Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He couldn't pry his eyes open; it was as if his eyelids had been sealed shut, a repulsive sensation overwhelming him. Desperately, he rummaged through the cluttered table but came up empty-handed, finding nothing to alleviate his throat's discomfort. In the midst of rubbing his eye, he sensed a gentle touch as someone offered him a cold glass of water, their hand guiding his own.

Gratefully, he muttered a weak "Thanks," his voice barely audible. Attempting to gulp down the water, he managed only a couple of small sips before his stomach churned restlessly. The ensuing fit of coughing threatened to induce vomiting, leaving him feeling sore all over. A hand settled on his back, soothingly tracing circles.

He faintly registered the sensation of wearing a soft T-shirt, realizing he must have been drenched in sweat since a chilly breeze grazed the back of his neck, causing goosebumps to rise. The hand on his back continued its gentle motion, providing a comforting touch.

Weary and devoid of energy, he surrendered to the bed, no longer capable of staying awake. His cough persisted as he managed to pry his eyes halfway open, the silhouette of a figure sitting by his bedside becoming discernible.

"Hey, princess," a deep male voice greeted him. The last time he had been conscious—or at least, somewhat conscious—he recalled shouting at everyone in the room to leave. Yet now, as he contemplated that memory, he couldn't be certain if it truly occurred or if his soul had detached, observing from the outside.

He coughed lightly, attempting to regain control of his voice. Struggling to focus on the figure before him, he inquired, "Who..." Intoxication, a sensation he rarely experienced, now washed over him, leaving him disoriented. It resembled what he had heard others describe as drunkenness—nausea, a splitting headache—but magnified a hundredfold, akin to teetering on the brink of death. Good grief.

"Hey, Homelander," the person near him spoke, their voice sounding distant, as though emanating from behind a wall. Their hands touched his face, sending shivers down his spine with their coldness. He felt the chill and instinctively tugged the blanket further over his head, yearning for warmth. Still, the man persisted, exploring his face from different angles. "Please... refrain from touching... it's cold," he pleaded, succumbing to shivering.

"You're burning up, mate. Let's get you into the shower. Come on," the man urged.

Pushing himself upright, the weight of his limbs—arms, head, legs—felt burdensome, as if they were made of lead. He rested his head on the shoulder of the man attempting to lift him, detecting the scent of inexpensive perfume mingled with an unfamiliar odor and the faint hint of cigarettes.

He overheard the man mutter something unintelligible as he sensed his legs being raised. At first, he entertained the notion of soaring through the air, only to realize he remained firmly grounded.

Everything unfolded in a blur of chaos and urgency. The team struggled to restrain Soldier Boy, but their efforts were futile. Even under the influence of Temp V, Butcher and the others couldn't match his strength. Amidst the commotion, Homelander focused on his unconscious son, who lay on the ground. The boy had been knocked out by a powerful blow.

Soldier Boy broke free from their grasp and made a beeline for Homelander. With a forceful shove, he sent the rest of the team sprawling to the ground. Butcher, recovering the quickest, noticed Ryan lying motionless. As he rushed to his side, a surge of relief flooded over him when he felt a faint pulse. He hadn't noticed it at first, fearing the worst, but the boy was alive. With a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, Butcher's tension eased slightly.

Through gritted teeth, Soldier Boy taunted, "Better dead than growing up with a worthless wanker like you, you weak bastard!" He spat in Homelander's face, a moment of dark humor amidst the chaos. Soldier Boy attempted to throw a piece of glass at Butcher and the boy, but his weakened position hindered his aim.

MM hurried to Butcher's side. "Butcher, we need to get the hell out of here. These two are on a collision course to destroy everything." Frenchie and Kimiko emerged from the door, Frenchie struggling to regain his footing after Soldier Boy's assault.

Butcher glanced at the dueling supes, their words lost in the cacophony around them. "Let them annihilate each other, for all I care," he muttered, cradling Ryan in his arms. Almost in a whisper, the boy uttered, "Dad..." Butcher knew the boy wasn't referring to him, but to Homelander. They made their way out of the hall, MM leading the way.

As they descended the stairs in a hurry, the sky erupted in a blinding flash, illuminating the surroundings as if it were daytime. A deafening blast followed, accompanied by a gust of wind that felt like a bomb had detonated. Butcher shielded his eyes from the dust, holding the boy even closer. Frenchie joined them, and they rushed to the waiting car. "Quickly, we've fucked up big time!" Frenchie exclaimed.

MM secured Ryan in the backseat, his concern evident. Butcher stared at the boy's face, searching for visible injuries. Though no wounds were apparent, Ryan looked pale and struggled to catch his breath. "He's alive, but he's not well. We need to get him home as soon as possible," Butcher stated with urgency.

As they drove away from the collapsing Vought tower, the city was in chaos. People gathered to witness the spectacle, sirens blaring in the distance. Ryan remained asleep, unaware of the events and the news that would soon reach him. Butcher couldn't help but wonder how the boy would react when he woke up and learned of his father's demise, there was no way Homelander could survive that blast, even Soldier Boy maybe did. They had grown closer recently, and Ryan's devotion to Homelander was undeniable. Explaining the situation to him wouldn't be easy.

Butcher watched the news coverage, showing the mourning crowd gathering in a park near the tower. People remembered Homelander as if he were a departed loved one. Butcher couldn't recall witnessing such a massive gathering in a long time. Homelander had been a truly popular figure, and it struck Butcher that despite everything, Ryan would likely be affected by the loss of his father.

He had hoped to find solace in Homelander's absence, believing it would bring an end to Vought's tyranny. But deep down, Butcher knew that a void had been left behind—one that would be filled by others, hungry for power and control. The fight against Vought was far from over.

Butcher turned off the television and sat in silence, contemplating their next move. They needed to stay one step ahead of Vought, anticipating their every move. The battle had only just begun, and their mission to expose the truth and bring justice to the world demanded their unwavering dedication.

He walked back into the living room, where the rest of the team gathered. Their faces reflected a mix of exhaustion, grief, and determination. Butcher took a deep breath and addressed them, his voice steady and resolute. "We've suffered setbacks, but we can't let it break us. Vought may have lost one supe, but there are others waiting to take his place. We need to expose their corruption and bring them down once and for all."

Annie nodded, her determination unwavering. "You're right, Butcher. We can't afford to falter now. We need to gather evidence, rally support, and fight back. The world needs to know the truth."

The room filled with a renewed sense of purpose as they discussed their plan. Hughie shared ideas about reaching out to their allies, utilizing their contacts within the media and government.

Butcher's gaze shifted towards Ryan, who was still resting on the couch. The boy stirred in his sleep, his face serene. Butcher couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him, knowing the weight that would fall on his shoulders when he woke up. Ryan had been through so much already, and exposing him to the truth about his father's actions could shatter him further. Butcher silently vowed to shield the boy from the darkest aspects of their fight and give him a chance at a normal life, free from the shadows of Vought and supes.

With their determination solidified and their minds set on the task ahead, the team prepared to dismantle the corrupt empire that had held them captive for far too long. The road would be treacherous, filled with challenges and sacrifices, but they were ready to face it together.

As they finalized their plans, Butcher couldn't help but think of the fallen. Their memories fueled his resolve, reminding him of the stakes involved. The fight against Vought was personal now, and Butcher would stop at nothing to bring justice to those who had wronged them.

With their hearts aflame and their minds focused, the team set out on their mission, ready to expose the truth, dismantle Vought, and ensure a better future for themselves, Ryan, and the world. United, they would be the beacon of light in the darkness, fighting against the shadows that threatened to consume them all.

As bad as Homelander was, Butcher paced the apartment with his hands behind his back, thinking about Ryan. Would he really care that much?

"Butcher, sit down or fuck off if you're going to walk around the room like that. I'm dizzy from watching you." said MM.

"Really, Butcher, what do you think so, we just won. All that's left is to destroy Vought completely, whose greatest hero is gone. Now we can move forward at a slower pace." said Hughie, tensed himself at the sight of his worried expression. Hughie exchanged glances with Annie, she shrugged.

Butcher huffed. Hearing a knock on the door, he went and opened it.

Maeve stood before him. She sure looked better than all of them. "Hi."

"I'd be less surprised if Homelander showed up instead of you." Butcher stepped aside to let her in, went and sat on the armchair at the edge of the room.

Annie got up and hugged Maeve. "I'm so glad you're okay." Maeve sighed, patting her back. "Me too."

Maeve realized that the TV was on, still reporting on last night's events, the whole country locked into it. The host was talking about what kind of terrorist Soldier Boy is.

Maeve turned her gaze around the dimly lit room, a peculiar expression etched on her face. As her eyes met Butcher's, an unspoken heaviness filled the air, thickening it with unspoken emotions.

"Can we talk for a moment?" Butcher had anticipated this conversation, a moment of respite amidst the chaos. He stood up with a grunt, and together they made their way to the apartment space and onto the fire escape. Butcher reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and extended the pack to Maeve, who accepted it. The soft glow of the cityscape enveloped them as they settled into a companionable silence.

Perched on the stairs, Butcher began to feel the aftermath of the adrenaline-fueled chaos. Fatigue settled in, his legs and head throbbing with a dull ache. His brain felt like it was leaking from his ear once more, reminiscent of the sea's embrace. He shook his head vigorously, attempting to dislodge the residual disorientation. A trickle of green-black liquid escaped, staining the ground, amplifying the throbbing ache in his head.

Maeve turned her gaze towards him, her countenance tinged with a trace of bitterness. Almost defensively, he uttered, "At least we came out on top." The phrase itself felt foreign on his lips, amidst the melting chaos within his mind.

She let out a sigh, a cloud of smoke dissipating into the night air. "How did you manage to survive, Maeve?" Butcher's body bore the scars of the battle, his appearance a testament to the toll it had taken. Maeve, on the other hand, seemed untouched, as if she had just emerged from a refreshing shower. Butcher, in comparison, felt broken and empty, both physically and internally.

Maeve took a drag from her cigarette before answering. "When things started to spiral out of control, I made my escape through the emergency ladder before the building collapsed. Luckily, most of the floors were vacant, but there were people trapped on the lower levels. I managed to rescue them, and just as I emerged, the explosion erupted." She flicked the ash off her cigarette, her gaze fixated on the ground. "I caught a glimpse of Homelander battling Soldier Boy as I fled."

Butcher let out a weary sigh. "Any casualties in the building? Aside from those two bloody wankers." He, too, sprinkled the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, the small act a reflection of the crumbling chaos within.

"Fortunately, no one was harmed. They made it out just in time." Maeve stood in silence, her eyes fixated on the iron railing beside her. The iron that connected the lower ladder to the ceiling exhibited signs of wear and decay, with spots of rust and peeling paint. As she peeled off a piece of white paint, she discovered the iron beneath was tinged with a shade of dark green.

"I was going to discuss that as well," she murmured absentmindedly.

Butcher's brows furrowed, sensing a change in tone. He flicked his cigarette down the stairs and extinguished it with his foot. "I don't like the sound of that." His words held a tinge of caution as he looked at her intently.

"Soldier Boy is deceased, but Homelander managed to escape. However, he's in critical condition," Maeve informed, her voice carrying a mixture of weariness and concern.

Butcher took a deep breath, rubbing his weary eyes with his hands. The liquid continued its relentless drip from his ear, reverberating through his pounding head. He vigorously massaged his eyes until white dots danced before his vision. "Bloody hell," he uttered, the frustration resonating within him. He turned his gaze towards Maeve.

His fists clenched tightly. "Where have they taken him? Let's finish him off once and for all." As he rose to his feet, he leaned against the railing, his dizziness threatening to overcome him. Sweat streamed down his forehead, his entire being engulfed in a wave of nausea.

Maeve reached out, supporting him, understanding the turmoil that plagued him. She allowed him to lean on her, silently affirming his need for stability. "It's not that simple, Butcher. It's not Vought anymore; Neuman has taken charge."

Butcher squinted, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What the bloody hell? Neuman? How is that even possible? And why?"

Maeve let out a weary sigh. "After the building collapsed, Neuman's operatives arrived from her office to secure Homelander. I've heard he lost his powers and is in dire condition."

A deep breath escaped Butcher's lips, his hands instinctively gripping his head. It felt as if the liquid within his ear was mocking him, intensifying the pain that consumed him. He rubbed his temples vigorously, the strain visible on his face. "Fuck," he exhaled sharply. "Fuck this utter bollocks." He met Maeve's gaze, his eyes burning with determination.

He tightened his fists, his voice filled with resolve. "Wherever they've taken him, we'll go and end him. No more delays." As he spoke, his hands began to sweat, his eagerness to crush Homelander's existence palpable.

Maeve's voice held a note of caution. "Think about Ryan, Butcher. If we act impulsively, the consequences could devastate the boy." His furrowed eyebrows betrayed his frustration.

"Are you really telling me this, Maeve? That man destroyed your life, our lives. Are you jesting?"

"Butcher, please consider the bigger picture. With Homelander in our control, we possess an invaluable trump card to dismantle Vought completely. By protecting Ryan and revealing the truth to him at the right time, he can have a chance at a normal life. Homelander, stripped of his powers, is now weaker than an average person."

An incredulous expression settled on Butcher's face, his mouth agape in disbelief. "You must be taking the piss."

"I assure you, I'm not."

"In that case, it's even better. We'll expose him to the world and bring him down." His hands trembled, his desire to crush Homelander intensifying.

