fucking hands on me.”

Edgar raises a brow at him, then he looks over at a slowly recovering Judy for a long moment, studying the girl in thoughtful silence. 

There’s a beat before Stan hums to himself, returning his attention towards Ben again. “Gunpowder is in critical condition. The show is canceled, thanks to you,” there’s a low growl buried in his condescending voice, Ben scoffs at him, swiping the Santa hat off of his head. “And now you’re on the verge of murdering this poor young woman in cold blood?” 

“Oh don’t give me that shit, Stan.” 

When Noir sees the girl, his eyes flood with worry, and he immediately rushes into the room, bumping past Soldier Boy, kneeling down in front of the shaking girl, applying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Mrs?”

Stan tilts his chin up. “You’re off the rails.” 

“Yeah, well, who can fucking blame me?” Soldier Boy held up the Santa hat for reference, his anger was peaking, he could even feel his chest growing warm. “My shield got chipped because of that idiot, and yeah, maybe I went a little too far, I admit. But this? Stan, this isn’t the first time that stupid bitch put her fucking hands on me.” 

“I was trying to -” Judy croaks out, holding her arm tightly as Noir rubs her back, she stammers a few times before attempting to speak again, her eyes brimming red, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I was trying to get him dressed for the show - mister Edgar -” 

Stan turns from an annoyed Ben once more, raising a quizzical brow at her. “ Did you put your hands on him?” 

Judy’s body slumps in defeat, she sniffs, covering her eyes.

“Sir, she was just doing her -” Stan cuts Noir off, holding his hand up at him. 

“Did you?” Stan repeats, bass in his voice. 

“I just told you she did.” Ben says, crossing his arms over his chest, vexed. “Oh, so you don’t fucking believe me?” 

Stan exhales, a rare flicker of frustration gracing his eyes. “Enough, Ben.”

“I did. I’m - I’m sorry. I did. The first time, I was trying to stop him from hurting Gunpowder, he hit the wall and I grabbed his hand then he shoved me across the room, and the second time I - I grabbed his arm.” Judy explains shakily, unintentionally leaning into the gentle warmth of Noir, tears smear her makeup, and she couldn’t piece any thought together. “I didn’t want to be fired, I wasn’t thinking at all. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay, everything’s fine now.” Noir pets her hair as her voice breaks, her shoulders shaking as she curls into herself and cries. 

Stan’s eyes linger on her, then he switches his stare back to Ben who was slowly beginning to make his way out of the room, attempting to sneak past Stan. “So not only did you land your teammate in the hospital, you’ve assaulted this girl twice.” 

Ben scoffs as he halts mid-step. “Fucking Christ, Stan. What? You’re turning into activism now? Since when did you ever give a shit?” 

Stan looks him up and down, further straightening his posture. “She knows what you really are now, but I’m very assured that you don’t care. We can’t make her sign an NDA, I believe it’s too late now. This has happened twice, and there was a lapse between the first and second incident where you went off to plummet a child. Who’s to say she didn’t tell anyone else?”

Judy’s eyes widen, her breath hitching fearfully, she tries to pull herself up on wobbly legs, holding onto Noir’s helpful hands. “I didn’t, I swear -”

“Don’t make that my fucking problem.” Ben spat, pointing in her direction. He got in Stan’s face, and that almost made the not-yet-immovable man take a step back, drawing in a muted breath. Ben lowers his voice threateningly. “However you want to deal with her is your specialty. I’m out.”

They stand there, facing each other, shooting daggers. Almost nose to nose. Noir’s holding his breath, Judy’s sniffling as she holds onto him. 

A beat goes by. 

Stan just looks at him, genuinely disgusted, and there’s a promise in his voice when he finally speaks. “I have something in mind.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Do as you wish.” Ben mutters, rolling his eyes at him, bumping past the man.

Stan stares over at Judy, eyeing her blankly. The girl catches his gaze and leans into Noir once more, feeling uneasy under the heat of his glare, and Stan doesn’t look away from her as Stan calls to Soldier Boy over his shoulder. “And one more thing, Benjamin –” 

 Ben comes to a stop, jaw clenched. He doesn’t look back.  

“You better pray Gunpowder survives.”   

–  September, 1980

“What now, Vogelbaum?” This is the third time he’s been called up to the lab, and it gives him the creeps every time. He remembers coming to a similar lab as a teen to get the shot, he couldn’t stop shaking, it was spacious, blank, it reeked of clorox. Frederick’s stare made him uneasy the whole time, and it didn’t get any better when they strapped him to the chair. 

“Jesus. It’s like you idiots hammer this assignment into my fucking ass, and when I’m actually trying to prepare for it, I get called into the lab.” 

Jonah gives him an unimpressed look, tapping his index on the armrest of the recliner you’d usually stumble upon during a dentist visit, a white sheet of paper draped over it.

 “Easy, Ben,” Soldier Boy tries not to grimace at the gentle utterance of his name, anxiety fluttering in his stomach, he looks at Vogelbaum, confused. “I know, I know, this is slowly becoming a pattern, and I do apologize. But we’ve been noticing something about your genetics, and we’re running all the tests we can.”

“Okay.” 

“We just need to get a bit more information out of you, and then I’ll explain how we’ll move forward from this point on.” Vogelbaum taps the recliner again. 

Ben draws in a deep breath, hoping Jonah doesn’t hear the nervous tremor in it, he takes a seat in the recliner, snorting despite himself. “What’d you find? Ass cancer?” 

Vogelbaum’s clicking his pen, shaking his head as he adjusts the collars of his lab coat with his other hand. “We haven’t found anything yet, son.” 

Ben frowns. “What is it?” 

Vogelbaum clears his throat. “It’s a little personal.” 

“Yeah?”

“Have you and Crimson Countess fornicated yet?” 

Ben blinks at first, opening and closing his mouth as his eyebrows twitch together, a laugh of disbelief bubbling in his throat. “What?” 

“Have you and Crimson Countess ever engaged in sexual activities yet?”

“What the fuck,” Ben murmurs, then he shrugs his shoulders, confused where this was going, “I mean, yeah, we’ve been with each other for fucking decades, you expect me to say fucking no? Yeah, we’ve fucked. You and your wife ever fuck?” 

“Alright, alright -”

Ben begins his tangent much to Jonah’s displeasure. “You and Stan have been getting a little close these days, all of these secret meetings I’ve been hearing you two attend together, is he a good fuck? You cucking your wife? That’s dirty, man. Real fucked –”

“She’s never had a pregnancy scare?” Vogelbaum cuts him off with a bomb of a question, not even entertaining his other comments, although a spike of anxiousness does hit him when he hears that Ben knows about the meetings – he’s been hearing about Vought’s meetings. 

Ben’s face drops at the question, and he sits up in the recliner, blinking rapidly a rare human look gracing his features.

 “I - I don’t -” Ben stammers over his words for the first time in years, cheeks flushing, Vogelbaum’s got him by the balls, again . His eyes widen as he looks up at the doctor, breath catching in his throat, he continues to trip over his words, caught off guard. “Is she - is that why I’m here? Did you find - Vogelbaum, is she pregnant?” 

Jonah puts his pen away. “I should be asking you that, Ben.”

“I don’t fucking know.” Ben chokes out as he tries to manage the thoughts coursing through his head, taking his gloves off, a spike of anxious adrenaline rushing through him.

 “Don’t women have these periods every month? I mean, sometimes she complains about being late, whatever that means, but uhm - wait, what fucking month is it? She’s been on an assignment the past few days, that’s not - pregnant women can’t be on missions  -”

“Relax, Benjamin. Breathe my boy, breathe.” Jonah’s behind him all of a sudden, his voice a low, comforting hum. He leans in, placing his hands on Ben’s shoulders, mirroring the way he did it to calm the man down when he was a young boy, a way of grounding his thoughts. 

“I’m going to ask you again, has she ever had a pregnancy scare?”

Ben breathes in, exhaling shortly afterwards, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Like during our whole relationship?” 

“Mhm,” Jonah hums, massaging his shoulders, squeezing them, running his hands up and down his shoulder blades. 

