Homelander But Big

By the time you finally return to the penthouse an hour later, the atmosphere is tense. You find Homelander staring out the window of the living room, his back to you. Your backpack is still on the couch, but your wallet has been placed face-up on the coffee table.

"Italy," he scoffs, his deep voice dripping with a mix of perturbation and sharp judgement. He turns slowly to loom over you, his eyes narrowing as he stares daggers into your very soul. He tosses your permanent resident card onto the table with surprisingly good aim. "You're from Italy. I gotta admit, babe, I'm a little disappointed. Here I thought I found someone normal, and it turns out you're from a country that hasn't contributed anything relevant to the world since the fucking Renaissance."

~~~

The first few days after this revelation are an awkward bombardment of questions. You almost find his queries insulting, always with that familiar cocky tilt of his head and that amused grin on his face. He goes for the stereotypical ones first.

"Why do Italians talk with their hands anyway?" he says, with his trademark dismissive tone belittling your culture like it's just a quaint quirk. "And why do Italians always argue over dinner? You guys all got some connection to the mafia?"

However, within a week the stereotypical jabs about Italy start to fade and evolve into something more personal. It's no longer about your country, Homelander wants to know more about you.

"What did your family do on Sundays again?" he asks quietly as you sit on the couch together, only half-watching the television. The arrogance is gone, and he's failing to pretend not to truly care. "You mentioned everybody came over."

"Yeah, we had big dinners," you remark. "It was chaos, kids running around the house and all the adults talking over each other. There was so much food, my zia brought extra dessert even though my mom made extras already. And my nonno had to play a song on his accordion after he drank too much."

"What about your favourite meal?" he probes further. "And your favourite place growing up?"

You can't help but notice how he just stares quietly at you when you answer him, not interrupting or mocking your country like he was before. He never grew up with any traditions or connection to his culture despite his insistence on his love for America, which makes him want to know every aspect of yours. From the big things like how you celebrated Christmas down to the little aspects like the view outside the window of your grandparent's house.

~~~

The next phase of his obsession begins with food. You're standing on your stool in his oversized kitchen, as Homelander's immense eight-foot frame casts a shadow over you. He's watching you cook your favourite pasta dish, which you promised to prepare for him. He glances over at the cans of imported San Marzano tomatoes you brought over and scoffs, leaning his weight against the marble countertop and crossing his arms.

"What's wrong with the tomatoes I got for you?" he asks, gesturing towards the Vought-branded tin he forced Ashley to buy. "American soil grows the best produce in the world. It's scientifically optimized Vought agriculture."

"They're too bitter," you respond mildly, still stirring your sauce. "And they taste like metal."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue with you. Instead he angles his head over to watch the whole process of preparing dinner, taking in the smells of your culture. When your pasta dish is finally done, you scoop up a Homelander-sized plate and hand it to him. He forks up a hearty portion and stares at it for a moment with deep scepticism. Eventually he takes a bite.

Then… he halts.

His expression morphs to profound shock. He swallows still looking down at the plate, then up at you, and then back at the pasta. He takes another large mouthful, and then another, until he devours the entire plate in seconds.

"This..." he begins, licking his lips as his voice drops to a low, gravelly octave. "This is what it's supposed to taste like?"

"Uh huh," you smile up at him. "That's real tomato sauce, my family's old recipe."

The surprise on his face rapidly curdles into a deep-seated anger you don't see from him very often. At least, not around you.