Maeve's grip tightened on his arm, a blend of concern and determination etched on her face. "Butcher, we need to be strategic. Let's ensure our victory is comprehensive. Together, we can triumph over Vought and secure a better future for Ryan and the world."

With her words resonating within him, Butcher took a moment to absorb the weight of their decision. The fight against Vought had taken a personal turn, demanding careful consideration and planning. Determination ignited within him once more as they stood on the precipice of a decisive battle.

She pondered the situation for a moment, furrowing her brow. "So, Neuman is willing to hand him over to us, but there's a catch. She has certain demands," she said, gently tousling Butcher's hair. His mind raced with possibilities. "And if we refuse? What happens then?"

Maeve gazed off into the sprawling cityscape, her expression filled with uncertainty. "I'm not entirely sure. Neuman hasn't been clear about what she wants exactly. She just mentioned that she wants to have a conversation with you and your crew."

He sighed, feeling a mix of curiosity and wariness about Neuman's intentions. "But what does she hope to gain from all of this?"

Maeve's eyes met his, her voice tinged with a hint of understanding. "It seems that their primary objective is to seize control of Vought. You see, Homelander used to be in charge before everything went downhill. Now that he's incapacitated and unable to even function properly, they probably plan to appoint a temporary replacement."

He mused over the possibilities, his mind racing through the limited options available. "And who might that be? Any ideas?"

Maeve thought for a moment, her voice filled with uncertainty. "Well, Ashley was already on the board, so it's likely that she'll step in to replace Homelander as well. But beyond that, it's all quite vague and uncertain at this point."

As they stood there, contemplating the intricate web of power struggles and unknown motives, the city buzzed with life around them, unaware of the impending changes that could reshape the landscape of their world.

Maeve looked at him curiously. "You don't seem too upset about Homelander's condition. I thought you'd be eager to finish him off yourself. I mean, you were but it has been eaiser to talk you into it than I thought."

Butcher sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Believe me, there's a part of me that wants to see him suffer. But seeing him reduced to that state... it's almost enough punishment. Besides, there are other battles to fight."

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "Other battles?"

Butcher nodded. "Vought may be weakened now, but they're not going down without a fight. We still need to expose them for all the shit they've done, bring them down completely. And there's still the matter of Neuman. She's a dangerous one, and we can't let her consolidate her power."

Maeve leaned against the ladder, looking out at the city skyline. "You're right. We can't stop now. We've come too far to let it all go to waste."

Butcher smirked. "Damn right. We've got a lot of work ahead of us. And with Homelander out of the picture, it might just give us the edge we need."

Maeve glanced at Butcher, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Butcher, are you alright? You don't look so good."

He waved off her concern. "Just a bit banged up from the fight. I'll be fine. It's nothing compared to what we've been through."

Maeve nodded, she knew it was not that, but she didn't push it. "We should get back inside. The others are probably wondering where we went."

Chapter Text

Butcher and Maeve re-entered the apartment together, their expressions grave and determined. The news they had just delivered hung heavily in the air, cutting through the festive mood like a sharp blade. The rest of the team gathered around, their curiosity piqued by the revelations.

MM, always the voice of reason, spoke up first. "What exactly is Neuman aiming for? If Homelander is in her possession, it must be for a reason. But I still can't grasp the bigger picture."

Maeve, leaned her back against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. "My guess is that after eliminating those who didn't align with her in the parliament, she now wants to step into an even stronger position. Neuman craves power, and having Homelander on her side would undoubtedly bolster her influence." She let out a deep sigh. "However, until we confront her directly, we can only speculate."

Annie, still grappling with the shocking revelations, furrowed her brow. "But if Neuman is in such a high position already, why does she need to involve us? She could easily manipulate Homelander on her own."

Hughie, was lost in thought, examining the patterns on the apartment's carpet. "Perhaps she's uncertain about how to handle Homelander. Maybe she needs someone who's willing to take risks for her, someone like us." The team turned to look at Hughie, surprised by his sudden insight. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean, before we found out about the... uh- she was the Head Popper, we spent some time together. Maybe she sees potential in us."

Butcher, picking up his car keys from the table, took charge of the situation. "Your speculations might just hit the mark, lads. I'm heading out to confront Neuman, and Maeve, you're welcome to join me or not, it's your choice. MM, I need you by my side mate."

His gaze fell upon Ryan, still peacefully resting on the couch. "If Ryan wakes up while we're gone, Kimiko and Frenchie, make sure to keep him away from the TV. Distract him, keep him occupied. I'll fill the boy in on the news once I return, after our conversation with Neuman." Kimiko and Frenchie nodded, understanding the importance of their task.

"Annie and Hughie, I want you to dig deep into Vought. I know they're after you, Annie, and it's likely that they're hunting for the rest of us too. Keep a low profile, gather information discreetly. We need to uncover what's really going on at Vought, who's vying for control, and what Neuman's true motives are. Share your findings when we reconvene." Butcher adjusted his jacket, his resolve unyielding, and left the building, with Maeve and MM following close behind.

The remaining members of the team exchanged determined glances, ready to play their parts in this dangerous game. Their paths diverged temporarily, each embarking on a mission critical to unraveling the mysteries that shrouded their world. With a shared understanding of the stakes, they vowed to regroup, their collective knowledge forming the key to their survival.

They walked towards the car, the engine humming softly as they approached. Maeve expressed her reluctance to join them, not wanting to draw attention to herself. After bidding farewell to MM and Butcher, she ventured off on her own path. Meanwhile, the two men climbed into the car and embarked on their journey to the address Maeve had provided.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle remained heavy with unspoken thoughts, punctuated only by the faint sound of the radio playing in the background. The air seemed still, disturbed only by the occasional twitch of Butcher's knee. Breaking the silence, Butcher finally spoke up. "Soldier Boy is completely gone. How are you holding up?"

MM let out a weary sigh. "I don't know, Butcher. I should have felt relieved when we heard he was dead, like a weight lifted off my heart. But the restlessness still lingers. I can't help but think that maybe we should have stayed after the explosion."

Butcher clicked his tongue in disapproval. "And have the FBI, the CIA breathing down our necks within minutes? I couldn't risk Ryan's safety."

"You're right," MM conceded, understanding the necessity of their hasty retreat.

A brief stretch of silence ensued, broken only by the soft crackling of Butcher's lighter. After lighting the cigarette, MM finally spoke again. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that Neuman's people managed to snatch Homelander so swiftly?"

Butcher turned to face him, intrigue etched on his face. "How do you mean?"

"So, there's a massive explosion in the dead of night, and we made our escape around what, two in the morning? Yet, right after the blast, someone swoops in and apprehends Homelander. Is Neuman truly that powerful?"

Butcher took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing brightly in the dimly lit car, the sky was looking like it would rain any minute, weather crisp. "There's definitely something fishy going on mate, between the time someone's head got popped and us leaving the scene. We were so fixated on Soldier Boy that we let our guard down. Perhaps Neuman managed to capture Homelander on her own, or maybe she have some supes in her ranks, like her." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Perhaps Neuman has found new allies."

MM wrinkled his nose, uncomfortable with the smoke permeating the air, and rolled down the windows. "Cut that shit out, Butcher. No smoking in the damn car." Butcher smirked, refusing to comply. "Bit late for that, my friend."

After wandering through the thick forest for about thirty minutes, they finally reached a secluded house that stood amidst the wilderness. Passing through the security checkpoints, they entered the beautifully landscaped garden. Butcher couldn't help but voice his thoughts, studying their surroundings.

"Did you notice those two snipers perched on top of the building?" he muttered, his voice filled with concern.

"Yeah, I spotted them too. It's clear they're not taking any chances. They probably have someone lurking in the forest as well. Once they capture the world's mightiest hero, they'll do whatever it takes to keep him secure," the other person replied, their voice tinged with a sense of urgency.

Butcher's gaze swept across the garden and the exterior of the house, analyzing every detail carefully. He couldn't help but express his skepticism, injecting a touch of doubt into the conversation.

"Well, I'm not so sure about that. The security measures they've taken might not be as foolproof as they think," he remarked, his tone suggesting a healthy dose of skepticism.

As they approached the house, the door swung open to reveal a woman, her appearance suggesting she was the maid. Intrigued, they stepped inside and made their way towards what they assumed was the living room. To their surprise, it mirrored the outside atmosphere—unassuming and immaculate. The air within felt so pristine that MM couldn't help but draw a comparison to the sterile environment of a hospital. Despite the chilly weather outside, the room maintained a stable temperature of 25 degrees, providing a comforting contrast.

The interior lacked any distinctive features, save for a collection of small abstract paintings adorning the walls. The occasional small figurines and sculptures were scattered tastefully across the floor and coffee tables, adding a touch of artistic flair.

As they entered the hall, Neuman stood up to greet them warmly. "Welcome, gentlemen," she said, extending his hand towards Butcher, who scrutinized the gesture with suspicion. Deciding against accepting the handshake, Butcher brushed past the woman, while MM graciously shook hands with her.

Butcher's attention was quickly diverted as he moved past the woman and laid eyes upon the bed where Homelander lay. The sight sent a shiver down his spine, for it was an unexpected and unsettling sight.

Homelander lay motionless, his bare chest exposed and vulnerable. An oxygen mask covered his face, concealing his features but allowing the steady rise and fall of his breath to be visible. Above him, a complex web of cables snaked across his upper body, their metallic tendrils glistening under the sterile lights of the room. These cables branched out, connecting to a myriad of machines that surrounded the gurney, their digital screens glowing with data. The cables pulsed with energy, their purpose evident as they transmitted vital information back and forth. The room was filled with a symphony of soft beeps, low whirs, and the occasional hiss of released air. It was a surreal sight, as if Homelander was tethered to this mechanical lifeline, caught in a delicate balance between life and something more fragile. The scene was stark and clinical, yet there was a haunting beauty in the interconnectedness of man and machine, a visual reminder of the fragility and dependence of even the most powerful beings. Butcher's mind immediately wandered to the tempting notion of smashing his head in with a blunt object.

"I thought you were joking when Maeve said you called," Butcher remarked, nonchalantly propping his feet up on the coffee table, his legs crossed at the ankles.

Neuman cast a disapproving glance but held her tongue. MM approached the gurney, carefully examining the motionless figure. "Is he in a coma?"

"In a coma, yes. We anticipate he will awaken within a few days," Neuman responded, her tone carrying a mix of anticipation and caution.

Butcher absentmindedly scratched his unkempt beard. "I'd be positively delighted, my dear, if you could enlighten us on how all this concerns us."

Neuman took a seat at the pristine dining table in the living room, its surface untouched as if it had never been used. With a deliberate motion, she shuffled a few files on the nearby desk, creating an air of controlled chaos. "To put it succinctly, Butcher, I want you to take charge of Homelander." His eyes widened, conveying a sense of urgency. "What the hell?"

"Listen to me without interruption, and I will explain everything. Vought's time has come to an end, and we are on the cusp of a new era. Homelander was once the key to dismantling Vought, but that is no longer the case. Despite the company orchestrating a fake funeral, they have not recovered his body. They are currently engaged in a frantic search. By keeping him under my control, I gain leverage over Vought, perhaps even full control," Neuman explained, her gaze briefly shifting towards Homelander, studying him intently.

MM interjected, still grappling to grasp the significance. "I'm still not comprehending how any of this relates to us."

"The relevance to you is that I am aware of your years-long pursuit of Vought and Homelander. Now you have an entirely new opportunity: we can contain Vought in Homelander's absence."

Butcher rolled his eyes, his frustration evident. "We don't want to contain Vought or any of that rubbish. We want to obliterate it. This conversation is getting bloody boring."

"You will never succeed in destroying Vought, Butcher. It appears you fail to grasp the gravity of what you are dealing with. Even when you believed Vought was vanquished, it emerged from the ashes. What I propose is that you establish a system within Vought where you can both exert control and eliminate the corrupt supes."

The two men locked eyes, silently contemplating Neuman's proposition. MM settled into a seat opposite Neuman, his gaze fixed upon her. "How could that be possible?"

Neuman set aside a few files in front of her, her attention focused on the trio before her, even The Homelander is currently a vegetable, per se. "There are multiple factors at play. First and foremost, there's Homelander. We have him now, and Vought is desperately searching for him. While he may have lost his powers, he has not been entirely stripped of them." Butcher furrowed his brow, seeking further clarification. "What do you mean?"

"What Soldierboy did—the explosion, the energy beam, or whatever name you choose to give it—rendered his powers ineffective. Through examinations conducted by familiar doctors, we discovered that his body was healing itself. The powers were the cause of the damage he sustained." Butcher's gaze turned back to Homelander, noticing the bruises, bandages, and stitches adorning his body. It was clear he had suffered severe injuries.

"Currently, his body is endeavoring to heal like that of an ordinary person. We are aiding the process through treatments, medications, and vigilant monitoring, as his condition remains critical. However, we have observed a gradual increase in the V ratio within his body." Neuman handed MM a stack of papers, which he perused, uttering curses under his breath.

"That's how supe bodies function. In addition to white and red blood cells, they possess V cells coursing through their veins. What Soldierboy did was ensure the complete eradication of these cells, as witnessed in other supes. However, Homelander's body miraculously survived. There are only a few V cells left within him, but they are slowly multiplying." Butcher buried his face in his hands. "Bloody hell."