“I don’t - I’m not sure. No. I guess.” Ben’s breaths stutter as he mutters out, stomach twisting as he stares down at his hands. “Why are you asking me this?”

“There’s no direct reason. However, we’re running an experiment on supe-genetics, and essentially, you're our guy. You’re the strongest man in the world, and as of now, we’re using you as some sort of test monkey.” 

Ben’s mind is still stuck on the pregnancy question to register what exactly Jonah meant by that. 

“So the next few months, and don’t worry, it’s going to be spaced out, we’re going to need your sperm. We want to know if a supe’s sperm can be compatible in a regular womb, and since Crimson Countess allegedly shown no signs of pregnancy prior to you two having sex for years, then that just opens up a new hypothesis –” 

Ben blinks back to reality, as Vogelbaum’s words set in, he recoils, shoulders drawing up and away from the man’s touch. He needs to rip away from Vogelbaum at that point, almost falling off of the recliner in the process, stomach sinking. 

“You want me to knock someone up? What the fuck?” 

“No, no, of course not. We’re simply running tests on genetics.”

“On a woman.” Ben squints, suddenly feeling nauseous. “You want to see if I can get them pregnant, if they can survive that. I mean, that’s basically the same thing isn’t it? Turkey-based or not.” 

Vogelbaum tilts his chin up, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“I mean, you’re not using a fucking gorilla’s womb, are you?” 

“If I wanted to impregnate a woman with your sperm, then I would simply assign a woman for you to fuck, Ben. I have no reason to be secretive about this.” 

Ben huffs out a laugh at the way Jonah says ‘fuck,’ and not only that, the excuse made him almost sputter out a yeah fucking right. But he’s still a little jarred from the pregnancy scare query, his thoughts running rampant. “What’s the point of all this?” 

“There’s no point, this is simply just to fulfill a hypothesis.”

“But you still want to put my cum inside of a womb.” Soldier Boy reminds him, eyebrows furrowed. “What the hell is going on here, Jonah?” 

“How about this,” Vogelbaum begins, walking around the recliner, Ben watches with mirth as he treks over to the countertop and shelves in the corner of the room, opening a cabinet door, pulling out a cup, then a tape. “Since you’re obviously concerned about your position in this experiment, I promise that when it comes to fruition, you’ll be the first to know about the results.” 

Soldier Boy squints at him, skeptical eyes flickering from the tape to the cup, then back up at Jonah. “Then what? You’ll kill whatever the ‘result’ is?” 

Vogelbaum turns to look at the door, moving his index finger back and forth, then on cue, the door opens, and his assistant rolls a crate carrying a television box inside of the room, one of the staff bending down to plug the VHS into the outlet. “This is all just a fun little test, Ben. Nothing more. We just want Vought’s technology to be ahead of other companies at all times. At most, we’re using a makeshift womb, maybe a single cell would grow, the chances are very bleak.”  

Ben considers that, and then he watches as the nurses finish setting up the television, Vogelbaum holding the tape towards the VHS, he fidgets, asking. “What’s going on here?” 

The television flashes on, and a rare porno begins to play, Soldier Boy blinks his eyes at the television, lips parting to say something, but then Vogelbaum is placing the cup and a pill into his bare hands and he whispers into his ear. “When have I ever broken a promise to you?”

Ben makes an indecisive noise in the back of his throat, closing his fist around the pill. Vogelbaum hums knowingly, and he asks a question that makes Ben flush again. “Shall I crush it up for you? I heard you’d rather have these types of things going up your nose.” 

He always feels so exploited with Jonah.

Ben doesn’t say anything, deciding to pay attention to the porn as Jonah takes the pill from him, taking his credit card out of his wallet, crushing it up in a metal pan. He feels his skin getting hot by the time Jonah comes back with the pan and a rolled up piece of paper, his cock beginning to grow interested in the proceedings shown on the television, breaths becoming a little ragged. 

Jonah grins as Ben snorts up the pill without another word, closed-lip, then once the supe throws his head back, eliciting a satisfied groan, blinking his eyes hard, he taps his finger at the cup in Ben’s loosening grip. 

“Ben,” Vogelbaum says his name in a sing-song tone, capturing the man’s attention, he squeezes the man’s wrist, hears his breath hitch in his throat. “You cum in this once you’re finished, and then you can leave. You can do it as many times as you feel neccessary.” 

“Yeah,” Ben says breathily as he looks back at the porn, pupils wide, his bulge beginning to protrude in his suit pants, Vogelbaum glances at it briefly. Ben tightens his grip on the cup, beginning to palm himself as he watches the porn, a low moan escaping him, oblivious to Jonah’s stare. He’s already forgotten what he’s doing this for, the drugs immediately kicking into hyperdrive. “Right. Okay -” 

Jonah smiles at him, all harmless, then he runs a hand through Ben’s hair as the man begins to undo his pants, always in control of his subjects. 

“That’s my boy. That’s my boy. ”

– January, 1982

Ben’s feet are kicked up on the Vought table, chair hinged back as he strums his fingers along  his lap, liquor in his other hand, he blows out a breath, finding himself eyeing the baby rattle being fiddled with in Black Noir’s hands. He tilts his chin up, looking at him skeptically. That’s an odd thing to be carrying around. “You got a baby somewhere, Noir?”

Noir’s mask was off, and he stopped fiddling with the rattle, discomfort flickering all over his features. “No, uhm, this is for my niece.” 

“Your niece.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Ben leans forward, sitting up in his chair, averting his eyes to the portrait of Payback hung up on the wall, he exhales and taps his finger on the wine glass. “You’re pretty strong, Noir.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Noir looks tense all of a sudden. 

Ben’s been mulling over this for awhile now, it sort of disappeared and came back, Crimson’s had a stomach virus, she’s been throwing up, he’s becoming paranoid. Sure, it’s been a year and some change since he went to Vogelbaum’s lab, but the man has his DNA so who really knows. “Second strongest on the team, after me, I may say. I’m sure Vogelbaum submitted you for some sort of genetic testing too. Maybe it worked with you. There’s no need to lie to me about a fucking niece.” 

“I don’t -” Noir’s pauses, sitting back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sir.” 

“Bullshit.” Ben spat the curse under his breath, swirling the wine around in his glass, he felt really strange, anguish of some kind furling his gut. This is his fifth glass of wine. He can’t be drunk yet, he wants to plummet someone, and sitting alone with Noir in this room, with this fucking rattle, with the thoughts that’s been playing through his head. “They’re fucking around here, Vought. I feel like they’re fucking around, don’t you?”

Noir shifts in his seat. “Perhaps. I don’t know. What do you think they’re doing?”

“They’ve been acting dodgier than usual. Especially with me. I mean, they’re not calling me for events anymore, I have to physically come and check in, what the fuck is that about, huh? I should be the first call. Always -” Soldier Boy plants his boots on the floor, spreading his arms and tapping his index finger on the table in order to emphasize his point, to Noir he exudes this unshakeable aura, and he hates the way his fingers tighten around the rattle. 

“ I’m the fucking face of Vought and I get no word that we’re supposed to be having a meeting this morning. Now fucking look.” 

“Yeah, I agree, that’s kind of strange.” Noir says, biting down on his lower lip, shrugging his shoulders. Ben’s face is overcast with this sudden darkness, he sits back in thought, shaking his head at himself as Noir swallows. “Honestly, sir, I think they’re too busy with trying to get us in the military. Especially with what’s happening in Nicaragua.” 

“Why can’t I get in on all of this?” Ben furrows his brows, scoffing, he looks up at the ceiling, anger flourishing inside of him. “They have me singing on goddamn Solid Gold, and that fucking logical point of view catastrophe, Jesus Christ. I feel more and more like a goddamn parade float. It used to be fucking balanced, you know?” 

“Sure.” 

Soldier Boy continues to rant, getting some heat off of his chest. “We’re trained to be media savvy because we’re going to be getting attention anyway, we’re fucking superheroes with superpowers, but now it seems like being media savvy is the main thing those assholes want. They’re weaning us off of being actual heroes, Noir. It’s happening right in front of our eyes.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“What the fuck do they need genetics for?” Ben draws in a breath, picking up his wine glass, shaking his head in disgust once more. “We’ve lost the plot. It’s gone, we lost it.” 

