“Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.”

_______________

The Father of God - Chapter 2

It carried on long enough that it became a routine.

Homelander came back from events glowing, and you praised him until he stood taller. You learned exactly how to tilt your head when you said, “You were so good today,” exactly how to soften your voice when you said, “They saw your strength as holy,” exactly how to make him feel not merely admired but understood. He would puff his chest out like a boy pretending to be a king, and behind your warm little smile, you would keep one eye on his pulse, his jaw, his pupils, his hands.

Always the hands, because now, those hands had started reaching for you. 

You let them.

Sometimes he touched the back of your hand during briefings. Sometimes he brushed your shoulder when he walked past you in the hall. Once, after a particularly successful press conference where he redirected a question about mass civilian casualties into a speech about national courage, he hugged you in an empty corridor.

It was stiff, like even he was unsure of what he was doing. 

“I did what you said,” he murmured near your hair.

“You did,” you replied, letting your hands rest lightly against his sides. “I was proud.”

His breath shook.

God.

He loved being told that.

He loved it so much it almost made you pity him.

Almost.

The Deep, meanwhile, got worse. He hovered around your office like a dog that had learned the treat jar lived on the top shelf.

“Did you see my segment?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against your doorframe with his attempt at casual masculinity. “The aquarium thing? Huge numbers with coastal moms.”

“I saw,” you said without looking up from your tablet.

“And?”

“And what?”

He shifted.

“And… how’d I do?”

You looked up then.

He was pathetic enough that it should not have irritated you, but it did. Maybe because you had run out of room inside yourself for men needing to be fed by your mouth in different ways.

“You stayed on message,” you said. “You didn’t over-explain the ocean acidification line, which was good because coastal moms already know the problem and don’t need it explained to them. And your male demographic prefers to think they know everything. Good instincts there, Deep.”

His face lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He practically floated away after that.

Soldier Boy watched the whole exchange from your couch, boots on your coffee table, beer in hand, looking deeply offended by the existence of everyone.

“That guy wants you to scratch him behind the ear.”

You closed your office door and walked back to your desk. 

“He’s harmless.”

“He’s got gills.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“Nothing, it’s just disgusting.”

You looked at him over your tablet. “You have the emotional range of a shovel.”

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes dropping lazily over your legs. “Didn’t seem to bother you an hour ago.”

Your face heated despite yourself.

He grinned.

That grin had become a problem. The whole man had become a problem.

Sage, mercifully, grew occupied with other things, specifically acquiring that virus to stop Homelander because she had stopped trusting The Boys to go through with it without getting distracted. 

She still checked in, of course. She always did.

“How is Soldier Boy’s integration?” she asked one morning.

“Resistant, but stable.”

“Define stable.”

“Not violent without provocation.”

“That is not stable. That is dormant.”

“You asked for manageable.”

“And is he?”

You looked at her and thought of Soldier Boy in your apartment the night before, shirt unbuttoned, standing in your kitchen, drinking your beer, and arguing that microwave popcorn tasted like chemicals. You thought of him falling asleep on your couch with one arm thrown behind his head, looking absurdly large in your quiet little home. You thought of waking him gently because you had reports to finish, and the way he had opened one eye and said, “Come here first.”

You cleared your throat.

“He is predictable in specific contexts.”

Sage stared at you.

“Interesting wording.”

“You enjoy my wording. It’s why you keep me employed.”

“No. I keep you employed because Homelander hasn’t killed anyone important in weeks.”

“Then you’re welcome.”

She watched you a moment longer.

“Don’t get arrogant.”

You smiled.

“Never.”

You were arrogant, of course.

Not loudly or stupidly, because you knew better than that. You knew where your bread and butter and first-class tickets came from. But you had become arrogant, as some people do when they constantly flirt with danger and escape unscathed. 

You started altering Soldier Boy’s reports in the second week.

Small things at first.

His anger spikes were softened into irritation markers. His refusal to comply with camera tests became “image fatigue due to historical disorientation.” His repeated threats to punch members of marketing were reclassified as “direct resistance to overstructured brand assimilation.” His wandering off-site for hours became “independent acclimation to modern civilian environments.”

You showed him the first doctored report at your apartment.

He sat on your bed, shirt half-buttoned, watching you scroll through the file with absolute boredom until you said, “You need to know what I’ve written, otherwise you’ll contradict me.”

That got his attention.