"The catch is that cell reproduction is agonizingly slow. At this pace, it will take months for Homelander to recover, and there is no guarantee these cells will even function properly. His body operates in a vastly different manner, and further research is needed to understand the process."

"Butcher, you are crucial to this process. You will be involved in Homelander's recovery. You can assume the role of caretaker, or perhaps find a way to address your grievances during this time."

"What's in it for me?" Butcher interrupted, his eyes narrowing as he sought personal gain.

"If all goes according to plan, I have an offer for Starlight as well. In Homelander's absence, I will ensure she assumes command of the Seven and even takes control of Vought—a position that could prove advantageous for you. After being labeled a traitor in the aftermath of the recent disaster, she will rise to the top. Throughout this process, you will have a say in the management. And as it stands, Ryan will remain under your care alongside Homelander."

That revelation seized Butcher's attention. Realizing there was no room for foolishness, he recognized that securing Homelander meant they also had control over Ryan.

"I can have Ryan under my custody however I see fit. You do realize that I don't need this scumbag, right?" Butcher's voice dripped with disdain as he dismissed Homelander's importance.

"Ah, but that's where you're mistaken. You do need him. Perhaps you haven't noticed how close he's grown to his father recently. Imagine what he would think if he discovered that you were responsible for his father's demise, after he also lost his mother," Neuman retorted, a hint of slyness in her voice. She was playing a dangerous game, shifting the blame onto Butcher, knowing it would wound him regardless of Homelander's fate.

Butcher's brow furrowed as the realization dawned on him. Neuman was orchestrating a scheme in which he would bear the brunt of the consequences, whether Homelander survived or perished.

"It matters not. I'm certain he can handle it. He handled worse things before." Butcher responded gruffly, his frustration mounting.

Neuman rolled her eyes, dismissing his dismissive tone. "Do you honestly believe that Vought, after losing their most formidable asset, would simply hand over his progeny—the one who carries his very DNA—to you, Butcher?"

She continued. "Moreover, should you accept my offer, your name will be wiped clean from all wanted lists. You will have the opportunity to start anew. I think it is very important for all of you, don't it? Especially some of you that have families." She looked at MM with a side eye.

Restlessly, Butcher's legs began to tremble, a manifestation of his mounting impatience. "And if we refuse?"

Neuman clasped her hands thoughtfully, contemplating her response. "Then Homelander will likely meet his demise. After his death, Vought will appoint another successor, possibly form a new team, and everything will continue as before." She strode toward the stretcher, her gaze fixed on the prone figure. "They'll likely take Ryan as well, for he is Homelander's natural child, bearing his genetic legacy. I believe you understand that you cannot hide the boy forever. Frankly, I dread to think what they might do to him."

Butcher clenched his fists, his gaze shifting between the man lying on the stretcher and the intricate machines that surrounded him. If it weren't for Neuman's intervention, he would have died long ago. If only he had died.

"And what if we were to proceed according to your plan?" Butcher's voice was laced with begrudging curiosity.

"If Starlight accepts my offer, she will become one of the most influential figures within Vought. I intend to enact internal reforms for both supes and regular employees. In the meantime, you may continue your endeavors, eliminating the corrupt supes and pursuing your own agenda. Meanwhile, Butcher, you will remain here," Neuman explained, her voice tinged with a sense of authority. "You will stay by Homelander's side and assume the role of a father to Ryan. After Homelander, you are the person he trusts the most. You can still maintain contact with your team. Ryan, if Homelander does not emerge from his coma, plays a pivotal role." The mention of the boy being treated like a mere pawn in a game incensed Butcher, his blood boiling. "You better stop talkin' about Ryan like he's a lab rat." He sneered.

"While I personally don't think Ryan is a lab rat, rest assured it will be nothing more than an experiment for Vought." Neuman answered.

"If Homelander does awaken from his coma, then we shall reevaluate the circumstances," she continued, a steely resolve underlining her words.

Silence hung in the room, interrupted only by the soft hum of the machines.

"In the meantime, I will handle the business with Vought, sparing you the burdens of bureaucracy. What you don't understand is that I don't think much differently than you do. Together we can rebuild Vought." she declared, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I trust you will take your time to consider your answer."

Butcher straightened himself, his eyes meeting Neuman's gaze with determination. "Yeah, I will. I'm going to 'ave a chat with Tinkerbell and the rest of the team. It's not a decision I can make alone."

She hummed, acknowledging his response. "As you wish. I shall eagerly await your answer."

Once again, Neuman extended her hand. This time, Butcher gripped it firmly, his grip firm and unyielding. A subtle smile graced Neuman's face. "I look forward to doing business with you, William Billy Butcher."

Chapter Text

MM pulled the car to a stop in front of their office, and Butcher turned to him. "Aren't you coming up?" he asked, his eyes filled with a mix of weariness and anticipation.

MM shook his head, put down his sunglasses, putting them in their case. "Nah, I need to go see the girls. I'll drop by later in the evening." Butcher snorted in response, stepped out of the car, and made his way into the building.

As Butcher reached their apartment, he found only Annie inside. She was seated at the table, engrossed in her laptop. By the looks of it, she showered recently, smelling and looking better. 

"Where are the boys?" he inquired, scanning the room.

Annie let out a sigh and leaned back, her expression laden with exhaustion. "When Ryan woke up, Kimiko and Frenchie took him out to grab something to eat. As for Hughie... I have no idea where he disappeared off to." She lowered her head and absentmindedly scribbled on the paper before her. "Honestly, I don't even care," she added, shrugging, muttering to herself.

Butcher sat on the couch with a oompf, taking a deep breath. His head throbbed once again, reminding him of his perpetual pain. He removed his jacket and tossed it aside haphazardly. "Sounds like things aren't going too well," he remarked, studying Annie intently.

"I suppose we've never been on the best of terms. The recent events with Soldier Boy only served to hasten the inevitable end," Annie responded, her voice tinged with resignation. She rubbed her arm absentmindedly, observed Butcher with a thoughtful gaze. Butcher talked again. "How are you feeling about your... situation with the boy? In general."

Annie couldn't help but laugh lightly. "Have you taken up relationship therapy now? My my Butcher, what gems do you have that we don't know."

He knew she was just teasing and he really liked it in these dark times. He rolled his eyes playfully, "I've certainly had more experience with relationships than you, Tinkerbell. So spill it," he replied, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lighting one.

Annie studied Butcher for a moment. Years of hardship had etched lines of sternness on his face, but it would be foolish to deny his undeniable attractiveness, she didn't thought much of it but now it was out in the sun. Like he said, he probably had lot more experience than her. She crossed her arms over her chest and began swaying back and forth in her chair. "I don't feel anything for him anymore, to be honest. It's become a challenge to distinguish what I'm currently feeling, what's real, and what's merely temporary. I feel like we can be good friends but... yeah... that's just it, good friends." then she added, "Not even good friends probably. Just... friends."

Butcher hummed in acknowledgment, the ashes from his cigarette falling into the waiting ashtray. "Perhaps it's time for a break. Even if you were to end things with him, you both know you'll likely still be in the same environment, right? Unless one of you decides to leave the team, which, for the record, I'd prefer you both stay. Maybe it would be beneficial for you to create some distance and take time to reflect."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "I never thought I'd hear such mature advice from you. You do surprise me sometimes, Butcher holy shit."

"You can call me Billy if you like, just as I call you Annie," he responded, she rised from her seat and walking over to him. Annie looked down to see his face. "And can I still spank your ass every now and then, that we are on first name basis now?" She asked.

He wasn't expecting something like this but neverthless it was fun. "I wouldn't mind, luv," he retorted, grinning mischievously. Annie rolled her eyes playfully, but a subtle smile danced on her lips.

She sat next to h'm, the TV turned off, so the apartment was pretty quiet except for the street noises outside. An ambulance drove by at full speed, police sirens were heard. "Is Neuman telling the truth? Is Homelander really alive?"

Butcher nodded. "Unfortunately so, I saw it with my own eyes. The blond bastard was just lying on the gurney barely breathin'." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "It was a very absurd sight. They tied machines and stuff all over him, bandaged him, stitched up some of his wounds, and he had an oxygen mask on his face. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it."

Annie frowned slightly. "Will he wake up?"

"Neuman said he's in a coma right now. They predict he'll wake up in a few days -or weeks-, but from what they say everything is extremely uncertain. It would be tremendous if he just died on his own." Annie gasped in surprise when Butcher also mentioned the V that was proliferating in Homalander's body.

"This - how is that possible? When Soldier Boy shot Kimiko, her powers were immediately destroyed, instantly." She snapped her fingers to better explain what she was talking about.

"Cunt's body is not human, that's all. I'm not that surprised really. He's not even 'Supe', he's another creature, he's a cunt."

She sighed, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "And what did Neuman want from you?"

"I want to talk about the details of that subject when others come, I cannot afford to repeat myself. There is a more important matter, directly related to you."

Annie was lost in thought when she heard the offer presented to her. "I'm not going to tell you to say something outright because I think Neuman isn't 100% honest with us, I feel like she's hiding something. If you do, though, we'll have officially infiltrated Vought probably."

Annie was so confused, she frowned. "Why would Vought listen to Neuman?"

"She's become a powerful bureaucrat, and now she's got Homelander in her hand, even though nobody knows about it. Her relationship with Edgar Stan is clear, she's not bad at all with the FBI, so what else?" He got up from his seat and went to get a water bottle from the fridge. His eyes darkened for a moment, he thought he was going to faint, and the pain in his head was coming on slowly, he could feel it. He slowly put his hand on the refrigerator, trying not to fall to the floor. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, waited for the dizziness to pass, and took a deep breath.

"Butcher? Are you okay?" Annie seemed to stand up.

Butcher gestured to the girl to sit down. "I'm a little dizzy, that's all." 

With a trembling hand, he closed the refrigerator door and sipped the water, leaning his back against the door.

There was silence for a while. Annie scratched her head. "Honestly, this whole head of Vought talk is making my blood run cold, Neuman had asked me to take her side before, and as you can imagine, the job interview didn't go well. What do you think, what do you think I should do?"

He took another sip of the water thoughtfully. The cold water gave him some relief, he didn't feel as dizzy as before. "Since we've come this far, I say it wouldn't hurt to try our luck. I'd rather have you in the company than leave everything in Neuman's hands. As much as we don't know what plans she have right now..." He crumpled the bottle in his hand and shook it in the trash.

Annie nodded. "You're right. Neuman will probably reach out to me tomorrow or something, and I'll talk to her about the details again." Butcher came and sat next to Annie again, this time closer. Annie softly put her hand on his leg, Butcher looked into her face. "Are you going to tell Ryan? Or rather, what are you going to say?"

He sighed, not knowing why, maybe because it made him feel safe, he placed his hand on Annie's. His hand was much larger than the girl's, compared to the softness of her hand, and the scars and veins on it suddenly looked like a brown speck of dirt on a beautiful white dress. Even feeling the warmth of her hand helped calm the palpitations, albeit a little. "It's unclear whether Homelander will ever be able to come out of his coma, and…" he sighed heavily. "I don't know how Ryan will react if I tell the boy that his father is alive now, and then if he dies from a coma, whether he can handle it or not. That's why I'm hesitant to tell the truth. Homelander is missing, and Vought is looking for him, but he's dead to keep people from panicking. I will tell him these, that he isn't dead." He stroked the corner of her hand with his thumb. "All I'll lie is to say I don't know where he is. It's a pink lie in a way."

He grinned at Annie, but the girl had a serious expression on her face. "I hate lies Billy, no matter what color is." The sudden use of his first name caused him to be momentarily stunned, even though he had given permission, he felt strange and could not explain why he felt so strange. "The reason Hughie and I deteriorated so terribly fast was because our relationship was officially built on lies from the start." Butcher couldn't understand why she was suddenly talking about her old relationship again, and she could have given an example from somewhere else. She must have been poking around, yet he didn't comment.

 Annie looked into Billy's eyes. "Will you be honest with me?" Butcher took a deep breath, couldn't break eye contact. "From now on, I'll try to be honest with the whole team." he said quietly. He didn't feel the need to say, 'I don't have much time left.' but Annie seemed to understand that already.

Chapter Text

When the others returned to the office, Butcher explained what had happened.

"Do you have a plan in mind, Butcher?" Hughie asked, and Annie seemed reluctant to look in his direction, her eyes fixed on the carpet.

Butcher took a deep breath. "I'll play the nurse, as they say, for a week or two. Meanwhile, we'll spend time with Ryan. Afterwards... I'll kill him, take Ryan with me, and go away."

A hush fell over the room, and eyes darted between team members. Butcher was surprised that no one said anything. "What, no comment?"

MM took a deep breath and placed the pen he was turning in his hand at the table he was sitting at, he broke the silence. "Butcher, I'm probably going to regret saying this, but it's not a good idea."

Butcher looked into MM's eyes in surprise, he cleared his throat under Butcher's gaze. "I think we should follow Neuman's plan and see what happens." Frenchie shook his head. "Mon Charcutier is right. Let's go and finish him off while we have permission to approach him."

Suddenly an argument broke out, everyone started saying things to each other and Frenchie started shouting at MM. Butcher rubbed the sides of his forehead, his head aching again, his eye twitching. He just wanted to go home and sleep, not stay here and listen to idiots argue.

"Enough!"