"Those sons of bitches," he snarls, his jaw tightening. He appears personally betrayed by this information. "The private chefs I pay millions for… they've been fucking lying to me, feeding me garbage this entire time… thinking I'm not worth it," he mutters to himself, placing his plate on the counter before he looks down at you in a fiercely possessive manner. "From now on, you're the only one who makes this for me. If I catch any of those hacks bringing an inferior tomato into this Tower again, I'll throw them out the fucking 99th floor window."

~~~

Music has always been the background noise of your life, and you decided to bring it into the penthouse. You start small since you know his rigid "America-first" tastes, so you introduce him to your favourite Italian-American crooners.

The first time you put on Dean Martin's "That's Amore," he's sitting on his couch reviewing the latest talking points Stan Edgar wants him to present to an assembly. He looks up instantaneously, his brows furrowing in confusion as the mandolins kick in.

"What the hell is this?" he questions. "What is he saying? Scuzza me? He's not singing completely in English, how am I supposed to understand the lyrics?"

"It's Dean Martin, sweetpea. He's an American icon," you reply, moving around the living room while you tidy up. "This was my nonno's favourite song, just do me a favour and listen to it."

He huffs theatrically and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't insist you play something else. In fact, you create a playlist of your childhood favourites just for you both to listen in the privacy of his penthouse. At first he tries his best to pretend he's completely indifferent to it. However, you slowly notice how he lingers nearby whenever you put your music on, his armour starting to crack.

One day you're folding your laundry on his gigantic bed when Jerry Vale's "Al Di Là" begins to play. Suddenly Homelander walks into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. He watches you for few moments with a curious but hesitant expression.

"…What's he saying?" he asks, his voice surprisingly quiet. "Can you translate it for me?"

From that day on, the questions become a regular occurrence. He listens to the songs and to your translations, absorbing and processing the words like he's deciphering a secret code to your soul. But the real victory comes a week later.

It's early in the morning and the penthouse is completely quiet; you're browsing through your social media on your phone in the living room, and Homelander is in his bedroom putting on his supersuit.

And then… you hear it.

Homelander is humming to himself, his deep voice perfectly mimicking the melody of "That’s Amore". He's doing it completely absentmindedly while he adjusts his chest flap in the mirror, entirely unaware that the song has permanently lodged itself in his brain.

You bite your lip to hide your growing smile before he comes into the living room, realizing your world is taking over his piece-by-piece.

~~~

Now that your music and food have overtaken the penthouse, he wants the language.

So after you're both off work, you guide him through simple words and phrases. He's brilliant at everything he does, that desire for perfectionism deeply rooted from his childhood, but the Italian accent gives his aggressively American vocal cords a run for their money. Specifically, the rolled R's.

"Amorrr-e," he struggles, his voice cracking slightly on the trill. He frowns but tries again. "Amo-re. Why does your tongue have to bounce like that? It's completely unnatural."

"It just takes practice, big guy," you console him, patting his titanic knee. "Don't worry, you'll get it. I promise."

While your language sessions seem short and light-hearted, Homelander doesn't handle failure well. What he doesn't tell you is that whenever he has a chance to be alone he's practicing over and over again. He's written out a growing index of Italian vocabulary on his phone, spending hours watching himself in his penthouse mirrors until he can say the words with flawless, effortless perfection.

A few days later, you're tucked into the corner of his couch reading a book when he suddenly appears, towering over you. He kneels down to be eye level with you, gently caressing your chin up with his humungous index finger and thumb.

"Ti amo," he declares confidently.

"Wow, that was perfect sweetie!"  you exclaim, eyes widening with genuine surprise at him learning it so quickly. 

"Please, I'm Homelander. I can master a basic European dialect in my sleep," he shrugs smugly, a smirk plastering his face as his chest puffs out with immense pride. "Now, say it back."

"What?" you blink.

"Say it back to me," he insists. "…Please."

You can't help but smile. Beneath the demands and otherworldly self-confidence, you see the real reason his eyes are locked onto yours with such desperate intensity. He doesn't care about the linguistics, he just wants to hear the person he loves speak to him in the language closest to their heart.