Noir turns his chair to face him, Ben’s eyes flicker to the rattle again. “Sir, I’m going to go see my niece, is it okay if I leave now? Do you need anything?”

The clock ticks on the wall, echoing throughout the room. It’s noon. The people on the lower floors are preparing to go home for the day. 

Ben just stares blankly at Noir, wetting his dry lips. There’s this irritation chewing away at him, eating into his bones, a strong reaction to the man’s desperate expression, nodding his head in an uncharacteristic silence. “Tell her uncle Soldier Boy said hi.” 

Noir’s face twitches, and he mutters. “Um, sure. Okay.” 

Vogelbaum doesn’t like anyone just walking into his lab, but in Soldier Boy’s mind, he helped these exact people build themselves this facility, so he can do whatever the fuck he wants and that includes walking into the old man’s office. He heads into his office without knocking, sees Judy sitting in the chair in front of Vogelbaum, the woman looks a little gaunt, smaller than the last time he had seen her, Ben stops moving, pausing midstep.

“What are you doing here?”

Judy’s eyes widen, she twitches back, not knowing how to answer that, eyes flickering to over at a pissed off Vogelbaum. “What are you doing here? You can’t just walk in, Ben.” 

Soldier Boy grabs at the back of the chair, pressing his fingers into the cushion, tearing his eyes away from Judy, staring at the contracts settled in front of her, then he looks right at Vogelbaum. “Well, turns out I did. I needed to talk to you about Noir. What the fuck’s going on with him and this baby rattle he’s been carrying around the past few days? Says he got a niece scurrying about, I think it’s bullshit.” 

“I don’t believe it’s any of our concern what his personal life is.” 

Ben squints at him. “Oh, isn’t that just big coming from you.”

Judy’s small frame shifts awkwardly in her seat, a look of discomfort settling into her eyes, Ben looks over at her, scrutinizing the girl. “What’s she doing here? I thought you guys let her go after that pageant. She’s hired back or something?” 

Vogelbaum, suddenly remembering Judy was here, pulls a pen out of his cup, Vought’s logo imprinted on it, he hands the girl the pen, tapping on the contract in front of her. “She actually volunteered to be a part of groundbreaking work a year ago. It was a hard task, but she soldiered through it. Weathered the storm.” 

“Why is she signing a contract then?” 

Vogelbaum just ignores Soldier Boy as he slips the contract across the desk towards himself once Judy scribbles down her signature. “Alright,” he nods his head in her direction, giving her a placid smile, “you’re all set to leave, thank you for your contribution.” 

“Can I -” Judy begins, hesitant, lowering her voice as she leans forward. She whispers something to Vogelbaum that Soldier Boy couldn’t pick up, although he finds this interesting, he couldn’t be distracted enough to hold down the pouring questions. Everyone has been acting strange, uncharacteristic, and he doubts it’s because he was high every single day, maybe it’s his age beginning to catch up to him too much. 

Once Judy leaves, Vogelbaum tries to give him some bullshit lecture. “The eighties, Soldier Boy. You have to understand, it’s a new decade. Times are changing. People are becoming more accepting. Vought’s more focused on appealing to a younger audience, so, sure it’d be safe to say that maybe Edgar and others are leaning towards an entire rebrand.” 

“Rebranding Payback?” Soldier Boy queries, annoyed. “I don’t understand, there’s nothing wrong with our image. Times are changing my fucking ass, we’re America’s team. Not the Mets, not the fucking Knicks. Payback is America’s team.” 

“Um, sure, yes. Which is why they want you in the military, and if you’re in the military then you’d have to appeal more to the mainstream media.” Vogelbaum sighs out distractedly as he adjusts the pens in his cup, he checks his watch, Ben grumbles an agitated ‘bullshit’ under his breath. “Are you ready for your mission in Nicaragua?” 

“Ready to get it over with?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Soldier Boy snorts, shrugging his shoulders. “Fuck yeah. Who are we up against? The fucking Russians? I don’t need a team for that.” 

“Mhm,” Vogelbaum narrows his eyes, “that’s one of the new things I’ve heard they’re trying to push for later. Individual assignments for each supe in one team. It would make the press coverage more easier, Stan’s trying to push it for stock price and so on. Perhaps you’re onto something.”

“Make me CEO.” Soldier Boy mutters, rolling his eyes. “Why am I being alienated from everyone if it’s just a fucking rebrand? How hard is it to relay the news back to me? Am I being fired or something, did I make Stan finally shit his fucking pants?” 

Vogelbaum checks his watch again, Ben forces himself to swallow down an annoyed sound at the divided attention. “I can’t answer that straight away. It’s something you should take up with Stan, he’s coming to Nicaragua with you I’ve heard.” 

Now that makes Soldier Boy frown, lips downturned. Stan doesn’t ever come along on missions, hell he always manages to physically stay away from whatever clusterfuck they’d usually find themselves squandering in. “What? Why? He could get himself killed.” 

“Oh, wow, Ben. Didn’t know you’d care.” Vogelbaum pulls on a grin, directed at him. In return Ben gives him a deadpan stare. There’s a beat. “He wants to oversee how uhm -” The doctor shuffles his hands, a thoughtful look bearing into his expression as he tries to remember the name. “Grace Mallory accepts this news.” 

“Who the hell is that?” Soldier Boy asks, shaking his head. “Grace Mallory?” 

Vogelbaum nods. “A bright young woman, works with people, does a bit of product moving.” 

Soldier Boy huffs, annoyed with the discreteness. “Smuggler?”

“Can’t say. You’ll meet her soon, she’ll be stationed there for sometime.” Vogelbaum checks his watch, then he unhooks his pager, reading the numbers. Ben notices his face drop ever so slightly as he stands up from his seat. “I’ll be taking my leave now, this was a nice talk. I wish to see you around more, my boy.” 

“Woah, what - I just got here. Where are you going?” 

Vogelbaum packs his stuff in a hurried fashion. “I have to get back to my work. I am a very busy man.”

Ben scrunches his face up, continuing to poke and prod at the scientist, annoyed at their meeting being cut short. He’s feeling pushed aside, again. “No you’re not. You’re either busy finding some shit to make yourself seem busy or you’re ‘busy’ putting shit into test tubes to make it seem like you’re actually doing something.”  

Vogelbaum sighs out, removing his glasses, fixing Ben a frustrated look. “Well, Ben, I’m a busy man.” 

Soldier Boy blinks at him, feeling more than a little lost. Vogelbaum’s lips flattened as soon as he checks his pager again, his eyes were familiarly hard, his posture seemed stiff all of a sudden, hands curling into fists. “What is it?”

“My apologies. We’ll talk soon, alright?” 

That was the last time he’s ever seen him. 

– Present day.

Ron didn’t say much. By the time Billy had knocked the chair to the side, he was so afraid of what would happen to him, his heart literally couldn’t take it, but Frenchie resuscitated him a couple of times, using a barbaric tactic.

John is standing by the end of the steps while Billy wipes at his hands, his blue eyes stuck on the way Ron’s jaw hangs open by a couple of muscles, almost ripped entirely off of its hinges, blood seeping through the gaping flesh wound. It looks bad, but from afar, he couldn’t entirely tell if Ron was breathing or not. 

He has to ask, curiosity needling into his voice. “Is he dead?” 

“Oh fuck me,” MM’s voice comes from behind him, the man bumping past John, eyes widening. “Are you fucking serious, Butcher?” 

“Thank you for joining the party, MM.” Butcher says to his friend, keeping his eyes trained on a dead Ron, Frenchie stands besides him and hands his friend a drill, goggles and gloves on. “And yes, he's very dead.” 

MM lets out an exasperated breath, placing his hands on his hips as he looks around, mouth twitching downwards in disgust. John looks over at him. “Can you just end this, please? I mean, fucking look at all of this. I have to clean this shit up, do you know that?”

“I can help clean with you.” 

Everyone simultaneously turns to look at John. 

