Chapter Text
In the months since Soldier Boy stole his powers, Homelander had watched his life end in brief glimpses.
There was the smell of his tattered suit tossed in the incinerator, wafting through the damp, seemingly endless warehouse William had been keeping him in. All of his senses were dulled now, but the acidic, cancer-riddled stench of burning polyester and foam was impossible to miss. It felt like it clung to the back of his throat for days. But maybe that was the general dryness from dehydration.
There were the tidbits of news he could glean from the newspapers William made his trembling little henchman line his cell with, like he was a fucking gerbil or a puppy that couldn’t be trusted not to soil itself. Of course, the text was microscopic and it was eternally dim and his eyesight just wasn’t what it used to be. Before, he could spot a crow flying in the pitch dark from a mile away. Though he didn’t want to admit it to himself and it made his insides roll at even the thought, he wondered if he might need reading glasses. He was 41. Most mud people needed them by his age, didn’t they?
And piecing together what exactly the stories were about was difficult considering he couldn’t exactly reassemble the packets with his hands tied behind his back, and his nose pressed to them, the inky, papery smell filling his nostrils.
Homelander Dead: A Nation Weeps
we’ll never see a hero like him again. He lived and breathed the job. Survived solely by his girlfriend Starlight, who declined comment at this
Some criticized his use of excessive force and
THE TOYOTATHON IS HERE!
amid scandal about a romantic relationship with Stormfront, who was later revealed to be a Nazi. Though it resonated with some, others called his impromptu birthday address ‘a dog whistle filled tirade’ and
THE MEMORIAL DAY MATTRESS FIRM SALE
Vought has not yet released the details surrounding his tragic, untimely death. All that we know is that Homelander was gone too soon.
The one thing William deigned to let him witness was Starlight twisting the knife, like the opportunistic little Judas she was.
He should’ve killed her when he had the chance, should’ve ripped her head from her shoulders at the first sign of trouble. But he was too forgiving. He was too gracious. He wanted to let her come around herself, envisioning the day when it’d dawn on her how badly she’d been taken for a ride. She’d swallow her pride. She’d thank him for being so understanding. Beg him to be let back into the fold.
In that moment, when she burst into the room as Soldier Boy’s chest turned to an inferno, for a fleeting second, he really thought that it had clicked. He allowed himself to glance up at her to catch her expression.
Well. Now he really knew how Jesus felt.
Because Starlight did not, in fact, see the barbarism of William Butcher’s plot. And that light? It wasn’t her sending off a blast to stun any of the men on his back.
Only she got herself a lot more than 30 pieces of silver. She sold him out for the promotion of a lifetime. Starlight — Starlight, nobody from Nebraska or whatever! — was the new captain of The Seven. She was America’s darling, America’s shoulder to cry on. 24-fucking-7 coverage. Everyday, she was on a different talk show. Everyday, she shot the camera a smirk like she knew he was watching from the shitty, static-y box TV Butcher wheeled in to torment him.
And she’d say, smooth as butter: “I’m praying for him. I hope Homelander gets the eternity he deserves.”
Heavy, booted footsteps neared.
Fuck.
Homelander’s breathing picked up, whistling through his nose. He closed his eyes.
The wooden stool William kept a few feet from the cage, just out of reach, creaked. “I know yer not sleepin’.”
Homelander glanced at him through the corner of his eye. He considered shimmying and trying to sit up, but that would be undignified. Butcher loved to watch him struggle. Lying there miserably? Less entertaining.
William held an apple in one hand and a knife in the other. Homelander salivated, despite the shiver of fear that ran down his spine. It was shiny and red. He hadn’t had fresh fruit in ages. His stomach gurgled.
“I’m resting my eyes,” He said as plainly as he could manage. “Have you come to finish the job? Or are you going to pelt me with rotting fruit?”
William scoffed. He carved the knife into the apple. “I’ve set up a little playdate for you, John.”
Homelander did his best to return his scoff with equal venom, and to not flinch at his human name. It never stopped stinging like lemon in an open wound. God, a lemon sounded great about now. Was this scurvy? Was he developing scurvy? Would what few wounds he’d ever had open back up — what wounds Butcher had inflicted upon him back when pummeling him was still satisfying — and leave him bleeding out onto the headlines?
“Aren’t you going to ask who?” William asked, tilting his head, that cruel grin stretching on his lips.
“I don’t care.” But his voice shook a little.