The room plunged into darkness, a momentary blackout that accentuated the luminosity of Annie's eyes, ablaze like street lamps in the night.

As everyone fell silent, Annie, still aglow, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she reopened them, her eyes had returned to their normal brown hue. Butcher scrutinized her gaze as she began to speak.

"Neuman called me after you came and went to sleep, Butcher." After Butcher's conversation with her, he took a nap for a few hours before everyone else arrived.

"What did you talk about?" asked Frenchie.

"She wants me to take over Vought. By Vought, I mean, she wants me to take over the position Homelander took after Stan Edgar left."

"She already told us that. So we knew she would come to you with an offer. What did you answer?" said MM, standing up in the heat of argument, leaning his hands on the table now.

Annie took a deep breath. "I didn't reject it outright, nor did I accept it. When I said I would think about it, she said they wouldn't move until they got my answer."

Butcher grinned. "It seems they are in dire need of their vast knowledge and talents."

Annie rolled her eyes. "It's clear they want a Supe to take over. Even though Neuman is in a very powerful position now, Vought is still Vought," she paused for a few seconds. "It's obvious they don't want to choose a normal person."

“Why is this detail important?” asked Hughie, leaning against the wall.

"Because instead of a knowledgeable bureaucrat, someone who had been at Vought before, Neuman reached out to me directly. Apart from being a co-captain before, my normal position is actually straightforward and obvious. As she told you," he looked at Butcher and MM, "The company is planning to renovate within the company."

“And what does this renovation involve?” asked Frenchie.

"Cleaning up useless, troublesome Supes in general who shouldn't actually be in the company?" said Annie scratching her head, unsure. Butcher took a deep breath, seeming to enjoy the conversation. "Honey is dripping from your mouth, Tinkerbell."

For a moment, Annie noticed Butcher leaning back on the couch and spreading his legs to sit in a more comfortable position.

She looked away and turned to MM. "So you're right, MM. I think we should go with Neuman's plan first. It would also be better for Ryan, even though Homelander is a monster, he and Ryan have become incredibly close lately. Ryan cares about him very much." When they told the kid that Homelander wasn't actually dead, he was literally jumping -more like flying- for joy.

Butcher tsked. "I don't trust Neuman, she's up to something."

Annie sighed. "Neuman is already very strong right now, Butcher. If we don't accept her offer, we will miss this chance even though we could have been involved, seeing the things unwrap in front of our eyes. We will probably become wanted again even."

"You're not the one who should be nursing Homelander anyway." said Butcher, looking into her eyes. "You will go to your company, bossing people around, sitting in your-"

"Okay, Butcher, if that's all you have a problem with, I'll help you, okay? I'll come with you whenever I'm not busy." It was obvious from her voice how fed up she was, she waved her hands and arms angrily. She didn't even address the things he said before that. "Would that please you?" she asked sarcastically.

Butcher grinned as if he had caught his prey, licked his lips. "Very."

MM shuffled the papers in front of him. "Then we have an agreement. For now, we are proceeding according to Neuman's plan. While you take care of these matters, I will investigate Homelander's general condition. It will be useful for us to understand how his body works."

Frenchie waved his hand. "No need. I'll take care of that." MM looked at the man's face. "I said I'll take care of it, Frenchie. You can deal with something else."

Annie and Butcher looked at each other. “I said I would, man.” said Frenchie.

They seemed to start arguing again, but Butcher stood up and clapped his hands. "Great job, guys! Frenchie and MM can work together, after all, we're on the same team, right? Try not to kill eachother if you will." He smiled and looked at the two men, the two men in question were busy shooting fire at each other with their eyes.

Annie seemed to tremble slightly. "You sounded like Homelander, I got chills." Butcher looked incredibly offended. Annie grinned. "I'm just kidding."

Hughie noticed the electricity between the two. Although one part of him tried to convince himself that he was thinking wrong, the other part was busy listening to his heart.

Chapter Text

About two days later, Butcher woke up with an incredible headache, it was almost noon. When he looked at his pillow, he saw the green stains from his ears. He took off his pillowcase and sheets and threw them into the washing machine, after that he went into the shower.

In the past days, he took his time to think about whole situation. They gathered some intel, about Neuman, about Vought in general. 

After a quick breakfast he left the house without wasting any time. He had left Ryan with Kimiko and Frenchie again at night in case he needed to go to the hospital or that he might not wake up in the morning - literally never wake up again. He was beginning to realize that he needed to do something about this shit situation too.

In the car, he called Frenchie first. "How's Ryan doing?"

"We had breakfast. Kimiko and him went for a walk while I did some research. Vought is still searching hard for Homelander. Did he have a tracker on him, Mr. Butcher?"

"Yeah, all supes have them like a leash." He realized it a second later. "They must have yanked the tracker, fucking hell. That's why they cannot still find him." It was clear as day now.

"So he really lost his powers, as they say. We used power cutters to remove the one from Annie's arm. They know what they're doing."

Butcher nodded to himself. “It must be so, good thing you gave me that information, Frenchie. Keep an eye on Ryan. I will call you later.”

After his talk with Frenchie, he called Annie. "Hey Tinkerbell, how are ya holdin' up?"

He heard her sigh on the other end of the phone. "I feel incredibly tired. I couldn't sleep at all last night." Butcher understood, he had a bad night too, even though he gave himself few days after the incident, he was feeling half dead.

He didn't know how to console her, so he got straight to the point. "I'm going to the house where Homelander is being held." Annie hummed. "I guessed it."

"When are you coming? I haven't forgotten your promise." he asked in a slightly playful voice. Annie yawned loudly. "I need to get some sleep. I went to the company in the morning."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there, need to get some sleep. I'll be there in the afternoon."

"I hope you won't be lazy like that and put all the work on me."

The girl laughed lightly, sounding really tired. "Don't worry, I won't ditch you."

"I hope so. See you then."

"See you around, Billy."

He soon arrived at the house where Homelander was being held. This time, when he entered the house, another woman was waiting for him in the living room next to Neuman. Homelander was lying on the bed, no different than yesterday, again motionless, unable to tell whether he was breathing or not if it weren't for the machines around him and the mask on his face.

"This time you brought your buddy too." said Butcher sarcastically. He sat directly on the sofa again, Neuman was sitting on the other sofa already, looking at her phone, the woman was standing.

She put her phone in her purse, ignored what he said. "Welcome, Butcher. I believe you have accepted my offer."

Butcher looked at Homelander again. He felt as he might suddenly wake up and grab his throat. He felt the need to check him with his eyes every few minutes. "Still chewing on it."

Neuman hummed. "Why are you here then?"

Butcher clasped his hands in front of him and crossed his fingers. "I have a few questions." He turned his eyes to the woman standing. "Who's this?"

"Doctor Olivia. She is Homelander's primary doctor." Primary doctor? How many people were looking after this monster, he thought.

The woman gave a slight nod. "I'm lucky she's here, then. I don't know why you want me to take care of him. I see you're not short on money." He pointed to the very beautiful interior of the house. "Why don't you get a caregiver or something?"

A slight smile appeared on Neuman's face. "Because you are the person who knows him best. Besides, I think you can get closer this way."

Butcher's face morphed into shape to shape. "Excuse me?"

The woman took a deep breath. "I hope you'll have time to get to know each other."

Butcher had a hard time not laughing. "You're going crazy, aren't you?"

"Butcher, if Homelander wakes up, you'll be working together in a way."

"First of all, it's not even clear if he'll wake up. Second, how do you expect me to have a conversation with someone who's in a coma?"

Neuman blinked in surprise. "Weren't you informed? He woke up last night."

Butcher felt his blood drain. He slid towards the other end of the seat as if he had been burned, and stared at the wheeled bed. "Why am I finding out about this now?"

The woman looked genuinely confused. "I have no idea. I had assigned someone to inform you as soon as he woke up. Anyway, now you know."

He didn't know what to do. He didn't expect to encounter something like this when he came. He figured he'd have at least a few more days, or better yet a few more weeks, before he woke up. He was incredibly confused right now, and it sure wasn't due to the tumor eating away at his brain or whatever the hell it was.

"What do you expect me to do?"

Neuman smiled knowingly, this conversation now meant Butcher accepted the plan. "We can say that he is still being fed by machines. He woke up once during the night. As soon as he woke up, he vomited everywhere. After that he screamed to everyone, had a episode, tried to... harm himself let's say. Gave him medication." Butcher didn't smell any vomit, and he looked the same in appearance as he had seen yesterday. He didn't want to think about it too much.

"Our expectation from you is this: I want you to be with him when he wakes up. We are already constantly checking him with cameras, doctors are also in the building. However, when he wakes up, we want you to follow any movement, speech, hunger or thirst." Butcher had already noticed the cameras around the house when he first entered the house. This meant minus for him. "You will talk with him, he can be in a frenzied state when he is up. You don't have to keep tabs on him or anything like that, other than important stuff. I just don't want to be him alone."

"What if he tries to hurt me, or hurt himself like last night?" 

Doctor Olivia started. "You can always call for help. We don't want to sedate him constantly, it is not good for his health, physically and mentally." His mental health were not good to begin with.

"How thoughtful of you. Do you want me to wash him or change his diaper too?" he asked, grinning sideways again. Even though he smiled, he didn't know what he actually felt at the time.

Neuman rolled her eyes, she was doing that a lot. "The meals will be prepared at home and delivered to you. You can get water from the small refrigerator next to you, or you can just go to kitchen if you want. If Homelander wakes up and wants to eat, you can press the button next to him. This button also applies if you want to eat, or if you want to drink coffee or something. While he is sleeping, you can watch TV or read a book, that is, if you are reading, there is a library upstairs. You can use the bathroom in any way you want, it is upstairs. You can hangout in the backyard too, it is beautiful season for flowers honestly." Butcher had now noticed the cabinet under the small coffee table next to him, and there were a few buttons on the table. There were also remote controls in the compartment next to the seat. Looked out of the window briefly, there were many trees and flowers as he can see from that angle, it was looking inviting as she said. He will have time to explore around anyway.

Doctor continued. "If there is a problem with his health, you can call a doctor from the buttons. We monitor him 24/7, but we offered such an option just in case." He spread out a little more on the couch, getting comfortable. "How much money will you pay? You are aware that I am not doing this just out of good intentions."

Neuman stood up. "You and your team will be handsomely rewarded." 

"What does this having with my team?" he was actually curious, at this angle the only working ones was him and Annie.

"I have many jobs for everyone, don't worry about it." she said.

She went and brought a roll of papers that in folders from the dining table and placed them on the man's lap. "What the hell is this?" He shuffled the papers. "It's just a few papers you need to sign. Because you will be working with us, for legal reasons let's say. They will be sent to your friends too."

"I wonder how long you have been doing this legal business shit." muttered Butcher. "I'm not just going to sign these."

Neuman shrugged. "You can sign it until the evening. You will have plenty of time to read."

Butcher looked up at the woman, exhausted. “When can I fuck off?”

"We can say that you will work nine to five. I'm sure you don't have a better job. You can stay here after that too, there is a bedroom upstairs, this is a full functioning home. I bet it is better than yours." You don't know shit, he thought to himself. "You don't need to be with him every minute. But it would be better if you were with him when he wakes up." she added.

"Oh, and if you need to clean up or Homelander wants to go to the bathroom and such, you can still call a push-button worker for anything else basically."

Butcher put the papers aside and leaned back. "So all I have to do is sit here all day, do whatever I want, have maids, chefs for myself and chat with this creature if it wakes up. That's it?"

"You understand so quickly, congratulations." she smiled. Butcher wanted to get up and punch the woman.

"You're up to something, I know." he said from between his teeth. There must be a catch.

Neuman took her bag and put it on her arm. "I'm not messing around with anything, Butcher, I'm pretty transparent with you. You're here because you're not stupid, either. If you choose to leave, your team will be left without any information on Homelander even if they don't get caught by the FBI. You're here because you're a smart guy." She said solemnly. They just looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds. "Also you can bring Ryan here whenever you want. He is welcome here." He wasn't going to bring Ryan to his hell hole for now.

"If there are no other problems, we are leaving. Doctor Olivia will be in the building at all times. If there is any problem, call me or call her. See you later." she said and left the room.

As the doctor prepared to leave, she turned to Butcher one last time, "Mr. Butcher?"

He stood up when Neuman stood up and was busy examining Homelander, he almost didn't hear the woman, he turned and looked. "Yes?"

"Please do not smoke in the house, especially in this room." she looked at Homelander for a moment. "There are fire detectors everywhere including the bathroom." With that she walked out of the room too.

Two of them were left alone. As he stared at Homelander's motionless body, he thought to himself for perhaps the millionth time, "What the fuck am I doing?"

Chapter Text

For the next few days, Butcher came and went from the villa—the remote, sun-drenched house with its quiet corners and fresh air. The place where they were keeping him. Homelander.

It was mid-afternoon when Butcher stepped inside the living room again, boots heavy on the wooden floor, sunlight slanting through half-drawn curtains in soft, golden beams that dust motes floated through like ghosts. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic. Machines sat quietly around the bed—tall IV stands, softly beeping monitors, tubes coiling like sleeping snakes. It all looked out of place, like a hospital ward wedged into a sanctuary.

He stood at the edge of the bed, gazing down.
Homelander was asleep again. His face, normally so sharp and sculpted with pride, now slack with exhaustion, twitched with the tiniest of expressions—barely-there grimaces, lips parting briefly in half-mumbled breaths. A sheen of sweat glistened across his forehead, catching the light like glass. He was looking better really, skin gained color not that gray sickled human.