MM raises a brow at him, staring at the former supe with genuinely confused eyes. “Um, I don’t need your fucking help with anything,” he says it like it should be considered common sense, like he doesn’t understand why the man would even have the nerve to promise him something like that. “The fuck?” 

Butcher stares at them, pausing his ministrations. Frenchie’s attention is caught too. John’s not sure why MM’s rejection has him fumbling over his words, ever so gracelessly, “No, I didn’t mean it like that - I was just volunteering because -”

MM steps to the man and gives him a hard look, repeating the word use in an annoyed, gritted voice. “Volunteering.”

John’s eyes widened, he suddenly wanted to kick himself, forcing his eyes not to skitter over towards Billy in search of help. “No, not volunteering. I mean, I just thought it would be nice to try and help clean up the blood with you. So you won’t have to do it all by yourself.” 

“You think I’d want you to clean with me? Have you lost your fucking mind?” MM scowls out, drawing closer to the man’s face, being up this close to Homelander, he starts noticing things, like fading bruises and hickeys. John has to draw in a breath as he backs up, he couldn’t help himself at this point. “Like I said, I don’t need your fucking help.”

“Oi,” Butcher’s voice thundered across the room, annoyance flaring in his gut. MM flickers his eyes across the basement, over towards Butcher while John stands there, staring at him blankly. “There’s no angle here. Let him clean.” 

MM shakes his head, looking Billy up and down. “Does he even know how to?”

“I can teach.” Frenchie obliges as he holds his hand up. “We finish clipping off Ron’s jaw and then me and Homelander can swiffer –”

Butcher looks at him, brows knitted. “Mop, Frenchie. This needs mopping, and scrubbing. Then you can use the swiffer afterwards.”  

“Sorry, ah, concussion. I meant mop. Yes.” 

MM squints the Frenchman's way, tonguing his cheek. “Frenchie, you don’t know how to clean up either, and you’re not in any condition to do so.” 

“Mother’s Milk, sir,” John begins, garnering MM’s attention once more, he couldn’t hide the  face he makes at his name, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I am going to clean up with you. You can show me how to do it correctly. All I’d have to do is watch.” 

MM hums, eyeing him over. “Fine. Alright. I’ll go and get what we need.” 

“How cute, yeah? He’s like a puppy dog.” Frenchie nudges Butcher’s side, then he reaches forward and grabs a handful of Ron’s hair, taking a boxcutter to his agape mouth, sawing the rest of the muscles clinging to his jaw off. “You trained him well,” Butcher feels himself frown at the sound of that, “at this point, you can use him for leverage if Vought ever springs up out of nowhere, he’d be wrapped right around your finger.” 

"Oi, quiet you. C'mon, let's get cleaned up." Butcher says, watching blood soak into Ron's shirt. "Grab his arms, I got his legs. We'll carry him out."

"Ay ay." 

“Hand me that.” MM says as he lifts his head, motioning for the bleach, Homelander stops scrubbing off the blood on the floor, leaning back on his haunches, eyes flickering around until he spots the bleach spray reaching over to grab it. MM mutters a placid ‘thanks’ that Homelander could barely hear through his mask, spraying a spot on the floor. “This’ll get the drier blood out, I fucking hope.” 

Homelander doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just continues to scrub, hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at his gloved hands, his carefully planted knees, the bucket sitting beside him. He’s never cleaned a murder scene like this before, and yet, he could see how people enjoy it. Homelander would usually always be the one doing the murdering, and then flying off, cleaning his own self instead of the overall mess.

Doing something that people would have to do after him is very awakening. To be frank, he wasn’t sure how else he’d be reminded of how vile the shit he used to do, but this one, the smell of Ron’s flesh, burnt and all, the realization was strong enough to knock him into a stunned silence.

 Homelander drew in a deep breath as he tightened his grip on the scrub brush, pushing it down with one hand, pouring more solution onto the floor with the other, going back to scrubbing with both slightly shaking hands – scrub, scrub, scrub.   

The sight of the blood fading from the floor was very satisfying, he finds himself liking it. 

MM’s watching him, brows knitted. “Why can’t you do anything normally?”

Homelander blinks as he’s pulled out of his trance, pausing his actions, looking over at the man with a confused face. “Huh? What -”

MM scoffs at him, becoming continuously agitated as Homelander stares at him blankly, he nudges the man and points at the brush. “Look. You’re fucking the bristles up, I told you how to scrub the damn floor and you’re over here trying to scrub the goddamn foundation off. This is expensive, I bought it with my own money.” 

“I thought -” Homelander begins as he flushes, removing his hand from the brush handle, MM swipes it from him grumbling under his breath. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head, eyes widening. “Did I break it? I didn’t mean to.” 

MM’s gloved fingers adjust the bent bristles, he’s frowning, understandably pissed off. “No, you didn’t break it. You were about to though. How about you just clean the walls? I’ll do the floor, alright?” 

Homelander hesitates to move off of his knees, eyes flickering from MM’s face to the brush held in his hands. Homelander enjoys cleaning the blood off of the floors, he doesn’t want to clean the walls, he’s been in a groove, and the change would just throw him off. “I’m sorry. I just got in my head. I don’t usually clean up after someone who was tortured, the difference sort of knocked me in for a loop.” 

MM looks up and stares at him, eyes cold. “Oh, really?”

Homelander averts his eyes, nodding slowly although he’s unsure if the question was meant for an answer, he’s trying his best to appeal to the man here. Slipping up like this is annoying. 

MM straightens his posture and his muscles flex as he throws the brush at him harder than what would be taken as a friendly toss, it strikes Homelander’s torso, hitting his ribs, staining his shirt. “Don’t take that shit out on my stuff.” 

When Homelander flinches back while eliciting a pained hiss from the brush striking him, clutching his side and keeling over a bit, MM does a double take. “My bad,” he mutters awkwardly, probably because he didn’t mean it. “I thought you were going to catch it.”

“I didn’t know you were going to give it back.” Homelander bites back, rubbing his side. 

MM’s face goes flat, he glowers at Homelander, teeth gritted. “You fix your tone while you’re talking to me, alright?”

Homelander just stares at him for a brief moment, face all scrunched up, then he grabs the brush from the floor and goes back to scrubbing. 

“I’m not Butcher, I’ll fuck you up.” MM continues, a promise in his voice. “I already said my bad, you don’t get to talk back to me. You’re lucky I’m even letting you help, hell, you’re lucky I’m even fucking tolerating you.” 

“Okay man, I get it.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Homelander tongues his cheek, biting back a couple of words, he could feel his annoyance beginning to spike. 

Butcher and Frenchie reappear in the basement wearing cleaner clothes. Butcher’s not all drenched in blood like he was earlier, in fact, he was wearing his own gloves, preparing to clean up with MM and Homelander. Frenchie still had his goggles on, said it helped keep his skull intact, whatever that meant, Butcher didn’t question it because he figured that Frenchie got his ass handed to him really bad back at A-Train’s. 

“Alright lads,” Butcher begins as he takes careful steps towards MM and Homelander while Frenchie lingers, beginning to clean the legs of the chair where Ron’s body had once been strapped onto. Managing not to get blood on the soles of his shoes, he squats down between the two most important people in his life, slinging his arms around their shoulders, eyes darting back and forth between the two irritated men. “Looking good so far, thanks for giving him something to do MM.” 

“He’s getting on my fucking nerves.” MM responds, shrugging Butcher’s arm from his shoulders. “And don’t touch me while I’m sterile, alright?” 

“Sorry, captain.” Butcher grins at him, then he turns his attention towards Homelander, sees the apparent displeasure expressed on his face. “It’s quite a task, isn’t it?” 

“I guess.” Homelander replies dismissively as he lowers his head down, in an obvious bad mood. 

“What’s the matter?” Butcher queries in the most neutral voice he could muster, attempting to hide the growing concern in his expression, fighting back the itch to sweep John’s hair out of his eyes and tilt his head up. 

“Your boyfriend here almost broke my fucking scrub brush. I scolded him and now he’s fucking pouting.” MM explains, shooting daggers at the couple, Frenchie, in the back by the chair, throws his head back as he laughs at MM’s passive aggressive use of ‘boyfriend.’