“You’re lying in my reports?”

“I’m adjusting them.”

“That’s lying.”

“It’s corporate lying.”

He looked amused. “Why?”

“Because if Sage thinks you’re uncontrollable, she’ll push for stronger containment. If Homelander thinks you’re a threat to him, he’ll provoke you until one of you does something stupid. But… if Vought thinks you’re useful and only a little difficult, you get breathing room.”

Soldier Boy stared at you for a second. Then he leaned back against your pillows, that infuriating smirk creeping onto his face.

“You like taking care of me.”

You did not look up from the tablet.

“I like preventing nuclear fallout.”

“You like taking care of me.”

“I like not dying.”

“You like taking care of me.”

You finally looked at him. “Do you want me to stop?”

His smirk faded. You saw the answer before he said it.

“No,” he said.

He sounded almost irritated by the truth. Something in your chest moved strangely. You went back to the report.

“Then memorize what I wrote.”

***

Meanwhile, Homelander grew brighter and more dangerous in equal measure.

Your false graphs became prettier, the lies came smoother, and so his devotion became easier to steer as long as you never let him feel deprived.

“You see?” you told him one afternoon, turning your tablet so he could see the manipulated response data. “The numbers are shifting. The country is slowly opening to the idea.”

He leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning the comment sections of his fan page.

God chose you.

America needs divine leadership. Homelander is more than a hero. Maybe gods still walk among us.

His breath caught. You felt it.

“These are real?” he asked.

You smiled gently.

“They are.”

He looked at you then, and the expression on his face made your skin prickle.

Awe.

“You did this?”

“You did this,” you said. 

His smile spread slowly.

“You always knew. You always believed in me.”

You looked at him, heart beating with the cold, steady rhythm of a liar standing too close to fire.

“I knew they would believe, too. They just needed time to prepare for the ascension.”

He turned fully toward you.

“What happens then?” he asked.

“What?” you asked. 

“When America worships me as a god.”

The room seemed to tilt. You kept your face soft.

“What about it?”

His eyes moved over your face with an intimacy that felt invasive in its innocence.

“How will you feel?”

Your throat went tight.

“What do you mean?”

“When they all love me the way you do,” he said softly. “When they understand me. When they worship me. Will you be jealous?”

There were questions that were traps because the person asking knew they were traps. And then there were questions like this.

You looked at him. And once again, you became the woman Sage had hired. The woman who understood love as a lever, a wound, a hunger, a weapon.

You let your face fall slowly.

Not dramatically, because Homelander could spot an obvious performance from cities away. You just let the loss move across your expression like a shadow passing over water.

His eyes widened, equal parts touched and thrilled by your sorrow. 

You looked down. “I think…” You paused, as if the words hurt. “I think part of me will grieve it.”

He was silent.

You continued carefully. “Right now, I get to see something others don’t. I get to feel…” You gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Special. Maybe that’s selfish.”

“No,” he said instantly.

You looked up at him.

“It’s not selfish,” he said.

You smiled sadly. “But if the whole country sees it too, then I lose the secret version of you.”

His lips parted. That hit exactly where you intended.

God forgive you.

“But,” you added, voice steadying, “I would be proud. Devastated, maybe. But proud. Because the world deserves to know what I know.”

He looked like you had handed him your heart. Worse, he looked like he wanted to keep it in a glass box. He reached for your hand, bare fingers closing over yours.

“You’ll always be the first,” he said. “The first believer.” 

Your stomach turned. You squeezed his hand.

“I know.”

You didn’t. You knew nothing except that every lie worked until the day it didn’t.

Then, at night, you went home.

Sometimes you arrived before Soldier Boy. Sometimes he was already there. That should have frightened you more than it did.

One time, you found him sitting on your couch in the dark, and you nearly threw your bag at his head.

“Are you serious?”

He turned on the lamp beside him.

“Your locks were ass, so I replaced them, you’re welcome.” 

“Clearly…” you said, trying to even out your breathing after the shock. 

You stared at him for a long second.

Then started laughing.

You were so tired that it came out almost hysterical.

He watched you, amused but quiet, until the laughter thinned into something dangerously close to tears. Then he stood, crossed the room, and took your bag from your hand.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Then stop looking like one somebody kicked.”

You glared.

He pointed at the couch.

“Ben.”

“Sit.”

You sat.

Mostly because your knees were not as committed to the argument as your pride.