Butcher reached out without really thinking and let the back of his hand brush against Homelander’s cheek. His skin was too warm. Almost hot. Fever, he thought. The heat of it lingered even after his hand dropped. The quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him snapped him out of it. A nurse entered, dressed in light scrubs, carrying a tray that clinked faintly—metal, syringes, IV fluid, the sterile scent arriving with her like a quiet announcement.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Butcher?” she asked gently.

He cleared his throat, stepping back. “Feels like he’s burning up,” he muttered, rubbing his fingers together, as though the heat had stuck to them.

The nurse set the tray down and moved with calm efficiency, checking the monitors, pulling the blanket back slightly to expose Homelander’s arm. “His fever’s been coming and going since last night,” she explained, inserting the needle into the crook of his elbow. Butcher watched, still finding it vaguely unreal that the needle went in. That his skin could break like anyone else’s now.

“Need me to do anything?” he asked, his voice quieter.

She shook her head without looking at him. “Not unless the fever spikes. This should help bring it down.” Butcher scratched at his neck. “Why’s he got one anyway?”

She looked up from the machines, writing something on her tablet. “He had a gash on his leg. Compound fracture. Got infected. His body’s fighting it off.” His brows lifted. “Broken leg?”

She nodded toward the casted limb, hidden beneath a blanket. Butcher didn't realise cast was there before. “Clean break. Took a while to set it right.”

“Huh.”

She left him alone a minute later, probably to some other room or even building that Butcher wasn't aware of. He turned back to the bed. The creases on Homelander’s brow had eased—his breathing had grown steadier, chest rising and falling in an unhurried rhythm.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, staring, but when he blinked out of it, it must’ve been at least fifteen minutes. Weirdest thing? He wasn’t bored. Not even a bit.

With a slow exhale, Butcher looked toward the IV bag, watching the fluid drip with a kind of hypnotic precision. Drip. Drip. Drip. The only other sounds were the soft, stable beeps of the monitors, the low hum of the AC kicking on.

He found himself listening to Homelander’s breath. His own chest rising in subtle time with it. Somehow, their rhythms were syncing. And that… that unsettled him.

The his phone buzzed in his pocket, loud in the quiet. He flinched slightly. It was Annie.

“Hello, lass,” he answered, voice softer than usual.

“Hey, Butcher. I’m almost there. Are you at the villa?”

His eyes flicked to the figure in the bed. 

Homelander’s head had turned slightly to the right, a single lock of hair fallen across his cheek. Butcher stepped forward again and, in a motion almost too gentle for him, brushed it aside, tucking it behind his ear like a caretaker.

“Yeah. I’m here,” he murmured.

“Okay great! See you soon!” she chirped, then hung up.

He stepped out the back door onto the stone patio, lit a cigarette, and didn’t look back. Didn’t want to think too hard about what he was doing in there, with him.

Butcher didn’t go far—just enough to pace a few angry circles on the patio while the cigarette burned between his fingers, the tip flaring orange each time he took a drag. The heat of the day had softened, casting long, golden shadows across the tiles. The cicadas were screaming from the trees nearby, relentless. There was rain smell in the air.

He crushed the butt beneath his boot, inhaled sharply through his nose like he needed that smoke to disappear completely from his lungs, and stepped back inside. He smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic air again.

By the time Annie arrived, the sky outside was turning the soft pink-orange of early evening. She came in quick, her hair slightly tousled from the wind, wearing a simple yellow shirt and jeans. Her presence changed the air in the room—brighter, more immediate, like she brought the world in with her.

Butcher met her in the hallway, standing with arms folded, face unreadable. Annie slowed her steps, her expression instantly softening when she saw him.

“Hey,” she said gently, voice brushing the quiet like a breeze. “How is he?”

Butcher gave a small shrug, like he didn’t want to commit to an answer. “Still out. Fever’s been up and down. Nurse gave him something. He sometimes talking in his sleep."

Annie’s brows drew together in a faint line of worry as she stepped past him into the room. Her eyes immediately landed on the figure in the bed—Homelander, pale under the warm light, his chest rising and falling steadily. The blanket was slightly askew, revealing the edge of the cast on his leg and a tangled IV line.
She moved closer, slowly, like approaching a sleeping animal.

“Oh,” she murmured, more to herself. “He looks…” 

Human, is what she meant. She didn’t finish the thought. Butcher leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” he muttered. “The great Homelander, flat on his back, sweating like a sinner in church.” Annie gave him a sidelong glance, but didn’t respond to the jab. Instead, she reached out and gently touched Homelander’s hand—hesitant, then firmer. His skin was still too warm. She frowned.
“He’s really burning up,” she said quietly.
Butcher stepped forward again, coming to stand beside her. For a moment, they both looked down at him. The man who had terrified the world now looked like someone who could shatter in a strong wind.

Annie finally broke the silence. “I’m gonna stay with him tonight. If that’s okay.” Butcher’s face twitched—somewhere between resistance and resignation. “’Course you are. He is so fucking boring anyway.”

She turned to him. “Go home, Butcher. Rest. You’ve been here every day.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes locked on Homelander’s face, unreadable.

He sighed finally, he was exhausted. “Right. Call me if he starts glowing or explodes or somethin’.”

Annie smiled faintly. “Will do.”

Butcher gave her a small nod, then turned and walked out, footsteps fading down the hall.
When the door clicked shut behind him, silence returned like a blanket.

Annie sank into the couch beside the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. The room was dim now, shadows growing long, the only light the amber glow from the bedside lamp and the slow pulse of the monitor. She didn't want to open the overhead lamps, lights may disturb him.

She watched Homelander’s face for a while. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The barely-there twitch of his fingers. Her chest ached—not with pity, exactly. Something heavier. More complicated.

Gently, she reached out and brushed her thumb along the back of his hand, then folded her fingers around it. Not tightly. Just enough to be felt. She saw his files at the tower. He didn't want to Butcher to know but, she thought she was understanding Homelander a way that she didn't before.

“I’m here,” she whispered, even though he wouldn’t hear it. Or maybe he would.

She sat like that for a while, unmoving, just her breath and the slow, even blip of the monitor punctuating the silence.

Her hand was still wrapped loosely around his. It was strange how easy it was to touch him now, this man who used to make her entire body tense just by stepping into a room. The monster. The national tragedy. The walking contradiction.
Annie leaned her head back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling, tracing the soft shadows cast by the lamp on the plaster.

This whole thing—this situation—was bizarre.
She thought of Butcher, that relentless firestorm of rage and vengeance. She’d seen the way he looked at Homelander earlier. It wasn’t the old hatred—not the pure version of it, anyway. It was... diluted. Confused. Shaped into something new, something Annie couldn’t quite define yet. She didn’t think Butcher could either.

And then there was her.

Annie January. Starlight. Brightest goddamn light in the room, who used to think the world was black and white. Now she was sitting at the bedside of a man she once feared more than anything. A man she once wanted dead—needed dead—for the sake of everyone.

And now?

Now she was holding his hand while he burned with fever, whispering that she was here. She saw his record at the tower, what did they do to him.

She closed her eyes.

What were they even doing?

It felt like they were all orbiting some strange, collapsing star—drawn in by its gravity, even knowing it could tear them apart. Butcher and Homelander, two opposite poles of destruction, and she—somewhere in the middle. A strange axis they both tilted around now. Not quite enemies. Not quite allies. Something else.

People don’t come back from what he’s done, she thought. They don’t get better.

And yet here he was. Broken. Vulnerable. Bleeding. Letting them help him. Was it manipulation? A trick? A long game?

Or was it real?

She looked at him again—really looked. The lines around his eyes, the faint bruise along his jaw, the dry crack of his lower lip. All the things that made him look human, not like the invincible god the world had been sold. She touched the place where Maeve striked beside his hear, it was healing but still there.

There was something terrible and beautiful about it.

She brushed a bit of hair back from his forehead. His skin was warm, warmer than normal. Her fingers lingered for a moment, caught in the softness of the moment before she pulled back.

She didn’t love him. God, no. But something in her—something deep, aching, and confused—felt tethered to him now.

And Butcher.

He’d changed too. Just being in this—whatever this was—had shifted something in him. His hate hadn’t disappeared, but it had bent, like metal under pressure. Maybe they were all bending. Warped by the closeness. Shaped by the heat of it.

“God, what the hell are we doing,” she whispered aloud, voice almost a laugh but not quite.

Homelander stirred slightly, just the flicker of a brow and a faint shift of breath. Her body tensed, eyes locked on his face. But he didn’t wake. Not yet.

She exhaled, slow.

And leaned forward again, resting her head beside his hand on the edge of the bed. Just for a moment.
Just to breathe.

She just sat there for a while, listening to the soft beep of machines and her own heartbeat trying to slow itself down. At sometime, a maid came asked her if she wanted dinner. She dismissed her, said she wasn't hungry.

The smell of antiseptic clung to the back of her throat, sharp and too clean for what they were dealing with. It felt like pretending. All of it. Like they were actors trapped in a scene that refused to end.

And then, somewhere outside, the wind turned.
It started as a low rustle—barely there. The leaves along the window shivered like something had breathed too close. She glanced up. In the glass, her own reflection blinked back: pale, drawn, with rain-colored shadows pooling beneath her eyes. Behind her, Homelander lay still as a marble statue, twitching only when his dreams broke surface.

She exhaled shakily, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. Three people tangled together in a room none of them should be in. A bleeding tyrant on a bed, an ex-hero beside him, and the man who once would've killed them both without blinking—off somewhere in the city, trying to outrun a storm and himself.

We’re trying to help him. The thought hit her like a wave.

Why?

No answer came. Just the sudden rattle of rain tapping the window like impatient fingers.
Within minutes, the storm fully arrived—slamming into the building in sheets. The sky flickered gray and sickly green, and the thunder rolled long and deep like a train dragging chains. She thought about Butcher, did he arrive at home safely?

The house lights dimmed for a moment, after a lightning strike somewhere. Her breath caught.

She hadn’t realized she was crying until she wiped at her face and her hand came back damp. She was thinking about Ryan, Homelander, even Butcher. Thinking about how broken they were all.

She looked out of the glass door for a little, watched, at somewhere far away another lightning striked, sky just became bright for a moment.  She came back to the bed, looked at him. She thought of kissing him, but decided against it. Instead of that, she leaned downwards, pressing her forehead gently against his. “Don’t fucking die." she whispered, like a curse. Like a promise. She could feel his sweat on her own forehead, both of their cheeks damp from different causes.

They breathed together for a moment, her heart beating much faster than his. Then she backed off, laid down on the couch. And then—slowly, inevitably—she dozed off.

Time passed.

The rain grew louder, then softer, then loud again—like the storm couldn’t make up its mind. In sleep, Annie stirred, jaw twitching as her head lolled to the side.

The door creaked open.

Boots squelched softly across the linoleum.

He was back.

Billy Butcher stood in the threshold, hair soaked and matted to his face, steam rising off his coat as if the storm itself was trying to hold on to him. His hands were scraped and dirty, blood on his knuckles, and his eyes held the look of a man who tried to run and didn’t get far enough.

The car had broken down two blocks out. He waited in the car, just sat down like it would fix itself magically. Stared outside, God knows for how many minutes.

Then the rain started. Water filled the engine, same as it filled his damn lungs when he screamed into the steering wheel.

He’d stood in the middle of the road like an idiot, rain pouring down in buckets, and realized there was nowhere else he could go. Not really. Not in this city. Not in this life. He got out of the car, punched a nearby tree maybe out of frustration, maybe out of rage. Then again. Then again.

His knuckles became raw, bloody. It felt good. Rain cleaned his hands, blood dripped to the soil.

So he came back.

Now, he was dripping on the floor, watching Annie sleep on the couch beside the last man he ever thought he’d pity—let alone try to save.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Just exhaled through his nose, slow and tired, and muttered under his breath as he peeled off his coat:

“Fucking storm…”

Chapter Text

Annie was roused from a restless doze by the soft creak of the door opening. The familiar scrape of boots on the wooden floor broke the heavy silence. She blinked, reaching out instinctively for the small overhead lamp on the side table, coaxing the warm glow to life. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked toward Butcher.

“What happened?” Her voice was still thick with sleep.

He shrugged off his sodden jacket, draping it over a nearby chair before lowering himself onto the couch beside her to unlatch his boots. 

“Old junk gave out on me. Storm rolled in hard after that.”

Annie hummed softly, knowing full well he could have called a cab or even asked her to pick him up. But there was something about his stubbornness—something else pulling him here. “You should take a shower before you catch your death,” she said quietly. “Got any clothes here?”

Butcher nodded, shoving his muddy boots against the wall. “Yeah, somewhere upstairs. You don’t have to sleep here, though. There’s a bunch of rooms—clean sheets and all that. Hell, the cunts even have some pajamas you can borrow, if you want.”

Annie exhaled slowly, a faint smile touching her lips. “No need. This couch is pretty comfortable.” The truth was simple but unspoken: she didn’t want to be far from Homelander. Here, on the couch, she could keep a watchful eye. One blink, one breath, and she could be at his side, for whatever reason.

Butcher shrugged, standing. “Suit yourself.” With that, he headed toward the stairs leading to the bathroom.