Butcher rolls his eyes. Homelander pauses, lifts his head back up, blushing furiously, blue eyes darting back and forth from a deadpan Butcher and his friend. “I wasn’t -”

“Yes you were.”

Butcher doesn’t reply, he just ruffles a flustered Homelander’s hair, standing back up. He refrains from being the butt of a joke, so he just plays along. “Be patient with him, yeah? He really only responds to positive reinforcement.” 

Frenchie’s been in that boat numerous times, so he catches onto the innuendo terrifyingly fast. “Merde!”

“Butcher, what the fuck.” Homelander, abashed, growls out as MM disbelievingly gawks at them both, elbowing Butcher’s kneecap hard. 

“Are you two fucking?” Frenchie asks before MM could get the words out. Butcher feigns a thoughtful look while Homelander ducks his head and moves to the corner of the room, seemingly done with this entire exchange. 

Butcher darts his hand out to grab him by his wrist though, tugging him back.

Frenchie grins at this albeit halfway, he’s feeling a little confused; horrified, slightly angry, but more so intrigued. “If you are then that’s - what the word, Butcher? That would be fucking diabolical.” 

Butcher agrees.

“That would be disgusting.” MM corrects, Butcher agrees with that too. “I wouldn’t put it past someone as fucked up as Butcher though.”

Frenchie is suddenly very indulged with this discourse, distractedly spraying bleach onto the chair. “Yeah, but, he took away Homelander’s powers. That’s sick for him too. I mean, to each their own, but both of them should be like - arch enemies.” 

Homelander, annoyed, turns to face the Brit, giving Butcher a silent look. Butcher just remains humored by it all. “When you nurse someone you fucking hate back to health while being on death row yourself, it changes things. How does that sound?” 

“You seem happy.” Frenchie comments, MM gets a chill down his spine. “I personally don’t get it, but when you’re happy, that makes it better for the Boys.”

At that, Homelander’s look of annoyance softens, his heart skips a beat, and he has to avert his eyes before the others catch onto the way they lit up. 

MM huffs. “Yeah. This fucking asshole has you glowing. What kind of spell does he have on you, huh?” 

Butcher’s warm chuckle exudes from his chest, his hand slips from John’s arm to the small of his back. “He’s human.” 

Turns out, Billy doesn’t mind the taste of milk. 

When the taste is coming from Homelander’s mouth, it tastes alarmingly different. They’re in the kitchen, and he’s got Homelander sitting on the counter while he’s standing between his bare legs, cupping the man’s cheek in his hand, kissing his lips, soft, languid. He’s so fucking pliant, his anticipation showing as his nerves begin to set in, and it’s driving Billy crazy because he’s smelling the pheromones. 

John nips at his mouth and whines, he’s so eager to be kissed like this, and yet, so nervous about something, his hands trembling slightly, still cold from gripping onto an icy cup of milk while Butcher felt him up. 

Billy hooks his fingers underneath his thighs, hoisting him up off of the counter, John’s light in his arms, he’s always been – superhuman or not. 

When Billy had first picked him up, right off of the ground, pressing the unconscious man into his chest as he sprinted towards Frenchie’s van, he took note of how light he felt oddly fast. 

John seemed to like being picked up, he buried his face into Billy’s neck, kissed his skin, and emitted a deep, breathy laugh noise that sounded so unlike Homelander it tickled at Billy’s dwindling self control. He wishes he could feel John’s fangs dive into his neck, wishes the compound V hadn’t rubber-fied his skin to a point where he couldn’t truly feel things like that, he can feel the sensation, but it’s not quite there.

Not quite. 

“Wish you could’ve watched the whole thing.” Butcher says later on, laying against him, right in between his legs, remembering to keep his entire weight off of him. “He didn’t say anything memorable, just a bunch of ‘I’m sorry’s’ and ‘don’t do this’ all of that.” 

“Butcher what if I fuck up?” John blurts out the question, abrupt, gaze stuck on the ceiling. 

“Oi,” Butcher whispers, frowning, his voice soft. He finds the man’s hand, interlacing their fingers, John meets his eyes as he lays below him, raises his eyebrows up at him, breaths skittering, a flush in his cheeks. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m a fuck up.”

“Sure you are but now, ah, I think you’re less of one.” 

John’s heartbeat drills into Butcher’s ears now that he’s alerted to the man’s concerns, he seems truly terrified, goosebumps prickling at his skin, paling up by the second. “What if I see him and freeze?” 

“Soldier Boy?” 

John swallows, nodding his head, looking elsewhere on Billy’s face, feeling suddenly too ashamed to meet his eyes. He’s had a lot to think about over the past few hours regarding his reunion with his father, and with his track record of yearning for something he can’t have, he doubts he could trust himself to push forward without doing anything catastrophically bad. 

Butcher frowns, a touch lost, John could feel the tension build in his muscles, tightening his posture, the way his spine goes line-straight as the man lays on top of him. “Homelander, you know that he’s a bullshitter. He fucking killed Maeve -”

“I know, I know, but I don’t have that much faith in myself. Billy, you know this, you know how I am, and it’s nothing personal, but I just feel like a part of me is going to crumble if I see him.” John explains, he rests his hand on Butcher’s shoulder, curling his fingers into the fabric, finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden. “I mean, you don’t even trust me. Do you?”

Butcher blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Where is this coming from, love?” 

“I don’t want my vulnerability to hurt you or Ryan.” John’s eyes shimmer, lips downturned. “I’m scared he might say something before he dies, like he might press some sort of nerve, and then it’ll stick with me forever.” 

Butcher hums lowly, then his face drops as he nods his head after a beat. John studies his expression before sighing out, pushing lightly at his chest, sitting up as Butcher unlaces their fingers and pulls off of him. “I’m sorry,” the former supe mutters, drawing his knees up to his chest, “earlier I felt confident in myself, but now I don’t feel as certain.” 

“How come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t come.” 

“But I want to.” 

“Doesn’t really sound like it.” Butcher leans back on his hands, legs spread out on the bed, he feels an ache in his head, and he tries his best to not sound like an asshole. 

John stares at his knees, chewing on his lower lip. 

“He’s a fucking cunt.” Butcher says, putting emphasis on cunt, looking back at Homelander, eyes sharp. 

“I know.” John replies after a beat, lowering his head and rubbing his face.  

“You need to let him go. Move on. He’s not going to give you anything.” 

“If it was that easy –”

Butcher’s scowls at him. “It is that easy.” 

“William, I never had an actual father.” John says, dropping his hand from his face, he can feel his patience thinning, it fluctuates in his voice. “I don’t need to be judged here, okay?”

“Well, you are. Sorry.” Butcher says, squinting at him. He turns to face the man, shaking his head, sizing him up. “I don’t get it. I don’t get you.” 

John snaps, scooting towards the edge of the bed, bumping Butcher out of his way as he stood up. “Okay, well, Vogelbaum’s head blew up in my fucking face and that asshole was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father for decades. Meanwhile, while I was in that fucking lab, he force fed me Soldier Boy day in and day out. Even when he wasn’t in the facility every other day, I had to watch Soldier Boy’s movies for hours.” 

Butcher shakes his head, sounding agitated. “So what? You have a connection to him, but that doesn’t mean -”

“So I’m just telling you, Billy, that I’m really fucking scared to see him again.” John says, standing in front of him, arms crossed. “And I can’t help if I accidentally - I don’t fucking know - think about him in a more ‘what if’ way when he’s gone.” 

All of a sudden, Butcher stands, and he’s approaching  him, face dark, John’s eyes grow wide, he somehow manages to not back up. “If your dad’s a right cunt, you have no reason to create a fantasy about him. If he needs to die, then he should die. Full stop.”

John sighs. “Butcher -”

“My dad beat the shit out of me and Lenny almost every single day,” Butcher confesses, knocking the wind out of John, it now dawns on both of them that Billy’s anger may be brought on by a smidge of projection, “I don’t think about what our lives could’ve been if he acted like an actual father because it’s worthless, and it’s fucking stupid. It’ll only bring pain, make you distracted, angry, then you’ll end up like me. A father-hating sap.” 