He brought you a beer without asking. Opened it. Handed it to you. Then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence should have been uncomfortable.

It wasn’t.

Soldier Boy understood silence because he did not rush to fill it. He could sit in it like weather. Heavy, present, unbothered. He did not need to be reassured every time your face went blank. He did not ask what you were thinking every three seconds. He did not demand access to every private thought just because he had touched your body.

Sometimes, you told yourself it was simply because he didn’t give a shit. He’s Soldier Boy… why would he care about your day anyway? And this thing is just lust, isn’t it? And he is only here, at your apartment, all the time because he hates the glass and chrome monstrosity Vought gave him to call a home. 

There was nothing else here, you told yourself. 

But sometimes… he would do things like this. Changing your locks, handing you a beer, frowning when your cabinet doors creaked, and asking you how long it had been that way… 

No. 

Stop. 

The television played some old movie he claimed was “the last decade America made real shit,” though he had said that about four different decades by now.

You leaned back, eyes half-closed.

At some point, his hand settled on your thigh.

Your body, traitorous thing, softened.

“You alright?” he asked after a while.

You opened one eye. “Is that concern?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You smiled faintly.

“I’m alright.”

He grunted, like he did not fully believe you, but was willing to allow the lie.

Later, his mouth would be between your thighs, or his body would be next to yours in bed, one heavy arm slung over your waist like he had decided sleep required anchoring. Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night, too warm and trapped and strangely unwilling to move. Sometimes he snored. 

And slowly, despite his crude mouth and his 1940s smugness and his offensive opinions about oat milk, something grew where you had sworn nothing would.

You forced yourself to think about work. 

***

Weeks passed in preparation for Homelander’s ascension, and Sage was no closer to finding that virus. 

“The alternative is to get Soldier Boy to fry the V out of him,” Sage told you, pacing in your office. “But if we make him feel like it’s our idea, he’s going to hate it. He needs to hate Homelander enough to do it himself.” 

You nodded, distracted. She clocked that. 

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting your thinking time?” she asked flatly. 

You sighed. “Sorry, I’m just worried about this ascension thing. It’s tomorrow, and he’s so on edge.” 

“Are you complaining about doing your job?” she asked. 

You frowned. “First, I’m not complaining. Second, my job was to analyze and predict, not babysit, and I’ve been babysitting ever since I got here.” 

“So what, you want a raise?” she asked. 

You knew she was frustrated, but god damn it, you were frustrated too. Not that anyone in the Tower would care. 

“I hear you,” you said finally. “I will find an angle with Soldier Boy for Homelander while you work on getting the virus.” 

She looked at you, contemplating whether she should let a shred of humanity through. Then she thought the better of it and left. 

You turned your head to the ceiling and tried to orient yourself. 

Tensions had been building unbearably for the past week. It would all come to a head tomorrow, during the unveiling of the Church of America, of which Homelander had declared himself head. 

God. 

Fuck. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Preparing talking points for Firecracker for her show, controlling the nonsense Deep wanted to say on his podcast on ascension day, and generally keeping Homelander docile. 

You got home that evening, tired to the bone, and found Soldier Boy asleep on your couch with one hand tucked under his head and your chipped mug on the table beside him.

The television was playing some black-and-white movie he pretended not to care about. His boots were off, and your blanket was over him.

He woke when you set your bag down.

“Long day?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

You stood there in the warm, quiet room and felt something inside you fracture.

“Yeah,” you said.

He lifted the blanket without a word.

You went to him.

***

You hadn’t expected to fall asleep as quickly as you did. That was the problem with getting used to a person… how your nervous system instantly relaxed and practically knocked you unconscious in his arms. 

So when your doorbell rang, it was startling. 

The ring was followed by a series of knocks, insistent. 

Then your phone pinged. 

Homelander. It’s me

Fuck. 

You scrambled off the couch and quietly tried to shove Soldier Boy into the bedroom. You were aware Homelander could see through walls, but prayed that he fancied himself to be enough of a gentleman not to. 

Then you took one breath.

Another.

You smoothed your hair. Checked your shirt. Wiped your mouth with your thumb because, God, you did not know if any evidence of Soldier Boy still lived on your face. Your apartment smelled faintly of beer, takeout, and him. You grabbed the nearest sandalwood spray from the side table and gave the air one desperate mist.

Ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

You opened the door.

Homelander stood there smiling, a bouquet of roses in his hand. He looked… happy.