After a while, Annie decided to see if they really did have anything remotely comfortable for a night’s wear. Quietly, she slipped from the room and climbed the stairs Butcher had taken. The upstairs hallways stretched out before her, lined with doors—some slightly ajar. She noticed one door open into what looked like a full-fledged library, shelves heavy with books that smelled of aged paper and dust.

She pushed on until she found a bedroom with a large double bed and an expansive closet. Opening it, she rifled through the assorted shirts, hoodies, and pajamas, just as Butcher had said.

As she stripped out of her clothes, her shirt slipping through her fingers, a sudden sound made her freeze. The door swung open abruptly.

“Fuck, sorry—I didn’t know you were here.” Butcher’s voice was rough, carrying a thread of embarrassment.

Startled, Annie glanced over her shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, a towel wrapped tightly around his hips, clutching it as though it might fall at any moment. “That’s okay. Should’ve locked the door,” she said easily, unbothered by her nudity in his presence. They’d seen each other at depths far beyond skin.

She slid into an oversized t-shirt that hung perfectly for sleep, then started to undo the buttons on her trousers.

Butcher stood awkwardly, unable to tear his eyes away. She caught him looking and gave a faint, teasing smile.

“You can come in, Butcher. I’m guessing the clothes for you are in the closet?” He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I think so.” He stepped inside, turning toward the closet, trying not to look at her.

With their backs turned to each other, Annie pulled on soft pajama bottoms, their fabric light and comforting. She slipped off her bra under the loose t-shirt and exhaled a long, contented sigh.

Meanwhile, Butcher wrestled with his underwear, the towel still precariously wrapped around him. “You okay?” he asked, voice low. Annie flopped onto the bed with a heavy yawn, eyes half-closed. “Yeah. These clothes… they smell wonderful.”

Butcher hummed. Slowly made his way to her, fully clothed. "Tired?"

She sighed, her eyes were closed. "You have no idea. Can sleep for days." Butcher sat beside her head, he was smelling good too. She could take into account the people —mainly Neuman probably— wasn't stingy with their money.

She opened her eyes, looked to him. His hair was still damp, combed to back, was looking different from normally spiky look. He was looking at his scarred hands, quiet.

"What happened to your hands?" She asked. "They wasn't like that when you were here." She sat up slowly.

He sighed from his nose. "Punched a tree out of frustriation, like a fucking teeneger." She hold his left hand with her right, drawing shapes on his palm. Their differences were contrast, his hands were rough, callouses on some his fingers, some faded some new scars in and out. Hers were was smooth, soft, not a scar on sight except two-three moles.

Butcher was mesmerised by it, stared into their hands, occasionly giving a squeeze to hers. She interleaved their fingers, palm to palm. It was the time that Butcher slowly raise his head to look into her.

She was staring to him, hard. Her gaze was soft but somber, looking into every inch of his face, trying to memorize it. Their gazes locked for a moment, Butcher almost felt her heart jumping in her cage. Her gaze fell on his lips.

Butcher’s breath hitched slightly as her eyes lingered on his lips. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken words and raw vulnerability.

Annie’s voice was barely above a whisper, fragile yet steady. “Do you ever think about… what it could’ve been? If things had been different?”

He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to their entwined hands before meeting her eyes again. “More than I’d like to admit.”

For a long moment, silence wrapped around them like a fragile shield. Then Butcher’s thumb brushed gently over the back of her hand, hesitant but deliberate. “I’m not good at this,” he said quietly. “At saying what I feel.”

Annie smiled faintly, a softness breaking through the somberness. “Neither am I. But sometimes… just being here, like this, it’s enough.” He nodded, the weight in his chest easing just a little. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leaned closer.

Her breath caught as his forehead rested against hers, the heat of his skin a sharp contrast to the cool night air seeping through the window that he just opened.

“We don’t have to figure it all out right now, yeah?" He said, words like a plea.

Annie closed her eyes, a peaceful smile tugging at her lips even though the circumcantes. "Yeah, this— whatever this is, we can solve later." 

And in that quiet room, with their hands still entwined and hearts beating close, Annie felt a fragile kind of hope flicker within her. Her heart hammered fiercely in her chest, shouting just do something, anything. She drew a shaky breath, her fingers inching toward him—then, just as she was about to touch Butcher, he stood abruptly.

“Gotta check on the cunt,” he muttered, not looking back as he slipped out of the room.

Left alone, Annie took several deep breaths, smoothing her hair back as she gathered herself. She followed him downstairs, her footsteps soft against the worn floorboards.

In the living room, Butcher was standing beside Homelander, who was struggling to sit up despite the thick bandages wrapped diagonally across his torso. His breaths were ragged, shallow.

“I want to take a shower,” Homelander said, voice rough. Butcher shot him a look—equal parts unimpressed and annoyed. “Yeah, no. With those stitches and that cast? Forget it. You’ll get your shower in the morning, when your nurse or whatever the fuck they are shows up.”

Homelander’s hand pressed against Butcher’s arm as he tried to push himself off the bed. “I can fucking wash myself.”

Butcher sighed, grabbing both of Homelander’s arms to steady him. “You can’t even breathe right. Annie, say something.”

Annie glanced between them, caught off guard. “Uh, what are the bandages for? On his torso?”

Butcher didn’t pause his efforts. “Golden boy cracked some ribs. They had to open him up, set the bones straight, then stitch him back together.” His eyes tracked Homelander’s stubborn attempts to stand. “You’re gonna fall on your ass if you keep at it. Doctor’s gonna take those stitches out in a few days. Just wait.”

Homelander’s glare sharpened, fierce and unyielding. “Get the fuck out of the way William."

Butcher exhaled deeply, running a hand through his damp hair. “Okay, fine. Let me help you at least, you stubborn cunt. Put your arm here.” He looped Homelander’s arm over his neck, supporting his weight, while slipping his other arm around Homelander’s waist. He was taller than Homelander so it was an awkward angle but Butcher didn't know a better position to help him.

Slowly, with one leg encased in a blue cast, Homelander began to shuffle forward, leaning heavily on Butcher’s steady support.

"Seriously cannot let you get under the shower mate. I will just use some damp washcloth to clean you up." They started to slowly climb stairs, one step a time. Annie went on before them to the upstairs.

Homelander gave a sarcastic smile. "Yeah? Will you wash me up, back and front?" Butcher tsked. "If you don't shut the fuck up I will let you tumble down the stairs." Homelander laughed slowly which was weird thinking that he was pretty depressed this past few days.

After three or four steps, Homelander stopped in his tracks. "Wait..." He was breathing hard, the hand that was not on the Butcher's neck was on his heart. It was looking bizarre that he was having trouble breathing.

Butcher instinctively hold him a litle bit secure, without squeezing him on his torso. "You alright?"

Homelander put his free hand on the wall, squuezed his eyes shut hard, grimacing. "It hurts like a bitch, fuck." It has been a few hours nurse gave him some pain killers. The acute pain on his torso must be felt horrible as there were no other option to just wait his ribs were going to fix themselves. He needed time.

"I told you this was a bad idea, I will get you down." Butcher made a move to hold him, Homelander holded his side, eyes glazed, bead of sweat on his forehead from breathing so hard. "Just— wait a minute." He came closer to Butcher, almost hugging him with how close they were.

Butcher was standing, trying to comfort him with just his presence. Homelander was seemed panicked as well, pain must be a mystery thing to him.

He put his hand on back of Homelander, tried to comfort him which felt awkward as hell. Homelander's skin was tacky, he was profusely sweating non stop from the fever for the last almost 48 hours. Butcher was not disgusted, probably Homelander was thousand times disgusted with himself. 

He breathed hard into Butcher's shirt. He was a little bit shorter than him, top of his head was in line with Butcher's lips. Which gave Butcher a great satisfaction that he was taller than the world's biggest cunt. 

They stood there on the stairs in silence, tangled in a strange stillness. Homelander’s breathing had slowed slightly, but Butcher could still feel the tension radiating from his body — tight, trembling, like he was holding himself together with spit and pride.

“You good now?” Butcher asked, voice low, not quite pushing but not entirely gentle either.

Homelander didn’t move, just gave a faint nod against his shoulder. “Yeah,” he lied.

Butcher sighed. “Alright. Let’s get this over with before you melt into me like a bloody candle.”

They continued up, slower this time. Butcher kept his arm steady around his waist, felt the shift in every wince, every careful placement of Homelander’s foot. By the time they reached the top, Homelander was shivering, sweat clinging to him like a second skin.

Annie was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Her eyes flicked up as they reached the landing, and for a brief second, they met Butcher’s. Something passed between them — unreadable, but heavy. Her gaze shifted to Homelander, who looked like he was barely holding it together.

“I’ll get the washcloths,” she offered, already moving toward the bathroom.

Butcher guided Homelander to the edge of the bed, lowering him down with practiced care. The moment Homelander sat, his whole body sagged like the fight had left him entirely. “Jesus,” he muttered, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “This is humiliating.”

Butcher grabbed a towel from the side table, dried the back of his neck. “Mate, you almost coughed out your lungs on the stairs. Let the ego rest a bit.”

“I don’t… ask for help,” Homelander said quietly, still not meeting his eyes. “Not like this.”

Butcher paused, hand resting at the edge of Homelander’s shoulder. “Yeah, well. Maybe it’s time you fuckin’ learned.”

The room fell quiet again, save for the rustle of fabric and the low creak of the bed frame. Then Annie came back, warm washcloths in hand, steam still curling off them. “I’ll do it,” Butcher said, taking them from her. Annie didn’t protest — she only gave a small nod, and stepped back.

Butcher dipped the cloth into the basin of warm water she’d brought, wrung it out slowly, then moved to kneel in front of Homelander. He started with the arms — slow, deliberate. The cloth moved over muscle and scar, over dried sweat and fevered skin. Homelander didn’t speak, didn’t meet his eyes.

It wasn’t about power anymore.

It wasn’t about control.

It was something quieter — not quite forgiveness, not yet trust. Just presence. Just being there, in this awful liminal place between broken things.

Butcher’s hand slowed near his side, where the bandages cut diagonally across his ribs. He didn’t press there. Just moved carefully around it, keeping pressure light.

Homelander swallowed. “You know this is weird, right?”

Butcher glanced up, met his gaze for the first time. “Yeah,” he said. “But not everything that’s weird is wrong.”

That silenced him. For once, Homelander didn’t have a retort.

Annie leaned against the doorway, watching. Her arms were crossed, but her expression had softened — something between surprise and thoughtfulness. She wasn’t used to seeing either of them like this. She had seen both at their worst. And still… here they were.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

There was a time, she thought, not long ago, when I stood just like that. Pressed my forehead to Homelander’s. Let him see my weakness, and saw his in return.

It hadn’t felt safe.

It hadn’t felt anything like this.

But now, the air was different. Not free of pain — not even close — but heavy with something else: the possibility of grace, however fleeting.

Butcher kept working in silence, trailing the warm cloth down Homelander’s neck, forearm, over his wrist. He paused briefly at the inside of it — the skin there was paler, thinner, almost fragile. Funny, how someone capable of ripping steel apart had such human skin beneath all the myth.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Butcher muttered, rinsing the cloth again in the basin. 

Homelander let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Pain meds. And shame, probably.” Butcher looked up, brows ticking. “Shame, huh?”

Homelander’s gaze was fixed ahead, distant. “Never thought it’d be you... cleaning me up like some sick dog. Guess the universe has a hell of a sense of humor.”

Butcher chuckled darkly. “If this is a joke, I’m still waiting for the punchline, mate.”

He pressed the cloth gently along Homelander’s collarbone. The skin there twitched. For a second, Homelander looked like he might flinch — but didn’t. Just exhaled slow.

“Butcher…” he said, quieter now, voice almost buried in the heat between them. “Why are you doing this?”

Butcher paused, cloth still resting against skin.

He could have given a dozen answers. Spite. Duty. Pity. But none of them would be honest.

So instead, he said nothing at first. Just resumed cleaning, slow and deliberate. He dipped the cloth again, moved to the other arm. His voice came eventually — low, like it had to be dragged from somewhere deep.

“Maybe I’m tired of letting hate do all the talking.”

Homelander blinked. That stunned him more than anything else.

Butcher didn’t look at him. “We’ve been trying to kill each other for years. And maybe we deserved it. But look at us now. You’re broken, and I’m…” He trailed off. “I’m still standing, somehow. Doesn’t mean I have to keep being the bastard everyone expects. Some stuff happened and that's in the past.” Homelander watched him in silence for a moment, eyes darting over his face — like he was trying to understand him through layers of disbelief. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch him or lean into him. He turned his head sideways, like a curious dog.

“You think this makes you better?” he asked, voice brittle.

“No,” Butcher said plainly. “It just makes me not worse. And that’s enough for tonight.”

They both fell silent again. The cloth was wrung out, the basin was cooling. Butcher leaned back slightly, resting on his heels. “You want your legs done, or you going to try that solo?” he asked, tone returning to that gruff edge — a defense, maybe, from the weight of what just passed between them.

Homelander was still watching him, the faintest furrow on his brow. He gave a small, tired huff — almost amused, almost not. “You’re such a prick,” he muttered.

Butcher smirked. “Yeah. But I’m your prick tonight, apparently.”

That startled a breath of laughter from Homelander, brief but real. It was the first time in a long while Butcher had seen anything like life in him. Not power. Not control. Just something human.