"Ti amo, tesoro," you whisper. A wave of relief washes over his face, his pupils dilating as he drinks in the sound of your voice. Satisfied he leans forward to kiss you, exhaling happily through his nose as he's 'mastered' the most important phrase of your language. The words he'll treasure through any gruelling meeting or focus group.

~~~

Since you started teaching him more words, he's become entirely addicted to the sound of your voice when you speak Italian. To a man who has spent his entire life listening to calculated corporate jargon and Vought marketing babble, the melodic cadence of your Italian is like a drug.

One evening you're cuddling up against his expansive torso on the couch, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist to anchor you against him. Unexpectedly your phone buzzes in your pocket, with a text from your mother.

"What is it?" he enquires, his voice rumbling through you as you're right next to him. He peers over your shoulder, his eyes scanning the long string of text. "Your mom?"

"Yeah," you reply. "Just checking in. She's telling me about her garden and asking how I'm doing in New York City."

"…Can you read it to me?" Homelander asks you shyly. "…In Italian?"

"Hun, it's just mundane gossip. And you don't know all the words yet," you retort.

"Please?" he continues, blushing slightly as he admits his reasonings. "I-I just… like hearing you talk in Italian."

"Alright," you laugh, complying to his request as you read the message aloud. The moment you start speaking, you can feel his arm getting heavier as he relaxes into you. Although he doesn't understand most of it he hangs on every syllable, fascinated by how your delivery changes; it's smoother, more expressive, and somehow more beautiful.

When you finish, he adjusts himself to lie down on the couch while keeping you snug on top of his chest.

"Can you keep talking for me? In Italian?" he ponders, burying his face into your hair as he nuzzles himself closer to you.

You end up spending the rest of the night saying anything you can think of in Italian, from workplace rumours to childhood stories and eventually just resorting to listing off words for the furniture in his penthouse. Anything to for him to keep hearing the melody of your voice.

English is the language the two of you share, but Italian is the life you had before you met him. And every time you speak it, he gets to hear a version of you that no one else ever will.

~~~

On one particular dreary day, Homelander finds you scrolling through old family photos on your phone, wearing a sad expression he hates to see from you.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Is there something I can do?"

"No, no. I'm fine, I'm just reminiscing," you admit with a nostalgic half-smile. "Looking through these photos reminds me of this bakery nearby my grandparent's town." You flip your phone over to show him a particular picture of the building's exterior. "My nonna would take me there as a treat, you could smell the biscotti and pizzelle from down the street. God, I miss it. You can't get anything like that here, it just doesn't taste like home to me."

You meant it as a passing thought, one you'd forget about the next day. But to Homelander, a desire expressed by you is a challenge to his omnipotence.

Before you can even ask where he's going, he saunters over to his balcony launchpad and flies into the air, vanishing into the clouds at 1880 kilometres an hour.

By the time he returns to the penthouse, he's carrying a white cardboard box tied with a red ribbon. It's labelled with the name of your childhood bakery.

He walks over to you and sets it on your lap with a spirited grin, showing off his pearly white fangs. Nodding his head he silently asks you to open the box, with the unmistakable scent of your favourite biscotti and pizzelle hitting your nose. The cookies are perfectly intact, like they didn't just get flown across the ocean at an insanely fast speed.

"Homelander..." you gasp, looking at him in utter disbelief. "Did you just fly to Italy and go that bakery? For me?"