He wore civilian clothes, or what he considered civilian clothes: expensive dark pants, a pale blue shirt, no cape, no gloves. The absence of the suit should have made him look less threatening. It didn’t. It made him look like a predator attempting domesticity.

“Hi,” he said.

Your face softened instantly.

The transformation was so practiced it almost frightened you. The fear disappeared beneath warmth. The panic became surprise. Your mouth curved into the small, tender smile that always worked on him.

“Homelander,” you said. “What are you doing here?”

His smile widened at your tone.

“I know it’s late,” he said quickly, like he had rehearsed this in the elevator. “I know. I just… tomorrow is important, and I wanted to see you before.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door, hidden from view. Behind you, your apartment was too quiet.

“Of course,” you said. “Come on in.”

Homelander stepped inside, looking around with open curiosity. 

“You’ve been with us seven months, and this is the first time I’ve seen where you live,” he said. 

“Yeah, I—I don’t entertain much,” you laughed. 

“It’s a nice place,” he said. “It’s… peaceful.” 

You didn’t doubt that Homelander was seeing the exact thing Soldier Boy was seeing in your home. You didn’t let that thought go further… you took the flowers from him to occupy your hands with something. 

“These are beautiful.”

He lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Really thoughtful.”

There it was. The first offering accepted. His shoulders lowered slightly.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked roses.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“White roses are lovely.” You moved toward the kitchen, keeping your body between him and the hallway that led to your bedroom. “I’m gonna put them in water.”

He followed you.

You could feel the bedroom door behind you in the shape of your own spine. Soldier Boy behind it. Silent, hopefully. Angry, definitely.

Homelander watched you fill a vase with water.

“I thought about what you said,” he told you.

You kept your hands steady. “What did I say?”

“About tomorrow. About America being ready if they’re shown properly.”

You smiled down at the flowers. “I think we’ve done a good job so far.” 

He stood a little taller.

“We have.”

You trimmed the stems with kitchen scissors because doing something with your hands kept you from visibly unraveling. “You’ve been patient. Strategic. And you’ll see the fruits of your labor tomorrow.”

“I’ve been listening to you,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“I always listen to you.”

You arranged the roses slowly, giving him the tenderness he had come to collect. “We’re a team,” you said. “We see different parts of a situation, and together, we make a whole picture.” 

He came closer.

Too close.

“You really think they’ll accept me?” he asked.

“It’ll take time,” you said. “But yes. You have to understand, people are afraid of things they don’t understand. A benevolent god is patient, even when it’s really fucking hard to be patient.” 

His eyes fixed on yours. You lowered your voice.

“But you won’t have to be patient for long. You are already the hero. The protector. The defender. Now there’s just a more appropriate word for all that.”

“God,” he said, but it almost sounded like a question. 

“God,” you said, approvingly. 

His face changed.

Fuck, you were good. You hated that you were good.

His mouth parted slightly. His eyes softened. The flowers sat between you, ridiculous and fragrant.

Then he reached out and touched your cheek.

You let him.

Every muscle in your body wanted to flinch. Soldier Boy was behind a door less than twenty feet away, and you could feel, with hideous certainty, how much he hated this. Your cooing. Your softness. The whole gentle, devotional version of you.

You could feel something behind that bedroom door now. A pressure. 

Homelander’s thumb brushed your cheek.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

The sentence landed like a threat wearing a prayer shawl.

You smiled.

“You’d still be you.”

“Yes.” His eyes searched yours. “But not like this.”

Your throat tightened. For a second, you thought he might kiss you. If he tried, you had no idea what you would do. Worse, you had no idea what Soldier Boy would do.

So you stepped back before the moment could decide for you and lifted the vase again. “These need to go somewhere nice.”

Homelander looked slightly disappointed, but not wounded. 

You carried the flowers to the small table near the window, deliberately pulling him toward the opposite side of the apartment from the bedroom. He followed, eyes on you, pleased again by the domesticity of it. You could almost see the fantasy forming in his mind. You arranging flowers he had brought you. Him visiting you after saving the nation. You welcoming him into warmth and softness and quiet.

It made you feel sick.

It made you feel cruel.

“You’ll watch tomorrow?” he asked.

“Of course I will.”

“From the tower?”

“Yes.”

“Not with Soldier Boy?”

There it was. You turned slowly.