He rose to his feet, tossing the cloth into the basin. “I’ll get you a clean shirt. Then you can rest. God knows you’re no good to anyone half-dead.” Homelander didn’t answer. Just watched him move toward the drawer.

And maybe, for the first time, let himself believe this wasn’t just some strange fluke of survival — but the beginning of something neither of them had the words for yet.

Butcher returned with a plain, soft cotton shirt — gray, loose enough not to press against the bandages. He held it out. “Arms up.”

Homelander looked at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly with a sigh, he lifted his arms. Butcher saw the effort it took — the tremor in his muscles, the shallow way he breathed.

He stepped closer.

The room felt smaller.

Butcher took the shirt and gently passed it over Homelander’s head, careful of his ribs, the taped gauze, the faint lines of stitches. Their bodies were close now — too close — and Butcher could feel the heat radiating off of him. Fever still clung to his skin, but there was something else beneath it, something electric in the air.

He drew the fabric down slowly, brushing Homelander’s chest, his sides, the curve of his waist where bruises bloomed in sickly yellows and deep purples. Every movement was deliberate — not out of tenderness, maybe, but care. Precision. A need to do this right.

Homelander was watching him. He hadn’t looked away once.

Butcher noticed it only when he raised his gaze to adjust the collar. Their faces were inches apart. “You’re being gentle,” Homelander murmured, voice almost curious.

Butcher didn’t move away. “You want me to stop?”

The question hung there.

A beat passed. Then another.

Homelander swallowed. His breath caught. “No. Just surprised.”

Butcher’s hands lingered — not in a lover’s way, not quite — but like he was grounding himself, both of them. His fingers brushed along the edge of the shirt near Homelander’s neck, tugging it gently into place. Their eyes locked again.

And there it was — the tension between them, always simmering, now molten. Not hatred. Not forgiveness. Something terrifyingly close to recognition.

“You should lie down,” Butcher said, but his voice had gone softer now, almost hoarse.

Homelander nodded, slow. But he didn’t move just yet. "I know your actual bed is downstairs but I don't think you should move again."

“You still hate me?” Homelander asked, quiet.

Butcher exhaled, stepped back just enough that their heat didn’t blur the edges of his thoughts.

“I don’t know what I feel." he said honestly.

Homelander gave a small, bitter smile, didn't push Butcher's answer. There was lot to talk. “Me neither.” he just said in answer.

Butcher turned, picked up the basin. “Rest. I’ll be back.”

But as he reached the door, he hesitated.

And without turning back, he added, “You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t hurt.”

Then he was gone.

And Homelander, still standing there in the middle of the room, finally let himself sit — not from weakness, but because it was the only thing he could do to stop himself from calling him back.

The faucet was running — not loudly, just enough to fill the silence. Butcher leaned over the sink, splashing cool water onto his face. The bathroom light was harsh, but he welcomed the sting. It kept his thoughts from scattering too far.

He grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face.

When he looked up, Annie was in the doorway. She hadn’t said anything. Just stood there, arms crossed, eyes soft and curious. Watching him.

"You alright?" she asked finally, voice gentle.

Butcher turned the faucet off, water dripping in irregular beats. He gave her a nod that wasn’t entirely convincing. “Peachy.”

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. Not in a confrontational way — more like someone trying to shut the world out for a minute. They stood in silence. She leaned against the counter beside him.

“He’s hurting,” she said. “And not just the ribs.”

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I know.”

She looked at him — really looked. “You were gentle with him.”

Butcher didn’t reply. His jaw flexed once.

Annie gave a small, humorless laugh. “You know, I did something like that once. After that fight with Soldier Boy — the last one. Homelander was on the floor, bloody, shaking. I put my forehead against his. It wasn’t forgiveness. I think I just… needed to see the humanity, or prove it was still there.”

Butcher didn’t look at her, but something in his shoulders shifted.

Annie continued, softer now. “It felt like I was touching a ghost. Someone I hated, someone I pitied. But also someone I couldn’t stop seeing as… real.”

She paused, then glanced at Butcher. “Was it like that for you?” He finally met her eyes. His voice was quiet, rough. “No. Not like that.”

A beat.

She tilted her head. “Then what?”

Butcher rubbed the towel between his hands. His knuckles were still bruised. His voice was almost a whisper. “He wasn’t a ghost. He felt real. Too fucking real. A nightmare even."

The air between them turned heavier. The kind of silence you don’t want to break because you’re afraid the truth might spill out with it.

Annie looked down, her voice a hush. “You care about him.”

Butcher didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. “I don’t know what I feel,” he said again, repeating it not for her, but for himself. She nodded. “That makes two of us.” He looked at her sideways. “About him?”

“No,” she said softly. “About you.”

That made his eyes finally snap to hers.

And for a moment, both of them just stood there — two people who had lost too much, seen too much, and were now standing on the edge of something they didn’t have the language for.

The faucet had long gone silent, but the hush in the bathroom still felt full — like a held breath between two people who didn’t know how to speak what mattered.

Butcher leaned forward, bracing himself on the sink. Annie stayed beside him, not crowding, not pulling away. Just there.

She broke the silence gently. “You didn’t have to be the one to help him.”

“I know,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“But you did.” 

She looked at his face, saw the weariness under the lines, the way his mouth stayed tight like he was afraid of letting anything slip through. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

Butcher gave a humorless chuckle. “That right?”

“You always try to be the monster,” she said, softer now. “But you don’t fool me.”

He turned to her. There was no anger in his eyes, no sarcasm on his lips — just something heavy. Quiet.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he said.

Annie nodded, almost like she’d been expecting that answer. “I get it.”

She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “You know… sometimes I think the only reason I made it through everything is because I didn’t have the luxury of breaking. Not really. I just had to keep going. Be what everyone needed. Be light, be hope.” Her voice faltered for a second. “But inside, I was just… tired. Lonely, even when I wasn’t alone.”

Butcher watched her. Something in her words cracked something open in him — not pain exactly, but recognition.

He reached out, almost without thinking, and touched her hand. Just for a second. A grounding touch. He didn’t speak.

Annie looked down at their hands. Then she smiled — small, almost sad. “That’s the thing about us, isn’t it? Everyone expects us to be symbols. One way or the other.”

“But we’re just people,” Butcher said quietly. “Bruised and bloody people.”

She laughed under her breath, a soft sound. “Yeah. You and me. A right pair of broken mirrors.” There was a silence then — but not an empty one.

Butcher turned to face her fully. “You ever think maybe we get each other too well?”

Annie met his eyes. “I’d rather be understood by one person than admired by a thousand.”

He didn’t answer that, but he didn’t need to. His eyes said enough.

The silence between them thickened again — not heavy, but dense with things unspoken. Butcher hadn’t moved away, and neither had she. The echo of their shared words still hung in the air, reverberating between breath and gaze.

Annie shifted her weight slightly, her shoulder brushing his. She didn’t pull back. Neither did he.

She glanced up at him, and something flickered in her chest. That same restless ache she’d felt earlier in the bedroom — the one that begged her to reach, to do something, anything. It was back now. Stronger, maybe. Clearer.

“You always look like you’re ready to bolt,” she murmured, eyes still on him.

Butcher’s jaw tensed, like she’d struck some buried nerve. “That obvious?”

“You’re like a dog that’s been kicked too many times,” she added softly. “Even kindness looks like a trick.”

He gave a dry, sardonic huff. “That’s 'cause it usually is.”

Annie’s brow knit. “Not always.” Her voice was quiet. Honest. That kind of softness that wasn’t weak — the kind that stripped away armor whether you wanted it or not.

Butcher looked down at her again. There it was: that same gaze from earlier, the one where he’d just let himself look. Not guarded. Not gruff. Just tired, and searching, and real.

“You looked at him like this once,” he said suddenly, voice low. “Homelander.”

Annie blinked. “What?”

He didn’t flinch. “Forehead to forehead. You resting on him. I saw the footage.”

A beat. Her breath caught.

“I remember,” she said after a second. “But it was different.”

“How?”

“Because that… that was survival.” Her voice cracked slightly, then steadied. “I needed him to believe I was on his side. That I wasn’t a threat. I gave him softness because it was the only weapon I had.”

She looked at Butcher then — really looked. “But this?” she said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t need to play a part with you."

Butcher didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Their eyes held, and it felt like a tether pulled tight between them.

Annie moved slightly closer, heart thudding in her chest. She rested her forehead gently to his. No performance. No manipulation. Just skin to skin, breath to breath.

Butcher’s hands hovered near her arms, unsure. But he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in just a fraction more, like a man who didn’t know how to ask for comfort but wasn’t ready to refuse it either. There was warmth between them — soft, fragile, and terrifying. A vulnerability wrapped in silence.

Neither of them spoke.

Because for once, there was nothing to say.

Just two people in a broken world, breathing the same air, trying not to fall apart.

They stood for a while, breathing together in their fragile bubble. "Butcher, I need to tell you something. About Becca."

He took a step back, stood next to wall. "What about it?"

Annie took a deep breath. "I have been checking records at the Vought, about Homelander, about everyone. I will take some documents with me tomorrow, there will be videos, papers about him."

Butcher crossed his arms in front of him. "What is it about Becca?".

"I suppose you saw the video of them... at the tower. Where she goes in and out of some office."

Butcher was grinding his teeth, bile rising in his throat. "Yeah. I memorized that video, don't know how many times I watched it." He couldn't erase that video in a million years. He memorized every second of it, every move of Becca, the smug face of the cunt. Everything.

"I looked into video archives, around the time that Becca was missing." Butcher just hummed, not looking at her. She continued. "It was hard to look into it as there is thousands cameras around with all of them works 24/7. But..." she looked into him, her face unreadable, took a big breath. "She was cheating on you Butcher."

He snapped his head up. "Don't-"

"I swear Butcher. I saw the footages, I- I don't know if you should see them but I know I saw them with my eyes. They were much closer than I thought. There is footage of them just- they were kissing, holding hands-" she tried to comfort him by putting her hand on his shoulder.

He backed up like he burned. "You're fucking lying!" Butcher roared with anger, his finger pointing dangerously to her, whole body trembling.

Annie seemed unfazed like she was waiting this reaction. "It's true Butcher."

"Becca wouldn't-"

"But she did."

"I talked with her, she said she was scared of Homelander, that's why she fucking ran away for years."

"She was scared that what Vought would've done if they knew she was bearing his child-"

"You're out of your fucking mind." He stormed out of the bathroom, directly to the downstairs.

She didn't followed him. Took a deep breath and went to the Homelander instead.

Chapter Text

Homelander was sprawled across the spacious bed, half-lidded eyes drifting shut when the door creaked open. Annie stepped into the room quietly, as if unsure whether she should be there at all.

He took a slow, deep breath when she sat beside him, barely turning his head.

“Butcher’s so fucking loud,” he muttered, voice gravelly with sleep. “What’s his problem now? Sounded like he was about to rip the walls down."

Annie glanced at him, momentarily thrown off. His hair was a tousled mess, dark roots showing through where the bleach had grown out, softening him in a strange, almost boyish way. A faint stubble shadowed his jaw — he hadn’t shaved this morning. Something about the disheveled look made her hesitate.

She never imagined she’d find him even remotely attractive.

But she was tired — soul-deep tired — and this wasn’t the time to question her judgment.

“He... uh…” she rubbed her temple, trying to summon the right words. “Can I ask you something? About Becca.” That got his attention. He sat up slowly, the mattress shifting under him.

“What about her?”

“I looked into the Vought surveillance archives,” she said carefully. “Since you're not around, I guess I’m… kind of the captain now.”

Homelander gave a faint, wry smile, his gaze flicking to the window. “Yeah. I figured.”

She hesitated. “I don’t really know how to approach this. I saw some of the old footage. Of you two. Holding hands. Kissing. You looked... close.”

One of his eyebrows arched lazily. “What, like while we were having sex?”

Annie’s cheeks flushed. “No! God, no. Nothing like that.” She looked away, embarrassed. “It just... looked intimate.”

He scratched his chin, eyes distant. “Yeah. We had a thing, more or less.”

Annie blinked. “Wait. Are you saying…?”

He cut her off, voice flat. “Are you asking if Becca was cheating on Butcher?”

There was no sarcasm in his tone. Just truth, bare and cold.

She nodded slightly.

Homelander sighed, pressing his back to the headboard. His chest rose with a deep breath, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t care about Butcher’s feelings, if I’m honest. Never did.”

Annie watched him closely, noting the flicker of something behind his eyes — regret, maybe, or just fatigue.

“He never asked me what happened. Not really. We’ve never talked about it like adults.” A pause. “But yeah. I think she was. I think she loved him once... but she wasn’t in love with him anymore.”

There was a long silence between them. It wasn’t awkward — just heavy.

Finally, Annie asked, voice low, “Did you love her?”

Homelander didn’t answer immediately. His fingers curled into the sheet.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I just loved that she saw me as something other than a monster.”

She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

Outside, the wind brushed against the windows, a hush falling over the city.

Annie leaned back, letting her shoulders drop. “I think Butcher knows. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Yeah,” Homelander said softly. “Denial’s easier. Anger’s easier.”

Annie looked over at him again. His face was unreadable, but something in his voice — brittle and quiet — told her he hadn’t spoken this truth to anyone before.

Then, after a beat, he added, almost absentmindedly,

“She told me once... that she felt safe with me. I think that’s what scared her most.” Annie hummed thoughtfully.