John scrutinizes him closely then he drops his eyes to his feet, Butcher’s glare softens. “I get it. I’m sorry if I triggered you. I just don’t know what to expect from myself when I see him, that’s all I’m trying to say.” 

“I just can’t stand you still having expectations for someone who obviously doesn’t give a shit about you.” Butcher says, his voice is less cold, but that doesn’t make his words sting less, John looks up at him again, brows knitted. “Me and Ryan can give you more than he possibly could in the love department, mate. Don’t ever doubt that.” 

“I won’t.” John says, and then he draws forward, resting his forehead against Butcher’s chest, closing his eyes, trying not to think of all the father figures in his life, alive or dead. 

Here’s to one more thing they’d have to work on. Butcher wraps his arms around John, running his palm along the back of his neck, his arm hooked around his lower back. Homelander and Ryan are – family people – and it’s not like Butcher isn’t one himself, he’s grown into that shell quite well over the past week, but his perspective is obviously very different from those two. 

If he were in Ryan's shoes, he’d certainly hate Homelander and would want nothing to do with him. 

And if he were Homelander, well, Soldier Boy generally wouldn’t have lasted long. 

Mallory leads them down the passageway of the restricted penitentiary, her shoes clacking against the floors, Homelander’s hands are clenched into fists as they rest in his pocket, he’s walking ahead of Billy, always swallowing down a glob of anxious saliva. He sucks in a deep breath, asking. “How long have you had him here?” 

Mallory doesn’t answer immediately, but when she does, it’s purposely short. “Long enough.” 

“I’m sure.” Butcher retorts from behind the two, the fluorescent lights patterning the ceilings above them are giving him a headache, their shadows dance on the walls behind as they walk, an odd odor coming from the passing cells, the doors. 

“Whatever you do, make it quick, alright?” Mallory asks, searching for assurance, she looks over her shoulder at John and Butcher, jaw clenched. “It’s already reckless having you two in here. Especially you. John. I thought you’d come by yourself, William.” 

“Nope.” 

Homelander clears her throat, regaining her attention. “It’d be right if I saw him too, for the last time.” 

“Oh, would it? What do you think, Butcher? Would it be right if John saw him one last time?” 

“I’m sure he could handle it.” Butcher sardonically retorts with a short smile, Mallory rolls her eyes, John just glances at him wordlessly, eyes blank.

“Listen, my men won’t hear anything that happens in that cell. They’ll be ready in the prep room down the hall. If you want to go in by yourself, John, then Butcher, you have the super-ears, you’ll be able to listen if he needs help or not. I doubt you will, but, just in case.” 

John nods his head as Butcher exhales, his real name sounds weird on Mallory’s tongue.

“Remember, they can’t know that you're Homelander. So try not to slip up or else, everything that happens afterward will be out of my hands.” 

“Easy enough.” Butcher says, “thanks for giving us intel early this time around.”

“Oh-ha-ha. Get over it.” 

When Butcher and John first walk in, Ben doesn’t immediately notice them, instead, he surges up from his mattress, chains jingling as he attempts to trot over towards the group, and his eyes land on Mallory who continues to linger by the doorframe. “Grace, are you finally offering me your mercy?”  

“Yes.” Grace’s response is short, her eyes darting between the men, face fixed in a firm expression that left no room for foolishness. “Remember guys, make it quick. We’ll be waiting for the thumbs up.”

Butcher shrugs, averting his eyes. “Yeah, yeah –”

“Billy fucking Butcher.” Ben’s voice drills sharp into Butcher’s ears, he sneers, and then backs up, almost catching his feet upon the chains. 

“Greetings, mate.” Butcher grins at him. 

John remains silent, standing frozen beside Mallory who was now making her leave from the cell room, her hand wrapped around the knob of the handle door, her grip knuckle-white. Ben watches her as she leaves, drawing his sneer back, and then he flickers his gaze to John, studying him for sometime, face scrunching up in confusion. 

“So this is where you’ve been holed up all this time I see.” 

“I thought you’d be dead.” Ben swallows, eyes lingering on John, despite his voice being directed towards Billy. He doesn’t know for sure. He might’ve been talking to John too. Ben doesn’t really know. “I knew I couldn’t be that lucky.” 

John releases a breath. “You look pathetic.” 

“Homelander.” Ben pronounces slowly, each syllable of his son’s title name lighting up on his tongue. “You should’ve been crushed. Vought made you immortal?”

“Yes but no.” John replied flatly. 

Butcher looks at them both. 

A beat.

Nonchalantly, Ben begins to walk over to him. “So I changed my mind about that whole family team up thing. Are you still open to it?”

John frowns. “You had that chance.” 

Butcher steps in close, protectiveness flaring. “Think it’s best if you stay where you are, son.”

Ben doesn’t stop walking towards John, instead he goes back to sneering at Butcher, gritting out. “And I think it’s best if you fuck off.” 

“It’s fine, Butcher.” Homelander says in an apprehensive voice, stomach flipping. “I’ll call you back if we need help.” 

Butcher frowns, shaking his head. “Homelander -”

“I promise.”

A moment later, afrer Butcher apprehensively leaves.  

“Homelander –”

“It’s John, actually.”

“Oh. Great. Changed names. The other one was stupid anyway.” 

John sighs out as he lowers himself down onto the floor in front of his father, crossing his legs as he leaned forward, wrapping his hand around his ankle and squinting his eyes. “Sure, I guess. Soldier Boy seemed pretty bland too, you know.” 

“Blander than the fucking Homelander? Give me a break. You were America’s goddamn ken doll, what were they thinking?”

“You were a puppet too.”

“Yeah, well, at least I knew I was a puppet. Butcher told me how fucking delusional you are.” 

“Did he?”

“He was very specific.” 

“I’m sure he was, he doesn’t hold back.”

Ben snorts, runs his hands through his hair, rests his back against the wall as he draws his knees up to his chest, the chains clamped around his ankles jingling. “ Doesn’t hold back, yeah, well, if he didn’t hold back you and your idiot fucking son would be six feet under by now.” 

John moves in close, voice pitched low. “ You don’t talk about him like that.” 

“What? The kid? That little fuck has no future being with the likes of you.” 

“You don’t know me.”

Ben sits up, he’s the one that draws close now, John falters and he feels himself drifting back into his former posture, his eyes are dark, soulless, very haunting. “You said it yourself. You’re me. I do know you, and from what I already know about myself, and from what my own father told me - you’re still a fucking disappointment.”

“I know I am.” 

“Congratulations.” 

John tilts his chin up. “The kid isn’t.” 

“He’s got balls of steel -” Ben nods, John winces, averts his eyes. Ben sits back again, growing more serious, a reminiscent look flickering in his eyes. “I’ll give him that. Ryan, right? I can see it in his face, he’s going to be a killer. Stone fucking cold. Kid reminded me of my own dad back there, no hesitance, just complete drive.” 

“He’s nothing like us.” John says as he looks back at Soldier Boy, scowling. 

Ben gives him a bored look. “Get serious. I mean, hell, and just wait until he finds out how he came to be. Like I said, he’ll have no future.”  

John says nothing. 

“You raped his mom right? Popped a seed in her while she probably screamed and cried, fucking Christ, will he ever know about that? You’re not going to tell him, are you?” Ben talks to him listlessly, shaking his head. “Man, man,” he tsks, and tsks, and tsks, John feels nauseated. “If that kid ever found out, he’d fucking kill you.” 

“Shut up.” John’s voice trembles. 

“And you motherfuckers want to play the card and turn the tables like I’m the bad guy.” 

“You are.”

“Did she beg you to stop while you were fucking her? Or did you cover her mouth with those cartoonish gloves you wear so no one could hear her scream?”

John curls his fingers into fists, suddenly feeling like he was being scalded. 

“And did you threaten her, with your fancy fucking laser eyes? Take your fucking clothes off or I’ll slice you in half, ” He mocks, staring at his son, there wasn’t a trace of disgust in his face, not even a hint of it weighing in on his voice, it was just pure belittlement. 