He tried to make it sound so casual, but like always, he failed miserably. 

Your smile softened with practiced sadness. “Tomorrow is for you.”

His eyes searched your face.

“Not his?”

“Not his.”

“Mine?”

You took one step toward him.

“Yours.”

The single word was enough to make his face brighten again. God, it was obscene how well it worked.

He breathed out a small laugh, almost embarrassed by his own relief. “Right.”

You nodded.

“You know you don’t need to compete with him.”

His smile faltered.

“I’m not competing.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re not.”

That pleased him more than agreement would have. You could see the difference. To tell Homelander he was not competing because he had already won was to soothe the child and crown the king in the same breath.

He came closer again.

This time, when he touched you, it was just your hand. He lifted it in both of his and looked at your fingers like they were proof of something.

“After tomorrow,” he said, “things will be different.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He ran his thumb gently over your knuckles. 

“Everything is so loud all the time,” he continued. “All the time. Their voices, their heartbeats, Vought. But you…” His hand lifted slowly, his bare fingers settling against your flushed cheek. “You make it quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

You knew what quiet meant to him. He wanted a place to put his hunger. A place to own for himself rather than simply occupy beside you. 

“Maybe after America has accepted me as their God,” he said, “we can be together properly.”

Your body went cold. He barely noticed.

“The people will love it,” he continued, warming to the thought with terrifying sincerity. “They’d want it, actually. God having a wife. That’s… that’s stabilizing, right? Good old American values.”

You could not speak. His eyes were still on yours, but his thoughts had traveled miles. 

“Our child would be the son of God.”

The derangement had peaked. You felt it like a drop in air pressure before a storm.

He believed it. Not as branding or political theater. He believed every single word with his whole ruined heart.

You made yourself breathe.

“Wouldn’t having a wife make you…” You chose the words carefully. “Too human? Too relatable?”

He frowned.

Not offended, but thinking. Actually thinking about the optics like they mattered to his mythology. 

You pressed gently. “Being God comes with its own chains.”

His face changed. That struck something.

“I’m tired of chains,” he said.

His voice was quiet.

Small.

For one awful moment, you almost felt sorry for him again. 

You were so tired.

So very, very tired.

You brought your hand to his wrist and squeezed gently, trying to bring him back down to earth. 

“Homelander…” you said softly. 

“Yeah?”

“You need to rest before tomorrow. It’s a big day.” 

He nodded slowly.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am,” you said, attempting to lighten to mood. 

That made him laugh. It was fond. The sound of it crawled under your skin. But what followed was worse… 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. You forced yourself to relax and warm to him rather than give in to your instincts to go stiff. It was brief, almost chaste. Homelander clearly wanted you to view him as a gentleman, the picture of restraint and respect for your honor. 

That honor was behind your bedroom door, currently listening in on the performance. 

When he pulled back, he looked happy. Giddy beneath all the godhood. Like the whole world was finally beginning to arrange itself around his longing.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Homelander.”

He left with one final look back at you, at the flowers, at the apartment he had now touched with his fantasy.

You waited until the elevator at the end of the hallway dinged.

You waited longer.

Homelander could hear too much.

You stood there in your apartment, breathing quietly, face still soft, hands folded loosely in front of you, as if you had not just survived a siege disguised as romance.

Only when you were certain he was gone did your shoulders drop.

You turned toward the bedroom.

The door opened before you reached it.

Soldier Boy stepped out, his face unreadable in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked. 

“It keeps him calm.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You exhaled through your nose. He stepped farther into the room. 

“Would you have let him kiss you?” he asked. 

“What would be my alternative, slapping him?” 

Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened.

“You know how fucked that sounds?”

“Do you think I don’t?”

Your words came out sharper than intended. Soldier Boy saw the switch. You saw him see it. Your softness vanished the moment Homelander did, and what remained was the mouthy, crude version Soldier Boy had managed to coax out of you. 

Normally, it pleased him. Tonight, it seemed to hurt.

He looked at the flowers again.

“Those are ugly.”

“They’re roses.”

“They’re funeral flowers.”

“You’re jealous of flowers?”

“I’m jealous of the fact that he gets that voice.”

Soldier Boy looked almost angry at himself for saying it.

You stared at him. “What?”

His eyes returned to yours, hard and bright. “You heard me.”

“You’re jealous of the voice I use to stop Homelander from leveling city blocks?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “Stupid, right?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

You took a step toward him, disbelief rising through your exhaustion. “That version of me isn’t real.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s a tactic.”