“Why did Butcher think I assaulted her anyway?” Homelander asked suddenly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “What did he see... or hear?”

Annie hesitated. “There was... surveillance footage. From the day Ryan was conceived.”

He finally turned his head slightly toward her, brow furrowed. She chose her words carefully, like stepping barefoot over broken glass.

“The footage shows you and Becca going into an office at Vought,” she said quietly. “She comes out some time later... alone. She leaves the building, walks to a bench in that little park nearby. Sits there for... I don’t know how long. Just staring into nothing.”

Homelander was still. Unmoving. Listening, but not reacting.

“Then she just gets up and leaves. And that’s it. That’s the day she vanished. No trace of her after that.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“She used to say she was happy with Butcher,” Annie added, more to herself than to him.

Homelander’s voice was calm when he replied. “Then why was she coming to me?”

Annie shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“I think,” he said, after a long pause, “she saw me as... exotic. Dangerous. Like something out of a fantasy. I don’t think she loved me. She liked the adrenaline. The illusion of it all.”

Annie was silent, her gaze drifting to the cast on his leg. It looked alien on him — a symbol of weakness on someone once considered invincible.

“How about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Did you love her?”

This time he looked straight at her — really looked. There was no smugness, no pretense. Just quiet honesty.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I liked the attention. She looked at me like I was the center of the universe. Like a fan who somehow got too close. I never had that with anyone else. She made me feel... special.”

Annie studied him for a moment, her voice softer than before.

“You were — are — special.”

He gave a bitter laugh, short and dry. “Not anymore. I’m just a stick in the fucking mud now.”

A silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with things neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Finally, Annie leaned back against the headboard beside him, crossing her arms.

“You know, special doesn’t mean flawless,” she said. “Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it means having cracks and still standing.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes were far away again — not at the ceiling this time, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere lost.

“I used to think I needed to be perfect to be loved,” he murmured. “Turns out, even the people who did love me… they only loved parts of me. Never the whole.”

Annie looked at him quietly. “So maybe it’s time someone did.”

He glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly, not in suspicion — but like someone who heard a foreign word for the first time and didn’t know how to translate it.

“Someone like you?” he asked, voice low.

Annie didn’t flinch. “Someone who sees you.”

Certainly — here's a continuation from Homelander’s line, maintaining the tone and emotional complexity of the scene:

“The thought of Becca being unfaithful to him,” Homelander said, his voice low, almost reflective, “then I’m the bad guy — that made Butcher furious.”

Annie didn’t say anything at first. She could see the conflict stirring beneath his words — the quiet battle between guilt and pride, memory and ego.

“He needed someone to hate more than her,” she finally said. “And you were... convenient.”

Homelander gave a humorless smile. “I usually am.”

He shifted his weight slightly, wincing as the cast tugged at his leg. “It’s easier for him to paint me as some soulless monster who hurt her. Because if he admits she had agency — that she chose me — that makes him look small. Like he wasn’t enough.”

“Do you think she regretted it?” Annie asked.

Homelander was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I think she regretted what it meant. Not that it happened.”

“You’re very calm about all of this.”

He turned to her, eyes sharp now. “Would it help if I cried? Broke down? You want me to say I’m sorry for everything so you can feel better about being in the same room with me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Annie met his stare without blinking. “I meant... I didn’t expect you to be the one giving perspective.”

That made him laugh — a short, startled sound that cracked the tension in the air.

“Yeah, well. Near-death experiences’ll do that to a guy.”

They both fell quiet again. The wind rattled the window faintly. Somewhere down the hall, a phone buzzed unanswered.

Then, with a sigh, Homelander said, “You know what’s fucked up? Sometimes I wonder if I wanted Butcher to find out. Like I wanted the truth to hurt him. Just to see if it would finally break something in him. But the bastard’s like steel. Always was.”

Annie tilted her head. “So were you. You just didn’t know where to bend.”

He looked at her like she’d said something impossibly kind. Something he wasn’t used to hearing — at least not without a price.

She shifted closer, instinctively, before catching herself. “You really think Becca saw you as a fantasy?”

“I think I was her rebellion,” he said, a little softer now. “The one reckless choice in a life full of rules.”

“And what are you now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a flicker of something almost human in his voice, he said:

“Still trying to figure that out.

The air was cool, heavy with the scent of cut grass and city dust. Butcher stood alone in the backyard, hands buried in his coat pockets, jaw tight.

He hadn't lit a cigarette in hours, but one hung dead between his fingers like muscle memory. He didn’t smoke it — just held it, like he needed something to burn but couldn’t pick the right match.

Annie’s voice echoed in his skull.

“She looked close with him. Maybe… maybe she wasn’t forced. Maybe she wanted it.”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard.

Wanted it.

That phrase turned his stomach. Not because he didn’t expect it — deep down, some bitter part of him always knew. But hearing it aloud? From Annie of all people? It hollowed him out.

“Lyin’ fuckin’ supes…” he muttered, though his voice lacked venom.

Becca. Smiling in that soft way she used to. Tucking a curl behind her ear. Touching his shoulder when he brooded too long over nothing. Safe. Ordinary. Good.

Then him.

That smug bastard in a cape. Looking like the fucking American dream, warped and cracked. And Becca — his Becca — reaching for that.

He couldn’t make the images go away. Her hand in Homelander’s. Her lips on his. Her eyes, soft with something Butcher hadn’t seen in years.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled.

He took a few steps toward the fence, gripping the cold metal rail like it might anchor him to something solid. The backyard was quiet, just the low buzz of a far-off streetlamp and the rustle of wind through dry leaves. The quiet was dangerous — it let the thoughts speak louder.

Maybe she was already gone before it happened.

Maybe you just never saw it.

Maybe she wanted out… and he just gave her the excuse.

Butcher shut his eyes hard. His grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“She said she loved me,” he whispered.

It sounded pathetic out loud.

She said she loved me.

But even now, he couldn’t remember the last time she said it like she meant it. Not with warmth. Not with that spark behind it.

Did he ever really look?

Or was he just holding onto an idea of her — the safe version, the pure version, the faithful wife of the good soldier?

And now? That version was dead. Replaced with someone he couldn’t recognize. Someone who made a choice.

Butcher exhaled shakily, looking up at the stars that weren’t bright enough to see in the city sky.

“I could’a forgiven her anything,” he said under his breath. “But not him.”

Not him.

He turned around slowly, walking back toward the house, each step heavier than the last. His chest was tight, not with anger anymore — with something worse.

Grief.

Homelander sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his cast propped up on a pillow. The window was cracked open beside him, letting in a faint breeze. The room had the strange, suspended quiet that only exists before a storm. Annie went out a while ago, he didn't know where.

The door creaked.

He didn’t turn. He knew who it was by the cadence of the footsteps — slow, heavy, deliberate. The air shifted. That specific gravity only Butcher carried with him.

Homelander finally glanced up.

Butcher stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth.

“Took you long enough,” Homelander said casually, though his posture tensed.

Butcher stepped in, closed the door behind him with a click. Didn’t say a word. Just stared.

Homelander gave a half-smile. “Let me guess. Annie filled in the blanks?”

“She did.” Butcher’s voice was quiet — too quiet. “You and Becca.”

Homelander tilted his head. “That’s what you came to confirm?”

Butcher ignored the question. His eyes were bloodshot, but not from drinking. Not tonight.

“You know what eats me up, mate?” he said, stepping closer. “A part of me was relieved when I thought you hurt her. That it wasn’t her choice. That she didn’t want you. That it was just... another monster being a monster.”

Homelander’s smile faded.

“Because the alternative?” Butcher went on, voice gaining bite. “That she went to you. Chose you — you, of all bloody people — that makes me feel like a joke. Like the villain in my own story.”

He was standing right in front of him now, towering, unflinching.

“You loved her?” Butcher asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” Homelander said, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t.”

Butcher blinked. That shook him more than he expected.

“Then why?”

“Because she wanted something you didn’t see anymore,” Homelander replied, low and even. “She wanted to feel... alive. Important. Like she mattered to someone, not just some memory you kept on a shelf.”

Butcher's fist clenched. His whole body vibrated with tension.

“You don’t get to tell me what she wanted.”

“I didn’t have to,” Homelander said, bitterly. “She showed me.”

Silence. A furnace between them.

Butcher looked down, then slowly sat in the chair across from the bed, like the rage had nowhere left to go.

“I would’ve died for her,” he murmured.

Homelander stared at him. “So would I.”

The words hung in the air, absurd, cruel, maybe even true. Butcher shook his head, a twisted laugh catching in his throat.

“I don’t even know who to blame anymore.”

Homelander leaned back, voice softer now. “Maybe that’s the problem. You spent so long hating me, you never stopped to ask if Becca just stopped loving you.”

Butcher shot up to his feet, eyes burning with fury. “You think you’re clever, yeah? You think this is closure?”

“No,” Homelander said. “Just the truth. You can’t kill that.”

They stood like that, eye to eye, not as gods or soldiers — but as two broken men who’d both lost the same woman for different reasons.

And neither one of them could change it.

Butcher took a step forward, fire rising back up in his chest.

“If she was so infatuated with you,” he said, voice sharp, biting, “why’d she run the moment she found out she was pregnant with your child? Hm? If you’re so bloody perfect and all?”

Homelander didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift — no anger, no smugness, just stillness. For once, he didn’t seem to have a rehearsed answer.

“Yeah,” Butcher pushed, taking another step. “Tell me, superstar. If you were everything she wanted — the exotic thrill, the god among insects — why’d she leave you out in the cold the second it got real?” He was a moment away to lash out and bash his head with his fist.

Homelander’s eyes flicked to the floor. Then, slowly, he looked up and met Butcher’s gaze.

“Because I scared her.”

Butcher blinked.

Homelander continued, his voice unnervingly even. “Because she knew what I was. What I could do. She saw it — even if I pretended I was something else with her. That fantasy had an expiration date.”

He shifted, wincing as his leg throbbed beneath the cast. “She didn’t want Ryan growing up like me. She didn’t say it out loud, but... I could tell. She didn’t want him looking at the world the way I do.”

“But you let her go?” Butcher asked, disbelief curling around the edges of his voice.

“No,” Homelander said. “I didn’t even get the chance.”

He exhaled sharply, almost a scoff. “One day she’s there. Next, she’s gone. Vought cleaned it up fast. Stan knew what was at stake. The moment she got scared, it was over.”

Butcher watched him in silence.

Homelander’s jaw tightened. “She left because the story stopped being fun. Because she looked into the future and didn’t like what she saw. I wasn’t a man to her, Butcher. I was a risk.”

“She made the right call,” Butcher muttered.

Homelander nodded once. “Maybe. But she didn’t make it for you. And that’s what’s been chewing you up all this time, isn’t it?”

Butcher’s fists trembled at his sides.

“She didn’t leave me for you,” Homelander said, quiet now. “She left us both for him.”

That silenced the room. Neither of them could argue with it.

For a long moment, the weight of the truth filled the space like smoke — bitter, inescapable.

Butcher stepped back first. Like a man retreating from the edge of a cliff.

“She chose the boy over the war,” he said hoarsely.

Homelander didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Because for once, they agreed.

The silence in the room was dense, like the aftermath of a bomb with no sound — just dust and realization.

Then the door creaked open.

Annie stepped in quietly, eyes flicking between the two men. She could feel the heat of the confrontation still clinging to the air. Butcher had his back to her, fists clenched, shoulders heaving like he’d been holding back more than just words. Homelander sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his gaze blank, distant.

“I heard voices,” she said softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Butcher didn’t move. His voice came low, rough. “You didn’t.”

Homelander gave her a look, one she couldn’t quite read. His usual veneer of arrogance had cracked wide open — what sat behind it wasn’t rage or bravado.

It was fatigue.

Annie stepped closer, gently placing a hand on Butcher’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t relax either.

“I know this is a lot,” she said carefully. “But maybe it’s time to stop trying to figure out who hurt the most.”

“No one’s trying to win, love,” Butcher muttered. “This ain’t a pissing contest.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked, voice firmer now. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re both drowning in guilt you can’t even name.”

Homelander looked away.

“She’s gone,” Annie continued. “And none of this — none of this — brings her back. But Ryan’s still here. He’s the only piece of her that’s left.”

That name cracked through the room like a gunshot. Both men looked up.

Annie glanced at Homelander. “He needs someone, and it can’t be the ghost of who you were with her. It has to be someone real.”

Then she turned to Butcher. “And you can’t protect him from the truth by pretending she was someone she wasn’t.”

Butcher’s jaw twitched.

“He’s a boy,” she said, gentler now. “Not a weapon. Not a punishment. Not a legacy. Just… a kid who deserves better than all of this.”

The weight in her voice settled like dust in the silence.

Butcher rubbed a hand across his face. Homelander stared down at the floor.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Then Homelander broke the stillness. “Where is he now?”

“Mallory’s,” Butcher replied quietly. “Off the grid.”

Annie nodded. “Maybe it’s time we bring him back to the grid. But this time… we don’t repeat the same mistakes.”

Butcher didn’t answer. He looked at Homelander — really looked. Not with rage, but with something closer to reluctant understanding.

And Homelander?

He didn’t say it aloud, but the shift in his eyes said enough.

Maybe… just maybe… the war wasn’t the only thing worth fighting for.