“I apologized.” John manages to get out, he couldn’t bring himself to look Ben in the eyes, not as the guilt rushes to his head. 

“Oh, oh , you apologized. ” Ben coos, voice chillingly light, and then he goes back to snarling. “Well, I’m sure little Ryan had taken the apology very well. You little shit. You’re such a fucking pussy, you know that?” 

“I can’t -” John drew back some more, the surface of his tongue was so dry, and his side was beginning to ache for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, a sharp ring shrilled through his ears. Ben smirks. “You’re a bad guy. I never said you were worse than me. In the past I know I did a lot of wrong –” 

“Was she bleeding afterwards?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you think she was calling for Butcher thinking he’d come in and save her? Whole time he’d just sit back and watch because he’s nothing but a fucking cuck –” 

John’s fist knocks a tooth out of Ben’s mouth, blood pouring in, sloshing like red wine in his mouth, the taste of rich iron spreads like wildfire on the man’s tongue, and it hurts so bad a maniacal laugh unleashes itself from his soul.

 “Fucking hell,” he chokes out as he cups his bleeding mouth, looking up at John who hovers over him, both of his fists clenched, eyes sharp, glimmering a spine chilling blue. This isn’t the first time he’s seen John this mad, angry, the familiar glint of murder twisted into his features, and what’s really hilarious to Ben, is that this anger isn’t directed towards him. 

As far as he knows. 

In this view, Ben can see the light brown hair falling into his eyes, colored darker than he remembered. “I hit a nerve, son?”

“Fuck you.” John grits out, spit flying into Ben’s face. 

“Look at you.” Ben chuckles out, his teeth stained red as he grins up at his son, his face hurts, but he likes the pain. “Another reason I wish I was there for you when you were a kid. You get all worked up over facts. You don’t like to face your past. I understand it, I was there once, but ah - do you know what that makes you look like now?”

John glares at him, tightening his fist. 

Ben’s face drops. “A fucking coward.” 

“I’m not here to get your approval.” 

“Well, you haven’t killed me yet. You seemed to be looking for a talk.”

“I was trying to gauge you.”

Without a word, Ben socks him in the ribs, a hard fist caving into his side. John feels like his ribcage is being smashed in by a hammer, he bows back from the impact then crumples to the ground, gasping out as he holds his side, writhing on the floor.

 “I see it now.” Ben’s voice is stiff as he sits up, blood spilling onto his white shirt, he wants to curse at himself for noticing this late, goosebumps riding up his arms, examining John’s features as the man tries to regather himself, his darkening hair - “Let me really look at you.” 

John draws in a raspy breath, attempting to sit up, his side feels inflamed, flaring throughout his body. He starts to question if Mallory told Butcher the truth about Ben being completely depowered, or maybe he’s just out of shape, either way he’s got the wind completely knocked out of him. “Get the fuck away from me.” 

Ben grabs him by the leg, chains rattling as he moves up onto his knees, his blood drying on his shirt. “Come on now, that was a love tap,” he pins John down by the leg, squinting his eyes at his son, a look of realization striking him and he sputters out. “Jesus Christ.” 

“What?”

“Stay still, goddamnit.” 

John squirms. “Get off of me.”

“Hm,” Ben hums as he presses his knee down on John’s thigh, it’s uncomfortable, his kneecap digs into the man’s leg and it withdraws a pained cry. 

“Are you - are you sure you’re depowered?”

“I don’t have that radiation shit anymore. The strength comes and goes.” 

John pants out, his side hurting bad. “I think you  broke my fucking rib –”

“Well if you just sit still.”

“Butcher! Help!” John starts to yell, his voice bouncing off the walls.  

Ben huffs, smacking his hand across his face, silencing the man for a sharp minute. Afterwards, as the sting subsides, John remains tense, the side of his face was numb, his eyes wide and blank as he lays still on the cold cell floor, breathing in and out in a slow continuous manner, a concerning wheeze following through with each breath. 

He stares up at the ceiling as he lets Ben reach out to touch his hair, fingers filing through dark strands, then he redirects his attention to his astounded father, narrowing his eyes at him, reading his taken aback look, a mix of emotions flickering through Ben’s brown eyes. 

It was so fast, John couldn’t read all of it. 

“What?” John quips out breathlessly. 

“That girl,” Ben begins under his breath, his voice thick, unsteady, “she must’ve been a surrogate, that’s where you got your eyes.” Sick fucks, Ben thinks, remembering Judy, remembering Edgar and Vogelbaum, he suddenly feels like there’s an invisible hand wrapping around his neck. “And you’ve got my hair obviously, and that fucking desperate look.” 

John’s heart sinks to his stomach, he shrinks back a little, pressing his back into the floor, Ben follows through, seemingly not done yet. “What are you doing?”

“They hid you from me.” Ben tells him, unraveling strand by strand. “For years. Years. ” 

John chooses to ignore the way Ben’s voice trembles, his heart twisting in his chest, conflict weighing in on his voice. “Why does that matter now? You tried to fucking kill me and your grandson.” 

“It didn’t help that I was backed into a wall, Homelander. John.” 

John shakes his head, averts his eyes. “You've made your choice.” 

Suddenly, Ben grabs him by his shoulders and slams him back into the floor, nails digging in as he scowls at him, John couldn’t stifle down the yelp of discomfort that escapes him. “Don’t fucking bitch at me, alright? I had no fucking choice. That cuck had me in a bind -”

“Let me go -” John chokes out. 

“Is that what you want?” 

“Yes. Please.”

Ben’s grin is terrifying, an amused glint in his eyes. John wants to headbutt him. “What’s wrong, you don’t like a good wrestle with your old man?”

Writhing on the floor, John hikes in a glob of saliva and spits out in Ben’s face. The brunette inhales sharply as the spit lands near his eye, head jolting back, a surprised noise gurgling in the back of his throat. John feels his father’s grip loosen on his shoulders and in the midst of his frustration, he rushes his words out angrily. “I fucking hate you.” 

“Ballsy.” Disturbingly, Ben feels like he’s been sent back in a time machine. Back to the days involving him and his own dad. He doesn’t know why the nostalgia decides to hit now, as he’s wiping his son’s spit from his face with the back of his hand. 

“This is a bonding moment. Isn’t this what you want?”

John’s hands suddenly fly up to claw at Ben’s face, teeth clenched at the discomfort inflaming in his ribs, and yet, he’s shooting daggers. 

“Ah, fuck!” Ben shrieks, eyes squeezed closed, grasping at John’s wrist, digging his nails into his skin. “ Stop - fucking stop!” 

Five minutes later, Ben settles back down against the wall in the far side of the cell. 

Once freed from being pinned down under solid weight, John had scurried towards the corner, his arm wrapped around his injured torso, he kept his glare trained on his father, to Ben there’s a needless sense of anger fluctuating in his eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Ben begins in a thoughtful tone that doesn’t resonate well with his son amongst other things, resting the back of his head against the wall, scratching at the growing beard visible on his face, “you being Vought’s puppet isn’t all your fault.” 

John closes his eyes, draws in a breath, reopens them. “You’re going to die today.” 

Ben frowns. 

“Butcher’s going to kill you.” 

Ben changes routes, feigning genuine offense. “I’m the only other family you have left aside from that kid. You’re going to let the cuck put an end to that?” 

“There’s no family here.”

“That’s just rich coming from you, daddy’s boy. Did Butcher tell you that? I get the hint that the ashsole got smacked around as a kid by his own dad. It doesn’t take a lot for anyone to tell that he hates the guy. So what would he really know, huh? Does he know what a family looks like?”

John stares at him, pressing his back up against the adjacent wall. 

“Grow a pair. He let me blow up a tower. Now he’s feeding you bullshit.”

“Don’t talk about him.”

“Who?”

“Butcher.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’ll peel your skin off again.” 

Ben shuts up momentarily, tapping his fingertips along the cold cell floors. 

“We’ve made amends. He’s my friend.” John says, feeling a rush, hell, this is the last time he’s going to be seeing Ben so he might as well get everything out now. Rubbing his chest with one hand, John grapples onto the wall as he stands up onto his feet, deciphering whether he’s ready to give the door a knock, giving whoever stands behind it a signal to move in. 