William chuckled. He popped a sliver of apple into his mouth, and spoke while chewing. “Look, mate. I’m trying to be nice, yeah? You’ve earned a little enrichment, haven’t ya? Now that you’ve given up that little hunger strike—”
Homelander’s face burned. “I can’t live off of soggy french fries and-and the last little scraps of your burgers.”
“Most dogs would love it. I know Terror always loves a good take-away.”
“Yeah, well, that explains that thing’s breathing. You still feed that horrible creature kibble—“
William leaned forward, a terrible gleam in his eyes. “You want dog chow, Johnny? I can give ya kibble.”
Shit. “No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying that a balanced diet is the bare minimum if you’re going to be keeping me forever—“
“Who said anything about forever?” A coughing fit overtook him. That horrible, wet, wheezing hacking sound. William wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, steadying himself on the stool. He said suddenly, “Sit.”
Homelander didn’t move a muscle.
“I said, sit.”
He stayed still.
An arm shot through the cage bars. William wrenched him up by his hair, causing him to let out a yelp. His scalp felt like it was about to rip off. His whole body felt eternally tender, like new skin after a gash. Or maybe this was how every human felt all the time.
“When I tell ya to do something, ya do it,” Butcher growled in his ear. “Like a good dog. Or I’ll go fetch the shock collar again.”
His throat bobbed. His brain buzzed with the memory of the pain. Involuntary tears welled in his eyes.
William’s cigarette-sour, beer-addled breath ghosted against the back of his neck. “Starlight’s comin’ tomorrow. And she’s real excited to see you. So you’re gonna be on yer best behavior.” The blade pressed into his throat. "Understand?"
Homelander considered leaning forward, thrashing against the knife to try to end it himself. It would be easy. His throat was so vulnerable now. Like tissue paper. His arteries were just below the surface, pumping. All it would take was nicking one. Humans were so easy to kill. Wherever they were, he didn’t know — though he had his guesses about their general location — but he was certain that they weren’t anywhere near a hospital. William would never take him even if they were. Too many impossible questions to answer. Too much scrutiny.
William’s game would finally end. He’d be spared the humiliation of Starlight coming to rub it in. Seeing him like this. Maybe something terrible was waiting for him on the other side, or maybe a reward for all his suffering, or maybe just nothing. Nothing was starting to sound fine.
He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut.
But something stopped him. That knee-jerk, compulsive survival instinct. Once, when he was young and stupid and love-blind, he threatened to kill himself when Maeve alluded to wanting to break up with him. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t even possible. But the words flew out of his mouth. She just scoffed and said he was too selfish to commit suicide. At the time, it hurt.
Well. She was right.
Because a sniveling, desperate part of himself couldn’t stop thinking that something good was just around the corner if he held out a little longer. A hero’s comeback.
Against all odds, he’d get it all back. Escape. Inject himself with more V. Return — righteous, restored — and crush William and his lackeys under his boot. He’d rip Starlight right out of his chair in Vought Tower, and throw her like a ragdoll out the windows. She’d plummet, plummet, plummet to the pavement 100 stories down and splat against it like the bug she was. Maeve, he’d burn to a crisp. Then, he’d go down to 82, punch Stan Edgar right in the mouth, and make him eat his own teeth. America would welcome him home with open arms like a lover.
And if Starlight and Maeve weren’t bluffing? If the Flight 37 video did get released upon their deaths?
So be it. Scorched earth for everyone. The whole country would learn to love and fear their god the hard way.
Except, he knew it was becoming more unlikely by the day. His prospects were bleak. What little strength he had left was fading away. Even without the restraints, he probably couldn’t take Hugh anymore. Starlight could stop him from entering Vought Tower by barely lifting a pinky finger. William would keep treating him like a dog. Until even that lost its appeal. And then …
A strangled whine emerged from his throat.
And then there was Ryan to think about. The kid hated him for the most part. Feared him. He probably was relieved to hear he'd "died." But someday, Ryan would be old enough to understand. Everything. He'd overcome Butcher and the CIA's brainwashing. And knowing that his father was murdered would be easier to accept than that he'd killed himself. That he'd given up, decided he wasn't living for. Homelander knew he wasn't the best dad, but that was one way even he couldn't bare to let the kid down.
Often, he wished he'd just taken Ryan and run off to start anew instead of staying stuck in Vought's game. The regret tormented him more than anything Butcher could inflict upon him. And the hope ... The hope that he could fix it somehow hurt even more. But what would Ryan want with him now, anyway? He was weak. Feeble. Fallible. Nothing to look up to at all. But he loved his mother for being human.
“Oi. Why the long face, cunt? Don’t you miss your old friend?”