Chapter Text
Red, white and blue slowly waves from the lowly breeze in the hallway.
Silence.
Patience, Homelander; The supe coos to himself. He’s been standing outside of his father's room for about the last hour now, determined by his sensitive ears picking up the ticking wands of the only wall clock down the hallway.
He had been tempted to use X-ray vision. Peek at his father. See how the man lives, moves, and even breaths differently with no one around. Yet, he didn't. What would his father think?
That he’s a spy? That he doesn’t respect his privacy?
No, Homelander can’t have that. He’s respectful. Good. A good boy. No matter what that bitch Stillwell or fucking Stan Edgar had to say. Not even Butcher could tell him and with Ryan on his side, he couldn’t give a damn about the ungrateful little bastard either.
Nobody's opinion mattered, except the man he came out of. The man who called him soft, and wet. Pathetic. He flexes his gloved hand behind his back. He didn’t mean that. He was just…toughing Homelander up.
Yeah.
He knows The Homelander is strong. Brave. A hero among the people and more intimately, his son.
It wasn’t like Homelander wanted much from him. He’s had a shit week with overlapping PR and appearances in different continents because someone (Ashley) was too fucking ‘busy’ to remember which days of the week were open and not. He had nearly lasered her wig off as she stumbled through excuses. Should have done so a long time ago. She was so pathetic. However, he hadn't yet, for whatever reason. Where did you, hm?
One second, he’s forcing a grin, signing meaningless family photos and fighting the temptation to laser through every single flashing news light that hits his eyes in New York, then in the next hour he’s performing fake fucking rescue stunts for more Asian donations in Bangkok.
He fucking hated flying when he didn’t want to, especially so far, back-to-back to back. It wasn’t that he got tired, never in a million fucking years would he, or even admit it.
It messed up his hair.
Tons of shitty dirty non-supe hands touching him all week made Homelander want to rip off his skin. His body isn’t for anyone to touch willy-nilly. It's sacred, like a vase in a museum. A golden vase that gets worshipped and polished only by one who is worthy. It’s a private act. Almost secretive.
Once there was a time the only thing Homelander let touch his body was his blanket.
Oh, that blanket. Blue and soft…delightful. A small warmth in the cold empty room. Not that he minded the cold.
He lets a memory slip in. One he only lets himself indulge in late at night, after making sure Soldier boy had gone to his room for the day. He plays it out slowly, sweetly…
It starts in his room, just after he had found out his father was frozen once again. The thought of him being so close made Homelanders' heart jump. His hands shook as he traced them on the cool glass, building up the courage to open the solid door.
When he did open it, he had to catch his breath, the sight of his father in his underwear so close.
He didn’t allow him to stay that way long, putting a special edition Homelander shirt on him. It was red with long sleeves, and a white font and picture and with the soldiers' blue boxers, he looked like Homelanders cape all over.
Homelander loved his cape.
Back in the hallway, he shuffles his footing around and swallows the drool collecting in his mouth at the recollection.
Where was he again?
Right, dressing him.
He had only put the shirt on him, felt it was right, in a way. Then he positioned his father to rest his head on the made bed, facing upwards, sort of like snow-white. For a while he stalked, hands behind his back, walking from the left side of the bed to the right, ever so slowly.
He took in every feature the man had, every muscle, every breath. X-rayed inside his chest and watched the way his lungs expanded, the way his heartbeat. Even though tempted, he kept his vision away from the lower half of his body.
He argued with himself for a while about a wish. Something he wanted so badly. To ease his debating mind, he mirrored the soldier's hairstyle, pulling a middle part and letting strands fall to his face. He picked up the shield he had fixed and slid it on his arm, checking himself out in the mirror. The costume was wrong, but the hair and shield weren’t. Does he look like his father? He checks himself out a minute longer. He looked like a child playing pretend with daddy's work clothes.
Decidedly, he didn’t like it, removing the shield and brushing his hair back with a gloved hand.
He curses himself in the quiet hallway. Stupid, stupid stupid! He could never be his father; he could only be Homelander.
Why did he have to be so fucking stupid? The TV in the soldier's room changed channels a few times, causing him to still. He waited until the recurring sound of laughter wasn’t changed to a different pitch before wandering back into his mind.
He had straightened out his cape after playing dress up and walked straight up to the sleeping man. He had fumbled with his fingers like a fucking pussy and shiftied from foot to foot. He was Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted.
A few deep breaths, and a knee sinks into the soft mattress. The soldier's body moved slightly with the weight and evened out the closer Homelander had crawled to him.
The first thing he had done was smell him. Not up close, just the air around him. It smelled bitter, he must have drank a lot of beer before he was frozen. And smoked a bit. His hair had a nice smell. One of whatever natural sweat and oils weren't frozen. Manley.
He had gulped to contain the drool in his mouth.
The next part made his legs buckle just thinking about it.
He had slowly brought his face to his fathers and nuzzled their noses together. The first time was soft and shy. The second is a bit braver, producing a soft mewling sound from the blonde.
It was enough to make him brave enough to trail his nose from the tip of the others to the crook of his neck, breathing in like he’d never smell again.
He had never forgotten what the scent was like, even if the first time they met was a fight.
He forgives his father.
Manipulated by Butcher after just waking up from a decades long nap. He’s on his side now. He forgives him.
He nuzzles deeper into his neck, ignoring the tightness of his pants. It frustrates him. Why couldn’t he just enjoy a cuddle? He doesn’t want sex, he wants love. Closeness. Softness. Familiarity. Like his blanky.
He’s only a little…no. No, he’s not. Not anymore.
He had taken Soldierboys’ arms and placed them by his sides, the right one a bit further up so Homelander could huddle himself close to his daddy, wrapping his arms around his neck and practically laying on top of him to snuggle.
He rested his head back into the crook of his neck and nuzzled in more. It was just like his blanky, only better. Bigger, colder and softer. Smelled so good that Homelander mindlessly humped on his daddy's leg. By the second sultry moan he stopped himself, face burning.
He won’t be greedy. He’ll be good. He slid over onto his side, resting his face on Soldierboys’ soft chest, gripping the front of his shirt so he wouldn't go away. Why couldn’t he be awake, to praise him? To run his fingers through his blonde hair and whisper his promises and secrets. To tell Homelander how nobody mattered but him…
He had laid there for what seemed like hours, only getting up once he noticed his daddy coming too.
Of course, when he came to the first question out of his mouth was, “Did you fuck me?”
“What?! No!” Homelander had said, letting his face curl up with disgust and confusion.
He haden’t fucked him, but he hadn’t left him alone either.