 “So what you were saying earlier, about his wife, we’re working it out. Okay? I don’t know if I’ll ever tell Ryan, but how he reacts if the topic ever comes around, we’ll monitor closely. What he does from that point on is his decision and I’ll be ready to face them.” 

Ben scoffs. “Yeah right. You’ll be dead before you even realize it.” 

John goes quiet for a beat, then he shrugs his shoulders, speaking shakily. “Then so be it,” he looks the man up and down, face scrunched up in disgust. “Bye, Soldier Boy.” 

And then, Ben slides himself across the floor, almost crab-walking, it looks a little silly due to the chains he has clasped around his ankles. John just kicks his shoe at him, attempting to rush over towards the door before Ben hooks a strong arm around his left leg, striking him in the crotch with a curled flying fist. 

“What the fuck,” John wheezes out as pain singes throughout his body, collapsing onto his free leg, his knee hitting the hard floor, his hands bracing his fall. 

Ben shifts as the man pants out expletives, he takes a seat on his back facing away from the door, legs bent at the knee. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“Get off of me!” 

Ben plays with the ankle cuffs, hands trailing out to the chains hooked on it. “Do you want to know something about me and Vogelbaum?”

John struggles to crawl from underneath him, limbs flailing, pain ricocheting through his body. 

“He took on this father-like role.”

“Butcher!”

Ben talks over John’s screams. “At times, I think he was trying to fuck me. Doc was weird. Listen, one day he sat me down and asked me if I ever got Crimson Countess pregnant. That should’ve been the first clue, honestly. I was high though, angry about something. So I didn’t think much of it.” 

There’s a pause before Ben huffs, shaking his head at himself. “Anyway, doesn’t that seem odd? At the time, we’ve been under Vought for years, why would they suddenly care about pregnancy?”

John feels the ground vibrate with incoming footsteps, a rush of footsteps actually, he grows quiet, resting his body. 

“When he asked me - well, alluded to the idea of Crimson being pregnant, I got this rush I’ve never felt before. Anticipation. Fear. Excitement. A bunch of feelings I never thought someone like me was capable of having.” 

John stills. 

“At that moment, I was picturing a baby in my arms. You. I was picturing us as a family.” Ben says, staring down at the chains, fondling them in his hands, the jingles substituting the faint ringing in his ears. “I’ve always wanted kids. Around two or three.”

Ben twists around, staring at the back of John’s head. “You were around three or four when those Russians took me. If I knew, Jesus, if I knew what they were hiding from me and what they were molding you to -“

The footsteps grow closer. 

“I would’ve killed them all.” 

John shivers, his side hurts. 

“And I’d take you out of there.”

Butcher opens the door, a group of armed men file in behind him,  eyes flickering down at John pressed into the ground, then at Ben sitting on his back, facing the wall. The men tackle Soldier Boy off of John, pinning him to the ground despite not receiving much of a struggle from him. Butcher, in a state of worry, immediately tends to a blank faced John, fingertips tracing along the bruise forming on his cheek. 

“Why didn’t you call me earlier,” he asks a zoned out Homelander, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He pats his cheek, turning the man’s head to look at him, searching his face. “Oi, John, come back to me. Are you hurt?” 

John blinks his eyes, then he parts his lips as if he were going to speak or elicit a noise, but nothing but a trembling breath seems to come out. He feels stuck in his place. Soldier Boy’s words course through his head as he stares at Billy’s face, they’re all aggressive, coming in wave after wave, he doesn’t know what to make of anything. 

“John.”

John blinks again, nose scrunching up. 

Butcher cups the back of his head, leaning in closer, rolling the man’s name off of his tongue once more, finally grounding him back. “John.”

“Hm,” John looks away from Billy, back at Ben who lies on his back, the men were holding each of his limbs down onto the floor, their heads were raised at attention, expectant eyes staring at them, either in shock at the touches, or awaiting orders. “Sorry. Yeah. I think he broke a rib -” he draws in a long breath as the sudden tension gathering in Butcher’s frame, he stares at Ben for sometime, “but um, you should go ahead and - do it -”

“I’m not moving until you’re certain.” Butcher’s voice is firm, shielded with protectiveness, his touch is warm on the other’s skin, John’s next breath comes out stuttered, cut-off. He feels Butcher’s hand slip down from the back of his head, to caress his upper back side. “You’re shaking badly, love. He say anything to you?” 

John drops his head, turning away from Butcher, considering all of the words biting at him. 

Ben had brung up Becca, Ryan, and then his last sentences to him were so unforgettable, it was burning a hole into his soul. He digs the heel of his hand into his closed eyes, chest tightening. 

Fuck.

“No.” John lies despite Butcher seeing right through it, guilt swirling. He heard everything anyway. It just feels much better to lie to him right now. 

The pads of Butcher’s fingertips pressing into his back feel too noticeable all of a sudden. John couldn’t bring himself to look at him, mouth dry. 

“Your orders, sir?” One of the men asks Butcher, sounding awkward. 

“Fucking kill me already.” Ben’s flat voice says, staring up at the ceiling. 

John relaxes his shoulders, muttering under his breath. “Do it, Billy.” 

Butcher withdraws his touch, his lasers brewing as he directs his eyes over at Ben. John just sits there, next to Billy’s kneeling form, trying to act normal about how his hands don’t linger on his body like they usually do, refusing to overthink about it. 

Afterwards, as Mallory and her men began their cleanup of Ben’s brain matter splattered on the cell walls, on their way to MM’s to pick up Ryan, John holds his bruised side, staring out the window, brows furrowed at the silence. He taps his foot on the car floor, turning to face Butcher after another obnoxious lapse of quiet surrounds them. “Sorry for lying to you.” 

“It’s fine.” No it’s not, but that’s an argument for later. John’s getting tired. 

“I don’t think I can ever be a good person, Butcher.” 

Butcher glances at him, then back at the road, sighing. “Decent is enough. Being a decent cunt is all you need to get by in this world.” 

John bites his lower lip, eyes glazed over with tears of frustration. “How could a good - or decent person - tell their son that they were conceived from –” 

“They don’t.” Butcher says, cutting him off, fingertips tapping the steering wheel. “Unless they’re confessing their sins before they die.” 

John sighs, rubbing his face. “I don’t want to leave him in the dark.” 

“It’ll kill him, Homelander. It’ll kill you and him.” 

“Are you saying I shouldn’t –”

“Didn’t say anything.” 

John feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, he sits back in the seat with a silent noise escaping him, resting his arm on the arm rest. Turns out he’s left with another life changing decision to make. 

Somewhere, in the middle of the drive, once the tension in the silence dissipates, Butcher rests his arm there too, the sleeve of his coat pressed against the sleeve of John’s sweater. 

Ryan had clambered into the car with a smile splitting his face, waving goodbye to Janine and her mother, he turned around to face the front, fitting on his seatbelt, greeting both of his fathers excitedly. “So did you guys do it?

“Yeah. How’d you know?” Butcher asks as he grins back at him from the rearview mirror. Ryan doesn’t disclose that information, he just smirks smugly. Butcher shakes his head at him, letting the question linger. “Did you have fun?” 

“Yes. Janine’s great -” Ryan gets a sudden sense, then he glances over at his silent father, x-ray vision immediately catching onto his displaced ribs. “Dad,” concern spills into his voice, his smile dropping from his face, “you’re hurt, what happened? Billy what happened?” 

“I’m just out of shape.” John replies, stiff. 

Ryan reaches his hand out, rubbing the back of his father’s head. “We can put ice on it and put a wrap on you at home, right Billy?”

“Right. Right.”

John feels another twinge of guilt, subconsciously shifting away from Ryan’s touch. 

Butcher stares at him, lips downturned. 

Ryan’s face falls. “Dad?”

“Sorry. Not feeling too well, Ryan.” 

Butcher clears his throat, feeling the need to take the attention off of John. “Oi, so what did you do at MM’s place?”

Ryan’s eyes linger on John, then he redirects his attention back to Butcher. “Oh, um, well –”