"The baker was just closing up, but he was very accommodating once he realized who I was," he proclaims smugly, completely glossing over how terrified the poor baker was to see an eight-foot tall superhero drop from the sky demanding cookies in lacklustre Italian. Sitting down on the couch, he pulls you onto his lap and eyes the box with absolute triumph. "If you want something from your childhood to make you happy, you can tell me. I'll find it for you."

~~~

The day has finally arrived.

After months of his relentlessly stubborn insistence to meet the woman behind your family recipes and happy memories… you've given in. You let him fly you to Italy to introduce him to your nonna.

She lives in the Italian countryside, her small stone house situated on a sprawling property covered in olive trees and a carefully manicured garden. It's good distance away from the rest of the town, which is exactly why you agreed to this. Nobody will know Homelander is here.

When he lands in her dirt driveway, the front door swings open. A five-foot-nothing elderly woman steps out; her hands are covered in flour and a well-used wooden rolling pin is tucked under her arm. Homelander puts you down on the ground so you can run up to hug your nonna. He then stands back up to his full monolithic height, taking on his standard 'ready-for-the-camera superhero pose' while awkwardly waiting for the inevitable gasp of awe or terror.

"Nonna," you say, speaking to her in Italian. "This is my boyfriend… John."

Your nonna cranes her neck back and with squinting eyes looks up… and up… and up. However, she doesn't flinch. She has no recognition of Vought, and the concept of superheroes means absolutely nothing to her. All she sees is an absurdly tall man standing in her yard, doing his best not to seem intimidating.

Before he can even open his mouth to attempt a proper greeting in Italian, your nonna raises her wooden rolling pin and forcefully pokes him right in the abs.

"John!" she barks in Italian, her voice sharp and commanding. "You are too skinny! Does my grandchild not feed you?"

Homelander immediately freezes. Nobody has touched him like that before without an ounce of fear, let alone with a kitchen utensil. He glances down at her utterly bewildered, his eyes then darting to you in a rare moment of genuine panic. He doesn't understand entirely what she's saying, but he's already worried she doesn't like him.

"Inside! Sit down!" nonna commands, gesturing him to follow her as she walks back inside the house.

To your absolute amusement, the giant god of America meekly follows her inside, ducking low and carefully angling his wide shoulders to avoid taking out the door frame. She points him towards a spot at the kitchen table, moving the chair away so he can sit on the ground with his knees practically touching his chin. Within seconds, your nonna begins the assault. She doesn't even ask if he's hungry; she just starts serving.

First comes a mountain of fresh pasta. He looks to you for guidance, as you sit down at the other end of the table. You encourage him to eat what he's served, but the moment his plate is clean… nonna is back. She dumps another massive portion of pasta onto his plate. Then comes the roasted rabbit, the homegrown vegetables and olives, the fresh bread and the local cheese.

By the fifth serving, he tries to politely decline.

"Eat," she retorts flatly, inspecting him like a drill sergeant. "You are too big to eat like a bird."

Homelander, a man who can laser skyscrapers in half and lift planes with one hand, finds himself paralyzed by the sheer unyielding authority of your short Italian grandmother. He has no choice; there might be a language barrier but he understands he can't offend her by not finishing his food.

By the tenth serving, his massive frame is slumped back against the stone wall. For the first time in a long time, his superpowered metabolism has met its match. Gazing at your nonna with a mixture of profound respect and mild terror, he does his best to tell her in Italian that he enjoyed her cooking.

Your nonna nods in approval, patting his shoulder with a smile before leaving briefly.

"She likes you, you know," you whisper to Homelander in English, witnessing his relief of the meal being finished becoming instantly shattered as she returns with the espresso and lots of dessert.

~

Some time later, the three of you go outside; you're busy exploring the surroundings and refamiliarizing yourself with the house which gave you so many lasting memories. Meanwhile Homelander is sitting outside beneath your nonna's olive trees trying to recuperate from his first proper Italian dinner. Once your nonna is finished tending to her garden, you watch as she joins him under the tree.

She only speaks Italian, so he answers her questions with the handful of words you taught him. And somehow… they're getting along. She tells him a long story of her youth and how she met her now-deceased husband, your nonno. He understands maybe one word out of every ten, but still he listens in total silence, enamoured by the woman who didn't even flinch when he flew down from the sky; she just wanted to care for him.

Once the sun begins to set, you know it's time for the two of you to fly back to New York City and your lives at Vought. As you say your goodbyes to your nonna, she pulls you aside while Homelander is distracted looking around her property, wearing a far-too-small straw hat belonging to your nonno as she insisted he not get sunburnt.

"He's lonely," she states matter-of-factly, giving her accurate reading on a man she just met. "He smiles with you, but not with himself."

Your throat tightens; she's always been such a good judge of character, maybe that's where you got it from. When she sees you worrying, she smooths your hair back like she did when you were a child.

"Keep him fed. Not just food, but with your love. Amore," she asserts, pulling you into a hug you've missed for so many years.

When Homelander's ready to fly, your nonna hugs him without the slightest hesitation even if he has to sit down for her to reach properly. She then places a paper bag into his hand full of leftovers and pats his cheek. He doesn't understand the Italian she sends him off with, so he turns to you.

"She said 'Come back soon, John. Next time I'll make more'," you chuckle, giving your nonna one last hug before Homelander picks you up preparing to take off. He glances over at her once last time as she waves from her porch.

A sincere smile spreads across his face as he looks at her, completely detached from a life dictated by Vought. In this hidden corner of the world, he isn't a product or a weapon. He's just a man being nurtured, surrounded by the very culture that made you.

And just to answer this ask because I don't have a lot to say.