“You think because it’s a tactic, it’s fake?”

He laughed once, bitter and rough.

“That’s what pisses me off. It ain’t fake. Not all of it. You are soft. You’re just goddamn careful with it. And he gets all the softness.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t want soft.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“You want me rude. You want me angry. You like when I snap at you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“Then why are you complaining?”

“Because I want the rest of it too.”

The apartment went silent. Your heart gave one painful beat. Then another.

Soldier Boy looked away first, which frightened you more than anything else he could have done. He dragged a hand over his beard, irritated, restless, like the feeling had crawled under his skin and he wanted to tear it out.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“You’re the one who started it.”

“No, sweetheart, you started it.”

He pointed at you, then at the room, then at the flowers like all of it was evidence in a trial nobody was winning.

“This. This place. The fucking cups and the quiet and the stupid blanket on the couch. The way you come home, and suddenly the tower feels like it never existed. You started that.”

Your chest hurt. You tried to reach for annoyance because annoyance was safer.

“You’re blaming me for decorating my house?”

“I’m blaming you for making me give a shit.”

The words hit the floor between you. You stared at him. For once, Soldier Boy did not look smug after landing a blow. He looked furious.

“You want to know how stupid this is?” he continued, voice rougher now. “I spent twenty minutes in your bedroom listening to you talk him down like he’s some rabid dog in a flag cape, and all I could think was, why the fuck are we still here?”

Your mouth went dry.

“What?”

“Why are we still here?”

“Because this is my apartment.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” you said, though you did.

He came closer, no swagger in his step, just pure agitation.

“We should leave,” he said.

You stared at him.

“Leave?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean… leave Vought?”

“I mean, leave all of it. Did you hear that asshole call your future kid the son of god? Is everyone fucking crazy here?” 

You laughed once because there was no other sane response. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m too dumb to know what I’m saying.”

That shut you up. 

He moved closer, eyes fixed on yours.

“I know what he is. I know what that tower is. I know what they’ll do when they figure out you’ve been lying in my reports and feeding him god fantasies.” His voice dropped. “I know we don’t win this by staying.”

Your pulse climbed.

“We?” you asked, and he looked at you like you were the stupidest person alive. 

“We,” he said, like he was confirming it. 

“You do understand Homelander could find us.”

“Let him try.”

“Ben.”

“What?” 

“You’re talking like running is freedom,” you said. “It’s not. It’s being hunted.”

“I’ve been hunted before.”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re hunted every day, you just get paid a good salary for it, doll.” 

Your mouth closed. The words would have made you feel dirty had you not known the real intention behind them. 

He was frustrated. 

He hated how small you made yourself, and he couldn’t care about the optics or the strategy of it. And it was killing him to watch you willingly put yourself further and further into this trap. 

“Ben,” you whispered.

“No.” His jaw flexed. “Don’t use the tone you use with him to calm him down, I don’t want to calm down.” 

“I’m not asking you to calm down. I want to know why this matters to you.” 

He looked at you. “You don’t know what you want.” 

“I really do. I want to know.” 

The apartment was so quiet you could hear the refrigerator hum, the distant traffic below, your own pulse like thunder in your ears.

His voice dropped.

“It matters because I love you.”

The world simply lost sound. You stared at him.

Soldier Boy looked back at you with all the arrogance gone from his face, and somehow that was the most devastating thing you had ever seen. He looked angry. Like the words had been dragged out of him by force, and he hated that they existed where you could see them.

But he did not take them back.

“I love you,” he said again, rougher this time, like repeating it would make it mean less. “That clear enough for you?”

Your mouth parted.

Nothing came out.

For once, you didn’t have the safety of a script. All you could do was stand in your quiet apartment, with Homelander’s flowers on your table and Soldier Boy’s heart in your hands.

------------------------------

Aaaand that’s a wrap on chapter 2. This was DELICIOUS to write. Chapter 3 will be out soon <3

As promised, tagging all the commenters on chapter 1: @1inacerulean @sammysweetheart @witch-of-letters @monkievonkie @spnfamily-j2 @mornixgstar18 @glowingtoenails @kathypellar @spookybitchdreams @chxrrybomb22 @calyyypsooo @audreybea @ladykitana90

If you want to be tagged on chapter 3, comment below!

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes.

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”